Chapter Text
CORVO
“Wake up! That’s right, it’s time to wake up!”
The buzzing sound whizzed against his eardrums like an echo. Blurry and unfocused. Disembodied. The pain brewing up behind his temples was an unfortunate reminder that a headache was inevitable. Lukewarm stone pressed up against his back, feeling the engraved murals lightly burrowing into his skin, his bottom half suffering a distinct pain from the hard floor beneath. His throat was severely parched.
Corvo’s head hung, heavy arms propped atop of weary knees as he blearily opened his eyes, the incoming light triggering said headache. He caught the black silhouette of a woman. The blinding light took him out of the brink to have him close his eyes once more.
“Wh- ? Oh, Gods... my head...” he groaned, dropping his face into his hand.
“Yes, your head!” she called. Splaying his fingers, he pried yellow wolf-like irises open once more, the light becoming more and more bearable as he adjusted. He built up enough courage to look past the light and at her. She was a young woman clad in orange and yellow robes. A priestess. In any event, he was sure she was far more pleasant without the accompanying scowl as she glared down at him. Something told him she rarely smiled. “I’m guessing you also don’t remember coming in here and blathering incoherently about marriage or a goat.”
“Goat? You must’ve misheard. I find it hard to believe I’d refer to my ex-wife as a goat.”
She looked like a deer in headlights.
“Excuse me, what?”
Corvo grimaced. “Wait... are you telling me I married a goat?”
“If you...? No, of course not,” she replied, eyes wide in a gentle mix of what he would assume was puzzlement and exasperation. “Which means you don’t remember losing your temper and throwing trash all over the temple.”
With a lazy turn of his head, he took in the scene before him, cringing at the sight of scattered empty wine bottles and clutter.
“Gods... I’m sorry, lass. I don’t even remember how I got here.”
The lines in her forehead retracted ever so slightly. “Well, you were deep in your cups when you got here.”
“Where exactly am I?”
“You find yourself in the temple of Lady Dibella.”
His eyes went wide. “This isn’t Riften?”
“Quite the opposite, in fact. You’re in Markarth. On the other side of the province.”
That explained the Dwarven architecture.
The last thing he could remember was participating in a drinking contest with a man going by the name of Sam Guevenne. He must’ve put something in his drink, and so by all means, Corvo needed to find him. Get some answers. He would’ve been enraged if he’d lost any of his belongings, but it was all there, so that man couldn’t have been after gold.
Propping a hand to the altar, Corvo managed to drag his body upright. He wobbled just as he pushed away and parted from the concrete, but the woman was generous enough to step forward and steady him.
“Thank you,” he said, gesturing that he could stand on his own. “Was there a man with me?”
“No, you came alone,” she replied, still glaring at him with a cold gaze. “Look, I’m not here to offer advice to drunks like you, but you nords need to swallow that stubborn pride of yours and learn to walk away from the sixth flagon if you know what’s good for you. If it’s to any help... You were ranting but most of it was slurred. You said something about Rorikstead.”
He wasn’t about to bother her with the explanation of what had actually happened -- that he’d practically been poisoned -- and so he let her believe what she wanted despite the unattractive picture she’d certainly painted of him.
“Rorikstead, huh?” he asked, sighing. “Blast.”
“Now, if there is nothing else, I need to get back to my duties.”
“I won’t keep you.”
Her gaze seemed to soften somewhat at that. As he was about to leave, he nearly lost his balance again. The woman steadied him once more. He could still feel the effects of the alcohol.
“Perhaps I was too harsh. At least let me get that filth out of your system. I don’t need you knocking down Her statue on your way out.”
Forcing him to sit back down, he obeyed, and her hand began to glow a pleasant orange color as if she held an orb omitting light. Corvo knew little of restoration magic. He could cast simple spells, as to heal his own wounds and others, but that was about it. She put her hand to his chest and closed her eyes. His own fell briefly shut as well as the pleasant sensation cleansed his bloodstream.
“Once again, you have my thanks,” he said as she finished up. “May I ask your name?”
“Senna. I’m a High Priestess of this temple.”
“Well, Senna, at least allow me to compensate for whatever damages I caused.”
“I would be grateful.”
After he helped Senna cleaning up the temple, he closed his hand around the door’s handle and stepped outside. A waft of spring air in a gentle breeze washed over him as the door swung open.
There was no doubt that he was now in the City of Stone.
Markarth was a beautiful city. The canals that passed through the City of Stone reminded him of his home -- of Cheydinhal -- the gentle push of flowing water soothing him in ways it had always done. The dwarves that the city’s architecture was built around had always fascinated him. Its rustic substance was a curious reminder of the days of old.
He had the answers he’d sought after a time, as the man who put something in his drink turned out to be the Daedric Prince Sanguine who simply wanted to have some fun. Despite it all, it was a rather amusing tale.
ARGIS
Body glistening with sweat, his breath was uneven. Uneven, but calculated.
Argis had been training for ten hours straight and was without a doubt feeling the weariness claiming him. He exhausted himself on purpose, pushing himself to his absolute limit. He often went days without any form of nourishment in order to be ready for anything. His wish was to offer his patrons as much protection as possible and so he trained daily for many hours.
Sword at the ready, he spun, practiced movements resulting in the decapitation of a passive training dummy. The bucket depicting a helm was throw across the room and launched into the wall. Piles of hay poured out and littered the stone floor.
He’d clearly miscalculated his strength.
“Impressive, I must say,” came a familiar voice. Gazing over his shoulder, Argis came face-to-face with the Jarl’s steward. Raerek had a deadpan look about him. “It requires skill for such a feat even with a real blade, but with a wooden one? It’s truly a work of art.” His horse voice mirrored his old age. “I see you have not waned the past three years.”
“Apologies, steward. I’ll progress to clean-up shortly.”
“Nonsense! Leave it to me,” he exclaimed, chin raising. “You’ll slay more than hay soon enough. Jarl Igmund has requested your presence.”
Argis straightened his back, stomach churning at the implication.
“I take it I’ve been reassigned.”
Raerek nodded. “That you have, my boy. Do not fret. I’m certain the... incident... won’t repeat itself.”
“Are you certain I’m qualified?”
“Why, we have been certain for three years, but your stubbornness knows no bounds!” he replied, but there was no hostility present. Raerek’s tone took a resigned -- almost saddened -- turn. “Keep in mind, your previous patron was no warrior. The poor girl had never even held a blade. Annaïg’s demise was unfortunate, but once again I must remind you that it wasn’t your fault.”
Argis turned and began to move his feet. “She was my responsibility.”
“These things cannot be controlled. It happens to the best of us. Her mistake shouldn’t be your burden,” Raerek said, releasing his arms as Argis finished dressing “...but enough of that -- I know you won’t listen anyway -- and we shouldn’t wallow in old memories. Come.”
As Raerek turned to the door and began to walk, Argis in his hesitance sheathed his real blade and fell into his steps.
Not before long, they approached the throne. Jarl Igmund sat proudly in his seat and was in dialogue with a young man. Although his back was turned, he could tell that his age couldn’t be far from his own. Argis assumed this was his new Thane. He couldn’t place the accent, so the possibility that he wasn’t from Skyrim was there.
Because of the man’s lack of a torso armor piece -- merely wearing pants and a strap across his chest leading to a pauldron -- it was clear that he wasn’t a stranger to combat. His physique was just a fraction smaller than Argis’ and his height appeared to be a mere inch below him. He glimpsed the well-drawn war paint of a dragon going down from his right pec to the edge of his pants.
A black leather chain with a ring at its base -- possibly a wedding ring -- was draped around his neck.
An ebony dagger was spotted on the small of his back as well as two Akaviri katanas in separate sheathes. Only the order of the Blades carried the latter weaponry, but he was too young to be among them, so he had either stolen or inherited them.
There was no shield at his disposal and that gave away his rogue-like combat style. Argis had worked for far worse people, and as a Housecarl, he had a duty requiring him to follow every order given. It didn’t mean he had to like it. That didn’t mean that he didn’t have morals and wouldn’t hesitate to disobey if it went against his views.
“Ah, good. There you are. I just had you reassigned to our friend Corvo, here,” Igmund said.
While Raerek took his seat and returned to his duties, the man -- Corvo -- gazed over his shoulder as Argis walked up. His back straightened ever so slightly when he saw him as if to keep up appearances.
Meanwhile, Argis followed protocol and lined himself up next to the throne. He clasped his hands behind his back and awaited orders.
Now viewed from a different angle, he could glimpse another wonderfully crafted war paint of two crossed sabers on his left shoulder. Corvo had straight, dark-colored hair that nearly reached his shoulders. A five o’ clock shadow covered his jaw and a scar crossed the left side of his lip in a diagonal line. The scar came to a pause, but started once more at the bridge of his nose, going about half an inch further. He couldn’t see much else than that considering that there was a tricorne pulled down over his eyes that hid half his face.
Igmund pushed on. “This is Argis. He’s among the greatest warriors I’ve ever laid eyes upon. Dedicated to his duty and honorable to a fault, but your enemies will receive no mercy. By his own wish, he has been without a Thane for three years so he could be prepared for anything, but he never put down his blade. I make sure the Thanes of my hold are protected and I give you my word that you’ll be in good hands.”
“A pleasure meeting you, my Thane,” Argis said with a bow of his head, fist clenched against his chest.
“The pleasure is all mine, lad.”
“I’ll also notify my guards of your new title. Wouldn’t want them to think you’re part of the common rabble, now,” Igmund said with a small chuckle. “Safe travels, my friend.”
“No promises,” he replied, the tease apparent in his tone. “You have my thanks, Jarl.”
Argis gestured him to follow. “I’ll take you to Vlindrel Hall.”
Not before long, the two stepped outside.
“Does Jarl Igmund speak so highly of all his Housecarls or should I expect nothing less?” Corvo asked, a hint of amusement -- without even as much as a hint of arrogance -- reflecting his question.
“I’m not sure if I’m the right person to answer that question, my Thane.”
“Suppose I’ll have to see for myself.”
After that, it went suspiciously quiet. Argis narrowed his eyes. On instinct, he drew his blade, turning around to lock hilts with his Thane. There was an amused expression on Corvo’s face with a hint of surprise. Corvo’s right arm had been laid horizontal and the tip of his dagger was mere inches away from Argis’ face, Argis’ own blade diagonal against it, clasped with both hands. Part of him however believed it wasn’t over.
He was shortly proven correct, as Corvo merely let his own blade fall, grabbing it with his other hand.
Argis’ eyes went wide, but he managed to maneuver a few feet back at the attempted strike. He could however tell at the demonstration that Corvo wasn’t actually trying to hurt him. Corvo had -- with precision -- slowed down his attack moments before he blocked it.
They began to circle around each other at the added distance. Briefly averting his eyes, Argis spotted a civilian having taking notice while Corvo slowly sheathed the dagger in his peripheral vision. She appeared somewhat worried. Another man joined the observation and shortly inherited the same look. It wasn’t usual for brawls to break out in Skyrim, but they usually occurred in inns, and fists were involved. Not steel. Corvo regained his attention whereas the dual-wielder slowly drew his own blades, smirk on his lips.
“Somethin’ tells me you’re one for causing a scene,” Argis said.
“You could say that,” he replied, before a few more civilians looked ready to step in. Break them apart before any blood was shed. Corvo rose his voice as amber eyes surveyed the field. “Have no fear. Just a friendly test. Interference is not necessary.”
They appeared intrigued by that and most of them did indeed remain.
Then Corvo lunged.
Blocked. Parried. Argis kept the role of a defender and thus dropped the riposte.
The aversion of his parry -- knocking Corvo’s arm in an arch behind him -- had Corvo spin in the same direction. Following its movement. The kick flawlessly came after and Argis arched his back. Inches from collision. He blocked the next sweep and was forced a step back to maintain his balance. Before he gave Corvo the chance to swing again, however, he directed their blades to the pavement.
Chuckling, Corvo sheathed his. “Who trained you?”
“None, my Thane.”
“Ah. Self-taught. Color me impressed.”
He could ask him the same, but it was none of his business. Meanwhile, he hesitated ever so slightly to sheathe his own in case he had something else planned. The crowd dispersed.
Argis gestured his head in the direction they were headed. “This way.”
...and Corvo fell back into his steps.
“So what’s your story, lad?”
That was the exact question he feared.
“Me?” he said, his question rhetorical. Corvo nodded regardless. “Who I am isn’t important. It’s nothing personal, but... if you’re trying to get to know me -- don’t. That’s all I have to say.”
He caught on quickly. “You’re concerned I’ll grown attached to the man sworn to protect me.”
“Exactly,” he replied, keeping it simple. “Here’s all you need to know -- as my Thane, I’m sworn to your service. I’ll guard you, and all you own, with my life. Let’s leave it at that, huh?” Not before long did they reached their destination. “The look on your face gives me the impression you know who this place was named after.”
Argis pushed open the door for him. He didn’t need to wait long to be proven right. Nodding, Corvo stepped inside. He shortly followed and closed the door behind them.
“Sir Berich Vlindrel.”
Vlindrel Hall was seated atop the highest point in the city, and if it weren’t for his fit form, the stairs would surely be the death of him. It was a large building. Vast. Its name, too, carried quiet the interesting story. One that Corvo could be familiar with because of those blades of his. Frankly, it was quite ironic that he would find himself there.
“I see you know your history.”
“Growing up without an education, I had to take matters into my own hands,” he replied, both reaching the end of the hallway. “Berich was a former Blade. A powerful gloom wraith by the end of his days in possession of the Sword of the Crusader. One of the eight artifacts of Pelinal Whitestrake. He was defeated by the Champion of Cyrodiil at the end of the third Era in Underpall Cave.” Argis halted and stepped aside for Corvo to take it all in. “My father used to read The Song of Pelinal Whitestrake at my bedside when I was young.”
“I see.”
Argis was no stranger to history himself. He looked into the name on his own terms when he was assigned as Housecarl many years back. Brains and brawn weren’t mutually exclusive. Argis was no exception even if his nickname ‘The Bulwark’ was what he was referred to. The book mentioned was one of the greatest tales he had read throughout all his years. He respected the Blades greatly. Powerful warriors with pure hearts. The only way to walk the pilgrim’s path was a nullified infamy.
Meanwhile, Corvo took to the map atop the center table. “I need to get to Fort Sungard. Are you known around these territories?”
“Yeah. It’s a large Forsworn occupied fort at the crossroads between The Reach, Whiterun Hold, and Falkreath. They’ll attack you on sight. This was their city once.”
“Think you can take me there, chief?”
“Of course, my Thane. Just let me know when you’re ready.”
Averting his eyes, Corvo puffed a laugh, hands placed upon his own hips. "What's with all this formality?"
"The Jarl has recognized you as a person of great importance in the hold. A hero,” he replied, Corvo looking up to regain his gaze. His features smoothed out proving that he wasn’t used to being addressed so highly. “The title of Thane is an honorary title. Guards will look the other way if you tell them who you are.”
“Then I’m honored.”
Argis soon learned why Fort Sungard was on his list. Ghorza, Markarth’s blacksmith, had sent him there in order to retrieve a book for her. The Last Scabbard of Akrash. Argis didn’t know her well as he spent most of his time in the Keep where they had their own blacksmith. Her brother Moth. Him, however, Argis was familiar with. The siblings had a knack for the trade.
Saddling their horses, they set out towards Fort Sungard, and hours passed as they traveled.
Fort Sungard’s big tower was seen on the distant horizon. The forsworn -- bretons driven out by the nords -- had several settlements spread out in the Reach. Argis had his fair share of run-ins with them. They got the upper hand, but they were many, and Corvo proved that he was not only efficient with blades. He released the first arrow at a head with precision resulting in an instant kill. After three were killed, the battle ensued, swords clashing and arrows traversing swiftly through the air.
They at one point ended up back-to-back. It turned out that there was more to Corvo than what immediately met the eye. He possessed the Thu’um. Despite the initial shock, Argis adapted quickly, and the fort was shortly cleared. It was a topic that couldn’t be avoided. The return of the Dragonborn. One called by the Greybeards high atop High Hrothgar weeks back.
“Impolite not to warn you about the Thu’um, eh?”
“Dragonborn. Sight to see. Then what are you doing here?”
Corvo didn’t meet his eye. “Its power is effective as is and I’ve no need to develop further.”
“The Greybeards summoned you. That means something. Piece of advice... do what must be done.”
“I suppose you’re right,” he replied, suppressing a sigh. “Never been fond of having others relying on me, but if this truly does mean something, I would be a fool to ignore it.” Corvo fell into a pause. “That said... I could still use your blade at my side.”
Now his duty was more important than ever. “You know I’m good for it.”