As I sit here in this slightly cramped Forsworn tent, I must admit that the gentle breeze rolling down the mountains and the dull roar of the majestic waterfall crashing down from Bard's Leap does wonders to calm my mind. It has been quite an eventful few days, so much that I regret not writing down more of my thoughts on the carriage ride back from Windhelm.
It was that morning I chose to present myself before Jarl Ulfric, leader of the Stormcloak Rebellion, and former prisoner-in-arms. As I waited to speak with him, I could not help but overhear his ongoing discussion with his army advisor. They seemed to be increasingly worried at the path the current war was treading, and of how the other Jarls were reacting. Ulfric's advisor seemed impatient at the Jarl of Whiterun's lack of allegiance. I could not help but become concerned when mention of taking the city by force came up. My own allegiance at this time is questionable at best, and I had to wonder what would become of Lydia and my new home should the Stormcloaks demand fealty. I kept these musings to myself as the Jarl turned his attention to me. His first remark was that I was either brave or stupid to stand before him unannounced. I hoped to ring a bell by mentioning the incident at Helgen, and how one of his own worked with me to escape. I could see the realization coming to him, and he expressed relief that Ralof had made it out alive, though he had not returned to Windhelm to verify this. Until his return, Ulfric requested that I speak to his general about helping the war effort. Before I could get a word in, he had left the room.
The next moment I was being grilled on why a cat would want to join. I could not help the bitterness in voice as I replied if that was the sort of tone he was going to take, then I was wasting my time. He made a short apology, as what he meant to say was he needed to know how dedicated I was to this war. In truth, I couldn't be sure myself. I had no love for the Imperial legion, or the Thalmor pulling their strings... But to go so far as to want every Imperial dead... I could only think of my adoptive parents, and how they took me in without thought to my race. Also the inherent bigotry of the Nords wasn't helping. The general suggested I think long and hard about my priorities before speaking with him again, and so I left, buying a carriage to Whiterun to rest my feet for once.
It was only midday when I arrived at Whiterun, and with nothing in particular on my mind I wandered west to explore and pick some alchemical ingredients. I must admit my skill at potion making had improved dramatically in my travels, and finding new recipes through trial and error gave me a good deal of pleasure. Many bags full of ingredients later, I found myself wandering along the base of a mountain range which housed Bleak Falls Barrow. I began to feel a chill as a breeze picked up. After a moment I began to notice the breeze did not let up, and that it was actually coming from a nearby cave. I'm as much a sucker for caves as I am for mysteries, so I began my quest of the Mysterious Breeze in the Mysterious Cave. Though the cave was long and winding and had several openings at the top for sunlight to pour through, the breeze ignored it all. My suspicions were confirmed at the sight of patrolling skeletons. Though they were easily felled by some well placed arrows in the dark, I knew little skeletons didn't just pop out of the ground. Not on their own, anyway. In the chamber ahead was the culprit: a necromancer practicing his spells on a risen Nord Thrall. After some tests, the necromancer began reading through his books, oblivious to the world. Not the best habit. One well placed arrow released the Thrall from his bondage, as I heard a whisper of gratitude on the wind as he turned to dust. The stupid necromancer took no notice, right up until the touch of cold steel was pressed against his neck. Wait no, hot steel. It was my enchanted dagger of flames that wonderfully seared his neck as I slit it... And then sort of caught his clothes on fire. Ah well. Grabbing what items there was of use, I found the other end of the cave, actually a mountain pass, with a rune billowing a cold gust from it. Mystery solved! The pass led out to the valley near Riverwood, however it was getting late so I made the trek back to Whiterun. Again, a good time to put to paper my adventures, instead I passed out on my bed at the first opportunity.
I slept in late for once, it felt good. I could not think of any pressing matters to attend to, as I milled about the house, mixing potions and organizing my bookshelf with the library i had obtained in my travels. Still haven't read many of them. As I sat down to eat, I flicked through my vast amounts of letters and notes from people who needed assistance in some way. Skyrim seemed oddly full of people like that. One note caught my attention, an encampment of bandits at the nearby hill of Serpent's Bluff Redoubt. I really can't overstate my dislike of bandits. I took Kharjo with me - as a caravan guard I imagine he'd have a grudge as well.
Kharjo behind me and began a preliminary scout of the location. Sure enough, I could spot at least a half dozen figures posted at the entrances and makeshift lookout towers. Staying low to the ground and out of sight, I made my way back to Kharjo and we discussed our options. It was decided that waiting for nightfall was the best method, but with several hours between us and the moon things got boring fast. We began exploring farther West, and upon cresting a hill a magnificent sight awaited us.
A lush valley greeted our eyes, with a might stream coursing through the middle. and right in front of us lay the source: a tremendous cascading waterfall. It seemed the waterfall had another purpose, as a large sprawling ruin encompassed it, with towering stone pillars and causeways built into the very side of the mountain. I could barely make out a structure poised over the brink of the highest falls. Kharjo had heard of this place, "The Lost Valley Redoubt" home of the famed Bard's Leap. Supposedly a bard had leaped down the waterfall...and probably died, I didn't catch the whole story. With one glance at each other, we knew where we would be spending the rest of the daylight hours. It took us only a short while to cross the valley to the other side and began our trek up the falls. From a distance the ruins seemed to be spread across three tiers, with several man made aqueducts diverting water from the falls to parts unknown. It wasn't long before I sensed something off. The birds weren't chirping and there was a scent on the wind. Blood. Ash. Death.
I had Kharjo stay low while I crept up into the ruins. I heard a noise above, and realized a walkway had been carved out over the ledge. On it stood a man...by his look and weapons he appeared to be Forsworn. I heard they were the native people to this land who had turned savage and tribal in an attempt to win back Skyrim for themselves. I heard the all too familiar sound of an arrow being notched, and realized the lookout had spotted Kharjo. Quickly drawing my own, I moved to target him and let loose an arrow. With a cry he toppled from the ledge and crashed down next to me. A great cry rang out as other Forsworn came running down the hill. I had just enough time to ready my next arrow as Kharjo came running past me, sword at the ready. He engaged two of them while I felled another with my arrows. Not wanting to hit Kharjo, I ran to assist him with my blades.
With the first tier cleared, we cautiously prepared ourselves for what was sure to be the next wave. Kharjo took the lead and I covered him with my bow. As we stepped into the next tier Kharjo narrowly avoided a mammoth skull being launched into his face from above. I guess these Forsworn are pretty clever when it comes to traps. Another group moved to attack us, and Kharjo ran to meet them. I stayed behind to cover him, as two archers moved in and flank him. Killing one of them grabbed the others attention, and I lost sight of Kharjo as I began trading shots with the archer. Moving from cover to cover, I narrowly dodged the incoming arrows while firing out a few of my own. A cry rewarded my accuracy as his body toppled from its position. I had just begun poisoning my arrows again when a loud explosion rocked the ruins. I was dimly aware of Kharjo being flung into some bushes before the force of a hurricane hit me full in the chest.
The problem with Skyrim is that you think you know cold. You trek through the blizzards, find your way through snowstorms, and even climb the throat of the world. And then some mage shows you what real cold is. I struggled to rise as my joints felt like ice. rapidly approaching me was a large Forsworn, with briar across his chest. I struggled to fire an arrow at him, which did little to slow him as he flung several ice shards at me. I felt pain, real pain as the embedded themselves in my shoulder and leg. I stumbled behind a pillar as ice blasted the rocks around me. With not a moment to spare I grabbed several potions of health from my pack and a potion of frost resistance. Warmth was restored to me and I was able to move normally again. I spent several minutes trading arrows for icicles with the Forsworn. His magick did not seem to dwindle as my arrows did, and I had a feeling he knew this. Searching desperately through my pack, I found a bottle I had recovered from a cave earlier: A potion of invisibility. I had no idea how long it would work... or even if it would work. But I didn't have much else of a choice. Kharjo was nowhere to be seen and I feared the worst. After shooting out one last arrow I readied my daggers and braced myself. I felt the cold rush of an ice shard whizzing past the pillar, and I downed the potion. I looked down at my weapons and saw...nothing. It was all the encouragement I needed.
I sprinted straight from my spot towards the Forsworn. I could tell by his movement he heard my footfalls, but could not pinpoint where. He began to fire out frost spells haphazardly, and I barely had time to roll to the side before resuming sprinting. An icicle grazed my cheek as I leapt upon my foe. The force of my daggers and the weight of my momentum sent him stumbling backwards. As I rose, I could see my own hands, and realized the effects had worn off. He began to summon another spell, and I was a few feet from striking distance. However I had all the range I needed for something else. My Thu'um of Unrelenting Force surprised him as he flew into a stone with a yell. I struggled to raise my own weapons as I came to realize the battle had taken its toll on my stamina. The Forsworn rose with a hand outstretched, words of power forming on his lips. Quite suddenly, his head wasn't where it was supposed to be. In its place was Kharjo's sword, held by a panting yet still alive Kharjo. As the Forsworn's body fell to the ground, Kharjo helped me up, giving me a potion of stamina to recover. It was a battle well fought, and yet the end was not over.
The moon was beginning to rise as we climbed to the top of the Bards Leap, looking out over the falls took what little of my breath I still had. It was a cloudless night, and I could see all across the valley with the faint green traces of the borealis shimmering across the sky. My attention was turned however, as I noticed large amounts of blood spatter leading away from the falls. And it wasn't just the blood. A dull hum, apart from the waterfalls, was calling out to me. I began to walk towards its source but was stopped by Kharjo. "The air here is foul" he cautioned. Taking his words into advisement, I donned by strongest armor, and pulled out an elven sword, which I used my strongest poison on. We crept through the brush and came upon a very unsettling sight. Two hagraven stood poised over a recently slain Forsworn. His heart lay on a table next to him, and briar had been put where the hole had been carved. The hagravens spoke in turn, and something inside me shouted out that whatever they were doing should not be allowed to happen. Kharjo and I moved forward in unison, and we moved to attack I rushed one of them and kept swinging as fast as I could. Dodging its attacks I was just able to notice the Forsworn rise, clutching an giant axe in its hand. Suddenly a giant blast of fire nearly threw me off balance, as Kharjo narrowly dodged an attack from his foe. Staying within striking distance forced them to rely on hand to hand it seemed, and I used that knowledge to my advantage. With a last mighty thrust I slew the hagraven, and in the same moment dodged a large swipe from the Forsworn Briarheart. I tried ducking to his left to strike, and was met with a painful blow to my side. My vision began blurring, and yet... through the blur I made out something. It was writing, large and blinding amidst the darkened blur around me. In that instant I realized we were fighting upon the very stones inscribed with the words of power. I felt it's knowledge absorbed, and I knew exactly what it was and what it did. I stood straight and faced my opponent with a smile. As he raised his axe I uttered those words. I felt the air rush as his axe flew downward, yet felt no pain. My body had become ethereal, impervious to harm, and unable to inflict it. The Forsworn's laugh of triumph was cut short in surprise as he looked from me to his axe. His next thoughts were interrupted by Kharjo's sword. Kharjo smiled and asked if I could teach him my new trick.
The battle won, a word of power obtained, and many shiny objects looted, I stood on the brink of Bard's Leap and looked out upon the world. Life felt good. And then I jumped.
.
.
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(I survived, and it was awesome.)
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