4e 198, 4rd of Sun's Dawn - Turdas

Markarth

— The Silver-Blood Inn.

By the time I woke up, it was raining again. T'was a faint noise I heard, little more than a ghost of white noise in the background, but coupled with the unfamiliar bedding and the nipping cold in the air even inside, I was able to tell. I felt like I had slept enough, but not much, which meant I was probably somewhere in the early morning territory — six or so. The room was mine for a period of 24 hours, Kleppr had told me, which meant I could take it easy as I woke — as long as I made sure to cash in my reward from the general goods store, I had at least three more days after that. More if they felt generous.

Which in turn meant I had the time to write. And so write I did, on a collection of old and yellowed pages Kleppr had laying around for use on the Journal he apparently barely kept up with to begin with. I'd have to procure my own journal cover, it seemed, but I could write.

So, with a quill in hand, I did just that — I wrote. And my first words traced by this foreign ink on this foreign paper were those I felt would touch me the most;

Man's natural state is war.

To channel Hobbes, men have a right of nature to do whatever they want in order to survive, so they compete against each other all the time. This, of course, creates conflict. Conflict of interests, of wills, of ideologies. Sometimes, not even that; conflict of existence, perhaps, for those who clash because they feel compelled to, with nothing pressing them toward it.

Their natural state is a state of war, in which they distrust one another and try to increase their power so that they can attain superiority over others. Man is matter with spirit — the spirit gone, man is garbage.

Because I was a fool, and a child, and scared and lonely and hurt, I held onto what I knew would never change. Not physics, for rules shifted. Not theories, for I doubted my ability to properly put them into words, nevermind numbers. Not even memories, because mine were about as worthless as me — subjective in their dreary monotone.

No, the one thing that will never change is this:

Where there is man, there is war.

And, as Bethesda had so eloquently put it, war never changes.

My bookworm nature might come in handy in this universe — it would be amusing to make a name for myself by publishing books of fame from my world into this own. Things like Art of War and The Prince and even the damn communist manifesto would probably do reasonably well, considering Tamriel's populace was unusually educated for a world so obviously based (or so I would have said before the whole multiverse thing) on the medieval period.

Whether I chose to do so or not, I wanted to put the core ideas of those all into words — write them down before they leave me. There were a number of active advantages to having the written word to fall back on, after all

But —

If I was honest with myself?

I just needed something familiar. And sitting down to write notes on another's work was perhaps the second thing I did the most. Considering how unlikely it is that I would run into a running PC with Skyrim while in Skyrim, it is probably the first one in the list as far as feasibly replicated goes as a criteria.

And, really, it was honestly a little sad.

Fantasy implies dreaming, immersion, something better than one's own reality. Skyrim had been mine, because it was both immersive in its realistic way of dealing with issues and unrealistic in that I could solve them. Now that those powers were stripped from me, I was forced to confront the fact that any world modelled by flawed hands will be made of flawed clay — it seems humans cannot conceive of a world free from their vices. (Again, though, the whole Multiverse thing slammed the brakes on that thought process.)

And so I wrote.

"Ah," [something] uttered from within my brain and beyond the beyond, both amused and interested and irreverent all at once. Once again, the deep and metallic voice of Jyggalag sent shivers down my spine in ways I had never even conceived of fearing. "Putting words into ink. My scribes already work on transcribing what they have gleaned from your memories, but it is an admirable effort nonetheless."

Ah —

Yeah, that made sense. After all, the library in the crystal abyss was all Jyggalag had to His name after his downfall and return. Still — He knew there was more to it than merely a desire to restore art into a world devoid of this facet of it, and I knew he knew. I suppose not even Gods are beyond keeping the curtains up when t'is called for.

"Sounds nifty, but I don't really have access to it, so…"

— I didn't think telling the God of Order this was somewhat of an emotional ordeal would be bright. He knew, of course, but I was happy leaving it unsaid for as long as he would let me.

"That will not be a problem for much longer." Yeah, wow, ominous. I was slowly learning to be wary of Jyggalag's reach, so ominous was far from my preferred look for him, so to speak. I furrowed my eyebrows slightly, fingers trembling just a little as I clutched at the fabric of my shirt. "Regardless, that is not why I am here. You have things to do, do you not?"

— Oh.

Oh, was this a task?

"Not quite. Merely a comment. I had foreseen that your shock might make you struggle to be productive, and that is…" His voice trailed off just slightly, but it gained a hint of edge and steel when it came back; like the whirring of a thousand industrial machines had been put into a computer and forcefully contorted into words one could understand. "Unfortunate."

My voice sputtered and died as I tried to vocalise it. What escaped my lips was somewhere between a sigh and a breathless gasp; the trembling of my hands powered up slightly.

"Y-Yeah, well, don't worry, my lord. I had already planned to go out and do stuff today."

"See that you do." He uttered softly, losing the edge in his voice. A moment of silence followed. "If you would leave the city and head Southwest for some half a day's journey, you would reach a Forsworn encampment located around a ruined tower that is now named Dead Crone Rock. It is my belief that there are things there that might be of interest to you."

"Like, what, a gruesome death? I've never even held a dagger before. I'd probably die to the first random bandit I see." I don't think I can properly emphasize how poorly prepared I was for this journey. The cultural differences are too great to easily put into words; people here grow up earlier and die younger. Back home, as a 17-year old, I was only a few steps above a child. Here, a 17-year old is effectively a grown adult, or close to it. People in Skyrim grow up fast with steel in hand. I did not. "Taking on the damn Forsworn would be suicide."

"Yes," he agreed softly, "Your fate in direct conflict would most certainly be death. But you need not initiate conflict to take what is of interest to you. Heed my words, child, or do not —in three week's time, a small garrison of Legionnaires will arrive at Markarth to ask some questions. Then, they will leave to face the inhabitants of your Dead Crone Rock. Should you follow them, they might prove a suitable distraction."

I could practically see the Quest Marker.

Honestly, all in all, it was a good Quest. The Forsworn were dangerous, but I'd be protected by Legionnaires for most of the time. Running away would likely be easier, too, since no one would be particularly interested in searching the area for a 'child' during or after direct combat with another faction. It's probably the safest I could be while on a mission regarding the Forsworn.

Unfortunately, that wasn't really enough to settle my very 21st century Earth nerves. We're not used to tangling with risks. And I hated games where I didn't know everything I needed to make plans.

— It didn't seem like he'd force me into this, however. Why? He'd said it himself; I wasn't here by choice. I was given life to act as his agent, and he'd long since proved his ability to exert influence over me.

Unless, I realized dimly, this was a test of sorts. I had grown so used to thinking of Jyggalag's thinking as something akin to a supercomputer running through possibilities that I hadn't entertained the thought, but as a Prince who was not, however much he might dislike that, omniscient, it was in his best interests to make sure all of his investments are worthwhile and properly operational.

Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe this was really just an offer. Maybe he knew me more than I knew myself, and therefore knew I would take it.

See — here's the problem with interaction with literal deities; you can never predict what they do, because prediction requires an understanding of how someone or something works, and, if Jyggalag is the standard for those, that's basically impossible. My feeble mortal brain can never even conceived a gross approximation of the way Jyggalag processes information. Like flying blind into a fistfight against Cthulhu.

All I could really do is guess. And, as someone who used to pride themselves on logic and science, that's terrifying.

"Right," I agreed again, sighing as I shut my notebook close. I carefully closed the inkpot I had been using, wiping the quill clean with the hem of my shirt and leaving there a stain of black. "I'll… take that under consideration. Try to prepare for it and stuff. Figure out what I need... That sort of thing. Can you at least tell me what is it I want from there?"

No answer.

Of course.

Lovely. You'd think he'd acquire a taste for decorum when he rummaged through my memories, but apparently not. Rude, I dimly noted, sighing to myself as I looked up.

Well.

My writing mood had been killed, so… I rose from my spot and stretched my arms with a slight grimace, pulling on my already-dry hoodie over the shirt I wore. I couldn't possibly look more conspicuous, but it was cold and I needed the warmth, at least until I could afford something local for that.

The fabric around the tear still looked reddish, as if my blood had been soaked into the hoodie itself. I dimly put a hand over it, and winced by instinct.

— Just lovely.

By what I assumed was around 11 AM, I was 40 gold richer and a whole lot less irritated.

I still attracted gazes from the city folk as I walked it's streets, following whatever street had caught my fancy and running fingers through the carvings in the walls. The marketplace had been wonderful to witness, large and colorful with dozens and dozens of little stands proudly exposing their merchandise for everyone to see. The houses were tall, well-built and absolutely fascinated, and I had entered a shop at one point just to marvel at how it looked inside, much to the shopkeeper's silent amusement.

The local guards, probably briefed by Eidar, were surprisingly nice to me. They still freaked me out, though, and I couldn't help but feel like there was something wrong with most of them, but for the most part they were accommodating and I was all the better for that. The delivery of the letter was the cherry on top, in a good way this time; the shopkeeper was kind enough to give me an extra 10 gold for my trouble after hearing my little tale, which meant one more day of not-being-a-hobo.

Unfortunately, however, I wasn't there to be a tourist. So, after a few hours of marvelling at the many wonders Skyrim had to offer me and feeling less miserable about my general situation, I bit back my desire to crawl back into the inn to write some more and forced myself to get to work.

I know — that's something of a pathetic description. But the truth is, that's my nature, my habit; I had spent most of my life following the principle of 'Go outside, do whatever is needed, go back inside to be happy again'. My intellectual understanding of the impossibility of such a routine in Skyrim wasn't enough to make me not feel like following it anyway, especially since this new world was considerably more threatening.

I soldiered on, though. It was needed.

First things first, I needed to find something to defend myself with. Something better than my trusty iron dagger, at least. A sword would be cool, though I'm not sure I'd be able to deal with the weight all that well… maybe I should stick with the dagger? I might have to rest it out.

Alternatively, I could look for a Spell Tome. Something like Flames, Sparks or Frostbite would prove useful… And I really, really wanted to do magic. Only problem was, Spell Times were most likely considerably more expensive than weapons, and I couldn't really hope to acquire anything with my measly 40 gold. Hell, even if I could, I'd be stuck sleeping outside for the rest of my short days.

So, the extra step was to find a way to make more money.

Which was why I made my way to the fabled Understone Keep, which proudly stood watch over its city from behind two waterfalls, like something straight out of a movie. The massive bronze doors seemed to tower over me even as they were opened by the Guards positioned around them, and I admittedly took the time to catch my breath once I did walk in.

T'was a beautiful place, truly. The insides reminded me more of ruins laying dormant within a cave than anything else, but what it did accomplish it accomplished well. The large bronze chandelier that hung from the ceiling illuminated every inch of the main chamber with what looked like mage light or something akin to that. As opposed to the most common, and usually the only available, source of light that were torches, this one was cold instead of warm, a bluish white as opposed to a burning orange. It was reflected dimly in the polished stone panels of the ground beneath his feet, flashed dimly in the ever-present metal that outlined each detail in the room, gleamed dangerously in the swords of the guards that patrolled the keep, each keeping a careful eye on my frame.

I kept my eyes carefully neutral as I walked the halls, fiddling with the edges of my hoodies with anxious fingers. My objective there was not the Jarl himself, but his local Court Wizard… though I also wanted to get my first look at the Thalmor I vividly remembered being there… though, with my being two years before the events of Skyrim as I remembered them, I had no real way of knowing if they'd be there at all.

This would also be the first time I actually saw any Elves. They were surprisingly rare in the city itself.

"Halt."

A guard stopped me from moving forward by placing the flat of his blade at my neck, and by God, my heart stilled. The edge of the sword was less than an inch away from my very precious and very unprotected jugular vein. A twist and I'd be gone.

For him, this was just a way of exerting his authority. But, for me, it was the closest I'd ever been to death (other than the time I actually died.)

— We underestimate how the advance in our society shelters us from the horrors of mankind. Man is at war, always.

But the Guard, unaware of my internal plight and not yet having caught the growing look of panic in my eyes, simply carried on.

"What do you desire in the Keep?"

— I wanted to answer.

I wanted to answer, but I couldn't. I had to, but I couldn't, and there was steel touching my throat, and the last time a sharp object had gotten this close to me I had bled out on the concrete floor of an indifferent city and expired like trash, and —

I couldn't, I couldn't, I couldn't — I just couldn't, not with it there. I wasn't strong enough. I was unable to, and it would cost me like still had cost me once.

The sword was retracted. A steadying hand was awkwardly placed in my shoulder, and I almost stumbled back, dazed and bewildered. The guard was looking at me with some concern through the eyeholes of his helmet.

"Easy there. Steady." He paused as I nodded, exhaling a quivering breath. "Are you alright?"

Inhale. Count. Exhale. Inhale. Count. Exhale.

I tightened a pale hand around the fabric of my hoodie on my chest, letting my nails dig into my skin through the cotton it was made of. Not quite meditation, but it would do. I had wanted to answer, then I wanted to cry, and now I wanted to rage. Get your shit together, Jason — or so it went.

Logically, it made sense for me to freeze. I was a woefully unprepared boy tangling with things I had never before been exposed to. But it made me feel… insufficient. Small, like the child people mistook me for, and I hated it. Hated it with every cell in my body.

"Good," said The Prince of Order in my head, voice slightly drawled out. I chose to ignore it.

"I'll be fine," I said instead, showing the guard a small but grateful smile. My lips quivered slightly, but that was alright for now. "Just, uh, bad memories."

His eyes wandered to the spot on my hoodie where I'd been wounded. Something like recognition flashed in his eyes, but he said nothing about it — merely nodded and sheathed his blade, placing himself in my way so that I was still unable to proceed. He had a duty to perform, after all.

"What do you desire in Understone Keep? The Jarl is currently busy, but the Housecarl can see visitors." He repeated his earlier question with some explanation readily given, maybe to spare himself the burden of being asked such things.

I thought about it for a second.

Lying was a no-go. I didn't need to make myself any more conspicuous today, and I wasn't nearly confident enough that I wouldn't be caught and attacked to try it. So that left the truth or a half-truth; between the two, I chose to go with the full truth instead. Why?

"I, ah, wanted to see the Court Wizard? And the Keep itself, because it's honestly absolutely fascinating, and the architecture itself is breathtaking. And the Housecarl, maybe, because maybe they know where I can go to earn some gold. And, ah, I heard there were Thalmor in the Keep and I've always wanted to see one of them —"

Because I happened to be very good at rambling, and that was a way to look genuine, childish, impulsive. Not something one often fakes. As long as he wasn't actively looking for it, he wouldn't catch it.

(And maybe I was over-rationalising every single detail, seeing shadows where there were none. Maybe I was treating it with much too seriousness. But thinking of things like challenges and puzzles was a way for me to wrench control away from my dear fear, and that was what I wanted most.)

My rambling was promptly cut off. The sound of metal boots climbing down a set of stone stairs was surprisingly clear, but I also heard the distinct, yet muffled clanking of metal plates that moved against one another as a man descended from a staircase behind the guard.

"Is that so? I am glad to know we have grown to such a status in these lands."

He did not sound all that impressed, however.

The man responsible was an altmer. A real life, bonafide altmer — and, again, I know I might have made a big deal from very little, but you have to live it to understand it. Witnessing someone of another species you had never seen before for the first time is an absolutely insane experience.

His skin was pale with a yellow tint, and his face was long and angular, with a sharp jawline and a soft chin giving him a curious visage. He had the faintest traces of a white goatee, lips that were surprisingly plump and curled into something akin to amusement, and narrowed eyes of an unidentifiable colour. His hair, I could not see, for he was wearing what I quickly recognized as the traditional robes of the Thalmor. He wore boots and gauntlets of golden Elven design, much to my fascination.

The Guard seemed to dislike his presence. His shoulders tensed the moment the altmer, whose name I did not know, stepped into our field of view. If he could, I'm sure he would have snarled. As it was, he merely nodded in respect.

"Justiciar Ondolemar," he greeted solemnly.

Oh, I noted. So that was his name.

I let myself state at him with open lips and widened eyes, even as he approached. Ondolemar was tall. And I was short, which wasn't to my advantage, but still. I'd give the man a good 210 centimetres, easy.

Ondolemar met my curious and fascinated eyes with a pair of cold orbs of his own… and then let his lips curl into something like a smile. I wondered dimly if he was considered attractive to the locals, going by their own standards. He was certainly not to me, for more reasons than just his gender, but I found myself wondering what defined beauty in a world where so many different people coexisted.

"My greetings, boy. I am Justiciar Ondolemar of the Thalmor."

He did not offer his hand. I did not expect him to; his tone was indulging, and I distinctly recalled that his line in the game went something like 'bask in the honour of speaking to a Thalmor'. It really was no wonder that my comment had pleased him; he would have been glad to note his Organisation's growing presence had evolved to such a point where some of the human youth had taken to admiring them.

Well —

I took another moment to mentally go, Oh, wow, holy shit, an elf. It felt reasonable. Then… Well. Interactions are, by essence, contests of will and wit. Assuming a healthy degree of hesitance is present, you compete with your words for dominance over the discussed subject, among other things.

The trick is in not letting that show. Which I hoped I was able to accomplish.

So I let myself look starstruck for a few moments longer. Mister Ondolemar was not aware of it quite yet, but our conflict of wills had already begun, and deceit was the proper way to play the battlefield. Finally, I shocked myself into responding, making sure my twitch was visible.

"I, ah — Oh, wow. I'm Jason. T'is a pleasure to meet you, Justiciar Ondolemar."

I inclined my head just slightly in a show of respect, which seemed to both confuse and please the man with whom I spoke. Good. Either way, though, he took his place next to the guard, looking him over for a moment with a snide sneer before motioning with his head for me to follow. The guard merely let me pass, this time, though there was a tension to his shoulder that hadn't been there before.

I knew for a fact Ondolemar was merely being indulging, most likely enjoying the thought of being treated in a manner befitting of his 'position' as both a member of the Thalmor and a 'superior Mer'. That, coupled with his general displeasure over being positioned in Markarth, were most likely the only reasons he even deemed to indulge what he would perceive as a stupid starstruck boy in his childish desires.

I could play with that. I knew enough about the Thalmor to play this by ear.

"Jason, hm?" He parroted my name with pursed lips, as it tasting the way it sounded. It didn't seem to please him. "An odd name."

"Indeed," I agreed, making sure to let my voice stutter just slightly before settling. I fiddled with my hoodie again, mentally mulling over my words. Alright, I dimly noted. Time to play with backstory. "T'is the name of a hero in a book. Mother found it appropriately unique; would make me more of a memorable figure when dealing with court intrigue."

One of his eyebrows raised slightly as we finished climbing the stairs — the hallway, much like everything else, was considerably larger than it had looked in-game, and the throne room was all the more impressive for it. Those Dwemer had been quite something.

"Ah. From High Rock, then?" He questioned, looking me over. "You do look like a Breton, but your features are… quite unique. Softer than those of most of your ilk."

Ah, I wanted to say. That would be because I am from an ethnicity that does not exist in this world. But, of course, all that would earn me is the moniker of insane, or a trip to the dungeons if they bought it and assumed me a Daedra.

If I wasn't incorrect, Bretons were quite literally the human/elf hybrid descendants of Tamriel; Manmeri, they were called. A mixture of Altmer and Nedic or Atmoran blood justified their physical similarities to the Nordic and Imperial people of Tamriel, while some still bore more obvious resemblances to the elves. I did not have pointy ears or the like, but my features were, in fact, softer than those of the locals. If in-game looks transferred over to real life in any capacity, most men had quite the chiseled features.

I wondered dimly if I could explain that in any way that made sense. Perhaps a closer relationship to mer? Mm. Ah, yes, I remember reading something on the subject.

'Notes on Racial Phylogeny'. Yes, that was it. Wish I could remember the name of the author, but it was one of those imperial library website binge-reading sessions.

"One of my forefathers was Mer," I told him diligently, hoping he didn't question the specific Mer I referred to. "My great-grandfather, if I'm not mistaken. We still bear some of his features, despite the fact that children are born with their mother's features."

Like Pokémon, I dimly noted in my head. I wonder if Argonians lay eggs.

Something akin to recognition flashed in Ondolemar's eyes, alongside the slightest hint of disgust… no, not disgust, but distaste. Even still, he nodded thoughtfully, looking me over once again.

"Ah, yes, I suppose that makes sense… A Bosmer, I assume. Well, no matter. I must wonder why you have left High Rock to visit such a…" He paused, mulling over his words with distaste. "Troubled land as Skyrim."

"No, no," I corrected him dutifully. "Though my mother and father were indeed from High Rock, I myself was born and raised in the Imperial City. They thought they'd find ample opportunity to bolster their positions there after the war started to show signs of ending, so they moved."

Again, Ondolemar raised an eyebrow, and I mentally felt like screaming. Nothing I had said thus far was particularly obnoxious, and it all seemed to be working just fine, but I couldn't help but feel like I was dancing on a razor's edge. This whole backstory thing was, ah, quite something.

Ondolemar, I quickly came to appreciate, was quite expressive. His face showed his reactions clearly, perhaps in part because he didn't see himself in such a situation where he would have to measure each and every sign he gave to the wily opponent he was talking to. No, in his eyes, I was of little importance.

I'd been right; this whole 'look young' thing served me well. Which is good, considering it likely wouldn't last; one of the reasons people seemed to age faster in the medieval age than they did in our time is because the sun is incredibly aging. These were people who matured faster, worked more and died younger, and their bodies reflected that. The poor nutrition was another contributing factor. And I'd always had good genes. Though not Elf genes, I think. Maybe.

God, I missed Google already.

"Oh, is that so?" He questioned me. "I suppose it makes sense. You Bretons always took rather well to that kind of plot and intrigue. My question remains, however. How is it that you have come to be in Skyrim?"

Well.

Now that I could quite comfortably explain.