Several warhorns akin to a horsemen's bugle served as a beacon for Whiterun's forces, while the Dragon Cult's standard bearers howled through the fog with the deep, growling bass of their own. Lines of armed men streamed down every street as soldiers mobilised from the barracks across the city, while lights flickered into the windows of all the citizens roused from sleep. Orba watched the encroaching column of cold steel creeping towards them all the while, wary of the strengths they may reveal.

"I don't think I can be of much help," Jaren said, Orba looking towards him.

"I think you should go," she said. "You aren't built for a fight like this."

"Won't argue," Jaren mumbled as he went to the door. He looked back over his shoulder. "Be careful out there. I'll find you again, count on that." With that, he vanished into the misty night. Orba felt alone as she looked out the window of the hourde alongside Caius. She was above the open gate to the city, hundreds of soldiers marching beneath her, and spreading to the gatehouses and defensive positions around the entrance.

Whiterun's plateau was sheer, lopsided, and rocky; with a crown of stone walls spaced with turrets. It'd be virtually impossible to effectively scale them, which restricted any attacks to the bailey dividing the inner gate and the frontal gatehouse, under the eyes of dozens of archers aligning the rampart with crates full of iron arrows. Heavier machinery was unveiled behind their palisades, as artillery units withdrew the thick canvas covers from the resting catapults and ballistas. They were old and crude things that creaked and rattled as they were wheeled about, the cranks chittering as they were torqued for firing.

She didn't see any siege weaponry of note, just long lines of infantry, which meant that-were the walls in good condition-rebuffing the strike would be effortless. But the defenses weren't even close to properly maintained, and they were built to keep out humans, not deathless warriors with ancient powers.

Orba didn't wait for an invitation as she barged through the open door and jumped down the steps, her armor clattering as she vaulted the banister. As she joined the outgoing tide of soldiers, her last view of the city streets were men and women peeking from their doors, illuminated by candlelight as they appraised the blaring horns and ringing bells.

Orba wasn't especially familiar with the path around Whiterun yet, and stuck to the lower street. The drawbridge shuttered as it was dropped over the ditch-nearly overflowing with the rain-to allow everyone passage to the gate. The clouds were parting a little more, allowing the undead to glance at the architecture around her.

The ruined stonework was looking even more weathered and fragmented now, but it was all they had to work with as Orba reached the final barrier between Whiterun and the invaders. Captains were standing on the upper level and shouting for the units to assemble outside, while they prepared to seal the gate.

The mob of soldiers parted down the center while advancing, Orba lingering a little behind and ending up near front and center as the yellow-garbed guards formed a crescent of shields and pikes dozens of layers thick around the wall. Orba wasn't sure if it was a good idea to bring the fighting so close to the fort, but maintained position as everyone on the front overlapped their shields and awaited the attackers.

While they were steeling themselves, the draugr continued their advance with steady stride. The ground rumbled slightly as they encroached, slow and certain. Orba's fingers flexed on the handle of her mace and shield as the rain seeped through her armor, guardsmen shifting impatiently on every side, but staying in tight formation.

"Shields up!" Orba barely had time to register the voice as the command was echoed by numerous voices, the moonlight already obscured from her by the disks of sturdy wood being hoist above her. The undead threw hers up just as the corroded steel arrows rained down on them, the air filled with hollow clacking as she felt the impacts traveling along her arm. The interior of the shield wall was like a vault, her breath drawing short as everyone hunched in the dark, pinpicks of moonlight falling through the gaps as they weathered the barrage.

Beneath their cover, Orba could hear the draugr's steel boots thundering as the gap between the two forces drew narrow. Whiterun's own archers retaliated, arrows splintering against their greatshields and driving their archers back. Orba lowered her shield alongside everyone else when it was safe. The draugrs' eyes glowed sapphire within their tarnished helms as they leered at the people of Whiterun through the ports in their shields, the wall of metal bristling with pikes.

Rows of draugr were sundered by the rocks being hurled over the wall, while ballista bolts pierced shields with the shriek of twisted metal and nailed them to the ground. While the assault from the city wall was great, the Dragon Cult had no regard for their injuries, and continued forward undeterred. Even the draugr glanced by a catapult strike-if they were physically able to move-got right back up and kept going.

Their lines would not break, until the first line of Whiterun's defenders were nose-to-nose with the Dragon Cult. The draugr shouldered their pikes and charged forward, the yellow soldiers roaring as they ran forward to meet the strike.

The tips of the long spears lunged into the columns of the defending force, Whiterun's guards pushing past the first row with their shields and chopping at the shafts with axes and swords. The first row of draugr discarded their polearms and drew their swords, their shields only parting to thrust their blades from the sides, while the rows behind them threaded their pikes over the shoulders of the front row to support them.

The men of Whiterun couldn't get past the thick slabs of metal as they traded strikes back and forth with the draugr; but despite the cultists having enough strength to thrust their swords right through mail hauberks, Whiterun's defenses held as the ranks continued pushing back, two men replacing every one lost.

Orba's eyes squinted from a bright flash, the sound of shattering porcelain splitting the air as a plume of fire erupted within the draugr's ranks. Whiterun's catapults lobbed a few more firebombs-primitive oil urns roped into a bundle and set alight, which left considerable disorder amongst their ranks. While they parted around the fires, the soldiers at the edge of Whiterun's formation spread around the front line to strike at the flanks and disorganize them. The steel wall started to pull back, like a tide at sunrise.

The undead was swept along by the cheering men as they pushed forward to keep in step with the retreating Dragon Cult. Even if they escaped the range of the artillery, Whiterun outnumbered them by at least two to one. So, why did this feel too easy? Like the massive force of draugr-who'd suffered very light casualties-were falling back too readily. With the way they kept taking pauses to clash with the defenders, it seemed they wanted to be followed.

The undead tried to focus on what she was doing. The scale of the fight was flustering her, but there wasn't much to consider. They were just getting away from the wall defenses, there was no reason to assume more than that for now. Still, everyone here but her was extensively trained in siege combat, and would exploit every dirty trick they knew to outmaneuver the opposing army.

Orba found herself wading through ditches and vaulting fences as the fighting spilled into the fields and residences surrounding Whiterun. Above the white noise of metal on metal and heavy footsteps, her ears perked at something. It was a faint whistling in the distance, one that was growing louder with every passing moment. It was the drone of something falling towards them, Orba's undead heart fluttering as her eyes went to the skies.

Beneath a sky glazed with ghostly white clouds and moonlight, a bat-winged shape was diving towards them. Orba turned towards a creek and sprinted for her life, the soldiers she threw aside glancing up just as the shadow fell on them. The air filled with a deep, heavy whoosh-like a growl under very high pressure-as Orba felt the air around her being scorched. She dove forward, her stomach meeting the overflowing rain water hard enough to sting her eyes, but even when she dropped to the bottom of the ditch, the undead felt several inches of water stripped from her back, and those that were not were violently frothing around her as they went from a chill to a boil in an instant.

Orba gasped as she jumped from the churning overflow and pulled herself back onto land, only to inhale scalding steam into her lungs. It strangled her insides, and her eyes felt like they were blistering as she stumbled her way through the smoke. The white noise of battle was overpowered by the sizzling vapors as rain fell onto the streaks of pale gold flames traced around the field, Orba gasping as she pushed her way out and squinted through her tears.

Organized ranks were completely abandoned as surviving soldiers struggled to extinguish the lingering flames and retreated behind any cover they could find, the dragon wheeling about with surprising grace. At least, that was the best she could tell as the boiling water condensing on her skin was washed off by the rain, but her blistering eyes couldn't make out anything more than basic shapes as she drank her Estus.

She couldn't see his body clearly in the dark of night as her vision sharpened, but his face was like a shard of carved rock; a single jewel embedded in his slender, needle-nosed face emitting an intense light that silhouetted his skull. He had a primitive and skeletal frill-two long and arced horns at the top, with three shorter spines on either cheek. His neck was slender, but unlike Mirmulnir his front legs didn't merge with his wings-which sat higher on his spine-and instead had defined arms joining four-fingered hands with sharp talons.

The cyclops leered at the soldiers below for a moment, before his body went stiff and a brilliant flash of light spotted Orba's vision. The air was split by a shriek that rattled her skull, the sound generating a tangible force that rippled the blood in her veins and squeezed her chest like the coils of a serpent. The undead's shadow stretched behind her, shrouded by a penumbra the color of dried blood and rusty metal as she covered her eyes.

Orba brought her eyes up-feeling like she'd snuck a peak at the sun-and saw the effect of its sorcery on the soldiers surrounding him. They radiated sickly red miasma that seemed soaked into their soul, and their body was branded with a crucifix of stark red light. They scattered as the dragon dropped from the air and slashed at them with his claws and tail, but their movements were fatigued and unsteady, and even through the rain Orba could hear them groaning in agony long before they were struck. Was his gaze poisonous?

The undead put the skyline of Whiterun in her view and broke into a full sprint, the rows of draugr behind her pushing the disorganized defenders back over the field. They couldn't hold their ground here-not against a dragon. The best they could do is regroup at the wall and take cover. As Whiterun's defenders fell back, Orba heard a thundering in the distance. She thought it was the sky for a moment, until she felt the ground begin to tremble. A swarm of black shapes started rounding the plateau, manifesting from the fog in numbers that quickly entered the hundreds. They were too large to be soldiers as they enclosed, but as they drew closer Orba made out gaunt, near skeletal horses burdened with decaying armor. They leapt over ditches and fences without pause, their draugr riders handling them with expert poise.

Even their animals? Orba turned, and spied a second group in the west. Her mind's eye placed shields at their back, cavalry on either flank, and a dragon rampaging through their ranks. Only now did the undead realize how unprepared they were.

The cavalry enclosed the fleeing men with toothy jaws with iron teeth, their polearms skewering through multiple men before the tips grew heavy and buried themselves in the ground. Orba braced herself as a mounted legionnaire reared up on her, his axe brought high to use the momentum of the horse. Orba caught his swing with her shield, the top portion shattering with the impact and throwing splinters in her face. Orba let herself fall back onto the grass, the hoofs coming within inches of crushing her head as he rode on. Her poise was broken, but her shoulder wasn't. The exchange was short-lived, as Orba watched a captain riding nearby let out an ear-splitting shout.

Soon enough, Orba was practically deafened by the thu'um being thrown from all directions, the columns of defenders being pelted with rain that instantly turned to shards of frost, boiling steam, and bubbles of explosive force. Were she not undead, Orba would likely be lost as her ears rung, eyes burned, bones rattled as she half pushed, half crawled through it all.

Maybe her sense of time was slipping, or maybe she was so high on adrenaline she was blacking out as she evaded the riders swooping in from all sides, but Orba was already rushing through the waiting gates with many more forcing their way in behind her. Ballista bolts and stones continued to fly over the curtain wall separating the massacre outside from the front gate of Whiterun, but Orba knew it was a foregone conclusion at this point.

There was the unmistakable gust of wings, Orba swerving towards the base of the wall and looking over her shoulder-at the top of the gatehouse. The dragon-with wings furled-drove through the enclosure like a giant spear, thatch and lumber flung everywhere as he abruptly opened his wings and beat down on them. The one-eyed dragon climbed through the air, and came to a stop above the wall at her back.

The various artillery pieces turned towards him, the cycloptic dragon simply waiting there as they readied to fire. The strings made a sharp thwip as they hurled their projectiles at the dragon. In one moment, the dragon was floating there. In the next, he was floating there with several long spears and boulders fixed in the space in front of him, plucked with invisible hands as one would the petals off a flower. Orba barely understood what she was seeing as they began to violently shutter midair-pushed against an unseen sling while that intensifying hum rattled the air.

When the one-eyed dragon let go, Orba was certain the emplacements were completely destroyed as the frozen projectiles were flung back with twice the power, the wooden frames shattering from the impact. The one-eyed dragon dropped onto the wall below, his talons crunching the stones beneath his feet. Rubble tumbled into the street, his arrival sending the scrambling defenders reeling back. Orba knew better, and increased her pace as the cyclops breathed in.

The undead dropped low and slid to a stop near the foot of the black dragon's perch as he exhaled a gust of black flames-the column splashing off the wall of the bailey and billowing around the street like heavy smoke, while the edges continued to shine with golden heat.

Orba stayed low and lifted her ruined shield over her face as the fires spread out around her, but wood turned to charcoal in her hands, fissures forming across the cinders as the metal rim warped. By the time it stopped, the steam surrounding the road made it impossible to see anything as the mist burned her eyes and throat. Orba pushed on blindly with her hand on the wall to guide her, survivors coughing violently around her as they scrambled.

She survived Mirmulnir, but this thing was a different beast entirely, like it was vomited from the depths of Chaos with the sole intention of breeding death. She heard the dragon take off over her head, then the destruction of another building accompanied by twisted metal and a chain rattling. The drawbridge boomed as it fell open, the shadow disappearing from sight as Orba ran across the ruined pad and joined the influx of people into the city.

Orba was lost in the crowd as everyone threw themselves over the threshold, some of them making it the last few feet before collapsing from their intense burns. She didn't know how many soldiers were left, but her head was ringing so loud she could barely hear the command to fall back. Whiterun had a secondary wall between the plains and wind district higher on the hilltop; Orba presumed that's where they were going to make their final stand.

Any remaining blood in Orba's face drained at that thought as she blindly retreated around the guardhouse by the gate to meet the steep steps. Atop the hill-further up the plateu's incline, there was a reserve of archers on the battlements overlooking the lower district, prepared for when the plains district was inevitably overrun by the draugr on their heels. It was at this point, as she carried herself up the steps with labored breath, that she felt how slow and heavy her movements were becoming.

The exhausted undead saw her own hopelessness reflected in the last line of defense as they tended their positions as best they could. She pushed through the frightened soldiers, only to find unarmed civilians behind them. These streets weren't intended to accommodate everyone in the city at once, but rather than everyone clamoring or pushing from each other, there was an eerie stillness as people quietly sobbed or whispered amongst themselves.

The guards were herding them elsewhere, but Orba didn't think there was anywhere to go on this hilltop. They all trusted the actions of their protectors-those they knew as well as those passing through-to keep them safe. But as of now, it was nowhere near enough. Fate was cruel sometimes, that's just how it was, but the pain wouldn't stop as she continued through the rows of fleeing civilians.

Orba found Caius around the stairs to Dragonsreach, accompanying a half-dozen or so fully armored knights that didn't look to be from the regular force. Their armor was a darker shade of grey than mundane steel, and their thighs were garbed by a black fur kilt. The engraved collar was thick and had a wolf's head at the center, and the back of their gauntlets sported a moaning face. The texture was otherwise flat and trim, and the elite warriors took minor interest as Caius turned to her. "Dragonborn!" He was trying too hard to sound excited. "The front is lost?"

"I didn't come back because it fancied me," Orba snapped, with her famous temper lending her something resembling a second wind. "What's the plan now? The wall won't hold."

No-one replied to her, just standing around while the downpour continued. One of the Companions finally spoke for them, his voice oddly calm and steady for the situation. "We stand by our Jarl and his city," even with his pale hair sopping wet, and a large ulcer chewing almost completely through his cheek, he exuded a sense of regal and courage. "If the gods call us to Sovngarde, we meet them together, after an honorable stand."

"Right," Orba grit her teeth. "So, die, that's the plan?"

One of the knights stepped to her, even daring to raise his zweihander.

"Vilkas, don't," the Harbinger boomed, his fellow knight backing down. "If we raise our steel, it should be against our enemies. Dragonborn," he slid his helm over his elderly face. "Our Jarl prepares for battle in Dragonsreach, go to him. A leader belongs with his people."

Orba gave a curt nod, and dredged a little more stamina to jog up the stairs. The melancholy settling into her chest was replaced with a knot-a whole tangle of emotions that were grinding all over each other. Her anger threatened to blot everything else as she picked up speed, and a flurry of thoughts ran through her mind. She wanted to scream so many things, but ran through the lines in her head while the storm surge tumbled down the rocky crest and roared through the ducts.

Directionless screaming wouldn't do anything but tire her out at this point. She threw open the doors of Dragonsreach, the floor making a soggy squelch as her soaking boots sunk into the carpet. She was trying to conserve Estus, but the moment she stepped into a warm and dry space, she wanted to drop to the floor. Orba took a few sips, her sensitive skin settling down and her breath stinging a little less, but it was just a temporary measure.

She hadn't visited Dragonsreach more than a few times now, but could feel the difference in the air immediately. From the regular faces of the court, to visitors speaking to the Jarl, there was always an audience-but it was empty now. The firepit was down to the last embers, the dying flame enclosed by growing shadows stretching across the vacant audience chamber. Orba's footsteps sounded heavy in the dim hall as she approached the one seat at the table.

Orba could see Balgruuf's blond beard sticking through the front of his medium helm, but he'd forgone his ornate Jarl's garb. He had an open-face iron helm adorned with elk antlers, the slit giving easy access to his lips as he leisurely drank another glass of wine. His chest was garbed with a stout brigandine in Whiterun colors, and at his sides were a wooden round shield, and a steel axe engraved with celtic knots resembling the mane of a horse. "Farengar and my family have already fled with Irileth," he thought aloud. "And the people are not far behind, we are all that's left."

"I can see that," Orba snapped.

Balgruuf was uncharacteristically calm, barely moving in his seat. "Is there a problem?"

"Are you soft in the head?" Orba could barely contain herself. "There is no 'defending' this city, and anyone moronic enough to do so is going to die."

"You're calling my men foolish?"

"No, you're the fool!" Orba finally screamed. "We've all been trying to warn you this was coming, but it's like toppling a stone wall with piss. No matter what we put in front of you, it's always denial and deflection. And for what? Your pride as a ruler? You know," Orba added. "You see me as a child who doesn't know any better, but seen this all before. You know you failed, and believe throwing away your life in dramatic fashion will somehow undo it, but what of the people you're taking with you? How many of them get to jump on the funeral pyre with you, because 'honor' compels them to follow your insanity?"

Balgruuf didn't retort. In fact, he didn't say anything at all. Orba felt like she was craneing forward, trying to listen for a non-existent argument. When he saw her waiting there, the jarl finally answered. "What are you expecting to hear?" he shrugged. "You're a clever woman, Orba-more than most will ever know-so you understand what's going to happen when the people learn what you and I already know."

Orba's frustrations began to turn away from him, to this entire situation. Groveling at her feet and begging for forgiveness was useless, and since he was the "logical" one to blame for this situation the people would lynch him, just as she was. He either died in disgrace or lived in disgrace, but either way Whiterun's fate was the same. "What about the others?"

"No-one deserves a home ravaged by war," Balgruuf replied. "I never asked them to die on my behalf, but their pride as sons of Skyrim compels them, as it compels me. Abandoning this city would disgrace the legacy of our forefathers, and that is worse than any death."

"That's horseshit." Orba interjected. "Whenever some lord decides to martyr themselves to restore their honor instead of face the consequences of their actions, they don't make the consequences go away, they just drop them on the people they are allegedly protecting. I've been there, at the foot of the ivory tower after the lord throws themselves off it, more times than I can remember. Everything gets worse, much worse. Beyond whatever hardship they are facing, now they have no-one to look to for leadership and no-one to protect them from the outside. I always wonder what would happen if the lord had enough spine to stay, if things could have been different, but I never get the opportunity to know because...people, like me always arrive when it's too late." It just kept coming. "I can't sit in silence out of 'respect' for you, when I'm watching you and your knights make the same old mistakes and expect the people you claim to care for fend for themselves. It's a narrow, selfish way of looking at things and if you can't see that you deserve to die!"

Again, Balgruuf didn't rebuff anything, and held a veneer of calm contemplation. "Of course, your kind would be familiar with death and sacrifice. More than a humble human like me, with one life to give."

Orba was struck silent, the color draining from her cheeks. When he saw this, Balgruuf continued with a renewed air of smug confidence, even if it was weaker than usual. "As Jarl of Whiterun I've met every kind of person from every corner of Tamriel; when I heard your strange manner of speaking and ignorance to our ways, I knew."

Orba's shock turned to anger, and even disgust as tears formed at the corner of her eyes. "So everyone's just leading me along? Pretending to look at me like I'm human?"

"I told no-one beyond Irileth. I left you to your own devices under the watch of my most trusted men to see what you-the only outlander to mingle amongst us-would do. I was prepared for your betrayal...but it never came." He said. "You've honored all of your promises, and I still can't understand why. You've done a poor job earning my favor, so what is it you hope to achieve here?"

Orba didn't have the answers this time, and sort of stumbled through whatever came to mind. "I thought humanity was supposed to band together against the Dark," she said. "Is it so unbelievable I don't enjoy seeing others suffer the things I've suffered, when things can be different?"

"Hmph," Balgruuf closed his eyes, but she didn't sense any sort of condescension from the gesture, more a meditative reflection.

They were interrupted when the doors of Dragonsreach were thrown open again, a guardsman rushing into the hall with an icy wind at his back. Balgruuf rose heavily from his seat, his axe resting at his side while he braced his shield with the other. Even with his back against the world's highest wall, there was still nobility in his posture.

"Jarl Balgruuf," the guard called, nearly out of breath. "We've taken our positions, but the enemy is forming ranks across both gates and could strike at any moment. What are we going to do?" Balgruuf gave no immediate response, save a despondent look to the side. The disheartened guard prompted again. "Balgruuf, please, tell us what to do."

The jarl finnaly faced him. "Withdraw from the wall."

"Sir?" He didn't seem to process the command. "You're telling us to abandon our posts?"

"Whiterun is lost, it is beyond our power to change that," he spoke. "But her people live on, and our responsibility to them doesn't end when they leave our walls. If our people are extinguished in our absence, our death would be for nothing. That is the worst fate possible."

"I understand," The guard replied softly. "But…it's still oath-breaking, and if we leave, who will stop them from following us?"

"You're right," Balgruuf said. "Someone has to hold the gates as long as possible. There's no other way."

Orba wasn't sure which one was more choked up at the order, and saw an easy solution. "I'll do it." She said. "It won't stick anyway, so I'm the best choice."

"No, I forbid it." Balgruuf decreed, not giving the hapless guard time to understand Orba's meaning.

"I don't understand," Orba said. "I can't die, no-one has to give up their life."

"You can't secure the route by yourself," Balgruuf explained, a somber note spilling into his words. "And even if you could, I know you wouldn't return intact, or alongside us. You've seen that walls and armies can't fight this, but you can." He pointed, nearly accusatory, at her. "You-the Dragonborn-carry our hope, and hope may be all we have."

Her special title amounted to a sorcery she could barely use, but he had her on the first point. Orba clenched her fist, at the reality of this sordid bollocks, unable to control anything, even the outcome of her death.

The guard left to convey the news, while Balgruuf attempted to straighten his appearance. "We've already overstayed," he strode past her. "It's time we lead them out of here, before any more damage is done."

Orba nodded, and the two disembarked into the misty air. After wading through hours of moonless night, the landscape seemed aglow as pinpricks of argentum light began leaking through the clouds. With the storm settling into a patchy drizzle, a curtain of heavy silence descended on Whiterun; even the army just beyond the inner wall was becoming muffled as the battle entered a brief interlude. She hadn't considered it before, but it was a long way to the front gate. "How do we get out of here?" She asked as they hastily made their way down the steps. "We'll never make it to the front gate."

"Of course not," despite the crisis morality moments ago, Balgruuf's confidence was returning. "But our forefathers prepared for this; there's a sprawl of caverns and sewers running beneath the city. While they serve as a gutter most days, the tunnels make a fine escape route. Thanks to this damnable weather, our tracks should be hard to follow."

"That's good," Orba released a breath. It wasn't much, but it was a start. The undead spotted an assembly at the base of the steps just as they neared the bottom.

The wolf knights were heading a group of militia; none of them wore a proper guard uniform, but all of them were visibly armed and slouched over in a grounded stance that spoke to their sturdiness and experience. She recognized Vignar's bushy moustache through the open face of his bascinet, his beady eyes scowling from either side of his nasal guard. Even with his old age weighing him down, he wore a thick gambeson jacket and heavy pants tucked into supple leather boots. He seemed to have no qualms pushing his way to the front. "Is it true?" He accost. "We're just goin' to turn away an' flee with our tails 'tween our legs? Without a fight?"

Balgruuf sighed. "We're cornered and overrun, our best chance is to fall back and regroup."

"All 'us took an oath to protect this city with our dyin' breath," he spat. "Or is that commitment too much for you?"

"This isn't about us!" Balgruuf began to shout as he echoed Orba's words. "This is about preserving our people, so we aren't extinguished by the Dragon Cult. You are Whiterun's finest, and with our army in ruins our citizens-your people-need you more than ever."

"No Jarl ever fled Whiterun in a time of war," Vignar stated. "Can you live with being first?"

"No jarl has faced a threat to our existence as grave as this," Balgruuf snapped back. "Not when the Companions claimed this land, not when men turned on the dragons the first time; never has there been a battle where the cost of failure was all of our people."

"I don't believe the Jarl should decide either way," Vignar huffed. "It should fall the Harbinger, true master of Jorrvaskr, to decide if we should disgrace centuries of tradition."

Everyone turned towards the towering form of the scar-faced man in unison. The jarl's face tweaked with concern, understanding that without trust he was just another man. The elder Companion did not raise his voice, but spoke firmly and concisely. "Our sole duty is to honor Whiterun's five-thousand years of Companion heritage, so we do as our forefathers did: defend our families and shield the innocent," Vignar shrunk at the unexpected turn, and the leader kept going. "Remember that Ysgramor himself fled Saarthal with his sons, only to return with his Five-Hundred and conquer all of Skyrim. If this is our Night of Tears, we mustn't dedicate our focus to our loss here, but the return we will make."

Though it failed to coincide with what Vignar wanted, the Harbinger's word was final as the group nodded knowingly amongst themselves, and the old man knew better than to push the issue. Orba winced as the silhouette of the black dragon soared just above the rooftops, the gust throwing everyone off-balance as he gained altitude and circled back around. At this point the dragon was just toying with them-nothing could stop him from razing the city to cinders at his leisure, it was only a matter of how long it would take to lose interest.

Orba could hear the draugr beyond the gates growing restless as the group followed Balgruuf into a damp alleyway near the perimeter of Jorrvaskr, several guards holding what looked like the hatch to a cellar open for them. The steps were slick with rain, and Orba had to work her way down the steep incline one careful step at a time in near total blackness to avoid falling.

The well could only be used one at a time, so it felt like ages before she reached the bottom, where several freshly lit torches provided a constellation of flickering lights down the interwoven corridors. The halls resembled the arches one would find under a bridge, with two brick walls falling towards each other until meeting at a keystone overhead. The entire complex was rotting into the ground, with several piles of powdered rocks and mortar dotting the floor where the ceiling had fallen away in chunks. They all walked under periodic flows of water, rain collecting along the tips of the roots hanging down, or falling through a grate on the surface.

The stench of stagnation was overpowering; moss, mushrooms, and low weeds were springing everywhere they could gain purchase. It provided a good playground for the fattened rats scurrying around their burrows at the intrusion. The layout of the dank sewers was quite deliberately confusing as it meandered from one side of the city to the next through a series of blind corners, stairs, and dead ends. Every so often, another portcullis would drop across their path and lock from the inside, a trough of thick water churning alongside them as they sealed the trail.

They were far closer to their enemies than the latter realized, with the Draugr's heavy footsteps echoing through the storm drains overhead while they chattered back and forth in their dragon language. It gave Orba a headache, like forcibly trying to remember something she never properly learned. At some points she swore she could understand what they were saying, but she'd accepted that her body was going through some changes at this point.

Thankfully, they didn't seem to notice their movement. The group reached a point where the drain structure abruptly opened to a natural cave. Orba trudged through ankle-deep water that shriveled her feet, and nearly tripped on the submerged fieldstones multiple times. The path was easy to follow, as the water draining from the city interior created a strong current. For a short time there was nothing but darkness, the heavy breath of the men surrounding her, and the rising sizzle of rushing water within the tight chamber. Orba's eye caught moonlight glimmering across the surface of the flowing water, and soon she was emerging from the cave at the base of the plateau.

Orba felt the thick dew climbing over her tongue as everyone spread away from each other, the undead checking her feet for places she could properly climb down. Multiple tracts of grass were washed away between the drains surrounding the hill and the bend of the White River before them, the long fingers of the delta piled with heavy rocks to stabilize the land. She could hear the tough grasses scraping across her shins as they held onto the patchy ground or sprung between these rocks.

With warmer air flowing through the valley as the storm dissipated, the mist created by the rain had thickened into an impenetrable, low-hanging fog that obscured everything just over the rooftops. Even the field Orba fought in minutes ago was almost invisible from here.

Balgruuf was right though, it was a blessing in this instance considering how sparse the landscape was. Speaking of, Orba hurried her pace to catch up with the Jarl, though it took pushing past a few Companions before she found the right one. She figured he'd know a safe retreat, or at least the closest thing they could manage. Orba quietly loathed clinging to someone's arm for protection, but she couldn't deny this was the first time in awhile she was afraid of death.

There was something in the air that immediately set the undead on edge as the wind increased sharply, before a sunset-hued light set the mist ablaze. A swathe of fog just above them was torn open like a sabre through silk to reveal the bat-like wings of the one-eyed dragon, its red eye burning above them like a misshapen star.

The air around them reverberated with raw mental power as its gaze was set directly on them, Orba feeling like the beats of energy exuding from its body were pulling the blood from her veins. She stood in shock, powerless to even run for safety as it floated above them, mist stirred by each wingbeat.

It struck the air a few more times, before it climbed through the air with a waving motion resembling a swimming fish, and went screaming into the night. It let off a chilling shriek as it left, but after several moments of silence, Orba was sure it wasn't coming back. She collapsed to one knee, now realizing how horribly she was shaking as she braced her arm on the ground and tried without success to lift herself. If she were a woman of lesser constitution, she may have fainted from the stresses placed on her body over the night, but Balgruuf hooked an arm under hers and gently lifted her to her feet.

"Come on," he urged. "We have to keep moving, all of you!" He added more loudly, as the Companions got back to their own senses and continued on.

Orba was still in shock. "It left us?" She stammered.

"I don't know," Balgruuf shook his dead. "Divines know what's gotten into these things lately."

"It doesn't make sense," Orba was trying to catch her breath, but she couldn't choke down the erratic sobbing bouncing around in her chest. "Fuck, I can't do this."

"Don't worry, we'll meet with the others and find a place you may regain your strength." He said this so casually, as though they weren't running for their lives, and only standing because their enemy seemingly permitted it.

Orba was unable to do anything more than nod her head as her mind settled into a defensive trance, impervious to any thoughts beyond putting one foot before the other and staying with the group. They made it to the edge of the river, which had swollen to the underside of the bridges spaced around the road. As they crossed, Balgruuf slowed to a stop and looked back over his shoulder.

It was the only thing his companions followed, the group holding a distant vigil for the black plateau. The lights had all gone out by now, the mayhem of battle replaced by a profound stillness as the only identifiable shapes were the ruined wall, the mansion on the hilltop, and a single beacon of firelight as the eternal flames of Skyforge quietly burned beneath the eagle's talons. On one hand, it was a kindness they didn't set fire to the city, and any stray flames were snuffed by the weather; but Orba could feel it in the way they moved, the way they breathed, that watching their perfectly preserved city lay deserted and overrun by the dead killed something inside them.

After everything Orba had been through, and the endless chain of broken lives trailing behind her, she'd grown numb. There was always a faint distance between herself and tragedy; it was never something unfolding before her, and the wounds were never fresh. It never made her want to weep uncontrollably like an ugly newborn, were it not for immeasurable self-control born of necessity.

She always yearned to have her humanity back, but she didn't want this.

Without a word, they all began to migrate in unison, afforded no choice but to carry on.