DAY ONE, 12:45 PM
The Greybeards had shown Ormuric a dozen proper forms for meditation; odd ways of sitting, mostly named after plants, and some strange Akaviri calisthenics that he could have lived and died a happy man without seeing demonstrated by old men in loincloths. He found it was much more effective to just lean against a tree - in particular, the big old pine behind the Sleeping Giant Inn was shady, surrounded by nice, soft moss, and if anything bigger than a gecko turned up at the gates, the guard knew he was only a yell away.
He lay his head on the block, the blood of the last man to die upon it still warm and wet, and resigned himself to Sovngarde.
Today, in particular, he felt a need to clear his mind. Most men who'd had four tons of scaly terror land on them would never have left the sickbed again - possibly because their legs now knew better. As it was, everyone was mystified that the Dragonborn could even control his bowels - let alone walk, however haltingly. But while injuries that should have taken weeks to heal routinely closed in hours for Ormuric, the collected wives and mothers of Riverwood had been unanimous - invincible freak of nature or no, with his back broken in three places, Ormuric was out of the action and confined to the village walls, and it was slowly driving him mad.
The executioner's axe caught the sun, blinding him - and then the sun went black.
A good fight he could handle. Something honest and straightforward - a couple of bandits, maybe, or a rampaging dremora. Something he could test himself against, something that could be overcome if his shield arm was stout and his sword arm strong. But this idleness grated on him, turning his thoughts to things he could no more defeat than forget, no matter how he longed to.
Swift as nightfall it came, gliding out of the shadow of the distant mountains. Great wings beat the air as it scudded forward, vast and silent as a stormcloud, and for a moment he was sure he was the only one who saw it...
He'd been helpless. But he hadn't been afraid. He'd long expected to die on a headsman's block - a common criminal, a form waiting to be filled on some imperial bureaucrat's desk, neither terribly missed or much remembered...
And then someone screamed, the dragon opened its mouth, and the sky split open.
"Fus."
He focused on the only thing that settled his thoughts, the one real goal he could work toward at the moment: contemplating the syllables of the thu'um. "Ro. Fus... Ro."
It was strange... until now, Shouting had come easily to him. The Words were intuitive, each syllable of a Shout following logically from the one before it. To breathe fire, you used Yol - fire, in the ancient tongue of dragons. To breathe a more intense flame, you used stronger language - Toor, inferno. It was simple. It all made internal sense. Except, that is, for this one.
By rights, he should have mastered all three Words of Unrelenting Force. He had, to date, mastered one. Force was useful - it knocked an attacker around a bit, giving Ormuric breathing room, and didn't leave him winded the way many more powerful Shouts did. But still, the fact that there were more powerful Shouts, some of which he already understood, was both a problem and a puzzle.
The second Word of Unrelenting Force was Ro - Balance - and it was probably that that made it so difficult to learn. To learn a Word, you needed to understand it completely; take it into yourself and make it part of you. But Force and Balance seemed like total opposites - like trying to augment Yol with a word that meant ice or cold. How did they relate?
"Mister?"
"Hm?" Ormuric looked up-and up again, towards the source of the greeting. A little girl, maybe seven or eight years old, was peering down at him. Dorthe, the blacksmith's daughter-slash-apprentice, hung by her knees from a sturdy branch, regarding him with the sort of unimpressed curiosity that suggests the regarder is doing the regardee such a huge favor by their interest.
"Whatcha doing?"
Ormuric grinned up at her. "Not much, at the moment... gotta rest up so I can fix my back and get back to dragonslaying!" He flexed for emphasis, which only set Dorthe giggling. "Now, the question is... what're you doing up there?"
"Cliiiiiiimbing?" She managed to drag the answer out until it became a question.
"You know what I mean, girl..." Ormuric dragged himself to his feet, gently unhooking girl from tree. "What would your father say if I let - " It was at this point that he realized what a bad idea this was.
When the world started to be composed of things other than pain, and noises that weren't some variation of ngaaaaa came more easily to his lips, Ormuric chanced opening his eyes. Dorthe was perched on his chest, looking down at him. "Are you really the Dragonborn?"
This time it was Ormuric's turn to laugh. "It's just what everyone calls me. I can Shout, I guess, and I can kill dragons, so..."
Dorthe grinned, confident that she had found a loose thread in the grown-up's story. "But the Jarl sent some new soldiers out from Whiterun, and they told me they had to help you kill one..."
"Well, they're right..." Ormuric smiled up at her. "If they hadn't helped keep that big green one off me at the watchtower, he'd have broiled me alive. I may be tough, but even I have trouble with those guys - in fact..." He gently patted her on the shoulder. "I need everyone's help if I'm gonna win this. Even yours!"
Dorthe rolled her eyes. "I'm not a baby, you know - I'm too old to play pretend. How am I supposed to help you fight huge, scary lizard... daedra... things? That sneeze fire and have teeth as big as my arm?"
"Hey, I'm not playing with you - promise! Think about it..." Ormuric gingerly moved his captor from chest to lap, sitting up. "I can't be everywhere at once. When I'm not around, you need a whole army to take out a dragon. And what does an army need to even be an army? What's even more important than food and water?"
"Hmm..." The girl pursed her lips. And then bit one. And then pursed them again. "...clothes?"
"Almost - arms and armor!" Ormuric grinned. "You're a big help to your papa, girl; he says he wouldn't trade you for a second set of hands." Dorthe blushed, eyes widening, and he pressed his point. "In fact... you know what the most important part of my armor is? The one thing that I can't go sprinting all over the province without?"
"Nope."
"Boots!" The Dragonborn fished around in his pouches for a moment. "See where I'm going?"
Dorthe beamed, finally getting it. "And you can't make boots without..."
Ormuric produced a single iron hobnail. "And who makes just about every fifth nail that comes outta your Papa's forge?"
"Me!"
"See what I mean? Everybody's important; you might not be turning out enchanted battleaxes just yet, but without you, half the Whiterun garrison would be marching around in their slippers."
Dorthe nodded sagely, turning this revelation over in her head. "I never thought of it that way... thanks!"
"Just doing my job, miss - now you head back your Papa and do yours, alright?"
"Yes, sir!" Dorthe saluted briskly with an imaginary sword, and turned to walk home. "Oh! Um..." She turned back, visibly rooting through her mind's intray. "That reminds me. Papa says you need to come quick, 'cause there's a naked elf jumping up and down in the forge."
Ha! Finally! God, that was tough-I just couldn't get the dialogue quite right. But better late than never, I guess-I'm working on Chapter Three as I speak, and this time I'll try to apply some of that work ethic I've been hearing so much about.
A word about story and gameplay segregation - I want to keep things mostly true to the actual mechanics of Skyrim, but I'm more concerned with A) the lore and B) telling the best story I can with my limited talent, and if that means Ormuric occasionally pulling off a stunt that would get him killed in-game, so be it. I'm sure Scorsese could have made a really tense, deconstructivist historical drama out of three hundred Spartans huddling behind their shields for two days, but Zack Snyder needed them to break formation and go kick some ass.