The courier ran the familiar route down the path beside Lake Ilinalta. He had run it many times before. He knew there was little chance of being jumped by a wolfpack. Still, he held the hilt of his sword as he ran, just in case. Falkreath might be one of the safer holds, but this was still Skyrim after all.

As his ears strained for any indication of attack on the ground, the courier's eyes swept the sky. Though it had been five years since the death of Alduin, dragons still soared through the skies, though not so many now as there had once been and their attacks were rare. Still it was not unheard of for the odd merchant wagon or travelling adventurer to mysteriously vanish, or else be discovered dead in the middle of a patch of scorched earth.

Not for the first time, the courier wondered why men like him must needs be dispatched alone. Surely the added security of being in a group was worth sacrificing a little time to ensure a message reached its intended recipient?

The courier sighed as he rounded a bend that would lead him away from the lake and towards his destination. He glanced up the other road that led to Rorikstead. His family were up that road. It had been many weeks since he had last visited the old farmstead. He was probably due some time off. He heaved another sigh and kept on running. There would be time enough for that later, duty must come first.

He had been dispatched the day before from Whiterun with an important message, by no lesser man that Jarl Balgruuf himself.

'Get this into his hands,' the Jarl had commanded, fixing him with a glare that would give a sabre cat pause for thought, 'I don't care what it takes, you get this to him.'

The courier had been running ever since. He had only stopped when he had reached Riverwood, when night was starting to creep in. Though it was still light enough to see the road, he had not fancied trying to find a place to sleep in Helgen. The town may well have been rebuilt but there were few honest men who chose to make that cursed place home. Fortunately Orgnar had given him a room and a mug of ale for the few septims he had.

'What brings you out here?' Orgnar had asked with his usual brusqueness. They had known each other for many years. Orgnar had sometimes visited Rorikstead with his father and the courier had made a point to visit whenever he was close to Riverwood ever since Orgnar had started working at the Sleeping Giant.

The courier had cast his eyes around the large, smoky room. Orgnar might be his friend but he was fairly sure divulging the contents of what he was carrying would be something he'd loose his job for, if he was lucky.

'Business,' he'd said at last, evasively, 'the usual.'

'Uh huh,' Organr had said, his look a little too knowing, before saying, 'he's still at Lakeview, in case you were wondering. Least he was last I heard.'

The courier had grunted softly. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised. Orgnar had always been able to see to the heart of a matter. It was a gift he had. In truth he was glad to hear this, it meant he was going the right way, not wasting his time. Still, it was probably for the best that he had changed the subject then. No need for anyone in the Sleeping Giant to start asking questions.

'Still no word from Delphine?' he had asked, innocently, taking a sip from his tankard. Orgnar had taken his turn to grunt.

'No,' he'd said, his face showing nothing, 'haven't heard from her since she left. Not since the damn war. Alduin died and still nothing. She said she likely wouldn't be coming back when she left, I think that was the truth.'

The courier had taken another sip. He felt for Orgnar. He might not give anything away but he had a hunch the gruff barkeep had cared more for Delphine than as just an employer. He'd had the chance to meet Delphine a couple of times before the civil war. A handsome woman who had certainly had a fire in her. The courier could certainly understand Orgnar's attraction.

Unfortunately, he'd been unable to get close to Riverwood during the civil war, so poor Orgnar had been left with none but those mutton heads who called the village home until after the war was over. And here he was now, off to deliver a message to the reason why.

The courier heard his breath come hissing between his teeth as he crested a hill. He'd had mixed feeling about this from the start. On the one hand, all the man had done, what he was alone, made him something that should be held in the utmost respect of any true Nord. But at the same time, he was the man who had led the assault on Windhelm, had killed Jarl Ulfric and, with him, the Stormcloak dream of a Skyrim free of imperial rule, of the clutching hands of the Thalmor. How could any true Nord not despise that, and him for what he did?

The courier had been running messages for the stormcloaks during the war and it had been his unhappy task to run the final message to the Winterhold camp.

'The Imperials have taken Windhelm,' it had said, 'Ulfric is dead.'

Those simple words had echoed across Skyrim like a hammer hitting a gong. There were some who had not let the dream die. There were still some stormcloaks at large today, living the lives of outlaws in the wilds. But many, like himself, had lost the spirit of the fight. The spirit had died with Jarl Ulfric. He had taken service with the new jarl of Eastmarch. It had been that or head to the Rift and the courier would have rather eaten his own shoes after a long day's run than serve a Thalmor lapdog like Maven Blackbriar.

Finally the house came into view. It was a grandiose affair, certainly more impressive than any other homestead one was likely to find in Falkreath Hold, a sweeping building with two wings and a high tower and a stables where two horses whinneyed and nickered in the autumn chill.

From the other side of the house, the courier could hear the sound of children playing.

'Keep your shield up!' One voice, a girl's, shouted insistently.

'Don't be so rough with him!' another girl shouted over the sound of an infantile warcry from what sounded like a boy even younger than the first two.

'You'll play nicely or I'll take those swords away,' another, more mature, female voice called, 'Llewellyn, would you mind keeping an eye on them?'

Llewellyn's reply was not loud enough to hear, not that it mattered for the courier had just caught sight of the man he had been sent to find. His breath caught in his throat.

It was him.

To look at, he seemed much like any other Nord. He was tall, well muscled and tanned from travel, but it would be hard to find a Nord warrior who wasn't, with thick, dark hair that fell to just above his shoulders and was tied back with a length of cord. Even the man's clothes were ordinary. A simple red tunic and patched, brown trousers with boots made of simple leather. No decoration of any kind apart from a simple wedding band on his finger and an amulet that hung from a leather thong around his neck, tucked into his tunic.

But there could be no denying who the man was, what he had done. This was the figure of so many stories now told in taverns and palaces across the land. The man who had unified Skyrim, the Dragon Slayer, the man who had performed so many great deeds that the gods alone would be able to name them all. At his waist hung the sword that was now almost as legendary as the man who wielded it. Dragon's Breath, the sword that had killed vampire lords, dragons and saved the world.

No matter the opinion any son or daughter of Skyrim might have of the man, the courier could not help being awe struck at the sight of him.

So transfixed was he by the sight of that blade that he barely noticed the one now bared before him.

'Who are you?' a deep, woman's voice challenged, 'What business have you here?'

The courier turned to see a woman stood before him, a Redguard, clad in armour made of dragon bone that covered everything but her head, which was wrapped in a hood after the fashion of her people. In her hand was gripped a sword, also dragon bone, the blade of which gleamed with enchantment. This could only be one of the famous housecarls. The courier seemed to recall this one was named Rayya.

'An urgent message,' the courier said, hurriedly, 'for the Dragonborn!'

The name nearly caught in his throat as he said it which made it come out louder than he'd intended. Rayya eyed him with a look that was wary, yet there was a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. She sheathed her sword and beckoned him.

'Then you may approach,' she said.