It wasn’t hard to get out of the city. Sloan loitered near the gate until she saw a nondescript middle-aged man dressed in drab yellow but elaborate robes who appeared to be alone and sidled up to him with her best ‘please help me, mister!’ eyes. He seemed bemused but did not protest when she joined him and they passed through the gates after only the most cursory once-overs from the guards.

 

Much to Sloan’s surprise, he did not demand payment (via money or sex) once they reached the road. He simply introduced himself as they continued to walk together.

 

“I am known as Wulfgar. I am a Monk of the Voice. You may have heard of us by the colloquial term ‘Greybeards’.” He laughed and stroked his decidedly-ungrey beard. “As you can see, I have yet to live up to the name.”

 

As Sloan introduced herself, her mind spun as she tried to remember anything at all she had heard about the Greybeards. Only two things came to mind. “Your monastery is on the Throat of the World, right? I thought your order never left the mountain?”

 

“That is true most of the time. Every ten years, we are allowed to take a year-long sabbatical. I decided to take my year to visit every bit of Skyrim I could. Squeeze ten years of experiences into one, if you will.”

 

“Has it lived up to your hopes?”

 

“Indeed! I have seen things I never imagined existed. The downside to becoming cloistered at a young age – you miss out on many of the things the world offers.”

 

“Have you thought about quitting?”

 

“Well, of course, from time to time. But there is nothing in the world (that I have found, anyway) that can replicate the feeling of speaking with the Voice. The first time you Speak a newly mastered Word…” A visible shiver ran through Wulfgar’s body. “It is something that cannot be explained; it must be felt, spiritually, emotionally, and physically."

 

“So this Voice is some sort of magic?”

 

“In a way. It is the language of the dragons, and dragons were creatures of magic. Their words…it is difficult to explain. The words in their language are like empty vessels. If you fill them with mana, they become Words of power. But before you can fill the words, you have to know their shape. It takes months or even years to learn the shape of even a single word.”

 

“That sounds…complicated.”

 

“It is, and it can be very frustrating. But the end results are well worth the time and aggravation.”

 

“So what about the Dragonborn?”

 

Wulfgar barked a short laugh. “So you have heard about the legendary Dragonborn! Well, I suppose that is not a surprise – we are in the home country of Tiber Septim, after all. By all accounts, the Dragonborn has an innate ability to Speak as the dragons do. He does not need to learn the shape of the Words; he merely needs to be shown the Words and he will understand their shapes instinctively.”

 

“That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

 

“In a way, I suppose I would be jealous of one who could do that. On the other hand, I wonder if having such an easy path would take away from the experience. One of the best parts of mastering a new Word is the catharsis, the release of everything you have put into it. If you just knew the Word from the start, there would not be that build up. It all sounds so…hollow, somehow.”

 

“I understand that, I think. So the Dragonborn can use these Words as long as they learn them?”

 

“Well, sort of. There is still the matter of filling the Words with mana. Dragons, being magical creatures, filled the Words as they spoke them but humans do not have that capacity. Even after learning the shape of a Word, it takes days or weeks or even months to fill them. Depending, of course, on one’s own affinity for the arcane.”

 

“So…once you have spoken an empowered Word, it can’t be spoken again until you fill it again?”

 

“That is correct. Unless, again, you are the Dragonborn. He can fill a Word permanently. Or could – in order to do so, he must slay a dragon and absorb its lifeforce, called zii. A little difficult to do if there are no dragons about!”

 

He laughed, but to Sloan, who had been trained in the art of laughing naturally, the forced sound of it was as jarring a tell as a lie. The monk may have been on a sabbatical, but she was willing to bet he no longer was.

 

“I see. And only the Dragonborn can absorb the lifeforce, I take it? I thought as much.” She paused, but didn’t want to lose this chance at the answers to questions that had been troubling all of them. “Is that why only the Dragonborn can kill the damn things permanently?”

 

Wulfgar raised his eyebrows. “it is. How did you know that?”

 

“It was something I heard…a long time ago. So your year is up?”

 

“As it happens, it is not. I have been summoned back early.”

 

"How early?"

 

“Very early. I have only been gone for four months.”

 

Sloan nodded. “So it finally happened. The dragons are back.”

 

The monk’s calm broke – he froze in place, then turned toward her. His gaze was unfocused no more; he stared at her with all the frenzied conviction of a prophet as he repeated his own question. “How did you know that?”

 

Sloan smiled and, for the second time in as many days, said, “I can tell you the entire story, but I don’t know if you will believe any of it.”

 

He held her eyes for a long moment, but Sloan stared back without blinking until Wulfgar’s gaze retreated back to his affable façade. “Well, the road is long. A story or two would help pass the time.”

 

Sloan laughed. “So it would.” And, for the second time in as many days, she told her tale.

 

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_________this is a section break, there is more underneath________

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The sun had dipped close to the horizon by the time Wulfgar ran out of questions about Sloan’s previous Skyrim. She had, of course, skipped the whoring and assassinations, focusing on what she knew of the story of the world in general – the appearance of dragons after thousands of years; the slow buildup of their numbers as they were raised from the dead one by one; their apparent inability to permanently die without a Dragonborn present; and, of course, the final fate of the world, with just a little taste of what she knew about said Dragonborn’s very conspicuous absence during all of it.

 

“If my sabbatical had not been cut short because of this very reason, I would not believe a word of what you say. However, as the dragons have nearly turned into mythical beings that some now question ever existed at all, I cannot find a reason to doubt the veracity of your story, for if you were trying to deceive me, you would nev…”

 

“What are you doing all the way out here? And who is this human?”

 

Sloan jumped and turned, cursing herself. It should not be so easy to sneak up on her! Especially since the speaker had not been sneaking.

 

A female orc on the driver’s bench of an open cart looked down at them with an expression marked with curiosity. Several armed-to-the-tusks male orcs sat in the back, also watching the two travelers with curious but not unfriendly stares.

 

“I am Wulfgar. And we are both…”

 

The orc waved her hand. “I wasn’t talking to you, old timer.”

 

Sloan raised her eyebrows as Wulfgar muttered, “I’m not that old.” Questions of her own raced through her. The orc didn’t seem angry or aggressive; if anything, her attitude bordered on familiarity. It seemed odd – the orcs she had known had been suspicious at best and downright hostile at worst. Perhaps the orcs of this Skyrim were not the marginalized outcasts from before?

 

With little to go on, Sloan judged it safest, in the moment, to take things at face value, and answered with the simple truth.

 

“I am just traveling with this man. Why do you want to know?”

 

“You…” The orc stopped and stared at Sloan for a long moment, then shook her head. “I think I see now. I am Chyehye. It is late in the day - I invite you to stay the night at our Kwåim. It is close by, it will be safe, and there will be a wedding tonight. An orcish wedding is not something outsiders get to see very often!”

 

Sloan glanced at the old man, uncertain, but his eyes had lit up and he gave the orc woman a deep bow.

 

“A rare opportunity indeed! I am Wulfgar and I would be honored to witness such an event.”

 

“We are honored to have you.” Chyehye responded with a bow of her own, then turned to Sloan. “And you?”

 

Sloan shrugged and bowed, since everyone else had. “I am Sloan. Lead the way.”

 

They walked beside the cart for the next hour, and Wulfgar spent the time asking every question he thought of about their culture and history. He also asked about their cargo, which turned out to be three humans, a woman and two men. All were stripped naked and hogtied. At Wulfgar’s inquiry, one of orcs said, “Don’t let their looks deceive you - they are werewolves. They killed one of our kin…”

 

“And almost killed three more!” Chyehye called back from her seat.

 

“…so we hunted them down.”

 

Wulfgar’s attention sharpened on the bodies. “That is fascinating! I didn’t realize werewolves were real.”

 

“They are, and no mean foes.” Chyehye stopped the cart and glanced back at them. “We are about to approach the gates. It is unusual for outsiders to visit and they normally are not welcome at all. Please keep your hoods up until I have had an opportunity to talk to our chieftain – it would not do to start a brawl.”

 

Sloan began to protest, then shrugged and pulled the hood of her cloak over her head. It was a flimsy disguise, at best – anyone would be able to tell at a glance neither of them was an orc - but Chyehye had betrayed no signs of dishonesty, so they paced the cart as it rolled to the gates, then into the inner sanctum of the orc stronghold.

 

It was a sight to behold – everything was bedecked with massive displays of flowers and bright streamers, and torches and braziers kept the encroaching night from roosting. Despite her misgivings, no one seemed to notice them; they were all too busy with the festivities. She stayed in the darkest corner she could find and watched everything.

 

Wulfgar showed no such concern or restraint. He wandered about with a delighted expression, talking to anyone who would listen. No one seemed to take special note of him aside from some startled glances, which probably meant the chieftain had been informed of their presence. Although how that information might have been disseminated through the rest of the clan so quickly and silently made that unlikely.

 

Music started playing somewhere as Sloan chewed on the minor mystery. The crowd began to still, settling into a loose semi-circle around a small hut next to the primary building, which afforded Sloan a better opportunity to study the inhabitants. She noted, with a small shock of surprise, another human among them; a young man with a sullen expression wearing what looked like College of Winterhold robes stood near the front of the crowd but off to one side. He presence, perhaps, helped answer her previous question – the orcs were already used to humans being about – but raised several more, such as why a mage from the college would be here.

 

She had learned only a little of the mages last time – there had never been need to contact them for any of her jobs – so she could only speculate about their motives. Maybe he was here to scout some orcish apprentice candidate? Did the school work that way? Maybe…

 

A final note blared, then the music went silent, the crowd stilled, and Sloan’s swirling theories coalesced into a single chord of disbelief that overrode all other thoughts as two figures stepped out of the hut and she got her first look at the bride.

 

 

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