A/N: First off, a Shout-Out to ElderScrollian and the story Argonian Bloodwine that's in-progress. It's quite good so far, and I think it's a diamond in the rough – there aren't very many TES stories with a Beast Race as the main character, and I think following an Argonian's adventures through Skyrim is something to look into:)
Then! Have the second chapter to Tawarthion's story! I randomly decided to include his poetry into this story, so whenever poems are mentioned as being written, they will probably follow that chapter. They will also be listed as that in the chapter title, so if you'd rather not read it then you can skip it if you like. Though I'd love feedback on the poems as well as the chapters.
So! Read, review, and enjoy! And may your inkpots never spill;p
Chapter 2: Word Walls
Tawarthion rolled and tied his bedroll to the top of his pack, then stood and cracked his neck, closing his eyes and turning his face up to the Skyrim sun. He had almost regretted his speedy dip in the river, but the day had proven warmer than he had expected. He had managed to heal his thigh quite well – but it was on that fickle balance of soon-to-tear-open and soon-to-be-healed. The elf would have a faint scar there if he took care to let it heal further – sadly, casting spells and using a healing potion was out of the question. His magicka still hadn't regenerated to an acceptable amount yet. Why was I born under the Atronach?
He stayed still for a while longer, and listened to the sound of soldiers coming his way, running his fingers through his shoulder-length damp hair to coax out the tangles and knots. Then Tar sighed: there wasn't any point in forcing the matter, and he needed to get back to Solitude, anyway. He hoisted his pack, slinging it over one shoulder and started walking.
Hopefully the soldiers left him alone. He wanted to think about the phrase he had found in the barrow. But then again, a distraction might be the better option.
"Hold, Traveler!" a Nord voice called.
Tawarthion stopped, turning towards the soldiers. Well, they were more like the guards from one of the counties – Holds – in Skyrim. His feelings were mirrored in the Nord's face: mildly disgusted disappointment. "Can I help you?" Tar asked, turning to face the group. A quick estimate put them at about thirty.
The Nord who had stopped him put on a stiff smile. "Just wanted to know if you were alright – travelling alone in Skyrim is a risky endeavor. But you seem to be fine."
Tawarthion nodded. "I've been told, and I've made it this far without great incident." He studied the Nord – clearly the leader of this group, trustworthy and loyal to those he considered friends and allies. "It seems we are travelling in the same direction for now, and I will admit that I am incapacitated at the moment. May I join you until we part ways?" Tawarthion had never seen anyone struggle so to keep their shock in check – he smiled. "An unusual request, I know."
"Well," the Nord hesitated. "We are moving down to assist with quelling the rebellion in the Reach, so –"
"Oh, come Captain Galmar! What's the harm?" a younger Nord spoke quietly, obviously thinking Tar couldn't hear them.
Eventually their leader – this Captain Galmar, nodded. "Very well, travel with us to Karthwasten. From there you can buy passage to almost anywhere else."
"Thank you," Tar nodded. It was in the opposite direction he wanted to go, but Galmar was right – he could probably buy passage north to Dragon Bridge or even Solitude. And if that failed, he could send word up to Viarmo that he had acquired the verse and was on his way, while he waited for his magicka to replenish and his injury to heal. It's a nuisance, Tar thought, suddenly finding himself in step next to the young Nord from earlier, a bright look in his face and a spring in his step. It always amazed the Altmer that mortals could be so carefree in life despite their short, fleeting lifespans.
"Ralof of Riverwood," he introduced, his pale blonde hair braided at his forelock. He smiled at Tar, a young man eager to prove himself – probably in battle.
How foolish… "Tawarthion, of Cloudrest," he added unsurely.
Ralof grinned. "Ah, it's a Nord habit to state your place of birth, unless you are given a name based on your accomplishments, or if you are of noble birth and you have a family name. It's the first time I've heard a High Elf try that, though. It makes me think that –" he stopped himself, suddenly looking wary. "Nevermind," he shook his head.
But Tar had an idea of what he meant to say. So he just nodded. "I came to study at the Bard's College in Solitude. I think I have much to learn."
"Aye, I think Nords and Elves are two races whose cultures are the most different," Ralof nodded.
Tawarthion had to think a bit to keep with the strange accent. "I've heard of this rebellion while riding for Solitude – it is the one concerning Markarth and Bretons, correct?"
"Uh, yes and no," Ralof started. "While it does center in Markarth, and Bretons have taken the city, they're actually a group called the Forsworn. They've been at odds with us for years, saying the Reach was theirs and not ours, and during the Great War, they took the city and reinstated lots of their old traditions. I don't understand it, and I don't want to – a lot of it is downright daedra worship!"
Tar shot a glance at the young Nord. They're against daedra worship, magic, and elves. Nords are extremely primitive in their thinking.
He sucked in a sharp breath when he stepped into a ditch, his thigh burning as it pulled open. He clutched it instinctively, snarling. "Are you injured?" Ralof asked.
Tar nodded. "A draugr took an axe to my leg in the final chamber," he half-hopped, half-limped on. It surely wouldn't have jarred the wound that much…. But he'd need to tear off another strip from his tunic, and tie new bandage around it; perhaps he'd need to have stitches put in, at the worst case.
He sighed, wondering what he would do about it. The Nord stared at him, confusion plainly painted on his face. "Why don't you just heal it with magic?"
"I don't have the magicka to do that."
Tar rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the Nord trying not to laugh incredulously. "You're a High Elf, the most gifted in magic of all the races. That should be something menial!"
"It is menial," Tar growled. "But I was born under the Atronach so I can't cast spells unless I have magicka potions on hand or I wait until my magicka restores on its own, which takes about a day or two."
"You said you rode to Solitude; where is your horse?"
"I left her in Solitude. She wasn't meant to travel in a country like this – I suppose," Tar admitted with a wry grin, "you could say that she was more of a leisure horse to ride in cities and show off to the rich and famous. The mare belongs to a friend," Tawarthion added when the Nord frowned.
"So, you don't have extra bandages?"
"I've torn up a spare tunic. I'd rather –"
"What's the problem here?" a woman called sharply, interrupting them and striding up from behind, pointing at Tawarthion's leg. She had an angry face, her red hair thick and billowing around a freckled face. Her eyes quickly followed Tawarthion's hand up to his face, and marched him over to the side of the road, waving the rest of the militia on. She snapped her fingers at Ralof, just when the Nord looked like he wanted to duck out of her presence. The woman dropped to her haunches and she started digging in her pack. "Take off your breeches."
"Excuse me?" Tar stuttered.
"Take off your breeches." She glared up at the mer. "I'm the healer with this group. While I don't have your fancy magic, I can get the same job done. The main difference is, you will have a scar with my method. So, take them off or I'll tear through them to work. And sit down, will you?"
"I'd rather you tear them," Tar said quickly. His wound felt sticky under the fabric. Perhaps I'd underestimated it, he admitted.
"Fine," she nodded. "Sit."
Tawarthion obliged slowly, wondering exactly what she was going to do, and if she knew what she was doing. The Nord woman worked quickly, slicing into his breeches with an iron dagger. Ralof hovered nearby, looking uncomfortable and almost fearful of the woman. She quickly untied the knot he had made around his bandage, unwinding the strip and ripping it off where the blood had coagulated. Tar hissed, watching the woman carefully. He wasn't sure if he should trust her or not, but there wasn't much of a choice now.
He didn't know much about this primitive and archaic manner of healing, and he hadn't exactly paid much attention to Restoration when he has enrolled for it as his final subject back in Third Era Four-Thirty-Seve, when he was… forty-five, forty-six? No, forty-five. Well, I suppose I'll have to wait and see what she does, he thought sullenly.
Ralof must have read his expression, because he clapped the mer on the shoulder. "Don't worry! Morgne knows what she's doing. She'll have you right as rain before you know it!" he laughed, then jumped to hold out a waterskin for Morgne while she rinsed her hands.
Morgne snorted. "Judging by the wound, he's done most of the work for me, but for the rest of it to heal without magic, it'll need stitches, and some care. So, I'll start with cleaning this to prepare it for stitches. They'll keep the wound closed so it can heal properly, with as little trace of a scar as possible."
"Alright. Would you mind explaining the process, if there should come a time I need to do it myself?"
The healer looked up at him with a mix of an incredulous scowl and a glare. "Fine. But if you're really interested in knowing this, then you should stop by the Temple of the Eight in Solitude. You'll need a needle – usually made of bone, sometimes metal – and you'll see it's curved, and make sure it's not a sewing needle because the last thing you want when sewing a wound closed is drag from around the eye," Morgne held up the needle, running a fingertip over the smooth, flat edge of a bone needle she held. "You'll do more damage when it bulges a little, and isn't perfectly smooth, like a tailor's needle, or a glover's needle. Just make sure you can thread your catgut or silk thread." She opened a pouch, pulling out a long piece of white thread. "The kind you take depends mostly on your coin. I have catgut, made from sheep or goat intestines and the healers selling it at Temples will have blessed and sterilized it, so it's perfectly safe," she sliced off a long piece, glaring at Tawarthion to make sure he was still listening. He nodded.
"Good, you're still following me. Silk thread is more expensive, and naturally more sterile, though I would suggest at least boiling it before use, and keeping it safe in a pouch of its own with other medical equipment and away from food and poisons. Obviously, unless you're dumber than you look." She moved Tar's leg to a position she deemed appropriate for work, ignoring his glare at the insult and snapped her fingers at Ralof, who poured some water over Tar's leg. Morgen wiped away the blood, working quickly and effectively. Well, she knows what she's doing. "I will not lie to you – this more than uncomfortable, and if you flinch or wriggle, you will find I might poke you a few times before succeeding."
"Is that a threat?"
"Think of it as a possible prediction, and remember the fate of your leg is now, quite literally, in my hands. Now, this is how you start…."
And with her quick explanations and guidance, Tar had a basic idea of stitches. He knew he wouldn't remember all of it, but it was better than nothing. As soon as she was done, Morgne washed her materials and her hands. "I'm going to put honey over this, and then bandage it up tightly again. The honey acts as a means to prevent filth from getting in, and helps heal the wound. When we stop tonight, you will seek me out so that I can change the bandage and apply fresh honey if needed."
"Will creamed honey work as well?" Tawarthion asked, thinking of the jar standing in his room at the makeshift Thalmor headquarters in Solitude.
"I do not know what that is – you need pure honey for this to work," Morgne scowled, smearing the honey into place, wiping her hands and starting wrapping the mer's leg.
"It's whipped honey –"
"I do not know, you must ask a healer. I would not suggest using something like that. Pure, raw honey is your best bet, Elf. There, done. Don't you dare open this until tonight, and try not to rip out the stitches while you walk. It makes my life so much more difficult."
Tawarthion stared after Morgne after her abrupt dismissal, and stood up before calling after her. "Thank you, Morgne!"
"Bah!" she snorted, waving a hand dismissively.
"Well, she's charming," the elf commented, taking stock of the long cut in his breeches.
"Ah, that's Morgne for you. Not very good with people or words, but I've never seen her fail to help someone who needs it. She's the best healer in Eastmarch, and I'm sure she's one of the best in all of Skyrim, too," Ralof nodded, walking beside Tawarthion as the fell into step at the back of the militia.
"So…. How exactly did a draugr manage to axe you? And…. What's an elf doing in a Nordic barrow?" Ralof asked slowly, trying to keep his voice light.
"I was sent to retrieve the original King Olaf's Verse by Viarmo at the Bard's College. I'm not used to such co-ordinated undead."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I explored some caves and ruins when I was younger, and more often than not there were zombies of some kind. They're much slower, and lack the mental capacity to fight accurately and with strategic attacks like the draugr," Tar explained, shaking his head to try and clear the memories. It was a beautiful day still, and he wasn't about to spoil it.
"So, did you get the verse?" Ralof asked.
Tar turned his head to grin at the Nord. "Of course I did."
Ralof turned out to be surprisingly intelligent company, considering what Tawarthion had heard about the Nords this far north. He had offered up a lot of information on Nordic customs, but most of it was very general, and specific questions Tawarthion had asked led to very vague answers. So he had turned away from that to something the Nord seemed more comfortable with – arms and armor.
And the dialogue slowly turned to monologue and Tawarthion was happy to listen, especially paying attention to the differences in heavy and light armor. Heavy armor sounded like the better option, to him. It was just a thicker buffer against something like what had happened in Dead Men's Respite, and as strong as Elven armor was, it hadn't held well under the force of the attack. Perhaps he'd try the steel armor Ralof kept admiring, and wishing that, one day, he'd be able to afford a full set.
By the time dusk came, Karthwasten was a mottled patch of buildings sitting in a valley. Morgne had already come calling to see how Tawarthion was doing, grouchily explaining that he needed to leave that bandage on until the morning, then his injury was to be cleaned and redressed, and he would either need to stay here for a few days or catch the cart to Solitude. Then she had strode off again, her wild red hair flaming around her. The townsfolk seemed to have mixed reactions about the militia from the Eastmarch here – some preferred the Forsworn rule, some regarded the past as the past and had no desire for the 'Old Ways' to be brought back.
A wagon was taking ingots up to a smith in Solitude, and Tawarthion had managed to get himself a place on the carriage back. The general trader had a few very weak magicka and healing potions, which Tar had paid for before the woman could get a word in edgewise. The smith had shaken his head and handed the elf's greaves back – there was no repair work to be done, only reforging the greaves, or scrapping them and melting it down to ingots again. So he sold his armor – there was little point in keeping the extra weight if he wasn't going to wear it, and he had already decided that he wanted to try out the heavier, steel armor when he went adventuring again. Which wasn't any time too soon, he hoped. Then again….
Being in Markarth to watch the Nordic forces collide with the Forsworn might be interesting, and worth seeing. But he could also go back after the dust had settled and see what had happened to the city. After all, he was here to study at the Bard's College first and foremost, not dive headfirst into adventure for the sake of it.
Either way, going back to Solitude in the morning might be the right thing to do first.
It was a long, slow and extremely bumpy trip back to Solitude, but the scenery made up for it. The greenery and soaring mountains sheltering the river for the first part of the journey was soothing, and when it gave way to the rolling, drier knolls, the river slowly meandering beside him, Tawarthion suddenly realized what it meant to feel free, to be unbound by laws and customs and socially acceptable practices. Why Skyrim was still as wild as it was, and it had nothing to do with lawlessness, but rather a sense of unending freedom in an untamed and unbroken land.
Alinor was a painting of beauty: Skyrim was an epic of freedom.
The wagon was too uneven to even scribble down a half-formed poem in charcoal, but Tar managed in a few key words he'd use to write it once he was on steadier ground – inside a building, at the very least.
For as slowly as the heavily laden wagon was travelling, they still made good time – Dragon Bridge would be in view by midmorning or so, where a few trades would be made and the rest taken up to Solitude. Tawarthion had struck it lucky, and he knew it. This particular Breton merchant could have been headed for anywhere, and had been tolerating enough of an 'outsider elf' to allow him to ride along. All Tar really needed to do was make sure the metal didn't shift and fall off the back – and even so, the wagon was so carefully and tightly packed, he doubted anything would happen.
As for the rest of the time…. The Altmer was left to his thoughts, and they turned back to the wall and the writing he had copied down. He had completely forgotten to ask Ralof about it, though asking Morgne might have been the better bet – she was quite a bit more learned in academia than the Nord soldier. But they were gone, joining the rest of their forces in laying siege to Markarth.
The mer didn't touch Olaf's Verse while on the road – he didn't want to damage the pages, and suspected they would be far more susceptible to the sunlight than he could guess. He didn't have the skills of a historian, and he'd rather Giraud dealt with the piece properly. There were many more wild creatures roaming the wilds than he had expected, and often the goats and elk would wander along the road or follow the wagon for a distance before wandering off again. They were lower down in the land between Karthwasten and Dragon Bridge, and the river meandered lazily beside them, the mountains and a few towering pines dotting the landscape.
Dragon Bridge was as fascinating to Tawarthion coming back to Solitude as it had been when he left – the size and accuracy of the dragon skulls were just too proportional, just too anatomically correct – in his guess, anyway – to be mere carvings. But who am I to argue with historians and scholars? The dragons never really existed, and even if they did, the alleged burial grounds for dragons are all in Skyrim and the Nords are far too superstitious to allow an excavation….
The stopover in Dragon Bridge turned out to be longer than Tar had hoped – mostly because the merchant had discovered an old acquaintance in the inn and had taken to a few more pints than he had intended. Tawarthion had clenched his jaw and forced himself to sit outside instead of confronting the Breton about his carelessness – after all, the mer was a freeloader riding up, and he had a poem to finish, anyway.
So he convinced himself to let the matter go, and rest in Dragon Bridge. Perhaps the general trader would have some healing potions and magicka potions he could buy…. After all, this was a predominantly Imperial village, with a small base for the Penitus Oculatus, the Emperor's bodyguards. The Blades had removed themselves from the public following the Oblivion Crisis, and no amount of persuasion and coercion could convince them to serve the Mede Dynasty as they had the Septims, renamed as the Penitus Oculatus.
They had been the last ones to flee in the Great War, standing strong against the Thalmor while the rest of Cyrodiil fell, and then suddenly, they too vanished. They didn't leave much behind concerning their past strongholds or other hidden bases, either. Tawarthion sighed, perusing the shelves in the general trader. There really wasn't much here in the way of potions, but he did manage to get a jar of honey, some fresh bandages and some other basic medical equipment, following Morgne's advice.
And then Tawarthion wandered down to the mill, sat down on a broad tree stump, packed out his charcoal and journal, and started writing. He'd have more than enough time to write and edit it, neatening the rougher edges into something more refined than mere dribble.
The smell of mead, ale, thatch and animal furs were thick in the air of the inn, only leveled by the smoke from the fires lit to keep its residents warm. It was a smell Tawarthion could get used to, so very different from the crisper, cleaner, more perfumed scents of Alinor. Tar grinned to himself, staring up at the wooden beams above his bed in the inn, his fingers laced together under his head. Yes, the smell of Skyrim was something he could get used to.
The Thalmor had made Nords out as people who lived with their animals, as wild and unclean, and even more uncivilized.
But being here…. It wasn't quite a matter of unsophistication. Talking to the people gave the elf a chance to understand some of the methods to their madness, and which animals were greatly valued. There was some contention about the goat and the ox, but the chicken…. Every single inhabitant of Dragon Bridge Tawarthion had crossed had insisted the chicken was the most precious: it laid eggs, which were highly nutritious and integral in cooking and baking. And then the chicken itself had meat.
He couldn't help but wonder what would happen to a chicken thief after all that fuss over a single, flightless domesticated bird. Tawarthion wasn't interested in stealing a chicken to satisfy his curiosity, either. It was far too much effort and completely unnecessary to cause that kind of trouble.
In the morning – or, later in the morning – he would set out with the merchant again for Solitude. Tawarthion would turn over Olaf's Verse, choose his subjects in the College, and request permission to from Viarmo to head to Markarth and record the proceedings there. After all, the utter loss of the city had the potential to be something rather momentous in history. If it so happened that Skyrim reclaimed the city in the name of the Empire, then it would be something Tawarthion could use to garner favor with the Nords so he could learn more about them.
Whichever way he looked at it, he had something to gain from going to Markarth and seeing the siege through.
Unless it was his fate to die there.
But that was another day's worries, and overthinking about it now was like dripping water onto a hot stone.
Solitude was easily the busiest city Tar had seen since arriving in Skyrim. True, it was the capital of the country, but it paled when he thought of the Imperial City, even after it had been sacked twice in the Great War. The other city Tar had seen – Whiterun, he thought – had been rather sleepy as well. The villages were a few houses, and perhaps there was a general trader if it was positioned along a major road. Solitude was, in comparison, a bustling metropolis, with people dressed in rich fineries and bright colors, gaudily adorned with gold and precious metals and gems.
But the poor here were even poorer than those in the villages, and Tar doubted they stood the chance to get out of the rut they were in. Most seemed to lack the will and belief that they could, in fact, raise themselves. But all countries need their poor, he sneered when a ragged, filthy old man reached for him, sidestepping away from the beggar's bony claws as though Tawarthion was in some kind of dance.
He didn't have time for beggars and the likes: he was here for the Bard's College, and that was that. He was no citizen here, and the people were not his problem.
The College came into sight not long after, and the Altmer was glad to see the tall building with the open courtyard. At the back, there would undoubtedly be an amphitheater for the actors and performers. Inside, it was just as busy as he had left it, but at least he knew where to go this time around. Tar only hoped that Viarmo would be in his office, and that he wouldn't need to search the place for the Headmaster. He pushed his way through the crowd to the passage at the end of the hall. Perhaps he'd even be fortunate enough to catch Viarmo and Giraud at the same time.
The headmaster's door stood ajar, and the sound of murmuring and furious scribbling met his ears. He is going to snap his quill at that rate, Tar thought, rapping his knuckles on the door frame. "Godsdammit!" Viarmo swore, and Tar smiled to himself at the distinctive sound of a quill snapping and pages being snatched away, only to have the inkpot spill. "Well, come in then!" Viarmo snapped, cursing and waving the few pages he pinched at the corners. "Ah, the inevitable curse of an over-inspired mind. Perhaps I have something to lift your mood," Tawarthion said, pushing the door open and stepping in.
The headmaster's desk was overrun with loose pieces of parchment, charcoal, quills and a large pool of black ink settling in the middle of it all. "I apologize for being rude: and yes, you're right. I, uh, should probably clear out some more space on my desk. Well, I suppose there will be more than a few students who will be pleased to hear that their assignments can't be graded. So, you've returned from Dead Men's Respite?" Viarmo asked, glancing around to find an open spot for his ink-splattered pages.
"I have indeed. I also have King Olaf's Verse in my possession. Though, I must concede, delving into ancient Nord barrows wasn't quite as simple as avoiding skeevers and traps."
Viarmo grinned, then laughed. "Ha! Well, this is excellent news! Brilliant! And the Verse is intact? Readable?"
"Yes. It will need to be restored, but the pages are still whole and the ink still bold. I should turn it over to Giraud, correct?"
"Yes, yes! Follow me, I'll take you to him. He'll be thrilled to see the piece!" Viarmo stepped around his desk, motioning that Tawarthion should follow. "I can't believe we actually managed to find the piece! And that it was there! And you retrieved it, and made it back safely! Ha ha! This is the best thing that's happened to this College in years!"
Tawarthion followed behind the older Altmer with a small smile. He could appreciate the history that they had just rediscovered, and the restoration of such an old work was something worth making a fuss of. It would be the star of the syllabus for decades to come, of that there was no doubt.
Viarmo burst through another door, announcing himself with a loud, boisterous laugh. "We did it, Giraud! Our newest Bard has returned victorious from the clutches of Dead Men's Respite with the original King Olaf's Verse!"
Giraud blinked, his jaw working as he processed the sudden interruption. His office was in stark contrast to the Headmaster's office: it was neat, orderly, carefully organized and categorized, and looked almost twice as large as a result. "Y-you found…. You – he – returned with King Olaf's Verse?"
"Yes, I have it here," Tar stepped forwards, pulling the leather-wrapped book out of his pack and quickly stuffed the tunic he had wrapped it in back in his bag. "I found it clutched in the hands of its author, Svaknir, behind a false wall at the end of the barrow," he held out the book to Giraud, who took it carefully, staring at the Verse as though it was the most precious and beautiful thing in all existence.
"Yes, this is the Verse! This is it! Thank you, young bard, for without you, this would still be lost! We shall host a celebration in honor of the Verse's retrieval, and to honor the memory and death of Svaknir. I cannot imagine the suffering he experienced before he died," Giraud finished, giving Tar a warm smile before nodding and turning away. "It will need to be restored, and that will take some time, but I believe it can be done! I will keep both of you updated on the progress made on the Verse."
"Thank you, Giraud. I have complete faith in your abilities to restore King Olaf's Verse!" Viarmo grinned.
"I have a question, though," Tawarthion interjected, both Masters turning to face him as he fished in his pack for his journal. "I found something else at the end of the barrow, and I could read what it said even though I have never seen the language before, and the script itself seems ancient. Do either of you recognize it?" he held out the notes he had copied from the wall he had found on the barrow. "I found it on a semi-circular wall behind Olaf's sarcophagus."
Giraud gently put Olaf's Verse down, and Viarmo frowned when he studied the page. "Giraud, look…" he murmured, holding the book for the Language and History Master to examine.
"By the Eight, is that really it?"
"Is that really what?" Tawarthion asked, trying to keep his patience in check.
"I think it is," Viarmo replied, skipping Tar's question completely.
"Then it dates back to the Dragon Era, look at the script itself: it's been scratched in, as if by a claw…."
"What is it?" Tar asked again, letting some of his frustration through.
Giraud glanced at Tawarthion. "You say you can read this? And you've never seen it before?"
"Yes. I wrote down the closest translation to the Cyrodiilic tongue below that," he pointed at the page.
"By the Eight, if he really can read this, it will change the whole concept of these walls!" Viarmo exclaimed, almost pressing his nose to the page.
"I don't understand what I'm reading, though. And you're still avoiding what it is."
Giraud looked up at him with an awed expression. "You've just discovered a Word Wall, an artifact almost as old as Skyrim itself, and you say, that not only are these scratch marks a script, but that you can read the script etched onto it? And that you have managed to acquire the phonetics of it, by some manner?"
Tawarthion blinked. "Yes."
