18+ Kennings: The Titles of the Great

[Myth]

KENNINGS​

or​

TITLES OF THE GREAT​

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Upon gathering here, you have chosen to embark on a journey.​

It is a journey of many, of diversity tenfold.​

It is the journey of those blessed and burdened with a remarkable destiny.​

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Their names are those you have heard before.​

Though their personal names may fade with eras past, the Kennings spoken of man, mer, and beast sing their glories.​

For Kennings are the titles of heroes.​

They are names given to the carvers of history​

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A word of warning to my sensitive readers:​

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Future chapters and updates of this humble story may contain descriptions of​

- Graphic violence​

- Sexual scenes and references​

- Rampantly homosexual characters​

- Instances of dubious consent​

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Should such topics distress readers, read no further.​

In addition, a warning shall be placed at the beginning of each chapter that contains such content.​

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DISCLAIMER:​

Skyrim and its colorful cast of characters, places, and lore belongs to Bethesda Games.​

The characters of​

Erasmir, Ianto, Shani, Maeve, Valery Lothaire, Bolan gra-Gharol, Hlenna, Junel-Lei, Chirrani, and Janus Tremellia all belong to myself and and should not be used without my permission.​

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CHAPTER INDEX​

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Chapter One: The Bosmer and the Altmer​

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Chapter Two: The Imperial and the Redguard​

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Chapter Three: The Refugee and the Deserter Trigger Warnings: Violence and Discussion of Rape/Non-Consent

Chapter Four: The Whelp and the Warrior

Chapter Five: The Veteran and the Youth

Chapter Six: The Argonian

 

[Myth]

Chapter One: The Bosmer and the Altmer​

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“Hello? Is someone down there?”

The young Bosmer spoke what he supposed was a proper voice for an Imperial teenage girl, though he was uncertain as to what sort of accent one might speak in Cheydinhal. It was quite close to Morrowind - perhaps he should drawl a bit more? No matter, he doubted if any of the other passengers on the Secunda’s Shadow had ever been to Cheydinhal, or if they had, cared about the Wood Elf’s accuracy as he read from a rather battered tome of The Legend of Krately House.

He glanced briefly at the Altmer pressed against the wall of the ship’s hold. The High Elf’s amber eyes were fixed upon the wooden boards. He twitched his hands, which shimmered faintly of Magicka, and the silhouette of the suggested stage gradually shone on the wall - much like the effect of shadow puppets against the lamplight of a lantern. The Bosmer allowed himself a brief second to admire the other elf’s mastery of Illusion, then a glance at their audience of several Khajiit cubs and anyone else in the crowded hold who decided to watch their little show.

As the Altmer guided the character’s silhouettes across the shadowy wall, the Bosmer continued with Theophon’s lines.

“Excuse me, young lady. Just robbing you.” Giggles issued from the Khajiit children. “Why are you hiding, Nirim? I told you. They can’t see you, and they can’t hear you.”

He used his own speech for Nirim’s reply, figuring that a Bosmer of nineteen years was good enough to play a Bosmer of twenty. “I can’t believe they’re all ghosts. They seem so alive.”

“Erasmir.” The Altmer whispered his name and handed the Wood Elf an unlit lantern. Erasmir fiddled with the metal handle to mimic the sound of Nirim’s lockpick on the chest of drawers.

“Oh, the rumors,” Erasmir spoke for Theophon. “Well, they says old lady Dominita was a witch before she married Silenus. Gave it all up for him, to be a good wife and mother. But the witches didn’t take too kindly to it. They found her and sent some kind of creature here, late at night. Something horrible, right out of a nightmare.”

The Khajiit children were enthralled. One young kitten seemed to be clinging to his sister’s tail. Erasmir thumped his hands against the floor for the characters’ footsteps as the shadowy, magical puppets ran about their silhouetted stage.

“He touched me?! How can a ghost touch me?!” Erasmir spoke for Nirim in a panicked voice. As the High Elf dimmed the first floor of the silhouetted stage into shadow, Erasmir tapped his finger on the other elf’s leg. One, two, three seconds they remained deadly silent, then both men screamed for the ensemble of characters. The youngest of the children jumped and squeezed his sister’s tail.

“What if there’s five ghosts, Theophon?!” Erasmir shrieked as Nirim. “What if there is five ghosts?! The man, the wife, the girl, the boy… and what killed them?!” Erasmir slowly beat his hands against the floorboards, dragging his nails against the wood for heavy, clawed footfalls as the Altmer dimmed the rest of the stage.

“Only… only what if it ain’t a ghost, Theophon. What if it’s the same creature, and it’s still alive… and it ain’t ate nothing since five years ago…” Erasmir beat his hands louder as the ship’s wall plunged into shadow. “You said you refilled the lamp! You promised me you refilled the lamp!” Erasmir smiled as the children watched the dark wall, waiting for a moment. Then the elf howled, long and low, just as he had heard in Falinesti on nights when the moons shone like glowing eyes though the jungle canopy. The High Elf screamed for their characters, and the children joined in with their own shrieks.

Then Erasmir lit the lantern with a flourish, hung it back on its peg in the wooden beam, and just like that, the show was over. Scattered applause sounded forth from the crowded passengers, and the Khajiit cubs clapped their paws wildly as their mother smiled thankfully at the two elves.

“Another one, Dro’Ianto! Another one!” the youngest cried as he finally released his poor sister’s tail.

Erasmir handed the book back to the Aldmer. “You heard them, Ianto. Another.”

Ianto smiled warmly as he replaced the weathered script into his knapsack. “Very well. There are only two Erasmir and I have yet to read: The Wraith’s Wedding Dowry, or Purloined Shadows.”

Before the cub could answer, a voice cried out from the decks above.

“Land ho!”

Excited conversation and the rustling of belongings drowned out any further comments between the Khajiit family and the two elves. The cubs huddled around their mother as the crowded passengers stood and shifted, all eager to leave the stale air of the hold.

Ianto shared an apprehensive glance with Erasmir, who nodded in understanding. While landing in Solitude offered freedom from past shadows, it would also be the most dangerous part of their journey. Hopefully, the chaos of Skyrim’s civil conflict would draw away any attention two elven refugees might have otherwise gathered.

The ship bumped gently against the wooden posts of the harbor as the sailors tossed the mooring lines to the dockhands. A crewman shouted something about disembarking in an orderly fashion to the writhing mass of passengers in the hold, but few seemed to be paying attention. Slowly, the hold began to empty like sand trickling from an hourglass. The family of khajiit blinked in the northern sunlight, and the children chattered and pointed at the majestic arch the gleaming city rested upon.

Erasmir and Ianto squinted their almond-shaped eyes against the light. The air was chilly and clear, and Erasmir breathed in its salty scent. It was unlike anything he had experienced before - there was hardly a trace of the humid air he had known so well in Falinesti.

“Wait!” Ianto suddenly shouted over the din. Erasmir snapped out of his reverie.

“For you!” Ianto called to the Khajiit family, quickly depositing his knapsack of books into the youngest cub’s arms before they disappeared into the crowd. The kitten’s face lit up with gratitude, and he clung to the worn fabric as he shouted back his thanks. He followed his mother into the crowd, and the elves were uncertain if they would ever see the family again.

The crowd filed over the gangplank, and Erasmir found his legs unsteady on the dock’s solid, wooden planks. Ianto lingered behind as the crowd dwindled away.

“Skyrim…” the High Elf whispered.

“Will they know you?” Erasmir asked with slight trepidation.

“I’ve never been here before…” Ianto trailed off. “I doubt any of the Thalmor ranks here would recognize me as a deserter. I would rather not have the chance to be proven wrong, though…”

Erasmir nodded. “They can’t know me, can they? I fled before -- before.” The bosmer stopped, and Ianto did not press. The diminutive Wood Elf seemed unnaturally smaller when he thought of his homeland.

“Will we see it again?” Erasmir asked, quiet.

Ianto fell silent and stared at the Sea of Ghosts’ expanse. “We can’t,” he said simply. “They’ll murder us both.”

Erasmir closed his eyes against the sea breeze. Should he mourn, or had the moment passed? They had been running for ages, and they were not done running just yet. Mourning could wait a while longer.

“How many septims do you have?” Erasmir changed the subject. “We need a horse, a carriage, some passage to Dawnstar. Posh Altmer or not, you’re pulling your own weight while you’re stuck with me.”

Ianto huffed a soft laugh and followed the Bosmer to the cobblestone road.

 

[Myth]

Chapter Two: The Imperial and the Redguard​

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Tankards clinked and jubilant conversation filled the tavern as its occupants slowly wandered away from sobriety.

“Janus, how many have you had?” the Redguard nudged her friend in the ribs. “Can you still play it?”

The Imperial in question experimentally plucked at the lute that sat on the table before him. “I don’t wanna play the damn thing again,” he slurred. “Worked my arse off practicin’ and went all the way to Winterhold for the gods-dammed pronun-- pronin-- how you say the words.”

The Redguard smirked. “Nah. You’re too drunk to play.”

Janus murmured something insulting and took another draft of mead.

The innkeeper shot a glance at their merriment. “Sorex! You keep an eye on your limits, boy. Your messes are yours to clean up.”

The group shouted protests back at the innkeeper, and Sorex wisely confiscated Janus’s tankard.

“Shani…” Janus whined in protest. Solitude’s local mead was quite delicious.

The Redguard woman tsked and the tavern’s bard took the half-filled tankard from Sorex.

Lisette smirked. “You know you’ve had enough when you can’t play. It’s every bard’s limit.” Janus frowned at the Breton’s teasing smile.

“It’s my right to celebrate, Liz!” He reached for the tankard, which she held away from his grasp. “C’mon, we hadda big party for you when you graduated the Bards College. It’s my graduatin’ party now.”

Shani rolled her eyes. “A party you’re not going to remember, most likely.”

“And if you spew your dinner all over the Winking Skeever, I’m stuck cleaning it. Go to bed!” Sorex shouted over the noise of the party and pointed to the stairs.


True to Shani’s word, the party was a blur in Janus’s mind the next morning. The Redguard and the young Imperial nursed their hangovers with a patient Lisette, who never seemed to falter when faced with copious amounts of alcohol. Shani always said that she had good tolerance; Janus claimed that she was a daedroth.

Shani poked at the tea leaves floating in her steaming cup. “Is Sorex up yet?”

Lisette rolled her eyes. “He’s not going to wake before noon. You know how he is after drinking.”

Janus chuckled. “Prone in bed, moaning like a draugr.”

“Exactly.”

Lisette stood over the table and propped herself on her arms. “Shani of Elinhir, the famed Companion. I suppose it does have a nice ring to it. If they accept you into their ranks, of course.”

Shani brushed off the Breton’s comment. “They’ll let me in. You said yourself you’ve never seen anyone wield axes as well as me.”

Lisette shrugged. “They’re legendary, Shani. Will your fancy axe-slashing compare to their skills?”

Shani smirked. “Only one way to find out, right?”

Lisette sighed. “Fine. But be careful out there. And look out for Janus. You know he isn’t the sharpest knife in the cupboard.”

The Imperial in question shot Lisette an insulted look, though he silently agreed that Shani’s intelligence was far superior to his. The young Redguard was a warrior, no doubt, but she refused to bring her talents to the war. It simply wasn’t her war, she’d argue.

Shani nodded in response to the Breton. “We should be leaving soon. Janus, can you get Kieran ready?”

The Imperial grunted a reply and shoved the rest of a crust of bread in his mouth, and rose from the table. The women watched him leave the inn, and Lisette turned back to Shani.

“I’ll never understand why you don’t fancy him. He’s big, shy, and stupid, but he’s good with his lute and battleaxe. He’s completely oblivious of me -- and he’s always talking about Shani this, Shani that, Shani killed an elk today and let me keep the antlers!”

The Redguard laughed. “You don’t know? He fancies men.” Lisette groaned at the gods’ unfair ways. “We’re best friends.” Shani continued. “Been together ever since he hired me out of Markarth for his journey to the College, said he would’ve suffocated if he had to work in Left Hand Mine with his parents.”

Lisette followed Shani to her room at the inn and began to help her friend gather her belongings into a pack. “Do you think Janus’ll join the Companions with you?”

Shani took her leather cuirass from its resting place on her dresser and began to fasten it over her light tunic. “I don’t see why not.” she replied. “He can fight well, even if he lacks… finesse. Maybe he can train there.”

Lisette helped the Redguard warrior into the remainder of her armor and hugged her briefly. “Write letters.” she said as the women exited the Winking Skeever.

They met with Janus outside the city gates, where the Imperial held a handsome paint by the reins. Shani stroked the horse’s nose fondly as Janus took her pack and hitched it to the rest of their belongings laden on Kieran’s saddle. Lisette hugged the tall Imperial goodbye.

“See something incredible for your verse of the Edda, alright?” she smirked. “Your portion isn’t allowed to be as amazing as mine, but go out and be a real skald.”

Janus smiled. “I’ll save the turning events of history for you.” He tugged Kieran’s reins, and the pair of aspiring warriors began their exodus from Solitude.

“Hey!” Lisette called after them. “If you see Mikael in Whiterun, tell him the College still thinks he’s a
slimy bastard!”

Janus roared with laughter.

 

[Myth]

Chapter Three: The Refugee and the Deserter​

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Trigger Warnings: Violence and Discussion of Rape/Non-Consent​

The graht-oak had rooted. Whispers joined the rustling of the leaves. Falinesti had failed to move from its northern roost when Hearth Fire had come and gone. Why? The unknown change unsettled the Bosmer that called the majestic tree home. The closing of Oblivion’s gates hadn’t brought the relief Tamriel needed - with no more Septims to rule the empire, a vacuum of power beckoned from the Imperial City. And from across the warm seas, the Thalmor overthrew Summerset Isle, and the tall, golden elves followed those seas to Valenwood, which they claimed as well.

Vvardenfell in Morrowind erupted and covered nearly half the province in poison and ash, the moons vanished for two years, the Great War left the Empire a shadow of its former self. The Thalmor banned the worship of the northern god they called Talos, Ysmir, Tiberius Septim - the emperor apotheosized to divine - for the Thalmor insisted the elves were superior to men, and that no mere human could possibly achieve such transfiguration.

As Erasmir nursed a flagon of jagga in Mother Pascost’s Tavern, he worried over the tumultuous era he had been born into. The Morndas revelry in Havel Slump was quieter and too cautious for drunken carousing and dancing. Alideir the platform ferryman had been missing for months - the young Bosmer missed his gruff, dark humor and penchant for obscure, obscene gossip. Where had he gone? The rumors and speculations swirled.

The silent rumor rang loudest of all - the suggestion no one dared to speak of, yet a secret to none. Everyone knew, but never dared to prove, that the Thalmor came in the night and took people away without a warning or reason. Perhaps the High Elves perceived reason. Imperial sympathizers. Spies. Elves of mixed blood - those whose fathers or grandfathers were human. Alideir’s father was an old Imperial courier, and the ferryman’s mixed blood shone in his rounded, merry eyes. Erasmir’s grandfather was a Breton, though his own heritage was not so visible. His name, however - Erasmir - was a portmanteau of old Cyrodillic and Aldmeris. Erasmus, meaning “beloved”, and Mir, or “jewel”. Beloved jewel, coveted treasure - Erasmir feared that the Thalmor would not see him as such.

He abandoned his flagon and tossed a few coins on the table. Perhaps he should forgo his drinks and save up for more arrows, or a better bow. Erasmir doubted it would improve his chances of survival in the event the Thalmor decided he should disappear, but it wouldn’t hurt. As he tuned to leave, a taller elf nearly trampled him as she burst through the door.

“Sylviel!” Erasmir exclaimed as the elf took him by the shoulders. She was distressed, with her pupils blown in an adrenaline rush. “Sister, why--“

“Raz, there’s no time.” His older sister grasped his hand and pulled him to the tavern’s back entrance. “Just go, move, we’ve got to leave--“

“Leave?”

“Caenir’s meeting us at the western platform dock, we’ll get a guide to Greenheart--“

“Greenheart?!”

“Yes, we’ve got to move before they realize we’re not with them--“

“Sylviel, we’re not with-- who’s them? I don’t--“

Sylviel turned to face her brother with fear written in her face. “Thalmor,” she breathed. Erasmir’s heart plummeted to his stomach. “There were some outside the house, I saw their robes, but I don’t think they saw me, but-- Raz, they’ve burned it, there was a body with hair,” Sylviel choked once. “Mother’s hair, with the bone clasp, they burned her in the street!”

Erasmir nearly stopped in the doorway. Mother… The young elf felt his eyes burn as the urgency of the situation struck him. He was to be killed if he did not run, but to run from his home? He had never been more than a few miles from the graht-oak. He couldn’t fathom what else lay in wait for him in the dense jungle, but he had heard stories of the creatures that hunted at night, the winged beasts that mimicked the voices of travelers and drove their listeners mad, or the Khajiit cathay-raht that hunted with a feline swiftness that--

A shove from Sylviel jolted Erasmir from his fearful thoughts. All his worries could wait. Now was the time for running. Now was the time for survival.

The siblings darted through the narrow alley and ran to the Western Cross of Falinesti, aware of subtle movements in the shadows. Erasmir did not stop to study the passerby, and wishfully attributed the yellow hand he had glimpsed to the sparse firelight of scattered torches and his own paranoia.

At the platform, Caenir was nowhere to be found. A shout sounded behind him, and in the distance, Erasmir could see two tall, robed figures being led by a shorter one carrying a torch. The fire illuminated Caenir’s face as he pointed to Sylviel and Erasmir, and the robed figures drew gilded bows knocked with similarly gilded arrows.

Before the realization of betrayal could register in Erasmir’s mind, his sister pushed him onto the platform with a shout. Sylviel might’ve shouted a command similar to “go” or “hurry”, but as she drew a breath to speak, she made an odd gagging noise instead. Time seemed to slow as Erasmir glanced back at her and watched one of those beautiful, gleaming arrows pierce her throat. His sister’s body crumpled to the floor. The Thalmor pushed past Caenir in a sprint for Erasmir, who was fumbling with the vine that moored the platform to the dock.

In a decisive moment, the young Bosmer drew his dagger and cut the vine, Green Pact be damned. He swung out and away from the dock, and the unlucky Thalmor who nearly followed Erasmir onto the platform sprinted into empty air. His pursuer stretched his golden arms for the platform and grasped at the air for a moment, then fell crashing through the canopies of leaves tens of stories above the forest floor. The other Thalmor agent leapt for the platform and threw his dagger in desperation. Erasmir moved to dodge the blade, but the shining dagger seemed to follow his movements as it carved through the tender flesh of his neck. He clutched at his throat as warm blood soaked his hands, and he pitched forward, suddenly falling with leaves and twigs scraping against his searing neck as blood splattered the foliage and followed him in his descent--

Erasmir awoke with a jolt and clutched at his neck, gasping for air. A dream. Just a dream, but so frightfully, terribly real. The elf rubbed his eyes and sat up in his bed roll, still exhausted, and listened to the Sea of Ghosts lapping at Dawnstar’s shore. In his memories, the dagger clipped his hair and embedded itself in a bough of the graht-oak. But the dream…

A soft sniffle from the other side of the room caught Erasmir’s attention. Ianto was awake as well, and the Bosmer silently winced out pity. The Altmer’s chest was bare, and Erasmir couldn’t help but admit fascination of how the scars of a lightning strike looked like a lightning bolt itself. A dark twisting of lines, like the branches of a tree, marred the golden flesh of Ianto’s back. Erasmir knew that underneath the High Elf’s trousers, another spray of lightning scars crawled over his left leg. Ianto’s hands were folded over his loins, and tear tracks shone in Masser’s soft light, though the High Elf’s face was serene.

“I’m alright.” Ianto said simply.

Out of respect for his pride and privacy, Erasmir had never asked Ianto to recount the events prior to their meeting, when the young Wood Elf had found his traveling companion half dead among the corpses of his Thalmor brethren. Several modestly marked graves dotted that distant, ruined Imperial outpost near the western coast of Valenwood. Erasmir inferred that whomever had resided in the outpost felt their anger towards the Aldmeri Dominion boiling in their blood, and a clash between Ianto’s fellow Thalmor and the outposts residents ensued.

The survivors hadn’t bothered to bury the dead Thalmor - Erasmir knew their hatred. But certainly such hatred could not condone Ianto’s suffering, could it? The Wood Elf thought of his first meeting with the taciturn Altmer lying naked, bloodied, and left for dead among the outpost’s ruins. His lightning burns had been raw and oozing, and his graceful body wounded and bruised in unmentionable places.

“Do you hate them?” Erasmir spoke softly to the Thalmor deserter.

“No.” Ianto replied. “I am grateful… They opened my eyes.”

Erasmir’s disbelief must have been evident, for Ianto continued - a rare moment for the High Elf, who rarely spoke more than a handful of words at a time.

“They soundly defeated me.” A strange smile twitched across his lips. “Humans slaughtered my soldiers like swine before the butcher. They were a simple motley group surviving off dried meats and what they could gather from the forest. They knew not how your people hunted. Yet they ravaged twice their number in selectively bred Altmer trained by the finest officers of the Summerset Isle, and myself… such anger they bore.”

A golden hand traced the network of scars across his chest. “And such skill… It was a Nord who bested me, I remember, sweating like a horse in that dense air. A common mage unused to his environment. But the lightning from him… it was like the force of a god. It raged through my best wards, and it was beautiful, like flames of ice…

“They told us we were the supreme race of Tamriel, my teachers and commanders and family. They gave me such assurance that I would smite the belligerent humans that dared question the truth we brought, but they were wrong - unable to comprehend that a single man could wield such magic to oppose my years of instruction and training. I never imagined a human could perform such sorcery myself, until he nearly sent me to Oblivion.”

“But… h-he…” Erasmir quietly stammered.

“Raped me?” Ianto finished, seemingly unperturbed.

Erasmir bowed his head. “Yes… that.”

The High Elf’s composure seemed to falter for a minute. “He was rightfully angry.”

“But he must’ve intended to kill--“

“I killed his kin. I killed men with pride and joy in my heart.”

Erasmir could not find an answer to Ianto’s blunt and grisly statement.

“Why did you tend to me?” the Altmer suddenly changed the subject.

Erasmir blinked.

“You stopped and tended to me,” Ianto repeated when the Bosmer said nothing. “You dressed my wounds and stayed until I could follow.”

Erasmir furrowed his brow. Why indeed? The Altmer were the enemy. Perhaps Ianto’s punishment was justified, and death respite… Or was the Wood Elf so naturally compelled or moved by pity? Should he have pity for a mage who affiliated with his mother and sister’s murderers? Or even the unthinkable, if Ianto had been the one to set fire to his mother’s corpse or loose the arrow to his sister’s neck?

“I don’t know.” The Bosmer simply said.

“I know not why I followed,” Ianto replied. “Perhaps repentance? Repentance…” The High Elf appeared sorrowful for a moment. “I - we were wrong. All of us - the Thalmor - the Dominion - there is no supreme race. We are a delusional people. I want to live with clear sight.”

Ianto suddenly grinned. “We are fated, yes?”

Erasmir held back a shiver. Perhaps, while his body was broken and bruised, Ianto had received a gentle kiss from Sheogorath.

“I’m going to wash clothes,” Erasmir excused himself. “It’s nearly dawn, and we won’t get any more sleep anyway…”

Ianto nodded. “Such a peculiar plague, nightmares. A sickness of the mind carried to the body through the poisons of insomnia. Truly, a double-edged sword…”

Erasmir rubbed his tired eyes and gathered their dirty clothes.

Dawnstar was literally a nightmare.

 

[Myth]

Chapter Four: The Whelp and the Warrior​

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“Again! Keep your form together!”

Shani glanced at Janus watching her toil, swinging at a practice mannequin. She assumed he could understand her struggle, maybe - none of the Companions used war axes, so perhaps it was hard for them to teach her properly. It still perturbed her that she wasn’t improving, despite her constant practice.

Shani yelled and swept her axe through the wooden pole supporting the mannequin. Its straw head sailed across Jorrvaskr’s yard. “What’s the point if it doesn’t fight back?!” she shouted to no one in particular. “I can’t guard against nothing!”

Vilkas frowned from his seat on the porch. “You’re supposed to be using your imagination, whelp.”

Shani continued to argue. “If I imagine it, I still know where the attack is coming from.”

Janus interrupted. “Vilkas, I could spar with her--“

Vilkas sighed. “You’re always her sparring partner. She knows your style, and she can beat you blindfolded. She’s not used to fighting other skilled adversaries, though, that’s the problem--“

Shani yelled again and chopped down the mannequin.

The dark-haired Nord huffed. “You’ll be spending your evening making a new practice dummy,” he muttered as he returned to the mead hall.

The Redguard stomped to the porch and took a seat on one of the benches. She glared at Janus, who was watching the sunset’s pink clouds in an attempt to avoid her eyes. “You. You’re all chummy with this bunch, you tell them to find me a sparring partner!”

Janus opened his mouth to reply, but his friend continued to rant. “Get Athis! Ria! Get Njada, that stuck-up bitch! I don’t care! Just get me someone who doesn’t swing around a giant, hulking weapon so I can learn to be faster!”

Janus nodded in his amiable manner. “Njada doesn’t mind me too much, I’ll see if she’s free after that job with the saber cat… How does a saber cat even get into a general store? I could never imagine--“

Shani groaned. “She just left for that job! Can’t you just pick up a sword and swing it around, pretend like you know how to use it? We could practice tonight, and maybe you’d even learn something about smaller weapons.”

Janus grimaced. “Not tonight. Skjor said he had something for me.”

The Redguard sighed. “You’re always getting better jobs than me. I’m the one who showed you to fight… How did you get so strong? I’m still a whelp, and you’ve already passed your Trial.”

Janus shrugged, sheepish. “I guess I get along with them.”

“And I don’t,” Shani complained.

The Redguard could see the wheels turning in the Imperial’s head as he tried not to outwardly agree with her.
“You’re…” He searched for the right words. “You’re, uh, abrasive?” Janus tried. “Or not abrasive, just, um… you don’t like it when people hold you back. Yeah.”

Shani raised an eyebrow.

Janus elaborated. “They’re holding you back, right? You wanna do the good jobs, beat up thieves, rescue people. And they keep telling you you’re not skilled enough. So maybe you should just… not yell at them so much when they tell you ‘no’.”

“I still won’t get any better than I am now.” Shani retorted.

“Maybe you should do what they tell you?” the Imperial offered.

“So what, cart around everyone’s swords to the Skyforge for repairs and be a gods-damned page boy?”

“No! Just do the simple jobs… Ask Farkas for them. He’s not as harsh as the others. Maybe if you do the jobs well, you’ll move up.” Janus shrugged. “You came here ready to make a name for yourself. I just wanted to follow you like I always do. So I did what they told me…”

Shani’s expression softened. “And you became strong.”

“I guess so. But I still think you’re the strong one. Your spirit’s stronger than mine.”

The corner of her mouth twitched in a wry smile. “Fine. I’ll take a cruddy job.”

“And make a new practice dummy?” Janus asked innocently, eyeing the decimated wooden post.

Shani rolled her eyes. “I’ll get started on that. You get yourself to whatever Skjor’s got planned.”

Janus smiled his amiable smile and nodded. “I’ll see you later.”

“Did he say what you were gonna do?”

Janus shook his head as he left the porch. “Nope. He just said he had something different planned.”

“Typical Companions,” Shani replied as she entered Jorrvaskr. “Act first, ask questions later.”

Janus smiled as he walked towards the steps to the Skyforge. The legendary fires illuminated the fading half-light of dusk.

The last thing he remembered that day was the sunset’s pink clouds.

 

[Myth]

Chapter Five: The Veteran and the Youth​

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“I can’t stay here.”

Ianto’s pickaxe halted from its swinging arc as he regarded at the young Bosmer. Erasmir gripped his own pickaxe in his hands, but its weight seemed to drag him down. The elf’s wiry build was not suited for mining, Ianto thought. He was wilting like a flower suddenly exposed to a night’s frost.

Ianto set down his pickaxe. The Altmer could understand his companion’s weariness. Sleep was precious in Dawnstar, and no one could catch more than a meager handful of hours each night. Twisted dreams plagued the settlement like a disease and kept everyone in a lethargic state of existence.

“Can’t stay?” Ianto repeated. Erasmir shook his head.

“I… I’m not like you. I’m not a soldier, I can’t be brave. I can’t watch them all die every night, I-I can’t…” A mist seemed to cloud over the younger elf’s eyes.

He quietly regarded Erasmir, who awkwardly toyed with a small rock on the ground with the sole of his boot. The Bosmer was emotional, perhaps overly so. He was young, barely out of his teenage years, and though his survival instinct might be strong, he had never learned to steel himself against the terrors of the mind. Erasmir /felt/ with all his being. He was raw and inexperienced to psychological warfare, though Ianto admitted the Wood Elf was far from stupid. He would survive, but the less his heart ached, the better.

“You assume the nightmares will cease if you leave Dawnstar?” Ianto asked, not unkindly.

“I’m not sure…” the young Bosmer quietly replied.

Ianto leaned against his pickaxe. “It’s not a pointless theory. Perhaps the shadow clinging to this town has a limited reach? You may try to escape it.”

When Erasmir failed to reply, the Altmer further prompted, “You can take the map stowed in my belongings. The road south leads to Morthal, and then to Whiterun. You should be able to find work in either town.” Ianto paused. “Take Alsvid with you. The quicker you get to a town, the less likely you’ll find danger along the way.”

Erasmir protested weakly. “But you bought the horse…”

Ianto shrugged. “I don’t have any use for him here. I’m not going anywhere for now.”

The loud clatter of a wooden spoon on a pot rang throughout the mine, signaling the working day’s end. The miners sighed and stretched, dropping their pickaxes and trudging up to the crisp, fresh air. The Altmer watched as Erasmir discreetly passed a septim to the Redguard child who tirelessly ran food to the miners each day. The ghost of a smile twitched over Ianto’s golden lips.

The elves followed the trickle of tired miners to the Windpeak Inn, where the alluring promise of a fire and food beckoned. They sat alone at a table, vaguely conscious of the local Nords’ general distrust of anyone with pointed ears. Snatches of overheard rumors suggested that the Jarl had raised a fuss over letting the Altmer and the young Bosmer reside in Dawnstar, but Beitild had countered him with a fuss of similar magnitude to keep him from antagonizing her new workers. More workers meant more profit, and more profit meant more opportunities to spite Leigelf and his Quicksilver Mine. And no one, not even the Jarl, wanted to be caught between the blown-out-of-proportion couple’s quarrel.

Erasmir absently stirred his bowl of soup, which grew colder as it went uneaten. “I think there’s a stable in Whiterun. If you manage to get there, you could sell Alsvid for some gold to help you start…”

“But what about you?” The younger elf watched Ianto with large, amber eyes.

“I’ll probably save up for the means to follow you. Until then, I’ll work here.” He shrugged, giving Erasmir one of his mysterious, unreadable expressions. “I am used to such nightly terrors already.”

The Wood Elf was exhausted, painfully so, and unable to argue. He nodded dumbly. “I’ll set out tomorrow.”

Ianto smiled, wide and full of teeth, and its sudden brilliance caught the Bosmer off-guard. It was not a particularly happy smile - instead, it seemed eerie. Erasmir held back a shudder as he turned back to his cold soup.

”He’ll be fine on his own. There’s untapped potential in that one.”

The Altmer gave a small nod which Erasmir most likely perceived as a reply to his decision. Perhaps Ianto himself had never mastered such techniques of preserving his mind - the Nord Battlemage often spoke to him in his head when the Altmer had a quiet moment to himself. The animosity between them had since died down from that occurrence in Valenwood, and the odd presence in his mind held a sort of gruff respect for his surviving of the ordeal. Ianto also suspected that the Nord was quite tickled of the fact that an Altmer admired his skills. The Nord was a fabricated presence in his mind, yes, Ianto was aware, but he had such character that the Altmer cared not. And the Nord was his teacher, of sorts. How wonderful to have one’s teacher always with him.

 

[Myth]

Chapter Six: The Argonian​

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A blinding flash of light, and the ancient dagger clattered to the floor. He gaped at the spot where his colleague once stood. Aside from the dagger and the gem, there was no tangible proof that a man named Arniel Gane had ever existed.

The Argonain twitched his tail in agitation. Would he come back? Reappear in the same fashion in which he vanished? Or was he gone to Oblivion, or some other realm beyond Mundus? He shuddered to think of where his fellow conjurer might be. His eyes stared at the strange, warped soul gem, the stand-in for the Heart of Lorkhan. If Arniel had disappeared, had the experiment been a failure or a tragic success? Was he with the Dwemer, or somewhere else entirely? Perhaps he was--

“Junel-Lei!”

The light, female voice shocked the Argonian mage from his confused thoughts. He closed his mouth, which had been hanging open in shock, and did his best to regain his composure.

“Yes, Nirya?” he offered politely, burying his awe, though he doubted the High Elf could read his expression. Men and Mir often complained of how cool and expressionless the residents of Black Marsh seemed.

Nirya arched a graceful eyebrow as she looked at the warped soul gem, the archaic dagger on the floor, and back to Junel-Lei. “What are you doing, exactly?” she asked, warily curious.

The scaly mage shrugged. “I was helping Arniel with an experiment of his. However, I’m not sure where he is right now…” Well, it wasn’t a lie.

Nirya rolled her golden eyes. “That Dwemer research? And I’ll bet he hasn’t told you a bit of what he’s actually trying to accomplish. The man’s so paranoid of others stealing his findings; it’s maddening. No matter, I’ll let you know if I see him.” The High Elf departed with a casual wave of her hand, going back to her own studies.

Junel-Lei sighed when she was out of earshot and ran a hand over his head, through his shock of glossy red feathers. Though other Argonian males clammed he looked effeminate with his lack of horns, Junel-Lei relished his ability to wear fine cowls and hoods while his brethren were forced to cut holes for their keratin protrusions.

Carefully, he bent down and examined the dagger on the floor, surprised to find that it no longer stung when he touched it with the tip of his claw. Whatever mortal enchantment placed upon the dagger was gone. Junel-Lei grasped it by the handle and on a retrospectively foolish whim, struck the warped soul gem. But the charge had similarly left the glowing crystal, and nothing happened, perhaps for the better.

“Keening…” the Argonian muttered, staring at the dagger. Keening was the wailing and mourning and sounds of sorrow, but of what? The proud Dwemer, whose works now crumbled to ruins when they fiddled with the heart of a dead god? Arniel, who gave no thought to the dangers and focused only on the profit of his research? It was the regretful cry of the prideful upon finding that their stature was as transparent as Keening’s blue blade.

Junel-Lei slipped the ancient dagger into his sleeve, resolving to buy a sheath for it. The Argonian exited his beloved college and tiptoed his way across the stone bridge to Winterhold. The crumbling stone always made him nervous, though it had survived Julianos-knows-how-many mages tramping across the bridge for centuries. Nonetheless, Junel-Lei raised his tail for balance and refused to step on any suspicious-looking cracks in the stone.

Despite the constant state of gloom that hung over Winterhold like a plague, Birna’s Oddments was his favorite store. Granted, it was the only store in Winterhold, but Birna herself was somewhat more enlightened than the other Nords that sparsely populated the town. Of course, her tolerance for a certain Argonian conjurer might have something to do with his constant purchases and amiable company, but Junel-Lei liked to think his charming attitude was only a minor factor. One mustn’t be too prideful of himself.

The door banged open with the familiar slap-thump of Junel-Lei catching the door’s handle with his tail and yanking it closed against the cold, snowy air. Birna stood up from leaning on her elbows against the counter, a position that bespoke of boredom, and turned her attention to his toothy grin. She smiled back politely, though the conjurer hadn’t quite mastered the art of imitating human facial expressions.

“Hello, June.” The Argonian happily relaxed at the nickname. “Have you charmed those necklaces that you bought last time?”

“The necklaces? Oh!” Junel-Lei rummaged in his satchel at his belt, then gave up and dumped its contents on the counter. Shards of discarded soul gems and miscellaneous bits of jewelry scattered across the wooden surface. Birna avoided touching a rather antique amulet that seemed to glow ominously.

“Necklaces!” Junel-Lei said triumphantly as he gathered several silver pedants and brandished them in his fist. They shone with a strange green sheen when the light caught them at just the right angle. Birna smiled. “The usual two hundred for each?”

The enchanter waved the offer away. “I’ve come into some money with my other ventures. Just give me a hundred for each.”

Birna balked at the offer. “It’s too low!” she said, shocked. “These sell for more than four times that price, it isn’t fair--“

Junel-Lei held up a scaly, gray hand, cutting off her protests. “Birna, it’s my investment in the shop… I need you staying afloat here in Winterhold.”

The Nord sighed. “Shor knows I could use the profit… Ranmir found where I’d been hiding my money. He’s already wasted at least a quarter of my income on drowning his misery before I noticed. I hid it somewhere else, but…” she rolled her eyes. “You know how it goes. I hide it, he finds it, he spends it on enough mead to kill a horse.”

Junel-Lei nodded. “I’ll find you a lockbox the next time I travel. But I insist -- One hundred for each necklace, and perhaps you can help me with something else…” The Argonian drew Keening from his sleeve and placed it upon the counter.

Birna stared at the ancient blade. “What in Oblivion is that?”

Junel-Lei shrugged. “A rather ancient, magical dagger. I believe it dates back to the Second Era.”

Birna’s slender brows raised in interest. “Quite the artifact, I suppose…”

“I just need a scabbard for it,” the Argonian elaborated. “I had a feeling that it could come in handy during my next trip.”

The Nord nodded and opened a chest that stood at the foot of the counter. She removed a bit of twine from its confines and set to carefully measuring the eldritch weapon without actually touching it. “I’ve got a few spare scraps of leather… I’ll have a sheath ready by tomorrow, if you’d like.”

Junel-Lei grinned his unsettling smile. “Perfect. One hundred for each pedant, and the scabbard tomorrow. It’s a shame the patrons never seem to use the stamina necklaces for their intended purpose.”

Birna smirked and gathered the shimmering silver into the chest. “They’re meant to help one’s energy consumption with exercise, like combat, traveling…” She shrugged. “Lovemaking is a valid exercise, isn’t it?”

Junel-Lei’s grin widened.