The Tale of Sudhendra Vahl: The Hunter's Moons Options

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There was a hammering on my door this morn and, feeling a little bleary-eyed after last night’s festivities, I threw on a robe and went to see who was there. Outside stood a tall, fair-haired woman with brilliant blue eyes. She was carrying a huge pail, from which rose an appetising smell. Bobbing a curtsey, she stepped inside and walked to the table in the corner. Fetching a bowl from the shelf, she removed the cover from the pail and ladled a grey coloured gruel into the earthenware bowl. “Will ye be having the salt or the honey wi’ yer porridge?” she asked.

“Honey,” I replied, nonplussed. With a smile, she fetched a small wooden box from her apron and, opening it, she scraped a thick curl of honey from the comb inside and dumped it into the steaming gruel. Taking a spoon, I sat and tentatively tasted the stuff. The smell hadn’t lied ~ despite its unappealing appearance, the ‘porridge’ was very pleasant. A thick mixture of some grain and milk, boiled until it was thick and glutinous.

“I have messages for ye,” the woman said. With my mouth full, I indicated with my spoon that she should speak. “The Shaman wishes ye tae see, at your earliest convenience. An’ Snedbrir the Blacksmith has that you visit him asked.”

“Thank you…” I said, raising an eyebrow.

“Anyanka,” she replied, blushing slightly before beating a hasty retreat. As the door shut behind her, I scraped the bowl clean of the last traces of its contents and sat back with a sigh. Since the blacksmith’s forge was closest to Rigmor’s… my house, I decided to visit there first.

“Bloodskaal,” Snedbrir said, setting down his hammer as I stepped into the workshop at the back of his hut. “I have for you something more fitting than the furs ye’re wearing.”

I noticed my Templar armour sitting on a bench. The blacksmith had hammered out the few dents it had picked up and polished it until it gleamed. This, however, was not what Snedbrir meant. Beside the forge was a form, a simple block of wood carved into the rough likeness of a human figure. Adorning this mannequin was a set of armour. Made of a silvery-coloured metal, the tiny interlocking rings glistened in the light of the forge. Elsewhere, beaten panels of solid metal had been worked into various designs ~ swirls and knots predominantly, but there was a scene on the shield that ~ on closer examination ~ showed a stylised Dunmer battling a wolf-like creature.

“My Gods, it’s beautiful,” I breathed as Snedbrir lifted the ring-mail cuirass from the wooden form and helped me into it. It was quite a bit heavier than the Templar armour, but not so heavy that it would cause me a problem. The shimmering links of chainmail flowed like heavy water as I moved. In addition to the long cuirass, there was a pair of greaves, a pair of boots, gauntlets, pauldrons, and a massive helm. The huge, square shield completed the equipment.

Clad in my Skaal armour ~ shield slung across my back in imitation of the Skaal guards, I stepped outside ~ slipping the short silver-blades that I seemed to have inherited into the sheaths that Snedbrir had affixed to the belt. I wished that I had a reflecting glass but the admiring glances of the guards as I walked passed them told me how good the armour looked. Korst seemed quite impressed as I stepped into his hut, nodding his approval.

“A true warrior o’ the Skaal ye now look,” he said. We sat, and Korst told me that he feared that Tharsten Heart-Fang had met a similar fate to Captain Falx Carius. I got the impression that Korst Wind-Eye knew far more about what was going on that he would, or was willing to, tell me. Worried that pressing for an answer might offend the Shaman; I listened as he detailed what needed to be done.

“Afore he went an’ vanished, Tharsten was tae speak wi’ ye about something that needed tae be done. Did he?” I shook my head and Korst sighed. “So, a ceremony there is that we need tae perform. This ceremony is called the Ristaag. I have my suspicions about the threat we’re facing but the Ristaag will confirm it. There is a wee problem. Afore we can the Ristaag perform, we have need o’ a token o’ the Skaal. ‘Tis a necklace, simple leather wi’ a wolf-fang an’ a bear-claw on it.

“‘T’will take a fierce warrior tae get the Totem from Skaalara,” he continued, “and 'tis you that I’m sure should go. It cannae be coincidence that ye here should arrive just as these strange events start tae happen…”

“If you’re implying…” I said, cutting across what he was saying. “…That I had anything to do with whatever is going on…”

“Whist,” he said, dismissing my interjection with a wave of his hand, “the cause o’ the events? I think not. But the trigger that started these events: aye that ye may be. An’ for that reason, ‘tis you who should fetch the Totem of Fang and Claw from Skaalara.”

“What events?” I asked. The Shaman sat, lost in thought for a moment, and then responded to my question.

“Some ~ the disappearance o’ Tharsten an’ your Captain Carius, the sudden appearance o’ so many werewolves, the flames on the open ice ~ ye ken already. Some, such as the unquiet dead, ye dinnae know anything about. There are others that I will nae discuss wi’ ye at this time. Others have not yet come to pass and, askin' the One’s favour, willnae.”

“Unquiet dead?” I asked.

“There have reports been,” he said, “o’ the walking dead near tae Telos Rin. I’m no convinced that these have anything tae do wi’ the Blood…” he stopped suddenly. “Anything tae do wi’ the problems we’re facing,” he concluded. “Ye may want tae look into it. Telos Rin is down by the coast, speak tae the caretaker if ye’ve a mind tae investigate.”

Finding Telos Rin wasn’t difficult, I just headed over the edge off the hill and down towards the shoreline. The caretaker was a thin Nord named Fjolfr Brown-Eyes. He seemed to think that there are catacombs below the tombs but he knew very little about the recent disturbances: in fact, he asked me to report back to him if I discovered anything about them. With Fjolfr’s blessing, I entered the dark Barrow that housed the tombs of the Skaal.

The Barrow was quite small, just four chambers branching off from the main entrance. In one of the chambers, I discovered a Dragon-Slayer blade ~ a heavy, two-handed sword of the sort favoured by the legendary warrior Kilgarn. Despite its unwieldy size, I took this ancient blade ~ even if I cannot use it, it will make an excellent addition to my growing collection of artefacts. In one of the side-tombs I discovered a hidden door that led down into the catacombs below the Barrow.

A short, snowy passageway hacked into the ice led down to another set of chambers. The grey stone walls stretched away in front of me, broken on the left by a passageway. Deciding to head down the short passageway, I quickly found myself in a central burial chamber. The mouldering corpse that had been chained to the pillar of stone directly opposite the entrance to the crypt gave me pause for thought ~ as did the note affixed to its grinning head:

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Be Warned:

All who seek their fortunes amongst the remains of the dead shall find only remorse.  I will no longer stand by and let my family's remains be pawed over by mere thieves.  Leave this place, and remove nothing, lest fate deal with you as it has those who've come before you.

Above all else - do not approach the resting places of these honored warriors.  

You have been warned.



Melos Rin

Son of Felos "Bear Kin"

6th Year Necromancer

Well, you might as well wave a sword at a Nordic warrior as put something like that on a note in a crypt. Any self-respecting thief, rogue, or adventurer is going to be compelled to examine the contents of the tomb after a warning like that. I was no exception. The fluttering banner identified the scattered bones in the first niche as Felos Bear-Kin. Arrayed by the shelf were some fur-covered armour (from the bear’s head helm I guess that this was bearskin), a large, double-headed Nordic axe, and a small stone chest. This stone box yielded up five ten-Septim pieces.

Since nothing untoward had happened when I’d taken the coins, I moved around the chamber to the second niche. The rotting banner identified these bones as having been one Kelos Keen-Eye. Now this was more like it: there was a demon-bound longbow, three pieces of armour, and a chest containing ten five-Septim pieces. Touching the box seemed to trigger some form of summoning spell, there was a clatter of bone behind me and I turned to face three skeletal warriors armed with axes.

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A voice cut through the fog that filled my mind, saying words I could barely comprehend. “…skaal, are ye awake the now?”

“Whu?” I said, opening my eyes to see Korst peering down at me.

“I said,” he repeated with a grin, “Bloodskaal, are ye awake the now? But I ken I dinnae need an answer tae that question now.” I looked around blearily, taking in the wooden walls of the hut that the Skaal had made mine.

“How… how’d I get here?” I said, sitting up carefully, relieved to note that I seemed to bear no injuries.

“A couple o’ the guards went out tae find ye,” Korst Wind-Eye said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Found ye wandering up by the Mortrag Glacier.”

I saw the Spear of Hircine, propped up in a corner. “Tharsten!” I gasped, “He was a werewolf!”

“Aye Vahl Dark Elf,” the Shaman replied. “Long I’ve suspected something dark in the Chieftain o’ the Clan but had no proof. Word o’ his death came tae me on the wind and I ken that it was the work o’ your hand.

“Nay, dinnae fret,” he added as I started to say something. “As I say, long have I had my suspicions and tae hear it comes as no surprise. Although, a dilemma it does make for us. By tradition, if ye kill the Chieftain, then ‘tis Chieftain ye become. But you, Vahl Dark Elf, are not Skaal-born…”

“So I cannot be Chieftain?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Nae chance,” Korst said, smiling to take the sting out of his words. “Ye’d a bonny Chieftain make, that I ken. But an Outsider, a foreigner as Chieftain o’ the Skaal? No, ‘tis better, I think, if I lead the Skaal until we can a new Chieftain select. But ye have our abiding gratitude Vahl Dark Elf, now and ever more, ye and your kith an’ kin shall always find a welcome here.”

I thanked Korst for his kind words, a lump in my throat. He seemed to understand the reason for my clumsy words and patted me on the shoulder. “I willnae tell ye tae take things easily Vahl Dark Elf,” he said, “for I ken that is no in your nature. But ye’ve been as near tae death as any I’ve treated an’ brought back…” Assuring the Shaman that I would take things as easily as I could, I sank back onto my bed and relaxed while he let himself out. Then I rose and dressed, food was of some paramount importance to me right now.

“Vahl Dark Elf,” was a common greeting as I made my way from my hut and got some food, others simply nodded, or called me “Bloodskaal”. I understood that I had gained honour amongst these proud people and that the sobriquet “Dark Elf” was given not, as it would be elsewhere, as an insult but as a mark of recognition. To the Skaal I would, always and forever, be Vahl Dark Elf, Bloodskaal of the Skaal.

My meanderings through the village took me, eventually, to the hut of Lassnr: an elderly Skaal warrior with a sad tale to tell. It seems that his son, Tymvaul, fell down the well at the back of the hut. Because of the recent problems it has been impossible to send anyone down to collect the body. However, an interesting twist is that Lassnr believes his son is still alive.

“Would ye no go down and find him Bloodskaal?” Lassnr asked, hope shining in his eyes. I was uncertain, but I eventually relented and said I would. He grinned broadly and gave me a key to the well ~ which has remained locked since Tymvaul fell down it. Why did I agree? Well, as I was talking to Lassnr, my gaze fell upon several of the books scattered around Tymvaul’s bed. Books with titles like ‘Poison Song’ and ‘Corpse Preparation’ ~ pretty much standard reading for anyone interested in the Blackest of Arts. A shelf nearby bore a complete set of alchemical apparatus and a copy of ‘The History of The Mages Guild’. Interesting reading material for a young man Lassnr insisted was going to be a hunter.

The wooden cover of the well clicked open when I turned the massive iron key in the crude lock. Casting a Levitation spell, I descended into the darkness, very much aware of the lapping of water far below me. Even though I was expecting it, the shock of the icy water as it wrapped itself around my ankles made me gasp. Dismissing the levitation spell, I took the plunge ~ swimming down through a series of twisting channels until, lungs near bursting, I broke the surface in a large ice-cave.

I had kept a very careful lookout as I swam into the cave and had seen no trace of a dead body ~ nor was there one here on the ice-shelf that surrounded the pool. It would seem that Lassnr was right ~ Tymvaul had survived the fall and was now somewhere here in the caves beneath the village. Of course, given his reading matter, there was no guarantee that I would be able to talk to him.

This proved very much to be the case when I located Tymvaul, his arrogance would have done any Telvanni Master proud. From his rambling comments I gathered that he’d jumped down the well, not fallen as his father believed. The reason for such… odd behaviour soon became apparent. While we had been talking I had admired Tymvaul’s robe ~ a thick, dark material shot through with shimmering threads. Even from where I stood, on the other side of the cave, I could feel the power coming off it in waves ~ dark, malevolent power.

Tymvaul had discovered, from his research, that Rimhull (the caves we were now in) had been the home of a necromancer. And, again according to what Tymvaul had discovered, this necromancer had left behind the robe the young Skaal now wore: The Mantle of Woe. Listening to his grandiose plans and insane plots to seize control of Solstheim, then Morrowind Province, and then the Empire, I wondered if it was he who was mad or if the robe had some corrupting power.

It took a while but I convinced Tymvaul to relinquish the robe and seek power via a different route. I suggested that he travel to Vvardenfell and enlist in Great House Telvanni who would be delighted to hone his powers (and, if I had anything to do with it, his vague anti-Imperial feelings). Tymvaul showed me the easier route out of Rimhull ~ all that remained then was for me to speak to Lassnr. The old Man was delighted that his son stilled lived and thanked me by presenting me with five of the finest white bear pelts I’ve ever seen. It was as I was packing these into my pack that a sudden thought occurred to me.

Despite the poor visibility, swirling snow, and Korst’s fairly adamant comments that I was too weak to travel, I set off to the south as quickly as I could. I’d spoken to the two Skaal who’d rescued me from the ice and they had confirmed that they had found nobody else there. That left me still wondering: did Captain Falx Carius make it out of the Hunter’s Maze safely?

I really should have listened to Korst; within minutes the temperature had dropped from ‘bloody cold’ to ‘Oh My Gods’. Add to that the fact that the slight snowfall had thickened considerably, so much so that I was having difficulty seeing more than five paces in front of me. Just to prove the general perversity of nature, the blizzard didn’t seem to bother the bears, the boars, or the wolves. Fortunately I knew of a place I could shelter not too far away. Turning west from my planned course, I slogged through the worsening blizzard towards the Meadhall at Thirsk.

I knew of Thirsk from speaking to the Skaal. Thirsk was a group of renegade Skaal who didn’t follow the shamanistic rituals of the Skaal: however, there was a great deal of friendship between the two groups of people. Thirsk acted as a sort of traveller’s rest stop for the Skaal, providing accommodation for all who passed that way. I came upon the Meadhall in the snow, literally running into the broad wooden side. Placing my left hand on the side of the building, I began to make my way through the swirling snow.

Okay, two things. First, that’s a damn silly place to leave a tree-stump. Secondly, ouch! I had stumbled over a tree-stump as I made my way around the building, the protrusion made invisible by the snow banked up around it and the still swirling snow that was falling. Fortunately, the snow had cushioned my fall so the worst I had was a bruised shin. As I rolled over and regained my feet, I spotted a sliver of parchment fluttering in the wind. Squatting beside the stump, I dug out the parchment and the oiled-skin package that it was tied to.

Now this was interesting. The note was addressed to “S” and consisted of a simple scrawled line: “The Weak Do Not Deserve To Live”, and signed with the Nordic rune “E”. The contents of the package wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow… in the possession of an assassin. There was a pair of gloves, each ensorcelled with powerful charms of concealment and enhancement, a ring that gave one excellent vision in the darkness, a short dagger that was enchanted with a virulent arcane poison, and five slender Ebony arrows, the heads of which were coated with a dried grey substance that I suspected was a more mundane, but equally deadly, toxin. The Gods, they say, look after those who look after themselves. Since these were such deadly items, I decided that ~ whatever murder was planned ~ I would prevent it by taking the simple option.

Tucking the package into my pack, I continued around the building until I came to the main doors… the smashed main doors. I made my way inside to a scene of utter shambles ~ there were tables and chairs overturned and wounded Nords groaning. One of the assembly, a tall and attractive woman (as pink-skins go) with a shock of snow-white hair, came over and spoke to me. “My apologies traveller,” she said, “but we are, as ye can see, unable tae provide ye with… well, anything actually.”