The Divine Hunter

Chapter 474: Wager at The Bannered Mare

[TL: Asuka]

[PR: hibiki]

Two thousand, huh? Not even half the EXP I have. Alright, I’ll go with it.

‘Level 12 Witcher (5400 → 34000/12500).’

Another wave of magical information flooded the witcher’s mind.

‘Thu’um is a kind of magic known only to dragonkind. Through the resonance between their language and the earth, they can summon the strength of the Bones of the Earth (Remnants of the All-Maker) and call forth incredible power to aid them in battle.

Most people are only granted access to this power through years of rigorous training. Through meditation, they ameliorate their souls, pulling them closer to the power of dragons for a short while. They are then granted access to the power of the Bones of the Earth.

But these people, though trained and experienced, do not possess the soul of a dragon. Learning Thu’um will be excruciatingly difficult for them. They can and will go their whole lives mastering only the simplest of Thu’um.

Unrelenting Force is the most basic of Shouts. It has three Words of Power.

You have gained Fus from the Word Wall. You have listened to Alduin utter Ro and Dah in the destroyed town of Helgen. These words mean Force, Balance, and Push, respectively. Together, they can push anything—and anyone—that stands in your path.

To enhance your soul, you must meditate like this…

To activate Shout, you must do this…’

***

“…eneye, Goldeneye! Are you alright?”

A shout snapped Roy out of his stupor, though his mind was still buzzing from the influx of information.

Nervously, Flynn asked, “Did you see anything?”

Arvel translated the Dragonborn’s question to Roy. The witcher gave Flynn a weird look and nodded.

“I knew I wasn’t the only one who saw those runes.” Flynn heaved a sigh of relief and smiled. “These words… they’re the power that draugr was guarding. Dragon magic. Thu’um… Shouts, so to speak. I remember that dragon back in Helgen shouting something like this.”

The Dragonborn cleared his throat and roared, “Fus Ro Dah!”

Nothing happened. Nothing but a gust of breeze brushed across the cheeks of the adventurers.

“I think I’m missing something. Can’t use the Shout.” Flynn rubbed his temples awkwardly. The influx of new information was making his head buzz too. “And I just learned a lot of new stuff. Need some time to get through everything.”

And then the witcher tried to do the same Shout as well. “Fus Ro Dah!”

But nothing happened. Neither the earth nor space moved for him. His soul was yet to be enhanced. At this point, even Aard packed a bigger punch than this Shout did.

“I… I don’t get it.” Arvel approached the Word Wall and touched the runes softly. There was a look of surprise and bewilderment on his face. “How come I’m the only one who didn’t see a thing? You’re telling me these unintelligible runes contain the power to fell a dragon?”

“You know, that’s an excellent question. I’d like to know the answer myself.” Roy heaved a sigh. I spent two thousand EXP and I barely managed to understand it. Still a long way off from mastering it. How on earth can this power defeat a dragon? And how did Flynn learn the Shout without any guidance? Because he’s a Dragonborn? He’s some sort of descendant of a dragon? The runes did shine and swim into his body.

Roy had another guess. Maybe he’s related to the dragons. Or maybe he’s born with their power sleeping within him.

Dragonborn… Shouts… Thu’um… Roy telepathically asked Arvel, Hey, you’re an adventurer, aren’t you? Been to a lot of ruins and tombs? Ever heard of the words Dragonborn and Thu’um?

A frown furrowed Arvel’s forehead as he tried to remember those words. It’s an ancient legend. Thousands of years ago, dragons were alive and active in Tamriel. The Dragonborns would slay them and take their power for themselves.

And then the thief smacked the back of his head, a stroke of inspiration striking him. Oh, right. That shout that destroyed your conjuration? The one that draugr used? It’s called Thu’um. This is just a rumor, but only Dragonborns can master Thu’um.

Roy shot Flynn a look of surprise, and the Dragonborn got a little nervous.

So he’s a slayer of dragons and the heir of Thu’um. He’s practically a legend. Maybe I’ll need him to get my hands on some dragon blood.

…

The thief looked at his companions and was about to say something, but Roy told him to keep quiet. They then looted the chamber and came across some locked chests.

The witcher was about to cut them open with his blade, but his servant stopped him. According to him, some chests would destroy their contents if their lock was forcibly destroyed. He took over and picked the lock of the chests, easily unlocking them.

The chests netted our adventurers about a hundred coins and a lesser soul gem. The coins were split between Arvel and Flynn, while Roy took the soul gem.

And now I have three lesser soul gems. I’ll keep some for myself. Four hundred coins. Should be enough to buy something from Farengar.

“Oh, you’re an orphan?” asked Arvel.

Flynn took another swig of his beer. “I was born in Cyrodiil, the center of the Empire located south of Skyrim. After my parents’ passing, I came to Skyrim. To where my home is. I am a Nordling, after all. Been four years since then, yet I still have nothing under my name. Just a lowly tramp. But then the soldiers came for me, thinking I was a rebel.”

A smile curled the Dragonborn’s lips. “But I s’pose I should thank them. Without them, I would never have run into Goldeneye. Would never have embarked on this adventure. Here, a toast to the Imperials.”

They clanged their bottles together, and foam sprayed everywhere. Then the adventurers gulped down their booze.

“Your turn, Arvel.” Flynn wiped the beer off his mouth. “Why did you go to the temple? You’re a decent fighter, but trying to go through that place all by yourself would be a suicide mission.”

“I didn’t go in there alone. The draugrs and bandits killed my companions.” Arvel touched his mustache, his eyes filled with melancholy. “And I have a reason to venture into that temple. I promised I’d get my hands on the strength that can fell dragons and prove myself to her, but now I see I’m not cut out for that job. You two got something from that wall, but I didn’t. I don’t think I can ever master a Shout.”

Roy heaved a sigh. He would like to help, but not even he managed to master a Shout. Flynn might be a Dragonborn, but he too needed time to go through all the information in his head, even if he did absorb everything in one go.

And then a hardened, furry hand slammed itself on the adventurers’ table. The man behind that hand had the hard look typical of Nordlings. His beard was braided, and his blonde hair was tied back. With a roaring voice, he asked, “Did you just raise a toast to the Imperials? You an Imperial supporter?” He wobbled and swayed drunkenly.

“Enough, Jon Battle-Born. You’re drunk. Lie down somewhere and lay your hands off my customers.” Hulda—the innkeep—put her hands on her hips and shot Jon a withering look over the counter.

“Just a few questions for our friends, Hulda.”

“We’re not Imperial supporters.” Flynn wiped the drool off his face and shot Jon an icy look.

“So that means you’re with the rebellion!” Jon tensed up and snarled at the adventurers, shoving Flynn’s chest with an empty bottle.

“I see you dislike the rebels as well. We do not acknowledge their actions either. We’re not supporters of either faction,” Arvel translated Roy’s thoughts. Though he too had the same thought. He was no Nordling. If possible, he would stay away from this civil war. If anything, he despised Thalmor the most. They were the ones who incited this war.

“Yes. We take no sides in this war.” Flynn stood up. “We share the Jarl Balgruuf’s opinion. What will you do now? Force us to change our minds?”

Jon took a deep breath and shook his head. “No. Neutral’s fine.” He looked at the adventurers and—at long last—realized some of them were survivors of Helgen’s dragon attack. “You must be the survivors of the dragon attack on Helgen. Obviously you’ve never heard of the Battle-Borns and their greatness. You show no respect to us, and I do not like that. Someone needs to teach you a lesson. I challenge you to a duel! By drinking!”

“Are you challenging all of us at once?” asked Arvel mischievously.

“If you feel no shame in using your numbers advantage, Nordlings, then I accept the challenge.” Jon stood up straighter, glaring at the adventurers.

Flynn was raring to go, but Arvel held him down. “Fine. Our leader accepts your challenge. We just got back from an adventure. He wishes to wind down with a drink or two.”

Roy approached the drunken Nordling and smiled at him.

“I assume we’ll have a prize for this contest, Battle-Born.”

“But of course. If I lose, I will do anything you ask of me. As long as it’s within my power to do so. The Battle-Borns are famous in Whiterun, after all. But if this… Goldeneye were to lose, then he must show proper respect to the Battle-Borns every time he sees us. In the form of a proper bow.” Jon swung his arm down. “Drinks are on me regardless of the outcome.”

Roy nodded quietly.

And then, a young man with black hair and golden eyes sat down before the counter with a battle-hardened, burly man. Arvel folded his arms confidently, while the Dragonborn stood behind him, looking a little nervous.

A few of the tipsier patrons craned their necks to watch this little wager with interest.

Jon nodded at the innkeep, and Hulda laid out a row of alcohol before the contestants. Alto wine, Nordling mead, ale… everything she had.

But Jon sobered up for a moment and scoffed. “Hulda, I can’t believe you aren’t serving up any brandy or black-briar mead. This is an important contest. I have more than enough coins to pay for the best you have. Give us the Argonian ale.”

“I do not have Argonian ale!” Hulda crossed her arms and obviously lied. “This is the best I have, you battle-crazed oaf.”

“Fine. I guess we can work with these.” Jon smirked at the witcher. And then, as if he was already victorious, he said, “Don’t push yourself, kid. If you do anything stupid when you’re drunk, I’ll whoop you into next week.”

Roy only smiled. I’m twice as sturdy as you are, and I have Activate to clear any debuffs. This is going to be easy.

“Hold on…” A burp echoed across the air. “A second, please.” A husky voice spoke. “Sam Gunvenne, wine connoisseur. You have an interesting contest going on here. Mind if I join?”

The newcomer was a tall, slender man with slicked-back hair. He was in simple attire not unlike those belonging to scholars or mages. The man let out a laugh. A nonchalant, flippant laugh. “Let’s see who’s the best drinker. Last man standing gets an enchanted sword. Oh, you don’t need to give me anything if I win. This is just for fun.”

He whipped out a gleaming sword. It had a cross-shaped crossguard and a ruby pommel. Its blade was as thin and supple as a moth’s wing, its runes gleaming like stars under the candlelight.

There was a name carved on the hilt, but before Roy could have a closer look, the mage clasped his hand, and the blade disappeared into thin air.

“That sword is wasted on a weakling like you.” Jon looked at the frail mage and shook his head scornfully, then his eyes burned with desire. “I’ll happily take it off your hands. Challenge accepted. What about you, Goldeneye?”

Arvel translated the conversation for Roy. The witcher looked at this newcomer and realized he, like Farengar, was a mage. Though Farengar was a far more powerful mage than Sam was. A mage who’s also an alcoholic. Odd. Roy nodded nonetheless.

Happily, Sam took the seat on Roy’s right side. He tapped his finger on the table, and Hulda served him a row of alcohol as well.

“Well, bottoms up.” The mage picked up a bottle of ale and bellowed in laughter, signaling the start of this drinking contest.