Of Snow and Bone - Part Five

21st of Last Seed, 4th Era 201

I awoke early, despite falling asleep late, but felt well rested. With no plans in mind, I chose to head north, to Dawnstar. As I travelled, a great bonfire lit the woods ahead; the camp of giants. When I approached a half-dozen bandits bolted from the trees to the east, charging into the midst of the giants and their great beasts.
What compelled them to this death charge I do not know, but as the giants turned east to meet their charge, I slipped into their camp behind them. Tales had been told more than once that each giant camp had a chest, resplendent with treasure. There was a chest, but it held only a small bag of gold and a mammoth's tusk. Better than nothing, to be sure. I slipped out of the camp as quickly as I had come in, the giant's clubs sending bandits flying this way and that as mammoths gored with their tusks, or stomped with massive feet.

Cold morning winds blew the hard, grainy sands from one dune to another as I entered Dawnstar, silent yet restless in the pre-dawn light of the stars. A single guard walked up and down one of the streets, torch flickering in the stiff breeze. I raised my hand and gave a single wave and nod of greeting, clutching my woolen cloak tightly about my shoulders. You could not get much further north than this, with frozen biting wind skimming in from the cold ocean beyond.
I entered the Inn as a light snow began to fall, flakes tickling my cheeks as they melted. A blast of warm air greeted me as I entered, and much to my surprise several people were awake inside. Three women and a man, the bartender, were battering a Dunmer dressed in robes with questions. They asked him about dreams and nightmares, concerns he did his best to lay to rest. I do not think he was very effective.
Sitting to a simple meal of beef and strong, bitter tea, the inn's bard, a pretty nord girl, began to sing. Her voice was nothing special, but what she sang of caught my ear; "Beware, beware, the Dragonborn comes." News travelled fast then, it seems, faster than I had. Perhaps birds had been sent from Whiterun, or perhaps the great shout from the heavens had travelled all the way north to Dawnstar. Anything seemed possible. I did not ask about it.

I stayed at the inn for a few hours, the Dunmer man coming to tell me he was a priest of Mara. The townspeople were suffering from nightmares, and, seeing the adventuring look I had about me, asked me to help him. With no promise of coin, I declined. "You're a sellsword, then?" he asked, disdain clear in his voice. Shrugging, I replied "Good deeds oft go unrewarded and unremembered, and honor can't buy steel and supplies."
The Dunmer simply scoffed and went to sulk in a corner of the Inn. I found it hard not to laugh. How many times had men died because some priest had tugged at their heartstrings to strike the chord of honor? All for an ungrateful lord, a few words of praise, but more likely an unmarked grave and a forgotten name.

My thoughts wandered back to the Dragonborn as I headed for the town forge, to see if there was anything of use I could acquire. If I had not seen the dragon fall myself, I would dismiss it as a nord folk tale. Most likely, whoever this Dragonborn was, he would end up being another bastard like any other famous figure. They were all one kind of a bastard or another, soon as they got a sip of power. A sweet but poisoned cup.
The blacksmith chatted as I browsed his wears, asking if I could bring to him a book titled "Night Falls on Sentinel." I agreed, if only to make him happy and perhaps get better prices. Blacksmiths seemed a more honorable sort, though, and I thought perhaps if I brought him this book he would pay debt of effort with coin, so it may be worth bringing him this book should I ever find it. Maybe it's the work that makes them more decent people.
With the assistance of the smith, I was able to forge a new chest piece for myself of Dwemer metal, a strange alloy. It looked and worked like bronze, but took a higher heat and was stronger. The smith told me that nobody had ever figured out what it was made of; many men had tried and failed to replicate it. All the workable metal came from ancient ruins, smelted down into ingots to be made into new pieces.
Nonetheless, my skills had grown slightly since I had wrought my steel armor back in Riverwood. The smith only had enough metal for the chest piece, but it turned out a beauty; bulkier and thicker than my previous steel plate, but offering greater protection, and a surprising amount of mobility.

I spent some more coin buying the smith's supplies of iron, steel, and leather to practice on, making small blades and working plates, chain, and scale. By the time I was done, my blows on the hot metal felt slightly surer, more precise. It would be a while yet before I could match Hermalth, the smith at my old stronghold, who could work Orichalcum with ease and grace. But I was getting there.
The snow began to fall more heavily as I wandered the streets, unsure of what to do next. Perhaps there was work to be done at the mines, or the Jarl may have a paying task for me. I strolled along the streets, cloak wrapped about me as I found the Jarl's longhouse and stepped inside. I did not know much of Nord politics; as best I could tell, the Jarl was a rough approximate of a war chief. The leader of his 'hold', a vast stretch of land encompassing the city where his longhouse lay, and perhaps a town or 'stead' and farms.

The Jarl, Skald his name, had little to say to me except that I had better be here to "Solve this damned nightmare problem." I asked if there would be coin in it for me if I did indeed solve the nightmare problem, and received only a noncommittal answer. Sighing, I took my leave and made my way back to the inn. The priest was surprised with my sudden change of heart, and I told him irritably not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Before long we made our way to what he named as 'Nightcaller Temple', shuffling up the mountain through the snows.
The wind was biting as we made our way to the ruined tower, and soon I was shivering even beneath my cloak. I urged the priest to make haste, lest we freeze in the storm, and we quickly entered the shelter of the tower's stone walls.
After a time spent warming ourselves, we moved deeper into the ruins. Erandur, the Dunmer priest, explained that he had once been a member of the cult here. They had released a purple gas, the miasma, when invaded by Orc raiders. The gas had put everyone to sleep, but as we made our way through the tower, they began to awake. Still lethargic and weakened from their slumber, they made easy targets, priests and raiders alike.

It seems like every Orc not part of a stronghold is a bandit or raider here in Skyrim. It is disheartening. They should have become mercenaries, or sellswords like me. But they had chosen their path, and they died on it. After a time, and much searching, Erandur bid me drink a potion, and through some strange dream magic I do not understand, I found myself on the other end of a magical barrier blocking us from our goal; the Skull of Corruption.
It seemed the skull was responsible for Dawnstar's nightmares, and as Erandur began a ritual of Mara to destroy the ancient artifact, the voice of none other than Vaermina filled my head. She bid me to kill Erandur, and take the skull for myself. It was a tempting offer; surely the skull would sell for a small fortune, and who was to say different if I claimed Erandur had been cut down battling our way through the temple?
I was not in such desperate need of coin as that, though, and resisted Vaermina's will. Erandur destroyed the artifact, and we hastily made our way back to town before the cold froze our bones. Such ill acts of murder are bad for the soul, and will rot it away as surely as spring melts the snow.

On the plus side, I did locate a metal container of Dwemer oil, excellent for maintaining metal, and Erandur pointed out many valuable potions and alchemical supplies to me in lue of payment in coin, for my help. When I returned to the Jarl, and informed him the cause of the nightmares had been dealt with, he gave me his thanks... and nothing else.
"A reward, for my assistance? Such things inspire others to similar deeds, Jarl." I explained, my words honeyed as best I could make them. The Jarl scoffed, and waved a hand dismissively. "A reward for doing your duty? I should think not. Now don't bother me again unless it's important!"
Bother him! I nearly put the edge of my shield through his throat. Ingrate. I stormed from his longhouse, much as I had from the Vigiliant's lodge. Were there no reasonable men in Skyrim? Perhaps I would be better off speaking only to blacksmiths!

With a sigh, I bundled my cloak tighter around me and stared out at Dawnstar's small dock, harboring a single ship. I looked for the sun, but it's position was impossible to tell behind thick sheets of snow and grey cloud. It felt late into the afternoon. With a small sigh I hefted the leather straps of my pack onto my shoulders. Making the decision to sell off the items bulging in my haversack from the temple, I headed towards a sign of mortar and pestle, swinging gently above a doorway, hinges creaking.
The latch to the door was locked, and when I knocked there was no reply. The owner must have been out, or was simply sleeping now that nightmares no longer plagued the town. Having no desire to stay in Dawnstar any longer, I set off west into the cold winds. My map told me that Morthal lay that way.

As the sun began to fall on the path to Morthal, a brute of a Nord armed with a massive, double bladed battle axe of engraved steel jumped into the way before me. It was a fierce battle, my shield blocking every powerful blow, denting my shield and jarring my arm with every strike. Gods, was he strong!
I swung at every opening I found, but he always seemed to jump back just enough that my blade made only shallow cuts. At last, his axe bit into the side of my shield, shearing through the metal rim and getting stuck. I thrust my blade forward from the hip, the curved top biting through his leather armor and tearing into his side. With a roar of pain, the Nord pulled with all his strength, ripping my shield from my grasp and pulling it from the chipped blade of his axe.
He swung at my head, slow but powerful, and I lunged forward onto one knee, the steel whooshing over my head as I put all my strength into a blow to his knee. His attack had left him with all his weight forward, and he could not leap back in time; my curved sword bit deep into the joint, shearing through cords of muscle and leaving his calf attached by only stringy tendons. The Nord fell, screaming in agony, and I quickly brought my blade down on his chest, cutting through the sternum and ending his life with a sick, wet crunch.

I was exhausted and sweating, breath coming in heaving rasps. Grabbing my shield, I made way off the path for a short time, dropping my gear into the snow and slipping the wood axe from it's leather loops, quickly cutting several branches from the nearby trees. The fire was an easy thing to light with my flames spell, and withing the hour I was resting comfortably, stripped to my linens to dry my sweat before the fire, lest chills set in.
I ate a hearty dinner, more salted fish and bread, melting snow in my pewter cup to drink. Curling snugly under the soft furs of my bedroll, I fell asleep to the sounds of pine sap crackling in the fire and the wind whispering through the needles of the trees gently swaying in the starlight.