Fire On The Mountain (A Skyrim Quest)

The Steps You Must Take

A cat and a lizard walk into a watering hole and approach a sentient beard. The lizard says, "Excuse me, are you Einarth? We would like a moment of your time to talk about the misnaming of the 11,077 Steps."

And then the cat says, "This one thinks that it's at least worth considering, because she has walked up the steps and the number of steps is not seven-thousand."

The sentient beard, looking up from his porridge and whispers, in the Dragontongue, voice almost silent, "No. There are exactly seven-thousand steps. I have counted them."

"You have what?" the lizard asks, going stiff.

"It has been counted. I believe the number is exactly seven-thousand," the sentient beard gravels out, in the tongue of the dragons, in which lying is impossible.

The lizard and the cat exchange glances.

"This one is to understand that you have counted recently?"

The voice of the sentient beard gets lower, and the beard seems to grow greyer, beardier, speaking in Dragontongue: 'Some Years Ago.' Then he nods, and after that every single word is a matter of a dispute between two people who are very sure of what they know. The Lizard gets more and more frustrated as the argument goes on, asking if the monastery used to be far lower and throwing her hands up when it turns out to have always been just like this.

Yet.

The Cat sees that some part of the Lizard is excited, alive, caught up in the struggle, and she decides that perhaps she will see a little more of this, and they'll find someone who'll actually engage.


Do'azda is running late. Whether it is because it is colder than usual, or she is just feeling it more, it was more of a trial this morning than the previous mornings for her to rise from her bed and dress for the day. By the time she finally shuffled out of her rooms, the History class has been in session for perhaps a half hour, and she hesitates

"So we ultimately see that the tariff policies were flawed, regardless of the later view of him as a champion of Nordic cultural independence from the Imperial hegemony at the time," a low, deep voice rumbles as she stands outside of the class. "Therefore we find ourselves, ye and verily, in a time of great confusion among the grain merchants, which affected even the mountain here, for in those days we asked much of grain merchants because providing food was so difficult in those days of expansion caused by the policies of the late Greybeard Aeldric, who decreed in the third year of the High King's reign that…"

Do'azda considers the length of her life, and the reality that she does not care about grain policy… maybe at all, but especially in Skyrim. She considers with great care and attention the simple fact that she will not be on Mundus for all that long, and perhaps even less time than expected because she sees being the Dragonborn as the sort of future that might well be one in which burning bright means burning half as long. The flames are rising, and they will always be rising, but that does not mean that each individual spark will last long.

She considers all of this and turns around. She's already late, so she's just not going to go. She's done with history. Do'azda has decreed it to herself.

There's no point diving in if there's really not any time left.

The next Greybeard, Wulfgar, regards them with suspicion.

"Dragonborn," He says softly, a voice like dust, "What can I do for you and… friend?"

"We wanted to talk to you about the misnumbering of the 11,077 steps?" Bathes-In-Steel says, stepping forwards.

Wulfgar laughs heartily, which grates a little. "Oh, is that all?"

Do'azda frowns. "Are you going to tell us there are not 11,077 steps again? This is what Master Einarth said, and-"

"Oh, no." Wulfgar says, "It's only that your count was pointless. I often find the more… literal minded races - it is acceptable for me to say this, I hope? - yes, I often find the more literal minded races make this mistake? The seven-thousand steps are not the literal steps, they are the seven thousand steps in your metaphorical journey to becoming a Tongue, as Jurgen Windcaller did before you. The number of literal real steps is, of course, immaterial."

"What are they then?" Do'azda asks, perhaps a little sharper than she intended. Had he given her the time, she would have said that it was not acceptable for him to call them more literal minded races but he moved on too fast.

"I- Excuse me?" Wulfgar says, "I don't understand what you mean?"

"This one understands perhaps she is too literal minded to become a Tongue in truth," she could keep the bite from her voice if she tried, but Do'azda is not trying. "But as the Dragonborn, she ought to know the broad strokes of these seven-thousand steps. So what are they?"

Wulfgar flushes red under his beard. "Well… Step one is to, uh, let go of your materialistic ideas and embrace the serenity of Kyne?"

Do'azda nods seriously. "And this is step one of seven thousand? Is every one of the six thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine further steps so grand?"

Wulfgar looks briefly flummoxed, then stiffens. "It is best to learn the steps for yourself, Dragonborn. Have you not got another class to be going to?"


Do'azda stands in the cool, clear, crisp, thin air of the mountain, breathing in and out. She stares out at the dummy she's supposed to be targeting, and she realizes something. This is not the first target she's hit, but the nature of them helps. The nature is simple. They flop around when thrown as if they are a ragdoll.

But that's how she notices it.

When they flop, they flop twice. The second hit arrives just as they're falling, and keeps them up in the air a bit longer. In her head, she pictures it; she thinks of Hajvarr Iron-Hand, who took her Shout without yielding to it, and imagines if another wave of force had hit him as he tried to steady himself from the first, and she winces.

She cannot test it, she decides, frowning and walking over to the thoroughly wrecked 'body.' It is something that is cruel to even imagine. But then, she knows that this is a cruel weapon in its way. She's seen the way it's been used, and it is enough to make one begin to understand just why the Greybeards might insist that surely the Voice is not something to just be used.

She remembers the devastation, it has not truly been that long since an entire room full of people were turned into corpses in front of her, or near-corpses. She doesn't even know how one is supposed to fight against it, except to endure it or try not to be there. She shakes her head, and decides never to use it except with the express intent of murder. It is not a way to win a fight, or prove a point.

But it is a tool, and she will use it.

Gain Fus-Dah!

Arngeir looks them over as they make their case, honed after two conversations and much consideration. He is sitting there in the sill of the window, staring out at the cold nothingness that is the frozen wasteland of the Throat of the World. He is old, and he is as quiet as any of them, whispering almost too quiet to be heard. Even this is a concession. He's heard them out without saying anything after he asks them to say all they have to say.

"So you say there's more than seven-thousand steps?"

"Yes, there's--" Bathes-In-Steel begins, but he cuts her off with his own words.

"Eleven Thousand and Seventy-Five Steps," Arngeir says, at the same time that she says, "Eleven Thousand and Seventy-Seven Steps."

Bathes-In-Steel pauses, eyes wide, looking as if he has told her that all the world is a lie and she will die alone. She looks betrayed. "No, it is… when did you count?"

"Four years ago, I went down to the base. To make sure there was nothing that would stop a pilgrim." A pause. "That were unfair." As opposed to all of the fair things that would stop a pilgrim. Do'azda finds herself nodding in appreciation of that distinction. "I counted, it's very restful."

Bathes-In-Steel looks as if she will be lying asleep for the next few nights considering the exact number of steps. "I'll count them when we go down in a day or two."

Do'azda freezes, because she's not supposed to know that she's about to be unceremoniously kicked out. But he doesn't react, just keeps his eyes closed.

"Wulfgar said that they might be a metaphor?" Do'azda says doubtfully.

"Wulfgar will say many things," Arngeir says, "It is the logical conclusion to draw, that it is a metaphor, but I am doubtful, myself. There are not seven thousand steps to becoming a Tongue - there is no number of steps at all. It is a lifetime's work, or a day's. Or both. No, I should imagine that old Jurgen Windcaller, as all men are wont to do, spoke before he acted. Once the name stuck at Seven Thousand Steps, he and his followers would not change it, even once the construction proved them fools. It can't be helped."



"Fire," The instructor says, "Is life, on the mountain. Without fire, you're fighting a losing battle with the cold; from the moment you step into the cold, you're on a short sharp trip to dying frozen, unless you can put more heat into your body - this means you need a fire. What's the first obstacle to that?"

"The snow?" One of the students asks dubiously, "Everything is too wet and cold to-"

"No." The instructor cuts across, his voice hard and impatient. "Look around, fool. What is the first obstacle to making a fire here?"

Do'azda looks around. Bleak, windswept rock, snowdrifts and icebanks across the mountainside.

"There are no trees," She says, "And so no firewood."

"That's so, girl." The instructor says, "No wood, no fire. No fire, no life. You need to bring firewood with you from below. That adds weight, and it limits you - you can only stay up here for so long as you have firewood. Luckily for you sorry lot, I've lugged a sack of wood from High Hrothgar's cellars, so you can practice trying to start and maintain fires."

The firewood is dry, and smells of resin and dust, and Do'azda takes her armful of logs away, carefully sweeping aside some snow to reveal smooth, black rock beneath. She can see other students hunched over, striking sharp hunks of glassy rock with their daggers, cursing under their breaths as the sparks that rain down fail to ignite their campfires. The instructor circles, eyes hawk-sharp, giving brutal tongue lashings to whichever students grab his attention.

Magic. The problem, Do'azda thinks, is that she has magic. She doesn't need help to make a fire, not really. She smiles and casts the spell on the wood, and then frowns as the wind sweeps it away.

"Magic ain't going to cut it, girl," The instructor says, "You kin start a fire, but the wind'll snuff it if'n you don't stop it. How're you gonna do a thing like that?"

Do'azda considers this, then picks up her logs and stumps, begrudgingly, towards the windshelter of a large boulder. Magic, she thinks, a little pettily, ought to be able to best a little wind.

Survival +2

Do'azda is going to be told that she has graduated tomorrow, but she will have a trick up her sleeve, preexisting plans that justify her sticking around for one day more. What are these plans? (Choose 2)

[] The goodbyes to those she has befriended will take time, but time she might yet have: say goodbye to the study group, and see what they are going to do if you are gone.
[] Those who Do'azda has kicked out of their rooms will be glad to hear she is leaving, and that they should get their space back soon. May as well talk to them.
[] She has not sparred against any of the fighting types, surely a Dragonborn should get some last practice, by Voice and blade alike.
[] There is one last survival exercise, or so she has been told, and she might go on it, to see a little more about the mountain that is the Throat of the World.
[] She has volunteered herself for messenger service, and will take down any letters anyone wants, bringing them to the base of the mountain. But this will require her to poke, and prod, which provides opportunities.
[] She would like very much to explore the Monastery some more. Whilst she doubts the Greybeards will be amenable to such desires, if she dresses them up as some suitably "shaman-y" excuse, she doubts they know enough of Elsweyr's traditions to object.
[] Those she knows not well at this point will never be friends, but she could specifically try to get to know them, arrange meetings with them using her status as Dragonborn as a weapon in order to know something about them before she goes.

VM AN: Last day! Exciting! Sorry this update took a little while.

TL AN: You see, this updating taking so long is a metaphor…