The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Fanfiction
Disclaimer:
I do not own Skyrim or any of the NPCs, Quests or game dialog. The rest of the characters are mine. Enjoy and please review!
Please read this Author's Note below, while not urgent, it does put some matters in context. At least read the bold words, please.
A/N: To those who have read The Gauldur Legend and For the Jester's Heart, who are wondering why Tawarthion is a stuck-up, super irritated and arrogant grump and so weak with his magic… this is set some twenty-six years before Helgen is hit, and Tar had given up practicing magic for some 146 years before picking it up again 7 years before the present – 4E175-176. Both the other stories are at/after 4E201, when he has joined the College and actively started working on improving his magic again. I would also like to add that he was born under the Atronach, thus he lacks the ability to regenerate magicka on his own. I've also treated spellcasting and magicka reserves like any other skill – without continued use/exercise/practice/whatever you want to call it, it weakens and fades. Sure, you remember how, but you have to build back to your former strengths and abilities. I think that explains the gist of it – as for why he stopped…. I hope to address that as well, if not in his story, then at least in a drawing I have in mind I will post to my deviantART account. I'll put the link in my profile as soon as I've drawn it.
Why have I started his story so early, and not just from 4E201, you may wonder? I wanted to establish his relationships with people at the Bard's College, Ulfric Stormcloak and his Thalmor friends/enemies/not-blood-family without just dumping it on you. Yes, in both stories I've written where Tar is present in, a good deal of his relationships are already established and running, but very little of his past is actually mentioned/how these relations are formed/maintained/what they mean to him. I hope to do some of that without making it a boring biography full of unnecessary details or turning a (I think, anyway) fairly masculine, and strong male elf into a ninny.
And I thought the whole 'about-to-be-executed-at-Helgen' thing got old. That line of thinking is exactly why An Assassin, a Thief and the Dragonborn starts the way it does. He is my second of about six Dragonborns I play, most of whom have no reason to be executed at all. Then I have about another twenty characters I have sitting on my PC waiting for the day I decide to let them see the light of day in a story. If I see Alduin land on that tower once more while kneeling at the block, the headsman won't need to cut my head off – it'll pop off on its own;)
Anyway, all shall become clear later. Hopefully.
It's taken me over a month to write this chapter (in my head and in the game, he's already tracking down Miraak. I mean, seriously, that's years from now. I'm going way back to the beginning here, and it's tricky going so far back. I lack the patienceXD), so I'm hoping that, after this is done, the rest will come easier.
I would finally like to add that I will be using some (read as 'any I find relevant/that I like') spells from Oblivion and making some more extensive mention of the events and people in TES:IV, the reasons for which will, hopefully, be explained later in the story. If not, for whatever crappy reason, I shall explain to those who ask/provide a short on it. I apologize to those who are unfamiliar with TES:IV, or those who are confused by the references, I will try to be as clear about them as I possibly can. If you have trouble with it, just PM me and I'll try to clarify as best I can.
So I hope you guys enjoy this, and that you'll review this! And the others, if it tickles your fancy;)
Chapter One: The Beginning, or Memories
"Would you not come with us to Skyrim, Tawarthion?" Ondolemar asked, his emerald eyes shining at the idea, while crow's feet threatened to show themselves. Tawarthion was shocked – travel with them to Skyrim? Ondolemar must have known he'd catch Tar unawares, because he smirked gleefully and pressed on. "I heard there is a College in the capital where all the would-be bards study. I thought you might be interested in a different 'culture's' view of that art," the newly-dubbed Justiciar leaned against the desk Tar was sitting at, raising a brow. Then he waved a hand. "Elenwen is the First Emissary, so we will accompany her to Skyrim and remain there to enforce the Concordat. They have given us a building inside the capital – Solitude, yes – while our Embassy is being built."
Tawarthion stared at the almost-dry ink on the page in front of him. Going to Skyrim might just be a good thing for him, it might –
The horse he was riding stumbled, more of a misstep than a trip, but the action jerked Tawarthion back to the present, scowling at the dark horse's mane. It was a dainty, lithe thing, meant for the smoother terrain of Cyrodiil and Alinor than the rocky, uneven Skyrim.
He glanced around at his company, mostly Thalmor Justiciars and a handful of soldiers ordered to protect the company from Nords and other hostile natives and creatures in – what even Tar was beginning to agree with – this frozen, rocky wasteland. Ondolemar was riding next to him, and the mer seemed to enjoy the coolness radiating from Elenwen whenever Ancano tried to make conversation. Tawarthion turned his thoughts back to the day the White-Gold Concordat had been signed, ensuring a certain kind of Thalmor victory through the sheer humiliation of the Empire.
The White-Gold Concordat had just been signed, Emperor Titus Mede the Second looking grim and defeated as he signed the concordat with his tall, sharp signature.
Tawarthion had watched Elenwen's barely contained glee at their victory, and Ondolemar's carefully masked smirk.
But when the Mer he called Brother caught his gaze, Tar saw he was grateful that he would no longer need to spend hours, days weeks stuck in a torture room, forcing confessions and Divines-know-what-else from enemies, and punishing those among their own ranks who had defected. Lemar never told Tawarthion what he did in there, but every now and then a darkly haunted, faraway look would creep into his eyes and he would grow cold and cruel. Ancano was far more suited to that line of work, even enjoying the pain he caused. Sometimes.
Other times the Mer seemed to remember a moment in their past, and his sharp face would grow pale in fear.
But that was rare at best.
The Ordinator they were accompanying nodded curtly, deftly snatching up the concordat and pulled Tar back to the present. The Ordinator declared peace between the two sides, his long, looping signature already on the paper along with a motley collection of others from their government. And then they left the White-Gold Tower, with news of their success.
Talos worship was to be banned, effective immediately; and the Aldemeri Dominion would spread to most of the provinces, thanks to the Empire's continued but weak grasp on most of the provinces. Hammerfell proved a challenge to claim thanks to the desert, but the Dominion was prepared to leave it alone and without allies – after all, it had left the Empire, and now the Empire was beholden to the Dominion. Hammerfell could do nothing on its own.
Tawarthion was only here, in Cyrodiil, because Ondolemar had convinced his Ordinator to allow a bard into the meeting. Someone had to record the events accurately, for the people, of course. Tawarthion had merely smiled and played along. This was Ondolemar's way of forcing him out of Alinor's breathtaking countryside and into the wide world full of people; Lemar's way of forcing him to become more sociable again.
And Tawarthion was secretly grateful – elves weren't meant to be solitary to the extent to which Tar had isolated himself. Ondolemar had always been like an older brother to him, and the two had been inseparable since the day they had met, always looking out for one another. Tar was only sorry that Ancano had viewed their friendship – brotherhood – as a rivalry from the beginning.
The three had become friends, then friendly rivals, and fallen out completely. Except for Ondolemar and Ancano: they declared themselves enemies for many decades, and did everything they could to make the other's life miserable. They called for a testy truce a few decades ago, but even that had failed recently.
The cause of that had been Ancano's newly-stoked envy, and his persistent requests and eventually demands that Tar return to his studies at Alinor's Mages College and that he should join the army.
The resulting fight had nearly killed Ondolemar and Ancano.
And they hadn't dealt with each other since, except on official business.
"– in this city. Are you even listening?" Ondolemar snapped, scowling at Tar.
"Hm? I missed the beginning," Tar replied evenly. He remembered something about the Thalmor, solitude and headquarters.
Ondolemar sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes and offering a sly wink to Tar. "Is your head already full of whatever barbaric things you will learn here in Skyrim?" he teased, grinning.
Tawarthion laughed, about to reply when Ancano's sneer cut him off. "Yes – imagine: a cultured, highborn mer falling into the black abyss that is the Nordic barbarism!"
Elenwen glanced back with a small smile, and Estormo – a friend of Ancano's, Tar had gathered – sniggered as well. Ondolemar was close to breathing fire.
"Yes, imagine," Tar started. "Wouldn't that level of supposed greed and baseness be something to sneer about? I can only think you would be the first to fall, Ancano."
The fair-haired mer turned in the saddle to glare at Tar's grin, almost jerking his horse around to fight.
"Enough! We are not here to bicker amongst ourselves – the capital city of Skyrim is just atop that cliff, so set the proper example of propriety," Elenwen chided coolly, unconsciously raising her nose to look down on the party. Ancano's lips twitched into half-snarls and he faced forwards again.
Ondolemar shot Tawarthion a bright smile.
It was going to be a long stay in Solitude if all three of them were to remain in close quarters for anything longer than a week, and time would have nothing to do with it.
The Bard's College of Skyrim was a tall, square building with beautifully carved arches and reliefs on the façade. Nord craftsmanship, while primitive compared to that of Alinor, was still something to marvel at. Tar had left the Thalmor behind as soon as they had entered the gates of Solitude, and managed to find his way to the College with the reluctant help of locals. The guards proved far more helpful and friendly, much to Tar's surprise.
He tucked his auburn hair behind an ear, and walked into the building.
It was far busier than he had anticipated, with almost every race just in the bottom floor, including High Elf, now that he was here. And every age imaginable was inside, as well – from young children too naïve to know the workings of the world, to old men and women, scarred and hardened by life. A young, dark-haired Imperial came over with a quick smile. "You look lost – are you looking for Viarmo?"
"Viarmo?" Tar frowned. There was an Altmer in the College?
"Yes, he's the headmaster here. I'll show you to his office," the Imperial motioned for Tar to follow, then started weaving through the crowd to the stairway at the other end of the room. "If you're looking to study here, you'd best start thinking about your preferred subjects, and then compare where the classes are held. Many lectures and lessons are held on opposite sides of the building, and may be several floors apart," the man called over his shoulder, jerking a thumb at a Dunmeri woman cursing and shoving through the crowd.
"Thanks…" Tar trailed, following the man around the back of the stairway, down a narrow but quiet corridor to a series of closed doors Tar presumed were offices. The Imperial stopped, gesturing to the door at the end of the hall. "Viarmo's office is in that room. And good luck – potential students are required to perform a service to the College before admittance, and Viarmo has been very excited about some great find Giraurd – the language and history Master – recently informed him of." The Imperial glanced over him once. "You might be sent to retrieve whatever that is. Be prepared for travel and dungeon-delving."
"Thank you, I think."
The Imperial smiled and turned to stride away, and Tar was left wondering what exactly was in store for him at the College.
He was up for the challenge, either way.
"So, you want to join the College, then?" Viarmo asked, his voice somewhat husky.
"I have come all the way from Alinor to study here. I intend to do exactly that," Tar confirmed for what felt like the tenth time. He had a feeling that patience and language would be one of the few things he would be expected to know before he would be allowed in, but his patience was wearing thin and he knew he was being tested for something else. Tar resisted the urge to narrow his eyes at the older mer. "I believe there is something else you may require of me."
Viarmo nodded. "A mer to the point – very well. There is something else I need you to do. One of the Masters here, Giraurd Gemane, has assured me that he has indeed discovered the original King Olaf's Verse, before it was lost from the Poetic Edda."
Tawarthion nodded thoughtfully. "I do not know this verse, nor do I fully understand what the Poetic Edda is."
"Olaf's Verse isn't taught in the Isles – Alinor – because it is Nordic, and falls into the mythic genre. Also, the Poetic Edda is rather specific to Skyrim as its 'Living History'. The Edda has also undergone many changes and rewrites throughout the ages, including translations and additions of new words as the language evolved. It is worth a great deal historically and culturally to Skyrim, as it contains at least one piece from every single bard who has passed through these doors, many of them are Skalds; sometimes warriors, but always bards, of great renown. Finding the original King Olaf's Verse would be of great and rich historic and scholarly value, but I can see you already appreciate history. But can you imagine, finding a long-lost piece, and restoring it! What a momentous day! Returning Olaf's Verse to its rightful place within the Edda would be a great and historic day indeed!" Viarmo had leapt off his perch on the desk, waving his arms as he grew more excited, his voice rising until he was shouting and breathless.
Tawarthion could only grin in amazement. "Very well. I shall retrieve this verse for you. Where is it purported to be?"
"Inside Dead Men's Respite, an ancient Nordic barrow. A kind of underground, stone crypt for Nordic dead, supposed to be infested with draugr, a kind of being cursed to undeath," Viarmo waved a hand. "Of course, the traps, skeevers – giant rats carrying all kinds of diseases – bandits and general maze-like quality of these barrows are far more dangerous than undead, in my opinion. Oh… and there are giant spiders, too – hope you're not… disinclined to them."
Tar dropped his head to hide the dark scowl on his face. He'd been in enough dark and remote places in his life to know that there was far more to the rumor of undead than just rumor. Far too many people accept it as something from the minds of fiction writers and poets, he hissed to himself, smoothing his features to offer Viarmo a tight smile. "I'll need a map of Skyrim and the location of the barrow marked on it to find the verse for you."
Viarmo's face broke into a bright, beaming smile as he clapped his hands. "Ha ha! Good, good! I shall direct you to Giraurd, and he will be able to give you more specific details about the verse, its author Svaknir and the barrow!"
They stood and left the headmaster's office in search of the Master of Language and History at the College.
Dead Men's Respite was east of Dragon Bridge, west of Morthal and definitely south of both, according to Giraurd. Ancient footpaths still used by many of the hunters, animals and bandits would be marked with a stacked stone obelisk, roughly waist-height, if they led to a barrow. Thereafter, it was a simple matter of finding the next such obelisk up to the barrow door, which may or may not be locked. Dead Men's Respite was most likely situated nearby the river, but could also be more inland than believed to be.
Tawarthion disliked the sheer number of variables and 'ifs' and 'maybe, perhapses' related to exploring, and specifically finding this verse. At least, he could cast his Clairvoyance spell when he was in the wilderness to narrow down the search for the barrow somewhat. He had carefully avoided telling Lemar exactly where he was going – the Justiciar was already busy enough with formalizing the politics and nuances of the Thalmor's presence in Skyrim under Elenwen's direction. He didn't need to worry about Tawarthion and venturing into a potentially dangerous barrow. Besides, it wasn't Ondolemar's fault that he had stopped practicing magic decades ago, and that it had affected his ability to cast spells at and above the level of Journeyman – or Adept, as it was called in Skyrim. He had chosen to stop practicing, and had finally managed to get some semblance of control as a result.
Those few years of his life were ones he intended to never repeat – hindsight had shown him just how much damage he had actually managed to do. Of course, he still wanted that kind of power at his fingertips, in his very soul, but the price of losing people he considered dear was too high to pay again.
Dead Men's Respite had been fairly easy to find once Tawarthion was in the general area – the barrow was built into a hill, and would probably descend deeper into the earth. It was a day's walk from Dragon Bridge, and taking in the imposing stonework, Tar guessed it would be more akin to an ancient settlement inside. He had taken a few precautions, such as having some light elven armor made for him, practicing his spells along the way, lots of potions – both to replenish magicka and heal his wounds – and now all he needed to do was walk through the doors into the barrow.
It was as simple as that.
The light was dim inside, with a few braziers burning down to their last, glowing embers. The corridor Tar followed already sloped down to a larger chamber, and the walls were lined with embalmed dead. In the center of the room was a raised altar, with a large artifact cut from – what looked to him – like a solid piece of ruby. He looked around him warily: sometimes the dead who would rise to defend their resting place were easy to spot.
But he couldn't pinpoint a single one. The ones most likely to rise might be the three with armor I can see…. Tawarthion carefully stepped deeper into the chamber. Across the way from him was a portcullis, and he suspected that picking up the ruby artifact in front of him would raise it. He walked up the steps to the altar, and examined the ruby. It was a claw of some sort. Is it an ancient kind of key? he wondered, running his fingers over the smooth surface. "Only one way to find out," he breathed, picking it up and putting it into his satchel, glancing at the portcullis as it raised noisily against the stone.
He turned to the scraping of steel against stone and a sharp grunt. Tawarthion charged his spells, casting a fire rune on the floor in front of him and blasting fire at the draugr as it drew its sword. The rune exploded, the heat and the shock waves pushing Tar back against the altar, shielding his face and incinerated the draugr, setting a second one alight. He charged another spell – an older one from the Third Era – and released it, baring his teeth at the draugr as it withered even more and fell to the ground, dead. Tar scowled at the draugr, pushing up from the altar and turning around to face the portcullis.
A shimmery, blue ghost stood staring at him intently, then smiled, beckoning Tawarthion closer. He followed warily, and the man beckoned more urgently, a lute slung over his back. When the mer got close enough, the ghost turned and strode through the portcullis and deeper into the barrow.
Is that…. Is Svaknir showing the way to the verse?!
Tawarthion followed the barrow deeper into the ground, following twisting corridors, narrowly missing the first three pressure-plate traps, killing dozens of draugr and two large, red spiders. Every few steps down a stair way, he would slip, perhaps fall to the bottom, skid down a few steps before coming to a halt. Every now and again the ghost would appear, smiling at Tar and leading the way for a short bit before disappearing again. Often the ghost appeared when he thought he had gotten lost in the maze that was a burial hall, or a collection of chambers with fallen-in passages. Once already, he'd been forced to open a grate in the floor and drop down into the water, swimming to the corridor only to have a giant rat – possibly the infamous 'skeever' everyone at the Bard's College kept warning him about before he left – sink its teeth into his arm. Tawarthion had cursed loudly, smashing it and his arm into the wall with a satisfying crack and squelch of smashed bones and damaged organs.
Its pained squeal and his cursing had attracted the attention of several draugr. One rushed Tar, and he sidestepped to stop against the wall, grabbing its shoulder and throwing it into the pool of water, where it sputtered and flailed, sinking in its heavy armor. The other two were instantly more cautious, but one had a bow. The roots covering the flooded floor and the roots reaching down from above made a clear shot difficult, but Tawarthion had the advantage of spells. And water.
Without stopping to think twice, he fired his Sparks spell into the water at the draugrs' feet, grinning darkly as they writhed in the current.
Then it hit Tar, and he grunted as the current coursed through him even as he released the magic and killed the two draugr. He sank to the floor, shuddering as the current finally released him. He panted, running shaky fingers through his hair and tucked loose strands behind his ears. Tawarthion took a deep breath, and stood up. He pulled out a magicka potion and drank it, savoring the fresh, minty flavor and hoping the last two would be enough for the rest of the barrow.
After that…. Well, it was only a narrow stone walkway high above the sarcophagi below, and because he hadn't noticed the tripwire, axes were swinging down over the bridge. If he was lucky, it would just knock him down to the lower floor with a serious concussion and at least one broken bone. If he wasn't….
So he waiting, trying to figure out the timing between the swings. There was a large enough gap between the three sets of four axes for one person to stand and prepare for the next set. There, that's my timing, Tar thought, taking a step back to give him momentum for the first sprint. The second set of swinging axes passed by right in front of him.
The rest was easy after that, and the pull chain on the other side returned the axes to their resting places. Tawarthion followed another ramp up, opening a tall, wide double-door, following the ghost once more through the many twisting passages, until he reached a broad walkway with a sealed door at the end. The cool, snowy-scent of a magical seal radiated from the door, and Tar turned to look at the ghost, smiling at him again, and beckoning he follow stairs going down. The Altmer resisted the urge to roll his eyes – he'd already slipped and fallen down enough of these rough, narrow Nord stairways and now he was going down the longest one yet. But he obliged the ghost, who led him all the way to another chamber with two draugr slumped in thrones, and another grate in the floor.
Tar dispatched one of the draugr before three in adjoining chambers rushed the portcullises separating them from the main room. His magicka barely made it through the assault, and he hoped nothing would be lurking at the bottom of the grate. Thankfully, though, there was a spiral staircase going down. At the bottom was a handle, and the faint seams of a false wall. Tawarthion charged a weak spell in his right hand as he pulled the handle, the wall sliding down into the ground slowly.
The ghost was sitting on a rock next to a mummified corpse lying on its side and clutching a book. The ghost straightened, and smiled at Tawarthion, pointing at the book. Tar stepped in, prying the book from the mummy's fingers and leafing through it quickly. There were damaged pieces to the ode, but it certainly was the original King Olaf's Verse. Tar glanced up at the ghost. "Are you Svaknir, the author of King Olaf's Verse?" he asked. The ghost smiled and nodded. "Could you tell me what the missing pieces to the poem is, Svaknir?" Tar asked, frowning at one of the damaged verses.
But when he looked up to the ghost, Svaknir had vanished. Tar snapped the book shut, wrapping it in a spare tunic and putting it in his bag. This is the most valuable treasure in the barrow. Even the few scrolls I picked up are scrolls that can be bought in the cities. Scroll of Mayhem and Circle of Protection are only so useful. He trudged up the stairs, and was about to leave the barrow when Svaknir reappeared at the top of the stairs, casting a spell at the sealed door and opening it. The bard drew his sword and rushed down a long corridor, vanishing through a door at the end.
Against his more sensible judgement, Tar followed the bard down the long hall, studying the hieroglyphs and wall carvings of a great king conquering a dragon, and how one city refused his claims to kingship. The door at the end was circular, with three rings embellished with an ancient Nordic rendition of an animal. The topmost ring had a howling wolf, the middle ring looked like a winged lizard of sorts – a dragon, Tawarthion. That's a dragon – and the final circle was that of an eagle. Then there was a strangely shaped keyhole, as if a claw would open it.
Tar dove into his bag, pulling out the ruby claw from the first chamber. As he grabbed the main body of the claw, he felt bumps on the underside. The elf turned it over to see a series of carvings, similar to the ones on the door, except in the order of wolf, eagle, wolf. The rings have to move, he reached up to the middle ring, putting the claw back into his bag. He pushed the circle in, and it turned automatically to a wolf carving. He pushed it again, and it turned to the eagle. Then he turned the last one to wolf, and put the claw into the keyhole, turning it slightly both ways. Then the door heaved, dust and dirt falling down from the top as it sank into the floor.
Nords have a fondness for falling doors, he shook his head, grateful that he was finally reaching stairs going higher up. He followed the hallway to a massive, lofty chamber, Svaknir standing in the middle with his sword drawn. There were – at a quick guess – some twenty thrones with a draugr seated on each one. I didn't sign up to fight all these draugr, Tawarthion thought sullenly, sighing and untying a thin leather thong from his right arm, brushing his fingers through his hair to gather it into a pony and tied it with the leather.
"Olaf! It is time!" Svaknir shouted, his rough voice resonating through the hall.
Tawarthion glanced around him warily. How many draugr will rise?
The chamber shuddered violently. Tawarthion widened his stance to keep his balance.
"Svaknir, I have limited abilities with magic, and I don't have weapons with me. I can keep some busy, but I don't have enough magicka to kill any," Tawarthion told the bard, coming to stand next to the ghost as soon as the ground stilled.
Svaknir nodded once at Tar. "I will kill them. Weaken them for me."
The draugr came one at a time, then a wave suddenly came at once. "The Scroll of Mayhem…!" he realized. "Svaknir, keep them off me for a while!"
The bard nodded, snarling at the draugr, keeping them away from Tar while he recited the scroll. It would make them attack each other as well as the elf and the bard, but hopefully it would make them turn on each other as well. Red light flashed, and the draugr started turning on each other. The Altmer grinned, helping some of the draugr finish each other off. He ducked under a wild swing from a female draugr, grabbing a fallen sword and driving it into her chest.
"Arise, Olaf! My vengeance is at hand!" Svaknir shouted.
An axe bit into his left thigh, and he snarled, slamming a fist into the draugr's face. The sword Tar had used was stuck in the female draugr. He focused his ice magic into a spear, throwing it into the second draugr's chest. He was surrounded by furious draugr, and Svaknir was nowhere to be seen.
Tawarthion pulled the axe out of his thigh, ducking and swinging it at the draugr as best he could. He needed a healing potion, desperately.
The elf cut down another draugr before Svaknir appeared, taking down the rest. The ghost cast a dark look at Tar's leg. "Heal that, now. You will lose too much blood."
Tar nodded, already pulling out his healing potions and throwing them down his throat. He hated the sweet taste of a healing potion. The cut wasn't as deep as before, and it wasn't bleeding as much. But it wasn't completely healed, either. Tawarthion had one magicka potion left. The other had shattered when the draugr had hacked into his thigh.
"How many are left?"
"Olaf is a true Nord warrior. Dishonorable, but a warrior nonetheless. Wait if you must, I will take care of the others." Svaknir turned to three draugr slowly straightening from thrones on a second level. The fight didn't last long, and Tar followed the ghost up the stairs to a final sarcophagus, quickly finishing his last magicka potion. Any extra magicka he needed would have to come from his Highborn power.
"Olaf!" Svaknir growled.
"Insolent bard!" a deep voice snarled. The sarcophagus burst open, and a tall, once-imposing Nord king with a patch over one eye stood up, snarling at Svaknir. "Die!"
It was all Tawarthion could do to stay out of Olaf One-Eye's reach, casting his weakest spells to slow down the powerful draugr while Svaknir took him head on. Auri-El, Tawarthion cursed, calling on his Highborn power. If he had the chance to cast one, strong spell at Olaf, he might just be able to end the fight sooner…. The sudden rush of magicka filled him, and he threw down a lightning rune, sending his Lightning Bolt spell at Olaf. One more spell… Tar thought, sneering at the draugr as he stepped into the lightning rune, the explosion sending him flying and writing violently.
Svaknir raced to the fallen Nord king, driving his sword through the draugr's chest.
Tawarthion grinned at Svaknir when the ghost turned and nodded at the elf. "Farewell, Elf."
And then he was gone. Tawarthion narrowed his eyes at the ghost, a half-smile on his lips. Then he walked over to Olaf, taking a key from his belt.
He was about to unlock the door and leave, trying to ignore the pull in his soul to the strange wall behind the sarcophagus. He sighed, his shoulders dropping in defeat even as he turned to examine the wall. He frowned, touching the markings and carefully ignoring the one he most wanted to examine. Patience. Wait, he commanded himself. It looked like a series of carefully made claw marks, like an ancient script of sorts. Tar finally turned to the word that spoke to him, called him. He traced the edges, letting his mind wander. Nah.
The Altmer fisted his hand. The word – because that was definitely what it was – was 'nah'. He turned back to the beginning, wondering if he would be able to read the rest of it. Nonvul bron dahmaan daar rot do fin fodiiz bormah Oblivion loost nid nah med spaan vahdin beyn.
"What in the names of the Divines is this?" he breathed. How could he read a script he had never seen before? Read it, but not understand it? He pulled out his blank journal and a charcoal stick, quickly copying down the script. Perhaps Viarmo and the others at the College knew what it was. Tawarthion shook his head, following the door and hidden passage out and back into the main chamber. "All that effort and travelling when there was a shortcut. How inconvenient there isn't a lever to access it from this side," he commented wryly, stepping over the charred bodies of the draugr he had killed earlier.
It was late afternoon outside, and he followed the path down to the main road. He would camp here for the night.
