As the talkative brother helps the injured Legionary up, the quiet one lifts the priest easily. The big man carries him gently, almost reverentially. He is twitching in his friend's arms, still afflicted by the powerful magic that streamed into him when the dragon died. The Legionary limps alongside, an expression of deep concern upon his face despite his injuries, saying the man's name over and over again. “Martin. Martin, look at me. For gods' sakes, Martin!”
When they enter your inn, the talkative brother catches your eye and shakes his head. You might have liked to take advantage of the commotion by selling drinks to awakened villagers, but the black-haired Nord turns the key in the lock behind him. The priest looks pale, his head thrown back; and as the group passes, you catch sight of his eyes. No longer blue – and no longer human, they've turned golden like those of the dragon he killed. Even the pupil in the centre has changed shape. You spit a curse, terrified, as the four men go into their room.
“Don't hate him,” whispers Lydia, low-pitched. “It's not his fault.”
“I could never hate him,” you gasp, still in shock. “He saved our village. But... What in Oblivion happened?”
“When a dragon dies near him, he absorbs its soul. Sends it on its way to Akatosh. But sometimes he... he forgets who he is for a while. Forgets that he's supposed to be human. Takes on the characteristics of the one he killed.”
“And then he thinks that you're his enemies?” You wince in sympathy. The priest seemed so peaceful when you'd met him earlier that afternoon. Tired, yes, but serene.
Your eyes flick unbidden to the open door of their room. The scene inside is anything but serene. The Legionary is sitting in a chair drinking a health potion and holding the priest's hand, while he shivers and writhes on the bed. Muffled noises suggest he's trying to Shout even through the gag. The brothers are frantically stroking his back and rubbing his limbs, trying to get him to calm down; but they look terrified somehow in a way they never did while fighting the other dragon. Drained of his humanity, moving in an entirely unnatural way, you can see the beast under the man's skin.
“It used to only be if the dragon was too strong, but lately it's happening more and more,” says Lydia. “One day... he might not come back at all.” She sniffs, obviously upset.
“I always thought being Dragonborn was some sort of honour,” you mumble, unsure how to reply. “But that looks more like a curse.” Reaching a decision, you gather up several bottles of mead and thrust them at the housecarl. “Take these, with my compliments. It looks like it's going to be a long night, and you... you need them. Take as many as you need.”
As you flee downstairs, you hear an agonising howl as someone removes the gag from the priest's mouth, followed by loud sobs.
The next morning, there is no response from the travellers' room, which surprises you not at all. They were up late fighting first the dragon, then the Dragonborn... You're fairly sure that they haven't all been burnt to death or eaten because you heard crying rather than combat, but you're worried about them. Especially that priest of Akatosh, such a gentle man when in control of himself.
It's lunchtime before anyone emerges. The Imperial Legionary limps out, looking rather pale. There's pain in his grey eyes, and you're not sure it's entirely due to his injuries. You ask, “Can I help you?” - the usual statement of an innkeeper, which he can interpret however he likes.
The Nord hefts himself onto a barstool. “Could we get some breakfast? Whatever you have.”
As you busy yourself cutting fresh bread and cheese, he leans heavily on the bar counter. “You know, some nights when I close my eyes, I see the battle stretched out before me, like I'm still there...” He sounds exhausted, emotionally if not physically.
You feel you should respond, but you have no idea what to say. In the end, you mutter, “Is it easier killing dragons than men?”
“Ha!” The Legionary laughs, but you know he isn't amused. “The men I've killed haunt me. Dragons, not so much. Except, Martin...”
What the Innkeeper Saw - 6/7
When they enter your inn, the talkative brother catches your eye and shakes his head. You might have liked to take advantage of the commotion by selling drinks to awakened villagers, but the black-haired Nord turns the key in the lock behind him. The priest looks pale, his head thrown back; and as the group passes, you catch sight of his eyes. No longer blue – and no longer human, they've turned golden like those of the dragon he killed. Even the pupil in the centre has changed shape. You spit a curse, terrified, as the four men go into their room.
“Don't hate him,” whispers Lydia, low-pitched. “It's not his fault.”
“I could never hate him,” you gasp, still in shock. “He saved our village. But... What in Oblivion happened?”
“When a dragon dies near him, he absorbs its soul. Sends it on its way to Akatosh. But sometimes he... he forgets who he is for a while. Forgets that he's supposed to be human. Takes on the characteristics of the one he killed.”
“And then he thinks that you're his enemies?” You wince in sympathy. The priest seemed so peaceful when you'd met him earlier that afternoon. Tired, yes, but serene.
Your eyes flick unbidden to the open door of their room. The scene inside is anything but serene. The Legionary is sitting in a chair drinking a health potion and holding the priest's hand, while he shivers and writhes on the bed. Muffled noises suggest he's trying to Shout even through the gag. The brothers are frantically stroking his back and rubbing his limbs, trying to get him to calm down; but they look terrified somehow in a way they never did while fighting the other dragon. Drained of his humanity, moving in an entirely unnatural way, you can see the beast under the man's skin.
“It used to only be if the dragon was too strong, but lately it's happening more and more,” says Lydia. “One day... he might not come back at all.” She sniffs, obviously upset.
“I always thought being Dragonborn was some sort of honour,” you mumble, unsure how to reply. “But that looks more like a curse.” Reaching a decision, you gather up several bottles of mead and thrust them at the housecarl. “Take these, with my compliments. It looks like it's going to be a long night, and you... you need them. Take as many as you need.”
As you flee downstairs, you hear an agonising howl as someone removes the gag from the priest's mouth, followed by loud sobs.
The next morning, there is no response from the travellers' room, which surprises you not at all. They were up late fighting first the dragon, then the Dragonborn... You're fairly sure that they haven't all been burnt to death or eaten because you heard crying rather than combat, but you're worried about them. Especially that priest of Akatosh, such a gentle man when in control of himself.
It's lunchtime before anyone emerges. The Imperial Legionary limps out, looking rather pale. There's pain in his grey eyes, and you're not sure it's entirely due to his injuries. You ask, “Can I help you?” - the usual statement of an innkeeper, which he can interpret however he likes.
The Nord hefts himself onto a barstool. “Could we get some breakfast? Whatever you have.”
As you busy yourself cutting fresh bread and cheese, he leans heavily on the bar counter. “You know, some nights when I close my eyes, I see the battle stretched out before me, like I'm still there...” He sounds exhausted, emotionally if not physically.
You feel you should respond, but you have no idea what to say. In the end, you mutter, “Is it easier killing dragons than men?”
“Ha!” The Legionary laughs, but you know he isn't amused. “The men I've killed haunt me. Dragons, not so much. Except, Martin...”
“Will he be all right?” you ask.