Tirdas, 15th of Frostfall. 4E201 Past Midnight
Ralof
Winter's come early this year.
To be fair, it's never exactly warm in Hjaalmarch, but even in the Pale, the winds are bitter cold flowing south from the Sea of Ghosts. Early snows in the north aren't uncommon either, but from our camp above Korvanjund, I could see snow falling as far south as Whiterun. Too early, far too early for those plains; another ill omen to add to the list from the past few months.
"Kyne's tits, this cold is terrible."
I raise an eyebrow at my fellow watchwoman. "Just her tits, Vibeke? I doubt Shor will let you into the Hall of Valor with you cursing his wife's form like that."
"Then throw me some more Imperials to bloody," she growls. Vibeke, a fellow Stormcloak, and the unlucky one to draw middle watch with me, is certainly more upset than usual, her blonde hair flying free of the braid it's usually kept in. Her ice-blue eyes are focused more on the ground in front of her than the horizon, stamping her boots feverishly to keep warm. "We're Nords, not bloody Falmer. Don't know what's got Kyne's breath blowing so fierce."
"I'm sure she'll make the reason for her displeasure known soon enough. Eyes on the road for now." Can't say I don't agree with her though. I'd rather be at the campfire as well, but our squad has too precious a cargo to skive off guard duty. And what a cargo it was! We'd all thought Galmar mad after another ghost story, but at the end of the crypt it lay; the Jagged Crown in all its glory, dragon bone gleaming. A treasure worthy of the High King of Skyrim. Of course, we'd had to fight our way through draugr and Legionnaires alike to find it. The draugr we expected, but the Legionnaires in wait were a surprise. Damned Imperial spies are everywhere.
Vibeke mutters another curse beside me, though not at Kyne this time. I wonder idly if the winds are a warning, an omen, or something else, but I can't say I know her whims any more than any other Nord. I do know that it doesn't bother me as much as the woman beside me; no reason for us both to suffer, I think with a quick look at Masser and Secunda's place in the sky. "Shift's almost over. I'll wait for guard change if you want to rack out early."
She scowls, though she can't hide the glimmer of hope in her eyes. "You think Arrald won't strip my hide if he finds me shirking guard duties?"
"So don't let him find you, ice-brain." She laughs at that. "Go on, your teeth are chattering so loudly, I wouldn't even hear a dragon swooping down on us. I'll make an excuse for the next watch. We're a stone's throw away from Windhelm anyway; we'll be fine."
"You're a good man, Ralof. And a great Nord. I hope we draw straws for watch together more often."
"So you can take advantage of my hospitality and good will more often?" I ask with a smirk.
"Of course! In return, you can take advantage of me back in Windhelm."
"…you mean your hospitality and good will, right?"
"That too!" I could've choked were I drinking something, but she merely smiles at me and heads back toward the camp. I do so admire a woman who knows what she wants. Still, the momentary solitude is a welcome change, even if it won't last long. Give me time to put my thoughts in order. And wonder about-
"Septim for your thoughts, soldier?"
"Shor's bones!" Despite almost tripping over my cloak in my haste, I draw a blade on the ominous figure who managed to sneak up on me. "For the love of… declare yourself before I run you through, bastard."
"Of course, my apologies," he says, throwing out a lazy Stormcloak salute. "Scout Ingmarik reporting."
It doesn't entirely alleviate my suspicions; the scout is wearing standard-issue armor, plus a mask that most of the scouts favor, to protect from the elements. His name and accent both feel old Nord - perhaps from one of the isolated villages that don't often see much travel - though he himself doesn't sound like an elder, though neither young. "Am I to take you at your word you're not an Imperial spy?"
"Pfah. I serve no Empire, soldier." He says with a wave of a hand. "We could go wake your commander, but I've no information to warrant disturbing his sleep, and you'd have to explain to him why you were alone on guard duty. Let's just calmly sit and chat until your relief arrives, eh?"
Well, he seems reasonable enough. No Imperial spy would be so casual and calm, I'm sure, so I put away my blade and lean back against my tree. "Sure thing, friend. I suppose you could have gutted me like a fish if you were actually here to cause trouble. As for my ponderings," I shrug, "just seems as though the world's gone mad. Dragons come back, everyone knows that well enough by now, but I fear worse is on the horizon. Or already here, truly."
"Something worse than dragons?" Ingmarik asks bemusedly.
"Aye, worse. Not that anything grand has happened yet. But everyone is focused on the grand things; distracted by the Uprising, Thalmor Inquisitors, dragon attacks. They miss the early winter, the days growing shorter more quickly than they should, salmon not going upstream to spawn; even the Sea of Ghosts seems quiet when usually they would howl and scream."
"Small things," Ingmarik says, "you guess are connected."
I lower my voice, as though to speak my next sentence would draw his gaze. "My ma used to tell me the old stories, not the Alessian tales. Old stories of… Alduin."
"Ah, Alduin. The World-Eater." My face must have shown my surprise that he recognized the name, as he continues, "I grew up with the Old Ways. Tales of the Fox, the Owl, and the Snake. And, of course, the Dragon Alduin, god of time who devours the world at the end of time to make way for the next Kalpa; the next eon. You think him responsible?"
"Call it intuition, but… I'm almost certain of it. What else could explain the return of dragons but he who was lord among them all?"
Ingmarik looks away, toward the Throat of the World looming far over the Uttering Hills to our south. "It does fit, I suppose. I'm reminded of an old song.
And the Scrolls have foretold, of black wings in the cold,
That when brothers wage war come unfurled!
Alduin, Bane of Kings, ancient shadow unbound,
With a hunger to swallow the world!"
His voice is rough, but the tune he sings sets my blood aflame. "Was that… The Song of the Dragonborn? I recognize the lyrics, but I thought the melody was lost long ago."
"I did mention my family kept with the Old Ways. I suppose they kept more alive than I thought. Still, Alduin. The end of the world, then. And no Dragonborn to save us, like the song promises."
"You've not heard the rumours then, scout?" He must have been in the wilds for quite some time. "About a month ago, the Greybeards Shouted, calling a Dragonborn to High Hrothgar. You could have heard in Elsweyr, they were so loud."
"Rumours are unreliable at best," he says with a half-hearted shrug. "I prefer my knowledge gained firsthand."
"Well, will you take secondhand? For I've met the man, as a matter of fact."
"Truly?" Ingmarik's eyes are suddenly upon me, his body language positively… hungry. "Enlighten me."
"Uh…" Have I made a mistake? It occurs to me I don't actually know this scout, and my back is up against a tree. When did my palms get so sweaty? "Well, that's… somewhat classified intel. Might feel better if the commander told you." How had he not heard the Greybeards? Come to think of it, feels like shift change is well past due.
"Come, calm, soldier. We're all brothers-in-arms here, no need to be so tense. Tell me about him."
Why was I so nervous before, he's right, we're both Stormcloaks, and anyone around the camp could tell him. "Well, I suppose there's no harm in telling a fellow Stormcloak. I met him on the chopping block back in Helgen, before any of us knew who he was. Breton bard by the name of Talao, both of us imprisoned by the Imperials. He had a silver tongue even before he learned of the Voice, saved dozens of us escaping that first dragon attack. He was involved in a skirmish a couple weeks back. A different 'Cloak squad running a checkpoint took down a dragon with the help of a traveller that absorbed its essence, its soul. Their description matched Talao."
Ingmarik slowly begins laughing, a deep, sonorous, ominous chuckling that seems to bubble up from his entire being. Why does my head hurt so? "A Prisoner, breaking the binds of his past in the shadow of a Tower, striking forth to become The Hero. It must be him in truth, The Last Dragonborn. Would that make Alduin the Warrior, or the Thief?"
As I try to make sense of the scout's words, an eardrum shattering sound comes out of the night; the scream of a dragon, close by. Suddenly, I feel alert again, the pain in my head abating and the realization that I had been ensnared in a spell crashes into me. "Enemy forces! Dragon!" My shout was probably unnecessary, with the camp already beginning to rouse at the sound of the dragon, but with any luck someone would come for me before this scout could cast another spell.
"Hmph. Unlucky timing, though I doubt you had much left to tell me, soldier. Your assistance is appreciated. Try not to die. Or do. I care not."
"You're not going anywhere, mage!" Before he can move, my sword lashes out… and passes straight through the man as though he were nothing but air.
"Foolish. Be glad my ability is stretched so thin so far from home, or you would be dead already." And then without any movement or warning, the figure vanishes.
"What in Oblivion?!" No time; I have to report. My mad dash back to the camp is quick, and the camp is swarming with soldier's gearing up, Arrald Frozen-Heart at its center. "Commander Frozen-Heart!"
"Ralof! Thank goodness, I thought something had happened." He pauses from his preparation for a moment to address me. "We found your watch replacements unconscious just outside camp. Some kind of spell, we think."
"Yes, magic. Some kind of mage accosted me on watch, illusion magic I think. I… I don't think they were Imperial, they were just asking about the Dragonborn, nothing about 'Cloak movements."
"Odd." Another roar pierces the night sky. "Damn. Your full report will have to wait. There's a dragon attacking Angi's Mill, and we're planning to confront it. Not you, though."
"But commander-!"
"No disputes! We can't ignore the dragon, but we have precious cargo that needs delivering." He pulls the padlocked chest from his tent, and hands it to me; the chest I watched him reverently cover and place the Jagged Crown in. "Your assignment is to deliver this directly to High King Ulfric. You will not stop or rest, you will not engage any enemies. You will not come back for us even if another dragon joins the fray. You will travel directly to Windhelm, and I expect you to get there at least a day ahead of us. Understood?"
"…I won't let you down, commander." I pause only long enough to grab a few rations for my pouch. Vibeke catches my eye, a look on her face as hard as steel, with a promise that we'll see each other in Windhelm. My last thought as I rush down the road is not the dragon, but the those glowing eyes beneath the mask that seemed to stare directly into my soul. If I never see him again, it'll be too soon.
The exact mechanics of magic in the Elder Scrolls series are something I haven't really been able to pin down, not least because it keeps changing between games. There seem to be rules, but those rules also seem to be able to be broken by someone with a strong will. For my purposes, similar to the dragon language, I consider Aetherial Magic to be more of an exercise in exerting ones will upon the world around you, but it requires significant dedication and practice, and cannot change the nature of Mundus as significantly or easily as Tonal Magic, primarily because it is dependent upon and restricted by the caster's internal Magicka. Game mechanics treat "Calm" as a different spell from "Harmony," but realistically the only real difference is how much power is being put into the preconceived notion of "spell that influences subject's mind toward peace."