The climb grew steeper, the air thinner, but Torin's pace was relentless. Each wayshrine was now a milestone, a piece of a story he was determined to piece together.
With roaring Tongues, the Sky-Children conquer;
Founding the First Empire with Sword and Voice;
Whilst the Dragons withdrew from this World.
The sixth shrine's words spoke of a golden, thunderous age. In his mind's eye, Torin saw the Nords of old, their victory over the dragons fueling an unstoppable tide of expansion.
They carved out the First Empire not just with steel, but with Shouts that could level fortress walls. It was an era of raw, unchecked ambition, a people drunk on their own newfound power, their pride as vast as the lands they claimed.
But empires, as they always do, eventually hit a wall.
The Tongues at Red Mountain went away humbled;
Jurgen Windcaller began His Seven Year Meditation;
To understand how Strong Voices could fail.
The seventh shrine marked the turning point. The words were stark, a record of a staggering defeat. He imagined the legendary Tongues, who had shouted dragons from the sky, returning from a distant volcanic land, broken and bewildered. They had faced the combined might of the Chimer and the Dwemer, and their mighty Voices had not been enough.
The era of pride had crumbled into a time of sorrow and deep, unsettling confusion.
The story continued on the eighth and ninth shrines, the narrative shifting from epic conquest to a solitary, philosophical struggle.
While other Tongues wallowed in their defeat, one man, Jurgen Windcaller, chose a different path. He turned his focus inward, meditating on the very nature of the Thu'um for seven long years, seeking not to make it stronger, but to understand why it had failed.
The conclusion he reached was as profound as it was simple: the Nords, like the Dragons before them, had strayed from the Way of the Voice. They had used it for conquest and glory, not for praise and worship of the gods. They had shouted for themselves, not for a higher purpose. And so, he chose silence.
He tried to share this hard-won enlightenment, but not all were eager to accept that their very strength was their failing. Seventeen proud Tongues challenged his pacifist philosophy.
Jurgen did not argue with words. He Shouted them down, one by one, his Thu'um proving more righteous, more true, until none were left to dispute him. With his philosophy vindicated, he ascended the mountain to its peak and began to build his home, High Hrothgar, a monastery dedicated to a new, disciplined Way.
...
The ninth wayshrine told of the Greybeards, Jurgen Windcaller's disciples. It described how, despite their god-like mastery of the Voice, they embraced his teachings of peace and contemplation, living in silent meditation atop their mountain, separated from the world by a sea of clouds.
They broke that profound silence only once, their unified Thu'um shaking the very foundations of Skyrim to call a man's name, summoning him to High Hrothgar and blessing him as Dragonborn.
As Skjor listened to Torin read the final lines from his notes, he found himself unexpectedly captivated. He raised his head, staring up the path that vanished into the mist-shrouded peaks.
"You're right," he admitted, a note of grudging awe in his voice. "After hearing all that... I'm actually somewhat eager to see what's written on the last one."
Torin grinned, pleased. He tossed a piece of dried meat toward Echo, who snatched it from the air with a happy chomp and began contentedly chewing.
"I really don't get it," Torin mused, packing his notes away. "How can Nords as a people be so obsessed with the glories of the past, but so completely disinterested in actually studying it? There's a difference between telling a boastful story in a tavern and understanding the lessons history is trying to teach you."
Skjor gave him a wry, knowing smile. "Isn't it because the strange ones like you take it upon themselves to do all the studying for us?" he countered. "Why should the rest of us bother? We've got you to do the thinking, and us to do the fighting. Seems like a fair division of labor."
Torin froze for a moment, then let out a genuine chuckle. "Fair enough, though I seem to be doing both."
He shook his head with a sigh and retrieved another piece of dried meat from his pouch. He threw it toward Echo, this time tossing it a little higher than he intended.
A loud, piercing screech sliced through the mountain silence. A dark, feathery bolt shot down from the sky, snatching the meat mere inches from Echo's waiting jaws before swooping back up into the air.
"A hawk?" Torin muttered, his steps pausing as he watched the bird vanish against the gray rock.
Skjor just shrugged, unimpressed. "Seems like it. Come on, the monastery shouldn't be much further now. The air's getting thin enough to choke a goat."
Torin nodded and turned to look at Echo. The young bear was standing on her hind legs, swiping her paws furiously at the empty sky with a series of indignant grunts, scolding the feathered thief who had stolen her treat.
The sight was too comical. He chuckled, dug out another piece of meat, and made sure to toss it directly to her this time. "Don't lose that one," he said, before turning to follow Skjor, the final ascent to High Hrothgar awaiting them.
...
The final stretch of the path leveled out, opening onto a windswept courtyard carved into the very peak of the mountain. And there it was: High Hrothgar.
The monastery was a snow-caked fortress of ancient stone, surprisingly well-maintained despite its impossible age and location. It had two grand, arched entrances, separated by a massive central pillar, with a staircase leading up to each.
Torin's gaze, however, was instantly drawn to a solitary figure bundled in thick, gray robes, diligently shoveling snow near the left-hand entrance. The man seemed to sense their approach, his work slowing, then stopping altogether as he turned to investigate the newcomers.
Even from a distance, the man's most prominent feature was unmistakable—a thick, magnificent gray beard that spilled down his chest, the kind of beard even a blind man could have sensed. Hoping to appear friendly, Torin offered a small, tentative smile and a wave.
The reaction was immediate and cold. The robed figure turned his back on them with a sharp, dismissive motion, resuming his shoveling with renewed, almost aggressive vigor. Torin couldn't make out the man's expression, but the message was clear: they were not welcome.
The realization hit him like a bucket of cold water. He looked down at himself, then at Skjor. They were both splattered and smeared with dark, dried blood, their armor stained with the evidence of the violence they had just meted out.
They reeked of death, and they had brought that stench to the one place in Skyrim dedicated to absolute peace.
Skjor frowned, his hand resting on his sword pommel. "Looks like we're not getting an invitation inside."
Torin let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "The Greybeards don't just dislike violence, Skjor. They reject it entirely. It's the core of their philosophy. And we... we're drenched in it."
"True enough," Skjor grunted, looking down at his own gore-stained gear. "I can't imagine any place other than Whiterun where folk would greet us with a smile looking like this."
"And that's only because they've gotten used to the sight of us by now," Torin finished. He shook his head, feeling a pang of genuine regret.
Focused on the climb and the history as he was, he'd forgotten the basic respect owed to the inhabitants of this sacred place. "It slipped my mind, but we shouldn't disrespect them more than we already have. Let's find a spot, boil some snow, and wash this blood off before we do anything else. We can at least try to look presentable."
...
By the time they had scrubbed the worst of the blood from their armor and faces with handfuls of melted snow, the robed figure was still there. He wasn't shoveling anymore. He was just standing there, perfectly still, his hands clasped behind his back, watching them.
Even from across the courtyard, they could feel the weight of his judgment, a sharp, disapproving glare that seemed to pierce right through them.
Torin offered a bitter, knowing smile. "He sure doesn't seem to like us," he muttered under his breath as they approached. He gave a slight, formal bow in the figure's direction. "Must be that face of yours, old man."
Skjor's one good eye twitched, but he followed Torin's lead, dipping his head in a curt, respectful nod. The Greybeard didn't acknowledge the gesture—no nod, no wave, no change in posture.
Yet, the oppressive pressure they felt emanating from him seemed to lessen by a fraction, as if their attempt at cleanliness and respect had been noted, if not appreciated.
As they finally reached the tenth and final wayshrine, the figure finally turned his back on them, though he didn't go inside. He simply began to clean the carvings on the pillars.
Torin was just about to lean in and read the final inscription when he noticed the strange, distant look on Skjor's face. The veteran warrior wasn't looking at the shrine; he was still staring at the back of the Greybeard, his brow furrowed in deep thought.
"What's the matter?" Torin asked with a sigh, bracing for another philosophical debate.
Skjor seemed to snap out of it, blinking. "Oh. I'm just thinking..." He gestured vaguely with a hand. "According to all that gibberish you wrote down, the Tongues of old could shout down castle walls. Shake earth and mountains."
His gaze drifted back to the silent, bearded figure. "I can't help but wonder... how powerful is he, compared to them?"
Torin hummed, considering it. "That's hard to tell. Especially for people like us." He glanced from the ancient stone of the shrine to the living master of the Voice. "Both the old Tongues, and most likely this man, are so far beyond our own strength that the difference between them is... academic. It's like a skeever, no, a hen trying to figure out which of two giants is taller. The answer doesn't really matter when either one can step on you."
Skjor's face visibly darkened as he continued to stare at the silent, robed figure. "Now that's depressing," he said, the words carrying heavy weight.
Torin grinned, misinterpreting the source of his companion's gloom. "What, jealous? Try spending your entire life in silent meditation on a frozen mountain, and you too might just be able to sunder the heavens or call forth Kyne's wrath with your voice."
Skjor firmly shook his head, his single eye still fixed on the Greybeard. "No, boy. I meant it's depressing for him."
That brought Torin up short. "Oh? Why is it depressing for him?"
Skjor let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weariness of every battlefield he'd ever walked. "Think about it. If you're right, then I don't possess a fraction of his power. I'm a gnat buzzing at a giant."
"And yet..." He flexed his hand, the calloused, powerful fingers curling into a fist. "...I can't for the life of me imagine staying still and doing nothing worthwhile. But to have all that world-breaking power coiled up inside you... and choosing not to use it? To just... stand there and observe?"
He shook his head, a gesture of pure, indignant disbelief. "That would literally kill me."
Torin fell silent, genuinely pondering Skjor's unexpected insight. He'd always viewed the Greybeards' pacifism through the lens of philosophy and discipline, a noble pursuit of higher understanding.
He'd never considered it from the perspective of a pure warrior like Skjor—a man for whom power existed to be wielded. For such a person, the Greybeards' choice wouldn't be wisdom; it would be a form of profound, self-inflicted torture.
In the end, Torin just shrugged.
"And that," he said, turning back to the final wayshrine, "is exactly what's so impressive about them. The fact that they have that power, and have kept their silence for so long... it's a strength of a kind we can't comprehend."
...
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