Hello, Journal. Steve again. I’m beginning to think you’re my only friend. You understand me, at least. Not like these others. These others are mean to me. They do not appreciate me. But that may be the ale talking. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
So, let’s see… I went with the Jarl of Whiterun to talk to his Court Wizard, Farengar.
“Farengar,” said the Jarl, “I think I’ve found someone who can help you with your dragon project.” Dragon project? I said nothing about wanting to help with a dragon project. “Go ahead and fill him in with all the details.”
“So the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me,” said Farengar before the Jarl had even turned to leave. “Oh yes, he must be referring to my research into the dragons.” This wizard man had a strange way of talking. There was just the one dragon. “Yes, I could use someone to fetch something for me.”
People seemed to be suffering under the delusion that I was a courier for hire. Yes, I had delivered a sword, but it was on the way anyway. But I guess I could hear what he wanted me to fetch.
“Well, when I say fetch, I really mean delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there.” He needed to work on his sales pitch.
“What does this have to do with dragons?” I asked him.
“Ah,” he said, “no mere brute mercenary,” stressing the wrong syllable of mercenary, “but a thinker. Perhaps even a scholar?” Do not confuse my impatience for wisdom, mister wizard. “You see, when the stories of dragons began to circulate…” just one dragon, “many dismissed them as mere fantasies. Rumors. Impossibilities.” And legends. Don’t forget legends. “One sure mark of a fool is to dimiss anything that falls outside his experience as being impossible.”
Look, I have no experience with killing trolls, but I’m pretty sure I’m not a fool for thinking it’s impossible to kill one by throwing apples at it.
“But I began to search for information about dragons…” divines save me, how long was this guy going to fill me in on the details? “Where had they gone all those years ago? And where were they coming from?”
I would guess it’s the part on maps that say “Here There Be Dragons.”
I cut to the chase. “So, what do you need me to do?” Not that I’d forgotten the bit about delving into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there.
“I uh, learned of a certain stone tablet said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow - a “Dragonstone”, said to contain a map of dragon burial sites.” So… they had gone to be buried? Who buried the dragons? And why did they bury them?
“Go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find this tablet – no doubt interred in the main chamber – and bring it to me. Simplicity itself.” Except I’d been all up in that Barrow, and never saw a tablet. And I left no stone unturned. Not counting some sarcophagus lids, and also that chanty evil looking wall.
I was concerned that he’d kept referring to dragons plural, so I asked him, “have you encountered any dragons?”
“Sadly, no.” Sadly? “My work affords me few opportunities for such an adventure.” Well, you’re not missing much. “Perhaps some hero will bring one to Dragonsreach, like Old Olaf One-Eye once did.” Hah, good luck with that, then. Suddenly I remembered the story the steward had told me about Dragonsreach. I had assumed it was just a story, but then again, a week ago I didn’t think dragons were real, so what did I know?
“What a fascinating conversation that would be!” Um, if you say so.
I was starting to doubt that this man could help me, so I asked, “Are you the only wizard in Whiterun?”
“I believe I am. Yes. Technically speaking, of course.” It wasn’t a trick question. “The city is also home to a priest, a priestess, an alchemist, and I’m sure others who practice.” Practice what? “Ah, that reminds me. Speaking of alchemists, I have some frost salts for Arcadia.” That’s nice. “She asked me to obtain them for one of her potions.” I really don’t care, sir.
“Would you be so kind as to deliver the frost salts for me?” Look, I’m not a delivery guy! “I’m sure Arcadia will provide some form of recompense…“
Finally I just said, “Do I look like a courier to you?”
He looked at me, and said “Well let’s see… travel-stained clothes, worn soles, blank and unintelligent expression… yes, in fact you do.” Ouch. And mere moments ago you thought maybe I was a scholar.
I took them from him angrily and said, “Fine, I’ll deliver the frost salt for you.”
He maintained his deadpan expression and said, “Good, you’re clearly more suited than I am to carry out such a menial task.”
Look, man, I already don’t want to get this stupid dragon stone for you, that I don’t even think is in the Barrow, so you could at least try to stay on my good side. Speaking of the barrow, maybe he knew something I didn’t, so I asked, “Anything you can tell me about Bleak Falls Barrow?”
“And old tomb, built by the ancient Nords, perhaps dating back to the Dragon War itself.” Wow, that sentence was chock-full of unhelpful information.
Noticing my annoying expression, he said, “Ah, maybe you just want to know how to get there.” I’ve got that covered, but thanks. “It’s near Riverwood, a miserable little village a few miles south of here. I’m sure some of the locals can point you in the right direction once you get there.”
I eyed him suspiciously, as he was being annoyingly vague. “How do you know this tablet is in Bleak Falls Barrow?”
“Well, must preserve some professional secrets, musn’t we? I have my sources… reliable sources.” Well then why not have your ‘sources’ be your errand boy?
I decided at that point that I’d had enough of talking to him, so I would go get this “dragon stone” for him, and then I’d make him explain the whole ‘magic map’ thing, the claw thing, the border curse, or whatever else. I was losing my patience with Whiterun in general, and returning to the Barrow, however briefly, would be worth it, perhaps. Especially now that I’d eliminated anything that… oh, crap. I would have to sneak past all of the sleeping dead Nords again. Hopefully nobody had reset the slashy axe hallways, at least.
As I turned to leave, both Balgruuf and Ferengar started talking to me at the same time.
“You know–“
“–This is a priority now
“if you’ve got the aptitude–“
“–Anything we can use to fight this dragon or dragons”
“You should join the–“
“–We need it quickly”
“College at Winterhold–“
“–before it’s too late.”
“Of course, Jarl Balgruuf,” said Ferengar, “You seem to have found me an able assistant.” Turning to me, he added, almost sarcastically, “I’m sure he will prove most useful.”
The Jarl turned to me and said, “Succeed at this, and you’ll be rewarded. Whiterun will be in your debt.” Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard the ‘debt’ song and dance before.
Without another word, I left Dragonsreach, left Whiterun, got on Skype (what I’ve decided to call my horse), and headed back to the Barrow. Not that I was sure what I was going to find. I had a feeling I’d have to figure out a way to open that big sarcophagus in the final room. Seems as good a place as any to hide a tablet.
I rode past the clearing where the aging orc once stood. I saw no sign of him or his good death. Perhaps he’d given up.
As I approach the snowy, windy barrow, I thought about what had gone on so far. I’d narrowly escaped an execution that I didn’t deserve, thanks to a dragon that I didn’t think existed, and was rescued and helped by a guy who wanted me dead even though I wasn’t on his list.
All of that was straightforward enough. Things didn’t get really weird until greed had gotten the better of me, and I had gone after that “gold” claw for the raspy man and his sister, neither of whom want to acknowledge I have the claw, much less take it from me. And now I’m unable to leave Skyrim, for no reason that I can determine other than perhaps this mysterious claw that I cannot get rid of no matter what I do. I was able to take it off of Arvel easily enough, but he was dead. Perhaps when I died, someone will be able to take it off of me as well. I hoped to not find out.
I entered the barrow, and ran as briskly as one can in a ruined maze-like tomb, slowing only when I reached mostly-dead central. I began moving stealthily again, and – it figures – someone had reset the slashing axes again. Who? I wanted to meet them so I could punch them in their stupid, trap-loving face.
I continued through the barrows, and past the giant brazier yet again. I mean, was no one else concerned by the dead Nords coming back to life? That almost seemed like a bigger deal to me than one dragon who showed himself briefly a week ago and never again.
I made it to the second set of slashy axes, which were moving once again, because of course they were, why wouldn’t they be? Never mind that I disabled BOTH of those traps barely a day ago.
Okay, so I went back into the big wet cave again. Bats flew in my face, again. The distant wall started chanting, or shouting, at me again. I looked everywhere for a tablet, with no luck. Though with the bats squeaking, the waterfall crashing, and the chanting voices, it was hard to concentrate. There was the big sarcophagus, which I still couldn’t open, but that was perhaps for the best. Finally I just got sick and tired of the chanting, so I turned around to give the wall a piece of my mind.
But then – it’s hard to explain, but – the wall gave me a piece of its mind. Or something. A bunch of glowy symbols burned themselves onto my retinas, and I felt all tingly. It made me shudder. I felt intruded upon, somehow.
And, as I stood there, contemplating this turn of events with my back to the sarcophagus, the sarcophagus lid flew open, because the universe clearly hates me.
I instinctively ran behind the wall, because something had climbed out of the sarcophagus and was now looking for me. I took out a potion I’d had that was supposed to make me harder to detect, and gulped it down while I ran to the sarcophagus to see if the tablet was in there, which – surprise, surprise – it was not.
They say you find things in the last place you look, which makes sense for logical reasons, but as I looked at the previously dead Nord, I had a bad feeling.
Speaking of bad feelings, he then yelled at me. Or screamed, shouted, whatever. He said what sounded like, “What’s for supper?” Or possibly “What’s your job?” Either way, the force or maybe stench of his breath sent everything flying, except for me, as I was standing behind the sarcophagus. We then went round and around while he continued to ask me what’s for supper. My guess it was me, and he was being rhetorical. Do the dead even eat supper? Try telling him that.
I came to my senses long enough to remember my bow and arrow, so I got that out and started firing at him. He didn’t seem to like that too much, so he ran up and started slashing me with his axe. Luckily for me I’d been building up an immunity to slashing axes, thanks to the hallway. Though as it turns out, it doesn’t quite work that way. It hurt really bad. So, in protest, I continued firing arrows at him, while he’d occasionally ask me, “What’s your job?”
“My job is to find the dragon stone,” I thought at him, being too out of breath and in pain to actually talk.
I was nearly dead, which I supposed made us even, when finally one of my arrows took him down, and he splashed backwards into the waterfall runoff. Without even giving it a second thought, I went to loot his body, and fortunately, the Dragon Stone was on him. I took a look at it, and it appeared to have a map of Skyrim on it, and on the back was some gibberish that I couldn’t read.
I angrily stomped out of the tomb, mounted Skype, and headed back to Whiterun, still injured but too tired and upset to care. Why hadn’t they said, “Oh, by the way, there might be an angry undead shouty man hoarding the stone, you’ll probably have to pry it from his cold, dead fingers. That’s not a problem is it?” Because I would have said, “Yes, that is a bit of a problem.” The only reason I didn’t go with my natural inclination of running out of the tomb at that moment was because I’d come that far, and I wanted this over with already.
I whipped out my magic map, saw that Dragonsreach was on it, and stabbed at it with my finger. I’m lucky that my claw didn’t puncture it, but at this point I didn’t care. I blacked out for a bit, a lot of time passed, but before I knew it, I was back at Dragonsreach. I didn’t see Skype, and hoped he was okay.
I was about to open the door to Dragonsreach, then stopped. Why was I in such a hurry to do their bidding? They needed me, not the other way around. I had the Dragon Stone, so I had leverage. I also had those ingredients for Arcadia, so I decided to kill some time by dropping those off to her. I ignored her “Rattles” pitch again, and said “I have some Frost Salts for you, from Farengar.”
“Ah, splendid, splendid! It’s for a special brew I’m working on. A love elixir like none other. Maybe I’ll test it on Farengar first…” You’re too good for him, lady.
“Oh, but I suppose you’ll expect some compensation.” That would be nice, yes. “Um, here, these potions should suffice.” That’ll do.
I took the potions, left her shop, and went next door to the Bannered Mare. The owner greeted me, the resident bard sanging a morbid song about decapitation, and I got drunk. Well, not drunk. But slightly intoxicated. So I apologize if my writing has been slurred.
Anyway, I’ve killed several hours here, just writing and drinking. I guess I should go hand this dragon stone over to Ferengar, maybe pick his brain about magic, if I can stomach talking to him further, and then maybe – MAYBE – I’ll be done with Whiterun, and Skyrim by extension. But we’ll see. My efforts have been successfully thwarted thus far. But on the bright side, I am not dead, and as far as I know, nobody has seen a dragon in days. So, it could be worse!
Why do I suddenly regret writing that?
Steve
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