Months passed and so did the seasons like a flower opening to the sunlight. Autumn fell, winter passed, and now it was spring in Skyrim. Jobs never ceased in Jorrvaskr, and in between jobs there was training, mornings of spell craft and afternoons in the art of the sword. Tarthas had lost a lot of what made him once look young and a child. Most of the youthful fat had disappeared from his face. He was toned and chiseled, by Vilkas, to the physique of one worthy to wield a blade.
The young lad was out in the terrace in Dragonsreach, the palace in Whiterun. This terrace had traps rigged to trap a dragon and it had done so twice. Once in the age when the dragons’ tyranny was great and the nords rebelled against Alduin and his kin. The second time was once again when Alduin, the world-eater had returned and the Dragonborn needed the aid of a hostile dragon to slay Alduin once and for all. It was a wide circular space looking out to the plains and mountains that lay behind Whiterun. Half of it was roofed and this is where dragons were trapped. Also on either side were various targets and training dummies for the guards and other great heroes to train. This is where Farengar always trained Tarthas in magic.
“Now you must see, Tarthas, a familiar isn’t merely the most basic form of Conjuration. It is an art and can be turned into a very advanced skill, as great as necromancy or mastering the realm of Oblivion. But if the first step is mastered properly then the rest is simple. However this first step-
“Is the hardest.” Tarthas rolled his eyes. Farengar had been preparing him and lecturing him about conjuration for the last month. Conjuration was probably his worst school after Illusion. Reanimating the dead or summoning daedra from the hellish realm of Oblivion wasn’t truly his thing. It felt wrong and very often the daedra had turned on him, forcing Farengar to send it back to Oblivion with a banishing spell. Very soon Farengar had taught Tarthas that spell, which he had mastered easily. Farengar was now trying a different approach to conjuration, the one of familiar and binding.
According to Farengar, summoning a familiar had two aspects. The first was how every conjurer learns his craft, summoning a wolf familiar. These beasts were the spirits of the said animal. Wolves being the essence of courage, loyalty and leadership were the easiest to summon. The second aspect was conjuring up what the shamans of Hammerfell called your own essence, your inner self, conjuring up what made you, you in the form of an animal.
This was a hard technique but once achieved can be stronger than a daedra and is infinitesimally more loyal and compliments the conjurer to the core. Combined with the technique of binding a conjured being into a weapon or armour, this familiar is by far better because it can turn at your will back and forth between those forms, a companion in battle and a vital tool in battle, that was the versatility that the shaman in the tribe deep in the Alik’r desert had. Very few know about this but Farengar had consulted with the librarian in the college of Winterhold to see how Tarthas could tackle Conjuration. This was all he could find, which was a feat in itself.
“I know you know the theory behind it fully. But now you need to meditate as you have been doing for the last week. You will conjure it, I am sure if it.”
The problem was Tarthas knew that he wasn’t sure. Conjuration was a vital skill as a mage and there was less and less hope that he would ever master it, this was the last hope and it was slim.
Tarthas sat down at the edge of the cliff like balcony and crossed his legs. He sat in front of a conjurer’s pentagram, candles were lit around it and daedric runes were painted along the lines of the pentagram. These pentagrams were the ideal condition to conjure and were always used for a new summoning.
Tarthas sat in front of the circle for a long time, controlling his breathing, eyes closed, trying to find himself within himself. He let every pore of magic flow to his finger tips and ball in his hands. It looked like two abysses in the palm of his hands, swirling around the black hole of a centre. He had a sucking sensation as what seemed like a part of his soul was being gently pulled away, like pulling off a piece of dough but more fluid and less tangible. A blue essence started flowing around and diving into the black holes. He let the spell forming in his hands go and a flash of light erupted in the pentagram.
In the pentagram stood a strange canine beast, it looked like a fox with wolf-like features. Through the ghost like colours and transparency that familiars had the back and tail had a different pattern and different tint of ghastly blue, darker and greyer.
“What is it? I’ve never seen it before.” Tarthas asked.
“It is you to be technical but I think you are referring to what beast it is. It is a beast found in the dryer areas of the savannah of Elsweyr, it is known as a jackal. They are opportunistic, solitary, a guide for souls passing to the afterlife. I wonder what that last fact may mean. This may teach you something about what the Gods have in store for you, although I have no idea what that may be. The Gods work in strange and subtle ways. Fate isn’t something to find out about. It will find you and move you; it isn’t possible to change it either. Your lesson is done for today, I need to get back to my own research.” Farengar walked off muttering under his breath.
The jackal yawned and walked over to Tarthas’ side and stretched and yawned again. Tarthas wasn’t sure what to make of him, or himself. It was too confusing for him. He looked up at the sky, the sun, Magnus, had passed the peak of its journey across the sky quite a bit. It was about three in the afternoon. He had been meditating for much longer than it had felt. He was late for his sword fighting training.
When Tarthas ran through the palace and rushed down the stone steps, bumping into a few guards, he got a lot of curses coming from behind. In the training yard there were very few people, only the lower ranked companions were out training. Among them was Keri-Anne hacking away at a dummy in the set of the blades armour that Eorlund had crafted for her, its close fitting design made her look very stunning
The armour of the blades was a strange combination of thinly and closely plated pieces of armour in the oriental design of the Akavir however but with the imperial influence of them being the bodyguards of the Septim dynasty. It had a blue sheen to it and was crafted with the same tempering technique as used for the Akavirii swords. Heating, folding and hammering then reheating and folding the metal and re hammering it. Making it highly strong while very thin. Eorlund was truly a legend in his skills of a blacksmith.
Keri turned around and saw Tarthas examining her. He blushed and Keri giggled.
“Nice chest – stab!” Tarthas raised his hands in shock” I meant chest stab. To the dummy. You know, when you er, yeah. I’m sorry.” He looked down at his boots, how could he look at his sister like that. Not that she was truly his sister, she was a Nord and he was a Breton. He blamed it on not having seen her and actualy communicating with her. She had become distant this was the excuse he had formulated for himself.
“Thank you, Tarthas, you flatter me. But seriously you’re nearly seventeen. Learn how to flirt with a girl, and try someone of your age. Preferably not me, brother.” She added the last bit with a slight bit of venom in her voice “You little brother, favourite of both mum and dad and the companions have been getting the good life. Being trained by the two best in their craft of Whiterun. And I? I get treated like another one of the Companions, hired muscle. I’m supposed to know how to hold a sword! Not that I don’t! I can still beat you in a fight, no matter how much training you’ve had.” She had her sword raised at him and looked furious yet had a glint in her eyes; a glint that showed that she was daring him.
“Fine, a duel, like old times.” Tarthas unsheathed his sword and smiled confidently, he wasn’t, it was just gusto. “This time all out, magic and sword, we will cast a blunting spell on the swords, cast a resist magic spell and ironflesh to minimize injuries. Any weapons allowed, all magic as well.”
Flesh spells are very useful spells, they are a spell that when cast, form a thin layer of magic over your skin which is as strong as armour. So Ironflesh is like having a layer of iron over your skin.
“Bretons don’t need to buff themselves with resist magic. You already resist it naturally as well as an adept wizard casting it. Even odds.”
As custom they bowed to each other and stepped ten paces each, away from each other. The sun was still bright and was just behind the Skyforge, creating an eagle like shadow across the training field. So Tarthas realized there were no advantages from light. There were also none created within the sparring court because of its even terrain.
Keri-Anne summoned from her left hand while holding the shield a flame atronach and charged at Tarthas sword pointing towards Tarthas’ abdomen. A fool hardy approach if one was ever made. One easily done when angry. Tarthas stood his ground, banished the daedra and swatted her stab away with his sword tilted vertically. Making her sword fly to her right and creating a huge opening. He quickly moved in the pommel of his sword in to her left shoulder but it was blocked with Keri’s shield blocking the path.
She returned the blow with her katana closing in on Tarthas’ side, gaining momentum from the previous side swat. Tarthas braced his arm for the blow, knowing there was little stopping it. Then the jackal jumped and formed a shield in the blink of an eye, forming just in time to block the blow that Keri-Anne had landed on him. Once again Keri lay open for an attack. Tarthas lowered his sword and thrust it horizontally forward to stab between the plates that covered her slim waist.
Keri had moved aside only just on time and had earned herself a loose plate of armour and a cut on her waist. She jumped back and hissed, cupping the now bleeding wound. A sword wasn’t supposed to unhinge blade plate so easily nor go through ironflesh so well either. She looked again and saw the shield was missing and the sword had an aura enveloping its blade in the form of a wyrm with the jackal’s head.
The aura flowed away and formed the jackal again and it charged at Keri-Anne. She raised her shield so that the ghost jackal wouldn’t hurt her, forgetting about Tarthas. He took the opportunity to come in close around her side. He grabbed her shoulder and smacked his pommel into her temple, knocking her unconscious. The glowing ironflesh withered away with the current of the wind as she fell to her knees. Tarthas caught her. He closed her wound with a healing spell then with an illusion spell, the only one he could do, he woke her up.
Keri-Anne opened her eyes softly to see Tarthas’ face and feel herself in his arms, resting in his lap. His strong arms embracing her frail back. He was smiling caringly, his green markings on cheekbones for once not very daunting, his hood was down and his messy black hair had a matted reflection from the sunlight that was peeking out from the Skyforge. She noticed how much Tarthas had matured in the past half a year. He wasn’t the little brother anymore. He could fend for himself; Keri felt something more for Tarthas in that moment but didn’t want to know what that feeling was.
Tarthas pushed aside a few strands of blonde hair that were in Keri’s face. Keri lifted her upper body and embraced him, kissing him as well. It was a short kiss, but one that shocked Tarthas. This was his sister! She looked at him in bliss but her blissful expression turned to one of confusion when she saw Tarthas in shock.
She ran away, leaving Tarthas alone with his thoughts:
Tarthas didn’t know what to think. Keri had been his sister since he had learned to walk and talk. She was tough as nails, as nords were, but had always cared for him, protecting him from the bullies. An older sister that was all she ever was. Yes, she was adopted so it is okay, but a sister she stayed in his mind. Could she be his lover?
Keri-Anne was sobbing in a sepperate room underneath Jorrvaskr in the living quarters. What had she done? She had kissed her brother that much was clear. But was he really her brother? No, and she didn’t want it to stay that way. She decided to become Tarthas’ lover. Tarthas had become a much more desirable young man. But would Tarthas accept it?
A courier arrived for Tarthas a while later. Tarthas was still kneeling on the ground thinking of what Keri had done. He looked up to see a scrawny nord in farmer’s tunic and a cloth skullcap.
“Are you sir Tarthas Gardner?” The kid asked.
“Yes. Do you have any letters?”
“Not really, no.” He muttered, “I have a verbal messages though, Vilkas had sent word that he is out on job with most other senior companions to slay a giant’s camp which has been terrorizing an Orc Stronghold. He said that you and your sister are off duty and may go home for a month.” He was quite confident and proud that he had remembered the full message.
“My sister” the word felt strange in his mouth now “is inside, could you go and recite it to her? I’ll pay you your usual fee for a verbal message.”
“Twenty five septims it is sir.” He said quite happily. But his eyes showed nerves were high. The lad was lying; it was lower. Tarthas gave him the twenty-five anyway. He would pack his stuff that evening and leave in the morning, hopefully with Keri-Anne.
I hope you enjoyed, comments would be appreciated.
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