Fire On The Mountain (A Skyrim Quest)

Iron-Hand

"We came here to kill you," Bathes-In-Steel says, quite simply.

"You came here to die," Hajvarr Iron-Hand scoffs, and then he seems almost to blur forward, moving far too fast for someone so heavily armed. But Bathes-In-Steel is fast too, and faster than him. But when she slashes at him, her sword glances off his chest, leaving a bright stripe across his dull steel cuirass, and he barks a laugh. "Glass? Like a sneak-thief in the night, unsuited for real battle!"

His own sword sweeps across, lightning quick, wreathed in a fine red glow, but Bathes-In-Steel shifts her weight a fraction and it passes a hair's breadth across her scales, whisper-close to catching her, tearing her open, and Hajvarr curses.

"Slippery one!" He bites out, and Do'azda takes the opportunity for what it is, weaving illusion between her fingers before she flickers it out at him, watching the little web of magic spin out to encase his head, a cobweb of cloudy blue.

She's scarcely finished casting her spell when he turns to her fully and she has to spring to one side to avoid the upswing of his sword. Before he can follow up, Bathes-In-Steel is on him again, her sword sparking once, twice, three times against his armour, seeking a weak point she can't seem to find.

The fourth strike does penetrate, if only a little - the end of Bathes-In-Steel's sword comes away red, and Hajvarr bellows his frustration, swinging with renewed fury - whatever harm Bathes-In-Steel has done him is clearly little more than superficial, and he presses her hard - she's dodging well, but he's driving her back, away from Do'azda, towards the cliff's edge.

Do'azda rushes him as he continues to press Bathes-In-Steel, swinging her axe to strike at his legs, her axe heavy in her hand. Unlike his cuirass, the armour covering his legs does not protect to excess; two steel greaves cover his shins, but beyond that, there is little but the cloth and furs of his underclothes. He curses as he's forced to almost dance on the spot to avoid the impact, and Bathes-In-Steel is able to slip around to the side, avoiding his strike.

There's nothing but air between Hajvarr and the cliff now, and Do'azda takes the chance she's been given.

"Fus."

Hajvarr staggers under the force, slamming his sword into the decking to anchor himself, and Bathes-In-Steel launches herself at him, her glass sword darting out to score shallow lines against his armour.

Then he rips his sword free of the wooden decking, splinters of semi-rotten wood flying every which way. Bathes-In-Steel hasn't got the time to dodge. The greatsword hits her right across the chest, sending her flying backwards with a gasp of pain, all the air driven from her body. She crashes through his table and lies there for a moment.

Do'azda's instincts almost take her by surprise. She expects almost to freeze in terror. Instead the terror fuels her actions, drives her onward faster as her heart beats so fast she almost cannot hear anything else.

She's on him before he has the time to bring his sword back around, sweeping her axe across to catch his leg. He doesn't dodge this time, his head jerking to one side, as though hearing or seeing something at his periphery. Do'azda feels the shudder as the axe bites into the greave of his left leg, and Hajvarr roars like a wounded animal, his sword clattering against the stone of the mountainside.

"Gods be fucked!" Hajvarr swears, his voice rolling thunder across the room. Blood splatters down his leg, stains the wooden decking. Do'azda tugs at the axe handle and the axe blade twists about the greave.

She tugs again, desperation granting her strength, and it pulls free. Do'azda looks up just in time for her face to explode with pain as Hajvarr punches her, his steel-gauntleted fist filling her vision with light and stars.

Her eyes clear to see Hajvarr stood over her, greatsword held aloft in both hands.

"You hurt me," Hajvarr says, incredulous, "You really hurt me. Tiny little cat like you. I'll turn you into a fucking cloak, y'hear?"

The thunderclap takes Do'azda by surprise, though it clearly surprises Hajvarr more as his body is wracked by convulsions. The stink of ozone fills the space as smoke twists and twirls out of his beard. Do'azda blinks slowly, uncomprehending, as he crumples to the ground.

"He was faster than I expected," Bathes-In-Steel's voice is weak as she pulls herself from the pile of kindling that was once a table, sparks crackling between the fingers of her left hand. "Thank you for drawing his attention for that last, or he would've killed me."

Do'azda struggles to her feet, her hand going to her face as she probes delicately around where he hit her, wincing slightly. Tender.

She takes a moment to take in the overlook, now the danger has passed. There's a leatherbound book in the wreckage of his table, an iron axe leaning against a stump, poorly shaped for battle, which Do'azda realises after a long moment is meant for executions, and a small wooden chest, bound up tight with iron straps.

"The cream of their loot," Bathes-In-Steel says with satisfaction. "We can take it with us and force the lock this evening?"

"Yes. Do'azda would also like to look at the alchemy lab. She thinks this might have things of value," she says. The chest, though, is certainly more promising. But the thought that there could be hidden treasures is enough to drive her, though she is already blinking away tiredness.

There are now two living people in this entire bandit camp other than her and Bathes-In-Steel. She steps back in, and sees the caged Dunmer, who has been listening it seems, and perks up considerably when they half-stumble back into the picture. "Oh, you're alive! I was… perhaps a little worried, but I always believed in you," the Dunmer lies. "Um… have you decided to help me?"


The Dunmer leaves the cage, carefully lowered to the floor whilst they swore up a storm inside it, the unconscious bandit is chained up and takes their place, stripped of weapons and with a little food put in for her to eat. They'll have to figure out what to do about her as well, but Do'azda figures that they can let that wait.

What can't wait is looting the alchemy lab. Troll fat needs its own bag, because it stinks so bad that she'll have to double or triple wrap it just not to smell like it. But it is amazing in potions to hold off poison, or to fortify one's strength. Some put it in poisons to sicken their enemies, and others chug potions with it to send themselves into a berserker rage.

The vampire dust is rare and valuable too, and she makes sure to sweep up every bit of it, and then in a third she adds the fire salt, another the will o' wisp particles, and then a half-dozen other more common ingredients, as well as a bottle of bad wine that she suspects could at least make a halfway decent base for a potion.

She also has a healing potion now, one that she might need to use soon. She's not sure, it depends on how dangerous things are.

By the time she steps out into the light of the afternoon, she is yawning.

"Must be tiring work, beating all those bandits," the Dunmer says. "I won't trouble you any longer, then, and will just be on my way to--"

"Do'azda has something to say to you," she insists, reaching out to grab their arm. "She will not be happy, should she learn you are engaging in banditry again."

"Ah, well," They stammer, "I wasn't going to! The Bleak Falls mob came to a rotten end, so I hear, and they were the only other lot around here worth considering. Sure, I heard Eisa and Ra'jirr talking about a group up by Morthal, but Morthal's bleeding miserable! And there's the Falkreath mob, but they're halfway to being hold guards, and that'd mean fighting the war. It's the straight and narrow for Suldren from now on, I promise you! Maybe I'll head to Winterhold, join the College - I'm a dab hand with conjuration, as it happens."

"Yes, this one was there at the Bleak Falls mob's 'rotten end' and it was quite unpleasant," Do'azda says, releasing their arm. Suldren looks with wide eyes at the sticky red stain she's left on their sleeve. "Banditry and other crimes… what you buy with violence you pay for with violence in return."

They swallow hard, and when they speak again, the words are shaky. "Y-yes. Right. Well, like I said… the College of Winterhold, I think."

"That would be wise," Bathes-In-Steel says brightly, "I find it is always better to keep your nose clean when it comes to such things. Banditry attracts attention, helps no one but the bandits themselves, it's disgraceful."

Do'azda manages to not look even a little bit incredulous. It is easy, because Bathes-In-Steel means it. Just as Do'azda would mean it when she declares that 'what you buy with violence you pay for with violence in return.' She's not so foolish that she can't see the hypocrisy in saying this to them. There is a saying about some Khajiit, that they can lift themselves up by the scruff of their own necks. Sometimes it means they're clever, but there's another meaning: they are their own parents. They have a voice in their head that tells them when they're being wrong, it's just that they are skillful enough not to listen to it.

She knows that she is courting violence, laying out treasures at her feet that will be stomped upon. Or is it his feet? How does one personify violence? She knows better, and yet. "You should continue on north. We'll take any weapons, but you can take food from the camp. If you stay it will not end well." Do'azda is not quite whispering.

They are (not quite) shaking like a leaf, because of course leaves don't shake quite that much except in the worst storms.

"Yes, yes, of course, I'll never do anything wrong again!"

Do'azda smiles faintly, "Oh, she is a Khajiit, she could not demand that of you. To err is the right of every person. Just don't find yourself in banditry and crime, and you'll do fine."

They gulp. She wonders how aware Bathes-In-Steel is of how intimidating bland friendliness is in such contexts. She has to be, right?

It takes time to get them out of there, not because they don't want to be gone as quickly as possible, but because they are stumbling and shaking and are terrified of making a single move without asking for permission from both of them. By the time they are on their way, Do'azda's battle fervor, if that is what it is, has worn off and she's painfully exhausted and sore.

"It's only the afternoon," Bathes-In-Steel observes, looking at Do'azda carefully, "But I would like a break, I think. Time to catch my breath after such a gruelling battle. I'm sure you could go on, but perhaps you would indulge me? If I were to keep watch for an hour, and then you could do the same for me as I take a nap later?"

The lie is kindly meant, and spoken without malice, but Do'azda still straightens up, trying to show that she does not need a break, but she is no overproud fool, to force herself through pain and bone-deep weariness out of simple vainglory. After a moment, she says, "Do'azda believes this would work."

They both say words, and she suspects they both know what is happening.

She will rest, and then Bathes-In-Steel will rest, whether she feels she needs it or not. And then they'll have decisions to make.


It is as if she is flying just overhead, a few feet above where someone's head would be. She is speeding towards a city, and she somehow knows its name: Riften. She finds herself in a small market square, hovering in front of a greasy looking Nord. He points at a seller, smiling softly, and a ring floats from their chest and hovers in the air, shifting one way and another.

A purr fills Do'azda's ears, power and intent, and she sees a hint of dark robes, a swish of a tail, and she knows at once what she is being shown.

She knows because at the feet of the Khajiit, the hint of the Khajiit, is the carcass of a pig. The figure, half real and half fake, laughs and takes the coin and holds it out, her fur as dark as a moonless night.

Noctra.

And then, before she can see much more… she awakens.


"Are you okay?" Bathes-In-Steel asks, looking at her, hand on her shoulder. "You were whispering."

"What was I saying?" Do'azda asks, faintly, blinking and trying not to groan as she sat up.

"'The Darkness has many secrets, but it can shelter and comfort. Do'azda will always walk half-shaded by legend and myth from now on. She comes, if she wishes, or… not if she does not.'" Bathes-In-Steel manages to sound as if this is an entirely normal thing to hear someone saying in her sleep.

An invitation. An invitation from a being born of black blood. Go there, and see what happens, it says.

Or do not.

"Where are you going to go? You could go to High Hrothgar, but I would follow you where you want to go," Bathes-In-Steel said. She says it so softly, so self-assured and as if there is nothing more obvious.

Where Does She Want to Go, At This Moment?

[] [Destination] High Hrothgar, to learn how to master and understand her powers as a Dragonborn and what it means.
[] [Destination] Azurah's shrine, to talk to her and… see what she has to say about what all has happened.
[] [Destination] Riften, following Noctra's invitation to see just what this strange city has to offer to her, and what it could bring: curiosity may kill a cat, but satisfaction can bring them back.
[] [Destination] Solitude is a city that has many things… including a Shaman of Solitude. If she wishes for aid in tending her 'flock', such a person would be an obvious potential ally.
[] [Destination] Write-in, Skyrim is a large place. When writing, add a reason why she would go there.


TL AN: So it goes. It was mostly a good choice, but you might have used a knife instead if you were going all-in on this fast, slippery style. Still, there's definitely a worse combination. And congrats, yet another powerful being is tugging at your sleeve!

VM AN: Rejoice, for you have the eye of Noctra upon you. Lament, for you have the eye of Noctra upon you. And decide where you want to go, because Skyrim is an open world game!