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[PR: hibiki]

Two thousand, huh? Not even half the EXP I have. Alright, I’ll go with it.

‘Level 12 Witcher (5400 → 34000/12500).’

Another wave of magical information flooded the witcher’s mind.

‘Thu’um is a kind of magic known only to dragonkind. Through the resonance between their language and the earth, they can summon the strength of the Bones of the Earth (Remnants of the All-Maker) and call forth incredible power to aid them in battle.

Most people are only granted access to this power through years of rigorous training. Through meditation, they ameliorate their souls, pulling them closer to the power of dragons for a short while. They are then granted access to the power of the Bones of the Earth.

But these people, though trained and experienced, do not possess the soul of a dragon. Learning Thu’um will be excruciatingly difficult for them. They can and will go their whole lives mastering only the simplest of Thu’um.

Unrelenting Force is the most basic of Shouts. It has three Words of Power.

You have gained Fus from the Word Wall. You have listened to Alduin utter Ro and Dah in the destroyed town of Helgen. These words mean Force, Balance, and Push, respectively. Together, they can push anything—and anyone—that stands in your path.

To enhance your soul, you must meditate like this…

To activate Shout, you must do this…’

***

“…eneye, Goldeneye! Are you alright?”

A shout snapped Roy out of his stupor, though his mind was still buzzing from the influx of information.

Nervously, Flynn asked, “Did you see anything?”

Arvel translated the Dragonborn’s question to Roy. The witcher gave Flynn a weird look and nodded.

“I knew I wasn’t the only one who saw those runes.” Flynn heaved a sigh of relief and smiled. “These words… they’re the power that draugr was guarding. Dragon magic. Thu’um… Shouts, so to speak. I remember that dragon back in Helgen shouting something like this.”

The Dragonborn cleared his throat and roared, “Fus Ro Dah!”

Nothing happened. Nothing but a gust of breeze brushed across the cheeks of the adventurers.

“I think I’m missing something. Can’t use the Shout.” Flynn rubbed his temples awkwardly. The influx of new information was making his head buzz too. “And I just learned a lot of new stuff. Need some time to get through everything.”

And then the witcher tried to do the same Shout as well. “Fus Ro Dah!”

But nothing happened. Neither the earth nor space moved for him. His soul was yet to be enhanced. At this point, even Aard packed a bigger punch than this Shout did.

“I… I don’t get it.” Arvel approached the Word Wall and touched the runes softly. There was a look of surprise and bewilderment on his face. “How come I’m the only one who didn’t see a thing? You’re telling me these unintelligible runes contain the power to fell a dragon?”

“You know, that’s an excellent question. I’d like to know the answer myself.” Roy heaved a sigh. I spent two thousand EXP and I barely managed to understand it. Still a long way off from mastering it. How on earth can this power defeat a dragon? And how did Flynn learn the Shout without any guidance? Because he’s a Dragonborn? He’s some sort of descendant of a dragon? The runes did shine and swim into his body.

Roy had another guess. Maybe he’s related to the dragons. Or maybe he’s born with their power sleeping within him.

Dragonborn… Shouts… Thu’um… Roy telepathically asked Arvel, Hey, you’re an adventurer, aren’t you? Been to a lot of ruins and tombs? Ever heard of the words Dragonborn and Thu’um?

A frown furrowed Arvel’s forehead as he tried to remember those words. It’s an ancient legend. Thousands of years ago, dragons were alive and active in Tamriel. The Dragonborns would slay them and take their power for themselves.

And then the thief smacked the back of his head, a stroke of inspiration striking him. Oh, right. That shout that destroyed your conjuration? The one that draugr used? It’s called Thu’um. This is just a rumor, but only Dragonborns can master Thu’um.

Roy shot Flynn a look of surprise, and the Dragonborn got a little nervous.

So he’s a slayer of dragons and the heir of Thu’um. He’s practically a legend. Maybe I’ll need him to get my hands on some dragon blood.

…

The thief looked at his companions and was about to say something, but Roy told him to keep quiet. They then looted the chamber and came across some locked chests.

The witcher was about to cut them open with his blade, but his servant stopped him. According to him, some chests would destroy their contents if their lock was forcibly destroyed. He took over and picked the lock of the chests, easily unlocking them.

The chests netted our adventurers about a hundred coins and a lesser soul gem. The coins were split between Arvel and Flynn, while Roy took the soul gem.

And now I have three lesser soul gems. I’ll keep some for myself. Four hundred coins. Should be enough to buy something from Farengar.

They exited through the chamber’s right door and returned to the hill outside. Dawn just broke through the horizon, and a gust of breeze sauntered through the air. It reinvigorated the adventurers.

One whole day and night had gone by since they entered the temple.

“We got the stone. Time to go back to Farengar.” Flynn took a deep breath and grinned. “This is goodbye, Arvel.”

Arvel held the sword on his girdle and looked at Roy with respect. “I don’t have anything to do, so why don’t I come with you guys?”

Flynn’s smile disappeared, and he exchanged a look with his companion.

The witcher pretended to give it a thought, then he nodded.

“Let’s go. We did get through a whole dungeon together. This calls for a drink.”

***

Once again, the adventurers—this time with Arvel by their side—returned to the antechamber in Dragonsreach.

“I can see why you survived the attack. Efficient. It’s only been a day, and you’ve already gotten the stone. Oh, and thanks for your help, Arvel.” Farengar observed the intricately-engraved stone. “I shall inform the Jarl of your deed. As promised, you shall have the right to own a house in Whiterun. But beware, houses do not come cheap in this city. Oh, and one more thing. Goldeneye, I’ve assessed the soul gem you sold me, and it is no lesser soul gem. It’s a black soul gem, one that can be used repeatedly. It’s worth six hundred gold, so I still owe you five hundred. Here.” The mage handed Roy a purse of coins.

Arvel translated Roy’s thoughts, “Farengar, what does this stone do anyway? And how do you intend to fight the dragons with it?”

“Alas, I have no answer for that just yet. All the more reason to find its secrets as soon as possible. My associate is on their way.”

“What about the draugrs, then? They just came back to life all of a sudden,” Flynn asked curiously. Back when they had returned to Whiterun, he had heard that strange summon once more. It came from the looming peak standing in the southeastern direction.

“Ah, about that.” Farengar organized his words and answered, “I do not know the details, but in a time long past, there existed a dragon-worshiping cult. They call themselves the Dragon Cult, and they ruled Skyrim.”

Tamriel was a world where the strong ruled over the weak. The weak among humanity loved to worship those stronger than them.

“But the dragons, in all their cruelty, claimed the lives of countless innocents. Their heinous act sparked a rebellion among humans. And then, the Dragonborn among the Nordlings led their brethren in a valiant battle. They exiled almost all dragons from Skyrim. But before the dragons met their extinction, the priests of Dragon Cult mummified a great deal of their cultists, binding their souls within their mortal shells and connecting them to the object of their faith—dragons. Their creed states that these slumbering cultists will return to life as draugrs when the dragons make their return. And Helgen’s destruction heralds the coming of the dragons.”

“Oh, so that’s how it is!” Roy and Flynn finally pieced the puzzle together. So that’s why Alduin showed up. That’s why the draugrs came back to life.

“So who was that Draugr Overlord anyway?”

“I am not too sure. Needs more investigation.” Farengar shook his head. “And now, I believe you need some rest. I suggest you have a drink or two at The Bannered Mare, rent some rooms, take a nice, hot bath, and find yourselves some women. Just relax for a few days before you come back.”

***

The Bannered Mare was an inn in the Plains district of Whiterun. Like most structures in Whiterun, it looked rough around the edges. A bonfire crackled in the center of the establishment, and the ivory candelabra hanging from the ceiling swayed.

Roy stood before the counter, his eyes scanning over the establishment. Men and women of Whiterun sat around the bonfire. Some had capes, some had old, sturdy leather armor, and all were here for booze.

Nordlings were born fighters. Even the patrons of The Bannered Mare had a combat skill or two, and their stats averaged a respectable seven. That was a lot higher than the civilians of the witcher world.

Some were on the floor, some leaned on the wooden pillar supporting the ceiling, while some sat in a half-circle, raising toasts to their companions. Foams of beer lathered the beards of the male patrons and fell to the ground.

A sweet scent of alcoholic nectar wafted in the air of the inn, intoxicating the patrons. The few ladies in the inn swayed along to the singing of Mikael, the in-house bard. He was performing a tune by the name of Age of Aggression, and true to the name, the ladies swayed violently, as if they were trying to vent something.

Roy noticed the instrument held by the bard. It looked just like the lute back home. Ah, art transcends time and space.

“Ah… That hit the spot.” Flynn took a big swig of the amber-colored liquid in his mug and looked away from the chest of the well-proportioned innkeep. His face was flush, and his mind—which was filled to the brim with Dragon Tongue—finally calmed a little. Once again, the Dragonborn could play around, and he spoke earnestly to his friend.

“Goldeneye, we’ve escaped a dragon’s wrath, went through a deadly temple, and killed a powerful draugr. That makes us comrades, but still I know nothing about you. Well, aside from the fact that you’re a skilled adventurer, I know nothing. I don’t even know where your home is.”

Flynn stared at his friend, and Roy murmured something.

Arvel took his hat off to wipe the sweat off his face. “He says he’s from a place beyond Tamriel.”

“And how do you know that?”

“I have a talent for languages, believe it or not. I can guess what he’s talking about, and we did talk about his home before.”

Roy nodded.

Flynn’s eyes widened in surprise. Hey, but I’m supposed to be Goldeneye’s first friend. How come this thief knows him better? He looked disgruntled. “So where’s his home if not Tamriel? Arcadia? Or is it Yokuda, home of the Redguards?”

“Neither. He comes from… um… a place called Novigrad.” Arvel too looked surprised hearing that name. “It’s an even more bustling place than Whiterun. They have a big port there, and dozens of ships would come to trade every day.”

“I knew it. He’s no peasant from any old hamlet. So what did he used to do? Can you ask him?”

Arvel gulped down the piece of grilled potato he was eating. “He used to be a mercenary. Made a living by taking requests. Monster hunting and puzzle solving. Oh, and he… he used to run an orphanage, but then tragedy struck. Other mercenaries attacked him during one particular request, and he was exiled to Skyrim. A long way away from Novigrad. He doesn’t even know if he can go home.”

“Oh, sorry, Goldeneye. Didn’t know you had a rough ride.” Flynn sighed. “But an orphanage… Wow. I’d be thanking the gods if I could make enough just to support myself and my family.”

“Oh, you’re an orphan?” asked Arvel.

Flynn took another swig of his beer. “I was born in Cyrodiil, the center of the Empire located south of Skyrim. After my parents’ passing, I came to Skyrim. To where my home is. I am a Nordling, after all. Been four years since then, yet I still have nothing under my name. Just a lowly tramp. But then the soldiers came for me, thinking I was a rebel.”

A smile curled the Dragonborn’s lips. “But I s’pose I should thank them. Without them, I would never have run into Goldeneye. Would never have embarked on this adventure. Here, a toast to the Imperials.”

They clanged their bottles together, and foam sprayed everywhere. Then the adventurers gulped down their booze.

“Your turn, Arvel.” Flynn wiped the beer off his mouth. “Why did you go to the temple? You’re a decent fighter, but trying to go through that place all by yourself would be a suicide mission.”

“I didn’t go in there alone. The draugrs and bandits killed my companions.” Arvel touched his mustache, his eyes filled with melancholy. “And I have a reason to venture into that temple. I promised I’d get my hands on the strength that can fell dragons and prove myself to her, but now I see I’m not cut out for that job. You two got something from that wall, but I didn’t. I don’t think I can ever master a Shout.”

Roy heaved a sigh. He would like to help, but not even he managed to master a Shout. Flynn might be a Dragonborn, but he too needed time to go through all the information in his head, even if he did absorb everything in one go.

And then a hardened, furry hand slammed itself on the adventurers’ table. The man behind that hand had the hard look typical of Nordlings. His beard was braided, and his blonde hair was tied back. With a roaring voice, he asked, “Did you just raise a toast to the Imperials? You an Imperial supporter?” He wobbled and swayed drunkenly.

“Enough, Jon Battle-Born. You’re drunk. Lie down somewhere and lay your hands off my customers.” Hulda—the innkeep—put her hands on her hips and shot Jon a withering look over the counter.

“Just a few questions for our friends, Hulda.”

“We’re not Imperial supporters.” Flynn wiped the drool off his face and shot Jon an icy look.

“So that means you’re with the rebellion!” Jon tensed up and snarled at the adventurers, shoving Flynn’s chest with an empty bottle.

“I see you dislike the rebels as well. We do not acknowledge their actions either. We’re not supporters of either faction,” Arvel translated Roy’s thoughts. Though he too had the same thought. He was no Nordling. If possible, he would stay away from this civil war. If anything, he despised Thalmor the most. They were the ones who incited this war.

“Yes. We take no sides in this war.” Flynn stood up. “We share the Jarl Balgruuf’s opinion. What will you do now? Force us to change our minds?”

Jon took a deep breath and shook his head. “No. Neutral’s fine.” He looked at the adventurers and—at long last—realized some of them were survivors of Helgen’s dragon attack. “You must be the survivors of the dragon attack on Helgen. Obviously you’ve never heard of the Battle-Borns and their greatness. You show no respect to us, and I do not like that. Someone needs to teach you a lesson. I challenge you to a duel! By drinking!”

“Are you challenging all of us at once?” asked Arvel mischievously.

“If you feel no shame in using your numbers advantage, Nordlings, then I accept the challenge.” Jon stood up straighter, glaring at the adventurers.

Flynn was raring to go, but Arvel held him down. “Fine. Our leader accepts your challenge. We just got back from an adventure. He wishes to wind down with a drink or two.”

Roy approached the drunken Nordling and smiled at him.

“I assume we’ll have a prize for this contest, Battle-Born.”

“But of course. If I lose, I will do anything you ask of me. As long as it’s within my power to do so. The Battle-Borns are famous in Whiterun, after all. But if this… Goldeneye were to lose, then he must show proper respect to the Battle-Borns every time he sees us. In the form of a proper bow.” Jon swung his arm down. “Drinks are on me regardless of the outcome.”

Roy nodded quietly.

And then, a young man with black hair and golden eyes sat down before the counter with a battle-hardened, burly man. Arvel folded his arms confidently, while the Dragonborn stood behind him, looking a little nervous.

A few of the tipsier patrons craned their necks to watch this little wager with interest.

Jon nodded at the innkeep, and Hulda laid out a row of alcohol before the contestants. Alto wine, Nordling mead, ale… everything she had.

But Jon sobered up for a moment and scoffed. “Hulda, I can’t believe you aren’t serving up any brandy or black-briar mead. This is an important contest. I have more than enough coins to pay for the best you have. Give us the Argonian ale.”

“I do not have Argonian ale!” Hulda crossed her arms and obviously lied. “This is the best I have, you battle-crazed oaf.”

“Fine. I guess we can work with these.” Jon smirked at the witcher. And then, as if he was already victorious, he said, “Don’t push yourself, kid. If you do anything stupid when you’re drunk, I’ll whoop you into next week.”

Roy only smiled. I’m twice as sturdy as you are, and I have Activate to clear any debuffs. This is going to be easy.

“Hold on…” A burp echoed across the air. “A second, please.” A husky voice spoke. “Sam Gunvenne, wine connoisseur. You have an interesting contest going on here. Mind if I join?”

The newcomer was a tall, slender man with slicked-back hair. He was in simple attire not unlike those belonging to scholars or mages. The man let out a laugh. A nonchalant, flippant laugh. “Let’s see who’s the best drinker. Last man standing gets an enchanted sword. Oh, you don’t need to give me anything if I win. This is just for fun.”

He whipped out a gleaming sword. It had a cross-shaped crossguard and a ruby pommel. Its blade was as thin and supple as a moth’s wing, its runes gleaming like stars under the candlelight.

There was a name carved on the hilt, but before Roy could have a closer look, the mage clasped his hand, and the blade disappeared into thin air.

“That sword is wasted on a weakling like you.” Jon looked at the frail mage and shook his head scornfully, then his eyes burned with desire. “I’ll happily take it off your hands. Challenge accepted. What about you, Goldeneye?”

Arvel translated the conversation for Roy. The witcher looked at this newcomer and realized he, like Farengar, was a mage. Though Farengar was a far more powerful mage than Sam was. A mage who’s also an alcoholic. Odd. Roy nodded nonetheless.

Happily, Sam took the seat on Roy’s right side. He tapped his finger on the table, and Hulda served him a row of alcohol as well.

“Well, bottoms up.” The mage picked up a bottle of ale and bellowed in laughter, signaling the start of this drinking contest.