Cycle of the Serpent

A word to the wise: never trust a man with "the Swift" after his name.

The Mer cursed themselves as he ran off into the dark. They shouldn't have let him go. They shouldn't have cut him out of the frostbite spider's webs. They should have just reached into his pockets - if possible at the angle he'd been hanging, frankly - and stolen everything off him. But now he'd run off farther into the dark, and even if they didn't want to, the three had to go in after him.

It had been simple enough, to realize danger was up ahead. Especially as the amount of webs increased from scattered here-and-there's to utterly overwhelming. Wyndrelis wound the silk around his mace again, and the three had pushed into the strangely-lit chamber where an injured frostbite spider descended upon them, drooling from its venom-coated fangs, ready for fresh kills. It probably hadn't eaten so well in years, subsisting on skeevers and whatever other small creatures scurried their ways in here. Taking it down had been harder than they'd expected, but Emeros' skill with a bow, Athenath's stumbling-but-sturdy sword-swings, and Wyndrelis' magic and mace had done them well.

Then, there came the squirming Dunmer in the webs, blocking off a tunnel.

Sweat poured down the three elves' brows. The fight had torn through a lot of their energy, but it didn't matter. Their stamina would recover. In the meantime, they all turned their attentions to Arvel.

"You did it. You killed it. Now cut me down before anything else shows up." The figure writhed in the webs, tangled up and tightened in them expertly by the spider that now lay on the stone floors, legs curled tight to its form. Emeros approached, examining the Dunmer. From everything he'd overheard the bandits saying in the first chamber, this must be Arvel.

He narrowed his gaze. "Where's the claw, Arvel?"

The Dunmer ceased his squirming. Suspicion donned his features, brow creased and red eyes locked on the alchemist. "How do you know my name?"

"I'm afraid that's not relevant. Where's the claw?" He repeated, voice heavier. The Dunmer bandit rolled his eyes.

"Dramatic one, are you? Tell me, do you boss around your friends like that?" He flicked his chin in the direction of the other two Mer who made their cautious approach, Wyndrelis bundling a healing spell in his palm, the soft chimes of which danced through the air as he sent magicka through Emeros, then to Athenath, then himself.

"That's none of your concern," Wyndrelis let the spell fade from his hand as he spoke, the mace clutched in a tight grip at his side, "we came looking for the claw, and we would like to know where it is. If you feel so generous," he gestured with an extended palm, bending his fingers back as though telling Arvel to hand it over like a small child. Arvel rolled his eyes in a comically large arc, lolling his head for emphasis.

"Good gods, you three, you'll have to cut me down first!" He squirmed even harder now. Some of the webs snapped behind him, but not nearly enough to release him. "You won't get far without my help, anyways! I know how it works! The claw, the markings, the door in the Hall of Stories. I know how they all fit together! Help me down, and I'll show you. You won't believe the power the Nords have hidden there."

Emeros shook his head at Wyndrelis, who was already prepared to cut away some of the binding webs. They locked eyes, and exchanged a knowing look. Without Arvel, they had no chance to have the claw, and to return it to Lucan and Camilla would be an impossibility. Athenath stood back, sword still readied and watching him carefully.

The moment the last of the webs pulled free from his body, the bandit spun on his heel and dashed down the corridor, shouting that they'd never catch him, that the treasure was his. He lived up to his name, with his feet flying under him at a pace none of them could keep up with.

So, they didn't.

Wyndrelis stretched his arm out to his side, Athenath stumbling in an effort not to run full-force into the Dunmer. Emeros looked to him, bewildered. "If I know anything about Nord ruins, then I don't believe he'll be trouble any longer," the mage hummed.

"Okay, so like, do we just let him run?" Athenath blinked rapidly, disbelief staining his face.

"Precisely."

"Emeros," Athenath turned to the Bosmer, "tiebreaker, what do you think?"

He stopped, taking a few steps back, arms folded over his chest, the crux of his thumb at his jaw as he mulled the options over. The three could all go in, or stay back, or one could go after and the other two hang behind. But if one of them went after Arvel alone, what if the thief cornered them? Or worse, what if there was something waiting ahead, and it overpowered them both? What if there were other bandits waiting in the shadows for all three to break away, to take them out one by one?

So, although he thought he may regret it, he suggested, "lets let him have his fun. We'll chase after him in a moment, but for now, we should rest and catch our breath."

Athenath groaned to conceal that they were somewhat glad that Emeros had suggested a break. The sunlight through the ceiling, what little they could see, had shifted in hue. It looked deeper now, richer, and something told Athenath from the slant of it through the hole above them that at least an hour had passed. Maybe more, but that didn't seem possible. This place wasn't that large, right?

Still, Wyndrelis led the three back to another chamber. They'd regain their energy and recuperate, address any injuries his spells didn't fix, and head through when they knew they were ready.

Wyndrelis was right. Arvel certainly wouldn't be a problem anymore.

The dust of millennia shirked off the shoulders of the slinking undead, corridors now occupied by the glowing-eyed draugr. Their jaws rested permanently open, with too much frozen muscle to close entirely, bones creaking among the dim chambers. They shambled restlessly, Arvel's limp body spilled on the floor. His belongings scattered out away from him. A potion or two, bottles cracked and leaking now, a leather-bound journal, and glittering away from him, the golden claw.

Emeros crouched, lowering to the ground. "Don't make a sound, just move when I move," he instructed, readying his bow. He reached into his pack, pulling out a vial just large enough to fit the head of an arrow through, and dipped it in. The clear liquid clung to the metal, Emeros careful not to touch it with his bare hands as he pressed the cork back into place and passed it to Athenath. "Hand it to me when I've finished." Nodding, the Altmer placed it into the pocket of their trousers and readied their sword, Wyndrelis with his mace, all preparing for the possibilities ahead.

The draugr which the arrow pierced went down after a few moments, paralyzed by whatever potion had been in the small vial. It may not be sent back to the realms of death, but it was certainly no longer a threat. Emeros crept from his position against the wall and ducked into another hiding spot, creeping ever closer to where Arvel's body lay. "Use a few drops on your weapons, both of you, it will help."

Athenath pulled the vial from his pocket. He dropped some of the clear potion on his sword and Wyndrelis' mace. "What is it?"

"Canis root, milk thistle, larkspur, several other ingredients."

Wyndrelis' brows shot up high. "In other words, powerful, then."

Emeros chuckled quietly, muffling it as well as he could. "Yes, quite. Be careful not to get any on your skin, even absorption can be dangerous."

Athenath made a mental note of this as he gingerly corked the vial again and set it into his pocket.

The second draugr went down with an arrow for distraction, a mace to the skull for impact. The cranium caved in at the immediate strike, bone shards splintering off from the force. The third went down from Athenath's blade, the Altmer crouched in the dark like a panther until it marched in front of them. He leapt from the shadows, pushed forward by both determination and fear, blade shooting straight through its spine. The shorter Mer kicked the corpse off his blade, and the three marched deeper, toeing carefully around the pressure plate, but not before Emeros snagged up the journal and claw that Arvel had so very graciously left for them.

The pathways ahead held more draugr, but most importantly, they also held more shadows. Less light illuminating the Mer meant less likelihood of being seen, more time to prepare, more poison and more space. Taking these down was easier, now that they knew what they were up against. Horrified and still standing, the white-hot terror grasping each of their hearts, but still alive and still slashing and firing and smashing through the ancient bodies.

Of course, the swinging axes that lined the passageway forward tore all hopes from under them.

"Damn," Wyndrelis hissed, catching his breath, the body of one of the larger draugr at his feet. The unsaid question hung in the air: what do we do this time?

They couldn't send all of them through at once. Impractical didn't narrow down the half of the reasons why this would be a bad idea. The axes moved at their own unique paces, but swiftly and cleverly designed. Most importantly, there was no chain to pull to stop them, no lever, no switch, nothing.

"Okay, how the fuck could the Nords think this was a good design choice," Athenath exclaimed, gesturing widely to the corridor which loudly reminded the three that passing through would mean either submitting to death in this barrow, or calculating each step as though it were their last. Emeros paced slowly back and forth in the dim torchlight, hands behind his back as he tried to piece together any method which would work to keep them all alive. Two was too many. All three was far, far too many, and only one seemed cruel. To sentence someone to death like that... These two may be strangers, but this deep into the barrow, somehow, something had changed. Emeros couldn't contend with the idea of sentencing them to the end at an axe's blade when they had just so narrowly escaped a similar fate only a day ago. He paused his pacing, the image of Wyndrelis clinging to the wall of the root-encased corridor coming back to the surface of his mind.

He looked to the Dunmer, locking eyes.

The mage grimaced. "Oh."

"You're more agile than I think you even believe. If you can memorize the patterns they swing in, then you may be able to pass through and see if there's a chain on the other side."

Athenath's mouth hung open, gaping protest, but he couldn't conjure any words to go along with the expression. Gods damn it, Emeros had a point, the collective agreement filling the air as the Bosmer looked slowly back to the corridor.

"Besides, you're a mage. A healing spell in both hands..."

"Restoration does not return life."

"But it can help prolong it."

Wyndrelis cursed to himself, but he didn't want to argue. Gods knew it was a horrible, but very clever idea. The one of them that knew Restoration and could easily apply it under duress... Gods.

He stepped closer to the corridor.

Swing.

He focused into his palms the golden light, the windchime-like sound of the spell blinking into existence as he pushed one foot in front of the other, against all instinct.

Swing.

He pressed himself into a stiff, stock-still figure between the first two. One down. Two more. He sent more of his magicka into his palms, the gold light brightening.

Swing.

He stepped ahead. One more to go.

Swing.

He pushed himself out of the corridor with all of his might, feet flying from under him as he landed on his palms, spell dissipating, catching himself. The other two crowded to the entrance of the corridor, Athenath covering his eyes. Wyndrelis stood up, dusting himself off.

Looking to the metal chain on his end, he wrapped a lithe hand around the links and pulled it tight. The axes slowed until they stopped in the spaces they'd come from. "Done," he called quietly, unsure where he was, or what lay ahead. He watched his companions awkwardly shuffle through the corridor, still suspicious of the chance that the axes might spontaneously ignore the designs of the trap itself and decide against staying firmly put.

Once all three were on the other side, Wyndrelis took charge, slinking carefully through the halls. "Where are we?" Athenath whispered, following close behind him, much too close to being in Wyndrelis' personal space than the mage liked.

"A tomb," he whispered back, pressing his index finger to his lip, "and we don't know what is in here."

The warning could not have come at a better time, the three locking their eyes onto the figure of a draugr, stood in an alcove, eyes shut and arms folded over his chest. They glanced between one another, unsure of how to communicate in the presence of the being, before Wyndrelis crouched down and gestured for all to be silent. They would sneak past it, he seemed to be communicating. Emeros agreed with a sharp nod, trailing the end of the line as the three put one foot in front of the other in calculated motions, passing under the close-eyed draugr without incident, their slow procession through each upcoming tomb taking even more care as they all focused with tremendous efforts in not slipping on the oil that lined the passage. The lantern above swung off its line, foreboding, like the glint of a knife in the dark of the night. It threatened them to crash right down and set them all ablaze, each tiny swing of the rope causing their hearts to all accelerate, pulses racing in their heads, bodies tense and on edge. One wrong move and they would either die to an accident or a draugr up ahead. One wrong step and they would alert the statuesque monstrosity, falling into the oil, giving time for the lantern to swing down.

The mental sigh of relief, luckily, did not roll into a physical one as they all checked that everyone was alive and well, the moment they'd left the thin passageway and toed their way through others. The tombs receded as they ascended the stairs, but danger had not left them.

The chamber up ahead contained a small bridge and a waterfall, which sprayed freezing droplets on the three as they contemplated their next move. The stone coffin did all the contemplating for them, as the lid of it flew onto the ground and another draugr emerged, prepared to take them with him into the worlds of the dead.

Athenath gasped hard, then grit their teeth. "Fucking draugr, don't we have enough draugr?!"

"I suppose the barrow doesn't think so," Emeros drew his blade. Wyndrelis readied his mace, the three charging the creature which slashed expertly. Death had not muddled its instinct, the only kind which said to protect this place with as much force as possible, and carried the skill of the wielder's life of battle. The shield blocked and nearly knocked the Mer down, Emeros stumbling as it stopped the strike of his blade. The draugr turned its gaze to Athenath and held its battle-axe high above its head, the Altmer slipping on the mud and stumbling for any foothold against gravity, the blade coming down, clean and true-

Magic coursed through the body, the draugr pausing every motion in mid-swing like it had been frozen in time. The Dunmer held the spell as Emeros and Athenath cut it down, finally letting the corpse drop to the ground.

"Gods, how much longer to go?" Athenath hurled the words through grit teeth, breaths staggering with the receded panic. Emeros looked between the other two Mer, and wished he'd never agreed to this. Even if only just two of them had agreed to this wild guar chase, then maybe they all would be back in Riverwood right now, warming by the hearth and chatting with Orgnar and Delphine and learning all about the town and the hold it sat in.

He subdued the fact that, if even just one of them had stayed behind, the other two would have gone, and probably be dead by now.

The river poured over jagged rocks and smooth stones alike. "Ugh," Athenath pulled his boot up and dangled it in the air, watching the water creep up to the hem of his trousers, the sound of disgust leaving his throat. Wyndrelis tittered, the three following a strange glow, Emeros leading again. The light of glowing mushrooms drew him in, that eerie, greenish light that he liked to see on the rare occasions he found himself in these positions. Glowing mushrooms were good for a few many things, versatile in their properties, and made great lights for a night or two when cut from a cave. He'd gotten in the habit at one point of keeping at least one or two on him in a large jar, if he anticipated he'd be anywhere dark.

The moment Athenath's feet hit dry land, he shook their feet, lifting one, then the other, like a housecat emerging from a pond with faux-dignification. But they were on dry land, and now, they could hear the sound of birds ahead. The same thought pounded through all three Mer's heads, the way out. The way out.

It was not, in fact, the way out. The draugr waiting for them went down easy, though, and the icy land-bridge was the much more frightful of the two things to face. But they did, shouldering the icy cold and the dimming light coming from outside, skirting the wall the moment they could find one and using every muscle in their bodies to guide them in the right direction. If this golden claw didn't lead them to riches beyond their wildest dreams, then maybe it wasn't even worth it. Maybe they should even just sell it to someone else, Emeros thought, glancing at the other two Mer as he tried to lead them down to stable land.

The Hall of Stories was an enormous chamber that stretched into the dark, a door on one end, and something none of the three Mer had ever seen before on the other. The walls stood, stoic and strong, their carvings like tattoos telling the story of their existence. Each one carried unreadable narratives, depicted in engravings and illuminated by braziers lit for hundreds, if not thousands of years. The stone composition of the room echoed every sound, from the flickering of the fires to the thud of footsteps, the wall at the end of the room mocking them with its lack of anything that made a door a door. Were they trapped in here? Emeros snatched Arvel's journal from his pocket and flipped through, each page making a loud, whipping noise against the reverberations of the chamber. Wyndrelis and Athenath walked to his side, peering down at the writings as Emeros dragged a pointed finger under each line written within, mouthing the words to himself.

"My fingers are trembling. The Golden Claw is finally in my hands, and with it, the power of the ancient Nordic heroes. That fool Lucan Valerius had no idea that his favorite store decoration was actually the key to Bleak Falls Barrow. Now I just need to get to the Hall of Stories and unlock the door. The legend says there is a test that the Nords put in place to keep the unworthy away, but that 'when you have the golden claw, the solution is in the palm of your hands'."

Athenath grabbed the claw from Emeros' knapsack, the other furrowing his brow. Wyndrelis looked at it, the metal practically glowing in the light of the small fires, Athenath knitting his brow as they turned it over, again and again, rotating it in their palm. The Dunmer took it into his hands gingerly, running his thumb over what he thought was protrusions on the palm of the shape.

He paused.

He did so again.

"The solution is in the palm of your hands," Wyndrelis repeated. Emeros' brows rose, eyes widening as he shut Arvel's journal with a thunderous slam, pushing it back into his pocket and rushing to the wall before them, feeling its surface. He pushed into one of the golden, illustrated circles, his fingers tremoring as it shifted under his hand. The stone clicked down, then rose up, the circle it lay in spinning.

"They move!" He announced, breathless. Athenath put a hand on the second one, both turning expectantly to Wyndrelis as he gazed carefully at the details of the raised illustrations on the claw.

"Bear."

Turn.

"Moth."

Turn.

"Owl."

The final wheel spun into place. Wyndrelis walked over steadily, pushing the tips of the golden claw into the holes. It turned against his own hand, twisting in one direction. The wheels spun rapidly, dust spitting out and spilling from the top of the wall, the door, as it lowered itself down into the ground.

Beyond the door, birds sang. Water gushed and ran. Athenath sprinted ahead, smile stretched wide over his mouth. This had to be the end, the ordeal was finally coming to a close, running into the open space as fast as he could manage, elation in every movement. Finally out, free from the cursed barrow and all its fucking traps and fucking draugr. Birds sang far away and the waterfall spilled gleefully into small streams and a tiny sliver of a stone bridge making its stride to the most intriguing structure of all.

A wall, curved and carved with unfamiliar script, beckoned the trio closer, it's words scrawled long ago. It must have been here before this chamber, but remained untouched by nature, as though some force kept it's writing legible. It was clear that, if nothing else remained of Bleak Falls Barrow thousands of centuries from now, this would still be standing strong.

Athenath stopped at the bridge, the other two Mer sprinting after them. The dread that pitted their stomachs and lined their chests came directly from whatever force kept that curved wall standing. The room filled with a low humming noise, steady and calm. The light filtering in from outside was significantly dimmed, the cold deeper. But the wall was the only thing on their minds, here in the ever-growing dark.

"What's that?" Athenath whispered, breaking the fragile, tense silence. Wyndrelis shook his head, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

"I don't know, but I'm not sure I trust it," he looked to the Bosmer, similarly skeptical, but mesmerized all the same as he stepped to the wall, "what should we do?"

Emeros was quiet for a moment, taking in the sound of rushing water that poured on either side of the strange wall, the raised platform containing a stone coffin. "Proceed, but we should be careful," he cautioned.

None of them could place the sound that radiated from it. Wyndrelis called it drumming, Athenath called it chanting, Emeros calling it a hum. But the sound thundered through them nonetheless, burning at the backs of their skulls, bristling the hair on the backs of their necks. It pushed through them from their feet, up their stomachs and chests, and into their heads like a vibration from somewhere deep within Nirn, from somewhere far unknown and forgotten. They didn't know what to call it, what to say, how to say it, but a sound like a roar gleamed in their minds eyes, a sight and sound and feeling all wrapped into one undeniably present sensation.

On the wall, one carving glowed bright blue the closer that they drew to it. The light swirled, as though made of streams of magicka, pulling around them, into them, the chanting a gnaw, the drumming a fever pitch, ferocious until it conjured such a headache it made the trio shut their eyes, cover their ears, but it couldn't block out the sound. It was coming from inside them now, from their cores, a sensation like an earthquake, like thunder, like a force that pushed and pulled.

Finally, it subsided, leaving behind only dull headaches.

They didn't have much time to relax. The stone coffin's lid popped off the vessel, flying high into the air and landing in the dirt, clouds of ancient dust rising as the draugr slung his legs over the edge. The bony creation groaned, pushing itself up as though it had been sleeping far too long, with only one goal, to decimate the defilers of this sacred place.

The Altmer let out a shrill noise, a yelp that almost became a shriek, but grasped the hilt of their sword as the draugr charged the three. They swung and hacked and slashed, but all this did was anger the draugr as the thing exhaled something, livid at the presence of the living, the force of the exhale- no, the force of the shout, knocking Athenath to their knees. Still, he didn't give up, and as blow after blow landed on the bard's armor, they continued their furious attack, fear the only thing driving every movement of their muscles. Wyndrelis used the other's onslaught to pull Destruction magicka into his palms, lightning cracking the air like a whip and shredding itself through the draugr, still not stopping it, but slowing significantly. Emeros used the slowed motion to push his own blade deep into its chest cavity, careful to let go of his blade the moment it made contact with the thing so that the spell wouldn't have a chance to accidentally shoot to him, too. He knew some mages had enough control over their spells that this would never happen, but he didn't know if Wyndrelis was one of those skilled bunch, and he wasn't willing to find out.

The Mer hoped against hope that it was truly dead as it collapsed to the ground, stinking of ozone and iron. Wyndrelis kicked it with the toe of his boot, and when it didn't move, he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He looked to his two companions, who were stepping over to the strange wall, sitting with their backs against it. He joined them, offering to heal any wounds, and as he worked shimmering, golden magic through the veins of his companions, he glanced to the giant chest that rested near the stone coffin.

"It's too bad we don't have a key," he muttered, more to himself than anyone. Athenath shrugged, shambling to his feet, making his way over. They tugged their knapsack from his shoulders, digging through until he found a small pouch tucked inside, and plucked out a handful of lockpicks, setting to work.

"Where did you learn to pick locks?" Emeros questioned, knitting his brow. Athenath didn't reply, prompting Emeros to consider repeating the question until he heard the distinct clicking of the chest opening. The Altmer plunged a hand into the chest, plucking out a large, strangely shaped stone. They rotated it in their palms, the gleaming lines on it the only thing he thought might be of value. Maybe as a decoration or something, but it didn't interest them at all. Still, again, possibly valuable. They tossed it into their knapsack without much thought, Emeros plucking the arrows from the chest and Wyndrelis examining the enchanted greatsword, turning it over carefully in his hands.

"If we sell this," he looked to his two companions, "we'll have plenty of gold for supplies."

"We?" Emeros repeated.

"We." Wyndrelis confirmed without a second thought. "Let's go, I think I'm sick of tombs."

The trio set in the direction that a cold breeze flowed in from, and within moments, were back to the land of the living, with the moons high above and the summer breeze chilled from the altitude, warming significantly as they made their way down from the barrow.