The Voyages of Dr Charvik: an unfortunate turn of events

Led astray and abandoned by my companions, I had found myself prisoner in a hateful frozen waste. Freed by the kindly intervention of a passing dragon, I had formed tentative relations with the locals, and discovered the presence of several sites of historical interest. After witnessing the tragic death of a fellow-scholar, I began the journey to a nearby settlement with a message to their jarl, or secretary; but was persuaded to delay my visit by several intriguing ruins along the route.

A large, towered structure caught my whim, and I proceeded towards it apace. I soon found that it was in a sorry state, but much of the overall structure remained intact. I had little specific experience of this architectural style, but my trained eye quickly discerned that the walls reached largely to their original height, except where one section had collapsed outward due to subsidence. There were, moreover, signs of recent activity: a footprint here, a cheval de frise there, and overhead what appeared to be a human body suspending in a cage. Promising stuff, indeed! Whichever historical society might be managing this site, they were clearly dedicated to the restoration project. Their work seemed highly authentic, and I looked forward to meeting them, however rustic they might be. Even an enthusiastic amateur can be a fine conversationalist when there is shared interest.

There was little immediate sign of activity as I entered the compound, but I noticed a figure standing on the ramparts and made my way towards it. Taking a well-earned break from some duty, a man stood staring out across the valley, whistling softly and apparently enjoying the icy breeze against whose fingers I had carefully wrapped myself. From his sparse clothing, I surmised that he had been working at the forge nearby. Seeing him deep in thought, I approached quietly, not wishing to intrude. It was then that a most unfortunate accident occurred.

As I hissed politely to alert the man to my presence, he started violently and span around. I gave a reassuring smile, attempting to lend a touch of apology by extending my claws in a gesture of welcome I had seen elsewhere. At this moment, I believe a sudden gust of wind must have occurred, or else the man was startled to see a visitor without an official appointment. The latter possibility frets slightly at my conscience. Regardless, the tragic result was that the man stumbled backward - threw one hand before his face - his leg struck the crumbling rampart - and he fell with a shriek.

As I leaned aghast over the parapet and gazed at the poor, unmoving corpse, there came hurried footsteps behind me. "What is it?" called a voice. Seeing me, the new arrival stopped in obvious shock and suspicion. He muttered something about gold and death, presumably a reference to some form of blood-money - I had heard such a system operates in the region. Observing the dagger the man had drawn, I attempted to explain what had happened. It was then that the second unfortunate accident occurred.

In the stress of the moment, I found myself stumbling over the rough Human tongue, and turned to gesture. As I described the victim's stumble and fatal fall, I turned sharply and gestured out towards the wall.

I did not realise that, for some reason known only to himself, my interlocutor chose this moment to step towards me. In turning, my tail struck him hard across the knees - he stumbled backward, and tottered on the edge. Spinning back and seeing what had occurred, I flung out a desperate claw towards him, and succeeded in catching his shoulder. In a moment, I would surely have hauled him to safety; yet he shrieked with pain, and thrashed wildly, tearing himself from my grip. By the time I had hurried down the steps, there was nothing even my magic could do for him. Though the ground on the inside was higher, the fall had fractured at least one vertebra in his neck.

Seeing that neither gentleman carried any form of identification - presumably for fear of anachronism - I decided I had best enter the main building, where the superintendents of the project would undoubtedly be at work. It was a most regrettable affair, and I was considerably shaken by both the sudden tragedy, and the streaks of blood that now besmirched my clothing and claws. However, pausing to wash at the nearby trough would have seemed deeply insensitive in the circumstances. I picked up the distinctive mace one of the men had carried, and hastened inside.

As I entered the building, several people turned to stare at me. My bloodstained garb and harassed demeanour can only have added to their bewilderment at seeing an Argonian amongst them. Of course, I was a stranger, but it did not seem like an occasion for polite nothings, and I proceeded directly to the point.

"The man with this mace," I cried, lifting it for them to see. "He is dead now. I killed him." Considering my distress, I still feel this was a praiseworthy first attempt, distilling all important details into a brief and simple message. However, perhaps understandably in retrospect, this did little to reassure my audience; indeed, they backed away and reached for various weapons.

"You are ignorant," I tried to explain. "Weapons are useless. He stood watching at the rampart. I came silent, unseen. Surprised, he died. Another heard his death-cry. He also is dead. My tail struck, he fell, broken."

It occurred to me, as they adopted aggressive postures, that the bloodstains were probably alarming them. How foolish of me! "Here, his blood. I caught him, my claws. He struggled, and died." Pleased with my explanation under trying circumstances, I respectfully let the mace fall, and stared intently at the apparent leader of the three, willing her to discern the truth from my eyes. Remembering belatedly, I made another attempt at the ever-popular smile.

I still cannot fully explain why it was that, rather than hastening to their fallen comrades, these three chose to violently assault me. The temporary madness of grief; some primitive lust for vengeance instilled by their culture; an attack of xenophobia? In the heat of the moment, there was nothing I could do but defend myself against the sudden barrage of blades. Moreover, one of them proved to be a quite capable spellcaster, and bombarded me with ice magic that chilled me almost to the marrow. It was only thanks to my trusty shield that I was able to survive the assault long enough to defeat them. I noted, as the last one slumped mournfully to the floor, that I had quite regained the duelling skills so laboriously instilled in me years before. Indeed, the recent plethora of violence had made a very warrior of me, of all things!

Once I had recovered from my injuries, with the aid of a few medicinal draughts, I arranged the corpses tidily in a corner and explored the rest of the site. It was indeed a remarkably impressive reconstruction of a working frontier fort, though of course, I cannot say how accurate the details might have been. With a few explanatory placards, and perhaps a tea-room, it will make an excellent destination for the discerning visitor.

The Voyages of Dr Charvik: professional interest

Led astray and abandoned by my companions, I had found myself prisoner in a hateful frozen waste, awaiting an abrupt termination to my career at the hands of murderous authorities. Freed by the kindly intervention of a passing dragon, I had reluctantly fought my way free of the blazing ruins and followed a native guide to a nearby village in search of shelter, food, and more amenable company.

My guide Had Var led me into a dwelling and introduced me to the residents. These poor but generous folk welcomed me in with only a modicum of staring, and shared their meal with us. In truth, the cold had slowed my metabolism sufficiently that I had not yet digested my meal of, it emerged, two days earlier, when I was knocked unconscious and captured. More welcome was the roaring fire, where I warmed myself eagerly. Had Var was a little shy of the fire, presumably still shocked by the fiery destruction of his place of employment. I expressed due condolences, and offerd my hope that he would soon find fresh occupation with some more amenable employer. Looking around, I very much doubted that severance pay or unemployment benefits existed at all in this place.

Had Var assured me that he would cope, but was more preoccupied with a practical matter. The keep (a place called Hell End, I believe - how appropriate!) had been destroyed by a dragon, and someone ought to be informed. This had not, I confess, have been my first thought, but I realised as I considered the matter that there would undoubtedly be paperwork to complete, reports to write, and so on. Would I, perhaps, be willing to undertake a journey to the local jarl (some species of secretary) and pass on the news? He was naturally shy in asking me, considering how I had been treated. However, I was most willing. For one thing, though the house where we rested was warm and dry, I suspected that more salubrious quarters could be found elsewhere.

Moreover, the proposal showed once more the good sense he had always so far displayed. As the local man, he no doubt had all manner of responsibilities to perform, bodies to identify, salvage work to undertake, and so on and so forth. He was well-placed to take care of these matters. I, on the other hand, was a trustworthy, educated stranger with no immediate responsibilties in the area, and an obvious distaste for any further involvement with matters in Hell End. Nor could I possibly receive any censure for supposed dereliction of duty, always a risk for any underling delivering unwelcome news. Who bettter to carry a clear, reliable message to a town some distance away? It would, no doubt, also be an opportunity to receive apologies for my treatment, make appropriate arrangements for my return to civilisation, and perhaps even enjoy some more refined company.

Gathering a small bag of food in case of trouble, I strode outside. It was only an hour or so's walk to this town of White Run, and soon I would be on my way back to... actually, I could not quite recall the name of whatever benighted town had been our last port of call. Presumably, however, my baggage would still be there. Or at least, I could find a way to contact the traders I had been travelling with. That, at least, should not be difficult. One of them, I was almost certain, had been called Master Something. Another had a beard, and both of them wore dull-coloured limb-fitting garments much like those my recent host had sported. Was that not one of them across the street, perhaps looking for me? No, it would seem not. But that fellow over there had a beard! Ah, my mistake.

It appeared this might be a little more difficult than I had hoped. Still, first the brief stroll to White Run in the warm evening sun - the chill wind was less helpful, but I now had a warm cloak - and then all could be dealt with comfortably. I nodded politely to the guards as I wandered out of the town gate, turned a corner along the stream, and was immediately set upon by a pack of wolves.

With some difficulty, I extricated myself from the animals, with many benevolent thoughts towards my military tutors. It occurred to me that perhaps these animals were in some sense domesticated, living as they did so close to the town, and bent to check the bodies for brands or collars. Could it be simply that they had never before encountered one of our people? I found neither, but noted that the pelts were of a different subspecies to any encountered in our home shores. As such, I deemed it wise to remove them for later study. Comparative biology is not my primary field, but a scholar should always have an open mind and a wide range of interests. If they did not prove to be scientifically valuable, they might at least be of some use in keeping out the cold.

Finding the pelts a little inconvenient, I returned to the village and sought out a local trader. The family was apparently engaged in debate of some kind, and I politely waited for them to conclude. With some difficulty, I was able to converse in pidgin Human and persuade them to part with a few sacks in exchange for gold. I took the opportunity to also purchase some small jars and boxes to store the botanical specimens I had so far obtained. When the subject of the wolves was broached, with particular reference to their immediate proximity to this village, my interlocutor seemed rather offended than concerned. Perhaps wolves are a taboo of this proud people? Perhaps his civic pride was hurt at the implication that a traveller had been inconvenienced by their rather lax environmental management? I did not care to enquire further.

Observing me with interest - and one must assume that few of our people, and perhaps fewer educated folk, travel to this land - the male attempted some conversation that I struggled to follow. Luckily, his partner intervened. Apparently, something they described as a "golden claw" had gone missing, presumed stolen. I presumed this to be some species of local herb or fungus, prized for its medicinal properties, or perhaps a trinket; mildly interesting on a better occasion, but I could not immediately see why they wished to discuss it with me. However, at length I realised that they were discussing a relic that, if authentic, must undoubtedly be of genuine archaeological importance. A ten-inch golden object, with mobile joints, in the shape of a reptilian foot? You may be assured that this secured my attention.

The couple seemed to know where the purported thieves had taken their relic, and this made me wary. It is so easy for a visiting researcher to find themself involved in local matters and pressed to take sides. Was this truly a theft, or simply a case of disputed ownership? These cases are sadly common where historical artefacts are in question, and even in Blackmarsh it is not unknown for cases to proceed to the High Court itself. In this desolate place, where mere gold is prized so highly, there were undoubtedly other considerations in the case. My natural caution warred with my academic's inquisitiveness, and scholarship won the day.

The thieves, I was told, had travelled to a nearby ruin known as Bleak Fells, or Black Falls, or possibly Back Ferns, said to hold ancient crypts. This, I felt, disclosed the truth of the matter. Such a site would be an obvious draw for any scholar. It seemed to me that the most likely explanation was this: an archaeological expedition had travelled through the area and enquired in the village about relics, as is common practice, for many items are unearthed and kept for decades by laymen unaware of their true significance. The merchants had possessed this golden claw, and displayed it to their visitors. Perhaps they had agreed to a sale and later changed their mind, for often and often an owner will wilingly render up some item, only to later wonder whether they settled for too low a price, and have been cheated by the stranger with a greater knowledge of an item's value. However, let us be honest; it is by no means uncommon for underfunded researchers to resort to other means as necessary to secure a vital artefact.

In either case, my course was clear: I must immediately make contact with this expedition. As a scholar of architecture and associated matters, I had a natural interest in their work and was keen to learn more about it. Moreover, such a group was bound to have links to more civilised lands, and might be able to assist me in resuming my own journey. Perhaps I might even find one of my correspondents was present! In any case, I would take the opportunity to raise the question of this golden claw, and suggest that they carry out further negotiations with the previous owners. Such matters are, as readers will know all too well, of vital importance in maintaining the good reputation of scholars and their institutions. It is easy for one bad apple to impede future research by sabotaging relations with the local community, whose practical assistance and oral tradition is often so valuable to us.

Thus, I delayed my visit to the jarl a little, in order to pay a brief call to Black Fells. His, her or its paperwork would have to wait; I saw no particular urgency.

Black Fells turned out to be a large temple-like building high on a snowy mountain. Even at a distance, I was impressed that something of its age and primitive human craftsmanship had survived the centuries. While simple squares and walls may stand, it is unusual for complex and fragile arches to last in exposed positions, still less when subject to the gales and icy temperatures of this clime. All the more reason to study it.

I made a careful entrance, moving quietly and cautiously to minimise potential damage to the archaeological site or startling the workers. Inside, I found the pleasing glow of a warm fire crackling nearby, adjacent to a tunnel leading further into the complex. Two figures stood warming themselves at the fire, while I noticed the corpses of several large rodents scattered around the building.　　Sadly, it seemed that the complex had not survived as well as I hoped; large sections of the roof had fallen in, weakening the structure and leaving it liable to sudden collapse. The urgency of the survey work was clear, and I could see that the team had wasted no time in delving deep into the subterranean section while it was still accessible.

I stepped forward and called a greeting to them, waving my axe to attract their attention in the flickering firelight. To my surprise, they shouted agressively and drew weapons. Presumably, they feared I was a bandit of some kind, come to try and raid their camp. To soothe their fears, I lowered my axe, gripping it near the blade with my spare hand to show I meant no harm, and bared my teeth. Now, to the lay reader this may seem a curious way to show friendship; but humans have a gesture called "smile", used extensively as a sign of humour or peace.* I had had plenty of recent opportunity to observe the phenomenon, and even discreetly practiced it in my private chambers. The lips are curled back, the jaws slightly parted, the cheek muscles tightened, and often a sharp exhalation follows.

* Ziltrach and Hbiss, in their Comprehensive Introduction to Human Gesture, write extensively on this gesture and its subtle cultural and social connocations. Hbiss argues convincingly that it derives from a gesture of mercy to a physically weaker person, indicating that although fully capable of doing so, the smiler has made a moral decision to refrain from eating them. Ziltrach offers several interesting counter-hypotheses, including the argument from social advantage; that is so say, displaying a full set of teeth as an indicator of fitness, marking the smiler as a capable and valuable individual whose friendship is likely to be beneficial.

Despite my efforts, the humans remained alarmed, and one loosed an arrow at me while the other circled round. Unable to retreat through the door, I was forced to defend myself. Searching the bodies, I came to the conclusion that these could not possibly be academics. Most likely, then, they were guards or porters hired by the expedition leaders. It was most unfortunate that I had been obliged to kill them, but seeing my own extensive injuries I could not wholly sympathise. Thankfully, a schooling in basic healing magic allowed me to repair the worst of the damage.

At this stage I should, perhaps, have left a polite explanatory note and withdrawn. However, I was enchanted by the historic site, and felt a strong urge to follow the footprints leading deeper within. Perhaps, too, I would be able to speak with the expedition leader and make my apologies in person - surely any guards found within would be more sensible. In fact, a rational person would likely conclude that, since I was present in the inner chambers, I must have been allowed passage by the guards, since it was statistically improbable that a single and (I might add) physically unimposing stranger could have overcome them by force. Thus, I saw no reason for concern, and began my descent.

The catacombs were not splendid, but of respectable artistry and containing many ceramics that had survived the years. Sadly, large roots had broken through the roofs and walls in many places, shattering stone and blocking passageways. I doubted that funding would ever be available to fully excavate the ruins. There were sporadic signs of habitation - a brazier here, a footprint there - but I saw no-one. The tunnels grew increasingly thick with cobwebs, some of them both large and recent, and at last I came to a heavily-webbed chamber from whence a faint noise issued. Presuming this to be my fellow-scholar, I pushed through the fresh webs, announcing slowly and clearly that I was a friend, for I had no wish to meet with further violence.

Such a scene met my eyes. The room was a high and once ornate chamber, but now every inch was covered in layer upon layer of spiderweb. The bound corpses of rodents, and of humans, littered the floor. Against the far wall, I saw a faint struggling motion, and I realised at once that the archaeologist must have been seized and imprisoned here. But where was the culprit?

As it happened, the culprit was at that moment directly overhead and descending with great speed. It was only the faint clattering of cuticle against carapace that alerted me, and I sprang aside in mounting horror as the thing dropped. Its mandibles chattered, its myriad eyes glared balefully, and it approached with obvious predatory intent. Naturally, I turned tail and sprinted from the room at full pelt.

Having rounded the corner, I soon recollected that the entrance had been very narrow, and surmised correctly that the spider could not possibly have pursued me. My course of action was clear. I must free the unfortunate who had been captured, before their organs were rendered into a soupy broth by digestive enzymes; and, incidentally, take samples from this remarkable arachnid. It proved a straightforward matter to bring the creature down with repeated bowshots, though its intriguing habit of expelling globules of some neurotoxin was something of an impediment. Having no sample phials, I was obliged to collect some of the subtance in a small pot and seal it with wax. Thankfully, there were many candles nearby. Having secured my specimens, I took brief sketches of the web architecture and certain anatomical features, since it seemed improbable that I could convey the creature's corpse to any really competent taxidermist. I also secured some unhatched eggs from amongst the webbing, taking care to close and label these jars.

Having dealt with the urgent matters, I began to saw through the webbing around the latest victim, who had been shouting in a rather distracting manner for some time. Once his mouth (for it was a male) was free, and taking care not to loose any limbs in case of violent reactions, I introduced myself and enquired as to whether he was the gentleman studying the golden claw. He eagerly confirmed this; I could not quite make out his words due to his extreme zeal, but he clearly stated that he understood its secrets and would show them to me. This I took to be a sign of coherence, for he had apparently grasped that I was a fellow-scholar with whom he could talk sensibly.

My analysis proved to be a little inaccurate, for no sooner had I finished unbinding him than he sprang deeper into the tunnel, calling out in his enthusiasm. I deduced that some chemical action of the spider's venom had affected his mind, for he was clearly heedless of danger. Concerned that further spiders might be present, I followed at pace but a little more cautiously, and we entered a long burial chamber lined with decomposed bodies. Passing by, my keen eyes noted the once-fine burial cloths, obviously human bone structures, and extensive grave goods.

To my astonishment, my companion's progress was suddenly interrupted by some of the dead lurching upright and striking at him with rusting weapons.

Before I could intervene, he was struck down. It was all I could do to fend off my own attackers. Even now, I have not yet forgiven myself for this carelessness. Now and again, the scene will rise again to my eyes, and I wonder whether there was not something I could have done differently. If I had only been a little faster - been more hesitant to release him - performed a simple phlebotomy and sanguinochemical distillation - this fearless scholar might have lived to finish his work.

Having destroyed the creatures, I went to my companion's aid. Satisfied by the gaping wounds in his chest, cranium and neck, and the total absence of heartbeat or breath, that he was beyond my help, I carefully emptied his pockets. My hope was that the man carried some form of identification, along the lines of a personal seal, that would enable me to identify him and report his death; perhaps also return any notes to his department. Alas, there was none. Moreover, I found no documentation whatsoever, despite a thorough search of both corpse and the upper chambers. I was forced to conclude that whatever observations he had made, they were purely cerebral, or hidden so well that I could not discover them. Only the claw remained. It was exactly as it had been described: remarkable workmanship for its age, if rather crude. Geometric spirals decorate the digits, while the palm is inscribed with three stylised animals.**

For further particulars, consult Antique Dragon Claws of the Skyrim Region, Charvik U., AQ342, Press of the Eight Winds. The items can be inspected at the Academy by special arrangement.

I quickly realised what my companion must have always known: the claw was intimately associated with this monument. Unable to resist the temptation to venture a little deeper, I was forced to dispatch a number of animated skeletons - truly an uncomfortable phenomenon of this region, and one of which future travellers would do well to beware.

The tunnels proved of considerable interest, and I spent more time than I initially realised in taking down my observations by the light of the many convenient braziers, presumably imbued with some illuminatory enchantment. I even discovered simple mechanisms built into this tomb by the ancient architects - a very impressive demonstration of early engineering. In several places I was obliged to rotate symbols to reflect the symbology of the chambers - hardly an effective security measure, but nevertheless a feat of engineering. Similarly, the claw proved to be a key to a very fine bronze-worked door; displaying the same short-sighted cunning, the door contained a symbol lock whose combination was inscribed upon the key itself, without which an intruder could not in any case proceed further.

Eventually, I realised the hour was becoming late and was forced to leave, since I did not wish to spend the night in an inhospitable place. Rather than make the long trek round, I crested the mountain and found myself descending into a valley where a huge fire was blazing. Naturally, I made it my destination.

I quickly discovered the reason for the size of the fire: it had been constructed by a pair of vast humanoids. These, clearly, were the giants of which I had read so many papers. Though the creatures did not seem overtly hostile, I was well aware of the peril these simple brutes can present to a traveller, and effaced myself quickly - very, very quickly, in fact. Seeing faint smoke on the darkening sky, I continued northward towards what I correctly identified as my destination of White Run.

But first, I simply must investigate the intriguing half-ruined buildings that littered the valley floor. The jarl's paperwork would have to wait.

The Voyages of Dr. Charvik: A Rude Awakening

Being in need of evening entertainment in Japan, I have recently begun playing Skyrim. I never managed to get any of the previous games to work without crashing for more than five minutes at a time, so I begin with the great advantage of being utterly ignorant of everything relating to Skyrim.

As such, I am playing it in the persona of a scholarly lizard researcher from a far-off land who has stumbled into a violent, frozen world he doesn't understand.

The author, relaxing in a local feasting-hall. The people of this land are violent, yet willing to give respect where it is due. The author earned the friendship of the local secretary, or jarl, with a few services performed in the course of his research.

A rude awakening

I awoke to an uncomfortable jolting sensation and an unpleasant mossy taste in my mouth. My thoughts were slow and heavy. After some moments, I realised that I could hear noises, as though from a great distance, and eventually perceived that they must be a dialect of human. It was over three years since I had, with immense relief, completed my compulsory instruction in the language. Moreover, the dialect was strange, and I was slowly beginning to perceive that I was immensely, dangerously cold. No wonder my body and mind were so slow to respond.

A graduate of the Eight Winds Academy does not panic. I calmly mustered what resources I could and began to evaluate my situation. Vague memories flitted back to my heavy skull. In the course of my researches on architectural history, I had reluctantly travelled to human lands to consult certain texts not held in our libraries. Letters of introduction packed, I set out with a few companions, planning to seek out new guides as necessary.

A few days ago, the argonian-speaking merchants I had travelled with from my last port of call insisted on a detour to some provincial town or other, and having little confidence in my navigation or ability to negotiate in this far-flung land, I agreed. I had been ill for some days with a fever, and on first emerging into a rather chilly landscape, I was ushered into a hostelry. There was a certain amount of revelry, and the merchants had plied with me with some honey-based drink which they assured me would be beneficial. It was sweet, soothing to my throat and strangely warming.

Other than that, I have only blurred recollections. There was an affray at a nearby table, and my companions bundled me outside. Was there snow? I remember the smell of horses. Perhaps also a clang of metal, and shouting.

Nothing more came to mind. Satisfied on that head, I started the painful process of trying to reattune my ear to the human speech. Opening my eyes, at this juncture, seemed too much. Gradually I began to make out a few words. There appeared to be some discussion of the weather, and some political matters. I would later realise that this was, in fact, an argument about the local "stormcloak" movement, a violent rebellion against the Empire. Horses were mentioned. The humans seemed somewhat angry. I deduced, then, that I our party had found passage on a convoy of carts, and that our beasts were delayed by poor weather. I was rather pleased with myself for recalling so much of the language, and it was thus a great shame that I was entirely incorrect.

After some time, I managed to force open my eyelids. I wished intently that my current companions had found a blanket to insulate me, but presumed that the ignorant mammals did not understand reptilian biology. Glancing slowly around, I realised that one of the reasons my body seemed to sluggardly and unresponsive was that my hands were tightly bound and attached to the wagon. Perhaps they were concerned I would injure myself in my sleep? A crude remedy, but it had clearly succeeded.

At the time, my fogged brain did not make the necessary leaps to the incredible truth.

Our cart eventually drew up at some fortress or other, of primitive but structurally adequate design. We all disembarked, and at this point I realised that my fellow travellers also had their hands bound. One even had his mouth bound with cloth. It became clear to me that we were prisoners. How embarrassing! Clearly, the fracas in that hostelry had attracted official attention, and I had been rounded up amongst the locals. Presumably my travelling-companions were in another wagon, or else had already been dealt with. Although I was entirely innocent, I judged that my grasp of the tongue would not permit me to explain myself. Human authorities are said to be rough and ready in such affairs. It would be simplest to make whatever apologies were necessary, however much this might pain my reason. Perhaps there would be a small fine. I hoped my purse had escaped the confusion, but could not easily tell.

At this moment, one of the humans beside me suddenly sprang forward and raced away towards the gate. He came to a sudden halt as an arrow embedded itself in his back. The shock was overwhelming. I had never before seen a sentient being cut down in cold blood, only in the midst of battle. The situation was more serious than I had realised. Hesitantly, I surmised that he had preferred death to the shame of admitting whatever conduct he had indulged in. Plagiarism, perhaps? I could well believe that, amongst these rather primitive humans, such a custom might have evolved. The archer, then, was a ceremonial duty, and certainly an unwelcome one to any civilised mind. I wondered idly what crime she had committed to earn such a duty.

I was ushered forward to an official and told to, as I understand it, explain myself. Apparently he did not have the proper paperwork. This seemed very likely - presumably entirely different forms are required for a non-citizen - and I hoped to be allowed inside to warm myself while the documents were arranged. He seemed sympathetic and professional. However, another human, apparently his superior, pushed forward and made some remarks that I did not quite follow, gesturing wildly towards a stone block nearby. This, presumably, was the ritual speaking-stone from which those accused of improper conduct admitted their fault. How interesting. In other circumstances, with a clearer head, I would have begun to mentally compose a paper on the topic. My anthropologically-inclined colleagues would certainly have been interested.

The polite man apologised deeply, and waved me to stand with the others. He said, I believe, that he would send word to Blackmarsh. I hoped it would not take long to arrange my release, as my research funding was of a temporary nature. I attempted to speak, but could not. My face was numb to the point of immobility, and I could only grunt helplessly. I shuffled towards the others. How would I make my apology? This promised to be a most embarrassing incident for all concerned. When they realised the straits their carelessness had left me in, even humans would be mortified. As I considered the recent death of my fellow-traveller, and the proud culture that clearly existed here, I could only hope they too would not feel it necessary to end their lives.

Another prisoner was pushed forward and berated. I did not catch the words. This was partly due to shock, and partly to the wind, but largely because at that moment a keening noise in the air attracted my attention. How interesting. Apparently dragons could be found even this far into the frozen wastes.

I was looking into the sky, hoping to ascertain which species it might be, when an unpleasant organic sound drew my attention back to the ground. One of the humans lay unmoving across a stone block, and blood was spilling into the snow. Another stood beside him with a large axe. It took me some moments to digest the horrible truth. These humans - these animals - had slaughtered one of their own as he stood helpless. More horrible still, it became clear that their intention was to dispose of us all in the same way, even I, a guest in their midst and clearly a peaceful innocent. Did not the purple feathers on my head proclaim me a man of the quills? Did not my long, curved talons indicate that here was a quiet and harmless soul, unused to physical labour or the hardship of outdoor life?

A calm rage overcame me. The sheer magnitude of this outrage was too much. Chilled to the very bone, my senses turned toward the ever-growing keening in the sky. The humans clearly had no idea what it was, which intrigued me even at this fatal moment. Did they not see the flitting shape that curved overhead? Their vision was too poor. There was a vague sense of apprehension amongst them. Then a faint satisfaction began to overtake the anger, as I realised that the dragon was circling us, and sensed its purpose. It had seen me, and it was preparing its descent. A smile crossed my lips as I realised what was about to happen. As a rough human forced me toward the stone block, I could not quell the malicious pleasure that was spreading slowly through my frozen veins. Just as the murderer raised his crude axe, the wrath descended.

The humans fled as my rescuer settled its mighty bulk atop one of their towards and unleashed a torrent of flame. There were screams. Hands still bound, I raised myself from the ground and nodded gratefully toward the dragon and enjoyed the wash of heat from the fires that were beginning to rise. Still, I too would be in danger, and would do well to remove myself from the grasp of this very uncivilised legal system, so I strode towards a door. Some of the soldiers were uselessly firing arrows at the dragon, and paid no heed. To my pleasure, I encountered the helpful administrator, who had kept a level head. Pausing to aid a screaming child, he led me through the burning castle to an armoury, where I was able to warm myself a little and find some thick clothing to ward off the chill of the snow. He untied my hands and pressed a weapon into them, speaking calmly and reassuringly, though I caught few of his actual words. Clearly, this fellow did not harbour any suspicions of me. I was impressed with his judgement.

The route outside led through a cellar where humans were fighting. My guide proved himself adept with a blade, and protected an elderly man from several warriors. Once peace descended, I realised that the cages around me did not contain chickens or pets, but the corpses of humans. Moreover, some of the objects around had distinctly unsavoury appearances, and were stained with blood. Straining my ears to catch the conversation, I heard the old man say that these attackers had been unhappy with his treatment of their comrades. The dead men in the cages and the attackers wore the same clothing style. With revulsion, I realised the truth. This man had been carrying out experiments upon the prisoners. Such conduct is unheard of. Have they no ethics committees in this wilderness? Or was this some rogue necromancer, lurking in the secrecy of this forgotten room and only now discovered? It would certainly explain how he had fended off his attackers until we arrived.

I was shocked to hear my guide instruct this fiend to follow us. Was he a man of lesser morals than I had thought? Was this another vile quirk of this brutal and irrational society? Or, more charitably, was he simply too focused on leading our escape to have grasped the situation? To my relief, the old man spurned the offer, with a few scathing words amongst which I caught only the term "dragon". Either he did not believe the administrator, or he thought his powers sufficient for his own protection. My guide shrugged and headed off down a tunnel, leaving me alone with the old man. I stared at him for a few moments, disgust clear in my eyes, and he sneered back.

Dear Reader, I have always been a man of peace, serving only the same three years in the army that every citizen must. Morality is of great importance to me. I realised, at this moment, that even though I be lost in a strange land, I must remain true to my self. Reaching into my soul, I conjured forth the sacred flame and unleashed it with a heavy heart. The man screamed, sending out tendrils of vile magic that seared my flesh, but I stood firm in my purpose. When all was over, none would know that he had not been a victim of the dragon's fire. His evil was at an end.

This tragic deed fulfilled, I hastened to follow my guide into the outer world. The warmth of the chambers, and indeed of my spell, had dispelled a little of the chill and I was able to move more freely. Passing through a cave, we encounted another band of escapees, and they immediately attacked us. Apparently the hatred between these two groups was so great, they could not put it aside even at such a moment. My guide's blade, and (I reluctantly admit) my own, brought us safely through. We emerged from a tunnel into a world of snow, rocks and jutting conifers.

Having been thoroughly awoken by all that had occurred, my trained mind immediately drank in the scene, search for clues. I had no notion of where we might stand, but my attention was drawn to the natural riches around us. Disregarding my companion's words, I strolled around the area for a few minutes. Here a fascinating herb; there a strange fungus existing even in this cold climate. Having no notebook nor quill, I gathered samples and carefully packed them into the pockets of my outfit, hoping they would survive intact until I could properly document them.

At length, I looked up to realise that the human had begun to walk towards a cluster of buildings just visible on the horizon. I realised that, despite the promptings of my brain, this was not the time for scholarship. In fact, I had seized upon it as a mere pretext, to drive away the thought of my recent violence. Reluctantly abandoning my botanical examinations for another time, I hurried after him. His name, I would later learn, was Had Var.