Dryn rolled over, knocking Farkas' arm off of her in the process. It was still the middle of the night, the world around her calm and quiet in the darkness. Her husband grunted softly in his sleep, a murmur of protest as she removed herself from his grasp.

Something had woken her.

Every muscle in her back objected painfully as she lifted herself up onto her elbows, old wounds and fresh bruises stinging on every inch of her skin. Staring down at Farkas' sleeping face, the smallest wrinkle on his brow and his mouth hanging open just slightly, she felt exhaustion pulling at the corners of her eyes and for a second she considered going back to sleep. It could very well have been a door slamming outside, or a particularly loud gust of wind that had knocked her back into consciousness and nothing actually worth worrying about.

However, with the bones of a dragon still decorating the streets of Whiterun, she could not talk herself into ignoring anything that might be a threat. Dryn had to be sure that it was nothing before she would be able to relax enough to sleep again. Her bare feet slid out from beneath the blankets and pressed onto the cold stone of the floor, a rippling shiver rising up the backs of her legs spreading goose bumps across her naked skin. Pressing her crossed arms to her chest, she shuffled along the floor over to where she had discarded a dress some days before. She shrugged on the garment quickly before carefully opening the door so as to not disturb her husband, and crept downstairs.

The hearth fire had dwindled over the course of the evening, the untended flames hiding within the embers waiting to be rekindled, leaving the room full of shadows and a flickering orange glow. Dryn's heart leapt into her throat when she saw the distinct outline of a person in one of the chairs in front of the fire, until she came one more step closer and recognized the familiar shape of her housecarl. Lydia must have fallen asleep in that position after her last mug of mead. Dryn couldn't help a smile as she passed her friend, laying a hand impossibly gently on the shoulder of the woman who had stood with her through so many battles.

She left Lydia there, and moved steadily closer to the front door. As she did so, however, it occurred to her that of the three trained warriors in the house, she was the only one who had been disturbed from her rest. She began to doubt that she had heard anything at all. Perhaps a dream had woken her; it would not have been the first time that memories of screams and dragons had prevented her from having a peaceful night's rest. Just as she was about to turn back around and forget about this misadventure, the hairs on the back of her neck began to prickle and stand on end. It was something indecipherable yet undeniable that caused her to hesitate. She had heard something. She had definitely heard something. There was movement outside the door.

With her fingers curled around the door handle, she grabbed her dagger from the shelf by the door and steeled herself for whatever lay beyond. A stray dog, she told herself. A guardsman passing by. She held her dagger in such a way that the blade was pressed against the skin of her wrist and would only be noticeable upon close inspection. One last breath, then she opened the door.

The street was washed grey with moonlight. Even the shadows were still in the calm before the break of day. A rush of cold air ignored the flimsy material of her dress, sliding over her body like the fingertips of a lover, caressing every corner of her with its icy embrace. Her breath curled around her face – the only moving thing in her field of vision. Shaking her head, she chastised herself for being so anxious.

As she shook her head though, the smallest glimpse of movement caught the very corner of her eye and drew her full attention. Far up the street, at a very slow pace, a robed, hooded person was walking away from her. The person, a shapeless figure neither male nor female, was far enough away that Dryn could not even hear the fall of their footsteps. Dryn guessed though, at that gentle saunter, whoever it was would have been just passing Breezehome at the very moment she had been disturbed from her sleep. Strange though, that a quiet footstep was enough to wake her. As she continued to watch the individual in the distance, she decided that there was something distinctly off about the scene in front of her. The robes of the stranger were unnaturally bright in spite of the dim glow of moonlight, a splash of colour in an otherwise black and white world as if they held an invisible torch that caste them in a permanent radiance.

Unable to pry her gaze away, Dryn was in the process of attempting to convince herself that her eyes were playing tricks on her when the person suddenly stopped and turned their head to stare over their shoulder. The hood was pulled far enough over their face that only a gaping blackness could be seen, but now Dryn swore that whoever was under those robes was staring right at her.

From a hundred paces away, they watched each other. No words exchanged, only the silence of the night between them. Dryn felt herself frozen, unsure whether she was being rude by staring at a harmless stranger, or whether she should keep her eyes on an unknown enemy. So, she did nothing, staying perfectly still as her knuckles went white on the hilt of her dagger.

Eventually, the stranger turned and continued on their way, leaving the Dragonborn alone in the darkness. Dryn felt air rush back into her lungs, having been unaware that she was holding it the entire time. The practical part of her mind told her she was acting ridiculous – that she needed to get a solid night sleep and stop being so wildly suspicious. Still, a smaller part held her stare on the retreating figure; and in the back of her mind, somewhere in the dark, murky depths within her skull, there was a sharp, shrieking sound like the dying scream of a dragon heard from a great distance. It told her she had been witness to something just then. Something terrible that she should have been paying attention to, but she could not fathom what it was.

It was some time before Dryn re-entered her home, back into the cozy warmth of the familiar. The gentle heat washed over her and she quickly forgot about the chill of the outdoors. She left Lydia where she was, not having the heart to wake her, and went straight back upstairs to her own room. Stripping out of her dress quickly, she slithered back under the sheets where Farkas' body had kept them warm waiting for her return, nestling into her pillow and pushing the strange encounter to the very back of her mind. Later, it would resurface and bother her, but not now, not in the comfort of her bed in the quiet of her home where she could relish in a hard earned peace.

Farkas murmured something quietly, unconsciously aware of her return. His brawny arm snaked over her and pulled her closer into his chest, the raw sweetness of which made Dryn smile in spite of herself. She craned her neck just enough that she could press her lips against his cheek, and eventually drifted back to sleep in the arms of her husband.

This is the end of this small story, leading into another that includes Dryn the Dragonborn as she continues on her journeys in Skyrim. If you enjoyed this, please see my new story "In the Time if the Dragonborn" which I will start posting shortly. Thanks for reading.