A Long Way From Home - A Skyrim AAR [updated 20th May 2018]

[Caillagh de Bodemloze]

"Even more dead"
I thought that was pretty funny. I like how you mix the humor and seriousness, like there are those jokes but then also Yannick feels out of place and disturbed the the killing and so on

Thanks, waveman. And I'm afraid I can't help it. Occasionally, Skyrim is inherently ridiculous, and I just can't stop myself - or rather Yannick - mentioning it. I'm not entirely sure I should take too much of the credit, really! But since I'm shameless, I will take the credit, even if I shouldn't. So thank you.

I just finished reading through all the stuff I missed and I must say I am thoroughly impressed. I love the protagonist's little notes about everything in the world, about him coming to terms with killing those bandits and just sometimes his moment's of ingenuity. Brilliant stuff, really, I love it a lot.

Hi, Merchant! Thank you, that's really kind of you. Especially since I know you were hoping for magic to stream from Yannick's fingers much sooner than this. (It will happen, honest.) I'm not sure he's totally come to terms with the death of the bandits yet, although I think if he has to stay in Skyrim much longer, he'll have to - otherwise one of the bandits he's agonising over is going to finish him off. Although that could be an interesting way to end the AAR, I suppose...

I was pleased with the idea of tying the rope to the lever, if that's the ingenuity you're thinking of. I wish you could do that in the game. It would be so much more sensible than hauling on a lever when you've just seen someone else die as a result of doing that!

[Caillagh de Bodemloze]

Chapter Seventeen: The Dead

Eventually, after I'd run out of despair and reached exhaustion, I slept for a while. When I woke up, I knew I had to carry on. The only thing I knew of that might help me to get home was talking to some wizards. Or educated people, at least. And my only hope of doing that was to find Farengar's wretched stone.

So on I went.

The next dead man who attacked me seemed more talkative than the first. The first one had been more into heavy breathing – or something that sounded like heavy breathing, since the dead don't breathe – but the second sounded as if he was trying to talk. Not entirely successfully, it has to be said. Whatever he was trying to say, the effect was of an unbelievably heavy smoker trying to speak one of the world's – my world's – more guttural languages. It was like someone scraping two rocks together. To begin with I thought he was just trying to distract me. Or possibly he was avoiding the whole difficult question of whether to attack first or interrogate first by doing both at once. That's probably easier once you're dead and don't need to breathe. Anyway, he was certainly still fighting while he was talking. He was a better fighter than the first corpse, too. Then he threw out the remains of a hand towards me, and a blue light lanced out from it, hitting me in the chest. Perhaps the effect was purely psychological – although it's harder to dismiss magic entirely now I've fought against mobile corpses – but where it touched me, I was suddenly freezing. Not just colder, instantly freezing, like ice. I swung my axe at his hand and deflected the beam of light, and the cold feeling receded slightly. I still felt as if my chest was frozen, but it wasn't getting any worse. The edges of the cold patch started to hurt the way your hands do if you get them really cold and then put them into hot water. From then on, every time I saw him raise that hand in my direction, I hit it. I wonder now if the strange words he said were the words of spell to freeze me.

I'm still not convinced magic is real. How can it be? But then, how can I not believe in it, surrounded by this madness?

Several dead men later, I came to a room with a stream running through it and an odd-looking cupboard carved from black rock against the far wall. There didn't seem to be anyone there, so I was looking forward to sitting down, and perhaps eating something, when there was a boom! as if a cannon had been fired, the door – or lid, as it turned out – fell with a crash from the 'cupboard', and yet another dead man lurched towards me. So, not a cupboard at all. More of an upright tomb. Presumably upright tombs are more convenient to get into and out of when you need to chase down and kill those irritating visitors.

I did get my chance to sit down and eat – my last piece of Gerdur's home-made cheese and some of the bread I took from the bandits. One of the nicest cheese sandwiches I've ever eaten, and I felt I'd earned it. Allowing for the fact that I was underground, the surroundings weren't too bad, either. The splashing of the stream was very pleasant, and for some reason it was warmer here than it had been nearer the surface.

For a moment after I'd finished eating, I thought there was no way to carry on – the only exit from the room seemed to follow the stream, and it was blocked by another one of those portcullis-gates. But hanging next to the portcullis was a chain with a handle on the end. After checking the room as carefully as I could for dart-holes, and failing to find any, I pulled the chain and stepped through the opening.

On the other side of the gateway was a large cave, longer than it was wide. The stream ran all the way through the cave, and an eerie green light shone from various spots around the cave walls. When I went to see, the source of the light turned out to be strange mushrooms a little like bizarre bracket fungi, but with tendrils hanging from the edge of each bracket. Bizarrely, the mushrooms looked as if they were growing from the rock. I decided to stay away from the odd mushrooms, and followed the stream towards the other end of the cave, tripping over the most bizarre skull I've ever seen. I could easily have believed it was the skull of some huge creature with three eyes, but I know elephant skulls have a large hole where the trunk is, so it must have been something like that, I suppose.

Suddenly, at the end of the cave, the ground dropped away, and the stream rushed over a waterfall, almost taking me with it. Standing as close as I dared to the edge of the rock and looking out past the waterfall, I could see another cave with light pouring in from a hole overhead. There was no way I could go over the waterfall without breaking several bones, though, so I looked around for another way out of the cave I was in.

I found a narrow, winding passage leading steeply downwards. It was the kind of place you'd expect to be pitch black, but there were more of the glowing mushrooms on the walls, so I could see where I was going, rather than having to put a hand on the wall and work by touch. That was good; I could keep my hands free in case I slipped – or in case I needed to reach a weapon quickly. Which I did. When I came to the end of the winding tunnel, I could see the cave the waterfall fell into, and marching back and forth across it was a dead woman. I took out the bow one of her dead compatriots had provided me with after his second death, and soon she was considerably more dead. It looked very much as if she had been a sentry, which suggested the dead elf's legend might have some basis in truth; someone thought there was something here worth guarding.

Beyond the cave with the waterfall and the sentry, I came to a place that I thought had been built, rather than being a natural cave. It was hard to tell for sure, though, because of the huge quantity of roots growing down from the ceiling, almost making a curtain across the width of the room, and hiding much of the floor. There was another dead sentry there; once I'd dealt with him I discovered a large, solid wooden door blocking my way. Beside it was a brazier. It seemed a safer place than most, and it was late, so I slept.


This morning – not that I could tell it was morning, except by my watch, since I was underground – I had to choose between going back and going on, through the wooden door. I went on.

The next room was the most menacing I'd been in, somehow. It was almost empty, dominated by a brazier surrounded by strange black stone statues with vicious, gaping mouths. More of the statues sprang from the walls by the tunnel leading onwards, and in the flickering orange light from the brazier, they all seemed to move. I left that room as quickly as I could.

I passed through three or four more rooms. Some of them had dead-but-still-fighting guards in them; some didn't. All of them were at least partly ruined, overgrown with ivy and with stone blocks from the walls or ceiling lying on the floor. At last I came to a large hall, with carvings on every wall, and a great rounded door at the far end.

I didn't know it was a door at the time. To begin with, I thought it was just one of the room's carvings, and that I could go no further; that all the effort I'd made to get that far was wasted, because there was no piece of rock for Farengar. Then I noticed that there were animals carved into this wall, almost like the ones that had opened the first portcullis. And when I pushed the parts of the walls where the animals were carved, they moved on three great stone rings. I tried ten or fifteen combinations before I remembered the elf's journal saying something about a test you could pass if you had the golden claw. To my delight, the talons of the claw slotted precisely into the holes beneath the animals in the carved wall – but nothing happened. But then, as I removed the claw from the wall, I saw it had three animals carved into its palm. Hastily, I rearranged the stone rings to show the same animals as the claw, and replaced the talons of the claw in the holes. With a grinding of stone against stone, the whole of the round carving dropped into the floor, leaving an open doorway.

Cautiously, I headed onward, into an enormous cave, much larger than the others I'd passed through. There were stone staircases, dramatic stone pillars, waterfalls spilling into a fast-moving river, and right in the middle of all this there was an enormous curved stone wall that must have been erected as a monument. When I got closer to the wall, I saw the lowest section was carved. I think the carvings were words, but not in any language I recognised. And then the chanting started. At least, I think there was chanting, although I'm not sure it existed outside my head. It grew louder and louder as I got closer to the wall, until eventually it exploded into a triumphant song, as one of the words on the wall started to glow and swirl with light. I felt as though the wall had given me something – a gift of some kind.

It was a very weird experience. I can only assume something in the cave was producing some kind of hallucinogen. Although, if I'm already hallucinating this whole world, would that work? And if I'm not already hallucinating – no, I don't want to think about what that would mean.

There was a boom! behind me. The last time I'd heard that noise, a coffin had burst open and I'd had to fight its owner, so I turned quickly. Sure enough, there was a corpse wielding a greatsword advancing towards me. This one was a much better fighter than the previous one, and I had to dodge and run to get out of reach of his sword. He pursued me, of course, but I managed to find a vantage point to fire a couple of arrows from before he got too close, and then I dodged out of the way again. After several rounds of this, the corpse seemed to be slowing, so I took a chance and ran in to attack with my axe before dodging out of the way again. He did seem to be weakening. I managed to get in two more hits before he succeeded in hitting me – and that brought him close enough for me to kill him just before the leg he'd hit gave way.

There had been a chest over by the word-wall. I managed to get back to it by putting as little weight as possible on my injured leg – almost hopping. I was rewarded, when I opened the chest, by finding a flat slab of stone carved with a map on one side and words like the ones on the wall on the other. At last! Relief flooded through me. I could go back to Farengar – if my leg would hold me up – and he could teach me what I needed to know for the wizards to help me.

Having found the stone, I slumped, breathless and in pain, against the chest, and looked at the wound. Not as bad as I'd feared, but it needed bandaging. I'd kept the blue cloth from around the Stormcloak uniform I'd had, although I'd sold the armour itself, so I tore strips from that. It wasn't clean, but neither was anything else I had, and I needed to stop the wound bleeding. Then I rested for a while, before stumbling back to the outside world using the dead corpse's greatsword as a walking stick.

[Merchant of Venice]

Another great chapter. I liked the stuff about the chanting from the wall, the first time it happened with me I was like "wtf!". Good to see Yannick lives on for some more adventures

[Caillagh de Bodemloze]

Thanks, Merchant! The whole chanting wall thing is very weird the first time it happens, I agree.

I'm doing my best to look after Yannick, but he does sometimes want to do really reckless things. And sometimes he doesn't have much of a choice...

[Caillagh de Bodemloze]

Chapter Eighteen: Dragonstone

Back in Riverwood, I started by going back to the shop and handing over the golden claw to the shopkeeper. I could have kept it, but what use would it be? It was far too distinctive a thing for me to sell to anyone else – it would be recognised, and once the shopkeeper found out I'd sold it instead of giving it to him, he'd probably let the authorities know I'd done that. Not the best way to keep a low profile and avoid being executed. So I just handed it over, accepted a few gold coins as a reward from the grateful shopkeeper, and left.

With that done, I went to the lumber-mill to return the bow I'd borrowed from Gerdur. I also gave her the bow I'd taken from the bandit outside the barrow. It wasn't much payment for all the help she'd given me, but it was a start. She insisted on taking me home and finding clean bandages for my leg, and for the shallow wound on my arm. Fortunately for my levels of embarrassment, she handed me a basket of linen strips and left me to do my own bandaging. I wasn't about to remove my leggings in front of a woman I barely knew. What I really wanted was a bath – I felt as if I was one solid lump of dirt – but if there was a bath at all, I think it was probably the old-fashioned tin-tub variety. And the only way to heat water was in a pot over the fire, so heating enough water for a bath would take hours. Far too much effort for one slightly injured visitor. So I made do with a cloth and a bowl of cold water, washing my leg wound first, and then the shallow cut on my arm. That wasn't particularly bad, but I decided it would be a good idea to bandage it just to keep it slightly cleaner. Before bandaging anything, though, I tried to wash off the worst of the rest of the dirt I'd accumulated. Once I was marginally cleaner, and bandaged, I got out the filthy, torn shirt and leggings I'd worn under my armour, put them back on and promised myself I'd get a set of clothes to replace them as soon as I could. No, two sets of clothes, so I could wash – or mend – one set and still have one to wear. And maybe a needle and thread, since I had a couple of large holes in my current outfit.

When Gerdur offered to let me stay overnight again, I almost refused – if I stayed, one of the family would have to sleep on the floor, and there is such a thing as wearing out your welcome. Then I remembered that the alternative to Gerdur's house was the Sleeping Giant, and after my conversation with Delphine, I didn't want to risk asking for a room there. So I suppose I owe Gerdur at least another couple of decent bows now.

I slept like one of the dead. The actually dead, rather than the dead-but-still-moving. I woke, aching and bruised all over, with muscles that protested painfully at just the thought of activity. Once I was out of bed and moving, though, I could walk well enough, with a bit of a limp. The night's rest had obviously done my leg good. So, first thing after breakfast – a breakfast which increased my indebtedness to Gerdur even more – I headed, slowly and somewhat painfully, to Whiterun and up the hill to Dragonsreach.

As I approached Farengar's study, I heard him talking to someone. When I walked into the room, she looked up at me, and I saw, with a twinge of panic, that it was Delphine.

“You have a visitor.” She spoke without taking her eyes off me.

I took the stone from my rucksack and held it out to Farengar.

“Ah! Yes, this is it!”

Farengar turned the stone over and over, looking at the map and then the words, tracing the carvings with his fingertips. Delphine, watching him, raised her eyebrows and then turned to me. “You brought that out of Bleak Falls Barrow? Nice work.”

“You do seem rather more competent than the usual fools the Jarl sends me,” admitted Farengar, without taking his eyes off the stone. I couldn't help wondering how many 'fools' Farengar had sent to Bleak Falls Barrow before me. From the besotted way Farengar was gazing at the stone, I'd guess he didn't think it mattered how many people it took to find the thing. He seemed to forget both his visitors, absorbed as he was in his piece of rock, but I must have shuffled my feet, or breathed too loudly, or something, because suddenly Farengar noticed my presence. “Are you still here? Oh, yes, I did promise you some training as payment -”

“Don't you think your new pupil should go to the temple first?” interrupted Delphine.

“What? Why would he need to do that? He's a Breton. They can all learn to cast spells. I don't see what difference last-minute prayers will make.”

“I was thinking more of his limp, his bandages, and the temple's expert healers,” said Delphine drily. Farengar's eyes flicked upwards, away from his stone, and stopped first at my arm bandage and then at the larger, slightly bloodstained bandage around my thigh. He sighed. “Hmm... That -”

“You!”

I jumped, startled by the sharp voice from the door. It was Irileth, as abrupt and frightening as before – and yes, she did have pointy ears. I almost smiled. I suspect it's a good thing I didn't; I don't suppose I'd have enjoyed explaining to Irileth why I found her ears entertaining.

“The Jarl heard you'd survived.” 'Survived'? They'd expected me to die? “Did he bring back the Dragonstone?” Farengar nodded, holding it up for Irileth to see. Irileth nodded in acknowledgement; one sharp downward movement of her head. “Not bad. Come with me.” That was to me. Then she turned to Farengar again. “You're coming too, the Jarl wants both of you.” She looked at my bandages and then back at Farengar. “Heal him first. I need him fit.” That was a bit worrying. You don't need to be fit to be given a medal, or invited to a feast, or just thanked for getting Farengar his stone. Farengar nodded and waved a hand. The familiar golden light spiralled around me, and just as before, the pain vanished.

I guessed that if Irileth – general of Whiterun's troops – wanted me for something, it was probably going to involve fighting. Not a thing I wanted to have to do – my plan was to learn some 'spells' from Farengar and get to Winterhold as fast as possible. If I did have to fight, though, I knew I would have to remember my leg was injured. Hypnotic pain reduction is all very well for convincing people they can keep going, but an injured leg is weaker than a healthy one. If I forgot that, I might expect my leg to be able to support me when it couldn't – and in a fight, that might result in my death.

A guard in Whiterun armour fell in behind us as we walked. Irileth strode across the great hall and up some steps to a room I guessed was the Jarl's council chamber – a big, open space with tables and maps, but no chairs. That might be a good idea in my world. Meetings without chairs would probably be noticeably shorter.

The Jarl was waiting for us.

Irileth indicated the guard who had followed us. “This man was stationed at the Western Watchtower. Tell the Jarl what you told me,” she ordered.

“There's been a dragon near the tower,” said the soldier. “I saw it fly in, and then it started circling, and I just ran to get here, to tell you. It hadn't attacked when I left, but surely it will.”

“Or else it'll come here.” Irileth seemed surprisingly calm about that prospect. “I'd like to take some people down there, see if we can stop it before it reaches Whiterun.”

“By being eaten alive?” That was the man who had objected to sending soldiers to Riverwood. Apparently he's the Jarl's steward – runs the household, provides valued advice, that sort of thing. It seems he also thinks his job is to disagree with everything Irileth says. I can't decide whether appointing a housecarl and a steward who refuse to agree about anything is really stupid of the Jarl, because some days he must end up swamped in really stupid arguments; or a stroke of genius, because it means he'll always hear at least two points of view about everything. I'd really like to know what happens if they ever do agree about anything. I can't imagine it ever happening, though...

On this occasion, Irileth won.

“That is a risk,” said the Jarl, “but I'd like to have some guards out there in case the dragon attacks. Take him -” Balgruuf nodded in my direction “- with you. He must be useful in a fight if he brought back Farengar's Dragonstone. And he's the only person here who's seen a dragon attack.” Apparently the Jarl had forgotten that all I did at the one dragon attack I'd seen was run away. Somehow it didn't seem like a good idea to remind him of that.

Between the Jarl's iron-hard authority and his housecarl's sword, it didn't seem the best time to ask if I could stay behind with Farengar and learn spells, either.

“Excellent! I shall be able to see a dragon myself! That will be more useful than any number of ancient descriptions!”

“No, Farengar. I need you here, studying that stone – and anything else that might help. You thought you could find out where the dragons have been hiding all these centuries. That would be useful. As would some idea of why they are back. We need to learn everything we can, as fast as we can. Irileth can describe the dragon for you when she returns. Which means, Irileth -”

“My lord?”

“This is a mission I need you to come back from. No glorious last stands, no sacrificing yourselves to save Whiterun, no heroics at all. We need to know what we're facing, so make sure you get back here in one piece.”

“I'll do my best, as always, my lord.”

We followed Irileth out of the council chamber, just as we had followed her in. As Farengar turned away from us to head back to his room, he turned to me. “Come back when Irileth's finished with you. I'll teach you a spell or two, if I can.”

I suppose at least he sounded as if he expected me to come back this time. I remembered the last dragon I'd seen, and I wasn't so sure.

[Merchant of Venice]

Whooop, whoop dragons!

[waveman]

Oh, so he's a Breton, eh?

[Caillagh de Bodemloze]

Whooop, whoop dragons!

Can't have Skyrim without dragons, right?

Oh, so he's a Breton, eh?

That kind of depends how you mean the question... so I'll give you both answers.

If you mean: "Is Yannick (the fictional character who has been transported to Skyrim from this world) a person from Brittany in France?" the answer's no. Yannick's British. I could tell you roughly where he's from, but it doesn't really matter. There is, however, a story in Yannick's family which says that they have an ancestor (presumably from some point before official records of births were kept, since it's just a story), who was that kind of Breton. That's why he has a Breton name.

If you mean: "Is the character Caillagh's using to play the game a Breton (in the Elder Scrolls sense), with the appearance and abilities that implies?" the answer's yes, absolutely.

[Caillagh de Bodemloze]

Chapter Nineteen: Dragonborn

I wasn't the only one with doubts about our chances of survival.

Irileth had ordered a small troop of guards to assemble by the great gate of Whiterun. When Irileth and I arrived there for Irileth to give them their orders, they were already muttering about dragons. It seemed the soldiers at the watchtower hadn't been the only people to see the dragon, and rumours were spreading about how many people it had killed, how many villages it had burnt to a cinder, how many family heirlooms it had carried off. Irileth's briefing wasn't as reassuring as it might have been, either.

“We're facing a dragon. We don't know if we can defeat it, but we're going to try. There's a chance we can win. And if we don't, there will be nothing to stop it destroying Whiterun.”

The men looked sideways at each other, clearly appalled. They'd been having fun repeating the rumours, but they still hadn't really believed there was a dragon. There was a horrified whisper from my left: “We're so dead.” I couldn't help but agree.

Still, somehow, by the time Irileth demanded, “So, am I going to fight this beast on my own, or will we defend Whiterun together?” every man in the troop cheered and followed her. Including me.


Smoke clouded the sky above the watchtower. We were too late; the dragon had already attacked.

“Spread out and look for survivors,” commanded Irileth. “And watch for the dragon. It may still be in the area.”

The one survivor wasn't hard to find. He was where anyone would have been – inside the damaged tower, in the only shelter left to him. As we approached he waved frantically, and screamed “It's not safe! Stay away! It's still here! It took them...” and we heard the slow flap of an enormous pair of wings as a dragon rose from a nearby crag.

“Take cover!” cried Irileth. “Make every arrow count!”

And then I saw why the guards followed Irileth, even to face a dragon, even when they were sure they wouldn't live to go home. She was everywhere: firing arrows with the archers; shouting encouragement and orders; screaming insults and curses to try and distract the dragon when it got too close to one of her guards; yelling at both the gods and the dragon when the dragon snatched someone in its teeth. I thought at the time I saw her throw lightning from her fingers, but that can't be true. If there was lightning, it must have been some bizarre atmospheric effect – no doubt a dragon can move large masses of air around just by flying – and it obviously can't have come from Irileth's fingers. Can it? What I'm sure I did see, though, was Irileth walking into the dragon's flaming breath. And walking out again afterwards, apparently unharmed. That breath was a furnace. There is no way anyone should have been able to walk into it without being severely burned, and yet I saw Irileth deliberately stride into that gout of fire to attack the monster. It was as if she were one of those monks who can walk on burning coals, but even more so. No doubt all of this is just more evidence that nothing I think I'm seeing is real, but even if Irileth is a hallucination, created entirely in my head, I'm impressed. I couldn't have brought myself to go so close to that thing even if you'd held a gun to my head – I'd be dead either way, so I might as well die quickly.

Eventually, after a time that seemed to last simultaneously forever and no time at all, the dragon crashed to the ground and, to my surprise, seemed unable to take off. Irileth ordered everyone – all of us who were left – to close in around it and finish it off. It put us in danger – we had to dodge the flames and choking smoke, the jaws, the flailing wings and the swinging tail, but the creature moved much more slowly on the ground, and we had a chance of evading its attacks. At last, there was no doubt we would win the fight.

Afterwards, we stood looking at the enormous corpse.

“Is it the one from Helgen?” asked Irileth, and I saw why the Jarl trusted her so much. It hadn't even occurred to me to think about that, even though Farengar kept talking about 'dragons' as if he expected plagues of them. I looked at the great head.

“No, I don't think so... No. It's the wrong colour...”

Improbably, pieces of dragonskin seemed to be flaking off and drifting upwards, like autumn leaves in reverse. In the holes where the skin had been, the dragon's flesh glowed orange, then yellow, then white – and then the whole world seemed to explode in streamers of light, whirling and dancing around me, leaving me feeling breathless and as if I'd had one drink too many. I assumed everyone else was having the same experience, but when the ribbons of light faded, one of the guards said, almost nervously, “You're Dragonborn, aren't you? You absorbed its power.”

I had no idea what had happened, and I said so. I also had no idea what a “Dragonborn” was, and I said that, too. Then everyone had

something to say.

“You're living here, right in the shadow of High Hrothgar, and you don't know what a Dragonborn is?” exclaimed the guard who seemed to be the youngest. Before I had time to explain that actually, I wasn't so much 'living here' as just passing through, or to ask what on earth some 'High Hrothgar' place had to do with anything, one of the other guards intervened.

“Quiet, you. He's a Breton, isn't he? Probably hasn't lived here long. Hasn't had the opportunity to spend an evening with you in the Bannered Mare listening to you telling all your stories of how one of your ancestors was Tiber Septim's best mate.” There were a couple of sniggers at that.

“Ignore them,” said a third guard, butting in. “Them two never agree about nothing. And once they've got started arguing, they don't stop. So, looks like you might be Dragonborn, but you don't know what that is. Well, your Dragonborn is someone born with the gift of the Voice. They don't have to study it or nothing, they can just shout natural. Like by instinct.”

I was confused. Doesn't everyone – well, almost everyone – have a voice, and the ability to shout without special training? Certainly every baby I've met has been pretty effective at producing high-volume sounds.


“And they can absorb power from dragons. People say it's the dragon's soul they absorb.” Another expert had decided to help out.

Mind you, this obsession with voices and shouting did remind me of Ralof's story about Ulfric and his duel with the High King.

“So is Ulfric Stormcloak a Dragonborn?”

They laughed at me. “No, of course not!”

“He trained for years!”

“Well, anyone would have to, to learn those weird words.”

“They say it's what your actual dragons used to speak when they were around in the olden days.”

There was a silence after that, with everyone looking thoughtfully at the extremely large, extremely solid skeleton which was all that was left of the dragon. A dragon that had not – until we'd killed it a few minutes earlier – been noticeably extinct. A dragon that was still noticeably present in Skyrim – if only as bones – rather than completely vanished, the way dragons were supposed to be. I think there was a good chance everyone else was thinking the same thing I was: maybe the dragons still do speak whatever language they used to, and maybe they're going to have unfriendly things to say in their dragon language about people who kill dragons.

Just as I was imagining squadrons of dragons arriving to hunt us down, a cheerful voice spoke.

“You should try it. Go on. See if you can shout. It's the only way to tell if you really are Dragonborn. See what dragon words you know, see what they do. Show us something powerful.”

“Best not, eh?” Several of the guards were backing away from me. Obviously not everyone was quite so sure 'something powerful' would be pleasant for them. “Might be dangerous. What if one of us gets hit by the... whatever it does...? What do you think?” The last question was to Irileth, who'd just returned from checking the tower – I don't know what for – and looking at the skeleton.

“What I think is that we just discovered we can kill these foul things. I don't care whether or not anyone's Dragonborn. If they can kill a dragon, that's good enough for me.” She looked at me. “The Jarl will want to hear about this. You and I will go and tell him. You two,” she pointed, “are in charge of transporting the remains of the fallen to the Hall of the Dead – properly, mind you, with the bodies covered and dignified. I want no complaints from the citizens. The rest of you will stay on guard here. The watchtower may not be in the best shape, but it's still a watchtower, and we will still keep watch here.”

[waveman]

Ah, exciting stuff! I liked your description of the absorption of the Dragon's soul - I'd venture to say it was better than actually watching it happen!

I actually meant to make a simple comment about Yannick being a Breton and a Briton, but thanks for that in-depth explanation, and I was wondering where the name Yannick came from. I do like how Irileth seems to inspire people by her presence more than her words.

IS HE GOING TO SHOUT? It seems like not....



Actually, would he even know how to shout?
Or would that be giving too much away....

[Caillagh de Bodemloze]

Firstly, my apologies for being away so long. I've been having a minor graphical glitch. I seem to have it sorted now, so we can move things along a bit just as soon as I've tidied up the next chapter and picked a screenshot or two to use...

Ah, exciting stuff! I liked your description of the absorption of the Dragon's soul - I'd venture to say it was better than actually watching it happen!

Thank you!

I actually meant to make a simple comment about Yannick being a Breton and a Briton,

Oh... Oops. I completely ruined the effect you were aiming for, there, didn't I? Sorry.

but thanks for that in-depth explanation, and I was wondering where the name Yannick came from. I do like how Irileth seems to inspire people by her presence more than her words.

IS HE GOING TO SHOUT? It seems like not....



Actually, would he even know how to shout?
Or would that be giving too much away....

You're very welcome for the explanation. And I'm glad the depiction of Irileth is working. She's kind of imposing in the game, I think. (She intimidates me, at least!)

As far as the shouting goes, it's a bit odd in the game, isn't it? You just get a message on-screen, telling you you can and suggesting you try it out. So I'm assuming the theory is that you (somehow) automatically know how to shout. Which means Yannick could shout, although he might not realise that. At the moment, I think the question is more whether or not he believes in this whole weird shouting/magic/dragons thing. If he does, he might try shouting. If he doesn't, well, what's the point? Nothing will happen. At least, nothing real will happen. There might be some pretty lights, or something.

[Caillagh de Bodemloze]

Chapter Twenty: The Greybeards' Summons

“So. Was the dragon there?”

Jarl Balgruuf wasn't lounging quite so much in his throne this time. The thought of a dragon so close to his city was obviously keeping him awake.

“The tower's been burnt, but we killed the dragon,” said Irileth. “I left most of the guards down there to keep watch.”

“Good.” You could see the Jarl relax at the news – not all the way to lounging, but definitely less rigidly upright than he had been. He looked at me. “Now tell me the rest of the story.”

“The rest?” Irileth obviously thought managing to kill a dragon was more than enough of a story. So did I.

“Yes, the rest. You must have heard the summons – the shout from High Hrothgar. Everyone here heard it. If the Greybeards have summoned someone, something must have happened.” There had been a kind of thundery rumbling noise as Irileth and I had approached Whiterun. I'd thought at the time it sounded a bit like words – the way a stormcloud would sound if it was shouting – but I'd assumed I was just being fanciful. Was the Jarl saying that really had been someone shouting? Balgruuf tried again, determined to get the details he wanted: “What happened when the dragon died?”

“There were some strange effects. Lights swirling around. Once the lights were gone, it was just a skeleton. I assumed that must be what always happens when you kill a dragon.” Irileth came as close to shrugging as I could imagine her ever doing.

“I think it may have been more than that.” Balgruuf sounded thoughtful. “Most of the guards are Nords. What did they say about it?”

“Ha.” Irileth was dismissive. “They were talking about some old legend or other. One of them mentioned Tiber Septim. They all think Yannick's some kind of ancient hero.”

I felt the need to deny that I was any kind of hero, ancient or modern. “The guards said they thought I'd absorbed some kind of power from the dragon. Its soul, or something. I just saw a lot of lights. I was probably just standing in the wrong spot when it died.”

The Jarl looked at me, and laughed. “You? The one complete stranger among us, and you are the Dragonborn the Greybeards have summoned? The Divines have a sense of humour, indeed.” He paused, thoughtfully, looking at me while I grew less and less comfortable. “But no doubt they know what they're doing.” He smiled, which was considerably more reassuring than his laughter. “So you are Dragonborn. And so the Greybeards have summoned you.”

“The Greybeards?”

“Of course, you would not know. The Greybeards. They live up on our greatest mountain, the Throat of the World. They teach the Way of the Voice – how to channel power into words – to those who have talent and wish to learn. Ulfric Stormcloak learnt with them.”

I was beginning to understand. If you shout the dragon words the guards had talked about, the words are supposed to do things. Like... kill people in duels, maybe. I wonder if the High King knew how to Shout, or if perhaps Ulfric had had something of an unfair advantage in that duel.

But no, that's silly. There's still no such thing as magic. There just has to be an explanation for the weird stuff I keep seeing. Maybe the weirdest bits are hallucinations, even if everything else isn't. Anyway, just shouting at someone can't kill them. Although... they say psychological effects can be pretty powerful. Maybe the High King lost because he believed he couldn't win against Ulfric's Shouting. In which case I still say it was an unfair advantage.

“They must have been able to sense what happened with the dragon somehow; they know you are Dragonborn. You can Shout without needing to learn, but no doubt there will be things they can teach you, to improve your natural ability, as they did for Tiber Septim centuries ago. It is a great honour for the Greybeards to summon you to High Hrothgar; you should go at once. And it is an experience you will never forget. I visited their home years ago – many Nords make the pilgrimage at least once. I would give a great deal to climb the Seven Thousand Steps again. But a Jarl cannot just leave his people to climb a mountain, no matter how holy.”

I was relieved. The thought of traipsing up a mountain with a Jarl, in the middle of a civil war – and being held responsible if he fell off, or got himself kidnapped or ambushed or assassinated – wasn't all that attractive. Particularly if, as he seemed to be, he was the kind of man who was going to spend the whole journey telling me how marvellous these Greybeards are, and how significant visiting them is, and how honoured I ought to feel that they want to see me. Not that I was about to climb any mountains at all, not with anybody. Not unless there were mountains between Whiterun and Winterhold, because Winterhold was where I was going. To find wizards. And to get their help, I needed to learn some 'magic', so once the Jarl dismissed me, I intended to head straight for Farengar's room.

It turned out Balgruuf had several more surprises for me, though. He cleared his throat. “You have done a great service for Whiterun.” Well, I supposed I had – along with Irileth and all her guards. “You should be paid, both for retrieving Farengar's stone and for helping Irileth to kill the dragon.” He waved his steward forward, and I found myself accepting a heavy leather purse. It felt like enough money to feed me for a while. “I also declare you Thane of Whiterun. It's the highest honour I have the power to grant you. Take this axe as a symbol of your authority. Lydia will be your housecarl.”

He beckoned, and a woman stepped out from a corner of the room where she had apparently been chatting with some other members of the Jarl's household. She looked as if being my housecarl wasn't so much a promotion as a punishment. And she was tall. All the women here seem to be tall. I hadn't noticed before, but now that I think about it, it's true. At home – in the real world – some women are taller than me, but not very many. Most are noticeably shorter. Here, all of them seem to be at least my height.

The Jarl rose. “I should talk to Farengar about this dragon you've defeated. No doubt the two of you will want to discuss your plans for travelling to High Hrothgar. Lydia is, of course, welcome to continue using her cot here until you've bought a property of your own in Whiterun.”

I looked at Lydia. Lydia stared back at me. It wasn't quite a glare, but it was close.

“You have a cot here?”

“I work for the Jarl.” She stopped, took a breath. “I used to work for the Jarl. I was one of his personal guards. Now I work for you.”

“But you'd rather work for the Jarl.”

“Than for a complete stranger who doesn't even own a house? What do you think? Being appointed housecarl to a Thane is supposed to be an honour, but how can it be an honour to serve someone with no house, no family, no reputation? Oh, I know the Jarl thinks you're Dragonborn, but there isn't even any proof of that, is there?”

She had a point. Several points, all of them good ones.

“I could refuse to be a Thane.”

“And offend the Jarl? That would hardly be sensible.”

“Well, I could politely refuse his offer of a housecarl on the grounds that I don't have a house.”

The corners of her mouth almost twitched. I'd amused her, if only ever so slightly.

“You have no idea what a housecarl does, have you?” Lydia's amusement had obviously been at the realisation she was expected to work for an ignorant fool. “If you dismiss me from your service now...” She seemed to change her mind about what to say. “You think dismissing me wouldn't offend the Jarl?”

She was probably right. She was definitely right in thinking I didn't know what a housecarl did. I thought I should probably find out.

“I could do with something to eat. And drink. Come with me and tell me what housecarls – and thanes – are supposed to do before I get into trouble.” Lydia frowned and looked at the floor, and I guessed she was about to say no. I didn't really blame her. She'd been given a job she didn't want, and she'd just discovered her new boss had no idea what he was doing. Why would she want to go for a drink with him? But I needed her help; without it I was never going to find out what a thane was. “Look, if you tell me what a housecarl's job is, you might be able to – well, to edit your description a bit, and leave out the things you hate most. I'll never know you left them out. If I have to ask someone else what a housecarl's job is, they'll probably tell me everything. Oh, and I'm buying the drinks – and food, if you want any.” I held up the purse I'd just been given. Either those two arguments tipped the balance, or Lydia's sense of duty overrode her personal feelings, although she was obviously still not thrilled.

“All right. But only if we go to the Drunken Huntsman.”

“You like it better than the Bannered Mare?”

She snorted. “The guards – the Jarl's personal guards and the Whiterun guards – drink at the Bannered Mare. I don't feel like being mocked this evening.”

I nearly asked her why she'd be mocked, but I realised just in time. She'd be mocked for being the housecarl of a foreign nobody. That was a kind of mockery I wouldn't enjoy any more than Lydia would.

“The Drunken Huntsman it is, then.”

We sat in the Drunken Huntsman – Lydia with her arms folded, resolutely unhappy – while Lydia explained to me that being a thane was a great honour, and only someone who had served a Hold – which is what they call provinces here – in an exceptional way should ever become a thane. I didn't really think helping Irileth and the Whiterun guards kill a dragon really counted. I was fairly sure Lydia agreed with me. Historically, thanes were required to fight for their Hold in war-time. Lydia thought that was why Balgruuf had made me a thane. Even though fighting for your Hold isn't strictly an obligation any more, she thought he was hoping I'd feel some allegiance to the man who'd made me a thane, so that when the Jarl eventually has to pick a side in the civil war, he'll have a Dragonborn fighting for him.

Housecarls, meanwhile, are expected to protect their thane (or jarl) as a kind of bodyguard, and must be prepared to die in the service of their thane. They can also act as a kind of deputy – nobody would appoint a housecarl who wasn't considered completely trustworthy. So if a thane had to be away from home for a while, he could leave his housecarl in charge. Or he could send his housecarl to deputise for him at an important meeting if he was unable to leave home himself. To be dismissed from a position as housecarl is to be disgraced, and to disgrace your whole family, although you can retire honourably if old age, ill health or injuries make it impossible for you to carry out your duties. No wonder Lydia didn't want to be dismissed.

I was feeling rather weighed down by responsibility by the time Lydia finished speaking. I don't intend to stay in Skyrim any longer than I have to. But if the wizards can find a way to send me home – or cure me, or whatever it is I actually need them to do – then I'll be leaving Lydia without a thane to serve. She might not have a job at all. Well, the Jarl might take her on as a guard again; it isn't as I'm going to dismiss her. But presumably nobody would give her a job, or – more to the point – pay her until they were certain I wasn't coming back. Which might mean Lydia would have to manage for a fair while with no pay. And that made me realise there was a question I hadn't asked yet.

“How much do housecarls get paid?”

Lydia shrugged. “It varies. Richer thanes pay more. The Jarl will expect you to provide me with food now, at least.”

That shouldn't be too much trouble, at least for a while. I gave her a big handful of coins, which, from the look on her face, was satisfactory. I moved on to the other topic that was bothering me.

“The Jarl said I should have a house in Whiterun.”

“It's usual.” From the stony look on her face, 'It's usual' meant that both she and I would be a source of scorn and amusement for the whole city until I bought a house. Which isn't something I had been planning to do. I'm going home, not starting a new life here. We'll just have to cope with the scorn.

[Alwyn]

Excellent chapter !

[Caillagh de Bodemloze]

Chapter Twenty-One: Magic Lessons

Balgruuf had been generous when he paid me, which meant I could afford a room at the Bannered Mare without needing to chop wood for it. Not only that, but I could also afford breakfast. It was day-old bread and a mug of watery wine, but it was better than nothing. Once I'd finished, I headed back up the stairs to the highest level of Whiterun, and Dragonsreach.

As I walked from the entrance towards Farengar's room, people moved around me, or stood in groups, talking. One group, almost hidden in a corner, spluttered with muffled laughter as if someone had been telling inappropriate jokes as I walked past them. Lydia was sitting at one of the long tables set on either side of the fire, and I nodded as I passed, but she was pushing food around her plate with her head down, and I don't think she saw me.

Farengar was where I'd hoped he'd be – in his room, surrounded by all his weird objects and equipment, doing something with a set of flasks on a strange-looking table. He looked up when I walked into the room.

“Ah, you've returned. There's a rumour that you're Dragonborn, but I'm not sure I believe that.”

“I'm not sure I believe it.” Somehow it was a relief to say that out loud. Everyone else seemed to think I was some kind of important, heroic person. It was nice to have someone think I was normal. “No?” Farengar looked slightly surprised. “Then perhaps you are more suited to the life of a thinker than I had assumed. I'm sure the Jarl believes you're Dragonborn. I have no doubt that's why he has honoured you with a thanedom – he is no doubt relying on you to free Skyrim from these dragons.”

That was an interesting theory, particularly considered as a comparison to Lydia's idea, but I felt we were wandering away from the point I wanted the conversation to reach. “You said you'd teach me a couple of spells.”

Farengar sighed. “Yes, I did. But we need to know everything there is to know about dragons in case we have to fight them. Can you come back – no, you went out to find a dragon, didn't you? Did you kill it?” He held up a hand to stop me, even though I hadn't had chance to say anything. “Of course. That's why everyone's saying you're Dragonborn. Well, if dragons can be killed by ordinary weapons, I suppose I can spare a few minutes. Stand over there.” I moved to the spot he waved me towards, while he rearranged his bottles and books and herbs and strangely-shaped items, trying to make a more or less empty space between me and the far wall of the room. It didn't work. Farengar had far too many things piled on and around the tables in his room to create more than a tiny clear space.

“Hmm. Well, we'll just have to do this outdoors. That's probably best, anyway. Safer. Follow me.” And after one more look around his cluttered tables, Farengar led me out of Dragonsreach, and out of Whiterun.

Down on the plain outside the city, Farengar led me off the road to a spot near a stream, and pointed at a large rock nearby.

“That rock is going to be your target,” he said firmly. “Do not, under any circumstances, aim anywhere else unless I tell you to. Are you ready?”

I nodded.

Farengar lifted his hands, and then hesitated. “I'm not sure this is a good idea.”

“You promised you'd teach me so I can go to the College in Winterhold.” What was I going to do if Farengar changed his mind?

“Yes. Yes, I did... I didn't say I could teach you enough to get you in, though. I can't do that. I'm... not good at teaching.” It sounded as if there was more to this story than Farengar was telling me, but I didn't know whether that should worry me or not. I admit I'm starting to wonder whether some of the weird stuff I keep seeing is – well, not magic, as such, but at least real, rather than just pretty lights. It could be very weird, very advanced science of some kind. Or maybe I'm starting to believe in my own hallucinations. Well, I probably shouldn't worry about that, as long as I keep trying to get home. Maybe Ma'Jhan was right, and I should just live as if all the things I see and hear are real. If I'm hallucinating magical dead people with freeze-rays, and those freeze-rays really make me feel cold, maybe I should just accept that as reality. But if I start believing in all this stuff, will I ever get home?

I wonder where Ma'Jhan is...



When I started paying attention again, Farengar was throwing balls of flame and spikes of ice at the rock he'd chosen as the target. Regardless of whether or not they were real flame and ice, it was an impressive display.

“I can't teach you how to do this,” said Farengar, during a pause in his demonstration. “What I will do is try to teach you a more basic version of these spells, and a couple of other spells for beginners, and we'll see if you have any talent for this. Most people seem to find it easiest to start with fire, for some reason, but you're a Breton, so you might prefer to start by summoning a familiar.” A familiar? Like witches were supposed to have? I asked if it had to be a black cat, and Farengar laughed.

“No! Why would you think that? A lot of people choose a wolf for their first summoning. That's not too difficult to do, and a wolf is a useful companion if you happen to be attacked by thieves on the road. Watch while I show you.”

He twisted his fingers slightly, and suddenly there was a ball of bluish-purple light in his hand. He threw it to the ground in front of him, and it became a transparent wolf edged in blue-white, with watchful eyes, alert, pricked ears, and sharp-looking pale blue teeth.

“Let's see if you can do that.”

I was still staring in terror at the ghostly but dangerous-looking animal Farengar had just produced from nowhere. It walked calmly towards him and sat down beside him. And then, as suddenly as it had arrived, it popped out of existence, and I managed to start thinking again. It could easily have been an illusion, but: “I... how? What do I do? How do I do that?”

“You need to be clear in your mind about what you what to summon. Concentrate on your wolf. Not a real wolf; a ghostly wolf that belongs to you. Some people say your familiar is really a part of you. I have no idea whether that's true – they might know that at the College – but it is important that it's a wolf you own. When you have him firmly in your mind, call him. You don't need to call out loud, although some people do while they're learning. And show where you want him to be. If you have the talent – which you do, because you're a Breton – the hand and finger movements should come naturally. It'll probably take a few tries. Go on, see what you can do.”

I raised my arms, thought of a wolf, and felt like an idiot.

I looked across at Farengar, and he didn't seem to be about to snigger, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt and assumed he wasn't winding me up. I'd seen him produce a wolf, after all.

Once again, I thought of a wolf. I wished for it to appear, and sort of waved a hand vaguely – and nothing at all happened. At least, I thought nothing had happened. Farengar apparently thought otherwise.

“Well done! You have a real talent, even for a Breton. Most people take three or four attempts to get that far.” He was smiling broadly, and there wasn't the smallest hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“But nothing happened.”

“Nonsense! There was no wolf, of course; that was hardly likely on your first attempt. But didn't you see the glow around your hand? Try again!”

Well, I had to, if I wanted to get help from the wizards in Winterhold, so I gritted my teeth, thought of a wolf – my wolf – and waved my arms. On my fifteenth attempt, I saw a purple ball of light in my hand, and, just for a moment, a surprised-looking wolf appeared in the spot I threw the light towards. I was astonished. That didn't seem to be a trick with lights and mirrors. I seemed to have cast an actual magic spell.

“Excellent!” Farengar wasn't astonished at all, but he was pleased. “Let's try that a few more times to make sure you have that firmly established in your mind, and then we'll move on to a different spell.”

Probably it was fortunate Farengar insisted on repetition after repetition. At least it stopped me from thinking too hard about the fact that I was using magic. Actual magic.

Well, unless it's a hallucination, although it really is very consistent if so. Or it could be some really advanced science. Some kind of nanotechnology that floats around in the air, or something. That might as well be magic, though, mightn't it? The result is the same.

When I could reliably call up a ghostly wolf that stayed in existence for a minute or so, Farengar decided it was time for a new spell. Fire. I was supposed to produce flames streaming from my hand towards the target rock. That didn't sound like a good idea. Purple balls of light sitting in my hand were one thing, but actual flames were another. But Farengar demonstrated, and he didn't seem to be in any pain or have any burns afterwards, so I tried.

For some reason – maybe because I'd already learnt how to do one spell – the flames didn't take as many attempts as the wolf had done. I produced a stream of flames on my third attempt. It was a tiny stream of tiny flames that wouldn't have ignited a piece of paper. But they were flames.

My next attempt was much better. At least, I produced a lot more flames. Unfortunately, I also set quite a lot of grass – and the hem of Farengar's robe – on fire.

“I told you only to aim at the rock!” he shouted, as he strode towards, and into, the stream, casting some kind of frost spell on the grass around him as he went. The sight of Farengar standing in the stream examining the damage to his dripping robe amused me – until I noticed the pain in my hand. When I looked at it, it was red and blistered, and obviously burnt. It was my turn to head for the stream, to plunge my hand into its freezing water.

“Well, yes,” said Farengar, when he saw it. “That does tend to happen when you lose control. We've all done it. Once you've practised enough it won't happen. For now, perhaps the next spell you learn should be a healing spell. No doubt you will have no difficulty concentrating on the exact healing you would like to do. Otherwise, the process is remarkably similar to that for the other spells.” I raised my blistered right hand. “You might want to use your left hand for this one.” I looked at Farengar.

“I can use either hand?”

“Or both. At least, most people can. Unless you have some special difficulty with your left hand, it will be easier than using your right hand at the moment, I would think.”

It seems that having a strong incentive helps considerably when learning spells. Almost the moment I lifted my left hand, it was filled with the glowing golden light I'd seen in the chapel in Bruma and the temple here, and I didn't even need to direct the light to my hand the way I had targetted the flames and the purple light for the wolf. It just seemed to know which bit of me needed healing. Maybe that was because I'd really wanted my hand to stop hurting.

Just like the times I'd been healed before, I felt better immediately. But this time I could also see an effect. The blisters and the hot redness around them diminished and then faded away entirely, leaving just normal, healthy-looking pink skin.

“Good!” exclaimed Farengar, looking at the result. “You will find that a useful spell, I'm sure.”

I could heal myself. I could heal myself just by thinking about it. I didn't need help from the temple, or Farengar, or even Gerdur and her bandages. I could heal myself. If there was anything more impressive than dragons, or the walking – attacking – dead, this was it. It was like being a jedi, being able to control reality with my mind.

“Naturally, you only have a limited – and quite slow – healing ability there.” Farengar wasn't as impressed as I was, obviously. “You won't be able to heal anything very serious, and if you get into a fight, you won't be able to heal yourself significantly during the fight, so you should still be careful.” He paused. “I had a pupil once who forgot that. It... had an unfortunate result.”

Was this the story behind Farengar's reluctance to teach me? “What result was that?”

Farengar looked at me sharply. “It doesn't matter. It wasn't good. So be careful.”

Obviously changing the subject, he pulled a book from his robes, and handed it to me. It was a very thin book, with very few pages, but it still had an old-fashioned embossed hard cover. The design embossed onto the front looked a bit like a hand wreathed in flames, which worried me a little after my experience with the flame spell. Still, it was only a book. I opened it...

...and inside there was a complete description of how to cast a spell that would make lightning shoot from my fingers...

...and the book crumbled to dust and sifted through my fingers to the ground...

...and I knew how to make lightning.

I looked at Farengar, bewildered.

He shrugged. “It's awkward. Paper isn't really strong enough to hold magic properly, so once a spell on paper has been used – either to cast it from a scroll, or to learn it from a book – the paper is consumed. I believe it's one of the things they're working on up in Winterhold. Reusable scrolls, or at least reusable spell-books. I doubt they'll ever come up with one that works, myself. I don't think the universe would like it.”

He didn't think the universe would like it. Well, if I'm mad, at least I'm not on my own.

“Try the new spell,” Farengar urged. “But be careful with your aim this time. I don't want to be struck by lightning.”

Neither did I, so I was careful. That probably slowed down my progress, because it took me four attempts before I had even the smallest bolt of lightning leaping from my fingers, but after that things went more quickly.

It seems that Farengar becomes obsessed with anything he happens to be doing, not just dragons, because it was late afternoon by the time Farengar was satisfied with my progress. Even then, he had a last lecture to give before he'd let me leave.

“It is vitally important that you practise. Every day, as often as possible, for as long as you can. If you don't practise, your skills will never improve. If you do practise, you will find you are able to summon the wolf a greater distance from yourself, and you will be able to sustain the flow of fire, lightning, or healing for longer. Eventually, with enough practice and a little more training, or a few more books, you may be able to learn how to summon more advanced things, to control the flame and lightning more – as I did earlier with the firebolts and the ice spikes – and to heal others. And there are other spells you will be able to learn. I could sell you some books of the easiest ones, if you wish.”

I wondered what they were.

[Caillagh de Bodemloze]

Excellent chapter !

Thank you, Alwyn! Hope you'll like chapter 21, too...

[waveman]

He didn't think the universe would like it. Well, if I'm mad, at least I'm not on my own.

Wonderful line.

Did you make up that bit about the paper crumbling, or is it actually from the game?

[Merchant of Venice]

Absolutely amazing writing Caillagh you just seem to get better with very update. From the Dragon fight to the conversations with Lydia and at last Yannick learning magic, it was all thrilling and entertaining and a joy to read. Great to see you keeping this up it deserves a lot more recognition than it gets.

[Roman Heritage]

Ooooook and that's the last AAR I had to catch up with - and it took quite a while Really don't know what to say, other than I loved the humour and drama in the barrows, and everything which followed. And the notion of a housecarl with no house to look upon...well, I'd be pissed off too

[Alwyn]

An enjoyable chapter indeed! Where will Yannick go to learn enough magic to get into the College at Winterhold, if Farengar cannot teach him? Where is Ma'Jhan? Yannick has been understandably uncertain of whether the magic he's seeing is real, I wonder how becoming a user of magic will affect him and his perception of Skyrim.

[Caillagh de Bodemloze]

It has taken me far too long to get here to reply to all you astonishingly generous people. Thank you all enormously.

Wonderful line.

Did you make up that bit about the paper crumbling, or is it actually from the game?

Thank you! That was one of mine. I thought if I was Yannick, I'd be a bit surprised at books that suddenly disintegrated. (They just vanish in the game, but that seemed even less likely.)

Absolutely amazing writing Caillagh you just seem to get better with very update. From the Dragon fight to the conversations with Lydia and at last Yannick learning magic, it was all thrilling and entertaining and a joy to read. Great to see you keeping this up it deserves a lot more recognition than it gets.

Oh, Merchant, I don't know what to say to that. I'm honoured. Seriously, from the author of Way of the Bow, that's extremely high praise, and a lot to try to live up to. (I'll do my best.)

Ooooook and that's the last AAR I had to catch up with - and it took quite a while Really don't know what to say, other than I loved the humour and drama in the barrows, and everything which followed. And the notion of a housecarl with no house to look upon...well, I'd be pissed off too

I'm very glad you enjoyed it - and I'm glad you survived your AAR-reading marathon. I admit I wrote the conversation with Lydia the way I think it would have gone if I'd been Lydia.

An enjoyable chapter indeed! Where will Yannick go to learn enough magic to get into the College at Winterhold, if Farengar cannot teach him? Where is Ma'Jhan? Yannick has been understandably uncertain of whether the magic he's seeing is real, I wonder how becoming a user of magic will affect him and his perception of Skyrim.

I'm going to employ you to write my trailers, I think. If we just stick "Tune in next time..." on the end of that, it'd be great!

Oh, and yes, that was me deliberately not answering any of your questions. Of course I could invent know the answers to those questions, but it would be wrong of me to spoil your enjoyment of the unfolding plot by telling you now. Oh yes. That's totally the reason I'm not telling you.

(Actually, I do know the answers to the first two. I'm still not telling, though. )