Fire On The Mountain (A Skyrim Quest)

Webs

Do'azda stares at the giant spider for a long moment, and almost envies the bandit. Sure, he faces long odds, but spiders should not be that large and if he'd stayed no doubt he'd have had to face this thing down too. She's almost tempted to simply back up along with Soahin and let the spider have its way with him. But what if he doesn't drop the Claw? What if the spider comes back?

It's more dangerous to just hope it all works out… though by all accounts Arvel is not anyone to truly mourn. She reaches out and drinks down the Magicka potion, wincing. It is a decent one, just barely… but the quality is bad for what's been put in it. Good ingredients gone stale and mixed just well enough for her to think that whoever did it might have some bit of Alchemical knowledge. It is a bad effort, though, and it goes down like sludge. She coughs, and the spider turns towards her.

It smells faintly of blood, and its noises are disconcerting, legs skittering far too fast as it prepares to attack. "What does Do'azda need to know?" she asks, holding her axe in one hand.

"It spits--"

Soahlin dodges out of the way of a gob of venom.

"Ah," Do'azda says, faintly. So it isn't actually safe to just stand back and cast magic on it. Not that she planned on doing so… lacking Destruction as she does. But the gob is a hissing, burning cold, and she doesn't want anything like that to touch her fur. She gathers her strength and conjures an ice wolf, large and vicious. "Attack the weak leg!" she says again, as she and Soahlin both hurry forward.

It has only only one head, and so the spider skitters forward, trying to look at three different foes at once. The wolf's teeth grip the shattered mess of the leg and begin to pull at the same moment that Do'azda's axe comes down on a leg on the other side.

But up close, it has answers as well, and it… she expects it to try to bite her, but instead it just slams its head against Do'azda's chest. She rolls with the hit, which is why nothing breaks as she is sent reeling back. "Next leg!" she chokes out, the breath knocked out of her as she tried to get her balance back.

That was going to bruise, wasn't it?

The wolf switches to biting down on the next leg, leaving three legs on that side injured, and while it is distracted Soahin dives in, but she's not aimed at any of the legs. No, her shield slams into the thing's body, as if she wants to bear it down and pin it, and then the sword lashes out like a snake towards its neck.

The spider screams in fury and pain, and turns to try to bite at the steel. Perhaps it can even bite through it, but there is no chance as the blade retreats just as quickly.

Do'azda, still gasping for breath, charges forward, focusing on the leg the wolf is biting down on halfway through and chopping just above it. The axe goes halfway through the leg and gets briefly stuck, but when she tugs at it it pushes in deeper.

The chitin crackles and breaks, and the spider's flesh is revealed, pallid and clammy, like a drowned corpse. With the chitinous exoskeleton broken, the leg pulls free of axe and tooth both, and the spider stabs it forwards, aiming to pin Do'azda to the ground with the razor sharp point of the leg. She leaps backwards as the leg comes down, preparing to strike once again. That proves unnecessary, however; where the leg is torn and damaged, unsupported by the exoskeleton, it bends alarmingly under the thrust, and then horrifically tears, spraying Do'azda with icy dark blue blood.

The spider pulls the leg in, curling it almost all the way under its own thorax.

With only six legs and one of those injured, it is hard for it to keep its balance when surrounded on all sides. The fact that both lost legs are on the same side means that if it tries to lean towards Do'azda and the wolf to deal with them it could just topple over. Do'azda's hands are soaked in whatever the spider version of blood is, horribly cold and sticky, and the bruise is leaving each breath almost a gasp, but she knows opportunity when she sees it. She dives forward, but the spider is cleverer than she thinks, and it spits its strange poison-acid at the wolf.

It is a conjuration, but it behaves like an ordinary living being, albeit a single minded one that is far braver and far more willing to fight to the last and run into danger.

"Attack," she says again, as it thrashes and screams and thus bites and claws at random. But this is enough. The spider turns to focus on it and its third injured leg halfway gives out as it topples to one side.

Do'azda is still panting and gasping, trying to focus enough to do something about this. The conjured beast finally dies with a whimper beneath the bulk and desperate thrashing of the frostbite spider.

But it too is dying. It tries to pull itself upright, but it drops again. The blue blood oozing from its wounds is slowing, pulsing thickly. As Soahin stalks towards it from behind, it twists pathetically, and bares its fangs, preparing to spit, but its eyes go glassy, one pair at a time, rippling out across its face, its legs curl up slowly, drawn up under itself, fangs extending out, venom sacs exposed.

"Well. That's one way to kill it," Soahlin says, staring at it for a long, long moment. It twitches, it continues to move on pure nervous energy coming out in last spasms that don't stop its legs from staying curled.

Then it is silent. It is still.

For a second.

"Hey, get me out!" the bandit yells hoarsely.

Do'azda realizes he's been yelling this whole time, and she's just been ignoring him because the sound of her own racing heartbeat is much louder.

She resolves to continue to ignore him, moving towards the spider's corpse. Even dead, an irrational fear grips her, as she approaches the mandibles, dripping with venom.

The venom is surrounded by a thin, wispy fog of water vapour, with a puddle forming beneath it, webbed with ice. Do'azda swallows. Shaman apprentices are trained to milk venom from various snakes, and even moderately sized giant spiders, but she's never seen a spider so huge, and the creature's biology is alien to anything she has encountered.

The venom-sacs are no different from any other, however, and soon enough she is pressing the empty bottle of magicka potion to one fang, as venom fairly pours into it. She hisses in pain as a droplet splatters against her knuckles, but as the venom-sac finally empties with a sad raspberry, there is just enough space to force the stopper into the bottle. The frostbite venom is a muddy green-grey, with a gently bluish pearlescence.

Tucking the bottle away, the other fang swells with venom, seeming to mock her for her lack of foresight in not bringing any bottles for potions to this dungeon.

"Does the shaman need another container?" Soahin asks, her voice slightly shaky. "Because this one could do with a drink to steady her nerves after such a fight, and she believes a solution might be found to satisfy us both."

Do'azda doesn't have a chance to reply before Soahin finishes the skein of… whatever hateful grog the bandits in the watchtower had been drinking, and tosses the empty skin to her.

It takes slightly longer to drain the second sac, for the skein is not so well designed as the bottle for such tasks, but Do'azda is more accustomed, and she does not receive further burns from the noxious poison.

With its venom-sacs drained, Do'azda abandons the giant spider, straightening up and turning to the bandit, still wriggling in his cocoon of spider's silk.

"Cut me loose, in Vivec's name!" He barks, frustration bleeding into his voice. Soahin bristles, and he cringes. "I- I mean… let me down, so I can show you the way to the treasure chamber - I've got the claw! I assume you're with my crew further up? You must've been lucky, getting through the gate after I- After one of the symbols broke."

"This one is no bandit," Soahin replies coolly, "She and the shaman slew your crew. Give her a single reason she ought not to run you through?"

The trapped bandit - Arvel - pales. "Well- Let's not be too hasty! I was only working with bandits because no one would aid me! I only want some of the treasure! We can share it! I've worked out what the riddle means, whilst tied up here!"

Do'azda frowns. "Riddle? What riddle?"

Arvel laughs. It's a nasty, condescending laugh, and Do'azda has half a mind to take the opportunity to strike him where few like to be struck. "Oh! You don't know? Let me guess, the fool of a shopkeep sent you here to bring back his ornament and neither he nor you bothered to wonder where it came from? What it might mean for the barrow on the hill? About the riddle from the nordic legend? Cut me down! I'll tell you everything once I'm down!"

Do'azda doubts he can fight her and Soahin both, especially after who knows how long wrapped up in spider's web, and any path forwards which requires a riddle will hold him up if he tries to run. Her dagger makes short work of the spider's web, with only a little sawing on the thicker strands. For the whole minute or so it takes, however, Arvel's complaining is without pause.

At long last, he drops to the floor, leaving a gap in the spider's web. He collapses on all fours, before standing slowly, brushing himself off, and stepping gingerly through the gap left in the web, into the corridor behind.

"You fools!" He crows, drawing an iron sword and slashing at the web, collapsing it into a mass of sticky, obstructive strands. "Why should I share the treasure with anyone?"

Do'azda curses, listening to the pounding of boots on stone, whilst Soahin sets to work flattening the web enough to make it passable. If he meant for it to stop them for long, Arvel would be sorely disappointed. Soahin simply presses her shield flat to the ground, creating a passage across, before pulling the shield itself free.

The handful of heartbeats it has bought him, however, is enough for Do'azda to have lost sight of him entirely. Even sprinting at full tilt, she does not see him in that first corridor, nor in the first chamber thereafter, a small, round room, set up purely for the preparation of corpses for inhumation; a dessicated, hairless body lies on the slab, wrapped up in worn linen, its head unpleasantly rotten - unfinished, Do'azda presumes. She is so focused on the need to gain on Arvel, she scarcely registers that down here, in a chamber undisturbed by any living soul for some thousands of years, the torches are lit. Coals burn in braziers.

The corridor from this chamber is short, and soon Do'azda bursts into the next large chamber. The floor slopes down before her before the room turns abruptly to the right, hiding a portion of the chamber, with niches three high on every wall, each one holding another desiccated body, each body in rusted armour, a rusted, ancient weapon clasped in cold, dead hands.

Except, not every niche contains such a corpse. Three stand empty. She sees these, and wonders, for a second, before she reaches the kink in the room, and she sees them.

Three corpses stand, their ancient weapons - ancient, and yet still sharp, wickedly sharp - hanging limply from dead hands, a baleful blue light burning in their hollow, shrivelled eyes.

She sees Arvel next. One of the corpses - the one with the greataxe, she judges from the wound, curiously dispassionate - caught him across the shoulder blades as he ran. He did not survive the experience.

Bedtime stories of corpses, she recalls dully. She hears Soahin's blade rasping from its scabbard. Two more have clambered free of their chamber behind them, she sees. S'rendarr save them.

"Draugr…" Soahin says, halfway between a moan and a growl. "May Riddle'thar guide us through this."

What does Do'azda do to face the Draugr?

Poison
[] Apply a dose of frostbite venom from the skein.
[] Do not apply any frostbite venom at the moment.
Recollect what you are fighting.
Magic?

[] Cast courage before each major engagement with the enemies.
[] Use Blur to try to get closer to the enemies.
[] Use Conjure Animal in most fights to try to even up any odds.
[] Summon a bound dagger - bound weapons are faster than normal weapons, as light as air in the hand. They terrify simple-minded enemies.
She has no magic left to give.

Physical combat? (Choose 1)
[] The axe; the draugr are all but unarmoured, and an axe will break bone and rend flesh like a cleaver.
[] Rely on her claws to tear at the enemy in a way they can't deal with as easily. The draugr are dead nords, from millennia gone. They like as not have no experience with those who can use their bare hands so well.
[] A dagger in each hand; speed is one of the true advantages the living have over the dead, and daggers are quicker than any other blade.
[] The axe in her right, the dagger in her left; it may be difficult to co-ordinate, but such an approach provides some benefits of either choice, though it makes dodging and blocking difficult.
[] Write-in

Overall Strategy
[] Defensive - the undead are slow, and individually fragile. Do'azda and Soahin will move slowly, waiting for them to awaken and hacking them down, safe in the knowledge none will slip behind them. But to move so slowly risks the draugr forming an overwhelming force, risks exhaustion.
[] Offensive - the undead need to awaken, to rise from their eternal slumber. Do'azda and Soahin will move quickly, hacking down the draugr as they try to rise - they need therefore only fight a fraction of the draugr, the rest being slain before they can draw their terrible ancient weapons. But to move fast risks carelessness, risks encirclement.
[] Manipulative - the undead are foolish, and Do'azda can see already a trap, a great sweeping spiked portcullis, controlled by a pressure plate. With some effort, and no little risk, the undead might be baited to step into such traps. But it is dangerous to play games with traps, more dangerous still to serve as bait in a trap.
[] Furtive - the undead are unobservant. Should Do'azda and Soahin move slowly, on silent paws, they might avoid awakening many, and swiftly slay those that do, but should they fail, should they be drawn into loud, prolonged combat, they take a terrible risk.


TL AN: This was a quick turnaround, but also a short update. We'll try to keep the turnaround lower in these more action-oriented updates, where there's likely to be frequent votes. Also, added a Trait to Do'azda's character sheet.

VM AN: I'd say we're about halfway through Bleak Falls?

Draugr

Do'azda feels fear try to come to grips with her, wrapping its claws around her throat, but she takes a deep, and says, "Do'azda thinks we cannot fight all of them. We should…"

"Kill 'em before they rise?" Soahin asks, raising her shield up. "Soahin agrees. Do'azda does not have magic, no?"

"No," Do'azda admits, as she hefts her axe experimentally. She definitely needs to gain more experience in fighting, as she is already starting to flag, her energies expended early on. Of course, she couldn't have expected that there'd be so much to fight. But having pushed herself this far, she has to keep on going. "She is trying to gather it… we need to deal with these first."

"Stay close to me," Soahin says, sounding and looking far less worn out than Do'azda feels. They charge forward. A greataxe falls, but Soahin is there to intercept it, and stab straight through the thing's neck. "Do not bother with wounding blows."

Right. They still had tendons, she is sure, still nerves and bones and muscles, but the kind of lethal gut-slash she's sometimes had to fight as an alchemist of healing salves would likely do nothing at all to stop these creatures. She darts forward, trying to target the Draugr with the spear.

She cannot truly tell many details apart, but the spear-wielding Draugr seems to have once been a tall woman. Do'azda's axe slams into the knees of the creature, pushing as hard as she can and cleaving halfway through the leg.

It roars, but it seems as if the very things that preserve them can make them a little more brittle. There's also the lack of armor on the legs, which would no doubt be there to prevent just… that.

With a heave, she pulls away the axe and the spearwoman Draugr topples to the ground. In the same time she's done it, the Greataxe wielding Draugr--a short, stout man withered away to skin and bones, she suspects--has been put down.

She's panting, but she slams the axe into the Draugr's head, and it shakes and dies as she turns to fight the last one, her muscles already shouting at her to stop and relax. But she knows that if she gives them time to regroup, it'll get even worse. The third Draugr seems like it was once a man, and is armed with a short-sword. It lurches forward right into the shield of Soahin, who pins it as prettily as can be.

She can smell them, the odd scent of the undead. They do not quite smell like rotting flesh, but rather almost stale. It is not a more pleasant smell, flesh gone stale and dryly preserved, with a hint of the body's natural odors, as if each of them had stewed in their own sweat before death and hadn't bathed since. And the smell when they get up close, from their open, screaming mouths is even worse.

Do'azda shudders and brings down the axe against the head of the third Draugr, and it collapses. She doesn't save it at that, doesn't want it to rise up again. She's panting, and Do'azda doubts she smells like a field of flowers... though perhaps she does smell quite fragrant. She doesn't have time to comment on it, just enough time to take a deep breath.

"We must…" Do'azda pants. "We must check his corpse."

She gestures to Arvel's corpse, sprawled almost comically across the crypt's floor, and Soahin nods, her eyes hard. "Foolish, greedy dunmer."

He has little of value, and Soahin ignores even that, working hurriedly. Ignoring sword and armour, she withdraws from the corpse with only a small, weathered-looking leather-bound book and the golden dragon's claw.

"The book is handwritten," Soahin says, "Soahin thought then that it may be important?"

Do'azda tucks the book into her robes, and then looks at the claw. There are some words scratched into the 'palm' of the claw, in a language she does not speak - an ancient nordic dialect, she suspects. "This one wonders what the claw does."

"Do you want to stop? The Draugr might not wake up until we grow closer," Soahin says, though the quivering note in her voice makes it clear that she's not sure of that at all. She's just guessing, and Do'azda does not want to make their job any harder than it already is. She hangs the claw from her belt and quiets her aching limbs by taking a few deep breaths and steadying her stance.

"No, Do'azda can go on." She straightens up.

"Good. Let's hurry."

It is a dangerous place to hurry, that much is true. The traps are not particularly subtle, but often enough they're not meant to be. As they hurry down the passages, they stop to hack the bodies of the draugr. More than one has attempted to rise, its body failing to obey, suffering the terrible wound inflicted by sword or axe. A few rise before they can be struck, and Soahin must dance with them, or Do'azda must sweep her axe forth, cutting them to pieces. Do'azda knows that she is contributing less and less as the fighting goes on, but they're making good time. A half-dozen Draugr fall, often having no time to do much more than try a single swipe with their weapons before they fall to the assaults of the two of them. It is good exercise, at least, and she feels all her muscles straining with the effort to keep on going and fighting and running. She can't slow down, even as her shoes half-push against this or that bit of upraised stone perhaps meant for just such a moment.

She doesn't know what they could be guarding, but they themselves do not have enough. A few old, dark gold coins, a little bit of faded and rotted away fabric that might have once been rich? It is no treasure-hunter's haul, and Do'azda knows that in theory they could just turn around and give the Claw back.

But the dead are rising and might actually chase the living down the mountain at this point, and besides: there is something in here that she wants to see no matter what. The air is dry and dusty, and she tries not to breathe it in too much. It is also getting colder the further into this tomb they go. The air just doesn't move, and her lungs are beginning to burn. Her thoughts turn to mines in Elsweyr, with great Magrus-blessed pumps from the factories of the Abecean Coast, of the corpses pulled from the mines when the pumps failed, their lungs full of poison. She forces such fears from her mind.

The tunnels open to a natural cave, and Do'azda relaxes minutely, not having to worry about traps or draugr.

A chest sits by the side of a stream, which Do'azda sees runs down the only path out - torches line the cave walls.

Next to the chest is a great black stone obelisk, shining dully in the torchlight. Soahin takes a step towards the chest. Her foot has scarcely broken the surface of the water when a cloud of dust bursts from the obelisk with an incongruous 'puff'.

The front face of the obelisk crashes down onto the cave floor, and a draugr steps forwards, an ancient, rusting axe in one hand, whilst the other curls, icy mist emanating from it.

"Dukaan Ni Faal Zahrahmiik!" The Draugr shouts, its voice croaking with underuse, sweeping its axe with abnormal smoothness for a draugr. "Komeyt Bosivaas?"

Soahin rushes forwards, but the draugr raises the icy hand and releases a jet of frosty air, forcing her behind her shield.

Do'azda squares her shoulders and charges the draugr. Whatever unearthly power animates the undead nord, it is paralysed by indecision; to turn its frost from Soahin would let the mercenary close with it, and it can plainly see she is a more dangerous foe, but Do'azda is approaching fast, her axe wickedly sharp.

The draugr's axe makes a circle, trying to keep her at bay, but it comes to little. Soahin has advanced, her shield held high, despite the ice spattered across its surface; the ice, Do'azda sees, which flecks Soahin's fur white. It turns only for a second to check her progress, and Do'azda strikes, her arms screaming in protest as her axe jolts against the spine of the draugr.

It grunts, tries to form words once again, but the terrible blue light is fading already from its eyes.

"They can do magic," Soahin observes dryly. "This one did not know that."

Do'azda's happiness at being out of the carved stone passageways and into the cave does not last long, even past the draugr from the obelisk. The cave is narrow, the walls sharp and close. More than once, Do'azda ducks away from a torch and scrapes against a protruding rock on the other side. Even with a torch every few yards, the narrow passage is dark, and the water running along the bottom is icy cold.

Soahin leads the way, cursing under her breath as her shield catches on rocks and torch sconces, but no draugr comes crashing out of the darkness until they burst out of the passageway into a chasm which plunged down. Soahin staggers as Do'azda collides with her back, but does not fall.

A thin natural bridge crosses the chasm, which rises all the way to the very surface, with a weak light shining down. The bridge is covered in a layer of compacted, horribly slippery snow and ice, and as Soahin makes her way across, keeping her weight low, Do'azda steps gingerly forwards.

As she peers into the darkness far below, she can see two pinpricks of bright blue light. Squinting, she recognises a draugr, its body a shattered wreck, broken by the fall and waterlogged by the stream. She shivers involuntarily in sympathy; even for such a creature, an eternity of slow disintegration is a grim fate to wish on anything.

It is slow work, crossing the chasm. Soahin inches along, her eyes fixed on the dark path ahead, where the path continues. Do'azda knows what she is thinking - should a draugr burst forth, it would surely kill them both, bearing all three of them into the abyss, alongside the one already down in the depths.

Perhaps, she wonders, that is how that one got there? Perhaps previous adventurers lie down there, their bodies broken by the fall, a draugr gnawing on their bones.

Do the draugr even die? Can they?

The thought freezes her blood. Perhaps some other creature of this Barrow already works behind them, sewing wounds shut, returning draugr to their niches, letting the Barrow's magic flow back into them. Perhaps even now, all that she has done is for naught. Perhaps she can feel the cold, rank breath on the back of her neck, smell the hateful, dusty stench already?

The chasm ends, and she steps onto steady ground. Nothing is behind her, no draugr with greatsword borne aloft. She huffs.

The path out from the chasm is much like the path to it; narrow, dark and uncomfortable, but there is, at the least, no cold stream to find the holes in Do'azda's boots.

The rough stone passageway gives way all of a sudden to the masoned stone of the Barrow proper. Brightly lit by braziers and torches, Do'azda looks down, blinking ferociously as her pupils contract to slits.

An ancient pickaxe covered in queer runes is tucked against the broken stonework as they pick their way through it.

A cave-in has blocked the left hand route in the corridor they find themselves in, and Do'azda realises the draugr must've carved out the entire passage she just travelled - some twenty minutes of solid walking - when the cave-in blocked them in.

She swallows. The scale of such a working boggles the mind a little.

To the right, the corridor continues down, deeper and deeper into the mountain. From around the corner comes the whistling of the repetitive movement of something very large, very sharp and very fast.

Three axes sweep forwards and back through a narrow stone corridor, one after the other. Wine dark grooves are worn into the floor, saturated with century old bloodstains. She imagines trying to time them, trying to run through all at once… but it would also be hard to simply take them one at a time, she'd lose any momentum, would have to sprint past the next one from a dead stop.

Neither way to make it through seems particularly appealing.

"These cannot have been running for centuries," Soahin says.

"Something has awakened them, as with the draugr," Do'azda agrees. "Perhaps the bandits when they entered? Or us when we slew those first draugr?"

"Perhaps. This one will not be able to pass between the blades, not with her shield, with the ice in her joints. Can the shaman, or are we to return to Riverwood now?"

Do'azda watches the axes, timing the sweeping. When an axe has just swept past, she can probably dart past and stop before the next.

Her heart pounds in her ear, but she does it all the same, taking a smart step forwards, almost into the path of an axe, another whispering past her tail.

Her tongue sticks in her mouth and her eyes burn. She hasn't blinked, she realises.

Do'azda takes a long, slow breath. This is not a race, not really. Whatever is down there is not going to leave, and if it tries to do so through the swinging blades it is welcome to try. She centers herself with a quick prayer, the words all flowing together in her head. Then she darts forward once again.

Two down.

Her heart is slamming against her ribcage, and her tail is curled around her as tightly as it can go, just in case. She's seen Khajiit adventurers who lack part, or even almost all, of their tails.

The thought nearly freezes her again, but she imagines a draugr awakening ahead, making its way towards her, forcing her back into the axe behind her, and she forces herself to move; last one.

Pain tears up her leg, and she spins out of the hallway, crashing to the floor. She squeezes her eyes shut, terrified to look at her left leg, at the blood and ruin that will surely face her.

But the pain is dull, like a great, terrible bruise. She cracks an eyelid, and then exhales in unadulterated relief. Only the shaft of the axe caught her, dealt her a painful bruise, threw her clear. She finds herself laughing, gentle peals of helpless, relieved laughter.

There is a ring and chain hanging just beyond the hall of blades, and Do'azda tugs on it experimentally.

A rasp of steel on stone, and the axes sweep one after the other up into the wall to the left, and do not return.

Soahin scurries through the hall, as though the axes may resume at any moment.

"This one feared the shaman was a dead cat when the axe caught her!" Soahin gasps.

"Do'azda feared she was dead also!" Do'azda replies. "The blade missed her. Azurah watches even now."

The room they find themselves in is tall - twice again the height of the inn at Riverwood, with a great stone walkway crossing overhead, between the far wall and a mighty pillar, then on again, disappearing onto a ledge above Do'azda's head. Ancient wooden panels cover near the entirety of the second layer on both sides, almost black with age and soot, with a staircase of sharpened wooden boughs hammered into the wall, the bark still on every step.

More stone sarcophagi line the walls, some still sealed with stone, others open, the draugr inside seeming naked, inert, their hands empty of sword and shield, their body lacking even the crude, rusted, rotten armour of the others.

The sealed sarcophagi creak, and Do'azda readies her axe. A few minutes of pause hasn't been enough to get the ache from her arms, and now her leg is terribly sore to boot.

Soahin takes the first draugr as it steps from its sarcophagus, her sword slipping between two ribs and into the heart - it sags immediately, its ancient two-handed sword falling from nerveless fingers.

Another steps from the sarcophagus opposite, and Do'azda is on it immediately, despite her aches. She is not so precise as Soahin, but it scarcely matters - the first blow of her axe catches it on the collar, snapping the brittle bone into pieces, leaving the undead creature's arms unnervingly loose on its body. The second blow, an upwards reverse stroke, catches it in the abdomen, tearing open its torso. She gags at the nauseating musty stench from the wound, staggering backwards as the draugr collapses.

Soahin has slain another draugr, and Do'azda looks around, her ears pricked and eyes sharp. No further sarcophagi open on the lower layer, and she almost relaxes before she spies the draugr on the steps, an ancient bow in its near skeletal hands.

Soahin grunts with pain as an arrow catches her in the chest, sending her crashing to the ground with a lung-empty gust.

"Kill the archer, or the next will be in your throat!" The words sound rehearsed, like they have been drilled, even when gasped breathlessly. Do'azda doesn't take the time to dwell; she does not need to be told twice, rushing forwards, axe held low and right.

The ground between her and the draugr is a lake of oil, glistening in a multitude of colours like some vile rainbow. Her legs skid and slide on the oil, but she keeps her balance, her tail as straight as a die behind her, adjusting minutely to keep her centered on her feet.

She continues even over such difficult terrain, but helplessly slow, struggling forwards as the draugr draws a decaying arrow, its feathers rotten, falling away in chunks. She reaches the edge of the oil slick as the draugr begins to pull its bow back, smiling a rictus of yellowed teeth.

Do'azda hisses as she plants on firm ground again. The draugr releases the bowstring.

The arrow hits her on the shoulder, knocking her left side back like the kick of a mule, but the arrow is deflected from her leather pauldron, and she leaps at the archer before it can nock another arrow, swinging her axe up and then down.

The axe bites the skull of the archer, cracking it like a knife to a boiled egg. The eyes wink out, and the momentum of the stroke almost carries Do'azda off the platform.

Soahin has risen to her feet on the floor below, tugging the arrow from the leather across her chest. "This one was lucky the draugr use such blunt arrows. Even still, she lost her breath."

Do'azda nods, still reeling.

The next chamber is long, lit by great braziers running the length of the hall. Above them are carvings of the beasts of the world - honouring Khenarthi no doubt - and of great nord heroes, to honour the nord's hero god - Talos? Or was this before the men began to worship such a god? Do'azda mentally shrugs, dismissing such a question as a flight of fancy.

The chamber is so warm as to be almost pleasant, reminiscent of Elsweyr, and Do'azda allows herself to relax a little. At the far end of the chamber is a vast stone door, so grand that she is certain she would hear if it were to open - no draugr from deeper into the Barrow will trouble her.

It is certainly a curious door. Three great rings circle a keyhole in triplicate - she can see without looking that the keyhole fits the three fingered claws of the golden dragon claw.

Rows of tiny holes circle the door, and Do'azda is not fool enough to risk simply pressing the claw into the lock.

Each ring bears the image of an animal - an owl on a branch, a diving eagle and a bear.

Do'azda's finger barely brushes against the outer ring before it grinds into motion, turning a third turn to display the bird in flight.

"This one believes she understands the basis of the puzzle. Each layer of the ring may represent one of the three." Do'azda says. Soahin has already settled to sit by one of the braziers, and is fishing some rations from her pack, and ignores the shaman's witterings. "But she does not wish to die, and so she must know which represents which before she puts the claw in…"

She fishes the claw from her robes; it bears some runes scratched into the palm. She squints at them, but without even knowing the alphabet, the endeavour is fruitless.

Setting the claw on the ground, Do'azda brings Arvel's handwritten book from her robes.

"It has been such a long time to found it, but I have uncovered the first step, here are some notes copied from the book of Farengar Secret-Fire, scholastic notes which I will then entrust to you. You, my disciple who might come to a truer answer than any of us on this matter. There are more notes, but can we truly trust a courier for things that must be spoken? But it begins with the great scholar, Secret-Fire.

'Bleak Falls Barrow is a accursed place, where the winds always blow. Might it be connected to the dragon-cult? It is a known technique, to hide these things amid ice and snow, to contrast with the fire and desolation of a dragon. I cannot know for sure, but I do know that there are a few facts which are known: the barrow was made at great cost by men and women who swore themselves to it. Rather than holding, as some barrows did, a King and His Court, it seems instead to contain something like an army. Yet, an army still must have a General, must it not? What does it mean that the Barrow was sealed up, and what does it mean that the names associated with it appear only a few times before and never after in all the chronicles that exist?...;

And from there it talks about its location, but it does mention, 'Only a fool would go to the Barrow without knowing the full extent of what lays within it. Yet perhaps I am a fool, for I have contacted those I know and will report what has come.' Then finally, this statement towards the end, "When I finally reached Bleak Falls Barrow, I found that the way is barred. There is something needed to open up the last gate.'

I believe that I know what it is, though I do not know how to find it. Having journeyed myself last year, before all this trouble with Ulfric Stormcloak began, I can tell you firmly that what it needs is a claw. I would ask an agent to come, for this claw must surely be the key. But finding it is harder than I thought… so I began by…"

Do'azda reads the dry scholar's words, and cannot delude herself into thinking this was from Arvel the Swift. So there were scholars on the hunt for it, and then a bandit ran across it? Finally, it notes, "I have found the runes which the legends say are on the claw itself. I do not think we can do it without the claw, but perhaps if you translate it we could find a hint as to what to do? I cannot go back there, the village near the Barrow was most suspicious, their inn far too pricy, and their store closed: it seems that the owner was sick, which left the whole town miserable."

Do'azda recognizes the runes, and could confirm--with a quick glance--that they were the same as on the claw itself.

Then, in another hand.

"Old friend, here is my best translation. Poetry is not my strong suit, but hopefully it has captured the meaning. I will send it back by the same courier to you.

Its claws rend flesh,
It swoops on dark wings,
and it perches upon a bonepile

I will not try to speculate as to the meaning."

Then, in scratchy, uneven writing as if someone was barely lettered. "The damn fool fell off a ravine near Riverwood. I wonder if the courier was seeking his luck? I dunno. I dun' care. There's no claw here, but if there's an army in a fecking barrow there has to be treasure, and only dusty corpses for guards.

This could be what I need. Just gotta find the claw. The riddle's easy enough, any idiot could know it's obviously 'A Dragon.' How are they that stupid to not know?

But I'll need a crew, just in case. Someone came down, multiple times in fact…and then came back. So it can't be too well guarded? But you gotta be cautious. Eisa and Ra'jirr ain't enough; he's too flighty by 'alf, and she likes the cat more'n me. Could be helpful, mind. Easier to convince people when half the audience is already gagging for it.

Finally got people together… man, some of them are stupid. Maybe I should just kill 'em once I get the treasure. We'll see? Could just run away, like my worthless mates. Anyways, time to go towards my destiny. Left Calia out on watch, that whore isn't worth keeping around."

Do'azda wrinkled her nose and then looked down at the Claw. A Dragon… huh.

It didn't seem so obviously like a dragon to her. For sure, every line could refer to a dragon, but the riddle was on the claw, and the claw was for the gate.

Perhaps the riddle was not one riddle, but three - one for each ring. The bear, the eagle and the owl, from the outside in?

She stands, picking up the claw, and considers it. The Owl is a strange, grim bird in Khajiit stories. A dark portent to have as the cumulation of a riddle.

Perhaps she is wrong. She takes her time in moving them, not sure what will happen if her guess is wrong. There has to be something, or else she could just keep on trying through every single order until one of them fit. Her eyes return to the holes circling the door, and she recalls the deaths of the bandits at the previous puzzle.

She takes a step back, to take the door in full.

"Does Do'azda think she has solved the puzzle?" Soahlin asks, her voice a little nervous. This is not the kind of threat she is here to see off.

"She… thinks so," Do'azda says, nodding.

A draugr leaps from the shadows, surprisingly lithe for a millennium dead. Do'azda screams as it bears her to the floor, and it scrabbles against her hand, grasping for the claw. Fingernails tear skin, whilst its teeth are caught in the leather bracer, and all the while, cold blue eyes burn with animating energy. Blood pours from the cuts on the arm, and the creature's grip on her wrist is like iron.

Had it been armed, she would've undoubtedly died, Do'azda realises - but then, had it been armed, they would have slain it as they passed.

Her axe is gone, knocked from her hands by the draugr's assault, and she reaches desperately for her dagger. Pinned under the draugr, its face inches from hers, foetid breath washing over her, her dagger is all but out of reach. She can feel the pommel in her fingers, but it slips away when she tries to close her grip.

The draugr snaps its teeth, missing her face by a hair's breadth as she jerks backwards, slamming the back of her head into the stone floor.

It laughs, dusty and awful, teeth like black gravestones in a grey crypt.

Soahin slashes with furious strength, carving across the nape of the draugr's neck in a single smooth motion.

The draugr's head crashes painfully against her jaw, and Do'azda pushes it up and off.

"This one thinks perhaps we dismissed the unarmed bodies too easily." Do'azda says, her voice level. The scratches on her arm are quickly soaking her robes, dripping blood onto the ground, but they do not seem deep enough to require stitching, and so she resolves to ignore them as best she can.

The claw slots into the keyholes with scarcely a whisper of resistance, and as she pushes it, the whole centre of the lock moves back, grinding against the door, twisting clockwise as it does.

Click, click… click.

The twisting stops, and Do'azda looks up at the murder holes surrounding the door, but death is not forthcoming.

A second passes, and then the door seems to burst into activity. The three rings spin, the claw pops from the keyhole with surprising force and something at the edge of the door gives with a crack.

The rings come to a halt, and they each show the same thing, a dragon in flight. Do'azda blinks, surprised. She knows the symbols on the rings - there were no dragons. She picks up her axe, unnerved.

Dust pours from the sides and top of the door as it slowly - with stops and starts, juddering a little at first, as though uncertain - begins to sink into the ground.

She knows the cave beyond this door. She saw it in her vision. The great curved stone remains, on a platform with a great sarcophagus and the sacrificial table, lit by the sun far above.

Between her and the dais is a mess of fallen pillars of carved stone, and stalagnates, and despite everything at least a little plant life here and there, bony shrubs and weeds gathering here and there dotting the landscape, surviving on the waters of the small stream that flows even this deep into the mountain. It is no water to drink, though she suddenly feels how dry her lips are, and the pangs of an empty stomach even though she knows she could not eat at the moment even if she had the time. She's starving but does not think she could--in the moment--hold anything down. The little pains have added up, and the stress and worry is like a thick, scratchy blanket laid on a bug-infested bed.

Do'azda climbs the steps to the dais, barely registering Soahin as she follows behind. Something on the great curved stone seems to be fairly humming with power, with promise.

It has been carved with some sort of epitaph - she cannot read it, the runes used are the same incomprehensible scratchings as those on the claw, but it seems to roil with a sense of a restrained force, a great and unrelenting force thrashing around in a cage built of magic and will.

She shakes her head, trying to banish her confusion with the epitaph as the lid of the sarcophagus pushes off with a crash.

The draugr which rises from this grave is different. If the others were an army, this is the general. In his right hand, he holds a battleaxe - a two-handed weapon for any mortal man, but the draugr general holds it easily in only one. In his left, an ancient shield, the oak weathered and aged, hard as iron. A shard of bone, brilliantly white, protrudes from his chest over his heart; the dagger used in the ritual so many years ago.

An iron helm frames his face, though it is no face at all. A death-mask of yellowed clay covers the draugr's face, beautifully serene, the epitome of a willing sacrifice.

"Dovah!" The draugr general booms. "Dir, Zaam Se Alduin! Vahlok Ahrk Zahrahmiik Krii Dovah!"

Planning

Overall strategy
[] A direct assault - he cannot keep his guard up against two of us at once. Charge him, fight him and get this done.
[] Divide and conquer - split up, force the draugr general to choose who to fight, and then whoever is free falls upon its rear.
[] Circle around to force him to fight with his back to the wall; reduce his mobility and don't give him the space for his battle axe.

Physical Combat
[] The axe - Do'azda has been using the axe for some time now, it is her most comfortable weapon
[] The dagger - Do'azda cannot hope to compete with the draugr in reach or strength, and the dagger is at least a fast weapon.
[] Claws - Do'azda could perhaps get inside the draugr general's guard with her claws, disarming him, or giving Soahin an opportunity to strike.

Magic
Do'azda has enough magicka recharged for one spell.
[] Use Conjure Animal to try to even the odds, give them more to focus on hopefully and other dangers besides herself.
[] Summon a bound dagger - bound weapons are faster than normal weapons, as light as air in the hand.
[] Do'azda will not cast any spells, keeping her concentration on the fight. She might use her magic if she is in a tight spot or desperately needs something to distract the general, however.


TL AN: Vet did most of this. Be careful with your choices and how they all fit together… I'd suggest plan voting, there are right and wrong moves here, and there are moves that are terrible with one set of options but work well in another plan. This isn't quite some "final exam" but we've been building up the difficulty over the course of this dungeon as a way to give an example of what this might all look like.

VM AN: Boss fight! Plan vote please - some of these options really do not synergise. I can translate the dragon speech if anyone wants me to, but Do'azda doesn't speak the language, so she doesn't understand it.