Yes, so I just couldn't resist and had to get this off my chest. We'll see how long it lasts. Same deal as with redemption, I'll be using this post as a character list and the first part will be in the next one. For now the list is simple.

A question. Should I add a separate entry for Spar at the very bottom that is basically the extra-spoilers edition?

Spar: A female Imperial and the main character of this story. Is guided by 'Them'.
(Portrait)

Silent Fist: A Companion Spar hires to escort her into Bleak Falls Barrow. He doesn't speak, wear shirts or use weapons. Click here for portrait

Faendal: A wood elf who lives in a small village known as Riverwood. He works as a hunter and lumberjack.

Lucan Valerius: The shopkeeper of Riverwood.

Jarl Balgruuf: The Jarl of Whiterun, a city located in the center of Skyrim between the fronts of the Imperial and Stormcloak factions.

Hrongar: Jarl Balgruuf's brother. Looks like he walked off the set of a Conan-film.

Irileth: A Dunmer who serves as Jarl Balgruuf's bodyguard.

Proventus Avenicci: Jarl Balgruuf's steward.


Vilkas: One of the Companions, a mercenary group in Whiterun
Vignar Grey-Mane: Formerly of the Companions, now retired.

Ulfric Stormcloak: The rebel leader in Skyrim, once on of the Emperor's generals.

Arkarik: Someone Spar was supposed to meet in Cyrodiil.

Marking this for later!

First part is right here. I'll try to get an update for Redemption out tomorrow.



Chapter 1.1: The terrible fire.


"Come on, get up! We have to move now!" The fur-clad man shouts. He doesn't need to. Even though inside I want to curl up and cry from sheer terror, my body has already begun to run from left to right in an erratic pattern but always getting closer to the nearest cover. The woodcutting axe is ditched as well, too heavy for sprinting. It is good that the winds have kept the path swept clear of snow.


Up the stairs, up, up, up. Ignore the sounds behind you. The screams, the wooosh!! of burning oils and the loud rumble of falling stone. Turn right for the door and the protective overhang.
"In there!" The man yells. No need to tell me twice. Slip between the crack and head for the nearest shadow. Look around. Nobody here.


The man comes in, dragging his quiver and bow behind him. He kicks away the wedge that has been slipped beneath the doors and the large metal slab falls shut, shutting out the sounds and the danger. Safe. Control was passed back to me and I fell to the hard cold floor, gasping for air. I hadn't run this far and hard in over a month. Ironically, the reason back then had been the same.
"What is that thing?" The man asked himself. It took me a while before his question registered. When it does, a single word was all I can muster.
"Helgen."


I could more feel than see him stare at the door as if he could see through it and look at the flying impossibility that was assaulting the old watchtower and the thieves who had taken up residence there. Then, he shook his head and turned his attention inwards.
"It doesn't seem as if anyone's here, or has been for a while. Get some rest. I'll see if I can rekindle that firepit." He said and moved over to the ashpile. It was the only lightsource left in the place, standing out as a vague shade of gray in pure blackness.


He brushed aside the ash to expose the last few glowering cinders. Fresh wood and air completed the recipe for fire. I felt too tired to go there, my limbs ached, my feet were frozen solid and my lungs burned. But Them take over once more and force me back onto my feet and closer to the fire. I watch the shadows as I walk. They leap back and forth, never showing more than glimpses of the chamber we are in. There are claws, the hint of a wing and sharpened beaks. At first I think they are actual beasts, but then I walk right passed one of the heads. They are stone sculptures. That doesn't make it any better. There is just something about them, something familiar though it is no creature I can remember.


"What now, Faendal?" I asked the man and sat down to warm my hands and toes by the fire. They stung when the blood began to flow again.
"Now? Now we warm ourselves and eat the food I prepared." Faendal said and opened his backpack. From there he pulled out a package of wrapped meat and bread. He split it, gave half to me and bit into the other half himself. I broke off small pieces to nibble on and looked around some more.


It looked as if the thieves have made camp here. The firepit was theirs obviously, but there was also a quartet of unfolded bedrolls and backpacks lying around us. Faendal and I both began to rummage through them once we were done eating, which didn't take long. There was more food in mine, bits of charred meats and berries. A torch on a loop, an old knife, little more than a broken shard of iron wrapped in leather. And finally a small book. I flipped it open, noting the rough handwriting. Skyrim of course, useless to me. But Faendal might be able to make something from it. I handed it over and watched him as he reads.


"Hmm, looks like those poor bastards at the tower were right. Their bosses have gone into the barrow. With the claw." Faendal muttered. The only words I got were 'barrow' and 'claw'. One was the place we were in right now, the other the thing we were looking for. Or rather, the thing Faendal was looking for. If I hadn't been accused of stealing the damned piece of junk along with the knife-eared hunter, I would never have come along. It wasn't my problem. I hadn't done it! I could just punch the batty old hag for insinuating me. And for what? Because I spoke with the elf whenever I got the chance? I did that because he was one of only three people in the village that knew proper Cyrodiilic. Not because I had been planning a crime with him.


So why did I come? Curiosity I guessed. Curiosity in the big structure that dominated the mountain. That's why I came, not for the claw, not for Faendal but only because I didn't have anything better to do. With that monster out there, maybe I shouldn't have come anyway.
"Better here than down in Riverwood. The town is very visible and undefended." Them told me. I felt a bit sorry for master smith and the others, but Them were right. I'd seen the flying beast ravage a town much larger than Riverwood, one that had been swarming with archers and spearmen. Riverwood, had nothing.
"The only defense those people have right now is praying that the monster's belly is satisfied with the thieves up here."


"Alright, they were last here two days ago. And the camp is still here so they didn't leave either." Faendal muttered to himself. Did he know the danger his home was in? He looked at me and nodded.
"We go in deeper to see what happened to them. It's not as if we have anything better to do while we wait for...whatever it is, to go away. But at the first sign of danger we're out of here. This isn't worth dying over."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


He got up far too soon for my liking, gesturing at the torches and the fire he'd made. The message was clear even without words. Light a torch and follow behind so that Faendal can keep his bow prepped for trouble. I did as he suggested though I would have preferred to just sit by the fire, perhaps take a nap, and then leave instead of trying to find what had so obviously killed the four thieves. Unless they carried a second set of backpacks and bedrolls and made camp again further up ahead, which didn't make any sense. Speaking of backpacks, I took one for myself.
"Come danger. Push him into it and run. This isn't your fight." I told myself as we moved out.


There was a passage hewn out of the rock that descended deep and straight into the mountain. I hadn't seen it yet, but the elf had which didn't come as much of a surprise. When a man can read lips in a snowstorm at a hundred metres, it is a waste of effort to try and beat him at a spotting contest. It just isn't natural.


Broken coffins, rolls of ancient linen, iron candlesticks, an assortment of gems. The Barrow was not only bone-bitingly cold, it was also utterly dry. A perfect place for keeping anything in perfect condition. The iron wouldn't rust, and the bodies inside those sarcophagi would remain intact for millennia. Except they didn't. There were no bodies at all even though the coffins looked like they'd been used. No bodies and a lot of valuables lying around in plain sight? It was as if the local tomb-robbers had done things in reverse. Why would any robber be interested in old meat instead of treasure he could actually sell?


A memory comes to me, then another. A tomb in the shadow of the fire mountain. An ashpit holding the bones of some worshipped ancestor with a magical ring lying in the skull's mouth as an offering. The ring would be worth a nice bit of coin so I reach out to take it. The skull bites down on my hand, tearing off fingers. Then the ash moves and rises into a mocking resemblance of man, holding an axe.


I squeeze my empty hand into a fist and look at the darkness around us. This place is also tomb and therefore dangerous. Any moment the dead can rush us, to kill and murder. To turn us into another pair of guardians! Loops, loops on the walls, the floor and the ceiling. Loops of stone writhing, twisting, crawling. Biting at my ankles. Eyes, eyes everywhere. Watching, judging, warning.
"Pull yourself together!"


I became aware of the loud and rapid gasps that is my breathing. The torch was now in both hands like a sword and I thought I'd singed some of the elf's brows. I must have swung at him when he yelled. I focussed on my breathing, drawing in slow and deeply till I stopped feeling lightheaded. Then I mumbled an apology.
"Sorry." Just one word didn't cut it though and I could see him consider whether or not he should send me back up to the entrance. In the end he shook his head though and waved with his hand that we both should continue on.
"The ground has changed. Stay behind me." He said and looked at me for a second as he put an arrow in his hand.
"Far behind me."



My second apology stopped somewhere in the back of my throat with the realization that the ground was indeed different. It was sticky like some oils but didn't splash. I held my torch low to see better, being careful not to splatter anything in case it was oil after all. It wasn't, but the silvery strands that crisscrossed from floor to ceiling in a thick pattern was possibly even worse.
"Faendal. Spiders." I whispered to the elf who had already gone ahead outside my circle of light. I could hear his footsteps stop and the scritch scritch of the webs as he turned. There had to be thousands of them. I heard a loud hiss and with a heavy thump something fell, right on top of Faendal. The loud snap! must be his bow breaking. Not good. Control was taken away.


Get into the nearest coffin for cover. Assume multiple spiders and that their senses in the dark are superior to yours. Keep the torch as a shield, fire scares most creatures. Where is Faendal? I can hear him yell and the spider struggle to keep him pinned down. That means he is still an active combatant. Use him. What is the precise species? Wayrest Tombdweller-related? Think of weaknesses he can exploit. Fire? No, the torch is a last resort for your own escape. Anatomical weaknesses. The tombdweller has a direct passage to the brain, unarmored and open at the moment of its attack. Right through the poison-glands.
"Between the mandibles! Hit it!"


It shrieks and falls with that one fatal blow.
"Way ahead of you." Faendal gasps. It is not safe yet, there could be more arachnids lurking in the darkness. We will guide till the danger has passed. Now, get up and move to the elf.
"I've fought Frostbites before, you know. Though I usually get to keep my distance." He says. He doesn't take the knife he'd stabbed into it but turns back to the entrance.
"I'd say this counts as a clear sign of danger. Let us leave, sister."


Them became silent and I gladly walked back the way we came.
"Is anyone out there?! Wait, please!" Who was that? No, I knew it was best ignored and so I didn't hesitate even if Faendal froze. It had to be one of the thieves, preserved in silken bonds for when the spiders get hungry.
"Faendal! Let's go!" I said. It wasn't worth it.
"Please! Get me out of here! I don't want to be eaten!" Faendal turned again. I waved the torch to the tunnel and said his name again, more urgent this time.
"Faendal!"


"Be quiet. This time of the year there is only the motherspider and her eggs. We'll be fine." He said. Would we? Tombdwellers were colonial creatures, one mating queen and its workers. These frostbites, why would they be any different?
"It is his life he risks. The hunter speaks truth." Them couldn't lie. Not to me. But the elf was involved in a mating contest. Who knew what risks he was and wasn't willing to take for winning the Cyrodiil woman's affection? And what about the tomb's own guardians?
"The spiders ate them."

Yes. I couldn't trust the hunter's judgement. But Them were wiser than me. Them would steer me away from danger. So I followed him. I could use his help getting back to town. Or to another one if Riverwood had been torched to the ground. I followed him and the thief's voice till we came to a cocoon holding an ashen-skinned elf.
"Oh, thank Mara." He yelped. "Cut me loose, friends."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~









OOC: The main character is a damsel in distress again. I have issues.

New story? I'm glad to see a fresh one! Of Faendal, Riverwood and Helgen and of course, firewood. So what was that? A dragon attack?

I am interested.

Nits:
My only concern is the proximity of the dialogue to the paragraph.

For example.
"Like this"

I liked the area triggering a flashback and a panic attack. Good deal!

I always liked Faendal. Except when he was fawning over Camilla XD

I liked this... ...Not unsurprisingly...

I've got a feeling who the Them are/is...But I will gladly wait and see...

Excellent stuff Jack!...

Nice one!...

*Applauds heartily*...

P.S. Faendal rocks... ...

Congrats and best wishes on your new story!

Impressions of cold, dark, old dungeons and plenty of mystery afoot.

‘There was a passage hewn out of the rock that descended deep and straight into the mountain.’
This was wonderfully phrased. I think it was the creative use of ‘hewn’.

‘It had to be one of the thieves, preserved in silken bonds for when the spiders get hungry.’
Yikes, like we need more reasons to be afraid of spiders!

Just saw this, didn't even know you'd started another story! I haven't read it yet, just getting it locked into my email so I'll get reminders with every update, and will be catching up on Redemption and this both in the next couple days.

Thanks everyone!

Darkness, I personally like the dialogue close to general narrating. Sure, putting them right in the middle of a line flanked on each side with the narrator is a no-no, but I don't like splitting off the dialogue from the paragraphs they go with either.

As for your suspicions on what happened right at the start, you'll get your answer today. It won't be much of a surprise though.


Elisabeth, I always pick Faendal in the love triangle. For two reasons. One, he actually has a reward worth getting. (namely, himself) Two, I don't like Sven's mom.


And to everyone else. Thanks for reading again.




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



The dark elf was wrapped up tight and strung to the wall. Right above his head was a cluster of eggs. I looked at the eggsack then back at the thief. He was very lucky those spiderlings hadn't hatched yet. The mer repeated his pleas for freedom but Faendal held up his hand and cut him off.
"Not so fast. You took something from Lucan Valerius' shop down in Riverwood. I want it back." He said. I followed the exchange between the two with growing unease. That Faendal wanted to get the claw before freeing the elf was smart, but not freeing him at all would have been even smarter. I didn't like the bandit's eyes. They'd gone from frightened of dying to pure calculating in a heartbeat. It didn't seem like Faendal had noticed however.


I resolved to tell him and grabbed his sleeve.
"Faendal. I don't trust him. Leave him!" I whispered in his ear. If the dark elf had heard, he didn't mention it and honestly I didn't care if he had. The hunter however shrugged.
"If we walk away, he dies. We free him, and he'll owe us. Besides, even thieves have honour." He whispered back and then took my torch to burn the man out of his binds.
"Say that to the Gray Fox." Or to any other thief. Unless it was a partnership in crime started over friendship, the odds of not getting sold out or cheated the moment it is profitable to do so are practically zero. It was a waste of breath to convince Faendal however and I stopped trying.


Faendal put the torch to the webbing that held up the cocoon and then the outer layers of the cocoon itself. The silk burned, not quickly, but it burned. It also spread a terrible stench as it did so. The thief fell to the ground and tore off big clumps of silk from himself till all that was left was a thin sheet of the stuff and many small globules.
"Many thanks, friend." He said to Faendal once he'd finished patting himself off. The man had no eye for me and in fact I half-wondered if he'd forgotten entirely I stood a few paces back.
"I suppose that to him Faendal looks like the leader of us two. He is bigger, obviously more used to the outdoors and he killed the spider while I cowered in a corner. Hmm, I wonder if the thief saw that part."


"The claw, please." Faendal asked and held out his hand.
"Yes, the claw. Here!" It was bigger than I'd expected. Bigger and heavier. That much gold was worth a small fortune if melted down. So why hadn't they left the area and done so? The elf kept talking.
"I know how it works. I know everything! Where the treasure is, how to get it! The claw is the key!" And there was my answer. The claw wasn't the goal, but the tool. Even as the dark elf rambled about Nord secrets and whatnot, Faendal turned and walked away. The elf was forced to give chase.
"Hey! Where are you going?" He yelled. Stupid Faendal! Never turn your back on someone you can't trust.
"I don't care for treasure. I only wanted to bring the claw back to Camilla and that is exactly what I'm going to do."


The spider was still where it had fallen, with Faendal's knife between its spread mandibles, his broken bow at its feet and a large pool of venom growing around it. The thief looked at it for a second, his eyes lingering on the weapons and then settled squarely on Faendal's back again.
"You don't care about riches? About the power those Nords have hidden away?!" How could he not notice the anger in the thief's voice? It was so obvious! I listened for Them, but they weren't telling me anything. So either I was wrong, or I was so right I didn't need Them's advice.
"It's right beneath our feet, ripe for the taking! Can't you imagine it? More gold than you can dream off! Power that makes the Jarls quake in their boots!" Power? His right hand went down to his hip and I saw that what had seemed to be a lump of silk was actually a sheathed knife. I was right all along. Not that it made me feel better. I kept my eye on that hand and only that hand.


Faendal stepped through the puddle of venom that dripped from the spider's punctured glands. Then the thief did. Meanwhile, the man from Riverwood rejected the thief's proposition again.
"No. It's worth nothing next to a woman's heart." I didn't even need to be a woman to know how stupid that line sounded coming from him. Given how he clearly was trying to buy one with the stupid claw, what would make a pile of treasure any different? The other elf shook his head and drew.





I put my hand on the dark elf's left shoulder. He turns counterclockwise, the dagger takes the long way around, away from me. Step in close, block his right arm with my left, use my right to slam the palm into his chin and expose the throat. Punch it.


He stumbles back, choking and clutching the wounded throat. There was not enough strength behind that blow to crush his windpipe, but it stunned him and made him drop the knife. It's enough. Get close again, kick the side of his knee, grab his head and drive him down to the floor into the venom. He struggles, but my weight on his back keeps his lips touched to his doom. Bubbles pop with every breath. Soon he grows sluggish, weak and fades away.
"You killed him." No, I haven't. Not yet. He could be faking it so I get off and jump on his neck to finish the job. When it cracks I answer.
"Yes."


I looked at the corpse in wonder. It was the first time in my life that I'd killed anything bigger than a fly. I thought I should feel something. Excitement, pride, relief in the knowledge that this body of mine could do the deed when needed? Disgust perhaps at the stupid greed that had forced my hand? Fear at doing things without knowing what I'm doing until I had done it? But when I looked down at the body I realized I didn't feel anything significant. Not about me and not about the elf. Now that it had stopped breathing it was just meat.
I looked at Faendal who jumped back with the torch. He then stepped aside and stuttered. "Ah, shall we leave? Ladies first."
"Yes."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There had been a change in me. I noticed it while going up. It could just be because I'd been here before, but the disorientating loops in the stone, the open coffins, the whispering air-current, it no longer affected me. But I didn't think it was just familiarity. It was knowing that I could kill threats that gave me confidence. Granted, I still had running away filed away as a preferred course of action but it was now just one option in the bag of tricks instead of the only one.


"Why did you attack him? I just don't get it. We saved his life, you know." Faendal asked me when we neared the top. I could see the glow of the campfire playing off the walls. Why did I? I did it because I would be next and I'd have the greatest chance at killing him while he was focussed on the elf in front of him. Them cut in to tell me that was not an answer Faendal wanted to hear. So I gave him a different one.
"I did it because he was about to put a knife in the back of a lovestruck idealist who couldn't be bribed with the promise of riches." I said without either turning my head or slowing down. Faendal didn't reply.
"And notice how he didn't mention his friends?" I added then, "I bet he planned on killing or swindling them out of their share as well. It happens all the time."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


The monster wasn't there when we emerged from the Barrow. But the signs of it having been there were obvious. The watchtower hadn't looked too stable before, but now it was little more than a pile of rubble. The snow around it was simply gone and the few trees that grew up on the mountain had been reduced to charred stumps. There was no sign of the thief's partners. I stepped out into the shade and shivered as the cold wind struck me in the face. Wait, shade? That wasn't right. It had the wrong shape, not like the Barrow's exterior. I spun around and looked up.


It was right above us. I could count the scales it was so close! My breathe froze in my throat and I didn't dare move. The monster had chosen the Barrow as its nest! Its chest, large enough to house a family of six, rose and fell with the sound of a gale. Its wings were folded up beside it, its head tucked under an armpit. I looked at its eyes and dared to breathe again. It was sleeping.
"Would you?" Faendal suddenly piped up. He was still standing inside the door. I didn't pay much attention to him, rather choosing to give the flying beast a good look while I had the chance.
"Would I what?" I mumbled.


It was definitely some sort of lizard, but not coldblooded like the Argonians. If it had been, it wouldn't be up here. Or maybe it was cold-blooded. Since it had an internal furnace to provide warmth it didn't matter much. It was also massive, and its wingspan could cover half of Riverwood if it fully extended its wings. I frowned at that. Sure, it was the biggest bat I'd ever seen, but the wing-to-body ratio was off. Unless it was hollow like a balloon on the inside, those wings could never lift it. It would have to beat like crazy and it hadn't done so either in Helgen or here. And it wasn't hollow either. I remembered how it had smashed through the wall of one of Helgen's towers. If it was hollow, its skull would have crumpled under the impact. The only thing that had crumpled was the tower, not the beast.


"Would you have taken him up on his offer?" Faendal asked again and the part of me that listened realized he was talking about the dark elf. It wasn't entirely invulnerable. There was an arrow stuck in the soft tissue of its throat. But an arrow was like a bee's stinger to it. Irritating but not dangerous. I stepped away from the Barrow slowly, then faster. With the howling of its breath, it wasn't going to hear me unless I screamed. I wasn't going to do that. Confident that talking would not set it off, I finally gave the elf his answer.
"He was a sociopath. You can't trust those." I did not mention that I had been tempted by the 'power' the dark elf mentioned. It was possibly the one thing I wanted most. The power to do what I was born for, the power to remove all my limitations. But I wasn't suicidal. No one would 'hide' a spell tome or enchanted anti-army sword or whatever form this power took, in the most visible and outright noticeable structure around. There had to be traps, or some 'test of character' or something to protect it that wasn't giant spiders. I wasn't going to tangle with it just because a now dead cutthroat had thought it possible. For all I knew, the sleeping giant was one of the Barrow's protectors. I definitely wasn't going to fight that.


Faendal stepped outside and he too, turned and saw the monster. His response was different from mine. Instead of seeing it was asleep, he dove back inside. He whispered a warning or a command to me, but it was lost to the breathing gale. I shook my head.
"It's sleeping. Let's warn Riverwood to stop making light." I told him and walked down the path without looking if he followed. Beneath the mountain the village twinkled like fireflies. Just as pretty, and just as vulnerable.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~






OOC: Damsel in distress status, avoided.
Double OOC: If I mentioned the word dragon in this post. Please tell me. She isn't supposed to know yet!

First, I am so sorry it took so long to get here to read. This is only the first chapter, I am not caught up yet.

This has to be the best rendition I've seen of the dragon attacks, the confusion and fear (and love that you gave it your own spin instead of the cart ride)!

Your main character is so intriguing, as is the "Them." I was picturing some long dead person (or god) from TES history that had been brought back to life via necromancy, ROFL!!! (never give me a mystery, I take and run with them, lol).

Faendal is a gentleman!

The mating contest, I'm guessing for Camilla? Lol. Or is she Camilla? Love the mystery, I remember the beginning of Redemption where you gave us clues like this and it was always intriguing to figure out who the character was. Awesome Write!

Did I not respond?! Sorry!! I was gonna say, Faendal has a weird sense of logic. I cam see where it makes sense to HIM, but at the same time... Dude, riches, lol

Caught up!

Well, she is def not Camilla!


LOVED this!

Nice kill! I really like "Out of the ordinary" kills!

Once again your descriptions of the dragon is Awesome, the best I've ever read in any Skyrim fic!

I didn't see the word "dragon" mentioned - another thing I love about your writing. No one knows what they are seeing, letting you describe it instead, and you absolutely ROCK'D the description!

Just so cool!!...

Confused by the abrupt change in the internal compass, but hey, these things happen!... ...

Nicely done, the avoiding the going right through the Barrow...

I've never seen a dragon up on there meself, but your description was incredible...

Loving this story...

Nice one!!...

*Applauds heartily*...

The problem with choosing an action-scene for your opening is that it slows down afterwards. I think I should mention here that my original draft begun in Riverwood before Faendal takes the heroine up the mountain but I decided that was just too boring. Now for a few random things.

Faendal is indeed in a love makes blind mode. But then again, he doesn't exactly have much choice. Everyone else is either married, too young, a dog or Sven's mom. Riverwood doesn't carry many suitors for him.

The mood-change of the nameless protagonist may be more extreme than I had intended. I like to think it is also because she went up by a route she knew was safe (having come down the same way just moments ago). And speaking of which, what is everyone's opinion on my constant switching from past tense to present tense? I personally like it, but all my teachers would have a heart-attack for committing such a great sin.


The barrow I always run through from start to finish in one go. But that is because I'm playing a videogame and confident in the knowledge that as the hero, I can kill a few zombies. That, and no one likes backtracking. But in-character turning around was the only option here.

For Them, I do have a distinct idea for what or who Them is. But I'm not telling yet.

Oh, and we get her name in this update! Rejoice! Time for me to update the character glossary!

Also, expect one of my random rant on things at the end. But first (finally), the update!



Chapter 1.3
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I was kicked out.



I'd felt good when I walked across the bridge into town with Faendal in tow. Tired and cold, but good. That feeling had all but evaporated when I was set back on the road, alone, the following morning. I think they actually blamed me for having the monster roaming their hills. As if I was the reason Helgen was destroyed, and I was the reason it had now come to the Barrow overlooking their homes. Me! If I had the ability to summon things like that, I would have sent them south. There were a lot of people that needed to be eaten over there.


"Helgen, at Barrow." I'd said in the tavern that night. I tried a few more combinations with the words I knew, often including Helgen and flapping my arms for emphasis. Faendal wasn't any help at bringing the message. He was too busy displaying his feathers to his Camilla. Without the elf to give a comprehensible translation, it took me a few tries and it was oddly enough the town drunk who first got it. Maybe all the fuzziness from constant inebriation had made him more accustomed to making sense of things that didn't than everyone else.


Their response had been twofold. First everyone evacuated to the underground mine just south of town. The other had been to push me the other way and demand that I went to another place and get protection for them. Demanding! As if I owed them. How easy it would have been for me to never return and warn the tiny village of the threat. How easy it would have been for me to now ignore their claims of debt. But I didn't for one simple reason.


I had been planning to get out of Riverwood anyway.





For the past month I had been making preparations for crossing the border. We'd tried it before. Me, my brothers and sisters and the director. But men in blue ambushed and killed most of us. Then a legion detachment ambushed the ambush and we were all driven to Helgen. Helgen fell, and I managed to survive and get to riverwood. If any of my kin were still alive, they were scattered. I had to assume I was the last one left and I had to try again, but I couldn't do it alone and I couldn't afford to fail. So I'd been preparing, using up much of the time I had left to maximize my chances. I'd learned the language, though speaking it was still problematic at best and I lost track if people spoke too fast, or were drunk and so on. I'd made stock of local gear and equipment. What I needed now was useable knowledge on the passes to Cyrodiil, its dangers, its defences and how to get by them. Finally I would need help from trustworthy folk who didn't ask questions. All of those were in short supply in Riverwood.


The following morning I was alone in Riverwood. I thought it was odd how no one trusted me enough to hide with in a cave or to even do as much as give me a loaf of bread for on the road, yet still left me all alone with their homes. It made me angry. The least they could have done was make sure I wouldn't starve.


I eased up my frustrations by taking the things they'd refused to offer myself. Things they wouldn't miss, hopefully. In a few minutes I fashioned a sword at the smithy. Not a good one. Just a strip of iron, not even sharpened or tempered in any way, wrapped with leather at one end to form the hilt. After that I went to the store. The door was locked however and I had no picks, which was a slight setback. But only a slight one. I had helped the blacksmith to make and install the lock so I knew it was a good one. But the windows were only kept by an old latch that kept falling off out of misery. I went around the back, gave a good rap to the frame and shimmied through.

There were a few things in the town's store that were of interest to me. Riverwood was at its core a rest stop for travellers. To call it a town as everyone did, was a bit of an exaggeration. It held a tavern, the store and the smithy. In total, there were just over a slight dozen people. I'd seen houses that kept more. In any case, I took a few old spell tomes from where they'd collected dust for years. I couldn't read them but if I couldn't make it to Cyrodiil in time, having some means of obtaining magic would be good. I also hooked a pair of torches, a small axe and pickaxe and a bedroll to my backpack. I took an empty journal and some charcoal for notekeeping. A piece of flint for making fire and finally a map and a compass. I boiled some potatoes from the tavern and for a moment considered checking the private rooms for the good stuff. The serving woman had hands none of the other women had in Riverwood. They were a man's hands, with the calluses and scars of armour and battle. And her eyes were haunted like a rabbit in a snare. It was a combination that made me nervous. I decided to leave her things alone in case she might desire retribution for taking them. But I kept the potatoes and a flask of mead.


Now I was as prepared as I could be so I went back out the window and across the bridge out of town.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



The place they wanted me to go to was called Whiterun and according to the townsfolk it was the county's capital. I hadn't been given any good directions to it other than follow the road and river, but the map I now possessed put it at just four, maybe five hours north from Riverwood. It also seemed to be covered to the north by a mountain range which would funnel most travelers in southern Skyrim through it at some point. Which suited me well. It meant the city was a commerce hub and held everything I was looking for.


The path split just after the bridge north of town. The day before Faendal had taken me west up the mountain, but today I followed the other side that winded down alongside the river. The journey was uneventful apart from one tense encounter with a wolf. Wolves are clever and capable hunters, but this one was alone and not hungry enough to risk a human. We locked eyes for a moment and it bounced away. I went on my way and soon got my first glimpse of the city.


I was still a few hours from actually reaching it, but while descending from the mountainside I could make a first impression. The city was surrounded by farmland. Actual farms, not the little backyards everyone kept in their not-a-town Riverwood. It was also fortified by stone walls and towers, the signs of old civilized cities everywhere. But these walls were battered and the towers were crumbling. I didn't make out any big fires, but it was obvious Whiterun had seen a siege. Whether it was one or multiples I couldn't tell, but the repairs were made of wood, which suggested it hadn't been too long ago. I decided to take a break then and eat my potatoes while I observed. I looked for military movements, but didn't make out any. There were no troops gathering either within Whiterun or outside. Maybe to the north, but that would put them up with the mountain on their backs. Good for defensive desperation, but not for an attacking army with needs for open supply-lines.


The farmers were working their lands and the fields looked mostly undisturbed which convinced me that the siege had been a few months ago at the least, probably longer than that. I wrapped up the last potato and continued my journey, down and following the road north and west till I got to the main gate. There I found the gates to be closed, which told me that though there was no siege in progress, the city wasn't in full peace-time either. I gave the guards a letter written by Lucan Valerius, who owned the store in Riverwood.


"Oh. Yes. Brother, you should read this." One guard said to the other. They traded the letter among each other as I studied them. Chain, a yellow scarf and conical helmet. A simple sword at their side. They had no shield to match the one-handed sword, for that would get in the way of their duties in processing travellers like me. But their bare arms were scarred and I saw repaired links in their armour so they weren't mere decoration-troops either. Not like the ones the emperor employs, with their medals and gems and noble blood.
"Hmm, Irileth would use it to rail against the steward again. I have little wish to find her in a sour mood tonight." The other said and shook his head.
"Still, it is not for us to decide in matters like these. You'd best take her up to Dragonsreach, brother. Foreigner like this could get lost or stopped by Imperial rules if you'd not."
"Aye."


They gave me back the letter, then one led me through a smaller door made in the gates themselves and into Whiterun. Instantly I saw that Whiterun was a much better place than Riverwood. The buildings were of stone, people came and went in chaotic activity. A legionnaire bartered with a smith right beside the gates. Strange that, I hadn't seen any Imperial troops since Helgen and Whiterun's guards wore yellow. There was just the one. Maybe he bought here but wanted his arms shipped elsewhere.


The Whiterun guide turned left passed a barracks and up steep stairs to a large keep that towered over the rest of the city. Water flowed down from it in ways reminiscent of Vivec. There underground fire boiled water, made it rise as steam to be caught in a basin and flow down from the temples. A similar method had to be employed here. We went beneath arches carved with skulls eerily similar to the ones in the Barrow and into the keep itself, to the throne-room where there sat a man, one hand resting upon the armrest of his throne, the other on the handle of the axe he balanced beside it. He was flanked by a dark elf in ancient glass and a bald Imperial in rich garb who read to him from a scroll and made notes of whatever the man said.

"Jarl Balgruuf." The Whiterun guard said to the man on the throne and went down on his knee. He removed his helmet to reveal a young head with short-cropped blonde hair and the whispy trailings of a virginal beard on his cheeks. I followed his lead, aware that not doing so could be a breach of protocol. Insulting the local ruler within the hour of entering the city would be unwise. The man, the Jarl I corrected myself, nodded and acknowledged his presence. The bald man rolled up his scroll and took a fresh one while the dark elf inspected me the same way I had inspected the gate guards.
"I present to you Spar the Imperial. From Helgen."


"Return to your post, my loyal guard. You have done well in bringing her here." The Jarl answered. My guide put his fist to his heart, rose and left. The Jarl continued, talking to me in fluid Cyrodiilic, something for which I was grateful and aware that as Jarl, it had been his right to demand us converse in Skyrim or with the aid of a translator.
"Rise, Spar. You are not the first survivor to come to my hold and I hope you are not the last. I have questions to ask you, but first I would know what is in that letter you hold."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~





Rant on everything and nothing incoming!

Now usually I talk about things that don't make sense to me here. So I'll get that out of the way. Namely the waterfalls of Dragonsreach. Pretty, but water doesn't work that way. At least not in such large quantities. My personal fan-theory is that there is a dragon trapped beneath it (hey, they do say that's why Dragonsreach was built!) and its fire keeps turning an underground well to steam, make it rise and condense etc.

Now for everything else.

The first draft for this update held a lot more dialogue. Most notably, it had things like Alvor thinking Spar is aiming for Faendal ("Just because the elf likes one set of Imperial hips, doesn't mean he likes them all!"), and Sigrid manipulating him into sending Spar to Whiterun. Why? Because Sigrid doesn't like having other women near him. No seriously, that's something in the game. Oh, I also had Sigrid planned as pregnant because as much as I dislike the Skyrim kids for being nasty mind-controlling elitist brats, just one per couple is too few. Gotta keep the population up somehow. Just lie back and think of Skyrim.


But I changed that because it felt like it didn't go anywhere or do anything important for the story.

Admittedly I wrote myself into trouble with Riverwood. In the game dragons just vanish after Helgen, until you complete the Whiterun plotline. But since I had it stick around (probably hunting Helgen's surroundings for a month till it went north for fresher prey) I had to come up with a response to it. So I had everyone run to Embershard mine (bandit-free cause Alvor must get his iron from somewhere and not every cave has to hold hostiles) to hide for a while until they get some guards. And speaking of guards? Why aren't there any in Riverwood in the first place? I have a theory on that which I'll work into the story.


Now, Whiterun. I like the look of Whiterun. When you first get there, there is no siege going on but it is obvious that the city has seen better days. And it is placed in a strategic position which does make it critical for the Imperials and the Stormcloaks. And finally, there is also a very good reason why Balgruuf is so desperate to stay neutral. Good job, Skyrim team. Good job.


Also, I should probably finish the game instead of buggering off on after the Whiterun plot.

Personally speaking, if I had more time, I would gladly go through your other writings as I enjoy it very much...So I feel somewhat sad that you chose to remove what sounds like some beautiful "colour" painting...What you described sounds like it could have been cool...

Maybe it didn't do much for the story per se, but so what?...I'm not in any rush... ...The odd scene here and there isn't going to slow it up too much at all...

Anyways, to what we did get... ...

I thought it was brilliant that she couldn't get understood by the locals!!...I laughed when I read that...Nice one!.. ...

That she managed to work with Alvor for so long is cool though...But then had to resort to stealing in order to get what she needed...Shame, but necessary if Spar (cool name!) was to get her job done...

Nicely done with the Whiterun description...Brilliant stuff...

Oh, the Dragonsreach rant...I think you're thinking too much into it...Besides, I always assumed it was plate pressure forcing it upwards at a rate of hundreds of gallons...

Maybe that's how the Companions got that long boat so far away from any other decent sized river... ...

Anyways, loved it all...Brilliant stuff...

Stop taking stuff away!!...Some of us might appreciate it... ...

Nice one!!...

*Applauds heartily*...

Just started reading this, as I am new to the site. So, I love that the story starts in Bleak Falls Barrow with Faendal and a companion going for the claw. I can't wait to find out who "Them" is/are. Very interesting read that will compell me to read further.

Just finished the second installment ( 1.2 ? ). I like the fact the Faendal didn't complete the journey into the barrow. As a game player, I have also always cleared the entire dungeon. But the game (and perhaps a later chapter of this story) offers a chance for a trip back in the service of a certain Jarl's court wizard.

Fun stuff!

And now I have read the rest. All in all, I do like the approach. Not starting in Helgen, the heroine being a Dunmer Imperial, and especially the touch on a language barrier. That thought had never occurred to me. I had always played, and therefore assumed, that all of Tamriel had "a common tongue" that was spoken by all its inhabitants from birth, in addition to their native languages. Removing that is an interesting concept. Lastly, my take on the waters of Dragonreach was a mountain spring. With so many mountains nearby, and the neighboring hold of Eastmarch being highly volcanic, it makes sense.

It's good that I got to start a story from the beginning and I'll definitely follow this one.

ROFL!


You know, being female I didn't notice the mood change as anything out of the ordinary. We do have a tendency to flip moods readily and without warning, as anyone who has been married to a female can testify to. It felt very natural to me, I didn't find it extreme at all (maybe a little - but it felt very believable to me).


Flipping tenses can be jarring to the reader, especially if they are immersed in a scene and then suddenly - "GAAAAH! What's going on, did I miss something?" *goes back and rereads section*

That said, if you have a good reason to do it then carry on. In these beginning chapters I've been re-reading a lot anyway to try and guess at the identity of the female Elf and "Them"

My guess: Is it Latta? If I'm right, WOO HOO !!!!!



LOVE this! How real is that, not to find someone to understand you when it is important - Love that! Absolutely perfect detail!

Oh, I was wrong about it being Latta I see, lol. How is it they couldn't understand an Imperial? Ah, I see - Cyrodiilic! Nice touch!

Rant:

You are absolutely right about Sigrid being jealous over other women being around her husband, and not just Sigrid but Gerdur too! Poor Maxical got a tirade from both, and decided not to sleep under the Smithy's roof - afraid a dagger may find her in her sleep, lol.

I would have loved that little side jaunt and personal touch had you left it in, but (as you know) I have a terrible weakness for leaving those little interesting jaunts in my story till it pulls away from the focus and forward momentum of the plot. I'm glad you told us about it in the rant though, I got a big kick out of just reading that and had an instant memory of what happened to Maxical in Riverwood. I love those kind of things a little too much probably, lol.

As always, an Awesome Write! Can't wait to see what your creative mind brings to Skyrim!


*

Dangit guys, stop bringing logic in here! Let me keep my fantasy of hardcore Nords headbutting dragons and putting them into cages so they can have pretty fountains.


Anyhow, a big welcome to that guy from Skyrim and for Mcbadgere and other dialogue-lovers I can assure you that today will be all talk again. (and the next part, and the part after that probably.)

The language was actually a random leftover from Spar's predecessor. Before I'd settled on the kind of character I wanted to go with, I used a template. Now the template wasn't from Skyrim, or the TES universe for that matter. So the language barrier fit there. And I think it still fits with Spar. Half the Nords in Skyrim are open about how Skyrim is not Cyrodiil and this is the land of hard men, isolated towns with a different culture etc. I figured that apart from the big cities and upper class, most would stick to the old dialects and Skyrimese or whatever it's called.


The tense-swapping I try to keep under control. Right now they solely serve to differentiate regular Spar from murder-mode Spar. So big paragraphs of present tense means something is going to die. Probably.

And finally, today we continue to follow the Helgen plotline rigidly. Until I find a good jumping point, I'm afraid this will remain a 'me-in-the-game' fic.






Chapter 1.4


The dark elf came down the stairs that led up to the throne and snatched the letter from my hands. She tore the envelope, crumpled and spread the paper with a snap. She ripped away the corners of the paper and rubbed the ink with a finger, all while I watched. Only after she'd convinced herself there was no poison did she go back up the stairs and present the letter to her lord after which she returned to watching me. Balgruuf read it in silence, then handed it to the bald man in turn.


"I take it this Valerius is known to you, Jarl?" The scribe said after a while.
"Yes," The Jarl nodded, "Lucan Valerius is a brave man, whom I have been indebted to for many years. I won't deny him." He said. The bald one shook his head and gestured with his hand. He objected to his Jarl's decision. I watched the exchange with great interest, for it was a textbook example of the kind of situation that could show what sort of man Jarl Balgruuf was. Would he accept his advisor's counterargument, reason with him, or dismiss him out of a sense of authority-based infallibility? I was so focussed on it that when heavy bootsteps approached from behind, I almost missed them.
"A debt of honour must never be left unpaid."


I turned to the voice, aware that what I did would be considered insulting to some. But my instinct was never to let someone to stand behind me without knowing who it was and what threat he or she presented. Who I saw was another bald man, yet as different from the scribe as night was from day. He was big, and not just the portly kind of big Riverwood's smith possessed. Where the scribe was a thin man in rich dress, this was a hulking barbarian from the woods, dressed like a bandit and with a face covered in dried blood. The kind of man who wrestled bears. Actually, he had scars on him that I identified with bear attacks. So maybe he did wrestle bears. I took a step back from him, towards the throne. Where I was now was uncomfortable enough that Them spoke up. Them told me to get away, out from between the dark elf on one side and this brute on the other. But then Them told me to stay put instead. It was too far to the door, with too many guards. And I had not given the Jarl any reason to harm me. I was just the messenger after all, and so far the response hadn't been negative.


"Lucan Valerius has asked for your honour." The bandit spoke boldly. He used no honorifics and addressed Balgruuf as an equal, something I took note of. Even moreso when no one acted like it was strange or inappropriate for him to do so. "And he shall have it."
"Hrongar," The scribe said and tapped the letter with his hand. "it is not that I disagree, but what he asks presents a problem. Moving military troops is not something to be done on a whim. Especially not in these times."


So the big man's name was Hrongar. I memorized it, along with everything else I noted about him. The blood was actually just paint, and the baldness the result of a military shave rather than natural hairloss. He was a man accustomed to wearing a helmet, or one who denied his enemy a grabbing point. In either case, he was a fighter. As if his build and scars hadn't told me that already. Perhaps more interesting was his beard which did present a grabbing point, invalidating my assessment regarding his hair. But more importantly, it was the same style as the Jarl's and I saw a resemblance in his features. Where they kin perhaps? It would explain his unpunished bluntness.




The steward and Hrongar continued to argue and their voices became more heated as the exchange went on. But when it looked like they would come to blow, something which disadvantaged the scribe, the Jarl softly said something.
"I have made my decision." And both ceased instantly.


"Valerius calls to me for guards to protect his home and I hear him." Jarl Balgruuf continued. But the steward hadn't said his last and repeated the argument he'd used against Hrongar.
"I must protest! The Jarl of Falkreath will see this as a provocation. He'll believe we have joined under the banner of Ulfric Stormcloak and are preparing to attack his hold." I took note at the mention of general Stormcloak and this other Jarl. If general Stormcloak was fighting against someone in Skyrim, the ruler of a county even, then that meant this Jarl of Falkreath was a rebel. Someone who thought the empire was weakened from fighting the Dominion and thought he could secede.
"He's right. The empire has seen better days. But still, we can take back one city from a wannabe king." I thought to myself. The Jarl seemed to have a similarly low opinion of his Falkreath colleague.
"Three men, Proventius." The scribe was Proventius, one more piece of information. "If Sidgeir is afraid of three men, he should lay off the milk. We have humoured his paranoia by depriving Riverwood of its protection, but that ends today. May Sovngarde turn him away!"


Proventius accepted his master's decision and Hrongar returned to the longtable without another word where he had been eating a roasted pig all by himself. The Jarl meanwhile turned his attention to the dark elf who he addressed.
"Irileth, contact the commander of the guard later and have it arranged. And remind them to take the townspeople to safety if there is an attack. That foul beast has already burned down one hold and till we know how to kill it, we don't need heroics."


Everything else taken care of, there was only me left.
"Now, Spar the Imperial."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~


"You possess no kin here, no lands and no stock. You are as Ysgramor was when he first set foot upon Skyrim." I cursed the lack of a Nord among Them. It felt as if I was missing something. Who was Ysgramor, some hero of legend, or simply his floorsweeper?
"I am, Jarl." I answered. It seemed the safest thing to say.
"As my brother said earlier," So Hrongar was kin it seemed. "debts of honour must be repaid. It is such a debt that Lucan Valerius holds over me and by extension, as the bearer of his word, it is such a debt you hold over me. I can take you into my service, give you a place of shelter against the cold nights. Would you swear loyalty to me and become one of Whiterun?"


It was tempting to say yes. If only to have a base of operations and a place to catch the valuable gossip. After all, when it was time I could just leave. By the time the Jarl found out and ordered pursuit, if he ordered one, the woman he sought would no longer exist. But Them decided it was too risky. It would be better to work from a lower place than act on the assumption the Jarl was incompetent or lenient.
"I'm sorry, but I cannot. My place is in Cyrodiil and I aim to go there as soon as possible."


"You are honest." The Jarl said and he actually sounded surprised. "Many today would not have been when asked this question."




"Honesty deserves honesty. I am afraid that you will be waiting till the end of this war. That is the unfortunate truth of Skyrim." War? Was the Dominion on the offensive again? I rejected the idea. If the Thalmor and their lackeys were on the move again, all of the troops the empire could muster would have marched south. They would not be hanging out in the northern Jeralls to rescue random travellers. Though there was the matter of the Nords in blue. They had been too similarly dressed and uninterested in the contents of our bags to be a mere bandit gang. Did they belong to the Falkreath rebel? But one city was not enough to bother the legion. Just send in the Penitus Oculatus and convince the Jarl that he really preferred to be a loyal subject of the empire. I could guess, but what I really needed was solid information.
"Forgive me for asking, but what war do you speak of?"


"Why, the war between the Empire and Ulfric Stormcloak of course. You haven't heard of it?" Balgruuf exclaimed and I could feel my blood freeze in shock. It wasn't my shock however, but Them's. Stormcloak was a traitor? Impossible, Them said. He couldn't be. I'd fought on his side for years. We'd held the line against the wild hunt, we'd broken the caravans of Elsweyr, we'd killed Bodeth the necromancer together! He couldn't be a traitor! He just couldn't!


"The general Stormcloak?" I asked the Jarl. What if he was? I had to know. "But he fought at the battle of the red ring. Why change sides now?" It had possibly been the greatest conflict of the era, even if it reeked from all angles. It had been the first time the empire acted in an actual organized counteroffensive against the Aldmeri Dominion which up till that point had been allowed to stroll and claim half Tamriel without anyone batting as much as an eyelid. Not that it had been easy. We beat the Thalmor and their slaves back, but our own forces were little more than a number written on paper at the end. Of the survivors most suffered from lasting injuries from spells, tainted blades and fallen debris. I remembered how one lost three limbs from a series of tiny scratches that were infected with something the healers couldn't cure.


But in any case, those who had taken part in the fighting and seen it through to the end were one and all possessed of the ideal of the empire. They didn't, couldn't, seek ambitions of their own that ran counter to the emperor's good. Because if you did, then why would you stick around in the first place? Slipping away in the chaos was easy, just watching from the sidelines and waiting to see who would win even easier. Killing the emperor would have been child's play after the battle and provide just the kind of chaos a rebel would need to consolidate his own territory undisturbed afterward. But none of that had happened. No one had tried to kill Emperor Mede, not even the Thalmor. And most important of all, I knew general Stormcloak. He was a man who valued loyalty above everything else. General Stormcloak wasn't the kind of man to rebel. He was too honourable and stupid for it.


Thinking of it, that would explain why he hadn't prevented an imperial counter before declaring his independence and throwing all his oaths away. But that got into assuming incompetence again.


"Aye, that's the one. He believes that the treaty with the Aldmeri Dominion was a betrayal and that Skyrim is better off on its own. The Empire cannot allow another province to secede, especially not through the open rebellion of one of her top generals. Until the matter is resolved, Emperor Mede has ordered all passes to and from Skyrim closed off and guarded." That explained why the legion was so quick to assist when we got jumped by the blue ones. By general Stormcloak's men. I do think he wore a blue scarf around his arm back at red ring.
"Until the end of the war." I said. It explained a lot, but was all bad news as well. The empire didn't have the time or the means to stomp out a rebellion. Not one lead by a man as charismatic and capable as general Stormcloak.


"Indeed. Unfortunately, winter is coming, a bad time for warfare. I anticipate that neither side will make a move before summer when foodstocks are high again."


My mind was pushed into a full run. In winter, braving the passes would be too dangerous even if they weren't locked down. There would be biting cold winds that could strip the flesh from bone. There would be the frost trolls, wraiths, avalanches, the cold and more complications than I could count. There was of course the ancient path that led through Ysmir's tongue, but that was suicide at all times of the year without a guide. So I would have to wait for spring. But that meant I would be too late. Arkarik would be long gone by then. Where to, we couldn't predict. And without him, I had no business in Cyrodiil. I had no business existing even.


For a moment my mind blanked. No purpose, no goals, nothing. I could just sit down and die just like that. It wouldn't make a difference. Actually, it would be better. Crawl into some dark hole and vanish from the world instead of risking failure and detection. But I wasn't going to do that. All my planning, all my efforts, I wasn't willing to let it end like that. I pushed away the suicidal thoughts Them forced on me and ordered them to give me something to live for instead. A shift of purpose, a new start, a refocusing on the total rather than my small part in it. Something, anything. I needed time to think now, but that was the one thing I had in abundance.


Only a few seconds had passed. I looked up at the Jarl and raised a hand.
"Jarl Balgruuf," I said to him, "you offered me a place in your hold. Would it be acceptable for me to take that offer and pledge myself to your service until the end of this war regardless of its outcome?" There was an element of risk in serving the Jarl. General Stormcloak's rebellion could attack Whiterun, or the legion could seek to claim it to secure its own position. I hadn't seen any signs of which side the Jarl was affiliated with at the moment, now that I thought about it. No blue, but no legion red either. There was risk, but I thought it was acceptable. My life was after all no longer required. Only, preferable? The thought was strange, but felt right. Yes, I definitely preferred to live.


"When I make a promise, I do not withdraw it easily. If you must wait, there are worse places than Dragonsreach. You could join the general staff here, clean and cook, deliver messages and carry paperwork." The Jarl told me.
"Or she could be of use in a different way." The dark elf suddenly said. It was the first time I'd seen her open her mouth but her voice told me what I'd already suspected from the armour. That ashbitten husk couldn't be from anywhere else. She was a Vvardenfell native, an old one. I focussed my attention on the glass for a moment and reaffirmed my suspicions. The armour was rough, shards of raw glass melted into steel like uncut gemstones stuck in wax. That kind of improvisation hadn't been necessary since the end of the third era. When the Maormer sold their secrets of working glass to the last emperor of the Septim dynasty. And the armour she wore was made for her, it had never been readjusted for a new owner. This woman was old, raised in a hostile land and had clearly spent her life learning how to kill people. That made her dangerous and all the attention she'd focussed on me so far more than threatening.


Balgruuf waved me to follow him as he rose from his throne and walked down the hall. The steward and the dark elf both moved to follow, but another wave told them to stay.
"Please walk with me."






Rant-time: Just one element and I admit that I'm nitpicking. Remember in the tutorial, how Hadvar hopes that the Stormcloaks are taken to Sovngarde by the dragon? Going by context and tone of voice, I think he's saying the Tamriel equivalent of "Go to hell!" But there is one problem with this.

Sovngarde is Valhalla, Nord heaven. Yeah, saying "Go to the eternal paradise of fun and plenty." doesn't exactly work as far as curses go. Henceforth, I hereby have my Nords say "May Sovngarde turn you away."

Nice write! I like the way you have infused Ulfric's history, and that Spar was an ally of his in battles past.

"Lucan Valerius has asked for your honour." The bandit spoke boldly.
I love how Spar considered Hrongar to be a bandit before knowing better.

You could join the general staff here, clean and cook, deliver messages and carry paperwork." The Jarl told me.
Making suicide attractive once again

Regarding your rant, I like the take on "Go to hell" with "May Sovngarde turn you away". Personally, I assumed that Hadvar was simply wishing death upon Ralof in Helgen, but this idea fits nicely.

Great stuff and looking forward to more.

This was the outstanding paragraph (to me) in this episode. You shine brilliantly in these little details of observation that set everything before it into contrast and open up a mystery at the same time - this paragraph was sheer genius!

I loved the inner thoughts of the main character above that, wavering between suicidal and a kind of shaky acceptance of wanting to live more than wanting to die. No strong fighting instinct here, more of a one decision was better than the other - very realistic quandary of emotions when facing trouble - loved that touch of realism there!

LOVED this paragraph that wrapped the inner dialogue up neatly:


On your rant - have to agree with you 100%, and love your choice on changing the quote! That makes a lot more sense to say to me.

I know I quoted these arse-backwards from how they were written, but that first quote was so stand-out that I had to post it first. Awesome Write!

Brilliant stuff Jack!!...

Epic and cool...

Hrongar was sooooo brilliant...Put shivers up my spine!...

Spar was excellent in this episode...I could definitely feel the conflict, and the sadness when she realised that she couldn't get back to Cyrodiil...Nicely done!...

Loved the description of Illireth's armour...That was ace that was...

Such brilliant writing...Looking forward to seeing where you take this next...

Nice one!!...

*Applauds heartily*...

Glad everyone liked Hrongar. And he does look like a bandit. I mean, if I walk into Whiterun wearing furs, the guards think I'm a brigand. It's kind of weird how the Jarl's brother and right hand man is the least dressed warrior in the city.

But then again, I'm not complaining. Look at dem well-toned muscles.


Today we rejoin our not-quite-ready-to-die Spar as she get's to meet the town eccentric. Also, this turned out to be longer than I'd planned.



Chapter 1.5


We left the hall, the Jarl up front and me three steps behind. I counted the doors and the people we passed but most of my attention was on what Irileth had said. Be of use in a different way? With her background, different probably meant unpleasant and highly dangerous. Like solo bandit hunting, sniffing around ancient and forgotten places or solving a farmer's goblin problem. The kind of stuff the Fighter's Guild did, or big-name adventurers. If I'd been drafted into the local guard organization, I'd count myself lucky.


The place the Jarl wanted was at the back of the keep. Far at the back in a little tower and out of the way of the regular going ons. It also stank like an alchemy lab, which explained why it was tucked away in a corner like this.
"Here it is." The Jarl said, knocked and opened the door with his key.
"Farengar!" The man called out as he stepped into the room. "Halt for a moment and listen to me."




I stepped in behind him and took in the room in a single quick look. Pots were bubbling away on one end next to a cornertable filled with arcane scriptures while books and a large map of Skyrim were sprawled across the center table that filled most of the room. There were two doors in the back, both ajar. Behind one I saw the corner of a bed and behind the other a rack of books of all shapes and colours. Lighting was poor, most of it coming from a small window up in the ceiling.


I stayed by the door while Balgruuf walked up to the two robed persons that stood bent over the center table.
"Farengar! Listen!" He said again. Now one of the figures looked up and I saw the face behind the hood. He had the haggard face of a man who never slept and kept going on sheer willpower and an unhealthy amount of pick-me-ups. It made him look older than he probably was, and the mosslike growth on his cheeks didn't help.
"This is Farengar Secret-Fire, my court wizard. Farengar, this is Spar. I believe she may help you with the dragon."


He didn't look like a court wizard to me. If this smelly, unwashed, sleep-deprived fellow was allowed to stand behind the throne and whisper advice in the Jarl's ear, it would just shame everyone present. I supposed he aimed more at the 'wizard' part of the title rather than the court one. His words certainly were too brutal to be home at court. Even Hrongar had more tact.
"Another brute of yours? We've been over this before. I need someone with brains. Smarts and common sense. This one looks as dull as the rest of the mighty warriors in your hall. You should feed them less goat-meat. Besides, I just got an assistant last week. I don't need a second, stupider one." The other robed man or woman snickered, but I was not amused. Neither was Jarl Balgruuf, even if he took it in good grace.


"Don't mind Farengar. His tongue is as sharp as his wit, but he means well. She has been in Bleak Falls before. And come out in one piece." I was convinced now that I did not get drafted into the guards corps. I wondered if I should tell them that I turned around before we reached the dangerous parts of the Barrow, or that I'd let Faendal do the heavy lifting. For the moment however I chose to remain silent. I first wanted to know where exactly I was going to be sent and what kind of assistance I could expect. The Jarl stepped out the door again and excused himself.
"I have duties to attend to. I'll leave you three to it. And open the window before someone chokes to death."


"Come along into my laboratory then. And keep quiet." Farengar said and dropped his head back to the table. I noticed that neither of the two had made a move to the window and the air was stifling. In fact, they didn't seem to give me much more than the absolute minimum of attention. Since that was the case I decided to just open the little glass pane before someone did choke on whatever they were boiling.
"I really should have become a Nord instead of an Imperial. Maybe they've got better lungs." I wondered to myself. But were they both Nords? Farengar was one, dirtier than most, but a full-blooded Nord nonetheless. But the other hadn't given me a chance to see what was beneath the hood.


While the wizards did whatever it was they did and conversed in odd terms, I leaned against the wall closest to the window and dodged the errant wisps of smoke that tried to escape the room. I supposed they were dropping names of historians and their theories and tried to match them to whatever information they'd gathered on the new dragon themselves. But booklearning had never been something I'd bothered with so it was a guess at best. And was it actually a dragon that had almost blazed me twice? The Jarl had used the word and it fit the creature. But dragons had been all extinct since forever. Well, all except one it seemed. I wasn't going to deny what I'd seen with my own eyes.
"You believe there is a dragon." I said.
"It flies and makes things extra-crispy. What else could it be?" Aha, the second wizard's voice was unmistakably that of a woman, or a neutered lad.
"A self-immolating bat?" Saw that once, and never managed to forget it. I probably shouldn't have made the joke in any case as the half-bearded man took it for an invitation to lecture.


"No no. Witness accounts are diverse and conflicting, but the physiological trend is more reptilian, with a secondary trend suggesting a certain familiarity with unfeathered birds like the Vvardenfellian Cliffracer. I can't verify that of course since the Cliffracer is as extinct as the dragons are, or were. However, I am certain that," I ignored him from that point on. He was the type who could talk for hours on whatever subject he fancied even if he was alone in an empty room. But what we called it and where it could be put on a diagram didn't matter. All I needed to know was what they planned on doing about it and where my place in that plan was.
"I don't care. What do you need me to do?"


Preciously little, it turned out. Apparently, the court wizard had so little faith in anyone else that he'd resigned himself to doing everything with just him and the woman. Farengar suggested I could sweep the floor or deliver them their belated lunch. It might have been demeaning, but I actually liked the idea of being their maid. Safe, dull and the first to get the news. But his 'assistant' had to ruin it.


"Actually, I could use a steward to take my notes and carry my luggage. My father might be the kind of guy who beats up vampires and liches by himself, but I'm a more delicate flower." As if that wasn't bad enough, she moved a hand, perhaps to slip a lock of hair away from before her eyes. The skin of that hand had the dirty golden hue that could belong to only one race. Altmer. An Altmeri sorcerer who had arrived just last week to help a lousy court wizard with devising plans to kill a dragon that had just flown out of myth a few weeks earlier.


Was the conspiracy I smelled really there, or just me seeing connections where there weren't any?



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~~


Farengar relented and began to explain what the Altmer had planned to do. Unsurprisingly, it had to do with Bleak Falls. I knew that the Jarl had mentioned it for a reason. It was probably one of the reasons why his bodyguard had recommended me for this. The Barrow was not the kind of place I wanted to visit again.
"No." I said but the wizard didn't hear me so I repeated myself.
"I said no." This time he stopped talking.


"You said you'd been there." Farengar objected.
"Your Jarl did. It is a tomb. I have no kin there and don't intend to join its inhabitants." The elf could go alone if she wanted. Farengar had so far implied that all he wanted from the Barrow was some obscure tidbit of information that may or may not have anything to do with the dragon issue. And until I had made up my mind regarding his assistant's trustworthiness, I wasn't going to let her see my back.
"So the Jarl finally answers my request and gets me one with brains. But he had to give me the one who had too much. I should have figured as much. Can't you see the importance?" The Nord moaned while shaking his head. One of the pots boiled over as well, so the Altmer went over to lower the fire and stir. I went to the other side of the center table.


"It's a tomb." I repeated, "It has been looted a dozen times whenever there is a war, a famine or bad economy. All that is left are old bones and older stones. Whatever you need, it is not there. anymore." It was only half a lie. I'd seen quite a few objects that could be sold to a pawnshop or melted and repurposed at a smithy, but all the really valuable items were indeed gone.
"What I need is still there." Farengar insisted.
"If it's valuable, it won't."
"It's valuable to a scholar, not to some gold-grubbing bandit. It's a small cube carved from stone, roughly the size of my fist and lighter than it looks. With the dragon's writing on it."


Dragon's could write? That was an odd choice of words. But I had to admit that if it was just some brick with markings on it, the odds of it lying under a pile of dust in some corner rose considerably. Though I did have to ask how he could be so specific in its description to mention the size and mass.
"It is absolutely vital to my research and what is vital to my research is vital to Skyrim."
"Oh, stop waxing around and just say it already." The Altmer interrupted us from the corner. "There's more than one dragon flitting around and eating the goats. Probably."





Helgen had not been the only city to be attacked? If I'd remained in Riverwood, I'd probably never learned of this. But the woman explained that I was wrong.
"No, Helgen's the only one as far as we know. We sent investigators, but the cities aren't exactly on the most talkative of terms right now. Anyway, did you see the big empty spot over the Jarl's throne?"


I had noticed the discoloured area on the wall but thought little of it. I'd presumed it had held a rug or perhaps a mammoth's skull, some show of the Jarl's valour or honour. Well, I came close with the mammoth.
"The first Jarl of Dragonsreach mounted the skull of the dragon he'd slain there." The Altmer said which prompted another unneeded explanation from Farengar.
"Olaf One-Eye. He purportedly came upon the dragon Numinex during," Before he could launch into another hour-long lecture, I cut him off.
"And the point is?"


"It came back alive. It grew flesh even. Then, it died again. Dragon or not, they can't live as just a head. Few things can come to think of it."

Now it wasn't unusual for dead beings to return to life, or unlife more specifically. There was the accidental in the form of ghosts and the vengeful wraiths. There was the deliberate in the form of skeletons, zombies and bonewalkers which were often used to guard crypts or necromantic workshops. And there was the extremely deliberate in the form of liches and vampires. But none of those grew flesh they didn't already have. That was something new. I could also see how it was utterly terrifying. A dragon on its own was bad news enough, but if they could actually reverse their injuries long after death, even if just temporarily, they'd just made number one on the list of potentially civilization-destroying entities. It was a short list, and I'd rather it had stayed short.




While I thought about the problem, Farengar had been expositing about Numinex and more interestingly, about dragons in general. He claimed that dragons were worshipped in the past and not only that, but that the dragons kept human slaves. Now keeping slaves was impossible without intelligence and communication. If the dragons could be communicated with, then they could be manipulated. That changed everything.
"What do you have to offer? I could consider seeking your 'cube' but I need persuasion." I said to the woman.
"As I said earlier, you'll be my steward. Tombhunting is in my blood. I'll handle the dangers"
"No." I wasn't going to let an Altmer into that Barrow and unlock the secret behind commanding a self-replenishing army of citybusters. Not in this era.
"Hey, I know what you're thinking." She protested, "But I can take care of myself. I won't hold you back or anything."
"I don't work with Altmer."




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~


It was a dangerous thing I'd said. Altmer were known for three things. Pride, a short temper that came with that pride and a habit of murdering those who triggered that temper. But I couldn't lose. She could do nothing, and I would win. Or she could kill me, but then the Jarl wouldn't let her stay and help with Farengar's project. She would be executed or exiled and in both cases it would severely delay her plans. She did nothing. Nothing except snarl and rage with words.
"Oh, you're one of those. Fine, tell us what you need instead then, you racist two-coin woman from I don't know where."


"First, you stay here." I began. If I was going to do this expedition myself, I needed to make all the preparations before I stepped out of the gates. "Second, I require equipment. You give me the coin, I'll buy the necessities. Thirdly, information. I want to know its layout, defences, wards, type and number of undead. I don't care whether it comes from hearsay, legend, scholarly treatise or anything else. Fourthly, I require manpower. If there is anyone who is smart enough not to step into a trap, loyal enough not to stab me in the back and brave enough not to run away, I want him."


"And what guarantee do you have that you won't run out on us the moment we give you the money? Wouldn't be the first time that happened." It was almost humorous how the Altmer complained how she didn't trust me while I only made things so hard because I didn't trust her.
"If I run, I die. Most likely. And I'm not going to die yet. Fifth." I said and she protested immediately.
"There's a fifth? You want me to do your laundry while we're at it?!"

"Those were needs for your smash-and-grab. This is my price. I need the old magic. Passwall, aetheric anchor, levitation, remote manipulation. Farengar will teach me." I said which drew even more protest from the mer.
"Oh no, don't even think it! The Septim dynasty outlawed those." But at whose demands? It was well known to me that the Altmeri Psiijic order, or mer who claimed to speak for them, had pushed for the control and reduction of spell knowledge in the hands of us 'lesser' races. From the times of myth, they had orated for laws, enraged mobs of the distrusting and superstitious. And sometimes, they just sent a 'hero' to take out a rogue and malevolent sorcerer who came too close to some secret they wanted to monopolize.
"There hasn't been a Septim in nearly two hundred years. Their laws no longer apply." I shot back at her. But I wasn't trying to convince her. All I needed to do was convince the court wizard, which wasn't hard. Farengar was the stereotypical mad mage. Give him an interesting problem, and he would work on it till he dropped.


"I don't have them in a tome of course. Reconstruction would be needed instead. I would have to work back from effect to cause. That is by no means an easy feat. Far beyond the capabilities of the average wizard." He said and I knew I'd won again.
"Will you do it? Reconstruct the spells and teach me? Or are you an average wizard?" I asked him. Questioning his skill was the final touch I needed.
"Jarl Balgruuf has an eye for talent. And he chose me to be his court magician. Once my dragon investigation is completed, I will start working on your spells. There are many practical applications you know. Communication, transportation, architectural work, medical treatment," Farengar answered. It wasn't an interesting problem anymore, but a matter of pride.


"Good. Then we have a deal. I will get started immediately." I said and stepped out of the door.




"Son of a Guar. Just don't get yourself killed. My skin may be shiny but it isn't actually made of gold."







OOC: Farengar is so fun to make fun of.

I will be back to read this a little later when I have more time, but I will offer a suggestion. I recommend making your posts a little shorter, with 2000 words being the high end limit. 3000 ( actually 2,910 ) is a bit much to read at one time when we are trying to keep up with a lot of stories. As I said, it is only a suggestion.

Loved this description!


I'm halfway through, will have to come back to finish the chapter when I have a quiet house again.

Two other things caught my eye - one:



Another clue, is she from another realm? Very interesting! The next line I really loved:



One of the things I love about your writing is that you don't slap anything down, you give these little descriptions that open it up for us to wonder about - I love that!

Great write, and intriguing so far!

Fair dues Jack...Excellent stuff!!...

Personally, I really like Farengar...Though that may be because of what I'm planning for him meself... ...But hey-ho, I really like what you've done with him...The way he completely ignores the assistant when given the spell problem (love the reference to the old spells, I have that problem with the lack of Oblivion-era spells.)..The way you've portrayed Farengar reminds me of how they did Leonardo da-Vinci in Assassin's Creed...

I'm liking Spar more and more too...The "I should have been a Nord" comment got my eyebrow raised too...Looking forward to the end reveal of Them...

This story is epic, and I'm absolutely loving it...

I quite enjoyed it being 3000-ish words...Yes, I read it in two goes, but going back over it, I've no idea where you could have separated it and kept the flow...It works better as one post...*Shrug*...But then again, I was as guilty for long posts, so hey, what do I know?... ...

Loving it Jacky-Boy...

Amazing writing...

Nice one!!...

*Applauds heartily*...

Yes, last update was a tad too long. I admit I've got issues with brevity. Seriously, tell me to summarise a nine-page text and my summary ends up being eight and a half pages. (true story)


Other than that and a promise that I'll at least try to keep things around the 2000 mark, I don't have much to say. Today Spar doesn't do much but going about her bussiness in a logical manner. Oh, and Them have been rather quiet lately. Maybe it's because nothing is trying to kill her.




Chapter 1.6


I could buy most of the gear and provisions myself, but hiring mercenaries was a different matter. Without inside knowledge, I could only assess any potential hirelings by meeting them face to face in a tavern or other place where those people went to sell themselves. But while I respected my ability to measure a man or a woman's competence, I had no such esteem for my ability to sift out who would and who wouldn't stab me in the back when it became convenient. For that I needed the knowledge of a local. I thought about it for a moment and came to the conclusion that I couldn't rely on either of the two wizards there. Farengar's opinion about anyone who wasn't magically inclined seemed to be low at best and he probably didn't get out enough to have practical experience with mercenaries anyhow. And I didn't trust any advice the Altmer had to give. So I needed to find someone else to ask for help.


I considered the Jarl but didn't want to bother him over a trifling matter. To hire warriors I needed the advice of a warrior so the scribe was out as well. Hrongar or Irileth then. Well, the dark elf quite honestly frightened me so I would approach the Jarl's brother. Better the barbarian with the honour code than the soldier with the inhuman experience. One of the guards directed me to a large balcony that was also at the back of the keep, large enough to hold a feast and apparently used as a drilling room of sorts. There was only one table at the far end of the balcony where Proventius and some other staffmembers were having a late lunch. Most of this open chamber was actually covered by a wing of the castle that hung above and empty apart from the weapon-racks, the tools, the big waterbasin and the straw figures that Hrongar and a pack of the Whiterun guards with their yellow scarves were hacking away at.


I waited at a respectful distance from the swinging axes, greatswords and steaming sprays of sweat until Hrongar paused for a moment to clean his blade and kick a severed strawlimb out of the field of battle. That was when I made my presence known by calling out his name. I explained to him about the task I'd been given by the court wizard, though my reasons for taking it I kept to myself. The man listened in absolute silence, with the only sign of his following me being the almost imperceptible nods. He only spoke up when I asked him if he wished to help me out. As the Jarl's brother, he would be the last one with a reason to betray me, potential fratricidal coups notwithstanding, though even then he should see the value in getting what the Jarl wanted first.





"I will not." He said with brutal honesty. "I only protect the Jarl. Know that my heart tells me to help, a Barrow is no place to conquer alone, but my place is at his side."


I filled a bucket of water from the basin when he asked for it. It was a shame he had refused but not surprising. Besides, he most likely would have gone out and done it already if his honour-code didn't leash him to the throne.
"I won't argue. But do you perhaps know of any trustworthy and capable mercenaries I could hire? As you say, going alone would be a fool's quest." And if there was one thing I refused to go on, it was a fool's quest.


Hrongar took a big gulp out of the bucket and then dunked the rest of the water onto his head. I had to jump back to avoid getting wet myself. He then sighed and cast the bucket aside. The big guy began to talk, slowly and looking as if he was chewing on a sour lemon.
"There aren't many these days. They all picked sides and left. Now there's only the Companions and drunks not worth the price of their ale. The Companions are capable enough though." He didn't elaborate on what he meant with 'picked sides' but I figured it would be because of General Stormcloak's rebellion. Wars were always good for business if you were a mercenary or sold weapons and armour. But I still couldn't believe that the General would fight against the Empire. It was madness!
"Come to think of it," I said, trying hard to get my mind back on track. "why weren't these partners hired to do this in the first place? Why wait for someone like me?" I asked. Was it because the court wizard really couldn't stand anyone who had more biceps than brains?


"Cause they're too full of themselves." Hrongar answered with more brutal honesty. He then shrugged and added, "Look, I am a weapon, not a thinker. You want the reason we didn't ask the Companions to help my brother, you should ask the man with the shining brow over there." He waved a hand at the table in the back.
"He uses his head for thinking and talking. Me, I use it to drink mead and crush the skulls of my enemies."


If there was someone who better approached the ideal of the mighty barbarian than this man, I hadn't met him. But why would a Jarl's brother become a wildlands warrior? One would expect a man in Hrongar's position to have the best in protective gear and the sharpest weapons, not the worst. Maybe it was a Nord thing. Something about pride and manliness.
"With or without a helmet?" I muttered. The dry joke made him roar and thump his chest.
"Hah, you're alright! Now go, it is best to approach the steward while he's on his break."





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~~

Shaking my head, I walked to the end of the balcony and took a chair near the steward. There was no need to tell the story a second time however as Proventius already seemed to know what I was up to. Either gossip travelled through the walls, he had good enough ears to follow my conversation with the Jarl's brother, or he'd deduced the truth from disconnected snippets of information. He did know that I'd been recommended to the court wizard and he also knew what the man was doing. And he knew Farengar better than I did. Predicting my mission wasn't much of a stretch for him in the end. In any case, it saved time and let me ask him about the Companions.


"Well, we would have asked if we thought they would accept the job and actually do it. But the Companions hate magic in all its forms. The moment we'd mention Secret-Fire, and odds are they would pocket the money and claim the Barrow was empty." Proventius told me. He went on to explain that they'd need to send someone to oversee the operation and all that qualified for handling mercenaries were needed in Whiterun. Finally, those few who could be expected to handle an excursion into a Barrow and survive on their own, were especially vital to Whiterun's security. He gave me their names and I was not surprised in the least when I heard them. Hrongar and Irileth. The barbarian who referred to himself as a weapon and the Dark Elf with a few lifetimes worth of experience at killing things. I wondered where Balgruuf had obtained her services.


"Hrongar said the Companions are the best mercenaries available. Can we trick them?" I said to the bald man. Of course, best didn't mean much when he'd put them up next to worthless lowlifes. Maybe I should consider alternatives, like summoning Daedra. But the tools for that would be much more expensive, not to mention the old control-issue and the fact that it was illegal. And there were many Daedra, each with their own requirements and complications. It occurred to me that I hadn't asked for a budget. I should rectify that at some point. I elaborated a bit more on my idea of how to trick the hirelings. In short, my plan involved not mentioning any specifics and act like I was some out of her depths wannabe nobleborn adventurer who had the money and the dreams but not the wits or competence for treasurehunting. It wasn't much but I was still working on the details.
"Forget it," Proventius interupted me, "That only works if you have the goodwill of their patron and have skill at lying. Which you don't have. The goodwill I mean. I reserve my judgement on your talent at speechcraft for the moment. But I think there is a way."



"Please tell." If he had a better idea, I was all ears. The man grabbed his tools and began to explain while writing down the relevant information for me.
"The Companions are in the pockets of the Gray-Mane clan. Not officially, but it is an open secret. While that wasn't a problem before, the clan has thrown its coin away in the war and repeatedly denied the Companions some choice contracts because...well I suppose that isn't very relevant to you. Let's just say that the Companions are desperate enough right now that they can go over the Gray-Mane's head if the money is good and the contract isn't something they would object to on moral grounds. I advise you to drop the gloryseeker part in the plan. Instead, mention the Jarlsdotter."
"Who?" It sounded like a title. Something or Someone related to the Jarl. His wife perhaps? Mother, sister, cousin, barber?


"Her name's Dagny and the Jarl spoils her rotten. One of his few shortcomings but it is not my place to advise him on how he raises his children. Anyhow, she's always complaining and demanding a new dress or a toy or whatnot. Just make it sound like you're the latest victim sent to indulge her. That should have the Companions lower their guard. And direct them to me if they ask for insurance policies and the like. I'll handle the details then."


We discussed for a little while longer, working out the most obvious kinks and getting me a number on what I could offer the mercenary guild. The plan as it was turned out to be pretty much my own, just anchored in the local social structure. Before long however it became time for the steward to return to his duties. He gave me the stack of notes he'd written and directed me to the copying hall to have them properly fixed into my journal.
"Thank you. You have been very helpful to me." I told him as he walked away. He turned back for a second and dipped his head.
"Just doing my job. Oh, and one more thing. Try to negotiate with Vilkas if you can. He's a young one in need for glory but actually has a decent head on his shoulders. He'll be able to see what the others are too drunk to admit."

I swear we will be back on the road soon. But first I present to you, the companions!




Chapter 1.7

"And what's in it for us?" I was not impressed. Yes, the local fighter's guild members were all impressively big and they had many large weapons hanging on the walls. But swords and muscle alone aren't what makes a warrior. It also required a certain mindset and discipline. And the last was sorely missing. The place was filthy. Plates and mugs had spilled their contents all over the longtables along with the occasional pool of vomit. Five feral looking dogs, whom a closer look revealed to be actual wolves, were gnawing on a pair of goats beneath the table. On the far end of the room two Companions, one of the few who weren't too drunk to stand, were beating each other to pieces in some odd manhood ritual while the rest hung around and cheered. Just because they were able to stand didn't mean they were sober, however. The liquor had done enough damage to make them decide the best way to fight was ramming their faces together till someone dropped.


I turned my attention back to Vilkas who at least was everything Proventius had implied. Young, the only one in the room who insisted on wearing well-made plate and sword and shield laid before him on the table. He had measured his drinking so that his faculties remained potent and tailored his image to show he meant business. He was a wily one.
"You get coin as I say. If you." I cut across an arm with my hand. "Then Jarl tell other man to make you good." Force of habit had made me ask for and greet him in Cyrodiilic. The grimy man had made it known that he only understood the Skyrim language. Them however saw something in his bodylanguage. Too fast and too smooth. Too deliberate. It was a hunch and nothing solid, but I mixed my crude Skyrim with the odd Cyrodiilic word at critical points. He didn't even notice.


"And if I die?" The man now asked me with a quick laugh as if dying was an amusing joke he'd just remembered. To our right an old man slurred some Skyrimese into his mug and then looked around as if he expected someone to agree with whatever he'd said. He'd done this for a while now, practically since I entered, and soundly been ignored each time. The only thing I could make out was Aldmeri Dominion, mostly because the Skyrims didn't seem to have a name of their own for it. It wasn't anything that concerned me anyhow. Unless he was trying to warn me of a Dominion spy, in which case I already knew. Right now I figured I should keep my attention focussed on hiring the not-drunk fellow who feigned to know only one language.
"Then I die and no coin two times for you. So you is good if you not die." I disliked negotiating in Skyrim just so that this sellsword could have his advantage, but it didn't really matter for I had an even greater advantage. I was the one with the bag of coin. Vilkas would give in, not without trying to get something more from me, but he would give in.


"Your terms are spoken boldly and agreeable apart from one thing." Here it came. "If you're searching for treasure, we want in on it."
"No. The job is protect me, not take treasure. I think you are fighter's guild." I used the Cyrodiil name for it. This time he did take notice, but not because of the language I'd used.
"We're the Companions!" The fighter shouted in a rage. "We are not some filthy sellswords from High Rock who wag their tails for a few coins!" He went on like that for a while and though most of it went over my head, I understood that he found the word fighter's guild to be insulting. As if these Companions only sold their swords because it was their tradition to do so and that somehow made them better than every other mercenary hall who didn't make pretenses about what they did. There was also this Ysgramor again. The odds of that name belonging to some old Nord hero rose considerably in my mind.


I leaned back and crossed my arms as I let him vent his anger. In due time and quicker than I'd estimated, he seemed to realize that he wasn't winning anything with his tirade. Vilkas calmed himself down and started over again with an open gesture of his hands.
"Look, missy! We are the best there are in all Tamriel. We don't cheat, we don't swindle, we don't drink while on a job and we die before our client comes to harm. I say the Companions have the right to ask for their fair due. And you need us." He said. Some loud cheering from the side of the hall and the sudden lack of wet smashing of heads told me the brawl was over. I didn't look who had won. Vilkas had more to say.
"Look at yourself. You're clean, like a pup who hasn't been weaned off its mommie's milk yet. No scars, not even the winds have cut your brow. Have you ever entered a tomb, or killed a man?"


Had I? The answer was yes of course, but should I mention that to him? It felt personal though, the way he thought of me as some harmless floorpolisher with delusions of valour. Certainly, I wanted to come across as relatively helpless, but not that helpless.
"I know what it is like." I told him.
"Wrong. You've heard what it's like. But you can't know unless you've done it. And things like exploring a Barrow don't come with second chances. I have killed more men than have ever courted you." His analogy was badly chosen, but his point was one that fit the image he had of me. And I would be the last to rely on second chances. "I have been in the tombs and fought the Draugr, I have howled in the face of their undying hate. I know what it's like and it's not for unsoiled virgins! Now, reconsider your terms or choose death. It matters not to me which you choose."


In the end we came back to the place we started. I'd made my offer and he'd made his counteroffer. I'd offered a bag of coin, taken from the treasury at the order of the Jarl's steward, and a second payment upon completion of the contract. He had demanded the opportunity of looting the barrow. If that was everything he wanted, then I saw no reason to deny it. I only needed a seemingly useless brick and a random trinket or two. As long as Vilkas didn't let greed cloud his eyes, he was free to take all he could carry.
"Take all you need. Sword, plow, saw, cup, lamp. All that is not heavy and does not bring dead men. When I have my item. Not when I have not. That is my 'reconsider'. Take it, or I take man that is not you."





The man contemplated it and I gave him all the time he needed to do so. One of the half-tamed wolves came up to lick his hand. Vilkas patted it on the head. It looked at me, put its ears back and shied away back to the goat carcass. The old man began about the Dominion again. This time however, he did it in rough Cyrodiilic.
"When the Empire lay down to the Aldmeri Dominion, they shamed us all!" That was what it was all about. I turned to him and looked him directly in the eye.
"Unless you have something relevant to add to this conversation, shut up." I told him and gave an aside to Vilkas.
"Well? Are you going to do something with your life or are you going to sit under a leaky roof and listen to old fools relive their past glories?"


I was furious. Furious at this ancient decrepit has-been who had been railing against me, as the 'face' of the empire, for no reason. As if the empire was bad because it sought peace. Because it ended a war it couldn't sustain! Was this what we'd fought for? So that old grumblers could drink themselves into a stupor and dismiss the deaths of the thousands of better men and women who had made their peace possible? He knew nothing about shame and had no right to judge others on it.


Vilkas threw a glance at the old bastard and shrugged.
"The Companions will fight the foes off your back, missy. We are yours." He said in the same crude but definitely understandable Cyrodiilic. A corner of his mouth tugged upward, acknowledging his deception and dropping the mask now that it wasn't needed anymore. But though he agreed to the contract, the older one with his soggy whiskers did not.
"Vilkas! This woman mocks our honour!" He shouted. It set the young man off again. Again I leaned back and crossed my arms as I watched the fighter explode. At least this time his anger wasn't directed at me. What was left to be seen was how much power the guy wielded. If he was the leader of the Companions, the deal was off and I'd have to change plans.


"Dammit Vignar! We've waited for you. We've stayed out of this war for you. More than that, we haven't done anything since! Day after day you complain about how the Companions have become less than they were in the day you held the sword, yet in the same breath you order us to stay here like whipped sheep. And we have bent the knee at your word and waited. But look around! See Jorrvaskr. See the great hall of Ysgramor's fivehundred! Look at it, and look at us!" He shouted back at the man, this Vignar. Was he one of those Gray-Manes Proventius had told me about? It seemed possible. Vilkas wasn't finished though and I had to admit I enjoyed him put Vignar in his place.
"She's right. The milkdrinking dragonwoman is right. We're sitting here eating the scraps of the scraps of last feast, drinking piss that's more water than mead. Our last job was bullying the local junkdealer into lowering his prices! The Companions, who bravely broke the nose of Belethor. Is that what our songs shall be about? And the roof is leaking! Is this what Ysgramor's legacy is supposed to be? Is this what true warriors are meant to be? Is the truth only the truth when it comes from you, but an insult when it comes from the tongue of a stranger? I say we take the job. I say we stop running from ourselves in mead, dogfood and empty brawls. I say we go out to seek valiant battle and glorious deeds. I say we make our honour worth defending."


He stopped, out of breath.
"She's Imperial, Vilkas." Vignar said, but the fight seemed to have left him and it lacked the fire he must have hoped for. The younger warrior shook his head and turned to me now.
"Missy. Just tell me one thing. This thing you're looking for. It won't help anyone in the liberation war, will it?" He asked me. Interesting to note that he didn't speak of the rebellion, but of the liberation. I was reminded of some less well known sayings of Shinji Gaiden. The name of the battle betrays the speaker's side.
"You tell me how a crummy old necklace for a little brat is going to harm General Stormcloak, or aid his foes." I answered him. "The best it will do is look pretty around her neck. If she doesn't toss it on the floor."


He looked at me long and hard. But there was no way for him to detect a lie, even if I'd tried one. The Jarlsdotter would have her necklace, even if she had never asked for it. Everything else I picked up in the barrow, such as a certain stone, was a personal souvenir, not worth mentioning.
"We'll see, Missy. We'll see about that. But for now, the Companions will fight your enemies for you. And I have a carpenter to see."



OOC: The Companions at the time of Skyrim have fallen down from their glorious heydays. I may have taken it a bit further than that, but I felt like this fall should have been more obvious than just some moping over a lost axe, no matter how awesome said axe is.


As for Vignar, I regret nothing. I've never heard him say anything else than his 'empire surrenders' greeting and how the current batch of Companions isn't as good as his was.

A short one because I found a good spot to cut it off and I'm still keeping the advice of the handsome boozeloving Nordmer with a temper in mind.

And I should update the character list. Farengar, vilkas, Vignar. Anyone else I missed?


Chapter 1.8


Getting Vilkas on my team had cost me about a quarter of the budget, counting both payments. Before doing anything else, I returned to the castle and arranged to have a seemingly innocent letter sent. I then took a tour of Whiterun to scope out all the stores, their inventory and their prices. Being a trade city, Whiterun had plenty of small shops selling anything from clothing to sewing needles. But for my purposes I stuck with the big boys that catered to the adventuring business. That meant a general store, an alchemist and a smithy. They were the ones most likely to have what I needed, and most likely to accept a letter of credit. Proventius had provided me with a clinking bag of coin for the sake of the Companions, but we'd both agreed that carrying enough money for everything would be too heavy and just turn me into a magnet for muggers.


An almost complete list of things to buy rose up in my mind just through thinking the word 'adventure'. Getting the definite one was simply a matter of adjusting for the mission, the shop's actual inventory and the means at my disposal for obtaining said inventory. I purchased a length of rope, strong enough to carry two men, a pair of climber's anchors, a sealed lantern and half a gallon of oil to fuel it. I bought three vials of restoratives, freshly made and good for at least a month if unopened. I also got one tiny vial containing a muscle-killer, just in case.


The smith fitted me for a set of warm furs and thick leathers. She had me pay extra to get it done by morning, but then waived the fee when I mentioned I would pay through credit given by the steward. My list also pushed me towards buying a bow and a handful of arrows. I couldn't count the number of times I'd stopped a fight prematurely by piercing the enemy before they got in range. One look at the cost and the expected nature of my future enemies however, made me reconsider. Right now I didn't possess the drawstrength to work a warbow and undead generally didn't respond well to precision damage anyway. Besides, if all went well I could let Vilkas do the fighting for me.


With the money I had left over at the end I returned to the general store. I'd spotted a series of spellscrolls behind the counter the first time I'd entered. While they were expensive and could be used only once, scrolls were the sole means by which even a knownothing like me could use complicated magic. How he'd obtained them was a mystery, but in his own words, 'everything was for sale, even the clothes on his back'. I unrolled them all and gave them a detailed lookover. If the scroll was in any way damaged or showed signs of forgery, I placed it back on the shelf without explaining why. It wasn't worth giving this Belethor fellow pointers on how to improve his craft. I might want to buy more scrolls later. I also returned the scroll if the described effect wasn't to my liking, or if its method of invocation was either too elaborate or too simple. In the end I stuck with two scrolls, that left me with only a handful of imaginary coin. That handful I exchanged into real coin, for any future purchases I might make someday in other places.



After all that, there wasn't much for me to do but go over the information the court wizard had dug up. I did so nestled away behind one of the many stairs of the castle. Farengar had come through for me. He'd done well, too well. There was of course a small stack of folktale lore, the half-truths and blatant lies that were found in every region of the world. Then there was the more concrete information from research, geographical in nature and mostly extrapolations based on the outside and comparison with other tombs. But that wasn't what had roused my suspicions.


It was a map of the inside. A room by room listing of traps, coffins, number of draugr. Vilkas had mentioned the word in his mad tirade. Nordic undead then. It was too complete and detailed compared to the rest of the info. If it was made-up it was extremely thorough. If it was the real deal, then I was obviously not the first woman Balgruuf or one of his forebears had sent into the Barrow. I couldn't ask about it anyhow. Not with the Thalmor sniffing around. But for my own sake I should assume it was both real and incomplete. Nothing was as bad as becoming careless because one assumed a map marked all threats.
"There's no mention of cubic stones. Because it wasn't found, or because it wasn't sought then? And what is with this room of 'unique descriptions' right at the end?"



I would see in two days.

And finally, after I don't know how much procrastrinating, we are back in the barrow! Or near it, anyway.


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Two days later, near Bleak Falls Barrow


My breath was like the dragon's own, great blasts of vapor that fogged my vision each time I exhaled. I closed my eyes and focussed on the rise and fall of my chest. One, two, three. It took thirty before I felt ready to go on. For the past two hours or so I'd been scaling what I now called Bleak Falls mountain. It was hard work, perhaps too hard for someone of my stature, but better than walking up the open path. From what I knew dragons possessed good eyesight, an irrational preference for human meat and a big enough brain to know a manmade stair when they saw one. Faendal claimed it hadn't so much as stirred since it made its nest. He thought it might be like some snakes from his homeland that ate twice their own bodyweight once every few months and spent the rest holed up in a hole to digest it. It would explain why it hadn't rampaged in the past month but I wasn't willing to test the hunter's theory.


Now I was hanging high up in the air with my feet and hands kept in a loop of rope while Faendal and the mercenary waited below. I wasn't too good a climber and in the past I'd mostly kept to Telvanni elixers of rising force. But I had done it a few times to get up on a balcony when a potion would be wasted. Those were short stints, just a few metres. Scaling a mountain however was a real test of endurance. This wasn't the first time I'd rested and tried to get the burn out of my throat and it wouldn't be the last. I knew I should have let either of the two men do this, probably Faendal, instead of setting out the rope myself. But I couldn't bring myself to put my life in their hands.


I removed one of the anchors and struck it into a crevice up higher. So far finding footholds for my anchors hadn't been too hard and the mountain hadn't been too steep either. But above me the rockface curved out into an overhang. That was going to be the real challenge. If I kept moving straight, I would have to strike my anchors into the stone directly overhead and move away from the slope. And then there was the matter of getting over the lip at the edge of the thing. With only two anchors and no means of flight? practically impossible. Besides, I had no idea how secure the stone ledge itself was. I would be better served by moving off to a side and finding an easier path.


Hand by hand I slowly and above all carefully moved the rope over to the right were a series of zigzagging outcroppings would make climbing easier and still keep me out of sight of the barrow. Even so it was at least another hour till I crawled onto the snowblasted top. I took some time to make certain both anchors were absolutely secure and to catch my breath. Then I waved to the two men below. I couldn't see them, but knew that Faendal would spot me with ease, if he was still watching.


It would take the two men quite some time to get up here, even though they would have it easier with the climbing rope in place. I took the opportunity to scout ahead and see if the dragon was indeed still lying atop the ancient ruin. I covered my furs with handfulls of snow and crawled from cover to cover, timing my movements to coincide with the intermittent gusts of wind, till I found a good vantage point. It was still there and true to Faendal's word, it hadn't even shifted. I also realized that what I'd assumed to be the wind was actually the dragon. It had only been a few days, and I'd already forgotten how loud something this big could be just by snoring. But from where I was, we would also be able to approach the door by sticking to the walls and effectively out of sight if it happened to wake up. Satisfied, I returned to the rope and waited.


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The mercenary Vilkas had dumped on me was first to arrive. He heaved himself up to my position and sat down. I slipped the poisonvial into my left glove and said nothing.


The man rang all warningbells, both Them's and my own. It wasn't that Vilkas had weaselled himself out of the deal by claiming he had negotiated as all Jorrvaskr instead of himself as an individual. Sneaky and not what I wanted, but I couldn't really say he was wrong and Vilkas had vouched for his replacement. It wasn't that. Camilla had said that a man who refused to wear a shirt was either an idiot or a macho looking to score, but that wasn't it either. The man never talked and Vilkas didn't even know his name, just called him Silent Fist. Supposedly the elves had cut out his tongue.


It wasn't that either, though silent folk were harder to predict.


He carried no weapons and wielded no magic. For a Khajiit it was to be expected at some level and even made sense. Their claws could tear the flesh of an unarmored foe like wet paper. But for a Breton built like a Nord? The only reason he carried no weapons and still lived was because he didn't need them.


People who didn't talk, walked in freezing conditions half-naked without discomfort and fought without arms or magic belonged in only one category. Most dangerous. I was only too happy when Faendal vaulted up to the top with enviable ease.
"Need some rest?" I asked him but the Bosmer shook his head.
"No, I'd rather get this over with. Camilla needs me." He said. Ever since returning the claw he seemed to have gotten the favour of the woman and his attempts to stay in her good grace bordered on the desperate.


It was exactly that desperation that had brought him along again. Camilla was the younger sister of Lucan Valerius and had insisted that the elf come with me as a chaperone when she heard I was going back to Bleak Falls Barrow.


"Alright. Faendal, Companion. We'll keep to the right till we hit the Barrow and then follow the walls to the door. I'll explain more once we get inside. Oh, and try to stay quiet. Just in case."

Right Jacky-boy...Firstly, a massive apology...A thousand of them...

But anyways, this story is so cool...So well done I shall applaud you right now at the start and then get on with it...*Applauds heartily*...

I've thoroughly enjoyed going through these episodes that I missed...*Facepalm and headshake*...So sorry...

1.6...Absolutely love the character development with Hrongar and Proventius...I love the way you fleshed them out...Espescially Proventius' helping with the planning...

I also thought the idea of Dagny the Jarsdotter being a proper Daddy's Girl was funny...And no, not because I have one myself...No I don't... ...

1.7...The Companions...Vilkas having Spar negotiate in Skyrimese was cool, as was her keeping slipping Cyrodiilic into the conversation to see if he'd react...Nicely done...

I loved it when Vilkas finally had a go at Vignar...Excellent rant...I loved the list of minor jobs that they'd been doing...Nice reference to the sort you get after completing the questline and go back for further jobs...Like that!...

I loved the way you portrayed the Companions in this...It's been a while since I played it, so that's my excuse for how long it took me to "get" the wolves thing...Duh... ...You making Vignar's having been holding them back due to the war that's been part of the descent into ruin was an excellent idea...

1.8...Brilliant shopping trip!!...I liked each stop...Belethor always cracks me up!...And the smith's voice always does it for me...Ahhhh, Ivanova... ... ...

Having bought the Skyrim Game Guide™ at the same time as the game, (midnight opening donchaknow ) I don't know how many times I said "This is wrong..." as I was using it...I guess Quality Control™ wasn't really an issue with it...Umm...The point Robert?...Oh!...Yes, I loved Spar's suspicions of the map being so accurate...That was another cool touch...

1.9...I don't think that a post containing both of these parts would necessarily be too long...But, that they're so different I can see the sense in separating them...

Aaaamywho...I loved the description of the climb...And that "someone of her stature" would have difficutly...Espescially in the furs!...Loved the way you thought of things like outcrops they'd have to go around...Nicely done that...

At the top...The description of the dragon noise was excellent...Just brilliant!...I could definately imagine it...I think one failing of the game is that eventually, you the awe of the dragons wanes a lot...To the point where you wind up Fast Traveling from peak to peak, Dragon-Farming™...Or is that just me and my Khajiit tank?... ...

Silent Fist!!...Epic companion name!!...Is that Torvar or someone else?...Loved the reference to the fact that they wear stupid bare chested armour no matter where they are...

All in all matey, absolutely brilliant story, and I've thoroughly enjoyed the catch-up...And also, well done for carrying on with it...You know what I mean... ...

Brilliant Jack!!...

Nice one!!...

*Applauds heartily*...

Oops! That was two months ago regarding Chapter 1.5! Sorry I have fallen so far behind on this one, especially since you have been dutifully following my write. I will try to get caught up this weekend. I did get Ch. 1.5 read this morning...

"There's a fifth? You want me to do your laundry while we're at it?!" -- It was fun the way Spar kept adding to the list of demands. His distaste for the Altmer race definitely comes through in this installment. And the exchange added a bit of mystery...we never learned the Altmer's identity or what brought her to Farengar.

So it looks like Spar will be heading back to Bleak Falls after all. Like I said, I'll try to find out this weekend. Good stuff.

No problem guys. Take your time.


Regarding the Altmer: I could have given her name, but it would feel like a clunky addition. Besides, does Farengar look like the kind of person who bothers with remembering people's names?

Regarding Dagny: She is spoiled in-game too. I remember one of her brothers (the eldest I think) point it out to her and that she should stop complaining about not having her dress cause those things take time to make. Her response? "I'm gonna tell daddy and he'll spank you!" So yeah, Proventius idea was fully rooted in reality.

Regarding dragons: They do lose a certain, majesty/awesomeness/terror-inducing once you get passed the early game. The first few dragons are powerful because you're likely still running around with steel weapons and very few damageboosting perks. Also lousy armour/magic resistance and health.

At the point of my current character however? My response can be summed up as: "Oh hey there buddy. I would like to add your body and soul to my collection. So why don't you exchange kisses with my good friend Burning Hawk and come down here right now?" It's actually kind of sad to think about. Hopefully I get a more impressive tier of dragon after a few more levelups.

Regarding the guide: Well, I don't put much stock in guides myself, definitely not official ones to be released at the same time as the game. There are such things as late-term tweaks, additions, changes and cuts after all. Besides, I am a compulsive mod-user. No guide stays accurate with a disorder like that.

Regarding Fist: He's an original character. I'll see if I can drum up the picture I had to place in the character list. (it would also likely spoil his real name but I don't care about that too much)


For now, we enter Bleak Falls Barrow for the second and hopefully the last time! (cause no one likes backtracking.) Also, this means we are back in the danger zone. You know what that means.


"Cheese! Cheese for everyone! Wait! Scratch that! Cheese for no one, which is perfectly fine if you don't like cheese." Shut up, Sheogorath.




Chapter 1.9


The camp was still there just as we'd left it a few days earlier. There was no reason not to use it so just like last time I had Faendal relight the fire. I repeated the briefing I'd given them that morning, to refresh their memories. Granted, half of it was misdirection as they weren't supposed to know what I was really after and the other half was safety tips. Such as how to rekill a zombie. I had my misgivings about revealing that knowledge but I considered the safety to be worth it and framed it as something Hrongar had told me rather than the product of personal experience.


After that we made light, Faendal a torch and I the lantern. Then we began to search the tomb's many chambers and alcoves. It didn't take long to pick up some of the valuables I had noticed the first time but I argued that the Jarlsdotter was very picky and there were better trinkets deeper inside. Meanwhile, I looked at every cobblestone beneath my feet, every brick on the wall and every arch of the ceiling for the cube Farengar desired. I didn't find it. I found old broken traps, equally broken chests and urn and a single thick line of silk that seemed to run from the entrance directly to the room with the spider. Like a guideline.


In the end we were forced come back down to the spider's lair. I heard Faendal mumble about how this was the place where I killed a man and looked for the two corpses. I kind of wished he'd kept quiet about that though there was nothing to do about it now. There was also a continuous brrrrrt that I couldn't place. It was an odd sound for a dead tomb. I drew my makeshift sword out of its equally makeshift sheath and advanced cautiously into the room. Roughly at the center I came upon the Frostbite spider and the dark elf who had stolen Lucan's precious claw. Both spider and the thief where exactly where I'd left them but not how. The moment I approached a black wave rippled over the two bodies and away from the lantern's light. It wasn't a mere play of shadow and now I placed the brrrrrt. It was the sound of legs. Many.
"The spiders hatched." I said and then, when the mute began to stomp every spider he could reach. "Stay within the light. There is enough poison here to kill an entire herd of mammoths."


There were hundreds of thousands of them, each the size of a grain and about as harmful. But they'd done a good job at stripping clean their parent and the food it had intended for them so I considered ourselves fortunate that they shunned the light we'd brought. If buried in grain, a man shall not starve, but he shall die.


I recalled the lifecycle of their Wayrest cousins. Soon the carcasses would be reduced to empty bones and the spiders would turn on each other. The weak would serve as food for the strong. In a week the survivors would mate. Then they would all leave the nest. Some would find the outside and ride the winds to other faraway caves and tombs to make their own nest. They would hunt in the surrounding area and grow and grow. Finally, near the end of next summer, the fully matured spider would seal itself in with all the prey it had gathered, lay its eggs and wait. It would defend the nest until its dying breath, which was likely to come in the form of its ravenous young.


It was a grim form of life to say the least.
"Glad I'm not a spider."


I turned away from the foodstock and inspected the walls. According to the court wizard's map Bleak Falls Barrow went on much further than this. There should be a door somewhere, but the room's shape was horribly distorted by all the webbing and the foodsacks.
"Well, nothing here but cobwebs and little buggers." Faendal squeeked. "Let's head back, shall we? You got better things to do than burn webs, right?" He couldn't be afraid of the spiders, could he?
"No. That is exactly what I'm going to do. Hand me your torch." I said.


By matching the room with my memory of the map I found a spot close to where the thief had been strung up. The idiot, me killing him had been a mercy. I put fire to the silk and slowly the stuff began to burn away while releasing foulsmelling fumes. An opening was revealed at the edge of the hole I'd made and I burned more to expose it fully. The spider had sealed off this end, but why? There was no exit that way, no way for anything to come in. Unless, it had already been there when the spider made its nest and made for a lousy meal. Of course.


"There will be draugr beyond this point. Remember what I said about them."



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The response of the two men was like light and day. Faendal whimpered and tried to go back but then he remembered that I had both the torch and the lantern at the moment. He then grabbed his bow and I shook my head.
"Use the Axe." I had to remind him. Simple arrows were useless against undead. The elf looked absolutely terrified and I wondered how much of a help he would actually be in a fight.
But Silent Fist wasn't afraid. The way he cracked his knuckles and licked his chipped teeth was positively all murderous glee. I definitely didn't like him at all. But he looked to be more reliable for the moment than the wood elf.


I shook my head and indicated that the Companion should take point. And just in time as well. Something had already noticed my destruction of the blockade.
"Aav Dilon!" It rasped as it stepped into the light and my perspective shifted.


The skin, that which is not covered by heavy armour, is like a zombie, but older and dry like a mummy. It approaches, eyes burn blue. Faendal screams and Fist lets out a guttural laugh.
"Kren Sosaal!" The draugr hisses and it raises its weapon, a black axe held in both hands. Let the Breton handle it.


They rush to meet. The axe is raised, comes down again. Fist takes it by the shaft and wrenches it from the draugr's hands. The axe is tossed aside and the draugr leans after it. Fist grabs the outstretched hand, twists and pulls. The draugr loses its balance and stumbles passed the man, towards me. The hand is still held and rips from the undead. Fist turns and with the same contemptible ease rips of its head. It still moves. Where is Faendal?


He is frozen by panic. Useless. It is too close to avoid now. What magic moves it, spirit- or flesh-centered? Movements are obviously blind now. Flesh-centered magic. Duck low and step next to it. Swing sword across the gap in its leg armour. It falls and tries to rise but the needed muscle is destroyed. I hack at the joints of its arms till it can't fight. Still alive, undead are hard to kill, but no threat.



"Faendal, you are absolutely worthless. Pull yourself together already." I said to the elf. It didn't seem to help so I turned to the Breton, to tell him we would leave Faendal to stew and collect him on our way back. The brute was still holding the things head, and looking at it. The head for its matter was still alive as well. Alive and screaming. Uncentered flesh-based magick it was then, where every bit no matter how small was animated with its own energies. But that wasn't important, I told myself. What was important was that it was screaming words. To alert its brethren no doubt.
"Fist! If you want that for a souvenir, gag it and put it in a bag. We can have more here any moment."


"Faaz! Paak! Dinok!" The words that echoed through the tunnels gave me a cold shiver. I was almost like something I could understand. In any case, the meaning was obvious. Death to the intruders, guard the final crypt, that kind of thing. I looked back at gibbering Faendal and shook my head. Why had I brought him along again? To protect me in case of treachery from the Companion. It didn't look like the elf would be protecting me from anything. I placed the lantern at his feet and marched ahead to where the tunnel curved.



Roll an unbroken pot down the corridor. They evade it, step over it with quick jerks. Not blind in the darkness then. Stay just behind the Breton as he runs to tackle the first of the draugr. While he tears its limbs off, I use my sword to disarm the second and the torch to burn the third. Their flesh is older and drier than that of a zombie, far more fragile in many ways. I get behind the two draugr and break their legs out from under them.


Sprung! Duck and leap to the side. Right shoulder hits the wall hard, but my grip remains firm.
"Archer!" I warn the Breton. He gets up and using the limbless undead as a shield we run the last one down. It tries to use its bow as a club but I drop the torch and block it with my free hand supporting the flat of the sword. Fist grabs it by the neck and does to it what he's done to the others.


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I was breathing hard by the time we reached the final chamber. My shoulder hurt terribly and felt like it had almost been dislocated. We'd fought three battles against the draugr and incapacitated half a dozen of them in total. When defeated, they would scream for the others till I rammed my sword down their throat. How could they make so much noise without lungs attached to their vocal cords eluded me but I didn't want them to keep screeching. For one they might impart valuable information that could be used against us and for another it just made my head hurt.


There had also been the traps, well maintained for the looks of it even if said maintenance had been of an improvisational nature. Draugr weapons tied into ropes to sweep across the corridors, or pitfalls or urns of oil that were lighted and dropped into long pools of oil the moment we splashed in. That, their weapons and armour and finally their use of that harsh and ghastly familiar language proved that there was more brain in them than in their Cyrodiilic cousins. It made me wonder what else was different.
But brains weren't everything. The traps had been easy to spot, and even easier to coax into working, only for me to jump out of range and wait till it had fallen apart. And as for the battles, the Breton Vilkas had lent me fought like a wild beast. But a surprisingly effective one. I didn't know if the draugrs were that easily torn apart or he was just that strong, but I didn't argue with the results. I wouldn't have been able to handle them all myself, except maybe one by one. And the archer would definitely have been too much for me.


The map had described the room as 'unique descriptions'. I saw immediately why Lucan Valerius, for who else could it be, had written this. There were no coffins here, no more draugr to fight us every step of the way. It was wider than the tunnel that led here and carved of smoother stones with a hemispherical ceiling. And the descriptions, oh the descriptions. I forgot about the cube when I looked upon the walls.



OOC: We're in cloudyland so you get to have my version of zombies which can't be killed just by depleting a healthbar. Nothing wrong with that, but I like to think that killing undead outright means destroying the magic that makes them move and Spar and Fist didn't have anything for that. So they did it the hard way.

Also, the chapter was getting rather long so I'll cut it of here for now.

Hush, I have infiltrated the network of the neighbours. Don't have much time.





Chapter 1.10


They were eroded and hard to make out, even in the still air of this place, which said much on how old it was. This section had already been here long before the rest of the tomb was built. Perhaps it had even been there when Mundus was young. It made me wonder, was the original structure really a tomb, or something else? If so, the answer would be within the reliefs.


But first things first. I doubted the cube would be here. It was worthless, to a modern treasure hunter, but if it was as important as Farengar said, then the original owners would most likely have placed it somewhere around the inner shrine. All my searching so far had been more of a case of making sure than actually expecting to find it. And this room, no matter how unique, was only an entryway to an older Barrow. With that in mind, and still watching for traps, I walked to the far end and inspected the wall there first.


The rooms shape made the wall into half a disk of stone which in turn seemed to be composed of several circles. Or more accurately, three rings that surrounded a central disk. The disk was made of a paler stone than the rings and had a pattern of indentations in it. The rings were engraved with the abstract loops and swirls that had been present in the younger Barrow, but also had an inset medallion. The medallion was made of the same stone as the central disk and each held an image. A bear, an owl and a moth.


"Did you open it?" I'd asked Lucan. The man had shaken his head.
"No, but we think we know the right combination." He hadn't elaborated on who this 'we' was.


Maybe there was a symbolic reason to the combination that released the lock. It wasn't something as simple as a foodchain though. In any case, I had memorized the combination which wasn't that hard, there only being three symbols. The wall right now didn't have the order I needed. I pressed my hand against the central disk, pushed and fingered the indentations. It didn't move, but I felt a bit of give in it and some sort of toothing mechanism in the holes. That confirmed to me that it was a door just as the storekeeper had assumed. To open it I would first have to deal with the lock however. The shape of the rings suggested they could turn, which would be similar to some doors of the first Dwemer. Though they preferred metal instead of stone and the rings would move at the push of a button. Other than the central disk, I couldn't reach anything that looked or felt like a button or a lever.


"Well, the men who made this are Nords. Remember their folklore. It is all about glorious battle and strong men and women. If they wanted to make a door only the worthy can open, opening it will require brute force." I reasoned to myself and told Fist to try turning the rings. The barechested man grunted and strained his muscles as he wrenched the stone lock around. It moved, but slowly. I told him the combination to go for and decided that while he did that, I had time to dedicate myself to the rest of the walls.


I carefully leaned my torch against a wall, took out my journal and tried to sketch things out, all while silently cursing these fingers that didn't seem able to follow my eyes quite right. If it didn't take up the entire wall, both sides, of a pretty long chamber, I would have tried to make rubbings of every part. I could of course memorize the whole thing, but I wanted to show it to Farengar in case he could translate it. So I sketched it as best as I could. And though I had no more knowledge of Nordic mythology and symbolism than an Altmer had of what went on in Talos' bathroom, I could try giving it meaning.


There was a pattern to the reliefs. Each could be seen as having four distinct sections. There was always a central figure taking up most of the center, flanked on each side by a group of smaller people. Above all that was a flat skull-like shape that I'd seen on the doors of the younger Barrow. It looked like a Daedric helmet, but I doubted that the ancient Nords trapped Daedric spirits in Ebony. No, it wasn't a helmet, but a head of sorts. It kind of reminded me of the dragon, but I told myself I was so preoccupied with the beasts that I saw dragons in everything now. Farengar was getting to me. But there was a dragon sitting atop the entrance right now. What if that wasn't a coincidence?
"Keep your eyes on the enemy, not his weapon." The words of Gaiden Shinji, which applied to more than just battle.


I turned my attention away from the top. The sidefigures always seemed to be the same. A gathering of figures who carried a person atop a bed of sorts. Funeral procession, holy person not allowed to touch the tainted floor? The younger Barrow was used as a cemetery, so a funeral rite wouldn't be too surprising if the original structure served a similar role. The center man was different each time though. One I couldn't quite make out, for he was too eroded to say for sure what was part of the relief and what was damage. One was a bearded man holding two staves whose heads were the skulls of monsters. Priest, magician? Another was a man adorned with the bones of something. His beard was sharp in contrast to the staf-holder whose beard was wide and round. A distinguishing feature of the second figure were the wings he had, big and feathered yet batlike in the showing of its bones. Above his head was a crescent, the mark of Azura, Daedric Prince of dusk. I couldn't even begin to attach meaning to this. Guardian of the heavens, mover of the moons, ruler of Nordic afterlife?


The fourth and last figure seemed obvious enough. Some sort of warrior wielding a pair of curved knives of fire, with blood dripping from his hands that turned into more fire. He wore reinforced robes, not like the bones of wingman, but scales. His face was not human however. The sculptors wouldn't hold up well against todays artists, but this figure's face was too strange even when compared against the other figures on the walls. Round bulgin eyes with a horizontal slit down the middle, again a straight slit for the mouth and raised areas covering the nose, and cheeks. It looked like a mask or a stylized visor more than a face. Which could be what was intended. On his head he wore crown or a helmet with a surprisingly Yokudan flavor. This was a cold land, not the hot deserts the Redguards hailed from. But on a relief it was hard to see if a particular garb was meant to shade against the sun or cloak against biting cold air.


I figured it was some sort of legendary warrior-hero figure, whose stories involved fire and bleeding hands. But knives weren't the kind of weapon a proud Nord would wield. They, like the Orcs, held the believe that size was more important than how one used it. I'd rather have the knife. At least it could be concealed easily.


With a last rumble the door settled into place and Fist grunted for my attention. I made a few last strokes and then joined him at the door. Silently, I removed my pack and took out a wrapped bundle. I replaced the pack and strapped it securely back onto my back before I unwrapped the object, revealing the claw Faendal and I had retrieved last time we were here.


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"You do know that if you weren't acting on behalf of Balgruuf, I would never give it to you?" Lucan Valerius had told me the previous night when I'd returned to the mine where he and the rest of Riverwood's occupants had taken shelter. After the exchange of news and random niceties he'd taken me apart to a sidetunnel. There he'd given me the claw.
"I know." I'd said and then asked him the question that had been on my mind from the beginning.
"And, are you going to tell me? What this debt is you have with the Jarl, why you have this claw and why you chose to live as close as possible to the Barrow it's meant for?"

He'd refused. "No, I'm not telling. Some secrets are best kept secret. Not even my sister knows this one and I plan to make it stay that way."

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Back in the present, I saw no reason to delay the inevitable any longer. I cross-referenced the configuration Fist had made with my memories and the symbols on the actual claw. Then I placed it against the central disk. Its talons fit perfectly in the indentations and I felt something inside shift. I pushed and twisted. The entire door began shaking and I took five big steps back. With more noise than it had made when the Companion turned it, all segments began spinning on their own and then the whole wall sank into the floor, shedding a big cloud of dust as it did so. A flock of bats came flapping out of the beyond and vanished up the Barrow. Odd, to find life here. I could also hear the flowing of a river. Perhaps that was how the bats had entered. But underground cave-rivers were fast and treacherous. It wouldn't have been an option for us even if we did know of it.


We exchanged a stare and warily proceeded onwards. I almost expected the door to close up again behind us but it didn't. If it did later on, I'd have to hope there was another lock on this side to use the claw on.


The chamber was enormous and dark. Dark except for a spot in the distance where a large beam of light descended onto some sort of raised podium. Was there a gap up there? To think I went through all that effort ascending the mountain, avoiding the dragon and fighting the Draugrs, when all I had to do was rappel down a hole in its flank! When we crossed the bridge over the river and ascended the stairs to the altar, we saw that my indignation was for nothing. There was a gap up there, but it was far too small for a person. The beam of light appeared to be created by reflective ores that magnified and aimed the light from the tight gap.


I shook my head and looked around the podium. There wasn't much. Just a big round wall topped with the big skull that I'd seen on the reliefs of the previous room. Below that skull were inscriptions of a sorts. They were definitely words, but not in any script I was familiar with. This wasn't the simple writing the Empire had spread throughout Tamriel, or the flowing Altmeris, or even the Daedric that was still used much in Morrowind. I could read all three of these, but that didn't help me much here. The Breton and I leaned in close to one of the words and began to say the first thing that came to mind.
"Fus."
"Fus?"


A billowing of dust made me choke and I stepped back. Whatever that wall tried to tell us, there was no space reserved on it for the cube. The rest of the podium was sparse. A simple altar for sacrifice and a coffin. Well, only one place left to look.
"Fist. Open it." I commanded. I held my sword at the ready as the man pulled off the lid and threw it off the podium. When no Draugr rose to challenge us, I carefully peered over the edge. What was inside wasn't a normal Draugr. It was the warrior from the relief. And he was holding the cube.


I had to get that stone, and a surprisingly passive corpse in a complex filled with undead was holding it. With a sigh, I took out a scroll and placed it on the Draugr's chest. I chanted the Daedric incantation and sacrificed a drop of blood bitten from my finger to invoke its magic.
"Cease thy motion, you who walk by false life."
I then said an aside to Fist, in Cyrodiilic naturally.
"Be ready. I'm about to do something very stupid."


I took the cube.
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Well, I finally caught up. I started reading this story a couple of weeks ago, and found it intriguing enough to move past the bits that confused me. The switching of verb tenses turned me off in the beginning and I nearly gave up, but then I read your comment that it was meant to signify two different perspectives within the character of Spar. So I kept reading, and found myself drawn into the story of an outlander in a strange land where she didn't know the language, the culture and the customs of the people surrounding her.

Survival by one's wits is an old story, and one I never grow tired of. I'm pleased that I persevered, and have found it rewarding.

The last time you switched perspective, in the confrontation with the draugrs, it didn't bother me so much because you made the transition much clearer.

I know I've said it before elsewhere, but I've never played Skyrim. So I know nothing about the game quests, plot, storyline, dialogue, etc. But none of that matters here. What I am finding is a protagonist that I like very much, and a world that is intriguing enough for me to keep reading. The time you spend on descriptions really make this work for me, and I don't feel so lost here. The character development, not just of the protagonist but also of the other characters (Silent Fist comes to mind), is outstanding here. As characters make the story as far as I'm concerned, this is all I need to keep reading.

I also like how Spar keeps quoting Gaiden Shinji. This one jumps out at me: Any student of American Civil War history knows this to be true. Most of us know of the battle of Antietam. That is the accepted name today (since it is what the Union calls that place). However, Southerners call it the battle of Sharpsburg, after the nearby town. There are more examples of this dichotomy scattered around the Southeast, mostly in Maryland and Virginia. I'm sure it's true in other places of other historical conflicts as well.

This story is now on my list of "must read and keep up with." Keep up the good work!

I'm here to catch up on the story. There is no way I can leave you with just a few readers. Not when you deserve more. Though I did initially have issues with the writing format I'll admit that it wasn't as distracting as I made it seem.

The story you present here is interesting and I have read every chapter. To be honest, I like the direction of the narrative and the switch between perspectives. I even used it on my current story because I find it to be effective. Glad to see you too are doing it.

The dragon attack was outstanding. Though I've seen it before here on the forums, I liked the direction you took it. There are many great scenes and quotes, and this one I really enjoyed.


This rings very true. Even barbarians with honor wouldn't truly stab one in the back like Spar believed some men or women would.

On Spar: she's an interesting character and probably my favorite in this story next to Vilkas(as you know I just have a soft spot for Lycanthropic warriors).

I agree with DE on the point that you should have far more readers of your writing...It is truly excellent...

Taking the whole thing as a...Um...Whole...This return to Bleak Falls Barrow was amazing...

The descriptions of everything, from the architecture to the undead denizens and the fight was stunning...The level of detail was just spellbinding...I absolutely loved all that...

And Silent Fist is awesome...

If I do have one thing I may say...Faendal just disappears...While it does say that Spar tells Fist that she's leaving the elf behind...The last thing between the pair is that she leaves the lantern and stalks off...I mean, yeah...Okay, he's being a wet-arse ...But some sort of sarcastic parting-shot would have seemed more in character...

But that's one teenie thing in a huge sea of amaze...Brilliant stuff Jack...

Nice one!!...

*Applauds heartily*...

Thanks for the kind words, everyone.


Spar is going to quote Shinji some more. As far as I'm aware his 'passed on by the survivor's' quote is the only thing we actually have on him. So I'm taking the liberty to make things up and hopefully I won't have her say anything stupid.

And DE, I just wanted to mention that I am reading Kraven part 2. I'm still in the early prologue sequence where he's gambling his life away. Quite literally I feel, considering the background mentions from part 1. The stupid baiting of his is making me surprisingly tense even though I know how it's going to end.

Faendal does kind of dissapear I admit. I wanted someone to panic over facing undead and it ended up being him. As for why she didn't give a witty one-liner before leaving, it just didn't seem like something she would do. Waste of breath.


Today's update is an action scene. And assuming I don't run off the rails of my plan, most of what's left of this chapter will be an action scene.



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Chapter 1.11


The response was as instant as lighting a candle. Blue fire burst from the eyeslits of its mask and it screamed. The scroll was one that created a sanctuary. Its effect destabilized the magic essence that made an undead move and had been the trusted ally of vigilants and tombrobbers since time immemorial. Under normal conditions, the dimwitted corpses would avoid the sanctuary and give the person standing inside the circle all the time in the world for coming up with a plan of evasion or confrontation.


Given how I had gotten the drop on the zombie however, I'd opted to turn the idea inside out by placing the zombie inside the circle. In theory, the unlife from all but the strongest undead would be ripped to shreds from this position. But that theory proved false as the spasming corpse kept shrieking.


Them began to talk to me, counting the seconds as they went and rejudging the flailing corpse in the sarcophagus.


"Hanged man's disgrace...detoriated zombie...zombie....lesser bonewalker...greater bonewalker..." I looked at the crumbling scroll with increasing worry. Just how much power could that thing still have? Them's list had run beyond the types most adventurer's could handle with a little preparation and they were now pulling at my mind, trying to take control.
"Not yet." I whispered. I clutched the stone to my chest, absently noting that it was too light to be solid. Fist had his fists raised and stood in front of me, but even he seemed unnerved by the ancient hero. I didn't know how far his knowledge on magic went, though I estimated it at near-zero given his affiliation with the Companions, but he clearly realized that it wasn't supposed to fight the scroll so hard.
"Revenant...lich" It vanished and what remained of the scroll fell to the bottom of the coffin. I let go.




Fist and I put our backs together and move towards the wall to restrict the enemy's movements. The scroll fell after its disappearance which suggests it teleported rather than becoming invisible. It hasn't gone far however, not without the cube it is meant to protect. I strain my ears for the sounds of footsteps, anything, but the rumbling of the nearby river makes it hard to make out anything. Then Fist grunts and I look over his shoulder to see the lich at the edge of the podium. It doesn't stand however, but floats just above the stone, the tattered fringe of its robe brushing against it. I notice that its feet are rotten away which gives it no choice but to employ levitation. That is both good and bad. Good because it will tie up some of its magic potential, bad because it provides full vertical motion as well as horizontal.


We watch as it draws the two curving knives from the relief. They are the same colour as the ones on the stone carving, dark yellowish stained with brown, but don't seem to cast fire.
"Faas Bahi." It says and floats closer. Fist and I turn to face him, then move apart in a textbook flanking manoeuvre. I hope that the lich will focus on the Breton first as the greater threat, but it seems to prefer removing the weaker link first as it follows me. Fist finishes the flanking but before he can rush in from behind, the undead puts on a burst of speed and closes the distance with me. Its knives stab at me, I narrowly avoid them by hopping back. I give more ground and try to move to the side. The wall now threatens to restrict my movement.


I don't make it. My backpack grinds against the carved words and I'm pinned. Fist is running but still too far to help. Again the knives cut at me. Parry one, shove it aside, dodge the other. Again it strikes. Again I try to parry, not just with the sword again, but also with the cubic rock. The lich stops and stares, its knife only a hair's width from the stone block. The mask towers over me, impassive but for the blue fire that comes from its eyes.


Fist finally comes close and skidding to a halt, he wraps his arms around the creature's neck and twists and pulls. It screams and sweeps behind it, managing to sink one knife into the man's arm. I hack at the hand that holds it, smash the fingers with my sword. Then I duck out and away from the wall into the open. Its eyes follow me, it strains its neck against the Companion's grip to face me. And it shouts.
"Fus...ROO!"


A sudden storm bashes me away like a leaf, flying back and up and spinning madly. The sword and cube both leave my hands and I twist and kick with a foot to stop the worst of the rotation. Then I reach the top of my arc and start to descent towards the podium again. Tumble, land on hands and push, exchange vertical motion with horizontal. Now toes touch stone, shift ankles to bring more of my feet in contact, bend the knees to absorb the impact. It's not enough, my legs are struck out from beneath me and I tuck into a roll. Up and over, up and over. Where is the edge?


The podium vanishes beneath me and I fling out my arms to catch the ledge. My shoulder protests as it brings me to a sudden halt but I have no time to listen to it. The backpack is pulling me down. I put my feet against the wall and shove my center of mass as high up as I can to stave off the inevitable. Fist seems to have the lich occupied which gives me time to deal with my conundrum. Down or up? I know the podium's height and can take the fall. But the rocks around it are sharp and covered in darkness. It's too dangerous. With going down ruled out as an option, I recount everything I have in the backpack and assess it as expendable. I release one arm to grab the sole important object and undo the clasps. The sudden loss of a heavy weight dragging me down helps as I cling to the slick stone and push and drag myself back up.


My right arm has definitely been dislocated this time, which makes the climb harder. I manage though and once back atop the podium I push the bone back into its socket. For the rest of the engagement I plan to use that arm as little as possible but I need it ready just in case. Fist is still struggling with the lich. He has torn of its mask and revealed the dessicated face, but in return the man is bleeding from a few more wounds to his arms. I raise the scroll and open the knot that seals it with my thumb. Does the lich know modern language? Doubtful, considering its age.
"Fist, drop!" I shout. The breton abruptly releases the undead and dashes away. In the same moment, I throw the scroll and invoke its powers.
"Be devouring flame."


Paper becomes racing fire, splattering across the lich and eating at its robes.
"Liss!" It shrieks and fire is doused in billowing steam. It glares at me as I seek what to do next. I have no weapon, no more scrolls and no idea where my sword ended. Fighting it barehanded would be suicide, fighting it at all would be suicide. It hovers towards me rapidly, its one remaining knife held high. Jump down, hope I land safely? I inch closer to the edge while the lich approaches. It's almost within range. I prepare to drop as the knife rises further when without warning, it turns away.


I see a blood-covered Fist standing near the round wall. He is holding the cube. With his free hand he beckons the lich closer. It takes the bait and Fist fills his lungs as he prepares himself. For what? To fight or run? I rush for the stairs. The Companion can't take on the undead and I have no more methods of helping. I know what is coming. The Breton has trapped himself by the wall and the lich is aware of his prowess at close combat. Aware enough to not run the slight risk. Why should it, when it can call down a storm to break him against the stone?

It opens its mouth to shout.


"Fus...Roo" "DAAAH!"


I drop down on the stairs as the wave runs over me. A shadow flies by, torn and scattered by the cutting air.
I hear its pieces fall into the darkness below. I descent and look around, warily of the air magic. When I find its head I pick it up, making sure to keep it aimed away from me, and toss it into the river. "Dov!" The lich curses me as it vanishes downstream, battered against rocks and submerged in whirlpools.


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Them fell silent and I realized I was still alive. I shouldn't be. There was no reason Fist and I could have defeated a lich, and no way we could have outrun it. But we had. I heard what sounded like a far off roar, but attributed it to oversensitive nerves. I had to sit down. My heart was still racing and I was suddenly aware of all the pain my body was in. Mostly my right arm, but also my ankles, my knees and a bleeding cut across the back of my swordhand. I catalogued the various aches, found nothing that would critically impair my movements, though I had to bind the cut.


The fight kept playing through my mind and my thoughts kept hooking onto details I hadn't noticed in the moment.
"The lich spoke an old language. Almost Daedric. Fus-ro it said. Fus, I remember that word. It was General Stormcloak's battlecry." The me from the Great War had never thought of it as more than just that. The Thalmor and their slaves would falter upon hearing that cry. I'd thought it was due to the General's reputation, that it was fear that took them off-guard. We'd all begun using that cry. Often it worked, sometimes it didn't. But now I felt a pattern. The times it didn't work, Ulfric Stormcloak wasn't there. And even when it did without him, it was never as effective as when it came from the Nord's own throat.
"It was a form of magic. And we all believed him when he denied it."


Fist put his hand on my shoulder, incidentally soaking my furs with his blood. I nearly leapt up, away from him. He knew the cube was more important than anything else in the tomb. If he wanted to keep it, I couldn't stop him. But should I? Vignar held great influence over the Companions and he was as anti-Imperial as they came. But there was more to it than that. He disliked the Empire because it wasn't against the Thalmor. And there had to be more avenues for Farengar to pursue. If Fist wished to keep the cube, I'd let him. It would be relatively safe with the Companions. Safer than with Farengar probably so at least the Thalmor wouldn't be able to profit from it.


He dropped the stone on my lap in silence, then pulled the knife out of his harm and dropped it on top of the cube.
"He doesn't care?" I thought, surprised by it. I picked up the knife, turned it over in my hand and tucked it behind my belt. It appeared to be carved from a single piece of bone, a tooth perhaps.
"I should treat your wounds. Please wait here." I told the Breton who shrugged as he sat down himself. I left the cube on the stairs and went around the podium to grab my backpack. The potions had been packed in wool to keep them from breaking, so I was quite certain they were fine. But should I use the restoratives, or feed him the musclekiller and make off with the cube? Them urged for the musclekiller but I wasn't sure.
"He could have died to save me. Why would he if he wants betrayal? And I might still need him." I argued back at Them. And there was one other thing that had me puzzled.
"General Stormcloak, the Lich and now Silent Fist. They all used the cry of storms. Ulfric was the weakest, Fist the strongest. What connects them and what makes the difference in power?"

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OOC: Originally I'd planned for Faendal to save the day and distract the lich at a critical moment. But then I realized I'd made him necrophobic and it didn't make sense anymore for him to go all the way through Draugr-country alone. Sure, the Draugr were dealt with at this point, but he doesn't know what.

I was also a bit worried about having Spar and Fist fight something as high-level as a lich. (different name in-game, but I'm witholding that for those who haven't played Skyrim. Spoilers and all that.) The reason I chose to let them though was because I wanted to get the importance of Farengar's little cube across properly.

Wow! So that's how the thu'um works? You shout a word (a curse?) and it impels the magic into action? I've seen videos of the "Shout" in action on YT, but it remains a difficult concept for me to use. Is it relatively nonspecific in its effect? In other words, does it bowl over anyone and everyone in its path, friends as well as foes?

Questions aside, I found this confrontation pretty scary and compelling. I really liked the transition between Spar and Them here - and then back - It makes the transition in the verb tense clearer and more comfortable to read because now I'm prepared for the shift in POV.

Of course it has to be a lich/draugr! If the Great Welkynd Stone is guarded by a lich, why not Farengar's little cube?

Brilliant!!... ...

Thoroughly enjoyed that!...

Silent Fist is awesome!!... ...Proper loved that bit at the end with the shout...

I hope Spar doesn't turn on him...That would be sad... ...

But still...If she does it'll have been brilliantly done... ...

Nice one!!...

*Applauds heartily*...

The Thu'um is hard to describe. At times it feels less like the uber-awesome unique hero-magic the game wants it to be and more like a random assortment of effects that were considered cool or didn't fit into the magic schools anymore. In fact, some of the Shouts are pretty similar to old spells we no longer get as regular magic.

For the most part, Thu'ums are indeed relatively unguided. There are ones that focus on the shouter, while others effect the whole world or are thrown forward like a fireball. And yes, a FusRoDa will bowl over anything or anyone unfortunate enough to be in front of you. Thu'ums have no concept of friendly fire and one of the game's expansions added a perk so that your followers stop taking damage from getting in front of your shouts.

Now anyone can learn the Thu'um, which in my book means it is just another school of magic, ignoring all the mythical mumbojumbo the Nords attach to it. The only thing that makes the player character different is that they can instalearn words by looking at a wall found in nearly every Barrow. The one with the text that had Fist throw up a dustcloud here. Each Shout has three walls assigned to it (except FusRoDa since it is learned through plot). Now each wall actually has all words on it, but only one ever seems to be active for vacuuming.


Regarding its use in the story here, I wanted to show that the lich and Fist were both using the same Shout at the same time. The only difference being that the lich was only using FusRo wheras Fist went for the full FusRoDa (basically, Shouts are made up of three components. The more you use, the more powerful and the longer the cooldown.) Except I also didn't want to go right out and say Fist had the Thu'um until he actually used it in battle. I hope it worked out from the reader's perspective.



Chapter 1.12


Though the questions were important, I didn't ask a single one of them. This was for two reasons. The first one was that I needed more information before I could know if it was safe to ask. Proventius told me the Companions were against any form of magic on principle and I had no reason to doubt him on that point. Yet here was one who posessed the knowledge and use of a form of magic. One that was hard to hide. Ulfric could have waved it off as mere luck and charisma, but his cries only made men stumble, not send them flying in pieces.


The second reason was a more urgent one. I wished to be off the mountain before nightfall.


So I simply put some scraps of linen which had been drenched in the restoratives upon his wounds and then gathered anything I felt we might need on the way back. My sword was one such item naturally, even though the lich's knife appeared to be the superior weapon in all aspects but reach. That surprised me even more than its bony material had. Given its age, and the fact it was carved from bone, I would have expected it to be extremely brittle but it was far from such. When I struck an edge of the runed wall, it was the stone that chipped, not the knife. And there was a vague tingling that hinted at some sort of enchantment.
"I guess it is just as with Divine artefacts. They don't make them like they used to. I should see if I can recharge it back in Whiterun."


When I turned away from the wall I spotted the old hero's mask. I stooped down to pick it up and shot a quick glance at the stairs. I could see Fist's head just peeking out above the podium, but he wasn't looking this way. If anything, his disinterest was as unnerving as being watched by him would have been. He acted as if there was nothing left of interest to him here, as if he'd learned and knew everything there was to know about the place. Still, it was for the best. I inspected the mask like I had the knife before burying it in my pack. All I could tell was that it was carved from the same kind of heavy bone the knife had. I figured it would make a nice helmet, if I added a decent amount of padding to the inside, something to cover the back of my head and figured a way to enlarge its nostrils for easier breathing. Speaking about it from a historical perspective though, Farengar would be able to make more of it than I could.


My pack was full at this point and I had to leave out the gold claw to make room for the mask. I strung the key up tight to the outside with one of the backpack's cords so it wouldn't swing and hit me with every step. Finally I picked up, relit the torch and called out to the Breton that it was time to go. We went back the way we came, through the ceremonial entryhall and ascended the looping passages and chambers of the newer tomb. Just because we'd been there before did not mean we walked at leisure. Our eyes scanned every alcove and sarcophagus in case a corpse had decided to become a Draugr to replace the earlier losses. Without thinking, I'd drawn the knife instead of my makeshift blade.



No Draugr or traps stood in our way. Fist filled a sack with random knickknacks, something he hadn't done on the way in. I figured this was on Vilkas' orders as he didn't spend any time appraising the items he tucked in. He also took a handfull of Draugr axes, bound them together and strapped the whole to the filled sack. I was beginning to feel more confident when we neared the spider's chamber. That was, until we came upon Faendal.


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The Bosmer seemed to have recovered from his incapacitating panic attack. In its case, he'd picked up a case of self-entitled anger.

"You evil witch." He snarled at me when we came around the corner. I noticed he was holding the lantern in one hand and his bow in the other. At least it meant he couldn't draw. Not that I thought he was capable of it, but it was good to know. The mer continued to rage and whatever I said to him only seemed to make it worse.
"Do you want me dead as well?! How could you abandon me with those spiders?!"
"I gave you the lantern."
"And that's supposed to make it right? What if it ran out of oil? Then what would you do? Say 'sorry'?! You are not a woman, you're a heartless demon!"


By this point I was starting to lose my patience with him. It was clear to me that the mer was still shaken by everything that had happened. The dragon, the big spider, the thief that tried to kill him, then the undead. He'd pretty much snapped.
"Faendal." I said evenly and walked closer, moving slowly so he wasn't aware of it in his anger. It did however, meant that he saw what now hung to my backpack. His eyes narrowed and his grip on the bow tightened enough to make the wood creak.
"The claw." He hissed. "Now I get it. I thought you were an innocent lass who'd lost her home in the war, but now I know your true colours. Clearing your name wasn't enough for you. You had to steal the claw again so you could get whatever those Nords put here! You tried to kill me just to make some coin! You're just another cutthroat, not caring what happens as long as you get to fill your pockets!"


Just then Fist stopped beside me. He made a show of shaking the kinks out of his neck and cracking his knuckles. I still didn't believe Faendal was going to attack me, and he was too stiff to succeed if he'd tried, but it made the mer reconsider his behaviour and back off for a bit. I tucked the knife behind my belt and handed the torch over to the Companion.
"I don't care what you think." I said then, "Now if we're done debating my morals, I suggest we leave."


"If it wasn't for Camilla I'd never..." The elf still sputtered but by now I'd truly had enough. I wasn't going to say that the hunter didn't have a point, that perhaps I should have at least tried to explain to him why it was safest for all of us to leave him here, or perhaps I should have taken the risk of waiting till he got over the worst of his shock. But I was not going to waste time on him now. If we had to spend the night inside the tomb, he'd never stop complaining.
"Yes, yes." I cut him off. "You want to make little Faendals with her. I get it. Now shut up before I walk off without you again."
Quickly, not giving him a chance to object, I stepped in and snatched the lantern out of his hand. "While taking this."


All three of us went back through the spider's chamber and Faendal had no choice but to keep up and stay within our light. Up we moved in silence, to the massive doors that sealed off the tomb. Fist and I pushed to open them and the Bosmer was the first to move outside. At the moment, I didn't mind. He was likely of mind to just run off ahead of us, back to mines near Riverwood. It didn't matter to me or my mission. But I'd forgotten about the dragon.


The Breton and I slipped through the crack we'd opened, just in time to see the elf turn on his heels and dash behind one of the thick pillars that held up the overhang. I made a split decision, tossed away the lantern, dove forward close to the ground and rolled behind the same pillar Faendal had taken for cover. Not even a moment later a deafening roar of overheated air crashed on the other side of the pillar and surged passed us. I could feel the air burn upon my skin, in my nose, my mouth and exhaled before it could get to my lungs. Then the fire had passed and there was nothing left but scorched stone and the hot steam of boiled away snow.


Faendal and I were both coughing up a storm of our own but we appeared to be unharmed. It was a good thing the pillar was so wide. Three people could have stood side by side and still hidden behind it. Fist, who had evidently retreated back inside, now came upon us like a shadow in the fog. He cast a querying glance passed the stones we were using for cover but said nothing.
"The dragon woke up." I muttered and Faendal groaned.
"So I noticed!" He said.


I crawled to the edge of the pillar and peered around it. The fog was rapidly being blown away by the wind but for now I couldn't see the dragon and it probably couldn't see us. It was there though, I was sure of it. This wasn't some stupid animal. A mudcrab that challenges a rock it doesn't remember. This monster was smart, at least as smart as a wolf and probably even beyond. I remembered now more details on how it had operated at Helgen. For the most part it had been out of my view as I'd crawled through wreckage and played dead among the corpses. But the pattern in which the legionnaires had been picked off. First the battlemage, then the archers, and always from the rear. The dragon was aware enough of tactical formations and coördinated combat to counter them.


We weren't archers, or mages. Well, Faendal was an archer, but his bow was a smoldering ruin at this point. The dragon would be sitting right on the other side of the pillar, with a good dozen meters of open ground between us and it so it had a generous killing-zone for its fire.


I listened intently to my mind in the hope that Them would know a way out. But the other me was remarkably silent. Them worked on memories, past experiences. And I didn't have much experience with dragons, beyond running away and hoping it doesn't see me.
"Think. The mist isn't going to last long. The dragon will kill the first person to move. We can't wait it out. If starvation doesn't get us, the spiders will. No fire is going to stop them when it is time for the exodus." I said to myself.
"It is one enemy, and can therefore only focus its strength on one position. Split up then. Maximize the chance that at least someone survives. I should use the rope again. It doesn't know about that and will expect us to take the path. But if we all go for the rope we'll just have hung ourselves out as bait. Someone needs to be the bait, and risk the road."


The mist was getting dreadfully thin at this point. I could make out the barest hint of the dragon's silhouette, right where I'd already expected it to be.
"Faendal?" I called out over my shoulder, softly so the dragon would hopefully not hear. It had only seen the elf so far and with luck, it assumed that the Bosmer was the only one here.
"What? You have an idea?" The mer whispered back. I turned to see him peeking across the other side of the pillar. Then my hands were on his back and shoved him into the open.
"Yes. Run."





OOC: Spar's decision to betray Faendal would have been more shocking if he'd saved her bacon in the fight against the lich as per my original plan. But still, I had this scene planned for a long time as it almost perfectly shows a key aspect of her character.

To be honest, if I had to choose between sacrificing Faendal or Fist, I'd pick the wood elf. Not because he's a wood elf, mind you, but rather because he was so useless in the ruin and such a nattering idiot. Fist proved himself to be a good one to have at your side, at least for the time being.

Fist's behavior and attitude continues to puzzle me. That's a good sign - it makes me want to keep reading. I only hope we get to find out more about him as the story winds on. I'm beginning to wonder if he is the Dovahkin in this story, assuming that this story has a Dovahkin.

I am looking forward to more!

Excellent stuff Jack!!...

Still loving the Companion-McFisto...Had to choose my words a bit carefully there... ...He's proper epic...Actually one of my fave chars that you've given us in either story... ...

Like the way he's protective of Spar, even if it's just for the money... ...

A brilliant chapter...Loved it!!...

Nice one!!...

*Applauds heartily*...

I consider this a failing on my part. I wanted to show that not everyone is a natural born zombieslayer. Some people are rather unsettled at the idea of curses or being doomed to forever walk through some forgotten tomb till some jerk with a silver sword and a bag to fill comes visiting. In the process however, I plain made him unlikeable.


As for Fist being Dovahkin, he has the potential for it at least. All I can say on the subject right now is that Spar isn't.


Also, we are getting close to the climax.



Chapter 1.13


The dragon let out a roar and I heard the beat of its wings the moment it saw the elf. As far as challenges went, I had never come across one as intimidating as this, but it cost precious time. Time Faendal used to save himself. The mer bolted like one of his arrows and threw himself into a wild run for safety. I peered around the pillar to see that he didn't take the path as I'd intended either, but scrambled down between the bends. The dragon took for the skies in pursuit.


"Now." I said and ran off passed the side of the Barrow. I slid over the edge, grabbing the rope as it came within hand's reach and dropped down the slopes. It was a sloppy descent and a noisy one, but time was of the essence. There was nothing I could do about the tracks Fist and I left in the snowbanks on the ledge and here on the mountainside we were completely exposed. I rappelled down as quickly as I could, constantly teetering on the fine edge between scraping away the soft leather of my gloves and losing my grip entirely. Pebbles and bigger debris clattered down from our feet. With the Breton above me, I was subjected to a constant shower of rocks and ice. If it hadn't been for my helmet, though it was more designed to protect against the cold than blunt battery, I probably would have fallen.


Occasionally we heard the dragon's roar. It was a sign of good fortune whenever we heard its challenge. It meant that Faendal was still alive. I tried to get a fix on its location whenever I heard its call, but it was hard with the echoes of the mountain and the more pressing need to keep my footing. The best I could do was make an estimate of the giant beast's distance based on how loud it was. At first the roaring got softer, but by the time we crossed the treeline and the mountain smoothed out into the valley, it got louder. Which spurred us on to more haste.


I reached the bottom of the slope in less than a tenth of the time it had taken me to climb the mountain yet it still felt too long. I ignored my fatigue and kept moving, staying low and close to the trees so they would cover me from any aerial observers. I could hear the Breton follow in my wake. He was louder than I'd liked, clearly not accustomed to the basics of stealth.


The woods were but a thin belt straddling the mountain's roots. All the big trees had been cut down long ago to make room for farmland and grazing fields. The Whiterun of the past must have been bigger and more populous, for the farms had thinned out and the fields had been allowed to overgrow with thorny brush almost as tall as a man. Off in the distance I made out a badly maintained road, closely guarded by an equally poorly kept tower. I paused at the edge of the woods to consider whether or not we should keep moving. I was tired but could still reach the city if I maintained a relaxed pace and followed the easier footing the road would provide.


Another roar and Silent Fist pointed at the sky. I looked and saw a small blot gliding across the clouds. Too far away, too big and too fast to be a bird. It was the dragon and it seemed to be coming our way.

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We both dove back into the brushes that grew around the trees. We went down on our bellies and I spread handfuls of moss and mud over myself to enhance my camouflage. This would have been easier if I just knew magic, perhaps a spell of invisibility. But I didn't and besides, what if the dragon could detect the use of sorcery? Then all my attempts to hide would only make me stand out like a beacon.


I gestured at the Companion to do the same. The man frowned at first but after a moment did as I'd commanded him. He did seem to keep his distance more than usual. Why?
"Is this about Faendal?" I asked him softly. "The Bosmer is the fastest and most nimble among us. He knows every path and if he made it to the treeline, he'll be able to hide. Frankly, his odds for survival are better than our own. If I could have convinced him with words, I would have but as it was." I shrugged. What else was there to say? I wasn't going to apologize, either to the Breton or the Bosmer. It would be a waste of my breath.


Fist looked doubtful but he didn't make any objections when I led him into better cover. That was good. It meant he was more concerned with finishing an almost complete job than second-guess my decisions.


Meanwhile the dragon circled around and I heard it land on the mountainside. After a few minutes of silence, we risked a look at it. It turned out that the dragon had settled up in a crag on the mountainside. It had hidden itself as we had and only its head showed, swaying from left to right in the rhythm of the trees. We didn't need to guess who it was looking for. So far it hadn't seen us, but it clearly knew we were here. Was it smell? Doubtful. No, I bet it didn't smell or see or sense us otherwise, but it could roughly feel where we were. Only roughly.


Them piped up and I agreed. It had to be the cube. The lich's actions had definitely been guided by the artefact. It had avoided any action that could damage it until it looked like I was going to get away with it. The dragon had to be another guardian of the thing and it certainly behaved as if it was constrained by the same rules.


And there was more. It could burn us out, spreading its fire in such a way that we would suffocate but the cube and its contents remained unharmed. Afterwards it would be free to search the fields at its leasure. It had the power and time to do so. Even if it would take a century or more, the dragon could scour the fields for the little rock and its contents. If it was invulnerable. The fact that it hadn't done so proved to me that it at least feared the military might of a city as large as Whiterun.
"The dragon aims to kill us and will not leave till it has done so. But at the same time, it cannot achieve its purpose with wild destruction. Killing us is only a means to an end." I said and the Breton glanced at my backpack. I nodded to him and then crawled the other way till I had a good view of the open field that lay between us and the tower.


When it came down to a waiting game, the dragon held the advantage. Whiterun was clearly too far away for us to make it, but close enough for its troops to sally forth if they knew the creature was in their territory. Was Balgruuf the kind of man who would rather meet an enemy on the field than hide behind his walls? I supposed it wasn't really a question of courage. People like Hrongar would insist upon attacking the dragon before it could do harm, Farengar would act like a child who's been promised a toy when he heard how close the dragon was. As for Balgruuf, he was the leader of a city in war. It wouldn't take him long to realize that his walls didn't offer any protection against an enemy that could fly. The city with all its flammable buildings would be a deathtrap.


But as long as the dragon stayed here, as long as we stayed here, they wouldn't know and wouldn't sally. I realized that we had to force a move out of it without dying.


My thoughts went back to the cube and the leash it held upon the beast's destructive nature. Even if it knew exactly where we were, it wouldn't strike at us if it couldn't reach with its claws. I looked at the tower again and considered it. It was not going to hold up if the dragon actually tried to take it down, but it wouldn't have to. All it had to be was a place for us to hide in and wait for reinforcements. If we could get there and make fire to signal Whiterun, they'd learn about the dragon and come.


How good was it sense for the cube? Good enough to know we were in this stretch of the woods it seemed. We were no longer on a direct line with the rope and hadn't gone straight towards Whiterun either. I was quite certain it would know we had moved by the time we reached the tower. And if it didn't, I wasn't going to complain. Gaiden Shinji was best known for claiming that it was skill that let one survive, but he didn't deny luck. The wise man never expects it, but he will take advantage when it comes.


"Now then, a warrior is never idle. When he rests his arm, he labors his soul. I want you to memorize the path you will take when we make our run for the tower in the night. Take your time for it so you don't make a mistake." I whispered to the Companion. To be honest, I would be the one carrying the cube. So even if Fist made a wrong turn or tripped and fell in the dark, he would likely be safe. But if he'd taken the cube and died in the dark, finding it again would be tricky. And the Thalmor would not let Whiterun's army pass the gates without her. I couldn't risk that to happen. But if I died, well I wouldn't worry about anything anymore.

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While the sun slowly sank beneath the mountains, I performed the necessary preparations. I wasn't like the Breton. Just one pass of my eyes across the fields was enough for me to later remember all the wild-trails, all the boulders, pits and treacherous mudslides. After that, I had time to spare. I took a knife to my pack and carved it into ribbons. When we ran I wanted to be as light as possible. I would carry no food, no water, not the map or anything else I could leave behind. I only kept the cube, torch, knife and the mask which I tied to my body in such a way that they would not hinder my balance or snag on a bush. Everything else I buried and I convinced the Companion to do the same with his treasure. If he lived, he could return for it later.

We ate and drank early so the nutrition could be turned into energy for our legs. Then, we waited.

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When night came it was as complete as the inside of a coffin. Skyrim had no lanterns lighting the roads as in civilized High Rock, and even its cities where only lit with the occasional bonfire and the smaller light of a torch in a guardsman's hand. We could still see the watchtower by two such fireflies at its top and I removed the torch from my possessions. Everything else in the field between there and Whiterun was perfectly black. There might have been enough light to see at least something on a clear night, but heavy clouds kept the stars and the moons out of sight. It suited me well.

I looked to my right where the Companion lay, but couldn't see him. The only sign of his presence was the sound of his breath and the touch of our fingertips meeting.
"Get ready. I go first, count to five and follow." I whispered to him. That should give me enough of a headstart to prevent any collisions. The man grunted in agreement and I took a deep breath. Then I crawled ahead till I knew I was out of the bushes and in the open field. I scrambled to my feet and ran.

I am surprised that no one has commented on this story yet. I apologize for not doing so earlier. I really enjoyed reading Spar's compulsion to explain to Fist why she pushed Faendal out in front of the dragon. It showed an intriguing development in their ongoing relationship that is as revealing of Fist's personality as it is of Spar's character.

Short post, I know, but I understand how the story flow can dictate the post length. It does leave me wanting more.

And I hope that in my bumping this story up more people will see this update and comment!

I saw it!!...I was getting around to it!!...

I was kinda not here for a while, remember?...Oh, you didn't notice...*Sighs and bites knuckle*...

I'll post a comment as soon as I get 'round to it, more than likely it'll be amazing though... ...

*Applauds heartily in antici-pation*... ...

Almost there. Almost but not quite. So in this update Spar runs towards the climax of this chapter.




Chapter 1.14


I ran. Along bushes, slipping down small slopes and jumping crevasses. Wild goats, elks, wolves and possibly even a bear or two had drawn trails through the grass which made it easy to keep a good pace for the first half. But animals are smart enough to avoid civilization, at least the big ones which can be considered a threat or a good meal and warm fur. So for the second half I had to get more creative. The path I'd chosen was a compromise between speed, directness and ease of travel. Some of the brush and undergrowth possessed gaps I could cross by going down on my knees, slide through the gap and get back up running. There was a pond. Five boulders stuck out over the water and I leapt from one to the other without missing a pace.


It was another gamble. At the Barrow I'd gambled that the dragon would blindly pursue the first man it saw. Now I gambled that it couldn't maintain its vigilance forever. It was almost a law of nature that as a being grew larger, it grew slower and required more rest. A bee never sat still for even a moment in its busy but short life, flitting from flower to flower as quick and precise as a master swordsman's blade. The mammoth by contrast moved but slowly, each step measured and contemplated upon. Most of its days were spent grazing in a half-sleep. A dragon was even larger and this one, according to Faendal at least, had been hibernating on top of that. I hoped that it had been struggling to stay awake all this time and that as the hours went by, it had been losing that battle.


But still, I had to expect it to wake up again the moment it sensed the cube moving. The only question that remained was how long it would take. Resting after killing the lich and the long ascend afterwards had given it plenty of time to take up its position last time. This time would be different.


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The torchlight atop the watchtower served me as a compass but in retrospect I could have done it blind. I pounded their door, an ill-fitting pane of thick wood, and yelled for attention. When I saw the light of the two torches peering over the edge I yelled again.
"Signal Whiterun that an army is approaching! It's actually a dragon but you don't have a specific signal for that!"
I heard them converse in words too soft to follow and one of the torches disappeared. Where was Fist? He couldn't have taken the same path as I had. Perhaps if he'd been trained by Khajiti acrobats but he was too big and stiff. It would take him some time and a longer path to catch up. I saw light through the cracks between door and stone. A soldier opened the door and set his torch in an empty sconch. He looked like everyone else in the gloom with the light behind him. Big, bearded and smelling of mead. It made me wonder how I looked to him. Battered, burned, covered in mud, twigs and probably a few bugs as well. I pushed the thought aside and repeated my instructions.


"Heh? Imperial?" The soldier said to me in Skyrimese.
"Oblivion curse this backwards icepit." I thought. All my memories had said that Cyrodiilic was the common tongue of Tamriel but I was beginning to see that memories could lie. I repeated myself, slower, in case he'd just misunderstood but no, Cyrodiilic was not this man's tongue.
"Say to Whiterun." I stammered next in his language and tried to find the words to use. "Many Stormcloak."


"The Stormcloaks are coming? From the west? Are you crazy?" Wrong choice. Part of me, probably Them, couldn't help but file this part of information away. The Stormcloaks couldn't come from the west. South were the ruins of Helgen which had definitely been in Imperial hands. North were mountains and therefore by rule of elimination, the Stormcloak territory had to be to the east. It wasn't important. I had no plans to visit General Ulfric, though I was curious to what had compelled him to rebel, and I had better things to worry about right now.


I held up my hands in a pacifying gesture and tried to explain in my rough Skyrimese.
"No Stormcloak, but you not know how say thing. So say Stormcloak. Fix bad later." Again, wrong choice of words as it turned out.


The man grabbed me with both hands by my vest and almost lifted me clear off the ground as he hissed and spat in my face.
"Is this a joke? This some kind of banditry?" He said. What had set him off? Had I underestimated the paranoia the war had set in him, or was he just ill-tempered due to lack of sleep? I couldn't afford having to actually fight the soldiers I'd come to seek help from. But this stupid Nord wasn't making things easy.
"I estimate two minutes at the most," I muttered desperately, slipping back into Cyrodiilic, "then you lose unrestricted access to topside."


Where was Fist? He should have made it to the tower by now. Did he get turned around and went off the path he'd chosen? The man was no tracker and perhaps I'd asked to much of his pathfinding skills. But be that as it may, he should be able to use the torchlight of the watchtower as a reference point. The soldier had kept his voice down so far and his compatriot was still standing watch on top, unaware of what was playing right beneath him. Did the Breton get tangled up in the bushes? Or did he run off for Whiterun? No, he wasn't like that. He had to be struggling through the field.


If my attempts at using the Nord's language had been terrible, using Cyrodiilic at this point proved to be simply disastrous. He took it as proof that I was some conniving spy or something!
"What is this? Some kind of Imperial trick? Did your general decide to violate our neutrality and pin the blame on Ulfric?" I cursed my inability to communicate. There was no time for stupid misunderstandings and powerplays. Whiterun had to be signalled before the dragon got here and sealed off the towertop. My mission was too important to be hindered. By anyone. While the Nord was dribbling and raving in my face, I cast my eyes at the chamber behind him and catalogued what I saw.


Bare stones, one nearly expended torch in a sconce, stairs circling along the outer wall on my right and ending in a closed trapdoor. Table and stools for two, two dirty plates showing pointing at an old meal. A few knucklebones between the plates, like the ones used in games of chance all across Tamriel. One bedroll in a corner. No crates, sacks, shelves or other signs to hint at a long-term occupation. Considering the distance to Whiterun, I considered it likely that the guards were relieved each day and simply brought their own meals. Enough food for a single day wouldn't take up much space in a pack. There had been two torches moving when I ran here and the table and bedroll suggested that two soldiers were all who occupied the place. One was now here trying to intimidate me. The other I couldn't see, definitely still up on top then.


How much time was left before the dragon would be roused from its sleep? Was it already stalking through the grass like an oversized wolf, avoiding the sound of wingbeats or its roar? Or did its cube-sensing ability diminish while resting and so it would remain where it was till morning? I didn't want to take the chance of being wrong and assumed that the beast was already moving in. Which left the guard. I tried one last time but couldn't even get a full sentence out before he started growling about Imperial honour or lack thereof. He wasn't giving me a chance to explain, though I doubted I could even if given the opportunity to do so.


I turned all of my focus on him next. I measured the tension in his muscles, the placement of his feet. The armour he wore, simple chain and yellow scarf that was Whiterun's uniform, and the weapon, equally simple one-handed axe looped to his belt. No helmet, probably considered too uncomfortable and unnecessary while on an extended watch with no superiors to enforce discipline. There were gaps in the chain as well, old impacts that hadn't been fixed. I would have to speak with Hrongar about that later. I might not be part of Whiterun's forces, but this kind of laxness irritated me. But that talk would not help this one unless he let go off me right this instant. If the watchmen weren't going to help I would just have to get them out of the way and do it myself. Even without knowledge of the specific signals, I should get a response out of the city if I made enough of a ruckus. Perhaps I could put fire to the tall grass at the tower's base, mimic an attack.


But before all that I had to deal with the Nord who was holding me. I listened to Them's babble and prepared a plan of attack. Once I was set into motion, there would be no chance for hesitation or second-guessing so I had to make sure I did it right.


A headbutt right after the man exhaled would stun him long enough and prevent any screaming while I drove my knife through one of the damaged areas over his gut and then upwards through the midrif to puncture the heart and lungs. Anyone's instinct at this point would be to open their hands which would give me the opportunity to kick the side of his knee, taking him off balance and preventing any last-moment counterattacks. That would remove one of two from the equation. I would not have the advantage of surprise and preplanned form of attack on his colleague but given the circumstances, I would just have to risk a direct confrontation.


I already had one hand on the dagger strapped to my back where it had conveniently been hidden from his view. The other plucked at the cord and grabbed a loose end so I could undo the knot and cut through it with one swift motion. The soldier's warm, stinking breath washed over my face as his lungs emptied.


Then, the dragon roared and set the forest beneath it ablaze in what I would swear was a fit of rage. Rage over the rabbit that bolted out from under its nose.


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For once, I was actually glad for the beast. Which surprised me for a moment.
"That is thing that is bad. Thing of Helgen." I said to the Nord. He'd already let go when he heard the roar. Now he looked to where the sound had come from and saw the fire. In an instant his angry frown made way for realization and with it fear.
"Shor's bones." He said and then threw his head up in his neck as he yelled at the other soldier. "Dragon, Jorlof! Get those fireworks lit! You know, from the new crate!"


The Nord drew me inside and shut the door behind us. A large board was set across to lock it in place. Fist wasn't going to get in now and I had the feeling the Nords weren't planning on opening it until half Whiterun was banging on their door. I hoped he had the good sense to stay clear now because I wasn't going to open the door either.
"We heard those sounds earlier today, but didn't think it was the dragon coming." The soldier said as if to apologize.
"You not know dragonsound?" I asked him and he gave me an incredulous look.
"Hey now, woman. Stormcloaks attacking from the west may be impossible, but there is a bunch of them sneaking around hereabouts like cowards. And they make horns to scare us. Us, or the Impies in that fort just up the road. We were just thinking it was more of that. Besides, how in Oblivion are we supposed to know what a dragon sounds like?"


Above us the trapdoor was thrown open. For a moment I saw a flashing of lights in every coloured, then my vision was cut off by the silhouette of a second Nord scrambling down the stairs, throwing the trapdoor back down behind him.
"Woah! That was too close. I could hear it fly over me." He cried.
"Never ran so fast in my life." He added.


And with that my part was done. Through Jorlof's warning signals Silent Fist knew I was here. The dragon knew I was here. And Whiterun knew. The best news perhaps was that I had not been forced to kill the two men. It wasn't that I would feel guilty over it, but how was I going to explain the two bodies with knifewounds?
"They actually did have a warning specific to dragons. I underestimated the Jarl."


Again I waited. The Nords threw fearful eyes to the ceiling every time we heard the beat of massive wings or felt the floor rumble as the dragon landed nearby. The creature was stalking the tower, soft tremors accompanying every step it took like wardrums. Until it stopped right before the door. That wasn't a coincidence.
"Same thing it did at the Barrow. Guard the exit and spit fire the moment something comes out. But that's ok. It's not going to do anything while I have the cube and when the Jarl sorties his army it will be driven away."



We waited and after some time of silence Jorlof drew up his courage. He moved to open the door for a peek but I took his arm and shook his head.
"No. It is still here." I warned him. As if to agree with me, there was a loud crash and the whole tower shook. Old plaster fell from the ceiling. Again a crash and this time some brick came down, forcing us to run away from the walls to the center of the room.


"By the gods! It is breaking the tower! We'll be buried!" The nameless Nord yelled. But that was impossible. I'd been sure of it! The dragon would do everything it could to retrieve the cube without risking damage to it. Only when retrieval became impossible would it seek to destroy it. All I was doing was hiding from it till I could escape, delaying its recapture of the cube but by no means making it seem impossible. It shouldn't be trying to bury us alive!


I'd miscalculated.

And the tension mounts! I'm glad too that Spar didn't have to kill those two numbnuts. Explaining stuff like that to the Jarl is likely to make things worse. Not a desirable outcome to be sure.

And where is Fist, indeed? I hope he survives this - I was getting to like the guy.

And here's the climax. After this just some tying up and we're ready for chapter 2.


Chapter 1.15


What could I do? All I had were the cube, my knife and the strange mask. Neither were going to stop a dragon. Unless...
"No" Them simply said to my idea. A stone fragment struck my back and I grimaced. I couldn't just sit here and wait to die. Which was pretty much all that Them could come up with.
"You're absolutely useless." I muttered and shut the voice out. I'd survived so far on doing stupid things. One more time wasn't so hard now.


Quickly I fastened the mask to my face. It was a loose fit but it would do. The tower shook again as the dragon threw itself against it. For a moment I thought it was odd that it hadn't broken through yet. It was as if it was trying to bring the structure down in a controlled manner. I waited till right after it struck the building once more, then I sprinted for the door, threw off the board and kicked it open. The two guards and their thoughts on my actions weren't in my mind. All that existed now was the dragon.


It caught sight of me almost immediately and paused. Was it confused at the appearance of someone who wore the mask of its guardian? I recalled the carvings on the walls in the Barrow. Winged men and processions watched over by the head of a dragon. I had been right all along. No, Farengar had been right. Dragons were worshipped in the past. So the men I'd seen were head-worshippers. Priests. Then the knife I held was not a weapon, but a tool of sacrifice.
"Blood turned into fire." I thought.


The dragon lowered its head and let out a deep rumble. But it didn't attack. I brought up my hands, one empty, the other holding the boneblade. Its edge went across my palm and sliced. I squeezed and let blood fall. The thick droplets didn't change into flames though.
"Symbolic exaggeration. Hope bleeding to death suffices."
It sat down on its hunches and stared at me now. I hadn't been burned or eaten yet though which I took as a good sign.
"I might just pull this," I thought. Then the mask slipped and fell away.


"Tafiir Nikrin." The dragon said to me and then rose up to pounce. Instantly I took the cube out and put my knife to it. The beast froze again but said nothing more. Its head swung back across its flank for a moment then returned to me. It was hard to keep a grip on the little stone box. My own blood was making the already slick surface even more slippery.
"The Jarl rallied. Of course. I made it too desperate." Whiterun had gone dark and whatever troops Balgruuf had sent carried no light. That meant they were slow and had to keep to the road. It also meant I had to keep the dragon pacified for quite a while longer. Just threatening its treasure wouldn't work. I needed more.


It had definitely uttered words. If I'd held any thoughts of it being just an animal, they were gone now. It could communicate. And that meant it could be manipulated.
"But I don't know Dragonish. What other languages would it know?" I had but three options. Modern Cyrodiilic, very crude modern Skyrimese and the first language ever conceived. Daedric. I didn't need to think what choice to make.
"It seems we are at an impasse. Care to negotiate?"


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The dragon seemed as surprised by my words as I had been by its. It needed a moment to clear its thoughts and form its next speech.
"Roti Nimuz. Rah Niwahlaan! Daedroth! Taazokaan Nisuleyksejuni!" Only one word was known to me. Daedroth. It believed I was a Daedra. That was not something I could take advantage of, but it had also let slip that it could understand what I was saying. Now that I could use.


"Refusing to use a language you are fluent in. You are a proud one. But it would help your case if you stepped off your throne and actually deigned to converse in a way that accomplishes mutual understanding." I said and waited for an answer. None came so after a while I shrugged.


"Your loss then."


The arrow stuck in its throat was still there. With all the flying around and towerbashing the being had done today, I considered it a miracle it hadn't fallen out yet. Right above it there was a bulge, a ridge that swelled and sank in a regular rythm. It was protected by an extra layer of thick scales that more resembled shields than a skin so it had to be important. Some sort of oversized Jugular?
"This is an interesting stone, isn't it? Or a box I should say." I said and lifted the cube slightly, being careful to keep the tip of the knife on it at all times. I had to keep the dragon thinking. As long as it was thinking it wasn't killing me and the army could get closer. If only I could get my blade between those plates. It was the best chance at killing the giant I had yet seen. But I'd be dead before I'd made a single step that way.


I had no idea what was inside the container. Going by the lack of weight and sound when shaken, I concluded that it was something soft and light. Probably a document of some sort.
"Yes, I solved the lock. It was only a simple rotational puzzle, a Scamp could do it. So, once again it is your loss. I already copied and documented the contents. So unfortunate you can't sense a replica."


The dragon protested loudly at that. Just where was its voice coming from? Its mouth didn't move in any perceivable manner when it spoke and it was far too large for proper vocalizing anyway. It sounded less like a voice really than a loud echo. In any case, I couldn't afford to be distracted now.
"It is rather useless to make demands when you know your words won't be understood. But I assume you have a brain and that therefore you were saying something along the lines of 'please tell me where the copies are'. Desires and needs. Now that's something we can negotiate on."



The 'negotiations' that followed were completely one-sided. And really it wasn't so much negotiating as me trying to win time while bluffing as little as possible. The dragon's continual refusal to use a proper language helped in this as it gave me plenty of opportunities to profess a measure of ignorance. Our conversation ended however when the watchtower came down around us.


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A particularly large boulder struck the dragon right on the end of its snout, between the two steaming nostrils. The giant smacked into the ground and collapsed.


"That's right! Don't mess with the sons of Skyrim! Bringer of the end-times? Hah! I spit on your bones and piss on your mother!"


I looked up at the yelling. Jorlof and his friend were standing atop the ramparts, shaking their fists at the air in triumph. The idiots had courage I supposed, but it was too early to claim victory. The dragon had battered several fortified structures into submission with its head. Just one small rock wasn't going to lay it out. It was meant to be dropped on distinctly human infantry, not a mythical creature almost as big as the tower they stood on. The Nords had just been lucky they hit it on a relatively soft and sensitive part, instead of the reinforced bonecrest that guarded its eyes and the top of its skull.


Within moments the dragon reawoke and got back onto its feet. It shook its head back and forth and hissed at the two men from Whiterun. "Dukaanu. Ahraani."


Now was my chance, and the last option I had left. The guards might have had a deathwish, but they did manage to avert attention from myself. I sprang forward, dropping the cube in the process. The dragon didn't notice as it was completely occupied with punishing the earlier transgression. It aimed upwards for the top of the tower, something which appeared to be difficult for it to do with the heavy plates running over the back of its neck. It had to take a big step back to get the right angle, which only meant a few more paces for me to run.


I slipped between its hindlegs and followed its belly. The crushed remains of debris and some arrows caked its scales here. I thought about adding my own and faltered for a moment. Were there any vital organs or arteries here? Likely, but my knife simply wasn't long enough to get through the skin and muscle. Gutting it was out of the question.
"YYYOOOOLLLL!!!" The dragon roared and sprayed its breath across the watchtower. I was at its feet now. My feet stamped down on one of its front paws as I jumped up at my target. Both my hands squeezed the boneknife's handle and I stabbed it into the big vein with a yell and a prayer.



The curved edge bit into a thick plate, then scraped off to the side. I lost my grip on it and the weapon, along with a piece of scale, sailed off into the grass.


"Mal Sahlo Mun. Werid Nosi. Vikkil." The dragon said to me. It was bleeding from where I'd struck it, but it was a superficial wound at best, not the fatal blow I'd intended. The creature shuffled closer while swinging its head in random arcs, like a swordsman trying to lure his opponent into a false opening. I was no swordsman, especially now that I didn't have a weapon. My eyes followed the arc the knife had taken but in the darkness it was impossible to see. Still, I knew where it was. If only I could get there.


The dragon kept approaching, feinting a pair of lunges as I pressed myself against the wall of the watchtower. I felt cracks and craters behind me and wished they'd been bigger so I could hide within them. It was a stupid idea. Still, I tried. Them spoke to me, wanted to take over. For what? So I could die without panicking? No, Them said. To kill it.
"About time."


Take one step forward to obtain room to move. Ignore the feints, wait for the hesitation that marks the real attack. Dive left, grab the knife. Dragonhead follows, expecting an escape. Turn, cut, follow the line of bone into its eye.


It roars and recoils, drawing its head away from the attack. The earlier wound near its throat swings within striking distance. I attack, drive the weapon into the open spot, there where a scale is broken. Hand slips off, duck to avoid its wing. I draw back, making sure to stay within its blind spot. The knife is stuck in the muscle now, deeper than before but not deep enough.


The dragon backsteps and beats its wings. Can't let it take flight, can't attack or hide if it is in the air. I try to find an opening, find none.
"ROH-DAAAH!"


The dragon is driven flat against the ground. A man runs up, forcing his way through the thick growth.
"Dov!" He says, "Rotmulaagi Zol Mul." It is the Breton mercenary. I run in to use the opening. Aim for the knife, leap and kick the handle, drive it in as far as it can go. Then I take distance. Now wait.


The dragon roars and spits fire across the plains. Again the Breton shouts, drives the flames away on the wind. He runs at the wounded beast and throws a fist at its snout.
He yells, "Haal Krii Slen!" And punches with his other hand.


"Haal Krii Slen!" Punch.


"Haal Krii Slen!" Blood leaps from the point of impact.


"HAAL! KRII! SLEN!"


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I didn't know how long I'd watched Fist attack the dragon or how many times he'd struck it. I was in a daze. Not just from exhaustion and fear, but also from what happened at the end. A Being of myth, whose breath reduced men to ashes, that pulverized fortifications by striking them with its skull. That could have a large knive sink completely into a vital artery and still not die. As close to unstoppable and invincible as it could get and what had finally been the end of it? A halfnaked mute who literally beat it to death with his bare hands!


I was wary about moving in for a closer look, afraid that it could get back up again at any moment. No, it was definitely dead now. It's skull had been broken where the man had struck it. Now it was nothing more but a shapeless mess of flesh, bonefragments and loose scales. Fist stood next to it like a hunter surveying his trophy, his arms folded across its chest. The arms that had slain a beast armies couldn't.


"Just what are you?" I thought out loud. Then the detachment of Whiterun arrived and there was no chance for me to unravel that mystery.


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OOC: Ok, I think I might have weakened the dragon a bit too much for this part. I mean, it was doing fine up till the point Spar starts to play it like a fiddle. Then the shirtless guy walks in and welp. That's all folks.


The dragon language that featured prominently in this update was gathered by browsing through the UESP's dictionary. This means that I hold no promise towards its accuracy, even moreso since I butchered the grammar to hell and back. Fist's Shout at the end doesn't actually exist in the game. I took that from the elderscrolls.wikia by going through the list of in-game Shouts and glueing together what sounded right.




By the way, does anyone want me to make a post with my terrible translation work so you have the Dragon's and Fist's words in plain english?