AN: Thank you for waiting, dear readers! I'm glad I waited a while before posting this chapter. It needed some tweaking on occasion, but I'm finally happy with it. (Story still on a hiatus).

As always, comments/questions/reviews are always appreciated.

A note about the Norren language: though many words are similar to Old Norse, Icelandic, Norwegian, as well as Dovahzul (Dragon Speak), the meanings of words that were transferred between Nirn and Earth so long ago were garbled to begin with, and slowly degenerated over time to form their own language. Names, in particular, carry on a tradition of 'Old Norren' (Nedic), which is closer to what Earthlings would recognize as Old Norse.

Chapter 25 – Ingjard

"Seven thousand steps," I muttered. "I almost wish I started counting at the first." I had been told that the path to High Hrothgar comprised seven thousand steps. Not an exact number for certain, but thereabouts, anyway. Walking up the mountain would take half the day, just as Balgruuf had said. "From dawn til midday. Well, from when we started, late afternoon…," I muttered, and then groaned. "I would never have wanted to make this journey if I didn't have to. I hate walking up mountains. It is too difficult."

"That's what a pilgrimage is, Deborah," Ingjard replied, almost chiding. "If it was easy, everyone would do it, and then the journey would not be special. People see this journey as a challenge, something worthy of blessings from Kyne, or just to tell their friends and family about. Be thankful that there are actual steps to walk on, and we are not climbing like goats on the western side."

She had a point. Though parts of our path were simply patches of dirt, stone steps were conveniently placed or even carved into the mountainside at uncertain intervals, winding up and around the eastern and southern slopes, avoiding natural outcrops of rock for a relatively easy journey. The steps were old, reportedly existing long before Talos himself made the pilgrimage to High Hrothgar. One had to pay attention, though, lest a rickety stone slab cause a fall.

Ingjard and I were perhaps one-quarter of the way up the mountain, judging by the sun's position, when I turned to look upon the land to the east. I saw Ivarstead, but I didn't see any signs of Yrsarald's caravan. I wasn't likely to, but I looked for him all the same. The horizon was clear, however, and I saw forests, groves, vast meadows, a large river and some streams, a flock of birds, and what looked like a distant farm. I realized then that the lack of chemical pollution in the atmosphere likely allowed for the expansive vista, as did the lack of light pollution allow the naked eye see every star – or hole – in the sky.

"Come along then, Dragonborn," Ingjard urged, sporting onwards and upwards in her steel armor and heavy fur cloak as if they weighed nothing. "Plaques to read; old men to meet." I heard her chuckle from several meters away.

Plaques. Gjarthskjalden. There had been a few that we'd encountered so far. Shaped like an alcove that might house a statuette or other such visual piece, the monuments stood alone alongside the path. Inset within the monuments was a small stone slab with engraved Norren words. Each said something different, but all messages were about dragons and the Storm Voice, the Thu'um, what I always thought of as 'dragon words'.

The plaques told a story. While I didn't take the time to write any of the contents down, I did read them in full. "What I wouldn't give for a camera," I muttered to myself in English. When Ingjard halted, I figured she'd heard my mumblings, but she didn't turn around to raise an eyebrow or otherwise indicate her annoyance at my foreign words or grumbling tone.

As if in anticipation of me asking what was wrong, she cut a hand through the air behind her and motioned for me to stop; a single finger held upwards likely indicated the need for silence. Something was up ahead, and my bodyguard didn't like the looks of it. When Ingjard drew her sword from its scabbard, my interpretations were confirmed.

Another movement of her hand indicated for me to walk beside her. She raised her hand and pointed ahead of us, up the hill to the bend in our path. "Wolves," she whispered, barely audible.

The Ivarsteadians were right. I breathed the dragon word that showed me living and unliviing things. Hidden in thick brush, ready for an ambush, were at least three glowing red forms.

"They are waiting for us," I whispered to Ingjard, who nodded in reply. I frowned, not keen on killing wolves unnecessarily, but from what the townsfolk said it sounded like these wolves were known to be bloodthirsty; there was no doubt about our predicament. Kill, or be dinner. I steeled myself, and rolled up my sleeves, metaphorically speaking. "Lightning magic will stop their hearts," I asserted, not bothering to whisper. "Let me at least try. The sword can be our final option." I didn't know how to say 'last resort'.

Ingjard looked me over for a short moment before relaxing her arms and lowering her sword and shield. She nodded, giving me the go-ahead.

It had been a long while since I'd cast a spell Wuunferth called Chain Lightning. Casting the spell took some work, mainly a nearly innate understanding of lightning itself. That I could do; initially I thought it because I was familiar with electricity as it was in my world, but later I wondered if it was due to my connection to Meridia, who somehow activated or caused me to activate a lightning cloak spell upon my person. Meridia was the Lady of Light, after all. Rightly or not, I attributed my skill with lightning magic to her.

I knew I could cast the spell and cast it well, but it was dangerous amongst crowds or at short distances. The magic was non-discriminatory, and would jump to anything in its path, even more so than natural lightning would. The target would receive the brunt of the shock, and its neighbors a weaker voltage. If this spell could stop the heart of an adult human or at the very least shock them, paralyzing them for a moment, I imagined wolves would die where they stood.

Not taking any chances, I held up both of my hands in front of me, letting the magical energies ball up between my palms. Like a normal ball of lightning that could explode a tree or straw dummy, chain lightning could grow in power when recycled within the self. The result should be three dead wolves, so long as I didn't miss, which was difficult to do with this particular spell.

I couldn't account for anything that my dragon magic didn't see, but other wolves would have had to be far away for the red fog not to reveal them to me. Confident, I let the magic fly.

Even if I had missed and the lightning struck the ground or a nearby tree or bush, I imagined that the magic would do its job and bounce from target to neighbor. My fears abated when painful yelping, lasting only the briefest of moments, pierced the crisp air. I readied a regular lightning spell between my palms, just in case there were survivors.

None came, however, to my relief, and I let the energy used to create the ball of magic resorb into my body. I quickly whispered the dragon word for life, and when I saw no one and nothing ahead of us, I relaxed. "Nothing else is alive, now," I said, turning to Ingjard. "Alright to go?"

My bodyguard smiled and retrieved her knapsack, and on we went. No more wolves greeted us along the way. Bunnies, birds, a couple of mountain goats, and what I thought was a mouse or mole made appearances, however.

About halfway up the mountain, we came upon a meditating woman swathed in furs. She sat in front of a plaque. Kyne bjothat Paarthurnax, the plaque read, hvan sandat Mathir. Samana rathan Mathiren unitar Thu'um. Tha Dovah Kein hrithat, Dovah gon Tung. Kyne summoned Paarthurnax, who pitied Man. Together they taught Men to use the Storm Voice. Then Dragon War stormed, Dragon against Tongue.

We continued on our way so as not to disturb the other pilgrim. Shortly after, I turned to Ingjard, who had read the plaque as well. "Who is Paarthurnax, and what do they mean by 'Tongue'?"

She shrugged. "I have no idea. The Greybeards will know."

As we hiked along, Ingjard and I chatted, although my part of the conversation was rather breathless. I had always hated hiking. Endurance anything was just never my game, particularly in the cold. Ingjard indulged me in sporadic rests, but never for more than a few minutes. My feet began to hurt when we were what I gauged as two-thirds or so up the mountain.

While nothing but snowdrifts and the occasional arctic fox crossed our path, I learned a lot about Ingjard, and she learned a lot about me. Ingjard Sorensen's favorite food was roasted goat with garlic. Mine was pizza, which she ate during our time in Whiterun. She prayed to Talos and Kyne actively. I probably should have been…. She was terribly excited about a new import from the country of Morning Wind that she had seen at Whiterun's palace called a 'flat bow', which sounded a lot like a crossbow to me. I told her how I loved to shoot with a bow and arrow, but I was horrible at it; I even admitted to nearly killing Yrsarald.

Her laughter carried on the wind. "I heard about that. You two were all the guards talked about for a while."

"Truly?"

"Of course. Everyone just assumed Yrsarald had—" She stopped both her march and speech abruptly. Turning to me, hand demurely raised to her mouth, her cheeks flushed and her eyes went wide. "Sorry, I shouldn't speak of such things so openly."

Curiosity piqued, I responded simply with, "Oh? Tell me," followed by an encouraging laugh.

"Ah, well…," she turned forward again and we continued our hike. "People knew he was with that woman, the one who we found, dead…."

"Okrith."

"Yes. I didn't know her, she left so long ago…. But people only said good things about her. I only knew Yrsarald to be alone – 'married to his job,' some said. That isn't an insult, you understand. To be so dedicated…. Well, he was respected by everyone, especially Ulfric. He was always so peaceful, but scary at the same time. Somehow too calm…. Anyway, we were all surprised when he started to… fall apart. He stopped taking care of himself. We all kind of knew it was because of a woman, but we didn't know who. We had an idea, though…." She smiled back at me. "It was different with Ulfric. Everyone knew he had a lover. It was part of our job as guards to help keep her secret, so there was no point varukig about them. Now, Yrsarald…," she chuckled, "you and he created a lot of varuk for us guards. And everyone else in the city."

"'Varuk'?"

She cleared her throat. "Ehh, talking about someone without them there. Rumors, and such."

"Ah." Gossip. Desiring to turn conversation away from my relationship, I asked her about her romantic life.

My initial answer was a hearty laugh. "None. None…. Well, Jenassa doesn't count. That was just…," she waved herself off. I wondered if she had actually wanted to make something more meaningful happen between herself and Jenassa, but Stenvar's friend was now reportedly attached at the hip to Brelyna. "Unlike my sister," she stressed the word, perhaps indicating how very different they were, "I am not friea."

"Eh?"

"What?"

"What aren't you?"

"Oh. I don't…," she huffed a laugh, "I don't want to get married. And I certainly do not want children. I don't like all that… kisses in the moonlight and flowers and poems horseshit. I'm perfectly content with what I get. Or, have gotten."

I cocked an eyebrow. "You still get… it." I laughed at my timidity.

She shook her helmeted head. "No longer. I gave my loft to Kyne, while we were in Whiterun. I am yours, Dragonborn, and no other's. Your house-servant, I mean." She cracked a smile.

"You didn't have to do that, Ingjard."

"No, I didn't."

"Won't you miss it? A woman…." I was suddenly shy, unable to just say the word 'sex', 'fjelk'.

"I'm going to be constantly at your side, Deborah. At the end of the day, all I'll want is some wine."

I shot my bodyguard a stern but facetious look, and our conversation about relationships died where we stood. Desiring a less serious topic, we went back to basics. Ingjard's name meant 'inside walls' or 'indoors' – 'ingjarthen'. "Why my parents named me that…," she mumbled the unfinished thought, shaking her head. Eyleif's name meant 'eleven' – 'eylif'. We touched upon the names of others, as well. Ralof was a 'calm vow' (rala-loft), Yrsarald was a 'furious protector' (hyra-halde), Ulfric was a 'beast ruler' (ulfir-rike), Stenvar was a 'stone person' (sten-var), and Jarl Balgruuf was a 'hearth fire pit' (bal-gruv). "The name fits him," Ingjard said. "Balgruuf has a fiery temper!"

My name just meant 'bee' in Hebrew and meant nothing at all in Norren.

"Perhaps you could tell everyone your name means, 'Calm! Your beer!'," she joked, giggling.

Ra! Da bor. Da-bor-ra. I sighed and rolled my eyes.

I began to realize that names in Skyrim were almost never literally, to-the-letter Norren words strung together, but rather hybrids or adulterated forms. Names tended to keep older or now 'poetic' forms of language, for reasons she couldn't explain. It was just tradition.

From names, we moved on to talks of family. I told Ingjard of mine back on Earth, previous relationships included. I also told her all about my wonderful dog Sam, a German Shepard mix. Ingjard loved dogs, too.

My bodyguard was thirty-three. Her sister, the wonderful Eyleif, was younger, but just by one year. Both her mother and father had red hair, too. Her mother was a seamstress and father was a farmer. Her mother died giving birth to a third child who was stillborn. Her father died several winters ago from a farming accident involving an angry bull. "How exactly their only children became warriors was a mystery to him," Ingjard related, smiling. "My father's brother's son, Gunmar, also trained as a soldier. Now he's in the Dawnguard."

"Dawn Guard?" I asked.

"They're a group of vampire hunters." Ingjard paused a moment, standing still, and then added before walking again, "Perhaps a bit like you—well, at least from what I know about you and what Meridia wants of you. Except they focus on vampires and as far as I know they don't worry about the other undead, werewolves or other such things."

"Werebeasts are not undead," I corrected her.

"Oh, I know. What I mean is that there are some people out there that hunt all kinds of… people or things that are different, that they might see as evil. There is this very fala group called the Silver Hand. I only know about it from Jenassa and Selina, who have dealt with some of them in the past. They specifically hunt werewolves."

"Just werewolves? Not werebears too? Other werebeasts?"

"Werebears?" Ingjard asked, amused. "I've never heard of werebears. Do they exist?"

I shrugged. "I think I read a book somewhere…." And the Oscar goes to…. "So they hunt werewolves. Evil werewolves? Ones that maybe kill people's goats for food or… well, kill people?"

"No. All werewolves. They don't misman."

"'Misman'?"

"Kill one and not others."

"Oh. Well that seems…," I searched for the right word, "well, it seems mean, and a little evil. I can't believe all werewolves are bad." They aren't, I said to myself, fondly remembering Selina. And Vilkas, for all his grouchiness, certainly didn't appear to be evil. Yrsarald, a born werebear, was practically the opposite of evil.

"Have you even met a werewolf?" Ingjard asked without stopping for an answer. "They are beasts. I was nearly killed by one in the woods a few years ago, on vakte for the Stormcloaks before I became a city guard. I'll show you my scar, later. Nearly died from blood loss, and then infection. We didn't have any healing potions or mages with us. If I hadn't made it back to camp where they sometimes have potions that Wuunferth and others cook up, I wouldn't be here today."

My stomach tightened when I thought of the kind of wound that could almost kill a person. Having seen Yrsarald's deadly werebear claws and teeth, I had a basis for imagining the resulting of gashes. "Well, I'm glad you're here. I would be lost without someone with me now." I didn't pause for her to react, particularly to disagree out of politeness. "I am from another world, not used to doing any of the things I've done here…. Now I have to do this, go there," I nodded upwards, "learn things…. Anyway, it is a comfort to have a friend with me."

Friend. Was Ingjard a friend? She was my servant. Then again, Galmar was Ulfric's house-servant, and they behaved like friends. They had certainly bickered like friends, or even brothers, just as Galmar did with Yrsarald. Calder and Yrsarald had a great rapport, but I wasn't sure they were friends. I decided that the term covered a wide range of relationships, and settled on the idea that Ingjard was indeed a friend to me, whether or not I was a friend to her.

She didn't react at all to my ramblings, but merely smiled. Her reaction appeared genuine. Perhaps, I thought, she was simply contended by my statement, and that was good enough for me.

"I wonder if there have been other Dragonborns," Ingjard mused. "Besides you-know-who, I mean. And, if there were, if they had house-servants."

"Maybe they had followers."

"Followers?"

"Sure. People who… well, not worshipped them. That's the wrong word. But, people who followed them on their travels, helping them or wanting to help them. True adventurers like Stenvar who ran around the world, helping people, becoming Thanes. Maybe ancient Dragonborns were actually wise people who had interesting things to say, and things to teach people." My mind suddenly turned to thinking about Jesus and the Disciples, and I couldn't help but giggle. Ingjard raised an eyebrow at me while holding a cheeky smile. "What?" I asked her.

"You are more wise than you think," she answered a moment later.

"What? No, I am not wise. I know a few things about many different things, mostly useless in this world. That does not make me wise. Not at all."

"That isn't what Yrsarald says about you," she countered, smiling. "He says that even Ulfric called you wise. Or, was it 'intelligent'? Oh, I can't remember. But they are basically the same thing. I think, Deborah, that you don't believe in this—" she jabbed the side of my forehead with her forefinger, hard, "—just as I believe in this," she indicated her sword. "And that, my dear Dragonborn, is something you need to change. Perhaps training with the Greybeards will help."

I had no response to her critique. I knew she was right. I continually lacked faith in myself. I certainly hoped that receiving legitimate training as a Dragonborn would help with my confidence.

Not much later after our conversation about my self-esteem issues, the air grew bitterly cold and we had to tighten our fur cloaks around our bodies. Skyrim didn't fabricate scarves as I knew them, but the people here did fashion swaths of fabric to wrap around their necks and lower faces. I had to do this now, to fight against the constant cold wind. Ingjard was fine with just her cloak and helmet, however. Her Nord blood somehow made her hardened and ready for this type of weather.

Snow began to fall as tiny ice shards, somewhere between sleet and snowflakes. Or perhaps the wind was so strong that the snowflakes bore into my forehead and eyes, the only exposed portion of my face. I figured we had entered the lower cloud level, and that perhaps the clouds weren't as dense as they had appeared from below. It was not so much a cloud as a concentrated snowstorm, as odd as that was. Breathing became a bit of a struggle, and the sharp air cut my lungs with every inhalation. I wondered if the weather was supernaturally charged, a spell to ward off the weak and undetermined.

I had been walking with my head down, staring at the immediate path ahead of me (mainly Ingjard's feet), so when she stopped suddenly, naturally I crashed against her back. She turned to me with a scrunched, displeased face and quickly turned back around. I walked up to her side. "What's wrong?" I shouted over the wind.

"I thought I saw something move," she hollered back.

Wasting no time, I spoke aloud the dragon word for life. Before us, perhaps an arrow's flight away, just out of reach of my magic, stood a hulking figure. I breathed the three words together, 'laas yah nir', and the red fog remained for a longer period.

"It's big," I related to my bodyguard. "Just one big thing."

"How big? Dragon?"

"No, but bigger than a person."

"Fuck," Ingjard spat. "I'll bet it's a fucking frost troll."

"Frost troll?"

"In mountains or far up north you find all sorts of white-furred animals." She spoke close to my ear. "Foxes, rabbits, birds, bears, mountain cats, and even gods-damned trolls." She unsheathed her sword and raised her shield. "I've had many of them die by my hand, but they're strong, stronger than you might think."

"I was attacked by a regular troll, once," I recalled. "It was just—" just before I was raped, I finished, silently. "It stepped on me and broke a rib. I got away, though." Because my rapist shot it down with arrows.

"Well I'm here now, and you are a trained mage. Cast a fire spell – your strongest. Fire hurts them like no other weapon, and my sword will kill it quickly and easily afterwards. Just set it on fire somehow, and I'll cut it down."

I was immensely thankful that Ingjard knew a lot about particular points of combat. Who's intelligent now? I said to myself. I thought, quickly, about what type of spell to cast. Fire was not my element. It had taken me ages to learn how to cast fire spells, including the ones to light fires or ignite candles. The simplest ones.

Fire rune, I decided. I silently recalled the Elven words for casting a fire rune far away from myself, and not wasting more time, I pushed forth my palms and shouted, "A var dagon as baune molag mino!" Shouting was required for me, personally, to cast the spell correctly, and to give it enough power to do more than singe fur.

I watched the snow ahead of us steam in reaction to the circular rune. As if on cue, the white form in the distance roared. It sounded like a lion. A very, very angry lion. I whispered, "Laas," a reaction to the mental image of a stampeding troll, and sure enough the form was gaining on us, and quickly. "It's coming!" I shouted, backing away from Ingjard but readying a lightning ball all the same. I knew she wanted to take down the troll herself, but I wasn't going to leave us vulnerable if she failed.

Within seconds, the beast galloped on all fours right at the rune, perhaps having no understanding of what the patterns melted into the snow meant. The explosion was violent, and the troll screamed. The sound was almost human, and made my skin crawl. I had my lightning magic ready to cast, but the events that followed were too quick for me to react in time. The troll, completely aflame, set upon Ingjard with swinging arms and claws extended. Ingjard's steel sword pierced through the white fluff, into what I figured the beast's heart, or perhaps its left lung. The troll fell flat on its face, stone cold dead… but still on fire.

Ingjard was swordless, but looked utterly pleased with herself. "See," she laughed, planting her gloved fists on her steeled hips, "easy." She nodded to the flaming carcass. "Well, do you have a water spell, or something?"

Without an answer, I cast a simple frost spell upon the troll, the same one that had scarred Yrsarald's chest. The troll's flame cloak was doused, and Ingjard grunted as she kicked the troll to its back and wiped her sword clean on its blackened pelt.

"Alright, then," she chirped. "Onward."

I grumbled under my breath, exhausted from casting the powerful rune spell, but trudged on nonetheless.

Soon we were on the western slope, I realized, and I could just make out the ruins of Riverwood far below. This was also when the temperature dropped considerably, even though we had breached the low cloud canopy as well as the tree line and were bathed in strong sunlight. I laughed victoriously at myself for having bought the snow goggles. Almost immediately upon passing the subalpine zone, everything cleared, and the snow-laden path was painfully bright. Unfortunately, I realized just how hard it was to see out of the slotted wooden cups. Ingjard tried them in earnest, but quickly removed them once she realized she would be unable to defend me while wearing them. She thanked me for them all the same, though, and kept them for the future, just in case.

Not long after, we were winding around the mountain to the northern slope, and the city of Whiterun was just barely visible. Our journey for the next hour, or something like that, was an uneventful one, if shivering uncontrollably under fur travel clothes and a fur cloak was not eventful. Occasionally I cast a small amount of healing magic upon myself, just in case my exposed upper face was getting frostbit from the relentless wind and bursts of snow that gusts blew off of cliffs and boulders. We passed by a handful more of the small plaques, but I had no mind to read them. I was too fucking cold.

Finally, from behind a veil of blowing snow that seemed timed specifically for our arrival, a grey mass appeared. At first my tearing eyes thought the grey was just more mountain, but I soon realized that the top was perfectly rectangular. Fortress. The building became clearer once we were blocked from the wind by a cliff, and I spotted a statue of Talos to my right. I glanced briefly at the stone god, acknowledging him and the plaque at his feet, but I had to move on. The fortress was right there, waiting, seated at the top of the time-worn stone steps that Ingjard and I had somehow managed to not trip over.

Not wasting more time in the blasted cold, I stomped up one of the two curved stone staircases, passing a large wooden chest that was set between them. Marching toward what I hoped were unlocked doors, I breathed a pained sigh of relief when I reached the top of the steps. I pressed my palm to the frozen iron double-door, but stopped myself. I turned to Ingjard, who was catching up with me.

"Should I knock?" I asked her, suddenly feeling a bit too sure of myself. I hadn't been summoned to the fortress as Torug had, after all. A thought then occurred to me for the first time, and I spun fully toward Ingjard and grasped her shoulders. "What if Torug is inside!?"

"Deb, if that Orc is inside this fortress, I'll run him through myself. Now go inside, for Kyne's skil!"

Lips pursed in indecision, I soon exhaled all of my worries, and pushed. The door was locked. "F-fuck," I growled, stomping a foot. I tried the other door. Same. I knocked loudly, pounding my fist against the door, but after waiting a moment, nothing happened. I turned to my bodyguard. "What should I do?"

"There's another set of doors." Ingjard trotted down the stone steps, and then up the other curved staircase. "Locked, too!" she shouted before returning. Panting, she suggested, unsure, "Shout the dragon words?"

See, you're the intelligent one. "Alright, but…," I turned back to the door, and then looked around as best I could through the blowing snow. "To who? Where? If I shout at a window it will break."

"I don't know, Deb. Shout to the sky. Call to Kyne." The woman had a point. Again.

After all, these were Kyne's words, I had learned from Jarl Balgruuf. Perhaps if the goddess heard me, the door would open. Or, if not, then at least her monks inside would open the door for me, I hoped.

Taking several steps back and removing my snow goggles, I looked to the sky just above the fortress. A solid white-grey expanse of fluff, concentrated over the tallest peak of the mountain, glowed back down at me, but the rest of the sky was clear. Knowing I should really give the words power, I allowed myself time to work up the lung capacity. Breathe in, breathe out. Shouting, actually shouting the words made them more powerful, just as speaking the whisper-words aloud made the red fog last longer, glow stronger. I hadn't needed training to figure that one out.

I closed my eyes; the sky was too bright for me. Breathe in, breathe out. I thought about which words to use. Power, or fire? Fire was a dragon's most natural weapon. Power was something even Ulfric had in his voice. Power, perhaps, the Greybeards would recognize as something a human might shout. Breathe in. I recalled the fragile little farming town, Ivarstead, snug at the foot of the mountain I now stood atop. Breathe out. I saw myself shouting the words of power that created thunder, and watched in my mind's eye the little mountain town get swallowed alive by an avalanche. Just like the kiosk guy said, I recalled, utterly astounded and terrified that I might have unintentionally killed a few dozen people, some livestock, and three stabled horses.

Fire it is, then. Breathing in, slowly, one last time, I imagined a ball of fire spouting forth from my lungs. Yol, toor, shul. In the instant before I released the inferno from my lungs, I recalled that I probably could have used this shout on that frost troll. I ignored my own nagging and let loose the dragon words upon the sky in quick succession. The three syllables flowed easily from my lips. The ball of fire, dashing towards the sky, cut through the small patch of clouds and disappeared.

And then, nothing happened. Growing impatient, instead of shouting a second time I relied on good old human desperation, and banged my fists furiously against the huge, heavy, cold iron doors.

Gjarthskjald - plaques

Varukig - gossiping

Varuk - gossip

Friea - romantic

Loft - vow

Fala - secretive

Misman - They discriminate

Vakte - patrol

Skil - sake