Fire On The Mountain (A Skyrim Quest)

Dutiful Student

"So, Dragonborn, you find yourself in my class once more," the lecturer says. Do'azda, who has slept poorly, dreaming but unable to remember it, thinks: 'So, Professor, you find yourself informing me of the obvious.'

"Do'azda does, she has read your books," She says.

"All of them?"

"She is a Shaman, she knows how to read as a scholar does." She reads and takes in each piece, each story of the Gods, and notes down its particulars, not quite skimming over it but taking in as much as she can without diving into the bog of it. Instead, she is riding over the plains of the text, getting the lay of the land in the knowledge that it will matter.

It will be on the test.

"Well, then." The lecturer is whispering. "Rather than disrupt the class, I have prepared a test for you. Paper and quills will be provided."

Do'azda nods, and can see something in those eyes, something that tells her that this is not going to be a fair assessment.

But she'll do her best. She'll prove them wrong by answering with pristine knowledge; Ingne was perhaps right - not that they would ever bend, but that it would embarrass them to learn how well she knows their myths, even without believing them, without the years of learning them at a grandparent's knee that she knows they believe needed.

She looks at the first question, and her jaw sets.

Which of the testing gods did Tsun first break upon his mighty shield, and by what means did the coward seek to slay Shor? Explain your answer.

The tale of how Baan Dar tweaked the tail of the Bear of Ice which guarded Lorkhaj as he slept, of how the Bear raged and thrashed as it began to melt in the sun and in so doing created the canyons of the Anequine badlands in which Khajiit could shelter from the sun at midday, and the oases which slake their thirst in the summers is well known. But Do'azda knows the nord tale too - of Baan Dar, the scurrying, scheming cat, which attempted to set upon Shor as he slumbered, that he might steal some small part of Shor's majesty, and Tsun the Bear leapt into battle, breaking the bandit upon his shield and sending him into the darkness from which all his misbegotten kind slink. Some scholars claim that his "misbegotten kind" means bandits, but Do'azda is not a fool. This is a slight, and she looks up sharply at the lecturer, who smiles thinly at her outrage. He does not mean bandits.

Okay, forget being fair. Now she is powered by spite and the growing awareness that there are things they cannot do about the Dragonborn. This lecturer has no power over her she has to accept. The thought is soothing, as if some part of her has reared up like a furious horse, trying to escape taming. They are stronger than her, for now, but they won't be stronger than her in a month, in a year.

She's tired of playing along.

'It is the belief of the nords of Skyrim,' Do'azda begins, her quill rasping on the parchment, 'That Baan Dar, the Bandit God and Man of a Thousand Faces, came upon Shor as he slept, hoping to slit his foolish nord throat, and take his heart and lifesblood, to gain Shor's majesty, until Tsun the Bear drove the Pariah away with his great shield, and the blood of the Bandit God as he fled provided succor to many creatures in the dark, which grew in the shape and form of their Bandit God, and came to visit vengeance on the nords, Shor's chosen people. This belief is a simple misunderstanding, born of the Bear of Ice's slow wits.'

'Had the nords of Skyrim sought a Khajiit shaman, however, they might have learnt the truth of the matter.' Do'azda continues, 'Baan Dar, the Cat Unknown and Undying, came to Lorkhaj as he slept, guarded by his Bear of Ice. Baan Dar sought none of Lorkhaj's glories, for he needed only the strength and slowness of the Bear of Ice, whose tail he yanked.'

'The Bear pursued Baan Dar for forty days and forty nights. Whenever Baan Dar - for the Thousand Eyes and Ears is a swift-footed god - drew too far from the Bear, he would dance back, and let the bear take a swipe; indeed, the wise Khajiit Shaman might have shown the foolish, foolish nords where the clawmarks of the bear lie, deep and ragged in the flesh of Anequina, giving shade against the sun's heat.' Do'azda knows she must have something of a savage smile on her face now, but does not stop. 'And as he chased the bandit across the scorching desert, the Bear began to melt, and indeed, the wise shaman might show the nord where the thawed ice of the Bear formed great lakes and oases, for Baan Dar is wise, and knew what his people needed for survival. Baan Dar is kind, however, and he feigned injury as the Bear was forced to flee the blazing desert, allowing the Bear the bliss of his ignorance to spare his pride, which alas, spread to all of Skyrim.'

Do'azda hums with satisfaction, looking down at her answer, but she cannot take too long about it. It is a very long test, and she has many correct answers to provide.

When Do'azda hands her test in, the lecturer lays it out to begin marking immediately. He smiles a little at the first question, then frowns, flips to the next question, the next. He sighs, rubbing his eyes.

"I suppose you think this was clever?" He sounds tired, and Do'azda resists the urge to tell him that yes, she does think this was clever.

"This one does not know what you mean?" Do'azda replies, projecting as much confusion into her voice as she can.

He sighs. "You pass. You demonstrated an understanding of the basic material of nordic theology."

"Ah, then-" Do'azda begins.

"Don't come back. I don't want to deal with you any more." He scowls, and gestures dismissively with his hand.


"Bathes, how do you feel about the seven-thousand steps?"

"You mean, the eleven thousand and seventy-seven steps." Bathes-In-Steel doesn't even look up from her lunch.

"Yes, Do'azda does. She believes that she might be able to help you, if you truly wish to…"

"Of course, these Nords are lying, again and again."

"Do'azda couldn't agree more. Perhaps there ways we can make sure the truth is widely known…"

"Oh, what brought this on? I'm delighted that you're taking it seriously, but before you seemed…"

"Oh, Do'azda has always cared about the truth."

Quest Accepted: The 11077 Step Method


As Do'azda enters the classroom for Dragontongue, she sees with a little dissatisfaction that it will be much the same as yesterday; the teacher continues to drift from student to student, but beyond that, it is mostly self-directed learning.

For a moment, her indignation from earlier flares up with a renewed vengeance. If her theology lesson was an insult, this is a waste of time.

"Do'azda! Hey!" She spins at the voice, comes face to face with Carvain, who waves eagerly. "Come study with me!"

She sinks into the seat next to them, leaning over to look at their work so far. This at least helps split the difference in looking up definitions, and Carvain does seem to have a better grasp of Draconic grammar than Do'azda does, at least so far. It's not entirely

They've been working together for maybe ten minutes when Ingne bursts into the classroom, parchments and thick-bound books almost spilling out of her arms, her cheeks touched with colour and her eyes a little wild.

"I'm," She gasps out, "So, sorry that, I'm late. I lost track of time in the library."

"Just take a seat, Ingne." The lecturer says, voice soft but undeniably firm,"Do try to arrive on time in future - it does not reflect well when you are late, even if you have been studying."

Ingne drops her gaze to the floor, clearly embarrassed.

"Would you like to work with us?" Do'azda asks, "This one is studying with Carvain, but she is sure they would not mind if we all work together?"

Carvain shrugs. "So long as she doesn't distract me with questions about the interminable war, I suppose we shall get along well enough."

"It wouldn't be a bother?" Ingne asks, but she's already moving to sit with them, "It is irritating; I was already studying the dragontongue in the Library. I had just moved on to Korth Stormsinger's treatise on grammatical inflection on Remembrance Walls when I released what time it was…"

"Oh, did you like it?" Carvain asks, "I felt he put too much emphasis on the grammar when the prevailing consensus is that the meter is more important. I was more enamored of Wulfgar the Wizened's lecture on the dragontongue's use in epitaths at all?"

"It is because it suggests truthfulness," Do'azda says, "Right? The dragon tongue is a language not built for deceit, so if someone's epitaph is written in the dragontongue, it suggests the compliments are truthfully meant?"

And the truth, Do'azda thinks, is very important.

At the end of the class, the lecturer gives a nod, lips curled into an expression of faint but welcome surprise at the three of them.


For the first time in a while, she is outside. Do'azda could take it or leave it. The air still feels as if it is a little lacking, and what air she can feel is all hard, blustering wind. It is not even, it seems, a storm. There is no snow at all, but the winds still bite enough that she knows she'll be happy when she gets out of this place.

It is impossible to miss the training grounds. It is a long, perfectly flat area ending at one portion in a wall of hay bales that must have been laboriously hauled out there, because they don't look frosted over. Someone probably has to haul them out and put them in place, and it is almost certainly the apprentices. Do'azda wonders a little at whether she is being deliberately spared this sort of manual labour, and if she therefore ought to be guilty, but it is cold and the bales look heavy, so she decides not to worry about it.

Of the eleven other apprentices here, she recognizes at a glance only Snakha, a bald orc with pale scars up his arms, uncovered even outside, and Ulrorn, a thin blond Nord man who fidgets a little with a pair of gloves that looked oddly delicate. They also seem expensive.

The old man she recognizes as a Greybeard is thin, with sharp cheekbones and a curling, full beard that was darker than it might be. Next to him is a younger man, who leans in and then hears what he has to say. Then turns to the group and says, "We have a new person here today, and so we shall be focusing on instructing her, so that we can all get in some good practice."

By their feet is what seems to be a huge pack, and next to it is a crate with a thick blanket over whatever is inside. The Greybeard gestures at Do'azda, and so she approaches.

The younger man says, in a firm voice, "Wuld is one of the most demanding of the Shouts, for even a single mistake can lead to disaster. Absolute obedience is the requirement to even begin to practice this Shout. The Whirlwind Sprint, Wuld Nah Kest." He said it carefully, creating separation.

Swirling Anger Storm? No, no, that wasn't quite it, so it has to be 'Whirlwind Anger Storm.' But even that does not quite feel what it sounds like to hear it. Though only the first word is so charged. She feels like she can do it, and does not know how. Perhaps it is her life.

She has been going from place to place, moving fast and leaving behind chaos of all kinds. In such a circumstance, perhaps it is not so odd that a whirlwind seems to fit her like the word is made for her.

"It is a powerful movement technique, one that launches one in a straight line at incredible speeds. It is fast enough that you should not do it if there is an obstacle in your way," he says, firmly. "Wulfgar has stated that he will demonstrate this great technique in its fullness."

Wulfgar straightens up to his full height, which is not all that impressive, and looks at the far distances. He isn't looking at the hay bales at all, though Do'azda recognizes at once their purpose. They're something soft to run into.

WULD

NAH

KEST

Do'azda does not know how to describe it. A wind picks up and a few of the apprentices stumble, and in the blink of an eye the Greybeard is gone.

There's a moment of silence before someone sees the Greybeard climbing out of the ruin of a hay bale, picking strands of hay off his robes.

"As you can see," Wulfgar's assistant says, "Whirlwind Sprint allows for incredibly rapid movement in the direction you are facing. It grants you essentially enhanced bodily speed - you can run blisteringly quickly when under the influence of the Whirlwind Sprint."

Wulfgar returns, massaging his shoulder, and looks at his assistant meaningfully.

"Ah yes," the assistant says, as though an afterthought. "Should you succeed in using the first word of the shout - Wuld - you may be tempted to reorient yourself as you run, to avoid hitting the hay bale. Do not."

Do'azda nods. She is not unfamiliar with warnings issued without explanation by teachers - it is best to obey them, so you are not the student used as an object lesson.

She finds herself standing besides a nord man she does not recognise - a tall, stout man, with a placid expression marred by four deep scars down the left side of his face, leaving his left eye milky as though healed improperly, and a mass of pale scar tissue around that side of his jaw, as though the skin were flayed off it.

He smiles at her as she inhales and settles her nerves, his lips pulled slightly by the tight scar tissue.

"Don't worry," He says quietly, "You aren't too far behind - no one's managed the Shout yet."

"Thank you," Do'azda says, "This one does not wish to hold the class back."

"WUL duh!" He bellows, then coughs. "By the Nine, I'm getting close."

His voice rasps a little, even after only trying the once.

Do'azda centres herself. She must become the Whirlwind? So she was taught in Philosophy.

She has been rushing from place to place, leaving chaos in her wake. She could as well be a Whirlwind.

"WULD!" She shouts, and nothing happens. There is no Whirlwind, there is not even the strange timbre to her voice that her neighbour had. She just… shouted it.

She isn't terribly surprised; she is not a whirlwind. She knows this too profoundly - she is Do'azda Khrimnin, a Khajiiti shaman, and - here she finds herself stumbling, mentally - Dragonborn. She is a Dragon. She does not need to become a Whirlwind for there to be a Whirlwind.

"WULD!" This time it is almost a Shout, but she can feel it even as it leaves her, feel the wind wrap itself about her, but it dissipates, a force spent before it can gather.

"Good power," Wulfgar's assistant calls over, "But you lacked the visualisation of what you wished to do, and so lacked the will to hold that power for your ends."

She really ought to stop calling him Wulfgar's assistant. Wulfgar himself appears to be taking a nap, so Wulfgar's assistant is closer to being their master for this task than he is.

It takes almost two thirds of the lesson, listening to her classmates choking over the Word, before Do'azda finally, finally Shouts.

"WULD!" Her voice echoes across the field, but Do'azda can scarcely hear it. The Whirlwind howls in her ears and she cannot restrain her exhilarated cackle as she almost flies across the snow. The hay bale looms before her impossibly fast, and for one mad second she considers turning, dodging clear of the impact, but she remembers her lesson, remembers the slight smugness on the man's face and screws her eyes shut and braces for the impact instead.

The collision knocks the breath out of her, and Do'azda collapses to the ground, hay raining down on her, the flagstones of the courtyard cold underneath her, but this cannot stop the breathless laugh that bubbles out of her. She learnt a new Shout in one lesson.

"Very well done," Wulfgar's Assistant says, failing to keep a hint of reverence out of his voice. "And you didn't even break your ankle! The Dragonborn indeed!"

Do'azda opens her mouth to ask why, exactly, she ought to have worried about breaking her ankle, but all she can manage is a strangled rasp before her throat burns like she's been in the badlands for a week without water.

"Oh, poor thing - is this your first time learning a new Shout?" Wulfgar's Assistant - and she really ought to ask his name - asks, "Human Tongues are not meant for these words, and the first use of one tends to do this."

Handed a little jug of goat's milk and pointed to a stool by one of the castle door's, Do'azda watches the rest of the class continue practicing - occasionally stealing wondering glances at her as they go.

The lesson is almost over, and Do'azda's voice has almost returned to normal when the next student succeeds; a nord man with long grey hair almost light enough to pass as blond and a thick, dirty blond beard, squares up to the practice range like a drunken brawler in a tavern and Shouts.

"WULD!" His voice rings clear as a bell and he shoots forwards, just as Do'azda did.

The blur jerks suddenly as it approaches the hay bale, and the crack cuts across everything, every student freezes to look at the source.

He's a big man, this nord, but he lies there clutching his left ankle, keening like a wounded dog.

"Oh, Arnbjorn, I did warn you!" Wulfgar's Assistant says, his voice almost chiding. "You tried to turn! Come, come, we'll sort you out. Someone lift the great oaf! I'll set his ankle, we'll pour something down your throat and rub something on the ankle. Be right as rain in a minute. Whilst I'm tending to this - can anyone tell me what happened?"

"He broke his ankle," Another student - a nord, like all the others, his hair floppy and blond, an arrogant cast to his face - says, "It seems rather obvious."

"Of course, fool, but why?" The man says, not looking away as he sets about working on Arnbjorn, who continues to whimper. "Why did he break his ankle?"

"He was trying to change direction," says the student with the scars, "He jerked suddenly, and that was when his ankle snapped."

"Very good! He was trying to turn, but he didn't raise his planted foot." The instructor says, shaking a bottle of some sort of healing potion as he talks, still not looking at the class, "But why wouldn't he raise his planted foot?"

"He didn't have the time," Someone says, and Do'azda is surprised to find it is her own voice, a little ragged but clear enough. "There's not enough time when you're sprinting like that."

"Very good, Dragonborn!" His tone sounds authentic enough as he wraps a bandage soaked in ointment around the site of the wound. "Whirlwind Sprint is a Shout which brings speed to the one who Shouts. Speed, yes, but the mind works no faster. The Shout does not make you a person who can move faster, it does not help in any way but to make you faster. This is the lesson of Whirlwind Sprint. A Shout does what it does, it does not take the care to ensure this doesn't hurt you, and so it is you who must take this care, always. Unless you enjoy breaking bones - and that's only the start."

The lesson ends after that. Arnbjorn is taken off to the infirmary, and everyone else makes their way inside for dinner.


It doesn't take Do'azda terribly long to track down the apprentices banished from her room - the six of them are clustered together in the library, glowering at her.

They're an odd, eclectic group, unified only by the solidarity of being evicted, and an antipathy towards Do'azda that she cannot fully hold against them.

An altmer woman is holding court over a pair of redguards - a man and a woman, so similar that they must be twins, and they hang on the altmer's every word as she gesticulates, and Do'azda gets the distinct impression she's being insulted, even at this distance.

At the other end of their table, two men - an imperial and a nord - are arm wrestling, faces twisted in concentration. When one of them catches her watching, he sneers.

A dunmer woman completes the set, sitting on the table, one leg tucked under her body as she flicks through a book. She winks at Do'azda, then sets her book down and hops off the table, headed out into the library proper.

This may take some thought.

Which group does Do'azda intend to approach first?

[ ] [FIRST] The Trio - If she can convince them to accept her apology, the job is already half done, even if they appear perhaps the most hostile, and certainly the most intimidating.
[ ] [FIRST] The arm-wrestlers - They seem less invested in hostility to Do'azda, and two is less intimidating than three, though her reward is less, too.
[ ] [FIRST] The Dunmer - She seems perhaps even friendly, and has isolated herself from the others. Do'azda expects she will be the easiest, but perhaps this is a reason in itself to not approach her first?

When she is done with her first approach, who does she approach second?

[ ] [SECOND] The Trio - Approaching the three of them when she has at least some idea of how they will respond, and perhaps even with an ally, they will prove less intimidating. Unless her first attempt goes poorly, of course.
[ ] [SECOND] The arm-wrestlers - Letting them finish their match may leave them less flush with machismo, in a less confrontational mood, or perhaps it will leave one of them sour for having lost.
[ ] [SECOND] The Dunmer - Let her return to the group, and perhaps it will seem less that Do'azda is trapping her alone. It may instead irk her, if she intends Do'azda to follow her away from the others, if she sees it as an overture rejected.

The third group she approaches is whichever is left.

How does Do'azda approach the exiled Apprentices?
[ ] [APPROACH] Companionable - She's so sorry that the Greybeards evicted them! She couldn't believe it when she realised they'd done this to some of her fellow apprentices!
[ ] [APPROACH] Confident - She just wants to reassure them that she won't be taking up their rooms for too long! She doesn't want to be here longer than necessary, and it won't take her long to master what she needs to master.
[ ] [APPROACH] Apologetic - She's really just so sorry, she didn't intend to take their room, she didn't realise and she really feels terrible about it.
[ ] [APPROACH] Grateful - She knows this is terribly inconvenient, but she swears she'll remember who it was that gave up their room for her, and she'll be sure to mention which apprentices helped the Dragonborn when she needed a place to sleep.

This is a plan vote; denote which approach she will use and with which group by voting with [APPROACH FIRST], [APPROACH SECOND], [APPROACH THIRD].

An approach can be repeated for multiple groups.


VM AN: I hope the plan vote isn't too complicated? It was fun to sketch out this specific type of religious conflict, where the event "happened" and therefore has differing interpretations of the same base myth?

TL AN: Do'azda is definitely a little bit done with the Greybeards, early on in the day. Also, it was fun trying to think about how the Sprint works.