Elder Scrolls: Pocket's Deep, Dungeon's Deeper

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Windsong

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It was cold, far too cold for his liking. Then again, this was Skyrim, it was always cold. At least this far south it wasn't biting at the tip of his ears and nose. Not uncommon to see a mer in this country without the tips of his ears if they got careless one night. That thought brought a coy grin to the dunmer's lips as he slipped into the entrance of the old Nordic barrow.

Rumor had it inside lay a shiny old sword that had a noble proclaiming it his birth right. It didn't matter to this particular dark elf, the pay out would keep him fed for a few weeks and at least buzzing for a few days longer.

The man's description was vague, a silver long sword with runes etched on the flat of the blade with his family's name. That alone narrowed his search down to only a few hundred swords in the province and on the mantle of more than a quarter of all the Nord's living in Tamriel. As if it mattered, unless he ended up carrying six of seven swords from this dark hole in the mountainside so the man could pick the one he wanted.

From crunching leaves to the quiet of ancient stone snapped his thoughts back as his personal spear tipped with Vvardnfell glass went from a useful walking tool to a weapon that even a Dremora would fear. Soon his shield as well was strapped to his gauntlet clad arm and his casual swagger became a somewhat crouched step.

Narivar hadn't expected torches to be lit in a tomb left abandoned.
 
The descent into the dark had left Sylvie less than hopeful about what she might find in the depths of the old tomb. She'd been lighting the way with bits of fire, in the hopes that she might be able to return without getting lost. Bits of the tomb had fallen, they blocked off tunnels she had no desire to explore. A quick examination of the area hinted at draugr activity, no doubt.

She had found her way to the inner sanctum some time ago, easily dodging a few undead guards here and there, but what faced her in the final room was what she feared most. Confrontation. Sitting on a stone throne was a skeleton in bits of old Nordic armor. Some of the steel had rusted, other parts had fallen completely off and lay at the thing's feat. If he had skin, Sylvie might've thought he was grinning from ear to ear. The draugr growled, and other skeletons burst forth from their coffins, and the rest was history.

Sylvie cast a calming spell around the room, giving herself a few moments to decide how to act. I can't torch them all, that's out of my range. She glanced towards the throne, the sword in hand looked like the one she was looking for. Runes along the blade, finely crafted, if she could only get closer to read it, then she could confirm her suspicions. He could dispatch them for me, I suppose.

Her time was up. The draugr group was released from the calm just as Sylvie put them all into a frenzy. Illusion magic had always been a favorite of hers, it always dodged the direct method of scorching a man to death and smelling the rot after of burnt flesh. She backed out of the center of the room to watch the draugr fight each other, the only one unaffected by the spell was the one with the enchanted blade.

Bones creaked and groaned as old battle axes found their way into decrepit skulls. An arm was thrown off here and there, until slowly, the would be threat was nothing more than a pile of squirming bones, trying to reconnect with their heads or bodies.

The one with the sword jeered towards the mage before he pointed the long blade towards her. She bowed her head in mock respect, they were dead and needed nothing more than another ton of dirt to be buried in. At last, she was able to go one on one against the draugr.

"It's just you and me." She smirked.

Little did Sylvie know, there was still a third party somewhere along the tomb, hunting for the same prize she already had her eyes set on.
 
Distant sounds reminded him of a few memories best left buried. Of undead shambling, cursing in their ancient tongue as they brandished weapons that long ago should have rusted long ago and fallen to dust.

If only it were so easy.

If the draugr are fighting it means someone else was ahead of him. Which out his money on the line. That was simply against personal protocol.

Abandoning his slow approach he took to it at a sprint. Shield retiring to its sling on his back while carrying his spear one handed as he vaulted a fallen column like a khajit in its home. Nothing in this was too different from many other ruins, but each one had a unique prize. Normally.

When the Dunmer encountered a lone draugr wandering towards his destination it made him worry a bit more. The idea of dealing with a professional that had merely bypassed the guardians of this tomb didn't sit well with him. Still, this wasn't his first netch wrangling, so he was prepared as his armored shoulder slammed through the iron doors into the last chamber.

Nevermind the robed nord, he spoke inwardly. Still using his momentum to skirt past them. Assuming they were quite the adept at destruction of the bodies of skeletons abound was any indication. Little time to think as he skidded to a halt beside the Mage. With all his lithe frame and muscle he hurled the spear like a missile, his entire body contorting like a rubber band as it launched.

Funny thing about skeletons and spears. They lack the vital organs a spear user is trained to aim for.

Instead of a gratuitously bleeding enemy, he was left with a skeleton pinned to a nearby column, cursing and hissing at the two. "You pissed them off, n'wah."
 
"Wha-" Sylvie was startled at the arrival of the dark skinned elf behind her, she had to assume as much, no other shade of black seemed to match the inhabitants of Skyrim. He skirted around her with his spear until it dislodged from his hand like an arrow, his body the bow.

That only left one pissed off draugr, who cursed and screamed in the language of old. She could hardly understand what ramblings came forth out of the creature's mouth, but they were far from pleasant. He attempted to pull the spear from his chest, but Sylvie was faster. She let out a cry, memories of outdoor scuffles with her brothers flooded her mind. The war cries were less than fantastic, their voices too young and immature to produce a disheartening growl. Sylvie was older now, her voice more so fierce.

She lopped the head off the draugr with her axe and watched as slowly, it stopped moving. The spear was still lodged in its chest. Sylvie pulled the thing away and tossed it back in the direction of the elf. It was finely crafted, the man would obviously want it back.

"That sword is mine, don't you lay a finger on it." Sylvie warned. "Unless of course, you came down here for something else?"

She turned her head ever so slightly, keeping her hood of her mage robes pulled high over her head. Her face was best left to mystery, no need to be acquainted with any sort of man met in the depths of a Nord tomb, in any tomb. The luck which might come out of their meeting would not be anything worthwhile, and Sylvie would have preferred no one had intervened in the first place, but there he was.
 
Deft hands caught the spear, not more than a few feet away. Disregarding her words as he stepped past her rather brazenly to scoop up the fallen undeads weapon. "This is what I came for I'm afraid. Your assistance is appreciated." Was his traditional gravelly voiced reply.

The gleaming blade was turned over in his hand a few times before red eyes caught torch light and he turned to face the Nordic woman. Not seeing her face wasn't something he was worried about, since most of his own people often wore filters or closed helmets to keep the ash storms at bay from their dark flesh.

"What do you want with it?" No time waster in wrapping t tightly in a pilfered cloth from his bag, dark with oil to keep the elements off of its metal body.
 
"You have no idea what it is that you're holding!" Sylvie took a step towards the man with her hand outstretched. Fierce blue eyes gazed up from beneath her shroud.

There was an obvious difference in power. Where Sylvie could char the man in an instant, he could pierce her through in the same time frame. She had to be careful, do something a little less obvious than try to wrestle the sword from his hands. If he was a thief, there was the possibility he could be persuaded by coin. Plenty of which she had on her, courtesy of the College of Winterhold. They were wise not to send their mages onto the field without a spare bit of gold. Most residents of Skyrim were unwilling to give up precious family heirlooms because of a so claimed curse.

"I want to dispel the enchantment placed on that blade." She said honestly. "It's dangerous, one touch of the blade and you'll be drained for a month. Even just a scratch, just then when you wrapped it."

She took another step forward in an attempt to pull the wrapping away from the blade. If she had the chance to confirm her suspicions, she could save them both a lot of trauma. There were no ill wishes towards the stranger, she only wanted to take the chance to save them both from a few weeks of pain and agony. Sylvie dared to place her hand on the wrapped blade, her eyes never left the sight of the Dunmer.

"I can pay you." She blurted. "Just let me have the sword."
 
Septims.

The whole reason he was really there.

This sword had no real sentimental value to him. Well, not until she had seemed so eager to get it. Childish as it was to think that way it got him his kicks and made life a little easier to bear with day by day. In her earnest interest of the sword only made him want to hold it a bit longer.

"Enchantments? My that'll raise the price.." He was no merchant or haggler, but he could bump a few coins on or off from the locals if he leaned hard enough on his spear like he was doing now. "Why ya' got so much interest in this sword?" That coy grin only grew a bit wider, flashing a toothy grin as he pulled the wrapped blade just from the woman's grasp. It may seem like a silly game, but his grasp on his spear hadn't loosened as the end sat an inch from the floor, his weight held on an ankle, ready to fling it one way or another.

"I was sent here to get it for a rich man in Windhelm. Family heirloom.. He might be a bit upset that it was so rusted it simply crumbled when I found it." His brows raised slightly, making those red pupils a bit wider in the gloom of the dungeon. A soft breath turned to vapor as it left his lips.

"Three-hundred septims."
 
Three hundred?!

Sylvie tried not to let the shock show through on her features, the hood was all the more useful as she ducked her head down for a brief moment. This way, he couldn't see her eyes seemingly cringe at the price he offered up. Sure, there had to be at least a good four or five hundred in her pocket, but to offer it all up because a thief had simply gotten in the way was absurd! Normally, she mightuse the septims to pay for lodging on the road back to the College. This might have been one of those trips where she'd just have to camp the whole way back, in the snow and all.

"I'll give you two hundred, and whatever of the sword I have left." Sylvie bargained. "It won't do anything to the blade, other than maybe turn it a bit dull. I doubt that rich man of yours will even know the difference, it's been sitting down here for hundreds of years I reckon."

She crossed her arms, hoping that he might take a turn towards that sort of deal instead. The blade could be curse free before he even left the cave, if he so much as decided to step outside the room they were in that was. She could complete the process in the depths, but it'd take time. It always took a little bit of time.

"Even if it crumbled, what's a man to expect? Make a replica, he just can't have that blade in the state it's in." Sylvie huffed to the side, somewhat irritated now that the man was being difficult. All he saw was the greater price to be had from a dangerous weapon.

Sylvie tried again, holding out a hand expectantly.

"Two hundred, and the blade, do we have a deal or not?"
 
His money back and the blade for the payment. Even if it wasn't the real deal he was assured a few as per his contract with the nobleman. It wasn't a hard deal to know he was getting the sweeter end of it in the long run. Investment, Narivar mused to himself.

"You've a deal, Mage. I'll not let anyone say I'm an unfair trader." Which was true to an extent. Being tight with money and goods in his homeland could destroy a reputation.

The hilt was extended to her. Leather clad fingers held the piled cloth wrapped about the weapon. Should she reach for it he would quickly raise it up.

"I want your name first. Someone to repay if I'm given full payment for the blades return." Red eyes appraised her, a knowing smirk upon his dark features seemed almost insidious given the flickering torch light on his angular face. His voice though was easily sincere, if not gravely and coarse as was common amongst his kin.
 
Sylvie smiled. At last, they could come to an agreement on something. She took the blade from his hand without touching it, using spells to keep it just near her hand, but never once letting the metal touch her robes. It was unknown what might happen to her entirely if she touched the enchanted weapon, and she had no intent on finding out firsthand what the damage would be.

Slowly, she sank to the floor on her knees and let the sword hover in the air before her. She looked at it, this way and that, shifting its angle with a slight turn of her hand. The runes provided a sort of spell, and she could see it quite clearly now that she had the opportunity to have peace and quiet to examine.

"If I give you my name, I want you to knock off 50 septims." Sylvie was only joking of course, and she returned a coy grin of her own. "My name is Sylvie Snow-Fang, I am a mage from the College Of Winterhold."

She eyed him curiously. Dunmer. There was a fair chance he wasn't from Skyrim, seeing as the persecution in any of the cities was enough to drive most of the dark skinned beings off. Nords, Imperials, even some other elf-kind didn't really want to see the face of an Dunmer nearby. A shame really, Sylvie had a very talented college who happened to be of the race. What he was doing down in the Nord tomb was a new question on its own. Perhaps he was a thief, or perhaps he meant it when he said he was only retrieving the sword for a nobleman. Most sell swords used, well, swords of some kind. The spear was something new, and only made her wonder what his true purpose was.

Did he want the coin? Or was he in it for the better nature, a kindness?

"Now, if you please, I need to concentrate for a while. See to it that no other draugrs enter this room." Sylvie placed her hands above the sword as it hovered just above the ground. Enchanting was a nasty business on its own, requiring soul gems, which were often hard to come by and fill. Reversing the process was just as difficult, if not more so. She pulled out a small blue gem, but turned to give the elf a nod.

"Unless, that is, you want to possibly blow up."
 
When the Nord took to her knees his head tilted up slightly, almost giving off an air of ancient superiority. The smirk that got a bit longer indicated he'd agreed with her little deal, fifty septims for a name was far from expensive in his eyes. Narivar had spent hundreds on finding a specific weapon from an ancient hero's time, one he coveted, not only for his namesake.

"Narivar." Was his curt response.

Turning about on his heel he'd let her work, barring the old iron doors with a fallen skeleton's blade. Adding two more just to give himself a bit more assurance any remaining guardians might have trouble, giving him more time, before getting in to meet his spear tip.

"Spontaneous detonation is not on my life's duties." Came his sarcastic remark, finding a nearby stone to squat atop with his spear planted firmly on the floor. Once more upon closer inspection it was apparent it wasn't actually against the floor. Perhaps he was too fastidious to let it touch the floor.

"Are you here for just this weapon? Plenty of trouble for an old silver long sword." Idle conversation may drag out her work, but it'd make time drift faster for him.
 
Sylvie groaned quietly. If he talked to her, that would only make her work drag out. While she wanted to just ignore the stranger, Narivar, he was her personal guard so to speak. If she flat out ignored him, there was a fair chance she'd end up on the wrong end of a spear, and the sword taken from her hands.

"Yes, this is all." Sylvie nodded her head, effectively ending the conversation on her part.

Of course, the elf probably had more questions for her. No one ever just let it go at that simple answer. There always seemed to be another page in her story, another chapter worth telling, but the words were lacking in structure. Sylvie didn't have much more to say, other than to be quiet and let her focus on pulling the enchantment off of the blade.

"If I have the skill to pull enchantments, I may as well put it to use." She explained. "Save one Nord when he wants his family heirloom sitting pretty on his mantle."
 
Dunmer valued their privacy, something often afforded when dealing with other races as well. For her silence he couldn't really argue with her about it, simply shifting his weight to gain another moment of comfort as he sat upon the fallen column like some macabre armed gargoyle. A quick tamp of his spear on the floor broken the brief silence as he grunted.

"Dead men don't pay well I s'pose." Was a curt reply, figuring conversation to be shut off quickly.

Crimson eyes shut as the low thrum of magicka filled the room, a by-product of her work to be sure. Mixed with the idle noises of settling stone and what could have been distant walking it all made for an eerie scene. He couldn't help but be curious about her work, knowing full well disenchanting often left an item destroyed, surely such a skill would be better used in a setting built for it rather than here.

Rattling bones drew his attention quickly, leaning his spear against the column he sat upon to draw an opaque white blade from it's leather sheathe on his hip. All but silent as he moved like a spider upon it's own web, feet touching the floor as he stepped past her, a palm aimed flat at the floor for her to remain quiet.
 
Sylvie glanced up to see the flat of the man's hand, as if she would speak under such circumstances. She had her work cut out for her, the enchantment was wound deeper into the blade as she would've liked. As she sat there in silence, the metal creaked and groaned under pressure of the old magic. One by one, the runes on the blade began to fade but in their place thick scars began to form, white hot metal bubbling beneath the surface.

Don't break.

She did her best to balance the outflow of magika with a soul gem, a technique her and her colleges were in the process of testing. So far there had been positive results. It worked as an appropriate host until the magic could be replaced with a soul, a more powerful entity.

Her hands stayed steady over the blade, twitching and faltering only when she heard the subtle crack of a bone. Sylvie's eyes darted up to see Narivar posed and ready for a fight. As quickly as she could without disturbing the process, Sylvie shot out a hand. In place of an absent mage, she left a spectral ax to follow the elf if need be. It wouldn't be nearly as powerful without the watchful eye of Sylvie, but it would suffice for the time being. She was unable to move very far without stopping the enchantment process.

As the Dunmar had said, spontaneous combustion wasn't on either of their life's wishes.
 
Somewhere amidst the fallen rubble a lone skeleton had begun putting a few of its fellow undead back together. The work was shoddy, its own bones held together by thin strips of old leather and a few bits of metal. Trying its damnedest to do the same, one was balancing itself on its palms, the lower half across the room, unmoving.

The spectral axe floated too close, it interfered with his swinging arc. An attempt to push it aside was akin to moving a breeze. He couldn't even growl his frustration.

A brief glance was given to the Mage, the glow of her work marking her location.

Then he hopped the rubble and set to the skeleton.

If it could show fear it was unlikely it could. A loud bang marking his quick spell of fire at its core, sending ribs and vertebrae showering around the immediate room. Surely the axe could handle a single undead that had no legs?

"I fight better alone." Came his chiding remark as he returned to his perch, reclaiming his spear and replacing his bone blade in its sheath, it hadn't even gotten to be swung.
 
Sylvie's spectral blade had no problems dispatching the half formed skeleton as it crawled to reach another set of bones. It hadn't made it more than an inch before it crashed against the bone, dissipating instantly. The mage couldn't keep up the blade without losing her focus on the disenchantment process.

Her hands began to ache the longer they stayed in position, trembling slightly as she feared her control would be lost. Sylvie took in a heavy breath and let it stay inside her lungs, not letting the bated breath go until the runes on the blade had fully disappeared. She'd been lucky. The sword only suffered minor damage, having sent it's power into the soul gem instead of out into the open air, giving way to terrible fractures which would have been sure to lessen the value the treasure hunter was after.

If that's what he was, after all. She hadn't questioned him further. Was he after the pretty penny? Or did he truly want to reunite master and blade?

"Done, let's go!" Sylvie wrapped the sword back up in the cloth the Dunmer had provided and hastily swung it beneath her arm.

In this fashion she was able to hold up one hand for spells, of which she chose Illusion to keep the dim witted draugr at bay. It was a simple task, keeping them dizzy with either fear or calm. Either way, they weren't focused on the two in the central chamber, and less so on their escape.

Sylvie threw her pack back together and slung it over her back. The greatsword was too large to do anything but carry. She hated leaving a hand so unusable, as most mages did. It left her vulnerable to attack when she couldn't use the spare hand to heal herself in the meantime. It was a disadvantage she was most uncomfortable with, but with the new fighter at her side she was less bothered.

"It's only cracked, move, move!" She shouted. "I don't want to be down here to fight these things any longer."
 
The sound of the skeleton crashing to pieces was welcome noise. Even if it was echoing and somewhat deafening in the large chamber, amazing how ancient's built rooms with noise in mind. For that he considered them idiots. One could only imagine how things sounded if someone was yelling like before.

"Cracked my right ear." Was his muttered reply with a hint of venom that it might cost him some coin. Still, her 'patronage' might cover those costs. Not a moment after she gave the shout to move he followed behind, ears flicking backwards in an old mer sign of annoyance, often lost.

He had to give her credit for disorienting the draugr as they went. The way out seemed far darker than when he went in, causing him partway into a black corridor to draw a torch and light it from his fingertip, catching up quickly to the woman.

"You could've just given it to me and saved yourself the coin." Nar chided as he watched the weapon bounce beneath her arm with briefly suspicious eyes. That hopefully fell to the wayside before she took notice as he kept step behind her. The colder it became the closer he new they drew, now he was curious what time of day it fell on outside. Breaking camp to share wasn't the brightest idea he'd had.
 
Sylvie set up a small camp just outside the entrance to the tomb in the near center of a less than spacious clearing. Another foot or two to the side, and the flames would have licked the trees bare of their bark. It was dark enough to allow for a small fire to be lit, the smoke caught in the thick evergreens around them, hiding them just enough from the main road. She never much liked lighting a fire in the middle of the night, it called too much attention from unwanted sources. Thieves as well as bandits were drawn to either smoke or flame, giving reason to almost never light a fire. Sylvie, simply put, was used to being cold.

She wore thick pelts, strapped backwards to allow the fur to straddle around her skin where she needed. The most noticeable areas she wore fur in this fashion was on her feet, boots that rode up to her knees with gray wolves fur. Her hood was lined as well from a few rabbits, a decent meal she recalled. Even now she had all her leathers strapped tight to keep out the average freezing temperatures.

"Annoyed?" She finally asked. It was dark, and she wasn't fond of letting the sword go just yet, so the Dunmer stayed. "I know another like you, Vedrer. He studies under the school of Destruction magic."

Her idle chatter wasn't much to go on, so she prodded at the fire with the end of a large stick.

"I'm not going back until I get to look at this a while longer." Sylvie explained. "You'd be better off catching a few hours of sleep while I try to see if I can repair the blade, the cracks and all. I would so hate for you to miss out on a few more septims for your bravery."

All of it was thick with sarcasm, but who was she to complain? The blade had been disenchanted. That was enough.
 
As they drew nearer the surface the dunmer pulled his cloak from the strap on his pack, wrapping it around his shoulders while letting the hood remain limp. The night's bite had come quickly, already he could feel it on the tip of his nose and his ears. That hood would be quite necessary.

"Somewhat." Her sarcasm was returned with a bit of a snap, squatting beside her fire as he'd done on the stones inside the barrow. "Can't I have the sword now?" Impatience had begun to wear into his tone with the onset of the cold outside.

A few moments later he turned about, letting his back soak up much of the fire. The unmistakable lump of his backpack had gone missing, likely still beneath his traveler's cloak. "Sleep? You mistake me for an amateur delver. I slept before coming here." Even if that was hours ago, he was far from tired. A nap might not be so bad in later hindsight though.

"What could you possibly need to keep looking at it for, sera?"
 
"I want to make sure it's clean." Sylvie explained as if it should have been common sense.

If she left the sword in the Dunmer's hands, it was likely there could still be something wrong. He'd hand it off to the nobleman who'd required his services and there was always the small chance that a bit of magic would be left over, effectively leaving a half charged weapon in a Nord's hands. Sylvie would be subjected to blame for leaving the weapon in any state but discharged and at least partially mended.

She held her hands over the blade one last time. It seemed to be alright, no magika radiated from the center as it had before. There were a few runes left, a name of some kind, but the ones along the blade had disappeared entirely. Hopefully, the man wouldn't know they'd gone. On the off chance that he did, Sylvie prepared a back up measure.

Illusion was a good practice to study. Sylvie found it most useful in situations of forgery, for obvious reasons. In no time at all the cracks seemingly disappeared into the blade, melting in hot strips of iron. The cracks were gone, at least to the eye, but to anyone with a decent skill of magic, they'd be able to see the near seamless fault lines.

"There." She huffed. "Good enough. I'll give it to you in the morning, I want to give it time, let the magic settle." That of course, was only a myth between students. "But, be my guest, take the blade and run. Whatever gets you your coin, even if it's dark."

She held out the blade with a wave of her hand, floating the hilt end Narivar's way.
 
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