The city was on fire. 

Soldiers marched all around him, swords and shields at the ready, their formation flawless and their steps steady, but Rhillian could see the uneasiness in their eyes. He felt it too. Every time the dragon overhead swooped low and dove out of the clouds for another strafing run of blistering hellfire, the air itself bowed and supplicated to make room for the beast’s massive form. The soldiers could feel it, the bow-wake of the displacement, and they flinched every time another street or row of homes ahead of them went up in flames. The dragon was on their side. They all knew that. But it was still a dragon. All of their most primal instincts were telling them to [i]run.[/i] 

“Steady, soldiers!” came the cry from their commander up ahead. The plume on her helmet was a fierce splash of red against the grey backdrop of the stones of Windhelm and it danced furiously in the wind, spurred on by the heat of the inferno that surrounded them. She was just as unsettled as the rest of them, Rhillan knew, but she was putting on a brave face all the same. That was what good leadership was. The chaplain admired her. 

A hand touched his shoulder and he looked aside to see Lucius looking at him expectantly. He was a young man, forced to grow beyond his years, and defaced by a long scar that split his face in twain -- the souvenir of a Nordic greataxe. “It’s going to be alright, won’t it?” Lucius asked. 

Before Rhillian could say anything, the clouds above them parted and the great dragon Odahviing burst forth, his wings trailing wisps of condensation. Sat stride his shoulders was the Dragonborn, clad in bone armor from head to toe, a shining blade held aloft. The weapon slashed through the air, like a general signaling his archers to fire, and the maw of the dragon opened to unleash a stream of fire that raked across the Palace of the Kings, looming dark and unforgiving ahead of them. Archers positioned on the roof went up in flames and fell, screaming and writing, to their deaths below, or collapsed in a charred heap where they stood, the flesh on their bones melting into ashen sludge. With a few powerful flaps of its mighty wings, Odahviing ascended back into the clouds, out of range of the Stormcloaks’ ballistas, and it was gone. 

“Yes, it will,” Rhillian said, forcing himself to tear his gaze away from the awesome spectacle. He smiled and his eyes softened and he raised the amulet of Akatosh he wore around his neck for the soldier to see. “The son of the gods is with us today.”

---

[i]Bruma, Cyrodiil
20th of First Seed, 4E213[/i]

He shot awake abruptly and gasped for breath. The Imperial blinked hard to clear the mist of sleep from his eyes, the afterimages of dragonfire still burned into his retinas, and slowly the guest quarters of the chapel’s rectory coalesced into form. Windhelm was long gone, he remembered now, and placed a hand on his chest to find his amulet of Arkay there instead, as it should be. The quick wipe of a hand across his brow confirmed the presence of cold sweat and Rhillian swung his legs out of bed, the mercifully cool touch of the stone of the floor against the bare soles of his feet anchoring him to reality and helping him pull the last vestiges of his slumbering mind out of the realm of his dreams and nightmares. 

“Gods, give me strength,” came the familiar whispered prayer, barely audible and little more than a breath from between chapped lips. His amber eyes looked down on his hands and he saw that his fingers were trembling. Lucius’ scarred face came to him again, the image unbidden and unwanted, and Rhillian clenched his fists. The past should stay in the past. 

He was in Bruma, and today was the day. 

Rhillian got up, washed himself and slipped into his robes and armor, mouthing prayers and mantras as he went through the morning routine. The guest room was sparsely decorated and pragmatically furnished, as proper quarters should be, and Rhillian found comfort in the sensibility of the space’s arrangements. Windows set into the high walls, leading up to a vaulted ceiling, let in bright shafts of sunlight when he swiped the curtains aside and Rhillian basked in them for a few moments, his eyes half-closed against the light. He took another deep breath and exhaled slowly. His fingers were no longer trembling. The light, and the muffled birdsong that came from the church gardens outside, had cast away the darkness. Rhillian smiled as he slowly pulled his gauntlets over his hands. 

Francis turned around in his seat when Rhillian stepped into the rectory proper and the old priest inclined his head in greeting. “Sleep well, my son?” he asked and put down the papers he had been reading next to the plate of breakfast in front of him. The living room had the same high ceiling as the sleeping quarters and was dominated by a large oaken table in the middle of the space, large enough to seat a dozen guests, that made Francis seem almost diminutive as he had his breakfast by his lonesome. The walls were lined with bookshelves and display cabinets that contained ecclesiarchical and theological texts, priestly attributes and sacred mementos. It was a beautiful room and Rhillian almost envied Francis. 

“Yes, thank you,” Rhillian lied and bowed to emphasize his gratitude. The two priests knew each other from their time in the Legion and the old man had been gracious enough to allow Rhillian to stay overnight after his arrival in Bruma. “This place is wonderful. You must be comfortable here.” 

The Breton chuckled and shrugged. “As comfortable as anyone can be at my age, I suppose.” He inspected Rhillian more closely over the rim of his half-moon glasses and frowned slightly. “Are you sure you must go? You look like you could do with some more peace and quiet. My doors are always open for you, you know.” 

“Well, the guild will announce their recruits today,” Rhillian said and made sure that his steel claymore was fastened properly across his back. “If I have not been selected, I may call upon your hospitality once more. But just until I have planned my next move. I cannot stay for long, and I wouldn’t want to impose myself on you.” 

Francis waved dismissively. “Bah. This chapel runs itself. Sigmund and Fryra are good people, but boring. Nords make terrible conversation. You, at least,” he said and jabbed a finger in Rhillian’s direction that was almost accusatory, “have interesting things to say, hm? Think about it. Now go.” The priest turned back to his papers and pushed his glasses back up on his nose. “Leave me to my reading.” 

Rhillian smiled. That brusqueness had always been Francis’ way. He nodded and made his way outside, his chainmail clinking softly as he walked, the door to the chapel gardens swinging open with a loud creaking protest from its hinges. “Should get that looked at,” Rhillian called over his shoulder and smirked when he heard Francis grumble something unintelligible in response. 

The fresh mountain air of Bruma greeted him and he drank it in gratefully. A few twists and turns through the streets of the city brought him to the town square. From there, the bulletin board was not hard to find, given that a sizable crowd had already gathered around it. Several people caught his eye; a towering Argonian, first of all, that looked to be almost more dragon than beastman, followed by an excitable female Khajiit and even a Nord woman that looked even wilder than a Stormcloak. Rhillian waited politely at the edge of the crowd until a navigable path to the notices opened itself to him and he stepped forward to scan the list for his name. 

There it was. [i]Rhillian of Drakelowe.[/i] “Title and all,” he mumbled to himself and smiled again. Truth be told, he had expected to find his name there. Adventurous healers were always hard to find. The Imperial glanced sidelong to see another Nord woman with dark hair strike up a conversation with the Khajiit and he realized that these people would be his comrades for the foreseeable future -- his comrades and his flock, in fact. He stepped back to let someone else look at the notice and looked up at the giant Argonian, lifting a hand against the stark sunlight of the morning. He had already memorized some of the other names on the list and one stood out. 

“Lifts-Many-Boulders,” Rhillian said to himself and laughed. “I can see why.”