If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
...
(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
Bjorlam cracked the heavy leather reins, and the draft horse pulled the carriage forward. They rolled down the cobblestone highway, heading south until they reached the intersection, and then turned smoothly to the east. They were utilizing the exact same winding, dirt roads of the Rift they had traveled just a few days prior, heading back toward the towering, misty base of the Throat of the World. The Horn of Jurgen Windcaller rested securely in Aeloria's pack, completely ready to fulfill the ancient prophecy.
The journey past through the winding, autumnal forests of the Rift was a vastly different experience without a mountain of mythological bones weighing down the axles.
Bjorlam's heavy wooden carriage moved at a brisk, steady pace, the draft horse seemingly relieved to be pulling nothing more than a few heavily armored mortals. The crisp morning air rushed past the open canopy, carrying the rich, earthy scent of damp pine needles and turning leaves.
Inside the wagon, the mood was focused. The exhaustion of the previous days had been washed away by a night of solid rest and Ysolda's spectacular breakfast, replaced by a quiet, determined anticipation.
Aeloria sat near the back, her fingers lightly tracing the ancient, rune etched bone of the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, which rested securely in her lap.
The ride took several hours, the golden plains of Whiterun giving way to the rocky, rising elevations of the southern mountain range. Finally, the dense tree line broke, and the quiet, rustic village of Ivarstead appeared in the mist.
Aerion leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on his knees.
"Bjorlam," Aerion called out to the driver, his melodic voice cutting over the rattle of the wooden wheels. "Do not stop at the Vilemyr Inn today. Take the carriage straight through the village. Park directly at the stone bridge leading to the steps."
"You have it, my Thane," Bjorlam nodded, expertly guiding the horse past the local lumber mill and the few staring villagers.
The carriage rolled to a gentle halt right at the absolute edge of the settlement, the rushing, freezing waters of the mountain river churning loudly beneath the ancient stone arches of the bridge.
Aerion stepped down gracefully from the carriage, his dark robes settling around his boots. The rest of the heavily armored strike team clambered out behind him, adjusting their heavy supply packs and checking the straps on their weapons.
"We will be making the ascent immediately, Bjorlam," Aerion instructed, turning to the driver. "I ask that you remain here and wait for our return. The climb should not take as long this time, as we are already familiar with the path. We will be back before nightfall."
Bjorlam tipped his wide brimmed hat with a relaxed smile. "Of course, my Thane. I've got enough feed for the horse and a good scenery to see. I'll hold the bridge."
With their transport secured, Aerion turned and led the group across the stone bridge.
As their boots hit the first, massive granite slab of the Seven Thousand Steps, the familiar, crushing scale of the Throat of the World loomed over them. But this time, they were not walking into the absolute unknown. They knew the treacherous pacing required, they knew where the ice slicks formed, and they knew exactly how to breathe in the thinning altitude.
"Pace yourselves," Aerion advised smoothly, taking the absolute front of the vanguard. "A steady, unbreakable rhythm."
The climb began. The first few thousand steps, winding through the lush, golden birch trees of the lower mountain, passed in relative silence. The physical exertion was still immense for the heavily armored Nords, but the sheer, agonizing shock to their systems was gone.
By the time they reached the halfway point, crossing the four thousandth step, the environment violently shifted. The golden leaves vanished, entirely swallowed by thick, blinding white snowdrifts and howling, freezing wind. The air grew dangerously thin.
"Let's stop here," Aerion says, raising a hand as they reached a slightly sheltered outcropping of rock that blocked the worst of the blizzard. "We take our respite here. Replenish your caloric output."
Valdemar and Lydia immediately swung their heavy leather supply packs off their broad shoulders, dropping them onto the snow. They quickly distributed the provisions they had purchased in Whiterun.
The team huddled in the lee of the rock, tearing into thick strips of salted venison and passing around the heavy leather waterskins, the cold water stinging their parched throats but revitalizing their burning muscles.
They did not linger long enough for the cold to seep into their joints. After ten minutes, Aerion stood up, dusting a few stray snowflakes from his sleeves.
"We push to the peak," Aerion announced.
They resumed the grueling, vertical ascent, heads bowed against the driving snow.
But the mountain was rarely content to let interlopers pass completely unchallenged. As they navigated a particularly narrow, treacherous stretch of the stairs flanked by sheer drops, the howling wind suddenly took on a sharp, unnatural, hissing pitch.
Jenassa, marching near the rear, immediately drew her bow. "Ambush! In the snow!"
Emerging silently from the swirling white blizzard, completely blending into the freezing environment, were at least ten Ice Wraiths. Two full handfuls of the ethereal, serpentine entities of absolute freeze swarmed out of the snowdrifts, their glowing blue eyes locking onto the thermal heat signatures of the strike team.
"Hold the center!" Valdemar roared, raising his heavy iron shield as the wraiths lunged forward.
The combat was fast, brutal, and entirely one-sided.
Aerion didn't even bother to step back. His Destruction matrix had just hit the absolute maximum ceiling the night before, and he was eager to test the voltage.
He raised his right hand, his golden eyes flashing with raw, crackling power. He didn't cast a localized spell, he unleashed a continuous, blinding torrent of Chain Lightning.
The purple electricity violently erupted from his palm, arcing with terrifying, explosive speed between the ethereal forms of the Ice Wraiths. The condensed voltage instantly shattered the central ice crystals holding the entities together. Four of the wraiths violently detonated into harmless showers of mundane snowflakes before they even crossed half the distance to the vanguard.
Aeloria stepped forward, her blazing Axe of Morthal cutting a wide, horizontal arc through the blizzard. The intense heat of the red runes instantly sublimated two more wraiths that attempted to flank her, melting them into hissing steam.
Lydia caught a lunging wraith on the boss of her shield, the freezing vapor splashing against the steel, before Jenassa put a steel arrow directly through its glowing blue core, shattering it instantly.
Within fifteen seconds, the howling wind was entirely empty once more, the shattered shards of blue ice melting quietly on the stone steps.
"A minor inconvenience," Aerion noted, lowering his hand as the static electricity faded from his fingertips. "Keep moving."
They pressed onward, completely unbothered by the skirmish.
Finally, the relentless, vertical incline flattened out. The howling blizzard seemed to organically part before them, revealing the massive, sprawling, incredibly ancient stone fortress resting upon the absolute apex of the world.
High Hrothgar.
The strike team stumbled out of the snow, their chests heaving as they marched across the wide stone courtyard. Valdemar and Lydia pushed the heavy big stone doors open, and they stepped out of the freezing apocalypse and into the thick, ancient, suffocatingly silent warmth of the monastery.
The heavy doors clicked shut behind them.
As they walked down the dimly lit entrance corridor and stepped into the massive, vaulted main hall, a figure in heavy gray robes was already gliding silently toward them.
Master Arngeir stopped in the center of the room, the smokeless flames of the dragon relief braziers casting long shadows across his ancient, bearded face. His kind, deeply intelligent eyes swept over the heavily armored group, a warm, knowing smile touching his lips.
"Welcome back to High Hrothgar, travelers," Arngeir's deep, resonant voice thrummed through the stone floorboards. He looked directly at the towering Nord woman at the front of the group. "If you have returned to our halls so soon, I can only assume that the Dragonborn has successfully managed to navigate the depths of Ustengrav."
Aeloria stepped forward, her heavy steel boots clanking softly in the quiet hall. She did not speak immediately. She reached into her leather pack and carefully withdrew the massive, beautifully carved, ancient bone artifact.
She held the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller out with both hands, bowing her head deeply in a gesture of profound respect.
"I have it, Master Arngeir," Aeloria announced, her voice steady and proud.
Arngeir's eyes widened a fraction of an inch, a look of genuine, fervent reverence washing over his ancient features. He stepped forward, reaching out with both of his frail, trembling hands to accept the legendary artifact. He cradled the Horn against his chest as if he were holding a newborn child, his eyes closing for a brief moment in silent prayer.
"Ah," Arngeir breathed, his Voice vibrating with sheer, unadulterated joy. "You have retrieved the Horn of our revered founder. It has been returned to the mountain at last."
He opened his eyes, looking up at Aeloria with absolute, glowing approval.
"Well done, Dragonborn," Arngeir praised her, his tone ringing with finality. "You have navigated the darkness, and you have remained true to the path. You have now successfully passed all the trials that we have prepared for you."
Arngeir turned, gesturing with a frail hand toward the rear archways of the main hall.
"Come with me," Arngeir instructed gently. "You have proven your discipline and your strength. You are now more than ready to learn the final Word of the Unrelenting Force Shout... Dah, which means 'Push'. Master Wulfgar is waiting."
Aerion, standing quietly in the shadows near the entrance, felt a deep, highly amused smirk tug at the corner of his lips. He already possessed the final word, fully unlocked and maxed out, thanks to his system's glitch days prior. But he kept his face perfectly impassive, following Aeloria and the Greybeard through the stone corridors.
Arngeir led the group out into the open air, high altitude back courtyard. The freezing wind whipped fiercely across the snow, but the ancient monks seemed entirely unbothered.
Sitting in the absolute center of the snowy courtyard, deep in silent, cross legged meditation, was Master Wulfgar.
As they approached, Wulfgar slowly opened his eyes and stood up, his heavy gray robes fluttering.
"Master Wulfgar," Arngeir spoke, his resonant voice cutting through the blizzard. "The Dragonborn has passed the final trial. Grant her the final Word of the Shout, and share with her your understanding of its power."
Wulfgar offered a slow, silent nod of obedience.
The ancient monk stepped forward to a patch of smooth, snow-swept cobblestone. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. He thrust his hands downward, and a stream of ethereal, glowing orange fire violently etched the ancient draconic runes for Dah directly into the freezing stone.
Aeloria stepped up to the glowing runes.
As she looked at them, the magical energy lifted from the stone, flowing directly into her chest. She gasped slightly, her eyes widening as the profound, cosmic concept of 'Push' integrated into her soul.
Master Wulfgar then stepped close to her. He raised his hands, and a brilliant, blinding white aura pulsed from his body, transferring directly into Aeloria. He was giving her his own, centuries old understanding of the Word, bypassing years of meditation.
Aeloria staggered back a half step, her breath catching as the sheer, absolute completeness of the Unrelenting Force finally settled within her. The Shout was no longer fractured, it was whole, devastating, and entirely hers.
Master Arngeir walked over to her, a warm, proud smile on his face.
"You have completed your basic training, Dragonborn," Arngeir announced, his voice booming with official, ancient authority. "The gates of High Hrothgar are now fully open to you. You are recognized as a master of the Voice in your own right. You may come and go from this sanctuary whenever you wish. You are always welcome here."
Aeloria looked at the frail old men who possessed the power to shatter the world. A massive, deeply grateful smile broke across her face. She bowed deeply.
"Thank you, Master Arngeir. Thank you, Master Wulfgar," Aeloria said, her voice thick with emotion. "For your teaching, your patience, and your guidance. I will not dishonor the gift you have given me."
Arngeir nodded slowly, accepting her vow.
But as the formal ceremony concluded, the smile slowly faded from Aeloria's face. The gratitude remained, but it was quickly overshadowed by the heavy, burning question that had been eating away at her sanity ever since she had watched Alduin rip Sahloknir from the dirt.
Aeloria straightened her posture, her bright blue eyes hardening with absolute, unyielding Nordic determination.
"Master Arngeir," Aeloria began, her tone shifting from the respectful student to the demanding warrior. "I have completed your trials. I have proven myself. Now, I need you to answer my questions. Truthfully."
Arngeir's warm smile faded slightly, replaced by a mask of ancient, guarded neutrality. "Ask what you will, Dragonborn."
"Why have the dragons returned to Skyrim after so many thousands of years?" Aeloria demanded, her voice echoing off the stone walls of the courtyard. "What has suddenly awakened them now? We encountered a black dragon at Helgen, then we fought one at the Western Watchtower, and just yesterday, we watched the same black dragon literally resurrect another one from an ancient burial mound in Eastmarch. This isn't a random occurrence. What role do the Greybeards truly play in this unfolding fate?"
The strike team stood perfectly still, watching the exchange.
Master Arngeir, calm and measured as ever, did not flinch at the interrogation. But he also did not answer directly.
The ancient monk clasped his hands behind his back, looking out over the sheer, deadly cliffs of the mountain, staring into the swirling gray clouds.
"You seek simple answers to questions that span eras, Aeloria," Arngeir spoke, his voice heavy with the vague, cryptic language of the Way of the Voice. "The return of the dragons is no accident. It is not a sudden mistake of nature. It is a sign... long foreseen by the ancient texts, and long delayed by the mercy of time."
Aeloria frowned, stepping closer. "A sign of what? Foreseen by who?"
Arngeir turned his head slightly, his eyes filled with a sad, immense burden.
"Some things, Dragonborn, are hidden from the world for a reason," Arngeir suggested softly, entirely side stepping the specifics. "The paths of the dragons, the destiny of the Dragonborn, and the wills of the gods themselves are already moving. They are converging toward a destiny that is vastly older than the Empire, older than the very land of Skyrim, and older than mortal memory itself. We merely watch the sky and listen to the Voice. We do not command the tides of fate."
Aeloria let out a sharp, frustrated breath. The cryptic non-answers were infuriating. She had just fought two dragons in three days, and the supposed masters of this lore were speaking in riddles.
"That tells me absolutely nothing," Aeloria argued, her frustration bleeding through. "If you know what is coming, why won't you tell me?"
Standing in the shadows near the courtyard doors, Aerion maintained a flawless mask of polite observation, but his transmigrator mind was humming with deep, sociopathic amusement.
'Oh, he knows exactly what is coming,' Aerion thought, crossing his arms casually. 'He knows that the black dragon is Alduin the World-Eater. He knows about the prophecy of the Last Dragonborn. He knows about the Time Wound at the peak of this very mountain, and he knows that his own master, Paarthurnax, is a dragon sitting right above our heads. He knows everything.'
But Aerion remained absolutely, completely silent.
He was not going to intervene. He was not going to drop the massive, geopolitical lore bombs and expose the Greybeards' secrets.
Doing so would instantly shatter his cover as a scholar, and vastly more importantly, aggressively antagonizing a faction of pacifist monks who could literally shout him off the mountain was a phenomenally stupid tactical decision. Let Aeloria deal with the frustrating gatekeeping, it would only make her rely more heavily on his straightforward, pragmatic guidance.
Arngeir looked at the frustrated Dragonborn, his expression softening into one of genuine pity.
"You are not yet ready to bear the full weight of the truth, child," Arngeir murmured gently, revealing only fragments. "When the time is right, the path will make itself clear to you."
Aeloria realized she was hitting a solid stone wall. The Greybeards knew far more than they were willing to say, and no amount of Nordic shouting was going to pry the secrets from their ancient lips.
She forced herself to take a deep, calming breath, accepting the stalemate for now.
"Fine," Aeloria conceded bitterly. "If you won't tell me what is coming... then at least tell me how to prepare for it. How do I learn more about the Voice? How do I grow stronger?"
Master Arngeir turned fully to face her, his eyes returning to their warm, instructional state.
"You have learned so much already in such a short time, Dragonborn," Arngeir cautioned her gently. "Growing your gift too quickly, without the necessary wisdom to temper it, would be incredibly dangerous. Arrogance is the true enemy of the Voice."
He raised a frail hand, pointing out over the vast, sprawling expanse of Skyrim visible far below the mountain peak.
"But you are correct, you must prepare," Arngeir allowed. "There are many ancient Words of Power scattered across this province, carved deeply into the stone of forgotten ruins and high peaks in the Dragon tongue. Even from this high sanctuary, we can feel the latent Thu'um resonating from them."
Arngeir looked back at Aeloria, offering a final, guiding decree. "Finding these lost Words would be a sufficient test," Arngeir advised. "Seek them out. Absorb their meanings. It will temper your raw abilities with the necessary physical and spiritual experience to truly prepare you for what is to come."
_____________________________
[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 610/610 Stamina: 660/660 Magicka: 830/830
Level: 170
Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL), Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL), Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL), Instant Shout (MAX LEVEL), Dragon Master (MAX LEVEL), Destruction (Fire(+3)/Lightning(+2)/Frost(+1)) (Level 97/0/84), Restoration (Healing(+1)/Purify(+2)) (Level 79/50), Alteration (Level 35), Illusion (Level 50), Conjuration (Necromancy/Summoning(+1)) (Level 37/38), Persuasion(+1) (Level 89), Smithing (Level 22), Sneak(+1) (Level 0), One Handed(+1) (Level 72), Two Handed (Level 81), Lockpicking (Level 35), Archery (Level 72), Enchanting (Level 66), Light Armor(+1) (Level 50), Block (Level 70), & Pickpocket (Level 8)
Shouts: Fus Roh Dah (Force Balance Push), Tiid (Time), Krii (Kill), Feim Zii (Fade Spirit), Su (Air), & Laas (Life)
[Inventory Panel]
1x Small Sack, Poacher's Axe, Mammoth Tusk, the Golden Claw, Calm Spellbook, Arvel's Journal, Inkwell & Quill, Thief Book, Scroll Of Summoning (Wolf), Scroll Of Healing, Weak Potion of Paralysis, Golden Staff of Flames, Parchment Rolls Of Mammoths Farm And Loan, Ebony Claw, Orcish Dagger, Jagged Crown, The Mirror, Ring of Pure Mixtures, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), Reanimate Corpse Tome, Staff of Lightning, Deed to Tundra Homestead, Sapphire, Ruby, Dawnbreaker, Traveling Backpack (Supplies), Potion of Minor Magicka, Vampire Armor, Vampire Boots, Movarth's Golden Ash (Unique), Dwarven Sword, Hide Boots Of Sneak, Gold Ruby Ring of Fortify Magicka, Iron Garnet Ring of Fortify Conjuration & Magicka Regen, Elven Dagger, Potion of Healing, Honed Ancient Nord Sword of Sparks, Gold Emerald Circlet, & Scroll of Fire Storm, Ring of Archery,Hide Boots of Stamina, Ancient Nord Sword of Absorbing, Iron Garnet Circlet, Iron Sapphire Circlet, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), Glass Boots, Dwarven Sword, & Dwarven Shield
2x Common Soul Gem (Empty), Black Soul Gem (Empty), Elven Sword, Amethysts, Potions of Plentiful Magicka, Scroll of Conjure Familiar, & Scroll of Magelight
3x Glowing Mushrooms, Potions of Minor Stamina, Flawless Sapphires, Gold Necklace, Iron Necklace, Petty Soul Gem (Filled), & Potions of Minor Magicka
4x Spider Eggs, Garnets, & Common Soul Gem (Filled)
5x Lesser Soul Gem (Filled)
7x Vampires Dust
8x Iron Arrows & Ancient Nord Arrows
9x Potions Of Minor Healing
12x Black Soul Gem (Filled)
Weight: 95.21 KG / 630 KG
Septims: 82,127