Yea yea yea. I know. Old game and this has all been done before. BUT I love the game, and recently lapsed back into that particular game-world. This also re-ignited my drive to finish one of two old fic's that never made it to the spotlight.
I am using UESP, thuum, and lingojam as referense for any language not english. Kudo's for those and cred to the people pouring their soul into that.
.
So this story is about my bosmer, spellsword. Bronze skin, forest-green eyes, white long dread's and rather bulky for a mer.
Note: I played a VERY long time as this char and ended up above lvl 100. I think I killed every respawnable thing atleast thrice or more in this game, must have done the repeatable quest a gazillion times and not to mention talked, lockpicked, blacksmithed and enchanted the hell out of the game. ^_^ And therefor she had alot strenght and perks. Also I used mods for tweaking the graphic's and visuals, nothing else though.
.
Enjoy!
.
Chapter 1
~.o.O.o.~
I sincerely had no intensions of letting Vilkas or the rest of the Companions have their savage revenge. No matter what my wolf was thrashing and howling about in my head. I really had been dead set on steering them away from that path since I knew Kodlak, as well as myself, didn't agree with it. Killing only led to more killing, and someone, somewhere was somehow going to have to bend i order for the fighting stop.
Well, to my defense, at least that conviction lasted until I set foot in the Silver Hands stronghold.
Just like that time I went hunting with Aela and Skjor – that time when Skjor was brutally murdered by those retched, pathetic excuses of human beings who called themselves the Silver Hand - the foul stench of death and madness stung my nostrils. My wolf churned restlessly inside, growling and snarling at the senseless savagery of the self-proclaimed protectors of Skyrim. And every step further into the hold seemed to only pour more oil on our already violently burning fury. It's one thing to kill for your convictions. No matter how misguided, at least that was understandable. But this. This was just senseless sadism and gore.
Horrified at the sights that unfolded in front on me I eventually gave into my rage and my wolf howled in bloodthirsty agreement. None of these inhuman bastards claiming to serve the side of good, would ever set foot in the daylight again. I, or rather we, would make sure of that.
~.o.O.o.~
I had been hard-pressed to refuse Aela when she wanted me to attack the Silver Hand the first time. But new as I was, I trusted her. Even when she was being more than a little cryptic, I trusted her. And I still trusted her when she outright told me what we were doing wasn't particularly within the usual parameters for what constituted as right.
Who was I to refuse the hand that almost literary fed me?
After Skjor died in one of our raids on the Silver Hand camps, Kodlak found us out and called me to him. Even as he chastised me he let me know that I was only partly to blame and that even in my erring, I had carried myself with as much honor as possible. Probably since I rarely let my wolf conduct my attacks and to Kodlak - who felt lycanthropy was a curse - that had a deeper and much appreciated meaning. I felt relieved that everything was now in the open. And I was thrilled to find out I could quite possibly help the Companions to rid themselves of the beast-blood. Those who wished it at least
In my hurry to make up for my previous blunder, I didn't stay to rest up. I only stopped by Breezehome to restock and make sure Lucia was ok. Of course I spoiled her rotten as well, much to Lydia – my housecarl's dismay. Lucia was over the moon with the new dress I brought her and barely paid any attension as I ushered her to bed. Me, Lydia and my friend Marcurio - a talented mercenary wizard I had met and somewhat befriended in Riften – ate a small dinner before I offering Marcurio the master bedroom. I hardly slept anyway after becoming a werewolf so there was no use in me hogging such a comfortable bed while my friend slept on the floor.
Me and Marcurio left bright and early the following morning. Our horses were well tended and fed at the Whiterun stables making them more agreeable then they had been for weeks.
The trip to the Glenmoril Coven was a breeze. A few bandits, another one of those pesky assassins of the Thalmor sent to eliminate me and some wildlife with bad survival instincts was all the resistance we met on our travels. The witches' coven though, was beyond nasty. Marcurio complained violently under his breath and my nose scrounged up in disgust at the pungent smell of old, moldy, twisted death. Not to mention the cave was nothing if not creepy to sneak around in.
After killing the first witch, I made a choice. Nothing that looked and smelt this twisted and had taproots and dead, skewered wildlife half-rotting in every corner, was ever going to benefit the greater good. Not to mention they had betrayed the Companions – my family - by not revealing just what they were getting themselves into with the beastblood.
Accepting the gift of lycanthropy was literary selling one's soul to Hircine, Daedric Prince of Hunting, who would collect upon death. Entering Sovngard would not be possible for anyone who accepted the gift of the beast. They would be forced into Hircine's hunting grounds, kicking and screaming if they refused and forced to hunt for the rest of eternity beside the Prince, whether they wished it or not.
Needless to say I and Marcurio killed every last witch in that cave and gathered their heads as per Kodlak's instructions. What he needed the heads for was beyond me and I was not privy to that information but orders were orders. We preserved the heads in an ice-spell which not only kept the heads from rotting, but also kept them from smelling. Granted we had to renew the spell every so often but it was well worth it just to escape that horrid odor.
Getting back to Whiterun again was uneventful. No assassins, hardly any bandits or mad necromancers and the wildlife seemed to all have a firm grasp on their survival-instinct. Marcurio – having been recently dumped by his muttonhead boyfriend - complained almost nonstop about being bored, being sore, tired, hungry and anything else he could come up with. So on the odd occasion a bandit-crew did showed up, I let him work off some of his agitation on them. The wizards was also a bit grumpy about the fact that I had him help me carry not only the witches' heads but also some pelts and other goodies I had found in their cave and on our journey. "I am an apprentice wizard! Not a packmule!" he exclaimed on more than one occasion, causing me to chuckle at his aversion to some heavy lifting. We had horses so the real reason why he was being pissy was not lost on me.
~.o.O.o.~
A distinct chill of restless apprehension crawled around my spine as we approached Whiterun and I had a really bad feeling in my gut. Even my wolf was snarling in distress and it only got worse the closer we got to the town.
Parking our horses at the Whiterun Stables we gathered our loot and started hauling it up to Breezehome. Just past the city-gates I overheard the guards talking about a big attack in the city and who would be so stupid to make enemies out of the Companions. Not much more registered with me as my blood ran cold and I instinctively knew what had occurred. The Silver Hand had been sniffing around for weeks, if not longer. Looking for a way to get to the Circle.
Tossing all my load at Marcurio I shouted over my shoulder for him to get to Breezehome as I took off sprinting the short distance to Jorrvaskr. I contemplated using my thu'um to increase my speed but I didn't want to give myself away.
Nords was wary of most magic, but being Dragonborn was considered an honor and the fact that I, a bosmer, was Dragonborn seemed to irk them to no end. Thus I kept it as much as possible to myself. Not even the Companions knew, save for Kodlak who I had come to trust with my life as well as my life's story.
Skidding around the corner of the latticework by the re-awakened Gildergreen I was met by my agitated shield-siblings as well as half the guards in Whiterun. No one met my questioned gaze but as far as I could see from the dead bodies strewn around the stair to Jorrvaskr, and hear from the people I past, it was as I suspected. The Silver Hand had gathered their wits and dared an attack. Hurrying up the stairs I stormed into Jorrvaskr's, both my swords at the ready but meeting only the grief-stricken faces of my shield-siblings. To my utter distress, Kodlak lay splayed not far from the entrance, pale, lifeless and unmoving.
He had been impaled several times over judging by his wounds and if the broken, scattered armor was anything to go by, he must have been pressed so far by the Silver Hands attack that he had shapeshifted to protect our home. In doing so he had exposed himself to the whelps who now had not only grief but probably a million questions swimming around their adrenaline-high brains.
Farkas was a silent, distraught mess where he sat next to Kodlak's unmoving body. Njada, uncharacteristically soft, tried to talk to him but nothing around him seemed to reach his ear. I could hear different timbres of sobbing echoing through the otherwise eerie quiet meadhall and I had to force my gaze away from Kodlak's pale features too look at Vilkas who was the only one addressing me, or even seeing me at this point.
He was consumed with that cold, calculating rage of his as he chewed me out for my absence during the attack. It didn't seem to matter that it was Kodlak himself that had set me on this quest and he didn't care to let me explain what it had been about. Instead he ordered me to follow him to retrieve the stolen fragments of Wuuthrad in a full-blown quest of revenge that would eliminate the bulk of the Silver Hand in their own strong hold. And as Vilkas stormed out of Jorrvaskr with a still shellshocked me in tow, every shield-sibling we past seemed to be snarling for blood and urging vengeance.
~.o.O.o.~
"I swear by the Gods Vilkas, if you get in my line of fire again, I'll shoot the damn thing right through you on purpose!" I growled in response to Vilkas agitation that I once again had accidentally hurt him. Vilkas snarled at me with a vicious scowl, baring his teeth and I reciprocated in a heartbeat. I could feel the hackles of my wolf standing on edge and I couldn't maintain my cool composure when I was already furious beyond reason. He always seemed to rub me in all the wrong ways and we were always at each other throats. Alpha-battles, Kodlak had called them, between the two most strong-willed members who also happened to possess the strongest wolfs. Of course it didn't exactly help that I was known as a bosmer spellsword and Vilkas had an abnormal hate and distrust for magic, even for a Nord.
But even if I was known as a spellsword, my passion really lay in archery and one-handed swords. Magic and bows was common for a bosmer like myself and I was quite good with a magic, by any standard other than bosmer – or any mer for that matter. To other wood elves I seemed a youngling, still tripping over my feet with my teachings. But at least I could hold pride among my own as an archer. My preference for heavy armor and dual-wielding short-swords however, was very uncharacteristic for a bosmer. Especially a female bosmer and of high social status. Or former bosmer of high social status as the case would now be.
I left that life behind me when my family refused to see reason about an arranged marriage. They claimed it was my duty to marry that pompous jack-ass of an altmer. To further the relations between our family and the Aldmeri Dominion they said. My father didn't care that the man they wanted me to marry was a stuck-up, sadistic narcissist and my mother followed my father's words to the letter, as did my sister.
My family was one of very, very few bosmer families to be regarded in high standards among the Thalmor and the Aldmeri Dominion. And to them, that respect was more precious than the will and wellbeing of their headstrong and quirky daughter.
So I left. Bought a one way ticket to the Empire after selling off some family valuables and then sold my services to anyone who needed it to get coin to continue my journey. Unfortunately the Stormcloaks turned out to be the last ones I should have sold it to since it nearly killed me. The Empire didn't care that all I was hired to do was guard and deliver a message to someone I didn't even know. It had turned out to be Ulfric Stormcloak and I became guilty by association, regardless of the reason for me fleetingly finding myself in his camp.
It was both a blessing and a curse that the dragon attacked Helgen just as I was about to be put to the block. It was a blessing since it obviously saved my hide but on the flipside it was a curse since it was the start of all the craziness now webbing itself into my life. Everyone wanted something from the Dragonborn and I could only thank my lucky star that not many people knew the Dragonborn's, or rather my face. I always wore a helmet to keep the Nords from their petty comments. If I heard "Let me guess, someone stole your sweetroll?" in a patronizing voice, one more time, I might just shout them across Skyrim for their racism. And my habit of wearing veiling armor also luckily kept my secret safe.
The memory of Helgen, all the screaming, the smells of burning flesh and wood. It still haunted me in my dreams but at least it lead me on my way to Whiterun where I had found my first real refuge in five years. The Companions accepted me even though I was a spellsword and an elf. First they gave me friends, a place to call home and later even a close-knitted family. A home and a family that had now been defiled by narrow-minded savages with nothing but self-righteous massacre on their mind. Savages who was going to pay for their indiscretion.
Unfortunately for me, I was used to making sneak-attacks with magic and bow before taking on the brunt of the retaliation with my swords and heavy armor. I only ever used light armor when doing jobs for the Thieves Guild. But with Vilkas in almost full berserker mode, it was damn near impossible to get close to the enemies without him lopping my head off. He seemed to prefer barging ahead like a blind troll - swinging his greatsword every which way and that had me more than a little hampered in my close range combat, leaving me only magic and bows to work with.
Vilkas preferences in combination with my inexperience as a rear-end damager also meant that he, in his battle-rage, had developed a very unhealthy habit of stepping into my line of fire. And so far he had sustained – much to his dismay – four shock burns, two frostburns, one fire burn and four or so arrow-wounds. All which were caused by him getting in my way.
This time he had, once again, accidentally walked into my lighting and got himself shocked unconscious. He was anything but happy when he came too and found me using my healing on him, but at this point all his potions were all used up. So there we were staring at each other in an unspoken challenge, snarling and growling in pent up frustration and anger as I healed him with my – according to him – loathsome magic.