The tattered journal of Kyreth, clever thief, hunter, embarrassment, and once-assassin of the Brotherhood.
Catching Elephant is a theme by Andy Taylor
[[OOC Note]]
[[Hey all. Lack of updates is due to a combination of IRL overload at work and a computer that tends to crash whenever I load up Skyrim (and most games, for that matter) lately. :( Will resume when I get it fixed and when things calm down at the office.
My apologies and thanks for reading, everyone.]]
Middas, 21st of Frostfall
The Companions still seem to think I want to be a recruit, despite my insistence on simply repaying my debt to Vilkas and Athis. Nonetheless, Skjor has come up with a task that I believe will count as repayment. It holds great value to them and very little to me.
I’m to retrieve a fragment of Wuuthrad.
“What is Wuuthrad?” I asked Skjor, who scowled down at me like I was a skeever in his bedchambers.
He explained its significance: Wuuthrad is a famed weapon and relic of Ysgramor, who led the first humans into Skyrim. “And killed the elves that lived here,” Skjor finished.
There was an awkward moment in which I scratched lightly at the hair behind my pointed ears, glowering. “But there are elves among your ranks. Athis—”
“Don’t get yourself so miffed over history,” Skjor growled. “Our tradition is honor, not slaughter.”
Vilkas watched our exchange from the wall of the Companions’ training grounds, scowling venom. When it became apparent that I was to retrieve this fragment of Wuuthrad alone, he—as I should have expected—protested.
“You’re sending this whelp, Skjor? To recover a fragment of Wuuthrad? He’d sooner take it for himself.”
“Vilkas, I won’t—”
“Farkas will be his Shield-Brother, if it makes you feel better, Vilkas.”
So I need to be watched over like a pup. Fine. So long as I can repay my debt and be away from this place.
I need to remember to take something back for Delvin.
Morndas, 19th of Frostfall
I awoke from a nightmare this morning to find three of the Companion recruits, including Athis, standing over me, looking a mix of annoyed and at least partially concerned.
Athis folded his arms. “Bad dreams? You were quite restless.” Beside him, one of the others—a smaller woman with a scowl and a steel helmet—snorted and rolled her eyes.
My head ached. “…m’sorry.”
It wasn’t the same as before. I remember walking through a dusty hallway thick with cobwebs, listening for a voice—a familiar voice. Someone called me from far away, from within the very walls around me. All the while I felt a deep and paralyzing terror, but the voice drove me onward, even as it cracked, broke, and became a mad and sobbing laughter.
The Companions chided me for sleeping late. I wanted to tell them I’d come across Skyrim during the night, but it was by their generosity that I’d had a bed in the first place, so I held my tongue. Besides, the day had grown late, and Farkas had given me a job.
As I headed for the door, Athis raised an eyebrow. “Who is Cicero?”
I halted. “…what?”
His tone was innocent curiosity, nothing more. “Cicero. The name you said in your sleep.”
I left without explaining, my heart thudding up through my throat and ringing in my head. There are bandits to kill and none of this makes sense anymore.
Sundas, 18th of Frostfall
I rode through the night and into morning, leaving Riften far behind me. It was easy to be angry. I never meantto take it out on Vilkas—not like this, at least.
But I’d resolved to return his sword, so I did.
I found Vilkas in his quarters. He looked up at me, ready to throw his fist, and I threw his blade (unsharpened) to the ground between us.
“Here,” I snapped at him. “Forgive me, I got lost. You’ll have to sharpen it yourself.”
“Damned thief,” he snarled. “I’ll see you tossed beneath Dragon’s Reach, bastard!” He snatched up the sword (perhaps I should have handed it to him cordially) and I’d hardly a moment to react before he took a wild swing at me. I drew my dagger and parried.
“Stop that!” I hissed, dodging and backing away. “A thief—doesn’t return—what he steals, you idiot Nord—”
I hadn’t wanted to fight, not until it started, but before I could control myself, we were a flurry of blades. The clang of steel and the sound of Vilkas’ shouts drew the attention of the other Companions. Two of them (whose names I later learned were Aela and Farkas) dragged us apart.
“Get him out of here,” Vilkas barked, and Farkas tugged his shoulders.
“I didn’t come here to be your errand boy,” I told him. “You saved my life. Let my debt to you be at least worth more than a sharpened sword.”
To my shock, I wasn’t dragged away. Vilkas shoved past through the door without another word.
Farkas grumbled and sighed, and there was a weariness in his voice. “So you want to repay the Companions. Should’ve come to me first. Vilkas isn’t always good with recruits.”
“I’m not a recruit,” I reminded him, apologetically.
“You deserve better than to be turned away,” Aela regarded me critically. ”Besides. Vilkas needed that. We’ll find you a job that doesn’t involve polishing swords.”
“Sharpening,” I corrected.
“Any good at killing bandits?”
I am good at killing bandits.
Loredas, 17th of Frostfall
He said, “Listen, Kyreth,” and then
I’m such a
I’ve made a fool of myself.
We hunted well, despite my nerves (when one hunts, it is best to keep one’s eyes to the woods, not upon his hunting mate). With Niruin, amongst the trees and breathing the wild air, I felt more alive—more like myself, bosmer, hunter—than I have in years.
Our prey was an elk, and we tracked him for hours, down gulches and across a trickling brook, all within a mile of Riften’s walls. He told me stories of Valenwood, his winery, and he requested that I tell the tale of Mercer’s death.
“From above?” he asked pleasantly at the end of it, as we passed through the trees’ cool shadows. “Like a true hand of the Brotherhood.”
In the shade, in the dulled glow of the half-set sun, he could not have been more I must stop thinking like this.
The elk, when we found it, was already dead, prey to a Frostbite Spider that leapt upon us from the dark. My heart nearly stopped; the creature was upon Niruin in an instant, and my frantically-fired arrow nearly struck his arm. But I hit my mark.
“Excellent shot,” he said, grinning at me.
“Are you alright?”
“Fine as ever, Kyreth.” He turned to the elk and sighed, disappointed. ”No elk, then. The poison will shrivel it dry before we have a chance at it.” Niruin turned and knelt by the spider’s twitching corpse instead, cutting a dripping hunk from its abdomen, and offered it to me with a sly grin. “Go on. Tradition, and all that.”
I felt a thousand thoughts fight a battle within me. You don’t observe the Green Pact, I wanted to accuse him. I wanted to feel the slightest guilt at not observing myself. I wanted to laugh.
I wanted to kiss him, and I did.
Niruin dropped the spider meat and stood still, and when I pulled away, he pursed his lips. Guilt—there was guilt in his eyes, not surprise, not anything.
With a sigh, Niruin looked away from me, and he said, “Listen, Kyreth.”
[Here, some more scribbles and unintelligible handwriting mar the page.]
I did not return to the Cistern after the hunt. I’m headed for Whiterun.
Fredas, 16th of Frostfall
I suppose it was childish of me to expect a warmer welcome from the Guild upon my return from the Sepulcher, but it appears everyone and everything has returned to cold and quiet normal. For the most part, at least.
Feeling slightly bitter, I had Vilkas’ sword appraised by Delvin. Apparently it’s worth quite a bit, and he attempted very valiantly to sway me into selling it to him, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Annoyed, he instead offered me the job of stealing another of the Companions’ weapons of similar style and make.
“They’ve got that forge all to themselves. Bound to be something lying around free for the taking,” he told me with a scowl. “Something you won’t feel guilty gettin’ your little fingers on ‘cause it’s got someone’s name on it, ey?”
“Fine,” I frowned at him. “I’ll bring you something back from Whiterun next time I pass through the hold.”
It won’t be long. I’ll have to return Vilkas’ sword, I suppose, and the Cistern is already driving me to restlessness.
There is… something worthwhile, though.
Niruin.
He’s agreed to go hunting with me tomorrow.
???
I must conclude that every cave and hiding-hole in Skyrim has been taken over by vampires.
I hadn’t meant to give Vilkas’ sword as much use as its seen (it’s heavy and cumbersome, I much prefer my daggers), but after the Sepulcher, it occurred to me that I’d not slept in at least a day. In the interest of remaining alive and not sleeping exposed in the open, prey to wolves and saber cats, I tried my luck with the first cave I found.
Vampires. Again.
And they smelled me before I could back my way out.
I considered dragging their bodies outside instead of leaving them where I plan to rest for the night (there’s a bed here), but that might attract the wolves and cats I planned to avoid, so here they lay.
I’ve found that hip bone in my bag again. I do not even have the fortitude to be shocked, or to try again to break it. I don’t even remember what I did the last time I tried to get rid of it. Did I try to get rid of it?
No matter. Let it rot. Wait, that doesn’t…
Y’ffre, I’m exhausted.
Middas, 12th of Frostfall
I have stolen Vilkas’ sword.
Not in a way that’d make the most clever thieves back at the Guild smile upon my work, though.
Karliah wishes me to return the Skeleton Key to the Twilight Sepulcher as soon as possible, yet the place is located deep within Falkreath Hold, and somewhere, if I can tell by the map, near the old Sanctum. In my hesitance to travel to such painfully familiar ground, I instead decided to pass a night in Whiterun, remembering the Companions who saved my life near Winterhold. Certainly they’d let me repay them somehow.
I entered Jorrvaskr to a few odd glances, but a woman with a painted face heard my tale and directed me to a man called Kodlak. To my dismay, I found Vilkas sitting beside him, speaking in hushed tones. When the pair of them noticed me, Vilkas scowled viciously in recognition, but Kodlak merely furrowed his brow.
When I told Kodlak what Athis and Vilkas had done for me and how they hadn’t allowed me to repay them as I’d wished, I assumed he’d accept my septim—instead, he asked me to join the Companions.
To which I could only gape.
In my silence, Vilkas snarled. “Kodlak, you’re not truly considering accepting him—he is weak. A fool who gets lost in the snow. Besides that—we cannot know he is trustworthy.”
“Listen,” I interrupted, holding up my hands. “I wish to repay you—and if you wish me to use my bow in the Companions’ name for a time, I will, but I can’t join you. Not now.”
Kodlak considered. “Fine. If you are to run with us, though, for however long, you must at least prove your strength. You’ve met Vilkas—he will test your arm.”
Vilkas looked as though he might protest, but he didn’t. He grumbled an “aye” and led me outside. “I’ve already had a look at you, elf,” he told me, donning a sword and shield, “but if Kodlak wishes me to prove you unworthy a second time, so be it. Let’s do this. Your daggers, not the bow.”
The irritation simmering within me won out over a desire to treat the man that had saved my life with respect. We paced back and forth before each other, and then I dashed in. Vilkas did not expect my speed. I ducked past the thrust of his shield and drove my shoulder and elbow into his gut. Within moments, he was on his back with my dagger pointed down at his head.
“Remember how I was wounded when you saved me in the mountains?” I asked him as he got to his feet. “I’ve healed quite well, as you can see.”
Vilkas scowled. “You want to repay the Companions?” He sheathed his sword and shoved it at my chest. I nearly dropped it. “Take this to the Skyforge to be sharpened. And be careful. It’s probably worth more than you are.”
Worth more than I am, is it?
That arrogant, idiot Nord. I slung the sheathe through my belt and headed for Whiterun’s gates.
I could take it to the Thieves Guild if I wanted—Delvin might pay good coin for this. I’ll give it a few days’ thought, however. I do, after all, owe the Companions my life.
Tirdas, 11th of Frostfall
Mercer is dead.
Tirdas, 11th of Frostfall
I despise Dwemer ruins.
We’ve stopped for just a moment in what we assume is a safe chamber. No signs of deadly traps or skittering metal spiders. Karliah is tending to Brynjolf’s wound. A falmer slashed him across the arm (they’re blind, they’re lumbering, yet they come from within the walls themselves)—he’s lucky it missed his throat.
Steam hisses through this place is like long, rattling breaths. It’s as though this whole place is a monstrous metal beast that’s swallowed us alive. How did the Dwemer live here? This was a city, yet it’s filled with cruel traps and torture chambers (with stone thrones for spectators).
Karliah and Brynjolf might not agree, but Mercer is the last thing that frightens me here.
