Fire On The Mountain (A Skyrim Quest)

Third Approach is also "companionable" - not sure what's up with the tally here.

Earnest Apologies?

Do'azda considers for just a moment using just a little bit of arrogance. It is not as if the world appreciates humility nearly as much as society wants everyone to think. But she cannot look at them, some of them annoyed and some of them simply resigned, and not feel just a little bit as if the Greybeards are trying to drive wedges between her and everyone else. She didn't need such a large room, she is unlikely to be spending long at High Hrothgar before moving on, she could've shared a room with the apprentices in it without causing too much of an inconvenience; it wouldn't be the first floor she slept on.

She steels herself, and approaches the arm wrestling pair - the nord is cursing under his breath, his arm shaking as his opponent forces it inexorably tableside.

They're both big men - the nord is shorter, a touch stouter and more overtly brawny, ginger, with a nose that's been broken more than once and a scruffy shadow of stubble covering a lantern jaw, but the cyrodiilic has a good half foot on him, and a deceptive musculature, with close cropped black hair and an aquiline nose.

"Ah, Quintus! We have an audience," The nord says, releasing the other man's hand and gesturing to Do'azda airily, "Mayhaps she wants our table, as well as our beds?"

"I was winning, Ranald," Quintus complains good naturedly, "You owe me a bottle of Blackbriar - forfeiting does not excuse you," he seems only then to process Ranald's words. "Ah, the Dragonborn. Are my quarters to your liking?"

"This one did not… that is; she was not told by the Greybeards that they had given her the rooms of some of her fellows? She is sorry to discover they did!" Do'azda says, "This one would have been happy to bunk with other apprentices, but she was not consulted by the Greybeards, of course."

This seems to mollify them a little - they exchange a significant look, and then Quintus turns to her.

"I would've imagined the Dragonborn would have more pull than any mere apprentice?" His tone is mild; he doesn't disbelieve her, not yet, he's curious, and he doesn't believe her entirely, either.

Do'azda pauses, considering. Men such as these can often enough be amicable, until reminded of their privileges, when they can become defensive, even hostile.

"Aye, perhaps if she looked like me," Ranald pre-empts her. "But a wee Khajiiti maid? They'd have turned her away at the door or charged her a tuition fee, had she not been Dragonborn."

Do'azda attempts to hide her shock, but perhaps is not as adept as she believes; Ranald smiles wryly.

"I'm not unaware of my people's prejudices," He says, amusement fading. "I figured that being Dragonborn outweighed them in the eyes of the Greybeards, but it doesn't exactly surprise me that it does not."

"Considering our friends," Quintus says, "Perhaps we ought to have expected this more."

"For all this," Do'azda rallies from her surprise, "This one would still apologise for causing the trouble."

Quintus shrugs. "I shan't say it's no trouble; we liked our old rooms, and being split up between the others is an indignity. But I would be a churl to hold this against you. It speaks well of you to come to make amends when you didn't cause the harm."

"And you don't seem to have waited around forever to apologize. So, is it just you in that big ol' room?"

"She is in the room with Bathes-In-Steel," she says, "And neither of us… are the sort that needs a lot of spare space."

"Bathes-In-Steel," Quintus said. "An Argonian then? How did you meet her."

"She lived in Whiterun, and when Do'azda left she asked to go along with her," Do'azda explains. "She is a strong warrior, a little like a Battlemage, and a good friend."

"I've heard that there was some Argonian harassing the Greybeards," Ranald said. "Something about steps?"

Oh, right. "She is very devoted to the truth, and is a very earnest person. Both of us could easily slept on a bedroll and been just fine." She realizes this is true as she says it. She'd say it even if this was unacceptable, but she already is finding herself adapting to how thin the air is, and how cold it is as well. "But the Greybeards… she was asleep when the decision was made, and she has not made herself their ally since." She has leverage, yes, but she does not know why they would listen to her on this.

"Oh? Not too surprising," Ranald says with a broad shrug. "You're here, talking with us. Quint over here, he complained about being kicked out to them, and they almost haven't whispered in his direction sense. Though they can't exactly freeze you all the way out, even if you did make enemies."

Do'azda has realized this, and is counting on it to protect her at least enough that she can learn what she needs to know. "She does realize this a little, but she hopes that there is not… freezing done to those who are her friends."

"Oh, we'll tell you if there is, then," Quintus declares, glancing over at Ranald.

"We'll see," Ranald says, but in a thoughtful tone. She thinks this is about the best she can expect from them, all things considered.

With that done, Do'azda glances around. The dunmer has returned from the stacks, a book held limply in one hand as she settles languidly back in her seat. The altmer is still talking with her two redguard companions, though Do'azda judges the topic of conversation is no longer her, which settles her a little. Not enough to approach them yet, but a little.

The dunmer smiles as Do'azda approaches her. She's tall, with dark grey skin, almost tinging blue, soft red eyes and sharp features.

"Do'azda, correct?" She says, her voice low, "I am Katroniah Drothan, it is a pleasure to-" Her voice crackles raw and she winces. "I was in the class studying Unrelenting Force this afternoon, and it's left my throat rather sore."

"This one is sorry to hear this," Do'azda says, "She hopes you feel better soon?"

"I heard about you, though," Katroniah continues, "Completing a shout in your first session, very impressive."

"Do'azda is doing the best she can do," Do'azda says, quietly. "She knows that it hurts the throats even of the experienced. The one time she has seen a Shout beyond High Hrothgar, the Shouter was hoarse after two Shouts, bent double."

"The Shouter? You've met someone beyond this… locale? And you've been holding out on us who have to go here to learn anything?" Katroniah says it with a soft grin.

"N-no, of course not," Do'azda reassures her. "She apologises, is sorry, It just did not occur to this one to…"

"Who is it?"

"When Do'azda arrived in Skyrim, she was caught up in an attack to capture the Stormcloaks, and though there has not been a single Stormcloak Khajiit, she and an entire caravan were going to be killed." She cannot keep the disgust from her voice. She hates the Stormcloaks, already, just from reputation as much as anything. But the Imperials have been just as brutal and just as pointlessly cruel in the little she's seen of them. Both the pro-Imperial and anti-Imperial Nord houses were barely stopped from having her killed. She knows it may be more complicated, but she is sometimes petty and she'll be petty with this.

"Her head was on the block when Alkhan attacks, and she escapes down into the sewers, only to find that who else has escaped but Ulfric Stormcloak."

There are actually gasps from the other tables at that.

Even Katroniah takes a moment to rally, "Oh?"

"We fought our way through the sewer, because going alone would have been worse, she supposes. He was convinced that he was the Dragonborn, and that Alkhan had been there to try to kill him," Do'azda says. "His was the first Shout Do'azda saw, and the second, icy cold."

Katroniah is silent for a moment, and then laughter forces its way out of her mouth, like a geyser erupting, and she doubles over as Do'azda can't help but laugh as well to think about it. "He used the full Unrelenting Force and Winter's Breath and it left him rasping and choking? Truly, a dragon amongst men."

"And then he tells me," Do'azda says, "That we are alike, this one and him."

Katroniah cocks an eyebrow, "Oh yes? And why's that?"

"He says to this one that as our peoples both are so oppressed by outsiders, we wish to liberate our homelands, return them to those they belong to, so he tells me." Do'azda says, "A strange view, for a man who sleeps in a palace at night."

Katroniah smiles ruefully, "And a view extended only to those oppressed who live far from 'his' Skyrim, you will no doubt be surprised to learn." Her tone is dry as ash, "What did you want to talk to me about, since I doubt it was Ulfric Stormcloak?"

Do'azda nods, remembering. "Ah, yes, of course - this one wished only to offer sincere apologies for taking your sleeping quarters from you! She had no idea her quarters had been occupied before, and she is especially sorry that she took your quarters,"

Katroniah waves a hand, dismissive, even as Do'azda says it. "It's no bother, really. I liked my old bunkmates well enough, and I like my new bunkmates well enough. If my quarters were more suited to a charming Khajiiti maiden, who am I to quibble?"

She smiles, a little smug, continuing before Do'azda can say more. "It flatters me that you are so earnest in your apologies. It is an attractive quality, truly."

Do'azda dips her head. "This one appreciates your charity, but her apology remains nevertheless."

"Then I suppose I accept," Katroniah says, then pauses theatrically, "Although if refusing to accept keeps your attention on me, I might reconsider…"

Do'azda rolls her eyes despite herself and glances away. The high elf catches her eye, scowls.

"Did you upset Zenosephona?" Katroniah asks, twisting in her seat to look at the Altmer. "How did she take your apology?"

Her voice is light, but it rings artificially.

"This one has not yet had the pleasure of speaking with Zenosephona and her compatriots," Do'azda says, "Is she terribly haughty?"

Katroniah raises a sculpted eyebrow. "What an interesting assumption. But no, haughty is not the term I would use. She likely will not appreciate being an afterthought, however."

Do'azda winces. Steels herself.

"This one will make her apologies all the same. She is obligated."

"Well, I'll light a candle in your memory," Katroniah says with a smile.

Zenosephona rocks her library chair back and forwards, one foot bracing on the table as she watches Do'azda approach.

"Is it our turn at last?" She asks lazily, her voice dragging over the words with . "Or have you got someone else you think is more important - perhaps there was a mouse living under my bed, and you'd like to make amends with it, first?"

"Ah, this one is sorry it took so long," Do'azda says, biting back an unreasonable irritation. "She was explaining to the others that she did not know the Greybeards had forced others to leave the rooms she was given, and if she had-"

Zenosephona scoffs. "I would've thought the Dragonborn too mighty to be cowed by a whispering old nord - don't the nords think you have the soul of a dragon?"

"Ah," The redguard woman says, "But Seph, we already know she's too afraid to talk to three little apprentices, and we aren't nearly as scary as a Greybeard."

She looks at Zenosephona, not Do'azda, as she says it, a needy sort of tightness in her features, only relaxing when Zenosephona inclines her head, agreeing. A lackey awaiting approval, Do'azda thinks spitefully.

"Very true," Zenosephona says, "Is Rayya right, dragonborn? Are you scared of the Greybeards, or just of us? Perhaps it is because you're afraid of us that you had the Greybeards deal with the unpleasantness of removing us from our room? A poor showing, a dragon running fearful from a handful of apprentices."

"It is a clever game, though." This from the male redguard, "Indulge an odd little Nord myth and they'll trip over themselves to give you what they need."

Do'azda wonders, idly, if these are the children of some of the Redguard who collaborated with the Aldmeri Union to drive the Empire from Hammerfell.

"This one did not indulge a myth. She is dragonborn. She slew a dragon in Little Elsweyr, set ablaze every mountain in Skyrim!" She's getting annoyed, getting counterproductive.

"Yes, and then you took our room from us, and expected us to accept an apology for something you refuse to accept the blame for," Zenosephona says sharply, "I must say, I didn't expect the dragonborn to be a coward, but I suppose if you ran from Elsweyr, then ran from Whiterun, I shouldn't be surprised that you'll run from confrontation. And yet, I still had such expectation. A pity."

Do'azda stiffens, and then the words pour out like she is a cask of them and they have broken open. But the idea that she has run, that she has to run, the very thought of it feels as if it is not just an insult, but an attack on something central to her. The Khajiit of Whiterun are those in her keeping. Those she has to support and help.

And she'd left.

She'd been made to leave.

They were hers. Hers to protect and aid, if not to own and control. And now this one, this, this…

"And this one didn't expect to meet a Thalmor Renrijiri in Skyrim but she supposes we must both be disappointed."

A pin could drop in the library after this, and it would ring out like a bolt of lightning, and the thunder that comes with it as a mated pair. Katroniah begins to pack up her bags in Do'azda's periphery, and the two redguards recoil as though slapped. Zenosephona pulls herself up, goes rigid. The languid arrogance is replaced with an arctic fury.

"Excuse me?" Zenosephona's voice is cold. "What did you call me?"

Do'azda could apologise for this, as well as the room, could cast herself on the altmer's mercy, but it has been only two days since that strange, sickly dream of an oasis in Elsweyr, and the idea of casting herself on the mercy of an altmer repells. "This one is sure you heard her. She called you Thalmor. She called you scum."

"My father was exiled from Alinor for speaking against the thalmor as they entered our government like rot seeping into a wound," Zenosephona says, a cold sort of anger twisting through her voice, "And my mother died fighting for a free Hammerfell with her redguard allies, whilst your people - the scum of Elsweyr, the Renrijiri - hunted them through the night on the orders of thalmor scum. I refuse your apology for taking our room, but I will have one for this."

"Is it the fault of the khajiit, then, that altmer soldiers and bosmer archers put the boot upon our neck? Your people grow fat off the suffering of mine," Do'azda's voice is rising, "And you expect to avoid judgement for your behaviour when it matches that of our occupiers?"

"I expect," Zenosephona says, "Not to be maligned in such a way. It is foolish, as well and cruel - would a thalmor be so deep in the empire as this? The Nords would not stand for it. Hate me if you will, but do not- do not name me as the killers of my family, Dragonborn."

"This one," Do'azda flushes, feeling uncomfortably as though she is in the wrong, for all that she still feels a flame of indignant anger. The anger feels almost alive, like some coiling creature hissing in her ear that she should never truly apologize. That she shouldn't be sorry at all. "This one apologises. She did not mean to impugn, she was merely-"

Zenosephona nods, stiff. "It was poorly done of me to say such things. We are all in Skyrim with homelands we cannot return to. I escalated the argument."

"She would still apologise," Do'azda says softly, trying to smother the rage which is like a fire that even water cannot quench, "For taking your rooms. And truly - she was unconscious from the climb when the insult was given, she did not know."

"I believe you," Zenosephona says, "But the point stands - it is your fault I am sleeping on stone floors, but it is not a fault for which you can apologise. We will never, I think, be friends."

Rayya touches Zenosephona's shoulder hesitantly. "Should we head off, Seph?"

As they leave, Do'azda scowls at the floor. She handled this badly - or perhaps it was always going to go badly. Either way, she has a sick feeling in her stomach and a sense that she could've done better.

The redguard man clears his throat awkwardly, and she looks up. He's fidgeting, glancing after Zenosephona and Rayya.

"We do- That is, Zenosephona will appreciate the apology, when she feels better. And I'm sorry for, you know…" He scratches the back of his neck. "I'm Jelin, by the way. See you around."

Katroniah has already left, and Do'azda has no interest in talking more with the two armwrestlers - their sympathetic smiles when she makes eye contact make her feel worse. No, this didn't go as planned, and all she can do now is sleep.

A ghostly wisp of that sudden and overpowering fury follows her, whispering sweet everythings like a fading Spirit.

You have three slots for classes tomorrow, the 8th, choose what you want to do and we'll order them in the best way to fit the day plan… also, plan vote.

[-] [Classes] Theology - Do'azda has been informed she may no longer attend such classes.
[] [Classes] History - As a newcomer to Skyrim, history would be very welcome, though what they'll tell her is uncertain, and will likely also include history of the Greybeards… and information about the conflict she'll face.
[] [Classes] Philosophy - Having been given the basics, it is likely that the Greybeards will now begin to explain to her how it looks in practice, or at least in the practice of the Greybeards, if nothing else.
[] [Classes] Unrelenting Force - The first shout taught. By happenstance, Do'azda knows the first word, and now can learn the second.
[] [Classes] Whirlwind Sprint - Do'azda has begun learning Whirlwind Sprint, and has already achieved a major and important step, but will require more lessons to truly cement her understanding
[] [Classes] The Dragontongue - To learn shouts, one must learn the language they are spoken in, the language they are written in. This is a long process, and one that will take longer than the two lessons Do'azda has already completed, even if she is doing better than most.
[] [Classes] Survival - A class by necessity, if one is to live on High Hrothgar, but perhaps a class with more to offer than it appears?

Social! (Choose 1)

[] [Social] The Greybeards talk not much at all, out loud, but they train the apprentices and can be found. Speak to them… whether of destiny or simply the weather.
[] [Social] Your fellow apprentices come in two types. The first is those that are traditionally Greybeards, earnest young men who are working hard to grow old, and who have cause to resent you… but might yet be made allies, and haven't truly been spoken to yet.
[] [Social] Your fellow apprentices who are… more outcast have been in part met, but she can always introduce herself to more of them.
[-] [Social] Bathes-In Steel can keep for the moment.
[] [Social] High Hrothgar is a large castle, ripe for exploration, and Do'azda is just the one to do it. Who knows, maybe you'll meet someone unexpected?

VM AN: I don't have a good excuse for why this took so long to write, but I hope it isn't too bad? Do'azda was always likely to annoy whoever was 3rd, and it was always likely she would rub the altmer up the wrong way, and vice versa. Sometimes that's just how it goes.

TL AN: Nirn is a world full of old hatreds that rather than scarring over just keep on bleeding and getting uglier and uglier. It was bound to happen eventually, and is just one of those things you'd faced if you'd chosen one of any number of protagonists. Orcs, Altmer, Bosmer, Khajiit, Argonians and more all have very real reasons to snipe at each other over past… and present evils.