User:Minor Edits/Skyrim: The Way of the Voice

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Morndas, early afternoon, 16th of Last Seed, 4E 201

N letter.pngothing moved on the Throat of the World but the snowflakes in the wind. The Grandmaster of the Greybeards sat still as stone on an ancient word wall. He watched the snowflakes flutter wistfully in front of him at the summit of the mountain he called home. They did not fall from the clouds; nothing more than wisps could form between the summit and the heavans. The roiling clouds soaking western Skyrim could only slink around the highest place on Tamriel. These flakes were the lucky few who were propelled upwards when the unstoppable storm hit the immovable mountain.

The Grandmaster heard his guest coming before he saw him. The grey, cloaked human trudged up the mountain at a brisk but patient pace. He finally came into view and stood before the Grandmaster, his long beard riddled with ice, and gave a bow.

Despite his age, Arngeir's wiry frame still held fast against the strong winds at the apex of the mountain. "Drem Yol Lok, Paarthurnax," he rasped.

The Grandmaster nodded to the Nord. "Arngeir, wuth fahdon. Hin yah onikaan, nuz nii fent ni drun hin drem."

Arngeir closed his eyes and lowered his head. "Wo bo nol faal Monahven?"

"Alduin."

"Wind guide us," Arngeir breathed, reverting to Tamrielic in his dread. He turned away to stare out at the great expanse of Skyrim below, most of which was smothered by storm clouds. "How, Master? We have stayed true. The Snow Tower stands strong!"

Paarthurnax shook his head. "Do you not remember your first lesson? Remember, my friend, the Monahven is a mere thing. An … avatar. The Snow Tower rests in the sille of the Children of the Sky, and they are sundered by the Fahliille and your lost student."

Arngeir's head drooped again. "I'm … sorry, Master. I'm so sorry."

Paarthurnax laughed, a slow, gritty purr. Arngeir turned back to him, curious and a bit insulted. The Grandmaster murmured, "My friend, you stand on the top of Taazokaan. You cannot carry it on your shoulders. Drem. You ask how, when you should ask why. The World-Eater wakes because Taazokaan is ready. That is our belief, that is our strength."

Arngeir nodded, and without further comment, he sat down in his preferred meditative position, crossing his legs beneath him. Paarthurnax joined him. Together, the two sat for hours in silence, attuning themselves to the wind as it bent around them.

As Magnus touched the distant Druadach Mountains and the storm beneath them crawled toward those peaks, Paarthurnax lifted his head. "He comes to you, Arngeir, like a strun to the strunmahhe. And you must be a strunmah to his strun. Give him pause, so that his Sil may reach his hadrim. He will need both for krongah. But first and always, give him peace. Fin rahgol do Rah oblaanne Pah. Fin Zii do faal Lein ru'ue frin."

Arngeir opened his ice-encrusted eyelids and smiled. "Lok, Thu'um, In Paarthurnax."

Paarthurnax's face twisted. "Lok, Thu'um, Fahdon Arngeir."

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Tirdas, noon, 10th of Hearth Fire, 4E 201

H letter.pngey! Out here, now! Explain this nonsense!"

Arngeir's eyes snapped open at the call, and the heavy thud of the massive door into High Hrothgar closing. His pulse racing faster than it had in decades, he quickly rose from his meditation in his chamber and entered the hall. He slowly walked towards the main hall, hands clasped in front of him, taking deep breaths and willing his mind back into serenity.

The wizened Nord began descending the steps from the dormitories into the main hall, and was greeted by the incredibly rare sight of not only one, but two visitors entering across from him. They were draped in what appeared be troll hides, though muffled clinking betrayed the armor and weaponry underneath. Arngeir walked slowly, studying the haggard arrivals as they set their hides on a stone pew by the wall and walked into the sunlight drifting through the large rectangular windows in the ceiling. The steel-clad, dark-haired woman watched Arngeir approach, wonder in her eyes. The large bearded Nord in the brown wolf armor, however, looked very cross.

Three Greybeards entered through side doors as Arngeir passed by. They stood under the windows, bathing their grey cloaks in bright daylight. Time seemed to pass more slowly, but still, Arngeir had no idea what to say even as he stopped in front of the visitors. He only knew that this would be the most important meeting of his life.

"So…" he finally began, "a Dragonborn appears, at this moment in the turning of the age."

"I oughta punch you in the mouth, Wrinkles."

"What is wrong with you?!" the woman yelled. "These are the Greybeards!"

"So? Bunch of free-loading, inconsiderate-"

"Shut up!" The woman composed herself and bowed low to Arngeir, who betrayed no reaction. "I'm so sorry, Master. My companion is the one you summoned. I am his housecarl, Lydia. Jarl Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun has directed us here, and sends you his warmest-"

"I came here for myself, not because Blondie is pandering to the religious crowd-"

"Regards," Lydia continued, raising her voice to talk over him. "He believes that this is the man you seek based on several witness-"

"Are you sure you want to get into a shouting match with me, Lydia?!" the man yelled into her ear. "I'm very good!"

Lydia stared up at the ceiling, finally snapping back, "We just climbed a mountain to talk to these men, and-"

"Why do you think I'm upset, because it's cold?!" the man shouted back. Arngeir continued to look at the man serenely, even as he marched up and poked him in the chest. "When's the last time you climbed this monster? And why the hell don't you fix up those stairs?! They're deathtraps! Entire sections are gone! You got Butter and Cream Sauce killed! And, yeah, by the way, it's really, really cold. Freezing!"

The man rubbed his arms as he looked around the main hall and sniffed. "And now it smells! What are you burning in these fires, your own shit?! You people hike up the tallest mountain in the world and set up a fort just to burn your shit? Poor fisherman and farmers march up here to give you food, constantly risking their lives to save yours for thousands of years, and for what? What kind of inconsiderate, free-loading, pompous wastes of life are you?!"

None of the Greybeards betrayed any reaction to the tirade, though Lydia appeared increasingly mortified. Arngeir waited for him stop. "… Butter and Cream Sauce?"

"What he named our horses, Master," Lydia mumbled, looking down and rubbing her forehead. "They were lost on the mountain during a troll attack."

"And why?!" the man snarled. "So you all can sit up here, talk to clouds, and trim your beard? What is that anyway, a goatee? You're a Greybeard, for-"

"We are here so that you would always know where to find us," Arngeir interrupted. The man cocked his head back, studying the old man. Arngeir seized the moment of silence and raised a hand to his chest. "I am Master Arngeir. Welcome to High Hrothgar. I speak for the Greybeards. Now, if you truly have the gift, show us, Dragonborn. Let us taste of your Voice."

"Be careful what you wish for. I could send you right off this mountain, just like the trolls."

Arngeir just stared serenely, waiting. The man looked at Lydia, shrugged, and took a deep breath.

FUS!

Dust kicked up throughout the hall. Pots shot away from the invisible blast and shattered against the walls, but Arngeir and the Greybeard behind him merely staggered back a few paces under the force of the blow. The man looked surprised, clearly having expected them to end up like the pots.

"Dragonborn," Arngeir greeted him, smoothing out his robes. "It is you. Now tell me, Dragonborn, why have you come here."

"… You have got to be kidding me. You called me here! You tell me what I'm doing here!" he practically shrieked.

"How can I do that?" Arngeir asked, cocking his head. Lydia thought she could hear his bones creak. "Your mind is your own, is it not?"

The man glanced at Lydia, shifting his feet in exasperation. "That's still in committee. State very plainly why you called me here."

"Because you called us."

"Okay, that's too plainly. You know what I'm after."

"Yes. Do you?"

"Oh, come on." The man walked away clutching his back as he stared at the ceiling.

Arngeir smiled, looking down a moment. "We stand watch to show you the Way of the Voice."

The man turned back to face Arngeir. He'd walked out of the sunlight, and for a moment seemed blanketed in shadow. "Which is?"

"What you need to be who you are."

Despite the darkness, Lydia could see the hungry glimmer in his eye as her Thane persisted. "And who am I?"

"We'll find that out together. Just as the Greybeards have with those of the Dragon Blood that came before you."

"You mean I'm not the only Dragonborn?" the man asked, surveying the silent Greybeards with renewed curiosity.

"You're the only one here. But you are not the first. There have been many of the Dragon Blood since Akatosh first bestowed that gift upon mortalkind. Whether you are the only Dragonborn of this age… that is not ours to know. You are the only one that has been revealed thus far. That is all I can say."

"And you know that for a fact?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"We listen carefully, Dovah."

Dovah fell silent. After several heartbeats, he walked back into the light, narrowing his eyes upon Arngeir. "Who are you, really? What is this place?"

"We are the Greybeards, followers of the Way of the Voice." The old man sighed and looked up into the light, and to the mountain beyond, reverence in his voice. "You stand in High Hrothgar, on the slopes of Kynareth's sacred mountain. Here we commune with the voice of the sky, and strive to achieve balance between our inner and outer selves."

Dovah raised an eyebrow. "Inner and outer… well, no wonder you're so selfish. Got a middle self, too?"

"What you are calling selfishness is necessary," Arngeir replied patiently. "We are hermits in this cave for the same reason one does not leave a sword in the reach of children." He added quickly, "But the Voice is not a weapon. That is the least of its uses. It is you. And as you know yourself, you will know it."

Dovah studied the old man and took a deep breath. "Okay, well, let us proceed with the self-discovery, then, Master Arngeir," he said with a slight bow. "Looking forward to it. I've found I do my best self-discovery in bed with some wine. Mead will do fine. And if you could point me to the nearest bucket, I have some fuel for your fires." Lydia's brief glimmer of hope didn't even have a chance to be felt before the embarrassment set in again.

Arngeir raised a hand in a halting gesture. "We will begin here. You have shown that you are Dragonborn. You have the inborn gift. But do you have the discipline and temperament to follow the path laid out for you? That remains to be seen."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Oh, but you have done well. Without training, you have already taken the first steps towards projecting your Voice into a Thu'um, a Shout. Now let us see if you are willing and able to learn." Arngeir walked off to the side of the room as he spoke. "When you Shout, you speak in the language of dragons. Thus, your Dragon Blood gives you an inborn ability to learn Words of Power. All Shouts are made up of three Words of Power. As you master each Word, your Shout will become progressively stronger."

"Now you're talking. So what's the next word?"

Arngeir gestured at the monk closest to him, who walked into the light in front of the others. "Master Einarth will now teach you 'Ro,' the second word in the shout of Unrelenting Force which you already know," Arngeir explained.

"Unrelenting Force? A bit clinical, isn't it?"

Arngeir looked back at Dovah, and Einarth stopped, too. "You didn't know its name?" Arngeir asked.

"Didn't need to. Names don't matter, do they?"

"Incredibly. But that is a lesson for another day," Arngier answered, nodding for Einarth to continue. "'Ro' means 'balance' in the dragon tongue. Combine it with Fus - 'Force' - to focus your Thu'um more sharply."

As Arngeir spoke, Einarth closed his eyes and centered himself.

RO!

The growl sent vibrations through the room. Lydia watched, stunned, as fiery-red coils shout out of the monk's mouth and fluttered through the air, eventually coming to rest in the center of the chamber. They continued to burn after they hit the ground, and landed to form etchings - letters of the dragon tongue. Dovah crouched next to the letters, fascinated. He put his hand into the flames.

Lydia started forward. "What are you-"

"It's not hot. Not cold, either. It's an illusion."

"But their meaning is not," Arngeir interjected. "What do you know of balance?"

Dovah stood. "My balance is flawless. I've never even teetered."

Arngeir shook his head. "The idea, not your ability."

"Keeping things even. Level. Equal."

"A mere definition is only the first step…" Arngeir began. "Balance is everything for us. It is the core of our philosophy. The Voice was a gift of the goddess Kynareth, at the dawn of time. She gave mortals the ability to speak as dragons do. The only true use of the Voice is for the worship and glory of the gods. But the Voice has often been misused, with tragic consequences. True mastery of the Voice can only be achieved when your inner spirit is in harmony with your outward actions. In the contemplation of the sky, Kynareth's domain, and the practice of the Voice, we strive to achieve this balance."

Arngeir exchanged a look with Einarth. "But these are just more words, and time is precious. The rest of us must learn to Shout through constant practice. As Dragonborn, you can absorb a slain dragon's life force and knowledge directly. So as part of your initiation, Master Einarth will allow you to tap into his understanding of 'Ro.'"

Einarth stepped forward again, and Lydia gasped as vapors of light began appear from the monk, which was accompanied by a sound like an ocean wave rushing over a beach. Orange coronas with blue tips flowed out towards and into the astonished Dovah. For a moment, the gloomy chamber was brought to life as the light danced across the walls and tapestry.

The hissing of the fires and Dovah's exhilarated breathing were all that could be heard for a moment. "Now let us see how quickly you can master your new Thu'um," Arngeir declared to the stunned visitors. "Use Unrelenting Force to strike the targets as they appear."

Dovah's brow furrowed. "What targ-"

Fiik Lo Sah!

The startled visitors jumped back two steps as a blue orb appeared in the middle of the hall and expanded. As quickly as it appeared, it was gone, but left behind a cowled, blue, translucent figure. The short, dark-bearded monk who had Shouted straightened up. His eyes seemed to twinkle.

"Is that the Greybeard version of a joke?" Dovah asked stiffly.

"Master Borri does not like to waste time," Arngeir explained. "That is your target. Please, practice your Shout."

"He chose a hell of a profession, then." Dovah walked closer to the blue figure. "I've seen something like this before. A ghost. Who was this?"

"It's mere light," Arngeir replied. "I have never witnessed a spirit walking the mortal plane, but I can tell you that this is not one. This Shout calls forth an image of a memory, nothing more. This is what Master Borri looked like as a young man. Perfectly safe for our purposes."

Dovah shrugged and positioned himself so there was nothing behind the target. Crouching slightly, he took a deep breath.

FUS RO!

"Well done," Arngeir said, barely even waiting for the apparition to disappear. "Again."

Without missing a beat, Einarth roared the same Shout as Borri. Dovah knocked that one down, and they repeated the process. Then Arngeir led them out to the courtyard, and the Greybeards continued to teach Dovah words long into the night. The courtyard of High Hrothgar, a simple field of flattened snow between the monastery and the tower, was roughly the size of the town square of Whiterun.

Wrapped up again in her troll hide, Lydia watched them from a bench out of the wind, by the monastery wall. But eventually, despite the supernatural and exceptionally loud training taking place, her eyes drifted upwards, enamored by the incredible blue-green aurora flitting across the moonless night sky.

"You don't like him, do you?"

Lydia looked down sharply to discover Master Arngeir sitting next to her, also staring at the night sky. Dovah and the other Greybeards were still practicing below them.

"Master Arngeir," she greeted him, straightening up. "It's, uh, it's complicated."

"You don’t turn your back to him. You fear him."

"I'm not afraid of him."

"Deeply apprehensive, then." Arngeir sighed, and for the first time, Lydia realized the monk was not just old, he was ancient. "It has been a long time since I walked the world. A very long time. But when I did, trust and fondness went hand in hand."

Lydia started to speak, but thought better of it. "He is my Thane. I do not have to like him. But I do have to hold his confidence."

"Well, I like him." Lydia raised an eyebrow, and Arngeir glanced at her before returning his gaze to the stars. "What? I do. It is rare to find a man with a great deal of both skill and empathy."

"Empathy?" Lydia said wryly. "I don't know about that."

"Oh, it's there. Like a nut in a shell. But such treasures can become lost if not nurtured. He will need friends like you in the days ahead to keep it alive."

"I'm not his friend, I can't be, it…" Lydia shook her head wearily. "Did he tell you about his amnesia? He says he doesn't remember anything before the 16th of Last Seed. The day Helgen was destroyed." As she spoke, in the distance, orange-blue light appeared from Master Borri and passed into Dovah. Lydia remained impassive as she watched this supernatural transference take place. "Why are you trusting him, Master?"

"My duties dictate my actions. My trust does not matter."

"You don't take into account anything other than that a person is Dragonborn?" Lydia asked dubiously.

"If any Dragonborn come to us for training, we must attempt to provide it, but… let's say I have some discretion with the lessons which are taught."

"Then let me speak plainly, and I hope you will hold my confidence," Lydia said quietly. "I know the immediacy of the threat which faces us, but this man is a child. He needs a teacher who will do more than hand him a weapon. He needs to be shown when to use it. Since I met him, he's mostly just been drinking. Fighting. Getting side-tracked. Talking nonsense with strangers. Taking insane risks. And the never-ending, random questions…"

"Have you ever brewed a potion?" Arngeir asked.

"Oh, gods, not you, too…" Lydia groaned.

"Hear me, please." Arngeir smiled. "I so rarely get a chance to have a conversation. A normal one, at least."

"I'm sorry, Master," Lydia responded, remembering who she was talking to. "I haven't been sleeping well. No, I have not made a potion."

"Every time you brew a potion, the most important thing to do is wash the instruments," Arngeir instructed. "Because if you don't, you can never predict how it will affect the next potion you try to make. More than a few would-be mages have died by actually blowing up their own alchemy labs while trying to make something as simple as a health tonic."

"So… so you're saying that someone… washed his mind clean?"

"So they could make something new. It's possible. But regardless of whether it was a twist of fate or the work of Kynareth herself, it will be you and I brewing this new potion called Dovah. If we have a clean lab to work with, all the better."

WULD!

Their attention turned back to Dovah - or rather, to the dark blur exploding across the courtyard right at them. Lydia stood, startled, as Dovah reappeared on the steps in front of her. At the same moment, the air filled with a resounding crack.

"My ears are burning," Dovah growled.

Lydia glanced at Arngeir, fumbling for words. "I- My thane, you know-"

Dovah turned his head, pulling back his hair. "Is it frostbite? Can you tell?" He started rubbing his gloves against his ears. "Small price to pay, though. What do you think? Isn't that Shout amazing?"

"I'm sure you will put it to use, my Thane."

Dovah put his hands on his waist. "Exactly just what does it take to impress you? I just brought you to the top of the world and moved faster than sound with a belch."

"I saw."

Arngeir broke the ensuing silence. "Well, let us return inside and continue training. Lydia, there's supper for you in your room; you must be tired…"

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Middas, evening, 11th of Hearth Fire, 4E 201

L letter.pngydia awoke to banging on her chamber door. "Yes? What?" she murmured.

"It's Dovah. We’re leaving."

"What? Why?"

"Just get your stuff and meet me out front."

Lydia got ready, and with a hurried goodbye and bow to the Greybeards, she made her way out into the cold. At the bottom of the stairs, Dovah started walking as soon as he heard the door open.

Lydia squinted at the horizon as she hurried to catch up. "Is the sun setting?"

"You slept all day," he called back. "You must have really needed it."

"So what happened?"

"Nothing happened. That's the problem. We called it a night shortly after you did. I woke up early, Wrinkles told me about the Way of the Voice, then had me sitting outside in the wind all day. I told him that no way am I gonna stick around here and meditate anymore, so he's sending me on one last trial."

"What's the trial?"

"Fetch a horn, bring it back. Busywork. But better than sitting on my ass all day with those people."

"What, you don't like them?"

"They're hiding things. Big things," Dovah huffed. "I don't see why they would do that if they had my best intentions at heart."

"So what did Arngeir tell you about the Way of the Voice?"

"That it doesn't apply to me. That it means they can't do anything but talk to clouds, but they'll help me put my own ass on the line."

"But what did he actually say-"

"More of the same, really," Dovah interrupted. "Outward actions must be in line with inner spirit. Stuff like that. Something about a disaster at Red Mountain. That they don't really know if I'm blessed or cursed. That my arrogance will kill me. All of it meaning that I should sit around and meditate." Dovah sneered at the last word with distaste. "'Breathe and focus, breathe and focus.' No, thank you. But what I don't get is that everything started off fine. They were teaching me words, showing me how to use them. Then Wrinkles talked to you, and it's like they cut me off."

"Pardon me?"

Dovah spun around to face her. "Why, have you done something that needs to be pardoned?"

Lydia pursed her lips. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Me, neither. I mean, it doesn't make sense, does it?" Dovah asked, stepping closer. "You wanted me to come up here, you know that countless lives are hanging in the balance. So why would you sabotage me?"

"Why indeed?" Lydia replied, returning his hard stare. "Did Arngeir give you some indication-"

"No." Dovah turned away and started down the path again. "In fact, he said he was acting on the instructions of the Grandmaster."

Inwardly, Lydia relaxed, and she followed him. "Arngeir is not the Grandmaster?"

"Apparently not. But when I come back here, I'm going to meet this Grandmaster," Dovah declared. More darkly, he added, "And he and I are going to have words."

The Tale continues in Dragonborn.