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

[Wolfie]

cool

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When the darkness that had obscured my vision cleared, I found myself lying on a slab of cold stone. The dark purple stone that formed the walls and ceiling told me instantly where I was. Shivering, I swung my feet off the slab and stood in the small chamber of the Daedric shrine. Nearby lay the Last Wish, Fang and Claw, along with the Skaal armour. Quickly I slipped the armour on and picked up my weapons. Then I explored the chamber, only to discover it was completely seamless. As I turned back to the middle of the chamber, there was a flicker and a huge figure appeared on the slab. Covered in short brown fur, the figure wore a fur loincloth and a mask, made to look like a wolf-skull, covered the being’s face. At first I thought the massive antlers were part of the mask but as it turned to look at me, I realised they grew from the creature’s skull. A massive spear completed the ensemble.

“Dark one,” the figure thundered, “it is long since I hunted one such as thee. Know thee now that thou art the last of my prey gathered here; the others have gone before thee. The leader of the western men, the master of the Skaal, the giant Karstaag, and the Dark Elf: all are here gathered for the Hunter’s Game.

“Only one of thee will survive the opening moves of the Game, played as it is with my brethren in the outer maze. He that survives shall face me in the true Hunter’s Game. Come dark one, let the games begin…”

The bizarre figure faded from view and, as it did so, the entire back wall of the cell faded as well ~ revealing the familiar ‘keyhole’-shape of a Daedric door. Clutching my weapons, I stepped into the shimmering mist that filled the doorway…

“Knight Vahl,” a shocked voice said, “it that truly you?”

I turned, barely suppressing a whoop of joy as I saw Captain Falx Carius coming around a corner. With a broad grin, I clasped the Captain’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Yes Captain,” I said, “it’s me. What happened to you, where have you been the last ten days?”

“Ten days!” he exclaimed. “It only feels like I’ve been here an hour. I woke up in a chamber just around the corner and some great damn’ thing told me I was part of some game. Then I found myself here.”

“The Hunter’s Game,” I said, explaining what I knew of the game to him.

“So, only one of us is expected to survive?” he said, giving me a slow look.

“Yes, but if we work together against whatever else is in here, both of us might make it,” I said. He nodded, sliding the regulation broadsword from its scabbard and moving to stand beside me as I slid ‘Fang’ and ‘Claw’ from their sheaths.

“One day, assuming we survive this, you’ll have to tell me about how you got those,” he said as we moved off together. The chamber was a maze, in the truest sense of the word ~ twisting corridors and dead-ends. These were not, however, the biggest problem. The masked figure had spoken of its ‘brethren’ ~ I should have realised that it meant werewolves. As we turned a corner and stepped into the next ring of the maze, there was a howl and a pair of werewolves hove into view at the end of the corridor.

“Damn’” Falx said as the creatures rushed towards us. Carius wasn’t much help in the ensuing battle; his steel broadsword couldn’t even raise a welt on the hides of the werewolves. However, his skilled thrusts and strikes provided an excellent source of distraction, allowing me to plunge my silver blades deep into lycanthropic flesh where the burning spells could wreak terrible damage.

In this manner, the good Captain providing a source of distraction while I laid waste to the werewolves, we proceeded into the heart of the maze. By hugging the right-hand wall, I was able to lead us closer and closer to the centre. There was, however, a downside to this: as we drew closer to the heart of the labyrinth, the corridors grew shorter and the corners more frequent. This meant that we had far less warning of an incipient attack the closer to the exit we got.

Trouble struck, as it usually does, from an unexpected quarter. We had just reached an alcove, inside of which were a crude wooden box and an ice-statue of a werewolf. The box contained a disk, made of some black metal with a glowing red centre. There was no note to explain what this thing was but I felt that it was important enough to take with us since it was the only thing other than the statue that we had seen. As we turned to leave the alcove, neither of us saw the statue twitch and change ~ converting from ice to living, breathing, bestial flesh.

Falx screamed as the werewolf’s claws tore through his armour like it was parchment, blood spurting upwards. With a curse, I span and neatly lopped off the werewolf’s head but the damage had been done. Kneeling beside the wounded Man, I started to recite the words of a healing spell. “No!” he snapped, rolling over and clamping a hand over my mouth, “I forbid it. I know you’re a Battlemage Vahl, but I won’t have you wasting your magicka on an old soldier like me.”

I protested that the spell was simple and consumed little of my reserves but Falx Carius was adamant on the point, even going so far as to make it an order to a subordinate officer. Furious, I helped him to his feet and supported him around the last few turns and twists that were all that separated us from the centre of the maze. The Daedric letters across the top of the arch that dominated the room simply said “Inner Ring”. I slumped on the stone bench beside the Captain, “looks like there’s more of this maze,” I said.

“You go,” he said, passing me the glowing stone disk. “We’ve killed everything in this section of the maze so I should be alright. Let me get my breath back and I’ll see if I can’t get out of here under my own steam. Now go, or do I have to make that an order too?”

Reluctantly, feeling as though I was sentencing the Captain to a lingering, horrible death, I took the disk and walked up the steps of the dais and through the glowing mist that formed in the centre of the arch as I approached…

“Vahl Dark Elf!” Tharsten Heart-Fang boomed, lowering his axe and wiping the splatters of blood from his face. “So that demon has you dragged into the game too? I thought as much when he spoke o’ the Dark One. ‘Tis good tae see ye.”

“Good to see you too Tharsten,” I replied. “Been fighting werewolves?” I added, looking at the blood splattered on the front of his armour.

“Aye, ‘though there’s no so many as there were,” he said with a chuckle. “Still, a friendly face and another couple o’ blades always welcome are.” I nodded and we set off through the maze of the Inner Ring, me leading the way by trailing my hand along the right-hand wall and Tharsten keeping a lookout for the inevitable werewolves. Of which we found plenty.

Tharsten, even though his axe was not made of silver, despatched werewolves with economic ease, the strength of the Man quite surprising. I kept my end up, slashing and slicing my way through many of the damn creatures. Again and again we were attacked, the number of lycanthropes in this section of the maze much higher than the outer ring. Battling our way through the maze, we came at last to the little alcove near the middle of the labyrinth. There was no sign of the ice-statue of the werewolf that I was expecting, nor was there a glowing disk in the crude wooden chest.

“A shame that Hircine chose you for this game,” Tharsten said in a deep and rumbling voice. “Ye’d have made a fine opponent back in the Mundus once I’ve gained more power.”

“Hircine,” I gasped; realisation dawning as I realised the creature I’d seen was the Daedric Prince Hircine. The import of Tharsten’s words as I had this revelation were not lost on me.

“Aye,” he responded when I asked him if he had the disk, “I the key have. And ‘tis me that’ll be the only survivor o’ the Hunter’s Game. ‘Tis time, I think, ye saw me in my true form…”

Even as the transformation swept over him, his face distorting into a snout-like shape, as his hands grew terrible claws and thick hair sprouted on his body, I was moving. ‘Fang’ punched a hole in his chest, the skin around it blackening and crisping ~ although I was unsure whether this was because the blade was silver or because of the darkly powerful spells woven into the fabric of the sword. “NO!” he screamed as I drove the blade deeper, his speech barely comprehensible given the nature of his transformation.

The naked body slumped on the floor, leaving me to wonder how the Chieftain’s armour had vanished. I rolled him onto his back and carefully took the small ring off his finger; something to show Korst Wind-Eye to prove Tharsten was dead. As I touched the ring I was suddenly assaulted with a vision of woods and prey, snapping jaws tearing the throat out of small fluffy creatures, stalking through the darkness with the moons shining down on me as I sought out two-legged prey. With a shudder, I dropped the ring back onto the corpse. After wiping my fingers on the nearby wall to cleanse them of the unclean feeling, I carefully wrapped the ring in some cloth and tucked it into my pouch ~ I had plans for Hircine’s Ring.

I also found the glowing disk under the body, resting on the double-bladed axe that Tharsten had favoured. Taking both, I followed the curves of the corridor around into the central heart of the maze. To my complete lack of surprise, there was another gateway here: one that filled with softly glowing mist as I approached…

[Wolfie]

great addition :goodjob:

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I found myself in a vast stone room, one side of which opened up into an even larger stone chamber. Spires of naked rock thrust their way up through the floor of the chamber and strangely coloured mists swirled and danced like living things. Down the slope stood the bulk of a truly mammoth creature ~ it could only be the frost giant Karstaag. Knowing that there was no chance of any rapprochement with the beast, I calmly prepared my most potent spells, hefted Tharsten’s axe and entered combat.

The Frost Giant roared as the three quickly fired arrows made impact ~ hardly an impressive shot given the huge bulk of the grey-furred beast. I followed those up with a quick fireball, which certainly attracted his attention. Huge paws quickly doused the smouldering spots on its fur before Karstaag lumbered towards me. I hefted the axe I’d taken from Tharsten, knowing that the arcane powers woven into the fabric of the Nordic steel would stand me in good stead.

Ducking under a ponderous swipe of a left paw (which would surely have beheaded me had it made contact) I laid steel to flesh, grinning as Karstaag howled its displeasure of the fire-based spells woven into the axe. I ducked again, my blow missing the bulk of the creature ~ too damn close to wield the axe properly. Rolling clear of Karstaag’s bulk, I put some distance between us, fumbling at the belt-pouch as I ran. Once clear, I spun to face the lumbering giant and threw one of my precious shuriken ~ the tiny steel star seeming ludicrously small when compared to the Frost Giant.

There was a spurt of blood as the hissing disk made impact, followed by an almost indistinct clatter as, impatient at the tiny sting it had made, Karstaag brushed it clear. I only hoped that it had been there long enough…

With a savage yell, I rushed past the hulking shape of Karstaag, whipping the axe across and making a handle-shivering impact. So sudden and forceful was the blow that it stopped me in my tracks ~ just long enough for Karstaag to make contact.

“OOOFFF!” I gasped, feeling myself tumbling through the air from the force of the blow. Clutching the shaft of Tharsten’s axe so that I didn’t drop it, I went with the motion, turning an uncontrolled flight into a tumbling roll. It still hurt like fire when I struggled to my feet: the blow must have broken a rib. Karstaag bellowed in triumph, huge shaggy paws pounding the floor as it ran towards me.

“Vigoratus meus vulnus,” I gasped, backing away as quickly as I could. As the sparkling white light wrapped itself around me, I broke to the left and ran around one of the broken pillars, putting its mass between the enraged Frost Giant and me. Worst of the damage repaired, I tightened my grip on the axe and ran towards the pillar ~ if I got the timing on this wrong I was going to be so dead.

As Karstaag lumbered around the pillar, my booted feet made contact with the stone surface. I grunted as I bent my legs and then leapt, using the angle and my speed to hurl myself clean over Karstaag’s head. Tucking myself into a ball, I flew through the air, straightening and whipping down with the axe as I flew like a Cliff Racer clean over the top of the Frost Giant. I landed untidily, forced to roll over and over before I gained my equilibrium. From behind me I was aware of a dull, interrogative grunt.

“Na Awyra? Ad 'u anadl ddyfrha!” I screamed thrusting both hands out at the Frost Giant. The effect was, if you’ll forgive the pun, electrifying. The air above the giant darkened and swirled, massive bolts of raw power spitting out of the dark clouds. The metal-bound shaft and steel blade of Tharsten’s axe ~ currently embedded in the skull of the burning, jittering Frost Giant ~ made an excellent conduit for all of that power as it sought to earth itself. Almost as quickly as it had come, the storm blew itself out ~ I didn’t dare maintain an effect of that power for too long.

I needn’t have worried. Karstaag, eyes now milky white from the lightning blast, took one, two, three lumbering steps towards me on burning feet and then ~ like a majestic oak that had been felled ~ he crashed forward, twitched once or twice and then lay still, unmoving and unbreathing.

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It has been a while since I updated here following the problems with the forum. So, over the next couple of days I'm going to catch you all up and then start posting the new bits again

[Wolfie]

I've been keeping up on the ES forums, but it'll be nice to have it all here

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“Impressive little mortal,” Hircine said, the antlered form of the Daedra Prince appearing on a raised dais as I retrieved the axe from Karstaag’s corpse. “I was sure that the Frost Giant would be the one to face me. No matter, thou hast shown that thou art worthy prey to face me.”

“Ready whenever you are you son of a Guar,” I snapped, displaying a confidence I didn’t feel. In Azura’s name, how was I supposed to best that: a bone-fide prince of the Outer Void?

“Stay thy hand,” Hircine boomed, twirling its spear like a baton. “To have thee face me in all my glory would be no contest at all. Tell me, brave little one, what is the greatest attribute a Hunter may have? Is it the strength to kill his prey, the speed to hunt it down, or the guile to catch it?”

I remembered what Rolf Long-Tooth had said during the Ristaag, that the ability to hunt the prey was paramount. “Guile, so that a hunter may take his prey unaware,” I replied.

“So be it,” the Daedric Prince boomed. “Thou shall face me in the Aspect of Guile. Ready yourself and make peace with whatever gods thou worship… prey.”

The figure of Hircine was surrounded by a glowing red circle of light ~ starting around its feet. Rays of crimson light sprang upwards, growing brighter and brighter until they obscured the massive form. Shading my eyes, I tried to see what was happening.

Something moving fast, something small and well-muscled, barrelled into me, knocking me from my feet and making me scream as a sudden fire burned up my left arm. Rolling on the ground, I scrambled to my feet, turning quickly to locate whatever that had been. There, a short way away from me stood a… well, miniature version of Hircine. Slapping the pouch at my waist, I withdrew another of my shuriken and hurled it with all my might at the diminutive figure.

There was a noise, the sound of air crashing into a hollow space as ~ in a dirty cloud of red-limned black smoke, the figure vanished; the spinning poisoned disk whipping through the cloud to clatter harmlessly against a nearby pillar. There was a puff of air on the back of my neck and I dove forwards as the Hunter’s spear tore through the air where my neck had been. Even as I scrambled to my feet, there was another puff of smoke and Hircine vanished, reappearing right over the other side of the huge chamber.

Rather than race over to engage in combat, for I had a pretty good idea of what would happen if I did, I stopped to take stock of my situation. The Aspect of Guile that I faced was fast and strong, that I had already experienced. It could also teleport itself with remarkable speed and, as the attack from behind proved, some degree of accuracy. I couldn’t count on the Daedric Prince running out of magicka any time soon ~ if it was magicka that powered the translocations; nor could I count on wearing the Aspect down since it would, in all likelihood, have all the stamina and reserves of the full-blown version of Hircine.

So, I couldn’t run it down, I couldn’t weary it, and I couldn’t count on it loosing the ability to move from one spot to another any time soon. Or could I? Looking up at the stationary form, I extended my hand and spoke the words of power that would still any magical powers used by the Prince of the Hunt, “Narro haud veneficus.”

The sparkling green motes of the Silence spell danced around the figure, fading slowly into it. Then, as if to mock me, the Aspect made three rapid jumps ~ one to directly in front of me, one to behind me, and one back to its original starting point. I groaned, clutching my left shoulder as the echoes of sardonic laughter rang in my ears. Front and back I had been pierced, the armour proving little protection against the sharp business end of Hircine’s spear. To my horror, I could feel a creeping paralysis in my arm and chest.

“Vigoratus meus vulnus,” I gasped, moaning as I felt flesh knit itself back together under the power of the healing spell. Whatever toxin the spear had introduced into my system ~ mundane or arcane ~ seemed to fade under the charm too.

Magic wouldn’t avail me here I realised. No, to win this contest I had to be sneakier than Hircine’s Aspect of Guile. With a joyous bellow, the Aspect disappeared, and I was twisting around even as that fact registered. The tip of the wickedly sharp spear whistled past my stomach and I clamped my hands firmly around the wooden shaft ~ throwing myself backwards and away. Taken by surprise, the Aspect loosened its grip on the spear and quickly vanished.

“HA!” I cried exultantly, brandishing the spear towards the distant figure. The figure raised a hand and some force tore the weapon from my grip, sending it flying through the air and into the hand of the Daedric prince. “Oh crap,” I said with some depth of feeling.

Wait… I had a plan. I grinned evilly, the Daedric Prince Hircine had just shown me how I could defeat it. Regaining my balance, I launched three fireballs in the Aspect’s direction. As expected, the figure blinked out of existence before they arrived, popping back into this reality directly in front of me. As it thrust the spear forward, I grabbed the shaft and tugged. There followed a brief tug-of-war as we fought for possession of the weapon. Knowing I must win, I spat the words of the Burning Blood spell at the figure. It howled, releasing its grip and vanishing, only to reappear ~ unmarked and unblemished ~ ten or fifteen paces away.

Confidently, Hircine raised its hand and I felt the tug on the spear. Only this time I was expecting it and didn’t let go, fighting the currents of magic that sought to yank the spear from my grasp. With a roar of frustration, the Daedric Prince increased the power of its spell. The force, doubled and redoubled beyond mortal ken, yanked on the spear, dragging it at speed towards Hircine ~ and dragging me along with it.

Before the Aspect could understand what was happening, the spear and I arrived at the same instant. Anchoring my feet, I twisted and thrust ~ driving the point of the spear deep into Hircine’s chest. Archetypal hunter, Lord of the Werewolves, Prince of the Howling Voids of Oblivion, tougher and more powerful than any thousand mortal men ~ it all availed him naught.

Powered by his own adamant will and incandescent fury, guided and aided by my hand, the spear tore into Hircine’s chest and punched out through the back ~ a pulsing red light spilling from the wounds. Tiny fissures appeared on the Aspect, each bleeding more red light until the chamber was brilliantly lit. Then, with a sound like the fall of mountains, Hircine simply ceased to exist. Clutching the spear, my head ringing and my face burned from the fires of the Prince’s passing, I staggered towards the glistening disk of mist that had appeared. Half-walking, half-falling, I staggered through the portal into the icy chambers I recognised from my arrival.

But all was not well, huge blocks of shivering ice were crashing down and I screamed again as one clipped my shoulder, the breaking of the bone audible even over the thunder of the hall’s ruin.

“Run mortal,” a voice echoed. “The time of the BloodMoon is finished for this era and thou has played thy part. But know thee this, the Hunt is far from over ~ the Moons shall again run red with the blood of my children and Hircine shall stalk the lands again…”

‘Run’ seemed like good advice, if only I could stand….

[gamer10]

Wow, you're great at this. Especially writing conversations. Very, very well done. I'd also like to note the spectacular battle scene.

:goodjob: :goodjob: :goodjob: :goodjob: :goodjob: <---- five whole jonajosas for you

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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.”

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“What happened here?” I asked.

“The Meadhall was attacked by a beast, the Udyrfrykte,” she said. “It came upon us without warning, out o’ the blizzard. I managed tae drive it off wi’ my bow but, as you can see…” here she made a sweeping gesture to indicate the chaotic state of the Meadhall “…not before it did considerable damage.”

Why, I wondered as I offered my assistance, did these things keep happening to me wherever I went? One would almost think that the powers that be are playing some sort of game with my life, thrusting me into one dangerous situation after another. Svenja Snow-Song, the woman who’d approached me, told me that the Udyrfrykte had its lair down by Lake Fjalding. With a sigh, I put on my helmet, unfastened my shield from the backpack and drew the Blodskal.

Locating the lair of the Udyrfrykte was simple; a child with no tracking skills could have accomplished it. The trail of bloodied snow, if that green liquid was blood, led in a straight line to a cave-mouth at the edge of the lake. The stench that came from the cave, thick and unpleasant, was ample evidence that some foul creature lived here. Bringing my shield forward, I entered the ice-lined tunnels and descended into the lair of the beast.

At the lower end of the tunnel was a large, almost circular, chamber. And, rushing towards me was the black, shadowy form of the Udyrfrykte. The weapon it bore crashed against the shield, warm droplets of something sticky splattering my face. I blinked; the sound of the weapon on the shield had rung with a decidedly ‘meaty’ sound. The weapon came around again, and this time my shield rose to meet it ~ the thudding impact of the two as I drove the weapon up and away echoed moments later by a gibbering scream as the point of the Blodskal etched a line across the creature’s hide.

The creature leapt backwards and screamed at me, the impressive array of needle-sharp fangs clearly visible in the darkness. With a bounding leap, it lunged forwards, the weapon arcing over its head to slam against my shoulder. Staggering though the force of the impact was, I remained on my feet and drove the Blodskal forwards. Thick green ichors began to trickle down the creature’s hide, releasing a truly horrible smell. It screeched and bounced backwards, coming to rest a few feet away and pounding the snow with its front paws. With a determined gritting of the teeth, I took a step towards it, drawing back my sword arm.

Green eyes widened perceptibly, and the freakish creature took several shuffling steps backwards before craning its head forward and roaring at me. So, some degree of rudimentary intelligence. I feinted left, expecting the creature to move to the right in response. I was not disappointed. The bulky creature immediately circled right and stepped straight into the whistling blade of the Blodskal as I whipped it around. There was an explosion of that foul green liquid as the body continued to the right and the head went left.

Seeking to prove to Svenja Snow-Song that I had killed the beast, I did what Rolf Long-Tooth had done during the Ristaag: cut the heart out of the Udyrfrykte and carried it back to the remains of the Meadhall at Thirsk. There, I discovered, Svenja had already organised the repairs and carpenters and craftsmen were scurrying around measuring, sawing, and hammering. “Ye’ve claimed the heart!” she exclaimed with some surprise. “In that case, there is one more thing ye must do afore ye become Chieftain of Thirsk.”

“Whoa,” I said, interrupting whatever she was about to say. “Where did this whole ‘Chieftain of Thirsk’ business come from?”

“Ye killed the beast and brought back its heart as a trophy,” she said. “That is only done by a prospective Chieftain. Tae confirm your position, ye need to go to Hrothmund’s Bane ~ a Barrow up by the Moestring Mountains. Speak the one name ~ Ondjage ~ and enter. There ye’ll find Hrothmund’s Axe. Lay a hand upon it and Hrothmund will speak.”

Since the Meadhall was unavailable and the blizzard showed no signs of abating, I was forced to do something I didn’t want to do. Setting my pack on the ground, I unfastened the scroll-box and, from within, I took one of my precious Divine Intervention scrolls. Shouldering the pack, I spoke the words on the scroll ~ feeling that momentary disorientation that accompanies sudden and inexplicable travel over vast distances. Ignoring the stares of the soldiers as they caught sight of my armour, I raced up the stairs and burst into the Officer’s Quarters.

“Carius!” I yelled with a big smile when I saw him standing by his desk, talking to Saenus Lusius. “How in Azura’s Name did you get out of the Huntsman’s Hall?”

“I have no idea knight Vahl,” he replied, extending his hand in the western fashion. For once, I over-came my reluctance to shake hands and grasped his outstretched hand. “I do know that, if it hadn’t been for you, I’d have been wolf-food. In recognition of your sterling work, I’m promoting you to the rank of Knight Protector. See the quartermaster when we’ve finished here.”

We sat, drinking mulled Holly-berry wine and talking of what we had seen in the haunts of the Daedra Prince. Naturally out words touched upon many other subjects and I spared no ire when I spoke of the Skaal and their opinions of the Legion and its disrespect for the land the Skaal worshipped. Carius, in his turn, spoke to me of some of the tales he’d learned whilst he’d been stationed here. One was a fairly standard tale of pirate’s treasure, vast amounts of illegally obtained Septims ripe for the taking somewhere on the island. The other tale was of Brodir grove, and the standing stones there. According to what the Captain was told, an evil wizard turned five brave warriors to stone.

I also spoke to Jeleen, the priest of the Imperial Cult. He told me that he was worried about a missionary by the name of Marisa. She, it seems, had gone north to the Skaal village to preach and has not returned. I promised that I would make enquiries when I returned there on the morrow.

[Kiln]

Cool. Nice read.

[OverrideB1]

There are few things left that I wish to accomplish on this island. Of these, the most important would seem to be locating and entering Hrothmund’s Bane. So, despite the heavily clouded sky and the bitterly cold wind, I packed some provisions and set off to the north again. A check of my map showed that I could accomplish one of the things I wished to do on my way to the Moestring Mountains. Namely, visit Brodir Grove. Saenus Lusius and Falx had spoken of this grove with its ring of standing stones and the tale that the Captain had told me last night had intrigued me greatly.

The grove turned out to be quite beautiful, the thick trees around the standing stones giving the place an odd splendour. The stones themselves were obviously of great age, great slabs of grey rock that, if looked at out of the corner of the eye, did seem to bear some resemblance to a standing figure. I was about to move away when a tall Nordic warrior approached, addressing me in a strangely archaic manner.

“Thou, what art thou here doing?” the figure demanded.

“I had heard of Brodir Grove,” I replied, “and wished to look at the standing stones for myself.”

“Standing stones!” the warrior said, snorting laughter. “No standing stones those, but the remains of mine faithful companions turn’d tae stone by that stinkard Grimkell.”

Ulfgar, the warrior, told me that he and his companions had come here on a quest but Grimkell, the wizard, had betrayed them ~ turning three of Ulfgar’s companions to stone. For the last five hundred years, according to what he said, Ulfgar has been searching for the entrance to Sovngarde. Of course, I had to make Ulfgar explain what Sovngarde was ~ turns out it’s some form of mythical fortress where Nordic warriors can quaff mead and fight each other forever. It sounded like a recipe for damnation to me, but Ulfgar seemed quite eager to get there. I told him that I’d heard nothing of Sovngarde but that, should I gather any information, I would return and speak to him.

I headed northwest through the gathering storm, the skies are definitely brewing up some very unpleasant weather. I stopped at a place called the Eddard Barrow to partake of my midday meal. The locked door of the crypt quickly yielded to my spell and the bone-wolves inside presented very little problem. It was in this Barrow that I discovered an enchanted helmet ~ the Helm of Bear-Scent ~ and four volumes of Wolf Queen, two of which I’ve never read. Having completed my repast and packed away my latest acquisitions, I headed out of the tomb and continued north.

Things were looking grim; as I approached the Moestring Mountains I could see that the peaks were wreathed in dark, roiling cloud and a strong wind buffeted me as I made my way up through the passes of the range. It was shortly thereafter, as I was threading my way along a treacherous slope, that the skies finally disgorged their load. The first few flakes fell softly, seemingly unaffected by the stiffening winds. Within minutes, however, the snow was falling like a curtain, whipped into phantasmagorias by the howling wind. I have been in many blizzards since I came to this frigid isle but this is the worst I’ve seen.

I need to get out of this, the temperature had plummeted to the point where each breath hurt and walking against the wind is near impossible. Walking with the wind seems a sure recipe for disaster. Add to this the fact that visibility is down to mere inches ~ I can barely make out the shape of my hand when I press it against my nose. This will be the death of me…

After stumbling along for a little while, I came to a cavern entrance of some kind, maybe a Barrow. When I placed my hand upon the door, a deep resonate voice spoke, saying, “What is my name?”

“ONDJAGE!” I shouted over the roar and howl of the wind. With a grinding noise that was audible even over the storm, the heavy stone door swung open and I stumbled inside. I gasped, shivering as the heavy door ground shut behind me ~ various torches and braziers springing to life as though aware of my presence. Shucking off the matted fur cloak and leaving it near the doorway, I huddled close to one of the burning braziers and took a look at my surroundings.

The niches cut into the walls were empty; in fact they showed no sign of ever having been used. Dominating the centre of the Barrow’s inner chamber was a massive stone platform. Ossified fragments of bone showed that this had been the resting place of a warrior. More interesting, however, was the truncated stone pillar ~ decorated with swirls and spirals in the manner of the Skaal ~ that stood near to the platform. Buried into the top of this pillar was an axe of truly gargantuan proportions. Either the axe had been made to impress the Oblivion out of anyone who came to the Barrow or Hrothmund had been a giant of a Man ~ even amongst his fellow Nordic warriors.

Spitting on my hands, I grasped the handle of the axe ~ fully intending to see if this massive weapon could be removed from the pillar. No sooner had my hands touched the shaft than the same hollow voice that had greeted me outside spoke again. “Why come thou here Sudhendra Vahl?”

“I have come to claim the chieftainship of Thirsk,” I replied, surprising myself. It hadn’t been my intention to say that, some strange impulse had made me speak the words ~ I certainly didn’t intend to spend the rest of my life shivering in the Meadhall directing the actions of a bunch of drunken Nords.

“Thou hast destiny writ upon thee,” the resonate voice stated, “and many are the tasks set before thee. Many are the dreams I see thee in Sudhendra Vahl, and thou cuts through them all like an axe. Nor art thou of Nordic blood, yet a warrior true thou art.

“Know thee now that I give my blessing, thou art named Chieftain of Thirsk, now and ever more, unto the end of thy days,” the voice concluded. Which, I thought wryly, might be a good deal further away than you suspect.

To my joy, I quickly found the Amulet of Infectious Charm, the trinket that Louis Beauchamp had asked me to find. It was basically sitting there on the same pillar as the axe. Tucking it into a pocket, I undid my bedroll and settled beside one of the braziers. It might seem morbid of me to spend a night in that crypt but, since the alternative was stepping out into the storm that still raged outside, it seemed the lesser of the two evils.

[Fuzzy Knight]

I really dont know what more I can say about your story.. Think I need a dictionary because its just so freaking great Override!

Keep it up!

[treydog]

As always, wonderfully descriptive. Your words create a world that the reader can step into effortlessly. And Sudhendra's continued growth has been most enjoyable to watch.

[OverrideB1]

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…

[OverrideB1]

My mouth tasted like the great deserts of Elsweyr when I awoke this morn. And my head rang like thunder. Oh wait, that really was thunder. Peering out of the window, I looked out onto a grey and miserable day ~ overcast and wet. Just what I needed. Forgoing break-fast, I stepped out into the cold and the rain, allowing the fresh air to wash away the cobwebs that seem to have accumulated overnight. Then, feeling much refreshed, I set a course for Brodir Grove.

The walk through the forests of Solstheim was just what I needed after the overindulgences of last night. The fresh air, cold and wet though it was, acted as the best tonic in the Mundus and I was soon feeling much more my old self. By the time I came to Brodir Grove, I was feeling pretty pleased with myself for having solved Ulfgar’s problem. Of course, at that point I hadn’t really considered the consequences of giving the book to the ancient Nordic warrior, nor had I considered what his likely reaction would be.

“Kill me,” the Nordic warrior said, putting down the book.

“What!” I exclaimed, completely taken aback.

“I want thee to take up thy sword,” he said, enunciating every word clearly, “an’ I want thee to hit me as hard as thee can. O’ course, since ‘tis an honourable death that I seek, I will try to kill thee too.”

“You’re insane,” I replied.

“D’ye think me so isolated that I’ve no heard that thee battled a Daedric Prince and won the day?” he said patiently. “Or that I’d no hear that thee were Chieftain o’ Thirsk? Thou art a bonnie warrior and tae battle thee would be honourable.”

I looked at Ulfgar aghast. I’d brought the book to him in the hopes that he would find the peace that he so desperately sought. Engaging in combat with him had not even begun to figure in my plans. “I absolutely will not fight you,” I said.

There was a brief moment when there was complete silence, and then it was broken by the unmistakable sound of steel on leather. I was already moving when Ulfgar’s blade crashed against the stone I’d been sitting on, striking sparks. Recovering quickly, the warrior aimed a blow at my head, the edge of his sword chipping off chunks of the ice as I ducked. Unfortunately these two moves had placed Ulfgar between me and the entrance to his abode.

Grimly I drew Blodskal from its scabbard and Ulfgar’s next blow crashed against steel. Driving the blade aside, I slashed at the old warrior ~ forcing him to jump backwards. His return blow made my blade sing, the vibrations shaking me as a second blow crashed against the Blodskaal. I realised that I wouldn’t overpower Ulfgar ~ skill, not brute strength was needed here. Leaping backwards, I threw the Blodskaal at him, his broad blade sweeping up to knock the weapon aside. With a deadly whisper, twin silver blades slid from their scabbards as I squared up to the old Man.

“Now this is more like it,” Ulfgar yelled, dropping his shoulder to block the left-hand blade with his heavy pauldron while he blocked the right with his own sword. “This what I call a fight.”

I grinned as we locked sword, my blades crossed in front of me to trap his. Twisting slightly, I hammered by elbow into his exposed face. With a bellow, the ancient Nord stepped back, blood dribbling from his nostrils. For the next few seconds, the only sound in the cave was the distinctive clash of metal on metal as we lashed out at each other. The edge of his blade nicked my cheek, drawing blood. The grin on his face faded as I returned the favour ~ snaking past his defences to slash a cut just above his right eye.

Warily, we backed away from each other, circling on the slippery floor as we sought an opening. With a quickness that belied his size, Ulfgar whipped in a blow that I only partially blocked. I gasped, staggering backwards as the heavy blade hammered into my ribs. Despite the rippling chainmail, I felt blood start to flow where the blade had impacted although I didn’t think it was more than a slight wound. More determined than ever to finish this fight that I’d wanted no part of, I extended my hand and launched a fireball at the Nord.

His eyes widened as the glowing sphere hit him, the force of the impact hurling him backwards to crash into the supporting wall. Using the lack of friction on the floor, I swooped in low and fast as he started to straighten up. With sickening thuds, the silver blades tore through flesh and armour ~ one ripping his helm from his head and slicing a flap of flesh over his temple; the other punching through the steel cuirass and tearing into his lung. He swung wildly, the blow deflected by one blade as the other crashed into his shoulder and shattered bone. The uppercut from the blocking blade caught Ulfgar unawares, enlarging the tear in his armour as it cut deep, the blade snagging on bone as it tore upwards. With a whooping gasp, the ancient Man staggered back a step before crashing to the ground. Throwing down my swords, I rushed over and knelt beside him.

“Dinnae fret,” Ulfgar wheezed, a thin trickle of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. “Thou fought the good fight Chieftain and, had I the use o’ mine arm, I’d salute thee.” He coughed, the force of it shaking his body. When he had managed to draw in another few shallow breaths, he said, “I dinnae ken what will happen next but, if I am able, I will speak to thee from the entrance tae Sovngarde.”

Those were the last words the living Ulfgar spoke to me, he coughed and exhaled ~ and drew in no fresh breath. Sadly I lowered his head to the floor and stood up. I bitterly regretted purchasing that damn’ book and was furious with myself for loosing control in that way. There had been several occasions when I could have broke free of combat and left Ulfgar’s home ~ I was fleet enough of foot that the Nord would have been unable to catch up with me. Melting some ice in a pot over the still burning fire, I cleansed Ulfgar’s face. Then, placing his sword in his hands, I covered the body with one of the thick furs from the bed and stepped outside.

“I thank thee for the honour you hath performed,” a soft voice whispered in my ear.

“ULFGAR!” I exclaimed, spinning around to locate the source of the voice. There was nothing behind me.

“My wish is that ye hath mine sword, Stormfang, and the cape aside my bed,” the voice whispered as I continued to scan the grove for a source. “A final boon. Each of the stones will grant thee mine companions greatest attribute whenever thee comes here and touch the stones.” The voice had been growing fainter and fainter as it spoke. Fading away, the spirit of Ulfgar spoke one last time, “Fare thee well Sudhendra Vahl, Bloodskaal and Chieftain of Thirsk.”

Having taken the wergild that Ulfgar had offered, I sat on a stone on the edge of the grove and contemplated what I had just heard. I do not count myself to be particularly religious but events were fast convincing me that there were mysteries in the Mundus that I didn’t understand. Fedris Hler spoke of the Goddess Almalexia with awe, and I knew that Sotha Sil and the Lord Vehk both existed. I had come face to face with a physical manifestation of a Daedric Prince and other Princes had spoken to me without the rigmarole of being summoned on specific days by specific rituals. And now the dead had spoken to me from beyond the grave. It was enough to make a girl shave her head and enter one of the cloisters of the Imperial Cult. Except, I reflected, that no Divine had ever spoken to me despite my many travels in many lands. Only here in the wastes of Vvardenfell and Solstheim had I touched the divine, which was certainly something to reflect upon.

In a philosophical mood, and for no other reason that the scenery looked attractive, I slung my new cape over my shoulder and headed west. Perhaps, in the back of my mind, I was hoping to find the missing missionary Marisa. Of course, expecting the fine weather to last on Solstheim is like expecting the Empire to hand back a year’s tax. One moment the sky was clear and cerulean, the next it was full of heavy grey clouds and there were spinning flakes of snow hastening on their way to the ground. Settling the hood over my head and wrapping the cape close, I hurried onward in search of shelter before the weather turned really nasty.

“Of course you can,” the sightless Nord said, throwing open the door of his abode as I approached.

[Wolfie]

That was cool, i like the way she treats Ulfgar's body with honour after she kills him

[OverrideB1]

“Can you provide me shelter?” I asked before I realised what the Man had just said.

“Geilir the Mumbling,” he replied as I stepped inside.

“To whom do I say thank…” I started to say, before stopping and making an annoyed sound.

“I know; it’s annoying isn’t it?” Geilir said with a smile, moving a chair unerringly in my direction and motioning me to be seated. “And no, I can’t.”

“Could you stop doing….” Once more I spluttered to a halt as I realised the blind Man had already answered my question.

“Oh, since the ship capsized and I was washed ashore,” Geilir said. Then, in a softer voice, he said, “When my wife and children died.”

I thought about what he’d said, and then asked the question, “how long have you been able to do this?”

“It has its compensations,” he said brightly, “and I live here with my companion quite happily.”

“That’s terrible,” I said after a moment’s thought. Talking to Geilir was both difficult and disconcerting.

“She was kidnapped, taken by Draugr,” he said, his brow furrowing. “They’re holding her in Kjolbjorn Barrow.”

“Where is your companion?” I asked ~ unable to stop myself, and then I spat a mild curse as I realised what I’d said.

“That would be most kind of you,” he said. “I cannot promise much of a reward, but Oddfrid White-Lip and I should be able to tell your fortune.”

I nodded, scarcely needing to ask the question that I had been formulating. Still, for politeness’ sake, “I could go and recover your companion.”

The sky was still heavy with snow, although only a few errant flakes were spinning out of the grey clouds. Looking at them, I knew that much more was promised. A quick check of my map was all I needed to confirm the location of Kjolbjorn Barrow ~ I had visited it but two days ago. Although, I must confess, there had been but one Draugr in the tomb and no sign of a companion. I suppose that the kidnapping only happened yestere ~ although I got the impression it was longer ago than that.

Kjolbjorn Barrow was as I’d left it; only the corpse of the Draugr was now stinking up the place. Casting a revelation spell, I checked for hidden doorways but found nothing. With a sigh, I sat on the stone pedestal and picked up the skull that was lying there. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find a lady by the name of Oddfrid, would you?”

Receiving no answer, I returned the skull to the spot I’d picked it up from and slowly toured the small Barrow again. This third circuit of the rocky walls failed to turn up any hidden doors that I’d inexplicably missed on the previous two circuits. Returning to the entrance, I stood there with my hands on my hips, biting my bottom lip as I surveyed the dark, cool, chamber. My gaze fell on the central stone plinth and a terrible, terrible certainty dawned in my mind.

“Oddfrid White-Lip, I presume?” I said, picking up the skull again. I think Geilir and I need to have words.

“But I know she’s naught but a skull,” Geilir said as I burst into his hovel, shouting, “you sent me to get a damn’ skull?”

“Because I was…” he started to say.

“BE QUIET!” I thundered angrily. “DO. NOT. SAY. A. WORD. UNTIL. I’VE. FINISHED. SPEAKING.” Then, in a much calmer tone of voice I asked, “why didn’t you tell me that I was supposed to be looking for a skull?”

“Cause I was afraid you’d not go,” he replied.

“Fair enough,” I said. “Well, here’s your damn’ skull.”

Unerringly, the blind Man caught the skull I’d tossed towards him. As he closed his hands around it, the hut darkened and there was a susurration of sound, as though of a voice whispering. In an odd ‘doubled’ voice ~ as though two people were speaking at once ~ that made the hair on the nape of my neck stand up, Geilir said, “The Dragon Dies. The Empire Falls. The Lost Blood Of The Dragon Is The Empire’s Sire. When The Marble Gates Of Oblivion Open And The Blood Tide Runs, The Hand Of The Blood Shall Stem The Tide.”

“No that wasn’t for you,” Geilir said as I asked, “what the Oblivion was that?” I glared at the blind Man, earning a brilliant smile in return.

“You’ll meet a tall dark stranger and gain lots of money,” Geilir snapped as I said, “so, what is my fortune?”

Frustrated, I nodded as politely to Geilir as I could and stepped out into the still gathering storm. I tried very hard to ignore Geilir’s parting “I’ll see you soon Vahl.”

Not too much further west, I came to the shore of the island and, turning roughly southwards, I followed it back towards Fort Frostmoth. The landscape changed dramatically, thick sheets of ice extending out to sea. Ahead, through the glare, I could see a tall, dark-haired Man standing on a rocky outcropping. “Ahoy there,” I yelled, dropping my hand onto the hilt of the Blodskal just in case.

“Ahoy,” he replied, friendly enough. I scrambled up onto the rock and walked across to him. I was paying no attention to the fact that I’d just met a tall, dark-haired stranger. Thormoor, for that was the stranger’s name, told me he had been a Captain aboard a ship bound for Solstheim from Skyrim. Unfortunately an excess of mead had made him fall asleep at the wheel and he’d capsized the boat. When he said that he and one other were the only survivors, I got that funny feeling again.

“Blind Man?” I asked, hoping he’d say no, “Answers to the name of Geilir the Mumbling?”

“The very same,” Thormoor said, still gazing out to sea. “He cursed me to eternal wakefulness. So, every day or so I come down from Thirsk to stand here and look out to sea. I find it very… restful.”

“I know Geilir,” I said, “perhaps I can intercede on your behalf?”

“If you like,” he said.

Leaving the apathetic sailor atop the rock, I retraced my steps and approached Geilir’s hut. As I drew close, the door swung open and the blind seer stepped out. “If you wish,” he said, “you may be right that Thormoor has suffered enough. And no.”

“Will you stop doing that?” I exclaimed, then I cursed when I realised that I’d already had my answer. Geilir laughed and returned to his hut, closing the door in a manner that suggested that he and I had no further business to transact.

Thormoor Gray-Wave was almost asleep on his feet when I returned to the outcropping of rock. He thanked me for speaking to Geilir and, amidst great yawns, told me that I should speak with him on the morrow ~ after he’d had some sleep. As he stumbled off, I turned my face to the western sun and headed back to Fort Frostmoth for the night.

[OverrideB1]

Since yestere’s exploration of the eastern side of the island had revealed no trace of Mirisa, I decided that I would try and cover the western side of the island today. After some fairly good-natured jests about my new style of clothing, I packed some provisions and set off. The first Barrow I visited, Frosselmane, turned out to be completely empty ~ if you didn’t count the ice-wrapped figures tucked into the niches cut into the wall. I wish the same could have been said about Himmelhost.

The Himmelhost Barrow was the final resting place of a pirate crew ~ except that they were not resting peaceably. I had entered the Barrow and ventured down the outer corridors to the inner burial chamber when the skeletal pirates attacked from the darkness. There was some spirited swordplay and quite a lot of magic before I had destroyed the main part of the crew. The Captain, however, seemed impervious to magic and was far tougher than any skeletal warrior I’d ever faced. Clearing my mind, I spoke the words that would summon assistance in the battle, “Brythwch hysbryd, alwa 'ch ata.”

Brittle bone cracked and splintered under the impact of the Atronach’s clenched fists, the sabre the skeletal pirate was wielding making no impact whatsoever on the tough hide of my Summons. The second blow stove in the ribcage and the third smashed the skull into spinning white shards. I grinned as, deprived of whatever motive force that had animated it, the skeleton crumbled to dust. My pleasure at the ease of the defeat was short-lived.

With a terrible grating sound, the Atronach’s head turned towards me ~ banked fires smouldering in its eye sockets. I felt my control over the Daedra slip and, quicker than I had ever seen one move, the Atronach had turned and was bearing down on me. I tried to re-establish my control over it but the bone-jarring impact of its fist on my mailed chest was a fairly clear indication that I had failed.

I crashed off the wall behind me, just managing to stagger to one side as a bunched fist hammered dust off the wall where my head had been. Rolling away from the conflict, I scrambled to my feet and hurled a fireball at the Atronach. I might as well have thrown snow at it for all the effect it had. Muttering curses under my breath, I dodged around the corner of the Barrow’s corridor, drawing my sword as a flickering sphere of lightning exploded against the wall. Shucking off my pack, I raced around the narrow passageway ~ seeking to come up on the Atronach from behind.

The huge fist that crashed into me as I skidded around the corner reminded me that, while such a creature might not look like the sharpest dagger in the set, Atronachs (and all Daedra) had a scary amount of intelligence. Shaken and bleeding, I back-pedalled quickly, slashing out with the Clanbringer as I did so. The heavy serrated blade struck sparks from the tough material of the Atronach ~ causing the thing to roar in anger as the blade’s vicious enchantment bit home.

Huge gouts of raw energy exploded around the Atronach, a swirling storm of lightning as it focussed on me and started to advance ~ the crackling sphere of instant death that was forming between its hands glowing and growing. I squared off, preparing to strike as hard as I could with the heavy claymore before the Daedra could launch its spell. I had forgotten, in the adrenaline-rush, that time was on my side.

There was a roar as a field of sparkling yellow motes surrounded the Atronach, the solid form suddenly becoming translucent. With a last, furious roar, the Atronach launched the shock-ball at me as it dissolved. I gulped as, scant inches away, the swirling energy sphere dissolved and faded from the Mundus. I slumped against the wall, shaken to my core: like most Mages, I’d heard tales of a Summons turning on its Summoner but had dismissed them as a sort of myth. Now I knew better and I would have to revise my opinion of the usefulness of summoning any form of Daedra. Obviously continued reliance on such creatures had eroded my ability to control them.

It was in this pensive mood that I searched Himmelhost Barrow, the treasures that I found there doing much to lift me from my dark mood. Several rotting sacks yielded up a couple of hundred Septims and the darkly sparkling black Ioun stone I discovered tucked into the bottom of a chest were nice booty. Add to that the sabre and the note I discovered amidst the shattered remains of the pirate Captain. The sabre was nicely balanced and woven with dark and ancient magics: but it was the note that attracted me the most. It spoke of a treasure, pirate’s treasure, buried in the muck at the foot of a stone arch near a ‘house of the dead’. I had seen several such rock-bridges during my travels although I couldn’t remember seeing one close to a tomb.

Pausing only to drink a couple of restorative potions, I continued heading northeast ~ in the general direction of Thirsk. I had not gone far from Himmelhost when I espied a massive stone arch looming up ahead in the swirling snow. Altering my course, I bend down and struggled against the bitingly cold wind, which was howling out of the north, and made my way towards the formation. Close to a holly-bush, under a patch of muck, I discovered a rotting chest.

The key I’d taken from the pirates’ remains in Himmelhost fitted the ancient lock perfectly and the lid sprang open to reveal the mellow glow of large quantities of gold coin. Amidst the two hundred twenty-five-Septim pieces ~ all of which bore the profile of Septim the 5th ~ were scatted a number of glittering gemstones: rubies and emeralds for the most part, with a scattering of diamonds. As you can image, it was with a great deal of glee that I scooped the contents out of the chest and distributed them between my pack and my purse. One thing I’d have to do in the not too distant future, was make a deposit at the Bank of Vvardenfell. There’s a considerable amount of weight involved in five thousand Septims, regardless of the denomination of the coinage.

While I had been helping myself to this horde of archaic coinage, the weather had taken a turn for the worse, so there was no real surprise there. What had been a fairly thick descent of swirling flakes had grown much worse ~ snow plummeted out of the sky in massive scurries, the swirling wind whipping them into an obscuring curtain of whirling motes. Forget about finding Marisa, or getting up to Thirsk, finding some shelter had become my immediate worry. Slithering down the slope beside the stone arch, I was startled to see a looming shape in the snow.

“Bloodskaal, it that ye?” a voice shouted, struggling to make itself heard over the weird piping of the wind.

“Who’s that?” I screamed back, relaxing my grip on the hilt of the Blodskal but not letting go just yet.

“Ingmar, ‘tis Ingmar,” the voice yelled back as the looming shape moved closer. As it did, the reason for the figure’s shape became apparent ~ the huge cloak wrapped around the very large Skaal gave him a very odd appearance. I vaguely recognised the young Nord, I was pretty sure I’d seen him around the village.

“What are you doing here Ingmar?” I said as the massively built Nord raised an arm, allowing the huge cloak to settle around the two of us. “You’ve got to be insane to be out in this weather, Skaal or no.”

“Ye’re out in this weather,” Ingmar replied, not unreasonably. “Besides, I have the Valbrandr Draugr tae kill.” Ingmar went on to explain that he was undergoing a trial of manhood; he was to kill the Draugr in the Valbrandr Barrow single-handedly and return with a trophy to the village. I nodded; Korst had spoken of such rituals and their importance. Ingmar, however, had a problem.

“Twice I’ve tried,” he said sadly. “An’ twice I have failed. Yon creature is too much for me tae single-handedly defeat.”

“I have an idea,” I said, unbuckling the massive Nordic shield from my pack. “Why don’t we go in together? I’ll distract the beast and you can kill it?” Ingmar wasn’t sure that this was allowed but, as I pointed out, if he was the only one to attack the Draugr and I just happened to be there, then the spirit of the ritual was being observed… just not the strict letter.

Ingmar seemed to accept that and we made our way back up the slope and into the small amount of shelter offered by the Barrow’s entrance. Dropping the fur cape, Ingmar hefted his sword and I made sure my shield was firmly in place. Then, kicking open the stone door, we rushed inside. There was a grunt as Ingmar’s sword connected with the Draugr, simultaneously there was a violent hammering on the shield I carried. Pushing back against the blows, I continued to act as a distraction as Ingmar’s blade struck twice, three times, a fourth…

“The treasures o’ this Barrow I’ll leave tae ye Bloodskaal,” Ingmar said, “I would nae feel right in myself about them taking.” There was a swirl of snow as he pulled open the door, and then he was gone. His parting words had been that I should visit him at his home when I was next in the village.

Since the storm is still screaming its fury outside, I took flint and tinder and built a fire. Setting my bedroll beside it, I prepared a meal and then retired for the night.

I couldn’t say what hour it was when I woke, my screams echoing around the enclosed space of the Barrow. With a dry throat I added more fuel to the fire and wrapped my cloak around myself. The dream had been deeply unsettling…

CODE

I was standing at the entrance to a tall tower with a thin white mist curling around my feet. The door to the tower swung open and a tall, golden-masked figure ushered me inside. Mounds of skulls lined the walls of the large chamber I found myself standing in ~ of the masked figure there was no sign. A voice, deep and resonant, spoke to me, saying, “There are many rooms in the House of your Master. Rest easy, for I have from the hands of thine enemies delivered you.”
A long plinth had appeared beside me, upon the surface lay a figure covered with a thin white cloth. Red candles burned in tall stands at the cardinal corners. With a trembling hand, I reached out and removed the shroud from the figure. I found myself looking down into my own waxy features as the corpse opened its eyes and drew in a breath… and started to scream.

The dream had seemed so real and had contained imagery that I found so deeply unsettling that I sat and shivered by the fire for the rest of the night.

[Fuzzy Knight]

Nice update.. very nice Override. The fight against the Atronach was very nice written.. as always Cant wait for more..