Chapter 6 - Earnest Inanity

When Farkas returned to human form he approached the imprisoned Courier Six. The Lone Courier was pinching the bridge of his nose, fighting a losing battle to hold back a headache. Werewolves. Great. Add it to the list of insane things I've come across. It seemed the Dunwich altar had been his own white rabbit. And as far as rabbit holes went, it seemed Carroll's was soundly beaten by this one. Dragons and werewolves were a cut above tea parties, caterpillars, and hatters. He sighed. Trying to rationalize what he had seen was a Sisyphean task. As much as it grated him, it was best to just ride it out.

"So… werewolves?" he asked.

Farkas shrugged. "Some of us have the gift of the beast blood."

He was impassive as ever, but the Courier detected a hint of chagrin, as if the fact he was a werewolf was an embarrassing piece of gossip.

He couldn't stop himself from laughing. He nearly doubled over, almost completely incapacitated. Farkas looked at him as if he had lost his mind (which was not an unfair assessment) and went to open the gate to the next room. Six tried to find it in himself to feel bad about his cackling, but ultimately couldn't find it in himself to do so. Once he had managed to regain his composure he moved to follow Farkas.

"So who were they?" asked the Courier, doing his best to take the appearance of werewolves seriously.

"They call themselves 'the Silver Hand.' Consider themselves werewolf hunters. They're really just common brigands, trying to pretend they're doing something more noble than robbing and torturing anyone unlucky enough to cross their path."

"But they've found some actual werewolves."

Farkas shrugged. "They heard the rumors about the Companions and thought it was a good enough excuse. Bad idea for them."

Six nodded, his gaze passing over the rent corpses on the bloodied stones. For werewolf hunters they certainly had been unprepared for finding one. Werewolf hunters that were woefully unqualified. Add it to the list.

As they moved through the tomb complex they encountered more of the werewolf "hunters" who managed little resistance against their combined assault. The Lone Courier still could not get over the absurdity of the situation. Combined with the Farkas's seemingly impenetrable stoicism and unwavering seriousness it made for a highly entertained and very annoying Courier.

"So… how's the wolf-iness?" He asked, decapitating a draugr.

"…fine."

"Having a big fluffy tail isn't all it's cracked up to be?" he needled.

"We're not supposed to talk about it," Farkas grunted.

"Who's we? And why?"

"The Circle. And Kodlak said-" he cut himself off, "You're not supposed to know any of this."

"I figured, but it's a bit late for that now. Tell me though, why does Kodlak want to keep this a secret?"

Farkas shrugged. "You've seen how people hunt werewolves. The old man probably thinks it's best that people don't know we have this power."

"So it's just the Circle that are werewolves?"

"Sjor and Aela would give it to anyone. But Kodlak and my brother are more cautious about it. We don't want it becoming common knowledge and it's a responsibility not everyone should be trusted with."

The Courier nodded thoughtfully, though Farkas's back was turned. Right, so werewolves were unusual here and stigmatized. Assuming Farkas was telling the truth, his respect for the Companions had increased by this information. They seemed to be managing the power of turning into werewolves responsibly, restricting the "technology" in a manner his Brotherhood of Steel sensibilities approved of.

The Courier mercilessly resumed his ribbing.

"Does the moon make you transform?"

"…no."

"Is it true you lose control and don't remember what happened when you transform?"

"No."

"Do you have a pack structure?"

"No"

"Does silver affect you guys?"

"…yes."

The Courier smirked in satisfaction at his small victory. Some of the tropes held true at least.

After carving a path through the draugr and Silver Hand blocking their way they seemed to have found what they were looking for. He supposed they were fortunate that the ancient Nords were not as paranoid as the ancient Egyptians, given that they had found the main burial chamber without difficulty. On second thought, Egyptians tombs lacked hordes of vicious undead as a deterrent to grave robbers, so perhaps it all evened out. While they encountered no resistance upon entering the room there were more than enough caskets lining the walls for an ambush. The room centered on a single tomb before which was a piece of jagged iron in exalted position and behind which was an ornate carved wall. He approached the center warily. Farkas too was scanning the room, his sword held at the ready. The Courier inspected the plinth on which the fragment was placed carefully. It looked safe. There was nothing attached to it, no strings or wires and no seams that could indicate a pressure plate.

Something told him that-despite the lack of evidence-retrieving the fragment of Wuuthrad would activate something nasty. Probably as a result of magic. He sighed, pocketed the fragment and was relieved to hear nothing worse than the groans of draugr in response. He turned to see a staggering amount of caskets having fallen open. This might be more trouble than expected.

His first concern was the more richly decorated creature that had crawled out the central tomb closest to him. He arrested its downward stroke with a battle-axe with a swipe of his shield. He was about to give it a brutal shove with the same when a sudden biting cold forced him to shelter behind his shield. He had no idea what in God's name it was that had assailed him, but it seemed to be coming from the draugr's left hand. Without leaving the cover of his shield to confirm his hypothesis he jabbed sharply with its edge towards the outstretched arm of the creature, hoping to snap it.

He succeeded, with the draugr's arm flinging limply behind it. Six moved to exploit the opening he had created and shove his sword through the thing's neck when he first, heard a loud, strange sound and second, was hit by some kind of intangible force that staggered him, almost causing him to lose his footing. He frowned. Threatening his balance was ordinarily a challenge for Supermutants. He called to Farkas,

"What did it just do?"

"Old Nordic kind of magic. They shout in the dragon language."

The Courier nodded in something of a daze, struggling to internalize what he had been told. Another one for the "inexplicable" list. Ultimately, the draugr, for all its sorcerous ways and ornate gear, was still as brittle as the rest of them, allowing the Courier to more or less bludgeon it with sword and shield until its bones pulverized and the lights in its eyes faded. Fortunately, as the Lone Wanderer scanned the room, it seemed that none of the other draugr were learned in the arts of witchcraft.

Farkas was throwing back lines of draugr with each arc of his greatsword. I could use one of those. The Courier located a longsword wielding draugr and, dodging its scarcely aimed swing, rushed inside its guard, impaling it through the neck, at which point he abandoned his sword and grasped the draugr's weapon from its limp hands as it collapsed to the tomb's floor. Relying on his sheer strength, the Lone Wanderer smashed the sword into a cluster of draugr. The ancient blade crushed their old bones with surprising efficiency. Thrusting under the shield of the nearest foe he impaled the creature through its abdomen. He had lost track of Farkas and sensed hostile movement behind him. He jerked his weapon out of the now inanimate corpse. Its jagged edge caught for just a moment on rusty armor of the reanimated body.

He felt a tinge of annoyance as a blade dragged between two of the iron plates he had jury-rigged to his courier duster. It was only as an afterthought that he felt the pang of pain and hot wetness of the scratch. Rather than try to free his weapon again he released it with his left hand and swung his fist, impacting brutally into the cranium of the draugr that had cut him, feeling bone snap as he did so. With some breathing room created, he used both hands to wrench the ancient sword he had appropriated free. He had paid a low price to find out its limitations. Live and learn as they say.

"Kill and learn" may have been more appropriate considering the short work he and Farkas made of the ghoulish horde. Panting he surveyed the broken bodies on the ground. His adrenaline dilated eyes scanned the room. Nothing but Farkas moved. The flickering of candles and torches that lit the burial chamber made it difficult to be certain, but in this case the lack of the unnatural glowing eyes that was characteristic of the draugr could put him at ease. Letting out a measured breath, the Lone Courier relaxed his posture. After a moment Farkas did the same.

"You should take care of that scratch," said his companion, after a moment.

Six shrugged. "It'll close up on its own soon enough."

By mutation and augmentation his rate of healing meant that few injuries that didn't kill him outright would cause dangerous blood loss before they closed.

Farkas looked doubtful but shrugged.

"There should be healing potions around here somewhere if you don't feel like bleeding all the way back to Jorrvaskr. They're the red ones."

That piqued the Courier's curiosity enough to investigate. Sure enough, it appeared that the ancient Nords entombed their dead with concoctions that matched Farkas's description. The Courier figured it was simpler to test them rather than try and explain his healing processes. Whether the "potions" possessed the properties Farkas claimed would soon be determined. The Courier could trust his mechanical heart to filter out anything unfriendly. Unless it was some kind of magical malady. Frankly, however, he was past caring. If magic was going to kill him, he wasn't qualified to do anything about that.

He uncorked the bottle and downed it in one. It had an unappetizing syrupy texture, which was not promising for something that was likely an order of magnitude older than the already ancient beverages the Courier was wont to consume. However the taste was oddly sweet, even by Nuka-Cola standards. Whether its sweetness was magical in nature or the ancient Nords were predominantly pre-diabetic was unclear. It's palatability wasn't his primary concern in any case. He put back the empty bottle and examined his wound. Beneath the already dried blood he felt, as gently as he could, for the mark the draugr's blade had left mere moments before. Yet, by inexplicable means, it had disappeared entirely. He resisted the urge to sigh. He was doing that a lot lately. In this case, he thought it best not to look a more esoteric form of stimpak in the mouth. Briefly scanning the room he found a couple more similar looking bottles and a few others of varying shapes and shades. He pocketed them for later use or analysis. Eventually he'd get around to figuring out how they work but for the moment he'd be satisfied with finding out what they did.

His scavenging done, he surveyed the room. There was something inexplicably compelling about the rune-carved wall. The script was alien, but even when he looked away an afterimage remained burned into his mind. It was unnatural, that was for certain. But it felt nothing like the Dunwich altar. For that, at least, he was grateful. Still, it unsettled him. He was no fan of anything that affected his perception. Point Lookout had ensured that. He shivered slightly and turned to leave. He'd had enough of strange walls and strange powers. Something told him he wasn't due a reprieve any time soon.

He and Farkas managed to make their way out of the cairn without encountering any further resistance. The two of them finally relaxed and took a breath of sharp clear air of the early afternoon. Farkas turned to him, grinning.

"Good work on your trial, brother. We'll congratulate you properly when we get back to Jorrvaskr."

The Courier nodded graciously. They set off across the plains of Whiterun Hold at a pace unsustainable for anyone who lacked the capabilities of either the beast blood or a mix of mutations and cybernetics. Six was grateful Farkas hadn't questioned his ability to keep up with a werewolf. It wouldn't have been unjustified, especially considering how many impertinent questions he had lobbed at Farkas about lycanthropy. He supposed Farkas was too good natured for that kind of petty revenge.

As the sun set and they prepared to encamp Six happened to look up and realized that he still wasn't over the night sky. Having spent most of his life in a Vault, the sky in itself was a novelty, let alone a strange cosmos streaked by auroras. The utter lack of light pollution out here was also a factor. While in the Capital Wasteland the radiation and dust was still thick enough to put a haze over the stars, in the Mojave the lights of New Vegas always bled into the horizon. Here however, he could see a million tiny pinpricks of light across the sky. The size (or proximity) of the moons on the other hand was somewhat disconcerting. He hadn't thought about it, but on Earth the moon had a comforting remoteness. Here they had something of a looming quality. He suspected there was something unnatural about them. With his limited astrophysics knowledge (which primarily consisted of having once been abducted by aliens) he suspected that the orbits and qualities of the moons were not congruent with the natural law. Even the night sky was "magical." Unfortunate. Still, in a purely aesthetic sense it couldn't be faulted. He sat looking at the beauty around him for a long while before sleep took him. He didn't know how long he'd be here, but seeing a pristine world was something invaluable in one destroyed in atomic hellfire.

When they arrived at Whiterun they were met by Vilkas, who eagerly shepherded them towards Jorrvaskr. The Courier was in relatively short order inducted into the Companions. The pomp and circumstance was touching, if the induction itself was to his sensibilities somewhat impetuous. While he'd done some jobs for Aela and helped Farkas delve a crypt, they had no way of being sure his intentions were pure. The level of trust they displayed would have been foolhardiness in the wastes. The earnestness of it was all the more endearing by contrast. The last time he had experienced this level of comradeship was with the Lyon's Brotherhood. For the first time in a long time he was joining a group not as part of a grand maneuver to stop the Legion or the Enclave, but because it seemed like a good thing to do and, almost uniquely, because he wanted to.

"...then the judgment of this Circle is complete," proclaimed Kodlak, "His heart beats with fury and courage that have united the Companions since the days of the distant green summers. Let it beat with ours, that the mountains may echo and our enemies may tremble at the call."

"It shall be so!" said the Circle with one voice.

The Lone Courier was surprised to feel a swell of pride in chest at the approving judgment of this circle of werewolves. It seemed even in this land of the stubbornly inexplicable, he'd managed to find good people. Perhaps in a world not scorched by the A-bomb they were more common. Brutish and inelegant as they were, he was one of them now. Still, something bothered him. He dwelled on it for a moment, wrestled with it, but ultimately couldn't quite identify it. He did his best to dismiss it for the moment. Nevertheless, he filed the feeling away. It bore addressing. He turned his attention to the present. It was rare he found a moment of contentment, so he would do his best to enjoy it.