The Divine Hunter - Chapter 472

Chapter 472: Bleak Falls Barrow
[TL: Asuka]
[PR: hibiki]
Flynn lit up a torch, illuminating an ancient, spacious hall before the adventurers. Stone pillars with a hue of green covering their surface held up the cobweb-filled ceilings. It was a grave for many unfortunate critters and bugs, all of which were dried, empty husks of their former selves. Vines slithered out of the cracks in the walls like snakes, extending across the ground to reach the other side of the hall.
The Dragonborn shifted his attention to a corner of the hall. There, behind a pillar, stood a single silhouette—the silhouette of a beast half the size of an adult man. Oblivious of the adventurers’ intrusion, the beast crouched low to the ground, clawing away at the air.
Upon seeing the countenance of the beast, Flynn almost leapt in surprise. Yet he remained still and calm, exchanging a look with the witcher. An understanding was reached, and the adventurers slowly closed in on their quarry.
It was then the beast finally noticed the intruders. An ear-piercing shriek rattled the great chamber as the beast emerged from its hiding place.
A skeever. Rodents the size of a hunting dog. Covered in gray fur, and its claws were sharp enough to tear through flesh easily. The beast glared at the intruders with its crimson eyes, the feral desire to hunt welling within them.
Even though its enemies were armed, the skeever charged right at them without fear or fervor, a screech escaping its snout.
Alas, that was the last thing it would do in its beastly life.
The Dragonborn brought down his sword on the incoming rodent, easily slicing it in two. Blood spurted out of the two halves of its corpse, covering the ground in red. The dead skeever writhed and spasmed for a moment. Then it went dead. Unmoving.
“What is this place? Or to be exact… What was?” Flynn surveyed his surroundings. “We got bandits guarding the gates, and the first thing we run into is a rat the size of a dog. How did it even get so big anyway? Not like there’s anything to eat here. Gods, that thing could kill a cat easily. Saber cats aside, anyway.”
Then, a momentary pause swooped down on Flynn. “Mate, I have a bad feeling about this. Something more dangerous slumbers in the depths of this place.”
But the witcher paid him no heed. Instead, he hunkered down and cut off the skeever’s tail. To his surprise, this tail was also an alchemical component.
Flynn’s lips twitched, though he said nothing about the witcher’s odd behavior. It was not the first time his companion exhibited an almost bizarre curiosity about all manner of beasts and greenery. Oftentimes, he would stop for a moment just to harvest leaves and vines and animal parts, tucking them away in his seemingly bottomless sack.
And then they were off again. This time, they came face to face with a dark, narrow passageway. The witcher harvested some luminous mushrooms off the walls before he followed his companion into a room that was almost fully closed off.
“These must be the traps Farengar talked about.” Frustrated, Flynn massaged his temples. Standing at the far end of this chamber was a steel gate. A lever sat before it, and on the left side of the temple were three obelisks they could spin. “Gods, we’re not even mages. Cracking this is going to take a whole day.”
No. Flynn was wrong.
The witcher scanned his surroundings, especially the two stone slabs over the locked gate and the lone slab on the first floor, seemingly fallen from its place. And the witcher stepped ahead, spinning the obelisks on the room’s left side. Before long, the obelisks showed, from left to right, the pattern of a snake, a snake, and a dolphin.
Then the witcher pulled the lever, and as if by magic, the steel gate slowly rattled upward, revealing a path behind it.
Filled with awe and shock, the Dragonborn gawked at his companion, a hue of ashamed red tingeing his cheeks. I looked at the chamber and all I saw was a chamber. He looked at the chamber, and he solved a puzzle. Am I stupid? The Dragonborn shut that thought down almost as immediately as it arose. Nah. Goldeneye’s just too smart. I’ve seen him do great things. Probably nothing he can’t do.
Despite the clear path ahead, Roy was in no hurry to pass. Instead, he put one leg forward and extended an arm, assuming a weird spellcasting stance. Then, the witcher pointed at the ground, pouring part of his mana into the rune of Conjure Familiar that was deeply embedded in his mind.
Five points of EXP were deducted as well, but in exchange, a ball of blue light emerged from his fingertip. As if it were a key, it opened the door to an unknown realm, summoning a hell hound bigger than the skeever they ran into earlier. The creature was sitting on its hind legs, letting out a languid yawn that revealed its terrible, gleaming teeth.
The creature was resting when Roy summoned it to this chamber. Its summoner gave it an order, and the hound stood up, shaking his body. Happily, it charged into the path beyond the steel gates to check for any threats. It did not take long for the hound to come back. It barked softly, telling its summoner the way ahead was clear of any danger.
Only then did the witcher tell his companion to go through the gate. And they were greeted by dusty wooden racks and porcelain jars. “This place gives me the creeps. And it looks like a tomb. Are… Are these jars grave goods? And the smell of these cloths… Phew. Smell like shrouds to m—”
The sentence was never finished. Roy shut him up by showing off a gold coin he found in a jar. Galvanized, the adventurers went to work, scouring the chamber for every single valuable they could get their hands on.
***
Two streaks of silver arced across the air, slamming the corpses of two skeevers into the walls of these chambers. A hole was bored through their heads, claiming their lives almost instantly.
The hell hound chomped down on the throat of a third skeever. The rodent screeched and screamed, but there was nothing it could do. Eventually, death came for it.
Flynn swung his sword down, cleaving a fourth skeever in two. He then flicked his wrist around, his eyes fixated on the maze of paths that was unfurling before him. Sleeping around him were droves of black, ancient caskets. I knew it. This place is a mass burial ground. Or was a mass burial ground.
Some were embedded in the walls of the chamber, while some stood upright. And these caskets were not empty, no. Something slept within them. Corpses. Hideous corpses.
These corpses must have been dead for years now, yet streaks of flesh hung off their bones like they were dried cadavers. The skin and muscles of the corpses were all but rotten, leaving behind a visage so gaunt, it could traumatize a child should one lay their eyes on them.
The corpses donned sleeveless metal armor as if they were warriors, and within their hands slept their rusty weapons. Greatswords, battleaxes, longswords, axes, shields, and even bows and arrows. Had they been alive, the adventurers could imagine just how majestic these corpses would be.
And then, realization struck Flynn. He knew who these corpses were, and he spared them a look of respect. “Ancient Nordling warriors.”
He wished to pay them due respect, but Roy held him back. The witcher shook his head and turned his attention to the hound.
With its orders made clear, the hell hound charged at the caskets, but before it could reach any single one, the dead sprang to life, ready to cut down those who would dare wake them from their long slumber.
The sound of bones rattling and grazing off one another echoed through the hallway as the seemingly dead corpse was rising back to life. It cracked its neck and held its weapon tightly as it stood, ready to face the living.
And yet before it could cut down the intruders, a crossbow bolt was flung through the air. It slammed into the draugr’s chest like a sledgehammer, and the monster crashed back into its casket, stirring up a cloud of dust in the air of the hallway.
Half of its head was blown off, bits of crimson flesh hanging from its skull. Sickly green brain matter oozed from the wound on its head, and yet it hung on to life. Or unlife, in this matter. The light of all that was unholy glinted in its remaining eye, tethering it to the land of the living.
Roy stared at his adversary, once again casting Observe to glean more information.
‘Draugr
Status: Ancient Nordling, member of the Dragon Cult
Strength: 9
Dexterity: 5
Constitution: 9
Perception: 4
Will: 6
Charisma: 3
Spirit: 5
Skills:
War Cry.
Chains of the Unliving (Passive): Draugrs are creatures under the influence of a special spell. Bound to their mortal shells, these creatures fear no pain or wound. They possess no exploitable weaknesses either. With no bodily limitations chaining them down, these creatures can use all the strength that is locked within the human body. But in exchange, they move and react slower than they did in life. +1 to Strength and Constitution, -1 to Dexterity.
Frost Resistance, Basic Swordplay Level 8, Blessing of the Stars—The Warrior.’
***
The hell hound leapt into the air and chomped down on a draugr’s neck, breathing flames upon its body. The snake of flames slithered up to the draugr’s head, pinching out the fire of unlife within its eyes.
More draugrs were on their way. Flynn crouched a little, holding his sword tightly. Another draugr came charging at the Dragonborn, swinging its axe around viciously.
Roy fired a bolt and destroyed its head without a moment of hesitation.
‘Draugr killed. +40 EXP.’
The witcher arched his eyebrows. Too slow. This is going to take forever to settle. Hound, you’re up.
The hell hound darted forward like a bolt of black lightning, passing through the draugrs’ legs. Into the dark passage, the hell hound ran, loud barks echoing through the stale, dank air.
The provocation worked. Draugrs slumbering within the ancient, dusty caskets shuffled and turned. They tore away the cobwebs lingering above their caskets, rising back to life for a singular purpose—to kill those that had woken them from their slumber.
The armed draugrs huddled together as they slowly gave chase after the hell hound. Armor and weapons clanged, and bones screeched as they mashed against one another.
More than twenty draugrs went after the hell hound, jostling and shuffling. Blue flames of undeath shone within their eyes, seemingly drifting through the air as the undead walked toward their quarry.
Try as they might, the passage failed to fit more than two corpses, and the undead bodies were forced to stand single file. Yet, that did not deter them from their hunt. Even though the hell hound tried its best to run away, wounds were steadily accumulating on its body. Eventually, one draugr brought its sword down on the creature and sent it straight back to Oblivion.
Roy’s face fell. He shot the nervous Dragonborn a look, telling him to stay back. With his hand, the witcher made the sign of Clamp. A black rune floated in the air, stirring up a wave of Magicka. Then, an entity that bore the same appearance as the witcher leapt out of the rune.
It took the hand crossbow Roy tossed over and fired off at the incoming draugrs.
Shock and awe took over Flynn’s mind, his eyes darting between the two Goldeneyes standing in front of him. What is going on? Why are there two of them? Is this some kind of magic?
He had a lot of questions, but Roy wasn’t planning to answer any of them. The witcher produced Aerondight and held it in his right hand. Golden light flowed upon the surface of his skin, and the kaleidoscopic halo of Yrden glimmered beneath his feet.
Into the path of the oncoming draugrs, the witcher leapt. Standing before the passageway, the witcher tossed a bolt of electricity over the head of the leading draugr. The bolt of electricity had gained great strength compared to how it was in the witcher world. Purple electricity leapt and danced between the undead corpses, electrocuting them.
Five draugrs were sent into a fit of spasms and convulsions, stopping short of the witcher. The witcher swung Aerondight down, and all of its runes dimmed. In exchange, a great energy attack hurtled across the passageway.
The moment it touched the draugr’s armor, the energy attack sliced through them as easily as a hot knife cutting through butter. As the attack disappeared in the distance, all the incoming draugrs slowly came apart, their blood and innards raining down on the ground.
Two halves of their bodies fell, the flames of undeath flickering for a moment before they disappeared forever into eternity. And then… silence.
‘(20) Draugrs killed. EXP +800. Level 12 Witcher (1900/12500).’
Roy flicked off the blood on his blade, breathing heavily. Once again, the runes on Aerondight shone and brimmed with the life of all the undead it had killed.
This place is crawling with draugrs. But they’re slow, and these narrow passageways are the only place they can pass through. So… it’s another EXP farm.
Roy flicked his blade and deflected an incoming arrow as he darted off to the nearest pair of draugrs. And he thrust his blade forward.
At the same time, Flynn and the illusion were fighting off three draugrs that were trying to surround them from behind.
***
The battle lasted for about five minutes. Our adventurers managed to loot two hundred gold from these monsters, and once again, they split it evenly. Roy looted all the monsters’ weapons and tucked them away in his inventory space. I’ll deal with them once we get back to Whiterun. Rusty, but they just need a little touch up. Must be worth something. And I still have space for more. Inventory can probably keep about a few hundred of these.
***
In most cases, exploration of these tunnels would be dangerous, but with Roy in the team, it was nothing but a cinch. The witcher would summon his hell hound and send it off to scout out the path yet unknown to them. Traps were aplenty, but Roy could easily blink away and solve all the puzzles required to deactivate the traps.
Nothing could stand in their way, though the hell hound only could stay in this plane of existence for a limited amount of time. But it was no matter to the witcher. All he had to do when the hell hound was sent back to Oblivion was to conjure it once more.
A small amount of his EXP would be sacrificed for every conjuring, but it was nothing in the face of what Roy could gain in return.
Every time Roy went through a quarter of his mana reserves, he would meditate for half an hour to replenish it, while the Dragonborn would keep an eye out for any potential danger.
With every conjuring, the rune in Roy’s head was steadily solidifying.
***
The adventurers, illusion Roy, and their hell hound made for a fearsome team in these tunnels. The hell hound would act as bait and attract a big group of dumb, slow-moving draugrs into the narrow tunnels, forcing them to stand in a single file. Every time a new group of undead showed up, Roy would cast Quen and swing an energy slash down the tunnels, killing off the living dead easily before they could even come near the witcher.
Flynn and the illusion Roy took up the rear guard, killing off the corpses that would try to surround them.
Five hours flew by, and our adventurers managed to gain a good haul in these dark tunnels illuminated by nothing but sconces. Roy gained more than fifty weapons and three hundred gold. Flynn too gained three hundred gold from the adventure. And by sheer luck, he found a lesser soul gem on their way. It took a lot of convincing on his part before Roy would take it.
And with that, all the draugrs were killed off.
Covered in blood, Flynn huffed and puffed, looking around him. On the ground were the fallen draugrs, and he was merely nicked in the battle. The wounds on his shoulder and legs went away with a health potion.
And after all these battles, the Dragonborn grew from an inexperienced country boy into a slightly experienced adventurer. One who could hold his own in minor battles. And it filled him with a little pride. The Dragonborn turned his attention to his companion, who was not out of breath at all.
It was all thanks to him that this journey was a smooth one, the Dragonborn thought. Or I would’ve been dead ten times over. And he’s a noble man. I barely did anything in battle, but he still shared half the earnings with me.
A hint of worship flickered in the Dragonborn’s eyes. In his very limited life experience, none could measure up to Goldeneye. His friend was a noble soul and a master of magic, swordplay, and archery. He’s probably stronger than Ulfric Stormcloak, who was rumored to have killed High King Torygg in a fair duel.
And then, a sudden thought popped in his mind. Perhaps Goldeneye might be able to kill the dragon that terrorized Helgen. The Dragonborn clenched his fists. And I’m going with him.
***
Through the winding tunnels our adventurers went. Before long, they were faced with a chamber. A chamber with layers of cobwebs covering its entrance. The adventurers stopped in their tracks, and Roy put a finger to his lips.
The witcher stared at the thick layers of cobwebs extending from the low ceiling that hung overhead. They were gleaming a menacing white, and each strand of the web was as thick as a rope. The weaver’s huge.
With his witcher senses activated, Roy saw a pair of colorful ribbons hanging in the air, passing through the cobweb. One of those ribbons spoke of the scent of a human, while the other… was of something else. Something that smelled of blood. Hurt. Injured. And it smells like a bug. Weak scent, though.
With ease, the witcher cut through the cobwebs and gesticulated in the air. Yet another illusion of him leapt into existence. It took the hand crossbow and followed Roy’s hell hound as it charged into the cobweb-infested chamber.
A thick, ropelike strand of spider silk cascaded into the hall, and a furry spider the size of a buffalo slid down its silk. The spider was grayish-white, with eight legs spread about it, supporting its gigantic body. The spider held up its two front legs, swinging them around like a grim reaper wielding its scythe.
There was a maw attached to its head, and a pair of pincer-like fangs—bigger than its head—jutted out at the maw’s end, clasping together like someone snipping a pair of scissors.
‘Frostbite spider
Gender: Male
Age: Twelve years old
HP: 210
Strength: 15
Dexterity: 17
Constitution: 21
Perception: 12
Will: 7
Charisma: 3
Spirit: 5
Skills:
Poison Web Level 5: Shoots out a ball of web at a target. The web is resilient, sticky, and hard to destroy. Contains paralyzing poison that activates on skin contact.
Curse of the Frozen (Passive): Gains an increased fifty percent resistance to deep cold and ice magic, but takes fifty percent increased damage from fire attacks.’
***
The spider hurtled down toward the petite hell hound, but the creature deftly leapt to the side and evaded the attack. But the spider was not done. It shot out a ball of white goo at the hell hound, and the goo exploded like a little bomb. The web rained down on the hell hound, wrapping it up tightly like a cocoon.
Before the spider could do anything, illusion Roy fired off a bolt straight at the weaver’s abdomen. An explosion of blood splattered the ground, and it staggered to the side.
While the monster was distracted, the hell hound burned the web off with a stream of fire. The creature regained its freedom, but now its skin shone an eerie green. The green of poison.
The hell hound did not have much longer to exist. A guttural growl escaped its snout, and with the last of its strength, the hound pounced onto the spider’s head. It clawed and chomped away, drawing blood with every strike, splattering the walls and ground with smatterings of the spider’s blood.
The spider let out an ear-piercing shriek and quickly climbed up its silk. The hell hound was crushed against the ceiling, leaving only a patch of blood behind. Once again, it returned to Oblivion.
Illusion Roy fired two more bolts, both slamming against the ugly head of that spider. The monster fell, howling in pain. But it quickly bent its legs and pounced at illusion Roy, trying to destroy it with all the strength it could muster.
But then, another blue ball of light illuminated the air. Then, a second hell hound was summoned, and right away, it shot a ball of fire at the pouncing spider. At the same time, Roy finally made his move. Quickly, he made complex gestures, and a crimson rune bloomed like a rose. The flames of fury burned across the air and crashed into the spider’s abdomen once more.
And the spider’s belly splattered. It splattered into tiny little pieces like an exploding watermelon. Except the things that rained down were no rind or melon. They were, instead, the innards and blood of the spider.
Even with half its body blasted to bits, the spider still lived, but not for long. Roy’s flames slithered up to its head, and the spider, in its death throes, tried to move away, but it was for naught. Barely a moment later, it fell motionless. Yet the flames burned on.
‘Frostbite spider killed. EXP +200. Level 12 Witcher (4300/12500).’
***
Roy whistled, and his hell hound—covered in green—quickly approached him and rolled around like a good little pup. The witcher gave it some belly rubs to reward its performance, then he cocked his eyebrow.
“Help! Save me, please! Let me out of here! Please!” A desperate shout for help arose from the corner of the chamber.
Flynn approached the source of the cry, while Roy quickly cut off a bulging venom sac and harvested a white spherical item that resembled a mutagen before reconvening with the Dragonborn.
Like most of the room, this corner was covered in cobwebs of the dead spider. But within these cobwebs lay a gaunt-looking man. Aside from his face, every inch of his body was wrapped up in the spiderweb, and naught a finger of his could be moved.
The sight of these newcomers delighted him, but then he froze. One of them… One of these adventurers looked different. His eyes were multicolored, and he possessed better looks than most if not all beings he had seen. And he was staring at the man weirdly. The man had a feeling he was being stared at like he was prey. The thought of that alone sent a cold shudder down his spine.
***
 

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