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Love to read about Albee going toe to toe with Hircine himself! It's also a pity that the brothers souls cannot be fought for at the same time as Kodlak's. Having the Harbingers and Skor join in , rather than be passive spectators.
There is a statement Kodlak makes that it would be great to raid Hircines hunting grounds for the souls of The harbingers! Each time in play when getting to Sovngarde it seems a disappointment that you cannot use the aid from the heros of Shor to invade the Hunting grounds for lost souls.
Yeah, this irked me, but considering how exhausted Albee must be at this point in the narrative (awake since the 16th), I think he's done for a few days. I may combine the twins though, as I don't think Hircine really cares much about them. He wants one soul out of all this. Albee's.
We also have to consider that damaged hand of his. Our four Shield-Siblings are not done with Winterhold yet.
I don't use a College of Winterhold mod, but I love looking at them, so my description of the college isn't going to quite match up to gameplay. I will make it more like I imagine it. Even Albee's reason to join the college and his capacity within it will change, and he won't be the only one who joins up.
Alright time to do Steam Summer Sale stuff, so if you all see me playing random games, lol, Imma just getting my cards.
After he raged for a few more moments, Hircine calmed himself and turned to the Hokziiah, nodding as he stroked the head of one of his children. It rumbled and leaned its head against Hircine’s hand, enjoying his Master’s affection, and he smiled as he rubbed the werewolf’s ears.
“Considering what becoming a Beast has turned him into, I am impressed. Fair enough, Hokziiah, I will concede the Old Man. It matters not, the bigger prize is yet to come.” Both knew what the Daedric Prince meant.
“Ahrk faal kon?” The Hokziiah asked, his face betraying the slightest bit of concern. Her actions had been unexpected. Skjor listened closely as the pair spoke. “Kon” he knew that word. Sitting his arse down at the other table, sipping mead, pretending not to listen, while Snow Bear taught Vilkas had rubbed off on him. He learned a few words. “Kon” meant “girl”. Aela, he was referring to Aela! Hircine scowled and suddenly grabbed the ear of the werewolf he was stroking so affectionately before, making the beast whimper in pain.
“She betrayed me and…” Hircine said as he viciously tore the ear off the werewolf with his bare hand, making the Beast scream in agony and the Hokziiah turn away in disgust, but he could not intervene.
“She will be punished.” The werewolf cried out and bolted away and Hircine watched it run for a moment, watched as it left a trail of blood. He then took his great spear and threw it at the werewolf, bringing it death. He gestured to another of his children to fetch his spear.
“For my word here, Hokziiah, is law.”
“Rek nis alun orofaal hin dun?”
(She cannot ever regain your grace?)
“And what concern would a Hokziiah have for a Beast?” Hircine laughed. Skjor then watched as the Hokziiah pointed to the rift. Skjor watched it for a moment. Snow Bear had just killed the Spirit Beast and its red form was fading as Aela was coming away from her Beast Form.
“Rok ulaak. Krosis fund kos grotiin voknau ok sil waan rek aus.”
(He cares. Sorrow would be heavy upon his soul if she suffered.)
Skjor also knew “Krosis.” Sorrow. Snow Bear would feel sorrow for her. He knew that about his brother, he would. The Old Huntsman laughed.
“Sorrow would be heavy upon his soul? Ah, a sad dragon would make poor sport for the Hunt. I want him happy and willing when he finally arrives in my realm.”
“Los hi ful reistig rok fen oblaan vok ko Nir Golt? Hi lorot tol los Auri-Elro dez fah mok? Fah zey?”
(Are you so certain he will end up in the Hunting Grounds? You think that is Auri-El’s fate for him? For me?)
The Huntsman let out a terrible laugh and his creatures followed suit and Skjor watched the Hokziiah for a moment. It was Snow Bear in all appearances, but at the same time, it wasn’t. As if, despite its incredible power, it was also missing a key component for its existence, desperately needing the other half as well.
“Look at him, Hokziiah.” Both their eyes wandered to the rift again. “I have maimed him. He is bleeding from the inside. He is dying. He will never endure.” The Hokziiah sheathed his weapon and faced the Huntsman.
“Hi vis kren ok kopraan, Drogsenir, nuz hi nis kren ok sahvot.”
(You can break his body, Hircine, but you cannot break his faith.)
“We shall see,” Hircine said calmly as the werewolf returned his spear. Hircine took it and adjusted his grip on the weapon. He thought what life would be like if he were unable to wield his spear. Aye, that was the "gift" Kodlak's Beast Spirit gave the wretched creature beyond the rift with its bite. To no longer wield what he loved most and Hircine smiled. 'Twould break anyone.
“He will beg for my Realm when I am finished with him.” The Hokziiah frowned and his tone grew haughty.
”Rok fen neh bolog.”
(He will never beg.)
“See, this is why I like the great Elves. Far more arrogant than Nords. Bringing them to their knees is truly grand sport. Shame most are mages.” Hircine then placed his spear upon the ground and leaned upon it. “But when you get a warrior among them… ah, the most glorious thing in all of Dawn’s Beauty is a fierce warrior Elf.” The Old Huntsman gazed admiringly upon the Hokziiah.
“You are indeed stunning, Hokziiah. You will be as a god here. Second only to me in glory.”
”Aark faal kon?” The Hokziiah repeated, ignoring Hircine’s flattery. Hircine laughed. So driven. He was excited to have this one join him.
“The girl?” Hircine repeated. He bent his antlered head in thought and Skjor waited for his judgement, his heart at his throat. The Daedric Prince then nodded, his decision made.
“She must show her true devotion to me. My totems! Ancient artifacts that channel the power of the Beast. She must find my totems and place them in my shrine.” The Huntsman laughed again. “My ancient shrine underneath your Master’s forge. Fitting, eh? That your Eagle guards my Wolf. And it shall be so as she searches, for he must come with her. The Eagle and the Wolf. Two Moon Born. Hunting together for my Totems. Let Auri-El digest that.”
”Hi dreh daar wah saraan shun. Gein do hin mindol. Hi los munax, Drogsenir. Rok dreh ni zein hi. Rok los Ok Okriim.”
(You do this to delay his cleansing. One of your tricks. You are cruel, Hircine. He does not worship you. He is His Eagle.)
“But he loves her.” Hircine replied with a dark smile, pointing to the rift. “He will do this for her. Or... she will be damned when she arrives. Torn to pieces. My children will do whatever I command.”
And kill himself in the process, thought the Daedric Prince. The great soul will then belong to him. He had to admit, this Hokziiah and the creature in the other plane were proving their mettle against him. The resistance to the transformation. The open destruction of his great shrine. The slaughter of his daughters. The direct challenges to him when he came inside the boy were impressive to behold. Such power. Only a dovah could be that arrogant to openly challenge a Daedric Prince. A warrior Elf with the soul of a Dovah, what had Mundus gotten itself into! The pride of the Elves and the pride of the dovah, all rolled into one exceptional creature.
”Hi faazrot faal nonvulaan do ok lokaal fah daar nau mok.”
(You insult the nobility of his love by forcing this on him.)
“It is not my problem that he is governed by such things. Mercy and Love. The true hunter has no place in his heart for these matters. He goes with her, or she will suffer in my Realm and her suffering will be on his conscience. Those are my terms for her redemption, Hokziiah.”
It was the Hokziiah’s turn to laugh at the Huntsman; a bitter, sad laugh. He knew this Daedric Prince well enough.
"Ahrk hi fen zin hin uniid?"
(And you will honor your terms?)
“Oh, come, Hokziiah. Where is that undying faith of yours now? Let's not disappoint Auri-El, eh?” The Huntsman laughed sarcastically. “Go, get that Old Man out of here. His soul is no longer mine to control. Let him enjoy his mead at Shor’s Realm.” He began to turn away, beckoning to his children to follow.
“I do not understand such sloth.” He muttered to himself as he walked the tall grasses towards the distant moonlit horizon, leaving the Harbinger’s refuge. “To sit and be drunk all day is no life. Nords are a silly people.”
Skjor watched the Huntsman disappear and he wanted to call out to Snow Bear, but he could only watch as the Hokziiah was bathed in a golden light and he too disappeared. To return when another witch's head was thrown into the Harbinger's flame. Skjor’s eyes found the rift again and he began to walk towards it. The Harbingers were hugging and patting Kodlak on the back, saying their goodbyes. He needed to say goodbye as well, and deliver a message. There was hope for her. The totems! He had the book, in his quarters at Jorrvaskr. He had brought up the subject with the Old Man sometime last summer, before the Old Man grew obsessed with the cure.
“Kodlak!” Skjor called as he made his way through the crowd of celebrating Harbingers. The Old Man turned to him and smiled, the look on his face was one of such contentment and Skjor could not help the lump that formed in his throat. He didn’t know about Hircine’s plans for Snow Bear.
”Bormah” She cried as she began to fall.
And upon hearing that word, Kodlak Whitemane knew that he had made the right decision.
Father…
She had called him father. The wild one of the Companions, the one who could not be tied down, the one who defied Kodlak on so many occasions, a Nord called an Elf father. It was figurative, of course, but her use of the word carried more meaning than some who were addressing their own flesh.
Äelberon immediately unclasped his cloak with his bleeding hand, dropping his weapon with a hoarse cry to catch her as she collapsed naked against him, spent from her transformation.
”Dii mal gein, mon do dii zii…” he echoed softly, acknowledging her as the daughter of his spirit. His little one…
They were both drenched in sweat and bleeding from their wounds, sore and exhausted, but he took the effort to cover her in his bearskin cloak, wrapping her up in its warmth to protect her from the chill of the tomb. They then clung to each other, as they clung to each other after Gallow’s Rock, only the tears they shed now were not tears of despair, but tears of triumph. They had succeeded against all odds, and their Shield-Brother would now know Sovngarde and in knowing that he would go, there was now hope for Vilkas and Farkas. Aela buried her face against his great chest and let out a ragged sigh as she heard that solid heartbeat, taking comfort in its steadiness. There would also be hope for him, the one who needed it the most, for in addition to hearing the great heart, she also heard the rattling and wheezing of his lungs as he breathed. She felt him kiss the top of her head and she closed her eyes.
“Aela…” He whispered. She sniffed and tilted her tear-streaked face up to find his eyes, crying out when she saw the haggard face that met hers, drained of its color. He looked like he would die. What will power was holding him up, she wondered, her pale eyes wide. He met her gaze and his left hand stroked her head with such tenderness as hers found his scarred cheek. Only the eyes did not show weakness, despite being surrounded by dark shadows. No, the eyes that met hers were still strong, defiant. He knew victory today.
“He is still here.” He said, his eyes moving away from her, now catching the blue light of the Harbinger’s flame, its blue casting his red-orange eyes in an eerie light. Aela let her hand slowly drop from his face and turned to face the flame; his left hand now settling on her fur-covered shoulder.
“We should…” She started, leaning against him. Gods, they would both be garbage for the next few days.
“Aye.” Was his response and they slowly made their way to Kodlak Whitemane’s spirit, their muscles stiffening as they walked. She smelled the blood on him as he held his maimed hand to his chest and she could tell by his terrible pallor that he had lost a great deal of the vital life substance. She didn’t even want to look upon the hand. His draw hand. It was destroyed and she knew the dire consequences if he didn’t find a Master Healer in time. But he made no move to drink a potion and she understood. Vilkas and Farkas would have broken the moment, forcing him to drink and risk the Old Man disappearing for all their fuss, but she understood and was silent. There would be no potions now, no healing. Only Kodlak and his final words to them before he left for Sovngarde. Ronnie would have been present for this moment if his very head had been severed from his body. Just like Pelinal Whitestrake talking to Morihaus as he lay dying. Literally a talking head, his body having been severed into eight pieces by demon Elven kings. He had told that story so beautifully in the roaring flame of the mead hall, his voice low…
As they stopped and faced the Old Man, Aela prayed that Auri-El would show him mercy and not destroy his hand. That his Elven god would heal him.
“After all these years…” Kodlak began, “So slain is the Beast inside me.”
Kodlak looked at them, his mind felt such peace, but his heart also keenly felt the sorrow. He had already said his goodbyes to Skjor, bittersweet and not without their own shed tears. Vilkas and Farkas would find him again in Sovngarde, of that, Kodlak was certain, for he knew they would be cleansed. But the two that now stood before him. No, they would never see him again, for one was destined to reunite with her love in the Hunting Grounds. And the other…
He would be alone. If he lived.
He would never know Sovngarde and he would endure. Longer than any of them, to walk Mundus, perhaps for eras, mourning the loss of each passing Shield-Sibling. Ah, the curse of being an Elf. Now Kodlak understood it. And when he finally did die, where would he go?
“Speak to him.” Said Henantier softly, putting a hand on Kodlak’s shoulder.
“If I do,” Kodlak whispered, his voice thick with sadness, “It will be over and I will go.”
“Ah, such is the bitterness of farewell, Kodlak.” The ancient Elf responded, his head bent in thought. Kodlak Whitemane took a deep breath, closing his eyes. It was time. He let it out and opened his eyes again, facing his two Shield-Siblings. He was surprised when the ancient Elf spoke again.
"Tell him first that I am proud. Will you do this for me?" Kodlak grinned at the ancient Elf's words.
"Henantier is proud of you." Äelberon nodded slowly at Kodlak and Henatier smiled.
"I am honored by my ancestor." Henantier patted Kodlak on the shoulder and moved towards the steps to stand with Cirroc.
“As am I, of both you, and... I thank you,” Kodlak began, biting his lip to suppress the emotion. “I thank you for this gift.” He watched Aela and Snow Bear for a moment.
“I know the sacrifice it took for me to have it, and I am… I am sorry I brought this upon you,” He faced Snow Bear and then his eyes found Aela, “upon both of you.”
“Aela?” Kodlak asked. She felt Ronnie's hand instinctively squeeze her shoulder gently.
“Yes, Harbinger.”
“Ah, Harbinger. That old title, eh? Going all formal now, are we, my Shield-Sister. No Old Man, but Harbinger.” He said with that old twinkle in his eye.
“He’s now behind you, not before you.” It was indeed his intention then, thought Äelberon as he closed his eyes. He did not want this.
“Huh?” Aela questioned.
“You will now heed him. He will lead the Companions to further glory.”
“I will do no such thing!” Äelberon scowled and Aela looked at the two grey littermates. Even when one was in spirit form, they still squabbled.
“Lead?” The Elf continued, “Lead? By the Gods, Old Man, have you learned nothing from all this? Dense, bloody dense!”
“What do you mean, DENSE?” Bellowed Kodlak, crossing his arms over his chest, a frown forming on his lips. Cirroc exchanged a knowing glance at Henantier.
“The Harbinger does not lead, Kodlak. That is the mistake that has been made. Do you not see? A mistake made by you and others and it is because of this misunderstanding that we are now in this very mess.” He felt the keen throbbing in his right hand. It is the reason why I will never wield a bow again, you bastard, thought Äelberon with anguish as he stared at his old grey litter mate. You get an afterlife in a mead hall and I… I get… Forgive me, Auri-El, forgive me for my weakness, he prayed silently, putting away his dark, sad thoughts. He did not regret his actions. He could not regret them. It was the pain talking now. He cleared his throat and continued.
“By leading, you have denied your Shield-Siblings the choice to make their own path. The Harbinger is an advisor to the group and a mediator to resolve internal disputes. But not…” He emphasized, shaking his head, “Not their leader. Only Ysgramor has ever been thus. No, I will not lead the Companions. Every man is his own and every woman…” He gave Aela’s shoulder another squeeze. “Every woman is her own. Choice. ”
Kodlak at first wanted to smack him and he gave the Elf a hard look, but then he thought on Snow Bear’s words and sighed when he again caught the Elf’s glance. Damn, he had that look again. The “I am right and you know it” look that sometimes made Kodlak want to pull his hair out. Kodlak growled and Snow Bear coughed and then chuckled, but there was sorrow behind their actions.
“I name you then as Harbinger. There, is that acceptable?” Kodlak asked. “Would you perform this function for our dysfunctional family, old Snow Bear?”
“Yes, I will serve as Harbinger. If that is your wish.” Serve, thought Kodlak, he said serve. Kodlak’s old eyes found Aela. She looked so tired; pale with dark circles under her eyes.
“In my nightstand, child, there is a journal. In it, with the loss of Skjor, I indeed name our grumpy, old Snow Bear, so that there is no dispute. So that none doubt my intentions and the old ways are followed. Do you understand?”
“Yes. His great strength and honor,” Her voice broke slightly as she leaned back against him, remembering Skjor, “are apparent to all. He has earned the right.” She felt him let out a weary sigh. No, he did not want this. None of them did. She then heard a drop of his blood hit the tomb floor.
“And Aela?” Continued Kodlak, “Skjor… uh, he left you a message.” He watched her furrow her brow and her eyes begin to well with tears. Snow Beat stood behind her, his left hand still upon her shoulder.
“Message?” She managed, a single tear rolling down her cheek. Kodlak sighed. He had been wrong on that too. In that, she was nothing like Lilija.
“Besides that he loves you?” He watched as she bent her head and Snow Bear kissed the top of her head in a show of support. “He was so brave. He led me to the refuge, fighting many beasts to take me to safety. He was great among us…” Damn, even Snow Bear’s eyes were now welling and his deathly pale face was long. Kodlak cleared his throat and straightened his back, his voice gaining strength. He wanted their final image of him to be strong, not that of a wailing old woman, but those two were not making this easy.
“Skjor said to live, child, not to languish. That he will live for the day when the two of you can roam the Hunting Grounds together. That redemption is possible. Read the book, and do not be afraid… to let the Eagle guide you.” That had gotten Snow Bear’s attention. Aye, he knew what Aela had done. The wrath she had incurred in Hircine. The Old Man then sighed and looked up.
“My time, my time grows short and I cannot stay. Sovngarde beckons me and I can smell the mead and hear the songs. I wish, Snow Bear. I don’t know what I wish. To live? Aye, probably. To have more time with you. To enjoy life as we should have and to never have been burdened by this. You know, I have both cursed and blessed the day you walked into Jorrvaskr?”
“Me too.” Äelberon said softly.
“Ah, and here I go to Sovngarde, while my Shield-Siblings remain here, trapped by Hircine. I feel guilty. Guilty because I leave them behind, my passage bought through the terrible suffering of another. Ah, Snow Bear, I am so deeply sorry. Know that I am sorry.”
“For what, Old Man? It was His will. My prayers for your cleansing answered. You have nothing to be sorry for.” Snow Bear said the words and meant them, but Kodlak could tell that there was some bitterness behind them. Snow Bear still languished in that wretched form. And there was still Vilkas and Farkas. He could not take his cure until they had theirs. And then, there was now Aela. Skjor had told him of the Totems. Only beasts could search for him. What was Auri-El testing him for?
“Who knows?” Shrugged Kodlak. “Perhaps from Sovngarde, the heroes of old can join me in their rescue. The Harrowing of the Hunting Grounds. It would be a battle of such triumph. And perhaps someday, you'll join us in that battle.”
“You know I am not allowed in Sovngarde, Old Man.” Those words had taken Kodlak aback. “What? You think I will fight from the Hunting Grounds? Is that what you think? That I will die?”
“No…” Kodlak said, as he felt his form beginning to fade, “There is still so much to say… Snow Bear?”
“Yes?”
“Forgive me.”
“Damn it, Old Man. I told you there is nothing to forgive!” He snapped, growing more agitated. Damn him! Kodlak was sensing his sadness. He hated this mixture of emotions.
“No, Snow Bear you are wrong. I know I have hurt you. I know what you have done for me.” He watched the Altmer as he stood behind Aela. His eyes were so very far away then. He would never forget those great eyes.
“So I will ask again, forgive me, and let there be true peace between us.” It was the Old Man’s next words that brought Äelberon back.
“He will never fail you. Never forget that, Shield-Brother. No matter how dark it becomes.” The great eyes again met Kodlak’s.
Kodlak Whitemane felt Henantier's hand on his shoulder.
"It is time, Shield-Brother." The ancient Harbinger spoke as he gestured upwards. Kodlak nodded and he felt himself fade, but not before he heard Snow Bear's last words to him, spoken truly from his great heart.
"I forgive you."
***
“What? Winterhold, why Winterhold?” He stammered. Where had she come from? Had he been asleep? She turned quickly to Farkas who was quickly rising from his seat at the base of Ysgramor’s statue.
“Take Wuuthrad.” She barked. Farkas wrinkled his brow in confusion. What the Oblivion was she doing in Ronnie’s cloak? Barefoot? Damn! Did she change?!
“We’ll need one of you to take the Shield too. It was a gift from the tomb. For him. From Ysgramor himself. His very shield.” She frowned as she pulled Vilkas up. “Well hurry! He can’t carry it!”
“Who can’t carry it?” Vilkas asked.
“The Harbinger.” She replied and she paused for a moment. Aye, the Harbinger. The twins looked at each other, as Farkas grabbed Wuuthrad from the statue’s hands, while Aela grabbed a waterskin from Farkas’ pack. He would need water.
“Kodlak?” Shouted Farkas. That got him a quick cuff on the head from his brother.
“Don’t be stupid. Not Kodlak.”
“Aela, where’s Ronnie?” Vilkas asked, taking hold of her shoulder and turning her to face him, exposing part of her shoulder. She looked right in his eyes.
“Follow me.” She said. He continued to hold her shoulder, not letting her move just yet, and asked the other question.
“Did you?” His voice was a hard whisper. She looked up at him, jutting her chin out in defiance.
“I did what you two could not do. I helped him. Now leave me alone.” She replied, shrugging away from his grasp. They watched as she quickly traveled down a tunnel to their right. They exchanged another puzzled glance. That was not there before. Instinct made them draw their weapons.
***
“Put your weapons away.” Came his voice as they made their way down a wooden spiral ramp. “This is a holy place…”
Aela rushed ahead of the twins as they sheathed their weapons, bearing the waterskin, her bare feet silent upon the stone. They followed her with their eyes and found him sitting at the steps leading to Ysgramor’s tomb, just beyond the Harbinger’s flame, which cast the entire tomb in a strange blue light. At his feet was his silver katana. Next to him rested a great shield of the finest ebony, large and round, with the same patterns as Ysgramor’s statue and Wuuthrad. Gods, thought Vilkas, his very shield. Farkas could immediately smell the blood. His blood. He was awake as he sat, though both twins could see that he was extremely pale. She immediately knelt before her Shield-Brother and brought the waterskin to his lips, her cloak slipping as she did.
“Here, Farkas had some left.” She said softly as she brushed his hair from his face. “Drink it, but—“
“I know, slowly.” He smirked. It was her turn to kiss the top of his head as he drank. Would be one of the few times she’d ever reach it. She looked down and saw his right hand. It was now crudely wrapped in linen and tightened with leather strips. With a frown, Farkas picked up his Shield-Brother’s bloodied gauntlet. There were pieces missing and he could see the deep puncture wounds where sharp teeth had ripped through the metal and leather. He didn’t want to know what those teeth did to flesh.
“We are not going anywhere, little one, until you get dressed.” Aela nodded and began to search through the tomb for her armor as Äelberon slowly sipped the waterskin. Vilkas rushed to him and knelt by his side.
“Kodlak?” Vilkas asked, his eyes searching.
“Cleansed.” Came the faint but firm response between sips. Vilkas looked down and saw Äelberon’s wrapped hand, the blood seeping through the bandage.
“Can you ride?” The Elf slowly met Vilkas’ worried gaze.
“I think so, though Farkas will need to take the reins.” Vilkas groaned and looked away from Äelberon, putting his hand to his mouth. He looked back at the Elf, the worry becoming anguish.
“Damn it! Damn Hircine! He did this! I curse myself for not having control! Brother, I’m so sorry.” He put his hand on Äelberon’s shoulder and leaned in closer.
“Did she—“And Vilkas immediately regretted asking. Aela looked up from fastening her armor when she saw Äelberon stand, glowering at Vilkas.
“She was never under his influence.” Äelberon growled at the young Nord who still knelt at the steps. “She remained true and gave up more than you will ever know for Kodlak’s soul to find peace and… she saved my life.” He teetered slightly when he finished and Aela was immediately at his side to steady him, her boots in her hand. Even as weak as he was, he could still growl like an old bear.
“Harbinger, please.” She said softly. “The anger will not help the blood loss. They didn’t know. It’s alright.” Both twins looked up at the Huntress’ words, their eyes wide.
“Wait…” Started Farkas. “You mean to tell me, that Ronnie’s the new Harbinger? Kodlak named him?”
“Aye,” Aela replied as she put on her boot with a grunt. “He named him here, with the ancient Harbingers, the trapped Harbingers in Hircine’s realm, Skjor, and I as witnesses. In this very tomb.” She laughed.
“♥♥♥♥. I think even Hircine knows.” She grinned, satisfied that she had managed to make him laugh as she slipped on her gauntlets. He needed it. She didn’t want to know how he’d react to his hand. It was destroyed. He would be lucky if he could keep it.
“Skjor?” Whispered Vilkas, his face questioning. “How?”
Aela looked at Ronnie and then at the twins and then back at Ronnie. She wanted to explain, but there was no time, and he was too tired to explain. She quickly dragged on her second boot.
“We need to get to Winterhold. To the College, right, Harbinger?”
“Aye, the College.” Äelberon replied wearily, now leaning heavily against the wooden spiral ramp, his right hand held to his chest. “There is usually a Restoration mage serving as faculty. Not the most exciting position, but it has its uses.” Aela retrieved her weapons and slung her Orcish bow upon her back. She faced the twins. Damn, she wished she had Ronnie’s gift with words.
“Vilkas, take the shield. I know it’s a lot to throw at you at once, but please, I’ll explain best as I can once we’re there, but he’ll bleed to death if we stay.” No, she thought. Damned if he was going to die now. Not after all he had done. She was going to make it her personal mission that he lived to be cleansed and beyond. That he would again be the great Knight-Paladin of Auri-El. That he would wield his bow again. He deserved that much.
Faralda was pleased that she had found Urag and that Urag then found Aren before Ancano found the Arch-mage, as she observed the trio discussing their guests. She had just arrived to her post in the morning when they arrived, out of breath and nearly out of time. The Companions and Äelberon of Dusk. The Dragonborn. The two large Nords, twins more than likely, were supporting a still-standing but barely conscious Äelberon between them, while the young red-head practically ran up the steps to Faralda.
“Please,” The red-haired warrior began, her eyes fierce with worry and Faralda could only imagine the pride the young warrior was throwing out the window to beg aid from an Altmer. He was loved by them a great deal.
“He’s our Harbinger.” But the Altmer was already going to let them through and take them to see Colette the moment they arrived. She didn’t need to say anything. Aela, that was her name. He had saved Faralda’s people from a fate worse than death. He had just saved Winterhold from a dragon. She would return the favor. She also enjoyed watching Ancano fume, his face contorted in a frown of utter disdain as he exchanged heated words with Arch-mage Aren and Urag Gro-Shub, the formidable librarian of the College of Winterhold, just before the entrance to the Arch-mage’s quarters. She could tell from the flush to the Justiciar’s cheeks that he was fighting the effects of a severe hangover as he fought to maintain his composure.
“And I’m telling you, you pompous windbag.” Growled Urag, not pretending to hide his sharp lower fangs from the Thalmor Justiciar as he thumped his green finger upon the Altmer’s thin chest. “As long as he’s not worshiping Talos, you’ve no authority here.” He then turned to Arch-mage Aren. “Rest assured, Arch-Mage. I’ve known him for many years. He does not.” Urag narrowed his eyes at Ancano. “He does not worship Talos.” Ancano crossed his arms over his chest.
“Nevertheless, he is traveling with Nords, and naturally, Arch-Mage, enforcement of the White-Gold Concordat is part of my duties to the Aldmeri Dominion.” He smiled and nodded, taking pleasure in making the Orc frown. “I am only making sure that the terms of the treaty are being met.”
“He’s a Priest of Auri-El.” Grumbled Urag. Ancano turned to the Orc.
“Who also happens to be a lycanthrope. Along with the rest of his little band. Let’s not forget that.” It was Faralda’s turn to fume, she knew the bastard was going to bring that up. He wanted nothing better than to turn Äelberon out into the cold to let it be the death of him, and he was going to use all of his ammunition with the Arch-Mage. At least Urag was there to counter the Justiciar’s arguments, but she could see that the Arch-Mage was very concerned.
“I’m so sorry.” Faralda turned when she heard his voice. Phinis Gestor. She shrugged and continued to lean against a column. “If I had known—“
“You should have kept your mouth shut.” Faralda snapped. “For the love of the Gods, Phinis, they had just defeated a dragon in Winterhold. You couldn’t just let it go?”
“Well? No!” Replied the College of Winterhold’s Master Conjurer. She imagined the balding little Breton had learned about lycanthropes from his teacher, Falion, as the Redguard often dealt with the dark forces to cure vampires. She missed Falion, he would not have been that stupid. He knew Äelberon well. If Äelberon was a lycanthrope, it had to be for a good reason. He was a Knight-Paladin of Auri-El, they did not worship Daedra. They destroyed them.
“Really, Faralda. Four lycanthropes in the College. Who knows what they’ll do if the Beast Blood overtakes them.” Phinis whispered, leaning towards her. “We already have enough problems with the missing apprentices! We certainly don’t need anymore. The local Nords are already breathing down our necks!”
“I know!” She snapped, making the Breton jump and the three mages turn in her direction.
“Faralda, dear.” Called Aren.
“What is it Arch-mage?”
“Why don’t you check up on Mirabelle and see how she’s getting on with our guests?” He then gestured to Ancano and Urag, “The three of us will pay Colette and Tolfdir a visit and see how their patient is doing.”
“Yes, Arch-mage.” Faralda nodded. She shot a look at Phinis and then quickly descended the steps. The three Nords were confined to the entrance of the Hall of Elements.
***
Farkas watched the college apprentices practice through great grilled iron doors as he sat up against the wall of the entrance of the College with Vilkas and Aela. A nice Breton was watching them. Making sure they wouldn’t transform. They knew and the three of them sat, their faces worried as they waited. For word on Ronnie. It had been hours already. He could tell it had been hours because several lectures and practice sessions already passed. At least he thought they were lectures. The latest one was being given by a Dunmer with white hair that stuck out like he got caught by one of Ronnie’s shock arrows. He talked for a good, long while and then the young mages began their practice sessions. Casting all sorts of spells. Some were green. Others made them disappear or made them quiet. Others showed a path to a destination. Illusion. That was it. All the while, the Master Mage was walking among them, giving them suggestions, correcting incorrect spells. There was a Nord apprentice too. That had caught Farkas by surprise, and a Khajiit, but there were others. He felt Vilkas slap his shoulder and motion him to get up.
“Any word?” Vilkas asked Faralda when she appeared from the steps.
“On Äelberon? No, not yet. Arch-mage Aren, our librarian Urag Gro-Shub, and Justiciar Ancano—“
“Don’t let that Thalmor scum—“Cried Farkas as he began to rush forward, only to be stopped by Vilkas and Aela. Mirabelle sighed. She did feel for them, but she could not risk the aggression.
“It would be wise of you, Companion.” Cautioned Mirabelle Ervine, silencing the young man instantly, “Especially considering the circumstances, that you control your temper and refrain from insulting the guest of the Arch-mage.” Farkas turned away, and nodded.
“I’m sorry.” His voice was hoarse with emotion and Mirabelle tilted her head to the side, watching as the young warriors comforted each other. She leaned in closer to them.
“He is receiving the best possible care. Your deeds against the dragon at Winterhold have not been forgotten so quickly, young man.” She turned to Faralda.
They are going to see him? To check on his progress?” Faralda nodded and Mirabelle gestured to them.
“I see no reason why they cannot sit in on the conversation. I will ask Aren when he appears.”
“Thank you.” Replied Vilkas with a nod. He looked at Farkas and put his hand on his shoulder.
“It’s going to be alright. You’ll see.” Farkas nodded, but he still looked troubled. Vilkas felt the same way. They blamed themselves. Aela had told them everything and they now regretted their weakness. He would never have been injured if they had been fighting alongside him. Aela had saved his life. The trio watched as the Dunmer Arch-mage descended the steps into the Hall of Elements, his grey, fur-lined robes a contrast from the simple brown college robes worn by the ancient Orc and the black Thalmor robes of the thin white-haired Altmer who accompanied him.
“Master Ervine?” Called Aren.
“Yes, Arch-Mage.”
“The three of us are going check on the Dragonborn’s status and assess the situation. We will be in the Hall of Countenance.” Aela saw the Thalmor smile slyly, she didn’t like the words “assess the situation”. Not one bit.
“Arch-Mage?” Mirabelle asked.
“Yes, Master Ervine?”
“They have been waiting for hours on news of their…” She turned to Vilkas. “Excuse me, I am not a Nord, what did you call him again? Not Dragonborn.”
“Harbinger. In the tradition of Ysgramor, ma’am. He is the Harbinger of the Companions. A title of great honor.” He turned to the Thalmor and nodded coldly. “A title that demands respect.”
“Ah yes,” Interrupted Arch-Mage Aren before Ancano could protest. “Our Master Tolfdir is a Nord. He spoke at length after we had returned from the Dragon battle on that battle axe your… Harbinger was wielding.”
“Wuuthrad. A relic of my People, Arch-Mage.”
“And an Elf-killer.” Interjected Ancano.
“With all due respect, Justiciar.” Replied Vilkas. “The Elves should have thought of that before they sacked Saarthal.”
“Don’t presume, boy, to lecture me on lore.” Challenged Ancano. “You are but a child in this world.”
“Maybe so, but let us see how that same challenge of yours holds up against our Harbinger. No greater lore master have I ever seen.”
“You are charming, Nord. Limited, but charming.” Replied Ancano snidely as he began to turn away.
“I don’t see anyone calling you a Knight of the Crystal Tower.” Shot back Vilkas. Ancano froze and raised an eyebrow. What did the Nord know of the Tower?
“Not good enough to get in, eh? For all your high and mighty airs, the Sapiarch Rynandor the Bold selected an Elf from Dusk. Aye, I’d love to see the two of you go head to head with lore. He’d destroy you.” Ancano smirked on the outside, but inside he raged. Sapiarchs? What had the Dog been telling him?
Farkas shrugged at Aela and she shrugged back. Lore? A battle of lore? Vilkas was too much of an academic sometimes. Farkas would much rather see Ronnie run the Thalmor through, or feed him his fists.
“Well, before we flew on this tangent.” Mirabelle shot Vilkas a hard look. Granted he was saying exactly what damn near everyone else in the college save the Arch-Mage were thinking, but it was not helping. “I was going to suggest that the Harbinger’s Shield-Siblings accompany you when you visit him, Arch-Mage.”
Savos Aren sighed. Tensions were high and he hoped that his mages would be discreet about the lycanthropes in their college. All the worse if the populace got wind of it. He didn’t need this. He regarded everyone and it was again up to him to make the decision. Three angry lycanthropes would be far worse to deal with than one disappointed Thalmor Justiciar. At any rate, they seemed in control of their disease. Arch-Mage Aren turned to Vilkas.
“You have my permission to accompany us to the Hall of Countenance. I advise you, however, to please be mindful of any experiments you see being conducted. Many of them are quite fragile and have taken years or even decades to prepare. I can trust you, yes?” The three Nords stood tall and bowed to the Arch-Mage in unison. He was taken aback by their sudden precision in motion.
“On the Honor of our Harbinger who is receiving aid from your College, we will conduct ourselves with the utmost respect. Thank you, Arch-Mage for your kindness.”
“So serious, young man!" Aren nodded. "Well then. Let us proceed to the Hall of Countenance.”
Yeah, I cried too. I love my sappy warriors. LOL. It comes off alright, right. They don't seem too wimpy?
Oh, yeah, Ancano was part of that evil little group that really tormented Aelberon. Made his first year of exile Hell. Runil will have a different tale. I can't wait for Albee to meet him in the narrative.
Thank you for enjoying this. I appreciate it.
“You sure you don’t want to rest a bit before I start again?”
Tolfdir’s heavily lined face looked up from his work to regard the Altmer that was propped up in the bed that Colette Marence used to treat members of the College who were injured or sick. It was absolutely outstanding that he had remained awake while Tolfdir worked, painstakingly removing the pieces of armor that were embedded in the flesh of his wrist and arm with his alteration magicks. The Altmer was even familiar with the spell and complimented Tolfdir on his skill. Awake! It was outstanding, any other creature would have fainted by now.
He was showing the wear, however, his skin was deathly pale and he was sweating from the effort to control his pain, his hair now clinging damply to his forehead and neck, his eyes bright with encroaching fever. Colette would take care of that once Toldfir finished with the fragments. They had helped him with his armor when he arrived in Colette’s study. That lay upon the floor, in a neat pile, so as to not disturb the Breton’s sense of order. The Altmer certainly knew mages well enough that they didn’t like disturbances to their personal space and Colette was one of the worst mages in that regard, her intolerance bordering on paranoia. She tolerated the armor, but only because the Altmer had been extremely polite about it and because she was as curious as Tolfdir was to be working on a lycanthrope. The lycanthrope, Dragonborn, whatever he was, was now clad only in his dark woolen tunic and a pair of dark brown breeches. His bloody and torn right sleeve was rolled up carefully to expose the mess that was his right arm.
“I am alright, you may proceed, Master Tolfdir.” Äelberon replied. Tolfdir liked the voice. It was low in pitch, but at the same time, it was soft-spoken and it completely lacked the nasality of the other Altmer. It now betrayed fatigue, however.
“Very well then.” Replied Tolfdir. “Prepare yourself. The pain will be intense.”
“I know.”
Tolfdir gently held Äelberon’s mangled wrist, studying it carefully as his right hand began to glow with a pale orange light.
“Are you on the last one yet?” Colette called out impatiently from her desk, as she took notes.
“Working on it now, Colette.” Tolfdir replied, his tone slightly annoyed. He and Äelberon then exchanged knowing glances and he was rewarded when the Altmer managed a weak smile. Even as injured as he was, he still had the wherewithal for a joke. Tolfdir liked him. He became serious again when he eyed the final fragment. It was deep in the wound and he let out a sigh.
“I will bleed again when you remove it.” The Altmer said, bending his head slightly to study the wound with Tolfdir.
“You’ve studied anatomy?” Tolfdir asked, attempting to get the Elf talking. The Altmer was correct in his assessment and on that Tolfdir was extremely worried. He would more than likely lose consciousness when this last piece was removed. Colette had to be ready quickly with spells to staunch the bleeding. At least they knew healing spells worked on him. On lycanthropes. He himself had healed the Altmer… damn, his name was Äelberon, not the lycanthrope or the Altmer. Tolfdir doubted a less-skilled mage could handle it, however, but both he and Colette were Master Mages. Perhaps Marence should consider a course on the subject. Or perhaps someone else?
“Yes, it was part of my priestly duties. Preparing bodies for burial.”
“Ah, yes, funerary rites. Alright, I am ready to begin. I tend to talk when I do this. It serves as a distraction, I think.” Tolfdir smiled. “Besides, I would be lying if I didn’t say I was very curious about you.”
He turned to Colette.
“Colette, be ready with your magicks. This last fragment will cause more blood loss.” Colette Marence stepped away from her large wooden desk and sat upon the edge of the bed.
“What’s it like being, well, you know.” She blurted out, frowning when her eyes found the wound. It was ugly, exposed to the bone in several places. Tendons severed, the heavy lacerations and puncture marks extending into his palm on one end and then up halfway to his muscled forearm. It was the contrast that bothered her the most. The paleness of his skin against the deep red of his blood. She was a good healer, but he would never regain full use of his hand. They didn’t know how they were going to break the news to him. They would save the hand, and perhaps he could write, but they weren’t sure. He certainly would be unable to wield a bow again.
Tolfdir sighed as he directed his spell at the metallic fragment in the Altmer’s wrist. It was very close to the vein. Colette asked such stupid questions.
“Being a lycanthrope?” Äelberon asked, swallowing hard when the fragment of armor began to move. It hurt like Oblivion. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“Yes, that.” She replied. What a voice, thought Äelberon. If he did not faint from the blood loss, he would faint from that creature’s voice. It grated on his ears like charcoal being scraped upon an iron kettle. It was supremely irritating.
“For most, it gives more strength and endurance. For me, it has been a very different experience. Ah…” He gasped, biting his lower lip quickly to stifle further gasps. He was definitely feeling the fragment move now.
“Do you want me to stop?” Tolfdir asked, sensing the Elf's pain.
“No,” gasped Äelberon, “Go on. It needs to come off. We are losing time.” Tolfdir continued to work and Äelberon turned to Colette. Aye, talking would help.
“As I was saying, it has been a very different experience for me. It is why I cannot cast. When I took Hircine’s ‘gift’, hmph, curse is more like it. When I took it, I lost my ability to cast magicks. I was not a very good all-around mage, though. I was a specialist. Restoration.” Colette beamed.
“It is a perfectly valid school of magic.” Äelberon offered. Tolfdir grinned, Elf would have the whiny Breton wrapped around his finger now.
“What spells do you know?” The Breton asked, scooting up closer to the Altmer, not realizing that she was making the bed move too much. Äelberon winced in pain, his breath drawing in a sharp inhale.
“Oh,” Äelberon began. He noticed the walls begin to shift and buckle. Ah damn, he thought. “I can heal myself and others, protection spells, but my specialty was work against the Undead.”
“The Holy magicks!” Colette replied, clapping her hands together.
“Yes, the Holy Magicks. But…” Tolfdir then heard the sadness in his voice and saw the noble face darken. “That is all lost to me now. The Thu’um is all I have left. Krosis… I am even losing my body slowly to this terrible affliction…” His voice trailed off at the last phrase and Tolfdir realized that the Elf more than likely knew that his right hand would never draw a weapon again. He felt sorry for him, bending his head to resume his work. He would save the hand at least. On that he was confident.
“Then why?” She asked. "Why did you do this to yourself?"
“Because I am His priest. I cleanse in His name. Zu’u shun, Master Marence, for Auri-El. I have sent many vampires to be cured. Vampires I did not even know. My Shield-Siblings are my family. I could not not help them. ”
“You know Falion?” Colette asked, giving Tolfdir a nervous glance. Tolfdir frowned again. She wasn’t seeing the larger picture. That this grand Mer became a lycanthrope to cure his family! What devotion! What goodness! He wanted to know how this was even possible?
“Aye, Falion and I are friends.” The Elf let out a slight chuckle before it was overtaken by a low groan when the fragment scraped against the flesh. It would cut the vein soon. He took another deep breath, his silver brows furrowing with effort.
“He would not be surprised in the least by my decision.” He tilted his head slightly to one side in thought, the queasiness of his blood loss becoming quite intense. He blinked and could feel the room dim as Tolfdir focused on his work. The fragment moved more and he gasped, breaking out in a cold sweat. He would soon fall into a swoon.
“In fact, Falion would probably applaud my efforts. I am unorthodox in my methodology. It is why I never counted myself among the Vigilants. They took my decision to become a lycanthrope rather hard, but I have such faith in Auri-El. He has shown me the right path to their cure and I will not divert from it. If I remain steadfast in my faith, I too will be cleansed…" Auri-El would heal him. He would draw a bow again. How could he not? How could Auri-El leave his people with a Dragonborn who could not fight back? Nay, He would do no such thing. There would be no more weakness. He would continue down this path, he thought with heavy lids. The fragment suddenly moved hard and fast and his eyes went wide with pain.
"Gods!”
Äelberon gasped when the fragment, surrounded by a pale orange glow, finally cleared his wrist and fell to the floor when Tolfdir released his spell. Fresh blood emerged from the wound, staining the green linens a dark red-brown, the spot growing larger. Tolfdir quickly switched places with Colette Marence, her healing spells charged, her nose wrinkled with the sight of fresh blood.
The Arch-Mage could not have timed his arrival any worse and Tolfdir sighed when the Dunmer entered the study with Urag, and that damned Ancano. But what was worse still to Tolfdir was the look on Äelberon’s Shield-Siblings’ faces when they saw their beloved Harbinger’s eyes roll back towards head as he lost consciousness. The young woman immediately cried out and had to be restrained by the one called Farkas. The one he had walked with after they slew the dragon. His face was completely devoid of color as he held her close to him. The other one, the one who wielded the crossbow, was more composed, but his face was terribly long. All three of them looked utterly exhausted, as if they had undergone some incredible ordeal. Was this what Äelberon was alluding to?
“What happened?” Arch-Mage Aren demanded. Colette looked up from her healing, but her attention was immediately turned back to the Elf by Tolfdir’s reassuring hand on her shoulder. He was going to handle this and she nodded as she continued to work, her brow furrowing in concentration. Or Urag was going to handle this. The Orc looked… worried. "Worried" was the word Tolfdir was looking for. It surprised him to no end. Why would Urag be concerned?
“Arch-Mage, this is a most inopportune time. Master Marence is clearly busy and attending to some rather delicate work. She needs her space and her concentration.” Arch-Mage Aren surveyed the scene and nodded in agreement. Tolfdir watched as Ancano smiled slightly. It made Tolfdir like the Thalmor even less.
“Our Harbinger.” The shorter haired Nord managed. Vilkas, ah yes, that was the name. Vilkas.
“Rest assured, Vilkas, she is working diligently. He merely lost consciousness from the blood loss and the pain. I’m sure he’ll wake up soon.” His gaze fell sympathetically on Farkas and the young woman he held.
“He’s going to be alright. But mages cannot be disturbed. Above all, we must consider the safety of the patient…”
“That’s right,” Responded Urag gruffly as he began to herd the visiting mages and warriors out of Colette’s study, ignoring rank as he practically shoved the Arch-Mage out the door. It was the Orc way, he pushed everyone around and no way was he going to have Ronnie’s care compromised by some gawkers, distracting Marence. Breton could barely concentrate when it wasn’t important and Ronnie, he was bloody important. Regardless of this new Dragonborn business and Harbinger be damned, he was still THE BEST demon hunter in all of Tamriel, and his "Book Savior". If Ronnie died, Marence was next on his list. After the Thalmor.
“Everybody out! Now, or…” And his gaze found Ancano’s “I’ll make lives unpleasant. Very, very unpleasant.” He grinned menacingly when he saw the Thalmor squirm. For good measure, Urag then let spittle drip from his sharp teeth onto the floor as he growled. He never did that, but if it made the Thalmor wet himself, all the better. It was then that they all suddenly heard a frail whisper from the bed.
“Urag gro-Shub? Is that you, you old ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥?”
“No, you ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥, it’s the Thalmor.”
“Ha! They will let anybody join their ranks now, eh?” Äelberon chuckled weakly as his eyes fluttered open. He knew Ancano was nearby, but he was too sleepy to care. Urag would make short work of him. Good old Urag, he thought as he let his eyes close again. Ah, he would dream tonight. Too many memories, a little house in Bruma, Nelecar, going back...
Farkas grinned at Aela and gave her a kiss on the cheek as his eyes found his brother. Vilkas looked relieved. Ronnie was going to be fine, he thought as he saw his Shield-Brother nod off again, a trace of color beginning to return to the worn face that still bore upon it a slight smirk. And... Farkas needed to meet this Orc.
"Goblins." Aela whispered softly.
"Huh?" Grunted Farkas. She yawned and looked up. Aela looked as bad as he felt and Vilkas wasn't any better.
"He'll explain it later." She yawned.
I'm totally onboard for that. Totally
http://steamcommunity.com/sharedfiles/filedetails/?id=463131745
I'm excited, I can't wait to write this update. It has been a long time coming, eh Gnewna?
Bruma, Cyrodiil, 185 4E 5th of First Seed
Äelberon studied the face of the old Orc that stood next to him at the double doors of a quaint stone and wood home with a tall tree in the front yard. Shoots of lavender and milk thistle were just beginning to peek from the snow-covered ground. All three were shivering from the cold of the biting snow squall, but he had wanted to show them, Bumph and Urag, but especially her. The Orc was wrapped in heavy furs, her great battle axe slung over her shoulder. Her lined faced was long and her watery eyes were misty with forming tears and he could detect the faintest of quivers from her underslung lip. He put his powerful arm around her shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“Bumph,” Äelberon said softly to the old Orc as he leaned his head close to hers. “I will be only three doors north of the Tap and Tack.” He gave her shoulder another squeeze as Urag gro-Shub looked on.
“And I am even closer to the Fighter’s Guild, so your joints will suffer less from the cold. I am also across the street from the Mage’s Guild, so it is easier for Urag when he visits from Skyrim. I considered this all very carefully when I made my decision.”
It was Lyra Rosenitia’s old house thought Bumph. When the Imperial died, it went up for sale and passed through several hands over the next two centuries. He had wanted a house, never before owning one. She should be happy about it, for it meant that Ronnie felt safe. That he no longer needed to run from the damn Thalmor. It meant that he would stay. But it was the Tap and Tack; he was leaving it behind. That tiny room. A bitter cold, tiny room up the stairs with one small window letting sunshine in. A room stuffed with books, scrolls, papers, tankards of tea, and apple cores. Stuffed with memories. She should be happy for Ronnie, but he was leaving it and she didn’t know what to think. She was such a creature of habit and to not make the daily trek from the Fighter’s Guild to the Tap and Tack was a strange prospect for her. She faced the double doors again and sighed. It was so big.
“Only three doors down, Bumph.” He repeated, giving Urag a look. The Orc Mage shrugged his shoulders. He wasn’t sure why Bumph was being like this except maybe because she was old and like all old Mer, she didn’t deal well with change. It was Ronnie’s birthday in ten days. If he wanted a house and finally had the coin for one, why not? Granted, he had wanted Ronnie to move to Skyrim, but this was a good compromise. He, Faralda, and Nelecar frequently made trips to Cyrodiil and Bruma was always their first stop. That Ronnie was even considering a home! It meant that he was finally comfortable, that he no longer felt like he had to run.
“Besides,” Continued Äelberon with a sly grin. “You really want me looking at that hideous Thalmor statue for the rest of my days?”
Urag grinned, his teeth protruding. The Thalmor had torn it town, the chapel of Talos and in its stead was being built a stone park and at the center of it, a statue of Titus Mede II shaking the hands of a Thalmor Justiciar. The Nords of the city were in an uproar and many simply up and left for Skyrim after the Great War. Those that remained frequently grumbled about the construction and refused to work on it, forcing the Empire to send Imperial workers to the city. Bruma was beginning to lose its distinctively Nord identity. Even Ronnie had considered leaving at one point, for the Great War had been difficult for him. Watching as the Aldmeri Dominion laid waste to a province that adopted him when Summerset Isles sent him away, surviving his own brutal encounter with the Thalmor, but he could not leave Bumph behind. She was too old to move now. Too set in her ways and Urag knew that Äelberon felt indebted to her. Bumph was the first person Äelberon met after emerging from the Jerrals after a year of hiding. He had saved her life while she was on a bounty to kill a troll. Urag smiled, he could hear that story again, Faralda hadn’t heard it yet and it was exciting.
Both Mer chuckled when they saw the old Orc finally crack a smile.
“Nah, I don’t want that. I guess this house is alright. It’s big.” Bumph observed, her voice a conceding grumble, rubbing her hands together to ward off the cold.
“Aye, I barely fit in the Tap and Tack and, I think Odfel was beginning to worry that my things would spill out my room and down the stairs.” He vigorously rubbed Bumph’s arm. “Bah! But you are cold, old friend.” He glanced at the sky, blinking away snowflakes. “We should get out of this squall. I need to meet with the owner anyway and sign the contract. At the Tap and Tack.” He looked at Urag, his eyebrows raised in question, making the lines on his forehead more prominent.
“You like the house, Urag?” Äelberon asked. The Orc mage nodded as he drew his fur cloak about his shoulders. The snow was becoming heavier.
“It’s a fine house, bigger than I expected. Ha! Give you a few more years and your library will be almost as large as Winterhold’s. Almost...” Urag replied, watching the Altmer chuckle and nod in agreement. Had he given up the search, Urag thought. It wasn’t in his nature to, but that was the other thing purchasing a house represented and Urag wasn’t stupid. Since the Great War, Ronnie was less focused on that ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ vampire who killed his parents and more focused on helping the people of Cyrodiil recover. Vingalmo… that was the pig’s name. Urag didn’t blame him. Eighty-five years on the hunt yielded nothing, save near misses and frustration. Altmer were terrible with grudges, but Urag knew Äelberon was stumped. He wanted to find the clan, and he had talked to everyone, sent inquiries, visited the foremost experts on vampires in several provinces, and Malacath only knew how many vampires he slew in his search for information. But it led nowhere. It didn’t help that the bastard was Thalmor.
“Aye, it is time I put some roots down.” Äelberon agreed. He had never owned a home. His ancestral home belonged to his parents. It was to be passed on to him upon their deaths, but that never happened. Other than that, he never knew any permanent home. Barracks, quarters, inns, and tents became where he rested his head as he wandered the provinces, especially since his exile. He liked Bruma and he wanted to stay. There was time later, once he was settled, to visit Urag in Skyrim. Bumph’s shivering broke Äelberon’s train of thought.
“Come on, Old ♥♥♥♥♥, you are cold. Some warm mead at the Tap and Tack will help. My treat for making you sulk. You coming with us, Urag?”
“Aye, better to wait for Nelecar and Faralda where it’s warm. It’s not like they don’t know where to find us by now. I’m hungry anyway. You buying?” Äelberon laughed, his laugh lines crinkling. He was the only Altmer Urag ever saw who smiled regularly and laughed. Supposedly it was a Dusken thing.
“On a demon hunter’s salary?” Äelberon quipped.
“Better than a Librarian’s.” Retorted Urag.
“Ha! Paying you that little in Winterhold, eh? Aye, my treat it is then.” Äelberon beamed. “Because… we celebrate today friends. An early birthday.”