Chapter Text
Morndas, 1st of Hearthfire, 4E 201
Today was supposed to go something like this: Make the long walk to Dawnstar to complete the job plucked off a job board; I did not want to carry an extra 15 pounds any longer than necessary. Once payment had been received, then I was to spend the day getting supplies for the journey to and up the Throat of the World.
That is not what happened.
The day started as it was meant to; Lydia and I got an early start from Falkreath. I foraged for alchemy ingredients that grew along the road to help pass the miles. Flowers, thistles, lavender, cotton, butterflies – all went into a satchel I had designated for this exact purpose. And that’s not to say we walked unthreatened. There were a couple of giant encampments to walk guardedly and carefully by, and some wildlife that was looking for either a meal or exercise on this chilly day. But much of the journey was quiet.
Introduced was I – I was introduced to a new creature today. It wasn’t far after the last giant camp that this strange creature (made of ice, magic, and the hissing rage of a cat) tried to attack us. Lydia told me it was an ice wraith, common in the colder regions of Skyrim. This one must have been stupid. Because it was stuck in a hollowed-out tree stump, and hissing at us like we’d put it there! Like I wrote – it was d-u-m-b.
As we passed into Skyrim’s more northern regions snowberry bushes became much more common. I picked what I though was a good amount for the ingredient pouch and snacked on even more. They’re such a great snack! I can’t help myself when it comes to them; I love snowberries. The look on Lydia’s face when I popped the first few into my mouth did make me laugh. I can only assume that Nord’s don’t eat snowberries like that?
There was a ruin that we did explore – it broke up the growing monotony of the day nicely. It was quite close to a fork in the road (of which we were to take the left one). According to a bandit (before he died of his wounds – also after telling me he’d cut me open faster than an old lady’s purse) this place was called Silverdrift Lair. If they had named it… ambitious.
Also, I want to note that the 2 bandits outside were – there was a word Agincourt used for this level of thick – superlatively stupid. They didn’t seem to be aware of the mess inside. the entrance to this ruin had been converted into a sort of kitchen and was absolutely decorated with dead bodies.
Seriously. There were bodies, body parts, blood and viscera – everywhere. How do you not hear that? Agincourt – an elderly Breton woman I knew back in Cyrodiil – would have whacked them over the head for their laxity.
Found another body further in, but it was impossible to tell if this bandit had been trying to run but got turned around in whatever chaos had gone on here. It was while looking at this corpse that I heard the tell-tale shuffling step. Draugr. These fucking simpletons had moved into this ruin, likely tried to make it in a stronghold because of its proximity to the road, woke up the draugr inside, and were massacred. And judging by the subtle scents of copper and shit lingering on the air, it had all happened fairly recently.
Moving further in, we came to this… random room. The only way in or out (except for the way we’d come) was blocked by spiked gates. Lydia and I set about searching the area for a lever or switch or pull-chain; there was no way there wasn’t one our side of the barrier. It took a few minutes of careful searching of this non-chamber before a switch was found; it had been cleverly concealed on some small pole a few feet from the gates.
Going through that opening once it was clear, we emerged into what had likely been a dining/communal space for Silverdrift’s original inhabitants. I had listened to enough stories from my parents to know what a garrison’ community room looked like; some things translate across cultures well enough, I suppose. Everything not covered in thick layers of dust had been ‘decorated’ (and I use that loosely) with thick splashes of blood. From what I had seen and fought so far, the draugr had been less in number than the bandits, but the bandits had been routed to a man. Stupidity and chaos had probably done more to kill them then the actual draugr had, I’m sure. People are a stupid panic-y animal.
The ruin terminated in a room that had a… ceremonial, important sort of feel to it. There were a few intricately carved sarcophagi above the room’s entrance. If I had to guess the planners wanted to impress the ‘importance’ of the room upon any entrants. But all of this I took in after fighting the final draugr in the ruin. That ornery motherless son of an altmer not only managed to disarm me by yelling at me, but it grabbed me, picked me up and threw me at a familiar looking wall. That knocked the air out of me, let me tell you. While I struggled to get up and get the air back in my lungs, Lydia was busy bringing the bastard to his knees. I took great pleasure in taking up my mace and smashing it into its head over and over, until it was bits of pulp on the stone. But back to that wall –
It was freestanding and richly carved, just like the one from Bleak Falls Barrow. Almost the same carvings, but different scratchings. And I swear that fucking thing was whispering to me, too. I remember asking Lydia if she could hear the whispering. Unfortunately for me, she was absolutely baffled. And probably thought she’d been saddled with a loon. I repeated myself, asked if she really couldn’t hear the wall whispering to us, beckoning us closer. Because I absolutely remember it sounded like that. Lydia reaffirmed her answer in the negative, then asked me if I’d hit my head that hard when the draugr had thrown me.
Well, what she actually said was more akin to “My Thane – did you strike your head when the draugr threw you? Was your skull – actually the wall may very well be speaking to you. You are the Dragonborn, not I.” A valid point, but damn if I didn’t feel more than a bit loop-dee-loo asking. I think I was more insulted in the moment by the inference that the throw had scrambled my brain. Recalling it all now for the writing also makes me remember the existence of those mystical mystery men who had yelled at me from their mountain.
Maybe I should head there way sooner rather than later.
Mind you, I write as if the idea has just occurred to me. But the idea also occurred in the moments after stepping up to the wall, watching a single grouping of the scratchings light up and rush into my being as gold-white tendrils (against my will, mind). It is still a breath-stealing rush, whatever the hell it is that is actually happening, but it’s more manageable than absorbing the soul of a dragon. Less intense, somehow.
Afterwards, it was a… purposeful walk out of Silverdrift. Until equa – equile – equilibrium – that’s the fucking word! We walked (taking a shortcut) until I felt like my body was less likely to vibrate my armor to pieces.
I remember noting how the weather had turned while we’d been indoors: a snowy fog had settled over the mountain pass. Spooky, but… ethereal and soft. I remember Lydia agreeing with my assessment that this change in weather boded ill for our chances at getting to Dawnstar at all today. And right I was.
Our relatively quiet day (Silverdrift Lair notwithstanding) came to an end when we gained Fort Dunstad.
The fort, plus timber walls, plus a small tavern had been built with the road to Dawnstar running through it. And the Imperial garrison here had been long ago overrun by bandits. And these jackasses had been terrorizing farmers and war refugees for so long that tired, famished, and sore as I was (and by the gods I am all of that then and now) that they were soft and useless in a fight. They had not a clue how to handle me or an equally tired Lydia.
But by the time we had killed all the bandits inside and outside (and made damn sure they were all dead) – it was far too late to be on the road. It was dark, freezing, and the snow had begun in earnest.
So, we went back to the private quarters of the fort’s captain. We barricaded the door to the outdoors – after grabbing every blanket that wasn’t filled with holes or too smelly – and the door to his room as well.
Which is how I finish this entry. I am bundled up in my cloak and a blanket, sipping a glass of some deliciously smooth red wine pilfered from the bandits. Lydia and I flipped a coin to see who’d get first sleep; I lost. I could’ve pulled rank… but fuck it. Lydia’s currently asleep and barely visible under the blankets piled high. But I’ll be there soon enough.