As I leave Alvor’s forge, with pockets full of nothing but cold, hard coin from selling the contents of Rigel's treasure-room, I bump into a handsome chap called Sven strolling the main (only) street in Riverwood. Now Pyppi’s no tramp, but she definitely likes what she sees, so we strike up a conversation. Alas, he has feelings for another: Camilla, the sister of Lucan the trader. And any lingering flames of attraction towards Sven are swiftly doused in icy water when he makes some rather snide comments regarding the elf Faendal – his rival for Camilla’s attention. Exsqueeze me? Never one to let a fellow Mer be subjected to racism, casual or otherwise, I promptly rat out snakey Sven to Camilla, who thanks me, and asks that I inform Faendal also. He is overjoyed, rewards me with a little gold, and even offers to accompany me on my travels. Why not? Even a mighty mage such as Pyppi Långstøchin needs company on the long, lonesome road. I accept his proposition, on a trial-basis for now. If he proves his worth, and remembers who’s in charge, we’ll draw up a permanent contract.
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| The Love Triangle |
Seeing Camilla again has reminded me of the promise I made her brother to retrieve his expensive stolen ornament, which seems the ideal opportunity to assess Faendal’s worth. After scrambling up the mountain track, we happen across a solitary watchtower, with a few bandits patrolling outside. I approach with my customary tact (*ahem*) and Faendal cheerfully lends a hand. So far, so good, rookie. As we trudge our way towards the rather imposing Bleak Falls Barrow, more brigands come into view, guarding the entrance. I turn to Faendal to give him a motivational speech...but he’s already off, and casually snipes all of them before I can think “zap”. I begin to suspect that Faendal might be something of a show-off. With a quick glare at his smug face, I shove open the creaking door.
Lots of dead rats skeevers and some living bandits greet us in the tumbledown entrance hall. Before Faendal can steal all the glory, this time I rush in and set the room ablaze single-handed, just so he knows who’s boss. In rummaging around in the rubble, I come across one bandit whose death I wasn’t responsible for, lying in a pool of his own blood on an ominous altar. My superlative deductive reasoning leads me to believe he didn’t trip and fall over his shoelaces. Further into the depths of the barrow, one tougher thug takes some teamwork to take care of. Now that the passive-aggressive petty proving of our respective prowess has been put aside, Faendal and I are beginning to gel. I wonder if there’s a “pat companion proudly on the shoulder” hotkey?
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| "Looks like this guy *sunglasses* had his lifespan ALTARed *YEEAAAAHH*" |
There isn’t. An easy combination lock room is no match for the intelligence of Pyppi Långstøchin, arch-mage (in training), nor are the skeevers skittering around at the bottom of a rickety spiral staircase. Our ears prick up (well, prick up more – we are elves after all) at the sound of a plaintive cry for help emanating from the end of a corridor. Around the corner, a web-covered cavern filled with the desiccated corpses of many a beast suggests spiders are to blame.
Actually I was wrong. Not spiders. Spider. One really big spider. Flame on!
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| My, what big mandibles you have. |
Once Charlotte has spun her last web, I talk to the damsel in distress, a male dark elf called Arvel the Swift. I politely refrain from pointing out that his (likely self-awarded) title seems rather ironic now, in his enwebbed state, and instead demand to know where Lucan’s golden claw is. He promises to give it to me once I have cut him down, to which I agree; after all, we elf brethren have to stick together, even though he’s a Dunmer, who have something of a bad reputation. Maybe he’ll even join Faendal and I to form an impenetrable elven tripod? But before I can propose this to him, he’s already cut and run. Fuck it. NEVER trust a Dunmer.
Swift as he may be, Arvel is not swifter than lightning. Golden claw in-hand, Faendal and I, the elven duo – who needs a tripod? – enter what look suspiciously like crypts, with skeletons and leathery corpses lying in niches in the walls. What’s that scraping sound? Did that body move? Ugh. Draugr. I hate draugr.
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| Faendal, on the other hand, just LOVES draugr |
After re-deading a few waves of the undead, including a literal fire-and-ice duel between myself and an ancient Nord with knowledge of a frost spell, Pyppi has levelled again. *DING* For the most part, my strategy of holding foes at bay with overwhelming arcane ability before they can hit me has been working out. I increase my magicka pool again, and learn to dual-cast restoration spells, just in case one of the buggers gets a lucky strike in. Turn Undead would be rather handy about now, but this Conjure Familiar tome I found along the way shall have to do for now, coupled with my Raise Zombie spell. Then the four of us can clear the barrow with ease! I pick a burly-looking draugr to un-undead, but as he shuffles crispily to his feet, my glowing wolf-pet (who I had briefly named Bitey) pops and vanishes. Ah, it would seem I can only manage to maintain one magical companion at one time. Jeff (my short-re-re-lived zombie pal) crumbles to dust as I resummon Bitey, and we continue our descent into the Nordic tomb.
I begin to question the wisdom of my decision however, when the passage narrows until we can only really walk one-abreast, and in his impatience Bitey begins to push me into the path of an angry occupant of the barrow. As I scramble to back away, I spot a convenient slick of embalming oil glistening on the ground, and as I squeeze to one side to let Bitey charge past, I hurl a handful of fire at it. The corridor explodes with light, and the draugr is vaporised. Sadly, so is Bitey, who returns to the ether with a spectral yelp. I decide to save him for combat on more open terrain. Faendal and I dispatch the rest of the draugr who crunch back awake from their slumber, including one who displays a perfect appreciation for the dramatic entrance by slamming open his coffin-lid as we approach. Another room with more oil-puddles also assists in laying to rest a few.
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| FWOOOOMMMMPH |
A joint dial-combination/biometric locked door poses no difficulty in passing (the golden claw provides both parts of the key, as it has the correct code embossed upon it – clearly the ancient Nords hadn’t learned the importance of having secure passwords). Before us lies a large cavern, made all the more impressive by the glowing, chanting wall of runic symbols. From prior experience of Skyrim, I, the player, recognise this as a Word Wall, from which I learn Words of Power, which give me the ability to do all sorts of crazy shit. However I, Pyppi Långstøchin the character, have no such knowledge, so I go up and stare at it in blind curiosity.
After learning aforementioned Word of Power (part of Unrelenting Force), a coffin lid thumps open behind me, courtesy of another draugr with a penchant for the am-dram. He promptly finds himself on fire, before being shot down some stairs by a nifty trick shot from Faendal. Before his re-corpse has even slid to halt, I have plundered his treasure chest (which contains, among the other shinies, a tablet called the Dragonstone, which will no doubt be important later).
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| "Who disturbs my slumber?" |
We leave via the convenient secret-not-so-secret back door and find ourselves stood on a moonlit mountainside upstream from Riverwood, with a beautiful aurora flowing overhead. Faendal appears to be misinterpreting the situation, and so I loudly suggest it’s time we should be getting back to town.
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| Faendal Friend-Zoned |
Along the way, we happen across a shack occupied by an old alchemist called Anise, who I suspect is not quite as frail as she would like us to believe. Especially since she can survive living in the wilds of Skyrim, with flame atronachs lurking just down the slope from her home. The fire spirit launches a fireball...but not at Faendal or me. Instead, a blazing bunny corpse tumbles to a halt at my feet. With he guilt of my earlier transgression still raw, I take this as a sign for me to begin my path to redemption, and give the rabbit-murdering atronach a taste of its own medicine.
Having avenged the fallen leporine and scraped some salts from the slain sprite, I jog back to town. I bid farewell to Faendal, lest he read too much into our moment on the mountain, and do anything that makes me regret setting him up with Camilla. Ugh, men! I push open the door of the Sleeping Giant Inn, rent a room and collapse on the bed, suddenly exhausted from today’s exertions. Tomorrow, it’s time I took my travelling magic show on the road. First stop: Whiterun!
theris108
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