- Location
- Miami
Paralysis on a dragon is always funny, I look forward to J'Zargo finding out how this one tastes.
A Perfect Pounce (Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim SI/AU)
- Thread starter Chairtastic
- Start date
Ruminations
Chairtastic
Anything's a chair if you're brave enough
- Location
- Breakfast nook
- Pronouns
- He / Him / It
Codex: Foreword from Ruminations on Dovahzul
---
The foreword of the book 'Ruminations on Dovahzul', by Farri Gold-Tooth. Written by Ulfric Stormcloak.
--
This text is written by the hand of Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. Take its contents as the official policy of the Stormcloak Rebellion, Eastmarch Hold, and the throne of Ysgramor.
Dovahzul is the language of dragons, and by grace of the goddess Kyne we mortals may speak it. Through instruction by great Paarthurnax do we know these words, their meaning, and the way they affect the Mundus.
To speak in dovahzul is to change the world, yourself, and others. Deep mastery of the Voice, the ability to control this change, will rob you of your speech. Each word you learn will change you. Each use of the Voice will change the world – often in subtle ways, not easily noticed. But in time, you will grow mighty enough to cause havoc without the intention.
This is an inherently magical language. The words have weight, and power of their own. Even if you don't understand the word keenly enough to project it out onto the world, it changes you. A mage that knows the dovahzul word for 'fire' will have their flames become stronger. A blacksmith that knows the dovahzul word for 'steel' will find their skill at manipulating metal has grown greater.
To expand on the earlier examples, a mage who knows the dovahzul word for 'fire' will find they understand fire better. They will become more like flame – a greater temper, a more ravenous belly, their ability to control their breathing diminished. A blacksmith who knows the dovahzul word for 'steel' will become more like steel, strong from the mixing of multiple ingredients, reliable but unremarkable. Greatly weakened by lethargy, long periods of inactivity.
Dovahzul requires great mastery of the self in addition to mastery of the forces at play with the mystic language. Do not think you can stand atop the shoulders of giants and call yourself tall in this field of study – your mastery will be determined by your will alone. Nords have used and studied dovahzul for thousands of years, and slowly we have come to be like dragons. So too will it be for those who study this field vigorously.
Take great care you don't develop their more monstrous aspects.
Farri Gold-Tooth is khajiit, many will accuse him of lying in this book. I have read it in its entirety, there are no falsehoods. Farri Gold-Tooth has spoken with ancient Atmoran Tongues, and compiled their understanding as well as more modern perceptions.
By my writing of these words, I verify the contents of this book to be true.
May Talos, Shor-Reborn, watch over you as you read onward.
Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm.
---
Remember, Ulfric studied with the Greybeards and still keeps aspects of their teachings alive in his use of the thu'um.
---
The foreword of the book 'Ruminations on Dovahzul', by Farri Gold-Tooth. Written by Ulfric Stormcloak.
--
This text is written by the hand of Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. Take its contents as the official policy of the Stormcloak Rebellion, Eastmarch Hold, and the throne of Ysgramor.
Dovahzul is the language of dragons, and by grace of the goddess Kyne we mortals may speak it. Through instruction by great Paarthurnax do we know these words, their meaning, and the way they affect the Mundus.
To speak in dovahzul is to change the world, yourself, and others. Deep mastery of the Voice, the ability to control this change, will rob you of your speech. Each word you learn will change you. Each use of the Voice will change the world – often in subtle ways, not easily noticed. But in time, you will grow mighty enough to cause havoc without the intention.
This is an inherently magical language. The words have weight, and power of their own. Even if you don't understand the word keenly enough to project it out onto the world, it changes you. A mage that knows the dovahzul word for 'fire' will have their flames become stronger. A blacksmith that knows the dovahzul word for 'steel' will find their skill at manipulating metal has grown greater.
To expand on the earlier examples, a mage who knows the dovahzul word for 'fire' will find they understand fire better. They will become more like flame – a greater temper, a more ravenous belly, their ability to control their breathing diminished. A blacksmith who knows the dovahzul word for 'steel' will become more like steel, strong from the mixing of multiple ingredients, reliable but unremarkable. Greatly weakened by lethargy, long periods of inactivity.
Dovahzul requires great mastery of the self in addition to mastery of the forces at play with the mystic language. Do not think you can stand atop the shoulders of giants and call yourself tall in this field of study – your mastery will be determined by your will alone. Nords have used and studied dovahzul for thousands of years, and slowly we have come to be like dragons. So too will it be for those who study this field vigorously.
Take great care you don't develop their more monstrous aspects.
Farri Gold-Tooth is khajiit, many will accuse him of lying in this book. I have read it in its entirety, there are no falsehoods. Farri Gold-Tooth has spoken with ancient Atmoran Tongues, and compiled their understanding as well as more modern perceptions.
By my writing of these words, I verify the contents of this book to be true.
May Talos, Shor-Reborn, watch over you as you read onward.
Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm.
---
Remember, Ulfric studied with the Greybeards and still keeps aspects of their teachings alive in his use of the thu'um.
Ch 6
Chairtastic
Anything's a chair if you're brave enough
- Location
- Breakfast nook
- Pronouns
- He / Him / It
Chapter 6: Dragon Rising
---
Dragonsreach Palace
Kodlak Whitemane
In the palace of the jarl, he hadn't made much progress. Kodlak had gone up from the plains district, through to the winds district, up through the clouds district, and ascended to the peak of the inselberg on which Whiterun stood.
Dragonsreach was a spectacular stone and wooden palace. Thousands of years old, the stones formed the walls and foundations of the vitally important rooms. Dungeons, vaults, armories, and so on. The yellow-died wood sections were the more adaptable parts of the palace – where the jarl could express his or her preferences.
The throne room, their quarters, so on and so forth.
It was a good representation of nordic culture. Obstinate in some areas, flexible in others.
His age and position entitled him to a seat at one of the two banquet tables that flanked the bonfire in the midst of Dragonsreach's cavernous throne room. The entire town of Riverwood could fit in the Jarl's palace, such was its size.
Kodlak had to wait his turn to be heard by the jarl. There were others there for an audience, some scheduled months in advance. Things would be different if J'Zargo had been confirmed to be dragonborn already – but such things would need to be established.
There was wisdom in listening, however. Kodlak heard snippets of interesting things as he waited.
Falkreath Hold had fallen to the Stormcloaks. They'd gone through Haemar's Pass, taken Helgen before the dragon attack, and moved on to Falkreath city shortly thereafter. Siddgeir was deposed, Dengier restored to the throne. Jarl Balgruuf's brother wanted to send soldiers into the White River Valley to keep Riverwood from falling as well.
A representative from the Markarth Treasury House had come to admonish the jarl – as his loyalty to the Empire was uncertain, they had no intention to release the funds he had deposited with them. There was an argument, and the representative departed in a huff.
The ring J'Zargo had lent him – it worked. Kodlak could feel – himself. His joints ached less, his vision improved a little with every moment. More than once, he moved slightly and produced a cacophony of pops and cracks as old joints, old tears in his muscles, mended.
Each time, a guard or the jarl's housecarl came to him to ask if he was alright.
"Growing old is not for the faint of heart," he told them to avoid dishonesty.
When the time came for his audience, the jarl rose from his throne to approach him. Already a grand gesture.
Balgruuf was a shadow of the man he'd been when he came back from wandering the world to rule. Wine, the loss of multiple wives, and years on a storied chair had worn down his mighty bearing into softness. Kodlak could remember when Balgruuf had been barefaced, and mighty enough to have been a Companion of his own.
The Balgruuf that approached him was weaker, older. Grey had started to eat at his golden hair.
"Could I ask you to break bread with me, Harbinger?" Jarl Balgruuf asked, soft. Respectful.
"I would, if you permit me speak my piece afterward." Kodlak inclined his head. Though he was twice Balgruuf's age, he was not lord of the city or the Hold.
"For you, and the honor you bring my Hold, let us eat and talk business." Balgruuf led Kodlak to the great porch, the balcony where Dragonsreach earned its name.
A stone floor, wooden roofs and walls, the great porch was where High King Olaf had captured the dragon Numinex in the past. The dragon was the High King's prisoner until Tiber Septim allegedly granted the beast mercy.
Numinex's head was then made into a wall ornament in Dragonsreach's throne room.
Absent dragons to imprison, the great porch had been made into a banquet hall of sorts. Mostly, it was empty space and potted flowers. At the outermost edge was a well-laid banquet table, where the Jarl's family and important courtiers had their mid-day meal.
"What brings you to my hall, Harbinger?" Balgruuf was more patient, less gruff and dismissive than he'd been with prior supplicants. He poured Kodlak's wine and personally passed dishes to him for his meal.
Frankly, the jarl treated Kodlak like he was made of glass. It irked him a bit, but he remembered the worry his shield-siblings had when he departed. Perhaps the rot and the cataracts had diminished him in a way he couldn't see clearly.
"I seek your pardon to bring a khajiit into the city," Kodlak answered after appropriate thanks were given.
Balgruuf looked up from his wine, befuddled. "What."
Kodlak drank from his wine, so he could organize his thoughts and avoid being dishonest. "He is someone I hope to bring into the Companions – he has the proper making, a proper thirst for glory, and he's a mage." Kodlak sighed deep, and played up the part of being old – by moving his hand in such a way that his wrist and knuckles popped when he reached for food.
He paused in the motion, took a deep breath, and continued. To a younger man, it would seem he'd been in pain.
"I worry for the state of the Companions after I'm gone. I had accepted an elf, and an Imperial into our family in the hopes it would force my shield-siblings to broaden their horizons. I've been unsuccessful." He turned to Balgruuf as he took a slice of ham from the dish with a serving for. "I hoped, with your worldly perspective, you'd understand where I'm coming from?"
Balgruuf glanced over his shoulder, to his housecarl. The chief of his Hold's military, the jarl's personal bodyguard; the truest friend and ally. Irileth, a dunmer woman in her later middle-age as Balgruuf was.
"...I can," Balgruuf said, after a considerable pause. "But… a khajiit? You're sure he doesn't have any skooma on him? That he isn't part of the Thieves Guild?"
"He was recently a guest of the Empire, that much I know. He was at Neugrad when the dragon attacked. I don't know if anyone else has brought you news about -- "
Balgruuf held up his hand. "If he knows anything about the dragons, I want to speak with him. The Imperials are busy getting back to Solitude, and the Stormcloaks are in Falkreath. That leaves us basically no one who came north to talk about it." He couldn't hold back a snarl. "Even if he's khajiit…."
All seemed set to go well.
Then it went to shit.
An odd gust of wind, from the wrong direction for that time of year, accompanied by a trumpeting cry Kodlak hadn't heard before. He turned, and saw a blurry red shape in the air.
Then a gust of terrible cold swept across them.
Kodlak turned back, and he regretted the slight restoration of his eyes.
Jarl Balgruuf was coated in ice. As were those who had sat next to him, and across from him. A line of solid white ice had coated them, the table.
In seconds he stood and had his hammer out, ready to swing. If he could break the Jarl out swiftly enough – before he died for want of air – they could get him to a medic.
Alas.
--
En route to Western Watchtower
J'Zargo Dovahkiin
To project lightning from his hands in a rough stream was easy. Getting down from the tower, a bit tricky given the panic of humans caused many distractions. From there, he had to run – as fast as he could – in the direction the dragon had crashed.
West-south-west of Whiterun city, where a half-ruined stone tower stood. He'd seen it from atop the tower, and knew it would take hours to run – and that was if J'Zargo was athletic enough to run without breaks.
He wasn't.
J'Zargo ran, even though he knew he wasn't fast enough. He knew there wasn't enough time.
Time.
Before he'd had that dream of being eaten alive, he remembered a word in the dragon language. Time. Tiid.
"Tiid!" He spoke, with the same drive he used his wicked thu'um, and that which Farri had just taught him.
Immediately, everything turned grey. Save J'Zargo, that is. As if flash-frozen, butterflies and bees in flight stopped mid-air. The wind stopped, the clouds froze in place. J'Zargo's footsteps made no sound.
While he ran, he recalled the feeling of water over his fur – from his dream. The sensation soothed, like balm on a wound, until time began to flow again. Colors returned, objects resumed motions.
And J'Zargo Shouted again. "Tiid!"
So it went. Stop time, run, and keep at it. While time was stopped, the soothing sensation helped ease his exhaustion. Still, by the time he arrived at the tower his legs wanted to strangle him from working them so much.
Next to the terrifying majesty of the first dragon, the second seemed humble. Red scales, that became orange at the spine and then translucent blue across the belly. A back lined with deadly spikes. Wings like a bat's, with pink membranes that mottled near the edges. A tail with a mighty thagomizer at the end.
Arrows littered the creature's hide as it circled through the air, courtesy of Whiterun Guards in the tower presumably. It breathed a line of frost across the ground – and left solid sheets of ice with the guards inside.
As he watched, he saw Farri in the air – much faster at flight than the dragon. The dagi landed on one of the dragon's wings at the wrist and worked a spell. As if Farri was made of solid gold, the dragon's wing dipped low under terrible weight.
From atop the tower, that same nord woman who had rode atop Farri pelted arrows at the flying reptile.
J'Zargo knew the dragon was too high up for his lightning to reach. So he had to predict where it was going to go, then….
"Gaan… lah has!"
A disc of purple flame launched from his lips – right into the path of the creature. It was simple geometry, after all.
He felt the rush, of strength, endurance, information. Sweeter than moon sugar, it slipped down his throat into his belly. He saw through the dragon's eyes – a battle on a mountainside, a killing blow by a nord warrior in primitive armor, the return of sweet life by a black dragon's Voice.
"I am Shordeingro! Hear my Voice, and despair!"
The dragon's name was among the information he absorbed – as purple fire tormented the beast, and drove it into the ground.
J'Zargo rushed toward where the beast had crashed, and saw Farri thrown free of Shordeingro's wing as the beast rolled across the plain. As he drew close, he saw the membranes of Shordeingro's wings grow thin – the veins therein became more pronounced. The redness of his scales dulled, greyed. The points of his back spines split, and cracked.
He helped the dragon's suffering with two streams of lightning as the creature writhed. The streams left long paths of blackened scorch marks as J'Zargo moved around.
Shordeingro eventually rolled with his feet underneath him, and was able to stop his momentum with his claws. The once red dragon flapped his wings, rose off the ground by two meters and slammed back into it with sufficient force to shake the earth.
"Hin thu'um los mul, nuz dii thu'um los mulaan!" The dragon roared, still covered in purple flame, and faced J'Zargo. "Fus… ro dah!"
"Tiid!" J'Zargo Shouted back, his voice hoarse.
A strange confluence of forces was at play as the word for time took effect. J'Zargo saw a wave in the air emit from Shordeingro's toothed beak of a mouth. Unlike everything else, it wasn't frozen in time, merely slowed.
He ran as fast as he could to get out of the way, as the wave of magic tore stones from the earth, shattered ruined walls, and struck the base of the watchtower so forcefully the whole structure started to lean in the opposite direction.
A coughing fit struck J'Zargo, his throat aflame from so much Shouting. It caused the time stop effect from Tiid to cease abruptly.
Shordeingro noticed J'Zargo had dodged and crawled after him, his wings used like forelegs as he walked on his feet and wrists. "Nikriin joor…."
Whereupon an arrow pierced his beady eye on one side, and Farri flew in with a tiger-like roar to claw at the eye on the other.
The dragon, blinded and in terrible pain, thrashed about with J'Zargo forgotten.
J'Zargo, naturally, joined in with two fistfuls of lightning served to Shordeingro hot and fresh, right in his face and mouth.
The wounds inflicted prior to J'Zargo arriving combined with those inflicted since proved too much. Shordeingro went limp, his thagomizer tail dug into the earth, his wings collapsed under him.
Farri flew away, covered in dragon's blood, while the beast died.
"D-dovahkiin? Nid! Nid! Ni…." The dragon gasped his last, as his serpentine head fell to the ground. Once he was still, the beast's scales began to fall from his body like rain. The flesh underneath combusted as it touched the air, and the smoke moved against the wind to find its way to J'Zargo.
Information, strength, power filled J'Zargo's lungs as he breathed in the smoke. A lifetime's worth of information passed in front of his eyes so quickly he couldn't quite parse it. A million images held up for him to see – without any of the emotion behind it.
When all was done, the few surviving Whiterun guards looked on from the ruins, slackjawed.
"W-what just happened?" J'Zargo asked. He hadn't wanted to devour Shordeingro, why had his flesh burned away?
Farri floated down from the air. Shordeingro's blood flaked off him, turned to smoke, and floated toward J'Zargo. It even flaked off his teeth and tongue as he talked. "Dragons do not get an afterlife. Their souls remain bound to…." He licked the inside of his mouth, like some bad taste lingered there. "... to their corpses, until it is absorbed by another dragon that passes by. Or by a dragonb -- " Farri stopped abruptly as he wheezed. "Dragonborn. Oof, khajiit thinks he inhaled some blood."
One of the guards approached. "He's dragonborn?" He pointed at J'Zargo. "But he's a khajiit!"
"Idiot!" Another slapped the first in the back of the helmet. "It's the gods who decide who's dragonborn or not. You wanna tell them they made a mistake? Have them bring that dragon back to life and kill us too?"
"Khajiit… oof, khajiit can give J'Zargo and a messenger a ride back to Whiterun." Farri dropped from the air, and landed on the ground. As he did, a point of glowing light appeared next to him, from which warm wind and illuminated dust flowed like rushing water.
J'Zargo felt something in his chest, as he realized Farri also had portal magic. Something not seen since the Three Banners War. A burning, unpleasant feeling bloomed. A burning desire, teeth around an empty maw that yearned to be filled, gaps in his knowledge that begged to be rectified.
Envy.
He beat it back, with memories of how Farri had done the beckoning tail-flip. Farri was interested in him. There was no need for envy, when he could learn from the dagi.
Even driven back, the envy remained. Perhaps magnified by Shordeingro's soul, perhaps not. Without a word, he walked toward the portal, reached out to touch it – and vanished from the scene.
--
Whiterun
Tyn Sigdisdottir
The tundra planes of Whiterun were a distant sight in ages past, when Tyn was a girl at Bleakfalls. Warmer than their mountaintop, wide open and free. At the time, Tyn had thought it terrifying, to have no shelter from the wind or enemies.
A year on, when she so often got the chance to cross them, she found there were nooks, caves, overhangs – so small that they couldn't be seen from a mountaintop. It played into what Farri kept telling her – simplicity was an illusion. Things that appeared simple were afflicted with nuance, subtleties, or outside influence.
Such as why the main gate was unmanned and locked when they arrived via portal at Whiterun's door. Tyn had completely forgotten the main boulevard and interior of the gate had been hit by the dragon until Farri confirmed there was a mass of ice in front of the door.
Farri, the dovahkiin, and she climbed the walls to throw flames from their hands and Voice to melt the door free.
Whiterun city, with its yellow-roofed buildings, was in chaos. They were built on a lone mountain, an inselberg Farri told her it was called. Their walls were old and weaker than they had been in the past – but still strong. Whiterun was wooden, but it had multiple springs of water that fed the city.
In short, the people therein had not had to live with the possibility that their home, their lives, their families, were at risk. And the dragon had introduced that possibility to them in a way they weren't prepared for.
Tyn fought her old instincts which told her to crow about the power of the dragons, as it wasn't what Farri would call 'appropriate'. Nevermind she was correct, his thu'um had the mastery.
She used 'yol' to clear sections of ice and a flame-enchanted dagger when she needed to be precise. Soon, they got the gate cleared enough to open, and the messenger from the watchtower could be brought through.
While the news spread, and J'Zargo was rightfully named dovahkiin, Tyn kept her eyes on him – not the crowd. She was sworn to guard Farri, who had been good to her and her folk. And Farri wanted to take the dovahkiin into his life, to court and woo the newly minted hero.
She would observe him, take his measure, and advise her lord when her opinion was asked.
J'Zargo's eyes glanced at Farri frequently, until people started to ask about the killing of the dragon. It was only when he became the center of attention that the taller cat stopped checking the shorter one so often.
She didn't know khajiit norms, but she did know those weren't romantic or lustful glances J'Zargo had made. Tyn held her tongue until asked for her opinion, however.
"Let's get out of here before we steal his spotlight," Farri told her once the door was totally clear. He created a portal for them to walk into, and depart Whiterun quickly.
"Spotlight?" Tyn asked as they moved from the windy plains of Whiterun to the darkened halls of Gullantani – underground palace of clan Gold-Tooth.
Once the upper floors of a mine on Solstheim, Gullintani was a series of concentric rings to suites, halls, passages, and doors to the tunnel network; all connected by bridges across the empty space at the core. Starry iconography was put into the walls and roof, the stone had been changed to reflect the hues of the night sky.
Farri walked across the bridge from where they had emerged to the grand suite he'd made for himself. "It's a stage acting term. The spotlight is when light is cast on the most important character in a scene, so the audience will focus on them."
Tyn unstrung her bow once they were within Farri's chambers and the door was closed. Her quiver and the weapon were laid on a rack by the door, while she kept the string with her. "I don't think he is as you hoped." Tyn's words chased after Farri as he vanished behind silken curtains around his bed and wardrobe.
"Khajiit only knows bits and pieces of J'Zargo. He is arrogant, he is eager to chase power and prestige, and he isn't a coward." Farri emerged from the curtain in his home robes – silk designed after twilight, red on one sleeve that shifted to purple between the shoulders, and star-marked black at the other. The dagi rubbed his throat with a deep frown. "Eugh. Feels like acid reflux."
Tyn rolled her eyes as she moved to the conjoined suite set aside for her – per her specifications, much more humble. Her home clothes were more in-line with modern nord sensibilities. A tunic, trousers, and belt she would feel comfortable working in. "Arrogant and chases power? That's… a good thing?"
"He's dovahkiin, is sign of mental health." When Tyn emerged, Farri had gone to his desk to start grading papers, and testing potions sealed with wax over their corks. Even in effective banishment from the College, he was the alchemy expert – though he was rarely allowed to lecture or assign course work. "Khajiit could see much of… Tiber Septim in J'Zargo when we spoke." Acid reflux forgotten, Farri had a dopey smile on his face.
Eugh.
"That's definitely not a good thing," Tyn sat down opposite Farri, one elbow on his desk while she fished around for a bottle of booze with the other. Farri's kinsmen always kept his chamber stocked with mead and sujamma. She found an urn of the dunmer alcohol and popped the topper off. "Everything I've read about Tiber Septim, paired with what you tell me about the man tells me he was a honorless whoreson."
Farri's smile started to fade. "At the end, yes. But… when things began -- "
"He was still an honorless whoreson, you just didn't know at the time." Tyn cut the cat off with a slash of her hand through the air. "As someone who was raised by honorless whoresons? I know a thing or two about them." The two pieces of her grandfather's amulet they had found in their travels rattled under her shirt, a reminder. "And if honorless whoresons are what you fancy – Dulini has been chasing after you for a year."
The cat's ears flicked back. For a moment, he looked ready to snap at her. Then Farri took a deep breath and went back to grading papers. "Khajiit supposes… Kodlak and Companions will teach J'Zargo honor, at least. Will check in, see how he is. Glad we got out of there before Greybeards -- "
"Dov – ah – kiin!" Came a echoing voice that rattled the earth and almost made Tyn drop her booze.
"… did that. Would have been much worse so close to High Hrothgar."
---
Shordeingro – Shor Keep Bound. I'll let you pick at that for meaning. He was one of the skeletons left on the Throat of the World after the dragon war.
Hin thu'um los mul, nuz dii thu'um los mulaan - Your thu'um is strong, but my thu'um is stronger.
Nikriin joor - Cowardly mortal.
RIP Jarl Balgruuf. May you be BALLIN' (swag) in Sovngarde.
---
Dragonsreach Palace
Kodlak Whitemane
In the palace of the jarl, he hadn't made much progress. Kodlak had gone up from the plains district, through to the winds district, up through the clouds district, and ascended to the peak of the inselberg on which Whiterun stood.
Dragonsreach was a spectacular stone and wooden palace. Thousands of years old, the stones formed the walls and foundations of the vitally important rooms. Dungeons, vaults, armories, and so on. The yellow-died wood sections were the more adaptable parts of the palace – where the jarl could express his or her preferences.
The throne room, their quarters, so on and so forth.
It was a good representation of nordic culture. Obstinate in some areas, flexible in others.
His age and position entitled him to a seat at one of the two banquet tables that flanked the bonfire in the midst of Dragonsreach's cavernous throne room. The entire town of Riverwood could fit in the Jarl's palace, such was its size.
Kodlak had to wait his turn to be heard by the jarl. There were others there for an audience, some scheduled months in advance. Things would be different if J'Zargo had been confirmed to be dragonborn already – but such things would need to be established.
There was wisdom in listening, however. Kodlak heard snippets of interesting things as he waited.
Falkreath Hold had fallen to the Stormcloaks. They'd gone through Haemar's Pass, taken Helgen before the dragon attack, and moved on to Falkreath city shortly thereafter. Siddgeir was deposed, Dengier restored to the throne. Jarl Balgruuf's brother wanted to send soldiers into the White River Valley to keep Riverwood from falling as well.
A representative from the Markarth Treasury House had come to admonish the jarl – as his loyalty to the Empire was uncertain, they had no intention to release the funds he had deposited with them. There was an argument, and the representative departed in a huff.
The ring J'Zargo had lent him – it worked. Kodlak could feel – himself. His joints ached less, his vision improved a little with every moment. More than once, he moved slightly and produced a cacophony of pops and cracks as old joints, old tears in his muscles, mended.
Each time, a guard or the jarl's housecarl came to him to ask if he was alright.
"Growing old is not for the faint of heart," he told them to avoid dishonesty.
When the time came for his audience, the jarl rose from his throne to approach him. Already a grand gesture.
Balgruuf was a shadow of the man he'd been when he came back from wandering the world to rule. Wine, the loss of multiple wives, and years on a storied chair had worn down his mighty bearing into softness. Kodlak could remember when Balgruuf had been barefaced, and mighty enough to have been a Companion of his own.
The Balgruuf that approached him was weaker, older. Grey had started to eat at his golden hair.
"Could I ask you to break bread with me, Harbinger?" Jarl Balgruuf asked, soft. Respectful.
"I would, if you permit me speak my piece afterward." Kodlak inclined his head. Though he was twice Balgruuf's age, he was not lord of the city or the Hold.
"For you, and the honor you bring my Hold, let us eat and talk business." Balgruuf led Kodlak to the great porch, the balcony where Dragonsreach earned its name.
A stone floor, wooden roofs and walls, the great porch was where High King Olaf had captured the dragon Numinex in the past. The dragon was the High King's prisoner until Tiber Septim allegedly granted the beast mercy.
Numinex's head was then made into a wall ornament in Dragonsreach's throne room.
Absent dragons to imprison, the great porch had been made into a banquet hall of sorts. Mostly, it was empty space and potted flowers. At the outermost edge was a well-laid banquet table, where the Jarl's family and important courtiers had their mid-day meal.
"What brings you to my hall, Harbinger?" Balgruuf was more patient, less gruff and dismissive than he'd been with prior supplicants. He poured Kodlak's wine and personally passed dishes to him for his meal.
Frankly, the jarl treated Kodlak like he was made of glass. It irked him a bit, but he remembered the worry his shield-siblings had when he departed. Perhaps the rot and the cataracts had diminished him in a way he couldn't see clearly.
"I seek your pardon to bring a khajiit into the city," Kodlak answered after appropriate thanks were given.
Balgruuf looked up from his wine, befuddled. "What."
Kodlak drank from his wine, so he could organize his thoughts and avoid being dishonest. "He is someone I hope to bring into the Companions – he has the proper making, a proper thirst for glory, and he's a mage." Kodlak sighed deep, and played up the part of being old – by moving his hand in such a way that his wrist and knuckles popped when he reached for food.
He paused in the motion, took a deep breath, and continued. To a younger man, it would seem he'd been in pain.
"I worry for the state of the Companions after I'm gone. I had accepted an elf, and an Imperial into our family in the hopes it would force my shield-siblings to broaden their horizons. I've been unsuccessful." He turned to Balgruuf as he took a slice of ham from the dish with a serving for. "I hoped, with your worldly perspective, you'd understand where I'm coming from?"
Balgruuf glanced over his shoulder, to his housecarl. The chief of his Hold's military, the jarl's personal bodyguard; the truest friend and ally. Irileth, a dunmer woman in her later middle-age as Balgruuf was.
"...I can," Balgruuf said, after a considerable pause. "But… a khajiit? You're sure he doesn't have any skooma on him? That he isn't part of the Thieves Guild?"
"He was recently a guest of the Empire, that much I know. He was at Neugrad when the dragon attacked. I don't know if anyone else has brought you news about -- "
Balgruuf held up his hand. "If he knows anything about the dragons, I want to speak with him. The Imperials are busy getting back to Solitude, and the Stormcloaks are in Falkreath. That leaves us basically no one who came north to talk about it." He couldn't hold back a snarl. "Even if he's khajiit…."
All seemed set to go well.
Then it went to shit.
An odd gust of wind, from the wrong direction for that time of year, accompanied by a trumpeting cry Kodlak hadn't heard before. He turned, and saw a blurry red shape in the air.
Then a gust of terrible cold swept across them.
Kodlak turned back, and he regretted the slight restoration of his eyes.
Jarl Balgruuf was coated in ice. As were those who had sat next to him, and across from him. A line of solid white ice had coated them, the table.
In seconds he stood and had his hammer out, ready to swing. If he could break the Jarl out swiftly enough – before he died for want of air – they could get him to a medic.
Alas.
--
En route to Western Watchtower
J'Zargo Dovahkiin
To project lightning from his hands in a rough stream was easy. Getting down from the tower, a bit tricky given the panic of humans caused many distractions. From there, he had to run – as fast as he could – in the direction the dragon had crashed.
West-south-west of Whiterun city, where a half-ruined stone tower stood. He'd seen it from atop the tower, and knew it would take hours to run – and that was if J'Zargo was athletic enough to run without breaks.
He wasn't.
J'Zargo ran, even though he knew he wasn't fast enough. He knew there wasn't enough time.
Time.
Before he'd had that dream of being eaten alive, he remembered a word in the dragon language. Time. Tiid.
"Tiid!" He spoke, with the same drive he used his wicked thu'um, and that which Farri had just taught him.
Immediately, everything turned grey. Save J'Zargo, that is. As if flash-frozen, butterflies and bees in flight stopped mid-air. The wind stopped, the clouds froze in place. J'Zargo's footsteps made no sound.
While he ran, he recalled the feeling of water over his fur – from his dream. The sensation soothed, like balm on a wound, until time began to flow again. Colors returned, objects resumed motions.
And J'Zargo Shouted again. "Tiid!"
So it went. Stop time, run, and keep at it. While time was stopped, the soothing sensation helped ease his exhaustion. Still, by the time he arrived at the tower his legs wanted to strangle him from working them so much.
Next to the terrifying majesty of the first dragon, the second seemed humble. Red scales, that became orange at the spine and then translucent blue across the belly. A back lined with deadly spikes. Wings like a bat's, with pink membranes that mottled near the edges. A tail with a mighty thagomizer at the end.
Arrows littered the creature's hide as it circled through the air, courtesy of Whiterun Guards in the tower presumably. It breathed a line of frost across the ground – and left solid sheets of ice with the guards inside.
As he watched, he saw Farri in the air – much faster at flight than the dragon. The dagi landed on one of the dragon's wings at the wrist and worked a spell. As if Farri was made of solid gold, the dragon's wing dipped low under terrible weight.
From atop the tower, that same nord woman who had rode atop Farri pelted arrows at the flying reptile.
J'Zargo knew the dragon was too high up for his lightning to reach. So he had to predict where it was going to go, then….
"Gaan… lah has!"
A disc of purple flame launched from his lips – right into the path of the creature. It was simple geometry, after all.
He felt the rush, of strength, endurance, information. Sweeter than moon sugar, it slipped down his throat into his belly. He saw through the dragon's eyes – a battle on a mountainside, a killing blow by a nord warrior in primitive armor, the return of sweet life by a black dragon's Voice.
"I am Shordeingro! Hear my Voice, and despair!"
The dragon's name was among the information he absorbed – as purple fire tormented the beast, and drove it into the ground.
J'Zargo rushed toward where the beast had crashed, and saw Farri thrown free of Shordeingro's wing as the beast rolled across the plain. As he drew close, he saw the membranes of Shordeingro's wings grow thin – the veins therein became more pronounced. The redness of his scales dulled, greyed. The points of his back spines split, and cracked.
He helped the dragon's suffering with two streams of lightning as the creature writhed. The streams left long paths of blackened scorch marks as J'Zargo moved around.
Shordeingro eventually rolled with his feet underneath him, and was able to stop his momentum with his claws. The once red dragon flapped his wings, rose off the ground by two meters and slammed back into it with sufficient force to shake the earth.
"Hin thu'um los mul, nuz dii thu'um los mulaan!" The dragon roared, still covered in purple flame, and faced J'Zargo. "Fus… ro dah!"
"Tiid!" J'Zargo Shouted back, his voice hoarse.
A strange confluence of forces was at play as the word for time took effect. J'Zargo saw a wave in the air emit from Shordeingro's toothed beak of a mouth. Unlike everything else, it wasn't frozen in time, merely slowed.
He ran as fast as he could to get out of the way, as the wave of magic tore stones from the earth, shattered ruined walls, and struck the base of the watchtower so forcefully the whole structure started to lean in the opposite direction.
A coughing fit struck J'Zargo, his throat aflame from so much Shouting. It caused the time stop effect from Tiid to cease abruptly.
Shordeingro noticed J'Zargo had dodged and crawled after him, his wings used like forelegs as he walked on his feet and wrists. "Nikriin joor…."
Whereupon an arrow pierced his beady eye on one side, and Farri flew in with a tiger-like roar to claw at the eye on the other.
The dragon, blinded and in terrible pain, thrashed about with J'Zargo forgotten.
J'Zargo, naturally, joined in with two fistfuls of lightning served to Shordeingro hot and fresh, right in his face and mouth.
The wounds inflicted prior to J'Zargo arriving combined with those inflicted since proved too much. Shordeingro went limp, his thagomizer tail dug into the earth, his wings collapsed under him.
Farri flew away, covered in dragon's blood, while the beast died.
"D-dovahkiin? Nid! Nid! Ni…." The dragon gasped his last, as his serpentine head fell to the ground. Once he was still, the beast's scales began to fall from his body like rain. The flesh underneath combusted as it touched the air, and the smoke moved against the wind to find its way to J'Zargo.
Information, strength, power filled J'Zargo's lungs as he breathed in the smoke. A lifetime's worth of information passed in front of his eyes so quickly he couldn't quite parse it. A million images held up for him to see – without any of the emotion behind it.
When all was done, the few surviving Whiterun guards looked on from the ruins, slackjawed.
"W-what just happened?" J'Zargo asked. He hadn't wanted to devour Shordeingro, why had his flesh burned away?
Farri floated down from the air. Shordeingro's blood flaked off him, turned to smoke, and floated toward J'Zargo. It even flaked off his teeth and tongue as he talked. "Dragons do not get an afterlife. Their souls remain bound to…." He licked the inside of his mouth, like some bad taste lingered there. "... to their corpses, until it is absorbed by another dragon that passes by. Or by a dragonb -- " Farri stopped abruptly as he wheezed. "Dragonborn. Oof, khajiit thinks he inhaled some blood."
One of the guards approached. "He's dragonborn?" He pointed at J'Zargo. "But he's a khajiit!"
"Idiot!" Another slapped the first in the back of the helmet. "It's the gods who decide who's dragonborn or not. You wanna tell them they made a mistake? Have them bring that dragon back to life and kill us too?"
"Khajiit… oof, khajiit can give J'Zargo and a messenger a ride back to Whiterun." Farri dropped from the air, and landed on the ground. As he did, a point of glowing light appeared next to him, from which warm wind and illuminated dust flowed like rushing water.
J'Zargo felt something in his chest, as he realized Farri also had portal magic. Something not seen since the Three Banners War. A burning, unpleasant feeling bloomed. A burning desire, teeth around an empty maw that yearned to be filled, gaps in his knowledge that begged to be rectified.
Envy.
He beat it back, with memories of how Farri had done the beckoning tail-flip. Farri was interested in him. There was no need for envy, when he could learn from the dagi.
Even driven back, the envy remained. Perhaps magnified by Shordeingro's soul, perhaps not. Without a word, he walked toward the portal, reached out to touch it – and vanished from the scene.
--
Whiterun
Tyn Sigdisdottir
The tundra planes of Whiterun were a distant sight in ages past, when Tyn was a girl at Bleakfalls. Warmer than their mountaintop, wide open and free. At the time, Tyn had thought it terrifying, to have no shelter from the wind or enemies.
A year on, when she so often got the chance to cross them, she found there were nooks, caves, overhangs – so small that they couldn't be seen from a mountaintop. It played into what Farri kept telling her – simplicity was an illusion. Things that appeared simple were afflicted with nuance, subtleties, or outside influence.
Such as why the main gate was unmanned and locked when they arrived via portal at Whiterun's door. Tyn had completely forgotten the main boulevard and interior of the gate had been hit by the dragon until Farri confirmed there was a mass of ice in front of the door.
Farri, the dovahkiin, and she climbed the walls to throw flames from their hands and Voice to melt the door free.
Whiterun city, with its yellow-roofed buildings, was in chaos. They were built on a lone mountain, an inselberg Farri told her it was called. Their walls were old and weaker than they had been in the past – but still strong. Whiterun was wooden, but it had multiple springs of water that fed the city.
In short, the people therein had not had to live with the possibility that their home, their lives, their families, were at risk. And the dragon had introduced that possibility to them in a way they weren't prepared for.
Tyn fought her old instincts which told her to crow about the power of the dragons, as it wasn't what Farri would call 'appropriate'. Nevermind she was correct, his thu'um had the mastery.
She used 'yol' to clear sections of ice and a flame-enchanted dagger when she needed to be precise. Soon, they got the gate cleared enough to open, and the messenger from the watchtower could be brought through.
While the news spread, and J'Zargo was rightfully named dovahkiin, Tyn kept her eyes on him – not the crowd. She was sworn to guard Farri, who had been good to her and her folk. And Farri wanted to take the dovahkiin into his life, to court and woo the newly minted hero.
She would observe him, take his measure, and advise her lord when her opinion was asked.
J'Zargo's eyes glanced at Farri frequently, until people started to ask about the killing of the dragon. It was only when he became the center of attention that the taller cat stopped checking the shorter one so often.
She didn't know khajiit norms, but she did know those weren't romantic or lustful glances J'Zargo had made. Tyn held her tongue until asked for her opinion, however.
"Let's get out of here before we steal his spotlight," Farri told her once the door was totally clear. He created a portal for them to walk into, and depart Whiterun quickly.
"Spotlight?" Tyn asked as they moved from the windy plains of Whiterun to the darkened halls of Gullantani – underground palace of clan Gold-Tooth.
Once the upper floors of a mine on Solstheim, Gullintani was a series of concentric rings to suites, halls, passages, and doors to the tunnel network; all connected by bridges across the empty space at the core. Starry iconography was put into the walls and roof, the stone had been changed to reflect the hues of the night sky.
Farri walked across the bridge from where they had emerged to the grand suite he'd made for himself. "It's a stage acting term. The spotlight is when light is cast on the most important character in a scene, so the audience will focus on them."
Tyn unstrung her bow once they were within Farri's chambers and the door was closed. Her quiver and the weapon were laid on a rack by the door, while she kept the string with her. "I don't think he is as you hoped." Tyn's words chased after Farri as he vanished behind silken curtains around his bed and wardrobe.
"Khajiit only knows bits and pieces of J'Zargo. He is arrogant, he is eager to chase power and prestige, and he isn't a coward." Farri emerged from the curtain in his home robes – silk designed after twilight, red on one sleeve that shifted to purple between the shoulders, and star-marked black at the other. The dagi rubbed his throat with a deep frown. "Eugh. Feels like acid reflux."
Tyn rolled her eyes as she moved to the conjoined suite set aside for her – per her specifications, much more humble. Her home clothes were more in-line with modern nord sensibilities. A tunic, trousers, and belt she would feel comfortable working in. "Arrogant and chases power? That's… a good thing?"
"He's dovahkiin, is sign of mental health." When Tyn emerged, Farri had gone to his desk to start grading papers, and testing potions sealed with wax over their corks. Even in effective banishment from the College, he was the alchemy expert – though he was rarely allowed to lecture or assign course work. "Khajiit could see much of… Tiber Septim in J'Zargo when we spoke." Acid reflux forgotten, Farri had a dopey smile on his face.
Eugh.
"That's definitely not a good thing," Tyn sat down opposite Farri, one elbow on his desk while she fished around for a bottle of booze with the other. Farri's kinsmen always kept his chamber stocked with mead and sujamma. She found an urn of the dunmer alcohol and popped the topper off. "Everything I've read about Tiber Septim, paired with what you tell me about the man tells me he was a honorless whoreson."
Farri's smile started to fade. "At the end, yes. But… when things began -- "
"He was still an honorless whoreson, you just didn't know at the time." Tyn cut the cat off with a slash of her hand through the air. "As someone who was raised by honorless whoresons? I know a thing or two about them." The two pieces of her grandfather's amulet they had found in their travels rattled under her shirt, a reminder. "And if honorless whoresons are what you fancy – Dulini has been chasing after you for a year."
The cat's ears flicked back. For a moment, he looked ready to snap at her. Then Farri took a deep breath and went back to grading papers. "Khajiit supposes… Kodlak and Companions will teach J'Zargo honor, at least. Will check in, see how he is. Glad we got out of there before Greybeards -- "
"Dov – ah – kiin!" Came a echoing voice that rattled the earth and almost made Tyn drop her booze.
"… did that. Would have been much worse so close to High Hrothgar."
---
Shordeingro – Shor Keep Bound. I'll let you pick at that for meaning. He was one of the skeletons left on the Throat of the World after the dragon war.
Hin thu'um los mul, nuz dii thu'um los mulaan - Your thu'um is strong, but my thu'um is stronger.
Nikriin joor - Cowardly mortal.
RIP Jarl Balgruuf. May you be BALLIN' (swag) in Sovngarde.
Well shit, Balgruuf is dead. I guess there's no doing the typical Skyrim thing and ignoring the civil war until the overpowered late-game here, huh?
At least temporarily I expect his brother could take over, but he's going to make it clear that he doesn't want to stay in charge. Whether he'll fight to have one of Balgruuf's children (or which one if so), I'm not clear on. Either way, both sides have an opening to influence one of the top three most important holds (Solitude is the traditional kings hold, Windhelm is the oldest city and budding heart of progressive traditionalism, but Whiterun is the heart of Skyrim.) They can't afford to not try to play power games here just in case the other side does. So overall, this will definitely be messy, even if Farri decides to mostly stay clear and pull J'Zargo out to go on his relatively more important Hero's Journey.
I do hope he remembered to take out and properly seal that shitty Daedric katana/long-sword. Power games, proxy arguments, feuding Clans, and possible street-fighting are bad enough. A Daedric artifact egging on all sides for more murder and betrayal really wouldn't help.
At least temporarily I expect his brother could take over, but he's going to make it clear that he doesn't want to stay in charge. Whether he'll fight to have one of Balgruuf's children (or which one if so), I'm not clear on. Either way, both sides have an opening to influence one of the top three most important holds (Solitude is the traditional kings hold, Windhelm is the oldest city and budding heart of progressive traditionalism, but Whiterun is the heart of Skyrim.) They can't afford to not try to play power games here just in case the other side does. So overall, this will definitely be messy, even if Farri decides to mostly stay clear and pull J'Zargo out to go on his relatively more important Hero's Journey.
I do hope he remembered to take out and properly seal that shitty Daedric katana/long-sword. Power games, proxy arguments, feuding Clans, and possible street-fighting are bad enough. A Daedric artifact egging on all sides for more murder and betrayal really wouldn't help.
Chairtastic
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Not really feasible here, nope. The plan for this story is to focus on Alduin and Harkon, then deal with Miraak and the Falmer in a yet unwritten third fic. Get a trilogy set up, yeah?
He's a warmonger, so don't count him out. According to dummied out Skyrim content, he was going to be a tyrannical jarl similar to Skald.
For those of you who don't remember how I portrayed Skald the Elder, check out chapter fifteen of Clever Craft.
All I can say is I'm dusting off headcanons from my very first playthrough of Skyrim pursuant to this.
Way back in 2014.The Ebony Blade is currently enjoying the very fine company of the Morag Tong in Ashfallow Citadel, yep.
Codex: Farri's Journal #2
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Codex: Farri's Journal vol. 2 Entry 2
---
So at some point, the priests all started trying to chart out what star I am. Since they still think I'm a Magna Ge/Magni. For all I know, I am and I just don't have access to those memories because I'm not nearly dying enough to get those lifetimes.
They've settled on who they think I am, up there. Xero-Lyg, out of the Serpent. Not a lot of information about her survived into the modern era, but from the looks of things she's one of the nine Magni who were powerful enough to become Daedric Prince-level strong.
Granted one of them is Sotha Sil's daughter who he rewrote history to create.
Pa is quite interested in the possibility that I'm the physical manifestation of some heavenly being. Apparently, he knows a bit about that but won't say how. Starting to wonder things about his relationship to Sangiin, given that.
They're trying to slip a lot more black into my wardrobe because that was Xero-Lyg's color. One time I came home to find they'd swapped the upholstery in my desk chair with black. Had to remind them – no one's allowed in my room when I'm not there.
Xero-Lyg is associated with the element of Flesh. Which has… possibilities. I could use that to help out Azura as she makes her transition.
Now that I've got those papers graded – so glad the apprentices are able to adapt to this weirdo situation – I'm trying to get Ulfric to select a new housecarl. The rebellion could stand with another person in leadership now that Galmar's gone, but he needs a housecarl more. The jarl's housecarl is also commander of the city guards typically, except Whiterun, and Windhelm is weaker while the post is left vacant.
Oh right. I wasn't writing journals when that happened. I wasn't even on Solstheim when it happened, I was at the College teaching the apprentices which types of drinks are safe to butt-chug. Ulfric and the other Stormcloak jarls were on Solstheim before the incident with Torygg, getting fitted for some stalhrim gear as a gift from me and Pa to them. Stuff for them and their courts to pass down as heirlooms, since the enchanted ice is so important to nords.
Well, at some point the Thalmor had docked a ship at the Northshore settlement, and were trying to steal those two caskets of stalhrim Dukaan's people had extracted from the iceberg off shore. Galmar objected to this, as did many others.
A fight broke out, and someone zapped Galmar with enough lightning magic to turn him into a pile of ash. It's been almost three quarters of a year, but Ulfric still doesn't want to talk about it, and Pa won't share the details he knows out of respect for Ulfric.
Since he's ashes, I can't slen tiid vo him back to life. I don't think he'd want that, even if I could. He's in Shor's hall now, I have no doubt he's strong enough to turn Tsun into a pretzel.
Once I started helping Azura adjust to being drawn into Nirn, new types of aetherial glass started falling. Been a long time since I saw skyshards land, these ones weren't white though. They're red, like the crimson shards of Moonshadow I used to have all over my house as Zurin.
...Wonder if it's still there. Shalidor's long gone, so he can't have passed the realm on to anyone else. Might need to go raid my own tomb, and get the keys to Zurin's house. The fake rock I left the spare in is probably at the bottom of Hjaalmarch's bog by now.
It's getting late, and I need to flay Ahzidal tomorrow. Best get some sleep.
Ciao.
---
---
So at some point, the priests all started trying to chart out what star I am. Since they still think I'm a Magna Ge/Magni. For all I know, I am and I just don't have access to those memories because I'm not nearly dying enough to get those lifetimes.
They've settled on who they think I am, up there. Xero-Lyg, out of the Serpent. Not a lot of information about her survived into the modern era, but from the looks of things she's one of the nine Magni who were powerful enough to become Daedric Prince-level strong.
Granted one of them is Sotha Sil's daughter who he rewrote history to create.
Pa is quite interested in the possibility that I'm the physical manifestation of some heavenly being. Apparently, he knows a bit about that but won't say how. Starting to wonder things about his relationship to Sangiin, given that.
They're trying to slip a lot more black into my wardrobe because that was Xero-Lyg's color. One time I came home to find they'd swapped the upholstery in my desk chair with black. Had to remind them – no one's allowed in my room when I'm not there.
Xero-Lyg is associated with the element of Flesh. Which has… possibilities. I could use that to help out Azura as she makes her transition.
Now that I've got those papers graded – so glad the apprentices are able to adapt to this weirdo situation – I'm trying to get Ulfric to select a new housecarl. The rebellion could stand with another person in leadership now that Galmar's gone, but he needs a housecarl more. The jarl's housecarl is also commander of the city guards typically, except Whiterun, and Windhelm is weaker while the post is left vacant.
Oh right. I wasn't writing journals when that happened. I wasn't even on Solstheim when it happened, I was at the College teaching the apprentices which types of drinks are safe to butt-chug. Ulfric and the other Stormcloak jarls were on Solstheim before the incident with Torygg, getting fitted for some stalhrim gear as a gift from me and Pa to them. Stuff for them and their courts to pass down as heirlooms, since the enchanted ice is so important to nords.
Well, at some point the Thalmor had docked a ship at the Northshore settlement, and were trying to steal those two caskets of stalhrim Dukaan's people had extracted from the iceberg off shore. Galmar objected to this, as did many others.
A fight broke out, and someone zapped Galmar with enough lightning magic to turn him into a pile of ash. It's been almost three quarters of a year, but Ulfric still doesn't want to talk about it, and Pa won't share the details he knows out of respect for Ulfric.
Since he's ashes, I can't slen tiid vo him back to life. I don't think he'd want that, even if I could. He's in Shor's hall now, I have no doubt he's strong enough to turn Tsun into a pretzel.
Once I started helping Azura adjust to being drawn into Nirn, new types of aetherial glass started falling. Been a long time since I saw skyshards land, these ones weren't white though. They're red, like the crimson shards of Moonshadow I used to have all over my house as Zurin.
...Wonder if it's still there. Shalidor's long gone, so he can't have passed the realm on to anyone else. Might need to go raid my own tomb, and get the keys to Zurin's house. The fake rock I left the spare in is probably at the bottom of Hjaalmarch's bog by now.
It's getting late, and I need to flay Ahzidal tomorrow. Best get some sleep.
Ciao.
---
Chairtastic
Anything's a chair if you're brave enough
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Galmar was never quite as racist as his little brother. Still racist, but not as much as Rolf. Given time, perhaps he would have shed that weight like Ulfric is in the process of doing. But the Thalmor don't care to give people time.
Azura was bound to Nirn as part of the trial of Vivec at the tail end of the Third Era. Then he banished her back to Oblivion so she's being sucked back to Mundus, an incredibly unpleasant experience. Like being dragged through a pit of cheese-graters.
It was commented upon in a few spots in Clever Craft, but is getting more spotlight here.
I remember he queried Azura about something, and got a non-hostile reply, and also that she/they needed aid with something...but I genuinely can't remember what. And I'm not plugged in enough to know their deep lore. Azura is a patron to Dunmer and Khajit though, right? Particularly the former since the events of Morrowind and the dissolution of the Trinity. If she's transitioning to something, it involves being closer to Nirn-proper (and not in the literal apocalyptic collision of celestial bodies sense), and flesh-crafting could be useful...the only thing I'm coming up with is she needs/wants an avatar of some kind, and one that is different from her modern blue Mer-oid. And that she might not know what she wants exactly yet.
Edit: NVM. Definitely a transition of divine focus then (because her realm isn't going anywhere, nor is her identity/image changing). I'm doubly curious why flesh-crafting is needed then. I'd think it be more useful to focus on magic/conceptual BS (like Tonal Architecture, Thu'um, CHIM, etc) to either break the binding between Azura and Nirn or cease the banishing effect that's keeping her stretched out. Definitely don't know enough deep lore for this.
Edit: NVM. Definitely a transition of divine focus then (because her realm isn't going anywhere, nor is her identity/image changing). I'm doubly curious why flesh-crafting is needed then. I'd think it be more useful to focus on magic/conceptual BS (like Tonal Architecture, Thu'um, CHIM, etc) to either break the binding between Azura and Nirn or cease the banishing effect that's keeping her stretched out. Definitely don't know enough deep lore for this.
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Chairtastic
Anything's a chair if you're brave enough
- Location
- Breakfast nook
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- He / Him / It
Don't worry, it'll come up in-story. This lore is so deep you need a pressure suit, and even then I'm stabbing the parts that don't make sense.
Ch 7
New
Chairtastic
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Chapter 7: Whelp
---
Whiterun City
J'Zargo Dovahkiin
When he came back to Whiterun the messenger from the watchtower spread the word – the dragon was dead, killed by a dragonborn. And that it was J'Zargo.
Many didn't believe, until J'Zargo demonstrated his Thu'um. Then, their opinions flipped like a coin.
Suddenly, he was the center of attention. People wanted details, about the fight, the power, and dragon himself. It was… nice. J'Zargo found himself in possession of a big pile of positive emotions he'd need to untangle sometime – but in the short term 'nice' was a good category for them.
He stayed by the gate, because he didn't want to risk being thrown in jail for trespassing. Kodlak hadn't returned to tell him if he was allowed in the city proper.
Whiterun was massive, easily as big as Mistral or larger. While Mistral grew in the shadow of an inselberg, Whiterun had grown over theirs. Their lonely mountain was terraced with districts full of yellow-roofed buildings all of wood.
He hadn't seen a city built on a mountain before. In Elsweyr, the closest would be Orcrest, built on a mesa in the middle of a canyon. J'Zargo had never seen it, his other siblings had gone on a visit there with his parents – he was left home, forgotten about.
For a bit, he thought maybe Kodlak had forgotten about him too before J'Zargo heard the 'tang' of Kodlak's walking-hammer on stone.
The old man looked tired when he walked through the crowd to J'Zargo. A ring of locals surrounded them as he looked the dagi-raht up and down. "You look like you've ran twenty miles today," Kodlak said, soft.
"J'Zargo may have. He chased down a dragon. Killed it… with help." The last part he admitted begrudgingly.
Kodlak nodded. "That dragon killed some people here. You'll have thanks for ending it, with or without help." He raised his head and looked at the guards nearby. "Does anyone here object to me taking this man to Jorrvaskr?"
The guards, garbed in yellow tabards over chain mail with the Whiterun crest all shook their heads. Some even took a full step backward or away.
"Very good." Kodlak turned and made a 'follow me' gesture with his free hand. "Jorrvaskr was one of the ships used to bring my ancestors here from Atmora. At the time, the custom was to bring the ship inland, and flip it to provide shelter." He explained this and more as he led J'Zargo through Whiterun. Down the boulevard to the market square, then from there up many levels to the next terrace on the inselberg.
On the way to the 'Jorrvaskr' Kodlak spoke of J'Zargo had the cliff notes of Jorrvaskr's history, that of the Companions, and the reasons Whiterun was settled. A holy tree, a holy forge – dedicated to Kynareth. That had been reason enough for the ancient Atmorans to make a home on a lonely mountain.
For a khajiit from Khenarthi's Roost, who once carried the wind-goddess' amulet with him, it seemed a sign. The goddess of sailors, wanderers, and explorers was powerful in that spot. A sign, from on high.
So J'Zargo paid Kodlak back in kind. He told the stories of Khenarthi's Roost, the tree where the goddess rested which continued to grow even into modern days, and the islands which were a meeting place of khajiit and elves.
Whiterun was a big city. J'Zargo would not have been surprised to find out it had the greatest population of any city in Skyrim. Just when he wondered why there were ground-level aqueducts everywhere including the stairs, he saw some Whiterun guards slide down the stair-side aqueduct.
They rode on stone oblongs that conformed to the aqueduct, which let them travel at great speed. Albeit only down.
"Jorrvaskr on the eastern side of the courtyard up here." Kodlak pointed in the direction he referred. "It should be easy to spot, given the forge."
And sure enough, it was. A circular courtyard with a dead tree in the center, a temple to the sky-goddess Kynareth on the north-west, a statue to the god Talos in the north-east, stairs up to the palace due north, and stairs up to an overturned boat building due east. West was a district of well-to-do homes, from the looks of things.
They had gardens, and livestock. So clearly the smell of animal leavings was what nords considered a sign of wealth.
Jorrvaskr, for what other upturned boat modified into a mead hall could there be in Whiterun, had been grazed by the dragon's attack. Great spikes of ice stuck up from the rear of the building.
Kodlak paused before he opened the door. He turned back to look at J'Zargo, his eyes clearer than when the dagi-raht had first seen them. "There were deaths from the dragon. That you killed it will earn you some favor, but please don't begrudge them if their hearts are heavy."
"Khajiit will give them space, if they need it," J'Zargo nodded.
"Good lad."
--
Kolbjorn Barrow
Ahzidal
In the depths of the earth, in a tomb of carved stone and well-laid traps, at the center-point of a network of caves and tunnels that once linked multiple settlements in the south, stood a man.
Over a table, the man was hunched, as he etched stone with a sculptor's precision. Chisel in one hand, hammer in the other, he worked and whittled a block of brown rock that glowed red from narrow tubes into its core.
Ahzidal, an ancient Atmoran returned to life, was massive. He stretched the limits of nordic tallness, and coupled it with the muscular strength that had once given great Ysgramor pause. His beard was so voluminous, a common rumor was he stored food within it.
Unhygienic fools.
Garbed in robes of red flecked with barely-there points of white in mimicry of the firmament at dawn, Ahzidal chiseled and blew the dust into a designated tray. Heartstone, what he worked upon, was powerfully magical, even the dust couldn't be left to flit where it wished.
What he carved into was a heartstone small enough to fit into the palm of the average person's hand, and what he carved was a new rune – one that hadn't existed when he was interred. Ash.
Once finished the runes began to shine with amber light – the hearstone's light changed from red-orange to amber as well.
Once every flake of heartstone dust was in the tray, Ahzidal dunked his hands and tools into an urn of spider oil nearby. While entirely submerged, he scrubbed the tools, and his hands vigorously.
The oil bonded to any and all flakes of heartstone dust he'd missed, and would have them clump together. And once he was sure he'd scrubbed as much as he could, he removed all foreign objects from the oil then lit them in flame to clear it off.
One of the upsides to studying with the dwemer had been he no longer found being on fire enough reason to panic. His teachers had been thorough. Hands aflame, he clapped twice.
From outside his workshop came a younger man in ebony armor who fell to one knee once he'd approached close enough. A deathlord of Ahzidal's, who had earned the dragonhorns implanted in his ebony helmet.
"Take this, and test it's ability to command, control, and project the ash outside," Ahzidal instructed his deathlord, and floated the carved heartstone to him with unseen hands.
"It will be done, priest," the deathlord bowed his head as he took the stone, and rose only when Ahzidal had turned his back.
Shortly thereafter, Ahzidal had begun to sort the heartstone dust into phials based on particle size. He was stopped when he heard footsteps down the hall outside. With grace, he put aside his tweezers and donned the ridged red mask of his office, normally set aside.
There was only one being who would dare let their footsteps be heard by Ahzidal in his own workshop.
When Ahzidal turned to face his doorway. His workshop, once his tomb, was a circular chamber with alcoves where his most loyal subjects had laid in undeath, since converted to workspace shelves and storage on their resurrection.
The iron doors to his workshop opened, and Farri Gold-Tooth stepped through. His armor was ash-splashed, which meant he had walked from Raven Rock to Ahzidal's facility traditionally, rather than through the city-tomb network.
While Farri approached him, Ahzidal began to analyze probabilities. Which script would be most appropriate to placate the star-wife, and get him gone from Ahzidal's premises. Farri was normally a delight around the lab, but the ash risked contaminating delicate experiments if allowed to linger.
"Well met," he greeted his nominal superior with a deferential bow of the head. "You seek something from me?"
"You included a Shout when you sent that message to J'Zargo, didn't you?" Farri wasted no time, he put his hands on his hips as he looked up at Ahzidal. It was difficult to tell if he glared – the silk in front of his eyes, and all.
Behind his mask, Ahzidal smiled. There were precious few ways Farri could know that. All in Ahzidal's favor.
"Drain Vitality, specifically," he responded, his tone conversational. "I take it the dovahkiin has arrived?"
Farri tilted his head to the side. Confusion? Disbelief? Who could say. "He has. He's killed his first dragon, and has been publicly acknowledged as the dovahkiin."
"Very good. It sounds like my efforts have expedited your plans."
"However," Farri continued as if Ahzidal hadn't spoken, "I wonder what other nasty surprises lie in wait, from your letter to him." The khajiit crossed his arms. "Was Drain Vitality the only Shout included in your letter?"
"It was. Why?" Ahzidal drew closer, crouched down to be more on Farri's eye level. "Has he gained more?"
"...He has a beginner's use out of Tiid, and I taught him Find Dragon as a good faith gesture." Farri stepped closer as Ahzidal did, until it was clear he meant to glare. "Why did you give him those words?"
"Because, from the part of that letter I transcribed on your behalf, I knew it wouldn't work otherwise." Ahzidal rose from his crouch and loomed tall over the khajiit. "You were treating him like you only suspected him to be dovahkiin. You made an appeal that would entice a mortal, when you needed something to entice a dragon.
"So, I gave him a Shout that would prove if he was dragonborn or not, and instill in him the drive to chase more of what he'd been given. I did include instructions – that it was 'meant to be used on enemies'."
Farri looked up at him, then sighed. "You could have given him something… safer."
"He's dovahkiin. No Shout is 'safe', because they all have ways that they can be used to harm. Even that party trick, Throw Voice, can be used to slaughter – if one is creative enough." Ahzidal arched his eyebrow behind his mask, and stroked the ebony visage as if it were his chin. "Why does that concern you?"
"Because when Tiber Septim -- " Farri started to shout, but caught himself. With whispered words he counted down from ten, then spoke again. "When Tiber Septim first started out with the thu'um, he learned big, powerful Shouts. Unrelenting Force, Fire Breath, Petrify Flesh, that sort of thing."
Ahzidal nodded. Miraak was much the same when he first started.
"Then, when he lost the power to Shout… he went mad. To have all that power taken away, as a dragon, he ravenously chased after equal or greater powers." Farri seemed to wilt under Ahzidal's gaze. "And he did abominable things."
Again, the dragon priest nodded. "As someone who has experience, let me provide insight?" He leaned over Farri at an unnatural angle, assisted by levitation magic. "If that happened to Tiber Septim? Perhaps the fault was with people not curtailing those traits long before it became inconvenient to them."
His words were pointed. Not accusatory, but only just.
Farri's ears flicked back, his tail puffed up.
"Just some insight from someone who watched someone I respected become a broken shell of who they were, and only regretted it once they become a threat to me personally." Ahzidal leaned forward even more. "As I'm sure Dukaan could say in regards to me. As could, perhaps, other people who knew Tiber Septim personally."
The star-wife's claws flicked out, he began to growl deep in his throat.
Heedless of any danger, Ahzidal continued. "So. We see two cases, three if you include me, of people with great power devolving into power-mad lunatics because no one was there who could correct poor behavior. With that in mind, perhaps it would be wise to ensure the dovahkiin has such people around him." Ahzidal suddenly stood straight again. "I would suggest you find some such people. Because, while you might believe you could fill such a role…." Ahzidal shrugged. "Something tells me you just don't have the spine for it."
Farri seemed ready to pounce upon Ahzidal in a furious assault – one Ahzidal would admit, he deserved – but all his rage faded once he started to cough. In the seconds before the coughing fit, it seemed Farri's growl had sharply deepened, as if from an animal much bigger than he.
Ahzidal watched, hands folded behind his back, as Farri coughed until he fell to his hands and knees from want of air. Spittle and blood marked the floor when Farri was done.
All the fight seemed to have been coughed out – Farri shakily stood and turned to leave without a word.
Once the cat was gone, Ahzidal called forth a rectangular piece of glass with magic, then floated to collect some blood from the floor. The blood of an Ada was a useful thing to have on hand, for the research-minded individual.
Particularly with werewolves about.
Back to work he went.
--
Jorrvaskr
Kodlak Whitemane
When the dragon attacked, it glanced Jorrvaskr's training yard with its icy breath. The area between the city wall, the Skyforge, and the mead hall itself was a paved yard where the Companions could train, spar, learn from their seniors.
Three Companions had been out there when the dragon coated it in ice.
Njada Stonearm, a sword-and-board nord woman known for her no-nonsense attitude and unbreakable guard. She was so eager to learn.
Athis, a dunmer swordsman who had proven that elves could be warriors to the younger generation. Kodlak had great hopes for how he would grow as decades became centuries.
Torvar, a drunken nord axeman who had sufficient skill while intoxicated to match any of the junior Companions sober. He'd been so close to opening up to Kodlak about why he chased mead so desperately.
All three, gone.
No blame was thrown Kodlak's way – the dragon had come out of nowhere. But his cleared vision could see some askance looks thrown J'Zargo's way. Not from Aela or Farkas – they were impressed by J'Zargo's dragonslaying and the fire used to get their Shield-Siblings out from the ice.
But Skjor, Vignar, and Vilkas had suspicions. That was fine, some grit would help polish J'Zargo as he trained to be ready to go north.
Kodlak assisted the priest of Arkay as he prepared the bodies for cremation. By tradition, Companions would commit their bodies as fuel for the Skyforge – that was what kept their order at least partly in Whiterun for millennia.
Their funerals would take place an appropriate time after Balgruuf's. He was forbidden from announcing the jarl's death until the man's family could grieve in private and read the jarl's will for heirs.
It wouldn't be long. Hopefully. If things went peacefully.
As soon as he thought that, he stopped where he was on the road from the halls of the dead back to Jorrvaskr. He found the nearest white stone in the road and tapped his heel to it four times – a way to ward off bad luck, allegedly.
As he returned, he saw how the mead hall swayed in the wind. All the ice from the dragon had melted – thanks to J'Zargo – but the structure had been badly damaged. Ice had gotten in between the planks and forcefully expanded. A bad storm would see the ancient mead hall topple over.
Again, Kodlak sought out the nearest white stone in the road and warded off a jinx as soon as he thought of it.
Kodlak looked up at the exact right time to see J'Zargo hauling something up the steps to the Skyforge. Curious, he diverted his attention from the door to Jorrvaskr to follow.
At the forge, shielded from wind by a wall carved after Kynareth's hawk aspect, worked Eorland Gray-Mane. A man barely younger than Kodlak, with tremendous strength in his thin arms. He wasn't a Companion, though had worked with them for decades.
"...And don't just always do what you're told," Eorland told J'Zargo, as he took a sheathed sword from the khajiit's hands. "Nobody rules anybody in the Companions."
J'Zargo tilted his head, confused. "This one didn't bring the sword because Vilkas ordered it. Vilkas asked J'Zargo to help him, and J'Zargo took pity on him." The cat leaned back, his arms crossed. "J'Zargo was told he could ask Eorland Gray-Mane for a weapon? Perhaps armor?"
Eorland looked up, saw Kodlak but said nothing, and examined the cat. "You need to complete your proving before I give you a Skyforge steel weapon. But I can work on armor for you, if you have patience." Eorland walked around him. "Hmm, making room for the tail will be tricky. You want light armor, I expect?"
"No," J'Zargo shook his head. "He… has seen lighter armors provide too little protection for his taste. Give him heavy armor."
The nords both raised their eyebrows high. A khajiit? In heavy armor? Something they had only heard of, never seen.
Kodlak didn't know if J'Zargo was aware of his presence, but he waved all the same as he turned 'round and went back down the stairs. Shor's bones, there was a time he hated the stairs from how much pain they brought his joints. But no longer.
On the way down from the Skyforge, he saw something which caused his eyes to narrow. At the base of the stairs up to Jorrvaskr was the khajiit from Honningbrew meadery, the one in Thieves Guild armor with a kilt.
He had a stack of books tied together, along with a satchel bag in his hands.
Kodlak saw the cat's ears flick. He'd been heard, even if the cat couldn't see through the silk around his eyes. On guard, he stepped to the front of the mead hall and crossed his arms. "We have no room in our hall for thieves."
The dagi made a shocked expression. "Really? Truly?" Like the spring thaw, the expression faded. "Farri had no intention of joining. But he brings things for J'Zargo Dovahkiin, could he ask Kodlak Whitemane to pass them along?"
Kodlak narrowed his eyes, and flicked his hand to indicate 'approach'. He kept his eyes narrowed as the thief ascended the steps. In silence, the book stack and satchel were exchanged. "Do I need to worry about the rightful owners of these goods banging down our doors?"
"Nope." Farri, his name revealed by the khajiiti cadence, shook his head. "Farri legally purchased them. With legally gotten coin." He let the tip of his tongue stick out through his lips. "Might not have paid Aldmeri Dominion customs office for them, but who here will complain?"
With suspicions still aflame in his head, Kodlak examined the stack of books. They were all instruction books on spells, or texts on mystic topics. He checked the satchel and there were silk clothes inside, a wooden box with khajiiti carvings, and a pair of shoes. Silk was expensive in Skyrim, but rarely worn, so it was unlikely stolen.
"...Fine." Kodlak admitted. "I can ferry these to him on your behalf."
Farri did an elaborate bow in reply. "This one thanks you, most gracious Companion." When he rose, he folded his hands behind his back. "Could this one offer some honest work?"
"Assuming it's not a front, fine." The more they talked, the more Kodlak wanted to be far away from Farri. The dagi gave his inner beast the feeling of another large predator – much worse, the more they talked.
"Khajiit knows where a fragment of Wuuthrad may be found." He splayed his arms in an exaggerated shrug. "He delves nordic tombs as a hobby, sees things. And he saw a piece of carved ebony which matches its description."
Kodlak slowly nodded. "And… you didn't steal it because?"
"Because he doesn't need random pieces of ebony – he lives in Raven Rock, ebony for days there." Farri stuck the tip of his tongue out again. "Dustman's Cairn, up north a bit. Get it if you want." The dagi glanced up at Jorrvaskr as the wind blew hard. "Khajiit can help to fix that, when you distrust him less."
"I'm so sure," Kodlak's words were thick with sarcasm. "We'll investigate your claim. You can go."
Dismissed, Farri bowed to him, and left for the temple of Kynareth across the courtyard.
Kodlak would have to ponder why the a dagi thief was allowed in Whiterun at all, as well as the danger he posed. But that was for later – there were many funerals to prepare for, and business of the Companions to manage.
Such as the ominous creaks Jorrvaskr gave with the wind.
---
---
Whiterun City
J'Zargo Dovahkiin
When he came back to Whiterun the messenger from the watchtower spread the word – the dragon was dead, killed by a dragonborn. And that it was J'Zargo.
Many didn't believe, until J'Zargo demonstrated his Thu'um. Then, their opinions flipped like a coin.
Suddenly, he was the center of attention. People wanted details, about the fight, the power, and dragon himself. It was… nice. J'Zargo found himself in possession of a big pile of positive emotions he'd need to untangle sometime – but in the short term 'nice' was a good category for them.
He stayed by the gate, because he didn't want to risk being thrown in jail for trespassing. Kodlak hadn't returned to tell him if he was allowed in the city proper.
Whiterun was massive, easily as big as Mistral or larger. While Mistral grew in the shadow of an inselberg, Whiterun had grown over theirs. Their lonely mountain was terraced with districts full of yellow-roofed buildings all of wood.
He hadn't seen a city built on a mountain before. In Elsweyr, the closest would be Orcrest, built on a mesa in the middle of a canyon. J'Zargo had never seen it, his other siblings had gone on a visit there with his parents – he was left home, forgotten about.
For a bit, he thought maybe Kodlak had forgotten about him too before J'Zargo heard the 'tang' of Kodlak's walking-hammer on stone.
The old man looked tired when he walked through the crowd to J'Zargo. A ring of locals surrounded them as he looked the dagi-raht up and down. "You look like you've ran twenty miles today," Kodlak said, soft.
"J'Zargo may have. He chased down a dragon. Killed it… with help." The last part he admitted begrudgingly.
Kodlak nodded. "That dragon killed some people here. You'll have thanks for ending it, with or without help." He raised his head and looked at the guards nearby. "Does anyone here object to me taking this man to Jorrvaskr?"
The guards, garbed in yellow tabards over chain mail with the Whiterun crest all shook their heads. Some even took a full step backward or away.
"Very good." Kodlak turned and made a 'follow me' gesture with his free hand. "Jorrvaskr was one of the ships used to bring my ancestors here from Atmora. At the time, the custom was to bring the ship inland, and flip it to provide shelter." He explained this and more as he led J'Zargo through Whiterun. Down the boulevard to the market square, then from there up many levels to the next terrace on the inselberg.
On the way to the 'Jorrvaskr' Kodlak spoke of J'Zargo had the cliff notes of Jorrvaskr's history, that of the Companions, and the reasons Whiterun was settled. A holy tree, a holy forge – dedicated to Kynareth. That had been reason enough for the ancient Atmorans to make a home on a lonely mountain.
For a khajiit from Khenarthi's Roost, who once carried the wind-goddess' amulet with him, it seemed a sign. The goddess of sailors, wanderers, and explorers was powerful in that spot. A sign, from on high.
So J'Zargo paid Kodlak back in kind. He told the stories of Khenarthi's Roost, the tree where the goddess rested which continued to grow even into modern days, and the islands which were a meeting place of khajiit and elves.
Whiterun was a big city. J'Zargo would not have been surprised to find out it had the greatest population of any city in Skyrim. Just when he wondered why there were ground-level aqueducts everywhere including the stairs, he saw some Whiterun guards slide down the stair-side aqueduct.
They rode on stone oblongs that conformed to the aqueduct, which let them travel at great speed. Albeit only down.
"Jorrvaskr on the eastern side of the courtyard up here." Kodlak pointed in the direction he referred. "It should be easy to spot, given the forge."
And sure enough, it was. A circular courtyard with a dead tree in the center, a temple to the sky-goddess Kynareth on the north-west, a statue to the god Talos in the north-east, stairs up to the palace due north, and stairs up to an overturned boat building due east. West was a district of well-to-do homes, from the looks of things.
They had gardens, and livestock. So clearly the smell of animal leavings was what nords considered a sign of wealth.
Jorrvaskr, for what other upturned boat modified into a mead hall could there be in Whiterun, had been grazed by the dragon's attack. Great spikes of ice stuck up from the rear of the building.
Kodlak paused before he opened the door. He turned back to look at J'Zargo, his eyes clearer than when the dagi-raht had first seen them. "There were deaths from the dragon. That you killed it will earn you some favor, but please don't begrudge them if their hearts are heavy."
"Khajiit will give them space, if they need it," J'Zargo nodded.
"Good lad."
--
Kolbjorn Barrow
Ahzidal
In the depths of the earth, in a tomb of carved stone and well-laid traps, at the center-point of a network of caves and tunnels that once linked multiple settlements in the south, stood a man.
Over a table, the man was hunched, as he etched stone with a sculptor's precision. Chisel in one hand, hammer in the other, he worked and whittled a block of brown rock that glowed red from narrow tubes into its core.
Ahzidal, an ancient Atmoran returned to life, was massive. He stretched the limits of nordic tallness, and coupled it with the muscular strength that had once given great Ysgramor pause. His beard was so voluminous, a common rumor was he stored food within it.
Unhygienic fools.
Garbed in robes of red flecked with barely-there points of white in mimicry of the firmament at dawn, Ahzidal chiseled and blew the dust into a designated tray. Heartstone, what he worked upon, was powerfully magical, even the dust couldn't be left to flit where it wished.
What he carved into was a heartstone small enough to fit into the palm of the average person's hand, and what he carved was a new rune – one that hadn't existed when he was interred. Ash.
Once finished the runes began to shine with amber light – the hearstone's light changed from red-orange to amber as well.
Once every flake of heartstone dust was in the tray, Ahzidal dunked his hands and tools into an urn of spider oil nearby. While entirely submerged, he scrubbed the tools, and his hands vigorously.
The oil bonded to any and all flakes of heartstone dust he'd missed, and would have them clump together. And once he was sure he'd scrubbed as much as he could, he removed all foreign objects from the oil then lit them in flame to clear it off.
One of the upsides to studying with the dwemer had been he no longer found being on fire enough reason to panic. His teachers had been thorough. Hands aflame, he clapped twice.
From outside his workshop came a younger man in ebony armor who fell to one knee once he'd approached close enough. A deathlord of Ahzidal's, who had earned the dragonhorns implanted in his ebony helmet.
"Take this, and test it's ability to command, control, and project the ash outside," Ahzidal instructed his deathlord, and floated the carved heartstone to him with unseen hands.
"It will be done, priest," the deathlord bowed his head as he took the stone, and rose only when Ahzidal had turned his back.
Shortly thereafter, Ahzidal had begun to sort the heartstone dust into phials based on particle size. He was stopped when he heard footsteps down the hall outside. With grace, he put aside his tweezers and donned the ridged red mask of his office, normally set aside.
There was only one being who would dare let their footsteps be heard by Ahzidal in his own workshop.
When Ahzidal turned to face his doorway. His workshop, once his tomb, was a circular chamber with alcoves where his most loyal subjects had laid in undeath, since converted to workspace shelves and storage on their resurrection.
The iron doors to his workshop opened, and Farri Gold-Tooth stepped through. His armor was ash-splashed, which meant he had walked from Raven Rock to Ahzidal's facility traditionally, rather than through the city-tomb network.
While Farri approached him, Ahzidal began to analyze probabilities. Which script would be most appropriate to placate the star-wife, and get him gone from Ahzidal's premises. Farri was normally a delight around the lab, but the ash risked contaminating delicate experiments if allowed to linger.
"Well met," he greeted his nominal superior with a deferential bow of the head. "You seek something from me?"
"You included a Shout when you sent that message to J'Zargo, didn't you?" Farri wasted no time, he put his hands on his hips as he looked up at Ahzidal. It was difficult to tell if he glared – the silk in front of his eyes, and all.
Behind his mask, Ahzidal smiled. There were precious few ways Farri could know that. All in Ahzidal's favor.
"Drain Vitality, specifically," he responded, his tone conversational. "I take it the dovahkiin has arrived?"
Farri tilted his head to the side. Confusion? Disbelief? Who could say. "He has. He's killed his first dragon, and has been publicly acknowledged as the dovahkiin."
"Very good. It sounds like my efforts have expedited your plans."
"However," Farri continued as if Ahzidal hadn't spoken, "I wonder what other nasty surprises lie in wait, from your letter to him." The khajiit crossed his arms. "Was Drain Vitality the only Shout included in your letter?"
"It was. Why?" Ahzidal drew closer, crouched down to be more on Farri's eye level. "Has he gained more?"
"...He has a beginner's use out of Tiid, and I taught him Find Dragon as a good faith gesture." Farri stepped closer as Ahzidal did, until it was clear he meant to glare. "Why did you give him those words?"
"Because, from the part of that letter I transcribed on your behalf, I knew it wouldn't work otherwise." Ahzidal rose from his crouch and loomed tall over the khajiit. "You were treating him like you only suspected him to be dovahkiin. You made an appeal that would entice a mortal, when you needed something to entice a dragon.
"So, I gave him a Shout that would prove if he was dragonborn or not, and instill in him the drive to chase more of what he'd been given. I did include instructions – that it was 'meant to be used on enemies'."
Farri looked up at him, then sighed. "You could have given him something… safer."
"He's dovahkiin. No Shout is 'safe', because they all have ways that they can be used to harm. Even that party trick, Throw Voice, can be used to slaughter – if one is creative enough." Ahzidal arched his eyebrow behind his mask, and stroked the ebony visage as if it were his chin. "Why does that concern you?"
"Because when Tiber Septim -- " Farri started to shout, but caught himself. With whispered words he counted down from ten, then spoke again. "When Tiber Septim first started out with the thu'um, he learned big, powerful Shouts. Unrelenting Force, Fire Breath, Petrify Flesh, that sort of thing."
Ahzidal nodded. Miraak was much the same when he first started.
"Then, when he lost the power to Shout… he went mad. To have all that power taken away, as a dragon, he ravenously chased after equal or greater powers." Farri seemed to wilt under Ahzidal's gaze. "And he did abominable things."
Again, the dragon priest nodded. "As someone who has experience, let me provide insight?" He leaned over Farri at an unnatural angle, assisted by levitation magic. "If that happened to Tiber Septim? Perhaps the fault was with people not curtailing those traits long before it became inconvenient to them."
His words were pointed. Not accusatory, but only just.
Farri's ears flicked back, his tail puffed up.
"Just some insight from someone who watched someone I respected become a broken shell of who they were, and only regretted it once they become a threat to me personally." Ahzidal leaned forward even more. "As I'm sure Dukaan could say in regards to me. As could, perhaps, other people who knew Tiber Septim personally."
The star-wife's claws flicked out, he began to growl deep in his throat.
Heedless of any danger, Ahzidal continued. "So. We see two cases, three if you include me, of people with great power devolving into power-mad lunatics because no one was there who could correct poor behavior. With that in mind, perhaps it would be wise to ensure the dovahkiin has such people around him." Ahzidal suddenly stood straight again. "I would suggest you find some such people. Because, while you might believe you could fill such a role…." Ahzidal shrugged. "Something tells me you just don't have the spine for it."
Farri seemed ready to pounce upon Ahzidal in a furious assault – one Ahzidal would admit, he deserved – but all his rage faded once he started to cough. In the seconds before the coughing fit, it seemed Farri's growl had sharply deepened, as if from an animal much bigger than he.
Ahzidal watched, hands folded behind his back, as Farri coughed until he fell to his hands and knees from want of air. Spittle and blood marked the floor when Farri was done.
All the fight seemed to have been coughed out – Farri shakily stood and turned to leave without a word.
Once the cat was gone, Ahzidal called forth a rectangular piece of glass with magic, then floated to collect some blood from the floor. The blood of an Ada was a useful thing to have on hand, for the research-minded individual.
Particularly with werewolves about.
Back to work he went.
--
Jorrvaskr
Kodlak Whitemane
When the dragon attacked, it glanced Jorrvaskr's training yard with its icy breath. The area between the city wall, the Skyforge, and the mead hall itself was a paved yard where the Companions could train, spar, learn from their seniors.
Three Companions had been out there when the dragon coated it in ice.
Njada Stonearm, a sword-and-board nord woman known for her no-nonsense attitude and unbreakable guard. She was so eager to learn.
Athis, a dunmer swordsman who had proven that elves could be warriors to the younger generation. Kodlak had great hopes for how he would grow as decades became centuries.
Torvar, a drunken nord axeman who had sufficient skill while intoxicated to match any of the junior Companions sober. He'd been so close to opening up to Kodlak about why he chased mead so desperately.
All three, gone.
No blame was thrown Kodlak's way – the dragon had come out of nowhere. But his cleared vision could see some askance looks thrown J'Zargo's way. Not from Aela or Farkas – they were impressed by J'Zargo's dragonslaying and the fire used to get their Shield-Siblings out from the ice.
But Skjor, Vignar, and Vilkas had suspicions. That was fine, some grit would help polish J'Zargo as he trained to be ready to go north.
Kodlak assisted the priest of Arkay as he prepared the bodies for cremation. By tradition, Companions would commit their bodies as fuel for the Skyforge – that was what kept their order at least partly in Whiterun for millennia.
Their funerals would take place an appropriate time after Balgruuf's. He was forbidden from announcing the jarl's death until the man's family could grieve in private and read the jarl's will for heirs.
It wouldn't be long. Hopefully. If things went peacefully.
As soon as he thought that, he stopped where he was on the road from the halls of the dead back to Jorrvaskr. He found the nearest white stone in the road and tapped his heel to it four times – a way to ward off bad luck, allegedly.
As he returned, he saw how the mead hall swayed in the wind. All the ice from the dragon had melted – thanks to J'Zargo – but the structure had been badly damaged. Ice had gotten in between the planks and forcefully expanded. A bad storm would see the ancient mead hall topple over.
Again, Kodlak sought out the nearest white stone in the road and warded off a jinx as soon as he thought of it.
Kodlak looked up at the exact right time to see J'Zargo hauling something up the steps to the Skyforge. Curious, he diverted his attention from the door to Jorrvaskr to follow.
At the forge, shielded from wind by a wall carved after Kynareth's hawk aspect, worked Eorland Gray-Mane. A man barely younger than Kodlak, with tremendous strength in his thin arms. He wasn't a Companion, though had worked with them for decades.
"...And don't just always do what you're told," Eorland told J'Zargo, as he took a sheathed sword from the khajiit's hands. "Nobody rules anybody in the Companions."
J'Zargo tilted his head, confused. "This one didn't bring the sword because Vilkas ordered it. Vilkas asked J'Zargo to help him, and J'Zargo took pity on him." The cat leaned back, his arms crossed. "J'Zargo was told he could ask Eorland Gray-Mane for a weapon? Perhaps armor?"
Eorland looked up, saw Kodlak but said nothing, and examined the cat. "You need to complete your proving before I give you a Skyforge steel weapon. But I can work on armor for you, if you have patience." Eorland walked around him. "Hmm, making room for the tail will be tricky. You want light armor, I expect?"
"No," J'Zargo shook his head. "He… has seen lighter armors provide too little protection for his taste. Give him heavy armor."
The nords both raised their eyebrows high. A khajiit? In heavy armor? Something they had only heard of, never seen.
Kodlak didn't know if J'Zargo was aware of his presence, but he waved all the same as he turned 'round and went back down the stairs. Shor's bones, there was a time he hated the stairs from how much pain they brought his joints. But no longer.
On the way down from the Skyforge, he saw something which caused his eyes to narrow. At the base of the stairs up to Jorrvaskr was the khajiit from Honningbrew meadery, the one in Thieves Guild armor with a kilt.
He had a stack of books tied together, along with a satchel bag in his hands.
Kodlak saw the cat's ears flick. He'd been heard, even if the cat couldn't see through the silk around his eyes. On guard, he stepped to the front of the mead hall and crossed his arms. "We have no room in our hall for thieves."
The dagi made a shocked expression. "Really? Truly?" Like the spring thaw, the expression faded. "Farri had no intention of joining. But he brings things for J'Zargo Dovahkiin, could he ask Kodlak Whitemane to pass them along?"
Kodlak narrowed his eyes, and flicked his hand to indicate 'approach'. He kept his eyes narrowed as the thief ascended the steps. In silence, the book stack and satchel were exchanged. "Do I need to worry about the rightful owners of these goods banging down our doors?"
"Nope." Farri, his name revealed by the khajiiti cadence, shook his head. "Farri legally purchased them. With legally gotten coin." He let the tip of his tongue stick out through his lips. "Might not have paid Aldmeri Dominion customs office for them, but who here will complain?"
With suspicions still aflame in his head, Kodlak examined the stack of books. They were all instruction books on spells, or texts on mystic topics. He checked the satchel and there were silk clothes inside, a wooden box with khajiiti carvings, and a pair of shoes. Silk was expensive in Skyrim, but rarely worn, so it was unlikely stolen.
"...Fine." Kodlak admitted. "I can ferry these to him on your behalf."
Farri did an elaborate bow in reply. "This one thanks you, most gracious Companion." When he rose, he folded his hands behind his back. "Could this one offer some honest work?"
"Assuming it's not a front, fine." The more they talked, the more Kodlak wanted to be far away from Farri. The dagi gave his inner beast the feeling of another large predator – much worse, the more they talked.
"Khajiit knows where a fragment of Wuuthrad may be found." He splayed his arms in an exaggerated shrug. "He delves nordic tombs as a hobby, sees things. And he saw a piece of carved ebony which matches its description."
Kodlak slowly nodded. "And… you didn't steal it because?"
"Because he doesn't need random pieces of ebony – he lives in Raven Rock, ebony for days there." Farri stuck the tip of his tongue out again. "Dustman's Cairn, up north a bit. Get it if you want." The dagi glanced up at Jorrvaskr as the wind blew hard. "Khajiit can help to fix that, when you distrust him less."
"I'm so sure," Kodlak's words were thick with sarcasm. "We'll investigate your claim. You can go."
Dismissed, Farri bowed to him, and left for the temple of Kynareth across the courtyard.
Kodlak would have to ponder why the a dagi thief was allowed in Whiterun at all, as well as the danger he posed. But that was for later – there were many funerals to prepare for, and business of the Companions to manage.
Such as the ominous creaks Jorrvaskr gave with the wind.
---
- Location
- Miami
There's several jobs where being able to light yourself on fire would probably be a blessing. I'm jealous of Ahzidal now.
So, finally got a chance to sit down and make a post...
Of course, Azhidal is also not completely correct. Farri-then-Zurin might be responsible for ignoring the problems with his lover until they got nasty, then further for enabling them to worse heights yet (making the Numidium and betraying Wulfarth to power the Mantella)...but in the end all people are most responsible for their own actions. Coercion and profound inhibition are definitely mitigating factors...but they're also ones that don't really apply to Hjatli/Tiber/Talos. Who made the decision to assassinate the Emperor, cut his throat, and mass murder a shitload of innocents and Break the Dragon in pursuit of conquest? Tiber Septim did. The fault is with him. Zurin Arctus...is most at fault for enabling the former's worst decisions (well, and betraying Wulfarth even if he was also a warmonger). Though as Farri no doubt considers the worst part is that theoretically Zurin could have prevented everything bad by being a better lover somehow (which is true and also thoroughly toxic).
But, I think, Azhidal already knows this. Even by dint of his own semi-power mad state, if he were honest it'd be clear that most of the responsibility for his condition is with himself. The thing is, as he stated, he had a point to this conversation. Namely to get Farri's dusty behind out of his lab asap. And, uh, it worked. It was also a social trainwreck, but Azhidal is a semi-power mad asshole, he doesn't care. He's still got his banked favor after-all, and this might also possibly prevent the Dragonborn from taking after Miraak, so it's probably two experiments with one test subject by his reckoning.
Idea two...Farri is ALSO a dragonborn. Not a Prisoner or focus of prophecy, but one by dint of their extra-soul-ar origins and special relationship with Time and Divinity via meta-knowledge and reincarnations. It's practically Jill-like, except he's also got a physical body. What other things are like that? Dragons. Plus, it'd help explain why he's so good with Thu'um, even beyond just having one of his past-incarnations be a big nerd that memorized draconic and smoked Kirkbride's crack. He's got a divine past(self), interacts with Time, and is alive in the organic sense. Close enough to a Dragon in the metaphysical ways that really matter for Mundus and The Wheel.
underneath a rock stuck in Jorrvaskr's barracks/archive for the last couple years? Not knowing every Khajit or thief around is perfectly understandable. Not knowing the heir and effective developer of the biggest upset in the Province is kinda much. More so because Solstheim was the spark for the current civil war. EVEN MORE SO, for Kodlak at least, because Farri is the one behind a ton of Ancient Nords/Atmorans, the venerated ancestors, getting revived and running around sharing their culture and martial prowess (y'know, his whole thing as the traditionalist Companion). I guess depression and declining health might have been enough to keep him from really caring or finding out? But that should change as soon as he mentions the name to...pretty much anyone remotely interested in the war. Which is most of the rest of Whiterun I think.
This is definitely novel. Only for irrigation aqueducts I hope? And that the drinking water ones are both covered and NOT used as transport for the same guardsman that walk around streets with farm animals and all their...leavings.
Ouch. I thought Farri wasn't the Dragon-born, but he's certainly getting the burns. The fact that Azhidal isn't wrong only makes it worse.
Of course, Azhidal is also not completely correct. Farri-then-Zurin might be responsible for ignoring the problems with his lover until they got nasty, then further for enabling them to worse heights yet (making the Numidium and betraying Wulfarth to power the Mantella)...but in the end all people are most responsible for their own actions. Coercion and profound inhibition are definitely mitigating factors...but they're also ones that don't really apply to Hjatli/Tiber/Talos. Who made the decision to assassinate the Emperor, cut his throat, and mass murder a shitload of innocents and Break the Dragon in pursuit of conquest? Tiber Septim did. The fault is with him. Zurin Arctus...is most at fault for enabling the former's worst decisions (well, and betraying Wulfarth even if he was also a warmonger). Though as Farri no doubt considers the worst part is that theoretically Zurin could have prevented everything bad by being a better lover somehow (which is true and also thoroughly toxic).
But, I think, Azhidal already knows this. Even by dint of his own semi-power mad state, if he were honest it'd be clear that most of the responsibility for his condition is with himself. The thing is, as he stated, he had a point to this conversation. Namely to get Farri's dusty behind out of his lab asap. And, uh, it worked. It was also a social trainwreck, but Azhidal is a semi-power mad asshole, he doesn't care. He's still got his banked favor after-all, and this might also possibly prevent the Dragonborn from taking after Miraak, so it's probably two experiments with one test subject by his reckoning.
Now for this. Assuming this isn't just a generic reference to the Chair over-soul, I've got two ideas. One, assuming the multiversal chronology works out, this is maybe a bit of the Tiger King from the DC AU? Which'd make sense because Farri is also pretty feline, and that honestly seemed like one of the more...angry incarnations of the Chair-soul (friggin biting heroes heads off and leading the mass-massacre of civilian populations), even if they aren't the most casually lethal (probably the King of Hueco Mundo for that one).
Idea two...Farri is ALSO a dragonborn. Not a Prisoner or focus of prophecy, but one by dint of their extra-soul-ar origins and special relationship with Time and Divinity via meta-knowledge and reincarnations. It's practically Jill-like, except he's also got a physical body. What other things are like that? Dragons. Plus, it'd help explain why he's so good with Thu'um, even beyond just having one of his past-incarnations be a big nerd that memorized draconic and smoked Kirkbride's crack. He's got a divine past(self), interacts with Time, and is alive in the organic sense. Close enough to a Dragon in the metaphysical ways that really matter for Mundus and The Wheel.
This on the other hand...has Kodlak been
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Chairtastic
Anything's a chair if you're brave enough
- Location
- Breakfast nook
- Pronouns
- He / Him / It
Firefighters hate him!
Under Balgruuf, yes!
Remember, Ahzidal's first actions on being revived by Farri was to grab the cat with telekinesis, manhandle him, and only agreed to join Farri after he got an Unrelenting Force'ded right to the face. Social trainwrecks is just how Ahzidal does business.
I cannot tell you, but it is on the discord if curiosity overcomes you. But. You're on the right track.
Yes, actually. His cataracts have been so bad the Circle doesn't let him out much. And with the rot, he couldn't muster the strength to fight them on that issue. The furthest outside he went before Tsun's vision was to the shrine of Kynareth for healing.