Idgrod was named after her mother. She has her mother's hair, black as a raven's feather, and has almost surpassed her in height. Sometimes people would say they shared each other's eyes, a beautiful deep hazel that would brighten or darken with the world around them. But Idgrod knows her eyes are lighter, with less depth and color, because after their hair and height the similarities between them ended. Jarl Idgrod is brave, steadfast, complacent in the face of danger, and will do anything to protect what she loves and her city of Morthal; it often seemed the latter most of all. Everything her mother is, Idgrod knows she herself is not.

Two days have passed since Morthal was laid to waste. Since then, Idgrod has yet to leave the longhouse. Her mother and father were hauled off by the pale elves and tossed into the dungeon; at least Idgrod hopes as much. For all she knows, they are dead. A fate that she is sure has happened to her brother. He had run off just before the battle began. Idgrod never had the chance to go after him; after she heard Jorgen scream from across the bridge, a rain of arrows descended from the snow above, slaughtering the guard accompanying her in an instant. It was a stroke of luck that she managed to shelter herself inside the longhouse before being impaled by the next assault. But after the last couple of days, Idgrod can't be sure if her survival was luck or misfortune.

Her own home has become her cell. She sleeps in her same bed, dons her same clothes, and walks the same floors that she has lived in all her life; but with every familiar movement there is the unfamiliar tremble. She is scared. So far, Malkor has treated her as nothing more than a common servant. She pours him wine, prepares his meals, and cares for the house as any servant would. He even let her keep her dagger, saying it was to "keep her comfortable". Idgrod would not dare raise it against him, especially after seeing him in battle; the dagger would prove pointless in any confrontation. If one ever came. Malkor has treated her with surprising courtesy, never raising his voice at her, politely asking everyone of his requests, and respecting her boundaries as a woman. But he is a conqueror, and she is a defenseless girl, surely he will take advantage of that. So she saves the dagger in case that time ever comes, but she does not plan to use it on Malkor.

Idgrod takes a deep breath. With trembling hands, she tips the end of a wine bottle into one of her families silver goblets.

Idgrod the Younger: Come on, just pour out already.

Her hands jitter the bottle, in turn shaking the goblet. She fears when the wine starts to pour it will slosh out, wasting one of the last in storage.

After not seeing a drop of wine, she lifts the bottle to find the cork still in.

Idgrod the Younger: Oh, come on.

She turns to the doorway, expecting to hear Malkor call about the wait, but nothing comes. Trying to suppress the quiver in her voice, she calls out anyway.

Idgrod the Younger: I-I'll be out soon... sir.

Malkor: No need to hurry.

Idgrod gulps. No matter what he says, his voice always sends shivers down her spine.

Turning her attention back to the bottle, Idgrod precariously tries to unscrew the cork.

Idgrod the Younger: Please come off...

Idgrod the Younger: Get out you stupid th-

Growing frustrated, she pulls desperately at the cork, yanking the bottle out of her own grip.

Idgrod the Younger: No!

Idgrod the Younger: Oh gods...

Idgrod the Younger: I hope he didn't hear that.

A loud clatter echoes across the stone floor from the longhouse bedroom. Idgrod must have dropped the wine bottle again. Throughout his entire career as a patron to Boethiah, Malkor has never encountered a girl as timid as Idgrod the Younger. He could not blame her however. This is an experience the sheltered daughter of a Jarl would never be prepared for; even with the unorthodox treatment she receives from him. No matter how respectful and kind Malkor acts, Idgrod's home and family has been torn away from her; it is a feeling Malkor understands all too well.

Fortunately for her, Malkor still needs what remains of her family, and they have just arrived.

Malkor: Welcome, Jarl Idgrod and steward.

Malkor: I hope the cells were not too uncomfortable. But I suppose you only have yourselves to blame for that.

Accompanied by two falmer, Idgrod and Aslfur struggle at the entrance to the longhouse. Thick, coiled rope still held their wrists tightly together behind their backs from when Malkor first bound them.

Aslfur: Shut your mouth, elf!

Malkor: Oooh, so daring.

Malkor: Bring them here

Aslfur grunts under his breath.

Aslfur: Bastard...

The two falmer shove the prisoners forward. At the foot of the throne, the falmer press down onto their captive's shoulders, forcing them to their knees.

Malkor: You two look look great from up here. My compliments to your throne room.

Malkor: But lets get down to business.

Malkor: I did not come here for petty conquest

Malkor: I came here for answers. Answers that I know you have.

Idgrod makes no display of emotion, sitting silent and attentive. Her husband on the other hand, makes sure his anger does not go by unnoticed.

Aslfur: You bastard!

Malkor ignores him for a moment, gesturing to the falmer.

Malkor: You two, leave.

Obediently, the falmer turn on their heels and stride from the longhouse.

As they do, Malkor leans forward, returning his attention to the captives.

Malkor: I know your wife is a seer, and a powerful one at that. I also know that it is no "gift" from the divines as you so wholeheartedly want your citizens to believe.

Aslfur: So what? You think she can just see whatever she wants? Even if she could, she would never tell you!

Malkor: Ah, ignorance is bliss. You see, Aslfur, your wife's powers are stronger than ever. In times like these, where time begins to bend and magic pours from the world like a geyser, she can barely keep herself from not having visions.

Aslfur: What are you talking about? You're sputtering nonsense!

Malkor stands from the thrones, he stares down at Aslfur, a smug smile spreading across his lips.

Malkor: Am I?

Malkor turns his gaze towards Jarl Idgrod.

Malkor: Jarl, your husband is dying to know. Am I sputtering nonsense?

Jarl Idgrod raises an eyebrow as Malkor takes a seat on the stone stairs.

Jarl Idgrod: And why should I answer that?

Malkor smiles.

Malkor: Do or don't, what you choose to hide from your family is your choice. Beothiah respects deception; as do I.

Malkor: But don't even try to deceive me. It won't work. I need to know three things from you, and you will tell me or...

Malkor motions with his hand.

Idgrod the Younger stands aghast in the doorway, wine goblet shaking in hand.

Idgrod the Younger: M-mother... Father...

Jarl Idgrod's and Aslfur's jaws drop, their expressions a mix of unease, relief, and fear.

Aslfur: Idgrod, it's going to be okay. We're right here with you.

Malkor: Ah, my wine. About time.

Malkor: Come on, bring it over.

For a moment, she doesn't move. The room growing still, Jarl Idgrod and Aslfur watching with bated breath. Malkor taps his foot.

Malkor: I'm waiting.

Taking in a breath, Idgrod trudges over to her captor, keeping her eyes averted.

She swiftly hands the goblet away. Malkor tips the edge to his lips and takes a long gulp. As he does, Idgrod turns and hastily walks away.

Malkor: Woah woah woah, you're not leaving yet.

The air seems to flee the room.

Malkor: Come here, sit down.

Aslfur: You leave her out of this, filth!

Malkor ignores him, continuing where he left off.

Malkor: And you will tell me, or I will kill you in front of her.

Idgrod stifles a gasp. She has never felt so scared in her life, but she is not about to show it. Taking her place at Malkor's feet, she does her best to bear a brave expression; suppressing her urges to scream and cry.

Malkor: When is the dragon break appearing? Who have the divines chosen as their champion? And where is the current location of Taeyva?

In bewilderment, Aslfur stares at Malkor. The questions make no sense. Who is Taeyva? What dragon break? A champion? There is no way his wife could know this information, even as a seer.

Aslfur: You're insane. There is no Dragon break, no Aedric champion, and who in oblivion is Taeyva? The only strange thing we've experienced is this flash freeze, but that has nothing to do with anything!

Aslfur turns to his wife.

Aslfur: Tell this mad man! Apparently he will only listen to you. Idgrod?

The Jarl is silent for a moment. She inhales deeply before beginning.

Jarl Idgrod: I should have told you, dear. I am sorry.

Jarl Idgrod: This cold is no coincidence. I know the answers to what you seek.

Malkor listens intently, doubtful that he would receive the information so easily.

Jarl Idgrod: But I will only help you on the condition you swear not to harm what remains of my family.

With furrowed brows, Malkor nods in agreement. The request is not an issue. He had no intention of killing her family going into the battle; their son was an unfortunate casualty. One he is not about to bring up.

Malkor: Done. Your family walks freely. Now first, where is Taeyva?

Jarl Idgrod: I have not had any visions of Taeyva. Where she is right now I can only guess.

Malkor's grip around the goblet tightens, wine sloshes out.

Malkor: Do not lie to me.

With narrowed eyes, Idgrod returns Malkor's glare.

Jarl Idgrod: But I have seen visions of her companion.

The air around Broken Tower Redoubt reeks of blood. The strong winds only stir the odor like a potion, amplifying the stench in a sickening concoction.

Inside is even worse. The packed in mixture of sweat and blood conjoins to create a tear raising odor.

The entire fortress has been slaughtered, save two remaining survivors in the broken tower.

Forsworn Briarheart: What's the plan? This psycho has killed our entire force, we have to do something.

Forsworn Woman: We outnumber him... but he's fought off more than two at once already.

Forsworn Woman: Our only chance is to overwhelm him. I'll hold him off, you start throwing out spells.

Forsworn Briarheart: If you think it's our best hope, I'm with you.

Torund: You flowers done talking?

Torund drops into fighting stance, his warhammer rippling the air around him.

Torund: I'd like to get this over with.

Forsworn Briarheart: You'll wish you died on the road here, bastard.

The forsworn initiate the fight. Magicka swirls around the Briarheart's palm; as he charges the spell, the woman charges forward.

Torund knows he cannot match the woman's speed; his best chance is to use it against her.

He lowers his warhammer to block, baiting the forsworn's attack with a slow facade.

Just as Torund predicted, the forsworn leaps into the air as she gets near. But his warhammer is already mid swing.

She can only watch as she sends herself careening into the impact, unable to stop herself mid flight.

Torund: Heh.

Torund grins at the sound of cracking ribs as his hammer slams into the forsworn's gut.

He barely has time to watch her fall when he hears the Briarheart scream.

Forsworn Briarheart: Die, bastard!

A powerful aura dances across his palm. Torund knows he won't survive a fully charged frost spell and he only has a few seconds left until then.

Tightening his grip on the handle, Torund hollers a battle cry and charges at the Briarheart.

The temperature in the tower falls, puffs of ice begin to form in the air around them.

Ignoring the rune on the stone floor, Torund dashes through and reaches the mage just in time. With a single swing of his hammer, the Briarheart is sent flying.

Hitting the floor with a thud, he quickly tries to get back on his feet, but Torund does not give him the chance.

The Briarheart opens his eyes just in time to see Torund's warhammer come crashing down.

Torund: Die.

All he has time to do is gasp.

Forsworn Woman: Ow... Oh this hurts.

The forsworn woman cautiously sits up on one knee. Her chest aches and blood covers her body. The impact from the hammer may have not killed her, but it certainly did its toll.

Forsworn Woman: Please tell me that brute is dead...

Forsworn Woman: Oh no...

Torund: Well that was easy.

Returning his warhammer to it's place, Torund finally turns his attention away from fighting and to the reason he came here in the first place.

Torund: Are you Logrolf?

Inside a locked cell at the end the back end of the tower a robed figured grunts from the shadows.

Logrolf the Willful: What's it to you?

Torund: Don't sound so ungrateful, I'm here to rescue you.

Forsworn Woman: Please don't hear me...

Logrolf the Willful: You are no servant of Boethiah. Why would you want to rescue me?

Torund: Does that really matter? You're tied up in a cage!

Torund: You should be crying tears of joy!

Logrolf the Willful: Tell me who you are, and I might.

Torund scoffs.

Torund: Somehow I doubt that; but fine. I'm Torund. Hircine sent me.

Logrolf the Willful: Hircine, eh? So he thinks by saving me, the world won't be changed?

Logrolf the Willful: Do you think Boethiah does not want the same thing? And what about the Aedra? What is your plan for them?

Torund: I'm just doing my job. I don't know what you or the Aedra have planned; right now, I'll fight the battles I can.

Torund: So are you going to let me rescue you?

Forsworn Woman: Please... I'm so....

Forsworn Woman: Close...

Torund: Huh?

Torund turns at the sound of scraping behind him, a devious expressions etches across his face.

The forsworn is nearly to the door. After so much crawling, the blood on her skin had all rubbed off, leaving a crimson trail behind her. Just as she begins to feel a tinge of hope that she will actually make it out, a sharp pain shoots our from her skull and she feels herself being lifted by by her hair.

Forsworn Woman: Ah!

Torund: Where do you think you're going?

The roots of her hair tug against her scalp, Torund's grip threatening to pull some out.

Torund: I'm glad you survived, I thought this was going to be boring.

Before she can even scream, the pain in her head amplifies as she is tossed forward like a piece of meat.

She hits the ground painfully. Placing her hand to her aching scalp, blood can be felt seeping out and trickling down her fingers.

Torund: Know what I love about you forsworn women?

Starting with his helmet, Torund begins to disrobe.

From inside the cell, Logrolf interrupts with blatant annoyance.

Logrolf the Willful: Is that really necessary? I thought you wanted to stop Molag Bal.

With his clothing removed, Torund pounces atop the forsworn and starts to yank off her own.

Torund: Shut up. I'll be through with her quickly.

The woman punches and claws at Torund, desperately trying to fight him off. But every movement make her chest scream, her broken rib cage begging for release.

This only makes Torund more excited.

Torund: Just what I love about you forsworn. You fight and struggle more than anyone else.

Despite her efforts, the woman's clothes are torn off with ease. Torund is much stronger than her already, even without her shattered ribs holding her back.

Looking into Torund's evil smile, bedazzled by yellow, broken teeth, a mad desperation takes over her. She has to find a way out of this.

Torund: Heh, that's right. Keep trying to get away, it won't work.

A glint of light catches her eye. Laying on the ground beside her is her companions dagger. If she could just get a hold of it...

Torund: Open your legs, whore!

Torund grabs the inside of her thighs and pulls out with his arms. Just as he begins to pull her legs apart, the forsworn lurches out with her foot, kicking Torund in the groin.

As Torund falls, she dives for the dagger.

Torund: You bitch...

Torund tries to stand up, but the woman doesn't give him the opportunity. With the dagger firmly in her grip, she jams it into Torund's gut.

Torund: Fuck!

As Torund lays on the ground, chest throbbing, the woman scrambles away...

And out of the tower.

Logrolf the Willful: Hahaha! Does it normally go so well for you?

Torund grunts through the pain. The wound stung, but it wouldn't kill him.

Torund: Fuck you.

Taking a deep breath, he wraps his fingers around the handle and pulls out the blade before tossing it away in disgust.

Torund: Let's just go.

Feeling frustrated, and a little embarrassed, Torund hobbles back onto his feet and begins to redress.

Logrolf the Willful: So now you're eager to leave?

Logrolf the Willful: Try to keep from pouting too, will you?

Torund: Do you ever shut up?

With his armor reequipped, Torund trudges to the cell and opens the door with a huff.

Torund: Let's go already.

Logrolf the Willful: And how am I supposed to do that with my wrists and ankles tied?

Torund's lips curl into a snarl. Kneeling down to undo the restraints, Torund grumbles under his breath.

Torund: Annoying old man...

Logrolf the Willful: You're not so young yourself, geezer.

Torund: Shutup, will you?

Jarl Idgrod: I've answered all your questions. Now let my family go.

Malkor rubs his chin. She fulfilled her end of the bargain, it was time he did as well. He now knows everything he needs; when the dragon break will appear, who the Aedra have chosen as their champion, and that Taeyva is much closer than he could have hoped for. There is only one problem; Idgrod had visions that she could not explain of some man named Talen. She claimed he is not the Aedric Champion, nor a servant to any Daedra, only that he has some destiny to fulfill; one she has not yet seen. Whatever the case may be, Malkor cannot dismiss the man as some petty breton. He could prove to become a great ally, or an even greater enemy.

Malkor: Of course, Jarl.

Malkor: Your husband and daughter may go. You, however, will stay.

Idgrod gasps and quickly scurries to her feet, going to aid her father.

Aslfur, however, is not so relieved.

Aslfur: No! I won't leave without my wife.

Jarl Idgrod: Love, please...

Idgrod helps her father to her feet, pushing him out of the longhouse despite him resisting.

Aslfur: I'll be back, elf!

Aslfur: You won't survive the next time we meet!

Eventually Idgrod manages to get her screaming father out the door, leaving only Malkor and Jarl Idgrod left.

Malkor: Nothing personal, Jarl. But I can't let anyone else learn what you have just old me.

Jarl Idgrod: I know. I trust you'll make it quick?

Malkor: I don't think you have any reason to trust me, Jarl.

Jarl Idgrod: But I do, Malkor.

Jarl Idgrod: For the same reason I know you killed my son by mistake, and that you will not harm the rest of my family.

Jarl Idgrod closes her eyes...

Jarl Idgrod: I have seen it all before.

..and feels only a short sting as Malkor's blade slices her throat.

Markarth is cold. The death of a local courier had come as a shock to many of it's citizens, but it was not enough to make them do more than utter a short gasp before returning to their everyday lives. The market was busy as normal. With the lack of new arrivals, those running the stands rarely had to anything anymore. They are caught off guard at the arrival of two men, nearly forgetting to advertise themselves as the men walk by.

Hogni: Come on, Hroki. The inn could use a slice of fresh mutton.

Hroki: How many times do I have to tell you that is disgusting?

Hogni: You'll have to buy it some day, the cold is scaring off a lot of th- Hey! You two! Want a slice of the finest venison or mutton?

Logrolf the Wilfull: Did you really have to come with me?

Torund: Of course.

Torund and Logrolf hike down the icey, stone streets, indifferent to the market's banter and hollering.

Torund: Once you do your little ritual, you're going to help me with something.

Hogni: Come on, lads! You looks hungry! Bloodiest beef in the reach, right here!

Logrolf the Wilfull: I see no reason to help you. You did not rescue me out of the goodness of your heart.

Torund: Very true, but I still did it. So as far as I see things, you owe me.

Logrolf scoffs.

Logrolf the Wilfull: We'll see about that. Either way, we're here.

Torund scrunches his face. Logrolf has led them to some ramshackle house inside of a rock. Not exactly the place he expected to be stopping Molag Bal.

Torund: Are you serious? What on Nirn are we going to find in here?

Logrolf twists his lips into a snarl. This nord's ignorance seemed to have no bounds.

Logrolf the Wilfull: In here happens to be the last remaining shrine to Molag Bal in Skyrim; and is the only thing still keeping his presence away.

Torund: So what? It's his shrine, how is it keeping him out?

Logrolf bites his lip to keep from snapping. How was it that this was the man who rescued him?

Logrolf the Wilfull: Shrines are very powerful things. Daedra cannot enter Nirn without the aid of Mortals to create these shrines for them.

Logrolf the Wilfull: Thing of shrines as network of locks to one giant door.

Logrolf the Wilfull: The more shrines there are, the bigger the doorway becomes.

Logrolf the Wilfull: But that also makes it easier to keep the door locked, which is what I have been doing until those damn forsworn captured me.

Torund: Got it. So lot's of magic and stuff. Can we go already?

Logrolf curls his lips in disgust, but makes no reply, not wanting to humor Torund any further.

Instead, he presses his arm against the cold dwarven metal and opens the door.

Torund: Ugh, it reeks in here.

Torund scrunches his nose nose. The house smelled of rotted food, mildew, aging wood, and death.

Torund: Is this normal?

Logrolf the Wilfull: Unfortunately. I do not know how long it's been since Bal's worshipers were here last, but even when they were here I doubt they did much to change anything about it.

Logrolf the Wilfull: Amidst all the rape, murder, and whatever else those savages did, they probably never had time to clean nor any care to.

Torund: Right... So you gonna go do your thing?

Logrolf the Wilfull: Yes yes, wait here.

Logrolf the Wilfull: I don't want you interfering.

Torund: I wouldn't want to anyway.

As Logrolf scurries into the house, Torund plops his should against the stone wall, finding it surprisingly warm.

Torund: Why are so many daedra worshipers such freaks?

Torund: Things would be so much easier if they were more like- that's not right...

Despite his best efforts to ignore the stench, he catches the whiff of a familiar scent.

Torund: Blood.

Torund carefully kneels down to get a closer look. The blood still glistens in the fire light and sticks to his fingers at the touch. It's fresh.

Torund: I thought this house is supposed to be abandoned

Following the scent, Torund turns his head to where the blood smell is strongest. Difficult amidst the million other smells conjoining in the home.

Torund: Or not...

Torund: But why in oblivion is he naked?

As soon as Torund finishes, an ear splitting scream echoes from further inside the house.

Torund: That was Logrolf...

Torund: Seems this house is less abandoned than we thought.

Drawing his warhammer, Torund prepares for the worst. Someone else is in here, and they've been waiting for them.

Torund: Show yourself!

Footsteps echo from the other room. Growing louder with each one.

Tightening his grip, Torund feels a surprising unease.

Castalia: Hello, Torund.

Castalia: You look tense.

Torund can't find the words to speak. He has never seen this woman before, and yet she knows who he is?

Torund: Wha-Ho-Who are you?

Castalia smiles.

Castalia: I'm the girl who just killed your friend.

Torund is aghast. How could she so easily say that?

Torund: Do you have any idea what you have done?

Castalia: Hmmmm

Castalia: You mean unlocking the shrine and allowing Molag Bal to vie for the control of Nirn? Yeah, I think I do know.

Torund seethes with anger.

Torund: So you're one of his puppets? A servant to Bal?

Placing her hand on her hip and cocking her head, Castalia appears insulted.

Castalia: Oh, please. It's not going to be that easy, Torund.

Castalia: One week from today, the world eater will arrive and for the first time since it's creation, Nirn be be completely open to recreation.

Torund: What are you talking ab-

Castalia: I, for one, don't care who recreates it. Molag Bal, Boethiah, the Aedra, even Dagon should he somehow become strong enough to fight.

Castalia: The weaves of life have become a tangled mess. It's about time the webbing is resewn.

Torund snarls. He knows exactly who he is dealing with now. Only one group of of people would talk about lives like that.

Torund: So, you're Mephala's dog, huh? She just wants the world reborn, is that it?

Castalia: Be careful who you call dog, wolf. I know more about you than you know.

Castalia lowers her sword.

Castalia: I also know you don't plan on letting me pass. You have a role to play in the battles to come, so I don't want to kill you, but if I ha-

Torund: Shut up. Let's fight.

Torund leaps backwards, out of reach of the blade, and swings his hammer over his head.