It was all Nibenor could do to try and lead the soul through the mist, his own eyes seeing more clearly than the fallen man’s. The cold hand on his back disturbed him, but there was no other way to help him, practically blind as he was in the mist.
A roar from above halted the elf steps and the soul swallowed thickly. Nibenor cast a glance to him, watching him searching desperately in the fog. His own eyes narrowed as he looked up and around. It was impossible to find Alduin by sight and the mist only distorted the sound of his roars, confusing the direction it came from.
“He’s here...he’s coming for me...Dragonborn please...”
“It’s ok, he’s not going to get you,” the hand dropped from his back, even as he attempted to convince the man, “we just have to keep moving. If we stop, then he’ll find us. And I’m sure it’s not far now.”
He took a few steps forwards, stopping to look up when a roar sounded again, closer now. Jaws snapped. Nibenor turned, finding only swirling mist where the soul had been, gone in Alduin’s wake.
He swallowed thickly. The man had been too scared, too grief stricken to even give his name and he could only feel shame that he had not tried harder to get it out of him. When he returned, he knew people would ask about Sovngarde and he would tell them what he saw and what he did...how he met a Nord soul quaking in fear, snapped up by Alduin minutes after he found him, and not a name to remember him by.
It was only the will to not let it happen to another that forced him on, sorrow raging through his chest at the thought that there was nothing left of the man anymore. Around him, roars echoed and he wondered how many souls were wandering out here, lost and blind and frightened, how many were being snapped up. And with every one, Alduin’s power grew.
The sorrow changed, curling in his chest, the chill of it fading as something hotter took its place. His steps quickened, his eyes keener now as he stalked through the mist and it seemed to only take moments to break through the final curtain of it, to where the air was clear and bright.
The Hall of Valour loomed before him, grand and bright, its braziers warming sending the air above the curling and shimmering. The whalebone bridge that he had been told about gleamed white against the darkness of the chasm below.
It was only the figure standing before it that stopped him from rushing to it, and he stepped carefully instead, approaching the figure cautiously.
He was bigger than any Nord he’d ever seen before, broad and barrel chested, bigger even than his own Farkas who dwarfed most others. The giant axe across his back longer than Nibenor was tall. He must have appeared a mere child to the man, but he stepped forward regardless.
The man looked down as he approached, a look of curiosity on his bearded face. Thick arms crossed over his bare chest.
“What brings you, wayfarer grim, to wander here in Sovngarde Souls-End, Shor’s gift to the honoured dead?”
Nibenor blinked, listening as the resonance of the man’s voice faded, lingering in the air. The tones were as deep as befitted a man of his bulk, low as Paarthurnax’s own notes.
Re: Misfire: Welcome Returns, sequel to 'All creatures great and small' 2a/?
It was all Nibenor could do to try and lead the soul through the mist, his own eyes seeing more clearly than the fallen man’s. The cold hand on his back disturbed him, but there was no other way to help him, practically blind as he was in the mist.
A roar from above halted the elf steps and the soul swallowed thickly. Nibenor cast a glance to him, watching him searching desperately in the fog. His own eyes narrowed as he looked up and around. It was impossible to find Alduin by sight and the mist only distorted the sound of his roars, confusing the direction it came from.
“He’s here...he’s coming for me...Dragonborn please...”
“It’s ok, he’s not going to get you,” the hand dropped from his back, even as he attempted to convince the man, “we just have to keep moving. If we stop, then he’ll find us. And I’m sure it’s not far now.”
He took a few steps forwards, stopping to look up when a roar sounded again, closer now. Jaws snapped. Nibenor turned, finding only swirling mist where the soul had been, gone in Alduin’s wake.
He swallowed thickly. The man had been too scared, too grief stricken to even give his name and he could only feel shame that he had not tried harder to get it out of him. When he returned, he knew people would ask about Sovngarde and he would tell them what he saw and what he did...how he met a Nord soul quaking in fear, snapped up by Alduin minutes after he found him, and not a name to remember him by.
It was only the will to not let it happen to another that forced him on, sorrow raging through his chest at the thought that there was nothing left of the man anymore. Around him, roars echoed and he wondered how many souls were wandering out here, lost and blind and frightened, how many were being snapped up. And with every one, Alduin’s power grew.
The sorrow changed, curling in his chest, the chill of it fading as something hotter took its place. His steps quickened, his eyes keener now as he stalked through the mist and it seemed to only take moments to break through the final curtain of it, to where the air was clear and bright.
The Hall of Valour loomed before him, grand and bright, its braziers warming sending the air above the curling and shimmering. The whalebone bridge that he had been told about gleamed white against the darkness of the chasm below.
It was only the figure standing before it that stopped him from rushing to it, and he stepped carefully instead, approaching the figure cautiously.
He was bigger than any Nord he’d ever seen before, broad and barrel chested, bigger even than his own Farkas who dwarfed most others. The giant axe across his back longer than Nibenor was tall. He must have appeared a mere child to the man, but he stepped forward regardless.
The man looked down as he approached, a look of curiosity on his bearded face. Thick arms crossed over his bare chest.
“What brings you, wayfarer grim, to wander here in Sovngarde Souls-End, Shor’s gift to the honoured dead?”
Nibenor blinked, listening as the resonance of the man’s voice faded, lingering in the air. The tones were as deep as befitted a man of his bulk, low as Paarthurnax’s own notes.