Dovah Thuri

[AronGurnic]

It was the single stupidest idea he had heard all week. Gruffly huffing out a laugh, Hoth crossed his took a swig of his ale. He'd need at least two more by the time the self-proclaimed scholar was finished with his rant. The hooded and robed fellow was talking animatedly, gesturing wildly with his hands. The innkeeper Jonna looked rather annoyed, but it wasn't like there were many customers to irritate in the first place. Morthal was quiet like that.

"It's nearly fool-proof, I'm telling you! The advantages and opportunities outweigh the risks by far my friend, and best of all, no one else can hope to match what we'd accomplish!"

Hoth drained his bottle. Yup, he'd need a few more at this pace. He waved the empty bottle at the excited stranger.

"Listen, your proposal is oh-so very interesting and all, but listening so much makes me thirsty. You want me to keep listening, right?"

The stranger took the hint, waving down Jonna to bring more ale. It could be worse, Hoth mused silently, he'd heard much worse offers from more grating clients. This one at least bought him drinks while he gave his speech.

"As I was saying, it really is an unmatched opportunity, but like all good ideas, it just needs some support before it can become profitable. And, of course, as one of the individuals who'd help get that idea off the ground, you'd be compensated appropriately."

Hoth's ears pricked up at the word, his eyes narrowing at the mention of compensation. Oh he'd heard that word often, usually from people who talked about all sorts of amazing riches he'd be compensated with just after their latest spelunk into another Gods-forsaken ruin. Those people had little in the way of coin, and he'd learned not to rely on would-be bone-walker looters. Said deadbeat looters had a way of compensating him back with their belongings once "accidents" happened.

"I don't do charity work. You can pay my fee up front or shut up."

Hoth practically spat the words out, his gold-grey eyes staring at the masked stranger. He still hadn't been able to peg what race he was yet, and that was suspicious as all hells. His nose was sharper than most, but the stranger didn't smell like Mer or Men, or even beastfolk. Some could tuck their tails and fold their ears to blend in, but smell gave them away. This one smelled like metal and magic.

"If it's coin you want, then rest assured I have coin. I take it you'd be interested in my proposal?"

The stranger hefted a coinpurse onto the wooden table, the septims making a pleasing muffled clink. Hoth opened it and began to count. Maybe one of these days he'd get around to learning his letters and numbers beyond a layman's, make a proper ledger.

"Just tell me what you need me to kill or keep you getting killed from."

The stranger sighed. He steepled his fingers, taking a moment to think.

"Then let me summarize. I pay your fee, you accompany me to the Dwemer ruins of Avanchnzel along with a team of other mercenaries, laborers and scholars. You would remain with me on retainer for a number of weeks as we establish a foothold in the ruins while I pursue my, uh, projects. Sound simple enough?"

Hoth finished his count, coming to three stacks of twenty and one of seven. That was almost a week's lodging and food, but not counting equipment expenses. But, if he was setting down at an encampment, that meant food and gear was already handled. An almost full profit if he charged a bit more on account of "dangerous ruins", and bought some preserved food before he left. It sounded like a good deal. Besides, he'd killed Dwemer automatons before, a good hit to the joints was all it took to have them clanking crooked.

"You keep the gold flowing, and we might have a deal. When're you leaving?"

The stranger pumped a fist and slapped the table in excitement.

"I knew you'd agree! We would leave tomorrow, most of the others have already begun traveling separately in groups of a few, and we'd be the last."

Hoth paused. Smaller groups? Not as a large caravan? Most scholars he worked for had at least a wagon and six people plus beasts of burden to haul everything around. Only scouts and hunters traveled light. Maybe this was going to be a different kind of job than his usual. Or maybe not. As long as he was paid, it didn't make much difference. Job's a job.

"Fine. Pay me six hundred septims in two weeks, and we'll be settled up. I'll be ready at first light tomorrow morning."

The stranger shook his hand, his grip surprisingly firm for man of learning. Or Mer. Whatever he was. Either way, all Hoth cared for was that he'd be on a job by tomorrow. It was welcome, Morthal had been blessedly slow and quiet, but he'd needed the septims. Maybe this time around, he wouldn't have to plug his ears with wax to tune out "conjecture" from his employer.

- - -

This one paced outside, impatient. His friend was taking long, and it was very unusual for him to request Inigo to remain apart like this. This one's nose was already clogged with the scents of swamp water and rotting, fungus-eaten wood. The stares and glances this one received from the various Nords in the village did little to help ease.

"Excuse me, are you a Cat- Kah- Khajiit?"
This one turned, only to find that the source of the voice was much smaller than this one expected. It was a Nord cub- a youngling on the cusp of manhood. Yet this one's nose did not pick up expected smells. The scent of magic was faint, bare but present. The youngling was staring up at him, showing no signs of the usual restless energy cubs had in cartloads. Were Nord children different?

"Ah, this one is indeed Khajiiti. Though you may call this one Inigo. What is your name, little one?"

The child said nothing for a moment, eyes wandering in thought. Suddenly he locked his eyes on this one's, unblinking.

"I've seen you before. Blue fur, almost purple. But someone's missing, someone pale like frost. I had a dream, you both went into a big cave. I couldn't see cus' there was steam and pipes everywhere. But then your friend found a big gem. He raised it and lightning shot from it and made metal men start marching, marching somewhere…"

This one's fur stood on end. This was not a usual child. How did he know about- the door of the Moorside Inn suddenly opened, a robed, hooded and masked figure stepping out.

"Ah, Inigo, thank you for being so patient, I- Oh hello there, what's your name?"

The child snapped out of his stupor, looking lost. He tilted his head in confusion, glancing between this one and his friend.

"I'm, I'm Joric. I don't… have you seen my sister? I got a little lost. She helps me when I get lost. It's hard to find my way back sometimes."

This one turned to his friend, ears laid flat, tail waving anxiously. He tilted his head subtly towards the child, in unspoken language. You deal with this, this one said.

"Oh, I know, it can be very hard sometimes. You get so wrapped up in what you're seeing that everything else fades away, right?"

Joric nodded twice, a small smile on his face. This one's friend crossed his arms and gave a knowing, sagely nod.

"It can be a lot, especially when dealing with special visions. Does your sister teach you about them?"

Joric shook his head, smile turning to a grumpy frown.

"No, Iddy never says anything helpful. She worries so much and says stuff like 'seer cursed' when she thinks I can't hear her."
This one's friend gave a hmph, then raised a finger in exaggeration.

"Oh, I know! Why don't we go find your sister, and I can give you this book?"

From his pack, this one's friend pulled out an off-red tome with a swirling triskelion of circles on the cover, dusting it off. Joric's eyes tracked the tome, boyish curiosity making his head follow as the book was lifted dramatically.

"You see, this is a very special tome, one that only those gifted in seeing the unseen can learn from. Have you been taught your letters yet?"

Joric nodded enthusiastically, his eyes lit up with excitement. This one could see none of the unsettling weight that accompanied the dream Joric had spoken of. This one's friend gestured dramatically with the book, his free hand sparking up with ethereal light.

"Then the only thing left to do is find your sister, and we can talk her into teaching you… this!"

This one's friend raised his hand, and a faint, foggy line spiraled from his palm to the ground, winding its way over the street towards the Jarl's longhouse. Joric gasped in delight as the trail curled over and around him, giggling as he tried swiping his hand through the ephemeral magic.

"Forward march!", this one's friend said, and mocked a soldier's hup-to, Joric giggling and following suit. This one trailed a few paces behind, glancing at the few guards that had been watching the whole show unfold with close attention. Some of their hands strayed near their belts, hooking thumbs and hands at ease.

Those hands were only a finger's width away from the hilts of their swords, too. This one followed, silently putting his worries aside. This one's friend had a plan, he always did.

- - -

The Jarl's longhouse was dim, the foggy afternoon light weakly filtering in from the rafters and windows above. Flickering candles and torches guttered with smoke, casting shadows on the Jarl's assembled court. Inigo stood to the side, a half-pace behind him, just as practiced. Appearances mattered, especially when dealing with influential people, and he needed to look the part of mysterious-yet-escorted-how-intriguing stranger.

At the end of the hall sat an old woman with jet-black hair and a piercing stare. Her high-backed chair was carved with swirling patterns of dragons, and around her was a semicircle of chairs with well-dressed but obviously bored people. The steward stepped forward, addressing the newcomers.

"I am Aslfur, the Jarl's Steward. You stand before the Jarl of Hjaalmarch, Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone the Elder, and before her court. State your intentions and business here, so that- Joric, what are you doing?"

Guiltily, Joric poked his head out from behind the stranger, clutching a tome in his hands. He scampered over, tripping over his words.

"Father, I got lost and found Inigo, and I told them about a dream I had and I was looking for Iddy but then Inigo's friend showed me magic and gave me a tome to-"

"Enough! Joric, go to your sister, you're embarrassing the court! Gorm, if you would."

Aslfur gave a stern look to Joric, one that spoke of absolutely no compromises or back-talk. A burly armored man approached along with an embarrassed woman to usher Joric away, giving a suspicious narrow-eyed look to the two strangers in the hall. They disappeared into a side room, and Aslfur cleared his throat.

"It seems you found my son, a traveller. I must apologize, he tends to wander as children are want to do."

The stranger stepped forwards, adjusting his goggles with his gloved hands. He spoke, yet his mask seemed to do nothing to muffle his voice.

"There is no need for apology, Steward Aslfur. Joric seems muchly enthusiastic about matters of magic and learning, a most noble thing. As such, I have gifted him with a rudimentary tome that shall serve as excellent practice, both for his literacy and spells."

Aslfur raised a brow, crossing his arms and shuffling his feet. He was uncertain of how to respond, his posture spoke volumes. Most Nords were unappreciative of magic, true, but rumors of the Jarl's mystical inclinations meant magic was a complicated subject in this court.

Good. Complicated meant opportunity, and complicated was where he shined.

"Then I suppose thanks are in order, traveller. Might I ask your name?"

"I am Nerilus Mercaris, and this is my companion Inigo. We seek hired hands for a scholarly excavation, in pursuit of knowledge and to preserve the history we find within. On the morrow we depart."

An elderly voice cut through, raspy yet strong.

"You cover yourself, Nerilus. Is our province so bitterly cold you must hide your face lest the chill claim it?"

Aslfur opened his mouth, closed it, tried to form words then stopped. He gave a mildly apologetic look as he stepped aside. Jarl Idgrod's question hung in the air, expectant.

"Ah, it is true the lands of Skyrim are of the most frigid, Jarl Idgrod. But I cannot bare my face, as my skin is of a hue most displeasing. An alchemical incident is to blame, and I would prefer not to inflict the scars on another."

Jarl Idgrod worked her jaw, looking Nerilus up and down. She tilted her chin up, seeming to come to a conclusion.

"I see. You possess much knowledge of herbs and words, magics as well if the tome Joric has is real."

"Yes, Jarl Idgrod. My education has served me well in scholarly pursuits, and my travels have only aided my knowledge. If I understand correctly, your son Joric is… gifted, in the seeing way, yes?"

Jarl Idgrod smiled without moving, her skin wrinkling like old leather. Her eyes remained cold and unblinking.

"He is young and untrained. He sees things that are yet to be, as I do. It is brazen still to put magic in the hands of a child. Have you considered that it is not best for him to become exposed so soon?

Nerilus stepped forward, gesturing with both arms.

"Magic is temperamental, and can be dangerous, true, and deserves due caution before approached. Yet, so too is the art of swordplay, and of rulership. Tradition and necessity demand he learn both as is proper of the Jarl's kin. We do not live in peaceful times, however, and necessity makes itself known in myriad ways.

"I have gifted Joric with potential, that he may grow to wield his gift with skill and precision under your watchful eye, for I fear the world may demand it of him. The war encroaches ever closer to all homes and hearths; from our travels eastward we spotted no less than two Stormcloak couriers and even a full patrol of soldiery. You saw better than I did, Inigo, isn't that right?"

Gasps and murmurs broke out among the court, concerned looks being traded. Stormcloak rebels brazenly marching a stone's throw from Solitude, the Imperial stronghold of Skyrim? Yes, the effect was troubling, exactly as intended.

Inigo stepped forwards, clearing his throat and glancing at Nerilus. Nerilus sniffed loudly, subtly nodding his head.

"Yes, this one was fortunate enough to have smelled the soldier's approach before we could be spotted. We hid easily, as we were traveling during the night, and this one saw a band of six marching quickly without lights along the highway."

Jarl Idgrod steepled her fingers, a dark expression on her face.

"This is troubling news. We have had no such reports recently. How long ago was this?"

Nerilus bowed his head slightly.

"We had only just arrived yesterday, Jarl Idgrod. Our encounter was a day before that."

The court broke out into further murmurs, conversation becoming more heated around the Imperial Legate who had a pressed expression. Yes, a little pressure, put them on the backfoot, and then…

"I see. This is of great concern for the security of my Hold, but I thank you for bringing this news to me. It seems you herald change in more ways than one, Nerilus."

Nerilus gave a small bow, flourishing his hand slightly.

"Of course, Jarl Idgrod. I am glad to have been of service. As for our business in Morthal, we must depart soon, and I am loathe to take more of your valuable time, but I must ask a small favor. Our supplies of parchments and inks run low, and we seek to purchase more. Might you direct us where we may go to take care of this small errand?"

Jarl Idgrod waved her hand breezily, as if the request were nothing. It wasn't, paper and ink were damned expensive and hard to source, but with the troubling news and recently earned goodwill now stewing, paper was miniscule compared to rebel soldiers lurking in the swamps.

"Speak with Falion, the magical advisor of my court. You will find him near the edge of the village. He will provide you with what you need, and tell him that I see fit to provide you with a sheaf and inkpot as gratitude."

Nerilus bowed low, Inigo following suit.

"You are most gracious, Jarl Idgrod. We shall leave your court to its business. May you find good health and long life always."

The Jarl was only paying half-attention, and gave a dismissive wave as her assembly stood and began to make its way to a side room, their conversation tinged with fear. Nerilus and Inigo left quickly, the frigid air almost refreshing after the stuffy smoke of the longhouse. Cresting over a small bridge and away from any others, Nerilus gave a small punch to Inigo's leather shoulderpad.
"That was a damned good bit of improvisation there. 'Traveling during the night', and only you could see them? Really playing up the cat man angle huh."

Inigo grinned, incisors gleaming slightly in the afternoon light.

"Not only saw them, smelled them, my friend, like a hound on a hunt. This one would've stood more hunched on his paws with his claws hanging forward if the guards didn't look so eager to draw their swords."

Nerilus chuckled, shaking his head.

"Maybe I should've signalled for it anyways. Ah well, what's done is done. We have our merc, we have a grateful Jarl's wizard and soon his shiny new spells, and we have the last hardened hand we need to get started."

Nerilus stretched his hands out above his head, and loosened his goggles. Pale eyes shone out tricky and shifting to track every detail of the swamp around them.

"Tomorrow, Inigo, tomorrow is when great things happen, and we put in history in motion."

 

[AronGurnic]

Just to be clear, this story is inspired by my experiences with several modded companions and overhauls, I did not make the following chars, I only wrote what I felt like suited them:
Inigo by Smartbluecat
Lucien by JosephRussel
Hoth by Hothtrooper44
M'rissi by KreaQ

I also included another char inspired by derkernel's still work-in-progress mod, yall will see what I mean. As for most other chars, they are pulled straight from canon ES:5 or are my own addition (like Nerilus). By all means check out the mod authors and their mods, they're fantastic to include in almost any modded playthrough and breathe a little life into the world of Skyrim.

 

[AronGurnic]

Months had passed. What was turning out to be a "short" excavation had turned into a pop-up trading ring. Lucien hummed an idle tune as he chewed on a strip of dried horker meat. It was tough, but not so hard it hurt to chew, had a subtle gamey taste tinged with rich firm age, and was overall a pleasant challenge to gnaw through. The stone bench under him was of Dwemer make, and he idly thought that for all the stories and lore that colored the Dwemer as a cold, cruel and logical people before their disappearance, they certainly could appreciate a view.

From his vantage point, he could see nearly the whole of the Rift as it stretched in auburn colors around Lake Honrich, broken up occasionally by rocky hills that sloped towards the sky. Lucien had been working hard at translations, transliterations, inscriptions and more, yet for all the frustrations that damned cubic Dwemer script gave him he always found it melting away like morning frost whenever he sat outside to get some air and appreciate the view.

It was eternally fascinating. Skyrim, such a brutish land on paper, but absolutely vibrant with life, fauna and flora, and a people just as sturdy as the land they lived in. Lucien thought back to the days of his study at the Arcane University, how insular it was. Yes, many days were spent studying and nursing hangovers with his friends, and many nights were spent getting just as drunk the night before with wine and experiments and pranks, but it was so banal.

The Imperial City was a wonder of engineering, of course. A magnificent place of history, too. But within those walls everything was so stately and practiced and boorish. The decision to leave and travel the province of Skyrim was the single best decision Lucien had made since graduating, and he had not regretted it once.

Lucien finished chewing down his horker strip, and was about to reach for another when a voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

"Ho there! Anyone? Delivery for a Mister Mercaris! Nerilus Mercaris!"

Lucien hopped off his stone bench and looked over the lip of the cut-stone precipice. Down below, climbing up dozens of scaffolded stairs, was a courier. Lucien gasped. It was here. Finally.

"Yes, up here, a parcel delivery! Coming down, right this way!"

He hurried down past hired lookouts and resting laborers, stumbling slightly from uneven planks and wobbling wood. It was still leagues better than when they first arrived, all stone rubble and collapsed structure. Lucien arrived huffing and puffing from the exertion, the courier presenting the small wooden box.

"Ah, oh, excellent, most excellent, we've been waiting for quite some time for this you know, we're on the verge of an absolutely critical breakthrough in our research!"

The courier gave a blank look as Lucien took the box gingerly and tucked it under one arm. He cleared his throat, holding out his hand. Oh, Lucien thought, of course, he must be famished after carrying the parcel all the way from Winterhold! He reached into his satchel and pressed a few strips of horker jerky into his hand.

The courier looked down at the jerky, then back at Lucien, still grinning from excitement. He sighed, an exasperated look on his face as he turned and began to jog away. Lucien began his trek back up the mountainside, Nerilus was going to be so pleased when he saw this!

- - -

Brass-colored pipes wove in and out of intricately cut stone like massive ropes wound through the mountain. Candles were lit here and there, but the pale green-blue light of the Dwemer gas-flame lamps studding the halls provided ample light to see by. Lucien hummed merrily as he wove past researchers and laborers, the former taking precise measurements of symbols etched into the walls and the latter hauling wheelbarrows of scrapped Dwemer metal to be smelted down and forged. It was a hive of activity, and it reminded Lucien of the Imperial City's markets on busy days.

Finally he arrived at Nerilus' claimed chambers, seeing Hoth and Inigo along with a few other mercenaries crowding around a stone table.

"We're going a layer deeper soon, enough rubble has been moved aside to allow for men and supplies to move further in. That being said, I have a request that will sound odd, but hear me out on this."

Nerilus gestured to a broken automaton laid out on the table, a Dwemer Sphere. Lucien hadn't understood why they were called that until he saw the aftermath of the initial clearing of the excavation. They were complex guard automatons that rolled up into waist-high spheres that could unfold into figures two heads taller than most men, armed with bolt casters and a nasty blade. The Dwemer were just as dangerous as they were ingenious, Lucien mused.

"You all remember fighting these things, I trust? They're right nasty pieces of work in tight corridors."

There were nods all around, Hoth letting out a gruff chuckle.

"Not so tough when you knock 'em on their asses and crack the joints."

Nerilus nodded, pointing at a rather dented section of the automaton's arm.

"Very true, which segues into my next point. I need one of these things alive."

That turned heads, more than a few that were confused.
"I know, so far we've only been smashing them, but I have an absolutely critical phase of my experiments coming up, and to succeed I need a working subject. Do what you have to in order to defend yourselves and incapacitate one, hells, chop off both its arms if you have to, but as long as it's still working, that's the important part."

The mercenaries looked uncertain, and Lucien couldn't blame them. There was a reason Nerilus had sourced an alchemist to come for this expedition; the wounds from rockfalls, vicious automatons and traps were quite nasty, and many would've succumbed were it not for timely potions and healing magics.

"Now, I wouldn't ask you all to do this without a little help. This right here is the fruit of some other experiments, and you all get first use."

Nerilus hefted a blade bronze-yellow in coloration, a straight-sword with a wickedly sharp edge. Following it was a gauntlet and close-faced helmet made of that same Dwemer metal.

"This right here is smelted Dwemer metal, sharper than steel and tougher than rock. Our researchers and smiths managed to finally crack the method to work the stuff, so after this you all get to head to the forges for measurements. For those that accept, in place of gold for the next month's payment, you can request the equivalent in Dwemer kit. And for those that bring me a working automaton, you'll get a bonus. Any questions?"

One mercenary spoke up, a Dunmeri that frankly scared Lucien when she looked his way. She seemed to know it too.

"How can we trust this new armor won't fail us? These are Dwemer machines we're fighting, mercy and pulling hits isn't a concept for them."

The Dunmer, Janassa, gestured to the scar on her left arm. Lucien had seen it when it was fresh, and Janassa had described the boiled leather vambrace being cut through like so much wet paper when a Sphere had slashed her.

Nerilus gestured with a gloved hand to Hoth before adjusting his goggles. The mercenary picked up the Dwemer blade as Nerilus slotted the helmet over his hooded head and the gauntlet over his hand. He placed his hand over the table and braced.

After giving it a few test swings, Hoth turned and swung the sword straight down onto Nerilus' hand. Lucien gasped as he saw bright sparks fly as the metal rung from impact. Hoth then took an overhead swing at Nerilus' head. Hoth ran a thumb over the blade after, making a pleased noise.

"Hah, still sharp, and no rolling on the edge. Might not be shaving with it, but cheap steel's handled it worse."

Nerilus removed the helmet and knocked his hooded head twice.

"Still in one piece too. Might be a bit sore in the morning, but then again Hoth's rather large."

That got a few of the mercenaries to chuckle, and Janassa looked at the equipment with an appraising eye.

"With how much scrap we've hauled in the last week alone, we'll have enough to arm the whole site easily, and in another month's time we can have breastplates, helms and more. If there's no more questions, then head to the forge to get kitted."

Lucien perked up as Nerilus glanced his way, spreading his arms wide.

"Ah, Lucien! Perfect timing, I needed some help with the last set of glyphs from the assembly manuals."

Lucien gingerly placed the box on the table as mercenaries filed past him, Janassa in particular giving him an evil smile. He tried not to notice.

"I, ah, imagine you'd be interested in something other than more of those damnable glyphs. This was delivered just a bit ago. It seems your contacts in Winterhold pulled through!"

Nerilus rounded the table corner, opening the box hurriedly. Gently, he pulled out what looked to be a gyro, tinged blue and housing a soul gem in the center. His sigh of relief was barely perceptible.

"Then it's possible. Finally. Weeks of research, thousands of septims invested, dozens of people hired, all for this."

Lucien blankly looked at the gyro.

"Is this, ah, what exactly is that? I gather it's important, but it looks rather… unimpressive."

Nerilus chuckled, taking the device and walking to the head of the table. He fiddled with the automaton for a moment, opening a panel and linking a few bits of thin metal wire to it.

"I mean, it doesn't seem impressive compared to the other marvelous things we've uncovered here. Certainly you picked a prime ruin to excavate, given the volumes' worth of information we've obtained, there was even that giant, hulking Centurion that nearly halted everything! That was-"

Lucien jumped as the sword arm of the automaton suddenly jerked upright, its blade thrusting into the air. Then, just as quickly as it rose, the arm fell limp to the table with a clatter. Nerilus let out a chuckle.
"This unimpressive little device is what will push this from an excavation to a production, Lucien. And once I have a functioning Sphere to map from, let's just say we'll have a little more help around here."

Lucien straightened his robes, trying to reclaim some of his dignity. Sometimes, he'd wish Nerilus was more tell than show. This was one of those times.

- - -

The moons had set and most workers had retired to bed by the time Nerilus realized it was late. He stood, feeling his weathered joints pop and crack as he stretched. He looked down at his workbench, sighing. Still no major progress, and it had been two days since he had been brought a functioning Sphere.

Bound to the table next to him was a twitching automaton. Both limbs had been removed up the the elbow, and its sphere portion had been hacked away by the legs, leaving a torso that still moved without posing a threat. Its carved metallic face tracked his motions with uncanny precision despite not having eyes. Nerilus' current theory was that the soul gems harnessed more than simple power to divert steam and micro-wire tension; it only made sense that the limited power of the life force within the gems carried a portion of the mind of the creature bound to it.

With that came limited cognizance, and several of the tomes his research teams had decoded from Avanchnzel's library seemed to support the theory. Taking into account the raw cunning of the Dwemer's philosophy of craft, it was the most logical shortcut to the problem of creating a servant able to follow commands without risk of disobeying.

Nerilus sighed again, checking to see if he was alone before removing his goggles to rub his eyes. They chafed sometimes, but preserving appearances was a necessary effort. He idly spun a wrench, staring blankly at the carved stone reliefs in the wall. Fatigue was making his mind turn over.

Maybe he was looking at this all wrong. He had made a breakthrough in accessing the primary command structures of the Dwemer, hells, he had enough translated books about it to drown in at this point. Yet the tomes seemed to assume that the reader had a certain understanding of 'tonal resonance', as a prerequisite. Given that there were no other mentions Nerilus had come across in his explorations of other ruins he could only assume it was a living practice that only had brief mentions.

But 'tonal resonance' could mean any number of things.

Nerilus rested his head on the table, intent on thinking. It was barely a minute before he drifted off to a doze. Somewhere, someone else was burning the midnight oil, and a steady tink-tink of metal-on-metal rang from an anvil. It must've been an experienced smith, as it became a steady rhythm. Tink-tink rattle, tink-tink rattle. A scrape of metal-on-metal woke Nerilus with a jerk, and he glanced over to see the Sphere mimicking the sound. Tink-tink rattle, tink-tink rattle. It tapped its damaged limb idly in time with the beat.

Odd, for it to mimic the sound…wait. Wait, mimicking the sound! Nerilus shot upright, mind ablaze with an idea. He scrambled to clear space from his workbench, tossing scrap parts and tools aside as he wrested the torso of a disabled Sphere into place. He grabbed for the specialized gyro, his custom Resonator, and quickly attached it with hair-thin wires to the Sphere.

Nerilus stood, approaching the still active Sphere, his hands sparking with magic. He focused, and a pure, sweet tone sounded from his palm. The Sphere halted its tapping and froze in place. Nerilus carefully concentrated, raising his other hand and causing a second, lower tone to sound and ceased the first one. The Sphere moved fractionally, its limb gears whirring and failing to catch on anything. Lastly, he played both tones, and the Sphere straightened to a neutral pose.

Nerilus let out a triumphant laugh just as Inigo rounded the corner, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"My friend, this one does not approve of your taste in mu- what are you doing?"

Nerilus cut the magic, the Sphere resuming its tracking behavior and turning its head to stare down Inigo. Nerilus turned to clap his friend on the shoulder shaking him excitedly.

"I've done it, Inigo! This is the secret! I figured it out!"

Inigo brushed his friend's hand away, his fuzzy eyebrow raised in confusion.

"This one does not believe learning to play music at indecent hours of the night is the secret to anything except for bawdy stories and the whimsy of bards."

Nerilus chuckled, taking Inigo by the arm and leading him over to his workbench. He adjusted a few wires on the Resonator, and concentrated again.

"You see my friend, I had hit a wall so soon after my last discovery. We had made a reproducible model of a Dwemer control matrix, something that my contact at the College assisted with. But, I hit a snag. What good is a new control matrix if I can't get the blasted thing to actually control an automaton?"

Nerilus exhaled, emitting two gentle tones from his palms. Immediately, the head of the disabled Sphere twitched, the faint sound of whirring gears coming from its internals.

"And now, I know the language the Dwemer used to speak commands to their machines."

Inigo's eyes went round. Nerilus only laughed.

"We've already cracked how to make more metal. And soon, we'll know how to make machines. From there? An army that only needs time."

- - -

A rumble passed through the dead. They couldn't feel it, of course. They were meat, sinew and bone bent towards a better purpose than one as paltry as mortal life. The tremor passed all the same.

Mannimarco was dreaming. He was in a body, his soul attached to every nerve and piece of flesh as it was tormented. He was burned, cut, boiled alive, suffocated, chewed by vile creatures that ate him alive slowly. A cruel Prince watched in delight.

Then he was at a grave. A knight charged him for intruding on the resting place of Saint Alessia, the son of Kyne joined him. He brought death then undeath to them both.

Then he was locked in combat against a Hero. He smelled of Oblivion-fires and the scorn of Mehrunes Dagon. The Hero stepped through a gate of Madness, and left never to be seen after.

Mannimarco shifted, his soul twisting within the confines of its phylactery. The dreams were long, they were unreal, they were history, they were truth, they never existed at all.

Finally, a vision swam to him. Tone, but not of the Deep Elves. Power of dragons, stolen and inherited. A dead race, a disfigured one, a war of succession and power. A face came to view. Masked and hooded, pale eyes shone from their depths in ignorance. A Scroll that unfurled over kalpas and eons. Then-

CHIM

Mannimarco awoke. With him, the thousands of dead.

 

[AronGurnic]

Ambassador Elenwen was bored. Her eyes glazed over another report on Stormcloak movements, something about rumors of their presence south of Solitude, encroaching on Morthal. She waved her hand, a quill darting through the air to pen a reply.

"Send a small detachment of Justiciars to investigate the rumors. We musn't let the image of our omnipresence falter."

The quill sketched out the reply before returning to rest in its inkwell. Elenwen idly considered the image of it thrown against the wall, set on fire, slowly crushed under a pallet as more weight was stacked on top of it. No, she was getting distracted. It was a sign she was in need of a break from her duties. Discipline wavered when punishment and reward were not distributed appropriately.

She stood from her desk, glancing at the Justiciar guard. The High Elf stiffened immediately, eyes staring straight ahead. A small smile crept onto her face.

"Tell me, have any new prisoners arrived yet? My latest missive talks of rebel movement, and I wish to confirm or deny this intelligence."

The guard stared ahead, answering without hesitation.

"I do not know, Lady Ambassador. I have not had the opportunity yet to check with the interrogators."

It was a decent response, Elenwen mused. Ignorance was unattractive and demanded rebuke, but he had a reasonable excuse. Besides, a jaunt to the interrogation cells would be a much-needed reprieve from hours of penning and stamping communications.

She strode smoothly to the door, detecting a hint of sweat from the guard. Fear too. A low stirring of desire rose in her belly, but Elenwen forced it down. This was not the time or place, and she would have to instead take mild delight knowing her reputation still had its effects.

The cells were only a brief stroll away, and the faint scents of blood clung to the air despite the best efforts of the cleaners. Elenwen always made a comment to abrade the staff to scrub harder next time, but truthfully she enjoyed the scent. It was an aroma to be savored, a set-piece upon a stage, one more element that was bent towards unsettling her latest subjects.

Rulindil, the Third Emissary, was already in the interrogation room. His methods were exact, brutal. Elenwen had idly considered bedding him before, but such thoughts only bloomed after hearing a prisoner's cry for mercy. She much preferred to watch him work, waiting to see if he would err, so that she might have the pleasure of stepping in to succeed where he failed.

Rulindil turned his head at her footsteps, bowing slightly.

"Lady Ambassador. I presume you are here to check for prisoners?"

"Quite. There is information I have received in need of corroboration, however. Are there any prisoners from the Hjaalmarch Hold?"

Rulindil paused, turning to flip through a heavy-bound ledger.

"No, there aren't any- Ah, I stand corrected. Just a quarter hour ago there was a patrol report, claiming to have arrested an unruly and disorderly Nord by the name of Benor. He hasn't been delivered to the cells yet, but…"

Elenwen suppressed a shudder. Yes, yes, this was perfect.

"Have him processed and prepared for questioning. Fortune favors me today it seems."

"Yes, Lady Ambassador. There is another matter I must mention. One of my agents have reported rumors of a Blades member within Riften Hold. They are yet unconfirmed, but seem to point to the Hold capital."

Elenwen inhaled sharply. A Blades member? Oh, this was excellent. If she was able to eliminate one, her superiors in Summerset would be most pleased with her. Better yet, if she were able to capture one alive… she suppressed a shiver. Delivering one alive would be even better. She would not have the pleasure of interrogation personally, but the Aldmeri Dominion possessed potent resources in mental manipulation.

"This is most wondrous news. Send a detachment of incognito Justiciars to hem in the location of the Blades member, report any news or updates immediately. We must apprehend or eliminate as quickly as possible, with no tolerance for failure."

"At once, Lady Ambassador. Shall I inform you when the prisoner is ready?"

Elenwen nodded, turning to leave. She paused by the door, resting against it when she was certain she was out of eyesight. The excitement was almost too much to bear. Her mind danced with scenarios and techniques, her breathing quickening. Her reward would have to wait only a slight bit longer, but it would be delicious. She left for her office to gather her tools, a smile on her face.

The guards and menials quickly found reasons to remove themselves from her sight, and her path. The Lady Ambassador was smiling. Blood was soon to follow.

- - -

Her path up the mountain was hard. Cold winds buffeted her, slipping under the shield she had slung over her back. It threatened to tug her off-balance, as if the air itself was about to pull her boot over a slippery stone. She groaned and carried on, trudging through the snow.

She debated Speaking, but decided against it. So much fire and heat against the bitter chills of the snow would only make a cloud of mist and make things that much worse. She had learned that the hard way on the 7,000 steps. Granted, a Frost Troll had been doing its best to disembowel her, and the damned thing kept healing over her cuts and stabs, so who could blame her if she got a bit frustrated and Shouted the thing on fire?

Finally, she came up on the stone lip, climbing over and hurrying to the metal gate. She fumbled for the lever, yanking hard to dislodge the ice crusted over it. The gate swung open, and she shoved another lever in the center, the rumble of steam making the stone shake beneath her as she was lowered slowly into the depths.

Kyna breathed out hard, shaking the cold from her joints. Nords were supposed to be happy as clams when it was freezing out, but she felt that was undeserved. It was beyond her how anybody could possibly enjoy icy winds hitting them in the face. She removed her helmet, shaking off the snow and brushing the rest from her mail coif. The elevator was taking its sweet time, so she took a moment to defrost.

It was a miracle she even found this thing in the first place. She had received a note from a scholar named Arniel detailing an exit for the ruins of Alftand, a decisively blessed outcome. After dealing with that mad mess of a man Septimus Signus, who had told her in the most infuriatingly roundabout way that she essentially had to go venture through a deadly Dwemer ruin to find an Elder Scroll, she had almost told him to go find another Dragonborn with more patience.

The elevator rumbled to a stop, green-blue light flooding the hallways. Kyna donned her helmet and unslung her shield. Her sword was next, a fine blade of Elven make that she had taken off the body of a Justiciar that had gotten aggressive with his questions. Kyna scanned the hallways left and right, up and down, searching for indents in the floors and gaps in the walls and ceilings. Nord barrows were infamous for their grave traps, but Dwemer traps weren't in the habit of leaving explorers alive.

After a short few minutes of exploration, Kyna came to a large chamber. The ceiling was ringed with strange blue stone that warped and shifted as the light caught on it. In the center was a rounded platform surrounded by a massive machine sunk below a floor of glass. Before her was a console of buttons, and a pedestal.

Satisfied that there were no Spiders or Steam Centurions waiting to jump her, Kyna sheathed her sword and retrieved a Lexicon from her pack. The cubic thing was small and dense, and a "library of knowings" according to Septimus. Whatever that meant.

She slotted it into the pedestal. Immediately it gripped the cube and spun it, unlocking the corners to reveal a metal core. Metal covers on the buttons slid back smoothly. Great, Kyna thought. Another wonderful puzzle. She sighed, resigning herself to gods-know how long it would take to figure it out, and began pushing buttons. Weeks of trekking across Skyrim after almost getting executed then discovering she had overgrown lizard blood running through her, and yet she was still graverobbing like she had been for years.

Well, she made a jump from robbing cairns to robbing thousand-year old crazy dead elf ruins. Progress, she guessed.

- - -

General Tulius wiped a gruff, calloused hand across his face. Legate Rikke had an uneasy expression on her face, one that spoke of an officer's anxiety at troubling developments.

"To make sure I understand this correctly, Rikke, not only are dragons apparently plaguing our supply lines and straining our reserves with patrolling our occupied farms to keep flying lizards from livestock, there are now Dwarves spilling out into the Rift?"

Rikke opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated. The other Legates present shuffled their feet anxiously. Hesitation was looked down upon usually, as hesitation meant moments of weakness. Weakness was a deadly thing for a soldier to have. But this once, it was forgiven. Reports like this were cause for upheavals in the worst of ways.

"General Tulius, the dragon plague is confirmed by all, we know this for a fact, but we can't say the same for the Rift. Rumors and conjecture speak of the Dwemer returning, but we know for a fact that an academic excavation was being undertaken south of Ivarstead."

General Tulius sighed, his eyes glancing to the warmap on the table. Small statues and flags dyed red and blue dotted the map of Skyrim, a worrying amount of Stormcloak blue forming the eastern half. Ever since the world was turned upside-down and bloody dragons started roaming the skies, the war had ground to a slow crawl. Large battles seemed to attract the beasts, and their fire didn't care for allegiances.

And now this. He and Ulfric, that cursed traitor, narrowly escaped being burned alive by dragonfire. It was only fitting that more ridiculous things would happen. His curiosity was peaked, however, tempered with doubt.

"You say fact, Rikke. What intelligence do we have that points to this being anything other than another poorly-timed joke of the Divines?"

Rikke straightened, clearing her throat and producing a scroll case from her satchel.

"For you, sir."
Tulius thumbed the wax seal open, his eyes scanning the page as Rikke went on.

"Our spies noted a significant uptick in purchase for raw material out of Riften city, primarily lumber, clay, mining tools and the such. Initial belief was that local Stormcloak forts were preparing to entrench and harden their defenses in response to the dragon plague, to take advantage of the lull in pitched battles. However, the purchases continued, and word of mouth repeatedly stated an excavation of a Dwemer ruin for academic purposes was being undertaken."

"And that means scholars started putting on armor to try to relive history en masse? Get to the point, Legate."

"Yes sir. A few scouts have eye-witness reports of the excavation having been in progress for several months now, and it's only recently that fully armored groups have begun emerging. Recent trade in local villages have also noted these groups. It's my belief that this is an independent effort from the Rebellion's, not beholden to them in any way."

General Tulius sighed, reaching for the small box of models next to the warmap. He placed an unpainted wooden flag south of Ivarstead. Perhaps he should be thanking the Divines it was only a group of upstart scholars much too obsessed with reliving the past. Then a troubling thought came over him. He flicked his eyes to Rikke.

"Legate, this independent group, you said they were trading, yes?"

"Yes sir, they have been for some time now."

"Then that means the fruits of their labors are now in Ulfric's reach. If this isn't just a discovery of an armory cache, then it's only a matter of time before that equipment starts changing hands."

Tulius paused, considering. He looked to each of the officers assembled. His eyes fell on Legate Manarco. He was an Altmer, recently promoted, with a strong sympathetic streak for fellow soldier and officer alike. It was a popular decision to raise him given his reputation and service record, but he had no free Legion to assign him to at the moment. His newly adopted strategy to consolidate forces was only just starting to shape the legions back into full strength companies, and there was no need to have divided forces when pitched battles were out for the time being.

"Legate Manarco."

The Legate snapped to attention.

"Remind me of your particular skillsets."

"Yes sir. I'm trained in reconnaissance, deep scouting, and have graduated from the Imperial War College as a dedicated Spellblade. I also have experience scouting the Reach from the Great War."

He checked all the boxes, Tulius mused. He had need of another agent to keep tabs on the Rift anyways, someone to go solo and incognito. It would be highly irregular to have a Legate running around without a command posting, especially not of the the company he was promoted out of, but then again, nothing about this twice-damned war was regular. It would also save Tulius the trouble of tying up another loose end of hundreds.

"Good. I have new orders for you. The rest of you, strive to make consolidations as smooth as possible. Rikke, prepare the casualty lists and have them given to the priesthood. Losing a company and being folded into a new one is difficult on a good day, and it wouldn't do to have our men think their sacrifices are being ignored. The priests will hold ceremony for the dead. That's all for now, dismissed."

The officers saluted once, right arms crossed against their chests, and began to file out. Manarco idled by the table, not at attention and not at ease. When they were alone, Tulius tapped the table.

"Legate, as I understand it, you have a particular set of talents and no officially assigned company. I apologize for the lack of decorum, but pressing needs demand that we make use of you beyond heading a company. Take a day to rest and prep, as I'm appointing you as an unofficial spy for the Legion. You will have no official support or posting, as your goal is to figure out the intentions and business of this unusual excavation.

"The last thing we need is a new source of arms and armor trickling their way over to Ulfric. Secure that site, recover as much information as possible for their patrons and allegiances, then secure those resources for the Legion. If you have questions, ask them now."

Manarco saluted.

"Sir, it seems cut and dry to me, but there is one thing I've been meaning to ask. If this is an unofficial assignment, then it only makes sense to approach it in an unofficial capacity. Might I bring along one of my officers for assistance?"

Tulius frowned, his brow wrinkling further.

"Discretion and information gathering is the objective, Legate. Adding more soldiers goes against this."

"Yes sir, but don't you agree that it would be rather suspicious if a lone Altmer with no ties were to express sudden interest in a backwater ruin out in the middle of Stormcloak territory? The officer I have in mind is an old Khajiiti scouting companion of mine, Prefect N'de."

Hm. The Legate did have a point, and having such an odd pairing would be intriguing to a group of historians. The Thalmor representatives Tulius had the displeasure of working with had made it rather clear what they thought of the "inferior" Khajiiti, despite holding much of their homeland Elswyr as vassal territory. Fine. Having an experienced scout at his back wouldn't hurt, it was the only support he'd get on a mission like this.

"Very well. Collect your scout, and depart in a days' time. If there is nothing else, you are dismissed."

Manarco snapped a salute, turning to leave. Tulius waited until he was alone, then sighed, sagging into his chair. He thumbed at the collar of his chiseled breastplate, and old tic from when he used to wear an amulet. Maybe he could pray to the Divines to take some of the ache from his aged knees and hips, he mused.

After all, it was their designs that had turned this war into a slog. It was only fair they give him some pep to go win it.

 

[AronGurnic]

Ulfric paced the lengths of the great hall. He needed fresh air. Nodding to Galmar, he opened the doors to the Palace of Kings to step outside. Frigid air met him, cold and crisp. Ulfric revelled in the clean bite it left in his nose, breathing out a small cloud of fog.

His stroll past the guards had them saluting, and he saluted back. It was late, late enough for most to be returning home and closing up shop, but not for the sun to have set fully. He climbed up the steps of a nearby watchtower that opened up to a crenelated wall facing west. Ulfric stopped by a brazier, a pleasant heat radiating out from it. It was small habits and sensations like this which kept him grounded, no easy task for the leader of the Rebellion.

The sky was clear today, a rare thing this late into the time of Last Seed. Windhelm was already the snowiest city in Skyrim, but autumn's chill was turning swiftly into winter's bite. It did nothing to stop the streaks of gold, red and orange cutting their way into the heavens above, the twin moons Masser and Secunda beginning their rise above the horizon. Stars were beginning to glitter overhead in sparkling constellations.

Moments like these, Ulfric thought, were what he missed most from his time with the Greybeards. He commanded a great power, yes, but aside from the Thu'um, he had learned to appreciate the stillness and beauty of the world. Years of bitter war had torn kindness from him, his compassion and joy. He had killed enough elves to warrant it, and had thought the Great War killed any hopes of him returning to peace.

High Hrothgar never left him. Every time his mind was filled with thoughts of despair when he heard casualty reports and saw the wounded, every moment his gut brewed and seethed with bitter hate against the Empire and its lies, it seemed that was all he could think.

Yet time and time again, just as he did when he was a scrawny youth living in the halls of High Hrothgar, he remembered the lessons of the Greybeards. Sky above, Voice within. The breath he took and the breath he gave turned always, his mind was no different. It filled and emptied just as his lungs did.

A thought pushed its way forward, and Ulfric considered it. He had reports of an independent mercenary company that had formed in the Rift, one that had been slowly but relentlessly pushing back bandit hives. They wore strange, ancient arms and armor, intimidating and unbreakable in combat.

His thoughts turned to the war. Galmar Stone-Fist had just finished drafting up plans for a surprise night assault on Falkreath's capital, cutting through the southern mountain pass towards the now-destroyed Helgen. If successful, a dedicated spring-time route for troops and supplies would open up, and allow access to badly-needed lumber and game to establish a foothold in the west. It would also mean he could begin to push towards Whiterun city and encircle it from the east and south. Securing Whiterun would tip the war massively in his favor.

Ulfric paused. The mercenary camps, they were in the western Rift, which put them not too far from the southern mountain passes. Nothing had indicated they were of Imperial leaning, but neither were they supporting the Stormcloaks. Still, if they were competent enough to form in the midst of a war and were actively clashing with bandits, that meant they had skilled warriors and someone to lead them. Galmar would need to send scouts to the mountain passes anyways, to see if the way was clear enough for a detachment to slip through before the winter storms fully blocked the way.

Ulfric made a mental note to consult with his court mage Wuunferth to devote some of his scrying efforts to this new mercenary camp. Perhaps he could pursue two goals with one effort…

- - -

Metal men, men garbed in metal, metal being better than other metal, Hoth was sick of hearing the word at this point. Oh he'd been swimming in coin, that much was true. His patron had kept up his end of the bargain fair and square after trading with the locals started up. Nerilus even made noises about getting Hoth fitted with a new set of dwarf metal armor, but Hoth had other ideas. Too much damn material got in the way of a warrior, and the massive two-handed skull club he wielded didn't appreciate having his range of motion limited.

Now, Hoth had seen some of the sparring and fitting tests of the stuff, and it was tempting. Head-to-toe coverage was hard to beat. Plus, the smiths that Nerilus brought along had proven their worth. One of them, Filnjar, was an old hand from the Legion, made his living repairing arms and armor during the Great War. Made his fortune after when he plied his trade for richer folk in Riften, then retired at Shor's Stone.

He knew all about fitting armor up right, got it tuned where he could take a hammer to a set and have the next merc who wore it doing handstands like a tumbler. Well, that was all well and good for the others, but Hoth preferred to stay more mobile in a fight, made it easier to get a good walloping angle with his hammer. Didn't matter how thick a helmet or gauntlet was when you knocked the brains and bones inside it hard enough.

Hoth was interrupted from his musings by a clapped hand on his shoulder. He nearly dropped his bottle of mead to give the offender a bit of fist when he saw it was, in fact, his patron. Nerilus was inscrutable from under his mask and goggles, but there was steel to him today.

"Hoth, hate to interrupt you, but there's a problem outside."

Hoth grunted, sliding his hand off his shoulder.

"Don't see what's that got to do with me."

Nerilus sighed.

"It's a problem that I need someone to look menacing for, and crack skulls if needed."

That got Hoth's attention. Fucking scholars, couldn't he have just led with that? They always had to be so roundabout.

"Fine. Who's skull's getting cracked?"

Nerilus was silent for a moment. Hoth felt an itch on his shoulder, the kind he got when something was off in a bad way.

"You'll want to come see for yourself. It's easier than explaining."

Hoth grunted, straightening from his bench seat. He was loathe to leave his meal behind half-finished, more the mead really, but then again he was on a job.

The walk was short from the converted mess hall to the entrance of their camp. Funny, when he got here it was still an "academic undertaking", but now the place looked more like a merc camp than anything else. Figures, the number of local mercs that'd joined up with them had only grown, same as the number of bandits they'd been finding and fighting like it was clockwork.

He emerged, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the sun before looking down the wooden ramparts that hugged the Dwemer-carved stone. A group some twenty-heads large was formed up outside the main gate. They were armed too, some sporting long-axes and spears as well as bits of armor. Ah, bandits. At the head of the group was a woman wearing robes under a breastplate and greaves. Fire flickered from her hands occasionally as she stood impatiently.

Mages. Hoth rolled his shoulders, loosening his joints. He didn't like the look of this, and killing mages was always tricky. Once the gap was closed it was easy to hit them where it hurt, but getting the gap closed was a bitch to do when they could throw fire and lightning.

A merc came up to Nerilus and whispered something in his ear. He nodded, and the merc left to join a group of scholars that were quickly running back up the stairs. Nerilus turned and murmured.

"From what our scryers say, this lot is an established one, been marauding for the last few years in these parts. And they went looking for us this time around."

Scryers? When'd the hells did Nerilus have scryers running around this operation? Then again, Hoth did notice there were recently a lot more scholar-looking types than before. This place had become a tiny damned village with the amount of people that came through daily, much to Hoth's irritation. He preferred the quiet, and there seemed to be more people to keep it from being that way every day.

"This isn't normal, but if need be, I have people ready to handle a… messy outcome."

Nerilus let out a whistle, made to sound like a rock warbler's call. After a beat a second whistle sounded from above. Hoth was amused, it was the cat, Inigo. The Khajiit was handy with a bow, so he'd been stuck up on the rocks with plenty of room to shoot. Smart. Sometimes, his patron left Hoth bored and annoyed out of his mind. Other times, he showed the kind of smarts only hunters and thieves had. Hoth didn't care enough to figure out why, but it settled out to this job being one of the better one's he'd had in a long while.

"Now, all I need you to do is stand next to me and be intimidating. I'll do the talking, but if one of them makes a move then start swinging."

Hoth grinned from behind his mask. Finally, a chance to smack something. After clearing the ruins of Dwemer Spiders and Spheres, there was a cursed lack of things to hit.

Nerilus waved a hand, and the large wooden gates of the camp opened a crack. He walked through, Hoth following close behind. Nerilus adopted an easy posture, gesturing widely.

"To what do I owe this pleasure, a surprise visit to our little camp?"

The robed woman stepped forward, tossing her head back and throwing some of her loose, unbound hair behind her shoulder. She spit to the side before answering with a hard look.

"You the one in charge here?"

Nerilus chuckled.

"Well, our little excavation here has been an effort of many hands, but I suppose you could say I'm the one who organized it, yes."

"I don't give a single pig's shit how many pick-swingers you're hiding in there, I care that you're the one who's cutting into our profits, and our reputation."

Hoth grunted. So these weren't bandits after all. Companions, he muttered. Nerilus' head turned fractionally to Hoth. Sharp ears, his patron had.

"Ah, so you're Companions then. Well, if you'd sent word ahead, then I'd've been more than happy to-"

Flame licked the ground, the robed woman grinding her armored heel in irritation.

"No, you're a newcomer, some fancy fucking scholar that thinks he can just walk about, cowering under dusty old gear looted from dead halls. You don't even know the game you stepped into, but that's fine by me. I'm here to push you back into your place. You don't belong on the field, being talked about like competition. So you're gonna pack your shit up, whimper back to whatever library gave you this bright idea, and you're going to stay there."

Nerilus chuckled. He was looking far too relaxed for having a group of pissed-off mercs on his front porch, Hoth noted. Then again, he was a mage, and likely a bit touched in the head. That just meant bad choices were around the corner, and as long as those were followed by swinging fists Hoth was ready for it.

"I see. Well, firstly, let me apologize for this whole affair. I admit, it's gotten more than a little larger I had anticipated. We were supposed to gather rocks, rocks for Talos' sake, for a friend of mine over at the College. One thing led to another, and now, well, you see the operation here has gotten quite sizeable."

The robed woman strode close, unimpressed by the mage's babbling. Hoth placed a hand close to the haft of his warhammer.

"You don't get it, do you? We're here to make sure you take your sorry excuse for a company elsewhere. You have one day to leave, or I get to tell my boys here to have a little bit of fun."

Her smile was mean, never reaching her eyes. She turned, and Nerilus sighed. Hoth was spoiling for a fight just from listening, normally talk like that for a merc captain meant rep was on the line and blood was in the air. It was a challenge that had to be answered with the right talk back. But of course, his patron was anything but normal.

Nerilus raised his hands, the faintest pure tones sounding from them, then whistled a rock warbler's call. For a moment, nothing happened. Then an arrow sprouted from the robed woman's head, and she collapsed. There was a pause as the bored-looking mercs realised their captain had fallen, then drew their weapons. Hoth already had his hammer in hand. The clanking started soon after.

Hoth was unsure how to take in the plans of "mechanical superiority" Nerilus always babbled about, but he began to see the merit as the gate behind them opened wide and out marched a line of ten men armored in full Dwemer plate, with five Spheres rolling by in their compact form. Steam hissed as they opened up, revealing sleek, freshly forged limbs with extended wrist blades and arm-mounted dart throwers.

As one, the Companions charged, roaring a challenge. Nerilus promptly disappeared from sight, and Hoth took a deep breath. This, this was what he was paid for. With a bellow, he ran forwards, Spheres motoring to his side. The mercs caught up moments later, and the two sides met in a crash.

Hoth's warhammer met speartip, and he knocked it aside before sending his hammer sailing down. His opponent raised his haft to block, but it only partially diverted the blow, a weighty smack hitting his shoulder. Other mercs closed the gap, forming a line of bronze that pushed against the Companion's motley assortment of armor.

They were outnumbered, but the Spheres wheeled their way to the left flank, delivering a volley of bolts to the warriors running to encircle the mercenaries. Bolt tips found flesh, and a few Companions fell before the other halted to meet the new threat. With mechanical precision, the Spheres drove their blades into armor gaps and hands, leveling their arm crossbows at point-blank range to shoot at whatever target presented itself.

It was stupid to be distracted in battle, but Hoth couldn't help admiring the fact that wounding hits were being shrugged off mercs like water off a duck's back. Armor was limiting, but the bronze-colored plate was more than proving its worth as the ten men held their ground despite taking hits to the arms and head that would've taken more lightly armored warriors out of the fight.

Hoth was jostled to the side after a merc fell, having been tripped up by a billhook caught on his leg. That moment of distraction was all it took for a sword swipe to catch him on the arm, cutting through his bear pelt and the elk bones that lined it. He roared, but he couldn't raise his hammer in time. Before a sword planted itself in his guts, an arrow sailed into the Companion's leg, halting his twist as he screamed. Hoth took the opening and sent his warhammer cracking into the man's exposed head, dropping him.

By the time he found another opponent, the Companions were already beginning to give ground. A dozen bodies littered the ground, some wounded, some dead. Many had bolts and arrows sticking out of necks and legs, with more that followed. Inigo was having a field day, and the Spheres weren't shy in shooting gaps that showed.

A few mercenaries had fallen, having taken hits to head and joints, but their armor was pulling its weight. Hoth considered pursuing more, but a flash of light changed his mind. Nerilus was about fifty paces away, off to the rear of the Companions, and with his reappearance came spikes of ice flying into the backs of knees and heads. It was too late by then, Companions turning to face the new threat getting caught by the Sphere's relentless fire.

The last one fell shortly, and Nerilus whistled, loud and sharp. Arrows stopped flying, but the Spheres turned, searching for wounded to finish off. Hoth slipped his warhammer into its sheath on his back, and turned to go. His part was done, and it seemed his patron wasn't in the mood to be merciful.

As he strode past the gates, looking for a healer, Hoth idly wondered how much of a kick to the hornet's nest this would be. The Companions were proud, and if this lot really had been with them, there'd be a blood feud soon.

That night, after having his wounds seen to, Hoth heard excited talk in the mess hall. Spirits were high after having taken such a large group down to the last, with only cracked bones and concussions to show for it. A black eye for the Companions, given by a bronze fist.

Hoth mused if the name being bandied around would stick, but after today's battle, the reputation of the Bronze Eye company would only grow. Their problems too, but Hoth didn't mind, most of them would be the kind he could hit.

 

[AwkwardHymn]

My bets on that group not being approved by the companions inner circle.

 

[AronGurnic]

My bets on that group not being approved by the companions inner circle.

Click to shrink...

It IS very out of character for a group like the Companions, yes

 

[AronGurnic]

Expansion was the signal for fires to kick off in everyone's home, it seemed. Nerilus wiped his brow through his mask, lifting it slightly to sip from a mana potion. Fatigue was beginning to set in from a long day. His workshop lay messy around him, disheveled with every available surface covered in spare parts, empty bottles of stimulant brews, and scrawled notes.

Word spread of the Bronze Eye company rather quickly, unfortunate that he couldn't do much about it. However, the advantages of secrecy were beginning to fade already. It wasn't like he could keep an operation like this hidden forever.

Besides, it was about time to expand anyways. It had been a solid half-year, with leaps and bounds of progress made in so short a span of time. Most of his time was taken up with the automatons, fine-tuning them and leading the smiths in teaching them how to put the heaps of spare parts in Avanchnzel together into a working automaton.

It wasn't enough. The mercenaries were starting to get bored, and while sending them on a good few bandit hunts now and then kept them occupied, the element of surprise was no longer with them. Both reputation and armor from the days of the Chimer-Nord wars tended to make an impression on bandits hesitant to try their luck against men plated in strange Mer metals.

The facilities at Avanchnzel were limited in production capability too. The animonculory had most of its tools, frames and workshops untouched, a massive boon given that assembling Spheres and Spiders required specialized tools Nerilus doubted could be replicated by any modern smith. But, for all the resources they had, supply was beginning to become an issue.

Nerilus set down his mana potion, spinning a dense Dwemer cube on the stone table next to it. It glowed faintly with red glyphs, promising knowledge to the discerning mind. He was prepared to purchase the damn thing outright, but the Argonian dockworker who had it practically shoved the lexicon into Nerilus' hands, begging him to take it away from her "to return the memories".

Nerilus would've called it sheer luck, that she just so happened to cross his path, but he knew better than that. It would be, after all, the second lexicon he had read. And, the gods were a rather involved lot. Mundus was their stage, them the strings which pulled the actors from one role to the next. Nerilus grinned. What a freeing thing it would be, to have those strings cut.

Fate was another issue, one he could worry about later. The lexicon he had read informed him of the extensive facilities Avanchnzel possessed; it was a site that served as the last step in the massive assembly industry the Dwemer ran before their disappearance. But much like mining towns existing solely to sell their ores to villages and cities that refined and smelted it, the Dwemer had similar sites meant as assembly shops, mining cities. Avanchnzel was running out of raw material.

So, the Bronze Eye company had to move to find more. He had his eye on the ruins of Mzulft; the translated inventory ledgers made extensive reference to the site, and a few scouts he set had confirmed that there were storehouses of material, though not easily accessible. It would be a massive undertaking; everything that wasn't bolted to the floor would be packed up, and the entrance sealed for their eventual return. But that meant needing enough manpower to move it all.

Manpower that Nerilus did not have at the moment. At least, not in men.

He flicked his wrist, a pure tone sounding from it, and a metal pipe to his left divulged a skittering bronze mass. The Spider clattered over to him on six articulated legs, two pincers raised in front as the gyro in its core spun furiously with steam.

A sound like a haunting melody played, subtle and soft, before Nerilus cut the magic. Immediately the Spider hefted a nearby crate onto itself, spinning in place and slowly motoring its way to the door. Nerilus allowed himself a satisfactory smile. Gods, the Dwemer really were spoiled with their technology.

A hiss caught his attention, and he turned an amused look to a very off-put Inigo who had danced his way around the Spider in his path.

"This one can feel you smirking beneath those layers, Nerilus."

Nerilus' smile grew wider.

"Utter and complete slander, obviously intended to impugn my good name and the name of our company. Who are you, to levy such libel at me?"

Inigo sighed, his tail flicking back and forth in mild irritation.

"You have spent much too much time with Lucien, this one thinks. His love of wordplay exceeds his skill of it, at times. As does yours."

"I already had a way with words even before I hired him on, you know that."

Inigo grinned, incisors bared.

"Is that why you only ever 'sing' to machines and never to the many maidens which make eyes at you when they think you aren't looking?"
Nerilus huffed, folding his arms.

"I'll have you know, in my thousands of years alive I've pleasured more women than you've ever seen in your insect life-span."

Inigo adopted a solemn expression, nodding sagely.

"Alas, this one must endure for the sake of his wizened friend, who is so old that his wits have left him for good. This one is driven to the sweet danger of moon sugar, so deluded are his companion's aged ravings."

Nerilus pointed a gloved finger at the mouthy Khajiit friend.

"I doubt you came here just to get your fur ruffled by a harmless Spider, Inigo."

The mirth fell away from Inigo's face, serious and sober.

"We have visitors."

Nerilus quirked an eyebrow. A beat passed, and he remembered he was wearing a mask and goggles.

"The last time we had visitors, we had to redirect them to Sovngarde's door. I hope this lot isn't looking to do the same."

Inigo waved a hand, leaning against the stone doorframe.

"This one has not seen any but two, a High Elf and his Khajiiti companion. They approached alone from the West, and are armed only lightly as travelers."

Nerilus gestured with his hand, motioning for Inigo to continue. The unspoken question lingered in the air: why? It was a strange pairing, even more strange for them to seek out this place.

"This one is concerned, yes, but this one does not believe there is much cause for worry. The name of Bronze Eye walks far, many mouths now speak it. The price of fame, no?"

Nerilus sighed, standing up from his seat. He took one last swig from his mana brew, then followed it with a chaser of wine and Stallion, a curious brew famous from Markarth that provided vigor and energy, followed by a crash of lethargy and fatigue.

"Then let's go greet our newest fanciers, hm?"

- - -

Manarco stood languidly, adopting an easy posture as his eyes took in every detail they could. N'de was seated cross-legged on a boulder next to him, ears tracking sounds and their shifts. She preferred the cross-legged pose she'd told him before, something about the muscles of the Cathay being different from the other furstocks's needs. He'd waved it off before, she was alert and that was all he really cared about.

The camp was about a stone's throw away, filled with half-armored mercenaries and laborers milling about. It was mid-day, and many were lounging, eating bowls of stew or smoked meats from the cookfires that smelled absolutely heavenly, according to N'de. Manarco's stomach growled. It had been some time before he'd eaten anything larger than a rabbit haunch roasted on a spit.

They also seemed largely content to stay behind their double-layered palisade, their small watchtower onlooker content to take ease. A small boon, given how… desperate marauder groups tended to be when they spotted a small traveling party. Manarco was no stranger to skirmishes, but he preferred to keep this as bloodless as possible. The mission was clear, and he wouldn't be getting any valuable information from corpses.

N'de hopped down from her perch, stretching smoothly to limber up her legs.

"Do you think they will offer us some of their food? This one's mouth waters, the spices are so heavy in the air."

Manarco idly fished out a piece of jerky and tossed it at her.

"I swear, in the years I've known you, never once have you ever passed up a chance at grub. Music and poetry and the local culture, never sampled. It's like you have a taste for having no taste."

The jerky bounced off N'de's nose before she snatched it out of the air indignantly. She leaned in close, tearing off a shred of dried meat.

"And until we are finished here, that is all this one shall be, hapless and seeking only food and septims, no?"

The husky whisper was subtle, masked by chewing. Manarco doubted any would've heard it from here, but mages were exceptionally troublesome, especially the ones that didn't simply set you on fire if you annoyed them.

They were much less troublesome when a healthy dose of arrowheads were applied, but thankfully it wouldn't have to come to that, Manarco mused.

The palisade gate doors swung open, a heavily muscled Nord wearing a skull as a faceplate and a troll's ribcage as a cuirass stepping out. Next to him was a masked, goggled and hooded figure of middling height. Ah, the doorman and the boss, presumably.

The masked figure adjusted his goggles before speaking, oddly clear despite the layers of his clothing.

"I assume you aren't staked out here to admire the squat ugly beauty of our humble camp. Can we help you?"

Manarco approached slowly, taking an easy pace with his hands on his belt.

"Nothing of the sort. We're simply traveling prospectors, investigating a rumor of a very active ruin site. Seems you've already beaten us here though, the Bronze Eyes if rumor serves me right?"

The hooded figure clapped his gloved hands together.

"That's us. We've a bit of an operation going, as you can see."

He paused.

"You said prospectors, yes? Surely you have patrons and clients, and they would have knowledge of other sites too?"

Manarco's mind spun for a few moments to try and come up with something specific to cite, but N'de beat him to it.

"We have many who pay well for our services, but they are private individuals whose business is their own."

The hooded figure clapped his hands again, and gestured for them to follow.

"Self-interest is something I can work with if it means opportunity. Welcome to our little camp, we have business to discuss."

A beat passed, and Manarco glanced at N'de as if to say was it really that easy? N'de shrugged, and ambled into the camp. The muscled Nord tracked both of them with unblinking eyes.

Maybe for once, Manarco thought, a mission would actually go smooth. Then a shadow passed overhead that blanketed the camp, and a keening roar followed. Manarco silently cursed at himself for the thought, and swelled up magic in his hands to summon his bow. The dragon landed outside, and Storm Atronachs sprang into existence. Well, Manarco mused, it wouldn't be a boring mission, at least.

 

[AronGurnic]

Bit of a shorter chapter this time around, life's been happening and I'm still trying to get a day job at the moment since my last one fired me (Amazon moment). In the meantime, next chapter will be about one of Skyrim's biggest selling points: d a r g o n s.

 

[AronGurnic]

Stupid, stupid, stupid.This whole destiny and prophecy and "end of the world" talk was stupid. Kyna groaned as she sat down on a rock, trying and failing to rub some of the ache out of her legs. The worthless stupid piece of trash Elder Scroll was still strapped to her pack, mysterious and aloof and silent. She had spent the better part of a day climbing back down from High Hrothgar, where a perplexed dragon had, in a roundabout way, said he was clueless on where to go from here. Figures, even dragons older than the Empire are just as lost as she was when it came to divine mysteries.

So, she was lost on where to go, what to do, and how she was supposed to defeat the Endbringer himself, Alduin. Apparently all the effort she had gone through to get the one thing that would've been real handy to use in a situation drenched in fate just like this one was now worth slightly more than skeever shit.

Kyna sighed, tilting her head back towards the sky. If she was being completely honest with herself, she wasn't completely sold on being Dragonborn. Sure, she could Say Words and magicky shit happened, and that would be infinitely fascinating if she were a mage. Which she wasn't. Sure, devouring the souls of dragons gave her flashes of memories and sensations and history that somehow crammed its way into her head a little tighter each time it happened. But she wasn't very interested in the finer aspects of dragon culture or which thralls tasted the best.

The one thing Kyna wanted was to strike it rich and never have to worry a day in her life again. Y'know, stumble upon an unopened chest in a Nordic crypt after sneaking by all the bonewalkers and recover a near-priceless treasure, sell it, then spend her days drinking and living it up. Finding out you're the Dragonborn? Not the jackpot she was wanting to hit.

A distant roar shook Kyna from her thoughts. It was a deep, reverberating sound that carried through trees and rocks and streams, just short of Speaking. Just her luck, that another flying lizard would accost her on her way to Riften to sell the Elder Scroll. It wasn't doing her much good anyways besides taking up more room in her pack and being damn heavy.

Kyna stood, stretching her legs as she sped off in the direction of the roar. She was getting better at finding where they were, kind of like an instinct. She chalked it up to having eaten the souls of two dragons that seemed really uppity about territory. It was still very confusing to experience the urge to fly over to a possible rival while still only having two legs and two arms with no wings. Fucking Dragonborn bullshit.

She was still fit though, her days of running around Riften being a menace and taking people's stuff as a kid had lent themselves very well to her adulthood of doing the same to burial mounds and running from grumpy Draugr. It only took about ten minutes of puffing down the highway and an overgrown side path to find the scaly beast, but what she wasn't expecting was the pitched battle taking place with said beast.

A score or so of armored fighters were in the process of trying to wear down a dragon, and it looked like they were having a pretty bad time of it. The dragon snaked its long neck out lightning-quick to bite onto a fighter, shaking them like a ragdoll before whipping its head to ram its horns into another and releasing its jaw, sending two fighters sailing through the air. The others were trying to take advantage of the opening, ramming long spears into the dragon's sides and legs. Surprisingly they seemed to do a fair job of cutting past scale, because the dragon was not pleased. Its arrow-shaped tail darted to bludgeon away the offending fighters, and reared its head to Speak.

In that pause where it gathered itself, an arrow sprouted from its eye, sending the now very upset dragon into a fit, turning to sweep the ground around it with its tail. Kyna knew this part, it was when the dragon would start to get some air under it to fly away. She wasn't having any of it.

Kyna ran forward, closing distance as much as she could before the dragon's take-off. She had to time this just right or she'd have a slightly ruffled and very pissed-off lizard to deal with. Even in a flat-run, she drew in a deep breath from her nose, feeling something roil and writhe in her core. The dragon flapped once, twice, then she Spoke.

The Greybeards, Arngeir specifically, had been very cagey and vague about what the Thu'um was, or why it did what it did. But in the few bits that pertained to the Dragon Tongue, Kyna had gathered this much: dragons were not necessarily part of the world, same for their Speech. Because they weren't fully part of the world, dragons could affect it in ways a mere mortal couldn't. Their Speech was tapping something that was older than mountains and snow, so mountain and snow obeyed it.

When she spoke the first Word, the air shivered. Fus, force, pressure, raw energy. Her second word crystalised the potential that charged the air. Ro, balance, tempering. The third word left her lips, Da, push, direction, focus. The air split itself with a crack like avalanches, like boulders being split from peaks. A wave pushed itself, becoming a seething tide like an ocean unto itself, and the force barrelled towards the air where the dragon would be. It turned its head too late at the Speech, and the wave caught the dragon's wings.

Tumble was a polite word for what happened next. The dragon spun like a scrap of parchment in a headwind, wings snapped back as the membranes caught the force and buckled. A few seconds later it hit the ground. It didn't seem to move too much after that, which Kyna took to be a good sign.

She very nearly Spoke again when she saw a massive bronze machine march its way out of a nearby camp. The thing was huge, easily three times as tall as her, with massive plates of dwarf metal coating it head to toe. The left arm ended in a spiked maul, big as her head. Kyna had seen blessedly few Steam Centurions in her spelunking, but this one was the biggest and nastiest she had seen. The right arm didn't end in a halberd-shaped weapon though, as she'd thought it would.

Instead, it had what looked to be a long tube with another sticking out of the forearm just past the elbow. The tube was shrouded with additional layers of metal with what looked like soul gems pocked at regular intervals. And on its back, with plate and metal and innards exposed just above a small platform, was a heavily clothed figure with a hooded mask and goggles.

The figure raised its hand, the Centurion raising its right arm in tandem. A woosh sounded as round balls flew threw the air, sailing towards the downed dragon. It was just getting its wits together as the balls impacted and shattered, shining oil coating it. The figure then calmly threw a firebolt, and the dragon ignited.

Kyna had seen mage-fire before, the kind that stuck to rock and metal and burned without fuel. This was a lot like that, except the flames were blue. The dragon was initially nonplussed, getting to its legs and preparing to Speak. Only, it turned to its hide, Speaking a spray of icy breath onto the flaming scales. The flames guttered for a moment, then spattered and kept burning.

A voice sounded, clear as day.

"The rest of you still in fighting shape, to me! We've got a lizard roasting, but it's missing a spit! First one to kill it gets double-pay and a song about them!"

Ragged cheers went up, just under a dozen. The Centurion marched on, and Kyna snapped back into focus. The sound of dead leaves being crushed underfoot nearby had her whipping her sword out, only to see a dark blue-furred Khajiit with his hands raised.

"Peace, this one does not mean harm to you."

He raised a clawed finger to rub at one of his flicking ears, wincing slightly.

"Though you are certainly loud enough to have caused harm to this one."

For a moment, Kyna wobbled awkwardly, sheepishly rubbing the back of her head. The battle was all but forgotten as she remembered that being on the other end of Speech was just about the loudest thing in the land.

"Sorry, I, uh, I'm not used to walking into fights with dragons that I didn't start."

The Khajiit raised one furry eyebrow, flicking his eyes down then up. Lots of men usually did the same when they were deep in their cups and trying to figure out how to get her out of her armor and into their bed, but this was different. He was sizing her up, as one would for negotiation. Or a fight.

"That you did not blow away our men, it is a sign of tentative friendship, no?"

Kyna blinked. She'd had bad friends and was no stranger to terrible decisions herself, but at least she had standards. Or, at least, she liked to pretend she did now that all this prophetic nonsense started. Somehow, she didn't think that cat-folk tended to view magical violence as a bonding activity.

"That's, you- no, I don't think it is. Maybe? I mean, I don't want to fight you, if that's what you're asking. Unless you're bandits?"

The Khajiit simply laughed.

"Oh, this one looks forward to our merry little band of misfits having introductions proper."

That was distinctively not a "No, we're not bandits", but it also wasn't a yes.

"Look to the battle, how it is waged, who goes to fight. This one does not believe simple bandits would carry themselves such."

Kyna glanced, catching another look at the plodding machine that marched with combatants shining in bronze suits of armor.

"We have a… intellectual operation being conducted here. Or, that is how Nerilus likes to explain it to the many couriers and letters sent to our camp. This one's paws have been stained with enough ink as it is, yet he seems to find joy in delegation of critical duties."

Kyna's mouth quirked up into a half-smile at the Khajiit's grousing. It struck her as very out of place, that she was having complaints regarding paperwork while there was a- Oh shit, there was still a dragon.

She stirred herself, turning to jog to the battle. The Khajiit called out to her, amused.

"Your enthusiasm is noted, but best saved. The battle is well in hand."

Kyna turned to retort but the sound of lightning crackling snapped her attention back to the battlefield. After a moment, she sat down. The Khajiit joined her not long after. He wasn't wrong. The battle was… well, the world was going more mad by the day, and the scene before her gave Kyna a rare moment to simply watch it unfold. She didn't have many chances to, these days.

- - -

Nerilus slapped his hand against the Centurion's exposed paneling, popping a wire out of place. With one hand he deftly plugged it into a small device that he hastily crammed into a slot that was just wide enough to accommodate it. This needed to work, and though he had high hopes for the prototype it was admittedly not enough to warrant complete faith in testing conditions like this.

The dragon was limping, the fires clinging to its blackened scales having since guttered out, but it was no less dangerous for it. It snapped at a mercenary who got too close, only barely managing to backpedal and avoid losing his spear and his hands. Nerilus was thoroughly glad he had listened to the suggestions of his lead carpenter and dedicated time to clearing out the trees around Avanchnzel. Not only had it provided much-needed lumber for fuel and building, it had made a wide clearing that allowed Inigo and the look-outs to see anyone approaching from a fair distance away.

It also meant that there was a place to fight a gods-damned dragon without worrying about line-of-sight or having a forest fire on their hands. Nerilus stabbed a few wood buttons on a blocky square of Dwemer metal in his hands, the device making a subtle keen. The soul gem embedded near the top glowed faintly, and to his relief the device he had just shoved into the Centurion's head matched the glow with its own.

Now came the tricky part.

It had been the work of many weeks, figuring out how to delegate the Singing. The term was very fitting for the subtle tonal manipulation that drove Dwemer automatons and much of their technology, but it had a crucial flaw that was glaringly obvious to any student of wizardly history: without a mage sufficiently trained in replicating through magic the tones automatons were attuned to, there was no way to control the things.

The same held true for many of the groups and institutions that rose and fell over the Eras: Arch-Mage Shalidor had built the infamous Labyrinthian Maze to serve as a crucible for the wizards of his time, attempting reforms by culling and improving what became the caste of mages that set the trend from the First Era onwards. He had also founded the city of Winterhold, with rulers and Jarls being installed almost as an afterthought.

When he died, his creations followed suit, though not all at once. Labyrinthian was already old, built in the ruins of the Merethic city Bromjunaar, and that fell to abandonment. As for Winterhold, well, after the disaster of the Great Collapse it was evident which structures Shalidor had decided to invest in and which he hadn't.

Powerful magics tended to follow in the wake of powerful and talented personalities, but they were transitory. They were only alive so long as the wielder was too. The trick, then, was in trying to wrestle a powerful magic into something or somewhere and have it stay, even after the original mage was gone. The Dwemer were a people obsessed with just that, yet ironically for all they managed to build an artificial god, they still deemed stopping at automatons controlled by Singing mages sufficient.

Nerilus was going to correct that lapse in judgement.

He leaped down from the Centurion, magic cushioning his fall. The dragon was still hissing and lashing its half-burnt tail at prodding mercenaries, but the enormous machine that had marched within a dozen yards had not escaped its notice.

Nerilus backed away, casting and watching his body dissolve from sight. He legged it to a nearby rock and crouched behind it, peeking out just enough to get a view. A few taps to his control device was all it took to get the Centurion raising its arms. With limited sentience it began to assess the dragon as a threat, and promptly began to shoot more fire pots at it.

Ah, those were an absolute bitch to puzzle out, Lucien had been set on fire more times than Nerilus cared to admit during their experiments too. The results were promising however, and their combat potential was terrifying.

The pots broke open, and the dragon immediately began to breathe frost at the Centurion before directing the spray on itself. The oily liquid took on the flow of molasses, and the dragon desperately tried to claw it away while using its tail to keep away his men. Clever creatures, dragons were. It was unfortunate that Nerilus had been experimenting with quite a bit more than just alchemical fires.

He tapped his control device, and the launcher arm began to crackle with lightning. The Centurion charged forwards, spinning its torso and lunging its maul arm forward in a savage thrust. The dragon stumbled out of the way, the Centurion only managing to clip the dragon's wing, but smacking it about wasn't the goal. The dragon snaked its head to bite, and Nerilus quickly snapped his hand to the side, threads of magic pulling at the fine wires that coursed around the Centurion's dynamo core. He needed fine control for this.

The bite that would've crunched through the Centurion's head instead clamped onto the launcher arm. Rather than try to fight to control the limb, as the dragon would win that contest easily, Nerilus simply commanded the Centurion to go limp. The dragon tore its head to the side, intending to throw the Centurion off-balance, but it only succeeded in making the torso spin wildly.

Then a sound like a thunderstorm hit as the Centurion shot lightning down the dragon's gullet.

It shivered, muscles spasming, then collapsed. The Centurion went down with it, arm wedged as it was. Still, that was the lion's share of the fight over with. Nerilus gave a command with a wave of his hand, embedded stones bearing Illusion enchantments whispering his words into the ears of his men. They approached, and began the difficult work of butchering the beast.

Spears found its eyes and neck, Dwemer metal proving its worth as it held to the task of slipping past rough scales and hide to find flesh underneath. The dragon still struggled, albeit weakly. Mercenaries climbed atop its head to weigh it down as they continued to carve.

Nerilus stood as he watched the beast grow still. He was already totalling the losses accrued today, well over twenty no doubt wounded or dead and twice that in functional combat model automatons. Months of progress and carefully cultivated strength were lost, not to mention a good deal of the Bronze Eye's fighting capacity.

Yet his men still cheered ragged cries, removing their helmets and rasing their fists to the sky. Today was a disaster, but they had managed to kill a dragon. Stories would be told, their reputation would only grow, and songs were guaranteed to be written once the mess was cleaned up. And, Nerilus' prototype war machine was now officially field-tested.

There was still the niggling feeling of the unknown that settled in his mind, though. The blast that knocked the dragon out of the sky, that was unprecedented. There were rumors of the Dragonborn's return of course, those had been brought along with news by couriers. Those weren't rumors any longer.

Nerilus sighed, wiping his hands on his thick trousers. It was enough of a headache to keep the Bronze Eyes running in addition to building the foundation of his automaton production, the Dragonborn was going to make things a great deal more complicated.

Already he was wishing he had more time to focus on his designs for the flying prototypes he'd seen sketches of in translated journals, but that had to be put aside for now.

The arrival of the new prospectors had been intriguing, and that was one more hassle on top of his ever-growing list. With a sigh, Nerilus legged it to the fallen dragon, hands coursing with magic. The Centurion obeyed partially, rising in a half-crouch with its launcher arm dangling at an awkward angle. That was fine, they could hitch rope to it and drag the scaly creature as long as the Centurion could walk. Nerilus idly wondered how dragon would taste roasted over a fire.

Then the scales and flesh began to flake away, flashing multicolored strands of light roiling through it before surging through the air in a trail of brilliant light. Nerilus watched as they coiled and writhed around a figure watching in the distance before vanishing.

Well, rumor confirmed.

 

[xbox432]

Ah, fortune for Kyna! A new soul for her collection and she only had to SHOUT once.

Also, the various forces in the land are going to be VERY interested in the fact that mortal soldiers can, in fact, kill a dragon.