I
As I lie here on my deathbed in the old, slightly rundown farmhouse, with its overgrown gambrel roof and the small tool shed swaying back and forth from the wind in the withering garden wildly growing throughout the backyard, my last will and testament are right beside me on the small, rustic end table with the little drawer I have stored so many of my personal belongings in.
Some, very old and antique, stemming from times long past. I, at the sight of one especially peculiar item, came to the conclusion that, before my soul goes to leave the Mundus, there is a story I have to tell. And although it repulses me with great force to finally break the silence and lift the curtains I have laid over this part of my past and the story of origin of the aforementioned thing, I have no choice but to tell it, to give myself guilt-free to Aetherius and to possibly aid the people of all of Tamriel.
For what I'm about to relay to you are the most horrible and disquieting events a person could experience. But I am getting ahead of myself, for there are a great many things to know before one could understand the underlying implications the curious paper I now hold in my hands present.
And as I let the silverish-brown feather of my quill fly across this manuscript, I remember whence it one day flew to me. Inspecting it, I can still hear the bird that dropped it so many years ago, while flying past me as I escaped from a dire peril and henceforth used it to write down much of what I had in my past endured. In fact, right now, looking out the thin glass panes embedded in the wall to my left, I can see three of them, hear them whistling a beautiful tune, just as if they've come today to accompany my soul on its journey to the afterlife. And albeit I can feel Aetherius tugging at my soul, the awesome realm of Sovngarde beckoning me, it's not yet time to set aside my parchment, quill and ink.
For I have a story to tell, even if of stark terribleness, reaching down into the innermost fathoms of my very being.
I have lived the bulk of my childhood and youth here on this farmstead, close to the border of Falkreath hold. My ancestors built it eras ago, in 2E366, and at this time, agriculture prospered greatly, enabling my forefather and architect of the house, Rudgeir Ironstaff, to construct my ancestral home on the plot of land it now occupies. Rudgeir's ability to construct this farm and till the fertile, crop supporting soil wasn't his only proficiency though. For you see, our lineage, notwithstanding the fact it was of Atmoran-Nordic descent, not only produced stout warriors and skilled farmers.
Every so often, a couple generations between one another, one branch of our family would bear a magically gifted child, rare among Nords.
And so it was that Rudgeir Ironstaff, my ancestor from times long since gone, was the first of our blood to inherit the gift of magicka.
When he first discovered his proficiency in the art of mending wounds with only his bare hands and one day, got into a fight with a neighbouring boy, or so the story goes, he came out not only victorious but appeared to be entirely unscathed. Upon this discovery, the superstitious folk of nearby Falkreath began to shun our family. A couple years later in his youth, he attended the then freshly opened to newcomers College of Winterhold to hone his craft. Years later still, when Rudgeir was in his mid-thirties, his restoration magic proved to be so powerful the head of the College at that time awarded him the Iron Staff that would later take its place as the family name.
The staff amplified the magic of its user greatly and, by use of which, Rudgeir made some prodigious coin, teaching young apprentices in the art. In his fifties, he retired from the College however and settled down in the area near Falkreath as a farmer, constructing the very house I have spent my early years in and now lie here, waiting for the merciful heavens. And the Iron Staff? It is still in my possession and was handed down through the generations from one gifted Nord to the next. And as fate would have it, I, too, am one of those gifted by the blood of the Iron Staff.
II
As I have told before, I spent most of my childhood and youth on this very farmstead, mostly helping my mother and father with their daily struggles in keeping the farm alive and well, growing crops, selling produce and tending to the livestock my family owned. I still remember feeding the cows, gathering eggs from the chicken pen and regularly visiting the stable to tend to our two horses, Snowflake and Icewind.
One day, while I was out riding Icewind at twelve years of age I believe, I comfortably sat on our stout black steed, traversing the Falkreath hold in quest of discovery for I was, and always have been, the adventurous sort. I rode him through Falkreath's woods that day, observing how the birds flew from tree to tree, hopping from branch to branch, the green grass being stomped by Icewind's hooves and the warming rays of the sun being reflected in his dark blue eyes. Soon we rode across a small river near the actual town of Falkreath, when all of a sudden, Icewind lost grip on the mossy, overgrown pebbles lining the river's edge, slipped and was pulled down by gravity, onto the stones lying about and broke his left foreleg whereby I was thrown off the saddle and into the mud with superior force.
I felt a painful crack in my jaw upon impact and quickly discovered that it was broken as well. I struggled to get up again, dusting off my tunic, now in tatters, with one hand while carefully holding my aching jaw with the other, barely containing an agony-filled scream for I could imagine how great the pain would become should I dare move my mouth. I then proceeded to limp to the fallen horse, Icewind being gravely injured. A disjointed bone protruded from the leg, presumably having ripped its flesh in the process of breaking. An awful sight. I got sick from looking at it but despite all that, lifted my right hand off my likewise broken jaw, whimpering slightly, and tended to the horse's broken leg as best I could. In an effort to push the protruding, blood dripping bone into its rightful position again, I gripped it firmly with both hands and shoved in brutal fashion, causing Icewind to kick with its hind legs and neigh agonisingly.
When the bone was set into place, I felt a surge of comforting warmth flow through my palms and into the beloved animal, magically mending the gaping wound, realigning flesh and bone, sinews and blood vessels until, at last, the horse's skin closed and fur yet again grew where once the injury had been. Not quite realizing what just happened, I gasped in awe at my glowing hands, inadvertently opening my mouth prompting me to scream out in pain, causing even greater suffering as I opened my mouth further to scream louder and finally, clutching my jaw bone with both hands, the pleasant warmth filling my body and face this time. I could feel how my jaw moved around within my flesh, the fractured pieces and marrow connecting to each other in a loving embrace of magical energy engulfing my head and, to an extent, mind.
Being both shocked and utterly perplexed, awestruck at what my hands were apparently capable of doing, I saddled up quickly and rode Icewind right home to tell my parents what had just transpired. Upon retelling of the event, my parents both took a deep breath and contently looked at each other. Then they both nodded and motioned me to follow them into the cellar wherein we approached a big locked, wooden chest with iron ornaments and decorative, tribal carvings that stood mysteriously in the back of the old vault that is our basement.
My father then produced half a key from his tunic, my mother in turn the other half belonging to it. Together, they joined both parts with an audible clicking noise, at which I flinched in uncertainty for a moment. My father approached me, gently placing it into my opened palms, telling me to unlock that large, wooden chest.
A peculiar work of superior Nord craftsmanship, that key was designed to keep safe the most valuable of possessions. By breaking it apart, one was able to hide both parts in different places and one had to join them together in order to unlock the lock it was intended to guard. It was quite huge in fact, so huge that, when put together, it would fill out the entire space of my hands. Inspecting it more closely, an interlocking mechanism of great intricacy was revealed, unable for any locksmith to reproduce the full key if only one half was provided. Even the key's tips were designed independently from each other, adding another layer of security. When I firmed my grasp around its back end and approached the chest, I felt an aura of a strangely vibrating energy surge through the air around me.
As if driven by this magical sense more so than by deliberate action, I slid the key into the locking mechanism, turned it right with great difficulty, noticing a loud click, and the locks on either side of the key hole sprang open, ready to reveal the chest's contents. I pushed up the lid and before my eyes revealed itself an iron staff and a blue book. This is how I came into the possession of the Iron Staff of Rudgeir.
III
The staff was fashioned from solid iron, approximately 160cm in total length, with an upwardly spiralling pattern engraved in the metal surface, depicting the sun, the two moons Secunda and Masser and the stars. On its tip there sat mounted a great gem glowing with energy. As I reached out to touch it, it felt as if I was unwillingly drawn to its hilt, involuntarily tightening my grip around it as soon as my hand connected with the strikingly warm metal.
It felt as if whatever power I seemed to contain within me, flowed into the staff, collecting itself in the magical crystal and surged right back into me with stunning puissance, causing me to immediately stand upright as opposed to the kneeling position I had assumed prior to holding the artifact.
An awesome feeling spread throughout my body and the old stick gleamed with a pleasant radiance in a unique display of antediluvian might. As I held it in both hands, a broad smile forming on my hitherto curious, inquisitive face, my father's expression brightened and, I recall his words as if he just spoke them, went on to tell me this:
"My son, heir to the proud Ironstaff bloodline, this is the artifact of your ancestors - the Iron Staff, once belonging to Rudgeir Ironstaff, passed down the generations onto the proficient wizards, warlocks, witches and mages of our descent, now passed onto you. This is a great honor and with your restorative talents, shall serve as a force for good in a world of chaos. Take this magical gift from the Aedra and venture forth to grant light and hope to those in need and to cast radiance in all the dark corners of the world."
With these words, I now knew that the Iron Staff of Rudgeir would, henceforth, be called the Iron Staff of Rhodulf the Younger, son to Rhodulf the Elder, owner of the Ironstaff farmstead. Shortly after, my father proceeded to pick up the blue book, also encased in the chest the staff was in previously, handing it to me, prompting me to open it. As I examined the volume, it turned out to be a beginner's guide to the magic school of restoration.
In the following days I studied it closely, reading through it multiple times over whereby I memorized every lesson this book contained. I frequently went into the woods to put my newfound knowledge to the test, applying my powers to direly injured animals and even some slightly wounded travelers who crossed paths with me. I would do this for about seven years, honing my craft, developing new techniques all the time. I was a skilled healer then, albeit not entirely content with my abilities.
My ineptitude to mend greater wounds of more profound and grueling nature such as dismemberment of body parts or worse drove me to resolve to strive for greater power and control over the might I've been granted.
Thusly, on my nineteenth birthday, I decided it was time to set aside my old life and leave my homestead in quest of joining the venerable College of Winterhold, a fabled place of magical wonder and knowledge. And although the motives I hitherto entertained were indeed noble, my time at the College is the most regretful time of my life. For something sinister arrogated to foreshadow itself on the second day of my journey to greater science.
IV
In 4E317, on a rather sunny turdas, I finally resolved to pack my belongings, staff, book and some provisions for the long and arduous journey from Falkreath to Winterhold included, and ventured forth into the unknown. I decided to travel on foot, since I didn't want to take one of the horses from our farm, at risk of leaving them in the icy, snowy gusts of Winterhold and I also denied the exploitation of a horse carriage as I saw this grand undertaking as a sort of pilgrimage. I boldly intended to, on my travels, help any stragglers and passersby who might require my expertise likened to some sort of Samaritan free-of-charge cleric, both for my own conscience and also in hopes of pleasing the Divines with my actions.
I beforehand calculated that I'd need approximately two days, sleeping in an inn included. So on day one, I ever so quickly advanced through the lands, donning a white garb, staff in hand, coming across the occasional pilgrim or wanderer seeking aid. As appeared to be obvious from my looks, I fancied myself a benevolent cleric and soon, word would spread about my favourable deeds. Little did I know I was in the process of attracting unwanted attention. On that day's night, I stopped at Nightgate Inn, northeast of Whiterun and west of Windhelm, having traversed a majority of the way on the path to Winterhold which lay to the north of Nightgate Inn.
On my way to my eventual resting place, I wandered through Helgen and Riverwood, whence I procured a dagger and a charged, greater soul gem respectively, the first being for protection from possible bandits and the second to have a spare charge for my staff if need be. Concerning the dagger, which I to this day kept for a grim reason of memory to be disclosed later, I was not particularly savvy in the art of swordsmanship but I indubitably thought that it might just come in handy later down the line.
From Riverwood I took the road next to the river flowing idly by it to get to Whiterun, wherein I took a brief rest from all the treading and wandering and had myself a few gulps of water and a rejuvenating bite of a roasted venison chop within the city premises. I refilled my water at the local water supply and as dusk started to approach ever so slowly, resolved to toil all the way through to Nightgate Inn, lest nightfall arrived, catching me unprepared in the wilderness.
I trod past the ancestral tomb of Korvanjund and made a wrong turn at first which led me to the Shadowed Grove thither I didn't intend to stride and rather swiftly, turned back at the sight of one of those dubious looking, greenly radiating tree-women I would later be educated to call Spriggans. Eventually though, after making my way through some dense shrubbery, I was back on track and from that point forward, quickly arrived at Nightgate Inn just as night came about.
Praising myself for the impeccable timing I appeared to have, I couldn't help but notice how desolate and abandoned the area presented itself to be. I couldn't even spot hares or falcons, much less men or mer. Even the radiant glass panes in the partly rundown log walls of the building, indicating a presence of at least some person, didn't reassure me too greatly. Perhaps it was for the strange glow these windows emitted, maybe the horribly bent shadows of the wooden beams from inside cast onto the glistening snow. Or belike it was the fact that I didn't pick up on any chatter, conversation or crashing of mugs and stools that are usually so prominent among establishments such as these.
Notwithstanding all of the aforementioned, I didn't let myself be deterred from having a good night's rest in the tavern. And after all, exhaustion from a long day's voyage set in, making my feet grow weary and my eyes grow heavy with tiredness, so I had to rest here all the same. Now, if I had known what shadowy figure would then henceforth be my companion and what implications his presence had, I'd have toiled through in darkness and fatigue, finishing my journey that night. But alas, I did not foresee the events that were to unfold.
Albeit feeling slightly uneasy at this uncannily lonely place with a battered, peaked roof and partly broken overhang above the entrance door, I stepped in regardless, immediately greeted by a warm fireplace, a smiling bartender and several vacant benches where, in most other taverns, patrons would enjoy a good stein of beer or a nice, warming mug of ale or mead amidst arguments of slurred speech and cheerful laughter.
That was until I spotted one other patron besides me, sitting at an otherwise unoccupied table at the far end of the room to the left, being partly obfuscated by an ornately carved wooden support beam stretching upwards from the floor all the way to the horizontally aligned logs, stabilizing the creaking ceiling over our heads. I took about five steps forward, heading towards the innkeeper, when I was able to get a closer look at the mysterious patron.
He just sat there, his back facing the door. He wore an apprentice's mage robe, its hood obscuring the man's features. The ornate and unquestionably enchanted tunic which I inferred to be originating from the College I was headed towards, flapped in the ensuing gust of wind produced when the inn door slammed shut from the blizzard that just formed outside, but the patron didn't move.
He continually raised his mug, gently slurping the presumably burning liquid contained within. Notwithstanding his dubiousness, I proceeded to step forward and up to the bartender asking for a room to stay the night and for a mug of warm mead and a hot venison stew to warm my frozen insides that have been marred from the harsh climate in this area. Though I am a Nord, even we can get cold at times, especially after an indefatigable traveling such as mine, with barely any rest.
And so, the owner shewed me my room by pointing to the left from him before asking me in a pleasant voice to take a seat at one of the vacant tables in wait for my food and drink that were to arrive shortly. Luckily, I made a couple of septims on the way to the inn by helping other travelers such as myself, donating to my cause and pilgrimage and so, I handed the innkeeper the coin. Upon the gold changing pouches, I moved towards one of the evidently ancient benches, moaning under my weight as I sat down and waited for my order to arrive to my sparsely candle-lit table. Suddenly I noticed out of the corner of my eye the shady figure standing up, his mug still in hand, heading in my general direction. And this is how, at the end of the first day, I met him.
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