Elder Scrolls:The Divine Champion

[Phantom1]

The Unknown
-22-​

Lucianna​

Journal of Arch Mage Lucianna, College of Winterhold
Unknown date, 4E 201​

I have been unable to write for many days. As my journey leads me back to Winterhold I feel I must get my thoughts together before arriving at the College. What a better way of doing so than this? I will lay out the events of the recent past once more in this journal as I venture on.

Simply said,

Dragons have returned to Tamriel.

I should have been more prepared. When news of the dragon attack at the village of Helgen reached my ears I dismissed it as rumors told by very bored men in taverns. It wasn't until a dragon attacked the College did I understand the true danger facing Skyrim, sod it, all of Tamriel. The dragon killed two apprentices before I, with the assistance of the senior mages, was able to defeat it. Four more mages were greatly injured, two more dying in healer's care overnight, and others scarred and broken.

One dragon did that, and not every attack will the Arch Mage be readily available to defend the innocent when it happened again. I sought out a way to defeat the dragons.
Do you know how much lore there is on dragons that is actually reliable?! I saw references to the Blades, or the Dragonborn, but never did it actually say, "Here, this is how you kill a dragon in a snap, good luck!"

Frustrating beyond belief let me tell you.

It was then that I ran across a book on the Elder Scrolls. Now, everyone knows that the few Scrolls that have been recovered are in the hands of the Thalmor, which already leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Ancano comes to mind, that bastard. The rest simply disappeared from the White Gold Tower years ago and haven't been seen since. This book discussed many prophecies, and there was one on dragons. It was very unhelpful that the actual prophecy wasn't there; it only mentioned a lost prophecy involving the Dragonborn and something about a wall. That was when the Elder Scrolls first gained my interest.

It was then that more rumors reached ears here at the lonely College of Winterhold. Not only had a dragon attacked Whiterun, but a man had been there to stop it. They were calling him Dragonborn, and he was called by something called the Greybeards. If I have counted the date right that coincided with the recent earthquake that scared the living skeever out of Jarl Korir. He called me to his longhouse and demanded to know what my mages were doing to cause such a quake. It was quite annoying actually, though I suppose once your city was plunged to the bottom of the ocean the first time it leaves you a bit easily startled.

It was then that I decided I needed to look further into the Elder Scrolls.

I knew exactly where to look.

I'd heard rumors of Septimus when I first arrived at the college; a mad man I was told. But in my travels I've learned that sometimes it's the mad ones that are the most brilliant. I went to him, out along the ice in the middle of nowhere. How surprised I was to find him working on a strange sort of Dwemer safe box. He agreed to lead me not only to the location of a lost Elder Scroll, but to, in fact, the exact Scroll mentioned in the Dragon Prophecy, if I agreed to help him with his box. I agreed, obviously.

It was then that I arranged an expedition to the ruins of Alftand.

It… did not go well.

The venture into the dwemer ruin of Alftand was more than I had anticipated. The research team was attacked within the first month by Falmer, these wretched foul smelling creatures, whom, despite their blindness, were quite talented in battle with their crude weapons. They even had mages! Alas, the team was unprepared and taken completely by surprise.

The first few nights it was apparent that we were being watched. There would be a sound in the distance, or someone would swear that shadows were moving. The apprentices looked to me, naturally. I informed them that we were safest in numbers. Besides, I reminded myself, we were so close. We had delved deep into the ruin, which was surprisingly active with its strange steam powered machinery. I must admit, aside from the traps, the security creatures, and the rather rude Falmer, there is much to be learned from the ruins left by the dwemer.

It was the second week into the expedition that the first apprentice was abducted. No one saw what had happened, but an apprentice, a young Breton, was whisked away in the middle of the night without a trace. Then it happened again three days later, and again the night after that. I argued with our guards, hired swords, a Redgaurd, Umana, and an Imperial, Sulla Trebatius, about how to increase security further. That night, we were besot by the Falmer. A horde of them descended upon us. It was a massacre. The group splintered, most too afraid to even cast a spell. In the end, the creatures were defeated, but only myself and the guards for hire remained. If any of the expedition survived, I did not see.

I lost myself. A rage filled me that I have not felt since defeating the Thalmor traitor. I marched further into the ruin, destroying any enemy in my path. Until I came to the biggest monstrosity yet. A giant man shaped thing made of metal. I now know it is called a Centurion. My guards fled, leaving me to fight the machine alone. My spells seemed to bounce off it, but in the end it was defeated. I continued, and, using the strange key given to me by Septimus, finally arrived at Blackreach, the gate closing and locking behind me.

The beauty of the underground world I cannot even put in words, and least I don't think there are words that even fit its sheer beauty. Glowing mushrooms lit the blackness, gems and perfectly blue water. Sheer beauty. I even saw what I believe to have been a red Nirnroot! But I would not be distracted by pretty colors. I had a job to do.

Though there were some really pretty colors…

Right. Continuing.

I evaded the Falmer that inhabited the ruins, managing to make my way to a large tower. Inside, the remains of a fellow adventurer showed me the way. A journal left behind told of a machine, a sort of combination. I knew then that Septimus was not the fool he claimed to be. Using the key I was able to align the mirrors, and, in turn, release the Elder Scroll locked within.

I fled Blackreach using a sort of elevator, which took me directly to the surface. I didn't like the loud roaring I could hear echoing in the darkness. It was high time to leave.

As of yet, I have not attempted to open the Scroll, for I have heard the results of doing such.

I will research further once I arrive at the College.

-Arch Mage Lucianna

Lucy sighed as she finished her journal entry. She should be more worried, she knew, but somehow she was starting to simply not care for the past anymore. What happened had happened; she had no choice in the matter. What she could change was what was going to happen. She felt the weight of the Elder Scroll on her back. The key to making sure that the past didn't repeat itself was sealed in the Scroll she carried.

She leaned back in her chair, the Nightgate Inn's hearth warm at her back. She put away her journal and pulled out a piece of fresh parchment. She paused for a moment before writing;

Tolfdir,

I return from the ruin; sadly, I return alone. Do not tell the others this yet - there will be a time for that later, but things did not go as well as I had hoped. I will tell you the specifics later, for now we need to prepare a way to decipher the item recovered. I must go to speak with Septimus before returning. In the meantime, have Urag gather all the books he can on the topic. And by all of them, I mean it. If our esteemed librarian has issue with this remind him that I discovered his 'personal collection' and can still very well announce its contents to the entire hold, which wouldn't be that hard considering Winterhold's size.

I will return soon. Until then, watch the skies,

Lucy

She folded the note neatly, sealing it. She debated for a moment, should she write her father? It had been months since she'd last written him, but recent circumstances had stopped her from writing anything save necessary correspondence. I should, she told herself. She paused with a frown.

She couldn't think of anything to write.

Cato​

The room was cold. A shiver crept down Cato's spine as he spun around, searching desperately for a way out, any way out. His eyes saw nothing through the blackness, and he heard nothing save for the whispers that followed his every footstep. They were like a buzzing in the back of his mind, scratching at his ears, constantly there, like an itch, a shiver, the hair rising on the back of his neck. His hands groped along the frigid stone walls in some wasted hope of guidance. The voices following him like his own shadow.

One voice stood out from the others, its bass so deep that Cato could feel it in his chest. His heart leapt to his throat. "What is the color of night?" it boomed.

A chorus responded; men and women, even the high pitched voice of young children. The words of the whispers distinguishable, "Sanguine, my brother."

Cato continued, stumbling over something that clanked and echoed as it pattered across the stone, a sound suspiciously like bone.

"What is the music of life?"

The Sanctuary…

"Silence, my brother," the whispers answered.

His heart beat faster in his chest. He continued, his hands grazing the wall. His eyes strained to see through the nothingness. He followed the wall, a man blind in a world of darkness, until he came to the end. No, he cursed, this can't be the end; I need to get out of here. The end of the hall did not feel like stone, but wood. Could it be a door? He fumbled, his hopes rising when his hand wrapped around a metal door handle, only to have them sink once more as the door would not budge. Frantic, he tried again, over and over. Tears of frustration were hot on his cheeks as he tried repeatedly to get the door to open, to escape. He didn't even know what he was running from… but a part of him had an idea, and it was not something he wanted to wait to find out. He needed to go, but how?

Cato pounded on the door with his fist. "Someone? Anyone? I need to get out! Anyone?!" He tried the door again, and still nothing. He was trapped. He leaned against the door, and slid down, his hands holding his head as sobs threatened to take him over. "Please," he begged through his hands, "help."

Even the whispers were quiet now.

Once again the all too familiar voice rumbled through the black. "What is life's greatest illusion?"
Cato's face rose from his hands as he looked around him blindly. He stood, facing the door once again, his hand ghosted over the handle. He paused in a moment of clarity. If he did this… if he answered… what would it mean? The whispers had not answered yet… were they waiting for him? He breathed in.

"Innocence, my brother," he responded, the whispers joining in his response. He barely pressed on the handle as the door flew open and torrent of wind began sucking him through the door. Cato blindly grasped the door frame, trying to gain some stability, but failed. He fell through the threshold, a wordless cry on his lips as he fell into the blackness, the nothing.
The Void…

Then suddenly, Cato felt a hand on his shoulder, a strong grip breaking him from his trance. It was pulling him back… saving him.

Cato jolted awake. He was in his tent. He wasn't falling. He was safe. He let out the breath he'd been holding in with a sigh, sitting up and running a hand through his sweat soaked hair. Dreams, again. All of them about the Dark Brotherhood. Was this his penance? To have nightmares of dark hallways and whispers? Of events and horrors long since past?

The dreams were getting worse, more frequent. It was getting to the point that Cato knew that he would wake in a cold sweat each night. He couldn't forget the dream where Nocturnal came to him and gave him the Skeleton Key, and then to wake up and actually have it.

He shivered. These were more than mere dreams. He could deny it no longer.

He looked to his right, to the hand that was still on his shoulder. It was Revak looked that down at him. "Time to wake," he said gently. "You're going to want to see this."

With that the Dragonborn stood, making his way to the edge of the cliff face they had camped on. Cato shook away the memory of the dream and followed, pulling his hood up against the early morning's chill. The Nord was kneeling at the edge as he stared off into the distance, where the city of Whiterun sat below. "How long was I out?" he asked, joining the Dragonborn.

"A few hours," the Dragonborn responded, not taking his eyes off the city. "It was a hard journey; I figured all of you could use the rest."

"I was supposed to be on watch…"

"It's fine," the Nord said, shaking his head. "I wouldn't have been able to sleep anyways." Cato couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for drifting off. They had made it to Whiterun in record time, stopping only to water the mare and to refill their own water skins. They had managed to arrive but hours before the Stormcloak army. Against Lydia's insistence that they should enter the city, the Dragonborn had agreed with Cato that scouting the situation first would be the best choice.

Since then they decided to camp, taking shifts overlooking the cliff. Revak sighed beside him. "The Stormcloaks are moving. As a former member of the Legion, I figured you would have an opinion." He pointed toward the large group of Stormcloaks that had been over time moving closer and closer to Whiterun's gate. "They've moved their catapults to join the main body."


Cato scowled. That was not good. "The rebels plan intended to smash their way in." He shook his head. "They don't have nearly enough men to man the walls, let alone stop an invading army, even with the Empire helping them. It's a strange maneuver. They could easily starve the city out. You would think that Ulfric would want to spare as many men as he could. It just doesn't make sense."

"Ulfric wants glory," the Dragonborn said simply. "Or there is something more to this." Cato gave him a look. "Have you ever heard of the Battle of Sancre Tor?"

Cato nodded. "Of course. Tiber Septim knew he was outnumbered, and that his men would never win a straight on attack. They discovered a secret entrance beneath the keep. A small company managed to sneak in while the main army made a display out front… Well if you believe the tales Septim actually had a vision from the Eight that sent him there…"

The Dragonborn paused for a moment, the ghost of a scowl on his face. "Vision or not, it was a legitimate tactic. It forced the Bretons to fight on two fronts, it split their power from within."

"You don't think?" Cato said, his thoughts drifting away. If there was a secret entrance the city would be ruined, but Cato knew a way to find the entrance. "The Skeleton Key!" he said quickly. "We can use it to find out how they might sneak in!"

The Nord grunted. "Right, your affinity for daedric artifacts." He shook his head. "It is not worth it."

"I can handle it you know," he said, nodding to the Key . "I am sworn to protect it, after all. It should be returned to Nocturnal. Better than anyone here I am more qualified to deal with it."

"There are no true pacts between daedra and men, Nightingale."

Cato scowled. "No pacts, maybe, but contracts, yes."

"One can never trust daedra," the Nord said simply. "They always have a secondary agenda. They might offer you trinkets or power, but there is always a higher price to pay."

"Nocturnal already has my soul, Dragonborn."

"Does she?" he countered. "Or is that what you are told?" A slight shiver went down Cato's spine as he remembered his dream. "There are worse things that owing your soul."

"The Key has helped us so far!" Cato nearly shouted. "It got us through Alftand! And it might just save Whiterun!"

"It led to one of us being killed!" the Nord growled.

"In search of your Elder Scroll, Dragonborn!"

The Dragonborn was silent, his eyes meeting Cato's in an icy glare. "He knew the dangers; you all did."

Cato threw up his hands. "And what's wrong with a little help from a god?!" He laughed coldly. "It's not like the Divines are going to help us through this! They couldn't care less about us! Nocturnal at least has given something useful! Which is more than I can say of the Divines! We should take any help we can get!" He paused, breathing out. "Who are we to judge who helps us?"

The Dragonborn's face changed, his eyes blank. It was not anger in his eyes. No… was that… sadness? Revak broke eye contact; he stood there in silence, his head lowered and his fists shaking at his sides. Cato took a step back. Either the Dragonborn was trying to calm himself, or he was far beyond mere anger.

Suddenly, the Nord reached beneath his armor, pulling out a familiar shape. The Dragonborn sighed, staring at the Skeleton Key in his hand.

Cato could not help but stare at the key as well. It looked so simple, but the feeling that it gave off was not. It didn't feel evil, after all Nocturnal was a rather neutral daedra, but it did feel powerful. A part of him was tempted to snatch it from the Dragonborn's hand then and there. Logic barely stopped him. But still that part of him, a part of his soul, longed to take the Skeleton Key, to keep it close. It was his duty. He knew immediately that this, this feeling, was the result of signing the contract with Nocturnal He shook his head, looking once again at the artifact in his palm. He looks torn, Cato noted. It was obvious the Dragonborn did not trust the daedra. But as the Nord stared at the Key, Cato knew that he would use it.

And he was right.

The Dragonborn clenched his fist over the Skeleton Key and raised it before him. Cato watched him with a curious eye. A part of him felt that this was wrong, that the Key wasn't to be used, but that was the part that wanted it tucked away in the Everglom. The Dragonborn's face was skewed in concentration, his eyes focused not directly at the Key, but somewhere beyond it.

A black and purple fog started to surround the key, and moved up Revak's arms, about to surround him, same as it had Cato when he had used it in Alftand. But instead it receded back into the Key. The Dragonborn let out a breath and staggered back a step. "Jorrvaskr," he revealed, panting. "There is a secret entrance beneath the Skyforge… an underforge."

The Dragonborn shook his head as he returned the Key to where he kept it beneath his armor.

"You do realize that Nocturnal's artifact may have just saved an entire city, right?" Cato commented.

Without a word the Dragonborn turned and picked up his horned helm from a nearby stone. He thrust it upon his head and then strapped on his shield. "This is our battle," he said, looking back at Cato. "Whether we win or lose, in the end we can only judge ourselves."

Eirik​

The Stormcloak army had arrived, massing just outside the walls. If the Imperial scouts from the Jarl's meeting were correct then there were at least four hundred Stormcloaks at their heels, yet the Empire had only contributed one hundred Imperial legionnaires to help man the walls of Whiterun. That was one of the first revelations that had been discovered during the war council.

They were outrageously outnumbered and unprepared.

The next discovery was that the Stormcloaks had come with catapults, meaning that instead of starving out the city over an extended siege, they instead meant to take the city by direct force. Overall, a very Nordic tactic. Nords had courage, though not a lot of patience. And though Whiterun had its walls, they were ancient, and, once again, terribly undermanned.

The third was not new information. Eirik's declaration that the Companions would not involve themselves in the battle was something that should have been inspected. This was not the first time that Whiterun had been attacked, and it will, surely, not be its last. Never in the Companions long history had they involved themselves in the political struggles of Skyrim's leaders. It was not their way.

Though Eirik did not know the last time that the Harbinger was the nephew to the Jarl.

His armor had clanked softly as he had stepped away from the table. He had felt the eyes of the entire council upon him; the Imperial Legates, Irileth, the guard captain, his uncle Balgruuf, and his father Hrongar's most of all. Eirik had been silent the entire meeting. But once the Legates started including the Companion's numbers with that of the defending force, he knew it was time to speak.

"The Companions will remain in Jorrvaskr," he had said, his voice so low it silenced the chamber. They stared at him with confused and blank faces. "It is not our way to involve ourselves in the wars of would-be kings and Jarls." Before anyone could say a word otherwise he left, the council in frustrated silence as the door slammed in their faces.

It had not been an easy decision. Eirik had spent hours in quiet meditation, seeking guidance from those that had past, from his ancestors, the Harbingers before him, and even Hircine himself. He had a cold feeling in his heart that they felt the same way he did. Whiterun was their home, and Companions or not, they should be defending it. But there was the unspoken law whispering in his ear. This is not your fight. This is not your war. Leave them to their own fate. But as he had glanced at his father, he caught a glimpse of disappointment.

In truth, it wasn't just that unspoken tenant, but there was the matter of the Beast Blood. If he had allowed the Companions to involve themselves in the active defense of Whiterun there would always be the chance of a slip up, a mistake. Someone could shift in the blood rage of battle, and then their secret would be known. The Companions would be shunned. Eirik growled to himself. The Beast Blood was nothing to be hated. It fact, it was something to be cherished, desired, to be envious of. The Circle members lived a life that some would only dream of. It wasn't only the power, the skill, it was the companionship, the family. They were closer than any family, more in tune with nature than any other human or mer. Mere humans would not understand though, he knew, they would think them monsters.

His gaze drifted to the totem of Hircine before him, the Totem of Fear. Someday, they would overcome their fear of judgment from the humans and mer. They would be free, understood, and given the respect they have always been due. It was a gift, and if Sovngarde was the price to have this life then it was worth every moment. He would gladly serve Hircine in the hunt.

Eirik felt a breeze come in, the cold chill of Skyrim breaking through the heat of the Underforge for only a short few seconds before being overtaken. The Harbinger had been in his own meditations since the Stormcloaks had massed at the gate, partly to make peace with himself, and partly to make peace with the gods for his inactions. He meditated in full armor, for though they would not defend Whiterun, they would defend Jorrvaskr with their lives. He grasped at the scent on the breeze, knowing who was there before they spoke. The smell of pine made him smile, for his mind flashed briefly of a cherished memory; the night of their wedding, running through the forest as a wolf, his bride at his side. And knowing who it was, she did not need to speak at all. He felt a familiar hand grace across his back, moving to his shoulder. He turned, smiling at Aela beside him. "It smells strange outside," she said, sitting beside him. He looked at her questioningly. "Do you know how the air smells like rain before even a drop has fallen?" Eirik nodded, knowing already where she was going with this. "The air smells similar, though it does not smell of rain; it smells of blood."

She sighed. "Is this the right thing? To stand by while rebels call at the gates?"

"It is not the right thing, no," Eirik said solemly, "but it is the correct thing."

The Harbinger's ears twitched as he heard Aela's footsteps make their way to the central font. "Remember your first transformation?"

Eirik stood, moving to stand behind her. He gently pushed her auburn hair behind her ear.

"You caused more trouble than Farkas had his first time," she said, chuckling. She turned to face him. "You were a natural though. You bore the Beast Blood like you had had it your entire life." Her hands grazed along his beard.

He kissed her forehead as he pressed himself closer to her. "Maybe I have," he said with a wolfish grin

Aela returned his smile. She laid her hands on his chest plate, tracing the lines of the wolf emblazoned on the Skyforge steel. When she finished the outline she looked up at him, her green eyes twinkling. She leaned forward, and so did he.

Then they froze at the exact same moment, both hearing it; a bang, coming from beneath the forge. Aela looked at her husband with concern. He scowled at her fear. He grazed his thumb across her cheek. Then again, another bang. He glanced at the trapdoor. How? he asked himself. Only the Companions, Oblivion, only the Circle knew of the Underforge. The Harbinger listened, his wolf ears picking up heavy footsteps from below the stone. Stormcloaks! His scowl deepened as he bared his teeth in a low growl.

They had been betrayed. It was the only explanation.

Aela bared her teeth as well, realizing the same as her husband. "We have been made to be fools!"

Eirik turned, taking a defensive position in front of his wife. He growled. Obviously Ulfric cares not for tradition as he claims. They planned to use the Underforge as a way past the walls. If they planned on using such an tactic, that meant that they were desperate. The Companions were in the way of the Stormcloaks now. Eirik could not take the chance that they would attack Jorrvaskr.

He felt the rage bubble beneath his skin. He clenched his fists, trying to gain control. Now was not the time to shift. But the anger was still there. He felt the changes already happening. He doubled over, the pain of the transformation was like being struck by a hammer. A roar of pain escaped him, cracking as his voice turned into a rasping growl. The world was turning red.No, not now, he told himself. Today my fight is as a man, not a wolf. Soon the pain stopped and the world came back to him.

He gazed at his hands, now clawed, all the while maintaining his anger.

He had phased then, though only partly.

This had not happened before; to only partially phase was unheard of. His blood was boiling in his veins, the rage of the Beast Blood was there, but he had the same control over himself as he would unphased. The strength and power of the wolf, but with all the control of a man. This was something new, something unknown.

Something he really wanted to test against a deserving foe.

He moved forward. He felt his wife's eyes watching him carefully, they were questioning what was happening to him. But in his heart, he knew she was curious, not fearful. He gazed at the trapdoor, his yellow eyes flashing in the darkness of the Underforge. He let out a low growl, loud and strong. He looked over his shoulder and Aela nodded, understanding him perfectly even though he had not spoken a single word. The Companions would need to mount a defense.

"Eirik," Aela began to argue, "not alone."

The Harbinger turned, a growl on his lips as he bared his pointed teeth. "Go," he barked, his voice an inhuman rasp. He reached for the claymore at his back, the metal singing from its sheath. She stepped back, indecision in her eys before she finally turned from him, leaving her husband alone in the depths of the Underforge.

He watched her leave. I love you, he thought briefly before turning toward the trapdoor. He let out another growl.

This should be fun, he thought with a wolfish grin.