Fire On The Mountain (A Skyrim Quest)

Finishing Touches

Do'azda dreams of darkness, of shadows, of scales that glint with the dark promise of Sithis. She dreams, then, of a thousand things and none of them, and wakes up unsure if she'll remember her dreams even one second after. And indeed, she does not. She gets up, and sees that of course Bathes-In-Steel is already awake. She isn't expecting anything else, and she smiles faintly over at Bathes.

"Today's the day, or almost to it," she says. "We've not been here long, and Do'azda knows this has not been your favorite place." It is the least possible truth that she can provide, because it is clear that Bathes-In-Steel would not like to spend a month here. Then again, neither would Do'azda. She's made no friends among the old Nords, and very few friends among the Greybeards and teachers. A few she might count on. But no doubt they will have words and prejudices. Whether this matters depends.

If she is never to return here, if she is not staying in Skyrim more than a few years, then the fact that she's made a bad impression on the future Greybeards of decades to come is of no import at all. And if she is? It is a problem she'll face later. She has not been good at all with talking to Nords, thus far, it has to be said. Besides the deal made in Riverwood, and even there she's made more enemies than friends. She is not… incapable of tact. But she has to admit that she has not always been the most gentle and yielding of Shamans.

Yet somehow the thought of turning to be that tugs at something in her. She imagines it and she wants to hurt someone in retaliation. She knows she had more patience for these things a few years ago, but Skyrim seems to be wearing fast at certain kinds of patience. She knows that she'll have to think of a way to develop it.

But she does not think that the time she'll do so is today, when she opens the door, having quickly dressed, to see a robed man waiting.

"The Greybeards would like to speak to you," he whispers. He himself is starting to go grey, and looks to be somewhere in his thirties or forties, whispering so quietly that she has to strain her ears to hear. He also seems to react to the slight chime of the rings of her hair as she moves a little closer.

"Do'azda understands." Do'azda also has not yet had breakfast, but she knows better than to complain about that. She follows the man silently, though she knows what this is about. Her tail swishes a little, anticipation filling her. But she has answers to their statements, answers that will likely allow her to stay for a while longer.

They are waiting in a side room that she has not explored before, the stone walls bare, the floors covered in nothing more than a few careless, worn out furs. They stand as a group, looking at her, and she steps forward.

The escort leaves, and the door shuts, and she turns to look at these men who are here to talk at her. Perhaps they are even going to talk to her, though except for one of them she does not know if they're truly capable of it.

"Greetings, Dragonborn Do'azda," Arngeir says, and nods at her. "You have grown much just in the last week."

"It is truly impressive," Einarth says, and he even sounds as if he might mean it.

"This means that it is time for you to move on," Wulfgar declares, and he does not sound like he means it as a compliment. "A Dragonborn is… disruptive, far more than any expected."

"Do'azda wonders, if you've ever actually met a dragon, that you could imagine her as anything but disruptive, if that is truly what you see her as?" She is looking at Wulfgar, because she is sure he actually means a Khajiit.

All of them are stiff, clearly feeling the accusation, the truth that she's met more Dragons than she has between Alkoth and her battle with Mirmulnir, who fought and died beneath her blades and magic. They no doubt have ancient, secondhand knowledge of Dragons. But she is now wondering at all the things she's ever felt.

Are these dragon thoughts? She has felt angrier since she has come to Skyrim. But this is also Skyrim. What about Skyrim does not make one angry? There is… a comfort of sorts, to be among the burning fires, to be among the chaos and confusion. But it is the opposite of a cold comfort, it is a burning, painful sort of comfort. She doesn't want to leave Skyrim, not yet. Even if she could, even if she does not have a duty, it is a place that she wants to…

(Even in her own head she flinches at this pun.)

A place she wants to wyrm her way into.

"This may be so," Arngeir admits. "I have not met a Dragonborn before. It is an experience for both of us. We hope we are going to learn from it."

"Do'azda wonders, is it something you have a second stab at?" she asks, tilting her head. Her ears jangle slightly as she considers this problem. In life, it is the things where you do not have another chance to do that are hardest.

"No," Einarth admits. "There have never been two Dragonborn within one human lifetime. This means you are--"

Unfortunately, she fills in.

"Unique."

"Very well, this Shaman wishes to ask you: if you were in her position, what would you do, having left the mountain? What is her next step, in your view?" She does not think she is going to be listening to it, in all honesty. She knows that in a week she has twice exhausted the patience of many Nords, and that this happening twice probably says something about her own style of acting, and way of being. But she also still thinks it is more Skyrim's fault tahn hers.

"You need balance," Einarth says. "Fus-Ro-Dah is nothing without Balance, and without that you will not be able to even begin to understand the Voice. In order to find this balance, you must go to Ustengrav."

"Where is this, and what is it?" she asks.

"It is to the north, and we can mark its rough area on a map. We can provide it," Arngeir says. "It is the resting place of Jurgen Windcaller, and only someone with the Voice could get into the depths of the tomb, and so it has remained largely undisturbed."

Do'azda considers this and says, "She sees."

She will have to get that way, eventually. "What if we work with the map now? Though Do'azda cannot go today, she has promised her attendance of a Survival Lesson, and she is a child of warm sands and flat plains. She needs all the help she can get, and has goodbyes to say."

"Of course," Wulfgar says, sounding frustrated. "We do not wish to rush you out the door."

This is clearly a lie, but Do'azda smiles and says all the right words.

New Quest: All Norded Out

---

If the survival instructor is surprised that she is still here, he doesn't show it.

"Change of plans from usual," He says without preamble. "I need to inspect the passes down the mountain before the winter, so you'll be learning how to move through deep snow today."

"What do we need mountain passes for?" One of the nords in the class asks, "We have the 7000 steps?"

"The 7000 steps," The instructor says, kneeling to tie some strange contraption of leather and wood to the soles of his boots, "Were hacked out of the mountainside by men who knew enough about Shouting that they didn't think they needed to know anything else. Come midwinter, they'll be so choked with landslips, ice and snow, only way up 'n down the Throat'll be these passes."

The leather-wood lattice pinches uncomfortably, tugging at parts of her boots, and Do'azda shuffles a little, trying to adjust them before she has to wear them into the snow proper.

The boy swallows. "Won't they be blocked too?"

"Aye," The instructor calls over his shoulder, taking a tentative step onto the snow. "But not so badly, and they're easier to work around. When the Steps are blocked, they're outright impassable."

She imagines for a moment what would happen if she slips down even a single step. She'd fall for dozens, hundreds of steps, and at the end be too wounded to go on. Of all the ways for a Khajiit to die, falling is certainly one of the more humiliating and banal. She has a better sense of balance that she might have had, but she is no trained thief, whatever the Nords no doubt suspect.

"Once you've got your snowshoes, you'll need snowgoggles; those're hanging up by the back gate,'' the instructor gestures. Lengths of bone-white antler, carved to fit over the eyes with tiny slits through which to see, on bound leather straps. "Without these, you'll go blind, 'specially on a day like this."

The more the instructor talks, the more the others seem convinced, and when they set out the weather is, by the low standards of the mountain, pleasant enough.

The snow crunches gently underfoot as they walk, largely in silence. The wind howls around the mountain, blowing a misting of ice into their faces; Do'azda squints to keep sight of the instructor ahead as he navigates through snowbanks and between craggy outcroppings.

The first pass they come across is, in Do'azda's considered expert opinion, scarcely worthy to be called a pass. Narrow and terrifyingly steep, with the wind howling down it, her eyes flick nervously to the iron spike hammered deep into a rock near the top.

"Looks clear," the instructor says tersely, then pulls a tool out of his belt and goes to work on the spike, rocking it back and forth until, with a grunt, he pulls it free. "Can't keep the same piton in for more'n two winters, though. Ice gets into 'em, warps the iron."

He pulls a new spike from somewhere on his person, looks around for a moment for a new spot, then drives it home with a hammer.

"Onwards," he growls.

The next pass is shallower, at least, but the instructor makes a face.

"Snowdrifts around the top here - too soft to risk walking on until the next deep freeze." He glowers at the snow, as though the force of his gaze could drop the temperature. "Guess we can't check this one. I'll have to mark it blocked, then, damn it all."

"Ah," Do'azda says, slightly hesitant, "This one could perhaps assist? She can summon her familiar, a bird who can fly down the pass to check it out?"

He considers for a moment. "And this bird, it'll be able to see rockslides and the like?""

"He should," Do'azda says, "Rahjin is an intelligent bird, if I explain what he must do, I have no doubt he will do it."

Rahjin chirps his complaints as she summons him, ruffles his feathers as if to complain about the chill, but as she explains that everyone is relying on him for their mission, he puffs up with pride, as Do'azda knew he would.

It is not an easy place to fly, buffeted by winds in air cold and thin, but Rahjin swoops down the valley with a spirit's arrogance, and his eyes are Do'azda's.

"This one does not see any blockages," Do'azda says, "at least, not until it has reached Ivarstead's high meadow?"

The instructor hucks a glob of spittle onto a rock, then grunts his satisfaction. "Very good then. There's one more to check out, but this'n's further up the mount; we'll hafta cross ice. Other than her with the bird, you can head back if'n you'd rather?"

Only one other student stays with them as they continue, a young nord with a grim look of determination, who mutters "I can do anything that damnable cat can" so quietly Do'azda is sure she wasn't meant to hear it. The others, their noses going blue, working feeling back into their fingers, return to High Hrothgar with hardly a whisper of protest.

They're picking their way along the bed of a frozen river when the instructor turns to Do'azda, looking awkward.

"Could I-" he cuts himself off, "That bird of yours. Is the spell to call him, ah, sacred to your priesthood?"

"To summon a spirit of nature," Do'azda begins cautiously, "Is an act of dedication to Khenarthi, Elder Spirit of the Heavens and Great Hawk of the Wind. This one does not know if-"

"Ah, Kyne." The instructor says, "Widow of Shor, Lady of Storms and Sky. I know her, and she knows me by my devotion. If… if it would not be a bother, I should like to learn this skill. Having a flying beast at my side would be… useful, no?"

Does Do'azda teach her survival instructor how to summon and bind a spirit like Rahjin?

[ ] [Survival] Yes
[ ] [Survival] No

---

They have only just left the frozen river when the nord student lets out a cry of alarm.

"What in all the divines is that?"

There's a body on the mountainside, surrounded by glittering red diamonds of spilt blood. Fur that has been ripped open, then frozen in place, the flesh underneath turned black from exposure to the cold.

It's a mammoth, tusks carved with intricate runes and patterns and half devoured by some great beast.

The other student makes the mark of Kyne, his knuckles white over the haft of his axe. "W… what did this?"

The instructor sighs. "Damn. Another one."

Do'azda exchanges a glance with the other student, who forgets his disdain for her in the moment.

"Every few weeks," The instructor continues, "I'll find something like this. This'n is more problematic - poor beastie belonged to a giant's clan, they'll be spitting furious. Beats me how whatever's hunting them gets them so high up. Never seen it take a human, and the Greybeards ain't interested, so I let it be. Shouldn't like to tangle with a beastie that kin kill a mammoth in a giant's camp, neither."

Do'azda swallows dryly, struggling to tear her eyes from the corpse. There is a brutality to the violence, a confidence, that stinks of familiarity, though she doesn't know quite what is familiar.

The final pass down the mountain is, Do'azda can see even just from the top of the pass, the longest, and shallowest. It arcs around the mountain, headed south and east, away from Ivarstead.

"This one comes out on the Helgan-Ivarstead road," the instructor says, "S'pose it's less useful now than it was, but still. Send your bird to check it out?"

Rahjin flies down the pass with a sort of impatient grace - clearly showing off, Do'azda thinks fondly.

So it is something of a surprise when he comes screeching back after a bare few minutes, wings beating like a mad thing, and dives into Do'azda's arms, hard enough to knock her off balance, and then he's gone, returned to cower in her soul, as he so often does.

"What's got you so worked up?" She wonders aloud, glancing around to see any signs of anything.

Something unimaginably vast and unfathomable seems to, just for an instant, brush against her mind's eye. She sees only a shadow of a shadow, but it is enough to turn her stomach with fear and disgust. What is this aberration, this great monstrosity of domination and death?

"Is everything alright?" The instructor's eyes are creased with concern, and it takes Do'azda a moment to realize she has actually been sick. Vomit already steaming in the icy chill, and she wipes at her mouth, mortified.

"This one was taken by surprise," Do'azda manages, "But she should be well."

"Pass is pretty useless anyhow," The instructor says kindly, "Helgan being a burnt out ruin an' all. Best get back to High Hrothgar, afore you're sick again."

[+1 Survival]


Her spirit is still agitated when she returns to the monastery. It is as if he is back when he was young and flighty. She cannot release him at the moment, and so she feels him twitching in her soul, her vision shifting for moments at a time into that of a bird, better in some ways, worse in others. There are Shamans who invite their spirit animals into their souls at all times, transformed by that in ways that are hard to predict. But she just uses it as a sort of housing, except as he struggles, it bumps up against everything… well, this is what she would say if someone asked.

Nobody is asking, and it is in truth only a little bit like this description. The description of it all makes it seem largely physical, as if she's just being bumped around, but that's not at all what it feels like and she does not know how to describe it. Rahjin is nestled up into the pure representation of who she is. No wonder familiars become a little bit like their partners. Stories of dark shamans and their twisted familiars are common, after all.

Rahjin would have known that she has a Dragon Soul from the very moment that he settled in years and years and years ago. No wonder he was so antsy around her at first. Not that Rahjin would ever admit he is afraid of anything, not really. Even now, whatever he thinks he saw, he insists he was simply nervous, not afraid.

It is his way.

It is her way that she cannot simply leave everyone behind without at least checking in on them. So she decides that there's going to be one final study group. It hasn't been long, truly it hasn't, but then she's made and lost connections at a startling, headlong rate ever since she's come to Skyrim. She doesn't doubt that she'd eventually have to settle, and take ties and bind them together over a longer period of time than a week.

Carvain is scratching away at a leather bound journal, russet brown and gone soft with age, and they don't look up as Do'azda comes in, whilst Katroniah favours her with a blinding smile. Ingne, Do'azda can see, is busy, scurrying from one bookcase to another.

"She's nervous," Katroniah murmurs, "We heard a rumour, my dear, that you are leaving us? Carvain heard from one of their Nord friends, who heard from a boy in your survival class."

"Ah, yes. This one is required elsewhere. But, ah, she imagines our study group might continue?" Do'azda fidgets nervously.

"Well," Katroniah says, "Zenosephonia will be pleased to hear it. Pray, grant me the opportunity to tell her? She's been quite insufferable."

If the Dunmer is affected, she does not display it - her tone remains cool, and slightly arch.

"Of course," Do'azda manages, "Would you like to cover some more tales, for our last study session as a group?"

"Do'azda!" Ingne interrupts, "I didn't see you come in! We have so much to do for this last meet-up!"

"Did we have plans?" Katroniah says cautiously, "I rather thought this might be a less stressful sort of 'goodbye' meeting?"

"Oh," Ingne says, "Well yes, but I thought we might dedicate some time to planning what you- what we- What the group will do once Do'azda has departed?"

Carvain puts their journal down. "I thought we could switch to a longer form book? There's a treatise in Dragontongue on the rise of the Empire that goes into a great deal of detail, which would likely help with cementing our vocabulary and grammar?"

"How tedious," Katroniah says, "But I suppose it could be useful. How about you, Ingne?"

Ingne swallows, and Katroniah's lip curls into a slightly cruel grin. "Did you have a different plan, Ingne?"

"I-" Ingne pauses, looks away. "I wondered if I might accompany you, Dragonborn."

Do'azda is about to reply when Ingne continues. "It is only, I haven't been able to learn so fast here as I hoped, but I've learnt well with you. So if I leave to accompany you for some time, I will return more skilled, more capable, and they will have no choice but to take me seriously! I'm a fair shot with a bow, and a decent blade, and I can Shout - I wouldn't be dead weight!"

Does Do'azda let Ingne accompany her?

[ ] [INGNE] Yes
[ ] [INGNE] No

"At any rate," Do'azda says, "This one would like to bid you all farewell. You have been fine companions, even friends, whilst she has been here, and she is sorry to have to leave you so soon."


There is nothing that can be done but leave, now. Their things are packed, goodbyes have been said, her final lesson is at an end.

Bathes-In-Steel has spread a map out over the floor of their bedroom, and they stand next to each other in silence for a minute.

"Where do you want to go, Do'azda?"

Where does Do'azda go now?

[X] To Riften, at the biding of Noctra.
[-] To Ustengrav, as the Greybeards wish. This is too far into swamps Do'azda has never visited, and too "nordic" for her tastes at present.

In truth, Do'azda does not so much see a choice here. She could head elsewhere, far and further - to Winterhold, at Azurah's biding, or perhaps to Windhelm, chasing rumours of serial killers. But Windhelm is capital of the Stormcloak rebellion, and she is truly sick of Nords. And Azurah would have her aid Noctra first, she has communicated as much. So Do'azda shall be headed to Riften. So it is decided.

Quest Complete: The Way of the Voice (+100xp)

XP: 5/105->0/120, Level 7 Reached!

Whether the steps are truly easier on their way down, or whether Do'azda's lessons of survival have been more effective than she believed, they reach Ivarstead's high meadows just as the sun begins to set. There are more herdsmen here than there were on the way up, and the herds have been driven in closer. She supposes, with summer coming to its end, they shall need to drive the beasts down to their winter stables.

For tonight, however, it means they have warm fires and vittles to share. The herdsmen of Ivarstead are insular sorts, but they live lives so isolated, it seems a Khajiit and an Argonian are more of a novelty than subjects of scorn. It is acceptable.

Skills (Choose 3 to increase by +5 for each, cannot increase anything more than five points at a time this level, cannot raise anything higher than 50 (not that this is relevant now, but one of the key means of advancing skills isn't just leveling up, but learning… such as what might be done in a Thieves Guild or Wizard's College for relevant skills, among other things.)

Alchemy: 25
Alteration: 5
Archery: 5
Block: 5
Conjuration: 39
Destruction: 5
Enchanting: 5
Heavy Armor: 5
Illusion: 35
Light Armor: 20
Lock Picking: 1
One-Handed: 21
Pickpocket: 5
Restoration: 15
Smithing: 1
Sneak: 20
Speech: 27
Survival: 13
Two-Handed: 5


Perks (Choose 1)

The number in brackets is the requisite skill level to take the skill.

Soul Bind (30): Do'azda has mastered the skills needed to successfully and consistently bind a soul into a gem, a difficult and some would say questionable skill, but one in high demand to say the least. (Conjuration)

Powerful Conjuration (25): Do'azda knows how to summon creatures from further away from her, and how to better control their location and order them around. She is a Conjurer, and this is her art. (Conjuration)

Eye for Details (10): Illusions require a sharp eye that can take in the little details, and Do'azda has experience to help improve her ability to do just that, increasing the 'power' of her Illusion magic. (Illusion)

Mind-Teller (30): Do'azda is surprisingly good, or at least finds she has an aptitude for, spells involving affecting or influencing the minds of others. At this stage the greater potency is still relatively mild… but it presages greater power in the future. (Illusion)

Efficient Illusionist (20): She has grown and learned how to be more sparing with her magic, in order to allow her illusions to last longer and be less of a drain on her in the future. (Illusion)

Healer's Heart (10): Restoration is a sort of magic that takes real focus and the right mindset for the spells to work well: while Do'azda only knows how to make a healing potion, perhaps she can work into that mindset a little bit. (Restoration)

Armstrong (10): Do'azda's experiences with one-handed weapons have helped her to gain just a little bit of stamina, enough to be able to swing a sword, or axe, or indeed a shovel more regularly without exhausting herself… which means fighting better in general. (One Handed)

Hack And Slash (20): Do'azda's increasing reliable on axes has given her a greater understanding of some of the basic moves of axe-work and how to truly get in close to her enemies and use the axe to good effect. She's begun to work out how to deal with armor and shields in fighting. (One Handed)

Quiet Does It (10): With Catlike Tread, Do'azda is a little subtler and a little better at not being noticed. (Sneak)

Colored Market Gambit (20): Do'azda knows a little about the differences between black, grey, and up-front markets and knows how to pitch her sales and buying pitches for very different audiences. This can also be used to 'code switch' if need be. (Speech)

In a Pinch 1 (10): One of the key facts of Alchemy was that you had to have the right ingredients to do anything. Well, there were many formulas and the more skilled an Alchemist was, the more that they could make with a box of herbs in a cave. This is the first improvement to that capacity. (Alchemy)

Concentrate (10): There are all sorts of tricks to Alchemy, but one way to stretch things further and either make more or begin work towards making stronger potions is how to concentrate down potion ingredients down into something more potent. (Alchemy)

Tracking (10): The art of following a person or beast through the wilderness is not an easy one, but with a deeper understanding of Skyrim's wilds, Do'azda is much more capable of it. (Survival)

VM AN: Do'azda is, at last, done with High Hrothgar. Back on the road!

TL AN: She is not going to miss it… well, not most of it.