Luke Velaryon: The Last Dragonborn C15 (Patreon)

Chapter 15: Welcome to Riverwood

As the sun rose above the mountains, both Hadvar and Luke relaxed considerably.

The darkness had hidden too many dangers for either of them to lower their guard, but daylight brought a measure of comfort. The road ahead was visible, and Riverwood was growing steadily closer with every passing hour.

Several times they left the road entirely, cutting through hills, forests, and narrow mountain passes to save time.

Conversation came more easily as they walked under the sun.

"See that ruin up there?" Hadvar asked, pointing toward a distant mountain.

Luke followed the gesture. Ancient walls crowned the mountainside overlooking a river valley. Time and weather had worn them down, but the structure remained impressive even from a distance.

"Bleak Falls Barrow," Hadvar said.

Luke studied the ruin; it looked old, but all ruins looked old so that much was normal he guessed.

"When I was a boy, that place used to give me nightmares." Hadvar chuckled. "I'd dream about draugr creeping down the mountain and climbing through my window at night."

They continued walking for several moments before he added:

"I admit, I still don't much like the look of it."

"What is a draugr?" The word did not sound familiar. 

Hadvar glanced at him, then recalled that Luke claimed to be from a far-off land and had come to Tamriel by way of a magical mishap; since draugr are rarely found outside Skyrim, it made sense that he had never encountered them before.

"A type of undead."

Luke nearly stumbled and fell to the ground. Did he hear right?!

"A what?"

"Undead."

"Undead?!"

Hadvar have him a long stare. 

"You don't have undead creatures where you come from?"

"Not as far as I know!"

The Nord stared at him for a moment longer, taking his time to process his words, struggling to believe that a place without undead creatures could exist.

"Gods, that must be nice."

Luke looked at him in disbelief.

"Nice?"

"A land without necromancers." Hadvar sighed wistfully. "Now there's a pleasant thought."

Luke did not like what Hadvar just implied. 

Earlier, a Stormcloak had suggested that the torturer in Helgen might have been a necromancer and Mojer agreed, but at the time Luke had been more concerned about surviving Helgen and did not give it much thought. 

Now that he thought about it... People capable of bringing the dead back to life... It sounded horrible. 

"Are necromancers common?"

"Aye."

"Aye?"

Hadvar shrugged.

"Not everywhere, but common enough. Most are hedge wizards digging up graves looking for easy servants. Some are dangerous enough that entire villages disappear."

Luke didn’t like the sound of that, especially how casually Hadvar spoke about it. What kind of world was this?!

"What exactly are undead creatures?"

Hadvar scratched his chin.

"Depends."

Luke disliked that answer already.

"Depends on what?"

"On what killed them, what raised them, and how much of the corpse is still intact."

Luke made a face of pure disgust and horror, and Hadvar had the nerve to laugh.

"A draugr is the most common sort you'll find in Skyrim. Ancient Nord dead. They rest in tombs and barrows."

Luke glanced back toward Bleak Falls Barrow.

"You mean there are undead inside that ruin?"

"Almost certainly."

Luke stared at the distant structure with newfound horror. A few minutes earlier, it had seemed like an interesting old ruin. Now it looked like the sort of place sensible people should avoid forever.

He is most definitely staying away from that place. 

"What other kinds are there?"

Hadvar considered the question.

"Skeletons, zombies, ghosts-"

Luke stopped walking.

"Ghosts are real?"

Hadvar looked puzzled, as if that should be common knowledge. 

"Of course they're real."

Luke resumed walking in silence after staring at Hadvar in disbelief for another minute. His world had dragons. That was normal, but this world had magical dragons, ghosts, necromancers, giant spiders, and gods knew what else.

Perhaps Vhagar trying to eat him was not the scariest thing after all. 

Hadvar continued listing creatures. There were trolls that could heal from wounds faster than most men could inflict them, giants capable of launching a man into the clouds with a single swing, hagravens—twisted creatures that were part woman and part bird—and spriggans that guarded forests.

More types of undead than Luke had ever wanted to hear about followed, and by the time Hadvar finished talking about zombies, Luke had reached two conclusions: first, Tamriel was fascinating; second, Tamriel was completely insane.

"How are any of you still alive?"

Hadvar barked a laugh as if that was a jest, but it was not. Luke was being very serious. 

"I am serious." 

Hadvar only laughed louder, and Luke rubbed his face.

Back home, the most dangerous thing a farmer was likely to encounter was a hungry wolf, a bandit, or perhaps a bear. Here a farmer could be attacked by the reanimated corpse of their dead grandfather.

"Tamriel is terrifying."

"Aye." Hadvar sounded way too cheerful about that. "And you've only heard the short version."

Luke groaned, and the Nord laughed again.

As they continued toward Riverwood, Luke found himself asking more questions about the races of Tamriel and about magic, and every answer left him more amazed than before, and a little more horrified as well.

***

"What is the Voice?" Luke asked. "I've heard it mentioned several times."

"The Voice?" Hadvar glanced toward him. "It's an ancient power."

"What kind of power?"

Hadvar scratched his chin.

"They call it the tongue of dragons."

That is what Ulfric had called it as well. 

"The tongue of dragons?"

"Aye." Hadvar nodded. "My uncle explained it to me when I was a boy. Said dragons don't breathe fire the way people think they do. They speak it."

Luke frowned.

"Speak it?"

"That's what he said. The dragon says the ancient word for fire, and the world obeys." Hadvar shrugged. "Never made much sense to me."

Luke fell silent and recalled the black dragon. Hadvar’s explanation made sense to him, a lot of sense. 

During the attack on Helgen, every time the black dragon had unleashed its power, it had spoken first—strange, harsh words that seemed to make the air itself tremble, and every time it spoke, Luke had felt something, a strange sensation deep within his chest like the beating of a distant drum; the memory sent a shiver down his spine, and he told himself it was simply magic.

Hadvar had said he had some talent for it, and that was probably all it was.

"Makes sense," Luke finally said.

Hadvar looked surprised.

"You understand it?"

"Not really." Luke shook his head. "But I think I understand what you mean."

The Nord grunted.

As they continued walking, Luke asked about dozens of other things that confused him. Some questions were simple to answer, while others caused Hadvar to stare at him as though he had just announced that the sky was green.

Luke learned that the blue potions he had seen were magicka potions. He also learned that alchemists classified potions according to their strength. At the bottom were sips, tinctures, and serums—weak mixtures used mostly by people who lacked the coin to buy proper potions. Above them came drams and effusions, commonly known as lesser and minor potions, and those were the varieties most people actually used. After that came true potions, followed by draughts, solutions, philters, elixirs, panaceas, distillates, and essences.

The stronger the potion, the rarer and more expensive it became.

"That's a shame," Luke said after Hadvar finished explaining. "With so much magic in the world, you'd think everyone would use things like this every day."

Hadvar snorted.

"Easy to say when you're not paying for them."

Fair enough, but the value of something is determined by supply and demand. When there is a large supply and little interest, prices stay low; when supply is scarce and demand is high, value rises. That’s why his grandfather, despite having entire rooms filled with exotic spices and goods from distant lands, only sells small quantities each year. In a world where magic is abundant and accessible to everyone, it stands to reason that many people would study it and dedicate themselves to magical crafts, making items like potions widely available. Hadvar had told him about many kinds of potions, including ones capable of curing most diseases in moments—potions that could stop plagues before they ever had a chance to spread.

With potions being such a rare commodity, it simply didn’t make sense to him. If he were a lord in these lands, he would sponsor alchemists, enchanters, and the like in great numbers. It would not only benefit his domain by keeping his people healthier and maintaining higher population levels, but it would also make him far wealthier by establishing a thriving trade in magical goods. Luke cut off that line of thought—he wasn’t a lord in Tamriel.

"Still, potions could save the lives of countless people, from plague, wounds and many other ailments."

"Aye." Hadvar's expression grew thoughtful. "Truth be told, things weren't always like this."

Luke glanced toward him.

"What do you mean?"

"My grandfather used to talk about the old days, long before his days, back when the Mages Guild was everywhere, and even a farmer could afford a draught."

"There was a guild for mages?"

"Aye. Guild halls in every major city. There were mages in every settlement, and skilled alchemists and enchanters were found throughout the land."

"What happened?"

Hadvar was quiet for several moments.

"The Oblivion Crisis."

Luke had heard the term before in passing in Helgen but had not asked what it was. Back then, it was not the time for questions and explanations. 

"What was that?"

"A disaster." Hadvar's expression darkened. "A cult of mages murdered the Emperor Uriel and his heirs. Then they opened gates all across Tamriel."

"Gates?"

"To Oblivion."

Luke did not know what Oblivion was, but it did not sound promising. 

Hadvar continued:

"Daedra came pouring through, entire cities were reduced to ashes, and countless were slaughtered or taken as slaves. People still tell stories about it centuries later."

"People blamed the Mages Guild?"

"A lot of them did, others just blamed magic," Hadvar shrugged. "The Mages Guild never recovered and died off in the early fourth Era."

Luke could see the reasoning. When disaster strikes, people look for something to hold responsible, and since mages had caused it, it made sense that magic would fall under suspicion after such destruction, especially if it had been as severe as Hadvar described. Entire cities wiped out, gods... He had already witnessed it in Helgen the day before, so imagining that kind of devastation across an entire continent...

The conversation continued throughout the day as the sun crossed the sky and eventually began its slow descent toward the western horizon, and by dusk they had drawn much closer to Bleak Falls Barrow, which now loomed atop the mountain beyond a river, its ancient stones visible even from the road below.

"Following this road north, we'll reach Riverwood in about three hours." Hadvar pointed ahead.

And he was exactly right.

Nearly a full day after beginning their journey, and a little under an hour before midnight, Luke finally saw wooden walls rising ahead.

"Halt!"

The shout came from above.

Luke looked up and spotted a guard in a watchtower rising beside the gate, leaning over the wooden railing, bow in hand.

"Who goes there?"

"Hadvar of Riverwood!" Hadvar shouted back.

"Hadvar?" He leaned farther over the railing. "Impossible. Is that you, boy?"

"It is."

"You should be with the Legion!"

"I was sent by Legate Rikke!" Hadvar answered. "Open the gate, Olav!"

"By the Divines, it really is you."

A moment later, someone shouted from below, heavy bolts were drawn back, and the gates opened.

Hadvar led the way inside, and he exchanged some words with the guards before continuing into the village. Luke followed closely behind, studying his surroundings.

Riverwood was much smaller than Helgen had been. Perhaps a fifth of its size, if that. A main road ran through the center of the settlement, lined with houses, stores, and workshops. Most of the buildings were dark at this hour, their occupants long asleep, but a few windows still glowed with candlelight.

Despite its size, the village looked prosperous.

The buildings were sturdy and well-maintained, some made of stone, others of wood, and some of a mix of both, and the roads were paved with cobblestones and maintained in good condition. 

A river cut through the settlement, and Luke spotted the massive waterwheel turning beside a large mill.

"Riverwood," Hadvar said, noticing where he was looking. "As the name implies, we're all about wood."

Luke glanced toward the mill.

"The lumber mill?"

"Aye. Biggest one on this side of Skyrim." Pride crept into Hadvar's voice. "Half the village works there one way or another."

Luke watched several enormous logs floating in a channel beside the mill.

"Where does all the wood go?"

"Everywhere." Hadvar shrugged. "Whiterun buys plenty. So do farms, mines, forts, and other jarls. Every hold needs lumber."

Luke nodded thoughtfully. That made sense.

Even in his own world, timber was one of the foundations of civilization. Houses, carts, wagons, ships, tools, furniture, palisades—wood was needed for nearly everything.

A village controlling a major source of it would naturally prosper.

***

Author’s Note: I used to hate zombies, was terrified of them, so I always avoided any type of undead in games. When I started playing Oblivion I fell in love, then I came across my first zombie and was horrified. 

“Kill it with fire!” Became my motto, and over time, it got better. Still hate them, but now I just set them ablaze.