Middas 9th of Frostfall 4E201 Late Morning

Arngeir

VEN

Wind

For the Nords of Skyrim, wind is life; the old stories claim we were breathed into being by Kyne upon the slopes of the Throat of the World, and the breath that birthed us forever flows through the province. Wind in our lungs, wind at our backs. Where there is wind, there is movement, and there is life. It controls and directs, but is itself uncontrollable. SU'UM ARKH MORAH. Follow where the wind leads, but carve your own path.

The wind swirls around me as I sit atop the stone tower on the grounds of High Hrothgar. They presage a storm approaching from the north, dark clouds stretching out upon the dominion of Kyne's vista before and below me, lying flat and heavy over the plains of Whiterun. The clouds will eventually creep up the cliffs of the Throat of the World, but my will is adamant. I remain in Kyne's domain, strong in her gift, and I am immovable as the mountain upon which I kneel.

Steps sound behind me from the stairs. Too hurried to be anyone but our Dragonborn. Less of an enigma to us now, but still possessing depths to which we are not yet nor ever may be privy. "I must say, Master Arngeir, I fail to understand why you keep this book in your library." He enters, a copy of Children of the Sky in one hand and a sweetroll, half-eaten, in the other. "It's utterly fantastical to the point of absurdity. I don't know if half these Shouts are possible as described, but this paragraph in the opening about far-wasters not needing homes is hilarious. The mages in Winterhold would be fascinated if it were. It is as though someone heard about the exploits of the Underking in passing and decided all Nords must carry those traits and extrapolated some further nonsense and made an entire book from it!"

I breathe silently as the Dragonborn vents a moment longer, before turning to me with a question and demanding an answer. Rather than give him one, I move over, creating space on the mat, the invitation silent and impossible to ignore. There is another sigh, and the sound of a hastily devoured treat before his presence settles beside me. I wait, patient, for both his mind and body to quieten, before I hand him an unlit torch. "Light it."

He takes the torch without question - by now, inured to our teaching methods - holding it before him. He breathes, in and out, focusing, until it ends with a Shout of "YOL!" The flame he summons is strong. Too strong, in fact, incinerating the torch in an instant but for the section he held. Though likely his hands were scalded as well, if his whispered swear of "Sheor's Bones!" is aught to go by. His consternation amuses me as ever, and to my chuckling he responds, "Glad to be entertaining, even at the smallest venue in Tamriel."

"We Greybeards are not without humour, despite our asceticism." I take another torch and hand it to him, though he waits for me to speak before attempting the exercise once more. "You are progressing well in your study, Dragonborn. Your Voice has become strong, and I believe our techniques have reached their limit for you in that aspect. Likewise, your grasp of the Dovahzul grows beyond our ability to train. Tell me, then, how else do you believe we shall help you?"

He ponders for a moment, then a moment more. Early on, he chafed at our methods - I recall an exceptionally long-winded tirade the day we moved about the courtyard using only Shouts, leading to many sore shins as he struck his injured leg upon the stone many times - until I explained that it was necessary in its own way. The Dragonborn can be shown the path, and he can be aided upon the path, but cannot be led upon the path, for it leads to places other cannot tread.

"This isn't one of those trick questions where the answer is that there is no answer, is it?" Talao finally asks.

"Not at all," I respond with another chuckle, "though the answer may perhaps require a winding path to reach. Let me ask, instead, this. The strength of your Voice is now equal to any of the Greybeards. Do you suppose in a fight with any one of us that you might win?"

"Not in the slightest," he answers immediately.

"And why do you suppose that would be?"

"You have literal decades of experience more than I do."

"Decades that you have innately outstripped by virtue of your birth."

"Yes, but only in the most base and shallow of elements," he argues. "I may have the same strength and knowledge of the Words, but you've many a year of practice in how to use them."

I nod. "The beginning of the answer. But to fully understand, I must fully explain to you one of the questions you asked when first you returned to us a fortnight ago. What it means to Shout as Dragons do." The rains have now begun to fall upon the plains of Whiterun, the occasional bolt of lightning showing through the clouds below us. Even halfway up the Throat of the World, the buildings are small and its people almost invisible. Perhaps it is little wonder the dragons saw mortals as mere annoyances, when to them we were often just as insignificant as ants are to mortals. "A Word in the dragon language has Meaning beyond its mere translation. When you spoke Yol, "the torches flaring at my utterance, "you summoned Fire. Not just fire as sits upon a candle or a torch, but the primal essence of fire. Change given form. Wrath. Destruction. Power. All this and more and less and different is Yol. To understand this, mortals must meditate for months for that single word, to comprehend and hold the multitude of meanings it contains. You, by comparison, innately know what is Yol, what is Fus, what is Lok. It must still be found, as you learned the word fire as a child, but you subconsciously hold that knowledge within your soul, though you did not yet know.

"In practice, this means that Shouting itself is also second nature to you. For a mortal, to know Yol is a struggle alone, but to hold that meaning while fighting for your life is more difficult by several orders of magnitude. That we even possess the ability at all is a gift of Mother Kyne, but it is not natural. To lose that understanding risks the power failing to manifest, or worse, to turn upon oneself. And channeling the power of more than one word at once, to change and enhance the meaning of a word is beyond the capabilities of all but the greatest of Tongues; to infuse Yol with Toor, Inferno, or with Shul, the sun. I have heard of no mortal capable of using more than three words in a single Shout."

Talao speaks now, enraptured before, "Why only three?"

"It is a mystery, but one couched in symbolism. Three is a powerful number when relating to ideas of power. There are three aspects in many divinities. The three aspects of the Time god - Auri-El the beginning, Akatosh the now, Alduin the end - three the beings at the beginning of time - Anu, Padomay, and Sithis - and three the number of greater constellations in the sky - the Mage, the Thief, and the Warrior. Twice three is six, the number of balance, and the Walking Ways, and thrice three is the number of life and the missing god. But these are theories only.

"For you, these limits do not exist. You need not hold the meaning of a Word in your mind to Speak it, and so can Speak entire sentences, complex concepts to rival the dragons, that mortals cannot hope to create. A mortal Tongue may Shout 'YOL' and form flame stronger than the most powerful mage, but you may Shout 'YOL AG HI PAAL,' and summon a fire that burns only your enemies, leaving your allies unburned. This shall be the heart of your strength, but also your greatest weakness."

"This is where you warn me to avoid hubris, lest it be my downfall, yes?" he says with a wry grin.

This smile I do not return. "It is. But I urge you not to take this warning lightly. Being aware of your possible downfall does not ensure you shall escape it; I'm sure you have told and read enough stories to know as much. And hubris is perhaps not the right term, regardless. To be sure, dragons have an excess of pride, but at its heart lies the true affliction - the desire to dominate. No doubt you have felt the urge," I say, as he frowns, "to confront every obstacle, face down any adversary. It is not in a dragon's nature to retreat or surrender unless confronted by one they deem unassailable."

He nods, a look of contemplation upon his face. "Rather than make some trite comment that you would refute, could you perhaps show me what that means and how to overcome it?"

The perfect opportunity looms. "Take this storm before us. A vast force of nature, creeping up the mountain slope. Imagine it as a foe, a dragon of awe-some might, coming for your throat." It is not a difficult feat for the imagination. The clouds swell with water and lightning, dark as midnight, roiling furiously as they ascend the mountain. "I could face it head-on, attempt to subdue it, and risk failing or dying. Or…" I breathe, filling myself with the essence of KOOR. Summer. Of clear skies and sunny days, full of life and heat. And then I restrain it, focus it, narrow as a needle, and whisper, "Koor." The power extends forth from me, cleaving a wedge through the clouds before me, and the promised deluge parts around the monastery, and only the monastery, leaving us dry in its wake, while the rest of the storm rages.

"Incredible," whispers the Dragonborn.

Warmed by his praise, I continue, "In your journey, you are certain to confront enemies that far outstrip you in power, dragons who have glut themselves on the souls of their brethren, warriors and mages of exceptional strength, and more besides. And if you give in to the domination that flows in your blood, you will one day burn the candle of your life to nothing, and be destroyed.

"So we will teach you the lessons of the ancient Nords and of Jurgen Windcaller. To learn how to appear weak to a great foe, to find their weakness, and to strike at the right time. To reserve your strength and outlast one who would overpower you in open battle. How to suppress the part of yourself that roars to destroy any who would stand in your path. Even more important will this be once you have truly come into your power, lest others bait you into the same position you once used to defeat those who came before you."

"Control and creativity. I'm sure I have plenty of the latter." The Dragonborn's eyes alight with wonder and no small amount of mischief. "I wonder what the limit is there! How much can one alter the form of a Shout? Could one combine the essences opposing concepts, say, Fire and Ice? Is it possible to create new words?"

It is good that we expected this question in advance; it would figure one of his first questions would be the most dangerous. "I have no knowledge of any Words created by mortals. The very nature of dovahzul suggests that it exists as a complete language, created alongside the dragons. And dragons, while not unchanging, do not experience the passage of time as mortals do, and are unlikely to break their bounds. Likewise, mortals have so little time to study the language, it is unlikely for them to invent a concept not already encompassed within the language, or one that could be ascertained by the fusion of other Words. Perhaps you shall glean new insights in the future, Dragonborn, and I believe if anyone shall unlock the true potential of the dovahzul, it will be you. But for now…"

I gesture to the torch in his hands. "Again. More gently, if possible."

YOL
Fire

LOK
Sky

FUS
Force

YOL AG HI PAAL
Fire burn my enemy

I think I've spent more time reading Vivec's sermons and analyses of them these past couple months than literally anything else. I don't think the Greybeards give any credence to the Lessons, but Numerology is a popular pastime in any world, so I don't think it unreasonable that they would see some of the same patterns.

Also, it came as a surprise to me that Dovahzul is not a proper ConLang, but more of a mishmash of cool sounding "words" the devs threw together with *some* idea of grammar, but not much. I am also not a linguist, however, and constructing a proper ConLang is beyond my ability, so I plan to stick to a simple rule; all Words are single syllable sounds for simple concepts, and longer "Words" are just amalgamations of smaller words (See: Wuldsetiid - lit. Whirlwind of Time). There are some Words that break this rule in canon, but my world, my rules, and I'll do my best to follow them.