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Point Me At The Skyrim (Ward x Elder Scrolls)

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Magelight 3.1
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    • Magelight 3.1

    ⊙    ​

    I floated in the abyss and nothing could touch me.

    I wouldn't let anything touch me. Not until I centered myself with a mental anchor of sorts, anything to give me a solid foothold to puzzle this shit out. The irony of me wanting to be grounded and also wanting to remain floating freely wasn't lost on me.

    It wasn't so long ago that I felt these same conflicting desires. The... reunion, I suppose, with Uncle Mike. Lightstar. The hair loss and the radiation scare that came with that. Even now, looking back on it nearly three days later, I really don't know how long I stayed in mid-air while I felt the world close in all around me. Was that the precipice of going Titan? Wanting to be grounded, wanting to escape, and your reality collapsing around you because obviously you can't have both.

    Not with my powers.

    Jasper was the one who grounded me, using terminology to get my headspace focused. He'd taken me away from the Fallen church, effectively letting me 'escape', and allowing me to really breathe. He'd been source of human companionship, when I had felt so alienated from the fucking stress of it all. I'd been such a shitty friend for him, even if he played it off.

    If he wanted to be called Jester, then it was the least I could do.

    He might be dead by now.

    They all might be.

    I took a deep breath, closing my eyes. Black. The kind of blackness I'd felt when Teacher's conspiracy began to make waves, when I struggled to be in the same room with Bough, and that loomed in my heart every day of Sveta's operation. It was at the center of me, but it leaked out like ink without a filter, enveloping me. Weighing me down with a life of it's own.

    I blamed the Wretch then.

    I knew better now.

    I opened my eyes, and the abyss returned, although the surface was well in reach. It was bright, not blindingly so, but it broke the surface of the water just enough that I could see the slightest of definitions in the faces around me. The bridge of the nose here, the curve of the lips there, the imprints of eyelids as I had them blink to test my control. Not a perfect seal unfortunately, water was slowly dripping through nostrils and ears, but it kept me dry so to speak.

    I estimated it had been nearly twenty minutes since I had gone under, long enough that the water on my bare body had mostly dried, but there wasn't any chill that I had expected in creating this pocket. The same effect that prevented the chill from seeping in out in the snowy mountains prevented the heat from escaping me. Coupled with the bath water being heated around me and it almost recreated an artificial sauna.

    Not quite hot enough from experience, but something to keep in mind just in case.

    Distractions. Thoughts that didn't mean much, didn't really add to any new conclusions for me, and certainly weren't helping my overall situation.

    But fuck me, did I need them. Twenty minutes underwater, assessing whether there was a delay like some powers experienced while submerged, and just thinking in general. Working with my power like this, reasserting my control over the forcefield by focusing on that connection we held, it worked to keep me from that chaotic sense of desires.

    Still, it had to be close to twenty minutes and pushing it anymore would be testing my luck. I didn't want my hosts to think I drowned myself and then barge in here in a panic. That would have been mortifying on more than a few levels.

    I rose from beneath the water and the definition of the fragile one became all the more clear as water poured out of her crevices and moisture outlined her body. Every part of me was laid bare as I left the bath, but I felt an odd sort of connection with my fragile friend in this instance. Was it the vulnerability, having ourselves exposed and at our near lowest? Was it the mentality, expressing myself so adamantly to a stranger just like the old faces of my forcefield used to?

    Was it sympathy? Fear? My cosmic partner not enjoying the implications of my situation anymore that I was?

    Yes? No? Anything?

    Somewhere in the middle, probably.

    Right. Makes as much sense as anything else about this situation.

    Hands grabbed the towel and robe my hosts had left for me in the bathroom, the towel being a dull, worn out clothe that felt only a little less coarse than sandpaper. The robe was worse in a way, because it was in the same basic design as Arngeir's but lacking any of the decorative linings his outfit had. It could have been called a nightgown if it was lighter and less rough, but it was too thick for that. Built for warmth most likely, coming down past my feet, but definitely not for style.

    I wiped myself down with the towel before I donned the robe, not wanting to deal with the squishy sensation of having to wear a slightly damp outfit to bed. I'd done that a few times as Glory Girl, exhausted from a fight or patrol during the rainy season and tried to rough it out on the couch. Each and every time I'd wake up with the costume practically plastered to skin and a lecture about soaking the furniture out of laziness.

    Despite myself, I couldn't help but smile. It had been one of the few times I'd seen my Mom lose control of herself while laughing, seeing Dad plop down on the wet couch and freak out for a second.

    It was a nice memory, but it was tainted by the fact that memories might be the only thing I'd have left of them when all was said and done.

    And not even those are safe now.

    That ship had long since sailed, with the memories I'd unfortunately recovered from Amy, but she was a known demon to me. I would never say that she was the lesser evil, but she was an evil I had history with, good and horrific. Not so much now.

    Trooper Littlejohn had tried to my team a rough time months ago about what constituted failures and successes, and I had tried to explain to him how every villain we stopped, another was waiting to capitalize on the moment for themselves. It created the illusion of the many headed Hydra, countless heads cut off and countless more to replace them. I almost believed it myself at my lowest points.

    This felt like that. One head cut, two more take it's place, and from there you get four for your troubles if you keep going.

    From cart to camp, camp to Whiterun, Whiterun to Rave, Rave to the Boulder and back to Rave, Rave to Camp, Camp to Whiterun, and Whiterun to a literal fucking Dragon.

    And you haven't moved on from the Dragon. Not yet.

    I pulled the robe over myself, desperately wishing for something to wear under it. Like seemingly everything else on this planet, it was rough on spots that very much did not appreciate or need roughness, and smelled vaguely musty. Whatever they used for handling odors wasn't very effective. It didn't bode well for their offer to clean my clothing, but I was in no position to refuse, nor was I really in a state to go about menial tasks like that myself.

    Staying grounded and distracted was important, but something that dull would let my mind wander into very uncomfortable territory. Far better to focus on myself for the time being.

    No major injuries. Well, okay, no new major injuries. The scrapes and cuts at my side were agitated from the earlier fight, and skin peeled slightly from side to upper collarbone where a glancing splash of fire caught my armor. Not pretty, but honestly I was far more concerned about my hair or the rags on my hand to catch ablaze. Fighting a monster without the extra protection of my normal costume and armor had been daunting, forcing me to be a lot more overly cautious than I usually would have been.

    I had the fragile one grab the small, cellphone sized, hand mirror and held it up to my face. Ugh. Bags under my eyes from lack of sleep, which were still slightly red from the days of crying, and even after drying my hair it still looked like a bird's nest. I couldn't do anything about my eyes or the dryness of my face, but I could at least work on the hair myself.

    No forcefield hands this time. This was more about me than her, as weirdly selfish as that felt to say.

    Taking care of myself? In the process.

    Taking stock of what I know? Dragons were real. I honestly felt kind of stupid for holding out for so long in a world filled with 'magic' and elves, but seeing that monster attacking Whiterun had cemented things in my mind. The rules of this Earth had changed, somehow and someway, possibly centuries ago and it seemed to be molded into that of fantasy. I imagined it wasn't so dissimilar to Aleph encountering a world of superheroes, before they started getting their own, and the disbelief that followed.

    Magic was now a factor that I had to keep in mind, and there were enough different variations that I couldn't be confident at the moment to even begin classifying them. A high priority, considering that they may be the key to getting home.

    Or what's left of it.

    I scowled, picking at a tiny knot that kinked a few strands of hair together. Annoying.

    This world had men, elves, and even lizard and cat people according to Invictus. Maybe Witches counted separately as well, considering his reaction to my joke, but I'd have to figure out why they differentiated from mages then. Ah, and Vampires. And werewolves. Those were things as well. Great.

    I missed Invictus and Sevitus. They were decent company, although I wasn't sure that the latter counted as a 'decent' person so to speak, and in our short time together they'd been a great help for me.

    But I didn't want to see them. I didn't want anyone to see me. For as hazy as those two days were, those thoughts were clear in my mind then and now.

    The Dragon was intimidating, it was ferocious, and objectively it was powerful. But as a purely physical threat... I'd handled worst. Experienced and fought bigger and scarier opponents. Goddess, Lung, Lord of Loss, Nursery, Teacher, the Titans. All far more powerful and having far greater consequences for failure than the Dragon. Slavery, alien impregnation, the collapse of human will, all these fates worse than death.

    No, to say the Dragon was an issue due to being tough was a lie. Losing was never in the card, if I was being honest with my self. I knew that a few minutes into our fight.

    It was-

    A huff of hot air that didn't exist blew across my bare shoulders. The hair of my reflection shifted imperceptibly, even though the hair in my hands didn't so much as twitch.

    Eight hands pressed into the stone walls closest to me, not hard enough to shake the building, but enough to leave imprints in the material.

    Stupid. Dumb. Brutish.

    I released the breath I'd been holding back, feeling the shudder and goosebumps on skin that felt so ill-fitting, and forced myself back into braiding. Forced myself to keep my vision straight with my reflection, expression unwavering, and hands retracting back to me. Dust clung to the folds of forcefield palms, grinding and falling away as hands clenched into fists.

    Yeah. We were on the same page on this.

    Winning had been the real danger and I had won that battle.

    Saved the city and now I suffered for it. Isn't that always the way it goes Vic?

    It didn't work as humor. No morbid sense of relief in making light of the situation. Just more of that inky blackness around me.

    I put the mirror away and did the best that I could blind, the motions feeling awkward and robotic. The time may come where the fragile one would be better at braiding my own hair than I was.

    Ah, I thought. At least I have that going for me. A personal stylist.

    I huffed out a breath that wasn't even close to a laugh. But it was an effort at least. Now there was some light in that darkness, a pinprick maybe.

    I finished as best I could and left the bath, floating enough so that my feet didn't have deal with the bare stone floors and the robe wouldn't have to drag against it either. Hopefully not enough to appear intimidating to my hosts.

    I wasn't that surprised to see Arngeir waiting in the halls, hands clasped within his robe-sleeves, standing serenely in place. His beard was long and healthily maintained, tied into a knot near the end to keep it controlled. His robe was decorated beautifully, rich designs woven into the material to give it the illusion of being segmented scales, and a great amount of detail given to the dragon-crest in it's center.

    Coupled with his posture and his age, he brought to mind the classic martial arts sensei or mystic sage, a theme shared by Eidolon and Myrddin. More than a few cluster capes had gone down similar routes, although the popularity of the style waned occasionally.

    Argneir bowed his head, "I'm glad to see you are well, Dragonborn."

    I bowed as well, feeling awkward and unsure if this was necessary, "Thank you for the bath, Argneir. Sorry if I took too long and made you wait. I, uh, sort of left hand marks on the wall. I'm sorry, but if you want me to help in anyway-"

    "Fret not," he replied casually. "We have other facilities for such uses and it was clear that you needed time to yourself. We Greybeards may live amongst one another, but even we understand the sanctity of privacy for the mind and body."

    I smiled, but it felt forced. Nothing against him, and I honestly appreciated the sentiment, but I just didn't feel like I had the strength for it. It didn't help that I didn't have much privacy in either.

    He turned, "Come, I will show you to your room. Brother Borri has already saw to your clothing as best he could. I do apologize, but he was unable to do much about the damage it sustained."

    I floated after him, "Thank you, again. I really do appreciate the hospitality."

    Arngeir smiled, "It is my pleasure and sworn duty, Dragonborn. If there is anything else you require for comforts, please feel free to ask and I shall do what I can."

    "About that," I said. "Why do you call me Dragonborn? Just because I killed a Dragon?"

    "Ah, no, not as such. Closely related to the idea, but no one who merely kills a Dragon can be called Dragonborn." He shook his head, "Unfortunately, I must hold my tongue until the 'morrow."

    I frowned, "Because I don't use this Voice?"

    "That is the biggest concern, yes. But we have always been careful about our teachings, even when we show care for visitors and outsiders. There are many who would wish to use the teaching of the Voice and the title of Dragonborn to obtain power for their own ends. We may abstain from the politics of the world, but we are not careless nor reckless about the effect we have on it."

    "But you think I am one," I said. "This Dragonborn. Because even without using the Voice, I remember... because I know things that nobody else should."

    He nodded, "Indeed. Your sincerity and your knowledge have convinced me. Now I would work to convince my brothers of the same."

    "If you need me to recount what happened, I will." I wasn't looking forward to it, but anything to help get more answers.

    "You need not worry, Dragonborn." He gave me a concerned look, "I'm not blind to the anguish in your heart. I would not ask you to harm yourself as such any more. I am confident in my abilities of persuasion, and would prefer you to rest for the night."

    I blinked. Taking in what he said and how he said it.

    I had to blink even more, feeling some water at my eyes. Ever since I had arrived here, I had been met by hostility and distrust, and every bit of headway I earned had to be made against that. I've had to bend the knee to people who hated me and listen to bullshit spouted by monsters who wanted to hurt and use me as they saw fit. People died because I wasn't fast enough and I had those deaths shoved in my face.

    Anytime anyone showed me kindness or compassion in this world, it was only after I showed how useful I was, often by solving their problems.

    To be cared about and for, with very little in me doing anything for him? It hit me hard.

    I wiped my eyes, not wanting to make Arngeir uncomfortable with a crying floating girl behind him. Tears could wait until I was alone.

    I still had questions that needed answers.

    "If you don't mind," I spoke, careful to keep my voice sounding normal. "I have a few questions that don't necessarily have to do with this 'Dragonborn' business."

    "By all means, ask away."

    "Okay." I took a moment to put my thoughts in order. "Portals. Any knowledge of magic that can create them or manipulate them."

    Argneir hummed, "I know little about the intricacies of magic, but I do know that most portals are used for different planes of Oblivion. Usually to summon Aedra to fight on the users behalf, although they have been sometimes used for travel. Possibly the most infamous was the Oblivion Crisis."

    The name rang a bell, "I think I've heard it before."

    He gave me a confused look, "I would hope so. Nearly two hundred years ago, the Daedric Prince of Change attempted to ravage all of Tamriel, opening portals from his plane of existence into ours. He unleashed his minions on Man and Mer alike."

    My eyes widened, "An invasion from another world."

    "Of a sorts, yes. High Hrothgar was untouched due to Kyne's protection, but there are records of our members descending the mountain to aid in battle. One of the few times in recent history that it was required."

    "What happened after?" I asked. "I assume that the Prince was defeated, right?"

    He nodded, "Indeed. A costly battle, but won nonetheless. As to how... well, I don't rightfully know. It was a massive event across the world and was followed by several other battles and calamities in it's wake. Attempts to find the true history of that time will give you conflicting answers. Some say it was an unnamed hero who worked behind the scenes in Cyrodiil. Others claim the Thalmor's subtle magic closed the gates. I'm afraid I cannot give you a true answer."

    Right. Not too dissimilar to Golden Morning in that regard. A cascade of portals, fighting a being from another reality, and the truth hidden from everyone. For one reason or another.

    The timelines weren't even close to matching up and the events didn't sound that similar, but the parallels were spooky nonetheless.

    "What about rocks?"

    "Rocks?"

    "Magic rocks," I clarified. "Might have markings or appear in random places?"

    "Ah, you must mean the Standing Stones." He spoke with a tone of nostalgia, "Yes, I remember those quite fondly. When I was a youth I would regularly worship the Warrior Stone, hoping to be gifted like many heroes of old. Luckily, it was not so."

    I swallowed. A clue? "So these are common in Skyrim?"

    "In a sense, yes. Built by our ancestors, forgotten by time for the most part, some still get the occasional visitor. They are sacred sites in honor of our constellations and to match the months, with an exception for the Serpent Stone who represents the Unstars. If you've come across them, treat them with care and consideration. Take some time to clear the vegetation off them, or clean the runes carved on them, in respect."

    "I'll keep that in mind." Hm. A possible connection. There was definitely something magical about the Boulder, thinking back on it, but... it wasn't giving off the same vibe as these Standing Stones. For one thing, I imagine Invictus would have at least known about them, and he claimed the Boulder wasn't there prior. Secondly, the M/S was clearly something from my world. No ancient runes decorated it from what I recalled either.

    Argneir stopped by one door in the hallway and I had to push back a bit with my flight to prevent myself from running into him. A bit too lost in thought.

    He turned to me, "Your room Dragonborn. Food will have been prepared for you within, along with your bedding and clothes. If you have no other questions, then I will return to my brothers and confer with them on your situation."

    "Just one more," I said. "What do you know about the College of Winterhold?"

    He rubbed his beard in thought, "Not much more than the average denizen, I'm afraid. We occasionally have their students or teachers come visit us, often asking questions that we cannot answer or do not know the answer too. We treat them respectfully, even if a few of them have... quirks. Mages often do, so that's not so surprising. A bit unfortunate that we are considered similarly to them though."

    I crossed my arms, thinking out loud, "I've heard magic isn't seen in as great a light as it used to be."

    "It is so," He answered. "The Oblivion Crisis has incurred damage in too many ways to count. The College and those who wish understand or embrace the spiritual included. That being said, they are of the brightest of minds in Skyrim, and they likely have forgotten more knowledge than I've accrued in a lifetime. If you wish to someday visit, as I understand you curiosity, I can get you a map to it."

    "Thank you. I know I've been saying that a lot, but you've been a much needed source of help."

    "I only wish to help, Dragonborn." He smiled, "Rest and have a pleasant night."

    I smiled back, a little easier now, and he left down the hallway until I couldn't see him in the gloom of the building.

    I sighed, feeling both relieved at having asked the questions, but frustrated that there weren't truly answers. Not the ones I was looking for at least. Hopefully tomorrow would have more for me to go on in my investigation.

    I entered the room and made sure to lock it behind me. A precaution, even if I didn't necessarily feel in danger at the moment.

    The room was... clean, at the least. I wasn't a fan of the stone walls or floors, making the place feel like a dungeon rather than a home, but they went to the effort of adding comforts to the room. A large bed with blankets that felt almost as soft as my own back home, a simple writing desk with a single drawer, and candles for better light than the stained glass windows offered.

    A plate with bread, a giant slice of cheese, and a jar of liquid sat on the desk. A closer inspection revealed it to be Mead of some sort. It had been a long time since I had gotten drunk, at least since after the Kronos incident, and I wasn't particularly craving it now.

    Still, it would do for a meal.

    A shift in the reflection of the glass had me grip the bottle tighter. Gently and slowly, I put it back down on the plate.

    Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Breath in. Breath out.

    In.

    Out.

    I had told Argneir that I had memories that weren't my own, and that was true. They were strong when I slept, when I was hungry in the forest but too worried to try the wild berries, and when I felt myself growing more and more frustrated with myself. Pockets of events and feelings, but not whole memories.

    But that wasn't everything. Not entirely.

    I could see him in the corner of my eye. He wasn't there, but he was. It was never obvious, never something that could pass muster if I really focused on it for more than a second. If it weren't for the protocols and my limited experience with Mama Mather's powers, it might have taken me far longer than a day to realize what was happening.

    He existed in how the shadows cast by the room's lantern seemed to meld themselves against the walls and floors like a puddle. The furniture gave his form shape, a foundation for the shadows to start with, and all at once his presence was pieced together.

    A faint facsimile of life in darkness, existing only in my head. Draconic.

    The fragile one sprung to life around me, engulfing me in her protection. I kept my head straight, not focusing on any one part of the room, letting him persist at the edges of my vision. I could feel every head and face I had around me looking in one direction.

    The left.

    There you are, I thought. The reason I had so much trouble sleeping. The reason I wake up crying in the middle of the night.

    "Hello." I spoke, feeling my heart thrum in my chest. "You're the one who's been haunting me, haven't you Mirmulnir?"

    No response. The shadows didn't move, didn't change, and neither did the fragile one's attention.

    I swallowed, "They say I'm stuck with you now, but if you are then you already knew that. Probably knew when I- when we fought, at the end. I get your memories somehow, scarily similar to a cape back home, and you get... what? A special hell, where you're forced to watch me live my life, maybe having to feel everything I do?"

    Silence.

    I thought of Capricorn. Lauren. Dauntless. The Navigators. Ashley. Sveta.

    Myself.

    "You don't deserve this. Nothing you've done could ever have deserved this, even with what little I've gotten from your memories." I spoke with sincerity. "Neither of us do."

    I felt invisible heads turn and sensed the shadow of the ghost dim.

    "I'm getting you out this. Somehow. Someway. I-"

    The faces lost their focus. Shadows became only shadows.

    "I promise. I'll put everything on it."

    No one disagreed, but no one agreed either.

    Only the two of us now. If he was ever really there.

    Gone like your world.

    No    .

    I took in a deep breath. No. Fuck no. Fuck that. Fuck off with that kind of thinking. I was on an Earth, no cracks in the ice to be seen, where Magic and Dragons reigned supreme, and I was still alive and kicking.

    Kicking myself while I was down was pointless when I had new avenues to explore and I could put my faith in others to hold the line until I got back. Tristan, Byron, Rain, Kenzie, Sveta, and Natalie. My team and my heroes.

    Missy, Crystal, Mom, Aunt Sarah, Dad, Uncle Mike, Ethan, Gilpatrick, Jester, and Presley.

    Tattletale and her kids. The Malfunctions.

    More friends and loved ones.

    I wouldn't abandon them. I would die before I let them feel an iota of what I felt in the hospital. Isolated. Alone.

    Fuck that.

    Tomorrow, it's time to Scholar the fuck up Victoria.
     
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    • The plot thickens!

    I had no idea what it meant to actually absorb a Dragon's soul in game; it was just something I did to level up my Shouts. I love the take you've come up with!

    Also, dumb question: Will Vicky be able to learn Shouts?
     
    Magelight 3.2
  • Threadmarks
    • Magelight 3.2

    ⊙⊙    ​

    The circle of mystic sages surrounded me, and I wouldn't lie and say I wasn't a little bit intimidated.

    All of them were quiet, dressed identically to each other in their scaled robes, arms folded within massive sleeves. Living up to their names I supposed, they all had long grey beards, tied by a superficial not to keep it tidy. It was hard to read their expressions with this lighting, especially so when they all kept their hoods up.

    For my part, I wore the white blouse and brown trouser pants they'd offered me as an alternative to the armor, and as much as I may have disparaged this worlds sense of fashion, this was by far the comfiest piece of clothing I'd worn so far.

    Not my most intimidating appearance by far, but if worst came to worst, clothing didn't mean much in the kind of fight I could bring to the table.

    "Are there books for me to read or... I don't know, spells? It can't be as easy as you guys just giving me the power right?"

    They had summarized the process of teaching me the Thu'um, after Arngeir took time to eat breakfast with me and ask for my blessing in participating this very day. I had been both ecstatic and skeptical of being granted a chance to learn magic of any kind so soon, but Argneir had assured me that it could potentially help me on my travels, and that it would be the Greybeards honor to tutor me in the ways of the Voice.

    Arngeir chuckled lightly, only identifiable by him standing so close to me. "We Greybeards spend decades of our lives in the monastery, studying our inner Voice, and mastering our own self-control before many of us learn even a single word of power. Not out of necessity, mind you. There are many who can learn to use the Thu'um in half the time, often for no other purpose than to strengthen themselves."

    I swallowed. Five years. Potentially a decade.

    I was willing to give myself a bit of slack timeframe wise, to better understand magic and investigate my appearance here, but I was far from willing to sped so much of my life studying new powers. No matter how tempting it might be to the Scholar within me.

    "When you Shout, you speak in the language of dragons," Arngeir continued. "Thus, your Dragon Blood gives you an inborn ability to learn Words of Power."

    "Meaning I don't need to spend so much time on them?"

    "Need, I do not know. The needs of one may not include those of all."

    I nodded. Good advice and I could already imagine how it might apply to the villains of Gimel. More than a few heroes as well.

    "An advantage though? Perhaps. All Shouts are made up of three Words of Power. As you master each Word, your Shout will become progressively stronger. Master Einarth will now teach you 'Fus' and 'Ro', the first and second Word in Unrelenting Force."

    Einarth stepped forward from the circle, giving me a short bow as he passed. It was only up close that I could see past the hood and beard, but even his aged expression felt similar to that of Argneir. I think one could be forgiven for assuming they were potentially all related with how well they carried the mystic sage theme.

    "Ro means 'Balance' in the dragon tongue. Combine it with Fus - 'Force' - to focus your Thu'um more sharply."

    Einarth bowed slightly and whispered, "Fus."

    I felt it. Something rippled through the air within the room, not with sound or air, but in the faintest of impacts on the area around us. The best comparison I could make was to my aura and how I could feel it channeling out it's invisible energies to assail my opponent's mind.

    This effect, however, was entirely physical. A marking had been left, carved into stone, glowing as if under intense heat. I could almost see the wicking of flames rising from nothing.

    This is magic, I thought. Curiosity, excitement, and fear were racing through my veins. I was going through a process that no other sane parahuman had ever dreamed of and I had no fucking idea of what to expect.

    Einarth whispered again, "Ro."

    Another force and another carving. Was the power and shape instinctual? How much of was honed over years of training? Could there be a means of using tricks for adapting powers on my Earth for magic here?

    Not for the first time I wished that I had my phone here with me to record this for future reference. A thought that led to Kenzie and the worry about how she would be handling my disappearance. She had been on the edge for so long now, with Ashley gone, that I could only hope Sveta and Tattletale took hold of the reigns for now.

    The old master stepped back into the circle and Argneir gestured, "Come, Dragonborn. Study the Word of Power, and see for yourself what it means to be who you are."

    I floated forward, cautious, but Argneir stood patiently by as I did so. The thought of this being a trap once more crossed my mind but it was easier to dismiss this time. I would have the forcefield up and I would bolt through a window the moment it seemed like there would be any danger.

    Besides, I thought. I feel like I can trust him.

    Gut feeling, but that was enough for me.

    I stopped in front of the symbols, still glowing from whatever energy was transferred into them, and tried to interpret them as best I could. I had never been one for languages, beyond two classes of French in highschool, and that did absolutely nothing to help me here.

    I stared at the symbols, wondering if I was going to have to have to get closer when I felt something click. It was a sensation I'd felt back home, when something caught my eye or a memory stuck out to me during a particular moment. If I chased that feeling, there was the possibility of finding a resolution to whatever issue I faced.

    Because it wasn't my eye. Not entirely, anyways.

    I felt a new perspective take hold of me as I looked at the symbols with a renewed perspective and suddenly understood. The way the lines crossed, how it was etched, the weight carried with the stroke of one leading to another. Force and Balance swept up and into me, and from there I knew.

    I know these words as well as I know my team. Like they've become a part of me.

    The light faded and then died, the symbols now mere etchings on the floor.

    I turned to Argneir, eyes wide, "I can read them now."

    "Like a master," he smiled. "A true natural."

    "How?" I asked. "Did it connect to my mind? Some sort of.... I don't know, psychic echo from Einarth? Will it fade over time?"

    "In mind, in spirit, and in blood, Dragonborn." He nodded approvingly, "You're curiosity is understandable, as are your worries. Fret not, what you have gained cannot be taken nor lost so easily. These words of power are a part of you, as you might be beginning to sense."

    I nodded, running a hand through my hair, thinking about the implications. The light of the words penetrated the Fragile One, just as the Dragon's did, which meant there might be offensive kinds of magic out there that could do the same. If there was the ability to gift knowledge regardless of barriers in place, that must mean there exists magic out there that can curse one's mind just as easily.

    And despite what Arngeir said, it could be equally possible to remove knowledge as well.

    Who's to say it hasn't happened already?

    I didn't like it. It was all too possible with what I knew now, and it answered so many questions. Not all of them, not even close, but I had a foot in the door now, at the least.

    "You truly do have the gift," Arngeir spoke. "But learning a Word of Power is only the first step... you must unlock its meaning through constant practice in order to use it in a Shout. Well, that is how the rest of us learn Shouts."

    He paused for a moment, looking me over. An expression of sympathy crossed his face, "As Dragonborn, you can absorb a slain dragon's life force and knowledge directly."

    I stared at him, unmoving.

    In a way, I had known. Since Mulmirnir's death, I'd known on some level what this meant.

    "As part of your initiation, Master Einarth will allow you to tap into his understanding of 'Fus' and 'Ro'."

    Einarth stepped forward again while I watched Argneir. "That's what this all comes down to, huh. To even train this power, I have to kill more of the Dragons and... and force them into being prisoner inside of me."

    "You carry with you a heavy heart, Dragonborn," Argneir sighed. "It is commendable for you to care for it as such. But yes, you must retain the soul of a Dragon to strengthen your Thu'um. That is your gift and your burden."

    "I've always been ambivalent on souls," I said quietly. It felt hard to speak now. "I had teammates who believed in God, who talked about souls, and I think I came about as close one could to seeing an equivalent to them. I don't know if these are the same thing. I don't even know if these are just core memories forced onto me for some defensive purpose. But I can't kill them if it means having them suffer like this Argneir. It's not just or fair to them. Or to me."

    Argneir met my eyes, "I do not know if they truly suffer, Dragonborn. I have been told that, as children of Akatosh, the Dragon souls wish to be reunited as one. Yet, I cannot experience what you are feeling. I cannot see through your eyes. If that is the way you wish to proceed, then we shall support you, as we have done throughout millenia."

    A millenia of 'souls' being devoured.

    I nodded, but said nothing.

    This is all so fucked.

    Einarth stood waiting, quiet despite my outburst. I glanced at him, "What will you have him do?"

    "Master Einarth will allow you to tap into his understanding and experience with 'Fus' and 'Ro'. Theoretically, this should allow you to use the Thu'um within a manageable time."

    I frowned, "Then why can't we do this all the time? What's the catch?"

    "Time, as it always tends to be," he answered. "Einarth is one of the few who have mastered this skill over their period of training, and even then, can only bring forth these two Words of Power."

    "Right," I said. Fuck me, I thought. Things could never be fucking simple.

    I floated towards him before stopping, considering.

    I floated back another ten feet and unfurled the Fragile One to her fullest. "Just keep your distance if you can. For your safety, please."

    Einarth bowed once again, before straightening out and spreading his arms wide. He uttered a word so quietly that I didn't think I could have heard it if he had been right in my ear, but the result was immediate. Light engulfed his form in an instant, his body shaking slightly as he continued to chant wordlessly, bright enough that my eyes started to water.

    It was in that second of blurred vision that a tendril of light reached out of Einarth and enveloped me as well, somehow morphing through my forcefield like water.

    I had a second to think. Blackness.

    And then I sank into a bright darkness that rattled my very core.

    ⊙⊙​

    "-Victoria. Come back to Earth Victoria, we miss you!"

    I blinked, the action feeling heavier than usual, and for a terrifying moment nothing made sense. The world around me was a mosaic of intermingling colors; a glory of light from all sorts of spectrums, colliding with each other within the circular arena, morphing themselves in ways my mind couldn't process.

    Gold was the predominant color, embracing and emboldening the other lights in ways that made me feel... familiar? As though I were looking at the still image of a home video, but without enough context to really understand the scene coherently. I didn't know how that was possible when all the lights were still moving constantly, but it was the best way for me to parse it.

    There was a tint of green in my vision that made me feel anxious. I couldn't place it exactly, but I had the feeling that it was under or outside of the glory in some way. Where the gold and other, lesser, colors shined with power, the green seemed to ripple. Less like light and more like water trying and somehow failing to reflect the light.

    Water, the thought came to me, Or Poison?

    I blinked again, and this time it felt far more natural. The world around me coalesced into solid images, more like a badly designed video game than anything with real clarity.

    Another blink and the quality improved. I was staring out of a windshield, watching the streets slowly go by as the car I was in drove on.

    "Sleeping Beauty finally awakes," cried a voice in the back seat. Katherine. Kathy. "That's a shame, I had sharpies all set to go."

    A glance in the rearview mirror showed Kathy with a plethora of sharpies, all different colors, held between her fingers like a ninja holding shuriken. Despite the fact that the top layer of her face seemed to be shifting ever so slightly, the sinister smile on her face was all too clear.

    I sent a mock glare to the driver. Bethany. "You didn't try to stop her?"

    Bethany smiled, half guilty and half covered by white geometric lines that clashed with her deep black skin. "I did call you out and look, you woke up! I think you should be saying thank you."

    "I should be calling you traitor," Kathy said as she stuffed the sharpies back in her backpack. "Helping Victoria when she fell asleep on the best day of her life with her two best friends? Awful. Just awful."

    I smiled, "We're going to have to adjust your standards if you think beating you two at bowling is the highlight of my life." She offered up an exaggerated haughty tone, "Barely a challenge, my dears."

    Bethany gave a mock scowl that sent the lines in a tizzy, "Ugh. If you're going to talk like that I'd wish you stayed asleep."

    "Agreed!"

    "I have no idea where the exhaustion came from," I said. "I've been sore these past few days from longer patrols, but never really tired before. I guess it just hit me all at once."

    "Mhm," Bethany said. "Must have been a good dream. I heard some murmuring."

    "Oh god, no." I covered my face with my hands. "I always tease Ames about her talking in her sleep too."

    Kathy piped up, "I can guess exactly what she was dreaming of. A four letter word starting with 'D'."

    I rolled my eyes, "Come on, I don't think about Dean all the time."

    "That wasn't the 'D' I meant."

    I laughed and Bethany let out a guttural groan that evolved into gagging. She mimed throwing up, turning to me slightly as she faked it and I mock screamed, pushing her away from me and pointing back at the road.

    We settled down and into our usual chatter. Kathy going on about how she still hasn't figured out if she can get into the college she wants with her grades and Bethany offering to have her girlfriend tutor her. I put in a few choice words for engagement, but I fell silent as the duo kept up their own rhythm.

    It was nice, it was calm, it was...

    It's lonely.

    I frowned, feeling the chatter as background noise, thinking. The talks about shitty grades, the gushing Beth would do about Sydney if she was given a chance, bowling with the two of them on a Saturday afternoon. It was fun, but it also felt wrong. I couldn't ever say it was there fault, but I couldn't imagine sharing the same enthusiasm, not when I could look out the window and see a city slowly falling apart at the seams.

    Brockton Bay was a city that looked nice on paper, thanks to the booming tech industry, but there were things that any Bay native could pick up on underneath the facade.

    Almost no one walked into alleyways in this city, and if they did it was going to have to be quick, or risk losing their valuables. Construction crews were almost always on the streets with better equipment to handle the bigger messes, and the blare of Police and PRT sirens tended to group around the downtown areas of the Bay.

    We passed by a pastry shop that had been vandalized, police tape covering shattered windows, and painters working on the storefront where a slur had been sloppily tagged onto the doors. Some morons didn't approve of the Japanese owners it seemed.

    I turned away from the scene, feeling a dour mood settling in. The dream was already passing, but I couldn't help but feel a bit off. Some weird kind of connection my subconscious was making to that store and the detached feeling when hanging out with my friends.

    Dean was on patrol for another few hours and he'd probably want to rest a bit if he had Shadow Stalker on his rotation. Which was fine, I didn't want to be the overly clingy girlfriend PHO made me out to be sometimes, but in moments like these it only increased this growing pit in my chest.

    Amy should be home by now though. She was a good listener and she knew the stresses of fighting for this city. Not usually on the same battlegrounds as the rest of the family, but healing innocent people out of the goodness of her heart was it's own level of heroic, one that I wished to reach one day.

    Yeah, she'd understand me. She'd help me to understand this.

    We pulled to a stop right at the intersection, yellow quickly turning to a dark-green that seemed to seep out of the signal box rather than shine. Beth cursed up a storm at her streak of greens being ruined and I gave her a small chuckle out of obligation.

    A man was using the crosswalk.

    Moppy blonde hair, blue eyes, with sharp cheekbones and chin that made me think of royalty in a way, not helped by the way he held his head so as to look down on other passerby. His clothing was a stark contrast, looking more like a librarian with a small degree of flair; dark blue sweater-vest over a long-sleeved tan shirt and black pants, finishing with a gold-scaled scarf wrapped around his neck. A ratty book was tucked under his arm-pit, trails of torn paper falling behind and vanishing into the ground that passed him.

    His outfit was okay, I guess, but I had to appreciate that quality of scarf and definitely considered flying out to ask him where he bought it.

    Some awkward cosmic force must have drawn his attention to my direction, but stopped briefly and met and my gaze. His eyes were searching and appraising me with a surprising intensity, before his face broke out into a cheeky grin. I awkwardly raised my hand to wave, but he was already moving on, picking up his pace under the creeping green lights.

    "Friend of yours?" Beth asked.

    "I honestly have no idea. Maybe a fan who recognized me?"

    I heard Kathy giggle behind me, "Jul haal sil, Dovahkiin. I bet he's a Bahlokah and you've caught his eye, Vicky.

    I turned to glare at her, meeting her glowing parietal eyes as she smiled back, frost and flames leaking out of her jaws.

    "Dahmaan faal fen, Dovahkiin," Beth groaned, the lights of her face beginning to dissipate. "You might as well get out and fly away Vic. The light isn't changing soon"

    Brockton Bay is though. All of this is temporary. I want to scream it at you guys. At everyone. I want every monster in this city to understand that they've made things worse for everybody. I want to make people better. I want people to understand that we all matter.

    The thoughts didn't connect with me, with my actions. As I began to unbuckle myself, as though I was waiting for an excuse to leave the vehicle. Beth smiled, but it was a sad one, while Kathy just watched and burning spittle fell to the car floor.

    I want to stay, but I want to handle this feeling in my heart even more. This pressure inside is eating me up.

    They wouldn't understand.

    Would they?

    What if this is the wrong way to do it? What if-

    I stepped out of the car and took flight, straight into the gold sky above, leaving the dripping green to shudder endlessly in my wake.

    ⊙⊙​

    Everything hurt.

    It felt like being rag-dolled out of a crashed bus, smacked into the ground by Skadi, and being hit by Love Lost's crippling lightning all at once. No breaks in-between each blow, just a cascade of shocks to every part of my body, and I couldn't help the tremors that came with it.

    My hands clenched and unclenched unceasingly, my jaw ached from the constant chattering of my teeth, and my vision wavered.

    If I didn't have flight, I wasn't sure I would have been able to remain standing. It was very possible that I would have fallen to the ground so hard and fast that I could have popped the Fragile One, doing massive damage to the temple in the process.

    For her part, I could see the imprints her hands and feet left on the ground around me, carving into solid stone like soft clay. Much like the day before, I could sense the aggravation in that sense that went beyond mere tactile awareness, fingers grinding stone to dust and jaws snapping at the air around them.

    Dangerous.

    Argneir and the other Greybeards had expanded their circle around me, even more than when I had asked them before, and all of them had varying looks of concern on their faces. Fear.

    It wasn't rational, but I hated it. It was too close to pity and I'd seen those kinds of looks far too often. Men and women forced to get close to me, having to physically lift flaps of skin to scrub away oils that might have congealed, and having to feel the sensation of someone getting far too intimate with my body in ways that no one should have ever experienced.

    Moments where I would cry out because the isolation was too much, my vocal chords nearly strangling themselves with the effort, and needing to blast my aura to get anyone's attention.

    The memory flipped a mental switch in my head. My aura. Now that I was focused on it, I felt how my power was radiating at full blast, a constant pressure of paralyzing fear that probably engulfed the entire temple.

    I turned down that internal knob to zero, seeing relief wash across their faces, and the act seemed to help in more ways than one. It was the first step in self-control, and it made the next one just a bit easier. The Fragile One's limbs stopped their incessant grinding. Their mouths snapped shut, held firm under my control. I brought her into a hug, feeling her wrap around herself - and in a way - around me.

    That was the easy part.

    Logic past emotion, I thought. It's not exactly a master power, but close enough to treat it like one. You're emotions are overloaded Victoria, but think back to the dream. It's already going away.

    It was and that helped too. I couldn't recall much, beyond a stinging sense of nostalgia and anxiety, but even those were dampened with how fleeting that images were in my mind. Vague impressions at best, not the worst thing I've had to wrestle with my head.

    My hands unclenched themselves and I fought to keep them that way. I worked my jaw, feeling it crack a bit from the release of tension.
    My eyes were still watery from the stress of everything, but I didn't trust my own hands to handle it just yet. A fragile hand reached through an open mouth, a single thumb carefully wiping away the waterworks.

    Another ran invincible nails through the side of my hair. Not meant to fix, just for reassurance.

    It would have to do.

    Arngeir was the first to approach, taking slow, cautious steps forward while the others stayed back. I couldn't even look him in the eyes as he got closer, the shame of my outburst and of forcing them to endure my aura for god knows how long still resonating within me.

    I prided myself on keeping myself in check, in looking professional and kept together, hopefully a role model for those who needed one most. To debase myself like this, so soon after having hundreds see something similar back on Gimel, it was digging into a wound too fresh.

    "Dragonborn?" He spoke smoothly and calmly. "Antares? Victoria?"

    "I'm here" I whispered, voice feeling raw. "I'm back."

    "You never left. Once you connected with Master Einarth, you..." He floundered for a bit, seemingly at a loss as to what to say.

    I answered for him, "I lost control. I'm so sorry."

    "Twas only for a moment, Dragonborn. I feared that we had failed you in someway, overlooked an aspect of the Dragonborn for all these years."

    Only a moment, but it felt like I've been gone for years.

    No, that wasn't quite right, but it was the best I could think of at the moment. Adjacent to that idea of time though. My head was reeling and my heart was pounding so hard it hurt, but I didn't have to fight the shakiness as hard now. Still there, but less for the time being.

    Did you do something Mirmulnir? A trap set for me?

    I didn't know. There was so much I didn't know about this magical fucking bullshit. Questions I should have thought to ask but didn't. Stupid. Dumb. Impulsive.

    But. There was something I did know now. In the back of my mind, it stood out, glimmering with power.

    I forced myself to meet Argneir's eyes, thankful to see two very human ones staring right back at me. "I understand them now. It worked. It somehow worked."

    "Incredible," he murmured. "Can you-"

    I nodded and he gestured off to the side. After a moment a voice echoed behind us, "Fiik... Lo... Sah!"

    A portal opened in the center of the room, it's shape such that I couldn't tell whether it was two or three dimensional despite it being so close. Just as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished, the purple and black energy seeming to collapse in on itself.

    A man stood where the portal had once been, glowing with a haunting light, wearing clothing that seemed to match those of the townsfolk I'd seen in Whiterun. He was partially transparent, brighter up top as he crossed his arms and 'thinner' down his legs.

    "An astral projection, of sorts," Arngeir explained. "Now let us see how quickly you can master your new Thu'um. Use your Unrelenting Force shout to strike him down.

    I stared at the projection, "It'll be instinctual?"

    "As much as you and I are breathing, yes."

    I nodded, dropping my forcefield and felt back to that glimmer in my mind. Closing my eyes helped me visualize it a bit more clearly. It was like small star within me, dimly shining all on it's lonesome, and eager to reach out towards me as I observed it.

    I reciprocated and felt that small star begin to run it's power through me like fire across oil.

    As I opened my eyes I shouted, "Fus... Ro!"

    That fire, that power, that magic soared out of my throat like a cannon ball as it morphed through the air. It's form was visible as it moved as soundwaves, rippling through space and colliding with the projection. The false man merely stumbled back, shocked, but disappointingly unharmed.

    Still, after a second he vanished, breaking up into pinpricks of light.

    Magic, I thought and couldn't help give a shaky grin. I performed magic. Weak, but holy fuck, its Magic-

    Something was dripping down my lip. I reached out to wipe whatever spittle it was, slightly embarrassed, just as it hit me.

    Pain. Sudden and absolutely devastating pain as I felt my throat tighten up on me. I fell to the ground coughing, feeling the burning in my throat as I desperately gasped for air. All around me I could hear shouting, calling out my names and titles, as if they could cure me with the right one.

    Something is wrong.

    Below me, blood fell to the floor in heavy droplets, somehow overbearingly loud despite the shouting around me. Another cough sent more splattering along the stone.

    Something is very, very wrong.
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Uh oh, that's a bit worrying, hopefully it's just a case of her body really not being used to her vocal chords being used to warp reality itself.

    Ridtom said:
    All Shouts are made up of three Words of Power
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    Not quite true, Miraak makes use of a four word shout in the final battle with him, and Alduin has an entire essay on how to resurrect other Dragons. And IIRC Wulfharth also made a shout on the spot that was more than three words.

    But yeah, otherwise, seems clear to me, then again maybe that was just the thing that stuck out the most due to me thinking about the Miraak fight beforehand.:p
     
    MysticBandit said:
    Uh oh, that's a bit worrying, hopefully it's just a case of her body really not being used to her vocal chords being used to warp reality itself.



    Not quite true, Miraak makes use of a four word shout in the final battle with him, and Alduin has an entire essay on how to resurrect other Dragons. And IIRC Wulfharth also made a shout on the spot that was more than three words.

    But yeah, otherwise, seems clear to me, then again maybe that was just the thing that stuck out the most due to me thinking about the Miraak fight beforehand.:p
    Click to expand...
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    That's the game dialogue so blame Todd Howard lol
    Doccer said:
    kind
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    Thank you
     
    This is probably the best Ward or Skyrim fic I've read, can't wait to see where you continue to take it
     
    Riha said:
    This is probably the best Ward or Skyrim fic I've read, can't wait to see where you continue to take it
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    Thank you, that means a lot :)
    The Godly Broc said:
    Does he? Because I thought that was just him being dramatic and long winded, and that the actual shout was "Slen Tiid Vok"
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    It seems to require the speech
    Lorenz_Kill said:
    Nothing can be ever simple with Victoria, can it?

    The best Skyrim fic I had ever read. Thank you.
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    Thank you!
    MysticBandit said:
    The effect occurs all throughout the speech is the thing, you see the big aura as he's speaking.
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    Yeah, but Grey beards don't know everything
     
    Magelight 3.3
  • Threadmarks
    • Magelight 3.3

    ⊙⊙⊙    ​

    Power testing was a lot more complex than the average person understood it to be, and that was assuming the person you'd ask would even know it was a thing at all. Many never consider that fact that some powers aren't merely instinctual, by accident or by design of those in charge.

    A lot less scary to say the heroes knew how to responsibly fight crime with strange abilities, rather than explain that they undergo careful observation for a period of time. Some of those who didn't would end up like Tritium or the many hushed rumors of tinker tech gone wrong.

    Powers as a whole were generally broken down into twelve sub-classifications for ease of identification: Blaster, Breaker, Brute, Changer, Master, Mover, Shaker, Stranger, Striker, Thinker, Tinker, and Trump. One could even reorganize the categories into a short rhyme, if there was trouble in memorizing it.

    Dean had done that when going over lectures and classes with me, bungling the rhyme a few times in the process, and it was a sad reminder when Weld mentioned it offhandedly after our first few meetings.

    If it was just those categories, testing powers would be far more manageable than reality permitted. Someone who just launched lasers from their eyes or lift heavy objects with their giant muscles only needed the bare minimum of equipment needed to test that. Variable targets made out of different material and different distances for Twinkle-Eyes and specially designed weight-lifting equipment for Brawnhilda.

    But Powers were never that easy and neither were the cosmic beings that granted them. Twinkle-Eyes might scorch steel plates half a mile away, but what if those same lasers also caused rapid cell growth in living tissue? What if Brawnhilda only gained super-strength while surrounded by threats to her life?

    Or in my case, super-strength and durability that could hold up under pressure, but falls apart and reforms when given a heavy enough blow? What counted as 'pressure' and what counted as 'heavy'? During my too brief stay as part of the Wards program, the PRT had given me a retrofitted hydraulic press and told me to go wild.

    Thirty minutes of varying degrees of applied pressure and a few minutes trying to swing around old buses, and it was determined that I'd be able to lift around fourteen point six tons. Any more than that and I wouldn't budge, but the forcefield didn't pop either.

    I was good under pressure, on that front.

    Hitting things was harder to measure, but it was generally agreed that I hit harder than I could carry. Hitting too hard would cause it to pop though, and my stupid younger self would apply that as an excuse for having difficulty controlling my strength.

    Lies. Blatant lies.

    Theo might have been grateful for the damage I did to the Empire's members, but all I saw was a kid with too much power and not enough super in her to be worth it.

    I've changed since then, in more ways than one, as did my power. My Fragile One. But those aspects of pressure and heaviness never truly left us.

    In short, powers and power testing were complicated. That was without getting into the hybrid categories, where a power had a dual purpose, like how Dean's blaster power could master a sufficiently dazed individual. Or into sub-categories where a power could function as a dual purpose, like using my flight for a better view of a battlefield giving me that Thinker one rating.

    Past a certain point, power testing became annoying and repetitive, offering little to no new insights.

    And as I had once told Rain, powers didn't often like clean, safe, annoying or repetitive environments. The Theory of Conflict Narrative that had been bounced around before outright being confirmed thanks to Scion meant that powers would, in short, fuck you over if they weren't appeased. Ashley and Uncle Mike suffered from hair-trigger powers for not being proactive enough or not succeeding in the grand cape game.

    Conversely, putting yourself in a situation that put you in-sync with your power, you could find new exploits or looser restrictions on abilities. The Sechen Ranges. Maybe even a lifting or manipulation of the Manton Limit.

    Based on what I'd read, Skitter or Weaver from my hometown had grown in range as time passed, with some interviews and investigative journalists making measurements as to her possible range bumps. Nearly twice or thrice the range increase, if their math checked out.

    I was similar to her, in way, but the broken system created by Scion's death meant that I had to brute force that change. An unintentional effect from being so close to Teacher's Door that led to the Dreamspace and manipulating my connection from within. Giving me a new invisible friend, who still needed me to give her a little shake every now and then to refine that control, but otherwise worked beautifully with me.

    Hm. In the end, Skitter had brute forced her own change from without. As unfair as it had been, as ridiculously shortsighted as they acted... I could understand a bit as to why the Wardens had been wary of me.

    I wasn't Skitter. Skitter wasn't Antares. But maybe, had things been different, our stories could have been switched. Would I have become the monster that broke in the end and she'd be the one trapped in a world of magic?

    Or was that too simple? Too ignorant of how different in terms of people that we were and the situations we faced? I couldn't imagine condoning half the things she had to do to get to the point, and being as generous as I could to her, I didn't see her making the same decisions or connections I did now.

    You've lost your train of thought Victoria.

    I felt invisible hands pull the blanket around me tighter.

    Powers. Powers were fucking complicated and almost seemed to refuse to fit inside easy to categorize boxes. As if it was all a game to them and they could change the rules if they felt we had it too easy. Lives ruined and lost across countless universes.

    But you saved mine, I thought. I ran my hand over the ones clinching my blanket tight, feeling the dual feedback from power and person. You came to my aid in the Dreamspace. You give me hints of danger when its near. You defended me just a while ago, while I was unresponsive.

    I'd told Gary that I would try to find common ground with an alien, if they had the same recognizable good that I saw in people. I just never expected it to actually happen, and so soon after.

    When it came to powers, it was often best to go with the flow and find a rhythm you both shard. If you didn't, there was a solid chance of heartbreak and pain your future.

    That was par for the course for most Parahumans though.

    "I don't understand," Argneri said, voice not quite trembling. "I've never seen this before in all my years."

    Welcome to my world, I thought, more than a bit aware of the irony.

    Arngeir was nose deep into scrolls, pouring over papers that looked older than he was, occasionally mumbling to himself as he read certain passages. Sometimes he would speak louder, like he did before, an outburst of emotion he couldn't quite contain. In the small storage chamber, it echoed with a bit of power.

    For my part, I took a sip of Mead, feeling the sweetness on my tongue and the warmth it left in my throat and stomach as it went down. It was almost too sweet, like syrup dipped in caramel, and somehow too bitter with the aftertaste of alcohol... but in that moment it was perfect for my throat.

    There were no healing potions currently available, but it didn't matter. I'd stopped coughing up blood pretty soon after I'd collapsed onto the floor, and most of the pain had subsided into small fits of wheezing as I worked to control my breathing. It still hurt during that time, but the biggest issue had been handling the shock and surprise of what had happened.

    Arngeir had given me a quick inspection after I was able to bring myself to my feet, careful about not upsetting whatever had done damage to me. No lacerations. No bruising that he could see.

    Nothing.

    I connected with it so well. I could feel that star of power want to be used. I did use magic.

    What happened? What went wrong?

    I had my theories. Nothing that could likely be proven one hundred percent, but at least they were something to consider.

    I watched and waited for Arngeir, sipping more the Mead form my cup, unsure if the slight buzz was from nearly hyperventilating a half hour prior or if the Mead was stronger than I thought. Maybe both.

    It was long moments before he sighed, rolling up the scroll he was currently reading with enough tension that I imagined it was the equivalent of slamming a book shut.

    We were both quiet for a moment, Arngneir placing his scrolls back in place while I drank on, adjusting to the large blanket around me and trying to find comfort in it like I did with my oversized sweaters.

    Not as effective, unfortunately.

    Finally Arngeir turned, and he looked like his dog had just died, face forlorn and eyes dark.

    "I'm sorry, Dragonborn." He took a deep breath, "I don't know how to proceed now. This is far beyond my expectations and training."

    I rose up, feeling the blanket fall from my shoulders and into the Fragile One's waiting hands, folding it up behind me as neatly as she could. Another hand reached for the bottle of Mead beside me, bringing it up and depositing it to my flesh hand.

    I flew to Argneir, bottle held out. "Drinking couldn't hurt now, could it?"

    He took the bottle, staring for a moment. He shrugged, then reached atop one of the shelves containing old books and papers from times past. He somehow found a cup in all that mess, blew out the dust, and then poured himself a drink.

    I finished my own cup while he downed his, so we finished at around the same time.

    He sighed, looking at the bottle before setting it and the cup down. "Didn't help like I hoped."

    "Didn't hurt either."

    "No," he smiled a bit. "It didn't hurt."

    Arngeir paused, giving me an odd look. "You don't seem to be taking this as hard I as I am, Dragonborn."

    I shrugged, a small smile on my own face, "These past few days, nothing has gone right for me. I've been thrown into so many impossible situations, one after another, that I think I'd honestly not know what to do if I won for a change."

    "Won?"

    "Not literally winning, most of the time, but just..." I struggled to find the right words. I couldn't even blame the alcohol, because this was something I'd always struggled to articulate. "It's just another thing to add on to the list? It's not even in my top fifty for things I need to be concerned about, which isn't great, but it leaves me with a unique perspective on things."

    Arngeir stroked his beard, "I'm curious as to how so."

    "I think that requires a bit more background from me," I said. "But, to be clear, this has never happened before with any of you? Or any other Dragonborn?"

    "Never," he said soundly. "It's a complete aberration of our rituals. We had planned on giving you one more Word of Power, Wurld, which means 'whirlwind'. A shout that would have granted you a short burst of speed, in times of emergency."

    Not sure that would have been useful for me, I thought. Still would have loved to test out the option.

    I said, "Which is an obvious problem with how it seemed to alter my mental state."

    "It should be impossible," Arngeir huffed out. I didn't know him that well, but it still sounded uncharacteristic of him. "The mind should be open to understanding, yes, but for you to suffer from a nightmare by one of us? A dragon, I can understand, their souls are filled with Time. But a human?"

    He shook his head, frustrated, "Worst yet, is that we cannot finish anointing you as Dragonborn."

    I blinked, "Wait, what? I thought you already decided on that. And I think the various nightmares, which I only started to get after killing Mirmulnir, helped prove it?"

    "It is another ritual of ours," he explained. "To collect the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, the one who founded the Way of the Voice, and earn your last Word of Power from us. Dah, or 'push'. From there we would follow customs to aid you in your growth and through the Path of Wisdom as best we could."

    "So I've effectively been locked out of an entire way to gain magic, and you have no idea why?"

    "Not magic, but yes." He looked almost heartbroken as he said it. "I'm so sorry, Dragonborn. I've failed you as a guide and I've failed Kyne's mandate. I don't know what to do."

    I felt a pang of sympathy for him. He had done nothing but treat me with kindness since we'd met and seemed to at least try to understand how strange this was for me.

    Now it was reversed, him unsure of how to proceed, and me with the possible answers.

    "I think," I spoke slowly, "I can shed some light as to what's happening. I just need you believe everything I'm telling you is the truth. If you don't, fine, but just hear me out?"

    "Please, Dragonborn." He gestured to himself, "I'm all ears."

    So I told him. Everything. Starting from a brief explanation of my old universe, to waking up in the cart, and how I flew around trying to figure out what was going on.

    I was careful to make myself as clear as possible, so that he didn't dismiss me as a rambling drunk with one hell of a fucked up imagination. I might have done too good of a job, because by the end of it, he was looking slightly pale.

    "Kyne's mercy," he said, leaning against one of his podiums. "It's true? All of it?"

    "It's true," I said. I felt really bad about how out of it he looked. "Are you okay Arngeir? Do you need to sit down for a bit?"

    He shook his head, "No. No, I'm fine, just... a little breath-taken. A world without magic, truly? Not even your phantoms or levitation?"

    The Fragile One reached out and grabbed the bottle of Mead, a little less than half empty. She gave it a toss, flipping end over end in the air, and caught it with another of her hands. She put it back where it belonged on the shelf.

    "No magic," I said after the demonstration. "She's a part of me, ever since I was fourteen years old. Same with the flight and, um, the fear I made you all feel. I'm sorry about that. Again."

    "I..." He stroked his beard, "I don't know what to think. This is truly astonishing news, but I'm not sure how it connects to the problems with your Thu'um."

    I stood up straighter, feeling myself instinctively prepare for a small presentation, "On my Earth, that is, in my universe, powers are given to specific individuals with pre-set instructions. This way, it protects the user from their own power, like someone who can shoot flames without being burned."

    "With no training or mastery involved?"

    I shook my head, "Not usually, and if there is a learning curve, its sometimes due to the power itself rather than the user. Back in my hometown, we had a villain named Barker, who could do things similar to Shouting but with a few major differences. Too many times though, and he'd lose the ability to talk or have a sore throat."

    According to his PHO Article at least.

    "That... does sound quite accurate to the Thu'um, Dragonbron."

    "It's superficial at best," I said. "No magic involved, but it does make me wonder. I'm not from this universe. Something happened to this world and the people here so long ago that I can't even begin to comprehend how, but Magic exists. It's as normal to you as the clouds are in the sky or water in lakes.

    "What if... what if it's not calibrated to me though? I've never been able to use magic before. Not even for talent shows with slight of hand tricks. What if Shouting is so alien to me that my body can't handle it?"

    Arngeir looked confused, "But you did Shout. You learned several Words of Power and shouted successfully. It was only after that you suffered the mysterious pain."

    "Exactly," I said, "It's similar to some powers back home. It's just not quite right to make it work flawlessly and so I start to hack out blood after use. I'm not really in the mood to experiment with it right now, but I'm confident that I'd have the same general amount of pain for the same general amount of time."

    "But the Thu'um isn't magic," Arngeir stressed. "I'm no mage, so I can't explain it quite as well, but to Shout is to impart the core of who you are and what you desire into the world. The manifestations it takes are simply how best the world interprets the Thu'um and how well it is spoken. Magic comes from a different part of yourself, one not as inherently tied to your being."

    Sevitus had said something similar hadn't he? He didn't Shout, he didn't perform magic, but he could use something from his voice to effect others. He had called it a blessing.

    He also couldn't explain it that well either.

    "You say it's not magic," I said, still working through my theory. "But there is a biological aspect to it right? You mentioned that there would be a cooldown for novices or for the strongest of Shouts. So it could be similar enough to magic for my body to not properly use it?"

    He frowned in thought, stroking that beard of his, one hand on his hip. "I never dove into the science of the Thu'um or of it's relationship to Magic to that extent, but... Yes. Yes, it's possible that you being of this different plane of existence could mean something within you wasn't reacting well to the essence of the Words."

    Within me.

    I was thinking of making an analogy, that the Words were like the Mead and instead of a cup I was pouring it my hand to drink from. But what if it wasn't my hand?

    Had I been so focused on how the Fragile One protected me, that I really glossed over her messing with the Magic of this world?

    No, I thought. My forcefield was down when I shouted. The pain came entirely from me.

    Didn't it?

    I didn't want it to be true. I didn't want to believe that I would have to find another way to force my friend to change again. Not when I already had so many things to worry about in regards to Powers.

    Anything to say on that front?

    She didn't respond.

    Arngeir spoke up, "In that case, there may hope yet."

    I arched an eyebrow.

    "You say that you could feel the Words of Power within you, like a star, and that it was receptive to you pulling on it?"

    I nodded, "It felt like it was reaching out a hand and I was too."

    "I believe, then, that it may be your soul. Your dragon soul. Trying its best to voice itself in our reality. Paarthanax would know for sure, but he has isolated himself from us for the time being."

    "Who?"

    "Our leader, who has trained myself and everyone in this temple in the Voice. He keeps to himself, meditating on how to best use the Thu'um to guide himself and others."

    I perked up at the thought of meeting a master who might answer some of my questions, "When can we meet him then?"

    His face turned stern, "When you are ready, Dragonborn. You are not yet there though."

    What? I thought.

    "What?" I said, disbelieving. "Are... are you serious right now?"

    "Incredibly. Paarthanax has used his mastering of the Thu'um to encase his mediation away from the outside world. We are not to attempt to pierce it nor disturb him lest he calls for us or you are deemed ready to meet him."

    "Okay, I'm sorry, but... fucking why? If he might know the answers to our questions, then we should probably talk to him and get those answers. You know how much this means to me."

    At that, Arngeir looked apologetic, "I truly am sorry, Dragonborn, but I cannot. I know you have gone through much, but there is good reason to respect his wishes, and... and I think I know how to help you regardless."

    I stared at him, and it was so, so, so hard to not blast my aura and force him to tell me how to meet this Paarthanax. I wanted to blame the alcohol, but no, this anger was all mine.

    It was only his genuine look of regret and the fact that I had made them suffer from my outburst earlier that stopped me. There would be time to consider the Paarthanax situations later.

    Right now, I could and would take any answer at all, if only to get my mind off this bubbling anger.

    "Okay," I said and my voice held a hard edge to it that made him flinch. I crossed my arms, still upset. "Let's assume I do believe in Souls. Or that they, or something like them, exists here in this universe but not my own. How did I get one, let alone a Dragon's? How could this have happened?"

    Arngeir turned and began to rifle through his scrolls as he spoke, "I cannot rightly say, Dragonborn. Quite frankly, I'm still having trouble wrapping my head around a world without magic or souls, as you've said. I think, however, if I were to make a guess-"

    He pulled out a scroll, unwrapping it with both care and speed, unfurling it across a nearby desk.

    "-It would be that you were given a soul."

    I swallowed. Given a soul?

    Valkyrie came to mind, with my resurrected Aunt and old friends from the Brockton Bay Wards returning to the land of the living. Ashley and Chris, in a way, had been similar.

    What did that mean for me though, if there were similarities? And if there weren't similarities... then the question still had merit.

    "Is it possible?" I asked. "To give souls to living people?"

    Arngeir grabbed a quill and began to open a small bottle of ink, "I'm unsure. Necromancy perhaps? I don't think that would apply to the living though. My magic knowledge is quite limited. That being said, there is also the fact we know you can devour the souls of a dragon-"

    He paused.

    I scowled.

    He glanced back, looking embarrassed, "Apologies. That was a poor choice of words on my part, Dragonborn."

    I rubbed the bridge of my nose, sighing. "I really don't know what to make this whole soul thing. It goes against pretty much everything I know."

    "Perhaps," he ventured, "It should not be you and I to figure out. Come, let me show you what I've marked down here."

    I flew forward and up slightly, looking over his shoulder. It was a map, larger than the one Sevitus and his father had given me, although it looked a bit less detailed.

    I felt a bit of guilt at abandoning them so long ago, but I took comfort in knowing that at least they weren't in any danger when I left.

    Argneir was continuing to mark spot on the map with his quill, "You mentioned the College of Winterhold last night, yes? Am I right to believe that it is your predominant goal, related to your attempts at returning home."

    "Finding out how I got here, who did his to me, but yes, most definitely wanting to get home."

    He smiled, "Then I think we may kill two birds with one stone. The College must have records of such strange events as these, maybe even ways of attuning your body to your dragon soul properly. I implore you, in your search for home, to please give this significant time to investigate."

    "What if they don't know? If they really have nothing on this soul stuff?"

    He glanced my way, "What would you do if they know nothing of getting you home?"

    I ran a hand through my hair, "I'd keep searching. For as long as it takes."

    "Then that shall be all that I ask for then."

    He smiled, a bit unsure, but I returned it as well. "Deal, for now."

    He nodded, "I've take the liberty of marking a location that contain the whispers of Words of Power. You may not be able to use them, but you can at least come to understand them. I've added some minor village areas in case of restocking supplies, and a few ruins if you need extra funds."

    "Ruins of what?"

    "Old temples, usually. I believe this one was Dwemer, so I would take care to watch yourself for any hidden traps. I hear they were excellent engineers before they vanished."

    "...And Dwemer are?"

    "Were," he answered. He made another mark on the map, "An ancient race of Mer, building contraptions I could never hope to understand, and it seemed the world agreed. They all vanished long ago."

    "They went extinct?"

    He shook his head, "Vanished. Other than that, I do not know."

    Right. Okay, probably not important at the moment anyways.

    I glanced at the map markers he'd made. Shearpoint, Raldbthar, Fort Kastav, and Mount Anthor to name a few and all given their own unique symbols.

    Winterhold and it's College were given separate designations.

    "If you desire something a bit more civilized than a Mill bed or your sleeping rusack, Windhelm is also a possible resting place. The City of Kings, as it used to be called, though I imagine it is a tempestuous title nowadays."

    "Oh?" I asked, looking over the map. "Not so beloved anymore?"

    Arngeir shook his head, "Not since Ulfric declared himself High King of Skyrim and killed his so-called predecessor. He took the city and fortified it for battle. Now we are in a Civil War, while the Dragons return as the natural cycle dictates, and a Dragonborn appears before us."

    I nodded. I was trying to keep up as best I could, but this was a lot to take in. "Was Ulfric in the right? I can't imagine killing someone weaker than me with my power, not if I could help it, but maybe there's context I'm missing?"

    "What Ulfric does with his Voice is his decision, though I do not support it. I follow the Path of Wisdom as best as my teachings can allow. It is wise of you to admit to not knowing or understanding the context. Sometimes, the best option is to take inaction and see how things play out."

    I frowned, "That's not something I really believe in. Too many evils have been allowed because people froze instead of acting, even if it means running away. If you stand by while others suffer, you aren't innocent. Not completely, I think."

    Arngeir hummed, "There is still much for you to learn, Dragonborn. Do not let your limited experiences bind your travels on the Path of Wisdom. Temper yourself and what you think you know, lest you stray from the path and weaken yourself, Dragonborn."

    I think we might have different definitions of how to get that strength then. Especially with how you talked earlier about keeping secrets.

    It was only for a moment, a few seconds at best, but in that small amount of time I felt a hot flash of anger at this old sage.

    Images came to my mind in a flurry. The dead from broken triggers, the kids chopped up into pieces by Cradle, the lies Teacher spread to destroy the trust we paid pounds of flesh for.

    Me, not noticing enough about how isolated Amy truly was, too absorbed in my own issues. Because she refused to speak out and admit she didn't have things handled. Because we grew up in a pretty fucking shitty family, when all was said and done.

    All of these terrible fates that could have been prevented if someone, anyone, had taken the lead and done something.

    I didn't think I was wrong for believing that to be true. Or wanting it to be true. But in a certain way, I could tie in what Argneir was trying to say with my last conversation with Sveta.

    About how we both wanted to believe in the absolute good of humanity and in people, and when they failed to live up to those expectations, we tended to subconsciously judge them. That it was dangerous to not account for that bias we had, when so many people didn't have the privileges and power we did in living our lives.

    Sveta was a better hero than I was and it was that discussion that played a part in inspiring me to simply trust in the good of people, rather than expect or judge what I got in return for asking their help.

    I didn't think that highly of Arngeir in comparison. I felt shitty as fuck for thinking it, but I simply didn't know him as well as I did Sveta.

    But I thought she would have asked me to give him a chance, if she were here.

    I missed her. My sister in all but name. I missed her so much.

    I focused, feeling the flash of anger and the ocean of mourning clash and weaken the other, working to find that guiding light in my head for the next direction.

    I turned to Argneir, looking as earnest as I could manage. "Tell me everything you think I need to know. Please."

    Extending that trust.

    Let's just hope it's returned.
     
  • Threadmarks
    • Magelight 3.4
  • Threadmarks
    • Magelight 3.4

    ⊙⊙⊙⊙    ​

    There was something to be said about the costumes capes wore and the relationship we had with them.

    I told Kenzie and Darlene, when our team was just starting out on our well-intentioned dream escapade, that the agents preferred the masks because it was a way of helping to solidify the identity of their hosts. Beyond examples like Valkyrie's warrior flock and how powers worked to incorporate costumes into power effects like Breakers or my own forcefield, it was a gut feeling of mine that costumes may play a part in setting landmarks in the vast cosmic system that structured powers for future cycles.

    Bookmarks in the library of data stretching back untold ages, to use a metaphor I could relate to the most, with segments of chapters highlighted in men and women wrapped in dramatic conflict. In the dust of Cradle's agent, I'd seen the ghosts of it's past hosts, alien life used much like we were to complete an even greater alien agenda. How would those aliens be bookmarked in comparison to us? If we lost this battle against the Titans, what would we look like compared to the future victims of the system?

    What history do you have, my Fragile One? What history will we have down the line?

    Concerning. Concerning as hell.

    But that wasn't my biggest focus in the moment. No, costumes and agents were a larger relationship than what I had in mind.

    My Antares costumes was a work of love and the result of reaching out to those who could help solidify that facet of myself. Weld to handle the melding and forming of metal armor under my direction, Crystal to offer her opinion on the glitz and glamour, and Sveta and I to work the needle for the fabric parts. The golden armor had saved my life more times than I could count; from bullets to blades to far too many deadly powers. The wide and removeable sleeves had given me a feeling of being held and a defense against the world, further enforced by the addition of my armored jacket.

    Kenzie had further enhanced the glamour aspect, allowing me to literally radiate light.

    Together, they worked as a representation and compromise between myself and the Fragile One. A representation of what we were and what we strived to be; a star holding a dangerous center, reaching hands ready to lay waste to all that stood in my way of keeping the City safe. A compromise, because to throw myself back into the hero scene after years of torture and hatred was to acknowledge that I was going to need the power that would remind me of those hellish years for the rest of my life.

    I wasn't sure if I could ever accept those black feelings for what they were, but slowly, so so slowly, the Fragile One and I had grown closer. One compromise after another, to the point that I felt the Victoria was ceding ground to the Antares.

    Still concerning. Not as concerning as it could be, with how I felt about the Fragile One.

    I ran my hand over the leather breast of my armor, feeling the texture difference between where crafted leather met slightly crisp fabric, the latter half taking up maybe forty percent of the armor space. Similar marks were left on my left-shoulder armor, where that splash of dragon fire had curled up and nicked some exposed flesh. Brother Borri had done his best to clean out the armor and care for it's damaged sections, but even after two days of scrounging the temple for materials, there was only so much he could do for repairs.

    I didn't begrudge him for it, instead asking for his services in adding a few details to the armor for my eventual departure to Winterhold, him replying with written text. If the name wasn't obvious enough, Arngeir had explained the dangers of traversing the cold tundra of Winterhold, expositing on its lack of vegetation for food and shelter, and the deadly chill of the constant heavy winds. That was excluding the bizarre creatures called 'Ice Wraiths' that apparently thrived in these hazardous conditions, among other threats like ice wolves and werewolves.

    Ice Wraiths, wolves, and fucking werewolves aside, the cold was my biggest concern. My forcefield was great for handling extreme temperatures, but it couldn't warm me up if it broke at the wrong time and left me exposed to the elements.

    Our combined work culminated in sewing multiple removeable sleeves into sockets of the leather armor and a cloth tasset wrapped around my waist, also sewn into the armor, scavenged from unused robes in the temple. The tasset was more for added warmth than anything protective, offering a decent cover for the front and back of my upper thighs, and the sleeves were much the same with the added benefit of being one tiny step closer to my old costume.

    The final bit of work was the incorporation of the Greybeard hood into the neckline of the armor, another accessory that was both functional and identical to Antares, though the hood was a bit larger than my old one. It wasn't a problem for me; I had always enjoyed clothing that was larger than normal on my frame.

    From that point on it was only a matter of dying the rest of the leather, pants, and boots a similar color as the robes to prevent them from being an eye-bleeding clash of a fashion disaster. The effect was better than I could imagine, the leather now taking on a black-grey tone that blended well with the robes and even made the charcoal burned section of my armor pop in a distinct way, like a small shimmer of black flame on grey. Matching dyed gloves completed the set.

    It wasn't even close to my old costume and the lack of gold dye or even thread for highlights made that feeling all the more powerful. But it was another step towards making this outfit something I controlled. Something that was mine.

    And, in a thought that brought a small smile to my face, I could imagine Ashley approving of the color scheme at the very least.

    "Taking one last look of the world, Dragonborn?"

    Arngeir had stepped next me, hands clasped between the large sleeves of his monk attire. The two of us were outside the temple grounds, staring out and down at the view below the mountain, and I couldn't help but wonder how he handled the cold. I at least had my forcefield to shield me from the worst of the wind and snow, shaking her a few times to dislodge any buildup, but Arngeir just seemed to take the freezing temperature in stride with only his robes and thick beard.

    I wondered if he had a spell that gave him some protections against the cold like Byron had passively, but I couldn't think of a reason for him to not share that information with me. And from how he acted, magic wasn't something he was well versed in, when all was said and done.

    Just another oddity of this world, Victoria. When will you not be surprised?

    Hopefully soon.

    I turned back to the view, watching as the fog and mist below moved slowly over the tallest of trees. I answered, "Just readying myself for the journey. The last time I really traveled from place to place, I had a guide with me, sort of backed me up when things got rough."

    "You traversed the woods of the Whiterun Holds by yourself for two days, battling inner concepts many warriors would break under," He intoned. "And you made your way to us by yourself, following your instincts."

    "I sort of cheated with my forcefield and flight in the woods," I said. "Didn't have to worry too much about the cold and safety when I could just sleep in the tree tops with natural protections."

    I glanced at Arngeir, "Plus, it was you who called to me. I just followed the voice."

    "Did you follow, knowing where you would end up?"

    I shook my head.

    "Then accept the wealth of knowledge that your instincts have provided you in fulfilling your destiny. Trust that those same instincts will guide you further down that road as time moves on."

    "I do. Now, I mean." More than you know. "It took time, and help from some very close friends, but I've learned to trust what my gut says. It's just..."

    I gestured to vast world below the mountain.

    "...Just a bit daunting to go out there with only a map."

    Arngeir hummed, "Daunting though it may be, there is no other option, no?"

    I thought about it. Had thought about it. Fight, Flight, Freeze. I could and was going to fight whatever or whoever was keeping me here, be it via magic or powers, and I would return home to continue my fight with the Titans, so long as that was still possible. I would avoid any unnecessary detours and conflicts when I could, keep myself focused on the task at hand.

    But to Freeze? To stay in this crazy world of dungeons and dragons, and give up all hope?

    "Fuck that," I said and felt a bit embarrassed when I remembered I was in company.

    Arngeir merely smiled slightly, stroking his snow covered beard, "Words of Power that is. No judgment here. I was a fiery youth years past as well, once. Maybe not quite as sharp tongued."

    My cheeks warmed, "Sorry. Force of habit."

    "Mhm. As for going out into the world with just a map..."

    He glanced back to the temple entrance and I did the same, happy to move on past the moment. The backpack was huge, almost comically so. A bed roll, various kinds of blankets, several changes of clothes, rudimentary toiletries, baskets filled with food and mead, all tied together with makeshift straps of rope. Even when bundled together as tightly as possible, the amassed luggage was easily up to my chest in terms of size.

    Somewhere in that bundle was sack of gold coins, around three hundred 'Septims' according to Arngeir. I had initially rejected fifty septims, only for the monks to return with a hundred and fifty. After the second rejection they came back with three hundred, and I was worried that rejecting them again might literally have them go broke, leaving me with a large sack that I begrudgingly carried with me. Not that I didn't appreciate the money, just that I felt a bit off in taking so much from people who have at least tried to help me in this world.

    Much like with the wagon transport to Whiterun, I had the Fragile One knot the straps together, and I was more than a little proud to feel how the fingers handled the delicate task even better than before.

    Only a little less than a week and she had already improved her dexterity so much.

    Keep it up girl, I thought. Every step we take is invaluable.

    I floated to the backpack while Arngeir trekked slightly behind, taking a bit more effort to walk through even the lighter patches of snow. Once there I took a second to have Fragile One shake residual snow off herself and then pat down the pack, removing snow from it as well. By the time Arngeir had caught up, I had already maneuvered the backpack behind me, a similar way to how I had once carried the Gun Dragon built for me.

    "Should you desire, Dragonborn," Arngeir spoke, "You can wait another day while we send a message for more supplies from nearby villages. More food or gold, perhaps?"

    I smiled but shook my head, "You've done more than enough. I know we didn't agree on everything, but I can't thank you guys enough for helping me out. You're not wrong about needing to get out there, no matter how nerve-wracking it might be."

    Arngeir looked up at me, a wistful expression on his face, "I will wish you well, Dragonborn. Although your journey will be fraught with peril, I believe you will persevere, so long as the path of wisdom remains open to you. "

    I held out my hand. Arngeir seemed surprised for a moment, before smiling and clasping my wrist. We shook.

    "Sky above, Voice within, Dragonborn."

    I nodded, "And also with you." I didn't know much about religion compared to Rain, but that sounded like a neutral way to respond.

    It must have been close enough, because he smiled, releasing my hand and stepping back as I floated up a bit more. I gave him one last parting salute and he returned it with a bow.

    I took off, the weight of the backpack meaning nothing to me as I went from zero to forty-five in a few seconds, turning off my flight and letting momentum carry me over the edge of the mountain. I let the backpack roll me around, getting a final look of Arngeir peeking over the edge. I waved as gravity took hold, twisting myself to face the oncoming descent.

    I fell into the rolling mist and fog, forcefield outlined in droplets of water, unimpeded by flight for a few long seconds. The slight nausea I felt from finally imparting flight onto my body had nothing to do with vertigo, even if my power didn't protect me from that sort of thing.

    I slowed to a stop and flew to the right, away from where Arngeir had been looking out in the distance.

    I wasn't going to Winterhold.

    Not just yet.

    I circled around High Hrothgar, making sure that I wouldn't be visible to Arngeir or the other monks as I flew up. Arngeir had mentioned it on the night I asked him to tell me as much as he could, how the leader of the Greybeards isolated himself from humanity at the 'Throat of the World', surrounded by an eternal blizzard. From what he said, Paarthurnax would only allows visitors when he called for them, even if they were the most loyal of disciples.

    Or if they were 'ready', whatever that meant. He didn't feel that it should be elaborated and I held my tongue when I saw how serious he was about it, moved on to another topic, another line of questioning.

    But it never left my mind.

    Sorry Arngeir, I thought. But I have to try to reach this Paarthurnax and get some answers. Whole universes could depend on it.

    Maybe so, but it didn't help that pit in my chest that came with the lie, and betrayal of trust Arngeir had given me. The same feeling I had gotten when my team and I knowingly went behind Defiant's back to reach the dreamspace and stop Teacher from destroying the world.

    It wasn't regret, not exactly, but there was still a feeling of guilt and empathy to be had. I liked Defiant, respected him, and it hurt when he said that his opinion of me was lower after the fact. I didn't know Arngeir half as much, but he was an anchor of sanity in this bizarre reality, and I imagined that however he felt about this... it would hurt.

    But I couldn't let myself be lead around the nose with potential information held out of reach. Not anymore that I could stand by and let Teacher get away when I had the chance to nail that son of a bitch to the wall.

    That heavy feeling was a weight when I felt so very light in the open air.

    Air that quickly began to darken and chill as I flew higher and higher. It took me a moment before I realized that the eternal blizzard didn't extend to just around the mountaintop, I could feel how drastic the difference in air pressure was through the forcefield's senses, how much quicker it was to collect ice rather than just snow. Despite the lack of exertion for me, I could almost sense the air thinned as I went higher and higher.

    We've done this song and dance before, haven't we? Flying so far up that we could feel the slightest of differences in air with our power.

    It wasn't a happy memory, but it was one of the few where we truly began to be in-sync.

    I spent some time making sure that the ice didn't collect on the backpack too much, not wanting to test how water proof the materials were, beginning to wonder if I'd have to double back and hide my backpack somewhere before I returned. Wouldn't do to sabotage my own trip-

    A phantom shape in the wind caught my eye. Or rather, caught the corner of my eye, and made me give it my attention. Gone of course, that was how Mirmulnir seemed to operate, but not before bringing attention to the aberration of mother nature above me. My eyes widened at the sight.

    Leviathan's arrival in Brockton Bay had created storm-clouds so thick and so powerful that only the most catastrophic of hurricanes could compare, but he usually only isolated it to large city in scope. The blizzard that wrapped around the mountain peak wasn't nearly as large, but whatever force concentrated it over the mountain had also condensed it to the point that it almost looked like a solid mass, a literal blanket of weather draped over tons of rock.

    It didn't look impenetrable, per se, but it didn't look like it would be easy to navigate either. Even a hundred feet or so away, I had to constantly spin away the ice that was splashing against my forcefield, and I couldn't imagine what it would do to my backpack.

    That return trip is looking more and more likely.

    I ventured forth a bit closer, keeping my forcefield arms out and reaching, slowly closing that distance to the blanket of cold. I didn't want to go back down just yet if I didn't have too, but I didn't want to risk my backpack too much. If I felt the danger was too severe, I'd retreat and think of something to do-

    One of Fragile One's limbs made contact with the very outermost of the layers and everything immediately went wrong.

    The limb, already encased in ice from the surrounding wind, was engulfed in a blue light that slid up and around the forcefield faster than I could process. There was no logic to my actions, only instinct, but I dove down and back from the whirling blizzard, blinded by a light that seemed to stick to my forcefield like glue. Surrounded by the light, my eyes strained to make anything out as we fell, but it was about as successful as staring directly into my dad's flashbangs once they went off in your face.

    All of a sudden the light dimmed and then vanished, leaving spots in my vision as I felt my forcefield pop immediately after, and I slammed bodily into the ice-shell of the Fragile One that I was encased it. The biting cold wind and the ice barrier was a slap in the face, knocking my hood back and making my own breathing hurt. I blinked rapidly as I tried to figure out what the flying fuck had happened, keeping pieces of ice away from my face, before belatedly noticing the backpack tumbling beside me.

    Fuck fuck fuckity shit fuck!

    I flew to the spinning backpack, practically slamming into it with my vision still slightly fucked up, feeling the remnants of iced forcefield hands shatter against my armor on impact. I dug my fingers into my cargo and began flying out more than down, pushing against it's weight to slow the fall while still getting away from that killer cold. A second later and my forcefield was back, pushing away the worst of the chill and taking hold of the backpack with ease, but still leaving me to shiver within.

    I pulled up my hood and rubbed at my face, wiping away ice that had already collected at my eyebrows and lashes, and I could already feel my lips crack.

    "What the fuck?!" I breathed out, puff of fog following suit. I was still reeling from what had just happened while my body was desperately trying to warm itself up again after the sudden temperature drop. I had prepared this costume for the tundra cold in mind, but I didn't think I'd have to rely on it so fucking soon.

    My forcefield had been tested in the field of battle against extreme temperatures and had always held up well. I still backed away from things like Sundancer's plasma ball - I wasn't crazy - but I'd endured streams of flames from Lung, blasts of water from Byron, and even balls of lava from Teacher's goons. Not once had my forcefield broken under those kinds of attacks, not without there being secondary factor, like Byron's water being condensed enough to act as a physical impact or the Pharmacist's flames targeting powers themselves.

    I was very fucking tempted to go with the latter interpretation, because there was nothing natural about that light. It was hard to tell when I had been busy panicking, especially since I was still flustered, but it felt like my forcefield had held on for less time compared when I tanked Saint's laser sword head on. What didn't make sense was that my forcefield returned faster than under Saint's assault, which went against every experience I had with the rules of how it functioned.

    Had the light counted as a singular hit, despite engulfing me over a period of time? What metric was being used here that made the distinction for that effect? And what the fuck would that light have done to me if I had touched it? The ice had already formed around the forcefield before I touched it, and I was basically blinded, which means that I didn't even see what effect it dealt beyond extreme cold.

    I gave the shrinking form of the blizzard a wary glance as I flew back even more, wanting to get more space between me and the anomaly. Beyond my pride, I wasn't hurt, but the experience left me more than a little spooked.

    Great job Victoria. Not even five minutes into departing and you already fucked up.

    "What about you girl," I asked as I flew along, rubbing my arms to build up friction. "Any insights you want to share? Or just more of the silent treatment for now, because you're just as embarrassed as I am?"

    No thoughts that felt overly focused on. No odd shapes in the corner of my eyes or lurking in the shadows of the clouds. I even relaxed my control of the forcefield, careful to make sure the backpack was secure, but there was not directed movement by my agent. The Fragile One was content to stay in silence and my gut said I wasn't too far off the mark in that regard as to why.

    I continued to fly, still bathed in the fog of the world.

    The plan to force a meeting with Paarthurnax was scratched for the time being, at least until I could get my shit together and figure out something to bypass that storm. If everything went well with the College, I might not even need to return, and I would leave this world up to it's own devices. If not... then I had options. Not as many as I would have liked, but some nonetheless. I could return to the Imperials or Whiterun, explain my situation and see what resources I could scrounge up there. Research more about the Dragons, which was already sort of parallel to my goals anyways, if I was to figure out this whole soul dilemma. The same could be said for the rock back at the border.

    Will it be that simple though?

    Experience told me no. Hustling back and forth between two different locations, avenues of investigation cut off, and random changes made to my fundamental self in ways I didn't understand. All this in little less than a week? Not so simple after a first glance.

    My instinct had me think of a running theme in all these events; myself. Always faced with a problem I couldn't solve and forced to retreat, backtracking and desperate for something new. The magic rock, Mirmulnir's soul, and now the eternal blizzard.

    It wasn't a new feeling. I had thought as much while I was exploring with Sevitus.

    Without my team at my side, there were things I couldn't do alone, no matter how hard I tried.

    As the endless fog surrounded me, I didn't want to think about what that meant about my chances of getting home.
     
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    • Magelight 3.5
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    • Magelight 3.5

    ⊙⊙⊙⊙⊙    ​

    It was hard to describe how beautiful this world appeared as I soared through the open sky, feeling the wind rushing around my forcefield with so little resistance. I opened my arms wide and took in a deep breath of fresh air, feeling that tizzy in my stomach I got when I truly delved into the wonders of flight, warming me up in an emotional way, if not physically.

    Despite the literal load on my back, I hadn't felt this free while flying since I took little Audrey on a ride at the hospital.

    The dark storm clouds of High Hrothgar were behind me now, the swirling mass of supernatural chill a blotch of grey and black on a canvas of blue sky. The contrast between that winter mountain and the clear skies around me was so stark that I could imagine Sveta falling in love and wanting to paint it herself.

    It reminded me of the time I had flown over the mountains of Brockton Bay on a lark, way outside of New Waves jurisdiction, just because I was a teenager and why not? What was the point of flying if you couldn't abuse it? It wasn't something I regretted, not with the kind of view I saw.

    Nature surrounded by a modern city, making the dark trees and massive mountain all the more powerful, standing apart from the problems of a dying home for heroes and villains. I had wanted to venture out there again after Leviathan, just to escape the weight of my fucked up family, but to do so when everyone else was suffering just as much as myself?

    It felt selfish. I promised myself that I would go back soon after, when everything was... not fixed, but maybe not so broken.

    Yeah. It didn't work out that way. Even when I flew to mourn Eric, Auntie Jess, Aunt Sarah, and Uncle Neil, I never once looked back on those mountains again. Or what remained of them.

    There were no modern cities in this world, according to Sevitus and Arngeir anyways, and the villages like Whiterun were barely comparable. But that was fine, because that meant I had a stunning view of sprawling forests and snow-covered hilltops that blew anything back in Earth Bet out of the water, as far as I was concerned.

    It was nature as was intended by the Earth, left unmarked by the callous hands of people looking out for themselves. It was how Gimel must have looked when the first prospective Bet immigrants had set foot into its wilderness. Even four years later, Gimel hadn't completely soured it's beauty, but there was still that sense of modernity with how people grew into the world.

    Nothing like that here. Even the brief signs of human life I saw pass below me didn't change that. Small homes and villages built into mountains or lakesides rather than around or over them. Like they new better than to try and ruin the landscape and did the bare minimum for shelter and design.

    Others were relics or ruins, pieces of stone placed into ground as a hallmark of time since passed by men and women long since dead. I passed over two giant towers connected by a stone bridge over a roaring river, the stone carved into the banks and cliff faces, simplistic design and architecture but still fascinating even from a top down view.

    The structures had to be ancient, hundreds of years old, but they still stood. Alone, and quite possibly forgotten to everyone except the few who traveled down the roads on either side of them.

    I paused over the towers, admiring how they stood the test of time while the Fragile One shuffled through the side of the backpack. It took some work to slide under the ropes, and I gave it a few glances to make sure she didn't accidentally untangle the knots and dump my supplies into the river, but eventually she was able to find a grip on the map scroll and gently place it in my hands.

    I couldn't actually remember the last time I held or looked at an actual physical map, spending most of my life depending on GPS to know where I was going, but I felt I had a good handle on the directions so far. It helped that Arngeir had spent hours detailing the map as specifically as he could, giving little notes on what he knew of, what he didn't, and what could have changed since he last heard.

    If I was reading this correctly, then this landmark would be the 'Valtheim Towers', a holdover from an old 'Keep' from centuries ago apparently. Other little notes, scratched in a way that made it hard to make out unless I held the paper just right, called it a haven for bandits and wanderers for a similar amount of time. A potential pit-stop for rest if needed, but not a favorable one.

    A final punctuation of 'Dangerous' was underlined near it's location on the map, followed by an arrow to Shearpoint and so on until it reached Winterhold.

    I folded up the map and handed it to Fragile One, trusting her to not crumple my only means of navigation in this lost world. I gave the towers an appraising once over, not for the scenery but for potential trouble. It didn't look like there was anyone using the two of them and I really didn't want to have to deal with more bandits after my hassle with Rave and her crew, but it would weigh on my conscience if others were hurt here because of me.

    In and out, five minutes of investigation.

    With a slight grimace I descended, keeping a lookout for anyone who might pose a problem. If a wayward arrow hit hard enough, there was the possibility of my backpack tumbling into the river and truly screwing me over. And making me pissed as hell, but that went without saying.

    No arrows were fired my way. No shouts or cries about some random lady descending from the sky with a small mountain of bags behind her. No feelings of being watched yet either.

    Which was odd, since I didn't think the wooden perches attached the top were anywhere near as old as the building itself, and would be the perfect place for scouts.

    My feet touched down on the stone bridge and I took a moment to center myself, glancing both ways and straining my hearing for even the slightest tell of life here.

    Nothing.

    Five minutes might have been an overestimate.

    I felt a bit of relief at the possibility of not having to fight anyone two hours after leaving the Monastery and a return of my previous curiosity and excitement at the prospect of exploring just a bit. Not too long, not when so much depended on Winterhold and on me getting back home, but Arngeir had said to trust my gut before. And investigating a random building in the middle of nowhere was what led me to him in the first place.

    I floated forward, deciding on the left tower for my first bit of investigation, backpack held high. It would be a bit too big to fit through the frame, but I could at least use it block off that passage so no one could surprise me from behind-

    "If you're looking for leftover loot, I'm afraid you'll have to settle for dust, blood, and rotten pie."

    I slammed on the metaphysical brakes, halting in mid-air with enough of a jolt that I felt the backpack shift a bit in my eight hands. A figure approached from the darkness of the tower passageway, and for the briefest of seconds, I could see how the shadows looked draconic as it slivered over the figure's form.

    A blink and the image was gone, a woman in a white and brown robes like Danica's standing just in the frame, leaning against the tower entrance with her arms crossed. Her hair was as blonde as mine and worked into a delicate braid that I had to admire, giving her a vague horned appearance in the right amount of light and shadow.

    Her hazel eyes almost seemed to shine with gold flecks and she held an amused smile on her face as she studied me.

    "You can unclench your fists, mage." Her voice had an light tone to it, "I didn't mean to frighten you."

    I did, not having realized having done so, and let out a slow breath. "Sorry," I said as I met her eyes, "I didn't think anyone would be here."

    "If you got here a day ago, there wouldn't have been. I just arrived here last night, felt it would be a bit more comfy that camping out doors, especially since I heard the previous... tenants got the boot a few nights prior."

    "Bandits?"

    She nodded, "It seems they robbed the wrong kind of person. Sent some very scary folks to clean up their act. All that's left of them are overturned tables and blood splatters on the walls."

    "Sounds like it might have been more comfortable sleeping in the woods then."

    Her lips quirked up a bit, "I'm used to being surrounded by the blood from strangers."

    I arched an eyebrow.

    She smiled and gestured at her outfit, "Healer and priestess. I tend to go where I'm called for to tend to the worst kinds of patients."

    "Ah," I said, looking her up and down. Totally clean and barely any sign of wrinkles on her clothes. They didn't look like they'd seen a lot of travel. "Must be pretty famous then. Desperate too, if they depended on a letter reaching you when someone was sick."

    She laughed, "I suppose I am famous, in a sense, though I would chalk that up more to my family's brand than purely myself. And there are better ways than a letter, for the those who are truly, ah, desperate as you say."

    What kind of family brand would that be?

    The woman nodded at me, "And what of you, miss traveling mage. Such a unique outfit, one could almost mistake it for an Imperial uniform. Taking a break from the war effort, hm? Or perhaps on the run for making a bit of a mess to get that armor for yourself."

    She gave my backpack a curious once over, "Among other things."

    I shook my head, "A gift from some old friends. With a few minor touches. Beyond flying, I'm just an average law-abiding... mage."

    "Well, I approve dearie, no matter the circumstance. A bit of red on it would work well I think, should you ever choose to add another touch to it."

    A bit too close to someone else's theme, I thought. I gave her a tight smile, "I'll think about it."

    "I'm sure you will, dearie." Her eyes crinkled a bit at her own smile back, and I got the feeling she fell between me and my mom in terms of age, and a bit like Tattletale in terms of smug.

    My fists clenched.

    "I wouldn't try your luck with the other tower either. I checked and it's more of the same. Big puddle of blood, old food, and a foul stool."

    I nodded, not taking my eyes off of her.

    We stood there, neither of us saying a word, degrees of fake smiles on our faces as the seconds passed. A knife cutting through air would have sounded too loud for the situation.

    Her smile lowered slightly and her eyes glinted a bit more as she finally spoke, "Well, I suppose we best be on each other's ways. I'd like to get a bit more rest done before I pack up and leave. There are always more patients to attend to and it wouldn't do to keep them waiting."

    "I won't keep you then," I said. I flew back and up slightly, "Hopefully, your workload lightens up soon."

    "Oh, I hope not," she chuckled as she backed into the building. "It would be bad for business."

    I said nothing, watching her form slither into the tower's darkness so smoothly that you could almost wonder if she was ever there at all.

    For my part I flew higher and higher, only once the towers were a near speck did I turn away, flying away as fast as I could. Something was off about her, in more ways than one, to the point that I mentally adjusted her from Tattletale to Cradle without feeling bad about it.

    There was no rational. No tell that I could put a finger on to treat a brief conversation with a total stranger as though I was talking a monster. Was it the way she appeared so quickly after my landing? Her blasé attitude towards death as a so-called healer? Was it that shadow that plagued my vision?

    The weird thing was that I didn't get the sense she was lying, not completely. Or she mired the lies in enough truth that I couldn't call it out explicitly. It was logic adjacent, all of the above and none of the above, just... just a bad feeling.

    I unclenched my fists, but couldn't relax. Not completely, at any rate. The good feeling of soaring over the world was numbed, because for just that moment, I met someone who reminded me a bit too much about home in the worst of ways.

    I just didn't understand why.

    I flew on and barely cared about the lush vegetation turning to more and more spots of snow.


    ⊙​

    Snow. Snow. Snow. Hill. Hill. Snow. Snow. Snowy Hill. More snow.

    A lot of fucking snow.

    The monotony of the journey was beginning to get to me, but I still wasn't willing to take a break. A real one, in any case. Lunch had been taken in the sky, carefully prepared bagels and cups of mead eaten while I floated over a landscape of white that didn't seem close to ending, careful to not lose my position while the wind began to whip up a flurry of snow around me.

    At least it's not as bad as Hrothgar yet.

    The wind wasn't magic, it seemed, just mother nature showing she didn't mess around. There was another benefit of a world without any modern buildings, in that I didn't have to worry about slamming into a skyscraper if I my vision was hampered by snow that occasionally collected on my forcefield faces.

    I did have to worry about accidentally flying too low and maybe clipping one of the occasional hillsides, and if I overcorrected and flew too high, it would be easy to get lost in the clouds lose my sense of direction.

    That would certainly be a problem, because Arngeir's notes on potential landmarks was a lot more barren on the map for this part, barring a few Words of Power he marked and the occasional ruin. He had explained to me that there were few if any villages in the open tundra and for good reason, considering the many, many hazards that existed. Natural and supernatural alike.

    What landmarks remained were pockets of ruins jutting out of the snow, almost indistinguishable from the rocks and hills that took up real estate in this barren land, and time spent inspecting them meant time lost in my flight over to Winterhold. Which wasn't to say the ruins weren't interesting; many looked like giant bronze pipe organs or valves imbedded into the ground, and I had no idea how the hell that was possible.

    Yes, Arngeir had said the Dwemer were a race of engineers, but I was expecting something like Caesar's wooden bridge rather than what looked like pipes big enough to drive a small vehicle through. I couldn't even imagine the time and technology needed to build the materials in a medieval world like this, let alone place them underground.

    Where did they lead? Why were they built like this? What happened to them?

    So many questions, but far, far, far too little time. They were things to ponder after getting my bearings with each quick stop, rather than something I intended to investigate in any depth. The strange healer had soured any real wonder for that sort of thing for me.

    I flew on, letting myself get distracted with my own thoughts.

    Shearpoint was the next predicted landmark, and despite being one of the most important ones along the trip, it had some of the least amount of notes given my Arngeir. I couldn't expect him to know everything there was to know about the Voice and it's connection to me, but it was a bit disheartening that my closest lead was almost as clueless as I was in some ways.

    A bit more for them to admit to keeping secrets from me, for their own reasons, even if potentially good ones.

    Ease up there. Don't get caught in the mire.

    Easier said than done, but it was doable. Jessica and a few other therapists had talked about how we judged other based on actions and ourselves based on intent, and made it an exercise to try and workout the intents behind the actions of others in our group. To ourselves of course, because there was no way our group in the Asylum was strong enough for a bunch of emotionally damaged individuals trying to pick at our thought processes in an open forum.

    It wasn't a good memory, but it was a memory about attempting to be better, which helped a bit.

    The wind was picking up as the day went on and I felt a real concern about getting lost in a blizzard and having to build a makeshift shelter while mostly blind once the night kicked in. Even in the daylight, the snow flurry was messing with my sense of distance and time, and I didn't want to imagine the kind of trouble I'd be in at night.

    Shearpoint can't be that far from the last Dwemer ruin. An invisible hand brushed aside a mask of ice, already being replaced by more clusters of water crystals. It should be in an open area with noticeable foliage according the notes.

    The fact that the notes were based on an elderly man's reminiscence was a bit concerning.

    It felt like an hour, but it could have been longer or even shorter, before I saw something protrude slightly in the distance. I flew on, eyes narrowing, but there was something within me that just knew.

    They felt like voices. Chants. A chorus that hummed with a power in my very being.

    It was here. I could feel it in my bones and in that inner star that they called a soul, wanting to reach out and grasp it.

    Shearpoint and the Voice were nearer now, and I could practically see the wall, built on top of a precipice in a dramatic fashion. The chorus chanted even stronger and I wondered how much of this was me or the wall itself.

    Does it matter? You want this Victoria. You crave it.

    I did. I craved any chance at getting home, no matter how strange. But I was a seeker of knowledge and that meant I sought to know why I wanted these things so badly and what it meant for me.

    I slowed my descent as the wall loomed closer, no longer obscured by the wall of snow swirled by the wind.

    I froze and my eyes widened. It didn't react to my presence, but it didn't need to. It's existence was enough to make me feel colder than any chill.

    Dragon.

    Immediately I flew up and back away, eyes never leaving the slumbering creature perched atop the monument, I felt like my heart was going to burst out of my chest from how fast it was beating. Had the flurry been a shade stronger or darker, I would have quite literally flown face first into the Dragon and who knows what the fuck would have happened then.

    You could have given me a warning Fragile One. The same goes for you Mirmulnir.

    Maybe it was due to it being asleep that I wasn't feeling that pinch of worry like I had back in Valtheim. Or perhaps the chanting, now dimmer that I was further away, had meant to expect this kind of obstacle.

    I was over a hundred feet away when I finally stopped, letting out slow and quiet breaths, forcing my focus on the blurrier lizard below me. It hadn't noticed me, at least not yet, but I was still hesitant to make any sudden movements or even breathe normally.

    It wasn't fear of the Dragon that made me this way. If it was anything like Mirmulnir, I was pretty confident that I could handle any dragon that came my way. They were big, they were strong, they had decent ranged options with fire and ice, and they could take a punch for sure... but they weren't close to Lung or Lord of Loss, where they got so powerful that I needed an entire team to back me up.

    Nothing that could control an area like Lung did with his ocean of fire or morph constantly to become a different kind of threat like Lord of Loss did with his shapeshifting. If I had to make the comparison, they reminded me more of Bitch's mutant dogs or Bitter Pills hulked out experiments in terms of how much of a threat they could be. The danger was in being hounded or ambushed by more than one before you could really react to the attack.

    No, I could defeat a single Dragon. It wouldn't even be that hard, relatively speaking.

    But the risk to my Self? This 'Soul' that Arngeir believed I had? No.

    Fuck no. Those days and nights out in the woods by myself, feeling the memories and images of a lifetime far beyond my own was like a waking nightmare, and the way it had felt to absorb the knowledge into myself was indescribably violating. The possibility of being some sort of twisted monster that ate the souls and identity of my victims was too close to home for me.

    Arngeir had said that the Dragons were a race that thrived on battle and my vague recollections of Mirmulnir didn't contradict that. But I was still scared for this random creature below me, because nothing and nobody deserved to be permanently trapped as a vague vestige bent to the whims of another.

    They were animals. Sapient and sentient, but no real tricks that made them unpredictable like Parahumans were. And that meant it was too dangerous for them to be around me. It was a weird reversal from my time fighting the Fallen, where I had wanted to be gentle but couldn't, but now I did and could... but that meant leaving a dragon around for someone to stumble upon in this weather.

    Worse yet, what happens if the dragon decided to attack a random settlement? Mirmulnir seemed to have strike out at Whiterun for no apparent reason and Helgen was burnt to the ground a few days before that. All the patterns so far indicated that Dragons tended to go after large collections of people and they didn't hold back at all. I hadn't been there that long, but the screams I'd heard and the dead I'd seen when we crashed through buildings said more than enough.

    What do I do, I asked my invisible friend. What's the right call here?

    No law or process to outline what to do. I don't know what's right.

    Reach out and try not to regret it.

    I softly rubbed the burnt part of my armor, the rough sensation muted by the bandages wrapped around my hand, reminders of what letting indecision control me for a second had cost in the far and recent past.

    I had an option then. I just had to hope it was for the best.

    Flying back and up even further, till the wall and Dragon were no longer visible through the small storm, I took a look at my map and decided on my course. It put me a bit off the path I wanted, but it was also possibly a target for the Dragon as well.

    I set course for Windhelm and for a potential reunion with Ulfric.


    ⊙​


    The campfire was like a beacon in the night and I made a beeline straight for it, diving through the wind and snow, having the Fragile One's hands wipe away residual ice to make my landing clearer. It couldn't have been later than four o'clock in the afternoon, but the cloudy sky gave off a feeling that one could mistake for beginning of sundown. Lowered visibility, dark shades of grey, and cold all around.

    It wasn't just the hope of a warm fire to make myself feel alive again that had me rush down so quickly. The camp was also far too close for comfort to the Dragon's lair, almost in a direct path between there and Windhelm, and if that monster were to wake up any time soon then that light would no doubt draw it's attention.

    Please don't be hostile, I thought desperately. I don't want to kick your asses to save them.

    Well, knowing my luck, they'd think I was the bigger threat than the Dragon.

    I slowed down, practically hovering over the very edge of the large campsite, dozens of armed men and women warming themselves up with broth or going in and out of tents. One of them was far larger than the others, made up of many raw animal hides stitched together in an almost haphazard way.

    In many ways, it reminded me of Claudya's setup, if on a far smaller scale, and less... regal for lack of a better word. No steel armor here, mostly leathers, a few scaled armors, furs, and horned helmets that looked really good. There were no banners of dragons, instead replaced with a stylized bear on the few tents that draped them along posts.

    I dropped down into the campsite, loud and obvious enough that mostly everyone would notice my presence, and settled my backpack behind me.

    "Mage!" Someone shouted and everyone rose up from around the fire, giving me a safe distance, their hands going to weapons but not yet pulling them free. Yet.

    Well, at least they haven't surrounded me with archers. So far, so good.

    A bearded man exited the largest tent around the fire, followed by a pair of soldiers, hands on their sword hilts. The man himself was tall, possibly the tallest person I'd seen so far, and his armor was far more unique than the others. A bear skin for a cape, plated of metal running down his abdomen, his pauldrons and bracers armed with layers of metal and bone, with similar armor for his shins guards and boots. Attached to his fur kilt was a small ax, carved with an intricated design, much like the metals of his outfit.

    All in all, I would have loved to appreciate the aesthetics in another time and place.

    "Mage!" His voice had a think accent I couldn't place, "State your business with the Stormcloaks or continue on your way! We do not look for trouble, but we are more than willing to stomp it out!"

    I blinked. Okay, that made things a lot easier. Now, I had to get them to take me seriously, and hope that my rep meant something here.

    I shouted back, "I'm Antares, the Dragonborn, and I've come to warn you about a Dragon nearby! You are all in great danger!"

    Shocked murmurs rippled through the camp, everyone except the leader giving each other nervous glances. Not so different from Whiterun, in that regard.

    The leader narrowed his eyes, taking me in, "Dragonborn, you claim? I heard she was wreathed in light and rip out the fangs of a dragon with her bare hands. Not a mage of such... stature. Or in what looks dangerously like Imperial garments."

    Another rumble of words passed between soldiers and I felt my patience flare slightly, tempered by the fact that word of mouth was absolutely going to be unreliable in this kind of world, and they had every reason to be suspicious of some random stranger claiming to be someone they never met before. The armor wasn't helping matters either.

    Running on a timer that I couldn't see just made it a bit harder to sympathize.

    Different tact then.

    I made a show of crouching down, one hand reaching through the snow to grip the ground beneath me. There was a jostling of weapons, but the leader held up a hand, causing all motion to stop. Praying that the light wasn't enough to give away the trick, I had three of Fragile One's limbs spear into the dirt around my arm, careful so as to not make it too obvious.

    With a heft, I brought all four limbs up, and with it a sizeable amount of earth. Seventy percent of it crumbled away, but the ice and cold had frozen it deep enough that what I held up could probably have reached my knees if I planted it on the ground.

    Standing straight up, I met the leaders eyes as I flicked the clump of earth off into the distance, a trail of crumbs falling behind as the projectile vanished from view. Whether it was distance, the wind, or it simply dissolved too much, the impact couldn't be heard.

    Besides the crackle of the campfire, there was utter silence in the camp.

    "Think I can't rip a fang off now?" I asked.

    The leader looked off into the distance and then back to me. He nodded, "I'm Frorkmar Banner-Torn and I lead this camp for the time being, Dragonborn. What's this about a Dragon?"

    "It's roosting at Shearpoint," I said, happy to be moving along. "You know where that is?"

    "Aye, an ancient shrine, or so I'm told. Cursed is what I've also heard, but never that a Dragon roosted there."

    "Well, you know about as much as I do about this then. I stumbled across it while it was asleep, so we shouldn't have to worry about it following me. What we do have to worry about is that these guys seem to love hitting high population centers. Helgen and Whiterun were both hit hard."

    Frorkmar frowned, "I've heard of both and of other hold being sundered. Even companies of our soldiers on patrol. I've also heard tales of your slaying of the beast in Whiterun. Why not kill this creature while it's defenseless?"

    "Magic reasons," I not quite lied, "Something that I really can't afford to go into at the moment without wasting a lot of time. All I care about right now is getting you guys out of its path of destruction and warning Windhelm, because I have zero doubt that it's a target."

    He nodded at his men, who rushed to other tents and shouted out orders to get moving. To me he spoke, "We will take you to Windhelm, to discuss the Dragon issue with Ulfric Stormcloak. I will not say I trust you completely, but that kind of strength your levitating to our camp makes a kind of sense."

    "For what it's worth, I've met Ulfric before. During the Helgen attack."

    His eyes widened in surprise, "I've heard nothing about him meeting the Dragonborn when he returned to his Keep. No correspondence has mentioned it in our reports."

    I shrugged, "To be fair, we didn't know I was the Dragonborn then."

    Frorkmar gave me a grave look, "If what you say is true, then that relieves some of my worries. But we must make a quick stop first as we return to Windhelm, as per Ulfric's orders. A potential threat to our borders has made itself known in the worst of ways."

    I frowned, "With that Dragon close by, it's a pretty big risk to make a detour. I saw what happened to Whiterun and it was not pretty. "

    "So I've heard, but this could be just as disastrous if left unchecked. Worse, in some ways, considering what we heard from the Vigilants. I do not take their warnings lightly."

    I gave him a disbelieving look, "What the hell could be worse than Dragons?"
     
  • Threadmarks
    • I have some trouble following the Skyrim stuff sometimes, but this is still neat, and I'm glad I finally caught up on it!
     
    Interlude: Fire
  • Threadmarks
    • Interlude: Fire

    ⊙    ​

    The earliest childhood memory he could recall was that of chains.

    The sounds of chain rattling as man, woman, and child shambled from place to place, always carrying a heavy load in their arms. Whether it was stone, tools, or the corpse of a fellow prisoner who could do no more, hands were never empty in the prison.

    Chains had a certain smell as well, several smells once you learned to really look for them. The smell of rust of course, usually followed by a shallow fantasy of those chains shattering with a mighty pull and one making their mad dash toward freedom. The smell of blood, followed the inevitable realization of death that awaited each and every soul that were kept in those mines to toil away at soil and rock. The smell of iron, a constant reminder of their harsh reality and purpose.

    The iron was by far the worst. Rust was a fantasy and blood was a dark escape. Iron meant the chains were strong and that one was not near the end of their story in that dark tale of slavery.

    He did not know who named him Farengar. Certainly not the Thalmor, who preferred their mix of 'cur', 'welp', 'fool', and 'worm', each often punctuated by a spark of lightning to the back. Probably not his fellow prisoners, who dared not even whisper, lest even an echo disturb the wind near their ever-present wardens and thus incur their wrath. Try as he might, then and now, he could not remember the life he had before the chains and the mines.

    It could not have been that long, as he were a child, and he wondered if it was by magic or by the ever mysterious brain itself that removed his origins.

    These were the things he contemplated as he slaved away at ores and crystals and he imagined his brethren were not so different. Children such he were given 'softer' treatment by the Thalmor. Twelve hours of mining mandated rest of about half that amount, while the elders were to continue on for full days. Those who passed out were forced awake or put down depending on the mood of the guards.

    He did not think there was any real love for children, in the decision to give them more rest. He could imagine it helped breed the distrust and animosity within the mines that prisoners had for each other, betraying or lying about betrayals to earn good will from the Thalmor, such more food and water.

    Perhaps it was a means of conditioning them like dogs, molding them into this system of life so that it could be ingrained within the few people who bred within the prison's confines.

    It was very possibly both, tinged with sadism and the thrill of seeing others suffer under their control.

    During those periods of rest where he was forced to share a shallow pit with hundreds of other children, many of whom had soiled themselves or cried silently on his shoulder, Farengar would watch the torches on the cave walls with great reverence. The flames brought warmth in dampness, scared off the spiders and skeevers that preyed on the young and sick, and one had to handle them with care, lest they be burned for their ignorance.

    So different from the hand Farengar had been dealt with.

    Fire, he thought and called himself. Even his thoughts were quiet, for there was no telling if they had magic that could pick words from the mind. I want to be Fire. I want to hold it in my hands, shape it, make it mine.

    Sometimes, when he had those secret thoughts, Farengar could feel that heat under his palms and knew it could be done. He did not know how, though he was eager to learn, but he knew he could.

    Which meant he knew something that those who ran his life did not.

    Secret-Fire. Farengar Secret-Fire.

    It was a childish name, unoriginal and nonsensical, but it was because it was such that he could look back on his younger self with gratitude. To find some measure of control over his life by not only keeping his abilities a secret from the Thalmor, but to also grant himself a name of his own based on pure wonder.

    In the months of back-breaking labor he was forced to endure, of literally kicking bodies aside when they fell in the way of his pickaxe, his two secrets kept him sane. It wasn't until Esbern freed them and the young boy had traveled the world in search of knowledge and refuge, that Farengar realized that he might have more than a touch of madness.

    Farengar raised a hand.

    Magelight, he thought, and felt the magic flow through his palms. Less than a second passed before the spark of light flew forth, illuminating the passage way before him as it struck the far wall. No longer hidden within the shadows, a crowd of skeletons turned his way, bones creaking as they regarded the interloper in their home.

    "Unfortunate," Farengar said, "I'm sorry your slumber has been disturbed. Please, return to your caskets, and allow your descendants to clean up our own mess."

    There was no response from the walking remains beyond the crackle of bones as they rushed towards Farengar, glowing blue eyes focused entirely on him.

    He sighed. What makes you so different from ghosts?

    Ghosts could be reasoned with, to an extent, and were often tied down to this plane beyond their own accord. The general thought for skeletons was that they were similar in that regard, bound to resurrect unwillingly during times of strife or fear. Why and how varied, and more often than not, there was no real explanation for their awakening.

    And they don't like giving hints either.

    Still, it was worth the attempt. Not to say that he was the first one to try and communicate with a skeleton, but he felt he was definitely the most consistent. It would sully his professional integrity if he didn't continue to test such situations after all.

    With barely a thought Farengar drew forth fire and sparks in both of his palms, collecting power as he charged the spell. A brief input of willpower, and a fireball was launched off at high-speeds, the shower of sparks following soon after but landing first among the group. Electricity lanced through and across bone, skeletal bits popping and chipping off from the power, weakening to the point that the fireballs collision blew through half their number before dissipating.

    Five remained, still approaching despite the electric assault, but Farengar felt no tension in the threat before him. Two fell before they could reach him halfway, and the last three shattered like their brethren as another fireball burst upon them.

    Farengar relinquished the spells in both hands, feeling the magicka receding to his core, and watched as the Magelight spell slowly dimmed into nothingness. He strained his ears as he felt his inner coils of power recharge themselves naturally, breathing just a bit harder.

    He could hear more bones creaking further down the Hall of the Dead, shuffling back and forth aimlessly as whatever dark power reanimated them naturally kept them on patrol. He frowned, annoyance creeping into his empathy.

    He hated this. The dark, the small tunnels filled with the dead, and the rattling of bones down the way. It would be too easy to get caught in the memories of his youth and he had long since moved on from being the slave boy born to die as part of some malicious Thalmor plot.

    Farengar was no stranger when it came to battle, but he took no pleasure nor pride in doing so, despite how necessary it tended to be. Surrounded by many hot-blooded Nord soldiers and adventurers, he found that many of them had never truly experienced horror or terror. Not the thrill of battle that got the blood pumping and the primal part of the brain energized, but the understanding that this would be the end. Utterly helpless with no strength to fight back, no plans in mind, and no tools at your disposal.

    He would never wish it upon another, but a part of him would always hold it against them.

    Farengar conjured another Magelight, dispatching the grim shadows that had taken over, and the darker thoughts in his mind.

    The past was the past and it would stay that way. For now. In the present, he had a Hall to clear and an exhausted Danica to attend to.

    The court mage strode forth, his not-so secret fire in one hand.

    ⊙​

    The young boy wasn't crying, which was impressive.

    Granted, one half of his face had been melted off, the burn so bad that skin and meat had almost seemed to mold into the underlying skull. The worst and most lethal damage had been stalled by a minor potion of healing, which had done it's job in preventing the boy from succumbing to infection for the time being. The same was true for the child's neck and left shoulder, an ugly wound from the recent attack.

    Had he been capable of crying on that side of his face, Farengar would have been impressed for an entirely different reason.

    Arcadia stood beside the two, hands wringing as she spoke, "I know you're busy running errands for the Jarl, but there hasn't been an available healer for over a day and I ran out of the supplies for healing potions. Between the Companions and the guards and the ingredients I lost in the fire.... You don't have to fix it all-"

    The boy twitched.

    "-Just enough that I can finish the job when my supplies get here tomorrow."

    Farengar gave Arcadia a smile, "There's no need to wait till then, nor for you to apologize. I'll take of this well enough."

    She nodded, her own smile weak and unsure.

    It felt awkward to smile, to give a positive attitude in the midst of a tragedy, and it was definitely not something he was used to. But he liked Arcadia and he liked doing business with her. She was not magically inclined, so to speak, but they were both alchemical workers in their craft.

    She had done favors for him and him for her when they needed it. This was the least he could do.

    The untouched half was as dry as the ruined counterpart, brown iris staring dispassionately past Farengar and into the realm of the subconscious daydream. Or nightmare, he supposed. It was not the first person he had seen whom would be lost in the reminiscence of nightmares, now or then.

    Golden light enveloped the boy and Farengar felt his magicka dip lower than usual. Not so dangerous that the wounds would revert, but the fact that he had not fully recharged from the Hall of the Dead pointed to an exhaustion of his spirit that needed attention. Still, it wouldn't do to lose face at the moment by stopping halfway.

    The light weaved through and over the boy's skin, the flesh reknitting itself as it soaked in the pure energies of life. Seconds passed before Farengar ended the spell, feeling his reservoir of magicka dim just as the light itself did.

    In all respects, the child was normal; his face no longer divided by deep red scar tissue, his left eye now clear, and even his hair had grown to match that of the rest of his self. To be a child was a blessing in more than one way, his spiritual identity having not adjusted to his scarred form from the week-ago attack like an adult's would have. The healing spell wasn't as powerful as Danica's, but it did what it needed to do for this one.

    Farengar could not say the same for the boy's mind. His stare was still distant, even as he rubbed his newfound skin and hair, not really seeing the world for what it was anymore. Or perhaps it was better to say that he was seeing a side of the world that few truly did.

    Arcadia embraced the child from behind, gently caressing his hair, but the boy paid her no mind. His was not a wound that magic or a hug could easily mend.

    You would not be the first nor last, child. Farengar had already seen to many who continued to weep through the nights, many who tried to call upon the spirits of the lost for that one final solace in goodbye, and even more who simply vanished. Walked out of the gates and never returned.

    This child had it better than most. Arcadia was a good soul.

    "Thank you," she said. She had tears in her eyes. "I was so worried that I couldn't help him anymore or that his family might not recognize him with the burns-"

    The boy didn't react to that, but she stopped all the same, her words lost. He had wondered if the boy was related in some fashion, failing to recall any mention of sibling or child, but now it all made sense. Another lost child wandering Whiterun and a potential new face in the ever-growing orphanage.

    Farengar stuff his hands within his sleeves, "Now is a time to turn to our neighbors for help. It is to be given as a matter of course. Please, Arcadia, do not fret about this kindness I would give you."

    Arcadia smiled weakly, not looking him in his eyes. She tended to be bashful when it came to praise or kind words directed at her, but at least it was closer to the woman he enjoyed conversing with on his idle days.

    Her smile grew weaker as she looked around her, "I'm wondering if the help we are getting from these neighbors is worth it."

    Farengar followed her gaze.

    All around them were Imperial soldiers patrolling the streets of Whiterun, carrying supplies out of ruined homes and businesses, or guiding citizens to new locations. The homes in this district were mostly vacant, a victim of the battle between Antares and the Dragon. Already he had heard miraculous tales from the locals; how she was immune to flames that could scorch steel, entire homes torn apart from their collisions, and a daring duel in the sky.

    A dragon skeleton being harvested by the Empires army outside of Whiterun's own walls.

    The result was a trail of destruction that left many survivors homeless and penniless. Alive in the short term, but the cold of Skyrim showed little mercy to circumstance.

    In that regard, the Imperials were a boon and a life saver, supplying tents and food supplies while rebuilding took place. On the other hand, for every one Whiterun guard, three Imperials were patrolling those same routes, strangers in a city that felt divided on the issue of Civil War.

    Many of the citizens gave them the same concerned look that Arcadia had as well, a mix of distrust and anxiety in their eyes and posture.

    "I do admit, I find myself... conflicted about this," Farengar said diplomatically. He looked to where a cluster of children and a guard sat together near some barrels. "But I think there is some good to come out of this situation."

    The guard was watching rapt attention as a young girl stood atop a barrel, head held high as other kids used sacks as makeshift fans, giving the weak illusion of her hair blowing gallantly in the wind. A boy stood beside the girl and her barrel, speaking with an intensity that had him fritter back and forth, the girl taking dramatic poses at certain parts of the story he was regaling to the guards.

    Farengar wondered if the guard truly believed what he was told. It couldn't have been any stranger than the truth.

    Arcadia sighed, "Perhaps so. I confess to not knowing nearly as much as the esteemed court wizard in these kinds of matters."

    "Ah," Farengar smiled, "That's a bit of the old Arcadia shining through."

    Another smile, a bit stronger, "And I didn't even need a speech potion to do it."

    "As much as I would enjoy this company, I'm afraid I must be heading off." Farengar glanced at the sun, "General Tullius will be arriving soon, and Jarl Balgruuf will want my support, for as much help as I would be in such matters. If you need anything, do not fret to tell me."

    Arcadia hugged the child harder, "You've been too kind as it is. You'll spoil me."

    "I can't imagine doing so. Souls like you deserve it."

    "Begone Wizard," she joked. "Don't let this soul get you in trouble. Come, Todvmir. We'll search near the East Gate again."

    Farengar watched the pair walk away. The boy's eyes never lost that far away look to them and it bothered Farengar.

    As he trekked up to the Cloud District, the eyes remained in his mind. Much like the darkness of the caves, such a gaze was a way to travel to that cursed time of his life where the world seemed built to hurt and not much else. It was only with a great many years that he could pull himself out of it's depths and into the man he was today.

    He hoped Todvmir would be strong enough to do the same.

    ⊙​

    "War is here, Jarl Balgruuf, and it's beckoning at the gates of your city."

    "I would have no part in it."

    General Tullius didn't look impressed with that reply. In Farengar's estimation, he doubted much ever actually impressed the general in his life. The man was aged, older than anyone else in the room, but in that age he carried an air of nobility and control. There was no sign of weakness in how time had taken it's toll, no fat that one might assume of someone in such a high position, and more than enough steel in his gaze to cut down those who couldn't handle his presence.

    Farengar didn't see this man as a warrior. His experience with warriors was that of bluster and arrogance, and while he would not say the general wasn't arrogant as he addressed Jarl Balgruuf, it was arrogance born of experience rather than delusion. Their eyes were full of mirth and adventures.

    His were of business and intensity.

    No, General Tullius of the Empire's Legion was no warrior. He was a soldier. Cut from the same cloth as Irileth.

    Said woman caught his eye, her expression tight as she observed the general beside Balgruuf's throne, hand not quite on her blade. Looking at her, one would never have guessed that she had once dragged her sole surviving soldier a mile back to Whiterun despite the fact that she had been nearly encased in ice, ready and rearing to combat the dreaded Dragon.

    Balgruuf had made her survival paramount.

    "I would not be so hasty," General Tullius replied. "The Empire has respected your neutrality in the war effort because of your history of loyalty and fairness to our messengers. We've ensured the roads to your hold remain untouched by Stormcloak infiltrators or their bandit retinue, and have kept the Thalmor uninterested in the lives of your citizens."

    "The Thalmor," Balgruuf practically spat the word. "One could argue that the Empire protecting it's citizens from their brutality is to be expected as a right, not a privilege."

    "And one could argue that the only reason it is not such a right is because the Stormcloaks brought the attention on themselves, and on Skyrim as a whole, Jarl Balgruuf."

    Balgruuf frowned, "To blame one for wanting to worship their faith in peace is both misguided and deceitful."

    "Careful." He didn't growl, but there was an undercurrent to Tullius's words that set Farengar's nerves on edge, "Words like that sound awfully close to treason, dear Jarl."

    Everyone was silent as the implication made itself known. Irileth looked furious, and while Farengar felt the same, he was also more than aware of the situation at hand. Whiterun was in dire straights, more than a quarter of the city burned down, the guards on low supply, and moral at an all time low.

    They were not in a position to act without severe caution.

    Tullius's second in command raised a hand, turning to her superior, "If I may, sir?"

    "You may," was the begrudging reply. "See if you can reason with stubbornness and pride."

    "As the Spriggan said to the oak, General." Balgruuf glowered at the man, "As the Spriggan said to the oak."

    "Jarl Balgruuf," she spoke up before the general could reply, "You know me and of my honor, am I correct?"

    "Legate Rikke, of course. We've met and shared bread on more than a few occasions. The stories of you and your father are well known among our circles."

    Rikke offered him a smile, "And yours as well. The same goes for your hand, Irileth, and that of Farengar Secret-Fire."

    Farengar blinked in surprise, "Flattery is appreciated and unexpected."

    "And deceptive," Irileth said, echoing Balgruuf.

    "Flattery is not my intention, not in such serious times as what we live in. I am merely laying bare to you all that I know you, because I am you. We are all brothers and sisters in Skyrim, despite how the Stormcloaks have taken the calling for their own misguided purposes."

    Balgruuf arched an eyebrow, "An interesting term to describe your sworn enemies."

    "Indeed," Tullius grumbled.

    "Because, when we get down to it, that's what they are. They have deluded themselves with a fantasy of political and military upheaval that isn't remotely feasible and it's hurting all of us. The Empire and Skyrim are paying the price in blood for the actions of a dissenting minority, who can only respond with blood and violence, not negotiations. And that's what we are here today to do with you, Jarl Balgruuf. Negotiate."

    Eloquently said, Farengar thought. It would have convinced him at the least.

    General Tullius nodded as well, though he kept that unhappy grimace.

    "If negotiations are to be had," Balgruuf said, "Then let us start on expectations. Our obligations to each other have otherwise been met and I am not so willing to throw my hand into the fires of war."

    Tullius glanced around the room, "Is the Dragonborn here?"

    A pin could have dropped and heard across Tamriel. Eyes darted across the room, even among the guards of both sides. Farengar crossed his arms, observing the general.

    "Antares is not present at this time," Balgruuf said. He sounded uncharacteristically uncertain.

    "Has she, at some point, pledged allegiance to Whiterun? I ask on your honor, of course."

    "No. She has not."

    "Then no, our obligations have not been met." General Tullius smiled and it was as sharp as his tongue, "According to the meandering letter that your late Proventus Avennici penned to us, Antares the Dragonborn has no affiliation with Whiterun. She, and a fair few of my soldiers, are in fact banned from Whiterun and would be treated as hostile if they were to return. Furthermore, it appears that it was the Dragonborn who argued for the safety and healing of my soldiers, against threats of execution and imprisonment.

    "My debt for those lives saved belong to her and her alone. Here and now, my forces bringing you aid in your time of need? Supplying you food, defenses, and much needed healing? An isolated, altruistic action for a Keep that has a long history of loyalty and honor."

    He could have slapped the Jarl and his children, and the blow would not have been nearly as strong. Legate Rikke didn't look proud nor disappointed, simply taking a deep breath as her superior took charge.

    General Tullius crossed his arms, "I agree with my Legate. Negotiations are in order. Not just on the War or about the Dragons, but about reparations and taxing-"

    "And what we could do to lessen those two, I take it." Balgruuf grimaced.

    Tullius nodded, "That would be an option we could consider."

    He's got us. Right in the palm of his hand and we sent the letter that made it happen.

    The two leaders continued their political spar, even though the answer was as clear as day to all within the great halls of Dragonsreach.

    Whiterun would be an Imperial aligned city by the end of the night. Jarl Balgruuf could possibly argue against supplying resources and soldiers to the frontline due to the damages inflicted, but even symbolic support would send ripples through all of Skyrim. Continued funds for the Keep and a very real target on their backs from the Stormcloaks.

    All important, but Tullius had touched on something far greater in mentioning Antares. The Dragonborn. A warrior capable of driving a Dragon into the ground and shaking the earth with her mighty blows.

    She was the key to the shackles of tyranny that the Dragons posed to all of Tamriel and no one in Whiterun had any idea of where to look. Even the few messengers they could spare to venture up to High Hrothgar had found she had left, her exact location unknown according to the Greybeards, though it was generally believed to be a falsehood.

    There was only one person he could turn to now if they wanted a chance at tracking Antares down.

    Farengar could only hope that Delphine wouldn't get into too much trouble along the way.
     
  • Threadmarks
    • Yeah we rarely see Farengar in fics outside of "wow this guy is an ass" and then moving on. Good to see his perspective for once.
     
    Magelight 3.6
  • Threadmarks
    • Magelight 3.6

    ⊙⊙⊙⊙⊙    ​

    It was the cleanest crime scene I'd ever seen, but the story it told was one of absolute chaos.

    The door to the home had been torn apart, fragments of wood and iron littering the floor and embedded into nearby walls. Snow had piled up near the entrance to the point that it could have been a tripping hazard for anyone else, but the chill it let into the house allowed the footprints of snow left by the attackers to still be visible even now.

    It served as the breadcrumbs for what happened here initially; five steps in, a cabinet once filled with pottery of some kind was tossed to the floor, surrounded by pieces of clay. An imprint atop the obstacle where someone's foot used it for leverage, leading to a collapsed dining table and wooden utensils scattered around the room. Someone slamming into or slamming someone on top of it.

    From there it become hard to impossible to decipher the exact sequence of events that took place. Were the nail marks carved deep into the wood floors before or after someone busted a hole through the roof and second floor? Had they been eating when the attack happened or did they know someone was targeting them?

    There were no weapons left behind that I could see. Nothing sharper than a fork near the table mess. Had it been so fast that no one had time to react or was this home just not equipped to defend itself? Both?

    No way to tell.

    I flew up to the hole leading to the second floor, a peak into the room above, Fragile One encased around me in case of any surprise guest still remaining. Nothing and no one; the snow had filtered through the hole and covered much of the room in white powder, but I got the sense it was mostly for storage rather than any living abode. I could see the outlines of small barrels and crates, some blankets, but no signs of life.

    No signs of struggle either.

    I noted how the wood was frayed from the impact, bristles and splinters bending slightly downwards. I frowned and dropped down.

    Back down to the main room, turning to follow the claw marks along the floor boards. Here and there, it looked like the person being dragged tried to reach out for chairs or for purchase on the walls, leaving furrows for a brief moment before going back to floor. Judging by how the marks ended near a broken window, I got the feeling it didn't help much other than delay them for second. I inspected the window, noting how jagged and uneven the break in the glass was, hoping to find a trail of glass or footstep in the snow.

    No luck there either. The attack had happened long enough ago that any trail had been covered up by the wind and flurry. Nothing remained on the leftover pieces of glass either.

    Frustrating. And concerning on multiple levels.

    Where was all the blood?

    It was almost like the opposite of the Navigators incident in how it expressed what had happened. Where one let the carnage speak for itself, the other let the lack of fill in the blanks.

    I flew out the house, giving it a wary glance before heading back to Frorkmar. All around him, Stormcloak soldiers shuffled in and out of homes, torches lit and swords out. Moments would pass before the soldiers left the buildings, but there was never anyone new leaving with them. More soldiers were leaving the mill and townhouse, all of them keeping their heads on a swivel and their backs to each other as best they could.

    Frorkmar stood alone, a lit torch in one hand as he crouched, inspecting other torches gathered into a pile. They were charred and covered with bits of frost, out in the cold for an unknown amount of time.

    Beyond some need to know information, like where we were headed and what potential dangers to be wary of, there hadn't been much conversation after we parted from the camp as we trekked down the long road to this Mill slash Quarry. I wasn't sure how I felt about that. On the one hand, I was sort of happy to not have to go over the long and complex story of what I was doing out in the middle of nowhere, or asking about Mirmulnir's death. On the other hand, that meant I wasn't entirely sure how to approach him or his people, which made for a slightly awkward hour long journey.

    The whispers from his soldiers that I occasionally caught didn't help.

    I coughed lightly as I got near, getting his attention. Frorkmar stood straight and landing on but not breaking the surface of the snow, wiping ice off his gloves against his kilt. Standing at full height, he must have been at least six and a half feet tall, with enough muscle that I could imagine some of the fittest capes back home would impressed.

    As much as his beard hid his expression, the glower in his eyes made is frustration more than apparent.

    "Dragonborn," he nodded. "No one?"

    I shook my head, "Not a soul. It looked like a two-pronged attack to me. Someone bashed in the door, knocked around some furniture, and a second burst in through the roof top and second floor. Whoever was inside tried to hold out as best they could, but they were dragged through a window."

    The stomp of boots caught my attention as more soldiers came out of a house nearby, crunching and kicking at snow with their footsteps, helmets shaking angrily. I could see in the body language of some watchers how upset they were at the sight. They talked for a moment as the group convened, before heading to another home, the helmet shaker left to stand watch outside.

    "Same story for us here," Frorkmar said. "We call this place Anga's Mill, even though it's not technically her mill and it's not just a mill either. Ennodius Papius was it's previous owner, before he went mad from debt and fled into the wilderness a year ago, and this place held a quarry and town home for workers. Some extra homes for those with families, obviously. Must have had almost fifty people at it's biggest."

    He turned around, canvassing the area, and that frustration in his eyes dipped into despair. "Not a soul, as you say."

    "I know it's a shallow hope, but... any chance of them just packing up and heading out? That's not a thing here?"

    "Not unless they desired a shallow grave of ice and dirt." He kicked at the pile beneath his feet, "The signs were all there for Talos knows how long. The lack of consistent patrols through these roads, no return messages to Dawnstar or Winterhold for supplies, the talk of ghost sightings by some travelers-"

    "Ghosts?"

    "The echoes of the lost or the damned. Or the unworthy perhaps. But they tend to appear in places where death and terror has wrought or would soon come. Like they can almost feel it as a spirit. And where ghosts linger, other undead shall be as well."

    I blinked, "Just to be clear here, you're saying... what? Zombies? Ghouls?"

    "Vampires," He spat out the word like it left a bad taste in his mouth. "Damned demons. I can practically imagine how it happened and it's close to what you described in that home. The animals were first most likely. To rid themselves of a potentially noisy obstacle and to deprive them of livestock. The most able bodied would leave to Windhelm, or perhaps Winterhold for whatever foolish reason one would want to visit that den of mages, and then they would be picked off by the flock of them. Cowards!"

    I almost can't believe it.

    "I've heard about them before," I said, softly. I thought of my brief confusion back in Whiterun. He was a lot more tense than he was an hour ago, "Is this their usual MO?"

    "Their what?"

    "Method of operating," I clarified. "Sorry, shorthand where I'm from."

    He shook his head, "I'm not an expert or a Vampire Hunter. I'm just going from what I remember when I was a boy, thinking of being an adventurer back when the world made sense, and before I had any for myself. Two times in my life that I remember seeing the aftermath of a vampire attack, but both of them were years apart and only targeted small homes on the outskirts."

    I noted the terrain, "It definitely fills that latter category."

    "Aye, but this Mill and Quarry is too big. I remember the Vigilants saying once that vampires were like vultures, picking off those who wouldn't be missed, soon or ever. And again, small homes, usually the work of a single vampire."

    "But you said a flock of them?"

    He nodded, "A flock indeed. Talos knows how long they staked out this Quarry, picking them off until the folks started getting antsy about none returning. You say you believe the first vampire was a distraction for their brethren to attack from above, aye?"

    "I didn't say vampires did it, but yes, basically that."

    "Then I imagine the same was true for the whole town. A small number of them made a ruckus, a distraction, or did something that caught the eye. None of them noticed the others coming in for the real kill. Or if they did, it was too late to stop them."

    I crossed my arms, imagining it, letting the scene play out in my head. What would I have done, to do the same? Maybe it didn't even have to be too violent at first. A stranger coming into town, asking for help, playing the part of the victim to get everyone's attention. The rest come in from behind the corners or atop buildings and a quiet invasion takes place.

    Until it stops being quiet and doors get kicked down. Roofs caved in.

    "They don't need to ask permission?"

    Frorkmar gave me an odd look. Somewhere between confused and angry at my question. "Permission to do what? Raid the town?"

    "Never mind," I said. "Vampire folklore from my home. Need to ask permission to enter a home, no reflections, and crosses hurt them."

    "Well, I aint heard of any of those." He brushed snow out of his beard, still looking at me warily, "But I hear even a vampire fears a steady blade, especially one of silver, and they detest fire. Know any fire spells, Dragonborn?"

    I huffed, "Magic and I have a complicated history at the moment."

    "Never heard of a mage who didn't know a fire spell."

    Never called myself a mage. Technically.

    Moving on, I commented, "I still can't believe not an ounce of blood was shed here. Especially if twenty to thirty people lived here. Did they literally lick the glass and floor clean?"

    "Hungry enough?" A sneer passed through his expression, "I bet they would... but no, not here. Feels odd to tell a mage this, but vampires are your kin."

    I raised an eyebrow at him.

    "As in, they practice spells and such. Naturally so. Their curse gives them abilities that good folk consider to be unnatural. Drains the life and blood out of ya, making them stronger as they consume your soul and turning you into one of their own. Do you truly know so little?"

    He was upset and it was making him more than a little testy. I could understand him, since I was still on that invisible timer with that Dragon in Shearpoint, even with this new situation tossed at my feet.

    I sighed, "Being Dragonborn doesn't come with any instructions and everything I've picked up now has been on the road."

    "Ahuh." He didn't sound entirely convinced, "You picked up the power to kill Dragons, but nothing else useful?"

    I gave him a hard look.

    Maybe he remembered the boulder I chucked into the horizon, because his features softened, "I- Hm. That wasn't needed to be said."

    "I get it," I replied. "Really. This whole... thing is fucked. Let's just remember we're not enemies here."

    "You may dress like one, but I can look past that. Yes, forgive me Dragonborn, I did not mean to offend."

    "Apology noted."

    A shuffle in the background caught my eye.

    "Speaking of looking past things." I pointed, "Is that really necessary?"

    A group of soldiers were leaving one of the abandoned homes, all four of them carrying a sack in one hand. A few of the bags had the hilts of swords and what looked like basic tools poking out from the top, while the others seemed to clink like they held loose change.

    I could see other soldiers doing the same and not always with weapons or money. Logs of wood were being tossed onto a wagon while more of the men and women carried fruits and bread to someone I assume was in charge of tracking the stolen goods. Clothes were wrapped in bundles or around other supplies, even what looked like children clothes that would fit literally no one here.

    Frorkmar took a glance then shrugged tiredly, "It's salvageable."

    "It's looting, when we don't even know if these people are dead. They could be alive and needing our help!"

    "I have no doubt that they are alive, Dragonborn." Frorkmar looked grim as he spoke, "It would be a waste of blood for the Vampire to slay their prey, when they can feed off of them for months if done carefully. Yes, no doubt of them being alive in my opinion."

    My eyes were wide as I spoke, "Then we need to start tracking them down! I can cover the air, but-"

    "But you'll find nothing but empty forests and the occasional beast trekking through it." He gestured with his torch, "Look around you Dragonborn. There's nothing here to track. The wind and snow have covered every track imaginable. The Vigilants alerted us too late."

    "You're saying that there's no hope for them? That's it?"

    He sighed, "I'm saying that the only one who can save them is Talos himself. Or that they can find the strength finish themselves before the infection can take hold of their souls."

    We both let silence carry the weight of that statement for a moment. It probably wasn't right, but I felt a bit of my earlier goodwill melt away.

    "Fucking why?"

    "Because Skyrim has lost it's fangs," Frorkmar said. There was a dark look to his eyes as he met mine, "And it will remain pathetic and weak as long as it's held down by the Empire and their Thalmor masters. It should be no surprise for you to learn that the Empire is lenient with vampires back in Cyrodiil either. Traitors to the Gods of man and to their kind."

    I said nothing, trying to parse that look. I hated how he framed that speech. Far, far, far, too similar to racist bullshit spouted by the Neo-Nazi's of my home city, but I couldn't begrudge him completely. What the fuck did I know about this world's politics?

    Fragile One's fingers ran through my hair comfortingly, not meant to fix anything, just to support.

    Frorkmar glanced at the sky, "We'll have to make camp here."

    "What?" I said, incredulous. "No, we have to..."

    We have to abandon those people to torture, I thought.

    "...We have to get to Winterhold." I swallowed and lied, "I can accept not being able to save these villagers, but I can't sit here and wait for that city to be burned to the ground. If it does even half the damage it did in Whiterun, hundreds of people will die!"

    "The night doesn't care if you accept it Dragonborn. Already, the dark and snow is so strong that even our torches struggle to illuminate the way. With their ability to see into the night, we'd be sitting ducks to any vampire spies."

    He swung his torch lightly back and forth, but it was unnecessary. I could already see how the shadows were starker and that the falling snow was more prevalent than even before. Not as bad as it had been back at Shearpoint, but it was getting close, and I could definitely understand the fear of being preyed on while blind to the world.

    Still, I pressed on, "Then give me a torch and point me in the right direction. Winterhold is, what, four or five hours away on horseback? Going my top speed I could make it less than half that time, warn them about the vampires here, and about the Dragon. We can't afford wait any longer."

    "It's impossible," he stressed. "Even if I gave you a torch and did as you said, there is no way you wouldn't lose track in the dark and the wind, and then end up having Frost Wraiths hunt you down. Or maybe you get tracked down by the vampires through the night and attack as you are wary and reorienting yourself. I wouldn't put it past them to be able to fly after you."

    "I can fly faster than a Dragon."

    "Speed won't matter if you end up going the wrong way!"

    "And we won't know if we don't try!"

    We were practically staring each other down now, but not to the point that either of us could ignore our surroundings. Soldiers had stopped what they were doing to watch us argue and I could see more than a few pensive glances between each other. Frorkmar glared their way for a few moments before focusing on me.

    I could have shaken that man for wasting my time, putting everyone's lives in danger, and I had half a mind to rip that torch out of his hands before flying off-

    But that wasn't me. It wasn't who I wanted to be and it would be stupid. I was letting fear cloud my judgement instead of fueling my inspiration for a better plan.

    And I couldn't even think of a good plan if I got lost like Frorkmar was saying. I didn't agree with everything he said or what he was having his soldiers do... but we needed to work together right now.

    He apologized the first time and I got the feeling he might lose face if he backed down first, which wouldn't help me down the line if I needed his favor later. I could even imagine it was probably a bit terrifying to face down someone who could rip him to shreds if they reached out to quickly.

    So I sighed and lowered myself back down to normal height.

    "You're right," I said, keeping my eyes on him. "I'm sorry. I got ahead of myself in desperation."

    He blinked and I got the feeling he wasn't expecting me to back down. Still, after a moment he nodded, "Understandable, considering the circumstances. For now, we should focus on lodgings and food."

    That we're stealing.

    "And," I cut in. "Information. On vampires and ghosts. Just so you don't have to constantly be hounded by me for twenty questions."

    A flash of anger before he controlled himself, "I'll send someone your way. Later. Now, we focus on food, bedding, and patrols. Agreed?"

    I barely had time to utter a 'yes' before he turned and stalked away, shouting at a group of soldiers to get to work, directing others on rolling out fire wood and a secure perimeter.

    Barely a passive-aggressive dismissal, but I could live with that for now.

    As much as I hated being ignored, there were things I had to prepare for as well.

    ⊙​

    Vampires - Different from the likes written by Stoker, Meyer, and Holt. No weakness to crosses, garlic, and they all seem to have reflections. Don't need to ask for permission to enter a house. All have magic, all are stronger than the average human, all can see in the dark. Other heightened sense implied (but maybe only for blood?), and all live long lives thanks to blood feeding. Come from a dark god (???) or demon. Apparently are citizens of the Empire? Still dislike the sun but it doesn't kill them. Fire and swords can kill them (weak to silver). Not many know what is fact and what is fiction for them. Capes that come to mind: Crimson, Bloodspunk, Hemorrhagia, Sanguine, Old Man, and the Cluster Draining in general.

    I paused, putting down the charcoal piece on the borrowed writing desk, taking a moment to rub my eyes with my other hand. The light of a candle was dimmer than what I was used to when working on my notes and I could already feel my eyes straining to keep things legible.

    Pencils had apparently not been invented yet, or if they were, they weren't popularized in Skyrim. A bit of a problem when a quill and a jar of ink would likely both break inside of my giant satchel, and that wasn't even getting into how my handwriting with the implement was disgustingly bad. The Greybeards luckily had charcoal pieces they could loan me, which was a solid substitute so long as I didn't smear the writing. A layer of oil added after was meant to keep it relatively permanent once it dried as well.

    Vampires were the most recent addition to my Skyrim notes, coming in just after Dragons under the types of threats I could face here. Those two were the largest of that particular category, for obvious reasons, easily beating out bandits and frost spiders in terms of danger. Other papers were focused on the locations I'd visited, what I knew about the local politics, and of course; magic and powers.

    How did they or did they not interact, what was the connection to the Cycle and Tamriel, and what did absorbing a Dragon 'soul' mean for my connection to Fragile One?

    It was very aggravating to see so many question marks and for them all to be so unorganized compared to my old library system. Next to the lack of indoor plumbing, the loss of the internet and various magazines was the heaviest blow to my moral in dealing with the situation I faced.

    I felt her hands on my shoulders and I let out a deep breath, feeling myself relax just a little bit at the attention of the massage. It had been a hectic and confusing day, and the tension had made it too hard to sleep. Not that I had any really good sleep these past four years, but tonight was definitely one of the worst I had experienced. I hadn't even bothered to change out of my armor, using it's added layers to keep my warmth as much as possible.

    As much as a geek as I was, I would have killed for a distraction from the note taking, if only to stop torturing my own eyes.

    The sounds of guards shouting into the night ripped my attention away from my notes. Even with the wind howling outside my window, the shouts of shock and surprise were picked up by enough of the guards that I could imagine there wasn't a single living soul who didn't hear them.

    I rushed down and out of the temporary home away from home, forcefield expanding to full size once I had cleared the door, eyes wide and taking in the scene. Dozens of guards were standing in the street, facing back the way we came into Ange's Mill, all of them huddled together for warmth and protection.

    In the distance, I could make out a glowing speck that seemed to pierce through even the worst of the snow and darkness of the night, growing further and further away.

    "Is everyone alright?" I asked as I flew over, glancing between the group and the speck.

    "A spirit!" I heard a voice cry out. "A lost soul just ran through the town, cackling without a head, daring us to chase it!"

    What?

    Frorkmar was out in the street now, along with more than a dozen other soldiers in various states of readiness. He might have had trouble sleeping as well, because he too was in full armored regalia.

    "Where's the enemy?" He barked out, eyes roving the entire Mill, as if he were trying to see through everything in his path.

    A cacophony of answers were his reply, taking him briefly aback at that. I flew down to him, subtle aura pulse getting the group to quiet down. "They claim a headless ghost ran through town and taunted them."

    His eyes narrowed, "Was it on a horseback?"

    "Aye!" A voice cried out, "Just as the Vigilants said! The Headless Horseman serving as an omen for horror and tragedy!"

    I blinked, running the words through my head. I looked at the group, "The.... Headless Horseman? Really? Really?"

    Frorkmar looked surprised, "You've heard of it?"

    "I-Okay, no, let's say I haven't. Who or what is he?"

    "No one knows," Frorkmar answered. He seemed understandably confused by my attitude, "He's been around for decades now, possibly longer, haunting the roads of Skyrim. For those he comes across, he is said to bear ill-will and cursed omens. For those who chase after him, it's said they find potential treasure at risk of their mortal souls. The Vigilants have found him where cults have worshiped the Daedra, villages burned to the ground, and Vampire covens hidden lairs."

    I turned to where the supposed 'ghost' had fled, "That means..."

    He nodded, "Its possible he's going to the lair of those who attacked this Mill. I would curse myself for not thinking he would appear so soon, but the spirits of the afterlife are unpredictable forces."

    "We don't know when he'll return?"

    "If ever. Like I said, he haunts all the roads of Skyrim. It could months or even a year before he makes this same trek down this same road at a time when people would be brave or foolish enough to follow."

    And we don't have months. Forget the dragon, those poor people have been held captive for who knows how long by now, treated as playthings by monsters.

    It might not have been the smartest decision, but there were just some things that I couldn't stand by and let happen.

    I faced Frorkmar dead on, "I'm going after him. You don't have to follow, but a torch would be appreciated."

    "Are you insane? Did we not just argue about this hours ago?! And now you want to add the new undead to the near certainty of freezing to death or being devoured by Vampires?"

    "Frorkmar, please." I held out my hand, "I'm a hero. One way or another, I'm going out there to help those people. Not even fighting, just figuring out where they are, if that makes you feel better-"

    "It does not."

    "-But I'm going. Torch or no torch, even if I'd rather be able to see the potential dangers. If I look like a fool in the morning, so be it."

    "You're assuming you'll live to see the morning."

    I said nothing, simply keeping my hand out expectantly. I had to trust that I could close the distance before the 'ghost' would be impossible to make out.

    Frorkmar looked at my hand, fists clenched at his torch.

    It was a soldier who stepped up, her armor dusted with snow and ice. Frorkmar stared at her in shock as she handed me her torch, and she made sure to keep her gaze away from his own. For what it was worth, he didn't say anything, though I imagine his stare was worth a thousand words by itself.

    I accepted it, "Thank you."

    "For my brother," she said. Before I could ask what she meant, she turned and walked back to the huddle, shivering even more without her source of heat and light.

    I gave Frorkmar a salute before I took off at full speed, the Fragile One spinning around me to clear away any ice and snow that had collected around me while standing still.

    I was after it in a heartbeat and it didn't take long for me to catch up despite the hefty, if inappropriately named, head start. The 'ghost' had distance, but it was still moving at the speed of a horse going full-sprint, while I was flying faster than most cars on a highway.

    In a way, I felt that I might have wasted too much time fighting for the torch, because it seemed that no matter how much farther away he was, the 'ghost' was still a pinprick of light in a work of mostly darkness. Crusader, the Neo-Nazi duplicator back home, had a similar aesthetic as this spirit, going for an ethereal force of nature that could disobey the laws of physics.

    Catching up to it, it became clear that whatever it was, it was obviously a homage to the Sleepy Hollow story in some way. It's head was completely missing, and while it didn't carry a pumpkin or woodcutter's axe, it did carry a battle axe across it's back that looked like it matched me in height. Knightly armor instead of noble clothes and cape.

    A distant laughter seemed to burst from nowhere as I focused on the projection.

    "Hello!" I shouted. "Do you know anything about Ichabod Crane?"

    More laughter erupted, sounding like it was filtered under water and then through a tin-can. I hadn't really known what I was expecting asking that, but I felt it couldn't have hurt.

    "Do you know where the victims are? Are you taking us to them?!"

    No laughter this time, only his upper body tilting forward, spurs hitting his phantom steed to get going at a higher pace. Too slow for me, obviously enough.

    I closed the gap and let the Fragile One reach out, aiming for one of his arms with a phantom of my own. The moment contact was made, I felt... something through that sensation sharing I had with my forcefield.

    The closest approximation I could think of was like running a hand through water, only to feel as the water began to disappear in your hands. More hands swept through the 'ghost' at my command, but none of them could gain tractions.

    More of that ominous laughter echoed from nothing as it rode on.

    You're time to shine Aura.

    I let loose a dose of fear and got a physical reaction for my trouble, although not the one I wanted. It's form seemed to ripple like a pod getting a pebble dropped in the middle, vibrating slightly as whatever forces in my aura interacting with its projectionist design. Much like those ripples, eventually the surface would settle.

    A moment passed before it began to laugh once more, almost mockingly.

    Oh sure, you give the guards and soldiers a warning or threat, but apparently the one person chasing you isn't worth a discussion.

    Arms, legs, and face dug through the spectre, and real or not, it was a hardy enough to ignore all of my attempts. By the time we began to actually slow down, I had done pretty much everything I could think of to get it's attention, aura on full blast trying to disrupt it's image but only getting 'wobbly static' as a result.

    Even shoving my torch through it's torso just lit up it's projection state, rather than even annoy it. Fucker.

    I could sympathize with Spright chasing down Chris at the least.

    It couldn't have been more than a few minutes, but it felt like an hour before we finally came to a stop. My forcefield raked through him with no effect once again, but this time there was no laughter to react to it. Just total silence as it froze in place, seemingly uncaring of the world around it.

    "Hello?" I asked, flying around it. No response.

    I stuck close by as I tried to get a sense of where we were now. The blizzard didn't subside at all, but there were enough tall trees and hillsides around that it created a bit of relief zone from the worst of it.

    Enough of a relief that I could see a burning pyre near a cave entrance not even a hundred feet away.

    I stopped myself from flying forward to investigate, instead studying the 'ghost' at my side, a being so similar to my home reality that it bordered on ridiculousness. There were so many questions I had, so many things that just didn't make any sense, but I needed to find and rescue those survivors.

    Is there a way to make sure you don't vanish on me the moment I take my eyes off of you?

    A whisper cut through the silence like a knife, "What a lost morsel our brother has brought us."

    I spun in place, torch held out like a weapon, the Fragile One at the ready. The light from the torch illuminated the nearest tree, revealing a man in pure black robes leaning against it's trunk, arms crossed leisurely. The front of his robes seemed to decorated with some sort of chalk or dried paint, partially covered, but also clearly invoking a skull of some sort.

    His irises were a deep red as he locked eyes with me.

    He smiled and revealed sharpened fangs fit more for a beast than human, "And here I thought he was nothing but a pest. Had I known he would present us with such a treat, I wouldn't have said such harsh things before. Maybe we'll find his grave and give him eternal piece as a reward."

    Tittering laughter followed, but not from the man.

    All around me, I could see pairs of pinpricks of light in the darkness, between the trees and shrubbery as they approached. Six pairs of eyes all told, and I hadn't even suspected that I had been surrounded.

    Or that I had been led into an ambush.

    As if executing final rites, Ichabod Crane's body double echoed in the night, "All the living shall fear the dead."
     
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