Assimilation

Note: More dialogue-based and conversation. Focuses more on interaction and the plot line at least. I also forgot that you absorb the soul of Sahlokinir. Goddamn it.

Sotlunvith

-0-

Stab

Sometime in those five months she escaped her duties as dovahkiin, Danaë slays a white-scaled dragon with gray-green eyes. It is a particularly grueling fight between the both of them, and the elf finds herself cursing the Divine who let the dragons wield frost through their mouths.

They're dragons for crying out loud. What on earth were they doing with ice?

The blows they exchange are devastating to the landscape and the dragon's wings and snout. Too close had the white reptile's gleaming fangs come to maiming her arms, and after she kills the frankly terrifying animal and feels the now familiar warmth flooding her soul, Danaë wonders.

Is there another knock in my brain that's more insistent than all the others?

Last Minute

Her energy has been sapped away. Danaë doesn't know whether to be impressed by the damn white lizard's power or be frustrated.

Not even absorbing the dragon's soul allows her to regain her vitality.

She retires at an inn in Whiterun, and Saadia (can't really think of her as anyone else) notices how pale the elf is.

Danaë gets her room at half-price that night.

Back to the Present

"You're kidding," the High Elf deadpans. She makes herself comfortable on a dream-formed-boulder as the white dragon from before crouches in front of her. "I thought it was a memory you were going to show me."

"I thought you'd like a briinah to briinah chat, as you joorre call it," says the dovah dismissively in a husky low voice.

The dovahkiin tries hard to decide if she is offended by the 'joorre' comment.

"I believe that I cannot be classified as a joor anymore," she finally answers.

Okay, so she is a tad irritated.

The dovah continues, apparently uncaring of her 'sister's' reply. "My name is Sotlunvith," she introduces herself. A quick translation renders Danaë's posture stiff. How disturbingly appropriate and literal—Sotlunvith means white, leech, serpent in the dovah tongue.

"Drem Yol Lok, Sotlunvith."

The name itself is graceless.

"Drem Yol Lok, dovahkiin." A blink of the dovah's eyes makes Danaë tense even more. Her spine grows stiff with the instinct to stand (or in this case, sit) straight. "Would you like to begin the process of merging now or subconsciously as you travel around on foot?"

The High Elf has no wish to see what makes this dovah tick.

"Do I have a choice?"

"Isn't there always? There was a choice to join Alduin and his traitor brother, Paarthurnax, and we could have defied out instincts to ally with the higher power. You of all the joorre ought to know, dovahkiin, since you seem to side with the underdogs."

Danaë jumps at the chance for a new subject. She remembers Miinseqah's warning quite clearly.

"You honestly consider Paarthurnax that terrible?"

The dovah's entire demeanor shifts into that of a white-scaled murderess that reminds Danaë that this particular dragon is a silver-tongued speaker and a killer. "Alduin stood up for what he knew. He reasoned his madness. Paarthurnax's whim to help the joorre was not calculated or logical. It was borne of compassion and pity," she spits out.

She stops, looks away, and bares her teeth at some invisible wraith. "She has yet to merge with my soul entirely, Miinseqah. There isn't any need to act worried for your precious dovahkiin." Gone is the caring sisterly persona Dane has sorely lacked in her High Elf upbringing.

Altmer families required only one child to continue the family line. Any more offspring and one risked a potential interfamily fight for the Head. Some families did produce more than one child and tried breaking out of the stereotype, but then some kind of assassination would happen and harden the other child to reality.

Thus, the elf is the only heir of her family and a lonely orphan that has grown up.

Inglorious

"Akatosh be damned," swears Danaë angrily as she recoils from the cold wood of the floor. The Winking Skeever does not do much for internal heating, and the fireplace below offers no comfort for the rooms up top.

She's rolled off her bed.

Never again is the elf going to be sleeping on top of the covers.

There Be No Dragons

My memories will not be handed down to you as Malaarzun's, Beynraanjoor's, and Miinseqah's were, Sotlunvith informs her lazily as Danaë skirts past pressure-plated traps in Ustengrav. That's a little crude for my tastes.

Danaë regrets having the unfortunate luck of consuming dragon souls; she doesn't even have a choice. It's partially why she runs from any dragons now—any more dragon entities in her head would most likely render her insane.

If she isn't already. The joorre's greed for money and property begin to irritate her even more than the old dov's lust for dominance.

Briinah? queries the only (possibly) female dovah in her mind.

I'm fine. A suspicion crosses her mind. Where are the others?

Keeping their respectful distance.

This is a little impossible to consider knowing Miinseqah's need to interrupt conversations.

Absent

"You're kidding me," deadpans Danaë, staring at the note replacing the supposed Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. She plucks it off the iron thing and opens it blankly.

Somewhere in her head, she can hear the echoes of a snort, a raspy chuckle, and a snicker.

You are incompetent at your occupation, Sotlunvith observes.

The elf is glad for their solitary surroundings. Now she doesn't have to think her replies back.

"You're incompetent at being a silver-tongued dovah."

She really ought to watch herself. Danaë has no idea what kind of access the Frost Dragon has to her mind.

Head to Riverwood, sighs the dovah.

Almost like an older sister nagging the younger.

Advice

The High Elf wishes, just a little, that the road to Riverwood was shorter and her legs were built for long distances. The road from the middle of nowhere to the almost middle of nowhere is absurdly lengthy and twisted. She ignores the goat only five paces ahead to pay more attention to the giant camp that's coming up (according to her gut and Malaarzun's earlier scouting of the new Skyrim he had been revived in).

Her slender form dressed in the standard Thieves' Guild outfit blends in perfectly with the drab landscape.

She does prefer it to Summerset Isles's tropical and humid weather, though.

(Skyrim is like every climate collected into one small, mountainous terrain.)

If I may offer you some advice, begins Sotlunvith drily in her head. Danaë can see the white-scaled dragon's eyelids snick over gray-green irises in exasperation.

Go ahead.

Danaë humors the dovah only if because she still fears her.

Why have you not invested in a horse?

Ah. The stocky animals that the joorre bought because they were too lazy to walk. She recalls the last time she used a horse—a month ago—and shudders ever so slightly.

It was, she chooses her words carefully, fairly unreliable.

Have you ever considered the fact that you were not suited for such a stupid mammal?

After it died, yes.

Then perhaps you should invest your life in something more useful to further your own goals.

Something, my dear sister, or someone?

Worthless Investment

"I've seen you somewhere before, once," says Danaë automatically when she enters Riverwood's inn. The smell of freshly baked loaves of bread makes her stomach rumble. Low metabolism she may have, but even a High Elf cannot suffice on greens and water for so long without wanting for more. Delphine, the owner of the inn, simply cocks her head at her and asks what she wants.

She's ignoring your statement. I've seen better liars. Sotlunvith dismisses the apparently bad liar and thief immediately.

"What do you need?"

"I'll pay ten septims for the attic room."

"… I'm very sorry, we don't have an attic room. Take the room on the left."

Return

Delphine returns to Danaë the precious Horn of Jurgen Windcaller and then leads her down into a secret basement. The dovahkiin wants to know how the joor has moved everything inside, including that lovely enchanting table, but then she notices a piece of paper marked with little symbols.

She circles round the table and looks at it with a practiced eye. Dragon burial sites.

My brothers and sisters were buried at such menial sites. What were those zealous idiots thinking?

Proof of Existence

"I need evidence that you really are the Dragonborn. Not just your word, elf."

She ignores the old joor's derogatory tone.

"I could just run off and abandon you to your quest," Danaë blandly replies. "But I need to kill time, so tell me how I can please your majesty."

Delphine's eyes are wide with shock and disapproval. "You would…" she splutters. "What kind of hero are you?"

Evidently not a good one, but that is fine.

Shut up, please. I'm trying to work.

No, really. Sometimes heroes are bad ones and they still win at the end of the day.

Hideous trick of fate, then?

Absolutely terrible.

"Just tell me what you want me to do," sighs Danaë.

Another Run?

Sometimes, Danaë forgets how easy it is to travel Skyrim through the roads. She jogs and walks with Delphine for about two hours and talks with her on the way, holding a conversation with Sotlunvith as she does so.

"So, Kynesgrove… What is it besides a town?" the slender elf asks, pacing her long strides so that the short Breton can keep up with her.

"I don't know which dragon is buried there, but the town itself is infamous for its ale. The Sleeping Giant's is better, though."

Don't take her word for it; she is puffing up with pride. See her feathers? They ruffle indignantly when she encounters any slights. Your silence is one.

It's reputed Alduin's pride was worse.

Is, dear sister. Is worse. But it is more bearable.

Passerby

"Should we not—"

Two Alik'r confront a Redguard woman with their swords drawn. It is close to twilight, and the night shadows everyone's faces. Danaë pities the two—she's done that particular job for Saadia months ago, killing the mercenaries hired to capture her. Briefly, she wonders why they haven't received the knowledge that Kematu is dead.

Her hand wanders to her right side where a scimitar used to dangle in place of a glass sword.

"Ignore them. They will not harm the woman."

Your conscience is annoying. Stop it.

They are interrogating her.

And you believe you will help? Tell me how.

Danaë bites the inside of her cheek and presses on gravely, her spine stiff with indignation and anger.

Pulled Out of Action

She climbs her way up to the peak before Delphine reacts to the frightened girl's screams of help. Her second sight of Alduin is breathtaking now that he isn't doing much of anything besides watching a dragon burial site with grave, iridescent eyes. His wings flap silently, like Malaarzun's in his memories.

Watch, murmurs Sotlunvith, sounding as if she is entranced by the sight.

"Sahloknir, ever-bound dragon spirit!" roars Alduin suddenly. She staggers back and sees Delphine approach the entire fiasco with wary eyes. The Breton is clearly cautious about Danaë being so close to the most notorious dragon in Tamriel.

I understand him.

Do not waste the opportunity, then, chides the frost dragon.

"Slen tiid vo!" Flesh against time.

Bones rise, flesh grows, skin covers, and scales stack against one another—Sahloknir reincarnates.

Zeymah. The dovahkiin and dovah's thoughts are in sync now.

Alduin's head swivels to face Danaë's, and his eyes meet hers. "So, little dovahkiin, how are you finding Skyrim?" He doesn't let her answer and bares his jagged teeth at her. "You do not even know the tongue of the dovah, do you? What arrogance coming from one who has taken the name of dovah."

I want to murder him.

Stand down, snaps Sotlunvith.

"Sahloknir," hisses Alduin, "kill these joorre."

Cornered

The instant Alduin flies away, Danaë instinctively dives to the left, drags Delphine to the ground, and sets up a lesser ward to shield the both of them from Sahloknir's frost attack. "Sahloknir!" barks Danaë in her best 'Paarthurnax-commander' voice. "Stand down!" She echoes Sotlunvith's earlier order.

Of course, he doesn't stop.

Sometimes she thinks that they will never stop.

"Just kill it if you're the damn Dragonborn!" shrieks Delphine, who is strategically stabbing the dragon's underbelly and wings. The newly-reformed membrane is easy to slice through. Danaë's movements stop—she wonders what Beynraanjoor feels for the Breton right now, for disabling a brother's ability to fly. He is mercifully still silent, however, as Sotlunvith has apparently monopolized her mind for herself.

And now is the time to ask yourself, dovahkiin, whispers Sotlunvith suddenly, if you truly kill the dov due to expectations of the people or for self-preservation.

Sahloknir lands with a great frown of annoyance on his face and he breaths frost and fire everywhere.

Then he lurches his way forward, his jaws snapping open and attempting to enclose Danaë's head inside.

She shoves her glass sword down his throat, that instinctual jerk subjecting her mind to another soul.

Slap

When they return back to Riverwood, Danaë's close to tears and anger towards the Breton. Sotlunvith is quiet inside her head, maybe asking about Sahloknir's new state of being. She wouldn't blame the dovah if he is angry—one moment dead, the next alive, and then trapped inside an elf's soul. Danaë talks to Delphine, cold and abrupt, and then she is told to report to Solitude as soon as she can.

If she has her way, it won't be for a little while. The party at the Thalmor Embassy does not clear her frankly disorganized schedule completely as it still needs a bit of preparations to make.

She still has to give back that Horn of Jurgen Windcaller after all.

You are forgetting something, briinah, drawls Sotlunvith suddenly. Sahloknir is not heard at all.

Ah.

"What faction are you a part of?"

"The Blades."

"And your purpose?"

"You have somewhere you need to be right now. You can ask questions later when this is all over."

The condescension in Delphine's voice propels Danaë to show some feral dovah rage in her eyes and forget her manners.

"I haven't been a child for some time now, so don't expect me to bow to your every wish, joor."

Unearth

Sotlunvith has unearthed her hidden mannerly and prim side from her memories. Danaë is unsure whether to be grateful or horrified that she still knows how to flatter and raise an Altmer's ego. Eight months in Skyrim where racial slurs are practically tossed about as septims from a rich man and one would think her proper side would have been rubbed off.

"Elenwen, my name is Dany of the Nightshade House."

There. An appropriately similar name (her father actually called her that a few times, and the servants had picked up on it disturbingly well) that wouldn't have her jolting in shock and an even lower House in the Altmer hierarchy that is infamous for its virile and child-bearing elves. Not to mention the stylistic tattoos on her brow and eyes are similar to the Nightshade House's markings, and Elenwen, in her perceived glory, would never tell the difference.

"Ah, yes, I recall you being in the list… How are your fields?"

"Prospering and feeding my family's coffers, Lady Elenwen."

"I'm glad to hear—"

"Lady Elenwen?"

I can smell the Bosmer from your mind, snarls Sotlunvith. Her mood has turned for the worse. What's even more terrible than that is the fact that Danaë's nose is actually detecting the nuances in the thick, partying atmosphere, and Malborn is smelling a lot like mulled mead and dirt.

And a liar.

"The Alto wine is running out…"

"Then replace it, idiot!"

Dany (Dany, Danaë, Dovahkiin, Dragonborn) takes her leave very gracefully, and there's even a slight swish of her skirt that reminds her of her youth in long robes and dresses.

Bit of Banter?

The man's subtle hints for a free drink makes Danaë sigh in exasperation. Already she's encountered all the snobby rich people in the room, and her Guild's benefactor, Maven Black-briar, is here as well.

However, Maven automatically (albeit quietly) chides her for her terrible disguise, but at least the woman compliments Danaë's graceful figure and how easily she moves around the room socializing.

"Why, if I didn't actually know you as one of them, I might think you were a part of the Court," remarks Maven, who leans her elbows against her knees, staring at Danaë's face as if she is a puzzle.

It makes her feel slightly uncomfortable.

"I was raised to be someone a little higher than my real status," Danaë replies demurely. "Circumstances have closed that particular path to me."

"Your family mustn't have had a lot of money in their pocket, then."

This joor grates on my nerves, growls a familiar-new voice.

Come out of hiding, Sahloknir? questions Danaë almost smugly. Aloud, she excuses herself, confers with Malborn, slips a drink to Razelan, and then exits the now scandalous party.

Do not test me, sister.

I would never dream of it.

Clean Record

Danaë knows places and restrictions are never fool-proof. Of course, it may be her experience as a lucky thief who possesses more lockpicks than she ought to considering she has the Skeleton Key, but she has never known any place or system to be completely free of any discrepancies.

So when she absentmindedly hears that a Khajiit is hoarding Moon Sugar in the Thalmor Embassy, she is not exactly sneering at how flawed Elenwen's choices are, considering the food (and her guests, who are obviously not very happy to be there).

Back in the old Era, Alduin would have never even tolerated any kind of addictive substance take hold of his army.

Killing the joorre isn't an addictive substance.

It's a habit.

Just Another Interlude

"The girl is not very bright," growls Sahloknir with contempt. He is curled up in this blank, empty cavern that only expands with every dragon soul consumed. It hasn't expanded since he's arrived here.

(There's a meadow and a hunting ground outside which also expands with every dovah, but in here is a sanctuary that they cannot find in peace.

Can anyone really blame a soldier who's been thrown from death and life and limbo like a ball tossed between children?)

Miinseqah is across from him, and the gold-eyed glare he receives from the younger dovah barely concerns the new wraith. "She is wiser than the average joor," he spits back.

"Wiser or not, she is not bright. She trusts too much."

"Emotion is more or less expected from the dovahkiin," remarks Beynraanjoor dryly, scratching characters into the ground with an increasing boredom. There is only so much one can do in a mind like this. Experimenting with the Thu'um is an increasingly attractive solution to this boredom, however. "The world would be disappointed in her if she was lesser in her soul than them."

The gold-eyed dragon peers at the characters, deciphering them into a general translation.

Incredulously, he queries, "Are you really writing a story about Alduin?"

Sahloknir's curiosity is peaked.

"It's not much of an argument to persuade this dovahkiin not to kill Alduin," he muses, adding a few more marks to the ground absentmindedly, "but assuming that this is the basis of her mind, perhaps this will sway our sister into not becoming another Paarthurnax."

"It seems unethical to simply implant the idea that Alduin is trustworthy..."

"'Unethical'?" echoes Sahloknir. "Have you been infected with morality by this sham of a dovah?"

Malaarzun finally interrupts this growing argument.

"Cause any more chaos in this mind and we may be locked away in her subconscious's defensive mechanisms," snaps Malaarzun. "And no matter her physical shell, she is a sister in blood."

He doesn't feel like he has to remind anyone of that.

"We're irritable. We need something to do—"

"Then fiddle with the Thu'um and figure out if we can change forms. Maybe if you have a joor's body you can entertain yourself like that."

Slipping

It's on the wagon going back to Riverwood after finishing that Thalmor job Danaë is struck by one of Sotlunvith's memories.

Akatosh-damned dovah, she curses fervently in her head.

Carefree

A young Sotlunvith romps with another young dovah without a care in the world. Her wings are still unscarred, but prominent purple veins bleed through the thin membrane. Croaky laughs slip through bared teeth, and heavy tails occasionally smack against each other clumsily.

Is she learning to fight, or to play?

Maybe both.

Why is she even contemplating this?

Wraith-Danaë shakes her head at her stupidity. Considering the drama that has been in the three other dov's lives, she ought to be grateful for this and taking advantage of the fact—

Knock on Wood

In retrospect, she really shouldn't have taken the nice memory for granted.

This particular memory is… brutal.

Overrun

Sotlunvith raged, her white scales tinted purple with her frost dragon blood as the warriors' weapons pierced through the deceiving armor. Saliva solidified in her mouth to form splinters of frost, and it took down at least ten of the joorre.

But for every ten, there were twenty more.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered: What did I do wrong? How did I get separated and then ambushed?

Am I slipping?

Laboriously, she roared fus ro dah and inched her way up to salvation (to freedom from hurt, to the sky), blindly seeking for a balm for her injuries. Using her inner compass, she turned west and headed for a refuge everyone seemed to—

Something pierced through her wings.

Something has pierced through her wings.

Akatosh. She hadn't really given any thought about being a grounded dragon like Beynraanjoor, nor had she ever considered his frankly unique situation.

Calm down. Just a flesh wound. Nothing as bad as Beynraanjoor's disability.

She fell from her pedestal in the sky and landed on the ground with a loud thump, her joints stiff with acute pain and her mind temporarily dazed at the sudden impact. And then came the wild attacks on the weak points of a dovah's body. Sotlunvith's topaz eyes closed. Nothing had prepared her for this. Alduin's talks and experiences had never been so bad.

She must have angered Akatosh or Kyne.

Nature hasn't hated her so bad ever since the Accident.

"She's down, boys! Stab 'er in the 'ead before she gets back up again!"

Two balanced feet steadied themselves on her head, one foot pressing hard against a curved horn for stability. Most likely a boy. Wielding a rusty knife if her olfactory senses were working. He was also unwashed.

Conclusion: The unhygienic boy was prying away white scales with his nimble fingers to stab—

Black.

Fish Out Of the Water

The wagon-driver's rough shaking wakes Danaë up from her induced slumber. She automatically flinches away from the joor, her mind still wildly trying to reassemble her identity without inserting memories that aren't hers and little quirks that made her her and not just a High Elf with the blood of the dov. Her mouth opens and closes, sucking in air that isn't filled with the sounds of pained dragons or dying joorre.

"You alright, elf?"

She takes a deep breath and shoves away the thought that her lungs are being stabbed by the frigid air.

Damn wintery Skyrim.

"I am fine, joor," she lets loose the word accidentally, and her eyes are wide open at her mistake.

She's fortunate the man is too preoccupied at ensuring his wagon is still clean and loaded with trade goods to notice her odd terms.

Climbing out of the wagon, she starts the arduous journey back up High Hrothgar—but this time, there aren't any knocks in the back of her head.

This time, there are eight dov trying to sway her from her ideals and opinions and course in life. All for a good cause, of course.

Five-thousand and seventy-two

I apologize for releasing my hold over my memories, says Sotlunvith hesitantly. You did not need to observe any of those—

She doesn't have any right to see any of our memories, grumbles Sahloknir.

Well, you're never getting back to up to life again like us, so maybe she does, Miinseqah snaps.

Danaë clutches her head with gloved fingers, her eyes wide with all these conflicting voices. She staggers her way to the side of the mountain (doesn't seem like it'll end at this rate) and is glad for the solitude. She's fairly certain more than a couple of Nords would label her as a lunatic, like that poor fellow skulking around Solitude's streets.

"I thought you were keeping them quiet!" Danaë accuses Sotlunvith.

No matter about the memories.

… Huh. She is getting a little immune to a dovah's emotional turmoil.

Is it my fault if they refuse to shut up?

"Yes!"

Is it still my fault if my powers do not work anymore due to you absorbing my power?

"What?"

Oh, yes, Sotlunvith, Sahloknir growls, tell the little dovahkiin what new powers she can wield now.

Orange eyes narrow at a blur of snow. "You know what?" Danaë decides with a set jaw, "Screw this. I'm just going to deliver the damned Horn and go on my way back to Riften—"

Riverwood, Malaarzun reminds her in a steely voice. Assuming you go to Riverwood first and report your findings from the Thalmor Embassy, you can kill two birds with one stone. She can picture his head tilting in an innocent fashion. Would it not be wiser to do so?

How time consuming, Beynraanjoor observes.

Yeah, well, I apparently have all the damn time in the world, snaps Danaë.

Deafening Introductions

When the Greybeards officially acknowledge her as the Dragonborn, Danaë doesn't stumble around as she finally, finally hears the other Greybeards speak aloud. Of course their voices are deafening, but nothing really is deafening when she compares it to the now daily arguments in her head.

Even now they won't shut up.

Yes, yes, very impressive, says Miinseqah distractedly, apparently scraping something on a hard surface.

Haven't you obviously proved yourself to be the dovahkiin already? queries Beynraanjoor.

It's just a tradition, I guess.

New Shout

So they teach her the 'Clear Skies' Shout, albeit a little reluctantly knowing her purpose, but at least she reassures them she means no harm.

She's met Paarthurnax before, and she likes the old dovah, no matter what the dov in her head say.

"Lok vah koor!" Shouts Danaë, and she starts up the lonely path that Einarth took about three months ago. Ice wraiths litter the area like flies, but there is the occasional goat.

Eat it. She has no idea who is suggesting this. It's a cross between a snarl and a purr.

It's raw and can potentially give me food poisoning.

Eat it. She can't even identify the dov apart anymore.

Oh, draconic instincts.

Oh, Hello Again

"Drem Yol Lok (traitor, falsifier, fallen brother, brother) Paarthurnax."

"Dovahkiin, I see you've managed to steady your mind."

He was always stiff at greeting friends, muses Sahloknir smugly. Not very charismatic, is he.

"I'm not the complete master of my mind."

Alternate Reason

"You're a good source of conversation, dovahkiin," Paarthurnax admits. "Your opinions on certain subjects are also unusually well-reasoned."

Worth Saving

"Perhaps the Greybeards will have told you that this world is meant to be destroyed by Alduin. That we have grown too much, too fast, like a parasite. You must ask yourself, dovahkiin, is this world really worth saving? You have seen the joorre spread out and cut the land into little sections, into property as if they own it. The guards they deploy unevenly for the rich and the poor. The corruption in the Holds where no one can define who is good and who is bad.

"Is this world really worth saving?" he repeats.

Privately, and truly it is a private thought, because the dov in her head have quieted and retreated, Danaë contemplates her own question.

Has Paarthurnax grown tired of the joorre as well?

He's too good of a debater.

The old dovah would have been a scary joor had he been born one.

"Dovahkiin?" he presses.

"… I like this world. I don't want it to end."

Not good enough. Not reasonable enough.

"Would you stop the next world from being born?" Cut the cycle? Dam the river?

"The next world will have to take care of itself."

She's invested too much effort here.

Cut Back

She's forgotten all about reporting the Esbern fellow to that Delphine girl, notes Miinseqah happily. This is going rather splendidly.

Isn't it? Sotlunvith asks smugly. The only problem now is that she is associating herself with the traitor brother.

I can hear you, snaps Danaë, trying to keep track of the conversations she's having.

"Trouble, dovahkiin?"

"Much," she assures the old dovah.

O Fortuna

Danaë wonders how much time she can squander by staying at High Hrothgar when she mournfully remembers that the world does require a hero, whether it be an Altmer or a Redguard. The dragons in her head are claiming her quest is a waste of time—she partially agrees with them, but her morals have never been pressed out of her in spite of Sahloknir's attempts to scar her psyche. (Yes, she knows, but she's not exactly about to perform surgery on her mind to get him out.)

She treks her way down the snowy mountain and on to the road to Riften when she encounters a bandit camp, a dragon, and a keen-eyed giant that draws her into the fight.

I refuse to kill this dragon, she vows, crouching to avoid a bandit's wild swing. She drags the attention of all the fighters to her. It will lessen the injuries on the dragon thus allowing the dovah to survive a little longer.

On the downside, she's drinking health potions and healing herself so constantly, she has to consider drinking the bitter magicka potions to maintain a steady stream of golden light surrounding her body.

Run, suggests Beynraanjoor, disappear, do something other than waste your elixirs.

What, no suggestions, Miinseqah? Danaë tosses at the gold-eyed wraith mentally.

Find a safe refuge, now, he orders her in a no-nonsense way.

What? I'm trying to save my neck here and you want me to find a sanctuary in the middle of nowhere?

Take yourself out of battle now, briinah! snaps Sahloknir, and since Danaë has never, ever heard him refer to her as a sister or other affectation than 'joor' and 'elf' and 'dovahkiin', this jolts her into hightailing it out of the battle. She can see why, as another dragon has spotted the titanic fight and is drawn to it like a bee to a flower. At least he gets the attention, allowing her to slip away into the plains.

The only good thing about having about (what is it now? Five talkative ones?) dragons in one's head is that they spot things that your eyes pass by.

Alcove against the cliff?

Beynraanjoor shoots down that suggestion with a firm no. Too open, he explains curtly, to any attack from any wild animals or bandits.

Miinseqah cannot resist the tease: Bit of an experience there, zeymah?

Danaë wants to Shout in anger, but finds it more prudent to use it to sprint across the plains, to the base of a waterfall, into a crabber's shanty. She finds a cloth to hang over the doorway and falls on the bed, breathing heavily.

Hasty Apology

I'm sorry—

Hurricane

The memories hit Danaë like a tidal wave or a particularly gusty wind at the peaks of the Throat of the World. Her orange eyes roll back, her back arches in the air, and her last thought as a conscious being is that she is glad the crabber is dead and doesn't have to see her body contort.

Courtesy of the mudcrabs, of course.

She's not so cold as to kill an innocent man who hunts the crabs for a living.

Author's Note(s): It's true. I did forget about Sahloknir. I'm also thinking of cutting the storyline a bit back and focusing more on some quests for the hell of it. Again, name suggestions are welcome. Extremely welcome. It gets harder and harder to type these, you know.

Dialogue gets a bit easier, though.