I'm Really Not the Dragonborn.

Ibnor turned his attention to the true source of Helgen's woes: Jarl Siddgeir. He marched into the the longhouse in Falkreath. Jarl Siddgeir reeked of stale mead and anxiety, paced before the hearth, his face flushed, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. The flickering firelight cast dancing shadows on the walls, exaggerating his already agitated movements. Ibnor stood calmly before him, his expression neutral, betraying none of the turmoil he felt inside.

"Thane Ibnor," the Jarl began, his voice tight with barely suppressed panic. "The reports… they're… catastrophic! Helgen… it's under siege! A large band… raiders, they think. My men… they're being overrun!"

"I'm aware, Jarl," Ibnor replied, his voice steady and even. "I received word from the residents."

"Then you understand the gravity of the situation!" Siddgeir exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "You must return! You're the only one, those… those villagers will listen to!"

"I'm willing to help, Jarl," Ibnor said, his voice measured. "But under certain conditions."

Siddgeir stopped pacing, his eyes narrowing. "Conditions? At a time like this? You dare bargain with me?"

"I dare because I have earned the right," Ibnor countered, his voice hardening. "I came to Helgen when you offered nothing but a title and a ruined town. I invested my own resources, my own time, my own men. I documented everything – every septim spent, every stone laid. I built that town from the ashes. And when you, driven by greed and a desire for easy glory, demanded control, I complied. But I also knew what would happen. I knew you couldn't manage it. And now, as I predicted, it's crumbling."

"Helgen is part of my hold!" Siddgeir sputtered, his face turning an even deeper shade of red.

"In name only," Ibnor retorted, his gaze unwavering. "You couldn't protect it. Your men couldn't defend it. I can. But I will not do it as a mere Thane at your beck and call. I want formal ownership. Enfeoffment. I want to be the Lord of Helgen."

Siddgeir stared at him, his face contorted with a mixture of rage and desperation. "You… you…!"

"I have proven my worth," Ibnor interrupted, his voice cold and sharp. "Helgen is strategically vital. It guards the passes to the east. If it falls, Falkreath is next. You know this. And you know that only I can prevent it. But I will only do so if I have the authority, the power, to do it properly."

Siddgeir hesitated, his eyes darting around the longhouse, searching for an escape, a way out of this predicament. But there was none. He was trapped.

"Fine!" he spat, his voice laced with bitter resentment. "You shall have your… lordship. But if you fail…"

"I won't fail," Ibnor said, his voice ringing with confidence. "But if I succeed, I expect our agreement to be honored. In full."

The first rays of dawn painted the sky above Helgen a bruised purple as Ibnor and his returning band reach the peak of the familiar hill. The sight that greeted them was a stark contrast to the vibrant town they had left behind. Boarded-up shops lined the desolate marketplace, and the air hung heavy with the stench of decay. The only sounds were the mournful creak of wind-battered signs and the distant caw of crows.

"By the Divines," Illia breathed, her voice laced with dismay. "What has he done?"

Ibnor's jaw tightened. "He's reaped what he's sown." He surveyed the scene, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the telltale signs of recent bandit activity – scorch marks on the blacksmith's forge and hastily erected barricades. "But this… this is beyond even my expectations."

"The scouts reported a larger force to the southeast, my lord," Rayya said, her hand resting on the hilt of her scimitar. "Mercenaries, by the look of their banners."

Ibnor nodded. "Then we waste no time." He turned to his assembled followers, a mix of hardened Guild members and skilled craftsmen. "We reclaim what is ours. Let's remind them what happens when they cross us."

The return to Helgen was swift and decisive. Ibnor, leading from the front, coordinated the defense with precision, assisted by his adjutants. They reinforced the town's defenses, organized patrols, and armed the remaining able-bodied locals. The arrival of the mercenaries, a force clad in mismatched armor and bearing the crudely painted sigil of a snarling wolf, was met with a fierce resistance they hadn't anticipated.

"Hold the line!" Ahtar roared, his booming voice echoing across the makeshift barricades as he directed the town watch.

Chaos echoed through Helgen. A snarling mercenary lunged at Rayya, his crude axe whistling through the air. Rayya sidestepped the blow with practiced ease, her scimitar flashing out in a swift arc, slicing across the mercenary's exposed flank. He roared in pain, stumbling back as Rayya pressed her advantage.

Illia, her staff crackling with arcane energy, weaved through the chaos. A mercenary wielding a rusty greatsword charged her, bellowing a war cry. Illia calmly raised her staff, a bolt of frost erupting from its tip, encasing the mercenary's legs in ice. He crashed to the ground, his roar turning into a yelp of surprise and pain.

Benor, his heavy warhammer a blur of motion, smashed into the mercenary line. He swung the hammer in a wide arc, the force of the blow sending two mercenaries flying. One crumpled to the ground, unconscious, while the other staggered back, clutching his broken arm.

Uthgerd, her shield raised high, formed a bulwark against the enemy assault. A flurry of blows rained down upon her shield, but she stood firm, her eyes scanning for an opening. Spotting a mercenary momentarily off balance, she lowered her shoulder and charged, sending him sprawling.

Derkheetus, his bow singing, rained arrows down upon the mercenaries. His shots were precise and deadly, finding gaps in their armor and felling them with chilling efficiency. One arrow found its mark in a mercenary's throat, silencing his battle cry with a gurgling gasp.

At the center of the fray, Ibnor moved with deadly grace. A hulking mercenary, his face scarred and his eyes filled with bloodlust, roared and swung a heavy two-handed sword at Ibnor's head. The blow was telegraphed, and Ibnor, with a twist of his wrist, parried the slash, the clang of steel ringing out. In the same fluid motion, he brought his own blade around in a swift counter-attack, the edge slicing across the mercenary's arm, drawing a spray of blood.

Another mercenary, wielding a battle axe, charged at Ibnor from the side. The axe swung in a wide arc, aimed at Ibnor's ribs. Ibnor blocked the blow with his sword, the impact jarring his arm. Using the momentum of the block, he pivoted and unleashed a swift kick, sending the axe-wielding mercenary stumbling backward.

A third mercenary, seizing the opportunity, lunged at Ibnor with a short sword. Ibnor sidestepped the thrust and, with a lightning-fast movement, stabbed his own blade deep into the mercenary's side. He didn't pull the blade back. Instead, he released his grip, his hand flashing to the dagger strapped to his back hip. In a swift, almost unseen motion, he spun and plunged the dagger into the neck of a mercenary who had attempted to flank him. The man crumpled to the ground without a sound.

Ibnor then turned back to the mercenary he had initially stabbed. He grasped the hilt of his sword, still embedded in the fallen man's side, and with a sharp kick to the corpse, dislodged the blade, the metallic clang echoing across the battlefield. He wiped the blood from the blade on the dead man's tunic, his eyes scanning the battlefield for his next opponent. The remaining mercenaries, witnessing Ibnor's deadly efficiency, began to falter, their morale crumbling.

The mercenaries, disorganized and demoralized by the unexpected resistance, were quickly routed, scattering into the surrounding wilderness. The air, thick with the smell of blood and sweat, slowly cleared as the last stragglers fled. Ibnor stood amidst the carnage, his sword dripping, his gaze sweeping over the ravaged town. The victory was decisive, but the cost was evident in the fallen bodies and shattered buildings.

The following days were a blur of rebuilding and burying. The townsfolk, their spirits rekindled by Ibnor's leadership, worked tirelessly to repair the damage. Word of the victory spread quickly, reaching Falkreath and Jarl Siddgeir. A week later, a small contingent of guards arrived, bearing a formal decree.

The ceremony was simple but significant. In the center of the hastily repaired marketplace, a platform had been erected. Jarl Siddgeir's representative, a stern-faced Nord named Helvard, stood before the assembled townsfolk and Ibnor's followers. He unfurled a scroll, its edges sealed with the Jarl's signet ring.

"By order of Jarl Siddgeir of Falkreath Hold," Helvard proclaimed, his voice ringing across the square, "in recognition of his valor and leadership in defense of Helgen, and in accordance with the previously agreed terms, Thane Ibnor is hereby granted the title of Lord of Helgen. He is granted full authority and responsibility for the governance, defense, and prosperity of this town and its surrounding lands. So let it be known."

A ripple of cheers erupted from the crowd. Ibnor, his expression composed, stepped forward and accepted the scroll from Helvard. He held it aloft for a moment, then lowered it, his gaze meeting the eyes of the townsfolk. A quiet nod passed between him and Rayya, a silent acknowledgment of the new responsibilities they now shared.

From that day forward, Ibnor balanced his dual roles with a deft hand. He oversaw the rebuilding of Helgen, implementing new defensive measures and attracting merchants and artisans to revitalize the town's economy. He established a fair system of justice, ensuring that the townsfolk were protected from both external threats and internal disputes.

Simultaneously, he maintained his connections with the Guild. He used his newfound influence as a lord to expand the Guild's operations in the region, establishing new trade routes and securing lucrative contracts. He also used his resources to support the Guild's less legitimate activities, discreetly providing safe houses and intelligence networks.

His position as Lord of Helgen provided a crucial layer of legitimacy to the Guild's operations, while the Guild's resources and network provided him with the means to effectively govern his territory. It was a symbiotic relationship, one that benefited both the people of Helgen and the members of the Guild. And for him, Ibnor managed to upgrade his stats through his activities, both in light and darkness.

___________________________________________________________

Ibnor

Status

Normal

Stats 

Strength

38.4

Agility

39.9

Mental

36.7

Physique

40.2

Sub-Stat

Charm

15.9

Active Effect

[Resist Frost +10%], [Resist Poison +10%], [Resist Magic +10%] 

Skills

Passive

[Peak Human Condition], [Close Quarter Combat - Expert], [Parkour - Intermediate], [Dragon's Tongue - Beginner], [Dibellan Arts - Intermediate.], 

Active

[Archery (54.2)], [Blacksmithing (27.5)], [One Handed (62.4)], [Two Handed (30.2)], [Block (36.8)], [Alchemy (12.5)], [Sneak (62.3)], [Lockpicking (52.7)], [Pickpocket (49.8)], 

Spells

[Telekinesis], [Bound Bow], [Magelight], 

Shout

[Shout (Unrelenting Force) - FUS], [Shout (Disarm) - ZUN]

Abilities

[Agent of Stealth], [Agent of Subterfuge], [Agent of Strife]

Notification

*The Passion Dancer has taken interest in you.

*The Mistress of Night and Darkness likes you.

*The Father of Manbeasts finds you amusing.

*The Master of Insidious Wishes is aware of you.

___________________________________________________________

The morning mist clung to the rebuilt walls of Helgen. Ibnor's shoulders slumped against the crenellations, his head bowed. A long, drawn-out groan vibrated in his chest. He rubbed his temples with his fingertips, the gesture conveying a weariness that went beyond mere lack of sleep. A stack of unread scrolls lay discarded at his feet, curling at the edges from the damp air. He kicked one listlessly. 

"Another day, another mountain of paperwork," he groaned, rubbing his temples. "Sometimes I miss just… hitting things with a sword. I swear, Illia, if I have to read one more trade agreement…""

IIllia appeared beside him, a fresh stack of scrolls balanced in her hands. A subtle smile played on her lips, but her eyes held a hint of steel. She cleared her throat, her voice projecting just enough to reach the ears of the guards patrolling nearby. 

"My Lord," she announced formally, "the petitioners await. The grain shipments require logging, the border dispute must be addressed, and the Riften merchant is, as ever, insistent on an audience."

As soon as they were alone, her tone softened, but the firmness remained. 

"Honestly, Ibnor," she chided gently, "you'd think after all this time you'd have developed some appreciation for administrative matters."

He grimaced, his nose wrinkling as if he'd caught a whiff of something unpleasant. 

"Like appreciating boiled cabbage. Necessary, but hardly enjoyable." He brightened slightly, a playful glint returning to his eyes. 

"Besides," he added, "that's what I have you for. You're my… Well, you're my right-hand woman. My MVP."

Illia tilted her head, her brow furrowed in confusion. 

"MVP? Is that… some sort of Imperial military title I am unfamiliar with?"

Ibnor chuckled, shaking his head. 

"No, it's… never mind." He waved a dismissive hand. "It means you're the most valuable person. To me. In this… endeavor." 

He gestured vaguely at the town below, encompassing the rebuilt houses and bustling marketplace with a sweep of his arm. Illia's gaze followed his gesture, then returned to his face, a thoughtful expression in her eyes. 

"I see. And how do you propose we feed the town, maintain order, and ensure trade continues?" She gestured vaguely eastwards, towards the distant, smoke-tinged horizon. "By hitting the problems with your sword? Especially with this rebellion brewing. It's hardly conducive to stable trade routes, is it?"

Ibnor sighed dramatically, letting his head fall back against the cold stone. He closed his eyes briefly. 

"It was a glorious thought. Imagine, challenging tax collectors to duels instead of auditing ledgers. Winner takes all. But, you're right. We need to keep our… supply chain on point."

Illia shook her head, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. 

"You'd bankrupt the hold within a week. Besides, even your sword can't stop a full-scale rebellion." She paused, her expression becoming more serious. "And what is this… 'supply chain' you speak of? Is it a chain used to restrain supplies?"

Ibnor pinched the bridge of his nose, a familiar gesture of exasperation. 

"It's… a way of talking about how we get things. Food, resources, everything we need. It's… efficient. Streamlined."

Illia blinked, her expression thoughtful. "Ah. Streamlined. Like a… swiftly flowing river?"

"Something like that," Ibnor conceded. He nudged her elbow, giving her a small, weary smile. A silent plea for understanding. "Come on. Let's get this over with. We need to discuss how this unrest affects our… logistics." He visibly winced after using the word.

The rebellion was no longer a secret. Whispers had become shouts. Merchants haggled fiercely, factoring in the risk of banditry and blockades. Farmers spoke in hushed tones of conscription, their faces etched with worry. The town guard's patrols were more frequent, their eyes scanning the faces of every traveler. Even the Jarl's messengers arrived with grim faces and sealed missives, the weight of the conflict evident in their every movement.

During court, the formal dance continued. 

"My Lord," Illia would say, presenting each case with concise summaries, referencing precedents, her hand occasionally resting lightly on his arm to subtly guide his decisions. Ibnor played his part, nodding sagely and issuing pronouncements with practiced authority.

Between petitioners, however, the pretense dropped. 

"Did you see old man Nils's face when you granted his request?" Illia whispered, suppressing a giggle. "He looked… absolutely gobsmacked."
"He's a good man, deserving of some good fortune. Though I worry what this rebellion will mean for his bottom line."
Illia frowned slightly. "His… bottom line?"
Ibnor sighed. He'd have to find a better way to phrase things. "It means… his profit. How much coin he earns. His… final tally."
"Ah," Illia said slowly. "I understand. Though why not simply say… his earnings?"
"It's just… how some people say it. When you're adding up accounts, the last number, the total, where does it go?"
"At the bottom, of course… Oh! I see. The bottom line… but it sounds rather… forward."
Ibnor blinked. Then a slow grin spread across his face. "Forward? Well, I suppose it depends on how you look at it." He raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eye.
Illia's cheeks flushed crimson. "I… I must see to the parchments!" she stammered, turning and hurrying away.

During the afternoon's strategic discussions with Rayya, the dynamic shifted again. In public spaces, Illia remained a discreet observer, offering input only when asked. But within the war room's confines, she was an equal partner, her hand moving across the map alongside theirs.

"Honestly, Ibnor," she interrupted one of his more ambitious ideas with a pragmatic frown, "that plan is a logistical nightmare. We're already struggling with limited resources due to the Imperial war effort. It simply won't work." She paused, then, with a slight frown of her own, added, "Or, as you might say… it's not scalable."

Ibnor blinked, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his face. He looked at Illia, a slow smile spreading across his face. 

"You're learning. Very good."

That evening, in the privacy of the Crooked Tankard, the formal titles vanished.

"Ibnor," Illia said, leaning across the table, the flickering candlelight illuminating the concern in her eyes, "this latest report… It confirms what we suspected. The rebellion is gaining traction. They've secured several key settlements in the east." She spread a map, tracing the rebel movements with her finger. "This could sever our trade routes to Windhelm completely."

"We need to be prepared," he said, his voice grave. He met Illia's gaze. "This is a real… game changer."

Illia looked at him expectantly, her gaze searching his face. "A… game changer? Does this mean the rules of some game have changed? Some… contests, perhaps?"

Ibnor closed his eyes briefly, a sigh escaping him. He opened them, meeting Illia's worried gaze. "It means… It's a significant development. It's… important. Thank you, Illia. For keeping us in the loop."

A soft smile touched her lips, a hint of understanding in her eyes. "You know I'll always be here, Ibnor," she replied softly. "Even when you speak in… riddles."

As Illia settled into her role as steward, the public formality served to reinforce Ibnor's authority. This public facade, however, masked a growing intimacy between them. Shared responsibility for the hold, coupled with the constant, often amusing, communication barrier created by their differing eras, deepened their bond. This delicate balance between public duty and private connection was now inextricably linked to the looming threat of rebellion and Ibnor's baffling modern jargon.