Fire On The Mountain (A Skyrim Quest)

Heroism Beyond Slaughter

Do'azda wakes up curled around herself, as if a dream has reached down and shaken her about, and she finds herself just a little bit uncertain about a lot of things. She's not been here that long, and she's adapting to how high it is, how every breath feels like it is a struggle. But she doesn't like it, and Bathes-In-Steel is even less pleased. By the time Do'azda is stretching and ready for the day, Bathes-In-Steel has just begun to try to wake up. She has less to do, and she is here for Do'azda and for no other reason.

But she also knows that she has so many other things to try to manage, and she hopes that she can apologize to Bathes-In-Steel and renew her dedication to the Eleven Thousand and Seventy Seven Steps Truth, as apology for her own comparative absence. "Do'azda is going to be going to learn survival today, to help us when we leave."

Bathes-In-Steel shifts and says, sounding as if she might actually somehow mean it, "Wonderful."

Do'azda has not had a strong appetite since she came up to this monastery, and so her breakfast is bread, cheese, meat. It has all the exciting spices or twists that one could expect from Nord cooking, and she is aware that she is at the stage of her mood where everything begins to seem just a little bit ridiculous and just a little bit terrible.

She almost turns back from going to the Philosophy class, since the odds of her being asked never to return are very high if she starts picking a fight. But she trudges along anyways, fetching up a smile for Ingne as she passes. Ingne smiles and waves, and then frowns a little bit, taking in the slight drag of the tail, perhaps, or all the other little signs that show that she is in no good mood despite her reflexive polite smile carefully but clumsily plastered over her face.

The lecturer waits until everyone is settled and then clears his throat. There is no transition, just words that flow and ebb, carefully chosen and yet oddly dispassionate.

"We say that the Way of the Voice is to become the Shout, just as the Dragon sometimes merely uses the Shout. But what does this mean? How does one use the Voice, when one is becoming it?" The lecturer asks, but he does not seem to be looking for an answer because after a moment he says, "It has to do with what Shouts are, which is not weapons. Shouts are not made for violence, because to embody them and to use forces beyond force as nothing more than a very sharp rock used to brain your fellow thinking beings. Because you are not using it, you become it. Which of you is here to declare that you desire to be nothing but a sharp rock to be wielded to crack skulls, without hopes and dreams beyond violence? Perhaps you do, but if you do you will never be a Greybeard."

She thinks about it. It has never felt like something she is, at least not from the two Shouts she actually knows. It feels like a tool. Perhaps a beloved tool, perhaps one that felt more right to use than anything she's ever wielded in her life. A tool that calls to her, as magic does, as duty does, and wants to be used in the same way that some warriors say that their blades long to taste blood. It always seems like a silly exaggeration, and maybe it is, but it feels at least a little bit more true now.

"Those who wish to make as Ulfric Stormcloak does and thunder down the world with the strength of your temper, to Shout to death your enemies for your own amusement… you are welcome to leave, for you shall never be a Greybeard," the instructor says in a low, quiet voice. People startle, and muttering picks up. "Is this the first you have heard of criticism?" he asks, "If so, take your life to be fortunate. The Voice is not a stick. If a Greybeard hates the weather, he endures it, he does not transform it merely for his own amusement. As one rises in the Voice, one speaks less, listens more, and when one speaks, it is with a Shout. This, more than anything, is the nature of things: if you are to become the Voice, you cannot raise it in petty strife. The Way of the Voice grants no overlordship of the lands, but it does grant power, and the Greybeards are respected and admired. Can anyone quote the ancient saying about this? Surely one has heard the quotation."

Ingne is the one who speaks up, as the others consider it, "Admirable Behavior is the path towards power everywhere," she says, "Or: 'all worth knowing say that there are two things that matter, what's said, and what's done'… where what's not done is…"

"Yes," the Greybeard says, "And no. You have overshared, said more than is needed. Parsimony is of import, there are those who will judge you for this, and think you a babbler." His voice is now so soft it feels almost deadly, as if it is a whispered warning to Ingne alone. Perhaps it is, because she pales as if she has been struck a mortal blow. "I am curious, Shaman Do'azda, if you can answer further."

"What is not done is held in reserve," she says, uncertainly. "You feel it. Like an axe blow running up your arm. Yet it is not there." She knows that well, because there is so much that a Shaman does not do, merely has the ability to do, the capacity, and in not doing so makes others worry and wonder and consider for a moment whether there is a line that will one day be crossed.

It is especially useful when it turns out the axe is half-rusted and your arm can barely lift it.

"Huh, that is a perspective," he says, and he seems like he means it. But others are now muttering about her, and she has no idea what to do with it. "Yet it cannot be a bluff, can it? You must be willing to act. So both for those who go on to follow the Way of the Voice, and those of you who leave, consider what it takes not to strike out. There is heroism beyond slaughter. There is grace in knowing when to raise your Voice and Shout and when silence tells its own sacred story. We will be reading some such stories, history but about morality, in order to…"

After class, Do'azda approaches Ingne, who is hurrying out. "Do'azda is curious, what was that about?"

"He is too kind. He was warning me," the Nord woman said, shaking her head as if she were a beast trying to dislodge a tick. "If I give answers that are too involved, it'll make them think of women gossiping and nattering and showing off. I need to give short, accurate answers."

Do'azda frowns, tail lashing as she considers this. There is value in being able to give an answer and no more. There is a strength in parsimony, but it is not as if Ingne rambled for minutes. She just added an additional quotation that might be relevant to the question.

But perhaps the teacher is merely exactly as harsh as others will be? He certainly seems like he means what he says. Though she is not sure of his definitions.

She has been told, once, the meaning of what a Hero is. The saying goes like this.

A killer is someone who has killed one or two people; a monster is someone who has killed one or two hundred people; a hero is someone who has killed one or two thousand people. Do'azda has killed thirteen people, and one Dragon, since she arrived in Skyrim. She rests in some liminal space between, and she is more likely to kill more than to cease killing. Especially if there is a Dragon about.

(There is a fourth verse: a King is someone who has killed one or two hundred thousand. But she cannot imagine this as relevant, except that she has a vague understanding that one day she will have to kill a King or be killed by one. Alkoth has cause to kill her.)

"You are thinking deeply," Ingne says with a firm, serious nod. "This is a very valuable thing, and nobody's going to say that the Dragonborn is babbling about things."

"Even when she is," Do'azda agrees, with a swish of her tail. She shivers a little bit at a breeze coming through the halls and turns to Ingne. "Do'azda is going to see about learning how to survive. She will have to journey back down the mountain before too long."

Ingne blinks slowly, "How quickly are you planning on leaving?"

"She is not sure, but she suspects they mean for her to stay months, and she is not going to do that." She has already burned through quite a lot of goodwill, and more than that she doesn't want to get used to it too much. There is a world out there. She still has dreams of the path that Noctra has laid out. There is still for that matter what she owes to the Witches, and beyond that no doubt plenty of adventure she could seek that has nothing to do with fire and scales.

"Oh," Ingne says, fidgeting. "I am going to go learn some more of the Dragon Tongue."

"Find allies," Do'azda advises. "She is sick of it and needs a day's break, but it is important learning." She considers who might be an ally and lists a few names just in case that Ingne lacks someone.

Ingne nods to all of the advice, but she seems just a little bit distant, and Do'azda suspects that she too is thinking about something.

There's a cluster of students huddling together at one of High Hrothgar's outer gates, listening to the wind howl through the crack, and Do'azda joins them, hunching against the cold that emanates from the doors, too far from the fires or heating vents to be banished.

When they are flung open, Do'azda feels the icy wind like a punch in the face, stealing her breath and bringing tears to her eyes. She can see the other students also draw back from the cold and sleet, and turns to squint out at the man who opened them.

"Well aren't you a sorry lot," The man in the door takes her a little by surprise - broad shouldered and tall, in the furs and leathers of a hunter or trapper, a twisted stave of ash clutched in one gnarled hand, he seems incongruous with the monastery. "Best be hurrying up. Sooner outside is sooner finished and sooner inside."

The survival instructor turns and sets off into the snow after saying this, and it takes Do'azda only a moment to follow him.

She's barely able to keep sight of him as he strides through the snowstorm, jabbing at the ground violently with every step.

There are no trees this high up the mountain, so when the instructor finally stops somewhere sheltered, it's closer to a cave than a clearing - boxed in by a cliff-face on one side and fallen boulders on the other three, there's only a tiny crevice for an entrance, and Do'azda almost misses him squeezing through it, but he barks at her to hurry it up, and she follows his voice.

The wind dies as soon as Do'azda pushes her way into the cave, and the size of it once she's in takes her by surprise - there's easily enough space for all the students, and they crowd in eagerly; it feels noticeably warmer in the cave than out of it.

The instructor doesn't say anything for a while, kneeling on the bare stone of the cave floor and rummaging through a pouch on his hip.

He sets a bowl down in front of him, filled with a paste that glows blue with bioluminescence. He scratches idly at the half-shorn forest of coarse black hair at his jaw, taking in the students before him.

"I ain't a greybeard," He says with a growl, "No talent for the Voice and no time for it, neither. But the Greybeards understand that when they put their monastery halfway up a gods-benighted mountain, someone needs to teach their apprentices how to survive in the mountains. That's my job, and I'm paid well to teach you all how not to die."

His eyes flicker across them all, and he curls his lip. "Don't go puffing yourselves up for making it up the Throat, now. When the Greybeards put seven thousand stone steps up the side of the mountain, they pulled her teeth and clipped her wings."

"Eleven thousand and seventy seven steps," Do'azda replies, not quite able or willing to restrain herself, "not seven thousand."

The instructor cracks a craggy smile. "Truly? I knew it were more than the seven, but I've never rightly bothered to count. But that's besides the point. Climbing the steps, you won't have needed to know much of anything about the hazards on the mountain. I'll bet none of you even know the greatest risk, climbing a mountain like this."

"The wind?" One of the nords asks dubiously.

"Avalanches?" This from another nord, sounding a little more confident.

Do'azda tries not to puff herself up; she remembers many many lectures on this matter. "When exercising, it is most crucial that you keep hydrated. Everything else is secondary."

The instructor studies her in silence for a moment. "You've been taught survival before? In Elsweyr?"

She nods.

"In many circumstances, your past tutors were correct," He grants her, "Hydration is always important. But no, on the mountain, the biggest killer is the air itself. There ain't enough of it up here."

It has felt as though the air is lacking something, but to have it confirmed, Do'azda almost wants to cry - the very air itself wishes them ill?

"What can we do about that?" One of the other apprentices asks, "If there isn't the air for us, there isn't the air, right?"

"Don't go much higher than here until the Greybeards allow it," The instructor says, "And pay attention to how you're feeling - if you're not getting enough breath, your head'll start splitting, you'll feel like death warmed up and you'll throw up any food you keep down. If you find yourself feeling like you've been on the mead last night, it means you've not got enough air, and need to head down mountain. If you stay up too long, however, the loss of air will curdle your mind, and you'll forget to head down."

"So, ultimately-" one of the other students begins.

"Ultimately there's no advice I can give beyond what I have. There's no fighting the air, and no way to bring more air up with you. You just need to be aware." The instructor says ruefully, "Most of the ways a mountain'll kill you are like that - you can't stop an avalanche or a blizzard neither, and cold is cold is cold. There's things you can do to prepare for them - test the snow you walk on, make sure it'll stand up to your feet, elsewise you might cause an avalanche, keep one eye on the sky so no blizzard can take you unawares, keep your body good and warm - if your hands get cold, you might lose a finger or two, but if you let your chest get cold, you die. Simple as that. 'Swhy you oughtn't eat snow, even if you're parched - the cold seeps into you and you're dead, even if you don't know it yet."

Do'azda swallows, suddenly terribly aware of how disastrous her trek up the mountain could've been - she knows so little about surviving a place such as Skyrim, has assumed too much from half remembered lessons in the Elsweyr heat.

"I didn't bring you out just to tell you the ways you can die, mind. Shelter, that's your priority; keeps you out of the blizzard, helps keep your temperature up. If a blizzard's coming in or you're trapped on the mountain and the sun's going down, you'll want to find or make a shelter, either in a cave like this one, or by carving one out of the snow. If you'll follow me back out, we can begin a demonstration…"

Survival +3!

It has been getting a little bit colder all day, and she walks around hearing people muttering about how there's going to be a storm late tonight that's going to shut everything halfway down for a day, though others are appreciating it. One apprentice mentions that it's a chance not to break his ankles today, and another laughs and jokes around about it. But she is not going to break her legs.

But nor, she thinks, as she stops once more just before the hay bale, is she going to learn anything. She's started to realize how the momentum works. In the right circumstances she could use it to get a running leap, and if she did that it might be the only way she'd be able to turn. But even then, she'd have no momentum unless she begins to imagine silly things like using the force of a Shout to push her one way or another.

This sounds, she realizes, like a good way to die horribly. She turns, though only once she has fully stopped, and after a moment's rest Shouts again. She blurs through the field, narrowly missing another person headed for their own hay bale. She lands, carefully, trying not to stumble or trip, and then turns again, now beyond the 'boundaries' of the training area. But she imagines she is being chased, and tries to consider what she could do with this Shout to stop that.

She barely takes the time to catch her breath between Shouts, and the world falls away as she tries to figure out where to go. That way, and then this way, and each time she skids a little against the ice. There's snow blowing by now a little harder than she's used to, and she's shivering despite the speed she's moving at and her own fur. She switches around, so that now she's leaping about behind all of the others, except by now some of them are stopping to look at her as she breathes in and out and Shouts again and again. She's a little out of breath, but her throat doesn't hurt at all. At best it's like swinging around a sword, eventually your arm gets tired and you run the risk of getting sloppy, but one, two, ten, twenty swings? You didn't just run out of arm strength that fast.

Perhaps she's practicing, she thinks, as she jumps back towards her original position. By now there is muttering as she lands and shakes her head. It could be useful if she's playing a very serious game of tag, and she thinks that it might be good for getting through traps or perhaps if the choice is falling to infinite doom and slamming hard against the other side of a chasm. But all in all, she's not sure if it's that useful. It closes the gap fast, but if you actually run into someone you'll suffer just as badly as they will.

So all in all, she is in a strangely foul and strangely triumphant mood when the teacher approaches. He is a different person from last time, but they're all made to the same mold. Beards, rugged faces, hard eyes, these are all Nord men who have done much and suffered much to follow the Way of the Voice, and she has no doubt that they have differences among them… but in the moment she feels as if she must search for them.

"That was an impressive display, Dragonborn," the teacher begins, and Do'azda knows she's in trouble. She knows she's in trouble because she absolutely knows that tone of voice. She's being praised to set the stage for being criticized. "But you could have run into one of the others, and it is not what you've been tasked to do."

"She was being careful," Do'azda declares, flicking her ears. "And she is learning the limitations of the Sprint. It is impressive… though she does not know how useful it is, especially if someone expects it."

"Useful? Useful?"

"It is beautiful, and Do'azda thinks that anyone who does not love the Whirlwind Shout is a fool," she says, "But that is not the same as being able to be used for much." She knows all about it, about the beautiful decorative things that the world is better for having, but which she cannot allow herself to believe are more than what they are.

"I… do not know if I can see your perspective as anything but blinkered. In fact, I think you should meditate and consider on the very nature of the Way of the Voice before considering supposed usefulness as the main thing you have to--"

"Will this one be expected to defeat Alkoth?" Do'azda asks. "If yes, then truly it does matter what she learns, and it matters that it is useful, even if she will also learn things that are not."

"Then, I believe you should take some time to meditate on the use of the Way of the Voice, and not learn further." Then he admitted, "Besides, the students were not to start the second word until next year."

Ah.

This is both a setback, but also a strange indication. She's outstripped what is expected of her, on top of making enemies… great.

Can no longer take Whirlwind Sprint classes. Gain greater mastery of Whirlwind Sprint.



All that is left of this long, difficult day is to think about teaching other people to Shout. Oddly, though, there is something almost soothing about the process of considering just how to help others. It is almost like a little puzzle… it is also nothing like a little puzzle. But it's something her mind can turn over and over again when there's a free moments, and Do'azda has… ideas!

She just hopes they turn out to be good ideas.

Subject! (Choose 1)

[] [Subject] Learning the Dragontongue was an important part of the Way of the Voice, and one she suspects will help even her over time.
[] [Subject] Whirlwind sprint isn't very useful, but it's a gate to more powerful abilities and a way to prove that one knows more than one Shout.
[] [Subject] Unrelenting Force is the 'classic' Shout, and the one that has the most obvious and immediate violent uses.
[] [Subject] How to combine the Voice with other things… whether self-defense or just how to scamper about. Might not be suitable as a first lesson.
[] [Subject] Write-in.

Teaching Style (Choose 1)

[] [Style] Hands on, direct. Learn by doing, and if it's something 'less active' than Shouting, but it does mean that those who don't learn best by putting their hands on things might find themselves in an awkward position.
[] [Style] If there's enough people, focus on everyone gaining information from each other, and working together… though ignorance shared can be ignorance doubled in the right circumstances, which nobody wants.
[] [Style] Lecture, provide information, provide perspective, and only get to the doing once it's clear that everyone understands. Of course, there are multiple types of understanding, and each of them might… clash with the other.
[] [Style] Write-in.




TL AN: Stuff happens… like you managing to once again alienate someone! Forget about this 'Heroism Beyond Slaughter' stuff, kids, Shouts really are just about doing violence and destroying your enemies.

VM AN: Do'azda has a survival skill of 5. She can probably survive pretty well in the desert. Unfortunately, Skyrim is not a desert. (Do not eat snow ever.)

Tall Tales

It takes Do'azda a moment to concede that she has no choice other than the library for the lesson. She is still not used to the cold, it seems to seep into her bones even in the warmth, and she suspects that beyond a certain point there's just no getting better easily. She's been hurrying as fast as she could, and she has a feeling nobody expects how quickly she's learning these things. But for a cat used to the sun and seeking shade, Skyrim is always going to be just a little bit too cold. She doesn't know how those without fur manage it, but she wonders if perhaps that is a secret hidden reason for the beards.

They certainly must help keep the face warm. An old man, the librarian she barely noticed the first time, looks at her a little skeptically over the top of thick, half-rim glasses as she passes by, looking around for Ingne.

Ingne is not alone, surprisingly. Carvain sat there with her, the Imperial fidgeting just a little bit with the books, as if they were trying to rearrange them. Katroniah stares out at Do'azda with sharp, thoughtful eyes. "Well, well well, and here we are. Do'azda the Dragonborn, here to teach us her native tongue." She speaks slightly sharply, but there's something just a little bit impressed along with it there. She's flirting, Do'azda realizes, on top of everything else. "Well, let's see if we can learn anything."

"This is so, she now knows why you've come," Do'azda says, with a flick of her head and tail as she settles in. "Do'azda has learned before, and she knows that for something like this… the best way to do it is to pass around knowledge. Four is a good number for these things."

"So what learning style did you have experience with?" Carvain asks. "I've heard many things about how the Khajiit learn--"

"Read, you mean," Katroniah points out, probably accurately.

"Yes."

"Most learn like anyone else," Do'azda says, though she doesn't know if it's true as she settles down. Carvain might well not know… or maybe they do, but most people throughout the world as far as she can tell learn either by apprenticeships or academies. "But there are learning circles, designed so that each cat can approach the same… material. Each person takes a chapter and reads it, or they all read the same chapters, and they discuss it in order to understand and act on it."

Of course, she is speaking of circles for learning more than just lore. Advice and tactics and bits of facts about ambushes and more are often discussed in these reading circles, these innocent bodies that mean no harm to their rightful and just Elvish overlords, and merely wish to discuss knowledge among each other and come to better understandings of… philosophy.

Many really are just talk, which is another reason why it is harder to follow, that and its tendency to use Ta'agra for its books. Native languages are preserved as well, as best as one is able. But such a method works just as well for less… revolutionary methods of trying to learn and understand knowledge.

Shamans, for instance, use it for both purposes. "So, what are we going to study, then?" Ingne asks.

"Dictionary is too easy. There are… ah." Do'azda knows what would work well. She could just. Hmm. She knows what she wants, but she doesn't know whether it'll be there. So she needs to look for a librarian. "Do'azda has an idea, how have you thought about reading a story aloud? Understanding it? A true story, truly spoken…"

This is all that can be said. If the Shout makes things real, then even whispering in the dragon tongue, while not a shout, cannot be a lie. But what does this mean? Actually, the more she thinks about it the more she wonders how it even works. There are questions and considerations. For instance, if you put words that were untrue truthfully in the mouth of someone else, did that count as untruth? There surely are ways that you could tell even the most outrageous stories if that is the case… and if it's not, then how would you get at 'truth' or 'accuracy' or…

She spirals, her brain twisting down strange pathways for a moment. "Huh," Do'azda says.

It doesn't take her long to find what she is looking for, not at all. The library has no shortage of books of legends and myths, especially books about Tiber Septim.

Of the Death of Tiber Septim and the Ascension of Talos Stormcrown

That seems perfect. She flicks through it quickly, just enough to determine that it seems to be about Talos, and that it seems to all be written in the dragontongue.

It also seems a good place to test the fact of what one thinks is true versus the truth…

"This one thinks if we read this aloud together, we shall need to think about the dragontongue?" She says, placing the book on the table.

It's a thin book, yellowed and worn, the pages soft and downy, but the text is legible, even as the ink has faded to a faint brown. Before the tale even began, scritched in, not in Dragontongue, was a truly terrible poem in Tamerelic.


And then, in big, twisting runes, in the Dragon Tongue - in an undeniably different, older hand, it said, 'The greatest Voice was silent of Shouts for many years, for that who was Hjalti Early-Beard, whose Voice shook the world, was brought low by a Witchman of the Reach. Base treachery did what faith could not, and left the Voice at only a whisper. With one hand he held his own throat closed as he rent the throat of his assailant open with the other. The Witch's Razor was a cunning weapon however, and Hjalti Early-Beard was doomed to die that day.

And so the Voice became Tiber Septim, who never spoke above a whisper, lest the Razor hear him know him to be that who was Hjalti Early-Beard and open his throat once more.

Do'azda nods to herself - the prose is in the Dragontongue, and it will likely be useful to read this through.


Ingne reads with a sort of unshakeable confidence, not stumbling over a single word or idea, everything flowing as clear as spring water. The words seem to flow even more easily than she herself expects.

That who was Tiber Septim could Shout no more, but when he whispered, all fell silent. And so when he left his forces to travel to Sancre Tor, none questioned.

Accompanied by only his bosom companion, Zurin Arctus, who would become betrayed and betrayer both, but was neither yet, Tiber Septim went to Sancre Tor, where he had fought and lost to gain all, and would fight and win to lose all.

Beneath that Golden Hall, that who was Tiber Septim found the Amulet of Kings, which bore within it many powers, the most pertinent being…

"It's strange," Ingne says, as she sets the book down, "The dragontongue comes more easily like this. I feel as though errors I might make through laziness or lapses in thought… Do not come?"

"An error in your grammar might make your words false to yourself," Katroniah replies thoughtfully, "Perhaps this is enough to make such errors impossible?"

"I have certainly made mistakes when reading before, though?" Carvain says, "Maybe it only prevents mistakes when you ought to know better?"

Carvain starts well, their voice absolutely confident, but as they continue, they begin to falter.

… And with Tamriel in his power, that who was Tiber Septim summoned his most loyal Generals, those who had fought and bled across the land, and chose this time to show at last the might and majesty of his rule.

Though the Voice was forbidden to that who was Tiber Septim, lest he be once more Hjalti Early-Beard, doomed to die, he spoke in a low and terrible whisper, saying-

Carvain coughs abruptly as they try to read the rest, as though choking.

"I can't… say that." They manage, "I'm not Tiber Septim, it would be a lie for me to say his words, and I cannot lie in the Dragontongue."

"This one thinks you are approaching this wrong," Do'azda says, "You will not be saying his words - you will be telling us the words he said. That is not a lie, is it?"

Carvain squints at her for a moment. "I suppose not, but doesn't that render the nature of the language as describing the truth of the world rather up to interpretation?"

"Isn't the truth of the world up to interpretation?" Katroniah says, "Did Ninaleon Sightbinder not prove in the Third Bravil Conclave that the world is as we experience it? That we each stand in a world alone?"

"I can try," Carvain says doubtfully, after a moment. The words come haltingly, but they come.

… he spoke in a low and terrible whisper, saying "I breathe now, in royalty, and reshape this land which is mine. I do this for you, Red Legions, for I love you."

And as he did, he rested one hand upon the Amulet of Kings, and drew upon the souls within, that they might Shout in his place. For such is the hidden strength at the Amulet's heart, and with such, he ruled…

Katroniah reads with ease, her voice liltingly confident, never stumbling over a single word or phrase; she glides over complexities which have Do'azda wincing to herself. Her eyes glitter a little with satisfaction as she takes in the impressed gazes of the other three.

… And that who was Tiber Septim grew old and grey, though he remained with the strength of a man of only half his age, with steel in his hair and fire in his belly. But he had at last won in truth at Sancre Tor, and as Hjalti Early-Beard had before him, Tiber Septim was laid mortal once again - no more could he raise the Amulet of Kings, for no more would it obey his command. For all his days and all his nights was that who was Tiber Septim attended by his son, by healers and priests and his leal guards of the body.

But at last he roused himself, and he bade them "Go" though it laid a trace of fire across his throat. And at last he was alone.

He climbed, step by step, up to the top of the Tower that stands to this day as a symbol of the glory of the Empire, and that who was Tiber Septim looked out upon all he controlled, the furthest reaches of the world under his sway, prosperity blooming like flowers in the aftermath of a volcano, and he saw that it was good. But he also saw that as a man grows feeble, so to do his works.

And he saw that when he passed, all his works should fall to ruin. Even as he watched, black clouds gathered on every horizon, scarcely held back by his will. The greatest Voice saw this, and it saw that Tiber Septim could no more prevent the ruin of his works than Hjalti Early-Beard could defy the Witch's Razor.

And so he stood atop the White Gold Tower, and he straightened himself, and he Shouted-

Katroniah stops without warning; she does not choke on a word as Carvain did, she simply ceases, from one word to the next. "I don't believe this."

"What?" Ingne asks, "What's wrong?"

"I can't read this next bit," Katroniah says easily, "Because I do not believe he did it."

Carvain and Ingne both exchange a loaded glance, "You do not believe in the First and Last Shout of Talos Stormcrown?" Ingne asks, sounding almost more confused than anything else.

"I do not. I believe in the Mother of Roses, the Prince of Plots and Black Handed Mephala. I do not begrudge you your Faith, but I cannot… I do not believe it, you understand?"

"The author did," Do'azda says, thoughtfully, "Even if you do not, can you not acknowledge these words to be the truth as the author saw it?"

"Yes," Ingne agrees, "It isn't so different to when Carvain told us the words that Tiber Septim whispered, is it? You aren't lying, you're merely telling us what the author believed to be true."

Katroniah closes her eyes for a moment, her lips tracing out the words as she does.

I am divine. Such was the shout of that who was Tiber Septim, and that who was Hjalti Early-Beard, and it tore open the wound in Hjalti's throat, and the burn on Tiber Septim's soul. No mortal could survive, and Tiber Septim's mortal form was weak and done. Lightning flared about the Tower, and when guards rushed to the body of their Emperor, they found it already cold and lifeless…


There's a long moment before Do'azda realises everyone's eyes are on her.

"Shall this one take us out?" She asks, reaching for the book.

That who is Talos burst free from the corpse of Tiber Septim and ascended to the sky, where he-

Do'azda stutters for a moment - the Hero-God of Man is not one she believes in, not in truth, and this is such a large thing to claim.

But she is not the one claiming it, of course. The author believed what he believed. Indeed, perhaps Tiber Septim himself believed it, as his Shout tore his soul from his body. He did not know, perhaps, that he was already divine, that divinity is to walk the Many Paths, that he was lost and deluding himself, a child playing in the mud, thinking himself a god.

Where he stood before the storm and the storm threw itself at him. And he broke it in his fists and forged it to his will. And that who is Talos became Talos Stormcrown, the Ninth and Greatest Divine, to whom first the Earth and then the Heavens submitted.


As they wrap up, Carvain is the one who realizes something. "I am… very certain of my Dragontongue grammar. So of course I made no mistakes. But I did not hear anyone else make a mistake, other than having to look up a word." They frown at that, "So how is that? Surely someone here would have gotten a single way of framing it slightly wrong?"

"Perhaps we're all geniuses?" Katroniah suggests with a smile and a wink Do'azda's way.

Do'azda realizes it all at once. "You cannot tell what you know to be a lie in the Dragontongue, Do'azda remembers this. So what is knowing the right grammar but saying it wrong but a lie?"

"Wait… are you saying that if you know the grammar and all the words of Dragontongue, you just… say it automatically?" Ingne sounds both excited and incredulous. It is certainly not entirely how it is taught, which has a lot more to do with how any language is taught.

"If that is so…" Do'azda says. "Then just reading stories and looking up words you don't know works."

It is… a revelation, and an interesting one that means that there's no point going to the Dragontongue classes any further, as opposed to this… at least if she has the right books to back her up so that she knows all of it.

"So we're doing this again?" Carvain asks. "If it is so obviously helpful to learn together by trying to read aloud from old texts?"

"It seems only reasonable," Katroniah says, "Certainly I feel I've covered more than we do in our classes."

Can no longer take Dragontongue Classes. Dragontongue Study Groups will occur automatically each lunchtime, but will be skimmed over in the narrative if nothing of importance occurs.

You have three slots for classes for tomorrow, the 10th. 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 - The Greybeards apparently are going to begin a larger project, now that practicality and theory have both been covered lightly. Now is the time for more depth and breadth.
[] [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 - There is no more Do'azda can learn in this class at present.
[-] [Classes] The Dragontongue - Do'azda no longer has need for these classes.
[] [Classes] Survival - Do'azda has learnt enough of Survival to know she has great need to know more of how one survives this cold and hard land.

And one slot for socialising:

[] [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, and deepen acquaintance with those who stand at the outside edges.
[] [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: This took a while, I'm sorry. Did some more lore and knocked out another class Do'azda takes.

TL AN: Remember kids, don't stay in school!

Also yes, we did have to think about what a "language of truth" would actually mean. It was kinda fun, to be honest, figuring out where the limits would be on that.