Fire On The Mountain (A Skyrim Quest)

Unbalanced

The training ground has not changed since the afternoon before, and Do'azda studies it with only passing interest. The morning air is colder, not having had even the slight warming of the day's sun, and it burns a little as she breathes.

It is a better feeling than when she arrived at the monastery, but breathing remains something of a chore.

There are more students here this morning than last night; perhaps fifteen, where before there were eleven, but looking closer, some of the students from yesterday are absent; Arnbjorn, the unfortunate with the broken ankle, and a handful of others. Do'azda looks around for her classmate from the last lesson, the man with the scars, but before she can see him, a hand is wrapped around her bicep, tugging her over to a pair of hay bales.

Ingne releases Do'azda's arm once they arrive, and takes a step back out of her personal space.

"I heard you managed the Shout yesterday," She says, "So I rearranged my classes, swapped an evening of my library access with Branwulf for a spot in this class, so we could practice together. I can't quite manage Wuld."

She sounds frustrated with herself, and a little self conscious, and Do'azda can't help but remember her apprenticeship. Trying to call and bind a familiar. Failing over and over, as they slipped between her fingers time and time again, struggling like a cornered mouse.

The joy when Rajhin came to her, both the possessiveness that came with it, and the way it felt as if she was his in turn. There is something about it, about the fact that what you do becomes what you are when you're dealing with magic. She wonders whether Inge will see this. The Greybeards, how do they feel about that? What is their knowledge for? What is the purpose of… no.

She shakes away from any sort of philosophy. She's not interested in overanalyzing things. But she wants to help Ingne.

"Well," Do'azda says, "This one would like to hear how you prepare for the Shout? Perhaps it would help?"

Ingne nods, draws herself up. "The instructor told us to visualise the whirlwind, to imagine we are it, that it is us."

Do'azda makes a noncommittal noise in her throat. She shouldn't dismiss this out of hand, but this advice did not work for her. She wonders if perhaps Ingne's sense of self, too, is too strong for these techniques.

"And so I try," Ingne says, "I imagine it in my lungs, stealing my breath, at my face, chapping my lips and drawing painful tears from my eyes. It doesn't really help."

Comprehension dawns. Ingne lives in the mountains of the Reach - her understanding of a Whirlwind is, Do'azda thinks, probably more visceral than most. No one could move like a whirlwind with a visualisation like this; it is too contrary to the notion of the whirlwind helping.

"This one wonders," Do'azda says, "If you might not be better thinking of Whirlwinds differently? Rather than a wind in your chest or your face, imagine it…"

She pauses. When Do'azda imagines the Whirlwind, it is behind her, pushing against her limbs, moving her along.

"Imagine the wind is in your bones," Do'azda says, and doesn't quite know why, "Lifting them, raising you aloft. Weaving through your muscles like adrenaline, whipping you through the air."

Ingne considers for a moment, pale blue eyes darting a little as she studies Do'azda's face.

"Thank you," She says, "I tried to talk to the instructor about this after my last lesson, but he said if I couldn't work it out, perhaps I ought to reconsider whether I should follow the Way of the Voice at all."

There's a defeated sort of anger in her voice, but she moves on, her brow only a little furrowed.

"But now I think I can try," Ingne says, "This feels more helpful."

Working next to Ingne, Do'azda feels an absurd urge to feign an inability to use the shout, but she discards it; Ingne would feel patronised, and besides, Whirlwind Sprint could be extremely useful. Do'azda imagines shooting through a bandits' camp, slashing with her axe and coming to a stop surrounded by dead men, as easy as that.

By the halfway point of the lesson, Do'azda can manage the Whirlwind Sprint almost as easily as her Unrelenting Force. It's a pity, then, that the Shout is worthless.

"WULD," She Shouts, feels the air lift her, run through her, and the exhilaration fills her again. She raises one hand, as though to swipe at some imagined opponent, and vertigo fills her as she almost loses her balance. The hay bale catches her hard, drives the breath from her lungs.

It is always the same - when she moves with the Whirlwind Sprint, she can only move in the direction she is moving, as tautological as this sounds. Anything else and the wind buffets her, shifts her trajectory, and she feels terrible nausea.

Frustration simmers in her breast. What is the purpose of learning a Shout that can do almost nothing? Shall she explain to Bathes-In-Steel that she has learnt a new Shout - in addition to unleashing a primordial and irresistible force that can knock a warrior clad in steel from his feet, she can now collide with a hay bale or break her ankle! Glorious are the lessons the Greybeards give to their students!

"WULD!" Ingne Shouts, and she's off, shooting forth and slamming into the hay bale like an arrow from a quiver.

She's laughing as she pulls herself free, plucking hay from her hair as she does.

"Do'azda!" She calls out, her voice hoarse. "I did it!"

"Well done!" Do'azda says, trying to force any bitterness out of her voice at… at what this Shout is, "Did this one's advice help?"

They're splitting off from the class now - Ingne will not be able to Shout again today, Do'azda is fairly sure, and Do'azda has lost interest in further study of this Shout for the moment.

"Oh, yes!" Ingne rasps. "It was… It was like when I was a child and I would just run and run and run, like I was weightless, the fastest thing in the world. That was the Whirlwind I became, Do'azda."

Her eyes are shining, and Do'azda feels almost a touch of envy - the Whirlwind is not her, when she Shouts, and perhaps it would be better if it were. She can only create a Whirlwind to do as she commands, not embody it.

They've found a bench at one side of the courtyard, and Ingne throws her head back to look up at the sky. Do'azda sees her throat working, stark against her pale neck.

"May we study together again?" Ingne asks at last, quietly, as though expecting rejection. "This was the first time I was able to Shout truly, and I would like to Shout again. I can help with the theory, if you need, in exchange?"

Should Do'azda agree to study with Ingne, and any other fellows that might join in, regularly? (Will lock in tomorrow's social vote)
[] [INGNE] Yes
[] [INGNE] No

Ingne splits away from Do'azda with an apologetic smile, headed in the direction of the Theology classroom, and Do'azda steels herself for a lesson in the Dragon Tongue without anyone to study with.

Do'azda sinks into one of the seats at the back of the classroom, morosely reading through her work from the day before. She's beginning to understand the language; she thinks back to the strange stone in Bleak Falls Barrow and wishes she could recall better what was scrawled upon it, sure she could read it if she returned. A thought for another day, perhaps.

She feels her desk shift as someone sits beside her. Zenosephona doesn't say anything for a long moment, her hair - pale and almost silvery - falling about her face, and all Do'azda hears from her is the chickenscratch of her quill on parchment.

"Do you know-" She begins, then cuts herself off. "Rayya said that Carvain told her that you're good at this. So if you want to apologise, you could help me with conjugations."

Do'azda supposes she does want to apologise, and it might be nice to have someone to work with this lesson; Dragon Tongue is terribly boring when studying alone.

Zenosephona is not as good a student as Ingne or Carvain, Do'azda realises almost immediately - she's clearly either been skipping her lectures on the Dragon Tongue, or not paying attention whilst in them, but she is clever. Once she does know a conjunction, she begins to see where others are, gets a feel for where they are in speech… but that doesn't help her understand them, and it doesn't help her use them. Do'azda considers this for a moment, and writes out a sort of table for them. In theory there is one in the book, but in practice it is not a very good table, and her Shamanic tutors would be disappointed at it. It does not include any use-cases, or anything but a word and an equivalent, when it's clear that this isn't enough.

She find herself invested in it, and sees the way that Zenosephona's attention wavers, goes from intense to not there, curious and at times driven by Do'azda's challenging words… but far from fascinated, far from enthralled.

When Do'azda learns, it is as if every word has been written on her heart waiting to be uncovered. It is clearly not like that for Zenosephona. "You.. do you want to be here?" she asks, and she manages to not ask it as a hissed challenge. Zenosephona seems to consider it, but doesn't even really answer in the moment, just keeps on going through conjunctions.

Do'azda lets the words rest, glances over to the Greybeard who sees no need to interrupt. He only shows up when someone needs help, and right now it is merely a matter of climbing the mountain step by step. Slow progress towards infinity. Step by step.

"I'm not really here to learn, you know?" Zenosephona says, conversationally, after a while. "I came to Skyrim to be far from the Union and far from Hammerfell. Nothing is meant to happen in Skyrim! High Rock is full of intrigues, Morrowind full of magic and ash, and between them is Skyrim, full of mountains, snow and nothing. But instead there is war, and the half of Skyrim safe for those who are not nords becomes dangerous for Altmer, and the half of Skyrim free of Imperials becomes dangerous for Aldmeri dissidents."

She hisses air out through her teeth. "If I were a mage, perhaps Winterhold. But I never learnt the arcane arts, and I lack the brute strength to join the Whiterun sellswords. Whatever else may be true of them, the Greybeards allow any to come to study the Voice. And so here I am, learning ancient nord nonsense about dragons that have been dead and gone since before the Empire. And now I don't even have a bed, because it would be my luck that the Dragonborn of legend returns to force me from my room."

"Do'azda finds much of value in this education," she begins, and Zenosephona looks as if she is about to retort back with as much bile as she has. "But she is not in love with the life of the Greybeards, or this mountain, anymore than Zenosephona is. She intends to stay as short a time as possible, to learn everything she can, and leave." There is a pause and she admits, "Back to the maelstrom. Back to the storm and fire. It is… strange down there. Dangerous. But she lives in it now and she does not want to be here either. So, she is learning as fast as she can, and when she is done, Do'azda will leave."

Zenosephona almost says something, but Do'azda plows on. "Don't believe in Do'azda, you dislike her." A pause, "Don't believe in the Dragonborn legend, because she barely believes in it." She grins, and leans in close to Zenosephona into she can feel the heat coming from her, and the way that Zenosephona is waiting, as if asking 'what is your point'? "But believe that a Khajiit might not want to spend her life surrounded by old Nord men." She flicks her ears, and the slight jangle makes the point, makes the point that she is not of them and never will be and never could be.

Zenosephona huffs out a startled laugh, and then looks almost as though she's surprised herself. "I see. Perhaps if you had led with that?"

The lesson is almost over by this point, and Zenosephona doesn't seem inclined to do any more work, so Do'azda subsides, waits to be dismissed. The lecturer looks at them briefly, blandly, but doesn't say anything.

The hay bales are gone when Do'azda returns to the courtyard, replaced with thin pylons of wood wrapped in straw, lined up like a row of soldiers. There are only a half dozen students in this class - Do'azda only recognises Katroniah, who waves when she sees Do'azda; the other five are all serious looking nord men, none of whom give Do'azda the impression that they are here to socialise.

The instructor is a Greybeard Do'azda vaguely recognises, and he murmurs something indistinct to the man next to him - a man just as old, but clean shaven. Do'azda certainly recognises them now - these were the men she met when she arrived. She takes a second glance at the various nord students - were these the men who had been gathered to rescue her from the troll?

They seem to be, which Do'azda feels a little strange about, but the Greybeard - Einarth, if she remembers rightly - has finished talking to his assistant, who clears his throat meaningfully.

"Master Einarth says; Welcome, students, to another lesson on Unrelenting Force. Today our class has been graced by the Dragonborn's presence. In our last lesson, you all succeeded at least once in completely Fus Ro - please continue this practice. I and the lay-brother will need to speak with the Dragonborn." The man - the lay-brother? - says loudly, then claps his hands, and the other students disperse. Katroniah shrugs when Do'azda catches her eye.

"Master Einarth says; Dragonborn, it is good to see you are interested not merely in the Voice, but in the Way," The lay-brother says, "I hear you have attended lessons of Philosophy and Theology, and much of the dragon tongue?"

"This one has attended these lessons," Do'azda says neutrally, "Is there a problem with that?"

She thinks she sees the Greybeard crack a smile for a second, before he leans over to the lay-brother.

"Master Einarth says; It is no problem, quite the contrary. I am pleased to say you have surprised me, showing such interest in more than using the Voice for harm. But onto the crux of the matter - tell me, Dragonborn, from your studies of the dragontongue - what is meant by RO in the Shout?"

Even from the lips of the lay-brother, a man lacking the power and training behind his words, there is something undeniable threaded through the word.

"Equivalence?" Do'azda asks, then raises her hand to forestall response, "No, no, weighting. Or… better to say "balance" in this context?"

"Master Einarth says; the second word of the shout is RO, balance, indeed. An important word to learn. Moreso than mere FUS, and indeed more than DAH. To understand balance enough to Shout it is - in a true sense - crucial. To all Shouts."

Do'azda can understand this - Shouting is setting your will against the world, and an innate understanding of how things are balanced and poised would be transformative to this process.

"Master Einarth says; it is unfortunate, then, that no Greybeard can gift a Dragonborn with this understanding. Our conception of where lies the balance of all things is too far from the conception held by those with the soul of a dragon." The lay-brother tells her this almost emotionlessly, whilst Master Einarth makes a little apologetic gesture.

"So, this one is doomed to never learn this?" Do'azda asks, "Can she not even try?"

"Master Einarth says; patience remains an unknown virtue to the Dragonborn, yes? You are not the first student with a dragon's soul to study from the Greybeards. To learn balance, you must travel to Ustengrav, to the tomb of Jurgen Windcaller, that his spirit and his last work may teach you. That is to be the last task set to you, at the cumulation of your studies here." The lay-brother says, "But before that, I may teach you at least the Shout's third and final word. DAH - push. This is a simpler word to learn and master, no?"

Do'azda can feel the shape of it already, turning it over in her mind as the Greybeard leaves her to it, hurries over to correct the stance of one of the nord students. Like FUS, but somehow both more and less - it is more targeted, more guided, but the concept behind it is less in some inherent sense. A less flexible word, but better suited to this use.

"DAH!" She shouts, feels the word thrumming like the plucked string of a lyre, but to no avail.

It isn't quite as easy as she hoped, and she takes a moment to think about why - there's no other students she can ask about it, and she has no doubt that Einarth will just preach patience once again. She looks at it again, wondering.

She's thinking about pushing the target over - imagining it is a person she can send staggering away - but perhaps this is wrong. Perhaps she ought to instead think about pushing as it relates to herself - pushing away, repelling.

"DAH!" She Shouts, and this time it works. It really works. The force radiates out from her in every direction, scouring the snow from the cobblestones at her feet. The blast doesn't have the range to hit the target she is facing, but still, Do'azda cannot help the little grin it puts on her face.

"Master Einarth says; Good work, as expected of the Dragonborn. Next lesson, you will need to learn how to combine this with FUS."

Do'azda frowns, opens her mouth to ask - why next lesson? There is still time this lesson, isn't there? - but the burning, searing pain in her throat answers her own question. She had almost forgotten that learning a new Word of Power is like this, when learnt from the Greybeards.

She heads off to dinner early, the better to have more time to explore.


High Hrothgar is larger than Do'azda had assumed, and it doesn't take her too long to find herself in a wing of the castle she's not had to visit for lessons, though it reassures her that it hasn't been abandoned; the floors are still swept, the vents still release hot air and the torches still burn in their sconces.

The rooms in this wing seem to be mostly used for storage; sheets and pillows fill one room, whilst another is nothing but candles, stacks upon stacks of them, and the last room Do'azda looks in is filled with rolls of paper. She shuts that door carefully, conscious of how difficult it must be to bring such a fragile product up the eleven thousand and seventy seven steps, how expensive it would be if she accidentally damaged any.

A little nervous, Do'azda takes a few turnings without looking where she's going - down a flight of stairs, along a corridor still warmed by vents but unlit, with dust bunnies gathering in the crevices, and then through a door which squeals on its hinges, she finds herself in a storeroom that is abruptly so cold she almost recoils.

Her breath fogs in the air as she takes it in. The room is not large; it looks as though it once led into another room - a pair of large oaken doors dominate the wall opposite her, but the shelves in the room totally block access to the doors, and Do'azda narrows her eyes. There's light shining through the crack between them, and she wonders if she has looped around, come almost to where she began - there are many locked doors in the dining hall, it would hardly surprise her to find these amongst them.

She shivers again; the vents in here must be broken, or perhaps disabled. Does that help long term storage, having the room be kept chill? If it does, it hasn't helped enough. Most of the books in this antechamber are ruined, rotted to the point of indecipherability, fuzzy with mould spores or just so faded that the words on the spines cannot be made out.

The other relics in the room have fared little better; there's a circlet of copper set with tiny moonstone gems, except age has given the copper a patina of green that even stains the stones, leaching out of their mountings, and there are folded robes on several shelves that have become so moth-bitten that Do'azda fears even to look at them too hard, in case they disintegrate under the weight of her gaze.

A necklace catches her eye, the leather cord having proven surprisingly resistant to the passage of time, and the pendant itself - a small wooden carving of a wolf, blackened by the touch of fire but not burnt long enough for damage - is completely intact.

Beneath the necklace, one of the room's few intact books draws her attention. A leather bound journal with a painstakingly embossed wolf on the cover, a crown around its neck where a dog might have a collar.

Do'azda should, she reflects, probably not take this mysterious journal from this forgotten room. It would be more sensible to put it back, perhaps return with someone more knowledgeable of Skyrim's history, arcane or otherwise.

She wraps the necklace around the journal for safekeeping, and slips them both into her robes.

This being the Journal of Thane Lydia Sigurdsdottir, Warrior of Solitude and Oathbound to Queen Potema, she who should have been Empress, written in the year 113 of the Third Era.

Loathe though I am to leave Solitude with my beloved so near to term, her Grace the Queen commands, and I must obey. I am to travel to High Hrothgar, to learn the way of the Voice, that I might lend its strength to her cause.

Many have been the obstacles to our Queen - married to the brute Mantiarco when scarcely more than a child, to banish the whispers that she ought to inherit over her brother, oafish and dissolute Antiochus, for the brother was more amenable to the grasping schemers on the Imperial Council. Is it any surprise, then, that they raised his wife's bastard Kintyra to the throne? The den of rats in Cyrodiil has always hated any in the Septim line who threaten to drag them into the light - our Queen is not the first to be married away to an unworthy suitor. Not even the first to be married off to one with an heir already. I digress - I shall not prove another obstacle to her, not when her rule alone might staunch the corruption plaguing the imperial court, might end the ill treatment of the peasantry under her brother, who has ever been more interested in his own pleasures than the suffering of his people.

Solitude has not forgotten the service our Wolf Queen does us; keeping out the exile Bathorgh and alleviating her brother's misrule, shielding at least us from his onerous taxation as best she can. She is a fine Queen, and will be a finer Empress. By my word and blade it will be done, and may the Daedra of Oblivion take those who would oppose it.

Do'azda sets the journal aside, yawning. These imperials with their dynastic squabbles. Oh, certainly it is tragic enough - a woman sidelined and usurped so the imperial elite can continue to profit from a string of weak, corrupt emperors, but she cannot bring herself to the heights of emotion of this - honestly rather overwrought - Nord thane. No doubt when - or if - Potema assumed the imperial throne, her supporters would be disappointed to find that the corruption did not vanish into the ether in an instant.

Still, there's a lot of journal left to read, if she ever wanted to.

You have three slots for classes for tomorrow, the 9th. Choose what you want to do and we'll order them in the best way to fit the day plan. 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. Do'azda knows the first and third words, and surely combined, they will be more than the sum of their parts?
[] [Classes] Whirlwind Sprint - Do'azda has begun learning Whirlwind Sprint, and has learnt the first word, but will require more lessons to learn if there are actual… uses of the Shout.
[-] [Classes] The Dragontongue - Do'azda will not study the Dragontongue for four days in a row. It is too much!
[] [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?

And one slot for socialising (if Do'azda studies with Ingne, this will be disregarded):

[] [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] It has been a few days - what is Bathes-In-Steel up to? It cannot be ideal, waiting in a castle high in the mountains of Skyrim.
[] [Social] High Hrothgar is a large castle, still ripe for exploration even after first blush, and Do'azda is just the one to do it. Who knows, maybe you'll meet someone unexpected?

VM AN: I found it fun to give Do'azda a dogshit historical take. Wolf Queen Potema, the maligned and usurped would-be reformer.

TL AN: As a historian it is just as valid as any other dogshit take, when you think about it. Vettie did most of this update, and we had some fun moments!