Ibn's Wallhouse

Ibn's Wallhouse
Grey Quarter
4E205

PREFACE


Herein lies my faccount of the time spent in the Dungeons of Windhelm, and my eventual release followed by the months spent thereafter. Much of this account is hazy due to the physical condition I was in, and most mucw'names have been amended save for the few I have recalled. I do not know if what I have witnessed was at all real, but for the time being I do know I was a prisoner and I do know I was released sometime last year. Be that as it may, I don't know what this offers to anyone except some sort of catharsis for myself.

CHAPTER I

Four years. Four long, cold, and harrowing years.

I spent my time in the black cells of Windhelm Dungeon without too much incident during that time, and during that time I made both a friend and an enemy. The cells of Windhelm were barren things in terms of prison folk. At least those of the living ilk. The Civil War brought coffins and an indisputable violence to the city. Between the Windhelm Butcher, and the typical racial escapades of the Dunmeri and Argonians as well as the hate crimes perpetuated each time a Nord was sent to the gallows, the dungeons of Windhelm housed enough coffins to rebuild The Grey Quarter into something more comfortable for those who dwelled there.

Its the least I can say, considering my fathers house is in the same state its always been: disrepair and reeking of both sujamma and Dunmeri spices. The dim red and orange glows from the imported Vvardenfell lanterns still light my way, as they did when old Garo taught me to read and write. I've grown to appreciate that nostalgia in those cells. That and the more comforting moments of calm before I was exiled from The Monastery of Stendarr. The memories from my time there, and the lessons of the fist are what kept me sane and alive in those cells. Being able to dent steel and shatter stone with your bare hands was an immensely helpful skill. Had a younger me been imprisoned, I know I wouldn't of gotten out alive, or at least whole.

The cells were very cold, very damp, and very putrid. We were given a fresh bucket every few weeks, and the slop they gave us wasn't entirely without rot. It wasn't until two and a half years in they started using the argonian bodies to feed us. They didn't want to feed the various human bandits, and the Dunmeri people would see all their people burned in their Hundred Lantern Way. Suffice to say, the Nords treated us like Kings it seemed when they finally let us devour meat. It was very sadistic at first, but I never really liked Argonians all that well. They taste just like their character: oily, tough, and overall a slimy and gamey morsel that you'd rather use as a last resort than ever make a regular affiliation with let alone familiarity. Nevertheless, the food gave us strength. Before we had been eating what I think was ash yams and leeks, though I am not quite sure as it was mashed into oblivion and then conjured back into whatever infernal cauldron the cook used. On the plus side, they did give us bread and mead. No water at those depths: it would be only mere minutes before the cup would ice over. I suppose the alcohol made up for the frostbite; those dungeons were meant to house Nord criminals. What furs we had were disgusting rags covered in filth and so tough it was a battle to get them to wrap around you on those especially cold nights. I was jealous of the mage in the cell next to mine could conjure up a small fire, let alone free himself. "Bad idea", he would say. I don't blame him; trying to make your way up those steps through those narrow dark halls only to be privy to the massive throne room of Ulfric Stormcloak was not an ideal escape route.

There was The Mage, who I think was a pyromancer considering all he ever did use was that one fire spell (although he did once muster a fireball to light a torch across from his cell to give him light.) and babble on about the methods of making fire with your hands. He had it in his mind we could revolt and escape with a great fire storm, but forgot that if we criminals were mages then we'd not be criminals in the first place. That said, the mage whispered to us during those evil hours telling us tales about misadventures for alchemy samples and run-ins with frost trolls on expeditions to ruins. I wanted to tell the fellow how many frost trolls I've fought, roughly a dozen in total, and how I took them down with my fists. Never did though; I had enough grudges about me already. There was one fellow, some Nord whose name escapes me, who I knew from childhood. I recall he was drafted not long ago and was always messing around with a sword. Guess he became a bandit or something, since he was in for murder. Or so he said. It's not at all surprising how the Nords would keep alive their bandit brethern, and considering the Civil War, I'd think they would be forcing them to join their cause by penalty of death. The strangest one I met was my cellmate, an old Khajiit named Rah'Doza.

Rah'Doza was a massive khajiit. The was only one other khajiit I have ever encountered as large, and that was that black-handed Tony fellow. Rah'Doza spoke very bluntly, moved quickly when he wanted, but mostly sat in the same spot most days with his eyes closed. He wasn't as monstrous in build as Tony was, rather a very slender and matted sort of cat. The mane on him was long, as were his whiskers. Days would pass and he would sometimes be in the same positon, sitting, and purring with his eyes closed. I'd have delirious times, those first few months, thinking he was a statue. I'd pray to him, thinking he was a shrine. I'd scream at him, thinking he was Bha. It wasn't until the forth or fifth month I was there that he spoke to me.

 "Rah'Doza wanders, what does this 's'wit' mean?"
 "...?"
 "S'wit. You say it with much anger in your voice, is it bad?"
 "It's an insult."
 "The insult, is it for all Khajiit?"
 "No. It's just an insult."
 "Rah'Doza wandered many Cyrod swamps near Bravil and once walked in Valenwood. Rah'Doza sells rugs in Hammerfell. Rah'Doza never heard such a word."
 "It's Dunmeri."
 "Ah. Why do you know such a word?"
 "Raised by Dunmer."
 "Rah'Doza likes you now. Rah'Doza thought he would have to kill you."

I refrained to speak to the Khajiit for the next few weeks. We each got our food, our drink, and barely disturbed one another. There were many prison guards who dealt with various incidents among the other prisoners, but our cell saw no real monitor what so ever. It was understood by Rah'Doza and myself that we were better off not getting into a scuffle, and as such, rumors perpetuated between the other cell mates. Nary a word or action between us, and still rumors persisted. Looking back, I suppose it was to the benefit for the both of us.

CHAPTER II

Perhaps it was some sort of irony that the person I was imprisoned with was a Khajiit. I've met my share of seedy merchants and backwater skooma dealers, but none so profoundly polite and wise as Rah'Doza. I had heard tales of Goutfang and the many techniques of the south sands, but to bear witness to such a master so far north indeed bears noting. I was only familiar with the techniques of the Monastery of Stendarr; methods of the fist that required the dormant energy of the body to be channeled into a blow. The same principles also applied to the other extremities of the body, as Xidix was fond of kicks. Brucius used a combination of both. I myself favored the fists but also liked to utilize my elbows and shins with an emphasis on jumping and quick terrible strikes. I was never up to par with either of them, as they seemed to be more inclined to magic to aid them. Healing spells and the like were used often, so much so that the youngest at the Monastery used solely restoration spells and was very adept at it.

Rah'Doza's methods were very strange to me. Growing up in the Grey Quarter, I did learn how to defend myself; fists at five, knife at nine, and sword at 11. These habits of combat that I took up over the years slowly grew out of style with me. Why waste money on sharpening a sword or buying a new one when a murder weapon was just as good as scrap once used? Not to say I had killed people during my younger years save for an Argonian or two, but the majority of my time was spent indoors either guarding a passage to some Dunmeri Hundred Lantern Way or in the fighting pits to allow myself the possibility of breaking bread. Still, fighting pits and dock life are no comparison to the methods taught to me by the Monks of Stendarr, and even they hold no comparison to the techniques that Rah'Doza posessed. His was claw and sand, a strange whirlwind of spinning upon an arm and thrashing like a ribbon with the other four. I say four, because even the tail was utilized; something which made translation difficult as we taught one another. From what I can recall of each style, I'll describe as follows:

 Goutfang - Just as its name implies, the technique relies heavily upon distraction from the jaws of the khajiit. A very graceful but quick succession of feints combined with quick jabs and kicks from other limbs leaves the opponent dazed long enough to bite. A very lethal assassination technique, I was told. Khajiit make use of their natural agility and flexibility with this technique, and the fact they hold claws on all four limbs save one is a major grappling point to this style. The tail is usually utilized as both a club and a distraction point. Hooked grapsing movements with the arms in legs define this technique as one reaches forth and recoils many times with both paw and claw. Rolling is commonly used to maintain distance and flow of energy.

 Soft Goutfang - Again, this one relies upon distraction, but much more for defensive non-lethal combat. Claws are retracted and the open paw is more or less a padded club with which to knock unconscious the opponent. The same distraction methods of feints and the like are used but only when the opponent lashes out. A great weave takes place around the opponent or opponents in order to subdue them and confuse them. Makes heavy use of leg sweeps and ground-related manuveurs to strike the lower half of the body. The tail again comes in play as a very effective follow-up to most leg sweeps. A sort of third leg, one could say.

 Whispering Claw - A very esoteric method whose execution seemed to depend on the position of the moon in the sky to dictate certain movements. One night Rah'Doza would fight like a great graceful hurriance with each blow precise and with no flaws in opening. Others would be dirty fights in the dark with tooth and claw, and even dirt to the eyes. The was a certain subdued energy about any execution of this style, mostly because I still can't wholly correlate or understand the link between the moons and the styles executed. Perhaps it has to do with the Khajiiti pantheon of their gods?

The only style I knew, or at least modified to my own tastes, stems from the Mercy Style I learned at the Monastery. Contrary to its name, the style of Mercy is merciful in the sense that it utilizes movements that would benefit its opponent in their haste to Oblivion.Brucius utilized it to rush opponents and through persistent meditation, dodge their blows and land devestating strikes upon them. It was almost unreal, until I realized he often wore intricate steel gauntlets. The true fury of this style came from Xidix, a master acetic from parts unknown. Hers was a simple one strike method, and such was her training that one needed to be able to move silently and quickly without being hit. Not unlike the method practiced by Brucius, but hers relied more upon pure precision rather than rushing into a fray.

My own technique uses basic contortions my surrogate father, Ibn, taught me. An old ashlander turned Redoran after the Red Year, my father was an ascetic throughout most his life. Contorting around a chitin blade and at one point using it as a means of locomotion via standing upon the hilt and jumping, his bizarre ways bled off on me in more way than one. The bo staff is a favorite of mine, especially for its reach and weight, but the caestus remains my most treasured means of combat. Using frequent jumping and lunges at my opponent, a good dose of feints and distractions proves ill as I usually go for the spinal column or lower legs. Having a decent robe on proves great distraction, but given my own choice I opt for a more ragged and up front approach to combat. A swaggering mockery that disguises my own ability with my terrible Sujamma habit has proved time and again that deception is as good as a well placed fist. When one moves as a drunken netchiman, the people believe you to be a smear on society, and in that lie is how you win. A good performance of stumbling and recovering only to deliver a quick succession of point blank blows leaves an opponent either hurt and confused, or dead.

It wasn't until our final day as cellmates that I asked Ra'Doza what he was imprisoned for.

Chapter III

 As much as I pride myself in my inclusion to the slice of Dunmeri culture present in the Grey Quarter, I know little of the strange lands south. The great woods home to cannibal elves; the harsh poison swamps to the far southeast home to those disgusting Argonians; further southwest I understand there is a great golden isle with giant birds made from sunlight that the pisskins mount. The sands of the far south are was interest me now, as my time with Ra'Doza allowed me a brief glimpse into such a strange land. The khajiit painted a noble picture of his homeland; great sands to the north of province and an even greater jungle to the far south along the coast. I don't need to tell you the geography of Elsweyr; there are plenty of maps in the small corners of the world to decipher for that.