Interlude 7 – Homeward Bound
-x-
AN: Thank you for all the feedback and encouraging reviews! Ya'll are the best :D
One of the most consistent things I've been told over the past few months is that the pacing of this story is way too slow, which in hindsight is something I wholeheartedly agree with. If I were to start rewriting this from the beginning (which I'm not, but hypothetically), I would definitely try to do a better job of speeding things along. In that sense, this has been a good learning experience for me as a writer.
So here's the plan. When the current story arc is concluded and the next one begins, the pacing should pick up quite a bit and the main quest should start progressing a whole lot faster. To give an example, it took like five or six chapters to get Mull from Whiterun to the Seven Thousand Steps, but when he's going from Whiterun to Ustengrav it'll only take two or three. I think that'll allow for a better balance of fleshing out the world and what it means to be Dragonborn while actually getting shit done with the main quest. The downside is that some planned side content would have to be cut out or minimized. Thoughts? Comments? Questions? Concerns?
Thanks as always,
- tetrapod
-x-
Lydia pauses to glance over her shoulder, taking in the picturesque sight of the village encircled by mountains steadily receding behind them. Ivarstead is certainly a pretty town with its steep-gabled rooftops and colorful gardens – and of course, it's crowned by the low stone monolith of Shroud Hearth Barrow leering over the dirt-paved streets from atop its shallow hill. It's without a doubt one of the more unique places she's ever visited.
But whether they wish it or not, their time here has drawn to a close. Her Thane took his first step of Seven Thousand over a week ago, and per his orders the Mighty Mudcrabs – gods, I hate that name – are now embarking on the journey home to Whiterun.
She isn't happy about that for more reasons than one. Frankly speaking, it's dishonorable to be leaving behind her Thane in an unfamiliar region without her relentless vigilance to keep him safe. She never should've allowed him to ascend the Throat of the World without her guiding hand in the first place… but now it's too late for regrets. The situation is what it is, and all she can do at this point is faithfully follow his parting commandments as a loyal retainer should. She's been charged with returning Nettlebane to Whiterun's Sanctuary of Kyne, reporting to her uncle about all that's transpired, and maintaining her Thane's cover story as a mercenary through whatever methods she deems necessary. A minuscule sliver of pride blossoms in her chest at her Thane's willingness to entrust these weighty matters to her.
But that still doesn't mean she has to like it.
The housecarl exhales angrily, releasing torrents of white vapor trailing upwards like the smoky breath of a merciless dragon. This journey might be more tolerable if she were alone on this wooded road, though also requisitely more dangerous. Alas that she is not.
Her baleful gaze lands on the blonde man striding a few paces ahead of her, taller and much more muscular than herself. Torgen the bandit is her only company on this trek, to her immense disappointment. He's already insufferable when the stern presence of her Thane is restraining the worst of his bad behaviors, but now that he's far away on the Throat of the World, this hooligan's penchant for self-indulgence has been unleashed in full force. Not for the first time since this morning, she asks herself how Torgen is physically capable of standing, much less walking, after consuming close to an entire keg of ale the previous night. No matter how long or how intently she ponders the mystery, she still doesn't get any closer to finding a logical answer.
But despite Torgen's utter lack of inhibitions where the local supply of alcohol was concerned, their time in Ivarstead wasn't unpleasant by any means. The food was good, the music was praiseworthy, and the company was agreeable. She wouldn't mind frequenting the Vilemyr Inn in the future if her Thane should so desire.
Making the acquaintance of Lynly Star-Sung is admittedly one of the main reasons she feels so amenable towards Wilhelm's establishment. Lydia likes to think they got along well despite being strangers from very different backgrounds. The golden-haired bard shared many of her interests and viewpoints, and she felt that they were able to interact with each other on equal terms. That's something she wouldn't be willing to say for many people, especially not her Thane or his pet brigand. She still isn't sure how a village bard from a rural area could be so knowledgeable about Imperial politics or high Cyrodiilic cuisine, topics usually reserved for the wealthy and powerful of Skyrim, but she never gave into the temptation of asking for an explanation. That would've been impolite. A lady is entitled to her secrets, after all.
She would even go so far to say they became friends, or at least something akin to that. Lydia never had many close friends during her childhood due to her status as a close relative of the Jarl. She was raised in an environment of social isolation in Dragonsreach, and when most girls her age were first learning to spin and weave, she was already receiving instruction in the ways of a shieldmaiden.
She sincerely hopes they'll be able to see Lynly again. She promised to return at some point in the near future while they were saying their goodbyes on the veranda of the Vilemyr Inn early this morning, but the bard didn't seem to believe her. Lydia can't blame her for being cynical since the majority of pilgrims passing through Ivarstead probably never come back. She makes a wordless vow to be an exception to that rule, but at the same time she's painfully aware it's an empty promise. What right does she have to make an oath such as that? She must go where her Thane demands, just as she's doing now. That's what it means to be a housecarl.
She turns and backpedals along the road with a hand resting on the strap of her knapsack, staring for several long seconds at the thatched roofs and shimmering waters of Ivarstead for the umpteenth time in the last few hours. Soon they'll recede behind the grey bark of a hundred dead trees and be lost from view forever, not to be seen again for months at the very earliest and quite possibly never. A pang of melancholy pierces her heart at that realization. Is this the life I've been condemned to? To travel across the province, seeing new places that peasants could only dream about and meeting dozens of new people in every town, but never having the chance to grow close to any of them? Is this how my Thane has lived?
That strikes her as incredibly sad. But for better or worse, it isn't her place to worry about these things. She has a job to do as a sworn retainer in service to a Thane of Whiterun. She tears her gaze away from Ivarstead and the cloud-wreathed mountain behind, steels herself for the journey ahead, and keeps walking.
-x-
They spend the first two days retracing their steps through the Rift's airy aspen woodlands, now leafless and barren with the arrival of winter's chill. It's just as uneventful as the first time around.
They reach Steelhead Pass without any problems. The two ancient eagle-headed columns that preside over the entrance to the pass are still looming overhead on either side, stoically standing guard as they're dusted with frigid sleet and bedecked with lengthening icicles. The cobblestone Imperial road snakes deftly between them, rising upwards through deep drifts of snow and vanishing behind bulky granite outcroppings in the distance. The sheer-faced cliffs constraining the pass to the north and south are pockmarked with clumps of stubbly beige grass and convocations of hunched boulders. The only splashes of color in this otherwise bleak landscape are a few snowberry bushes and stunted pine trees clinging desperately to life.
"This will be a difficult climb," Torgen remarks. "And it'll only get worse the longer we wait." Snowflakes are drifting around them by the hundreds and piling almost knee-high in some places, which isn't a sign of good things to come. The weather in the mountains of Skyrim is unpredictable during winter if you're lucky. If you aren't, it's downright deadly. He's seen the truth of that often enough in his decades of traveling across this land's harsh landscape. You're just as likely to get killed by the rains and winds of Lady Kyne as you are by the hand of a mortal foe.
Lydia harumphs, hefts her pack, and quickens her steps as she marches between the ancient columns without a word. She doesn't spare him a glance.
The bandit sighs and ambles forward at his own pace, letting the prickly housecarl have her personal space for a while. He can count on one hand the number of times she's deigned to speak to him in the last few days. She obviously doesn't trust him as far as she could throw him, and that wouldn't be very far with her lithe physique.
But that's fine. It's exactly what he'd expect based on their past interactions, although he is a bit skeptical about spending the foreseeable future working together with this acerbic girl. Judging by the pure venom behind some of the dirty looks she's been sending his way, she really might try to stab him in his sleep before the month is out. Not that he can blame her since his constant teasing must be grating on her nerves. But teasing her is fun, and life ain't worth it if you aren't having a good time.
After a few minutes of pulling further and further away, the housecarl eventually turns and looks down her nose at him in a wordless demand to hurry up and follow. Seeing how she's been ignoring him outright until now, Torgen decides to chalk it up as a victory. Maybe he's finally breaking through the metaphorical ice.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm coming." He rolls a shoulder and grimaces, pretending to massage sore muscles that aren't actually that sore. "I'm an old man, you know, but still you've been working me like a horse. Whiterun isn't going anywhere."
She doesn't fall for his act. "No, but the same could be said for us if we spend too long dithering on this side of the pass."
He concedes the point and settles into step beside her. The eagle-columns grow smaller as they arduously meander through the serpentine gorge. "So you're finally talking to me, huh?"
"Only out of necessity, I assure you," she briskly replies.
"Sure, princess. Necessity. Definitely not because you're taken with my rugged good looks." Torgen offers his best dashing grin, causing the girl to turn away and sulk.
The air grows colder and the snowfall heavier as they climb higher into the pass. Before long, the only surviving vegetation is a few clusters of stubborn snowberry bushes with desiccated leaves and withered fruit. Torgen glimpses backwards every now and then to gauge their progress, feeling increasingly antsy as the weather worsens.
"Tell me more about my Thane."
He mutters under his breath, surprised that she'd initiate a conversation with him. "Oh, so it's fine when you ignore me, but now you're the one asking questions? For shame, princess. I wouldn't ever have thought you'd be so self-centered and selfish. But it'll take more than that to hurt ole' Torgen's feelings. I'm too belovent to take offense," he airily declares. "I deserve it, I'll admit."
"I think you mean 'benevolent.'"
"Aye, that too."
"Ugh. I don't understand how someone so unambiguously stupid could gain the favor of a Thane."
Having derived satisfactory amusement from the girl's suffering, he chuckles and finally gets around to answering her question. "There isn't a whole lot to tell, if I'm being honest. I haven't known Mull for much longer than you."
Her expression shifts to bewilderment. "Truly?"
"Aye, I only started tagging along with him about… oh, two or three months ago. Not too long before he showed up in that rundown tavern with you marching hot on his heels. That was a memorable day."
"From the way you act, I imagined the two of you had been traveling together for longer than a mere season."
"Yeah, well…" He turns solemn. "I think we understand each other better than most. We share a few similarities, you might say."
"How so?"
"I'm a bandit." Torgen gestures vaguely northwards, in the direction of the Throat of the World encompassing the entire northern horizon. "And he's a… well, he's had a rough life too. I don't know all the details, but he's survived some the harshest shit Skyrim has to offer, just like I have. I saw that firsthand when me and him managed to get through Bleak Falls Barrow in one piece. I'm not sure how much he's told you about that, but it wasn't an experience I'd care to repeat. A perfect example of a job gone belly-up."
He's careful with his words and makes sure not to say anything about the Dragonborn actually being a fellow bandit. Mull would be furious if he were dumb enough to spill the beans now, especially since he's gone to great lengths to keep his felonious past a secret. At the end of the day, Torgen still doesn't know that much about him, and he gets the feeling that's by design.
He chuckles and shakes his head. He still can't wrap his head around the idea that the kid is actually a Dragonborn of yore. It's unbelievable – and yet here he is, somehow conned into believing it.
After all, he saw Mull's Voice with his own eyes at White River Watch as he caved in Hajvarr Iron-hand's ugly mug. He heard how it echoed from the surrounding mountains like the roar of a far-off avalanche. He felt the raw power of a divine Breath as it washed over that isolated cliffside refuge, making his skin ripple with goosebumps and his hairs stand on end. He doesn't know much about Tongues, but he's heard plenty about the Greybeards and their peaceable ways. There aren't many Nords who don't know about the fabled monks of High Hrothgar. The same can be said for Ulfric Stormcloak, one of the greatest sons of Skyrim in this present age and a warrior-Tongue without equal.
He and Mull are a lot alike, so he can say with confidence that somebody like him couldn't possibly be a regular Tongue. Tongues are the greatest of all Nord heroes and the hallowed representatives of the gods themselves.
From firsthand experience, there's nothing heroic about being a bandit. It's a viscerally gratifying manner of living and he wouldn't give it up for anything in the world – except the opportunity to work for a Thane-turned-Dragonborn, apparently – but it isn't glorious or gallant, no matter while lies he might invent for the benefit of a pretty woman in a tavern.
Still, Mull isn't just your everyday washed-up brigand. He's a step beyond that. There's a… a sharpness to him, or something, that Torgen lacks. Soling didn't have it either, or Bjorn, or Harknir, or most of the other fellow outlaws he's ever worked alongside. Mull's hooded gaze carries a deadly gleam that puts anyone with half a brain immediately on edge. It's the look of a man who's killed many times before, knows he'll have to kill again, and simply couldn't care less about the consequences. Torgen wouldn't want to face his employer in a life-or-death fight without adequate time to prepare himself. That's for sure.
No, Mull definitely doesn't seem like a man who would share many similarities with either the Greybeards or the Jarl of Windhelm. So that raises the question, how could someone like him become a Tongue in the first place? It doesn't make much sense. And that, Torgen concludes, is the reason he's begun to accept him as the legendary Dragonborn even though it seems so unlikely. There isn't any reasonable alternative. People don't randomly learn to use the Voice in an afternoon… and yet Mull is a lowlife bandit much like himself who somehow managed to do precisely that. According to the old stories, only the Dragonborn are capable of such an improbable feat. What other explanation could there be?
"You've been awfully forthright about your criminal history," says Lydia, rudely interrupting his introspection. "Especially to a daughter of a Jarl's bloodline."
He shakes away his lingering pensiveness. He's never been the type of man to think about these things too hard. "Why wouldn't I be?" he bluntly asks. "I ain't too proud of my life, but it's still mine. There are some things I might've done differently if I were given a second chance, but I'd still say I've had a good time along the way. I won't apologize for that until I'm feasting and whoring in Sovngarde."
"And what of the people you've harmed? That's what outlaws do, isn't it? Are they unworthy of your consideration or pity?"
He snorts. "I've said it before and I'll say it again, princess. In this world you either claw your way to the top or become a stepstool to scramble over for somebody else. It's a harsh life out there in the wilderness, and if you want to live your life to the fullest, you have to seize the privilege from others who aren't as lucky or blessed. We prove our might to the lords of Sovngarde through battle and bloodshed. That's what it takes for this life to mean something. If Mull were here, he'd agree with me and you know it. He gets it. I've seen it in his eyes."
"Seen what?"
"…Like recognizes like, girl. I wouldn't expect a caged little bird like you to understand." He's fully aware that he's being unfair, but he genuinely doesn't care. Either she'll figure it out on her own or she won't, and either way it isn't his problem. How do you begin to explain the unapologetic willingness to take another's life that all murderers share to somebody who's still clinging to the comfortable lie of moral innocence?
Lydia's nostrils flare and she balls her fists. She's so absorbed with returning his glare that she nearly trips on a jagged rock, but she catches herself just in time to avoid tumbling headlong into a snowdrift. "If you wish to insult me, then speak plainly like the warrior you profess to be. If not, then explain yourself."
"Nah." He waves her off without a second glance. He can almost hear the steam whistling from her ears like a teapot. "I'll let Mull give you the talk when we're all safe and sound back in Whiterun. It doesn't feel right gossiping behind his back while he isn't here anyways."
When he risks glancing at her after a few wordless seconds of boots crunching through the frozen snow, he finds her still scowling angrily. Her sky-blue eyes pierce into him like warmthless stars. "You should know that I trust my Thane to a certain extent, but I do not trust you. We'll be traveling with each other for a time, and as we do, I expect you to act in a respectful manner just as I shall extend the same courtesy." Her gaze hardens further. "Don't even think about trying to take advantage of me or doing anything else untoward. I serve my Thane and shall follow his commands so long as my oath holds true, but I owe you no such consideration. If you give me just cause to do so, I will kill you."
Torgen whistles mockingly. "Trust me princess. With a threat like that, you don't have anything to worry about from me."
"Forgive me for not being convinced. You have quite the appetite for women, as I've already seen." Her derisive tone makes her feelings on that particular subject exquisitely clear.
"Heh," he snickers. "Aye, you got me there. But again, trust me. You're not my type. I won't do anything you'd make me regret."
"And what is your type, exactly?"
"Hmm…" He rubs his chin, causing accumulated frost to trickle out of his beard. "…Pretty and stupid."
Her deadpan stare makes him laugh harder than he can recall in recent memory. "What c-can I say?" he wheezes as he doubles over and clutches his belly. "I'm a man of simple tastes."
"Hmph. On that, we seem to agree."
-x-
As a starlit twilight descends over Steelhead Pass, the two wayfarers halt at a suitable cave just north of the road to shelter in for the night – though it's really more of a sheltered overhang, hardly fit for human habitation in this deepening snowstorm. Still, it's enough to keep them out of the elements.
They use a few logs of splintered pine wood scavenged from the roadside to kindle a rustic fire. The wet weather makes it a more difficult and lengthy process than they'd like, but they eventually get it going well enough to dry out their clothing and provide a modicum of warmth for their bodies. The latter is a godsend, as the partially-roofed hollow offers adequate protection from the wind and snow but does almost nothing for the plummeting temperature. With the sun long gone and the residual heat of its rays already dissipating from the earth, it'll only get worse as the night deepens.
"Whooo, I'm beat." Torgen sits heavily atop his bedroll and rubs his neck. "Two full days of walking right after a solid week of nothing but bear hunting. That Temba woman sure had it out for Ivarstead's poor grizzlies, didn't she?"
Lydia settles herself on the opposite side of the fire, crosses her legs, and swaddles herself in her thick fur-trimmed cloak. She kindly chooses not to bring up the fact that Torgen did much more drinking and flirting than bear hunting. "Her singlemindedness was… odd, yes, but she did pay us well. Unless we encounter unforeseen hardship, we should have enough gold to buy ourselves a night's rest in Riverwood."
"Lookin' forward to that. This is gonna be a rough night, mark my words. My bones are already aching." Torgen struggles to tear away a mouthful from his brick of hardtack rations, made marginally more palatable after being soaked in water and warmed over the flames. "That Vilemyr Inn was a nice place. Much better than I would've expected from a backwoods village. I'm almost sorry to be gone."
Lydia wrinkles her nose as the older man mumbles through his food, spewing crumbs into the sputtering fire. "Agreed. The proprietor was curt at times, but he treated us fairly and his prices we acceptable. If he wanted, I imagine he could've easily overcharged one-time patrons like ourselves."
"Ayep. And there was that bard girl too." He wiggles his eyebrows. "You two got along pretty well. I still can't believe you finally made yourself a friend. You've got some hidden talents princess, being able to tolerate a mere commoner's presence." He finishes in a falsetto mimicking 'proper' Cyrodiilic noble speech.
Lydia stifles a growl unbefitting of her station. She won't give this ridiculous man the satisfaction of provoking another reaction from her.
"What'd you spend so much time talking to her about, anyways? Needlework? Love potions? Cute boys?"
"I simply don't see how that's any of your business."
"Yeah? I guessing you wouldn't make for a very good conversationalist. Did your new friend at least have anything interesting to say?"
Lydia almost shoots back with another scathing retort but pauses at the last second. "…She did ask why my Thane ventured onto the Throat of the World alone with winter so near, and also why we were planning to leave him behind if he didn't return to Ivarstead soon. She seemed think it was exceedingly odd. I simply said that he wanted to meditate on the Steps in isolation and would return in his own time. I'm sure she's seen plenty of devout pilgrims traveling through Ivarstead who've acted similarly."
"Huh. And did she buy your lie?"
"She's an intelligent woman, which is why she asked these questions in the first place. But I do think I was able to assuage the worst of her doubts. I didn't want to outright refuse giving a proper answer until our departure, as that could've seemed suspicious." Not to mention it would've felt wrong on a deeper level to abandon Lynly without a farewell. Friends treat one another with honesty and respect. She's hardly an expert on the matter, but even she knows that.
"I hope you made the right call. I don't think Mull will be happy if his cover is blown because you couldn't keep a secret from your new bosom buddy. He's been adamant about hiding his, uh… condition."
"I know, but what's done is done. I doubt it would matter in the end if one or two people in a rural village became slightly skeptical of my Thane."
The former bandit shrugs. "Aye, you're probably right."
"I usually am."
The housecarl tugs her cloak closer around her shoulders to stave off the deepening chill. Outside their temporary abode, a heavy veil of darkness has overtaken Steelhead Pass. It's impossible to see more than a few yards into the gloom with snow continuously falling from the heavens in dense sheets of white. The fire actually makes it worse as the light reflects distractingly off countless particles of ice.
Torgen finishes choking down his tasteless hardtack and takes a swig from his waterskin. "If Mull stays up there for too long, don't you think the bard girl could get worried and… I don't know, send up some folks to search for him or something?"
She frowns. "…I don't see that happening," she replies at length. "By then it would be too far into winter for a search party to safely embark. The storms would make it a hopeless endeavor, assuming the locals' tales about snowbanks dozens of feet high weren't in jest. But truthfully, I am concerned about how my Thane is faring on the Throat of the World at this moment. I hope he made it to High Hrothgar." She looks down as she clenches and unclenches her fists in her lap.
"I'm sure he's fine. He's been through worse. By Oblivion, we all have." Torgen reaches around the fire and lightly thumps his palm against her shoulder. "Don't worry yourself too much. It won't do you or him any good. Let's focus on getting back to Whiterun and making ourselves some money."
"…Very well."
He flashes a toothy grin. "Atta girl."
She responds with a trademarked housecarl glare. "You have no right to treat me with such disrespectful familiarity, bandit."
"Okay, then how about a 'yes ma'am, fair princess?' Does that work better for you?"
"It would from anyone other than yourself."
"Ouch. Tough crowd."
As their conversation dwindles to a close, Lydia keeps herself awake by staring into the flickering flames of their diminutive fire. Sparks dance across the blackened logs and cindered branches, drifting aimlessly in all directions like fireflies.
There's something oddly hypnotizing about fire. It's strange that such a simple and pervasive element in daily life can simultaneously command such wonder. For a while, she allows herself to pretend she's sitting among her long-dead ancestors who might've taken shelter in this very hollow when the world was still young, clad in the hides of ferocious beasts and armed only with the simplest of stone tools to aid in their struggle against the wrath of Skyrim's harsh wilderness. The denizens of a more primeval time when fire was the greatest weapon with which to fend off the encroaching dark.
Across from her, Torgen reclines sideways and settles atop his bedroll with his head propped on one arm. His eyelids droop from time to time as he fights off the irresistible call of a much-needed sleep. She can't blame him. She's exhausted as well.
This whole journey has been a nonstop series of challenges for her, one after another. She's never spent so long away from Whiterun until this last month and still hasn't gotten accustomed to traveling so far every day. Certainly not on foot, which is one of the greatest disadvantages of Skyrim's titular terrain. Horses are useful and hardy beasts, but even they can't scale the side of a mountain. As far as I'm aware.
Torgen mumbles something unintelligible and shifts to keep an eye on the entrance of their sheltered nook. He smacks his lips lazily and blinks.
Then he stiffens and his hand darts to his belt with a speed that Lydia didn't think he was capable of. He firmly grasps the hilt of a knife sheathed at his hip. "What is that?" He keeps his voice conversational and low, barely loud enough for the housecarl to hear his question.
She tracks his gaze into the veritable blizzard raging outside. The wind has grown fiercer in the last hour and is howling through the twisting confines of the pass, reducing the ambient visibility by skimming snow off the crests of rapidly-forming snowdrifts. At first she doesn't see anything out of the ordinary.
But as her eyes adjust, she abruptly catches sight of something anomalous in her peripheral vision. Beyond the farthest limit of their wavering firelight, she spots the outline of an obscure shape marginally darker than its surroundings. She's positive it wasn't there earlier. There aren't any trees or menhirs near the entrance to their shelter, so that couldn't be it. The shape is tall and thin like a person's silhouette at night.
Which, Lydia belatedly realizes, is exactly what it is.
It's the eyes that clue her in. A pair of luminescent red irises are locked onto their campsite, unblinking and inhumanly bright. They remind her of an owl's eyes in that regard. Whatever it is, it must have night vision.
She shivers and unthinkingly follows Torgen's example as she gropes for her sword lying next to her bedroll. She inadvertently knocks over her ceramic jar of thyme-infused honey, a souvenir she'd acquired in Ivarstead, and sends it rolling across the pockmarked stone floor. The red pair of eyes shift minutely as their owner turns its attention to her.
As if he'd been waiting for that exact moment, Torgen quickly but unhurriedly stands and unsheathes his knife. The eyes flutter and refocus on him.
After floundering blindly for a long tense moment, Lydia finally manages to get ahold of her sword without looking away from the indistinguishable figure. She shrugs off her cloak and cautiously goes to rise, but the eyes return to her and she freezes instantly in an awkward half-crouch. The weight of this unknown creature's awareness is like a physical heaviness anchoring her limbs and paralyzing her against her will. She knows when it's focusing on her. She can feel its intent.
"And the night was going so well…" Torgen murmurs.
The silhouette shifts and advances into the ring of firelight with utter soundlessness, finally revealing its true form. It's…
A man. Despite the vaguely humanoid shape, Lydia hadn't been expecting a mere man. She thought it would be some sort of monster or nature spirit, especially with the arctic conditions of the pass outside. Nobody in their right mind should be out there at a time like this.
The man's features are obscured by a hood with the exception of his whiskery chin and thin lips. His lanky form is draped in a shapeless black robe that doesn't seem thick enough for the biting cold. The ensemble is completed by trousers, heavy boots, and gloves, leaving none of his skin bared except for his lower face and neck.
Lydia almost lets her guard down, but one incongruous detail stops her at the last moment.
The eyes haven't changed. Those twin pinpricks of deep red are still shining from beneath the man's cowl, glittering with eerie luminosity. Her initial assessment might not have been correct. Human eyes most assuredly don't look like that, and this man obviously isn't a Khajiit, the only sentient race in Tamriel with inherent night vision.
He could be using some sort of Night Eye spell. That's a possibility, although Lydia isn't expert of magic by any means. And that doesn't answer the question of why or how he's here.
Always an advocate of excessive caution, Lydia draws her sword with a throaty rasp of steel against leather and clutches the sheath in her offhand, intending to use it as an impromptu shield. Her actual shield is leaning against the cave wall, too far away to reach without leaving herself exposed to the unwelcome stranger.
"What can we do for you, friend? Did you get turned around looking for the outhouse? You ought to know we're at least a full day's walk from the nearest village. I think you're lost." Torgen's overtly pleasant tone carries an unmistakable undercurrent of tension.
The man doesn't respond. At all. Not so much as a twitch or any other indication that he heard the bandit's question.
"If it's shelter you're looking for, don't forget that we were here first. You can't just barge in on somebody else's campsite without at least giving a hello. That's how you get beaten and robbed, or worse. Skyrim is a rough place these days." As he speaks, Torgen discreetly maneuvers his free hand to rest by his thigh and flashes a sign with three fingers at Lydia. She has no idea what it's supposed to mean.
The stranger still does nothing. The only indication he even heard Torgen is a faint noise that rises from the back of his throat, barely audible over the keening wind outside. It's almost like… growling. It's so soft that Lydia might be imagining it, but it's still enough to make her tremble with primal fear. Neither Man nor Mer have any business making a guttural noise like that.
After another anxious moment, Torgen exhales heavily and breaks the stillness. "Well, I guess that's that."
He bursts into motion without further warning and charges directly at the mysterious crimson-eyed man. He yells and slashes at the stranger's stomach with his knife, but in the next instant it's batted aside with such effortlessness that he might as well be a child swinging a branch. The knife goes spinning away into the shadows.
Before either he or Lydia realize what's happening, the stranger grasps a handful of Torgen's lanky hair and wrenches his head downwards while clenching his free hand like a claw, like he's intending to tear out the bandit's throat barehanded. Lydia sees the faint glint of unusually sharp nails.
She gasps and throws her sheath in a gut-wrench reaction, unsure what else to do. The improvised projectile rotates end over end before bouncing off the stranger's head with a solid thunk, making him recoil and displacing his hood. As the concealing fabric falls away and his true visage is revealed to the world, Lydia decides her earlier unease had been completely justified.
The reddish-orange discoloration of the fire doesn't hide the fact that this man is incredibly pale. He might as well be a walking corpse. The comparison is lent further credence by his gaunt features, protruding cheekbones, and sunken flesh. His eyes blaze like corrupted wisplights, furious and starved for blood.
Lydia has never seen a vampire in person, but she knows enough about Tamriel's most troublesome undead to identify one on sight. Only an ignorant fool would not. The combination of impressive speed, colorless skin, uncanny eyes, and an apparent immunity to the severe weather is quite a telling combination.
The vampire shakes his head like a frustrated dog and lashes out to claw Torgen in the face. He ducks beneath the attack, spits out a curse, and dives bodily for his axe leaning against the wall of the grotto. The stranger darts after him on a course to intercept, moving with such inhuman speed that he becomes a blur in the dim firelight.
By some gods-given miracle, Torgen is able to get his hands on his axe and raise it defensively just in time to meet the vampire's headlong assault. He's bowled over by the vampire's momentum and they tumble to the ground together in a mess of flailing limbs. One of them inadvertently kicks the campfire, sending up a plume of cinders and smoke.
Lydia curses as she bounds across the cave. I should've acted sooner! Everything happened so quickly that she couldn't urge her limbs into action until it was already too late.
She leaps at the vampire to knock him away from Torgen, who's eyes he's perilously close to scratching out, but she never reaches him. Just as she's about to slam into him, the emaciated attacker thrusts out a hand with pale digits curled like a dead spider and twists.
An invisible force seizes hold of her like claws wrapping around her throat, suspending her in midair. Her spine and hips are wrenched painfully as her impetus is forcibly arrested. Her legs sway powerlessly beneath her.
Her sword falls from her grasp as she scrabbles at her neck, but she doesn't feel anything there. In defiance of her physical senses, the pressure holding her aloft and restricting her airway is completely intangible. It inexorably tightens and gradually squeezes the life out of her.
She watches helplessly as motes of vermillion light begin detaching themselves from her body and floating toward the vampire's outstretched hand. She's suddenly short of breath. Her mouth becomes as dry as sand. Her lips crack painfully and bleed. Her vision blurs.
She's been ensnared by some kind of spell. Her mind whirls at a million leagues a minute as she tries to process her predicament and think of a solution, but nothing is forthcoming. She doesn't have any method of defending against such insidious magic.
But sometimes the answer isn't as complicated as it seems. Torgen surges to his feet with a mighty roar and rams into the vampire with his shoulder, breaking his concentration and dispelling the magic entrapping her. She drops unceremoniously to the ground and clutches the collar of her gambeson as she frantically gulps huge mouthfuls of air. Whatever the vampire did to her, it left her feeling terribly weakened and dehydrated. A pounding headache is already forming behind her forehead. Her arms feel like they're made of lead.
Torgen scrambles after their opponent and raises his axe for an overhead swing. The vampire lashes out with a vicious kick that connects to his knee followed by a straight punch to his jaw, causing him to stumble and misdirecting his attack.
He throws a clumsy punch of his own but the vampire deftly avoids it. An opaque dagger appears in the pale man's grasp with a muted flash of purple, trailing wisps of ghostly vapor as he flourishes the summoned weapon. He retaliates by gouging a deep cut into Torgen's shoulder, sending flecks of blood scattering into the air. The bandit hisses and backs away, but there isn't much space to maneuver in this partially-walled hollow. He stumbles against solid stone and presses a palm against his injury while searching urgently for an opening.
Lydia pushes through the haze clouding her mind and forces her sluggish limbs into action. She reaches down to recover her sword and staggers toward their opponent as he raises a pallid hand to target Torgen with a spell. The vampire hesitates when he notices Lydia approaching and brandishing her weapon. He must not have expected her to recover so soon.
She grits her teeth and knowingly overextends herself with a reckless lunge, not wanting the element of surprise to fade away before she can use it to her advantage. It's a risky and horribly telegraphed move, but it's all she can do to keep Torgen from the vampire's clutches.
A glimmer of cruel amusement enters the pale man's dreadful gaze as he drops into a low stance with his spell scintillating in one hand and his ethereal knife at the ready in the other, eagerly waiting to gut her for her carelessness. Luckily for her, Torgen chooses the same moment to intervene and delivers a sweeping uppercut with his axe.
Lydia's sloppy thrust is dodged with insulting ease, but her distraction prevents the vampire from seeing Torgen's oncoming weapon until it's too late. The bandit's heavy bearded blade smashes into the vampire's left arm with a visceral crunch and the fell glow of magic vanishes from his palm. Blood trickles to the ground.
A blow like that should've severed the arm entirely, but it only bites few inches into the vampire's flesh. It hurt him, yes, but not nearly enough.
Lydia once read in the library of Dragonsreach that mundane weapons aren't very effective against vampires. They're preternaturally tough creatures and are much stronger than regular mortals in almost every way, but weapons crafted from silver are extremely effective against them. That's one of the few exceptions, and little good it'll do them at the moment seeing as they don't have any silver available. At least it seems Torgen's axe is heavy enough to do some damage even though it's made of steel.
The undead man howls in agony and scampers hastily backwards. His voice is grating and raw like a razor scraping against a rock. His summoned dagger dematerializes just as suddenly as it first appeared and he starts charging up his draining-spell once more. Vermillion particles begin flowing from Torgen's body to the vampire's palm, the same phenomenon that left Lydia feeling so depleted.
Torgen lurches like a drunkard but doesn't completely falter. He doggedly rushes after the vampire and swings his axe with a hoarse shout, trying to bisect him again and again. The vampire retreats before his onslaught and manages to stay beyond the range of the axe, causing Torgen to tire even further. He becomes increasingly lethargic as the draining spell takes its toll. The rhythmic patter of blood trickling from the undead's wounded arm becomes less frequent until it ceases altogether. He's healing himself, Lydia realizes.
With a determined burst of energy, she darts past her companion and outflanks the vampire. She surprises him with a quick swipe at his head and the tip of her blade leaves a trail of scarlet across his cheek as he jerks away at the last second. Torgen suffered from a lack of space earlier, but now she uses the confines of the hollow to her advantage. Even if this enemy is a dangerous undead, there's only one of him and two of them.
The vampire's gaze flitters back and forth as he realizes he's been cornered. But rather than reacting with desperation like a hunted animal, instead his eyes blaze brightly with unveiled malice and he reveals his unnaturally sharp teeth with a ferocious snarl. His gaunt features become even more wicked. Faster than Lydia can blink, he reforms his magical violet dagger and jumps at her with a feral screech. She raises her own blade in a last-ditch effort to defend herself from impending mutilation.
Torgen's axe intercepts the vampire mid-leap and sends him flying into the wall with a crash that shakes the whole cave. A few errant droplets of blood rain onto Lydia's face and the front of her gambeson. The pale man crumples under the impact and collapses to the ground.
The bandit limps toward the fallen vampire and raises his weapon to finish him off, but he recovers far more swiftly than any mortal should from such a devastating blow. He seizes hold of Torgen with his invisible grip, the same power he used on Lydia at the very beginning of this fight, and returns the favor by slamming him into the stone wall like a child throwing a doll. His body smacks harshly against the unyielding granite and he flops onto his stomach with a pathetic groan.
The undead rises with a gruesome grin, somehow unbothered that his torso now has a huge gash running across it. The tattered remains of his black robe swirl around him like a flock of bats on a starless night.
Lydia charges with a sharp cry and brings her sword down on the vampire's head. Or rather, she tries to.
The vampire's uncanny vitality and her own bone-deep weariness conspire to cut short her offensive before it can really begin. The vampire raises his uninjured arm and catches the blade in his palm without so much as a flinch, not even when blood weeps from between his clenched fingers. He tightens his hold on the sharpened steel to prevent her from retreating, forcing her to either give up the sword or die.
He gnashes his needle-like teeth and his rancid breath washes over her, nearly making her gag. He's almost close enough to lunge and tear open her throat if he should wish. If she doesn't do something in the next instant, she'll assuredly die.
In that moment of crystal clarity induced by terror, she suddenly notices an unfamiliar weight pressing against her side.
It's Nettlebane. She completely forgot she'd swathed the ancient ceremonial blade in a clean rag and tucked it into her belt behind her left hip for safekeeping. She'd meant to sleep with it on her person instead of leaving it in her bag.
She reacts on instinct and reaches for the ceremonial dagger with her offhand. Her fingers brush against its gnarled grip of unclothed ebony, as cold as solid ice. With an animalistic scream, she rips Nettlebane free from its improvised sheath and wildly swings upwards in the same motion, slashing a jagged line across her opponent's face.
He whirls away with an earsplitting shriek and clutches at the gruesome wound with free-flowing crimson seeping between his sharp-nailed fingers. The same shade of crimson dribbles down the ancient single-edge blade of Nettlebane, staining the dark metal midnight black. Using the relic for such a disgusting task is regrettable, but she likes to think the gods will understand the necessity.
The vampire blindly strikes back with a swipe of his ghostly dagger, but Lydia deflects it with an easy twitch of her longer sword. She flows into another slash that slips between the vampire's ribs, spilling torrents of his dark lifeblood onto the floor.
The vampire screeches again and commits to a last-ditch lunge, but it lacks the same speed he displayed at the beginning of this fight. Lydia sidesteps and nearly trips over her own feet due to her fatigue, but her dual-wielding retaliatory attack still lands true.
Her sword shears through the vampire's collarbone and wedges firmly into his chest cavity while his summoned knife misses her throat by several inches. He topples forward helplessly.
As he does, Lydia immediately tightens her grip on her sword, yanks on the pommel, and uses her opponent's own redirected momentum to bring around Nettlebane in a brutal reverse-grip thrust with the all the strength in her body. The heavy ebony blade pierces into his cranium and easily smashes through bone, eviscerating the unprotected grey matter beneath
Her enemy lifelessly slumps to the ground with a final ragged exhale. Liquid gore and other fluids spill from the remains of his punctured head and trickle into natural indentions in the floor, where they flow like rivers into the campfire and sizzle as they're evaporated by the heat. The smell is horrifically nauseating, which is something Lydia really does not need right now. The vampire's magic drained all of her strength and the pain of her headache is worsening as her adrenaline rush fades away.
She watches her fallen opponent while waiting for her breathing to return to some semblance of normalcy, wary that he might somehow revive himself, but nothing happens for the next half-minute and she eventually gives up. Vampires are unnaturally tough creatures, but surely not even they can survive a blow like that.
She covers her nose and mouth with the thick sleeve of her bloodstained gambeson and goes to check on Torgen. The bandit has already managed to sit up under his own power and leans heavily against the wall. After a cursory inspection of his axe, he runs a hand over his face and groans. "Hoarfather's beard, that hurt. Please tell me you got him."
"He's dead. I think." Lydia drops next to him and winces as her head throbs more forcefully.
Her words are confirmed when the vampire's flesh, blood, and hair begin dissolving right before their very eyes, crumbling from the top down into a vaguely human-shaped pile of what might be mistaken for lilac sand. After about ten seconds, only his clothing is left behind.
"Vampire dust," Torgen comments tiredly. "So he was a vampire, huh? I thought he was moving quicker than he should've. And whatever he did when he tossed us around with that spell was… weird. Wasn't like any magic I've ever seen."
"You… you didn't realize he was a vampire until just now?" Lydia incredulously demands.
"…Should I have?"
"Yes, you ignoramus. The signs were all there. His eyes. His pale skin. His sharpened teeth. The red draining magic, which was clearly vampiric in nature. Need I go on?" Oh my gods, what an idiot.
"No, I get the picture." The bandit finishes tying a makeshift bandage around his shoulder. Lydia would offer to help, but she can barely keep herself awake as it is. "And I do know vampire dust is valuable. I've heard it's useful for makin' invisibility potions."
"It's also dangerous," Lydia chides. "It can convey vampirism to the handler if it isn't properly processed,. We shouldn't touch it, as we lack the necessary tools and materials. It isn't worth the risk of collecting."
If Torgen were a younger and less intimidating man, Lydia would say he's pouting. She glares with tired eyes to dissuade him from doing anything stupid. Hopefully.
His expression turns pensive. "You saved my ass a few times back there. Thanks for that, princess."
"And you mine," Lydia grudgingly compels herself to admit. "Though I might not have worded it in such a crass manner."
The fact that he refrains from offering a witty comeback – what he thinks is witty, rather – is a testament to either his exhaustion or distraction as he peers at the vampire's remains.
"What's that?"
Lydia follows his gaze but doesn't see what he's referring to. "What?"
"That."
She doesn't have the energy to roll her eyes, but she would really love to. "Please be more specific."
The older man slowly, agonizingly climbs to his feet with the helpful assistance of the wall and totters over to the man-shaped mound of discarded clothing and vampire dust.
Lydia scoots after him and clambers onto her knees as Torgen starts rifling through what's left of the vampire's black cloak. She idly wonders why the blood in the vampire's body dissolved into dust but the blood splattered across her face and gambeson did not. Where such foul magics are concerned, logic is rarely useful.
Torgen briefly loses his balance and almost collapses headlong into the deadly dust. "Be careful!" Lydia admonishes.
"Yeah, yeah." He spends another few seconds delicately investigating the slain undead's cloak before pulling away a small object with a satisfied grunt. The item glitters with a metallic sheen in the firelight. "Look at this."
Lydia leans in. It's a steel chain necklace with a pendent she doesn't recognize. It depicts a full-face mask carved ornately with eyes, a nose, a mouth, and swirling patterns across the entire surface. The face is crowned by a pair of long horns protruding from the forehead. Torgen experimentally taps one of the horns and yanks back his finger with a hiss. They're sharper than they look.
"Ever seen anything like this before?"
She frowns thoughtfully. "No, never. Vampires are usually worshipers of Molag Bal, but as far as I know this isn't a symbol of the Prince of Domination."
"What do vampires have to do with a Daedric Prince?"
Lydia stares at him with dead eyes. Surely this is a jest. Unbelievable. Instead of voicing her unkind thoughts, she settles for speaking to him as she would a toddler. "Much. Very, very much."
Torgen grunts neutrally as he examines the pendent. "And that is?"
"The first vampires were created by the Prince of Domination. Even the youngest of children know this."
"I didn't."
"And that is… tragically unfortunate. It speaks volumes of the extent of your education. Or lack thereof."
"In the clans, we aren't too big on high Cyrodiilic 'education.' Leaning how to survive in the wilderness and preserving the traditions of our ancestors is a lot more important."
Lydia sighs. Arguing with the imbecile won't accomplish anything. "This is irrelevant. The vampire is dead, and while its choice in jewelry is odd, it doesn't bear any significance in our current circumstances."
"Okay, I'll agree with you on that." Then his brow furrows as the lump of fetid meat he calls a brain starts working harder than it ought to. "But his eyes were red, right? I thought vampires had golden eyes. What does that mean?"
Kyne save me. "You're thinking of Sanguinare Vampiris, the strain of vampirism progenated by the Volkihar clan and thus unique to Skyrim. The red eyes mark this vampire as a scion of a bloodline born from the Cyrodiilic strain known as Porphyric Hemophilia."
"You just said a lot of words I didn't understand."
The housecarl breathes a curse and massages her throbbing forehead. "He's a vampire. Red eyes mean a Cyrodiilic vampire. Golden eyes mean a vampire from Skyrim. Is that simple enough for you?"
"Aye. I think so." The wry humor drains from Torgen's features as he sags wearily against the floor. He gropes at the knife-wound on his shoulder and grimaces. "First a hagraven and now a vampire. Orkey's scales, I'm really starting to hate these mountains. We don't have to deal with this stuff up north."
"And what do you have to deal with?" Lydia leans over, snatches her satchel of medical supplies lying next to her rumpled bedroll, and starts applying an herbal poultice to Torgen's injury. She isn't too worried about an infection since the vampire's dagger was a spell-weapon summoned with magic and therefore should've been sterile by default, but it never hurts to make sure. She'd hate to have to lug his incapacitated body all the way to Riverwood.
He waves sluggishly as she works. "Oh, you know. Sabrecats. Ice wraiths. Rabid horkers. The usual."
She's fairly certain ice wraiths are incredibly dangerous but doesn't deign to comment. She can't bring herself to care at this point. "I'm surprised a vampire would be willing to attack us in this oft-traversed pass. It seems uncharacteristic."
"There's a big difference between a caravan with dozens of people and a lone pair of travelers caught out in the middle of a snowstorm."
Point. "I suppose you're right."
"If only we had a mage with us," Torgen laments. "Would've been so much easier if we could've conjured up some holy fire and just burned that bloodsucker to ash."
Lydia nods, puts away her healing kit, and sits down a few feet away from the bandit. "I hope my Thane is having an easier time than we are."
"Yeah. Here's to hoping."
"…The signal with three fingers… what did that mean?" she asks after a beat of silence.
Torgen looks at her with disbelief, as if she's the foolish one. "Uh… it meant 'three seconds.' Wasn't that obvious?"
"No," she emphatically replies. "It was not. Your foolhardiness could've gotten us killed!"
"…Damn, princess. Sometimes I forget how sheltered you are. Maybe you need to get out more."
"Ugh. I do not have the patience or energy to deal with you right now."
She stands, arches her back with a groan, and thinking of a way to remove to vampire's remains from the cave. "I'm not sleeping with that vampire dust inside our shelter," she mutters to herself. After a thorough search, she finds a branch with a few dead leaves sitting in their pile of firewood for the night and does her best to sweep the lilac ash out into the unabated snowstorm. The stinging wind against her face worsens her misery.
While she works, Torgen settles against the far wall and cocoons himself in his bedroll to take first watch. Once she's finished, Lydia changes her clothes – all while threatening Torgen with immediate death if he tries to sneak a peek – and lies down for the night. "Stay on guard for more vampires," she murmurs.
"Don't worry, princess. Never let it be said I didn't take good care of a woman."
"…You're insufferable."
Falling asleep is understandably difficult, even after she gulps down a cupful of soothing elves ear tea. It takes a few hours, but she eventually slips into a dreamless sleep with the fire crackling in the background. The worries and aches of the waking world fade into restful nothingness as she dreams of home.