wshaffer

Previous installments under skyrim-conversations.

So, someone released a Skyrim mod on Steam that makes Farkas and Vilkas naked by default. Which seems only right and proper. (Alas, I think these mods only work on the PC version. I think XBox 360 users who want naked werewolf twins have to do it the old fashioned way, by leveling the hell out of their pickpocketing skills.)

Check the comments for howls of outrage and disgust from male gamers who are shocked and appalled that the bodies of men might be put on display for the gratification of women. This installment of Conversations We Didn't Have in Skyrim was written especially for you, boys.

----
Lydia and I are back from a little jaunt to take care of a few bandits. I open the door to Breezehome, contemplating a quiet evening. Maybe I'll read a little, do a little alchemy.

I'm not prepared for the sight that greets me as I enter the house. "Sweet Mother, what-!?"

Lydia rushes to my side, sword half-drawn, but sheathes it when she sees that there's no immediate threat. Just a very large number of dead deer stacked up in the kitchen. And Farkas and Vilkas, naked except for their loincloths, curled up on the hearth, fast asleep.
( Terra and Lydia discuss this interesting turn of events )

Previous installments under skyrim-conversations.

So, I'm a little irked with the writers of Skyrim for not only suddenly giving Farkas arachnophobia at a plot-convenient point, but for then apparently having him get over it equally suddenly and with no explanation. It wouldn't have taken more than a couple of lines of dialogue.

Well, I say that, but when I decided to tackle it in fanfic, it got rather long and involved. Friends, I bring you the tale of The Bunny of Hircine.

----

You know, I expected it to be weird, being the Harbinger of the Companions, but everyone treats me pretty much as they always did. Aela still finds random odd jobs for me to do. Though this one has got to take the cake.

"You want me to kill a rabbit?" I ask.

"This is no ordinary rabbit," Aela says. She looks dead serious, though with that warpaint of hers, she usually does. "This is the Bunny of Hircine. It's a formidable foe, a vicious killer."

Not Hircine again. He's on my list of Daedra I'd really rather not tangle with again. A list that keeps growing despite my best efforts to steer clear of demonic beings from Oblivion. "Okay, supposing for the moment that I accept the existence of something called the Bunny of Hircine, why does it need to die?"

Aela looks uncomfortable. "Well, when you cured Kodlak's spirit of his lycanthropy, you deprived Hircine of his soul. Hircine is not pleased."

"And if I kill his pet bunny, this will make him feel better?"

Aela shrugs. "You know Hircine. He lives for the hunt. Slay the Bunny of Hircine, make sure you make good sport of it, and Hircine will smile upon you."

I've had Hircine smile upon me before. It made me feel like he'd enjoy having me for lunch. But I know Aela's right - Hircine does live for the hunt.

"Okay, I'll do it. Where do I start looking for this Bunny?"

Of course, the location that she name is about as far from Whiterun as it is possible to get, and way up north and freezing cold to boot. I'll need to pack some extra furs.
( Kill the rabbit! )

Previous installments under skyrim-conversations.

You have no idea how difficult it is to extract yourself from a freezing ocean when you've dropped your game controller because you are laughing too hard.

I'm not the first to observe this, but I was really surprised that Skyrim lacks any kind of mechanic for hypothermia. I spent quite a bit of time in the game assiduously avoiding getting wet when temperatures were below freezing, only to discover that there wasn't any point.

----

So, I'm really not sure how Farkas is going to take the news that Kodlak's ghost has proclaimed me the new Harbinger of the Companions. Especially since we haven't had a chance to discuss the Frostbite Spider Incident yet. I'd rather have cleared the air on that before telling Farkas that I'm his new boss, but the pace of events didn't allow for that.

He seems to take it well. "Hey, I always do what you tell me to, anyway. So that's fine."

He doesn't always do what I tell him to. Not remotely. But at the moment, the profession of loyalty means more than strict accuracy.

"Thanks." I look around. We're standing outside Ysgramor's Tomb, on this little island up in the middle of a frozen sea. "So, hey, there's this nice little barrow not far from here. Got a magic sword in it or something. You wanna go, poke around, whack some draugr?"

He shakes his head slowly. "Nah. That's okay. I think I'm going to just...look around for a bit. I'll see you back in Whiterun."
( continued below the cut )

Previous installments under skyrim-conversations.

Through a laborious process of trial and error (I make the errors, Farkas undergoes the trials), I have discovered that Farkas puts up with my hitting him with swords, shooting him with arrows, and asking him to open doors that I know perfectly well are trapped with only mild complaints. However, the one time I accidentally set him on fire with one of J'zhargo's flame cloak scrolls, Farkas let me know in no uncertain terms that our friendship was over by killing me. So, there's an important boundary for you - don't set your friends on fire.

This can be really difficult when they keep insisting on getting between you and the bad guy.
----

It's Loredas night. You know what that means.

I let fly at a ghost with one hell of a sword blow. One of those ones where you really get your whole body into the swing, and you know your enemy is going down.

And then Farkas suddenly steps right into the path of my blade.

I've got enough time to curse, but not enough to pull the blow. It drops Farkas instantly. He doesn't even get out his usual, "Watch it, sister!" that's his typical response when I clip him with my blade or singe his hair with a misdirected Flame Shout. He just falls.

I glance down and see that he's on his knees and appears to be dry heaving. Good sign, I guess. Dead men don't vomit.

( Only a fool tries to kill the dead! )

Previous installments under the skyrim-conversations tag.

Farkas does not like magic users. Farkas likes Terra. Terra is a magic user. Does this cause some cognitive dissonance? Nah, not really...

----

Something Farkas said recently is on my mind, and I really need to talk to him about it. The only problem is, every time I say, "Farkas, we need to talk," he stammers out, "My brother Vilkas is a better talker than me. I'm sure he's around here somewhere," and then disappears out to the practice yard to do sword drills.

So, this time, I'm careful to keep my tone very casual when I say, "Hey, Farkas?"

"Yeah?" He looks up from that tankard of mead.

"You don't much like magic users, do you?"

He scowls. "No. I don't trust them. Honorable warriors use strength, not magical trickery."

"So, you have noticed that I sometimes throw around the odd fireball, haven't you?"

"You're Dragonborn. I figure that's what you do."

Actually, being Dragonborn means that I can breathe fire, which is even more effective than the fireball spell, but murder on the sinuses. Every time I do it, I have a throbbing pain behind the eyes for days.

"And you've noticed that I use a sword that appears out of thin air?"

He laughs. "And disappears into thin air, usually at inconvenient moments like when a bear is charging at you. You should talk to Eorlund about that - the weapons he makes for me never do that."

"And you've noticed that spectral wolves, flame atronachs, and dremora lords occasionally pop up to fight on my behalf?"

He shrugs. "You've got some odd friends, that's for sure. But if they fight for you, they're okay with me."

I can just about believe that if I conjured a dremora lord right here, Farkas would offer him an ale and a chunk of roast goat. But I decide not to push my luck.

Previous installments under the skyrim-conversations tag.

In this installment, we pose the all-important question, "What's with the accents?"

----

It's a quiet night in the main hall at Jorrvaskr.

"Hey, Farkas?"

"Yes?"

"You and Vilkas are twins, right?"

"Yes."

"And you were raised here in Jorrvaskr, right?"

"Yup, since we were kids."

"So, why does Vilkas have that goofy Nord Nordson of Nordheim accent, when your voice is relatively normal?" Actually, Farkas's voice isn't really what I'd call normal. As far as I've been able to determine in the course of my extensive travels, Farkas has the third sexiest voice in Skyrim, surpassed only by Brynjolf of Riften and, of course, Ulfric Stormcloak. And unlike Ulfric and Brynjolf, Farkas isn't a complete asshole. But that's neither here nor there, really.

"Oh, that. He just puts that on to impress women."

"Really?" I look over to the other end of the hall, where Vilkas is busy telling Aela and Ria a story involving forty orcs, an enchanted greatsword, and a tureen of apple-cabbage soup. Neither of them look particularly impressed, but then neither of them are your average woman. "Does it work?"

Farkas nods. "Yeah. I'm no good with accents, though, so I don't do it. Though, I could try it if you want."

"Noooo! I mean, no, that's okay. I like your voice very much just the way it is."

It's really hard to tell underneath the war paint and the stubble, but I am pretty sure that Farkas is blushing.

Previous installments under the skyrim-conversations tag.

In this installment, we learn that my protagonist does have a name. It's Terra, short for TerraNovaCain, which is the title of a song by the Australian band, The Church, and which I used to use as an online handle back in the days when "online" meant 300-baud modems and BBSes.

Of course, as markgritter pointed out in the comments on a previous entry, the requirements of voice acting mean that everyone in Skyrim throws themselves into epic contortions to avoid ever using my character's name. Fanfic has no such constraints.

---


Farkas is sitting on a bench in the main hall in Jorrvaskr, staring into a tankard of mead. He seems to do that a lot. Not drinking it, mind you. Just staring. I think it's his way of avoiding having to make conversation.

"Terra?" he says softly.

I look up, surprised. It's unusual for anyone to use my name around here. It's all 'shield-sister' and 'Dragonborn' and, as often as not, 'hey you.' "What is it?" I ask.

"You're not bothered that I'm a werewolf, are you?"

"Why should I be bothered? You're not bothered that one of my distant ancestors was apparently a dragon."

"That's different, though. I mean, it makes you unusual, but it doesn't change who you are. You've seen me turn into a...beast."

I shrug. "When you're human, you're big, strong, hairy, and loyal. When you're a wolf, you're big, strong, hairy, and loyal. Different shape, but it's the same man underneath."

"Oh." He goes back to staring into that tankard. It's hard to tell underneath the war paint and the stubble, but I think Farkas is blushing.

Part One
Part Two

There seriously was a long period in Skyrim where I'd killed several dragons, but had to be careful wandering the countryside because a stray bear or saber-toothed cat could take me out with a single hit.

----

"Hey, Aela, I could use some coin. We got any jobs that need doing?"

"There's a cave halfway across the continent that's been infested by a particularly vicious bear. You could go take care of it."

"Aela, does it ever strike you as odd that the legendary Companions of Ysgramor have apparently become Skyrim's animal control and pest extermination service?"

"You were the one who said you wanted to make some coin, shield-sister. And don't scoff, those cave bears are tough."

She's right. That cave bear nearly guts me with its first blow, and I only survive to take it down by deploying every bit of my healing magic and potions. The three dragons I've killed were much, much easier than that bear. When I'm done, I skin it so I can take its hide back to Aela.

( When I get back to Jorrvaskr )

So, if you've played Skyrim or read some of the reviews, you'll be well aware that the game's approach to dialogue and character development can be a bit...impressionistic? Haphazard? While initially this marred the game's immersiveness for me, as time goes on, I've found it's just encouraged my brain to fill in the gaps.

----

It's a Loredas night like every other Loredas night since I've come to Skyrim, which means that I'm standing back-to-back with my shield-brother, Farkas, down in the depths of some long-dead hero's tomb where we've come looking for some mythical artifact, facing down a ridiculous horde of undead. Like everything else that's happened since I was nearly beheaded thanks to a bureaucratic error on the part of the Imperium, I haven't questioned it much. But as I yank my sword out of the guts of what must be the hundredth draugr of the night and kick its dessicated body down the stairs, I wonder how this became my life.

"Farkas?"

"Yes?"

"How come every weekend, we end up grave-robbing and brawling with undead?" Another draugr comes lurching at me out of the darkness, beating its sword against its shield and slobbering. Of course, my bound sword chooses this moment to wink out of existence, leaving me cursing and brandishing a fistful of nothing. Farkas swings round and knocks the thing back with a blow from his two-handed sword, and I resummon my conjured blade just in time to parry the return stroke from its war axe.

When that foe is safely despatched, Farkas answers. "In case you hadn't noticed there's not a lot of nightlife around Whiterun."

From the other end of the room, I hear the sounds of stone sarcophagi sliding open and the barking grunts of draugr as they scent prey. There's plenty of night life around here.

"Couldn't we just go down to The Bannered Mare and start a brawl or something?" I smack the next draugr I see with a flame spell, and he lights up like a torch, clearly illuminating three more behind him. Joy.

Farkas laughs. "No one there will fight with me anymore. And if they have any sense, they won't fight with you either."

The draugr charge, and we brace ourselves to meet them. There are worse ways to spend a Loredas night, I guess.