Guide:
Dwemeris
Thoughts
"Speech"
"Dovahzul"
General Info *later chapters included*:
Disclaimer: I do not own Skyrim, only Fjaldi and other OC's.
There will be SPOILERS so be warned. There will also be language. References to homosexuality in later chapters.
Canon-typical warnings for: Murder, gore, references to genocide, racism, misogynism(?).
In this chapter, see also: Wooden buildings are utter crap and only one person in Skyrim seems to realise this.
IMPORTANT NOTE: THIS IS ALL BASED ON THE VANILLA GAME. With the things I have planned I won't have time to work the DLC's in. Maybe after an in-story year or something, if I can manage and enough people feel like it. There's just… So much content.
Revised: 26-2-2020
Last time…
I want to know. I want to know what happened to my people, and I want to know FOR SURE.
Chapter 4 – The First Step
The night doesn't pass without troubles, but by the time I wake up, the strange dream I had is already slipping list mist through my fingers. And just as blurry are the next few days, which pass in a flurry of goodbyes.
When I offhandedly mention the thought of architecture in Skyrim to Ghorza, she tells me a bit about interesting places to visit while I… figure out what to do with myself. A college up in Winterhold, a 'reach of dragons', and a palace in Solitude. She also comments that 'if I'm going to travel through the province to go sightseeing, I might want to try for Hammerfell or Cyrodiil instead, since most of the buildings in Skyrim are made of simple wood.' She'd also nearly fallen over the railing straight into the waterfall with deep, roaring laughter when I exclaim about the ridiculousness of wooden buildings.
Surely the world had seen some advancement in several thousand years? I mean, it's been over a thousand years, hasn't it? Wood? The Nords were already using stone to build before I was born. She's clearly jesting.
I feel desperately out of place, moving at a different pace than the rest of the world. Nobody but Calcelmo and Aicantar know and believe that I am a Dwemer. Ondolemar and Ghorza, whilst my friends, still have their reasons for not believing me – one of which being that no Dwemer had set foot in Markarth for three-and-a-half millennia. I muse on the likelihood of anyone ever taking me seriously in the future as I trace my steps from the Silver-Blood Inn towards Understone Keep, passing the guards with a respectful nod before entering and finding the two Altmer that had helped me gather my wits in this strange place.
Calcelmo gives me a final, searching look. "I – We are sad to see you go. Do return at some point when I have refined my notes." I nod absently. He's backed off a bit since the Housecarl-lady came and told him off for hounding a guest. I feel a bit guilty, not even knowing her name. It starts with a 'Fa'-sound, though, I know that much. Why do I even care? It's not like I'll see her again.
Ondolemar is already outside the city, since we both decided that it would be unwise for me to be spotted being pleasant with the Thalmor. I walk down the worn stone path, and as I briefly turn on my heel to look back at the city a weight settles on my shoulders. The city looks small like this. The rest of the world too big. I feel… insignificant.
I gaze upon the walls that exude a familiarity that has my heart clench in my chest, and I clutch my amulet tightly. Taking a deep breath of fresh, early morning mountain air, I turn my back on the city of stone, towards the endless fields of green, and the horizon that hid an entire world free for me to wander. I want to crawl back in bed. I want my Ma to walk next to me, teaching me how to survive, like last time I walked the roads.
But, mostly, I just want to go to bed.
I can almost hear my Da scolding me. The first step on the road to destiny is the hardest. Most cannot bring myself to take it, He would say. And then he'd push me ahead.
As I take in the endless expanse of sky, and where it meets the worn stone and the rooftops of the stables and the farms, as well as the mines in the distance. I smile faintly, making my way down the path that lies before me. The first step…
I'm brought out of my pondering by a cleared throat and the whinnying of horses as I turn around the bend up the road. Ondolemar and the two elven guards are already sat on three tall, stocky horses. There's no fourth beast in sight. "You ride with me, or walk." Ondolemar snaps, and oh, I nearly forgot he's not a morning mer. I snicker, even though lack of sleep from worrying all night has given me dark circles, too. How I'm starting to hate those dead, dead, dead eyes.
Ten minutes later, I'm uttering a litany of colourful curses at horses, their ancestry, and their ridiculous sizes. Eventually, one of the guards gets down with a long-suffering sigh and helps me up, and even with that I barely manage to stay on the wretched creature. Seeing how far my legs are from the ground and deciding I hate horses, I hold onto Ondolemar's Thalmor robes for dear life, the horse making distressed sounds until the Altmer mutters soothing words in a lilting language that even has my racing heart calm a bit. It sounds like a song.
Then we're off, I'm nearly jostled straight off the back of the animal and into the mud, and I still hate horses.
By the time we've passed Dragon Bridge in the middle of the night, out of sight of any guards or people, I decide I hate horses more than the wolves that attacked us. More than the Forsworn maniacs with their painful light shows and the half-bird creatures Naielir taught me were called 'Hagravens'.
And before we manage to reach the Solitude stables, those same bird-women cost us the life of Naielir, the male guard who helped me onto the horse.
It's terrifying. There's disbelief at the body on the ground, armour still gleaming in the sun. Pain at the howl that leaves the female guard whose name escapes me in the throes of battle. Anger, all-consuming and red, because Naielir didn't deserve to rot out here, he was Ondolemar's friend. My Dwemer-forged axes strike harsh and true, and I'm shocked at my own ruthless brutality.
Ondolemar allows us a brief pause near a creak to wash ourselves off the blood. I'm still shaking.
I wonder if the people of Skyrim bathe regularly. Do they have communal baths? Or is it seen as indecent? Do they bathe at all? Weird, how my thoughts turn to inconsequential matters like that when I can still hear the mer's dying screams ringing in my ears. Did ma and Mellte have time to scream? Did any of them? Was their disappearance painless?
We're quiet and subdued as we near Solitude, and I leave the duo of Altmer to gallop ahead of me short walk from Skyrim's capital city. Ondolemar manages a thin smile, a crack in his perfect Thalmor façade, as we say our goodbyes. "Thank you." I murmur, and he nods stoically.
"There are few pleasures that give me peace of mind. The time we spent together, I consider part of those. Until we meet again, friend." And so I watch them ride off, following on foot, with my poor bottom aching from long, painful times on horseback – not to mention my other parts. In fact, my entire body hurts, and the walk to Solitude is a whole lot less pleasant than I'd been hoping for. I curse out loud while there's nobody around, before letting my feet carry me along the road mindlessly, a hand on one of my axes and letting the icy breeze rattle my teeth and keep me alert.
Unfortunately, it's the middle of winter, I'm in a barren, snow-filled land, my body has suffered from horseback riding and I am never getting on a horse again, Xrib be my witness, and also – oh wait, there's the gates. I blink a few times but no, I am not imagining things. How nice. I rock back on my heels slightly, observing the stone structures.
When we passed Dragon Bridge earlier, even in darkness and from a distance, I had been forced to concede that Ghorza was right – in a very, very long time, no other species up here in the North had matched the architectural splendour of my people. No wonder. Really. But…
Honestly, wood. Wood? Useful to set on fire. Not for housing. But the people of Skyrim apparently disagree – not these ones, though. This place, whilst structurally unsound due to the large natural bridge it is built on that will collapse spectacularly one day, is at least build of proper stone. Silly humans, how primitive. It looks pretty now but it's not going to last. Like a child playing with blocks for the first time.
The arches are interesting, but I prefer the simple straight lines of my people. I wonder if the smith here is any good, considering that the main base of the Imperial army is stationed here. I suppose they must be. I wonder who they are… if they maybe could – no. I can't. I will not sully my uncle's name by taking another master so soon. The completion of my studies can wait. Maybe I can even learn more myself – Ghorza taught me about Orcish craftsmanship, after all. I hadn't heard of it before, but it was easy enough to learn once I caught on to the base principles.
Besides, it'll be hard to find a Master that can get even close in skill to my uncle. They're not going to be a Dwemer after all.
…
The stone houses around me are boorish and grey, the accents made out of equally boorish grey and brown wood. I find myself dully staring at them, the festival decorations the only splashes of colour in this city. I visit the Blue palace courtyard briefly, and spent a while researching the architecture, though the guards don't allow me inside since apparently, the Jarl has fallen ill.
I'm left disappointed – the palace isn't even blue. What's the point of calling it blue and then not investing in the right materials to live up to that name? Maybe the inside is blue? Guess I'll find out later… Or at least someday, hopefully.
I crack my fingers, stretching a bit whilst walking, ignoring the looks of passer-by's. Most of the looks are aimed at my Dwemer axes, of course. At least I think so. They are allowed to stare at those. Dwemer craftsmanship is nothing to scoff at, and I will maim whoever claims so. My mood sours further as the grey clouds above my head – grey. Everything in this city is grey, it seems – start to rumble, droplets of water falling down and onto my face when I glance upwards briefly.
…
Castle Dour is a sight for sore eyes – if one is planning to go blind entirely. I eye it with distaste. Nords… have no taste. I purse my lips, and observe the soldiers for a while, mentally critiquing and comparing fighting styles. If the Dwemer style is flowing and harsh, water and fire, striking a balance of defence and offense in neat, geometric lines, these men employ… hack and slash, static like earth without air to balance. I nudge one of the men when he pauses to wipe his forehead. "Spar with me." I demand.
"What..? I'm not fighting you, civilian." He says immediately, and I take a few steps back with a roguish grin on my face, my fingertips caressing the handle of my blades.
"Why? Can the big, bad, soldier not handle a plain…civilian? How disappointing." I sigh, trying to rile the man up – and it works like a charm.
"You damn-"
"What is going on here?" a strong voice demands. My ears perk up beneath the thick curtain of hair covering them, and I face this new person with an innocuous smirk. Someone in charge, lovely. Am I feeling up to antagonise an army today? "I am merely a wanderer, that I am. I was looking for a suitable sparring partner, but he does not agree I am capable of being a challenge." I keep the smile plastered on my face, though I can sense my heartbeat speeding up.
I am not feeling up to antagonising an army today. This was a mistake.
A raised eyebrow, and I see the confusion mingle with the amusement and the disbelief. The man finds the situation amusing, but cannot determine if I am a threat. "Is that so, shorty?" He turns to the soldier. My eye twitches. Everyone loves reminding me of my smaller stature. I did not choose to be this short, even for a Dwemer I am short, but my parents both were, and therefore so am I. But I'd rather be short than mistaken for a tree. The surface-dwellers just grow taller naturally. Stop harping on me for something I cannot change.
I shrug. "However, you soldiers are probably too good for common folk like me." I twirl my axe a few times, seemingly not paying attention to them anymore. "Guess I'll be off. I'm only here for the turning of the years, anyway." I take my leave, not in a hurry, though I clench my jaw at the snorts and jeers that follow me. Serves me right for being so impulsive. Ma taught me better than this. The tips of my ears burn red. Damnit, I really should know better.
What the hell am I thinking, challenging someone like that? A Dwemer guard would have had my head on a pike! I shouldn't underestimate humans, They're not the ones mostly extinct after all. Or is that because of their breeding habits? Still in thought, I let my feet carry me back to the marketplace where I'd gotten breakfast this morning, though I am quickly running out of coin.
I have… a meagre 46 gold coins. That's three nights at the inn and a diet of bread and cheap ale if I stretch it. Luckily, the festival is tomorrow. Then I can get out of here.
Not back to Markarth, but to see more of Skyrim… For now. Mellte would want the same… I miss him. Why did it have to be me? Though there's no helping it now… I should try and keep myself busy.
Perhaps the blacksmith here needs an extra hand? I take a turn, the distant clanging of metal calling to something deep within me. No matter where the road may take me, at heart, I'll always be a craftsman, not a warrior. I hope.
I greet the smith, Beirand, with a cheery wave. "Good day to you," he says, "What can I help you with?" Sheepishly, I run a hand through my hair. "Actually, I was hoping I could be helping you. You see, I am a blacksmith from Markarth. I wish to spent my time here productively." He gives me an assessing look, and I see his gaze drop to my hands – worker's hands. Long, strong fingers, the skin of my palms covered in callouses, small scars and old burns from handling a forge before gaining sufficient experience to do so without injury.
Like the hands of my mother, and the hands of my cousin, and my uncle. A family of crafters, we were. And I'm still a crafter. Even if… I- ugh… Forget it. They're gone, Fjaldi, you'd do well to remember that. Stop lingering on it and get moving!
"I have a large imperial order to fill." He starts hesitantly, scratching the stubble on his chin. "I might not get it finished in time, and then Sayma will have my head for being late to dinner again…" He huffs and nods. "Fine. Make me a steel sword, so I can see how good you are, boy. If you're halfway decent, you can make more of those. I need four blades and two axes by the end of the day."
I nod excitedly, grabbing the materials after giving him a questioning look, silently asking for permission. To grab a smith's tools without asking is plain rude, after all.
The hammer in my hand is heavy but familiar, my amulet glowing dully as the sparks fly from the heated metal as I work quickly, but efficiently. The steel sings through the air a while later. I'm glad that I only have to make a standard-issue blade. If there is to be any extravagance, rare materials, gemstones or engravings involved, I'd be here for the rest of the week, at least. I wonder if these prim- uh, people, if these people would like me to show them how to make a crossbow. Then again, seeing as how they're flying at each other's throats right now, that might be a bad idea.
Beirand holds it in front of him, inspecting the steel from all possible angles and for a brief, painful moment, I'm a young teen again, sitting in front of uncle as I show him my first real dagger, watching him in nervous anticipation and subdued excitement, wondering what he'll say. The moment passes, and I manage to quickly wipe the grief off my expression by some miracle. Finally, after what seems like ages, the smith nods in approval. "Fine work. Make me two more of these. I think I can get the rest done myself before evening falls."
Needless to say, it's is how I spend the remainder of my day, and I take an hour before dinner to wash up with a barrel of water Beirand so kindly provides. He also gives me a heavy bag of gold coins, saying that the imperials always paid more for the speed of the orders and I'd better not be thinking of refusing.
"I will be spared my wife's fury tonight thanks to you, friend. I cannot thank you enough. You're free to use my equipment whenever you'd like in the future." I blink in surprise as he hands me the coin purse and we shake hands. Smiling, I make my way to the Winking Skeever. Now, I can allow myself to buy some meat or vegetables rather than just bread. Thank Xrib.
Heh, who knows, perhaps there are boiled crème treats on the menu tonight.
Footnote: This will most likely end up slow-burn gay, I tend to do that. Meanwhile, tell me what you think about this chapter! Am I dragging things out? Do you want more action, more interaction, more bandits? I swear, there will be plenty bandits and hags and mysterious Dwemer technology in the next few chapters.