AN: So this is something that I may add to over time.
I was playing through Skyrim and just thought to myself, as I returned the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller to the Greybeards, knowing nearly every Shout in the game, that these guys should be worshiping me.
Thus, we have this.
I dedicate this series to all those people who people who were able to curb-stomp Alduin with a sneaky arrow to the knee. To those who still wonder why you can kill a dragon in one hit while it takes multiple to kill a bear at level eighty. To those decided who decided max out each and every skill tree for no other reason than you could.
Enjoy.
Greybeards – First Impressions
Despite the cold, High Hrothgar was, in actuality, quite a warm place.
The solid stone foundation held the cold of the mountain at bay, the ancient Nordic building techniques holding against Time, the harsh weather of the Throat of the World and even the voices of the Greybeards.
Just like many other ancient Nordic structures.
Arngeir, however, believed that it was the blessing of Kyne that had allowed the building to remain standing despite the assaults, both purposeful and accidental. So far into her domain, how could such a building stand if she did not wish it so? How could the cold stones retain the heat of the braziers so well?
Regardless of whether his theory was true or not, the Greybeard murmured a small prayer to Kyne as a show of gratitude for the warm floors of High Hrothgar. It was the warmth that the stone radiated that allowed him to kneel patiently in wait for the Dragonborn. For all his skill with the Voice, not even he was immune to the aches and pains of old age that the warmth kept at bay.
It had been several months since they had sent their call into the arms of Kyne, many months of pausing and listening for any sign of the latest Dragonborn's approach. A whisper in the wind or a tremor in the earth, the Greybeards had waited for a sign that the Dragonborn approached, but moons passed without anything to tell of their continued survival.
At several times over this period, the four Tongues had gathered to question whether or not the Dragonborn had perished on the journey to the Throat of the World. The path was dangerous one, after all, for even the bravest of adventurers.
None of them brought up the question of why the Dragonborn hadn't answered their call immediately, what they did in their own time was none of the Greybeards' concern. All that mattered was they were taught about how to correctly use the power at their disposal.
It had only been a few days ago that they had heard it, the strongest sign they could have hoped for, a return call. It brought all of the Greybeards from their meditation, shaking the structure of High Hrothgar for several moments and loosened drifts of snow.
All of the Greybeards were of the mind that it was not only a show of power, but also lack of restraint, a lack of guidance. The voice of the Dragonborn had been, for lack of a better word, brutal. It had not been used to commune with Kyne, nor keep the peace within nature, as the Greybeards teachings would explicitly say, the only use for the Voice.
The Dragonborn's voice had been used for war, for violence, for domination. Like in the ancient times, before Jurgen Windcaller created the Way of the Voice.
It had worried them, initially, before calm had overcome them. If the Dragonborn was approaching them, it must mean that he was tired of using hisVoice in such a manner, that he wished to learn of the path of Jurgen Windcaller, the path to harmony.
Regardless of if the opposite was true, and the Dragonborn was, in fact, coming to destroy them, Argneir was confident that they, the Greybeards, would be able to defeat them. Whatever advantage of having the soul of dragon gifted them, the Greybeard didn't believe it enough to overcome the near 300 years of knowledge that him and his fellow Tongues possessed.
Then there was the leader. Should things look dire, Arngeir had hope that Paarthurnax would step in to prevent the Way of the Voice from ending with them.
The clang of metal on stone reached Arngeir's ears, breaking through the light meditative haze that had covered his mind. Immediately the Greybeard was focused, knowing this was the Dragonborn, it could be no other. He rose to his feet, barely a sound echoing off the walls of the main meditation area of High Hrothgar. His fellow Greybeards quickly appeared by his side, all hearing the sound.
Another clang rang out, this time closer, right in front of the doors to the monastery if the Tongue had to guess. A well of apprehension coiled itself in Arngeir's gut as he spared a look at other masters of the Way of the Voice, arrayed around him, all prepared to receive the Dragonborn, in whatever capacity he chose to greet them in.
The door opened and Arngeir felt his breath hitch in anticipation, just as a menace in armour stepped through.
At first glance, one could mistake the being as a Dremora. The armour was a black darker than ebony with a tint of red that reminded the Greybeard of the colour of blood. The style of helmet, nor any piece of protection that covered their body, did this impression no favours, all of it forming into sharp edges and points that looked painful to look at.
The dress of the visitor soon became the least of the Tongue's worries as their presence slammed into the Greybeard with the subtlety of a giant. Heat washed over Arngeir's body, unnatural in its warmth, and uncomfortable in its nature. It made him want to flee to the courtyard, to escape this thing's presence, to embrace the freezing mountain air that awaited him outside the stone wall of High Hrothgar.
There was nothing about the being before him that sought peace. It was made for war, and it thrived in that environment, and they, the Greybeards, had foolishly called it into their home.
The door slammed shut behind the being as it took another step forward. The urge to take a step back almost took Arngeir before he regained control of himself, he noticed with some pride that none of his fellow Tongues had done so either. Good.
Should this be their end, none of them would meet it with their backs turned or their eyes closed.
The being's steps echoed slightly in the quiet chamber, each one becoming progressively louder as it drew closer. Finally, almost an eternity later, it stopped a good few lengths from them. There was a moment of silence.
"You summoned me."
The voice rang slightly, coming from inside the helmet. Arngeir was also slightly surprised to hear the Nordic tone used, a part of him had truly believed that the being before him was some kind of Dremora.
"Greetings," Arngeir replied after a moment, remembering that he was the voice for the Greybeards, none of the others being able to speak in the mortal tongue any longer. "I am master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards."
"You summoned me," the man, judging by the tone of the voice and physic shown by the armour, repeated, a tinge of annoyance in his voice.
"We summoned the Dragonborn," was Arngeir's neutral reply. "Whether or not you are Dragonborn remains to be seen. Come, let us taste of your Voice."
Tasting the Voice of the untested or unskilled was a technique used by the Greybeards to determine the proficiency of the volunteer with either a specific Word or simply their use of the Voice in general. When involving certain Shouts, or even after one gather a certain amount of experience in using the Voice, it was a dangerous practice, the effects of each Shout becoming too much for a mortal form to bear.
While they wouldn't ordinarily perform this Tasting on someone who hadn't had at least a month or two of experience in the Voice, they Greybeards knew that the Dragonborn had knowledge of at least one shout. It was how they had discovered his existence after all.
None of them had any idea of the difference between the Voice of a Dragonborn and the Voice of a regular mortal, they only had second-hand accounts to go off, but none of them truly believe an untrained Dragonborn capable of inflicting too much damage upon them, regardless of their prodigal-skill using the Dragon-Language. They were masters of the Voice.
There was a pause as the helmet the man wore swivelled from left to right, over looking each of the Greybeards.
"Do not be afraid," Arngeir told the man before him, deciphering the meaning behind the motion. "Your Shout will not harm us."
A rumble suddenly emanated from the man, it only took a moment to realise that it was actually a breath being taken by the armoured figure. Bracing himself, Arngeir prepared to feel the Voice of the being before him.
"Fus."
Might. Strength. Force.
His body staggered.
Arngeir had thought he'd known the meaning of the word. Force was that which couldn't be stopped. In relation to Unrelenting Force, it was the river that carved itself down a mountain. It was a mammoth casually knocking trees out its way. It was more than mortal men could bear.
As the Shout hit him, Arngeir realised that didn't know Force in its entirety. It had a side of violence that he couldn't, wouldn't, know as a follower of the Way of the Voice. A fire burning uncontrollably through a field, a wind tearing up trees in a forest, a bolder roaring unopposed down a mountain.
"Ro."
Control. Discipline. Balance.
His knees buckled.
From his mind's eye, Arngeir watched as the fire curved around a town, the townsfolk remaining untouched as their crops burned. The gale of air howled and a near perfect line of trees were torn from their roots. The bolder bounced over the resting place of a group of travellers, each of them unware as death flew above them.
"Dah."
Away. Repulse. Push.
His feet left the ground.
The fire roared into an inferno that burned the area to cinders, torching the land and boiling the air. The town died, the people collapsing, their proximity not far enough to stop them from inhaling the noxious fumes given off by the blaze.
A gust of wind transformed into a raging cyclone that removed the forest from maps and left unrecognisable terrain in its wake. Rock was torn from the earth, trees reduced to splinters and water pulled from streams, all feeding Kyne's wrath.
One became many, the bolder becoming an avalanche of unforgiving stone that flattened all in its path. The toughest of materials, iron to ebony, and the strongest of spells, all bowing before the might of thundering stone.
As his vision cleared, Arngeir found himself on laying on his side, head and back touching the stone of High Hrothgar through his robes. With a groan, one that was echoed around him, the Greybeard pushed himself to his feet, noting that his fellows were doing so around him.
Eyes focusing across the room, the speaker for the Greybeards found himself facing the man, the Dragonborn, for he could be no other, with a stiffer back.
Arngeir had thought that he understood the power that a Dragonborn could wield. It was clear now that he was wrong, so very wrong. To come into the power that he has, untrained, was terrifying. Each of the Greybeards were aware of the power a Tongue had in their possession, all of Tamriel was thanks to the actions of the Jarl of Windhelm. Arngeir couldn't help but think that the man before him, for better or worse, would redefine the power a master of the Voice could possess.
"Dragonborn," Arngeir announced, inwardly worrying if he would regret these in the future, "it is you. Welcome to High Hrothgar."
End Chapter
AN: What do you think?
Leave a review, favourite and follow.
Probably do something about the Thieves Guild next. Hope you all like Delvin wondering if Brynjolf is an idiot for deciding the guy in daedric armour would make a good thief.
The Right Stop.