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Skyrim: The Voice of the Bard (The Elder Scrolls: Skyrim)
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Delphine IV: A Blade In The Dark
Morndas, 15th of Heartfire 4E201 Early Afternoon
Delphine
"Finally the damned giant was dead. After I caught my breath, I started lugging its hammer back to Chief Yamarz…"
"And that was when, I presume, the cowardly chief decided the best course of action to preserve his ruse would be to kill you and ensure none would e'er learn his deceit. Aye, Stenvarr?"
"Heh. You're a bit too smart for your own good, Talao. Yea, he certainly tried to do that. Guess he thought I was worn out from fighting that giant, but I had more than enough in me to take him out. Was kinda sad, honestly."
It had been like this nearly the whole trip.
Not that I particularly cared about the story, not that I believed that the daedric lord Malacath decided to talk to this lowly mercenary, but for the love of Arkay did either of them ever shut up?
"How sounds this:
"Giant vanquished, valor abound
Stenvarr the victor, vision of power.
Coward Yamarz, who cowered behind
A ruse he plans, but this plot he'll rue."
"Nice! I quite like the 'coward, cowered' bit."
"Yes, I quite liked that bit myself. You don't mind being called a 'vision of power,' do you, Stenvarr?"
"Fascinating," I say shortly. "But perhaps we can save the banter for after we're done surviving the giant murderous beast waiting for us in Kynesgrove?"
I imagine I could hear the frowns on their faces behind me. "Beg pardon, Delphine. I didn't think that our witty repartee was so inconvenient to you."
"Witty repartee? Is that what you call four nonstop hours of chatter?" Maybe I'm being too harsh, but my head is pounding when I should be focusing on the fight ahead of us. "Just… shut up for ten minutes. Think about someone other than yourself for once."
"…Are you still upset about Windhelm? I thought we'd moved past that."
"What part of shut up escapes your keen intellect? Gods above, if you can't fathom why I could use some quiet while I'm trying to keep us alive, what good are you?"
I can definitely hear the disapproval in his voice when he says, "Methinks you do underestimate how a relaxing and rousing ditty can rally the spirit afore a battle."
"And I think that your entertainment is distracting me from going over strategies because you're so damn loud!"
"Oh, that's what the constipated look on your face was?" His smirk tells me he's trying to defuse the situation but I was about a dozen words from tearing it off his face. "For the sworn guards of the Dragonborn, you've been awfully snippy this whole trip. Why so frustrated 'now'? What have I done to deserve this treatment?"
I can't help but snipe back, "I don't serve you yet, bard. Phynaster as my guide, maybe I'd be better off abandoning you to your own devices, dragons be damned."
"That's as empty a threat as ever I've heard, Delphine. Unless your adherence to your oaths be as brittle as your order's existence on Nirn."
"Uh, fellas…?" I could care less about the tone of worry in the merc's voice.
"Not as brittle as your weak spine, bard. Barely able to walk, let alone fight. I'm sure your crooning as you cower behind us is sure to ward the dragon off. Small wonder you have any stories to tell as everyone dies protecting you."
His eyes widen and then his entire face contorts into a grimace. I hit a nerve apparently. "How dare-"
SCREEEEEEECH
The sounds of screams from Kynesgrove succeed the earth-trembling roar of a dragon, stopping us all in our tracks. The shadow of an obsidian black dragon looms over the once-sleepy town, as its citizens frantically flee in our direction.
Well, at least my hunch was correct.
"It's him. The same one from Helgen." Talao's pupils are pinpoints as he gazes to the sky, chest heaving.
My rage leaves me as reality sets in. What we're about to do. "…You're sure?"
"Hard to forget the sight that kept your head on its shoulders." His gaze meets mine, and I see a touch of that fire again. "You know far less of me than you think you know, Delphine. Bordering on absolutely nothing. Follow or don't, but I shan't let someone die for me again." He shoves past me, muttering, "Not one more…"
"Y'know, both of you are fucking terrifying in different ways," Stenvarr says, following. "Anyone ever tell you that?"
"Thanks, Stenvarr… I think."
I watch them for just a moment before falling silently back into the procession. Talao was right, after all; were he truly the Dragonborn, it would be my duty to guard him, no matter what.
Cautiously we rise the hill behind Kynesgrove, silently and steadfastly ignoring each other for the moment. The dragon postures above the town, but hasn't actually attacked it, at least not yet. No civilians lie dead, no buildings burn. No, it was here for something else, and I know we arrived just in time to witness whatever was happening - the heart of the mystery, I'm sure of it.
The dragon finally settles, hovering in midair, just as we find cover behind an enormous boulder at the hilltop. The telltale signs of the burial mound are covered by rapidly disappearing vegetation, freed by the winds of the obsidian dragon's beating wings. And by the gods, he's a big bastard. Even from this distance, his head is easily the size of four men, more than double the size of the trophy in Dragonsreach. The three of us wouldn't stand a chance were it to come to a straight fight, fledgling Dragonborn or no. I motion to the others to stay low and hidden, when it opens its mouth and speaks in a voice deeper and louder than thunder.
"Sahloknir, zi'il gro dovah ulse!"
Of course, damn it all. "Talao," I whisper, "any idea what it's saying?"
"Half of it, maybe? Dovah is dragon, that well I know. Zi'il I think is something like spirit or soul? Sahloknir sounds like a name."
"That dragon's name, you think?"
"No," Talao shakes his head with certainty. "Definitely not. I know that one, though I hope I'm wrong."
"Could you be a little more clear? Why would you hope to be wrong about that?"
The look he gives me is haunted. "Because if I'm right, dragons will be the least of Nirn's worries."
"AAL HIN SLEN KOS ZOR TIID VO!"
I feel the ground crack under me, and energy suffuses the air around me, as the burial mound explodes outward, the skeleton of a dragon forcing its way out with a psychic scream. The reality of what unfolds in front of me is more existentially horrifying than my most vivid imaginings, as I watch the warp of time surround the skeletal dragon, forming organs, muscle, skin and scale in a horrid perversion and reversal of nature. I am dimly aware of Stenvar spewing up sick behind me as Talao and I watch in mute horror.
The reborn dragon extends its head toward its resurrector, speaking, "Alduin, thuri! Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik?" There is a tone of reverence and submission in its voice, and I can tell without knowing its exact words that the obsidian dragon is no equal, but assuredly its lord and master.
"Geh, Sahloknir, kaali mir." I turn to ask Talao to translate more, only to belatedly notice him step from cover and confront the beasts.
Rather than attack, the same dragon speaks to Talao. "Ful, losei Dovahkiin? Zu'u koraav nid nol dov do hi."
Astonishingly, rather than crumple, Talao stands and shouts back, "Drem yol lok, Alduin zok."
The two dragons laugh - at least, that is the only explanation I can think of for the sounds they create - and the obsidian dragon speaks back in Tamrielic, "You speak our tongue as a mewling infant would speak your own. Such arrogance, to dare take for yourself the name of dovah."
"I assure you, arrogant though I may be, I did not choose this fate. But you… why do this?"
The obsidian dragon snorts in derision. "Pah. Speak not to one such as I of 'fate'. Ni balaan los hi do dii morah." It turns to the other dragon, and I need no translation to know that, "Krii dar joorre!" is bad news for us.
I grab Stenvar and yank him forward with a cry of, "Talao, fall back!" as I dive into a fool's fight. And yet, I knew I was ready. This is what I'd trained for my whole life. I was the Knight Captain of War at Cloud Ruler Temple. I hold within my mind all the fighting styles of the Blades, and while they had many applications in civil combat, my research these past years into the Dragonguard made one thing exceptionally clear. The martial traditions were borne from the early years of fighting the exact beasts before me.
I'd been training to kill dragons long before I knew I ever would live to see one.
The obsidian dragon flies away as the other dragon bellows, "Zu'u Sahloknir! Hear my Voice and despair!" lifting off into the air. Stenvar and I both draw bows as it takes flight. The eight steps of the way of the bow resonate through my body as I wait for the moment to strike. Footing, body, ready, raise, draw, full draw, release, continuation. Stenvarr takes pot shots between strafing runs, as we both avoid talons and breaths of ice and fire, but they glance off the hardened scales. It plans to tire us out if it's smart, by staying in the air where we can only scratch it. But Akavir bow technique was designed to punch through even the strongest armor, the hardest scales. The sparrow distracts, but the hawk waits for its chance. I only need to find the right opening… there!
I plant my footing, the dragon making a long run straight toward me from the left, my body finding its balance. My right fingers grip the bowstring, the left on the haft, and I turn to face the dragon, bearing down on me. I raise the bow above my head, drawing the bow and its string apart as I settle the arrow along the line of my cheekbone, ignoring Talao's scream as I draw the bow back as far as it will go. And then, I release, as the dragon opens its mouth wide, sending the arrow straight into its jaw. It looses a horrible scream of pain as my arm extends back behind me through the continuation of the shot, and it aborts its attack to withdraw slightly and recover, as I ready another arrow.
The dragon only takes a few more passes to give up on his plan of wearing us out, his aura of invincibility diminished with the streams of blood falling from another arrow I punch through his scales, and I draw my sword as he comes in for a landing. "It's to be a real fight then. Pruzah!"
"Hope you can use that sword as well as that bow."
I give Stenvar a cocky grin, "Can't be worse with my sword than you are with your bow." He barks a laugh as we both charge in, even as I hear Talao chant behind us, "Grah Dun." My body feels freer and the sword in my hand lighter, as I let my spirit loose with a shout.
Akiviri swordwork is as deliberate as its bow. In the past, it makes use of large downward and sweeping movements to both attack and defend against polearms and mounted combatants. But a dragon is easily a full cavalry of horse-mounted fighters, and the same techniques apply. Each of its talons a halberd, each tooth a spear. A shield is less than useless when death approaches from every angle; to be a mountain is to invite the wind to wear you down to nothing. You must be as water, following the bends of the river.
As the dragon bellows a challenge to us both, the fight becomes a dance. It lunges with its claws, caught by the edge of my blade above my head, pirouetting into a cut, finding purchase in the gap between scales and drawing steaming hot blood to fall to the ground. With a scream of pain, it lashes with its fangs, which I duck under, drawing the blade against its already bleeding chin and scoring another wound. Even a lucky strike by its tail, I roll over, catching my feet under me into a rising strike which rewards me with the meaty sound of a section of dismembered tail hitting the ground. Every attack a deflection, every deflection another cut, there was no distinction between movements, only the ever-whirling dance of death that was the extension of my blade from my body.
Soon enough, the opening presents itself, that I had been waiting for. Talao Shouts something that knocks the dragon off-balance long enough for Stenvar to grab hold of its neck. Weakened as it is, it can hardly struggle against the Nord; I retreat a few steps, then dash forward, leaping into the air, and plunging the sword with both hands pointfirst between the beast's eyes, straight through its head and pinning it into the ground. One jerk, and the light in its evil eyes is snuffed out like a candle.
I fall to the ground, winded, as does Stenvarr. Days like these I could feel my age catching up to me. But I think I could be forgiven for being winded after killing a dragon regardless of my fifty plus years of age.
A roiling wind reminded me my job wasn't done, however. The newly restored dragon found itself discorporating once again in death - not to its former skeletal existence, but still clearly dead and devoid of its essence - as a vibrant energy-filled wind rushed past me toward Talao, suffusing his form and lifting him off the ground briefly. "So… you really are Dragonborn."
He raises an eyebrow at me and I can't help but laugh, really laugh, for once. "You're right, stupid statement. I suppose I owe you some answers, don't I?"
"To be sure. But first, uh…"
He gives a questioning look toward Stenvar, who stands, saying, "Sure, right, personal private talk. I'll wait down the hill a bit for you."
"You're a good man, Stenvar," I say. "Thanks for your help; that would have been much rougher without you at our back." After he walks out of earshot, I turn again to Talao, who has a pensive look on his face, I'm sure imagining all the questions he's been gagging to ask for the past week. "Go ahead. Whatever you want to know, nothing held back."
"Everything I want to know would take more time than exists in the world, so I'll restrict myself to topics you're like to know. First thing though, I must know for sure… You're a Blade, no?"
"Yes, I am. One of the last members. I'm sure there's more out there, scattered thanks to the Thalmor, but for all intents and purposes, I am the acting Grandmaster of the Blades of Cloud Ruler Temple."
"Cloud Ruler Temple," he tapped his finger on his chin. "When Martin Septim died 200 years ago, the Blades left the Imperial City, secluding themselves. To await the next Dragonborn, am I understanding right?"
"Yes. The Blades have always served the Dragonborn, ever since it was the Akaviri Dragonguard. Martin Septim was the last Dragonborn emperor, and when he died, so did the Blades purpose."
"The Penitus Oculatus never quite lived up to your reputation."
I grimaced. "It was always a common misconception that the Blades served the Empire. Our allegiance was always to the Dragonborn."
He seemed about to ask another question, before changing his mind and saying, "What's our next move?"
"We need to find out who's behind the dragons. The Thalmor are our best lead; if they aren't behind it, they'll know who is."
He gives me another scrunched look, "Do you really believe the Thalmor are behind this, or are you letting your own presumptions color your course of action?"
I almost yell at him again, but it is a fair question. "No, I have nothing concrete. But my gut tells me it can't be anybody else. The Empire had captured Ulfric. The war was basically over. Then a dragon attacks, and Ulfric escapes, and the war is back on. And now the dragons are everywhere, attacking indiscriminately. Skyrim is weakened, the Empire is weakened; who else benefits from that but the Thalmor?"
He gazes out into the distance - the same direction the obsidian dragon flew off to - and says softly, "You aren't wrong that the scenario certainly benefits the Thalmor, but you discount the possibility that the events may be unrelated. That dragon would certainly never deign to obey the whims of the Thalmor, if it is…"
"Answer a question of mine then," I say as he trails off. "Who do you think that black dragon was?"
"The other dragon named him. Alduin." As he utters the name, I feel a shudder go down my spine, though the name means nothing to me. "My Nordic lore is a bit rusty, but I remember one of his titles - the World-Eater. He heralds the end-times. So you can see why I was hoping I was wrong."
Alduin. "Well that's certainly ominous."
"To say the least. However, you are right about one thing; there's none in Skyrim more likely to know about all these events than the Thalmor. Perhaps they discovered how to wake Alduin from his eternal slumber, or maybe they know where he came from, or who was responsible. The question is, how do we find out?"
"The Thalmor Embassy." Bane of my existence, I wish more than once I could have razed the place to the ground. "It's the center of their operations in Skyrim. Problem is, that place is locked up tighter than a miser's purse. They could teach me a few things about paranoia."
We both gave another chuckle at that, thinking about Ustengrav - or at least I was. "I assume you have a plan to get me in? They'll surely recognize you, but the poor Breton from the chopping block in Helgen? I doubt even Ambassador Elenwen will remember me."
"I'm not sure yet. I have a few ideas, but I'll need some time to pull things together… I'm going to go back to Riverwood. I'll send you a courier when I'm ready this time. Wherever it is you plan to go."
"The Greybeards. You were right, earlier; I can't count on people throwing themselves in front of me to save me." I go to apologize, but he silences me with a hand. "Don't apologize. You were hurtful, but you were right, and I needed to realize it. Give me two weeks, and I'll be ready. I won't be perfect, but I'll be ready. I have to be.
"Otherwise, it won't just be those in front of me who die this time. Everyone will."
Sahloknir, ziil gro dovah ulse!: Sahloknir, ever-bound dragon spirit! (spirit bound dragon eternity-of.)
Aal slen kos zoros tiid vo!: Let your flesh be restored! (May flesh be restored time (against).) [ZOROX is a word only referenced by the prima guide, to create as a verb or creation as a noun. In trying to keep with me one-syllable-word rule, I consider "zor" to be a simpler "to make", and "os" to be "again" - "zor os", to make again, or restore. I don't recall seeing any Kelle with the letter X, however, it seems like more improper conlang usage. Also, it sounds like "Xerox" and it just feels distracting.]
Alduin, thuri! Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik?: Alduin, my overlord! Has time come to revive the ancient realm? (Alduin, my overlord! have flown time to revive realm ancient?) [Suleyksejun: Su-leyk-se-jun - Air-_-originating from-king/supreme ruler. I posit LEYK as a more generalized "place", so we have "place of air from which the king rules." All of Mundus that can be flown is Alduin's realm. I think this is the longest Kel uttered in the game, and I felt the need to parse it out word by word.][Confusingly, "suleyk" is also translated as "power", which does make some sense to include "air" as part of the word, breath and sky both being elements of dragons' power over the lesser creatures of the world, so you could alternatively translate suleyksejun as "power-originating from-king", but that is missing the concept of location that "realm" insinuates. A "place of air," implies "power" to a dragon, whether it is the sky or their lungs.]
Geh, Sahloknir, kaali mir.: Yes, Sahloknir, my trusted ally. (Yes, Sahloknir, my champion [of] allegiance.)
Ful, losei Dovahkiin? Zu'u koraav nid nol dov do hi.: So, my false Dragonborn? I do not recognize you as dragon. (So, my of-fake Dragonborn? I recognize no from dragon of you.)
Drem yol lok, Alduin zok.: Greetings, great Alduin. (peace fire sky, Alduin great many of)
Ni balaan los hi do dii morah: You're not worth my attention (lit. Not worth are you of my focus)
Sahloknir, krii daar joorre.: Sahloknir, kill these mortals. (Sahloknir, kill these mortals.)
Akavir is Far Eastern themed in Elder Scrolls lore, however the Blades as they are now are essentially Imperialists far removed from the cultural traditions of the Dragonguard of Akivir, so while the martial traditions may have survived, it bears little of the connotations of the original beyond the preservation of the forms that (I imagine) made them such skilled dragonslayers. There is no official lore regarding what their martial arts were named or resembled, but if you would like to look up the inspiration I used, it would be Kyudo for the archery, and nodachi principles for the bladework, specifically Enshin Ryu and Ji Gen Ryu. The nodachi technique seemed most appropriate as an analogue for polearm and mounted enemies compared to giant dragons.
The title of Knight Captain of War is also of my own creation, attempting to flesh out the very basic titles in lore regarding the Blades, of which is basically only known to have 3 levels: Knight Sibling, Knight Captain, and Grandmaster. (Loremaster being more of an honorary title.) I conceived of Warmaster being a tertiary branch intent on preserving the martial traditions of the Dragonguard not only for civil warfare and defense of the Dragonborn, but primarily as a tradition of, well, killing dragons, their original goal.
Delphine
"Finally the damned giant was dead. After I caught my breath, I started lugging its hammer back to Chief Yamarz…"
"And that was when, I presume, the cowardly chief decided the best course of action to preserve his ruse would be to kill you and ensure none would e'er learn his deceit. Aye, Stenvarr?"
"Heh. You're a bit too smart for your own good, Talao. Yea, he certainly tried to do that. Guess he thought I was worn out from fighting that giant, but I had more than enough in me to take him out. Was kinda sad, honestly."
It had been like this nearly the whole trip.
Not that I particularly cared about the story, not that I believed that the daedric lord Malacath decided to talk to this lowly mercenary, but for the love of Arkay did either of them ever shut up?
"How sounds this:
"Giant vanquished, valor abound
Stenvarr the victor, vision of power.
Coward Yamarz, who cowered behind
A ruse he plans, but this plot he'll rue."
"Nice! I quite like the 'coward, cowered' bit."
"Yes, I quite liked that bit myself. You don't mind being called a 'vision of power,' do you, Stenvarr?"
"Fascinating," I say shortly. "But perhaps we can save the banter for after we're done surviving the giant murderous beast waiting for us in Kynesgrove?"
I imagine I could hear the frowns on their faces behind me. "Beg pardon, Delphine. I didn't think that our witty repartee was so inconvenient to you."
"Witty repartee? Is that what you call four nonstop hours of chatter?" Maybe I'm being too harsh, but my head is pounding when I should be focusing on the fight ahead of us. "Just… shut up for ten minutes. Think about someone other than yourself for once."
"…Are you still upset about Windhelm? I thought we'd moved past that."
"What part of shut up escapes your keen intellect? Gods above, if you can't fathom why I could use some quiet while I'm trying to keep us alive, what good are you?"
I can definitely hear the disapproval in his voice when he says, "Methinks you do underestimate how a relaxing and rousing ditty can rally the spirit afore a battle."
"And I think that your entertainment is distracting me from going over strategies because you're so damn loud!"
"Oh, that's what the constipated look on your face was?" His smirk tells me he's trying to defuse the situation but I was about a dozen words from tearing it off his face. "For the sworn guards of the Dragonborn, you've been awfully snippy this whole trip. Why so frustrated 'now'? What have I done to deserve this treatment?"
I can't help but snipe back, "I don't serve you yet, bard. Phynaster as my guide, maybe I'd be better off abandoning you to your own devices, dragons be damned."
"That's as empty a threat as ever I've heard, Delphine. Unless your adherence to your oaths be as brittle as your order's existence on Nirn."
"Uh, fellas…?" I could care less about the tone of worry in the merc's voice.
"Not as brittle as your weak spine, bard. Barely able to walk, let alone fight. I'm sure your crooning as you cower behind us is sure to ward the dragon off. Small wonder you have any stories to tell as everyone dies protecting you."
His eyes widen and then his entire face contorts into a grimace. I hit a nerve apparently. "How dare-"
SCREEEEEEECH
The sounds of screams from Kynesgrove succeed the earth-trembling roar of a dragon, stopping us all in our tracks. The shadow of an obsidian black dragon looms over the once-sleepy town, as its citizens frantically flee in our direction.
Well, at least my hunch was correct.
"It's him. The same one from Helgen." Talao's pupils are pinpoints as he gazes to the sky, chest heaving.
My rage leaves me as reality sets in. What we're about to do. "…You're sure?"
"Hard to forget the sight that kept your head on its shoulders." His gaze meets mine, and I see a touch of that fire again. "You know far less of me than you think you know, Delphine. Bordering on absolutely nothing. Follow or don't, but I shan't let someone die for me again." He shoves past me, muttering, "Not one more…"
"Y'know, both of you are fucking terrifying in different ways," Stenvarr says, following. "Anyone ever tell you that?"
"Thanks, Stenvarr… I think."
I watch them for just a moment before falling silently back into the procession. Talao was right, after all; were he truly the Dragonborn, it would be my duty to guard him, no matter what.
Cautiously we rise the hill behind Kynesgrove, silently and steadfastly ignoring each other for the moment. The dragon postures above the town, but hasn't actually attacked it, at least not yet. No civilians lie dead, no buildings burn. No, it was here for something else, and I know we arrived just in time to witness whatever was happening - the heart of the mystery, I'm sure of it.
The dragon finally settles, hovering in midair, just as we find cover behind an enormous boulder at the hilltop. The telltale signs of the burial mound are covered by rapidly disappearing vegetation, freed by the winds of the obsidian dragon's beating wings. And by the gods, he's a big bastard. Even from this distance, his head is easily the size of four men, more than double the size of the trophy in Dragonsreach. The three of us wouldn't stand a chance were it to come to a straight fight, fledgling Dragonborn or no. I motion to the others to stay low and hidden, when it opens its mouth and speaks in a voice deeper and louder than thunder.
"Sahloknir, zi'il gro dovah ulse!"
Of course, damn it all. "Talao," I whisper, "any idea what it's saying?"
"Half of it, maybe? Dovah is dragon, that well I know. Zi'il I think is something like spirit or soul? Sahloknir sounds like a name."
"That dragon's name, you think?"
"No," Talao shakes his head with certainty. "Definitely not. I know that one, though I hope I'm wrong."
"Could you be a little more clear? Why would you hope to be wrong about that?"
The look he gives me is haunted. "Because if I'm right, dragons will be the least of Nirn's worries."
"AAL HIN SLEN KOS ZOR TIID VO!"
I feel the ground crack under me, and energy suffuses the air around me, as the burial mound explodes outward, the skeleton of a dragon forcing its way out with a psychic scream. The reality of what unfolds in front of me is more existentially horrifying than my most vivid imaginings, as I watch the warp of time surround the skeletal dragon, forming organs, muscle, skin and scale in a horrid perversion and reversal of nature. I am dimly aware of Stenvar spewing up sick behind me as Talao and I watch in mute horror.
The reborn dragon extends its head toward its resurrector, speaking, "Alduin, thuri! Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik?" There is a tone of reverence and submission in its voice, and I can tell without knowing its exact words that the obsidian dragon is no equal, but assuredly its lord and master.
"Geh, Sahloknir, kaali mir." I turn to ask Talao to translate more, only to belatedly notice him step from cover and confront the beasts.
Rather than attack, the same dragon speaks to Talao. "Ful, losei Dovahkiin? Zu'u koraav nid nol dov do hi."
Astonishingly, rather than crumple, Talao stands and shouts back, "Drem yol lok, Alduin zok."
The two dragons laugh - at least, that is the only explanation I can think of for the sounds they create - and the obsidian dragon speaks back in Tamrielic, "You speak our tongue as a mewling infant would speak your own. Such arrogance, to dare take for yourself the name of dovah."
"I assure you, arrogant though I may be, I did not choose this fate. But you… why do this?"
The obsidian dragon snorts in derision. "Pah. Speak not to one such as I of 'fate'. Ni balaan los hi do dii morah." It turns to the other dragon, and I need no translation to know that, "Krii dar joorre!" is bad news for us.
I grab Stenvar and yank him forward with a cry of, "Talao, fall back!" as I dive into a fool's fight. And yet, I knew I was ready. This is what I'd trained for my whole life. I was the Knight Captain of War at Cloud Ruler Temple. I hold within my mind all the fighting styles of the Blades, and while they had many applications in civil combat, my research these past years into the Dragonguard made one thing exceptionally clear. The martial traditions were borne from the early years of fighting the exact beasts before me.
I'd been training to kill dragons long before I knew I ever would live to see one.
The obsidian dragon flies away as the other dragon bellows, "Zu'u Sahloknir! Hear my Voice and despair!" lifting off into the air. Stenvar and I both draw bows as it takes flight. The eight steps of the way of the bow resonate through my body as I wait for the moment to strike. Footing, body, ready, raise, draw, full draw, release, continuation. Stenvarr takes pot shots between strafing runs, as we both avoid talons and breaths of ice and fire, but they glance off the hardened scales. It plans to tire us out if it's smart, by staying in the air where we can only scratch it. But Akavir bow technique was designed to punch through even the strongest armor, the hardest scales. The sparrow distracts, but the hawk waits for its chance. I only need to find the right opening… there!
I plant my footing, the dragon making a long run straight toward me from the left, my body finding its balance. My right fingers grip the bowstring, the left on the haft, and I turn to face the dragon, bearing down on me. I raise the bow above my head, drawing the bow and its string apart as I settle the arrow along the line of my cheekbone, ignoring Talao's scream as I draw the bow back as far as it will go. And then, I release, as the dragon opens its mouth wide, sending the arrow straight into its jaw. It looses a horrible scream of pain as my arm extends back behind me through the continuation of the shot, and it aborts its attack to withdraw slightly and recover, as I ready another arrow.
The dragon only takes a few more passes to give up on his plan of wearing us out, his aura of invincibility diminished with the streams of blood falling from another arrow I punch through his scales, and I draw my sword as he comes in for a landing. "It's to be a real fight then. Pruzah!"
"Hope you can use that sword as well as that bow."
I give Stenvar a cocky grin, "Can't be worse with my sword than you are with your bow." He barks a laugh as we both charge in, even as I hear Talao chant behind us, "Grah Dun." My body feels freer and the sword in my hand lighter, as I let my spirit loose with a shout.
Akiviri swordwork is as deliberate as its bow. In the past, it makes use of large downward and sweeping movements to both attack and defend against polearms and mounted combatants. But a dragon is easily a full cavalry of horse-mounted fighters, and the same techniques apply. Each of its talons a halberd, each tooth a spear. A shield is less than useless when death approaches from every angle; to be a mountain is to invite the wind to wear you down to nothing. You must be as water, following the bends of the river.
As the dragon bellows a challenge to us both, the fight becomes a dance. It lunges with its claws, caught by the edge of my blade above my head, pirouetting into a cut, finding purchase in the gap between scales and drawing steaming hot blood to fall to the ground. With a scream of pain, it lashes with its fangs, which I duck under, drawing the blade against its already bleeding chin and scoring another wound. Even a lucky strike by its tail, I roll over, catching my feet under me into a rising strike which rewards me with the meaty sound of a section of dismembered tail hitting the ground. Every attack a deflection, every deflection another cut, there was no distinction between movements, only the ever-whirling dance of death that was the extension of my blade from my body.
Soon enough, the opening presents itself, that I had been waiting for. Talao Shouts something that knocks the dragon off-balance long enough for Stenvar to grab hold of its neck. Weakened as it is, it can hardly struggle against the Nord; I retreat a few steps, then dash forward, leaping into the air, and plunging the sword with both hands pointfirst between the beast's eyes, straight through its head and pinning it into the ground. One jerk, and the light in its evil eyes is snuffed out like a candle.
I fall to the ground, winded, as does Stenvarr. Days like these I could feel my age catching up to me. But I think I could be forgiven for being winded after killing a dragon regardless of my fifty plus years of age.
A roiling wind reminded me my job wasn't done, however. The newly restored dragon found itself discorporating once again in death - not to its former skeletal existence, but still clearly dead and devoid of its essence - as a vibrant energy-filled wind rushed past me toward Talao, suffusing his form and lifting him off the ground briefly. "So… you really are Dragonborn."
He raises an eyebrow at me and I can't help but laugh, really laugh, for once. "You're right, stupid statement. I suppose I owe you some answers, don't I?"
"To be sure. But first, uh…"
He gives a questioning look toward Stenvar, who stands, saying, "Sure, right, personal private talk. I'll wait down the hill a bit for you."
"You're a good man, Stenvar," I say. "Thanks for your help; that would have been much rougher without you at our back." After he walks out of earshot, I turn again to Talao, who has a pensive look on his face, I'm sure imagining all the questions he's been gagging to ask for the past week. "Go ahead. Whatever you want to know, nothing held back."
"Everything I want to know would take more time than exists in the world, so I'll restrict myself to topics you're like to know. First thing though, I must know for sure… You're a Blade, no?"
"Yes, I am. One of the last members. I'm sure there's more out there, scattered thanks to the Thalmor, but for all intents and purposes, I am the acting Grandmaster of the Blades of Cloud Ruler Temple."
"Cloud Ruler Temple," he tapped his finger on his chin. "When Martin Septim died 200 years ago, the Blades left the Imperial City, secluding themselves. To await the next Dragonborn, am I understanding right?"
"Yes. The Blades have always served the Dragonborn, ever since it was the Akaviri Dragonguard. Martin Septim was the last Dragonborn emperor, and when he died, so did the Blades purpose."
"The Penitus Oculatus never quite lived up to your reputation."
I grimaced. "It was always a common misconception that the Blades served the Empire. Our allegiance was always to the Dragonborn."
He seemed about to ask another question, before changing his mind and saying, "What's our next move?"
"We need to find out who's behind the dragons. The Thalmor are our best lead; if they aren't behind it, they'll know who is."
He gives me another scrunched look, "Do you really believe the Thalmor are behind this, or are you letting your own presumptions color your course of action?"
I almost yell at him again, but it is a fair question. "No, I have nothing concrete. But my gut tells me it can't be anybody else. The Empire had captured Ulfric. The war was basically over. Then a dragon attacks, and Ulfric escapes, and the war is back on. And now the dragons are everywhere, attacking indiscriminately. Skyrim is weakened, the Empire is weakened; who else benefits from that but the Thalmor?"
He gazes out into the distance - the same direction the obsidian dragon flew off to - and says softly, "You aren't wrong that the scenario certainly benefits the Thalmor, but you discount the possibility that the events may be unrelated. That dragon would certainly never deign to obey the whims of the Thalmor, if it is…"
"Answer a question of mine then," I say as he trails off. "Who do you think that black dragon was?"
"The other dragon named him. Alduin." As he utters the name, I feel a shudder go down my spine, though the name means nothing to me. "My Nordic lore is a bit rusty, but I remember one of his titles - the World-Eater. He heralds the end-times. So you can see why I was hoping I was wrong."
Alduin. "Well that's certainly ominous."
"To say the least. However, you are right about one thing; there's none in Skyrim more likely to know about all these events than the Thalmor. Perhaps they discovered how to wake Alduin from his eternal slumber, or maybe they know where he came from, or who was responsible. The question is, how do we find out?"
"The Thalmor Embassy." Bane of my existence, I wish more than once I could have razed the place to the ground. "It's the center of their operations in Skyrim. Problem is, that place is locked up tighter than a miser's purse. They could teach me a few things about paranoia."
We both gave another chuckle at that, thinking about Ustengrav - or at least I was. "I assume you have a plan to get me in? They'll surely recognize you, but the poor Breton from the chopping block in Helgen? I doubt even Ambassador Elenwen will remember me."
"I'm not sure yet. I have a few ideas, but I'll need some time to pull things together… I'm going to go back to Riverwood. I'll send you a courier when I'm ready this time. Wherever it is you plan to go."
"The Greybeards. You were right, earlier; I can't count on people throwing themselves in front of me to save me." I go to apologize, but he silences me with a hand. "Don't apologize. You were hurtful, but you were right, and I needed to realize it. Give me two weeks, and I'll be ready. I won't be perfect, but I'll be ready. I have to be.
"Otherwise, it won't just be those in front of me who die this time. Everyone will."
Sahloknir, ziil gro dovah ulse!: Sahloknir, ever-bound dragon spirit! (spirit bound dragon eternity-of.)
Aal slen kos zoros tiid vo!: Let your flesh be restored! (May flesh be restored time (against).) [ZOROX is a word only referenced by the prima guide, to create as a verb or creation as a noun. In trying to keep with me one-syllable-word rule, I consider "zor" to be a simpler "to make", and "os" to be "again" - "zor os", to make again, or restore. I don't recall seeing any Kelle with the letter X, however, it seems like more improper conlang usage. Also, it sounds like "Xerox" and it just feels distracting.]
Alduin, thuri! Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik?: Alduin, my overlord! Has time come to revive the ancient realm? (Alduin, my overlord! have flown time to revive realm ancient?) [Suleyksejun: Su-leyk-se-jun - Air-_-originating from-king/supreme ruler. I posit LEYK as a more generalized "place", so we have "place of air from which the king rules." All of Mundus that can be flown is Alduin's realm. I think this is the longest Kel uttered in the game, and I felt the need to parse it out word by word.][Confusingly, "suleyk" is also translated as "power", which does make some sense to include "air" as part of the word, breath and sky both being elements of dragons' power over the lesser creatures of the world, so you could alternatively translate suleyksejun as "power-originating from-king", but that is missing the concept of location that "realm" insinuates. A "place of air," implies "power" to a dragon, whether it is the sky or their lungs.]
Geh, Sahloknir, kaali mir.: Yes, Sahloknir, my trusted ally. (Yes, Sahloknir, my champion [of] allegiance.)
Ful, losei Dovahkiin? Zu'u koraav nid nol dov do hi.: So, my false Dragonborn? I do not recognize you as dragon. (So, my of-fake Dragonborn? I recognize no from dragon of you.)
Drem yol lok, Alduin zok.: Greetings, great Alduin. (peace fire sky, Alduin great many of)
Ni balaan los hi do dii morah: You're not worth my attention (lit. Not worth are you of my focus)
Sahloknir, krii daar joorre.: Sahloknir, kill these mortals. (Sahloknir, kill these mortals.)
Akavir is Far Eastern themed in Elder Scrolls lore, however the Blades as they are now are essentially Imperialists far removed from the cultural traditions of the Dragonguard of Akivir, so while the martial traditions may have survived, it bears little of the connotations of the original beyond the preservation of the forms that (I imagine) made them such skilled dragonslayers. There is no official lore regarding what their martial arts were named or resembled, but if you would like to look up the inspiration I used, it would be Kyudo for the archery, and nodachi principles for the bladework, specifically Enshin Ryu and Ji Gen Ryu. The nodachi technique seemed most appropriate as an analogue for polearm and mounted enemies compared to giant dragons.
The title of Knight Captain of War is also of my own creation, attempting to flesh out the very basic titles in lore regarding the Blades, of which is basically only known to have 3 levels: Knight Sibling, Knight Captain, and Grandmaster. (Loremaster being more of an honorary title.) I conceived of Warmaster being a tertiary branch intent on preserving the martial traditions of the Dragonguard not only for civil warfare and defense of the Dragonborn, but primarily as a tradition of, well, killing dragons, their original goal.
Arngeir II: Interlude
Fredas, 19th of Heartfire 4E201 Evening
Arngeir
DEZ
Fate
How many mortals throughout the ages have attempted to define "destiny"? Innumerable beyond counting. Prophecies come and go, mortals claim their actions dictated by fate, and yet it is wild and fickle, far beyond mortal influence. Even the Elder Scrolls, in all their power outside the threads of time, speak never of things that MUST be, but only things that COULD be. If fate exists, is there a such a thing as free will? If it does not, wherein lies mankind's purpose? SU'UM AHRK MORAH. Regardless of the answer, all one can do is live on.
"LINGRAH KROSIS SARAAN STRUNDU'UL, VOTH NID BALAAN KLOV PRAAN NAU!"
Three long weeks did we wait for the return of the Dragonborn, poring over old tomes to prepare for his return, and then to pass the time. Once did I ascend the mountain, to consult with our leader, fretful for the safety of our charge. In response, he chuckled with a gentle voice, that the Dragonborn was "doom-driven," and that if his fate were to die, it would certainly not be within such an inauspicious place as the tomb of Jurgen Windcaller. Wheresoever his destiny ends, it would be much later.
"NAAL THU'UMU, MU OFAN NII NU, DOVAHKIIN, NAAL SULEYK DO KAAN, NAAL SULEYK DO SHOR, AHRK NALL SULEYK DO ATMORASEWUTH!"
Nevertheless, I still breathed a sigh of relief when he returned to our doorstep with horn in hand. The gravitas in his demeanour proved further his readiness for this last test, and our Greeting. In sooth, his journey was more enlightening than I expected, or hoped.
"MEYZ NU YSMIR, DOVAHSEBROM! DAHMOON DAAR ROK."
Unflinching, he remains standing betwixt the four masters, the unbridled power of our Voices washing over him like a waterfall. "Dovahkiin. You have tasted the Voice of the Greybeards, and passed through unscathed. High Hrothgar is open to you."
He breathes deep, centering himself, before opening his eyes. "Thank you, masters. I am honored to receive your tutelage, and hope to make the best of our unfortunately short time together. Where must we begin?"
I would say that his patience requires work, but it is a sad fact that he is correct in his haste. "I often find that a very good place to start would be the beginning. We five Greybeards shall teach you all we know."
"Five?" he asks, puzzled.
"Aye. Our leader, the eldest Greybeard, lives alone on the peak of the Throat of the World. He is keeper of knowledge entrusted only to himself, and eventually you. When your Voice can open the path, you will know you are ready to Speak with him, and know what he knows."
A look of contemplation crosses his face for a moment, before he replies, "Well, I am sure I have much and more to learn already. I will trust that whatever your leader has to tell me shall be known when the time comes. For now, the beginning it is. Is there elsewhere we might sit and discuss things? Preferably, uh, with a hot meal?"
His last is said with a grin and a plaintive grumble from his stomach, to which I chuckle. "Of course, Dragonborn. This way." I sign master Borri to prepare the night's meal, as we move to the dining hall nearby. Austere as the rest of the monastery, but the fire pit at its center warms the room and ourselves, the banners hanging above proclaim our mantra; LOK BO, THU'UM TU'UM - Sky Above, Voice Within. "So. The beginning. Before the beginning even. Long, long ago, in the Merethic Era, before recorded history, all of Mundus was ruled by the Dragons. They and their Dragon priests, mortals who carried out their will in exchange for gifts of power, ruled over the mortal races, man, mer, and beast. Their power grew to tyranny, and as happens to most tyrants, the mortals under their reign rebelled, despite the power of the dragons. They stood no chance, slaughtered in the thousands.
"It was during this time that the Goddess Kyne took pity on the people, calling out to a dragon named Paarthunax. He was a great general of dragonkind, but he too was dismayed by the dragons' despotism, and together they taught the mortals to use their Voice as the dragons did."
"And thus began the Dragon War," the Dragonborn intones gravely.
"Indeed, Dragonborn. While mortals were no longer helpless against the dragons, the war waged long and bloody until the most powerful of the Tongues - those mortals who had mastered the Thu'um - Shouted the lord of the dragons out of the world, thus all but ensuring the dragons defeat, fleeing to the five corners of the world."
As Master Borri sets a hearty stew before us all, the Dragonborn frowns. "And yet, these Tongues were not Dragonborn. I've always wondered where the Nord tales of Dragonborn warriors originated when the Trials of St. Alessia are the first documents to reference a gift from Akatosh of blood and power. And none of that mentioned the Thu'um."
"A good question, to which the answer is both more simple and more complicated than you might imagine. While it was Kyne who gifted mortal the ability to Shout, there existed individuals in those dark times who could not only call upon the Storm Voice, but Shout as the dragons did, and claim the powers of fallen dragons just as could other dragons. These legendary Dragonborn persisted in oral traditions into the next eras, but eventually gave way to more contemporary beliefs of the Dragonborn in relation to Alessia, Reman, and Tiber Septim, great people that existed past the time of the dragons. But the Nords have always considered themselves Children of the Sky, great warriors who still have natural talent in the Thu'um, and so have kept these old tales alive, the pinnacle of strength to strive toward. What is now Skyrim was the epicenter of the Dragon War as well, and its scars can still be found, though the dragons were long gone."
"Until now…" We sit in silence while we finish our meal, the simple herbs and meat warming our bellies and filling us with strength. "What does it mean, exactly?" the Dragonborn interjects into the quiet, "To Shout as dragons do? To claim a fallen dragon's power? It has happened several times now, and there is always a rush of knowledge and memories, it fills my mind to the brim and I have felt myself becoming more and more… intense and volatile in my emotions and actions. I worry I may be changing too much, that I may not recognize myself come the end of this whole endeavour."
I wonder how much to tell him; there is much to learn, but what is mine to tell, and what is our leader's? "To change is not always a bad thing, Dragonborn. Indeed to never change is to be as the dead. Tell me, first, what did you understand of what we Spoke to you earlier?" I ask from curiosity as much as to delay my own answer.
"Hm. A few things seemed familiar, but… it's odd. I think I know what you Spoke now, though I'm sure I did not before."
"Truly?" I can see the others' eyes widen in surprise as I'm sure do mine. "Will you speak its translation to us, then? To be sure."
He nods, clearing his throat. "Long in sorrow has waited the Stormcrown, with no worthy head to sit on. By our Voice we give it now to you, Dragonborn, by power of Kynareth, by power of Sheor, and by power of Atmora-of-old. You have become now Ysmir, Dragon of the North. Remember these words." He glances around in the following silence, and continues, "I take it I have done another extraordinary Dragonborn thing, no?"
How amusing we must look, if the Dragonborn's smile is aught to go by. Simply astonishing. "…ahem. To answer your initial question, all dragons possess the innate ability to learn and project their Voice. Language is intrinsic to their very being; there is no difference in the dragon tongue between debating and fighting. Dragons are also able to absorb the power of their slain brethren, becoming stronger in the process, though I cannot say I have heard or read of dragons being overtaken by the fallen spirit or becoming a different being in so doing.
"The Dragonborn is a mortal born with those selfsame abilities; the blood of Akatosh flows in your veins as it does the dragons. What you have already learned in the last few weeks took even the most gifted Tongues years to learn. Normally to gain insight into the Words of Power requires one of three methods. Meditation, through which you gain understanding of a word's true meaning, as the Greybeards do. Forcibly taking the power from another through force of domination, as in absorbing the power of a slain dragon. Or, as a willing gift from another Tongue, as Kyne and her dragon ally did to the Tongues of eld. So yes, Dragonborn, you are right in that this incident is unprecedented, even for what you are. Without meditation, domination, or gift, you gained understanding of many new Words of Power."
"Normally, I would make a joke here about natural talent, but I imagine it more important to understand how this might be possible. Have you any ideas?"
"I am… uncertain." Movement catches my eye as Master Wulfharth signs to me rapidly. "Ah… Master Wulfharth is reminding me of an old theory; that the Dragonborn have often been theorized to possess unique traits beyond the ones that bind them together. That they are born into times of great strife with power necessary to overcome the threats that face the world and their peoples. St. Alessia slew no dragons, but she was gifted the ability to dream of freedom and give it a name to the slaves of the Ayleids, while Tiber Septim was gifted the ability to unite the nations and individuals that had warred against each other for years. Or perhaps they already possessed those gifts, and Akatosh chose them because of that. No one truly knows, and likely no one ever will. Perhaps your insight is similar?" Master Einarth signs to me understanding from knowledge. "Perhaps your gift for understanding others before jumping to violence; that you seek knowledge in order to relate to others."
"Hmm… It has a ring of truth to it. I am a bard first and foremost, still. Or at least, I consider myself so. If Akatosh had wanted a warrior, there is no dearth of choice in Skyrim, let alone all Tamriel. Unless he thought a man who could already sing would pick up Shouting faster," he says with a wry chuckle. "…I became a bard for many reasons. But the greatest reason I continue to cling to is the hope that my craft can bring people together - a common bond of emotion that could connect even the most bitter of rivals. If that is what Akatosh chose me for… well, I can only hope to do my best." A yawn suddenly overcomes him. "By Y'ffre, I think I have more questions now than when I arrived."
"I am sure, Dragonborn. Thankfully, they need not all be answered this night. Let us retire, and in the morning, we shall begin your training in earnest."
Master Borri takes our empty bowls to clean as the rest of us head to our quarters. I can tell, though, that sleep will not come for me so soon. Too many thoughts, too many questions, too many ideas. Kneeling before a window, I meditate, and pray.
Hear me Kyne, goddess of storms, and the bringer of rain, the Mother of Men and Shor's Warrior-Wife. The world is at war, caught in Season Unending, and we are charged with a weighty responsibility. Help us to guide this Dragonborn, chosen of Akatosh. Help us teach him to discover his duty and his destiny, give him the power and the wisdom to do what is right and what is necessary.
Her answer is the howl of the winds along the mountainside, a portent I know not how to decipher. The howl of violence, or the howl of emptiness. Only time will tell.
"Lingrah krosis saraan Strundu'ul, voth nid balaan klov praan nau. Naal Thu'umu, mu ofan nii nu, Dovahkiin, naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, ahrk naal suleyk do Atmorasewuth. Meyz nu Ysmir, Dovahsebrom. Dahmaan daar rok."
"Long in sorrow has waited the Stormcrown, with no worthy head to sit on. By our Voice we give it now to you, Dragonborn, by power of Kynareth, by power of Sheor, and by power of Atmora-of-old. You have become now Ysmir, Dragon of the North. Remember these words."
This chapter is heavy on exposition for one major reason; the absolute mess of Dragonborn and Talos mythology - as well as trying to make the information known to certain parties consistent (such as the identity of the eldest Greybeard, something that is supposed to be a great surprise, but is blatantly obvious if you read basically anything beyond the MSQ dialogue). I say this not to complain, because the uncertainty and contradictory nature of much of the lore is part of the fun, but to explain how much I had to wade through to reach "the truth" of things when the Greybeards should have truth of who Tiber Septim was when he showed up at their doors and then trained him. The idea of Dragonborn powers beyond Shouting and absorbing dragon souls is inspired by and extrapolated from Kirkbride's post about Alessia. In all, these next few chapters including this one are about laying the foundation of how I think the Storm Voice could and should function when unpaired from game mechanics.
Arngeir
DEZ
Fate
How many mortals throughout the ages have attempted to define "destiny"? Innumerable beyond counting. Prophecies come and go, mortals claim their actions dictated by fate, and yet it is wild and fickle, far beyond mortal influence. Even the Elder Scrolls, in all their power outside the threads of time, speak never of things that MUST be, but only things that COULD be. If fate exists, is there a such a thing as free will? If it does not, wherein lies mankind's purpose? SU'UM AHRK MORAH. Regardless of the answer, all one can do is live on.
"LINGRAH KROSIS SARAAN STRUNDU'UL, VOTH NID BALAAN KLOV PRAAN NAU!"
Three long weeks did we wait for the return of the Dragonborn, poring over old tomes to prepare for his return, and then to pass the time. Once did I ascend the mountain, to consult with our leader, fretful for the safety of our charge. In response, he chuckled with a gentle voice, that the Dragonborn was "doom-driven," and that if his fate were to die, it would certainly not be within such an inauspicious place as the tomb of Jurgen Windcaller. Wheresoever his destiny ends, it would be much later.
"NAAL THU'UMU, MU OFAN NII NU, DOVAHKIIN, NAAL SULEYK DO KAAN, NAAL SULEYK DO SHOR, AHRK NALL SULEYK DO ATMORASEWUTH!"
Nevertheless, I still breathed a sigh of relief when he returned to our doorstep with horn in hand. The gravitas in his demeanour proved further his readiness for this last test, and our Greeting. In sooth, his journey was more enlightening than I expected, or hoped.
"MEYZ NU YSMIR, DOVAHSEBROM! DAHMOON DAAR ROK."
Unflinching, he remains standing betwixt the four masters, the unbridled power of our Voices washing over him like a waterfall. "Dovahkiin. You have tasted the Voice of the Greybeards, and passed through unscathed. High Hrothgar is open to you."
He breathes deep, centering himself, before opening his eyes. "Thank you, masters. I am honored to receive your tutelage, and hope to make the best of our unfortunately short time together. Where must we begin?"
I would say that his patience requires work, but it is a sad fact that he is correct in his haste. "I often find that a very good place to start would be the beginning. We five Greybeards shall teach you all we know."
"Five?" he asks, puzzled.
"Aye. Our leader, the eldest Greybeard, lives alone on the peak of the Throat of the World. He is keeper of knowledge entrusted only to himself, and eventually you. When your Voice can open the path, you will know you are ready to Speak with him, and know what he knows."
A look of contemplation crosses his face for a moment, before he replies, "Well, I am sure I have much and more to learn already. I will trust that whatever your leader has to tell me shall be known when the time comes. For now, the beginning it is. Is there elsewhere we might sit and discuss things? Preferably, uh, with a hot meal?"
His last is said with a grin and a plaintive grumble from his stomach, to which I chuckle. "Of course, Dragonborn. This way." I sign master Borri to prepare the night's meal, as we move to the dining hall nearby. Austere as the rest of the monastery, but the fire pit at its center warms the room and ourselves, the banners hanging above proclaim our mantra; LOK BO, THU'UM TU'UM - Sky Above, Voice Within. "So. The beginning. Before the beginning even. Long, long ago, in the Merethic Era, before recorded history, all of Mundus was ruled by the Dragons. They and their Dragon priests, mortals who carried out their will in exchange for gifts of power, ruled over the mortal races, man, mer, and beast. Their power grew to tyranny, and as happens to most tyrants, the mortals under their reign rebelled, despite the power of the dragons. They stood no chance, slaughtered in the thousands.
"It was during this time that the Goddess Kyne took pity on the people, calling out to a dragon named Paarthunax. He was a great general of dragonkind, but he too was dismayed by the dragons' despotism, and together they taught the mortals to use their Voice as the dragons did."
"And thus began the Dragon War," the Dragonborn intones gravely.
"Indeed, Dragonborn. While mortals were no longer helpless against the dragons, the war waged long and bloody until the most powerful of the Tongues - those mortals who had mastered the Thu'um - Shouted the lord of the dragons out of the world, thus all but ensuring the dragons defeat, fleeing to the five corners of the world."
As Master Borri sets a hearty stew before us all, the Dragonborn frowns. "And yet, these Tongues were not Dragonborn. I've always wondered where the Nord tales of Dragonborn warriors originated when the Trials of St. Alessia are the first documents to reference a gift from Akatosh of blood and power. And none of that mentioned the Thu'um."
"A good question, to which the answer is both more simple and more complicated than you might imagine. While it was Kyne who gifted mortal the ability to Shout, there existed individuals in those dark times who could not only call upon the Storm Voice, but Shout as the dragons did, and claim the powers of fallen dragons just as could other dragons. These legendary Dragonborn persisted in oral traditions into the next eras, but eventually gave way to more contemporary beliefs of the Dragonborn in relation to Alessia, Reman, and Tiber Septim, great people that existed past the time of the dragons. But the Nords have always considered themselves Children of the Sky, great warriors who still have natural talent in the Thu'um, and so have kept these old tales alive, the pinnacle of strength to strive toward. What is now Skyrim was the epicenter of the Dragon War as well, and its scars can still be found, though the dragons were long gone."
"Until now…" We sit in silence while we finish our meal, the simple herbs and meat warming our bellies and filling us with strength. "What does it mean, exactly?" the Dragonborn interjects into the quiet, "To Shout as dragons do? To claim a fallen dragon's power? It has happened several times now, and there is always a rush of knowledge and memories, it fills my mind to the brim and I have felt myself becoming more and more… intense and volatile in my emotions and actions. I worry I may be changing too much, that I may not recognize myself come the end of this whole endeavour."
I wonder how much to tell him; there is much to learn, but what is mine to tell, and what is our leader's? "To change is not always a bad thing, Dragonborn. Indeed to never change is to be as the dead. Tell me, first, what did you understand of what we Spoke to you earlier?" I ask from curiosity as much as to delay my own answer.
"Hm. A few things seemed familiar, but… it's odd. I think I know what you Spoke now, though I'm sure I did not before."
"Truly?" I can see the others' eyes widen in surprise as I'm sure do mine. "Will you speak its translation to us, then? To be sure."
He nods, clearing his throat. "Long in sorrow has waited the Stormcrown, with no worthy head to sit on. By our Voice we give it now to you, Dragonborn, by power of Kynareth, by power of Sheor, and by power of Atmora-of-old. You have become now Ysmir, Dragon of the North. Remember these words." He glances around in the following silence, and continues, "I take it I have done another extraordinary Dragonborn thing, no?"
How amusing we must look, if the Dragonborn's smile is aught to go by. Simply astonishing. "…ahem. To answer your initial question, all dragons possess the innate ability to learn and project their Voice. Language is intrinsic to their very being; there is no difference in the dragon tongue between debating and fighting. Dragons are also able to absorb the power of their slain brethren, becoming stronger in the process, though I cannot say I have heard or read of dragons being overtaken by the fallen spirit or becoming a different being in so doing.
"The Dragonborn is a mortal born with those selfsame abilities; the blood of Akatosh flows in your veins as it does the dragons. What you have already learned in the last few weeks took even the most gifted Tongues years to learn. Normally to gain insight into the Words of Power requires one of three methods. Meditation, through which you gain understanding of a word's true meaning, as the Greybeards do. Forcibly taking the power from another through force of domination, as in absorbing the power of a slain dragon. Or, as a willing gift from another Tongue, as Kyne and her dragon ally did to the Tongues of eld. So yes, Dragonborn, you are right in that this incident is unprecedented, even for what you are. Without meditation, domination, or gift, you gained understanding of many new Words of Power."
"Normally, I would make a joke here about natural talent, but I imagine it more important to understand how this might be possible. Have you any ideas?"
"I am… uncertain." Movement catches my eye as Master Wulfharth signs to me rapidly. "Ah… Master Wulfharth is reminding me of an old theory; that the Dragonborn have often been theorized to possess unique traits beyond the ones that bind them together. That they are born into times of great strife with power necessary to overcome the threats that face the world and their peoples. St. Alessia slew no dragons, but she was gifted the ability to dream of freedom and give it a name to the slaves of the Ayleids, while Tiber Septim was gifted the ability to unite the nations and individuals that had warred against each other for years. Or perhaps they already possessed those gifts, and Akatosh chose them because of that. No one truly knows, and likely no one ever will. Perhaps your insight is similar?" Master Einarth signs to me understanding from knowledge. "Perhaps your gift for understanding others before jumping to violence; that you seek knowledge in order to relate to others."
"Hmm… It has a ring of truth to it. I am a bard first and foremost, still. Or at least, I consider myself so. If Akatosh had wanted a warrior, there is no dearth of choice in Skyrim, let alone all Tamriel. Unless he thought a man who could already sing would pick up Shouting faster," he says with a wry chuckle. "…I became a bard for many reasons. But the greatest reason I continue to cling to is the hope that my craft can bring people together - a common bond of emotion that could connect even the most bitter of rivals. If that is what Akatosh chose me for… well, I can only hope to do my best." A yawn suddenly overcomes him. "By Y'ffre, I think I have more questions now than when I arrived."
"I am sure, Dragonborn. Thankfully, they need not all be answered this night. Let us retire, and in the morning, we shall begin your training in earnest."
Master Borri takes our empty bowls to clean as the rest of us head to our quarters. I can tell, though, that sleep will not come for me so soon. Too many thoughts, too many questions, too many ideas. Kneeling before a window, I meditate, and pray.
Hear me Kyne, goddess of storms, and the bringer of rain, the Mother of Men and Shor's Warrior-Wife. The world is at war, caught in Season Unending, and we are charged with a weighty responsibility. Help us to guide this Dragonborn, chosen of Akatosh. Help us teach him to discover his duty and his destiny, give him the power and the wisdom to do what is right and what is necessary.
Her answer is the howl of the winds along the mountainside, a portent I know not how to decipher. The howl of violence, or the howl of emptiness. Only time will tell.
"Lingrah krosis saraan Strundu'ul, voth nid balaan klov praan nau. Naal Thu'umu, mu ofan nii nu, Dovahkiin, naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, ahrk naal suleyk do Atmorasewuth. Meyz nu Ysmir, Dovahsebrom. Dahmaan daar rok."
"Long in sorrow has waited the Stormcrown, with no worthy head to sit on. By our Voice we give it now to you, Dragonborn, by power of Kynareth, by power of Sheor, and by power of Atmora-of-old. You have become now Ysmir, Dragon of the North. Remember these words."
This chapter is heavy on exposition for one major reason; the absolute mess of Dragonborn and Talos mythology - as well as trying to make the information known to certain parties consistent (such as the identity of the eldest Greybeard, something that is supposed to be a great surprise, but is blatantly obvious if you read basically anything beyond the MSQ dialogue). I say this not to complain, because the uncertainty and contradictory nature of much of the lore is part of the fun, but to explain how much I had to wade through to reach "the truth" of things when the Greybeards should have truth of who Tiber Septim was when he showed up at their doors and then trained him. The idea of Dragonborn powers beyond Shouting and absorbing dragon souls is inspired by and extrapolated from Kirkbride's post about Alessia. In all, these next few chapters including this one are about laying the foundation of how I think the Storm Voice could and should function when unpaired from game mechanics.
Arngeir III: Interlude
Middas 9th of Frostfall 4E201 Late Morning
Arngeir
VEN
Wind
For the Nords of Skyrim, wind is life; the old stories claim we were breathed into being by Kyne upon the slopes of the Throat of the World, and the breath that birthed us forever flows through the province. Wind in our lungs, wind at our backs. Where there is wind, there is movement, and there is life. It controls and directs, but is itself uncontrollable. SU'UM ARKH MORAH. Follow where the wind leads, but carve your own path.
The wind swirls around me as I sit atop the stone tower on the grounds of High Hrothgar. They presage a storm approaching from the north, dark clouds stretching out upon the dominion of Kyne's vista before and below me, lying flat and heavy over the plains of Whiterun. The clouds will eventually creep up the cliffs of the Throat of the World, but my will is adamant. I remain in Kyne's domain, strong in her gift, and I am immovable as the mountain upon which I kneel.
Steps sound behind me from the stairs. Too hurried to be anyone but our Dragonborn. Less of an enigma to us now, but still possessing depths to which we are not yet nor ever may be privy. "I must say, Master Arngeir, I fail to understand why you keep this book in your library." He enters, a copy of Children of the Sky in one hand and a sweetroll, half-eaten, in the other. "It's utterly fantastical to the point of absurdity. I don't know if half these Shouts are possible as described, but this paragraph in the opening about far-wasters not needing homes is hilarious. The mages in Winterhold would be fascinated if it were. It is as though someone heard about the exploits of the Underking in passing and decided all Nords must carry those traits and extrapolated some further nonsense and made an entire book from it!"
I breathe silently as the Dragonborn vents a moment longer, before turning to me with a question and demanding an answer. Rather than give him one, I move over, creating space on the mat, the invitation silent and impossible to ignore. There is another sigh, and the sound of a hastily devoured treat before his presence settles beside me. I wait, patient, for both his mind and body to quieten, before I hand him an unlit torch. "Light it."
He takes the torch without question - by now, inured to our teaching methods - holding it before him. He breathes, in and out, focusing, until it ends with a Shout of "YOL!" The flame he summons is strong. Too strong, in fact, incinerating the torch in an instant but for the section he held. Though likely his hands were scalded as well, if his whispered swear of "Sheor's Bones!" is aught to go by. His consternation amuses me as ever, and to my chuckling he responds, "Glad to be entertaining, even at the smallest venue in Tamriel."
"We Greybeards are not without humour, despite our asceticism." I take another torch and hand it to him, though he waits for me to speak before attempting the exercise once more. "You are progressing well in your study, Dragonborn. Your Voice has become strong, and I believe our techniques have reached their limit for you in that aspect. Likewise, your grasp of the Dovahzul grows beyond our ability to train. Tell me, then, how else do you believe we shall help you?"
He ponders for a moment, then a moment more. Early on, he chafed at our methods - I recall an exceptionally long-winded tirade the day we moved about the courtyard using only Shouts, leading to many sore shins as he struck his injured leg upon the stone many times - until I explained that it was necessary in its own way. The Dragonborn can be shown the path, and he can be aided upon the path, but cannot be led upon the path, for it leads to places other cannot tread.
"This isn't one of those trick questions where the answer is that there is no answer, is it?" Talao finally asks.
"Not at all," I respond with another chuckle, "though the answer may perhaps require a winding path to reach. Let me ask, instead, this. The strength of your Voice is now equal to any of the Greybeards. Do you suppose in a fight with any one of us that you might win?"
"Not in the slightest," he answers immediately.
"And why do you suppose that would be?"
"You have literal decades of experience more than I do."
"Decades that you have innately outstripped by virtue of your birth."
"Yes, but only in the most base and shallow of elements," he argues. "I may have the same strength and knowledge of the Words, but you've many a year of practice in how to use them."
I nod. "The beginning of the answer. But to fully understand, I must fully explain to you one of the questions you asked when first you returned to us a fortnight ago. What it means to Shout as Dragons do." The rains have now begun to fall upon the plains of Whiterun, the occasional bolt of lightning showing through the clouds below us. Even halfway up the Throat of the World, the buildings are small and its people almost invisible. Perhaps it is little wonder the dragons saw mortals as mere annoyances, when to them we were often just as insignificant as ants are to mortals. "A Word in the dragon language has Meaning beyond its mere translation. When you spoke Yol, "the torches flaring at my utterance, "you summoned Fire. Not just fire as sits upon a candle or a torch, but the primal essence of fire. Change given form. Wrath. Destruction. Power. All this and more and less and different is Yol. To understand this, mortals must meditate for months for that single word, to comprehend and hold the multitude of meanings it contains. You, by comparison, innately know what is Yol, what is Fus, what is Lok. It must still be found, as you learned the word fire as a child, but you subconsciously hold that knowledge within your soul, though you did not yet know.
"In practice, this means that Shouting itself is also second nature to you. For a mortal, to know Yol is a struggle alone, but to hold that meaning while fighting for your life is more difficult by several orders of magnitude. That we even possess the ability at all is a gift of Mother Kyne, but it is not natural. To lose that understanding risks the power failing to manifest, or worse, to turn upon oneself. And channeling the power of more than one word at once, to change and enhance the meaning of a word is beyond the capabilities of all but the greatest of Tongues; to infuse Yol with Toor, Inferno, or with Shul, the sun. I have heard of no mortal capable of using more than three words in a single Shout."
Talao speaks now, enraptured before, "Why only three?"
"It is a mystery, but one couched in symbolism. Three is a powerful number when relating to ideas of power. There are three aspects in many divinities. The three aspects of the Time god - Auri-El the beginning, Akatosh the now, Alduin the end - three the beings at the beginning of time - Anu, Padomay, and Sithis - and three the number of greater constellations in the sky - the Mage, the Thief, and the Warrior. Twice three is six, the number of balance, and the Walking Ways, and thrice three is the number of life and the missing god. But these are theories only.
"For you, these limits do not exist. You need not hold the meaning of a Word in your mind to Speak it, and so can Speak entire sentences, complex concepts to rival the dragons, that mortals cannot hope to create. A mortal Tongue may Shout 'YOL' and form flame stronger than the most powerful mage, but you may Shout 'YOL AG HI PAAL,' and summon a fire that burns only your enemies, leaving your allies unburned. This shall be the heart of your strength, but also your greatest weakness."
"This is where you warn me to avoid hubris, lest it be my downfall, yes?" he says with a wry grin.
This smile I do not return. "It is. But I urge you not to take this warning lightly. Being aware of your possible downfall does not ensure you shall escape it; I'm sure you have told and read enough stories to know as much. And hubris is perhaps not the right term, regardless. To be sure, dragons have an excess of pride, but at its heart lies the true affliction - the desire to dominate. No doubt you have felt the urge," I say, as he frowns, "to confront every obstacle, face down any adversary. It is not in a dragon's nature to retreat or surrender unless confronted by one they deem unassailable."
He nods, a look of contemplation upon his face. "Rather than make some trite comment that you would refute, could you perhaps show me what that means and how to overcome it?"
The perfect opportunity looms. "Take this storm before us. A vast force of nature, creeping up the mountain slope. Imagine it as a foe, a dragon of awe-some might, coming for your throat." It is not a difficult feat for the imagination. The clouds swell with water and lightning, dark as midnight, roiling furiously as they ascend the mountain. "I could face it head-on, attempt to subdue it, and risk failing or dying. Or…" I breathe, filling myself with the essence of KOOR. Summer. Of clear skies and sunny days, full of life and heat. And then I restrain it, focus it, narrow as a needle, and whisper, "Koor." The power extends forth from me, cleaving a wedge through the clouds before me, and the promised deluge parts around the monastery, and only the monastery, leaving us dry in its wake, while the rest of the storm rages.
"Incredible," whispers the Dragonborn.
Warmed by his praise, I continue, "In your journey, you are certain to confront enemies that far outstrip you in power, dragons who have glut themselves on the souls of their brethren, warriors and mages of exceptional strength, and more besides. And if you give in to the domination that flows in your blood, you will one day burn the candle of your life to nothing, and be destroyed.
"So we will teach you the lessons of the ancient Nords and of Jurgen Windcaller. To learn how to appear weak to a great foe, to find their weakness, and to strike at the right time. To reserve your strength and outlast one who would overpower you in open battle. How to suppress the part of yourself that roars to destroy any who would stand in your path. Even more important will this be once you have truly come into your power, lest others bait you into the same position you once used to defeat those who came before you."
"Control and creativity. I'm sure I have plenty of the latter." The Dragonborn's eyes alight with wonder and no small amount of mischief. "I wonder what the limit is there! How much can one alter the form of a Shout? Could one combine the essences opposing concepts, say, Fire and Ice? Is it possible to create new words?"
It is good that we expected this question in advance; it would figure one of his first questions would be the most dangerous. "I have no knowledge of any Words created by mortals. The very nature of dovahzul suggests that it exists as a complete language, created alongside the dragons. And dragons, while not unchanging, do not experience the passage of time as mortals do, and are unlikely to break their bounds. Likewise, mortals have so little time to study the language, it is unlikely for them to invent a concept not already encompassed within the language, or one that could be ascertained by the fusion of other Words. Perhaps you shall glean new insights in the future, Dragonborn, and I believe if anyone shall unlock the true potential of the dovahzul, it will be you. But for now…"
I gesture to the torch in his hands. "Again. More gently, if possible."
YOL
Fire
LOK
Sky
FUS
Force
YOL AG HI PAAL
Fire burn my enemy
I think I've spent more time reading Vivec's sermons and analyses of them these past couple months than literally anything else. I don't think the Greybeards give any credence to the Lessons, but Numerology is a popular pastime in any world, so I don't think it unreasonable that they would see some of the same patterns.
Also, it came as a surprise to me that Dovahzul is not a proper ConLang, but more of a mishmash of cool sounding "words" the devs threw together with *some* idea of grammar, but not much. I am also not a linguist, however, and constructing a proper ConLang is beyond my ability, so I plan to stick to a simple rule; all Words are single syllable sounds for simple concepts, and longer "Words" are just amalgamations of smaller words (See: Wuldsetiid - lit. Whirlwind of Time). There are some Words that break this rule in canon, but my world, my rules, and I'll do my best to follow them.
Arngeir
VEN
Wind
For the Nords of Skyrim, wind is life; the old stories claim we were breathed into being by Kyne upon the slopes of the Throat of the World, and the breath that birthed us forever flows through the province. Wind in our lungs, wind at our backs. Where there is wind, there is movement, and there is life. It controls and directs, but is itself uncontrollable. SU'UM ARKH MORAH. Follow where the wind leads, but carve your own path.
The wind swirls around me as I sit atop the stone tower on the grounds of High Hrothgar. They presage a storm approaching from the north, dark clouds stretching out upon the dominion of Kyne's vista before and below me, lying flat and heavy over the plains of Whiterun. The clouds will eventually creep up the cliffs of the Throat of the World, but my will is adamant. I remain in Kyne's domain, strong in her gift, and I am immovable as the mountain upon which I kneel.
Steps sound behind me from the stairs. Too hurried to be anyone but our Dragonborn. Less of an enigma to us now, but still possessing depths to which we are not yet nor ever may be privy. "I must say, Master Arngeir, I fail to understand why you keep this book in your library." He enters, a copy of Children of the Sky in one hand and a sweetroll, half-eaten, in the other. "It's utterly fantastical to the point of absurdity. I don't know if half these Shouts are possible as described, but this paragraph in the opening about far-wasters not needing homes is hilarious. The mages in Winterhold would be fascinated if it were. It is as though someone heard about the exploits of the Underking in passing and decided all Nords must carry those traits and extrapolated some further nonsense and made an entire book from it!"
I breathe silently as the Dragonborn vents a moment longer, before turning to me with a question and demanding an answer. Rather than give him one, I move over, creating space on the mat, the invitation silent and impossible to ignore. There is another sigh, and the sound of a hastily devoured treat before his presence settles beside me. I wait, patient, for both his mind and body to quieten, before I hand him an unlit torch. "Light it."
He takes the torch without question - by now, inured to our teaching methods - holding it before him. He breathes, in and out, focusing, until it ends with a Shout of "YOL!" The flame he summons is strong. Too strong, in fact, incinerating the torch in an instant but for the section he held. Though likely his hands were scalded as well, if his whispered swear of "Sheor's Bones!" is aught to go by. His consternation amuses me as ever, and to my chuckling he responds, "Glad to be entertaining, even at the smallest venue in Tamriel."
"We Greybeards are not without humour, despite our asceticism." I take another torch and hand it to him, though he waits for me to speak before attempting the exercise once more. "You are progressing well in your study, Dragonborn. Your Voice has become strong, and I believe our techniques have reached their limit for you in that aspect. Likewise, your grasp of the Dovahzul grows beyond our ability to train. Tell me, then, how else do you believe we shall help you?"
He ponders for a moment, then a moment more. Early on, he chafed at our methods - I recall an exceptionally long-winded tirade the day we moved about the courtyard using only Shouts, leading to many sore shins as he struck his injured leg upon the stone many times - until I explained that it was necessary in its own way. The Dragonborn can be shown the path, and he can be aided upon the path, but cannot be led upon the path, for it leads to places other cannot tread.
"This isn't one of those trick questions where the answer is that there is no answer, is it?" Talao finally asks.
"Not at all," I respond with another chuckle, "though the answer may perhaps require a winding path to reach. Let me ask, instead, this. The strength of your Voice is now equal to any of the Greybeards. Do you suppose in a fight with any one of us that you might win?"
"Not in the slightest," he answers immediately.
"And why do you suppose that would be?"
"You have literal decades of experience more than I do."
"Decades that you have innately outstripped by virtue of your birth."
"Yes, but only in the most base and shallow of elements," he argues. "I may have the same strength and knowledge of the Words, but you've many a year of practice in how to use them."
I nod. "The beginning of the answer. But to fully understand, I must fully explain to you one of the questions you asked when first you returned to us a fortnight ago. What it means to Shout as Dragons do." The rains have now begun to fall upon the plains of Whiterun, the occasional bolt of lightning showing through the clouds below us. Even halfway up the Throat of the World, the buildings are small and its people almost invisible. Perhaps it is little wonder the dragons saw mortals as mere annoyances, when to them we were often just as insignificant as ants are to mortals. "A Word in the dragon language has Meaning beyond its mere translation. When you spoke Yol, "the torches flaring at my utterance, "you summoned Fire. Not just fire as sits upon a candle or a torch, but the primal essence of fire. Change given form. Wrath. Destruction. Power. All this and more and less and different is Yol. To understand this, mortals must meditate for months for that single word, to comprehend and hold the multitude of meanings it contains. You, by comparison, innately know what is Yol, what is Fus, what is Lok. It must still be found, as you learned the word fire as a child, but you subconsciously hold that knowledge within your soul, though you did not yet know.
"In practice, this means that Shouting itself is also second nature to you. For a mortal, to know Yol is a struggle alone, but to hold that meaning while fighting for your life is more difficult by several orders of magnitude. That we even possess the ability at all is a gift of Mother Kyne, but it is not natural. To lose that understanding risks the power failing to manifest, or worse, to turn upon oneself. And channeling the power of more than one word at once, to change and enhance the meaning of a word is beyond the capabilities of all but the greatest of Tongues; to infuse Yol with Toor, Inferno, or with Shul, the sun. I have heard of no mortal capable of using more than three words in a single Shout."
Talao speaks now, enraptured before, "Why only three?"
"It is a mystery, but one couched in symbolism. Three is a powerful number when relating to ideas of power. There are three aspects in many divinities. The three aspects of the Time god - Auri-El the beginning, Akatosh the now, Alduin the end - three the beings at the beginning of time - Anu, Padomay, and Sithis - and three the number of greater constellations in the sky - the Mage, the Thief, and the Warrior. Twice three is six, the number of balance, and the Walking Ways, and thrice three is the number of life and the missing god. But these are theories only.
"For you, these limits do not exist. You need not hold the meaning of a Word in your mind to Speak it, and so can Speak entire sentences, complex concepts to rival the dragons, that mortals cannot hope to create. A mortal Tongue may Shout 'YOL' and form flame stronger than the most powerful mage, but you may Shout 'YOL AG HI PAAL,' and summon a fire that burns only your enemies, leaving your allies unburned. This shall be the heart of your strength, but also your greatest weakness."
"This is where you warn me to avoid hubris, lest it be my downfall, yes?" he says with a wry grin.
This smile I do not return. "It is. But I urge you not to take this warning lightly. Being aware of your possible downfall does not ensure you shall escape it; I'm sure you have told and read enough stories to know as much. And hubris is perhaps not the right term, regardless. To be sure, dragons have an excess of pride, but at its heart lies the true affliction - the desire to dominate. No doubt you have felt the urge," I say, as he frowns, "to confront every obstacle, face down any adversary. It is not in a dragon's nature to retreat or surrender unless confronted by one they deem unassailable."
He nods, a look of contemplation upon his face. "Rather than make some trite comment that you would refute, could you perhaps show me what that means and how to overcome it?"
The perfect opportunity looms. "Take this storm before us. A vast force of nature, creeping up the mountain slope. Imagine it as a foe, a dragon of awe-some might, coming for your throat." It is not a difficult feat for the imagination. The clouds swell with water and lightning, dark as midnight, roiling furiously as they ascend the mountain. "I could face it head-on, attempt to subdue it, and risk failing or dying. Or…" I breathe, filling myself with the essence of KOOR. Summer. Of clear skies and sunny days, full of life and heat. And then I restrain it, focus it, narrow as a needle, and whisper, "Koor." The power extends forth from me, cleaving a wedge through the clouds before me, and the promised deluge parts around the monastery, and only the monastery, leaving us dry in its wake, while the rest of the storm rages.
"Incredible," whispers the Dragonborn.
Warmed by his praise, I continue, "In your journey, you are certain to confront enemies that far outstrip you in power, dragons who have glut themselves on the souls of their brethren, warriors and mages of exceptional strength, and more besides. And if you give in to the domination that flows in your blood, you will one day burn the candle of your life to nothing, and be destroyed.
"So we will teach you the lessons of the ancient Nords and of Jurgen Windcaller. To learn how to appear weak to a great foe, to find their weakness, and to strike at the right time. To reserve your strength and outlast one who would overpower you in open battle. How to suppress the part of yourself that roars to destroy any who would stand in your path. Even more important will this be once you have truly come into your power, lest others bait you into the same position you once used to defeat those who came before you."
"Control and creativity. I'm sure I have plenty of the latter." The Dragonborn's eyes alight with wonder and no small amount of mischief. "I wonder what the limit is there! How much can one alter the form of a Shout? Could one combine the essences opposing concepts, say, Fire and Ice? Is it possible to create new words?"
It is good that we expected this question in advance; it would figure one of his first questions would be the most dangerous. "I have no knowledge of any Words created by mortals. The very nature of dovahzul suggests that it exists as a complete language, created alongside the dragons. And dragons, while not unchanging, do not experience the passage of time as mortals do, and are unlikely to break their bounds. Likewise, mortals have so little time to study the language, it is unlikely for them to invent a concept not already encompassed within the language, or one that could be ascertained by the fusion of other Words. Perhaps you shall glean new insights in the future, Dragonborn, and I believe if anyone shall unlock the true potential of the dovahzul, it will be you. But for now…"
I gesture to the torch in his hands. "Again. More gently, if possible."
YOL
Fire
LOK
Sky
FUS
Force
YOL AG HI PAAL
Fire burn my enemy
I think I've spent more time reading Vivec's sermons and analyses of them these past couple months than literally anything else. I don't think the Greybeards give any credence to the Lessons, but Numerology is a popular pastime in any world, so I don't think it unreasonable that they would see some of the same patterns.
Also, it came as a surprise to me that Dovahzul is not a proper ConLang, but more of a mishmash of cool sounding "words" the devs threw together with *some* idea of grammar, but not much. I am also not a linguist, however, and constructing a proper ConLang is beyond my ability, so I plan to stick to a simple rule; all Words are single syllable sounds for simple concepts, and longer "Words" are just amalgamations of smaller words (See: Wuldsetiid - lit. Whirlwind of Time). There are some Words that break this rule in canon, but my world, my rules, and I'll do my best to follow them.
- Location
- Arizona
This is fantastic! Thanks so much for sharing it with us. Cant wait for more!!!
Ralof III: Stormcloak Interlude
Tirdas, 15th of Frostfall. 4E201 Past Midnight
Ralof
Winter's come early this year.
To be fair, it's never exactly warm in Hjaalmarch, but even in the Pale, the winds are bitter cold flowing south from the Sea of Ghosts. Early snows in the north aren't uncommon either, but from our camp above Korvanjund, I could see snow falling as far south as Whiterun. Too early, far too early for those plains; another ill omen to add to the list from the past few months.
"Kyne's tits, this cold is terrible."
I raise an eyebrow at my fellow watchwoman. "Just her tits, Vibeke? I doubt Shor will let you into the Hall of Valor with you cursing his wife's form like that."
"Then throw me some more Imperials to bloody," she growls. Vibeke, a fellow Stormcloak, and the unlucky one to draw middle watch with me, is certainly more upset than usual, her blonde hair flying free of the braid it's usually kept in. Her ice-blue eyes are focused more on the ground in front of her than the horizon, stamping her boots feverishly to keep warm. "We're Nords, not bloody Falmer. Don't know what's got Kyne's breath blowing so fierce."
"I'm sure she'll make the reason for her displeasure known soon enough. Eyes on the road for now." Can't say I don't agree with her though. I'd rather be at the campfire as well, but our squad has too precious a cargo to skive off guard duty. And what a cargo it was! We'd all thought Galmar mad after another ghost story, but at the end of the crypt it lay; the Jagged Crown in all its glory, dragon bone gleaming. A treasure worthy of the High King of Skyrim. Of course, we'd had to fight our way through draugr and Legionnaires alike to find it. The draugr we expected, but the Legionnaires in wait were a surprise. Damned Imperial spies are everywhere.
Vibeke mutters another curse beside me, though not at Kyne this time. I wonder idly if the winds are a warning, an omen, or something else, but I can't say I know her whims any more than any other Nord. I do know that it doesn't bother me as much as the woman beside me; no reason for us both to suffer, I think with a quick look at Masser and Secunda's place in the sky. "Shift's almost over. I'll wait for guard change if you want to rack out early."
She scowls, though she can't hide the glimmer of hope in her eyes. "You think Arrald won't strip my hide if he finds me shirking guard duties?"
"So don't let him find you, ice-brain." She laughs at that. "Go on, your teeth are chattering so loudly, I wouldn't even hear a dragon swooping down on us. I'll make an excuse for the next watch. We're a stone's throw away from Windhelm anyway; we'll be fine."
"You're a good man, Ralof. And a great Nord. I hope we draw straws for watch together more often."
"So you can take advantage of my hospitality and good will more often?" I ask with a smirk.
"Of course! In return, you can take advantage of me back in Windhelm."
"…you mean your hospitality and good will, right?"
"That too!" I could've choked were I drinking something, but she merely smiles at me and heads back toward the camp. I do so admire a woman who knows what she wants. Still, the momentary solitude is a welcome change, even if it won't last long. Give me time to put my thoughts in order. And wonder about-
"Septim for your thoughts, soldier?"
"Shor's bones!" Despite almost tripping over my cloak in my haste, I draw a blade on the ominous figure who managed to sneak up on me. "For the love of… declare yourself before I run you through, bastard."
"Of course, my apologies," he says, throwing out a lazy Stormcloak salute. "Scout Ingmarik reporting."
It doesn't entirely alleviate my suspicions; the scout is wearing standard-issue armor, plus a mask that most of the scouts favor, to protect from the elements. His name and accent both feel old Nord - perhaps from one of the isolated villages that don't often see much travel - though he himself doesn't sound like an elder, though neither young. "Am I to take you at your word you're not an Imperial spy?"
"Pfah. I serve no Empire, soldier." He says with a wave of a hand. "We could go wake your commander, but I've no information to warrant disturbing his sleep, and you'd have to explain to him why you were alone on guard duty. Let's just calmly sit and chat until your relief arrives, eh?"
Well, he seems reasonable enough. No Imperial spy would be so casual and calm, I'm sure, so I put away my blade and lean back against my tree. "Sure thing, friend. I suppose you could have gutted me like a fish if you were actually here to cause trouble. As for my ponderings," I shrug, "just seems as though the world's gone mad. Dragons come back, everyone knows that well enough by now, but I fear worse is on the horizon. Or already here, truly."
"Something worse than dragons?" Ingmarik asks bemusedly.
"Aye, worse. Not that anything grand has happened yet. But everyone is focused on the grand things; distracted by the Uprising, Thalmor Inquisitors, dragon attacks. They miss the early winter, the days growing shorter more quickly than they should, salmon not going upstream to spawn; even the Sea of Ghosts seems quiet when usually they would howl and scream."
"Small things," Ingmarik says, "you guess are connected."
I lower my voice, as though to speak my next sentence would draw his gaze. "My ma used to tell me the old stories, not the Alessian tales. Old stories of… Alduin."
"Ah, Alduin. The World-Eater." My face must have shown my surprise that he recognized the name, as he continues, "I grew up with the Old Ways. Tales of the Fox, the Owl, and the Snake. And, of course, the Dragon Alduin, god of time who devours the world at the end of time to make way for the next Kalpa; the next eon. You think him responsible?"
"Call it intuition, but… I'm almost certain of it. What else could explain the return of dragons but he who was lord among them all?"
Ingmarik looks away, toward the Throat of the World looming far over the Uttering Hills to our south. "It does fit, I suppose. I'm reminded of an old song.
And the Scrolls have foretold, of black wings in the cold,
That when brothers wage war come unfurled!
Alduin, Bane of Kings, ancient shadow unbound,
With a hunger to swallow the world!"
His voice is rough, but the tune he sings sets my blood aflame. "Was that… The Song of the Dragonborn? I recognize the lyrics, but I thought the melody was lost long ago."
"I did mention my family kept with the Old Ways. I suppose they kept more alive than I thought. Still, Alduin. The end of the world, then. And no Dragonborn to save us, like the song promises."
"You've not heard the rumours then, scout?" He must have been in the wilds for quite some time. "About a month ago, the Greybeards Shouted, calling a Dragonborn to High Hrothgar. You could have heard in Elsweyr, they were so loud."
"Rumours are unreliable at best," he says with a half-hearted shrug. "I prefer my knowledge gained firsthand."
"Well, will you take secondhand? For I've met the man, as a matter of fact."
"Truly?" Ingmarik's eyes are suddenly upon me, his body language positively… hungry. "Enlighten me."
"Uh…" Have I made a mistake? It occurs to me I don't actually know this scout, and my back is up against a tree. When did my palms get so sweaty? "Well, that's… somewhat classified intel. Might feel better if the commander told you." How had he not heard the Greybeards? Come to think of it, feels like shift change is well past due.
"Come, calm, soldier. We're all brothers-in-arms here, no need to be so tense. Tell me about him."
Why was I so nervous before, he's right, we're both Stormcloaks, and anyone around the camp could tell him. "Well, I suppose there's no harm in telling a fellow Stormcloak. I met him on the chopping block back in Helgen, before any of us knew who he was. Breton bard by the name of Talao, both of us imprisoned by the Imperials. He had a silver tongue even before he learned of the Voice, saved dozens of us escaping that first dragon attack. He was involved in a skirmish a couple weeks back. A different 'Cloak squad running a checkpoint took down a dragon with the help of a traveller that absorbed its essence, its soul. Their description matched Talao."
Ingmarik slowly begins laughing, a deep, sonorous, ominous chuckling that seems to bubble up from his entire being. Why does my head hurt so? "A Prisoner, breaking the binds of his past in the shadow of a Tower, striking forth to become The Hero. It must be him in truth, The Last Dragonborn. Would that make Alduin the Warrior, or the Thief?"
As I try to make sense of the scout's words, an eardrum shattering sound comes out of the night; the scream of a dragon, close by. Suddenly, I feel alert again, the pain in my head abating and the realization that I had been ensnared in a spell crashes into me. "Enemy forces! Dragon!" My shout was probably unnecessary, with the camp already beginning to rouse at the sound of the dragon, but with any luck someone would come for me before this scout could cast another spell.
"Hmph. Unlucky timing, though I doubt you had much left to tell me, soldier. Your assistance is appreciated. Try not to die. Or do. I care not."
"You're not going anywhere, mage!" Before he can move, my sword lashes out… and passes straight through the man as though he were nothing but air.
"Foolish. Be glad my ability is stretched so thin so far from home, or you would be dead already." And then without any movement or warning, the figure vanishes.
"What in Oblivion?!" No time; I have to report. My mad dash back to the camp is quick, and the camp is swarming with soldier's gearing up, Arrald Frozen-Heart at its center. "Commander Frozen-Heart!"
"Ralof! Thank goodness, I thought something had happened." He pauses from his preparation for a moment to address me. "We found your watch replacements unconscious just outside camp. Some kind of spell, we think."
"Yes, magic. Some kind of mage accosted me on watch, illusion magic I think. I… I don't think they were Imperial, they were just asking about the Dragonborn, nothing about 'Cloak movements."
"Odd." Another roar pierces the night sky. "Damn. Your full report will have to wait. There's a dragon attacking Angi's Mill, and we're planning to confront it. Not you, though."
"But commander-!"
"No disputes! We can't ignore the dragon, but we have precious cargo that needs delivering." He pulls the padlocked chest from his tent, and hands it to me; the chest I watched him reverently cover and place the Jagged Crown in. "Your assignment is to deliver this directly to High King Ulfric. You will not stop or rest, you will not engage any enemies. You will not come back for us even if another dragon joins the fray. You will travel directly to Windhelm, and I expect you to get there at least a day ahead of us. Understood?"
"…I won't let you down, commander." I pause only long enough to grab a few rations for my pouch. Vibeke catches my eye, a look on her face as hard as steel, with a promise that we'll see each other in Windhelm. My last thought as I rush down the road is not the dragon, but the those glowing eyes beneath the mask that seemed to stare directly into my soul. If I never see him again, it'll be too soon.
The exact mechanics of magic in the Elder Scrolls series are something I haven't really been able to pin down, not least because it keeps changing between games. There seem to be rules, but those rules also seem to be able to be broken by someone with a strong will. For my purposes, similar to the dragon language, I consider Aetherial Magic to be more of an exercise in exerting ones will upon the world around you, but it requires significant dedication and practice, and cannot change the nature of Mundus as significantly or easily as Tonal Magic, primarily because it is dependent upon and restricted by the caster's internal Magicka. Game mechanics treat "Calm" as a different spell from "Harmony," but realistically the only real difference is how much power is being put into the preconceived notion of "spell that influences subject's mind toward peace."
Ralof
Winter's come early this year.
To be fair, it's never exactly warm in Hjaalmarch, but even in the Pale, the winds are bitter cold flowing south from the Sea of Ghosts. Early snows in the north aren't uncommon either, but from our camp above Korvanjund, I could see snow falling as far south as Whiterun. Too early, far too early for those plains; another ill omen to add to the list from the past few months.
"Kyne's tits, this cold is terrible."
I raise an eyebrow at my fellow watchwoman. "Just her tits, Vibeke? I doubt Shor will let you into the Hall of Valor with you cursing his wife's form like that."
"Then throw me some more Imperials to bloody," she growls. Vibeke, a fellow Stormcloak, and the unlucky one to draw middle watch with me, is certainly more upset than usual, her blonde hair flying free of the braid it's usually kept in. Her ice-blue eyes are focused more on the ground in front of her than the horizon, stamping her boots feverishly to keep warm. "We're Nords, not bloody Falmer. Don't know what's got Kyne's breath blowing so fierce."
"I'm sure she'll make the reason for her displeasure known soon enough. Eyes on the road for now." Can't say I don't agree with her though. I'd rather be at the campfire as well, but our squad has too precious a cargo to skive off guard duty. And what a cargo it was! We'd all thought Galmar mad after another ghost story, but at the end of the crypt it lay; the Jagged Crown in all its glory, dragon bone gleaming. A treasure worthy of the High King of Skyrim. Of course, we'd had to fight our way through draugr and Legionnaires alike to find it. The draugr we expected, but the Legionnaires in wait were a surprise. Damned Imperial spies are everywhere.
Vibeke mutters another curse beside me, though not at Kyne this time. I wonder idly if the winds are a warning, an omen, or something else, but I can't say I know her whims any more than any other Nord. I do know that it doesn't bother me as much as the woman beside me; no reason for us both to suffer, I think with a quick look at Masser and Secunda's place in the sky. "Shift's almost over. I'll wait for guard change if you want to rack out early."
She scowls, though she can't hide the glimmer of hope in her eyes. "You think Arrald won't strip my hide if he finds me shirking guard duties?"
"So don't let him find you, ice-brain." She laughs at that. "Go on, your teeth are chattering so loudly, I wouldn't even hear a dragon swooping down on us. I'll make an excuse for the next watch. We're a stone's throw away from Windhelm anyway; we'll be fine."
"You're a good man, Ralof. And a great Nord. I hope we draw straws for watch together more often."
"So you can take advantage of my hospitality and good will more often?" I ask with a smirk.
"Of course! In return, you can take advantage of me back in Windhelm."
"…you mean your hospitality and good will, right?"
"That too!" I could've choked were I drinking something, but she merely smiles at me and heads back toward the camp. I do so admire a woman who knows what she wants. Still, the momentary solitude is a welcome change, even if it won't last long. Give me time to put my thoughts in order. And wonder about-
"Septim for your thoughts, soldier?"
"Shor's bones!" Despite almost tripping over my cloak in my haste, I draw a blade on the ominous figure who managed to sneak up on me. "For the love of… declare yourself before I run you through, bastard."
"Of course, my apologies," he says, throwing out a lazy Stormcloak salute. "Scout Ingmarik reporting."
It doesn't entirely alleviate my suspicions; the scout is wearing standard-issue armor, plus a mask that most of the scouts favor, to protect from the elements. His name and accent both feel old Nord - perhaps from one of the isolated villages that don't often see much travel - though he himself doesn't sound like an elder, though neither young. "Am I to take you at your word you're not an Imperial spy?"
"Pfah. I serve no Empire, soldier." He says with a wave of a hand. "We could go wake your commander, but I've no information to warrant disturbing his sleep, and you'd have to explain to him why you were alone on guard duty. Let's just calmly sit and chat until your relief arrives, eh?"
Well, he seems reasonable enough. No Imperial spy would be so casual and calm, I'm sure, so I put away my blade and lean back against my tree. "Sure thing, friend. I suppose you could have gutted me like a fish if you were actually here to cause trouble. As for my ponderings," I shrug, "just seems as though the world's gone mad. Dragons come back, everyone knows that well enough by now, but I fear worse is on the horizon. Or already here, truly."
"Something worse than dragons?" Ingmarik asks bemusedly.
"Aye, worse. Not that anything grand has happened yet. But everyone is focused on the grand things; distracted by the Uprising, Thalmor Inquisitors, dragon attacks. They miss the early winter, the days growing shorter more quickly than they should, salmon not going upstream to spawn; even the Sea of Ghosts seems quiet when usually they would howl and scream."
"Small things," Ingmarik says, "you guess are connected."
I lower my voice, as though to speak my next sentence would draw his gaze. "My ma used to tell me the old stories, not the Alessian tales. Old stories of… Alduin."
"Ah, Alduin. The World-Eater." My face must have shown my surprise that he recognized the name, as he continues, "I grew up with the Old Ways. Tales of the Fox, the Owl, and the Snake. And, of course, the Dragon Alduin, god of time who devours the world at the end of time to make way for the next Kalpa; the next eon. You think him responsible?"
"Call it intuition, but… I'm almost certain of it. What else could explain the return of dragons but he who was lord among them all?"
Ingmarik looks away, toward the Throat of the World looming far over the Uttering Hills to our south. "It does fit, I suppose. I'm reminded of an old song.
And the Scrolls have foretold, of black wings in the cold,
That when brothers wage war come unfurled!
Alduin, Bane of Kings, ancient shadow unbound,
With a hunger to swallow the world!"
His voice is rough, but the tune he sings sets my blood aflame. "Was that… The Song of the Dragonborn? I recognize the lyrics, but I thought the melody was lost long ago."
"I did mention my family kept with the Old Ways. I suppose they kept more alive than I thought. Still, Alduin. The end of the world, then. And no Dragonborn to save us, like the song promises."
"You've not heard the rumours then, scout?" He must have been in the wilds for quite some time. "About a month ago, the Greybeards Shouted, calling a Dragonborn to High Hrothgar. You could have heard in Elsweyr, they were so loud."
"Rumours are unreliable at best," he says with a half-hearted shrug. "I prefer my knowledge gained firsthand."
"Well, will you take secondhand? For I've met the man, as a matter of fact."
"Truly?" Ingmarik's eyes are suddenly upon me, his body language positively… hungry. "Enlighten me."
"Uh…" Have I made a mistake? It occurs to me I don't actually know this scout, and my back is up against a tree. When did my palms get so sweaty? "Well, that's… somewhat classified intel. Might feel better if the commander told you." How had he not heard the Greybeards? Come to think of it, feels like shift change is well past due.
"Come, calm, soldier. We're all brothers-in-arms here, no need to be so tense. Tell me about him."
Why was I so nervous before, he's right, we're both Stormcloaks, and anyone around the camp could tell him. "Well, I suppose there's no harm in telling a fellow Stormcloak. I met him on the chopping block back in Helgen, before any of us knew who he was. Breton bard by the name of Talao, both of us imprisoned by the Imperials. He had a silver tongue even before he learned of the Voice, saved dozens of us escaping that first dragon attack. He was involved in a skirmish a couple weeks back. A different 'Cloak squad running a checkpoint took down a dragon with the help of a traveller that absorbed its essence, its soul. Their description matched Talao."
Ingmarik slowly begins laughing, a deep, sonorous, ominous chuckling that seems to bubble up from his entire being. Why does my head hurt so? "A Prisoner, breaking the binds of his past in the shadow of a Tower, striking forth to become The Hero. It must be him in truth, The Last Dragonborn. Would that make Alduin the Warrior, or the Thief?"
As I try to make sense of the scout's words, an eardrum shattering sound comes out of the night; the scream of a dragon, close by. Suddenly, I feel alert again, the pain in my head abating and the realization that I had been ensnared in a spell crashes into me. "Enemy forces! Dragon!" My shout was probably unnecessary, with the camp already beginning to rouse at the sound of the dragon, but with any luck someone would come for me before this scout could cast another spell.
"Hmph. Unlucky timing, though I doubt you had much left to tell me, soldier. Your assistance is appreciated. Try not to die. Or do. I care not."
"You're not going anywhere, mage!" Before he can move, my sword lashes out… and passes straight through the man as though he were nothing but air.
"Foolish. Be glad my ability is stretched so thin so far from home, or you would be dead already." And then without any movement or warning, the figure vanishes.
"What in Oblivion?!" No time; I have to report. My mad dash back to the camp is quick, and the camp is swarming with soldier's gearing up, Arrald Frozen-Heart at its center. "Commander Frozen-Heart!"
"Ralof! Thank goodness, I thought something had happened." He pauses from his preparation for a moment to address me. "We found your watch replacements unconscious just outside camp. Some kind of spell, we think."
"Yes, magic. Some kind of mage accosted me on watch, illusion magic I think. I… I don't think they were Imperial, they were just asking about the Dragonborn, nothing about 'Cloak movements."
"Odd." Another roar pierces the night sky. "Damn. Your full report will have to wait. There's a dragon attacking Angi's Mill, and we're planning to confront it. Not you, though."
"But commander-!"
"No disputes! We can't ignore the dragon, but we have precious cargo that needs delivering." He pulls the padlocked chest from his tent, and hands it to me; the chest I watched him reverently cover and place the Jagged Crown in. "Your assignment is to deliver this directly to High King Ulfric. You will not stop or rest, you will not engage any enemies. You will not come back for us even if another dragon joins the fray. You will travel directly to Windhelm, and I expect you to get there at least a day ahead of us. Understood?"
"…I won't let you down, commander." I pause only long enough to grab a few rations for my pouch. Vibeke catches my eye, a look on her face as hard as steel, with a promise that we'll see each other in Windhelm. My last thought as I rush down the road is not the dragon, but the those glowing eyes beneath the mask that seemed to stare directly into my soul. If I never see him again, it'll be too soon.
The exact mechanics of magic in the Elder Scrolls series are something I haven't really been able to pin down, not least because it keeps changing between games. There seem to be rules, but those rules also seem to be able to be broken by someone with a strong will. For my purposes, similar to the dragon language, I consider Aetherial Magic to be more of an exercise in exerting ones will upon the world around you, but it requires significant dedication and practice, and cannot change the nature of Mundus as significantly or easily as Tonal Magic, primarily because it is dependent upon and restricted by the caster's internal Magicka. Game mechanics treat "Calm" as a different spell from "Harmony," but realistically the only real difference is how much power is being put into the preconceived notion of "spell that influences subject's mind toward peace."
If anyone guesses who the mystery figure is, I'll answer them any one question about the future of the fic.
Arngeir IV: Interlude Conclusion
Middas 23rd of Frostfall 4E201 Morning
Arngeir
TIID
Time
Inexorable and ever-flowing, time marches on, pausing for no mortal. Some cherish every moment, while others seek to prolong their time through unnatural means. Only Akatosh and his children, the dov, are free from the ravages of time, but eventually even time itself must end, and the cycle begin anew. SU'UM AHRK MORAH. Nothing lasts forever, but it still existed, and by time's passage holds meaning.
"BEX MIIR AAD!"
Time marches on.
A month seems minuscule by standards of the Greybeards. Years upon years do we remain in meditation in adherence to our oaths and in pursuit of knowledge just within mortal ken. Yet a month was more time by far than we had dared hope to spend with our new ephemeral pupil, time enough to grant him all we four Greybeards knew and more.
"KOM ZU'U BO ZEIM!"
To Talao, of course, this natural progression clearly meant he was ready to brave the final trial of the Snow-Throat and speak to our Elder atop the mountain. My doubt proved appropriate as he has spent the last three days attempting to clear the path to the peak. But the Snow-Throat is a towering behemoth, and does not yield but to those who have mastered their Voice. Something that clearly frustrates our new Dovahkiin; for all his gifts, I think, he still lacks the experience and understanding to overcome its will.
"Clear, damn you!"
I gently place my hand upon his trembling shoulder, his eyes wide open, and his lungs gasping for air. "Enough, Dragonborn. DREM."
"Just a bit more-"
"No." My grip is iron upon him, for worry he will leap into the omnipresent blizzard that encircles the highest reaches of the mountain, barring his path. "You cannot. You must calm yourself, and abandon this folly before you do yourself harm. Remember that you are Dragonborn; but you are not a slave to your blood. You are Talao, and first and foremost, you are a person." Slowly, the trembling abates. "Breathe. Allow Kyne's breath to flow through you, here in the seat of her power. LOK BO, THU'UM TUUM." And as he breathes in and out, the tension leaves his body under my grip; once I am sure he is at no risk of jumping forward, I release him. "Good. Welcome back, Dovahkiin."
"...Y'ffre, I feel like I've just run the Seven Thousands Steps twice over. Apologies for-"
"Do not apologize." My voice is no less iron than my grip a moment before. "Amend your mistake, and then move past it."
"How?" he asks, sitting heavily upon the steps. "The Way of the Voice? I am neither Nord nor Greybeard."
"While that is true, there is yet truth and importance in its teachings." I take a seat next to Talao, legs crossed. "There are also many layers to the concept, which you are unaware of, being - as you say - not of our culture. We Greybeards follow the specific philosophy as set forth originally by Jurgen Windcaller, when he contemplated the defeat of Nordic war chiefs during the conquests of the 1st Era. He was seized with the revelation that the Nords had abused the power granted by Kynareth, and were punished by the gods for misusing the Thu'um that they relied on so heavily to conquer other regions, rather than in their own defense. The only true use of the Voice, he decided, was meant for the worship and glory of the gods, not mortal dominance, and so chose Silence."
"So how does someone like Ulfric justify his own actions." Almost immediately, Talao winces. "I mean… sorry, I imagine that is perhaps a touchy subject. Perhaps I should also choose silence when my mouth is moving faster than my mind."
"Hm. You have asked, and it is my duty to answer you, Dovahkiin. Jurgen believed that the only strong voice is one which is used judiciously and with the goal of preserving the natural order, not for martial conquest, which with his triumph over the Tongues of his time became a cornerstone of Nord culture. To 'Speak Only In True Need.' For those not trained in the use of the Thu'um, this principle became practiced in regards to other aspects of society, though of course what constitutes 'True Need' tends to be rather subjective. While I will not pass judgment on the righteousness of our former pupil's cause, his usage of the Voice in battle is anathema to our own values, ones that he agreed to follow when he joined us in High Hrothgar."
He nods. "I do in some ways admire your dedication to pacifism; Y'ffre knows the world would be a better place if more followed such values. But how then do you justify training one such as myself, or Tiber Septim for that matter? While I would certainly like to avoid needless bloodshed…" His hands clench, as if in remembrance of some deed, "I doubt the path ahead of me will allow such mercy."
"The fact that the question occurs to you at all is worthy," I say with a soft voice. "The Dragonborn is an exception to all the rules - the Dragon Blood itself is a gift of Akatosh, just as the Thu'um itself was a gift of Kyne. If we accept one gift, how can we deny the other? We therefore seek to guide you on the proper use of your gift, which transcends the restrictions which bind other mortals. While I do believe that the Way of the Voice shall help you falling victim from the influence of your blood, true mastery of the Voice can only be achieved when your inner spirit is in harmony with your outward actions. And that is something that cannot be taught in a month."
"So you're kicking me out of the nest, as it were," he jokes, a grin gracing his features for the first time this day.
"I should never admit to such a thing. We both know, however, that your time here has come to an end… for now, at least. Fortunate timing for this to arrive, then." I hand to him the parchment I had hidden within my robes.
He takes it gingerly. "When…?"
"Naught but a few moments ago. Delivered by a very harried and tired courier who vowed never to run the Seven Thousand steps again, no matter how much he was paid. I had intended to deliver it directly, but needs demanded I prevent the message's recipient from becoming an ice statue."
"Would you like a glass of water for your dry humour, Master Arngeir?" Despite his grumbling, he opens the missive; unadorned, with no name, no sender, no seal. Just the words, IT'S TIME, written upon it. "I suppose it is time, then."
"Come, then. I have taken the liberty of having Master Borri collect your belonging for you."
"...You're sure you aren't just looking for an excuse to kick me out?"
In short order, we five are gathered in the annex of High Hrothgar, Talao's pack upon his shoulders, and the Greybeards arrayed to see him off. Talao thanks each of us profusely, whispered words and signs exchanged, bonds forged through our time spent together.
"Dovahkiin," I say, with the slightest hint of power coursing through the word. He stands, in the same spot as he did when accepting our greeting a month past. "You have learned all that we Greybeards could teach, save that which our Elder keeps atop the peak of the Snow-Throat. I know that the next time you stand before us, you shall succeed in clearing the path. Your training ends here, giving you the tools you need to confront the many challenges ahead of you, and the foundation to grow fully into your self and your destiny, whatsoever they may be. They shall reveal themselves to you in time, if you but remain true to yourself."
As one, the four of us bow deeply to the Dragonborn, a gesture he returns in kind. "Masters. Words cannot express the thanks I would give you, so I shall strive to show it through deeds. Wherever the path I walk leads, whatever trail I blaze, I shall make my own, and endeavour to leave the world a better place in my wake. Plus," he adds in a stage whisper, "I left one last plate of sweetrolls for you all in the pantry. Hopefully that makes up for all the trouble I've caused."
"Ah, Talao… many things of you I shall miss. But your wit shall not be one."
"Master Borri does not seem to agree with you," he says, with our sign for 'you're welcome' in response to Borri's 'thanks', "nor does the grin on your face."
A shake of my head is my only response, as the traitorous grin on my face refuses to subside. "Go, Dovahkiin. The world is in need of you."
And he does, leaving us once again in silence. It is not until halfway up the ascent to the peak of the mountain that it even occurs to me that the silence I found so comforting for the past decades could be anything other than such. But for the first time, it unsettles me, as I notice it has deepened in the past month. The winds howl less fiercely down the furrows of the mountain. Hardy plants, that once thrived in the snowbanks, fall to dust in my hands. And a dark film seems to settle over all of Skyrim spread out before me atop the mountain, as I stand before the Elder. "Has Akatosh set an impossible goal before him? His destiny may not be certain, but it is certain to involve him."
Only Time will tell.
BEX MIIR AAD: Open the path (lit. Open door trail) [MIIRAAD - meaning path or opportunity - is one of those compound words that doesn't have an official translation for its individual parts, but MIIRAAK is another word that means "portal", which has the separate word AAK - meaning guide. MIIR being the common word must make the similarity in the concept of "something to go through," and we can extrapolate that AAD must mean something about the concept of proceeding along a path.]
KOM ZU'U BO ZEIM: Let me go through (lit. Allow I (formal) fly through) [KOM is drawn from KOMEYT - to issue, or let loose - from which I derive the separate concepts KOM - to allow - and EYT - to loose from bonds - though this is different in concept from STIN - to free, freedom. ZU'U has the honor of having a glottal stop, which I theorize is used as a possessive concept; a glottal stop indicates something that is an inherent trait to the individual, rather than a description. ZU'U is a dragon referring to itself. THU'UM is the defining characteristic of dragons, their Voice. STRUNDU'UL is the Stormcrown, the title given to the Dragonborn that denotes their significance as the chosen of Akatosh.]
Arngeir
TIID
Time
Inexorable and ever-flowing, time marches on, pausing for no mortal. Some cherish every moment, while others seek to prolong their time through unnatural means. Only Akatosh and his children, the dov, are free from the ravages of time, but eventually even time itself must end, and the cycle begin anew. SU'UM AHRK MORAH. Nothing lasts forever, but it still existed, and by time's passage holds meaning.
"BEX MIIR AAD!"
Time marches on.
A month seems minuscule by standards of the Greybeards. Years upon years do we remain in meditation in adherence to our oaths and in pursuit of knowledge just within mortal ken. Yet a month was more time by far than we had dared hope to spend with our new ephemeral pupil, time enough to grant him all we four Greybeards knew and more.
"KOM ZU'U BO ZEIM!"
To Talao, of course, this natural progression clearly meant he was ready to brave the final trial of the Snow-Throat and speak to our Elder atop the mountain. My doubt proved appropriate as he has spent the last three days attempting to clear the path to the peak. But the Snow-Throat is a towering behemoth, and does not yield but to those who have mastered their Voice. Something that clearly frustrates our new Dovahkiin; for all his gifts, I think, he still lacks the experience and understanding to overcome its will.
"Clear, damn you!"
I gently place my hand upon his trembling shoulder, his eyes wide open, and his lungs gasping for air. "Enough, Dragonborn. DREM."
"Just a bit more-"
"No." My grip is iron upon him, for worry he will leap into the omnipresent blizzard that encircles the highest reaches of the mountain, barring his path. "You cannot. You must calm yourself, and abandon this folly before you do yourself harm. Remember that you are Dragonborn; but you are not a slave to your blood. You are Talao, and first and foremost, you are a person." Slowly, the trembling abates. "Breathe. Allow Kyne's breath to flow through you, here in the seat of her power. LOK BO, THU'UM TUUM." And as he breathes in and out, the tension leaves his body under my grip; once I am sure he is at no risk of jumping forward, I release him. "Good. Welcome back, Dovahkiin."
"...Y'ffre, I feel like I've just run the Seven Thousands Steps twice over. Apologies for-"
"Do not apologize." My voice is no less iron than my grip a moment before. "Amend your mistake, and then move past it."
"How?" he asks, sitting heavily upon the steps. "The Way of the Voice? I am neither Nord nor Greybeard."
"While that is true, there is yet truth and importance in its teachings." I take a seat next to Talao, legs crossed. "There are also many layers to the concept, which you are unaware of, being - as you say - not of our culture. We Greybeards follow the specific philosophy as set forth originally by Jurgen Windcaller, when he contemplated the defeat of Nordic war chiefs during the conquests of the 1st Era. He was seized with the revelation that the Nords had abused the power granted by Kynareth, and were punished by the gods for misusing the Thu'um that they relied on so heavily to conquer other regions, rather than in their own defense. The only true use of the Voice, he decided, was meant for the worship and glory of the gods, not mortal dominance, and so chose Silence."
"So how does someone like Ulfric justify his own actions." Almost immediately, Talao winces. "I mean… sorry, I imagine that is perhaps a touchy subject. Perhaps I should also choose silence when my mouth is moving faster than my mind."
"Hm. You have asked, and it is my duty to answer you, Dovahkiin. Jurgen believed that the only strong voice is one which is used judiciously and with the goal of preserving the natural order, not for martial conquest, which with his triumph over the Tongues of his time became a cornerstone of Nord culture. To 'Speak Only In True Need.' For those not trained in the use of the Thu'um, this principle became practiced in regards to other aspects of society, though of course what constitutes 'True Need' tends to be rather subjective. While I will not pass judgment on the righteousness of our former pupil's cause, his usage of the Voice in battle is anathema to our own values, ones that he agreed to follow when he joined us in High Hrothgar."
He nods. "I do in some ways admire your dedication to pacifism; Y'ffre knows the world would be a better place if more followed such values. But how then do you justify training one such as myself, or Tiber Septim for that matter? While I would certainly like to avoid needless bloodshed…" His hands clench, as if in remembrance of some deed, "I doubt the path ahead of me will allow such mercy."
"The fact that the question occurs to you at all is worthy," I say with a soft voice. "The Dragonborn is an exception to all the rules - the Dragon Blood itself is a gift of Akatosh, just as the Thu'um itself was a gift of Kyne. If we accept one gift, how can we deny the other? We therefore seek to guide you on the proper use of your gift, which transcends the restrictions which bind other mortals. While I do believe that the Way of the Voice shall help you falling victim from the influence of your blood, true mastery of the Voice can only be achieved when your inner spirit is in harmony with your outward actions. And that is something that cannot be taught in a month."
"So you're kicking me out of the nest, as it were," he jokes, a grin gracing his features for the first time this day.
"I should never admit to such a thing. We both know, however, that your time here has come to an end… for now, at least. Fortunate timing for this to arrive, then." I hand to him the parchment I had hidden within my robes.
He takes it gingerly. "When…?"
"Naught but a few moments ago. Delivered by a very harried and tired courier who vowed never to run the Seven Thousand steps again, no matter how much he was paid. I had intended to deliver it directly, but needs demanded I prevent the message's recipient from becoming an ice statue."
"Would you like a glass of water for your dry humour, Master Arngeir?" Despite his grumbling, he opens the missive; unadorned, with no name, no sender, no seal. Just the words, IT'S TIME, written upon it. "I suppose it is time, then."
"Come, then. I have taken the liberty of having Master Borri collect your belonging for you."
"...You're sure you aren't just looking for an excuse to kick me out?"
In short order, we five are gathered in the annex of High Hrothgar, Talao's pack upon his shoulders, and the Greybeards arrayed to see him off. Talao thanks each of us profusely, whispered words and signs exchanged, bonds forged through our time spent together.
"Dovahkiin," I say, with the slightest hint of power coursing through the word. He stands, in the same spot as he did when accepting our greeting a month past. "You have learned all that we Greybeards could teach, save that which our Elder keeps atop the peak of the Snow-Throat. I know that the next time you stand before us, you shall succeed in clearing the path. Your training ends here, giving you the tools you need to confront the many challenges ahead of you, and the foundation to grow fully into your self and your destiny, whatsoever they may be. They shall reveal themselves to you in time, if you but remain true to yourself."
As one, the four of us bow deeply to the Dragonborn, a gesture he returns in kind. "Masters. Words cannot express the thanks I would give you, so I shall strive to show it through deeds. Wherever the path I walk leads, whatever trail I blaze, I shall make my own, and endeavour to leave the world a better place in my wake. Plus," he adds in a stage whisper, "I left one last plate of sweetrolls for you all in the pantry. Hopefully that makes up for all the trouble I've caused."
"Ah, Talao… many things of you I shall miss. But your wit shall not be one."
"Master Borri does not seem to agree with you," he says, with our sign for 'you're welcome' in response to Borri's 'thanks', "nor does the grin on your face."
A shake of my head is my only response, as the traitorous grin on my face refuses to subside. "Go, Dovahkiin. The world is in need of you."
And he does, leaving us once again in silence. It is not until halfway up the ascent to the peak of the mountain that it even occurs to me that the silence I found so comforting for the past decades could be anything other than such. But for the first time, it unsettles me, as I notice it has deepened in the past month. The winds howl less fiercely down the furrows of the mountain. Hardy plants, that once thrived in the snowbanks, fall to dust in my hands. And a dark film seems to settle over all of Skyrim spread out before me atop the mountain, as I stand before the Elder. "Has Akatosh set an impossible goal before him? His destiny may not be certain, but it is certain to involve him."
Only Time will tell.
BEX MIIR AAD: Open the path (lit. Open door trail) [MIIRAAD - meaning path or opportunity - is one of those compound words that doesn't have an official translation for its individual parts, but MIIRAAK is another word that means "portal", which has the separate word AAK - meaning guide. MIIR being the common word must make the similarity in the concept of "something to go through," and we can extrapolate that AAD must mean something about the concept of proceeding along a path.]
KOM ZU'U BO ZEIM: Let me go through (lit. Allow I (formal) fly through) [KOM is drawn from KOMEYT - to issue, or let loose - from which I derive the separate concepts KOM - to allow - and EYT - to loose from bonds - though this is different in concept from STIN - to free, freedom. ZU'U has the honor of having a glottal stop, which I theorize is used as a possessive concept; a glottal stop indicates something that is an inherent trait to the individual, rather than a description. ZU'U is a dragon referring to itself. THU'UM is the defining characteristic of dragons, their Voice. STRUNDU'UL is the Stormcrown, the title given to the Dragonborn that denotes their significance as the chosen of Akatosh.]
Delphine V: Diplomatic Immunity
Fredas 25th of Frostfall 4E201 Evening
Delphine
"I've figured out how we're going to get you into the Thalmor Embassy."
He nods, looking over the numerous papers strewn about my desk. It had only been a month and a half since I'd last seen him, but I almost didn't recognize Talao when he walked back into the Sleeping Giant. It puzzled me for a moment once I did; he looked the same as last I saw him, fair face, windswept hair a bit longer than before, favoring his unimpaired leg, and still wearing his well-worn and well-fit clothes. I started to get an idea when I noticed he'd only said a few muttered greetings as I left Orgnar at the bar and led him to my safe room; conviction, I decided to call the difference. It wasn't confidence - Y'ffre knows he had plenty of that to go around - it was that he was more centered than before. His energy used to tend to get thrown about him, effective but sometimes troublesome, but now it was held within him, focused, intent. It gives me the impression of a panther on the hunt. Which is good; he'll need that in the pit of vipers I'm about to throw him into.
Although, I could use a little of the old Talao about now. "The Greybeards didn't render you mute, did they? You'll be needing your unique brand of brassiness to gatecrash the Thalmor party."
He laughs, finally, a short barking laugh that seems just as centered as the rest of him, as if he wouldn't or couldn't waste any part of his breath. "No, nothing like that, Delphine. In fact, I have explicit approval to shout and Shout as much as I like. But learning the truth of what I am and what I can do has simply made me more… aware of how strong those abilities are. So I suppose you could say I've elected to be more frugal with my speech, and likewise with my Speech." In a thinker's pose, head tilted, fist upon his chin, he says, "Or maybe I've forgotten what it's like to not be in the presence of a group of old men who literally never speak. Something you have in common when you're being stubborn, come to think of it."
Never-mind, definitely the same Dragonborn I left in Kynesgrove. "I think your silver tongue has some tarnish, Talao. The only way you could have insulted me more would be comparing me to the Thalmor. Don't," I cut him off mid-word, before he says something I'd have to hurt him for.
"Killjoy. Now, what's this about a party?"
"Exactly what you'd imagine from a Thalmor affair, I'd wager. Ambassador Elenwen regularly throws parties where the rich and connected cozy up to the Thalmor. And I've managed to secure you an invitation."
That gets his attention. "How many favors did you have to call in for that? No doubt the Thalmor would see through any forgeries."
"More than a few. I knew a fake invitation wouldn't pass muster; Elenwen usually thoroughly vets her guest list to avoid any conflicts of interest and personality. I debated… convincing another guest to volunteer their own invitation, but that could have brought you under enough suspicion for them to look too closely into your past, and find your name on the Imperial lists of who was at Helgen." It was unlikely, but still possible; I'd never known the Thalmor to cut corners on security, and it just seemed like an unnecessary risk. "In the end, I wound up spreading stories of a bard wandering Skyrim with a voice of honey, lyrics of gold, and a particular disdain for 'Stormcloak revisionist history,' who would love to perform in Alinor someday. You'd be surprised how easy it is to get word around in Skyrim, even information that nobody should have any reason to know. It took a few weeks, but the Embassy eventually sent an invitation to the Dead Man's Drink in Falkreath, where it was 'rumoured' the bard stayed, and I intercepted it."
There's a silence for a moment. "So, to wit, you invented an entire person out of thin air, whole-cloth, spread so many rumours about them that people believed he was real, including the most paranoid intelligence group on Mundus, and now you want me to attend a party with the most influential individuals in the province, perform and distract them, the infiltrate the rest of the Embassy for information that could possibly save the world?"
"I have been doing this a long time, remember?"
"…Delphine, I forgive you for everything that happened on the way to Kynesgrove, apologize for any shortcomings of my own, and declare my undying love for you. If I had an Amulet of Mara right now-"
"Alright, easy, Dragonborn. I don't mix duty and pleasure; even if I weren't old enough to be your mother." I still grin at his antics, even as he mutters something under his breath about having a young face. "You'll be going alone, but I do have a contact inside the embassy."
"Trustworthy, I assume? Why doesn't he raid Elenwen's office himself?"
Joking aside, he begins raiding my alchemy stores. "Malborn doesn't exactly have the skills or stomach for a job like this. Besides, it's more important for him to maintain his cover exactly for situations like this." I grab his hand just before he lights the alchemy burner in the corner. "You aren't going to burn down my tavern, right?"
"Oh, no! Alchemy is one of the few things I have some talent in beyond my bardy-ness. Potions to soothe an aching throat or ease your exhaustion for a long day or long night performing. I wound up picking up a few more tricks along the way, too." The flame begins heating the solvent, and his delicate hands begin grinding some Frost Mirriam into a mortar and pestle. "Malborn… Bosmeri name, no?"
"Yeah." I make sure I sit close enough to Talao in case he does make something explode by accident. "The Thalmor wiped out his family back in Valenwood during one of their purges that we never hear about. Luckily they don't know who he really is, or he wouldn't be serving drinks at the Ambassador's parties. Not that the Thalmor trust anyone that isn't also Thalmor, of course. Though maybe even assuming they trust other Thalmor is too generous." I glance his way as he steeps the powdered frost mirriam and begins to work on some purple mountain flower, wondering what it is he's concocting. "You can act the part of a Thalmor toady, right?"
He scoffs. "Surely, you jest, Delphine. I learned how to flatter in High Rock before I could even form full sentences. Rest assured knowing the Ambassador will find herself thoroughly charmed before the night is out. Figuratively speaking of course." He pops a cork into the full potion bottle, immediately grabbing different ingredients - valerian and bleeding crown - to start another. "How fares the rest of Skyrim in my absence? The Greybeards don't exactly have a periodical delivered."
"What, you think I know every rumour in Skyrim because I masquerade as an innkeeper?"
He gives me a sidelong look, hands never faltering in their work. "No, I think you know every rumour in Skyrim because you're a paranoid Blade who obsessively keeps track of everything in the province."
Fair enough. "Let's see… A lot of local complaints about an early winter, ruined crops, bad livestock births. Could be nothing, could be something, but not much I could verify. The Burning of King Olaf happened as scheduled in Solitude, though there was a fair bit of controversy given the murder of High King Torygg. The College of Winterhold unearthed something big in Saarthal, apparently; I keep tabs on them because they have a Thalmor ambassador of their own, Ancano. He's small fry, but I'd be worried about him worming his fingers into whatever magical headache they've gotten themselves into now. And the Stormcloaks and the Legion are still trading skirmishes with little to no change in the lines of engagement - though I do hear the 'Cloaks had a big victory in Korvanjund a few weeks back. Ulfric has a new hat, so I hear, made of dragon bones. We'll see if he's inspired to make any big moves after that."
"And the dragons?" Another potion bottled, and a third begun. Mica and dragon's tongue with… dwarven oil, I think, though this one seems to be a paste rather than a potion.
"There are still attacks here and there, but they seem to have plateaued. Most of them seem to be making roost in out of the way places; old mountain peaks, abandoned ruins and outposts, things like that. A few of the bastards have been taken down by guards or concerted adventurer attacks, but more than once a town has claimed to see the same dragon they just killed out somewhere else after a few days. Barring the ones you took care of, naturally. There's even a few scattered stories just begun to pass through of dragon sightings in Cyrodiil, Morrowind, even one report out of Elsweyr."
"I suppose that tracks. Dragons used to be found in every corner of Tamriel, not just Skyrim. Stendarr forbid we wind up with Yokudan or Akiviri dragons too."
"I'm just saying, Talao, nobody's making any headway into the crisis without your aid. I really hope that month you spent with the Greybeards cleared up your reservations."
With a heavy sigh, he extinguishes the alchemy flame, facing me with a third bottle in hand. "It has, Delphine. I'm no Talos or Wulfharth, at least not yet, but I know so much more. Enough to not be helpless anymore. I'm certain enough that I won't be magically turning into some kind of gestalt dragon-Breton soul-personality-being, or so emotionally volatile that I Shout an annoying courier into paste, but for every reservation the Greybeards answered, I feel like I found another. But that's why I'm out here and not up there. I've read all I can read, meditated until my knees rubbed raw, and now I have to find the rest of the answers out here myself. I promise you that I will have Words with the next dragon we come across. Until then," he places his potions in his satchel, and we start to leave the safe room, "when is the next Thalmor party?"
"First of Sun's Dusk, one week from today; she holds them on the first Fredas of every month. I don't know how much time we have with this whole dragon crisis before something drastic happens, so it's important you don't miss that party. Thankfully, we should have enough time to reach Solitude and prepare; about four to five days from Riverwood to Solitude gives us one or two in town, maybe you give a surprise performance to sell your existence to all the spies in the city so the Thalmor know your coming. The day of, find Malborn in the Winking Skeever; you know the place?"
"Do I ever! I think they dedicated one of the bar-stools to me."
Not gonna take that bait. "He'll sneak in any contraband you need past security; don't expect the Thalmor to let anything in that isn't your clothes and your instrument. So make sure it's enough."
He grins widely as I close the hidden door behind us. "All I really need is my voice, Delphine; the rest is just for show."
"I almost wish I could be there to see the performance. I've chartered a carriage for our trip to Solitude that will arrive in the morning. You can take the 'attic' room for tonight. And Talao?" He stops just before leaving my room. Maybe it doesn't need to be said, but I'd rather there be no misunderstandings. "Don't let the Thalmor get you. Fate of the world aside, they will not be kind to you. Or Malborn. Or me, for that matter. Be careful."
Delphine
"I've figured out how we're going to get you into the Thalmor Embassy."
He nods, looking over the numerous papers strewn about my desk. It had only been a month and a half since I'd last seen him, but I almost didn't recognize Talao when he walked back into the Sleeping Giant. It puzzled me for a moment once I did; he looked the same as last I saw him, fair face, windswept hair a bit longer than before, favoring his unimpaired leg, and still wearing his well-worn and well-fit clothes. I started to get an idea when I noticed he'd only said a few muttered greetings as I left Orgnar at the bar and led him to my safe room; conviction, I decided to call the difference. It wasn't confidence - Y'ffre knows he had plenty of that to go around - it was that he was more centered than before. His energy used to tend to get thrown about him, effective but sometimes troublesome, but now it was held within him, focused, intent. It gives me the impression of a panther on the hunt. Which is good; he'll need that in the pit of vipers I'm about to throw him into.
Although, I could use a little of the old Talao about now. "The Greybeards didn't render you mute, did they? You'll be needing your unique brand of brassiness to gatecrash the Thalmor party."
He laughs, finally, a short barking laugh that seems just as centered as the rest of him, as if he wouldn't or couldn't waste any part of his breath. "No, nothing like that, Delphine. In fact, I have explicit approval to shout and Shout as much as I like. But learning the truth of what I am and what I can do has simply made me more… aware of how strong those abilities are. So I suppose you could say I've elected to be more frugal with my speech, and likewise with my Speech." In a thinker's pose, head tilted, fist upon his chin, he says, "Or maybe I've forgotten what it's like to not be in the presence of a group of old men who literally never speak. Something you have in common when you're being stubborn, come to think of it."
Never-mind, definitely the same Dragonborn I left in Kynesgrove. "I think your silver tongue has some tarnish, Talao. The only way you could have insulted me more would be comparing me to the Thalmor. Don't," I cut him off mid-word, before he says something I'd have to hurt him for.
"Killjoy. Now, what's this about a party?"
"Exactly what you'd imagine from a Thalmor affair, I'd wager. Ambassador Elenwen regularly throws parties where the rich and connected cozy up to the Thalmor. And I've managed to secure you an invitation."
That gets his attention. "How many favors did you have to call in for that? No doubt the Thalmor would see through any forgeries."
"More than a few. I knew a fake invitation wouldn't pass muster; Elenwen usually thoroughly vets her guest list to avoid any conflicts of interest and personality. I debated… convincing another guest to volunteer their own invitation, but that could have brought you under enough suspicion for them to look too closely into your past, and find your name on the Imperial lists of who was at Helgen." It was unlikely, but still possible; I'd never known the Thalmor to cut corners on security, and it just seemed like an unnecessary risk. "In the end, I wound up spreading stories of a bard wandering Skyrim with a voice of honey, lyrics of gold, and a particular disdain for 'Stormcloak revisionist history,' who would love to perform in Alinor someday. You'd be surprised how easy it is to get word around in Skyrim, even information that nobody should have any reason to know. It took a few weeks, but the Embassy eventually sent an invitation to the Dead Man's Drink in Falkreath, where it was 'rumoured' the bard stayed, and I intercepted it."
There's a silence for a moment. "So, to wit, you invented an entire person out of thin air, whole-cloth, spread so many rumours about them that people believed he was real, including the most paranoid intelligence group on Mundus, and now you want me to attend a party with the most influential individuals in the province, perform and distract them, the infiltrate the rest of the Embassy for information that could possibly save the world?"
"I have been doing this a long time, remember?"
"…Delphine, I forgive you for everything that happened on the way to Kynesgrove, apologize for any shortcomings of my own, and declare my undying love for you. If I had an Amulet of Mara right now-"
"Alright, easy, Dragonborn. I don't mix duty and pleasure; even if I weren't old enough to be your mother." I still grin at his antics, even as he mutters something under his breath about having a young face. "You'll be going alone, but I do have a contact inside the embassy."
"Trustworthy, I assume? Why doesn't he raid Elenwen's office himself?"
Joking aside, he begins raiding my alchemy stores. "Malborn doesn't exactly have the skills or stomach for a job like this. Besides, it's more important for him to maintain his cover exactly for situations like this." I grab his hand just before he lights the alchemy burner in the corner. "You aren't going to burn down my tavern, right?"
"Oh, no! Alchemy is one of the few things I have some talent in beyond my bardy-ness. Potions to soothe an aching throat or ease your exhaustion for a long day or long night performing. I wound up picking up a few more tricks along the way, too." The flame begins heating the solvent, and his delicate hands begin grinding some Frost Mirriam into a mortar and pestle. "Malborn… Bosmeri name, no?"
"Yeah." I make sure I sit close enough to Talao in case he does make something explode by accident. "The Thalmor wiped out his family back in Valenwood during one of their purges that we never hear about. Luckily they don't know who he really is, or he wouldn't be serving drinks at the Ambassador's parties. Not that the Thalmor trust anyone that isn't also Thalmor, of course. Though maybe even assuming they trust other Thalmor is too generous." I glance his way as he steeps the powdered frost mirriam and begins to work on some purple mountain flower, wondering what it is he's concocting. "You can act the part of a Thalmor toady, right?"
He scoffs. "Surely, you jest, Delphine. I learned how to flatter in High Rock before I could even form full sentences. Rest assured knowing the Ambassador will find herself thoroughly charmed before the night is out. Figuratively speaking of course." He pops a cork into the full potion bottle, immediately grabbing different ingredients - valerian and bleeding crown - to start another. "How fares the rest of Skyrim in my absence? The Greybeards don't exactly have a periodical delivered."
"What, you think I know every rumour in Skyrim because I masquerade as an innkeeper?"
He gives me a sidelong look, hands never faltering in their work. "No, I think you know every rumour in Skyrim because you're a paranoid Blade who obsessively keeps track of everything in the province."
Fair enough. "Let's see… A lot of local complaints about an early winter, ruined crops, bad livestock births. Could be nothing, could be something, but not much I could verify. The Burning of King Olaf happened as scheduled in Solitude, though there was a fair bit of controversy given the murder of High King Torygg. The College of Winterhold unearthed something big in Saarthal, apparently; I keep tabs on them because they have a Thalmor ambassador of their own, Ancano. He's small fry, but I'd be worried about him worming his fingers into whatever magical headache they've gotten themselves into now. And the Stormcloaks and the Legion are still trading skirmishes with little to no change in the lines of engagement - though I do hear the 'Cloaks had a big victory in Korvanjund a few weeks back. Ulfric has a new hat, so I hear, made of dragon bones. We'll see if he's inspired to make any big moves after that."
"And the dragons?" Another potion bottled, and a third begun. Mica and dragon's tongue with… dwarven oil, I think, though this one seems to be a paste rather than a potion.
"There are still attacks here and there, but they seem to have plateaued. Most of them seem to be making roost in out of the way places; old mountain peaks, abandoned ruins and outposts, things like that. A few of the bastards have been taken down by guards or concerted adventurer attacks, but more than once a town has claimed to see the same dragon they just killed out somewhere else after a few days. Barring the ones you took care of, naturally. There's even a few scattered stories just begun to pass through of dragon sightings in Cyrodiil, Morrowind, even one report out of Elsweyr."
"I suppose that tracks. Dragons used to be found in every corner of Tamriel, not just Skyrim. Stendarr forbid we wind up with Yokudan or Akiviri dragons too."
"I'm just saying, Talao, nobody's making any headway into the crisis without your aid. I really hope that month you spent with the Greybeards cleared up your reservations."
With a heavy sigh, he extinguishes the alchemy flame, facing me with a third bottle in hand. "It has, Delphine. I'm no Talos or Wulfharth, at least not yet, but I know so much more. Enough to not be helpless anymore. I'm certain enough that I won't be magically turning into some kind of gestalt dragon-Breton soul-personality-being, or so emotionally volatile that I Shout an annoying courier into paste, but for every reservation the Greybeards answered, I feel like I found another. But that's why I'm out here and not up there. I've read all I can read, meditated until my knees rubbed raw, and now I have to find the rest of the answers out here myself. I promise you that I will have Words with the next dragon we come across. Until then," he places his potions in his satchel, and we start to leave the safe room, "when is the next Thalmor party?"
"First of Sun's Dusk, one week from today; she holds them on the first Fredas of every month. I don't know how much time we have with this whole dragon crisis before something drastic happens, so it's important you don't miss that party. Thankfully, we should have enough time to reach Solitude and prepare; about four to five days from Riverwood to Solitude gives us one or two in town, maybe you give a surprise performance to sell your existence to all the spies in the city so the Thalmor know your coming. The day of, find Malborn in the Winking Skeever; you know the place?"
"Do I ever! I think they dedicated one of the bar-stools to me."
Not gonna take that bait. "He'll sneak in any contraband you need past security; don't expect the Thalmor to let anything in that isn't your clothes and your instrument. So make sure it's enough."
He grins widely as I close the hidden door behind us. "All I really need is my voice, Delphine; the rest is just for show."
"I almost wish I could be there to see the performance. I've chartered a carriage for our trip to Solitude that will arrive in the morning. You can take the 'attic' room for tonight. And Talao?" He stops just before leaving my room. Maybe it doesn't need to be said, but I'd rather there be no misunderstandings. "Don't let the Thalmor get you. Fate of the world aside, they will not be kind to you. Or Malborn. Or me, for that matter. Be careful."
Malborn I: Diplomatic Immunity
Fredas, 1st of Sun's Dusk 2E401 Noon
Malborn
"Poke out your eyes, lad, pour lead in your ears.
These sails portend madness, dark horror, and fear.
Abandon your losses, your ships, and your gold.
Blood on the water, Velehk this way comes."
There are some days where it's easy to forget the trauma of my past, live in the present where things are… not great, but at least tolerable. Other days, it's impossible to close my eyes without smelling the burning trees, seeing the strung-up corpses.
"A noose from the rigging a plank from the boards,
Do yourself in, don't try at crossing swords.
Mercy's not a shipmate among that heartless horde.
Blood on the water, the Pirate King comes."
Today is a bit of a mixed bag. On the one hand, I'm here for Delphine's plan, waiting for whatever poor sod she's hoodwinked into her latest scheme. Hard not to think about why I became a spy when I'm on spy business.
"Stout Empire Galleon or swift Elven Skiff,
They every one splinter and just as soon sink.
But only after crew and captain have their fun,
Blood on the water, your days are done."
On the other hand, the Winking Skeever is in a fairly jaunty mood, especially for mid-day. Thanks to the bard currently belting out Pirate King of the Abacean for the lunch crowd; apparently he'd been here for a few days and captured more than a few admirers with his talents, a cut above the usual apprentices from the Bard's college. It certainly helps keep my mood tempered, though I have one eye and ear open for someone else.
"He'll tear your gut and he'll eat your heart raw.
His eyes gleam red, his heart will never thaw.
Mark well these words, you quaking babes.
Blood on the water follows Captain Velehk Sain."
The tavern erupts into applause and cheers as the bard finishes his song with a flourish and a bow. I add to the din enough not to stick out among the fawning crowd, but inwardly breathe a sigh of relief as he seems ready to take a respite, plied with coin and drinks alike. Good, I can focus on finding my mark now. My Ashfire Mead sits untouched on the table in front of me. I doubt he snuck in without me seeing, and everybody in the tavern are regulars; no strangers waiting in any dark corners waiting to make a move. Ugh. Ius is testing me. It figures Delphine would send someone with no sense of punctuality. If he isn't here soon, I'll have to head up to the Embassy empty-handed, and he'll have to make do without my help. Well, at least no one has tried talking to-
"Ho there, friend!"
What did I do to agitate you, Ius? "Can I help you?"
The bard - because of course it had to be the bard - takes the seat next to me without so much as an is this taken? with a drink in each hand; one pint of whatever Vinius has on tap today, which he places on the table in front of me, the other around a bottle I can't quite read from my seat. "But of course! You can help me drink one of these!"
"Thanks, but I already have some of my own," I say, gesturing to the drink on the table in front of me. "And besides, I happen to be waiting for someone."
"Oh! My apologies, good mer, I didn't mean to intrude." He seems genuine enough, and doesn't actually smell or look terribly drunk. A little tipsy perhaps, but still conscious and aware enough to pick up social cues. "Merriment is my trade; I saw someone in the corner alone and thought I would check on them, is all. Plenty enough dread in the world outside these walls, a reprieve from that world can be a balm for a weary soul."
"Well, while not needed, it is appreciated. Though at this rate, it seems I might have been… stood up, as it were."
"A tragedy is what that is…?"
Not a terrible risk giving my name here. "Malborn." And my cover story with Delphine was, in fact, that I was waiting for someone and being stood up, to explain my long solitary wait at a tavern.
"Talao is mine. I'm sorry to hear about your unfortunate experience. I only hope nothing has happened to them."
"Mm, possible, but I doubt it. We were set up through a friend of mine and she has a knack for picking out the cream of the crop," I say, with a very significant eyeroll.
He smirks, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Well, I hope, for your friend's sake, that's all it is. I thought the same myself a while back, but… No, sorry, it's not something I should bring up here."
"Why might that be?" Part of me is still surveying the room and watching the door, but each passing moment makes it more unlikely, so I might as well enjoy the company, charming as it is. "The Winking Skeever is a safe enough place, no criminals listening through the walls like you might find in Riften."
"Less the tavern so much as the city, Malborn. And certain… political groups that make their home here. I thought he'd just forgotten our meeting, only to find out he'd…" He clears his throat, stopping his retelling in its tracks.
Well now, if this is where I think it's going… "Let me guess. Thalmor crack squad?" He nods, eyes glancing around in suspicion. "Don't worry, no agents here. Vinius doesn't look kindly on magical espionage any more than mundane."
"Still dangerous things to be saying, let alone thinking, in Solitude. I've heard they can plumb the depths of your mind with but a passing glance."
"Thankfully, no. I'd never be able to work for them if they could. Not after what they did to my family." At his incredulous look, I smile back. "Where better to place yourself for some revenge than right under their noses?"
"There's nothing I'd like more than that," he says with a wistful look.
Why not? "Well, truth told, the person I was waiting for was supposed to help me with something tonight. It'd be dangerous, but if you've the mind to do something…"
"Yes, Malborn, I think that'd be just fine." He then pops the bottle in his off hand, takes a swig and then places the Ashfire Mead down on the table, rotating it to match my own untouched bottle. "Our mutual friend sent me, after all."
"You have got to be… YOU'RE who she picked?" Words cannot encompass the frustration coursing through me right now. "Is there any particular reason you deemed it necessary to waste my time so thoroughly for the last hour?"
"A few, actually, all very good reasons." He takes another swig of the mead, his tipsy demeanour long gone, while I contemplate wringing his neck. "First, I was establishing my cover as a bard of renown, with a tasteful ear for songs that are equally appealing to any audience regardless of political affiliation. Y'ffre forbid I burst into Age of Oppression in the middle of the Thalmor Embassy. Our mutual friend laid much of the groundwork for my invitation, but the Thalmor agent who WAS in here yesterday would have confirmed to the Ambassador that I actually existed. Second, Delphine said you might be a bit hard to convince of my capability to perform the task set before me, and the best way I could think to demonstrate my charming ways was firsthand convincing you that I was a potential ally. I had a bit of help knowing who you were in the first place, but you can't deny it was effective."
It's hard to deny, although… "Elenwen isn't exactly the most trusting person; in fact you could say she's probably one of the most paranoid of the Thalmor, being stuck here in a province she despises in every way."
"Of course! No doubt she'll be a tough nut to crack, but while not every Thalmor is cut from the same cloth, they do all use the same pattern, if you catch my metaphor?"
"Close enough. Any other reasons?"
He grins. "It was a lot of fun."
"Of course it was. I thought it was Ius testing me, but instead another disciple of Y'ffre decided to have some fun at my expense. What could I have been thinking?" I sigh, but my frustration has abated enough to move on; I really was short on time by this point. "What have you got for me? There's a shipment of Colovian Brandy that I'm taking to the Embassy soon, should be enough cover for anything short of a set of plate armor you need me to smuggle."
"Nothing so unsubtle, Malborn." He hands me a small rucksack from which I hear the gentle clack of potion bottles. "Care with that; everything should be well insulated, but I still wouldn't go throwing it around."
"Shouldn't be a problem; no one will think twice about me treating a case of alcohol gingerly to avoid any breakages. I'd ask what your plan is, but… I think the Imperials refer to it as operational security? The less I know the better."
He nods in approval. "Nothing should go wrong, if I play this correctly, but we all know how long a plan survives contact with the enemy. Not at all."
"One way or another, Talao, I wish you luck. For my sake, if nothing else."
"Ha!" The smile on his face is genuine, and I'm glad he doesn't take offense to my desire not to be tortured by the Thalmor if our plot was exposed. "Worry not, I assure you the Dominion abhors my existence more still than yours, even before what I have planned this evening. Y'ffre guide you, Malborn. See you on the other side."
With a hurried farewell, I leave with the package, headed to my rendezvous with the party shipment. The ride back to the Embassy is long, and my mind inevitably wanders back to the fires that haunt my dreams, but this time I imagine them engulfing the Embassy, screams of the Thalmor replacing the screams of my friends and family. "Soon, everyone. Sap will be paid with blood. I promise."
Malborn
"Poke out your eyes, lad, pour lead in your ears.
These sails portend madness, dark horror, and fear.
Abandon your losses, your ships, and your gold.
Blood on the water, Velehk this way comes."
There are some days where it's easy to forget the trauma of my past, live in the present where things are… not great, but at least tolerable. Other days, it's impossible to close my eyes without smelling the burning trees, seeing the strung-up corpses.
"A noose from the rigging a plank from the boards,
Do yourself in, don't try at crossing swords.
Mercy's not a shipmate among that heartless horde.
Blood on the water, the Pirate King comes."
Today is a bit of a mixed bag. On the one hand, I'm here for Delphine's plan, waiting for whatever poor sod she's hoodwinked into her latest scheme. Hard not to think about why I became a spy when I'm on spy business.
"Stout Empire Galleon or swift Elven Skiff,
They every one splinter and just as soon sink.
But only after crew and captain have their fun,
Blood on the water, your days are done."
On the other hand, the Winking Skeever is in a fairly jaunty mood, especially for mid-day. Thanks to the bard currently belting out Pirate King of the Abacean for the lunch crowd; apparently he'd been here for a few days and captured more than a few admirers with his talents, a cut above the usual apprentices from the Bard's college. It certainly helps keep my mood tempered, though I have one eye and ear open for someone else.
"He'll tear your gut and he'll eat your heart raw.
His eyes gleam red, his heart will never thaw.
Mark well these words, you quaking babes.
Blood on the water follows Captain Velehk Sain."
The tavern erupts into applause and cheers as the bard finishes his song with a flourish and a bow. I add to the din enough not to stick out among the fawning crowd, but inwardly breathe a sigh of relief as he seems ready to take a respite, plied with coin and drinks alike. Good, I can focus on finding my mark now. My Ashfire Mead sits untouched on the table in front of me. I doubt he snuck in without me seeing, and everybody in the tavern are regulars; no strangers waiting in any dark corners waiting to make a move. Ugh. Ius is testing me. It figures Delphine would send someone with no sense of punctuality. If he isn't here soon, I'll have to head up to the Embassy empty-handed, and he'll have to make do without my help. Well, at least no one has tried talking to-
"Ho there, friend!"
What did I do to agitate you, Ius? "Can I help you?"
The bard - because of course it had to be the bard - takes the seat next to me without so much as an is this taken? with a drink in each hand; one pint of whatever Vinius has on tap today, which he places on the table in front of me, the other around a bottle I can't quite read from my seat. "But of course! You can help me drink one of these!"
"Thanks, but I already have some of my own," I say, gesturing to the drink on the table in front of me. "And besides, I happen to be waiting for someone."
"Oh! My apologies, good mer, I didn't mean to intrude." He seems genuine enough, and doesn't actually smell or look terribly drunk. A little tipsy perhaps, but still conscious and aware enough to pick up social cues. "Merriment is my trade; I saw someone in the corner alone and thought I would check on them, is all. Plenty enough dread in the world outside these walls, a reprieve from that world can be a balm for a weary soul."
"Well, while not needed, it is appreciated. Though at this rate, it seems I might have been… stood up, as it were."
"A tragedy is what that is…?"
Not a terrible risk giving my name here. "Malborn." And my cover story with Delphine was, in fact, that I was waiting for someone and being stood up, to explain my long solitary wait at a tavern.
"Talao is mine. I'm sorry to hear about your unfortunate experience. I only hope nothing has happened to them."
"Mm, possible, but I doubt it. We were set up through a friend of mine and she has a knack for picking out the cream of the crop," I say, with a very significant eyeroll.
He smirks, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Well, I hope, for your friend's sake, that's all it is. I thought the same myself a while back, but… No, sorry, it's not something I should bring up here."
"Why might that be?" Part of me is still surveying the room and watching the door, but each passing moment makes it more unlikely, so I might as well enjoy the company, charming as it is. "The Winking Skeever is a safe enough place, no criminals listening through the walls like you might find in Riften."
"Less the tavern so much as the city, Malborn. And certain… political groups that make their home here. I thought he'd just forgotten our meeting, only to find out he'd…" He clears his throat, stopping his retelling in its tracks.
Well now, if this is where I think it's going… "Let me guess. Thalmor crack squad?" He nods, eyes glancing around in suspicion. "Don't worry, no agents here. Vinius doesn't look kindly on magical espionage any more than mundane."
"Still dangerous things to be saying, let alone thinking, in Solitude. I've heard they can plumb the depths of your mind with but a passing glance."
"Thankfully, no. I'd never be able to work for them if they could. Not after what they did to my family." At his incredulous look, I smile back. "Where better to place yourself for some revenge than right under their noses?"
"There's nothing I'd like more than that," he says with a wistful look.
Why not? "Well, truth told, the person I was waiting for was supposed to help me with something tonight. It'd be dangerous, but if you've the mind to do something…"
"Yes, Malborn, I think that'd be just fine." He then pops the bottle in his off hand, takes a swig and then places the Ashfire Mead down on the table, rotating it to match my own untouched bottle. "Our mutual friend sent me, after all."
"You have got to be… YOU'RE who she picked?" Words cannot encompass the frustration coursing through me right now. "Is there any particular reason you deemed it necessary to waste my time so thoroughly for the last hour?"
"A few, actually, all very good reasons." He takes another swig of the mead, his tipsy demeanour long gone, while I contemplate wringing his neck. "First, I was establishing my cover as a bard of renown, with a tasteful ear for songs that are equally appealing to any audience regardless of political affiliation. Y'ffre forbid I burst into Age of Oppression in the middle of the Thalmor Embassy. Our mutual friend laid much of the groundwork for my invitation, but the Thalmor agent who WAS in here yesterday would have confirmed to the Ambassador that I actually existed. Second, Delphine said you might be a bit hard to convince of my capability to perform the task set before me, and the best way I could think to demonstrate my charming ways was firsthand convincing you that I was a potential ally. I had a bit of help knowing who you were in the first place, but you can't deny it was effective."
It's hard to deny, although… "Elenwen isn't exactly the most trusting person; in fact you could say she's probably one of the most paranoid of the Thalmor, being stuck here in a province she despises in every way."
"Of course! No doubt she'll be a tough nut to crack, but while not every Thalmor is cut from the same cloth, they do all use the same pattern, if you catch my metaphor?"
"Close enough. Any other reasons?"
He grins. "It was a lot of fun."
"Of course it was. I thought it was Ius testing me, but instead another disciple of Y'ffre decided to have some fun at my expense. What could I have been thinking?" I sigh, but my frustration has abated enough to move on; I really was short on time by this point. "What have you got for me? There's a shipment of Colovian Brandy that I'm taking to the Embassy soon, should be enough cover for anything short of a set of plate armor you need me to smuggle."
"Nothing so unsubtle, Malborn." He hands me a small rucksack from which I hear the gentle clack of potion bottles. "Care with that; everything should be well insulated, but I still wouldn't go throwing it around."
"Shouldn't be a problem; no one will think twice about me treating a case of alcohol gingerly to avoid any breakages. I'd ask what your plan is, but… I think the Imperials refer to it as operational security? The less I know the better."
He nods in approval. "Nothing should go wrong, if I play this correctly, but we all know how long a plan survives contact with the enemy. Not at all."
"One way or another, Talao, I wish you luck. For my sake, if nothing else."
"Ha!" The smile on his face is genuine, and I'm glad he doesn't take offense to my desire not to be tortured by the Thalmor if our plot was exposed. "Worry not, I assure you the Dominion abhors my existence more still than yours, even before what I have planned this evening. Y'ffre guide you, Malborn. See you on the other side."
With a hurried farewell, I leave with the package, headed to my rendezvous with the party shipment. The ride back to the Embassy is long, and my mind inevitably wanders back to the fires that haunt my dreams, but this time I imagine them engulfing the Embassy, screams of the Thalmor replacing the screams of my friends and family. "Soon, everyone. Sap will be paid with blood. I promise."