((I just realized that I should have made a point that this is part of a series with Vilkas and the Artist from Valenwood. I shoulda made that obvy before but the previous one is "Muses and Mead"))
It was cold and eerily silent on the steep descent to the dead sea. The bosmer had never been this far north, feeling bitter wind literally chill his bones and very soul like the dead. “By the nine, this cold is pure torture!” he admitted loudly, startling the Nord who looked like he'd been up to his ears in heavy thoughts. No response- and no more words shared between them until with a push and leap, they where on a canoe to the island.
Vilkas sat with his legs astride, fingers interlocked at his chin. He remained utterly silent, imagining his brother taking this very trip not weeks ago- he will be brave. The bitter wind rocked their boat, the water glossy and frothed with ice and foam “I see it, just up ahead. If no one has made a little visit to the tomb, then the door should have been left open.. saves us the entire trip down.” Vilkas didn't look at him, merely nodding and steeling himself for the landing as their boat crunched snow on the banks.
“This is it, then.” The Nord finally said, staring at the staircase, easing his way past each icy step to stare at the ancient gateway. It looks bigger than he remembers it.. “My soul is ready.” He admits after a huge sigh, hands on the door.
“I am by your side.”
The air inside smelled just as awful as he could remember it- Vilkas preferred reading of ancient tombs rather than violating their sanctity. He felt shame when they approached the statue of Ysgramor, his mighty Wuuthrad that the Bosmer wielded was still perched in his stony hands. To think, he was going to descend to the depths and approach his very coffin. He gulped, and the mer silently guided him the right way.
Down spiraling steps that creaked with age. His hands shook.
Through a tunnel dark as night. His head hurt.
And out to the massive chamber that was Ysgramor's tomb and the resting place of all the Harbingers afterwards..except Kodlak. “Divines..” He breathlessly said, eyes up at the vaulted ceilings, the countless rows of stone coffins holding glorious warriors of old.
None awoke to their spying. Vilkas' mind hurt as he approached the blue flame, enchanted by it's penetrating glow. It was now or never- the less time he spent worrying the easier this will be. “I'm ready. Give me the witches head”
He looked in the sunken eyes of the leathery head, unspoiled by dark magic. It's mouth hung open and stench wafted through, making him feel nauseous.
“Kodlak is watching. The Harbingers of old are watching. This is what they wanted for you.”
His heart is tense, but he is strong. Vilkas tosses the head into the fire, watching smoke curl and sputter from it's blazing core. His other hand already reaching for his sword but it misses the pommel, his fingers seemingly fluttering off and into the air behind him. Suddenly, he couldn't feel them.
There is a heartstopping pause. Vilkas was suddenly staring at the artist with a look of complete cluelessness- gazing at him with wide eyes as if he was completely gone from this world. Suddenly Vilkas is completely gone from this world, stumbling forward on his feet with his arms reaching out for purchase. The changing Nord sees the elf before him, watches him and his lips are moving but there is no sound- He didn't know who that mer was.
Suddenly Vilkas stumbles back, lights fading in and out, darkness and shifting shapes falling into infinite loops- “Are you okay?” the mer asks, seeing as if the tall man was hit by a blast of wind as he stumbles further and further back, unable to stand up.
Vilkas must have heard him- because all the man could do was let out a panicked, haunting moan as the feeling of his soul tearing in half began. Vilkas' visions the repeating lights and the echoing sounds...suddenly they began to make a dream. Running wolves, panting breath, the sound of paws on the grass and beams of moonlight shining through trees as he sprinted towards them.
Purity 4
It was cold and eerily silent on the steep descent to the dead sea. The bosmer had never been this far north, feeling bitter wind literally chill his bones and very soul like the dead. “By the nine, this cold is pure torture!” he admitted loudly, startling the Nord who looked like he'd been up to his ears in heavy thoughts. No response- and no more words shared between them until with a push and leap, they where on a canoe to the island.
Vilkas sat with his legs astride, fingers interlocked at his chin. He remained utterly silent, imagining his brother taking this very trip not weeks ago- he will be brave. The bitter wind rocked their boat, the water glossy and frothed with ice and foam “I see it, just up ahead. If no one has made a little visit to the tomb, then the door should have been left open.. saves us the entire trip down.” Vilkas didn't look at him, merely nodding and steeling himself for the landing as their boat crunched snow on the banks.
“This is it, then.” The Nord finally said, staring at the staircase, easing his way past each icy step to stare at the ancient gateway. It looks bigger than he remembers it.. “My soul is ready.” He admits after a huge sigh, hands on the door.
“I am by your side.”
The air inside smelled just as awful as he could remember it- Vilkas preferred reading of ancient tombs rather than violating their sanctity. He felt shame when they approached the statue of Ysgramor, his mighty Wuuthrad that the Bosmer wielded was still perched in his stony hands. To think, he was going to descend to the depths and approach his very coffin. He gulped, and the mer silently guided him the right way.
Down spiraling steps that creaked with age. His hands shook.
Through a tunnel dark as night. His head hurt.
And out to the massive chamber that was Ysgramor's tomb and the resting place of all the Harbingers afterwards..except Kodlak. “Divines..” He breathlessly said, eyes up at the vaulted ceilings, the countless rows of stone coffins holding glorious warriors of old.
None awoke to their spying. Vilkas' mind hurt as he approached the blue flame, enchanted by it's penetrating glow. It was now or never- the less time he spent worrying the easier this will be. “I'm ready. Give me the witches head”
He looked in the sunken eyes of the leathery head, unspoiled by dark magic. It's mouth hung open and stench wafted through, making him feel nauseous.
“Kodlak is watching. The Harbingers of old are watching. This is what they wanted for you.”
His heart is tense, but he is strong. Vilkas tosses the head into the fire, watching smoke curl and sputter from it's blazing core. His other hand already reaching for his sword but it misses the pommel, his fingers seemingly fluttering off and into the air behind him. Suddenly, he couldn't feel them.
There is a heartstopping pause. Vilkas was suddenly staring at the artist with a look of complete cluelessness- gazing at him with wide eyes as if he was completely gone from this world. Suddenly Vilkas is completely gone from this world, stumbling forward on his feet with his arms reaching out for purchase. The changing Nord sees the elf before him, watches him and his lips are moving but there is no sound- He didn't know who that mer was.
Suddenly Vilkas stumbles back, lights fading in and out, darkness and shifting shapes falling into infinite loops- “Are you okay?” the mer asks, seeing as if the tall man was hit by a blast of wind as he stumbles further and further back, unable to stand up.
Vilkas must have heard him- because all the man could do was let out a panicked, haunting moan as the feeling of his soul tearing in half began. Vilkas' visions the repeating lights and the echoing sounds...suddenly they began to make a dream. Running wolves, panting breath, the sound of paws on the grass and beams of moonlight shining through trees as he sprinted towards them.