The trip back to Riverwood was a quick one, and with good reason. The six members of my party were all experienced riders and tough people, able to spend days on the road in less-than-pleasant conditions and able to ride fast when they needed to. And the need was certainly present right now, with the looming threat of Mirmulnir on the proverbial -and, potentially, literal- horizon. Frankly, my major concern at the moment in regards to that particular flying bastard was the possibility that he would launch his attack on Whiterun’s territory while we were delving the depths of Bleak Falls Barrow. My unit, and the support group that was following at a more sedate pace, represented no small amount of the Hold’s…hmm, how should I say this. The Hold’s non-generic combat and healing power.
That didn’t sound particularly complimentary to the general public, the stalwart protectors of the Hold that weren’t ‘named characters’, but it was the best thing I could come up with at the moment. The point was, the average man or woman, even in Skyrim, didn’t stand much of a chance against a dragon, even in a large group. Not to mention the fact that having a large group try to confront a dragon would, eventually, reach a point of diminishing returns. All that would do is provide the damn thing with more targets, targets that would more likely than not be getting in each other’s way as they tried to evade or attack.
And the point was that I had a not-insignificant number of Whiterun’s very much not average people in my company at the moment. I just had to hope that the wheels of fate and prophecy wouldn’t have any major events happening without me being present. I’d always assumed that would be the case ‘in-universe’, that the whole Fated Hero schtick meant things could only happen in my presence or when I was in a close enough vicinity to take action.
Orrrr…or something would happen when I was too far away to make a difference, so that I could lament my helplessness when I arrived too late amongst the terrible result. That was a distinct possibility, given the popularity of that particular narrative trope across history and mythology. Especially for heroes.
Ugh.
At any rate, I was pretty damn confident of our chances for the immediate task before us. Aela and Skjor were dangerous enough on their own, between their experience, their training, and their werewolven enhancements. Hadvar and Ralof less so, but their value here had rather more to do with being witnesses than in anything that they might be able to do from a purely martial perspective. I was certainly no slouch, even if I didn’t yet have the ability to Shout and couldn’t use most of my magical abilities -inherited from the man who had preceded me in this body and life- for fear of being discovered as a vampire. Legionnaire or not, his talents had trended more towards the darker aspects of Conjuration and necrotic magic, and I hadn’t had the opportunity to branch out yet. Not enough to make a difference, anyway.
And Lydia?
Depending on how much training she had put into controlling her magic, which Balgruuf had implied wasn’t an insignificant amount, she could quite possible handle whatever threat presented itself in the final sarcophagus of the barrow. The power she’d been throwing around, often while trying to hold back and always when entirely untrained, in Frozen had been immense.
Never mind the whole ‘capable of creating sentient life’ thing, which was…well, I’ll be restrained and call it ‘a whole other thing’ and leave it at that for the moment.
Of course, the real question was just how well that power would translate to Skyrim, and from there how workable it would be in the cramped, confined spaces of a Nordic barrow. The last thing we needed to do was slip on some ice and go ass over elbow into a trap or a draugr pack, not to mention the fact that -while I didn’t doubt that the barrows were incredibly durable, naturally and magically alike, especially against frost-based magic and the cold- throwing around major magical attacks somewhere as old as the damn pyramids back home was a great way to risk bringing the ceiling down on our heads.
Still, I would much, much rather have that kind of firepower with me than not, despite my protestations back in Dragonsreach. Even if it was only in the short term, which it very well might be -gods only knew if I’d be allowed to keep her when she was actual royalty, and the Hold’s most powerful mage besides- she would be one hell of a companion.
God, I hoped it was long-term though. She’d be incredibly useful against my ‘brothers’, for one thing, but for another…well, for another that armor of hers really hugged her figure in an almost painfully flattering way. That was the nice thing about inherently magical worlds like Warhammer Fantasy, Warcraft, Final Fantasy, or Elder Scrolls. You could wear what would otherwise be impractical and still receive the same protection.
Not that her plate armor was truly impractical, it wasn’t boob plate armor, but it certainly wasn’t bulky either.
And Divines knew that she had a hell of a figure. I’d seen her in a dress, now, a very finely-made, well-tailored dress that had been nothing short of heart-stopping, during our short time in Whiterun. Having her become my huskarl, devoted to me body and soul, looking at me with those magnificent crystal-blue eyes and asking how she can be of service…well, if I thought about that too much, my codpiece might start to get uncomfortable.
Come to think of beautiful women and companionship, I had to figure out what to do with my brand-spanking-new farmstead. Cammy and Lucy could, would, be living there of course, but it would need workers, further staff, and -most importantly- guards. I didn’t doubt that the Hold Guard ran patrols around the farmsteads at all hours, but patrols could be timed and I wasn’t going to risk my sisters’ safety on chance. Especially not since I was, by all appearance, soon going to be revealed as the Dragonborn. The girls would be in significant danger as a result, either for direct harm to break me or as leverage to control me. Neither of which I would be willing to tolerate, of course. I’d only known them for a fraction of time, but I’d flatten this entire province if anything happened to my sisters.
At any rate, we’d arrived a bit before dawn, having ridden through the night -the side benefit of having two moons was much brighter nights, even if it made the shadows comparatively harsher in the places that they lingered- and slept until noon, split between my family’s property, the Inn, and Gerdur’s house. Then we’d eaten hearty, made sure we had everything that we needed insofar as equipment and supplies, and started the trek up to the barrow itself.
A trek that had been filled with me carefully prying as much as I could into the background of Aela in this particular version of the Elder Scrolls. It was certainly an interesting one, a mixture of her canonical backstory from the game and the backstory of Lara Croft from the Crystal Dynamics Survivor Timeline. Her mother had been a member of The Companions, part of a family of Companions stretching back all the way to the original companions of Ysgramor -which had been rather closer to the ancient warlord than the game had implied, something that made a lot of sense in hindsight. Why wouldn’t the proto-viking warlord be banging some of his female followers and getting them pregnant?- while her father had been a Breton nobleman adventurer and explorer. Apparently, they’d met when he’d hired the Companions to help guard his dig team, and promptly saved one another’s lives when the Forsworn had attacked.
Things had evolved from there, but when Aela had been three years old her mother had died in a brutal fight against a giant clan that had been particularly aggressive. Heartbroken, her father had left Skyrim with his daughter in tow, raising her on his estate -to which she was still heir, her father not yet having died, unlike the Survivor games- until she had been old enough to decide that she had more in common with her mother’s people than her fathers. She’d run away to Skyrim, settling into Jorvasskr and rising quickly through the ranks and in renown, until she was famous across the whole of Skyrim and known in other provinces besides.
None of which surprised me. Survivor Timeline Lara was a fucking nerd, a gorgeous fucking nerd with a sexy accent, but she was also fucking terrifying. By the third game, she’d literally started doing shit out of Predator and Terminator, and Trinity commandoes basically shat themselves at the sound of her name, never mind the sight of her. Somehow, I didn’t doubt that making her a werewolf in a world where genuine magic was a party of every day life would make her any less impressive. Besides, she was a redhead now, and everyone knew that redheads were as terrifying as they were gorgeous.
“…been too busy dealing with contracts and helping Whiterun stay neutral to explore any barrows myself, or at least not Dragon Cult barrows as opposed to family or clan barrows. Most Dragon Cult barrows are in other provinces, and Kodlak doesn’t want us taking too many contracts in the non-neutral provinces until things are settled. The last thing he wants to see happen is for The Companions, and possibly Whiterun as a result, getting dragged into the war because someone misunderstands something or does something stupid.” she finished her explanation of why an avid historian hadn’t ever explored something so central to her people’s history as the Dragon Cult’s various fortress-tombs.
“A shame, but you’ll certainly be getting a close look at it now, and I don’t doubt we’ll be needing to travel to more tombs in the future to figure out solutions to this dragon problem. You’re more than welcome to join me, if you should be so inclined. Good company always makes the road more pleasant to travel, especially when that company is both educated and deadly, the roads being what they are.” I responded somewhat-smoothly, and she eyed me for a moment with something of a curious gleam in her eyes.
“We’ll see. You’re still a stranger, after all, who is barely known. Gerdur seems to trust you, and that holds plenty of weight. The way you dote on your sisters carries more. But a man can be trusted and love his family and still be unworthy of trust.” she demurred, which was both accurate and fair. I had no intentions of villainy, of course, but then again, who knows what someone might consider villainy? I wasn’t planning on being a rapist or a tyrant or a butcher, but I certainly planned on collecting women into what could accurately be called a harem, was planning on replacing the Mede dynasty with my own bloodline, and would doubtlessly have to kill plenty of people to accomplish my goals.
Villainy was, as with so many things, much a matter of perspective.
“Fair enough.” was all I said, as we reached the bottom of the stone steps leading up to the barrow’s main concourse, the bloody and mangled remains of the bandits the legionnaires and I had killed -all bearing the signs of being at least partially eaten by the various beasts that roamed the mountainside and the sky above it- still lying more-or-less where they had fallen in the fighting.
Almost instantly, Aela’s attention moved from me to the architecture itself, scampering up the steps with a broadening smile and widening eyes as she took it all in.
“I can see what you meant, Constantine. It very much has the look of a temple to it, and not dissimilar to some of the greater temples to the Divines in Cyrodiil that I’ve seen drawings and paintings of. The multiple staircases, the archways that you need to pass beneath…and those look like totemic animals on the pillars supporting the center of the arches as well. Probably the ancient animal gods of Atmora and the old Nords.” she started rattling off, stepping up to one such totem and examining the weathered stone carefully, muttering lowly how incredible it was that they had lasted so long and that magic was probably responsible, before glancing back and forth along the length of the approach. “It must have been something like a pilgrimage, once. Ascending the stairs, passing beneath each of the totems. Entering the temple by passing beneath the gaze of each of the gods, probably in ascending order of significance and power. The weakest and lowest ranked gods first, at the lower sections, with the strongest and highest ranked at the main entrance itself.”
“Probably, though I doubt anyone can say for sure. Not unless we can get one of the ancient draugr to tell us instead of trying to kill us.” I responded, folding loving the sight of her moving from pillar to pillar more than a little, and loving her musings even more. There were few things more attractive than a woman in passion, of one kind or another, and a woman gushing about something she loved even more so. “You’ll notice the defensive structures as well. I’ve never been sure if various groups of the Dragon Cult warred with one another, or if those were added once the rebellion began. I’ve always favored the former theory, of course, but…”
“Mmh, they’re clearly towers of some sort. Probably for archers and mages. I certainly wouldn’t envy someoen trying to storm this place by force in its hayday, to say the least. The terrain certainly favors the defenders as a matter of nature.” she agreed absently, giving said towers little more than a cursory look before starting to meander in the direction of the main door. “I think you’re probably right about the Dragon Cult warring with itself. Different sects of the same religion certainly do that often enough today, so I can’t imagine that it wouldn’t happen then. They were probably expanded during the rebellion, of course.”
“This door is massive.” Lydia remarked, joining Aela in approaching the massive, black, carved stone slabs that were the main entrance to the barrow. “You could march an army through, if you wanted to. They must be…one-hundred feet across? More? Why? Having such a large main entrance would just make the place harder to defend, and I can’t imagine that the doors could be opened or closed very quickly at all, even with magic.”
“Dragons, probably.” Aela proposed in response, brushing her fingers over some of the doors’ carvings. “This is a temple, and it was a temple to a god that very much existed in physical form on Nirn. They must have built their temples large enough that their gods could actually enter them and be directly worshipped in the sanctuary. I’m willing to bet that the room on the far side is enormous.”
“It is, though not as big as you might think. It’s certainly nowhere close to the size of the dragon that destroyed Helgen. If I had to guess, the dragons hand rankings as much as any mortal race would. The smaller, weaker dragons would hold court in places like this as intermediaries or lesser gods than their ruler. He probably either nested at the Throat of the World, or at Bromjuunar.” I agreed, still mildly disappointed by those facts, even if I wasn’t terribly surprised. Of course, ‘smaller’ was a relative thing under these circumstances. They’d probably still be in excess of sixty feet wingtip-to-wingtip and nose-to-snout, which was more than enough to pose a threat. Shrugging and huffing a laugh, I continued. “Fortunately, we don’t need to open the doors completely to get in, being rather smaller than a dragon. Let’s get inside and get started. I’d rather not have to spend the night in here, and I definitely don’t want to make my way down the mountain once the sun’s gone.”
#####################################################################################
Aela was practically bouncing with glee as she followed the tall, broad, handsome vampire pureblood -and he had to be a pureblood, a lesser vampire would have died from the sun exposure he’d received before her very eyes- that was the enigmatic and knowledgeable Constantine Valerius deeper into the tomb. Much to the bafflement of some, and the amused affection of others. To most of the world, Aela the Huntress was an exceptionally deadly young woman and one of the prominent leaders of The Companions, so seeing her act like a child over a millennia-old temple-tomb was probably something of a shock.
Though she hadn’t failed to notice the fact that Constantine didn’t seem all that surprised. In fact, he was one of the people -in addition to Skjor and Lydia- that was firmly on the ‘amused affection’ side of things, and she had to wonder at that. Just like she would have to spend some time to wonder about her attraction to the man, which most definitely existed as well. Oh, he was aesthetically pleasing, as the young noblewomen she’d grown up around would have said, anybody with eyes could see that much, but there was something almost magnetic about him. Something that seemed to draw people in, and she knew it couldn’t be magical. Werewolves couldn’t be enthralled or controlled by magic, and even more overt spells tended to be less than effective against them.
Which suggested that whatever pull he had, whatever seemed to be drawing her towards him -amongst others, if her eyes and her nose weren’t lying to her, Lydia not the least- was entirely natural. Or at least as natural as anything could be when the person in question was, quite literally, supernaturally good looking. But that was, of course, entirely beside the point and utterly irrelevant. What was relevant is just how interesting she found this enigma. An enigma she now wanted to solve, because if there was one thing Aela loved to do, it was solve problems. Problems like…
“So, what do you make of this room?” the voice of the man in question broke through her contemplations, and she blinked, looking around the room that they had just stepped into. There was an open gate at the far end of the room, three faintly-glowing stones -with the animal totems on them in a brilliant, shimmering white-blue- to her left, and…she blinked, then smiled in understanding.
“Remarkable! The lever controls the gate, and it functions like an enormous combination lock!” she crowed, moving over to the stones pressing a hand against one of the symbols. With a soft grinding sound, the entire stone lifted up a few inches and rotated to another symbol, before settling back down onto it’s platform. The instant it had, the gate slammed shut and the lever changed position. “And still functioning perfectly! I knew that our ancestors built and spelled things things to last, but this is incredible. But I wonder if there is a particular story, literally or figuratively, behind the combination? I would assume so, but then I can’t imagine why it would depict the same deity twice in a row.”
“What makes you think that there’s a story to the combination, Lady Aela?” Hadvar asked curiously, eyeing the collapsed right-hand side of the room’s upper level carefully. Probably worried that more of it would come down and trap everyone in the barrow.
“A few things. First, when it comes to passing trials such as this and gaining entrance deeper into a temple, it would probably represent possessing deeper knowledge -which means higher rank and greater experience- in the religion itself. Think of them as, oh, checkpoints in a cult member’s journey.” she elaborated happily, ignoring the resigned look on Skjor’s face with the ease of long practice. Her friend and mentor might be happier just killing things, but she was an intellectual, and if given the chance to indulge to a mostly-interested audience, she was damn well going to do so. She gestured to the three rotating totems on the left side, then to the upper level. "Second, I'm willing to bet that the stairs and upper platform were put there with the intention of changing out the combination somehow, perhaps by switching the stones. See, it's their placement inside the mouths of the human head carvings that make me think there were stories, or perhaps some sort of hymns, related to the combinations. As they sing their praises to their gods, the way further in is opened to them. In fact, since this also functions as a tomb, I imagine that the greater their devotion and praise, the closer that they got to their afterlife with their gods, being buried at the deeper levels. All together, this would have guaranteed, or at least tried to guarantee, that only the people who were educated and trusted enough could access the more vital and valuable portions of the temple, as well as providing a spiritual sense of accomplishment, which would encourage further devotion and dedication. It’s simple, but brilliant.”
She touched the same keystone as before, waited for it to settle, then touched it again to ‘solve’ the combination again. A gesture at Ralof had the blonde man pulling the lever, the gate smoothly clattering open, and she shook her head in something that could only be called awe. Thousands of years separated her from the people who had built these mechanisms, and yet for all their advances and inventions, she knew that there was nothing like this in the modern age.
“To bad we can’t build something like that to protect Jorrvaskr from the damn Silver Hand.” Skjor muttered softly to her as the group started to file through and head deeper into the tomb. She flashed him a grin and put a finger to her lips, but even as he fell back to take the rear she wondered if it might actually be possible. Not all the same details, of course, but some method of making the doors open only to a combination would be a significant increase in security. Hmm. Something to consider, and something to consult with more magically inclined people when she had the chance. Well, perhaps not more magically inclined, she was at least half a Breton after all and had been taught magic practically since birth, but she certainly hadn’t plumbed particularly deep into the esoteric fields of magic.
Anyway, that was somewhat besides the point. The point was, she couldn’t make something like this on her own, she didn’t even know if something like this could still be made at all, and a wise person consulted when it was necessary. That being the case, she let her thoughts return to her contemplations of Constantine, and in particular the knowledge that he seemed to hold.
Despite her prying, both subtle and not, he had yet to explain where he’d gotten the Akaviri ink painting, how he knew where the Akaviri Temple was, or really how he knew any of the things that he knew. At a guess, he was old enough and well-traveled enough to have learned such things when they were a bit more recent, but he didn’t strike her as someone that was thousands of years old. He felt too…relaxed, too comfortable. Too modern, really, and while she admitted she didn’t exactly know many vampires, and had certainly never before met a pureblood, it was a generally accepted thing that they struggled to ‘modernize’, often coming across as old-fashioned or archaic.
Constantine didn’t. He spoke like someone who had been raised in this era, with idioms and turns of phrase that were distinctly contemporary, even if his vocabulary and education suggested someone far older and more widely-read than his apparent years and lifestyle would otherwise normally allow. Of course, it was certainly possible -maybe even probable- that he was a younger addition to an ancient clan, using the knowledge and the artifacts that had been collected by those with several thousand years of life under their belts, rather than anything he himself had gathered. That made a great deal of sense, though she wasn’t stupid enough to latch onto a single theory as ‘the solution’ just yet.
Not without more investigation, more context, more information.
Farkas’ theory about the Blades came to mind as they descended deeper, the air growing colder and damper with each step, leaving her briefly glad for the furs that she had worn and for her Nordic blood. If he was a Blade, either before or after he had been turned, or had been trained by one, it would explain a great deal as well. Frankly, from what she had heard of that organization before they’d been slaughtered by the Thalmor, she wouldn’t be terribly surprised if they’d had a secret membership of vampires specifically to help keep their knowledge alive. Or even that the Blades had been infiltrated by a vampire clan looking to keep eyes and influence inside of such an ancient and significant organization. It wouldn’t have been the first time something like either one of those options had been done, she knew, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last either.
“Get your weapons ready and watch your step. The legionnaires and I didn’t move any deeper than this, neither did the bandits. So if there are any draugr to wake or traps to spring, we’ll be seeing them from here on out.” Constantine’s voice filtered down the stone hall as they arrived at the top of a shallow slope, and her hands fell to her hips to draw her melee weapons of choice, a pair of finely-forged Skysteel war-picks. Something far more effective at fighting draugr than a sword, she’d discovered from experience, and something that felt far more natural in her hands than any blade larger than a dagger ever had. The rasping sounds of her comrades doing the same around her was a sweet song to her ears, and she couldn’t help but hum softly to herself in approval as Constantine easily drew his own prodigious blade free of it’s scabbard. Not many men could wield a sword like that, most opted for either the Imperial gladius or full-sized greatswords, and she could tell that he knew how to use it.
Though, she thought to herself as they reached the bottom of the ramp and were greeted almost immediately by a chorus of growls and the rasp of metal on stone echoing off of the walls, the draugr climbing off of their crypt-shelves and drawing their burial weapons as they hissed threats and dark promises in a language that she couldn’t speak. Then the fight was on, the undead swarming forward and the living spread out to receive them.
The first draugr to reach them had the misfortune of trying to engage Constantine blade-to-blade, and paid a heavy price for it as his sword carved straight through it’s ribcage, cleaving through a gap in the ancient armor the creature was wearing to bisect it at the waist before it’s upraised axe could even begin to fall. A feat of strength that no regular human would be capable, performed at a speed that no regular human would even be able to see it. Oblivion, she’d have missed it with a blink even with her moon-blessed senses, and as he stepped over the crumpled halves, she shook her head in something approaching awe and moved to find a target for himself. It had been so…casual. Effortless and smooth, and if it wasn’t for the circumstances, she was pretty sure that her breath would have caught in her chest.
She’d always, she reflected wryly to herself as she parried a draugr’s sword with one pick and planted the spike of the other in it’s temple, had two types of person she found most attractive. The damsel in distress that she needed to rescue and protect, and the skillful fighter who could fight beside her instead. Constantine certainly looked to be the second, which wasn’t going to do her any good whatsoever when it came to inspecting him objectively for trustworthiness. Not that even a pretty face and good swordplay could distract her during a fight, of course, and she felt her lips spreading into the same, familiar, bloodthirsty grin they always carried when she fought.
This, this is what she loved more than nearly anything else. The way her blood burned and sang with the thrill of battle, the way the world seemed to slow and her mind raced, the satisfaction that came with each successful block or blow. It was primal and raw and and pure in a way that nothing else in her life every seemed to feel. Even her moments of intimacy with Ria couldn’t hope to compare.
Granted, the draugr were not the most challenging opponents, or at least these ones weren’t. Whatever being might be buried at the end of this place, whether it was a Deathlord or a Dragon Priest or something else entirely, they’d figure that out -and handle it- when the time came. This lot, however, were anything but impressive when compared to the group that was facing them, and they were torn to pieces -literally, in most cases- in short order.
“Well,” Ralof grunted when the fight was over, pulling his axe free from a draugr’s skull with a crunching sound that echoed unpleasantly off the low ceiling, grimacing at the ancient ichor that had once been it’s blood. “that was bracing. Though I’ll confess, I expected worse from the way you talked about this place, Constantine.”
“These are the outermost guardians. Sentries, essentially. The lowest-ranking members of the cult, barely more than animated corpses following the last orders they were given before they died, which was to kill anyone that trespassed.” Constantine replied, flicking the worst of the ichor from his blade with a practiced movement, though he didn’t sheathe it again. “Think of them as the equivalent of the guards at the city gate. Necessary, reliable, loyal, but not exactly the kind of people you’d trust with the treasury keys. The deeper we go, the more dangerous things will get.”
“Then we had best stay ready to deal with whatever it is that we end up confronting. Onward and downward.” Hadvar encouraged, clapping his childhood friend on the shoulder with a grin. “If only our boyhood selves could see us now, Ralof. Actually delving into the depths of Bleak Falls instead of boasting about it, then hiding beneath our beds when the shutters creaked from the wind, fearful that it was the draugr come to take us away.”
“I did no such thing!” Ralof blustered, glowering at his friend’s back as the other man started strolling away, and a current of laughter and amusement ran through the group as they moved on.
Within the hour, that laughter would be replaced with something else entirely.