Hard Light Productions Forums
Off-Topic Discussion => Gaming Discussion => Topic started by: MP-Ryan on January 15, 2014, 11:23:27 am
-
This is a short story of the adventures had by my Skyrim character yesterday evening. It was so ridiculously irritating that I had to write it down for the humour quotient.
Last night, I finally decided to go see the Greybeards.
Let me back up. I've been wandering Skyrim for a couple months since those Imperial bastards nearly took my head off, shortly before I was nearly incinerated by a big goddamned ornery dragon, then nearly perforated by a mix of Imperial swords, axes, and arrows, and finally nearly eaten by a bear. Riverwood was a blessed relief, right until I got suckered into retrieving a Golden Claw, nearly joined the Draugr for all eternity in Bleak Falls barrow, and then - oh yeah, nearly got eaten by another dragon in Whiterun.
I'm beginning to think I should have stayed in High Rock.
Nonetheless, there is clearly a need for Enchanting services here in Skyrim, and I make a decent living alternating between collecting items for enchanting - typically from some godforsaken place that I've been coaxed into visiting for someone (for a proud people, these Nords don't seem to be able to do a damn thing themselves) - and hunting the local wildlife for convenient souls to enchant with. There was that ill-considered jaunt with the Companions - werewolves! good grief! - and some brief dabbling at the College - I needed a Bound Bow, after all - but for the most part I've managed quite well on my own and was politely steering clear of the local troubles and keeping my head down, Dragonborn nonsense be damned.
And then there was last night.
I heard a rumour about another Guardian Stone, the Atronach, earlier in the month. Despite my own dabbling with magic, I grow rather tired of being set on fire, frozen, or zapped by inconvenient mages, Thalmor (haughty upright assholes that they are), and dragons, and it seemed like a good idea. Coupled with my Breton nature, it would quite nicely complement my abilities to absorb and resist hostile magic, all the better for me to split their heads with a sword. I haven't been to Riften yet, so a jaunt downriver from Windhelm seemed like the best course of action. Ha! I should have bought a horse. Better yet, I should have bought a horse and rode directly back to High Rock and said enough to these Nords and their problems.
Anyway, I sauntered down the river past an old abandoned shack which I had visited not long before, evicting a local cave bear. Unfortunately, it seemed a new bear took up residence shortly thereafter. Dispatching him with a handy bound sword, I muttered about the local Nord wildlife and its outright hostility and continued on my way.
Despite the fact that I tower over the oversized crustacean bastard, wear enchanted Elven armour, and can conjure a big godamned magical sword capable of imprisoning its puny soul for all eternity, a local mudcrab apparently took offense at my passing it at a 20 foot distance and decided to try to fell me at the ankles like a tree.
Crab legs are delicious, I don't care what anyone says. Even more so from a decidedly stupid crab.
Sighing in frustration, I continued on my way and met a pleasant woman named Gilfre at her mill - which surprised me slightly as it was close to 1 AM, but this Nirn has all sorts, I suppose. As she made her way off into the house, I was startled by a roar, followed by a freezing blast from a nearby Frost Dragon who decided to further impede my progress after its prickly bear and crab friends failed. Fortunately, the Divines smiled on me as it was a Frost Dragon, not a Fire Dragon, so I didn't feel the least bit guilty for hiding in Gilfre's lumber mill and perforating it's scaly hide with a collection of arrows. Eventually, the beast was unable to fly, and after being delayed so long, I decided a sword through the skull was the most appropriate way to dispatch the beast.
...and no sooner had I pulled the blade out than my helmet rang with the telltale clang of a war axe bouncing off. What in the ever-loving? What in Talos' name is a Dark Elf doing here at this time of night, why is he carrying a war axe, and why is he continually trying to split my skull with it? Look, you pointy-eared red-eyed bastard, did you not just see me down a bloody dragon? How do you think this is going to end for you when you attack me out of nowhere? Is nothing in this blasted frozen wasteland of a country friendly after midnight, or what? After some backpedalling, a fancy healing spell or two, and a few whacks with my sword, the fellow slipped his footing and got a sword through his breastbone for the trouble. I am not to be trifled with - especially when I am just trying to find a bloody rock that some jackass left in what is apparently the least hospitable country on Nirn and everything is conspiring to make this journey as long, painful, and bloody as possible. Leave me be!
Turns out, my Elvish friend deserved what we got - he worshipped Boethia and carried a journal confessing to at least one murder. I'm sure there were others.
Bidding a farewell to Gilfre - somewhat hurriedly as she told me to get out of her house - I continued in the direction of the stone. Another crab, two saberetooth cats, and a dragon tried to intercept me. I ate the crab, skinned the cats, and snuck around the dragon - if I didn't get moving, I was going to spend another night on the way to the stone and there was really no guarantee I'd survive it.
Finally arriving at the stone, I studied it and realized that I needed to continue with the Mage Stone and practice my Restoration further if I were to use it without severely impeding my magicka regeneration - which recent experience had just proven was somewhat necessary for healing. Some people apparently manage to use potions, but I nearly blew up Breezehome last time I tried.
Having confronted a nice mix of Skyrim's wonderful friendly inhabitants, I wondered idly if perhaps it might not be time to improved my use of these Shouts to further protect myself. When everything is out to kill you, it brings these things into perspective. After all, it's not like I had to use them on some noble quest of destiny or something - a little boost to self-defense would not go amiss.
It was then that I found myself scaling some cliffs near Mistwatch - which I hastily avoided after discovering it was swarming with pissy bandits - and on the road to Ivarstead.
A word of advice about the road to Ivarstead: don't use it.
I was no sooner on the road than I was skinning a pair of wolves who apparently thought a Breton in armour looked tasty. I had no sooner put away my blade than an Argonian showed up, brandished a pair of daggers and told me to hand over my gold. I told him to walk away. He laughed. I told him I didn't have time for this. He attacked. I plunged a bound sword through his neck. He gurgled. I cursed and kept walking.
Over the next rise, I met a skeever, two wolves, a sabretoothed cat, and a bear in the next few hundred feet. All of them attacked me instead of going on their merry way. All of them got packed away to be turned into meals, leather, or eventually gold. I dispatched the next bear in short order, turned around, and met an Argonian in a black hood with another dagger trying to thrust it between my shoulder blades. He got the sword treatment too. Turns out someone really doesn't like me - SURPRISE! DIDN'T SEE THAT COMING! - and hired the Dark Brotherhood. Turns out they're not only assholes, they're incompetent assholes.
The next bear died and I didn't even break stride. The local fox had the good sense to take one glance at me and run. At this point, the sun was coming up. I realized that in the span of five hours, I had done more to decimate Skyrim's wildlife and nefarious inhabitants than a small army on the march would have.
Cresting a rise, with the sun shining over the lake, I knew Ivarstead was not far off. I came around a corner, and found an Elf - Wood or High, who can tell, really? - hiding behind a way, moaning about bandits. He said he needed help to get back to his camp. Finally meeting someone who didn't try to kill me on sight, I agreed to walk with him. No sooner did we arrive, than the little **** - perhaps he was a Wood Elf - put an arrow into my armour. THERE ARE NO ADEQUATE WORDS FOR HOW ****TY THE INHABITANTS OF THIS COUNTRY ARE!
Unfortunately, he had friends, particularly three large green friends with Battle Axes that looked more than likely to split my skull, armour or no armour. Fortunately, they couldn't climb worth a ****. I found a convenient rock nook and made them all look like large porcupines. Apparently that only pissed them off as they refused to go away, despite being unable to touch me. After several warnings, a few Fire Shouts, some Ice Spikes, and no small amount of cursing, it became clear that I was either going to have to kill them all or sit on the rock for several hours.
Needless to say, I am no longer on the rock.
I was also done with that road. No amount of easy walking was worth that.
I headed out of the camp - turns out, Bandit Camp - and swam across the lake, hiked over the island (now inhabited by one less bear), and then swam again to shore. At last! The bridge into Ivarstead.
As I wandered into Ivarstead at midday, I met a bunch of reasonably friendly locals who were happy to comment on High Hrothgar - looking forward to that climb, let me tell you - and some local guards who alternated between asking about enchanting their swords and *****ing about my apparently sneaky look. Everyone's a critic.
Tired, bruised, and altogether fed up, I wandered by the mill. The owner - a disgruntled woman - failed to introduce herself. She did immediately start *****ing about the local wildlife - specifically, the bears clawing the trees. It took an I'm-sure-visible effort on my part not to put my fist through her teeth. Instead, she just had to listen to me muttering as I walked away:
"Lady, you have no idea."
-
*Slow Clap* Beautiful.
Sadly my own adventures in Skyrim only revolve around sneaking into a Thalmor outpost, Dragons killing guards and a female companion that was amazed at the slight trace of the smallest piece Dwemer junk.
Can we have more?
-
If people enjoy this, I may consider additional stories based on my adventures every so often when I've gotten something amusing or dramatic to happen.
Post feedback if you want more... or not :)
-
I see MP eventually evolving into the Rorschach of Skyrim. :P
-
I came around a corner, and found an Elf - Wood or High, who can tell, really?
wave a carrot in front of their face and see what happens
-
Anduin, he was gone and it soon came to pass
That Dovahkin was little more than a pain in the ass,
Pushing people off bridges, running round in the buff,
Killing the Guardsmen and stealing their stuff...
-
I see MP eventually evolving into the Rorschach of Skyrim. :P
"You don't understand! You didn't take an arrow to the knee with me! I took an arrow to the knee with you!"
...I'll let myself out now.
I actually rather like this. Now, to High Hrothgar...I expect you to fall down the mountain a half-dozen times at this rate.
-
You should try tropical Skyrim for a little variety. Velociraptors instead of wolves!
-
That's a very well done mod, but it's not for everyone. That would ruin the immersion for me, especially whenever an NPC referenced how cold Skyrim was.
-
This was very good, quite funny. I could definitely enjoy more of this :lol:
Man, those bandits... I can't imagine what goes through their little brains. "Why yes, traveler, I can see your fine elven armor and sharp pointy blades. I realize that I'm clad in little more than what Arkay gave me and my mace is rusting around the edges. No, I don't really care. Cough up the septims or I'll gut you like a fish."
It's no wonder that no residents ever leave their towns to go out and do their own stuff.
-
Next installment coming this weekend, provided wife does not go into labour before I write it up =)
-
Next time on the Angry Skyrimer, Ryne Stormchaser fights bears on the way to the hospital mid blizzard!
god i hope not.
-
OK, so the wife did not actually go into labour, but I did... setting up the new aquarium. Slight delay is all.
...in which Ryne discovers what all the Fus is about and doesn't like it one bit...
Having finally found a moment where someone is not trying to murder me and the local fauna are not trying to dine on my corpse to set down my thoughts in my journal, it occurs to me that some of my earlier entry could be considered ironically prophetic. Specifically the part about it not being like I have to be dragged into a quest of destiny or something. But I'll get to that.
It's been a few weeks since I initially dropped into Ivarstead on the way to High Hrothgar, and despite the best of intentions, dropped right back out again in the wrong direction. I mentioned earlier how I am constantly suckered into performing various tasks ranging from the mundane to the truly life-threateningly-obnoxious for the supposedly-proud-and-hardy Nords of Skyrim, who seemed to have earned that reputation entirely by asking others to do their dirty work. Well, I finally found someone who I genuinely felt sorry for and thought helping someone genuinely in need might improve my mood somewhat. Hrmph.
Narfi, turns out, is a local beggar in Ivarstead who is not quite right in the head. That is to say, he is a man for whom you can feel genuine sympathy after a brief conversation, and who was immensely distressed at the loss of his sister, whom apparently the local alcoholism-enabler told him had gone on a trip, without saying goodbye. Her name escapes me, but apparently she was fond of gathering local alchemical ingredients near the town. Knowing something about the various forms of animate beings that inhabit Skyrim outside of towns, I had a suspicion that she herself had been gathered, as food, ingredient, decoration or a little bit of each. Nevertheless, I thought the poor fellow deserved to know what happened to his sister so I resolved to find out. After giving me some cautious words of advice - a little late for that, friend - the barkeep pointed me in the direction of, AND I QUOTE: "the island in the river to the east."
For those unacquainted with Ivarstead, the island is the home of the entrance to a barrow named Geirmund's Hall, and there is BUT ONE ISLAND IN THE RIVER TO THE EAST OF IVARSTEAD. Thankfully, reaching it involved a swim rather than the godsforsaken road mentioned in my last journal entry.
I trudged about the island, collecting butterflies and flowers (because you never know) but there was nary a sign of dear whatshername, and I began to get a bad feeling like I was about to get another taste of Skyrim's friendly inhabitants. Into the barrow I went...
...and immediately dispatched three Skeevers that apparently didn't the memo I circulated to the bears, cats, wolves, and leaf-eating pointy-eared elvish donkeys on the Ivarstead road mere hours earlier. Attacking a big, grouchy Breton in Elvish armour with a conjured badass sword is not going to end well for you! For future reference to other hostiles uninterested in being separated from their heads/souls/etc, I am the one carrying large piles of fur and weapons gathered from corpses, comprenez?
There was a hole. And I don't mean I pleasant little hole in which one might find whatsherface with a broken ankle looking for a rescuer, I mean a deep, dark hole into what appeared to be water. Why not? Can the hole really be worse than the wilds? Or, Divines forbid, another trek on the road?
The answer is yes, yes it can. I'll spare the majority of the trek through the hole, but suffice it to say that Geirmund's Hall was filled with large spiders, various kinds of Draugr (worse than inactive lazy living Nords are very active murderous undead Nords), and a couple traps for which Healing spells proved immensely useful.
Did I mention that I dabbled at the College of Winterhold a while back? I'm sure I did. While I was there, in addition to being turned green, then into a chicken, cow, horse, dog, then back to Breton by a lovely dark Elf woman named Berlyna, I met a supremely conniving Khajjit named J'zago. J'zago, like everyone else who settles down to live in Skyrim, arrived in the country and immediately settled down to ask other people to do things to advance his position. One thing about this country is the the immigrant population has really taken the idea of cultural assimilation and run with it. I disgress; J'zago was a gigantic asscat but he wanted me to test out some scrolls for him against undead. Relishing the opportunity to show him what an incompetant jackass he was, I happily agreed with a smile on my face.
Back to Geirmund's Hall. Having been swarmed by Draugr more than once, and spotting to of them up ahead, I thought that perhaps I would test J'zago's scrolls and then dispatch them by hand if necessary. I quickly cast it, stepped forward, and...
...exploded. Literally, the spell exploded. It killed the Dragur - both of them actually, but it nearly took me with it. When the third, much tougher looking undead came around the corner, I decided flight was better than self-immolation and dove off the bridge back into the flooded room below. Arrows took care of the Draugr. A dagger may later take care of J'zago unless I come up with something more fitting. Maybe I'll let Berlyna visit him in his sleep.
Having still encountered no sign of whatsherface, I pressed deeper into the dungeon and got a feeling much like that of a ship that split-second before it runs into rocks in a fog bank - that is to say, sinking. I was greeted by a ledge-of-no-return, three island, and a prominently-placed coffin with a gated-door placed suspiciously behind it. Ahem.
Sneaking down off the ledge, up the stairs, and in the direction of the door - whatsherface still nowhere to be seen - I was unsurprised to see the lid flip off the coffin and a corpse-like bow wielder rise from it, no doubt looking to murder me for no reason other than it's what the things that inhabit Skyrim do. It's becoming rather predictable at this point. Perhaps someone will surprise me one day and not try to murder me within 5 minutes of our meeting, but until it happens while I'm locked in prison I'm still going to depart the company of everyone else as quickly as possible.
Unperturbed, I pulled my Iceblade dagger from its sheath, snuck up behind the critter, and shoved the blade between its neck vertebrae. In my experience, even undead tend to lay down for good when their heads are removed. This one, however... teleported. What in the Daedra-refuse-devouring nonsense was THAT? And now there are three of them? Interesting. Ah. Two of them had auras; one did not. Stands to reason that he's my guy, especially since he also looked decidedly more-dead-than-undead than the others. The others must just be illusions, I reasoned as I snuck back to my foe and planted the dagger in the same spot.
Wait a minute, I thought as I flew into the wall, Fus-ro-WHATDIDYOUSAY?! Illusions or not, it appears at least one of these decomposing assholes can Shout. Disgustedly, I said "enough," stood up, conjured a sword, and rushed the corporeal one... and was promptly blown into another wall. OK, two of them can Shout - my turn. Except its Flames from me. BURN!... and that's the third wall. Are you serious? I got up, rounded the island, and peered carefully around to look where my quarry was and... yeah, I have now introduced myself to all four of the side walls in this cave. Oh look, hello roof. Oh, and floor, my old friend, how nice to see you again. And again. Look, if we keep meeting like this I'm going to have to find an Amulet of Mara and haul you off to Riften. At one point I managed to sink my dagger into one of the illusions, but the remaining two of my tormentors teleported, and then all three were back. So much for that theory.
Finally, I struggled into a dark corner and resumed sneaking. Meanwhile, my quarry and his illusionary-but-force-flinging stooges looked around for their favourite plaything, no doubt trying to work on the record for who-can-make-a-Breton-fly-the-farthest. I stuck to the shadows, conjured a bow... and immediately ducked behind the island. I REALLY need to learn how to cast spells silently. Let me mark that down of my list of ****-to-do-when-not-being-occupied-by-attempts-on-my-life. The rest of the fight went fairly swiftly - fire arrow, duck in shadows, fail to duck fast enough, get blasted by Unrelenting Force into opposite shadows, wash, rinse, repeat. Finally, one of them blasted me close to their leader's feet and it couldn't blast me away fast enough before my spare real sword took it's head off its shoulders, and the other two mercifully disappeared.
Cleaning out the cave, I found a chunk of a Galdaur amulet, which I'd read about in a book back in Whiterun, a few trinkets, and still no sign of Narfi's sister. Unbelievable. There is only one island in this river immediately east of Ivarstead, and I had now searched everything on it and IN it. One begins to wonder if the inkeeper had a little too much of his own product.
Trudging through the back passage and back onto the island, I swam back toward Ivarstead - still not going near that road - and noticed something twinkling on the riverbottom not twenty paces from the Ivarstead bridge. Diving down, I found a woman's body with various alchemical ingredients, and a necklace that prominently featured whatsherface's name on it. Seriously, you alcoholic brothelkeeper, you guys didn't think to perhaps LOOK UNDER THE BRIDGE? DIVINES KNOW THAT I WOULD HAVE JUMPED OFF IT TOO IF I WAS STUCK IN A TOWN FULL OF PEOPLE WITH YOUR MENTAL ACUITY!
On a more serious note, I did sadly take the amulet back to Narfi and explain to the poor fellow that his sister wasn't coming back. It seemed kinder than letting him go on pining for a long-lost sister who just left him without saying goodbye. I felt sorry for the man, and left a few septims in the ruins of his house in the hopes that he'd find some use for them.
Good deed done, and not unpunished, I headed up the mountain. After being flung about by undead for half an hour, the mundane work of killing bears, wolves, and trolls was positively enjoyable. I greeted other travelers on the road, and arrived at High Hrothgar with reasonable speed, dropping the offering from the Ivarstead citizen who was apparently unable to carry it up there himself again in the chest. I activated the final stone, and was blessed with a power wherein animals wouldn't attack me or flee from me for 8 hours. Oh, the irony.
Up the last few steps, I opened the door and was met by a bunch of not-far-from-undead looking fellows, only one of whom spoke. And I swear that I was not there FIVE GODSDAMNED MINUTES BEFORE HE TOLD ME ABOUT MY QUEST OF DESTINY.
Well, Daedra****.
-
...in which Ryne discovers that everything is only out to get him most of the time...
It's been another few weeks since I was informed that learning from the Greybeards actually did involve a quest of destiny, and they quickly ushered me off in the direction of the Horn of Some Dead Important Nord (popularly known as Jorgen Windcaller) in typical Skyrimer fashion - that is to say, alone and unaided. Though they did add to my vocabulary of Dragonspeak, so there's that.
No sooner did I leave than I ventured off in precisely the opposite direction of this supposed Horn. I may have been informed of a quest of destiny, but I'll be damned if I will go along willingly, oh no.
Instead, I've spent most of the last few weeks honing my forging and enchanting abilities. Seems like the best way to keep anything hostile - so, basically the entire population of flora, fauna, people, and dead things in Skyrim - at bay. Well, it briefly did, until I found myself running somewhat short of septims and full soul gems simultaneously, right about the time that I discovered I'd pretty much exceeded the enchanting knowledge of anyone currently alive in the entire Empire. Alas, while I'd recently picked a remarkable set of glass armour, boots, and gloves, I was short the grand souls I needed to enchant them. Fortunately, I was doing all of my work in Whiterun (which, for all that its occupants tried to keep getting me to run their errands, was a lovely town in that no one tried to kill me much) and I happened to know of a local camp of giants and their mammoths.
Bound Bow, check. Grand Soul Gems, check. Healing spells, check. a-Big game hunting, I go.
I found a convenient rock to crouch behind, and let loose with an arrow into the nearest mammoth. And another. And another. And suddenly I found myself surrounded by three other mammoths coming to figure out just who was making their friend look like an overgrown porcupine. And then sprinted for the hills.
The trouble with sprinting away from one danger in this country, however, is that you often sprint into another that is much worse. In this case, an inconvenient frost dragon. Talk about out of the frying pan into the fire... except someone just flipped the frying pan, because I was still pursued by four angry mammoths.
Except, lo and behold, the dragon looked at me, looked at the nearest mammoth, and apparently decided I could be dealt with later. The dragon attacked the first mammoth, while the second decided that the mudcrabs that were between me and it were a much greater threat as well (which I found mildly insulting) and stomped them to death. By now, the dragon had killed the first mammoth, the second was on its last mudcrab, and I was flinging arrows in the general direction of mammoths three and four while trying to scramble far enough up the nearby rocks to escape trampling by mammoths, but low enough to avoid being strafed by the frost dragon.
As I dispatched mammoth three - two and four now even more angry - and loosed a volley of arrows into the dragon, a cave bear decided to join in on the fun, just as the dragon was lining me up as a crunchy-yet-oh-so-satisfying snack. Except... well, odd. Did someone do something to the wildlife? The bear is trying to kill the dragon. Not me.
Standing there perplexed - and backing further up the rocks to avoid the irate mammoths - I scratched my head as I watched two mammoths rage below me, completely ignoring the cave bear and dragon across the pond, not twenty paces away, brawling for what must have been the right to eat me. Or the mammoths. Or maybe the dead crabs - I wasn't really sure at this point, but I was sure that more arrows were obviously the solution to my predicament.
The bear and the dragon both died with surprised looks - the dragon, looking quite stunned as an arrow took it in the right eye while the bear dealt the fatal blow, and the bear with an irate expression when the next arrow pinned its tongue to its brain. Meanwhile, a flurry of arrows followed the departing mammoths and they both died next to mammoth number one.
The silence was absolutely deafening.
And there there was me - shocked, panting, and otherwise unscathed in the middle of four mammoth corpses, one dragon corpse, one cave bear corpse, and half-a-dozen dead mudcrabs; profit: three grand souls to the good, a few dragon bones and scales, and three mammoth tusks.
Not one to push my luck, I headed back to my house in Whiterun and promptly slept for 3 days.
-
Truly this is a savage land, and cruel.
-
Truly doth Skyrim be cold and scowling as Nords!
-
You sure you didn't get Cabela's Big Game Hunter?
-
You sure you didn't get Cabela's Big Game Hunter?
Very. That comes with a rifle. While a bound daedric bow is nothing to sneeze at, Ryne'd happily take the largest calibre rifle he could get.
I took Ryne through the Ironbind Barrow between last night and before leaving for work this morning with some additional amusing hijinks, but I'll save that writeup for the next installment once I've gathered a few more anecdotes. I'm taking the character off to get Azura's star repaired (by Nelacar, because who wants only white souls), so I'm sure that will be interesting. I suspect Daedra are going to make an appearance.
-
Wasn't there some thingy you'd picked up that would get the wildlife to, like, not all want to viciously murder you at once?
-
Wasn't there some thingy you'd picked up that would get the wildlife to, like, not all want to viciously murder you at once?
It was a temporary power from the stones on the way up the mountain to High Hrothgar. You have to read ~8 stones on the way up, and you get an 8-hour reprieve from murderous wildlife.
Unfortunately, the path up the mountain is relatively far away from everything, and it's a bit of a hike up, so by the time you get the power (after slaughtering all manner of creatures on the trip up), it's pretty much worn off by the time you go anywhere else.
-
I presume you're playing with Dragonborn installed?
-
Wasn't there some thingy you'd picked up that would get the wildlife to, like, not all want to viciously murder you at once?
It was a temporary power from the stones on the way up the mountain to High Hrothgar. You have to read ~8 stones on the way up, and you get an 8-hour reprieve from murderous wildlife.
Unfortunately, the path up the mountain is relatively far away from everything, and it's a bit of a hike up, so by the time you get the power (after slaughtering all manner of creatures on the trip up), it's pretty much worn off by the time you go anywhere else.
It sounds like a scam to me. You sure you're not protected from animals for the next eight hours because you already depopulated the mountain on the way up? :P
-
I presume you're playing with Dragonborn installed?
Legendary edition, so I have Hearthfire, Dawnguard, and Dragonborn all installed. Despite the fact that the character is now level 40, I've done very few actual quests.
-
I've been living the life of a magical soul-harvesting Breton for the last few weeks; so many shared sympathies to Mr. Stormchaser. I hope someday he gets to enjoy the use of calm, or better yet, fury spells. Oh, how the irate local population changes attitude when an illusionist shows up. :p
-
...in which someone is a supreme jerk and someone else falls off a mountain...
I continue to set down journal entries every few weeks as one never knows when one might suddenly be unable to write, and the attempts on my life by the population of this insane excuse for a country continue unabated.
A few days ago, I found myself walking west of Windhelm and tripped into a courier hurrying on his way somewhere. I was immediately struck by two things: he appeared altogether too lightly armed and armoured for a walk in the wilds of Skyrim at night, and a snow bear's clawed paw. Literally. Attached to a large, angry, and no longer quiet snow bear that suddenly decided to sneak up on us. Perhaps it also took offense when he brushed off my polite greeting.
The fellow proceeded to prove his lack of sense when he stuck around to fight the beast while I was hastily trying to impale it on a conjured sword instead of making for the nearest anywhere-but-where-Ryne-is-being-attacked-by-wildlife. Sad to say, but the bear overpowered his terrifying *cough* iron dagger slashes and killed him where he stood mere second before my sword thrust through the beasts lower jaw, brain, skull, and a foot or two of Skyrim night air, trapping its soul. Skyrim is, after all, the ultimate proof of "survival of the fittest." Rummaging through the dead man's pockets, I found not a whit of identification for his poor next-of-kin, but I did note a letter from someone requesting reinforcements from his investor for an assault on a nearby barrow. Figuring that was as good a place as any to avoid a pesky quest of destiny, I whistled a tuneless song and trundled off in the direction of trouble. After all, expecting trouble and not finding it is much less annoying than expecting a peaceful stroll and finding murderous locals and wildlife at every turn.
Seeing a path up the mountain toward a barrow (which, it turns out, was not the barrow I was looking for) a short while later, I headed up and stumbled upon a camp with a woman and an Argonian. Oddly enough, neither one of them attempted to kill me. Rather, they both kept muttering about how they were seeking adventure and treasure in the barrow, but weren't going in because the Argonian was worried. I chuckled and made mention that perhaps I'd go get the treasure first and suddenly found myself alone on the hill, the only indicator of their passing being words left hanging in the air as they clamored into the entrance. Chuckling, I mused that reluctant allies were likely better than none at all and headed in after them.
Their courage seemed to have exhausted them after the initial rush of my arrival, as they stood perhaps a pace into the gloom muttering about how eager they were, yet careful not to move an inch from that position until I passed them. "Reluctant" was indeed the best description of my allies.
We headed through a twisting cavern, and our little party fared quite well together. I conjured up a Bow, the woman wielded a mace with deadly efficiency, and our Argonian friend was fairly adept with flinging lightning from both hands. We dispatched several varieties of spiders and draugr of varying toughness before eventually arriving at a gate into the barrow proper, whereupon my allies hid in the shadows and said there must be some clever way of opening the contraption and I had better find it.
"Think this obviously-placed pull chain might be of use?"
The gate creaked open, and in we went. Several abnormally-tough draugr later, we arrived at a large set of wooden doors, and the Argonian mumbled something as I crouched down and gently pushed them open. Wait, I thought, did he say the name of the fellow who occupies this hole? How does he know tha...
BAM.
Odd, I thought. There are no burial plots I can see.
BAM BAM.
Oh, that is one large and very angry looking undead man getting up out of that chair. Oh, and he has friends. Oh, and one of them can conjure. I wonder if that's a frost or storm atro... frost, definitely frost.
I learn a nifty trick a while ago that enables my bound weapons to banish daedra and turn raised creatures. I'm pleased to say that the banish portion, at least, works beautifully. The atronach vanished, and I headed down the stairs to dispatch the skeleton that summoned him. That done, I peered over at the girl, who was trading blows with the Draugr while our Argonian friend threw more lightning. The other skeleton was flinging arrows, so I headed for it. It "head"ed for the floor in a heap, followed by its torso and limbs. Nuisances dealt with, I turned back to the main event and found my female compatriot bleeding in a heap, the Argonian missing, and a large, angry-looking Draugr with a nasty sword headed in my direction.
I am not a tiny man, far from it, but that undead man stood a good two feet taller than me, and discretion is always the better part of valour. Arrows and fireballs were called for, and arrows and fireballs were hastily flung. Thus we continued... I ran in circles around the room, pausing to fling an arrow or two and fire shout at the Draugr, and it chased me, occasionally stopping to bash the woeful girl back to the floor until she caught enough wind to get up again. We made about four laps before the Draugr took a knee and I plunged a sword through it.
My female compatriot got up looking a little the worse for wear, and we just began wondering what happened to our scaly friend - Beem-ja, he went by - when he waltzed down the stairs, pulled some lighting up idly in his hands, and informed me that he knew the girl was too weak to do this, how fortunate that I was to come along, and I'd might as well just accept death and get it over with because he was going to gurgle something.
I should clarify - he didn't say he was going to gurgle something; he made a gurgle followed by something unintelligible because my fist caught him square in both nostrils and lizards find it difficult to talk when their nose is touching the back of their throat. I AM SO FED UP WITH THE LACK OF COMMON COURTESY IN THIS COUNTRY THAT I COULD LITERALLY KILL SOMEONE OVER IT.
Well, rather, I had the opportunity so I did kill someone over it. Beem-ja reanimated our Draugr friend - strike three against you, you talking excuse for a reptile that tastes like chicken - and proceeded to send lightning in my direction. The poor woman, who I think finally thought the "adventure" was over, collapsed to her knees again, while the Draugr grunted and headed for me.
Did I mention I went back to the Atronach stone a while ago? Well, I did. That, coupled with my Breton power of dragonskin took care of any hostile magic. I dispatched the Dragur with a few swings of my conjured sword, then stuck it through dearest Beem-ja like the gentle caress of an axe through a tree. So not gentle at all, really.
Dusting myself off, I asked the girl to see if she was going to live, and she stood up and said she would be alright. She was naturally shocked that her former protector was a power-hungry mad lizard happy to murder anyone who helped him out, which simply made me marvel at how she could wander into Skyrim without realizing that everyone is likely to try to kill you sooner or later.
That done, I collected the loot lying around, including an axe with an enchantment that both traps souls and sets targets on fire - not to worry, I will be disenchanting that with great haste - and a Dragon shout from the wall that appears to be able to temporarily turn me into an entity both incapable of being harmed and causing harm. I like the first effect but could really do without the second. I'll take what I can get, though.
Finished in yet another barrow with a trail of corpses behind me - none of them mine, so it's a good day - I headed up what may be the longest circular staircase on Nirn. Emerging on a ledge, I had an impressive view of Skyrim, and an even more impressive proximity to an unusual structure on the top of the mountain a few hundred paces above me. So I headed up.
It turned out to be a Dwarven ruin, with a couple urns full of loot - Belethor will be pleased - and two Ice Wraiths - with which I was not pleased. That done, I consulted my map and noticed Mount Anthor was close by. Actually, this WAS Mount Anthor, and the dragon I had been giving a bounty for resided... well, presumably just below the space it was currently flapping upward through.
With no mammoths, cave bears, or anything else alive in sight (believe me, I checked), I sighed and resolved myself for another round of dodge-the-ice-breath. It proved a fairly uneventful fight - a combination of arrows and fire shouts brought the beast down on top of the mountain. A few hacks with a sword killed it... precisely positioned upslope of me with its corpse sliding rapidly toward me. I turned to get out of the way...
...yeah, if anyone asks, I'm the Breton that fell off the top of Mount Anthor.
-
Ryan, these are absolute gold. I just want you to know that.
-
Ryan, these are absolute gold. I just want you to know that.
Thanks!
-
Mountain falling count: 1.
-
Mountain falling count: 1.
Yeah, I forgot to mention that I blame you for that :P
-
I live to serve the laws of narrative convenience.
-
...in which Ryne's controlling player becomes a father for the second time and there won't be any updates for a little while...
Though teaser... Mountain falling count: 2
-
Congratulations MP!
(about achieving an heir and a spare not the second tumble down the mountain.)
Best wishes to you and your family and hopefully some nights that include sleep!
-
Congratulations!
-
I'm noticing a definite trend here. Try not to fall down any other mountains for your wife's sake.
-
Things have settled down some, so time to get caught up.
...in which Ryne meets a damsel in distress, gets suckered by a pretty woman, proposes a Skyrim-wide moratorium on the use of Unrelenting Force, and begins some sensitive cross-species diplomacy...
...so after picking myself up at the bottom of Mount Anthor - after I broke his skull, the dragon's corpse was kind enough to break my fall - I trudged back to Whiterun to repair the dents in my armour and catch some shuteye. Fortunately, bouncing down the mountain is a fair bit faster than trying to gingerly walk down, so it didn't take me long to get back to Breezehome and collapse into bed. I dropped most of my gear in the doorway - Lydia can deal with it, she's an employee, not my wife - and slept like the dead.... which, given my recent experiences, was a little too close to possibility for comfort.
I woke up around midnight and felt like a drink, so I trudged up the slope to the Bannered Mare - Whiterun's guards being their usual cheery selves, alternating between complimenting my skills and disparaging my character. I wandered in and sat down at the bar, and was startled to realize I was being served by a Redguard woman who matched the description given to me by a couple of Redguard warriors I saw the guards eject from Whiterun a few months ago. I said something to her and she insisted I meet her in the back. Not quite knowing where this was going, I reluctantly followed. My experiences thus far in Skyrim suggested I was likely to be greeted by violence, while the sway of her lovely hips suggested perhaps the residents of Hammerfell are nicer than Nords.
It's a bloody good thing I'm a cynic. Hammerfell, Skyrim... different skin colour, same bull****. We no sooner arrived in a private room than she pulled a dagger on me. Apparently my hot-n-cold damsel used to be a princess who was on the run from the Alik'r, some sort of guard force that was out to kill her, and she was happy to pay me to deal with them. What can I say, I'm a sucker for nice hips.
I headed up to the Whiterun dungeons and met with one of the Alik'r who apparently landed himself in jail through his own stupidity. Considering the combat skills and wit of the majority of Whiteruns guards - these are the same idiots I watched stand beside a stone tower while they shot arrows at a dragon - I seriously began to question the supposed talent of these Alik'r. Nevertheless, after paying the guard to let him out, he informed me that his leader was holed up in a cave a half-day's trudge west of Whiterun... so off I set.
Arriving at Swindler's Den, I was confronted by a nervous-looking bandit who, instead of meeting my entreaties toward peaceful entrance with thoughtful understanding, unsheathed his axe, yelled that I was going to die, and promptly impaled himself on my outstretched sword. I've noticed that Skyrim's inhabitants seem a bit thick - when I was running around in leather armour, I certainly did not charge someone twice my size in glass armour with a black sword who was trying to convince me that violence was not in my best interest. Experience suggests this is why I'm still alive while several hundred bandits I've run into are not.
Shaking my head, I strolled into the cave and crouched - discretion being preferable to a brawl - and listened to a couple of other bandits just inside talking about how they were protecting these Alik'r and the usual bravado about dispatching intruders. My dagger took care of both of them and several more of their compatriots further in. I've found in remarkably easier to avoid all the fuss of a battle where a quick knife can make short work of the opposition with a minimum of fuss. I had one dicey moment when I dropped an Orc and his fellow across the way heard him drop - the sword came out to deal with an Imperial and a Dunmer mage, then - but other than that the trek through the cave was remarkably quiet. I moved down the cave and into an underground stream. I no sooner passed into a waterfall that I realized I was in very deep trouble - and not due to the water seeping into my smallclothes through the armour.
A shout of "Alik'r, Hold!" stopped me in my sneaking tracks, and I met Kematu, a Redguard with an imposing demeanor and remarkably good sense. Well, I suppose it wasn't that remarkable - he wasn't from Skyrim, after all. Kematu promptly explained that Ms. Nice Hips had lied through her immaculately formed teeth and lips. Updating my list of people who deserve an introduction to a dragon's stomach at the earliest opportunity, I listened attentively as he explained that dearest Saadia had betrayed her country to the Thalmor - entry #1 on the aforementioned list, I might add - and then fled to Skyrim to escape punishment. Traitor, coward, hussy, liar, and all-round trollspawn... this woman's list of qualities just keeps getting better and better.
Kematu informed me that he could not gain access to Whiterun, but if I could get the wicked wench outside, he would happily take her into custody and haul her back to Hammerfell to face her fate. As second options to dragon snacks go, this didn't sound half bad. For one, no combat required. For two, I can never find a dragon when its convenient. In fact, they seem to have a knack for only appearing when it is not in the slightest bit convenient. While the idea of dragging someone around precisely for their knack of keeping the dragons away seemed fleetingly appealing, I then recalled that this woman first flirted with me and then shoved a dagger in my face, and thought the better of it. Having random strangers trying to constantly kill me is one thing - towing around a traitorous woman with a penchant for pointy things is quite another.
As I wandered back toward Whiterun, I briefly wondered if I was doing the right thing, but Kematu's story was considerably more detailed and convincing than Saadia's, and if it suddenly changed at the stables after I got Saadia out, I was fairly certain I could handle these Alik'r. Not to mention, the refreshing honesty, dialogue, and lack of immediate violence from Kematu impressed me.
Upon arriving back in Whiterun, I found Saadia and convinced her that she had to flee the city. Leading her out to the stables, I found Kematu waiting in the shade, and noticed the remarkable personality transformation Saadia underwent: (1) because I clearly made a good call and she was a lying hussy, and (2) because she fell over flat on her face lying in some horse leavings like a brick. Kematu is pretty handy with a paralyze spell. I kept my hand on my sword - one can't help but think that in Skyrim everyone is likely to lie, betray, or attempt to kill you - but he promised no harm would come to her... until, at least, she faced justice back in Hammerfell, and the man ACTUALLY paid me. No, really, how do I move to Hammerfell? Is this dragonborn gig permanent, or what?
That finished, I decided that since I've stumbled into at least two parts of this mysterious Galdur amulet, I might as well locate the remainder and put this forgotten legend to bed.
Folgunther, where the last amulet fragment was found, was fairly uneventful - Draugr, draugr, and more draugr... and just to change it up, a cursed brother with a whole village of draugr thralls. I love Nordic barrows. At any rate, I recovered the amulet fragment, and some notes and headed off to Galdur's final resting place where I could apparently reforge the thing.
My first hint that perhaps this wasn't going to go smoothly was a very dead adventurer next to an Emerald dragon claw. Dead adventurers means trouble. Dragon claws meant traps. This did not bode well. However, after some careful observation of the dragon claws I made it through both doors with only minor singing - snakes and dragons look bloody similar when they're carved that small - and into the cave.
Let me paint you a picture: the cave was a long hall, filled with columns, had a large altar at the far end, and was covered in draugr coffins. COVERED. Well, this is going to go well. I strolled down the hall and laid each of the amulet fragments on the altar. To no one's surprise - well, maybe the dead adventurer, he looked the flighty sort - the general ominous feeling of the place immediately manifested as three ominous ghostly figures in front of me. Three familiar-looking ominous figures. Will that undead trio never die? Sure enough, there was my sword-wielding friend who was so fond of draugr thralls, his magic-wielding sibling from Saarthal, and last my friend with the bow and the horned cap.
My swordy friend re-manifested his ghostly self at the exit, and all the coffins sprung open with thralls coming toward me. Saw that coming. I don't think he saw my sword, though, as I swung in through three draugr and into his ghostly face. Well, soultrap worked. Here's hoping that's the end of... no, he's back there on the altar on his knees. Now what?
Ghost jerk number two teleported and appeared, along with about five copies of himself, all along the walls. I got a sinking feeling that this was not going to be good. It wasn't. I swear, if I ever hear Fus ro da again this year it will be too soon. I promise I will stop using it if everyone else does - especially this idiot and his 5 clones. Suffice it to say, I had the opportunity to inspect every inch of that room from a distance of a few inches as I was flung about the room. Apparently the bow-shouter didn't pay as much attention to his clones' helmet, as his was diffferent. Finding him was easy - hitting him before I was introduced to another chamber wall was not. So - nationwide moratorium on Unrelenting Force? Please?
I finally dispatched he blowhard, and was by now in a foul enough mood that I took three strides up to the axe toting third ghost, whacked it with my shield - anyone else wonder why I could whack a ghost with a shield? - and slit it from skull to pelvis with a swordstroke. When I turned, all three were again standing at the altar looking menacing. Seriously, what does a guy have to do to be rid of a haunting?
Turns out, not much. A fourth ghost appeared and Shouted the other three into non-existence. That must be Gauldur. The amulet repaired itself, and my friendly ghostly companion also vanished. Could have appeared before I did my building inspection, could you?
On my return to Whiterun, I stashed the amulet in the house - my custom-enchanted magical resistance amulet is of far more use - and opened the door to stumble into one of the Grey-manes. And got suckered, again. After trudging after Fralia, meeting her hidden son, and then breaking into the Battle-born residence, I discovered that the friendly neighborhood Thalmor had apparently captured Fralia's other son and locked him up in some tower up near Solitude. Avulstein, the brother in hiding, wanted to charge off and assault the place but I had other ideas - while I knew from experience that Thalmor are not reasoned with, the Imperial Legion might be, and I would be damned to Oblivion before I headed off to a frontal assault on a Thalmor-held fort without trying an alternative. Not that I have any qualms about killing Thalmor in particular, but rather that I grow tired of constantly being forced to violence by others. If violence was to arise, it would be a last resort.
Knowing General Tullius was near Solitude, I gritted my teeth and hired the carriage driver down at the stables, hoping this carriage ride would be somewhat less eventful than my last - which was my arrival in Skyrim that nearly led to beheading, incineration, crushing, and the current mess I'm dealing with as far as this destiny business goes. Come to think of it, Tullius had a fairly direct role in that attempted beheading, which just goes to show how little sense I have some days.
I arrived near Solitude in the middle of the night and immediately had to dispatch a few vampires that showed up too. I'm starting to notice a disturbing pattern that when I show up near a city at night, so do the bloodsuckers - the vampiric kind, not the bankers. I decided to head to Northwatch Keep to see what could be done about the Grey-Manes before disturbing Tullius - my neck was itching. On my arrival at the gate, I inquired about getting Thorald Grey-Mane released, and the guard replied "Are you joking? Even if we had a prisoner by that name, the only way he'd be released is by order of the Imperial Legion." Haughty, puffed up, miserable pointy-eared troll-fornicator.
Since it was still dark, I decided to check out the local landscape rather than have the Solitude guards draw any conclusions about me and the vampires, so I hiked up the hill and soon found myself not far from an odd-looking secluded structure, which turned out to be the Thalmor embassy. Figures those pointy-eared bastards would park themselves on the highest point above the capital city of the country. I should mention, since my disparagement of the Dominion's inhabitants may seem unreasonable to those who have not met them - I had a couple run-ins with Thalmor justicars in which the aforementioned bastards seemed to think that exercising my right to freedom of belief was grounds for murder; though incidentally, I've never had much use for any of the gods and my obstinacy has more to do with annoyance at busybody elves thinking they can tell everyone what they can believe than any particular affinity for Talos. Nevertheless, they discovered that Bretons are quite hardy when it comes to trying to off them with spells, and this Breton is quite handy with a large conjured sword. So, no love lost for the Thalmor.
Making that irritating discovery, I consulted my map and discovered that with all the winding I did on the way up, Solitude should be just over the ridge. I headed over... and found myself a mere pace from Solitude. Well, a pace, and a several hundred foot drop. Precipice didn't do that description justice. I did see promising handholds most of the way down, so I figured it would be a trifling matter to simply climb down instead of trekking around the long way.
The guard who broke my fall felt otherwise. In fact, he felt very strongly otherwise and encouraged me to be on my way as quickly as possible, or at least that's what it sounded like - that northern accent can be a little difficult to understand, especially when you're sprinting in the opposite direction of the mouth its coming out of. Next time, perhaps I'll take the long way - two mountain-tumbles in the span of as many weeks is two too many.
When I headed into Solitude, I watched the Legion dispatch some unlucky guard who apparently was stupid enough to think that Imperials would follow Nordic law - as personal experience in Helgen taught me, you're lucky in Imperials follow their own laws - and headed for Castle Dour, where I found Tullius.
On the plus side, he didn't order me executed. Rather, he congratulated me for my skills and offered me a place in the Legion. Let me get this straight - first, you try to behead me without knowing why but just as a mere matter of routine, and now you're inviting me to join an army of arrow-fodder fighting a Nordic rebellion in the middle of a dragon resurgence? Yeah - that's going to happen. I promptly refused that offer, half-expecting to be drawing swords immediately thereafter, but rather found myself in conversation about the civil war progress. When Tullius finally quit rambling, I inquired about getting a prisoner released.
Tullius looked at me, shook his head, and said "The Thalmor? Do you have any idea what you're asking? I'm sorry, that's just not possible. It would cause far too many problems."
General, you really have no idea just who you're talking to, do you? Allow me to instruct you as to the nature of problems.
-
Ahahaha, bravo good sir. Please keep these coming!
How is the little one?
-
Mountain falling count: 2
Only three more to go!
-
How is the little one?
She's quite well behaved... and, remarkably, so is her two-year-old brother. The chaos of adding a second child didn't increase dramatically over just one.
Mountain falling count: 2
Only three more to go!
...until what?!
-
until the towers fall and the mundus unwinds, duh
-
...until what?!
Until you've reached what by painstaking trial and error I have determined as the minimum number of times you have to fall down a mountain in this game.
-
Do you only count falling, or do you count intentional rapid semi-controlled descent? 'Cause I do that all the time.
-
...until what?!
Until you've reached what by painstaking trial and error I have determined as the minimum number of times you have to fall down a mountain in this game.
And survive? Because if we're counting die-reloads, I'm up to at least 6; two of which were on stolen horses :P
-
Do you only count falling, or do you count intentional rapid semi-controlled descent? 'Cause I do that all the time.
I just did that off the dragon peak north of Riften down to the Atronach stone. It was actually pretty fun, especially having to activate Close Wounds mid-air :)
-
Why would you have to do that?
Become Ethereal -> Skydive without parachute.
-
Why would you have to do that?
Become Ethereal -> Skydive without parachute.
If there is one thing I consistently forget to use in this game, it's the Shouts.
-
...in which Ryne gets a stunning view, a dragon shows remarkable sense, and both the Thalmor and Ryne don't...
After my less than productive meeting with General Tullius, I trudged out of Solitude even more thoroughly unimpressed with the Imperial Legion than I had been before. I had harbored some hope earlier that the Legion in Skyrim was simply corrupt, complacent or lazy - not that they were terrified of the Thalmor and complicit in seeing the injustices foisted across the Empire continue. I've stayed out of the civil war thus far - well, aside from dispatching Thalmor who attack me - and harboured no particular ill will toward Legion soldiers, but the more I see the state of things, the more I begin to think these Stormcloaks have the right idea about the Thalmor and their conquering of the Empire, if nothing else.
In a foul mood to begin with, I was heartened somewhat when I stumbled across a crumbling shrine to Meridia. I've recorded before how I have no particular religious bent; the Thalmor position on Talos upsets me because it's being enforced under the edge of a blade, and I don't particularly care who or how people worship so long as it doesn't affect me, but I've never been terribly awed or frightened of Divines or Daedra. In point of fact, I've often found myself doing tasks for some of the Daedric Lords who apparently think a dragonborn is a handy fellow to involve in their plots. So far, this has allowed me to stash Mephala's Ebony Blade away somewhere where it will hopefully never see another human hand - if ever an enchantment was truly evil, one which gains by the betrayal and destruction of those who trust you and follow you is it - and cart around a modified version of Azura's Star to feed my enchanting habit. Meridia is one of the Daedra who I can genuinely say I like, or at least like the idea of. Unbridled opposition to undead is my kind of daedric goddess. I was a little stunned to recall that I found a gem months ago near Whiterun that came with a disembodied voice instructing me to find this very shrine, so I climbed up the stairs and placed it in the altar...
...and found myself chatting with a Daedra. Several dozen miles ABOVE Skyrim. Holy dragondroppings, is that ever incredible - terrifying, since typically the sensation of floating in the air means I've fallen off a mountain and it is a LONG way down, but incredible. Meridia, bright ball of sunshine that she is, is less happy about the view and more so about my appearance, as it seems a necromancer has taken up residence in her temple - seriously, if you're going to set up shop as a purveyor of undead, the residence of a Daedra with a passionate hatred for them seems like poor planning or extreme arrogance - and corrupted it. However, Skyrim's residents appear to be mere apprentices in their habit of asking others to do their work for them judging by the Daedric habit. Meridia needs a champion. Three guesses who got the job.
Clearing Meridia's temple was more a matter of patience than any great difficulty; the place was overrun with Corrupted Shades who yielded Grand Souls, but caused plenty of damage if I didn't use my considerable stealth abilities. I dispatched dozens of the things, and collected nearly my weight on gold from the poor desecrated corpses, before finally arriving at the final altar of light and the necromancer, ominously named Malkoran, and his six pet Shades. I tried my dagger tricks on the Shades, but numbers two through six swarmed me when the first died, so I found myself wildly swinging my sword and shield while sidestepping between apparitions. Malkoran, meanwhile, failed to notice my collection of gear supplying magical resistance and my habit of absorbing spells. Between the Atronach stone, the absorption abilities I picked up with my alteration skills, and my resistances, magicka doesn't pose much of a threat to me anymore, and Malkoran's ice spikes were no exception. The Shades defeated, I turned to their master and dispatched him with a sword thrust, and turned to admire the altar... only to hear a crash and discover that Malkoran was now a shade. Honestly, necromancer's are a serious pain in the ass. His Shade was dispatched without much difficulty over the others, and Meridia's disembodied voice echoed through the room instructing me to retrieve Dawnbreaker from the Altar. No objections - though when I picked up the sword I immediately found myself back above Skyrim in a flash of white light, again with that feeling of impeding acceleration toward the ground. Meridia thanked me and told me to wield the blade in her name; while it is unlikely I will do much to champion her with the blade, it seemed prudent to be polite to a Daedric goddess who has you suspended above the ground at a distance several hundred times of what would be required to merely kill you, so I acknowledged with some appropriate platitudes and found myself back on the ground no worse for wear. Well, this day started off with typical frustration, but things were briefly looking up.
Briefly, unfortunately, was an apt term. I no sooner arrived near Northwatch Keep that a dragon did too. The interesting part is that, despite the fact that the places was swarming in touchy Elves with bows, the dragon neither attacked the Keep, nor did the pointy-eared bastards attack it. This bears further investigation, but alas, at the time I was too busy fending off the dragon. Oddly enough, however, after I whittled the dragon down some by turning it into a flying angry porcupine with elven arrows and it set me on fire just until I dove into the nearby ocean, it abruptly broke off the attack on me and headed east over the cliffs as fast and straight as it could without a backward glance. That... has never happened before. Either the creature figured out who I was and just what was going to happen when I killed it, or it had a pressing engagement elsewhere. Perhaps it also needed to speak to Tullius about the Elves. If so, I wished it luck.
By this time, night had fallen and I tried the front gate guard again. If anything, the lout was even more unfriendly, so I tried the side gate - guarded too. I tried slipping inside, and the guard warned me off, so I sulked away, then snuck back. There was no way I was getting inside and I knew the guard was (1) a miserable pointy-eared excuse for a sentient, (2) a Thalmor, and by definition a murderous rights-oppressing pretentious piece of magickal dung, and (3) taking a dagger in the back of the neck because I was not leaving anyone, least of all someone associated with the resistance to the Thalmor, in their hands. Sorry, guard, but you had your chance. I told General Tullius he didn't understand the nature of trouble insofar as I was concerned.
Unfortunately, when I snuck past the gate it appears that every other Thalmor in the place suddenly grew eyes in the back of their heads, because I found myself being rushed by no fewer than seven of them. Seriously, seven. Unfortunately for them, I have remarkable resistance to magicka, am pretty handy with a sword, and have a remarkably useful talent for bringing friends when I need them. I would say the archers in particular were surprised to see my Dremora Lord when I conjured him, but I don't think they had much time before he set them on fire and split them in half. Meanwhile, the others fell to a combination of my sword strokes, arrows, and Fus ro da. Well, if no one else wanted a moratorium I would be damned to Oblivion before I was giving it up.
An eerie silence fell over the night as I collected articles of glass armour and weaponry from the dead elves. No, I'm not above killing Thalmor and looting their corpses. Note to anyone else who wants me dead: I'm the guy with the badass conjured weaponry, enchanted armour, and a pile of expensive glass gear harvested from the last set of assholes who tried to kill me. Do you really want to dance? (Answer: Yes, because I was later accosted by another thief on the road who didn't run from my attempt at intimidation, so it would seem the inhabitants of Skyrim are as stupid as they are murderous).
I decided to minimize the body count for the sake of General Tullius' problems - I'm nothing if not considerate - picked the lock on the back door, and snuck in... down the stairs, around a corner, and straight into two more elves. Conjure sword, dispatch guards, wash rinse repeat. I even opened the gates for the other prisoners who were looking a little worse for wear. Thalmor. These guys have to go.
When I reached the end of the corridor, I peered around the corner and spotted a Thalmor interrogator, skeletons chained to the wall, and traces of blood... and heard moaning. Now, I characterize much of my previous experiences in Skyrim as annoyance or irritation - this made me angry. Legitimately angry. These bastards take people and torture them to death, all because they are opposed to the worship of a particular Divine? The misery and atrocities the Thalmor are responsible for... the deaths... the strife... the war covering Skyrim. All because of their supreme arrogance in policing belief.
I regret to inform General Tullius that a Breton with his own rather strong beliefs on liberty may have created a rather large problem for him, after he and a conjured Dremora Lord ended every Thalmor in and around Northwatch Keep with prejudice and a flaming sword. I also regret to inform General Tullius that the same Breton is likely to continue creating problems by ending every Thalmor he meets and doing his damndest to aid the Stormcloaks in throwing the Thalmor and their Imperial puppets out of Skyrim. I have had enough.
With the Thalmor all very dead, I released Thorald Grey-Mane and promised to take a message back to his mother in Whiterun, then headed back to Solitude to sell my glass weapon and apparel collection. The shopkeepers didn't seem to mind a little Elf blood on them.
Heading for the main gate, I ran into some shady characters who pointed me to an Argonian looking to pay someone for a little work. Intrigued, I met the fellow at the docks and was informed that he wanted me to put out the Solitude lighthouse, thereby causing a ship to wreck on the shoreline, from which he would be collecting and sharing some of the goods. Ordinarily, I would have found the suggestion despicable, but I was still hopping mad after my run-in with Tullius and the Thalmor, and I was feeling quite amiable to the idea of depriving the Imperials of a ship and its goods, though I did elicit a promise from my prospective employer that the crew of the ship would not be harmed. Disrupting logistics was one thing - being responsible for the deaths of a bunch of innocent sailors and a few Imperial guards was quite another.
I headed off the the lighthouse and snuffed the light, then returned to my employer, who told me to meet his sister and her Marauders at the wreck and marked it on my map. I headed off the the wreck, stopping long enough to intervene in a battle between two trolls and a dragon to dispatch all the combatants, and came upon a sight that made my blood run cold. On the shore were several boats, filled with supplies and dead crew. On the deck, Marauders were finishing off the sailors and Imperial guards that had survived the initial attack. I GROW TIRED OF CONSTANT BETRAYAL AND TRAGEDY IN THIS COUNTRY, GODSDAMN IT ALL TO OBLIVION.
In a rage, I stepped onto the deck with sword already swinging, and the first two Marauders didn't even see their deaths tap them on the shoulder. Surprise was overcome by fear, and the remaining three began attacking, but I shrugged off arrows, cast Close Wounds mid-stride, and severed their heads from their shoulders one by one. The last one tried to flee over the side and took an arrow in the skull, knocking him to his needs. I didn't feel the need to hear any last words as I executed him.
Inside the ship, shouts greeted my arrival as they heard the commotion upstairs, as I was rushed by several Marauders and a female Argonian who must have been my lying employer's sister. I let them surround me, then introduced them to my friendly Dremora Lord and my blade. They died mid-step, and I retrieved a note from the Argonian pointing me toward Broken Oar Grotto and to the final destination of both the loot and the liar who made me complicit in murder. The eyes of the dead sailors seemed to stare at me accusingly as I left the ship a silent, floating slaughterhouse.
Broken Oar Grotto would have made me marvel had I not been intent on a mission of vengeance. The cave was a massive underground shipping berth, large enough to hold several vessels, which it obviously had before the entrance collapsed, as many were still there and had been converted to various platforms for the pirates to work from. I let my summoned Dremora Lord do the majority of the bladework, and we reduced the cavern to a collection of pirate corpses in short order. Last of all was my temporary employer, who was upset that I had killed his crew, nearly as upset as he was as I killed him. He took a while to die. Finally, I cleared the cave of its loot, including several chests the pirates had cleverly hidden around under the water, and headed for the entrance and Whiterun. A mother needs to know her son is alive and well, and I needed to let my rage go. Ridding Nirn of a few dozen killers wasn't about to bring back the innocent dead whose blood was on my hands or rid me of my guilt, but it did give me a certain sense of satisfaction...
...which I maintained all the way back to Whiterun and then through Ustengrav, right up until I reached Jurgen Windcaller's casket and found the Horn missing and a note telling me to head to Riverwood - only AFTER killing the several dozen Draugr of various difficulty infesting the place.
When I arrived in Riverwood and met the mysterious woman who left the note, I had just one simple question:
"For the love of all the Divines and Daedra combined, Delphine, couldn't you have pinned the godsdamned note to the FRONT DOOR?!"
-
What, no comments on the last one? Tough crowd. I'll have to try harder.
...in which mages show they aren't very bright, the Thalmor continue to be a pain in the ass, and Ryne gets a new job and immediately begins redecorating...
So, a few new developments in the last couple weeks. First, it seems the Blades demise was at least partially exaggerated, as Delphine was/is a member. That inspires confidence - a greying woman enlists a Breton adventurer that all of Skyrim is out to kill to save the world. What could possibly go wrong? After Delphine further informed me the dragons were not actually returning but, in another bit of wonderful news, were actually RISING FROM THEIR GODSDAMNED GRAVES, she assisted me in offing one as he arose immediately after a very large, very black one that awakened him left. That was the fellow from Helgen. I don't like how I keep running into that monstrosity.
Delphine and I met back in Riverwood, where she filled me in on some of the Blades' misfortunes and the dragons, and confirmed that she also suspected the Thalmor had a hand in the return of the dragons. Either we're both crazy, or a pattern is forming. She then instructed me to head to Solitude and meet up with a Bosmer in order to infiltrate the Thalmor Embassy. OK, look, I've had quite enough of those Thalmor bastards lately. Maybe in a couple weeks.
When last I was in Winterhold, Mirabelle suggested I take a trip to Mzulft to look for something to help examine the Eye of Magnus, so I decided to head off and see what I could do. I arrived at the ruins in the middle of the night, and headed inside. I'm going to spare most of the details, but lets just say that after fighting Falmer, Chaurus, and Dwarven leftovers, I'm not going to complain the next time I run into Draugr of any sort. I also found the place liberally interspersed with dead Synod researchers, which seemed to be a hint that perhaps Imperial mages should stick to their books rather than go running around dungeons. Things just haven't been the same since the Mages' Guild was dissolved.
When I finally reached the door to the Oculatory, I discovered it locked and my picks had no effect. Apparently I was now on a great quest for a key in a massive Dwarven ruin. A quest to follow a trail of breadcrumbs... if breadcrumbs were dead Falmer in various states of being ripped limb from limb. Something told me the end of this little journey was going to be unpleasant. And I was right. I hate being right sometimes.
When I opened the final set of doors, before me stood a very large, very active, very unfriendly Dwarven Master Centurion. Seriously, couldn't the key have been guarded by something pleasant? Perhaps a butterfly I could mix in a potion? Skeever? Hell, I'll take a bear. Nope. Big, nasty, machine powered by a soul gem made by a vanished race of magickal axe-lovers with a height complex. I can only imagine they were compensating for something when they decided to make their Automatons brush the bloody ceiling two spans above my not-inconsiderable height.
I conjured my friendly Dremora Lord and stood back as the machine went for it, slipped behind, and began hammering on its back with my Dragonbone sword while the Dremora swung its greatsword, and we dropped the thing with a minimum of fuss, though it was somewhat amusing to see the Dremora vanish as the Automaton fell on it. Dremora aren't particularly bright at the best of times.
Key in hand, I headed for the Oculatory, unlocked the door, and found myself stuck behind another door, this time with a Synod researcher - the only one with enough sense to put a locked dwarven door between himself and the Falmer, it seems - who immediately began babbling incoherently about crystals and the other researchers and his dire situation. Pulling a crystal I had retrieved from a dead Falmer from my pocket, he immediately went from annoyingly whiny to annoyingly superior, and began lecturing on about the great Dwarven machine.
I admit, few things impress me, but that machine impressed me. What did not impress me was the intelligence of the Synod researchers. Apparently, all of them died because one of them failed to anticipate how the cold would affect the focussing crystal and he had to trek back to Cyrodiil to get it fixed - however, the lone survivor informed me that I would have to tune the crystal in the machine by heating or cooling it. While I already knew flame and frost spells, I discovered two spell tomes in the room itself as well. If these Synod characters were so smart, don't you think they would have tried heating the crystal to repair it here?
A scant few seconds later, I had the crystal tuned and a partial map of Skyrim projected on the wall, which the Synod fellow was very displeased with. From his cryptic muttering, I gathered that he and his fellows planned to mark all objects of power in Skyrim so better to aid the Empire - or perhaps the Dominion - in overrunning the place. Nevertheless, it appears the Eye of Magnus and Staff of Magnus both provided sufficient interference that he wasn't getting much for readable information. Such a shame.
I headed out of the ruins and made my way back to Winterhold, where I discovered that, in true Thalmor fashion, the slimy creep Ancamo had figured out how to tap into the Eye of Magnus, render himself invulnerable to my sword, and severely wounded Mirabelle while killing the Arch-Mage in the explosion that ensued when we tried to stop him. Mirabelle survived, and dispatched me to recover the Staff from Labyrinthian, with an odd comment that the Arch-Mage must have known something. Ominous. I felt bad for the fellow, though I barely knew him. On the other hand, I felt significantly less bad about him and more pleased that I barely knew him a short while later while I was delving into Labyrinthian and discovered that he wasn't exactly the best friend an aspiring mage could have, either.
One minor glitch before I headed to Labyrthian - it seemed Ancamo's meddling produced some sort of magickal attack on Winterhold. The anomalies it spawned caused little in the way of hurt, but Phineas, Faralda, and I spent the better part of a half hour clearing them out. The little glowballs were fast, agile, and tough - not much shrugs off dragbone weapons, but these did with little trouble. Fortunately, their attacks were disorganized and ineffectual in the extreme.
Labyrinthian held few small surprises, but one large one. It seems that dragons can also be undead, or at least the walking collection of dragon bones that tried to kill me while skeletons were flinging arrows in my direction suggests that to be the case. I set the Dremora Lord loose on the skeletons, and knocked my clattering large friend into a motionless pile of bones with a few arrows of my own, which is odd when you think about it because there was really nothing for them to pierce. Logic doesn't seem to enter into the destruction of magickal undead in this country, though, so I just went with it and was glad I didn't get eaten - it would be awkward trying to explain to the Dremora that I wasn't dead, just encased in a skeletal ribcage and in need of some assistance. Like I said before - not very bright at the best of times.
Dispatching dozens of Draugr of various kinds - some of the rotten assholes (get it? oh come on!) apparently not getting the memo on the Fus ro da moratorium either - I made my way deeper through the ruins, regularly encountering ghostly apparitions of six mages, one of whom appeared to be the dead Arch Mage. Well, five. No, four. Apparently the bodies to whom said apparitions belonged didn't fair nearly as well against the inhabitants of the barrow as I had. Their numbers continued to dwindle. Between ghostly meetings which fewer and fewer participants seemed interested in showing up for, I ran into a few more skeletons, a wispmother, and several highly irritating wisps, followed by yet MORE Draugr. Honestly, if someone could figure out how to command Draugr, the Stormcloaks could eject the Imperials and their Thalmor masters from Skyrim in a matter of hours (ironic note: I would later come to regret these thoughts; I'm behind in journal entries).
Finally, I arrived at what I gathered to be the final door to the final monstrosity that no doubt would prove an epic battle of wits and skills that would test me to my limits - or, at least, that's what I gathered from the three remaining ghosts who said more or less that at the heavy iron door in their last meeting. When I opened the door, I was greeted by a strange sight. Alright, I suppose most of what I enter in my journal could be considered strange sights. I was greeted by an unprecedented sight - on stone bridges, two ghosts were sustaining beams of what I could only assume to be magicka at a bubble around what appeared to be a large, angry, undead, and otherwise immobile Dragon Priest. Who had my staff. Why do they always have the things I need? Honestly, just once I'd like to find the artifact I' questing after snuggled in among a group of fluffy, white bunnies that would bound around at my feet while I grinned and pondered stew. Alas, with my luck, if ever I do find something guarded by bunnies they will be thirty feet long with horns, breathing fire, and keep trolls who will try to stew me for pets. Come to think of it, that isn't far removed from my typical dragon encounter.
Leaving that unpleasant thought behind, I crept up the stairs and tapped one of the ghostly mages roughly where his shoulder should be. He turned, looked at me, opened his mouth... and flung a destruction spell in my surprised face. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THE DAEDRA AND DIVINES, EVEN GHOSTLY DEAD PEOPLE WHO BELONGED TO MY OWN ORGANIZATION WANT TO KILL ME NOW? WHAT DOES A MAN HAVE TO DO NOT TO BE MURDERED AT EVERY OPPORTUNITY AROUND HERE?
Fortunately, my spell absorption talents and magicka resistance enchantments are not dependent on my situational awareness - I would be dead several dozen times over were that the case - and the spell fizzled in the air. My enchanted dragonbone sword, however, did not. Apparently both Absorb Health and Fiery Soul Trap (told you I'd learn that without delay) still work on ghosts, as the ethereal fellow vanished on the spot.
Knowing what to expect of his compatriot, I nevertheless still tried the friendly approach with her, and was rewarded for my efforts much the same way. With the shield and his ghostly friends gone, the Dragon Priest - Morokei, his name turned out to be - was loose and pursued me across the room while I hastily pulled out my bow and sent arrows in his undead direction. And then he caught up to me when I backed into a corner. I pulled out my sword and held up the shield when he gave me a malevolent look and...
...nothing happened. Turns out Morokei can't fight. Well, not without magicka. I'm virtually invulnerable to magicka. Laughing, I poked him in the place where his chest used to be. More raging sounds, staff raised, and... yeah, still nothing. Chuckling to myself, I recalled the fear in the dead mages' voices when they spoke of this creature, and promptly sliced its skull from its neck. Morokei fell, finally banished from the world. I picked up his mask - these Dragon Priest masks have some interesting enchantments and are well worth recovering - and the staff, and headed for the door. Just as I reached it, the ghost of Aren, the Arch Mage, appeared and gave a lament-filled account of how he had bound his friends for eternity to ensure Otar could never be loosed upon Skyrim. With friends like him... I shuddered and contemplated my good fortune in not being sent on more errands by the man as I headed up the stairs, through the hall, and walked smack into a Thalmor named Estormo wielding two charged bolts of lightning in hand, who assurred me that hewould be taking the staff as Ancamo could not afford to have me meddling, and I might as well just give up and die. This is becoming a tiresome refrain from people who seem unable to recognize bits and pieces of the dead dragons decorating my armour and weapons.
I gave Estormo a contemptuous look when his spells hit the back of my armour as I walked away from him. Estormo died badly. That is to say, screaming when my Dremora Lord split him in half with its enchanted burning greatsword. I wasn't giving him the courtesy of being killed by my weapons; he died to a daedra. Picking among the bits of elf-goo on the floor, I collected his pocket change, whistled tunelessly, and climbed up the ladder and back out of the ruins, heading for the College.
On my arrival, I discovered things had gone, in their usual fashion when I'm involved, from bad to considerably worse. The majority of the powerful college mages were sitting on the precarious entrance path. The students were missing. Mirabelle was missing. And there was a potent magickal wall between us, and the College. Toldfir informed me Mirabelle was dead, having defended their retreat from Ancamo as the barrier was raised. Have I mentioned how much these Thalmor creeps are beginning to annoy me? I showed Toldfir the staff, and he said he'd follow me in. The Staff appeared to burn all the power from the barrier, and we sprinted for the Hall of Elements.
Ancamo was being a typical pompous Thalmor inside, going on endlessly about how he was beyond our reach when Toldir tried to incinerate him and the spell did nothing. Taking the more direct route, I slammed my dragonbone sword into his head... or tried to. Nothing happened. Why can't anything ever go according to plan?
The Eye of Magnus began to pulsate, glow, and expand, and more of the magickal anomalies popped out. Wonderful. I told Toldfir to deal with them, and focused the Staff of Magnus on the Eye. Sure enough, it shrunk back to its ordinary size and stopped spawning the little magickal balls of doom. Ancamo retreated behind a pillar. I followed. He scurried to another pillar. I strode after him. A magickal ball flung itself at me and bounced off. I took two more steps, and the thing turned and stuck to my face. Peeling it off with my sword, I looked for Ancamo, who had retreated behind yet another pillar. Three strides and I grabbed the front of his robes, glared at him, and stuck my sword through his lungs. With a few choking gasps, he fell over, dead. Thus ends another Thalmor. Good riddance.
When I turned around and walked after Toldfir, our friends from the Psijic order mysteriously appeared, again - I'm pretty sure they're using Mark/Recall like the Dunmer from Vvardenfell apparently used to be able to - and congratulated me for a job well done, informed me the Eye was far too powerful and our world was not ready, and prepared to teleport away. What? You mean you guys could have grabbed this from Saarthal? How about when we first brought it to the College? Hunh? You were the ones that warned me about an irreversible set of events... seems to me that there was ample opportunity for you to at least alter them. Honestly, I wonder abotu six times a day how this country has survived as long as it has with the kind of intellectual prowess that seems to populate it. Or formerly populate it - these monks have been pretty tight-lipped about their current location.
Regardless, my annoyances aside, I was then informed how I would be a great Arch-Mage, and the Psijics disappeared. Wait a moment. Arch Mage? No, no, I didn't sign up for any position of responsibility - in point of fact, I've been trying to avoid responsibility. I figured Toldfir would have something to say about this since he clearly outranked me and had considerable more experience at the College than I did and he'd take over the job.
Ha! Of course not. Why would he do something when I could do it instead?! Apparently, I'm Arch Mage, like it or not. Not that that appears to mean much. Aside from the title and the rooms, the authority of the Arch Mage doesn't count for much around here. Certainly, nobody wants to listen if I try to assign them jobs, and a few of the elder mages are downright demanding - Arniel keeps going on about some fool project of his, Toldfir wants me to retrieve some dagger and dragonscales for a spell, and Phineas has the wonderful idea to summon an unbound Dremora. I can only imagine what Faralda or Collette are planning to inflict on me. Or Berlyna... I haven't forgotten the whole being turned into a cow incident.
After checking out my new apartment, I headed out to the courtyard, intending to enjoy some fresh air and sunshine, when a roar, flapping wings, and bout of fire announced the arrival of a Revered Dragon. A big, orange, angry revered dragon. Surely being Arch Mage, I'll get some assistance from the other mages? Ha! What mages. Suddenly the College seemed to be empty of everyone. Sighing, I resorted to my bow and Ancamo's pillar tricks... until a bolt of lightning knocked me into the flames.
Patting out the fires burning on various parts of my body, I looked around for the newest enemy, and discovered it was not actually anyone hostile, but rather J'zago arriving to aid me. Given his previous "aid" and remembering a certain disastrous flame cloak experiment, I filed him under "Enemy for all intents and purposes." Heading to the OPPOSITE side of the courtyard - dodging flame breath the entire way, the dragon was quite persistently fixated on me - I found another pillar and dispatched it with another volley of arrows. Stepping out of cover, I collected some scales, bones, most of my arrows, and a pile of gold as the creature incinerated itself and I absorbed its soul - a process that made the now-arriving collection of mages exiting the towers gasp and mutter. Oh sure, now you incompetent magickal morons show up. So much for the title of Arch Mage.
Several of the passing mages remarked in nervous voices that they couldn't believe it, that they were afraid, didn't know what to do, or where it came from. Having dispatched over twenty dragons by this point - it's becoming quite routine, in fact - I merely surveyed my handiwork. The dragon's skull lay at the entrance to the college, tail near the Hall of Elements, wings rolled up by the central statue. In fact, the way the tail curled, it seemed to point directly to the staircase leading to the Arch Mage quarters.
Turning, I laughed and announced to no one in particular: "Do? You don't need to do anything. That just means the new Arch Mage is in residence today."
-
I remember that quest, that was a good quest. Too bad so many are just "slog through Draugr/bandits/Falmer to get the thing". I think I hated the Dwemer ruins most of all.
-
Ha! I'd wondered how Ryne would react to being made Arch Mage. These logs never disappoint! :D
-
On my first playthrough, I played a warrior cat specializing in big axes. I figured they made me archmage not because I was particularly gifted at magic, but more to get that insane looking dude with the scary axe away from the tower....
-
You got me playing Skyrim again. Bloody Nords and their damn traditions!
I just wish there were clothing mods that added antique noble class robes.
-
I gave Estormo a contemptuous look when his spells hit the back of my armour as I walked away from him. Estormo died badly. That is to say, screaming when my Dremora Lord split him in half with its enchanted burning greatsword.
I
SMELL
WEAKNESS
-
In honor of Ryne's (and of course, all of ours) journey:
(http://i.imgur.com/GpvJ5D4.jpg)
(via imgur)
-
There are two kinds of people in this harsh world. There are people who blindly attack others regardless of the horrible consequences for themselves and those they love, and there are those who are actually good at it.
-
Ahahahah, Scourge, that's awesome.
-
...in which Ryne halts an undead invasion, receives a ghostly companion, and makes a new friend...
After a very bumpy wagon ride to Riften, a dragon attack outside the city (in which the local guards proved themselves incompetent), an attempted shakedown to enter the city (in which the local guards proved themselves only marginally less incompetent), and a brief conversation inside the gate in which I discovered this city is basically a cesspool of corruption, I decided I had more than enough trouble on my plate at the moment and promptly left. I have some business in Riften, but it can wait until I have a little bit more patience lest I decide to simply murder the entire population of one of Skyrim's larger centers. Don't think the thought didn't cross my mind for its simplicity and expedience.
Nonetheless, I had some business in the Rift - Arniel wanted Keening retrieved from a courier who got ambushed, and Enthir wanted a staff so he could be convinced to hand over a novice mage's amulet - so I headed off northwest and took care of both requests with my usual grim outcome. Naturally, the staff was in the hands of hostile necromancers who liked to summon atronachs - and were considerably less able to do so after being introduced to my sword - and the dagger was in the hands of a very dead fellow at the bottom of a pit in a Falmer cave. Falmer are obnoxious little pointy-eared bastards, much like their taller Thalmor cousins, though they are arguably more stubborn and less rational, if that's possible. The live Argonian was pretty happy to be rescued, though. His cellmate was getting pretty rank.
It was between these two rather mundane assignments that my life got a little more interesting, though. Well, interesting in the sense that it made me long for a nice quiet life settled down in a dragon-undead-person-proof fortress with a non-homicidal wife.
I stumbled - quiet literally, as I was sprinting away from a Revered Dragon that came calling at the time - past the entrance to Ansilvud, whereupon I was also simultaneously attacked by a conjurer of some kind. He died rather quickly as I didn't have any time to muck about while dodging dragon bites. That fellow was hungry. Alas, I don't think he was hungry for the shower of arrows I sent his way. He crashed to the ground with an indignant roar, then came crawling toward me with his head and neck extended, ready to bit me in half.
To whomever reads this journal after I die, lose it, or sell it: there are few things in life worth seeing more than a dragon with a surprised look on its face. I have learned the dragon words for Slow Time. This wonderful shout twists the very fabric of reality, slowing the passage of time for me and, most importantly, slowing it even more for everything else. Say what you will about aging, if I grow a few seconds older than the world around me as a result, then that's a few seconds which is likely ensuring I live many years longer. I'll take the extra grey hair. I digress. At any rate, as the dragon attempted to eat me, I shouted in its face, sidestepped it's surprised look, hopped on it's neck, and stuck my sword through the back of its skull. Thus ended the terrible reign of another Revered Dragon - downed, surprised, and stabbed in short order. It's really too bad I haven't found a competent taxidermist, because I would love to mount that head and the look on its face outside my house in Whiterun.
Dusting myself off, I surveyed the landscape and determined that the conjurer appeared to have been guarding the door to yet another Nord tomb - Ansilvud. As it happens, someone somewhere - according to the vague notes I had written in my journal - had asked me to retrieve a sword from this tomb, and since I was there - and in no hurry to return again anytime soon - I decided to collect it on my way.
Heading into the tomb, I ran into all manner of Draugr and necromancers - in short, the usual things I run into underground - and everything proceeded as it typically does until I reached a split in the cave way and a disembodied and very ill-tempered woman began shouting at me about disturbing her, killing her followers, and various other complaints. To be completely honest, I stopped listening. She sounded angry, bitter, and murderous, meaning our first date was unlikely to go well.
As I delved deeper into the ruins, I encountered still more undead and revivers-of-undead until I reached one of the infamous puzzles common to ancient Nordic ruins, comprised of three spinning symbols which, if you fail to place them in the right sequence before attempting to open the gate, inevitably redecorate your armour to resemble a porcupine with the dozens of arrows they fire. These puzzles are highly irritating, especially when one cannot find the key or solution simply laying about. Fortunately, there was a copy of a book about Holgeir and Fjori laying on a table which conspicuously mentioned three animals in sequence - three animals which were featured on the rotating stones. Turning the stones to match the book, I braced for forcible quill growth and, miraculously, the gate opened! Take that, ancient Nords! I then strode over the stone bridge toward the gate, stepping on a trap stone in the floor and getting roasted to the level of an edible ham in fire from the dragon head attached to the ceiling. I hate tombs.
Brushing soot from my armour, I continued to decimate the local Draugr population as I advanced through the cave, eventually arriving in a large cavern filled with what appeared to be ghostly undead, more Draugr, and the even-more-irate woman who had been yelling about in dismebodied fashion through the majority of my excursion. Unfortunately, she was now very corporeal and surrounded by a lord's entourage of nasty-looking undead with nasty-looking weaponry. Negotiation appeared pointless, so I backstabbed a nearby skeleton, turned to another of the undead, and found the skeleton stabbing me in the back. Lu'ah Al-Skaven - the irate woman - was a skilled necromancer. Only then did I rrealize that two of the undead were none other than Holgeir and Fjori in the flesh...err, decomposing flesh. Thus began a game where I pursued her, she ran from me, the undead ran after me, I killed any undead that got too close, she revived them, and I chased after her. We made two or three laps around the cave before her ward collapsed and my sword struck home, and the undead collapsed to the floor in unpleasantly-fragrant heap.
Picking bits of necromancer goo from my frosty armour - Lu'ah was fond of frost spells, too, I made my way over to the table where I discovered another unusual gem - I really do have to go see that fellow in Riften - and various other odds and ends. Then, to my surprise, a pair of ghosts appeared. Well, it wasn't really surprising. Frankly, very little fazes me anymore about the happenings in this country. They thanked me for saving them from being bound by necromancy, and manifested - it's the only word that makes sense - a non-corporeal blade in front of me that had a very corporeal feel. The thing is remarkable - it can hurt physical objects, and indeed, appears to ignore armour. Intriguing.
As I prepared to depart Ansilvund - and good riddance - I tripped over a book on the floor which was different from the various other ruined books lying about. It turned out to be Lu'ah's journal, which had been blown across the room in the commotion. For all her ranting about the Empire and vengeance, it turns out she was just a litttle bit of an overzealous widow. Her husband was a decorated war hero in the Great War, defending the empire from the Aldmeri Dominion, but was killed in battle. Not suspecting his wife was an illegal necromancer, the Imperial forces quite understandably gave him a funeral pyre with full honours for his service, cremating him. Alas, his wife was rather upset that she couldn't raise her husband as an undead, so she drifted to Skyrim, found the burial place of Holgeir and Fjori, and attempted to raise her husband in Holgeir's corpse. Ewww. I don't think he would have been appreciative. Then she set about raising an army of undead to destroy the Nords and the Empire. Talk about a dedicated wife. Hopefully I find a woman half as dedicated - and also half as crazy. I don't mind a woman taking revenge on her husband's killers, but trying to wipe out an entire continent because they followed standard honorifics at burial seems a little extreme.
I headed back to the College with Arniel's package. The man is a perpetual annoyance. First, I'd had to do a deal with Enthir for a broken soul gem, then I had to scour the countryside for Dwemer convection devices, and now I was playing courier after the one he hired - without Enthir's assistance this time - lost a priceless Dwemer artifact in a Falmer trap. This experiment of his had better be worth all the fuss.
Arriving at the College, I met with Arniel in one of the storage areas and he finally filled me in on what he was doing. The Dwemer disappeared when Kagrenac whacked the heart of a dead god - Lorkan - with Sunder and Keening. Arniel was unable to procure Sunder, but he has the brilliant idea to replicate the Dwemer disappearance by smacking a warped soul gem with Keening. This sounds like it's going to end in disaster to me, but hell, I'm only the Arch Mage, it's not like my opinion counts for anything around here. Nonetheless, I figured I'd better to keep an eye on this disaster in the making and keep the bystanders clear, so I backed as far away from Arniel as I could get without actually leaving the Tower while he hammered on the gem with Keening. He started with a couple little taps, then became more and more frantic as nothing happened and his precious ideas were apparently going out the window. Then he did something unfortunate. Despite his assurances that this would merely replicate a tiny fraction of the magickal mystery that surrounded the Dwemer, he simultaneously cracked the gem as hard as he could, and vanished. Keening clattered to the floor, the room was absolutely silent, and I stood, rooted in place, agape. I didn't expect Arniel to actually replicate the disappearance of the Dwemer, but it appears the man was less useless than he first appeared. Of course, having disappeared now it's not like he would actually ever be useful. Then I discovered that I could actually summon his shade for a short period. Hrmmm. Perhaps he will be useful after all. The shade had the added bonus that it merely followed me, looking dazed, without actually speaking. I wonder if I could entice J'zago to try Arniel's methods?
I stowed Keening safely in the Arch Mage's quarters, and headed off for more adventuring, dropping by Windhelm to give the blacksmith the dead queen's sword that I retrieved from Ansilvund. Then I headed for Falkreath, which I'd been meaning to visit but never previously found the time. The blacksmith asked me to find a dog, and the barmaid gave me a bounty for a nearby dragon, so I decided to go mountaineering and deal with the dragon before I found the blacksmith a pet. On my way back to town after dispatching the beast - Frost Dragons have become as routine an effort as bears, these days, though the Word Wall was a bonus - I spotted a shack on the hillside and thought I might investigate. I've had mixed success with cabins in the woods. The first one I discovered was owned by a kindly old woman, who stayed kindly right up until I found a trapdoor to the basement and several articles which indicated pretty clearly that she was a witch. At the time I didn't have much against witches, but her immediate attempt to kill me after I exited the basement convinced me that these are not the sort of women reputable adventurers should be involved with. The second cabin was unlocked, and I entered, only to be scorched, frozen, and shocked by the irate Dunmer inhabitant who didn't even give me a chance to open my mouth before he tried to murder me. I was a little more understanding with him; while I might not try to outright murder the various inhabitants of Whiterun that insist on following me into my house to continue their inane one-sided conversation that it should be obvious I'm fleeing, they are obnoxious, especially when I'm heading to bed. I flung a Pacify spell over my shoulder as I hastily exited that place. At any rate, my success rate with befriending the more secluded inhabitants remained low, so I approached this cabin cautiously.
It was night, so the occupant - Angi is her name - was sleeping, and immediately endeared herself to me when she did NOT try to kill me as I woke her. Rather, she immediately engaged in conversation. Conversation! What a novel idea! Where has this woman been all my life?! She endeared herself to me further by starting it with "Name's Angi and if you try anything stupid I won't hesitate to put in arrow in your head." After I assurred her that I had no intention of hurting her, Angi spoke freely. Turns out she had had the usual experiences in Skyrim - that is, a close brush with death when her family was murdered by two drunken Imperials. I asked if she'd like some help dealing with them, and she smiled and said she already had, and why did I think she was living out there? I think I'm in love. She mentioned she was handy with a bow and I asked her to teach me a few things, whereupon we spent a lovely night with her reminiscing about her childhood, demonstrating her superior skill with a bow, and instructing me on how better to impale hostile things with pointy things from a significant distance.
Apparently there's a temple of Mara in Riften where you can get married. A trip to Riften might not be so bad if Angi will agree to join me.
-
(http://cloud-2.steampowered.com/ugc/450662252447639272/FB9085E0BE961372AA43D8E1CCC962BC221FDE0E/)
Slow Time, surprise!
(http://cloud-4.steampowered.com/ugc/450662252447652687/14F078C4B26E25546968E72CE969B4F93B37E4C9/)
Pro-tip: The man wearing your species' skin is not to be trifled with.
(This encounter was the first time I got a kill-cam involving a dragon).
-
I'm way behind on logs, but I have more coming soon. Just didn't want people to think I've bailed =)
-
So many happenings, so far behind, so little time to write things up.
...in which Ryne's life in Skyrim goes to the dogs...
Skyrim is a lonely wasteland of broken promises, broken hearts, and broken skulls. Fortunately, the reason I haven't filled in my journal in recent weeks has more to do with the first two than the latter.
Well, at least, I've been the victim of several broken promises that inevitably led to attempted murder, my heart is broken and I've broken the skull of many person or creature that has tried to murder me for reasons ranging from the idiotic to the mildly justified. Angi wasn't interested in traveling with me, and who's to blame her? My life is full of murder attempts, mundane tasks, and a quest of destiny hanging over my head. What respectable lethal woman wants that for a husband? One day I'll find a good woman that wants me. The barmaid in Falkreath got my heart racing, but she wasn't interested in anything more than flirting, and Angi was quite possibly the best woman I've met, but she's more interested in staying on her own in the mountains. The only other woman with whom I've had any connection were Berlyna, who turned me into a cow and is therefore probably not the ideal choice for a spouse, and Ysolda in Whiterun, who keeps commenting on how nice it is to see me. Maybe one day.
At any rate, after having my heart crushed - not literally, thankfully, that's always a risk in Skyrim - by Angi, I headed back down to Falkreath to drown my sorrows in the Deadsomething bar they have and admire the serving girl. She has excellent taste in attire.
When I waltzed into town after skydiving off the mountains in ethereal form - thank you, Dragon shouts - the guard mentioned something about a dog and told me to talk to Lod, the blacksmith. I got lost on my way to meet the fellow, and ended up in Falkreath's substantial graveyard. This town apparently has the highest population of dead people relative to living inhabitants of anywhere in Tamriel, possibly on Nirn itself. Well, excepting your average Nord barrow, but they don't count. While there, I ran into a very distraught man and his wife, and talked with the local priest. It seems a drifter naming Sinding came through town and tore his young daughter limb-from-limb for no apparent reason. Sounds like Skyrim to me, tragic though it is. They suggested I drop by the prison and see the murderer if I thought I could pry some informaton from him.
At any rate, I found Lod, who informed me that he *really* wanted a good dog, and like any normal resident of this country, couldn't be bothered to get off his Nordic ass and go find one himself, so would I mind? Yes, I bloody well would!
Trudging out of town, I pondered if the rewards of getting suckered into these little adventures are really worth it and wouldn't I be much happier with a pretty wife, couple kids, and prosperous enchanting business in a safe walled town as far from Skyrim as one can get when a shaggy dog came around the bend in the road, walked up with it's tail wagging, and said "Hello."
Quite literally, it *said* "Hello." Now, I can't speak for the reader of this journal, but dogs that speak in a language I understand are sufficiently rare at the time of this writing that this occasioned some comment. Naturally, it didn't strike up conversation merely for the sake of it, but rather because it was looking for me to do something for it. I briefly contemplated stuffy his shaggy hide in a sack and dumping him on Lod, but then he revealed he was actually Barbas. For those unfamiliar with Barbas, he is the Hound of Clavicus Vile, Daedric Lord of doing sneaky underhanded ****ty things to mortals. Rumour has it that Barbas is really the only force that keeps Vile in check... and given my dealings with the Daedric Princes to date, I figured I might manage some kind of bargain that works in my favour. Really, given what I've read of Vile, I was hoping that I could give him a taste of his own medicine, and having his paired Hound at one's disposal is not a chance one passes up lightly. Though, in retrospect, I should have met Barbas at the cave where Vile's Shrine was located, as guide dog he wasn't.
Following Barbas, barking his fool head off up the hill - all well and good for him, but apparently he didn't have my experience with the inhabitants of Skyrim's road system - we came upon a pair of wooden towers from which a pair of bandits tried to turn me into a pincushion and then tried to squash me with rocks. I also discovered how remarkable Barbas' combat prowess was - or rather, remarkable for the lack of it. After I dispatched the bandits, he continued on up the hill and demonstrated his second bit of folly by going through Helgen - apparently a minor event like a cataclysmic dragon attack doesn't perturb Daedra - which was also covered in bow-wielding bandits.
Plucking arrows from my armour joints and casting healing spells, I continued to follow barbas through various ambushes of people and critters until we arrived at the cave and headed inside... and then spent the next half hour carving my way through vampires, gargoyles, and thralls before arriving at the rather dilapidated Shrine of Clavicus Vile... which was short one Barbas. Vile living up to his reputation immediately engaged me in a bargain to retrieve the Rueful Axe for him. Barbas cautioned me - it seems the Axe was given to its current owner by Vile after the fellow pleaded with him to help his vampire daughter. And some people worship this daedric clown. My faithful daedric canine agreed to assist me and so we headed across the country to a tiny cave suspended above a very long cliff on the northwestern coast. And I walked very, very carefully, having no desire to fall off another mountain.
Entering the cave, I thought I might convince the fellow to trade the axe or give it away, but no, he conjured some atronachs that I had to dispatch before taking off his head, as apparently my dabbling in Illusion magic was insufficient to pacify him. Well, I tried.
Back in the Clavicus Cave of Vile Decoration, I was presented with a choice: Clavicus wanted me to kill Barbas with the axe, thereby sending him back to Oblivion in a weakened form and allowing Clavicus unmitigated playtime for years to come. In return, I'd get to keep the Rueful Axe. Clavicus was adamant that Barbas definitely did not want him to have that axe... which makes any suspicious Daedra-dealer immediately wonder why he would tell me that unless there is something he thinks I'd want more and which would hurt it/him more to hand over. Aside from the Axe being not terribly impressive next to my dragonbone sword, Essencebane, what with it's ability to absorb health, set the target on fire, and trap souls, I wasn't terribly tempted. The thought of Clavicus free to do his will without check for years to come also seemed like a way to make myself and Tamriel generally both immensely Rueful, axe notwithstanding. Plus, Barbas wasn't a bad fellow, guide duties notwithstanding. Instead, I spoke to Barbas, who suggested I trade the Axe for a much better reward - the Masque of Clavicus Vile, and in the process get Barbas back where he belonged, holding Vile himself in check. Which is precisely what I did, as both returned to stone, Daedra and faithful companion beside him.
I trekked back to Falkreath to give Lod the bad news and detoured by Whiterun on the way, where the Companions told me to clear out some bandits in a mine also near Falkreath. Stopping in at the prison, I met Sinding. Sinding did not have my competence with Daedra. Sinding, rather, is an unfortunate werewolf who got himself caught up with Hircine after stealing a ring that he hoped would control his transformations... and instead set him on a murderous rampage, killing the young girl in the process. I offered to try my luck with the Daedra and see if I couldn't help Sinding out - the man seemed a rather pathetic wretch. No sooner did he hand me the ring, though, that he shifted to wolfish form and climbed out of the well-turned-jail.
That did not go quite as planned.
I headed out in search of the white stag which Sinding assurred me would put me in touch with Hircine, and after climbing an enormous mountain, discovered it at the bottom of the other side, which I could have simply walked around. If only this Dragonborn gig conferred wings, or the ability to fly ON dragons. Three arrows later, I was having a discussion with a Daedra via the ghostly image of a stag. Hircine was not at all pleased with Sinding, and ordered me off to a cave to dispatch him and bring the Daedric prince his hide. That seemed a little extreme, but Daedra aren't exactly known for their sense of fairness and moderation.
Off to the cave I went, stopping by the mine to clear out the Bandits and earn my keep as a member of the Companions. It wasn't much fuss - at this point in my life in Skyrim, a half-dozen bandits flinging various pointy implements in my direction barely captures my attention. Once again, you'd think when someone shows up wearing the skin and carrying the sharpened bones of a monstrous flying lizard that breathes fire, frost, or all manner of other nasty magickal tooth decay, that those wearing the skins of dead deer and carrying around weapons made of same things you make dinnerware out of might rethink their course of action and flee. Once again, you would be wrong.
That mundane task completed, I arrived at the cave where Hircine sent me, and headed inside. The grotto was bathed in an eerie light, and I found Sinding, in wolf form, dispatching some bears at the top of the cliff. I still felt sorry for the man, and resolved to do my best to assist him against the other Hunters Hircine had sent.
Mind, for Hunters sent by a Daedric Prince, they didn't prove all that formidable, either. Sinding promised to remain in the cave wehere he couldn't hurt anyone and I prepared to depart, noting that an expression of Hircine's thoughts on his Hunt being thwarted was suspiciously absent immediately following the demise of his Hunters. I left the grotto with sword in hand, took two steps toward the road, and nearly fell over when the ghostly stag reappeared in front of me and Hircine actually laughed! He then proceeded to reward me for "Turning the Hunt" around by removing the curse on his stolen ring. So now, should I become a werewolf, I can use it to transform multiple times per day. Funny story...
...when I got back to Whiterun, the Companions got very secretive, invited me into the Underforge that night, and offered me the shot to turn into a werewolf, whereupon Skjor went off after the Silver Hand on his own, Aela and I went after him, and I discovered that being a werewolf isn't nearly as powerful as merely being me these days. Oh well. Skjor also appeared to discover the fallibility of being a werewolf, as Aela and I found his corpse. This led to some bitterness, and me being dispatched to kill a leader (the Leader?) of the Silver Hand... only after which did Kodlak inform me that the whole werewolf thing is actually a recent curse produced by some witches/hagravens. Guess who gets to deal with the witches?
Beware of tattooed women who can turn into wolves bearing gifts... they appear to come with more strings attached than you might initially think.
-
If only this Dragonborn gig conferred wings, or the ability to fly ON dragons.
Oddly convenient turn of phrase, or forshadowing??
-
If only this Dragonborn gig conferred wings, or the ability to fly ON dragons.
Oddly convenient turn of phrase, or forshadowing??
I admit nothing.
-
I'm going to start disconnecting the stories a little more and focus on the events that most captured my interest for being unusual, rather than highlight quests that completed in a fairly standard fashion. This should allow me to keep up better, reduce the length, and focus on stories with organic elements and interest rather than stock happenings.
...in which Ryne takes an enjoyable vacation in Markarth...
Markarth. You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. Naturally, I threw caution to the wind.
I've made my way in and out of Markarth a few times now, somehow got myself named Thane, bought a house which I furnished with all manner of expensive items and a Housecarl who I promptly voluntold to join The Blades, thus leaving the place empty and a prime target for thieves. Hilariously enough, while I attributed the lack of break-ins to my shack in Whiterun which is crammed full of items worth more than Dragonsreach itself to my discretion and the presence of Lydia (and her custom Dragon armour and weapons that I so lovingly crafted and enchanted), my abandoned house in Markath has never been ransacked either. This leads me to believe that thieves have considerably more respect for my imposing appearance and sour demeanour than, well, pretty much everyone else.
At any rate, way back on my first visit to Markarth I spotted a man pull a dagger and start suspiciously toward a woman at one of the merchant stalls. Interrupting him, he turned on me and got my sword through his face for the trouble, sputtering something about Forsworn. Now, I have stumbled into various places in the Reach crawling with more Forsworn than insects; these people are murderously unpleasant and very populous outside the city. The Markarth guards, meanwhile, ushered everyone away and basically told me to sod off. Not particularly spoiling for a fight with the entire City Watch, I made to comply when a fellow named Eltrys handed me a note he claimed I'd dropped... which turned out to be a request to meet him in the closed Shrine of Talos. Intrigued, I headed inside, and was treated to an explanation of a conspiracy by the Forsworn to retake the Reach. Now, to be fair, in my experience the Forsworn already held most of the Reach except for Markarth itself, but nevertheless stopping that seemed a laudable goal - not that the Nords themselves who were running the place seemed to be nice people. In point of fact, the Sliver-Bloods who basically ran the city were the main reasons Markarth is a hive of scum and villainy, so far as I was concerned. At any rate, I agreed to look into the matter as it seemed an excellent distraction from destiny, and an excuse to bash some heads in Markarth... and if there is a 'civilized' place in Skyrim that needed some heads to be bashed, Markarth was it.
My first stop was to check on the intended victim, an Imperial woman who was huddling by the fire in the Silver-Blood Inn. On my way to talk to her, I bumped into a drunken Nord who offered to engage in some fisticuffs for some gold... an offer I accepted. As I said, a good place to bash heads, and I started with the drunken patrons in Silver-Blood establishments. That minor victory enhancing my mood and his coin enhancing my riches, I talked to the victim and eventually prised some information from her - namely that she was actually a spy and not just an innocent merchant. The plot thickens like a Nord's bashed skull.
My next stop was the warrens to investigate the room of the murderer himself. After convincing the weak-willed fellow in the Warrens itself to give me the key, and quick rifling through the dead man's belongings revealed a note signed only 'N.' Interesting. I left the warrens and ran into a thug who tried to warn me off with his fists. Thus I thumped the second head of the day, shoved him in the creek, and learned that 'N' was Nepos the Nose, another one of Markarth's upstanding citizens.
I hiked up the interminable steps that cover the city and, after searching the doors, found that Nepos' home was actually immediately adjacent to my own. Odd. It's not often you get the chance to combat corruption and get rid of a neighbour at the same time. Wistfully hoping a buxom barmaid moves in after I move Nepos out, I strolled in and bumped into a hagraven in human form. At least, she had the disposition of a hagraven. The maid told me in no uncertain terms that I was not allowed in. Naturally, I simply walked past her, and she merely wandered down by the door and continued to lecture me. I walked up to Nepos, who was busy reading a book, and stood there waiting. A short while later, ignoring my presence entirely, Nepos called down to tell the maid it was alright and to let me in. I've heard of pretentious lordliness, but honestly, acting as if I had merely waited arguing at the door and then inviting me up while I stand right in front of the man had some serious nerve.
Nepos then proceeded to tell me all about how he was a Forsworn agent who still took orders from the old Forsworn King, Manadnach, from Cidna Mine. I wondered if this was a deathbed confession or conscience until he informed me that many another had gotten as far as I had and hadn't left... because everyone employed in his house was also Forsworn. It was thus that I found myself surrounded by five corpses as the domestic staff and their master all attacked me and were cut down in short order. Dragon skin? Dragon bones? Yeah, lost on these idiots too.
My next stop was Thonar Silver-Blood, who I had jotted down in my journal despite being unable to remember why. When I entered his home, or rather, "The Treasury House" - the pretensions of these people escalates at every turn - I told the girl that he was expecting me, headed up to his room, cast myself invisible, snuck up behind him, and yanked his journal out of his back pocket which I then read, still invisible, in a dark corner. I was taking no chances with swarms of Forsworn agents this time. Oh, Thonar has been a very bad man. Turns out he's been manipulating Manadnach in prison to dispose of people that threatened Thonar's interests in the Reach. A lot of people. And now, it seems, the murderous king was starting to turn on his murderous master.
I stayed invisible and left the house, headed back for the Shrine to report all to Eltrys. When I entered, I began to get an ominous feeling - at the bottom of the steps lay Eltrys' corpse, and in front of me stood three of Markarth's finest who informed me that I couldn't disrupt the state of affairs and was therefore going to prison or going to die. In reality, I was going to prison or they, along with likely every other guard in the City, were going to die, but I didn't quibble. This actually suited my plans - they hauled me off to Cidna mine and left me in threadbare clothes with no apparent hope of escape. Alas, they were apparently unfamiliar with the phrase 'wolf in sheep's clothing.' My Conjuration talents ensured that I was never defenseless, sword or no.
After being told, ho hum, that I would never escape the mine and needed to get to work - yeah, that was going to happen - I headed out into the mine, which was full of former Forsworn. One suggested a shiv might be useful, which made me chuckle - primitives - and the burly fellow at the gate was quickly convinced that I should indeed be allowed to see the 'king.' Manadnach turned out to be an arrogant fellow at a desk who tried to recruit me.... which might have worked if I'd never traveled a road in the Reach, but after being attacked by literally dozens of Forsworn for months and witnessing their attacks on anyone on the roads, my sympathies were running rather short. Nevertheless, I wandered down the tunnels and spoke to an old man who was apparently supposed to make me sympathetic to the cause. Turns out, the supremely unjust Nords running Markarth had executed his daughter without cause. Aside from the lack of verification concerning the 'without cause' portion of the story, I already knew the Nords running Markarth were creeps and had some plans for them myself.
Returning to Manadnach, I went to inform him that I had no intention of joining his cause and to offer him to surrender and hand over his escape route key, or prepare to defend himself. Alas, he dismissed me out of hand and wouldn't converse, so I had to suffice with an apology while I released the Bound Sword I stuck in his chest. naturally, this brought the minions running and I had no desire to dispatch more pathetic inmates who were now without their leader, so Pacify spells took care of them. I opened the gate, carefully locking it behind me, and headed down the tunnel toward what I hoped was freedom. Alas, freedom was obstructed by various spiders and Dwarven Spheres that proved slightly more difficult in my unarmoured state - I of course forgot about Toldfir's Dragonskin spell until after I finished scrambling about the cave waving my bound sword haphazardly.
When I stepped out of the tunnels into the sunlight, I found myself in the southeast corner of Markarth out of the sight of pretty much everyone, except Thonar who stood there patiently waiting. It would seem he expected me, as he handed over my gear and thanked me for disposing of the Forsworn problem while he mused about finding a replacement for disposing of inconvenient Markarth citizenry. He started to wander off down the slope, and I shook my head. There was no chance I was letting this creep walk away from this.
My Frenzy spell took Thonar in the back of the head, and so far as Markarth was concerned, he died after attacking me in cold blood in a secluded corner of the city and I merely defended myself. Actually, I later learned that no one saw our little exchange - for as I left Markarth, I was accosted by a courier carrying a note from the Jarl and 100 gold... it seems Thonar even left me an inheritance!
Skulls bashed. Justice performed. Irony served. It's been a good day.
-
All this Skyrim goodness has prompted me to play it again. With mods.
(http://s4.postimg.org/9ugbdufh5/Screen_Shot0.jpg) (http://postimg.org/image/9ugbdufh5/)
(http://s28.postimg.org/iqri1hp4p/Screen_Shot1.jpg) (http://postimg.org/image/iqri1hp4p/)
The Glory of Skyrim.
If you're wondering why there are two characters - the elf girl is my second, non-serious playtrough. She and her brigade of amazons (I can have up to 15 active followers, but I capped it at 3) are running around causing mischief. With dildos, singingbears and chicken bows.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vWnPVC77e-Q
-
I really need to get a new PC so I can go back to Skyriming. The game's shennanigans are just too much fun to ever fully 'leave'.
-
If you're wondering what mods I'm using:
• 00 Skyrim.esm
• 01 Update.esm
• 02 Unofficial Skyrim Patch.esp [Version 2.0.3]
• 03 Dawnguard.esm
• 04 Unofficial Dawnguard Patch.esp [Version 2.0.3]
• 05 HearthFires.esm
• 06 Unofficial Hearthfire Patch.esp [Version 2.0.3]
• 07 Dragonborn.esm
• 08 Unofficial Dragonborn Patch.esp [Version 2.0.3]
• 09 ApachiiHair.esm
• 0A AzarHair.esm
• 0B AOM.esm <---- Age of Magic
• 0C AP Skyrim.esm
• 0D ClimatesOfTamriel.esm
• 0E Lanterns Of Skyrim - All In One - Main.esm
• 0F RiverHelm.esm
• 10 ClimatesOfTamriel-Dawnguard-Patch.esp
• 11 ClimatesOfTamriel-Dragonborn-Patch.esp
• 12 ClimatesOfTamriel-Dungeons-Hazardous.esp
• 13 AOS.esp <----- Audio Overhaul for Skyrim
• 14 AOS2_DGDB_USKP Patch.esp
• 15 Skyrim Flora Overhaul.esp
• 16 SFO - Expanded Diversity.esp
• 17 Grass_On_Steroids_SFO-SHORT.esp
• 18 AOM.esp
• 19 Immersive Battles.esp
• 1A Immersive Brigands.esp
• 1B Immersive Dawnguard.esp
• 1C Immersive Dragonborn.esp
• 1D Immersive Factions.esp
• 1E Immersive Patrols.esp
• 1F Immersive Travelers.esp
• 20 Skyrim Immersive Creatures.esp [Version v6.5.2]
• 21 Skyrim Immersive Creatures - DLC2.esp [Version v6.5.2]
• 22 Purewaters.esp
• 23 RaceMenu.esp
• 24 RaceMenuPlugin.esp
• 25 SkyUI.esp
• 26 Character Creation Overhaul.esp
• 27 CCO - Diverse Races And Genders.esp
• 28 CCO - Dynamic Skill Progression.esp
• 29 Cloaks.esp
• 2A Hothtrooper44_Armor_Ecksstra.esp
• 2B Hothtrooper44_ArmorCompilation.esp
• 2C Immersive Weapons.esp
• 2D AOS2_CoT3_1_patch.esp
• 2E imp_helm.esp
• 2F PIVariety.esp <----- pesant clothing
• 30 AK- Buyable Paintings and Pictures.esp
• 31 Complete Crafting Overhaul_Remade.esp
• 32 CCO_SIC_Patch.esp
• 33 Chesko_WearableLantern.esp
• 34 EnchantmentOverhaul.esp
• 35 Run For Your Lives.esp [Version 1.2.4]
• 36 Guard Dialogue Overhaul.esp
• 37 AOS-GDO Patch.esp
• 38 Artifact Disenchanting.esp
• 39 Artifact Disenchanting - Dawnguard.esp
• 3A Artifact Disenchanting - Dragonborn.esp
• 3B concentrated10.esp <---- better poisons
• 3C TheEyesOfBeauty.esp [Version 9]
• 3D The Eyes Of Beauty - Elves Edition.esp
• 3E SBF All In One + DLC.esp
• 3F Reduced Distance NPC Greetings.esp
• 40 ethereal_elven_overhaul.esp
• 41 Pale Elves.esp
• 42 BW v2.6.esp
• 43 Aela.esp
• 44 Mei.esp
• 45 rk_Followers.esp
• 46 AmazingFollowerTweaks.esp
• 47 Alternate Start - Live Another Life.esp [Version 2.3.6b]
• 48 DudestiaMultiMarriages.esp
• 49 CoT-WeatherPatch.esp
• 4A CoT-WeatherPatch_DB.esp
• 4B CoT-WeatherPatch_NL2.esp
• 4C CoT-WeatherPatch_NL3.esp
• 4D CoT-WeatherPatch_NL1.esp
• 4E CoT-WeatherPatch_NL4.esp
• 4F DYNAVISION Dynamic Depth of Field.esp
• 50 HarvestOverhaul.esp [Version 2.8.2]
• 51 HarvestOverhaulCreatures.esp [Version 2.8.2]
• 52 Melt_Down_Everything.esp
• 53 RLO - Adaptive Interiors Vanilla Weathers Patch.esp
• 54 Realistic Lighting Overhaul - Weathers - Brighter Nights.esp
• 55 Lanterns Of Skyrim - All In One - RLO.esp
• 56 BecomeKingOfRiverHelm.esp
Not mentioned or active:
Whiterun Alternatives
Dawn of Whiterun / Riften / Windhelm, etc (better cities)
Apocalypse
TK children
-
The Adventures of Slutzilla, amazon Queen of Riverhelm continue:
***Caution***
This is her in her throne room with her sex slaves FAITHFUL FOLLOWERS
http://s30.postimg.org/fztwwgbz5/Screen_Shot3.jpg
And yes, I do have a mod that can make those accessories work.
-
Hey Trash, would not
the general Skyrim your own thread be a bit more appropriate for this?
-
Time to post another log entry, MP... :)
-
Oh, you want MOAR do you?
I haven't played as much lately, but I do have a short tale worthy of posting:
...in which Ryne discovers that dragons bear no resemblance to the broad side of a barn...
When last I wrote about my work with the Companions, I think I had just become a werewolf. Recently,. I got tired of the fur in my ears and the snarky comments from various guards about my smelling like a wet dog and set about changing myself back, a process I owe much to poor Kodlak for as it was his guidance and eventual death that gave me the knowledge, tools, and witch heads - yes, you read that right - necessary to do it.
I only mention this because it led me to Ysgramor's Tomb on a godsforsaken frozen spec of an island to the northwest of Winterhold that has no redeeming features whatsoever, Word Wall included in that assessment. After stepping out of the tomb I was greeted by a beautiful sunset, the onset of a blizzard, and the far-off view of yet another damned dragon circling the College of Winterhold. The bloody Psijics neglected to mention that part of the job of Arch Mage largely consists of glorified pest control, housekeeper, and finder of alembics, nor that the pests in question consisted of my own mages and inconvenient dragons in equal measure.
Not wanting any of my theoretical-underlings to get eaten today - tomorrow might be another matter, but for the moment everyone was behaving - I trudged off over the iceflows and frozen beaches in the direction of the College, remembering only later that it's bloody difficult to get up to it from the sea below. The horkers made some obnoxious noises in my direction but lumbered away when my path brought me close to them, and the local bear and wolf populations seemed to have reached an understanding that if they made me annoyed they'd become the lining of my next pair of boots, so I reached the base of the college without incident.
Craning my neck, I could still made out the oversized scaly mosquito flying circles around the college and roaring obnoxiously. By this time it was well after midnight and I was starting to worry that some intrepid mage would get upset at being kept awake and start flinging lightning out a window, so I was a little anxious to dispatch the beast and be on my way. I clambered around to the east side of the College and up the snowy slopes onto the ledges near the base. I could still see the dragon circling above me, but it made no move to attack me, attack something else, fly away, or land. It just kept flying circles around the College. I began to wonder if it was just lost and asking for directions.
I tried to Shout at it to get it to land or leave, but it ignored me.
I tried Chain Lightning, but hitting a moving dragon several hundred feet above you is not nearly as simple as one might think.
I decorated various wooden protrusions on the side of the College with a couple dozen ebony arrows - before remembering that I could have used a bound bow and not wasted the rather expensive tangible arrows - in my attempts to convince the beast to land and do battle or kindly find another place to annoy people trying to sleep. Apparently Ange has to figure out advanced archery lessons, because hitting a moving target the size and speed of a dragon is rather outside the scope of my training and skill.
I detonated several fireballs near the edge of the battlements in the hope that that would get it's attention. Finally, I even tried a flame cloak spell on myself - the first I've tried since J'zago's overenthusiasm - and stood there like some kind of living Breton barbecue, hoping that the sight of a pre-cooked meal might draw the beast down or send it fleeing to the hills with the thought of fighting someone crazy enough to set themselves alight.
Nothing.
I'm beginning to think that I'd really better get on that task from Parthuurnax, find the Elder Scroll, and learn the Dragonrend Shout, because this was getting ridiculous.
As I stood there pondering, watching the beast continue to circle the College - which it had been doing for a good half hour by that point - I noticed that after all that exertion and putting out the flames I was beginning to resemble a large, armed icicle. I jumped up and down rubbing my arms a few times to warm up.
The dragon roared, shrieked, turned around, a dove toward me.
Apparently, if trying to lure a Legendary Dragon - as it turned out to be - one need only act like a large chicken.
The beast circled me, let out a blast of fire while strafing overhead - as I did my best to fill it full of arrows, a task much easier when the dragon flies directly over you at a distance of less than 10 paces - turned, and landed directly in front of me, blasting me with a barrage of debilitating spells, the brunt of which I was thankfully able to resist or ignore.
Meanwhile, I bellowed out the Shout for Slow Time, strode up to the beast, and stuck my newly-minted Dragonbone sword, thoughtfully named Vanquish, between the massive lizard's eyes. Or tried to. As if it wasn't already completely obvious from the measures required to get the beast to attack, Legendary dragons have REALLY thick skulls. The dragon blinked - slowly, of course - and tried to bite me in half, which I quickly side-stepped. I then set above trying to cleave the creature's neck. If you want to visualize this, picture someone trying to hack through a tree 3 paces in diameter with a metal banner-pole. My dragonbone blade might as well have been unsharpened, rounded iron. By this time, my Shout had worn off and we were once again doing battle in real time. I had clearly wounded the creature, as it could no longer fly, but it was still reasonably fast on the ground and it was only by continuous side-stepping that I managed to avoid being a nighttime snack. Finally, as it turned it's head I saw an opportunity - improvisation being my strong suit - and smacked it with the flat of my blade from its nostrils to the base of its horns and it stopped for a split-second, stunned. Apparently thick skulls generate sufficient reverberation to give a dragon pause. I leaped over its nostrils, swung around a horn, and plunged the point of my blade...
...less than 3 inches into the skin at the back of its skull. This was getting ridiculous.
Jumping off, I pulled out my bow, backing away as fast as I could run and flinging arrows into it's hide, turning it into some kind of repitilian-looking porcupine. The beast was slowing, and as I fitted a new arrow to my bow, I smugly aimed for it's eye...
...and fell off the damn cliff edge into the sea below. At least it wasn't a mountain this time.
As I spluttered my way to the shore, I could see the dragon looking for a way down - it at least had the good sense to want to walk instead of leaping into the frigid sea - and providing an excellent target as it stood peering down in one place. Three arrows later, and with a tremendous splash, the critter was belly-up in the water and I was collecting some scales for my next set of dragonscale boots, this pair being thoroughly waterlogged. And, as I trudged up the nearby avalanche slope toward Winterhold, a wolf even volunteered to provide the fur and leather lining.