Author's Note: After investing countless hours in playing Skyrim, I finally decided to write this story. While the main game kept my interest for several months, I eventually grew bored of it. Don't get me wrong - - it's a good game - - but one can only play the game so many times before the Main Quest starts getting old. Therefore, I'm skipping over the Main Quest and writing something different.
Though fun, writing this story is quite a task, so I would like to thank Whisper292 for her help in proofreading this chapter.
Like I said, writing this is quite enjoyable. I hope you, the reader, enjoy reading it equally as much.
Chapter One: Into the Deep
Blackreach was an eerie, perilous place.
The giant fungi and their airborne spores wreathed the immense underground cavern in a ghostly blue haze that easily obscured all but the first few meters of one's vision; the geode veins embedded within the rock reinforced the azure fog with their own radiant auras. The haunting hum of ancient Dwemer technologies rang throughout the cavern like the echo of a lost and forgotten age—an age of technological prowess and dominion over nature.
It was common knowledge that the Dwemer were the most advanced civilization in Tamriel and perhaps, as some speculated, even on Nirn. Their culture prospered all over northern Tamriel from eastern Morrowind all the way to western Hammerfell and flourished so well that, even thousands of years after their disappearance, the fruits of their reason and engineering genius still proudly flaunted their austere, logical glory over the chaotic anarchy of the surrounding nature.
Yet now, these specters of a bygone society loomed over Blackreach as guardians; the stone masonry gazed down upon the wildlife from all corners of the cavern while steam-powered machines combed the empty halls coldly, like mindless mechanical undead. Clashing with these automatons, the primitive Falmer lurked in the shadows for new quarry. Indeed, Blackreach was a dangerous place—the mere mention of its name alone horrified most adventurers.
Wynandil was not most adventurers.
Standing roughly over two meters tall, the Altmer hovered over a comfortable campfire in an effort to keep warm. Despite the magic insulation enchantment woven into his armored wizard robes beforehand, Wynandil still shivered from the biting cold climate of Blackreach, which was merely an extension of the deep freeze of snow-covered Skyrim. A moonstone pipe full of burning Aldmeri tobacco poised between his lips, he breathed in the smoke deeply and watched the living embers dance their salute to the potency of the mind, finally shrugging off all external concerns as he lost himself in the torrent of his own thoughts.
Over the span of several years, Wynandil and Calcelmo had collaborated on a project to study Dwemer technology for a better understanding of the dormant machines and engineering systems embedded into Markarth. The idea behind the research was to eventually harness said technologies and improve Markarth's living conditions and economic standing in all of Skyrim as well as increase the jarl's political power. Such a project was ambitious, even for the two Altmer.
Now, reported to hide in the depths of the infamous Blackreach, lurked some of the vast quantities of Dwemer knowledge—artifacts, engineering schematics, and weapons that could be examined and reverse engineered to grant the two Altmer insight into realizing their project's quota—just waiting to be found. Wynandil clutched the amulet of Julianos dangling from his neck and took another deep breath from his pipe in anticipation of the knowledge he would glean from his foray in the giant cavern.
Accompanying him in the makeshift camp was a squad of four Stormriders—a new but highly disciplined mercenary outfit seeking to establish themselves as a reputable fighters' guild. Based on their fighting prowess throughout the journey from the Reach to Winterhold, Wynandil found himself impressed. And Calcelmo wanted to hire the Companions . . .
"Any idea where we're supposed to go?" said Camille Woodsley, her brown eyes regarding Wynandil reticently. A Breton mage roughly half his height, she wore brown robes that draped over her thin, mousy frame conservatively, matching her modest facial features and curly blonde hair.
"We are currently twenty-one kilometers northeast of the Silent City," Wynandil replied, recounting his memory of the map's layout and scaling as he snuffed out the burning tobacco in his pipe. "We will continue our search there."
"The Silent City! But. . . but that place is crawling with countless Falmer," Camille stammered in fear.
"And just what have we been fighting for the past few weeks?" Avares Omoril chimed in. The Dunmer spellsword's mane of blood red hair and hard red eyes flaunted a tempered bravado, but her toned, voluptuous figure and soft facial features emphasized the caring, almost sisterly demeanor that currently surged through her words. "Really, if we could fend them off for this long, we could surely take on more. And we've already looked through the outskirts of Blackreach. The only place left now is the Silent City."
"And this one thinks we might find treasure there too," J'Rakha said, the Khajiit's glazed yellow eyes beaming as he licked his lips at the thought. His jet-black fur and furtive posture only added to his shifty aura, drawing a quick, suspicious glare from Wynandil.
"You guys are missing the point," Camille pleaded. "We've only been fighting small bands of Falmer. That city contains an entire army of those monsters. Worse, there are rumors that they use captured slaves as guards. And you think we're just going to walk on in there, grab whatever Dwemer contraptions we can find, and leave—all without any trouble from such a menace!"
"We are not leaving until we comb every area of this underground cavern," Wynandil enunciated sternly.
"Okay then, mister all-knowing wizard. Explain to me how we're going to survive the suicide mission you're stubbornly bent on pursuing!"
"Are you done barking?" Wynandil said tersely, the slightly salty accent laced within his otherwise deep gravelly voice accentuating his impatience. "Because I am done listening to you. This project is too important to stop now; we are going to search that city and that is final."
Camille stared at him as if he was mad. "Oh really. And why, pray tell, should I care about your stupid little project? What's so important about it that we need to die for it? Why must we search that place? Why not another?" Rolling her eyes spitefully, she sighed, "Who is the Dragonborn?"
That last question brought Wynandil to the end of his indulgence. He grabbed Camille by her robes and sneered dangerously close to her face. "Let me make two things clear. One, never utter that question again. Two, Calcelmo and I have invested too much time and money to allow something as simple as an insufficient search to ruin our project's results."
He glared at her as he continued. "Also, don't forget that Jarl Igmund employed our services for this project, and since Calcelmo hired all of you as my escort party, you too are a part of this project; woe beholds anyone who disappoints the jarl. Think about that the next time you tremble in fear of primitive savages." He finally let go of Camille, ending his tirade.
"Wizard's got a point," Hulgar the Valiant said soberly, nodding his head toward Wynandil. Like most Nords, the Stormrider squad's leader reached about one-and-four-fifths of a meter in height, his muscular frame encased in Nordic steel armor. His azure eyes cast a commanding stare over the entire group as he spoke. "As insane as it sounds, we have no choice but to go to the Silent City. We've cleared every nook and cranny of this place except that ruin."
"Look at it this way," Avares said soothingly. "The sooner we clear that city, the sooner we get home. Azura knows I can't wait to get this job done."
"Right," J'Rakha sneered suggestively, making lewd gestures as he continued. "With the way you and Hulgar are with each other, this one thinks you'll be making Dibella proud the first minute we get back."
With an indignant grimace, Avares motioned to slap the Khajiit, but Hulgar stayed her hand before the blow could connect, shaking his head before scowling at J'Rakha with a look of disgust.
"So it's settled then," Hulgar said. "In a few hours, we head for the Silent City. I suggest everyone check their stock and make any other preparations needed. I suspect we'll be walking through Oblivion itself once there."
oOo
After much preparation, the expedition started its journey toward the Silent City. When the expedition party was not fending off Falmer or Dwemer automatons, Wynandil tasked himself with reviewing his notes, puffing on his moonstone pipe as he made triply sure every bit of the expedition's findings was recorded. While he did not show it outwardly toward his escort, he was rather confused that he found little of note: only a handful of schematics for improved Dwemer armor, a couple of exquisite crossbows, and some scrap metal. Given that he was investigating a massive Dwemer ruin set in an even more massive underground cavern, Wynandil reasoned that he should have found more than he currently had catalogued.
He hoped he could find the source of the strange results—maybe he overlooked a small shadow concealing some priceless artifact or lost something along the way, but his methodical mindset combined with his catalogue contradicted such explanations. A more likely hypothesis was that J'Rakha was holding out on some valuable technologies; after all, he was a kleptomaniac, and his jet-black fur allowed him to bleed into the darkness like a shadow. Yet J'Rakha was not a big Khajiit—his wiry frame could not carry anything heavier than a few Dwemer cogs throughout the party's travels. Whatever the case, Wynandil was disturbed by this discrepancy. There should be more to find down here, he thought to himself. It is almost as if someone picked Blackreach clean beforehand, yet everyone is too afraid to set foot in here. Where did the missing artifacts go?
Wynandil put out the burning tobacco in his pipe, stuffed the pipe in his pack, and looked up from his notebook before peering up at the imposing walls of the Silent City. He noted the orderly and cogent façade it shared with its sibling structures; from the seamless stonemasonry of the city to the vines of Dwemer steam pipes stretching around its walls, the Silent City still maintained some of the systematic, striking design it had before. Yet now the logic and mathematical harmony added to the already empty, hollow, and foreboding atmosphere the ruin emitted. The local flora had begun to grow over patches of the masonry like gangrenous sores as dust and grime coated the machinery and steam pipes, marring their rational beauty. The wall-mounted fresco paintings as well as some of the city's other fragile components were rotting away from thousands of years of neglect. The ruin was but a shadow of its former glory, an echo of what it once was.
Hulgar suddenly raised a fist telling the expedition party to stop and regroup. "All right, listen up. Now that we've made it, we'll need to be more cautious." He scanned his sober stare over the party. "First off, we're not going to be like the Companions and just charge on in there like brainless milk-drinkers. Instead, what we're going to do is infiltrate the city." He then turned to the Khajiit. "J'Rakha, you can sneak through the shadows better than any of us. You will scout on ahead and take out as many of the most troublesome threats as you can."
Hulgar addressed Avares as J'Rakha began his scouting mission ahead. "I want you to watch the wizard's back while we set foot in the city. I'll help you, but we might get split up, and we can't afford to botch the job if that happens—least of all in this nightmare of a Dwemer ruin."
"Aye," Avares replied, her solemn eyes belying her apprehension underneath her red hair.
"Camille, you of all people should know about how deadly Falmer spellcasters can be. If we run into them, I want you to cast whatever hexes, sigils, and barriers you can to combat any foul curses and spells they will no doubt inflict upon us," Hulgar commanded.
Camille nodded, trepidation showing in her face.
"Now, we're all going to stick together and sneak our way into this Divines-forsaken ruin. Use any potions, spells, or other tricks up your sleeve if you need help doing this." Hulgar waved his hand forward. "Follow me, and watch your step."
As the group infiltrated into the city with the aid of potions and magic, Wynandil observed the vast expanse of streets, walkways, parapets, and alleyways diverging and intersecting with one another, forming a labyrinth molded in accordance with an intricate, complex mathematical master plan. To the side of each street stood enormous steam pumps and pistons thrusting cyclically in harmonious tandem with one another. Yet the entropy witnessed outside the city walls ran rampant inside the city as well; the same floral growths, dust-coatings, and decaying machinery were present throughout the ruin. In addition to all of this, some of the finer steam pipes were corroded with bitter brown rust.
Despite J'Rakha's reconnaissance work, there was never a shortage of Falmer, chaurus, and slaves to sneak past, whether in the streets, up above in the walkways and parapets, or hidden within the alleyways. While Wynandil's rigid, rectangular build made it almost impossible for him to sneak as adroitly as J'Rakha, who lurked far ahead of the group, he had a handful of alteration spells to make himself lighter and thus more silent. The rest of the group, however, were limited to agility-enhancing potions—and silent prayers to whatever deities they worshipped—to aid their sneaking ability. Between the Falmer's heightened auditory senses and their slaves' vision, it was a miracle the group wasn't caught and forced to fight through the streets—especially during the numerous close calls that threatened to give the group away.
As they neared the heart of the city, the number of Falmer patrols surprisingly decreased until there were only a few groups of two or three slaves of various races, allowing the party to eliminate a few of the pests if they were stealthy enough and J'Rakha hadn't taken them out already. The party still needed to exercise extreme caution through the maze of passageways though, so as not to attract unwanted attention and therefore certain death. Hulgar slowed his crawl to a standstill as he listened in to noises emanating from a fork in the street up ahead.
"Stop. I hear something."
As the expedition party complied, Wynandil noticed something scurrying around in the shadows ahead. As the source of the noises drew closer, he could make out the silhouette of a slave, hunched forward in a grotesque posture. Given its short, stocky build, Wynandil concluded that the slave was a Breton.
Before he could deduce anything further, a loud screech resounded throughout the street. Quickly turning on his heels, Wynandil spotted the source of the screech—a Bosmeri slave roosting atop the balcony of a Dwemer structure. J'Rakha skillfully hurled a throwing knife at the slave, drawing a sickly yellow-green pus as it embedded itself in the wretch's sore-ridden throat, but the damage was already done—the Breton slave up ahead heard the commotion, alerted its masters, and started rushing at the party, now at a disadvantage in the narrow street.
"Gods damn it," Hulgar sighed. "Run!"
Immediately, the party followed Hulgar into the other path down the fork, though they did not find a stratagem to aid them in their fight. Instead, they saw something for which nothing could prepare them.
The party rushed headlong into the Silent City forum, a vast circle of Dwemer towers joined by thick walls. Immediately ahead of the party loomed a high balcony, no doubt where Dwemer orators had given speeches before their disappearance. Floating above that hovered a giant orb, glowing a gilded radiant light that shone on the entirety of the forum. The golden light also revealed the horde of Falmer arranged in a circle central to the space and the slaves garrisoned in the parapets. As the Falmer patrol behind the party closed in, Hulgar turned frantically toward his squad, panic in his face.
"Steel yourselves, Stormriders!"
Wynandil unsheathed his sword with a flourish, the Dwemer metal blade howling its lust to taste Falmer blood. Gripping it defensively, he cast an alteration spell with his free hand, increasing the air density enough to slow down the advancing tide of slaves. With the thralls struggling to continue their zombie-like charge, he hurled fireballs at the oncoming horde, glancing a couple Nords and hitting an Imperial directly in the face. He grimaced like a sneering imperialist at the Falmer advancing behind their slaves, the Colovian thrall flailing on the stone floor in its fiery death throes. Typical, he spat derisively. These sightless bastards force the more civilized to do their dirty work.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Avares and Camille hunkered behind a collapsed Dwemer pillar, assisted by their two fire atronachs. The former threw fireballs beside the atronachs to keep the sickly slaves from overrunning them while the latter focused arcane energies into her staff to disrupt enemy hexes. The bodies of the handful of mindless thralls that successfully closed the distance added to the cover their position afforded them. Hopefully they can keep up the good work, he mused approvingly.
He had no time to continue observing their progress, however, as his alteration spell wore off. With a twirling flourish of his blade, he charged at the onrushing mob, his eyes possessed by a keen focus. He rolled fluidly as a thrall tried to grab him, evading its stiff, clumsy movements. Before the zombie-like husk of an Altmer could hit the floor from its own momentum, he swung his sword in a deadly continuous arc, the blade singing its litany of lethality as it decapitated the Altmer and sliced an Orsimer's forearm off cleanly. With a surgical slash at its jugular, he sent the Orc on its knees choking on its own bile-colored blood.
As he spun on his heels to face the remaining minions, a wall of fire engulfed the mob, and he shielded his face when a few stray tongues of flame threatened to lick his face. Looking up, he saw J'Rakha perched atop a couple Falmer corpses on a balcony, chucking crudely prepared firebombs and Khajiiti throwing stars to thin out the enemy's numbers.
Much to his annoyance, more thralls pushed through the fiery curtain of their dying brethren in an attempt to rush him, a dissociative haze in their eyes that reminded him of undead corpses. He looked past the wall of diseased slaves to see a large group of Falmer commanding the mindless husks, and he could feel them grinning their savage grins at him mockingly. He seethed at the hubris of such subhuman mongrels.
Tempering his ire, he once again slowed the oncoming meat shield with magic before weaving through other thralls, readying the most powerful alteration spell he knew as he slid underneath the shambling hordes. After surgically carving his way out of the mass of sickly husks, he turned to examine his immediate surroundings—and smiled vindictively as he found a clear path between him and the sightless heathens that fueled his elitist ire.
Calculatingly, he cast his palm out toward the closest of the pallid fiends, trapping it with an invisible magical tether. Gripping the arcane tether with an iron fist, he yanked the Falmer toward him, charging as the target struggled in vain to resist his pull in whatever way it could. Several seconds later, the creature was sprawled on the floor, bleeding to death from the deep gash in its throat.
With a dozen more slaves littering the stone floor, he finally closed in on the rest of the Falmer group. With a precise stab, he felled another of the cretins, the vermin shooting one of its ilk with a poisoned arrow in its death throes. He parried a swing of a crude sword, staggering a Falmer warrior and rendering it vulnerable to a cold strike at its neck.
The remaining Falmer spellcaster bound an ethereal sword to one of its hands and tried to prepare an ice blast with the other. With a sneer, Wynandil kicked the scum in its bony chest, disrupting its spell.
Before he could take advantage of the opening, however, a slave threw itself on him, staggering him as it bit deep into his sword arm. No matter how hard he bashed its face in with his fist, he could not shake off the husk. He turned to see the Falmer shaman readying an ice spike, and spun quickly before the shaman threw it, shielding himself with the thrall still clenching its teeth around his forearm. Shaking the dead slave off his arm, he saw the Falmer pause to pour a poison onto its bound weapon, and he took the chance to quaff a cure disease potion to rid himself of any debilitations the thrall may have passed onto him.
Both the Falmer and Wynandil charged each other. Their swords met, and the blades ground against each viciously. Blade locked, he pressed harder into the assault, baring his teeth in a bloodthirsty growl as he leaned dangerously close to the sightless creature's face. With only the bony bridge and concha serving as its nose, the eyeless and jagged-eared visage before him looked more akin to an ugly goblin than the Snow Elf its ancestors were. The sightless savage's appearance showed him its true nature: yet another primitive wretch.
With a derisive sneer, he bashed the Falmer's nose in with a vicious punch, staggering the now screaming vermin. He immediately followed with a cold slash across the fiend's jawline, severing it clean. Now collapsed on the floor in defeat, Wynandil finished it off with a calculated stab, the blade piercing its head from exposed palate to scalp.
While Wynandil was able to continue slaughtering dozens of the brazen creatures' slaves and culling a few more of the monsters themselves, twenty more Falmer and slaves replaced each individual among their fallen. This trend continued despite the constant swinging of his sword and the amount of bites and scratches he endured. He glanced around and saw Avares and Camille struggle to ward off the endless waves of cretins. We cannot hold out forever, Wynandil confessed to himself.
Before Wynandil could mentally shudder at the thought of failure, Hulgar hacked his way toward him, a smirk on his face.
"You know," Hulgar mused "For a wizard, you're awfully adept at swordplay. But we can discuss that when we make it out of here alive. For now, watch my back. I have an idea."
Curious, Wynandil complied, following Hulgar as he cut through droves of sore-ridden wretches. Out of nowhere, a slave launched itself at Wynandil, gripping his robes as it spewed a foul-smelling black mixture of bile and offal in his face.
"Ugh." Wynandil recoiled, throwing the leprous servant off him—and onto Hulgar's spiked shield.
"You okay, wizard?"
"I am." Wynandil wiped the rotten sludge off his face before continuing. "Now let us see this idea of yours."
Continuing, Wynandil trailed Hulgar toward the center of the forum . . . directly underneath the floating orb.
He raised an eyebrow. While he had connected the dots and divined what Hulgar had in mind, he was puzzled as to how the Nord intended to put the plan into action. Maybe I am supposed to hit this orb with a fireball, he thought. How else can we use it to our advantage?
Before he could take action, Hulgar secured his footing, breathed deeply, and Shouted.
"Fus!"
The orb rang loudly like a bell and released a brilliant flash of light when the Shout hit, disorienting and sowing chaos among the forum. When Wynandil regained his faculties, he saw tides of Falmer keeled over and screaming in agony, ears bleeding. The slaves merely floundered about aimlessly, blinded and deafened from the orb's blast. Eyebrow raised, Wynandil turned to Hulgar.
"You must teach me how to do that next time you get a chance."
Hulgar chuckled. "Walk the seven thousand steps to High Hrothgar and the Greybeards can teach you instead. I haven't seen them since the Dragonborn himself answered their summons, but they would certainly do better than me."
Turning toward the rest of his squad, Hulgar shouted, "Fall in!"
Having turned the tables on the horde, Hulgar led his squad on the counteroffensive, cleaving through the crippled sea of Falmer and their slaves alongside Avares while Wynandil joined Camille in suppressing the magical attacks of the few spellcasters still in fighting shape.
During the wholesale slaughter, Wynandil thought he heard a sound in the distance, like a sabre cat howling menacingly. Now that is odd, he thought; he never expected to encounter sabre cats in Blackreach. He did not have time to ponder the anomaly any further, not with the slaves beginning to recover from their debilitation.
"I can't believe it," Camille chanted in hopeful glee between spells. "We've actually got a chance!" Her sudden change in demeanor was very different from her somber mood earlier.
"Check your arrogance," Wynandil chided. "Just keep casting spells and the enemy will fall soon enough." Primitive though these things may be, acting foolish will nevertheless guarantee you a quick death, he added mentally.
He then turned to Hulgar and Avares. "How are you two faring?"
Both of them regarded him confidently while slashing the enemy. "We're still hanging on here. And J'Rakha left to find a way to keep the Falmer from regrouping, so we should finish this scum off soon."
Just then, Wynandil heard that noise again, though this time it thundered across all off the Silent City much more deeply. It was not long after he heard that roar again when a shadow swept across the forum, raining liquid fire upon a large swathe of the Falmer horde.
"What in Oblivion is that!" Camille shrieked in horror.
"It can't be," Hulgar whispered, utterly demoralized. "It's a—"
The shadow swooped down toward the expedition party, revealing itself as it landed a several meters in front of Hulgar. Adorned with red scales, the winged creature stared intently at Hulgar with its raptor-like gaze as it wagged its lithe tail excitedly. Then it did something that took Wynandil completely by surprise: it growled something at the party—an unintelligible something, that was certain, but it still acknowledged them all the same—as though it were sentient.
"Dragon!"
Just then, the dragon reeled back and lunged forward, gripping Hulgar in its gruesome maw.
"Hulgar!" Avares screamed, watching the beast rend Hulgar into shreds before eating him alive.
The group then retreated out through the forum entrance into the Silent City with Wynandil trailing behind them; before he caught up with them, however, the winged behemoth belched a giant ball of bloody fire and bits of offal toward the entrance, sending the archway crashing down to the ground—cutting off Wynandil's escape.
Realizing he had no escape, Wynandil slowly turned toward the creature and stared it straight in its reptilian eyes with a resolute gaze, sword raised. Irinde, my love, he thought to himself, an amulet of Zenithar pressed to his lips. I am coming.
Author's Note: I hope this chapter wasn't too slow for you. Feel free to leave a review if you wish.