((This is an RP blog for Tural, a former Legion scout and Great War veteran who wound up in Skyrim. Blood and gore possible, no smut. TES verse only, single-ship. Icon image by mod of lycannalla.tumblr.com))
Rumor has you and Nidhel eloped to Riften together!
Tural snorted a laugh. “I don’ think Indes or Thoron would take too kindly ta that.” He gave a brief shrug, gesturing around to the inside of his house. “B’sides, ‘m not really in a position ta jus’ go runnin’ off anywhere. Things ‘r still... uneasy.”
As Tural looked through the arrows, Indes herself knelt down to pick one up and examine it herself, while Aela looked over her shoulder. When they checked the straightness of it, the red-haired Nord actually let an almost amused-sounding snort escape from under her breath as she muttered something along the lines of “what kind of amateur made this.” Indes remained silent, however, until the other Bosmer spoke again.
“Amateurish. I have to agree, Elrindir would never sell these in his shop. And I’m fairly certain any of us who have ever used a bow would also agree that we would never consider putting these in with our own arrows if we had the choice.” She glanced to Aela first, who nodded, then to Skjor, and finally between the twins. “What do you think?”
Vilkas was quiet, eyes turned downward towards the arrows sitting on the floor, as if in deep thought. He gave a heavy sigh before shrugging, arms tightly crossed in front of his chest. “Seems to check out, though I’m still not sure what to make of it all yet. Something needs to be done. Maybe see what Kodla—”
“That might be something we need to talk about later,” came Skjor’s voice from closer to the door. “We may be almost out of time now. Brill running to get the healers didn’t go unnoticed, I’m sure. The guard may be on their way right now.”
“We don’t need him going to Dragonsreach,” said Indes, taking her chance before anyone else tried to speak up. “Especially while we’re still deciding on how to look at this. There are going to be rumors regardless of how we handle this, but I don’t want the knowledge that one of our own was locked up to be out there unless we are absolutely certain he deserved it.” Both of the twins began to open their mouths before Indes then stated “And I think there is enough evidence right now to warrant at least a little caution.”
“I don’t want him to be locked up either,” Nidhel said afterwards, her voice quiet and hesitant, but a little desperate. “Please.”
“Whatever we’re doing, we don’t have time to waste.” Skjor turned to Tural one last time with a stone-like expression. “Unless he has anything else to say.”
As they waited for his answer, Nidhel leaned down to whisper, “Do you feel like you can stand?”
Whatever relief might have come of their agreeing with him on the arrows washed away at the mention of the guards. Dragonsreach was far from what he wanted, but... he had attacked his fellow Companions. Citizens of Whiterun. Trickery or not, it had been him who loosed the arrows. Half of him was prepared to accept whatever sentence was decided for him, while the other half agreed with Indes and Nidhel. He didn’t want to be locked up.
Skjor’s last statement got Tural’s attention, and the Bosmer opened his mouth to speak before he stopped at Nidhel’s whisper. Giving a slight nod, Tural drew in his legs under him and pushed himself up. Aside from the aching of his jaw, and the slight soreness at the back of his head, he didn’t feel any other injuries. His body was in decent condition. His mind, on the other hand, was still struggling to process.
“I’ll go wherever is decided,” he answered Skjor quietly. There was a slight glance at Nidhel before Tural looked at the Circle once more.
Nidhel wasted little time in moving and kneeling by his side to look over the place he had been holding a moment before. A magelight spell was cast in one hand to help her see in the dim light, while the other gingerly began to press on his shoulder, an instinctive move to keep him still while she looked. Though it was hard to see, there was a faint impression of the bruising, clearly almost healed.
Nidhel looked up briefly to see not only Vilkas peering over Tural’s shoulder from where he stood, but also the rest of the Circle staring at her expectantly. She would have been worried about their reaction, but she was much more concerned about the possibility that some of the bones at the base of his skull could have cracked. So instead, she turned her attention back to Tural.
“Well?” Vilkas asked, interrupting her thoughts. “You see anything?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice more solid than it had been before. “I see the swelling from the punch your brother gave him. But I also do see a bit of bruising right here. You can even come see for yourself if you don’t believe me.” The hand that was not lit with the magelight came up to touch him on the jaw, as if encouraging him to turn his head some so that Vilkas could see. But she also let a light healing spell come through her fingers in hopes that it would relieve some of the fresher pain without getting rid of the “evidence” they had. “I’m actually a bit concerned and I want to—”
“Got the arrows,” came Aela’s voice from the door. She moved through the others and laid the quiver down within Tural’s reach where they all could see, then stepped back next to Indes. “Can you compare them to the ones you got from the Huntsman?”
Tural was as still as he could be while Nidhel examined him, staring at the floor. The conflicting feelings intensified, only holding him in place all the stronger. His thoughts turned to the moment outside the fort, when that gut feeling had warned him of a trap. If he had listened...
It was’t until Aela’s voice interrupted that the Bosmer’s attention returned to the present. Gently, he lifted the quiver, and removed an arrow, brows furrowing as he gave a cursory glance. The head wasn’t the same shape. Setting the quiver down, he drew his fingers along it. The wood wasn’t sanded very well. He turned the arrow, holding it in both hands, and looking down it.
“Ain’t even straight,” he muttered, placing the arrow down, and drawing another one. He examined it in a similar manner, then placed it down, drawing another. After six or seven arrows, he leaned back against the wall, looking up at Aela and Indes. “They’re not from th’ ‘Untsman,” he concluded, glancing at Nidhel briefly before returning his attention to the other Circle members. “Th’ ‘eads ‘r cheap an’ ‘alf of ‘em aren’ straight.” No wonder I couldn’t kill anyone. The comment floated at the back of his mind, but never made it so far as his mouth.
Grabbing the bundle of arrows, he placed it closer to the others. His throat seemed to tighten slightly again as he waited on one of them to say something.
There was a pause as some of the Circle glanced between each other. Farkas mouthed a “how long has it been?” in his brother’s direction from behind Nidhel while she took another step forward, getting a closer look at his face.
“You were gone for weeks, Tural,” she started again, concern laced in her words. “Over a month, at least.”
“When we realized you were late getting back, we set out to go find you,” Indes added, “figuring you either happened across an opportunity too good to let slip by or you needed some help. When we got to the place you were supposedly at, we found the place abandoned and your tracks just… ended. We searched every corner of that place and the area around it. Even got Nidhel over there to check for any magic that might have been hiding something, but there was nothing. It was just ruins that looked like they hadn’t been touched by anyone at all in months, and you just disappeared when you got too close to it.”
“We were… we were afraid you had been killed.” It was becoming more obvious now that Nidhel was having to hold back tears again, as her voice became more shaky and strained. “But we had no proof either way.” Her sister’s hand found its way to her shoulder, while Vilkas folded his arms.
“So, are we going to see if we can sense any magic on him or not?”
Nidhel took a breath to steady herself before turning to the Nord. “I don’t think I can, unless he’s still under its effects. And he seems… himself right now.” She turned back to him. “But you said they injured you? Could I see where, please? I feel like we might find proof of that more than finding proof of a spell…”
“A... month?” Tural parroted as he continued to stare, his confusion plastered on his face. His head began to hurt from his brain twisting to remember how long had passed. It couldn’t have been a month. He had run through the game... well, he didn’t know how many times, but it couldn’t have taken more than a day or two? But what did he know, the world had faded every time, and he had no sense of day or night. A month still didn’t seem right. How had he been gone that long?
These thoughts consumed him the whole time that Indes spoke, and even once Nidhel asked him something, it took several seconds for his attention to return and him to give a slight nod. “Back ‘a m’ head,” he muttered, realizing that his hand had been held to the spot the whole time. Letting his arm drop, he leaned his head forward to give a better angle to inspect from.
The Circle members listened in silence, each with varying expressions of thoughtfulness or even wariness. Indes wanted to believe him, but knew just how hard it was to deal with illusion magic in situations like this. She took note of the mention of arrows while he spoke, then began to think as he started to describe how everything went down. If he was still under the influence of the spell as he was walking through Whiterun, the maybe…
Her thoughts were interrupted when she realized he was speaking directly to her. At the request, her expression fell just slightly, and she shook her head. “No one is getting killed today. Besides, I don’t think I would make it out of here myself if you got hurt.”
“Don’t protect him just because of your sister.”
“Shut up, Vilkas. I wasn’t talking about her.” She paused. “Though, that does give me an idea.” She turned to Aela, ignoring his huffs of disapproval. “Can you go get his weapons from where you put them? That is one thing we can go ahead and check. And while you’re out there, if you see Nidhel nearby can you ask her to come? She might be able to help with this.”
With a shrug and a muttered “fine,” Aela turned toward the door as Skjor opened it. Both of them paused as a light gasp and the sound of feet scrambling away came from the other side. “Well, looks like she may have heard you anyway,” the red-haired Nord said as she slipped through, turning down the hall. The healer’s face appeared in the open space now, though she seemed hesitant to step in.
“Don’t bring her into this,” Vilkas started again. “She might lie to protect him.”
“She knows more about magic than we do. Enough to maybe give us some insight on whether or not his story checks out. And possibly to see if he might still have some sort of… trace of magic. I don’t know.”
Nidhel began to step in, and almost said something, but Skjor stopped her before she could get a single word out, closing the opening enough that she couldn’t get in without completely closing the door. “If he’s still under this spell, what if he snaps again and starts attacking?”
“I think he can resist. Just let her in for a minute.”
Though he didn’t seem too happy about it, Skjor opened the door to let the other mer in. He left it open for the time being, however. Just in case. Nidhel took a few steps forward before stopping a few feet in front of him, almost afraid to try passing the twins and her sister. She wasn’t in her usual attire, but was instead in a nightgown with dressing robe pulled over it. If it were not for the blood stains that were present, she would look like she were about to go to bed.
“Before I answer any questions, can I ask something?” Her voice was quiet, almost timid. She kept her hands held together in front of her as she looked between the others who were in there before letting her gaze fall on Tural. When she spoke again, one could almost hear how tired she was. “Tural? Are you hurt? Were you injured when… when…”
“I punched him,” Farkas stated.
“B-before that. I meant did you get hurt when you… when you disappeared?”
Indes’ reassurance was... a small comfort, if anything in the moment could be called a comfort. Tural continued to watch the group of his shield siblings, aware that they were still arguing, but not hearing any of the words. They all seemed to blend into an indeterminate murmur as his thoughts tore his attention to the arguing within his mind. A swaying rush of finality swung between the acceptance that it was all over, and trust that Indes wouldn’t let them kill him. All the while, a vague, small voice in the back of his mind asked if it really mattered, if anything made a difference anymore. He had done what he never dreamed he would do, he could do, and part of him ignored the current discussion of his trustworthiness and fate as it tried and failed to imagine how he could move past what he had done.
His blank stare turned to Nidhel as she entered the room. He simultaneously wanted to get up, to stand closer to her, and to shrink away until she couldn’t see him. Caught between the conflicting feelings, he sat dead still, looking up at her.
It took a moment for her question to process. “I don’ think so,” he answered quietly, calmly. “Only time I remember bein’ ‘urt was when I first got there.” As he spoke, his hand moved towards the back of his head, where the blow had knocked him unconscious. “When I got ‘it in--” he stopped speaking suddenly as his fingers touched the base of his skull, and his blank expression broke to furrowing brows and confusion. If there was one thing that he was unquestionably experienced with, it was being injured. He knew how long it took for his broken bones to heal, how long for the sharpness of a stab to fade, and how long for a deep bruise to subside. There was a small ache at the place where his fingers touched, that much was clear, but compared to the fresh bruise from the Nord’s fist, it was hardly noticeable. Far too unnoticeable to have been from the week or so ago that he felt like it had been. Knockout blows were hardly gentle, and left an impression for quite a while.
Still looking towards Nidhel, mouth slightly agape as his brain sluggishly worked to make sense of things, he finally spoke again. “I... ‘ow long ‘ave I been gone?”
From the back of the room, the barely audible voice of Aela could be heard whispering to Skjor, “Wait, is he talking about the Silver Hand rumors? Didn’t we go check the place after he disappeared and found it empty?” But the older Nord was unable to answer before another voice rose up.
“That sounds like a load of shit to me,” Vilkas growled. “If you had been shooting illusions before, I think you would have realized it when the first one non-illusiuon whelp you shot didn’t disappear. You had plenty of time to come up with that excuse, didn’t you? Bet you thought Indes would be on your side because of her—Oof!”
He was silenced by a fist in his diaphragm and a wordless glare from the Bosmer. After he got the message, Indes turned back to Tural, arms crossed. “To answer your question: no. Everyone is alive and breathing. Some are not in the best condition, but we were able to get Nidhel and another healer in here to patch the worst up. Consider yourself lucky for now.” Some were in much more critical condition than what she gave away, but it would do them no good for Tural to close himself off out of guilt any more than he already probably was due to the circumstances. “Can’t say the same about their trust in you right now.”
“Or ours,” chimed in Farkas, voice low and dark as he snarled down at him.
“But back to these illusions,” Indes started again, eyebrows furrowing as she watched him closely. “Do you have any proof at all?”
“Don’t be naive,” Vilkas said, stepping up. “He could just keep claiming that he never saw anything because he was always in the illusion. Or he could say that they took away his memory, something like that. I still don’t believe him. Have you ever seen an illusion spell that lasted more than… what, a day? Indes paused to think, then shook her head. “Then why trust him at all? His story already doesn’t make any sense.”
“Because I also still don’t believe anyone who knew us like he did would be foolish enough to just walk in and start attacking while everyone was around.” Before Vilkas could interrupt again, she turned back to the other Bosmer. “You said those rumors from before were a trap. What happened? How did you get caught?”
They didn’t believe him. These people, who he had spent most of his life with, who he had fought beside, some of whom he had helped train, didn’t believe him a bit. And why would they? It sounded ridiculous, even to him. But that they would think that he would do this on purpose, that he would betray them... the rushing panic that had been building inside of him fell away suddenly to a numbness that seemed to spread across his whole body in an instant. They would kill him. Or at the very least run him out of Whiterun. After beating him to within an inch of his life. Another home, another family, lost because he was an idiot.
Tural looked back at Indes again, face devoid of the torrent of expressions from before. Devoid of any expression, really. “... Proof?” he echoed in an empty tone, still quiet. “Proof of images someone put in m’ ‘ead?” He looked away, trying to think. It was difficult through the sudden fog in his mind, which had apparently given up. But there was... the bow had felt real. He knew the feeling of a bow and arrow in his hands, the feeling of the string’s tension, the bucking of the bow when the shot was fired... That had been real from the start. He had actually been shooting arrows the whole time, and arrows broke on impact. As many times as he had fired, maybe...
“Arrows,” he said, voice the same. “Th’... th’ images weren’ real, but I was usin’ real arrows. I left with a full quiver ‘a arrows from th’ ‘Untsman. They ‘ad ta replace th’ arrows I used b’tween...” There was a pause as he swallowed. “... b’tween sessions. My quiver’d be full ‘a different arrows.”
To him, it was a lot. He had dabbled in fletching before, and he knew from years of experience that arrows made by different fletchers were usually easily distinguishable. But at the same time, it didn’t feel like enough, nearly enough to be proof. But it was all that he could think of.
He gave a small nod at Indes’ question, continuing slowly. Even as he did, the thought that it didn’t matter, that he was dead anyway ran through his head. “I got there,” he said, “wasn’ anyone ‘round but one guard at th’ door. I waited for a few hours. They changed out with someone else, another shift, but I didn’t see anyone b’sides th’ two. It didn’ feel right, but I went closer. I was careful, but... somethin’ ‘it me in th’ back ‘a th’ ‘ead. I never ‘eard anyone b’hind me. Just... out. Black.”
He shook his head, burying his forehead in his palm. “I don’ remember bein’ taken anywhere else. Th’ first... times, when the images were... faded... I could see rock through th’ walls ‘a th’ hall, like cave walls. I think I remember a cell, but... I don’ know if tha’s real. I can’na remember anythin’ else except tha’ bastards’ game.” He looked at Indes again, the shaking in his hands somewhat subsided as an acceptance of defeat seemed to calm him. “I don’ even remember travellin’ back ta Whiterun. Jus’ Tilma’s ‘and on m’ shoulder. ‘Er sayin’ ‘Ya look weary from th’ road, dear’. Tha’s ‘ow it always started.”
There was a pause as he kept looking at his fellow Bosmer. His friend, who he had hurt. His thoughts were slipping away like vapor, impossible to grasp and hold onto, but one did linger long enough for him to focus. Maybe she would understand the request. “If ya kill me, jus’... don’ tell m’ family,” he asked in an empty calm.
The lower hall had been chaotic. Aela, Skjor, and Vilkas were constantly going between checking on injured whelps and arguing with each other about what to do with the one responsible for all of it. Farkas remained planted at the door to the room he dragged Tural into, while at the other end of the hall, Njada took to guarding the now closed door to Kodlak’s room, shield up and at the ready. However, once things calmed down enough and the wounded were either patched up or resting, the rest of the Circle joined Farkas, muttering and trying to come up with a plan of action.
Eventually, the faintest sound caught the attention of the werewolves, and they fell silent. It was Vilkas who moved first.
“It’s my turn to give him what he deserves,” the Nord growled under her breath as he bolted to the door, shoving it open in anger. Indes could hear a light, familiar gasp from behind her as some of the healing supplies they had out clattered to the floor. Shoving past some of the other Circle members, she rushed forward to grab the larger man by the first thing she could reach - a sleeve.
“Ai. Watch it. If you hurt him, I won’t be the one to stop Nidhel when she tries to fry you alive. Besides, we need him awake if we want answers.”
A few seconds later, the rest of the Circle followed them in, with Skjor in the rear to close the door behind them. There was silence at first, with none of them entirely sure they wanted to be the first to speak. But after a moment, Indes was the one to step forward. She held out the part of her tunic that was now torn from the arrow and coated in her own blood. The stained bandages beneath it showed clearly between the tears in the fabric.
“What in Oblivion is going on?” she started, jaw clenched as her voice slowly rose in volume. “Why would you do this to us? To the whelps?”
“You’d better have a good answer, too, Amring,” Skjor’s voice chimed in from behind. “Or else we’ll just assume you have a death wish.”
Tural didn’t look up at them at first, only continuing to stare with unfocused eyes towards the floor, still shaking. It wasn’t until Indes spoke that his gaze flicked up towards her, taking in the red of her blood in the instant before he was staring at the floor again. He couldn’t look at them. They wanted to understand what happened, and even he didn’t really understand. He didn’t know where to start, and his jumbled, panicking, aching mind wasn’t doing him any favors.
His mouth opened, and he struggled to get words out past what felt like his throat collapsing. “I...” There was a prolonged pause. “I didn’... mean...” He trailed off, hopelessly searching for what to say. He didn’t mean to what? Nearly kill his shield-siblings? Nearly kill Indes? The thought that he might have aimed just a bit truer caused him to swallow hard, jaw clenching despite the massive bruise that was forming.
“Th’ rumors were... a trap,” he started again slowly, almost whispering, trying to start from the beginning. “I w-- I walked inta it. Got captured. There was... a mage. Or somethin’. Never saw ‘im. ‘E... made... illusions. Looked like everyone ‘ere.” His chest tightened more, and he stopped to take a couple shaky, shallow breaths. “Did somethin’ ta m’ head. It...” He would have looked ashamed if his expression hadn’t still been entirely shock despair. “... I couldn’ stand th’ pain. ‘E said either I ‘ad ta shoot... th’ illusions, ‘r... th’ pain would get worse an’ kill me.”
There was another long pause as he tried to form the next sentence, mouth hanging open slightly. He looked at Indes, almost pleading between shaking breaths. “It wasn’ real. They weren’ real. They weren’ real... Illusions, th-- they disappeared, like smoke, when I hit ‘em. They weren’ real, so I played along. I thought I could get out.” There was a very subtle shake of his head. “When it was... done, it... started over. Everythin’ back at th’ start. Th’ pain again. It...” He looked at the floor again. “I couldn’ get out of it. It jus’ kept happenin’, over an’ over. But it was never real. It was never real, it was always illusions, I wasn’ goin’ ta--” His voice sounded more desperate. The more he went on, the less believable he sounded to himself. “I didn’--”
He seemed to give up on his train of thought. Instead, he tried to ask quietly, “Is anyone... Did I...?” He couldn’t seem to finish the question.
Tural dreamed while he was unconscious, though it was in disjointed images and noises. A cell. A hooded man. Voices in a dark room. The closer he grew to consciousness, the more the fragments seemed to slip away to silence and darkness.There was nothing to do about it, though, no willpower to keep dreaming, to stay under. Just a feeling of confusion as the aching nerves in his jaw called him back to the world.
There had been a brief hope in his mind that it wasn’t over yet. That his senses would fade in, and he’d be standing at the front of the main hall again, Tilma’s hand on his shoulder. Or that he’d be home in bed, and everything had been a nightmare. But no. He opened his eyes to behold a room within Jorrvaskr, dimly lit by a flickering candle across the room, and empty besides himself. His jaw... no, it had all been real. There were few things that could ground one in reality better than Farkas’ fist.
Slowly, Tural pushed himself up, and back, into the corner of the room. The knot in his chest quickly returned, along with a tightness in his throat, and soon the Bosmer found it hard to breathe or swallow. He stared down at his shaking hands. He could hear the tense, angry voices outside the door, but all his mind could turn to was that voice he had heard over and over again in his mind.
It had never been about breaking him. Start at the door. Work your way down. Tural’s fingers twitched subtly as he began to replay what he remembered of the game the voice had put him through, from the first time. Made it to the door. Faded. Good. He had still been looking at their faces. Again. Made it just past the door. Good. He wanted to press through, to get it over with quickly. He didn’t want to watch his friends die, so he stopped looking them in the eyes. Always a step closer down the hallway. Always a step closer to... Kodlak. This had been to kill Kodlak. Start at the door. Kill his way down. Kill Kodlak.
It was then that the door burst open, and Tural flinched, not looking up from his spot on the floor. Still he sat, leaning back into the corner, staring at his hands.
Another job. Well, not a good, paying job like normal, but a job nonetheless. The warmer air of summer had moved in, still cool compared to Cyrodiil, but Tural kept his mask up against the constant wind. Tall, green grass swayed all around the Bosmer as he crouched dead still, hand against a tree to steady himself. Through the dark and the dense woods, his sharp eyes spied the crumbling stone walls of an abandoned fort.
Well, previously abandoned. A figure in ragged armor leaned against the wooden door into the fort, dark against the pale grey stone. A bandit, perhaps, but Tural hadn’t come here for bandits. Rumors of a stronghold of the Silver Hand had brought him to this place. A few days’ travel from Whiterun, well off of the road, the place had seemed like a perfect base for their enemy, and Tural had insisted that reconnaissance be done quickly. If they needed to be careful of the area, he wanted to know before they lost one of their shield-siblings travelling to an actual job.
But this hardly seemed like a fortress that the Silver Hand were using to expand. Six hours of watching from his hiding spot, and he had only seen one other person: the armed door guard that the current guard had relieved. Which did mean that there were more inside, though as organized as the SIlver Hand had been recently, it was odd for them to have only one guard. Perhaps the isolation of the fort provided them some sense of security, but Tural could only hope that they were so careless.
Wait. The Bosmer’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the door guard. No, no, his luck wasn’t that good. The figure’s head began to hang down, slowly, bobbing every so often, as the shoulders relaxed. Dozing off. Tural’s fingers brushed the soft feathers of an arrow in his quiver. It would be so simple, just two quick shots and he had access to the front door. Yet, his hand froze. It was too easy. All of it. Rumors of Silver Hand in a place so remote, their presence in small enough numbers to not be overly threatening, a sleeping guard. It felt like a trap. Every bit of it felt like a trap.
Tural grinned. Well, they wanted to play a game, he was up for it. The arrow was plucked from his quiver, and nocked against the bowstring. He wasn’t so foolish as to take the front gate, that would likely lead to being stuck full of arrows from surprise archers, or some equally terrible fate. No, he would approach from a different angle.
Aching legs felt a flood of relief as the Bosmer finally moved, keeping low and moving slowly. The grass was good cover, unkempt and moving in the breeze, masking his advance. He circled around, until he couldn’t see the front gate or the guard anymore, pausing often to look for signs of anyone hiding along the top of the wall. There was nothing, it was clear. He moved up to the base of the wall, slipping the bow and arrow into the same hand as his eyes scanned over the decrepit wall for a handhold. Between the ravages of age, and Tural’s long experience with climbing things he wasn’t supposed to, it took little time to reach the top, quietly dragging himself up to crouch atop the wall. The arrow flipped around to his hand and the string again.
Easing forward, Tural tensed the string. The guard was still sitting, leaning against the wall, nodding off in the comfortable night weather. Tural drew the string back, breath letting out calmly behind the mask. The point raised into his view, and he leveled it with the guard. It--
A flash of pain, and darkness.
There’s a hand on his shoulder. It’s Tilma. She smiles warmly down at him. “You look weary from the road, dear,” she says.
He’s in Jorrvaskr, but it’s... wrong. His shield-siblings are faded, almost shifting like smoke, their voices distant and hushed. The fire, the tables, even the walls are translucent, ghost-like. Aela, or what looks like Aela, gives a hint of a smile as she walks by, heading towards the stairs.
Tural barely has time to process what is in front of him before a spike of throbbing pain hits his head, causing him to recoil.
“What th’--” he bites out, before a sourceless, echoing voice fills his mind.
“Hello, mister Amring. We’re going to play a game.”
Man. Older. That’s all Tural can make out through the distraction of the pounding in his head.
“The game is very simple. That pain in your head is going to get worse, much worse, until it kills you. The only way to lessen it is to banish the illusions in front of you. Start up here, move downstairs.”
"’M not goin’ ta--” the Bosmer starts to growl, but the pain blooms anew, cutting him off. It’s spreading, making it hard to concentrate.
“Then you will die a weak, broken coward. I had expected it to take longer.”
Snarling, Tural draws his bow and an arrow. They feel... real. More real than the rest of this looks. A quick draw, a moment of hesitation filled with screaming aching in his brain, and he looses the arrow towards the vague image of Vilkas. The arrow strikes, and with a muffled, distant yelp, the illusion fades into a puff of mist.
The throbbing recedes. A brief respite, but Tural can already feel the spread beginning again, regaining what strength the banishing of the illusion robbed from it.
He draws another arrow. He can play this game, for now. There’s a hesitation before each shot, but the ghosts of the Companions fall as he makes his way towards the stairwell. He reaches for the handle of the door.
“Good.”
As he begins to push it open, his senses fade as his muscles go numb. Darkness overtakes him.
There’s a hand on his shoulder. It’s Tilma. She smiles warmly down at him. “You look weary from the road, dear,” she says.
Again.
The images are there again, different faces, mulling about different parts of the room, but just as ghastly, just as distant.
And the pain. The pain comes back, causing him to clutch his head. “How many times?” He growls between clenched teeth, starting to reach for his bow.
“As many times as it takes for you to break. I have plenty of time.”
No. No, he wouldn’t let this game, this damn mage or whatever he was break him. The pain was beginning to spike again, and Tural pulls forth an arrow, nocking it and drawing it quickly, loosing it towards the nearest illusion. A shout, a fall, and it disappears in a puff. Another arrow, Tural is moving towards the stairs. The pain is still receded a bit when the second arrow flies, striking down an image, and granting reprieve. He makes it to the door, and pushes it open. The hallway isn’t empty, and the rise of throbbing pain drives Tural to quickly fire off two more shots. The world seems to thicken, to slow, and his sight begins to fade.
“Good.”
Again.
There’s a hand on his shoulder. It’s Tilma. She smiles warmly down at him. “You look weary from the road, dear,” she says.
The pain hits as Tural is reaching for his bow. He’s not feeling tired, despite the pain. Each time, there’s no soreness in his muscles, even in his legs from crouching for so long earlier. Four arrows in illusions in the main hall, and he starts moving towards the stairs. He pushes open the door. Three in the hallway, he strikes them down, watching the faces of each as he turns to move on. His chest is tight, but he pushes onward, refusing to let himself break. A few steps down the hallway, and the world begins to fade.
“Good.”
Again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
There’s a hand on his shoulder. It’s Tilma. She smiles warmly down at him. “You look weary from the road, dear,” she says.
This was... the twentieth? The thirtieth time? Tural braces himself the moment he feels the hand on his shoulder, the pain hardly shaking him despite it being slightly worse than he remembered. The bow is in his hand, arrows flying as his aim moves from illusion to illusion, hardly a pause between them. Ignore the yells, the confused cries. To the stairs. Into the hallway.
A brief whisper of thought pesters the back of his mind, the hallway looks just a bit less ghostly, the sounds just a bit less distant. But the thought is buried under the waves of pain, and the Bosmer moves forward, seeking the illusions. Four fall as he makes it almost to the end of the hallway. His muscles stop responding, and the world begins to fade.
“Good.”
Again.
There’s a hand on his shoulder. It’s Tilma. She smiles warmly down at him. “You look weary from the road, dear,” she says.
His bow is in his hand almost before she finishes speaking, before the pain blossoms in his head. Three arrows from his quiver, all fired off in a mere instant. Two more as cries of pain and alarm fill the main hall. He vaults the handrail to the stairs, moving swiftly through the door. Another in the first doorway. He turns to look for more. Kodlak, sitting in his room, at the end of the hall. An arrow from the quiver, drawn--
Something crashes into him from the right. The arrow looses, whistling down the hallway and shattering against stone. Tural is driven into the side of the hallway, and a flash of pain leaves spots in his vision as the back of his head strikes stone. An illusion... Farkas is holding him with both hands, dragging him up the wall until his feet leave the ground. They never... the illusions had never hit him before.
“What are you doing?!” The words that Farkas is roaring finally make it through. “You gods-damned traitor what have you done?!”
The world wasn’t fading. Tural blinked. The world wasn’t fading away again. No. No, no, no no no no no no no--
He felt his bow being ripped out of his hands, and looked to see Aela there, snarling as she took his weapon. His chest seemed to collapse with panic as he looked down the hallway. Ria, slumped against the wall, shaking, an arrow protruding from her side.
NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO
How many arrows had he fired in the main hall? Four? Six? He hadn’t paid attention. He hadn’t paid attention, damn him, damn him. In utter shock, he looked back at Farkas, silent, as the mountain of a man pressed him painfully into the wall. He watched the fist rear back, he watched it sling forward, and felt the brief impact before the Nord’s punch put him under.
Farkas kept his grip on the Bosmer as he went limp, pausing to take a couple heaving breaths through clenched teeth before turning, and dragging Tural’s form towards one of the empty rooms. They were going to get answers out of the damn elf, that much he would make sure of.
Outside Jorrvaskr, Tilma walked along one of the less traveled paths towards the front gates, humming pleasantly to herself. She gave a kind nod to two small children as they rushed by, and chuckled. As she turned to pass between two houses, the air distorted around her, the light shimmering and shifting until her appearance gave way to that of an older man, grayed beard and short cut hair, who flipped up his hood, and made his way calmly out of Whiterun.
It seemed as good a moment as any, as there were not many other Companions around. The two other Bosmer approached Tural, Thoron leading while Indes trailed behind with a large object mostly-hidden behind her back.
Without waiting for a greeting, the oldest of the mer spoke. “Many moons ago we spoke about bows. You asked about the sort of bows we used back in Valenwood and even mentioned that you were interested in trying your hand with one eventually. Well, after watching you shoot that old bow of yours and seeing how it was showing its age, I decided that it was high time you needed a new one. A long overdue gift from us.”
Indes revealed the bow now, a branched recurve bow made out of smooth bone and engraved with Imperial dragons and Bosmeri runes along the sides. It was already strung and had silencing feathers tied to the sinew that caught the breeze as the other Companion held it up where he could see it.
“The designs on it - which were her handiwork - are a bit closer to what you might see on a bow from Cyrodiil,” Thoron continued, “but the shape is that of one of our Jaqspur bows. You can shoot far with it if you draw it all the way, or you can only go about half way and get the same range as you might with the bow you’re using now.”
“And another thing that was my idea,” Indes started, turning the bow so that Tural could see the small knife-sheath situated below the grip on the right side. The leather for it was also decorated with Legion-style dragons. She pulled the small bone-hilt knife out far enough that he could see the blade - a short and serrated one made of obsidian. “I know you have the newer one you got back at the tourney, but I figured having an extra one somewhere that’s easy to grab wouldn’t be a bad idea for times when someone gets too close too quickly. If you don’t like where I put this, or if you decide you don’t want it on there, you can move it off or take it off entirely.” She chuckled. “Or if you just like your old carving knife better I think it can fit in there too.”
Tural hadn’t planned on anyone coming to see him at the moment. He sat, slumped slightly into one of the large chairs around the main hall, a tankard of mead and his old bow on the table in front of him. Despite the posture, there was no melancholy in his expression, only a slight smirk of a smile as he sipped his drink, staring off towards one of the walls on the other side of the hall. He wasn’t in his armor, only light civilian clothes, one of the ruddy tunics he worked around the house in.
It wasn’t until the two other Bosmer were close that he noticed their approach, and pushing himself up on the arm of the chair to straighten himself up, Tural shot the both of them a smile. Though, the smile quickly turned a bit confused as he spotted something being hidden away behind Indes’ back. Propping an elbow on the table, Tural was about to speak when Thoron went first, and his brows furrowed slightly as he listened.
When the bow was revealed, the Bosmer’s eyes widened, and his hand dropped to rest on the table as he leaned slightly closer to it. His gaze stayed locked, scanning over the weapon as Thoron continued. It was... fantastic. A grin slowly spread across his face.
“It’s...” he trailed off as Indes spoke up, and looked with interest at the part of bow she was showing. The grin turned a bit mischievous at the sight of the dagger. He reached out, taking the bow once she was finished, and turned it over slowly, tracing a finger over the designs carved into the limbs.
“I...” he started quietly, voice barely above a whisper as he searched for words. “This is amazin’.” He ran a finger along the string, grin threatening to split his face. He pushed the chair back, standing and taking the string in a few fingers, testing the tension. “I don’ know wha’ ta say.”
((Ok, so I’m terrible and I got distracted by Warframe and Fallout 4 RP and Mass Effect Andromeda (it is a hilariously bad game that has had a few great moments so far), but I’m going to try to focus today on stuff for Tural. I can do this. I can do this.))
I believe it is time for the Character Crucible. I have far too many TES characters to keep up with all at once, and I’m not going to do well bouncing back and forth between them, not to mention that there’s not really enough activity to sustain interaction across so many, so It Is Time. By the end of the day, I will have two characters. One of those two is Tural, because. The other one of the two may be one of my current other characters, or if I feel so inclined, a new character.
If you are reading this, then you are one of the survivors thriving in the wreckage of the once mighty (?) Shipyard, and I will join you as soon as I have determined which dork of mine I would most like to resuscitate in addition to Tural.
Write today as though you will forget to login tomorrow. Godspeed.
It had been a long day. Though working for Elrindir itself was rarely stressful, the customers sometimes would be. It had been one of those days where a particularly ornery hunter had come in with a demanding, pushy attitude. Nidhel figured it may have been the result of a bad hunt earlier in the morning, but she was just glad to have it over with.
As she took the path down from the Huntsman, the mage looked up just in time to see Tural waiting nearby. Just seeing him made all of her previous frustrations disappear. She came up to him, beaming. “Hello there, stranger. Are you waiting for someone, or do you just like to come here to think?”
Tural was just glancing up at the door as it opened, and as he spotted the approaching Bosmer, a smile made its way to his face as well. He straightened up from leaning on the wall, and gave a slight chuckle at the greeting.
“A bit of an odd spot ta think, jus’ standin’ by th’ street,” he said, shrugging slightly. “I s’ppose I might ‘a jus’ ‘ad a feelin’ some beautiful Bosmer was ‘bout ta walk out ‘a there.” The smile turned to more of a grin. “Looks like I was right.”
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