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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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Comments

The Writing On The Wall - 4/7

[(Anonymous)]

That did the trick. The Draugr lifted its arms, waving its axe and shield in the air as if to say “Bring it on”; Hadvar recognised the pose from fighting Stormcloaks. It began to advance, and they met in the middle of the cavern.

The battle was lengthy; far longer than Hadvar had hoped. Although he had the benefit of being young, strong, and alive, the Draugr must have been a mighty warrior before it died. Not only did it have a longer reach than he did, it also kept using its magic to throw him out of the way whenever he got too close. Between its shield and its magic, barely one sword swipe in three was getting through its defences; and it managed to get several axe hits in on Hadvar before it was defeated. He was beaten, bruised, and bloodied. Just from one Draugr. Gods!

He stood bent over with his hands clutching his knees, gulping down air. He wanted to collapse where he stood. He hurt all over. But he had a duty to help Martin – if he was even still alive. He'd moved not an inch; the wounds on his back oozed thick blood. Hadvar hurled himself across the dais and put his hand on the priest's shoulder – thank gods, he was breathing - noticing that he was now silent. Whatever it was that he'd been saying, he'd stopped. Martin remained on his knees, impassive, his only movement being the slow rise and fall of his chest, and the erratic flickering of his eyelids. His head was bowed, as if in prayer, and his gaze remained fixed on the wall.

Hadvar spoke to him, shaking him firmly by both shoulders now, shouting, slapping his face – trying to get a response, any response. Increasingly afraid, he would have wept with relief even if Martin had mistaken him for a foe, cast an Ice spell, and sent him flying across the room again.

Eventually, after what felt like hours but could only have been a few minutes, Martin raised his head and blinked. His eyes were glassy and – by the Eight – yellow. The pupil in the centre was slitted, like a cat, or... dragon. What in Oblivion? His fear so strong it left him cold, Hadvar shuddered violently and couldn't stop. It was so wrong to see that eye in a human face – in his friend's face.

Martin blinked again, slowly – then abruptly pitched forwards in a dead faint.

Hadvar panicked completely. Screaming “No!”, he tried to shake Martin back into consciousness. His skin was very pale and felt cold to the touch. Hadvar spat out curses, with no real idea what to do. He was used to travelling with the Legion, only ever alone when on patrol around the perimeter of their camps. Normally there were at least four other soldiers with him who could help an injured companion. And he was certain that at least some of what was wrong with Martin was due to magic – why did his eyes look like that?

One thing at a time. Stop the bleeding. Get him warm. Try to find help. In Bleak Falls Barrow? Gods, the nearest help would be back in Riverwood. Shit. Shit!

He touched Martin's back lightly, finding the blood loss had slowed to a trickle. Was that a good or a bad sign? He hurled his pack to the floor, looking for something he could use as a bandage. They'd acquired lots of things going through the barrow, but most of them were weapons. In sheer desperation, he contemplated hacking part of his tunic off, though he wasn't sure how practical that was. Then he found something soft and fabric-y at the bottom of the bag. A... linen wrap? He must have grabbed it by accident when picking up items from a shelf. Creepy.

Hadvar tried not to think about the fact that the gauze was at least hundreds, if not thousands of years old, nor that it was supposed to be a burial shroud, and instead folded it into a neat pad. He pressed it against Martin's deep cuts, realising as he did so that he was praying. Not to any of the Eight, but to the secret One, Talos. Most Nords still revered Tiber Septim in secret, no matter what the White-Gold Concordat said, but it had been a particularly sore point between himself and Ralof. Tears ran down Hadvar's face, and he didn't even know who he was crying for.