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The Last Pillarman Chapter 12 — The Stone Mask
🕑 Added 2025-11-15 05:18:22 +0000 UTC
The procession moved slowly along the dirt path leading back to Whiterun, the early morning light casting long shadows over the battlefield's survivors. At the front, Irileth marched with her sword strapped to her side. Beside her walked Freyja. Behind them, the dragon's massive bones were dragged on a makeshift sled cobbled together from broken beams and charred wood. The skeletal remains scraped against the ground, their sheer size a haunting reminder of what had been faced.
Of the fifty warriors who had left Whiterun, fewer than ten returned. The rest lay scattered among the ruins of the watchtower, their charred and broken bodies left to the crows. Among the fallen was Halder, the captain of the guard, a loss that hung heavily over the remaining soldiers. His voice had been their anchor in the battle, and now it was gone.
But the men and women who walked behind the sled weren't just survivors. They were witnesses to something extraordinary. Whispers had already begun, carried like the wind through the group. Freyja, the woman who had killed the dragon, who had absorbed its very soul, was no longer just a companion in arms. To them, she was something more, something divine.
As they approached the shanty town outside Whiterun's gates, a crowd began to gather. The peasants and beggars who called the outskirts home had heard the roaring flames in the night, had seen the distant glow of fire and destruction. They knew what it meant: a dragon had attacked, and these few had returned.
The cheers started slowly, a few scattered voices calling out in relief and admiration. Then it grew louder, swelling as more people gathered along the path. "The Dragonborn!" someone shouted. Others joined in, the cries becoming a chant.
Freyja's steps faltered for a moment. She glanced at Irileth, who continued walking, her face unreadable. The shouting grew louder as the group entered the makeshift streets of the shanty town. Dirty faces, thin and gaunt from hunger, lit up as the dragon's bones came into view. People pointed, children ran alongside the sled, and hands reached out toward the survivors as if touching them might grant some of their strength.
Farther back, Tsun sat in the shade of a weathered carriage. His cloak was drawn tightly over his body, shielding him from the sun. Though his burns had begun to heal, the process was slower than it should have been. The dragon's fire had done something to him, something he didn't fully understand. For now, he stayed at a distance, letting the others take the lead.
The survivors reached the gates of Whiterun, where guards stood at attention, their expressions a mixture of awe and disbelief. One of them stepped forward to greet the group but stopped mid-step when his eyes fell on Freyja. He looked at her as though she were made of something otherworldly.
The gates creaked open, and the procession moved through the city streets. Inside Whiterun, the atmosphere was entirely different. The streets were crowded with townsfolk, and word of the Dragonborn had already spread. People pressed in from all sides, shouting praises and questions.
"She killed it!" one of the returning guards shouted to the crowd. "She shouted it out of the sky!"
"She absorbed its soul!" another added, his voice reverent.
"The Dragonborn has returned!"
Freyja's face was pale, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. The voices around her felt like a storm, pressing against her from every direction. She hated the attention, the way people looked at her as if she weren't human anymore. More than that, she was still reeling from what had happened.
Her mind raced with images of the dragon, the light pouring into her, the shout that had erupted from her throat. The knowledge that now floated in her head felt foreignm. She didn't know what to make of it. She felt unworthy of the attention, of the title they whispered with such reverence.
Irileth cast her a sidelong glance as they passed through the market square. "Keep your head up," the dark elf said quietly. "It's better to face them than to hide from it."
Freyja didn't respond. She couldn't. Her chest felt tight, her breathing uneven. She wanted to disappear, to crawl into some quiet corner and make sense of what had happened. But instead, she walked on, the cheers of the crowd ringing in her ears. As they neared Dragonsreach, the shouts faded, replaced by the footsteps of the guards accompanying them. The group stopped at the base of the stairs leading to the Jarl's hall. Freyja glanced back at the city, at the faces of the people who had followed them there. She saw hope in their eyes, a hope she didn't feel she deserved to have caused.
Tsun, still leaning against the carriage outside the gates, watched her from a distance. His eyes took in the tension in her shoulders, the way she avoided meeting the crowd's gaze. He could see the weight of it all pressing down on her, but he knew better than to approach.
The wooden doors of Dragonsreach creaked open, revealing the brightly lit hall inside. Long tables were set with platters of food, pitchers of ale, and cups already brimming with wine. The surviving guards and companions were ushered in by servants, who led them to the tables. Jarl Balgruuf stood near his throne at the far end of the hall, his arms crossed as he waited for the group to enter.
The survivors walked in slowly. Many were limping, their armor scorched and battered. Freyja and Irileth led the group, their faces marked with exhaustion. The dragon's battle-scarred bones had been left outside, too large to bring into the hall. M
Balgruuf stepped forward as the group approached, raising a hand. "Welcome home, heroes," he said. "You have done Whiterun a great service this day. Because of you, this city still stands. Because of your bravery, this dragon is no more."
A servant motioned for the survivors to sit, and the soldiers and companions were led to the tables. Plates of steaming food were placed before them, and cups were filled and refilled without hesitation. They were treated like kings, their efforts rewarded with more food and drink than many of them had ever seen.
Freyja took her seat at one of the tables near the center of the hall. She grabbed the cup placed before her and drank deeply, the cool liquid soothing her dry throat. She set the cup down and leaned back, her eyes focused on nothing in particular.
Tsun dropped into the chair beside her, the wood creaking under his weight. He glanced at her as he reached for his own drink. "You alright?" he asked.
Freyja didn't meet his eyes. "Fine," she said quickly.
Tsun raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip from his cup before setting it down. "That was convincing," he muttered.
She didn't respond, staring into the distance as the noise of the hall filled the air. Laughter, the clinking of cups, and the chatter of relieved soldiers surrounded them, but Freyja seemed far away from it all.
Meanwhile, Irileth approached the Jarl, leaning close to his ear as she began to recount the events of the battle. Her words were quiet, but Balgruuf's expression shifted as he listened. His eyes widened slightly, and his mouth tightened as the weight of her report sank in.
When Irileth finished, the Jarl straightened and took a deep breath. He stepped forward, raising his cup high as the noise in the hall died down.
"My friends," Balgruuf began, his voice commanding attention. "Tonight, we celebrate not only the victory over a dragon but the survival of Whiterun itself. You have faced a terror unlike any other and returned to tell the tale. You are heroes every single one of you."
The hall erupted in cheers, cups raised and clattering together as the soldiers and companions roared their approval.
Balgruuf waited for the noise to subside before continuing. "But there is more to this tale than bravery. Irileth has told me what happened on that battlefield. The Thuum was spoken, the Voice of the Dragonborn!"
A wave of murmurs swept through the room, and all eyes turned to Freyja. She stiffened, her hands gripping the edges of the table as Balgruuf stepped closer, his gaze fixed on her.
"The Divines have not abandoned us," the Jarl said. "They have sent us a champion. A Dragonborn to protect Skyrim in its time of need!"
He raised his cup again, his voice ringing out over the hall. "All hail the Dragonborn!"
The soldiers and companions echoed his words. "All hail the Dragonborn!"
Tsun, sitting beside Freyja, smirked. He raised his own cup lazily and said, "All hail the Dragonborn," but the tone of his voice was teasing.
Freyja turned to him, her eyes narrowing. Without a word, she punched him in the arm.
Tsun chuckled, rubbing the spot where her fist had landed. "What? I'm just joining in."
Freyja shook her head, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She reached for her cup again, taking another long drink as the cheers in the hall continued. The Jarl raised his cup again, his grin wide as he addressed the room. "Tonight, we feast until we pass out! Eat, drink, and make sure the mead flows freely! You've all earned it!"
The hall roared with approval, fists pounding on tables, and cups clinking as everyone dove into the feast with reckless abandon. Platters of roasted meat, trays of fresh bread, and bowls of hearty stew were passed around, the food disappearing almost as quickly as it arrived. Servants hurried to refill pitchers of mead and wine, the tables never empty for long.
Freyja sat stiffly at her place, her fingers wrapped tightly around her cup. She had barely touched her food, picking at the bread in front of her while the noise around her grew louder. Her eyes scanned the room, taking in the laughing soldiers, the Companions swapping exaggerated tales of the battle, and the guards already on their third or fourth cups of mead.
Tsun, sitting beside her, leaned over and nudged her with his elbow. "What's with the long face?" he asked, his voice wuiet enough that only she could hear.
"I'm fine," she muttered.
He didn't buy it for a second. "Come on, Freyja. This is the best part of being a hero."
She shot him a sideways glance, her brow furrowing. "What are you talking about?"
He grinned and leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially. "The celebrations."
Before she could protest, Tsun grabbed a fresh cup from a passing servant and shoved it into her hand. "Drink," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Freyja hesitated, staring down at the golden liquid sloshing in the cup. She sighed, muttering, "Fuck it," under her breath before tilting her head back and downing the drink in one go.
The mead burned as it went down, but the warmth that followed was almost comforting. She slammed the empty cup on the table and shouted, "Another!"
Tsun laughed, clapping her on the back hard enough to make her wince. "That's the spirit!"
From there, the feast spiraled into chaos in the best way possible. Soldiers and Companions alike drank themselves silly, their laughter echoing through the hall. Someone started singing a bawdy tune, the lyrics getting more inappropriate with each verse, and soon half the room was joining in. One of the Companions stood on a table, stomping his boots as he danced to the rhythm of the song. Another group had started an arm-wrestling contest, the losers forced to down their cups in one go.
Tsun and Freyja found themselves pulled into the middle of it. Freyja had lost track of how many drinks she'd had, but the tension in her shoulders was gone, replaced by a loose, warm feeling. Tsun grabbed her hand and dragged her onto the open floor where others were dancing.
"I don't dance," she protested, though her words were slurred.
"You do now," Tsun shot back, spinning her clumsily.
The two of them stumbled through the steps, laughing as they bumped into others. Tsun's size made him an awkward partner, but he somehow managed not to crush her toes. Freyja, for her part, gave up trying to look graceful and let herself enjoy the moment, twirling and laughing as the music grew louder.
At one point, a fight broke out between two soldiers over who had killed the most bandits. Punches were thrown, tables overturned, and the rest of the hall cheered them on. When the fight ended with both men collapsing into a heap, everyone laughed and raised their cups in their honor. As the night wore on, the noise began to fade, though the energy in the room never fully disappeared. Freyja found herself standing outside on the balcony of Dragonsreach. She leaned on the railing, looking out over the city below, the lights of Whiterun flickering like distant stars.
Tsun joined her, his cloak hanging loosely around his shoulders. He leaned on the railing beside her, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Neither of them spoke at first, the silence between them comfortable.
Finally, Freyja broke the quiet. "I didn't think I'd laugh tonight," she admitted.
Tsun chuckled. "You needed it," he said simply.
She nodded, her fingers tracing the edge of the railing. "Maybe."
Tsun glanced sideways at Freyja as she nodded, her fingers idly running along the edge of the stone railing. The moonlight spilled across her face, illuminating her sharp features. Her hair, which had come loose in the battle, hung in messy strands around her face. There was dirt smeared across her cheek, and her lips were chapped from the cold wind. Yet somehow, the combination made her look beautiful, like a true shieldmaiden. He wasn't sure what it was about her, but she looked damn good like that. The moonlight made her skin look pale and smooth, the curve of her neck drawing his eye without him even realizing it. Her chest rose and fell with small breaths, and Tsun caught himself staring at the way her shirt clung to her figure, still damp from the heat of the feast hall.
"What are you staring at?" she asked suddenly.
"Nothing," he replied quickly, looking away. He scratched at the back of his neck, feeling uncharacteristically awkward.
She snorted softly, her gaze drifting back to the city below. After a pause, Tsun broke the silence. "So, what are you gonna do now?"
She shrugged, her shoulders lifting lazily. "I don't know. People keep saying the Greybeards called me—that's what that sound was earlier, apparently."
Tsun raised an eyebrow. "The Greybeards?"
Freyja nodded. "They're these monks, I've only heard stories about them. They're supposed to know about the Thu'um. People are saying they can teach me how to use it properly, and more about being the Dragonborn." Her voice carried a hint of sarcasm when she said "Dragonborn," but her eyes betrayed a flicker of unease.
"Sounds like a good place to start," Tsun said, leaning against the railing.
Freyja glanced at him. "What about you? Where are you going?"
"Winterhold," he said without hesitation.
She raised an eyebrow. "Winterhold? Why the hell would you go there?"
Tsun smirked. "The College of Winterhold. I want to learn more about magic. You know, figure out what else I can do besides clapping my hands and switching places with things."
Freyja tilted her head, her expression skeptical. "You're serious?"
"Dead serious," he said. "I mean, if I have magic, I figure I might as well see what it can really do."
Freyja's gaze lingered on him for a moment, her lips pressing into a thin line. She turned back toward the railing, her fingers gripping the edge tightly. The thought of Tsun leaving unsettled her in a way she hadn't expected. They hadn't known each other long, but his presence had become familiar.
"I guess we'll be going our separate ways then," she said quietly.
Tsun nodded, his expression unreadable. "Looks like it."
A silence settled between them, heavy and awkward. Freyja stared at the lights of Whiterun, her mind racing. She hated goodbyes, always had. But this one felt different. It felt like she was losing something important, even if she couldn't put it into words.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she turned around, stepping closer to him. Tsun looked at her, confused, as she reached up and cupped his face with her hands. Her palms were rough, calloused from years of handling a sword, but they felt warm against his skin.
"What are you—" he started to ask, but she cut him off, leaning up and pressing her lips against his.
The kiss was firm and roughh, her lips moving against his with a hunger that caught him off guard. He froze for a moment, his brain struggling to catch up, but then his hands moved on their own, wrapping around her waist and pulling her closer. Her mouth was warm, tasting faintly of mead and the salt of dried sweat. He felt the press of her body against his, the way her fingers gripped the sides of his face, holding him there like she didn't want to let go. His heart thudded heavily in his chest, and for a brief moment, the weariness of the day melted away.
When she finally pulled back, her face was flushed, her breathing unsteady. She looked up at him with a faint smile, her thumb brushing against his cheek before she dropped her hands.
"I hope to see you again someday, Tsun," she said softly.
And then she turned and walked back inside, leaving him standing there on the balcony.
Tsun blinked, his hands still resting at his sides where she had left them. He stared at the door she had disappeared through, his brain replaying what had just happened. Slowly, a dumbfounded grin spread across his face, and he let out a short laugh, shaking his head.
...
Tsun stood in Farengar's cluttered study, his arms crossed as he leaned against the wall. The Jarl stood in the center of the room, a tired expression on his face. Farengar was clearly reluctant, clutching the stone mask tightly to his chest.
"I haven't had nearly enough time to study this artifact," the mage protested. "Its origins, its purpose—there's so much we don't know! To give it away now would be a waste of its potential."
Jarl Balgruuf frowned, his patience wearing thin. "Farengar, you've had years to 'study' that thing, and I've yet to see anything useful come of it. You can find another bauble to keep you entertained. The mask is his, hand it over."
Farengar hesitated, his grip on the mask tightening. His eyes darted between the Jarl and Tsun, the latter standing silently.
"You don't understand," Farengar tried again. "This could be the key to—"
"Enough," the Jarl interrupted. "I've given my word. It belongs to him now."
With a heavy sigh, Farengar relented. He stepped forward reluctantly, holding the mask out to Tsun like it physically pained him to let it go. Tsun stepped away from the wall and took the mask with both hands, his fingers brushing against the carved surface. A faint smile formed on his face as he looked down at it, his eyes tracing the intricate details.
This was it. The first step toward his evolution. The possibilities coursed through his mind. He could feel it, he was close now.
Farengar muttered something under his breath, but Tsun ignored him. The Jarl handed him a satchel next, its weight pulling slightly at his arm as he took it. He opened it briefly to glance inside, spotting several thick books bound in leather. Foundational magic texts, just as he had requested. As well as a nice amount of gold and silver coins.
"Consider these a token of thanks," Balgruuf said, clapping Tsun hard on the back. "You've done more for Whiterun than we could have ever asked, and you're always welcome here. Skyrim could use more men like you."
Tsun nodded, his smile faint but genuine. The Jarl reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wooden seal, identical to the one Freyja had shown before. He placed it in Tsun's hand.
"This marks you as a friend of Whiterun," Balgruuf said. "It'll allow you to come and go as you please, and if you ever need anything, my people will help you."
"Thank you," Tsun said simply, slipping the seal into his pocket.
Balgruuf inclined his head, then turned and left the room, his heavy boots echoing down the hall. Farengar lingered, his arms crossed as he eyed Tsun warily.
"What's so important about that mask?" Farengar asked after a long moment.
Tsun looked at him, the faint smile still playing on his lips. "Let's just say it's part of a... personal project."
Without waiting for a response, Tsun left the study, the mask clutched tightly in his hands.
He made his way through Dragonsreach, nodding at the guards who saluted him as he passed. Eventually, he reached the guest room the Jarl had offered him. It was modest but comfortable, with a bed, a small table, and a window overlooking the city, though the curtains were drawn. Tsun closed the door behind him and locked it. He placed the satchel of books on the table, but his attention remained on the mask in his hands. He turned it over, his fingers brushing against its smooth surface.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, the mask resting on his lap. With a deep breath, he brought it to his face and pressed it against his skin. The fit was perfect, the mask settling into place like it had been made for him. Tsun made a shallow cut across his palm using a sharp nail. Blood welled up, and he pressed his hand against the mask. The blood seeped into the grooves of the carvings, disappearing as though the mask were drinking it.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, without warning, spines shot out from the inside of the mask. They pierced his skull, driving deep into his brain. Tsun's body jerked violently, his hands clawing at the mask as pain exploded in his head. His vision blurred, his limbs spasmed, and he collapsed onto the bed. His breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps before his eyes rolled back, and everything went black.
(AN: So here we are. The stone mask in our boys possession and on his way to evolving into his ultimate form. Though he'll need to have something else to act in stead of the super aja. I wonder what else could be used 🤷🏻♂️. Anyway I hope you enjoyed it, this essentially the prologue ending. Now Tsun will be going out on his own and building his power.)
