User:Minor Edits/Skyrim: Proving Honor
In collaboration with the Bard's College, the College of Winterhold, the Companions, and the Imperial Geographical Society
Note: This is a work of transformative fan fiction based on the copyrighted works of a really cool video game development company that shall remain nameless. Feel free to correct typos.
Turdas, early afternoon, 19th of Last Seed, 4E 201
eneral Tullius received no fanfare as he reentered the stone walls of Solitude. Though the rain had broken, traffic on the streets was low. The people of Solitude were ardent supporters of the Empire, but the war for them was a turgid, bleak affair. It did, after all, begin with the death of their king. More than anyone else in Skyrim, they lived under the heel of the Thalmor's inquisition, and they understood better than most Stormcloaks what a terrible thing it was. Talos worshippers in Haafingar Hold had to live with a much more real, direct fear of reprisal than most others in Skyrim. Whispers were constantly spreading through the city of some person or another who had been dragged to the Thalmor wing of Castle Dour, or to the Thalmor embassy in the mountains nearby, never to be seen again.
While he appreciated the need to keep up morale, Tullius preferred the empty streets. He was not a politician, he was the man politicians called upon when they had steered their nation into a swamp. The last thing he wanted to do was wave and make speeches to crowds of citizens, especially in his current mood. He was hardly returning as a conquering hero, anyways; the well-built but gray-haired Imperial was filthy and tired, as was his horse. He wasn't sure the beast would recover from the beating he had put it through getting back to Solitude so fast.
An integral port and the capital of Haafingar, Solitude was built upon a cliff on the northwestern coast of Skyrim. The bluffs were but the vestigial remains of the mighty Druadach mountain range to the south, but the city proper was still well above sea level in a remarkably well-fortified position. It was not built into the living rock like the city of Markarth to the south, but the stone walls, roads and buildings of Solitude blended into the surrounding area perfectly. Far below the main gate to the city proper, the timber buildings surrounding the docks seemed like a different city entirely.
Though the citizenry of Solitude were relatively cosmopolitan, the slopes and economics of Solitude essentially accomplished the segregation that was enforced by law in Windhelm. Most non-Nordic citizens of Solitude made their homes around the docks, close to their jobs, and the trek up to the stone walls of the city was avoided if possible. The few beastfolk, elves, and other non-Nords who lived in the city proper stayed near the Well District, the lower markets, as the posh mansions near the Blue Palace could only be afforded by the wealthiest, most influential residents - who were almost entirely Nords.
The general, of course, cared about none of this as he steered his horse to the entrance of Castle Dour, a fitting destination for him and his entourage. His beleaguered escort followed him in silence; the only sounds from the group were the clacking of horse hooves and the clinking of metal. The general's thoughts centered on the fighting in the Pale and the ships coming in from High Rock, though they always returned to Helgen.
Legate Rikke, his second-in-command, was waiting for him in her usual impeccable uniform. Like Tullius, she was a veteran of the Great War; she was now over twice as old as she had been when fighting the Thalmor at the Battle of the Red Ring. The tall, blond-haired Nord saluted Tullius as he trudged into the castle. "Sir." They moved quickly down the halls to his strategy room.
"Give me the numbers," Tullius grumbled as he rinsed his hands in a wash bowl.
"Two hundred fifty-three new soldiers have arrived since you left, one hundred fifty-seven casualties confirmed, several hundred wounded and unaccounted for. No major land swaps," Rikke summarized quickly. "Sir-"
"Did that bitch beat me back here?"
Rikke shook her head. "The First Emissary hasn't returned-"
Tullius cut her off. "The Pale?"
"Dawnstar itself is weak, but the enemy forts have been receiving reinforcements from all over Skyrim," Rikke replied promptly, but she refused to be deterred. "Sir, what happened?"
"What happened?" Tullius growled, gripping the washbowl. "What happened is that the gods bent me over a barrel, that's what happened!" He picked up the entire washstand and threw it into the wall. He continued shouting over the cacophony of shattering porcelain and cracking wood. "I had the son of a bitch in my hands, the war was over, then a gods-damned dragon killed everyone BUT the gods-damned traitor!"
The red-faced general dropped into a chair, muttering, "Jor-Kins, dead, Bormir, dead, even the gods-damned executioner, dead!" He got up, and the chair met the same fate as the washstand.
There was a knock at the door. "Sir?"
"WHAT?!"
The young legionnaire at the door looked a little queasy, but carried on, "Sir, Jarl Elisif expects you at the Blue Palace at once."
"Yes, I'm sure she does," Tullius remarked gruffly, looking around. "I've been riding for three days and I need time to catch up here; tell her I will get back to her before dinner."
"S-Sir …" the legionnaire's lips moved for a moment without words coming out.
"Spit it out!"
"... Two Solitude guardsmen were sent to... ensure your appearance," the legionnaire gulped.
For the first time since Tullius' arrival, dead silence fell. To the legionnaire, everything seemed to get darker, like the torches were afraid of crackling. Tullius, drying off his hands with a towel, slowly walked over to the legionnaire. His eyes were fixated upon him, a vein protruding from his reddened forehead. His face mere inches from the legionnaire's, he growled, "And?"
"T-They're waiting at the front entrance, sir."
Rikke thought she might have actually heard Tullius snap. He shoved past the legionnaire, marched outside, and grabbed the two Solitude guardsmen standing there before they could react. Throwing the pair against the wall, he moved in close and growled, "If I wanted my ass sniffed by two little bitches like you, I'd cover it in butter when your mothers come around again. I am the gods-damned Military Governor of Skyrim, so as far as you wash-outs are concerned, I am the One incarnate. Every second you live is because I allow it. You tell Firebeard that I will inform Her Lordship of military matters When. I. See. Fit. If you're still out here when I get back, I'll cut off your heads and use them as chamber pots."
Tullius released the guardsmen and went back inside without waiting for an answer. He went to his quarters, reviewed some papers over a cigar, and got dressed while Rikke gave him various other updates. Finally, she leaned against the wall outside his room and called, "You'd do best to keep on Elisif's good side. She's very popular with the people."
She heard Tullius snort. "She's just a girl who's in way over her head," he grumbled. "After what happened to Torygg, the people showed compassion, but it's just a matter of time before they start grumbling about the 'usurper' with no royal blood."
"Katariah pulled it off," Rikke called back. "Elisif's a woman in the eyes of Skyrim, and we're more concerned with merit than birthright."
"She's twenty years old, and I doubt she has the brains of Katariah," Tullius said, appearing in the doorway in clean, impeccable attire. He leaned against the door frame next to Rikke. "Although … it's hard to get a read on her," he added, finally pensive. "She's constantly surrounded by that pack of wolves."
"Who's got her ear?" Rikke inquired.
"Well, Firebeard is the real power behind the throne, and Elisif doesn't seem inclined to take the reins away from him. Gods know what he's been doing in her name," he mused. Rikke, meanwhile, checked and fastened the various straps of his outfit. "It always annoys me when these bastards denounce 'Imperial puppets.' No such thing. The locals are the puppeteers; all the Empire can do is negotiate with whoever really is pulling the strings."
Rikke mouthed this rant as Tullius gave it, having heard it more times than she could count. "Maybe you should put Firebeard in his place. Remind Elisif that he's not in charge," she suggested as she buckled the last strap on his back. "Want me to come?" she asked as he started to leave.
"No. Won't be any room in there, anyways," Tullius replied. "That throne room is smaller than - well, my room, actually."
"It's mind games," Rikke smiled. "The walk there is supposed to impress upon you the importance of the Jarl, but once you're inside, you're supposed to feel like you're talking to family."
"My family talks with their fists," Tullius growled as he entered the rain. "Wish me luck."
"Sir?"
Tullius stopped, glancing back at her. "How are we to fight dragons?" she asked. Tullius just shook his head and walked away.
Outside, the only guardsmen in sight were Tullius' own legionnaires. The general quickly crossed to the Blue Palace, which dominated the landscape of Solitude. The massive blue-shingled stone complex was at the highest part of the city, at the end of the colossal stone arch which formed the foundation for much of Solitude. Though Windhelm housed the Palace of the Kings, the Blue Palace had been the true home of the High King since the days of Tiber Septim.
As Tullius ascended the steps to the courtyard, the smells of lavender, snowberries and other aromas drifted through the air. To his left, the vast Sea of Ghosts drifted into fog, and he knew the main body of the Karth flowed into it hundreds of feet below him. To his right, the marshes of Hjaalmarch gave way to the Eldersblood Mountains. The sound of a lute and drum came from the open windows of the Bards College. The familiar melody of one of the bard Kieran's later works, one of Tullius' favorites, drifted out over upper Solitude. The courtyard of the Blue Palace truly seemed like Sovngarde itself.
Inside, a double staircase led up to the relatively small, simple throne room. Tullius ascended the steps to the Throne of Haafingar, where Elisif the Fair sat. Her name was well-deserved; the Jarl of Solitude was strikingly beautiful, with long blond hair and classical features, like something out of a painting. The prettiest girl in Morthal had caught the eye of Torygg while the teenaged prince visited there, and the two were married when they had only seen nineteen summers. Torygg's coronation wasn't more than a few months after the wedding, and that momentous day was followed by his death not long after. Tullius glanced at Elisif's body quickly, though not lecherously. If Torygg had left her with child, she'd be showing by now, he thought. But Elisif's green garments betrayed no hint of a bulging belly.
Though the palace bustled with servants, couriers, guards, and lesser officials, only Elisif's inner circle flanked her throne. To Tullius' immediate right was Erikur, a business tycoon in Solitude who had been granted the honorific "Thane" by Torygg's father three decades before for services no one seemed to know about. Tullius' intelligence reports indicated the aging Nord had ties to thieves and was likely doing business with all comers - Thalmor and Stormcloaks included. Next to him was Sybille Stentor, the court wizard and one of the creepier women Tullius had ever met. The slender Breton didn't talk much, but when she did become involved in his affairs, she seemed to be purposefully unhelpful.
Bolgeir Bearclaw, the housecarl of Torygg and now Elisif, was running the city's security. Tullius and Bolgeir argued frequently; the giant Nord was always resisting the general's attempts to increase conscription in Solitude. While Bolgeir could've sent the guardsmen, Tullius didn't think the housecarl would play such games. It was, ironically, Bolgeir's competence and adherence to duty which frustrated the general. He assumed it was the steward, Falk Firebeard, the tall red-bearded man next to Elisif's throne, who had ordered guards to 'escort' him to the palace. Tullius never trusted the man, but whatever dirty secrets he had were buried deep. On the other side of the throne was Bryling, another thane, who Tullius was all but certain was a Stormcloak sympathizer.
From the top of the stairs, Tullius surveyed the room wordlessly, then stepped forward and bowed. "Jarl Elisif. Please forgive my lateness," he said, banishing his usual temper from his voice. "Much has happened since I've been gone, and I had to make sure I didn't inform you falsely."
Elisif smiled softly and said, "No forgiveness is needed, General Tullius. Please tell us what transpired during your journey."
Tullius quickly recounted how Imperial spies had discovered Ulfric's plan to leave Skyrim and find allies in other provinces several weeks before. Then he explained his successful ambush of Ulfric's party at the border. He moved on to the journey to Helgen and then - the dragon attack.
The room erupted with shouting from everyone but Tullius and Elisif. Tullius kept his eyes on the young Jarl, noting her bewilderment - not at the news, it seemed, but at her counselors' behavior.
"The Stormcloaks have a dragon?!" Bryling yelled.
"What is this tripe?" Erikur exclaimed, pointing at Tullius. "You're just covering for your own incompetence!"
"Perhaps it was some kind of hedge magic? An illusion?" Sybille proffered.
"How are my men supposed to defend against a dragon?" Bolgeir loudly demanded to know.
"Tullius, just how can you be sure about this?" Firebeard called out, his voice dripping with doubt.
Tullius' eyelid flickered as he turned his gaze to Firebeard and waited for the other commotion to die down. Finally, he replied, "If you're going to ask questions of me on behalf of the Jarl, steward, then address me by my rank."
Firebeard raised his chin. "General Tullius, can you explain why my Jarl should trust this sensational account of yours?"
"Jarl Elisif won't have to trust only me," Tullius retorted. "I'm sure people from Riverwood to Falkreath and beyond saw the creature. As for Helgen …" Tullius lowered his head. "There were so few people left alive, we burned what little the dragon left behind. We had to, to deal with all the bodies," he recalled grimly. He paused briefly, letting that sink in, then raised his head defiantly. "I didn't invent this disaster. This was no apparition. It was a dragon. A black dragon as large as the tower of Helgen Keep. We couldn't begin to harm it; all we could do was distract it long enough for civilians to flee."
"General Tullius, if I may ask…" Bolgeir Bearclaw started, his deep booming voice filling the room. The general looked at him expectantly before realizing that the polite housecarl actually was waiting for permission. After a nod from Tullius, he continued, "Was the traitor among those killed?"
Tullius steeled himself, forcing the bitter words out. "… Ulfric Stormcloak remains unaccounted for."
A soft voice cut through the murmuring that followed. "General?"
Tullius turned his gaze back to Elisif, surprised. "Yes, Jarl Elisif?"
"Could anyone be controlling this creature?"
Tullius thought a moment. "… I don't think so, Your Grace. It's timing was extremely unfortunate, but I saw the monster kill one of our Stormcloak prisoners. I don't think its attack was aimed at helping them."
"And … no one else may have been behind the attack?" she inquired.
"I don't know, Your Grace," Tullius replied carefully. Is she talking about the Thalmor? Or is she just clueless? "This has all been very unexpected. But, if I have your leave, I shall do everything in my power to bring you answers, and to bring the High King's murderer to justice … I'm very sorry I don't have better news."
Elisif's eyes fluttered at the mention of Torygg, but she smiled faintly. "You have my leave, and my prayers. Good day, general … "
ou can't sleep all day, madman!"
The Dragonborn awoke to someone kicking his feet off his bed. Uthgerd was standing over him, along with another woman. She looked liked a Nord, but her dark hair and features hinted at some Redguard ancestry. She was arrayed in steel armor in the Nordic style. A shield was on her back and a sword at her waist.
Looking around blearily, the blond-haired man hanging off the bed slurred, "Uthgerd, who's your friend?"
"Thought you didn't care about names," Uthgerd answered gruffly.
"Lydia, my Thane. We met last night," the woman said. "I was warned you had memory problems, but-"
"Right, right, I remember," the Dragonborn interjected, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Why did you wake me?"
"Because it's nearly noon," Uthgerd retorted. "Legendary heroes can't sleep all day. Now come on, we've got lunch. Or breakfast, in your case." She opened the doors to the private dining area of the suite, a platform overlooking the main hall of the Bannered Mare. Below them, the tables were crowded with people hoping to catch a glimpse of the Dragonborn, though the rafters mostly blocked their view. Uthgerd and Lydia went out and took seats while the Dragonborn stretched. The wafting aromas for fresh bread and cooked meat compelled him out of bed and onto the platform, dressed only in his pants.
The group took seats at the table, which held an array of cheeses, bread, pastries, milk and ale. "Courtesy of the Mare," Uthgerd said as she filled her plate. "They've had a week's worth of business since you stumbled in here yesterday."
"I would've gone to Jorrvaskr, but I didn't feel like climbing the steps," the Dragonborn remembered ruefully. He grabbed an ale and studied the table, confused. "Wait, how did all this stuff get out here?"
"They brought it through your room, icebrain," Uthgerd responded. "I don't think you'd wake up if a mammoth herd was stomping through here."
The Dragonborn shrugged and glanced at the other woman. "So, Lydia… I'm a thane? What does that mean?"
"The Jarl has recognized you as a person of great importance in the hold. A hero," Lydia said, her expression dubious as she watched the half-naked 'hero' quaff his ale. "The title of Thane is an honor, a gift for your service. Guards will know to look the other way, if you tell them who you are."
"So I can't be arrested in this town?" he asked, surveying the food on the table.
"Well, no - I mean, yes, you can be arrested," Lydia clarified. "But it is assumed a thane is acting in the best interest of his hold. You cannot order guards around, but they will not get in your way unless you do something severely wrong."
The Dragonborn burped. "What does a housecarl do?"
"As my Thane, I'm sworn to your service," Lydia explained. "I'll guard you, and all that you own, with my life."
"What, then, a slave?" he asked. He took a big bite out of a wedge of cheese, then a queasy look came to his face and he spit it out. Beneath them, an unlucky traveler didn't feel the mushy blob fall into the cowl on his back.
Lydia raised her chin. "No. Housecarls are paid by the city; we handle security for important people of the hold. I distinguished myself as a guard, and Irileth recommended me for special service."
"So I'm your first Thane?"
"No, I've-I've served before," Lydia stuttered.
"Hmph," the Dragonborn replied around a sweetroll. "Uthgerd, why didn't you get a housecarl?"
Uthgerd snorted, grabbing his unfinished cheese wedge and some meat. "Don't need one, don't want one. Balgruuf only gave you one to save your life."
"Huh?" the Dragonborn mumbled in surprise, finally looking up.
"Balgruuf had to either show his support by making you Thane of Whiterun or risk that an angry mob would kill you in your sleep," Uthgerd explained. She diced the cheese and meat, then mixed them together. "And this is how you eat Eidar cheese."
"Angry mob? What did I do to deserve that?"
"You started preaching the End Times, icebrain," Uthgerd said gruffly. "You still don't understand what a Dragonborn is, what you are. Lydia, explain it to him; he's a child."
As Lydia started to speak, the Dragonborn stood up and retreated into his room. "The Dragonborn is everything a Nord should be. Unstoppable. Honorable. Wise."
The Dragonborn returned, studying a book in his hands.
"The Book the Dragonborn," Uthgerd said, recognizing the distinctive binding. "Didn't know you bought that."
"I didn't buy it. The other guy didn't need it anymore," he muttered, lowering himself back into his seat. He was flipping through the pages remarkably fast. "'Those blessed by Akatosh with the 'dragon blood' …" he muttered, his eyes flying across the pages.
Lydia shot a questioning look at Uthgerd, who shrugged. "He does that."
"There have been many with the dragon blood," Lydia explained. "But the Dragonborn, the Last Dragonborn, is the savior of the Nords, who will come at the end of time to defeat Alduin the World-Eater."
"'Many have also believed that the advent of the 'Last Dragonborn' was at hand'…" the Dragonborn continued reading. Bits of the apple he was absent-mindedly munching on fell out of his mouth as he talked.
"And they have all been wrong," Lydia added. "Sometimes cults have sprung up. The Nords hate those who try to subvert their beliefs. Many false prophets have been killed by packs of enraged citizens, even burned alive."
"That could've been you last night, but the Jarl gave you the protection of Whiterun's banner, idiot," Uthgerd said, slapping the top of the Dragonborn's head. He didn't respond, too engrossed in the book. "And after you were so rude to him!"
The Dragonborn waved a hand dismissively. "I was tired and I don't know what I'm doing; he knew that. And what seems rude to me is that he made me Thane and not you."
"They know that I only went out to fight that dragon because you came in here and dropped 500 gold on my table," Uthgerd laughed. "Besides, the Jarl's stepping up recruitment for the guard and wants me to help train them," she added proudly. "A weekly wage; best reward I could've gotten. But what I don't get is why the Jarl would stick his neck out at a time like this."
"The Jarl seems to think it worthwhile to take a risk on him," Lydia shrugged. "But if he turns out to be just like the others, the Jarl will face significant backlash. Might have to step down and let Hrongar take the throne. Hrongar is a brave man, but the last thing Whiterun needs right now is a change of leadership."
"Ah, so you're not protecting me, you're protecting Balgruuf's political investment," the Nord remarked around apple bits as he continued flipping through the tome.
"In a way," Lydia conceded. "But you are my master now, even more so than Jarl Balgruuf. Everything you do or say will be held in the strictest confidence."
"What if what I want you to do something repugnant?" he asked.
Lydia clenched her jaw a moment. "Everything you do or say will be held in the strictest confidence," she repeated.
"You didn't answer my question," he said without looking up. "Will you follow my direction if I ask you to do something you believe is immoral?"
"No."
He closed the book and held it up to his mouth, as if smelling it, and stared at the table for a few seconds. Finally he put down the tome, and droned in that too-old voice, "When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world. When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped. When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles. When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls. When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding. The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn."
After a moment of stillness, Lydia nodded.
"So what?" he asked pleasantly, leaning back and taking a big bite of his apple.
Uthgerd shook her head. "You don't eat the core, icebrain…"
The Dragonborn shrugged and tossed the other half of the apple core on the table, then opened another ale. "Those are just words. Some poet got too drunk one night and people took it too seriously."
"That is a prophecy of the Elder Scrolls!" Lydia protested in outrage, grabbing the book. She opened it back up to the page with the prophecy and pointed to each part in turn. "The misrule of the world refers to the reign of Jagar Tharn, who split the Staff of Chaos into eight pieces. Time was reshaped in the Miracle of Peace in the Iliac Bay, the thrice-blessed Tribunal was toppled and Red Mountain erupted, the Septim Dynasty ended in the Oblivion Crisis and the White-Gold Tower fell in the Great War, and now Skyrim stews in the middle of a civil war with a dead High King!" Lydia finished forcefully.
The Dragonborn stared at her blankly. "Huh?"
"These are-" Lydia stopped, composing herself. "These are some of - no, these are the biggest events of the last three centuries. And when this prophecy is fulfilled, is marks the return of the World-Eater, the dragon Alduin."
"Alduin, huh?" the Dragonborn muttered. "You seem to know a lot about this. Ever been in one of these cults, Lydia? Ever put on a costume and had a ritual orgy to please a fake Dragonborn?"
Though the housecarl tried to set her face to neutral expression, her growing outrage seeped through as she answered, "No, my Thane."
Taking a pull of his ale, he burped again. "If enough time goes by, any 'prophecy' will seem like it's coming true."
Slamming the book shut, Lydia stood and gestured at the hall, shouting, "You can't tell all the Nords out there that this prophecy hasn't been coming true, bit by bit, for hundreds of years. They've all been having this same conversation, and they're scared to death, because the Wheel is apparently spinning on a drunk lunatic!"
The Dragonborn slowly sipped his ale again as Lydia slowly realized what she had said.
"Lydia?" the Dragonborn said, staring at her sternly.
"Yes, my Thane."
"Your previous Thane didn't care much for your mouth, did he?"
Lydia looked down, ashamed and embarrassed. That is, until she heard Uthgerd giggling. She looked up as the Dragonborn choked mid-sip. He smiled and gestured for Lydia to retake her seat, but she remained standing, her expression demanding an explanation.
"Lydia, I don't have a name," the Dragonborn shrugged, smiling. "So you can call me whatever you want. Uthgerd seems to have settled on icebrain, but if you think lunatic suits me better-"
"I'm very sorry, my Thane," Lydia apologized, sitting down quickly. "The truth is, my previous Thane-"
"Was an idiot," the Dragonborn said, waving her off. "A man who can't hear his faults has too many to bear."
"Ooh, that's good," Uthgerd commented.
"Right?" the Dragonborn agreed. "Pelagius the Second said it." Turning back to Lydia, he continued, "Say what you mean to me, Lydia. Do what you think is right, and we'll get along fine."
"Yes, my Thane," Lydia smiled.
"But I don't need a housecarl."
Her smile faltered. "What?"
"Keep collecting your pay and never see me again, I don't care. I don't need a servant. I need help, Lydia," he said, leaning forward. "I woke up three days ago being held captive for offenses I can't remember. I would have been executed if the whole town had not been wiped out. Since then, I have been attacked by the walking dead. A giant strangled me. A dozen giant spiders tried to eat me. Two dragons have tried to killed me. I have been stabbed, set on fire, and poisoned-"
"I broke your nose," Uthgerd interjected.
"Uthgerd broke my nose," the Dragonborn acceded, nodding. "I don't know who, or what, I am. I need help from someone who wants to help me, not just fulfill their duty or protect their jarl."
Lydia regarded him moment. "... I don't know you," she finally said. "I will help you because it is my duty, and Jarl Balgruuf believed it was for the benefit of my city. But the kind of devotion you're asking of me must be earned."
The Dragonborn looked disappointed, but nodded. "I suppose that's the best I can hope for, isn't it?" He leaned back as he drained the last of his ale.
"So..." Uthgerd said in the silence. "Do you think you understand now why the people around here are so concerned about you?"
The Dragonborn wiped ale off his beard, burped, then groaned as the realization belatedly sunk in. With a hand to his face, he muttered, "When we announced in Dragonsreach that dragons are coming back and I am Dragonborn, what they heard was..."
"The world is ending."
t won't be the end of the world," Skjor growled. "But you can bet there'll be a backlash for this, Kodlak."
The older Nord waved his hand dismissively. "He just killed a dragon, my boy. Knocked Vilkas on his back before that, and save Ria's life before that. They'll accept him. Vignar just gave me an earful for turning away Uthgerd. The Companions are getting too small. We have to expand or some other group of fighters with less honor will replace us."
"All the more reason we can't lose those we have now," Skjor retorted, though his tone remained respectful.
For Kodlak, though, the conversation seemed to be over; he started down the stairs back to his room with a final "Just get it done."
As the older Nord descended, the younger Nord they spoke of entered. Word had already reached Skjor, of course, regarding the amazing events surrounding their latest recruit. The so-called "Dragonborn" wore studded armor, had a large travel bag at his side which was strapped across his chest, and was accompanied by a young female Nord, who Skjor took to be the new Thane's housecarl.
Skjor returned to his seat in front of the coal pit and watched as the recruit chatted with Farkas for a moment. Farkas wasn't considered too bright, but Skjor had learned the dark-haired young Nord was a good judge of people. The large warrior seemed relaxed, and punched the Dragonborn in the arm as they walked away from him. Still, Skjor was apprehensive of the newcomer, and he resolved to make it clear that no matter what was happening outside Jorrvaskr, inside the mead hall, the Dragonborn was still a whelp.
"There you are," Skjor said as they approached him.
The Dragonborn gave a salute and began taking a seat at the corner of the table next to Skjor. "You wanted to see me?"
"Cut the saluting crap, this isn't an army," Skjor answered gruffly. "I did ask to see you. Your time, it seems, has come."
"What do you mean?" the Dragonborn responded, a bit of suspicion in his voice. Lydia, who had remained standing as she surveyed the room, looked at Skjor, but her hands remained clasped in front of her.
"Last week a scholar came to us," Skjor explained. "He said he knew where we could find another fragment of Wuuthrad." Skjor gestured to the shards on the wall.
"What, the axe?" the Dragonborn asked.
Skjor's arm dropped. "Yes, the axe," he huffed.
"Why can't Eorlund fix it?"
Skjor grabbed the Dragonborn by the straps of his armor and pulled him close to scarred face. "Because that axe is worth more than your life, whelp, but without all the original pieces, it is nothing." He released the Dragonborn, who adjusted his straps.
"Got it," he replied, though one of his eyebrows was raised questioningly. "What can you tell about this scholar?"
"He seemed a fool to me, but if he's right, the honor of the Companions demands that we seek it out," Skjor declared forcefully.
The Dragonborn glanced at his housecarl, then back at Skjor. "I would be honored to retrieve it."
"There's a fine line between respect and boot-licking, new blood," Skjor said scornfully. "But I like your spirit. We've decided this will be your Trial. Do well, and you'll be counted among the Companions. Farkas will be your Shield-Sibling on this adventure, whelp." He shot a cold glance at Lydia. "You'll leave your help here behind. Farkas will answer any questions you have. Try not to disappoint. Or get him killed." Skjor returned to signing the contracts he had been busy with before Kodlak had interrupted him earlier.
After a moment, the Dragonborn took the hint and stood up. Lydia motioned towards the training yard, where she had seen Farkas exit. As they moved to leave, Aela came through the door. As per usual, the entrance of the red-haired huntress clad in leather turned a few heads in the mead hall.
"Oh, hi, Aela!" the Dragonborn said a little too loudly, jumping up the remaining steps.
"I've heard you may actually be stronger than you look," Aela replied by way of greeting. "You beat a dragon to death with a mace?"
"Heard about that, huh?" he said with a smile.
"The guards might as well have been making bulletins."
"It was actually that mace I used," he added, gesturing to Lydia's waist. "Oh, and this is Lydia. Anyway, I traded up when the Jarl gave me this." He held up the gleaming Axe of Whiterun. "By the way, do I have to leave this behind?"
"What? Why would you?"
"Skjor said I was being put on trial, and I had to leave my help here. Do I have to testify naked?"
Aela made a face and shook her head. "The Trial is a test of your merit as a Companion. You may bring whatever items you wish; Skjor only meant that Lydia must remain behind. It will just be you and your judge."
"Ah. That makes more sense." Lydia rolled her eyes at her Thane's sheepishness.
"It's a good weapon," Aela remarked, nodding to his axe, "but it's always a risk taking an untested weapon into battle. Make sure you have a feel for it. Good luck on your trial; perhaps we can hunt together someday."
"Thanks. And what it is it we Nords say? Go by the beard of Ysmir?"
"Goodbye will suffice," Aela replied, walking away.
Out in the training yard, Farkas was stretching his legs as he strapped his broadsword onto the pack on his back, positioning it so he could reach it easily. The enormous Nord was bedecked in the armor of the Companions. Formidable yet light-weight, the fearsome-looking trappings could be easily worn while traveling, but were still strong enough to stop an axe head. "I hope you've readied yourself," he remarked as the Dragonborn approached.
"Not quite yet," the Dragonborn replied, setting his satchel down with a heavy thud on a patio table. "Before you go, Lydia, I was hoping you could hold on to some of this stuff for me, maybe sell a few things while I'm gone. I'm making a pile for things to sell, things to keep, and things I'm going to take with me."
"I am sworn to carry your burdens," she sighed, and they began sorting out the contents of the satchel, which carried a surprising amount of goods.
"So, Farkas, you're going to be my Shield-Brother?" the Nord asked, sorting through a pouch of potions.
"So I'm told. Let's see if you impress," Farkas responded, leaning against a timber beam on the patio as he waited for the Dragonborn to get ready.
"What is Wuuthrad anyways?" the Dragonborn asked. "Why is it so important?"
"Ysgramor was the hero who started the Companions," Farkas explained, a little aghast he had to do so. "Wuuthrad was his weapon."
"And who was Ysgramor?"
"Ysmir's beard... He came from the ancient homeland and killed all the elves…" Farkas declared, then clarified, "But not all of them, because some of them are still here."
"So I've seen. I'm holding onto the dragon scales, Lydia," the Dragonborn muttered, placing a couple potions into the 'sale' pile and putting the rest away. "Why did Skjor call this my trial?"
"I watch you to make sure you're honorable," Farkas answered. "If you are honorable and strong, then I can call you brother."
"Who was this scholar?" the Dragonborn asked, tossing a few pieces of armor for sale.
"A smart man came and told us about a blade piece. Skjor thinks you should find it, and I'm supposed to watch you."
"Right, but who was he? You don't find this the least bit suspicious?" the Dragonborn asked, dumping the dragon bones into the 'save' pile.
"Why should we?" Farkas shrugged. "People love the Companions; they often come to us with information."
"But do they always make you an offer they know you can't refuse?" the Dragonborn asked, dropping the last of the scales in with the bones.
"… I guess not," Farkas said slowly. "Say, you're not as dumb as you look."
"Thank you, Farkas, I do my best," the Dragonborn replied with smile. "Well, Lydia, that should do it. We should be back in … how long, Farkas?"
"Perhaps never."
"Perhaps never… okay, well, if you haven't heard from me by the end of the year, just assume I'm dead and pocket the money."
"Good luck, my Thane," Lydia grunted as she picked up her now very heavy satchel.
Outside, Whiterun's markets bustled with activity as the last of the morning's deliveries from the surrounding countryside arrived. Guards stood watch on corners, children played tag, wives shopped for dinner, and villagers transported wood, hides, fruits, fish, and all manner of other goods from place to place. Many of the city's elderly gossiped at the public well which the markets surrounded. The sounds of life from city on the hill could be heard a mile away.
The Dragonborn waded through it all, smiling. "I love this place. It's so … alive!" he said, dropping a coin in a little beggar girl's cup.
"Balgruuf has kept Whiterun out of the war," Farkas explained. "So all the merchants want to do business here, and all the people want to live here."
As they approached the city gate, the Dragonborn slowed down as he saw two guards arguing with two Redguards dressed in the style of desert nomads.
"Look, you've already been told you're not allowed here," one of the guards was saying. "Turn around and go back the way you came."
"We're causing no trouble," the younger Redguard replied. "All we ask is to look for her."
"I don't care what you're doing," the guard replied. "After what happened you're lucky I don't toss you in jail. Now get lost."
"We will be back," the nomad said. "This is not over." the nomads began leaving just as the two Companions passed, and the groups fell in step beside each other.
"What was that about?" the Dragonborn asked. "Do they not like Redguards in Whiterun?"
"Not all Redguards, stranger," the younger Redguard said kindly. "It is because my companion and I represent the nation of Hammerfell, which is no longer part of the Empire." The older Redguard spit at the mention of the Empire. "We are being treated as spies, but we are just mercenaries from the Alik'r. We are looking for someone in Whiterun, and will pay good money for information."
"Oh? Who are you looking for?" the Dragonborn replied.
"A woman - a foreigner in these lands. Redguard, like us. She is likely not using her true name. We will pay for any information regarding her location. We are not welcome here in Whiterun, so we will be in Rorikstead if you learn anything."
"Why are you looking for this person?"
"It's none of your concern," the older Redguard spoke up, irritation in his thickly accented voice. "All you need to know is that we're paying for information. If that doesn't interest you, feel free to walk away."
"I believe I was doing so already," the Dragonborn pointed out. They had all reached the bottom of the hill on which Whiterun sat.
"We need to go this way, anyways," Farkas said, pointing to the tundra off the road to the east.
"Why don't we follow the road?" the Dragonborn asked, though he was already following the other Nord off the trail.
"The road goes too far south. This is all giant country out here, but they won't bother us if we don't bother them." Soon, their boots and legs were soaked; the sunlight had yet to dry out the tundra from the many days of rainfall. The two Redguards became specks on the horizon, and the sounds of Whiterun had dwindled to nothing.
"So…" the Dragonborn broke the silence. "I still need to work out a good name."
"I thought you had a name now," Farkas responded.
"More of a title, really," the Dragonborn said dismissively.
"Well, I dunno about that." The two walked on for another league in silence. They saw mammoths with giants herding them along in the distance, making sure to give them a wide berth. There were many deer, too. Dragonflies and mudcrabs lined the creeks. The tundra of Whiterun was cold, damp, and could be merciless to the unprepared, but it was beautiful, and it teemed with life just like the city itself.
As they reached the top of another hill, Farkas stopped to judge their progress. "We're making good time," he said, judging the position of the sun. "But we won't make it to the barrow before nightfall."
"Where are we going, exactly?" the Dragonborn asked.
"Dustman's Cairn. See those ruins?" Farkas asked, pointing.
The Dragonborn squinted at the slightly darker grey speck on the horizon. "That's Dustman's Cairn?"
"No, that's Bleakwind Basin. Used to be a fort or something, now it's a giant camp. Dustman's Cairn is past that."
"So we have to cross the entire tundra, basically."
"Bleakwind is farther away than it looks due to all the hills, but the tundra goes on and on past it." Farkas resumed walking, and the Dragonborn fell in step beside him. "The mountain said 'Dovah Kyne,' right? Like the goddess?"
"Goddess?"
"Ysmir's beard, you don't know anything!" Farkas exclaimed, spelling it out. "Kyne is the Goddess of the Sky. She is the Mother of the Nords, beasts... nature itself. She's the most important god there is. Besides Shor, but he's dead."
"But what the Greybeards said is 'Dovah kiin'; Dovah means dragons and kiin means child … I think." The Dragonborn scratched his head.
"I heard about you speaking the dragon tongue," Farkas commented, impressed. "Didn't know whether to believe it, though."
"To tell you the truth, that stuff is becoming fuzzy," the Dragonborn admitted. "It's sort of... wearing off. Only a few bits and pieces are sticking."
"Such as?"
"Such as, well..."
FUS!
The sound cracked through the air. The blast which coursed out in front of the Dragonborn was invisible, but the ground crumpling beneath it betrayed its path, and Farkas thought he could see the air itself rippling.
The Companion laughed at the sight. "Whoa, that is a thing to remember!"
"The Greybeards seemed to think so," the Dragonborn agreed.
"Well, you can thank Kyne for that. She is the one gave the Nords the gift of the Voice."
"Says who?"
"Says who?!" Farkas repeated, a little offended. "Says my grandda. Says everybody's granddas. Says their granddas, all the way back to the beginning."
"We've both got time, it seems. So tell me this story."
Farkas took a deep breath as he thought a moment. "Well, there's plenty of smart people out there who argue with each other about it, but I don't understand them, and they don't seem to understand each other. None of it makes sense."
"So you have read a book or two," the Dragonborn smirked.
"Of course. Sometimes people pay us in books. Kodlak keeps a library at Jorrvaskr," Farkas said. "But reading a book is just a good way to fall asleep. I listen to the bards in the taverns. And I listened well to my grandda's stories. That's a how Nord really learns."
"You're kidding. This is the Nord education system?" the Dragonborn laughed. "Tales from your grandfather and songs over a pint of mead?"
Farkas' brow furrowed in anger. "You just aren't thinking it through, like all those so-called smart Imperials out there."
"So explain it to me."
"A child doesn't remember someone droning lessons to groups like the Bretons do," Farkas insisted. "Children learn when their parents aren't trying to teach them."
"But you all exaggerate. Everybody's got a different version of the same story."
Farkas snorted. "So what?"
"So, how is anyone ever supposed to know the truth?" the Dragonborn exclaimed.
"We never know the truth!" Farkas exclaimed. "When we put a twist on a yarn, we remind each other of this truth. How can you know the real truth? Because one man said it? Because you think you saw something? So we argue. We fight. We force each other to look at a story from all the angles. And in the end, we decide which story is best. Which song we like the most. And that becomes part of the Poetic Edda, the living history of the Nords."
"So what's wrong with writing it all down?"
"Because people treat writing as stone," Farkas replied. "Property records. The name scrolls. The written word for a Nord is only for the simplest truths. Anything more than that should be left to the Edda. And that's the real beauty of it, don't you see?"
"I'm not sure…"
"Every drunk in Skyrim is scholar!" Farkas exclaimed, throwing his arms wide. "We've all heard the songs hundreds of times, in a hundred different ways! The person who knows the most is also the one who will share the most. Haven't you had a talk over a pint in Skyrim?"
"Well … yeah, when I first got to Whiterun, Uthgerd told me some stories about Pelagius the Mad."
"And you remember them word for word, don't you?"
"Well, yeah, they were really funny… Are you saying Uthgerd was lying to me about them?"
"I don't know, was she?" Farkas posited. "If you find some book which says something different, is that really much of a reason to doubt her? Should you believe something is the truth because someone wrote it down?"
"No, but-"
"But regardless of the truth, you will remember her stories. People remember the good times in their lives, so Nords use those good times to teach. No matter what you see or hear, you should have doubt. That is the greatest lesson each Nord learns."
"Sounds... alienating."
"Not at all! We don't lock our histories away in books, we share it with each other in our everyday lives. We get in fights, but then we have another pint and make peace. Unless we don't. We believe the truth will win out, and the important things will never be forgotten."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because it works," Farkas insisted. "Because a Nord child will come home from playing with his friends. Maybe he's hurt because he got in a fight over a lie. His parents or his grandda will sit him down, give him a sweetroll, and tell him the truth. And the child will never, ever forget it."
"... You've had this argument before, haven't you?"
"Many times."
They were passing the giant's camp at Bleakwind Basin, and Farkas indicated it was time for silence. One of the creatures watched them until they were out of sight. By then, the sun had hidden behind the mountains, and the tundra was quickly shrouded in darkness. The pair found themselves on a dirt path with ancient stones embedded in the ground here and there, evidencing that it had once been a proper highway. Now, though, it seemed it was only used by giants and other creatures of the tundra. Farkas started down the path, and the Dragonborn followed.
"Well, I don't have any 'grandda' I can remember," the Dragonborn said, mimicking Farkas' thick Whiterun accent. "I got you, Shield-Brother. So, tell me the true story of Kyne."
Farkas thought a moment. "I know many stories... but this world is a vast, strange one. Knowing the truth is hard. I can only tell you what I believe."
"And what is that?"
"... Let me think about this. We'll make camp outside the cairn and talk more."
"What is that?" the Dragonborn stopped, listening. "Hooves?"
"Sound like… Ysmir's beard!" Farkas exclaimed, pointing behind them. The Dragonborn looked to where he was pointing and saw a figure galloping towards them. A shiny, blue figure.
"What is that?" the Dragonborn asked, drawing the Axe of Whiterun.
"Dunno," Farkas breathed, drawing his own sword. "Is it… headless?"
As it approached, the Dragonborn saw this was indeed the case. The spectral rider on the spectral horse had no head. The two Nords moved to either side of the path, weapons ready, and - the ghostly figure galloped past, paying them no heed.
"You were right, Farkas."
"Yeah, it was some kind of... headless horseman."
"No, not that," the Dragonborn replied, putting away his axe. "This world truly is a vast and strange one. C'mon!" He started running after the rider.
"What? Why?" Farkas asked, starting after him.
"Why not?" the Dragonborn called back.
They raced after the rider as the road sloped down. Within a few minutes, they saw that it had stopped up ahead. As he got closer, the Dragonborn saw it was at an ancient cemetery. It was arranged liked a stage, with caskets stowed in ancient stone alcoves and many lines of burial mounds arrayed in front of them.
The Dragonborn slowed, approaching cautiously. "What is this?" he asked as Farkas caught up.
"An old battle site, it looks like. The victors respected their foes enough to bury them," Farkas said. "Maybe that's when the horseman died." As he spoke, the horseman's steed reared up, and then horse and rider disappeared. Silence fell. "We shouldn't be here."
As if on cue, the clouds broke above them. Moonlight hit in the cemetery, and they heard thuds. Both Nords drew their weapons as a casket burst open, and a draugr with a mean-looking axe stepped out. They dropped their packs, keeping an eye on the draugr as it drew its weapon.
"It seems he's forgotten the battle is over," the Dragonborn remarked. "But he shouldn't be much-" Suddenly, more caskets burst open, and a few hands shot up from the ground. At least a half-dozen skeletons armed with swords and bows appeared, their red eyes fixing on the Nords. "... of a problem."
"This is why not!" Farkas yelled as he charged a nearby archer and swung his broadsword. The skeleton fell apart under the crushing blow. He barely slowed as the archer crumbled, and he was already charging across the cemetery at another skeleton.
The Dragonborn summoned blue wisps to his hand and shot a stream of frost at two of the skeletons on the left, which snarled in pain. They continued stalking forward, but their approach had slowed to a crawl, and he backed up to keep a safe distance. Another stomped forward, forcing him to break off his magical attack. As it raised its sword, the Dragonborn swiped with his axe, and the sword went flying, along with the skeleton's arm. The undead creature had a chance to look at its missing limb for a moment before a second swipe took off its head. It crumbled into a pile of bones as the Dragonborn resumed spraying frost at the skeletons, as well as the draugr, who had nearly closed the distance to him.
Farkas, meanwhile, finished off the archer he had focused on, but not before it unleashed an arrow across the cemetery. It struck the Dragonborn in the leg, eliciting a grunt. Though his aim stayed true on the draugr, he could only limp backward, and the enemies closed the distance as the stream of frost from his hand sputtered and died.
The Dragonborn suddenly lunged forward, and the half-frozen skeletons didn't have time to react. The first was practically shattered by his axe, and the Dragonborn continued his swing, spinning around and slashing his axe through the next skeleton's ribcage. Before its bones could hit the ground, he lunged sideways and dropped underneath the draugr's swinging axe. His good leg shot out and tripped the draugr, which fell on its back, dropping its axe. Before the creature could move again, the crouched Nord did another deadly spin. He landed on his back, and his axe-head landed on the draugr's chest with a hideous crunch.
As the red fire faded from the draugr's eyes, the Dragonborn took a deep breath and groaned as he pulled the arrow from his leg. He was pouring a small healing potion on the wound as Farkas jogged up.
"A good start to your trial, Shield-Brother," Farkas remarked, helping him up.
"Thanks. Let's see what our friends were guarding," the Dragonborn replied, crouching down. "Oo, this is a nice bow. Dragon burned up my last one."
"I don't get it," Farkas said slowly as his companion slung the bow onto his back. "I thought you would be a strong arm fighter."
"What do you mean?" the Dragonborn replied. He finished searching the bodies and limped towards the caskets they had emerged from as Farkas grabbed their packs
"Well, I thought you would be all axe and shield," Farkas called, catching up to him. "But you move like an acrobat, you've got the talents of a mage, and now you say you're an archer?"
"I just do whatever works. Is that a problem?" the Dragonborn asked, approaching the draugr's casket. "Hey, there's a chest in here!"
"No problem, really," Farkas shrugged. "But most Companions are... traditional. They don't like magic."
The Dragonborn took a lockpick to the chest, and shook his head as he fiddled with the catch. "You're willing to use magic in your weapons and potions, and visit a healer you when you're wounded. If someone knows how to cast a spell, why not do so?"
Farkas shrugged. "Didn't say it makes sense. It's just part of our history. Spellcasters are as untrustworthy as ..." The chest sprung open. "... thieves."
"Well, if someone attacks me, I will do whatever it takes to survive," the Dragonborn said, shoving gold and some trinkets into his bag. "I could take all of them out with the axe alone, but they are going to get their shots in, and you have to think about the next battle. Speaking of, where is this cairn?"
"Should be just over that hill," Farkas pointed. "We can camp for the night outside and tackle it in the morning."
The pair quickly made their way to the entrance of the cairn, which seemed to be little more than a hole in the ground with worn, ruined pillars of stone scattered around it. Farkas dropped some wood he had collected on the way in a spot out of the wind and reclined with his back against a stone. The Dragonborn shot fire into the pile, laid out a blanket, and their campsite was complete.
Farkas looked ruefully at the bread and water he had brought, but the Dragonborn pulled out a large assortment of meats, bottles of ale, and even a few pastries. "Courtesy of the Mare," he said. Farkas smiled and began heating the meat over the fire on a makeshift spit.
The Dragonborn passed Farkas a bottled ale and took a seat on a stone. As they began eating, he started, "So… the story of Kyne."
"Alright," Farkas smiled, staring into fire. "A long time ago, there were a lot of spirits trapped in the Beginning Place."
"What's the Beginning Place?"
"Dunno," he replied, taking a swig of ale. "But they were stuck there. Kyne cried, because she wanted everyone to be happy. She was the Warrior-Wife of Shor, the strongest of all the spirits. Shor thought long and hard, and got an idea, a place where the spirits could go to get a chance to be like him."
"What did it mean to be like Shor?" the Dragonborn interrupted.
"Dunno. He was just the strongest. Most powerful, I guess. But Kyne loved the idea, and she stopped crying. They went to the other strong spirits for help, and made a plan."
"What was the plan?"
"Here. Tamriel - er, N-Nirn. The mortal world. Kyne loved it, and she breathed onto the land to make the Nords, her favorite children. But a lot of others were afraid to die, and said the world was mean and full of strangers."
"Who were the others?"
"Dunno. Elven devils, I guess. Shor tried to reason with them, but a lot left, and there was great cost."
"What cost?"
"Dunno."
"Dunno," the Dragonborn imitated him again. In his normal voice, he remarked, "I thought you knew this story."
"I do," Farkas objected, "But no one really knows these things. Did they lose power? Lives? Both? Smart people spend their whole lives arguing about these things, but they don't really know."
"Fine," the Dragonborn sighed. "Go on."
"Where was I?"
"'Shor tried to reason with them'..."
"Right, right. He tried to reason with them, but a lot left, and there was great cost. Some of the others became bitter and mean, and stayed so that they could take vengeance on Shor, calling him a liar."
"What did-"
"Dunno," Farkas cut him off sharply. With a sigh, he continued, "They attacked the Nords, and Shor and Kyne were furious. They taught the Nords to protect themselves, and wrought great destruction against their enemies. But Kyne, especially, was as ferocious as a mother bear. For a long time, almost no one did anything because they were all afraid of her, even Shor. But her children were happy, until the others came back. Though they were few and weak, they killed Shor, and ripped out his heart."
"How did they manage to kill Shor?" the Dragonborn persisted as they ate.
"Dunno. But Kyne began to cry. Her crying became laughing when they tried to take Shor's heart. Shor's heart belonged to her, she said, and they had no choice but to give it back to her. And most made peace with Kyne then, with many apologies. They made agreements and made the world better together. But some were still very bitter and loud, for Kyne had shamed them, and they went home."
"And?"
"And that's it. Life went on. Shor went to Sovngarde, but sometimes came back. Kyne watches over her children, as she always has. Like a healer who must set a broken leg or a teacher with a lazy student, she must bring pain, but she works to make us happy and strong."
"Where's Sovngarde? If Shor died, how could he come back?"
Farkas just hung his head at the questions.
"What? This is all new to me."
"Exactly," Farkas sighed. "I could answer these questions all night, and we have to tackle that cairn in the morning."
The Dragonborn sighed. "Fine, I'll read a book for a good story."
Fredas morning, 20th of Last Seed
hat’s not a real story," Farkas scoffed. "It's a fable, for children and the lazy. It's all lies." The night had passed uneventfully, and they were climbing down into the hole to reach the cairn.
"How do you know? What happened to never knowing the truth?"
"Because none of those places it mentions ever existed. The main character's name is "false lore" spelled backwards. The author wouldn't even give it his real name; 'Reven' is 'never' spelled backwards."
"Oh... well, in that case..." The pair emerged from the hole to find themselves in a small room. In the never-ending, flickering light of the enchanted torches, they could see a door on the other side. In between, the room was littered with old embalming tools and desecrated ancient Nordic sarcophagi.
"Looks like someone's been digging here," Farkas said, kicking a shovel on the ground. He crouched, noting the many boot-prints. "And recently."
"Looks like they left some of their things behind..." the Dragonborn said, moving to a table littered with more modern-day items. Picking up a book, he read the cover. "'Battle of Sancre Tor'..."
"Now that is a real story," Farkas remarked. "It tells of one of Tiber Septim's greatest victories."
The Dragonborn slid the book into his bag, along with a coin purse on the table, and looked around. "Our scholar was very... messy."
"It wasn't the scholar," Farkas said, looking at the ground. "You were right to be suspicious. This is a trap."
"How do you know?"
Farkas gestured at the ground. "Tracks," he said simply.
The Dragonborn knelt next to him and looked at the disturbed dirt on the ground. "... Perhaps you could be more specific."
"At least a half-dozen sets of armored boots," Farkas replied.
"Maybe the scholar brought some mercenaries for protection?"
Farkas should his head. "Smart people wouldn't allow all this," he said, gesturing at the ransacked room. "And they wear shoes. No shoeprints here."
"But how do you know it's a trap?"
"I'm a hunter," Farkas said simply. "Read the tracks."
The Dragonborn stared at the tracks. He stood up and looked at another part of the floor, then scanned the room. "Oh... none of the tracks exit. So, our friends have either been killed, found another exit, or-"
"They're still here," Farkas finished, drawing his weapon. The Dragonborn did the same. They pushed open the heavy rusted door and continued into the ruin.
"And people call you dumb," the Dragonborn whispered.
"I'm not too smart," Farkas acknowledged. "But I know hunting."
"Only one thing doesn't make sense," the Dragonborn whispered, creeping forward through the darkened corridor.
"What's that?" Farkas asked quietly.
"Why would anyone want to hurt the Companions?"
Farkas didn't answer. The pair proceeded silently through more catacombs. Slots with decayed bodies lined the walls, and at each corner was a space large enough for a standing man. As the Dragonborn neared a darkened alcove, Farkas said, "Be careful around the burial stones. I don't want to haul you back to Jorrvaskr on my back."
"What makes you say that?" the Dragonborn asked, stopping at looking at the Companion.
"If you get too close, sometimes they can-" Twin points of red fire appeared behind the Dragonborn. "Wake up. Drop!" As the Dragonborn crouched, Farkas stabbed forward, skewering the draugr through a gap in its armor. The Dragonborn saw another stepping out of its resting place a few feet ahead. He rolled towards it and brought his axe down on its neck before it could arm itself. The creature tried to draw its sword as it staggered forward, but the Axe of Whiterun came smashing into its face, and it fell head over heels to the floor as the red light left its eye sockets.
"More ahead!" Farkas called.
The Dragonborn turned to see two more draugr, bearing a sword and an axe, hobbling quickly down the corridor towards them. He stepped forward to face them, but in the narrow corridor, Farkas could not help. Fortunately, the draugr had the same problem. The smaller axe-wielder got there first and took a running charge at the Dragonborn.
Both hands on his axe, the Dragonborn blocked the undead's ancient axe with his own, then twisted his axe head, preventing the draugr from pulling it back for another swing. Instead, the creature found itself being pulled forward, and a vicious head-butt sent it to the ground. The sword-wielding draugr wasted no time in stabbing forward, but the Dragonborn deflected again with his axe, shoving the ancient sword to the side with a grunt. Farkas used the opportunity to thrust forward on the Dragonborn's other side, stabbing the draugr in the abdomen. Its howl of pain and outrage was cut short by the Dragonborn's axe, and it toppled onto its struggling companion.
Farkas stepped over them and plunged his sword downward with all his strength, impaling both undead bodies on the ground. The axe-wielding draugr ceased struggling, and the only sounds were the heavy breathing of the two Nords.
They wordlessly moved forward, remaining alert for any more enemies, but they encountered no more resistance as they proceeded carefully into a large, circular room and down a rickety staircase of decayed logs which were lodged into the wall. The light from the chandelier revealed it to be an ancient throne room. The Dragonborn put his axe away and began picking up gems, gold, and other trinkets off the tables and shelves lining the walls.
"We should keep moving," Farkas said, keeping his weapon at the ready.
"Right, but how?" the Dragonborn asked. There were three gateways in the room: the one they had entered from, another leading to a small antechamber, and the third was shut.
"There's gotta be some way to open that door," the Dragonborn muttered as he searched the antechamber. In between two tables, he noticed a lever. "Ah, here we go." He pulled the lever - and the gate behind him came crashing shut, trapping him. The Dragonborn tried shoving the lever back to its original position, but it would not budge. "Stupid, stupid, stupid. Uh... Farkas?"
Farkas walked up, studying the gate. "Now look what you've gotten yourself into."
"I can't find any way of opening it," the Dragonborn said, a little embarrassed. "I might be able to smash it with a Shout..."
Farkas shook his head. "No, none of that Shouting down here. This gate goes high up into the rock. The chamber will cave in if someone attempts to bash it open. No worries. Just sit tight. I'll find the release."
The screech of rusted metal caught their attention. "What was that?" Farkas exclaimed, spinning around, his sword at the ready.
The Dragonborn watched, alarmed, as three men, one Orc, and a woman charged in, all wearing matching armor he didn't recognize. They quickly formed a semi-circle around Farkas, who watched them grimly.
"It's time to die, dog," one of the men, the apparent leader, sneered. "We'd knew you'd be coming here. Your mistake, Companion."
"Hey! He's only named after a dog!" the Dragonborn called, looking for any way to help. The slits between the bars of the gate were too narrow to an arrow or a burst of magic to pass through. He tried with all his might to lift the gate, but he may as well have been trying to move a mountain. He stopped, a little panicked, and could only watch the ambush unfold.
Another man looked at the leader and nodded at Farkas. "Which one is that?"
"It doesn't matter," the leader responded sharply. "He wears that armor, he dies."
The woman gave a feral grin. "Killing you will make an excellent story," she said to Farkas.
"None of you will be alive to tell it," Farkas replied grimly. Then he did the last thing the Dragonborn expected: he dropped his sword.
At first, the Dragonborn thought the Companion was attempting to surrender. His dismay turned to bewilderment as Farkas seemed to start melting. But no - the Companion's arms were just getting longer. Farkas, who would have been large even amongst the Orcs, was getting bigger. Black fur appeared all over his body as his clothing disappeared. His feet transformed into paws the length of the Dragonborn's forearm. His hands grew in size, as well, and his fingernails turned into wicked-looking claws.
Fifteen seconds later, all the ambushers were dead. One tried to stab Farkas while he was transforming, but the Companion's mutating hand grabbed him by the throat and threw him into one of his companions. Farkas - or the creature Farkas had become - quickly back-handed another, and the Dragonborn heard the foe's neck snap. The woman had a bit more luck, stabbing her sword into Farkas' abdomen. She clearly expected the beast to keel over or at least retreat, but Farkas' only reaction was to bite down on her neck with his wolf-like canines and rip out her throat.
The leader charged at Farkas with his sword, yelling, but Farkas pounced on him, knocking him to ground, and kept slashing with his long, wicked claws until his foe's head was nothing but pulp. The two he had knocked over tried to flee the way they had come, but Farkas bounded after them with astonishing speed. The Dragonborn heard screaming, struggling, and snarling, then silence. After a minute, the gate in front of the Dragonborn rose with a metallic groan, and Farkas - appearing human once again - returned to the chamber.
"I hope I didn't scare you," he said gruffly, returning his sword to its sheath. He wasn't sure how his new friend would react.
However, the Dragonborn's face showed only amazement, not fright. "What was that?" he breathed.
"It's a blessing given to some of us," Farkas replied, encouraged that his fellow Nord had not fled in terror. "We can be like wild beasts. Fearsome. I'm a... werewolf."
"So... you're going to make me a werewolf?" the Dragonborn asked.
"Oh, no," Farkas assured him. "If you want the gift, you must prove your honor to be a Companion. 'Eyes on the prey, not the horizon.'" A clattering made both Nords reach for their weapons, but it was only the leader's corpse; the feet, still twitching, had knocked into some loose stone tiles on the floor. "We should keep moving," Farkas continued. "Still the draugr to worry about."
The Dragonborn fell into step beside him. "So all the Companions are werewolves?"
"Not everyone. Only the Circle have the beastblood," Farkas clarified. "It's a secret to everybody. Including the Silver Hand."
"Who are the Silver Hand?"
Farkas lightly kicked the body of one of his attackers as they passed. "Bad people who don't like werewolves. So they don't like us either."
A warhammer swung out from a darkened alcove, catching Farkas solidly in the chest. He fell to ground, gasping for breath. Meanwhile, an archer stepped out of another alcove further ahead, lined up a shot, and let it loose. It caught the Dragonborn in the leg, and he yelped in pain even as he buried his axe in the Silver Hand member who had attacked Farkas.
"Exact same spot, you dirty bitch!" he seethed in pain at the archer as he stomped forward.
The archer tried to line up another shot, but the Dragonborn shot a stream of fire at her. The flames just barely reached the archer's guantlets - and her bow. The cheap hunting bow quickly lit on fire, and she dropped it, pulling out her shortsword. The Dragonborn continued to stomp forward, but soon found himself back-pedaling as he barely managed to parry her vicious, quick strikes. She screeched with each thrust, but despite her fury, she maintained her balance, and moved too quick for him to counter-strike.
"Oh, come on!" the Dragonborn exclaimed in frustration. Finally, while parrying a strike, he quickly grabbed her blade before she could pull it back. He gripped it tightly, and it gouged painfully into his palm, but the surprised Silver Hand found herself defenseless as he finished her off with two axe swings.
Breathing heavily, the Dragonborn pulled the arrow out his leg with a hiss and turned back to Farkas. The Companion was still gasping for breath on the ground, the warhammer having collapsed his lung. The Dragonborn knelt next him, still breathing heavily, and took a second to center himself. The wounds on his hand healed as he summoned restorative magic to it, then shot it into Farkas' chest. The Nord's ragged breathing slowly began returning to normal, but the Dragonborn finally ran out of energy.
The Dragonborn gave the large Companion a potion to finish healing his injury, and sat back to apply one to his leg. "I guess a few didn't make it to the ambush."
Farkas drank the potion, and he groaned as he felt his ribs correct themselves and the soreness left his lung. He sat up, took a few deep breaths, and declared, "We must be more careful."
And they were. The two kept their weapons at the ready and methodically moved through the cairn, finishing off a few more Silver Hand ahead with relatively little effort. As the passages widened, they were able to finally fight in tandem. They quickly fell into a pattern, and only stopped occasionally so the Dragonborn could collect some valuables.
As the Dragonborn began to push open a heavy metal door, screams and the sounds of fighting could be heard ahead. "Sounds like our friends have met the residents," he commented.
"This should be good," Farkas replied quietly. As they proceeded forward, draugr began to rise from their resting places in the walls, but few even got the chance to stand before an axe or a sword put them back to sleep. They soon came upon the body of a Silver Hand surrounded by several draugr corpses.
"What is that?" the Dragonborn asked, pointing at the Silver Hand.
"You never seen a cat before?" Farkas asked a little sarcastically.
"I guess not. A cat, you say?" the Dragonborn responded as he searched the body for loot.
"A Khajiit. From Elsweyr," Farkas explained quietly. He remained on his guard, scanning the corridor ahead.
"Where?"
"Elsweyr."
"So, you don't know, or..."
"... No, idiot," Farkas huffed, belatedly realizing the confusion. "Elsweyr's the land of the cats on the southern coast."
"Oh. A vast and strange world, indeed," the Dragonborn mused, standing. "Let's move."
Farther ahead, the corridor gave way to a large dining hall, and they could make out three figures ahead. The Dragonborn took out his bow and lined up a shot while Farkas continued moving forward, hugging the wall. The Dragonborn let loose, and Farkas let the arrow pass before charging forward.
The Silver Hand never stood a chance. The Dragonborn arrow struck one in the chest, and Farkas' sword made quick work of another. The third tried to charge Farkas, but was halted permanently by another arrow from the Dragonborn.
After the Dragonborn had collected more valuables from the room, they shoved open another heavy metal door and proceeded into another section of the cairn. This area was decrepit, and cave-ins had closed off the path ahead, but the enchanted torches were still flickering.
As the Dragonborn opened a door to a side passage, he was set upon by three giant rodents. The hissing beasts, the size of small dogs, jumped upon him and immediately started scratching and biting. The startled Nord backed up and tripped on a rock, falling on his back. Farkas made two quick swipes, with amazing precision given the size of his broadsword, and killed two of them. The Dragonborn grabbed the last by the neck and squeezed until he heard a snap, then threw the carcass away.
As Farkas helped him up, he groaned, "What were those things?"
"Skeevers," Farkas said contemptuously. "You're lucky not to know them. Vicious little rodents." He crouched next to one. "Better use a potion to cure disease, if you haven't already. See those blisters? Ataxia."
The Dragonborn drank a potion as they proceeded forward. The catacombs merged with a large, natural cavern with a stream running through it. He grabbed one of the enchanted torches off the wall and led the way. There were more skeevers in the cavern, but they ran away from the light. A couple small frostbite spiders didn't have the sense to do so, however, and promptly fell to Farkas' blade. Signs of Nordic ruins soon returned. The pair climbed a fallen pillar up to another landing, and once again found themselves embraced in the dull brown walls of the ruin.
The Dragonborn replaced the torch in an empty sconce. "It's amazing how the Nords combined their ruin with a natural cavern."
Farkas shook his head. "That wasn't them. That was the draugr. They must have forged a new path after the cave-in." He held up a finger for silence and pushed open another metal door.
The pair found themselves in the largest chamber yet, which was twice the size of the main hall at Dragonsreach. The torchlight barely reached the vaulted ceiling, but the Dragonborn could see it was living rock which merged with the stones of the ruin halfway down the walls. At the multi-tiered ground level, sarcophagi lined the walls. A lot of sarcophagi. Thirteen lined the walls of the chamber, four more were on an upper landing to their left, and a large, more decorative one formed the centerpiece of the room, along with the altar behind it. And behind the altar was-
"A word wall!" the Dragonborn exclaimed, breaking their stunned silence.
Farkas followed, a little more cautiously. "I've seen those before," he remarked. "They're in a lot of old places. What are they?"
"Finally, I get to explain something. They're commemorative stones written in the dragon tongue," the Dragonborn breathed, scrutinizing the wall. A troubled expression came to his face. "... It's harder to read now. Child... king... dragon..." he muttered, pointing to various scratches on the wall. He tapped on one set of etchings in particular. "YOL. Yol, yol, yol… what does that mean?" he mused.
"I don't know, but look at this," Farkas said, pointing. Following his gaze, the Dragonborn saw a small pedestal on the altar. Atop it was a metal fragment. "Looks like a fragment of Wuuthrad is here after all."
"Excellent…" the Dragonborn moved to pick up the fragment, but Farkas grabbed his wrist. "What's the problem?"
Farkas nodded out a the rest of the chamber. "One last trap. I'd bet my life that as soon as we pick up that shard, draugr will fill this room. And these are the most honored dead; the best warriors were laid to rest in this place."
"So… what do we do?" the Dragonborn inquired.
Farkas shrugged. "It's your Trial, my friend."
"If I return without the fragment, won't I fail the Trial?"
"Yes, but you'll be alive to try another day," Farkas replied. "I just want you to know the consequences. Kodlak says that proving honor cannot come at the expense of wisdom."
"Can't you just change again? I bet you could take all of them on by yourself."
"Maybe," Farkas said, rubbing his neck. "But... Kodlak would call it cheating."
"But the Silver Hand-"
"Were not a part of your Trial," Farkas cut him off. "It's... complicated. Besides, I can't change again for a while. If we are to take these draugr on, it will just be you and me, as we are. Your choice."
The Dragonborn thought about it. He surveyed the many sarcophagi, dwelled upon the fragment, then looked back to Farkas.
With a fierce grin, he grabbed the fragment.
oolhardy bastard!" Farkas growled. "I nearly died down there." However, the Nord was smiling as he and the Dragonborn exited the cairn. The sun was once again disappearing behind the mountains.
"I had your back," the Dragonborn replied, looking around. "Amazing; we were down there all day."
"Time flies when you're fighting undead," Farkas responded, returning to their campsite. "We'd best stay here for the night. You've seen how unpredictable the tundra can be after nightfall."
Farkas began sharpening his blade, removing the various nicks it had taken, while the Dragonborn gathered more wood for the fire. They traded foodstuffs they taken from the Silver Hand and sat down to eat. Both moved gingerly, still sore from their exertions and sensitive from the still-healing wounds they had received in the melee below. Farkas prepared himself for more questions, and he was not disappointed.
"So..." the Dragonborn started as they opened the last of the ale. "What's the deal with the draugr?"
Farkas shrugged. "There are many stories. No one really knows."
"But what do you think?"
Farkas took a swig of ale, contemplating the fire. "I think they are here to test us. Our ancestors were strong, and they wanted us to be like them. Powerful. But power is dangerous for the unprepared. So they made themselves draugr to protect their legacy."
"That makes sense, I guess," the Dragonborn nodded. "But how have they survived for so long? This place must have been sacked and looted before."
"Undoubtedly," Farkas agreed around a mouthful of bread. "But any draugr inside that we didn't rip apart are being repaired by the other draugr as we speak. They are taking the fallen Silver Hand into their fold. Nords sometimes come to these places and sacrifice themselves to become draugr."
"Why would anyone do that to themselves?" the Dragonborn asked, aghast.
"Dun- ... sadness, maybe. Sickness. Madness," Farkas replied, shrugging again.
"I don't see why the Nords would tolerate necromancy," the Dragonborn commented as he ate the last of the cheese and bread.
"We don't!" Farkas exclaimed. He took the meat off the spit over the fire and began slicing it up. "Necromancy is one of the most heinous crimes. Very few Nords wish to become draugr. They are considered a blight, a heinous mistake!"
"Okay, so why don't the Nords wipe them out for good?"
Farkas burped and laughed. "Because they never leave their holes. Other monsters pose bigger problems. Not to mention our problems with the living. The draugr are mindless slaves. They don't bother anyone who doesn't bother them."
"That big bastard down there didn't seem mindless," the Dragonborn objected. "The one with the battleaxe who did all that Shouting."
Farkas nodded. "He was their leader. The strongest in life, thus he was the strongest in death. The weaker draugr would also work on him the most, to preserve him the best," Farkas said. He regarded the Dragonborn a moment, remembering how he had fought. "But you lopped off his head. Don't think they'll be able to fix that, huh?"
"Probably not," the Dragonborn laughed.
"But still," Farkas continued. "They're mindless. The draugr wander into their own traps and use only the most basic tactics. They do the things they had learned in life which became part of their nature."
"Say, Farkas, why didn't you collect anything down there?" the Dragonborn asked, patting his satchel full of treasure.
"What do you mean? I grabbed this goat leg from the dining hall," Farkas replied, passing over some mutton.
"Oh, come on. There were potions, gold, all manner of stuff to take. All you took was an animal leg. Am I violating some code by taking this stuff?"
"No, no," Farkas replied, gesturing dismissively. "This place has surely been robbed many times. But the draugr replace them with things they find on the dead. I've heard that they will dig and craft if they feel the need."
"But you still haven't answered my question."
Farkas shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I kind of did, didn't I?"
The Dragonborn chewed on his mutton, thinking about it, and became somber. "Oh… they're slaves. And if you take something..."
"They will work to replace it," Farkas nodded. "Don't worry; I have never met another adventurer who did not take their share of loot, and you've certainly earned all that. But your questions are sound. Are they truly mindless? They do so many things. For me..."
"You would rather pass up treasure troves than risk reaping the rewards of slavery," the Dragonborn finished. Raising his ale, he continued, "Farkas, your heart is truly too big for your chest. And that's saying something."
Farkas smiled and bowed his head slightly at the compliment. "Well, I'm out of food, and you've got a new book to read, so-"
"Wait, just one more thing," the Dragonborn insisted.
"If it is about the gift, you should talk to Kodlak."
"No. It's about my name..."
Loredas, afternoon, 21th of Last Seed
e cannot do this if he doesn't remember his name!" Vilkas objected. He stood with Kodlak, Shor and Aela in the training yard of Jorrvaskr on this bright Loredas afternoon. Athis had just informed them that Farkas and the Dragonborn had entered the city, and the Circle was gathering to issue the Judgment of the latter's Trial. The other Companions gathered in at the tables on the patio and had a round while they waited. Ria, though, couldn't help but eavesdrop on the argument.
"It's because he can't remember his name that he needs our protection all the more," Kodlak replied patiently.
"What happened to merit?" Vilkas argued. "To brotherhood? We don't know this man!"
"Vilkas, his Trial is done," Kodlak sighed. "If he cannot provide a name, we may discuss it then, but will you not hear your brother's judgment first? With an open mind?"
Vilkas grimaced, then nodded. "Yes. I promise. I will trust in Farkas' judgment."
"Thank you, my boy," Kodlak smiled, patting Vilkas' arm. They arranged themselves in a partial semicircle in the yard. Farkas and his charge soon appeared, coming around the side of Jorrvaskr. The Dragonborn looked up, surprised to see all the Companions assembled in the yard.
Farkas slowed, and as he slipped into his place to complete the semicircle, he gave the Dragonborn a small push forward. The Dragonborn quickly found himself surrounded, with the Circle arranged around him in the training yard and the rest of the Companions then in Whiterun behind him on the patio. If he was alarmed, he didn't show it, though both he and Farkas were dusty and weary from their trek.
Without skipping a beat, Kodlak commenced the proceeding. The Trial was an ancient ceremony for the Companions. Farkas and all the other Companions knew the questions Kodlak would ask, and Farkas could choose from several possible responses to relay his assessment of the Dragonborn's performance during his Trial, as well as Farkas' trust in him.
"Brothers and sisters of the Circle," Kodlak declared. "Today we welcome a new soul into our mortal fold. This man has endured, has challenged, and has shown his valor. Who will speak for him?"
"I stand witness to the courage of the soul before us," Farkas answered.
"Would you raise your shield in his defense?" Kodlak asked.
"I would stand at his back, that the world might never overtake us," Farkas answered solemnly.
Ria, still new to the Companions, referred to the sheet she had made. Farkas had given the answer at the top - the highest rating he could give the Dragonborn's prowess in battle.
Kodlak nodded. "And would you raise your sword in his honor?"
Without hesitating, Farkas replied, "It stands ready to meet the blood of his foes."
Ria smiled, remembering that Farkas had given the same answer at her own Trial, which indicated absolute trust in the person's friendship.
With a glance at Vilkas, Kodlak continued. "And would you raise a mug in his name?"
Ria held her breath. Thus far, Farkas had given the best possible answers, but if he gave anything less than a perfect assessment, the other Companions could weigh in. Remembering her own Trial, she knew the debate could be long and scathing. Vilkas and some of the others clearly did not wish to add a man they had known less than a week into their fold, and she knew they would fight tooth and nail against this if given the chance.
But Farkas, it seemed, did not wish to give his brother the opportunity. "I would lead the song of triumph as our mead hall reveled in his stories," he declared.
Kodlak raised his chin, and held out a hand to keep the silence. For the first time at a Trial, he asked a fifth question, one of his own devising, as it had never been needed before. "And on that day, what name shall we sing?"
Farkas glanced at his friend, surprised by the break from precedent. But the Dragonborn merely nodded, his face solemn, and kept his eyes on Kodlak. Farkas smiled briefly and returned his gaze to the Harbinger.
"We shall sing of Dovah. Dovah Kiin."
For a split second, Ria thought Kodlak's face was more than pleased. It was triumphant. "Then the judgment of this Circle is complete," he declared proudly. "His heart beats with the fury and courage that have united the Companions since the days of the distant green summers. Let it beat with ours, that the mountains may echo and our enemies may tremble at the call."
Next to him, Skjor said, "It shall be so."
"It shall be so," Aela affirmed.
"It shall be so," Vilkas repeated stiffly.
Then Farkas and the rest of the Companions shouted, "It shall be so!" The gathering broke out in applause, and Farkas clapped Dovah on the back. The Trial was over, as was the impromptu naming ceremony.
As the Companions drifted back inside for dinner, Kodlak approached Dovah. "Well, boy, you're one of us now. I trust you won't disappoint. Come, dine with me."
"Thank you, Kodlak," Dovah smiled, falling in step beside the Harbinger as he went inside for dinner. "Is it true that the Companions are werewolves?"
Kodlak looked at him, surprised. "I see you've been allowed to know some secrets before your appointed time. No matter," he replied wearily as they descended to Jorrvaskr's basement. "Yes, it's true. Not every Companion, though. Only members of the Circle all share the blood of the beast. Some take to it more than others."
"Vilkas?"
"He surely feels the call, but the beast blood fits Aela like a glove." They entered Kodlak's study, where their dinner awaited on the table.
"What about you?" Dovah asked as he rinsed the dirt off his hands at the washbowl.
"Well, I grow old," Kodlak groaned as he eased himself into his chair. "My mind turns toward the horizon. Some nights I dream about the mists of Sovngarde. I worry that Shor won't call an animal to glory as he would a true Nord warrior."
Dovah took a seat and poured them each an ale from a pitcher. "I have heard of Sovngarde many times now, but no one has told me where it is."
Kodlak laughed. "It's beyond this world, boy. Sovngarde is Shor's kingdom. You know who Shor is, I trust?"
"Farkas has told me a little about Shor and Kyne during our journey. But we never got around to Sovngarde."
"It is where Nords go upon their death," Kodlak explained. "Those who die with honor are welcomed within, and those who can best Tsun may enter the Hall of Valor for an eternity of drinking, sparring, and merriment."
"Where do the others go?"
Kodlak shrugged. "There are many theories. Every race has a different view of the afterlife. Maybe they're all right. Maybe they're all wrong. But all seem to agree that our actions in this life determine where we go in the next."
"And you're worried that your actions won't take you where you want to go," Dovah summarized.
Kodlak nodded. "Living as beasts draws our souls closer to the Daedric Lord Hircine. Some may prefer an eternity in his Hunting Grounds, but I crave the fellowship of Sovngarde."
"Daedra Lords, I've heard a little about them…"
Kodlak stood up, moving to his bookcase. "You'd best hear more, boy. The Daedra Lords fight for our souls more overtly than most, and it's best to be on your guard."
"But who are they?"
Kodlak didn't respond immediately. He found the book he was looking for and passed it to Dovah as he resumed his seat.
"The Book of Daedra," Dovah read on the cover. He open it and began reading as he ate some salmon.
"I don't know if a Daedric Lord is a who or a what," Kodlak started carefully, his eyebrow raising as Dovah flipped through the pages quickly. "But legends say the Daedra are those who did not build this world. Instead, they seek to twist it for their own gain. They are powerful, but they are slaves to their own natures, and ancient pacts dim their influence here. The beast blood is a gift from one of them, Hircine. Except I don't know if it's a gift I want."
"Hircine is … the Huntsman and Father of Manbeasts, then?" Dovah said, reciting from the book.
"Yes. What we call a gift is really a disease, called lycanthropy. But it is not a thing of nature. A person infected with it forms a mystical connection with Hircine, and can draw power from him to become a 'Manbeast.' It's dark magic. There are different strains of this disease, but all of Hircine's children go to his Hunting Grounds in death."
"You're looking to cure yourself?"
"Yes, but it's no easy matter," Kodlak grumbled. "But you don't need to share the worries of an old warrior. This day is to rejoice in your bravery! What did you learn on your Trial, besides your name?"
Dovah stopped reading and thought a moment. "I learned many things. But foremost, I learned this world is vast and strange..."
The Tale continues in In My Time of Need.
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