The Arrowsworn

  •     High above the canopy of cloudwreath upon the throat of the world, a contented soul sits now and records that which has transpired during her sojourn in Skyrim. For the sake of those who would address her, she has taken the title al-Ash’ Abah. Yet few speak to me here, for their words may cause a quaking of the stone beneath the monastery. I would not have it otherwise, for the length of my repose mustn’t overextend itself; it would be so easy should endless philosophical debate be engaged in with these keen old Tongues. High Hrothgar is a remarkable place.

        As it is I have accepted their hearth for a night’s stay, and Arngeir has provided me with plenty stationery in which to record whatever strikes my fancy. I sketched first this portrait of my father. I fear to lose the memory of his face under the shifting sands of time. He was a mountain of a man, and a legend among those outcasts and pariahs of the waste, the Ash’Abah (after which I have titled myself- mainly to honor his memory.) A loyal servant of Tu’Whacca he was, humble and unassuming, with apparently no greater joy on this mortal plane than raising his daughter in as safe an upbringing as can be provided in the Great Alik’r. On those days he would leave me with the other children in Sanctuary, he strung his mighty bow (which would take two lesser men to string), slung what I fondly recall to be a veritable barrel of arrows across his bare shoulder, and led us in prayer before departing.

        It is no doubt because of him that I look upon the arrow with such critical eyes. He would spend hours every night whittling shafts, sharpening arrowheads, or smelting steel himself. Upon my tumultuous arrival in this land, the threat of dragons rising prompted my travelling to the capital to lend what aid I could; yet I had heard also of a renowned fletcher employed at Castle Dour, a Redguard craftsman who took equal pride in his arrows as I did my own. I recall his incredulity when we first met, but we soon struck fast friendship.

          “Hello friend, in the market for some hunting supplies?”

          “I need some arrows that will take down a dragon. I hear you’re the best fletcher around,” I said half-joking.

         "Why of course milady. And will you also need the bow that shoots rainbows? Or perhaps a quiver that dispenses beer?"

        I had hoped to watch his work, and told him so. While his arrows have no flaws in function, it is not a practice among the Imperial Legion (that is where he learned his craft) to take especial care of choosing ingots. Only the finest ingots should be used in making an arrowhead and to this end one must be particular about the ore, and smelt the impurities out themselves. This is an arduous process, yet the heat of the forge is said to help purify the craftsman as well as his steel. I told him as much, and perhaps he has heeded my advice since. You will likely find his workshop outside the curtain-wall of the castle even today, and still flanking the blacksmith proper. (Is that not a sign of how important the care taken in crafting each arrow truly is?)

        While I fondly recall many faces as I sit here in reverie there is one that comes to mind most often. Some time ago, I met a young Nord woman who reminded me much of my father. Or perhaps she reminds me much of myself. I feel that we are kindred souls; she needing company and I needing solitude, I often went to her campsite over the course of the year or so I have been in Skyrim (it is so hard to count the days and nights in this wild land where nothing is stable and the depths of winter is the only season). She is a master of the bow unequalled by perhaps any other save myself in all of Skyrim. I laugh now. Without divine aid, I would be fodder for her arrows. She has taught me what I already knew, but in a way that made the knowledge seem my own discovery. I cannot explain this sensibly; yet my gratitude is endless.

        After I left the Great Alik’r, I took three vows. The Love of Poverty dictates to only take that which is freely given. The Love of Charity means helping those in need, always. The Love of Life means to uphold the natural order of things, and detest those that break it. Composure is needed for the first vow, haste for the second, and precision for the third. I think that is what Angi instilled in me. Without ego, I can say now that when I face Alduin tomorrow, he will fall before my quiver is emptied.

        If only I had discovered this aptitude in my younger days… In my youth before I had departed the Great Alik’r, I was once betrothed. The man is a vile stain upon my memory and I will not taste the bitterness that comes with mentioning his name. He gained knowledge of Sanctuary through me… this is a hidden cave where the Ash’Abah resided in those days, especially those with elders or children to take care of. Underneath the living space were catacombs where lay properly put to rest those greatest warriors of the Ash’Abah. The purification of the bodies and the rituals partaken in upkeep might as well have been done by the hand of Tu’Whacca himself. Since time immemorial the elders taught and led the children in these practices (I myself having learned them), until the children had grown into the elders themselves, and thus never had a year passed in Sanctuary without divine sanction.

        What necromancy my fiancé had at his disposal I do not know. I recall the surreal silver-blue of the desert sands under the night sky as I stumbled across the dunes toward the wailing and the cries. I recall the change that had come upon his face when I found him in the catacombs of Sanctuary that midnight so long ago… I recall the grisly ritual thus interrupted (too late), and the groans of hundreds of heroes rising into foul undeath and the grating, shifting stone coffin lids, and then hundreds of lids falling to shatter on the cave floor... I recall in all the cacophony perhaps going deaf when my eyes had followed the gaze of my betrothed…

        Now I must pause. I must gaze upon this sketch of my father, lest I lose his living face to memory as I have my happy youth underneath the shifting sands of the Great Alik’r.

     _________________________________________________________

    That’s about it folks. Having been inspired by Paul England’s Arrowsworn, a build I aim to actually play someday soon, I’d like to dedicate this piece to him! (by Azura, by Azura, by Azura xD) Thanks for reading :D

Comments

5 Comments
  • The Wing
    The Wing   ·  January 10, 2016
    You'd be surprised how often I get help jokes... 
    I certainly hope so, because I would love to see your writing on the Vault again. Of Wine and Gold was a great story but, as it has been inactive for nearly two years, I doubt you intend to start it ...  more
  • Casey
    Casey   ·  January 10, 2016
    Thanks Unhelpful! That's, actually pretty helpful lol. I aim to take a creative writing course some semester so hopefully I can get back into the swing of it
  • The Wing
    The Wing   ·  January 6, 2016
    Your writing style is just magnificent, Casey! I don't know what it is about it precisely, but it reads beautifully. It's quite complicated and roundabout, yet somehow that works so well. 
  • Casey
    Casey   ·  January 10, 2015
    Danke! It could've been longer, it coulda been better... but my editing process is just a vicious and judgmental paper shredder; I wrote this before the inner editor woke up and deleted everything heh. 
  • Borommakot
    Borommakot   ·  January 10, 2015
    Awesome job, Casey!