Chapter 3: Frozen blood aflame.
I paced back and forth in front of the Sunstone. Getting there had been a simple matter of flying in the right direction with my Wing. No, the real problem was figuring out what to do. If I’d been Aevar, the damn stone would’ve simply told me. But I wasn’t Aevar. I was Roland Wolf-tail, Ro-El Frost and Dumac Dwarfking returned. The stones wouldn’t just tell me because I was a Nord hero. I wasn’t a hero. In fact, I wasn’t even sure if I should be considered a Nord or a Dwemer.
My only solution came in the form of the story I’d heard countless times before as a child. The results were clearly visible. If Aevar hadn’t done it all before, I would probably still be trudging through the snow trying to find the stone. All I had to do in order to proceed was remember what came next. If only I could remember. Apparently, my adventurous time spent at Vvardenfell, not to mention the recent invasion of Dumac’s memories, had degraded the memories I had left of my childhood. If only I could remember.
“If, if, if! If if’s were septims, I would be able to make a life-sized replica of Ebonheart castle!” I shouted to no one and kicked the monolith in frustration.
“The sun has been caught by the unholy ones. Go to the Halls of Penumbra, slay the unholy ones and free the sun from its icy cage.” A voice howled in the wind. I stared at the stone and then at my foot.
“Kick it. I should’ve known. That’s just the kind of thing Aevar would’ve done in my situation.”
I also now remembered the further part of the story. The Halls of Penumbra was a cavern, roughly to the west of the stone and its walls were coated in ice. It was inhabited by undead creatures known as Draugr, who for some reason had an intense hatred of light. So naturally, the Halls were very dark. And I had to go in there and likely smack them all. Just my favourite kind of thing to do. Not. At least I would have an advantage Aevar did not have. A flying Dwemer machine with built-in crossbow.
I mounted the Wing again and flew off towards the west. My search for the entrance was barely long enough to make up a plan of action. As they say though, the first casualty during a battle is the plan. In my case, this casualty fell at the door. I spent half an hour looking for an alternate entrance but there was none. It was just my luck, having to go through a door that was too small for my Centurion. Still, I would have to go in there, with or without a Dwemer machine at my side.
I weighed my options carefully before even touching the door. Apart from my lack of firepower, the lack of light would be a problem as well. I could go in with a piece of flaming wood, but that would only draw attention. No, it looked as if I had to go in there blind. Not a pleasant idea. But what had to be done had to be done. I took a few deep breaths and tried to open the door. Locked and the lock had been frozen to pieces long ago which made lockpicks useless. Brilliant.
I stepped to the side calmly and pointed at the door that stood in my way.
“Shoot the lock to pieces.” I ordered and the Wing did it easily with a single bolt. I used my rapier to remove the remaining bits of ice and then gave it a good kick. Creaking loudly, the door swung open, letting light shine into the Halls. No stealthy entrance for me. Immediately following the first rays of light, an earpiercing shriek assaulted my ears. Something heavy and dry smacked into my chest, sending me into the snow. There was a loud thunk, the feeling of something piercing through the air followed by another shriek, one of death this time.
I got up carefully, still a bit dizzy from my sudden flight. The remains of a Draugr lied just a few steps beyond the opening, a bolt cleanly sticking out of the wall nearby. There was little doubt it was dead. No matter what form of undead you were, getting blasted into countless pieces the size of a finger has to be unhealthy. I removed the Dwemer bolt and loaded it back into the Wing’s magazine. With the nearest ammunition depot hidden under a thick layer of ice, I wasn’t going to let any bolts go to waste. Having done that, I gave the Draugr a good inspection, for as much as I could.
It was the first time I saw one but I could use my knowledge of other forms of undead to my advantage. The Draugr was the reanimated corpse of a Nord. If it had died anywhere else, it’s flesh would’ve rotten by now leaving only a skeleton. Due to the intense cold of Solstheim though, all the water had been drawn out of its flesh and the flesh had frozen into a leathery substance, making it more look like an underfed man than an undead. In short, it resembled a Bonewalker closest, though without all the juicy bits.
A skeleton with skin. The Wing’s bolt had been big enough to downright shatter the damn thing but I shouldn’t hope of killing them with a rapier. Tharsten was right when he compared it to a toothpick. You don’t go killing with a toothpick. Well, at least not if you don’t know how to use it. No, I would have to revert to my oldest form of fighting. Fists and feet. I took another deep breath and stepped over the Draugr pieces.
The corridor arced downward rapidly and soon the light from outside had vanished. I closed my now useless eyes and focussed on my remaining senses. I could feel the air flowing around me, a breathing barrier between me and what lied beyond. A slight disturbance in the flow. I ducked, feeling something pass through the area where my head had been a moment earlier. Not wasting any time to wonder what had done that, I dashed forward, punching with the tips of my fingers, withdrawing the moment I made contact. There was a horrible sound of frozen skin and flesh cracking, accompanied by the shrieking of the wounded Draugre. I punched again, this time with an open palm. This time the sound was like an explosion as its exposed spine was turned to dust.
I felt around carefully with my boots till I’d confirmed the thing’s death. Silently, I thanked Leroth for teaching me how to fight without eyes and without weapons. His techniques were simply superb, as the complete destruction of the undead had proven. I shuffled further into the cavern, listening and feeling with my entire body for more trouble.
And more trouble was what I found. The place was crawling with Draugr everywhere. Too many for me to fight on my own. Still, I somehow managed with a lot of ducking, jumping off walls and simply making them hit each other instead of me. After I’d balanced the odds a bit, I broke the last few Draugr with a few well-placed taps.
The silence that followed was more unnerving than the roaring of the Draugr and the sound of their frozen bones. This pitchblack cavern was wrecking my nerves. I could do without sight, but the lack of light brought a feeling of uncertainty with it. I cleared the lump in my throat, took a few deep breaths to calm down and proceeded further. What had to be done had to be done, whether I felt good about it or not. To be honest, a stubborn part of me refused to simply walk away. This was no longer about stepping in Aevar’s footsteps, this was about my pride. About proving to myself that I could be more than just Dumac reborn. That I could do things on my own, things that were not foretold in prophecy.
Nothing stood in my way and I continued my blind descent. Slowly, light reached through my closed eyelids. At first, I thought I was merely imagining the light but as it grew brighter, I realized it was real. I opened my eyes warily. I immediately wished I hadn’t. Not knowing what you’re fighting can be comforting, even though it is rather dangerous. All I noticed about the thing which protected the light were the claws, the huge spikes on its back and the flaming eyes. Having seen that, I made the right choice. I bravely ran away.
It roared, much louder than all the Draugr combined, as it gave chase. As I went further away from the light, darkness came back. Not entirely though, for the beast’s eyes still burned visibly. I stumbled over the Draugr corpses I’d left behind earlier. Now I wished I’d removed them from my path. It was something you can only complain about when looking back. How was I supposed to know I would be fleeing?
Well, it wasn’t exactly fleeing. Basically, it was the repeat of a tactic I’d used before. When I neared the entrance, the light reflecting off the snow was blinding. I closed my eyes and counted my steps. The moments my feet sank into the soft snow, I jumped to the side and gave the big command.
“Fire!”
There was a thunk, a roar of agony and anger. More thunks, weaker roaring. Then, the heavy thump of the beast falling facefirst into the snow. It was dead. My plan had been simple. If the Wing couldn't go to the monsters, the monsters would simply have to go to the Wing.
I got up, brushed off the snow and entered the Halls of Penumbra for the second time. This time though, I decided to take a torch with me. Everything inside was dead so I wouldn’t have to worry about stealth. Besides, the stealth hadn’t been very successful last time.
As I’d expected and hoped, there were no undead or big beasts to stop me. I made it all the way to the wall of ice covering the light without any interference. Now came the hardest bit. How to free the light? I paced back and forth in front of the sheet of ice, watching my torch shrink. I tried pressing the flames against it, but there was no result. I hadn’t expected any. This wasn’t normal ice, this was Stalhrim, an odd form of ice that could not be melted by the hottest flames and was stronger than the strongest steel. It was most often used to protect burial sites.
I paced around a bit more, trying to remember what Aevar did. My memories recalled something about plucking an unholy beast’s eye and throwing it at the wall with all his might.
“No, no and no! I’m not going to drag that thing all the way back here and I’m definitely not going to rip out its eyeball! That’s just gross.” I shouted, my voice echoing all around me. I paced around even more, growing increasingly frustrated.
My torch had died out by now so I dropped it. When my frustration reached a peak, I kicked the Stalhrim wall, which caused a hollow sound like hitting a steel barrel. I withdrew my foot and stared at the wall, realizing my stupidity. The wall was not as perfectly solid as it appeared. In fact, no wall could be perfect. I should have realized it sooner. The answer to my problem was simple, though it required a monk rather than a Nordic warrior to find this answer. The Stalhrim had tiny defects, too small for the eye to see. If exploited, I could use the wall’s strength against itself.
I laid a hand on the wall and felt around for the weaknesses that had to be there. Such an investigation took time, more than an hour, but it was worth it. The strike I planned to make clearly took too much preparation to be usable in combat but it was much more powerful as a result. It was the so-called ‘fist of infinite blows’. One strike that would spark countless following strikes without the monk moving a finger. In the end, the target would vibrate itself to pieces. Once I’d concluded my search, I took a single step back and struck with a single finger, punching at a downward angle like a bird swooping down on its prey. There was no sound of impact, no visual result. In fact, it looked as if I hadn’t achieved anything.
I retreated out of the cavern and had a meal up at the surface. I then jumped on top of the Wing and flew off towards the next stone, the stone of Trees. In a few days, I would return and see the results of this ‘infinite fist’.
At the Treestone, I repeated the activation-process which came down to a simple kick and got my orders. This time, I had to recover the seeds of the First Tree which had been stolen. I was then supposed to plant them near the Treestone.
In Aevar’s story, the snow elves had been responsible for the theft. In my case, the culprit was a Riekling, a creature that was similar to a goblin in size and behaviour. He was surrounded by Spriggans, wood spirits who defended anything plantlike with a fanatic zeal. If I’d simply walk in and try to take the seeds from the little critter, they’d surely attack me and killing a Spriggan required to turn them into little splinters quite thoroughly. That would take too long.
Aevar distracted them with fire, but I had a better solution. After all, I was the reincarnation of the Dwemer king. I might as well use my heritage. I swooped down on the Wing, tackled the little Riekling, snatched the bag he clutched in his fingers and was back up in the air before either the Riekling or the Spriggans had any idea what just happened. That was easy. I returned to the Treestone and planted the seeds I’d found in the bag. A loud rumble came from the snow and a massive tree shot up out of the ground, its branches twisting around the Treestone. For five minutes, the tree continued to grow. Then, it apparently reached its full size and wavered in the wind.
I carefully touched it to make sure it was real.
“Wow, now that’s impressive.” I muttered to myself. I had no time to delay though, I had to get moving. I turned around and began to walk away when the tree shook its branches. Something fell out of it, right on my head as if it was meant to be on my head.
“Ouch!” My hands flew up and pulled the object away. Looking down upon it, I had to admit I was impressed again.
It was a helmet, made of the finest Stalhrim. A steel frame held the perfectly shaped band of ice, that ran around the back and sides. At the back, a finger of Stalhrim rose up, arching forward over the top till it ended in a noseguard. It was an excellent example of fine craftsmanship.
Stalhrim weapons and armours were extremely rare, even more rare than Stalhrim itself. Just how this tree ever managed to sprout a helmet of the stuff, I did not know. What was even more surprising was its shape and size. When I said it fell on my head as if it was meant to be there, I wasn’t joking. It fit perfectly. Perfect fit or not, I put it in a bag for the moment and mounted the Wing to continue my quest. The possible consequences of this perfectly fitting helmet were something I did not want to think about right now.
The next one was the Earthstone, at the western edge of the island. I saw the ash storm again during my flight. It hadn’t moved, which worried me a bit. However, I decided to ignore it for the time being and focus on my job.
The Earthstone had me play with music in a cave, which proved to be no problem. After a few moments, I’d figured out the tune and managed to recreate it. When I finished the tune, the cave began to rumble, a crack forming at the far wall. I begun to retreat my steps out of fear for a possible collapse when the earthquake stopped as sudden as it had begun. Still a bit jumpy, I turned around again.
The wall had split open, revealing a small alcove. In the alcove, I saw something which really got me wondering about this quest. A pair of boots, completely dustfree. And just as with the helmet earlier, it was composed of a steel frame, chainmail style in this case, with several pieces of Stalhrim around it. I approached it slowly. As I came closer, I noticed that the Stalhrim didn’t look as if someone had crafted it, instead it looked more as if it had simply grown around the steel mesh. And just to make it even more frightening, the boots were just my size.
I piled them together with the helmet in the same bag once I’d returned to the Wing.
“This is getting very creepy here.”
Next was the waterstone, which tasked me with finding the Waters of Life. To do that, I would have to find the Swimmer. I approached the coast, where I saw a large black beast sitting on a sheet of ice like a fish on dry land. Upon my approach, it dove into the waters, resurfacing after a moment and looking at me, as if it was waiting for something.
I knew this had to be the Swimmer. Edging forward, I dipped a finger in the water. As I’d already feared, the water was cold and half-frozen, feeling more like a thick soup than water. I sighed and went into my extensive collection of scrolls. Presto, one waterwalk, just what I needed.
Every step on the watersurface was accompanied by the sound of a shattering mirror. Rather peculiar and it might have been interesting for a scholar. Me, I was more worried about the Swimmer. If it decided to dive, I would have to enter the water anyway. As if it had read my thoughts, the creature flipped over and went straight for the bottom.
“Great. I hate cold water.” I murmured as I lied down on the water and looked down at the bottom. I saw a shadow amidst the rocks littering the seabed, an entrance to an underwater cave. Quite deep as well.
“I took waterwalk scrolls but forgot to bring a waterbreathing scroll. I’ll remember that next time.”
While the water still supported my weight, I took a few things out of my pack. First came a rope which I tied between my belt and my backpack. After that came a thick blanket which I wrapped around my face and throat to protect them from the intense cold I would experience upon diving into the water. Once I’d finished with my preparations, it was a simple matter of waiting for the spell to run out and deposit me in the water.
The water was so cold, it seemed to burn. I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep breath before blindly diving for the entrance. By the time I made it to the entrance I’d already reached the point where I should turn around and head back for the surface. Still, I pushed on and entered the darkness.
Water was everywhere, cold, sending sharp bursts of numbing pain into every single part of my body. My lungs screamed from the lack of air. Against my will, my mouth opened and swallowed up the water. I started to feel light as I began to show the first signs of drowning.
“What an end, drowning.” I thought bitterly.
Something grabbed my leg, dragging me forward at greater speeds than I could’ve swum under my own power. The water rushed up out of my lungs, being replaced by a crisp gas I loved. Air. I filled my lungs again and again, spitting out the last drops of icy water as I did so. Once I felt a bit better, I patted the Swimmer on its head.
“Thanks, I owe you one.” I said to it. The creature snorted and splashed on the watersurface with its head.
“Yeah, I know. I’ll have to go on.” I said with a sigh and looked up at my target.
There was a small altar with a potion. The Waters of Life. The potion was not unguarded though. It was covered in a cage of ice. A spectre stood watch, garbed in a full suit of ethereal Stalhrim. It gestured at me with a hand.
“It is you. I’ve been waiting for a long time, my son.” It said solemnly, a tear running down its face.
“Come, step on the ledge and follow me. Before you claim the Waters of Life, there are things to discuss, lessons to learn.” It continued and walked out of the small chamber, right through a wall. Feeling no need to remain in the cold water any longer, not to mention being curious, I pulled myself up onto the ledge and shook the water off as good as I could. I then inspected the wall the spectre had vanished through. It was an illusion.
“I wonder what he has to say.” With that thought and a deep breath, I stepped through.
If I had been expecting something impressive, such as a buried ship filled with treasure fitting for a Nord king, or a heavily decorated tomb, or even a simple altar with a corpse on it, I would be disappointed. The room was mind-boggling huge, spreading into all directions, but it was completely empty. There were no torches, or any other conventional lightsource. Instead, the walls themselves seemed to radiate with a crimson light that gave me the shivers.
“What is this place? And who are you?” I asked nervously. The whole place had something creepy to it, ignoring the fact that there was a heavily armed ghost standing near me.
“Aye, this place, is my curse. Come forward, and I’ll show you.” The spectre beckoned. Slowly and with a hand near my rapier, I approached. Once the being deemed me close enough, it pointed down at the floor. I looked down, and had to suppress the urge to vomit. The floor was transparent, and I could look through it as if it was simply a red mist. A body was down there, impaled upon a monstrous spear. Its chest heaved as it took tortured breaths, its limbs shivering in agony. Its right hand clawed for a weapon that was no longer there, the left clutched the spear’s shaft and tried to pull the weapon out of the wound. The worst was its face, which displayed its pain and despair.
“That is me. I was once the greatest among the Skaal, now I’m a mere trophy. My body suffers, while my spirit wanders this place restlessly.” The Spectre explained. I tore my eyes away from the gruesome sight and fixed them upon the spirit’s face. Its expression mimicked the pain its body was suffering.
“I should have died long ago, when the world was still new and Fjalding’s waters rippled in the breeze.” It continued. I delved into my own knowledge of the Skaal. When Fjalding’s waters rippled, that was indeed a long time ago. Some quick calculations, and I realized that this man predated the Empire, or the Tribunal. I shuddered at the thought of how long he had endured this torture even till today. Anyone would have gone mad, yet he had kept his wits about him.
“How do you manage?” I asked, shaking my head at my own thoughts.
“I don’t know. From time to time, a woman appears. Her skin is grey as the ash and her eyes burn hot with the fire of a thousand forges. She eases my pain and protects my sanity. Not for me, nor for her, but for you. I have been charged with the task of waiting for you to appear. Here, in this room.” It answered and turned away from its physical prison.
“I do not know your name, and you don’t know mine. But the woman told me, that you are a direct descendant of my blood. You are a mystery to this world, the seed from which the glorious past shall be reborn. When you came, I had to tell you this. The icy blood of Aevar Stone-Singer flows through your veins, the raging fire of Red Mountain burns in your soul.”
It watched me anxiously, waiting for a response, any response. At first, I was shocked by the revelation that Aevar Stone-Singer himself was my ancestor. Then, I got slightly amused and told myself I could’ve guessed it would be something like that. First Dumac reborn and now the descendant of Aevar, it couldn’t get any stranger.
“You are Aevar.” It wasn’t a question, I’d said it as if it was a fact. The spirit nodded.
“Aye, I am Aevar. And you are about to walk in the steps I left behind. After my quest, I became arrogant, absorbed by an illusion of my glory. When the Hunter came into this world, I challenged him openly. We did battle, and I lost. Now I am here, trapped in this tomb as his trophy.” It whispered.
“Listen carefully, my son. You must travel to the stones, take the armour the woman left for you there. Then, enter Fjalding’s heart where you shall retrieve that which made the lake freeze and turn into Stalhrim. With the heart of Fjalding in hand, you can challenge the Hunter and demand my death from him.”
I sat down and listened, making mental notes on what he told me. Grey skin and red eyes. Since we were talking about an incredibly long span of time, it could only be an immortal being who had visited Aevar. Only one fit the description. Azura. She’d changed the Dunmer, brought the Nerevarine into this world and according to some sources, she was the one who struck down the Dwemer. Just what didn’t she do? While I was thinking, Aevar continued.
“Unlike me, you have a gift. Your soul is bound to that of an immortal god. Whenever you are struck by magicka, this god will absorb it for you and channel it into a form you can release upon your foes. With this gift, you stand a chance against the Hunter’s guile. You are fast and quick on your feet, you’ve trained to be a lethal weapon without weapons or armour. With this, you will be able to match the Hunter’s speed. You will claim ownership over a sword with no equal, its cold fury will guard you against the Hunter’s strength. You will drink the Waters of Life, which will protect you from death. And finally, you have this.” At these last words, Aevar pulled a ring from his spectral finger. He bent down and slipped it around mine. Despite being nearly invisible and entirely weightless, the ring fit around my finger as if it was solid and real.
“This ring holds great power. It is bound to my soul. You can use it once, to break me free from the Hunter’s curse for a short time. Use it at the right time, and I shall come to your aid. And as my last gift to you, look at the Swimmer’s side. It suffered a wound long ago. I used my shield to stop the bleeding. By now, the wound has been healed and you should take the shield for yourself. Now go, and may the power of the All-Maker be with you.”
I bowed to him, an universal sign of respect. Then, I departed. I took the potion and called for the Swimmer to take me back. It did so and returned me to Solstheim. Before we went separate ways, I looked at its side as Aevar had told me. Indeed, a sheet of brilliant Stalhrim was embedded into the creature’s side. I jarred it free from the thick mass of its fur. The creature snorted and dove into the ocean, vanishing from sight.
Now that I was alone, I got the odd feeling that it never happened. Yet I had proof that it did happen. Aevar’s ring was around my finger, the water’s of life sat inside my pocket and finally, I had this Stalhrim shield. Like with the other Stalhrim pieces, it was brilliantly crafted, or grown. A single sheet of Stalhrim shaped like a sail, its edges covered by engraved steel. The sunlight reflecting on the Stalhrim caused a shimmer on its surface, a shimmer that looked like a wolf growling at some unseen foe.
“The Hunter. If I am to challenge him, I need every advantage I can get. So that’s why this armour is popping up around me. I could certainly use its protection.”
I did not return to the waterstone. Aevar had literally said that I had to drink the Waters of Life myself. But when, he did not tell. He also didn’t tell me what the Waters would do to me. In the end, it was best to wait with drinking till there was no other way out. And as for the armour piece, I’d already gotten his shield. In short, there was no reason for me to return.
No, I moved one. I’d visited three stones, four if you count the sunstone, and I had three left to go. The windstone, the beaststone and of course the sunstone which I’d partially dealt with already. Continuing my circle around the island, I first came upon the windstone. After the traditional kick against the monolith, I was off again. Frankly, this part of the stonehopping quest turned out to be incredibly boring.
Unlike the previous stones, there was absolutely no challenge with the last ones. The windstone sent me to an empty tomb and the beaststone had me rescue the Good Beast, which had already slain its assailants when I arrived. The rational part of me told me to be glad for this lack of challenge but another part of me complained about the very same thing. Maybe I was more of a hotblooded Nord than I dared to admit.
The good part was that my boredom was rewarded extremely well. Of course there were the usual armour pieces, a pair of greaves and gauntlets in this case, but the windstone also provided me with a very nice pouch. While rather mundane from the outside, it had the peculiar ability of storing a near infinite amount of items, without any mass or size considerations. I found out about this nice effect when I dug around inside it, just to see if it held a few small trinkets, and found a pair of greaves instead which were much larger than the pouch that contained them. Further experiments revealed that I could indeed store anything inside it, including the Netch-sized Wing. This pouch found itself a permanent location at my belt where it remained for many years.
As said earlier, the windstone and the beaststone were boring. With those two out of the way, I returned to the Halls of Penumbra to collect the final piece of armour. When I reached the chamber with the Stalhrim wall, I saw that the wall had shattered itself into countless pieces. I never had the chance before to actually practice the ‘infinite fist’ but it surely looked as if I’d mastered the trick behind it. The light I’d seen earlier now shone unobscured. The source of this light was a small jewel mounted at the chest section of a cuirass, made from finely crafted Stalhrim of course.
“Boots, helmet, greaves, gauntlets, shield and a cuirass. That looks like everything. Well, time to head back, I guess.” I nodded to myself, hurried back to the cold snow outside, pulled the Wing out of my new toy and jumped on it.
While the Wing is a fast machine, travelling from one end of the island to the other still takes time. Enough time for me to reflect upon my last meeting with Tharsten. My journey had provided me with some nice armour, a prophecy, a bag and a sense of identity. But it was obvious to me that he had only ordered me to travel in Aevar’s footsteps so I wouldn’t be in the village. He was frightened of something, but of what? With my thoughts running around in circles, I gazed up at the red moons in the night sky. They’d had this colour for as long as I remembered, yet something felt wrong. Like a cold chill that wasn’t there before. A chill that was colder than the frozen land.
“Think, Ro-El. Tharsten wanted you to be gone. Normally, he would be overjoyed at your return but he wasn’t. So think, what is scaring the crap out of the Skaal? Or better yet, what can scare the crap out of them? It’s not the ashstorm. Apart from the fact that the cloud hasn’t moved in a while there is the fact that some dust won’t scare them, not till the dust transforms into an army of monsters.” I reasoned with myself. A wolf howled below me. Finally, I concluded that worrying would take me nowhere. I would simply have to ask them. Just as the Skaal village appeared at the edge of my vision, the wolf howled again, soon to be followed by others.
“Looks like there’s a pack of wolves out there. Guess that means the deer population will be lowered tonight.”
As a Skaal, I was not afraid of wolves. Oftentimes, I’d watched them from a close distance as they hunted, each individual moving like a gear in a Dwemer machine, each moving to complement the movements of the pack as a whole. Wolves were brilliant hunters and I respected them, but I did not fear them. As the Skaal had respect for the wolves, the wolves had respect for the Skaal. We were neighbours and never squabbled. Sometimes, we even helped each other out, by presenting food and protection to those lost in the wilderness while wounded.
As such, my reaction to the howls where not strange at all. If I’d known however, I would have done something quite different. Anyway, I landed the Wing on a nearby hill and stuffed it into my pouch. After that, I casually strode through the snow towards the wooden huts. There was a storm brewing, and the wind deafened my hearing for a bit. Because of that, I did not hear the warcries and distinct sounds of battle till it was too late. I was an arrowshot away from the village when I finally caught on.
“Ok, this is bad.” I muttered as my eyes tried to pierce the darkness of the night. There was a slight amount of light coming from the various campfires, but it was only enough to see vague silhouettes. The Skaal were fighting against Draugr, Spriggans, Rieklings? It was hard to see. I took a single step forward to reach a better vantage point.
The snow in front of me exploded. Something dark flew up. I backflipped on pure instinct and managed to avoid the swipe of its hairy paws, though I still got a large amount of the damn thing’s spit in my face. I still could not make out more than a silhouette and two yellow eyes as it lunged at me. Obviously, it was out for my blood. I had other ideas. I snapped into the ‘Floating Butterfly’ close-range evasion technique to dodge it. The Floating Butterfly is highly aggressive for a martial art focussed on evasion. While most styles try to increase the distance, the Butterfly calls for closing the distance as far as is possible and then moving around the opponent’s arc of attack. It also calls for the user to be extremely light on his feet, more floating than standing.
It is my favourite style for evasion and I complement it with an offensive style which seems to be simply meant to be used in conjunction with the Floating Butterfly. The Stinging Bee, which is all about hitting the vital parts with quick strikes of the fingers when they are least prepared.
In this case, I hopped between its arms and moved into position for my next move. A smooth switch to the Stinging Bee later, and the tips of my finger dug into the fur, piercing the skin like an arrow between two ribs. I withdrew my hand, jumped on one of its arms to use it as a springboard and then followed through with a knee to the throat. The creature reeled back from the assault. I moved away from it and waited anxiously. After three tense seconds, it fell down on its face, killed by both a partially crushed heart and a crushed windpipe. The heart had been the worst one. Suffocation takes a bit longer to kill. Now that it was dead and no longer moving, I got the opportunity to see it properly. But first I wiped the spit from my face.
It was a wolf, a humanoid wolf about as tall as your average Nord. In other words, very tall. The claws looked razorsharp and I considered myself lucky for avoiding them. The same thing could be said about its mouth.
“Ok, so the Skaal are fighting off a raid by big wolves. I heard of this before. Err…When the moon turns red with the blood of the prey, the h…Ehm…Crap.” I broke into a run as I finally realized the meaning of all the signs I’d seen. This was bad, really bad. In fact, it was the Skaal version of the end of the world. Only instead of being a story, it was really happening.
“Brilliant. I get to save Morrowind from a god and I get to fight werewolves here as a warm-up. This is so not nice.”
More werewolves leapt out of the darkness as I approached the village as fast as my legs could take me. I would have preferred to tackle the problem as an agent, by slipping on the armour and releasing the Wing before showering everything that moved with Fireburst scrolls. But time was not on my side so my only option was to tackle the problem as a Nord. Take one sword, put the pointy bit into the hairy thingy, repeat till all hairy thingies are gone.
My rapier flashed in the light of a campfire. I stabbed in the knee of a werewolf, rolled between its legs, flipped up backwards and stabbed a second time, now in an eye. The thing shrieked before crashing down into a broken heap.
“Roland!” I whirled around to meet the voice, dodging a big mouth full of teeth in the process.
“Oh, hi Tharsten. Say, you didn’t tell me about the damn party. What’s the meaning of this?” I shot at the burly Nord while I poked out the eye of the werewolf with a thumb. The critter shrieked like the one I killed a moment earlier, giving me the chance to slit its throat. They were big, but not as tough as they looked.
“It means the Hunter is about to return! You aren’t supposed to be here! Flee, now!” Tharsten shouted before he was interrupted by a werewolf that bit down on his arm.
“Agh! Fiend! I’ll show you the power of a Skaal!” He grunted. His arm rose up into the air and swung down. The mace he wielded cracked open the beasts skull like a nut under a hammer.
“Tharsten, you ok?!” I shouted and completely forgot the battle that raged around me. Sure, the Chieftain could be annoying at times but he was still my father. Still, forgetting about the two dozen bloodthirsty beasts around me was a bad thing to do. What was most embarrassing was that the hit came from the front. I never saw it coming. I only felt the intense, burning pain that spread all across my body.
“Roland!”
Moons dripping with blood. Howls in the distance, eerie enough to make the blood freeze. A burning forest. And standing right in front of my eyes, a giant of a man, masked with the skull of a deer. In his hand, he held a spear. At his feet, a giant wolf sat, with an immense amount of drool dripping from its mouth. The man pointed at the wolf with a finger, then aimed the finger at me.
“This is you.” He said with a deep voice.
The scene shifted. A cold cliff, suspended high above the ground with only a small ledge to stand on. The man was gone, together with the burning forest. Yet the moons still cried their tears of blood. A loud howl echoed all around me. I spun around to face the wolf. The creature growled at me and displayed its sharp array of claws and teeth.
“Join me. Accept me.”
The mental voice caught me off guard. I swayed back and forth in the heavy winds as I tried to find a balance between stability and a defensive stance.
“What are you?” I shouted at it over the screaming wind.
“I am you. The blood that resides within you. I am the essence of your deepest desires. You’ve always wanted to be big and strong, just like Tharsten Heart-Fang. I can make your wish come true!” The wolf answered.
Me, a giant, drinking warrior? I had to admit that the idea appealed to me. To the old me. This was indeed my deepest desire while growing up among the Skaal. Not anymore though. In the new world I lived in, brute strength was not the perfect ideal. I was happy with myself the way I was.
“Shut up. You’re a werewolf, not some sort of projection of my soul. Just jump of the cliff and leave me alone.” I shouted back in an act of defiance. Bad move.
“Fool! The price of rejection is death!” It leaped forward, impossibly fast. I tried to dodge it with the standard backflip, which was another mistake. My jump managed to take me away from the claws and the teeth, but also away from solid ground. I knew I was going to die.
The wolf had followed me. Now this was interesting. Either I would die by turning into flat goo on the ground, or I would die by being torn to pieces in midair. Now all I needed to complete the situation were a few spellhappy mages and bowhappy archers. Preferably Altmer and Bosmer, in that order. I resigned to my fate and let the wolf strike out with its paws.
The scene shifted again. I was still hurtling down through the sky, but something was different. No, it wasn’t me who was falling but someone else. But who? He or she managed to make a perfect landing, causing grass to bent and the ground to explode into a cloud of dust. No wait, it wasn’t grass. When the person looked down, I could see the burning forest again. What I’d believed to be grass were the charred hulks of the trees and the feet were a pair of Dwemer boots that dwarfed the trees they’d flattened. Who or better yet, what was I inhabiting?
The wolf landed on another small ledge, conveniently located at eyelevel.
“What are you?” It snarled, thereby voicing the question I’d thought. The voice that answered was without emotion, or warmth. It was as soulless as a Dwemer Centurion. That was what it was, a Centurion.
“I am Pelinal, the shield of Resdayn. Kagrenac’s greatest achievement.” Its fist struck out, smashing the ledge, the wolf and most of the cliff to pieces.
Pain, burning pain that knocked the breath out of me. The latest scene was the least pleasant in a way.
“Ah, he’s back.” I forced my eyes to open upon hearing those words. Even now that they were open, I couldn’t see anything.
“It is good to see that you’re still alive, Chieftain.” The voice said again.
“What, Chieftain?” I croaked and promptly returned to my dreams.
I kept drifting in and out of unconsciousness for the next few days. Slowly though, I began to recover my strength till after a month or two, I was finally capable of holding a conversation without passing out every five minutes.
“Ok, now what is that about the Chieftain?” I asked the Shaman one day when he was nursing my wounds again. He looked up from his work, then looked down and continued grinding roots into powder.
“We lost many good men that night. Ulfred the Mighty. Egbert Stonecrusher. The list goes on. We even had the misfortune of losing our Chieftain, Tharsten Heart-Fang. And that wasn’t the end of it. Most of the surviving warriors were wounded one way or another. Three nights later, they became wolves.” He explained.
“In the following battle, we lost more men and women. Those that took part and survived were all wounded as well. This time though, we’d learned of our mistake. They protected the village by claiming their own lives before they too would become wolves. Now the elderly and the children are all that remain. Only we, and a single survivor of the first battle. A survivor who has somehow escaped the curse of the hunter.” He added. If I felt like it, I would have let out a really long sigh.
“Me. I guess I’ve got a powerful friend or something.”
“Yes, you. The god that protected you from the curse has my thanks though I wish he’d protected more of our warriors. As the son of our former Chieftain and the last remaining Skaal warrior, we’ve named you as our Chieftain. Roland Wolf-Tail, we face hard times. You are the last defender of our people so I’m doing all I can to heal your wounds. Now stop talking, you’re slowing down the healingprocess.”
Chieftain of the Skaal. In other words, the safety of the village was my responsibility. Mine, and that of the warriors. But seeing as how I was the only warrior left, it pretty much meant I was on my own.
“Crap this. Vvardenfell and Solstheim? How am I supposed to protect both?”
While I had my doubts regarding my suitability as Chieftain, I could not sit and watch the events unfold like a simple spectator. The next morning, I started an argument with the shaman, some cranky old fellow going by the name of Khorne Ice-Peak.
“You are not healed yet! You must rest, Chieftain!” He pleaded.
“Forget about resting. I’ve got a job to do and no one is going to stop me. What would you rather have, a Chieftain who collapses while making sure the village remains safe, or a village that is destroyed because the Chieftain took a nap?” I shot back, boring my eyes into his. After a lengthy staring contest, he gave up and allowed me to do whatever I wanted, as long as I wouldn’t die on him.
I tried to roll out of my bed. Emphasis on tried, because I was stiff all over like you wouldn’t believe. That’s the price you pay from fighting werewolves and getting beaten. The moment I got a good, straight piece of firewood to use as a cane, I managed a whole lot better. At least I managed to hobble around like a man ten times my age. I had set my mind on wandering around the village in search of ideas. Before I went outside though, I decided to satisfy my curiosity with what was likely the only mirror in the village.
My reflection made me realize how close I’d come to dying. Escaping the werewolf curse was a feat worthy of songs by itself, but escaping death caused by physical injury was quite a feat as well. Four pale white lines stretched from my left shoulder to my right hip. It was a miracle that those claws had bounced off my ribs instead of simply crushing the bony obstacles. I probably wouldn’t be able to move fluidly for a long time.
I turned away from the mirror and got properly dressed. In our history, we’ve had many bare-chested heroes but I preferred some warm wool on my skin, thank you very much. I hobbled out of the building with my improvised cane and was instantly assaulted by the curse know as fame.
“It’s Roland Wolf-Tail!”
“Chieftain!”
“The Wolfslayer!”
“The wielder of Silverthorn!”
“No, it’s called Eyesplitter!”
I threw up my hands, promptly returning both hands to my cane before I lost balance.
“Calm down! I’m not fit enough for all that hugging!” I shouted over the collective voices of the Skaal. I also sneaked a glance down at my rapier, which I’d tied to my belt out of pure habit.
“Silverthorn? That’s not such a bad name. Better than Eyesplitter, that’s just gross.”
My own arguments were powerless, but Khorne the shaman came to my rescue.
“Scram! Can’t you see that the Chieftain is still wounded? Fifty lashings for the one who is still in my sight after I’ve counted to ten! One….two…..Ten!”
Everyone had bolted away as sudden as they’d come. As I said before, Khorne was a cranky old man. I nodded a thanks towards the shaman who frowned and returned to his hut. I shrugged at that and began my inspection of the village, slowly forming the beginning of a plan. The Skaal village was in the open, too much in my opinion. Sure, there had never been a need to expect an attack but times changed. I had some ideas, now I just needed to bring them into play. I looked around for the kids I knew would be stalking me. I mean, that’s what all kids do when a local ‘hero’ is in town.
“You, you and you. Tell everyone that I want a meeting in the Greathall in half an hour.” I told them and watched them go. Being in charge had its perks.
The kids did not disappoint. They were quick runners, and not as drunk as their parents, who were mostly dead by now.
“Alright everyone, listen up!” I shouted over the chorus of voices, both young and old.
“Here’s the plan. There is a hill just north of the village. I want the huts to be disassembled and rebuilt on top of that hill in a circle, spread out but close enough so that they all fit on the hill. We’ll abandon the Greathall. Next, I want the strongest of you lads to go out and chop down trees. We’re going to build a wooden wall around the village, with a sturdy gate. There will be a raised walkway on the inner side of the wall for people to stand on.” I began to explain, inwardly counting down the time till the first questions.
“Five…four…three…two…one.”
“Why do we need to move? What use is a wall?” One old woman yelled through my explanation.
“It’s called ‘siege warfare’. Given proper construction, a fortified location cannot be taken without siege weapons, which I seriously doubt anyone has around here. Magicka can also take down fortifications but again, there are no mages here with a mastery of Destruction. Through the wall, we’ll be able to keep the werewolves out, at least long enough to give us a chance to pick them off with the bows I want to have made. The Bosmer kept their last war from turning into a total failure by fighting defensively. It took weeks or even months for the Khajiit to take down any fortified installation and they only succeeded by starving the defenders. Now the funny thing here is, any wolf we kill is more meat for us to eat. So they can all crush themselves against those walls we’ll build for all I care.” I replied.
“Are there any more questions? No, then I’ll continue. Now as I said, there will be bows. Next is the inclusion of a watch. All four winddirections will be watched at all times. I suggest working in eight man shifts of two hours. Also, there will be strict rationing and no alcohol.”
“No alcohol?! What’s that good for?!” One of the kids bawled. I leaned in closer to look at the little boy. Gods, he wasn’t even six years old!
“For one thing, you’re too young for that stuff in the first place. Also, alcohol lowers a man’s reflexes, coordination, ability to think and other things. It helps a Berserker charge, that’s true. But frankly, Berserking is an offensive technique and offense is not going to help. Consider yourself drafted into the archery corpse.” I said, bringing my full skill at intimidation into play. It wasn’t much, I admit but it works when the victim is about a third of your age, and half the size.
“That goes for everyone! Everyone will return to or learn how to fight. We’ll have a slight lack of iron, so the arrows will be tipped with stone or ice, preferably stone. Weapons that are too heavy to wield by anyone will be melted down and turned into rapiers. Given proper training, a child with a rapier can take on ten hulking warriors with Claymores and win. You’ll also learn hand-to-hand. Real hand-to-hand, no drunken brawling. We are facing a hard battle and I don’t intend to lose. Anyone who is caught slacking will be sent to Khorne. I’m sure he knows what to do.” I shouted over the murmurs of discontent.
“Aye, I assure you that I have a few tricks in mind for any lazy rat.” Khorne answered with a smirk.
On to the next chapter
I paced back and forth in front of the Sunstone. Getting there had been a simple matter of flying in the right direction with my Wing. No, the real problem was figuring out what to do. If I’d been Aevar, the damn stone would’ve simply told me. But I wasn’t Aevar. I was Roland Wolf-tail, Ro-El Frost and Dumac Dwarfking returned. The stones wouldn’t just tell me because I was a Nord hero. I wasn’t a hero. In fact, I wasn’t even sure if I should be considered a Nord or a Dwemer.
My only solution came in the form of the story I’d heard countless times before as a child. The results were clearly visible. If Aevar hadn’t done it all before, I would probably still be trudging through the snow trying to find the stone. All I had to do in order to proceed was remember what came next. If only I could remember. Apparently, my adventurous time spent at Vvardenfell, not to mention the recent invasion of Dumac’s memories, had degraded the memories I had left of my childhood. If only I could remember.
“If, if, if! If if’s were septims, I would be able to make a life-sized replica of Ebonheart castle!” I shouted to no one and kicked the monolith in frustration.
“The sun has been caught by the unholy ones. Go to the Halls of Penumbra, slay the unholy ones and free the sun from its icy cage.” A voice howled in the wind. I stared at the stone and then at my foot.
“Kick it. I should’ve known. That’s just the kind of thing Aevar would’ve done in my situation.”
I also now remembered the further part of the story. The Halls of Penumbra was a cavern, roughly to the west of the stone and its walls were coated in ice. It was inhabited by undead creatures known as Draugr, who for some reason had an intense hatred of light. So naturally, the Halls were very dark. And I had to go in there and likely smack them all. Just my favourite kind of thing to do. Not. At least I would have an advantage Aevar did not have. A flying Dwemer machine with built-in crossbow.
I mounted the Wing again and flew off towards the west. My search for the entrance was barely long enough to make up a plan of action. As they say though, the first casualty during a battle is the plan. In my case, this casualty fell at the door. I spent half an hour looking for an alternate entrance but there was none. It was just my luck, having to go through a door that was too small for my Centurion. Still, I would have to go in there, with or without a Dwemer machine at my side.
I weighed my options carefully before even touching the door. Apart from my lack of firepower, the lack of light would be a problem as well. I could go in with a piece of flaming wood, but that would only draw attention. No, it looked as if I had to go in there blind. Not a pleasant idea. But what had to be done had to be done. I took a few deep breaths and tried to open the door. Locked and the lock had been frozen to pieces long ago which made lockpicks useless. Brilliant.
I stepped to the side calmly and pointed at the door that stood in my way.
“Shoot the lock to pieces.” I ordered and the Wing did it easily with a single bolt. I used my rapier to remove the remaining bits of ice and then gave it a good kick. Creaking loudly, the door swung open, letting light shine into the Halls. No stealthy entrance for me. Immediately following the first rays of light, an earpiercing shriek assaulted my ears. Something heavy and dry smacked into my chest, sending me into the snow. There was a loud thunk, the feeling of something piercing through the air followed by another shriek, one of death this time.
I got up carefully, still a bit dizzy from my sudden flight. The remains of a Draugr lied just a few steps beyond the opening, a bolt cleanly sticking out of the wall nearby. There was little doubt it was dead. No matter what form of undead you were, getting blasted into countless pieces the size of a finger has to be unhealthy. I removed the Dwemer bolt and loaded it back into the Wing’s magazine. With the nearest ammunition depot hidden under a thick layer of ice, I wasn’t going to let any bolts go to waste. Having done that, I gave the Draugr a good inspection, for as much as I could.
It was the first time I saw one but I could use my knowledge of other forms of undead to my advantage. The Draugr was the reanimated corpse of a Nord. If it had died anywhere else, it’s flesh would’ve rotten by now leaving only a skeleton. Due to the intense cold of Solstheim though, all the water had been drawn out of its flesh and the flesh had frozen into a leathery substance, making it more look like an underfed man than an undead. In short, it resembled a Bonewalker closest, though without all the juicy bits.
A skeleton with skin. The Wing’s bolt had been big enough to downright shatter the damn thing but I shouldn’t hope of killing them with a rapier. Tharsten was right when he compared it to a toothpick. You don’t go killing with a toothpick. Well, at least not if you don’t know how to use it. No, I would have to revert to my oldest form of fighting. Fists and feet. I took another deep breath and stepped over the Draugr pieces.
The corridor arced downward rapidly and soon the light from outside had vanished. I closed my now useless eyes and focussed on my remaining senses. I could feel the air flowing around me, a breathing barrier between me and what lied beyond. A slight disturbance in the flow. I ducked, feeling something pass through the area where my head had been a moment earlier. Not wasting any time to wonder what had done that, I dashed forward, punching with the tips of my fingers, withdrawing the moment I made contact. There was a horrible sound of frozen skin and flesh cracking, accompanied by the shrieking of the wounded Draugre. I punched again, this time with an open palm. This time the sound was like an explosion as its exposed spine was turned to dust.
I felt around carefully with my boots till I’d confirmed the thing’s death. Silently, I thanked Leroth for teaching me how to fight without eyes and without weapons. His techniques were simply superb, as the complete destruction of the undead had proven. I shuffled further into the cavern, listening and feeling with my entire body for more trouble.
And more trouble was what I found. The place was crawling with Draugr everywhere. Too many for me to fight on my own. Still, I somehow managed with a lot of ducking, jumping off walls and simply making them hit each other instead of me. After I’d balanced the odds a bit, I broke the last few Draugr with a few well-placed taps.
The silence that followed was more unnerving than the roaring of the Draugr and the sound of their frozen bones. This pitchblack cavern was wrecking my nerves. I could do without sight, but the lack of light brought a feeling of uncertainty with it. I cleared the lump in my throat, took a few deep breaths to calm down and proceeded further. What had to be done had to be done, whether I felt good about it or not. To be honest, a stubborn part of me refused to simply walk away. This was no longer about stepping in Aevar’s footsteps, this was about my pride. About proving to myself that I could be more than just Dumac reborn. That I could do things on my own, things that were not foretold in prophecy.
Nothing stood in my way and I continued my blind descent. Slowly, light reached through my closed eyelids. At first, I thought I was merely imagining the light but as it grew brighter, I realized it was real. I opened my eyes warily. I immediately wished I hadn’t. Not knowing what you’re fighting can be comforting, even though it is rather dangerous. All I noticed about the thing which protected the light were the claws, the huge spikes on its back and the flaming eyes. Having seen that, I made the right choice. I bravely ran away.
It roared, much louder than all the Draugr combined, as it gave chase. As I went further away from the light, darkness came back. Not entirely though, for the beast’s eyes still burned visibly. I stumbled over the Draugr corpses I’d left behind earlier. Now I wished I’d removed them from my path. It was something you can only complain about when looking back. How was I supposed to know I would be fleeing?
Well, it wasn’t exactly fleeing. Basically, it was the repeat of a tactic I’d used before. When I neared the entrance, the light reflecting off the snow was blinding. I closed my eyes and counted my steps. The moments my feet sank into the soft snow, I jumped to the side and gave the big command.
“Fire!”
There was a thunk, a roar of agony and anger. More thunks, weaker roaring. Then, the heavy thump of the beast falling facefirst into the snow. It was dead. My plan had been simple. If the Wing couldn't go to the monsters, the monsters would simply have to go to the Wing.
I got up, brushed off the snow and entered the Halls of Penumbra for the second time. This time though, I decided to take a torch with me. Everything inside was dead so I wouldn’t have to worry about stealth. Besides, the stealth hadn’t been very successful last time.
As I’d expected and hoped, there were no undead or big beasts to stop me. I made it all the way to the wall of ice covering the light without any interference. Now came the hardest bit. How to free the light? I paced back and forth in front of the sheet of ice, watching my torch shrink. I tried pressing the flames against it, but there was no result. I hadn’t expected any. This wasn’t normal ice, this was Stalhrim, an odd form of ice that could not be melted by the hottest flames and was stronger than the strongest steel. It was most often used to protect burial sites.
I paced around a bit more, trying to remember what Aevar did. My memories recalled something about plucking an unholy beast’s eye and throwing it at the wall with all his might.
“No, no and no! I’m not going to drag that thing all the way back here and I’m definitely not going to rip out its eyeball! That’s just gross.” I shouted, my voice echoing all around me. I paced around even more, growing increasingly frustrated.
My torch had died out by now so I dropped it. When my frustration reached a peak, I kicked the Stalhrim wall, which caused a hollow sound like hitting a steel barrel. I withdrew my foot and stared at the wall, realizing my stupidity. The wall was not as perfectly solid as it appeared. In fact, no wall could be perfect. I should have realized it sooner. The answer to my problem was simple, though it required a monk rather than a Nordic warrior to find this answer. The Stalhrim had tiny defects, too small for the eye to see. If exploited, I could use the wall’s strength against itself.
I laid a hand on the wall and felt around for the weaknesses that had to be there. Such an investigation took time, more than an hour, but it was worth it. The strike I planned to make clearly took too much preparation to be usable in combat but it was much more powerful as a result. It was the so-called ‘fist of infinite blows’. One strike that would spark countless following strikes without the monk moving a finger. In the end, the target would vibrate itself to pieces. Once I’d concluded my search, I took a single step back and struck with a single finger, punching at a downward angle like a bird swooping down on its prey. There was no sound of impact, no visual result. In fact, it looked as if I hadn’t achieved anything.
I retreated out of the cavern and had a meal up at the surface. I then jumped on top of the Wing and flew off towards the next stone, the stone of Trees. In a few days, I would return and see the results of this ‘infinite fist’.
At the Treestone, I repeated the activation-process which came down to a simple kick and got my orders. This time, I had to recover the seeds of the First Tree which had been stolen. I was then supposed to plant them near the Treestone.
In Aevar’s story, the snow elves had been responsible for the theft. In my case, the culprit was a Riekling, a creature that was similar to a goblin in size and behaviour. He was surrounded by Spriggans, wood spirits who defended anything plantlike with a fanatic zeal. If I’d simply walk in and try to take the seeds from the little critter, they’d surely attack me and killing a Spriggan required to turn them into little splinters quite thoroughly. That would take too long.
Aevar distracted them with fire, but I had a better solution. After all, I was the reincarnation of the Dwemer king. I might as well use my heritage. I swooped down on the Wing, tackled the little Riekling, snatched the bag he clutched in his fingers and was back up in the air before either the Riekling or the Spriggans had any idea what just happened. That was easy. I returned to the Treestone and planted the seeds I’d found in the bag. A loud rumble came from the snow and a massive tree shot up out of the ground, its branches twisting around the Treestone. For five minutes, the tree continued to grow. Then, it apparently reached its full size and wavered in the wind.
I carefully touched it to make sure it was real.
“Wow, now that’s impressive.” I muttered to myself. I had no time to delay though, I had to get moving. I turned around and began to walk away when the tree shook its branches. Something fell out of it, right on my head as if it was meant to be on my head.
“Ouch!” My hands flew up and pulled the object away. Looking down upon it, I had to admit I was impressed again.
It was a helmet, made of the finest Stalhrim. A steel frame held the perfectly shaped band of ice, that ran around the back and sides. At the back, a finger of Stalhrim rose up, arching forward over the top till it ended in a noseguard. It was an excellent example of fine craftsmanship.
Stalhrim weapons and armours were extremely rare, even more rare than Stalhrim itself. Just how this tree ever managed to sprout a helmet of the stuff, I did not know. What was even more surprising was its shape and size. When I said it fell on my head as if it was meant to be there, I wasn’t joking. It fit perfectly. Perfect fit or not, I put it in a bag for the moment and mounted the Wing to continue my quest. The possible consequences of this perfectly fitting helmet were something I did not want to think about right now.
The next one was the Earthstone, at the western edge of the island. I saw the ash storm again during my flight. It hadn’t moved, which worried me a bit. However, I decided to ignore it for the time being and focus on my job.
The Earthstone had me play with music in a cave, which proved to be no problem. After a few moments, I’d figured out the tune and managed to recreate it. When I finished the tune, the cave began to rumble, a crack forming at the far wall. I begun to retreat my steps out of fear for a possible collapse when the earthquake stopped as sudden as it had begun. Still a bit jumpy, I turned around again.
The wall had split open, revealing a small alcove. In the alcove, I saw something which really got me wondering about this quest. A pair of boots, completely dustfree. And just as with the helmet earlier, it was composed of a steel frame, chainmail style in this case, with several pieces of Stalhrim around it. I approached it slowly. As I came closer, I noticed that the Stalhrim didn’t look as if someone had crafted it, instead it looked more as if it had simply grown around the steel mesh. And just to make it even more frightening, the boots were just my size.
I piled them together with the helmet in the same bag once I’d returned to the Wing.
“This is getting very creepy here.”
Next was the waterstone, which tasked me with finding the Waters of Life. To do that, I would have to find the Swimmer. I approached the coast, where I saw a large black beast sitting on a sheet of ice like a fish on dry land. Upon my approach, it dove into the waters, resurfacing after a moment and looking at me, as if it was waiting for something.
I knew this had to be the Swimmer. Edging forward, I dipped a finger in the water. As I’d already feared, the water was cold and half-frozen, feeling more like a thick soup than water. I sighed and went into my extensive collection of scrolls. Presto, one waterwalk, just what I needed.
Every step on the watersurface was accompanied by the sound of a shattering mirror. Rather peculiar and it might have been interesting for a scholar. Me, I was more worried about the Swimmer. If it decided to dive, I would have to enter the water anyway. As if it had read my thoughts, the creature flipped over and went straight for the bottom.
“Great. I hate cold water.” I murmured as I lied down on the water and looked down at the bottom. I saw a shadow amidst the rocks littering the seabed, an entrance to an underwater cave. Quite deep as well.
“I took waterwalk scrolls but forgot to bring a waterbreathing scroll. I’ll remember that next time.”
While the water still supported my weight, I took a few things out of my pack. First came a rope which I tied between my belt and my backpack. After that came a thick blanket which I wrapped around my face and throat to protect them from the intense cold I would experience upon diving into the water. Once I’d finished with my preparations, it was a simple matter of waiting for the spell to run out and deposit me in the water.
The water was so cold, it seemed to burn. I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep breath before blindly diving for the entrance. By the time I made it to the entrance I’d already reached the point where I should turn around and head back for the surface. Still, I pushed on and entered the darkness.
Water was everywhere, cold, sending sharp bursts of numbing pain into every single part of my body. My lungs screamed from the lack of air. Against my will, my mouth opened and swallowed up the water. I started to feel light as I began to show the first signs of drowning.
“What an end, drowning.” I thought bitterly.
Something grabbed my leg, dragging me forward at greater speeds than I could’ve swum under my own power. The water rushed up out of my lungs, being replaced by a crisp gas I loved. Air. I filled my lungs again and again, spitting out the last drops of icy water as I did so. Once I felt a bit better, I patted the Swimmer on its head.
“Thanks, I owe you one.” I said to it. The creature snorted and splashed on the watersurface with its head.
“Yeah, I know. I’ll have to go on.” I said with a sigh and looked up at my target.
There was a small altar with a potion. The Waters of Life. The potion was not unguarded though. It was covered in a cage of ice. A spectre stood watch, garbed in a full suit of ethereal Stalhrim. It gestured at me with a hand.
“It is you. I’ve been waiting for a long time, my son.” It said solemnly, a tear running down its face.
“Come, step on the ledge and follow me. Before you claim the Waters of Life, there are things to discuss, lessons to learn.” It continued and walked out of the small chamber, right through a wall. Feeling no need to remain in the cold water any longer, not to mention being curious, I pulled myself up onto the ledge and shook the water off as good as I could. I then inspected the wall the spectre had vanished through. It was an illusion.
“I wonder what he has to say.” With that thought and a deep breath, I stepped through.
If I had been expecting something impressive, such as a buried ship filled with treasure fitting for a Nord king, or a heavily decorated tomb, or even a simple altar with a corpse on it, I would be disappointed. The room was mind-boggling huge, spreading into all directions, but it was completely empty. There were no torches, or any other conventional lightsource. Instead, the walls themselves seemed to radiate with a crimson light that gave me the shivers.
“What is this place? And who are you?” I asked nervously. The whole place had something creepy to it, ignoring the fact that there was a heavily armed ghost standing near me.
“Aye, this place, is my curse. Come forward, and I’ll show you.” The spectre beckoned. Slowly and with a hand near my rapier, I approached. Once the being deemed me close enough, it pointed down at the floor. I looked down, and had to suppress the urge to vomit. The floor was transparent, and I could look through it as if it was simply a red mist. A body was down there, impaled upon a monstrous spear. Its chest heaved as it took tortured breaths, its limbs shivering in agony. Its right hand clawed for a weapon that was no longer there, the left clutched the spear’s shaft and tried to pull the weapon out of the wound. The worst was its face, which displayed its pain and despair.
“That is me. I was once the greatest among the Skaal, now I’m a mere trophy. My body suffers, while my spirit wanders this place restlessly.” The Spectre explained. I tore my eyes away from the gruesome sight and fixed them upon the spirit’s face. Its expression mimicked the pain its body was suffering.
“I should have died long ago, when the world was still new and Fjalding’s waters rippled in the breeze.” It continued. I delved into my own knowledge of the Skaal. When Fjalding’s waters rippled, that was indeed a long time ago. Some quick calculations, and I realized that this man predated the Empire, or the Tribunal. I shuddered at the thought of how long he had endured this torture even till today. Anyone would have gone mad, yet he had kept his wits about him.
“How do you manage?” I asked, shaking my head at my own thoughts.
“I don’t know. From time to time, a woman appears. Her skin is grey as the ash and her eyes burn hot with the fire of a thousand forges. She eases my pain and protects my sanity. Not for me, nor for her, but for you. I have been charged with the task of waiting for you to appear. Here, in this room.” It answered and turned away from its physical prison.
“I do not know your name, and you don’t know mine. But the woman told me, that you are a direct descendant of my blood. You are a mystery to this world, the seed from which the glorious past shall be reborn. When you came, I had to tell you this. The icy blood of Aevar Stone-Singer flows through your veins, the raging fire of Red Mountain burns in your soul.”
It watched me anxiously, waiting for a response, any response. At first, I was shocked by the revelation that Aevar Stone-Singer himself was my ancestor. Then, I got slightly amused and told myself I could’ve guessed it would be something like that. First Dumac reborn and now the descendant of Aevar, it couldn’t get any stranger.
“You are Aevar.” It wasn’t a question, I’d said it as if it was a fact. The spirit nodded.
“Aye, I am Aevar. And you are about to walk in the steps I left behind. After my quest, I became arrogant, absorbed by an illusion of my glory. When the Hunter came into this world, I challenged him openly. We did battle, and I lost. Now I am here, trapped in this tomb as his trophy.” It whispered.
“Listen carefully, my son. You must travel to the stones, take the armour the woman left for you there. Then, enter Fjalding’s heart where you shall retrieve that which made the lake freeze and turn into Stalhrim. With the heart of Fjalding in hand, you can challenge the Hunter and demand my death from him.”
I sat down and listened, making mental notes on what he told me. Grey skin and red eyes. Since we were talking about an incredibly long span of time, it could only be an immortal being who had visited Aevar. Only one fit the description. Azura. She’d changed the Dunmer, brought the Nerevarine into this world and according to some sources, she was the one who struck down the Dwemer. Just what didn’t she do? While I was thinking, Aevar continued.
“Unlike me, you have a gift. Your soul is bound to that of an immortal god. Whenever you are struck by magicka, this god will absorb it for you and channel it into a form you can release upon your foes. With this gift, you stand a chance against the Hunter’s guile. You are fast and quick on your feet, you’ve trained to be a lethal weapon without weapons or armour. With this, you will be able to match the Hunter’s speed. You will claim ownership over a sword with no equal, its cold fury will guard you against the Hunter’s strength. You will drink the Waters of Life, which will protect you from death. And finally, you have this.” At these last words, Aevar pulled a ring from his spectral finger. He bent down and slipped it around mine. Despite being nearly invisible and entirely weightless, the ring fit around my finger as if it was solid and real.
“This ring holds great power. It is bound to my soul. You can use it once, to break me free from the Hunter’s curse for a short time. Use it at the right time, and I shall come to your aid. And as my last gift to you, look at the Swimmer’s side. It suffered a wound long ago. I used my shield to stop the bleeding. By now, the wound has been healed and you should take the shield for yourself. Now go, and may the power of the All-Maker be with you.”
I bowed to him, an universal sign of respect. Then, I departed. I took the potion and called for the Swimmer to take me back. It did so and returned me to Solstheim. Before we went separate ways, I looked at its side as Aevar had told me. Indeed, a sheet of brilliant Stalhrim was embedded into the creature’s side. I jarred it free from the thick mass of its fur. The creature snorted and dove into the ocean, vanishing from sight.
Now that I was alone, I got the odd feeling that it never happened. Yet I had proof that it did happen. Aevar’s ring was around my finger, the water’s of life sat inside my pocket and finally, I had this Stalhrim shield. Like with the other Stalhrim pieces, it was brilliantly crafted, or grown. A single sheet of Stalhrim shaped like a sail, its edges covered by engraved steel. The sunlight reflecting on the Stalhrim caused a shimmer on its surface, a shimmer that looked like a wolf growling at some unseen foe.
“The Hunter. If I am to challenge him, I need every advantage I can get. So that’s why this armour is popping up around me. I could certainly use its protection.”
I did not return to the waterstone. Aevar had literally said that I had to drink the Waters of Life myself. But when, he did not tell. He also didn’t tell me what the Waters would do to me. In the end, it was best to wait with drinking till there was no other way out. And as for the armour piece, I’d already gotten his shield. In short, there was no reason for me to return.
No, I moved one. I’d visited three stones, four if you count the sunstone, and I had three left to go. The windstone, the beaststone and of course the sunstone which I’d partially dealt with already. Continuing my circle around the island, I first came upon the windstone. After the traditional kick against the monolith, I was off again. Frankly, this part of the stonehopping quest turned out to be incredibly boring.
Unlike the previous stones, there was absolutely no challenge with the last ones. The windstone sent me to an empty tomb and the beaststone had me rescue the Good Beast, which had already slain its assailants when I arrived. The rational part of me told me to be glad for this lack of challenge but another part of me complained about the very same thing. Maybe I was more of a hotblooded Nord than I dared to admit.
The good part was that my boredom was rewarded extremely well. Of course there were the usual armour pieces, a pair of greaves and gauntlets in this case, but the windstone also provided me with a very nice pouch. While rather mundane from the outside, it had the peculiar ability of storing a near infinite amount of items, without any mass or size considerations. I found out about this nice effect when I dug around inside it, just to see if it held a few small trinkets, and found a pair of greaves instead which were much larger than the pouch that contained them. Further experiments revealed that I could indeed store anything inside it, including the Netch-sized Wing. This pouch found itself a permanent location at my belt where it remained for many years.
As said earlier, the windstone and the beaststone were boring. With those two out of the way, I returned to the Halls of Penumbra to collect the final piece of armour. When I reached the chamber with the Stalhrim wall, I saw that the wall had shattered itself into countless pieces. I never had the chance before to actually practice the ‘infinite fist’ but it surely looked as if I’d mastered the trick behind it. The light I’d seen earlier now shone unobscured. The source of this light was a small jewel mounted at the chest section of a cuirass, made from finely crafted Stalhrim of course.
“Boots, helmet, greaves, gauntlets, shield and a cuirass. That looks like everything. Well, time to head back, I guess.” I nodded to myself, hurried back to the cold snow outside, pulled the Wing out of my new toy and jumped on it.
While the Wing is a fast machine, travelling from one end of the island to the other still takes time. Enough time for me to reflect upon my last meeting with Tharsten. My journey had provided me with some nice armour, a prophecy, a bag and a sense of identity. But it was obvious to me that he had only ordered me to travel in Aevar’s footsteps so I wouldn’t be in the village. He was frightened of something, but of what? With my thoughts running around in circles, I gazed up at the red moons in the night sky. They’d had this colour for as long as I remembered, yet something felt wrong. Like a cold chill that wasn’t there before. A chill that was colder than the frozen land.
“Think, Ro-El. Tharsten wanted you to be gone. Normally, he would be overjoyed at your return but he wasn’t. So think, what is scaring the crap out of the Skaal? Or better yet, what can scare the crap out of them? It’s not the ashstorm. Apart from the fact that the cloud hasn’t moved in a while there is the fact that some dust won’t scare them, not till the dust transforms into an army of monsters.” I reasoned with myself. A wolf howled below me. Finally, I concluded that worrying would take me nowhere. I would simply have to ask them. Just as the Skaal village appeared at the edge of my vision, the wolf howled again, soon to be followed by others.
“Looks like there’s a pack of wolves out there. Guess that means the deer population will be lowered tonight.”
As a Skaal, I was not afraid of wolves. Oftentimes, I’d watched them from a close distance as they hunted, each individual moving like a gear in a Dwemer machine, each moving to complement the movements of the pack as a whole. Wolves were brilliant hunters and I respected them, but I did not fear them. As the Skaal had respect for the wolves, the wolves had respect for the Skaal. We were neighbours and never squabbled. Sometimes, we even helped each other out, by presenting food and protection to those lost in the wilderness while wounded.
As such, my reaction to the howls where not strange at all. If I’d known however, I would have done something quite different. Anyway, I landed the Wing on a nearby hill and stuffed it into my pouch. After that, I casually strode through the snow towards the wooden huts. There was a storm brewing, and the wind deafened my hearing for a bit. Because of that, I did not hear the warcries and distinct sounds of battle till it was too late. I was an arrowshot away from the village when I finally caught on.
“Ok, this is bad.” I muttered as my eyes tried to pierce the darkness of the night. There was a slight amount of light coming from the various campfires, but it was only enough to see vague silhouettes. The Skaal were fighting against Draugr, Spriggans, Rieklings? It was hard to see. I took a single step forward to reach a better vantage point.
The snow in front of me exploded. Something dark flew up. I backflipped on pure instinct and managed to avoid the swipe of its hairy paws, though I still got a large amount of the damn thing’s spit in my face. I still could not make out more than a silhouette and two yellow eyes as it lunged at me. Obviously, it was out for my blood. I had other ideas. I snapped into the ‘Floating Butterfly’ close-range evasion technique to dodge it. The Floating Butterfly is highly aggressive for a martial art focussed on evasion. While most styles try to increase the distance, the Butterfly calls for closing the distance as far as is possible and then moving around the opponent’s arc of attack. It also calls for the user to be extremely light on his feet, more floating than standing.
It is my favourite style for evasion and I complement it with an offensive style which seems to be simply meant to be used in conjunction with the Floating Butterfly. The Stinging Bee, which is all about hitting the vital parts with quick strikes of the fingers when they are least prepared.
In this case, I hopped between its arms and moved into position for my next move. A smooth switch to the Stinging Bee later, and the tips of my finger dug into the fur, piercing the skin like an arrow between two ribs. I withdrew my hand, jumped on one of its arms to use it as a springboard and then followed through with a knee to the throat. The creature reeled back from the assault. I moved away from it and waited anxiously. After three tense seconds, it fell down on its face, killed by both a partially crushed heart and a crushed windpipe. The heart had been the worst one. Suffocation takes a bit longer to kill. Now that it was dead and no longer moving, I got the opportunity to see it properly. But first I wiped the spit from my face.
It was a wolf, a humanoid wolf about as tall as your average Nord. In other words, very tall. The claws looked razorsharp and I considered myself lucky for avoiding them. The same thing could be said about its mouth.
“Ok, so the Skaal are fighting off a raid by big wolves. I heard of this before. Err…When the moon turns red with the blood of the prey, the h…Ehm…Crap.” I broke into a run as I finally realized the meaning of all the signs I’d seen. This was bad, really bad. In fact, it was the Skaal version of the end of the world. Only instead of being a story, it was really happening.
“Brilliant. I get to save Morrowind from a god and I get to fight werewolves here as a warm-up. This is so not nice.”
More werewolves leapt out of the darkness as I approached the village as fast as my legs could take me. I would have preferred to tackle the problem as an agent, by slipping on the armour and releasing the Wing before showering everything that moved with Fireburst scrolls. But time was not on my side so my only option was to tackle the problem as a Nord. Take one sword, put the pointy bit into the hairy thingy, repeat till all hairy thingies are gone.
My rapier flashed in the light of a campfire. I stabbed in the knee of a werewolf, rolled between its legs, flipped up backwards and stabbed a second time, now in an eye. The thing shrieked before crashing down into a broken heap.
“Roland!” I whirled around to meet the voice, dodging a big mouth full of teeth in the process.
“Oh, hi Tharsten. Say, you didn’t tell me about the damn party. What’s the meaning of this?” I shot at the burly Nord while I poked out the eye of the werewolf with a thumb. The critter shrieked like the one I killed a moment earlier, giving me the chance to slit its throat. They were big, but not as tough as they looked.
“It means the Hunter is about to return! You aren’t supposed to be here! Flee, now!” Tharsten shouted before he was interrupted by a werewolf that bit down on his arm.
“Agh! Fiend! I’ll show you the power of a Skaal!” He grunted. His arm rose up into the air and swung down. The mace he wielded cracked open the beasts skull like a nut under a hammer.
“Tharsten, you ok?!” I shouted and completely forgot the battle that raged around me. Sure, the Chieftain could be annoying at times but he was still my father. Still, forgetting about the two dozen bloodthirsty beasts around me was a bad thing to do. What was most embarrassing was that the hit came from the front. I never saw it coming. I only felt the intense, burning pain that spread all across my body.
“Roland!”
Moons dripping with blood. Howls in the distance, eerie enough to make the blood freeze. A burning forest. And standing right in front of my eyes, a giant of a man, masked with the skull of a deer. In his hand, he held a spear. At his feet, a giant wolf sat, with an immense amount of drool dripping from its mouth. The man pointed at the wolf with a finger, then aimed the finger at me.
“This is you.” He said with a deep voice.
The scene shifted. A cold cliff, suspended high above the ground with only a small ledge to stand on. The man was gone, together with the burning forest. Yet the moons still cried their tears of blood. A loud howl echoed all around me. I spun around to face the wolf. The creature growled at me and displayed its sharp array of claws and teeth.
“Join me. Accept me.”
The mental voice caught me off guard. I swayed back and forth in the heavy winds as I tried to find a balance between stability and a defensive stance.
“What are you?” I shouted at it over the screaming wind.
“I am you. The blood that resides within you. I am the essence of your deepest desires. You’ve always wanted to be big and strong, just like Tharsten Heart-Fang. I can make your wish come true!” The wolf answered.
Me, a giant, drinking warrior? I had to admit that the idea appealed to me. To the old me. This was indeed my deepest desire while growing up among the Skaal. Not anymore though. In the new world I lived in, brute strength was not the perfect ideal. I was happy with myself the way I was.
“Shut up. You’re a werewolf, not some sort of projection of my soul. Just jump of the cliff and leave me alone.” I shouted back in an act of defiance. Bad move.
“Fool! The price of rejection is death!” It leaped forward, impossibly fast. I tried to dodge it with the standard backflip, which was another mistake. My jump managed to take me away from the claws and the teeth, but also away from solid ground. I knew I was going to die.
The wolf had followed me. Now this was interesting. Either I would die by turning into flat goo on the ground, or I would die by being torn to pieces in midair. Now all I needed to complete the situation were a few spellhappy mages and bowhappy archers. Preferably Altmer and Bosmer, in that order. I resigned to my fate and let the wolf strike out with its paws.
The scene shifted again. I was still hurtling down through the sky, but something was different. No, it wasn’t me who was falling but someone else. But who? He or she managed to make a perfect landing, causing grass to bent and the ground to explode into a cloud of dust. No wait, it wasn’t grass. When the person looked down, I could see the burning forest again. What I’d believed to be grass were the charred hulks of the trees and the feet were a pair of Dwemer boots that dwarfed the trees they’d flattened. Who or better yet, what was I inhabiting?
The wolf landed on another small ledge, conveniently located at eyelevel.
“What are you?” It snarled, thereby voicing the question I’d thought. The voice that answered was without emotion, or warmth. It was as soulless as a Dwemer Centurion. That was what it was, a Centurion.
“I am Pelinal, the shield of Resdayn. Kagrenac’s greatest achievement.” Its fist struck out, smashing the ledge, the wolf and most of the cliff to pieces.
Pain, burning pain that knocked the breath out of me. The latest scene was the least pleasant in a way.
“Ah, he’s back.” I forced my eyes to open upon hearing those words. Even now that they were open, I couldn’t see anything.
“It is good to see that you’re still alive, Chieftain.” The voice said again.
“What, Chieftain?” I croaked and promptly returned to my dreams.
I kept drifting in and out of unconsciousness for the next few days. Slowly though, I began to recover my strength till after a month or two, I was finally capable of holding a conversation without passing out every five minutes.
“Ok, now what is that about the Chieftain?” I asked the Shaman one day when he was nursing my wounds again. He looked up from his work, then looked down and continued grinding roots into powder.
“We lost many good men that night. Ulfred the Mighty. Egbert Stonecrusher. The list goes on. We even had the misfortune of losing our Chieftain, Tharsten Heart-Fang. And that wasn’t the end of it. Most of the surviving warriors were wounded one way or another. Three nights later, they became wolves.” He explained.
“In the following battle, we lost more men and women. Those that took part and survived were all wounded as well. This time though, we’d learned of our mistake. They protected the village by claiming their own lives before they too would become wolves. Now the elderly and the children are all that remain. Only we, and a single survivor of the first battle. A survivor who has somehow escaped the curse of the hunter.” He added. If I felt like it, I would have let out a really long sigh.
“Me. I guess I’ve got a powerful friend or something.”
“Yes, you. The god that protected you from the curse has my thanks though I wish he’d protected more of our warriors. As the son of our former Chieftain and the last remaining Skaal warrior, we’ve named you as our Chieftain. Roland Wolf-Tail, we face hard times. You are the last defender of our people so I’m doing all I can to heal your wounds. Now stop talking, you’re slowing down the healingprocess.”
Chieftain of the Skaal. In other words, the safety of the village was my responsibility. Mine, and that of the warriors. But seeing as how I was the only warrior left, it pretty much meant I was on my own.
“Crap this. Vvardenfell and Solstheim? How am I supposed to protect both?”
While I had my doubts regarding my suitability as Chieftain, I could not sit and watch the events unfold like a simple spectator. The next morning, I started an argument with the shaman, some cranky old fellow going by the name of Khorne Ice-Peak.
“You are not healed yet! You must rest, Chieftain!” He pleaded.
“Forget about resting. I’ve got a job to do and no one is going to stop me. What would you rather have, a Chieftain who collapses while making sure the village remains safe, or a village that is destroyed because the Chieftain took a nap?” I shot back, boring my eyes into his. After a lengthy staring contest, he gave up and allowed me to do whatever I wanted, as long as I wouldn’t die on him.
I tried to roll out of my bed. Emphasis on tried, because I was stiff all over like you wouldn’t believe. That’s the price you pay from fighting werewolves and getting beaten. The moment I got a good, straight piece of firewood to use as a cane, I managed a whole lot better. At least I managed to hobble around like a man ten times my age. I had set my mind on wandering around the village in search of ideas. Before I went outside though, I decided to satisfy my curiosity with what was likely the only mirror in the village.
My reflection made me realize how close I’d come to dying. Escaping the werewolf curse was a feat worthy of songs by itself, but escaping death caused by physical injury was quite a feat as well. Four pale white lines stretched from my left shoulder to my right hip. It was a miracle that those claws had bounced off my ribs instead of simply crushing the bony obstacles. I probably wouldn’t be able to move fluidly for a long time.
I turned away from the mirror and got properly dressed. In our history, we’ve had many bare-chested heroes but I preferred some warm wool on my skin, thank you very much. I hobbled out of the building with my improvised cane and was instantly assaulted by the curse know as fame.
“It’s Roland Wolf-Tail!”
“Chieftain!”
“The Wolfslayer!”
“The wielder of Silverthorn!”
“No, it’s called Eyesplitter!”
I threw up my hands, promptly returning both hands to my cane before I lost balance.
“Calm down! I’m not fit enough for all that hugging!” I shouted over the collective voices of the Skaal. I also sneaked a glance down at my rapier, which I’d tied to my belt out of pure habit.
“Silverthorn? That’s not such a bad name. Better than Eyesplitter, that’s just gross.”
My own arguments were powerless, but Khorne the shaman came to my rescue.
“Scram! Can’t you see that the Chieftain is still wounded? Fifty lashings for the one who is still in my sight after I’ve counted to ten! One….two…..Ten!”
Everyone had bolted away as sudden as they’d come. As I said before, Khorne was a cranky old man. I nodded a thanks towards the shaman who frowned and returned to his hut. I shrugged at that and began my inspection of the village, slowly forming the beginning of a plan. The Skaal village was in the open, too much in my opinion. Sure, there had never been a need to expect an attack but times changed. I had some ideas, now I just needed to bring them into play. I looked around for the kids I knew would be stalking me. I mean, that’s what all kids do when a local ‘hero’ is in town.
“You, you and you. Tell everyone that I want a meeting in the Greathall in half an hour.” I told them and watched them go. Being in charge had its perks.
The kids did not disappoint. They were quick runners, and not as drunk as their parents, who were mostly dead by now.
“Alright everyone, listen up!” I shouted over the chorus of voices, both young and old.
“Here’s the plan. There is a hill just north of the village. I want the huts to be disassembled and rebuilt on top of that hill in a circle, spread out but close enough so that they all fit on the hill. We’ll abandon the Greathall. Next, I want the strongest of you lads to go out and chop down trees. We’re going to build a wooden wall around the village, with a sturdy gate. There will be a raised walkway on the inner side of the wall for people to stand on.” I began to explain, inwardly counting down the time till the first questions.
“Five…four…three…two…one.”
“Why do we need to move? What use is a wall?” One old woman yelled through my explanation.
“It’s called ‘siege warfare’. Given proper construction, a fortified location cannot be taken without siege weapons, which I seriously doubt anyone has around here. Magicka can also take down fortifications but again, there are no mages here with a mastery of Destruction. Through the wall, we’ll be able to keep the werewolves out, at least long enough to give us a chance to pick them off with the bows I want to have made. The Bosmer kept their last war from turning into a total failure by fighting defensively. It took weeks or even months for the Khajiit to take down any fortified installation and they only succeeded by starving the defenders. Now the funny thing here is, any wolf we kill is more meat for us to eat. So they can all crush themselves against those walls we’ll build for all I care.” I replied.
“Are there any more questions? No, then I’ll continue. Now as I said, there will be bows. Next is the inclusion of a watch. All four winddirections will be watched at all times. I suggest working in eight man shifts of two hours. Also, there will be strict rationing and no alcohol.”
“No alcohol?! What’s that good for?!” One of the kids bawled. I leaned in closer to look at the little boy. Gods, he wasn’t even six years old!
“For one thing, you’re too young for that stuff in the first place. Also, alcohol lowers a man’s reflexes, coordination, ability to think and other things. It helps a Berserker charge, that’s true. But frankly, Berserking is an offensive technique and offense is not going to help. Consider yourself drafted into the archery corpse.” I said, bringing my full skill at intimidation into play. It wasn’t much, I admit but it works when the victim is about a third of your age, and half the size.
“That goes for everyone! Everyone will return to or learn how to fight. We’ll have a slight lack of iron, so the arrows will be tipped with stone or ice, preferably stone. Weapons that are too heavy to wield by anyone will be melted down and turned into rapiers. Given proper training, a child with a rapier can take on ten hulking warriors with Claymores and win. You’ll also learn hand-to-hand. Real hand-to-hand, no drunken brawling. We are facing a hard battle and I don’t intend to lose. Anyone who is caught slacking will be sent to Khorne. I’m sure he knows what to do.” I shouted over the murmurs of discontent.
“Aye, I assure you that I have a few tricks in mind for any lazy rat.” Khorne answered with a smirk.
On to the next chapter