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ANNOUNCEMENTS: UPDATED 12/16/2017

Happy Holidays, fellow Kinkmemers! I have returned and have no reasonable excuse for my absence except LIFE. I will be working on updating the archives. If anyone sees anything amiss, please let me know.

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The Writing On The Wall - 2/7

[(Anonymous)]

He could have left him in Riverwood. Alvor would have kept him safe. But he'd had to take Martin to Whiterun (arguing with himself that he couldn't possibly trust a man with no memory to find the way unescorted) to bear witness to the Jarl. Once they'd told Jarl Balgruuf about the dragon, they'd been asked to go to Bleak Falls Barrow to find a (or possibly, the) Dragonstone. It couldn't be a coincidence. There had to be some connection... but what? He was getting used to his sleep being interrupted by Martin's nightmares, and hearing him mumble things in a half-awake state which made no sense at all. Clearly, something absolutely terrible was buried in Martin's past. Was he deliberately suppressing his memories?

---

Hadvar shook himself. While he'd been daydreaming, they'd reached the entrance to what he suspected must be the final chambers. Far deeper into the barrow than he'd ever gone with Ralof, this door required the golden claw which he'd taken from the corpse of the Dunmer bandit. It turned out to be a key, of sorts – its three prongs fitted a slot on the door. Hadvar put it in place and tried to open the lock, but three wheels set into the door simply spun around without anything else happening. There were also three different symbols on each wheel, and he spent a dizzy moment attempting to work out how many possible combinations that made.

“Let me see that,” said Martin, his soft voice a surprise. He had been examining the murals on the walls of the ancient hallway, and was now almost whispering.

Hadvar handed him the claw, and the priest turned it over in his big hands. “Here,” he remarked, giving it back to Hadvar with the “fingers” pointing upwards. “The solution is imprinted upon it.”

He reached for the door, turning the wheels to match the pattern of bear-butterfly-owl. Hadvar fitted the claw to the slot again, and this time the door opened, sliding downwards in a dramatic show of ancient engineering. Martin smiled, and the two men went onwards.

They entered a room larger than Hadvar would have believed possible. A natural cave with waterfalls and a stream flowing through it, plus some of the hardy plants that seemed to manage with so little light. A bridge was carved out of the rock, allowing visitors to cross the stream without getting their feet wet; and stairs led up to a raised dais, all hewn from the cavern's own rock. Another set of stairs continued further up, almost to the roof of the cavern itself. It was beautiful, and lit by the same magically-burning lanterns that had lighted their way so far. He didn't want to think about them. One incidence of magical healing, restoring the use of his sword arm rather earlier than usual, was not enough to overcome what he felt was a natural resistance to magic. Besides, he reasoned that magic which still worked thousands of years after its creator cast the spell should make anyone feel profoundly uncomfortable.

Martin stopped in his tracks, staring around the room. “Do you hear that?” he muttered.

“Hear what?” asked Hadvar, entirely too loudly. His voice echoed around the cave.

“Singing, or chanting. It sounds... like a choir, actually. Like many voices joined in chorus.” He wandered further away, searching for the sound which he claimed to be able to hear.

Hadvar turned to examine the Imperial's face. Martin hadn't shown much evidence of a sense of humour so far, but this was the sort of joke that he would have expected from Ralof: playing on the spookiness of the burial mound, leaping out from behind a dead Draugr to make him scream... Yet the priest seemed entirely serious, his eyebrows raised slightly and his mouth set in a line. Strange music that only he could hear?