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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What a perverse place this is. I was delighted when, upon opening the door to Hrothmund’s Bane, I saw that the day was beautiful ~ crisp, white snow on the ground and a brilliant blue sky overhead. That’s when the bitter cold hit me, making me gasp and slam the Barrow door shut until after I’d broken my fast. Then, wrapped tightly in the fur cape, I made my way east towards Thirsk.

My return to Thirsk could best be described as triumphal: as I walked up the steep slope of the hill that leads to the Meadhall, the occupants were there to cheer and whistle. The doors of the hall were swung open as I approached and Svenja Snow-Song met me as I stepped inside. “All hail the Chieftain of Thirsk!” she yelled, a cry that was taken up by the people assembled there. With a smile, she extended the handle of a massive claymore to me, leading the cheer as I gripped the hilt of the Clanbringer, the traditional weapon and symbol of the Chieftain of Thirsk.

“I ken that ye have many demands upon your time Chieftain,” she said during a quiet moment when tables and chairs were being dragged into position. “And I ken that ye will no be here for much o’ the time while ye meet these demands. If it pleases ye, I will name someone tae be your second-in-command, tae run the Meadhall in your absence.”

“I think I know whom I want in that position Svenja,” I said, placing my hand on her shoulder. She blushed an interesting shade of red and dipped her head.

“It would be my honour,” she murmured. “There are a couple o’ matters that need immediate attention…”

“So, let’s discuss them,” I said. Svenja wanted to know if the hunters should continue hunting snow-bears and snow-wolves ~ the white fur of these creatures is highly prized in Nordic culture and the sale of them finances much of the work the Meadhall does as a travellers’ rest. Under the previous Chieftain, the hunters gathered pelts for him exclusively and she wanted to know if this practice should continue.

“No,” I responded, “I will take one pelt out of every ten, the rest are to be used to finance the Meadhall as it used to be. Is there anything else?”

“Mead,” she replied, “we have but a ten days’ stock afore we run out. Either ye’ll have tae order some, or I’ll need your authority tae do it.”

“Can’t have a Meadhall without mead,” I said, smiling at her. “You have my authority to order mead as you… we need it.”

“Then I’ll put an order in this very day,” she said as she turned away, “since it takes a week for shipments tae come from Skyrim.”

With the business side taken care of, it was time for me to meet and greet various people, like the author Bereditte Jastal. This Breton came to the Meadhall a year ago and, so enamoured was he of the rough and tumble lifestyle, stayed permanently. He had a gift for me; a beautifully engraved and decorated volume entitled The Chieftains of Thirsk. From the grin on his face as I leafed through the book, I had a fairly good idea of what I would find in the latter entries. Sure enough, there was written an account of my battle with the Udyrfrykte and my elevation to the position of Chieftain.

Jastal proved to be an intriguing conversationalist, well versed in his letters and an avid bibliophile. He had several volumes of books that he’d written ~ two of which caught my eye. The Song of Uncle Sweetshare told the tale of a kindly old Man who, on Old Life evening, distributed sweets to all the good children. I pondered on this, the description of the mythical Uncle Sweetshare sounded very much like the description of the Moon Sugar Poisoner who had struck at Fort Frostmoth.

Of much more interest was the volume entitled Sovngarde: A Re-Examination. This slender volume suggested that Sovngarde’s entrance didn’t exist in this world but that it is, instead, a portal for the dead. In other words, all a Nord has to do is die in combat and he will enter Sovngarde. I’m not sure, but I think that Ulfgar the Unending might have a slight interest in this.

Before I could follow up on either lead however, there was a great deal of merrymaking to be made. Mead flowed like water and there seemed to be an endless supply of mouth-wateringly succulent meat from the kitchens. Soon there was a full-blown celebration going on with wild Nordic dances and toasts to my health and long life (if only they knew). At one point I could have sworn that I saw Korst Wind-Eye in the crowd. There was a flash of a smile, and then he was gone. Of course, I was fairly… well, the phrase is ‘as relaxed as a drunken Nord’.

Of course, there were downsides. The bard, Bathmar Bold-Lute, insisted on questioning me on every little detail of my life and then singing a verse about it. Badly. And loudly. When the hall started to sway like a ship at sea, I made my excuses and staggered upstairs to the chamber prepared for me. A bed, a bed, my chieftainship for a bed…