Last Time: Alexander had a wild night out, L'laarzen returned to Riften, and Dulurza and Hjar raided a Forsworn camp, freeing Logrolf.
Cry Wolf
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"...DOH! VAH! KIIN!"
Xander's eyes snapped open as he darted upright as the Shout rumbled through the plains and then the pain in his head spiked and the light was in his eyes and there was just a whole lot of oooowww for the next thirty seconds.
Eventually, he was able to stumble to his feet, nursing a headache, and take his bearings. He was in...the stables. Whiterun stables. On hay. There was a horse in the stall next to his, which gave him a curious look before turning away. This is exactly why auntie banned me from drinking...please tell me this wasn't anything like the Incident with the Chicken Feathers-wait! More importantly!
"Hail, friend!" He called to a man also in the stables, though this guy looked like he actually belonged there. "Who just shouted 'Dragonborn' in the dragon language?"
"Oh, you're finally up." The stablehand looked him over and wrinkled his nose. "Bout time. You were startling the horses. That was the Greybeards from up on High Hrothgar, I reckon."
"Greybeards?" Xander gaped. "From High Hrothgar?"
"That's...what I said, aye."
"But they only speak to announce the coming of the Dragonborn! They haven't called out to Skyrim since they summoned Talos!"
The stablehand shrugged, "Well you seem to think they said 'Dragonborn', so that'd make sense."
"But-But who's the dragonborn?"
"Probably the fella who just killed a dragon."
"WHAT?" Xander practically screeched, then immediately regretted it, as his hangover moved to punish him for his hubris with more pain.
"Dragon, attacked that watchtower over there." The man pointed. "Didn't believe the stories of them coming back, but I saw that one with my own eyes. Then apparently someone went over and killed it, and then ate it or something. All the flesh's gone, it's just a skeleton now."
Xander almost fainted again, staggering backwards as his mind worked overtime, everything he had just heard locked into place with the dozens of books he'd read on what had to be the most amazing creatures in all of Tamriel's history, and one crazy prediction he'd made a couple years ago that had been one of the last straws in him being kicked out of the Synod. Misrule, three towers, dragonborn emperor, and if the civil war here constitutes the line about the snow tower...
"You're telling me." He said, slowly, "That in accordance with prophecies of old, Alduin the World Eater has returned to cause his dragon brethren to rise from the dead, one of which had chosen to attack Whiterun hold, before being slain and having its soul consumed by the Last Dragonborn...and I slept through it?!"
"Mead'll do that to you." The stablehand shrugged, apparently entirely unconcerned with the sheer magnitude of what was going on. "This one time me and the lads went out and-"
"Where's it's carcass?" Xander snapped.
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The abandoned house was just as Hjar had left it. Dark, dusty, still on Markarth high street.
Safest city in the Reach, my ass. Only because it's the only city in the Reach.
She had caught up with Logrolf a few hours out of the Forsworn camp, and tailed him all the way back into the city. A lot of time to think, when you're moving at an elderly man's speed across most of a hold.
So, it was with a completely deadpan expression that she moved to lean against the back wall of the underground croft, as Logrolf walked up to the altar.
Hjar had expected many things, but a cage of spikes appearing from the floor to entrap him was not one of them.
"Molag Bal?" Logrolf shouted, from within the bars. "You dare test Boethia's faithf-"
"Would you kindly Shut Up." Declared the booming, sourceless voice of a Daedric Prince. "I had hoped that a kidnapping would have dulled your vocal chords, or perhaps that the Reachmen might have cut out your tongue."
"Captain Domination has a point." Hjar announced, causing Logrolf to turn around and look at her. "You are really loud. You talk to yourself, while you're walking alone in the hills."
"You?" He snarled at her. "You Breton, backwater, gutter-wretch! I should have known someone so vile of appearance would be a servant of this disgusting god!"
The wolf inside her growled.
"Wow. You do not have a 'medium effort' mode, do you." Hjar replied, acting unimpressed, turning to look up at the altar. "Here's your prize, Bal. Are we done here?"
"No." Came the voice. "We are not. Observe my Mace, daughter of the Forsworn. What strikes you about its appearance?"
Hjar walked over to the floating brown mace she'd been wanting to ask about since she first entered, ignoring Logrolf's continued shouting. "Scary faces. Daedric writing. Rust."
"Rust. Decay. It has languished here for too long. It is time it was whetted. Take it."
I don't like where this is going... Hjar reached out and grabbed the mace by the hilt, pulling it free from...mid air? Whatever magics were holding it there, it came free in her hand without so much as a tug.
"Logrolf refuses to bow to me. Break him."
"Excuse me?" Hjar gave the altar an incredulous look.
"As if this pathetic wench's swings could ever break me!" Logrolf laughed.
"Do not pretend to misunderstand me, mortal, I find it tiring. Crush him. Break him. Bring about his suffering, until he begs for my mercy. Only when he submits his soul to me will he be spared your wrath."
"Okay, no." Hjar shook her head. "I'm not a torturer. You want me to beat him half to death while he's sat in a cage?"
"My servants do not go unrewarded, daughter of the Forsworn. Bleed my mace, and it will be restored to its true glory. The Mace of Molag Bal will be yours to wield, bringing Domination to your enemies. On the other hand..." the cave rumbled around her. "My will is not to be denied, girl. The wrath of a Daedric Prince is great and terrible, and will crush one of your fragility like a mountain atop the carapace of a mudcrab."
"How poetic." The snarky response came without any conscious thought, she was busy trying not to shake as she turned back to the cage. A Daedric artefact. For her. For that alone, most of her compatriots in the Forsworn would not have hesitated. More importantly, he was threatening her. She was being threatened by a Daedric Prince. What would he do? Drive her mad, like he had the Vigilant? Send his disciples after her? Perhaps he would just collapse the cave on top of her, leaving her to be crushed beneath stone or suffocate to death where nobody else would ever find her.
And then there was the matter of the target.
"Well then? What are you waiting for, you worthless little quim?" Logrolf spat, managing to hit her bare midriff with his saliva. "You are to be Molag Bal's champion? Oh, how precious. And he calls himself mighty? Try me, little girl, if you can even bring up the gall to strike me. Be careful, you might see blood, I hope you don't find that frightening."
"You need to shut up." She told him, pointing the mace.
"No, I don't think I do." He had the nerve to grin at her. "You could never break the will of the mighty Logrolf. I will enjoy watching as your pitiful lord grows tired of your pitiful efforts, and laugh as he punishes you for them."
The wolf was growling loudly now. It had taken too long to walk back to Markarth, her week was up and she was seeing red.
"You have no idea what I am capable of, you pathetic little man." She snarled at him, walking up to the edge of the cage.
"Don't I?" He replied. "You, who could not free me without help? You, who trailed after me like a kicked puppy as I made my way back here? Oh, don't think you were able to escape my notice. I think I know quite well what you are capable of. I find you lacking."
Hjar snapped. She lashed out with one foot, kicking Logrolf backwards. He slammed off the back of the cafe and bounced forwards, where she grabbed him by the front of his robes.
"Let's see who's lacking when we're finished." She spat in his face, see how he likes it, and then she brought the mace up before swinging it down to-
Who am I?
The mace froze in place, inches from Logrolf's face.
Hjar paused. Breathed in, and out, and in, and out again, until the red subsided from her vision. The wolf whined in protest, and she angrily wrestled it down.
Start with the short stuff, Dulurza had said.
Look inside yourself and say; 'what am I willing to put up with today?' Came the thought, in Margret's voice.
Hjar's voice replied: Not this.
She let go of Logrolf, and stepped back from the cage.
"No." She said aloud.
"No?" Said Molag Bal.
"No?" Said Logrolf. "Ha! I should have-"
Hjar punched him in the nose. "Oh shut up, the adults are talking. No, Lord Bal. I won't."
"You would defy me?"
"Oh, I would." She turned, pointing the mace back at the altar. "As much as he is a prick, I'm not going to beat up an old man in a cage. I'm just not."
"Why?"
Hjar smiled. "Because it's not who I am."
The cave rumbled again. Stones clattered down the walls and the gap up to daylight above shrunk.
"Foolish mortal. You would defy me? The Daedric Prince of domination? The mace will be whetted. You will submit!"
Hjar paused. Shrugged. Then she lifted up one hand and slammed it down atop the mace. The tip went straight through her palm, and she clenched her jaw to keep from crying out. Blood oozed down onto the weapon, trickling down its grooves.
"There. Whetted." She bit out through the pain. "Now if you want to let him out to have a proper crack at me, go ahead. If you want this thing back, just give me the word. But I'm walking out of here, and it won't be with him dead in that cage."
"If you choose to resist me, nothing can protect you from my wrath." Came the voice. It was low, threatening, promising every torment that a Daedra could conceive.
She smiled. "Alright. Come and have a go if you think you're hard enough."
There was silence.
Then Molag Bal began to laugh.
It started quiet, then grew, echoing around the chamber. Logrolf winced at the volume, but Hjar was careful not to show any reaction. What did catch her attention was the mace. As the blood flowed down it, the rust began to flake off, shavings of brown falling to mingle with the drops of red on the floor.
What was left in her hand was black iron, wickedly sharp, shimmering with green magic. A real Deadeic artefact. What the...
"You have a spark of tenacity in you, girl." Molag Bal told her. "I relish it. Submission is what I require in my slaves, but my champion must demonstrate the opposite traits. Resolve. Strength of will. Refusal to bend, even in the face of overwhelming threat. Even in the face of me. I name you my champion, Hjarnagredda of the Reach."
There was a smooth shiing, and the spikes retracted into the floor. Logrolf took one look at her, and fled up through the cave mouth.
"He is your problem now." The Daedra chuckled. "Now, go. Use my mace. Enforce your will upon the world, bring my glory to those filthy mortals and show them your power."
"I'm not doing this in your name." Hjar warned him.
"Oh, I know. Despite all this, your soul remains your own. That's what makes you so entertaining." With one final laugh, the voice quieted to nothingness. His presence receded from the room.
Hjar took the opportunity to sink against the cave wall in relief.
"That guy is really dedicated to his schtick." She breathed, before looking for something to wrap up her bleeding hand.
8˂
"I am beginning to think," Rune said, shuffling in his seat, "that I've made a really big mistake."
"Oh, not at all, friend!" L'laarzen told him, wielding scissors in what she hoped wasn't an incredibly threatening manner, "You have made an excellent choice in accepting our help!"
"Listen to the Khajiit, darling." Said Galathil, the face sculptor, grabbing hold of his cheeks and scrutinising him. "You have such promising features, if you spent a little more time in the sun-"
"Care to tell me what's going on here?" All three turned to see Mercer staring at them with his arms crossed.
"I made the mistake of telling them I had a date." Rune sighed.
"I'm hair!" L'laarzen beamed.
"I'm makeup." Galathil explained.
"Right." Mercer shook his head. "Well, I'm going to need 'hair' to come with me. I have a job for her."
L'laarzen pouted, but apologised to Rune and walked over to her Guildmaster. "What's the job, friend?"
"We have a lead on the person who's trying to ruin us." Mercer explained, walking away and prompting L'laarzen to catch up. "This letter you brought back does mention a name. An alias, for one of our agents called Golum-Ei, up in Solitude. I'm sending you up there. Find him, and find out what he knows."
L'laarzen's whiskers twitched in annoyance. Khajit only just got back... "Very well. Anything else L'laarzen should know?"
"Don't kill him." Mercer emphasised. "He's a valuable agent, we need him alive. And make sure to watch yourself. According to reports, things in Solitude are...tense."
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Dulurza walked into the Blue Palace, past guards who by now were so used to her they barely turned their heads as she passed.
"My Jarl." She called, smiling in anticipation of seeing Stentor's reaction. "I found out who-"
Falk Firebeard grabbed her before she could finish, pulling her into a side corridor. "Sorry to stop your inevitable gloating, but we have a bigger issue."
Dulurza frowned, looking down at him. "More important than attacks on your trade caravans? What's happening?"
Falk breathed in, then out again. "Well...it's ghosts."
"Oh, you gotta be kidding me."
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Falkreath is, by far, the most miserable city in Skyrim. Xander tried his hardest not to wrinkle his nose up as he walked through the gate (why does it even have one of those if it doesn't have a wall?) and walked into the dank, misty, muddy, gross, village-looking excuse for a settlement. His general plan was to find an inn, crash for the night, hire a mercenary if he could find one and raid the murder-cultists the next morning.
That plan had not included dealing with a funeral.
He couldn't help but awkwardly linger on the outskirts of the graveyard as the priest gave a speech. From the looks of things, the victim had been someone everyone had respected; there were a good dozen people stood there (which must have constituted half the 'city').
"Who was it?" He asked one of them, tentatively.
"A young girl." The citizen replied, teary eyed. "She was murdered."
"Oh." How in Oblivion do I respond to something like that?
Fortunately, the woman seemed willing to continue unprompted. "It was Sindig." She spat. "That madman. When we found the girl she was...by the divines, what kind of monster would do something like that?"
"Was he caught?" Xander asked.
"Turned himself in." The woman shook her head in disgust. "Couldn't seem to decide whether to plead innocent or beg forgiveness. They locked him up in the jail, if you wanna go take a look."
Xander shook his head and stepped back. "Oh, no. I mean, this is horrible, but it's not like I'm going to go stare at the guy who killed a young girl, that would be-"
"Come to gawk at the monster, have you?" Sindig looked up from his cell.
"What? Uh, no." Xander scoffed, leaning away from the bars. "That would, no, not me. I'm actually looking for Eric's cell, is that not this one-"
"It's fine." The man sighed, looking down dejectedly. "I certainly deserve it."
"So what did you do?" Xander pressed his face back against the bars. "Did you kill her? How did you do it? Details!"
"You're...weirdly interested in this." The man tilted his head.
"Sorry." He winced. "I'm from Cyrodil. Murder mystery drama is like, the entertainment there."
"As in books and plays?"
"No; as in actual murders. Assassination happens all the time nowadays, it's massively entertaining. I wouldn't be surprised if someone tried to kill the emperor."
"Now that would be something." Sindig chuckled. "It wasn't me, you know. It was this blasted ring."
If Xander's curiosity hadn't already been piqued, that would have been the piquing incident. "Ring?"
Sindig stood up, walking towards the bars. He held up one hand, which bore a silver ring with a wolf's head emblazoned onto it. "This. It's-"
"The ring of Hircine a Daedric artefact that bestows upon werewolves additional control over their transformations gifted upon currying Hircine's favour?" Xander interrupted, all in one breath.
"...Yes." Sindig replied, perturbed. "You know about it?"
"Do I? The only two things in Mundus more interesting than murders are Dragons and Daedra." Xander shrugged. "So...you're a werewolf then?"
"Aye." Sindig nodded. "I stole this ring in the hopes that it would help me control myself...but it seems Hircine wasn't too pleased with that." He held it up to the hole in the roof. Rather than reflecting the moon cleanly, the ring seemed to shimmer with black light. "It's cursed. Forces me to transform without warning. I never would have wanted to hurt that girl, I just..."
"Ouch." Xander winced. "I'm sorry. You seem like a good enough man, you don't deserve this."
Sindig paused, then looked at him. "I know this is a long shot, but could you-"
"Take the ring? Yes, absolutely."
"...Well, aye. Rumour has it that there's a great white stag haunting the woods nearby. If you could kill it, you might gain Hircine's favour. Ask him to restore the ring. But there's nothing I can do from in here."
"I mean, I'm currently on a Daedric quest." Xander told him, sheepishly. "And I'm not much of a hunter. But..." magic Daedric artefact~ "I can try."
Sindig's face lifted. "Thank you! Thank you a thousand times." He pulled the ring off his finger and held it out. "Here. I can't be rid of it unless I give it to someone else."
Xander reached in through the bars, then paused. "This isn't going to do anything to me, is it?"
"You're not a werewolf, so I see no reason why it should."
"Yeah, good point." Xander took the ring. Slowly, carefully, he slipped it onto his finger.
...
...
...And nothing happened.
"Huh. Awesome, I'll go then."
And then he exploded.
Sindig, in werewolf form, clambered up onto the prison roof, and watched as another beast tore out of the prison doors, bowling over one of the guards before taking off towards the lake. He pitied the stranger, but wasn't going to waste his chance and put more people in danger. He turned, and fled into the woods.
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Hjar made it about about halfway to the exit of Markarth before she caught the smell. The fact that her senses were so heightened was evidence that the wolf was still lurking dangerously close to the surface, and that she needed to get into the hills and let it out fast. That said, she couldn't help but stop, grimace, and turn around.
Margret stood there in the street, eyes wide. Her arms were full of groceries, she was probably on her way back from a morning food run.
"You haven't done your hair up." Hjar said, lamely. Her brain helpfully started making all sorts of deductions about the redhead, absolutely none of which were relevant right now.
"I've been a bit preoccupied." Margret replied, the shock not leaving her face, "The city's going crazy since you...since Nepos died. Guards are trying to suppress it but people are taking notice. Everyone's on edge, waiting for something big to happen."
Hjar nodded, mutely.
They were stood on the high street, and other citizens of Markarth walked around them without taking much notice. Seconds ticked past.
Margret gulped. "Is it...was it a one time thing, or-"
"Still here." Hjar replied, avoiding her eyes. "It's just...part of me."
"Is it going to happen again soon?"
"Soon, but not immediately."
"You..." Margret didn't seem to know what face to make. "Why did you spare me?"
"I can control it, to an extent." Hjar explained. "And...I didn't want to hurt you. Don't want to." She breathed in deeply. "Margret I-" she took a rapid couple of steps forwards, hand outstretched, but Margret back-pedalled just as many.
The hand fell. "R-Right. I...I need to go." She turned and began walking back towards the entrance.
"What are you going to do now?" Margret called after her, making her halt again.
And wasn't that always the question? "There's a rumour." Hjar replied, not turning. "Something about rings and white stags." At her hip, the Mace of Molag Bal glowed, and she narrowed her eyes. "I'm going to take back control. Of my curse, of my life...of all of it."
She looked back and met Margret's eyes. "Then I'll come back, and I'll be able to promise you you can trust me. If...if you ever want me to."
Margret nodded. She clenched shut her eyes for a few seconds, but when she reopened them, they were hopeful. "When you can promise? Please come back."
Hjar didn't respond, walking off towards the gates.
Further up the street, Logrolf the Willful watched them both.
DRAMA!
I imagine you can see how the characters have been set up to interact from here on out. If you feel like the pacing's a little strange, congratulations! You win a cookie.
Two cookies if you can spot all the references I keep hiding in these things.
Next time: Everyone's just really sick of ghosts, to be honest.