The wind howled like a scorned lover as Gilgamesh crested the jagged ridge, his boots crunching through the crust of snow that clung to the ancient stones of Shearpoint. Below him, the valley sprawled like a skeletal hand, its fingers clawing into the frosted peaks. Above, the sky hung heavy, a slate-gray shroud threatening snow. His breath misted in the air, and he grinned, the familiar ache of anticipation coiling in his chest.
*"Ah, Shearpoint. Home to Draugr with worse breath than a skooma addict and one very cranky Dragon Priest. Try not to die before I finish my popcorn,"* chirped the System, its voice dripping with synthetic sarcasm.
Gilgamesh rolled his eyes. "You're a real cheerleader, you know that?"
*"Cheerleader? Please. I'm the announcer at your inevitable faceplant. Now get moving—Krosis isn't getting any deader."*
The path to the summit was a gauntlet. Ice-slicked steps, crumbling underfoot, gave way to a courtyard littered with bone shards and rusted weapons. Draugr emerged from shadowed alcoves, their hollow eyes glowing blue. Gilgamesh didn't bother unsheathing his sword.
**Yol**—the first word of Fire Breath—ripped from his throat. Flames erupted in a cone, searing the undead to ash. The stench of charred flesh mingled with the metallic tang of snow.
*"Nice barbecue. Next time, invite me. I'll bring marshmallows."*
"Shut up and mark the quest," Gilgamesh muttered, stomping past the smoldering remains. The Word Wall loomed ahead, its surface etched with glowing, indecipherable script. But it wasn't the wall that held his attention.
It was the coffin.
The stone lid trembled, then exploded outward. Krosis rose in a whirl of dust and malice, his gilded mask gleaming beneath tattered robes. The Dragon Priest hovered inches above the ground, staff crackling with hoarfrost.
"** Zu'u unslaad! Zu'u nis oblaan!**" ( I am eternal! I cannot die!)
Gilgamesh cracked his knuckles. "Yeah, yeah. Heard it all before. Let's skip the monologue."
Krosis struck first. A blast of icy wind erupted from his staff, tearing across the stone. Gilgamesh lunged sideways, frost grazing his arm.
*Health: 320 → 298*
"Cold enough for you?" the System quipped.
"Hilarious." Gilgamesh retaliated with **Yol**, but Krosis dissolved into mist, reappearing atop the Word Wall. The fire scorched empty stone.
*"He's using the environment. Cheeky bastard."*
"Noted." Gilgamesh sprinted, boots skidding as another frostbolt shattered the ground where he'd stood. He scaled the wall, fingers clawing at crevices, and lunged at Krosis. The priest vanished again, leaving Gilgamesh to eat stone.
*Health: 298 → 275*
"**Fus!**" The Unrelenting Force shout burst forth, not aimed at Krosis but at the wall itself. Stones ruptured, and the Dragon Priest stumbled, his mist-form flickering.
*"Improvisation! Points for creativity, minus points for subtlety."*
Gilgamesh didn't wait. **Shadowstep** carried him behind Krosis in a blur, his dagger plunging toward the priest's spine. The blade sparked against an invisible ward.
"**Zun haal viik!**" (Weapon disarm!)
The dagger flew from his grip.
*"Oops. Should've read the fine print on that ward."*
Gilgamesh ducked a frostbolt, his Magicka flaring. **Pyromancer's Fury** ignited his palms, and he hurled fireballs in rapid succession. Krosis's ward shimmered, buckling under the assault. The priest snarled, staff raised to the sky.
The temperature plummeted.
Hail fell in lethal shards. Gilgamesh rolled behind a pillar, the ice slicing his cloak to ribbons.
*Health: 275 → 240*
*"Ever considered a career as a pincushion?"*
"Not now!" He chugged a health potion, the bitter liquid searing his throat.
*Health: 240 → 290*
Krosis descended, summoning ice wraiths—translucent serpents that coiled around Gilgamesh's legs. Frost crept up his armor.
*Stamina: 280 → 220*
"**Iiz!**" Frost Breath spilled from Gilgamesh's lips, freezing the wraiths solid. He shattered them with a kick, then charged, Magicka burning.
*Magicka: 410 → 340*
A firebolt struck Krosis's chest, melting gold into slag. The priest hissed, retaliating with a vortex of wind that hurled Gilgamesh against the Word Wall.
*Health: 290 → 210*
*"Ragdoll physics are fun, right?"*
Gilgamesh spat blood. "Peachy."
Krosis hovered lower now, cracks spiderwebbing his mask. Gilgamesh's vision swam, but he grinned. The Dragon Priest was tiring.
He feinted left, then **Shadowstep**-d right, grabbing his lost dagger mid-leap. The blade, still glowing from **Pyromancer's Fury**, sank into Krosis's shoulder.
The priest screamed, frost exploding outward. Gilgamesh flew back, skidding across the stones.
*Health: 210 → 150*
*Magicka: 340 → 290*
*Stamina: 220 → 180*
"**Yol… Toor Shul!**" Krosis rasped, the incomplete Fire Breath washing over Gilgamesh.
*Dragon's Resilience* activated, scales shimmering across his skin. The flames parted around him.
*"Showoff,"* the System muttered.
Gilgamesh surged forward, dagger in one hand, fire in the other. He vaulted over a frostbolt, slammed the blade into Krosis's chest, and unleashed **Yol** point-blank.
Krosis dissolved into ash, his final scream echoing into the wind.
**Victory**
*"Quest Updated: Hunt the Word Walls (2/5). Ding! Level 26! Don't get cocky."*
He lay there, watching the snow settle, as warmth flooded his veins—a level-up's healing surge.
The last embers of Krosis's disintegrating corpse spiraled into the iron-gray sky, carried by a wind that smelled of burnt ozone and ancient spite. Gilgamesh knelt in the snow, his breath ragged, fingers trembling against the hilt of his dagger still buried in the ashen remains. The Word Wall behind him pulsed faintly, its carved letters bleeding residual magic into the air like ink dissolving in water.
*"Congratulations! You've successfully turned one spooky ghost priest into a pile of fancy glitter,"* the System announced, its voice a grating mix of mock applause and static. *"Rewards: One (1) shiny new Shout, a mild case of frostbite, and… oh look, existential dread! Collect them all!"*
Gilgamesh spat a glob of blood-tinged saliva onto the snow. "You're *really* leaning into the 'annoying' part of 'annoying gamer system,' aren't you?"
*"It's in the job description. Now, want your loot or not?"*
A surge of warmth flooded his veins as the System's notification seared across his vision:
**QUEST UPDATED: Hunt the Word Walls (2/5)**
**New Word Wall Located**: *Dead Men's Respite (Falkreath Hold – "Disarm")*
**Warning**: *Contains 90% more skeletons, 100% more Nordic puzzle traps, and one very disappointed bard.*
Gilgamesh groaned. "Dead Men's Respite? That's a week's ride south. And since when do bards count as enemies?"
*"Since forever. That one's got a lute sharp enough to filet a horker. But hey, look on the bright side—you've got *options*."* Another notification flickered:
**Active Quests**:
- *Train Lysia to Apprentice-Level Destruction Magic (Progress: 78%)*
- *Retrieve Redguard Heirloom (Markarth – 800 Septims)*
- *Hunt the Word Walls (2/5)*
**Suggested Route**: *Whiterun → Markarth → Falkreath. Because apparently, you enjoy hiking.*
He stood, wincing as his bruised ribs protested. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind the familiar, hollow ache of a fight that had tilted too close to loss. His eyes lingered on the **Retrieve Redguard Heirloom** quest. *Markarth*. A city of stone and secrets, where even the shadows had agendas. But first…
"Lysia's still in Whiterun," he muttered, sheathing his dagger. The apprentice mage—sharp-tongued, fiercely loyal, and dangerously close to setting Dragonsreach on fire if left unsupervised—had been his responsibility for few months now. Her progress in Destruction Magic was solid, but her patience was thinner than a skeever's whisker.
*"Ah, right. The pyromaniac prodigy. You're *sure* you didn't pick up a babysitting quest by accident?"*
"She's not a babysitting job," Gilgamesh snapped, shrugging off his scorched cloak. The fabric crumbled in his hands, frost and fire having reduced it to threadbare confetti. "She's… an investment."
*"An investment in property damage, maybe. But fine. Let's backtrack to the city of bland mead and boring Jarls. Try not to die of nostalgia on the way."*
**STATUS**
**Name**: Gilgamesh
**Level**: 26
**Health**: 380/380
**Magicka**: 460/460
**Stamina**: 330/330
**Shouts Mastered**:
- *Fus (1/3)*
- *Yol (1/3)*
- *Iiz (1/3)*
- *Throw Voice (1/3)*
**Perks**: *Silver Tongue, Arcane Theorist, Shadowstep, Pyromancer's Fury, Dragon's Resilience*
The System chuckled. *"Not bad. Now get up. Lysia's gonna yell at you for being late."*
Gilgamesh stood, dusted snow off his armor, and smirked at the sunrise. "Worth it.
The trek down the mountain was a gauntlet of biting wind and half-frozen mud. Gilgamesh kept his hood up, the fur-lined edge frayed but still clinging to the remnants of its enchantment against the cold. Below, the pale ribbon of the White River cut through the tundra, its waters glinting like shattered glass under the weak sun.
He'd barely reached the foothills when the wolves found him. Three mangy alphas, their fur matted and eyes glowing faintly yellow—a sign of something darker than hunger driving them.
*"Local wildlife! How *quaint*,"* the System chimed. *"Try not to get rabies. I hear it clashes with your aesthetic."*
Gilgamesh didn't bother with Shouts. His sword slid free with a hiss, the blade still flecked with Krosis's ash. The first wolf lunged; he sidestepped, gutting it mid-leap. The second snapped at his leg, teeth skidding off his greaves. A quick pivot, and his boot crushed its skull. The third hesitated, and that was its mistake—**Fus** tore through the air, ripping the beast apart in a spray of bone and viscera.
*Health: 380 → 365*
*Stamina: 330 → 310*
*"Efficiency rating: 7/10. Points deducted for lack of flair."*
"Flair's for bards," Gilgamesh muttered, wiping his blade on a patch of lichen. "And we already established they're the enemy