Prologue, Chapter 2: Frostmoon
When I finally awoke, I was met with a harsh, freezing wind racing across me. Snow drifted among these winds, either to pile on the ground or to melt on my bare chest. I jerked upwards and took in my surroundings.
Two Reachmen stood hacking away at a freshly caught Horker, the drifting snow barely resting on their shoulders in their flurry of movement. Maybe I would have been able to escape, given that they stood a considerable distance from my bed, but my jerking upwards had caught their attention. I cursed myself under my breath as the two men approached and proceeded to kneel at my bedside. I called out,
"Where am I?"
"You are on Solstheim, Brutus. Specifically, you are in the Frostmoon Crag, one of our last remaining alters in the North."
"You know my name... how?"
"We recovered a number of documents and items from your home, including a family portrait. My condolences, but you must put that aside if you are to join the Forsworn and the Old Gods in our pursuit of reclaiming the Reach."
I silently panicked, and considered the audacity of the barbarians. How could they butcher my family, kill my friends, raze my city... then offer me a place by their sides?
"And if I decline?"
"You our bound to our cause now. See for yourself."
He gestured to my chest, and I may have had a heart attack if it had still been present. No, I stared helplessly into myself through torn flesh and broken ribs to find the head of a briar plant sitting comfortably where my heart had been, roots stretching out to join my severed veins and arteries. I was one of them now, a Briarheart.
"If you decline, we will rip the briar out of you and leave you for the wolves."
The other chimed in, "You begin training immediately. This colder climate will improve your endurance, while we will assign you tasks to improve your abilities."
...
It was hard to conform to their cause's training to begin given the circumstances, though I just about survived it. These 'barbarians' with me were apparently former Breton diplomats and nobles, and taught me much about the history of the Reach and of Solstheim, of Miraak and Vahlok, most notably. I was trained constantly in the art of sword fighting, and developed a skill for parrying and counterattacking. Most days I practiced with a bow to bring down small game like rabbits and skeevers, before confronting wolves and deer. Over time, the wound healed over my chest, at least granting me some appearance of normalcy.
My presence on Solstheim was apparently for security, since the Empire's legions were rooting out Forsworn activity across the Reach, hence a less conspicuous location. Frostmoon Crag also is in close proximity to the Hagraven beasts that tore open my chest, which the Forsworn revere.
Focus was of much interest to the elders. By the end of my time with them I could seemingly slow time with a wave of my hand, allowing me to dodge attacks and land more, though my left hand would have to remain steady to keep the focus. Evidently I was better with my right anyway.
...
Years later I was defending the group against Reavers, with some skill may I add. I had felled a particularly large elf on the eve of my birthday and as a reward, I was strapped to an altar the following day with a Forsworn psychic dancing chanting in circles as if she was having a fit. The call it a 'right of ancestry', where they communicate with the subject's ancestors. If one establishes psychic connections to the subject across dimensions, then their soul will be bound to an item, and the ancestor will guard the subject for eternity. I was initially unimpressed at this foolish attempt at spiritual communication.
This continued through night and day. Meanwhile, I was starving to death and my briar was eventually visible against my skin. It was the most insufferable pain, as if I was to implode at any moment. My vision faded, and I passed out.
This, however, was a state of unconsciousness like no other. I was in a large hall, notably of ancient Nordic masonry. Skulls and bones littered the floor as weeds litter a field. All doors were sealed in rubble, and the room was lit with several candles adorning the walls. A coffin stood under rubble directly ahead of me, just buried enough for me to still see a series of strange symbols strewn across the lid, which I am still puzzled today on how my brain made sense of it: Konahrik. I muttered the word aloud multiple times, improving my pronunciation of the old language, but making no sense of the word itself.
After sitting on a collapsed pillar after what seemed like an eternity, I finally decided to investigate the coffin further. I managed to pull it half out of the debris, and dust off the lid once more. It was a startling discovery, to be honest, finding the word 'Vlindrel' under 'Konahrik'. Perhaps my family was of ancient Nord origin? I spoke the full name aloud, and the coffin seemed to take on a turquoise hue as a specter rose through the lid.
"Drem Yol Lok, Brutus. I have been expecting you."
I learned many things from that one blackout. For one, I was the direct descendant of a rebellious dragon priest who plotted to overthrow dragon rule, just as Miraak did, though this was for nobler intentions. I learnt of the betrayal of the other priests, the separation of Konahrik from his mask and his entombment in the buried ruin of Ruunvald. I learnt that because of my bloodline I could make sense of the dragon language, and was taught simple phrases. Though most intriguing of all, I learnt of the inevitable apocalypse and the prophecy of Alduin. When I was finished conversing with the undead priest, he sank into his coffin once more. Tremors began, and the ceiling began to crack under the weight of the mountain above it. Shards of rock fell around me, and the masonry collapsed on my head.
I awoke on the altar once more. The insane chanting had ceased, and I now wore a glistening gold and sapphire ring, with 'Konahrik' engraved into the side. The spiritual form of Konahrik floated beside the altar, now silenced by his bind to the ring. I climbed down and walked away, exploring the camp.
Organs hung from corpses hung over rocks and tents. Most of the Forsworn had been slain savagely, and their barbaric face paint was concealed by a layer of crimson. In the distance I spotted huge, hunched creatures chasing my former 'mentor' through the forest. Werewolves.
Guarded by the silent Konahrik, I gathered my family's stolen possessions, including a stainless silver short sword, then departed in the opposite direction towards the southern ashlands. I encountered the psychic a way down the road, drowning in a pool of her own blood and crying for help. It was ironic, for her kind had my family in the same position years ago. Despite their 'mentoring' and 'care' for all these years, there was no forgiveness present in my mind. The time had finally come. I mercilessly severed her throat.
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Prologue, Chapter 2: Frostmoon
When I finally awoke, I was met with a harsh, freezing wind racing across me. Snow drifted among these winds, either to pile on the ground or to melt on my bare chest. I jerked upwards and took in my surroundings.
Two Reachmen stood hacking away at a freshly caught Horker, the drifting snow barely resting on their shoulders in their flurry of movement. Maybe I would have been able to escape, given that they stood a considerable distance from my bed, but my jerking upwards had caught their attention. I cursed myself under my breath as the two men approached and proceeded to kneel at my bedside. I called out,
"Where am I?"
"You are on Solstheim, Brutus. Specifically, you are in the Frostmoon Crag, one of our last remaining alters in the North."
"You know my name... how?"
"We recovered a number of documents and items from your home, including a family portrait. My condolences, but you must put that aside if you are to join the Forsworn and the Old Gods in our pursuit of reclaiming the Reach."
I silently panicked, and considered the audacity of the barbarians. How could they butcher my family, kill my friends, raze my city... then offer me a place by their sides?
"And if I decline?"
"You our bound to our cause now. See for yourself."
He gestured to my chest, and I may have had a heart attack if it had still been present. No, I stared helplessly into myself through torn flesh and broken ribs to find the head of a briar plant sitting comfortably where my heart had been, roots stretching out to join my severed veins and arteries. I was one of them now, a Briarheart.
"If you decline, we will rip the briar out of you and leave you for the wolves."
The other chimed in, "You begin training immediately. This colder climate will improve your endurance, while we will assign you tasks to improve your abilities."
...
It was hard to conform to their cause's training to begin given the circumstances, though I just about survived it. These 'barbarians' with me were apparently former Breton diplomats and nobles, and taught me much about the history of the Reach and of Solstheim, of Miraak and Vahlok, most notably. I was trained constantly in the art of sword fighting, and developed a skill for parrying and counterattacking. Most days I practiced with a bow to bring down small game like rabbits and skeevers, before confronting wolves and deer. Over time, the wound healed over my chest, at least granting me some appearance of normalcy.
My presence on Solstheim was apparently for security, since the Empire's legions were rooting out Forsworn activity across the Reach, hence a less conspicuous location. Frostmoon Crag also is in close proximity to the Hagraven beasts that tore open my chest, which the Forsworn revere.
Focus was of much interest to the elders. By the end of my time with them I could seemingly slow time with a wave of my hand, allowing me to dodge attacks and land more, though my left hand would have to remain steady to keep the focus. Evidently I was better with my right anyway.
...
Years later I was defending the group against Reavers, with some skill may I add. I had felled a particularly large elf on the eve of my birthday and as a reward, I was strapped to an altar the following day with a Forsworn psychic dancing chanting in circles as if she was having a fit. The call it a 'right of ancestry', where they communicate with the subject's ancestors. If one establishes psychic connections to the subject across dimensions, then their soul will be bound to an item, and the ancestor will guard the subject for eternity. I was initially unimpressed at this foolish attempt at spiritual communication.
This continued through night and day. Meanwhile, I was starving to death and my briar was eventually visible against my skin. It was the most insufferable pain, as if I was to implode at any moment. My vision faded, and I passed out.
This, however, was a state of unconsciousness like no other. I was in a large hall, notably of ancient Nordic masonry. Skulls and bones littered the floor as weeds litter a field. All doors were sealed in rubble, and the room was lit with several candles adorning the walls. A coffin stood under rubble directly ahead of me, just buried enough for me to still see a series of strange symbols strewn across the lid, which I am still puzzled today on how my brain made sense of it: Konahrik. I muttered the word aloud multiple times, improving my pronunciation of the old language, but making no sense of the word itself.
After sitting on a collapsed pillar after what seemed like an eternity, I finally decided to investigate the coffin further. I managed to pull it half out of the debris, and dust off the lid once more. It was a startling discovery, to be honest, finding the word 'Vlindrel' under 'Konahrik'. Perhaps my family was of ancient Nord origin? I spoke the full name aloud, and the coffin seemed to take on a turquoise hue as a specter rose through the lid.
"Drem Yol Lok, Brutus. I have been expecting you."
I learned many things from that one blackout. For one, I was the direct descendant of a rebellious dragon priest who plotted to overthrow dragon rule, just as Miraak did, though this was for nobler intentions. I learnt of the betrayal of the other priests, the separation of Konahrik from his mask and his entombment in the buried ruin of Ruunvald. I learnt that because of my bloodline I could make sense of the dragon language, and was taught simple phrases. Though most intriguing of all, I learnt of the inevitable apocalypse and the prophecy of Alduin. When I was finished conversing with the undead priest, he sank into his coffin once more. Tremors began, and the ceiling began to crack under the weight of the mountain above it. Shards of rock fell around me, and the masonry collapsed on my head.
I awoke on the altar once more. The insane chanting had ceased, and I now wore a glistening gold and sapphire ring, with 'Konahrik' engraved into the side. The spiritual form of Konahrik floated beside the altar, now silenced by his bind to the ring. I climbed down and walked away, exploring the camp.
Organs hung from corpses hung over rocks and tents. Most of the Forsworn had been slain savagely, and their barbaric face paint was concealed by a layer of crimson. In the distance I spotted huge, hunched creatures chasing my former 'mentor' through the forest. Werewolves.
Guarded by the silent Konahrik, I gathered my family's stolen possessions, including a stainless silver short sword, then departed in the opposite direction towards the southern ashlands. I encountered the psychic a way down the road, drowning in a pool of her own blood and crying for help. It was ironic, for her kind had my family in the same position years ago. Despite their 'mentoring' and 'care' for all these years, there was no forgiveness present in my mind. The time had finally come. I mercilessly severed her throat.
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