Morndas 28th of Last Seed 4E201 Early Evening

Uthgerd

"Why, exactly, am I holding the supplies again?"

I'm going to kill him. "Because you're the one who agreed to help that fisher. And because that ice wraith almost bit my ear off when I was fumbling for my sword. And because I'm much larger than you."

"Exactly! You'd be able to carry it much more easily."

I am going to kill him. "Do you want to hold the big sword and fight off the wolves?"

A pause. "I suppose not."

"Then shut it, and let's keep moving." I feel a bit guilty for being so curt with him, but the thin air is getting to my head. Thinking alone is difficult, let alone fighting. Thankfully, the road has been blessedly empty for the most part, only a few wolves roaming about. Any sane creature had already taken shelter; only the wraiths caught me off guard about halfway up the Steps. The cold was bitter, and the winds could gust terribly. And the snows were beginning to pile up. Wonderful. As if the path wasn't difficult enough to find and follow. Gods forbid if we don't make it to the top before the skies darken; the sun's nearly at the horizon.

Suddenly, the winds abate. We've entered some sort of small valley, rocky walls shielding us from the elements. Blessed relief. Neither of us have the strength to spare, even with the break in conditions, so we spend the next few minutes in silence, making our way through the gorge.

"Can we...? We need... to rest... please... Uthgerd."

I almost snap at him; I can see the end of the valley ahead. But when I look at him, propped against a wall, already sliding to the ground, I can't bring myself to berate him. He wasn't built for this kind of journey in a single day. "Five minutes?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Thank Y'ffre."

That name again. He'd sworn by it more than once in my presence, but I'd never asked before. "Who is that?"

"Y'ffre? He is the Storyteller, patron of bards. Or at least, most bards."

I frown, sitting beside Talao. "Never heard that name before."

"Not terribly surprising, as a Nord. He's not present in your creation tales. Nor does he have a parallel like Akatosh has in the Altmer's Auri-El."

"Stories. You bards with your stories and tales."

He nods vigorously. "Yes, tales! Y'ffre spun tales to bring order to the inconstancy of the world the Aedra created. He... but pardon, you didn't accompany me to hear orthodoxy."

He looked so wretched; as though he was used to people shutting him down about his beliefs. "No, no, it's fine. It just seems odd for a god of 'order' to also be the creative type."

"Well... it isn't order of the kind the Daedra Jygallag might desire, imposition of order to the detriment of individuality. Rather, it means he gave things meaning and substance. His works are his 'tales,' and his first tale was creating the forests and life of Valenwood. His second was to create the Bosmer, back when the life of the world was a shifting, ever-changing mass of chaos. Nothing had any stable form, a spirit would be a bird one moment, a walrus the next, then a flower, all things constantly in flux - an Ooze, the Bosmer say. Y'ffre took it all and ensured that what was always would be the same."

"And this makes him 'The Storyteller'?" I found myself more interested by the story. If his god existed, it had certainly blessed Talao with a gift.

"Well, consider: Stories and poems are order as well, whether by meter, or rhyme, or style. Without that order, it would be no different than regular speech. Speech itself for that matter. But more importantly, a story ensure that what happened will always be."

"What do you mean?"

"Hmm... Let's take Helgen. It was destroyed by a dragon, right? Right. But say no one had lived to witness the destruction firsthand, and someone came to trade the next day, and found the town wiped from the map."

He paused, expecting an answer, I suppose. "Well, he would be confused, to say the least."

"Aye. With none to tell what had occurred, he could only speculate. Maybe a group of giants had gone on a rampage. Or vengeful mages with a hatred for the Empire. Perhaps even the wrath of Shor himself razed the town from existence."

"He'd still be wrong."

"Would he?"

He gave me a knowing look. "Ah. I think I see your point. If not for the actual knowledge of what happened, the history could be anything at all."

"A historical Ooze, if I may. It is that 'tale' which informs the truth and order of the events of that day. The trader still remembers all his friends that lived there, and so they still exist in some way. His receipts, a story shared over a mug of ale. Words have such power to shape history, and to influence the hearts of man, mer, and beast. And not always for good. Y'ffre was said to have taught the birds to sing, the waves to lap and crash. He gave names to everything in the newly created world. His song was so beautiful, the very stars in Aetherius danced and swayed in that first night sky, and even to this day do they continue to blink from the memory of that time. That is the power I strive to channel with mine own tales. I would consider my life well-spent if I could embody even the smallest bit of the gift with which he imbued this world."

As though he didn't already. "Perhaps I need to spend more time around you and less with that spoony bard Mikael. He has not half the talent you do."

He smiles, a hint of shyness. "You flatter me."

"No, I don't." He doesn't answer for moment, searching my face for... something. I do hope he took my words sincerely. Then he turns his gaze out of the passage. "What if your tale is different from the one you envisioned, though? If you truly are Dragonborn, then Akatosh himself is influencing the world."

"That's still a large if."

"Don't patronize me, Talao, we both know better," I scoff. "I may not be as well-read or knowing as you, but I know that Dragonborn change the world around them. Things are going to happen. Have happened. And Akatosh looked down at us mortals, saw something important was going to happen soon, and decided that you would be the instrument of his will. Why yo-"

Pain suddenly, blinding pain. I'm flying through the air past Talao and my back is on fire, rolling across stone and snow. Talao yells my name, even as something else yells even louder over him. I can barely think, fumbling for my sword, knowing only that we're under attack, my vision swimming. Through the stars, I can see it. A troll. A godsdamned frost troll. Slow, but powerful, claws larger and sharper than daggers, standing twice my size. And it got the drop on us somehow. Just standing is painful, must have broken some ribs. Shit. No time to think, it's coming right for me.

I dodge a swipe of its claws, only to almost lose my footing. Every movement is agony, as though the claws had raked me anyway. I slice the troll's side quickly, distracting and infuriating it. It thrashes, missing me only by sheer luck. A fireball staggers it, knocking it off balance, and I see Talao holding out his staff, the head steaming from snowflakes touching the still hot wood. Thank Kyne for that old miser Farengar. We might have a chance after all. But then the troll turs to Talao, bellowing at him as a new threat. Its charge is slowed by a few more fireballs, but it is unstoppable, upon Talao in seconds. He raises the staff to defend himself, but the troll breaks it in half with a single blow.

Thankfully, it buys me enough time to reach them both. I deflect another gigantic arm from disemboweling Talao and cut across the troll's head, mangling its sensitive third eye. It screeches terribly, the other two eyes glaring at me with as much hate as the simple beast could possess. I manage to keep it at bay for a few more blows, but I can't damage it faster than it heals; already its eye is regrowing, and there's no sign of the first wound I made except for a tinge of blood on its fur. I'll need to kill it outright, or else -

I try to block another swipe, but too late. Pain, indescribable pain blooms from my right arm and side. But I can't stop now. I let my battle fever blot out the pain and swing to behead the beast. But I only meet empty air. What?

The troll grabs me in its sinewy hands, lifts me over its head, throws me. I almost careen straight off the cliff, as the troll beats its chest in victory. A bit early to celebrate, I think. I can't feel my sword in my hand. Where is it? There, by the troll. But it's in someone else's hand. Wait, no, that is my hand. What?

I look down.

What?

My arm is gone.

What?

No.

I can't think.

I can't

I...

The troll. Focus on the troll. It's stalking toward me. I try to get up, but I put my weight on an arm that isn't there anymore. More pain.

Is this... the end?

I hear more noise. Talao shouting. "Run," I say. But I can barely hear myself.

He's shouting "No! Uthgerd! Damnit, get away! Get away! FUS MUT DO MU!"

I feel something. More pain. Some energy. The troll flies past me. Into open air.

It falls.

...

Then it's quiet but for the winds.

Talao is there suddenly. "Uthgerd. By the Gods, Uthgerd." He frets, tearing off cloth, trying to stop the bleeding. "Gods, there's so much... Uthgerd, what do I do? Mara preserve, please."

"Talao." My vision is fading. I can see tears on his cheeks though. "Don't you... it's alright."

"To Oblivion with that! Here, I have potions, you have to-"

"Stop. You have to... go on. As do I." An old phrase my father told me comes to mind, for some reason. "A true Nord never fears death. It's the how and why of it that matters."

"Uthgerd..."

"Sovngarde awaits me, Talao." The pain is less now. I can't see, and I feel the cold for the first time. "Talao... I believe... in you... Dragonborn."

All is darkness... I...

...

...

...

Hu zran nu, kul do od, wah aan bok lingrah vod.

Aahrk fin tey, boziik fun, do fin gein.