Storytime

Playing My Song

Guest_NPC Storytime 3 Comments

2013-10-29_00002rayvioguestbylinewhitebarAnother glance around the room following another empty mug. Another frustratingly friendly smile from the wench as she walked over with his next drink. Another dose of her depressingly cheerful banter and her sickly sweet cheap mead. He tossed a coin onto the table, landing in his empty mug. She gave an insufferably cheerful giggle as she fished it out of, wiping the dregs onto her apron. Another miserable little tavern in another miserable little town on another miserable day but these hollow-headed, easily amused fools refused to share his misery.

His life wasn’t supposed to be like this. A year ago he’d been in Solitude, a student at the Bard’s college who was showered in praise more often than in snow. How fast things can change and how fragile the future can be. His pride had taken him to Solitude but his shame had brought him south.
Another hush descended and again all eyes and ears waited on the bard. A pretty young thing, she lifted her instrument but it wasn’t the strings of her lute that her fingers played, instead they brushed across his heart as the haunting beauty of her voice caressed his ears.

With a beer in hand
The thieves did stand
Cheering a toast to their health
The cat downed her beer
And she said with good cheer
The next round is on the elf

It wasn’t a song you heard often, he’d only met a few bards who still knew it and none of them would play it again. He’d sometimes hear of bandits singing snippets of it but none who knew all the words. It was the song he’d written, it was his shame.

With the beers all drank
The Elf’s heart sank
As he handed over the coins
The nord made a toast
And he yelled out a boast
As the drunk cat eyed his loins

He remembered when he’d first tested his words on an audience of his fellow students. Let them keep their epic ballads, he’d known the best way for his words to spread across Skyrim wasn’t with some historically inaccurate love story but with a simple drinking song.

With three beers down
The orc did frown
And bid the elf goodbye
For none could know
‘Twas not or show
And someone had to die

He’d dreamed that one day he’d walk into a random inn, some place he’d never heard of before, to hear strangers singing his song.

He let out a roar
As the elf fell to the floor
Then he snapped the neck of the nord
As the orc grabbed her hair
The cat leapt out her chair
And she whipped out a hidden sword

It was his own fault really. He could have written something simple, he should have written something simple. Instead, despite his plans, he found himself writing a story.

The orc downed one last beer
And he said with a sneer
The treasure will all be mine
She knew that his knife
Could cost her a life
But that cat she had nine

It was supposed to condemn the treacherous nature of bandits but the college claimed it romanticised and celebrated their thefts and backstabbing. He’d left in shame when he’d heard that the very people it was supposed to criticise had taken it as an ode to their heroism.

As the cat dodged his blade
The orcs courage did fade
And slowly gave way to fear
The cat slashed his throat
Then brushed off her coat
And ordered another beer

The small crowd cheered their drunken approval but the bard had eyes only for him. She ordered drinks and took a seat at his table.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” she asked.
“Of course I do,” he smiled. “I’d forget my own name before I forgot your face.”
“Liar!” she teased. “You barely noticed me at the college. I noticed you though.”
The barmaid brought over the drinks and this time he returned her smile. He’d finally found what he’d been searching for.

Another walk along another road on another day. His misery had been merely momentarily misplaced last night. One more bard who knew his song but would never sing it again. He wondered how long before they found her body. A little less of his shame in the world, but what of the drunken fools who’d heard her? He could only hope that they were too full on drink for the words to fill their memory. After all, he thought as another caravan of captured rebels passed by, it wasn’t as if he could silence everyone in Helgen.

The Windhelm Incident

Kris Takahashi Storytime 3 Comments

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The following is an oral history of the little known Windhelm Incident, which resulted in a number of injuries to prominent members of the court, and the controversial imprisonment of the Dragonborn and her faithful squire. According to those involved it took place in the year 4E 201, months after the dragons returned to Skyrim. 

Ulfric, Jarl of Windhelm: It was at the end of Sun’s Dusk, if I recall, a few months after we escaped Helgen. I was giving an impassioned speech, and in the corner of my eye I see the Dragonborn, followed by some young cub, marching toward the throne. It wasn’t unusual. Many great warriors have heeded my call to purge the land of the Imperials, and I assumed the Dragonborn was no exception.

Hjoromir, Squire to the Dragonborn: So the Dragonborn is muscling her way past the guard, and I’m trying to keep up while sifting through my coin purse to make sure Sadri didn’t short us. To be honest, I didn’t even hear what Ulfric said that made the Dragonborn so mad.
 
Jorleif, Steward to Jarl Ulfric: I remember Jarl Ulfric was really getting into it. He said something like “I fight for the men I’ve held in my arms, dying on foreign soil!”  That’s when I saw the Dragonborn grab the poor boy by the collar and point at the Jarl. I still don’t get what set her off.
 
Dragonborn, Savior of Skyrim: It actually wasn’t anything Ulfric said. I just didn’t like his face.
 
Galmar Stone-Fist, Stormcloak Commander: Sure, I heard her make the order. I didn’t expect the little snowback to do it though. Greener than an Elf’s britches, that one.
 
Jorleif: We all thought it was a joke, and a poorly conceived one at that. Ulfric is the Jarl of Windhelm. Not even the Dragonborn has the right to treat him like an infant.
 
Hjoromir: I know exactly why the Dragonborn issued the order. True heroes like us are paragons of justice. Jarl or not, Ulfric murdered the High King.
 
Dragonborn: Again, I didn’t really care about the consequences. Did a Jarl deserve better? Maybe. But did that face need to be punched? Absolutely.
 

Hjoromir: It wasn’t hard at all. I just pictured my father was there, licking Ulfric’s boots. I imagined the look on his face when I shoved him aside and punched his precious Jarl in the mouth. I probably spent too much time thinking about it, because Ulfric realized something was wrong.

Ulfric: The cub’s face was flushed with rage. I’ve seen it before from the peasant folk who’ve fallen victim to Imperial propaganda. As soon as the boy raised his fists, I blessed him with the words of my forefathers.

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Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced, Stormcloak Officer:  I was just on my way out of the war room when I heard Jarl Ulfric unleash his shout. I rushed over to see some poor sod flying across the hall. Literally. Flying.

Jorleif: I tell you, I’ve seen Jarl Ulfric use his shout before, but the way this boy tumbled like one of my niece’s dolls….Ha! I nearly burst at the seams laughing.

Stormcloak Guard: I don’t think it was being flung that was the worst part. It was when he hit the wall. His bones made this horrible crunching noise that made us all shudder.

Galmar: At that point, I didn’t give a mudcrab’s uncle about the boy. It was the Dragonborn who posed the real threat.

Hjoromir: I’m sure it might’ve looked bad, but I was in complete control. I had actually anticipated Ulfric would use his shout, and I needed to properly gauge its effects to know how to counter it.

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Jorleif: To the boy’s credit, he got up, eventually. In fact, I was so busy watching him struggle that I didn’t notice the Dragonborn had drawn her bow.

Galmar: I don’t know what that fool Jorleif was doing, but he would have only gotten in the way.

Yrsarald: Needless to say we had our hands full with the Dragonborn. But for some reason she was content to stay on the defensive. It was almost like she was waiting for the boy to get back up.

Dragonborn: Yeah, I was watching Hjoromir the whole time. The shout itself wasn’t nearly as bad as the collision, but it still wouldn’t have been enough to kill him. I just had to hold the guards off until he got his second wind.

Galmar:  How long was the boy down? How should I know? No one was paying attention to that idiot.

Ulfric: The Dragonborn may be strong, but even she is no god. So I called upon mighty Talos for aid, and asked that he smite these fools who defiled the Palace of the Kings. I listened for a reply, when I heard a voice call my name.

Hjoromir: Yeah, that was me. A true hero never hits a man in the back.

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Hjoromir: Now, at this point I’d studied Ulfric’s movements, and I deduced that shouting exhausted a great deal of stamina. If he used his shout on me, he would be on the defensive for the next minute or so. That would be my best chance to finish what we started.

Ulfric: The boy was like this annoying fly who kept buzzing around my ear. A pest. So like a fly I swatted him away.

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Hjoromir: The shout wasn’t nearly as effective the second time. Not only did I brace myself for its impact, but I also realized that like any voice, it’s only effective so long as you can hear it. That’s why before I challenged him the second time, I reached into a nearby fruit bowl and stuffed a grape in each ear. Clever, I know, but I’ve always maintained that a warrior’s greatest asset is his mind.

Ulfric: It wasn’t that I didn’t have the energy. I could’ve killed him, but he didn’t deserve a warrior’s death.

Hjoromir: Ulfric was even more tired than I anticipated. He could barely hold his axe above his chest. In fact, he didn’t look tired. He looked old.

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Hjoromir:  In the end, I didn’t put my full weight into the punch. Maybe I felt pity for the man my father loved so dearly.

Galmar: I was standing right there, and Jarl Ulfric didn’t flinch. Hmph. I’m not sure the boy even hit him.

Ulfric: The boy missed. Now that he’s free, I imagine he will return to his village and boast to his friends about the day he struck a Jarl, but it will not be the truth.

Jorleif: To be frank, I didn’t get a very good look. There was so much going on, it was hard to tell. It was definitely close though.

Dragonborn: There’s no doubt the kid landed the punch. Just barely grazed Ulfric’s chin. Sure, he was beaten mercilessly afterward, but he did it. I was impressed.

Jorleif: We were all surprised when the Dragonborn laid down her weapon. It was as if she was waiting the whole time for the boy to hit the Jarl.

Ulfric: I couldn’t execute them. The Dragonborn could still be of some use. I simply needed to convince her that our cause was just. Nonetheless, her actions could not go unanswered. A week in the Bloodworks seemed like an adequate punishment.

Dragonborn: It was worth it to see Hjoromir punch him in the face.

Hjoromir: My father told me a lot of stories about Ulfric. How he drove back an army of Forsworn invaders, and shattered the High King to pieces with his voice. But when I met him in battle, I realized that despite all the talk, he was….well, he was just another man.

A Lute in Winter

Lindsey Lorraine Storytime 9 Comments

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whitebarI have a lot of feelings and I am going to tell you about them.

I have never, not once, in two years of playing Skyrim, played with followers. All of my Dovahkiins have explored, fought, adventured, lived or died absolutely solo. Talking to any of the NPCs offering to follow just never made me want to have that annoyance. It’s hard enough watching for traps for myself, and what if they get in my way? And having to make sure they’re still behind me and not stuck on the other side of a mountain or cliff? Ugh. No thanks. Me, myself, and I are plenty.

Until yesterday. Until this mod.

My new Dunmer was passing through Riverwood with a chip on her shoulder. Thanks to the Alternate Start mod, I imagine she was attacked on the road by racist Nords/Imperials and left for dead, and had to struggle her way back to safety and society. With coin in her pocket and food in her belly for the first time in weeks, finally recovering from Witbane AND Rattles AND Rockjoint thanks to dirty water and fending off beasts by hand for days, and tentatively accepting the kindness of the family of the soldier she’d saved on an accidental discovery of a ruined Helgen– she met an eager young Nord named Hjoromir. He talked a lot and smiled a lot; and she passed him by, annoyed at his energy and sunny attitude. She had things to sell and a life to carve out again after it had been beaten out of her.

But then she kept running into him. He was still chipper, still smiling, and she had to give it to him that he was hard-working. Eventually she asked after more than his name. She heard when he talked about his family, but she listened when he so offhandedly mentioned his disapproval of the racist traditions of his father.

Slowly the young man becomes endearing, and she keeps an eye out for him as she settles into the town, slowly building up the supplies she knows she needs to move on. His dreams of adventure strike a chord with her; as though her heart were a lute left out in the winter, and the strings froze stiff and tuneless as stone. But then Hjoromir comes like a child heedless to the chill of the snow, and plucks the taut, frozen strings until finally they thrum; shaking off the ice that had held them mute, and the lute remembers what it was made for.

When the Valeriuses ask her to return their stolen ornament, the Dunmer shoulders her pack and steps onto the road. And there is Hjoromir, smiling and greeting her as he walks, no doubt to Alvor’s smithy to work. She surprises herself when she asks him to come along with her. And more when she turns right back around to buy the boy some proper armor. The septims that were so hard-won and now so jealously hoarded, are spent easily for the young man and his dreams. “I can invest in this boy,” she thinks, as she pushes a steel battleaxe into his hands. And a mace. And a cuirass, and boots, and bracers, and a fur cloak for good measure because the mountain slope will be cold, even for a Nord. She does not think how everything she wears was salvaged from corpses; none of it new, none of it paid for, and none of it truly hers. She does not think about “why” because there’s Hjoromir again, as they walk, talking about dreams and she can hear him smiling without looking. He is full of thanks, thanks for her, and she tells herself she’s investing in one less racist bigot, one more good soul, and maybe that’s all it is.

But when bandits are at their feet and she checks for any green around his gills, all she finds is a smile– and he acts out a story from his mind of the dragon Numinex and a damsel in distress. She has to jump back when he swings the battleaxe with a flourish, retelling a showdown that never happened with more animation than any bard she’s heard. She feels something against her cheek, and realizes she is smiling, too.