Chapter 93: The Mantle of Woe

The young-looking man that had summoned the skeletons to attack me stirred, the movement obscuring my view of the shimmering bones in the ground. His gaze fixed immediately on the dark purple robe in my hands.

"Thief!" He snarled. "Give it back!"

The young Nord rose, and made to snatch at the heavily enchanted item. I kicked him back down, drawing the robe back - out of his reach - as I did so. Before he could make another attempt, I swung my pack from my shoulders and hastily bundled the robe within it. For an instant after kicking the man down, I had wanted very much to kill him - to stomp on his head with my spiked boots until he stopped moving.

There had been times - many times - in combat when I had done some truly vicious things; but it had always been in the midst of a chaotic fight, fuelled by fear and anger. This young man was quite defenceless without the robe - that much was obvious - and I had never felt the urge to kill an obviously defenceless man before. The robe I had taken from the young man was very, very powerful; but it would have taken a true fool to not see that there was also something wrong with it - that there was a cost for using it.

Sure enough, as soon as the thing was out of my hands, and out of his sight, my vision returned to normal - the shimmering spectres of bones fading away - and the Nordic man suddenly relaxed, looking as if he could not quite remember what he had been doing.

"Are you Tymvaul, Lassnr's son?" I asked, my hand on the hilt of my sword; just in case.

It turned out to not be necessary. The man's appearance was markedly different: he no longer looked almost like one of the undead himself, and certainly no longer looked as if he wanted to attack me. He had been wearing next to nothing under the robe, and I was reminded again how the Nordic race was said to be virtually immune to cold - even magical cold. Right then this certainly looked to be true: the young Nord was sitting on ice, and not even shivering. He started at my question.

"What? Yes - I am! But - don't hurt me, please - I'm sorry! I'm sorry for... When you came in, I thought you wanted..." Tymvaul paused, head in his hands. He appeared quite confused.

He said no more for the moment, staring at my hand - the one ready on my blade. He seemed to be waiting for a sign that I did not mean to do him harm. I relaxed my stance, letting my hands fall to my side.

"I did not come here to kill you;" I told him; "your father is looking for you. He was about to jump down the well himself to find you."

Tymvaul sat bolt upright at the second mention of Lassnr.

"My father! Does he know? Does everyone... know what I've been doing? I just wanted to study magic. Not many here approve of magic - 'a man's place is as a warrior', they say. I learned about... about the Mantle..." His eyes strayed to my pack. I swung it back onto my shoulders, noticing a frown crossing his features briefly as I did so. "The Mantle... I learned that it was here - right beneath the village... and powerful. I wanted to show them that magic is powerful: no less worthwhile than skill in armed combat." Tymvaul paused, looking at his feet. "But... that thing... something about it - it filled my head... They don't know, do they? What I've done?"

I shook my head.

"Everyone thinks you are dead;" I replied; "except your father - but he's very worried. No-one knows what's happened down here."

Tymvaul leapt to his feet.

"I must go to him! You won't ... tell him about this, will you?" There was a pleading look in his eyes.

I shook my head again, making to lead the way back to the pool where I had first entered the caves.

"It is your place to tell him;" I said, adding: "and tell him everything."

The young Nord agreed, looking relieved. He stopped me from going back the way I came, saying there was another, easier way out. I was glad to hear it: I had not been sure how to get Tymvaul back up the well.


The Nordic man lead me down a twisting ice tunnel that shortly opened out into the cold night air, behind a stand of thick bushes and several boulders. We were near the base of the steep hill leading down to the west from the Skaal Village. Tymvaul turned to me before he left.

"I am sorry, again." He said quietly. "Take that robe far away, and burn it, if you can. Thankyou for this. I owe you - everything."

With that, he sprinted off up the hill, calling out for his father. I turned and set about looking for a fairly level place to leave a magical Mark. The young Nord seemed free of whatever destructive impulses had seized him in the Rimhull ice caves, and I had other things on my mind: namely what to do with the insidious enchanted robe in my pack.

After a moment I looked back; up the hill, and saw Tymvaul running into his father's arms. Wondering vaguely what it would be like to have a father, I turned and cast my Mark, before teleporting home.


I spent the remainder of the evening in Wolfen castle's laboratory with Yanika, the assistant mage I had hired, studying the robe I had recovered. I made my suspicions about the item clear to the Altmer woman before drawing it from my pack, but her eyes still gleamed with thinly veiled desire at the sight of the faintly shimmering folds of purple fabric.

I have to wonder, though, if I did not look much the same as her right at that moment. There certainly was "something about it", as Tymvaul had said. The obvious, extraordinary power and utility of the robe's enchantments to a mage were seductive, and difficult to deny.

After a cautious and tentative examination of the robe, and a search through one of Yanika's books on magical artefacts, we determined that it was called the 'Mantle of Woe', and was fairly well-known in certain circles. In the most basic sense it made the wearer take on the aspect - and some of the powers and weaknesses - of a powerful, magical, undead being: a lich, perhaps - or a vampire. It increased one's magicka reserves to spectacular levels: many times what the wearer could store normally. It also gave one an incredible insight into the Conjuration school of magic, and the act of summoning a beast - especially an undead creature - or an item from another place. For me this had manifested itself in my visions of the bones in the ground all around me.

Those were the strengths endowed by the Mantle. The weaknesses were quite severe. The wearer, as I said, took on the aspect of an undead thing: almost literally, in fact. This is why I had originally almost mistaken Tymvaul for a revenant of some kind. The robe was obviously not something that could be worn in public. It also could not be worn in daylight - according to Yanika's book - or the wearer would burst into flames. This is what made me think the Mantle was linked somehow to a vampire.

On top of all that, the wearer would inherit the fragility of an ancient, magically animated body: he or she would be that much more vulnerable to attack or damage of any kind. The entry in Yanika's book on the Mantle speculated that the soul of a powerful lich or vampire may have been used to imbue the robe with its powers: citing the pressing influence some wearers felt upon their mind.

In summary, the Mantle of Woe was dangerous. I was unsure what to do with it. Somehow I couldn't quite bring myself to destroy it - and I was unsure what would happen if I tried to, in any case. I was certainly not about to put it to use myself; not with its questionable background - and with the way it made me feel when I merely touched it. I could not take the risk of giving it away, trying to sell it, or putting it on display in my museum. I could not risk someone else behaving as Tymvaul had done. People could get hurt.

In the end I hid the Mantle away in the castle's secret vault, taking even more care than usual to make sure no-one saw me enter or leave. As far as I was aware, I was still the only one who knew the vault existed. I did my best from then on to pretend that the Mantle was not there, but a small voice in the back of my mind told me that I had hidden it there in case I needed its power one day...

Chapter 92: Cold

Tharsten Heart-Fang seemed to take my return of the remains of one of his people (a skull, at least) as a sign that I had been sent by the Imperial Legion to atone for all the damage they had apparently caused to Solstheim.

"The Imperials sit in their fort, and scar the land with their holes, and their felled trees." Tharsten said, scorn in his voice. "They are wasteful, lazy, and careless. They slaughter the prey on this island, and leave barely enough to ensure a new generation. Where do they think next season's food will come from? They take too much, and leave what they must think are scraps for the bears and the wolves. They feed the bears and wolves with their waste. Have you seen them? Wolves and bears for leagues! A man cannot cross a clearing without a wild beast taking him for walking food."

I knew exactly what the Skaal chieftain meant. As I mentioned, the number of predators I had fought off on my hike across Solstheim was extraordinary.

"The 'Oneness' we share with the land is what gives the Skaal its power." Tharsten continued. "The Imperials disrupt and destroy this Oneness with every action they take - they have never understood it... although by sending you with this skull, perhaps they are finally acknowledging their mistakes. You could be the instrument of their atonement - I wish for you to be the one to make things right, Edward Frost - the one to restore natural order and balance. And the one to restore the Skaal to the power we once had."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I was a complete stranger to Tharsten Heart-Fang (and he to me), and he was talking as if I was somehow beholden to him to restore his people to... power - to some former glory. Perhaps my feelings were plain on my face, because the chieftain added:

"It is right that you do this, as it is your people who have caused the damage."

It is true that his manner - and his assumption that I could be ordered about as his lackey - irked me; but quite apart from that, I had far too much to do to let myself be caught up in the affairs of this remote community. I told him as much:

"I am not a Legion soldier," I said; "nor am I an Imperial. I have been here for two days - no more. I am not responsible for the state of this island: not even in part. There is a debt to be paid, obviously: I can understand your position - so I hope you can understand mine. I have made a number of commitments elsewhere: not the least of which is to find those missing men and women. I am sorry, Tharsten, but I do not have the time to help you right now. If you seriously need my help - and no-one else's - then perhaps later I will return, when I have seen to my current obligations."

As I said these things, a now familiar dull, cold ache settled in my heart: the time was rapidly approaching when promises of "soon" and "later" would be empty when coming from my lips. I would likely not live long enough to see such promises through. It was not a pleasant thought.

Tharsten did not speak for a moment, a dark expression fouling his face.

"I would have expected no better from a Westerner like you." He said finally. "You would spit in the face of a chance to redeem your people and heal a wounded land?"

"I explained that it was not I or my people who did this to Solstheim;" I replied, keeping my tone as level as I could; "and I explained my position. Thankyou for having me in your village: I will be leaving now."

"I think that would be best." Tharsten said shortly.

The mood between us was quite frigid as I left the Skaal's Great Hall.


Visiting the Skaal Village would have been a total waste of time, had it not been for Tharsten adding to the area of Solstheim in which the airship crew was probably not located. All that was left was to head west to the Moesring Mountains and Hrothmund's Bane. It was well past dusk by that time however, and I had no intention of going further that night. The temperature was dropping by the minute, and I walked briskly out to the western outskirts of the village to keep warm. I was looking for an out-of-the-way place to leave a magical Mark, but instead I found an old man perched precariously atop a well, staring down into its depths.

"Ho - wait!" I shouted, running up to him. "What are you doing?"

The man, who I soon learned to be named Lassnr, clambered down, slowly and awkwardly.

"It's my son." He said with a quaver in his voice. "He fell in the well."

"What?!" I exclaimed, leaping up to stand on the well's edge, like Lassnr had been doing. "I'll get him! Where is he? Is there water down there?"

The old man appeared confused for a moment, and then said:

"Oh - no, you misunderstand. He fell in several days past..." He went on to explain that no-one else in the village thought that his son, Tymvaul, had survived the fall, since no cries for help had followed the accident. Lassnr, of course, had not given up hope: but had not been able to persuade anyone to enter the well and look for the lost young man. "The well leads to some ice caves, called 'Rimhull'. Tymvaul may still be alive and whole down there!"

My Night-Eye spell let me see the water down deep in the well quite clearly. My magic left me with nothing to fear about dropping into a well.

"Stay here," I told the old man; "I'll look for him." I jumped.


My enchanted 'Infallible' belt carried me safely down to the surface of the icy water, and a water-walking spell kept me from being submerged. I knew something was wrong the instant I got my bearings: I could see a dim light up ahead - perhaps bounced off the cracked, pearlescent ice walls many times. It was difficult to tell. Someone or something had to be down there, though. I drew my sword.

I followed the light down a slippery tunnel of ice and stone. Luckily for me, whoever made the bearskin boots I wore had seen fit to fix a series of metal spikes to the sole - and these helped me to remain upright. I soon found the source of the light: a small campfire in a larger chamber. Sitting in front of the fire, facing me, was a young Nordic man in a dark purple robe, muttering to himself. He looked... awful. At first, I almost took him for one of the undead, such was the pallor of his skin: but I could see him breathing.

"Tymvaul?" I asked tentatively, taking several steps towards him. "Are you Tym-"

But at that, the young Nord leapt to his feet, bellowing:

"No - you shall not have it!" He threw his arms up, hands pointing at the cavern ceiling and white sparks crackling between his fingers. I knew a summoning spell when I saw one.

With a deafening series of cracks and crashes, the floor around the edge of the cavern exploded, sending splinters of ice and stone flying. Animated skeletons erupted from the resulting holes in the floor. The Nordic people were not usually known for having much of an innate grasp of the use of magic. How could a Nord so young have such a powerful command of magicka? I was stunned - and, more pressingly, I was surrounded.

Before the young Nord could weave another spell, I lunged at him, leaping over the campfire to catch him in the side of the head with my elbow. He crashed to the ground, unconscious. That just left the crowd of skeletons about to descend on me. They were armed, but carried no better than sharpened stones fastened to the end of lengths of wood, and battered shields of wood or bone. With great, sweeping arcs of my Daedric longsword, I broke every one of the revenants to pieces in fairly short order.

I directed my attention back to the young Nord. When I knocked him down, the robe he wore had brushed against me, and I had felt something: powerful magic... but - dark somehow. The robe was obviously enchanted; and far more potently so than anything I had encountered before. It had to be the source of the man's uncanny magical ability: I needed to take it from him before he woke up.

I set about stripping the young Nord of the robe, and the instant I grasped the material I felt it again: my awareness of the flows of magicka in and around me expanded - soared, even. It was like looking up from a finely-printed book to take in a massive landscape - a view to the distant horizon. The robe was also cold to the touch - I could feel it right through my gloves. There was something wrong with it, too: touching it made me feel vaguely sick.

In a moment I had removed the robe from him completely, and as I stood there with the dark purple folds in my hands, my vision blurred and shifted, and I could feel my breathing become laboured.

I could see bones in the ground, shimmering like the sun on a frozen pond. I could see them for such a great distance, buried far and wide, that if I looked too far, my sight was overwhelmed with their cold shimmering light. The robe was powerful - very, very powerful - and it stirred a wonder in me.

Chapter 91: Harrowed

After leaving the Valbrandr Barrow, I spent a few miserable hours trudging through the flying snow, fending off wolves, bears, Bare-Sarks, unusually large boars called 'Tusked Bristlebacks', and even 'Ricklings' (little blue-skinned 'men' with long, drooping moustaches) riding Tusked Bristlebacks. The Ricklings were by far the most dangerous beings I had yet faced on Solstheim, as they were incredibly strong for their size - and very fast.


The snowstorm eventually lifted, and the sun shone down on the glittering, brilliant-white snow, all but blinding me. Not having to struggle against the driving wind and sleet made the going much easier, but the increased visibility only doubled the frequency of the attacks I suffered. Packs of wolves, boars or Ricklings could now see me from across the varied fields and clearings I traversed. By the time I reached a small settlement marked on my map as 'Thirsk', my fur armour was in tatters - and so were my nerves.

Thirsk was not much of a settlement, to tell the truth; it was a mead-hall - an Inn - more than anything else. The few people I spoke with there were pleasant enough; the chieftain of Thirsk, Skjoldr Wolf-Runner, even invited me to share a late lunch with him - for the price of news from the south. He seemed troubled at my tale of the (apparent) pack of werewolves that had attacked Fort Frostmoth, saying that werewolves were normally thought to be quite rare. He too could think of no better people to speak to regarding the attack than the Skaal. The chieftain told me that the people of Thirsk were actually descended from the Skaal: they had split from the main community hundreds of years ago, over a schism of some kind.

Talking and eating with Skjoldr Wolf-Runner made for a welcome respite from the harrowing day I had endured thus far. It was a worthwhile stop in my journey, too: the chieftain told me of a few landmarks that would help me on my way to the Skaal Village, and ruled out the area near the mead-hall as a possible place where I might find a stranded airship crew. He told me that people of Thirsk regularly hunted the lands around Lake Fjalding, the Isinfier Plains, and the Felsaad Coast. Along with Hirstaang Forest, this accounted for almost the entire southern two-thirds of the island. I knew that Legionnaires from Fort Frostmoth patrolled the forest, so if neither the Legion or the people of Thirsk had seen Louis' crew, I had only the northernmost part of Solstheim to search.

Upon seeing the sorry state of my armour, Skjoldr also directed me to the small community's armourer - though it might be more accurate to describe him as a furrier. The barrel-chested man specialised in the fabrication of armour from fur pelts, and luckily for me, had sufficient examples of his work on hand for me to walk away fully-clothed in a combination of bear-skin and wolf-skin 'armour'. I had thought my rent, torn and blood-soaked fur armour beyond repair; fit for no better use than to line a dog's bed - but the furrier assured me that he could make something of them. I left them with him in exchange for a moderate discount on my new armour.


So, feeling all the better for my full stomach and my new warm furs, I set out to the north - walking along the ridge above the frozen surface of Lake Fjalding. The day was getting on, but with Skjoldr Wolf-Runner's directions fresh in my mind, I made good time and came upon the outskirts of the Skaal Village at dusk. The collection of wooden buildings, with their sharply-sloping roofs, was gathered at the top of a steep hill that afforded spectacular views in all directions: especially to the west. In the day's last remaining light I could see across the valley in the west - across the Isild River where it split into the Harstrad River, across the fields of fresh snow, the scattered copses of pine trees - all the way to the white peaks of the Moesring Mountains.


I was stopped by a Nordic man in a heavy-looking set of fur-lined scale-mail before I made it very far into the village. It became obvious that he was a guardsman, as he asked me what my business was so far from home. He of course did not need to know exactly where my home was to know that I was very far from it: the same would have been true of anyone not native to the village, so very remote it was.

Hoping that I was doing the right thing (that I would not cause offence), I retrieved the human skull Gaea Artoria had given me from my pack, carefully unwrapped my cloak from around it, and showed it to the guardsman.

"I brought a gift for the Skaal people, as I have questions only they can answer." I said. "Can you tell me who I should present this to?"

The guardsman stared at the skull for a moment. I followed his gaze, and for the first time noticed a series of faint - and very intricate - carvings on the skull's crown. The man eventually grunted, and told me to follow him.

I was soon in the Great Hall of the Skaal, standing before another chieftain: Tharsten Heart-Fang. He was a broad-faced man with greying hair and beard, who when taking the skull from me, adopted the attitude one might when addressing someone who had just offered to atone for damages long since caused.


"Imperials! Pfah! They should learn to leave things as they are. I thank you for returning the bones of our ancestors - but they should not have been moved to begin with!" Tharsten shook his head, and added darkly: "The Imperials shall come to a bad end if they do not realise the error in their ways."

"This 'bad end' may be nearer than you think;" I replied; "this past night they were attacked in force..."

I recounted what had happened at Fort Frostmoth, studying the Skaal chieftain's face all the while. He seemed genuinely surprised at the news:

"Werewolves! Abominations! You suspect us because we believe wolves deserve our respect and worship: I can see it plain on your face, Breton... but if it truly was werewolves that attacked the Imperials, then you can be sure we had naught to do with it. Man is not meant to live a dual live as both rational being and wild beast. A person touched by a werewolf's taint - even if it was the result of noble battle against the things - must leave the Skaal forever. We have nothing to do with them. It was not us."

Nothing. Tharsten knew nothing that could help me. A decisive end to my investigation for Gaea, it seemed - since the grey-bearded Nord went on to tell me that if Captain Carius had indeed been taken by the werewolves, there was no hope for him any longer: by that time he was certainly dead... or worse - he had been 'turned'. If that was true, would he try to return to the fort regardless, I wondered? Or would he join the pack? What would such men and women do with their days - in the times when they were men? Too many questions, and no way to answer them.

Instead I asked Tharsten if he knew anything of the missing airship crew. After a laborious explanation of what an 'airship' was, the chieftain admitted he knew nothing of any people lost in the northern part of Solstheim: but the Skaal knew little of what went on over the Moesring mountains. So, Tharsten was little help, in the end.

I would have to continue the search on my own. So much time had passed since I had embarked on that rescue mission. Would I find them? Would I be in time?

Chapter 90: A harsh place

My trek through the forest wore on. According to the map Gaea gave me, the entire lower half of Solstheim was covered in trees. As I have mentioned, the thick forest of pine trees made a welcome change from the mostly barren lands of Vvardenfell; but they also presented a hazard, in that they limited visibility. This was a particular problem, since the landscape was just as overrun with predators as I had been led to believe.

It felt like I spent the whole morning fending off massive bears and packs of wolves. Actually, 'fending off' might be a somewhat misleading phrase in this case. I think that at that time - for whatever reason - there were far too many predators on Solstheim, and not nearly enough prey to go around. None of the wild animals were to be deterred, even when grievously wounded: they kept up the attack until they were dead. I think they were all starving.


I made my way north-east through Hirstaang Forest until the terrain began to slope downwards and the trees began to grow more sparsely. I had reached the banks of the Iggnir River - which separated the easternmost third of the island from the rest of Solstheim. With fewer trees around I could see far and well enough to avoid most of the ranging wild animals before they saw me - but the weather was noticeably worse outside the shelter of the forest. Within moments a snowstorm had blown up, and my view of the lands around me was once again obscured.

I had never seen its like before: snow from both the sky and the ground was whipped up into great, drifting sheets that hurtled across the landscape at amazing speed; not unlike the ash-storms on Vvardenfell.

I used the Tinur's Hoptoad spell to leap over the icy river, the gusting winds blowing and buffeting me about as I soared across, and causing me to land awkwardly on the other side. The wind was definitely getting worse, and the temperature was dropping by the minute. I still trudged on, though fairly soon I could not even see as far as I could throw a stone. My cobbled-together fur armour kept me warm enough, though. Actually... the further I went on, leaning into the wind, the less cold I felt - before very long I was actually sweating!

At first I thought it was merely the exertion of walking against the howling wind - but then; I was wearing my enchanted 'Tireless' pants: I should not become out-of-breath or fatigued at all while wearing those. I began to feel weak - to the point of clumsiness, even; and it was then that I realised what must have happened: I had caught some disease from one of the wild animals that attacked me that morning. It was something the soldiers in Fort Frostmoth had told me to look out for - in fact, they called the bears and wolves there 'plague-bears' and 'plague-wolves'.

A couple of the bears had torn through my armour, in places, and gouged out strips of flesh with their filthy claws - and many of the wolves had sunk their teeth into my shins in an attempt to bring me to the ground. Fortunately for me (very fortunately, considering I had no idea what malady - or maladies - I had caught), my spell to cure common diseases worked perfectly. Within half an hour I was once again shivering from the icy wind, rather than sweating from a fever.

Meanwhile, the snowstorm grew so wild that I began to look for somewhere to take shelter until it died down. The search took quite some time, and of course was not helped by the poor visibility the storm afforded me. I was about to give up and teleport home (leaving a magical Mark behind so I could return later) when I spotted a man-made structure of stone. I wasn't quite sure what to call it: it jutted from the side of a low hill, and put me in mind of the stone archways that marked the entrance to the Dunmeri ancestral tombs in the wilds of Vvardenfell - only much more rude and angular in construction.

I soon discovered that the structure was quite similar indeed to an ancestral tomb entrance - actually, save for a difference in vernacular, an underground ancestral tomb is exactly what it was. It was called a 'barrow', in the Nordic tongue. In any case I could not have asked for a better place in which to take shelter from a snowstorm. I was about to push the heavy stone door open when a voice sounded from behind me, just about making me yelp in fright.

"Hold there, traveller!" I span about to see a young Nordic man seated against a large boulder, a little way up from the barrow entrance. He was wrapped in bearskin armour like mine. "What business have you in the Valbrandr Barrow?"


I had had no idea that he was there, so blinded I was by the blowing snow. Once I found my voice, I replied:

"I wanted to take shelter from the storm." It seemed obvious to me.

The Nord gave me a strange look.

"You would take shelter in a barrow like this one?" I noticed him eyeing my Daedric sword and Netch-Adamantium shield - both items that were obviously rare and powerfully good at what they did. "Then you must be a good warrior... or you don't know what's in there." He paused. "Listen, I hate to ask for help from a stranger, so..."

He held out his hand.

"I am Ingmar." I clasped his hand briefly, and gave him my name. Ingmar continued: "I can tell you are not from here, so let me explain: I am of the Skaal, and in that barrow is a draugr that I must kill - if I wish to be seen as a man. It is a rite of passage for all Skaal boys."

The Nord certainly looked young, too: in fact he looked as if he had not finished growing yet. He was almost swallowed up by the bulky bearskin armour he wore. And one of the Skaal too! Perhaps it would turn out to be a fortunate encounter for me.

"The problem is," Ingmar went on, "I can't kill it! I tried, and it almost slit my throat! I can't go back without killing it... I would never outlive the shame... If - if you could help me?"

I glanced at the barrow entrance.

"First," I said, "I feel I should ask: what is a draugr?"

"Oh, yes: draugr are dead, but not." He paused, thinking hard. "How do you say it... undead! They are undead! They used to be Nords, but were cursed to forever hunger for human flesh, because they ate their brother Nords in life."

"You said 'they'. Are there many of them? Is there a lot of... cannibalism on Solstheim?"

"Solstheim is a harsh place, Edward Frost."

The 'draugr' sounded unpleasant; like a zombie, from Ingmar's description. I had never heard of them before, though; and facing something one knew near to nothing about in battle was a foolish move. Should I go in?

The storm grew still worse, and made my mind up for me. I wanted to be inside that barrow, out of the storm; I would probably have to kill the draugr anyway, to do that. And besides - if I helped Ingmar, perhaps he would say a few favourable words about me to the other Skaal - a useful thing if I wanted information from them.

"Alright," I said, drawing my sword, "I'll help. Let's go."

"No - wait!" Ingmar exclaimed. "I must be the one to kill it. That is, if this rite of passage is to mean anything. Please - if you could only... distract it..."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Alright," I repeated, hoisting my shield, "let's go."


Inside was nearly black as pitch, and, unfortunately, so was the draugr. It seemed shorter than me - but that might have been because of its curled, hunched posture. Overall it looked like a long-dead corpse that had been recovered from a bog, or perhaps found buried in ice and snow. It's eyes shone brightly with an infernal red glow.

The thing seemed to recognise Ingmar somehow, and tore straight at him. The young Nord shrunk back instinctively, and I stepped in front of him, buffeting the revenant back with several quick blows from my shield. Hissing, it turned its attention - and its talon-like fingertips - to me. Ingmar aimed a clumsy blow at the thing's back. I had a hard time keeping the draugr's attention on me without actually hurting it. I shouted, I clanged my shield against the stone walls of the barrow; I even whacked the creature's legs with the flat of my blade when it seemed bent on attacking Ingmar. Doing all this - and being conservative in my defence so as to not harm the draugr myself - was of course quite dangerous.


The thing was fast, and managed to leave quite a number of deep scratches and gouges in my skin. Ingmar was taking his time dispatching the beast: either out of enjoyment of a fight that did not entail so much danger to himself, or simply because he was a poor fighter.

"Just kill the damned thing, Ingmar! Kill it!" I shouted, deflecting another of the draugr's vicious swipes with my shield. "If you do not finish it now, I will do it for you! Listen: aim for its shins!"

The thought that I might steal his 'victory' from him seemed to properly inspire the young Nord, and he swept the draugr off its feet with his sword. I leapt back, and yelled:

"Yes! Now - its neck! Cut its head off!"

In a moment it was done, and the draugr was dead - truly dead. Ingmar was overjoyed, and for a while, as if I had not actually been there, he recounted the best moments of the fight (as he saw them). I said nothing, tending to my wounds and looking over the damage to my fur armour. Shortly, Ingmar disappeared into the snowstorm, eager to tell his friends and family of his victory. He left promising, as I had hoped, that he would speak well to his people on my behalf; should I visit the Skaal Village.

I remained for a time, adjusting my equipment. The fur armour was rent and torn in many places, and I had to creatively rearrange the straps that fastened my equipment to my back and waist to keep the armour from falling off completely. Ingmar had departed before I realised what he was doing; otherwise I would have asked to accompany him back to the Skaal Village. I had my map, of course - but a guide would have been most welcome.

As it was, I waited until the blowing gale outside had died off a little, before settling my pack on my back once more and again setting off into the snowstorm. I still had a way to go.

Chapter 89: Beasts and Men

I found Gaea Artoria descending the spiral staircase that led up to Captain Carius' office. We almost collided on those narrow, turning steps. The unusually large (not fat - just proportionately large) Imperial woman grasped me by the shoulders.

"Frost! Edward Frost, yes?" I nodded. "Did you see them?" She asked, a note of hysteria in her voice.

"No, the attack was over when I returned. Someone said that it was wolf-like creatures - but I don't see how they could have done that to the walls..."

Gaea released me and motioned for me to follow her back up to the captain's office.

"Werewolves! They had to be werewolves. They took the captain -" she added dully - "I saw them; dragging him off to the north. I couldn't get to him; they knocked me down." She indicated her breastplate, which sported a series of deeply scored claw marks. Fortunately for her, the metal plates had not been cut all the way through. "I have to ask you for something, Mister Frost. I'm next in command, after Carius; so I can't go after him. I must stay here and lead the men. So, please... please will you find him?"

Gaea was staring at me intently. I studied her face. In her expression - and in her voice - I could sense something deeper than mere concern for a superior officer.

"You're saying werewolves carried him away?" I remarked. " You mean without killing him? Why would they do that? I thought they were wild animals: wouldn't they just..." I trailed off at the look on the woman's face. "I... am going north, in any case; but how would I find him? I'm no tracker."

By way of answer, Gaea slid the top off a storage crate in the corner of Carius' office, and lifted out a very old-looking human skull. This she placed in my hands. It was a strange answer, to be sure. I was about to assume that she was - or had become - a little crazy, when she explained herself:

"There is a group of savages settled on the north-east tip of Solstheim: the 'Skaal', they're called. I've heard that they worship wolves - that they can control them - or even turn into them! I know of no-one else on this island, and certainly no-one more likely: they must be behind the attack. Please... if you could speak with them - maybe gain their trust... give them that skull: they're superstitious. They'll like it. Just... please - find out what happened to Carius."

After a moment, I nodded in agreement - though hardly enthusiastically.

"As I said, I need to go north anyway - to search for some people lost up there. I can at least see if they'll speak with me. Perhaps they'll even have some word on the people I'm searching for."

I also thought to myself that if anyone on that island had some decent fur armour, or other warm clothes, it would be people who lived there permanently. Trekking across the entire breadth of the frozen island to procure some cold-weather armour was hardly ideal, of course; but by all accounts, the really cold part of Solstheim was to the north-west, over the Moesring Mountains. Where the airship had been headed, in other words.

Gaea heaved a sigh of relief.

"Good. Thankyou. I won't forget this." The Imperial woman sank into Carius' chair, and buried her face in her hands, as if exhausted. She may (apparently) be the most powerful fighter in the fort, I thought; but at that moment she did not look ready to assume command of all those men.

Not that it was really my concern. I would look into Carius' disappearance while I was in Solstheim's north, but it was not something I would dedicate my life to. I did not know much about werewolves, but what I had heard led me to believe that even if they had not killed the captain outright during the attack on the fort, it was very unlikely that he was still alive.


Early next morning, I teleported back to the Fort Frostmoth docks once more, and finally set out in earnest on my rescue mission. The Imperial Legionnaires were deep in the awful business of burying their comrades when I passed through. I let them be, striking out into the forest north of the fort.

Gaea had given me a better map of Solstheim the night before: probably the most helpful thing I received from those at the fort. With it, I could tell that the area directly north of Fort Frostmoth was called 'Hirstaang Forest'. And 'forest' was right: it was quite far removed from the wastelands and sparsely-wooded fields of Vvardenfell. There were pine trees, as far as I could see - and their heady scent made my hike a pleasant one; at least initially.

Everyone I had spoken to about the island of Solstheim as a whole said the same thing: it was cold and full of dangerous beasts. Gaea had elaborated a little on this treatise for me, describing many of the dangers I might face on my trek to the Skaal Village and the Moesring mountains. This was how I knew the name of the (nearly) stark-naked Nordic woman running at me through the trees: she was a berserker - or a 'Bare-Sark' in the Nordic tongue. The name was quite appropriate: all she wore was a pair of fur boots and a helmet that looked to be made from a bear's head! She carried no weapons.


Gaea had told me what to expect - saying that insane, naked berserkers roamed the island - but I was still taken by surprise; I suppose I hadn't really expected a female berserker. She came at me swinging her fists, and all I managed was a strangled "Wait - stop!" before she got in a heavy blow to my jaw. I reeled, my vision blurring - and she was on me, trying to bring me to the ground with her weight, while at the same time scratching at my eyes. It was then that the old instinctive anger and fright swelled up; and the next thing I knew the Bare-Sark woman was on the ground, dead.

Her helmet had fallen off in the fight, and I picked it up to examine it; curious to see how a helmet could be made from a near-whole bear's head. Basically, the skull had been hollowed-out and lined with fur: for warmth, comfort and practicality (so it would fit properly, in other words). It was made so that the wearer peered out from behind the bear's fearsome teeth - something of an odd sensation, as I soon discovered. The bear's-head helmet was warm and certainly felt sturdier than my Nordic Fur helmet, containing as it did the thick skull of a bear. I threw the Nordic Fur hat away and replaced it with the bear's-head one.


The Bare-Sark woman was far from the only attack I endured while passing through Hirstaang Forest. While passing a deep thicket of brush clustered around some rocks, I was set upon by a creature I had initially taken to be a young tree. It was a vaguely female-looking, bark-skinned 'Spriggan': one of the fairykin. Its hair was twigs and hanging lichen, its feet were gnarled, dirt-crusted roots, and its fingers were like wood whittled-down to sharp knives. It was also alarmingly fast for something that so resembled a tree.


I hacked into the Spriggan again and again. Each successive blow further widened a wound in the creature's side, and sent it flying - but it always landed deftly on its feet and barrelled back into me, leading with its sharpened fingers. It was like trying to split wood - green wood - upon a chopping block with sideways strokes rather than a chopping motion (and I was unable to land a single blow if I attempted a chopping attack: the damned thing was too fast). My Daedric longsword grew more and more sticky with the Spriggan's sap, until finally I hewed the thing in half - but that was not the end of it.

I watched in astonishment as the sap flowing freely from the creature's two halves appeared to actually pull the Spriggan together again, and then harden. Then the thing leapt up again and went back to the attack! I had to cut it down a further two times before the cursed thing finally stopped moving: and even then I had to hack the creature into many pieces and spread them far and wide among the trees, to be completely sure.

I do not know if I truly 'killed' the Spriggan: I had heard that the fairykin are immortal. Even chopped into pieces and spread out among the pine trees of Hirstaang Forest, it may have still lived. As I carried on my way, I imagined tendrils and rivulets of the Spriggan's sap weaving their way through the undergrowth, linking each of the splinters of wood together in a great web, and finally drawing the creature back together as a whole.

Or perhaps the pieces would rot and be drawn into the soil - and another Spriggan would grow near that thicket of brush.

I found myself wishing - and not for the first time (especially since the moment I learned that I was dying) - that I was more resilient.

That I was immortal.

Chapter 88: Devastation... and amends

The Imperial Legion soldiers that had attacked Lusius and I had indeed been the weapons smugglers: an inspection of the caves in which we had found them proved as much. Inside several barrels that looked ready to be sealed and put aboard a boat, I found a small collection of arms and armour: swords, axes, hammers, steel armour, and finally, several pieces of decently sturdy fur armour. They looked to be fashioned from the hide of a large furry animal; probably a bear, as near as I could tell. It was not a complete set - I counted a cuirass, a pauldron, one glove, and a pair of foul-smelling boots.

Nevertheless, it was much thicker and stronger than the 'Nordic Fur' I had bought, so I collected it up and carried it to the entrance of the Gamdrung caverns. After checking that no-one was around (I did not want to be attacked while out of my armour), I stripped down and, as quickly as I could, washed the drying blood from my skin. The water outside the caves was achingly cold: I could not bring myself to dive in, even though it would undoubtedly have been faster. As it was, I squatted awkwardly on the flat rocks by the water and washed myself as best I could - with as little of the freezing water as I could.

Shivering violently afterwards, I hurriedly dried myself off with the warm cloak I had bundled in my pack. Back inside the caves, near the warmth of a fire one of the smugglers had built in the hollow of a peculiar stalagmite, I dressed and set about the difficult business of strapping on armour by oneself. I abandoned some of the Nordic Fur and replaced it with the Bearskin armour. It almost certainly belonged to the Imperial Legion - but I would offer to pay for it when I reported back to Captain Carius.

Carius. That was not an encounter I looked forward to. Saenus Lusius, the man the Captain had assigned to help me, was dead. It was hardly my fault, but I still felt an unpleasant twinge in my gut at the thought of what had happened. I had hardly known the man, but he had seemed a kind and friendly soul... and he was dead for helping me.

I stayed by the fire for a while, lost in thought. Would Carius still honour his part of our agreement and assign some men to help me search for the airship crew, if I reported that Lusius had died in my company?


Dusk had just given way to night when I made my way back to Frostmoth Fort, Lusius' body in my arms. My preternatural strength made carrying a full-grown man - even one in full Legion armour - a relatively easy matter. As soon as I was within earshot of the fort, I could tell something was very wrong. The awful screams of men and women in agony and despair carried over the walls of the fort, and as I quickened my pace, lumbering around to the gate with Lusius still in my arms, the reek of recent carnage met my nose. There was blood - and worse: the smell of bodies that had been cut open.

It was a scene of devastation. There had been an attack on the fort; there was no room for doubt. The walls of the fort were breached in several places, and the sharp smell of ground-up stone and dust penetrated even the stench of the many dead and wounded. The Legionnaires were in disarray: some grasped helplessly at their wailing, dying comrades, others tended gingerly to their own wounds, while some simply stood about looking dazed and out of breath. What really stuck in my mind about that moment - apart from the smell - was the steam. In the cold evening air, the heavy breathing of the living Legion soldiers - and the cooling bodies of the dead, broken and torn ones - sent remarkable clouds of steam drifting up into the darkened sky.


A Redguard soldier with a nasty gash down the side of his face jogged up to me. Horribly, I could actually see his teeth through the cut in his cheek.

"Lusius!" He cried - with some difficulty - as he tore the man's lifeless form from my arms. "Is he alright? No... NO!"

The man lowered Lusius to the ground, and remained crouched over his body, shoulders quaking silently. One of the few female soldiers in the fort stepped up to place a consoling hand on the Redguard's shoulder.

"What happened here?" I asked her.

Before she could answer, I heard something, off in the distance - to the north. It was like the howl of a wolf, only... there was something else behind it; something that made me shiver.

"There!" The woman exclaimed, pointing in the direction of the noise. "Did you hear that? It was those... creatures - they were like wolves, only... they were so big! And the claws... I've never seen a wolf like that. A horde! So many..."

She shook her head slowly, and swayed slightly on her feet. I noticed she was pressing a hand against a series of deep gashes in her side. Blood was oozing out between her fingers.

"Hold still." I prompted her, and sent my healing magic into her side. Once the wound closed over, she seemed more alert.

"You're Frost, right? You've been helping the Captain?" I nodded, and she went on: "No-one's seen him since the attack! We can't find him anywhere... he would be either... dead... or yelling at us to... do something. I can't imagine what else..." She indicated the general state of chaos that had descended on the fort. "If - if you can find Gaea - Gaea Artoria... she would know what to do..."

I nodded in agreement, but then hesitated, looking at the many wounded strewn about the yard. The female soldier seemed to be having the same thought as I:

"Yes..." she said, "you can heal... Could you - please..."

I nodded, and placed a hand on the injured Redguard's head. A moment later he was healed, and staring up at me with eyes full of tears, his face no longer a horrid ruin. From there I went among the wounded rank-and-file of the fort, healing every man and woman I visited: one by one.

Restoration magic is the stuff of miracles. I again gave thanks to whatever gods may exist that I had been blessed with some ability in that college of magic. Even the most grievously injured soldiers I brought back from the very brink of death: as long as they had breath still in their lungs. I asked every man or small group I visited to stay where they were and to stay quiet about what I was doing. The Legionnaires were mostly in a state of panic, and I did not want to be mobbed by hysteric soldiers - desperate either for themselves or their friends. Such a thing would have helped no-one: least of all me.

After what felt like an extraordinarily long time, I was finished. I hadn't been able to reach everyone in time, but I had saved most. I felt drained. Were it not for my link to the plane of magicka, and the magicka leak inside my body, I would not have been able to save nearly as many people that night as I had. As it was, my reserves of magicka were almost depleted by the time I was finished.

Once it became obvious that all had been saved who could be saved, I was slowly surrounded by grateful soldiers. There were many gruff slaps on my back, as well as some more-heartfelt clasping of my hands, as they all thanked me. It was a sombre vote of thanks, everyone very conscious of the bodies of those I had not been able to save - lying all around us.

I no longer felt so responsible for Lusius' death. I had brought so many back from near-death that night, that I... Was the debt repaid? I felt different, in any case. I felt more full of worth than I ever had.

I had saved lives, rather than ended them. Despite the horrible circumstances, it felt like the best thing I had ever done.

Chapter 87: The Survivor

Zeno Faustus' account of all the warm clothes and armour in Frostmoth Fort being "already wrapped around bodies outside" made sense in such a cold climate, but did not help me much. I was stuck. Forced into helping Captain Carius once more, after all; unless of course I could find cold-weather armour elsewhere.

With that aim in mind I teleported back home, and then to Vivec. The two best-stocked armouries I had ever seen were in the Foreign Quarter Plaza there; and if they had nothing suitable, then I would be well and truly beholden to Carius if I wanted to pursue my rescue mission. In the first piece of real luck I had seen in days, one of the armour stores had in stock a full suit of 'Nordic Fur' armour. I bought it immediately, and it was actually quite inexpensive. I got the impression from the generous amount of dust nestled amongst the fur that the store-owner had had a difficult time selling such warm armour in the sun-baked holy city of Vvardenfell.

"Now, you are aware that this is classed as Light Armour, then?" The store-owner said, eyeing my Netch-Adamantium armour (which itself was in the 'Medium' class). "Light Armour can be tricky for one used to heavier armour."

I merely nodded. I did not really have a choice, obviously; not if I wanted to avoid freezing to death on Solstheim. Back in Wolfen castle, Falorn helped me change from my regular and (almost) comfortable Netch-Adamantium armour, into the Nordic Fur. Shortly afterwards I was standing once again on the dock near Fort Frostmoth, getting a feel for my new armour.


I felt ridiculous. Not to mention vulnerable: I was uncomfortably aware of how easy it would be for blades or teeth to sink right through the soft layer of fur. The owner of the armoury in the plaza had been right to caution me. At least I was warm at last.

So: I could either set off on my own and try to follow the line drawn on my rough map of Solstheim to indicate the proposed path of Louis' airship, or try to expose the weapons smugglers for Captain Carius and then set out with guides and extra muscle. In the end I decided to, at the least, take a cursory look into the matter of the smugglers. I had my Charm spell, and the assurance of the captain that his men now held me in high regard for returning their much-loved alcohol to them. I also had one of Carius' soldiers to help me: overall I did not expect the investigation to be difficult. On top of that was the (perhaps tenuous) hope that finding the smugglers would lead me to their stolen goods, and ergo some sturdier cold-weather armour.

Ignoring the sniggers of the soldiers at the sight of my new armour, I made my way through the general quarters of the fort to find Saenus Lusius, the man Carius had recommended as the best person to help me expose the smugglers. He was a wiry man with noticeable laugh-lines radiating from the corners of his eyes and mouth. I got to him just in time, it seemed: he looked about to be drawn into a drinking game with several other soldiers when I appeared.

With an exaggerated show of reluctance (but the hint of a smile on his lips), he lead the way out of the general quarters and across to the armoury, talking without cease as we went:

"Old Carius said you might show up to ruin the party for me. Oh well, never mind that - an order's an order, of course, of course. Now, you are after the weapons smugglers, am I right? Well, I think we should have a word with Zeno, seeing as he's in charge of the weapons... Ah, Zeno. Drunk yet?"

The quartermaster, who had been reclining in his chair with a mug of what smelled like sujamma, sat up as we entered.

"Not so far gone as you, Lusius - I would wager." Faustus said shortly, but with a light smile. "I see you found some fur armour after all, Mister Frost. And very nice it is, too."

I did not miss the subtly mocking tone in his voice, but seeing as I more-or-less agreed with him, it did not bother me very much.

"Yes, thankyou Mister Faustus." I cleared my throat. "Captain Carius has actually asked me - and Lusius here - to help him track down some suspected weapons smugglers. Lusius tells me that you're the person to ask about that."

The quartermaster looked to Lusius, his brows knitting together.

"It's alright, Zeno." The wiry soldier said.

After a moment's hesitation, Faustus shrugged and said to me:

"Well, I can tell you that I've noticed the stores going down too. At first I thought the captain was sending men down here to collect things when I was out - but... obviously not. Now," he lowered his voice, and motioned for us to lean in closer; "I can also tell you that I've heard some of the men talking - didn't see who they were, you understand -" he indicated the nearby window. "They were outside. They talked about the Gamdrung caverns, just nearby; and mentioned a stash of weapons there. That's all I know. And - of course - you did not hear it from me. I'll deny it, should it come to that."


Lusius lead me directly to the caverns the quartermaster had mentioned, joking that if we hurried, he could be back at the fort before someone stole his drink. The entrance to 'Gamdrung' was partially hidden among an outcropping of large, angular boulders, and opened onto a narrow cove. It looked the perfect place to bring in a small boat for a smuggling operation.


Clambering down the rocks towards the entrance (with the aim of avoiding the icy water), I glanced at my soldier escort. I barely knew the man, and we were about to dive headlong into a potential nest of weapons smugglers together.

"Are you ready?" I asked. Lusius nodded once, drawing his broadsword. I noticed he was not smiling anymore.

Once inside the twisting stone passages, we were set upon almost immediately by a young-looking Legionnaire wielding a silver axe that glittered with some kind of enchantment. I discovered very quickly what the enchantment was, when the renegade soldier's blade sliced easily through my armour and my flesh: paralysation. I was very lucky that Lusius was there: he was able to pull the man off me whenever I succumbed to the vicious enchantment. I had to return the favour more than once, too - and after a brutal fight, we put the thug down.

As I propped myself against the wall to heal my many painful wounds, I noticed Lusius staring at the dead man's face.

"Roscius..." He breathed. It was obviously someone he knew.

I said nothing, my teeth clenched as I sent healing magic into a gash in my side. The man had attacked us, and it had been all we could do to overcome him, armed as he was with such a cruel weapon. Lusius, too, grew silent from that point on.

We were ready to press on within moments; and a little deeper into the dark, echoing Gamdrung caverns, we encountered a fearful sight: two massive, brutish Orcs in Imperial Legion armour. (Orcs were commonly enlisted into service in the Legion - unsurprisingly, for their strength and warlike nature). One flew at Lusius, and the other, with a grunt, at me. In such close fighting, and with Lusius nearby, I dared not use my powerful offensive spells for fear of harming my ally in error.

Without my magic and the high-quality Netch-Adamantium armour I was accustomed to, I was clearly outmatched. In a flash I was down, with an agonising gash across my chest and several broken ribs. I tried to back away, pushing with my feet, and battling with my own body in a desperate attempt to draw breath into my broken chest. The Orc towered above me, taking his time to line up a killing blow. Through his legs, I could see the other Orc's back - and beyond him was Lusius. The pair were locked in grave combat, my ally frantically trying to hold the Orc back. I couldn't quite see what was happening, but I heard Lusius cry out:

"No, wait! Stop, stop! We're both -"

But there was a clang and a sharp -crack-, and Lusius' plea was cut short. Through the legs of the Orcs I saw him crumple to the cave floor, quite motionless.

There was nothing I could have done, of course. I was still on my back, bleeding and with my breath driven from my lungs. My attention was drawn forcibly back to the Orc directly before me, his blade raised high above his head. With Lusius down, and my own death an instant away, I could not afford to hold my magics back. I threw my 'Holding Field' spell out, hoping to halt both my enemies in their tracks at once. A ripple passed through the air around us, but the Orcs only hesitated for a short moment, a slight shudder in their step the only sign a spell had been cast at all. Orcs and their damned resistance to magic!

The blade came down, and I managed to catch it with my shield, but another sharp -crack- and an intense burning pain in my arm indicated that the bones had been broken. I tried the spell again, aware that if it did not work, it would likely be the last action I ever took. Facing the prospect of one's imminent death inspires thoughts of such anguish and desperation, I... do not truly know how to describe them.

The moment seemed to hang there in time, never moving forward. The Orc's blade seemed to slow in its downward, whistling arc, until it stopped. It stopped! It wasn't a dying hallucination, a figment brought on by a mind about to be silenced - the spell had worked!

Choking back both tears of relief, and pain from the exertion, I ran my uninjured hand over my wounds; letting healing magic soak into my body - closing cuts, mending bones, and replacing lost blood. Once back on my feet, I did not hesitate to terminate the paralysed Orcish Legionnaires. Both took two heavy strokes of the Daedric longsword to sever their heads from their bodies, their necks were so thick.

Lusius was dead. I knew it even before checking for a beating heart. The Orc had cut through his armour and deep into his chest. I had to leave him there to check the rest of the Gamdrung caverns. With Lusius... gone, I was free to make full use of my magic. There were other renegade soldiers there, but none came within striking distance of me.

I snuffed out the life of anything still breathing in those caves.

Chapter 86: Agitator

"You! I heard you were the one to... you know - speak to..." The Legionnaire licked his lips, none too subtly.

He had stopped me just inside the building that housed the Frostmoth Fort's Imperial Cult shrine. I was there to question the fort's priest, Antonius Nuncius. Captain Carius had stopped just short of accusing Nuncius outright for starting the 'dry fort' story. It seemed he did not want to approach the priest himself. Petty politics; as I said.

The Legionnaire was eyeing my pack, and the various pouches at my waist. It was obvious what he wanted. I produced the second bottle of Cyrodiilic Brandy I had brought, and dropped it into his palm.

"Ahh - many thanks." The soldier wasted no time in taking a swig. "Listen: I heard you were asking about this being a dry fort. Trying to put things aright, eh?" He indicated the brandy I had given him. "Well, we'll all be wanting to help with that, I'm sure. So if there's anything I can do..."

"Where did you first hear about the alcohol ban?" I asked. I had no time for idle conversation. "Who told you about it?"

The soldier took a moment to reflect, thoughtfully swishing a measure of the drink about in his mouth.

"Well," he swallowed, "a few of us heard it from Nuncius - Priest Nuncius - in the mess hall one night. He seemed none too happy about it, either. Was just passing on the message, I suppose."

Now that was interesting. The priest had campaigned for an alcohol ban - which the Captain had denied - and then proceeded to tell the men of the fort that the Captain had dreamt up a ban, and made it seem as if he was opposed to it! What about the stoppage of the shipments, though? Was that just good luck on Nuncius' part? In any case, I was almost certain that the priest was the 'agitator' Captain Carius was looking for. It was time to pay Nuncius a visit.


"Oh, yes... this dry fort business." I found Antonius Nuncius near the Imperial Cult shrine, tightly wrapped in an abundance of warm clothing; even in the relative warmth of the fort interior. "Odd that the Captain would ban liquor for his troops;" the priest said; "there's no understanding the actions of some people."

I knew he was lying, so I gazed into his eyes for a time before I spoke, hoping to unnerve him. It seemed to work. He shifted his weight uneasily and seemed unable to meet my gaze.

"The Captain tells me the ban was your idea, Nuncius: and that he actually denied the request. So what seems odd to me is that you would then make the rounds and tell the men that Carius banned alcohol here." I raised an eyebrow theatrically. "Why would you do such a thing?"

The Cult priest was now well and truly anxious. I could hear it in his voice:

"L-Look: this is all academic anyway. I'm sure you heard that the shipments of alcohol stopped arriving. The ships have been coming without it even on their manifests."

"You seem to know a lot about this, Nuncius..." I said.

At that point the priest excused himself with a noticeable quaver in his voice, saying he was quite busy. For a moment I considered using a Charm spell, but several soldiers were looking on with interest from across the room, so I thought better of it. In any case, I had heard that Antonius kept an office above the armoury: a comfortable distance from the Cult shrine, and worth investigating given the priest's suspicious behaviour.


Magically neutralising the locks on the cabinet and desk in the priest's office (the nearby Legionnaires studiously looking the other way - I was convinced they now knew exactly what was happening - and supported me), I reminded myself that even by whatever twisted logic, I was doing it all to get to those stranded souls on the airship crew. Otherwise, given the debt I felt I still owed to the Imperial Cult for taking me in as a baby, the guilt I would have felt at breaking into and rifling through a priest's belongings might have been too strong.

Though as it turned out, I would not describe most of what I found as belonging to Nuncius at all. In his desk, in his cabinet; in every piece of furniture that could be locked, I found stockpiles of alcohol. Flin, Shein, Sujamma, Cyrodiilic Brandy: even a couple of vials of the very illegal drug Skooma!

"What are you doing?" Antonius Nuncius was at the door, looking incensed. He must have followed after me out of (well-founded) suspicion. "A common thief, are you? Breaking into a priest's office! I'm taking this to the Captain!"

I held up the Skooma I had found, plus a couple of bottles of Shein.

"That's quite convenient, actually;" I said; "I'll go with you. I was heading there myself, directly. He'll be interested to hear about what I've found here, I'm certain."

Nuncius was visibly deflated. The colour drained from his features.


In Captain Carius' office, the whole story came out. The priest had hidden the incoming shipments of alcohol and spread the story of the ban in an attempt to lower morale in the fort to a critical level and engineer a revolt. And all because he wanted to go home, apparently.

"I thought that if things got bad enough here," Nuncius said softly, "I could appeal to my superiors to send me back home. It's the cold. I... can't take the cold here." A haunted look entered his eyes as he spoke, and I again noticed his abundance of warm clothes.

Carius shook his head slowly.

"Did it not occur to you, Nuncius, to simply ask to be reassigned? By Oblivion, I could have had you sent to the Ascadian Isles - or even back to Cyrodiil, had you just asked! But no -" the Captain sat back in his chair - "I think you can stay right here. With this new abundance of liquor at the fort, we'll need someone to save the souls of these men: after all it was you, Nuncius, that told me they needed to be 'saved' from alcohol."

The priest looked stricken, and shuffled out of the room without a word upon being dismissed. Once he had left, Carius turned to me.

"That was very well handled, Mister Frost - and from what I hear, my men regard you as their 'saviour' now. I imagine Faustus at the armoury might actually help you. But yes - well handled indeed. I actually have another ... job here for you, if you're interested."

I opened my mouth to object, but Carius pressed on:

"No, no - hear my proposal first. You are here on Solstheim to rescue a group of people up north, correct?" Sighing, I nodded and motioned for him to continue. "Now I imagine that if these people are stranded up there somewhere, they are stranded for a reason: they are hurt, or trapped in snow, or some other calamity. How do you propose to move them all yourself?"

I frowned. He actually had a valid point.

"My plan was to assess the situation and -" I began.

"Look -" The Captain interrupted - "you help me with this job, and I will send some men with you to help on your rescue mission. They will have a better grasp of the area than you, I'd wager."

I rubbed my temples. There it was: a powerful headache. I had felt it coming... Such delays!

"What is the job?" I asked wearily. "If it is too involved, then I really will not have time."

"Not to worry." Carius smiled. "This job also involves my fine men - and more to the point here, my not-so-fine men - and as I mentioned we are but a small outpost. Finding the culprits should not take overly long."

"Culprits?" I asked.

"I also mentioned earlier that some of my men were sent here as punishment. I can tell you that some - were they not here - would be in the Ebonheart dungeons. I'm afraid to say a criminal element has developed among some of the soldiers here. Stores of weapons and armour in the armoury have been decreasing recently - and I know that there is no official reason for this. In other words... smugglers. I believe some of the men are smuggling Imperial arms and armour to Vvardenfell and selling them there for their own gain."

"And you want me to find out who they are."

"Yes, Mister Frost: and should you do so, I will leave you to deal with them as you see fit. Defend yourself to your full ability should the need arise. There are some... rough - men here."

When I made no move and no comment, Carius carried on:

"Take some time to think about it... If you can spare such time, of course." He added wryly. "If you decide to take me up on my offer, I'll have someone help you identify the smugglers. Just go and see..."

The Captain mentioned a couple of names: Saenus Lusius and Gaea Artoria. He wanted me to choose one out of the pair to accompany me in the search (apparently he could only afford to have one of them off-duty at a time). Gaea Artoria, he said, was the most powerful and skilled fighter at the fort - and this despite being a woman. In contrast, I gathered that Saenus Lusius was a bit of a rogue, but knew everyone at the fort, and could prove instrumental in "ferreting out the smugglers", as Carius put it.


For my part, I had not yet decided if I should help the Captain or not. Before I did anything else, I was going to check the armoury for warm armour or clothes. On my way to the armoury I noticed that every soldier I met had a drink in his hand. The liquor in Nuncius' office had somehow made its way into the possession of the soldiers, and a party of sorts was obviously underway.

Zeno Faustus, the quartermaster, looked through the stores of armour for me, but returned empty-handed. There was not one piece of fur armour or other warm clothing to be found. It did not take a genius to work it out: any available cold-weather armour was most likely in the hands of the smugglers. The ache in my temples and behind my eyes intensified. I would probably be forced to take Captain Carius' job after all: if only to lay my hands on some appropriate armour for the frozen island.

Luck was just not with me that morning. Little did I know just how much worse that day would become.

Chapter 85: Morale

I had hoped that the morning would bring with it the warming light of the sun, but unfortunately that was not to be the case; at least not on Solstheim. Grey skies prevailed the entire day; and while the weather was warmer than the night before, the magical wards against the elements I wore on my fingers were still not enough to keep me from shivering.

Having Recalled back to my Marked location beside the stone dock in the grey morning light, I got my first real glimpse of Solstheim. Fort Frostmoth dominated the view from the shore, but behind it I could see ranges of deep-green pine trees, stretching off to the horizon. The farther trees were powdered white with snow.


Soldiers of the Imperial Legion were now on duty around the fort; some marching around the perimeter, others huddled on the battlements, staring morosely into the grey distance. It seemed a cheerless posting, and I soon found that this assessment was quite accurate. I attempted to ask one of the soldiers for directions to their armoury (Legion forts sell surplus equipment to anyone with the septims to pay), but the man merely sneered and turned away, ignoring me.

I received similar treatment from every Legionnaire I approached: they were all apparently too lost in their own private miseries to even raise a hand and point me in the right direction. Eventually, one hook-nosed soldier condescended to snarl at me to "take any business to the Captain". This man did point out a building to me - the largest in the fort - the general quarters.

The only business I wished to conduct with the Legion was the purchase of some warmer clothes or armour, so I decided to search for the armoury on my own. In any case, as far as I could tell, none of the soldiers much cared where I wandered in the fort. My frustration began to mount when I found the armoury: the Legionnaire in charge there was no better mannered than the other soldiers I had met that day. He sat among the stacks of armour and weapons with his back to me, pretending not to hear me over the fitful sharpening of a sword.

So it was in a rotten mood of my own that I arrived in the (blessedly warm) chambers of the fort's Captain. The Captain, who I learned to be named Falx Carius, was bent low over his desk when I entered, his brow furrowed over the writing of a letter. He sighed at my interruption.


"So, Mister Frost - you say you wanted to buy some cold-weather armour from the armoury, but young Zeno Faustus refused to sell to you."

"He refused to even acknowledge my presence."

The Captain sighed again and stood, stepping away from his desk to stretch.

"This... is a difficult post;" he said; "as I'm sure you can imagine. My men are separated from their families, and set to guard a frozen hunk of rock in this remote corner of the Empire." Carius rubbed his eyes. "To be fair, though, most were sent here as punishment for some offence or other. I must say, though, that things have been worse recently. The men have been more... belligerent than usual - and lax in their duties. I'm sure there must be someone behind this: someone agitating the soldiers."

I frowned lightly at the gold-armoured Imperial.

"I'm afraid I don't..." I shook my head. "Why are you telling me this?"

Carius sat back down behind his desk.

"What I'm getting at is that if you want anything from my men, you will probably have to help me discover the reason for these morale problems." I narrowed my eyes at him, but the Captain continued before I could object: "I'm guessing that you would not be here asking after warm clothes if you did not have some dire need to trek up to the north. Very sensible, by the way - looking for warmer clothes, I mean. You won't get far on this island in an outfit like that."

Closing my eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath to calm myself, I forced a polite answer:

"So I can see why I need your help - but why do you need mine? I don't have much time - and they are your men, after all."

"But that is precisely it, you see!" Carius replied. "As their commanding officer I must keep a certain distance and formality between myself and my men. They would not talk to me of morale problems - or of who might be causing them. Sometimes people will confess to a stranger, though..."

Considering the treatment I had received from Carius' men, I highly doubted that any of them would feel like confessing anything to me; and I told the Captain as much. I also reinforced how I did not really have the time to coax a collection of surly soldiers into a friendship.

"I can appreciate that you must be in a hurry, Mister Frost, so let me assure you that this is a small outpost here. It would not take long to speak to the entire rank and file of the fort - and I suspect that though they may be loath to admit it, the men here are so few in number that they would be glad of a new face to talk to."


Seeing only a choice between helping Captain Carius and trawling the many shops of the warm island of Vvardenfell for fur armour (that is, if I did not want to simply abandon the airship crew to their fates), I again approached one of the Legion soldiers on duty. I was careful to pick one who had not been a witness to my earlier attempts to speak with the fort's staff: a Legionnaire huddled into his armour atop the battlements.

But it seemed the rancour affecting the soldiers was endemic: the man growled at me:

"Leave us be! Don't you know better than to disturb a soldier on duty?" As I walked away, I distinctly heard him mutter to himself: "By the Divines, I need a drink..."

This gave me an idea. If Captain Carius was right about his men generally not being 'cut from the finest cloth' - so to speak - then they should be susceptible to a well thought-out bribe... It was a matter of mere minutes for me to teleport home, collect a couple of bottles of Cyrodiilic Brandy from the kitchen, and Recall back to Frostmoth Fort. I approached the same soldier on the battlements, and sat one of the small bottles between us, on the rampart wall. The man's eyes grew large at the sight of the alcohol, and he turned to me, looking mildly confused.

"For me?" He managed to say after a moment.

I merely nodded, giving a nonchalant shrug. The soldier caught the bottle up and pulled the stopper with his teeth (to save having to take his gloves off, I imagine). Never mind that the sun had risen only a few short hours earlier, the man downed a third of the brandy in one gulp. With a heartfelt sigh of pleasure, he said:

"Thankyou - and apologies for before." Giving a sheepish grin, he added: "I suppose you heard me, then? About needing a drink? Well look, normally I wouldn't be chasing a drink at this hour, but since this became a dry fort..." he gestured vaguely, "things have been... unpleasant."

"A dry fort?" I prompted.

The soldier took another sip.

"Yes: no liquor allowed at Fort Frostmoth - at all. Orders of the Captain - I guess. Seemed kind of strange coming from him, though;" he said thoughtfully; "I mean Carius seemed like an alright sort before this. I guess we weren't up to his standards, and he cut us off. Everyone's been in a foul mood since then."

An alcohol ban! If that was all there was to it, perhaps I could be on my way sooner than I had hoped. I could ply the man in charge of the armoury with a drink and get what equipment I needed from him (provided of course that the ban was the cause of his rudeness, and not something else). After that I could tell Carius what I had learned (just out of good manners), and depart in search of the airship crew.

As with everything in my life though, things turned out to be not as simple as that.


"A dry fort?" Carius raised his eyebrows. "They think that I banned alcohol? It's only a dry fort because the alcohol shipments stopped coming in a while back. Actually, I recall that Nuncius - Antonius Nuncius, our priest here - wanted a ban. He was worried about the effect of alcohol on the men. We argued about it a couple of times, I think - and then of course it ceased to matter soon after that because there was no alcohol to be had here anyway."

The Captain stopped to think. I screwed my eyes shut, again fighting back my frustration.

"This story that I banned alcohol must have come from someone. See if you can find out who. If we can expose this person, I think we'll both get what we want from my men."

And now Falx Carius was ordering me about as if I was one of his men. My frustration only grew. Would the petty politics and tantrum-throwing of a backwater Imperial Legion outpost be the death of the men I had set out to save?

I could feel a headache coming on.

Chapter 84: Delays

With my warmest robe bundled into my pack, along with a supply of food suitable for travel, I set out in the early morning for Solstheim. Even reaching the shore of the frigid island would take most of the day. It was truly a remote place. Khuul, on the north-western coast of Vvardenfell, was the closest settlement to the Imperial Legion's Frostmoth Fort on the south coast of Solstheim; and I had heard that one could take a boat from Khuul - so that was my destination.

My plan was to ask Folms to teleport me to the Berandas Velothi stronghold, just south of Gnisis. From Gnisis I could take a silt strider to the fishing village of Khuul. As was becoming usual, I scouted the stronghold for Folms first, before carrying on my way.

Berandas was in a severe state of disrepair - compared to the other Velothi strongholds I had seen. Many of its twisting underground passages had collapsed, long ago giving in to the pressure of the soil and stone above. The place was also home to some... less than benevolent creatures. This was made plain by the pair of skeletal corpses (of man or mer) propped up unceremoniously on wooden stakes, just inside the stronghold entrance.


I soon discovered the culprits: goblins! Squat, muscular, green-skinned and warlike creatures. Fortunately for me, the band I met was a ragged bunch of individuals that had taken shelter in the ruined structure, and did not pose much of a threat. Every one of them flew at me, and every one fell to a couple of solid strokes of my heavy longsword.

As I mentioned, much of Berandas was closed off by collapsed passageways and chambers - and I soon found the probable reason for this: the stronghold was built on a place of heavy volcanic activity. In one of the lower rooms, part of the wall and floor had fallen away to reveal a tunnel burnt out of the solid ground by flows of molten rock. Mindful of my pressing engagement on Solstheim, and having no idea how deep the lava-tunnels went, I jogged down the tunnel to quickly assess the situation. If the tunnels carried on too far, I would leave them for another time.

The tunnels actually came to an end quite soon; terminating in a massive organic chamber, lit red by pools of fitfully-bubbling lava. At the far side of the cavern I could make out a pair of large Winged Twilights, who appeared to be bent low over a dead body; as if smelling it. With each deep inhalation, their wings shivered slightly.

Rapping my shield against the cave wall to gain their attention and draw them away from the body, I proceeded to smother the Daedric creatures with magical ice and poison, using my area-effect spells. One of the creatures fell before it could reach me, and the other was seriously wounded; one of its wings seared right off by the acidic poison. It dealt me a nasty kick to the stomach, half-winding me, but I was in no real danger as I dispatched it.

The only thing I could really tell about the corpse that had so distracted the Winged Twilights was that it had once belonged to a Redguard. He appeared to have been dead for several days, but carried nothing that provided any indication as to who he might have been. He was wearing an interesting pair of leather boots, though, that fairly pulsed with powerful levitation magic. Boots that were enchanted to allow the wearer to fly about at will.

It was powerful magic, but I left the boots where they were. I had my own levitation magic, and I was not in the mood to disrespect the dead.


Across the River Samsi, in Gnisis, I sat on the silt strider platform for nearly an hour before one of the giant insects showed up. Needless to say, perhaps, I was becoming quite peeved. I had almost set out on foot on numerous occasions, only to decide to wait "just a few more minutes".


It was mid-afternoon when I stepped off the strider at Khuul, feeling anxious at the delays. If Louis Beauchamp's crew were really stranded somewhere in Solstheim's uninhabited, blizzard-plagued north, time was at a premium.

For a small handful of drakes, I persuaded a Khajiiti fisherman to ferry me across the rough stretch of sea to Solstheim in his boat. The trip took hours: much longer than I would have thought. I don't know much about sea travel, but I think it was because we were 'tacking' against the icy wind for much of the voyage.

The last two hours on the boat were in darkness, the sun having set behind a veil of grey mist during the trip. In the dark, we were assaulted by a numbing cold the likes of which I had never felt before. The Khajiiti fisherman had his thick fur, plus some very warm-looking clothes - but all I had was my armour and the 'warm' robe I had brought. Usually, wearing a full suit of armour is an exercise in sweating and overheating: I had thought I would be warm enough - but even with the robe I was shivering violently. I put both Denstagmer's Ring and my Elementward ring on (both protect against extreme elements), and felt a little better - but the temperature continued to drop.


"Gods, it's cold!" I exclaimed to no-one in particular as I disembarked from the boat. The Argonian securing the fishing vessel to the stone dock gave me a withering look. I suspect he felt the cold much more than I, being cold-blooded. Solstheim would be a truly miserable place for one of the lizard-folk.

I watched the (bare-footed!) Argonian exchange a few words with the Khajiiti fisherman. He slowly hopped from one scaly foot to the other as he spoke, pressing the raised foot against his leg in a (probably vain) attempt to keep it warm. I could see why he did it, too: the dock was slick with ice from the drifting sea-mist.

My breath emerged in great plumes of steam, and I was shivering again. The Denstagmer and Elementward rings took the bite out of the cold, but I could still feel a creeping numbness in my extremities. And this was the 'warmest' place on the island! I knew from talking to the Khajiiti fisherman that Solstheim only got colder the further north one went. I needed warmer clothes - ideally something that would provide some physical protection at the same time. Fur armour: that was what I needed. Such armour was difficult to come by in a warm place like Vvardenfell - or at least I had not seen much of it in the armouries I had visited.

The Imperial Legion's outpost on Solstheim, Fort Frostmoth, was just up a short slope from the dock. The forbidding stone structure was only illuminated by the dim moonlight that filtered through the thin cover of clouds: it was closed and shuttered against the cold of the night. I would return in the morning and seek out their armoury: surely an outpost in a place like that would have supplies of warm armour?

I breathed in deep as I looked about for an out-of-the-way place to cast my magical Mark. The air there on Solstheim made me realise just how stale and suffocating the atmosphere is on most of Vvardenfell, with its lack of trees and hot, dusty winds. I could not see them in the blackness, but I caught the invigorating scent of pine trees on the breeze. The air was fresh - and quite bracing, of course.

Having found a spot down beside the dock, a few strides up from the shore, I cast Mark, and then used the Wolfen ring to return home for the night. The search for the airship crew would have to wait until the morning - and until I was better equipped.