This was foolish, she realized. Regardless of what the Dragonborn would have done, she, Lydia, would need a torch. She turned, looking for the shape of the ground.
A sound came out of the darkness like it was directly behind her: a loud grunt, deep and insistent and seeking, like a question. Lydia stepped back instinctively.
There was nothing under her foot.
That feeling of weightlessness returned, but she was far from weightless; she was heavy in her steel armor, and she was falling, kicking her legs, praying to Talos and Mara and all the gods not like this--
Her body slammed into a pile of bones. Even in pitch darkness she knew them by the sound they made, that hollow music as they jostled and clicked against each other. She lay still with something sharp pressed against her cheek, listening.
The wind was the only sound.
She pushed herself to her feet, grimacing at the loudness of the bones. She groped in the darkness for her sword--
Her arm ached. It was a sharp ache; an urgent pain. She touched it with her other hand, expecting blood. The skin was unbroken. As a test, she squeezed it.
Dizziness buckled her knees as she sucked in air through her teeth. That arm was no good. Fortunately it wasn't her sword arm, but the shield--
Where was her shield?
She looked up at the ledge she'd fallen from. It was a sliver of ice blue in the darkness, and there, on the precipice, a metal point glimmered.
Her sword.
Her heart sank. Her shield was likely up there with it. This was her reward for being brave; to be flung deep into the earth where no one could hear her prayers, weaponless and hurting.
She got to her feet again, feeling for a wall with one hand while her useless arm hung at her side, throbbing angrily. Her fingers found a cold wet wall. She dragged them along it as she walked, stepping on bones, snapping the thin ones under her feet. The grunting sound she'd heard had not come again, but it echoed in her ears. Though her eyes were opened wide, she could see nothing - not even the new thing she stepped on. She toed it experimentally. It was soft and it shifted under her boot.
She knew what it was before she bent down to touch it, telling herself not to bother, to just keep walking; but it was too difficult to stop herself from grabbing a handful of rough wool, pressing against the corpse underneath it. She could feel that the cloth was crusted with blood. It was impossible to tell how much man there was left, but she knew what this corridor was: table scraps, thrown away.
Or else they'd left their food here for later, whatever they were. She had to get out. She made her way through faster, disgusted to find that there were more bodies; so many bodies that they made up the floor, and her boots touched no stone until she had gone some way. The stench from earlier had gotten stronger.
When the croaking grunt came again it stopped her heart. It sounded farther away than it had, but she did not move again until it had been silent for a long moment, and even then she prayed with every step - not to any god, but to the ground, willing it not to betray her.
He'll go to Whiterun expecting you, and no one will be there. The thought made her eyes sting. She wiped her cheeks with the backs of her dirt-stained fingers, feeling young and inexperienced and cowardly to wish that her Thane would come and find her.
A light in the darkness began to glow ahead of her as she followed the tunnel. She had to tell herself not to hope, that it was not the way out. She had gotten too turned around; for all she knew, she was heading into the heart of the mountain.
As she got closer she saw that it was a room: pale light shone on rock ledges and spires. A tall cavern. That was better than this vile tunnel--
There was a shuffling sound ahead. A crunch. Lydia froze.
The unmistakable sound of chewing, made louder by the size of the cave, echoed around her. She crept forward.
Heavy leg bones, human bones, littered the entrance to the doorway, as if something had been too lazy to take them down to the heap at the end of the tunnel. Light filtered in from above, from some hole in the mountain.
Tunneldown 2/3
A sound came out of the darkness like it was directly behind her: a loud grunt, deep and insistent and seeking, like a question. Lydia stepped back instinctively.
There was nothing under her foot.
That feeling of weightlessness returned, but she was far from weightless; she was heavy in her steel armor, and she was falling, kicking her legs, praying to Talos and Mara and all the gods not like this--
Her body slammed into a pile of bones. Even in pitch darkness she knew them by the sound they made, that hollow music as they jostled and clicked against each other. She lay still with something sharp pressed against her cheek, listening.
The wind was the only sound.
She pushed herself to her feet, grimacing at the loudness of the bones. She groped in the darkness for her sword--
Her arm ached. It was a sharp ache; an urgent pain. She touched it with her other hand, expecting blood. The skin was unbroken. As a test, she squeezed it.
Dizziness buckled her knees as she sucked in air through her teeth. That arm was no good. Fortunately it wasn't her sword arm, but the shield--
Where was her shield?
She looked up at the ledge she'd fallen from. It was a sliver of ice blue in the darkness, and there, on the precipice, a metal point glimmered.
Her sword.
Her heart sank. Her shield was likely up there with it. This was her reward for being brave; to be flung deep into the earth where no one could hear her prayers, weaponless and hurting.
She got to her feet again, feeling for a wall with one hand while her useless arm hung at her side, throbbing angrily. Her fingers found a cold wet wall. She dragged them along it as she walked, stepping on bones, snapping the thin ones under her feet. The grunting sound she'd heard had not come again, but it echoed in her ears. Though her eyes were opened wide, she could see nothing - not even the new thing she stepped on. She toed it experimentally. It was soft and it shifted under her boot.
She knew what it was before she bent down to touch it, telling herself not to bother, to just keep walking; but it was too difficult to stop herself from grabbing a handful of rough wool, pressing against the corpse underneath it. She could feel that the cloth was crusted with blood. It was impossible to tell how much man there was left, but she knew what this corridor was: table scraps, thrown away.
Or else they'd left their food here for later, whatever they were. She had to get out. She made her way through faster, disgusted to find that there were more bodies; so many bodies that they made up the floor, and her boots touched no stone until she had gone some way. The stench from earlier had gotten stronger.
When the croaking grunt came again it stopped her heart. It sounded farther away than it had, but she did not move again until it had been silent for a long moment, and even then she prayed with every step - not to any god, but to the ground, willing it not to betray her.
He'll go to Whiterun expecting you, and no one will be there. The thought made her eyes sting. She wiped her cheeks with the backs of her dirt-stained fingers, feeling young and inexperienced and cowardly to wish that her Thane would come and find her.
A light in the darkness began to glow ahead of her as she followed the tunnel. She had to tell herself not to hope, that it was not the way out. She had gotten too turned around; for all she knew, she was heading into the heart of the mountain.
As she got closer she saw that it was a room: pale light shone on rock ledges and spires. A tall cavern. That was better than this vile tunnel--
There was a shuffling sound ahead. A crunch. Lydia froze.
The unmistakable sound of chewing, made louder by the size of the cave, echoed around her. She crept forward.
Heavy leg bones, human bones, littered the entrance to the doorway, as if something had been too lazy to take them down to the heap at the end of the tunnel. Light filtered in from above, from some hole in the mountain.