A/N: Hey guys! SteinMon here with another literary experiment. I have way too many idea roaming around in my head, so I thought I'd ease the burden with some Samples.
I would like to personally thank Fanfic writers "ThatFenrisWolf" (his/her "Through My Blood", which I've continued to enjoy) and "CDrake" (for his/her "Your Eyes at Sunset" and "Children of Akatosh" that rekindled my love of Skyrim after years of replaying it).
Most importantly, to my bro, who I can't find and site for Fanfic (and I'm not calling him out IRL) who introduced me to Skyrim in the first place, and who sacrificed his max level (lvl 81; vanilla, original XBOX-360, pre-DLC) character teaching me to play the game (because I accidently saved over it); the guy I spent months and years talking with about Mods we'd like to see in Skyrim, and storylines that we'd like to see; plenty of the stuff that will end up in here was derived from those two high school kids. Without all of them, the synapses in my brain wouldn't have fired in the write order (it's a reused pun, but you know what, I like it!). If you're reading this dude, you know who you are! :D
Please note, if this story does happen to get off the ground, many of the storylines that might take place will be derived from half-scribbled notes that came from two teenagers that could dream (before the realities of the world set in).
Review Responses:
- Mofkop59: On it!
- darkpaladin89: Thank you! I appreciate that.
- jonathan11197: Good 'nough!
- kevseph: Will do!
- TheVictoriousOne: I am pleased to read so.
*End of Responses
That being read, I welcome your Reviews. If you have criticisms, I welcome those too. Please keep them constructive. I want to grow as an author, and I can't do that if people aren't willing to critique, or only want to tear me down. I'm not here to please everybody, but I am here to learn. There is a method to my madness. 90% of what I write, I don't write baselessly. There is a reason some things are changed, and others are the same.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Elder Scrolls, much less Skyrim. Those rights belong exclusively to Bethesda Studios and Todd "It Just Works" Howard
Without further ado. *Que the dimming of the lights*
Chapter 1: Returning to "Normal"
The pain was… new.
It wasn't that he'd lived devoid of pain, but the sheer intensity of it made for a wholly unwelcome experience. It forced the air from his lungs, left the tips of his digits shrieking, and filled his vision with dancing black and red spots. He couldn't breathe. He didn't know why he was there, or what had led him to being where he was. His insides twisted and writhed. He had lost all feeling in his legs, and his stomach felt like it being dangled in front of him, along with a few feet of his intestines.
Oh. That was his stomach and intestines.
He wheezed an attempt at breathing, only cough up a black-red phlegm. When he tried to inhale after expelling the last of his lungs with the cough, he found that he couldn't. He wasn't breathing. He wasn't breathing!
'Oh wait,' he thought, staring at the sickening display of his own disembowelment draped across an inky black tentacle. 'I thought… I smelled bad… on the outside.' The humor. It gave him peace, and a sense of control, even if it was only a false sense. And he grasped it with everything he was.
Well, what was left of him to grasp as his lack of breathing slowly numbed and faded his conscious.
A few feet passed the forefront of his darkening vision, the First Dragonborn's masked features clearly looked at him in wonderous horror.
"Hmm…. I did not… foresee this." Oh. Right. The old tentacle porn Daedra himself: Sangui–
Pain flared in his gut as the darkened mass slowly – and painfully – turned him around. His remaining spine protested, and the slightly jostling sent a new wave of pain rolling through his mid-section, almost returning him to life as he was allowed the slimmest gag of breath. The lights danced, and Oblivion blurred anew with another wave of fresh agonizing tears.
Yep! Hermaeus Mora! Definitely Hermaeus Mora! A writhing mass of eyes and tentacles suspended in space, with one main infinity-shaped eye that seemed both to stare through him, into him, and at him. It was hard to tell, what with trying to breathe as carefully as possible despite the fact that his diaphragm was all but destroyed, but the Daedric Prince seemed almost… confused? Intrigued? Pissed? It was hard to tell. His "facial" expressions all looked the same, his tone was as deadpanned as ever, and Gil really wasn't paying that much attention despite his best (read: non-existent) efforts. Hole in the gut, remember? It took everything he had just to steal a sweet breath of stale air.
"Why?" the Prince asked in his slow and contemplative voice, almost resounding with infinite patience. Almost. "Why can't I… see you? Your Fate… it is there… and yet… it is empty. Like staring at a blank… page. What… did you do?"
The horror behind Miraak's mask was quick to turn to indignant anger, at least that's what it sounded like. Gildart's didn't know exactly! He was suspended facing the Mora. "You bastard! You tried to kill me!"
The Scryer of Fates' main eye blinked, before turning ever so slightly to look past the current Dragonborn to the First, turning him once more, as if to set him as an example. "You… harbored fantasies of… rebellion. Did you think… that I was blind to it? You sought… to escape me.
"However… your successor has… offered himself… selflessly… in your stead. Killing you… would be a thankless… exchange." And he just oozed generosity with that statement; or something anyway. The tell-tale warp of purple oblivion sounded, a portal forming just on the other side of the almost plant-like structure they stood on. "I no longer… have need of your… services as your… replacement has been… gathered. You may go."
To his minimal credit, the First Dragonborn's body language looked conflicted, looking back and forth between Gil and the portal as though he was torn between which decision was the best one.
"Just… go," Gildarts wheezed, able to brace himself enough to gather half a breath, half-poised between holding the mass that impaled him, and afraid of disturbing his entrails any more than necessary. The acrid air of Apocrypha burned more than it ever had, now not just in his lungs, but along his exposed guts as well. It already hurt like Molag Bal's rusty mace.
Wo-ow! That was an image he was going to spill some mental eye ink over after everything stopped hurting. If it ever stopped.
The moment ended in a grimace as he lost his support, the slip forcing all the weight on his ribs and upper organs as he was left hanging again. He should have been dead. His lack of feeling in his legs probably meant that his spine was either damaged or obliterated. His guts spilling out should have sent him into a shock from the pain alone. No one lasted this long in such a state, which meant only one thing: Mora wanted him alive and cognizant. The Daedric Prince was leaving him suspended – figuratively and literally – between life and death. He wanted him conscious and present to witness this.
Miraak didn't need another prompt. The freedom he had so desperately desired for so long, and he didn't hesitate a moment longer to run and jump into the portal. Following his disappearance, the portal followed suit.
The moment he was gone, the tentacle curled and lifted, allowing Gildarts to slide off. He landed roughly, coughing and sputtering as his vision danced between consciousness; darkness flickering in and out of reach. His blood, bile, bowels, and emptied guts spilled through the holes of Apocrypha's veined floors, the black murk below hissing with acrid steam as his bodily fluids dripped into it.
"Fascinating," the Daedra stated indifferently. "You sacrificed your life… for the traitor's. And in doing so… exchanged your freedoms. Why?"
Gil wasn't actually trying to make an exchange of freedoms. No matter how bad Miraak was, he didn't deserve impalement and death at the hands of the Daedra because the practically god was fucking bored. BORED for Akatosh's sake! Sacrificed his life? Check. Made an exchange of freedoms? Hard no.
Despite his best composed answer, he wasn't in a position to verbalize it. His lungs were little more than jelly at this rate, and his throat was heavy as it filled with whatever had promptly trickled back through his throat. Gods only knew what was where, and where was what. 'Hey ma… I can taste… the inside of my lungs.' At least he hadn't lost his humor, forced though it was.
"Why didn't I… see your fate? Why can't I see it… even now? It's just… disappeared."
Gil could feel the eyes of Hermaeus Mora surrounding him, looking down at him from every angle as though he were trying to solve a puzzle. A mystery. And if Gil knew anything about Mora, it was that the Prince "Hated" mysteries with a capitol "H". Case-in-point: the Skaal. Well Gil didn't mind leaving him with another thing to stump ol' tentacle face for the next millennia or two.
"Hmm. No matter. We will have an eternity… to find out. Now… it's about time… that your payment is due."
Gildarts didn't know what he was talking about. He hadn't asked for knowledge; nor had he taken it without permission. The Daedra hadn't set another price, and therefore, he wasn't due to grant him any more boons. There was no "contract". There was no "exchange". There was no "agreement". So what payment was he talking about?
It didn't matter what he thought in the next moment. He felt several sensations stabbing into him across his torso, arms, and his head. His legs might have also been stabbed, but he couldn't feel them. The smallest absent part of him wondered if this is what it felt like for Storn Crag-Strider when Mora forcefully took the secrets of the Skaal. Like an exposed nerve. Even with his guts exposed, his breath short, and every conceivable reason to have blacked out by now, his body still cried out further in agony as he began bleeding from the new impalements.
Following the stabbing, came the acid. That was the only way to describe it. Like every ounce of his being was dripping with liquid fire. Worse yet, he could feel it slithering through him. Even as it burned over where he'd been stabbed through the gut, it felt like eels slithering slippery through his body; eating, biting, consuming as it continued over the legs he shouldn't feel, but now could. He was little more than worm food.
And Hermaeus Mora just settled there, his Infinite-eye waiting. Watching. Observing.
His eyes shot open, gasping so hard for air, he might have been suffocating the moment before. The furs covering him did little to alleviate freezing cold air, just as the freezing cold did little to prevent the sweat that now drenched his body, but it was quickly cooling over his skin, reminding him exactly where he was.
He fumbled aimlessly for a few moments before he finally found a jug of cheap wine he kept by his stone bedside. He gulped its contents without tasting it, some of it trickling over the sides and down his chin and over his chest, until he had to come up for another breath, still unsatisfied when he could barely put the jug back down without his hands shaking uncontrollably. He did his best not to close his eyes, but the darkness around him made it impossible not the see those same inky tentacles stabbing into him. Or those formless eyes staring at him with morbid fascination.
"Yol," he whispered, the dragon tongue focusing his essence into a breath of soft golden, blue-tinged flame that temporarily lit up his surroundings. Stone. He was surrounded by stone. Not a stack of leather-bound books, flesh-cut pages, or dripping blood-like ink in sight. He trembled so hard in relief that he could scarcely remain upright. Tears flowed freely after that, accompanying restrained sobs. He had to hide his face even in the dark, afraid that someone or something might witness the once mighty warrior, their Dovahkiin of legend, now little more than a sobbing wretch.
A broken shell by design.
Gildarts had to forcefully wipe away his tears as he stood up, deciding to find his presence elsewhere as he strode through the cut-stone precipice of High Hrothgar. Still underdressed, he pushed open the heavy doors, making his way into the courtyard and stepping out into the cold snow barefoot without a care. The cold night wind bit at his skin, leaving red rashes in its wake as his body tried to compensate for the heat being ripped away. The half-dried tears on his face were particularly brutalized against by the cold.
He quietly sat down in the middle of the courtyard, crossing his legs as he had been taught for the purposes of meditation and breathed through a shivered chatter. He didn't have a particular Word to meditate on or contemplate. He just wanted to get away from the nightmares. From the all-too realistic pain he'd endured. From what had happened after. How time itself seemed so inconsequential. By all sense and reason, he shouldn't be there. He shouldn't be alive.
He shouldn't even be sane.
By comparison, the flesh-numbing and skull-chattering cold was welcome.
It had been a year ago. He wanted to forget it had happened, or at the very least, put it so far behind him that it didn't devour his sleeping moments, and periodically his waking ones too. But it was always there, lurking in the peripherals of his unconscious, just waiting to strike. To remind him. To devour him once again.
'And a large, resounding "Fuck you too!" Vaermina,' he thought bitterly, mentally cursing the Daedric Bitch of Nightmares.
He stuffed his hand under the snow and tossed the handful over his shoulder, covering his back in freezing snow. His body seized at the chill, but it successfully distracted him from darker thoughts that slithered their way from his mind like that vile "acid" had in Apoc–
Another handful of fluffy ice found its way on his chest this time, finally successfully ceasing his thoughts as his teeth clenched together. Despite his inborn resistance to the cold from his half-Nord blood, near the peak of the mountain, at night, it numbed the surface of his skin while leaving a squeezing ache in his bones.
An unnatural rush of wind and snow was swept by a gentle whoosh, dousing him with more snow. 'Oh son of a–'
"And what brings you out in the cold so scaleless, Zeymah? And… covering yourself in Od – the snow? You must remain warm."
Gil smiled slightly at the almost soundless landing of his teacher save for his weight crunching the snow under claw and wing, feeling heat rise behind and next to him as the dragon Paarthurnax scuttled up next to him. For the moment, Gil felt a reprieve from the cold.
"Hoping to forget," he answered authentically. He hated being serious. Enduring life without a sense of humor bordered on agony to him. There was too much serious stuff as it was: death, taxes, war, plague, selling your soul for very limited power, or any number of the dark and twisted things he had seen across Skyrim. From a man trying to bring his sister back to life by killing and stitching pieces from a number of other young women together, a family who just wanted to spend the rest of their days in peace being brutal murdered by the Falmer, to a Necromancer who had the bright idea to use the Civil War to amass his own army of shades from the constant supply of dead and dying. The list was near endless.
The world needed a bit of humor to give it light, but whenever he was plagued by nightmares, it was near impossible to maintain whatever glimpse of optimism he had been able to mask and maintain. Like a dark weight in his mind that no enlightened humor could penetrate or ease.
"Ah. Hahvulon – the nightmares," the great dragon clarified in his deep, patient voice, as he was oft to do even long before Gil had studied under his tutelage. "They trouble you." Statement, not question.
"Yes," he answered simply, continuing to watch the snow fall in the dark. "I can still feel it. Even in dreams. And it's not getting better." Not just feel it; relive it. All the pain, the terror, the torture. Even the raw, shameless, and bland sarcasm he'd needed to cope another second. The stupid jabs of humor that had held him together where he was otherwise torn apart. Every emotion that could be felt, every regret, and every unrepressed longing as raw as the day it happened. Even the brief feeling of invincibility as he trekked across Solstheim, riding high after taking down Alduin and Harkon, with a whole new land of adventure to explore.
Oh how wrong he had been.
Every Aedra and Daedra cursed moment, down to the sheer second his soul had been–
As if in response, late night darkness both drew closer to embrace him and yet retreated violently as if from fear. The touch of Nocturnal's realm was both welcome… and yet not. Cold and hot all at once. The Shadows were comforting, and yet, all they did was remind him of that horrid, desolate realm of parchment, ink, and whatever bloody glue bound it all together.
"Drem. Patience, Mal-Zeymah," Paarthurnax rumbled reassuringly, his breaths deep and sighing as he looked toward the large northern sky, filled as it was to the brim with stars next to Tamriel's twin moons. "I know you are eager to return to your Kiim – your mate. But you are doing well. Not only in mastering your Thu'um, but in mastering your Hahdrim ahrk Slen – your Mind and Body. It is unpleasant, yes. Your mind is tempered, trained, and basks in Lah – Magicka – but the Hahvulon persists. Bormahu's blood runs strong in your veins, but so does the Dur.
"Before, when you suffered such Nos – Attacks – you made yourself stronger to repel them. This is but the same," Paarthurnax reassured. "Geh, the enemy is different, and their Mulaag is one that persists beyond sight and conquest, but if one is to vanquish such a foe, then one must become mightier still. To this, a strong foundation must first be laid, before you are to build on it. I believe, that is as it is said by the Joor – the Mortals."
Gil couldn't help but chuckle at the dragon's attempt at mortal illustration and allusion. Or maybe the dragons had helped mortals see what allusion was. To use the Thu'um was to understand the very essence and evolution of the Word spoken after all, both the reality and abstract of the Word. It was a shame that simply conveying a Word didn't reveal its true purpose. Then again, if it did, then simply speaking would result in "deadly verbal debates" as they were so called.
"It is a good saying," he responded, closing his eyes to take a deep breath before releasing a stream of steam to the sky. Another deep breath, and he felt the swell of magic and strength in his body as he slowly eased them into alignment, slowly calming himself in his turbulence.
"Mmm. Meyz. You have risen before the sun, so you may start your practices early."
'Should have seen that coming,' he thought sarcastically. Early to rise, early to train, without the option of sleeping in late. Eh, such was life.
Gil braced himself as Paarthurnax moved away, exposing him once more to the full brunt of the mountain ice and snow. He stood up, still only dressed in his under-pants as he looked to the trail that would lead to the peak of the Throat of the World.
"Would you like assistance?" his teacher asked, rolling and stretching his craning neck as he prepared to take flight.
"Thanks, but I'll make my own way." The ancient dragon nodded in acceptance before balancing on his legs and tail, spreading his wings. There was a brief moment, where the older Dov closed his eyes, the splays of his wings seeking and sensing the wind before he launched into the starry sky with a single downward stroke. Gil just snorted as he watched. "Show off."
'Well, good a time as any.' He breathed out a lung-full of air. He breathed in the scent of ice and snow and wind and blood and POWER. All there was to grasp. All there was to reach for. It was his.
Ba-bum!
His eyes opened, his storm blue eyes even bluer still as the truest, wildest side of him was let out of its cage, but still kept on a tight leash. He groaned, feeling his tongue become too big for his mouth, his canines push further out of his jaw, his ears elongate, and claws unsheathe from under his nails. A deep, throaty growl exhaled from him, and he had to bite back the impulse to howl. Master Borri would Shout until his head exploded if he woke them before dawn.
The restlessness of wolf blood pounded in his veins, only partially allowed to emerge. Less a curse from the Daedric Prince of Beasts, and more a gift from a Companion and friend. Well… from someone who had once been a friend. He felt the crackle of his bones as they longed to fully transform, to fully take on the form of a beast. To run and hunt and prowl and stalk. To taste the heart blood of slain prey and relish the feeling of the hunt. To bask, not in losing himself to the creature he could become, but in the freedom such a creature provided him.
Because there was no worry, or doubt, or expectation from an animal. However long it would last with viler things writhing beneath the surface.
Chuffing throatily, he gazed up the side of the mountain, the cliff face almost daring him, before crouching down to all fours, every muscle coiling through him. Reminding him just how powerful he really was inside.
And he jumped!
Far higher than any human could or should, soaring up the rock. His fingers and toes dug into the ice, compact snow, and stone for traction before he was leaping upward again, bounding and pouncing with inhuman grace. He reached the top quicker than he had wanted, breathing heavily from the exertion, and yet, reveling in the relief that came from letting loose a little.
Gil looked back down over the edge, knowing that had any of his housecarls been present, he'd get an earful. Especially from Lydia. Aye, Lydia would tear him a new one. That thought brought a toothy grin to his face. He couldn't help the impulse this time as he crouched to all fours, his hands clinging to the edge as he lifted his head up and howled. Long and hard, simply released to let Skyrim know that he was awake. That he was alive.
Just as quickly, the crunch of a dragon landing on the snow of the Throat alerted him, and reluctantly, he pulled the Beast back, slowly returning to the folds of his mortal skin, and once more, bare to the cold.
'Fuck! My balls are freezing!' he complained, half-tempted to summon a spot of flame magic. However, common sense overrode that desire. Better cold cocked than burnt cocked.
"It is not wise to test your limits Zeymah," Paarthurnax commented, crawling closer to the Word Wall.
"Gotta do it some time," Gil urged as he stood to his feet, toes clenching as he began to lose feeling in his toes once again. "Otherwise, I'll never learn to restrain it. Besides, it's not like I'm trying to become more powerful. Just responsibly wield the power I have while staving off the side-effects."
"Hmm. This is Vahzah – true," he conceded, but added warningly, "but if you feel the krasaar rise in you, remember to cease all, and restrain it."
Gil nodded his understanding, holding back a wince as the feeling of flesh crawling deadened through his body, just from such a simple exercise.
"The others will be here soon." And with that, Paarthurnax took his place on the Wall, climbing with the foreclaws of his wings.
He quietly followed. Most days of meditation, the Grand Master would have him focus on a Word. A single word, and meditate on its meaning and depth. Others were spent practicing breathing exercises, and others focusing his vital essence. All key steps in mastering the Thu'um. Each integral part entwining together to make it stronger. Where dragons themselves were already at one with their Thu'um, requiring only refinement and taming in their wake, Gildarts focused on aligning with his own Voice.
Truly, the only difference between him as the Dragonborn, and dragons themselves was the difference in their mortal and (*cough, cough* bullshit!) immortal lifespans. And the scaly bastards could fly!
Huffing, he sat in front of the Wall, returning to his meditative stance as he had just moments before below. The stars made for an excellent backdrop, their twinkling discerning him from the pitch-black that would otherwise try to make itself known in his nights and terrors.
A word. What word to focus on? Perhaps something to combat this infernal cold for one. "Warmth." That would be a good Word. Faad.
He closed his eyes and relaxed his breath, finding himself resigning to the familiar ministrations he had practiced and habits he had fallen into over the last year. However, today – like some days – there would be an underlying of tension. That would be fine. He could work despite it.
Unlike at the most recent Moot, he was able to find that sense of focus, if not calm. There were no Jarls demanding his attention, no shouting and bitching about a Civil War that was long over as long as he lived, no plots to unravel, no mysteries that needed unfolding, no being politically on edge about every meaning and double-meaning that came out of everyone's mouths. No big babies that needed swaddled. That meant focusing on his training, which meant the sooner he could get through it. No rush of course. He wanted to do this right.
'The sooner you finish and gain control, the sooner you can go home,' he reassured.
Home. What a comforting word.
The stables where the horses resided, and occasionally where Shadowmere visited when he wasn't being a dark, edgy – literal – stud. The gardens where he had grown every conceivable plant he could get his mitts on, but especially the ones used for making paralytics; because evidently those had medicinal purposes when diluted, and it was a type of poison. And poisons were super expensive in Skyrim, go figure. The alchemist tower in one corner where he'd spent his fair share of time concocting and distilling some potion or other he'd need on his adventures (including formerly mentioned poisons). The enchanters tower he'd had to rebuild in another corner at least three times after an experimenting with new enchantments exploded. Ah! Good times.
Then of course, the forge nestled between them, complete with the bits and bobs of an armory and an automated bellows system he may (or may not) have imitated from more basic Dwemer designs for the smelter and smithy. How many blades had he crafted out of there, both for himself and his companions? Then he had the kitchen on one side. Not that he'd brag about it, but cooking was essentially alchemy, but the only affect you needed to worry about was if it was tasty, hearty, filling, and overall, satisfying. And he was a wizard with alchemy (just less magicky-magic about it), but less so with cooking for some odd reason. Last he remembered, he'd been trying to get the blood sausages just right, so Serana could eat and get that little vampire craving satisfied. It was too bad she was so hung up on his blood.
'Serana.' The thought of her made the thought of home complete. There was Rayya, and of course Lydia at Lakeview that made it whole in its own right. But it wasn't quite home without Serana. Their entire quest/"Fuck! The world's ending again!"/"Why do I still do this job?" was basically Tamriel's longest, "Stop flirting and bone already! Just watching you two is making me sick!" as Lydia would have said.
Just thinking about her brought a pleasant feeling to his chest, and a sense of serenity that he hadn't often known. She was his home. And thoughts of home filled him with warmth.
Smiling a little as his understanding of the Word furthered a little more, he whispered, "Faad." Soft, intent, and full of resolve. A pulse echoed over the ground around him, drowning out the cold as the snow immediately faded away with the hush of a springtime breeze.
"Well done Zeymah!" Paarthurnax praised from his perch, watching the Thu'um's controlled release with wonder.
Gil blinked his eyes open, suddenly aware that the stars had faded with the soft purple and blue hues of the butt-crack of dawn. How long had he been meditating?
"Tell me, what did you discover?" he inquired, shifting closer to listen. Ever a teacher as well as a student.
Gil thought for a moment on what he had felt. How such a simple thing could show such a different aspect to a single word. It was so hard to describe, and yet he knew it as intuitively as he breathed. "I… felt a new kind of warmth."
"Mmm-hmm," the Dov nodded, his eyes inquiring, seeking a deeper meaning to the Word. Any Word really. Because Joor had such fascinating perspectives. They were bound differently to their blood, much in the same way Dovah were. Their mortality gave them a view that Dovah could not always see.
The hesitation must have shown on Gil's face, because the next moment, Paarthurnax was barking out a Thu'uming laugh that echoed off into the open sky.
"What?" The Dov turned to him to answer before turning away again, laughing all the more. "What?!"
"You Joor think of little else, do you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Ha! That is the same look that crosses your face when you think of your Kiim. It is very obvious what "warmth" you draw understanding from."
Great! Aaand, Gil just found a new aspect of "warmth", and it was currently heating all over his face in embarrassment and indignation. "Oh fuck off you overgrown lizard! That wasn't it at all!
"I mean sure, I thought about her, but I wasn't thinking about…," he tried to convey the exact words needed, but failed spectacularly, "…that." 'Well, if I wasn't then, I certainly am now!' Dibella save him, a year of celibacy was going to be the death of him at this rate, if the embarrassment didn't kill him first.
A roar interrupted the new round of laughter being directed at Gil, still some distance away even as another and another followed in tandem. "Oh thank Akatosh! Literally anything else! Let's pay attention to it!" That just earned a snort from Paarthurnax.
With the first peek of dawn came the whooshing flap of wings. Dragons. Ancient ones, judging by the chips in their horns, and luster sheen of old magic in their scales. Their colors were varied, revealing nothing as to what Shouts they favored. Gildarts subconsciously began measuring his chances against them, only just holding back his hand from drawing a weapon that wasn't there. Or was it? Old habits died hard it appeared. At least none of their scales were too vibrant; any number of Legendary dragon's (because he had to create a scaling system to approximate how powerful each dragon he fought was; trust, there were some stupidly powerful dragons!) would be a helluva fight.
As they were… eh, he could take 'em all.
"Drem yol lok, In-Paarthurnax," they greeted in thundering voices, their legs and wings churning the snow as they landed with a thud that practically shook the mountain. Others of Paarthurnax's students. Those seeking to learn the Way of the Voice.
He had seen several dragons attempt the Way of the Voice. Some persisted the pursuit, others scoffed in annoyance or disgust. Either way, their blood would always call them to rule; to dominate; to power. But here, at the Throat of the World, was a place of sanctity; no blood would be spilled by any parties where they stood closest to Kyne's realm. It was known to them. But once they left, they were not bound by such things.
And neither was Gil. But he was here until further notice, and so far, he had heard neither scale nor bone of any dragon attacks in Skyrim. It didn't sit well with him at all. He had thrived for years on a steady flow of relevant information, and now, he was cut off from virtually any sources.
Fortunately, these particular Dov were frequent guests to the Throat. He sensed their intentions were true, both on the mountain, and to the world far below.
"Drem yol lok," Paarthurnax greeted back. "Welcome."
The Dov turned to look at him, and Gildarts stared back hard at them. He didn't show any sign of backing down from them. No sign of weakness. No proper Dov submitted themselves to any but the stronger Dovah, and there would be no fight here to prove otherwise here. Still, he nodded his head respectfully and in acknowledgement, one Dovah to another. "Drem yol lok Sos-Zeymah. Zu'u los fin Dovahkiin. Nii los dii hind mu grind ko drem."
One crawled forward on his wings, rustling the snow as he approached Gil. "Pruzah grind, Dovahkiin. Zu'u los Ventuzvul," one greeted as he stepped forward, slightly smaller than most Dov he'd encountered, and yet the age and gleam of his scales were evidence enough of its strength. This dragon had lived for a long time. A swifter and more agile flyer than his brethren it would seem.
Gil smiled slightly, nodding in acknowledgment. "Pardon if I don't use Dovahzul often. My native tongue is still more familiar to me than the tongue Borhamu has given me to communicate with my blood-brethren. I have learned much, but there is still much to learn."
"Mmm. Respect and Strength, Dovahkiin. These are… qualities… that any Dov should exemplify," Ventuzvul stated in the same powerful tone that all dragons seemed to possess. A thunder that rumbled just within their throats. "We are all… learning… new ways. It is not all learned… with ease."
"I have learned that few good things come with ease," Gil responded.
"This is Vahzah – truth."
"Our Sos-Zeymah is learning well," Paarthurnax stated proudly. "As are the Dov."
"It is… difficult," another of the dragons admitted, shifting uncomfortably at the admittance.
"As it will be," Paarthurnax returned sympathetically. "It is never easy to become master of ones self. Dovah and Dovahkiin alike are learning what has taken me many, many centuries to Mindoraan – to understand. And with such swiftness too."
Gil almost chuckled at how naturally the Dov began to preen at their teacher's praise, hums of approval rumbling in their throats. "Almost" being the operative word. In many ways, he was similar. How often had he felt the thrill of praise when he had mastered the particular aspects of a spell? Or perfected the stance of a kata? Or shot an arrow with unerring accuracy? Or felt the new meaning of a Word? These were simple things they strived for; acknowledgement of their existence.
His hand tensed and flexed, a dull ache in his palm that had nothing to do with the cold. He hadn't held a weapon in a year. Gods, he missed his bow. And his knives. There was something strangely comforting about feeling the weight of something deadly in his hands; like a part of him was missing.
Not because he was Dovahkiin. But because that is what Skyrim had needed from him. It was merely his existence. Whether he liked it or not, he had been forged for battle and war.
'More like bred.'
He clamped down on his thoughts before they could take hold, breathing deeply, acknowledging the thoughts, and letting them slip away. He had to do this several times, every word like lashing tendrils: when he finally slapped one away, another was already prepared to strike. It took several ministrations before he finally regained any semblance of control.
Weapon or not; forged or bred; he was now a warrior learning to operate peacefully. Or as close as was mortally possible. He just didn't know how to reforge the sword he was into a hoe. Or maybe a scythe? That could double as a tool and a weapon, couldn't it? Maybe.
"… Now, breathe deep of the sky… ponder on your wants and desires…. And let them release into Kyne's realm… and be at peace." It looks like he'd been pondering longer than he had thought. Paarthurnax was in the middle of teaching. Man, time flew when he was beating his thoughts into submission.
Strangely enough, the sound of dragons breathing – albeit, with no intention of roasting, freezing, or otherwise "yelling" at him – was strangely soothing. Almost like they were snoring softly.
"Snnnnnnnnnnn-hnnnnnnnnn."
Oh. They were snoring. Did dragon's even need to sleep? He peeked open an eye to see that Paarthurnax was the only one deep in meditation. The other dragons… weren't so focused. One was face planted into the snow, another was drooping and his head jerking back up, and the other was curled up. At least their minds were blank. Probably catching up on the lack of snooze during the whole Dragon Crisis.
"Now… breathe in… and breathe out."
Gil had to restrain a chuckle as he quickly and silently stood to his feet, doing his best not to disturb snow around his little bare hamlet. "I think they're at peace," he commented gently.
"Hmm?" The look on Paarthurnax's face as he blinked opened his eyes was hilarious; parts disbelief, parts exasperation, parts resignation. How many times had Gil been on the receiving end of that look? It was sooo nice to see it directed at someone else for a change. Especially since he'd worked hard to keep from fidgeting like he was playing charades with a Draugr. Near perfect peace. "They are still young to the Way. They will achieve morah – focus – in time."
"Yep. You have fun with that." He was half-smirking as he hopped up, tensing as the wind, sun, and snow all created conflicting yet harmonic sensations across his bare chest and back. Warm, cold, stiff, breezy. "I-I-I-I'm gonna head down," he shivered, no longer meditatively deflecting the cold, "and pick out something w-warmer."
His heart lurched painfully as it constricted, his restless blood suddenly pumping hard, fast, and hot. "Nope. Nevermind," he groaned as his skin suddenly flushed. Right, who needed restful sleep when you could have infrequent painful heart palpitations born of Beastblood. Bonus! But not the first gift he wanted the return value on.
"Are you well?"
"Yep. Yeah. Just craving meat in a generally meatless convent," he dismissed, stretching his arms until he rested his hands behind his neck. The pain in his chest caught his breath, but quickly subsided. "Might as well see what's on the menu."
"Do you think with anything other than your stomach?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. Unfortunately, you guys (and dragons) wouldn't let me keep my toys, so I only have my stomach to think on."
Paarthurnax's rumbling laugh was so soft that it wouldn't wake his students, but it held that teasing trill that Gil immediately homed in on.
"If you're gonna make a comment about 'Thinking about my Kiim', then save it."
He was smug. Son of a bitch! Gil would recognize that look on a troll. "Of course I will not. You have already done so for me."
…
"Is it too late to turn you into armor?"
"I'm afraid so."
He moved around the Word Wall with a groan of irritation, ducking under Paarthurnax's tail to avoid disturbing the other snoozing Dovah, deciding to take the long scenic route down since he wasn't as cold anymore. "I'm gonna go get some food."
"Naak-Pruzah."
The decent wasn't anything noteworthy to him, passing quickly until he was once more entering High Hrothgar. The difference between freezing-cold ice and freezing-cold stone – if there really was any – would boggle most people, but to Gil, it felt refreshingly warm.
And of course, he walked in from the courtyard while the Greybeards were kneeling in morning meditation, the center hall of the ancient keep alit with candles and braziers to accommodate the lack of windows. Sighing quietly, he decided to join them, even with his daily meditations technically over. Another one couldn't hurt. Especially since it helped keep his mind off his empty stomach and when breakfast would be.
Particularly since meditation was all he could really do for the early morning, mid-morning, late morning, noon, afternoon, or technically evening. Sunup to sundown.
By the Nine, it could get sooo boring, really fast. But it was better than nightmares. And questionably, better than moots.
"You are awake," Master Arngeir stated as he exited his meditation. Just as well, since if any of the other Greybeards spoke, Gil would end up peeling himself out of the wall. Plus, getting Shouted at was about as appealing as that time he went drinking with Sam.
Good times. And sooo many regrets.
"Yep. Just waiting on breakfast."
"And you are waiting, why?"
"You're the one who said that the master eats before the student."
"Oh. Mm, right."
…
Gil's eyes deadpanned at the "master" in question. "You were bullshitting me. Weren't you?"
"And you finally figure it out," Arngeir chuckled good-naturedly. "Personally, I thought it would take you longer."
Gil bit his tongue until it bled, his screams of rage only revealing themselves as his whole face contorted with his groans of frustration. "This. Whole. Time."
"If we had let you eat first, us old men would have starved. And then where would you be?" Arngeir retorted, still finding the whole thing humorous. Just past him, Masters Einarth, Wulfgar, and Borri were smirking, despite their eyes being closed.
'Meditating my ass.' Gil voiced his thoughts as snarls, his nose twitching unconsciously. "With a full stomach."
Humming out a laugh, Master Arngeir let out only the softest grunt as he pushed himself to his feet, like the old man that he was. "If you are hungry, then eat. And after you are done, we'd ask you do what these old bones cannot."
"Really milking that "elder privledge" there, gramps," Gil muttered cheekily.
"Our supplies will run low within a few days, and with the dangers that can roam the mountain, we'd not ask the locals of Ivarstead to risk it unless necessary."
Gil stroked his half-tamed beard in thought before scratching at it. "Yeah. Haven't seen Klimmek in a while. Though, that might be because him and Fastred were expecting last I saw them." He breathed out a wild breath. "Wow. The babe will be a few moons now." Well, there was the spiders, wolves, trolls, bears, and an occasional ice wraith. But yeah; having a baby was a good excuse too.
"Then would you care to make the trip down for supplies?" Arngeir asked.
Gil stopped fast, turning stiffly and suspiciously toward the Greybeard. "What's the catch?" Because, obviously, there's a catch! There was no way they were letting him off the mountain that easily.
Arngeir began walking toward the impromptu kitchen Gil had set up in the conference room (a.k.a. the Room of Contemplation to those who got the long-version of the keep's history, despite how ironic that name was for… intended reasons) when there weren't moots taking place. Made it easier to grab a bowl and find a place to sit.
"No catch," he answered patiently. Next to Paarthurnax, Gil supposed that Master Arngeir was the only person he could really… talk to. Still, it wasn't the same. There was an intuitive understanding between those of dragon blood and soul. People... not so much. "We realize that you are rather discontent here." He raised his hand to silence Gil's protests before they could even form. "And I understand. You did not choose to be here. Circumstances lead you here. Master Paarthurnax explained it as best as he could to us: that possessing a dragon's soul is the equivalent of being a dragon, and dragon's need to be free.
"We concluded that some time away from the monastery would do you some good. Let you spread your wings, so to speak."
Gil bobbed his head so-so as he picked up an exceptional looking red apple and a heel of bread, half-poised to polish the apple on his shirt before he remembered that he was bare chested. Shrugging, he bit into it, doing his best to savor the fruit without spilling the juices down his chin. He didn't need his facial hair sticky.
"I can get behind that," Gil admitted before looking pensive. "But aren't you guys afraid that I'll just… take off?"
Arngeir seemed to consider his question as he slopped a ladle-full of warm Vegetable Soup into a bowl, evidently having set the pot in the hot coals of a brazier before Gil returned. "Unlike we Greybeards, you have many more attachments to the world below, and it is hopes of returning to them that aide in your meditations. If you wish to return to them, that would be your choice young Gildarts. And we will respect that choice."
Gil pinched off a bite of bread, mulling over it as he pondered those words. "Only one way to find out I suppose."
"If you do decide to make your leave from our sanctuary, please make sure you return long enough to deliver the supplies," the Greybeard joked. "Wouldn't want us to starve now."
Gil snorted back as he continued to eat. "I'll see if I can't pick up any meat on the way back too. I've seen Draugr with more meat on their bones."
Arngeir chuckled, even as the other Greybeards began to congregate for the meal.
He continued to eat silently, pondering. Was he ready? To face the outside world again, even for a brief respite? His mind was about as whole as he could hope. His body was still at odds with itself on occasion. But what if he failed? What if, at a crucial moment, he was unable to pull himself out of that pit he'd been forced to dig?
He – the Dragonborn – was afraid. Terrified. Terrified what the people might see. Terrified of what lurked beneath. Terrified that it would bellow it's call, and he'd be compelled beyond reason to answer. He'd had no true issues over the past year; just small inconvenient twinges that he could force back down. But snakes oft reared their heads when you least expected it.
If he lost control….
'Death would be a hopeful prayer they would ask for. And I would be no god to answer it.' He shivered, but not from the cold.
"Well, let's give it a good old College try," he relented. Worst-case-scenario, he might need to hastily call Odahviing, Durnahviir, or even just Paarthurnax to knock some sense into him if he couldn't take control of the situation himself. Besides, it was just a daytrip to get supplies. It wasn't like he had to save the world.
Again.
'I mean, what's the worst that can– GAAAH! SHUT UP!'
'Ugh. I forgot that killing things was so messy.' Finally! Time away from that stuffy monastery! But by Arkay, it was sooo boring!
He'd trudged down the mountain Steps, enjoying the rare sight of greenery up-close for the first time in a year. Snagging berries, smelling pine trees, picking flowers (shut up!). Of course, "Stupid-One" and "Stupid-Two" came in the form of trolls. But what was he to do? He had no weapon, no armor. And those trolls looked like they could beat the shit out of him. Such creatures… they could tear apart mere mortal men, slaughter horses, carry deer, go toe-to-toe with bears… and win. They could–
"RAAAHHHH!"
"Oh, for fuck's sake," he sighed as they charged. He couldn't even enjoy being "helpless".
His blue eyes glowed bluer, drawing on a mental focus he had trained exceptionally well over his life, but especially now over the last year. He continued walking, spellwork dancing frost over his boots like trudging snow. "Use fire" they said! "Fire interferes with a trolls natural healing because they're coated in an oily substance" they said! "They're resistant to frost" they said!
Yeah, if they were looking for a long, drawn-out battle.
Vapor froze, consolidated, condensed; according to his will. He fashioned ice like he fashioned a blade: structurally sound, incredibly sharp, and suited specifically for his need. The level of focus was second-nature and came to him both naturally, but was still rounded by a long lack of practice and spontaneity.
'Ice Pike.'
When the spell released, it wasn't from his hand. A single burst of ice shot with a kick of his foot into the ground, creating an angled stalagmite of razor-pointed ice from the ground. He didn't have to do much. Just watch as the trolls' momentum impaled themselves through the chest. Their blood slicked the ice, causing them to slide further unbidden down until they were flush, and blood pooled the ground. They died rather quickly.
Done and done.
For most, such spellwork would require dedicated time and effort to mastering. And only once understanding and practice of the concept and structuring was understood, could it be cast effectively and efficiently, and forming the spell was trained. Such was the nature of magic. But Gil found that those practices limited what magic was truly capable of. Sure, it required more focus, and constructing the very fundamentals of the spell from the ground-up was a pain and risked one Oblivion of a massive headache if he over did it. And Magicka was as a mental focus that was expended in that process to formulate that response, and even more was expended to create a spell off the top of his head, unaccustomed as he was to casting in such a way. But for a spell that no caster had practiced before, Gil had the Magicka to spare.
As long as he could keep focus and sufficient time to rest his mind, he could pull custom spells out his ass.
Plus it made him feel cool (no pun intended).
With the trolls dead, he let his mind replenish its fortitude before stomping on the ground again, the ice forming an angled plane that slid the beasts off the path. Perhaps a little too much, as he heard the bodies continue to slide, then fall and break over the side of the mountain. He winced at the thuds and crunching their bodies echoed as they bashed over snow and rock in their tumble. Were they alive… that would leave a mark. Or two.
SPLAT!
"Oh well. More food for the scavengers." He shook it off, presenting a smile as he continued to enjoy this sense of relief. It would take more blood than that to shake him. A lot more.
The further his trek took him down the Throat of the World, the warmer it became. He sighed at the sensation, having almost forgotten what it was like to bask in weather that wasn't snowy, or snow filled. Or just flat out cold. How the air could smell so clean without the brisk chap of freeze in his nose.
And his ears. Gods, his ears. Besides the tips not being perpetually numb, they soaked up the sound of wind in the trees instead of the blustering billow across the mountain face. The chirping of birds and the buzzing of insects; he understood now why they called it music. Having been without them for so long….
He brushed away a few tears that threatened to fall. It seemed like forever since he'd last felt and tasted these things. So long since he'd basked in a dream when all he could remember now were nightmares. Where normally he abhorred the silence, now all he could do was silently appreciate all around him.
Even walking the winding path once more, he stopped to examine the emblazed stone tablets that had stood since the days of Tiber Septim. How long had it been since he read those verses in his ascending the mountain? It held a certain nostalgia now. A certain kind of reminiscence of when he'd been young and foolish. Well… younger. And more foolish, he supposed.
Gil stopped fast suddenly, frowning as he finished his pass of the second tablet from the bottom. 'Strange.' The sun was still strong, the weather half-decent, and yet…. 'There are no bears. No wolves. No saber-cats.' Nothing since the trolls. He supposed it was odd that there wasn't a carcass they were feasting on. And more interesting still. 'No Barknar.'
He'd made infrequent trips to High Hrothgar in his adventuring days, and there wasn't a single time he could recall that the Nord pilgrim wasn't along the Steps, meditating on the tablets. Never. The man was a constant whenever Gil had traveled the Throat. Notable enough for Gil, that his absence bothered him.
'It's okay Gil,' he placated. 'Maybe, he's just at the Vilemyr Inn… in the middle of the day. Yeah.' Because drinking in the middle of the day during a pilgrimage was the sign of a healthy Nord.
Not. Maybe?
"Hmm," he growled, his eyes sharpening as he lifted his nose to the air. Snn-snn? Snnnnn! Nothing smelled out of the ordinary. Still, it set him on edge. It bothered him more than he thought possible.
He set down his little bouquet of flowers, the natural instinct to hide and sneak and scurry suddenly prevalent. He didn't like this. He didn't like this one bit. His days as a… less-than law-abiding citizen… returned to him, out of practice, but still a part of his life as he slinked between the trees.
'And it took me all morning to pick those!' he fumed (read: pouted). The closer he got to Ivarstead, the more and more uneasy he felt. It wasn't until he could see the timbers of Temba Wide-Arm's Mill and the roof of Fellstar Farm that his worry abated.
But only just. It was quiet. Too quiet. The Mill itself was idle, which by itself would set off alarms. The guards were nowhere to be seen – alarms. No one working the fields – alarms. Even the birds and chattering squirrels were silent – MAJOR, fucking, alarms! The kind of quiet that had Gil's neck bristling as human and beastblood instinct came to an agreement: this had ambush written all over it.
"Las Yah Nir," he Shouted lowly under his breath, crouching to all fours observantly, watching and waiting as the essence of life flickered into view. No, not flickered, raged like a fire! There! Just out of mortal sight. Hiding behind walls, many life essences overlapped. Each was indistinguishable, but there were so many. More than Gil was accustomed to seeing in such dense glow; he could barely pick out the occasional individual. None crossed his mortal vision, which meant they were hiding. Waiting for something.
Crack!
The sound of a snapping branch startled him, warning just in time to feel white-flash pain explode from his leg, pierced from behind. Shouts and yells and hollers surrounded him, all chorusing something the pulse-pounding in his head couldn't decipher. The shock of taking the hit was negated as his instincts took over. He moved to run, only to feel his leg give out. He glared at the appendage, only to freeze at the sight of a bolt, and the steady sensation of numbness that began spreading through his leg.
'Crossbows? Poison?' The realization shocked him back to focus as he tried to piece together what was happening. But he couldn't hold his focus, and he couldn't grasp magic if he couldn't focus. He had no weapons, no armor. None that didn't require magic… or that didn't come with their own stipulations.
Gritting his teeth, his prepared to snap off the shaft and bolt for it – he could always remove the bolt head later – only to be knocked to the ground with a clank! as metal impacted his body from the side, sending him sprawling. He blinked away the daze, surprised to see multiple men in vaguely familiar armor. He panted as he retained his cloudy vision clear enough to notice the wide, rounded shields braced and spears leveled at him. Weirder yet was the net that was carried. He made to move again, only to feel another shield smash into him, and the butt of a spear knock him back down before they threw the net over him.
Gil bit back a howl as the net hit, it's weaves woven with barbed metal that dug into his skin, cutting and slicing at his flesh as he tried to move. Tried to run. But it was pulled tight, multiple bodies heaving with their gloved hands to flip him over. He landed painfully on the piercing little spikes while others stabbed and scrapped him. He felt them in his arms, in his sides, in his legs, across his face, over his head, down his back. It felt as though the pain was everywhere. Then they began dragging him, netted up, down the remaining Steps. Every jostle sent a fresh wave of pain, every jolt stabbed a series of new, miniscule wounds, every foot dragged was a foot he bled a little more onto the ground.
He tried to focus. Tried to summon some spell or other, but the very act of trying to think felt heavy and muddled. Oh. 'What? Did they poison the net too?!' The numbness had spread up his leg. It was probably the only part of him that didn't hurt right now, but it throbbed. Just like the rest of him was throbbing through open wounds.
Gil tried to get a good look at his captors, only to blink away to prevent from skewering his eye. Fucking barbs! He lowered his head closer to his body, digging more of the barbs into his scalp, but freeing up his eyes to be used.
With a deep breath, he pulled back some miniscule of focus, letting the pain sharpen his mind and senses. This was nothing. This was trivial. This wasn't even worthy of being a footnote in the long list of things he'd endured. Ha! This didn't even make the top hundred. Hell, having Serana split his soul in half so he could travel the Soul Cairn was more painful than this!
He put his hands flush with the ground, feeling as the barbs sank into his both palms, allowing the tension of focus to build. The things he'd learned. The things he knew. The knowledge that had been his to obtain, offered, and taken. Underneath his closed lids, a blue glow hummed. And then released.
'Immolation: Mine Field!'
A plethora of small runes multiplied underneath him, their scalding white-red sigils rapidly dotting out in an area around him, encompassing the earth as though it were the hottest of the deep magma forges of the Dwemer.
"Prepare for a lot of stinging," he winced, doing his best to look away as he projected the hum of a Ward underneath him.
"What was that?" one of his captors demanded, just as the sigils all began to reflect brightly off his and his comrades' armors.
Pop! It only took a spark, until the entire array was lit off.
BA-BA-BOOOM!
An explosion of white-blue flashfire erupted from Gildart's epicenter, metal suddenly melting to flesh, flesh searing to bone, and pieces of each getting blown asunder as they clunked against the rough cobbles and the wood and stone sides of housing. If anyone survived the initial blast or getting blown apart, the air had become superheated instantaneously, scalding throats and lungs. If they did survive the initial blast, they wouldn't survive much longer, even if a Healer got to them in time.
Gil groaned as the metal from net melted to him, but otherwise, the expenditure of his own power didn't harm him.
"Dah," he croaked out, feeling as the molten metal was gently, yet quickly, peeled away. Years of experience immediately had him rolling a Restoration spell between his fingers, even as he coughed up blood. Just because his spell didn't hurt him, didn't mean the byproduct of scalding air and metal didn't. Just as quickly as the heat hit him, he naturally began converting it into Magicka, fueling his rapid recovery. 'Close Wounds.'
His lungs, throat, and flesh knitted back together, burns and blisters soothing, blackened and charred skin peeling off. All near instantly, and… relatively painlessly, prompting a sweet inhale of rapidly cooling air. And not a scar on him. The ground underneath him was basically a crater, and glowed red hot, and yet he continued to absorb the heat. Best not leave it though. A passive Atronach skin was unstable, and didn't always work.
He pulled himself out, briskly aware that his raggedy clothes had basically been vaporized, and he was now open and bare for all of Skyrim to see. "Well, shit," he muttered, looking over his bare skin. "Must have been the wind."
The clanking of armor and metal immediately redrew his attention, and reinforcements were pouring in to surround him; and there were plenty to boot. He could quickly tell the milk drinkers from the veterans by their reactions to the charred and bleeding husks of their friends. Burnt flesh was not a pleasant smell, and the sounds of retching and emptying stomachs hit the Ivarstead road with sickening gruel.
His heart constricted painfully in his chest, prompting a wince, but was quickly replaced by relief as he felt whatever damage his spell didn't heal, continue to swiftly recover, and the poison slowly burning from his veins. Never mind, he was keeping the Beastblood. No exchanges or refunds there.
Gildart's grinned wolfishly, kicking some circulation into his leg while twisting and popping his neck before making a show of counting his foes. "Now, who's going to spill where the lovely occupants of this dainty little town went? Or do I have to beat it out of you?" The key was to look confident, even if he was in the buff. Points for "been there, done that"… except he usually had armor on. Eh, he'd save that as a last resort. As embarrassing as it was to stand there, balls to the wind, he felt… kinda badass.
And suuuper embarrassed. 'We will never make mention of this to Serana. Deal? Deal.' She'd eat him alive, and he was keen to keep breathing. Nevermind Serana. Lydia! Lydia would have a fucking field day if she heard about this! And sooo much ammunition.
Their shifting discomfort pleased him, but also drew his attention to the clinks of their armor. He knew the mages and warriors apart; some with weapons, shields, bows, and empty hands. The buzz of enchantments and focused magic prickled familiarly at the hair on his arms. And to his realization, some of them had crossbows.
But all of them wore the same armor. A year absent of rage, and suddenly, his cocky attitude immolated faster than his spell had just moments before.
'That's–' His attention was diverted at the sound shouting. And a shrill crying that stopped his heart cold faster than the Sea of Ghosts.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as these… bastards… pushed and shoved familiar faces out of the Vilemyr Inn. The townsfolk looked alive, some a little worse for wear, presumedly from trying to fight back. But he kept a most hawkish eye when Klimmek and Fastred came into view, Fastred holding dearly to their wailing newborn.
He swallowed thickly when he watched all of their eyes glimmer slightly at the sight of him, some kindling of hope restored. Followed by blushes, grunts, and quickly turning away from his state of undress. Their sympathetic embarrassment ended the moment blades were drawn on them.
"Hostages," he muttered aloud, snarling animalistically. His eyes darted back and forth, trying to find the most effective method for dealing with those that held the hostages, and those that would quickly come after them once those were taken care of. It was looking more and more like he'd have to use that. Not that he didn't want to. But more that he kept it as a last resort, especially since the being that granted it to him, preferred he make strides by his own power.
"Well, well. Look what we have here. 'Bout time you showed up."
Two and two came together at the sound of that relatively feminine voice.
His veins crawled as his Beastblood howled, barely holding back the hair and fur and muscle that threatened to split through his skin. Every conceivable hair on his body was prickling and erect, his fingers itching for anything – anything – to hold in his hands as a weapon, and yet he had to hold back from so much as Conjuring one, in case the present mages noted the gathering of his Magicka. He'd take a fork for crying out loud! His tongue felt as though it would split trying to prevent from Shout curses.
And all around him, the shadows grew darker.
Her of all people. Someone he once would have been proud to serve alongside. Someone who had guided him in his early days as Dragonborn. Someone who didn't bother to hide her ambitions. Someone who swore to him her service, but only wanted him subservient to her.
"This…," he huffed out slowly, "…this is a whole new low for you…."
The moment her name crossed his lips, he could help but gnash his teeth as his blue eyes glowed the color of storm clouds.
"Delphine."
Author's Note:
Heads-up: I'm not sure how often I'll be posting these yet, or if it will continue. This is mostly to relieve the pressure on my brain. Because it's a Sample Story, if I get serious about writing this, it will be subject to changes. So not everything here will be gospel if I come back to it.