A sequel to Clever Craft. J'Zargo Dovahkiin comes to Skyrim, and finds it full of curiosities and power. Curiosity may kill the cat, but satisfaction will bring him back!
A Perfect Pounce (Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim SI/AU)
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Prologue / Ch 1
Chairtastic
Anything's a chair if you're brave enough
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A Perfect Pounce
by Chairtastic.
Summary: A sequel to Clever Craft. J'Zargo Dovahkiin comes to Skyrim, and finds it full of curiosities and power. Curiosity may kill the cat, but satisfaction will bring him back!
Author's Note: This fic is a sequel to another fic, called Clever Craft, saying again because I feel like it. Nyah. Links will be provided to the progenitor fic, and I heartily encourage you to read it so more of this story makes sense to you. But I'm not your dad, I can't tell you what to do.
Clever Craft link: Bwam!
----
Prologue: Shattered be the Oathbreaker.
Blue Palace
High King Torygg
Somewhere, somehow, things had gone so terribly wrong for Torygg.
It had been a lovely winter, just enough snow to stave off fears of drought, not so much that it was required to stay indoors. Elisif, fair queen of Skyrim, wife of the Jarl, taught him winter games she played in mountainous Bruma where it was cold year-round. Torygg ignored everyone who tried to stop him – to Oblivion with what a High King should be seen doing.
Until a messenger ran to him, to tell him the news.
Ulfric Stormcloak came to his city on the first day of the new year, alone. His housecarl was nowhere to be seen, he came to the city by horseback, rather than his ship. Ulfric, tall as a Nord could hope to be and thrice as strong, had the face of a man angry enough to kill.
Torygg had hoped it was a mistake – he made those often, more often in recent times. His steward, Falk Firebeard, had to correct him more frequently. And the Imperial officer who graciously took over the duties of Court Wizard simply hadn't the time for courtly matters, so she was no help. There were potent wards around Solitude and Haafingar Hold that needed maintenance – but Sybille had been effective enough to maintain them and help Torygg run the Hold, damn it!
Red-faced from the cold outside, Torygg had hastily shed his layers of coats to be ready to receive a Jarl.
Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of far away Eastmarch, came into the Blue Palace and did not request an audience as he did before.
"Tell the boy king to bring his sword, I challenge him to a duel over the honor he has cost me."
Those were his exact words, according to the messengers.
Now, Imperial law required both parties to consent to a duel before one could take place. Nordic custom required that a duel be automatically accepted, unless the challenged wished to start a blood feud with the challenger.
Ulfric's look, when he issued the challenge allegedly was such that if he refused, Ulfric might try and kill him regardless.
Torygg didn't see for himself until he automatically accepted the challenge, and ignored the objections of his court. He put on only a single coat, and carried his sword in his hands.
In the snowy courtyard, where courtiers could watch beneath the arcades, High King and Jarl met. Their contrast was clear. Torygg was slight, he was short for a Nord, stylish in an Imperial way and more than slightly frightened – Ulfric was tall, he was broad, he wore armor and furs as naturally as breathing, and he had not a speck of fear on his face.
The Jarl's armor had changed – once, it was simple dyed steel. He stood there, in a suit that mixed furs with sections of glittering ice.
Ulfric was an axe man, and carried a steel handaxe. It would give him an advantage in power attacks, at the cost of range and speed. But his true power lay in his voice – his mystic power, old as the Throat of the World.
"I don't understand what brought this on, Jarl Ulfric," the High King spoke, loud enough for all the audience to hear. He drew his sword and tossed aside the scabbard, as he'd seen in plays.
Ulfric watched him, and scowled. "Partly the problem, that." Ulfric didn't draw his weapon as he approached. "You don't see what the problem is. You're so ignorant of the reality of the situation that you don't know why people are angry with you. Why I am angry with you." Ulfric continued to walk forward until he stepped directly into the tip of Torygg's sword. And kept going.
Torygg's eyes threatened to leave his skull as his sword's point proved no deterrent, and Ulfric pushed him back by his blade. The Jarl's pace wasn't even slowed by Torygg, who scrambled to find purchase as he slid backward on the snow and stone.
"This duel is not to the death. Other men, better men, have begged me to spare your life. They paid highly to convince me mercy was appropriate." Ulfric gestured to his new armor. "When one party yields, and the other accepts, it's done. Agreed?" Ulfric didn't need to raise his voice to be heard – a side effect of his queer power.
"Um."
"Then let's begin. Tiid… klo ul!" A distortion in the air, like ripples in water, passed from Ulfric across all nearby surfaces. Ulfric raised his arm and batted aside Torygg's sword with his ice-covered gauntlet. His other hand, balled up into a fist, found Torygg's face in short order. Ulfric's movements were so quick they were a blur, Torygg only processed them in hindsight.
The Jarl's punch sent Torygg slightly up into the air, then quickly onto the ground. Yet he didn't remain there. Ulfric dragged Torygg to his feet by his coat, and laid into him with a punch in the gut.
Around the ringing in his ears, Torygg could hear Ulfric lecture him.
"A Jarl's word is ironclad. Words by a scribe can be dismissed as a mistake, or idiocy. But when a Jarl of Skyrim speaks, it should be as if the land itself speaks." Ulfric used both hands to toss Torygg into a pillar, and introduced his fists to Torygg's belly. "Tiid… klo ul!"
Many times, in blurred motions, did Ulfric's fists find Torygg's belly.
"A year ago, I negotiated a deal to bring Solstheim to you. A gift your forbears gave away, to mer unable to make use of it. You agreed to the terms I negotiated!" Ulfric's face never changed from the scowl he had earlier as he punched Torygg so hard the High King's teeth were lost in the snow.
Torygg stumbled, tried to get away, he'd lost his sword at some point and couldn't recall when. "Higgf heield…."
"Then! Then you break the terms of the treaty. You sell part of the island to the Imperials before there is even a Jarl to consult." Ulfric pursued Torygg like his Hold's totemic animal, the bear: dangerously quick. "And now you try to shackle them to a charter to sell their own ebony. You let the Thalmor loose upon their island – to steal treasures of our history, to threaten and kidnap and commit murder. You have made me a liar!"
"Higff heield!" Torygg threw up his hands to shield his face, all for naught as Ulfric's bloody knuckles punched through his defenses to find their mark yet again.
"You not only break your oaths, but make me party to your oath breaking! As High King, you make all of Skyrim liars! Oath breakers!" Ulfric stopped when Torygg fell to the ground again, his scowl gone. "You should never have been Skyrim's High King – and now, I will make it so you can never be again."
He stepped back, as Torygg scooted away, the snow all around them red with royal blood.
"By defeating you in fair combat, you are no longer qualified to be High King. A new Moot will be called to find a replacement – but you will remain Jarl of Haafingar." Ulfric glowered down at Torygg, pitying. "You should have been given the chance to just be Jarl of Haafingar, before being High King. Balgruuf, myself, even Idgrod would have been more suitable. But the Empire got their hooks into you. And now you pay for it."
Torygg didn't understand what Ulfric was talking about, he was mostly a mess of fear and shame – he hadn't even been able to swing at Ulfric.
"I accept your yield." Ulfric advanced until he loomed over Torygg, his visage cast in shadow by the sun above him. "Don't. Ever. Make me repeat this lesson, Torygg. Goodbye."
As the Jarl's shadow faded from his view, so too did Torygg fade from consciousness. He went into that state confused, afraid, and ashamed.
The physical pain hurt almost as much as the shattered ego.
----
Chapter 1: Frenzy and Calm.
---
Pale Pass
J'Zargo Dovahkiin
Going from one end of the continent to another took a while, as it turned out. Especially when the lands between weren't peaceful.
For a khajiit, travel between the Dominion and Empire was difficult – the perception of being thieves, smugglers, drug dealers cast a long shadow.
As a dagi-raht, he only came up to the chest of the average nord. Those that didn't think him a thief thought him a youngster – until he opened his mouth, anyway. Some were unsettled, some were intrigued, and a worrisome minority were enticed.
J'Zargo had started his journey on Khenarthi's Roost, an island off the southern coast of Elsweyr. His homeland was not stable, as they were asked by their overlords to help slaughter their neighbors – the bosmer. Khajiit and the wood elves had bad blood between them, but a third party's involvement dissolved those old hatreds. Khajiiti support for the pogroms always seemed to cause more delays and headaches for the Thalmor than it was worth.
Which meant his trek from the island to the mainland had been interesting at least.
The human nation next door, the Mede Empire, had been just as chaotic, with the added problems of bureaucracy. J'Zargo had taken the better part of a year to earn the money for bribes, fees, and travel passes.
And it still wasn't enough – he eventually got fed up with the constant stream of 'um, actually' from humans, and signed on with a group to get across the border between warm Cyrodiil in the south and frozen Skyrim to the north.
Technically speaking, they were horse thieves. They stole horses from their own ranches outside the border city of Bruma, and smuggled them across the border to Skyrim – where the horses would be sold to the rebels, and their owners would get a hefty payment from the Empire for the theft.
Economically, it was brilliant.
J'Zargo rode one of the horses meant to be sold to the Stormcloaks, his legs just barely long enough to fit the stirrups. Since most of the ride was 'forward' in the mountain pass, he read a book on the alteration school of magic – Breathing Water, by Haliel Myrm.
"The world will end the spell, no matter how good this one is," J'Zargo muttered as he pondered a similar line in the book.
"Mage, horses are getting spooked," called one of the nords near the front of the line. Her tone was annoyed, J'Zargo had known her to dislike any instance of the two of them interacting.
J'Zargo coated his hand with green fire and released the illusion spell without looking up from his book.
"Yes, that seems to have worked," the same nord spoke, in a monotone.
Later on in the book, the narrator described reality pushing against the protagonist's spells. He didn't feel such from his illusions, so he tried to focus and see if he could perceive what the book described.
"J'Zargo, you got Bianca with that spell again," another nord commented as he moved his horse closer. Sounded like Lokir – the weird one with the aggressively dirty face.
"Khajiit is trying to focus, if you please," J'Zargo glowered at the words on the page. "Sunlight will not last long."
"Uh huh, and if you didn't keep your eyes on the book, our scout wouldn't be totally unbothered by anything she sees for the next few hours."
J'Zargo lowered his book so he could glare at Lokir. Twin Moons, his face was filthy – like Lokir had let a mud mask dry on it. While he kept his eyes on Lokir's, he raised his voice. "Bianca, where are you?" J'Zargo's tail twitched as it swayed rapidly behind him.
"I'm here," her voice replied, monotone.
The khajiit's tufted ears twisted to pinpoint her position, then his arm snapped out and launched a red-white bolt of magic where it had come from.
"Why'd you do that?!" Bianca's voice shifted from a monotone to outrage. "Red light in my face, ugh! You've ruined my whole evening, I ought to stab you, cat!"
"There," J'Zargo smiled, charming despite how irate he was. "She's no longer unbothered."
Lokir looked where J'Zargo had fired, and slowly drew his neck into his shoulders. How turtle-like. "You used the angry spell on her, didn't you – oh gods, she's on her way here."
"Why'd you do that?! When I ask you a question, cat, I expect an answer – now tell me before I bite your tail!" Bianca's voice drew closer, but J'Zargo didn't turn to look at her.
"Lokir was upset that you were so calm, so khajiit cast that spell to make him stop complaining," J'Zargo explained, his smile wider with every word.
Lokir didn't stay long after that – he bade his horse move to the front of the line, pursued by Bianca.
With no nords to bother him, J'Zargo returned to his book. It was only when he scanned the page to find where he'd left off that he remembered – his observations! He snapped his book closed, and started to focus on the magic he'd cast, any minute degradation would be noted – of this, J'Zargo had no doubt.
However, he underestimated how understimulating the Pale Pass could be. Snow, and rocks, and high mountains, and more snow. The Jerall Mountains were tall, with the northernmost spur of the range being Tamriel's tallest mountain: The Throat of the World. This meant next to nothing could live in the high mountains, so nothing could distract J'Zargo from his terrible boredom.
The brightest, most interesting things around were the horses and the smugglers – himself included. With his winter coat fully grown in, he could wear a summer robe still – green with patterns of leaves throughout. The humans and single dark elf in the gang were all bundled up, and the horses had blankets and boots on for the cold weather.
He would rather have his own tail twisted than try to use horses for entertainment. J'Zargo had learned, the hard way in Cheydinhal, horses could inflict serious injuries quickly. He wanted no such fate to befall him.
He couldn't feel his spells fail under reality, even as hours passed and he had to reapply them. The effects just… ended. J'Zargo couldn't feel them weaken, but he knew he should. It was an aspect of magic he had to master, lest he die foolishly – like the character in the book.
Night came, so J'Zargo lost his reading time without progress, a frustratingly common occurrence. They had to sleep in the saddle – as there was nowhere to go to make camp until they got to the Skyrim side of the border.
Unable to read his book, on account of its age, J'Zargo pulled a letter from his bag. The letter which had started his journey. The letter was magic, its ink lit up in the dark – just enough for his khajiit eyes to see.
A letter that validated his feelings, back in Mistral. Of being locked in a cage too small for him. Of being special in his own unique way, that his parents and siblings couldn't bat away. That he wasn't just 'the middle child'.
Come to Winterhold, the letter said. You will find power, the letter said. You are likely an incarnation of a god, the letter said. And it offered proof.
Three words that had changed J'Zargo's life forever. Spoken together, a powerful spell. A deadly spell. One which prompted J'Zargo to focus on control of his power, hence Breathing Water.
That fateful encounter was why he favored lightning spells in combat. Khenarthi's light didn't linger long so he needn't worry about his ignorance of ending spells, or lengthening them.
With the letter had come a ring, enchanted with a regenerating effect. Many times, he'd had to sit in a shelter while the ring healed him from otherwise crippling injuries – and it seldom left J'Zargo's finger anymore.
After reading, and pondering how a wife of Magrus had come to have a male name for what felt the millionth time, J'Zargo folded the letter up. He would get to Winterhold, he would prove his greatness.
Farri Gold-Tooth, wife of Magrus, had no doubts about it. Her scribe certainly didn't – having given them the words to a mighty spell. He couldn't afford to doubt himself, either.
J'Zargo, resolute to live up to their confidence, laid down on his horse's back. When he next woke, hopefully he'd finally be in Skyrim. One step closer to the College of Winterhold, and the greatness that had been seen in him.
-
He woke from the snort of a horse near him. Khajiit flexibility let him pull his feet from the stirrups, stretch, and put them back with minimal effort.
Lokir, nearby, muttered: "Would it kill you to put on trousers under your robes?"
In reply, J'Zargo twisted his torso to stretch his leg skyward, where his robe fell down to his hip, before he sat up. When he opened his eyes, he saw Lokir had a goose-egg knot on his head along with some bruising. "J'Zargo sees Lokir didn't escape Bianca for long."
"Yeah, thank you so much for that." Lokir drove his horse closer to J'Zargo, pulled his fist back and struck him in the head. "Oh, look at that. Now we match."
"Ah!" J'Zargo rubbed his head where the nord had hit him. "Muskarse!"
"We're near the Skyrim side of the border. There's a clearing where the horses can rest, the boss wants you to calm the horses then ride ahead and melt the snow with Mevla." Lokir snapped his fingers and pointed up the road.
J'Zargo narrowed his eyes and flicked his ears back. "Khajiit was told there were no clearings on the Cyrodiil side of the border."
"Well things changed, we need to get off the road for a bit." Lokir shrugged and nudged his horse to fall back. "Hurry up, boss wants it done before the sun's up."
Mentally, J'Zargo knew he should stop the cycle of revenge before it got too far. Emotionally, he immediately gathered red-white fire in his hand for a fury spell to hit Lokir's horse. Only a snowflake in his eye, which made him miss, saved Lokir from being thrown.
J'Zargo's tail lashed like a crazed snake as he laid calm spells upon the horses. In the sky above, the big red moon Jode was new and the smaller white moon Jone was full. Khajiit born that night would be of the ohmes furstock – khajiit that strongly resembled wood elves.
The stars provided little guidance, shrouded by thick clouds that rained snow down upon the pass. And soon they'd be gone, for the horizon shifted from black to rich purple.
"Azurah, khajiit prays for his magic to be strong this day. Khenarthi, khajiit prays for swift feet, and keen ears. Lorkhaj, Moon Beast, khajiit prays to be safeguarded from the Void." In the tween-time, when both sun, moon, and stars were in proximity, prayers would be most keenly heard. So the Moon Bishops back home had said, anyway.
A few prayers before the work day were always good – the worst thing the gods could do would be to say 'no', right?
Past the front of the band of horses, and the other smugglers, J'Zargo rode. Up the pass, he could see the gate – the official border between Cyrodiil and Skyrim. Wood and stone, an empty gate frame wide enough for two horses to walk abreast comfortably.
But at the final curve of the road, within a hundred feet of the border, there was Mevla. An elderly dunmer woman, her hair white from age and her face completely pruned from her years, Mevla was hard at work with fire magic.
Two streams of fire, launched from the palms of her hands, shot out to quickly melt the snow then boil the water left behind. What she exposed was bare dirt and stone. The snow in the pass never grew thin enough for foliage to grow.
Though he didn't like it, J'Zargo did as she did – played with fire.
"Boss has gone soft in the head," Mevla said without prompting from J'Zargo. "Bianca spotted the Legion coming up from behind us, and he wants us off the road to let 'em pass."
"Perhaps this one has gone soft in the head too, he doesn't see the problem." J'Zargo rolled his eyes while he bade his horse walk while he burned. The calm effect kept both their horses from feeling a lick of fear from the flames nearby.
"The Stormcloaks we sell these horses to are up near Orphan Rock, perhaps four hours up the road. We could just keep walking, and the Legion won't catch us." Mevla shook her head, scoffed, and paused her spells for a moment. "And having us clear this is a bad idea. But the Boss wants to risk an avalanche to avoid the Legion. I know how to survive them, so no skin off my ears."
J'Zargo promptly stopped his fire as well. The flames he'd thrown on the ground burned the ice for a while longer, certainly longer than Mevla's by about ten seconds. "How does this risk an avalanche? Khajiit cannot survive them."
"Of course you can." Mevla flicked her wrist dismissively and tugged her hood up with the other hand. "You just use fire magic in one hand to melt some snow into water, freeze it with an ice spell in the other, and create a shelter under the snow. Then you burn your way to the surface when things quiet down." She shrugged.
"Good to know, but khajiit's question was -- "
"Heat spreads out, scuttlehead." Mevla threw some flames and created a cloud of steam when it hit the ice. "The fire we throw on the rocks to clear this travels into the air – and keeps going until it's dispersed evenly. It's the same with the rocks underneath, but they're more likely to shatter from the stress. Put enough hot air out, and you can weaken the snow downwind of you. Where's the wind blowing today, hmm?"
J'Zargo flicked his ears, and scowled. It blew from the south. The way they had came, up the mountain pass toward the Throat of the World. "But… is snowing?" Surely the air was cold enough to tolerate some heat, he thought.
"Makes it worse, really. That can melt the snow in the air, turn it to rain, put extra weight on the snow downwind." She shrugged. "We'll live, so they wanna play stupid games… fine by me."
It wasn't fine with J'Zargo, however. He was fine with taunting or tormenting his fellows – but letting them die? And the horses – innocent parties to the nonsense of the two-legs.
Alteration magic would be the only way to safely, but he didn't have the knowledge of that magic. It was a specialized field, the power to alter the state of the world. Illusion was its twin – the power to alter the perception of the world.
What he had was destruction spells, lightning, fire, and ice. There were other elements in the school – but J'Zargo didn't know them. His mighty spell, his gift, was only good against people.
Snow had already started to dust the cleared areas, and Mevla had gone back to work with her fire magic.
Then, he had an idea. Mevla had told him how to survive an avalanche, allegedly, so he knew he could do something about it.
With fire in one hand, and ice in the other, J'Zargo went to work.
-
Mevla scratched her head as she looked on J'Zargo's work. "Seems… a lot like wasted efforts, you know."
J'Zargo laid flat on his horse's back, his tongue lolled as he panted. "Is… not wasted. If we… live."
All around them were ice half-shells, big enough for the horses. J'Zargo had used ice and fire to create ice, melt it to the shape he wanted with fire, then freeze it again with more ice. All of them were arranged from north-east to south-west. With the snow, they would be invisible from the road, and in the event of an avalanche the half-shells would snap down over the occupants to protect them.
And because he rotated them slightly, they still provided protection from the snow.
Mevla shrugged. "Not sure it'll work, but hey. It's your magicka."
J'Zargo made a rude gesture at her. He panted on his horse, and endured the tingling uncomfortable feeling of being low on magicka. Which meant he was the first person the others saw when they came around the bend.
"Oh, shelters. Thanks?" "We're only going to be here for a couple hours – didn't have to do all this…" "Typical walking rug – can't just do a job and be done, has to get fancy with it." "I'm going in, before he recovers."
His boss and fellow smugglers were of mixed opinions regarding his efforts to spare their lives. One even had the gall to ride up and stroke J'Zargo's ears while he was exhausted! It took all of his strength to hiss and swat at them.
The unridden horses were allowed to rest in the shadows of the half-shells, while their riders took up spots to watch the road for the Legion. J'Zargo didn't have the energy, he rolled off his horse and laid down.
"You like that this one provided shelter, yes?" He asked his piebald mount for the past day.
The horse's reply was to swish their tail, bend down and nibble on his leaf-patterned robe.
"Mara's sake, cat, turn the other way – or put on trousers!" There was Lokir again.
He sighed. "Khajiit hates you all." Then he rolled over, pulled his robe away from the horse, and tried to nap.
J'Zargo's dream was one of those silly ones, the kind he wouldn't remember when he woke up. He was at a costume gala, the sort normally only his parents and older sister would attend. Everyone was covered from ears to tail in swaying silks – their masks were cast in shadows from their hoods and headscarves, with the facial features alight.
He stood at the wall, where servants and children were expected to remain – it's where he had always been, why would his dreams change that?
But then – a group came from the throng of carousing guests. A group of four – three in ridged masks that had closed eye holes, in white red and black. The fourth was a mask of a human woman's face, pale white 'skin', red lips, and eyes that glowed with sapphire light.
"Darlings, he's here!" The fourth figure swept her hand across her face and her mask became a wide, delighted smile. "Oh isn't he handsome, just as I told you?" She moved to stand alongside J'Zargo, and displayed him like a fine piece of merchandise.
"Oh mys goodnesses," the woman in the black mask said as she pinched J'Zargo's sleeve and lifted his arm. "He's is filthy, needs power washings."
The white-masked figure let out a trilling neigh, like an otherworldly horse.
This all seemed perfectly normal to J'Zargo, he didn't resist.
At least, he didn't until the figure in the red mask, taller than the other four, bent down to look at him. Suddenly, the whole gala shook in a rhythmic thump. "Tell me… did their vital essence taste delicious?" The figure said, with a voice that seemed to burn J'Zargo's ears to hear it.
He turned to look at the first figure again, and saw her mask had changed again. Her eyes were red, her mouth filled with needle teeth in a monstrous grin. The rhythmic thumps grew more intense as the teeth drew closer.
A sudden tug on J'Zargo's midsection woke him from his nap – along with a moderately cool breeze. He blinked and stretched then felt the tug again. J'Zargo looked over his shoulder, and hissed then scooted away.
His horse had been eating his leaf-patterned robe while he slept, and had gnawed off the entire garment to J'Zargo's knees in the front and to just below his rear in the back.
"Was your father a goat, damn animal?!" J'Zargo snarled and raised his hand with claws unsheathed to swat the creature's nose on instinct.
"Shh!" A human voice hissed. In hushed tones, Lokir peaked around his snow-covered shelter. "Legion's passing by."
J'Zargo rolled to look around the edge of his shelter, and saw soldiers on the road. Brown leather armor, steel backed with red fabric, horse-drawn carriages, cattle, and hounds. The combined footsteps of many thousands of troops and their animals created many rhythmic thumps, like tiny earthquakes.
He promptly swatted at the horse who tried to come for his robe again. His claw caught the creature's nose, and drew a bead of blood.
The horse, under the effect of the calm spell, didn't react other than to lick their nose.
"Hold!" A distant, unfamiliar woman's voice called. "Hounds are picking up something behind us!"
Trumpets sounded, perhaps an order to halt, so many that J'Zargo had to cover his ears. A hard thing to keep up – because the damn horse still wanted to eat his robe!
Suddenly, there came a single deep tremor that rolled through the ground from north to south. J'Zargo's fur stood on end, his instincts told him to run.
"Stupid Imperials – avalanche!" Lokir shouted from behind his shelter. "Avalanche! Get to cover!"
J'Zargo leaned around the shelter, and saw the reason his instincts told him to flee. Between the Throat of the World and the border, there was a smaller, more jagged mountain – the snow on the south face of it had started to fall and left the black-grey rock underneath exposed. It was far away, but J'Zargo could see the pouring snow from the big mountain knock snow off smaller mountains nearby. It started quiet, but became a deep rumble that rattled the teeth in his mouth. The snow moved as quickly as floodwaters.
He turned away just when he saw a wave of white crest over the border gate, with not a second to spare.
A wave of white crested the gate, the troops, and hit the shelters. So quickly, there wasn't time to react. So loud he couldn't hear the Legion soldiers scramble for shelter. There was a rumble – and then suddenly the half-shell shelter slammed down upon them.
J'Zargo curled into a ball and covered his ears, with the hope the ice he'd sculpted would be enough.
--
Fort Neugrad
Warden Steget
One upside about the post of prison warden – she didn't have to go out and help the auxiliaries try to dig corpses out of the snow after the news about the avalanche came up. There were Stormcloak prisoners she had to manage, tend to, and 'interrogate'.
She was too old, too injured to fight. But she could keep a prison calm and quiet, didn't need two working eyes or all her fingers for that. Being a breton, she could resist any mages that tried to hex their way out, too.
Steget found her jail swell with occupants shortly after the avalanche as they found people alive in the snow. Not many, mind, but they had been shielded from the avalanche by queer ice sculptures. Them, and about forty horses, all of whom had to be put down on account of hysterics that led to severe injuries.
Nine non-Legion personnel were found in the snow, and brought to Steget's prison in the Fort for torture, interrogation, and eventual execution. There was technically the chance for them to be released if they were found innocent – but that wasn't likely to happen.
Entertainment in the Bloodlet Mountains was too rare to waste on matters of innocence or guilt, and the hangings provided such good merriment.
Still, Steget had to catalog what each prisoner brought in. The freezing wretches were tossed into the cells. Neugrad had four cells, so it was two prisoners in each. Among the prisoners was a wee cat-creature, a khajiit. Smaller than a bosmer, so Steget had him put into a gibbet and hung on the wall. The gibbets were meant for children, so it fit. Mostly.
Steget, bulky from training from sheer boredom, had no trouble manhandling the prisoners herself as she stripped 'em bare, and told her quaestors what they had for the records.
"More winter clothes," she told the soft Legionary men who kept the records. She tossed the clothes of the last batch of prisoners over the gap between the cell's metal grate and the ceiling. That way she didn't have to risk them trying to run away. Once they were bare, she started on their packs.
See, without clothes the frozen bastards would be too cold to try anything. The fireplace for the prison was on the floor above, and the cells were right next to the emergency exit – to Neugrad Lake.
The Stormcloaks that had been in the cells already were too tired and cold to try and make a fuss, they were huddled together not to die.
"Would… you prefer if we examined the prisoners, sir?" One of her quaestors asked, as he lowered his board and list. He was the only nord in the group, a local.
"Hadvar, is it?" She looked up from examining a pack, smoked meat from the prisoner's rations in hand. "I'm an old woman, I'm not liable to see the front line again in my life. Let me have this small bit of risk, alright?"
"...Yes, sir," the soft nord said and went back to noting what Steget threw out of the cell. He paused, and pointed his quill at the several bags on the floor. "That is a lot of salt."
"Trying to get around the salt tariffs, probably. That's four years in a labor camp, if we want to put 'em to use," spoke a Nibanese imperial beside him. They started to count up the salt bags, and kicked them. "At least fifty kilos here."
Steget finished her examination of the properly sized prisoners, then went to the khajiit in the gibbet.
Barely conscious from the cold, he didn't put up much resistance as Steget got his things off – most notable being a gold ring that would only fit on Steget's little finger. When she put it on, she felt a wave of relief and warmth in her back and joints. "This has a healing effect," she said and tossed it out for the bean counters.
The cat didn't have much winter clothes – even his smallclothes were silk, with bronze rings at the hips. Not much use for that in Skyrim, they'd have to be used for kindling, maybe the bronze could be melted down for coins.
Bare, the cat was pretty fluffy – cream colored fur with spots in dark brown, black stripes down his limbs and across his face. The cat had tufts on the ends of his ears, and a thin line of a mane from his forehead, between his ears, then all the way down his back to the base of his tail.
With him just as nude as the others, Steget took his pack and started to go through it. "Books, mostly about magic – might need to drug the cat, he seems a mage." What intrigued her was a letter. She read through it, squinting with her one good eye to get the details. "Apparently the cat's got friends in clan Gold-Tooth. Want him to go to Winterhold. Something about… dovahkiin, and thu'um?" Steget folded the letter and tossed it into the pile. "We send that one to the noose first, I think."
Sending more mages to the college behind enemy lines? Madness. Khajiit being dovahkiin, some mortal incarnation of Akatosh? Double madness. The world would be better off without such things.
"Document this all, then take the clothes no one can wear and throw 'em on the fire. I'm going to oil up the pear of anguish." Steget walked to the stairs up to the second floor. "Send for me if any of them need correction."
None of the other new prisoners had papers with a connection to Ulfric's boys, so she was willing to rule them as unlucky bastards, nothing more. Still, the troops needed to see folks hang from a noose on the regular. A poor fate for them, but such were the machinations of the gods.
Up the stairs, she walked into the blessedly warm air produced by the roaring rotunda fireplace. Neugrad was in bad shape, with piles of rubble throughout the fort, the prison was no exception – their biggest pile was immediately to the left of the stairs.
On the other side was Steget's impromptu torture chamber. The room had no door, and was positioned so those who entered from the main door only caught a glimpse, and those who descended the ladder at the top of the stairs didn't see it at all. Acoustics were such that the other prisoners would hear what she did to whomever was on the schedule faintly. Faint screaming implied the torture chamber was further away, and what Steget did was even more horrible.
Dried blood from the prisoner she'd worked over the night before still lingered on her equipment and floor, so she had to clean them.
While she was hard at work on that, she heard the main door open, and heavy footsteps enter. Too heavy to be a leather-armored grunt like her. She dropped the squared-off shears she'd been cleaning and marched to the tower rotunda.
In marched a legate in red-backed steel armor. In the same Imperial style as Steget, but much more protective, expensive, and shiny. The closed-face metal helmet with a vertical crest indicated their rank.
A guest, then, since there was no legate at Fort Neugrad. The senior officer was a praefect.
"Sir," Steget greeted the legate. "Welcome to the prison."
"Such as it is," the legate replied in a Bruma accent. He lifted his helmet and revealed the face of a nord, black haired and bearded with his chin bare. There was frost on his hair, not a good sign. He immediately stood close to the fire. "How many Stormcloaks does your prison have? The praefect couldn't tell me at a glance, and the general needed to know."
General? A general was at the Fort? "Twelve, sir. We had thirteen, but the unlucky soul was sent to the noose this morning."
"Anyone of significant rank? Officers?"
"No, sir. Grunts and messengers all."
"Damn." The legate scowled. "We can only hope Ulfric cares for his men in truth as much as the propagandists say."
Confused, Steget raised her one remaining eyebrow. "Sir?"
"While your garrison been busy digging up people from the snow – Ulfric's boys have been sending troops through Haemar's Pass. Helgen has been taken, me and what forces I could keep alive marched through the mountains to get here. And I was hoping the prisoners you had were valuable enough to negotiate an escape corridor."
"I cannot offer apologies for that sir. My prison only holds what I am told to hold."
The legate rubbed his eyes with his free hand. "You're right, of course. We have no idea how long a siege Ulfric is going to put us under before he's willing to talk – so get rid of any non-Stormcloak prisoners you have tomorrow."
Steget flinched. She wouldn't get to work them over! Dangit! "Do you have a preference as to how, sir? I can spend the night preparing nooses…?"
"I'll send you a two-handed ax from the armory – get a block of wood, sort them out quickly. We don't have the spare food to feed them."
She felt a certain degree of respect for the legate, past that which rank required. He never even considered releasing the prisoners to be an option. Though they would all surely freeze before they got anywhere.
--
Fort Neugrad
J'Zargo Dovahkiin
For a long time, he felt like he was dizzy. J'Zargo couldn't organize his thoughts, nor understand the fuzzy things his eyes saw, the muffled sounds his ears heard. The feeling of being on a ship – a slight rock from side to side, didn't help it much.
"...argo! J'Zargo, come on!" An annoying voice called out to him – Lokir?
"Khajiit doesn't have trousers to put on, piss off Lokir," J'Zargo snarled, but it came out inarticulate and soft. His lips were so hard to move.
"…freezing my bits off here, wake up!" Lokir's voice became clearer, he whispered when he spoke. Just quiet enough to trick J'Zargo's ears into attention on his words.
J'Zargo, by virtue of sheer annoyance, forced himself to rouse so he could inflict some harm on the nord who wouldn't shut up. "When this one sees you, he will… he will…." He began to process where they were.
They weren't on the road, they weren't trapped under feet of ice, they were in a stone structure. J'Zargo felt himself sitting down, and realized he was in a gibbet – his legs and tail slipped through the gaps as he gently swayed.
Directly in front of him were three men in leather skirt armor, common in Cyrodiil, sorting through a pile of bric-a-brac, and writing on clipboards. One of them was in the midst of comparing their foot to a boot J'Zargo recognized as Bianca's.
To his immediate left, there was a row of four cells made from stone and black metal grates. In which were several men and mer. All nude.
A glance downward told J'Zargo he too was nude.
"Please tell J'Zargo we didn't get captured by perverts or Molag Bal worshippers," he said as he rubbed his temples. He spoke softly,
"This is the Legion, so… somewhat better?" Lokir, pressed up to the side of his cage whispered to J'Zargo. He retreated a bit from the cage, and vigorously rubbed his skin.
"By a hair's breadth, perhaps." J'Zargo looked over at Lokir with a raised eyebrow. "Is cold for you?"
"It's not for you?" He looked around, rubbed his skin without any regard to decency. Lokir had to be borderline freezing to react that way. "Can you get us out?"
"J'Zargo is blessed with good fur." He looked around, and noted how the Legion troops didn't even glance their way. Only one of them had a sword, the other two lacked any form of weapon. Foolish, unless they were mages. J'Zargo saw each had a ring of keys on their belts. He looked over the captured people – most were strangers, and Mevla wasn't among them. "And better brains."
One armed guard, and two potential mages. Already a plan formed in his mind.
It would be so easy to wait until they lined up – then to use the great spell he'd learned from the letter. But then he'd live through the effects – as he had no way to stop it once started. The slower, less surefire method would win him glorious acclaim, untarnished by horrifying memories.
J'Zargo watched the Imperials at work, then glanced at Lokir. "Get everyone ready to run. Khajiit will get cages open."
"Akatosh bless you." Lokir turned away and cautiously inched toward the other prisoners while he cast furtive looks at the Legionaries.
After minute to line up the shot, J'Zargo collected red-white fire in his hand and lobbed a frenzy spell at the one Legion soldier with a sword.
When it struck him, the nord Legion soldier stiffened, and let his writing tools fall from his fingers. He glanced at his fellow soldiers, scowled, and began to breathe heavy. With bared teeth, he reached for his sword.
Then the entertainment began.
---
Illusion magic, removed from the restrictions of game mechanics, is terrifying and we would all be better off if we put some more respect on its name.
Ralof is in that pile of nude Nords, by the way. Being a prisoner when supplies are short and manpower is shorter sucks, dunnit?
If you want a picture of J'Zargo for this fic, check out the Project ja-Kha'jay mod on Nexus Mods. They have a screenshot of him! He's handsome.
And while this is not required, I do have a discord, ko-fi, and patreon. I won't provide links to the later two, but they're under the name of Chairtastic. Should be easy to find, yes no?
by Chairtastic.
Summary: A sequel to Clever Craft. J'Zargo Dovahkiin comes to Skyrim, and finds it full of curiosities and power. Curiosity may kill the cat, but satisfaction will bring him back!
Author's Note: This fic is a sequel to another fic, called Clever Craft, saying again because I feel like it. Nyah. Links will be provided to the progenitor fic, and I heartily encourage you to read it so more of this story makes sense to you. But I'm not your dad, I can't tell you what to do.
Clever Craft link: Bwam!
----
Prologue: Shattered be the Oathbreaker.
Blue Palace
High King Torygg
Somewhere, somehow, things had gone so terribly wrong for Torygg.
It had been a lovely winter, just enough snow to stave off fears of drought, not so much that it was required to stay indoors. Elisif, fair queen of Skyrim, wife of the Jarl, taught him winter games she played in mountainous Bruma where it was cold year-round. Torygg ignored everyone who tried to stop him – to Oblivion with what a High King should be seen doing.
Until a messenger ran to him, to tell him the news.
Ulfric Stormcloak came to his city on the first day of the new year, alone. His housecarl was nowhere to be seen, he came to the city by horseback, rather than his ship. Ulfric, tall as a Nord could hope to be and thrice as strong, had the face of a man angry enough to kill.
Torygg had hoped it was a mistake – he made those often, more often in recent times. His steward, Falk Firebeard, had to correct him more frequently. And the Imperial officer who graciously took over the duties of Court Wizard simply hadn't the time for courtly matters, so she was no help. There were potent wards around Solitude and Haafingar Hold that needed maintenance – but Sybille had been effective enough to maintain them and help Torygg run the Hold, damn it!
Red-faced from the cold outside, Torygg had hastily shed his layers of coats to be ready to receive a Jarl.
Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of far away Eastmarch, came into the Blue Palace and did not request an audience as he did before.
"Tell the boy king to bring his sword, I challenge him to a duel over the honor he has cost me."
Those were his exact words, according to the messengers.
Now, Imperial law required both parties to consent to a duel before one could take place. Nordic custom required that a duel be automatically accepted, unless the challenged wished to start a blood feud with the challenger.
Ulfric's look, when he issued the challenge allegedly was such that if he refused, Ulfric might try and kill him regardless.
Torygg didn't see for himself until he automatically accepted the challenge, and ignored the objections of his court. He put on only a single coat, and carried his sword in his hands.
In the snowy courtyard, where courtiers could watch beneath the arcades, High King and Jarl met. Their contrast was clear. Torygg was slight, he was short for a Nord, stylish in an Imperial way and more than slightly frightened – Ulfric was tall, he was broad, he wore armor and furs as naturally as breathing, and he had not a speck of fear on his face.
The Jarl's armor had changed – once, it was simple dyed steel. He stood there, in a suit that mixed furs with sections of glittering ice.
Ulfric was an axe man, and carried a steel handaxe. It would give him an advantage in power attacks, at the cost of range and speed. But his true power lay in his voice – his mystic power, old as the Throat of the World.
"I don't understand what brought this on, Jarl Ulfric," the High King spoke, loud enough for all the audience to hear. He drew his sword and tossed aside the scabbard, as he'd seen in plays.
Ulfric watched him, and scowled. "Partly the problem, that." Ulfric didn't draw his weapon as he approached. "You don't see what the problem is. You're so ignorant of the reality of the situation that you don't know why people are angry with you. Why I am angry with you." Ulfric continued to walk forward until he stepped directly into the tip of Torygg's sword. And kept going.
Torygg's eyes threatened to leave his skull as his sword's point proved no deterrent, and Ulfric pushed him back by his blade. The Jarl's pace wasn't even slowed by Torygg, who scrambled to find purchase as he slid backward on the snow and stone.
"This duel is not to the death. Other men, better men, have begged me to spare your life. They paid highly to convince me mercy was appropriate." Ulfric gestured to his new armor. "When one party yields, and the other accepts, it's done. Agreed?" Ulfric didn't need to raise his voice to be heard – a side effect of his queer power.
"Um."
"Then let's begin. Tiid… klo ul!" A distortion in the air, like ripples in water, passed from Ulfric across all nearby surfaces. Ulfric raised his arm and batted aside Torygg's sword with his ice-covered gauntlet. His other hand, balled up into a fist, found Torygg's face in short order. Ulfric's movements were so quick they were a blur, Torygg only processed them in hindsight.
The Jarl's punch sent Torygg slightly up into the air, then quickly onto the ground. Yet he didn't remain there. Ulfric dragged Torygg to his feet by his coat, and laid into him with a punch in the gut.
Around the ringing in his ears, Torygg could hear Ulfric lecture him.
"A Jarl's word is ironclad. Words by a scribe can be dismissed as a mistake, or idiocy. But when a Jarl of Skyrim speaks, it should be as if the land itself speaks." Ulfric used both hands to toss Torygg into a pillar, and introduced his fists to Torygg's belly. "Tiid… klo ul!"
Many times, in blurred motions, did Ulfric's fists find Torygg's belly.
"A year ago, I negotiated a deal to bring Solstheim to you. A gift your forbears gave away, to mer unable to make use of it. You agreed to the terms I negotiated!" Ulfric's face never changed from the scowl he had earlier as he punched Torygg so hard the High King's teeth were lost in the snow.
Torygg stumbled, tried to get away, he'd lost his sword at some point and couldn't recall when. "Higgf heield…."
"Then! Then you break the terms of the treaty. You sell part of the island to the Imperials before there is even a Jarl to consult." Ulfric pursued Torygg like his Hold's totemic animal, the bear: dangerously quick. "And now you try to shackle them to a charter to sell their own ebony. You let the Thalmor loose upon their island – to steal treasures of our history, to threaten and kidnap and commit murder. You have made me a liar!"
"Higff heield!" Torygg threw up his hands to shield his face, all for naught as Ulfric's bloody knuckles punched through his defenses to find their mark yet again.
"You not only break your oaths, but make me party to your oath breaking! As High King, you make all of Skyrim liars! Oath breakers!" Ulfric stopped when Torygg fell to the ground again, his scowl gone. "You should never have been Skyrim's High King – and now, I will make it so you can never be again."
He stepped back, as Torygg scooted away, the snow all around them red with royal blood.
"By defeating you in fair combat, you are no longer qualified to be High King. A new Moot will be called to find a replacement – but you will remain Jarl of Haafingar." Ulfric glowered down at Torygg, pitying. "You should have been given the chance to just be Jarl of Haafingar, before being High King. Balgruuf, myself, even Idgrod would have been more suitable. But the Empire got their hooks into you. And now you pay for it."
Torygg didn't understand what Ulfric was talking about, he was mostly a mess of fear and shame – he hadn't even been able to swing at Ulfric.
"I accept your yield." Ulfric advanced until he loomed over Torygg, his visage cast in shadow by the sun above him. "Don't. Ever. Make me repeat this lesson, Torygg. Goodbye."
As the Jarl's shadow faded from his view, so too did Torygg fade from consciousness. He went into that state confused, afraid, and ashamed.
The physical pain hurt almost as much as the shattered ego.
----
Chapter 1: Frenzy and Calm.
---
Pale Pass
J'Zargo Dovahkiin
Going from one end of the continent to another took a while, as it turned out. Especially when the lands between weren't peaceful.
For a khajiit, travel between the Dominion and Empire was difficult – the perception of being thieves, smugglers, drug dealers cast a long shadow.
As a dagi-raht, he only came up to the chest of the average nord. Those that didn't think him a thief thought him a youngster – until he opened his mouth, anyway. Some were unsettled, some were intrigued, and a worrisome minority were enticed.
J'Zargo had started his journey on Khenarthi's Roost, an island off the southern coast of Elsweyr. His homeland was not stable, as they were asked by their overlords to help slaughter their neighbors – the bosmer. Khajiit and the wood elves had bad blood between them, but a third party's involvement dissolved those old hatreds. Khajiiti support for the pogroms always seemed to cause more delays and headaches for the Thalmor than it was worth.
Which meant his trek from the island to the mainland had been interesting at least.
The human nation next door, the Mede Empire, had been just as chaotic, with the added problems of bureaucracy. J'Zargo had taken the better part of a year to earn the money for bribes, fees, and travel passes.
And it still wasn't enough – he eventually got fed up with the constant stream of 'um, actually' from humans, and signed on with a group to get across the border between warm Cyrodiil in the south and frozen Skyrim to the north.
Technically speaking, they were horse thieves. They stole horses from their own ranches outside the border city of Bruma, and smuggled them across the border to Skyrim – where the horses would be sold to the rebels, and their owners would get a hefty payment from the Empire for the theft.
Economically, it was brilliant.
J'Zargo rode one of the horses meant to be sold to the Stormcloaks, his legs just barely long enough to fit the stirrups. Since most of the ride was 'forward' in the mountain pass, he read a book on the alteration school of magic – Breathing Water, by Haliel Myrm.
"The world will end the spell, no matter how good this one is," J'Zargo muttered as he pondered a similar line in the book.
"Mage, horses are getting spooked," called one of the nords near the front of the line. Her tone was annoyed, J'Zargo had known her to dislike any instance of the two of them interacting.
J'Zargo coated his hand with green fire and released the illusion spell without looking up from his book.
"Yes, that seems to have worked," the same nord spoke, in a monotone.
Later on in the book, the narrator described reality pushing against the protagonist's spells. He didn't feel such from his illusions, so he tried to focus and see if he could perceive what the book described.
"J'Zargo, you got Bianca with that spell again," another nord commented as he moved his horse closer. Sounded like Lokir – the weird one with the aggressively dirty face.
"Khajiit is trying to focus, if you please," J'Zargo glowered at the words on the page. "Sunlight will not last long."
"Uh huh, and if you didn't keep your eyes on the book, our scout wouldn't be totally unbothered by anything she sees for the next few hours."
J'Zargo lowered his book so he could glare at Lokir. Twin Moons, his face was filthy – like Lokir had let a mud mask dry on it. While he kept his eyes on Lokir's, he raised his voice. "Bianca, where are you?" J'Zargo's tail twitched as it swayed rapidly behind him.
"I'm here," her voice replied, monotone.
The khajiit's tufted ears twisted to pinpoint her position, then his arm snapped out and launched a red-white bolt of magic where it had come from.
"Why'd you do that?!" Bianca's voice shifted from a monotone to outrage. "Red light in my face, ugh! You've ruined my whole evening, I ought to stab you, cat!"
"There," J'Zargo smiled, charming despite how irate he was. "She's no longer unbothered."
Lokir looked where J'Zargo had fired, and slowly drew his neck into his shoulders. How turtle-like. "You used the angry spell on her, didn't you – oh gods, she's on her way here."
"Why'd you do that?! When I ask you a question, cat, I expect an answer – now tell me before I bite your tail!" Bianca's voice drew closer, but J'Zargo didn't turn to look at her.
"Lokir was upset that you were so calm, so khajiit cast that spell to make him stop complaining," J'Zargo explained, his smile wider with every word.
Lokir didn't stay long after that – he bade his horse move to the front of the line, pursued by Bianca.
With no nords to bother him, J'Zargo returned to his book. It was only when he scanned the page to find where he'd left off that he remembered – his observations! He snapped his book closed, and started to focus on the magic he'd cast, any minute degradation would be noted – of this, J'Zargo had no doubt.
However, he underestimated how understimulating the Pale Pass could be. Snow, and rocks, and high mountains, and more snow. The Jerall Mountains were tall, with the northernmost spur of the range being Tamriel's tallest mountain: The Throat of the World. This meant next to nothing could live in the high mountains, so nothing could distract J'Zargo from his terrible boredom.
The brightest, most interesting things around were the horses and the smugglers – himself included. With his winter coat fully grown in, he could wear a summer robe still – green with patterns of leaves throughout. The humans and single dark elf in the gang were all bundled up, and the horses had blankets and boots on for the cold weather.
He would rather have his own tail twisted than try to use horses for entertainment. J'Zargo had learned, the hard way in Cheydinhal, horses could inflict serious injuries quickly. He wanted no such fate to befall him.
He couldn't feel his spells fail under reality, even as hours passed and he had to reapply them. The effects just… ended. J'Zargo couldn't feel them weaken, but he knew he should. It was an aspect of magic he had to master, lest he die foolishly – like the character in the book.
Night came, so J'Zargo lost his reading time without progress, a frustratingly common occurrence. They had to sleep in the saddle – as there was nowhere to go to make camp until they got to the Skyrim side of the border.
Unable to read his book, on account of its age, J'Zargo pulled a letter from his bag. The letter which had started his journey. The letter was magic, its ink lit up in the dark – just enough for his khajiit eyes to see.
A letter that validated his feelings, back in Mistral. Of being locked in a cage too small for him. Of being special in his own unique way, that his parents and siblings couldn't bat away. That he wasn't just 'the middle child'.
Come to Winterhold, the letter said. You will find power, the letter said. You are likely an incarnation of a god, the letter said. And it offered proof.
Three words that had changed J'Zargo's life forever. Spoken together, a powerful spell. A deadly spell. One which prompted J'Zargo to focus on control of his power, hence Breathing Water.
That fateful encounter was why he favored lightning spells in combat. Khenarthi's light didn't linger long so he needn't worry about his ignorance of ending spells, or lengthening them.
With the letter had come a ring, enchanted with a regenerating effect. Many times, he'd had to sit in a shelter while the ring healed him from otherwise crippling injuries – and it seldom left J'Zargo's finger anymore.
After reading, and pondering how a wife of Magrus had come to have a male name for what felt the millionth time, J'Zargo folded the letter up. He would get to Winterhold, he would prove his greatness.
Farri Gold-Tooth, wife of Magrus, had no doubts about it. Her scribe certainly didn't – having given them the words to a mighty spell. He couldn't afford to doubt himself, either.
J'Zargo, resolute to live up to their confidence, laid down on his horse's back. When he next woke, hopefully he'd finally be in Skyrim. One step closer to the College of Winterhold, and the greatness that had been seen in him.
-
He woke from the snort of a horse near him. Khajiit flexibility let him pull his feet from the stirrups, stretch, and put them back with minimal effort.
Lokir, nearby, muttered: "Would it kill you to put on trousers under your robes?"
In reply, J'Zargo twisted his torso to stretch his leg skyward, where his robe fell down to his hip, before he sat up. When he opened his eyes, he saw Lokir had a goose-egg knot on his head along with some bruising. "J'Zargo sees Lokir didn't escape Bianca for long."
"Yeah, thank you so much for that." Lokir drove his horse closer to J'Zargo, pulled his fist back and struck him in the head. "Oh, look at that. Now we match."
"Ah!" J'Zargo rubbed his head where the nord had hit him. "Muskarse!"
"We're near the Skyrim side of the border. There's a clearing where the horses can rest, the boss wants you to calm the horses then ride ahead and melt the snow with Mevla." Lokir snapped his fingers and pointed up the road.
J'Zargo narrowed his eyes and flicked his ears back. "Khajiit was told there were no clearings on the Cyrodiil side of the border."
"Well things changed, we need to get off the road for a bit." Lokir shrugged and nudged his horse to fall back. "Hurry up, boss wants it done before the sun's up."
Mentally, J'Zargo knew he should stop the cycle of revenge before it got too far. Emotionally, he immediately gathered red-white fire in his hand for a fury spell to hit Lokir's horse. Only a snowflake in his eye, which made him miss, saved Lokir from being thrown.
J'Zargo's tail lashed like a crazed snake as he laid calm spells upon the horses. In the sky above, the big red moon Jode was new and the smaller white moon Jone was full. Khajiit born that night would be of the ohmes furstock – khajiit that strongly resembled wood elves.
The stars provided little guidance, shrouded by thick clouds that rained snow down upon the pass. And soon they'd be gone, for the horizon shifted from black to rich purple.
"Azurah, khajiit prays for his magic to be strong this day. Khenarthi, khajiit prays for swift feet, and keen ears. Lorkhaj, Moon Beast, khajiit prays to be safeguarded from the Void." In the tween-time, when both sun, moon, and stars were in proximity, prayers would be most keenly heard. So the Moon Bishops back home had said, anyway.
A few prayers before the work day were always good – the worst thing the gods could do would be to say 'no', right?
Past the front of the band of horses, and the other smugglers, J'Zargo rode. Up the pass, he could see the gate – the official border between Cyrodiil and Skyrim. Wood and stone, an empty gate frame wide enough for two horses to walk abreast comfortably.
But at the final curve of the road, within a hundred feet of the border, there was Mevla. An elderly dunmer woman, her hair white from age and her face completely pruned from her years, Mevla was hard at work with fire magic.
Two streams of fire, launched from the palms of her hands, shot out to quickly melt the snow then boil the water left behind. What she exposed was bare dirt and stone. The snow in the pass never grew thin enough for foliage to grow.
Though he didn't like it, J'Zargo did as she did – played with fire.
"Boss has gone soft in the head," Mevla said without prompting from J'Zargo. "Bianca spotted the Legion coming up from behind us, and he wants us off the road to let 'em pass."
"Perhaps this one has gone soft in the head too, he doesn't see the problem." J'Zargo rolled his eyes while he bade his horse walk while he burned. The calm effect kept both their horses from feeling a lick of fear from the flames nearby.
"The Stormcloaks we sell these horses to are up near Orphan Rock, perhaps four hours up the road. We could just keep walking, and the Legion won't catch us." Mevla shook her head, scoffed, and paused her spells for a moment. "And having us clear this is a bad idea. But the Boss wants to risk an avalanche to avoid the Legion. I know how to survive them, so no skin off my ears."
J'Zargo promptly stopped his fire as well. The flames he'd thrown on the ground burned the ice for a while longer, certainly longer than Mevla's by about ten seconds. "How does this risk an avalanche? Khajiit cannot survive them."
"Of course you can." Mevla flicked her wrist dismissively and tugged her hood up with the other hand. "You just use fire magic in one hand to melt some snow into water, freeze it with an ice spell in the other, and create a shelter under the snow. Then you burn your way to the surface when things quiet down." She shrugged.
"Good to know, but khajiit's question was -- "
"Heat spreads out, scuttlehead." Mevla threw some flames and created a cloud of steam when it hit the ice. "The fire we throw on the rocks to clear this travels into the air – and keeps going until it's dispersed evenly. It's the same with the rocks underneath, but they're more likely to shatter from the stress. Put enough hot air out, and you can weaken the snow downwind of you. Where's the wind blowing today, hmm?"
J'Zargo flicked his ears, and scowled. It blew from the south. The way they had came, up the mountain pass toward the Throat of the World. "But… is snowing?" Surely the air was cold enough to tolerate some heat, he thought.
"Makes it worse, really. That can melt the snow in the air, turn it to rain, put extra weight on the snow downwind." She shrugged. "We'll live, so they wanna play stupid games… fine by me."
It wasn't fine with J'Zargo, however. He was fine with taunting or tormenting his fellows – but letting them die? And the horses – innocent parties to the nonsense of the two-legs.
Alteration magic would be the only way to safely, but he didn't have the knowledge of that magic. It was a specialized field, the power to alter the state of the world. Illusion was its twin – the power to alter the perception of the world.
What he had was destruction spells, lightning, fire, and ice. There were other elements in the school – but J'Zargo didn't know them. His mighty spell, his gift, was only good against people.
Snow had already started to dust the cleared areas, and Mevla had gone back to work with her fire magic.
Then, he had an idea. Mevla had told him how to survive an avalanche, allegedly, so he knew he could do something about it.
With fire in one hand, and ice in the other, J'Zargo went to work.
-
Mevla scratched her head as she looked on J'Zargo's work. "Seems… a lot like wasted efforts, you know."
J'Zargo laid flat on his horse's back, his tongue lolled as he panted. "Is… not wasted. If we… live."
All around them were ice half-shells, big enough for the horses. J'Zargo had used ice and fire to create ice, melt it to the shape he wanted with fire, then freeze it again with more ice. All of them were arranged from north-east to south-west. With the snow, they would be invisible from the road, and in the event of an avalanche the half-shells would snap down over the occupants to protect them.
And because he rotated them slightly, they still provided protection from the snow.
Mevla shrugged. "Not sure it'll work, but hey. It's your magicka."
J'Zargo made a rude gesture at her. He panted on his horse, and endured the tingling uncomfortable feeling of being low on magicka. Which meant he was the first person the others saw when they came around the bend.
"Oh, shelters. Thanks?" "We're only going to be here for a couple hours – didn't have to do all this…" "Typical walking rug – can't just do a job and be done, has to get fancy with it." "I'm going in, before he recovers."
His boss and fellow smugglers were of mixed opinions regarding his efforts to spare their lives. One even had the gall to ride up and stroke J'Zargo's ears while he was exhausted! It took all of his strength to hiss and swat at them.
The unridden horses were allowed to rest in the shadows of the half-shells, while their riders took up spots to watch the road for the Legion. J'Zargo didn't have the energy, he rolled off his horse and laid down.
"You like that this one provided shelter, yes?" He asked his piebald mount for the past day.
The horse's reply was to swish their tail, bend down and nibble on his leaf-patterned robe.
"Mara's sake, cat, turn the other way – or put on trousers!" There was Lokir again.
He sighed. "Khajiit hates you all." Then he rolled over, pulled his robe away from the horse, and tried to nap.
J'Zargo's dream was one of those silly ones, the kind he wouldn't remember when he woke up. He was at a costume gala, the sort normally only his parents and older sister would attend. Everyone was covered from ears to tail in swaying silks – their masks were cast in shadows from their hoods and headscarves, with the facial features alight.
He stood at the wall, where servants and children were expected to remain – it's where he had always been, why would his dreams change that?
But then – a group came from the throng of carousing guests. A group of four – three in ridged masks that had closed eye holes, in white red and black. The fourth was a mask of a human woman's face, pale white 'skin', red lips, and eyes that glowed with sapphire light.
"Darlings, he's here!" The fourth figure swept her hand across her face and her mask became a wide, delighted smile. "Oh isn't he handsome, just as I told you?" She moved to stand alongside J'Zargo, and displayed him like a fine piece of merchandise.
"Oh mys goodnesses," the woman in the black mask said as she pinched J'Zargo's sleeve and lifted his arm. "He's is filthy, needs power washings."
The white-masked figure let out a trilling neigh, like an otherworldly horse.
This all seemed perfectly normal to J'Zargo, he didn't resist.
At least, he didn't until the figure in the red mask, taller than the other four, bent down to look at him. Suddenly, the whole gala shook in a rhythmic thump. "Tell me… did their vital essence taste delicious?" The figure said, with a voice that seemed to burn J'Zargo's ears to hear it.
He turned to look at the first figure again, and saw her mask had changed again. Her eyes were red, her mouth filled with needle teeth in a monstrous grin. The rhythmic thumps grew more intense as the teeth drew closer.
A sudden tug on J'Zargo's midsection woke him from his nap – along with a moderately cool breeze. He blinked and stretched then felt the tug again. J'Zargo looked over his shoulder, and hissed then scooted away.
His horse had been eating his leaf-patterned robe while he slept, and had gnawed off the entire garment to J'Zargo's knees in the front and to just below his rear in the back.
"Was your father a goat, damn animal?!" J'Zargo snarled and raised his hand with claws unsheathed to swat the creature's nose on instinct.
"Shh!" A human voice hissed. In hushed tones, Lokir peaked around his snow-covered shelter. "Legion's passing by."
J'Zargo rolled to look around the edge of his shelter, and saw soldiers on the road. Brown leather armor, steel backed with red fabric, horse-drawn carriages, cattle, and hounds. The combined footsteps of many thousands of troops and their animals created many rhythmic thumps, like tiny earthquakes.
He promptly swatted at the horse who tried to come for his robe again. His claw caught the creature's nose, and drew a bead of blood.
The horse, under the effect of the calm spell, didn't react other than to lick their nose.
"Hold!" A distant, unfamiliar woman's voice called. "Hounds are picking up something behind us!"
Trumpets sounded, perhaps an order to halt, so many that J'Zargo had to cover his ears. A hard thing to keep up – because the damn horse still wanted to eat his robe!
Suddenly, there came a single deep tremor that rolled through the ground from north to south. J'Zargo's fur stood on end, his instincts told him to run.
"Stupid Imperials – avalanche!" Lokir shouted from behind his shelter. "Avalanche! Get to cover!"
J'Zargo leaned around the shelter, and saw the reason his instincts told him to flee. Between the Throat of the World and the border, there was a smaller, more jagged mountain – the snow on the south face of it had started to fall and left the black-grey rock underneath exposed. It was far away, but J'Zargo could see the pouring snow from the big mountain knock snow off smaller mountains nearby. It started quiet, but became a deep rumble that rattled the teeth in his mouth. The snow moved as quickly as floodwaters.
He turned away just when he saw a wave of white crest over the border gate, with not a second to spare.
A wave of white crested the gate, the troops, and hit the shelters. So quickly, there wasn't time to react. So loud he couldn't hear the Legion soldiers scramble for shelter. There was a rumble – and then suddenly the half-shell shelter slammed down upon them.
J'Zargo curled into a ball and covered his ears, with the hope the ice he'd sculpted would be enough.
--
Fort Neugrad
Warden Steget
One upside about the post of prison warden – she didn't have to go out and help the auxiliaries try to dig corpses out of the snow after the news about the avalanche came up. There were Stormcloak prisoners she had to manage, tend to, and 'interrogate'.
She was too old, too injured to fight. But she could keep a prison calm and quiet, didn't need two working eyes or all her fingers for that. Being a breton, she could resist any mages that tried to hex their way out, too.
Steget found her jail swell with occupants shortly after the avalanche as they found people alive in the snow. Not many, mind, but they had been shielded from the avalanche by queer ice sculptures. Them, and about forty horses, all of whom had to be put down on account of hysterics that led to severe injuries.
Nine non-Legion personnel were found in the snow, and brought to Steget's prison in the Fort for torture, interrogation, and eventual execution. There was technically the chance for them to be released if they were found innocent – but that wasn't likely to happen.
Entertainment in the Bloodlet Mountains was too rare to waste on matters of innocence or guilt, and the hangings provided such good merriment.
Still, Steget had to catalog what each prisoner brought in. The freezing wretches were tossed into the cells. Neugrad had four cells, so it was two prisoners in each. Among the prisoners was a wee cat-creature, a khajiit. Smaller than a bosmer, so Steget had him put into a gibbet and hung on the wall. The gibbets were meant for children, so it fit. Mostly.
Steget, bulky from training from sheer boredom, had no trouble manhandling the prisoners herself as she stripped 'em bare, and told her quaestors what they had for the records.
"More winter clothes," she told the soft Legionary men who kept the records. She tossed the clothes of the last batch of prisoners over the gap between the cell's metal grate and the ceiling. That way she didn't have to risk them trying to run away. Once they were bare, she started on their packs.
See, without clothes the frozen bastards would be too cold to try anything. The fireplace for the prison was on the floor above, and the cells were right next to the emergency exit – to Neugrad Lake.
The Stormcloaks that had been in the cells already were too tired and cold to try and make a fuss, they were huddled together not to die.
"Would… you prefer if we examined the prisoners, sir?" One of her quaestors asked, as he lowered his board and list. He was the only nord in the group, a local.
"Hadvar, is it?" She looked up from examining a pack, smoked meat from the prisoner's rations in hand. "I'm an old woman, I'm not liable to see the front line again in my life. Let me have this small bit of risk, alright?"
"...Yes, sir," the soft nord said and went back to noting what Steget threw out of the cell. He paused, and pointed his quill at the several bags on the floor. "That is a lot of salt."
"Trying to get around the salt tariffs, probably. That's four years in a labor camp, if we want to put 'em to use," spoke a Nibanese imperial beside him. They started to count up the salt bags, and kicked them. "At least fifty kilos here."
Steget finished her examination of the properly sized prisoners, then went to the khajiit in the gibbet.
Barely conscious from the cold, he didn't put up much resistance as Steget got his things off – most notable being a gold ring that would only fit on Steget's little finger. When she put it on, she felt a wave of relief and warmth in her back and joints. "This has a healing effect," she said and tossed it out for the bean counters.
The cat didn't have much winter clothes – even his smallclothes were silk, with bronze rings at the hips. Not much use for that in Skyrim, they'd have to be used for kindling, maybe the bronze could be melted down for coins.
Bare, the cat was pretty fluffy – cream colored fur with spots in dark brown, black stripes down his limbs and across his face. The cat had tufts on the ends of his ears, and a thin line of a mane from his forehead, between his ears, then all the way down his back to the base of his tail.
With him just as nude as the others, Steget took his pack and started to go through it. "Books, mostly about magic – might need to drug the cat, he seems a mage." What intrigued her was a letter. She read through it, squinting with her one good eye to get the details. "Apparently the cat's got friends in clan Gold-Tooth. Want him to go to Winterhold. Something about… dovahkiin, and thu'um?" Steget folded the letter and tossed it into the pile. "We send that one to the noose first, I think."
Sending more mages to the college behind enemy lines? Madness. Khajiit being dovahkiin, some mortal incarnation of Akatosh? Double madness. The world would be better off without such things.
"Document this all, then take the clothes no one can wear and throw 'em on the fire. I'm going to oil up the pear of anguish." Steget walked to the stairs up to the second floor. "Send for me if any of them need correction."
None of the other new prisoners had papers with a connection to Ulfric's boys, so she was willing to rule them as unlucky bastards, nothing more. Still, the troops needed to see folks hang from a noose on the regular. A poor fate for them, but such were the machinations of the gods.
Up the stairs, she walked into the blessedly warm air produced by the roaring rotunda fireplace. Neugrad was in bad shape, with piles of rubble throughout the fort, the prison was no exception – their biggest pile was immediately to the left of the stairs.
On the other side was Steget's impromptu torture chamber. The room had no door, and was positioned so those who entered from the main door only caught a glimpse, and those who descended the ladder at the top of the stairs didn't see it at all. Acoustics were such that the other prisoners would hear what she did to whomever was on the schedule faintly. Faint screaming implied the torture chamber was further away, and what Steget did was even more horrible.
Dried blood from the prisoner she'd worked over the night before still lingered on her equipment and floor, so she had to clean them.
While she was hard at work on that, she heard the main door open, and heavy footsteps enter. Too heavy to be a leather-armored grunt like her. She dropped the squared-off shears she'd been cleaning and marched to the tower rotunda.
In marched a legate in red-backed steel armor. In the same Imperial style as Steget, but much more protective, expensive, and shiny. The closed-face metal helmet with a vertical crest indicated their rank.
A guest, then, since there was no legate at Fort Neugrad. The senior officer was a praefect.
"Sir," Steget greeted the legate. "Welcome to the prison."
"Such as it is," the legate replied in a Bruma accent. He lifted his helmet and revealed the face of a nord, black haired and bearded with his chin bare. There was frost on his hair, not a good sign. He immediately stood close to the fire. "How many Stormcloaks does your prison have? The praefect couldn't tell me at a glance, and the general needed to know."
General? A general was at the Fort? "Twelve, sir. We had thirteen, but the unlucky soul was sent to the noose this morning."
"Anyone of significant rank? Officers?"
"No, sir. Grunts and messengers all."
"Damn." The legate scowled. "We can only hope Ulfric cares for his men in truth as much as the propagandists say."
Confused, Steget raised her one remaining eyebrow. "Sir?"
"While your garrison been busy digging up people from the snow – Ulfric's boys have been sending troops through Haemar's Pass. Helgen has been taken, me and what forces I could keep alive marched through the mountains to get here. And I was hoping the prisoners you had were valuable enough to negotiate an escape corridor."
"I cannot offer apologies for that sir. My prison only holds what I am told to hold."
The legate rubbed his eyes with his free hand. "You're right, of course. We have no idea how long a siege Ulfric is going to put us under before he's willing to talk – so get rid of any non-Stormcloak prisoners you have tomorrow."
Steget flinched. She wouldn't get to work them over! Dangit! "Do you have a preference as to how, sir? I can spend the night preparing nooses…?"
"I'll send you a two-handed ax from the armory – get a block of wood, sort them out quickly. We don't have the spare food to feed them."
She felt a certain degree of respect for the legate, past that which rank required. He never even considered releasing the prisoners to be an option. Though they would all surely freeze before they got anywhere.
--
Fort Neugrad
J'Zargo Dovahkiin
For a long time, he felt like he was dizzy. J'Zargo couldn't organize his thoughts, nor understand the fuzzy things his eyes saw, the muffled sounds his ears heard. The feeling of being on a ship – a slight rock from side to side, didn't help it much.
"...argo! J'Zargo, come on!" An annoying voice called out to him – Lokir?
"Khajiit doesn't have trousers to put on, piss off Lokir," J'Zargo snarled, but it came out inarticulate and soft. His lips were so hard to move.
"…freezing my bits off here, wake up!" Lokir's voice became clearer, he whispered when he spoke. Just quiet enough to trick J'Zargo's ears into attention on his words.
J'Zargo, by virtue of sheer annoyance, forced himself to rouse so he could inflict some harm on the nord who wouldn't shut up. "When this one sees you, he will… he will…." He began to process where they were.
They weren't on the road, they weren't trapped under feet of ice, they were in a stone structure. J'Zargo felt himself sitting down, and realized he was in a gibbet – his legs and tail slipped through the gaps as he gently swayed.
Directly in front of him were three men in leather skirt armor, common in Cyrodiil, sorting through a pile of bric-a-brac, and writing on clipboards. One of them was in the midst of comparing their foot to a boot J'Zargo recognized as Bianca's.
To his immediate left, there was a row of four cells made from stone and black metal grates. In which were several men and mer. All nude.
A glance downward told J'Zargo he too was nude.
"Please tell J'Zargo we didn't get captured by perverts or Molag Bal worshippers," he said as he rubbed his temples. He spoke softly,
"This is the Legion, so… somewhat better?" Lokir, pressed up to the side of his cage whispered to J'Zargo. He retreated a bit from the cage, and vigorously rubbed his skin.
"By a hair's breadth, perhaps." J'Zargo looked over at Lokir with a raised eyebrow. "Is cold for you?"
"It's not for you?" He looked around, rubbed his skin without any regard to decency. Lokir had to be borderline freezing to react that way. "Can you get us out?"
"J'Zargo is blessed with good fur." He looked around, and noted how the Legion troops didn't even glance their way. Only one of them had a sword, the other two lacked any form of weapon. Foolish, unless they were mages. J'Zargo saw each had a ring of keys on their belts. He looked over the captured people – most were strangers, and Mevla wasn't among them. "And better brains."
One armed guard, and two potential mages. Already a plan formed in his mind.
It would be so easy to wait until they lined up – then to use the great spell he'd learned from the letter. But then he'd live through the effects – as he had no way to stop it once started. The slower, less surefire method would win him glorious acclaim, untarnished by horrifying memories.
J'Zargo watched the Imperials at work, then glanced at Lokir. "Get everyone ready to run. Khajiit will get cages open."
"Akatosh bless you." Lokir turned away and cautiously inched toward the other prisoners while he cast furtive looks at the Legionaries.
After minute to line up the shot, J'Zargo collected red-white fire in his hand and lobbed a frenzy spell at the one Legion soldier with a sword.
When it struck him, the nord Legion soldier stiffened, and let his writing tools fall from his fingers. He glanced at his fellow soldiers, scowled, and began to breathe heavy. With bared teeth, he reached for his sword.
Then the entertainment began.
---
Illusion magic, removed from the restrictions of game mechanics, is terrifying and we would all be better off if we put some more respect on its name.
Ralof is in that pile of nude Nords, by the way. Being a prisoner when supplies are short and manpower is shorter sucks, dunnit?
If you want a picture of J'Zargo for this fic, check out the Project ja-Kha'jay mod on Nexus Mods. They have a screenshot of him! He's handsome.
And while this is not required, I do have a discord, ko-fi, and patreon. I won't provide links to the later two, but they're under the name of Chairtastic. Should be easy to find, yes no?
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Solstheim
Chairtastic
Anything's a chair if you're brave enough
- Location
- Breakfast nook
- Pronouns
- He / Him / It
Codex: Solstheim
---
A section of a briefing on the Holds of Skyrim, given to General Seneca Tullius on his arrival to Skyrim. Written by Rikke, Legate Augustus of Skyrim.
--
Solstheim
Capital: Raven Rock (provisional).
Jarl: Vasha, khajiit (cathay).
Steward: Mellem, bosmer.
Housecarl: Stirminir Once-Scourge, nord.
Number of thanes: Five.
Color: Dwemer metal orange.
Crest: Two eyes with weird pupils (they kinda look like a vertical eternity symbol? Or two discs overlapping).
Allegiance: Neutral. The Hold is less than a year old, and they're trying to get infrastructure set up. Building homes and farming capacity, along with infrastructure for a society.
Major exports: Ebony, stalhrim (enchanted ice), gemstones, precious metals, malachite, alcohol.
Major imports: Lumber, farming seed, foodstuffs.
Risk: High. Our scouts indicate there is enough mineral wealth in Solstheim to equal the entire economic activity of mainland Skyrim. In gold, silver, and gems alone they could be the most wealthy Hold in their region. With ebony and malachite they get dangerously wealthy.
Forces: Fort Frostmouth is being supplied by House Redoran to ensure the island doesn't fall to Ulfric's boys. Quite possible that Morrowind tries to take the island in the future, recommend all offers of Redoran Guard support be politely declined. Garrison strength: estimated seven hundred fifty troops.
Clan Gold-Tooth has a sizable fighting force and is sympathetic to the Stormcloak cause. They operate both ebony mines, and have the only white-fire ebony smelter in Skyrim, the inexperience of their fighting force is compensated for by their equipment.
Special concerns: Clan Gold-Tooth has access to magic that has been illegal in the Empire for decades, spells of levitation and flight, portals across far distances, and more. Thus far, their mages have remained neutral, but they are expected to defend their home if we should try to assert Imperial control without their consent. Wine and pretty words might be necessary.
Recently, Solstheim was the focus of a dispute with the Thalmor, which resulted in many casualties. The Dominion will push heavily for the Legion to retaliate on their behalf, we must not submit to the pressure or we will see them run to Ulfric.
Werewolves are manifesting from the thin air on Solstheim. They make overland travel between the fort, the town, and the construction sites for new towns incredibly dangerous. Silver is provided by the Jarl for weapons, and he has contracted a specialist fighting guild to combat them. But special-made silvered weapons and armor are all but necessary for any troops sent there.
---
A section of a briefing on the Holds of Skyrim, given to General Seneca Tullius on his arrival to Skyrim. Written by Rikke, Legate Augustus of Skyrim.
--
Solstheim
Capital: Raven Rock (provisional).
Jarl: Vasha, khajiit (cathay).
Steward: Mellem, bosmer.
Housecarl: Stirminir Once-Scourge, nord.
Number of thanes: Five.
- Farri Gold-Tooth.
- Zahkriisos.
- Dukaan.
- Ahzidal.
- Nenya Gold-Tooth.
Color: Dwemer metal orange.
Crest: Two eyes with weird pupils (they kinda look like a vertical eternity symbol? Or two discs overlapping).
Allegiance: Neutral. The Hold is less than a year old, and they're trying to get infrastructure set up. Building homes and farming capacity, along with infrastructure for a society.
Major exports: Ebony, stalhrim (enchanted ice), gemstones, precious metals, malachite, alcohol.
Major imports: Lumber, farming seed, foodstuffs.
Risk: High. Our scouts indicate there is enough mineral wealth in Solstheim to equal the entire economic activity of mainland Skyrim. In gold, silver, and gems alone they could be the most wealthy Hold in their region. With ebony and malachite they get dangerously wealthy.
Forces: Fort Frostmouth is being supplied by House Redoran to ensure the island doesn't fall to Ulfric's boys. Quite possible that Morrowind tries to take the island in the future, recommend all offers of Redoran Guard support be politely declined. Garrison strength: estimated seven hundred fifty troops.
Clan Gold-Tooth has a sizable fighting force and is sympathetic to the Stormcloak cause. They operate both ebony mines, and have the only white-fire ebony smelter in Skyrim, the inexperience of their fighting force is compensated for by their equipment.
Special concerns: Clan Gold-Tooth has access to magic that has been illegal in the Empire for decades, spells of levitation and flight, portals across far distances, and more. Thus far, their mages have remained neutral, but they are expected to defend their home if we should try to assert Imperial control without their consent. Wine and pretty words might be necessary.
Recently, Solstheim was the focus of a dispute with the Thalmor, which resulted in many casualties. The Dominion will push heavily for the Legion to retaliate on their behalf, we must not submit to the pressure or we will see them run to Ulfric.
Werewolves are manifesting from the thin air on Solstheim. They make overland travel between the fort, the town, and the construction sites for new towns incredibly dangerous. Silver is provided by the Jarl for weapons, and he has contracted a specialist fighting guild to combat them. But special-made silvered weapons and armor are all but necessary for any troops sent there.
Ch 2
Chairtastic
Anything's a chair if you're brave enough
- Location
- Breakfast nook
- Pronouns
- He / Him / It
Chapter 2: Drain Vitality.
---
Fort Neugrad
J'Zargo Dovahkiin
"Hadvar? H-Hadvar? Look I'm sorry I put the moves on your aunt – eek!"
"Warden! Warden, Hadvar's gone disgruntled!"
The nord J'Zargo had bewitched, Hadvar, chased after the two of them with his sword drawn and murder written all over his face. His fellows weren't mages at all, merely fools to walk around prisoners without weapons of their own.
While they ran toward the stairs, J'Zargo worked a simple spell. One of the more advanced spells he knew was one which generated ice spikes that could sail through the air and impale targets. Two such spikes he created, but cut the spell off midway, so half-formed spikes fell into his hands rather than fly away. A bit of licking, bending, and freezing, and he had impromptu lock picks.
While he reached through his cage to blind-pick the lock, Hadvar cut down one of the other soldiers. Grabbed the man by the neck from behind, and held him as he drove Imperial steel through his back then out his chest. Hadvar didn't spare the man a second glance, but pulled his sword free to chase up the stairs after the other.
"Good, one died where J'Zargo can get the keys," J'Zargo muttered while he fiddled with the locks. He wasn't a dedicated lockpicking expert, but he was khajiit. Such things were learned when bored back in Elsweyr. Like pickpocketing, craft brewing, and acrobatics – skills to entertain the mind.
"Can't you just melt the lock with fire?" Lokir asked, only to get cuffed by a blond nord man.
"Idiot, iron melts too hot. It'd take hours," the newcomer said. "Help by holding the cage steady." The man had sunken eyes, a gaunt figure, but a strong voice.
"Khajiit would greatly appreciate that," J'Zargo commented moments before several hands came through the iron cage to hold his gibbet in place. Soon enough: "Khajiit has it!" The lock clicked, swung loose, and J'Zargo pulled his legs up to escape.
He stumbled a bit on the landing, but quickly ran for the dying Imperial. With deft claws, he cut the key ring free of the bleeding, gasping man's waist and ran back to the cages. Twenty-one nude men and mer plus one nude khajiit were free!
J'Zargo's compatriots started tearing through the pile of clothes to get dressed again, while others went looking for new clothes. Fortunately for J'Zargo, his clothes were much easier to spot, and he didn't have to argue which set of smallclothes were his. A quick scoop got his books and letter back into his bag, and he was set.
"Khajiit will watch the stairs, help others find anything," J'Zargo said as he hopped on one foot from putting his shoes on. Sadly, his green robe was all but ruined, but that was something he could replace at a town. Hopefully. With spells in hand, J'Zargo stood to the side of the stairs, his ears perked up.
There was a scuffle up top – steel on steel. Then, a confused grunt followed immediately by a pained shout. And lastly rapid steps toward the stairs.
J'Zargo stepped around the corner with ice in his hands – two streams of freezing wind and frost flew from his palms. An older breton woman and the other imperial soldier, both with swords, reacted strongly to the cold and took a step back. The breton, however, grit her teeth and took a step forward through the cold.
With quick thinking Rajhin the Trickster God would approve of, J'Zargo kept one stream of frost on the soldiers, then moved the other to the stairs. Bretons resisted magic, but they couldn't resist friction. Or the lackthereof.
He watched the breton raise her sword in anticipation of a strike, then promptly slip on the icy stairs.
She twisted in the air, fell hard on her side, and bounced down the stairs in an ungainly mess. At the foot of the stairs she groaned, and tried to stand – but as soon as she tried to move her legs, she let out a pained shout and pressed her hand to her hip.
All the same, J'Zargo moved out of her sword's reach. He released the stream on the last soldier and stepped aside.
"Warden, are you alri-heeeee -- " The last soldier, ever so slightly foolish, rushed to the breton's aid and repeated her mistake. Unlike her he landed on his back and fell down the stairs until he was splayed out on the ground.
J'Zargo looked around and saw the other prisoners pulling clothes made from skinned animals – thick with fur still attached – from boxes and chests to put on.
"We're lucky this used to be a bandit camp before the Empire took it over," the blond nord said as he approached. He wore a suit of crudely sewn-together slabs of leather and animal pelts, with simple shoes. "Bandit fur armor is poor, but warm." He kicked the warden in her legs while he talked. "You have my gratitude, friend. I'll pay you back once we get out of this fort." He glanced down. "Probably with something less… moth eaten to wear."
"Horse eaten," J'Zargo corrected. "But this one thanks you all the same." He kept his ears trained on the stairs, even as he kept his back to them. "J'Zargo hopes you know route to escape?"
"I do, but it's about as enjoyable as being an Imperial guest has been." He kicked the woman again, then took her sword when she dropped it. "The prison, where we are, is the furthest part of the fort from the road. We would have to fight our way through an entire garrison to get out – with not enough weapons to go around."
J'Zargo scowled. Of course. That made sense for a prison – make it as painful for prisoners to escape as possible. J'Zargo took the sword from the fallen soldier splayed out on the ground.
"There is a way out, over there." The nord pointed with his sword at a doorway to a hall angled down. "There's a flooded section of tunnel that goes to the lake outside. If we're careful, we could go down and go around south of the fort, to the road. But we'd all be wet, and cold, in the mountains. You have fire magic, friend? Enough to dry all of us? Quickly?"
J'Zargo nodded to the first question, then the second, but made a face at the third. If he had been able to learn spells that enveloped someone in a cloak of the elements, he'd be set. But what colleges he had attended previously weren't interested in such teaching.
"Then we need to come up with a plan. I'm Ralof, well met." The nord bent down and extended his arm.
"This one is J'Zargo. He is sorry he cannot do as you asked." J'Zargo extended his arm, and expected to shake hands as the men in Cyrodiil did – but Ralof reached past his hand to grip him by the forearm. Unsure, J'Zargo mirrored the gesture – with his claws sheathed.
"If we live, you can remember this and make sure it doesn't happen again yeah?" He released the dagi-raht's arm. "The warden mentioned the words 'dovahkiin' and 'thu'um', from your letter. Can I assume you have the Voice?"
J'Zargo didn't know his letter had been read, it had been among the contents of his bag – which he had hastily hidden away. He twisted the gold ring from Farri Gold-Tooth, back where it belonged on his finger. "...Yes, but this one doesn't like to use it. It is… unpleasant to see. And when he uses it, he cannot stop – people hit by it will die a horrible death."
Like a ghost of the past, alive again, J'Zargo could see the altmer prick who had bragged of bedding and discarding J'Zargo's sister suffer from his use of the thu'um. The spell was horrifying to see – fortunately, the letter specified it was to be used on enemies. Celebrimbor had been such an enemy.
Ralof glanced at the Legion soldiers on the ground. "It… is an unclean death?"
J'Zargo glanced at them too. The imperial man was unconscious, with a head wound. The breton glared at them, hateful. "Very. J'Zargo would not use frivolously."
He remembered how Celebrimbor's screams had gone low, lower than a person should ever sound, as the vitality was ripped out of him. J'Zargo remembered how good it had felt, how his mouth was filled with delicious tastes that he hadn't the words to describe.
"Akatosh, dragon of time, may you bring ruination to the foes of the Empire," the breton woman hissed through clenched teeth.
"I would ask you to use it on her, but Jarl Ulfric is hesitant to use his thu'um too. We can deal with her in the old fashioned way." Ralof stepped forward and thrust the breton's own sword into her torso. Right between the ribs, into her lung. "Remember Gunjar? Red-headed boy? You killed him yesterday." Ralof spoke with a soft voice, riddled with a quiet hate that J'Zargo had only heard in Thalmor that spoke of Tiber Septim.
The breton gasped, had her mouth fill with blood, and made one defiant act before she died. She spat the blood from her mouth at Ralof's feet, then went limp. Her eyes wide open as she died, one milky white.
A soft tremor passed through the ground. Perhaps an aftershock of the avalanche.
J'Zargo didn't know if avalanches had aftershocks, but to him it would make sense.
"First thing we need to do is make sure that no one went to sound the alarm, or this unsavory Shout you know might be the only choice, dovahkiin." Ralof withdrew his sword, and bowed his head to J'Zargo before he called out to his fellows. "Stormcloaks! Step forth, we have work to do!"
Twelve of the prisoners, those not from the smuggling group, rushed over with what impromptu weapons they could find – some as simple as loose rocks. Up the stairs they went, with J'Zargo and the smugglers behind them.
Hopefully, they could simply sneak across the battlements to escape.
--
Ralof
Their pain and torment wasn't for nothing.
The dovahkiin had come, at last!
"The warden called that short one 'dovahkiin', read it from a letter out of his pack." "A child? Hope the boy's parents didn't die in the avalanche." "You scuttlehead, what child has a fully developed mustache like that hmm?"
Ralof's troops were quite chatty about it. The warden was right, freezing conditions kept them from escaping – but it gave them a keen focus on what they saw and heard.
"We need to tell Jarl Ulfric." "We need to get out of here, first." "We need to ask the gods why they sent us a damn walking rug rather than a proper nord."
Ralof stopped, and glared at the soft-headed fool who spoke last. No words, just a glare.
The fool held up his hands and quietly stepped back.
"Anyone can be dovahkiin, by birth or by the decree of Akatosh," he snapped as they kept walking. Up the stairs, into the lobby. There was Hadvar on the ground, surrounded by his blood.
Once, Ralof and he had been friends. But then Hadvar chose to stand idle while his countrymen were demeaned, and killed for entertainment. Ralof prayed for him, even as he took the sword from limp fingers and handed it off to another Stormcloak.
"Spread out, find what weapons you can," Ralof ordered.
Their chances were slim. But every iron axe, every dagger, and the odd Imperial steel sword would bolster their chances. Ralof soon traded his sword for an iron battleaxe, and dared climb up to the battlements via a wooden ladder to peak at the state of the forces they found themselves against.
The civilians weren't keen to give up weapons they found, but the khajiit and the dolt from the cell convinced them Ralof's Stormcloaks had the better odds. He heard them mutter about being defenseless while he climbed.
The sight outside wasn't good, he saw as he peaked out. Whatever force the fort had started with had clearly been bolstered – not especially well, mind. Ralof caught glimpses of dozens of tents in the courtyard, and many soldiers with bandaged injuries. The curtain wall between the prison and the far tower was broken by a landslide.
Worse, the wall was alive with archers. Not so much at the prison, because the merlons along the edge had long since crumbled away – and the prison was the furthest point in the fort from the road.
Something in the air had the archers worried, however. It flew so fast, and was so large, it shook the stone of the fort as it passed. Ralof couldn't see what it was.
"We're in luck," he said as he closed the hatch and came down the ladders. "They're distracted by something in the air out there. "We could sneak out, and over the wall down to the ground, but we'd have to do it in small groups."
As they made ready to sort themselves into pairs, Ralof felt the earth shake. It was done in perhaps a second, but then he heard screams from the outside. Indistinct, on account of the stone. What came through crystal clear, however…
"Strun… bah qo!"
...was a deep voice that shook the world.
Dust shook from the roof as a wind's roar kicked up. Many smaller rumblings shifted the ground under their feet. Ralof looked up just in time to see the roof crack like lake ice from some impact outside.
"On second thought, the gods appear to desire haste. Go!" Ralof gestured to the ladder. "Get off the wall and to the lake path as soon as you get out, run for Haemar's pass – don't stop, just run! Talos watch over us all!"
There was a mad dash for the ladder, and Ralof had to shove the few cowards among them into forming a damned line – then to keep to the line. He was proud to be the last one out of the prison – with the dovahkiin and one of his horse thief friends ahead of him.
He dared hope that they could make it, before he saw a blur of black precede a terribly strong wind. Where before he'd seen J'Zargo and the horse thief, there was nothing.
--
Dangerously high up in the Air
J'Zargo Dovahkiin
He had to take in a lot of information quickly. J'Zargo was a clever cat, he could do so without a fuss.
The prison they were in was part of a larger fort? Fine, they would escape. They were in quite literally the worst place if they wanted to escape? Fine, J'Zargo could improvise. Something was in the midst of an attack, which gave them cover to run? Fine, he was ready to get going.
A black dragon revealed itself to be what attacked the fort, and swooped down to snatch away Lokir? Fine, J'Zargo would jump on him and rescue a nord he didn't like very much.
That last one was where his cleverness backfired, typically.
There he was, claws deep in Lokir's shirt while the nord screamed over the whipping wind. He very nearly tore free when the dragon next flapped its mighty wings. The unfortunate part was how Lokir had been grabbed – not with the dragon's feet-claws, but in its maw.
J'Zargo didn't know how to kill a dragon, but he'd foolishly jumped to Lokir's rescue. With the ground somewhere in a general 'down' direction, and no other information, J'Zargo looked into the dragon's eye.
Blood red, the eye looked back, wide and unblinking.
"Gaan…" J'Zargo made ready to use the mightiest spell he knew.
The one word seemed to draw the dragon's attention – it closed its jaw enough to draw blood from Lokir.
"...lah haas!"
From his mouth, a disc of purple flame hit the dragon and kept on going into the sky. Immediately, the dragon let loose a pained roar – which opened its jaws enough for Lokir and J'Zargo to fall.
As he fell, J'Zargo tasted sweet honeyed flavors in his mouth. He felt strong enough to lift a mountain, like he was full to bursting with delicious power. Ideas and knowledge whirled around in his head as he clung to Lokir while they fell. How distance was an illusion, how time could be bent and twisted, how cat claws felt as they went down his throat.
Then they hit the water, and the shock drove such esoteric knowledge from him. J'Zargo could only see bubbles for a time after they landed – and processed that the dragon had been over the lake Ralof had told him about when J'Zargo hit back. Lucky.
He spared only a thought for why the water was warm until a flaming boulder fell from the sky near them. The water quickly became far, far, far too hot, and J'Zargo use his frostbite spell to keep them from flash-boiling.
"Y-you saved me!" Lokir gasped once they were both on the surface. He'd paled a bit, perhaps from shock. "You saved me, thank you!"
"J'Zargo is glad you are grateful – now swim!" He took his own advice and quickly swam for the shore – where a boat was moored to a dock. The dock was on fire at the time, as another flaming boulder had struck it, but a solid two meters of shore was available on either side to get out of the water.
Lokir outpaced J'Zargo's swimming, laying parallel to the water while swept his arms over his head and down into the water with force. It certainly seemed better than the paddling J'Zargo was doing, as Lokir got to the shore long before the dagi-raht.
The delicious flavors in his mouth faded, and the feeling of unlimited power withered away unused. From prior experience, J'Zargo knew that to mean the dragon was dead.
"Don't wait for J'Zargo, run!" The cat shouted as he paddled toward the shore.
Lokir glanced down the road, then back at J'Zargo. Then, with horror on his face, he looked behind J'Zargo, turned, and ran. "It's coming back!"
A momentary rush of air on the tips of his ears, a sudden loss of light – it was all J'Zargo had for warning. Because he was able to process the information, as all clever cats could, he dunked himself under the water and swam straight down.
He felt something brush his tail, much too fast to be another swimmer or a fish. When he broke through the surface, he saw the dragon was still in the air. Black scales that looked acid-splashed, curved horns with wicked points. The dragon wasn't a shriveled up corpse, like everything else he'd used his spell upon.
No mass had been lost – no moisture ripped from its limbs. Aside from a barely-there twinge of purple on its scales, the creature seemed unhurt.
In fact, from how sharply it turned to come around to face him, it seemed the spell had merely angered it.
J'Zargo dove again, and swam below the surface as deep as he could manage. He clung to sharp barnacle clusters to keep himself underwater but still moving. Two times, while he was under, the dragon's shadow passed overhead.
When his lungs burned for air, he dug his hands into the muck to pull himself down, in the shallows. His plan was to wait for the dragon to pass over a third time, then make a break for the narrow lake path.
But the shadow never came a third time. And his lungs burned more intensely still. It became too much, he had to let go of the soil and kick for the surface. He emerged, gasped for air, and flicked his ears around to hear for the dragon.
There was nothing. No screaming, no sounds of battle, just fire and the wind.
He looked up at the sky, nothing – no falling boulders, no birds, no dragons. Just the night sky. He looked around at the fort. A corpse thrown over a merlon was on fire, but no dragons.
"Okay… dragons? Not so extinct as everyone said." J'Zargo pulled himself out of the water, and was rudely reminded that while flaming rocks had heated the boulders, the air was still cold. He moved next to the flaming dock to warm himself quickly. "And… surprisingly resistant to magic?"
J'Zargo looked down the lake path and saw no one there. Nobody. Not even corpses. As he looked, a section of the curtain wall crumbled and fell into the path as rubble.
"And… they can destroy entire garrisoned forts with ease. Khajiit is grateful there are none in Elsweyr."
He was free, and alive. In a country he didn't know well, with a waterproof bag and the clothes on his back. Within a few minutes, he was dry.
"Moons rise in the east, winds blow to the north." J'Zargo looked up at the sky, felt the wind, and pointed where he needed to go. "...This one wishes he was less scrupulous about eating charred humans." He started to trudge up the path, while his stomach growled.
---
Behold! Art of the Solstheim Hold symbol, done by a coolio duder – johnnox.bsky.social. For some places I post, it will be the story art, but otherwise I will link it here. Bwah!
---
Fort Neugrad
J'Zargo Dovahkiin
"Hadvar? H-Hadvar? Look I'm sorry I put the moves on your aunt – eek!"
"Warden! Warden, Hadvar's gone disgruntled!"
The nord J'Zargo had bewitched, Hadvar, chased after the two of them with his sword drawn and murder written all over his face. His fellows weren't mages at all, merely fools to walk around prisoners without weapons of their own.
While they ran toward the stairs, J'Zargo worked a simple spell. One of the more advanced spells he knew was one which generated ice spikes that could sail through the air and impale targets. Two such spikes he created, but cut the spell off midway, so half-formed spikes fell into his hands rather than fly away. A bit of licking, bending, and freezing, and he had impromptu lock picks.
While he reached through his cage to blind-pick the lock, Hadvar cut down one of the other soldiers. Grabbed the man by the neck from behind, and held him as he drove Imperial steel through his back then out his chest. Hadvar didn't spare the man a second glance, but pulled his sword free to chase up the stairs after the other.
"Good, one died where J'Zargo can get the keys," J'Zargo muttered while he fiddled with the locks. He wasn't a dedicated lockpicking expert, but he was khajiit. Such things were learned when bored back in Elsweyr. Like pickpocketing, craft brewing, and acrobatics – skills to entertain the mind.
"Can't you just melt the lock with fire?" Lokir asked, only to get cuffed by a blond nord man.
"Idiot, iron melts too hot. It'd take hours," the newcomer said. "Help by holding the cage steady." The man had sunken eyes, a gaunt figure, but a strong voice.
"Khajiit would greatly appreciate that," J'Zargo commented moments before several hands came through the iron cage to hold his gibbet in place. Soon enough: "Khajiit has it!" The lock clicked, swung loose, and J'Zargo pulled his legs up to escape.
He stumbled a bit on the landing, but quickly ran for the dying Imperial. With deft claws, he cut the key ring free of the bleeding, gasping man's waist and ran back to the cages. Twenty-one nude men and mer plus one nude khajiit were free!
J'Zargo's compatriots started tearing through the pile of clothes to get dressed again, while others went looking for new clothes. Fortunately for J'Zargo, his clothes were much easier to spot, and he didn't have to argue which set of smallclothes were his. A quick scoop got his books and letter back into his bag, and he was set.
"Khajiit will watch the stairs, help others find anything," J'Zargo said as he hopped on one foot from putting his shoes on. Sadly, his green robe was all but ruined, but that was something he could replace at a town. Hopefully. With spells in hand, J'Zargo stood to the side of the stairs, his ears perked up.
There was a scuffle up top – steel on steel. Then, a confused grunt followed immediately by a pained shout. And lastly rapid steps toward the stairs.
J'Zargo stepped around the corner with ice in his hands – two streams of freezing wind and frost flew from his palms. An older breton woman and the other imperial soldier, both with swords, reacted strongly to the cold and took a step back. The breton, however, grit her teeth and took a step forward through the cold.
With quick thinking Rajhin the Trickster God would approve of, J'Zargo kept one stream of frost on the soldiers, then moved the other to the stairs. Bretons resisted magic, but they couldn't resist friction. Or the lackthereof.
He watched the breton raise her sword in anticipation of a strike, then promptly slip on the icy stairs.
She twisted in the air, fell hard on her side, and bounced down the stairs in an ungainly mess. At the foot of the stairs she groaned, and tried to stand – but as soon as she tried to move her legs, she let out a pained shout and pressed her hand to her hip.
All the same, J'Zargo moved out of her sword's reach. He released the stream on the last soldier and stepped aside.
"Warden, are you alri-heeeee -- " The last soldier, ever so slightly foolish, rushed to the breton's aid and repeated her mistake. Unlike her he landed on his back and fell down the stairs until he was splayed out on the ground.
J'Zargo looked around and saw the other prisoners pulling clothes made from skinned animals – thick with fur still attached – from boxes and chests to put on.
"We're lucky this used to be a bandit camp before the Empire took it over," the blond nord said as he approached. He wore a suit of crudely sewn-together slabs of leather and animal pelts, with simple shoes. "Bandit fur armor is poor, but warm." He kicked the warden in her legs while he talked. "You have my gratitude, friend. I'll pay you back once we get out of this fort." He glanced down. "Probably with something less… moth eaten to wear."
"Horse eaten," J'Zargo corrected. "But this one thanks you all the same." He kept his ears trained on the stairs, even as he kept his back to them. "J'Zargo hopes you know route to escape?"
"I do, but it's about as enjoyable as being an Imperial guest has been." He kicked the woman again, then took her sword when she dropped it. "The prison, where we are, is the furthest part of the fort from the road. We would have to fight our way through an entire garrison to get out – with not enough weapons to go around."
J'Zargo scowled. Of course. That made sense for a prison – make it as painful for prisoners to escape as possible. J'Zargo took the sword from the fallen soldier splayed out on the ground.
"There is a way out, over there." The nord pointed with his sword at a doorway to a hall angled down. "There's a flooded section of tunnel that goes to the lake outside. If we're careful, we could go down and go around south of the fort, to the road. But we'd all be wet, and cold, in the mountains. You have fire magic, friend? Enough to dry all of us? Quickly?"
J'Zargo nodded to the first question, then the second, but made a face at the third. If he had been able to learn spells that enveloped someone in a cloak of the elements, he'd be set. But what colleges he had attended previously weren't interested in such teaching.
"Then we need to come up with a plan. I'm Ralof, well met." The nord bent down and extended his arm.
"This one is J'Zargo. He is sorry he cannot do as you asked." J'Zargo extended his arm, and expected to shake hands as the men in Cyrodiil did – but Ralof reached past his hand to grip him by the forearm. Unsure, J'Zargo mirrored the gesture – with his claws sheathed.
"If we live, you can remember this and make sure it doesn't happen again yeah?" He released the dagi-raht's arm. "The warden mentioned the words 'dovahkiin' and 'thu'um', from your letter. Can I assume you have the Voice?"
J'Zargo didn't know his letter had been read, it had been among the contents of his bag – which he had hastily hidden away. He twisted the gold ring from Farri Gold-Tooth, back where it belonged on his finger. "...Yes, but this one doesn't like to use it. It is… unpleasant to see. And when he uses it, he cannot stop – people hit by it will die a horrible death."
Like a ghost of the past, alive again, J'Zargo could see the altmer prick who had bragged of bedding and discarding J'Zargo's sister suffer from his use of the thu'um. The spell was horrifying to see – fortunately, the letter specified it was to be used on enemies. Celebrimbor had been such an enemy.
Ralof glanced at the Legion soldiers on the ground. "It… is an unclean death?"
J'Zargo glanced at them too. The imperial man was unconscious, with a head wound. The breton glared at them, hateful. "Very. J'Zargo would not use frivolously."
He remembered how Celebrimbor's screams had gone low, lower than a person should ever sound, as the vitality was ripped out of him. J'Zargo remembered how good it had felt, how his mouth was filled with delicious tastes that he hadn't the words to describe.
"Akatosh, dragon of time, may you bring ruination to the foes of the Empire," the breton woman hissed through clenched teeth.
"I would ask you to use it on her, but Jarl Ulfric is hesitant to use his thu'um too. We can deal with her in the old fashioned way." Ralof stepped forward and thrust the breton's own sword into her torso. Right between the ribs, into her lung. "Remember Gunjar? Red-headed boy? You killed him yesterday." Ralof spoke with a soft voice, riddled with a quiet hate that J'Zargo had only heard in Thalmor that spoke of Tiber Septim.
The breton gasped, had her mouth fill with blood, and made one defiant act before she died. She spat the blood from her mouth at Ralof's feet, then went limp. Her eyes wide open as she died, one milky white.
A soft tremor passed through the ground. Perhaps an aftershock of the avalanche.
J'Zargo didn't know if avalanches had aftershocks, but to him it would make sense.
"First thing we need to do is make sure that no one went to sound the alarm, or this unsavory Shout you know might be the only choice, dovahkiin." Ralof withdrew his sword, and bowed his head to J'Zargo before he called out to his fellows. "Stormcloaks! Step forth, we have work to do!"
Twelve of the prisoners, those not from the smuggling group, rushed over with what impromptu weapons they could find – some as simple as loose rocks. Up the stairs they went, with J'Zargo and the smugglers behind them.
Hopefully, they could simply sneak across the battlements to escape.
--
Ralof
Their pain and torment wasn't for nothing.
The dovahkiin had come, at last!
"The warden called that short one 'dovahkiin', read it from a letter out of his pack." "A child? Hope the boy's parents didn't die in the avalanche." "You scuttlehead, what child has a fully developed mustache like that hmm?"
Ralof's troops were quite chatty about it. The warden was right, freezing conditions kept them from escaping – but it gave them a keen focus on what they saw and heard.
"We need to tell Jarl Ulfric." "We need to get out of here, first." "We need to ask the gods why they sent us a damn walking rug rather than a proper nord."
Ralof stopped, and glared at the soft-headed fool who spoke last. No words, just a glare.
The fool held up his hands and quietly stepped back.
"Anyone can be dovahkiin, by birth or by the decree of Akatosh," he snapped as they kept walking. Up the stairs, into the lobby. There was Hadvar on the ground, surrounded by his blood.
Once, Ralof and he had been friends. But then Hadvar chose to stand idle while his countrymen were demeaned, and killed for entertainment. Ralof prayed for him, even as he took the sword from limp fingers and handed it off to another Stormcloak.
"Spread out, find what weapons you can," Ralof ordered.
Their chances were slim. But every iron axe, every dagger, and the odd Imperial steel sword would bolster their chances. Ralof soon traded his sword for an iron battleaxe, and dared climb up to the battlements via a wooden ladder to peak at the state of the forces they found themselves against.
The civilians weren't keen to give up weapons they found, but the khajiit and the dolt from the cell convinced them Ralof's Stormcloaks had the better odds. He heard them mutter about being defenseless while he climbed.
The sight outside wasn't good, he saw as he peaked out. Whatever force the fort had started with had clearly been bolstered – not especially well, mind. Ralof caught glimpses of dozens of tents in the courtyard, and many soldiers with bandaged injuries. The curtain wall between the prison and the far tower was broken by a landslide.
Worse, the wall was alive with archers. Not so much at the prison, because the merlons along the edge had long since crumbled away – and the prison was the furthest point in the fort from the road.
Something in the air had the archers worried, however. It flew so fast, and was so large, it shook the stone of the fort as it passed. Ralof couldn't see what it was.
"We're in luck," he said as he closed the hatch and came down the ladders. "They're distracted by something in the air out there. "We could sneak out, and over the wall down to the ground, but we'd have to do it in small groups."
As they made ready to sort themselves into pairs, Ralof felt the earth shake. It was done in perhaps a second, but then he heard screams from the outside. Indistinct, on account of the stone. What came through crystal clear, however…
"Strun… bah qo!"
...was a deep voice that shook the world.
Dust shook from the roof as a wind's roar kicked up. Many smaller rumblings shifted the ground under their feet. Ralof looked up just in time to see the roof crack like lake ice from some impact outside.
"On second thought, the gods appear to desire haste. Go!" Ralof gestured to the ladder. "Get off the wall and to the lake path as soon as you get out, run for Haemar's pass – don't stop, just run! Talos watch over us all!"
There was a mad dash for the ladder, and Ralof had to shove the few cowards among them into forming a damned line – then to keep to the line. He was proud to be the last one out of the prison – with the dovahkiin and one of his horse thief friends ahead of him.
He dared hope that they could make it, before he saw a blur of black precede a terribly strong wind. Where before he'd seen J'Zargo and the horse thief, there was nothing.
--
Dangerously high up in the Air
J'Zargo Dovahkiin
He had to take in a lot of information quickly. J'Zargo was a clever cat, he could do so without a fuss.
The prison they were in was part of a larger fort? Fine, they would escape. They were in quite literally the worst place if they wanted to escape? Fine, J'Zargo could improvise. Something was in the midst of an attack, which gave them cover to run? Fine, he was ready to get going.
A black dragon revealed itself to be what attacked the fort, and swooped down to snatch away Lokir? Fine, J'Zargo would jump on him and rescue a nord he didn't like very much.
That last one was where his cleverness backfired, typically.
There he was, claws deep in Lokir's shirt while the nord screamed over the whipping wind. He very nearly tore free when the dragon next flapped its mighty wings. The unfortunate part was how Lokir had been grabbed – not with the dragon's feet-claws, but in its maw.
J'Zargo didn't know how to kill a dragon, but he'd foolishly jumped to Lokir's rescue. With the ground somewhere in a general 'down' direction, and no other information, J'Zargo looked into the dragon's eye.
Blood red, the eye looked back, wide and unblinking.
"Gaan…" J'Zargo made ready to use the mightiest spell he knew.
The one word seemed to draw the dragon's attention – it closed its jaw enough to draw blood from Lokir.
"...lah haas!"
From his mouth, a disc of purple flame hit the dragon and kept on going into the sky. Immediately, the dragon let loose a pained roar – which opened its jaws enough for Lokir and J'Zargo to fall.
As he fell, J'Zargo tasted sweet honeyed flavors in his mouth. He felt strong enough to lift a mountain, like he was full to bursting with delicious power. Ideas and knowledge whirled around in his head as he clung to Lokir while they fell. How distance was an illusion, how time could be bent and twisted, how cat claws felt as they went down his throat.
Then they hit the water, and the shock drove such esoteric knowledge from him. J'Zargo could only see bubbles for a time after they landed – and processed that the dragon had been over the lake Ralof had told him about when J'Zargo hit back. Lucky.
He spared only a thought for why the water was warm until a flaming boulder fell from the sky near them. The water quickly became far, far, far too hot, and J'Zargo use his frostbite spell to keep them from flash-boiling.
"Y-you saved me!" Lokir gasped once they were both on the surface. He'd paled a bit, perhaps from shock. "You saved me, thank you!"
"J'Zargo is glad you are grateful – now swim!" He took his own advice and quickly swam for the shore – where a boat was moored to a dock. The dock was on fire at the time, as another flaming boulder had struck it, but a solid two meters of shore was available on either side to get out of the water.
Lokir outpaced J'Zargo's swimming, laying parallel to the water while swept his arms over his head and down into the water with force. It certainly seemed better than the paddling J'Zargo was doing, as Lokir got to the shore long before the dagi-raht.
The delicious flavors in his mouth faded, and the feeling of unlimited power withered away unused. From prior experience, J'Zargo knew that to mean the dragon was dead.
"Don't wait for J'Zargo, run!" The cat shouted as he paddled toward the shore.
Lokir glanced down the road, then back at J'Zargo. Then, with horror on his face, he looked behind J'Zargo, turned, and ran. "It's coming back!"
A momentary rush of air on the tips of his ears, a sudden loss of light – it was all J'Zargo had for warning. Because he was able to process the information, as all clever cats could, he dunked himself under the water and swam straight down.
He felt something brush his tail, much too fast to be another swimmer or a fish. When he broke through the surface, he saw the dragon was still in the air. Black scales that looked acid-splashed, curved horns with wicked points. The dragon wasn't a shriveled up corpse, like everything else he'd used his spell upon.
No mass had been lost – no moisture ripped from its limbs. Aside from a barely-there twinge of purple on its scales, the creature seemed unhurt.
In fact, from how sharply it turned to come around to face him, it seemed the spell had merely angered it.
J'Zargo dove again, and swam below the surface as deep as he could manage. He clung to sharp barnacle clusters to keep himself underwater but still moving. Two times, while he was under, the dragon's shadow passed overhead.
When his lungs burned for air, he dug his hands into the muck to pull himself down, in the shallows. His plan was to wait for the dragon to pass over a third time, then make a break for the narrow lake path.
But the shadow never came a third time. And his lungs burned more intensely still. It became too much, he had to let go of the soil and kick for the surface. He emerged, gasped for air, and flicked his ears around to hear for the dragon.
There was nothing. No screaming, no sounds of battle, just fire and the wind.
He looked up at the sky, nothing – no falling boulders, no birds, no dragons. Just the night sky. He looked around at the fort. A corpse thrown over a merlon was on fire, but no dragons.
"Okay… dragons? Not so extinct as everyone said." J'Zargo pulled himself out of the water, and was rudely reminded that while flaming rocks had heated the boulders, the air was still cold. He moved next to the flaming dock to warm himself quickly. "And… surprisingly resistant to magic?"
J'Zargo looked down the lake path and saw no one there. Nobody. Not even corpses. As he looked, a section of the curtain wall crumbled and fell into the path as rubble.
"And… they can destroy entire garrisoned forts with ease. Khajiit is grateful there are none in Elsweyr."
He was free, and alive. In a country he didn't know well, with a waterproof bag and the clothes on his back. Within a few minutes, he was dry.
"Moons rise in the east, winds blow to the north." J'Zargo looked up at the sky, felt the wind, and pointed where he needed to go. "...This one wishes he was less scrupulous about eating charred humans." He started to trudge up the path, while his stomach growled.
---
Behold! Art of the Solstheim Hold symbol, done by a coolio duder – johnnox.bsky.social. For some places I post, it will be the story art, but otherwise I will link it here. Bwah!
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The Rift
Chairtastic
Anything's a chair if you're brave enough
- Location
- Breakfast nook
- Pronouns
- He / Him / It
Codex: The Rift
---
A section of a briefing on the Holds of Skyrim, given to General Seneca Tullius on his arrival to Skyrim. Written by Rikke, Legate Augustus of Skyrim.
--
The Rift
Capital: Riften.
Jarl: Laila Law-Giver, nord.
Steward: Anuriel, bosmer.
Housecarl Unmid Snow-Shod, nord.
Number of thanes: Three.
Color: Purple.
Crest: Two crossed daggers.
Major exports: Foodstuffs, ebony ore, iron ore, lumber.
Major imports: Corundum ore, glass, kwama eggs (I don't know what those are either, sir).
Risk: Medium-high. The Rift is the Stormcloak's breadbasket. They have the most productive farms and have access to desperate dunmeri immigrants to work them. The Rift's food production is enough to supply the whole of Skyrim if necessary.
Forces: Legate Fasendil commands what few forces we have in the region. Their focus is on scouting and being unseen. Estimated strength: twenty-one.
The Rift's military strength is evenly divided throughout the Hold across the roads and the few remaining settlements. No one area is more protected than the others, not even Riften. Manpower in one location should be indicative of manpower in others.
A militant order of vampire hunters has taken over an abandoned fort in a canyon near the Morrowind border. They aren't directly tied to the Stormcloaks, but several prominent noble families have made contributions of supplies and funds to their order. So far we cannot prove that Ulfric's boys provide support to them or vice versa.
Fort Greenwall is built directly over the road north of Riften. Previously occupied by bandits, adventurers cleared it out recently and allowed the Jarl to post guards there. However the fort is badly damaged, and in need of repair. It seems every week we receive news that another crumbling ruin is cleared, and garrisoned. Hence the split in the Rift's forces.
Special Concerns: The Thieves Guild of Skyrim was historically based in Riften, though its continued presence there was unconfirmed before the Hold turned rebel. Special care must be taken when military action against the Rift is concerned for fear of sabotage.
Maven Black-Briar is economically powerful and well-connected. She has a reputation throughout Skyrim as a vicious businesswoman. However, she is the last such person in her family – her heirs are not fit to take over her business. While she lives, she represents an economic weapon which the Jarl could use against us. However, she has been receptive to Imperial elements and could turn for us if offered something enticing.
One of the Jarl's sons, Saerlund, is a vocal supporter of reconciliation with the Empire and is due to inherit the Pale Hold given the Jarl there has no heirs.
---
Don't worry, we'll get to journal entries soon!
---
A section of a briefing on the Holds of Skyrim, given to General Seneca Tullius on his arrival to Skyrim. Written by Rikke, Legate Augustus of Skyrim.
--
The Rift
Capital: Riften.
Jarl: Laila Law-Giver, nord.
Steward: Anuriel, bosmer.
Housecarl Unmid Snow-Shod, nord.
Number of thanes: Three.
- Maven Black-Briar.
- Vulwulf Snow-Shod.
- Mjoll the Lioness.
Color: Purple.
Crest: Two crossed daggers.
Major exports: Foodstuffs, ebony ore, iron ore, lumber.
Major imports: Corundum ore, glass, kwama eggs (I don't know what those are either, sir).
Risk: Medium-high. The Rift is the Stormcloak's breadbasket. They have the most productive farms and have access to desperate dunmeri immigrants to work them. The Rift's food production is enough to supply the whole of Skyrim if necessary.
Forces: Legate Fasendil commands what few forces we have in the region. Their focus is on scouting and being unseen. Estimated strength: twenty-one.
The Rift's military strength is evenly divided throughout the Hold across the roads and the few remaining settlements. No one area is more protected than the others, not even Riften. Manpower in one location should be indicative of manpower in others.
A militant order of vampire hunters has taken over an abandoned fort in a canyon near the Morrowind border. They aren't directly tied to the Stormcloaks, but several prominent noble families have made contributions of supplies and funds to their order. So far we cannot prove that Ulfric's boys provide support to them or vice versa.
Fort Greenwall is built directly over the road north of Riften. Previously occupied by bandits, adventurers cleared it out recently and allowed the Jarl to post guards there. However the fort is badly damaged, and in need of repair. It seems every week we receive news that another crumbling ruin is cleared, and garrisoned. Hence the split in the Rift's forces.
Special Concerns: The Thieves Guild of Skyrim was historically based in Riften, though its continued presence there was unconfirmed before the Hold turned rebel. Special care must be taken when military action against the Rift is concerned for fear of sabotage.
Maven Black-Briar is economically powerful and well-connected. She has a reputation throughout Skyrim as a vicious businesswoman. However, she is the last such person in her family – her heirs are not fit to take over her business. While she lives, she represents an economic weapon which the Jarl could use against us. However, she has been receptive to Imperial elements and could turn for us if offered something enticing.
One of the Jarl's sons, Saerlund, is a vocal supporter of reconciliation with the Empire and is due to inherit the Pale Hold given the Jarl there has no heirs.
---
Don't worry, we'll get to journal entries soon!
Ch 3
New
Chairtastic
Anything's a chair if you're brave enough
- Location
- Breakfast nook
- Pronouns
- He / Him / It
Chapter 3: The thorny path.
---
Helgen
J'Zargo Dovahkiin
On the snowy road, he'd encountered no one. Not unexpected, the road was cold even for him with his thick fur – on account of his horse-eaten robes. He'd passed corpses, many Legion soldiers with horrible burns that spelled their doom, but no one alive.
It gave him time to parse what had happened. What he'd seen, what he'd experienced.
When he created the shelters, specifically for the avalanche, he didn't anticipate how the horses would react when they couldn't move. His poor steed had thrashed about in the confinement – legs broken by the shelter and the hard ground.
Such thrashing would have crushed J'Zargo if he didn't put a stop to it. He'd cast calm on the creature – and waited for it to bleed out.
A slight slope in the ground meant he hadn't had to linger in the dark, with the corpse, coated in its blood. But he was unable to escape the knowledge of the rotting carcass nearby, until he'd been rescued. In a dark so deep that there was no light for his eyes to catch; pitch black, as men and mer would say.
That kind of darkness, J'Zargo had escaped mostly in his life. Moons, stars, and mages provided light as necessary, even if only tiny amounts. In the shelter, with the corpse of a horse, was the first time he'd experienced darkness that deep.
He was smaller than anyone else in the group, and even he'd been cramped, he couldn't imagine how some of the larger people had endured.
The road naturally curved to the north and the west, until a fortified wall was just at the edge of J'Zargo's vision. How the smuggled horses would have avoided being spotted by sentries was something he considered as he approached.
What he came upon was a stone gate frame over the road, in a narrow pass between two mountains. Tatters of a wooden gate hung in the frame, shattered by some terrifying impact that left pieces strewn across the thoroughfare and a home immediately on the other side.
Another road met where he stood, that trailed far off into the east, back into the mountains. J'Zargo briefly considered that route, given something had recently attacked the town in front of him. But his stomach growled, and he suspected food to be nearby.
He perked his ears up, lit fires in his hands, and approached with caution.
Inside the walled town, there was no one but animals. Chickens, free of their coops and foxes that chased after them. In multiple places, J'Zargo saw pools of dried blood on the ground and arrows in wooden structures.
From the inside, he could identify the town as a repurposed castle town – the town part was built into the bailey of a castle, whose keep had been adjusted to become even with the battlements save for the towers. There were four towers throughout, with the highest built onto the stone keep.
And it was totally abandoned of men, mer, and beastfolk.
It required no divine insight as to why – from the age of the blood on the ground, J'Zargo estimated that whatever violence transpired there happened at most half a day before the dragon attacked. It would not have been difficult to see a black dragon against the snowy landscape. Nor, perhaps, to hear it with how mountains bounced sound around.
Naturally, there was only one response to this.
J'Zargo went about examining the abandoned homes and buildings for anything he could use. Delicious histcarps in a glass bowl helped soothe his hunger, along with beef stew from the inn.
Alas, there was nothing especially magical in the general goods store. And he didn't know when, or if, people would return, so he didn't dare look through the keep for long. He grabbed a tunic from a soldier's abandoned storage chest and traded it for his torn up robe. The tunic lacked long sleeves like his robe, but came down to his knees.
With a swiped saber cat pelt from the general store, and he went out the town's north gate. It wasn't destroyed, just left open on the road down into a valley.
As he walked, the snowy environment began to shift. Snowberry bushes, their fruits red as blood, began to show up on the roadside. J'Zargo collected them, as road snacks. Without a map, he had no idea where the next town would be. All he knew definitely was that Winterhold was in the northeast section of Skyrim – so that was his heading.
Soon enough, the road forked. South-west, and north-east. Take a moment to guess which direction J'Zargo took.
On the road, the scenery changed. No longer cold, snowy, mountainous. Greenery soon appeared, trees and shrubs. Soon it became clear that J'Zargo was on one side of a river valley, with a queer mountain on the opposite side.
A mountain that ended abruptly at a mesa, with the flat section given a glossy appearance he could see from miles away. Like the rock had been melted. For one sad moment, back among the greenery of a verdant river valley, J'Zargo thought he'd returned to Cyrodiil.
Then the clouds over part of the mountain began to dissipate, and he saw what looked to be a building of black stone built in the style of a rib-cage temple.
"Definitely not Cyrodiil," J'Zargo muttered. "All ancient ruins over there are elf-made." Elf ruins decayed gracefully. Somehow. But human ruins decayed in haunting ways.
Neither group had mastered the khajiiti and saxhleel methods to avoid buildings falling into ruin in the first place. Such was life.
His trek down the road was uneventful, until the river and road were alongside one another and he could see salmon crest rapids against the river. The salmon and he were of similar spirits, though different destinations.
If he didn't want to suffer being wet on top of everything else, J'Zargo would have gotten another tasty treat from catching them.
Beyond that came the first sounds of people. Laughter, indistinct chatter. But it was off the road – down a worn dirt path, covered in fresh footprints that overlapped each other. Easily two dozen people had passed by within the day.
Perhaps some of the people from the town? J'Zargo left the road, curious, and kept low to the ground. Uphill from the road, he came to a cave that had a wooden door mounted at its entrance, a roof supported by scaffolding and the rock face, and two people in fur armor. Ralof had described fur armor as being something bandits wore, and they didn't seem familiar to J'Zargo.
Bandits, most likely, then.
One was khajiit, a pahmar-raht. Literally twice J'Zargo's height with orange fur streaked with black stripes and a white underside. She towered over her friend, a green-skinned elf with tusks in his lower jaw – an orc.
"We won't be needing to work the mine ourselves for a long time," the orc spoke, pleased, and sat on a stump.
"Fools thought we would help them for free," the khajiiti woman replied, her hand over her mouth to stifle laughter. "Oh well. You boys taken your pick of the ladies, yet?"
"The others have, I took one look at 'em and couldn't a one compare to you." The orc made an exaggerated bow, only to get cuffed by the giant woman.
"Flirt. Khajiit thinks you're lucky nord men can't survive a round with her."
"Heh. But still – shame about that Imperial mage who tried to be a hero. At least we got that book about magic from 'em eh? Almost as good."
J'Zargo's attention was snapped up like that. A magical tome? Perhaps even a spell instruction manual? Lorkhaj had placed a mote of opportunity in his path by drawing J'Zargo's attention to the situation – as befitted the First Trickster.
The tome would be his, and he could play the hero at the same time.
With his decision made, J'Zargo gathered green fire in his hands and lined up a shot on both bandits.
--
Jorrvaskr
Kodlak Whitemane
As the cataracts dimmed his sight every day, and the rot ate at his lungs, Kodlak found his dreams an escape from a body that seemed intent to become a cage for his spirit.
He dreamed of old battles. Thrilling fights with his shield-siblings in the Companions, the wasteful brawls of his youth, the horrors of war seen from far away. He dreamed of old regrets. A son he barely knew, to the point where his shield-siblings were shocked Kodlak mourned the boy. A family life he ran from out of fear Kodlak would become like his father.
Kodlak dreamed of the whalebone bridge, a night sky in constant aurora, he dreamed of Shor's hall and the guardian of its threshold.
Tsun, the dead god of adversity. He who threw hazards into the lives of mortals that they may grow stronger, cleverer, or wiser. Slain to save Shor from foreign gods.
He dreamed of Tsun, god of bears, who guarded the whalebone bridge into the afterlife of feasting, revelry, and honorable combat that awaited worthy souls. He dreamed of those that had preceded him in his role among the Companions, turned away from Tsun.
But the dead god beckoned Kodlak's dream-self forward.
"Mind me well, Harbinger," spake the dead god. "A beast you've made yourself, of your own will. No deadly blade was held 'neath your chin to make you choose it. If Shor's hall, replete with honored dead, be what your soul yearns for – I will set you on the thorny path."
It was the most clarity his dreams had possessed in decades, Kodlak could remember them like he remembered how to take a life.
"Descend you must, from Jorrvaskr hall, and walk the road against the White River's grain. Step swiftly to where the horse and stag meet, and find yourself a soul in need of the fatherhood you denied your own son. Triumph where afore you failed, and mayhaps the whalebone bridge you may cross."
In his dream, Kodlak turned and saw Sinding. His son.
The boy, his face sullen, dressed in his armor as he'd been at the funeral, calmly walked backward until he faded from Kodlak's view. Out from the dark stepped a smaller figure – a khajiit, with a lynx-like face, droopy mustache and short ridge-mane. Then the dream ended, with a jolt.
Awake, he resolved to follow the instructions laid out for him. He dressed in the fur-and-steel armor of the wolf which had become emblematic of the Companions, he took up the warhammer which had become part weapon and part walking stick in his dotage and near-blindness.
Naturally, his shield-siblings had problems with his planned course of action. The most vociferous was Skjor, closest to him in experience.
Skjor was perhaps a handful of years Kodlak's junior. Balding, blind in one eye, but the ideal mix of ferocity and patience for a teacher of young whelps. "Take a shield-sibling with you if you want to chase dreams," he told Kodlak with arms crossed. "With those bad eyes, you probably won't be able to tell the road from the river."
"I go to bring a shield-sibling to us, not to lay waste to an enemy. And fortunately for me, I know how to swim in heavy armor," was Kodlak's reply. Then he departed.
Whiterun, great city upon an inselberg at the very heart of Skyrim, lent its name to the Hold which surrounded it. It had not always been his home, he'd been all across Tamriel. But at the meeting of so many roads, Whiterun was truly alive with the culture of nords. The meeting place of old and new.
Kodlak mused on these things and more as he walked the road south, while the White River flowed to the north. It was hours of walking just to reach the valley between the Throat of the World, the Jerall Mountains, and Bleakfalls Mountain.
His unique bearing kept most wild animals away – they were unwilling to try him for their next meal.
By the time he started on the road up the slopes alongside the White River's waterfalls, the sun had begun to go down. Without the sun, his limited vision was reduced to nothing. Kodlak relied on the memory of the road, and where his cane struck to see him through.
All through the night, he felt an odd sensation. Like he was near a dangerous animal. Kodlak heard chewing in the brush a couple times, but aside from the sensation of 'a threat is nearby', nothing came of it.
If his vision wasn't so poor, perhaps he could have spotted what it was. The beast blood in him had given him excellent night vision once upon a time.
As the sun began to rise, he approached a town on the White River. He'd had to pass over a bridge to reach the western shore, so he believed the town was Riverwood. A border town between Whiterun and Falkreath Holds.
The air all around him smelled moist, woody. Like honest work. In the dim light, he could make out many moving shapes, and he heard the faint sounds of misery. Muffled crying, conversations to the tune of 'what will we do' and 'I don't know'. Something had happened.
People recognized him by his wolf armor as one of the Companions, and someone approached him. With the sun still not fully risen, she appeared as a blob of colors; green with a smattering of yellow on the top was all he could make out.
"I'm Gerdur, I run the mill. Something attacked a fort up in the mountains and looked like it meant to attack Helgen too. Some are saying a dragon, others a gryphon – all they agree on is it could fly. Could you go up the road, Companion, and see if it's safe for these people to return home? I can pay you…."
"That I can do. Helgen is just up the road, yes?" Kodlak had walked through the night, but felt no tiredness. The curse upon him had some perks, such as greater endurance.
"Aye. What sum would be enough to be worth your time?" The blob of colors that was Gerdur moved slightly, her body language lost on Kodlak.
"I'll do this for the cost of a room at the local inn, if at all possible." He smiled, though he couldn't see the mood around him. There was no honor in the exploitation of the desperate, so a token fee was all he could reasonably ask for.
"I think I can manage that. The folks here tell how other groups split up to find safety, and haven't been seen since. If… if you find them on the road…?"
"I'll point them this way if they live, and put them away from wolves if they're gone."
"My thanks."
Back onto the road he went, alongside the White River. Going uphill, the route to Helgen was decently long. It would be a trifling matter to go up, see the state of the town, and return. Once he'd arrived in Riverwood, the feeling of another large predator in proximity had vanished and didn't return once he'd left the other side.
Whatever lurked on the road, it did so north of the town. He'd tell Gerdur that once he returned.
A sudden unnatural noise caused Kodlak to stop in the middle of the road. A hammer on metal, faint, and to the western side of the road. There were no towns between Helgen and Riverwood, so why was there the distant sound of a blacksmith?
The sunlight spilled over the mountaintops in that moment, and Kodlak could see somewhat clearer again. Off the road, near the foot of the mountains, he saw a cave entrance. The ruins of a wooden doorframe over it implied civilization had once been there.
And he remembered. Embershard Mine, an iron mine that went through the Falkreath/Whiterun border. It had ceased operation when the new Falkreath Jarl demanded all the iron go to Helgen for smelting.
Neither Helgen or Riverwood had smelters, so it was a naked powerplay.
Back to the matter at hand – there ought to have been no one in the mine. Yet there was. Kodlak turned off the road, and stepped into the forest toward the western mountains. He followed the ringing, kept his eyes on the smudged image of a cave, and made ready for a confrontation.
His vision went back to nearly nothing once he entered. There were torches along the walls in places, but not nearly enough to provide sufficient light. Cursed cataracts.
Warm air brushed his face as it passed over his shoulders into the cave. And in so doing, it brushed a primitive chime of bones – one Kodlak would have surely hit in the dark.
Soon, the splash of water and the subdued sobs of children were mixed in with the ding of hammers on metal. Chatter of happy people mixed in with the weeping of the wretched. It didn't take a genius to realize what had transpired.
Bandits, like skeevers, would infest anywhere if given the leeway.
Soon enough, he stepped into a small cavern, lit by torches aplenty and a hot forge. Loosely, he could make out bridges that crossed from one wall to the other to use the natural stone for support most efficiently. Directly below where he entered the cave was a pool fed by natural springs.
Where a mass of small shapes were corralled.
Swiftly, a dark blur approached him on the first bridge. "Hey, you here for shelter too? We have plenty of space for more people." A woman's voice, saccharine.
Kodlak chuckled, it was clear he hadn't been recognized. Perhaps he could enjoy battle, then. "That's really quite sweet of you, dear girl. But I'm afraid you're trespassing." Quick as a cut could bleed, Kodlak had his heavy warhammer gripped to fight, and swung at the bandit. He saw something dark above where he assumed her shoulders to be detach and bounce off the far wall, then moved on.
Including the first bandit, he dealt with two archers, a greatsword user, and two axemen – one with a shield. None of them had armor strong enough to survive his hammer, and the shield the last one had used was iron. Strong, but brittle. When skyforge steel met the iron shield, it broke like pottery.
When the bandits started to die, Kodlak could see the youngsters leave the water to run where he'd came.
"Go to Riverwood, it's safe there!"
He suspected he'd find their parents working the iron veins, and he was right. In a tunnel between the cavern, he passed several people without weapons, save pickaxes. At least twelve people. Kodlak sent them on their way, and kept going. The tunnels narrowed, which allowed the torchlight to provide more for Kodlak's vision.
Then, he came across a dead bandit. An orc woman, seated on a chair next to the mine's latrine. She looked peaceful, with her arms still crossed, and a spike of ice thick as Kodlak's wrist and as long as his hand shoved into one eye and out the back of her head.
A bolt of green fire suddenly struck Kodlak's shoulder, passed over him, and faded away without any discernible effect. He turned to look from whence it came, and saw a room heavy with loot. A massive chest, sacks of food, a bowl full of gems, weapons on display racks – a lot of wealth had been left behind in the mine.
Seated in front of the secure chest was one of the cat-people. A khajiit, of the smaller stock. Dressed humbly, no weapons other than magic and his claws – both brandished at Kodlak. He had an orange-covered book open on his lap, and the doopy mustache on his face seemed to sink closer to the ground as his ears rose up.
Immediately, Kodlak felt his instincts tell him another large predator was nearby. And yet, the khajiit's face struck him as familiar.
"You resisted J'Zargo's spell?" The khajiit's voice was soft, shocked.
"I resisted J'Zargo's spell," Kodlak confirmed, his tone friendly despite the blood all over his armor. "Did J'Zargo put that ice spike through the orc's head?"
The khajiit glanced at the orc, then back to Kodlak. "...He did."
"You have excellent aim, son." Kodlak stepped into the treasure room and sat down on a proper chair. He'd been on his feet for nearly a full day by that time, the break was heavenly. "Did you sort out the other bandits, down to the other entrance?"
"...He did." J'Zargo's ears remained up, surprised. As Kodlak had entered, his arms remained pointed at him. "Are… you not going to fight this one?"
"Not unless it's necessary. You could have just as easily put an ice spike in the back of my head." Kodlak leaned his hammer against a barrel.
"This one just wanted to read book. Would not have killed anyone, if they were not horrible." The khajiit lowered his arms slowly, and returned to the book with frequent glances at Kodlak.
Kodlak looked at J'Zargo's face, and steadily the familiarity became clear. The khajiit he'd dreamed about. Tsun's obstacle in his road. He noticed more as he focused on the young man.
Shoes in the Elsweyr style, damn near about to fall apart. A ring on his finger – simple gold, with a gleam of magic. Clothes made from Skyrim materials, but too large. J'Zargo had come from far away, clearly. And he was alone.
"Would you mind telling me about how they were horrible?" Kodlak leaned forward with his hands on his knees. "I can tell you if it's normal for bandits in Skyrim, since you're not with a caravan."
At the word 'caravan', J'Zargo's eyes widened, his ears began to droop as he looked up to meet Kodlak's gaze. "...Skyrim is visited by Bandaari caravans?"
"Often, yes. They often arrive via the Hammerfell border west of here."
Kodlak was then witness to a specific kind of tantrum he had seen in many people over his eighty years, and even participated in himself more than once. The 'I went the wrong way' tantrum.
---
Oh boy, has capitalism been beating my ass with vigor. Sorry for the wait, hopefully things will progress faster now.
...Yeah, if J'Zargo had gotten on a boat to Rihad and gone north-east on the road to Falkreath, he'd have been in Skyrim seven months sooner.
---
Helgen
J'Zargo Dovahkiin
On the snowy road, he'd encountered no one. Not unexpected, the road was cold even for him with his thick fur – on account of his horse-eaten robes. He'd passed corpses, many Legion soldiers with horrible burns that spelled their doom, but no one alive.
It gave him time to parse what had happened. What he'd seen, what he'd experienced.
When he created the shelters, specifically for the avalanche, he didn't anticipate how the horses would react when they couldn't move. His poor steed had thrashed about in the confinement – legs broken by the shelter and the hard ground.
Such thrashing would have crushed J'Zargo if he didn't put a stop to it. He'd cast calm on the creature – and waited for it to bleed out.
A slight slope in the ground meant he hadn't had to linger in the dark, with the corpse, coated in its blood. But he was unable to escape the knowledge of the rotting carcass nearby, until he'd been rescued. In a dark so deep that there was no light for his eyes to catch; pitch black, as men and mer would say.
That kind of darkness, J'Zargo had escaped mostly in his life. Moons, stars, and mages provided light as necessary, even if only tiny amounts. In the shelter, with the corpse of a horse, was the first time he'd experienced darkness that deep.
He was smaller than anyone else in the group, and even he'd been cramped, he couldn't imagine how some of the larger people had endured.
The road naturally curved to the north and the west, until a fortified wall was just at the edge of J'Zargo's vision. How the smuggled horses would have avoided being spotted by sentries was something he considered as he approached.
What he came upon was a stone gate frame over the road, in a narrow pass between two mountains. Tatters of a wooden gate hung in the frame, shattered by some terrifying impact that left pieces strewn across the thoroughfare and a home immediately on the other side.
Another road met where he stood, that trailed far off into the east, back into the mountains. J'Zargo briefly considered that route, given something had recently attacked the town in front of him. But his stomach growled, and he suspected food to be nearby.
He perked his ears up, lit fires in his hands, and approached with caution.
Inside the walled town, there was no one but animals. Chickens, free of their coops and foxes that chased after them. In multiple places, J'Zargo saw pools of dried blood on the ground and arrows in wooden structures.
From the inside, he could identify the town as a repurposed castle town – the town part was built into the bailey of a castle, whose keep had been adjusted to become even with the battlements save for the towers. There were four towers throughout, with the highest built onto the stone keep.
And it was totally abandoned of men, mer, and beastfolk.
It required no divine insight as to why – from the age of the blood on the ground, J'Zargo estimated that whatever violence transpired there happened at most half a day before the dragon attacked. It would not have been difficult to see a black dragon against the snowy landscape. Nor, perhaps, to hear it with how mountains bounced sound around.
Naturally, there was only one response to this.
J'Zargo went about examining the abandoned homes and buildings for anything he could use. Delicious histcarps in a glass bowl helped soothe his hunger, along with beef stew from the inn.
Alas, there was nothing especially magical in the general goods store. And he didn't know when, or if, people would return, so he didn't dare look through the keep for long. He grabbed a tunic from a soldier's abandoned storage chest and traded it for his torn up robe. The tunic lacked long sleeves like his robe, but came down to his knees.
With a swiped saber cat pelt from the general store, and he went out the town's north gate. It wasn't destroyed, just left open on the road down into a valley.
As he walked, the snowy environment began to shift. Snowberry bushes, their fruits red as blood, began to show up on the roadside. J'Zargo collected them, as road snacks. Without a map, he had no idea where the next town would be. All he knew definitely was that Winterhold was in the northeast section of Skyrim – so that was his heading.
Soon enough, the road forked. South-west, and north-east. Take a moment to guess which direction J'Zargo took.
On the road, the scenery changed. No longer cold, snowy, mountainous. Greenery soon appeared, trees and shrubs. Soon it became clear that J'Zargo was on one side of a river valley, with a queer mountain on the opposite side.
A mountain that ended abruptly at a mesa, with the flat section given a glossy appearance he could see from miles away. Like the rock had been melted. For one sad moment, back among the greenery of a verdant river valley, J'Zargo thought he'd returned to Cyrodiil.
Then the clouds over part of the mountain began to dissipate, and he saw what looked to be a building of black stone built in the style of a rib-cage temple.
"Definitely not Cyrodiil," J'Zargo muttered. "All ancient ruins over there are elf-made." Elf ruins decayed gracefully. Somehow. But human ruins decayed in haunting ways.
Neither group had mastered the khajiiti and saxhleel methods to avoid buildings falling into ruin in the first place. Such was life.
His trek down the road was uneventful, until the river and road were alongside one another and he could see salmon crest rapids against the river. The salmon and he were of similar spirits, though different destinations.
If he didn't want to suffer being wet on top of everything else, J'Zargo would have gotten another tasty treat from catching them.
Beyond that came the first sounds of people. Laughter, indistinct chatter. But it was off the road – down a worn dirt path, covered in fresh footprints that overlapped each other. Easily two dozen people had passed by within the day.
Perhaps some of the people from the town? J'Zargo left the road, curious, and kept low to the ground. Uphill from the road, he came to a cave that had a wooden door mounted at its entrance, a roof supported by scaffolding and the rock face, and two people in fur armor. Ralof had described fur armor as being something bandits wore, and they didn't seem familiar to J'Zargo.
Bandits, most likely, then.
One was khajiit, a pahmar-raht. Literally twice J'Zargo's height with orange fur streaked with black stripes and a white underside. She towered over her friend, a green-skinned elf with tusks in his lower jaw – an orc.
"We won't be needing to work the mine ourselves for a long time," the orc spoke, pleased, and sat on a stump.
"Fools thought we would help them for free," the khajiiti woman replied, her hand over her mouth to stifle laughter. "Oh well. You boys taken your pick of the ladies, yet?"
"The others have, I took one look at 'em and couldn't a one compare to you." The orc made an exaggerated bow, only to get cuffed by the giant woman.
"Flirt. Khajiit thinks you're lucky nord men can't survive a round with her."
"Heh. But still – shame about that Imperial mage who tried to be a hero. At least we got that book about magic from 'em eh? Almost as good."
J'Zargo's attention was snapped up like that. A magical tome? Perhaps even a spell instruction manual? Lorkhaj had placed a mote of opportunity in his path by drawing J'Zargo's attention to the situation – as befitted the First Trickster.
The tome would be his, and he could play the hero at the same time.
With his decision made, J'Zargo gathered green fire in his hands and lined up a shot on both bandits.
--
Jorrvaskr
Kodlak Whitemane
As the cataracts dimmed his sight every day, and the rot ate at his lungs, Kodlak found his dreams an escape from a body that seemed intent to become a cage for his spirit.
He dreamed of old battles. Thrilling fights with his shield-siblings in the Companions, the wasteful brawls of his youth, the horrors of war seen from far away. He dreamed of old regrets. A son he barely knew, to the point where his shield-siblings were shocked Kodlak mourned the boy. A family life he ran from out of fear Kodlak would become like his father.
Kodlak dreamed of the whalebone bridge, a night sky in constant aurora, he dreamed of Shor's hall and the guardian of its threshold.
Tsun, the dead god of adversity. He who threw hazards into the lives of mortals that they may grow stronger, cleverer, or wiser. Slain to save Shor from foreign gods.
He dreamed of Tsun, god of bears, who guarded the whalebone bridge into the afterlife of feasting, revelry, and honorable combat that awaited worthy souls. He dreamed of those that had preceded him in his role among the Companions, turned away from Tsun.
But the dead god beckoned Kodlak's dream-self forward.
"Mind me well, Harbinger," spake the dead god. "A beast you've made yourself, of your own will. No deadly blade was held 'neath your chin to make you choose it. If Shor's hall, replete with honored dead, be what your soul yearns for – I will set you on the thorny path."
It was the most clarity his dreams had possessed in decades, Kodlak could remember them like he remembered how to take a life.
"Descend you must, from Jorrvaskr hall, and walk the road against the White River's grain. Step swiftly to where the horse and stag meet, and find yourself a soul in need of the fatherhood you denied your own son. Triumph where afore you failed, and mayhaps the whalebone bridge you may cross."
In his dream, Kodlak turned and saw Sinding. His son.
The boy, his face sullen, dressed in his armor as he'd been at the funeral, calmly walked backward until he faded from Kodlak's view. Out from the dark stepped a smaller figure – a khajiit, with a lynx-like face, droopy mustache and short ridge-mane. Then the dream ended, with a jolt.
Awake, he resolved to follow the instructions laid out for him. He dressed in the fur-and-steel armor of the wolf which had become emblematic of the Companions, he took up the warhammer which had become part weapon and part walking stick in his dotage and near-blindness.
Naturally, his shield-siblings had problems with his planned course of action. The most vociferous was Skjor, closest to him in experience.
Skjor was perhaps a handful of years Kodlak's junior. Balding, blind in one eye, but the ideal mix of ferocity and patience for a teacher of young whelps. "Take a shield-sibling with you if you want to chase dreams," he told Kodlak with arms crossed. "With those bad eyes, you probably won't be able to tell the road from the river."
"I go to bring a shield-sibling to us, not to lay waste to an enemy. And fortunately for me, I know how to swim in heavy armor," was Kodlak's reply. Then he departed.
Whiterun, great city upon an inselberg at the very heart of Skyrim, lent its name to the Hold which surrounded it. It had not always been his home, he'd been all across Tamriel. But at the meeting of so many roads, Whiterun was truly alive with the culture of nords. The meeting place of old and new.
Kodlak mused on these things and more as he walked the road south, while the White River flowed to the north. It was hours of walking just to reach the valley between the Throat of the World, the Jerall Mountains, and Bleakfalls Mountain.
His unique bearing kept most wild animals away – they were unwilling to try him for their next meal.
By the time he started on the road up the slopes alongside the White River's waterfalls, the sun had begun to go down. Without the sun, his limited vision was reduced to nothing. Kodlak relied on the memory of the road, and where his cane struck to see him through.
All through the night, he felt an odd sensation. Like he was near a dangerous animal. Kodlak heard chewing in the brush a couple times, but aside from the sensation of 'a threat is nearby', nothing came of it.
If his vision wasn't so poor, perhaps he could have spotted what it was. The beast blood in him had given him excellent night vision once upon a time.
As the sun began to rise, he approached a town on the White River. He'd had to pass over a bridge to reach the western shore, so he believed the town was Riverwood. A border town between Whiterun and Falkreath Holds.
The air all around him smelled moist, woody. Like honest work. In the dim light, he could make out many moving shapes, and he heard the faint sounds of misery. Muffled crying, conversations to the tune of 'what will we do' and 'I don't know'. Something had happened.
People recognized him by his wolf armor as one of the Companions, and someone approached him. With the sun still not fully risen, she appeared as a blob of colors; green with a smattering of yellow on the top was all he could make out.
"I'm Gerdur, I run the mill. Something attacked a fort up in the mountains and looked like it meant to attack Helgen too. Some are saying a dragon, others a gryphon – all they agree on is it could fly. Could you go up the road, Companion, and see if it's safe for these people to return home? I can pay you…."
"That I can do. Helgen is just up the road, yes?" Kodlak had walked through the night, but felt no tiredness. The curse upon him had some perks, such as greater endurance.
"Aye. What sum would be enough to be worth your time?" The blob of colors that was Gerdur moved slightly, her body language lost on Kodlak.
"I'll do this for the cost of a room at the local inn, if at all possible." He smiled, though he couldn't see the mood around him. There was no honor in the exploitation of the desperate, so a token fee was all he could reasonably ask for.
"I think I can manage that. The folks here tell how other groups split up to find safety, and haven't been seen since. If… if you find them on the road…?"
"I'll point them this way if they live, and put them away from wolves if they're gone."
"My thanks."
Back onto the road he went, alongside the White River. Going uphill, the route to Helgen was decently long. It would be a trifling matter to go up, see the state of the town, and return. Once he'd arrived in Riverwood, the feeling of another large predator in proximity had vanished and didn't return once he'd left the other side.
Whatever lurked on the road, it did so north of the town. He'd tell Gerdur that once he returned.
A sudden unnatural noise caused Kodlak to stop in the middle of the road. A hammer on metal, faint, and to the western side of the road. There were no towns between Helgen and Riverwood, so why was there the distant sound of a blacksmith?
The sunlight spilled over the mountaintops in that moment, and Kodlak could see somewhat clearer again. Off the road, near the foot of the mountains, he saw a cave entrance. The ruins of a wooden doorframe over it implied civilization had once been there.
And he remembered. Embershard Mine, an iron mine that went through the Falkreath/Whiterun border. It had ceased operation when the new Falkreath Jarl demanded all the iron go to Helgen for smelting.
Neither Helgen or Riverwood had smelters, so it was a naked powerplay.
Back to the matter at hand – there ought to have been no one in the mine. Yet there was. Kodlak turned off the road, and stepped into the forest toward the western mountains. He followed the ringing, kept his eyes on the smudged image of a cave, and made ready for a confrontation.
His vision went back to nearly nothing once he entered. There were torches along the walls in places, but not nearly enough to provide sufficient light. Cursed cataracts.
Warm air brushed his face as it passed over his shoulders into the cave. And in so doing, it brushed a primitive chime of bones – one Kodlak would have surely hit in the dark.
Soon, the splash of water and the subdued sobs of children were mixed in with the ding of hammers on metal. Chatter of happy people mixed in with the weeping of the wretched. It didn't take a genius to realize what had transpired.
Bandits, like skeevers, would infest anywhere if given the leeway.
Soon enough, he stepped into a small cavern, lit by torches aplenty and a hot forge. Loosely, he could make out bridges that crossed from one wall to the other to use the natural stone for support most efficiently. Directly below where he entered the cave was a pool fed by natural springs.
Where a mass of small shapes were corralled.
Swiftly, a dark blur approached him on the first bridge. "Hey, you here for shelter too? We have plenty of space for more people." A woman's voice, saccharine.
Kodlak chuckled, it was clear he hadn't been recognized. Perhaps he could enjoy battle, then. "That's really quite sweet of you, dear girl. But I'm afraid you're trespassing." Quick as a cut could bleed, Kodlak had his heavy warhammer gripped to fight, and swung at the bandit. He saw something dark above where he assumed her shoulders to be detach and bounce off the far wall, then moved on.
Including the first bandit, he dealt with two archers, a greatsword user, and two axemen – one with a shield. None of them had armor strong enough to survive his hammer, and the shield the last one had used was iron. Strong, but brittle. When skyforge steel met the iron shield, it broke like pottery.
When the bandits started to die, Kodlak could see the youngsters leave the water to run where he'd came.
"Go to Riverwood, it's safe there!"
He suspected he'd find their parents working the iron veins, and he was right. In a tunnel between the cavern, he passed several people without weapons, save pickaxes. At least twelve people. Kodlak sent them on their way, and kept going. The tunnels narrowed, which allowed the torchlight to provide more for Kodlak's vision.
Then, he came across a dead bandit. An orc woman, seated on a chair next to the mine's latrine. She looked peaceful, with her arms still crossed, and a spike of ice thick as Kodlak's wrist and as long as his hand shoved into one eye and out the back of her head.
A bolt of green fire suddenly struck Kodlak's shoulder, passed over him, and faded away without any discernible effect. He turned to look from whence it came, and saw a room heavy with loot. A massive chest, sacks of food, a bowl full of gems, weapons on display racks – a lot of wealth had been left behind in the mine.
Seated in front of the secure chest was one of the cat-people. A khajiit, of the smaller stock. Dressed humbly, no weapons other than magic and his claws – both brandished at Kodlak. He had an orange-covered book open on his lap, and the doopy mustache on his face seemed to sink closer to the ground as his ears rose up.
Immediately, Kodlak felt his instincts tell him another large predator was nearby. And yet, the khajiit's face struck him as familiar.
"You resisted J'Zargo's spell?" The khajiit's voice was soft, shocked.
"I resisted J'Zargo's spell," Kodlak confirmed, his tone friendly despite the blood all over his armor. "Did J'Zargo put that ice spike through the orc's head?"
The khajiit glanced at the orc, then back to Kodlak. "...He did."
"You have excellent aim, son." Kodlak stepped into the treasure room and sat down on a proper chair. He'd been on his feet for nearly a full day by that time, the break was heavenly. "Did you sort out the other bandits, down to the other entrance?"
"...He did." J'Zargo's ears remained up, surprised. As Kodlak had entered, his arms remained pointed at him. "Are… you not going to fight this one?"
"Not unless it's necessary. You could have just as easily put an ice spike in the back of my head." Kodlak leaned his hammer against a barrel.
"This one just wanted to read book. Would not have killed anyone, if they were not horrible." The khajiit lowered his arms slowly, and returned to the book with frequent glances at Kodlak.
Kodlak looked at J'Zargo's face, and steadily the familiarity became clear. The khajiit he'd dreamed about. Tsun's obstacle in his road. He noticed more as he focused on the young man.
Shoes in the Elsweyr style, damn near about to fall apart. A ring on his finger – simple gold, with a gleam of magic. Clothes made from Skyrim materials, but too large. J'Zargo had come from far away, clearly. And he was alone.
"Would you mind telling me about how they were horrible?" Kodlak leaned forward with his hands on his knees. "I can tell you if it's normal for bandits in Skyrim, since you're not with a caravan."
At the word 'caravan', J'Zargo's eyes widened, his ears began to droop as he looked up to meet Kodlak's gaze. "...Skyrim is visited by Bandaari caravans?"
"Often, yes. They often arrive via the Hammerfell border west of here."
Kodlak was then witness to a specific kind of tantrum he had seen in many people over his eighty years, and even participated in himself more than once. The 'I went the wrong way' tantrum.
---
Oh boy, has capitalism been beating my ass with vigor. Sorry for the wait, hopefully things will progress faster now.
...Yeah, if J'Zargo had gotten on a boat to Rihad and gone north-east on the road to Falkreath, he'd have been in Skyrim seven months sooner.
Codex: Farri's Journal #1
New
Chairtastic
Anything's a chair if you're brave enough
- Location
- Breakfast nook
- Pronouns
- He / Him / It
Codex: Farri's Journal, vol. 2 Entry 1
---
Figured I should lock in and start writing these again.
For about a year I just… didn't write things down, so I could focus on having fun. I made Savos Aren's life miserable by introducing some college culture of my own. And because I was paying to have the college fixed up, he didn't have the room to complain.
Seriously, nearly two hundred years and no one thought to fix the damn bridge or the midden. Ugh.
So!
I've been living that adventurer lifestyle in between college work, while I was there anyway. Learned some good stuff, got a solid foundation of magical concepts to play with, introduced the other apprentices to the wonders of alchemy.
However, the college and I had to part company – due to my handling of a certain uppity hoodless Thalmor agent. I still don't know why Savos let him in, but for anyone who finds this and reads it? First of all, don't go reading people's journals, you stinky. Second of all, I didn't kill him.
He more than likely wishes I had, but no.
So I'm no longer a student at the college. But because my clan members alone outnumber Savos' staff, he couldn't exactly kick me out. So I'm doing 'field work' for the college. Mirabelle gives me work someone from the college needs done, I handle it, make sure to document as much as is feasible, and send it back via messenger bird. Officially, I'm even in 'good standing'. Hee.
Presently, I'm in the Reach, collecting Hagraven feathers for Enthir. Also doing some… side projects.
Intelligence gathering for Ulfric, natch. Specifically, he wants to sort out the Reach amicably. I don't think it's possible, since Madanach isn't considered the legitimate king anymore. The Forsworn are too divided, too different from each other. Near as I can tell, the Reachmen just want non-Nords in charge, and I have a proposal I think Ulfric will dislike less than putting Madanach back in charge.
Preparing for Alduin is my big project, while I have Zahkriisos, Dukaan, and Ahdizal handling other projects. Harkon, the Falmer, and Miraak respectively. Ahzidal is keeping that boon I owe him until the moment is right, really hoping that doesn't bite me in the ass too hard.
I briefly considered joining the Thieves Guild to spice up my life, but if I did, I'd have to do a lot of heavy lifting just to get the Guild functional in a sub-optimal location, still under the thumb of Maven. Not worth it. So I accepted a competing offer, going to be having a drink with the boss, try and talk another… interested party into signing on over some salted mead at Honningbrew once I'm done here.
The sales on that salted mead have been so good I'm not surprised I get Dark Brotherhood goons coming after me literally every time I visit one of the big cities.
My last project I've been handling is personal. Azura, she's having a real tough time adjusting to her new fetters. She and I have had our ups and downs, but she was just doing her job. I'm helping her out, as best I can. I've only got scattered ideas for how to do that, but I've got to.
Maybe J'Zargo will have ideas, when he finally shows up. According to Pa, he's been dicking around in Nibenay for months. Not even literally, ugh.
Oop, gotta go. Hagraven's about to take the bait, fall into my snare trap. Those feathers are as good as mine.
---
Farri has been busy. He's having a lot more fun with it, but still busy. He should appear next chapter, hurray!
---
Figured I should lock in and start writing these again.
For about a year I just… didn't write things down, so I could focus on having fun. I made Savos Aren's life miserable by introducing some college culture of my own. And because I was paying to have the college fixed up, he didn't have the room to complain.
Seriously, nearly two hundred years and no one thought to fix the damn bridge or the midden. Ugh.
So!
I've been living that adventurer lifestyle in between college work, while I was there anyway. Learned some good stuff, got a solid foundation of magical concepts to play with, introduced the other apprentices to the wonders of alchemy.
However, the college and I had to part company – due to my handling of a certain uppity hoodless Thalmor agent. I still don't know why Savos let him in, but for anyone who finds this and reads it? First of all, don't go reading people's journals, you stinky. Second of all, I didn't kill him.
He more than likely wishes I had, but no.
So I'm no longer a student at the college. But because my clan members alone outnumber Savos' staff, he couldn't exactly kick me out. So I'm doing 'field work' for the college. Mirabelle gives me work someone from the college needs done, I handle it, make sure to document as much as is feasible, and send it back via messenger bird. Officially, I'm even in 'good standing'. Hee.
Presently, I'm in the Reach, collecting Hagraven feathers for Enthir. Also doing some… side projects.
Intelligence gathering for Ulfric, natch. Specifically, he wants to sort out the Reach amicably. I don't think it's possible, since Madanach isn't considered the legitimate king anymore. The Forsworn are too divided, too different from each other. Near as I can tell, the Reachmen just want non-Nords in charge, and I have a proposal I think Ulfric will dislike less than putting Madanach back in charge.
Preparing for Alduin is my big project, while I have Zahkriisos, Dukaan, and Ahdizal handling other projects. Harkon, the Falmer, and Miraak respectively. Ahzidal is keeping that boon I owe him until the moment is right, really hoping that doesn't bite me in the ass too hard.
I briefly considered joining the Thieves Guild to spice up my life, but if I did, I'd have to do a lot of heavy lifting just to get the Guild functional in a sub-optimal location, still under the thumb of Maven. Not worth it. So I accepted a competing offer, going to be having a drink with the boss, try and talk another… interested party into signing on over some salted mead at Honningbrew once I'm done here.
The sales on that salted mead have been so good I'm not surprised I get Dark Brotherhood goons coming after me literally every time I visit one of the big cities.
My last project I've been handling is personal. Azura, she's having a real tough time adjusting to her new fetters. She and I have had our ups and downs, but she was just doing her job. I'm helping her out, as best I can. I've only got scattered ideas for how to do that, but I've got to.
Maybe J'Zargo will have ideas, when he finally shows up. According to Pa, he's been dicking around in Nibenay for months. Not even literally, ugh.
Oop, gotta go. Hagraven's about to take the bait, fall into my snare trap. Those feathers are as good as mine.
---
Farri has been busy. He's having a lot more fun with it, but still busy. He should appear next chapter, hurray!
Ch 4
New
Chairtastic
Anything's a chair if you're brave enough
- Location
- Breakfast nook
- Pronouns
- He / Him / It
Chapter 4: Old pains.
Today's broadcast is brought to you by the letter knife.
---
Embershard Mine
J'Zargo Dovahkiin
He was wary of the old man, as should anyone with half a brain. Kodlak had appeared covered in blood and bits of flesh – all while seemingly blind. That either spoke of incredible skill, or a deceptive appearance.
The old man also wouldn't leave him alone. J'Zargo had hoped, when Kodlak left after their first meeting, that would be the end of their interactions. But Kodlak had merely gone to wash the blood off his armor and weapon, then returned.
"Don't suppose you know anything about the town down the road?" Kodlak asked as J'Zargo read about 'clairvoyance'.
"Hmm?" J'Zargo turned the page, too intent on the ability to find whatever he wanted, and light a path only he could see to find it to give Kodlak a glance. "The town is abandoned, but mostly fine. No bandits, no dragons. J'Zargo was just there."
"Ah. Excellent."
Kodlak waited in silence after that, which allowed J'Zargo to read the book enough to get the spell working.
He held his hand aloft, and let the magicka take shape. A ghostly white trail flowed from him and wrapped around the corner toward the outside. It worked!
"All is well, lad?" Kodlak stood, face wide in a smile.
"Khajiit got the spell to work! Now he can find anything he wants, he just needs to chase it!" He'd never be fully lost again – he could be set on the path with but a thought!
"Excellent. What will you use the spell for first?"
J'Zargo, still elated, pointed at Kodlak and gave his answer. "This one will use it to find the road to Winterhold!"
Kodlak's smile faded by inches. "Um. Winterhold…? I'm guessing you're intending to join the college?"
"Yes, most definitely."
"Well, I hate to tell you – but as you are now I don't see you able to traverse the road to Winterhold safely." The bearded nord scratched the side of his head. "Autumn's just started, and that means snowstorms will already be happening in the Pale and Winterhold. You definitely don't have the clothes for that kind of cold weather, and traveling alone isn't wise in Skyrim at the best of times."
J'Zargo frowned, narrowed his eyes, and flicked his ears back. "This one made it through utter madness of Cyrodiil just fine, he can survive Skyrim." Hands on his hips, J'Zargo smirked.
Kodlak didn't back down. Instead, he shrugged. "Lad, I have no doubt that Cyrodiil is having a time of it. Their tame province is reminding them she has fangs. But Skyrim has never been tamed in the first place. A sabre cat can attack you on the road, and you'd be dead within four seconds – and that assumes you see it coming. Ice wraiths are common on the roads north of the snowline, do you even know how to fight one?"
J'Zargo was about to rebuke the old man, when his last question hit home. Ice wraiths? Sabre cats he'd heard about – somewhere between a senche and senche-raht in size, with terrible fangs for swift death.
His confusion had to be visible, for Kodlak nodded. "And that's not going into the fact that, from here? Winterhold is literal weeks of walking away. You want to get there? I can help you."
Help? Wary, J'Zargo's tail twitched. "Help khajiit how?"
Kodlak took an iron dagger from a nearby table, and passed it to him. Then, from one of the racks he took an iron shield, and banged it with his free hand.
"Let me see how strong your arm is, so I know where to begin." Kodlak held the shield up, braced with his whole body.
J'Zargo looked from the simple dagger, the crude shield that contrasted wildly with Kodlak's wolf-like armor, and sighed. He braced himself, then reeled back and struck the iron shield with the pommel of the dagger.
The weapon slipped from his fingers from the impact, and Kodlak barely moved. It clacked on the stone behind them.
"May I ask why you did that?" Kodlak looked around the shield to regard him with a confused expression.
"This one… this one thought hitting the shield with the blade would cause it to shatter." J'Zargo turned away and grabbed the dagger then turned back. "Should… should he try again?" Dozens of memories played behind his eyes – all attempts to show how he could stand out. All failures.
"No, no, I've learned what I needed to." Kodlak returned the iron shield to the rack. "You have a decent head on your shoulders, can think ahead, but you have poor grip strength in your hands. For someone of your size, I expected you to be weaker in your arm." He rubbed his chin, thoughtful. "A bit of training, a proper diet to build up muscle – you should be ready to go north in no time at all."
"Is… everyone expected to be a warrior, in Skyrim?" J'Zargo felt his heart sink. He remembered the way Celebrimbor had clawed his way away from J'Zargo when struck by the khajiit's thu'um. A slow, horrible way to die that left him a withered husk. The same thu'um had only annoyed a dragon. J'Zargo hadn't the skills to be a warrior.
"Everyone should know how to fight, in Skyrim. Not the same as being a warrior, mind." Kodlak held up a finger as he corrected the khajiit. "Elsweyr has a trial to prove one is no longer a child, yes? Here, we have similar rites. Go out, kill an ice wraith and bring its teeth back as proof."
J'Zargo's hand drifted to his own teeth. He'd never seen an ice wraith but if they had teeth… could they have been an animal, of some kind?
"And if that's how you'd like to demarcate the end of your time in the south? That's fine. Now, I've been talking a lot – but you're a grown man, you don't need to listen to me." Kodlak stepped aside from the door, his intention clear. "If you'd like, you can leave and go north as you are."
He pondered that. He'd been on the road for a year already, and had gone through so many indignities just to reach Skyrim. The time in the shelter, the brief period of being in jail nude, the dragon. When he'd arrived in Cyrodiil, it hadn't been so spicy so quickly.
So he altered his focus of the spell he'd just learned. He wanted to find what would get him to Winterhold safely – and cast it again. The ghostly trail vanished, then reformed, a line that connected him to Kodlak.
J'Zargo nodded. "Alright. What do you ask in return for helping khajiit?"
"Unless you have something that can give me my eyes back, I'm afraid – oh." Kodlak had started to speak, then stopped when J'Zargo pulled his ring from his finger and offered it.
"Magic ring, heals injuries. Khajiit will loan it to you, because it was a gift." J'Zargo took Kodlak's hand and put the golden band over the only finger it could fit with his armor – the little finger.
"...Huh. Alright, thank you." Kodlak grabbed his hammer, and gestured for J'Zargo to follow him.
--
Honningbrew Meadery
Brewmaster Clarise
"Alright, you glorified rats – we've got the single most important person in our lives visiting, so get those glasses sparkling! Get that floor scrubbed! All bottles arranged so that the labels face outward!"
Clarise, brewmaster of Honningbrew, was a bit excited. She barked orders to her staff as she passed through each area of the meadery. She wore her best dress, modest and clean to convey professionalism. Her staff worked quickly and efficiently, a result of a year under her Colovian rule.
It helped that they were bewitched skeevers, rodents the size of foxes, that could speak, walk on their back legs, and follow orders. For sanitation's sake, they were all equipped with gloves, boots, aprons, and cloth masks for their uniform.
"Mint," Clarise shouted and pointed at a she-skeever that came up the stairs from the basement. "How're the warrens looking?"
"Ship-shape, brewmaster!" Responded the skeever in her odd accent. "Basement floor is clean and polished, just needs to dry."
Clarise marked the warrens and basement off on the clipboard she carried with her. As she walked the main floor of the meadery, more items were checked off. The boilery had been deep-cleaned the night before, so half her workers were down in the warrens resting on their day off.
It had been thought that they'd have an extra day, but a messenger bird confirmed – it was to be that day.
Honningbrew Meadery, in the span of a year, had grown to match the brewing capacity of the more established Black-Briar Meadery out in Riften. With a better product too, if Clarise was asked.
As the dawn faded into the morning, Clarise checked the final box on her list. "Alright!" She held her quil and clipboard up with a wide smile. "We're all ready. Everyone, great work – enjoy your time off and extra septims!"
Of course she paid the skeever-staff, to do otherwise would be cruel. They got two meals a day, to their liking, and a weekly wage that they could spend how they liked. Usually, they spent it on goods from the khajiit caravans that passed by on the road since the Jarl wouldn't allow them in the city.
It didn't stop him placing orders with them. Typical nord.
With the work done, Clarise sent most of the staff back down to the warrens in the basement. They'd earned their rest. She went to the serving room with only a couple skeevers who had helped her earlier with paperwork. Mint and Rosehips, the dual-matriarchs of the skeever warrens.
If the owner wanted to shout at anyone, it would be them. If the owner wanted to abuse anyone, it would be them. Clarise had originally wanted it to be just her, but the matriarchs wouldn't let her run the serving room alone.
From then, it was a waiting game.
A few regulars came in. The meadery was hours from Whiterun city, so folks usually came for special orders or tastings. A trio of nords whose names she never knew came by for their weekly order to get absolutely drunk on the road; the Whiterun Guard captain, to pick up his personal order and those for his guardsmen; a few travelers in need of refreshment.
Not many, a trio of elves in light leather armor covered in pouches and bandoliers for travel on the road – they didn't seem to be together. Two dunmer and a altmer, two men and a woman. The altmer's armor was made from paler leathers, and lacked sleeves, unlike the dunmer. Their orders were simple – sujama for the male dunmer, salted mead for the lady dunmer, and some of the expensive alto wine for the altmer. Naturally.
Someone had told her when she took over for Sabjorn as the brewmaster that the meadery's owner was a dunmer woman, but Clarise didn't want to risk assuming the lass at her bar was the owner. She'd wait for the signs to reveal themselves.
Things started to look up when her customers came to include one of the Companions, accompanied by a sour-looking khajiit. The former was tall, old, kitted for battle, while the latter was short, young, and dressed like he'd just come from a farm.
"This is Honningbrew, they serve good mead here," the old Companion told his fellow as he held the door open. "We can drink, and rest, before we go on to Whiterun."
The khajiit walked in, walked past Mint and sat at a table. He promptly did a double-take at Mint's skeever-ness, while the Companion sorted him out.
Clarise didn't wait long to attend them, lest she give the newcomer time to freak out more. "Good morning, gentlemen. I hope your Loredas is going well." The image of server's cheer, she stood with her hands on her hips. "Are you ready to order? We have plenty of traditional mead, and salted mead for weary travelers."
The young man had to be new to Skyrim, for the idea of 'salted' mead got him totally distracted from Mint and Rosehips. Which meant they were able to tend to the other guests more easily.
She brought some frost-salted mead and a bottle of standard Honningbrew for the esteemed guests, and passed close enough to the door to hear an ominous wind.
Ugh. Him.
Clarise fought the urge to scowl as one of the people she liked least in the world stepped into the meadery. Another khajiit, shorter than the newcomer. Farri Gold-Tooth.
Where the taller khajiit had the decency to have a tan and brown pelt, Farri had the same orange-and-cream pattern as a domestic cat. Strutted around in leather armor like the other travelers, only he traded trousers for a leather kilt with a bizarre pattern between the pleats. Fetcher had the gall to pose as a blind man with a silk covering over his eyes.
"Your cut of the salted mead sales were already picked up," Clarise told the cat as she grabbed the door and prevented it from allowing his entry. Her tone was a low, venomous, hiss so it wouldn't disturb the other guests. "So what's the reason you're here?"
Farri looked up at her. The silk cloth over his eyes was red, violet, and dark blue on a gradient, like twilight skies. He grinned. "Khajiit is meeting the owner today, business things yes, no?"
She narrowed her eyes and let the door open. "Fine. Conduct your business and go."
Clarise quickly made her way to the bar to avoid any further discussion with him. At least she wouldn't be involved too much in the discussions to hear the cat's obnoxious voice.
--
Honningbrew Meadery
Kodlak Whitemane
Something was afoot. There were three – three – people in armor that seemed to resemble that of the Thieve's Guild in the meadery with the last addition. A dunmer woman, an altmer man, and a khajiit male – something nefarious was about to happen. Only the slow improvement of his eyes thanks to J'Zargo's ring allowed him to even see it.
Just yesterday – if all else had been the same, Kodlak would only have seen brown blobs.
"Beware the people in here lad," Kodlak told him in a low tone. "They might try to lighten your coinpurse."
"J'Zargo has experience with protecting his coins," the khajiit replied in a tone to match Kodlak's. "And he can also tell you that dagi over there can hear us without issue."
Damn. Kodlak turned just as the short khajiit was about to mount a barstool. He watched the orange cat's ears perk up and his head turn to them. It was impossible to tell the cat's intentions with his eyes covered – but Kodlak had a bad feeling about him.
All the way from Riverwood, the feeling of another large predator nearby had strengthened. His ears told him something had been in the forests. It hadn't abated as they got more toward Whiterun. With the other khajiit in the meadery, the feeling was enough to make him twitch.
Something was due to happen.
The other khahjiit smiled, and flicked his tail toward them, a meaning Kodlak didn't understand. However, it was evident that it was good – for he watched J'Zargo sit up straighter and smile on his own.
"J'Zargo has attracted someone's interest." The whelp was pleased with himself. "His charm shines through, despite it all."
"Didn't you just tell me you had experience with protecting your coins? Does the concept of a 'honey trap' mean nothing to you?" Kodlak sighed and drank deep from his mead. With that, he deigned to speak normally. "Whiterun is often the host of a Bandaari caravan, but they're not allowed in the city proper. No khajiit are. So I'll need to get permission from the Jarl to bring you in, and then to Jorrvaskr."
J'Zargo frowned, and looked at his drink. The salted mead, a newfangled drink – hopefully, a fad, was soon sampled and drank with earnest. Despite how it visibly shocked him. "Khajiit faced much the same in Cyrodiil. This one wonders if it's a human thing. Oof, mead makes this one's mouth tingle."
"It may be. There is not much I can do to change it, but what can be done will be done."
He looked up to meet Kodlak's eyes. "Would this one being dovahkiin help?"
One of the skeever servers came up and Kodlak signaled for more drinks to be served.
Once she was gone, the old man leaned forward. "How do you know that word?" His tone had gone low again.
"It was said in a letter, sent to this one through a messenger bird." J'Zargo drank his mead, his fur bristled from the taste but then smoothed out. "Ooh, is… nice. But, letter to J'Zargo contained a spell only dovahkiin can use – a 'thu'um', they called it."
Kodlak noted how the other khajiit's ears perked up and his tail began to puff. At some point the female dunmer and altmer had joined him at the bar, to speak in hushed tones.
"The spell is… only fit to kill. It does so in horrible ways." The cat frowned. "Not so effective against dragons, though."
A scrape of wood drew Kodlak's attention. The blindfolded dagi had left the bar to approach them.
Kodlak got a better look at him as he approached. A Kynareth amulet wrapped around his belt, a satchel that bore Azura's moon-and-star image. Up close, Kodlak could hear an otherworldly low 'thump' in place of a normal heartbeat.
"Excuse, please?" The dagi leaned forward. "Khajiit thinks Jarl Balgruuf will want news of dragons, and will let J'Zargo into his hall to speak about what he saw."
While the cat had come to them, the dunmer woman and altmer had gotten up and walked to the door which left the serving room. Kodlak saw the altmer snap his fingers to get the dagi's attention, and wandered out of the room with a 'follow me' gesture.
The dagi scowled, then took a book from his satchel bag. "Here, rhook. A gift to show this one doesn't lust for your coins." He laid the book on the table and walked off. As he did the cat flicked his tail again, in the exact same manner as before.
J'Zargo reached for the book, and examined the cover. "'Ruminations on Dovahzul', by Farri Gold-Tooth." The cat's ears rose as high as they'd go. "Khajiit knows that name!"
"Dovahzul… that is the name of the dragon language." Kodlak stroked his chin as he examined the khajiit before him. Suddenly, the sensation of a large predator in proximity when he'd met J'Zargo made sense. His beast blood detected the dragon blood in the young man. "Be careful with that book, lad. If you're dragonborn, learning words of the dragon language recklessly would be folly."
J'Zargo nodded. "This one… this one agrees." He hesitantly opened the book as the skeever brought more mead to them. "Khajiit used the thu'um spell in the letter he received recklessly. Now, he can never return to Elsweyr."
The lad's words about the thu'um he knew, how it killed horribly. Given the stories of what the thu'um could do, Kodlak shuddered to imagine it.
"There a story to that, lad?"
J'Zargo paused in the act of flipping a page. "Elf toyed with this one's sister to secure a night of pleasurable company. Spoke… most unflatteringly." The cat flipped the page, his ears low. His voice was brittle, quiet. "This one did not know what the spell would do. He only knew, the letter said it should be used on enemies. He didn't want to kill the elf… make him suffer like that."
Like a ghost of the past, alive again, Kodlak blinked and suddenly found he was not seated in front of a male khajiit. Across from him was a red-headed nord woman, her head in her hands.
"I didn't think he'd just crumple like that. I didn't want him to die," she had told him, pleading.
When Tsun described his course as 'the thorny path', he hadn't exaggerated. Kodlak could feel thorns in his heart, and in his spirit.
He blinked, and his vision corrected itself. In front of him sat a khajiit, not his son's killer.
Kodlak drank his mead all in one long draft, then laid coins out upon the table. "Lad, finish your drink. Whiterun is hours away, and… and word about the dragon attack may not have reached this far yet. I'll need… to think on what to say." It took all his effort to speak, the weight of old regrets made the thorns in his heart hurt even worse.
"This one understands." J'Zargo drank his mead quickly, around many instances of his fur puffing out. "Ah, so brisk. Like drinking honey-ice."
"They're working on a fire-salt drink with winter on the way. Don't try any samples they offer unless you enjoy a swift run to the latrine." Kodlak tried to hold the spiritual pain at bay with humor. It didn't work.
Latrine humor never worked at easing emotional pain.
---
And the number run.
Farri! Covering up those freaky eyes with Azurah-silk hmm? At least it keeps the kids from screaming in fright.
That gets annoying so quick.
Wait! Where's Tyn?!
Today's broadcast is brought to you by the letter knife.
---
Embershard Mine
J'Zargo Dovahkiin
He was wary of the old man, as should anyone with half a brain. Kodlak had appeared covered in blood and bits of flesh – all while seemingly blind. That either spoke of incredible skill, or a deceptive appearance.
The old man also wouldn't leave him alone. J'Zargo had hoped, when Kodlak left after their first meeting, that would be the end of their interactions. But Kodlak had merely gone to wash the blood off his armor and weapon, then returned.
"Don't suppose you know anything about the town down the road?" Kodlak asked as J'Zargo read about 'clairvoyance'.
"Hmm?" J'Zargo turned the page, too intent on the ability to find whatever he wanted, and light a path only he could see to find it to give Kodlak a glance. "The town is abandoned, but mostly fine. No bandits, no dragons. J'Zargo was just there."
"Ah. Excellent."
Kodlak waited in silence after that, which allowed J'Zargo to read the book enough to get the spell working.
He held his hand aloft, and let the magicka take shape. A ghostly white trail flowed from him and wrapped around the corner toward the outside. It worked!
"All is well, lad?" Kodlak stood, face wide in a smile.
"Khajiit got the spell to work! Now he can find anything he wants, he just needs to chase it!" He'd never be fully lost again – he could be set on the path with but a thought!
"Excellent. What will you use the spell for first?"
J'Zargo, still elated, pointed at Kodlak and gave his answer. "This one will use it to find the road to Winterhold!"
Kodlak's smile faded by inches. "Um. Winterhold…? I'm guessing you're intending to join the college?"
"Yes, most definitely."
"Well, I hate to tell you – but as you are now I don't see you able to traverse the road to Winterhold safely." The bearded nord scratched the side of his head. "Autumn's just started, and that means snowstorms will already be happening in the Pale and Winterhold. You definitely don't have the clothes for that kind of cold weather, and traveling alone isn't wise in Skyrim at the best of times."
J'Zargo frowned, narrowed his eyes, and flicked his ears back. "This one made it through utter madness of Cyrodiil just fine, he can survive Skyrim." Hands on his hips, J'Zargo smirked.
Kodlak didn't back down. Instead, he shrugged. "Lad, I have no doubt that Cyrodiil is having a time of it. Their tame province is reminding them she has fangs. But Skyrim has never been tamed in the first place. A sabre cat can attack you on the road, and you'd be dead within four seconds – and that assumes you see it coming. Ice wraiths are common on the roads north of the snowline, do you even know how to fight one?"
J'Zargo was about to rebuke the old man, when his last question hit home. Ice wraiths? Sabre cats he'd heard about – somewhere between a senche and senche-raht in size, with terrible fangs for swift death.
His confusion had to be visible, for Kodlak nodded. "And that's not going into the fact that, from here? Winterhold is literal weeks of walking away. You want to get there? I can help you."
Help? Wary, J'Zargo's tail twitched. "Help khajiit how?"
Kodlak took an iron dagger from a nearby table, and passed it to him. Then, from one of the racks he took an iron shield, and banged it with his free hand.
"Let me see how strong your arm is, so I know where to begin." Kodlak held the shield up, braced with his whole body.
J'Zargo looked from the simple dagger, the crude shield that contrasted wildly with Kodlak's wolf-like armor, and sighed. He braced himself, then reeled back and struck the iron shield with the pommel of the dagger.
The weapon slipped from his fingers from the impact, and Kodlak barely moved. It clacked on the stone behind them.
"May I ask why you did that?" Kodlak looked around the shield to regard him with a confused expression.
"This one… this one thought hitting the shield with the blade would cause it to shatter." J'Zargo turned away and grabbed the dagger then turned back. "Should… should he try again?" Dozens of memories played behind his eyes – all attempts to show how he could stand out. All failures.
"No, no, I've learned what I needed to." Kodlak returned the iron shield to the rack. "You have a decent head on your shoulders, can think ahead, but you have poor grip strength in your hands. For someone of your size, I expected you to be weaker in your arm." He rubbed his chin, thoughtful. "A bit of training, a proper diet to build up muscle – you should be ready to go north in no time at all."
"Is… everyone expected to be a warrior, in Skyrim?" J'Zargo felt his heart sink. He remembered the way Celebrimbor had clawed his way away from J'Zargo when struck by the khajiit's thu'um. A slow, horrible way to die that left him a withered husk. The same thu'um had only annoyed a dragon. J'Zargo hadn't the skills to be a warrior.
"Everyone should know how to fight, in Skyrim. Not the same as being a warrior, mind." Kodlak held up a finger as he corrected the khajiit. "Elsweyr has a trial to prove one is no longer a child, yes? Here, we have similar rites. Go out, kill an ice wraith and bring its teeth back as proof."
J'Zargo's hand drifted to his own teeth. He'd never seen an ice wraith but if they had teeth… could they have been an animal, of some kind?
"And if that's how you'd like to demarcate the end of your time in the south? That's fine. Now, I've been talking a lot – but you're a grown man, you don't need to listen to me." Kodlak stepped aside from the door, his intention clear. "If you'd like, you can leave and go north as you are."
He pondered that. He'd been on the road for a year already, and had gone through so many indignities just to reach Skyrim. The time in the shelter, the brief period of being in jail nude, the dragon. When he'd arrived in Cyrodiil, it hadn't been so spicy so quickly.
So he altered his focus of the spell he'd just learned. He wanted to find what would get him to Winterhold safely – and cast it again. The ghostly trail vanished, then reformed, a line that connected him to Kodlak.
J'Zargo nodded. "Alright. What do you ask in return for helping khajiit?"
"Unless you have something that can give me my eyes back, I'm afraid – oh." Kodlak had started to speak, then stopped when J'Zargo pulled his ring from his finger and offered it.
"Magic ring, heals injuries. Khajiit will loan it to you, because it was a gift." J'Zargo took Kodlak's hand and put the golden band over the only finger it could fit with his armor – the little finger.
"...Huh. Alright, thank you." Kodlak grabbed his hammer, and gestured for J'Zargo to follow him.
--
Honningbrew Meadery
Brewmaster Clarise
"Alright, you glorified rats – we've got the single most important person in our lives visiting, so get those glasses sparkling! Get that floor scrubbed! All bottles arranged so that the labels face outward!"
Clarise, brewmaster of Honningbrew, was a bit excited. She barked orders to her staff as she passed through each area of the meadery. She wore her best dress, modest and clean to convey professionalism. Her staff worked quickly and efficiently, a result of a year under her Colovian rule.
It helped that they were bewitched skeevers, rodents the size of foxes, that could speak, walk on their back legs, and follow orders. For sanitation's sake, they were all equipped with gloves, boots, aprons, and cloth masks for their uniform.
"Mint," Clarise shouted and pointed at a she-skeever that came up the stairs from the basement. "How're the warrens looking?"
"Ship-shape, brewmaster!" Responded the skeever in her odd accent. "Basement floor is clean and polished, just needs to dry."
Clarise marked the warrens and basement off on the clipboard she carried with her. As she walked the main floor of the meadery, more items were checked off. The boilery had been deep-cleaned the night before, so half her workers were down in the warrens resting on their day off.
It had been thought that they'd have an extra day, but a messenger bird confirmed – it was to be that day.
Honningbrew Meadery, in the span of a year, had grown to match the brewing capacity of the more established Black-Briar Meadery out in Riften. With a better product too, if Clarise was asked.
As the dawn faded into the morning, Clarise checked the final box on her list. "Alright!" She held her quil and clipboard up with a wide smile. "We're all ready. Everyone, great work – enjoy your time off and extra septims!"
Of course she paid the skeever-staff, to do otherwise would be cruel. They got two meals a day, to their liking, and a weekly wage that they could spend how they liked. Usually, they spent it on goods from the khajiit caravans that passed by on the road since the Jarl wouldn't allow them in the city.
It didn't stop him placing orders with them. Typical nord.
With the work done, Clarise sent most of the staff back down to the warrens in the basement. They'd earned their rest. She went to the serving room with only a couple skeevers who had helped her earlier with paperwork. Mint and Rosehips, the dual-matriarchs of the skeever warrens.
If the owner wanted to shout at anyone, it would be them. If the owner wanted to abuse anyone, it would be them. Clarise had originally wanted it to be just her, but the matriarchs wouldn't let her run the serving room alone.
From then, it was a waiting game.
A few regulars came in. The meadery was hours from Whiterun city, so folks usually came for special orders or tastings. A trio of nords whose names she never knew came by for their weekly order to get absolutely drunk on the road; the Whiterun Guard captain, to pick up his personal order and those for his guardsmen; a few travelers in need of refreshment.
Not many, a trio of elves in light leather armor covered in pouches and bandoliers for travel on the road – they didn't seem to be together. Two dunmer and a altmer, two men and a woman. The altmer's armor was made from paler leathers, and lacked sleeves, unlike the dunmer. Their orders were simple – sujama for the male dunmer, salted mead for the lady dunmer, and some of the expensive alto wine for the altmer. Naturally.
Someone had told her when she took over for Sabjorn as the brewmaster that the meadery's owner was a dunmer woman, but Clarise didn't want to risk assuming the lass at her bar was the owner. She'd wait for the signs to reveal themselves.
Things started to look up when her customers came to include one of the Companions, accompanied by a sour-looking khajiit. The former was tall, old, kitted for battle, while the latter was short, young, and dressed like he'd just come from a farm.
"This is Honningbrew, they serve good mead here," the old Companion told his fellow as he held the door open. "We can drink, and rest, before we go on to Whiterun."
The khajiit walked in, walked past Mint and sat at a table. He promptly did a double-take at Mint's skeever-ness, while the Companion sorted him out.
Clarise didn't wait long to attend them, lest she give the newcomer time to freak out more. "Good morning, gentlemen. I hope your Loredas is going well." The image of server's cheer, she stood with her hands on her hips. "Are you ready to order? We have plenty of traditional mead, and salted mead for weary travelers."
The young man had to be new to Skyrim, for the idea of 'salted' mead got him totally distracted from Mint and Rosehips. Which meant they were able to tend to the other guests more easily.
She brought some frost-salted mead and a bottle of standard Honningbrew for the esteemed guests, and passed close enough to the door to hear an ominous wind.
Ugh. Him.
Clarise fought the urge to scowl as one of the people she liked least in the world stepped into the meadery. Another khajiit, shorter than the newcomer. Farri Gold-Tooth.
Where the taller khajiit had the decency to have a tan and brown pelt, Farri had the same orange-and-cream pattern as a domestic cat. Strutted around in leather armor like the other travelers, only he traded trousers for a leather kilt with a bizarre pattern between the pleats. Fetcher had the gall to pose as a blind man with a silk covering over his eyes.
"Your cut of the salted mead sales were already picked up," Clarise told the cat as she grabbed the door and prevented it from allowing his entry. Her tone was a low, venomous, hiss so it wouldn't disturb the other guests. "So what's the reason you're here?"
Farri looked up at her. The silk cloth over his eyes was red, violet, and dark blue on a gradient, like twilight skies. He grinned. "Khajiit is meeting the owner today, business things yes, no?"
She narrowed her eyes and let the door open. "Fine. Conduct your business and go."
Clarise quickly made her way to the bar to avoid any further discussion with him. At least she wouldn't be involved too much in the discussions to hear the cat's obnoxious voice.
--
Honningbrew Meadery
Kodlak Whitemane
Something was afoot. There were three – three – people in armor that seemed to resemble that of the Thieve's Guild in the meadery with the last addition. A dunmer woman, an altmer man, and a khajiit male – something nefarious was about to happen. Only the slow improvement of his eyes thanks to J'Zargo's ring allowed him to even see it.
Just yesterday – if all else had been the same, Kodlak would only have seen brown blobs.
"Beware the people in here lad," Kodlak told him in a low tone. "They might try to lighten your coinpurse."
"J'Zargo has experience with protecting his coins," the khajiit replied in a tone to match Kodlak's. "And he can also tell you that dagi over there can hear us without issue."
Damn. Kodlak turned just as the short khajiit was about to mount a barstool. He watched the orange cat's ears perk up and his head turn to them. It was impossible to tell the cat's intentions with his eyes covered – but Kodlak had a bad feeling about him.
All the way from Riverwood, the feeling of another large predator nearby had strengthened. His ears told him something had been in the forests. It hadn't abated as they got more toward Whiterun. With the other khajiit in the meadery, the feeling was enough to make him twitch.
Something was due to happen.
The other khahjiit smiled, and flicked his tail toward them, a meaning Kodlak didn't understand. However, it was evident that it was good – for he watched J'Zargo sit up straighter and smile on his own.
"J'Zargo has attracted someone's interest." The whelp was pleased with himself. "His charm shines through, despite it all."
"Didn't you just tell me you had experience with protecting your coins? Does the concept of a 'honey trap' mean nothing to you?" Kodlak sighed and drank deep from his mead. With that, he deigned to speak normally. "Whiterun is often the host of a Bandaari caravan, but they're not allowed in the city proper. No khajiit are. So I'll need to get permission from the Jarl to bring you in, and then to Jorrvaskr."
J'Zargo frowned, and looked at his drink. The salted mead, a newfangled drink – hopefully, a fad, was soon sampled and drank with earnest. Despite how it visibly shocked him. "Khajiit faced much the same in Cyrodiil. This one wonders if it's a human thing. Oof, mead makes this one's mouth tingle."
"It may be. There is not much I can do to change it, but what can be done will be done."
He looked up to meet Kodlak's eyes. "Would this one being dovahkiin help?"
One of the skeever servers came up and Kodlak signaled for more drinks to be served.
Once she was gone, the old man leaned forward. "How do you know that word?" His tone had gone low again.
"It was said in a letter, sent to this one through a messenger bird." J'Zargo drank his mead, his fur bristled from the taste but then smoothed out. "Ooh, is… nice. But, letter to J'Zargo contained a spell only dovahkiin can use – a 'thu'um', they called it."
Kodlak noted how the other khajiit's ears perked up and his tail began to puff. At some point the female dunmer and altmer had joined him at the bar, to speak in hushed tones.
"The spell is… only fit to kill. It does so in horrible ways." The cat frowned. "Not so effective against dragons, though."
A scrape of wood drew Kodlak's attention. The blindfolded dagi had left the bar to approach them.
Kodlak got a better look at him as he approached. A Kynareth amulet wrapped around his belt, a satchel that bore Azura's moon-and-star image. Up close, Kodlak could hear an otherworldly low 'thump' in place of a normal heartbeat.
"Excuse, please?" The dagi leaned forward. "Khajiit thinks Jarl Balgruuf will want news of dragons, and will let J'Zargo into his hall to speak about what he saw."
While the cat had come to them, the dunmer woman and altmer had gotten up and walked to the door which left the serving room. Kodlak saw the altmer snap his fingers to get the dagi's attention, and wandered out of the room with a 'follow me' gesture.
The dagi scowled, then took a book from his satchel bag. "Here, rhook. A gift to show this one doesn't lust for your coins." He laid the book on the table and walked off. As he did the cat flicked his tail again, in the exact same manner as before.
J'Zargo reached for the book, and examined the cover. "'Ruminations on Dovahzul', by Farri Gold-Tooth." The cat's ears rose as high as they'd go. "Khajiit knows that name!"
"Dovahzul… that is the name of the dragon language." Kodlak stroked his chin as he examined the khajiit before him. Suddenly, the sensation of a large predator in proximity when he'd met J'Zargo made sense. His beast blood detected the dragon blood in the young man. "Be careful with that book, lad. If you're dragonborn, learning words of the dragon language recklessly would be folly."
J'Zargo nodded. "This one… this one agrees." He hesitantly opened the book as the skeever brought more mead to them. "Khajiit used the thu'um spell in the letter he received recklessly. Now, he can never return to Elsweyr."
The lad's words about the thu'um he knew, how it killed horribly. Given the stories of what the thu'um could do, Kodlak shuddered to imagine it.
"There a story to that, lad?"
J'Zargo paused in the act of flipping a page. "Elf toyed with this one's sister to secure a night of pleasurable company. Spoke… most unflatteringly." The cat flipped the page, his ears low. His voice was brittle, quiet. "This one did not know what the spell would do. He only knew, the letter said it should be used on enemies. He didn't want to kill the elf… make him suffer like that."
Like a ghost of the past, alive again, Kodlak blinked and suddenly found he was not seated in front of a male khajiit. Across from him was a red-headed nord woman, her head in her hands.
"I didn't think he'd just crumple like that. I didn't want him to die," she had told him, pleading.
When Tsun described his course as 'the thorny path', he hadn't exaggerated. Kodlak could feel thorns in his heart, and in his spirit.
He blinked, and his vision corrected itself. In front of him sat a khajiit, not his son's killer.
Kodlak drank his mead all in one long draft, then laid coins out upon the table. "Lad, finish your drink. Whiterun is hours away, and… and word about the dragon attack may not have reached this far yet. I'll need… to think on what to say." It took all his effort to speak, the weight of old regrets made the thorns in his heart hurt even worse.
"This one understands." J'Zargo drank his mead quickly, around many instances of his fur puffing out. "Ah, so brisk. Like drinking honey-ice."
"They're working on a fire-salt drink with winter on the way. Don't try any samples they offer unless you enjoy a swift run to the latrine." Kodlak tried to hold the spiritual pain at bay with humor. It didn't work.
Latrine humor never worked at easing emotional pain.
---
And the number run.
Farri! Covering up those freaky eyes with Azurah-silk hmm? At least it keeps the kids from screaming in fright.
That gets annoying so quick.
Wait! Where's Tyn?!
Falkreath Hold
New
Chairtastic
Anything's a chair if you're brave enough
- Location
- Breakfast nook
- Pronouns
- He / Him / It
Codex: Falkreath Hold
---
A section of a briefing on the Holds of Skyrim, given to General Seneca Tullius on his arrival to Skyrim. Written by Rikke, Legate Augustus of Skyrim.
--
Falkreath Hold
Capital: Falkreath city.
Jarl Siddgeir, nord.
Steward: Nenya, altmer.
Housecarl: Helvard, nord.
Number of thanes: One.
Color: Dark blue.
Crest: A stag's head, antlers looping into each other.
Major exports: Lumber, foodstuffs (fish and game), some ore.
Major imports: Foodstuffs (grains and fruits), corundum.
Risk: Low. Falkreath is one of the most unsafe regions to live in, travel in, etc. Much of the land is left undeveloped so that the trees can come of age and be sold for lumber. This means there's not much to draw Ulfric's attention, or much to keep ours.
Forces: Helgen and Fort Neugrad are both Falkreath holdings administered by the Empire. Together they control Pale Pass and station close to two-thousand troops. These facilities are ideal for sending new recruits to receive basic training.
Legate Skulnar coordinates with Siddgeir's meager forces, stationed in Falkreath City. The manpower for keeping Falkreath, better or worse, will come from the Empire.
Special concerns: Siddgeir is loyal to the Empire, but that will only persist so long as he continues to reap the benefits of Imperial association. He is a fair weather friend, and will start to entertain offers from the Stormcloaks the minute, nay, the second we don't pamper him.
Falkreath is wild, wild, wild country. Bandits are the primary combat force after the Empire in the region – and that's unlikely to change. Falkreath's population is low, if we try to press-gang locals into the Legion we won't get nearly enough to justify the bad reputation.
As long as the Pale Pass remains clear, we have a steady flow of troops and supplies from Cyrodiil. The minute that changes, our odds of ending this rebellion drop thirty-five percent. Helgen and Fort Neugrad are vital, while the rest of Falkreath isn't. We can't let that information become obvious to Ulfric, or Siddgeir.
---
---
A section of a briefing on the Holds of Skyrim, given to General Seneca Tullius on his arrival to Skyrim. Written by Rikke, Legate Augustus of Skyrim.
--
Falkreath Hold
Capital: Falkreath city.
Jarl Siddgeir, nord.
Steward: Nenya, altmer.
Housecarl: Helvard, nord.
Number of thanes: One.
- Dengeir of Stuhn.
Color: Dark blue.
Crest: A stag's head, antlers looping into each other.
Major exports: Lumber, foodstuffs (fish and game), some ore.
Major imports: Foodstuffs (grains and fruits), corundum.
Risk: Low. Falkreath is one of the most unsafe regions to live in, travel in, etc. Much of the land is left undeveloped so that the trees can come of age and be sold for lumber. This means there's not much to draw Ulfric's attention, or much to keep ours.
Forces: Helgen and Fort Neugrad are both Falkreath holdings administered by the Empire. Together they control Pale Pass and station close to two-thousand troops. These facilities are ideal for sending new recruits to receive basic training.
Legate Skulnar coordinates with Siddgeir's meager forces, stationed in Falkreath City. The manpower for keeping Falkreath, better or worse, will come from the Empire.
Special concerns: Siddgeir is loyal to the Empire, but that will only persist so long as he continues to reap the benefits of Imperial association. He is a fair weather friend, and will start to entertain offers from the Stormcloaks the minute, nay, the second we don't pamper him.
Falkreath is wild, wild, wild country. Bandits are the primary combat force after the Empire in the region – and that's unlikely to change. Falkreath's population is low, if we try to press-gang locals into the Legion we won't get nearly enough to justify the bad reputation.
As long as the Pale Pass remains clear, we have a steady flow of troops and supplies from Cyrodiil. The minute that changes, our odds of ending this rebellion drop thirty-five percent. Helgen and Fort Neugrad are vital, while the rest of Falkreath isn't. We can't let that information become obvious to Ulfric, or Siddgeir.
---
Ch 5
New
Chairtastic
Anything's a chair if you're brave enough
- Location
- Breakfast nook
- Pronouns
- He / Him / It
Chapter 5: Shot out of Heaven.
---
Honningbrew Meadery
Linwe
Far from the prying ears of the bewitched skeevers, or the other guests, the three thieves spoke. The lady of the hour, a dunmer he had been chatting up at the bar, sat on the stairs to the second floor of the meadery. Linwe himself, tallest of the trio, leaned against a wall next to the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Their mutual associate, the one who had arranged their meeting, Farri Gold-Tooth, had climbed atop a barrel that sat atop a box. While he was the shortest thief in the group, he was also the one they had to look up to the most.
Clever cat.
Nothing was said, as they listened.
Karliah with her elbows on her knees, hands steepled in front of her face. Linwe with his arms crossed, hardly a twitch. Farri with his flicking ears, which turned in all directions.
"He's not making his move yet," Farri whispered. "Hasn't moved from his chair."
"How do you know?" Karliah croaked her question. Her voice was rough, like she'd grown up with the ash of Morrowind. Perhaps she did, but if so her accent was not to dunmer standard.
"All Dark Brotherhood assassins smell like vampire dust and werewolf. His steps may be muffled, he might drink an invisibility potion, his smell still follows like a cloak." Farri tapped the side of his nose.
Linwe made a mental note to mix void salts into his soap going forward. Void salts in food were used to diminish certain flavors, and also had the capacity to negate smell if mixed right. He made no announcement of it, however. Farri was part of his organization, but still new.
Betrayal could come at any moment.
"This Maven Black-Briar is apparently fearsome, if she can have the Dark Brotherhood constantly sending people after one khajiit," Linwe muttered. He closed his eyes and listened more intently. "Or the Dark Brotherhood is more decrepit than ever."
"Two things can be true at once." Karliah adjusted her seating, enough to creak the wood of the stairs. Her bow shifted slightly on her back, the arrows moved in her quiver. "Are we secure enough to do business?"
"Farri thinks we are." Farri shrugged, the leathers of his armor scraped against each other as he moved. "So. Where shall we begin?"
Linwe opened his eyes, content that he'd heard nothing sneak up on them. "The Thieves Guild here has become decrepit. Their location, their activities, and their roster are all common knowledge among the guards of all eastern Skyrim." He began to count off his points, starting with his little finger then moving toward the thumb – as was civilized.
Karliah sighed, and rubbed her ridged brow. "How bad?"
"The Guild's treasury currently counts at zero septims, zero gems, zero artwork of any kind." Farri made two small rings with his hands, then made a bigger ring with both hands as he spoke. "They're operating hand to mouth, except muskarse Mercer of course. Brynjolf has even taken up a stall in the market to make coin."
Linwe didn't know what sound Karliah made in response to that. He'd heard it, but couldn't understand how she'd made it. It was like a horker that understood its ugliness for a moment, something that was normally deep that had been forced into a high pitch.
"Things for the Rift won't be looking good for much longer, either." Linwe flicked his hand, dismissive. "Vampires are on the rise, and the Rift has the highest population in the east. I'm told the Guild doesn't have any idea that it's happening."
"...There was a time when everyone knew enough restoration magic to drive back the undead." Karliah bemoaned the situation, her head in her hands. "They probably don't even do delves anymore." She raised her head to look at Farri.
The dagi shook his head, without comment.
"Damnit." She turned to Linwe, her violet eyes narrow – suspicious. "And your group is able to do better?"
Linwe didn't begrudge her. She'd loved being a thief, and part of the Riften Guild. After hundreds of years, Linwe knew how attached people got to their groups. "For one, we've been operating in Skyrim for the past year – and nobody knows we even exist. No one knows where to find us. No one knows who our members are." He flicked his hand in Farri's direction. "He found us by complete happenstance."
"Even the damn Thalmor haven't a single Scooby that these guys are here. Is most impressive, yes no?" Farri added, with his odd vernacular.
"The hell is a Scooby?" Karliah asked, befuddled.
Linwe did a small double-take at her. "Is that not… I assumed all the bizarre things he says are Skyrim or Morrowind slang."
"No," she looked at him like he was the madman amongst them. "Why would you think that?"
"This one is from Solstheim, that's why. Meeting ground of the two." Farri held up his two pointer fingers together. "Context clues help with discovering the meaning of unfamiliar words, jitterbugs." He curled and uncurled his paired fingers at them repeatedly, in some bizarre gesture.
"Is he mad?" Karliah asked Linwe.
"He's met Sheogorath, allegedly, and considers him a close personal friend. So, by definition, yes." Linwe answered her, with all the weariness Farri had induced in him put into the words. "But he's also a powerful mage, with connections too valuable to discard."
Farri hadn't said anything, he started to curl and uncurl his pointer fingers one at a time. After a minute of this, he stopped. "Hmm, kinda want to go swimming after this. Anyone wanna hit Lake Ilinalta?" He frowned, then pouted. "Wait, khajiit can't go swimming so far away. He wants to talk with handsome dagi-raht he saw in there."
When Karliah looked at him, confused, Linwe nodded. "Very valuable connections. Such as the connections he's used to set up this meeting." Linwe exaggerated the examination of his fingernails, he even took a file out from his pocket to strengthen his show of disinterest. "Your vengeance doesn't interest me, but the business ventures you're setting up to get your vengeance do. As does your resume as a veteran thief."
Karliah steepled her fingers again, and rested her chin on her thumbs. "So, if I join your group – you'll let me use your resources to get my vengeance, if I let you use mine to get rich?"
"That's the long and short of it. Having you on the team, as it were, will make getting turncoats from the Guild more difficult. Farri seems to think you have a way to fix that, or bring us something worth the trouble." Linwe blew the dust from his fingernails, and looked at Karliah in the eye. "Is he wrong… Nightingale?"
The dunmer's violet eyes widened. "How…?" She glanced at Farri, then focused again on Linwe. "...I can't promise you anything about the Nightingales, you know. It's not my decision."
"But you'll make introductions?" Linwe gave her his full attention for the first time.
"I will. The exact time depends on when and how Mercer Frey faces justice for what he's done."
"Very good." Linwe offered his hand to Karliah, and they shook. He tried not to feel ill at ease as Farri grinned so wide that his teeth were fully bared. "Welcome to the Summerset Shadows."
--
Whiterun Gatehouse
J'Zargo Dovahkiin
The book was fascinating. It contained a foreword from Ulfric Stormcloak that provided a bit of context on something J'Zargo had wondered – why he found the use of his one thu'um to be delicious beyond measure.
Because, by learning the words, he had been changed. To know a thing is to be changed by it, per the book's introductory chapters. He read while on the road up to Whiterun, then he read some more when Kodlak was allowed entry and he was forced to stay outside.
J'Zargo had climbed up to a half-collapsed tower and sat down to read while he waited – so that he was out of reach of the guards, or any animals. An unfortunate necessity – in his experience, guards were liable to take anything of value they saw on sleeping people.
That's how he'd lost the rings his grandmother had given him. Leyawiin's damn thief-guards.
So! He sat, and he read.
"To a dragon, being strong and being correct are the same thing. This is the root of the power of the thu'um, that if you are stronger than the forces of the Mundus, even for a second, your will becomes the correct one."
So wrote Farri Gold-Tooth, wife of Magrus. Even the rebel leader Jarl Ulfric had been confused, a woman with a man's name.
"Don't think this doesn't apply to Akatosh, Auri-El, whatever your specific name for Him is. He is, at his core, a dragon. And his will was broken when mortals asserted their power over Him. He's little more than an Ehlnofey at this point. Alive, but unthinking. Brain-dead. This is why time is difficult to manipulate, but not impossible. Where Akatosh whole and unbroken, he'd… stop… Tiid..."
J'Zargo found his eyes grow heavy, as he'd found a comfortable perch in direct sunlight. Dovahkiin he might have been, a powerful mage in the works he might have been. But he was also khajiit, and the urge to drift off to nap was sometimes too much.
Tiid, time. Tick, tick, tick. The bridge from then to now, and back to then. He dreamed of time.
He dreamed of time as a river. Cool, light, shallow enough that he had laid down in it and the flow didn't obstruct his breathing. Pleasant, calm. Though his eyes were closed, he could see dappled light through his eyelids.
But things started to get darker, the flow of the river grew stronger. The ground underneath him became less sturdy. Rather, he felt like it undulated beneath him. In his dream, he opened his eyes just in time to see jaws approach him.
Jaws of a great black dragon, scales with the appearance of being acid-splashed, eyes red and hateful. They were opened wide, and J'Zargo passed by them as he realized – he had laid upon the dragon's tongue.
The dragon's throat closed around him as he was swallowed. He was crushed briefly in waves, as he was worked down the long, wet corridor. There wasn't even enough room for him to open his mouth to scream.
But he refused to die. He refused to sit by and let it happen. He claws slipped out, he turned his hands around – and let the sharp points catch on the dragon's throat.
Warm, sweet-smelling blood flowed around him down the gullet as he stopped in place. Just a meter or so away, he could see a flash of white-blue light that appeared when a ring of muscle opened and closed.
The dragon thrashed, trumpeted, and tried to dislodge J'Zargo with blows to its neck – but he held firm. He held firm until the dragon arched its neck and began to hack.
Before a deluge of foul liquid sent J'Zargo rushing back up the throat – he saw a clear figure beyond the ring of muscle. A cat made of white-blue light.
Then he was thrown up, and woke up at the same time.
He jolted awake, and sent the book toppling from his chest over the side of the tower. J'Zargo scrambled to catch it, but it slipped from his fingers as he grabbed for it.
Another hand caught it, and held it out to him. Smaller than his, furry.
J'Zargo pulled himself to the tower's edge and looked down. There, like the side of the tower was the ground, was the dagi he'd seen earlier at the meadery. His fur and kilt moved in the wind normally, but his bags, hems, and myriad strands of colorful beads behaved as if he stood properly.
With a smile and a bow, the dagi took a step upward to hold the book out. "Khajiit didn't mean to wake J'Zargo, he apologizes."
Hesitant, J'Zargo took the book back. "He will forgive, if you tell him how it is you are doing that." How had the dagi seen anything through that silk sash over his eyes?
The dagi lifted his foot and pointed at his boot. Simple leather, stopped half-way up the shin. "Farri bewitched his boots, alteration magic. Enchanting is not his focus, but he works with an enchanting master. He picks up tips and tricks, yes no?"
J'Zargo tilted his ears to and fro. "Khajiit heard correctly?"
"Farri thinks he did." The dagi stepped around the corner to where J'Zargo's legs hung over the side of the ruined tower. "Hmm. These shoes aren't worth enchanting. Khajiit can see about getting J'Zargo new ones, yes no? These look to be in the Khenarthi's Roost style."
"They are." His ears a bit red from the examination, J'Zargo pulled his legs up and sat on them. "J'Zargo heard correctly – you are… Farri?"
"He is." Farri stepped up to the edge of the tower, then passed over to proper vertical positioning. "Khajiit is Farri Gold-Tooth, he asked an associate to send you the letter which brought you here." He crouched down so his head was lower than J'Zargo's, his tail swayed a bit to indicate annoyance. "Did not ask a Shout to be included, but he will flay that one about it later, yes no?"
J'Zargo blinked, blinked, then narrowed his eyes. "This one does not believe you."
Far below, there was a woman's bark of laughter that faded quickly.
Farri tilted his head to the side. "Excuse, please?"
"Farri Gold-Tooth is said to be a wife of Magrus." J'Zargo pointed at the dagi. "You're a male."
"...Khajiit was honestly hoping he was past this whole 'star-wife' thing, but perhaps he is mantling one without intending to." Farri pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaled sharply out through his nose, then crossed his arms. "What can Farri say to convince you?"
J'Zargo kept his eyes narrowed, and flicked his ears back. "Hmm. Tell him something about Magrus, if you were his wife."
Farri's expression turned somewhat sad. His ears flicked away – in the direction khajiiti rumor said indicated a memory. "The eye he lost? Is here in Skyrim. The nords of Winterhold College are in the process of digging it up."
...Which would explain why one of Magrus' wives was also in Skyrim. Huh.
"He convinced J'Zargo?" Farri's ears perked up.
"Perhaps he did." J'Zargo didn't let his suspicious face relax. "Farri's letter called khajiit dovahkiin. How did you know?"
"The thu'um." Farri smiled, and turned to the stones next to J'Zargo. "Hon. Dovah. On." As Farri spoke, deep scratch marks appeared in the stone – just like the letter. Each word was made of unique slashes, as if made from imprecise claws.
And J'Zargo could understand them. He could see the distinctions in each word, though they flowed together. Hon. To find, to seek, to look out and search for. Dovah. Dragon. He, himself. A shard of time, given thought and willpower – a living moment. On. The soul, the part of the person that retained information, that could connect to the ethereal, that could imagine.
They snapped together like a puzzle for him. Find. Dragon. Soul.
He shook himself out of the trance of learning, and saw Farri smiling at him. "You remind khajiit of Tiber Septim. He would do just like that – lose himself in the words as he came to understand them." Farri, somehow able to see despite the cover over his eyes, touched J'Zargo's nose with his pointer finger. "Khajiit doesn't think you'll find anything with it, but you can try if you'd like?"
He had another thu'um. One he could use without killing someone! A step taken away from the horror of Celebrimbor's death. J'Zargo set the book aside, then took a deep breath. "Hon… dovah… on!"
Suddenly he was everywhere around him. His thoughts perceived everything around him – the stone, the heat of the sun, his own flesh. But he didn't retain the information long. His awareness passed over Farri and lingered – he couldn't quite focus on it, but Farri felt familiar.
Soon his awareness extended even further. He lost track of his own body, but could see Farri as purple light from far away. Then! Suddenly, his awareness picked up a figure in the sky, toward the Throat of the World. A dragon! J'Zargo perceived it as red light. The shout seemed to have reached its end, because his awareness shrank back.
As it did, he couldn't help but notice – the dragon altered its course to follow J'Zargo's awareness.
All at once, he snapped back into his flesh. Farri still had a purple glow about him when he did, and he could see a faint red blob in the sky draw nearer.
"J'Zargo did see one." He pointed up at the Throat of the World. "Up there!"
"Ah, would be your elder brother Paarthurnax most likely. Odd for him to be so low on the mountain but -- " Farri followed J'Zargo's pointing finger, and froze mid-sentence. "That is a red dragon. Huh, definitely not Paarthurnax. Might be Odahviing… wait, Odahviing was buried near Riften, is too far away for him to fly so quickly."
J'Zargo turned to Farri, his ears flicked back again. "Buried?"
"Is long story, involves telling Alkosh to find himself in the Alps, do as he's told," Farri waved him off and stood up, stepped over the edge of the tower and began to float on the air. "Welp, khajiit is going to get ready for that." He looked back over his shoulder at J'Zargo. "You know lightning spells, yes no?"
J'Zargo slowly shook his head 'no'. His voice was gone – snatched away by watching Farri fly. Flying was a type of magic considered long-gone. Outlawed by the Empire and then hunted to extinction.
"Some dragons are weak to fire, or ice, but they all are uniquely vulnerable to lightning." Farri stuck his tongue out and began to rummage around in his satchel bag. "J'Zargo is too. The thu'um requires magicka to use – run out entirely, and your Voice stops working." He took out another book, and tossed it to J'Zargo. "Sparks. The beginning of shock magic."
J'Zargo caught it. A black book, with a silver symbol embossed upon it – a flame with the barely-there shadow of hand and finger bones within.
"Read up, climb down, and come kill a dragon with this one." Farri circled the tower in the air. "Is fun, yes no?"
J'Zargo couldn't follow the dagi, he moved too fast. He lost track of Farri, and only found him again as Farri left the vicinity of Whiterun city – he flew parallel to the ground, with his arms down as a female nord in leather armor and a bow across her back hung from them.
As J'Zargo watched, Farri flipped her so she landed on his back, and rode the dagi into the sky – right into the path of the dragon.
Without hesitation, J'Zargo opened the book and began to blitz through the pages. He'd never been so motivated to read and absorb knowledge in his life.
--
Whiterun Airspace
Tyn Sigdisdottir
"I can't believe you fumbled it that badly," she laughed as wind swept through her hair while they flew.
"Khajiit can, and will, drop you!" Farri shouted, his ears flicked back and tinged pink. "He is not practiced in romantic woo-ing!"
"You had a year to get your script right and you still cocked it up." Tyn kept laughing as she strung her bow and rattled her quiver. Not a terrible abundance of arrows, but she could summon more with a spell mid-fight.
"He is kicking himself fine, thank you." Farri covered his eyes with one hand. "Ugh. J'Zargo probably thinks this one is bizarre werido. Going to take ages to seem like cool guy."
"Don't worry, the dragon looks like it will help with that." Tyn pointed, where the red dragon had begun a flyby maneuver across Whiterun.
The red flying lizard exhaled a stream of ice, snow, and freezing wind. From the great balcony in the jarl's palace, across the exterior of the building, then down through the districts. The temple of Kynareth in the Clouds District, several people in the streets, then across the markets and down the main boulevard to the main gates. All frozen in a long, contiguous, line.
"Definitely not Odahviing," Farri commented. "He's a fire dragon. No idea who this is."
Tyn didn't much care, she drew an arrow, dipped it in a poison she kept in a vial belt at her waist, and nocked it. There was a time when she would be horrified to take up arms against a dragon.
Just a year prior, when she had been the living dead. When she had not tasted the joy of adventure, the sweetness of fruit.
That time was gone. Tyn loosed the arrow as Farri flew her past, and crowed when the paralysis poison did its work.
It was almost funny how the dragon locked up in place almost instantly, continued to move as his wings had positioned – an upward banking maneuver – then stall out and tumble toward Nirn.
A god, shot out of heaven, by mortal hands.
---
Hon Dovah On – Detect Dragon, literally 'Find Dragon Soul'.
...Do you get to the Cloud District very often? Oh, what am I saying? Of course you – [frozen to death by dragon's breath].
---
Honningbrew Meadery
Linwe
Far from the prying ears of the bewitched skeevers, or the other guests, the three thieves spoke. The lady of the hour, a dunmer he had been chatting up at the bar, sat on the stairs to the second floor of the meadery. Linwe himself, tallest of the trio, leaned against a wall next to the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Their mutual associate, the one who had arranged their meeting, Farri Gold-Tooth, had climbed atop a barrel that sat atop a box. While he was the shortest thief in the group, he was also the one they had to look up to the most.
Clever cat.
Nothing was said, as they listened.
Karliah with her elbows on her knees, hands steepled in front of her face. Linwe with his arms crossed, hardly a twitch. Farri with his flicking ears, which turned in all directions.
"He's not making his move yet," Farri whispered. "Hasn't moved from his chair."
"How do you know?" Karliah croaked her question. Her voice was rough, like she'd grown up with the ash of Morrowind. Perhaps she did, but if so her accent was not to dunmer standard.
"All Dark Brotherhood assassins smell like vampire dust and werewolf. His steps may be muffled, he might drink an invisibility potion, his smell still follows like a cloak." Farri tapped the side of his nose.
Linwe made a mental note to mix void salts into his soap going forward. Void salts in food were used to diminish certain flavors, and also had the capacity to negate smell if mixed right. He made no announcement of it, however. Farri was part of his organization, but still new.
Betrayal could come at any moment.
"This Maven Black-Briar is apparently fearsome, if she can have the Dark Brotherhood constantly sending people after one khajiit," Linwe muttered. He closed his eyes and listened more intently. "Or the Dark Brotherhood is more decrepit than ever."
"Two things can be true at once." Karliah adjusted her seating, enough to creak the wood of the stairs. Her bow shifted slightly on her back, the arrows moved in her quiver. "Are we secure enough to do business?"
"Farri thinks we are." Farri shrugged, the leathers of his armor scraped against each other as he moved. "So. Where shall we begin?"
Linwe opened his eyes, content that he'd heard nothing sneak up on them. "The Thieves Guild here has become decrepit. Their location, their activities, and their roster are all common knowledge among the guards of all eastern Skyrim." He began to count off his points, starting with his little finger then moving toward the thumb – as was civilized.
Karliah sighed, and rubbed her ridged brow. "How bad?"
"The Guild's treasury currently counts at zero septims, zero gems, zero artwork of any kind." Farri made two small rings with his hands, then made a bigger ring with both hands as he spoke. "They're operating hand to mouth, except muskarse Mercer of course. Brynjolf has even taken up a stall in the market to make coin."
Linwe didn't know what sound Karliah made in response to that. He'd heard it, but couldn't understand how she'd made it. It was like a horker that understood its ugliness for a moment, something that was normally deep that had been forced into a high pitch.
"Things for the Rift won't be looking good for much longer, either." Linwe flicked his hand, dismissive. "Vampires are on the rise, and the Rift has the highest population in the east. I'm told the Guild doesn't have any idea that it's happening."
"...There was a time when everyone knew enough restoration magic to drive back the undead." Karliah bemoaned the situation, her head in her hands. "They probably don't even do delves anymore." She raised her head to look at Farri.
The dagi shook his head, without comment.
"Damnit." She turned to Linwe, her violet eyes narrow – suspicious. "And your group is able to do better?"
Linwe didn't begrudge her. She'd loved being a thief, and part of the Riften Guild. After hundreds of years, Linwe knew how attached people got to their groups. "For one, we've been operating in Skyrim for the past year – and nobody knows we even exist. No one knows where to find us. No one knows who our members are." He flicked his hand in Farri's direction. "He found us by complete happenstance."
"Even the damn Thalmor haven't a single Scooby that these guys are here. Is most impressive, yes no?" Farri added, with his odd vernacular.
"The hell is a Scooby?" Karliah asked, befuddled.
Linwe did a small double-take at her. "Is that not… I assumed all the bizarre things he says are Skyrim or Morrowind slang."
"No," she looked at him like he was the madman amongst them. "Why would you think that?"
"This one is from Solstheim, that's why. Meeting ground of the two." Farri held up his two pointer fingers together. "Context clues help with discovering the meaning of unfamiliar words, jitterbugs." He curled and uncurled his paired fingers at them repeatedly, in some bizarre gesture.
"Is he mad?" Karliah asked Linwe.
"He's met Sheogorath, allegedly, and considers him a close personal friend. So, by definition, yes." Linwe answered her, with all the weariness Farri had induced in him put into the words. "But he's also a powerful mage, with connections too valuable to discard."
Farri hadn't said anything, he started to curl and uncurl his pointer fingers one at a time. After a minute of this, he stopped. "Hmm, kinda want to go swimming after this. Anyone wanna hit Lake Ilinalta?" He frowned, then pouted. "Wait, khajiit can't go swimming so far away. He wants to talk with handsome dagi-raht he saw in there."
When Karliah looked at him, confused, Linwe nodded. "Very valuable connections. Such as the connections he's used to set up this meeting." Linwe exaggerated the examination of his fingernails, he even took a file out from his pocket to strengthen his show of disinterest. "Your vengeance doesn't interest me, but the business ventures you're setting up to get your vengeance do. As does your resume as a veteran thief."
Karliah steepled her fingers again, and rested her chin on her thumbs. "So, if I join your group – you'll let me use your resources to get my vengeance, if I let you use mine to get rich?"
"That's the long and short of it. Having you on the team, as it were, will make getting turncoats from the Guild more difficult. Farri seems to think you have a way to fix that, or bring us something worth the trouble." Linwe blew the dust from his fingernails, and looked at Karliah in the eye. "Is he wrong… Nightingale?"
The dunmer's violet eyes widened. "How…?" She glanced at Farri, then focused again on Linwe. "...I can't promise you anything about the Nightingales, you know. It's not my decision."
"But you'll make introductions?" Linwe gave her his full attention for the first time.
"I will. The exact time depends on when and how Mercer Frey faces justice for what he's done."
"Very good." Linwe offered his hand to Karliah, and they shook. He tried not to feel ill at ease as Farri grinned so wide that his teeth were fully bared. "Welcome to the Summerset Shadows."
--
Whiterun Gatehouse
J'Zargo Dovahkiin
The book was fascinating. It contained a foreword from Ulfric Stormcloak that provided a bit of context on something J'Zargo had wondered – why he found the use of his one thu'um to be delicious beyond measure.
Because, by learning the words, he had been changed. To know a thing is to be changed by it, per the book's introductory chapters. He read while on the road up to Whiterun, then he read some more when Kodlak was allowed entry and he was forced to stay outside.
J'Zargo had climbed up to a half-collapsed tower and sat down to read while he waited – so that he was out of reach of the guards, or any animals. An unfortunate necessity – in his experience, guards were liable to take anything of value they saw on sleeping people.
That's how he'd lost the rings his grandmother had given him. Leyawiin's damn thief-guards.
So! He sat, and he read.
"To a dragon, being strong and being correct are the same thing. This is the root of the power of the thu'um, that if you are stronger than the forces of the Mundus, even for a second, your will becomes the correct one."
So wrote Farri Gold-Tooth, wife of Magrus. Even the rebel leader Jarl Ulfric had been confused, a woman with a man's name.
"Don't think this doesn't apply to Akatosh, Auri-El, whatever your specific name for Him is. He is, at his core, a dragon. And his will was broken when mortals asserted their power over Him. He's little more than an Ehlnofey at this point. Alive, but unthinking. Brain-dead. This is why time is difficult to manipulate, but not impossible. Where Akatosh whole and unbroken, he'd… stop… Tiid..."
J'Zargo found his eyes grow heavy, as he'd found a comfortable perch in direct sunlight. Dovahkiin he might have been, a powerful mage in the works he might have been. But he was also khajiit, and the urge to drift off to nap was sometimes too much.
Tiid, time. Tick, tick, tick. The bridge from then to now, and back to then. He dreamed of time.
He dreamed of time as a river. Cool, light, shallow enough that he had laid down in it and the flow didn't obstruct his breathing. Pleasant, calm. Though his eyes were closed, he could see dappled light through his eyelids.
But things started to get darker, the flow of the river grew stronger. The ground underneath him became less sturdy. Rather, he felt like it undulated beneath him. In his dream, he opened his eyes just in time to see jaws approach him.
Jaws of a great black dragon, scales with the appearance of being acid-splashed, eyes red and hateful. They were opened wide, and J'Zargo passed by them as he realized – he had laid upon the dragon's tongue.
The dragon's throat closed around him as he was swallowed. He was crushed briefly in waves, as he was worked down the long, wet corridor. There wasn't even enough room for him to open his mouth to scream.
But he refused to die. He refused to sit by and let it happen. He claws slipped out, he turned his hands around – and let the sharp points catch on the dragon's throat.
Warm, sweet-smelling blood flowed around him down the gullet as he stopped in place. Just a meter or so away, he could see a flash of white-blue light that appeared when a ring of muscle opened and closed.
The dragon thrashed, trumpeted, and tried to dislodge J'Zargo with blows to its neck – but he held firm. He held firm until the dragon arched its neck and began to hack.
Before a deluge of foul liquid sent J'Zargo rushing back up the throat – he saw a clear figure beyond the ring of muscle. A cat made of white-blue light.
Then he was thrown up, and woke up at the same time.
He jolted awake, and sent the book toppling from his chest over the side of the tower. J'Zargo scrambled to catch it, but it slipped from his fingers as he grabbed for it.
Another hand caught it, and held it out to him. Smaller than his, furry.
J'Zargo pulled himself to the tower's edge and looked down. There, like the side of the tower was the ground, was the dagi he'd seen earlier at the meadery. His fur and kilt moved in the wind normally, but his bags, hems, and myriad strands of colorful beads behaved as if he stood properly.
With a smile and a bow, the dagi took a step upward to hold the book out. "Khajiit didn't mean to wake J'Zargo, he apologizes."
Hesitant, J'Zargo took the book back. "He will forgive, if you tell him how it is you are doing that." How had the dagi seen anything through that silk sash over his eyes?
The dagi lifted his foot and pointed at his boot. Simple leather, stopped half-way up the shin. "Farri bewitched his boots, alteration magic. Enchanting is not his focus, but he works with an enchanting master. He picks up tips and tricks, yes no?"
J'Zargo tilted his ears to and fro. "Khajiit heard correctly?"
"Farri thinks he did." The dagi stepped around the corner to where J'Zargo's legs hung over the side of the ruined tower. "Hmm. These shoes aren't worth enchanting. Khajiit can see about getting J'Zargo new ones, yes no? These look to be in the Khenarthi's Roost style."
"They are." His ears a bit red from the examination, J'Zargo pulled his legs up and sat on them. "J'Zargo heard correctly – you are… Farri?"
"He is." Farri stepped up to the edge of the tower, then passed over to proper vertical positioning. "Khajiit is Farri Gold-Tooth, he asked an associate to send you the letter which brought you here." He crouched down so his head was lower than J'Zargo's, his tail swayed a bit to indicate annoyance. "Did not ask a Shout to be included, but he will flay that one about it later, yes no?"
J'Zargo blinked, blinked, then narrowed his eyes. "This one does not believe you."
Far below, there was a woman's bark of laughter that faded quickly.
Farri tilted his head to the side. "Excuse, please?"
"Farri Gold-Tooth is said to be a wife of Magrus." J'Zargo pointed at the dagi. "You're a male."
"...Khajiit was honestly hoping he was past this whole 'star-wife' thing, but perhaps he is mantling one without intending to." Farri pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaled sharply out through his nose, then crossed his arms. "What can Farri say to convince you?"
J'Zargo kept his eyes narrowed, and flicked his ears back. "Hmm. Tell him something about Magrus, if you were his wife."
Farri's expression turned somewhat sad. His ears flicked away – in the direction khajiiti rumor said indicated a memory. "The eye he lost? Is here in Skyrim. The nords of Winterhold College are in the process of digging it up."
...Which would explain why one of Magrus' wives was also in Skyrim. Huh.
"He convinced J'Zargo?" Farri's ears perked up.
"Perhaps he did." J'Zargo didn't let his suspicious face relax. "Farri's letter called khajiit dovahkiin. How did you know?"
"The thu'um." Farri smiled, and turned to the stones next to J'Zargo. "Hon. Dovah. On." As Farri spoke, deep scratch marks appeared in the stone – just like the letter. Each word was made of unique slashes, as if made from imprecise claws.
And J'Zargo could understand them. He could see the distinctions in each word, though they flowed together. Hon. To find, to seek, to look out and search for. Dovah. Dragon. He, himself. A shard of time, given thought and willpower – a living moment. On. The soul, the part of the person that retained information, that could connect to the ethereal, that could imagine.
They snapped together like a puzzle for him. Find. Dragon. Soul.
He shook himself out of the trance of learning, and saw Farri smiling at him. "You remind khajiit of Tiber Septim. He would do just like that – lose himself in the words as he came to understand them." Farri, somehow able to see despite the cover over his eyes, touched J'Zargo's nose with his pointer finger. "Khajiit doesn't think you'll find anything with it, but you can try if you'd like?"
He had another thu'um. One he could use without killing someone! A step taken away from the horror of Celebrimbor's death. J'Zargo set the book aside, then took a deep breath. "Hon… dovah… on!"
Suddenly he was everywhere around him. His thoughts perceived everything around him – the stone, the heat of the sun, his own flesh. But he didn't retain the information long. His awareness passed over Farri and lingered – he couldn't quite focus on it, but Farri felt familiar.
Soon his awareness extended even further. He lost track of his own body, but could see Farri as purple light from far away. Then! Suddenly, his awareness picked up a figure in the sky, toward the Throat of the World. A dragon! J'Zargo perceived it as red light. The shout seemed to have reached its end, because his awareness shrank back.
As it did, he couldn't help but notice – the dragon altered its course to follow J'Zargo's awareness.
All at once, he snapped back into his flesh. Farri still had a purple glow about him when he did, and he could see a faint red blob in the sky draw nearer.
"J'Zargo did see one." He pointed up at the Throat of the World. "Up there!"
"Ah, would be your elder brother Paarthurnax most likely. Odd for him to be so low on the mountain but -- " Farri followed J'Zargo's pointing finger, and froze mid-sentence. "That is a red dragon. Huh, definitely not Paarthurnax. Might be Odahviing… wait, Odahviing was buried near Riften, is too far away for him to fly so quickly."
J'Zargo turned to Farri, his ears flicked back again. "Buried?"
"Is long story, involves telling Alkosh to find himself in the Alps, do as he's told," Farri waved him off and stood up, stepped over the edge of the tower and began to float on the air. "Welp, khajiit is going to get ready for that." He looked back over his shoulder at J'Zargo. "You know lightning spells, yes no?"
J'Zargo slowly shook his head 'no'. His voice was gone – snatched away by watching Farri fly. Flying was a type of magic considered long-gone. Outlawed by the Empire and then hunted to extinction.
"Some dragons are weak to fire, or ice, but they all are uniquely vulnerable to lightning." Farri stuck his tongue out and began to rummage around in his satchel bag. "J'Zargo is too. The thu'um requires magicka to use – run out entirely, and your Voice stops working." He took out another book, and tossed it to J'Zargo. "Sparks. The beginning of shock magic."
J'Zargo caught it. A black book, with a silver symbol embossed upon it – a flame with the barely-there shadow of hand and finger bones within.
"Read up, climb down, and come kill a dragon with this one." Farri circled the tower in the air. "Is fun, yes no?"
J'Zargo couldn't follow the dagi, he moved too fast. He lost track of Farri, and only found him again as Farri left the vicinity of Whiterun city – he flew parallel to the ground, with his arms down as a female nord in leather armor and a bow across her back hung from them.
As J'Zargo watched, Farri flipped her so she landed on his back, and rode the dagi into the sky – right into the path of the dragon.
Without hesitation, J'Zargo opened the book and began to blitz through the pages. He'd never been so motivated to read and absorb knowledge in his life.
--
Whiterun Airspace
Tyn Sigdisdottir
"I can't believe you fumbled it that badly," she laughed as wind swept through her hair while they flew.
"Khajiit can, and will, drop you!" Farri shouted, his ears flicked back and tinged pink. "He is not practiced in romantic woo-ing!"
"You had a year to get your script right and you still cocked it up." Tyn kept laughing as she strung her bow and rattled her quiver. Not a terrible abundance of arrows, but she could summon more with a spell mid-fight.
"He is kicking himself fine, thank you." Farri covered his eyes with one hand. "Ugh. J'Zargo probably thinks this one is bizarre werido. Going to take ages to seem like cool guy."
"Don't worry, the dragon looks like it will help with that." Tyn pointed, where the red dragon had begun a flyby maneuver across Whiterun.
The red flying lizard exhaled a stream of ice, snow, and freezing wind. From the great balcony in the jarl's palace, across the exterior of the building, then down through the districts. The temple of Kynareth in the Clouds District, several people in the streets, then across the markets and down the main boulevard to the main gates. All frozen in a long, contiguous, line.
"Definitely not Odahviing," Farri commented. "He's a fire dragon. No idea who this is."
Tyn didn't much care, she drew an arrow, dipped it in a poison she kept in a vial belt at her waist, and nocked it. There was a time when she would be horrified to take up arms against a dragon.
Just a year prior, when she had been the living dead. When she had not tasted the joy of adventure, the sweetness of fruit.
That time was gone. Tyn loosed the arrow as Farri flew her past, and crowed when the paralysis poison did its work.
It was almost funny how the dragon locked up in place almost instantly, continued to move as his wings had positioned – an upward banking maneuver – then stall out and tumble toward Nirn.
A god, shot out of heaven, by mortal hands.
---
Hon Dovah On – Detect Dragon, literally 'Find Dragon Soul'.
...Do you get to the Cloud District very often? Oh, what am I saying? Of course you – [frozen to death by dragon's breath].
Ruminations
New
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.