Sunday, February 19, 2012

The Greybeards: Not a ZZ Top Coverband.

Going to meet the Greybeards.

Dealing in dragon killings is risky business; all I got for my troubles was a lousy dragon soul, and the opportunity to buy a house in Whitemane for 5,000 gold.  The real-estate business would be a buyer's market considering that now potentially any property is at risk of a dragoning, you'd think.  But no, you want that house?  Pay for it.  (So I did.)

Portal 2 Space Core sold seperately.
So I go about setting up my new house, which comes with my very own Housecarl.  I don't know what that means really, other than some very annoyed woman in armor follows me around all the time.  I told her to sit tight, because if I used her as a follower, that would technically be against the rules.  Also told her to hold all my stuff, because she is oathbound to carry my burden.  Well good news lady; here's 15 sets of iron armor I just made.  Go nuts on that oathbinding.  Oath it up all you want.

High Hrothgar: its like going to your grampa's but with death on the way there.
So; now as a homeowner, I have to go visit the Greybeards.  These are the last guardians of The Word.  Basically they are your generic wizened prophets living on the highest mountain in the game, where they spend their time not-talking because they have become so BAW$$ in Dragonspeaking, that a very whisper from one of these guys could destroy someone.  So basically its a bunch of elderly Black Bolts, puttering around all day, waiting for the destined Dragonborn to show up.  No biggie.

What they don't tell you at the Jarl's courtroom, is that the way to High Hrothgar is filled with nearly every considerable permutation of wild life possible, all hell-bent on making you their latest addition to their layer of winter fat.  Sabrecats are little more than bears with a smidgen less health, and a faster attack speed.  On account of them being cats.

One thing they don't have, is an immunity of getting stoutly punched on the nose, like regular cats.  I went through pretty much all my cheese wheels during and after this fight just to get back up to snuff.  Contents of my bag started to look less like a delicious variety of foods, and just a slowly rotting produce section, overflowing with cabbages.

Picturesque view, when not being mauled by wildlife.
About half-way there; damn Greybeards and their living in the fucking attic of the world.  I've braved the depths of a draugr-filled barrow, the ferocity of a dragon, and the masses of giant nightmare-inducing spiders, surely there's nothing that will impede my progress!  Nothing at all! No--

ICE to meet you!
Mothafukkin' ICE TROLL.  Super strong, super fast, and health regeneration.  The normal Fantasy/Mythology trope holds true, even in Skyrim: trolls have an aversion to fire.  However, that is out of question, as it would require me to abandon my strict regimen of only hitting things with my hands.  I was doing good, too!  I was almost there before I tripped and fell face first onto this guy.

I ended up running around the entire mountain trying to put enough distance between us to be able to regroup and come up with a new strategy.  I couldn't wage a war of attrition, as his health regeneration kept him topped up completely if I did not put constant pressure on his healthbar.  I couldn't either simply plant my feet and wail on him until one of us dropped, because it was clear I would be the one dropping every time.  By the time I reached the Greybeard's doorstep, all I had left were some grilled leeks, and some wine.  Broke-ass Dragonpuncher.  At least I'm not homeless.

Citizen Sniiiiiiips!
I bet this guy's got a whole bunch of cash he's willing to be violently parted with!  Next step: doing the Greybeards' errands (while staying off their lawn).

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