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Description

The ancient pines whispered secrets as Halotar, the Dragonborn, stood before the imposing gates of Jorrvaskr. His eyes narrowed, fueled by a simmering rage that had brewed for years. Njada Stonearm, the fiery Nord warrior, had been a thorn in his side since the day he joined the Companions. Her disdain for him cut like shards of ice.

“Dragonborn,” she’d sneer, her voice dripping with contempt. “You’re nothing but a milk-drinker. You’ll never be a true warrior.”

But the Dragonborn defied expectations, rising through the ranks. Now, as the Harbinger, he held the power to shape the fate of the Companions. And he harbored a plan, one that would rid him of Njada forever.

In the training yard, Njada sparred with Vilkas. Her axe whirled through the air, sweat glistening on her forehead. Dragonborn approached, feigning camaraderie.

“Njada,” he said, his voice smooth as honey. “I seek your aid. An ancient shrine to Boethiah lies hidden in the mountains, a secret that could strengthen our order.”

Njada scoffed, wiping her brow. “Why should I care about your quest, Dragonborn ? You’re not my Jarl!”

“True,” Dragonborn replied. “But envision the glory! Songs will echo our names, the Harbinger and the fierce Njada Stonearm, united in purpose.”

And so, their uneasy alliance began, fueled by distrust and curiosity, as they embarked on a perilous journey to uncover the shrine’s ancient secrets. They eventually arrive there, and Njada's suspicion beings to grow.

She eyed him warily. “What’s the game, Dragonborn? Why would you bring me here?”

“No game,” he assured her. “Only truth. The altar will reveal your destiny, the path you were meant to walk.”

Njada clenched her fists, anger flaring. “Enough riddles. What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Dragonborn repeated. “Just step onto the altar.”

She hesitated, then stepped forward. The moment her boot touched the stone, invisible chains wrapped around her limbs, pinning her in place. Panic flashed across her face.

“Dragonborn!” she shouted. “What have you done?”

“I’ve given you purpose,” he said, drawing his blade. “Boethiah demands sacrifice. You, Njada Stonearm, will be that sacrifice.”

Her eyes widened, realization dawning. “You hate me that much?”

“Hate?” Dragonborn laughed. “No, Njada. I respect your strength. But sometimes strength must be tempered with cunning.”

He raised his sword, the blade catching torchlight. “May Boethiah grant you a warrior’s death.”

And with one swift stroke, he severed Njada’s ties to this mortal realm. Her lifeblood spilled onto the altar, mingling with ancient runes. The ground trembled, and a voice echoed through the chamber, a whisper of power and darkness.

“Well done, Dragonborn,” it murmured. “Your loyalty is rewarded.”

The Dragonborn wiped his blade, his heart cold as ice. Njada Stonearm was gone, consumed by the Daedric Prince. But the Companions would thrive, and Harald would bear the weight of betrayal.

Njada Stonearm awoke with a gasp, her senses assaulted by the acrid stench of sulfur and the distant screams echoing through the ashen sky. She lay on a jagged rock, the ground beneath her roiling as if it were alive. The air was thick, suffocating, and she struggled to draw breath.

Attribution’s Share, the realm of Boethiah, stretched before her; a nightmarish landscape that defied reason. Jagged spires of obsidian pierced the horizon; their tops lost in rolling mists. The ground was a mosaic of cracked stone veins with molten lava pulsing beneath the surface. And everywhere, twisted souls writhed in torment; their forms half-submerged in the ground; their eyes hollow and empty.

“Welcome,” a voice whispered—its thousand voices layered upon one another: “Welcome to the heart of betrayal, Njada Stonearm!”

She pushed herself up on trembling limbs: “Where am I?” she demanded, her voice raw.

“Attribution’s Share,” the voice replied: “a place where treachery is currency; loyalty is a fool’s dream. Here, the very ground shifts beneath your feet, mazes of deceit confound even the most cunning minds.”

Njada’s gaze swept the horizon; the spires seemed to lean toward her, whispering secrets she couldn’t decipher: “Why am I here?”

“Because you were chosen,” the voice said: “Chosen to serve Boethiah, to dance upon the precipice of power and madness. You were sacrificed, Njada Stonearm. Now you present this victory to the stones.”

She stumbled forward, her boots scraping against the fractured ground: “Sacrificed? By who?”

“By the Dragonborn,” the voice hissed. “The one you disdained. He played you like a pawn, lured you to the altar, and whispered your name to the Daedric Prince. Now, here you are, lost, broken, and utterly insignificant.”

Njada’s anger flared. “I’ll find a way out,” she vowed. “I’ll defy this wretched place. I won’t be a pawn any longer!”

But the voice laughed, a chorus of mockery. “Defy? Oh, Njada, you know nothing of defiance. Here, defiance is a blade turned inward. Every step you take, every choice you make binds you tighter to this realm.” And despair? Despair is the sweetest nectar, the only sustenance you’ll find."

She stumbled toward a distant archway, an entrance to a maze that twisted upon itself, its walls shifting like smoke. “I won’t give in,” she whispered. “I won’t become like them.”

“You will,” the voice promised. “In time, you’ll forget the sun, the wind, the taste of mead. You’ll crave labyrinthine policies, the enigmatic whispers. You’ll yearn for the touch of molten ground—the searing pain that reminds you of existence.”

Njada Stonearm walked into the maze, her resolve crumbling with each step. The screams grew louder, and obsidian spires leaned closer. She glanced back, but the entrance had vanished, the way out forever lost.

And so, she descended further into the abyss, her footsteps swallowed by fractured stones. In Attribution’s Share, hope was a mirage, and despair was the only truth.

Description

The ancient pines whispered secrets as Halotar, the Dragonborn, stood before the imposing gates of Jorrvaskr. His eyes narrowed, fueled by a simmering rage that had brewed for years. Njada Stonearm, the fiery Nord warrior, had been a thorn in his side since the day he joined the Companions. Her disdain for him cut like shards of ice.

“Dragonborn,” she’d sneer, her voice dripping with contempt. “You’re nothing but a milk-drinker. You’ll never be a true warrior.”

But the Dragonborn defied expectations, rising through the ranks. Now, as the Harbinger, he held the power to shape the fate of the Companions. And he harbored a plan, one that would rid him of Njada forever.

In the training yard, Njada sparred with Vilkas. Her axe whirled through the air, sweat glistening on her forehead. Dragonborn approached, feigning camaraderie.

“Njada,” he said, his voice smooth as honey. “I seek your aid. An ancient shrine to Boethiah lies hidden in the mountains, a secret that could strengthen our order.”

Njada scoffed, wiping her brow. “Why should I care about your quest, Dragonborn ? You’re not my Jarl!”

“True,” Dragonborn replied. “But envision the glory! Songs will echo our names, the Harbinger and the fierce Njada Stonearm, united in purpose.”

And so, their uneasy alliance began, fueled by distrust and curiosity, as they embarked on a perilous journey to uncover the shrine’s ancient secrets. They eventually arrive there, and Njada's suspicion beings to grow.

She eyed him warily. “What’s the game, Dragonborn? Why would you bring me here?”

“No game,” he assured her. “Only truth. The altar will reveal your destiny, the path you were meant to walk.”

Njada clenched her fists, anger flaring. “Enough riddles. What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Dragonborn repeated. “Just step onto the altar.”

She hesitated, then stepped forward. The moment her boot touched the stone, invisible chains wrapped around her limbs, pinning her in place. Panic flashed across her face.

“Dragonborn!” she shouted. “What have you done?”

“I’ve given you purpose,” he said, drawing his blade. “Boethiah demands sacrifice. You, Njada Stonearm, will be that sacrifice.”

Her eyes widened, realization dawning. “You hate me that much?”

“Hate?” Dragonborn laughed. “No, Njada. I respect your strength. But sometimes strength must be tempered with cunning.”

He raised his sword, the blade catching torchlight. “May Boethiah grant you a warrior’s death.”

And with one swift stroke, he severed Njada’s ties to this mortal realm. Her lifeblood spilled onto the altar, mingling with ancient runes. The ground trembled, and a voice echoed through the chamber, a whisper of power and darkness.

“Well done, Dragonborn,” it murmured. “Your loyalty is rewarded.”

The Dragonborn wiped his blade, his heart cold as ice. Njada Stonearm was gone, consumed by the Daedric Prince. But the Companions would thrive, and Harald would bear the weight of betrayal.

Njada Stonearm awoke with a gasp, her senses assaulted by the acrid stench of sulfur and the distant screams echoing through the ashen sky. She lay on a jagged rock, the ground beneath her roiling as if it were alive. The air was thick, suffocating, and she struggled to draw breath.

Attribution’s Share, the realm of Boethiah, stretched before her; a nightmarish landscape that defied reason. Jagged spires of obsidian pierced the horizon; their tops lost in rolling mists. The ground was a mosaic of cracked stone veins with molten lava pulsing beneath the surface. And everywhere, twisted souls writhed in torment; their forms half-submerged in the ground; their eyes hollow and empty.

“Welcome,” a voice whispered—its thousand voices layered upon one another: “Welcome to the heart of betrayal, Njada Stonearm!”

She pushed herself up on trembling limbs: “Where am I?” she demanded, her voice raw.

“Attribution’s Share,” the voice replied: “a place where treachery is currency; loyalty is a fool’s dream. Here, the very ground shifts beneath your feet, mazes of deceit confound even the most cunning minds.”

Njada’s gaze swept the horizon; the spires seemed to lean toward her, whispering secrets she couldn’t decipher: “Why am I here?”

“Because you were chosen,” the voice said: “Chosen to serve Boethiah, to dance upon the precipice of power and madness. You were sacrificed, Njada Stonearm. Now you present this victory to the stones.”

She stumbled forward, her boots scraping against the fractured ground: “Sacrificed? By who?”

“By the Dragonborn,” the voice hissed. “The one you disdained. He played you like a pawn, lured you to the altar, and whispered your name to the Daedric Prince. Now, here you are, lost, broken, and utterly insignificant.”

Njada’s anger flared. “I’ll find a way out,” she vowed. “I’ll defy this wretched place. I won’t be a pawn any longer!”

But the voice laughed, a chorus of mockery. “Defy? Oh, Njada, you know nothing of defiance. Here, defiance is a blade turned inward. Every step you take, every choice you make binds you tighter to this realm.” And despair? Despair is the sweetest nectar, the only sustenance you’ll find."

She stumbled toward a distant archway, an entrance to a maze that twisted upon itself, its walls shifting like smoke. “I won’t give in,” she whispered. “I won’t become like them.”

“You will,” the voice promised. “In time, you’ll forget the sun, the wind, the taste of mead. You’ll crave labyrinthine policies, the enigmatic whispers. You’ll yearn for the touch of molten ground—the searing pain that reminds you of existence.”

Njada Stonearm walked into the maze, her resolve crumbling with each step. The screams grew louder, and obsidian spires leaned closer. She glanced back, but the entrance had vanished, the way out forever lost.

And so, she descended further into the abyss, her footsteps swallowed by fractured stones. In Attribution’s Share, hope was a mirage, and despair was the only truth.