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!




This post has been edited by mALX: May 13 2013, 07:24 PM

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?



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


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."





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

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.

This post has been edited by jack cloudy: Jul 16 2013, 03:26 PM

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.


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


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.

This post has been edited by jack cloudy: Aug 1 2013, 09:53 PM

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.

This post has been edited by jack cloudy: Sep 7 2013, 05:19 PM

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?