Guide:

Dwemeris

Thoughts

"Speech"

"Dovahzul"

Warnings/Disclaimer: see chapter 4

Chapter Warning(s): Necromancers.

A/N: Chapter 50! Holy wow, this story has become at least 5 times as long as I'd been expecting.

Last time… "Why do you linger, Ysmir? You know your path, all you need to do is follow it." A small blossom of hopes rises in my chest. I grin.

Chapter 50 – Finding Treasure

"…Do you make a habit of dragging people that you trust with you to the coldest regions of this already frozen land without any signs of remorse, or are we the exceptions?" As he asks it, Ondolemar looks me dead in the eye with a long-suffering glare, drawing his robes closer around himself against the wind.

In his defence, we are currently hiking along the frozen wastelands of Winterhold, near the shore of the Sea of Ghosts where a stray snowy sabercat or bears are the least of our troubles - what with the treacherous, slippery ice and snow continuously giving way beneath out feet. We risk slipping off the nearest cliff with every step we take.

I, myself, am wading through the thick white blanket of cold bullshit with even more trouble than Ondolemar has, sinking into the snow up to my knees whereas the tall-ass High elf barely has the damn stuff reach his ankles.

…And all of this travelling only after I first dragged them both to Riften to check if Erandur had left yet and consequently running all around the province to solve people's love issues for the priestess of Mara once I found out the former Vaermina devotee had since returned to Dawnstar.

I'm rather certain I'm one of Calcelmo's favourite people in Nirn. Aside from Faleen, obviously.

In an oh-so-eloquent reply, I shrug at my companion's question and down another swig of warming mead as we come down to a small outcropping of rocks, wiping my mouth before really even attempting to formulate an answer – the cold is making me a little sluggish today.

"Well, O- Lyonmelar, I guess I wouldn't call it a habit as much as a… necessary evil. At least, I've never heard Marcurio offer a breath of complaint about the cold. Can hardly believe you'd stoop below human standards, princess."

As long as he knew the mead would be on my tab at whichever inn we'd stop for the night AND he hadn't overused the trope in the few days prior to reaching civilisation, Marcurio wouldn't complain. That is, Ondolemar is doing better than him, but the Altmer doesn't need to know that.

But hey, I'll take whatever peace I can get.

The Mer snorts derisively even as Lydia faithfully stomps along on my other side, not breathing a word unless she remarks on the scenery or whatever possible enemy she spots.

"Why are we even out here? I had gathered we had been heading for Winterhold, judging from what the dragon at the Throat of the World has helped you grasp."

Huffing in agitation, I gesture at the empty wastes around me.

"Well, a while back I got this letter from Winterhold's Jarl, asking me to retrieve a helmet at Hob's Fall. It'd be a shame to arrive empty-handed when I'm trying to help Onmund smooth things over between the city and the College. But you see, the thing is I do not actually know where Hob's Fall cave is located. I only had a general direction – this one."

"Is that how you usually handle these things?" The Ex-Thalmor asks dryly, sidestepping another too-smooth path of ice with apparent ease.

I snicker uneasily.

Well

"Would you be mad at me if I said 'aye'? Though, I often try and talk to some of the locals to see if any of them can mark the place down on my map, or at least give me more information about whichever cave or dungeon I'm looking for. Mostly I just follow whatever bloodstains I can find in the general area – unfortunately, it is no fool proof plan, and I still get lost."

Lydia gives me a sideways glance. "My Thane? Hob's Fall cave is actually quite nearby. There have been rumours of necromancy in the area. I spoke of it with some of the travellers at Nightgate Inn while on business for the Jarl, just before I was sworn to you… Are you certain it is a good idea to head there, of course, no disrespect meant, my Thane?"

Ondolemar hisses lowly, cursing under his breath in a lilting, vowel-rich language that must be what most elves in Alinor speak. Gloved fists clench and unclench in covert agitation, and I give my Housecarl a sharp smirk.

"Necromancers, you say?" I drawl dangerously, humming at her affirmation, "Dear, that just gives me an extra reason to visit them and raise Oblivion! …Figuratively, of course. I by no means mean to actually summon a Daedra. That didn't come out right, did it? My apologies."

I guess I'm lucky Marcurio isn't with us. He'd not let me live it down. Then again, I doubt Ondolemar will let it go anytime soon, either.

"We shall go 'wipe the floor with them', so to speak. With their innards, if I have my way." Ondolemar states, deceptively soft for the sheer ferocity of the sentence and the unholy light in his eyes. "Necromancers are a blight upon magic."

"I concur." I agree softly, before clearing my irritated throat. I'd been feeling a little off since Ivarstead – mostly an irritated throat, probably from overexerting my Thu'um or something along those lines, but also a stiffness in my limbs that wasn't there before.

It will likely pass. Must be the cold getting to me.

"Anyway," I start, putting the thoughts from my mind, "Lydia, lead the way. We have work to do."

After what feels like hours, we finally discover the crevice hidden between two large walls of ice, only marked by the presence of a few nearby animals along the coastline and, as I'd already suspected from a cave full of those who raise the dead, a thick smell in the air.

Oh, and the bloodstains leading towards it, staining the narrow path with frozen crimson as we approach the entrance carefully. I give Ondolemar a wan smile. "As I said earlier, just follow the bloodstains. There's always trouble at the end."

"How… barbaric. But effective, I must admit."

As we carefully walk up the path, I spot a motionless body next to the entrance. Murdered and dumped outside as warning? Or a weapon lying in wait?

The half-eaten by wild beasts, bloodied, mangles corpse of the little Breton woman doesn't rise as I sink to my knees carefully next to her, heedless of the blood pooling around her like a miniature lake.

"What are you doing?"

I grimace rather than giving an answer, going through the demeaning, dishonourable task of searching the body in front of me – checking every pocket and crevice, trying to keep my fingers away from the icy blue and blackened skin.

Shuddering in disgust, I quickly find what I had been looking for – a defining mark, like a piece of jewellery with a name engraved on it, a slip of paper, a unique item.

This time, it's a letter.

I stand up stiffly, ignoring the very much disapproving and wary faces of my companions. Exhaling softly, I feel a stab of pity boor into my heart as I skim through the innocuous words on paper. Keeping it as evidence of her fate, I carefully tuck it away beneath my armour, muttering a soft prayer to the woman, that she may travel safely to wherever her soul will go.

"In Winterhold, I will have to alert Ranmir about his lover's fate," I explain softly as their expressions twist in similar mourning, "to give the man closure, if nothing else. She was dear to him."

Lydia scowls darkly, eyeing the corpse with no little discomfort. "Why should you, Thane? Who is this foolish woman, for that matter, being out here unarmed?" Unbidden, my lips twist into a snarl.

"Lydia," I growl warningly, "Do not disrespect the dead unless they're after your own life. She was only trying to create a better future for herself and her love, whom she left behind."

Ondolemar nods solemnly in understanding. "A pity, that her endeavour met such gruelling end." We enter the cave, alert and silent, but also more subdued than usual – not that either Lydia or Ondolemar are usually very talkative.

The woman is a surprise.

"Please! You have to help me! They're going to kill me!" She cries from a cage in the back of the room, pulling at the bars wildly when she spots us.

Quickly, I assess the situation – Big wall of ice, side tunnel, and the way we just came. Looks like we'll be able to get to her location once we take the long way around, but by then it might be too late.

I eye the massive ice wall in front of my face with a dark gaze. There are no footholds to climb, and there's a terrible view of what might actually be up there in terms of necromancers. Climbing would be a terrible idea.

Purely pragmatically speaking, it'd be safer to kill her now so she doesn't give away our presence, but none of us have the bow and arrows to achieve such a thing.

I sigh, shaking my head silently in displeasure, gesturing Lydia and Ondolemar to follow me as we take the side tunnel. I set the woman out of my head, focusing on getting through as fast as possible without being careless, instead.

Lydia's eyes lingers on the unfortunate soul trapped in a necromancer's cage. "You can't just leave me here!"

Sadly, we can.

I'm no more happy about it than she is.

For the most part, the ice cave is rather tame as far as Necromancer lairs go… At first. It gets a little worse when we come into a round room, with two humanoid bodies, burnt and twisted beyond recognition, put on pikes like some sort of morbid decorative pieces framing the entrance through which we approach.

The scent of death and blood and burning flesh is heavy, and Lydia has to stumble over to a pot to vomit after we've taken care of the threats residing inside. For my part, I'm not so fazed.

Too often have I come across similar scenes: Hag hideouts, Forsworn lairs, Hagraven nests, bandit camps, caves, Nordic ruins… Even on the side of the roads corpses in all states of decay can be found, and I'm used to the smells and sights, as unpleasant as they are.

They don't make me falter anymore. I wish they still did, sometimes – might make me feel a little closer to the Dwemer blacksmith's apprentice that first stepped into the sun of Markarth.

I keep my face blank and my emotions carefully in check as I first loot the corpses for valuable alchemy ingredients and healing potions, before moving on to the chest I'd spotted, taking some other useful items as I walk along. I also find a book I haven't come across before – Aetherium Wars.

Hey, now that sounds familiar.

Of course, I cannot read it now, so I stash it in my pack alongside the potions and gold I'd found.

Ondolemar carefully pokes at one of the dead necromancers with his steel-toed boots, grimacing in disgust when the blood end up staining the bottom of his robe. Meanwhile, though, his eyes are almost continuously trained on me, as are Lydia's once she's recovered.

"We-"

I shush the Altmer instantly, waving my hands warningly with a glare in his direction. "We should stay as silent as possible. Don't know what's ahead." I whisper at him, almost like the hissing of a snake.

I stretch carefully, but so far I hadn't sustained any hits. My shoulders and back are burning slightly, though, as if they aren't used to getting any exercise. Wincing, I roll my neck, the low burn having gotten more annoying the further we'd walked since, well, Ivarstead again.

Gods, I hope I'm not coming down with something. I do not want to fall ill here.

'Enchanter's Primer' also finds its way into my pack, since the book is quite rare. After I've read it, I'll just give it to Onmund or J'zargo. They'll know what to do with the thing. Call it a gift.

Not that I had a gift for Marcurio. Perhaps we can rectify that later. This place is a goldmine of valuables.

I very consciously do not linger on the presence of the necromancers, or what their presence implies for the origins of said valuables. I also refuse to think much of the woman we'd seen and heard in the first chamber – I highly doubt she'll still be alive if we alerted anyone at all.

Sneaking is not Lydia's forte.

Speaking of which, she seems alright now. We'll move on.

Skulls on pikes? Check.

Blood everywhere? Check.

Ominous taste of ozone and mould in the air? Check.

Evil chanting filling the room for some profane ritual? Check.

This is a big pile of shit. Extreme danger, most likely, and also, definitely, without a shadow of a doubt the lair of the biggest bad bitch around these parts – or so they'd like to think at least.

"Hi, I seem to have lost my appetite in this dump. I don't suppose you've seen it?" I ask cheerily, drawing the attention of the entire group as I draw my axes. And from there on, it's game on.

The fight takes longer than any of us had hoped, as the fucking necromancers, curse their ice attacks, curse their families, curse their cows, keep RESSURECTING EVERYONE OVER AND OVER AGAIN.

I dodge an ice spike headed straight for my eye with a curse, diving to the side and almost skidding straight off the edge of the higher platform, where Lydia is battling right below me and Ondolemar is keeping the Master Necromancer busy further ahead, his magic flying wildly around him in a high-level Flame cloak to melt the ice before it reaches him.

The woman who'd called for help, as I'd feared, was long dead by the time we arrived, and turned against us as undead thrall.

Wish I had Marcurio here. He would have blown everyone up already.

But he is sitting on his ass at the college, and so I grit my teeth and keep fighting.

Then Lydia lets out a sharp cry, stumbling down as her opponent towers over her, menacing smirk cast in an unnatural light by the charge of his spell and –

I don't even stop to think, really.

I lift my right axe high, but instead of trying to slash away at the man in black robes in front of my face, I throw it at him, the blade slamming into his stomach, leaving a deep cut but definitely not dealing enough damage to put him down properly.

He stumbles, and cancels his attack, leaving a minuscule opening I grab with both hands.

Without further hesitation, I leap down with a war cry on my lips, because that's MY Housecarl, and I shove Lydia aside, forcing her down to the ground below before a searing, paralysing agony starts to spread from my left shoulder to the rest of my body.

It's cold, cold, cold, because I was just hit point blank by an ice spike, and my blood flows in rivers down the glowing blue, hot and dark and red as it stains my armour and spills from my lips.

I take a choked gasp, and it's wet and I taste metal on my tongue, my life liquid dripping down my chin as I bare my teeth at the necromancer as if I have a dragon's fangs.

I'm pissed off enough to rival one of the Dov, at the very least.

My dagger appears, as if by magic and I pounce, stabbing once, twice, twisting the metal deep when I bury it into the enemy's brain, straight through her eye socket, my knees on either side of the now dead woman's chest as my head starts to grow heavy, but my body feels light.

Blood loss. Fuck.

A small groan passes my lips, along with more spluttered crimson. Above me, I hear a maniacal laugh. "You never should have come-"

"YOL TOOR!"

The laughing descends into a scream as my first opponent, clutching his side from where my axe had dug into it, is set gloriously on fire, like a human torch, and he runs away from the edge, trying in vain to put out the dragon fire. I smile grimly, though I barely hear the sounds of battle and pain through the haze surrounding my mind and perception, my vision fading quickly.

I fumble for my knapsack, and then Lydia is at my side, pulling my hands away, yelling but I can't hear her, digging into the bag and pulling out a red vial.

"Helmet…" I just manage to choke and I hear Ondolemar say something, probably something not so pleasant concerning my priorities. I couldn't tell even if I tried, I'm so warm and sleepy…

I'll just close my eyes for a minute or so. Rest a bit… Sleep… Just… a little…

I'm unconscious before I feel Lydia put the potion to my lips.

Later, when asked by unwitting strangers what made her loyalty towards me as unwavering as it was, above and beyond what was expected of a Housecarl, Lydia would steadfastly answer the same thing, over and over again.

'He is a fool, a bastard elf, and he knew full well I didn't like him.

He still took that hit for me.'

Not that I'd know she'd say that, because she can be plenty secretive if she wishes to be.

Not that I'd ever forget just who ran throughout the frozen wastes, speedingtowards the College, with me on her back and an Altmer she hated at her side as her sole protection, just to save my life.

At least one good thing came from it.

A/N: Next up! Winterhold College, Marcurio, and Septimus Signus! …Along with a small surprise you'll all hopefully enjoy!

Question: Having read all that, what did the title of this chapter refer to, do you think?