scream
Altmer were superior, both to the races of mankind and to the lesser mer, let alone the beastfolk. Superior magic, superior intelligence, superior culture, superior nature.
But surely even superior creatures are entitled the right to scream? Thalendar wondered when he peered over the edge. Far below him his once golden eyes spotted the floating dragon priest who (which?) answered his glance with burning blue orbs filled with malice. Thalendar didn't have to hear the snarling curses from the undead's mouth to know it was swearing in mangled Dovahzul. Granted, it had just been thrown by the Altmer's Shout from Skuldafn's topmost level and had hit the ground hard enough to lose some of the dull bronze scales that covered the ancient corpse. His eyes squeezed to thin slits, Thalendar watched as the dragon priest floated slowly to the entrance of the temple.
The Altmer flinched as something clattered on the worn stones beside him: arrows, old but still serviceable, crafted millennia ago by the ancient Nords whose corpses were shooting at him with them. He had rushed past the undead hours before, tricking them with spells and Shouts and speed. Thalendar's legs were still trembling with effort and, although he would never admit it loud, fear when he just thought about it.
He turned abruptly, muscles aching under tight skin, and took a few steps in the shadow of the highest platform. Skuldafn was built as a pyramid, gigantic levels over one another till one stepped out and saw a platform surrounded by spires on which dragons perched. Had perched. The sickening stench of their burnt bodies was still hanging in the air. Four new souls had Thalendar gathered this day, two just after Odahviing had left him, two when he'd stepped out of the gloomy temple into the starry night.
It was day now, almost noon, and the sun stood high and mighty in the sky. Thalendar let himself fall on the ground in the thin line of shadow provided by the platform. It was better than nothing. There would've been more sheltering darkness in the tower built to the side of Skuldafn, but he wouldn't go in there if his life-
He would. If it would be his only chance to stay alive, he would retreat again into the tower. If it would be his only chance of survival he'd press himself again into the small space under the wooden stairs as the ancient walls of sturdy stones trembled like paper in the wind evoked by gigantic wings. He'd watch once more as scorch marks and ice crystals formed on the walls, as the material would warp and crack and melt under the twin assault of fire and ice from the maws of the two guardian dragons.
The sun rose, seemingly slow, and some rays unerringly met with the very tips of Thalendar's fingers. He quickly pulled them back as if burned, leaning closer to the walls. The Altmer sighed as he felt the cold smooth stone on his cheek. How can Skyrim be so cold and so hot at once? he wondered but gave himself the answer. As a child of the Summerset Isles where summer ruled eternally he was not used to the cold, yet as a … a … the word was still hard to think.
In hindsight, he should have known better. The Altmer had felt the symptoms after all, but he was as usual rushing past and forth through the province, no time for such secondary issues as his heath while the world threatened to end. He'd received General Tullius' agreement to the peace treaty and then, a few hundred meters outside of Solitude, Thalendar heard the too-familiar sounds of battle. When he followed them, he saw two Vigilants fighting against a vampire and intervened in the mortal's favour. As soon as the beast was slain he'd taken his leave without another word, heading with long strides for Windhelm. And then there were the negotiations in High Hrothgar, and then all the dragon-catching … he could remember that he hadn't felt well. On his way to and from Dragonsreach he must have passed the shrine of Talos a dozen times but as a loyal citizen of Summerset his pride had been too great to bow his head to a false god of the mortals. There had simply not been enough time to visit the temple of Kynareth.
Then it had been too late. Atop Skuldafn, amidst a whirlwind of ice and flames, he'd felt a pain like nothing experienced before. Thalendar had been sure he would die as the agony raged in his whole body, and he had. That he realized first – the sudden absence of his heartbeat, the lack of desire for drawing breath. It took him some time to find the reason for the changes, and he'd almost have screamed then, furious at his own stupidity and overcome with fear. His long, sharp teeth had penetrated the worn leather of his gauntlet as he bit on it to keep from swearing, or crying, or praying, because he hadn't been sure if he would ever stop again.
His gauntlets were torn and scorched anyway, the leather cracked under magic and weapons. It was almost useless now. The rest of his gear wasn't faring better. The enchantments of his ragged robes were barely active anymore, just when he would need it dearly. Thalendar had little magic left and carried only two physical weapons: an orcish bow and the dwemeri dagger with the frost enchantment he'd picked up Auri-El-knew-where. And his Shouts. Oh yes, he still had his Shouts. Great.
Thalendar sighed when he finally heard the sound of a metal door opening. He stood up, brushed some of the dirt off his robes – not that it improved much – and murmured a fire spell as he turned to face his undead enemy.