Chapter 3 – Into the Dark
"This is all your fetching fault, you know. I should have been on my way to Whiterun by now, but you had to go and be clever."
The Dunmer's only reply was to grin back at him. He sighed, and added some more wood to the fire.
"We're supposed to be better than this. I'm measuring every word I say, trying not to let them see that I don't have a gods-damned clue what I'm doing, and you go and get me involved in this…this idiot scheme of yours. It's a disgrace, and so are you, you blighted four-cornered fetcher!"
Cursing at the thief made him feel better. Clearly the Dunmer didn't mind, he just kept grinning. The fire had blazed up well, the old wood and dry corpses burning merrily.
"I was supposed to be in and out. Get supplies from the blacksmith, let the Nords know a dragon is incinerating their towns, and be on my way. You fetching s'wit."
The tower was perched on the edge of the mountain, overlooking Riverwood far below. Jutting out from the slope, it had only one approach, a bridge leading off from the path up the mountain to Bleak Falls Barrow. Velandryn had been watching it for a few minutes now, and while it was clearly not any sort of headquarters or place of import, if they saw him going up the path they could easily make his life very unpleasant. There did not appear to be more than three or four in there, but even one of these bandits would be more than a match for him in a fair fight. However, there was a chance it wouldn't have to come to that.
Velandryn approached the bandit at the near side of the bridge slowly, hands raised in what he hoped was a nonthreatening posture. "Greetings, I was –"
Immediately the bandit drew her axe and shield, and made a menacing gesture. "Stay back unless you want to die!"
Velandryn had hoped that he could negotiate with them for information, or perhaps even use them to gain access to Bleak Falls itself. Unfortunately, it seemed that he would be unable to talk with them, if this angry Nord was any indication. As they were unlikely to be impressed by his extensive knowledge of Dunmer history and theology, his list of possible solutions was somewhat narrowed. Sneaking past was unlikely to work, and the alternatives…
Velandryn beat a hasty retreat down the path, far enough that the bandit was content to remain at her post and watch him go. Behind her, another bandit emerged, and stood beside the first. He had a bow, ready to cut him down should he return. Now that there were two, the beginning of an idea took root. He prepared the spell, letting his magicka pool first in his mind, focusing and concentrating the raw energy. To do this properly, he would need to succeed where he had often failed. I am in control. Now, and forever more. Rage cannot use me, I am in control.
His first mentor had cautioned him from the start. "You have potential, but you are too easily distracted. Your blood boils, and you lose control. Rule your rage, be in control, and when you master yourself, you will master the world."
Rule my rage. It was his, honed and sharpened through the years. He had learned to leash it, but it was always there, ready to be let loose. I have control. He channeled that rage into his magicka, and thrust out his hand towards the axe-wielding bandit.
It was said that there were two ways to master a spell, to comprehend its workings and impose them on the world, or to have an instinctual connection with a particular effect and manifest it through magical potential. For Velandryn, he had always enjoyed study, but his greatest strength was those spells that channeled some facet of his soul. Fire to destroy, or blinding rage to suppress reason and turn an unsuspecting bandit into a mad berserker who would strike down their friend as readily as a foe.
Humans were short lived and quick-tempered, as a rule. Nords especially were slaves to their passions, fighting as fiercely as they loved and reveled. Those who had abandoned their laws to live as bandits were, therefore, likely even more predisposed towards excess. The woman shook her head in confusion as the spell worked its way into her mind; the archer reached out to check and make sure she was okay. Her axe took his hand off at the elbow, his scream ended in a bloody moan as her second blow bit into his neck. As she stood there, covered in his blood, another bandit emerged from the tower, yelling something to Velandryn's victim and drawing his sword, guarding against whatever threat had killed their fellow. This new bandit did not realize his mistake until the first was moving in, axe raised for the kill. However, blind rage reduced one's skill in combat, and the second bandit parried easily, shouting something at his fellow as he attempted to calm her down.
Velandryn had no idea how long the effect of his fury would last, so he unslung his bow and drew back his shot, taking careful aim. He did not have a natural eye for this; he needed time to line up the shot. Fortunately, his target was so far gone that she was swinging her shield as well as her axe in offense, giving no thought to the Dunmer she had seen earlier. His arrow punched through furs and clothing and the flesh of her back, causing her to stagger. She did not fall, however, but only redoubled her attack, yelling incoherently. What did the other do to her? Even fury in the mind could not make one slay a lover or trusted ally. It seemed that either these three had merely been allies of convenience, he had gotten lucky and enraged the one who carried a grudge against her fellows, or she simply hated all other folk. Or I am a mage of unparalleled skill who wields power unimagined over the minds of lesser beings. He was a nice idea.
The arrow had slowed the bandit, but her rage sustained her. The other looked to still be trying to disarm rather than kill, a difficult task when faced with incoherent fury. Velandryn's second shaft, which punched through his light armor into his side, did not improve matters. The first bandit took advantage of her target's pain and surprise, and launched an onslaught of blows that culminated in a heavy downward chop that split the lucid bandit's skull and fountained yet more blood onto the madwoman.
Now that both of her fellows were dead, she turned slowly, and her eyes met his. He had closed to within thirty paces of her now, arrow nocked and string taut. She roared out a wordless battle cry and charged. He loosed the shot, thanking the Three that in her rage she had thrown her shield aside to close the ground faster.
Her armor was light fur, fine to ward off bests or glancing blows, but no match for an arrow at nearly point blank range. The feathered shaft sprouted from between her breasts, and to Velandryn's shock she actually managed to reach him, even as blood bubbled from her mouth along with her gasping breaths. She drew the axe back, but it was sluggish and clumsy, blood loss already taking its toll. Velandryn had drawn his sword, however, and while he was certainly no gifted swordsman, he could finish off a single dying bandit easily enough. As the thrill of battle wore off, he realized that he was actually fairly cold. He unwrapped one of Camilla's potions from its cloth lining and downed it, silently thanking the Imperial woman for her generosity.
Looting the dead was a distasteful but lucrative few minutes. Those few qualms he might have had about rifling through the possessions of the dead were quieted by the potions, lockpicks, and coin he found on them. After all, it was not as if they were honorable foes slain in righteous combat. These were nothing but bandits, and their lives and property were forfeit.
Afterwards, Velandryn checked the tower, gathering what gold and potions he could. He came upon a locked chest on the top floor, and decided that he might as well try to open it and see what was inside. Judging by the lockpicks scattered around, the bandits had had a similar idea. When he tried the lock, he found it open, to his pleased surprise. Perhaps that is what they were up to when I interrupted. Inside he found some gold and a few gems, as well as a blue hood spun from some rough material. It looked plain enough, but when his fingers touched it he felt magic thrum within. When he pulled it on, he the flow of magicka within him intensified. Useful, to find a mage's hood here. Looking down on the blood-soaked ground below the tower, he felt a strange confidence. Perhaps I can do this after all.
The fire was burning well, but it needed more fuel before it would suffice. He pulled out a few more pieces of rotting old wood from the alcoves in the wall and added them.
"You are putting me to a lot of trouble, you insolent f'ghan. Are you proud of yourself?"
The Dunmer's grin remained, though the firelight gave it something of a ghastly cast. The axe buried in his skull made a strange shadow on the wall he was leaning on.
"Veathel Dunmeris ilo? If I spoke to you in the tongue of our homeland, would you know it?" he sighed. "Likely not"
The entrance to Bleak Falls Barrow had been guarded by four bandits. Now, two of them fought off a third, while their unlucky fourth sprawled dying on the snow. Velandryn lined up a shot, and watched with satisfaction as one of the two lucid bandits folded over, and was then dispatched by his maddened fellow. The final two came to blows, and the survivor fell quickly to more of Velandryn's arrows. He had never been a particularly passionate archer, but he was finding this immensely satisfying. As long as his foes were lightly armored and more or less stationary, he could hit them without much trouble. His shots rarely killed, but they were sufficient distraction to turn the tide of battle, especially when one of their own was under the effects of an illusion of rage. That particular ploy had worked twice now, and he had no intention of stopping. Symmachus the Red Son had once written that a novel strategy could be victorious only until the enemy learned of it. Fortunately for Velandryn, the doors to Bleak Falls were huge and heavy stone, and pulled shut, so nobody inside should be any the wiser. Pushing one of them open, he slipped into the shadows within, hoping against hope that nobody was watching the portal. Fortunately, the hall was cavernous and his end was dappled with light, and no cry of alarm was raised as he pressed himself into a shadowed corner.
The spell to silence one's footsteps was simple enough, as was the night-eye he used to ensure nothing was lurking in the darkness. To cast them both in such quick succession would have drained him had he not been wearing that hood, however. As it was, he was only slightly fatigued as he made his way up the hall, to where two more bandits were conversing over a campfire. Drawing close, he managed to overhear them talking. Apparently one of their number, Arvel, was deep in the tomb trying to use the claw to recover some hoard of treasure. The others had been set to watch various parts of the ruin, and these two were keeping an eye out for intruders. One of the bandits was furious about being sent to be a door guard, and made mention of 'wringing that scrawny elven neck' when all of this was done, while the other seemed more accepting of his position, content to sit by the fire and drink.
Velandryn realized that he had an opportunity here. He could test the limits of his fury, and cast it here on the calmer of the two, or he could incite the other and have surefire madness. It took only a moment to decide. He could likely take both should the worst happen, and he needed to know what he was capable of. Even if this failed, he would still be concealed and could strike again. He had to know.
When the spell entered the calm bandit, he didn't respond at first. He stood up and moved around some, but did not attack. The other asked what was wrong.
"Nothing, just felt, something…off."
"Well sit down and be still. You're acting strange."
"Why don't you back off, milk-drinker! Don't tell me what to do!" While Velandryn's spell could not send him fully into violence, it had clearly upset him, and the other noticed.
"It's this place, I'd wager; something in the air. We shouldn't be in here. These barrows are evil."
This was less than ideal, Velandryn decided. He would have to be careful with this spell in the future, but for now his focus had to be on eliminating these two foes, as they guarded the only way deeper into the barrow. He could feel the emptiness inside that indicated he should take time to rejuvenate his magicka, but his night-eye was ending and he was too close to these two to be casting spells as he pleased. He needed to use his advantageous position to bring them down quickly. When he noticed a half-broken urn of some sort in the darkness on the far side of the fire, his plan took shape. He scooped a rock off of the ground, and tossed it into the urn. Its echoing clatter drew both of the bandits' attention, and the one under Velandryn's half-effective sorcery tromped off to investigate, while the other merely stood at the fire, bow drawn. Muttering about 'damn skeevers,' the bandit who was investigating was soon off beyond the circle of the fire's light. Now, one bandit was in striking distance, and the other was off blundering in the darkness.
Velandryn had no time for nerves, he must move quickly or this was all for naught. His footsteps still muffled, he ran up behind the bandit by the fire, and drew the iron knife with burned grip across his neck. As the bandit gurgled and his bow dropped from a lifeless hand, his body slumped down, and Velandryn fought to hold it aloft. He eased the corpse gently down, grimacing as the hot blood ran over his hands. Fortunately, it seemed he had not made much noise, so the other bandit should—
"Hey! What in Oblivion?" Oh. He had not thought this through as well as he could have. He stood silhouetted in the light, immensely visible to any in the dark. The fire also had destroyed the Dunmer's night vision. He should be thankful, he supposed, that his night-eye had dissipated, else the excess of light would have blinded him. Now he only had to contend with a foe who could strike from anywhere, while Velandryn was unable to anticipate an attack more than the merest second in advance. This is where actual training would have been useful. Supposedly one acquires instinctive responses for situations like this, and those would be very nice right now. He readied his sword and tried to listen and scan the darkness all at once.
A deafening bellow suddenly came from the blackness to his left, and the sound of pounding footsteps soon followed. Velandryn silently thanked the Three that rage made people disregard tactical advantages, and readied his blade. He could hear the Nord approaching, and concentrated magicka in his left hand, letting it burn and prepared to ignite. If not for the hood he would be drained entirely, but this would be his last use of magic for the time being. It had to be right.
The Nord burst out into the light, roaring and swinging a crude iron mace, knocking Velandryn's sword aside. The weight of the blow meant that the bandit had to readjust before the backswing; all the opening Velandryn would get. He felt the fire rise with him, and let it burn. A gout of flame washed over the Nord, scorching his armor and burning his flesh. Still roaring wordlessly, the Nord clutched at his face with his off-hand, bringing the mace back in a wild swing. Velandryn could parry this, however, and closed to within the bandit's guard. His sword bit deep into the bandit's shoulder, and the mace clattered to the ground. The bandit lunged at Velandryn, his one good arm coming up in another wild, brutal blow. The impact sent him sprawling to the ground, and the half-blinded, moaning, one-armed Nord grabbed his mace with his left hand, and closed for the kill. Velandryn still had his sword, and it was obvious that this bandit was no great warrior either, so the Dunmer took a gamble and lunged at him. His blade bit deep and pulled back, and this time blood spurted not just from the wound, but from his mouth as well. Die, you bastard. I've killed you, now DIE! Finally, slowly, the bandit collapsed, and Velandryn sagged back down. His magicka was spent and his nerves were frayed, and he needed to take a minute to get his head back in order.
That went very wrong, and I got lucky. He had made a number of mistakes there, and would need to revise his approach. The first step was to better target his opening shot. He was under no delusions about his combat prowess compared to these bandits. Most were Nords, who outweighed him by no small amount and had a span or two of height on him. With longer reach and greater strength, they would win if they reached melee range and he had no magic to level the playing field. He would have to dictate the terms of the engagement before it began, and ensure that it ended swiftly enough that he did not lose control. During the fight, he had to keep his foes off-balance, to offset their physical and numerical superiority. To this end, he decided to see what new tools awaited him in the firepit's vicinity.
Neither bandit had much of interest on them aside from a paltry few coins, but the search allowed Velandryn to overcome the last vestiges of his revulsion at looting the dead. They were bandits, their human souls would never become ancestors, and thus their mortal bodies were no more than meat and blood. In a chest by the fire, he found two vials of a thick, dark, liquid, labeled with an 'X' and tightly stoppered. Likely poison, but he had no desire to test it on himself. He carefully applied a smear of the liquid to one of his arrows, and even more carefully put the arrow down beside him for when next he had need of one. There was a pot of water boiling over the fire, and after slaking his thirst, he poured a little over his hands to wash off as much of the blood as feasible. When he noticed a shank of some roasted meat over the fire, he began to find this ancient bleak necropolis just the tiniest bit homey. As he finished his impromptu meal and rose, grabbing the arrow he had prepared, he felt refreshed and ready for whatever lay ahead.
"I wish I could hate you, truly. It's not really your fault, though, my being down here." He rifled through the journal again. "You figured it out, didn't you? And now, I get to find out what this treasure is, and get paid by Lucan besides. So, thank you, I suppose. You fetcher."
As the enormous spider lobbed a mass of webbing at him, Velandryn reflected on how utterly unprepared for this he had been. The bandits in the tunnels had fallen quickly, and one bottle of that poison was sufficient to mark half a dozen arrows, each of which sapped the strength of their victim and caused them debilitating pain, if their screams were any indication. Then he had discovered where the poison came from, when the giant spiders in his path failed to display any reaction whatsoever to his treated arrows. For them, he had to resort to fire and sword, hacking, slashing, and pouring forth a stream of flame until they were dead. After each died, he had to carefully cleanse the poison from his body with his healing, burning through his magicka at a prodigious rate. It had been slow going, but he had made constant progress, and was even beginning to notice a macabre rhythm to his fights.
Now, all of that was gone as he frantically backpedalled along the wall. What was either the spider queen or a grotesquely overgrown specimen was scuttling around the cavern, and it was all he could do to keep away from it. Several of its legs appeared to have been damaged in an earlier fight and it was oozing some vile black liquid from gashes along its sides and stomach, but that was not slowing it down. Indeed, it was steadily closing, and while Velandryn could keep it at bay with bursts of flame from his hand, he could feel the emptiness inside where his magicka was depleted. What did I think would happen? I am not a hero, I am a thrice-damned fool!
Behind him, one of the bandits was strung up in webbing, screaming his head off and begging for help. As Velandryn paused before, he sliced his sword through the webbing, hoping that if the bandit could get free, he would assist in this fight. The bandit's writhing soon partially freed him, but the spider's surprisingly quick approach meant he had to jump away and sprint for the other side of the chamber. This time, the spider's approach was long enough for him to ready a fireball and throw it directly into the monstrosity's face. The creature reared back, shrieking and chittering, as Velandryn threw himself around it and ran full-pelt for the trapped bandit. His hacking soon had the bandit mostly free, and to his surprise he realized it was a fellow Dunmer. His frantic cries to be freed changed their tune as soon as he was cut down, and he ran off into the tunnel behind him, laughing. As Velandryn had no particular desire to die at the fangs of the largest spider he had ever seen, he took off after him. He was hoping for some answers but would settle for someone to blame for this fiasco. Well, other than me.
The other Dunmer had vanished down the hallways, but by the sound of things his escape was not going as well as he had planned. When Velandryn found him, the thief had been set upon by three…things. They were clearly reanimated corpses of some sort, but they lacked the haphazard form of bonewalkers, and were too far gone to be simple reanimated zombies. The flesh and hair they bore ruled out skeletal reanimation, and the noises they made had guttural undertones that resembled speech. They fought with no grace, but were pressing the Dunmer thief back against the wall. Velandryn decided to take a gamble, and let hot rage flow through him, channeling fury into the leftmost creature. It hesitated, hissed, and then slammed its sword into one of its fellows. That one growled out some harsh exclamation, and wrenched the sword out of its flesh, using the weapons it now had in both hands to cut down its onetime ally. The remaining creature, unaware or uncaring of the fight beside it, continued hammering on the Dunmer, who had sustained several wounds but was still putting up a decent guard.
Velandryn had drawn his bow and was lining up a shot when he noticed that the creature that had killed his maddened one was bleeding; some thick black liquid oozed out of the gaping wound in its gut. It did not appear to notice the wound, but Velandryn had to hope that it was weakened. He began putting arrows into it; after the third shaft pierced it took notice and abandoned the other Dunmer to lumber towards him. In one hand it had the sword it had torn out of its own flesh, in the other it clasped a war axe; both weapons were of a style he had never before seen, crude and misshapen. It advanced, uttering cries in that strange tongue. Velandryn moved first, releasing one more shot into its torso then casting the bow aside and bringing up both hands. He had no chance with his one sword and haphazard style against those two weapons, but fire could be effective. The slow, oozing liquid it bled should indicate significantly lower levels of moisture in the flesh, and its mummified appearance only reinforced that likelihood. There was only one way to find out if he was right, though. He poured fire from his hands, and the thing screamed like an animal in pain as it burned, falling to the ground and twitching. Velandryn was already moving, throwing fire at the other one. This one, however, while it burned, had the presence of mind to change targets and close on him. Velandryn drew his sword, and once again found himself desperately parrying blows from a much stronger foe. Each hit made him think his arm would break, and he found his idea of lighting his enemies on fire relied on the hitherto unexamined assumption that his enemies would care. As it was, this one was clearly made form sterner stuff than the other; it pressed onwards even as its blackened skin peeled away to reveal the flesh and bone beneath. Behind it, the other Dunmer had vanished further into the barrow; Velandryn knew he had to end this fight now and get after him. Fortunately, the fire had charred away much of the creature's muscle, and its attacks were becoming increasingly sluggish. Finally, he managed to spear through its arm with a lucky thrust, wrench back the blade, and with three frantic chops remove its head.
Panting, Velandryn leaned against the wall. He was bleeding from half a dozen places, none major wounds, but still in need of care. A single healing potion was enough to take care of the damage, though he felt strange as always while his body knit his flesh together before his eyes. Mortal bodies could not easily handle the energies of healing potions, and he knew he would have a voracious hunger that evening. However, he would be a fool to let queasiness stop him from using every resource available down here. These strange creatures he had bested were troubling not just for their unknown capabilities, but also for what they represented. Either they were active down here all of the time, which meant the lower halls could be infested with more of them, or they had been animated, which meant that someone or something that was capable of a style of reanimation that he had no knowledge of was present. Either way, he felt his tenuous control of the situation rapidly diminishing.
Hauling himself to his feet, Velandryn retrieved his bow from where he had tossed it, noting as he did so that he was abusing the weapon such that it would soon need replacing. It had not been made from the finest of materials to start, and he was half-sure that it was already warping. Either that or he was an even worse shot than he thought. Slinging it over his shoulder, he made his way deeper into the barrow.
After dodging the swinging blades that comprised some ancient trap in the hallway leading down, Velandryn stumbled out into the chamber beyond, and saw the Dunmer he had been chasing facing him, a hideous grin on his face. Behind him, one of the barrow-dwellers pulled its axe from his skull, and he collapsed to one side, sliding down into a slump and smearing blood and brains on the wall behind him. The creature hefted its axe and brought it down once more. This time, it lodged in there, and as the creature tried to pull it free, Velandryn charged one hand with burning magicka, as much as he could, and grabbed the monster by the face. The sound it made was like nothing he had ever heard, but Velandryn Savani was beyond caring. He watched dispassionately as the creature staggered back, head aflame, and silently drew his bow as more of the things emerged from various alcoves and sarcophagi. His calm shots targeted heads and torsos to cause significant bleeding, and any that closed were swiftly dispatched by bursts of flame. Archers he cut down with bolts of fire, and soon he had consumed three potions of magicka, which opened his body to Aetherius and allowed for more magic to be cast, but would give him shivers and aches as his body readjusted to its normal state. Fortunately, only two of the foes were the stronger variant of the barrow-dwellers, and one of them was an archer content to remain at range until his fire had consumed its body to the point that it no longer posed a threat. The other he emptied his quiver into as it approached and then hacked to pieces with numb precision. Each blow was methodical and emotionless, and as he parried a slash that would have opened him through his armor, he was lost in the clash of steel on steel and bizarre serenity of the moment.
As he slowly returned to himself, he realized that everything else in the room was dead, he was astride the corpse of the final barrow-dweller stabbing into it with his steel dagger, his sword had been thrown aside, there were tears running down his cheeks and, although it was likely not even midday outside, he was more exhausted than he had ever been in his life. Every part of his body ached, and the shivering chill that was upon him from the potions did not help matters, though it would pass soon enough.
He looked over at the other Dunmer, the thief. He could have been taking a rest, if not for the bloody scene on the wall behind him and axe sticking out of his skull. The first other of his kind he had seen since arriving in Skyrim, a worthless thief mistrusted even by his own band of outlaws. He noticed a pack in the other Dunmer's hand; when he pulled it open, it was revealed to contain some sort of claw made of gold, as well as a leatherbound journal. Reading through, it became apparent that this was Arvel the Swift, who had masterminded this entire plot, planned to betray his compatriots, and hoped to find some treasure by using the claw to somehow unlock a door. He looked over at the onetime thief. "Did you a lot of good, didn't it?"
He stood, ready to move on, but upon scanning the room he paused. The body of Arvel was jarring and wrong down here. He is nothing. He is n'wah and a bandit besides, and he deserves no honors. Nonetheless, something within him rebelled at the thought of leaving the body of this Dunmer alone in this unhallowed place. It would take time and he could not give a reason why, but he knew that he could not leave this one body to share the fate of all those he had slain. I would have slain this one too, if it came to that. Alive, he was nothing. So why does his body demand such respect? He began dragging the bodies of the barrow-dwellers together, and tore down planks of wood from the surroundings to add to the nascent pyre. A quick burst of flame got the whole thing burning, and as he watched it grow, he began to talk. It was a one-sided conversation, but it was the first he had had since arriving in Skyrim where he needed no pretense, had no honor to uphold or goal in mind. There were no bargains or threats here, just speech. His partner in this monologue kept grinning, which gave the whole thing a slightly farcical air, and called forth his rage once more. As he built the fire, he conversed with his dead companion, there beneath the earth.
Once the fire burned bright and merry, Velandryn knew it was time. Grunting, he pulled the axe from Arvel's skull, and tossed it into the fire first. Then, he half-carried the corpse over to the pyre. He was not strong, but neither was Arvel very heavy; and he managed to get the thief into the flames without too much trouble, if not very gracefully.
The bodies of Dunmer did not burn easily; it was traditional to anoint them in oil or cast spells of susceptibility to fire upon them before burning, but Velandryn had neither oil nor the magicka and concentration to waste on what was an intricate spell that ultimately only hastened the process. He could use the rest anyways, he reasoned, and slumped silently against the wall, watching the body burn. He had never spoken over an ash-pyre before, but he had assisted, and knew that words were supposed to be said, celebrating the deceased's life and triumphs, and ushering their soul out of the body to serve the Dunmer people as an ancestor. Velandryn did not know this one's history or deeds, but he would end his life with honor, if nothing else.
"Here lies Arvel, named the Swift. He solved the riddle of Bleak Falls Barrow, and perished trying to prove the truth of his discovery. Here, on a pyre of the bodies of his enemies and with the weapon that took his life, let his flesh burn away and his soul be consecrated anew by flame. Let it be, in the name of the Three who test that we may be proven. Let it be, in the name of those who passed before that we may follow. Let it be, in the name of Arvel the Swift, who joins the Dunmer people in death as he never did in life." He had changed the ritual somewhat, but it was only proper, as Arvel had not been a part of his culture, nor a contributing member of any society. In truth, this entire exercise had been more for Velandryn's benefit than the thief's, as he doubted this outcast would have the devotion to carry his spirit to the Far Realms. Now though, as the blue-grey flesh blackened and split, he sat watching, and fatigue overtook him. He wanted to make it all right, to explain why he was here, but nobody was listening except the dead.
"Do you know why I came to Skyrim? To see the snow fall. I had never seen it except on the ground, and they told me in Cyrodiil that it was beautiful, and Skyrim's the most beautiful of all. If I'm being totally honest, it's nice enough, but on the whole, not worth it. I should have known better than to listen to Nords." He had one bottle of water left, and one of wine that he had taken from a bandit's sack. He took a long pull of the sour red, grimaced, and held it out to the pyre. "I'd offer you some, but, well, I doubt you're in the mood. You must be furious, you poor bastard. You figure this out, steal the claw, and then it all goes wrong and I wind up here. I have the claw, the journal, and I'm alive. So, you know, I win this round. I win the prize. I get to go deeper into this tomb infested by monsters, look for a treasure that may or may not exist, and then return to the wonderful land above where they can't decide if they want to kill me or just treat me as second-class trash because of my race.
"I'm not sure I blame you, taking up banditry. I might do the same, if I had to live here." Gods, to live here. Always cold, fire can't warm you, and they hate you besides. "Why didn't you come home? You could have returned to Morrowind, been with your own kind, been respected. We have need of every hand; it can be hard work, but rewarding. Till the earth, learn a trade. Be my brother in the Temple, or join the Guard and protect us all. Or maybe you didn't want that. Maybe you were violent scum who joined up with these human thugs because you wanted an excuse to hurt people.
"I should have been disgusted but I wasn't, today. I killed those humans, made them kill each other, and I felt nothing. They hurt people, robbed and murdered and raped, and they deserved to die." He took another pull from the bottle. "I wish you were still here. I wish you could tell me every one of their crimes, and yours, so I can walk away and forget. I wish you could tell me all of the horrors you committed so I could have left your body to rot down here like all the rest. I hope you were a backstabbing wretch who deserved to die. I…I'm sorry." He placed the bottle of wine, now less than half-full, on the pyre. "There. Take that with you when you pass through the Waking Door." He stood, and looked down on the pyre that held the slowly disintegrating mortal remains of Arvel the Swift. "The snow is beautiful, though."
The door was bound with a great lock and three rings, with the claw clearly intended to go in the middle. Velandryn pulled the golden claw forth, and studied it briefly. The symbols on the claw obviously represented the correct sequence of the symbols on the door. The rings rotated easily; locking into place and allowing the claw to slide into its slot and trigger the door's release. Velandryn watched the door slide into the ground, and saw blackness beyond. Whatever power had lit the torches in these halls did not extend past this door, it would seem. He had traveled fairly easily to this point, as the barrow-dwellers seemed content to rest in their alcoves unless disturbed. Several had awoken as he passed, but a single foe or small group was easily dispatched or avoided from the shadows. Velandryn had taken to filling his quiver with the strange old arrows he found down here; their heads were better made than the iron ones he had brought with him. He had not grabbed any of their bows, however, as despite the finer make they were sized for Nords, and exceedingly old besides. Many of the strings were on the verge of rotting away, and Velandryn would take a reliably bad bow over a superior one that could snap at any point. After leaving Arvel's body, he was glad to find only these creatures awaiting him. He had had enough of bandits for one day.
Entering the huge hall beyond the door, Velandryn briefly considered using night-eyes, but the grandeur of the scene urged him to experience it without magic. A waterfall crashed down, carved through the rock over untold ages, and a huge wall with unknown writing dominated the far side of the cavern. Before it lay what was unmistakably a sarcophagus, and a large, metal bound chest. This place had to be ancient, predating the Septim Empire at the very least. The arts used to bind the creatures outside to unlife hinted at some ancient power, but the wearing away of the rock from naught but water would require millennia, he suspected. As he advanced, he could see the sunlight from outside lancing in through cracks in the rock walls and ceiling. It cast the entire vista as pools of light of darkness, and Velandryn found himself profoundly moved by what he beheld. Beauty such as this was rare, and he felt privileged to look upon it. How long since any other man or mer has seen this? In this, he felt peace, felt his hatred and tension drain away. Until he looked closer at the strange curved wall.
Try as he might, Velandryn's gaze could not avoid the wall. Its writing was completely unfamiliar but oddly compelling; as he studied it he felt the shapes ingrain themselves in his mind. He fancied that there was some echo of meaning etched into this carving, though he knew not what powerful magic had been used to accomplish this. His hand drifted out and traced what he thought must be a word, no, he knew it was a word. He did not know what it said, but understanding was so close. If he could see it from—
Behind him, the lid of the sarcophagus shattered his concentration, and another of the barrow-dwellers pulled itself through the wreckage. This one, bigger even than its Nord-sized companions, was clad in the remnants of armor and finery, and hefted an enormous axe in its withered hands. The axe bore a glowing blue-white spiderweb of magic along its surface that filled the surrounding air with icy malice; clearly it held some enchantment. Velandryn was far too close for his bow, and once again he wished that he had found someone earlier in his life to properly tutor him in the use of the sword. He made do by thrusting both hands forward and channeling a stream of fire into the thing's face. Its only response was to slam its head forward, cracking Velandryn's skull and sending a trickle of blood onto his face. As he retreated he healed the wound, but he was draining magicka at too fast a rate. Fire and healing both would drain him dry, unless…
Diving to one side, he ripped open his bag and pulled out three potions. One to heal, one to reinforce his magicka, and one to protect him against the cold that even now was emanating from his enemy's weapon. He downed all three in quick gulps while leaving his bag where it lay. He would need all of his agility to survive this fight. Behind him, the creature was closing rapidly, heedless of its smoldering skin, axe raised. The monster was wide open, but any blow Velandryn could land would be countered with a stroke that might well cleave him in two. For the moment, he needed distance.
The Dunmer drew his bow, and sprinted with all of his speed to the far end of the cavern, vaulting the crevasse carved by the waterfall and setting up a position from which to fire. He cast night-eye, and used the sudden clarity to rain shafts upon his burning foe. Many of them missed, but enough hit that his foe was soon bleeding as well as burning. As it lumbered forward, it resembled something out of a children's story about the Oblivion Crisis: a flaming corpse riddled with arrows, coming inexorably forward out of Mehrunes Dagon's hell to consume the lands of mortals. It paused at the crevasse, and Velandryn emptied his quiver firing at it. He slid the bow onto his back and pulled deep within himself, harnessing his gift for flame. It was time to make this thing burn.
The flames he had cast at the beginning of the fight had been made in desperation, as he turned to behold a foe bearing down on him. The fires he called forth now were born from pure magicka and focus, designed to do nothing more or less than incinerate his foe from within. Each bolt of fire ate through muscle and ancient armor, and the creature swayed and stumbled, on the verge of collapse. Then, it looked up.
"FUS!"
The shout was not especially loud, but it carried on a wave of air that knocked Velandryn off of his feet. By the time he had gained his breath back and risen to his knees, his foe was nearly upon him, axe swinging once more. Panic rose in Velandryn's throat, and he drew his little steel sword, so inadequate to halt the massive horror descending upon him. As it raised its axe high into the air, Velandryn thrust his blade and rose to his feet, hoping to cause the creature to defend, and give him time to get away. Instead, it took one hand off of the axe and grabbed the sword. Oh. It could do that, I suppose. Standing there, the two of them must have made a fine sight, a walking corpse wreathed in flames; holding a giant axe above its head with one hand, while the other gripped the sword that was his opponent's puny weapon. The monster twisted the blade, and it wrenched out of Velandryn's grip. His enemy looked at the weapon for a long moment, and then threw it to the ground and stepped over it, closing still. Velandryn found himself with a dagger in each hand, and a pain in his cheeks that could only mean his face was contorted in some terrible expression.
Kill me? "I will drag your soul screaming to Oblivion, monster!" He lunged.
The daggers gave him speed, and he was stabbing, hacking and slicing into his enemy as it stood there with axe still raised. It did not seem to feel the pain, but it was literally falling apart as he cut at it. Pieces of charred flesh were dropping off, and he could see exposed muscle twitching within the holes his fire bolts had carved. It still had not moved, and Velandryn only stopped cutting when the axe clattered to the rocks. Looking up at the creature's face, he saw that the light had gone out of its eyes, and when he took a step back, it collapsed into a pile of smoking meat and bones. He retrieved his sword on his way to the chest, too tired to exult in his victory. When he reached his bag, he pulled out the bottle of water and drained it in a single long breath. After that, he decided it was time to see what he had won.
The chest itself was unlocked, and what lay within was, for the most part, disappointingly mundane. He found some gems, coins in a style that Velandryn did not recognize, but which had to be some form of ancient Nord currency, leather armor that had once been finely made but crumbled away as he touched it, and finally a stone tablet that seemed to depict the province of Skyrim in bas-relief. After emptying the chest, Velandryn approached the ruin of his foe, and grabbed the axe from where it lay. It was not a weapon he himself favored, but he was willing to wager it would fetch a fine price from Lucan.
A path led out behind the wall with the strange carvings, depositing him on a ledge bathed in the sun. Can it truly have been so short a time? It seemed like days since he had left Riverwood. He made his slow way down the mountain, using the axe as a walking-staff. He found the White River easily enough; the uncut trees floating down meant that he was upstream of the town. He turned his face northward, and began to walk.
Lucan Valerius was overjoyed to have his claw back, and happily handed Velandryn a purse with twelve sovereigns within. Each of the heavy coins was worth twenty-five of the smaller drakes, though Velandryn realized that they probably called it something different here. Lucan had never seen anything like the odd stone map before, and advised him to sell both it and the Nordic coins in Whiterun, as he could get a much better price for them there. However, he was very interested in the axe, eventually trading it for a book on the alchemical properties of the common plants of Skyrim and a small pile of gold. He also gave some advice for free, letting him know that the monsters in the tomb were called draugr, Nord dead from ages long before recorded history. That they were walking about was likely because the bandits had disturbed their tomb. It was unwise, he said, to delve too deep into Nordic tombs for just that reason. Why they were able to rise at all, he could not say.
Camilla was nowhere to be seen, and Velandryn told Lucan to wish her well on his behalf. He bid the shopkeep farewell and made his way back to the inn, where he showed the innkeep the emblem on his armor as she had requested. He then handed over fifty drakes for a bed, a meal now, one more that evening, a final one in the morning, and the right to murder anyone who disturbed his sleep. Delphine's lips quirked upwards at the last request, but she agreed readily enough. He ate without tasting, stumbled into the room assigned to him, dropped his gear on the floor unceremoniously, and was asleep before his head hit the pillow.
When he woke, he pulled back the curtains to see that the moons were high over the mountains, and the stars burned bright in the sky. That likely meant he was late for supper, though he suspected that, having paid, he could wrangle something out of Delphine or her assistant. Although he was still tired and would happily return to bed after eating, he should go out into the common hall. His throat was dry and his stomach aching from hunger, despite having eaten not long ago. He supposed this was the price one paid for drinking so many potions that wreaked havoc on the body's natural healing and magicka rhythms. With a groan, he moved to the door and pushed it open. Without, Delphine was wiping down the bar while a few last patrons sat at the tables in various states of inebriation. No bard was playing, and the quiet suited his mood just fine.
As he approached the bar to inquire about food, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Camilla standing there, smiling slightly.
"I had heard you returned, and was hoping to see you before you departed. I asked Delphine to prepare a special meal. Won't you join me?"
As she led him to the table she had indicated, Velandryn reflected that she was either very patient or had a good sense of timing. It was far too late for any reasonable person to be taking their evening meal. They sat, and the assistant brought out choice cuts of meats and vegetables roasted to perfection. Camilla dug in with clear enjoyment, and Velandryn was hard-pressed not to shovel it into his mouth. Not only was he was outrageously hungry, but the food itself was exquisite. They ate in silence for a few minutes, and then she began quizzing him about his journey up to the barrow, wanting to know every detail. He told her most of it, leaving out his strange vigil for the thief, as he was still unsure why he had done it in the first place. When he was done, and she had made several appreciative noises for his story, Camilla reached under the table and drew out a folded bundle of cloth.
"Here, this is for you." She handed it to him, and he accepted it, his curiosity piqued.
"My thanks." He unraveled it, prepared to thank her either honestly or out of appreciation for the effort, but when he saw what she had done words failed him. The undershirt was deep blue and felt as though it was made of silk. The tunic was a deep ash-grey, and by the feel also had more than a little silk in the weave. On the chest, in lieu of a sigil, Ghartok Hand-of-Nerevar stood proud in blood red. The pants were fine black linen in a style that he knew to be fashionable in Cyrodiil. A supple leather belt adorned with silver buckle and weapon loops completed the ensemble. With garb like this, he would not need to fear the scorn of the Jarl or his court when he went to Whiterun.
"This is, I mean, you," words failed him. For once, he had no idea how to respond, or what to say.
Camilla smiled. "Oh, did I steal the great speaker's voice away? You who 'brought truth to the innocent'?" Here her voice took on a mockery of his gravelly tones, and her smile widened.
He fell back on his most basic courtesies, still unsure of how to proceed. "It is magnificent, and I am honored to accept it." He realized something. "This morning you did not know this symbol." He tapped the hand. "Did you make this?"
Her smile changed subtly, and Velandryn knew that she was pleased with his response, though he still couldn't figure out what human faces were showing most of the time. "I liked the hand when I saw it this morning, and it fits you well. You seem to be fond of it, and I wanted to make the clothes show that you were special." Her cheeks reddened, and Velandryn looked at her quizzically. As a Dunmer in Skyrim, it only made sense that his clothes should mark his heritage. He wondered if this was merely repayment for his aid, or something else. Whatever it might be, it was thoughtful and he was touched.
"Well, whatever your motivation, I thank you again. This cannot have been cheap, and I want to compensate you for materials used."
"No! This is a gift, for helping my brother out and for…the other thing." Her smile faded. "I talked to both of them today, and they each apologized beautifully. They want a chance to win my heart anew." Her smile returned. "I think I may even give them another chance, provided they live up to the example you set."
He considered giving her a human smile, and decided to risk it. Humans smiled with their whole face, not just the eyes, but he feared that a Dunmer smile would be lost on her. "They may yet prove themselves worthy."
"Well, if you ever find yourself back in Riverwood, you mustn't be a stranger. I've met only a few Dark Elves in my time, and none at all like you. I would very much like to get to know you better." As she took the clothing from him and gathered it back into a bundle, she managed to brush him with her hand no less than three times, and Velandryn would have had to have been blind not to take her meaning. He had heard that the people of Skyrim were forthright in their attentions, and this seemed the proof. It was something he was unused to, although he did not find it at all unwelcome. He had not been in human lands long, but he found her manner refreshing, and she was far from unattractive. Not to mention, thinking back on the day, he had no desire to be alone with his memories tonight.
"Well, then, in payment for my gift" as she opened her mouth in protest he held up a hand "allow me to buy you a drink at the very least."
She smiled, and moved to his bench, sliding in next to him and slipping her arm around his waist. "They make a wonderful spiced apple cider in Falkreath, and I know Delphine keeps a store in the back. That sounds divine right now."
Velandryn raised his hand to get the Nord server's attention. "My friend, a flagon of your spiced cider and two cups!"
Hunger woke Velandryn before the sun. He went to lift himself out of the bed, but Camilla had managed to trap one of his arms beneath her, and entangle his legs in hers. He suspected that it would be impossible to disentangle himself without waking her, but it would be even more discourteous to wake her with the growling of his stomach, so he was left with no choice. As he worked himself free, her eyes snapped open and she grabbed his hand in both of hers. "Leaving so early? Does the Dark Elf abandon his conquests in the morning?"
He kissed her hands and extracted his own. "The Dark Elf is hungry, and will be back shortly. And, conquest? If anyone deserves the credit, the crafty Imperial lass who seduced the Dunmer traveler is the wicked temptress in this tale."
"Hmm, Camilla the Conqueror. I like it." She stretched languorously, and smiled as he stirred in response. "I want one of Delphine's sweetrolls, and a mug of mulled wine. And you, but that I'll have anyways." Her tongue flitted out to moisten her lips, and he leaned it to capture them quickly before pulling away.
"I obey my lady's desires." He finished pulling on his new undershirt and pants and let himself out into the common hall. Delphine was behind the bar, and he approached with a lightness in his step he had not felt in some time.
She looked him over, smirking. "Sleep well?"
"As a matter of fact, I did, thank you. My second night in Riverwood was more…charming than the first."
She snorted. "Cute. Well, your second morning may be worse."
He frowned at her. "Is there a problem?"
"Perhaps. A carriage came in from Falkreath while you were asleep yesterday evening. Their next destination is Whiterun, leaving at first light. I would suggest you are on that carriage when it departs."
His frown deepened. "I had planned on spending the morning here, perhaps leaving at midday. The road to Whiterun is safe enough to travel alone."
"Not for you. The carriage wasn't alone when it arrived. A High Elf came with them, with the kind of accent and clothing that makes folks around here nervous. He was asking about anyone who may have escaped from Helgen. By the sound of it, he wasn't looking to inquire after their well-being."
"And what did you tell him?"
"The truth, or enough of it. By the time he got to me, he knew he was looking for a Dunmer, among others. I told him that you spent a night here, and left before dawn. I also mentioned that you had headed up in the direction of Bleak Falls Barrow. Nothing he wouldn't have already heard, since Camilla couldn't stop talking about it. He left immediately, so it is unlikely he heard that you had returned. It is fortunate you slept so long; few saw you today. However, he may have already discovered you are no longer there. You would be wise not be here when he returns."
"Why did you lie for me?" He appreciated her concealing the fact that he had been asleep not twenty yards from the Thalmor, but no innkeeper he had ever known would jeopardize their own safety for that of their patrons.
"I didn't. I told him the truth. Just not all of it. You're not from here, so I'll say this simply. Some people won't like you because you're a Dark Elf. But you want to make friends? Spit in the Thalmor's face, and you'll have people buying you drinks from here to Windhelm. But you need to be gone. I told the carriage-driver to expect a passenger, but he won't wait forever. Say your goodbyes, and be on your way. Get your message to Whiterun, bring news of the dragons, and then you'll vanish, head back home, and keep your head down for the rest of your days if you're smart."
"I will consider it." And I still wonder what you are keeping from me, innkeeper. Her behavior still made little sense, even if she did not like the Thalmor. She had lied to them, concealed him while he was completely helpless, and was now pushing him out the door to be safe. Do the dragons frighten her so, or does she have some other reason to hate the Thalmor? She was no Nord, but perhaps she had lost family or friends in the Great War. "Thank you again. And if you could prepare a sweetroll and mulled wine for Camilla and something for the road for me, I would be grateful."
"Done. Your remaining balance can cover a breakfast for her, travel rations for you, and leave us square." She laid out a plate with a sweetroll covered in some sort of cream and a steaming mug of what must have been mulled wine. "I know the favorite foods of everyone in town. When I know Camilla will be having breakfast, I am well prepared."
"Truly your calling was as an innkeep. My thanks." He took the food and returned to the room, where Camilla had extricated herself from the sheets and was skimming through The Refugees, that book he had taken from the bandits but still not had a chance to read. She was fully nude, and his admiration at the way her breasts moved as she jumped up was tinged with sadness at the knowledge that he would have to be on his way immediately.
"My my, it seems Dark Elves deliver!" She took the sweetroll and dug in with gusto, while he adjusted the contents of his pack and finished garbing himself. He chose to keep the undershirt on, but covered it with his armor, and strapped his hide leggings over the pants. Over it all went the heavy linen cloak. As he bent to retrieve his boots, Camilla noticed what he was doing.
"Why are you putting on clothes?" She ran a hand down his chest and slipped it into the pants she had given him. "You are supposed to be taking them off." Her hand found him, and he felt himself stiffen. It was all Velandryn could do to not damn the danger and his duty and stay.
He forced himself to remove her hand and pull away. To her wounded look he said "Delphine warned me that a Thalmor agent was in last night looking for anyone from Helgen. He was asking about me in particular."
Her wide eyes met his and her hand drew back in alarm. "That High Elf? I saw him, but I was waiting for you, didn't pay him much mind. But, if he's after you…"
"There is a carriage leaving for Whiterun at dawn. I mean to be on it." He genuinely liked Camilla and had thoroughly enjoyed the previous night, but he had no desire to find out what the Thalmor wanted with him. He slid the bow over his shoulder, and buckled his swordbelt on. "I wish I could stay, but—"
She cut him off by thrusting his bag into his hands. "You need to be gone. I will talk to Delphine and get our story straight, but you have to get to that carriage." She leaned in and kissed him deeply. She tasted of spices and sugar, and it was with sorrow that he pulled away. "When all of this is done, come back and find me. We still have" her expression regained some of its earlier wicked charm "unfinished business."
In the common hall, Delphine had prepared a satchel of food for the road. He accepted it with thanks, gave her a handful of drakes in gratitude, and stepped out into the predawn gloom. The carriage was pulled up in front of the inn, and the Nord sitting on the driver's bench reached out to offer him a hand up. "Lady didn't say you'd be an elf."
"Is that a problem?" If it was, this entire plan could collapse quickly.
"You any good with that bow?"
"Good enough. Why?"
"You sit up here with me and keep an eye open for wolves; they're out in force this time of year. A hundred septims from you gets you to Whiterun, and I give you five back for every wolf you bag me."
"Make it ten and you have a deal." I am certain he is overcharging, but I have no other options.
The big driver grinned. "A High Elf who looks a lot like a Thalmor shows up, and then you need to leave town in a hurry? I think you are going to be on this wagon one way or another. You get five, or you get nothing, or you get to walk."
"Five it is. I thought Nords helped those in need."
"Not elves. You're on the run from Thalmor, so I give you a ride. But I've seen the mess your kind make in Windhelm, so you pay one hundred. You coming?"
He sighed, and handed the driver four sovereigns. "There. One hundred. Now, I want to be gone." He placed his bag in the wagon bed behind him, atop stacks of cut lumber, bundled furs and hides, and crates of ore; he had hoped to be able to read The Refugees, but he had to work, it seemed. Settling in, bow in his lap and quiver to one side, he peered out into the grey before dawn. With a click and a whip of the reins, the horse jolted to a walk, and the carriage rumbled off.
A/N Some action in this chapter, and an attempt to write fight scenes from the perspective of someone who is in way over his head. I'd appreciate feedback on how I did for this in particular, or any aspect that you feel can be improved upon.
To address concerns that Velandryn will be an all-knowing lore dispenser: He was a priest in the New Temple for some time, and the Temple has the benefit of being founded by a trio of living gods, so they have an interest in divinity and its nature. His knowledge is fairly deep but reasonably narrow. He could name all of the Dunmer saints for you and describe the Reclamations ad infinitum, but is pretty sure that Alduin is just what the Nords call Akatosh (When he remembers who that is at all) and that Talos is the end result of having very good P.R. and conquering most of the known world. It's no fun if a main character already knows everything.
Also, what I did with draugr here is typical of how I hope to approach the more interesting enemies in-game. Rather than just being generic baddies with a zombie skin, these are ancient Nords animated by Dragon magic to serve for eternity. You have to kill them good before they stay dead, and while your standard little worker draugr might not have too much going for it, the more powerful ones were the most loyal and fanatical followers of the Dragon Cult, and they will tear you apart.