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Fus Ro Dah!
The dragon hissed as the force of the shout rammed into it and it was forced to stagger backward. Nirim charged forward and launched himself at the dragon, driving his swords into the beast’s snout and using it as leverage to pull himself forward. It wasn’t long before the dragon fell lifeless into the snow. Nirim hopped down and backed away as the dragon’s flesh began to disintegrate, leaving nothing behind but bones and some scales. The soul rushed forward from the corpse and enveloped the elf. He never got used to the feeling. It was like a strong wind charged with energy, but there was more to it. Memories, emotions, thoughts; a soul was a potent thing no matter what it came from.
When it was over, Nirim let out the sigh that had gotten stuck in his lungs and opened his eyes. Shearpoint, like much of Skyrim, was frigidly cold. The wind threatened to freeze any exposed skin and the snow offered to help. Located to the north somewhere between Whiterun and Windhelm, Shearpoint lacked the view many locations located on tall hills and mountains had. Perhaps he just wasn’t high enough. He had followed the path up and hadn’t yet reached the word wall, though he could see it. All he could see were snow-covered trees as he looked down the path. The rest of his surroundings were rock and, of course, snow. But he hadn't traveled that far for the scenery. Arngeir had marked the location as a place with a word in the dragon tongue. Nirim was glad he had one reliable person that could point him in the direction of something. He hardly got letters from mysterious friends anymore, but he also never Shouted in public places after the last incident.
With one last look around the area, Nirim turned to walk up the path. He followed it up the hill and around a turn towards the curved wall that called out to him in an ancient tongue he didn’t understand. He only got a few feet closer before a loud crack echoed from next to the wall. The lid of sarcophagus just in front of the wall flew off the stone box and up rose an undead being cloaked in pale red tattered cloth accented with gold plating. A dragon priest. Of all the things to encounter, it just had to be a dragon priest. The priest let out a chilling screech as it stretched then faced Nirim. There was a pause as the wind whistled between them.
“Who are you?” The elf was unimpressed. He had defeated Morokei, who had admittedly nearly killed him. The priest’s head tilted to the side before he straightened himself.
“I am Krosis!” The priest hissed in a booming voice that demanded obedience and fear with his arms out wide.
“Oh.” Nirim nodded. Krosis seemed pleased by the supposed recognition as he went to move forward from his sarcophagus, but stopped with the elf took one step forward and pointed at him. “Fuck you, Krosis!”
The priest gasped and leaned back with a hand over his chest. Though he had no face to show emotion with, it was clear that the deceased had been offended. He would be even more offended after the elf defeated him and brought his mask back to Labyrinthian.