Prologue:
Of Ink and Others
"In this world, some people are like keys that move the world and exist having no connection to the social hierarchy established by man."
-Berserk
Snuggled between the snowy peaks of the Eldersblood and Skyborn Mountains in Skyrim´s centre, Bromjunaar, the ancient ruins turned city had become an iconic image of the cold land and Nordic culture as they majestically overlooked the vast marshes of the Hjaal which extended all the way to the misty Sea of Ghosts. On first thought the local jarl´s palace, Sodsekonahriik, appeared to be far too extravagant for a mere petty king who ruled the mostly uninhabitable Hjaalmarch. Even if one took into considered that the city, sitting on a wide plateau through which the Old Road connected in a nearly straight line Morthal, Bromjunaar, Silent Moons Holdfast, Whiterun, Bleackfalls, Riverwood, Helgen and Fort Neugrad to the Pale Pass in Hrothgar hold´s south and to Cyrodiil beyond that, the riches displayed seemed surprising. Only when one knew the place´s legendary history and cultural importance could visitors understand why it was named in the same sentence as the famous Dragonsreach, the fabled Palace of Kings in Windhelm, or the iconic Blue Palace built in Cyrodiilic fashion.
The main hall´s ancient black ironwood gate, banded in dark iron and gold, with inlays depicting abstract but vivid images from the city´s history and lore, opened before him to reveal a truly massive hall of black porphyry monoliths, carved with the grotesque idols the Nords loved so much, from dragons to leering, long tresses bearing women. Between the various murals and stone monuments, hawk or perhaps eagle heads forged from dark iron leered down from the walls, holding burning coals in their beaks.
The great mead-hall of Bromjunaar was truly ... breathtaking.
The whole room was built akin to the inside of a ribcage with stone arches, carved in the manner of large serpents, imitating the ribs. Each of their sculpted gaping heads was supporting a metal bowl with burning coals.
From above banners hung down from the ceiling and arches, glyphs of the scratch-script of the winged-sky-lizards decorating them. Their meaning unknown to him. While multiple alcoves in the walls lead to adjacent rooms or simply served as a place to exhibit the riches and hunting trophies of the local Jarl, among them elk antlers, mammoth skulls and tusks, bear-, wolf-pelts. Though he was skeptic if those pieces had truly been gained by the Jarl Konahriik himself. But in the far back of the hall, if he squinted, his heart beat faster at the sight of what he assumes to be carriage-sized dragon skulls near the throne. The jarl himself was absent, as was usual if the words of the traders he questioned as he planned his trip were to be believed.
Though the seating area itself was well illuminated, the hall, fit to feast an army, seemed to be unable to rid itself of the perpetual gloom under its ceiling. This was only natural, as the white marble of the table-, short bench surfaces and few high seats were nearly the only light color among the dark stone and wood, from which a second floor had been built above the mammoth sized mead barrels on both sides of the room, making up the building. The whole scenario was similar to a hibernating bear´s cave, blindingly white on the outside and on the inside so dark one believed to be in need of artificial light. It served to create an eerie atmosphere, as the light never quite reached the ceiling, only half shadowed stares of predators without number greeted you when looking into the far corners. As if a group of demons was looking onto a gathering of humans in the darkness of a moonless night.
Looking back to the gates, from among the scurrying mass of serving wenches and guests, the visitor saw the Law-Thane enter through the thick with bas-relief gates. The very same Nord warrior who had previously given him directions through the maze of streets. He descend the double flight of brazier-lit stairs to rip and tear a leg from the bristleback rotating on a spit hanging between two animal statues and over one of the large hearths which spread their heat and the smell of roasting meat to the tables and benches on either side. Unsuccessful, the hulking Nord gave up on taking his piece off neatly like that and instead made us of the sawing-backside of his dagger to sever bone before striding between the rows of the feasting populace. In here one could hardly believe that Bromjunaar was nearly as much of a ghost city as most of the other cities of Skyrim had become. Years of continuous strife and the discovery of new lands and had thinned out the populace.
The lizard man trudged forward into the throng of festivities. He searched for a quiet corner where he would be able to go after his business without others infringing on him and his guest. Tucking his bandolier closer, rather than thieves he feared the rowdy clientele would fail to see him, being a head shorter than them, and break his fragile instruments of trade when running into him in careless drunk ravings.
Around him the steady rumble of voices quieted as a hall-skald, which was how the northern courts called their bards and minstrels, worked his throat, singing praise to some and heaping shame upon the heads of others to the amusement of the feasting locals.
He passed by comfortable stone benches covered with furs standing on both sides of marble tables where wherever someone was seated they were laden with food and drink, big metal bowls standing on abstract animals sculptures, some smoking, others filled with cold wines or meat, roaring hearths, some leading up to chimneys on which hunting trophies were displayed in the flickering twilight.
His guest arrived not long after he had secure himself two seats. Unnoticed by the other guests, and even himself, she had strolled out from the inner depths of the palace and appeared some scant few dozen feet before him. Disregarding her life spanning across millennia, she appeared almost ephemeral and bore the ageless features of a unblemished Daedric Seducer. She wasn´t bony, but very slim, almost skinny but of great beauty. She possessed the delicate features of a Altmeri porcelain doll, though she was taller than most men, and the straight black hair, which fell down over her back and beyond like a glossy black waterfall, reinforced this portrayal. The black curtain only accentuated the large, long lashed eyes of the palest blue and her alabaster skin.
The satin of her flowing, midnight blue gown hugged the curves of her body, yet he failed to see it move with her steps, as if she was gliding across the floor rather than walking.
The fire´s light danced across a long belt made of interconnected gold plates and studded with precious stones was wrapped around her body, its end left trailing down her legs and the pearls in the short cape raven feathers gleamed like stars in the night sky of Elsweyr. All in all far too cold for any sensible or living creature, considering the hold´s chilly climate.
"Thank you for indulging me on my requesst, milady. I´m Deep-His-Inks, a scribe from the Gwylim University."
The Argonian traveler's raspy voice greeted the living legend as she seated herself across from him. At his greeting the nearest humans threw glances at her and surreptitiously moved away. For a moment the march-dweller was angry at himself for greeting her so loudly, only the knowledge that with the chill she had brought along she couldn´t have hidden herself anyway and that she seemed unbothered, calmed his nerves. And indeed she paid them hardly any mind at all, this far south her kind were rarely seen and even rarer still did they appear as allies to the Nords.
The distinct pungent odor of wet reptile scales and leather wafted over from across the table, but as she knew he would have had to fight with others over her seat she choose to ignore it. For beyond the white marble of the table, and the Argonian himself, whose yellow head feathers rose and lowered themselves in same rhythm that the sweltering hearth-fire flared wildly. She saw the act of kindness in reserving her a place far from it.
"Well, ..." She acknowledged him in a sultry tone, yet her voice did not match her expression for she wore no hint of a smile. "...how could I refuse? It´s rare enough these days to find a Saxheel of the swamps of your nation, but to find a foreign chronicler willing to interview me about the living legends of the Nords... Perhaps it shouldn´t be so surprising. For the Nords the songs and eddas recited by the skalds are usually enough, , but folk from the Heartland always tried to bring some semblance of order into the haberdashery of Nord-myths. ..."
A lavishly decorated drinking horn is placed before the ancient being by a serving wench and she lead it to her lips with nary a look inside.
"... No matter."
Like a big cat she reclines in her seat, the drinking horn clasped in gloved hands, the golden, claw like tips and the carved runic ring distinguishing themselves from the black leather and her eyelids narrowing above cold blue eyes bright as stars.
"What brings about your sudden curiosity, Deep-In-His-Ink?"
Attempting to loosen his tongue by sipping southern wine from a carved bone cup, the Argonian might dabble in magic but is nowhere near skilled enough in the school of illusion to boost his own courage, thus the alcohol, Deep-In-His-Ink attempts to divert his attention from the small rivulet of pearly, distilled mortal essence dropping down her chin, which had probably been ´donated´ from the local prisons, and instead concentrated on his goal. Shifting slightly as if uncomfortable on his bench he fumbles for appropriate words.
"Milady, surely you will acquiesce that a legend like your friend, the high honored Stormcrown should be remembered for all eternity, especially considering how she shaped the 4th Era in Tamriel and beyond. To consider what preciousss deeds and knowledge would be lost to the violent times of history if all that we will have remember her by her are songs and poems ... essspecially ass the Nords tend to change their contents with every retelling!"
He pauses shortly, partly to catch his breath and let his interviewee come to the same conclusion as himself, for now, judging by the ancient woman´s pensive face, ghost like in the shadows of her raven hair, everything went as he envisioned and thus he continued with his rehearsed speech.
"I wouldn´t normally dream of bothering you with my inquiries, but sadly hardly any written records exist or they are kept from my sight under the pretext of secrecy! Only the barest information was offered me by the College of Winterhold, about their own colleague and competitor no less! The depths of Bromjunaar remain closed to me by orders of Konahriik himself. Milady, do you see my predicament?" He implored her. "For some reason no biography nor trustworthy accounts of the heroes who shaped the 4th Era exists! Naturally if I would go out and asks some random stranger he will tell me stories about how the Harbinger of the Companions brought back some treasured family heirloom in his grandfather´s generation, stories of glorious battles and other tales without number, but no one knows of the reasons behind her actions! And this, milady, brings about my current dilemma,..."
With its progression, his speech becomes more and more harried, fearing nothing more than to lose her attention due to the long-windedness of it.
"... asss one of their few still living contemporaries, I implore you to bestow your memories upon this unworthy servant of yours who with all my heart wishes to immortalize your friends legend in their entirety for all the world and beyond!"
His listener smiled slightly, giving him a glimpse of perfectly white and wickedly sharp teeth and he wondered just how close she would need to be to him to freeze his blood with her breath. He died a thousand deaths as her eyes closed for a moment, as if in remembrance, but he couldn´t know if she dwelled in good or bad memories.
"Ahahahahaha! You certainly have a dream set out for you. Your ambition, it strikes me as enough to even have her attention grasped by it."
Another swig, another droplet of some poor fellow´s life, though now Deep-In-His-Ink judged it only appropriate to bring it to her knowledge by pointing at his own chin and if only to keep her from glancing at his writing tools of rather poor quality. Absentmindedly, the oldest being in the mead hall licked it away with her dark tongue, wetting her lips, filled with false life.
"You realize, I did not accompany them on all their quests and old Neloth still lived last I checked?"
"Naturally I tried to get in contact with the House Telvanni, but they were even less forthcoming than others. They didn´t even grace me with an anssswer, wanting to have nothing to do with a marsh-dweller! ... I do not ask you for information unknown to you and am well aware that to acquire a complete account of her life I will still have to do further research. Yet I hope you may bestow me with your knowledge of them, so I may humbly transmit it for future generations with mine quill and ink."
"Ahahahahahahahahahaha!"
Her laughter held an almost playful tone but lacked any mirth at all. A dry, joyless exclamation of amusement, as if one had rehearsed a lake´s sheet of ice cracking sounds and tried to sell that as music.
Enthralling eyes of molten frost captured his, pinning him down on his seat and making his clawed hand grip onto the table´s stone. In the back of his mind he berated himself for having been too greedy to have bought a trinket enchanted to shield him against such subtle sorcery from the shop just down the stairs in the lower district.
"So you think yourself adequate? I mean, to write the sole complete account of their lives."
A expectant pause followed her mocking words. The green scaled Argonian, unsure what to answer and if at all, he never knew with women of any race, remained silent with half-opened mouth and his respiration quickening. When every human would have broken out in sweat, he only had his tongue dart from and thro.
"Well... Where to begin?" The cold being took pity on him. "Sit quietly now, keep your feather sharp, marsh-dweller, and listen, for the story I tell you is a story spanning ages."
"But about what is it, Milady? The Civil War? Dragons? Foreign lands or Oblivions wastes?"
The reptilian scribe jolted in sudden happiness as his tenseness melted away.
The noble woman looked shrewdly at him, it was between a look telling him how endearing she found his curiosity and how she would judge a fine "beverage" before actually starting to drink.
"Soon you may see the value in the songs, the lessons that were woven throughout their lives for the generations to uncover. The root of mystery you yearn for, may not be found within my words, but its branches will. Just listen, let the story take root in your heart. So you may uncover the deeper meanings, so you may uncover the central spire of the wheel according to which all of our lives, both mortal and immortal, turn. May you learn as much as I did from their deeds."
tbc
AN: those two are my narrators and the mention of Bromjunaar is a small hint as to how Skyrim will develop in my fanfiction. I also hinted at a sequel I´m planning, and incorporating and planing such is the reason I posted nothing for so long - my apologies!