Wisened old hands rested on the stone. Eyes closed, the Atmoran bent his weary back to place his lips on the dusty crypt, and whispered.
Built by his Grandfather, the tomb already looked ancient. Hand carved walls, ceiling and pillars gave the place an air of reverence. Vines and moss were already working their way on, but it only added to the effect. Stepping down, he took one last look around at the tomb of his ancestors, at the sarcpophogi which held his wife and firstborn, on which bright rays of moonlight shone.He still held the pain of their taking, but it was an old pain, like all the others.
The morning before, the young warriors of the hold had come to him.
"Torban, there's been another kidnapping." wheezed Erald, running in from the harsh cold outside.
Torban had been resting in his chair. The dark interior of his home was lit only by a few candles, giving everything a cozy orange feel.
He eased his gaze on the young man, and those pouring into the old house behind him.
"No knock boy? Ahhh... Yes, and more graves dug up in the night. Necromancers for sure, bet it's those damn Elves too, this isn't good at all."
"..uh...but...sir? What can we do?" asked... a boy, maybe Mojar's son.
The group of young men were huddled close in the small house, eager to join in but uncomfortable in the now too-cozy room.They had all looked like young men do when they aim to prove their worth, scared but oh-so eager. Now, tempered by the knowledge and authority of “Old man Torban", their eagerness was slowly fading, letting their fear press against them.
"They're taking the bodies, they have to be keeping them somewhere. Maybe one of the caves in the hills."
"...but... what do we do, Torban?" someone asked.
Some other idiot lad, probably not even taught how to read but thinks he's ready to fight.
He sighed.
“Well...we can't let this continue, can we?” Torban felt their mood change. “Yes lads, we'll fight. But not yet. Erald, go fetch Gromm, bring him here. The rest of you, go back to your homes, you're not leaving 'till tomorrow”
“Tomorrow!? But--”
Torban raised his eyes at the complainer, and gave him a look he hadn't used in years. The boy went white.
“...Go”
Coming out of his family tomb, he headed for the caves, old legs carrying him less steady than they used to. The faint light of the moon let him spot the likely cave, which smelled just a bit too much of death. Stopping at the entrance, peering into the gloom within, he mused.
... So, how far have I come? If I can even still remember.
Torban hadn't tried to become the village hero, he hadn't boasted of his battles, he hadn't proclaimed each victory in the tavern. He had aimed for balance. He sharpened his mind as much as he strengthened his arm. He was no sorceror, but what spells he had were as from a fairy tale to all around him. He was a Warrior, true enough. Yet he was more than that, he was...
What was it that one elf called me?... Arcane Warrior.
He fought smart, and hard. He fought because it was right, because it was good. He carved his way to what he felt was inner peace, to perfect harmony between the mind, body and soul. The village couldn't help but listen to him, because he was the strongest and the smartest of them. And when he grew old, when no amount of training and fighting could keep his body going as it used to, he stopped being “Torban the Scholarly Warrior” and became “Torban, the Old Wise Man”.
But soon I'll be naught but a babbling babe.
He let weary legs carry him down.
A young warrior walks into danger looking all around, and seeing everything he can, and some things that aren't there. An experienced warrior walks looking forward, seeing everything he needs to.
The tired warrior walked through the near pitch black tunnel with his head tilted down, his eyes glazed over. He had a smile on his face, the first in years.
I bet Svenja and Mette are waiting for me.
He snapped out of his thoughts as he spied a light ahead of him, and a few more quiet steps revealed his destination. Candles, an altar, and robes.
He was among them without thought. He had two down and one screaming before the others really reacted, despite how heavy the axe felt in his grip. Caught by surprise the robed figures staggered and tripped and fell as the old man cut them down one by one. Yet even as the rest of the coven was in chaos, the silhouette standing near the altar just watched.
Torban dropped to his knees, breathing hard but not done yet. His axe rested in the skull of a kindly looking young elf.
I thought this'd be harder.
His eyes flitted to the remains of the face of the elf.
Shame to see such young ones turned to this kind of evil.
Torban stood and turned, pulling out his axe, as well as something that fell with a *plop*.
Looking around for the first time, he took in the room.
Made entirely out of jagged stone, the room held no warmth. Though not carved, it clearly was too circular to occur naturally. The congregation had been gathered around the altar in the centre, clearly a position of worship. The room was lit by dying candles on the outside, which gave each shadow life as the flames flickered. The alter itself was meticulously carved. Nightmarish creatures seemed to flow menacingly out of the stone, though Torban couldn't recognise a single one.
He eyed the still shadow standing infront of the Altar
“I hope you atleast will put up a fight.” Torban stated. His voice was calm, quiet, ready.
“I suppose you must be Torban Valund, then. I'd heard you had given up this sort of thing.”
The slick compsure of the voice was disconcerting, but the controlled hate underlying it was cutting.
Torban eyed the unmoving shadow, no longer sure of his chosen path.
“Well? Aren't you going to defeat the evil villain? Hahahah. Go on. Save the day.” The man said, mockingly emphasizing “evil”, despite the blood-covered hulk staring him down.
Torban resolved himself, took a final breath, and stepped toward the unmoving figure.
“As you wish.”
Torban let his instincts take over.
The blackness of the ceiling infront of him was starting to glow. He could breathe easy, even with his lungs filling with blood. He could see fine, even with his eyes burnt near-closed.
It's over.
The glow turned into a light, the light turned blinding, and Torban knew.
“Sovn..garde.....”
Finally, he could join his wife and child, finally he c--
“Sovngarde?” The grating, harsh voice knocked Torban out of his reverie.
The now unhooded....thing, came into sight, blocking Torban's view of the fading glow.
“No, no, no. You distrupted my ritual. You killed them too soon. I. Wasn't. FINISHED!”
Quickly regaining its compsure, the half-corpse knelt down and wrapped skin-covered bones softly around the wheezing neck below it.
“I can't use you, but I won't let you go. Sovngarde? Heheheh. No.” the depthless malice cut deep into Torban's fading thoughts.
Another bony hand lifted up, holding a dark glow that stung the eyes, and the soul.
“You're not going anywhere”
An Age or three later...
Revan Turik was a strange Dark elf. Even compared to other Dunmer, Revan was never sociable.
He prefered to study, and think. He'd tried magic, but had never had any affinity for it. He'd tried stealth, but was too clumsy to step lightly. He'd tried fighting, but couldn't hold onto the sword.
The others in his dusty rock of a town in Morrowind had mocked him for his ineptitude, but he didn't mind.
He just wanted to know things.
“Know what?” people would ask him
“Who knows...” he'd reply, half to himself.
He wasn't happy, he knew that. He just didn't care.
There were more interesting things out there than happiness. He was good with Alchemy, and he loved history and philosophy. He had been planning to leave the town since adolescence, to go exploring and see the world he was so fascinated by, but there was always more books to read, and it was always too dangerous.
Yet the day finally came, when he knew every word of every book he could find. He couldn't lie to himself anymore. He had to go.
No-one will care anyway.
His latest interest had been the Nords, their culture and history, so he headed north, to the land of Warriors, to Skyrim.
“Snow Veiled Sanctum”
After a long journey, Revan had landed himself in Northern Skyrim. He sat alone in his room, in a tavern surrounded by a vicious snowstorm.
Revan read the words aloud by candlelight from “The Honoured Dead”, a book documenting the many crypts, tombs and burial sites scattered across skyrim.
The Nords didn't like his poking around their ruins. But he'd done it so many times before.
Surely another won't matter? Besides, the mercenaries have already cleared it out. The draugr are already gone, no more damage to do.
He'd found many treasures in his frenzy of Crypt diving, he was hooked. Not gold or weapons or magic, but Architecture, Language, History. He found the resting place of Ysgramor, the ancient and legendary leader of the Companions. He was smart enough to leave that one alone, atleast. He'd found a forgotten hero, Feralda Wolfbane, who became a warrior of great renown after she slaughtered the werewolf den that killed her daughter. He'd written all his travels in his journal. He was meticulous with his notes and conclusions, and when he was done with his adventures, he'd let others know of his findings. But until then, there was so much more to explore! And tomorrow, Snow Veiled Sanctum was next.
The next morning, Revan rode early to the Sanctum. Heart pumping widly, he walked though a tunnel, down steps which led him beneath the earth. It was supposed to be a simple crypt, but this one seemed much older, and, while not lavish, was clearly built with the utmost reverance. The walls seemed to bow in worship of the central chamber, the light made the three sarcophagi glow. The crypt was small, yet it was full of so much respect. And so much promise of knowledge.
Revan spent hours obsessing over every minute detail of the place, and by the time he even remembered to eat, it was already night.
I've never seen a crypt so... personal. This clearly wasn't built for a king or a Jarl, but whoever was buried here clearly earned their place in Sovngarde.
He was excited to keep uncovering the legend of this place, but he was hungry and tired.
Too dark to get back to the tavern, and the snowstorm is probably back... this place seems warm enough for tonight anyway. It won't harm me.
If Revan had had any magic in him at all, he'd have known different...
He had felt the presence immediately, the first person to come close to him since they had locked him away. First in his body, then in his tomb. The complete, ineffable blackness of death pressed close in on him from all sides
letmeoutletmeoutletmeout
He wasn't thinking, he couldn't think anymore, he just felt. He'd felt the years, decades, centuries pass.
The ancient spirit had felt his sanity slipping, but didn't feel that he cared.
He wanted out, he needed to be free, to... to go were he was meant to be. To get the freedom that was his, hadn't he earned it?
LET ME OUT
His struggling had never ceased. Since those first moments of solitude he had raged at the emptiness around him. Over the years he felt the bars of his cage weaken, but still he couldn't escape.
But now he had a target, and no restraint.
The Dark-elf was resting peacfully on the dusty floor, dreaming of wonderful lore and stories he might reveal. He dreamt himself in a white expanse, gleeful as he examined the imagined heroes that surrounded him. An ancient hunter, who brought down a stampeding herd of mammoths alone. A steel-clad Knight, whos courage defeated the most ancient of Vampire. A withered old Atmoran, armor rusted and clothes ragged. Revan's dream-smile faded. The Atmoran's eyes of mad hunger bored into Revan's soul, as the other heroes faded and the pure white expanse turned sour black. The Atmoran hurled himself forward. Withered hands held the strength of a giant around Revan's neck.
Revan startled awake, flailing at his assailant. His arms found the same emptiness as his eyes, but he felt the dominating presence still crushing him. He could barely breathe under the pressure, barely see the dusty ancient floor he strained to push himself up with.
What is..? What is this? What's happening?
He tried to run, but he was in it's grasp.
The elf tried to fight back, tried to scream for help, but nothing worked. He was doomed.
Stop...please....I can't I--
He awoke slowly at first.
His mind was blank, but his subconcious was awake, and was wondering at the rhythmic beating he felt. Was that the intruder? Why do I feel so warm? Slowly, these ideas seeped into his conciousness, like water down a desert-dry throat. Finally, Torban couldn't help but wonder himself:
Why am I breathing?
He shot up and gasped, coughing from the unfamiliar lungs. The ancient Atmoran warrior scrambled to the nearest moss covered wall, shaking uncontrollably and sobbing like a child as he held his thin dark-skinned hands infront of him. He screamed his pain away.
Days later, Torban Valund walked out of his tomb, first seeing the bright light of day, then feeling for the first time a soft chilly breeze his cheek. As he climbed out, is new unholy crime weighed him down, only a little.
He wasn't mad anymore, he knew that, or thought he did, but he also knew that he wasn't the same. In his old life, he'd never harmed anyone who didn't deserve it.
I didn't just kill him, I ripped him apart.
Some part of him cared, but that part hadn't spoken in years, and didn't have the voice it used to. Still, the old man continued to yearn for the release of Sovngarde, he needed it. But this new crime might interfere with his entry.
I... I have to live. I have to right what I've done. I've earned my place but I'll earn it again. I deserve it.
Standing in the sun for what felt like the very first time, he glanced down at his hands, and thought of the diary he found in the Dark elf's camp.
And so does Revan.
