Civil War Aftermath Chapter 3: Season's End pt3

[Witchking of Angmar]

Ivarstead After Moot

 

"Psst, hey. Hello, mister? Hey, what's all the fuss?"

"Will you get away from me, damn woman! I'm trying to watch the sky!" 

The Nord woman in question looked around to try and see what the soldiers gathered in Ivarstead were gawking at. All she saw was a lot of grey cloud and the occasional star peering through. 

Silly Nords and their sky worship.

"What was that?"

"Oh, did I say that aloud? Ha, well it's true. See, I'm visiting here from Cyrodiil..."

"Ah, say no more. I know your lot. You know nothing of your own people's customs. See, those soldiers and all their different colored banners? They are men of the Jarls of Skyrim. They're here for a moot. Well, them and the foreigners but never you mind them. This moot is the first to be held atop High Hrothgar. Some of the men claim they saw something in the sky. A dragon! And some big magical explosion just before it appeared!"

"A dragon?" said the woman. "I've heard dragons plagued Skyrim. Is it so odd a sight?"

"At a moot, yes! Did you just arrive? Did you not hear the voices? The Grim Ones say they heard Jarl Baldur's voice, but they don't know about the other, or others. We don't know what's going on, but there's a lot of theories being spread around. Rumors and lies of course, but that some say they saw a dragon, that's definitely the most exciting one! I even hear talk of the Ash-King turning into a dragon, like ol Olaf One-Eye!"

"Pfft, complete nonsense!" she said.

"Now see here, this ain't just some case of superstitious Nords. I met the Dragonborn in person you know! Walked right into my inn and helped me with an elf pretending to be a ghost right over there in that ancient crypt. I heard the Dragonborn's thu'um, and the Greybeard's on a regular basis! I know what the thu'um can do. You wait and see, we Nords are capable of many great things!"

The Nord woman walked away uninterested, as if she wasn't listening. "I know who won. You'll congratulate Baldur for me on his way down, will you?"

"What? What are you talking-..." he turned his head only to find that the woman had disappeared entirely. 

A day went by after all the shouting had ceased. The small town was fit to burst with visitors from all around the hold. All around Skyrim even. All were growing more and more impatient, huddled around the path towards High Hrothgar alongside the soldiers, local and foreign, even amidst the hard cold rains of new Spring.

It rained heavily enough that even the scouts along the path did not see the pair of Solitude guards approaching them with something large in tow between the two. Two Morthal guards followed behind them, helping them carry whatever burden they held.

When they were finally visible, Ivarstead guards swarmed them, peppering them with questions. 

"Leave us be," said the first to the right. "We've a duty to our Jarl to complete. We've not time to talk. Jarl Elisif is dead."

That made the handful of guards quiet for at least a moment. As they attempted to proceed, another stepped in their way once more.

"What happened? Who is King? Was there a duel? Was Elisif fighting?" The others laughed at that, earning an icy glare from the two men from Solitude.

"Baldur Red-Snow is High King. Brund Hammerfang is dead."

From a distance beneath her cloak, the Nord woman watched as news spread like wildfire. It was true after all. Baldur Red-Snow, was High-King of Skyrim. The Nords had their Ash-King, and war would soon follow.

"So it begins," she said, her voice changing, growing lighter, and yet more masculine. But only barely. Her skin changed from pale white to golden as Tyrian's illusion magic began to fade. It was time to get to work.

Tyrian didn't take long to arrive at their camp, the cave entrance masked by illusion magic. There was the smell of burning pork coming from the fire, a welcome thing indeed. Normally such a thing would not be permitted, the smell after all could lead someone to their hideout. But his small outfit of four hadn't chanced a cooking fire in days, and they were literally starving and weak.

Especially with orders to keep their prisoner well fed first. He'd need his strength.

"How's the boy?" said Tyrian. "You haven't been having fun with him in my absence have you?"

"Tried," said a Justiciar nursing a chunk of ham. "Aldera is dead for it."

"You killed him? Good. I warned him I wouldn't permit any of that. Not till we get back to Valenwood." said Tyrian.

"I didn't kill him, the boy did. He's dangerous. Moreso than the reports claimed. He tried having a little fun with him since he was so weak. Ended up getting bit in the neck. Bled out so quick his healing magics couldn't save him I guess. When we found him we found his dagger shoved up his..."

"Okay, I get it. You searched him for any other weapons he might've gotten off Aldera I assume?" asked Tyrian.

"Didn't need to, he tried charging us with Aldera's sword. Nearly killed him myself, but he's stabilized now if you want to see him."

"Auriel take me, this is what's left us. Pathetic," said Tyrian spitting. "Anyone else tries that and they'll get worse than death. We must live, we at least must live long enough for the general to pick us and the package up."

"And? Did you feel it too? Is our target really dead?" asked the Justiciar.

"It's hard to determine. That explosion disturbed the transcription, but before it broke entirely, the power source in Brund's possession seemed to go dormant. Now the signal is weak, and leaving the mountain. But it seems to be split almost into two... maybe even three. Whatever the case, we will follow it. And acquire Brund's body, if we can."

"So you think he's dead," asked the Justiciar. "That's a relief. What a brutish fiend... it would not have been very pleasant dealing with the likes of him again. It'll be years before I get used to using my left arm for everything." The Justiciar lifted his right arm with his left hand before letting it drop.

"Relief... I'm not so sure about that. That power source, whatever it was... it was immense. If Brund really is dead, then how in the Eight did Baldur manage to beat him? I saw him fight in Windhelm. He was formidable, but manageable. Brund was something else entirely. A real threat to the Dominion. Maybe the biggest Skyrim's ever had aside from the accursed Dragonborn."

"What about the mage?" said the Justiciar.

"Ah yes, he is still the most significant threat whether Brund is dead or not. And yet... the Greybeards lie atop High Hrothgar. Baldur has been with them awhile. It is not impossible that his power has grown," said Tyrian.

"So, a lord of ice in the south, and a lord of fire in the cold north. Both gearing up to wage war with us. Doesn't look good. Assuming their Emperor really is this mystery mage of yours. The one that beat you..."

"He is," said Tyrian. "I can't prove it, not yet, but I know it. How many powerful Nord mages of the Emperor's like do you think are just roaming around Tamriel? I know what I'm talking about. I fought him personally. Which is why we must do our part to win the arms race. Now, I'll see to the boy before we head out tomorrow morning. First we head out to the closest anomaly nearby. Then I'll see about finding whatever remains of our force. We'll need their help to transport Daric and whatever else we find, unless Lord Adorin finds us first."

"As you say," said the Justiciar as he continued stuffing his face. Even starving, elves of Alinor ate with far more grace and finesse compared to the boors that called this cold rock home.

***

Jjgmir, Bjorn and Bolsh didn't say a single word the entire time Baldur traveled with them. They heard the shouts, the rumbling of thunder, same as everyone in Ivarstead. Now, they could feel the heat of his thu'um at their back as sure as they felt the cold rainfall upon their sorry heads. Bolsh almost regretted reporting in. They could’ve just pretended like they didn’t see a thing, but Jjgmir of course insisted as soon as they saw Baldur walking down the path from High Hrothgar.

The only thing that broke up the awkward silence was Bolsh's occasional sneezing and the sound of thunder. Which did nothing for the anxiety they felt now. Bolsh didn't say it, but he almost, just a teeny tiny bit wished Brund won, just so they wouldn't get the chewing out of their life. Or worse.

"We really screwed this," said Bjorn finally daring to speak.

"I know. Just please for the love of all that is holy, don't speak Bolsh. I swear, and I mean I'm dead serious. You say one word, I'll spill your blood. Understand?"

Bolsh didn't reply. 

"Good."

"Shut up and keep walking," said Baldur.

"Aye sir," Jjgmir replied.

By the time they arrived to the sight of Maori's death, the rain ceased and the sun began to peek through. It was as though Magnus wanted him to see, to show everyone what a traitor's death looked like. Traitor to elven-kind.

Maori's skin was ripped from his back, flaps impaled by his own ribcage, as though Brund tried to cover them with it. His lungs hang over them, shriveled now like dried fruit and dangling freely in the breeze. His arms were stretched out, tied to the branches above as though flying. And crows happily picked away at what little flesh remained.

There was no mistaking him for the other dead Thalmor elves. Few who came were his size, fewer had his markings. And his Baldur knew almost by heart.

As Baldur stood, taking in the sight, the rain began to pick up once more as the sunlight covered Maori with a heavenly yellow glow. The crows, his bone, and flesh, it all burned as Baldur used his thu'um to create his friend's pyre.

The three behind him watched as he reduced his friend to ash, saving the skull which he held in his hands as he collapsed to the ground as he held it to his head. This went on for some time before he finally collected the remains in a sack and tied it to his waist. 

"Maybe we should try and cheer him up," said Bolsh. "This is getting super depressing. High King, or Ash-King, whichever, I-"

Before he could even get going, Jjgmir drew his dagger and cut Bolsh across his face. It wasn't a deep cut, but it was enough.

Baldur observed this, but said nothing about it. He just stared at Jjgmir... and kept staring for an uncomfortably long time.

"I apologize for him, sir. He came out his mother ass first. Explains alot of things, believe me," said Jjgmir.

"Any other day, any at all, and you three would be dead."

"Yes sir," said Jjgmir.

"Unfortunately you three are the last ones to see Daric. So, Falgrum here will be tagging along with you to find my boy."

"Sir?" said Jjgmir confused. Looking around, they finally noticed the Nord as he came walking up from behind. "You were following us the entire time?"

"The entire time," said Falgrum with a smile. 

"He's one of the best trackers we've got," said Baldur. "If Daric is in these parts, Falgrum will find him. If he's not then he may be in Markarth. I'll send men that way for that purpose and to determine the city's situation with Brund in charge. You're to follow his orders, Jjgmir. And if you screw up this time, not only are you demoted... I'll burn your corpse and add it to this bag to keep Maori company. Don't think I won't."

"Yes sir," said Jjgmir. "I won't fail you again."

Baldur walked past him and said not a word. Falgrum followed beside him.

"You smell that by any chance?" asked Falgrum.

"Aye, I do. The air's wrong. Like when a powerful mage is channeling a spell," said Baldur. "I know it all too well. We're being watched. Have been for a while now. Think you can follow them?"

"If I know where to look for their footsteps, perhaps. I got it covered. By the way, what did you talk with Ingun about? You two were in that inn a long time..."

"It's not like that," said Baldur. 

"Oh? What's it like then?" said Falgrum, not bothering to hide his grin.

Baldur wasn't as amused but he smiled anyway. "You know where my heart lies."

"Better tell Skyrim that, then. You'll keep having suitors otherwise till you name a queen."

"Rebec doesn't desire to be queen. And neither does Ingun, I'm sure. There's nothing there, Falgrum. In fact, I get the feeling she may have had a thing for my brother. Speaking of, she was giving me information about Boldir. Things in Riften were more complicated than people thought. Maven and Boldir had history... Maven, of all ******* people, Boldir." Baldur shook his head in disbelief. "If he'd just sent for me, sent for my aid, things might've ended differently! But I see now. Things were out of his hand. Maven threatened his family. MY family. Things were out of control in the Rift...”

"So you're saying, what, Maven instigated the attack? Does that really change anything? He still killed Stormcloaks, and sacked Riften didn't he?"

"...Aye, that he did. But I'm not exactly in a position to judge, get me?" said Baldur.

"Aye, that I do. But it's not you who's going to judge him in the end. Politically speaking it might end up being out of your hands," said Falgrum.

"The **** it is! I won't say it again, I don't give a **** about politically speaking! I am king. No one's judgement on this matter counts but mine!" said Baldur, teeth flashing.

"Of course," said Falgrum. "I'm just saying... don't let it be more trouble to you than it's worth. You did a lot of planning for this war. I'd hate to see the elves get an advantage over us because of Boldir distracting you."

"Enough council," said Baldur. "I'll worry about the war. You worry about finding my ******* son. The three jackasses over there claimed they couldn't find a body or any trace of him walking away. You?"

"Sort of. I found where they said he might've fallen. The strange thing is the trail just... ends. As though he were picked up and swooped away or something. Either the area I found belonged to a large deer picked up by a dragon, or Daric was lifted and taken away. I have found a set of prints somewhat nearby. They were faint... as though masked maybe by magic, but I could still see them. They also disappeared, but I think I have an idea of what's going on."

"Good. I see the others catching up, we'll be leaving for Kyne's Watch. You need any of them to help?"

"No. These three should be enough," said Falgrum. "Really I'd have preferred going alone, but I understand you don't want to take the chance."

"Fine then," said Baldur. "Please, find my boy Falgrum. Alive or not, I need to see him. I won't believe he's dead until I see a corpse."

"Understood," said Falgrum. "I'll see what I can do. If I find a trace of him, I'll send for more men in Ivarstead to help with the search. There's still enough Grim Ones in Riften nearby for me to call on as well."

Baldur nodded as the men approached. As far as anyone else was concerned, neither Falgrum or Baldur was aware of anything unusual or out of the ordinary.

But Tyrian wasn't stupid. He hadn't heard the conversation, but Baldur and the big redheaded Nord with him were too nonchalant for his liking. Even the three idiots that followed them seemed more on edge than they'd normally be. By now he knew these Grim Ones had built up a strange tolerance to their illusion magic. Perhaps it was how heavily warded their armor was, but in either case, some of their ranks were able to almost sense when magic was being used in their presence. A talent he'd thought reserved for mages alone.

It was something many of them had learned the hard way when being hunted like dogs. They were cocky, arrogant. And they paid for that mistake when the Grim Ones fell on them like hounds chasing down foxes.

He kept his distance, using magic to better his vision so that he could watch them from afar. Baldur seemed... older somehow since the last time he saw him in Windhelm. It had been a few months true, but to his magically altered eyes, he seemed as though he'd aged three times that. 

As Baldur departed with the rest of the Grim Ones, Tyrian continued to study the Redheaded Nord. Something about him seemed strange as well... there was a keenness in his eyes unlike most humans. A cleverness to it. It was hard to describe what he saw in the man's one good eye, but it sent chills up his spine. Especially when he turned and seemed to be looking directly at him...

Tyrian hid behind a tree, waiting a few moments for his nerves to settle before he dared another look. When he had, the same eye was still looking at him.

Tyrian used his recall spell immediately, returning directly in front of Daric's cell. He was sure of it now. Whatever that man in Baldur's company was, he was sure he wasn't normal. 

"You look like you've seen a Daedra," said a weak voice from the cell.

Smiling, Tyrian said, "Close. I saw your new king."

"Who?" said Daric, running up to the cell door. Before he could, Tyrian sent him flying back, pinned to the wall. As he entered the cell, Tyrian closed the door behind them.

"Tsk tsk, you really should invest in some warding or magic resistance. Keep your distance from me, boy. I'm not as stupid as Aldera."

"Just tell me, who won the moot? Is Baldur still alive?" asked Daric.

"He wears Ulfric's crown, so it can safely be assumed he won," said Tyrian. "Oh don't look so happy, boy. You won't see him alive anyway. If you live long enough, Baldur will have been killed by my hand."

"That'd be a neat magic trick," said Daric, smirking. "Considering right now you're on the run from him. I can see it in your face. He's got you scared."

"It's not him that has me worried," said Tyrian, his eyes not even looking at Daric any longer. Daric didn't know what to make of that, but before he could one of his captives interrupted.

"Sir, the third anomaly... it's moving."

"What?" said Tyrian, dropping Daric and leaving him alone once more, though he could still hear them. 

"What do you mean it's moving? Are you sure?" said Tyrian.

"Yes, I'm positive. The transcriptions confirm it. Maybe the Nords found his body and are moving it for burial? He is a Jarl after all."

"Not for very long he wasn't," said Tyrian. "I don't pretend to know much of their customs, though. In any case I'll be leaving immediately to see for myself what's going on. I saw Baldur in person. There's a trace of the power source around him but he has nothing on him, I'm certain. He can be safely ignored. But it does confirm he came in contact with it. He also has changed somehow. He seems to have aged slightly."

"Humans age far faster than we do," said the Justiciar. "Everything from stress to a bad diet makes them age quicker."

"Perhaps," said Tyrian, not buying the explanation. "In any case, I'm leaving immediately. Stay away from the boy in my absence."

As the elves spoke, Daric kept an ear open the entire time. It was all he could hope to do, gather as much information as possible so he could tell Baldur once he made his escape. It was the only way he could keep from falling to despair, to act as though his time to escape would be just around the corner. 

Hearing that Baldur was alive, and king was all he needed to spark his resolve. He was going to escape. Not only that, he'd bring Baldur Tyrian's head.

Just as soon as he'd gotten the energy to stand on his two feet. The mage named Tyrian not only kept him pinned, he also drained his magicka and stamina to feed his own as he held him with such a powerful yet draining spell. One thing was for certain, if he was going to kill that mage, he was going to need to be very careful indeed. Judging from conversation he'd overheard, he'd managed to kill two Grim Ones alone. It was going to be much more difficult than killing the jackass that tried to rape him. 

But he was going to, all the same. He'd see Baldur alive alright, and he'd make Tyrian pay for standing in his way. Forcing himself to relax once the taste of blood came from his teeth clenching his lip, Daric closed his eyes and forced himself to sleep. The gods would reveal a way. He knew it. And if not, he'd take out as many of these elves as he could before death greeted him.

[Witchking of Angmar]

Rebec

Kyne's Watch

“Oarsinger, I’ve been thinking.”

“Aye, you’ve got that pinched look on your face. I get that when I’m about to take a big...”

“Oarsinger! This is serious.”

“A morning shit is a very serious matter, admiral. So get on with it.”

“I don’t have to... dammit, I want you to be the new admiral. My baby is still small so we’ll need a new one when we got to war, and the men might as well get used to it now.”

For once Rebec had shut Eilif’s mouth. The big Nord with the slightly hunched shoulders paced slowly across her office. “You’re not joking? Don’t you already have a vice admiral?”

Rebec shook her head. “Sigrid’s a capable woman, she’ll make a good administrator keeping our supply lines going. But you’re the fighting sailor we need. Even in a short time, I can see that. The whole navy can see that. The job should be Mazoga's, but she refuses. So you're it."

Eilif pulled at one of the jeweled braids in his beard. “I’m not even from Skyrim. I was considered a pirate not long ago.”

“That didn’t stop them from making me admiral. You leave the politics to me. You're acting High Admiral, Mazoga is your vice admiral, and Sigrid is Head Quartermaster, effective imediately. Any questions? Good. Now get out, I'm a busy woman."

When Rebec looked up, expecting Eilif to be gone, he was instead hanging from her door jamb, swinging back and forth and grinning at her. He dropped to his feet, let out a loud whoop, then a few more she heard all the way down the pier.

News spread fast, so Rebec had her fill of smoothing out ruffled feathers and answering stupid questions. Two days later she was crossing from fort to home when Eilif came loping up to her. “We’re going to celebrate tonight, Red.”

“You know, you won't thank me when you're down there trying to keep the imps from drowning themselves and us.”

“Not about that. I had a message from home. The rest of my family is coming, with all our warrior kin. Your navy- our navy- is about to get much stronger. They’ll be here this afternoon.”

Rebec admitted she was curious enough that she went down to the quay when she heard the horns blaring. Brightly painted dragon ships eased into the harbor. Most let down their dinghies, but one pulled in to the pier and she saw Eilif striding down to meet it. A line of fur-clad people streamed off the ship, carrying baskets and crates of supplies. At last a tall blonde woman in a bright blue dress and red robe stepped off the gangplank. Even at a distance, Rebec could tell by her bearing that she was someone important.

Sure enough, she saw Eilif kneel down and kiss the woman’s hand. Her other hand rested on his head as if to bless him. But then the sailor stood and grabbed her shoulders, pulling the woman into a lusty kiss, his hand sliding down her back to grab her hindquarters while the kiss went on. As the couple separated and the woman began walking along the pier towards the town, two other, younger women appeared, one dark and one light haired. Rebec gaped as Eilif grabbed one and then the other, kissing and manhandling them. They gathered around him, hanging on him.

Meanwhile the first woman took no notice, striding confidently towards Rebec. She had a thick blonde braid and wide-set blue eyes, and was a full head taller. An axe was slung on her belt and a small jeweled dagger sat at her breast, hanging from her neck on a gold rope. “You must be the holy woman here. Thank you for coming out to greet me. I am Arle Eivarsdottir.” She gestured behind her. “Those are Eilif’s second and third. You don’t need to know their names, they’re not important. Shall we go to your bog? I am volva, I want to make offerings for this venture right away. Don’t worry, we have the slaves and livestock.”

Rebec couldn’t find her tongue for a good half minute. “I’m Rebec Red Snow. I’m not a holy woman. That is...” Curse Danica Pure-Spring. “I guess I am, but I don’t know about all that. I run the navy. You Oarsinger's wife?”

“Aye. Took him as pity husband so the elders wouldn’t kill him. I could see he was strong, even if he did serve the southern emperor. It was I who told him that the signs favored a return, after Skyrim stood up to the southerners and they fled our waters.” The blonde woman eyed Rebec up and down. “You have a Nedish look. They let you be holy woman?”

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

Rebec managed to convince them that they couldn’t kill slaves as offerings, and pointed them towards the tidepools west of the city as substitute for a bog. The islanders set up a ring of colorful tents with banners at the edge of town, while some of them remained on their ships. They were loud and raucous, but no one could argue with the goods and coin they brought to the market. They set about putting up workshops and fishing.

One afternoon Rebec saw Arle Eivarsdottir staring at the Gildergreen tree. The islander was in warrior dress, breeches and boots with a doeskin vest that showed off her arm rings and shieldmaiden tattoos. Her blonde hair was tied in many small braids, sparkling with glass beads. The jeweled dagger still hung from her neck, and Rebec now knew she used it to cut sacrifices. Arle smiled as she approached. “Is this your time tree?”

“It’s a tree, anyway. Supposedly a blessed one. I don’t know if it’s a time tree.”

“If it draws from the blood of the gods, it’s a time tree. You southerners say that the she-dragons mark time, is that right? Nonsense. The trees mark time, they show it even in their skins. Some trees remember the time-before-time. If this is such a one, you're blessed indeed. Be careful if you drink its sap, though. A volva can see visions that way, but it’s dangerous to be drunk on too much time.”

“You’re going to get along great with Baldur.”

“Is he a Clever Man?"

"He thinks he is. That's why we're in such a mess."

Arle appeared puzzled, but shrugged and went on, "Your people whisper something about Wulfharth Reborn. Eilif’s fathers called themselves after that one, too. Maybe your man and Eilif are kin?”

Rebec was about to deny it, then thought about how vain Oarsinger was about his damn hair. “You might be right about that. Though Baldur’s not king yet. Can I ask you how you can stand to share your man with two other women?"

"I don't expect you to understand. You were thralls to the dragon cult and then the Alessians, what choice did you have? Eilif took a second and third during a bad year when many men were lost. It's not as if the Nords don't neighbor at other times. After a battle, the ones left standing take whoever is standing next to them, if they wish. To celebrate being alive. Have you forgotten even that?"

"War husbands. I guess I did that myself, only I kept mine, and I'd have put my axe in any other woman who groped him. What do you think about Kyne?”

“I should ask you, no?" At Rebec's look, Arle shook her head. "Storm mother is the first of us. I’ve heard that you know her words of power, at least. Maybe you could teach me, if I have time.”

"The priestess who planted this tree said it was connected to her somehow."

Arle regarded the sapling, pondering. "Trees build our ships. Kyne lets them ride the waves and only swallows a few for herself. That's a kind of favor, isn't it? I've heard it said that the wind in the trees is the War Widow mourning. Maybe she says other things, too, if you know what to listen for. The gods gave up their bodies, they must speak with such instruments as they have. In any case, I wouldn't despise the trees, if you want to keep a strong town and navy. Plant such as you take, always."

"You seem to know a lot, and speak good Tamrielic."

"We're not a simple people. I know more of your histories than others because of Eilif. You see what a talker he is."

"I get that at home, too."

After that the islanders seemed to gather around the tree often, especially at night, when they would build fires and their bards would sing and beat their drums. Arle had a deep, clear voice. Rebec had to admit she got a shiver listening to it. Eilif also showed he could sing more than just rowing beats. She found herself going out nights often since Baldur was gone, walking with Ragna on the shore or listening at the islanders’ fires. It was too hard to sit in their longhouse alone.

As the festival night drew near, Rebec grew increasingly nervous. Danica told her to lead singing, because that was what Nord warriors always had done to stoke their courage. Baldur wasn’t around to help her with it. She thought about the day in Falkreath when they all stood in the shield wall against the imps and the Thalmor, calling out their war song to keep each other from breaking. Boldir had been there. They should never have split up, the three of them. They broke the shield wall. Now Ulfric was dead, Veleda was dead to her, and Boldir had fled to Cyrodiil, of all places. How you going to count all the milk bottles down there, brother?

Even if someone falls in the shield wall, Rebec told herself, the rest had to step in the gap. Sing, for courage. To remember that they were Nords. The inn bards and the passing skalds were good enough for those deep in their mead, but they wouldn’t inspire much battle fervor. Rebec thought about the islanders and decided to ask for Arle’s help after all.

On the night of the festival, Rebec gave Ragna a pot of war paint to adorn her Woolly with, then set about doing her own ritual.

Dark blue for the sea and the cover of night. A ring around each eye, with points going downward. Clear sight. Upward curved lines on each cheek. The wings of Kyne. Speed and ferocity. An enemy cannot hit the wind. One vertical line down the chin. Strike straight and true. The shield wall, an unbreakable line.

She had her hair done up in war braids, and slowly set the hawk circlet on her head, ebony with stahlrim eyes. When she was done, Rebec stared at herself in the mirror. War Widow of Shor. Is that what she would be? Is that what she was, already?

Ragna's burbling brought her out of her thoughts. The baby had ended up painting herself more than her Woolly. Streaks of blue covered her cheeks and ran through her mead-colored hair. “Good girl,” Rebec said approvingly. The Nordling was wearing a white underdress, so Rebec just slipped her good embroidered tunic dress over her head, and put her into her play corner. By then Danica and Ysana had arrived to help Rebec put on the priestess outfit. In addition to the robe and breastplate, there were spiked gauntlets, black dragonscale boots and a sword belt.

"You need a staff, but it took all my offering money to have the other things made," Danica said.

"I don't need a walking stick, thank you. And we'll pay you back, though gods know I never asked for this."

Finally Rebec set her axes on her belt, and they were ready to be off. Ragna had fallen asleep, so they packed her in her fur sling and Ysana took her.

They had decided to hold the festival at the new temple site above the town, since they planned a bonfire that might be the end of Danica’s “time tree.” The villagers had all gathered in the square to make the procession together, however. When they saw Rebec approach, a war cry went up and warriors beat axes against shields.

Rebec found Mazoga in the crowd. She had to lean in and practically shout to be heard. “I feel ridiculous.”

“You look great. Baldur should see you now.” That stung, so Rebec just nodded.

"Hey Red priestess," Eilif Oarsinger called out to her. "Is there going to be a Kiss at the End?" He had a long arm looped around his dark-haired wife, and was surrounded by his tall sons. At least now it made sense why there seemed to be no end of them.

She couldn’t be heard above the crowd, so Rebec let out a FUS into the air. There was an expectant silence, then Rebec shouted, “Buck up, ladies! It's time to party.”

There was a cheer and as the procession started up the hill, the islanders started to chant and beat their drums in unison, the other Nords joined in thumping axe to shield in tempo with the chant.

The night above was clear with a few clouds, not exactly Kyne’s weather, but it gave a beautiful view of the sea as they ascended to the level site where the great bonfire was raging. Barrels of mead were set out waiting to be tapped, and spits of meat were turning. As the townsmen circled the bonfire, Rebec once again let her thu’um be heard in the sky to get the crowd’s attention.

“Our jarls meet at the Throat of the World to settle the fate of Skyrim and maybe all Tamriel, but we each hold that fate in our hands. If we fall, Skyrim falls. If Skyrim falls, all Tamriel will fall to the elves.” There was a wave of jeering. “But even if we fall, we will never bow, not until the last Nord child has thrown her spear like Finna of old. We're done with empires. Done with serving foreign kings and foreign gods. Kaan speaks once more through the voice of Nord Tongues, thanks to Ulfric Stormcloak, who gave us our country back."

Rebec paused to let the men shake their axes and cheer Ulfric's memory, and tried to keep the shame from sapping her confidence. "Even if you have no thu'um, Kyne speaks in the thunder from your axes and swords. We'll beat the elves back so hard that our fathers in Sovngarde will hear us coming. Honor them and hold to those who stand beside you in the shield wall. Ready yourselves for war, because soon your king will call you. We go to Sovngarde, my brothers, and we aren’t going alone. Let all Tamriel hear our Voice! Fus Ro DAH!"

She had to shout up into the sky again, but the crowd still fell back and covered their ears. Only for a moment, then they shouted and beat their shields, and Eilif Oarsinger's voice took up a song of Sovngarde which his family soon joined, then the rest of the assembly. As they did so, the sky was wracked with a burst of thunder and streaks of lightning coursed back and forth above them, though no rain fell.

Rebec stared up in disbelief at the spectacle, remembering about what Arle had said about the gods using what language they could. Her speech had been the usual sort of rallying rubbish that she had always used to fire up her men, but for the first time Rebec felt an itch of doubt. What if...

As the song reached its crest, Rebec couldn't help but leave off her pondering and  join in. Then she stopped again, abruptly. She had heard another thu'um out along the path from Solitude. This time, it wasn't hers.

For a time, her husband and his men had thought Kyne's Watch was under attack, so loud were the celebrations, and so bright the fires. He soon saw that he was mistaken.

His footsteps hastened the minute he tasted her thu'um in the night air. It was strong, stronger than he remembered it. The sensation was like a powerful memory when encountering a familiar smell. At once he could see her in his mind clearly like a painting, though only for a fleeting moment. Too fleeting.

As he approached the gathering, Jagged Crown in hand, Baldur breathed deep the night air and cried, "YOL, TOOR SHUL!" An answer to her own thu'um just above their heads, making the crowd of rowdy rough necked Nords part ways.

He wouldn't tolerate any more delays, no hand shakes or hugs, greetings or displays of any kind, not until he had her in his grasp. And there she was, clad in a splendid garb of steel and robe he'd never dream of seeing her in. She was a fearsome sight to his eyes. Fearsome and as awe inspiring as the lightning that danced above their heads. Yes, that was truly his Rebec the Red.

He however did not come prepared for ceremony. He was still clad in the armor he wore to Hammerfell, the garb of the ancient Nords before them, and the same armor he wore the day he defeated the Demon Chieftain of the Reach, battle-scarred and worn, shimmering beneath the flame of his thu'um, and the two moons. 

The only preparation he could make in time was to paint a fresh swirl on his cheek, then smaller ones on his arms and legs like the night he and Rebec shared in Windhelm, the last time he had the Jagged Crown in his possession.

But he knew his wife, knew this would not impress her like it would the others. He humbled himself before her as he finally approached. He grabbed her hand, the hand of a woman and yet the hand of a warrior's still. He wrapped his big bear paws around hers for the first time in months, and in that moment it was just them, and no one else.

Baldur placed the Jagged Crown down at her feet as if an offering to Lady Kyne herself, kissed the underside of her gauntlet, her arm, her neck... her lips. Tasted her tongue as his hands seized her face, then her backside which not even the robe could keep him from feeling, all the while his Grim Ones had joined the crowd, even finding and greeting Mazoga as well, which meant they were in high spirits. 

When the Tongues finally parted their tongues, he studied her face and allowed her to study his. It had been so long since he last saw her donned in her warpaint. It brought back memories of their nights alone during the war, when she made him drop his silly notions of "nothing tawdry" and threw themselves at one another like it was their last day on Nirn.

He stood silent as she studied him in turn, tracing her fingers over the contours of his face and his new scars.

Finally, to break the long silence, he said, "We brought the Juniper Berries like you asked. And lots of expensive mead, courtesy of Ingun Black-Briar. What's all this about?"

Rebec let him break their kiss but wouldn't let him go otherwise. The firelight and the lightning streaking the sky above them lit up their faces as they drank in the sight of one another. She spared one glance for the dragon crown at her feet, then met Baldur's eyes again, knowing what it meant but not what it would hold for their future.

Talking over the din of celebration was impossible, and there was no more order of ceremony now that the moot soldiers had rejoined their comrades and the priestess in charge was busy. Rebec pulled Baldur to the side, up the slope and behind the cover of some trees to shut out the racket. But when she wanted to speak again, she found herself kissing him, long and desperately, her hands running along his back and arms and up to cradle his head.

At last she let him go again, except for his hand. "This," she explained, gesturing back towards the festival, "This is the gods' idea of a joke. These halfwits made me a priestess of Kyne, and the festival is supposed to be a dedication of the new temple site. It's an excuse to carouse and drink mead, that's all. Good you've brought the juniper berries finally. They made you king? It worked?"

Baldur only nodded in response to her question.

"It sounds to me like those halfwits knew what they were doing," said Baldur as he kissed her again, hitching up her robe at her waist, but only a bit, smiling in his childlike impish way down at her.

He pressed onto her with his hips as he said, "You've never been more in your element, except at sea. This temple site. This is where our new home will be, am I right?"

It was obvious Baldur was glad to see her in more ways than one. Rebec returned the greeting, squirming in his grip. Her smile then vanished as she replied, "My element? You must've forgotten me already, Baldur. Danica says the old Nords made Kyne's place in a house because she's a hearth goddess or some shit. So now we get pilgrims traipsing through our hall, and I get to bless them with my fist."

She leaned in to kiss him, tangling her fingers through his hair. After playing a while Rebec extricated herself and straightened her robe, pulling on his hand. "Come see your daughter before she starts thinking she's an orphan."

He was tempted to grumble until he remembered how much he wanted to see his little girl.

"Let's hurry before someone recognizes us.”

Rebec wove back through the throng, pulling Baldur's hand behind her. He didn't have to worry about people recognizing them, because the Nords by then were already deep in the mead and had forgotten about ceremony. Most of them were there for the drink and meat anyway. Overhead the thunder had stilled and was replaced by roiling auroras that painted the sky purple, green and red.

They found Ysana sitting on an empty mead barrel watched over by Bjol Waverunner. Ragna was fast asleep on her back, heedless of the carousing. Her hair and face were still streaked with woad.

Rebec used her free arm to muscle aside two half-drunk Stormcloaks that stood in the way. "Ma! Look who the sabrecat dragged in."

Neither of them said anything a while... last time he’d seen her they hadn’t exactly left on good terms.

“I was in Windhelm,” she said. “Saw you getting cheered at, walking around like you owned the place.”

Baldur frowned.

Ysana pointed to the crown in his hand. “So is it your highness now?”

”Ma, please,” said Baldur. “It’s still me. Your son. There’s things about me you still don’t know, but the only thing you need to know is my family comes first. Even if you hate what I’ve done, you should know anything I do is for all of you.”

Baldur placed a hand on her cheek and kissed her forehead, trying to hide the pained look in his eyes. “I missed you, ma. And I’m sorry you had to see that side of me.”

At that Ysana softened despite herself, finally hugging her boy and wiping the tears in her tunic. “I’m just worried, Baldur. You look different, troubled. I see worry in your face. And now strangers come up to me, thinking to tell me about my own son.”

”I know, I know. A lot has happened since Windhelm, that’s all. We’ll talk about it some more later, promise. But for now...” Baldur handed her the crown and Maori. “Could you take these home so I can hold my daughter?”

Ysana wasn’t done with the waterworks but she complied, smiling at the precious sleeping bundle as she handed her over to her father once again. 

There were so many times beyond count where Brund nearly took his head off, and he wondered if that moment would be his last. Each time, he tried his hardest to picture Ragna’s face, and each time it was harder and harder to remember.

Now that she was in front of him again Baldur felt the pain of losing Daric fresh on his mind, as well as his friend. It had all been for this moment, and for this child, he had to remember. But damn if the cost wasn’t nearly unbearable.

“It’s all worth it for you, little one. Wake up, Ragna. It’s Papa.”

Rebec had been watching Baldur while his mother chided him, and she saw much of what the Dibellan had, but for the moment all her doubts were shoved aside for the sheer joy of seeing her husband's face in the firelight. As he tried to wake Ragna, she started. "Oh I wouldn't do that if I were..."

Too late. Ragna had stirred when she was handed over, but as Baldur called her name, she came awake with an ear-splitting cry fit for a novice Tongue.

Baldur’s ears actually rang from her screaming, and had to hold her back a bit as he recovered. In a low sweet voice, he said, “Hush little one, what’s to fear? The wolves are gone, the fire’s near. Warm and calming for my dear. All is right, and Papa’s here...” He kissed her as well, and after a moment her crying ceased.

”That’s my girl,” he said with a grin. “She’ll be quite the Tongue someday.”

Ragna had made her opinion known, but as she recoginzed familiar voices and the equally familiar sound of carousing Nords, she fussed a little sleepily and then looked up at Baldur with wide eyes.

"This is your papa, little Nord," Rebec said, tucking her fur wrap closer around her. Ragna glanced at her mother, then let out a sigh and closed her eyes again, her face falling back on Baldur's chest. She was instantly fast asleep, recognizing at least that she was safe in a warm set of arms.

"Don't worry, Baldur, she'll be wide awake and talking your ear off at the crack of dawn. Do you want to eat something?" Around them, people had begun to take notice and were pointing, as the news flew around the fire that Baldur had been made High King.

“You gotta ask?” said Baldur with a smirk as he adjusted his hold so her head could comfortably rest on his shoulder. He took Rebec in his arm as well and said, “And let’s get some of that mead I brought, before it’s all gone. Its about to get a lot more expensive now. I intended for us to keep it but... my men drink heavy and I know they’re probably indulging.”

Rebec started to say something but found herself tongue-tied. It was strange to just be talking with Baldur again as if everything was normal, when it clearly was not. The weeks apart seemed like much longer, and there was a gulf that was even wider than just the absence.

To save the awkwardness, she turned and started shouting at people to make way. A quick FUS did the job quickly. The meat roasting on spits had already been decimated but Rebec managed to get two enormous sandwiches and handed one back to Baldur. Someone sloshed her a pitcher of mead and she took a long, gulping swig from it. The shouting had been thirsty work.

He kept his mouth occupied, having been on the road and walking double time was exhausting, especially after his ordeal. He cared not for the people, and only wanted to enjoy the night like everyone else. 

He couldn’t help but notice Rebec’s demeanor though. He flicked her on the head with a greasy finger. “Stop worrying so much okay? Trust me. This is all temporary.”

She lowered the jug after another swig, and handed it over mostly empty. "All I do now is worry, Baldur." There was no time for further conversation, as people had begun crowding around them trying to get the new king's ear.

Baldur took a swig as well, then frowned when he found it was mostly backwash. Sighing, he stood with Ragna still in his hand, looking into the eyes of everyone there. He was starting to understand that he wasn’t going to be able to just be King and lead the armies and nothing else. It wasn’t that simple, never was.

He didn’t have Fus to silence them, and Fire was too aggressive, so Tinvaak it was.

Once his thu’um echoed through the streets, and he was sure they all could hear him, he spoke. But not loud and theatrically. Instead he spoke as though to his men around the fire. He didn’t like speeches and so he spoke like he would to anyone.

“Everyone. You see this child stirring in my arms?”

Baldur raised Ragna high despite her protesting.

”I love her more than anything in this world. And there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make sure she grows up in safety. Grows up with stories of her own gods, and loving her Nord heritage. Any man here with sons and daughters of their own know what I mean. Especially those who lost theirs in war and soon will. I don’t call on you to fight lightly. Brund Hammerfang claimed he killed my boy just before I ripped his heart out atop High Hrothgar with the very same hands I now hold my daughter.

I tell you this not to boast. I don’t care to boast. No amount of honor or glory will bring him back, if he truly is dead. I tell you this because that is our reality. War breeds death, death breeds sorrow. But without it, we will never be rid of these bastards. These Thalmor. I don’t have it in me to play the role of hero tonight. That is not why I became your King. I became your King because I am tired of death, of losing friends and family.

I am tired of seeing dead Nords in our own lands at the hands of foreigners. This is no land to raise my daughter in, and I will NOT see her grow up in a world where she must look over her back for simply being what she is. So tired of death I may be, tired of sacrifice. But there will be more death. And more Sacrifice. And this time it will be in their own lands, and their own homes, and I will not leave until their trees are decorated with their dead. This is no boast. It is a promise to this little girl I brought into this gods forsaken world. The Thalmor will die. My wife told you to eat, fuck drink, did she not. Then eat, fuck drink! Because when I call upon you for war, the only thing you’ll be plowing is those yellow pricks with steel. And the only thing you’ll drink is elven blood. And Godsdamnit allow me to do the same! War comes tomorrow, but tonight I’ll feast, drink and fuck same as you. Now off with you already!”

There was an odd silence while Baldur spoke, unusual for Nords who didn't quieten easily for anyone. Rebec had stared at him when he spoke the Tinvaak, then told how he had killed Brund. There was more to that story, a lot more.

At Baldur's final words, the crowd finally erupted again in cheering and laughter. The soldiers that had crowded around them got the hint and backed off.

"Feast, drink and fuck?" Rebec said, her brow arched and a smirk crossing her lips.

“You don’t plan to protest do you?” He said with a smirk of his own. Taking back his sandwich he said, “Though part of me hopes you will, at least a little.”

"I should, after all this. I'm still mad, you know. You're not going to get off lightly just because you ran up to High Hrothgar and almost got yourself killed."

Baldur snatched a bottle of mead from a passing soldier and downed the whole thing after offering him coin, which he happily turned down.

“Haven’t we covered this already last time you were in Windhelm, love? What’s there to be mad about? Come on, let’s have fun. I already might’ve gotten Daric killed. I don’t want to talk about all that right now. I just want you.”

"What's there..." Rebec fumed, shook her head and looked around for more mead. It was getting harder to find but she took the empty jug, drew her axe and slashed the back of a nearly-empty barrel to get the dregs. By the time she got back, a passer-by had stolen the rest of her half-eaten sandwich. Cursing, Rebec drained half the mead, then gestured towards Baldur with the jug. "You promised you wouldn't leave us behind again. I had to hear about the Moot from strangers. And Menel." She had to stop to burp loudly. Wiping her mouth, her expression softened a little. "So what happened to Daric?"

“Brund happened, and I didn’t leave you again woman, you knew there’d be a moot. You wanted to leave me in Windhelm remember? Windhelm, Ivarstead, What does it matter,” said Baldur. He continued.

“The three idiots I told you about that I sent to Riften, Jjgmir, Bjorn, Bolsh, they told me a very strange story. But some of it checks out. He was a Briar-Heart for one. They said he attacked them, and that Daric killed some Necromancer of his just before he did. I don’t even have a body or have any idea where he is. Falgrum’s on it. If he can’t find him then he’s no longer in the Rift. I did find Maori. He’s dead. I brought him with me.”

Half of what he said didn't register. Briarheart? Maybe she'd heard him wrong with all the noise, Rebec thought. Nords didn't do that kind of thing. Shaking her head again, she said, "Shit. I'm sorry, Baldur. He wasn't half bad for an elf." Looking around, she went on, "Can we just go home, before one of Eilif's wives asks me to sacrifice a goat or something?"

“What? Wives? That the bastard that grabbed you that one time?” asked Baldur. “We still do that? How many?”

Rebec held up three fingers. "He's our new admiral, by the way. Come on. Let's let the rest of these idiots piss on themselves for the glory of Kyne."

She led the way again, down the slope towards the mostly empty town. From their high vantage point and with the light of the aurora, the roll of high tide could be seen in the distance. On its waves rode dozens of ship lanterns, and the distant magical buoys that marked out the safe lanes.

“Three wives... man. I don’t know if that’s a curse or a blessing,” he said to himself. He couldn’t believe that was his new admiral, of all the people she could’ve chosen. Though he supposed he indeed had the requirements, he was glad he chose the Redguards to lead the alliance navy all the same.

He put the thought aside, taking in the sea and how beautiful their town turned out. Things obviously changed quite a bit since he was last here. Their sleepy little town was starting to grow big enough that they might need to consider walls someday. Even so, he still recognized the familiar paths as home grew closer. 

Many of the houses now had Nordic runes and totems decorating the front of their homes, same as theirs. Some were completely dedicated to one god, others the entire pantheon. 

Their own doorway was surrounded by a kind of arch reef made of small tree branches and red ribbons, with a small statuette of Dibella erected at the top and deer antlers of a young buck hanging beneath her.

”Ysana’s doing,” said Baldur. “How long was that up? Can’t imagine what good it’d be with you by yourself...” said Baldur, somewhat accusingly.

"Not long, you can be sure of that." Rebec was already trying to gauge if she could jump up to haul the contraption down. "It looks Forsworn. Did she not think I was cursed enough by this already?" She gestured at the hawk circlet and breastplate she wore.

“Forsworn aren’t the only ones that look to nature, priestess. Go on, let ma have her way. You know she knows what she’s doing.” Baldur smacked her on the ass and pushed her inside.

"I don't know any such thing. She's got it in her head now I'm some sort of priestess, I guess, so she can just run wild with her Dibellan ways. Look at us, Baldur. You with a dragon skull on your head and me in this get-up." Rebec hung her axes on the rack by the door and began stripping the dragonscale gauntlets.

The longhouse was much as Baldur had left it, though with more laundry piled high. Some of his more suspicious books had been turned spine side in to hide their elven nonsense from the baby. Coals still burned low in the center stone hearth, as they always did. After Rebec tossed the circlet into her closet, she went to it and worked the bellows a couple times to stoke the fire.

Baldur whispered his thu’um to bring the fire to life quickly so she couldn’t busy herself with that for too long and avoid talking. Smirking to himself as he fixed his bookcase collection.

He gladly stripped off his armor, cleaning himself and combing his hair before the wash bucket once Ragna was safely placed in her room next to Wooly, still covered in blue paint.

After putting on some leather trousers and boots, he sighed deep as he sat by the bed and said, ”Why do you say I abandoned you again. You gave me the go ahead to do what I needed to do. Why are you still mad with me?”

Rebec stripped down to her woolens, her hair still in war braids and the slightly streaked war paint still on her face. She sat across from Baldur by the fire and stared into it. "I sat here night after night thinking about what would happen. It made me crazy some nights. You didn't have to do any of this! War is one thing, that I know, that I could accept. I don't know where we are now, Baldur." She looked up at him. "Tell me what happened. What really happened."

“You won’t believe half of it, Rebec. And I did have to do this. First to run the war the way I like, and to save Boldir. I had a talk with Ingun Black-Briar. The new Jarl of Riften. Boldir did what he did because Maven had an old grudge against him, and she took Carlotta and Mila. My letters, they never even made it to him. In fact I think they somehow forged the letters they sent to me. Now do you think Ulfric would’ve heard him out? After what he did? I had to do this, and if given the chance I’d do it again.”

Rebec let out a heavy sigh. "I knew it had to be something like that. Is he even still alive?"

“Last time Ingun saw him, he was burned and recovering from injuries. An assassin Maven sent. But yes, he’s alive. I’ve sent my men after him in Cyrodiil,” said Baldur.

“Listen, I understand you’re worried. I get that this is very different from how you saw things ending up, but look at me. Look at me, woman! This is me you’re talking to, me! I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life aside from marrying you. This is how we win! What I’m planning, it’s something I could never get Ulfric to agree to. It’s not just a Wild Hunt I’m after. There’ll be lives sacrificed to make this work. Imperial, AND Stormcloak. But when it is over, and the dust settles, no one will be in any position to fight. We’ll have peace, Rebec. And I’ll step down as King.”

It was plain that she didn't have the same confidence, was too caught up on all the ways it could go wrong, but his plea to look at him was granted. She stood and approached, slinging one leg over his lap to straddle him. Brushing the hair back from his face with her fingers, Rebec held his eyes, searching them. "What did they do to you?" Then she found she didn't need to know, because whatever the cost had been, she had him back. Leaning in, she kissed him, putting all her relief and some of her anger into it.

Why did such little time passing feel like years, he thought. Why was it so hard. The second he felt her touch on him, he was reminded exactly how wrong it had felt to be apart. His arms gripped her tight as they kissed, his lips eventually moving to her neck, and his grip loosening so she could grind against him.

His hands traveled down her back beneath her belt, squeezing a cheek while his other hand prodded and rubbed at her greedily. As did his mouth as his lips tugged at her neck. The warpaint was still on her, as was his, on his cheek and the little Kisses of Kyne to match all over his chest and arms, and with the firelight dancing over her face she looked a fearsome sight, which delighted him to no end.

"Stubborn woman," he said, still frustrated at her but unable to keep his composure now. "Take off the tunic, quick."

Smirking, Rebec stood and stripped off first the tunic and then the wraps to free her breasts. She stepped forward so that his face disappeared into them.

His breath was heavy as he moved from breast to breast, hungrily sucking mouths full of the soft fat undersides. While this was going on his hands were ripping at her trousers, popping a button off as he got to the “feasting” part of the night. 

As she stood, he moved a finger in her, then eventually two, watching her move on his hand, occasionally kissing her belly.

Normally Rebec wouldn't hurry this part but it had been too long. "Come on," she said impatiently, hooking at his pants with her toes to slide them down.

He obliged, as she was thoroughly wet, and he was too hard to think straight. He lifted her in his arms, throwing her on the bed before quickly dropping his leather trousers at his ankles. 

His Underking fell free, and soon found its place in her, pushing slow to work its way in fully as he gripped her legs. With his feet still on the floor, he made her back arc as he thrusted again and again, hands at her ankles.

Rebec's head had rolled back as her body arched, then she bent forward and reached for him, wanting to hold him and have his arms around her again. It was this closeness she had missed most and craved.

He again obliged. It was strange, seeing her like this. When he fell into her arms and held her in his, he could feel her worry and fear for him, more than he could in their exchange of words. How could he be so dense, he thought.

How’d he mistake worry and fear for him as anger and bullheadedness. It was certainly part of the equation, but Rebec simply didn’t wish for him to sacrifice and risk so much alone. 

He hadn’t apologized for what he’d done before, but he tried to now turning her to the side and holding her from behind, his breathing at her ear. 

Rebec murmured as he cradled her, drawing his arm over her and holding it tight under her breasts. It was simple but had become necessary, this togetherness. For a while she just closed her eyes and took in his scent, the sound of his hard breathing, and the crush of his muscles tense from trying to sustain his arousal. All familiar and comforting. Turning her cheek towards his lips, she said, "It's not right here without you. You're mine, got that?" Even if it no longer was true. He was Skyrim's now, first.

“Yes love, always,” he said, turning her to her stomach and entering her deep. His chin hooked into her shoulder as she laid pinned beneath him, squirming as that old feeling returned, the feeling of being one with her, in mind body and spirit. As well as the familiar feeling of rubbing against her ass.

Rebec lifted her leg and arched back to allow him full access, and physical sensations started to mix in and overtake the emotion. She moaned once and then again more urgently.

Getting more into it now, he sat up, hands on her shoulder holding her down... watching her ass and the T above her hip move like ripples on a river. “Gods I never get tired of this,” he said as he was about to come, letting her sit up to move against him as he gripped her braids. “You’re right, Rebby. I won’t leave you anymore,” he said, hoping that he could keep his word. He was almost afraid after what he did she wouldn’t love him or desire him anymore, but all doubts had left him along with his seed, warm and heavy from so much time without her. 

It was a false promise, but it felt good to hear, and in the relief of her finish it felt possible that everything was actually going to be alright. Her chest was still heaving against his arm. She drew the moment out, pressing her bottom back into his hips, then finally relaxed and let her head fall as her limbs turned to butter.

"I missed you." A smile spread across Rebec's lips.

He kissed her ass, then her back and shoulder before resting over her like a big blanket, golden hair sprawled over hers. “I could tell,” he said as his hands ran over her. He wasn’t done just yet but for now he was happy to give her the comfort she needed, and to feel the warmth of her skin against his. “Whatever you think of me, I hope you know I’d never choose anything or anyone over you.”

She nodded, war paint smearing on the pillow. The moot, the celebration and the damned elves receded from thought like none of them existed. She dozed a bit, then lazily sat up on the edge of the bed. "It didn't seem real, that's all. It still doesn't. Like that crown is just the toy we played with back in Windhelm."

“I know. I’m still getting used to the idea.” Baldur stretched out over the bed on his stomach. “It’s not gonna be like it was for Ulfric. I have no desire to stay in Windhelm, for politics, none of it. The moot is over. I can do what I set out to now unhindered, without pretenses. I know I need to be careful. I know I’m not invincible. But I’ll have help. Boldir for one, when I find him.”

"How do you know he will? His state of mind now... how would you be if Ragna and I were murdered?"

“I’d be looking for a quick death. After I avenged you both... and then some,” he said, voice full of venom. “Carlotta is dead,” he turned over on his back. “But Mila, she might still be alive. Fighting might be his only way out. If I just pardon him, there’ll be men trying to kill him despite me. But if he’s one of my men, I can protect him.”

Rebec glanced back. "Mila alive, in Cyrodiil too? Gods, what that girl must have been through. Why in Shor's hairy balls would he go to Riften if Maven had it out for him? What did he do to her, anyway?"

“He killed someone in their family supposedly, but it was long ago. Perhaps he thought they wouldn’t recognize him,” said Baldur.

"Ugh, what a mess." Rebec began undoing her braids. "What happened with Veleda? You must have seen Menel, since you got my message about juniper berries."

Baldur was hoping she wouldn’t ask. Sighing, he said, “I didn’t see him, she told me. She voted for me at the moot.”

"She doesn't know then? Gods, what a mess." Rebec kept saying that, but that's because it was.

“She knows.” He closed his eyes.

Rebec's head whipped around. "She... how?! And she still voted for you?"

“Apparently she guessed,” said Baldur. “Partially from your reaction around Menel. I was surprised she voted for me too, but she figured she didn’t have a choice I guess.”

"That doesn't make any sense. You don't just guess something like that. I know about it, and even I don't believe it." Rebec stood and went to the privy corner to relieve herself. From behind the screen, she said, "That's got to be the imperial in her. You wouldn't catch me sitting at the same table with the man who murdered you. Not without one of us eating an axe."

“Glad to hear it,” he said. “I explained things to her. Maybe she believed it. In any case, there’s not much she can do about it.” Baldur was going to say she was probably thinking about her children, plural, but decided it wasn’t a necessary detail.

"This is insane." There was a pause while Rebec did her business, then splashing as she washed. Drying her hands, she came back around. "So who's going to rule Skyrim while you're off killing elves? Maybe she's planning to make a move while you're gone. You see the things you make me think about now?"

"She wouldn't, couldn't," said Baldur. "She has no ground to stand on. Who would raise a sword against me now? The 'Ash-King'? Even if she told them what I did, she lost her credibility when she voted for me, her husband's supposed murderer. She was probably worried about her children." She'd find out about it anyway. No lies. "And yes, I said children. She's pregnant."

Rebec was about to protest something, but her jaw stayed slack. "Pregnant." She sighed and tossed her hand towel away. "So you not only killed Ulfric, your best friend and king, but left two orphans behind. Is the shit going to get any deeper here, Baldur? Anyway, I'm serious. Who's going to mind things here while you're in the south? I hope you don't think it's going to be me."

“Boldir is my best friend, and brother, and he was so before I ever met Ulfric.” Baldur was getting angry himself now. “I also eat children and fuck daedra. If what I’ve done bothers you so, maybe you can ask Eilif if he’ll take a fourth.” 

Baldur put his trousers back on, getting under the furs with his back to Rebec. Sighing heavily, he closed his eyes and said, “As for Skyrim, you made it very clear you don’t want to be involved, so what’s it matter to you.”

Rebec stood with her hands on her hips. "You done whining now? Gods below, it's like having another child and one I can't spank." Mumbling, she went back to the wash tub and began scrubbing her face. In between splashes, Rebec yelled back, "Just admit it, you never even thought of that. You was just going to sail off to war and leave the country to fend for itself." There was more grumbling as she attacked her braids and brushed out her hair.

She was right. “I have actually. That’s what Jarls are for. The High King isn’t needed to watch the entire Kingdom. They never have. It’s not the first time they’ve marched off to war in foreign lands. So if you’re done doubting me, I’d like to sleep.”

More muttering, something about the jarls not being able to tell the difference between their piss pot and their mead pitcher. At length Rebec came back and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Baldur." She waited, then poked him in the back to make sure he was awake and listening to her. "It just doesn't seem right. Boldir on the run, his family and a whole town dead. Ulfric dead and Veleda widowed. You and me, lying here like we haven't got a care in the world. This is going to come around somehow. I just hope it isn't Ragna who pays."

Baldur was wide awake, listening to her every word.

Eventually he turned to her, looked her in the eyes and said, “I read something once. I won’t bother to tell you where it came from. And it had an interesting idea of the state and purpose of this world. You know Tamriel is called an Arena. And aptly so. There are some that believe, that Shor put us on this world, to fight and die. To test us, and through pain and suffering, become something better. Look at Talos. The man, was a complete bastard, and yet he got to become a god. ‘To Reach Heaven by Violence’. That is a Nord’s very philosophy. That is the very definition of Sovngarde.”

Baldur sat up, crossing his legs and scooting close, getting to the point before he lost her.

“This world doesn’t punish the wicked. Stories of bad men getting what’s theirs, they are fairytales. Some of our greatest heroes were wicked wicked men. I don’t aspire to be like them, but if you’re afraid of what, the gods punishing us? It wasn’t the gods that gave Brund what was coming to him for killing my friend and my boy. It won’t be the gods that give the Thalmor what’s coming to them. It will be me. And if it means protecting what we have, then there will be no one in Tamriel more wicked, than I. I am not afraid of the gods. They do not act, not anymore. They watch. We must be our own gods. That is the Nord way. That is my way. And if the gods or whoever held me accountable for my actions, I’d tell them if they had a problem with it, they should’ve come down and smited the elves themselves. There’s nothing coming to us. There is no justice in this world, or what happened to Carlotta would be impossible.”

He laid back down then, allowing his eyes to close once more. “If anything happens to us, it won’t be because of our actions. We are at war with elven-kind again, Rebec. There can’t be half measures. We do everything we can to win, or we die. If we must die then we will die together, but I’d feel worse knowing I didn’t do everything in my power to prevent it than I did killing Ulfric Stormcloak. I couldn’t stand to picture him executing Boldir. It wasn’t in me.”

Rebec listened, then after a while shook her head, laying back down on his arm. "You put too much stock in those books of yours. An arena is a foolish imp notion. Blood sport for rich lollygaggers with nothing better to do. If that's what the world is, then fuck the world. And I wasn't talking about the gods. Things happen, they cause other things to happen. I believe in you, Baldur, I do. But you're not a god, either."

Baldur said, “I know. I don’t sit and watch as a god would. I just don’t have that in me, love. But I am sorry for troubling you so. And that you ended up with such a man. Your father did warn you. Perhaps he was right after all.”

"Bards." She smiled sadly at the memory of her father's warning. Sitting up on her elbow, she caressed his cheek. "Such a man. Such a warrior. You defeated Brund Hammerfang, and the merchants out of the Reach had started talking about him like he was almost a god."

Memory of that fight had forever changed him... he barely won that fight. If not for Paarthurnax, he wouldn’t be talking or arguing with Rebec right now. Maybe he was too quick to dismiss gods, or fate after all. In any case, details of all that he would definitely leave alone. There’d be plenty of rumors soon anyway and Rebec would decide how much of it to believe all on her own.

He smirked, almost envying her ability to see what she needed to see and discarding the rest.

”It just goes to show, no matter how powerful you are, every man falls to hubris. And that even if men speak of you as a god, it’s not the same as being one. It’s a lesson I won’t forget. Thank you, love. You have your father’s wisdom.”

She smirked and pushed at his arm. "You're just trying to butter me up for a second round." Expression softening, Rebec traced the new scars she saw on him. "I'm not stupid. I can see what this has cost you already, even if you won't tell me the details. I know you're doing what you think is right and that it's for me and our girl. Don't think I ever forget it. I'm still here, and I'm going to help you. The war, getting Boldir back. We're in it together."

“Is it working? Heh, you know my birthday was some weeks ago, First Seed,” he said, pouncing on her and assaulting her with his fingertips. He stopped momentarily to regard her and take in her words. This woman was his partner in life. He believed her every word, that she’d stay by his side even though he sure was trying hard to push her away.

He nuzzled her with his big nose the way he used to, then kissed her long and hard, remembering how much he longed for her closeness and comfort on that lonely mountain top. He hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge it before, but now the fear and loneliness he felt when fighting Brund came rushing forward, and he buried that in their kiss as well. It was okay to be afraid, to feel safety and comfort with her. To not be so strong all the time. He’d forgotten it all. Almost forgotten how to be around her, but he was quickly being reminded.

“If you want, I’ll tell you everything in the morning. Even if it upsets you, I promise. For now I just want to be as close to you as possible, and for it to last an eternity. I’ll do my best to make sure we never stay apart for long, and if we must part, I promise you I’ll be back in your arms before you can say Nafaalilargus. The war, getting Boldir, everything. This family is in it together.”

"Nafaa...." Rebec thought a moment, then said, "Aha. You mean 'never trust an imp.'" With a grin she pulled him back into kissing instead of talking.

A few hours later, after they had gotten thoroughly re-acquainted and were deep asleep in one another's arms, there was a stirring from the other side of the longhouse. It was precisely the crack of dawn, as Rebec had predicted. In her crib Ragna babbled a bit to herself, then let out a yell. It was midrange, just a warning.

In the bed, Rebec pawed her nose and went back to sleep.

***

”Wake up, lovebirds! Wake up wake up!”

”Waaawaawaaah!”

Baldur’s eyes bolted open to find his mother dangling Ragna above his head, her little feet trying to reach his beard. The drool was more successful.

”Hellooo, it’s time to get up, we’ve been invited to a feast!” said Ysana. Nothing made her happier than free food.

Sitting up, he took Ragna from her, sniffed her bum and recoiled. “Gods have mercy. Invited by who?”

”Why, your sons of course,” said Ysana playfully. “A big handsome man with long blonde hair and gems in his braids.”

From beneath the furs thrown over her head, Rebec sounded drunk. "If Oarsinger's your get, you got a lot of explaining to do, Baldur."

“Oarsinger? Ha, isn’t he old enough to be my brother? I dont know what he- hey, how come you knew who she was talking about from that description? You think he’s handsome do you?”

Baldur sat Ragna atop her mother’s head before Ysana scooped her back up.

”Oh hush, how many men walk around with gems in their beard? It’s pretty distinctive, son,” said Ysana.

”Hmph,” was all he said, hiding back under the sheets. Ragna was reaching for him and sounded like she was going to cry.

”Baby wants her papa to change her cloth...” said Ysana. “You’re behind your fair share by a few months.” 

Baldur sat up again, hair strewn over his face. He blew it out the way and took his daughter who was busy sucking her hand and pulling his hair.

"Waaaay behind. And when you're done, you can feed her and give her a bath." Rebec threw her covering off with a resigned sigh and got up like there was ice in her joints. Some mead loosened them up a bit. So did the sight of the sweetrolls Ysana had brought over.

“How am I supposed to feed her, I don’t have teets?” Baldur got out of bed with Ragna, preparing for the worst as he took her to a table to clean. 

"I've been weaning her. She can eat a bit of porridge and mushy stuff." Meanwhile Rebec sat about washing and dressing herself behind the privy screen.

“Oh,” said Baldur. “Alright then.” Baldur left the house with the baby momentarily. Ysana heard “Yol!” Then the sound of someone screaming before Baldur returned and began placing new clean cloth on Ragna after cleaning her.

”Hmm, this seems kinda mushy.” Baldur was eying the sweetrolls while wiping off his hands with a rag. “You want a sweet roll, princess? Can you say sweetroll? Sweeeeeet rooooooll.”

Stuhnir came from under the bed sleepily, also interested in the sweetrolls. 

“Stuhnir!” He proclaimed, beckoning the fox over. The fluffy white fox hopped up on the table, then his shoulder, licking his cheek before returning his attention back to the rolls.

Ragna's translation came out "bluuuuurrrrrp" complete with spattered baby drool. She took the piece of sweetroll Baldur offered her in a chubby fist and began to gnaw on it while the other hand reached out for a handful of snow fox fur.

Stuhnir ducked away just in time to steal a chunk of the sweetroll, the rest Baldur ate himself before taking two more for him and the baby.

Ysana decided to sit in a rocking chair, with Stuhnir in her lap after he stored his treat under the bed for later. 

On Baldur’s way to the bed with the food, he came across what looked like an etching on his book case...

”What’s this? Hmm... 'HET NOK KOPRaaN DO
WYNJOLF FaaL WULD WEN
ViiNTaaS TUZ Vey ZeiM LahVU
DO RahGRON OGiiM.'"

Herself dressed in an embroidered tunic and leggings, Rebec prepared a bath for the frosting-smeared baby. "That came from Volskygge, this dragon temple ruin up in the mountains. Maz and I went there a while back. Can you make anything from it? She thought I might be able to learn a word of power from it."

“What in Shor’s name were you... never mind.” He wasn’t gonna win that bout after what he did so for now he let it be. Taking a look at the inscription again, he closed his eyes, trying to hear Paarthurnax in his head.

”'Here lies body of Wynjolf the Whirlwind whose shining blade cut through an armyof gods-bound Orcs. Wuld, whirlwind. Like they cut it deeper into the stone it’s darker on the page than the others.”

"You think that could be it? Wuld?" It didn't sound like a shout, but when she said it, Rebec did feel a shiver down her back like when she shouted.

She retrieved Ragna, tossing aside the mauled sweetroll piece, and started giving her a bath.

Baldur got dressed, this time in an intricate diamond pattern leather tunic with matching arm bands, boots and a white bear cloak.

http://tesalliance.org/forums/uploads/monthly_2017_12/164384CD-519B-42EF-AC93-6E61A129415E.jpeg.7da9d300432b7b8d1bdf8548d7dd6812.jpeg

Whose shining blade cut through an army, Baldur thought to himself. Eventually he said, “Whirlwind, aye. That’s your word. Just don’t go summoning any twisters in the house.”

"Wuld."

From the bath, Ragna laughed and pointed at her mother's mouth. Rebec scooped her up and wrapped the baby in a drying cloth, fluffing out her gold-brown curls. She put a clean diaper on the baby and dressed her in woolen underclothes and a tiny embroidered dress. Pulling on her own boots then, Rebec set her axes and said, "You look very fine, Baldur. Come on then. Let's go see the many Sons of Wulfharth."

 

[Witchking of Angmar]

"Let's start with something simple then. Boy, can you give me your name?"

"I'm not a boy, I'm a man."

"Okay, can you give me your name, man?"

"Elf Plower."

The thalmor agent, or overlord, whatever his title was clearly didn't find that as amusing as Daric did. 

"Daric. Really, we're just having a simple conversation. I'm not interrogating you, or asking you to betray your countrymen. And aside from that unfortunate incident while I was out, we've treated you well. Kept you fed, healed your wounds... the others think I'm going easy on you. The least you can do is engage me in polite conversation."

Daric hated everything about this elf. His perfect hair, his perfect clothes... even living in a cave there wasn't a single wrinkle on them. He even smelled as though he just bathed in fresh spring water with rose petals or some shit. ******* **** sucker.

"My name is Daric, and I'm going to kill you," he finally said. Tyrian was smiling at him.

"Well then, that's a start I suppose. And considering I'm the one who's going to eventually kill your king and adopted father, I suppose that's to be expected."

Daric scoffed. "I'd honestly like to see that."

"Oh? You think it'll be a challenge for me? Why's that?" Tyrian leaned in close across the wooden table, almost touching Daric's shackled hands. 

Daric backed away. He didn't like how confident he seemed around him, even knowing one of his own was murdered in a similar way.

"I know what you're trying to do," he said. "I heard you talking. Brund had you scared, I can tell. Hell he had me scared. And if Baldur killed him, well that should tell you everything you need to know."

"You're saying I should be afraid of Baldur?" he sounded genuinely curious.

Daric nodded once. "Aye, you should. And while you're at it you should fear his wife if you ever did manage to kill him. And if half of what I've heard about Boldir is true, I'd fear him as well. Your days are numbered."

"Heh, yes, your Nord friends are very scary. But you shouldn't underestimate us elves you know. We have our ways as well. It's a shame you haven't seen what our sunbirds can do. It's quite impressive. Perhaps I'll show you sometime."

Daric seemed amused. "You must really think I'll be with you for long. Even with Falgrum on your tail."

"Falgrum, that's the redheaded Nord I saw? Now that is an interesting topic of discussion... what can you tell me about him?"

"I can tell you that he's gonna kill you," said Daric.

"Ah, see, I thought you were going to do that?" Tyrian leaned back in his chair now, rotating two game pieces in the air in front of him.

When Daric didn't answer aside from with a glare, Tyrian sighed and said, "Boy, how on Nirn did you ever get involved in all of this? You're still so young, and yet you're so ready to throw your life away. For what? Baldur? Skyrim? The Nords? He is quick to sacrifice the lives of civilians just to claim victory. Don't you find that... problematic?"

"Every last Nord is willing to die for Skyrim. Any elven victory here is a step to being ruled by elves, and that's not a future I'd be willing to see. I'd rather die, gladly."

Tyrian dropped the pieces and slammed his hand on the table. "But, you're not even a Nord! It doesn't make any sense, it's so reckless! You've got potential, I can see that, but you won't live to see it realized, all because of this stubborn misplaced pride. The Nords believe they'll go to... 'Sovngarde' when they die, but that is an honor saved for Nords alone. What do you believe in, Daric? You think rule under elves would be worse than under Imperials? The Empire without the assistance of Akatosh has proven weak, and unable to provide even the most basic protection for their citizens or provinces. Riots are common, as is rebellion and insubordination. But in my land?"

Tyrian held out his hand, letting magic dance in his hand until Daric could see a crude image of what he could only guess was Tyrian's homeland. 

"My land, Alinor... is a marvel of magical advancement. Poverty is almost null. Transportation, centuries ahead of what the rest of the world is capable of. We're studying and creating new schools of magic the other provinces still dream about. It is a borderline utopia in a world that is filled with strife and suffering."

Daric was lost for words at what he saw... the lights, the magical contraptions floating around in the air... great arcs crackling with magical energy as if being harvested from thin air. Surely a place like this couldn't truly exist. It was a pretty lie.

Daric shrugged, and said, "So?"

"So? Heh, so? We could bring this level of enlightenment to the entire world, Daric! We could share our knowledge with the entirety of the younger races! Then you too would understand what this world truly is. Even with our amazing advancements, it is a shadow compared to what we all were once capable of. We were gods, Daric, all of us... This world is a hindrance, a prison."

"Baldur says this world was meant to make us stronger, better than what we were," said Daric.

"Yes yes, I've heard the theory before. But tell me, Daric, isn't that the very face of arrogance? You humans, you look to the stars, and the very Aurbis itself, and scoff. You look at the wonders of the gods and say 'I can be better', but why would you want to? You truly believe that the rape and murder of millions of innocents is worth the small chance that a handful may become better than what we once were? We had everything before your Shor, your Lorkhan took it all away. And then, even after confined to this plane, we as a people minded our own business. We kept to ourselves. Until, came Talos."

"Well..." Daric's expression softened as he scratched his chin. He wasn't nearly as knowledgeable as Baldur on all of this, didn't know what an Aurbis was for instance. In fact, up until now he didn't even know Lorkhan and Shor were the same being. "If you were minding your own business and you consider our ways so terrible, why are you acting no better than Talos was? And for a people so committed to advancement you sure sound ready to accept stagnation."

"Fair question," said Tyrian. "Stagnation. I bet you picked that up from Baldur. Stagnation, stasis. It isn't necessarily being stuck in a desolate position. Would you call for instance, being a King a stagnant position not worth obtaining? To be at the peak of what you can accomplish isn't stagnation, it's perfection. It's the Apex Point of existence in the Aurbis. As for our more... involved position in Tamriel, quite simply, it's become necessary for our survival. If a wolf keeps taking your sheep, eventually you're gonna have to go hunting to save your flock. This is no different. Surely you can't blame us. After our only means to flee this plane fell, we had to improvise. It's not something you'd understand really. But know this, your human condition is something that can be fixed. It is a curse of those that were mislead. We are simply trying to lead you back home."

Tyrian stood then, moving his chair aside without ever touching it. "Despite what others might say, in my eyes you are a child. Whatever you think of Baldur, whatever his accomplishments, he uses children to fight for this land, and for that he will forever be a savage and a coward in my eyes. You should be home, studying your craft, perfecting your magical skill and pondering on the nature of this world for yourself. Instead, I have to involve you in an adult's world, and for that boy I am sorry."

"Save your pity," said Daric after some time. "You attacked my home. Where my mother and I lived. You're no different from your ancestors. I might not know half of what you're talking about but I remember my history. The Ayleids, they were partially responsible for my race. And they created us through forced breeding. We were slaves. So you can **** right off with that concerned shit and shove it up your prissy delicate blowhole. You don't fool me."

Tyrian wrinkled his nose. "Ayleids are not our ancestors. Ayleids are not Altmer." 

"An elf's an elf. Even you think so, you never differentiated between yourself and other elves until I pointed out how some of your were barbaric assholes yerselves," said Daric. "I'm not as stupid as you might think despite my round ears."

"Oh, they're not so round..." said Tyrian with a smirk. "Remember, for all the talk you give and all the hate, somewhere deep inside you... is a little bit of me. Remember that, Daric. Because I promise you, the Nords you fight and will die for always will. Now, you've given me something to ponder on my travels, so I thank you. I hope you in turn will consider what I've said while I'm gone. A future under Thalmor rule is a future indeed. Less sick, less hunger, less death."

Daric stood from his seat and walked back to his cell. 

Tyrian left the cave a short while after, with a party of five men. There was only a score of them left out of all the men and women they came with. Pitiful. But they'd have to do. 

They would do, Tyrian told himself. They must.

[Witchking of Angmar]

Lorgar/Saladin,
Valenwood, 
Just Another Day in a War without end. 

“Volley,  let loose!”

The hail of arrows entered into the Rebel formations rear, dropping about a dozen of them in a single instant. The others turned around in horror, and surprise, right before the Commando’s fighting them in the front broke through, and started to tear them apart, with sword and dagger. As if wolves, the Blood Wolf commandos rushed forward, and as a pack, confused and dazzled their prey using a method akin to the hunting patterns of the great beasts.  The already struggling line instantly collapsed, as they began to be slowly pushed back towards the treeline, and into the flankers line of fire. Bloodwolf Snipers never missed, especially when the Commander himself took to the field.  Lorgar once more prepared to fire his ebony greatbow, heaving a massive sigh. He took aim, and released the bowstring, letting the large, steel arrow find his mark. 

Storn had taught Lorgar a little trick. Breath in slowly before firing. It did wonders to the tension in his thick muscles. 

The arrow traveled for a good second, before it embedded itself into an unlucky Bosmer’s eye socket.

About a two dozen or so other archers stood beside him, masked by hoods, and covered head to toe in black leather armor, and dark cloaks.  They too continued to lose their arrows strings at will, and without miss. Lorgar had imparted his skill in marksmen to his men, and their own skills had improved as a result. 

A few Rebels made a break, for the treeline to the side, away from the mainline of Blood Wolves, and the group of archers, but were stopped, as a massive wall of corpses erupted from the ground, barring their escape from the slaughter. Elven faces screamed in agony, and detached limbs writhed and struggled, as the mountain of corpses collapsed on itself, and fell towards the small company of rebels, who could in scream out in horror as the landslide of dead bodies crushed them. Behind the Blood Wolves mainline, a small hooded girl lifted her hands into air, green wisps of magic forming on her raised hands, her ornate gloves invisible as a result.  The company's head mage, Shade, practiced her extreme skill in necromancy, as she coughed out droplets of blood. Lifting her hands into the sky, as two other mages formed behind her, pouring their Magika reserves into her, to keep her spell going. A shade of crimson red fell over, as she finished casting her next spell, as she opened the palms of her hands, and let loose her dark magic over the battlefield. 

The fallen dead, began to rise. 

A rebel was thrown to the ground, as one of his comrades, that he just saw butchered, rise up, grabbed his ankle, and threw him to the earth, just before she began to munch on his neck, and consume his flesh.

At the sight of the undead rising from the earth, Lorgar grabbed the whistle he wore, and began to blow it, causing an ear piercing noise to sound from the forest. From the forest, charged more Bloodwolves, crashing into the rebels side, tearing them apart with coordinated javelins strike, followed by longsword and dagger. He lifted his greatbow into the air, his deep, booming voice beckoning across the battlefield, “Bloodwolves, advance! Drive these mongols back!” 

Having started the battle with a numbers advantage, the rebel battalion had began to slowly pull back, as they realized they had just lost it, with every soldier killed adding to the enemy's force. A much smaller force, who had been separated managed to break from the fighting, and disappeared into the forest. A grin formed as Lorgar tossed his greatbow, drawing his machete from it's back sheaf. He called out, “Captain! You’re acting battlefield commander. I’ll handle the cowards over there!” 

Wraith, who was decked out in full, mail armor, placed his hand over his chest and knelt, his chainmail rattling, "You’re word is my command, my Lord.”

With that the Skaal had taken off, disappearing in a burst of speed, as he pursued the fleeing rebels, leaving the rest to his men.

******

Lorgar inserted the dark machete into the struggling Bosmer’s gut, before tearing it out, wielding the massive blade meant for chopping like a carving knife. The rebel unit had been easy to track, and it took Lorgar little over a minute to find, and ambush. As he thrusted the blade time and time again into the screaming Wood Elf’s stomach, a strange feeling entered into the Nord’s arms. Euphoria, helped by the symphony of agony. He finally finished, and slit the blood soaked soldier throat, as he was getting bored of this quarry. The large, thick blade bite into the neck with no effort, instead of cutting, more like crushing, and severing the windpipe. The Skaal breathed in a large amount of dark mist, and exhaled, the sanguine blood reflecting the thrill of the hunt. Even unworthy prey as these rebels provided the relief for his growing despair. He was the Grahl to the Rieklings on this battlefield.  As he stood up, he sheathed his blade into the leather sheath on his back, and turned around. 

Only to see another rebel soldier a few steps away, too paralyzed by fear to do anything about it.. The Bosmer had been watching the Nord brutalize his comrades seconds before. The Skaalish Warlord closed the gap between the two of them, and broke his neck so fast, before the Elf could even scream, crushing him underneath his muscular arms.

Another trio approached from the side, entering the desolate glade, happening upon the grisly scene.  Their features were hidden underneath hood and scarf, but they looked very weary from the fighting. Lorgar practically pounced from his position, drawing a dagger, as he screamed a wild battlecry "  AAAKYLORAAAHHH!" ; the wolf skull, normally white now covered in red,  was the last thing the rebels would see in their pitiful existence. 

The Lycantrope, with lighting speed, jammed the small blade into the lead Bosmer’s gut, the patchy leather armor offering no resistance to the ebony knife. Lorgar pushed it in deeper, as he left the blade inside his gut as he fell to the jungle floor. Rushing to the left, and before he could draw his blade, the Skaal launched a punch into his friends face, throwing him to the ground, all to have his throat ripped out by the Skaal’s gauntleted hand. As if he was a blitz, Lorgar finally jumped from dead bosmer, and finished the battle by disarming the final rebel with a flurry of close quarter counter moves, putting him into a headlock,  and finally draining the life out of him by strangulation.

All under thirty seconds.

Another group down. Lorgar already knew his men had slaughtered the opposition. They were too good to be undone by these lowly resistance fighters. If only his Wolf-Pack had been this strong in Falkreath. It wasn’t his fault they all died. It was their own weakness, and frailty. Only the strong survive, and the weak was trampled on. That is the natural order, as ordained by my Prince, and the All-Maker. 

As he let his lifeless corpse drop to the ground, the Nord reclined on a nearby tree, breathing hard, as he took a moment to rest. The Nord grabbed his dark iron helmet, lifting it off his head, revealing his tired, sweat covered face. His black leather eyepatch was drenched in sweat, and gore. And yet again, it is no battle. Just a slaughter. These rebels are ill-equipped, poorly disciplined and even worse trained. There is no glory in hunting unworthy prey.  He took the leather waterskin from his pouch, and gulped down the water like a greedy snake,  

He glanced around the small battlefield, seven bodies lay dead on the forest floor, eviscerated by Lorgar’s Machete, not that he would dishonor his runeblade, Azidonok on this filth.  

A dark voice entered his head, “Is the nectar not sweet, dear Lorgar?” The skunk-like shadow wolf, crawled out of the overlapping shadows the treeline cast, black miasma following it's disgusting narrow mouth, and blazing red eyes.  The Skaal had long given up silencing the Beast, and had recently taken to talking to it while he was alone. It either wasn’t real, or some kind of animal spirit that had attached itself to Lorgar in some way. Perhaps it had come from inside him, and Lorgar’s madness had manifested itself.

Either way, there was no way to banish it. 

For even if it wasn’t real, Lorgar acknowledging it had surely made it stronger. If not in spirit, then reality to the insane Skaal. 

Lorgar grimaced, as he took another sip from his waterskin, “Are you dense fiend? This bloodshed gives me no pleasure!” Liar. A voice that belonged to neither the Skaal, or Shadow Wolf entered his mind, but he ignored it, “A sense of accomplishment is only given when I slay a worthy foe. These rebels are little more than pathetic invalids! They cant fight back against me!”

The shadow-wolf howled in laughter, “Dear, dear Lorgar. You are as unworthy a hunter as these sheep. You’ve lost three times in the last year or so. One too a hero of Skyrim, and some nameless captain!”

Lorgar face contorted with rage, “Silence!”

“Or perhaps you are jealous of you’re hated foe? That he is praised as a hero, and you’re being consumed by the dark-” 

“My lord.” 

A voice interrupted the foul wolf-daemon, as it disappeared in a miasma of darkness. Wraith walked in on the scene, glancing at the many corpses littered on the jungle floor,. His violet eyes sparkled with amusement, “My oh my, have you been busy. It warms my cold heart to know you’re feeding so many animals tonight, dear Lorgar.”

Snorting, Lorgar reclined into the tree, tired and weary of everything, “Anything to report, Captain.” 

“Just that the rebels have been annihilated. The ones we captured are being given the choice as we speak.” 

“Good.” Lorgar seethed, crossing his arms, as the beast, reformed behind Wraith, looking like it was about to devour the vampire whole. It’s narrow, disgusting jaw hoovered above the Captain’s hooded face, ready to chomp down.  Waiting for Wraith to leave, Lorgar, surprised, asked, his eyebrows raised,  “Is there anything else, Captain?” 

The black haired vampire sighed, “This makes me uneasy.” 

Lorgar snorted, “Was it not your idea to expand recruitment, Lucienus?” He used his first name. 

The Vampire nodded his head, “Of course, my lord. The problem I have is the method involved in that recruiting. Seems cruel. Sure they get a chance to live, but the ones who fail their test?”  The Vampire warily placed his mailed hands into the sky, shielding his already covered face from the rays of sunlight that pierced through the ran.

“I only accept the best of the best. The one’s who die are still getting a better deal of this then other captives. Instead of being worked to death in a logger, or tortured by a Thalmor interrogation squad they get a clean death with weapons in hand. Just the way the world works, Wraith.” Lorgar snarled, as he went to work collecting his discarded weapons “I’m sure those filthy Nords would be envious. “ He heard the Vampire say. He paused for a moment, before asking, 

“Speaking of, any word about Boldir or Baldur?” 

Wraith’s eyebrows raised in confusion, “I didn’t mention those two, sir.”

Lorgar’s cheeks blushed, as he waved it off, sheaving his blood soaked dagger, “You didn’t? Well-then…” He paused, stuttering, “Back to work.”

The vampires violet eyes narrowed, “Is everything all right, Colonel?”

“Everything is fine, captain.” Lorgar insisted. Everything is fine…
****

The loud boom of thunder disturbed the peaceful crackle of the firepit, as Lorgar reentered the glade with a young doe over his back, the creatures dead expression serene and calm. Lorgar shots we're always clean, the creature had not felt much in his final seconds. The canopy of the Valenwood jungle provided a good ward against the heavy rainfall, so it seemed like a good place to make camp, whilst the mercenary was on deep patrol. It was very strange to many of his men why he would lower himself to do something so mundane, but the warrior enjoyed some alone time now and then. Truthfully, the wolf-man didn't care about getting drenched. His already strong immune system was enhanced by his beast blood, he rarely, if ever, got colds anymore.  It wasn't the physical alignments of the body that concerned him, it was the rapid deterioration of his mind. An array of whispers assailed him when he was alone, a shadowy skulk stalked him in the darkness. He was starting to loose his grasp on what was real, and what wasn’t. The Skaal’s soft brown eyes gazed into the burning embers, as he prodded it with a stick, trying to maintain it. His muscles relaxed, as he contemplated his current situation, How long have I been in this forsaken place? He had lost track of time, in his delirious torture. And now he couldn’t remember a time we’re he wasn’t killing Rebel guerrillas. He was starting to think...perhaps everything before it had been a dream. The Great War. The Civil War. The Skaal Village. Baldur. Boldir. Frea. Storn. Millnerius. Gracchus. Tullius. Marius. Maybe they we’re just phantasmal memories conjured by his broken mind. As shadows whispered dark words to him, a great black wolf howled just yonder, it's growls drowned out by the thunder. The memories that played in his head we're as ephemeral as the glowing embers in the fire.  Shadows separated from the glowing flame and began to dance, beckoning him to join them. 

The Nord was tempted, but stopped himself, as his stomach began to growl, bringing him back to the twilight realm of reality. 

Halfheartedly, the Nord heaved the doe throwing it infront of him. He made a half attempt to convince himself to eat it cooked, but gave in to his infinite hunger, and decided to partake the meal raw. With Gustor, Lorgar began to rip chunks of flesh from the doe’s body, devouring it like an animal. He tore the bloody flesh from the animal and feasted on the cadaver for a good two minutes or so, until his fangs we’re dyed with strips of flesh and crimson blood.  

Thunk 

In a mere instant, Lorgar drew one of his longswords, and in a singular motion, whipped it across the air. He was greeted with a loud splitting sound, and the feeling of contact with something in the air. A split shaft of wood lay near his feet, alongside the half eaten Doe, with a spear tip at it’s end. A throwing javelin, an imperial style pilum by the looks of it.

Bringing up the longsword into a two handed  Dumneri defensive stance (gripping the blade beside his head, and pointing it forward), the Wolf-man’s eyes narrowed, looking for anything within the dark trees, and the stalker within them. He put his sense of smell to use, but could decipher anything, as the Doe’s blood clouded his nose. His hearing was being focused down by the thunder, so it would be hard to hear ay footsteps amongst the forest, so instead of wasting it, he just listened for another javelin. His night vision wasn’t so good with the rain, but at least he could mostly rely on his sight. Snarling, the warlord called out, his voice piercing the rainfall, “You cannot remain hidden forever, reveal yourself coward!” So says the ******* stealth expect. Lorgar dryly muttered to himself.

Nothing but silence. 

Until another javelin came roaring towards the Skaal from the forest. Lorgar swept his blade across in a stylised parry, cutting the javelin in half, before resuming his previous stance of swordplay, as he firmly planted his feet into the ground, looking for any signs of movement in the forest. His eyes trailed below, to take the javelin in further detail. It was only then he noticed a pool of blackish liquid pooling by the remains of the wooden weapon, the same green substance also coating the iron tip. 

The Javelins are poisoned. Lorgar’s beastblood severely dampened the effect of poisons and toxins in his bloodstream, but they could still slow him down. Gotta avoid even a nip

His relaxed his stance, letting one of his hands fall to his side, wielding the longsword one handed, as he prepared a throwing dagger behind his back, with his now free right hand

As he suspected, another javelin was catapulted towards him, this time from his right, Lorgar sliced the projectile in half, and flung his throwing knife towards we’re it had come from. Hearing a satisfied clunk, Lorgar rushed forward, changing to a mid swordstance. Underneath the rain, and the darkness of night, Lorgar appeared as if he was nothing more than a blur. As Lorgar sprinted forward, A faint humanoid outline,  jouted from the darkness, and Lorgar knew it was his ambusher. Without any kind of confirmation, Lorgar swung his longsword from the side, intent on bisecting the shadowed figure.

Only for his blade to be stopped. Before Lorgar could throw a counter strike, a metal gauntlet landed in his face with immense force, throwing him backward a little bit. The Nord recovered quickly, and brought up his longsword into a block, catching his foes weapon, who had just attacked with an overhead attack. The weapon being used against him was an axe of some kind. I ******* hate axes... Lorgar spat, putting all of his impressive strength into holding the axe into a lock with his sword, intent on getting some observations on his mysterious attacker.

The person in question was tall, really tall. And heavily built. Though since he was fully covered up by his strange equipment, Lorgar couldn’t guess what race he belonged to. The armor they wore stood out the most. It seemed to be...Imperial? But had some aspects of Redguard culture mixed in, specifically the Lorica looking equipment being made from heavy Lamellar, and scale mail. It had black accents, and the little leather that was used was died blue. They had a full face helmet, an imperial one, made from what seemed like ebony, stylized with silver serpents coiling around it’s side, and topped with a thick top of black horsehair. A few eye slits stood in the middle of the helm, but it also had a noseguard. The set as a whole was...quite ornate. But still very much practical. 

The axe which he held back was long, and made with steel. More like a strange looking Halberd then an axe, but in practice the mysterious man swung it like an axe. In comparison to the the crazily ornate armor he wore, the axe itself was very simple. As was his short shield. Though he wielded his weapon in two hands, he bore a small shield on his forearm, which was iron with a gold stud in the middle.  On his back he carried a very large quiver filled with a handful of pilums, the same poison drenched ones from before, and finally, on his belt, two sheaths. 

Before Lorgar could look any more, the one broke through Lorgar’s guard with a quick kick with his knee, and swung with a  strong, yet precise attack to the Nord’s side, from the ground up, which he did in complete silence. Lorgar deflected, with a clash of sparks, the attack with his longsword, as he began to slowly retreat, careful not to fall over some root in the forest floor.  The armor clad man repeated the same attack, this time a sweep from the right, which Lorgar barely managed to push out of the way with a strike of his own. 

He hadn’t fought an opponent like this since Mezzrat. 

Before Lorgar could throw an attack, finally going on the offensive, the man did a feint. Underneath his dark helmet, the man’s eyes narrowed, as he prepared to do a strike from below to the left of the his target, causing Lorgar to prepare another deflection to the side. Midway through the attack, he suddenly swung the axe around his neck, and attacked from the other side, catching the Nord offguard. Lorgar jumped backwards, getting away in time to avoid the axe fully embedding itself into his side, but not enough to escape it fully. The axes edge bit into Lorgar’s abdomen, his dark iron splitmail preventing it from getting him too deeply, but not enough to prevent bleeding. Enough, this has gone in long enough! Lorgar swore underneath his breath, as he practically leaped forward, screaming “BLOOD WOLVES LALALALALLALAA!” 

The man blocked Lorgar’s first strike with his forearm shield, tanking the blow (though Lorgar could hear a grimace of pain from his lips), as he brought his axe into a circular blow. Lorgar quickly ducked, avoiding the axe rolling to the man’s exposed side, as he tried to cut open his leg. The assassin, seemingly having lightning quick reflexes, kicked Lorgar’s blade and hand away, as he suddenly dropped his axe, and drew forth the dagger he wore on his belt which the Nord just noticed now. To Lorgar’s horror, he knew it’s material. 

The silver blade gleamed, and became crimson, as it entered into Lorgar’s side. 

The werewolf howled in pure agony, as he pushed himself backwards, retreating a good distance away as the warrior advanced slowly, following behind. The entrance wound began to ooze, as if it was burning. With a slight, “Heh”, the assassin, hefted up one of his remaining pilums, and didn’t waste a second launching it forward towards his prey, intent on skewering the werewolf, and finishing the hunt. Lorgar in the pure agony of being shanked with silver, was still conscious enough for his reflexes to pick up the incoming projectile. Barely managing to grip his longsword, he deflected the javelin away from him at the last second. Getting annoyed the Assassin advanced towards the screaming Nord, axe retrieved and in hand, intent on delivering the coup de grace with a quick chop to the head

This is what happens Lorgar. When you grow fat and lazy. Bloating from all the senseless killing. The carnage the havoc. The euphoria when there’s no one strong enough to stand up to you. The werewolf bitterly muttered as pain assailed his body. I love that feeling. But when you’re a large fish, in a small pond, there’s only one ending.  Lorgar chuckled, as he ripped the silver dagger from his shoulder embracing the pain. The Assassin stopped adopting a defensive stance. Lorgar muttered in a low tone of voice, "I don't know who sent you, Assassin. Or how much you're getting payed, but I thank thee. For showing me the truth. Enough of all this. This wanton slaughter ends now." His calm face distorted as mania took him, he screamed, “Do you think this ******* toothpick will save you?” Lorgar furiously snarled like an animal, as he began to lick the silver dagger, gladly slurping up his own blood  The wounds in his body oozed with his corrupted bile, which brought shivers to the Nord. Pain, this is why he fights. Could this one...be the one to free me? Lorgar threw down his longsword, and drew, from his back, his runeblade, as he wielded the silver dagger and greatsword in unison.  The Nord's jagged fangs clenched as he roared, "If it was meant to be, then strike me down well!" And with that, Lorgar charged forward, dragging his runeblade behind him. 

The Assassin prepared a backwards sweep with his long axe, but was forced into a defensive block in response to Lorgar jumping and delivering a flip, followed by a strike with his greatsword, the dark trees the only witnesses to their solitary duel, as rain fell around them.  The Assassin, screamed out in pain, as Lorgar quickly gave him his dagger back, embedding it into a weak point in his armor, when he locked down his axe with his one handed sword stance. Quickly, not giving him a chance to recover, Lorgar took Azidonok in both hands, the greatblade glowing white, hungering for blood, and began to rain heavy blows, against his attacker who was forced into withdrawing, a reversal of their previous positions.

In between, the man saw an opportunity to deliver a counterstrike, but Lorgar tanked it with his plate shoulder pad. The heavily armored man tired as the blocking became more sloppy, while Lorgar increased his own pressure, saliva salivating from his mouth from the prospect of blood. At last, Lorgar striked fast, and strong enough, to wrestle the axe away from the mercenary, throwing it to the side. The Assassin took a millisecond to glance away, before bringing up the shortshield on his forearm, to block Lorgar’s follow up strike, which he delivered as soon as he disarmed the man.

Quickly, the Assassin pushed forward using his shield as a blunt instrument, slightly pushing Lorgar back a good meter.Desperate, using the tiny break, the man drew an imperial shortblade from the second leather sheaf, before spinning it around in a flurry, after taking a shield forward sword back stance. Lorgar advanced forward, deftly avoiding the swordswords dozen thrusts and stabs. During a small gap between the two of them, Lorgar flung a brace of throwing knives forward, which we’re easily deflected by the sellsword. He clearly had Legion training, perhaps he was a veteran of some years. His skill was truly remarkable. But so was Lorgar’s. As a whole, the Imperial Legions tactics we’re utterly unmatched...as a unit. But when fighting one on one, the disadvantage belonged to the Legionary.

The Assassin advanced forward, his heavy armor clinking, intent on getting a quick gut jab, with his shield outstretched, but missed his mark by an inch. Lorgar, who had side stepped away from the lunge,  swung his great blade around. The Assassin lifted his shield into the sky to block, but the force, from Lorgar’s muscles, corrupted Beastblood, and the force behind the swing was too much. 

The iron shield cracked in half, and Azhidok found it’s mark the heavy greatsword slammed into his ornate cuirass, the weight and force, of the blade crashing into the man, breaking bones, bursting organs, and cutting into flesh in a splendid display of gore. The Assassin...merely closed his eyes, not saying a single word, as his body went limp. Lorgar pushed forward, slicing clean through the armor, disemboweling the Assassin.

Stylistically, Lorgar brought up Azidhonk and did a sideways slash, causing the blood drenching the glowing runeblade to be thrown off, just as the Assassin’s corpse fell forward.

Drenched in sweat, the Werewolf fell to his knees, gripping his side, the silver touched wound still burning his side, He breathed in heavily, as he sadly lamented, I was wrong. It’s not today....

**********
“Very skilled too. I was worried for a little…”

Lorgar swore, as his second applied numerous bandages to his naked upper half, the wounds oozing blood. That fight had been an ordeal, but getting back to Bloodwolf HQ was even worse. Truly, the Nord had thought he was going to bleed out. Wraith carefully applied the cloth bandages, just having finished putting on healing herbs, and other salves. “Well-equipped too. Not just your average cut throat.” He glanced to the side, looking at the equipment Lorgar had brought back, which included the unknown mercenaries silver dagger, pilum axe, and his fallen helmet, alongside a leather satchel bag. The Vampire continued, “The javelin is coated in Vecotaycall. It’s Sload in origin.”

“Sload?!” Even Lorgar was surprised. The Vampire nodded, as he put another bandage on, being careful to be gentle with the Nord’s thick muscles, “Very rare. And very expensive. I hear the Maormor know how to craft it as well, and there traders occasionally visit the Imperial City and some select ports in the Summerset Isles, so it isn’t impossible to obtain in Tamriel. Never used it myself  You’re lucky you weren't touched by it. It causes the organs to rot from the inside. While the person’s alive and fully conscious. I don’t know how the guerillas could afford an Assassin of this caliber…” Wraith contemplated, scratching his chin.

“How do you know it’s the rebels…” Muttered the Nord, before he said, sadly, “Everyone ******* hates me.” 

“Nobody knows Lorgar Grim-Maw is Saladin, or that he’s in Valenwood. Besides…” Wraith left his master's side for a moment, bringing the leather satchel bag. “I found this in the rogues belongings.” He brought up a rolled up piece of parchment.  The only thing that was drawn was a white...wolf skull. The same skull the Nord had painted on his helmet, Lorgar glanced at his discarded iron helmet. “They weren’t after Lorgar Grim-Maw, they we’re after Saladin of the Blood Wolves.  Meaning they had to hired by the Bosmer resistance. We have been a rather nasty thorn in their side for as long as we’ve been here. But I don’t think he was paid beforehand."

He drew another object forward...a strange looking circular object, painted red. “I think this is an Assassin writ.” Wraith paused, “Alot of times, when you can’t afford multiple Assassins, the employer offers a bounty instead. The pot is a good deal bigger than an individual Assassins pay, but only one can claim the reward. So you give each would be bounty hunter a piece of something to show you have a right to claim the contract.” He paused, “Once I was giving a dried up sweet roll…in this case, it seems they used a Halbadi.” 

Lorgar’s eyes narrowed, “What the **** is a Halbadi?” Wraith muttered, “A ceremonial object precious to the Bosmer. Seeming from this piece, it was split into eight wrights. Meaning…” 

Lorgar sulked placing, his hands to face, “There’s seven more Assassins after me…”

Before Wraith could deliver his usual snark. Lorgar had an outburst of rage,”I am in so much ******* shit!” 

“You’ve already killed one. It’s not so bad-” Lorgar interrupted him, pissed off, 

 “The ******* Nords, and that Skeever brained Baldur, probably still want to turn me into a ******* fur coat, the Imperials want to draw and quarter me, there’s a crazy Dremora ******* around in Valenwood, and now i’ve got a bounty on my head! This most fucked up part is the ******* Dominion has less quarrel with me then the rest of this ****ty continent. Can the situation get any more fucked up, you stupid *****?!” Lorgar smashed his fist against the brick wall, leaving a large dent. Wraith remained as stoic as ever, 

“I guess the whole world wants you dead now, my lord. What are we going to do, I wonder…”  

Lorgar put on the scariest face he could muster...before he started howling in pain, and began to shake his crushed knuckles, tears forming in his eyes, "Awooowowowowowo!” He swore, and began to jump around. The Vampire just rolled his eyes, as he smirked, “Do you think Baldur still has it out for you?”

“Of course he does.” Lorgar quickly recovered but was still nursing his wounded hand, “He wants to skin me alive! Fucker, all I did was leave an arrow in his side!” He became sullen, 

“Why does everyone hate me…” He sulked, as the darkness began to form around and embrace-

“Well, you left an arrow in him, as you said. You kidnapped his wife, and left her to the mercy of aJusticar. And you killed a bunch of his soldiers in Falkreath…” Wraith’s inncoenly said, counting his finger,

Lorgar waved him off, yelling “BAHHHH, PLEASE! That stupid admiral was a bitch!"

“You also ruined your friendship with Gracchus. You beat up his wife, knocked out his mother in law, and ate all his chicken wings in his inn…”

“I could have cut her throat! He’s lucky I left her alive!” Snarled the Werewolf. 

Wraith shrugged his shoulders, “I guess. What else….Ummm you kinda betrayed the Empresses trust. You let your best friend kill himself in this over complicated gamble that had a fifty fifty chance of failing epicly. You beat up your sister in law...ummmm, you kinda pissed off your wife.” 

Lorgar arrogantly lifted his head up high up, “You’re point Wraith?”  He said snottily, 

Wraith just sighed, rolling his eyes, “Nothing, my lord.”

Lorgar breathed in a large handful of air, as his annoyed face suddenly grew dark. A small smirk appeared on his lips, “I think it’s time I take my prince up on his offer. I’ve grown lazy, and weak in my stupor. A proper hunt shall cleanse, or purge me. No...a pilgrimage. So ordains the All-Maker and Prince Hircine.” He got up from his chair, his face resolute, “Wraith, it’s time to go hunting…”

[Celan]

Magdela Bathory, Jerall Mountains, Cyrodiil

After returning to the Bathorys’ hidden estate in the Jeralls, Maggie had put the night with Skjari out of her mind. There were too much to do. She spent several days plotting next moves, then set out from Colovia to Skyrim once more, using the Volkihar portals. She would make the arduous journey home to Skingrad by conventional means and alone, with only her nightblade guards.  As senseless as this seemed to Rufus, she knew her business.

It was upon her return to Skyrim that she learned of the sunbird attack on Windhelm, and the death of Ulfric Stormcloak. The hold of Riften had been razed by bandits. A Moot would be held and the bard Baldur Red Snow, one of her poetry clients, was a candidate to replace Ulfric. Events were certainly on the move, but that only underscored that she needed to be home. If the Thalmor were attacking Skyrim openly, they would not spare Cyrodiil for long.

From Pale Pass Maggie traveled by horseback to Bruma, where she dined with Jarl Balgruuf under the watchful glare of his Dunmer housecarl. They discussed war preparations and the trials of running a county’s daily affairs. Though she could feel the jarl’s eyes on her as she left the dining room, Maggie slept alone, and only “took some air” late at night, helping herself to her real dinner from a lone castle guard returning to his barracks.

In Bruma she rented the finest carriage she could find for the trip to the Imperial City. They made their halfway stop at the newly constructed Fort Xanten, at the crossroads of the Gold and Silver Roads. The fort had been built after the Stormcloak rebellion to aid in holding the county of Bruma. The captain of the fort came out to greet her, but after the usual formalities, Maggie made a point to talk with the youngest legionnaires who stood gaping at her. Older married men were unlikely to write their absent wives about having met Magdela Bathory, but homesick young boys might remember this moment all their lives, and write their mothers about the famous author.  One of the young men was set to guard her door that night. “So that my own guards might get some rest,” she told the commander. “Who better to safeguard me than the mighty Legion?” The boy later swore that the Countess’ skin was the softest thing he had ever touched, but couldn’t remember how he knew this.

The next day, as the carriage descended into the foothills of the Jeralls, the high spire of White Gold Tower became visible even at a great distance. “The center of it all,” Maggie said quietly as she gazed at it from the carriage window. Flashes of memory from her days and nights spent high in the Tower went through her mind. For a moment she closed her eyes and had a clear picture of Skjari’s face above her, his scent, the pressure of his hand sliding across her stomach. It was as if he were there. She had never missed anyone before. There had been no one to miss. It was not only the prospect of losing the ancient Nord’s company that disturbed her. There was a certain irony in the fact that when she had only just achieved her freedom and could choose to be with him without anyone else’s expectations or interference, the wizard had thrown up a barrier that she could not cross. Yet still she couldn’t hold it against him.

As they neared the city, the bustle and stench grew, and so did Maggie’s excitement. It felt like the first time her father took her to there, with all the people in their array of garb and with their cacophony of accents. On this trip she had timed her arrival for early evening when tradesmen and merchants were on their way to the inns for supper. Amongst talk of war and rising prices, they would mention seeing the Countess of Skingrad on their way. Some would spit her name, but even notoriety had its reward.

She spent the night quietly in her house in Elven Gardens, then the next two days working at her publishing office. She met with her sister Sofia, an awkward sit-down. The elder Bathory knew the truth about Darius’ death, but Maggie had promised freedom for her children, the chance to choose that neither of them had had. They kept the talk about banking business, Maggie urging her to divert more funds into loans to White Gold. At fair interest rates, of course. That day she also paid a visit to the First Edition. After the editor offered an obsequious apology for the gossip the late Albecias Plebo had spread about her, Maggie agreed once again to publish the profitable Midnight Edition, covering the city’s nightlife and the more scandalous corners of imperial society. It was in fact midnight when she slipped into an Order-run brothel. A gold merchant from Hammerfell who had paid for two whores never remembered that there was briefly a third woman in his room, who opened his wrist then healed the wound before leaving him to sleep it off.

In her office Maggie had found a stack of invitations going back to her departure. A few were newer. She had her secretary send polite regrets for all but one soiree she had heard would be attended by a good number of Elder Council members. She still owed Skjari a list of candidate names for new councillors, and it would be irresponsible not to know the latest before she advised him.

She arrived half an hour after the fashionably late crowd had arrived. Milling politely around the crowd, Maggie waited until the chancellor of the Elder Council, Doron Zethus, stood alone on the far side of the room. He was a short, stocky man with curly dark hair and a powerful chest and arms. She crossed over to him.

“And so you come.” He gave her an apathetic smile and a fake bow. “Countess of Skingrad. Should I offer condolences or congratulations?”

“Neither are required, Doron. You’re looking well.”

“Multiple condolences, for the deaths of your father and brother in one go, which left you all alone in your family’s seat. How tragic.” The Nibenean flashed his gold-toothed smile.

Maggie’s own smile never wavered. “These are difficult days. How is your wife?”

“Absent, same as your husband. You want to know what’s going on in the council? For once I miss the Bretons. I hadn’t realized they were such a brake on Colovian scheming.” Zethus was a Nibenean nationalist, of the polite sort, at least in public. As they spoke, Maggie noticed that his tribal tattoos had begun to creep above the neck of his tunic. War chaos and the empire’s continued fracture had allowed him to grow bolder, it seemed. “They know we are on the front lines, yet still the Colovians pick and press, never satisfied. Vultures. No offense.”

“None taken. Support for the Draconus’ remains steady?”

Zethus shrugged, his eyes roving the crowd while he spoke. “He’s still a Nord, but he put down the rebels who were troubling our towns. You were right about that. There’s talk of attacking Elsweyr’s cities, to which I say it’s about time. Amaund’s whelp found a baby somewhere, so she’s done her duty as empress well enough, though I hear she spends half her days playing at legionnaire and the other half talking to herself about her dead maids. We’ve had worse.”

“You’re still with them, then?”

The chancellor waited, then nodded, stiffly and unconvincingly.

“You tried to install your cousin in an empty chair without the emperor’s approval. Tsk.”

“It didn’t hurt to try.”

Except to diminish your credibility, she thought. “Who among the councillors is… less supportive?”

Doron studied her a moment, then leaned in to whisper several names. Maggie quietly cast a muffle spell as the whispering went on a few minutes longer. Mentally she recited the names after he was done. All Colovians or moderate Nibeneans. It was a test, to see if support for the emperor and empress would be useful to his factional ambitions, if he could use the emperor to clear some obstacles.

Finally the chancellor stood back and said in normal voice, “I’ll tell you this, my nightmares are not of Khajiit or Bosmer marauders or even these Thalmor air ships. It’s the damned lizards who worry me. I had expected to hear that they were taking this side or that, but their silence is unnerving. I can almost see the army swimming up Mother Nibenay in the night, defiling her waters and stealing onto shore to finish us off. If you have any influence left up in White Gold, see if you can find out anything about where Black Marsh stands these days.”

“Don’t be so glum, chancellor. Concentrate on your profiteering. There is gold to be made in wartime.”

“It’s been good to me, I’ll grant. But for how long?” He paused, then asked, “Do you still have any influence left up there? It appears you’ve been tossed out of the emperor’s bed in favor of his spymaster. I wonder that you yourself still support them.”

“We are at war, or soon will be. Petty resentments cannot rule the day. Anyway I am married now.”

“A diplomatic answer. Who’s next in line for your attention? Not me, surely.”

“You’ve never tried to seduce me, Doron. Why is that?”

“Would you like me to?” The chancellor’s amber eyes moved from her face down her body. “I’m happy to see you wear the Nibenean style. Not like these cows who stuff themselves into corsets and drab velvets.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but this cut isn’t Nibenean. It’s a style popular in Alinor.”  The dress was a deep sea blue and was indeed not tight fitting, though only as to allow her a natural movement. The cloth was fine enough that it still skimmed her figure, the soft folds in back sitting just above the rise of her bottom. Maggie had put her hair up, held by pins set with sea stones. She wore no jewelry other than her rings.

“The garb of the enemy? How subversive.”

Maggie laughed, then stopped as Zethus leaned in closer. She watched his expression while he ran a thick finger along the underside of her chin. “You’re a beautiful woman, Magdela. This neck alone, men might kill for.” The chancellor traced a line downward from her chin with his thumb. “Probably have.”

His palm brushed the side of her breast, then the thumb continued along her bare side to her hip. With a slight pressure on her hip, he turned her half around, and his eyes continued downward along the rise of her bottom. Maggie feigned modesty, bowing her head. “Don’t think I haven’t imagined bending you over the council table a time or two. Or how that pretty mouth would feel on me.” He paused as if playing the image in his mind again. Then with a slight movement, Zethus’s thumb pushed her away and he drew back. “Still, I would never plant my seed in a Colovian field.”

Recovering quickly, Maggie flashed a wry smile and turned again to face him. “Would that really be so terrible?”

“It wouldn’t be good for my brand of politics, and I refuse to have any towheaded bastards running around. Other men might live for their lusts of the moment, but I’m planning a dynasty. You will ask around about the Argonians, won’t you?” Doron lifted his glass and turned away, practically dismissing her.

Later that night, after she had made the rounds, Maggie wrapped herself in her sheer blue veil and stepped out onto the balcony. She was alone but for her guards who stood at a distance. Beneath her, the Imperial City was mostly dark and slumbering, though it never truly slept. There were the magical street lamps and the ship lanterns in the distant waterfront. The stench from the sewer outlets competed with the fragrance of jasmine and moonflower. Maggie’s vampire senses could also pick up the sharpness of sweat from the legion guards who passed by on patrol, and hear their drumbeat steps echo throughout the city.

The evening troubled her, particularly the carefree arrogance of the chancellor. In the Order hierarchy, she had nowhere near the regard her father had held, yet in wider imperial society, she enjoyed even more influence than he had during this turn of his public life. Doron Zethus had always treated her with suspicion but also deference, never with the vulgarity he had displayed that evening. Something had changed. She ran it through impressions of others that night, the things they said and didn’t say. With the departure of the Bretons, the stability was broken. Doron wanted chaos more than he wanted to win, and had ceased to be an asset. A man like that could be swayed to treachery. Maggie had seen it before. The emperor and empress might be able to turn his own fear around on him, use it as pretext he needed to finally dissolve the Elder Council entirely and send them all back to their estates. They could paint it as the chancellor’s own idea. If Zethus gave too much trouble, an assassination made to look like the work of the Thalmor might be in order. It would energize patriotism and help ensure martial law would even be welcomed among the populace. The Legion was the only institution they still trusted. This, then, would be the advice she would write, not a list of names. The Draconus’ could act on her advice how they wished, of course. There might be some other way they could use the instability to their advantage.

She had told Skjari that she enjoyed the game of seduction and plying influence, but the party left her weary. As Maggie looked down over the city, it seemed to her that she saw not only the maze of buildings and interlocking streets and gates but also the sewers and tunnels beneath them, and the still older patterns of the Ayleid city beneath. Amidst the physical maze was a writhing web of alliances, interactions, contracts, and competitions, from the purchase of a loaf of bread to the coupling of lovers to the legal and trade structures that sought to impose stasis upon it all. These shifted and overlapped and shifted again like a great dance, or like a great heap of maggots in a debris pile.

What was her role now in the mess? She had inherited her family’s fortune and web of alliances and enemies, but her father had always provided the guidance and purpose that ordered her steps. Even rebelling against him was a reaction to him. That was all gone now. It wasn’t really true that she didn’t miss anyone. Even now, she looked to Darius all the time, asking his image in her mind what she should do next, seeking his approval and his love. Had he meant her to be a courtesan forever, and if so, what use was the game? In a hundred or a thousand years, would she still find herself prodded by the greasy thumbs of mortals appraising her like a prize mare?

If there were a hundred or thousand years, she reminded herself. There might not be ten. Might not be one, even. Skjari spoke boldly of defeating the Thalmor, but Maggie had seen the crystal towers of Alinor, and she was afraid. She was more afraid of what had been hidden from her there than what she’d seen, especially of their magical abilities. Should they win, she felt sure that her arts of concealment would not be enough to save her. Skjari might survive, but he had means that would never be accessible to her. She and her remaining family would not fare well in a world where the Thalmor had free rein. They would brook no competition for immortality.

Darius had survived for ages, seeing all manner of cataclysms come and go. There was much he had concealed from her, Maggie knew. She had sealed his study even from Rufus before her departure. Now she wondered what secrets she might uncover there. The only family secrets that really mattered now were about survival, but survival for herself meant little without a Heartland where she could always return. The hub of the Wheel was what gave the Order vampires their power, not just the blood of mortals and the favor of the Princes. The Hub must never fall to those whose goal was to break the Wheel entirely. She was no longer the spy who had broken Corio Adorin’s network, no longer imperial courtesan, but she still had arts that might help in the war effort and what came after. This must be her purpose in returning, then, larger than just survival. Victory.

Maggie murmured a spell and levitated up, over the railing, and down to the rooftop of the next manor over, ignoring the protests of her guards. She glided the city rooftops like this a while, before descending and walking the rest of the way home in the piss-filled, pitted cobble streets she loved so well. Even when the skies opened and rain began to pour, cleansing the piss away and soaking her veil, still Maggie walked and let her thoughts roam. She had never felt so alone, and exhilaration mixed with fear. Darius was gone, Skjari was gone. She had only herself now.

Maggie walked the city streets all night, not feeling the wet or cold, until numbness set in simply from the repetition.

Back at her desk the next morning, she took up a quill.

My cherished emperor,
I have news of the Elder Council…

She kept it short and professional, a single page detailing her belief that Chancellor Doron Zethus was becoming disloyal and recommending that the Elder Council be dissolved. If he chose not to do so, she continued, there were still a few names she could give him. These were Order-friendly nobles, none of whom coincided with the list Doron had given her the night before. The letter also contained Sofia’s recommendations for Treasurer. Maggie signed it:

Your devoted, M.B.
Countess of Skingrad.

That evening, Maggie heard the news that the royal convoy had been attacked in the streets of the city, an ambush ruthlessly put down. Emperor Krojun had been injured though it wasn’t life threatening. Was this the Nibeneans moving already, or something else?

Whatever was going on, she had done all she could in the capital. Maggie ordered her servants to begin preparing for her return to Skingrad.

[The Good Doctor]

Endar Drenim

Cloud Top Research Log 77, Day 53

After extensive research and repeated results, it appears my previous conclusions are sound and that a consistency has been established. I do not say lightly that it is now well within my abilities to perform and maintain the processes necessary to replicate the Ayleid's own methods of wielding this Dawn Magic in order to create from nothing sources of power not unlike those utilized by the Dominion sunbirds. Destroying them without direct contact or connection is another matter, though through long study of the properties and their own similarities to the lesser welkynd stones commonly found throughout this land, I have surmised that this would be possible through a very focused assault of the same energy, directed via an apparatus constructed for such a purpose. Perhaps it would be more beneficial to the Empire to simply use the diagrams to construct a new sunbird altogether, and perhaps I will some day. But such a feat could take months or even years. Besides, it is not what they contacted me for, nor is it what their alliance needs in order to defeat those already in existence. No, I shall stick to the original plan and design the weapon that was asked for.

This means it is time to leave. Remaining atop this rock surrounded by imbeciles is no longer of any interest, and my work has reached a level at which remaining stationary is no longer necessary. This is fortunate, for my next objective is quite far away. I have learned how to wield and replicate the Ayleids' power, but if last month's theory stands, it is the Dwemer who offer the most convenient method of putting it to use in the hands of the untrained. I am going north, back to Skyrim after so many years. I will not miss the stench of these Fighters, nor the mindless prattling of the Synod mage they serve. The Psijic is another matter. Though I continue to doubt the sincerity of her many lines of questioning as well as the true motive behind her desire to offer assistance, she has proven to be a refreshing partner in conversation, displaying a vastly superior understanding of the Axioms of the World (or the foolishness thereof) than most published experts. I have come to rather enjoy her company. It will be quite a shame if I am forced to dissintigrate her.

With no servants, soldiers, or orphan girls to babysit, Endar found that leaving his longtime research camp was as simple as handing the dremora his bag and walking through the portal he had prepared. Walking or riding had never been a bother to him, but today he just wanted to get away from this thrice-damned backwater that the Cyrodiils called their countryside. Unsurprisingly, the Psijic Monk followed him. He had known she would. Illorwe had prepared for the departure two days prior, despite him never mentioning that he intended to leave. And so, one moment they were in Colovia, then Oblivion, then atop a treeless crag, covered in moss and right beside a thundering waterfall whose cold water turned to mist and froze around the tips of the canyon's scraggily bushes.

"The Reach?" Illorwe said, casting a spell to shield them from the icy droplets that were being whipped about by the wind. "I was expecting the Imperial City."

"This is the site of a previous camp of mine," Endar stated. There was no need to go into further detail. "We are near the ruins of a Dwemer City called Bthar-zel. I assume you are familiar."

Surprisingly, the monk shook her head. "I have only spent a few years studying the Dwemer. They are fascinating to be sure, but... well, let's just say that I think the world has lost much worse than them."

"That almost sounded viscous." Endar raised a brow. "Have you always had a mean spirit or has my proximity harshened your sense of humor?"

She laughed. "Gods forbid. I simply have no love for their worldview. Every hour that I spent reading the tomes or dismantling the machines darkened my mood more than the last. Eventually, I had enough. I returned home and never regretted it."

"Riveting, to be sure," Endar said, regretting his rhetorical inquiry. He motioned to the northwest, where the misty peaks of the Druadachs faded in and out of visibility as clouds passed between them. "We are near what most Nords consider the border of Skyrim. Bthar-zel is higher still. Finding it will be easy. It sits beside the river."

With that, he set off as before, leaving the choice to follow him up to the Psijic. Now that his eyes were on the mountains themselves, Endar could not help but remember the Nord girl who had followed him those months ago. Had she been from the Reach? No, it was Whiterun.
Endar was surprised to recall that detail. It bore no significance to him in any way, and nor did she for that matter. Yet Matilda's memory seemed to have followed him like the ghost of a clingy ancestor. This feeling could not have been guilt, for Clavicus Vile had given him no realistic alternative to killing the girl and damning her soul, and she was hardly the first person to suffer such a fate at his hands.
And yet, here it was. Here it had been many times during his studies at Cloud Top. During his rare moments of meditation, Endar had even briefly believed to hear her voice, asking those incessant questions like she did, only for it to turn out to be that moronic Bosmer from the Fighter's Guild.

She knew there would be danger, he reminded himself. Just like Elara, she assumed the risk when she begged me to let her follow. By Azura, what a stupid girl, to choose such a fate for herself when she was so ill-prepared.

"What's on your mind?" Illorwe asked, causing Endar to frown as the clouds parted in his head. By now that they had been traveling for several hours, and would soon be close to the ruins.

Deciding to keep his lie simple, he said, "I was just pondering on how long it might take to work out a more efficient way to prevent dimensional collapse when developing a spring of harmonic energy."

The Altmer was silent for a minute, then she asked, "Have you ever considered using your own pool of magicka to act as a source from which to siphon enough energy to create an anchor, perhaps coupled with a soul gem in order to stabilize the field that it would generate?" She smiled. "In my experience this also prevents magicka burn."

"I said 'more efficient', not 'archaic and outdated'." Endar feigned looking at a distant eagle in order to hide his smirk. All the while, he made a mental note to remember her advice, for in theory it actually sounded rather plausible.

Evening was approaching when the two wizards arrived at the ruin. Like many cities built by the Dwemer, it did not appear all too impressive from the outside. There was an ancient stone bridge spanning the river with a pair of old towers on either end of it. The local Nords called this place Deep Folk Crossing, which would have been an apt name a few eras ago when the Deep Folk actually used the bridge.
Fortunately, the city entrance had collapsed long ago, and the secrets that laid within remained unspoiled. Endar had considered coming here many times, for he knew of the city's historic significance, but the troubles of entering and navigating it had always been great enough that he'd decided to hold off. Now that his immediate goals aligned directly with what he stood to gain from entering the city, that time had finally come.

"I shall require laborers," Endar mused. "The extent of this collapse could be great. Illorwe, would you be so kind as to venture out and recruit among the locals? I would like to begin setting up a camp."

"Locals?" Illorwe glanced around. "You mean mountain goats?"

"That was almost as amusing as your quip about the Dwemer," Endar said, dryly. "If you believe it within your power to use goats to dig through earth and stone, then by all means, do so. If not, I would suggest scrying for one of the many clans who inhabit these mountains."

"The witchmen? You do know about the creatures they associate with, don't you? And how reluctant they are to deal with outsiders?"

"Reluctant is an understatement," he replied. "But I must make do with what I have. If you discover an alternative that's more effective than goats, please do tell me. Otherwise, do try and locate a group that lacks a hagraven. They are jealous creatures, and not the sort I'd prefer to involve with my research in any capacity."

"I'll see what I can do."

Illorwe went over to the bridge, where she began to prepare the scrying ritual. Meanwhile, Endar summoned the dremora and a couple scamps and had them set to work preparing his new campsite.
 

***
 

Bthar-zel Research Log 3, Day 2

After no small effort, Illorwe managed to locate a rather large Reach clan to the southeast. They live in tents among the Nordic ruins that dot their valley, and neither of us could detect any trace of the magics that would be expected to accompany the presence of their hag matrons. She set out this morning, while I remain here and continue to direct these daedra in the task of clearing what they can.

A day had passed before the Psijic returned. Endar immediately knew something was wrong, for the three men who accompanied her were clearly not the local clansmen. They were Nords, garbed in Markarth green and armored in scales. The one he took for their leader wore a helm fashioned from the head of a bear. Knowing how finicky the folk of Skyrim were at the sight of daedra, Endar dismissed his summons before meeting them near the bridge.

"You there, elf!" barked Bear-Head as they drew near. "Are you Endar Drenim?"

Endar rolled his eyes. "You're mistaken. Drenim is the other Dunmer exploring Dwemer ruins. You can find him two mountains west of here."

"Smart ass," the Nord grumbled. "Yesterday your she elf friend came to our camp and requested permission to borrow a team of our workers. I would like to know why."

'Workers?' Endar said to her telepathically.

'The clan we found work for the Nords,' she replied in the same manner. 'Just keep talking to him. Be honest. He will explain everything.'

Looking at Bear-Head, Endar shrugged. "I am going to enter the ruins that stand behind me. To do this, I require able-bodied laborers to help dig it up, and unless there is a town nearby that I am unaware of, the local clansmen will have to suffice."

"Well that's going to be an issue," said the Nord. "You see, the eastern clans have all pledged themselves to Markarth. The ones you two are eyeballing happen to be preoccupied."

"Preoccupied with what? I was under the impression that the clans had branded themselves 'Forsworn' and now spent their days staring at empty roads waiting for Nords to kill."

"Heh, you haven't been here in a while, have you elf?" The Nord's grin was about as friendly as his tone. "You see, Jarl Brund changed the way things work around here. He spent the last year leading our war against the heathens. There will be no more attacks from them. No more of their dark magic. No more homes burned or daughters raped. At least not ours."

"It seems that your Jarl has accomplished more in a year than the rest of Skyrim could manage in several thousand," Endar mused. "I would be very interested in knowing how he managed that."

"With the powers of old," claimed the Nord. "The powers that once killed your kind by the thousands, wiped out the dragons, and carved the Nords' place in Tamriel. Perhaps you will see for yourself when he returns to our hold as High King."

"Perhaps," Endar agreed. "In the meantime, I would borrow some of his "heathens". I promise that it is to his own benefit."

"How? What does Brund stand to gain from helping you enter these ruins?"

"A weapon," Endar answered. "But you are merely a grunt. The nature of my work is not for your ears."

"Merely a grunt?" The Nord frowned and lowered his hand to the hilt of his sword. "I am a captain of the Stormcloak army, you red-eyed cur, and I command you to explain yourself now!"

***
 

Bthar-zel Research Log 4, Day 3

Illorwe returned today in the company of three Stormcloaks. I had no desire to make the leader's companions drown him in the river when we first met, but alas, the chaotic nature of Lorkhan reveals itself through every aspect of his work. My endeavor continues.

As it turns out, the new Jarl of this land, a Tongue by the name of 'Brund Hammer-Fang', defeated the Forsworn so thoroughly that the remaining clans of the east have been reduced to paying tribute in order to survive. They mine the Druadach Mountains for silver and iron under the Stormcloaks' watchful eyes. This is perfect, for it means that any given clan is certain to include a number of able-bodied laborers who have experience in the exact sort of work that I need from them.

I shall travel to the valley myself come morning, and see if an arrangement can be made with the Stormcloaks camped nearby. Hopefully they will prove more amiable than this last group.

The mood in the Stormcloak camp was dour. But Endar supposed that was to be expected considering that three of their comrades failed to return the night before. He and Illorwe were questioned, of course, but the man doing the questioning lacked his predecessor's passion for getting angry at strangers, so all went well. From the looks the Nords gave him, Endar suspected that they might have wondered if he had anything to do with what happened, but without evidence and extensive influence from charming spells, they did not make much effort to inquire. 

Upon arriving at the commander's tent, Endar found the person inside to be a grizzled-looking Nord woman with another one of those bear helmets they seemed to like so much. She had a long scar that ran over her nose and across an eyebrow, ending somewhere behind the silvery blonde locks that hung out of her helm. Endar was still working on a nickname to remember her by when she ushered them in further.
"This ain't the kind of place I'd expect to find one elf, let alone two," proclaimed the Nord. "Besides those blind buggers, that is."

"I would not have come were it not urgent," Endar said. "I require labor in order to enter a closed off Dwemer ruin, and believe you and I would experience mutual gain in transferring a number of your... natives to my campsite."

"Mutual gain, eh?" The Nord grinned, revealing that one of her front teeth was made of silver. "You've got my interest, elf. Explain."

With all the charms he and the Psijic cast, Endar could have told the Nord that she'd have gotten some calipers and a ball of yarn for her trouble, and she still would've probably found a way to see it as a good deal. Instead, he promised something more substantial. "The ruins of Bthar-Zel remain untouched by the Reachman tribes and your kind alike, and they contain the secrets of the Dwemer. And the treasures."

"Silver is treasure, and we're getting that right now," the commander replied. "What treasure did the dwarves have that's worth halting that?"

"You are kidding, surely. The "dwarves" were the finest metal workers of their time. The weapons they constructed carry an edge to this day. And if weapons are not enough, they also cut gems." That got the Nord's attention. He could see the gleam in her eyes at the word. "Sapphires, rubies, diamonds. Your Septim coins did not exist in their day, so the Dwemer stored gems by the thousands. And Bthar-Zel was said to be among the wealthiest of cities."

"Then why ain't anyone dug it up before now?" she asked, confirming that Endar was right not to treat her like a complete imbecile. "We shouldn't be the first to try it."

"Most do not even know where it is," he answered. "It is by most accounts, a lost city. My own research in the area has brought its location to my attention, but I am not an average researcher."

"You're not?"

"No," he frowned. "I am of House Telvanni. Our Magisters are renowned for discovering many a lost temple, cured many a deadly plague, and uncovered many a secret that the minds of most short-lived mortals could not even begin to grasp, for the concepts are beyond them. So when I claim to stand on the precipice of something grand, you can trust that I am not speaking in vain like some foolish dreamer chasing shadows."

The Stormcloak's silver-specked grin grew wider the longer Endar talked, and when he finished, she was already nodding. "I'll send word today. How many heathens do you need?"
 

***
 

Bthar-Zel Research Log 16, Day 32

After nearly a month of digging, the natives finally uncovered what the Nords believe to be a usable pathway. The last four were dead ends, but based on their descriptions, this one sounds promising. Word has been sent back to the Stormcloak camp to gather some of their soldiers and prepare for an expedition. I will accompany them, as usual. It would not do at all for them to find what I seek and claim it for themselves.

Addendum - Apparently several of the laborers were killed or wounded by what they described as a 'man made of metal'. The Dwemer security remains active.

"Man made of metal, indeed." Endar nudged the fallen dwarven sphere guardian with his boot, noting how much dust had collected on it. It was inactive until we woke it. He turned to the party who accompanied him: Of course there was Illorwe, and the silver-toothed, bear-headed commander whose name was Ingva Frost-Biter. Aside from them were nine other Stormcloaks whose northern names were so interchangeable that Endar did not bother to try and learn them. Besides their shields and weapons, each of the Nords had brought a burlap sack on their belts, no doubt intended to hold the treasures that they would be the first to lay claim on.

The narrow hall that had been uncovered led to a stairwell that eventually opened up into a darkness that even the humans' torches could not pierce. Endar's night eye spell revealed exactly what he had hoped. They had found the city proper. No doubt this had been a side passage, but it mattered little. Before them stretched dozens upon dozens of bridges, towers, dwellings, pipes, cogs, and machines of every kind. It would take years for a proper team to explore the entire hollow of the mountain, but Endar figured that he would leave such an endeavor for another day. He had more specific goals here. "Come."

He cast a light spell so the Nords would have something more reliable than their pitiful torches, and then led them on towards the first major bridge. More machine guardians revealed themselves along the way, but they were easily dealt with. 

The smooth stone bridge was long and so narrow that only two men could walk it comfortably side-by-side. Beneath it was a web of more bridges, and beneath those, nothing but black. "Shor's bones," one of the Nords muttered. "Didn't the dwarves know what railings were?"

"Bet they thought they were above tripping," Ingva said. "Arrogant sons of bitches."

"You don't know the half of it," Illorwe stepped up beside Endar. "Did you expect it to be this large?"

"I did."

"How do you intend to find what you're looking for?"

"Precedence. The Dwemer were nothing if not repetitious. Do you see that keep down there?" He pointed deeper into the city, to a large structure with a metal door that was flanked by two massive centurions. "That is where we will look first. Do you see the guardians? And the way it is segmented off from the commoner districts? Only the privileged and elite were allowed in there. Those who were privy to secrets."
Endar could have used a levitation spell to reach the keep there and then, but that would have left him without the aid of the Nords. And in a ruin like this with intact defenders, it was preferable to have more eyes on alert.

They proceeded across bridges, down stone steps, through darkened dormitories and workshops. More than once, they were forced to turn back or seek alternative routes due to rock collapses within the mountain. However, Endar was overall pleased by how well preserved the city remained. 

At one point, a Nord triggered one of the old security measures and nearly lost his head to a blade that sprang out of the wall. Fortunately, Illorwe was quick enough to push him to the ground with a spell and freeze the trap at its hinges. Beyond that, their party met little resistance aside from more spheres and the occasional mechanical spider, none of which got close enough to harming anyone to warrant any concern.

"Hey elf," one of the Stormcloaks said, as they passed through a room that was filled with cheap scrolls that turned to dust when touched. "You said there'd be treasure, but all I'm seeing is dust and broken machines."

"Then you have not been looking very hard," Endar answered. "You don't believe that the Dwemer left their valuables lying in the open, do you? They hid or locked them away, as most people do."

"Well I ain't seen any chests or treasury rooms neither."

Endar rolled his eyes. "Are you joking? There is a chest right over there." He pointed at the oddly-shaped Dwemer container that sat in plain sight atop a stone table.

"That's a chest?" The Nords stopped in their tracks. The one who had spoken looked particularly startled. "We've passed a hundred of those things! Why didn't you say nothin'?"

Endar shrugged. "I did not come here to make you rich."

The Stormcloaks did not seem particularly bothered by his snark. They clambered over to the chest, spent a minute bashing its foreign lock to bits, and dumped the contents on the floor. Most of it was junk to them. Old cogs and rare building tools that even the lowest of Dwemer coveted, but there were a few prizes. A long neckless made of square golden plates, and a ruby that had been finely cut into the shape of a teardrop.

Endar paid no mind to how the Nords determined who got what. No doubt, they would find more as they delved deeper. He was simply content in the knowledge that they now considered this expedition worthwhile, meaning they would be less likely to become angry and force him to do something regrettable.

Now in higher spirits, the group continued their journey through the city. They slowed on occasion when a Nord discovered another Dwemer quarters and felt the need to loot it -to varying success- but for the most part, their pace remained steady until they arrived at the great staircase Endar had spotted from the upper bridges. They were a long way down by then, but one could look back and see that the city continued deeper and deeper into the bowels of Nirn, further than Endar's night-eye could see. However, the keep they stood before remained the most prominent landmark he could detect.

They proceeded up the stairs, and were met with a loud hiss. The Nords readied their weapons and the elves, their spells, while the two gargantuan Dwemer Centurions came to life. Steam hissed around their brass heads, and their mechanical bodies, shaped like those of an armored mer but the size of a giant, clicked, spun, and clattered to life. The center of both their chests hummed, and their cores emitted dim red lights. The duo took their first steps in unison, and as they did, their arms sprang wide and revealed two pairs of nasty-looking blades that were the size of men.

"Uhh, elf..." Ingva Frost-Biter looked at Endar nervously. "You got something for this?"

"One moment." Endar focused on the machine giant to the right, for it was closer to him. After the initial steps, the Centurions proceeded forward more quickly than their size would have suggested. In the most typically Nordic fashion that Endar could imagine, the Stormcloaks bellowed their war cries and met the machines bravely.

... Or perhaps foolishly was the better word. The first Nord to reach the machines aimed his axe at the joint of one's knee. The blow made a loud, high-pitched ting but had no effect. It was followed by the Centurion's arm twisting, rotating in a way that would be impossible for a living humanoid, and then driving its massive blade down through the Nord's chest. Its whole body spun then, and catapulted his bleeding corpse into the fray of attackers. 

The second machine did not even use its sword. It simply kicked the nearest Nord with so much force that she went airborne, and did not reach the earth again until her body had traveled half the length of the staircase they'd come up. Endar watched her tumble down a ways before reverting his attention to the battle.

By then, Illorwe was shouting for the Nords to step clear so she could release whatever spell she had prepared, but they were not having it. Their attempts at the first machine had finally yielded some fruit when a large, hammer-wielding brute of a man managed to cripple one of its arms, and now they were ganging up on it.

Unlike the Psijic, Endar was not particularly worried about his spell hitting the Nords. As the massive Centurion hissed and steam blasted out of its torso, Endar sent forth a powerful wave of magical frost. The whole area flashed white as the steam rapidly froze, and a sheen of glittering ice formed around the metallic guardian. The Nords slowed down, but the machine had stopped entirely.

Endar turned to the second Centurion, and with Illorwe joining in, blasted it with another freezing spell. The mechanical beast shuttered and stalled, its parts malfunctioning. Then finally, its red orb of a heart flickered and dimmed, and it collapsed beside its twin.

With the battle won, the Nords took to their usual victorious yawping, despite being three fewer in number. Indeed, they praised the axe-wielder who had fallen first. They were proud of the way he had charged against such foes so fearlessly, and there was much talk of 'Sovngarde' and 'Tsun', even as they gathered the corpses together. Endar waited silently for them to finish before pressing on. Eventually Commander Frost-Biter approached him and offered her thanks, and soon after all the others had done so as well, stating in many words or few that perhaps he was not all that bad after all.

When they finally continued on to the keep, they found that the massive metal doors were unbarred, though heavy enough that it required three Nords to push one open. Upon walking through, Endar smiled. There before him stood what was undoubtedly the home of the lost city's ruler. The walls were lined with stone murals that depicted humans being driven back by elves wielding great magical weapons. Along these walls were numerous corridors and stone tables, displaying hundreds of instruments and tools made of the finest Dwemer alloy. Many of them sported soul gems as well as the more mundane sort.

The Nords grinned like children when they raced about the room, stuffing their bags with every shiny treasure they could find. But Endar was more interested in something else. He proceeded deeper into the keep with Illorwe close behind. "It was a Nord who led me here, you know," he said to the Psijic. "She died with her work unpublished, until a journal was discovered only a few years ago, with some anonymous additions. She was of the belief that this city was one of several that warred over the means to wield a precious resource that was not entirely unlike the greatest of the Ayleid welkynd stones. The scholars call it Aetherium."

"I've read of that conflict," Illorwe responded. "They fought over a forge, did they not?"

"That's what she believed." They entered a hall with a low ceiling, where their light spells illuminated a stone table at the center. On it rested an intricate metal device that held up a metallic cube that was covered in runes. "Here it is."
Endar walked forward, and placed his hand on the cube.The city’s lexicon.
With the press of a button, the device hissed, trembled, let off a little steam, and released the lexicon. Endar picked it up.

"This is it," he said, glancing at Illorwe. She looked troubled for some reason. He ignored it. "I am almost there." He summoned his magicka, readied his mind, and activated the device.

***

Illorwe's studies of the Dwemer paled in comparison to her studies of the Ayleids and their magic of the dawn. This was normal. There was rarely a great deal of overlap in these two fields. Which was why she had been genuinely surprised when Endar's research suddenly took such a drastic turn. 

Dawn magic was dangerous in the wrong hands, and so she accompanied Endar with the intention of using her expertise to guide him and ensure his actions did not result in catastrophe. But this? How could she guide someone whose pursuit so rapidly shifted from matters she understood to ones that were absolutely alien? Endar was young in comparison to his greatest Telvanni peers, yet brilliant as any she had met, and quickly proving to be utterly unpredictable.

This was the first moment that truly made Illorwe nervous. Endar's quest found him standing before her, his red eyes filled with blue as the Dwemer cube in his hands glowed brightly and opened. Whatever the Telvanni could see, she could not. But Illorwe sensed the elation that filled him. The secrets of the past, flooding into his mind unchecked. It made Endar tremble, made him grin in a way that she had never seen from him before.

It went on for several minutes, until at last the lexicon snapped shut and Endar let out a long, exasperated breath. He blinked a few times and looked around as if trying to recall where he was, then his eyes met hers and he spoke, "I need to speak with the High King."

[ColonelKillaBee]

Rebec, Baldur

Kyne's Watch

Amidst the yurts and longhouse-stye tents of the islanders, slung with colorful banners and totems, long trestle tables had been set out around a bonfire. It’s not as large as the one from the celebration of Kyne the night before, but has obviously been going already for several hours, as the islanders’ slaves had cauldrons full of soup and spits with roasted hare, deer and boar already well under way. Sweetrolls and oat cakes were brought out on heaping trays from their clay ovens. And, as always, the mead flowed. Children and wolf-like dogs ran around under foot, stealing food where they could.

There was no sign of Eilif, but some of his kinfolk were already at the table and into the mead, along with his wife Arle. She wore a blue skirt with embroidered neck and a sabrecat fur cape, her dagger hanging at her breast and axe at her side. As Baldur and his family walked into the clearing, there were calls of welcome and raised mugs, but no one stood up, let alone bowed. These Nords weren’t much on kings.

Arle did rise to greet them when she saw them approach, gesturing for them to come to the head table.

Baldur had the princess secured in one arm, and she seemed to be mirroring him, eyes wandering around from roast to roast, smell to smell. Little Ragna likely couldn't eat much of it yet but she knew the smell of food just fine. 

He watched one of the slaves in question begin cutting out a piece of ham from a boar nearly double the size of his head.

Baldur walked over to the slave, a Bosmer barely up to his stomach in height. He stood out even amongst the others, as most of the islander's slaves were Nords. Captives and enemies at sea.

He tapped him on the shoulder and gestured him to be off, leaving Baldur to do the rest himself. The work was already done, the juices running like a new stream, increasing its flow as Baldur relinquished the hold its flesh had on his family's portion.

He slapped it down atop their plate and gave Ragna to Rebec so he could clean his hands. By then he and the child both were practically drooling. Ragna literally.  

"So," said Baldur before attacking the ham. "Where's my new Admiral?"

Arle motioned to the Bosmer, who ran off, seemingly to fetch the man in question. Addressing Rebec, she said, "We're honored you're here. Sit and I'll have mead brought." Pitchers soon appeared, brought by two young boys too finely dressed to be slaves.

The Bosmer had disappeared into a longhouse tent, and after he appeared again, Eilif stumbled out a few minutes later, still drawing up his pant laces. He announced himself with a loud belch and looked around the clearing, hand on his stomach. His second wife appeared behind him from the tent, braiding her black hair as she went.

Seeing Baldur and Rebec, Eilif lifted a hand and tottered over. "It's too early for a feast, I said," he slurred at them. "Just had one. Am I right?"

Baldur was watching the Bosmer still, lost in thought and didn’t answer immediately.

He stood to meet him face to face, sizing him up. He was close enough to smell the mead and sex on him, both familiar from his tavern days. 

“I didn’t get to partake. Had to tend to other matters. So, this is Eilif, a son of Wulfharth. I’ve heard about you.” 

One of the boys reappeared and put a mug in Eilif's hand. He said "morning Papa" as he did so.

Gesturing with the mug towards Baldur, Eilif replied, "Aye, and the tavern bards are already trying to figure out what rhymes with Baldur. Congratulations and all that."

“To you as well, Admiral,” said Baldur as he inched closer. “I like you, Eilif. I like your style. Saw that little race of yours way back with Rebec, and how you bumped heads. Remember this, she’s not one of your wives. You keep your hands off her and I’ll continue to like you. Understood?”

Eilif, in the middle of a swig, thought a moment, then swallowed and laughed. "Ah, that day Red broke my rower's arm then bent me over in front of the men. Now that was a good day. You see my boat? What did you think of that?" The big Nord beamed with pride.

Baldur looked at him quizzically and despite himself smiled. 

“It was the fastest I’d seen a ship sail. Of course, I haven’t seen many until we moved here.”

"You've never seen anything like mine. And now you've got a whole fleet of them. Come, sit. Eat." Eilif gestured to the seat next to Rebec. He himself took one on the other side, next to Arle.

Baldur watched the pair curiously, especially Arle. It was strange seeing her act so... normal, after Eilif’s entrance. He grinned as he ate, pointing at her before he spoke. “So. You’re the head wife I take it. What’s your name?”

The blonde woman smiled and handed over a platter of sweetrolls. "I am Arle Eivarsdotter. And you, husband, haven't greeted the king properly. He's your forefather, so they say."

Eilif had been busy stuffing his mouth, but stopped and looked over to Baldur. "Right. How does that work, exactly?"

“I’d like to know that myself seeing as how I gave birth to him,” said Ysana. She just couldn’t resist. “Rebec, dear? What’s it like being married to Wulfharth?”

Rebec had been busy trying to keep Ragna from smearing herself with every plate of food within reach. Absently she said, "Like being married to a bard who makes shit up everytime he opens his mouth. Except with more slackjawed fools around who actually believe it."

“By the gods, this family of mine...” Baldur rubbed his temple.

"We heard interesting stories last night from the men who came back from the moot," Arle replied, her tone thoughtful. "Tell us, King. Did something happen at the Womb of the World? Did you exchange souls with Eilif's forefather?"

Baldur's eyes focused on Arle, expression turning soft. “A lot of things happened at the moot. I don’t know how to explain what Brund was, aside from a Briar-Heart. He was so powerful, that his thu’um felt like it was taking away my years. When I ripped his heart out, they returned to me. But none of this matters, none of the stories or lies and rumors. The end result will be the same. The elves will pay, and regardless of what you choose to believe, you call me Baldur.”

Arle inclined her head. "We thank you. This dragon cult you studied with..."

"Greybeards," Eilif corrected. "They're not a cult. They're..." He shrugged.

"They serve a dragon, you heard it last night." To Baldur she went on, "They tried to kill Wulfharth before. Why would you go to them? Was this Brund working for them?"

“To get away from this one awhile,” he said, nudging Rebec. "As for Brund, not at all, Brund was directly opposed to their ideals, which is the main reason they helped me. I needed answers, and figured if anyone had them, it’d be them. For the very reason that they annihilated him once before. And they nearly did the same to me.”

Baldur took Ragna from his wife and mushed up some goat leg for her from his mouth. The leg in question being stuck in her death grip. “Whatever you think of them, they’re still highly respected. The one called Arngeir, Ulfric’s teacher taught me another shout even. One that might allow me to bring back the gift one day to our people. If I choose to.”

"The Nords' power will need to grow when the elves are destroyed, that's true. There will be a void. The southerners have always been weak and need our strong hand to guide them. But choose carefully. If we grow too powerful, Nirn will re-balance itself again and not in our favor."

"Let the man eat," Eilif said. He clapped Baldur on the shoulder and grinned. "Papa."

Baldur choked a bit on his food.

”You start calling me gran and I’ll leave a void where your snowberries used to be,” said Ysana.

Baldur couldn’t help but laugh. “Lighten up mother. Anyway your wife is right, Eilif. She has wisdom, much like mine albeit of a different sort. What would you say to learning the voice yourself, Arle? My wife could teach you, if she’s up for it. If I’m to bring back the gift it’ll be with those that can use it sparingly and without reckless abandon.”

"If we will need to break any sieges in this war, having more than one Tongue would be a good idea," Arle nodded. "They say Ulfric could break walls. Can you do that, Rebec?"

"I don't know. Maybe the imps will let me practice on one of theirs."

“We can test it right here. There’s an old fort nearby, occupied by some marauders. Eilif, what say we round up a dozen or so men, maybe two score and we go take the place. It’ll give Rebec the chance to show us what she can do, and Arle her first lesson on Fus.”

Ragna giggled when hearing her mother's word, spitting up a bit of her food. 

“You’d like that wouldn’t you, you little devil,” said Baldur tickling her and cleaning off her mouth.

"Wrecking bandit fortress, sounds good to me," the Nord agreed. Rebec appears less than pleased, but she did complain to Mazoga not long before about not being able to go out on adventures.

"Before you go, allow us to present you with a gift." Arle stood and gestured at two teenage girls at the end of the table. These disappeared into the warren of tents, and reappeared a few minutes later with two hawks, each perched on one of the girls' gauntleted hands. As they approached Baldur and Rebec, one of the hawks rose up, spread its wings, and let out a fearsome screech before settling back down on the girl's arm.

"Aren't they magnificent? These are a breeding pair and can be used to start a whole new mews," Arle explained. "My daughters train them. They can hunt and will attack your enemies on command. They also can be used as messengers, though only short distances. If you send one with Eilif's ship, for instance, it will return to your flagship and to its mate with whatever he gives it to carry."

"Hahaha!" Baldur, the king seemed more like Baldur the excited child on his birthday. The minute the things let out their cry, he was sold. Although seeing a hawk coming at him gave him a strange unsettling chill, it was soon overcome with the desire to pet one of them.

This made the hawk he reached for unperturbed stretch out its wings once more and greet its would-be owner with a peck.

Hand bloodied, he said, "Not for petting I see. No, you two are warriors..." One of the girls gave him a leather gauntlet, and gestured to the table where there was roasted rabbit. He held his arm out, mimicking Eilif and Arle's daughter, waiting for one of the birds to come to him, with the rabbit in his hand ready to greet the one that chose him. Meanwhile he beckoned Rebec to come over and do the same.

"Don't even try and tell me you have a problem with these birds, priestess," he said, smiling from ear to ear at her. "With these, we can keep in contact easier during the war. And you'll always know where I am now."

For once Rebec didn't have any objections about something new. She watched the birds curiously and accepted a gauntlet from Arle's daughter. This one, the female, was more reluctant to branch out from her trainer, but eventually with some encouragement hopped to Rebec's arm and peered at her with piercing, intelligent eyes. Rebec fed the hawk a morsel, which it devoured.

"Is it difficult to keep them?" she asked.

The girl shook her head. "Couldn't be easier, priestess. If they can get to fresh water and hunting grounds, they will keep themselves." She held up a wood-carved whistle, and blew once on it. It sounded a lot like the hawk's call. "This will bring them home. It's good to train with them every week, but Gyta and I can help."

Baldur watched as the thing greedily went at the rabbit in his hand... he had to eventually relinquish it from its powerful grasp, which earned him a warning cry that nearly split his ears.

"I see they can be stubborn..." said Baldur as the creature flew around him, trying to get at the food. Baldur kept it away though, waiting for it to dive before snatching it from its path. He'd seen some sailors with their own trained hawks doing this on the beaches, making them earn their meal, keeping them agile and from simply seeing their masters as a free meal.

Eventually Baldur's hawk flew away, refusing to play the game any longer. The girl who was his trainer offered him the whistle, but he refused. Instead he let out a deafening cry of his own that made the girl cover her ears.

It seemed to get his bird's attention. Soon after, the hawk returned, cautiously flying down to its perch upon Baldur's hand before he gave the rabbit back to him. He brought his hand closer so the two hawks could share. 

"It's gonna take some work before that one obeys me as well as he does you it seems..." He turned to Rebec but directed his question to them all. "I assume you won't object to me naming them. Have you heard the story of Fjori and Holgeir?"

The feast guests had scattered a bit to make room for the spectacle. Eilif's daughters looked puzzled. "No, king," one of them answered.

“Ah well then, you’re in for a treat,” he said with a big grin. “Anyone here play an instrument?”

"We all do." Eilif stepped up to them. "Drum, flute, lyre, what do you need?"

"A family of Bards?" Baldur's eyes were wide, his grin growing. Rubbing his hands he said, “How about all of them? If you can keep up.”

"We taught the priestess here a thing or two, didn't we, Red?" Eilif grinned at Rebec, who was having a staring contest with the large bird on her arm. Several of the islanders dispersed to retrieve their instruments.

Shrugging off his fur cloak as he drew his axe, he took a long drink from a pitcher of mead... and then another. It had been a long time since he'd done this... he would need inspiration from the spirits.

He approached a great firepit....

"Yol!" he cried, making the flames rise as he pointed to Eilif's drummers. Then the flute sounded off, starting high until Baldur signaled for them to play lower. Slower. Slower.

Listen to my tale, ye raised by the blade, look at Fjori as she walks slowly, creeping 'cross the glade, glistening in the shade, her black axe of Snake's blood, wicked wretched Fjori...

Thirty five Winters, wandering through the field, laying many low, her sorrow she wields, whipping through stormy seas, wishing one would set her free, kiss of Kyne carry her from her woe....

Listen to my tale, ye raised by the blade, look at Holgeir as he walks slowly, creeping 'cross the glade, slithering now as he sings, seductive as a luter's strings, wicked wretched Holgeir...

Thirty-Nine Winters, wandering through the field, laying many low, his loneliness he wields, running through enemies, hoping one would set him free, kiss of Kyne carry him from his woe...

Masser, Secunda, watched them as they fought, striking to and fro until their weapons caught, bloodied, battered, bent, but neither one would relent, until they found love instead of sorrow...

Wedded on that day, they soon had their peace, tears were held at bay, no longer did they weep, none stood in their way, all rival clans gave to their say, and their days were at ease, Holgeir and Fjori...

*Whispering*

Listen to my tale, ye raised by the blade, look at Lorkhan as he crawls slowly, creeping, 'cross the glade, bearing that elven name... beware Shor the same, Holgeir, Fjori...

He spoke to them both, wicked and holy, he bit poor Holgeir, watch him die slowly, seeping into sky, watching the Whale as he died, til Fjori cured him, listen to Shor's cry...

"Weakened by this love, you are to serve me! I will preserve you, keep you holy, come now with me battle-bard, marred by cuts and battle scars..." Fjori heard enough... "Raise your sword, lord..."

Cut him down she did, but he would return, their place in this world by blood they would both earn, sword and shield constantly wield, or low before him would we kneel, early before our time is to come.

For Shor's face changes just like Masser and Secunda, cruel and kind is he, watch out for him, ever does he come to test, never truly can we rest, til Sovngarde comes for us all-

Oooooh....

Til Sovngarde comes, for every last Nord, shield wife and husband will stand surely, weakness we cannot afford, meet our foes with Axe and Sword! Show them all the way of Skyrim Nords!

"Yol!"

The islanders had a keen ear for rhythm and had no trouble keeping up, and Baldur's hawk cocked its head as though recognizing that the song was in some way about him. As the song ended, "Holgeir" stretched his wings with a harsh cry and shot into the air, followed soon by his mate. They were a beautiful sight, fast and graceful. After circling a few moments the birds headed towards the mountains to hunt.

Meanwhile Eilif was clapping slowly with his big sailor hands. "Couldn't sing it drunk, but a fine skald's tale. I thought the art was lost in Skyrim, judging by the tavern bards."

“Not entirely,” said Ysana, smiling proudly. “My grandfather, and this one’s father’s father, they were both versed in the way of battle-bards. Good to see so too is yours.”

Arle set down her drum and said, "I hope you like our gift, Rebec. Fitting for a priestess of Kyne, we thought. Though it seems Baldur favors her husband, the Trickster."

"That's him, alright," Rebec agreed, removing her gauntlet and taking Ragna back from her grandmother. The little girl pointed at her father and sang a few unintelligible baby words off-key, trying to imitate him.

“Li-sten to-my-tale, ye with hair of dawn, watch out for Lorkhan, creeping slowly...” Baldur snatched her up, blowing into her tummy before letting her fly like the hawks.

Ragna shrieked with delight, then descended into fits of giggles.

Rebec smirked and watched them proudly. "That was a good one," she said low in Baldur's ear, and smacked his bum.

Baldur thanked her with a kiss to hide his blushing cheeks. Ysana watched the happy trio from a distance, smirking herself and for once not wearing worry all over her face. Though she didn’t say it, she knew how the true story of Holgeir and Fjori ended. Gods willing, theirs would end as it had in Baldur’s rendition.

”Alright alright,” said Bully the Bully with Mazoga under his arm in near headlock. He took a bite of lamb he snagged from one of the tables. “Enough of the lovin, lets get to the blood lettin! Axe and sword! Plus, I wanna see the queen or not queen, whatever you call her rip down a wall!”

Mazoga had clearly been letting Bully have his moment out of guilt for the sword she once put through his gut, but when she had enough, she punched him in that same scar. "Get off me, you big oaf. Who invited you anyway?"

Bully grimaced, hiding the obvious pain on the burly bearded man’s face in another fat bite of lamb.

”The aroma of food, what else? And what do I see when I get here? Yammering, singing, and the only real one of the royal family trying to eat is the damn baby! It’s like in one of those book scenes, and yes I read, shut up, where the characters are at a fuc-king feast and they’re not even touching the damn food! Baldur, you’ve lost weight for Kyne’s sake.... it’s disgusting! Yer highness.”

"Can't accuse you of that," Mazoga said with a grin. "They're priestess and king now, they sip wine with their pinkies up. You try one of those chickens with honey on 'em?"

“Okay I get it,” said Baldur, who was honestly thankful someone reminded him there was food about. He shoved Ragna into Bully’s hand just as he was about to try the chicken in question as Baldur took it himself and dragged Rebec back to the table. “Everyone eat up and get ready for the trek.”

Bully frowned at the cheery babbling child and tried pawning the child off to Mazoga.

Mazoga happily took Ragna and began babbling back at her with her roughened orc voice, but had to restrain her when Ragna reached for her tusks. "Only I get to pull on those, little one."

"And maybe a man or two," Rebec added from behind them. She had gone back to eating, too. Mother of an infant had to take advantage of what hands-free time she could get. None of them noticed the strange looks from Arle and other islanders, who were more used to enslaving orcs than eating with them, and not as nanny slaves, either.

The King was too deep into his cup and his chicken to be bothered even if he had noticed. Between Eilif's antics and his family's cheery demeanor, even from Ysana, Baldur was in high spirits once more. Briefly the islanders and everyone faded away. All except Rebec, who was once again sitting at his side near the fire in Falkreath, watching the Redguard women dance and sing the night of their wedding. Boldir was beside them, laughing at some horrible joke of his, likely about sex in some way or other. Rebec was shaking her head, hiding a smile. 

When he came back to the present, he tried not to think of those that weren't there with him now and simply be thankful of those that were. And with that thought, Baldur took a mighty swig...

***

Just an afternoon's walk away from Kyne's Watch was the dead frozen forest that separated them from the road to Solitude. Many a forsworn still littered the land here, as did many a Nord who failed their Grim Trial, preserved by the frost in their failure.

A grim landscape indeed, a winter deadland to all but the hardiest of Nords. 

And few were hardier than Scathe the Tormentor... He stood atop his new walls, watching his family in their daily routine. His wife was cutting fresh wool for their bed from what would be their evening meal... his youngest was playing with his older sister, chasing her with a hook. 

His men and his sons were whipping their new captives, some breton lasses that would make for good diversion for himself and the men. His wife was once one of such diversions until she'd proven too good to discard to the wolves. And if things improved, he might even take another. Why not? Ever since they took up residence in these parts, they'd had plenty of passers by to capture, plenty of camps to raid.

And so far the only opposition was the occasional brave hearted fool that thought them common bandits. Strong Nords all, strong even for the likes of them. But not strong enough. With how much trouble they'd caused in the recent weeks, he wondered how no one'd come for them thus far.

So when a group of men and women lead by a big yellow haired man in fancy leather garb came wandering up towards their gate, Scathe was hardly surprised. He almost expected it. Perhaps that was why he frequented the walls. That or he simply enjoyed having them so much, not normally frequenting places with such constructions. 

As they approached, Scathe wasn't much interested in the yellow haired man in the slightest, but rather the woman that stood next to him. She was of decent look in the face, but even atop his walls he could make out her figure... She would definitely do for some nightly diversion.

"The fuck de ye two want?" Scathe said, looking below him where the bodies of the previous homeowners resided. He rubbed his exposed gut, wild hair blowing in the wind like his cock beneath a shaggy fur kilt.

Rebec stood with hand on axe and regarded the bandit like a piece of scat she couldn't get off the bottom of her foot. She recognized his look all too well. To Baldur she said, "You want me to rip that one down with my rope before we start breaking his wall apart?" Her preference was clear.

"Been a while since you killed, hasn't it?" said Baldur with a smile. "Depending on how this goes, you may get your chance."

Stepping forward, Baldur said, "I got word of bandit activity in my woods. Wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

The Nord scoffed. "Bandit activity? Yer woods? Ha! Well just who the fuck are you that ye claim these lands aye? Some fancy city prick, smoothed handed lord? Well let me tell ye somethin, 'M'lord', we's ain't bandits, We's the Clan That Just Wants to Watch the World Burn! Skyrim's LARGEST and most savage clan ever crawled out of a woman's cunt! Banditry is just what Milk-Maids call Nordin! So I ask again, what the fuck de ye want, and no beatin around the damn bush."

At the sound of the uproar from within, Baldur showed his teeth in a big childish grin.

An arrow thudded in the ground next to his foot.

"Fuck you smilin about down there aye? Got a good view of my whale bone, ya fucking pretty haired cock sucker?"

"You know, one of your own came to me not too long ago..." Baldur grabbed the arrow from the ground before walking to his mother and patting her on the shoulder to calm her down. She was covered in her own warpaint, though it looked too fanciful for war, mimicking the pattern of moth's wings on her cheeks.

"You know a man by the name of... what was it... Ynihinundr?" asked Baldur.

Scathe crossed his arms defiantly. Baldur continued.

"You know, he came to Kyne's Watch to be a Grim One. Which is the reason I've come here, in truth. I'm recruiting! And although Ynihinunder didn't quite make the cut...."

"Mammoth shit! That's my boy yer talkin bout now, goldy! What do you mean he ain't make the cut, he showed your lot up, didn't he? Wait... I know you. You're that one they call... Ashy or somethin right? Ash-King? You a king boy? Well tell me, king. Where's my son now?"

"Dead. The trials were too much for him. Killed him myself."

At that, Scathe called for his great-axe from below. One of his men tossed it up just as Scathe let out his war-cry. All the men joined in, causing crows to flee from the sounds of their call for blood.

"I'll have your head mounted on my cock right next to hers!" he cried, pointing at Rebec. He had to move as an ice spike spiraled past him, aiming from his waist. Ysana cursed as she readied her hand for another.

"Easy everyone, easy," said Baldur calmly. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves. And to settle his anger from hearing him talk about Rebec in such a way. The hair at his neck was beginning to rise from anticipation of fighting such Nords.

"Like I said, I've come to gain soldiers, not bury bandits. I killed your son yes, but that is the nature of our Trials. Even so, he impressed me with his mettle. I can't have you lot capturing and raiding in my land, especially not so close to my town, and so close to war with the elves. So I'm giving you a choice. Come with me, prove your clan's strength, and kill elves by my side... or have clan Red-Snow and the Sons of Wulfharth kill the Clan That Just Wants to Watch the World Burn down. To the last man."

Now it was the Islanders' turn to give warcries. 

Baldur drew his axe. "You want to watch the world burn... then there's no one better for you to follow, than I."

Scathe heard some of his men, even one of his sons mumbling amongst themselves. The prospect of killing elves did indeed interest them. They had their own encounters with them in the past few years, and Scathe even had word of some of his kin doing battle with them in the Rift. A war only those that dwell in Skyrim's Wilds would ever know about.

But Scathe wouldn't have it. Not from the man that killed his boy.

"You want my clan, aye? Then COME AND TAKE IT!!"

"Suit yourself," said Baldur as he watched Scathe walk away. In his place came archers ready to pepper them with arrows until they were all pincushions. 

"Shield wall!"

"Shield wall!" Rebec echoed, along with the others. This was like old times and she couldn't suppress a grin. Underneath the turtle of shields, she said to Arle, "Wait between volleys then stand up and let 'er rip while our archers give their answer."

"I have no idea how to shout."

"Yes you do. You're a Nord and you've heard me do it. Baldur will help. I think." Rebec didn't know exactly how that was supposed to work, but her husband had said he had a way to teach people shouts. "Even if you end up just yelling, it won't do no harm and they'll have someone to shoot at besides me."

"Got it." The other Nord woman was unfazed about being a target.

"Aim your thu'um for just right of the gate arch. The gate is always a weak point. We don't need to bring the whole wall down, just make a hole, and shut that big ugly one up."

Arle nodded and moved further down the line, on the other side of Baldur.

Rebec caught Baldur's attention and gave him a thumbs up. "You might throw a Yol up there, distract the archers."

Baldur nodded, then looked to his mother who'd grouped up with the islanders and their wise women. He never knew his mother knew any spells. There was a lot about her he still didn't know and was about to learn that day.

As the shield wall went up in a wave of dark purple and blue, bearing Stormcloak Bears and Kyne's Hawks, Ysana and the other handful of islanders with her began throwing icicles at the battlements to keep their heads down as Baldur started searching for a target. There were two watchtowers jutting upwards from the battlements on each side of the gate, both made of wood.

Smiling, Baldur had the others raise the shield wall around him until the final word. 

Immediately as his second word of power left his lips, the shield wall dropped, then raised again. Just through the cracks he could make out the image of the tower erupting in flame, wood cracking and splintering where the fireball impacted it before toppling over from the break in its integrity and the burning wood.

The sounds of men screaming filled the air... Baldur's flame was a slow, cruel burn. It would feel like an eternity before they finally succumbed. He eyed the second battlement, watching the men scrambling from it before another fireball took them as well.

To Arle beneath the bombardment of arrows he said, "No one can teach you how to thu'um but you. My thu'um is me. Your thu'um will become you." Pointing a finger at the watchtower, he said, "Imagine the word. Fus. Force. Think of what that means and how it represents you in everyday life. The struggle to survive, to push back against the world. To make way. Then cry out it's meaning, speak it into existence and force it upon the world the same way you'd bring life into Nirn with a new name. Proclaim that word in the same way."

The screams of the burning hadn't distracted all the archers, it just made the others mad. A fierce volley thwacked into their shields, then their own archers and mages answered, and Rebec and Arle stood.

"FUS. RO DAAAH!"

Rebec's thu'um staggered those near her, and thudded into the fortress gate, shaking it. A gasp went up from those on the walls, but the walls themselves held. The thu'um came rushing back like a gale wind across the shield wall. The line quickly reformed.

Arle had tried to push the words with all her might, but the only thing that flew out was some spit.

“Again!” cried Baldur as the men above prepared another volley. Baldur let loose his thu’um with all three words this time, making some of the archers duck momentarily, waiting for the flames to recede. 

This time Rebec decided to use the chaos caused by Baldur's thu'um as cover, and pushed her way through the shields.

As SHUL sounded, so did FUS RO DAH.

The wall shook again, and the wind fed Baldur's flames and caused an even hotter and wider conflagration than his could on his own. Rebec met Baldur's eyes, wondering if he had noticed it.

He had... they all had. The islanders and Baldur’s Grim Ones watched as the second tower began to catch fire. Whatever man had the brass balls to hold it was now trapped. The archers were struggling to shoot at them from the flames rising from their battlements. Some of their men’s arms were caught in the flame, panicking and falling backwards as they struggled to put themselves out.

Scathe ended their suffering, those that lived. But not out of any kindness for them.

”Do I have to come up there and kill ye myself? Kill those loud mouthes you fucking cunts! KILL THEM! Men! Brace the gate!”

Over on the other side, Baldur was now eyeing the gates himself...

”Rebec! Come here, by me! Arle, you keep trying!”

Arle was no stranger to battle. In the midst of the din, she closed her eyes and in her mind's eye saw her ancestors standing behind and beside her, as if the shield wall was dozens of times its size. They had ventured all for Kyne in this venture. "Lady, help me," the island priestess said.

When she opened her eyes again, she saw an arrow headed straight for her. Without thinking, she said, "FUS." It did not have the thundering power Rebec could command, but the puff of air was enough to send the arrow wobbling back end over end, harmless.

As Rebec came over, beneath the shield wall he said, “Rebec, lets do whatever it was we did earlier again, except this time I’m gonna shout a fireball at that gate, okay?”

She nodded. "I hope I don't blow it out first this time. Can't believe that worked."

Smiling, he grabbed her by her hair and prodded her mouth with his tongue. When he pulled away he said, “Of course it worked, war wife. Our thu’ums are in sync just as our spirits are. Ready?”

"If you say so." Rebec laughed, then nodded. "Gotta give 'em credit. Most bandits would be shitting their furs by now." She then turned and focused on the gate.

“Oh they will be,” said Baldur. “Quick, before the flame on the ramparts dies out. On Toor.”

Baldur breathed deep, eyes closed, feeling the heat, and the pumping of his blood in his veins. The excitement and realization that he was alive. The passion, and his desire to kill. All the familiar thoughts that made up who he was and what made his thu’um reality when he spoke fire into existence.

His eyes opened, looking at the thrill in the eyes of his companions. They longed for battle, and they’d soon have it. He only hoped the Scathe’s clan wouldn’t fight them to the death. They were truly one of Skyrim’s strongest wild clans. But luckily Scathe’s boast about their clan’s size was true, so if they were looking to see Sovngarde today, then so be it.

Their compatriots under the shield wall began to beat a tempo with axe against shield.

While these beat a tune and Baldur meditated, Rebec had her own war preparation.

"You want to see the world burn?" She lifted Kyne's Talon and shook it at the defenders. "YOU FIRST, ASSHOLES."

As Baldur began his shout, his wife's echoed. "FUS Ro DAH!"

As Baldur’s thu’um left his throat, Rebec’s followed, with far greater speed than his own. His great fireball was propelled with the velocity of a diving dragon. The impact upon the gate was so great that their front line fell on their ass, feeling the intense heat flow over their faces.

As undignified as their position was, their enemy’s was much worse. The men who were supporting the gate in anticipation of a charge were riddled with splinters and shrapnel from the metal frame of the gate. And many of them were experiencing the same slow burn their clansmen and comrades had above.

Even still, in their panic some of the braver men wandered out looking to finally meet axe to axe with their assailants. Ysana shot an ice spike through the one up front closest to Baldur and Rebec. A young man with short blonde hair and dark eyeliner and a knotted beard. Her spike now filled his mouth worse than an orc’s mammoth tusk in a scullery maid. 

More poured out as Scathe wandered out from the smoke and flames. His battle axe hang high over his shoulders before he pointed it at Rebec and Baldur.

Even in the tumult the shield wall reformed itself and held. Many of the islanders had been fighting with Stormcloaks for months and their kin were all suckled on axe and dagger. They weren't going anywhere.

Mazoga, standing behind Rebec, wasn't going to just let Scathe stroll up like he was coming to a picnic. Crossbows from a number of her crew appeared above the shields and they let out a volley.

Scathe in his fury swung his axe in an attempt to deflect the arrows and bolts as his men and sons joined him. They charged, with Scathe at the front, fighting like a Daedra even with bolts protruding from his shoulder. 

Rebec and Baldur looked to one another, and Baldur nodded, pointing in Scathe’s direction. Before he could attempt to break their shield wall, Rebec shouted at the man, propelling him back so hard he hit the fort’s walls.

”Don’t make me kill you!” Baldur let his shield down to speak with Tinvaak. “I am your king! Come with me and let me make you into something greater!”

Scathe’s men fought on, and though they fought ferociously, even managing to kill some of the islanders in the shield wall, their equipment and training against the Grim Ones proved inadequate. Islanders and Grim Ones fought side by side, the dead growing in number at an alarming rate. When Baldur saw some of even his men fall, his blood began to boil.

One of Scathe’s sons jabbed Baldur’s arm with a spear as he spoke and in his anger he chucked his axe in his face. Another boy leaped at him with daggers before Rebec And Baldur slapped him down with their shields.

Baldur hit him in the chest with his shield before grabbing him by the throat and melting his face off. Rebec threw her ebony axe at another clansman before Baldur grabbed it, cutting down another of Scathe’s sons before he could kill another islander.

”I SAID ENOUGH!” cried Baldur, voice echoing over chaos of the battlefield. “Scathe! Stop or all of your sons will join Ynihinundr!”

”Stop! Stop, yield, godsdamnit, fucking yield!” Scathe hobbled over, throwing back his men and boys. 

“We can take em father, we can take em! Don’t be a coward!”

”They can kill us with a fucking syllable, ye stupid arse! I said fucking yield!”

Rebec, blood spattered and her arm sore, nevertheless kept the shield up and called over it. "Throw down your weapons."

One of Scathe's sons charged at her. "I'll throw my weapon right down your fucking throat, you bi..."

The rest of his taunt was swallowed in her thu'um as the boy went flying ass over teacup into the scorched wall.

"Anybody else?" she challenged. "My man was talking, gods damn you." Straightening, she nodded at Baldur then glared at the rest of Scathe's men, daring one of them to interrupt again.

Smirking, he nodded and handed her back her second axe. The islanders and Grim Ones were rounding up Scathe’s family and men, bashing the rowdy ones with their shields until they were forced to kneel.

Baldur’s eyes roamed over theirs. Not a single one showed an ounce of fear, none except Scathe, who watched as Baldur stepped before the one Rebec shouted down. He was certainly more subdued now, body battered and broken. But his spirit was the same.

”I know you men. I understand you better than you might think. Look into my eyes and tell me I don’t... You have the sickness...You live to kill, to raid. To fight. And you take pleasure in the suffering of others. I’m no different. I won’t bore you with talk of morality and wrong. But you, Clan That Wants to Watch the World Burn. Have you ever stopped to wonder why you are as you are? Men like you need purpose. What greater purpose is there than to defend your home?”

”Thats what we were doing before you came here and started bothering us, asshole. Who says these weak milkdrinkers from these towns and cities of yours are even worth fighting for?”

”Heindall, shut yer trap for fucking....”

”Its fine,” said Baldur to Scathe. “My wife and I come from such towns. Who now stands the victor?”

Baldur paced before them, back and forth.

“You were defending your home. Aye. But so was I. Your home ain’t just the outskirts of cities or the plains of Whiterun. It’s all of Skyrim. The cities, the towns, every last speck of dirt and ounce of clay. Our blood feeds the soil, our bodies give it life. We are a part of it all! And you men, aimlessly wandering your home fighting your own when there’s elves that threaten your very way of life. What kind of Nords are you? I offer you a way to go on living. When the Empire ruled, and Skyrim was weak your ways worked fine. But she is strong again, and the Bear is awake. You will be apart of it, or be devoured. I won’t force you to live life in the city, but you will train there. You will fight for your home instead of against it.”

Rebec leaned over to Baldur and whispered, "Good speech." Her grim expression returned as she stared down Scathe and his men.

One of them finally spoke up. "You gonna teach us how to do that?" He gestured back at the still smoldering, broken gate.

Smirking, he said, “Follow me and you just might pick up a thing or two.” Baldur looked to Arle then with a knowing look. “But not as you are. So, if you want to see what else I can show you, then come with me to Kyne’s Watch. If not, then you all can die with him.” Baldur pointed a finger to Scathe.

Scathe sat, bloodied, broken and unblinking.

“It’s nothing personal. But I can’t take banditry and murdering my men lightly. You killed some of my Grim Ones. So I’m looking to refill their spots. And someone to pay for the transgression.”

Rebec thought of Boldir, and felt sick. Tapping Baldur's side with the haft of her axe, she leaned in again to whisper. "Let him serve."

Baldur gave her a look. Leaning in, he said, “Why?”

She almost mouthed the word Boldir but decided against it. "His sons will serve his father's conqueror better than they would his father's murderer."

“And who says I want to be spared, aye? Long as you spare my boys, I don’t give a damn what happens to me.”

”That so,” said Baldur, seeing the protest in their eyes. Biting his lip, he said, “I was looking forward to killing you.”

”And I you,” said Scathe with a grin. “Feels good killing a worthy opponent.”

”True enough,” said Baldur almost absently. As though something dawned on him. “Alright, stand. All of you.”

There were groans on the Kyne's Watch side, too, at the prospect of no more killing, but the grumbling ceased at a stern look from Rebec.

“But let’s get one thing straight, fancy king of ash.” Scathe with the help of his boys stood, making his way over to Baldur and Rebec.

“What you said about home. No one understands that better than the likes of us. Home is wherever we set up, wherever we roam, ye see? And we’ve never called anywhere but the lands of Skyrim home. And only because I think you get that will I promise not to cut that troublesome throat in your sleep.”

Scathe extended a bloodied hand to them both. “Can’t promise the whole clan. There’s a lotta us. But ye got me, fer now. I’ll pass on a good word if the others come to me about it. Lettem know the Ash-King and his loud wench gave us good deaths.”

Scathe pulled his dirty barnacled hand back before either could take it. “Wait, you soft skins n’ yer fancy eagle perch at least got some good mead, aye?”

As Scathe did just that, his eldest, Heindallverdr grabbed him by the arm. “Why did you surrender. Why did we not fight until we joined our brothers in Sovbgarde? You know our way. We make many so we do not fear loss. So why do I see fear in your actions father? Why are you being a milkdrinker?”

Scathe’s eyes flashed with that look... Heindall knew what it meant but before he could react, Scathe already had him in the air by the throat, slamming his back into a pile of their dead. “Have a few of your own die before your eyes, then come tell me it’s that easy, boy. The strong lead. Let’s see if this one can make you boys stronger so you won’t have to join the others so soon. Stronger, or at least smarter.”

Heindall begrudgingly stood with the help of his pa, and they soon began burning their dead.

Ysana ran up to where Baldur was, seeing that their business was over. “The islanders are having a gathering on the beach. Amassing tents for those that lost their partners in the fight, and for those who did not to celebrate their continued existence. I’m going to get Ragna back from Hulga before she decides to keep her. Did I do well, Rebec?”

"You did more than well, Ma! I had no idea you knew spells. Thought you were just coming along to babysit Baldur."

Ysana looked between the two of them, bloodied and sweating while she was still pristine. She almost felt guilty, though not as guilty as she’d feel all night over the lives she took...

”You know Nords,” she finally said with a smirk. “Always making fun of magic. I didn’t know how you’d take it. Though I only know two spells.” She grabbed Baldur’s arm, demonstrating the second where he was injured by Scathe’s boy.

”Let it be, and try to take it easy. It will heal overtime,” she said. 

Rebec watched, then said, "That one will be useful. I'm glad to know you've got something to defend yourself with, even if it's magic."

She turned as Arle came up. "The Breath of Kyne. That was... interesting."

"Did you shout?"

"Only a whisper, but did you see what your words can do?" Arle told about the arrow she deflected.

"I'll be damned. I never thought of that. But we didn't break the wall exactly." Rebec sounded disappointed.

Baldur smiled at the two and said, “You know Ulfric couldn’t actually shatter walls with his voice. He’d shout down the city gates, not the walls. Can’t always believe what you hear from Nords.”

"Well, we can exaggerate a bit, too, you know. I wouln't mind a rumor like that. Now we'd better go find out what nonsense that big Dibellan is putting in our daughter's head. I'll leave the islanders to their own ways."

“Leave mother to it,” said Baldur putting an arm around her. “I think I’d like to partake in some of those islander ways when we get home..."

"Don't you be getting any ideas about a second wife." She leaned up to kiss him, adrenaline from the battle starting to come down. "We probably should have planned this one out better. The thu'um is not going to awe the elves."

“Probably not,” said Baldur admittedly. “Sometimes though you just gotta think on your feet. Not everything goes to plan. Just like today when the wall didn’t shatter. Soo...”

Baldur had that look on his face, and by then it was too late. “Say I did want a second wife and you hypothetically agreed...”

"Say you hypothetically had your balls removed by my axe. The haft of my axe."

“Aw, you do care,” he said, with a fake nervous laugh. “One of you is more than I can handle as is.”

"What if I got another husband? Arle says they do that, too."

“I’d make what my boys did in the Rift look like afternoon tea. Reenact what I did in camp Romulus, then haul your ass back home like so.”

Baldur demonstrated what he meant and threw Rebec up on his shoulders with his good arm.

As Rebec laughed and pulled Baldur's hair to get him to let her go, Mazoga walked past, headed for home. The orc shook her head. "You too are the most annoying couple from here to Elsweyr. You do know that?"

Baldur stuck his tongue out at her as Rebec fought and landed ungracefully beside him. “I have no idea what you’re on about. Not with you and Bully competing with us. I saw how friendly you two’ve gotten.”

"Don't like human men. They can't handle the... tusks." The orc slung her crossbow on her back and walked off towards the village.

Rebec started walking the same way. "You keep talking about that and Maz'll go finish the job on Bully's innards."

"Good, then maybe he'll have less of it," he said, smirking as Ysana followed behind, checking on his arm again. She never understood their need for battle, but it felt good for her to be useful for something other than babysitting. Baldur hid a smile, feeling like a kid having their ma check a scraped knee. He let her do her work, sensing she needed this after having killed, then let her see his blushing smirk as a thank you. Meanwhile, Scathe's boy Heindall watched them with the same fiery eyes as before. Ignoring the Grim Ones at his back and their threats, he approached Baldur, standing face to face.

"Why did you spare us. Why did you not grant us death? My father killed your men. I, killed your men. I'd have taken your wife for my own if I had the chance. So why?"

Baldur's soft expression went rigid immediately. "Because, as much as I'd love nothing more than to pull your lungs from your back and watch you suffer until you are dead, my family's survival is more important to me than my pride. Or yours. Cause trouble or make an attempt on my wife though, and I'll grant you the death you are so eager to have. Now gp back with your family while you still have one."

Heindall sneered but eventually did as he was told. As Baldur turned away, he said, "Ynihinundr. You said he fought well. That true?"

Baldur lifted his leather tunic briefly, showing the boy the scar he left him on his chest. "Aye, he did."

Somewhat satisfied, Heindall finally turned away and let his king be.

[ColonelKillaBee]

Ubbe the Savage

It was early in the morning and most of Kynes Watch was yet to stir. It was a calm morning as the sun just barely peeked out over the land. The sound of the waves crashing on the frozen banks was soothing to Ubbe. He was used to the whistle of frigid wind blowing swiftly past his cabin in the mountains. He walked along the frozen beach until he found a relatively calm spot that would suffice. 

Ubbe took off his fur lined boots and rolled up his breeches before wading a couple feet out into the freezing water. He pulled out a steel dagger that his granddad had given him after his fight with the ice wraith and dipped the sharpened blade into the water. He bent down so that he could see himself in the reflection and brought the dagger up to his head. He dragged the dagger carefully along the sides and back of his head to cut away the scruff that had began to grow back and cover his rune tattoos. When he was done, he carefully dunked his head into the cold water. 

Back on the shore, he picked up his boots and walked back to the Horker, when he arrived he learned that the Stormcloaks had honorarily changed the name from the Howling Harpy to the Humping Horker. The townsfolk had started to begin their daily routines now, but didn’t pay him any mind, after all he was just another young Nord. He opened the door to the Horker and walked in. Toralf almost gave him the standard greeting, but realized it was just the boy who’d rented from him last night and gave him a nod.

Ubbe went to his room and set his boots next to his satchel and walked back out into the main hall of the Inn and sat down on a bench facing the fire. He sat his feet near the pit to get them warm and dry before he got up and walked over to Toralf. Toralf looked at him and asked, “Well what can I get for you this fine morning?”

“A bottle of that mead with the juniper berries.” Ubbe said dryly. He was still a bit hungover from last night. He threw himself a celebration to Kyne in his room after he learned he missed the huge party by three days. Toralf set the bottle down on the counter and Ubbe tossed him his gold before snatching it up and retreating back to his room. He took small swigs of it to warm himself up before going in for the big gulps and finishing off the bottle. Now he was awake and ready for the day.

Ubbe told himself that today was the day he would meet with the Ash King. He pulled off his tunic, exposing his scarred torso. His chest had three big slashes across it from a battle with a bear that almost killed him on his 17th name day, his back had several bite and scratch marks from wolfs, and his stomach had a circular scar from a bandit arrow that had pierced him. He pulled his Amulet of Kyne out of his satchel and examined his trophies. He had several bear claws on both sides of the amulet followed by a dried butterscotch ear, a dried tongue, and another butterscotch ear. He put the amulet on and felt as though his stamina was being boosted. Next he put his dark bear fur cloak on and attached his axes to his belt.

He stuffed his tunic into his satchel and left the room. He walked back up to Toralf and asked, “Do you know where I could find the Priestess of Kyne? I’d like to receive a blessing before I meet with the Ash King.” 

Toralf looked over the young Nord and let a roguish grin go as he answered, “Ubbe was it? I do happen to know where the lady lives, but information, like any service, has a price I’m afraid. I’ll tell you what, you give me five gold pieces and I’ll point you to her.”

Ubbe sighed and pulled out his coin purse, picking fives coins out he reached out his hand to give them to Toralf. Toralf grinned and went to collect his money, but Ubbe halted and said, “Information first and coins second.” Toralf frowned before he told Ubbe what he wanted to know and then collected his coin. Ubbe thanked him and walked out of the Horker in the morning air. Ubbe walked through the streets and received a few strange looks from people looking at his trophy amulet. He eventually found the house he was looking for, and learned that he was cheated out of five gold along the way, and walked up to the door.

The longhouse had smoke rising out of the smokehole and the door and frame was covered in Nordic animal totems. Ubbe walked up to the door and examined the totems, tracing a few with his hands before he got ready to knock. He went to knock before he stopped and lowered his hand at the faint sound of a babies gurgling gibberish. He shrugged his shoulders and raised his hand to knock and put three sturdy thuds on the door.

A woman's voice could be heard shouting from inside the longhouse. "It's too ******* early!"

There was a crash and loud cursing, then the door flung open. "Here. Hold her." The woman thrust a baby into Ubbe's arms, then turned around to deal with the spilled mead that was rapidly running across the floor towards them. Without even looking at the man, she asked tersely, "What do you want, Stormcloak?" Apparently she judged his identity by smell alone.

The baby, meanwhile, stared up at the visitor with curious and friendly eyes. With a phrrpppsound that sprayed baby spittle, she proceeded to play with the string of ears and tongues slung around the man's neck.

Ubbe pulled the baby away from his necklace, holding it at a distance. He looked at it and at the half dressed woman then back to the baby before saying, “Uhh… I’m not a Stormcloak, Hearth Mother... I was actually looking to receive a blessing from Kyne before I met with the Ash King today…” Ubbe continued to look back and forth between the cheerful baby as it swung its arms and legs around in the air and the woman frantically cleaning spilled mead.

Ragna tried desperately to get back to the pretty necklace, straining first with her arms, then reaching with her toes, too.

"I'll give you a gods damned bless...." Rebec stood, hands full of rags dripping mead, but before she could lay the visitor flat, she saw Ragna's new favorite toy. Staring, Rebec pointed. "Is that...?"

“Proof of my deed’s, Hearth Mother.” Ubbe answered still holding the baby out away from his body. He looked at the baby once more and back at Rebec before shifting and pointing Ragna back towards the longhouse. “Perhaps I came at a bad time... Should I come back later?”

Rebec tossed the rags into the growing wash pile and snatched Ragna back out of the stranger's hands, stepping in between as if to shield her. "Stop calling me that." She gestured with her head towards his neck. "You just go around lopping elf ears off random passers-by? What the **** is wrong with you, boy?"

“No, Hearth Moth- ahem- Priestess? I removed them from some Thalmor snakes that were hiding in the Velothi’s.” Ubbe said defensively. He didn’t like the majority of elves, but he didn’t go around killing them for no reason. Ubbe stared at her briefly, unsure of what to do before turning around and muttering, “Shor’s bones... what did I do wrong?”

"Thalmor, eh?" Rebec considered this, lips pursed, then nodded and relaxed. As she got sight of him again, Ragna pointed at Ubbe, babbling at him. Meanwhile her mother considered the stranger. "If it's true you killed all those Thalmor single-handedly, I'd say you got your blessing from Kyne herself and don't need anything from me. Can't offer mead because I just dumped the last of the open cask. What's your name, son?"

Ubbe was caught off guard by the sudden shift in personality. He turned back around to face the woman and her babbling child and answered, “My name is Ubbe, Priestess.”

"Call me Rebec." She put the baby down in her play corner and went to wash her hands. "Ubbe. Where you from?"

Ubbe followed her into the longhouse and took a seat. “Eastmarch. I grew up in high in the Velothi Mountains overlooking Windhelm.” Ubbe looked intently at the table focusing on his thoughts. Rebec... Kynes Watch... baby... Ubbe’s head shot up and his eyes were wide. He looked at Rebec cautiously. “Are you... are you the Rebec?”

"You read that book of poems?" She sighed. "Alright, go on and say it. You were expecting a divine beauty with perfume coming out of her ass." Turning, she rooted around in a cabinet and came up with some bottled mead, one for each.

Ubbe didn’t notice the mead as he stood to his feet and backed away. “Book of poems? No. Forgive me. Had I known I wouldn’t have bothered you so early.”  He was visibly shaking. I ******* knocked on the High Kings ******* door. “I.. uh.. I..”

Rebec eyed him skeptically. "What's the matter with you? You don't have rockjoint, do you?"

Ubbe looked at his shaking hands and forced himself still before answering, “High Queen, had I known, I never would’ve knocked on your door this early... it’s just that... well, Toralf at the Inn said this was the Priestess of Kynes house...” He was still in shock, but the excited screaming and burbling of Ragna brought him out of it.

"I'm not queen of anything. And if you're a follower of Kyne, you got bigger problems. That bitch will throw all she's got at you. I speak from experience." Rebec started as Ragna crawled past her, having learned to scale the fence in her play corner. The baby made a beeline for Ubbe and smacked his calf, wanting to be picked up again.

Ubbe looked down at the little Nord and back at Rebec with an “I have no ******* clue what I’m supposed to do” look on his face. He looked down at the nordling. “What do you want, little Nord?” He said, petting the top of her head like a dog. He looked back at Rebec with the same expression before shrugging. “Since I’m here, do you know where your husband went or when he might be back. I, uh, I wish to speak with him.”

"I think she likes you. C'mon, Ragna. The strange man doesn't want to play." Rebec scooped the child off the floor and balanced her on one hip as she strode into the bedroom. "Wake up, Baldur. Visitor to see you." Tossing the furs aside, she smacked his bare cheek with her free hand.

He instinctively had a grip on them but Rebec was forceful. After her smack he tried grabbing for furs that were no longer there, waking to find himself bare and uncovered.

"What in Dagon's red ass is this about, it's still early," he said in protest. His wrinkled brow went unseen under his hair as he sat up, blowing it out the way in vain. Shaking his head like Stuhnir often did, his eyes darted around the room looking for his trousers. 

"Who's the unlucky bastard?" Baldur made a gesture for the other room with his head as he wiped the sleep from his eyes.

"Ubbe Merkiller. Here to see the Hearth King and Ass Queen."

Baldur cocked his eyebrow as his head tilted. “Well, one of those names is definitely accurate, Ass Queen.” Smirking, Baldur took Ragna and let her fly up in the air a few times, kissing her on the way down before he gave her back and kissed Rebec on his way out. 

He spotted his trousers in the other room, on a chair next to the stranger... 

Baldur’s eyes trailed over the man... no, boy... unblinking and lips in a slight frown. He cleared his throat, eyeing his trousers on a chair behind the him.

Ubbe turned his head quickly to the pair of trousers on the chair he was sitting in. He picked them up and tossed them across the way to Baldur before kneeling. “Ash King... it’s a long story... uh here!” He stood and removed his amulet of Kyne holding it out so that Baldur could see the two sets of ears and tongues along with the numerous animal claws. “This Amulet serves as proof of my deeds.”

Baldur took a step back before anyone got the wrong idea. 

He gestured with his hand for him to stand. "On your feet, for Shor's sake. We fought a civil war so we'd be done with all the damn kneeling." He quickly stepped into his trousers at last, then said, "So what's with the amulet? Those are elf ears so I assume they're Thalmor. If so, not bad. Boy your age, I'm certainly impressed. You looking for a bounty or something? I don't have one for them yet but I'm sure I can work something out."

“Two elven bastards hiding out in the Dunmeth pass, cut them down and left their bodies to the wolves.” Ubbe took a deep breath before continuing. “My mother fought under you at Falkreath... when she returned home, she returned with stories of your Grim Ones and how they held the shield wall against the Imps and those damned elves. She died in the Reach Campaign afterwards. Since then I have heard the stories about your trials and the defense of Kynes Watch against the Forsworn. I came here, with these offerings, to ask to join your Grim Ones and fight the bastard elves alongside the Ash King.”

There was a short pause, then another as Baldur eyed the mead on the table that Ubbe apparently hadn't touched. It was the good stuff too, which Baldur almost fussed about until he thought about Ubbe's words on his mother. He took a long swig to wet his dry throat, then passed it to Ubbe. "When it's just you and me, just call me Baldur please. Out in public, then you can call me High King, or Ash-King or whatever. It's too early for formalities. Anyway you have me curious. You said your mother served in the Reach. She ever meet the late Jarl Brund?"

Ubbe took a big gulp of mead “I don’t know. I only found out she was killed a few months ago when one of her shield-brothers showed up at my cabin.” 

“My condolences,” he said. He still hadn’t recieved word from anyone on the state of Markarth or what went on there after Ulfric’s death. He was hoping on some insight but to no avail.

Sighing, he said, “You must wish to see her then if you’ve come for the Trials. It’ll mean your early death whether you pass them or not. The ears mean nothing to me. You gotta earn your spot the way everyone else does.”

“Sovngarde awaits any Nord that dies with a sword in his hand and courage in his heart. I’ll do whatever it takes. I won’t miss this war.” Ubbe looked Baldur in the eyes for the first time as he spoke.

For you Daric, I hope he makes an exception.

“You know you don’t need to be a Grim One to fight. Don’t get me wrong, I’m desperate to fill their ranks. I need 500 men, even women if they’re strong. But you are still young, boy. Got your whole life ahead of you..." Baldur's eyes wandered a while before snapping back. "And you’re no good to me dead before you even see Valenwood. So make sure this is what you want. Sit here, finish your mead.”

Baldur began putting on his bear furs. “I’m gonna check out the men, they’ll be sparring more than likely. If this is still what you want, meet me on the shore, you’ll spot us easily enough. We’re the only fools up this early aside from the fishermen and sailors. If not, then simply leave after you’ve finished your mead and go bother the recruits instead.”

Ubbe watched Baldur walk out the door. He sat there staring at the bottle of mead in his hands for a short time before he chugged the rest of it down. When he was finished he stood and walked out the door and into the cold Skyrim air. He stood for a moment and then turned towards the sea. It was a short walk to the shore and Baldur was right, they were easy to pick out. Ubbe pulled off his black bear cloak revealing his braided ponytail which hung down to his mid-back. He set his cloak down on the beach and drew his axes as he walked up to the sparing men.

***

“So, how are they? They seem awfully young... How old's the big one there? 20 winters? 22?"

“Not too bad really, and young, aye. But that's not a bad thing. Us old burned out Nords won't recover as fast. But I don’t expect much from this lot. One of ‘em’s a goddamn farmer, or a shepherd, I dunno. Actually, he claims he’s a younger brother to Ynihinundr. Says his name's Kri, which is short for Krilunjarvaskr which in turn's short for-”

"I don't need to know the whole thing. I'm impressed you remembered that much. So... Krilunjarvasker of the Clan that Just Wants to Watch the World Burn? His **** as long as his name?"

Bully almost choked on his food.

He was nursing a fat bowl of rice and jumbo krill that Baldur brought, complete with a fat slab of whale blubber and bear steak, which he greedily shoved past his shaggy beard. Of course he managed to get more than just food in his mouth, but it didn’t bother him none. He just pulled the hair out and kept on chewing. 

Didnt bother Baldur much either, as he was attacking a bowl of his own minus the whale blubber which he never liked. The steam rose from their bowls so high, giving away their wonderful warmth. The smell of wasabi instantly made their mouths water, and the spiced warm mead in their mugs went perfectly with the slightly salted bear flesh, seared to perfection with Baldur’s thu’um.

”They sure got some damn good food at the Humping Horker,” said Bully. 

“The humping what?” Baldur took another bite, the subtle crunch giving into the sweet sound of his teeth effortlessly tearing into the tender juice filled pink meat with just a dab of blood.

”That’s what they call your tavern now. Word is, you wanted to call the place Horny Horker. According to Toralf who tells all kinds of stories about you whenever he can get someone’s ear. Like how he saved the Ash King himself from a giant bug and a bunch of ancient elves.” 

“That sounds like quite the story,” said Baldur with a shit eating grin. “He does know I published a book about that very tale right?”

“Apparently not,” said Bully, “Because he tells that story the most and never realizes we’re in on his Horker shit, ha! But we let him tell it anyway. Mans got a talent for story tellin.” Bully was talking with his mouth almost full by the end.

All the while, the men had been practically staring at the two and their hot bowls of food. They’d been eating like shit up to this point, freezing their snow berries, and all the while the new King was rubbing it in their faces. 

One man in particular was practically staring the two down beneath his mop of a head. Baldur could barely make out his eyes but he could feel his gaze all the same.

”Hey, you there. What’s your name?” 

The man looked around to his companions, then pointed to himself. “Me king?”

”Yes you, stupid ****, you don’t think I see you staring at me? You got something to say?” 

The man wasn’t a coward but he wasn’t stupid enough to disrespect his king either. Baldur walked towards him, signaling for the men to stop sparring. All they could hear was the soft rolling sea and the crunch of Baldur’s boots on the ice covered shores, as well as the occasional bell ringing from the ships at sea.

All the man in question heard was the loud slurps from Baldur’s bowl in front of him.

”Name?”

”Ymir.”

”Just Ymir?”

”Just Ymir. Sir.”

”Okay Just Ymir, you’ve been staring at me for the last ten minutes so either you want to **** me or you don’t like me eating this big fat hot greasy bowl of food in front of ya. So which is it?”

Ymir didn’t say anything, especially when he heard the men snickering behind them.

”Son, I’m gonna start calling you Just Ymir the Dickless if you don’t man up. What, you’re afraid of pissing me off because I’m the King? You afraid of my power? That you’ll be executed?” Baldur got in his face and grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him close. 

“Now if you think I’m gonna let some meek weak willed bitch in my ranks, you’ve got another thing coming. I need killers. I need real men. Each and every last Grim One is literally worth their weight in gold from all the effort it takes to raise one. I need savages! I need a man that’s as likely to **** you in the ass as shake your hand! You think I killed my legionnaire father just to see shit stained loins like you bowing before lords and kings? You got a wife? A daughter? You so afraid of me that you’d let me disrespect you in front of them? Huh? Maybe I’ll run over to whatever shithole you call home and **** them in the ass and see if I can’t get a rise outta you...”

That did it. Just Ymir slapped Baldur’s bowl from his hands and punched him in the mouth so hard that blood splattered the snow behind him.

Bully drew his axe, and the others were practically speechless.

He backed down though when Baldur started laughing... turning to Just Ymir, Baldur spat and wiped his mouth, and said, “Much better.” He grabbed his collar and used Boldir’s signature move once, twice, thrice, then punched the man in his nethers. As he bent over, Baldur’s knee met his already bloodied nose just before jumping on the man and assaulting him some more.

By the time Baldur was done, they weren’t even sure he was alive. When he looked to the rest of the recruits, he raised his hands and said, “What? I didn’t say I wouldn’t hit back!? What, you thought that was mean? Cruel? Did you expect the Ash-King to be nice? Your hero? Your ******* gran gran? No! This isn’t a ******* game! My home was attacked by the goddamn elves! They killed my wife’s father!” Looking to Ubbe, he said, “Do any of you limp dicks think I’m just going to hand you the title of Grim One? No! Our life is suffering! Our life is death! Get. *******. Used to it!”

Baldur grabbed Ubbe by the back of his kneck, practically throwing him in front of the rest. “This man showed me some real ******* stones. He wanted to be a Grim One so bad, that he came up to my ******* house, woke my ass up, drank my ******* mead, picked up my ******* daughter and if I let him, might’ve tried ******* my wife too, isn’t that right Ubbe?” Baldur gave him a boot to his back. “Any other day he’d get the same treatment as Just Ymir, but what can I say, I like em! So, here’s what I’m going to do. You all choose the strongest of you. He’ll fight Ubbe. If he wins, he gets to skip the first two weeks you lot already went through and jump right in. If he loses, well he gets to go to Sovngarde early. See those knife ears around his neck? This man’s a real killer, so you’d best pick someone worthy. Have fun.”

Before Baldur could walk away, a booming voice  from the group of recruits said, “I will fight him. No one’s getting a free ride if I have anything to say about it. Sir.” 

Baldur’s lips began to curve as he turned around, sizing the young man up. He was a big ol fucker, for certain. Same one he was looking at earlier. Long brown hair draped over his shoulders with two braids tied in the back. He wore a green kilt that easily passed his knees, had nothing covering his feet and shackles made of dwemer metal around his wrists. He was a full head taller than Baldur, Vigge’s height. Maybe taller.

Pacing around him, Baldur said, “Your voice is as deep as Mephala’s *****. Where do you hail from?”

”Markarth.”

“Markarth?” said Baldur, eyebrows raised. “You came a long way haven’t you? Were you a prisoner?”

”Aye. Escaped.”

”Escaped? From Cidhna Mine? At your age? You’re certainly forthcoming about your criminal past...” 

“I’m no criminal. I was wrongfully accused. You don’t last long in Markarth if you don’t bow to the Silver-Bloods. I escaped to give you a message. From Bardok.”

Baldur’s eyes practically bulged from his sockets. He grabbed the young man's neck, pulling him down to his height till none but them could hear.

”Bardok? He’s in the prison? Even still? Why didn’t he escape with you?” 

“He died there. This was some months ago. Took me longer to get here while on the run from the Silver-Blood’s men. He was feeble, old. Claimed he was cursed by Jarl Brund. After what I've seen in that prison, I believed him. He helped me escape, gave his life for it, so I decided to keep my promise and find you. Tell you he didn’t abandon you. That he died saving your elf friend. And your boy. Daric.” 

“....when. When was this? Where?” asked Baldur.

”Oh, I’m not exactly sure when, sir. I’m sorry.”

”What’s your name?” asked Baldur. "Why didn't you come to me with this sooner?"

”Its Mjalarr. Mjalarr Abyss-Throat. I tried, the other night during the festival, but you made it clear you didn't wish to speak then... and, well, 'Feast, drink and ****' is a command I couldn't seem to refuse. Once the Trials are done and I’ve killed this Ubbe for you, perhaps I’ll show you why they call me that over a few rounds of mead, aye? And tell you more about your friend.”

”Thank the gods you added that last part, Abyss-Throat.” Baldur gave him a slap on the back. “Don’t die then.”

”Not likely,” said Mjalarr. He stepped past Ubbe towards Just Ymir, smearing his fingers in his blood before drawing a spiral over his chest with it.

”Listen, Ubbe. I’ve never been cut in battle. My folk are strong, hard men. Our women give themselves as tribute to giants and birth strong sons. I am one of these sons. You will die. Go back where you came from and live long. You do not belong here.”

Ubbe said nothing as the lumbering Nord gave his prissy speech. He stared into Abyss-Throat’s eyes and twirled his axes, daring him to make the first move. Mjalarr went on the offensive. He brought his steel battle axe down in a hard arc, trying to split Ubbe in half in the first go. Ubbe saw the move coming and side stepped it with ease, letting the axe burrow in the ground next to him. He chuckled softly and let loose an attack of his.

He swung his right war axe in a sideways arc, trying to take a chunk of Mjalarr’s kidneys, but Throat was swing and brought the pole of his axe up and caught Ubbe’s before it could dig into his side. Mjalarr then shoved the pole hard, ripping Ubbe’s axe out of his hand and smacking him across the face. Ubbe stumbled back and grinned as blood from the gash started running down his face. Mjalarr didn’t give him time to rest and went for another heavy attack with his battle axe. Ubbe rolled out of the way, right towards his axe that was dropped. He picked it up and crossed his axes over his head just in time to stop a strike that was coming down hard.

It took everything Ubbe had to stop the force of the attack and his arms were stinging. But the battle axe was caught between his two war axes. Ubbe took the opportunity to kick up his legs and wrap around the pole arm and use his body weight to rip it out Mjalarr’s hands. He dropped his own axes in turn and rolled to a standing position before he rushed the now disarmed Abyss-Throat. The two Nords smacked into each other hard and it wasn’t clear who took down who. Ubbe and Mjalarr were exchanging roles of being on top as the rolled around, punching each other in the face. 

After a another minute of them trading blows, Ubbe ended up back on top and went for a series of headbutts. He was relentless with the assault and Mjalarr was starting to give into the brain damage. After Abyss-Throat quit struggling to much Ubbe jumped off of him and stepped back, allowing him to get to his feet. Mjalarr stumbled foreword, still trying to kill him, but his movement were sluggish. Ubbe kicked an axe into his hands and waited. Mjalarr came running at him then. Ubbe simply side stepped the dazed Nord and brought his axe through in a quick swing. Mjalarr fell to the ground and cupped the left side of his head. Blood was seeping between his fingers as he squirmed on the ground. 

Ubbe put his axe back unto his belt and bent down to pick something up. He turned around to face Baldur and smiled, holding up a severed ear. “I like my ears.”

Baldur was eating what remained in his bowl while the fight went on, but he dropped his bowl again when presented with the ear. He didn’t say anything a while... and when he realized he and the others were waiting for him to speak, he snapped out of his thoughts and said, “Well, I’ve lost my appetite.” 

Bully was grinning, partially at the joke but also because he managed to recover the bowl before it hit the ground. “I like this one, Baldur. Like you said, that un’s a real killer.”

Baldur walked over to where Mjalarr laid, holding his bloodied head. Stepping on his chest he said, “Looks like you’ve been cut. Didn’t go as expected huh? Hard lesson to learn, there's always someone out there better than you, boy. Now hold still. You did me a favor, coming here so I'll do you one in turn.”

Baldur engulfed his hand in his flame, applying it to the side of his face where his ear used to be. "When we're done with you, Mjalarr, you'll be the warrior you were always meant to be, I can promise you that." Mjalarr nodded, but said nothing. He just stared at Ubbe... and even as his flesh was seared, he didn’t make a sound. When he was done, Baldur’s hand print remained and the wound was cauterized. 

“So... anyone else still hungry? No? Good. Just Ymir, you up yet? Ah there you are, rise and shine!”

As Ymir finally came to, the first thing he noticed was the smell of burning flesh, Mjalarr’s face, and Baldur standing over him with a smile.

”What are you all looking at? It’s time to start running! Everyone, strip down to nothing and run five laps around Kyne’s Watch! Eh, make it three actually. Towns bigger than what it used to be. Go on, get! You too Ubbe! Welcome to the Grim Trials!”

Ubbe made eye contact with Mjalarr and stuck his tongue out of his mouth and grabbed his groin before rocking his hips forward quickly. He chuckled and stripped down to nothing, leaving his amulet and fresh ear on top of his trousers. He took off in front of the pack and left Abyss-Throat behind in the dust.

“I’m not sure what to make of him,” said Baldur. "Rather savage though, that one. A true nord."

Bully wiped his mouth and gave a loud steamy burp in the cold morning air. “What’s there to make of? The boy fights good. Hits hard. Reminds you of anyone, Baldur?” 

That stung, but Baldur smiled despite himself. “Aye. That is does, Bully. It’s good to see Skyrim’s next generation of fighters are talented and strong. They’ll do her proud, I’m sure.”

”That they will. Now, if you’ll excuse me...”

Baldur looked to see a naked Bully behind him, a sight he hoped to never see again. 

“Godsdamnit it Bully,” said Baldur, closing his eyes but laughing against his will all the same.

”It’s like you said, Baldur, we lead, by example! Say hello to Mazoga for me! And tell her to watch her back!”

At that moment, he truly hoped that sacrificing their lives for this war wouldn't be necessary.

Baldur looked to the sky, abandoning the role of hard commander as his expression softened.

"They're yours, Ulfric. You were the one that sparked their spirits. Made them proud to be Nords again. I hope you don't mind if I borrow their talent for a little longer though, before I return them to you, in Sovngarde. When I do, I'll make sure that they return to you with stories of victory, in your name."

***

Baldur returned home then, giving Rebec a break from the little one for the day. Ragna was courteous enough to save her mother from having to change any more diapers. That honor was all Baldur’s.

He was getting more efficient at the whole process. Tackle it head on, get it over with. Reveal, scoop, wipe, wipe again if need be, wrap, toss, thu’um, then wrap the little one in new fresh cloth waiting to be dirtied like a fresh maid. He’d repeat that process three more times before the afternoon was out.

He and Ragna visited Ysana, who happily took her grandchild in her arms just as Holgeir flew in from the mountain, no doubt hearing Baldur’s voice in the winds from his diaper disposal. He looked at him with curious eyes, awaiting his morsel.

It appeared in his hands, tied to a string. Dazzling the predator with a display of spins, Baldur danced, at the glee of his baby daughter. He baited Holgeir until finally the bird dived and dived, trying to acquire its reward from his master as Baldur spun it, snatching it away at the last second.

Each time Holgeir missed, the great hawk flew faster, and harder until finally the meat was caught. Satisfied, Baldur have him another, this time without effort on Holgeir’s part. As he flew away, Baldur took note of in which direction he left, knowing he’d always return to his mate and knowing his mate was always shadowing Rebec. It was of no surprise that he flew in the direction of the ships over what was now the Humping Horker.

Seeing an opportunity to eat and drink before he reunited with his stubborn spouse, Baldur returned Ragna to his arms and kisses his mother goodbye.

Before he could leave however, a messenger came riding in on horseback.

”Message from Windhelm, Ash-King,” said the young man as he landed on his feet. Before he could bow, Baldur grabbed him by the collar and made him stand straight. He wordlessly held out his hand, taking the letter and reading it with haste.

Jarl Baldur of Windhelm, High King Baldur Red-Snow.

I have recently received notice that the transportation fleet having began construction after our first meeting has since finished it's construction. A minor setback is the need for multiple voyages, it is dangerous enough sailing the Sea of Ghosts; we are guaranteed to lose ships if rushing all at once.

It is my hope you have been committed as High King, as to grant our warriors ten thousand in number the authority to make landfall or to bestow said authority upon a member of your administrative staff here in Windhelm.

It is of utmost importance you respond whenever possible, as soon as possible. Our vessels must depart two months before winter or our kinsmen beyond the sea cannot receive reinforcements. 

~Archdruid Theudofrid, Son of Ingolf.

As a note of importance, a young man came to me nearly two days prior to my writing this. He claimed to be your son and spoke ill of Jarl Brund, Daric whom's surname I assume to be Red-Snow. I have endangered Roscrea on his behalf, he claims to be enemy of your fellow claimant. Instead of remaining neutral as should have been done I aided the man. Creating a means of reaching the Moot at his behest, should all go to plan you two will receive this letter in good company.

My condolences to the horse he trotted upon, the mare no doubt perished.

“Damn it all...” Baldur’s heart was racing at the hope of good news, but it seemed he was to be disappointed once more. Oh were there ever a more unfitting word to describe how he felt now...

He gripped the envelope fiercely, practically spitting out his command. “A part of the puzzle is solved but I’m still missing pieces. Tell my court mage I thank him for assisting my boy. His people have permission to land, and they are to land here at Kyne’s Watch. Alert Thrice-Pierced and Torsten Cruel-Sea of his eminent departure.”

Baldur walked off before he could hear a response.

Ragna looked up at him, giving warning murmurs that she would start crying if he didn’t change the expression on his face. Only the sound of her sweet innocent babbling could bring him back from the dark recessions of his mind. He thanked her for that with a smile, and a sweet roll he’d been saving for her in his pack, with strawberry jam.

”Keep this between you and me, princess.” Not That Rebec wouldn’t see the evidence all over her no doubt. 

And so daughter and father made their way to mother. Red-Snows all united together. All except for one.

[Centurion]

Aetius Aquilarios

Fort Silorn, 10th Legion

“Forward!”

The small square formation inched forward slowly. The men maintained a tight dress, letting no gaps form between them.

“Brace!”

The square halted at once as sword tips thrusted out in front of the protective line of shields. A second later there was the thundering sound of sound of sword and shield meeting sword and shield. Men were grunting and cursing, taunting the foe as their gladius’ hit and bouncined harmlessly off the wooden frames. Not long after the initial contact the lines broke and the battle became a route.

***

Aetius sat on his cot with his helmet in hand. The gleaming steel had a new scratch from the training drills earlier that day. He had been trying to buff the scratch out, but nothing worked. He’d jut made the new scuff in his helmet a shiny scuff on his helmet. Aggravated, he tossed the piece over to his pile of Legion Heavy Armor and got up. He pulled his crimson tunic over his head and grabbed his sword, attaching it to the metal studded leather belt around his waist. After he put his caligae on he walked over to the water basin in his quarters and looked in. He stared momentarily into his own cold, deep blue eyes before adjusting his short black hair and splashing some water on his face. With a quick wipe of his hand the water was gone and he was out the door.

It was a pleasant day on the Cyrodiil/Valenwood border. The weather was almost always decent down on this side of the country, never too cold and too hot, just a comfy warm along with some uncomfortable humidity. It was a cloudless day and the air was still, allowing the sounds of distant sparring and exercise to carry. Aetius could faintly hear the camp Prefaect calling out the names of Legionnaires who received mail from folks back home. He walked up to the crowd and waited briefly before the Prefaect picked up a package and called out, “Legionary Aetius Aquilarios!”

“Right here, Prefaect!” Aetius shouted over the noisy crowd and not long after, caught a soaring package. With the box in hand Aetius walked back to his quarters in the Fort and sat on his bed. He opened up the box and grabbed the letter that was inside, briefly ignoring the other contents of the box.

Aetius was opening the letter when roommate, Marcus, rolled over and said, “If it’s another smutty letter from Alessia, you gotta share that shit tonight.” Aetius laughed and went back to the letter as Marcus walked out.

My dear boy,
As I’m sure you know already, Skyrim was attacked by the elves. The war is about to start for real. With the coming storm I think it’s finally time I gave you this. It’s your father's dagger. He wanted you to have it when it was time. I promise we’ll talk about him more when I see you next. Be strong and stay safe.
                                                       -Faustina Aquilarios

Aetius folded the letter and set it on his bunk. He reached into the box and pulled out an exquisite quicksilver dagger designed to punch through armor. It was basically a miniaturized imperial sword with a minotaur head carved into the pommel. On one side of the grip, the ancestral symbol of the Imperials, the Red Diamond, was shaped into the metal. On the other side, the symbol of the Septim dynasty was smithed in, the Imperial Dragon. On the two sides of the fine blade, the words “The Empire is Law” and “The Law is Sacred” were etched into the metal. Aetius ran the blade over his arm, shaving the hairs away with its edge. Satisfied, he attached the sheath to his belt and slid the dagger inside.

He was about to lay back down when three loud horn blasts echoed from the walls. Aetius jumped up and began putting his armor on. Marcus ran back in the room and did the same. Aetius looked at him and asked, “What’s going on?”

Three blasts, so I guess Aldmeri scouts were spotted across the border again.” They finished putting their armor on and ran outside. Archers were rushing to the walls and getting in position while the infantry on the ground were doing the same. The duo spotted their decani and quickly formed up with the rest of the men. Decanus Varius approached and said, “A justicar and a band of tree humpers were spotted taking notes across the way. Legate Viridius wants us to maintain a one hundred percent security posture Incase the knife ears try anything.”

The rest of the afternoon was spent standing in formation in the courtyard waiting for any sign of trouble. Nothing came and as the sun began to set the Legate came outside and addressed the men.

“Damn elves, there ain’t a single backbone in all of the Dominion it seems! I know some of you are tired of all this waiting… Trust me, I am too. I’ve been waiting for over 25 godsdamned years. It’s almost time men, it’s almost time… Make no mistake, a storm is coming and when it does, we will crash on the Dominion with a fury not seen in ages! They will receive what they gave during the first war tenfold! I just received word from General Flaccus that he was informed by High General Gracchus that the Empress is returning from her trip to Skyrim. No doubt, when she gets back, the chains will be yanked away and we can get to gutting these golden bastards in their own streets and homes! Centurions’ return to normal duties until further notice.”

After Legate Viridius finished his speech, he walked back to the commander's quarters in the fort. Centurions could be heard all around barking orders to their men and the lines disintegrated with scores of legionnaires returning to their barracks. Aetius had guard duty first so he walked up on the walls and took his position above the main gate. He peered across the land and was lost in thought. He thought of home and how his mother was doing by herself. He wondered what Alessia was doing at that moment back in a Chorrol, probably sleeping, but maybe, just maybe she was up looking at Masser and Secunda and thinking about him. 

Those thoughts where soon replaced by the dagger he received earlier. The blade wasn’t cheap, that much was obvious. The Minotaur head in the pommel seemed familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. He was concentrating hard trying to remember something about it and didn’t notice when someone walked up behind him. 

“Beautiful night tonight, isn’t it?” Aetius Damn near jumped clean out of his armor and turned to face the speaker. His eyes went wide with sudden realization and he snapped to the position of attention, bringing his right hand to his chest in a crisp salute, “Legate!”

“Calm down, no need for formalities tonight, boy.”

“Yes sir. Is there something I can help you with?”

“No, no. I’m just out getting some fresh air. Say boy, I don’t think we’ve met. Why don’t you tell me about yourself.”

“Sir, I’m afraid there’s not much to tell. Just your standard legionnaire. I was raised outside of Chorrol, here to gut some elves.”

“What about your name?”

“I apologize sir, Aetius Aquilarios.”

“Aquilarios hmm… that you fathers name?”

“No sir, Mother’s. Never knew my father. According to my mother, he died a few years ago in Skyrim, so it seems I won’t ever know him.”

“Damn shame. Every man should know his own father. Well, Aetius, you got anyone waiting for you back home?”

“I do sir. Her name is Alessia. Forgive me, but why do you ask?”

“I just want to know my men before we embark on our great crusade. Any Day now we depart from these gates and not all will return. It pains me that I won’t be able to learn all of my men’s name before that day.”

“Honestly sir, Do you think we can win this?”

“I do, but I know the cost will be high. Many of us will fall before the end. I just hope it will all be worth it….”

The Legate looked at Aetius and took in his face briefly before taking a second look. He used his tongue to trace his bottom teeth as he thought and fueled his brow. He looked as he were about to say something, but stopped himself. He simply stuck out his hand and when Aetius grabbed it he said, Goodnight, Aquilarios.”

Aetius went back to daydreaming as the Legate walked on. Sometime passed and Marcus soon came up to relieve Aetius in the wall. Aetius began walking back towards his quarters when he felt someone on top of the fort, watching him. He pretended not to notice as he spotted the Legate and walked back to his room before crashing on his bunk.

***

“Prefaect Axius!” Legate Viridius sat his desk. The light from his lantern flickered and bounced of his face. Prefaect Axius up and saluted. “Yes Legate?”

“Fetch me some good parchment. I’m writing Councilor Carius and General Flaccus.” Axius ran off briefly and returned with the best parchment he had. He set it down on the desk and walked away as the Legate began writing.

Councilor,
I may have found something you might find interesting…

[BigBossBalrog]

Dales 
The Kingdom of Skyrim, on the road to Whiterun 
Night

“More ale!” The Empress yelled out, her voice starting to sputter, her breath reeking of alcohol. Around her we're a couple tankards of Honey Brew Mead which she had taking a...rather voracious liking too, and a bunch of torn up pig bone. Nothing could stop her once she tasted roasted pork. She would eat herself into a coma if she could. The Empress was a bloody pig.

“And another round for all my new friends!” A resounding cheer erupted in the travel inn, The Constipated Giant,  though some Nords simply shook their heads and went back to quietly drinking, eying the Empress with disdain, or in some cases, even hatred. Those were the ones the Imperial Palentina kept an eye on. Axio kept her pommel handy, and rolled her eyes underneath her full face helmet. But most wouldn't turn down a free round of ale. Or three... and as soon as the Empress proved herself a good drinking companion the patrons, mostly Nords, we're glad to have someone so jolly and wealthy at the establishment.  Someone would have to be really stupid to try something with so many guards around, and with the person in question being not someone you wanted to cross blades with, less you wanted to be impaled on an icicle. Still, the Imperial was...disappointed. She hadn’t seen the Empress like this since her last trip to Skyrim. She thought the young Empress had made a good improvement the last few months in controlling herself. Axio had the honor (though it switched between that and misfortune on different days) of serving the Empress in her bodyguard Corps since the early days of her career. As a Princess. 

"You're scowling again." Her companion whispered. A very tall, and heavy Orismer Guardsmen, wielding a two handed mace (The Empress allowed her men to kit themselves however they wanted). Like Axio, he wore a full set of plate, and a full helmet, so she couldn't see his expression. Axio whispered, "We're supposed to be on duty." 

"And we are!" He raised his voice a little, causing even more annoyance to dwell up within the Prefect. "Keep your voice down, grunt." 

"Aye ma'em." 

"That's sir." The Orismer grumbed something before scratching his head. He spoke up a few minutes later, right as the Empress slapped a tavern wench's butt, causing the blonde haired Nord to giggle a little. Is that what sexual harassment constitutes these days? 

The Empress grinned as you cheered another Nord. Axio rolled her eyes. The Legion-soldier standing next to her, tried once more, as he lowered his voice, "Her Majesty is just celebrating, that's all. I would be too, if I had just enlisted a bloody Dragon Mercenary to the imperial cause!” 

Inhaling, Axio whispered, “You haven’t been in the Empress’s bodyguard long have you? Was it two months?” 

“Aye mae-sir.” The Orismer stopped himself, as he continued, “What of it?”

“I’ve been with her since the start of her colorful career. The Empress is a fine woman, but she’s got alot of problems. If you’re serving in her detail, you might as well know them. She never drinks to celebrate, she drinks to forget something." In Axio's experience there we're three types of drunkenness. Happy Drunk . Angry Drunk. And Sad Drunk.  The Empress was almost always the later. And when she was mess, by the god's, she was a real mess. The last year or so, the Empress had basically stayed away from alcohol besides the occasional glass of watered down wine, she didn't know what triggered this episode. But in her years of serving as one of the Dales's bodyguards, it was essentially one topic.

Girl problems.

Not that Axio considered herself particularly bigoted, but woman we're trouble to deal with in a relationship. So much drama... When you add two into the mix, by the Nine, things get really nasty. The Empress had her fair share of problems in the past, messy situations caused by pressured one night stands, and of course, rejectment. Though for the brief weeks after her beloved...maid died in Skyrim we're the worst she had seen. Sometimes the Empress would throw stuff at her, others beg her  to join her in bed in a tearfilled drunken haze. It was awful to see her like that.

For all her flaws, Dales looked after the soldiers serving under her, and they looked after her. Axio truly hoped the Auxiliary was right, and this wasn't a resurgence of bad things for the Empress.

*****

Moonlit Lake 

“Kuwals lu safeal ruie-dagd mue arh fis tha…” A strange song in a language the Empress didn't recognize woke the Empress from her deep slumber. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. Sleep evaded the Empress, which is why she liked to spend her nights reading.  Though this night was...quite different. Half expecting to wake up animals furs, and a sleeping milkmaid nuzzling her side, instead the Empress awoke to something completely different. Is this...a dream?

[[http://simplywallpapers.com/thumbs/nature/moon-blue-islands-moonlight-nature-1822836-480x320.jpg She was surrounded by a massive...sea, shrouded by a great, white moon, showering it's rays of moonlight about the water below, turning the water silver in apperance. Dales sat on a large cliff, overlooking the water, filled with nothing but dark green grass, and a grand oak tree.]] A faint breeze, brought by the seaside, fell across the young Empress's face, causing her hair to be blown to the side.

“Dreams are the realm of Lady Vaemaria, who I am not a disciple of, alas. That doesn't mean I can’t manipulate them through unconventional ways. So yes and no, my Knight." 

The singing stopped, and a familiar voice arose, behind the Empress who turned around to identify it's speaker.

Sitting on a large rock, sat Dunmaor, the High Priestess of Auriel, who melancholy gazed at the sea in longing. Unchanged from before. The Empress's face contorted to a snarl, as she barked, "You!", pointing her index finger at the she-elf.

Her hands still bound inside the heavy linen wrappings, still went to her heart, as she bowed her head, “I am pleased to see you remember me, my Lady Motierre.” The she-elf’s haunting Amber eyes turned their gaze towards the Empress’s, causing her to shrink under it’s stare. She chuckled, “Taking a little walk under the moonlight?” Dunmaor gave her a grin.

“It’s clear wherever we our, you have drawn me here!”  

The twisted she-elf laughed, her voice amused, “Is that anyway to talk to someone who has gifted you flame manifest as a living weapon?” 

“You gifted me nothing! It was me and Baldur who secured the allegiance of the Dragon!” Dales angrily shouted. 

“It that is what you want to believe, my young Empress, you are free to do so.” Dunmaor said softly, bowing her head once more.  The elf turned her gaze to the sea once more, ignoring the Empress entirely, and began to sing once more, in a strange language, her...gorgeous voice drowned out slightly by the roaring waves. She placed her bounds hands  beside the strong rock, and sorrowfully continued to sing. The Empress didn’t quite recognize the language, but she could have sworn she heard some Altmer words mixed within the ballad.  Soon the Empress’s scowl was replaced with...awe, as she listened intently to the sorrow filled music. After awhile, Dales sat down, on the grassy hillside, and simply gazed at the she-elf. After what seemed like an eternity, Dunmaor finally finished her song, and her gaze once more fell upon Dales. Dales stuttered, trying to speak, “What….what was that?"

“The lay of Anyammis. It is an old song.” Dunmaor’s amber orbs narrowed, not with anger, but sharpness. 

Dales, intimidated, muttered, “Was that...Ayleidoon? It’s...beautiful” 

“Indeed. Though in the four corners of Nirn, it is no longer uttered anywhere...” The Ayleid, or what Dales presumed was an Ayleid, nodded her head in acknowledgement. Before her lips curled in annoyance, “You should be on your way, Empress. This…” Her face became pained, a rare moment of weakness, before she managed to utter, “...Moon-shrouded sea is not for mortal eyes. You don’t belong here.”

"Then why did you summon me here?"

"I didn't." Muttered Dunmaor, gazing at the Empress with a look akin to anger, "Did I not tell you before?"

"So you weren't..."

Dunmaor nodded her head.

Blushing with shame, the Empress began to scratch her head akwardly, "Oh. Heheheheh. Ummm. Sorry about that!" 

"Think nothing of it." Dunmaor reclined, as she closed her eyes, and began to contemplate on some topic unknown to the imperial girl. Dales put on a timid smile as she asked, "Do you now why i've been drawn here?"

Dunmaor wordlessly pointed to her neck with her black fingernails. Dales looked down, to glimpse the Star Pedant the Ayleid had gifted to her, sparkling under the moonlight. "Ah..." Dales scratched the behind of her head once more, "Well since-since i'm here." She began to fidget, as another smile came around, and she looked to her shoes. "Well, can you-" 

Sighing, Dunmaor's eyes remained closed, "What information do you seek Lady Motierre."

Dales stood up, grinning, "With the strength of Naaf-

"The Dovah can only destroy, my young Empress. What you want is a Jill. Which I doubt you'll be able to find any time soon." She muttered dryly, and quite uninterested in the topic at hand,  "Even with his power, the Dragon Nafaalilargus will serve as a powerful weapon of mass destruction and an enforcer. Not a savior of any kind. The common folk will surely crowd around him, and with him, rally behind you. You have personally gained much power by him allying with you, but that power is still not enough. Because what you seek is impossible."

Dales was about to speak, but she was silenced by the opening of Amber eyes.

“The Empire is finished...for now." She said.  "Cyrod is not, however. Imperials, like the cockroaches they are, always bounce up after a few centuries.” The Empress’s eyes flared with angry, as she snarled, “How fucking dare you refer to my people-”

She was cut off by piercing amber orbs, “If you Imperials are cockroaches, then the Bretons are rats, the Nords ants, and the Redguards mudcrabs. Men are vermin.” 

The Empress crossed her arms, as she seethed, “Then what are Mer?”

"Dogs. Cats. Birds. Slightly more pure, but still animals. Base and disgusting."

"What does that leave you then?" Dales rolled her eyes. In contrast, Dunmaor's face remained motionless,

"The ravenous beast that devours." 

Something inside Dales screamed for her force herself back to reality, but something, once again, kept her in place. Dunmaor continued, her smile returning,  “The Nords, the Bretons, everyone including yourself is just vultures picking at a corpse. The corpse of a Dragon” Dunmaor said with finality. “The Empire’s won much by itself, with its iron disciplined Red Legions, but Akatosh raised you to an even higher degree. And now, without the time Dragons protection, you are surrounded by enemies and “allies” which seek the same thing. The High King of Skyrim cannot be trusted.” The she-elf whispered.

Feverishly, half in a dreary daze, the Empress muttered, her eyes closed, “Baldur...is my friend.” 

“And what does he do to his friends?” Dunmaor grinned, showing rotting teeth one second, and embellished white another.

“He...murdered Ulfric for his throne, didn’t he?” The Empress had long suspected since her stay in the hall of the Greybeards deep down, but it was only now she knew it to be true. Dunmaor wordlessly nodded her head, her smile remaining. “Why should I care, Ulfric was a traitor!”

“So is Baldur. You simply excuse his trespasses against the Empire because you are fond of him. His fondness for you may be genuine, but it doesn't change the fact that fondness means nothing to a man who's willing to gut his High King and blood brother. He'll kill anything to protect what's dearest to him  If you think Baldur will be better for your corpse of an Empire then Ulfric Stormcloak, you are indeed a very foolish child. Baldur’s plans lie in flame…”Cyrod can become something more than an Empire of Man, if you let it. I will say no more on this my knight...” She smiled softly.

“Then tell me his plans!” 

“That is not my secret to give.” She smiled once more. The Empress frustrated, stopped her feet into the grass like a child having a tantrum, “You told me about him gutting the High King!”

She smirked, mischievously, “Did I now? I simply told you he was a liar, and I let you figure the rest out yourself. I did not reveal his secrets…I did so little.”

"You fucking elves! Always with your games!" Dales face became red hot, as she pointed a finger at the Ayleid, sputtering in anger. "I-I am the Empress!"

“Five Holders of the Ruby Throne have gazed upon me in ten thousand years, Lady Motierre. I have much tolerance for ill words, but I have a limit. Holding a crown does not give you any right to talk down to anyone. You know this better then most monarchs." Dunmaor's eyes sharped, and her grip tightened, as she made circles around the Empress, appearing as a phantom, finally moving from her spot. " Three Emperors. One embellished a flaming dragon upon his sigil. The second, slew them with his blood soaked blade. And a third, helped banish a floating city. Two Empress's, a brown haired saint, and you, Dales.” She used her first name for once. The she-elf placed one of her pale fingers to her dead lips, “The corridors of their memory blocked this place from their minds, like a fading light. Memories are as evanescent as the bubbles that float up to the water’s surface... “ Dunmaor placed her hand into the moon shrouded lake, gently pushing the sparkling waves, the moon reflecting on her face. To Dale's shock, the body of water had flown up, and now this "cliff" had suddenly become a shoreline. And then she smiled, her features softening. “But not you.” The she-elf placed her fabric bound hands on the Empress, caressing her blonde locks. “You are very special my knight. You retain conscious memory of me. Because of what you mean to me. My star. Aba'varlais, I shall give you once more piece of advice.” 

Dales didn't know that name. But her heart did, and she was content to listen, gazing into those sparking, amber eyes, with both so much hate and love, "Everything withers and dies, no matter how great. That is just nature. From the smallest insect, to the greatest giant, it always ends. The Empire is doomed.  Nothing last forever. The flame eventually extinguishes, and only dark remains. You cannot change this. This has been ordained by the sacrifice of Emperor Martin Septim, and the breaking of your covenant with Akatosh. However a path still lays open to you. A path that doesn't lead to ruins. The Dragon is dying, you cannot change that... you, however, can still save Cyrod, and all those who dwell within the Starry Heart of Nirn. You are not destined to be a great Empress. But you will be something more, I promise you this!"

The young girl leaned it, and placed her head to the Elf’s chest, accepting her embrace. But Dales wasn't fully there. Or was she?  Dales closed her eyes, whispering, in a dreary tone of voice, “I know this place…” Images of a half rotted face, and blood soaked rags filled Dales’s mind, but she played them no head, as she sat, her hair being caressed. Images that didn’t belong to her filled her mind, as the Empress jolted herself awake. Images played, in monochrome. Endlessly. “Wait...have….have... we done this before?” 

“No.”Dunmaor’s expression remained blank, but there was a...hidden kindness buried beneath. “Sleep now, my lady Motierre. As the Dragon dies, you too must accept Oblivion.” Pale star light glowed around the Empress, and soon began to envelop her in a silvery mist. Her features became even more pale, as the silvery light threaded itself around her, almost as it was suffocating her. Dales resisted, as she shouted, “Who are you?! Tell me-”

"Shhhhh." Dunmaor placed a finger to her lips, as she slowly closed Dales eyes, which had suddenly become so dreary....In her dreary haze, Dales managed to say one more thing, before sleep finally took her.

“This is we’re mother drowned herself. Angua...fair maiden...sleep asva nen” The Empress cold blue eyes fell shut, as she let sleep consume her, just as she uttered a nameless language, with a smile and tears streaming down her pale cheeks,

Humans are so much more beautiful when life fads from their cheeks. The twilight, in between life, and decay.

A small, sad smile formed on Dunmaor's otherwise blank face, as she muttered darkly in her forgotten tongue, slowly submerging the slumbering the Empress's form beneath the sparkling water, her hand gently holding the Empress’s own "Ma ar ni, guardian? Ar ni angua forgotten pelin? or are thou Al-esh?

Dunmaor began to sing once more, a soothing lullaby in the common tongue, as she stared into the blackness of the sky “One Lily, and a black Rose, in a field of flowers stop to gaze upon the bright brilliant moon.…
 

[Celan]

Rebec and Arle

Kyne's Watch

“Where are the slaves now? The ones from the bandit fort.”

“They’re not slaves.” Rebec walked with Arle out past the quays to a quiet section of beach, intending to practice the thu’um. As they walked, they passed a field of Stormcloaks drilling the shield wall. It would look different when it was fire and ice raining on them as well as arrows, Rebec thought. “The ones who can fight will become regulars and some might stand the Grim Trials. The others will have to make themselves useful mending sails and cleaning latrines.”

The islander woman gave her a sideways look. “So, slaves in all but name?”

Rebec opened her mouth to deny it, then shrugged. “Oh, about that. You lot aren’t going to be able to take any captives while you’re here. The men already don’t like it that you keep Nord slaves.”

“What about elves and cats from the south?”

She didn’t have an answer for that. It would serve Dominion soldiers right to be enslaved on a frozen island in the far north. The two women had stopped on the beach. Rebec stuck her shield into the sand and rested on it. “Do you plan to stay here after the war?”

“If any of us return, we’ll decide then.”

“You expect most of you aren’t coming back from the war?”

It was Arle’s turn to look puzzled. “Of course. Don't you?” Rebec’s mouth fell open but no answer came out, so Arle shook her head and lifted her shield. "Come on. Let’s spar a little to get the blood going.”

The two Nords drew axe and shield and circled one another, feinting and testing defenses. Without warning Arle charged and smacked shields with Rebec, almost knocking her off her feet. Rebec recovered and slashed in a furious assault, making Arle pay for the charge with a sideways swipe to the arm that drew blood. The islander waved off an offer to pause and immediately attacked again. Taller and stronger than Rebec, she forced her to give some ground, but Red Snow was quicker and after a furious grappling slashed at her knees, tearing Arle’s deerskin pants.

“Good,” Eivarsdotter smiled. Rebec, smelling the blood now and with her own blood pumping in her ears, charged. Then she found herself airborne, lifted up and over Arle’s shoulder, and slammed hard to the sand. Still prone, she was forced to defend against the other woman’s downward slashes and kicks. On one of those, Rebec was able to grab Arle’s ankle and trip her up, flipping her to her backside.

They both leapt up at once and went at it, shields cracking again and again as splinters flew around them. Rebec waited for an opening, then hooked Kyne’s Talon on the other woman’s axe, and with a quick twisting movement wrenched it out of Arle’s hands. It skidded into the sand a few feet away.

Before she could celebrate her victory, Arle’s shield came around and slashed into Rebec’s arm, sending shooting pain up to the shoulder. It had only barely missed smacking her square in the face. In a flash Arle had grabbed the bruised arm, flung herself at Rebec and tackled her, pinning her beneath her own shield while an iron grip holding down her other arm meant her axe was useless.

“Yield?”

Rebec’s eyes spat fire, but after a moment she nodded. “Yield.” Even as she started to her feet, she regretted having given up the fight. Her arm ached and her head was swimming, but her blood was boiling.

That was even before Arle reached over to poke her in the stomach. “You fight well, but you’re soft.” The islander grabbed her arm and held it up appraisingly. Perhaps because the fist at the end of the arm was balled up to strike, she let it drop. “Soft, Rebec. You picture yourself coming back from the war, but in truth you’ve already left it.”

The curses stuck in Rebec’s throat, crashing around on each other so that none actually came out. She wanted nothing better than to cave the priestess’ nose in. Maybe rearrange a few other features. Even the sight of Arle calmly dressing her wounds didn’t quell the urge. The trouble was, what the bitch said was true, and Rebec knew it. Lifting Ragna out of her crib and changing her diapers wasn’t a substitute for sparring with Mazoga or climbing ship rigging for hours at a time.

Her voice was sullen. “I don’t plan to actually fight. I’ll go near the front lines to be with Baldur, but stay behind with the baby.”

“Yes, the baby. I remember what that’s like. Such a little thing and it becomes everything. Half of your mind is thinking about her all the time. Where is the baby? Is she safe? Is she healthy? Am I doing it wrong?” Arle sounded almost wistful. She approached Rebec again and regarded her evenly, not troubled at all by the fury in her eyes. “Maybe in the south they can dwell on such things, but we Nords cannot. To dwell on one thing too long is to freeze in place.”

“Forgetting my baby is easier said than done.”

“It’s not forgetting, exactly.” Arle paused, considering. “You have to build a little room inside you.” Her hands formed the shape against her chest. “Lock her away in it and turn the key. Outside that room, you’re hard and cold and think only of the enemy. Later, when you’re cuddling her, you can open the room back up and be soft again.”

“That work?”

Arle smiled. “Sometimes. Alright, now I want to study the thu’um.”

“I don’t know how to teach you to shout. I thought Baldur would be able to do that somehow. Ulfric put some words on paper about it, you already read those, but I can’t tell you how I do it because I don’t know how I do it. I just do it.”

The islander thought a moment. “To learn axe fighting, you have to learn how to defend as well as attack. Maybe hit me with your thu’um and if I can withstand it, I can begin to learn its ways.”

“Are you sure about this?” The prospect of sending Arle flying through the air sounded great.

“Yes. Maybe. Go easy on me, at first.”

The two women faced each other a short distance away, and Arle raised her shield, bracing. Taking a deep breath, Rebec let out a mild FUS. It knocked the islander to one knee, but she got back up again quickly, so Rebec hit her again. This time she was knocked to her backside and got up more slowly, shaking her head to clear it. After a moment to gather herself, Arle nodded and called “Again.”

“FUS RO!”

The wave of air hit Arle with the sound of a thunder clap and tossed her into the air like a rag doll, depositing her with a thud on the far end of the beach. She didn’t move.

“Oh shit.” Rebec ran towards her. By the time she reached her, Arle was still motionless, and a line of blood trickled from her nose. It wasn't as satisfying as she'd hoped. With a string of curses Rebec took off running back towards the fort to fetch one of Menel’s Stormcloak healers. When she returned with the young Nord man, Arle was sitting up, but appeared dazed and was slurring her words. She tried to stand, but her leg buckled and she sat back down hard. The battlemage hit her with a healing spell, then eventually a stamina spell as well.

“No more sparring,” he ordered sternly. “Here’s a potion, take it tonight before bed and have someone check you every hour or two.”

Arle nodded, having found her wits and some strength again. Laughing wearily, she said, “So that’s the thu’um.”

“Well, you asked.”

“I did indeed. And I know you were going easy on me, too.”

"A little bit."

They had brought lunch with them, so the two women sat on a dune to eat their sandwiches and drink mead. Eventually Rebec spoke up. “Since you islanders have kept a lot of Nordy ways, how is it you lost the thu’um? You didn’t have Jurgen Windcaller turning you into milk drinkers.”

“We kept it until a few generations ago. Some of my own family were Tongues. By then, it was little more than tricks to amuse the children, so there seemed no need. We had other ways to defend ourselves. I always hoped we would get it back like the elders had it. They could shout away time itself.”

“Got any mages?”

“Some. Not like your southern mages.” She gestured back towards the fort where the healer had returned. “Different.”

“Different how?”

Arle pursed her lips and Rebec could tell she didn’t want to say more. “We do what we must to survive,” she replied finally. “Our ancestors didn’t only have the thu’um, we had other ways, and I don’t mean those of Jhunal the Deceiver.”

“Deceiver?”

“The Mumbler was weak and favored the Deep Ones. Would have turned us into elves if he had the chance. That’s why he was cast out. I hear he’s popular in the south, and among those that kneel to the southerners.”

“I guess.” Rebec had no opinion on that. “All these years, you never had imps bothering you?”

“Southerners? They bother everyone.”

“Isn’t that the truth.”

Arle continued, “We learned our lesson from Olenveld. When the southern emperor turned it to a graveyard, we thought we were next, but he turned his gaze elsewhere. After that we slaughtered or enslaved any cartographer who wandered into our waters. You’ll not find our home on any map, and I mean for that to continue.”

Rebec thought that sounded like a threat, but let it pass. “No wonder you had to save Eilif’s life.”

“Oh yes. Even now there are those who say he is a southern spy, but my Eilif is too simple to be a spy.”

“Simple?” Rebec grinned.

“Not stupid. Just honest. He is what he seems to be, and he asks little more of life than what the gods provide every day. We’ve had a good life together. If we die in battle together, I could imagine nothing better.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while, finishing their meal. Eventually Arle asked, “Do you train with your husband?”

“Are we back to how soft I am?”

“He’s very strong.”

“Stronger than I’ve ever seen him. That fight at the Moot… it changed him somehow.”

“You should train with him more often. All the men should. They made a good show of not being afraid of the two of you up at the bandit fort, but they are.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. We need to have more drills with the thu’um included, so they know how to react and we figure out how not roast or stagger our own men.”

“A wise idea. And I think you should keep your orc close. She’s also a good fighter.”

“Mazoga? She is that, but she’s not ‘my orc.’”

“She might have grown up in Skyrim, but their nature doesn’t change. It must be mastered. That’s not easy to do with the green ones. But you trust her with your child, so I assume you’d trust her enough to guard you.”

“Maz has saved my life more than once. She masters herself pretty well.” Rebec decided to change the subject. “You feel anything shouty yet? Want to try it yourself?”

Arle nodded and stood, dusting the sand off her torn pants. Facing the ocean, she closed her eyes, centering herself. “Fus.” She started quietly, letting the word settle in her mind. “Fus.” Force. With the sound of the waves in her ears, the islander pictured the roll and crash of a wave against a hull. She tried to recall how Rebec looked and sounded right before she knocked her flat. “FUS.” The sand in front of her blew up as if hit by a small gust.

Without interrupting, Rebec watched the other Nord woman, nodding as she began to hear the thunder inside the syllable. Arle came from Tongues, so she was learning fast. Eventually the islander wearied and sat back down to rest, uncorking her water skin. Now it was Rebec’s turn again.

Bracing herself, Rebec drew in a deep breath and muttered softly, “Wuld. Wuld. Wuld.” After a silence, she started again. “WULD.” Rebec suddenly had the sensation like she was on the deck of her ship and it had pitched her forward a step. She stumbled, cursing, then tried again, and again.

You can’t hit the wind, she thought, reciting her warpaint meditation. The wings of Kyne. WULD. Rebec shot forward, landing some feet away and keeping her balance this time. Letting out a whoop, she looked back at Arle. “Hot damn! Did you see that?”

The other Nord woman waved and gave a thumbs up.

Some hours later, they returned to the village, tired and with their throats sore from shouting. Arle gave the potion she’d received from the healer back to Rebec. At her protest, the islander insisted, “I've got my own remedies. About my potions, I see you don’t have many berserkers in your Stormcloaks? I can offer some mushrooms which will be a potent aid in battle. Consider who might handle them the best.”

"I'll talk to Baldur about it. We could use all the help we can get."

They had reached Rebec and Baldur’s longhouse. Arle gestured at the scorch marks around its threshold. “What are these?”

“Baldur’s idea of diaper disposal. Can’t keep Ragna in woolens these days, with him home.”

The priestess laughed, and looked up at the totems above their door. “Dibella?”

“That would be Ysana’s doing.”

“Your mother in law. So you are Kyne, she is Dibella, and… no priestess of Mara?”

“I don’t think one of those would do too well around these parts.” At Arle’s expression, Rebec’s brow shot up. “What, you? A priestess of Mara? I thought you were like the Skaal, sort of lumping the gods all together or something.”

“The Skaal are our ancient enemies. No offense to you, of course.”

“Why should I be offended?”

“Because of your foremother. Rebec the Red.”

“She was no Skaal!”

“She most certainly was.”

For the second time that day, Rebec felt like punching the islander in the throat. “That’s… my mother would’ve said something."

Arle shrugged. “It’s not so bad. The Skaal were strong warriors once, and your foremother couldn't have become Ysgramor's boat thane if she had a weak will. As for Mother Mara, she’s fierce in her own way. Remember what I said about the locked room? Even the strongest warrior needs to open that place sometimes. A warm fire, somewhere soft to lay her head. You, me, Ysana, we defend the hearth because without it, there’s nothing but the cold and dark.”

“I don’t know how to be a priestess. Never will.”

“You will because you must, just as you learned how to be a mother. Only now your child is anyone who seeks to honor Kyne. Just listen to your children. They’ll tell you what they need.”

Rebec thought of all the drunks in the village, and that strange boy with his elf ear necklace, and shook her head. “Always said motherhood was a bad idea. Anyway I better to see to my own Nordling now. You watch that head, I gave you quite a knock.”

“Force Push. Thank you, Favored of Kyne.” Arle smiled and with a lift of her axe, headed off towards the tents.

[TheCzarsHussar]

Daggerfall, High Rock.

Knights of the Dragon HQ, Castle Daggerfall.

 

Three long months, three long months of city life.

Whatever earned prestige the Dalomaxes had were scrunched back into mere knights, never once did the former Earl of Dresan have any questionable actions against his lord, as vassal he always paid his tariffs and delivered the levies. Why then had Duke Mon forsaken his vassal?

Inwold Dalomax was once a good name, he held a good village and ruled a good fief. Now his assets were seized, his honor and character were no more having to borrow from his sister; the gods were merciful however and allowed a decent if not terribly mundane life. His sister's husband endorsed and sponsored Inwold into the Knights of the Dragon, the gold borrowed allowed a life above the peasantry, what honor it would be within this prestigious knightly order couldn't be attained on borrowed gold or a pity driven hospitality.

Why then was Inwold summoned to the keep? Had his benefactor grown greedy, had his King decided an execution was in order, for past association with the now imprisoned Mon? Perhaps Sir Emeric Bridwell just wished to bestow a pity tittle for his minuscule months of service?

He figured it was execution and was by no means relaxed when admitted into Bridwell's quarters.

The head of the Knights of the Dragon was a near spitting image of the portrait that hung behind his desk. When Inwold entered, it looked as if the man from the painting had stepped down and into the room, save for one clear distinction. The painting was of a Redguard man with wavy, light brown hair just past his ears, with a thick mustache and a patch of hair on his chin. The man seated behind a desk in the room was a Breton, with the same hairstyle and facial hair as his ancestor, his skin color a touch lighter. Inwold recognized the portrait was of Lord Bridwell, hero of the War of Betony, while the seated man was Sir Emeric Bridwell, his descendant. 

Emeric Bridwell looked up from what he was reading and said with a smile, "Sir Dalomax, please, come in, take a seat. I've good news." 

Doing as he was ordered Inwold used the motion of sitting down to look about the room, even the lack of retainers wouldn't have saved him. Having never been admitted before Sir Emeric and a bearing of good news did raise his spirits, Emeric's daunting demeanor to Inwold at least was just as grand outside his armor as within it.

"Good news lord, from my sister?"

"What? Oh, no, it's from Sir Lafont. Baron Lafont now. I took the liberty of reading it already," Emeric said. Still smiling, he passed the letter across the desk to the Inwold. "Congratulations, Earl Dalomax."

He was dumbstruck and for a moment just stared into that smile, grasping the letter so lightly as if anything harder would damn him Inwold mentally read it.
 

Sir Emeric Bridwell, it is come to my attention that the Fief of Dresan's former holder is in your most prestigious company of Knights. His succesor, hand picked by the disgraced traitor who I refuse the ink to his name, has at the time of writing been deemed disloyal to our King and has been disposed. 

At the words of a one Inwold Dalomaxes' castellan still in service to Dresan spoke very highly of this man and his family's devotion, having the matter investigated further I have decided to restore his court, titles and fief in vassalage to my house.

Minus a small taxation of his assets all shall be returned to said Inwold Dalomax, with haste please make it known to my vassal, I expect him at my court to swear oath and bonds.

It was all Inwold could do not to express himself gidily.

"My lord, when may I eh, retire from my duties here?"

"Certainly," Emeric said. "I think you'll find Gabryel a fine liege lord. He served here for a time, then became a Marquis in Baron Copperfield's lands. He's familiar enough with the area, though I'm sure you can help better acquaint him."

"Sir Emeric, I don't think it can, really be understood how..-" He struggled to find the right word, with it fully dawning on Inwold he felt euphoric. "-Favorable this is, Baron Lafont had not only granted my Fief back, but what wasn't written are my sons. I'll have them back now, heirs away from my foul wife, she divorced me you know; for a merchant no less the moment I was exiled. Gods it's been a decent life here my lord, but to be home again."

"Well, I'm glad that things are turning in your favor. Safe travels and good luck," Emeric said.

Inwold emerged from the seat and, with a bow took to his quarters. His belongings were few, the maille; closer to a Nordic brynja than proper Breton hauberk bought from borrowed gold, he folded it alongside an aketon and gambeson chausses, wouldn't be needing these pissant barely knightly kit any longer. He had shrewdly saved his earnings payed by the Knights of the Dragon, Inwold hadn't foreseen his reinstatement and was saving in case some other scheme cast him from this knightly order.

Now he'd sell his arms and combined with the wealth he saved would be able to pay off the debt to his sister and her husband, he had well enough of merchants being haggled for minute after minute trying to sell his old kit, they scrapped for the bare minimum of gold to pay, no doubt selling it again for twice what they bought it for. Inwold's surprise visit to his sister had her estatic, husband too. However when he brought up the payment of his debt, his sister's husband lost a bit of his smile.

Inwold wanted to make it brief, he politely turned down their offer for a celebratory feast and made a very true excuse to hurry along. Damn well pleased he didn't need to offer that merchant husband any favors in his reinstated position.

Inwold hoped to all the Nine, that Mon hadn't melted or sold his old kit, that it was somewhere buried in his treasury no doubt held now by Inwold's new lord Lafont. Of which took the seal the letter bore to convince a carriage driver that Inwold wasn't some well clothed bum, as he no longer had gold on his person. There was no force under the sun that could get Inwold to walk for Baron Lafont's court.

Inwold had been in and around Northmoor many times in his then nine years of Earl, there wasn't much to pay attention to. It was within the Ilessan Hills just like Dresan, only difference his Fief wasn't lowland. He thought about stopping by somewhere in Northmoor and tailor some fancier clothes, though re-reading the letter demanded his haste and tailoring, sewing and the haggling he'd have to do wouldn't please his lord for the delay.

Northmoor itself was much larger then his own Fief of Dresan, Daggerfall had however influenced his expectations a bit and nothing seemed as grand anymore, not even Baron Lafont's castle standing much more impressively than his own keep, or what was soon to be his keep again.

The carriage driver had him dropped off at the base of Lafont's castle and reminded him not to forget his payment, standing before the entrance the two well equipped guardsmen had the gate opened once Inwold spoke his name and his soon-to-be lord.

The curtain wall around the keep was not tall or thick, and there were few guard towers outside the gatehouse. The keep itself was a tall, cross shaped stone building with four round towers where the arms of the cross met. Evidently whoever built the castle was more concerned with comfort than defensive function. 

The yard between the walls and the keep was bustling, servants busy unloading the numerous carriages laden with crates and barrels. There were also several knights walking about, and Inwold saw enough sigil banners to know that Baron Lafont's other vassals were here as well. 

Upon entering the keep Inwold was greeted with a high ceilinged great hall, a table in the center of the room and a raised dais with two thrones at the far end. Servants were busy putting tapestries on the walls and hanging yellow banners with a rearing brown horse in the center. Inwold guess that was the sigil of his new liege lord. 

Near the thrones was a pair of well dressed nobles. The man was well built and clean shaven with short golden hair, while the woman was short and thin with long brown hair. She wore a light yellow dress, he a yellow tunic with brown trim. They were talking with an older couple as Inwold approached, though the man in yellow halted the conversation as he caught sight of Inwold.

He smiled broadly and said, "You must be Earl Dalomax, yes? You look just as your castellan described."

Keeping his hands clasped at his front, Inwold made an obtuse bow; fully respectful to his lord but not awkward like a peasant would have given.

"That I am my Lord, I ask you forgive the rugged man before you. I had made haste as ordered."

"No need for apologies. Our situation demanded haste, and you responded as you should. Now, I wanted you here because I need you back in your home and back to training soldiers. War is fast approaching, and I need to know the forces at my disposal are well trained," Baron Lafont said. His wife had moved off, continuing to talk with the older couple. "And with your history under Mon and your service as a Knight of the Dragon, you are as well equipped as anyone to help me take stock of our forces."

"I swear by Stendarr you haven't mistaken your trust, I'll have whatever levy numbers you wish drilled when you wish it. Whatever campaign you demand, we will serve my lord."

"I'm glad to hear," Lafont said. "Why don't we get the oaths out of the way, then."

Lafont turned to his wife and said something to her. She broke off from the older couple and with her husband when to sit on the thrones. Baron Lafont motioned over to a servant and whispered something in his ear, and as the servant scurried off the Baron motioned Inwold towards him.

As Inwold stepped forward and kneeled, a steward said, "Earl Dalomax, do you swear to faithfully serve the Lafont family, Baron Gabryel, Baroness Dhalana, and their heirs Olyna and Corwyn?"

"As I speak for the law of my kin, I and my heirs will honor you with oaths of loyalty, forever as our lord befits us worthy we will uphold our lords will, his laws and his name. Forever will I and my heirs honor our lady, upholding her will, her laws and her name. I and my heirs will uphold our lord's chosen succession and our lord's succession laws. By all the Gods do I swear this, let all be known the binding of we humble Dalomaxes to his lordship." Said Inwold, outstretching his right hand to place it upon the Lafont's sigil.

"Rise, Earl Inwold Dalomax of Dresan, Knight of the Dragon and loyal vassal to the Lafonts," the steward said.

Baron Lafot stood and greeted his new vassal with a hand to help him rise. "Welcome back home, Earl Dalomax. I look forward hearing all about our lands soon enough. Until then," he looked over Inwold's shoulder, and then back to Inwold with a smile. "Yes, here it comes. I think you'll be happy to see this."

Four servants came walking up holding a large crate between them. They set it down with a thud and pried the lid off. Inside were first and foremost his seized kit sitting atop whatever else was held within, albeit he had a pretty good idea. Inwold sifted past his old kit and beheld within many valuables of his family, most of it was gold but there still yet remained heirlooms.

Baron Lafont's steward said most of the non-gold valuables were already sold by Mon, that from the former Duke's seized treasury was gold subsidiaries replacing whatever heirlooms and valuables were missing. Finally the steward repeated what Lafont's letter mentioned about a small tithe being taxed from it.

Inwold being quite satisfied, Lafont motioned the servants back another route. Giving his farewells to the Dalomaxes' new lord, Inwold was dismissed. The servants hauled the crate onto a wagon and guarded by two dozen of Lafont's men mounted on their own steeds, the caravan set off towards Dresan.

*****

The only thing of great note on his journey to the Fief was how strongly he noticed his body odor, gods Inwold hoped it wasn't bad in his lord's court, what a horrible way to be the talk of nobles among his lord's court.

Inwold honestly didn't know what to expect back at his own court, how many problems he'd be swarmed with due to his... successor predecessor? He didn't try to wrap his mind around what the man would have been. Soon enough the caravan was mounting uphill and trotting around the highlands, of all the rural farmhouses and herders Inwold recognized one of the latter with that damnable beard of his, couldn't recall the name though.

He was looking out for the landmark that marked an older Fief prior to the Dalomaxes, it was a minor creek that once served as a natural boundary. Crossing it meant that Dresan was only a few miles away, Dresan itself wasn't a poverty stricken village but it certainly was backwater.

In terms of defenses the Dalomaxes in their time as Earls funneled their acquired wealth into martial pursuits, in the roughly two centuries their family has ruled Dresan two wooden palisades were erected. One surrounded the village proper and was elevated slightly by dirt rampart. While the second served as the village Keep's bailey. Prior to the Dalomaxes all that stood of note among the three dozen households were a manor, lavish but indefeasible.

Albeit now with the manor long since replaced by a keep, the place of great note was the only stone building, a temple to Mara and Stendarr.

As the caravan went through the dirt streets on it's way to the keep, Inwold noticed disdainful eyes peering towards his carriage. The folk couldn't see who was within so he hoped it was directed at his former replacement, moving around the street towards the second palisade he eyeballed the village's only decently decorated household. The fucking merchant, he had quite the mind to behead the man alongside his ex-wife but couldn't think up a lawful reason. Couldn't accuse adultery, she divorced Inwold and quickly married again. Whatever the case he'd decide what to do soon enough.

At last a great weight was relieved when passing through the second palisade and stood before the splendidly steep hill his keep stood atop of, there was something very relaxing knowing siege towers couldn't reach his keep.

Stretching his legs outside the carriage, Inwold made sure the Northmoor servants unloaded his reclaimed wealth from the wagon as the first order of business. Wasn't long before two men were rushing down the long pathway downhill past the struggling servants trying to make it up, Inwold was beyond pleased to see the two.

He didn't have a large staff here in the Keep, the two most important men besides himself were his castellan and bailiff.

The old bailiff didn't need words and the glance they exchanged said all it needed to, he was like another right arm for Inwold.

"Gods Inwold." Said his castellan. "It was the most frustrating thing for us to serve under Mon's lackey, Henry of Northmoor the bastard. The common folk don't give two golden shits about anything other than food, warmth and a workable tax, Henry however became unpopular with the latter."

"Did he tax them by the odd week?"

"Every week." The bailiff spoke up. "He was convinced it was a conspiracy against Duke Mon, that you and the peasants were withholding. Had me arrest half the village, man had enough sense to forgo torture, just wanted me to scare them."

"What a damn fine mess, this wasn't a permanent replacement for me was it?"

"I had the impression Mon sent his taxman, no sane man would rule over a village he so heavily taxed." Said his castellan.

Raising his arms slightly Inwold told the two men. "Lay all the issues to me and all the grievances but I stink like a rotten Reachman whore, I'd much like to spend a few hours at my bath."

"Mmmh, Henry wasn't used to living in a Keep. He used up all the soap, sorry my lord."

"Son of a bitch...." Spat Inwold.

Edited February 18, 2018 by TheCzarsHussar

[Centurion]

Ubbe

Kyne’s Watch

The frigid wind blowing across his balls made running difficult, but not impossible. His feet were numb to the point he didn’t notice the bleeding that had started. His lungs stung with every breath in. Ubbe rounded the corner and launched himself forward with renewed vigor. Mjalarr was just milliseconds in front of him and Kynes Watch was just coming into view. The bonfire was waiting for the first to arrive, everyone else would have to take a dip in the Sea of Ghosts and make another lap around the course.

Ubbe heart started racing. He could hear the thumping next to his brain as they got nearer and nearer to the fire. Then, just before heat was able to reach them, Ubbe pounced, taking Mjalarr to the ground and wrestling him there long enough for someone else to reach the fire. Ubbe chuckled and jumped off of Mjalarr in an instant and dashed for the freezing waters.

***

Ubbe sat on the edge of the dueling circle while two of the other dead men fought. This was a really fight. A call out. These men wanted the other dead. They swung hard, aiming to kill with each strike, barely managing to keep their fragile lives each time. They had been going at it for close to ten minutes at this point and neither man had made much ground. The with a final savage strike the larger of the two Nords managed to break the others axe. In a desperate bid to keep his life, the smaller Nord charged his rival in an effort to turn the battle into a melee, but cut the head his axe between the eyes. The larger Nord let out a war cry that echoed along the coast and through the mountains, spiriting his dead rival to Sovngarde. Dead men indeed…

***

Ubbe… His eyes shot open and he sat up quickly looking around for the voice that spoke his name. Nothing. Blackness. Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t tell what. He stood from his bedding and looked around. The others were nowhere to be found and the fire was out. 

Ubbe… He spun around quickly and saw nothing. There was a faint light coming in through the mouth of the cave he was staying in. He walked slowly towards it. As he neared the entrance the light became brighter and and the colors more vibrant. He could faintly hear music being played and cheers being echoed through the valley. Ubbe exitted the cave and had to shield his eyes from the brightness briefly before gazing out over the cliff face. He saw a great whale bone bridge spanning the gap between a great waterfall and a towering Hall.

Ubbe… He turned to the sound of the voice then and took a step back. Two figures stood before him, a female in a blue sash and a male wearing red. Ubbe recognized the figures, but before he could say a word, their faces changed from happy to angry. Ubbe took a step back and the figures rushed him. His feet found no ground upon which to plant and he dropped of the cliff…

Ubbe jumped awake. He was sweating and Hormound was looking at him with a strange look. “Ubbe, are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah…. just a bad dream is all.” He said as he rolled back over.

***

Splinters flew around as one of the trial takers shields broke apart under the onslaught of fire balls. The heat was getting unbearable as the wooden frames began to light in the Nords hands. Then, out of nowhere the fire stopped and the shield were cooled by frost magics.

“Good. Now we move on to shock resistance. One of you step forward.” Said the battlemage. Ubbe walked forward without hesitation and was hit with a voltage high enough to cause body spasm, but no kill him. After he got done convulsing on the ground he stood and gritted his teeth. “Shock spells are a favorite among Justicars. They like to disable their foes as opposed to killing them in order to take them back for questioning and torture.”

“Again!” Ubbe barked. The mage gave him an odd look. “I said again!” 

Ubbe’s body hit the ground when the voltage entered. He fought the convulsions as much as he could, but it pained him greatly. When he finally regained control of his muscles and stood and looked towards the mage. “Again…”

***

Kyne’s Watch was fading in the background as Ubbe walked into the mountain pass. The frozen bodies of Forsworn still littered the forest floor, a warning to all would be attackers that the Grim Ones and Kynes Watch was not to be messed with. Some of the bodies had been picked on by hungry predators, but most of them were being preserved how the fell by the cold. 

The morning was quiet and and the forest hadn’t awoken yet, making it easy for Ubbe to move. He didn’t want to spend a lot of time here. His prey was elsewhere, away from the human traffic and bloodshed. Ubbe walked swiftly and quietly until he was well away from the bodies. Once he got good and away he could finally start tracking. It was hard to do with fresh fallen snow, but not impossible. While tracks were pretty much out, feces was still identifiable enough. The trail he was following was taking him west into the mountain towards High Rock. The further he went the colder it got and the deeper the snow drifts formed.

By midday he was high enough into the mountain range he could see the entire booming town of Kynes Watch off in the distance. The people looked like ants going about their daily lives. The ships looked like mere toys pulling in and out of port and the menacing Castle Volkihar looked pitiful across the way.

Further up the slope, Ubbe caught a glimpse on a rickety looking rope bridge spanning a drop in the side of the mountain. He spend the rest of the afternoon navigating the treacherous rock face before reaching the bridge and spotting the cave entrance on the other side. It was almost nightfall and he decided that he would make camp inside for the night.

The cave wasn’t too large, but it provided a dry place to stay for the night and the trees nearby provided the wood he need for a fire. He had skewered a couple rabbits and a fox while he was out. He carefully dressed each of the rabbits, making two short cuts across the collar and lower abdomen of the creatures before connecting the slashes with a long cut. He dug the internal organs out and wrapped them in some spare linens he had brought with him. Afterwards he carefully peeled the fur and flesh away from the tissue. Once he got the rabbits pelts off he carefully cut the good meat away and fried a handful of little nuggets from the two animals.

He dressed the fox and instead of eating the meat he obtained from it, he stored it for later. Ubbe sat there, staring into the flames for what seemed like hours before sleep finally took him. He woke early the next morning he looked around the cave and could help, but feel as though he was being watched. He moved casually and gathered his gear before exiting the cave and crossing the bridge. He walked back into the forest, being extra careful to not let his shadow notice he was on to them.

Ubbe’s goals shifted now, once he was targeting a great bear of winter, but now he was playing a game of cat and mouse. He kept walking, tracking the bear he had started, but paying attention to the rustling of the trees and snapping of the twigs behind him. The hours past as they had before and soon he found himself on a road high in the mountains. Along the southern edge of the road, an old watch tower laid on its side. 

Ubbe strode in and looked around. Good a place as any to spend the night I guess. He went to work setting up his fire and bedroll before retiring for the night. He rolled over on his side and closed his eyes. He listened to the wind howl and the wolves howl back. After a god amount of time he heard the crunching of snow approach and stop just before his bed roll. His eyes snapped open and with a swift strike, he brought one of his axes from underneath his bedroll and cleaved clean through and golden-brown leg. The figure squealed and hit the ground. Ubbe jumped up and looked around quickly for any others, but no one else was there, at least in the open.

Ubbe looked down at his shadow and saw a cuirass of bone, tribal tattoos and pointed ears. Ubbe thought that surely that this was an Bosmeri spy from the Dominion sent to gather intel on Skyrim’s fastest growing port city. Ubbe grabbed the elf by his collar and raised him to his face. Looking the elf directly in the eyes he asked, “Where’s the rest of your party?”

The Bosmer looked at him and gave a small, weak chuckle. “What are you going to do if I don’t speak…. kill me?.... ha…..” 

The blood was spewing quickly from his severed leg and soon the elf went limp. The last flickers of life fading from his eyes. Ubbe dropped the tiny tree humper and took out his dagger, cutting the ears and tongue from the body. He strung them on his amulet which already contained two sets of golden ears and a single Nord ear. Once we was done he settled back down into his bedroll and was taken by sleep once more.

Midday brought another onslaught of snow. The mountains were becoming more and more treacherous as the days past. Ubbe has ditched the fox meat and rabbit guts, he no longer needed them. He wasn’t hunting a bear anymore. He was hunting elves.

Ubbe eventually caught the scent and tracked them butterscotch bastards to Steepfall Burrow. Ubbe entered the stone cave and slowly made his way through the passage before he entered an open room with a stone bridge crossing a large chasm. On the other side of the chasm stood his prey. The Thalmor Justicar and his now singular Bosmeri scout. Ubbe and the Elves exchanged no words before the fight began.

Ubbe drew his axes and charged across the bridge. The Bosmer was quick to act and drew an arrow, notching his bow, and releasing. The arrow slid past Ubbe’s face, narrowly missing him, but throwing him off his charge. The Justicar laughed as he casted Stoneflesh upon himself. “Arrogant human!”

Ubbe let a war cry loose in the cave and the little Bosmer lost his bowels and ran. The Justicar fried his assistant with lightning for cowardice before casting a summon sword spell. Ubbe was closing in fast the the elf had little time to react. He brought the spectral daedric sword up in time to block Ubbe’s strikes before hitting him with a shocking touch spell, sending Ubbe’s muscles into wild spasms. Ubbe hit the ground and seized around on the ground. The Altmer laughed and bent down, wanting Ubbe to see his face before he died. In an instant Ubbe stopped pretending to still be under the effect of the spell and reached forward grabbing the elf by the throat. He pulled the elf to the ground and rolled around on top of him. Using his knees to pin the elves arms down, he put his left hand on the elf’s forehead. He leaned forward and said, “The Ash-King sends his regards.”

With a hard grip and a quick pull, he ripped the elf’s trachea and esophagus out in a gruesome mess. Ubbe spent the next several hours carefully cutting the bastards heart out of his chest and cutting the golden flesh away from the tissue. Starting with the chin and going all the way back to the elves lower back, the way he would’ve with the bear pelt.

After he finished collecting his “pelt”, Ubbe searched the body and found a leather bound journal on the body of the butterscotch elf. He couldn’t read the words though. They were coded in some odd language that Ubbe guesses was some form of old elvish. Satisfied with his findings, he gathered his golden cloak and exitted the cave.

***

It was a much easier walk back to Kynes Watch then it was away. Ubbe approached the town quietly with his kills “pelt” upon his back like a cloak. The dried golden skin flapped in the frigid winter wind. Nords looked at Ubbe with a mix of horrified and enthusiastic looks. He paid them no mind, he hand business to attend to. He set course for the Fort and let nothing stop him.

As he neared, Ubbe could see a line of figures standing in a line waiting, obviously he was the last man to approach. Mjalarr stood on the far side from Ubbe with a large, clean white bear pelt draped over his back. He had a smug look on his face as he saw Ubbe approaching with no such pelt, but his face quickly changed back to its normal stony, pissed at the world look when he saw Ubbe’s cloak.

Next to Mjalarr stood Hormound the Brash. He had his bear pelt, but it was much smaller than Mjalarr’s, though still obviously belonged to an adult snow bear. The pelt was dotted with arrow holes and slash marks from the fight that earned Hormounds pelt.

Just Ymir was the next in line. It was a sad spectacle looking up his baby black bear pelt. He couldn’t even find an adult bear to fight so he went after a lost babe in an attempt to still complete that trial.

Finally, at the end next to where Ubbe stood was Astrid. She stood with no pelt to speak of. She didn’t bother looking at Ubbe’s spectacle like the others and simply fumed quietly.

In front of the five, stood Bully the Bully. Bully was all smiles that day... up until he saw the five before him. Now he was more frowned up than a horker on a spit, and nearly looked the part to boot. His fat pale hand slowly descended over his face, as if to try and wipe the disbelief from it.

"Just Ymir... What the... and you, you all know I've invited the King to your ceremony today right? The King, the fucking High-King of Skyrim was curious enough in the five of you to get up out of his bed at this ungodly hour, and you dare come to me without at least A pelt? Astrid! Get the fuck out of my sight before I choke you with my bare hands!"

Ubbe stood quietly as Astrid scoffed and walked away. He looked at Just Ymir and waited for him to do the same, but the man didn’t seem to get the hint. After a couple moments Ubbe made eye contact with Bully and smiled sadistically, grabbing his pelt by the forehead skin and holding it out in front of him before draping it back over his shoulders.

Bully the Bully looked in disgust. They’d done a lot of things, fucked things, but even that was enough to turn his stomach. And his stomach was like a barrel of stone.

He said nothing, the sound of snow crunching behind him alerting him to the King’s arrival.

Just-Ymir stood straight and proud, hands behind his back as High-King Red-Snow’s eyes settled on him. 

He watched his cruel ice blue eyes trail from him to the others, and sighed in relief when they left him.

”Bully... you told me that there would be five returning. I only see four. Where is Astrid?”

“She died,” he replied, smirking to himself.

”Huh, funny. I thought I saw a woman walking away recently. Well, she’s a dead woman walking, now.”

”Aye. Dead man walkin!” said Bully in reply.

”Dead man walkin,” said the King. When his eyes fell on him again, Just-Ymir looked straight ahead. He heard the crunch of snow, and saw him walking in his peripherals. Even then he could see the fine white pelt draped over his own shoulders. A reminder that he too had suffered under the trials as they had. Deep shame gripped him as the King slowly stood before him now, meeting his gaze without Ymir ever needing to move his eyes.

He didn’t even have to say anything. After an uncomfortably long time, Ymir finally got the hint after all. Bowing his head, Just-Ymir turned, ignoring the look on Ubbe’s face, then left to join the other Grim Ones.

”Dead man walkin!”

”Dead man walkin,” said Baldur echoing Bully.

The king didn’t look in Ubbe’s direction at all, which disappointed his rival a moment, but there was nothing for it. It seemed that at every turn, Ubbe was always one step ahead of him. 

Bully had made him aware of this in his report on their progress. The thought made him smile. It reminded him of someone. Someone dead.

”Hold up your hearts, and eat,” said the High-King.

Ubbe held up the heart, which was smaller than the other two, and brought it to his mouth. Without hesitation he bit into the lean cardiac muscles, the coppery taste of blood and tissue filled his mouth. He chewed and swallowed the first bite without issue. Hormound was struggling with his and Mjalarr was refusing to give any hint away.

Ubbe kept taking bite after bite until the heart was gone and all that was left was the red tint on his face and hands. The King stood silently as he watched, mimicking Mjalarr’s stoney expression. He waited for Hormound to finish his, as he was the last.

When finally all had consumed their hearts, the High-King paced before them. Taking in the look of their bloody faces until he stood before Ubbe.

”Ubbe the Savage,” he said, a proud look on his face. “This is your name now. I’ve heard of your progress. A truer Nord I don’t think I’ve ever seen. How did the heart taste?”

“More coppery than a tavern maid on the rag.” Ubbe grinned slightly. He wasn’t sure if it was from the joke or from the fact that he was just given a moniker by the Ash-King himself.

“Hahaha! A man after my own heart, truly. I like you, boy. And it’s for that reason that it pains me to do this.”

As the King’s fist met Ubbe’s gut, the same heart he consumed finding its place on the snow, he said, “I do believe I asked you for a winter bear’s cloak and heart. Where is it?”

Ubbe flicked the last pieces of the regurgitated altmer heart out of his mouth. He made eye contact with the King before saying, “Still our running around Haafingar I imagine. Bastard got a reprieve when this butterscotch cunts lackey started following me.”

“It’s good you did your duty and killed those idiots. But when I ask for a bear pelt, I mean a bear pelt.”

Baldur backed away from him to address them all. “Do you know the purpose of this trial? A leader must not only be strong, he must not only be cunning... but lucky. Worthy. Lady Kyne herself reveals these animals to you. When I undertook the Trials, she revealed for me the Dragon, the Bear, the Fox, and an Orc, the Bear’s cub. I spoke with the Orc, to get the Bear’s attention. I ran from the Dragon, because only Southerners wish to wake the Dragon from his slumber, and I took the Fox with me, for he is cunning and his eyes sharp. With these gifts, I finally found the Bear, and took its heart and winter’s fur. What did your trials reveal to you? Well that is for you to decide. But if the Bear did not wish to take your life, then perhaps your life is not worth taking...”

Returning to Ubbe, he said, “You are young. Strong, savage, but young. Kyne revealed to you the Bear but she also revealed to you our enemy. The gods must think it better suiting you to do what you do best. To slay elves, not gods. I need men like you, so to that purpose I welcome you with open arms to join our ranks. But to lead them, you’ll need to be more than what you are. Congratulations, Grim One. You’re a dead man walking.”

”Dead man walkin!” This time Mjalarr and Hormound joined in.

”Now go, join your comrades in death. For that’s all that awaits us,” said Baldur.

Ubbe waited for the others to depart before he approached Baldur. Once he got to Baldur and Bully he, reached into his pack and pulled out the leather bound journal he hand picked up off the body. He held it out for Baldur to take and spoke. “I can’t read whatever language that is, but you might know someone who can. Also, I think this golden douche was a Justicar. He wore some fancy black robes and had two tree humpers with him.”

Baldur’s eyes wandered over the journal a while before he took it. Smiling he said, “It’s in old elven. Probably Aldmeris. It’ll take me some work to translate. You did well, Ubbe. I wish you hadn’t, young as you are, but you did. If my boy was here, he’d be drowning in envy. And if my friend was here, he’d have laughed his ass off at seeing you eat that heart. And probably scold you for wasting it.”

Before waking away from him, Baldur said, “Come to my house for dinner in the evening. I’ve got some books for you to read. You’re strong in body, but young in mind. Don’t be late either, Savage.”

“Oh and, leave that thing behind. It’s disgusting.”

Ubbe took his leave of the King and Bully and walked back to his room in the Fort. He took off his amulet of Kyne laid it on his bed. Then,  he took the elf skin cloak and hung it on the wall. He took a step back and looked at his work with a smile before laying himself down on the bed, letting sleep take him.

[The Good Doctor]

Boldir, Mila

Their flight from Dewridge was long and quiet. Each day was an exhausting and wordless trek through hills and eventually forests. Each night was spent huddled beneath the moons or in some tiny village inn among strangers who they dared not speak to. Neither wanted to discuss what had taken place in the highlands, to talk about the bloodstains on Mila's jerkin or how close they had come to being caught. They knew they had to, of course, but there became something of an unspoken agreement that it could wait until they found something resembling safety. Until then, the pair were almost like animals, wordlessly fleeing based on an instinctive drive to get as far from their predators as possible.

It was not until they reached the Orange Road that the flight came to an end. Boldir and Mila's main goal at that point was to escape their pursuers, but at the back of their minds loomed the ever present nudge towards Chorrol, to find the witch called Roseloe Valga and take back the soul she had stolen from Clavicus Vile. And so when presented with the options to go east, deeper into the Heartlands, or west toward Chorrol, they chose the latter, and prayed that their hunters would not be waiting.
Instead of the city they had expected, Boldir and Mila stumbled upon a monastery south of its outskirts. An old community of monks who worshiped the Imperial Nine. Their chapel housed the first healers that they had encountered since their reunion, and by then, Boldir's leg had gotten bad enough that they decided it would be worth the risk to stop and seek their aid.

The bloodstained girl and the wounded warrior, with their weary eyes and matted hair, must have looked quite a sight when they sauntered up the cobblestone path on the back of an exhausted horse. A pair of brown-robed monks greeted them and took Boldir by the arms to help him to the chapel. "Stendarr have mercy," said the elder, a man whose white hair was shaved bald at the center of his dome. His eyebrows were so bushy that Mila's first thought was that he had used the hair off his head to make them. The thought made her laugh.

The monk looked at her with an expression that said What could possibly be funny about this, you crazy girl?! But after glaring for a moment, the monk's face softened and he was back to pitying her. He shook his head. "You two look like you tried to fight a troll. Don't worry, you're safe here." He pushed the door open and helped guide Boldir to a bench. "Brother Yendel, bring them some bread and water." After helping position Boldir so that his leg was stretched out on the bench, the monk gave them both a soft smile. "We'll do everything we can."

"Thank you," said Boldir. "It's been a long road."

"I should think so. Forgive me, I am Brother Salvos." He offered his hand.

Boldir shook it, and found the monk's shake to be stronger than expected. "Filnjar, of Eastmarch. This is my daughter, Helgi."

Mila smiled. "Hi."

"Hello." Brother Salvos politely returned her smile, and then regarded them both for a few seconds, his face turning serious. "This monastery does not turn down those in need, but I would have you be honest with me." He let that linger for several moments, during which Boldir and Mila did not say a word. Then the monk said, "Your real names are Boldir and Mila, are they not?"

Well damn. Boldir's hand instinctively went for his axe, but the monks had removed it while helping him walk. Mila had it covered though. She drew her dagger and moved to point the tip at Salvos' chest. To her surprise, the monk moved like a man half his age, and before she could even react, the blade had been ripped from her grasp and she'd been shoved backwards by an open palm. Boldir started to rise, but Salvos took a step back and held his hands up to show he meant no harm. "Please," he said. "If the stories are true, then a fight with you is the last thing I want."

"Then give her the dagger back," Boldir said, still climbing to his feet. "We're leaving."

"I wouldn't do that," said the monk. "At least not before I've healed your leg."

"And wait for your friends out there to return with a bunch of Legionnaires?" Boldir shook his head. "We've heard that song before. Give Mila her dagger."

Savos looked at Mila. "I beg you, don't try to use it on me again." He held out the weapon, and she snatched it from back, thinking about how she might go at him without getting disarmed again. The monk seemed to recognize this and took another step back. "Listen, you don't have to be afraid here. I doubt anyone else knows, but if they do, I'll make sure they don't tell. It's not our place to get involved, and I'm sure there are two sides to the story."

"A lot more than two," Boldir said. "How did you know who we are?"

"There is a Penitus Oculatus Inspector looking for you. Your names and faces are all over the city."

"Damnit," Boldir swore. They had known that Chorrol would be a risk, but this was worse than expected.

Mila looked up at him. "What do we do now?"

"Stay here and let me heal you," Salvos said before Boldir could come up with an answer. "If I wanted you caught so badly, I'd have sent you to the city without saying a word. In fact, I wouldn't have told you that I knew who you are at all. How could putting you on your guard have made it any easier for me to trick or capture you?"

"I don't know." He had a point. Boldir couldn't deny it. Even the herbalist at Dewridge had pretended not to know who they were while setting his trap. But he still did not understand what the monk's motive could be in this. "Why would you help us? As far as you know, I could be the worst man to ever enter your chapel."

"Oh, I doubt that very much." The look Salvos wore seemed to hold some strange sense of knowing. "Do you?"

"Guess it depends on if you ask my gods or them." Boldir pointed at the stain glass windows depicting the Imperial Nine. "The way my brother talked, I don't think they tend to get upset over the same things."

"I'm asking you. And it's about what kind of man you are, not what you've done."

Boldir contemplated on that a moment, then met the monk in his eyes. "If you doubt I'm the worst, then I probably ain't."

Salvos nodded approvingly. "And if you really believe that, then you deserve to be heard. I will heal you, and I will hear you. That is my role here. Once both are done, I will decide whether or not to send for this Inspector who hunts you. Not before."

Boldir frowned, and then finally nodded. "I want you to make sure your friends who saw us don't do anything before you start the healing. Not after."

"Fair. In that case, I will tell them now." Salvos stood and glanced at Boldir's leg. "The sooner we do this, the better." He promptly existed the hall.

The moment Brother Salvos was gone, Mila turned to Boldir with an angry look. "You're trusting him? After what happened with Tolvo?!"

"Calm down, I haven't forgotten."

"You didn't even ask me!"

He frowned. "If the man wanted to trick us, he'd have done the same thing Tolvo did. He wouldn't have risked his neck by revealing what he knew, and he certainly wouldn't have warned us about Chorrol. What would you rather do? Bet our lives on him being a liar and ride right up to the city gates hoping that our faces ain't pinned up right beside them?"

Mila didn't like it, but she had no good answer for that. If entering Chorrol wasn't an option, then their chances of finding Roseloe Valga were slim, unless they found help. She sighed. "I still wish you'd have asked me, even looked my way."

You'll have to get used to that, is what Boldir wanted to say. His first priority with Mila was to protect her, not give her an equal say in everything he did. Instead, he said, "You'll have to trust me sometimes, alright? I've dealt with dangerous situations all my life. I know what I'm doing."

Mila started to say more, but stopped herself. She knew she was pushing too far. That even with all she'd been through, she couldn't profess to be some sort of expert on this kind of thing. Perhaps if Boldir had been awake in Dewridge, he never would have trusted Tolvo the way she had. Perhaps he was simply better at picking up the signs. She didn't want to be angry at him, although at the moment she did not know what in Oblivion she was supposed to be. This was the most she had heard his voice since their escape from the village. After a long and awkward silence, she asked him. "That man we killed in Dewridge, was he your friend?"

The question caught Boldir off-guard. He had been trying his damndest not to think about that night, to just focus on reaching safety. "Aye. His name was Luthmar."

"That's why you told him you were sorry... we didn't have a choice."

"No, we didn't." Boldir studied Mila, the grim resolve in her eyes, the bloodstains on her clothes... he could not imagine her in Whiterun at that moment, selling fruit or playing with her friends. What troubled him more was that he couldn't even imagine her with her mother. They had entered a different world, and it had forced her to become someone else. "You did well."

Mila almost smiled, but she hid it. "Next time we'll be ready for them."

Boldir was quiet for a moment. He would pray every day that there would be no 'next time' but he knew better than to count on that. "Aye, we'll be ready. Both of us."

***

Weynon Priory

"Don't keep your shield so high. You can barely see."

Mila lifted her wooden shield, but she was too slow. Boldir closed in and walloped her inner leg with his training sword, sweeping the girl's feet out from under her. He could tell that the wind left her when she landed, but Mila didn't say anything. Her brow tightened and she climbed back to her feet to resume her fighting stance. 

"Again," he said in a voice that was harsher and more demanding than he'd ever wanted to use on the girl. But kindness did not breed strong warriors, and although Mila was strong of spirit, she was no warrior. Not yet.
Mila tried at him again, this time with her shield positioned as he'd taught her. He of course deflected the blow with ease, but when he countered with his own strike, Mila's shield was there to catch it. He followed up, and she caught his second blow as well, though from the way she grimaced, Boldir figured that it jarred her arm. The third strike found air as she backpedaled, and the forth just barely grazed her shield as she practically ran out of range. Eventually, the heel of Mila's boot snagged on a tree stump, and she stumbled. Boldir smacked her across the shoulder with the flat of his sword, though he could have struck her in the neck if he had wanted to. Mila fell again, this time taking slightly longer to get back up.

"You're still doing it." This was Mila's biggest problem so far. She didn't just fight defensively. She lived defensively. He saw it reflected in every movement she made with a sword in her hand. The way she kept her distance, took quick and aimless strikes before retreating behind her shield, and tried to run from attacks instead of blocking or using them for openings. Mila was loath to admit it, but he knew that in the real world, she would rather avoid a foe than face him head on, and then only attack when he did not expect it. But craftiness could not save her from everything. "Keep using your feet. But not to run away!"

"I have to keep my distance," the girl answered between huffs. "You're so much bigger than me!"

"I'm not fighting like it," he insisted. Indeed, the dulled sword in Boldir's hand was smaller than anything he'd wielded in many years, and the shield was no larger than hers. His movements were tight and compact, and he made sure to keep from extending even nearly as much as he was capable of. He was fighting like a man half his size, but with far more flesh for her to swing at. "In fact, I'm leaving openings for you. You're just not taking them. Again!"

This was the forth day of the second week they had been training. Mila was a good learner. She took every word he said to heart and did a fine job of remembering the techniques that he showed her. But the rush of fighting someone face-to-face had a way of sapping even the brightest combatants of their wits, and he could tell that it took great concentration on Mila's part to recall even a fraction of what he taught when the weapons started clashing. It would be a long time before any of this became instinctive to her.

"Again," he said after her next mistake. "Again. Again. Again." The word felt odd leaving his mouth in this context. He had never been a trainer. Everything he was doing was based off of the memory from his own training. First with the Legion, then with his brothers in the Stormcloaks. Mila owed her lessons to the swordmaster Javin and old Beirlan the Bad as much as she did to Boldir Iron-Brow.

Their training would go on from dawn until midday, with only short breaks during that time. And then they would go into Weynon House for a lunch that was meager but gladly provided by the monks. Brother Salvos always joined them at the table. After hearing their story, the man had taken it upon himself to ensure their protection so long as they chose to remain. He offered them a place to sleep in the modest lodge outside the main house, and even kept them up to date on the events of the outside world.

This day was no different. When the time came, Boldir called it quits and he and Mila entered the old two story house where the monks lived and took their seats at the end of the long table downstairs. Salvos arrived before long and sat across from them. His news that day came as a greater shock than it probably should have. "A moot has been called. Your brother is among those who vie for the throne of Skyrim."

"High King Baldur..." Sometimes Boldir felt like his and Mila's lives had become so warped and twisted that they lived in some sort of bubble blown by the madgod while the rest of the world went on like normal. It was strangely surreal to receive these updates confirming that it wasn't just them. "He wasn't even a Captain when we first met." Boldir laughed, faintly. "As much a bard as a soldier. Now a fire-breathing jarl, and soon a king."

"You think he will win?" asked the monk.

"He will win. I've never seen Baldur lose."

That night in the lodge, Boldir was in bed, still thinking about the moot when Mila whispered, "Are you awake?"

"Mhmm."

"What we learned today, about Baldur... you really think he will become High King?”

”Aye, I do. You saw the man sing in taverns and ride someone's cow. But I saw him lead Skyrim’s defense, overcome torture, destroy those who threatened us. And people loved him for it. Now they say he has learned to shout. No Jarl can compete with that.”

“Do you want him to win?”

Boldir turned his head and looked at her. Mila was just a dark shape on her straw mattress, propped up on one elbow. “He’s my brother. Whatever else has changed, that hasn’t. Now go to sleep. We’re getting up even earlier tomorrow."

 

***

More weeks passed. Mila continued to improve. Boldir continued to push her. Life went on, and what had once been strange and difficult slowly became routine. The aches and bruises became less punishing, and the fear of hunters grew ever more distant. They were still out there. Boldir and Mila knew this much from Brother Salvos, who brought word to them every day about how the Grim Ones and Imperial agents continued their search. They heard stories about a battle in the streets of the Imperial City, in which the Mage Emperor slew a dozen traitors himself. And more about strangers from Atmora who were bringing their religion to Tamriel. Perhaps most interesting was the Legions moving south to begin their advance on Dominion lands. There was no news on Baldur or the moot, however. 

Of course, the news of the world was far from at the front of Boldir and Mila's minds more often than not. After training came chores. After chores, more training. On the sixth week of this, Boldir's teachings shifted to include things such as knot-tying and trap-making. On the seventh, he began teaching her how to properly use her dagger. On the eighth week, Mila decided that it was time to teach Boldir something herself....

"It's easy," she told him. "Not at first, but once you figure it out, it stays with you." Mila reached for the spark inside herself and conjured the magical white lights to her fingertips. "Endar told me that everyone has the magicka, they just don't all know how to find it. Anyone can cast a spell with practice. Even a grizzly old Nord like you."

Patient as always, Boldir waited for Mila to finish. Then he picked her up and tossed her into the nearby pond. This turned into Mila's first swimming lesson.
 

Between swords and running swimming and push-ups and so much else, Boldir and Mila also attended the chapel every Sundas for prayer and a sermon. They did not think much of the Imperial Nine, of course, but Brother Salvos insisted they attend, stating that it could be good for them. How could they say no to the man who sheltered them?

"Julianos says," declared the preaching monk on one such Sundas, "Know the truth... Observe the law... When in doubt, seek wisdom from the wise. Akatosh says, serve and obey your Emperor... Study the Covenants... Worship the Nine... Do your duty..."

Mila wished that their bench had a back to it so she could rest her head on it. She was still tired from an especially rigorous training session the day before. She glanced at Boldir, who tilted his head backwards and pretended to be asleep. Mila stifled her chuckle, but then Boldir did a loud fake snore, and she burst out laughing.

"The Nine say, Above all else, be good to one another..." The monk paused, shooting Boldir and Mila a glare so fierce that they both straightened, though they were back to fighting laughter the moment he resumed.
 

Not all of the work they did was physical. Boldir and Mila could not go to Chorrol, but they could gather information in other ways. Weynon Priory was not a large monastery. Every monk knew who they were by then, but that was saying little when there were fewer than ten of them in total. And fortunately, they all respected Brother Salvos greatly, and took him at his word when he said that the outlaws from Skyrim were good people.

Of course, when you spend long enough with someone, you tend to get to know them. What they like, what they enjoy. One monk in particular, a plump, rather sun-tanned Imperial named Brother Hathis, greatly enjoyed a nice honey-dipped sweetroll fresh out of the oven. So Mila started bringing them to him. Three days a week, when it was her time to help in the kitchen, she would sneak the dough into the oven behind whatever else was actually intended to go inside. And when the time came and nobody was watching, she would sneak them out and deliver them piping hot to her new monk friend.

It wasn't long before Hathis was gossiping about affairs in the city. About the court and the businesses, the scandals with with the chapel, occasionally news from the capital or Anvil. And eventually, the gossip turned into sharing stories and secrets, which quickly turned into the procurement of needed information. What harm was there in doing favors for a friend?

One Tirdas evening, just after Brother Hathis finished his sweetroll and licked the honey off his fingers, he motioned for Mila to follow him into the priory house, where Boldir waited for them with a map spread out on a table. All the other monks were either in the kitchens or in the chapel. "I found out where the lady you're looking for lives," Hathis said, smiling, proud to have been able to help. "Valga Estate is a ways north of Chorrol, off the main road and down a few unmarked ones. The fella at the inn said it was just a short ways west of this spot here." 
He traced his finger north of the city, and then followed a few roads until they ended. "You promise you'll be careful, yeah? I couldn't live with myself if you two got hurt because you picked a fight with a witch."

"We won't do this unprepared," Boldir promised. "If you can learn anything about the place itself, tell us."

"Please," Mila added nicely. "I know it's asking a lot..."

"Nonsense, girl. It's asking very little, all things considered."

It wasn't long before Boldir and Mila knew that Valga Estate spanned several fields and orchards where the Great Forest had been beaten back, and that it was surrounded by a low wall. Valga Manor was a three story brick home, as large as one would expect from a family that used to govern much of western Cyrodiil. The place had a servant's quarters, though in recent years the property had apparently fallen to neglect after most of the staff left for some unknown reason. Boldir figured that fewer people around could only be a good thing. "Are there any guards?"

"There certainly used to be," Brother Hathis said. "Now, I'm not sure. All I know for sure is that that Valga and her old servant are still there. The latter is seen in town regularly, purchasing food and the like. She must have some other staff though, because he buys more than two people could eat."

***
 

As the weeks became months, effects of the training on Mila's body became more visibly apparent. She was getting stronger, quicker. Brother Salvos even swore that she had grown half an inch, probably thanks to the healthier living, he said. She found that she was filling out her shirts more, and that her hips seemed a little wider in the mirror.

One night as she slept, Mila dreamed of Skyrim. Baldur was in a throne in some darkened great hall she had never seen. Before him knelt Boldir, whose face was like a rock. There was no hatred between them, no anger. But Baldur did not raise a hand when Sibbi Black-Briar entered from the shadows. He sat there and watched while the most evil man Mila had ever known stepped up beside her father and lifted his axe high in the air. She tried to scream, but she didn't exist in this dream. She was a formless ghost watching it all play out. The axe fell. When Mila awoke, there was blood in her bed. "Boldir!"

Boldir was up in an instant with an axe ready. Though he was puzzled to find the guest house empty as usual. He glanced at the building's only window, but saw nothing. It was just the two of them in there. Mila was sitting up with a terrified look on her face. He lowered the axe. "Bad dream?"

She nodded. "Aye, but that's not it."

She pulled back her blankets, and Boldir's heart nearly stopped. Of course he knew what it meant, that Mila was now a woman or some such, but for some reason the very possibility of this happening now had been the furthest thing from his mind. The sight of so much blood, her blood, had come as a shock to him. Still clutching the axe, Boldir ran his hands through his hair before taking a seat. "Shor damn it all! You nearly gave me two heart attacks just now."
His daughter was still looking at him, like he was supposed to have some sort of answer. Like he knew what the to fucking do! "Uhh..."

"Boldir? What am I supposed to do?"

"How in Oblivion should I know? Didn't... I don't know... didn't Carlotta... or anyone ever tell you-"

"Of course she told me, what to expect, not how to deal with it. Just... bring me a towel, or something, please."

"I think you're going to need more than a-"

"Please!"

"Alright, alright!" Boldir hurried outside and shut the door behind him. Gods... Is this one of your things, Dibella? Or is it Mara? Great timing, ladies. Really. 

Boldir entered the priory house swearing silently that he would never say anything to piss off the Hearth Goddesses again, and there he found Brother Salvos awake, even though dawn was only just starting to break. The head monk was sitting near the fireplace, reading some long letter. He put it down when he saw Boldir enter. "Well, you're up early. That's good. I was hoping we could speak."

"Not now," Boldir interrupted. "I need clean towels. And water."

Salvos started to rise. "What's the problem?”

"It's not a problem. It's Mila. She's, uh, indisposed."

"Ah." The monk shook his head sadly. "And in a monastery, no less. I presume you do not have much experience with this sort of matter."

"None in the slightest."

"Very well." Salvos sighed. "Go upstairs and grab what you need. I will ride for Chorrol to fetch better materials for this."

They did not train the next day. Boldir had gone to eat lunch, but Mila sat in their quarters, looking at herself in the mirror. She wasn't hungry. In fact, she didn't even want to think about food at that moment. The wool pads that Brother Salvos brought worked well for the blood, but they could not make her stomach feel less queasy. Ma would say that I'm a woman now. 
She didn't feel like a woman. She felt like the same child she'd been yesterday, only if that child had been shoved down and kicked a few times.

There was something to be said of her reflection, though. The Mila who stared back at her through the mirror was quite different from the Matilda who had looked up from the waters of Lake Rumare so long ago. That one had been a starving little girl, covered in muck and with darkness around her eyes. This one's skin had color. She was healthy and strong. It wasn't the sort of thing Mila paid attention to normally, but for some reason in that moment, she was completely awed by it. Like this was the first time she truly noticed how far she herself had come. Maybe Ma would be right.

When she finally found the strength to enter the priory house in spite of the nauseating scent of food, Mila discovered that her usual place at the dining table had been left open for her. Boldir and Salvos were in deep conversation when she approached.

"A duel?" Boldir asked. Neither man had seen Mila yet, but she saw her father tense up. "When did Hammer-Fang become a gods damned Jarl?!"

"I don't know," Salvos replied. There was no trace of emotion on his face. "I had never heard of the man before."

"Well? What then? Did he accept?"

"He did... Boldir..." The monk spoke slowly, but then cracked a smile. "Your brother his a king, now."

Boldir's shoulders trembled, and his fists slammed on the table, drawing the eyes of every monk in the room. “YES! I knew it! I knew that brilliant bastard would win!” Boldir stood up, and raised whatever he was drinking high in the air. "Here is to the Unkindled Baldur Red-Snow! The new High King of Skyrim!!!"

Mila left the room before Boldir could see. She didn't know what would have been worse, for him to spot the tears in her eyes, or the vomit that came up the moment she was outside.

***

A week after her bleeding, Boldir and Mila were back at their normal routine. Mila had been strangely quiet since that day, but Boldir figured that could have been normal. He might have inquired, but it seemed as though the girl had directed all of her thoughts instead to preparing and bettering herself. During their sparring session that morning, Mila moved almost exactly as he had taught her. She evaded without running, chose her strikes, and aimed them precisely. When he directed a swipe toward her ribs, Mila side-stepped, using her shield to push his arm away while she drove the point of her sword under his shield arm. It was a good move. Boldir was able to catch it, of course, but the average Legionnaire would not have.

"Not bad," he commended. "Were you actually timing my swings just then?"

Mila wiped the sweat from her forehead and shook her head, confused. "Timing? No. I was watching."

"You were quick then," he said. "That's good as well, but not the same. I'll show you. Again." They started again, though this time as they fought, Boldir called out to Mila with every strike. "One. Two. Three. Four. Pay attention to my timing. Five. The heartbeat of the fight." He used his sword to knock Mila's weapon away and then raised it as he stepped back. He kept his shield up in case she did not realize the fight was over. She did. "It's called a tempo. Almost every fighter alive falls into one when a fight presses on long enough. It's natural. The really good fighters are the ones who know how to control their own. The best fighters control their enemies'."

Boldir motioned for Mila to come at him. She did, swinging high, then right, then right again, then left, then Boldir stepped into her, using his shield to rake Mila's next high blow aside and leave her entire torso exposed for him to jab with his blade. He stopped with the tip just an inch from her gut. "Do you see what I did there? I lured you in, and was able to predict your attack based on the tempo you fought with."

"I don't understand," Mila gasped, weakly shaking her head. "I didn't even know what I was going to do by then. It was a normal attack."

"You will," Boldir promised. "I'll make sure of it. Again. This time go slow. I want you to follow my movements."

And so she did. Boldir came at her with slow but direct and hard hacking attacks. They were too close to her for her own sword to be used comfortably. The sort of strikes that would force even the bravest opponent to retreat if they had been at full speed and power. After Mila blocked them all, Boldir slowed down even further and then stopped, his sword still raised. "As my opponent, what would you want me to do here?"

She nodded past him. "I'd want you to back off after tiring yourself against my shield."

He nodded, and did as she wanted. "At which point, you would..?" He motioned for her to answer his assault. Mila came after him with an attack that had to be wide due to the newfound distance between them. He stepped away from it, but she gave chase, doing it again, and then as she moved in for what should have been the kill strike, Boldir abruptly dropped to one knee, caught her sword with his shield, and plunged the point of his own sword upward, where it stopped inches short of her neck.

"I wanted you to want that. Once again, I lured you in. Made you think the fight was going a certain way, established a tempo that you tried to control." He stood back up, lowered his sword to the grass, and looked Mila in the eyes. She needed to understand the importance of what he was saying here. "What is the one thing that you want your enemies to do?"

She shook her head with no answer.

"The answer is 'Whatever you want them to do'. And when do you want them to do it?"

Something lit up in Mila's eyes, and he could see that she was finally beginning to understand his point. "Whenever I want them to do it."

Boldir gave a nod of approval. "Now again!"
 

He felt good when they finished training that day. Mila was really getting better, and it made him feel more comfortable with the idea of her being on the road. Of course he would still try to keep her out of the danger whenever he could, but if the past was any indication, that would not always be possible. Now he could at least trust her to be her own second line of defense.

What was more, he felt like it was nearing time for them to leave. Weynon Priory had been good for them. Possibly the best thing that could’ve happened. But they had a mission, and both of them were eager to get on with it. They had everything that they could gather on Valga’s estate by now. The only reason to remain at the monastery was to get in more training. But Boldir knew that if they waited until he felt Mila was ready, they would never leave this place. She is ready, he told himself. And she is no longer a child. I can’t keep thinking of her like one.
 

Two days later, he and Mila packed their bags. She was still being quiet, and it was starting to make him uncomfortable. Boldir had grown accustomed to Mila’s chatter, the regular questions and comments and jokes. He watched her silently stuff supplies into her bag with a somber look on her face, and then finally asked, “Is everything alright with you?”

Mila felt like she had just been shaken awake. "Aye, everything is good." She gave a reassuring smile.

He could see right past it. "Are you sure?"

Her smile broke, and she let out a heavy sigh. "I didn't want to talk about this yet..."

Boldir frowned. "If it's something you want to wait on, then we can."

"No, no." Mila shook her head and sighed. "It's just not easy to bring up. I don't want us to fight." She saw the puzzlement in Boldir's expression, and before he could respond, she continued. "What happened with Baldur. It ain't gonna change anything, is it?"

That caught him off-guard. "Change anything? What do you mean?"

"He's the High King now. He has the power to pardon you for Riften. For everything." She steeled herself for the hard part. "We can't fall for it."

"Mila-"

She interrupted him. "Baldur is the one who sent those men after us. It wasn't Ulfric, or some friend of the Black-Briars. It was Baldur. And every one of them wanted you dead."

"Mila, Baldur is not Thorald or Luthmar. It's not the same. Don't you remember him? He's family."

"Of course I remember him. And Rebec too. But the Uncle Baldur I knew wouldn't have sent hunters after us. He'd have trusted you." Mila started to glance down at her bag again, but stopped and forced herself to meet Boldir's eyes. "He sent your friends. He knew that they hate you now, and he knew how hard it would be for you, how awful it would feel if you had to kill one... It reminded me of something Sibbi would do."

Boldir's face contorted. "Don't you dare compare them! If you think they're the same, then you don't know Baldur at all!"

Mila felt anger welling up inside her. How couldn't he see? "I spent almost a year reading his letters with a dagger to my neck! I know damn well who he is and how much he cares for us! That's why I hate him for doing this! What kind of person can manipulate the ones he loves this way? And for what? Answers?" Boldir started to speak, but she cut him off. "If Baldur trusted you half as much as you trust him, he'd have left us alone, not risked our lives trying to drag us back!"

Boldir was silent. He glared at her long and hard, but Mila held his gaze even as her eyes started to glisten. Finally, he said, "We're not going back. I never planned to. Is that what you want to hear?"

"It is." Mila let out a long breath. "Look, I'm sorry Boldir. I know he's your brother..."

"He is. It doesn't matter." He motioned at the door. "Go get the horse ready. It's time we were on our way."

[ColonelKillaBee]

Tyrian

Edge of the Rift

"Is this it?"

"Sir, do you not feel the magic resonating from him?"

"Yes... and yet we are left wanting... with fucking heart ripped from chest..."

Tyrian's comrades did not bother to hide their surprise at the outburst. One of the Thalmor's survivors stood forth beneath the dim light of the caves.

"You are upset with our progress? Was this not one of the sources of the anomaly’s residual energy traces?”

"Of course it is, but of this one specifically, I believe the source that remains out of my grasp is possibly that which remains from the whole." His manicured finger delved deep in the icy chest of Brund... his corpse now a blackened twisted menacing shadow of what was. "Even with what dwells in the College of Winterhold, I can sense the power that once was here in its proximity. The Nords stack too much power in their favor!"

"And yet we can do nothing about it! We've done our part... Now we must flee so that we can study what little we've obtained, Tyrian. We have the High King's surrogate boy. You said it yourself, we may be able to ransom him for the power source. It's time to flee Skyrim now. Our people prepare for war. They will need us."

Tyrian bit his lip, his hands trembling from the burden of failure. "Fine, we’ll have spies make contact with the college later. Make preparations for invisibility scrolls and potions. We won't be able to mask our retreat from these lands entirely with our magic pools in such conditions of late. We'll have to resort to lesser means. We head for the river in two day's time with the boy in tow."

Daric couldn't hear what they were saying, his cage muffled by their elven trickery... but he knew time was running short. He knew he'd be forced to leave these lands, unless he acted soon. But how?

As he posed the question, the boy warrior was knocked back by an invisible force as his cage opened. "You'll be sleeping with a guest from now on. Hope you two are cozy," said one of the elves, wicked smile taunting the boy as he stood powerless against the walls. In the confined space, the faint smell of ruined flesh once frozen and now allowed to thaw filled every inch of his nostrils. He could only make out the blackened thing that they brought in as they wrapped it up like the many honored dead of the Nords.

Once they left, curiosity overwhelmed him... who could be so important that the Thalmor would bother to preserve their body? They brought none of their dead brothers with them as of late, and there had been many...

During one of Tyrian's unwanted visits, his men barged in, visibly shaken. "Another found dead," he'd heard. Within view of their cave entrance. As if someone had placed it there purposefully. Taunting them. It made no sense to Daric at all. Was this ally or foe? Who could kill Thalmor elite in this way and yet, remain unseen? And if it was their goal to kill more, why had they not attacked the rest? Or was it that they still had not discovered the cave itself, masked so behind their illusions?

Whatever the case, Daric's curiosity had to be sated. Such an important person could've been anyone. What if Tyrian somehow made good on his promise to kill Baldur?

At the thought, he swallowed hard, fighting the shaking in his limbs to scramble in the darkness towards the still figure. There was a faint enough light from the rest of the cave and their magic light that he could make it out. And yet as his fingers grew closer, they grew colder until he could no longer advance. Was this fear that gripped him? Fear that beneath the cloth he'd find a strand of golden hair amongst the charred flesh, no doubt from the electric charge of their magic? Or was it something else...

He wouldn't find an answer, nor would he find sleep. Not with the thing that stayed in his cell.

***  

"Falgrum, brother!"

"Golbjor, you mad cunt! It's been ages! How fares the clan?"

The two Nords embraced one another as Golbjor's men of sixty poured down from the mountain trail away from Ivarstead. They spread out, unsure of what position to take but knowing that Golbjor and his Grim One friend would lead them to task.

"They grow restless, hungering for blood, and much of it. As do I! I am happy you sent word for me in this task... after what happened with our clan, I seek retribution. Beyond the measure of what we can inflict upon flesh..."

Falgrum's eyes fell over his clansman. Draped in the fur of a great bear, one that was so mighty it lived to see its fur grayed, much like the man himself. His beard was ragged, and great. And his scars, many. So much that his face was a sore sight even for one that longed to see the familiarity of it. "You look like shit," he said. "It seems that last kill managed to claim your eye."

"What, this?" he pointed to his milky eye, and the claw marks that obviously damaged it beyond repair. "A memento from my wife! She heard whispers that I'd taken up with her mother."

"And did you?" asked Falgrum, stroking his red beard, newly grown in and overshadowed by the hair from his head that draped around it. 

Golbjor grinned, rubbing his cock beneath his fur kilt. "What can I say, she may be older, but she still had a few more fucks left in her, ha!"

Falgrum shoved him, trying his best not to match his laughter. "Then the mark is well deserved. Now you match my own ugly mug." He pointed to his eye. "Two blind fools, searching for enemies that can hide amongst the wind."

"No matter, our one eyes together are likely keener than any of this lot. So, have you made our presence amongst the king's men known to him yet or do we still hide in secret?"

"I have made him aware... for some time now. He tolerates our presence. It is one reason why I'm so loyal to the man, even now. I even offered to have our clans join. But he wouldn't have it. Still, there is cause to rejoice. We will be able to flourish under his banner once more. So, what say we repay his generosity and find his boy?"

Golbjor cracked his knuckles, then his neck. "Yes, lets. We find the boy, we find the golden pricks that hold him."

***

Tyrian stood before the Nords, even now as they gathered around their cave's entrance. The smell of them was enough to overwhelm the senses, smells of pelts and sweat making his eyes water. He chanced a glance at the stack of elves, naked and discarded... they were not just slain, they were mutilated. Cock and balls missing as though ripped from their place, shoved in their mouths... arms simply no longer present... hearts... missing. Inspired by their new king's victory over his enemy, or simply the cherry on top of such barbarism only known by men to be sure?

Tyrian struck it from his memory, the questions unimportant. He had another target.

The men were ready to leave, and they'd have escaped if they'd left but a few hours sooner... The Nords however arrived quickly and of a sudden. Out of nowhere... how were they tracking them? They knew of their general direction but seemed not able to pinpoint the exact location.

The blame had to rest with the red headed Nord... the one with the devil possessed eye. Eyes that seemed to see everything that was and wasn't... and that would be.

Tyrian shook his head. Such foolishness was of course born merely of fear. How could the likes of him fear these Nords? He stood a god, walking even now amongst them as they stood fumbling around like the lowly fools they were, unable to see a being so far beyond their very existence. 

The thought elevated his mood and strengthened his resolve. He would be rid of this Nord, and his men would run to the river, sail as far as they could towards Windhelm's coast to make their escape. So long as his commander was there waiting... Otherwise such close proximity to the very capital they assaulted would mean certain death. But it was their only chance.

He saw him.

Tyrian stopped. Expecting the Nord to somehow notice him though the others did not. And why would they? 

He drew his blade. Gold and righteous, its gleam unseen just as the righteousness of their cause was by the man he was about to slay.

The sweat poured from his white hair, pooling and darkening the back of his cloak. Just as the Nord's blood would the grass beneath his feet.

He overheard them speaking, something of clans and secrecy, but it was drowned out by the very beating of his own heart. It was a cliche to say that it was so loud he thought his enemies would hear him, and yet the truth of it was evident. But even if they could hear it, they wouldn't for long.

His eyes turned towards him, and so did his comrade, both with the one good eye, both now trained fucking directly on him.

The fuck is this, he thought. What was with their eyes? Had they heard him after all? No, they couldn't have. He muffled his footsteps, his entire body in fact. Nothing could have given him away. 

But then, why were they smiling? No, no this was impossible, impossible! 

But so was what he saw the Nords reveal to him as their grins grew to size beyond measure.

And it was that moment, when they'd unfurled the secrets that they'd spoken of that he finally understood what had given him away. What had given them all away.

"Our smell."

*** 

An arc of lightning shook the earth as it came crashing below the branches of trees that sparsely decorated the hills. The Nords turned in its direction, and at that moment things began to happen quickly. Swords found their guts seemingly from nowhere, golden hands appearing at their hilts from thin air. A Stormcloak was lifted from his feet as if by the gods themselves, flying through the air before finding his end at an Aldmeri blade buried deep within his chest.

Tyrian's men saw their sign, and their only remaining chance. They charged from the cave's entrance, it's illusion dissipating as they poured out of it, intent on showing the Nords why they were considered elite. Over a dozen were already dead before they could draw their blades, and more were dying still, pulling Daric along as he was forced to watch, bound in chains.

Almost as soon as Daric was sighted, a great roar was heard from above, causing all to turn their heads in its direction.

Falgrum and Golbjor came running down, sprinting as though the lightning from earlier had enchanted their footsteps with its speed. They were greeted with assaults of the arcane and arrows, but still they came. As Falgrum charged, two elves materialized before him, their swords sinking deep in his shoulders, stopping his advancement immediately. As he coughed blood, his eye met them, wide open and giving away the passion and elevation swelling within. His hands gripped their arms until they were forced to let go of their blades. 

He drew them from his flesh, impaling them and lifting them high above his head as the blood dripped down into his open mouth from their chest. "Heart blood!" He cried, tossing them aside as he found his great sword once more.

Golbjor was already amongst the men, fighting without care for the wounds the elves inflicted upon him. Electricity coursed through him, trying to take the fight away from his limbs, but he fought the sensation, embraced the agonizing cramping of his muscles as the hair stood high upon his neck. He had no weapon, so dropping them was no concern. He sniffed the air, and before an Aldmeri blade could find his neck, his hands found theirs. And soon, his tongue. Or rather, hers. The she-elf stared on, urine escaping her as his dirty scarred hands began ripping the tongue out from her mouth, and then her jaw from its place.

Daric watched, wide eyed and with the same fear as his captors. He'd never thought to see such brutality even at war. It was monstrous. Even those that held his chains found themselves weak at the thought of the same fate falling upon them. That was it. His chance. Daric bolted, yanking his chains from their grasp. An elf near him answered immediately with a sword thrust.

He in turn answered by lifting his chained hands. The sword struck true, his chains split at the center. Before it could strike even further, Daric's freed hand found the elf's nethers, gripping hard until he collapsed at his feet and relinquished his sword to his grasp. His blade soon found its owner's neck.

"Freeee!" he cried, drawing a blade from another nearby and attempting to join his brothers. He aided them, killing his captors from behind as he fought and ran, even crawled to be free of them. 

A spear thrust towards him from behind, but Daric saw the elf from the corner of his eye. Its thrust was deflected by the elven blade in his left hand, then broken by the strike from his right. The left sword then cut low, and deep, before finishing off the emasculated elf by filling his mouth with blade as he would a woman awaiting prick.

The thought brought a smile on his face as the bloodletting continued.

Falgrum was in the thick of it, dodging magic bolts as his blade flew about him, finding elf after elf. The ones with robes were his favorite, as they were easily cleaved through with his greatsword. One such elf traveled with swords floating about him from the dead, flying into his soldiers with such velocity that some of the dead were pinned to trees.

One of these blades found their way to Falgrum, smacked aside with such an impact from his blade the sound rang in his ears well after the assault. Then another. And another. Then two at a time. Three. Then all of them!

He couldn't avoid them all and he did not try to, continuing his charge with stronger resolve after each cut and stroke until he finally made it to the mage and shoved the entirety of his great sword down his throat before slicing through his back and leaving the body looking like a sausage partly split down the middle and opened like a book. 

An ungodly roar escaped his throat, as it did his friend's... they let the pain and the smell of blood overtake them until all they could see, all they thought of, was the promise of more blood and death. Yes, all saw their fury. Their men celebrated it, watching as Golbjor and Falgrum ripped apart an elf's neck at the same time with their bare teeth before setting upon another.

This carnage continued until the remaining elves parted open portals to Oblivion in desperation, summoning devils to their aid larger even than the Nords themselves. With so much blood and death however, their fear allowed the creatures free reign to fight as they pleased, and the Dremora set upon all of them.

Falgrum watched as the black and red dark knights impaled both Nord and Altmer together on the same blades, and how the Altmer no longer cared who they struck with their spells in their struggle to survive. He dropped his weapons and breathed deep the smell of piss and blood, shit and sweat.

Daric watched and beheld the nightmare that overtook an already nightmarish scene. More roars came from behind... it was a bear, perhaps attracted by the scent of dying men? Whatever the case they too joined in, shoving him aside as the screams of the elves they set themselves upon caused him to tremble. 

As did what he saw now fighting amongst the dremora that stood between it and the fleeing elves. His eyes were so overwhelmed, his disbelief of what took place that day before his tear-blurred eyes, that he hardly noticed the three elves that approached him from behind.

This time, he was unprepared, and their blades found his back. 

In a burst of light from his dissipating spell, he cried out in pain, striking at the closest elf to him and cutting his face at the nose. Their blades were stopped from running him through but he was bloodied still.

He gave his cry, striking with both blades at once. "For Skyrim!" He struck hard and with ferocity, remembering the movements Baldur had him watch and mimic until committed to memory even when he was not thinking of them. He watched his enemies and how they moved and knew where their swords would be well before they ended up there.

The elf to his right backed away, unwilling to fight on the human's terms. His blades began to dance with electricity as he charged to strike, daring Daric to meet it with his own swords. He did not.

Instead Daric deflected his friend's blade and kicked him forward into the charge. As the Thalmor watched the blood pour forth from his comrade's mouth, Daric's blade ran them both through from behind him, leaving them joined forever in death's embrace.

Exhausted, Daric weakly dragged the sword he still held, afraid to join the Nords now in what was now a battle not fit for men or elf at all. He instead hobbled away for the upwards path to Ivarstead, begging the gods to give him the strength to make the climb away from the madness that descended on them all. Soon the roars and the crackling of magic grew faint, but not from any distance made. As he fell to his knees, he'd found that they never did make the ground. Looking beneath him he was no longer even on ground... flying through the air until he'd seen a familiar and unwanted face. 

Before he could act, Tyrian's fist met his, right between the eyes. Now the faint sound of battle was no longer heard at all. 

[Witchking of Angmar]

Noon

Krojun sat in his office. It was one of the few places he felt safe after the attempt on his life. The dagger that had almost killed him had had a very rare form of dispelling magic woven into the blade. That was what he had figured out from examining it himself. Lilly was still working on finding where it came from and who it could be linked to, as well as who those who attacked him were. He had never seen that particular type of style on any armor before, and it wasn't really elven so there was doubts the Thalmor was behind the attack. 

Whoever was behind the attack it was time step up the security. Krojun had after the attack gone to a blacksmith and ordered a chain mail shirt of mithril that he could wear underneath his regular clothing. Though it would take a week to complete and till then he wanted to keep his excursions from the tower to a minimum.

It was also time to to give his apprentices a promotion. They were still very much amateurs in his eyes but he felt he needed some steel and magic at his side that he could trust in the absolute loyalty of. They would also need to find and take on two apprentices each in order to make the training and recruitment manageable on his side. 

But all that had to wait as Krojun was busy reading some letter and reports. Among a stack of letters was one neatly folded and sealed with the crest of Skingrad. In precise, feminine script was written:

"My cherished emperor,
I have news of the Elder Council…" 

What followed was brief details on disloyalty from Chancellor Doron and a recoomendation that the Elder Council be dissolved. Then at the end came however a list of names of possible candidates for the vacant spot on the Council.

"Your devoted, M.B.
Countess of Skingrad."

Reading the letter filled him with feelings of joy, sadness and anger. Not that it seemed to matter anymore and he did his best to push those feelings and thoughts aside, even if it was difficult. The fact that the Chancellor might be disloyal wasn't exactly news as Doron had always in a way treated him as if he was somehow lesser. Even if he did it in very subtle ways. Instead he focused on the names at the end of the letter. He didn't recognize many of them and he figured he would have to read up on some of them in one of his books on Skingrad nobility as well as maybe ask Lilly if she knew anything special about them. 

The doors were gently pushed open as a small imperial girl entered into the room. Her hair was raven colored, and done in a tidy braid. She was rather plain looking, besides her striking blue eyes, which most nobles could very easily identify as a hallmark of the Quentas family. It was Helen Quentas, Lilly's beloved niece and Dales's favorite handmaiden. The small girl entered inside the room, as she peaked around. She didn't appear frightened, but if she was so close to Lilly, perhaps she just hid it very well. She carried a platter of refreshments. "Here are your drinks Emperor Draconus." 

Krjoun gave her a quick glance. "Hmm, put it there." He motioned to a spot next to him on the desk and the young girl quickly did what she was told, before heading back to the door to leave. Krojun returned to his paperwork and realized he had a few letters to write. Especially that he would have to make some copies of the letters made him slightly distraught. Previously he had managed to get Raine to work as a scribe for a few mundane writings. But she was gone and it was time to get a proper scribe. And maybe someone to fill in till he could find one. "Wait. Come back," he said to the girl. 

Helen returned, her voice the same. "You need something else, Emperor?"

"How good are your literate and penmanship skills?"

"Quite good. I used to write my own poems," Helen said with a little bit of pride. "Don't you have your own scribe?"

"Unfortunately I never got around to getting one."

"I can pen you a letter, if you want. Are you literate in the writing side?" She asked, taking a chair beside the Emperor, as she grabbed a piece of parchment, a feather, and inkwell. 

"This isn't about only one letter," he said. "Wait a second." He went about writing a letter of invitation to a meeting in the Imperial City to the first name on the list Maggie had sent. "I want you to write a similar letter to this one to everyone on this list." He pointed at the list of names. 

"Shouldn't take too long." The young girl began to furiously scribble down a new letter according to Krojun's instructions. 

"Good. Now I'll be back to review your work a bit later. I'll see about maybe giving you a promotion then. Also don't tell anyone but Lilly about this," he said as he got up from his chair and began to walk for the door. 

Krojun left the room and Helen to her new work and headed towards the Spymaster's office. He hoped Lilly had found out anything about the attempt on his life. But there was also a feeling of frustration and stress weighing on him. Something he hoped Lilly would be willing help clear his mind from. 

As he entered the office he saw a surprisingly tidy work place marred by blood. A lot of blood. The physician by trade, Spymaster was wearing a simple white robe alongside a white scarf over her face. Her hands we're protected by white leather gloves, which we're currently drenched in blood. The dissection had been very messy. Her usually long, silver hair was done in a large bun. Lilly methodically cut a slash into the corpse just as she spotted the Emperor. "Krojun," She said simply. Alongside her creepy witch eyes, the blood soaked woman looked less than pleasant. 

"What are you doing? And why are you doing it in the office?" he said in a calm voice with a slight surprise. Though he was a little disturbed at the sight, less so at the blood and more so at the fact that it was done in the office.

"What you don't like the sight?" Lilly said with a sardonic undertone as she took a deep incision into the man's abdomen. She made a few jots in her sketch book as she added, "People rely too much on magic, for healing. We barely understand how the body works, and it's physicians like me who actually make advancements in the field." She paused, "He was a rapist. I got a good thing going with the City Guard captain. She gives me corpses, I make sure their budget is strong." 

"I think you're severely underestimating the knowledge that exists thanks to magic. Especially when people have made incisions into people while keeping them alive with magic. But couldn't you keep this to something like the cellar?"

"Don't be such a baby. I'm sure you've seen plenty of corpses in you're time." 

"I still prefer to keep my office and private quarters clean from blood and filth."

"It's just blood. We all have it." She paused, making a deep cut in the arm, causing even more sanguine to flow. "I suppose you're here for my medical opinion on those stupid assassins." 

"I hope you got more information than that. But I was also hoping you'd be up for a little break."

"After I finish the dissection." She drew forth, from her own belt, the knife the assassin had used. The Spymaster muttered, passing it to him, "Tell me what you see." 

"A dagger. Somewhat Nibenese design from what I can tell."

"It's hilt certainly is. See the embodiment. It's blade is that of a Breton combat-knife. It's custom made. Very beautiful blade. See the jewels on its pommel?" There we're several emeralds encrusted on it. "What do jewels on it's hilt tell you?" The Spymaster paused. 

"That whoever it was made for was wealthy."

"That daggers unique style belongs to a group of mercenaries; The Crimson Dragons. A small, but highly elite, disciplined, and more importantly, really expensive group of Breton hedge knights and Legion veterans under the same banner." She dug into the corpse's torso, taking out a bloody organ, "Centered in Sutch if I recall, inside an old fort. Really good soldiers, but as I mentioned, really damned expensive. There's... more..." She seemed hesitant.

He simply gave her a look that told her he wasn't in the mood for a game of questions.

"My friend in the Imperial Watch told me, the hour you we're attacked, the captains received orders to suspend patrols in the area you we're prowling. They didn't know the man who ordered it, but the sigil he carried was that of the Elder Council." 

Well, great, thought Krojun. He raised his eyebrow and continued to look at Lilly, despite that he didn't really expect her to have much more to say. 

"And well... A couple of my spies has reported that unknown number of Councilors has held a meeting under shady circumstances. Can only give a couple of names though." Lilly paused for a second. "Your pretty wife hasn't gotten along with them as of late, but sending assassins to a girl whose surrounded by heavily armored and armed Nords seems very stupid, so I wouldn't worry about her too much." 

"They will all have to be removed. I wont risk missing a conspirator." 

She rolled her eyes, "Talk is cheap. You really want to create a power vacuum the size of Saint Alessia's cunt?"

He hated it when Lilly acted condescending. He thought about Maggie's proposition, but considered that Lilly might right that the Council should instead be replaced. But inviting possible replacements would risk the Council catching wind of his plans. But then it dawned to him that the departure of High Rock's representatives would provide the perfect cover. "If you want any friends to rise in power you're free to invite them to the city. I will also need you to create an exhaustive list on all the councilors wealth and property."

"You're the boss man. But just a warning, most Emperors who don't maintain the delicate balance between the Crown and the Council don't last long. We need a plan, and we need a good one. This isn't just about power right now, we risk destabilizing the Empire by putting them to the sword."

"I'll need to think on how this is to be done." He drew a small sigh. "Care to join me in the baths when you're done?"

"If you dont mind someone whose been exposed to bile, then sure. I'll be done in about an hour." She chuckled.

"I'll make sure there's soap," he said with a little mischievous smile. 

"Soap dosen't do much with the lovely green liquid, but I appreciate the thought." Just as she was about to open up the stomach, she said, "Unless you want a really unpleasant smell stuck in you're nostrils for the next month, I suggest you leave now."

"As you wish." Krojun then left the room and headed back to his office. Inside he found Helen still sitting by his desk writing the letters. He ignored her for a moment as he went to one of his bookshelves and began to look for his books on noble families. Soon enough he found the book suitably named Noble families and lineages of Niben 4E 190. 
"How well do you know your Cyrodiilic nobility?" he asked Helen while flipping through the pages, trying to remember the names of those he had met, and especially helped, during his trip down south. 

"My mother ingrained into me all the major households of Chorrol. I know the notable ones in the Imperial City too." She said nonchalantly, as she penned letters like a mad woman. "Do you need to look someone up?"

"The nobles of Niben. Especially those that suffered from the cat incursion."

Helen blue eyes rolled. "They're called Khajiit you know."  She paused for a second. "The Tiberius's lost two daughters and a son. If I recall, the patriarch of the family holds a seat on the Elder Council. Daughters we're raped to death. The Auxio's lost a few rather large farms, plus a daughter." She named a few others.

"Where did you learn all that?" he asked with a genuine curiosity. 

"Birds chip alot." She said with a chuckle."When people think you don't listen, you really should listen. You hear a lot from being the niece of the Spymaster."

"You always listen and put the things you hear to memory?"

"Of course." She said drolly, as she dotted down another letter. 

"And you never forget anything?"

"Mostly. I can even remember my favorite book chapters. I imagine it in my head." 

"Hm.," was all he said. He flipped through the pages some more before sitting down at his desk to pen another list of names for Helen to write letters to. 

After a little while he had managed to get together a collection of names of what he figured would be suitable candidates. Or at least people worth having a conversation with. After which he left Helen to her work and headed to the bath. 

With hot water pouring from the dragon statues mouth being the only sound he felt a sense of relief as he lied down, resting his head against a makeshift pillow made of towels at edge of the bath. 

Lilly entered the bathroom and undressed, revealing her silky skin bare  to him. But to his surprise it was covered in quite a bit of scarring. The spymaster quickly submerged herself as she muttered, "Long day..."

"What happened?" he asked before grabbing Lilly by the waist, lifting her gently and putting her down in front of him. With a little magic he summoned a sponge and some some nicely smelling soap to begin cleaning her with. 

"Business from earlier. No reason to get yourself concerned or involved." Her witch eyes looked dark. "Coven business stays inside the coven."

"Maybe so..." said Krojun in a gentle tone as he let a spell take over the sponge to clean her as he moved his hands to properly heal the scars. "But don't you think I should know if someone is trying to harm you?"

"Coven business stays in the coven." She said resolutely, repeating her previous statement "I can take care of myself." 

"But you're not invulnerable. And in case anything happens to you it might be best that I know so I don't decide to do something... untactful." 

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you threatening my mother?" She chuckled. "If you said that in Chorrol, you would be dead in an hour. That woman takes things very personally."

"I'm only asking for knowledge."

"It was one of her Blackmoons. Her assassins and enforcers. They wanted to know if I still serve the families interests. I haven't been back... for a long time." She yawned. "When I told them I did, they didn't believe me, and things got a little heated. Nothing more"

Krojun finished healing up the scars and pulled her closer in a hug. "Maybe they should be reminded you're my Spymaster and lover."

She blushed a little as she put on a snarling face. "I don't need anyone to fight my battles for me!" She crossed her arms. "It was nothing more then a few scratches anyways."

"Though it looked like it could have been more than a few 'scratches'."

She rolled her eyes and yawned a little. "A scratch is a cut. I have a few cuts, therefor, like I said, nothing more then a cut."

"Whatever you call it, I'd like to make sure there's no more of it."

Lilly's eyebrows raised, getting up from the bath and pointing her index finger at the mage as she practically spat, "No don't you even think of getting involved in this! Coven matters stay inside the coven. There's not a single reason for you to do anything! This business, is my business!"

Krojun only looked up at Lilly. Part of him felt a little insulted, but mostly he was confused and curious as to why Lilly was so intent on keeping her problems away from him. He tilted his head a little and looked at Lilly as if expecting some kind of explanation. 

"What?" She said, "hmpth", right as she looked away. "I've been taking care of myself since I was a little girl. I don't need any help from anyone."

Krojun gently grabbed her hand. "I can take care of myself too. I still wouldn't be so quick to dismiss help when offered." He gave her hand a light pull. "Come sit. You can at least tell me what's going on. I promise I wont tell anyone."

She crossed her arms, but rejoined the mage in the bath, "Like I said, I don't need help. This is just every day business. Girls fight all the time!"

Krojun leaned in closer to Lilly's face. "You've already told me it's about coven business and your mother. Just tell me what's going on. No one but us two will know what you told me."

She rolled her eyes. "I told you. My mother is upset with the lack of my presence in Chorrol for years, and she's wondering if my priorities are towards the family." She lifted her hand into the air, sarcastically muttering, "May Bal strike me down if I lie."

"And she saw it fit to have someone cut you several times for that?"

"Business in the coven is... handled differently then how it's done in the Imperial City. Well, not quite differently, just way more open. Our ethos is on how the strong corrupt the weak. Nature consumes those who can't fight for themselves, and when that happens, it is to be celebrated. In my mothers eyes, if I couldn't resist her cronies, I'm not worth my position."

"Your mother should reconsider her priorities. You are my Spymaster," he said as he grabbed her ass with both hands and pulled her onto him, "and my lover. Regardless of what you believe, you are my business. And I got every right to concern myself about you."

She held her hands out, "I told you before, family business doesn't go with my work. I have family obligations to fulfill. I understand your concern for me, but as I've stated for the thousand's time, I can handle my own affairs. And that's final." 

"Then how about a compromise? As long as you can assure your own safety, I wont get involved. But if you cannot, you will come to me for help."

"Fine." She crossed her arms, somewhat annoyed. "But I told you, nothing won't get out of hand."

"Promise."

"I promise, by Bal...." Lilly rolled her eyes, as she swam around Krojun, and stretched her arms, yawning slightly, "Now you're acting like my mother! She's so controlling...."

He grabbed her and pulled her in for a kiss. Lilly at first returned the kiss before suddenly pushing him away. She giggled as he fumbled and fell backwards into the water. When he got up again she turned around and went down on all four, staring back at him with a coy smile as she wiggled her bum invitingly at him. Krojun of course took the invitation and in return for the push took her roughly. But it seemed like that had only been Lilly's plan all along.  

Edited March 25, 2018 by Witchking of Angmar

[ColonelKillaBee]

An Elf
A Ruined City

"What a dismal day," mused the elf, as he stared out into the darkened skies. These words were not unfamiliar to his lips, for it seemed as though this damnable place offered little else besides the worst of conditions. But he would not be here forever. No, he and his army took this human city by storm, but it was not for him to remain. The war would end soon, thanks to his actions. And when it did, he would return home a hero. Until then, he was stuck here where the skies were dark and the gray walls were crumbling.
"At least the food is good, eh?" 

The soldier he spoke to did not laugh. His troops never laughed at his jokes, the humorless sods. In truth, the food was awful just like everything else in this place. Honestly, he wasn't sure how the humans had allowed things to get so bad. The roads were more earth than pavement, and had grown thick and marshy from the lake seeping through the crumbled segments of the walls. Those houses that had not gone up in flames were ancient and decrepit, some so deeply swallowed by the soggy ground that their upper windows were being used as doors. And of course, there was the filth, filth everywhere. He could not remember how long exactly he had been in the city, but in all this time the elf could not recall a single pleasant thing about it.

Well, there was the palace. It stood tall and strong amidst the muck and ruins, but whatever majesty it may have held was lost to the horrifying sense of dread that it gave off. Every time he thought about the place, the dark corners of his mind conjured up images of great winged monsters and a terrifying man wielding an evil sword. He knew that they were dreams and nothing more, the same small assaults that Vaermina launched on all who slept while troubled. Even so, those dreams had been enough to keep him from entering the place himself. Fortunately, there was no more need to do that today than there had been on all the others. The palace residents had reportedly fled before his army's arrival. He was content to believe those reports. 

Carefully walking down the steps from the wall and down into the city streets, the elf took a moment to admire the work his soldiers had done in this particular district, where new statues had been constructed in the muck. Glorious statues of their ancestors, the true gods, built by human prisoners of war under the whips and sharp eyes of mer. Many of the city's old citizens now lived and died at the whim of their new masters. He did not mind this, why should he reprimand loyal troops for the sake of these humans when their Tiber Septim had shown his people no such mercy when conquering the Isles? The only thing that mankind loved more than their genocidal false god was this pitiful prison of a world they inhabited. The elf was not only content with the punishments that his soldiers enacted on the locals. He reveled in them.

His travels brought him through the Market District -where all of the shops had been looted and closed long ago- through an old and decaying residential area -where the gardens were overgrown and withered- and to what had once been the wealthiest district, where many of the top elven lieutenants and mages had made 'camp' within the inns and big ugly houses. He found many of them gathered outside when he arrived. 
"There you are," said the bearded one who's name escaped him (he had not slept well). Beardy was an Alinor noble, and as with most cases that also meant he was a powerful mage. "The enemy is almost upon us."

"What?" He felt lost. The enemy was on the run. They had been defeated a long time ago. "Are you mad, or foolish? The enemy is gone."

"Scouts report two large armies closing in from the north and west, and a third battling our forces to the east." He sounded irritatingly matter-of-fact, like this news was anything besides alarming. "All three will be upon us within two days."

Preparations began immediately, but that did not make the second day come any slower. He spent the entire time organizing and readying his troops, planning their defenses, and putting those plans into action. Sleep was not an option, not that he could have slept even if he'd had the time. The darkened skies made it impossible to tell night from day, which only served to make the two days feel even shorter.

It was not long before the elven general was standing atop the battlements, watching his soldiers clash with the northern host. The mer fought hard, but were slowly being overrun by the Imperial forces. He could see it now, the way that the humans crashed down on their golden mass and slowly pressed in, gaining ground with every push. The Bosmeri archers were doing a lot of damage from atop the walls, but there were fewer of those than he would have liked.
How is this happening? To the elf, this felt like some sort of dream. Like he was still in bed, and would wake up soon. Moments ago I was staring at the statues... There was no enemy. No, it has been days.

The battle raged on below him, and not in his favor. By what he assumed was midday, his outer defenses started to collapse to the north, and his soldiers started to rout. He had keener eyes than most, and from his position he could see the fear in their eyes as they fled back to the city. They expect me to open the gate for them. 

"Oblivion take you, cowards!" he barked from high above. When his men at the gate asked for the order to open, he denied it. And when the humans cut the fleeing soldiers down to the last, he enjoyed watching it. 

"Lord General!" He turned to find 'Beardy' standing at the base of one of the city's many spires. The noble was clutching his arm, clearly wounded. "The Nords have taken the eastern gate. They're in the city!"

"Seal off the district," he commanded. "Trap them. They will not get far."

"We have, my lord. But they now hold our food stores." 

"You have your orders. If it comes to it, we will eat the dead." He imagined it now, and to his own surprised, licked his lips. "Yes. That is what we will do."

The lieutenant appeared as bewildered as he did frightened. "My lord?" The general turned away from him and started to walk, ignoring the sounds of the battering ram breaking into another gate below. He made for one of the bridges, and started for the city center. The place was in an uproar. He could hear swords clashing and battle cries echoing across the sky. Down below, he watched a wave of what looked like Nordic warriors battling their way through the streets, catching Bosmer arrows on their round shields and hacking Aldmeri warriors with their axes. In the distant west, he could hear a number of loud 'booms' as if some great mages had engaged in a battle of destruction.

How has this happened? Everything was going right! I have been betrayed! Yes, that must be it.
Turning back to the east, where the Nordic Legion tore through the streets, the general hurled a lightning bolt and bellowed at them down below. "You fools! Do you know who I am?! What you've done?! No? I will show you!"

He turned and continued his march, which took him inside the innermost walls, to what was by now the last secure holdout of elven troops. Here awaited the general's most trusted elite. Up high, the Bosmer archers and Aldmeri mages were still firing down upon the humans below, but by this point their foes had the inner walls all but surrounded. 
"Lord General," one of the cowardly lieutenants came to him, the terror evident in his eyes. "They are bringing in ladders, and our troops have dwindled. Do we surrender?"

He answered by conjuring a long, jagged sword and plunging it into the elf's belly. That terror he'd worn turned to desperation as he gasped for breath and tried to heal himself. "Coward," the general muttered, cursing the elf with silence so that his healing magic would not come forth. The lieutenant collapsed, bleeding, and the general turned to all of the surrounding soldiers who had witnessed the betrayal. "Gods do not surrender to insects," he shouted. "Summon the daedra! Let them feast on their soft, mortal flesh."

He left the men to their orders and started for the palace. The tower, in all its white and gold splendor, stretched out above him, disappearing amidst the thick low clouds. He walked to it boldly, for whatever shadows of dreams had kept him away before were now gone, replaced by a fierce determination to see his foes brought to ruin. Behind him, the general could hear those very foes breaking through the gates, entering the palace district. They clashed with his soldiers, and the elf knew that they would win. 

Not against me, though. Not against me! He pushed open the great gates and strode purposefully into the ancient Ayleid halls, straight for the heart where the humans had constructed their idiotic council chamber. Dozens of chairs were arranged in a wide circle around a smooth stone platform. He stepped atop it and walked to the center. Screams were echoing in the halls, now. The humans had come for him. Spinning, the general caught the first Legionnaire by the wrist and sank his fangs into her neck. The blood was rich and satisfying, the only pleasure he had experienced in many years. It invigorated him, filling his flesh with color and life. 

"I am the Aldmeri Dominion!" cried General Naarifin as he lit the next dozen assailants on fire in a blaze of magical fury. "You cannot stop me!" His true minions, the ones who knew no fear, appeared all around him. Dark creatures with white smiles and eight legs, blue and red soldiers who stood eight feet tall, women made entirely of blue flames, the daedra came in all forms that could be imagined, as well as some that couldn't. He smiled and waited for the beasts to unleash their wrath on his fear-stricken enemies. 

And he continued to wait. The humans doubled back, but the daedra did not pursue. They all looked to him, as if waiting for instruction to kill. "Well?" he said, motioning to the humans. "Kill them! All of them! Kill!"

The daedra did not seem to listen. In fact, they were now beginning to shuffle his way. "What are you doing?!" he screamed. "You must do as I command!"

"There is only one master here."

If the blood of a vampire could freeze, his would have. "That voice..." It was in that moment, the elf knew that nothing, not the dark skies above, not his armies, not even the gods themselves mattered anymore. None of those things existed in this place.

A figure emerged at the room's entrance. He wore the golden armor of Cyrodiil's Emperor, and in his hand was a curved, golden blade that radiated with the heat of dragonfire. Beneath the helmet, his face was as black as the void. 
"No!" Naarifin wailed. He started to back away, but the surrounding daedra closed in on him, their wicked faces grinning as they held him in place. "Please, no! I remember now! I remember! How long will you make me suffer?!"

The figure stopped in front of him, and wordlessly plunged Goldbrand into his chest.

After darkness swallowed him, Naarifin dreamed he was in a cage, high above the Imperial City. Only it wasn't really the Imperial City. He knew that now, as he had known many times before. This was a twisted mockery. A pale, horrendous model, built with the sole purpose of being knocked down again and again and again. Just like him.
After thirty-three days, the winged daedra arrived and carried him back to the land of the living.

... 

"Gods above!" The elf jolted awake, beads of sweat running down his long forehead. He could not remember the last time he had experienced such a horrid dream. Although, as he sat and tried to contemplate on it, the details drew further and further from his mind. His chest burned slightly, but like the dreams that faded as well. Eventually, he climbed out of bed and began to dress himself and prepare for the day.

Afterwards, he stepped outside his room at the top of the guard tower and looked out over the putrid shithole that the humans had called their capital city. Such a joke. He looked up at the skies, which were so thick with their purple-streaked clouds, it might as well have still been night. "What a dismal day," mused the elf.

***

Corio Adorin

"Where... where am I going.. What.. what is this? Master!"

"Quick, get in that suit! Stay below deck!"

"What is this Master? Is that... is that Nirn? And those, those are the divine planes..."

"Don't look, don't look at them!"

"But... why is everything so... flat? Or, no it's not, it's round... I see.. a wheel. And... That can't be. That can't be! THAT CAN'T BE!"

"Stop it girl, look away!"

Before Corio could reach his Magdela lookalike and shut her eyes, the poor slave girl erupted into flames, bursting into pieces. The Sunbird he fled from Windhelm in maintained it's speed all the way towards Magnus himself, but he made a calculation error in his haste and the ship was stuck in orbit around the magnificent portal into the Aethereal Plane.

He was stuck in place... stuck in time, forever rotating around this great ball of light and flame that couldn't even grant him the gift of death, even without his suit... 

Something, or someone refused to let him die... But why?

"I'm sorry..." said Corio to himself. It was a great loss losing such a good slavegirl. Such an unfortunate fate, and yet a truly fascinating one. Too little was understood about the effects of seeing the outer planes, the spokes themselves at the edge of the inner wheel. The Aldmeri Dominion had documented their findings in ancient times. He was prepared mentally ever since his fifteenth Summer. But a human, untrained in even the simplest Arcane Arts? Uneducated even in the makeup of the prison prepared for mortal kind? 

What else could have greeted the poor girl but insanity and death? 

What else could Corio have done in this situation but offer her as sacrifice? 

As he floated there in the void, without help, without the sanctity and protection of Aetherius with his ancestors?

And how could he change his mind, after making a pact with devils. With the Madgod himself? He could not. No one breaks a deal with the Madgod.

And so he left the hatch open to her, letting her wander out of the ship. Where all the splendor and wonder of the void was there to greet her... whispers from so many homes and places unseen to her, beckoning her to leave the ship and see the world for what it truly was! Oh sure, he protested, oh how he protested! But all for naught. Because Corio was a naughty boy that cared only for himself. Just like in the third era when he abandoned his wife to the forces of Dagon to save his own sorry skin. How sad.

"And so, you have your sacrifice, Sithis Shaped Hole. So take me! Take me from this soulless place! Please! I don't care where I go, I don't care what plane, even yours! Just don't let me stay on this ship another second! PLEASE!!!"

Corio pleaded and pleaded to the Madgod, terrible and wonderful was he. And sometimes merciful.

Though he thought to renege on his deal, in truth he knew he couldn't resist the temptation to sacrifice another for himself, and her death! Wow! Driving her insane until she imploded? Such creativity deserves reward!

So, here you go. Don't say I never did anything for you.
 

***

Corio's vision was filled with so many flashing colors, some he recognized, and others he could not. A great black orb that mirrored the magnificence of Magnus appeared before his ship, sucking him into nothingness for gods only know how long.

And yet in this nothing, was something. Whole worlds, and places that should not have been, and yet there they were. Some of them even mirrored places he recognized on Nirn. In fact, he could see the Imperial City from the deck! It was Cyrodiil! His ship began to turn on its own taking him in beneath the clouds from his otherworldly path. 

But as soon as the ship broke through the clouds, it hit something so solid, that Corio went from the bow of the deck to the front, head first into the floor as rubble and debris rained over his white covered head.

"For fuck's sake! Can't I have a break for once!" cried Corio, as he realized where he was. He recognized the surroundings instantly. He somehow managed to crash straight into the White Gold Tower itself...

As he stood, practically tripping over himself to try and get the ship back into the air, a screech so deafening it threatened to rip a hole in his very soul froze him in place right where he was.

He slowly turned... 

His eyes widened.

Slowly his ship had been overrun with creatures that escaped description. Some were recognizable... warriors clad in dark red armor, their voices twisted and angry. The ones that took his wife a lifetime ago. Others were only familiar the way an old reoccurring nightmare was. 

He wasn't saved, he didn't escape. He must've been driven mad exactly as his slave was. This couldn't be real, certainly.

Even so, Corio ran. Just as he always did. But there was nowhere to run to, as his path was blocked by some thing wearing the armor of the Emperor himself. And his face... a void... endless night. Eternity...

Snap out of it! It is the enemy! Face him!

Something inside Corio refused to be taken by the emissaries of void. He did the only thing he could do, run to the ship's power source. The Great Welkynd Stone. It was too heavy to carry around for very long, so he tapped into what power he had left, feeling the heat of Aetherial Light circulating through his very being.

Where once there was night seeping through the broken wall, now there was day as Corio's magic began to assault his pursuers. Everything around him began to burn, pierced by the rays of light shining from his body. The void Emperor before him sprouted wings, dark and ragged, and Corio's eyes opened, shining as bright as the sun as they ripped the Demon Emperor asunder, reducing him to ash.

When it was over, the walls and floor were coated in gray, and the scent of burning hang heavy in the air. Behind him, the Great Welkynd Stone hummed as it slowly reverted to its passive state.

The White Gold Tower, a darkened ruin covered in the corpses of daedra... and men, as Corio realized when his senses started to return. Down below him, at the base of the great chamber, the floor was littered with fallen men who donned the armor of his Cyrodiilic enemies. Not just a few. There were dozens, scattered about, some piled on top of each other. Smoke rose from many of them, but even from his vessel, Coiro could see wounds that were not inflicted by him: Severed limbs and heads, bloodstains around a woman's neck, and other, far more grizzly sights.

Corio summoned his golden shield, standing atop it and using telekinesis to levitate up the slope of his ship outside the tower past the wall he crashed through...

He had to see the outside to confirm what he feared. The defecation on the walls, the flooded streets and swampy waters, the bodies... the Daedra.

”This can’t be. Of all the places I could’ve ended up... oh gods, the smell!” said Corio, as the rotten flesh and stagnant shit and water reached his nose all at once. His eyes watered from it as all of his senses began to be overwhelmed, overloading his mind with too many sensations. 

With a cry, Corio cast a spell of fortitude on his own mind as tears fell from his eyes. Images of his wife filled his head now. He could hear her whispering to him. Somehow her soul had ended up in this place instead of the hell of Mehrunes Dagon or Aetherius.

He remembered feeling the tendrils of dark that day, when the Oblivion Gates came and Crystal-Like-Law fell. One of the demons cast a soul trap spell on them, he was sure of it.

”Mayhaps she was traded between the demons. It does not matter. If I can, I will find her and free her. It’s the least I can do.”

As he contemplated how he was going to steal a Soul from the Lord of this twisted land, Corio heard whispers once more. But this time they weren’t in his head...

Corio’s hands began to twitch as lightning danced around his fingertips... raising them before him as he levitated back down the deck of the ship. 

It was coming from the Great Welkynd Stone...

He slowly approached, seeing the shifting shadow of whatever thing decided to tamper with his only possible way home.

”Show yourself and die!” He cried. “I’m... I’m not afraid!”

The response he got was a shrill, dry laugh. "You should be! He's coming. Yes, always returns."
The Great Welkynd Stone crackled, and a pulse of light emitted from it. The shadowed figure made a noise that almost sounded like a hiss, and then he vanished.
"You must fix it, fool!" The voice now echoed from elsewhere in the chamber. "Now! Before the chance is lost!"

“You’ll keep your hands off my crystal and your wretched self off my ship, or I’ll turn your body into a lantern with a fireball up your ass. Try me,” said Corio, casting a spell of detect life.

"Insubordinate cur!" the voice growled. Corio's eyes darted all across the room, but strangely, his spell indicated no signs of life. "We must escape! I command you to help me repair this vessel!"

“What interest would you have in my vessel?” demanded Corio. He hesitated to cast a spell of detect undead, but he did so all the same and was all the more confused when he still saw nothing.
”I’m going insane after all, surely. It was a mistake to answer to the Madgod’s beckoning. But I was desperate... still am.” Corio’s hands stopped twitching as the lightning in his hands dissipated and he fell to his knees upon his shield, holding his head in his despair.
”Leave me BE! Begone!” 

"I'm not going anywhere."

When Corio looked up, the man stood over him. To his immense surprise, it was neither a beast of Oblivion nor a shadow of some dead emperor. It wasn't even a stranger. The elf who glared at him wore the tattered and outdated, yet unmistakeable, uniform a Thalmor General. The hood was pulled up, yet beneath it a pair of eyes burned fiery orange. Although he now bore a long white beard and looked two hundred years older, the likeness was one that no son of Alinor could mistake. It was Lord General Naarifin.

"I'll say it again," the elf growled. "We need to leave, or he will return. I don't know how long we have!"

“N-Naarifin!” said Corio, in complete astonished disbelief. His detect spell was finally picking him up. He was real. But it wasn’t the life spell that helped him see...

”It really is you... so the rumors about the daedroth in the Imperial City... that was true? Who is...he?” said Corio.

"The one in the armor, the Lord of Domination. I remember. Cannot forget. Not again. I am not home, no." Naarifin turned away from Corio, seemingly ignoring him. "Need to leave. Fast. This isn't how it is meant to go. Can use it."
His eyes snapped back on Corio. "Haven't you heard me?! Why are you still sitting there??"

“I don’t know if you noticed but my ship has crashed through a wall, and my power source is now near depleted. There is no ‘fixing’ the stone: it must either be charged, or we must find another. Even if we did find an alternate power source, there’s no guarantee it would survive another jump...sir,” said Corio, bowing his head. 

Naarifin cursed and returned his attention to the stone, muttering all the while. "No stones here. No way to charge it. Only power here is his. And the souls. Lots of souls."
When the Lord General turned back to Corio, his eyes flashed. "Your name, what is it?"

“Call me Corio...” he paused, eyeing him as if calculating something. “You probably don’t know me, but I most certainly know you. I have your old job.”

"My old job," the general repeated, as if testing the phrase on his lips. "Corio, Corio... No, no I don't believe I know that name. And your family? Surely they are of prominence for you to have risen so high?"

“Adorin,” he said simply. “My family is nothing. They’d have been culled long ago or been banished to fieldwork in Valenwood were it not for my performance as a wizard. My success and failures shape the future of my line for generations. If I fail, another Adorin won’t be permitted to learn advanced magics for another five generations, and I do not wish to see that.”

“Ha! Trapped in Oblivion and they send me an upstart! Wonderful!” Naarifin paced back and forth with long and swift strides, “And perhaps useful. If merit is all he has, then he must have it in droves.” His attention snapped back to Corio. “Tell me, Adorin, power issues aside is it within your capabilities to make this vessel worthy again?”

Corio’s eyes left his predecessor... looking over the hellish landscape. It never quite stayed... right. There was always the feeling that something would shift suddenly. Like the dream could change at any moment. Likely into a new nightmare. 

His insult was nothing, common from competitive mages. Especially in Alinor. He used it in fact as encouragement to show him exactly how he’d gotten here in the first place...

Resourcefullness.

”I’m not this vessel’s captain because I tag along. Come. We must scan the depths of the dreamsleeve. Watch the echoes... if there is a power source great enough to take us home it is there that we’ll find it.”

Naarifin shook his head. “Not we. You. More devils will come. Cannot both remove our eyes from this plane.”

Corio bit his lip... “You know where we are. Oblivion. Amongst the Daedra who cannot create. To search through the dreamsleeve is to peer through the fibers of creation, where they watch from afar with great jealousy. Trying to touch the dreamsleeve with our minds here is especially dangerous.”

Corio peered outside once more at the ruined Imperial City below.

“You may end up instead in its imperfect twin, the waters of Oblivion. I’ve already made contact with the Madgod previously to get here. No doubt his eyes are on me still. Which is to say nothing of the ever eroding spirits that dwell in the dreamsleeve, jealously seeking those with true continuity in life. Two minds can anchor one another, and keep them on the correct path.”

"I do not need a lecture on the nature of the Aurbis," Naarifin said, harshly. "Nor am I unaware of the dangers of pushing these boundaries without caution. But that is a risk you must take. It is a trifle in comparison to the suffering that will follow should we allow the lord of this land an opportunity to seize upon us."

Corio paused, turning his back to Naarifin and stroking his stubble. “Very well then. It seems I am compelled to react, since this place leaves me not even with the illusion of choice.”

Corio sat on his knees as though readying himself to pray. Perhaps he even would. Now was as much a time as any.

"Be weary of what you see," the old Lord General mused, just as Corio's eyes closed. "Schemes are within the dominion of the Prince of Rape. If your presence becomes known to him, he will toy with you."

“I know, now be silent and watch my back,” said Corio as sweat beaded on his brow. His body began to shake uncontrollably. “Ayrenn’s ass. Fuck. Do you mind?”

"Magnus be good," Naarifin muttered.

Corio thought he heard something like a spell being cast, but it must have been his imagination, for at that moment, his worries lessened, just a bit, and with a greater clarity of mind he had the realization that it was his mind's eye that he would be searching through, his magicka fueling the ritual. It was within him to maintain control of the situation, so long as he remained focused. Even Molag Bal could not take that from him. The idea filled him with a strange sense of calm.

With a deep breath, and then another, Corio’s thoughts began to recede from this place. Images of a grid filled his mind, pinpointing familiar places in the world of the living in their fixed locations.

It was familiar to him, and the realization made him smile. That was until the grid began to twist and turn until everything was a spiral in his mind. A chaotic mass of feelings and sounds.

Focus

As he obeyed the command, whether it was his own or someone else’s, he could feel his magicka pouring into the chaotic mass before him. See it. It formed a singularity and at that moment his mind’s eye began to wander in its direction almost infinitely.

All around him he heard voices. Some louder than others. Just as he touched the thoughts of those around him, they touched his.

”She’s here, you know... she was always here.”

”She was his plaything all this time. Just like you’ll be.”

”You left her here all alone... and now she belongs to me!”

”We’re not talking about Magdela either, don’t get your hopes up! Ha! You know of whom we speak... that pretty little wife of yours... who you left to DIE as you all fled the Crystal-Like-Law!”

Silence!

But the voices, they wouldn’t be silenced... at least not by him. Amongst the laughter and the mocking, he could hear a whimper. Sweet and bitter at the same time. It grew louder, and louder still until all his senses could focus on was where it came from.

And then he saw her face, her sweet wonderful face with eyes that were no longer her own.

“Alnora!!”

Corio snapped out of his thoughts, and just like that he was back on his ship. 

“That was quick,” exclaimed the voice of Naarifin, who had taken up a vigil beside the giant hole in the palace wall. “Or perhaps it wasn’t. Impossible to tell here.” The old elf approached Corio. “What did you find?”

“My wife!” said Corio as tears fell from his eyes. “Her soul... it shines so brightly. Like a beacon, even here...”

“I doubt that.” There was no tenderness in Naarifin’s voice. “Do you recall what I said about your mind being toyed with?”

“ITS MY WIFE!!” said Corio, lightning appearing in his hands. “I know my wife when I see her, feel her. There’s no mistaking it! She has power here, or is near a power source... something great enough to amplify her presence. We’re going to find her and that is the end of it. I did not face these Daedra when they came for me before, but by Auriel, I will now!”

"Then you are a fool, and doomed to live cursed alongside me," Naarifin replied. "If you detected a source of power, then no doubt it is real and we must find it. But make no mistake, this is a trap."

“I know.” Corio turned his back to him, and began levitating upon his shield through the hole in the wall. “Well? Are you coming or not?”

“Obviously.” Naarifin followed. “Your presence here is the only new factor in an eternity of constants. Escape hinges on our cooperation.”

Corio took the lead, though in truth he had no idea where he was going... the two drifted above the Imperial City amongst the impenetrable fog that surrounded the city for who knows how long. In Nirn, the city was vast to be sure, but this... it was as though there was no end, and it was impossible to know for certain with the fog surrounding everything.

There was no sun, so his dawn magicks were limited, but it was worth a shot anyway he figured. As he grasped a scroll from his waistband he realized something.

”The city, it’s empty. Where are the other souls lost in this place? I can’t feel any of them. Only Alnora’s...”

"As I said before," Naarifin muttered. "Trap. He does not want you to be distracted from your goal."

Corio ignored him as they floated on in complete and utter silence. The kind of silence in the dead of night without birds chirping, or crickets clicking. 

His thoughts in such silence were remarkably clear. So clear in fact that he often wondered if he’d said them aloud... 

Wait... those aren’t my thoughts alone... Naarifin...

The further they went on, the colder it got, and the city began to give away to a landscape covered in frozen gore and blood. And in the winds, Corio and Naarifin could hear their thoughts, or more specifically their doubts and fears being called out to them.

”Spiders!”

”Failure.”

”Cowardice!”

”Love.”

”The humans... will they beat me?”

”The demon chieftains of the north...”

”They DID beat me! I am defeated!”

”Cockroaches!”

Corio cast a spell on his ears to muffle the sounds and found that it did nothing at all. 

Practically yelling, Corio said, “We have to go down! I feel her presence growing stronger... Can you hear me?!”

He turned to see if Naarifin understood, and to his surprise the old general was nowhere to be found.

Corio’s eyes darted all around him, casting spell after spell to find some presence of life or undead, but... nothing.

”Curse you, you massive celestial cunt! You coward!!”

Coward... the word echoed in the air for an eternity. Coward... coward... coward... 

On and on it reverberated through his mind... the audacity, he thought. Or, he heard.

The very nerve. You of all people, calling someone a coward? As though the very reason for this search wasn't because of your own cowardice? Hahahahaha!

The word seemed to have unlocked something, or awoken it. The land's outer limits began to change, the fog clearing. His magic began to falter in this place, and suddenly Corio was compelled to land. As though the very weight of his sins brought him to the earth. He found himself in almost complete darkness. True dark. Cold, and unending. Pierced by no light. 

And yet. All around him in the corners of his eyes, he saw things. Wretched beings, small and gargantuan, colossal things wailing and groaning at him in their suffering, reaching for him, clawing for him, their eyes all fixed upon him from every direction, their voices a cacophony that of a forest in the night. Except when he dared to look back, there was nothing... 

"Am I going mad?"

"You could be," said... someone. "You were brought to me by the Madgod himself... I will finish what he started. I will twist you, prod you, break you until you are no longer recognizable even to yourself..."

"BAL! I do not fear you! Where's my wife?"

"Deep... deep inside this place... deep inside me... where I have preserved her for this special day. Come to me Corio... face your own treachery. If you dare. Run. I SAID RUN!"

Immediately, the roaring of men thirsty for blood somewhere in the dark caused him to shake. First it was from everywhere, then it was from behind him. But these were not men. Their unnatural guttural cries were all too familiar to him. 

Within the darkness appeared a light... a fire. And from that flame, the forces of Dagon himself, their faces growing closer, and closer until he could feel the flame that engulfed them turn hot upon his face. And so he ran as commanded through the cold forest that he could now make out from the flames that they seemed to emulate from their very presence. Amongst them he could see at their center, the one who the flames came from, calling his name. Shrouded in it like an afternoon cloak.

As he ran, the trees, the vines all began to change... change until they no longer looked like vines at all, but the veins of flesh itself, pulsating with fresh blood. As he progressed, the trees turned to bone with organs strewn about and blue ooze dripping, flowing in various places. He could not even see a sky, only fleshy walls, alive and shifting with life.

"DEEP! Deep into the bowels. Deep inside me...."

"Fuck you!" he cried, his face twisted with disgust as his skin began to crawl at what he'd seen. "Just give her to me, please!"

Only laughter greeted his request, laughter from all around him. It was then that he'd started seeing faces from amongst all the gore about him. Poor souls trapped within the fleshy confines of whatever this place was, biting, thrashing at him, at eachother... To his horror he realized that Alnora may have been like them. In fact, one of them even began to look just like her as its maw tried desperately to chew through its confines. Corio's fingers dug deep, trying to wrench her free.

"No, no no no no no no! You said you'd preserved her! I'll get you out of here, I must claw further... deeper..."

And deeper he went, as Anora began to as well. She sank into the sea of muscle and tissue out of his grasp as it began pulling on his hands. The thick sucking sound betrayed his fate as he was slowly taken in.

It went on like this for... an incomprehensible amount of time. But when it was over, Corio found himself laying on his back on a cold hard surface, snowflakes falling softly on his cheek like so many gentle kisses in the breeze. As he stirred, he took in his surroundings, golden eyes wide and darting.

"I... am I back in the Imperial City? No... this architecture is too crude... this is..."

Before he could finish his sentence, a crash came from behind followed by an earth shattering quake. He turned, seeing a Nordic house crumble into dust as a lone figure stepped out of it, untouched. 

Corio studied his surroundings, the cold cobblestone and the ancient walls of the human's first city. Why Bal brought him here he did not know, but Alnora was very close now. Even if this was Bal himself, it would not stop him now...

"FUS GOL, STRUNMAH."

Puzzled, Corio realized he heard that phrase before, very briefly... but had no idea what it meant. Some sort of Nordic for certain, he realized. That much was obvious. Before he could clarify, a great boulder flew towards him, clipping his shoulder. The pain was immense, bringing him to his knees as the great lumbering figure before him grew closer. His laugh was deep and deliberate, and pierced the very air which seemed to grow colder as he came closer. 

Corio scrambled back, sending a wave of healing magic up his arm, feeling the bone and his joints painfully snap back into place.

The demon before him was finally visible. "I recognize you... you think I'm afraid of you?"

The look in Corio's eyes were indeed unlike that of one who feared for his life. What the man saw instead was weary defiance. That would soon change. 

"If you weren't, then why did you run from him?" It said. "Show me you are unafraid!"

Immediately, the demon Nord raised his weapon, and his voice grew so loud it made the earth tremble.

The ground began to erupt as the dead came forth, stiff with the very earth they came from, and all making their way to the elf. The explosion of earth being forced away as these things crawled out of their earthly wombs was like the bombardment of magic explosions upon a fortress under siege. Fitting as it seemed with each second he dwelt in this place, the minions of Bal were doing just that on the meager string of sanity he claimed as his own.

Finally, the sounds ceased. But the Demon Nord's hoard, was legion. They made this clear to him as they roared from their decayed throats all at once and began their slow dead march to the single prey before them.

His hands outstretched, swirling with magic. He lifted two of the dead telepathically, drawing them close before sending them flying into the others with flame wards. Burning limbs flew past their heads but they kept coming, being lifted one by one as he pulled them close to slash with his sword.

He tried to fly away atop his shield, but the air proved just as dangerous, having to avoid arrows, bolts of magic as well as the Demon Nord's boulders that he burped from his throat.

Screaming in desperation, a green aura surrounded him as he said, "Empty dead vessels, I command you! Your master's will is nothing compared to me! I am an Altmer of the Dominion! Bow to my superior strength of will!"

When his decree was over, the magic which built up around him so densely that arrows began failing to reach him blasted out in a wave that flowed throughout the streets... sure enough, the undead that so eagerly served their demon chieftain's will before were hard pressed to move now. Their empty minds were now filled with a command, but the earth that helped their rotted rigor mortis ridden bodies move in the first place fought against them.

And so they stood, conflicted. Falling over themselves and tearing limbs from bodies in an effort to serve two masters.

Corio began laughing in his triumph over the Nord, but it didn't last. 

Bodies began flying up towards him, thrown by the Nord and his brute strength. One impacted him head on, bursting in a spray of dirt and rock. Knocked from his perch, and amongst the dead, Corio was pelted from every direction as every one of them began to erupt. He heard a great roar from overhead. He threw his shield in a random direction and barely escaped the Nord's hammer with recall from his shield's runes. He grabbed it again as the Nord was quick to pursue him. This time he couldn't avoid a direct hit. His shield arm felt as though it would shatter entirely from the impact of the Nord's hammer as he made him sit hard. He tried to rip it from his hands with telekinesis but to his dismay, the brute overpowered his magic with strength of arm alone!

Running now, Corio floated high, doing his best to avoid the incoming rocks that slammed against the shield he stood upon. As he evaded, Corio began gathering flames in his hands so great, the snow around him melted and evaporated before it ever got close to him. 

He gathered the stone and earth that the Demon Nord sent flying at him with telekinesis, gathering it within the very flame that he conjured. Once he hurled it, it resembled a meteor falling from the sky in his direction. The impact was immense, sending rock and flame into the houses that surrounded him, and leaving nothing but flame where the Nord once stood. 

Corio floated down to get a closer look.

His eyes grew wide with anger and fear as he heard the Nord's same slow deliberate laugh. "He he he..."

An explosion of dirt and rock came from beneath the flame, revealing the demon's hulking form to him once more, gathering a massive body of rock around him, augmenting his already impressive size. He now resembled something like a giant made of earth, as though he were born from it.

With a warcry very much unlike him, Corio sent more flame in his direction. Then more. And more until the arcane energy flowing through him grew so great that his flames turned green. The city streets were filled with it, bringing him back to another time before demon Nords and before demigods. He didn't stop casting until he was sure even the ground beneath him was hot enough to burn Dagon.

This time, he did not hear laughs. He'd blasted straight through the rock to the very core, and sure enough the demon fell before him, a smoking black shriveled thing upon the ground. 

And yet something left him feeling cold. Another presence. Something was gathering from the very flame that he cast. A great wind began blowing his flame away, gathering it to a focal point. The flame was alive, and now it was taking form. He could almost make it out... a daedra perhaps? No, another man. He was smaller than the other one, and yet he commanded the flame as though it were an extension of himself.

With a wave of his hand the fire parted ways for him, revealing in full the smoldering Nord from before. Except it wasn't the Nord's flesh that burned, but more mud and earth that he caked himself in! Hardened by his flames like a glazed clay pot. 

The second Nord broke through it, the earth on him shattering like glass. As he rose alongside his comrade, Corio too recognized his face as well... Except now the yellow haired Nord was wearing a crown of jagged teeth.

Corio gritted his own teeth, watching as his enemy's mouth gaped open, before he too spoke in their unholy ancient tongue.

Corio could do nothing but hold up a ward. The fire hit him so powerfully that it knocked him off his feet, straight into the walls that surrounded the city.

The two Nords walked slowly towards their prey, ones eyes aflame, the other's eyes dark as the very abyss he came through...

The taller one's foot stomped and knocked Corio to the ground with the shaking of the earth. The other Nord, flames dancing around his skin opened his maw revealing the flames of Dagon's hell itself. The heat of it brought him to a place even worse than this, and suddenly Corio could think of nothing but his wife, and her death. The look of fear in her eyes as she was lifted by her hair from behind, impaled by a dark sword as her hands reached out for him. 

His expression mirrored hers as he fought for his life, his blade trying desperately to stop the onslaught of the two as they toyed with him. The flame lord's axes played against Corio's blade like drumsticks, keeping its edge from ever reaching his enemy. Eventually he disarmed Corio, smacking the blade harmlessly upon the surface of the cobblestone streets. 

Corio tried to draw the blade back to his hands magically, but the second Nord caught it in the air, its edge ruined against the hard earth that encased his fingers just before the demon Nord crushed it in two. Corio watched in awe as his fist then pounded his gut, leaving him both breathless and now hopeless as well. A blow from his elbow upon the back of his neck sent him face first into the ground, and then the Nord's boot was at his back as the Nord grabbed his hair and pulled and pulled. 

Eventually he lifted him by his neck, eyes like pure ebony as he squeezed the remaining life out of him ever so slowly and sweetly. He smiled as Corio fought for air. And at the sight of the elf urinating in his fancy cloak.

Corio's hands fought to find his eyes, but he could only reach his cheek. It was then that he realized something, looking into those eyes.

Quickly while he still had breath in him, he gathered energy to his palm, a great light gathering in his hand. He pressed it towards the Nord's chest. As he did, his mind searched for the closest spirit he could find, which was not hard within this place. Their twisted minds, their cries of agony were begging to be heard, to be freed from their torment. And so it was that one came to him, and Corio reshaped it as he would that of a daedra's into a weapon. Instead of a weapon, the soul manifested as energy, pure in his other hand until his fingers crushed it, taking the energy within himself and redirecting it to the core of the Nord's very being. 

The magical energy of the soul was drawn to the "Nord" like a moth to flame. This conflicting creatia created a paradox within him. The soul began absorbing the creatia of what Corio guessed was some form of daedra that Bal had made, perhaps even an avatar of himself, and immediately what once was, crumbled into nothing but a pool of blue sludge, unable to remain in its current form.

To his surprise, the second Demon Nord didn't interfere or attack, merely watched as Corio reduced the other Nord to a puddle. It puzzled him, and for a moment he thought Bal's conjuration would flee.

When the Nord's head tilted back however, letting loose a cry that caused his ears to bleed, all thoughts of his fleeing ceased. The blue sludge began rushing to the Demon Nord like a stream, encompassing him until it was absorbed through his skin. As this continued, the power that leaked from him grew, and great rushing winds threatened to cast Corio away... an ant in a gale. 

When the Demon was finished, it eyed the bodies... not all of them were destroyed after all. Some of them were burned but still remained whole, still fighting the commands of two masters. Corio too saw this, realizing that in some way the second Nord must've continued its existence, possibly through the one that remained. 

The Demon Nord eyed him now, smiling of all things. And before Corio could understand what happened, it was too late.

The Nord began speaking in tongues once more, a language he again did not recognize as though he were reciting an incantation. As he spoke, the undead around him began to rise, slowly winning over both Corio's earlier spell and the physical command of their bodies. This hadn't registered in time for Corio. The very idea that his spell could be overcome by even a thing masquerading as a Nord hadn't occurred to him. He was contemplating this even as he was set upon by rotting maws and decaying hands.

Just as they were about to tear him into pieces, limbs began flying in every direction as Corio summoned a Daedroth to his side, and then another.

His arms were crossed in front of him pointing to his left and right as the two crossed their blades before him in a similar fashion. And so the next stage of the battle began. 

The Daedra bought him some time as his hands began to weave about, gathering electricity at their center. The flames from the Nord began to gather heat in the sky, mixing with the cold of the air around them as dark clouds with arcs of lightning formed overhead. They began to strike him as if drawn in, but they caused him no harm.

His hands gripped fiercely at the white mass between them, his fingertips bleeding until he managed to split the force into two spheres. Once his spell was ready... 

"And the world of men shall know the strength of Auriel's children and TREMBLE!!"

Beams of energy shot from either hand, disintegrating the dead upon contact all around him every way they pointed, their dry skin burning like fresh kindling and being reduced to ash. His two summons also fell victim to his spell, and was about to assault the Nord next until an axe whistled through the air, finding its resting place in Corio's shoulder.

He fell to his knees as he felt the lightning enchanted weapon locking up his joints and his magicka reserves cut low. Raising a ward was all he could manage as the Demon Nord spoke, and a wave of flame washed over him. He was a single stone at the center of a river. Time was his greatest enemy. The flames did not cease, his magic would last him only so long.

There was one way out, he realized, but it was a risk... an old spell, not well known any longer and not considered terribly useful since it required the caster be hurt. It was all Corio had. Perhaps it would be enough.

He closed his eyes, focusing his mind on the spell instead of the raging flames.

And then the ward broke.

Corio was overcome with fire, swallowing him up from the waist down as he attempted to jump out of harm's way. As he flailed and rolled, using ice magic to put it out, his enemy too was overcome with fire, as though the Nord and Corio were somehow joined in body by fate. But to Corio's dismay, not only did the fire not have the same effect as it did on himself, it didn't seem to have any effect at all.

The Nord laughed in his face, advancing on Corio as he struggled with the last remaining flames on his thigh. 

Corio conjured a blade to his hand just in time to hold back the Nord's axe. They clashed once, twice, then the Nord's fist struck his gaunt elven cheekbones before wrenching his axe free of his flesh. Corio cried out like a desperate animal before rolling ass over tea kettle as the Nord's boot impacted his chest.

Corio cast a spell to augment his speed and athleticism, determined to meet the Nord head on, but every time he swung his sword, the Nord simply wasn't there. 

Finally Corio had enough. He put everything he had left in his healing magics, charging at the Demon Nord head on. He managed to tackle the Nord to the ground, attempting to bury his blade in his neck. 

To his dismay, even with the spell, the Nord began to overpower him... he soon witnessed his own blade entering the very same wound the Nord made earlier, inch by inch. By the grace of the gods, the spell dissipated, unable to simply let go with his enemy's iron grip around his hands. They scrambled to lay hands on the other's face, and the Nord's thumbs grew closer to Corio's eyes.

He pleaded, begging for Molag Bal's mercy, but the Nord didn't stop. With nothing else to try, Corio with sheer willpower alone and raw adrenaline channeled another spell through his entire body, shocking both himself and the Nord until his vision gave away to darkness once more, and consciousness mercifully left him entirely.

......

......

Oh no you don't. You're not done yet. Death, has no meaning in this place. Besides, that would be too easy for the likes of you. Wake up, WAKE UP!

With a great gasp for breath, Corio bolted up out of bed. The gold and black trimmed sheets darkened further from sweat of recent nightly endeavors. The air was thick with the smell of incense. His room, dark, except the rotating chandelier made from white glowing crystals. 

"Corio, what are you up to?" 

A blade materialized in his hands in an instant, its tip an inch away from the one who spoke, then dissipated immediately when Corio realized who it was. That delicate elven face, the regal Aldmeri features, and the flowing dark blonde curls...

"A-Alnora?"

She gave him such a look... her scowl could banish any daedroth if she tried hard enough. "Were you expecting another lover perhaps?"

"No, no this isn't right. I was in Coldharbour, and the Nords were there, and you were in a wall and..."

With a snap of her fingers, Corio was calmed as a green haze settled over his sight. "That's enough, it was just a bad dream. Too many hours in those tomes of yours I bet. And too many hours reading about Nord 'culture'. Whatever good that ever did anyone."

Corio rushed to her side, hands at her cheek. "Is it you? Truly?"

Her stone gaze melted at his touch, eyes searching his for some answer. "Corio, you're starting to worry me. Is everything alright?"

"It is," he said, eyes swelling. "It is. I have no words to convey how much I-" 

She put a finger over his lip. "You know how much I hate the L word. No good romance novel ever uses it. I know what you mean to convey exactly. Now if you hurry up and get back to bed, stop prattling about Nords and walls... I may let you convey some more..."

"You and those damn romance books," he said as his hands went from her cheek to her neck, then chest. She wore a white silk gown that did nothing to hide the dark golden nips of her bosom but even without the aid his fingers could find them with his eyes closed.

"Convey it to me this time," he said as his hand brought her head to his waist. She followed him to the edge where he stood, hands and knees on the bed as she smiled at him devilishly. 

"If it will help you sleep, I would take all of you, deep inside me..." She demonstrated, her mouth teasing at his tip as she let his hand guide her head as far as he wanted her to go. 

He didn't last too long, never did with her. She was an artisan when it came to such things. And as she hoped, sleep indeed came. Deep, deep sleep.

Wake up, WAKE UP!!!

With a cry that could've torn through time and space, Corio's eyes flashed open. And open they stayed, for he couldn't close them even if they wanted to. The skies bled fire, burning flesh assaulted his nostrils at every turn, and the tumultuous crowd around him watched in awe as the Crystal-Like Law began to tumble.

As the dust settled, and the magical barriers that covered the city like overlapping impenetrable domes fell, unprecedented destruction unlike anything they'd seen since Numidium fell upon them. Great machines, twisted black and hellish red roared alive, shooting bolts of flame into their crystal buildings. Daedra marched, slaughtering elves with brutal efficiency, taking slaves and souls as they fell upon the mortals like a wave of blood and flame.

All this went on as Corio stared, unmoving, unblinking. Until he saw her. 

Alnora's voice snapped him out of his hypnosis, only to stare blankly at the sight of her outstretched arm as she screamed his name for help. A daedric knight had her firmly under his boot, sword in one hand and a black gem in the other. Before she could scream again, his blade ran through her spine, sending dark tendrils through her center as her soul left her body for good.

Corio's voice found itself in his throat once more, and he bolted up out of bed, screaming with tears in his eyes.

"Corio, what's wrong?"

"Alnora! We've got to get out of here, the Daedra!"

"It was just a dream, Corio, come back to bed..."

With a snap of her fingers, Corio was calmed as a green haze settled over his sight. "That's enough, it was just a bad dream. Too many hours in those tomes of yours I bet. And too many hours reading about Daedra. Whatever you find, I doubt it will do much good for our research on Creatia."

Corio rushed to her side, hands at her cheek. "Is it you? Truly?"

Her stone gaze melted at his touch, eyes searching his for some answer. "Corio, you're starting to worry me. Is everything alright?"

"It is," he said, eyes swelling. "It is. I have no words to convey how much I-" 

She put a finger over his lip. "You know how much I hate the L word. No good romance novel ever uses it. I know what you mean to convey exactly. Now if you hurry up and get back to bed, stop prattling about Daedra.. I may let you convey some more..."

***

Corio...Corio...wake up. Please... snap out of this. Wake up...Wake up...

WAKE UP!!!

The sound of glass shattering deafened him, and all at once Corio felt the ache of a thousand years of torment deep in his chest. He was hanging above an abyss, chains gripping his arms and legs as he was suspended seemingly in the middle of nothing. 

"Hmmm... interesting. Somehow you managed to touch my mind. My very core. There is potential in you mortal... Not even your predecessor managed that. Not alone anyway. Speaking of, where exactly is he?"

"I... I do not know." Corio tried effortlessly to free himself from his chains, but as he pulled, so too did they, threatening to pull him apart from his very joints.

"WRONG ANSWER, MORTAL."

Suddenly, Corio's binds let him go, dropping him into the depths of the abyss, deeper, deeper and deeper until it felt as though he'd fall forever, only to land flat in a soft squishy surface that he thought at first must be bud. When he lifted his head, his eyes were greeted with the same gore that he'd been running through before. And from it, a blood covered woman wormed her way out of a womb, the flesh clinging to her limbs as she hand from the wall like a figurehead of the prow of a ship.

"You know who I am, what I am... don't you? You know that you will suffer greatly for trying to cross me. As will she..."

The realization as well as the memories hit Corio harder than the blow of any weapon. He trembled, stuttering as he tried to find the composure to say what he knew full well was true... 

"Bal... it is you... the King of Torture... the King of Rape...."

"Mmmm, yes, mortal... say my name...."

"Wh-why do you look like..." he couldn't bring himself to say her name, as though saying it would somehow make the reality realer than it already was.

"I am the heir to Nirn. The Prince of mortal suffering, it's inheritor. I can take the shape of many things, especially those whose souls I have consummated."

"Consummated? What... what do you mean by that?" Corio stood to his feet, trying to wipe the gunk and pus from his clothes.

"Consume, ate, mate. The word holds much hidden meaning, and I embody them all. I came upon your lover's soul, and I've made it mine in the most literal sense. She has suffered the fate of all of those that catch my eye. Usually those mortals I make Daughters of Coldharbour, so that they may spread my influence for generations before I claim their very being. But her? Oohohoh, a soul so sweet, with such meaning to the likes of another... well, I am a most jealous Lord."

"Give her back to me! Give her back you foul Daedroth!" Corio's hands raised but soon he felt his feet sinking beneath the surface which he stood on, sucking him deeper into the mound of blood, pus and meat.

"She gave herself to me willingly, so that her suffering could cease. And her suffering was... great... But nothing I'd done, nothing any of my many many minions had done could compare to the suffering she had watching you be... you in her absence. That, was what finally broke her! And I will make you watch the things I'd done to her, and the horror on her face seeing you at work, until you too beg to be one, with Bal!"

"By the eight, gods forgive me by the NINE, HAVE MERCY!"

"NONE TO BE HAD!" said Bal as he watched Corio sink deeper, and deeper still...

Once his vision of Bal as his love was replaced yet again by dark, when his very breath left him and he could feel himself dying for what certainly must've been a millenia, Corio heard it again...

The memory of his wife's voice calling to him. But that was Bal, most certainly.

Even still, he heard it again. And again as he ignored it, knowing full well who it must've been.

It began to grow louder, and louder until it sounded as though she were right next to his ear. And by the gods, he could even feel her breath upon his skin, tickling his fine hairs.

"JUST KILL ME ALREADY!"

"Corio, snap out of it. It's me. Truly."

As she spoke, a great light materialized before him in the shape of an orb. And Corio was overwhelmed by the familiarity of her presence. Bal could fake her voice, fake her appearance, but that, that was something only he could know. 

"It is you. Alnora. But how?"

"Nevermind the how, lest the explanation betray us both. I am here by my will. Let that be enough for now. Did you not hear me calling to you? Pulling you closer to this place? I knew, knew you'd come. It was the only thing keeping me whole."

As she spoke, the image of her face became clear as day. Soon, they were back in his study, overlooking the streets through glass windows of many colors, their design as delicate as dragonfly wings, and yet they knew an assassin's strongest bolt could not penetrate them. Nothing could.

The safety and serenity that surrounded them at all times was like no other place in Tamriel. Away from the common issues of the rest of the blasted Empire. Untouched by their overbearing inquisitive ways. 

"I remember this day," said Corio, forgetting momentarily their circumstances. "You and I were discussing the existential nature of Nords and padomaics as a whole, as well as their uncanny optimism and downright complacent nature. You said that some beings were meant to be caged. I said that if anything it was us that you were talking about rather than the Nords, and that it was a glaring and obvious thing that. That's when you said that was precisely your point. Nords and elves aren't as different as we think. We're simply fish out of water, yelling at the creatures on land that they'd be better off drowning. That we're out of our element."

Alnora circled him as he sat in the very same spot he once had, sipping his same elven ear tea, watching her as she moved, thinking. "And that's when you said you didn't see my point, if the point was that Nords were in their element and we were not, if we are to be the same. And I said that Nords are happy with this world and have no reason to change things, while we are not and so we seek to change everything. Or rather, change everything back to the way it was. We call man agents of change, and yet it is us that inadvertently are forced to be the agents of change while they fight for the status quo. But we are the creatures that seek to be caged. Even as we fight to leave one, we would end this world to trap ourselves in unending stasis, where we cannot go higher or lower than our current station. The status quo of old. We are the same, we just prefer different cages."

"And that's when I said then what is the purpose of trying to leave this world, and would it not be better to simply make the best of what we are? And you replied..." Corio stood, stepping closer to his long lost spouse.

"A fish cannot learn to breathe on land, and a bird when left in a cage does not seek to walk amongst the things they prey upon. A bird is restrained to the limits of the sky, but the limits of the sky far exceed the limits of earth. If it is to be one cage or another, then it will be the cage of our choosing, not theirs. And at the end of the day, only one truth remains constant in this world...."

As they embraced eachother, they both said in perfect unison.

"It is us, or them."

"And I choose us," said Corio.

"Us over the entire world if need be," said Alnora. 

"Gods, I missed you so much," said Corio, tears falling freely into her neck. "I'm so lost without you... I struggle so hard to find purpose with you gone, but the only purpose that I find is the suffering of others. So that they might feel as I do. I thought, maybe then the humans would see this world isn't worth fighting for. But that is merely a lie to hide the fact that their suffering simply feels good... because only then am I truly not alone. Can you forgive me for my sins?"

She pulled away to look into his eyes, tears flowing from her own eyes as well. "Corio, the things I've seen you do indeed cannot be explained away by you seeking purpose. I understand full well what you do. You punish yourself for your cowardice in a pool of self loathing. I do not hold grudge but do not lie to me. You never could."

"A-Alnora, I tried to act. But my body..."

"Hush now, our time together must be a fleeting one. I do not wish to spend it discussing such things. You would've only died beside me that day had you mustered the strength to fight on my behalf. Such a thing is a lot to expect of another soul. I do not hold it against you. But if you wish to make it up to me, I have a solution. You must help me die.

“Die.” It was all he could manage to say, as no other thoughts were comprehensible. Certainly not that he would ever go through with it twice.

”Yes, die. True death. In this place, my being, who I was is preserved. I cannot be free, I belong to him now. I AM him. Consumed. But, I have preserved a part of myself, like the yolk of an egg not yet digested by a snake that swallowed it whole. But my shell is cracking even now. And soon, he will have all of me.”

”I just found you,” said Corio, unable to hold back his tears. “Please, I do not wish to leave you again. I can’t...”

”You will not be leaving me! You will be taking what’s left of me within you! We were chosen for one another because it was determined our children would bring about some of the purest lines of Aldmer in Alinor. Aldmer blood runs strong through both of our lines. We are compatible. Remember our research? Theoretical ascension via reversing de-evolution? Well, I think I’ve found a way to do just that, on a small scale...”

So... there you are...

A crack not unlike Alnora’s egg analogy began to creep at their feet... and suddenly day became night through the colored glass of their room within the tower. As if it were smoke, darkness began to creep through the crack, seeping into Alnora’s skin, black veins crawling beneath the skin as though worms.

You thought yourself safe from me? Within my very center? Do you know what I am? Take a look elf, this is what happens to those that mettle with my things...

”Bal!!” Lightning surged at Corio’s fingertips as a Daedric Greatsword appeared in his hands.

”Stop it Corio you can’t fight smoke! Do not try to fight Bal, just do as I say before it is too late! Cast a soul trap spell on me. Do it!”

Before Corio could protest, something began to materialize behind her... a dark apparition... a black humanoid thing. As it formed, something pierced Alnora from behind, her blood spurting forth on Corio’s face, eyes wide and teeth clenched. 

He reacted quickly, the dark tendrils of his spell gripping her spirit as the manifestation of Bal began to claim the last of her spirit. 

“Look upon the spear I wield and know it’s name. The same spear that the red eyed devil of the Dunmer utters of with his lying tongue. You are defeated! She is mine... savor this moment as much as I have anticipated it when I first learned your name. Corio!”

Corio cried out in agony as he watched his love fade more and more before his very eyes.

”Cast your spell,” she cried. “Take my creatia and claim it for your own. Let my energy feed your own. Our souls are already aligned by the blessing of Auriel. Believe it and seize what little remains in his name!” 

“That name has no power here! All of her is mine! ALL OF IT! She gave herself to me willingly, she belongs to me!”

”No!” Corio’s other hand stretched out as he let his senses be overwhelmed by the presence of his wife. All of his memories of her he summoned to the present, seizing hold of any and all that he could feel within this place. It was shrinking.

Bal’s jagged spear began to dig deeper within her, and she knew that they’d failed. Looking at his face one last time beneath her dark blonde curly strands, she said, “It isn’t all of me, but perhaps that is for the best. I have no idea how successful attempting to fit two souls together in one vessel would be. Such a thing without a truly powerful vessel has never been attempted. Even most soul gems can only hold one spirit. I’m sorry Corio, but this will have to do...”

”No,” he said, his head shaking. “Don’t do it.”

”Goodbye.”

”Don’t!”

It was too late. Alnora gave in as the two forces tugged at the last remnants of her uncorrupted spirit, and Corio watched as it was torn asunder. The grand majority of it was immediately turned black and rotted as it mingled with Bal’s form, while the echo of her spirit that Corio grasped on materialized as raw creatia in the palm of his hands like before with the Demon Nords.

Except this time, the meager bit of energy he contained compared to the whole began to slowly deteriorate, slowly being overcome by his own energy as the dark tendrils of his spell drew it in. The tiny light, the little that remained of his love sat as precious as a babe in his palm. The last bastion of hope, both in this place and in life... and it flickered into nothing.

Rivers of tears flowed as he cried. The screams he let out were strong enough to banish the dark from him entirely... all he saw was a blinding hot white in every direction as his magic reserves began to surge.

”I’ve waited so long to see the pain in your eyes... did you really think I couldn’t feel her reaching out to you? Did you truly believe you could touch my mind alone? FOOL! I LEAD YOU HERE!”

“I’ll kill you... I promise you...” 

“INSOLENT MORTAL, you still don’t know what I am. But I will show you.”

From the white nothing, Bal’s many minions began to pour out as the black smoke began seeping into this temporary refuge. Three of them surrounded Corio with their shimmering blades of blue flame as the hordes of undead and twisted indescribable things circled them all. Even as they poured in however, the background remained white, as Corio's will remained unbroken. For now. 

He stood amongst it all, unafraid, eyes wild and bleeding with water. 

He felt taller somehow. Different. In fact, he was... And his hair was longer, as though he’d been trapped in this place for months. Years? Not only that, but he could feel a small sliver still of his lover’s presence nearby. No, inside him. It was as though he'd replaced the voice of his inner mind with hers, and yet he could still hear his own clear as day.

The feeling gave him a confidence he’d not felt ever since he first stepped foot in this place. 

“Come.” He raised his blade, pointing to none of them in particular. It didn't matter which came, they would all die, he knew this.

As the things ran forth, Corio’s foot slammed on the “ground”, and a glyph appeared beneath them all. The daedra lost their footing instantly, floating in the air just before Corio drew them close enough for his summoned blade to end them.

Now it was the undead. He cut down the shambling things of all races, men, mer, beastfolk, and as they fell, he lifted their blades with a finger, casting them back into the enemy, propelling them into one another and impaling them like so many bodies upon a pike. 

He bathed in their coagulated blood and dust, fighting as though he were possessed. And for all he knew, he very well may have been... 

He couldn't keep this up, he knew... even with his new reserves of magicka, the hordes were limitless, unending. But that suited him just fine. There was nothing for him in this world. The only thing left was to make others suffer the same as he. Starting with Bal.

"You don't like me meddling with your souls," he said. And he continued his thought by doing just that, first by summoning his shield using it's recall glyphs, then by floating upon it as he concentrated on the many souls that dwelt within his realm. He summoned the spirits of a Breton maiden and a Nord scholar, stripped their souls of the energy they held in this place still and let whatever remained of themselves go where their gods willed it. 

With that energy, his hands glowed like Magnus himself, and he peppered the denizens of Coldharbour with the pure energy of Aetherius itself.  

More daedra came, meeting similar fates and facing banishment at the end of Corio's spell before Bal grew tired of the display. The daedra were all banished away, and the white became black in the blink of an eye.

And then, he came.

”Whatever newfound powers you’ve claimed, they’re nothing. Even with a spell of your ancestors, in this place, it is not enough. The stone you walk upon? My bone fashioned from the dead. My blood, the remnants of the spirits I’ve claimed within me. My power never waned, only waxes. See for yourself!”

Corio could do nothing as something within the darkness gripped him, parting his eyes and being forced to let it in. In that moment, Corio saw Molag Bal in all of his unholy glory... he saw the faces of every single spirit Bal had consumed... he saw the entire world which existed within him, the entire plane all at once. He could see the hands and the body of his manifestation gripping him, his great maw outstretched and ready to greedily consume his own spirit, and amongst it all, he saw Bal’s true face. Hidden amongst the dark, modeled after the original slave master himself as though he were an echo of that very being. Or an imitation. At the center, was Bal’s very being, burning a bright white, and it was then that Corio remembered his name in his people’s tongue. 

Molag Bal. Fire Stone. The spirit that corrupts and consumes like an ever growing ball of flame. And Corio was about to add to it.

The heat of Molag Bal’s core rapidly grew closer, more intense. What little control Corio had before was gone now, and it was all he could do to cry out as the daedra closed in, moments away from engulfing him. But then a second light appeared, this one the color of Magnus itself. The flames of Bal recoiled briefly, and then scattered when a great golden bird erupted from the darkness, beams of light emitting from its mouth. 

The blackness cleared like the end of a fog, and Corio could once again see skies of purple and gray, and from them his sunbird descended rapidly, its crystal body brimming with light. The landing was not a clean one, as the vessel’s underbelly came down against a rocky slope and dragged its way down to Corio, coming to a stop in the gray muck that he stood in. Then the voice of General Naarifin pierced his mind. Get on, now!

Corio didn’t hesitate or ask any questions. He had a second chance, and inside him a piece of his lover. A small piece, but it was more than he’d had in an era of existence. It would have to be enough.

In proximity of his powered ship, glyphs upon his arm began to shine clearly as though someone just branded his skin. Placing a finger upon it and channeling magicka, he cast recall and was aboard the Aldtam-Eshler, First Dawn, High Murder within seconds.

Where he stood, Corio could see Naarifin’s tattered form standing beside the power crystal. One of his hands rested on its surface, while the other clutched at the essence of some poor mortal’s soul. The lost Lord General spoke some words that were drowned out by the sounds of free flowing magicka and falling rocks. Behind him, Corio could feel the heat of Bal returning. Then, in an instant, the sunbird made another jump.

There again was the darkness, the colors, the familiar world and the unfamiliar. It did not last. Corio found their vessel suspended above the ruined mockery of the Imperial City, just near enough to make out the wailings of a thousand enslaved souls.

"It wasn’t enough," he heard Naarifin saying. We do not have long. No, not long. Not long at all." The old elf was fidgeting his hands, though he halted when he saw Corio watching him. "Did you find what was needed?"

“Just so... I couldn’t do it before. Didn’t have the fortitude to command the power we needed. Very few, if any modern Altmer do. But now....”

Corio’s eyes shut, but his mind’s eye expanded, sensing all that was about him. He could sense Naarifin... that was indeed something since even when his presence was made known to him before... he could not. He felt both his kin, and the essence of Bal that corrupted his flesh. Perhaps even his very soul.

Moving from the now, he could also feel the many inhabitants all about them. In the city, in the earth... in the very air they breathed. This place, was Bal. And they were his.

But for now, they would be Corio's.

Corio eyed the crystal as though seeing it for the first time, then after a series of hand motions, they grasped the power source of the Sunbird as though he were trying to squeeze the life out of it, eyes flashing bright as the creatia all about them began to flow through him like a conduit into the crystal itself.

“The amount of power it’ll take to keep us going... to draw in this much creatia....I don’t possess it. It is too draining. I’ll need your help,” said Corio.

He didn’t hear Naarifin’s response, but he felt the magicka transfer to him. The spark within him burned more intensely than he had ever felt, and Corio knew that he now had the power to do what was needed.

“Well alright then!” He practically proclaimed their victory with the statement. “Time to see what this vessel can really do... when it possesses the full strength of Aldmeri might! Bal! Can you hear me?”

A mighty roar... a groan of the ages akin to the sounds of mountains colliding and worlds cracking.... that was Molag Bal’s response. The very fabric of time and space rippled from it.

Yet his vessel stood fixed on its course unhindered. With a smile so grand it resembled that of a snarling wolf, Corio said, “Hear this! Victory is mine, whore’s cunt!”

”I wont rest until both your souls are mine.... Deep within me! Hear that!”

”Fuck you!”

Just as Molag Bal’s dark fiery visage closed in, the Aldtam-Eshler punched forward like a lightning strike. Ripping through the same fabric Molag shuttered with a cry, the elven pair was gone, escaped from this waking nightmare for good. Or rather, at least for the time being.

[The Good Doctor]

Boldir
Valga Estate

Boldir stared out at the mess of broken windmills and untended fields, the clearly-abandoned servants dwellings and empty stables. Valga Estate was a fine piece of land. Its plantation stretched across miles of what would have been woodland, and even the servants' quarters were more extravagant than the nicest home in Whiterun. But for whatever reason, the witch Roseloe had allowed it to fall to neglect in recent years.

He and Mila proceeded forward until they reached the brick wall that surrounded Valga's manor grounds. He boosted Mila over it and then climbed up himself. Beyond the trees, gardens, and ponds teaming with torchbugs, Boldir could make out the details of a huge house that may have more been accurately described as a castle. Valga Manor grew even larger as they approached, its various wings and towers sprawled out in a way that put even Mistveil Keep to shame.

"At least getting in won't be a problem," Mila mused. "Have you ever seen that many windows on a house?"

"Let's see if we can find a door, first."

As they continued, Boldir started to notice a strange humming in his ears, accompanied by a coppery dryness in his mouth. It became more pronounced the closer they got, and eventually Mila spoke up. "You feel that too, right? It's not just me?"

"It's not just you."

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Well that's good... I guess. This ain't the first time I've felt it. Back with Endar, in the woods... we passed these people in masks. He said they were cultists. They made me feel it too. It tastes almost like blood, doesn't it?"

"Aye." His hand rested firmly on his axe. "Keep your eyes open."

As he said the words, a huge crow loudly cawed at them from above. It set off its friends, and soon Boldir and Mila were being screamed at by a small army of the wretched birds. Eventually, Mila looked up at the trees and shouted, "Shut it!"
To their surprise, all the crows stopped at once, and the grounds returned to their eery silence. For a moment, Boldir thought Mila had used some magic, but the look she wore confirmed that it was not the case. Her voice sounded dry when she spoke. "That was weird."

Valga Manor grew more imposing as they neared it. Its four stories and pointed spires made it look like some massive spike trap intended for a god to step on. Ivy creeped up the walls and twinkled like some kind of organic crystal from all the torchbugs that lived within it. That part may have been pretty were it not part of such a dismal locale. 
There were plenty of doors. The largest was of course the main one at the center, but they made out two more along the side paths that led to the manor's east and west wings. Sticking to the trees, Boldir and Mila made for the eastern one. He stood back and watched their surroundings while Mila produced a lockpicking kit and started at it. A few minutes passed, during which he heard his daughter swear under her breath three different times, but at last, Mila muttered, "Yes!" and the doorknob clicked open.

Boldir ruffled her hair and pushed inside. The hall they entered was dim, but surprisingly clean. It was only lit by the long line of windows on the left side, but Boldir could not make out a trace of dust, not even in the air. The right wall was filled with paintings and portraits of things that Boldir couldn't have cared less about. Between every five of them was a door. May as well start with the first one, he figured. He pushed the nearest door open, and found that it led to a large servants' quarters. Every bed was neatly made, though the shelves were all empty and there was no wood for the fireplace. The room's lone occupants were a pair of torchbugs, silently glowing in the corner. Strange. 

"Brother Hathis said that the servant buys enough food for an entire staff," whispered Mila. "Think they live on the other side?"

"Maybe." The bloody taste in was so thick now that it felt almost gummy. Boldir tried to swallow, but there was nothing there. "Come on."

They moved on to the next door, another quarters, then the next, a small kitchen connected to a dining area, then came a storage room, then an empty study. It was the same in every case as the first room, nothing but a luminecent bugs.
The final door on the opposite end of the hall from where they had entered led them into a much more impressive part of the house. They stood in a high-ceilinged room lined with trophies. The less impressive among them were stuffed elk and large-antlered deer. But at the far end of the hall were a number of great beasts including bears, trolls, minotaurs, and a giant insect-looking thing with a human-shaped torso. All of these creatures glared at a long dining table in the center of the hall.

Mila swatted at a torchbug as it flickered past her nose. "What's the deal with these things?"

"Maybe one of the ponds has leaked into the basement," Boldir suggested. "Torchbugs like water." He nodded to a door on the far side of the room. "Let's try that way."

As they pressed deeper into the manor, the glowing insects became more numerous, sometimes clinging to the walls in clusters or hovering in groups away from the window light. If there were servants in this place, they were doing a poor job of removing the insects. Though by this point, Boldir doubted that they would find anyone of the sort. If it weren't for the strange cleanliness and the bitter taste in his mouth, Boldir would have doubted that anyone lived here at all.

Eventually, they came upon a larger study, this one with actual books and documents in it. But no magical trinkets or crystals. However, there was a curved staircase at the back leading to a balcony overlooking the room. They went on up to the second floor and discovered a big library. The books were neatly arranged by categories such as "Cyrodiilic Bestiary" or "Aldmeri Histories". There were two more doors in here, but also another staircase. Boldir and Mila exchanged glances. "Wizards like their towers, right?" Boldir asked. "Think witches like being up high too?"

She shrugged. "Sounds stupid. But what else do we have?"

They pressed on up to the third floor, which consisted of wider and more lavish hallways. More trophies lined these walls, as well as more torchbugs. By now the insects could have lit their way in place of the windows. Indeed, the first chamber they entered had no windows, but so many of the bugs crawled on the walls and ceiling that they were able to make out the details. It was a washroom, but not for kitchen servants. The tub was bigger than most beds, and had a series of metal tubes running into it.

As they turned to leave, Boldir heard a sound that made him stop in his tracks. He put a hand on Mila to make sure she stopped too. She did. They shared a look and he knew she'd heard it too. Somewhere not far away, someone with heavy footsteps was coming down a flight of stairs. Boldir slowly lifted his axe to his chest, and he saw Mila doing the same with her sword. Then she gasped, and tugged on his elbow. Boldir turned and looked. The torchbugs' lights had all gone out.

The footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs and started getting closer. The person was in the same hallway they'd just been in. Boldir's heart was beating fast. Were this anyone else, he wouldn't have worried, but Barbas himself had warned them that Roseloe was a powerful witch. The steps continued to grow closer, and then abruptly stopped just outside the washroom. "I know you're in there," said a man's voice. "You two are trespassing."

Boldir's frown intensified. How did he know there were two of them?

"I do not have time for games," the man said. "If it is my Lady you have come for, then your timing is ill. Mistress Valga has recently extended her vacation in the Imperial City. Now, would you please vacate the washroom? I am not armed."

Even if he was, Boldir wasn't going to take any chances. He pushed the door open with his axe ready to strike. Surprisingly, the neatly-dressed bald Colovian in front of him had spoken truly. His empty hands were pressed flat against his sides. "Who in Oblivion are you?" Boldir asked.

"Favimus. Mistress Valga's loyal servant."

"Alright Favimus, and where does Mistress Valga keep her soul gems?"

"And what's with the torchbugs?" Mila asked.

The Imperial shook his head. "I am under no instructions to entertain robbers. Leave now, or there will be consequences."

"Boldir." Mila motioned downward, and Boldir saw a dark cloud of magicka forming between the servant's fingers. He raised his axe and smacked Favimus across his temple with the flat end. The servant's legs buckled, and he fell to the ground.
"Well that was easy," Mila said, poking the man with her boot. "What do we do with him?"

"Let's find something to tie him with."

Finding a decent binding turned out to be a lot easier than finding soul gems. The curtains in the next room were drawn up by a rope. After shaking it free of torchbugs, they cut out the rope and brought it back to the sleeping servant. "Think it's common for a witch's servants to know magic?" Mila asked as she started tying him up.

"How should I know? Just make sure he can't move his hands or speak any words."

While Mila did that, Boldir found the stairwell Favimus had come down. It was narrower than the last two, with a low ceiling and walls on both sides. The door at the top was half open, and he could see the bugs' glowing light even from where he stood. The taste in his mouth was stronger than ever, so strong that he spit and half expected to see blood. He didn't. In addition, that humming in his ears was back, and it was starting to sound strangely human. The torchbugs darted too and fro across the stairwell, and as his eyes followed one, Boldir heard a voice just beside his ear. "Turn back."

He spun, prepared to defend himself. But there was nobody around. That was real, Boldir told himself. You ain't hearing godsdamned voices again. That was real.

As if to confirm his thoughts, the voice returned, this time louder and clearer. It was the voice of a woman, sweet yet dangerous. "Doom awaits you both above."

Boldir swatted some torchbugs from his face and returned to the hallway. Mila was just putting the final touches on the knot over Favimus' hands. She finished the job by using a strip of cloth cut from the curtains to gag his mouth. Mila gave Boldir a nod. "That should keep him down. How is he supposed to get out of all this when we're gone? Worm crawl to something sharp?"

"He'll figure something out," Boldir said. He was not really all that concerned with the servant anymore. The man was semi-conscious by now, but his eyes looked glazed. "In the meantime, I'm going to take a look upstairs. You keep an eye on him. Tied up or not, I don't like the idea of leaving the only actual threat in this place untended. This way you can knock him back out if he tries something."

Mila frowned. "Come on, this guy ain't going anywhere. Besides, you need me. Do you even know what a soul gem looks like?"

"Of course I do! They're these crystal... things. Listen, I've seen them before, all right? I'll know what I'm looking at. Just keep the servant from summoning a wraith or whatever in Shor's name he was about to do. This place is creepy enough without the thought of him being behind us."

"Fine." Mila nodded beside Boldir's head. "You got one of them damn bugs on you."

Boldir frowned and tried to smash it, but the thing was already flying away to join its friends by the time his hand had raised. "Gods, this place." He gave Mila a smile. "I'll come back to you if I start to take long, alright?"

"Alright."

Mila nodded, and Boldir started back to the stairs. The torchbugs parted for him as he made his way up, stirred from their normal routine by the unwanted guest.
The room Boldir entered was much different from all the previous ones. It was very clearly lived in, with open books and scrolls spread out around various desks and tables. In the corner, a few candles were lit around the portrait of a red haired woman.

"So, you choose death."  

Boldir turned toward the voice and once more found nothing. It did not come from his head, nor did it boom from all around him. It sounded like she was standing in the room. His fingers opened and closed around the haft of his axe. "Show yourself, witch."

The voice laughed. Now it was behind him. Boldir spun around again. Nothing, again. Just torchbugs. "You were a fool to come here, Nord. Do you have any idea who I am?"

"Roseloe Valga."

Boldir waited for her to speak again. When she did, it came from his left. "Then you-"
He turned and arced his axe through the spot where the voice came from. Torchbugs scattered to let his weapon pass by, but there was no invisible foe to hit.

"Nice try, brute." Roseloe taunted, this time from the ceiling, as if to prove that she was not merely invisible. "You may as well give up. I am beyond your mortal reach."

He scowled and swatted another bug from his face. It was at that moment Boldir noticed something that he hadn't before. There was a dim green light beneath one of the bookshelves against a wall. There was flickering beneath all of them, but this one was constant. He started toward it.

"Insolent Nord," Roseloe continued. "You are fortunate to have come here while I am in a good mood, or you would be long dead by now. I will say again: leave or die."
Boldir reached the bookshelf and gripped it by the sides. "What are you doing?" the witch asked as he started to pull. "Ohoho now you're really in for it."

Sure enough, the entire bookshelf came away from the wall like a door. A few books fell off as he opened it, but other than that there was no resistance. Beyond was what must have been the witch's laboratory. It was larger, with rows and rows of tables piled high with hundreds of strange instruments and implements of every shape and size. There were some large windows at the back, and numerous candles had been lit, but away from them the room was painted green by the annoying bugs.

"You imbecile. You complete and utter buffoon. This chamber is one of the most dangerous of its kind in all of Cyrodiil. Do you even know how many ways you could die in here? I'm not even going to do it myself. I'd rather see the fate your moronic blundering earns you."
Boldir walked past a table that contained a large bloodstained dish with a dagger and dried up tongues in it. "Will you speak the wrong words and activate my soul siphon?" Roseloe called out. "Or will you merely step on a venomous book?"

He looked down. There were indeed lots of books on the floor. None of them looked particularly venomous, but he stepped around them just in case, all the while keeping his guard up for an appearing witch.

"Perhaps you will knock over a vial containing my mistified essence of jarrin. Or maybe you'll simply wake the dormant wisp children. Those metal boots of yours are quite heavy."

"If you're not going to appear, then at least stop talking."

"Your eyes will inflate nine times their size until they pop. Your stomach will grow teeth and devour your heart. You will lose every limb and be forced to watch them fight over which gets to strangle you. You will-"

"Gods damnit woman, I get it!"

He pushed a few nonvenomous books off of a little box and opened it. Inside was some strange yellow mold that smelled of death. He quickly closed it again and moved on. One of the torchbugs flew close to his ear, and Roseloe's voice said, "You got close with that one."

Boldir paused. "What was that?"

"I said-" He swatted at the torchbug, and Valga's voice cried out. "Hey!" And then she fell silent.

"You're a fucking torchbug!" Boldir received no answer, which only further confirmed the obvious. He couldn't help but laugh. "You've got to be kidding me. What in Ysmir's name is going on in this place?"

The quiet lasted a few seconds longer, and then the witch spoke up. "I'm not a torchbug, idiot. Have you ever heard an insect speak?"

No, but a year ago I hadn't heard a dog speak either. "Strike me down then, witch. Stop me from raiding your lab."

"I'll have you know that I am very much a human," Valga said in an upity tone of voice. Now that he knew what to look for, Boldir could see that it was coming from a cluster of the hovering insects. "And I find the very notion otherwise to be offensive."
Boldir shook his head and resumed his search. Just as he continued looking for soul gems, Roseloe continued to speak to him. "I am not home," the witch claimed. "As dear Favimus correctly informed you, I am in the Imperial City, enjoying my vacation and now plotting revenge on the hairy barbarian who has so rudely taken it upon himself to tear through my home and secrets. This insect is but a vessel through which I may watch you. Its feeble magicka is not enough to melt your insides like wax, but it is enough to project my voice as I will it."

"Fascinating." Boldir frowned. By then he was already confident that she could not hurt him. So the revelation that she was indeed halfway across Cyrodiil only made him feel even less threatened. The witch was a terrible bluffer for one who did it so liberally.

"And what do I call you, thief?"

"Thief will work."

"Oh come now, Nord. Names are important! They hold power!"

"All the more reason not to tell you mine."

The insect woman fell silent at that. At least long enough for him to rummage through some more cabinets containing ingredients, strange devices, and bones carved with runes. No soul gems, though. By the time he turned away from the last one in a row, the talkative witch piped up again. "You haven't taken anything. Not even the unicorn bladder. This clearly is not general thievery, no, you are after something specific. Perhaps you and I can come to an arrangement?"

"I wouldn't trust an offer like that even if it didn't come from a lying madwoman who talks through insects."

"The thieving savage enters my home and treats me like the bad one. If there is something you seek, Thief, let me hear it. Should it be of little enough consequence I may be willing to part with it on the grounds that you promise never to tell anyone about this room."

Boldir glanced back at the table with the severed tongues. He had assumed they weren't human before, but if they were, it could certainly explain why the witch would be so secretive about her practices. And who knew how many other things in here were more nefarious than they appeared? "Alright. I'm looking for a soul gem."

"A soul gem?" Valga laughed. She actually sounded relieved. "That's it?" One of the torchbugs broke out of a cluster and started dancing through the air in front of him. "Follow me, Thief."
The glowing bug guided Boldir past rows and rows, between shelves and bookcases, through a confusing maze that ended with him standing in front of several dark, rune-covered tables that were lined with unlit candles. Between them stood a large cabinet with double doors. The torchbug lit up. "In there."

Boldir opened the doors and gasped. Valga did not just have the one soul gem. She had dozens upon dozens of them. The crystals were all different colors, shapes, and sizes, ranging from pale pink to black as the void. He swallowed, that bloody taste in his mouth still there. "You... these are humans?"

"Humans?!" Roseloe sounded appalled. "Just who do you think I am?! Some sort of barbaric skull-stacking necromancer? I would never claim the soul of a human! Not even an elf for that matter! The nerve! The very idea-"

"One of these contains the soul of a former champion of Clavicus Vile." Boldir's patience was wearing thin. "Tell me which one it is or I will take them all."

"Oh..." Her tone went from defensive to humble in a heartbeat. "Well, now that you mention it... perhaps I do have one human soul." The bug flew over to a deep blue crystal and landed on it. "This one... You must understand, she was a horrible, wicked woman. You said so yourself, she consorted with daedra. Daedra! I did the world a favor, honestly. Did you know it was cultists like her who started the Oblivion Crisis? It's true. I'm sure you'll keep that in mind when you keep your promise not to tell anyone about this- wait, what are you doing?"

Boldir was grabbing every soul gem on the shelf and dumping them into his pack. If there was one thing he wouldn't count on Roseloe to do, it was tell the truth about which soul gem was correct. And if any of these others were human souls, perhaps he could help them somehow. Maybe Mila will know. That damn wizard couldn't have only taught her useless shit.

The witch gave an annoyed “Hmph.” and her insect took back to the air. Boldir dropped the gem she claimed was correct into the satchel on his hip. As he finished clearing out the rest of them, the witch asked in a decidedly less hostile voice. "So... you work for Clavicus Vile, then? Has he ever mentioned me by any chance?"

"His dog called you an evil witch, if that counts."

"Barbas," Roseloe hissed. As she said the word, Boldir heard the faint sound of something tapping on metal. Roseloe didn't seem to notice, as she continued her rant. "That infernal mutt. Why an immortal lord of Oblivion would choose such a distasteful companion I will never-"

"Quiet!" Boldir hushed.

"I will not!" the witch said in a puffed up voice. "If you presume that you can-"

Boldir slapped at the cluster of torchbugs that she spoke from and the witch’s voice went quiet. Then he heard the sound again. He called out. "That you, Mila?"

The tapping stopped for a moment, and then resumed, louder this time. The torchbug buzzed past Boldir’s ear and hovered in his face. "You have what you came for, Thief. Leave now and you may yet live."

He blew her away from his eyes and started following the noise. "I am warning you, Nord! No lies, this time! I will not be responsible for Clavicus Vile's champion dying with his work unfinished!"

He ignored her. His heartbeat started to quicken as he drew closer to the sound. The closer he got, the more sure he was of what it was. His search ended at a door, hidden deep among the rows of bookcases. The tapping was louder now, furious. Each one resulted in a slight ring.

"Do not open that door!" The witch shrieked. "What manner of beasts do you have in Skyrim? Trolls? What awaits beyond is far more fierce. Its two mouths devour flesh and soul alike! And it has fangs! Fangs like swords!" 
He reached for the knob.
"Don’t you dare!"

Boldir pushed the door open, spilling light over a dank windowless room. A foul smell hit him, and he covered his nose. "Shor’s bones..."

The tapping stopped. Across from him was a large cell containing at number of figures, all on the ground but one. A girl standing with her hands on the bars. She stared at him with a mix of fear and desperation. Behind her, several heads peered up. They were children.

"They are daedra worshipers too." Roseloe said, meekly. "The whole lot of them-"

"Shut up." 

Boldir took a step forward, and the girl backed away from the bars. "I’m not going to hurt you," he said softly. "Do you know where the keys are?"

The girl shook her head, but did not speak. None of them did. Her eyes kept darting past him to the door, as if afraid that someone else would come in at any moment. “Well, witch?” Boldir looked for the torchbug. “If you don’t want me to return and burn this place to the ground, you’ll tell me where the key is.”

He got no answer from Roseloe either. What? No threats this time? He narrowed his eyes in disgust and returned his attention to the children. The low light made it hard to make out many details on them beyond their size, but the girl in the front stood just close enough to the doorway for him to tell that she was around Mila’s age. Her blonde hair fell over her face in thin wisps and her skin was deathly pale. The green dress she wore may have been of decent make at one point, but it was battered and torn and speckled with dark stains.

”I’m going to get you out of this place,” he promised. The girl’s eyes lit up at that, and several of the other kids started shuffling and coming forward. As they did, Boldir’s chest tightened. Some of them couldn’t have seen more than seven or eight winters. But they bore the scars and disfigurements of people who had been through war. Some were missing ears, others fingers. One boy didn’t have a left eye. You’re lucky you’re not here, witch, Boldir thought. No amount of magic would save you from what I would do.

Tearing his eyes the horrific scene, Boldir began searching the dark room for a key. There weren’t many places to look. Just a few cabinets and a table near the door. They contained a few strange and unidentifiable tools, as well as three more soul gems which Boldir took. No sign of a key, however. “Listen,” he said to the kids. “I know someone who can pick this lock. She’s just downstairs. I’ll be right back, alright?”

After leaving the prison, Boldir spoke lowly. “What in Talos’ name is wrong with you, Valga?”

Like before, the witch didn’t answer. Perhaps she had left him. The thought made Boldir pick up his pace. He would find Mila exactly where he'd left her. He knew this before he even made it all the way back downstairs, for her voice carried down the hall. It sounded like she was arguing with someone. As soon as Boldir rounded the corner, he saw his daughter crack the pommel of her sword against Favimus' forehead. She looked up at Boldir hopefully. "Please tell me you found it. I want to get out of this place."

"I did." He motioned at the unconscious servant with his axe. The man's gag was out. "Did he wake up?"

"Aye, but that's not what's bothering me. Just moments ago woman was speaking to me. Tried to get me to leave the hallway. I think it's the witch."

"It's Roseloe. She's watching us through the torchbugs. As far as I can tell, she can't do much besides look and speak. She left me just a few minutes ago. I guess it was to distract you so she could try to free her servant and get him to stop us."
Roseloe's inability to impede them even a little bit might have been funny to Boldir if the children locked in the attic were not on his mind. "We can't leave yet, though. I need your help unlocking a door upstairs, first." 

Mila tapped Flavimus with her boot. "What about him?"

Boldir knelt down in front of the servant. His eyes were crossed behind their fluttering lids, and he tried to formulate words but they only came out as babble. Boldir snapped his fingers, then smacked him a few times on the cheek. "Wake up."

"My mistress," the dazed servant mumbled. "Forgive me."

"Your mistress ain't here," Boldir said. "Did you know about the children?"

Flavimus smiled at him dumbly, but it was Roseloe Valga who answered. "Of course he did." Her voice came from one of the many tourchbugs grouped up on the ceiling. "Who do you think fetched them?"

Boldir shook the servant by the ropes. "Answer me! I want to hear it from you, not her."

The servant nodded, and said again, "Forgive me, Lady Valga. Forgive-" Boldir shut him up with another, harder smack across the face. When the servant's eyes regained their focus, he nodded. "The young ones. Blood and souls needed for the ritual. I do what I must for my mistress. I-"

Boldir had heard enough. He raised his axe to Flavimus' throat and ripped the blade across it. Then he stood and motioned for Mila to follow. "There are children locked away upstairs. I need you to pick the lock so we can free them."

Mila nodded. He could tell that she was a little caught off guard by all that had just transpired. She looked around. "So can Roseloe hear us now?"

"Of course I can, you stupid girl," replied the witch. "What are you, this man's daughter? Are you aware that your father is a liar, darling? He made a deal with me. Promised he would only take a soul gem. Yet he stole them all, killed my beloved servant, and now seeks to use you to release these dangerous children onto the public!"

Boldir scowled. "So now dishonesty is an issue to you?"

"Hmph!"

Once they were back in the lab, Mila tapped his shoulder and motioned at the severed tongues. "Boldir..."

"AHA!" A torchbug broke away from the rest and danced in front of them. 

Boldir gave the insect an irritated look. "What?"

"Your name! You tried to hide it from me but now I know, Boldir. Suitably crude for a northern barbarian such as yourself."

"Congratulations." Shaking his head, Boldir looked at Mila. "Ignore her. And those. You'll see worse in here."

He led Mila back the way he'd gone, ignoring Valga's numerous attempts to side-track them or get them lost in another direction. It took a few minutes, but soon they were standing back at the same door Boldir had stood at before. The children were still huddled beside the bars when they entered. Some were beaming at the sight of them. "Can you unlock the cage?"

"Shouldn't be a problem." Mila knelt to the task. Meanwhile, the torchbug buzzed around her. 

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Valga sang. "These kids are infected with a plague of Peryite's own making. I sought to cure them, but if released beforehand they will bring ruin to all of Colovia! Thousands of lives will be on your hands, girl."

Mila looked back at Boldir, but he shook his head. "She's not said an honest word since we got here. A few minutes ago she called them evil daedra worshippers."
He glanced at the children, who watched them hopefully and silently. He wondered why none spoke, and then it dawned on him. As Mila resumed picking the lock, Boldir approached the cell and motioned for the blonde girl who had been at the front to come forward. She did. "Can you speak?"

She looked at him, blinked, and then opened her mouth. No words came out. She made a motion with her hand of grabbing an invisible tongue and cutting it with an invisible knife.

Boldir understood. The tongues. Gods. "Did the woman do this to all of you?"

The girl looked confused for a moment, and then shook her head, frowning. 

"Just some of you?"

She shook her head again, and motioned at the other children and nodded. 

"All of you." 

The girl nodded. 

"But it wasn't a woman?"

She nodded again.

"Was it a bald man?"

She cast an uneasy glance at the doorway Boldir, and then nodded one more time.

"It's okay. I got rid of him."

Her eyes widened at that. She seemed surprised, but also grateful. She glanced at Mila, then back at Boldir. Then her lips started to quiver. 

"We're going to take you somewhere safe," Boldir promised. "I know some people not far from here who will make sure you're taken care of. They did the same for my girl and me not too long ago."

"Got it!" Mila stood up and pulled the caged door open. The children poured out like a flood, hugging them and grabbing them by the arms. There were lots of tears and dry, guttural attempts at words and weeps. It was incredibly strange, though it made Boldir's heart feel heavy. One shared look with Mila told him that she felt the same.

The children followed them in a cluster. Some of them held hands or walked tight together. A couple tried to clutch Boldir's arm, though he had to make them let go in case some new threat appeared. When they came upon Flavimus' corpse, the kids strayed away to the far wall as they passed. All but one red-headed boy, who walked over to the body and kicked it.

"How do you intend to keep all of them from giving me away?" Roseloe's voice whispered into his ear. "If even one of them can write, my home will be discovered. The coven will-"

"None of this is my problem."

"You'll regret this, Boldir."

"No I won't." He slapped at the insect and it flew away.

Outside, something peculiar awaited them. Boldir did not notice it at first, but Mila tapped his elbow and pointed it out. "The torchbugs are all gone."

She was wrong. As they left the witch's manor behind, Boldir noticed thousands of little specs floating in the ponds. Shortly after he also saw that they dotted the grass. The insects out here were all dead. 

"I hate those glowing pests," said a familiar voice.

Boldir and Mila looked across one of the ponds to spot a large black dog with his leg raised and a stream of urine jetting into the water. Barbas shook his leg a few times and then walked to them over the water. The children backed away, frightened, but Boldir held up a hand. "Mila, make sure they don't go running." He glared at Barbas and unslung his pack. "We've got your first soul."

"I knew you could do it!" The dog barred his teeth as if to grin like a human. "Only two to go, then, eh? Well after you hand it over, of course."

Boldir dug into his pouch and produced the blue crystal that Valga had pointed out to him. He held it out to Barbas. "Here."

The dog sniffed the soul gem, and then growled. "This is not the soul Master wants."

"I figured." Boldir turned his pack over and dumped all the other gems onto the grass. "Is it one of these?"

Barbas started sniffing again, spending more time on some gems than others. "Nope, nope, nope. Ooh, interesting, but not it. Nope." Boldir was starting to get worried, but then the dog's tail started wagging. "Aha! There it is." Barbas picked up a small black gem with his mouth, and then bit down so hard that it shattered to pieces, which he proceeded to eat right in front of them. Behind him, Boldir heard Mila draw a sharp breath.
When finished, the dog licked his lips and flashed another of his uncanny canine grins. "Master will be pleased. In fact, he's waiting for you now, in the city of Anvil. He'd like to discuss the next soul personally."

"Where will I find him there?"

"I don't know. I'm sure he won't make it difficulte, though. He's eager for this next one. In fact, he told me to make sure you hurry. Time is of the essence."

"Wait, is that Barbas?" Boldir rolled his eyes at the sound of Roseloe's voice. He turned to see the only living torchbug in the garden drifting in their direction. He looked back at the dog, who gave a funny little wink, turned, and bounded off. His dark fur disappeared among the trees and bushes.

By the time Roseloe's insect reached the pond, he was long gone. "Blast it!" the witch swore. As Boldir turned to leave her and her cursed home, he heard her voice once again. This time the witch took an altogether different tone. "You know... I didn't want to say this before. It was the outrage I felt over the theft and murder... but perhaps I was too quick to judge."
Boldir snorted, but she continued. "I am a very influential woman. Powerful in both wealth and the arcane. You must forgive me for not understanding that... this is simply your people's way. The raiding and theft. My background has clouded my way of thinking, but now I understand. Perhaps we can come to another arrangement. A civilized one, yes? Surely there is some room in your barbarian heart for forgiveness. If you could see that no one finds out about what I am... Name your price, Boldir, and it's yours."
He ignored her and kept walking, so the torchbug buzzed right in front of his face. "You know," Valga said, "you're actually rather fetching for a Nord."

This time, he outright laughed at the sheer desperation of the attempt. "You've got nothing else to fear from me, witch. I'm leaving for good." He looked back at the mute crowd that followed him. "You'd be wiser to fear them." Valga started to speak, but he interrupted. "Better hope they can't write."

The witch's facade of humble flattery fell apart, then, and she reverted back to the usual cursing. "You- you piece of- Insolent, savage, brute! When I am able, I will see that you will die painfully! Horribly! And then I will resurrect you and kill you again! Do you hear me, Boldir? I'll kill you a thousand times! And I'll sell your soul to Vile! Just you wait!"

Boldir smirked, and with Mila and the children in tow, he left the witch and her dreadful home behind him.

[Celan]

Imperial City

Serivus walked into the Elven Gardens with his hood pulled up. He didn't want anyone to see his face. Not only because of the nature of this meeting, but because the last few months had not been kind to him. He'd been in a self-imposed exile in his Talos Plaza manse after the massacre of Sibbi there. His reputation and prestige had never been so low, and it was better that he keep a low profile for the time being. And he was getting up there in years, the latter part of his sixth decade. It would serve Councilor Maximus well to take greater control of the Colovian faction, as it would soon be his to lead, not Serivus's. 

One good thing had happened in the aftermath of the mess with Sibbi, and that was the arrival of Jocasta. He was under no illusions about why she was with him. She was alone, her family gone and no allies remaining. He was her chance to rebuild her reputation. Still, he loved her company and companionship. At this age he wouldn't be able to take a wife so young, but her situation made that a possibility. And at his age, he cared not that her end was mostly political, so long as she kept up the very sweet charade. And how sweet it is.

He ducked into side streets and made his way down alleys, away from the main thoroughfare in the Elven Gardens. The inn he was looking for was tall and thin, tucked between an older apartment house and an older store. The tavern seemed warped by its age, as if every facet, from the door to the roof to the sign was just the slightest bit uneven. The perfect place to meet and not be seen.

He entered and saw Jocasta's familiar cloak hunched over a darkened corner table. The lower half of her face peeked from the shadows, and she was whispering to the figured seated across from her. Serivus made his way over and sat down beside them, waving away an approaching barmaid before he spoke.

"Who have you brought me to meet, dear?"

"Serivus." Jocasta smiled and took his hand, seeming genuinely pleased to see him. "I'm so glad you came, darling. This is..."

"Don't you recognize me, councillor Marillan?" Leda Zethus moved her hood back so that her face was visible, and smiled with no mirth.

Leda Zethus? What have you brought me into, Jocasta? "Hmph. Will your husband be joining us?"

"Doron is occupied with other matters. There is so much to do since our empire has been allowed to fall into ruin." She gestured to the waitress and directed her to leave the whole bottle of brandy. It would be better if the councillor was loosened up a bit. Pausing until the waitress was gone, Leda went on, "I'm so pleased to see you and Jocasta happy together, councillor. It was I who encouraged her to speak with you, you know. You without a wife and... if it isn't too indelicate to say it, disgraced. She such a lovely young girl who has suffered at the hands of our inept rulers. It seemed a fitting partnership."

Serivus squeezed Jocasta's hand and gave her a small smile, but when he looked back to Leda the smile was gone. "If I may be indelicate, what is it you want, Leda? Unless sending you is your husband's way of mocking my current state, and this if an official matter." That would be like him. He poured a glass of the brandy and sipped from it, wishing they'd gone somewhere nicer, if only for better liquor.

"Right to business? I can appreciate that. Jocasta has told me that you have some concerns about our current leadership. That was evident, from what I heard, from your statements in Council chambers. I wondered how far you are willing to go for our country?"

"As far as necessary. Your husband and his lackeys may have conferred the rise of that Nord to emperor, but I did not. Nothing since then has changed my opinion," Serivus said. "If we are to retake our lost lands, we, not a barbarian and a half-elf, must lead Cyrodiil."

Leda almost bit through her tongue, but composed herself. "Consider Doron's actions in the interest of giving us a temporary reprieve after Motierre's reign. Whatever our differences, your friends in the Council and my husband and his allies are of the same opinion on this matter. The time has come to act. If this barbarian mage and the Breton are allowed to profit from our legions' victory over the Dominion, we will never be rid of them. That is, if they don't sell us out to the Thalmor at the first opportunity."

"And who would take their place? Your husband? I know his thoughts on our rebellious provinces. In that regard he is no better than they are. I have no interest in replacing foreigners with a Nibenean who would act no different." He practically spat the word Nibenean, making sure his distaste could not be missed.

"Serivus!" Jocasta's tone was hurt.

He looked at Jocasta and sighed, and when he spoke again his tone was softer. "Our goals align, but I cannot undertake this venture only to raise up your husband. We would need concessions for our support. Admiral Meridius must be replaced with Vice Admiral Palenix, and High General Ceno must be replaced by General Retrius. Maximus and the others will fall in line, even with Doron, if those moves are made as well."

"Politics, my dear." Leda patted Jocasta's hand. "Councillor, I am a mere woman, but it seems to me that we would be foolish to touch the Legion or Imperial Navy. It would smell of coup, and we need them to believe that outside forces are after our leadership. Then, they will rally around the new ruler. Let us keep it simple for now. With the mage out of the picture, we may find that the Breton is amenable to control. She will need a new husband. Given her penchant for Nords, a Colovian would be the best choice. We understand this and are prepared to make the sacrifice. If she is not amenable, well... her protector will be gone."

Serivus arched a bushy eyebrow. "Are you now? You would go through the trouble of removing the Nord only to seat a Colovian on the throne? And Doron agreed to this? I have known him since before we joined the council, and it seems to me he is not so selfless." And you are not so political. Have the artifacts of old Nibenay finally lost their interest? "Why has he decided now to remove Draconus, and to put a Colovian on the throne in the process?"

"We are practical, Marillan." She poured him another brandy, unnerved at his skepticism. Leda had been an actress once, and still was, so her hand was steady. "But not selfless. The Council is ours. Doron remains Chancellor, and we appoint the new councillors replacing the Bretons. And..." Her eyes glittered. "We want Chorrol. The spymaster must be removed, and then her family."

Serivus drank the brandy as he considered the proposition. He had no love for the Quentas family, and they often followed their own agenda, even if they were nominally Colovian. Still, betraying them to Nibeneans was a step beyond dislike and annoyance. But this was a time for bold steps. "We can accept that. Freeing up the spymaster position for your people, of course. But in return the next step would need to be removing Ceno. He is too closely intertwined with the White Gold, and with the girl. If she is to be controlled than he must be gone. The Thalmor have tried to kill him once before, and it would be an easy thing to paint his death as their act."

Though Serivus had rejected Albecias's absurd theory about Ceno, there was truth the man's assertion that the High General was in as good a position as any to seize control should things descend into chaos. And if the Doron and the rest failed to keep up their end of the bargain, Serivus wanted his friends in the Legion to be in that position.

"In wartime, much is possible," Leda murmured. "We are agreed, then? Time is short. With the Bretons gone, the empress has lost a large bloc of support, and war will be upon us before long. As to the event itself, a tentative plan is in place. We will provide the magic support. From you we would ask the muscle, as it were. Someone you trust, not some mercenaries. Give the names to Jocasta. She can move between us without suspicion."

"I have some ex-legion friends who have no love for the mage either, and they will keep quiet. And I will inform Maximus and Censoria of the plan. If we are to pull this off in the aftermath, they will need to know." Serivus finished off his drink and let it burn before asking, "What is your plan if this fails?"

"We will supply your people with invisibility scrolls, and dreamsleeve protocols. The latter will be useless for communication but will point to Thalmor involvement. The infernal elves have already twice tried to murder the empress. It should be easy to pin it on them. If any of your people are taken alive, well... We have people in the imperial dungeons, and we must all be prepared to pay the price."

"They will understand," Serivus said. "Before I give Jocasta the names, I would like to know who else is involved in this, on your side. Is Vanin?”

"Javolia is of good Nibenean stock, but unreliable. As to the others, Jocasta will bring you the names. Trusted retainers with magical abilities. We also will provide the intelligence. We've had spies in White Gold for some time, of course, though none have been able to get close to the Nord." Leda tapped a bejeweled finger on the table. "There is one other role you can help to fill. The mage obviously has a soft spot for pretty young Colovian women. While our fighters take care of the guards and provide a distraction, one such could get close enough to him to plunge the knife. Pretend to be an innocent caught in the crossfire, you understand."

"I can find someone suitable," Serivus said. This was a risky gambit, but one that could shape Cyrodiil for years to come. At this point in his life, Serivus was willing to take the chance. "Give Doron my regards, Leda. And good luck."

She nodded smoothly. "Councillor. We'll be in touch."

As Marillan departed, Leda put a hand on Jocasta's arm. She waited until Marillan was out of earshot, giving him one last look of disdain. Then she turned to the other woman and said softly, "My dear, after this business is concluded, you'll have one more task to perform. If you do this well, even you may ascend to the top of White Gold someday. Our son will need a wife..."

Jocasta's eyes widened. "What service, my lady?"

"You will go to Lillin Quentas and tell her that you overheard a conversation between Marillan and his allies which shocked you. You only understood it after the assassination. Patriot that you are, and grateful for the empress' intervention in our lands..."

"I can do that."

"Good girl. The Lady will reward you. She will reward us all."

***

The dark-haired woman perched on a ruined column which had been turned into a dais, her arms raised so that the gold fabric of her gown resembled wings, head turned in a ritual pose under an imposing headdress. Leda Zethus’ prominent nose served her well in the role of the Phoenix of the Nibenay. The women who had compared it to a bird's beak hadn't known how greatly they complimented her.

Beneath her, the priest of Al Esh held his glass dagger over the terrified Argonian prisoner, her mouth gagged to stifle the screams. Others stood around, chanting the incantations. These had either been painstakingly recovered from old records and steles, or made up entirely. These believers would never know the difference. Around them, water lapped against the stone bridge on which they stood. It had cost a fortune to excavate the ancient ruins of Fanacasecul even this much, and the dam they had built against Lake Rumare’s incursion could only hold back so much.

As the chanting rose to a crescendo, the priest slammed his dagger down into the prisoner’s heart, ending her screams. His face splattered with blood and eyes shining, he then lifted the dagger and saluted the Phoenix. She rewarded him with a radiant smile, then climbed down from her perch with his help.

“A paltry but acceptable sacrifice, my love,” Leda purred.

The priest bowed his head. “One of many to come. Their skins will be the carpet beneath your feet.”

This was not a promise he made idly. The man was Doron Zethus, Chancellor of the Elder Council. And if he had his way, the Dominion would only be the first of their conquests when the glory of their Lady was restored. Black Marsh would be next.

They gave the corpse to Lake Rumare and the slaughterfish, taking it out by a canal passageway and weighting it down. Doron washed himself, then found his wife again outside. She had changed into a loose sundress, though her sandals were left on the shore. Holding her skirt in one hand, she bent over to brush a hand among the sacred lotus.

“Our people suffered here,” she mused as she heard him approach. “It’s hard to remember that, with how beautiful it is, especially in the starlight.”

“We endured here. Learned. We kept the true knowledge of the river goddess.” Doron gestured to the intricate statue of the giant bird that loomed above them. “The elves and the Nords are the ones who profaned her, gave her other names and told lies about her violation by their Shezzarines. We will defeat them both. Our time will come, soon. Al Esh destroyed the elves, and we will do so again.”

“Then the Nords’ mongrel children.”

“And then the Colovians,” Doron agreed. He had waded in behind Leda and slipped a thick arm around her waist. Starlight smoothed out the fine wrinkles on her olive-toned skin, and brought out the gold glints in her brown eyes. “You are more beautiful than any temple. My phoenix.” Aroused by the sensation of her bottom against his front and by the memory of blood spilling on his feet, he moved one hand to cup her breast while the other lifted her skirt.

Before he could go further, the footfalls of another approached on the shore. The couple separated and covered themselves, but made no effort to disguise what they had been doing.

“Jocasta,” Leda murmured, holding out a hand. “You may approach, dear.” The young woman came forward, glancing shyly between Leda and her husband.

“Anything new to report?” Doron asked, unable to conceal his annoyance at the interruption.

“It's not news, but Serivus is absolutely smitten with me.” Jocasta cast a glance at Leda, and measured her words. The two women were playing a subtle game, but Jocasta was getting the hang of it. “He’s still desperate for allies now that the business with Sibbi Black Briar went so wrong, so his willingness to help us remains. What were his words this week… ‘any drooling farm boy from the West Weald would make a better ruler than this Nord.'"

The Chancellor turned his anger towards their rivals. “I can’t argue with him there. Look at these specimens the Bretons and Nords have produced. And they called our emperor 'the Gibbering'! The Colovians are no better. It's no surprise to me that he’s so easily led by his little mandrake.”

Leda laid a hand on his arm. “When will you make your move, Doron? You suffered and bled here during the War and occupation, then these pretenders swoop in to claim the spoils. With Marillan and his friends, we have our scapegoat. They're waiting for your word. You must strike. Plunge the dagger, love!”

“It’s not yet time. The country must be unstable, but not too unstable. That balance is not yet achieved.”

“The Thalmor could attack again at any time!"

“Then we’ll use the war to our advantage. You must trust me, my heart. I’ve been at this a long time and I know when a pot is about to boil. You keep working on restoring our sacred rites, and leave the politics to me.”

Jocasta spoke up. “There is something else, though I don’t know if it will help. At the office they’re saying the countess Magdela will be returning from Skyrim soon.”

“But not to the palace. She’s been booted out. Might she be willing to aid us?” Doron asked.

“You know what they say about jilted women." Leda turned to the younger Nibenean. “You were her friend, Jocasta. She took you in after you…. after that unfortunate business. What do you think? Perhaps she’s still able to get close to the Nord.”

Jocasta's face went stark pale at mention of her gang rape by the Khajiit clan that sacked her family’s estate, murdering her parents. She had fled to Skingrad and hoped to have her honor redeemed by marrying Janus Bathory, but Count Darius had kicked her out of not only his study but the castle entirely. After that no  nobleman would have her as wife, penniless and polluted as she was. The young woman was reduced to working as secretary in Magdela’s publishing house, living in a drab apartment dependent on Bathory crumbs. Then she met Leda Zethus at the baths, and in time learned of a way to get revenge on the Khajiit,  the rulers that had let it all happen, and the Colovians who groveled to them. There was power in the old ways, they taught her. Al Esh saw her suffering and would not let it go unpunished. The deaths of the two Bathory men had seemed proof. Sleeping with Serivus for a time was a small price to pay.

Jocasta shook her head. “I wouldn’t call her my friend. The Bathorys care only for themselves. I tried to tell Serivus, if Draconus had really wanted to help the south, he would’ve done it before it was too late for most of us.”

“Careful, my dear,” Leda said. “We want Marillan believing the emperor has abandoned all of us. He won’t care for our cause any more than Skingrad.”

“I couldn’t help myself, but I do think he really wants to help. It's a shame he..." At Leda's warning look, Jocasta steeled herself. "These fat, hairy fools should never have been allowed to rule true Heartlanders. Anyway, I doubt Maggie would go for it. I think she cares more for the emperor than she lets on, and feels sorry for the empress.”

Doron smiled. “That’s a weakness, if true. Colovian women are not as fierce as ours.”

“They’ve never had to be,” his wife added bitterly.

“She still comes to me for information. Probably expecting me to be impressed by her cleavage. I’ll sound her out when she returns, see if she can be of any use to us. If not, we’ll get rid of her somehow. There's always the Thalmor. I hear they have a price out on her head.”

The purple of the night sky had begun to soften as dawn approached. Leda took Jocasta by the hand. “Come, my dear. The carriage is waiting. I imagine you haven’t had a proper meal in days in that filthy house.”

Some weeks later, Doron returned home after the party where he had encountered Magdela Bathory, to find Jocasta in Leda’s bed. Nonplussed, he began relating the evening’s events as he tossed his circlet aside and unwound his robes. “Skingrad won’t be turned as easily as the others. We’ll have to find another way to take them down. In fact, I think Maggie suspects something.”

“Suspects what? She hasn’t even been in Cyrodiil for months.” Leda’s hand rested on the sleeping Jocasta’s head, stroking her hair.

“Something. We must be even more careful now.”

"Did she try to seduce you?"

“Of course she did.” Doron had slipped into the bed on his wife’s other side. ”I was tempted to drag her into the corner and humble her right there, just to say I'd done it. Arrogant bitch.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because it would diminish me more than her. I’m not about to lick Draconus’ dirty plate after he’s had his fill. Anyway, I prefer the taste of Nibenese.” The chancellor pulled the covers back to get a look at Jocasta, then bent his mouth to his wife’s thighs.

Before Leda’s mind slipped away, she pondered her husband's words. Doron had ever been a cautious man, but it was not time to be careful. Time was ripe to act, before it was too late. The Lady would give them the power. Soon, the Nord’s blood would be poured out on her shrine.

 

[The Good Doctor]

Trevis Hayne
Chorrol

Trevis found that it took a surprising amount of effort to keep his eyes fixed on those of the Breton across from him, and not on the horrific acid burns that spanned his face and neck. The deformities were recent, still covered in glistening scabs of dark pink and brown 
According to the Breton, the burns were the doing of some daedric summon. It would not have been of any interest to Trevis if not for the fact that the man was a sellsword of the Silver Brigade, and this most recent attack on them was the closest thing he had to any kind of lead in his hunt for Boldir and Mila. It was a stretch, and he had a difficult time hiding his frustration.

"So this," Trevis motioned all over his face. "Is the Nord's doing?"

"Yes." The sellsword's mug twisted in what might have once been a scowl back when he had eyebrows. "I already told you, the bitch summoned it."

"Right. And the man. Dark haired, large, had an axe?"

"That's right. Well, large as any Nord, I mean."

"The one I'm after isn't as large as any Nord. You'd have noticed. He is scarred too. Not as badly as you, but you'd know it if you got a good look."

The Breton glared at him for a moment, obviously sensitive about the scars. "Well maybe he was a little bigger than average, and maybe he was scarred. As it happens, I didn't get all that good of a look."

Trevis sighed, and pulled a wanted poster from his desk. "Is this the Nord that abducted your boss?" Trevis watched the man study the picture for a few seconds, and then added. "I'll know if you're lying, Breton."

The sellsword's shoulders slumped. "No, Inspector, that's not him. They've got a resemblance, though. Same hair. Same, uh, same shape. Perhaps they're kin, eh? You'd do well to go after mine. Could be that he's affiliated with yours."

"We're done here." After the Breton closed the door, Trevis slammed his fist on his desk, just beside Boldir's likeness. "Damn it!"
Never before had an assignment frustrated him like this one. He had followed dozens of leads, lost good men, and even gotten inches away from capturing his target. And now here he sat, in gods damned Chorrol without a single clue what to do next. Trevis felt a trickle on his knuckles and looked down to find that he'd busted one against the desk. The bloody Nords are rubbing off on me.

He sighed and fell back in his chair. All this business with the Silver Brigade led somewhere, Trevis was sure of it. But he was also sure that it wasn't anywhere he cared to go. The Iron-Brows were his interest, not some pissed off Breton noble or whoever it was that had it out for the sellswords. This most recent attack only solidified his previous assumption that Boldir's engagement with them in the Imperial City was purely coincidental. If the Spymaster wants to pursue this, she can send someone else.

Trevis wrote as much in his report, right after shamefully stating that he had no new updates on the search for Sibbi Black-Briar's killers. The next few days were just more of the same. There were three false "Boldir sightings" two of which turned out to just be large men who otherwise looked nothing like him. The third was an old and grumpy farmer who claimed to have seen a neighbor sneaking them out of his cellar during the night. A lie, of course. The fool had gotten drunk and decided to settle their land dispute by getting his competitor arrested. He ended up behind bars instead.

It was not until a week after his talk with the sellsword that something interesting came up. It did not sound like an especially promising lead, but at least it was something new. 

Trevis stared at the the Chorrol watch officer blankly. "Mute children? You're kidding."

"I wish I was, sir. It's horrible, really. Poor whelps got scars all on 'em. Some are missing fingers, ears, an eye. But none have their tongues."

"And you think they, of all people, have seen the ones I'm after?"

"There's one, sir. Little lad. He carried a piece of parchment with a girl and a big man drawn on it. The man's got an axe and armor much like what's worn by those Grim Ones you've brought."

Trevis ran a hand over the course whiskers on his chin. He had skipped out on shaving for several days now. Another bad habit he was picking up from the Nords. "Where did they come from?"

"The caretaker says they've been brought from Weynon Priory. Apparently they'd been locked up in some noblewoman's house. Lady named Roseloe Valga. The city watch insisted that they'd look into it themselves. That it wouldn't of any importance to what we're doing."

Valga? That was interesting. Any Colovian who knew their history would have been familiar with that name. "I'll decide what is important to what we're doing. Take Bentrius and find out whatever you can. If someone tries to stop you, remind them who we work for."
After dismissing the man, Trevis got up and went for his cloak. He wanted to meet these children myself.

Maborel Orphanage was run by a Mara devotee. She informed Trevis that there were eleven of the children in total. Four boys had remained with the monks at Weynon Priory, and another four were outside playing with the other children. The remaining three sat at a table together in one of the building's many rooms. They were rapidly scribbling words onto pieces of paper and passing them back and forth.

Trevis stood in the doorway and watched them with the proprietor. She smiled sadly. "The oldest is Gertrude." She nodded to a girl with wispy blonde hair and very pale skin who looked like she might have been a year or younger than Mila. "The little lad across from her is Iniel, and the one with red hair we call Goblin."

"Goblin?"

She frowned. "I thought it was a cruel thing to call the boy, but he likes it and refuses to give us a name."

"I see. I'm going to need to speak to them."

"Of course, just please treat them gently. They have been through so much."

"I will, I promise. I would like to speak with Gertrude first."

"Alone?" That seemed to make her uneasy.

"You may accompany us if you wish. But I'd rather speak to them one-by-one."

"Okay," she gave a hesitant nod and then called out, "Gertrude, sweetling, this nice man is from the capital. He would like to speak with you."

The children looked up, and Trevis immediately saw the fear and worry in their eyes. He smiled. "You don't need to be afraid. I only want to ask some questions." He motioned to the papers scattered around their table. "You three must be very smart, to write so well so young."

The one named Iniel held up one of the papers and showed him an illustration of a large tree covered in strange decorations, and with what looked like tiny smiling people dancing around it. It appeared to be some local holiday,

"Goodness, did you draw that?"

The boy nodded and smiled proudly.

"You have Dibella's gift, young man." The children seemed to relax a little, and Trevis held out his hand to the eldest. "If I could borrow just a few minutes of your time? We only need to go to the next room."

The girl looked at him silently for a few moments, blinked, and then finally nodded. She grabbed her paper and quill before following him across the hall to a very similar room. Trevis allowed her to choose her own seat before taking the one across from it. "It's Gertrude, correct? That's a pretty name. Strong."

Her pale cheeks reddened a tad, and the corner of her lip twitched up. She placed her blank paper onto the center of the table, laid the quill atop it, and then tapped it with two fingers.

"Yes, this is how you speak," Trevis said with a nod. "It's clever." He slid the paper back to her. "You have been through a lot, Gertrude. And I'll see to it that the Emperor and Empress themselves know what happened. But I need a little help, first. From you. Can you nod so I know that you understand me?"

She looked at him, then back to the paper, then she pushed it back to the center of the table and tapped it again. 

Trevis looked down at the blank sheet. "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

Gertrude tapped the paper again, pointed at him, and then sat back with her arms folded.

"You want me to write? Write what?" The girl shrugged. Confused, Trevis picked up the quill. He wasn't sure where she was going with this. "How about my name? Is that what you want?" The girl shrugged again. He swore he could see a hint of amusement in her eyes. "Alright then." Trevis dipped the quill in ink and proceeded to write his name.

Trevis Hayne

Gertrude snatched the paper the moment he finished, and held out her hand for the quill. Trevis chuckled and handed it over. She scrawled out her reply and turned the paper around. 

Gertrude

You have pretty handwriting

"Thank you. So do you." And she did. The girl's writing was no peasant scratch. The words were straight, and there was an artistic curviness in the lettering. He wondered if there was a pair of wealthy parents in the world who wrongly believed that their little girl was dead, or if they themselves had been killed when she was taken.
As Trevis looked back up, Gertrude frowned and resumed her folded-arm stance. She looked at him, then at the paper. Ah, I think I get it. He took the paper back and wrote his next question:

You want me to write everything too?

Gertrude smiled, and wrote her reply.

Yes

Why?

Why not? Are you in a hurry?

Trevis could see that she was enjoying this. She had made a game of him. But what was the harm in playing along?

I suppose not.

Yes! Do you really know the Emperor and Empress?

No, but I work for them. If I have something important to say, they'll hear me.

What do you do for them?

I'm an Inspector of the Penitus Oculatus. I do lots of things. Right now, I try to find people.

Trevis watched the mute child slowly mouth the unfamiliar name of his organization. She wrote her response very meticulously.

Penitus Oculatus. Can you say it out loud?

Sorry. That would be against the rules.

Trevis smirked, and the girl looked shocked when she read his message. Like she had expected him to go completely easy on her. She made a face at him, and then replied.

Come on, Trevis!

He smiled, and slowly spoke the words, "Penitus Oculatus." Then he took back the quill.

Everything you'd hoped for?

It sounds fancy. Do you have children?

His smile waned a little. I'm sorry, Gertrude. I need to ask you the questions now.

He saw the disappointment in the girl, but reminded himself that he was here for a reason. Their game was cute, but he couldn't spend all day passing notes with an orphan. Her response was one word:

Okay

I heard that it was a large man and his girl who found you. Do you know what their names were?

Bold Ear was the man. He was nice to me. The girl was Mila.

Trevis snorted before continuing.

It's Boldir, actually. They brought you to the monks at Weynon Priory but then left shortly after. Did either of them say where they were going?

I am pretty sure it was Bold Ear.

Maybe you're right. Do you know where Bold Ear went?

Is he in trouble?

Maybe. He has been involved in bad things and I need to sort out what happened.

I don't know where he went.

Trevis frowned when he read that last letter, and frowned deeper still when he looked in Gertrude's eyes and knew she was lying. She folded her arms like before and shook her head, then mouthed the word, sorry.

There had been few moments since his induction during which Trevis had no idea how to respond to something. This was one of them. If an adult had brazenly lied and denied him information like that, he'd have given them one more chance on a good day, and started taking fingers on a bad one. But as he glared at the poor, tortured child, he felt sickened that the thought had even flickered past his mind. He took back the quill.

Thank you, Gertrude. It has been a pleasure.

Trevis sighed as he followed her back to the first room and motioned for the boy called Goblin to come next. This one was a couple years younger, and a few drops less feisty. Unlike Gertrude, Goblin was content to respond when Trevis spoke.

"Why do you go by Goblin?"

The freckled child opened his his mouth wide, revealing the mutilated stump at the back of his throat. He then made a sound that resembled some high pitched monster's growl.

"I understand." Trevis did not understand at all. "Well, I'm sure you're a fierce young goblin."

The boy shook his head.

"A nice goblin?"

The boy nodded.

"Excellent. Then that makes you a rare breed, indeed." 

The boy looked proud to hear it. He opened his mouth, and to Trevis' surprise, managed to struggle out a guttural sound that might've been the word "thanks."

"Your friend Gertrude wrote down her name for me. Can you do the same?"

Goblin nodded.

Goblin.

His handwriting was much more what Trevis would've expected from a peasant Colovian child. "Thank you. Mine is Trevis Hayne." He decided to try a different approach this time. "I have been searching very long for a friend of mine. A large man named Bold-Ear, and I've heard that he is the one who saved you. Is that true?"

Goblin smiled and nodded.

"Do you know where he went? He might need my help."

Another nod. Goblin started writing. After a few moments, he looked up, noticed Trevis was watching him, and used his left arm to shield his paper while he wrote. The inspector couldn't imagine what the boy was up to, as an entire two minutes passed before the feather finally stopped moving. The wait made sense when Goblin passed him the paper, and revealed that an entire illustration had been drawn.

Trevis looked down at the crude but unmistakable likenesses of Boldir, Mila, and a dog of all things. They were standing on a beach with castle walls to their left and a sailboat in the background. Boldir and Mila held hands and smiled, as did the dog. Beneath it all was a single written word. Anvil.

He could have hugged the child. Instead, he thanked him and asked if he could keep the picture. Goblin nodded as if to say "of course", and the inspector felt uncharacteristically tempted to ruffle the boy's red hair. He didn't do that either. 
As he left, Trevis looked back in the room where Gertrude and the younger boy sat. The girl looked up at him questioningly. He winked and took his leave.

"I didn't expect the children to take to you so well, Inspector," the caretaker admitted when they stepped outside. "Have you considered adoption?"

"No, and I'm still not considering it." He glared at the woman. "I'll have one of my people look into discovering if any of them have living parents or families. You will find good homes for the ones who don't."

"Of course."

Trevis felt elated as he returned to his quarters. After months of searching and close calls, he finally had a lead that was promising. He spent the next few hours with Thorald, Bentrius, and a handful of his other men and Grim Ones, filling in the gaps and making sure everyone was caught up on the situation. For whatever reason, Boldir and Mila had broken into an absent noblewoman's home, killed her servant, and released a bunch of children who were apparently being held for some sort of dark magic. Nobody had a damned clue why they would have done something like this, or how they could've even known that Lady Valga was a witch when the entire rest of Cyrodiil had failed to notice.

Trevis included it all in his report to White Gold. Every detail about what had been done to the children, and everything his people had been able to gather on Roseloe Valga. It wasn't his mission to hunt the witch, but he was going to make damn sure that someone else did. He pulled one of his men aside when he gave it to him. "The Valgas are an old and powerful family," he told him. "They once ruled this County. And they are very close to the rulers of Chorrol. I don't care how you do it, but I want this delivered directly to the Emperor and Empress. Not Lady Quentas. Not our superiors in the Penitus Oculatus. It's important that this doesn't fall through any cracks."

The man he chose for the job was one of his oldest friends, an ex-Legionnaire from Bravil named Dunen. Trevis prayed to the Nine that the man trusted him enough to carry out the orders, because he somehow doubted that Lillin Quentas or the rest of the Oculatus would be pleased to discover that he was going behind their backs. But that was a potential problem for another day.

Trevis, the Grim Ones, and eight of his own men set out that very night. If Boldir and Mila were in Anvil, then he likely did not have long before they found a ship. After all, what else would killers on the run have gone there for?

[ColonelKillaBee]

Ragna and Baldur

"A sauna. There has to be a sauna, a large one."

"Okay... we could put it... over here, how's that?"

"Mmmm... out a bit more, away from where the house will be. More. More... there! Need someplace where people won't be stepping in the snow so much. Need a good mound after sweating." Baldur was pacing back and forth, this way and that, trying to get a good idea of what the place would look like. From the angle he stood now, he could see the rest of the town below, and they got a good look at the sea as well. Masser and Secunda would be as clear as Kyne's ass hanging from the sky... marvelous.

"Ehh, may I ask, why you'd need to worry about having snow around the sauna?" 

Baldur looked past the Breton man, watching his workers who thankfully were Nords. "To jump in afterwards of course." The nods of approval just made the Breton scoff.

"Nords. Whatever, it will be done. Lets see... library wing, two bedroom wings... I'm sorry, but the measurements for the second one... why so large?"

"Necessity. The wife and I... lets just say we're gonna need it."

"Planning on starting an orphanage?" the Breton stood beneath Baldur so he had to address him. He was getting tired of following the Nord around while dodging the crew.

Baldur sighed. "No, I mean we fuck a lot. Happy?"

"Not particularly," said the Breton. Whether it was because he regretted asking or because he wished he had the same problem, he didn't say. "Anyway it will be done, assuming you have the coin..."

"How long have you been in Skyrim? You do know who I am?"

"Of course. But I also heard you weren't using your capital's funds for any of this... it won't come cheap."

"I'll have you know that before I started all this king madness, I was, am a successful writer. Mostly." Baldur placed a heavy sack of coin in the Breton's hand which he immediately secured in a chest which he promptly locked and had carried away. 

What Baldur didn't say was that was practically all of what he'd had saved up from his little writing venture. He hadn't had any contact with Magdela Bathory for some time now, and Rebec never mentioned whether or not he received anymore funds for the books. He was especially expecting a good return for the newest one he had published just before Windhelm was attacked. The Nord Way...

It was clear that his most popular pieces were the poems depicting more tawdry subject matter, so he decided to play on that and Cyrodiil's momentary infatuation with Nordic culture, partly thanks to their newfound Emperor, as well as their upcoming role in the war. He was sure there'd be gold. And hopefully soon.

Baldur almost forgot Ragna was even around until she began to stir behind him in the little fur bundle he borrowed from Rebec. She was off with Arle somewhere, and Ysana needed a break from babysitting, so papa had baby duty that day. All the sounds of sawing and hammering woke the child up, and she soon let them know exactly what she thought of it.

"Shhh, we're going to eat soon, then we're gonna find mama, promise." She almost quieted at the mention of mama, but the sobbing continued not long after. Baldur learned not to fight it. He shook the Breton's hand, and made his way down the rolling hill till the two were lost amongst the wooden cabins below.

By the time they made it home, Rebec still wasn't around, so Baldur had a little time off to himself, sort of. Ragna wasn't crying, only fussing until Baldur shoved a sweetroll and some mushed carrot in front of her and dabbed a bit of mead on it to calm her. A trick he learned from Ysana. He wasn't sure if it was good for the baby or not but when Ysana said she did the same thing to him, he figured it was fine. He turned out okay for the most part, right?

While Ragna mumbled to herself between bites of sweetroll, Baldur noticed a few letters addressed to him on the cupboard...

"Well well well... I'll be," he said. He noticed the stack of gold neatly placed beside the letters as well, and that the seals were broken. Rebec's handiwork, no doubt, though he still managed to make out what the first seal was.

It was a large ribboned seal, a cluster of grapes before crossed swords. It was in a neat feminine hand.

His Majesty, High King Baldur Red Snow

Congratulations are in order on multiple fronts. I hope Skingrad can soon receive royal visitors from Skyrim. You and your lovely wife and offspring are always welcome in our castle.

Secondly, you can tell from the weight of the sack attending this missive that your poems have sold well, particularly in the northern Counties, where Nord nationalist feeling still runs hot, as does its opposite. I expect that with the news of your coronation, sales will skyrocket. May I arrange a visit from the Black Horse Courier? A firsthand interview about the Moot and your plans for the war would be a great boon to our profits.

On that subject, enclosed you will find an itemized accounting of your earnings minus imperial taxes and my fees, etc. Please see that all your gold is there. Messengers are so unreliable these days. I bid you good fortune and good writing.

Respectfully,

Magdela Bathory, Reunion Press

Countess of Skingrad

P.S. I have also enclosed some fan mail. It is but a sampling.

 

There were two other letters. One was in a more childish feminine script.

Baldur RED SNOW

Balder my friends all read your poems but I am your BIGGEST FAN. I don't care if you're a barbarian Nord. I want you to INVADE ME. Can you send me an autograph?

Yours sinserly,

Alveda Canius, Low Street, Cheydinhal

 

The other was in block charcoal on homemade parchment, with no heading or signature.

My wife reads your books and left me because I'm not romantic enough. When I get my hands on you and that Skingrad bitch, you are dead. P.S. I got big hands.

 

"Imperials," he said, tossing the additional letters into the fireplace. "Sinserly. Barbarian indeed." 

He watched the flames dance as they consumed the paper. If that's what his fans were like, he wasn't sure he wanted any. He didn't know how long he sat there, looking at the fire as it danced, enchanting his mind until he saw figures amongst the flame. Living things, people, both recognizable and not. Boldir... Carlotta... Mila. Then, his father, and Ulfric after... Daric.

Luckily, Ragna's playful sounds snapped him out of his trance. When it did, he noticed the mess his daughter made out of the sweet roll... then the smell.

Sighing, he decided to tackle it head on, disposing of the deed outside with a quick Yol before returning to his daughter who absolutely needed a bath.

She loved the water luckily. Must've gotten that from Rebec. Splashing and slapping the basin water this way and that until Baldur's wavy blonde hair almost looked brown from her soaking him. "Guess you thought papa needed a bath too, aye?"

She giggled, bouncing around in the water as she held onto his locks. Now that she was clean, warm and fed, Ragna fell asleep heavy on her papa's chest as he read in his rocking chair, listening to her soft slumbering at his neck. Her fat fingers curled contently at his chest fur, and like mama was soon sent to drooling. 

He stayed like that for a time until he too fell into a soft slumber. She was still sleeping in her fur blanket when his nap was over, and placed her in her little Nord ship he and Vigge made together while he continued practicing the craft in the old man's stead.

Baldur never did visit the man in his final resting place. Didn't know what to say. Rebec never said it, but he knew his death was partially his fault... it was all he could do to honor his memory. He was no ace carver of wood yet, but he did okay for a novice, making the faces of gods in wooden planks, and making the frames of what would be stuffed animals for Ragna like some of the stuff he and Rebec already bought for her in Windhelm. The mammoth already seemed to be a favorite of hers. It was the only one that got to stay in the crib along with her. The rest were quickly cast out, fallen from the graces of Princess Ragna.

It was good that the frames would be mostly unseen since his woodwork still needed, well, work. Baldur pictured the axe Boldir made for Rebec, the one Baldur aptly named Kyne's Talon, and frowned at his attempt at a totem like what Ysana and Vigge did for the door frame outside. The animal totems and the man and woman at the top with the child in the middle... that's what he tried to recreate. Only in the attempt did he come to appreciate the old man's talents even more. 

He sighed in frustration and threw the tools and wood in their box and pushed them under the bed where poor Stuhnir was sleeping before he scooped Ragna back up and went for another stroll.

He tried to locate Rebec by the docks... he was sure he felt her thu'um somewhere around there, perhaps on the beach, but before he could get that far Ysana and Waverunner stopped him at a table surrounded by sailors.

"What you up to, son?"

"I told you, stop calling me that," said Baldur.

"Hey we're practically family now, right?" he said, grinning with an arm around his mother who was all too happy to watch Baldur squirm a bit. 

Baldur gave him a fox-like smile. "Sure, why not. Red-Snow pas don't last too long anyway. I killed my first one. Welcome to the family, Waverunner. I mean, pa."

Waverunner was about to laugh it off until he saw the look Ysana was giving him. "No shit, you're serious. You landlubbers sure are an uptight bunch."

"Not all of us, just the blockhead soldier types," said Ysana. "I much prefer sailors."

"I know you do..." he said grinning again and pulling Ysana closer until he saw Baldur's hand clench. Luckily for him, one of his sailor buddies interrupted.

"Eyyyy! You three! Want in on this?" The three Red-Snows, and Waverunner walked over to the table where a Nord and a khajiit were sitting. Strangely enough they were stabbing the table repeatedly, more specifically the space between their outstretched fingers with some odd knife Baldur never saw before, almost like a cutlass cut short and with holes for fingers under the hand guard.

"It's called a Skull Cracker!" said the sailor, seeing the king eye the weapon. "See this at the bottom? That metal wedge? That's how it gets the name. You can stab with this, punch... crack! Interested? You gotta beat me if you want it though..."

"Ack! Damnit!" the khajiit interrupted, sucking on his paw. "Don't do it, smooth skin. This one's a con artist. He's got some daedra possessing him or something. His reflexes are otherworldly..."

"Bah, daedra my ass," said Baldur waving away the claim. "That knife. I want it. I'll put a keg of my best mead on the line for it."

"Done. This is a real sailor's weapon, yer highness. You made the right choice..." The Nord was practically drooling at the premise of having mead good enough for a king. His rusty tongue could already feel itself bathing in it.

Baldur cracked his knuckles, sitting whilst giving a slumbering Ragna over to Waverunner. "Never did this before... mind if I give it a try first for practice?"

"By all means," said the sailer, leaning back in his chair confidently as he watched. He smiled as Baldur placed his big scared bear hand upon the table. Those were the fingers of a skull crusher. A big lumbering oaf, not a nimble man like himself. Yet even so, after Baldur mimicked the pattern he saw the two stab in the table around his own fingers, his smile faded.

"Is this good?" Baldur posed the question even as the knife that would soon be his was a whirl, looking the man dead in the eye. When Baldur was done, the man got up and told him to keep it. Baldur shrugged and thanked him as the sailor's buds were laughing. He got conned good. Baldur's wife was Rebec the Hull-Breaker after all. And even before then, it's not like soldiers had much better to do then needlessly risk their fingers for sport and betting. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd seen it done.

Content with himself, Baldur made his way back home, sure that Rebec would be there now, waiting for the two. Ragna happily sang as Baldur did the same beneath the blanket of stars that lit their way back home beneath the snow covered wooden homes. 

The old man's knocking, knock knock knock, hear him calling for his flock, but they're all slinging, tick tick tick, slingin that pickaxe, pick pick pick! 

The pretty girl's calling, oh oh oh! Swingin that bossom to and fro, don't let her in, oh no no no, or the wife will start slingin at yer oh oh oh! 

The dragon's snoring... snore snore snore, lets not mention him anymore, and if the Imps try to wake him, wake wake wake! Shut them up quick fer goodness sake!

"Cute song," said someone, but Baldur couldn't see who it was until he stepped out of the shadows. 

He turned around to see a familiar face. The bandit boy from Ynihinundr's clan. 

"Ald," said Baldur for short. He didn't like this. Or the look on his face when Baldur said his name. His worries were soon confirmed when six other men stepped out of the shadows as well.

The sound of steel drawing from leather... Ragna was still babbling, trying to sing the song.

"Brother... a baby! He's got a child."

"So? Wouldn't be the first child that died."

Baldur's eyes were aflame. "Your lot is supposed to be in the barracks... Whatever grievances you have boy, we can settle this later. Man to man."

"Whatever grievances? You fucker. You MURDERED my kin! My father might not care, he's got enough sons that he won't die alone. But I do. Blood demands blood. I'd have taken it out on that wife of yours instead, but we found you first. Quick! Kill em!"

Baldur was hesitant to use Yol, so close to the homes of others. Instead he spoke until the Nords could hear him in their heads with Tinvaak.

"Stand down. You come a step closer to my child, and you'll wish you were dead." 

They remembered this strange sensation at the battle for their fort. They didn't know the words he spoke, but it was Nordic, they were sure, and they could understand him. They also could see visions of their deaths, clear as day. They didn't want this anyway. Killing him was one thing, but a child? 

"On your knees, I am your King! I won't tell you again."

The brothers eyed one another. They'd been in Kyne's Watch long enough to know what sort of warriors dwelt here. They were tough to be sure, but they'd already proven themselves to them at the fort. They missed their brothers as much as Ald did, but enough was enough. They relented.

Ald and one other however, stood firm. "Cowards!" he cried, charging Baldur anyway. With only two targets it was easier to thu'um without worrying about collateral damage. The flame engulfed the boys, but they kept coming, unaffected...

He didn't have time to ponder on what happened. Ald was on him in the blink of an eye, but not before his brother caught one of Baldur's axes as it flew past Ald's head. He didn't even stop to see if it struck true. His sword got so close it cut strands of Baldur's hair. He juked left and right, as if he was trying to get him to expose his back... By Talos, he was. 

He was fast. Especially compared to a man carrying a child on his back. Several times now Baldur lost sight of him and had to turn quick to protect Ragna, blocking what he could, and taking the blows he couldn't in her stead, leather tearing along with skin. Ald was gleeful.

When Baldur dropped his axe, Ald went in for the kill. Mistake. Faking the degree of injury Ald inflicted on him, Baldur grabbed the boy's sword arm and twisted it out of his hand before his thumb hooked itself in the boy's eye, grabbing his head and ramming it into the house behind him again and again and again, until there was nothing left but a bloody paste against the wood. His skull, lost amongst the gore and reduced to bits.

The others did nothing, only watched on their knees as if paralyzed. It was a long time before Baldur realized the boy was now dead, and Ragna's crying finally registered.

When he snapped out of whatever had just happened, he noticed the Stormcloaks standing in attendance behind the brothers, and the family of the house he was knocking the boy's skull on as well.

He ignored them, eyes spying something silver beneath the bloody mess that was Scathe's boy. A necklace, amulet. With a snake surrounding a fist. He examined the other brother and sure enough he wore a similar necklace. In fact, they all were.

"Take them. Give them to the islanders. They wanted a sacrifice. Tomorrow, they'll have one."

The boys protested, begging for forgiveness, and Baldur took out his new blade from his boot and bled the closest one to him, stabbing him repeatedly in the nethers, leaving him in the snow. 

Spitting, Baldur said, "I forgive him!" The protesting stopped.

Baldur wandered back home, wordless even as Ragna continued crying. He gave her another bath, basin water running red from blood that managed to speckle her hair. She cried herself to complete exhaustion, and after Baldur cleaned and bandaged himself, he almost felt like joining her for a time. But he didn't.

Instead he cleaned his blade, changed Ragna's diaper once more, and fell asleep beside his daughter and her mother who was already fast asleep as he predicted. He thought on her words, about making his family a target...

No. This isn't because I'm king. I wasn't king when Ynihinundr died. They didn't come here raiding because I'm king. 

Even so, Baldur didn't stay with them, instead leaving them to find his mother to heal his wounds and not wanting to give Rebec something else to worry about. Tonight he'd lick his wounds. Tomorrow...

Retribution. The Nord way.

[TheCzarsHussar]

(Author's note, this post was necessary for the plots in Roscrea and should have been started and finished a long time ago, which is my fault. This post takes place before the one I couldn't find, which is linked in this post for clarity)

Middland Plateau, Roscrea
Oppidum of Ecoriobriga

Little was said the following day, the Druid gathered Oges and Demara from their uncomfortable slumber. He explained to the two Bretons how it was best they all leave, the EEC vessels docked in Boiliobris had refused to leave harbor and now Akaluthwain and his folk were preparing to enforce the demands of the High Chieftains... and Berahthram.

No doubt to the relief of the Bretons there wasn't any more walking to do, the Druid brought them to the standing stones within the Oppidum, there the two Bretons instantly stared at another pair of stones after their Druid caste his spells. Oges' ears popped from the change in altitude and he could even smell the difference in the air, he could smell rain on the horizon. They would have waited for the Druid to follow them through were it not for a much younger man, who no doubt was the receiving caster. He wasn't remarkable looking, appearing like any other Roscrean native only in white robes he looked awkward in.

"Baron Oges, fair welcome to the Middland. Ruled by his majesty Cassivelogenos Ecoriobrikon, High Chieftain and bearer of thirty six torcs."

"What can you tell me of this place?" Baron Oges asked, looking around at the cavern. It was the most peculiar thing, it looked natural minus the archaic candle fixtures jutting from the cavern's walls. Of which had Oges not known better looked nigh black, the air felt damp and had the slight smell of salt.

"You're in the Oppidum of Ecoriobriga, atop the Godsthrone and within one of it's lava tubes."

When Oges stepped forward, and felt his stomach heave a bit. He stopped and steadied himself, and took the moment to ask, "A volcano? I assume it's safe?"

"You don't think people would actually dwell atop and around an active volcano?!" The younger Druid looked astonished at the thought of it. "The Godsthrone has been extinct for, gods know how long, probably since the Merethic. Good Bretons, this is the safest place in all Roscrea. The might of Uriel Septim couldn't breach the Tuya."

"You'd be surprised," Oges muttered to himself. He took a deep breath to get his stomach under control as Demara took a moment to sit down behind him, while one of his guards leaned agains the wall of the cave. "Well, I'd like to see the place Uriel could not breach. But first, what can I expect from the High Chieftain here?"

"Cassivelogenos prior to his ascension as High Chieftain served as the Great Champion of the Neitos, invading an isle in the Padomaic. His actions there earned his moniker as "Who-Fell-Deaf-To-Stuhn", needless to say he returned with considerable wealth. Marrying into the clan family of Ecoriobrikon, succeeding his father-in-law as High Chieftain. You can expect a um, a figure of ambition and eh, bringer of prosperity. The seat of Ecoriobriga is a mighty one."

”How are it’s relations with Divine's Lament?” Oges asked.

"That's nowhere near the Middland Plateau, his majesty is at the head of a Chiefdom yes but what you've mentioned is in another one entirely." Said the Druid. "Our interactions are probably to be brief, but I'm Louernios by the way! It's the first time I've seen anyone from Tamriel, had to learn the language though."

“Baron Vincent Oges,” he said. “You’ve learned well, I’d say. Anything else I need to know before I meet the Chieftain?”

Louernios gestured forward with his arm, the group walked a short way through the lava tunnel until it branched off in two directions. Louernios led the Bretons left up to a spiraled staircase cut from the basalt itself, prior to ascending from the tunnels up the narrow steps the Druid halted. "Actually, have you ever heard of Dragon Priests and their loose flamboyant robes?"

“No, I can’t say I know much about their dress,” Oges said. “Is it important that I do?”

"Not at all." Said Louernios. "You'll just be a little surprised at the Middland nobility is all."

He led them up single file with the Druid in the front, they ascended for around a minute give or take. The Bretons certainly felt colder once they stepped above ground, they were within a conical room of unplastered dull grey stonework. It's only furniture being a hearth and some wall mounted icons, and murals. Louernios ushered the group out, insisting in the case of Demara when she wanted to stay and study them.

Outside it seemed somewhat foggy, Oges' clothing getting slightly damp from it. He didn't know what to expect after being teleporting inside a volcano, it wasn't want he thought seeing a barbaric albeit efficient paved ground. Emerging from the conical building Oges, in the small area he could see, were a set of vaguely Nordic buildings. They were about to continue when Louernios eyed Oges.

"Would you by any chance, like to look over the edge?"

"Yes, yes I would," Demara said before Oges could open his mouth. "And those murals back there, is there any chance I could have someone sketch them? They are fascinating, truly fascinating. The iconography..."

"Is not to be transcribed, you may translate our sagas, etch copies of our pantheon's murals, but those of our champions and heroes are sacred beyond scholarly pursuits. What you wish is no different from defiling a grave." Louernios swiftly put an end to that form of questioning.

Her voice trailed off. Oges was regretting letting her come along, though he supposed she might be of assistance in the future. In talking to her it was clear she grasped things he did not about these people. To the druid Oges said, "I would like to as well."

They were led through the narrow pathways, between the buildings of which Oges couldn't quite tell if they were households or not. There wasn't a single wooden structure within, from what he's seen thus far the place was a far cry compared to the others in Roscrea he'd seen before. His mind thought to the Old Fort at the mortarless stones, seemingly stacked atop one another. Once perfect edges weathering with age. It was strangely mystical, surprising that hands of men built it.

The damnedest thing happened, in the blink of an eye the fog passed. Oges turned around and saw it moving away behind him. Louernios found it amusing, but kept any explanation for when they looked over the edge. There was finally some activity when they emerged onto a wider road, a few natives went about walking. It now made sense to Oges what the Druid asked about, these natives wore richly dyed robes, loose and flamboyant. Instead of the stripped and checkered patterns Oges had seen elsewhere in Roscrea they had solid colors.

Taken the Bretons the opposite direction from the natives heading inward, they were brought over to the walls. Modestly large towers lined the walls, it's crenelations painstakingly carved with depictions of different armored warriors. Demara was the first to rush over, peering outward. She made a couple quick notes, but soon turned to study the crenelations. She took a sheet of parchment from her satchel and began sketching the face and armor.

The other Bretons came to gaze over at the volcanic plateau, while the extinct tuya volcano had a dark appearance of basalt, the surrounding land was without forests and heavily cultivated. Fertility and volcanoes didn't mix in Oges' mind. They could see a great distance over the seemingly endless plateau, their own position was elevated to the cloud level, it wasn't fog at all but passing clouds Oges came to realize. Below what he now could see as a sort of acropolis was the rest of Ecoriobriga, nestled at the base of the volcano and he assumed to circle the entire thing. Which in retrospect wasn't even that large or high.

What truly boggled his mind were dark areas around some other elevated positions in the plateau, they had the same coloration as this volcano's basalt.

“Quite a view,” Oges said. Pointing to dark areas, he asked, “What are those? Parts of the volcano?”

"Those are patches of volcanic deserts, plenty of rain to sustain vegetation but the soil erosion from the common eruptions prevents any. They're commonplace around the active if not insignificant volcanoes in the plateau, however they're few and far placed. Most of the plateau is either barren rock or fertile from the ancient volcanic ash." Said Louernios.

“When was the last eruption?” Demara asked, not bothering to look away from the crenelation.

"Of the Godsthrone? Some time in the Merethic we believe, if you're asked about the varies volcanoes in the plateau, then well." Not that Demara could see it, he pointed towards one of the small basaltic deserts on the horizon. "That's the Ass of Orkey, it has fairly regular activity but hasn't properly erupted in known history, it normally and excuse the crudeness, 'farts' out lava flows."

Demara looked up when Oges chuckled at the name. She said, “Which one is the Ass of Orkey?”

"I hope you aren't thinking of seeing it, directly that is, nobody settles in the basaltic deserts for a reason. Besides the infertile landscape there's always the risk of falling into a magma tube, burning your legs off."

“What? No. I wanted to sketch it,” she said. “With a name like that it will certainly catch a reader’s attention.”

"Your readers will be disappointed then, the Godsthrone was the largest of the Roscrean volcanoes. The Ass of Orkey is a bump in comparison." Despite what he said, Louernios pointed in it's direction. "Baron Oges, think it's time to wake up the High Chieftain? So long as our good scholar understands what she can and cannot transcribe we can leave her, if she needs us the citadel palace is in the center."

"Yes, I do," Oges said. "If you'll lead the way." The vertical cliffs with fortifications atop it reminded him of Cavern Mount in High Rock, though that formation was large enough only for a castle, not cities and farmland. After they'd left the wall, and Demara, behind, Oges asked, "You said Uriel could not breach the volcano. Has anyone? How does one reach the top?"

"What you've done, only way to the top. Technically you could also levitate up but given how easily it is to cast a dispel against someone, can't assault it that way. In fact Uriel the fifth tried sneaking a battlemage up that way during his first siege, it's recorded she miscast a slowfall spell. He ended up conquering it when they celebrated a little too much after the first failed siege, didn't prepare enough supplies when he showed up again." 

Louernios explained on the short walk towards the center, of which wasn't uphill nor down the tuya, that all the industry, markets and whatnot weren't atop the Godsthrone. That the majority of the Oppidum's mid-twenty thousand something population dwelt beneath the acropolis, the Middland's highest noble classes enjoyed the safety up top. Around seven to eight thousand.

Louernios looked very pleased with things when they reached the citadel's outer gatehouse, the metal entrance didn't have any engravings or carvings like Divine's Lament's quasi-castle. Also unlike the castle were that the entrance was left open, ascending the small flight of stairs shown why the man was almost proud. The citadel palace was in all shapes and forms Atmoran, Roscrean architecture largely evolved over time but there were rare examples of architectural stagnation.

There was evidently two walls surrounding the palace, one outer set protecting the compound and an inner one doubling as a walkway into the citadel itself. Four towers jutted from the walls, their purpose unknown. Totemic statues that were larger than life were the first thing that drew the eye, theologically representing the entire Atmoran pantheon, including even the Dragon and Fox. They sat atop the left of the palace, Hawk elevated higher than the others. The front facing section was set with lines of brilliant pillars culminating in statues of men at the top. Louernios wished the Bretons had seen the ancient ruins in Skyrim so that a maintained masterwork of Atmoran work was all the more impressive.

"We won't see Demara for hours," Oges said. "I imagine she'll want to sketch all of these totems, and the citadel itself. I can't blame her, it is impressive. Are these men your heroes, or former chieftains?"

"Renowned Chieftains from the clan family of Ecoriobrikon during the Totem War, said war Ysgramor fled from. Speaking of Ysgramor, from what I hear down south, the Palace of the Kings is a greater sight. In great irony, the Nordic palace while long predating this is much more modern while this, built long after the former was already hundreds of years architecturally archaic!" Said Louernios.

"The citadel palace serves as the garrison quarters as well, it's a distinct late Atmoran and early Nordic style to have the garrison stationed inside the palace." He talked about the garrison when the party caught sight of armored men, once lounging around standing to attention. They were armed with field weapons, namely being Bardiche axes. Those two handed axes were about the Nordiest thing Oges had seen thus far. They sported the same lengthy robes as the nobility, the succession to the Dragon Priests included a desire to mimic arms as much as dress. The dragon iconography was done away with, so too was the hint of impracticality the old priestly nobility had about their arms.

They looked at the smaller Bretons with raised eyebrows behind their scale coifs, (no doubt in practicality sewn atop a maille coif). One of them had something to say to the Druid, the tone of their voices and relaxed stances made it seem like nothing was amiss. After saying one or two things in their natives tongues Louernios led the Bretons inside.

"They just wanted to know if you could understand them, everyone of the last generation can speak your Tamrielic language, under the Empire it was mandatory. Our generation, the man I spoke to and my own rarely has any desire to learn it."

Within the citadel palace their voices echoed throughout, Oges didn't know what to expect with decorations. In the entrance at least he was met with a bit grander of the iconography about the walls, to the Bretons it was obvious these Roscreans had a zealous hero culture. The rest as he could see was rather cold, too much was focused in honoring the heroic of old in that the rest seemed barren. Only decorated braziers and a Nibeneses rug of all things greeted them around the entrance.

Louernios brought them up four or five flights of stairs, taking care not to wake up the other occupants with loud footsteps. Finally there was a little more life in the palace when being led on the group past through a sort of feasting hall, even then nobody sat at it the pair of tables. 

"Please take a seat at the table, I'll wake up the good High Chieftain. This is about the most formal place in the palace I'm afraid." Whispered Louernios, tugging a set of doors upon and disappearing inside. After a minute Louernios returned from the doors, braziers now lit within. "He will be out momentarily, we are civilized enough to be properly dressed in front of emissaries." The Druid said through a smiling face.

"I must admit," Oges said, "in our rush to ensure trade with your isle, I was not given much time to study your culture and politics, and learning as I travel has been a difficult experience. Though my last druid guide helped in that regard, seeing as you are a well learned group. But what can I expect from this Chieftain? What might he want of me and my people?"

"I'd get used to saying High or Great Chieftain when referring to Cassivelogenos, the head of an entire Chiefdom is always referred to as such. He suffered a stroke several weeks ago, Sheogorath no doubt tried snatching his mind, he's still recovering so, that's something to understand. Ah! Don't be surprised to see him bear a weapon, the Ecoriobrigan High Chieftain is marked not by crown but a heirloom of the Totem War." Louernios sat there thinking what else he might need to say, when the High Chieftain's door creaked open.

Cassivelogenos looked a few years shy of sixty, an honestly barbaric looking weathered face. He was without scars and bore the kind of hair that when unwashed turns from a dark brown to greasy black. The High Chieftain was unsurprisingly dressed in the same lengthy loose fitting fashion the Middland nobility enjoyed, the robes didn't extend to the ground, instead ending around the knees while his sleeves drooped below his arms. Wearing another sleeved tunic underneath the robes, the robes were the only Oges had seen thus far that weren't a single solid color. His were a darker blue with yellow engravings. 

Carried with him was a short poleaxe, strikingly of a dragon's talon for the head. Cassivelogenos took his seat at the end of the same table Oges sat at. Leaning the poleaxe on the throne, looking at the Breton with sleepy eyes.

"A pleasure to meet you, High Chieftain," Oges said, bowing his head. "I am Baron Vincent Oges, High Rock's emissary to Roscrea. I apologize for the early intrusion, but the master druid recommended we meet upon my arrival."

"A league." Said Cassivelogenos. "A trading league between my Chiefdom and your mercantile guilds, with the Imperials' eastern company eyeing our local commerce they should be punished. It could begin here, your merchants already have been granted exclusive trading rights, why not march the extra mile?"

"We would like nothing more," Oges said. "But forgive me, the teleportation has left me a bit confused. How great a distance is Ecoriobriga from Boiliobris? Would our merchants be trekking inland, or using the teleportation from another site?"

"My Chiefdom Baron, extends past this Oppidum. My Chiefdom extends the entire plateau, my Chiefdom, is among the greatest powers in Roscrea. When our league brings prosperity, and I know commerce is the greatest form, the other Chiefdoms will no doubt wish to enter. Enter into a league headed here by the Ecoriobrikons, you see my good Breton?" Stated Cassivelogenos, who quickly followed up.

"From here, we need only have Skyrim enter our league. I see it dominating trade within the Sea of Ghosts."

"I am not denying your power and influence, I only wish to know what I must relay to the merchants. What distance they need to expect, traveling away from the coast and into your chiefdom. Whether they must form trading caravans or if they can rely on the teleportation magics of your druids," Oges said. "Regardless, you can expect Breton merchants here, but these logistical questions I must relay back to them, as High Rock's emissary to Roscrea."

Cassivelogenos gestured to Louernios. "Caravans I'm afraid." Said the latter.

"Understood," Oges said. "It will take some time to relay to the merchants and establish these caravans, but they will arrive here, High Chieftain. What products do you bring to the table for trade?"

"Textiles, malachite, salt, sulfur, tin and copper. Despite there being volcanoes in the Middland, I'm afraid there just isn't any Ebony. The Elder Hunters guild would have a fit if we traded furs, I don't control the iron mining either."

"Excellent," Oges said, though he didn't know how the merchants would value such goods. It could be they would be disappointed in the goods available, but it was not his job to make their trip profitable, only to facilitate it. "I hope this partnership will bring prosperity for all involved, High Chieftain."

"Good, eh Louernios." Cassivelogenos didn't finish, he looked uncomfortable, rubbing his temple.

"My good Baron, it's enough for now. I should hope you will enjoy your time as emissary here, we shall find you acceptably appealing quarters." The druid corralled Oges outside the feasting chambers, glancing back at the High Chieftain who laid his head down atop the table.

****

Oges made a point to learn the native language(s) over the next few days, the druid Louernios, who he learned technically wasn't even fully one, instead himself too was learning albeit he was nearly there. It was hard to imagine a priesthood requiring twenty something years of learning before elevation into a full priest... or wise man, whichever was closer to what they were.

The scholar was having the time of her life, keeping herself occupied day in and out. The natives were less hospitable for her, she didn't get her own quarters nor invited each day to eat with the high nobles like Oges. Mostly because she wasn't invited nor expected, on the same note when she accidentally violated a religious taboo by translating a champion's final rites she was pardoned, instead of thrown from the volcano.

Unfortunately for Oges the extent of his services as emissary had all but ended, none of the other Chieftains under Cassivelogenos had anything to do with him. Curiously Oges witnessed a character trait of the High Chieftain, how willing he was as a goldlender. Oges wasn't any fool, Breton politics are much more complex than the natives. The man had a way of extending power by indebting other nobles, the man Cassivelogenos dealt with, of course during their feasts, was a lesser Chieftain from the plateau.

He apparently belonged to another Chiefdom within the Middland Plateau, from what Oges could decipher in the little bit he learned from Louernios this man, Viridomotauros, was planning on an expedition to the south? Needing gold to finance the thing, didn't make sense to Oges, but he figured it was mentally mistranslated. The natives language shared the same roots as Ancient Nordic but diverged at some point, not that he could speak the former.

Obviously nothing of great importance was ever at stake in his mission as emissary, he went into it expecting to secure trading rights and that's exactly what's transpired. Now that his purpose was fulfilled and nothing else was being brought to his attention, he considered leaving into the court of another Oppidum. Worse was it that there wasn't anything to really do in the Oppidum, in Daggerfall he could have gone to any number of amphitheaters, seen horse races, jousts and countless other forms of entertainment.

Here he could sip bitter mead, which he was thoroughly disappointed in, fuck in a tavern below the Godsthrone, which being married he wouldn't do either. Apparently field of games did take place around the Oppidum but it was the wrong time of year, strangely enough Oges remembered the older Druid from Boiliobris talking about their natural amphitheaters. Ecoriobriga very much had the same philosophy as the ancient city of Windhelm, being an impenetrable fortress-city focusing more on great walls than great entertainment. Ironically to the Breton it was like choosing a castle over a manor.

Oges had made residence in the Oppidum for about eight days, as it had been the same seven days prior he was invited to feast with the high nobles, he was by now acquainted with the entire Ecoriobrikon clan family. So that a new face really stuck out in their mid dusk meal, this new face sat next to Cassivelogenos, focusing on conversation more than eating which made the High Chieftain do the same much to his dismay. He was thinner faced then Cassivelogenos and sported a lengthy reddish brown beard, a pointed felt cap which kept fairly long hair from drifting in his face. Most striking was the silky texture on his burgundy tunic, it wasn't as richly dyed compared to the Middland nobles but the silk stood out.

When everyone had pretty well finished eating and milled about in conversation, Oges had a mind to excuse himself, however was called by Cassivelogenos when he went to leave.

"Oges, this here man is Ural something or rather of the house Raukadae, an eastern Roscrean." Cassivelogenos was fuming mad, but the man made no reaction to the High Chieftain's rudeness. He addressed the Breton instead.

"Ural Rhustram of House Raukadæ, my King of Kings extends his apology sir Oges but you aren't meant to dwell here. You should be in our capital of Nebbezzar."

Oges had heard of the city in his travels and stay here, and of the King of Kings, but he knew that was a mostly self-given title and not a claim over the rest of Roscrea. "I would very much like to. It would benefit the King of Kings and High Rock both if we could establish a trade agreement."

Cassivelogenos' hands balled up at his sides, the older man's face was quickly getting red. It was all he could do not to yell in their faces.

"There's no reason for it, trading glass and sulfur is a far better than far eastern silk."

"Well of course High Chieftain, I'm sure the Bretons will enjoy all commodities. Only our house controls the silk trade and we, along with out King of Kings, believes it best all foreign emissaries set up in our court." Said Ural.

"Our league stands Breton?" Asked Cassivelogenos through a clinched jaw.

Oges looked between the two Roscreans, his brow furrowed. "Our trading with one of you does not preclude us from trading with the other. We are a mercantile people, and I assure you there will be enough trade for all."

In truth, Oges did not know that, but he assumed it was true. His people had their own silks, but they also had their own malachite. It would not stop his people from trading for more from these Roscreans. He only hoped the Roscreans kept their problems internal, and not with his people.

"You have been extremely hospitable High Chieftain, these feasts are legendary." Ural was leading up to depart, Cassivelogenos halfheartedly grunted his thanks.

"It certainly helps good Breton, that the eastern realm obeys one voice, mighty High Chieftain you are Cassivelogenos there are thirteen voices in the west..."

"When can you leave?"

Ural looked to Oges without turning his head. "Tonight? If the Breton is willing to ride."

"You have been a gracious and hospitable host, High Chieftain, and I look forward to our meeting again. But I think it best I travel on, to better further the cause of my people here in Roscrea." Oges inclined his head towards Cassivelogenos, before turning to Ural. "Tonight, if you wish it, sir. Allow me to gather my companions and we should be ready within the hour."

"Companions? I had only brought another horse with me, would it be within the realm of possibilities that they would follow behind?" Asked Ural.

"My guards would not leave my side," Oges said. "But we have the gold to purchase horses, so it should not be an issue."

"Phew, that's a bit embarrassing, I'll reimburse you for the trouble back in Nebbezzar. I would suggest a Roscaereath breed..."

****

Departing the Oppidum with all Bretons in tow Ural was a little confused with the scholar.

"Your guards I understand, where does she fit in? Related to you?"

"No, she isn't." Oges looked back at the scholar, riding behind the group and using her magic to take a some notes as she rode. From the looks of it, they wouldn't be detailed notes. "She's a scholar from a magical school in High Rock. Very interested in Roscrea and the Druids. She was invited here to help me in my duties as emissary. She's more knowledgeable about your place and your people than I, and has a better mind for it."

 Oges didn't think it would hurt to lie about how Demara got here. Better the Roscreans not know about her stowing away, lest they think poorly of the Bretons, and it was true that she was now serving that sort of assistant role.

Ural had no reason to doubt the story anyway. He was far more interested in how well the Bretons rode, without stirrups no less.

"How is it that half elves became greater horsemen than we? I mean not offense, it's a compliment actually. When Bretons are spoken of, it's always in the vein of lances that could smash mountains or horses taller than men, any truths to these?"

"It depends on the sizes of your men, I suppose. The largest horses can be taller than a Breton, but they are rare," Oges said. "As for our lances, we've yet to find a type of wood that could smash mountains. But we come from an enslaved people, and were made to keep, tend, and breed the animals of our elven masters. Those skills coupled with our knightly orders produce fine horsemen. Though you'll find the Horse Tribes of the Bjoulsae River are the true masters. They scale mountains, cross deserts, and navigate forests with an unmatched skill."

"Ah well, there's always exaggeration. Inflated numbers after battles, lances smashing through mountains and um, scaling mountains? Okay." Ural was about to go onto a different subject entirely but found something else to say.

"Our people were never slaves, unless counting of course being under the empire by hand and sword, but eh, even we were once tribals. Not one stone to our name."

"We were both slaves to the Empire," Oges said, though he knew that was an exaggeration as well. High Rock had been relatively fine under the Empire, but he knew Roscrea hadn't. "That is something our people share. It's good we can find common cause in trading without the influence of the East Empire Company."

Letting the horse continue it's path, Ural momentarily released the reins, pivoting himself as if to loose a bow and faced the Bretons.

"It's a lot easier learning about Tamrielics than the opposite, and it is my business to know, for the sake of business. But in all things we do share an aversion to the eastern empire company, they are encroaching on our silk trade. That's a path men shouldn't take, we've gone to war over lesser things."

Ural retook command of his horse when it decided to take a split in the road, he had to turn it back on track.

"And war Bretons, is fucking draining. We are forbidden from pillaging fellow Roscreans, forbidden from enslaving fellow Roscrens, no raiding, no scorched earth policies. You'll enjoy it in the eastward realms, mercantilism is our lifeblood while mineing is the west's."

"I'm sure our merchants will be glad to hear it," Oges said. "They are as interested in luxuries as they are more practical goods."

"Ech, well I know there are more exciting places to be than old Roscrea. We're the edge of man's domain; down south war is teetering on a seax's blade, strife is ripe and well. Here? Nobody pays us any mind, you Bretons and the eastern company honestly surprised everyone by making the journey." Said Ural.

"My people would never pass up an opportunity for trade," Oges said. "Though I confess to not have much interest in it myself. As I'm sure you can tell, I'm more a warrior than merchant." Oges referred to his heavily scarred face, and the fact that most of his nose had been cleaved off.

"Can't say I don't prefer urban administrative life Baron." Ural said, breaking eye contact to look at his nose for a moment, something he hadn't done before as not to offend. "Too many of us though, we started preferring thrones to saddles. Silk instead of lamellar, but; in war my preference won't matter, we all have to don our manly maces. Then Baron, maybe we could trade places huh?" He was warily smiling at the Bretons.

"I'm afraid I would not be cut out for silks and administration," Oges said, giving a self-deprecating smile. "Are you part of the King's court, then? As an administrator, that is.”

"Not directly, no. I'm the third eldest of Berahthram's step cousins, that being related on his half brother's side. Berahthram being our King of Kings if the name hadn't came up in Ecoriobriga, also I don't truly govern anything, have two siblings older than myself having that right. Instead I normally oversee the silk trade, which means I have overseeing Tamrielic trade on my shoulders, for better or worse." Ural said. He looked to see how far away from the Oppidum they all were, pleased with the distance he had something else to say.

"Trading League, what a damn joke, don't need to tell you it was a political move eh? I would hesitate to even call it anything less then scheming, all he really wants is to put Ecoriobriga at the center of trade in Roscrea, you'd make less revenue if he got his way."

Certainly are bold outside that High Chieftain's presence aren't you?  Thought Oges. "You don't approve of the High Chieftain, then?" Oges asked. "Is that your stance, or your King's?"

"They disrespect Berahthram, all of them, he tries being pleasant but never returned. Pettiness Baron, they see he leads a united realm in a kingly seat, while they are mere Chieftains, high as they be, are not kings.

"The best example under the sun is this trading league, I just learned of it when I rode in this morning, if Berahthram knew he'd just shake his head at how redundant it all is. Were you the one in High Rock that fool Lugubelenus dealt with? He should have made it exactly clear it was Druidic decree this trade is under, ergo all of Roscrea is agreed under bonds of commerce."

"I did have the misfortune of dealing with him," Oges said. "He was as cowardly as treasonous. I will make sure our merchants know that trade extends to all Roscrea, not just a select few. Do you think it likely the High Chieftain and others will try and interfere with the trade? Or does the Druids' decree hold enough weight to keep them in line?

"Trade has to flow east to west, all it comes down to; I think, is wanting Ecoriobriga to be the Roscrean center of trade, instead of Boiliobris. However if the Imperials start a war over trading rights it may very well be that Boiliobris cannot be our Tamrielic trading port, I mean why? Their trading company has plenty to exploit in Tamriel! Did you know Baron Oges." It was the first time Ural had called him his name. "That not only has Imperials usurped our client kingdom but no further still their prelate emissary threatened a high noble with a sword!"

"Did the Empire do this, or the EEC?" Oges asked. He was still curious about the weight of the Druids' decree, but Ural seemed too riled up over the trading to worry about much else.

"The Empire!" He yelled a little louder then intended, to which Ural was less booming of voice following up. "That Prelate made it quite clear he was a member of the Imperial Royal family's inner circle, while making demands of our noble, his own sword stolen and to his neck. The Empire acts as if it's the juggernaut our forefathers fought. Our noble house defended the old shipyards you know, wonder what happened to the defenders Baron?"

"I imagine they were killed," Oges said.

"No. They. Weren't. all were crucified to the hulls and set sail north. I tell you, there's a right proper punishment awaiting the Imperial usurpers."

“It’ll have to wait, I’m afraid,” Oges said. “With the upcoming war, we’ll all have to play nice.”

"The Imperial's dynasty should have thought of it before, and I cannot be more clear, literally usurping a client kingdom. Of course in all wisdom a diplomatic approach will be the first order. How would your King Adrard react then if the Imperials usurped the position of his vassal?"

"Much the same as your King, I imagine," Oges said. "But I was under the impression your people intended to fight the elves with us. Would that leave you forces to oust the Imperials?"

"What good are horsemen in jungles or deserts? We are not known for our infantry prowess, besides the tribal army of Neitos, who are renown footmen are aiding the Nords. The logistics of transporting horses would be a waste, you could fit twenty horses or eighty men in a boat."

"My understanding is the north of both Valenwood and Elsweyr are not jungle or deserts, but plains. I expect that is where my countryman's mounted forces will be best used. But I would not presume to tell you where your people's soldiers should be. Especially with the Empire engaging in hostilities on your lands."

"On the topic of Imperial aggression, need it be said that eventually they will try and reconquer your lands? Beyond that I find it worrying how closely allied the Nordic and Imperial dynasties are."

"You think they seek to reconquer Roscrea?" Oges arched an eyebrow. "I find it unlikely they attempt to retake their lost lands in Tamriel, much less your lands, being so far removed. I don't imagine there will be much appetite for war if the Thalmor are defeated."

"Well they sure want something with us." Ural found what he said inwardly amusing, as if from a inside joke. "Best not disband the armies come wars end Baron. From what I hear, very much publicly one of the Imperial rulers personally despises the current Breton leadership."

”Yes, I’m quite aware. We will be fine, as our knights never disband and always stand at the ready. I worry more about there being any armies left to disband. The Thalmor are not a threat to take lightly.”

"Well hey! One good speck of things, won't find any Thalmor in Roscrea, no Elves to be found period."

"For that we can all be thankful."

****

Leaving the lands of Cassivelogenos took numerous hours, the roads were well and paved with patched stones, yet the horses grew tired constantly ascending and descending throughout the plateau. While it's main roads were built for the path of least resistance the party couldn't ride twenty minutes without a climb and descent.

The Middland Plateau, as the Bretons were able to see personally, was without meaningful forests. It's landscape dominated by elevated land and canyons, active volcanic deserts and extinct fertile oases. Many lowland Middlanders dwelt at the base of canyons, were creeks and minor lakes gave much needed fertility in the rocky landscape.

It was very much a paradoxically urbanized Chiefdom, there was very little in the way of rural farmlands or even pastoral herding grounds. Ecoriobriga wasn't an isolated case, fortified towns fiercely guarded their life sustaining fertile land. Many using arcane means to create walls of basalt columns when stone quarries were unavailable. Every single settlement the party had seen leaving the plateau was either atop a Tuya volcano, of which the greatest towns were held, at the edge of a canyon or the base of one. Apparently the situation wasn't to such an extreme in the southernmost of the plateau, but the party wasn't heading anywhere near it.

What greatly unnerved the Bretons was feeling a slight rumbling in the ground, Ural had a kick out of it. It was hard for the Baron to believe minor earthquakes were an extremely common thing in Roscrea, emanating from the plateau.

With men and horse exhausted the party had to stop just a short while after entering the royal road, built nearly a thousand years prior to connect west and east. At the edge of the plateau, one final town marked the bounds of the Middlanders. It's unintentionally sinister looking dark grey basalt column walls toward high, circling the perimeter of a small lake, with creeks flowing back inward. The party was to sleep outside the walls, but were taken pity on and allowed inside. Wheat fields and a few hardy cherry orchards dominated the banks of the lake, with a mixture of wooden and stone buildings between the wall and fields. While never seeing the Chieftain Ural pointed attention to the isle, or more accurately artificial mound at the lake's center with an impressive if not small keep like structure atop it. A few river boats docked to it.

Oges didn't need to be told he wasn't getting the same treatment as in Ecoriobriga, there would be no lodging in the Chieftain's palace here. Indeed all slept at the mead hall, which once again disappointed Oges in how bitter the drinks were. That'd be one thing the Bretons would make good profit on, exporting proper wine to the island. Thankfully as well Ural payed for the terrible drinks and room, not enough for horses he said, 'but plenty for here.'

The next morning at the ass crack of dawn, while preparing to ride out after breaking their fasts, Oges lazily payed attention to some river boats docked at the banks which weren't there last night. Nobody was in the things as he could see, it did raise the question to himself if there were actually chains of river ports. Goods were easier to transport that way locally, then by foot.

Hospitality was fleeting as the guards wanted the Bretons and Eastern Roscrean out of the town, nothing violent transpired, but it was awfully rude. They had overstayed their welcome, it seemed the hospitality was meant only for a few hours rest instead of the day.

Pleasantly rested the party ate while they rode, nibbling on bread. Far off in the distance, in a day or two's ride he could see the land tapering towards mountains. Being in the actual center of Roscrea it made more geographical sense that this was the Middland, instead Ural called it something that Oges couldn't pronounce and quickly forgot.

Away from the Middland Plateau the landscape was much like how it was farther westward, a mixture of grassland, crags and sprawling hills. The royal road began winding closer to the coast, which after a few hours riding Oges could see a couple miles away was the ocean. Only they were well above sea level, great cliffs hung endlessly, where they ended a short beach stood and then the Sea of Ghosts.

An excellent pace was attained, twice before reaching the low mountains the party ate and slept at fortified watchtowers along the royal road, built by Eastern Roscreans just for this purpose. If the Middland Plateau was truly devoid of forests then these low mountains were the polar opposite, only the road thus far was clear of the endlessly sprawling pine trees. Ural talked about the villages of near-giants dwelling at the peeks of the mountains, Demara was extremely excited at the idea of seeing these Atmoriants, but seeing how she was the only one was overruled.

Every now and then a path through the forest was paved out by common footsteps, contrasting the well maintained royal road. Ural talked about how any army passing between east and west could in theory ignore the royal road, but in practice it would be a nightmare fighting the Atmoriant tribes.

Finally the party came upon first and what would be only settlement within the low mountains, it was connected to the royal road and apparently was built by the Western Roscreans and came under eastern control some time after Uriel's conquests. Considering Ural only talked about it and rode right on past the gatehouse Oges just saw it as another little town. It did mark the westernmost domain of what Berahthram indirectly ruled through his 'satrapies', a fancy word for client kingdoms.

The man's title actually made a little more sense, it was to be taken literally, a king ruling over lesser kings. Certainly wouldn't be longer then a few days at this pace before entering his capital, eventually there was a consistent downhill descent winding through the low mountains. A break in the mountainous pine forests separated the central Roscrean mountains to an adjacent range, the entirety of the Royal Casurgian's land was within the basin, they dwelt in the flatlands while the Rosco-Colovians, descendants of the Imperial legion settlers of old lived in the mountain boundaries of the northern basin and it's wilderness.

Ural called the stretch between the two mountains ranges as gates between two different worlds, symbolically at least, as besides a concentric castle, looking to be imitated from middle third era Imperial design, only the geography provided a bottleneck. The royal road stretched beyond through vast plains, with no lack of activity and settlements. Forested areas were few and far between, while complexes of great farming estates were everywhere. They were a largely agrarian society that much was clear to Oges. For such a populated land it was a little strange seeing a lack of major towns or cities, questioning Ural about it he learned all the urban towns were along a major river and it's twin deltas.

The latter of which marked the royal road splitting in two directions, one continuing forward close to the delta while the other went towards the east. Soon enough the party saw a bustling shipyard hard at work with timber, situated between to of the delta's arms. Much like Boiliobris there was a lack of high cliffs dominating the coastline, here lay the old shipyard rebuilt Ural proudly claimed. They were building a transport fleet for the war effort. The shipyard, protected by a layer of two walls, more then quadrupled Boiliobris' port. Oges could see a moderately impressive fleet of longship like warships docked, of course every single navy on Tamriel was greater.

If there was one undeniable mark of Imperial influence on the Royal Casurgians it was the rise of better cultivated orchards and plantations, both of which, in tremendous quantity dominated both banks of the river and it's western delta. Looking eastward Oges could see the same thing all along the river, far as he could see. It's urban settlements began popping up wherever the farmland didn't, travelling along the royal road next to the river, Oges couldn't see inside the stone walls but he got a pretty clear idea. It's architecture was overall similar to the Western Roscreans, the stonework was plastered, a style happily adopted from the Imperials and it's towers along the wall were more conical but otherwise similar to what he's seen already.

For the river, it's current was swiftly flowing and looked like it would take two levitation spells to reach the other bank. Due to how relatively level these plains were Oges saw a bridge well in advance, it was plain and wide in appearance, the eye was drawn to the fortress guarding entry to the bridge. U shaped walls prevented access on either side, like the castle Oges had seen entering into the basin flatlands this was an imitation of the now archaic Imperial concentric castle design. Unlike the castle this fortress looked much newer, according to Ural was only just finished construction under a decade ago.

It's gatehouse was left open, none of the Bretons were ever stopped or questioned by the garrison within. The party passed by the keep and garrison quarters without issue, it seemed they only close the gatehouse at night and during wartime. Traffic on the royal road this side of the river was much heavier, cataphracts patrolled on their barded horses, rural commoners and caravans passed by while even this time of year the orchards and plantations were being tended for. The party passed over a dozen towns along the river before finally catching sight of Nebbezzar.

The first few things Oges noted about it's starkly contrasting architecture, in what looked to be a citadel it housed buildings with painted blue domes, a spiraling alter spewing a puff of smoke from a fire at it's peek. Like all the Royal Casurgian towns Nebbezzar sported plastered stone, although unlike all other so called cities in Roscrea, which Oges tacked as minor towns, this was truly a city by Tamrielic standards, albeit a modestly sized one.

Nebbezzar had some outskirts beyond it's walls, surprisingly not even the tallest he's seen in Roscrea thus far, a mixture of yurts and stoneworks, it looked like the city was in the very earliest stages of expanding. River boats made their way down from further east, of which the river became more narrow and softer of current, no doubt part of the reason for the city's placement. From where Oges stood about two or three miles from the city stood what he would have thought was a colosseum or theater were it not for carrion birds perched at it's edges, what Ural told him made Oges a little sick. The Royal Casurgian's religious beliefs demand proper burial to avoid impurifying the land, with little exception only nobles can afford such proper burials. Those that cannot are laid to rest in a tower of silence, to allow carrion birds to pick clean to the bones, where the corpses are then incinerated by priests.

Oges could have lived his life without being told that and been a little happier.

When the party stood before the painted blue entrance, which were three times taller then Oges, two figures were carved into each side of the doors. The city's architects, flanking the gatehouse were four perfectly cut obelisks with standing stags and steads carved into the four corners.

Ural raised his hand in a gesture with his fingers, shouting something in his native tongue, it was the first time Oges heard their language. The thing was vastly different than what he learned in Ecoriobriga, had Oges been a Tongue he might recognize the bastardization of a language.

Ural had the company dismount, horses shit and nobody wanted the stuff within the walls. Two of Oges' guards were directed to the corrals at the eastern walls, while the rest entered Nebbezzar on foot. The city was a little to hyped up by Ural for Oges, it certainly was something else but really and truly what uniqueness it had originally was far to intermixed with Imperial influence and so became more mundane. Colorfully painted rooftops were on the majority of buildings, all he thought of was the Blue Palace in Skyrim, now the buildings certainly were something he hadn't seen before.

Many had flat or sloped with a flat area roofs that were crenelated, like little keeps. So too were there many totally slopped roofs which looked much more modern, according to Ural wherever there was new buildings it was due to Uriel sacking the city centuries ago. I there was one thing Oges could say about it all, was that Nebbezzar certainly was a crossroads between Tamrielic, Padomaic and far eastern influence. Demara was more energetic then all of them, she didn't know where to even start. Ural led them towards the elevated citadel at the city center, talking about all there was in the city.

Nebbezzar was one of the few cities in Roscrea with large scale infrastructure, it could produce arms and armor for their citizen armies. The city housed a major river port, though Oges suspected every settlement along this river had one. A proper magic college, that wasn't of Druidic purpose proudly stood when the party passed by, once housing a branch of the Mages Guild when under Imperial rule, needless to say it didn't outlive their rule. There was also a marketplace in the eastern side, Ural acted as if it was all, then right before the citadel's western entrance remakred, with no less then a wide smirk, the presence of a theater that had outlived Imperial rule in the city.

The same blue painted doors had the same engravings as before, Oges had to look at Demara, who was indeed sketching in her tome. He was however a little surprised to see what he could only describe as an urban garden within the citadel, besides the stone walkway leading to the palace, the citadel grounds were blossoming with what looked to be fruit trees, blackberry bundles and healthy grass. Ural pointed out the obvious palace, with it's twin towers and their painted stags, where the ruling Silver-Shield dynasty administers everything. A lesser palace for the highest of nobles also had two towers, but lacked in the grandeur as the former. There was a royal library connected to the main palace, it too was sacked after Uriel found all within burned, a final smite from the Druids. The citadel guards, armed in golden cuirasses and lamellar, had their quarters off from the eastern entrance. Ural made specific note of the heated pool, how particularly amazing the experience is in a blizzard.

"I'm impressed," Oges said. "Though it is sad to see the Empire's influence even here. Still, this really is the grandest city I've seen thus far. I-"

"The college we passed," Demara interjected. "What is it now? I had thought that only the Druids practiced magic here, but if others do as well, I would very much like to meet them."

Her line of questioning didn't sit well with Ural, subtle downtrodden eyebrows and an instant longer pause gave it away to Oges. "It's uh, exactly as was before the Empire came. A place to learn the clever craft, for healing and war."

Demara had to ask again about the Druids and other magic users.

"Well Breton. There is a schism between western and eh, Royal Casurgian faiths. We... have another chief of the Gods."

"Which god is that?" Demara asked. "I thought centering Jhunal was interesting, but a religious schism is even more so!"

"It really isn't." Said Ural, upset with how joyful she was and so gave Demara the evil eye. "If you wanted to insult us, it has worked.. Come, let's bring our presence known to his majesty." Directing the party inside, Ural had discreetly, as best he could, stopped Demara momentarily from entering and whispered a single word in her ear.

Demara initially recoiled from him after his rudeness, but upon hearing the word was interested once again, and took to scribbling notes into her journal at a furious pace.

Inside the palace the first thing to greet Oges's eyes was a statue of someone, it looked to be an older man in scale armor, holding a stone tablet in arms while a representation of the Imperial's dragon symbol was sneaking up his leg mouth wide to bite. It was splendidly painted to be as lifelike as possible, Ural entering briefly after Oges said something on it.

"The last of the old Casurgathradan dynasty, he held back six legions for nearly two years." Depleted legions, but that wasn't ever told. "Anoshurivan the first and last of his name, many times did the conqueror offer semi autonomy, gifts of gold and promises of retaining position of nobility. He was incorruptible, truest of all men and he died in the stead of submitting. Are there any greater qualities in a man?"

"Few, if any," Oges said. With Demara still lingering in the doorway, he turned to face Ural. Oges didn't much like the scholar, yet she was his countryman, and he felt obliged to defend her. "Kindness, maybe. I would hope you could display some to us, as ignorant as we are of your people and customs. She means well, even if she is overly enthusiastic. And I confess I fear a slip of the tongue as well. We mean the best, even if we cannot help not knowing the sore spots of your people. Helping us learn what subjects to avoid would benefit us all, I think."

Ural's mouth moved and twitched, unable to find words and was choking up a bit. In a moment of time, looking between the two Bretons he relented. Beckoning Demara over and having all three close in, which he whispered barely audibly.

"This schism of faith, it is worse then the conqueror Uriel, the woes he brought on have passed, yet our divided beliefs hasn't. Any and all hope of reconciling died out with Anoshurivan, we are left with angry chieftains whom hate us more then each other. Never has the last heirs of Atmora been more divided, things are only getting worse. So please, never again mention it in good company."

"Thank you for sharing that," Oges said. He then fixed a hardened gaze upon Demara.

It took her a moment, but she got the message. "And I would like to apologize, sir. I had no intention of causing offense. We will be sure to be careful going forward."

Breton were not a religious folk, so Oges had little experience with such rifts, but he knew how important it could be to some people. Skryim had fought a war over it, after all. He knew it was a subject better left alone.

"We should all be thankful it was I who corrected Demara, there are some personal grievances for Berahthram of which this among them, he wouldn't be pleased having foreigners bringing up a thousand year schism he cannot mend." Ural, who Oges suspected began doubting her role, thought up a solution to be rid of her without offending.

He briefly spoke of a hall of stories, painted carvings of every single known King of Kings, and the Padishor Emperors who predated them, elsewhere in the palace. She took off immediately when he pointed her towards it. Needless to say Oges didn't object, it would prove a waste of a trip if she offended the wrong person.

The palace was designed to have it's throne room at the bottom, to be seen right after the entrance. There were a couple of mulling people Oges could have mistaken for Berahthram given how finely dressed and groomed all were, only two people within the throne chamber he knew couldn't be the man were two almost Colovian looking older men. Both were dressed in fine silk caftans that reached their ankles, the older of the two, looking to be in his golden years pleasantly greeted Ural from afar. His counterpart twenty something years younger looked neutral in his greeting.

Of course Ural was leading Oges away from the throne room, considering the uncomfortable looking stone throne was empty he understood why. He was led a ways down one corridor then up flight of stairs, guarding a doorway was a sight Oges couldn't believe. A creature dressed in full maille and dyed gambeson stood towering over even Ural, it sported an elongated head, towards the back of it's skull, and the palest white face imaginable, like snow it was. It's painfully gravelly voice spoke gibberish, Oges did decipher 'Breton' and 'Ural' from it. He hadn't time to question as the monster wrapped his fist against the door, to which it was unlocked from within shortly after.

Oges stepped in first, immediately feeling his magicka being drained from the braziers and their green flames, which unknown to him the green flames were really from an alchemical means. Sixteen men sat around an octagonal stone table, come to think of it he hadn't seen any wood within the city.

Any one of them could have been Berahthram, they all had a confident air about them, dressed in similarly exquisite clothing and jewelry. The only thing that gave it away was the throne one man sat in, which in hindsight looked much comfier with it's many silken pillows to cushion one's ass.

The man who Oges guessed as Berahthram looked as if his age hadn't fully yet caught up with him, though he certainly wouldn't win admiration for one's beauty. He had wavy black hair, which ended right above his shoulders and was kept behind his slightly oversized ears. He was well trimmed sporting a fancy looking mustache that just extended past his cheeks, his beard had began sprouting white hairs around his chin along with some greying hair around his sideburns. While not slanted his tired eyes looked just barely smaller then what would be considered normal, crows feet clearly visible unable to be hidden by his thick eyebrows. Compared to some of the men seated with Berahthram, he had a rather straight nose, with only a slight bump at it's bridge. His cheekbones were round and pronounced with not one but two moles under the right one.

Before Oges could bow or say anything, Berahthram gestured to the table, for him to be seated.

Oges did give a slight bow of his head in greeting and moved to sit down at the overcrowded table, where one of the seated men excused himself. Once he did, he waited for the Berahthram to speak, knowing that some nobles preferred the custom of speaking only when spoken to. He did not know enough about this King of Kings to know if that was the case, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

"Breton beyond the sea, you have had quite the odyssey of sorts." Berahthram had neither an excessively deep voice, nor a softly spoken one. He spoke with a very crisp pronounced accent, despite some uneven slight crooked teeth it didn't impair his speech. "Treacherous merchants, Sea Ghosts and a journey with Druids. How do you feel about all of it?"

"Much has happened that I did not expect, and time did not allow me much time to prepare either. Though I am glad to have reached an end to my travels, for the time being."

"Would you prefer a respite? There is much we have in mind, for relations between our peoples. Active and immediate exports to be made, I ask it be done while we.-" He swept his arm across, motioning to all the high born natives. "Are all present in the city, which will not be much longer."

"I would not want to delay the discussions any longer," Oges said. "Especially since you have gone through the trouble of assembling these gentlemen."

"Well this is for another purpose. But, it is good we are present, I will speak before all. For business it is our wish, to have the exporting of no less than five hundred of your warhorses, as we are unfamiliar with the breeds you should, if it is known to you, request the mightiest breeds. Can that be done?" Asked Berahthram.

"Five hundred?" Oges said. "It depends on when you want them, and how much you are willing to pay. Our mounted knights are the backbone of our army, and they are about to go to war with the Thalmor. Our forces will need most of our horses, if not all, and depending on how long the war lasts I would not be surprised if we faced a shortage by the end. If you can pay more than the warhorses would be worth to the war effort, we could surely supply you with them. Either in increments or, if you need them presently, all at once, though that would be a costly sum."

"Well... we could purchase the foals then. They are too young for war and, surely the good gold put up will make their loss profitable. By the time they would be grown surely the war would be over, if not that then the aforementioned gold could be put to use arming the grown and trained warhorses? Oh! It can be done over a period of time, so long as it is before, and I stress, before the start of winter."

"You would need the foals here before winter, or simply an agreed upon price and delivery date before then?"

"Preferably we could agree upon the terms of these exports now, I am no merchant and the prices will be left to Ural Raukadae, whom you should know well. It must be guaranteed no less than two fifths will be delivered prior to winter, if it unable to be delivered, one eighth of our gold shall be returned."

"I am no merchant either, and cannot speak for the various companies. I will pass the message along and have a merchant vessel come here, where they can negotiate a price with Ural. I imagine they can meet your terms."

"Ah, I didn't have you figured for the merchant class, on account of those mighty wounds you bear. What feudal position do you hold, if I may ask?"

"I was the head of a knightly order when King Adrard was still a Lord, though when he rose so did I, and now I am a Baron. I'm not sure what the equivalent would be here."

"The Empire tried transforming Roscrea into a feudal state, before Solitude annexed us the island was a Fief. Easier to govern, your comparison would be that of a plantation landlord. Though that is a social position, we have neither chivalric or knightly classes."

"Good to know. I've learned much here, but still have much to learn about your people and your ways."

"It would disappoint you, we have certainly diminished from a glorious past. You would see a struggle to reclaim the past splendor, of course as your own King has shown, something new could exceed greatness of old." Said Berahthram, through a toothy smile that was hidden by most of his beard. "Which while your King is the subject, I ask he consider closer ties in the near future, if the Nords are so closely allied to the Empire I think it the Bretons should have a reliable friend as well."

Oges gave a noncommittal nod and said, "I'll relay your desire back to King Adrard. One can never have too many friends, after all. And here's to hoping your people can reclaim your glorious past. I know King Adrard would wish nothing more than the former Imperial provinces to show Cyrodiil how unnecessary they are."

"Yes. Their power has waned, in some ways greater than ours. If the northern kingdoms are not divided and conquered, they cannot win. Ah well, there are other minor deals to be had, trading details to be told. But I will leave that to other men." Berahthram and the man at his right stood, it went unsaid but the natives were discussing such things that couldn't be heard by foreign ears. Berahthram and the others within had so much more to plan and discuss, instead of drawing attention the King of Kings had finished his right of first speech. Leaving the others in his inner circle to enact their own wishes for Breton trade with Oges, while Berahthram and the other man had one last meeting to attend.

Berahthram's vassals had finally all attended, on the eve of war in Tamriel it was time they learned and participated in what would unite Roscrea. The Kingdom of Roscrea Beyond the Sea, it was so close to fruition...

Edited April 22, 2018 by TheCzarsHussar

[BTC]

Morane
 

The bodies of the Thalmor agents hung where everyone could see, on either side of the gate that separated Anvil’s docks and the city itself. The sun had done its part to destroy the elves, as the smell and bloating attested too. They looked like pale yellow sausages, stuffed to the point of bursting. Morane thought they were wearing some tattered clothing, but as she got closer and saw that clothing move, she realized it was only flies feasting upon the corpses.

She glanced to Zuhkal beside her, and nodded toward the two dead Altmer. He frowned and nodded in response. They needed to be careful and keep an eye out, was what she was trying to get across, and he understood. Part of her was uneasy with the rhythm they’d seemingly already fallen into, but she figured that was better than the alternative. Zuhkal seemed fine with it, and she saw no such unease on his face. He was busy tying his short dreadlocks back into their usual ponytail, and looked as nonchalant as ever.

“What do you think happened?” asked Laure, the third member of their group. When Morane and Zuhkal had returned from Solitude, Winvale had said Laure and Enrick were ready for their own tests. Morane was fine with Laure coming. But her history with Enrick meant that wasn’t going to happen, so Laure joined Morane and Zuhkal while Enrick stayed in Camlorn, doing gods know what for Winvale.

Laure was shorter than Morane, with light brown hair to Morane’s black, shaved close on the sides and long on top, straight and swept over to one side contrasted to Morane’s longer, slightly curled hair. Morane guessed Laure was a couple years older than her, in her mid thirties. Laure had a stockier build too. Apparently she’d been a battlemage before learning shadow magic. Now they all walked in regular clothes with no armor to speak of. Morane was fine, as she didn’t wear much armor anyways, but she could tell Laure was uncomfortable walking into a potentially dangerous situation without any armor.

“They probably looked suspicious,” Morane said. “Sorta like you look.”

Laure frowned and started to say something but Zuhkal interjected and said, “Just relax, is all she meant. We haven’t done anything yet.”

She nodded and was silent while Morane led them under the archway. On the other side stood a pair of guards, so she stopped and asked one, “How’d they get caught?”

“Tried to teleport into the castle. Didn’t know it’d been warded, dumb fucks.” The guard laughed to himself.

“No court, then?” Morane asked.

The guard shook his head. “You’ll have to go the watch headquarters with any problems or requests. Can’t risk the Count and Countess Umbranox with the Thalmor about.”

Morane fell back into traffic and tried to think what they’d do now that their first plan wouldn’t work. She didn’t like having to improvise something this potentially dangerous, but they had no choice now.

The streets of Anvil were crowded with all manner of people, elves, humans, Khajiit and Argonians. Many of the people seemed to be sailors, which made sense given the bustling port and the Imperial Navy hovering just off the coast. It reminded her of Daggerfall more than anything else, with the sheer number of all sorts of people and the pervasive smell of sea and fish. There was much less magic being cast about in the streets, though, compared to High Rock. With the legionaries patrolling about, the navy looming, and the Thalmor hanging by the gate, she knew there was too much tension for things like that.

“It remind you of home?” Laure asked Zuhkal. She meant the clearly Redguard style architecture many of the buildings shared, with their red tile roofs and the domes atop some of the towers within the city.

Zuhkal’s smile dropped. “I’m from Evermor.”

Laure’s cheeks flushed red and only stopped when Morane and Zuhkal burst into laughter. Zuhkal said, “Don’t worry about it. But yes, actually, it does. Evermor has more than a few buildings like these.”

Once they’d gone a little ways and stepped off the main road and out of the crowds and traffic, Morane said, “Let’s find a place to stay. Then we can scout around, see what we can learn. We’ve got four hours or so of daylight. That should be enough to figure out what their defenses are. Besides wards, apparently. And find out what we can about the court mage. They’re likely to keep the books.”

Laure nodded. She wasn’t overly talkative, Morane had learned, and she liked her for it. Especially since this was her first time doing this sort of thing. The less she got in the way, the better.

Zuhkal grinned and said, “Can we expect you to come up with a brilliant plan this time around?”

Morane gave him a ‘go to hell’ look and turned back to the street to find a tavern. Since Castle Anvil was on an island in the harbor, that meant the closest tavern to it would be either one on the waterfront, which Morane rejected out of hand since she didn’t want to smell fish their entire stay here, or in the upper class district near the bridge to the castle. It was the King’s or Winvale’s or someone else’s gold and not hers, so she headed there.

A place called the Gold Coast Inn was near the central road in the upper class district, so Morane got them a room there. They didn’t stay long, though, only long enough to check out the room and then they headed back out. Unspoken but evident among the three of them was a sense of haste. They all wanted to get this done and get back to studying shadow magic, or at least be back in the relatively safe confines of High Rock. They could feel the city was on edge, and it didn’t take seeing the dozens of soldiers and sailors walking around to realize that.

They spent the next hour or so wandering around the Chapelgate district, watching the guards who patrolled there and seeing how well guarded the bridge to the castle was. From what Morane saw, they’d have a hard time getting in that way. There were too many guards, and quite a few who looked like special agents of some kind. With all the prying eyes in the district, and not enough cover even if they did sneak through the gate, she considered teleporting to the island. But there’d be just as many guards there, and no guarantee they could get inside the walls unseen. She eventually reconvened with Zuhkal and Laure. They all agreed they’d have to find some other way in. Their best bet would be to go back to the docks and see what they could learn from looking at the island there and asking around.

They walked to the docks and found a place at the southern end where they could get a good look at the islands. What they saw were groups of guards walking the base of the wall, and more atop them. Evidently the Thalmor had them spooked, as the guard presence was much heavier than Morane had expected. Even worse, from what they saw there was only the one gate, and they’d have a hard time sneaking in there unseen. By the time the sun set, they’d seen enough to know that, even if they got to the island, it wouldn’t get any easier from there. They needed to get more information before they could attempt the robbery.

Though they were staying in the Chapelgate district, they headed towards the dockside inns. Even if it smelled like fish and was crowded with sweaty dockworkers and drunken sailors, it was going to be the best place to find information. Especially without arousing suspicion. Morane didn’t trust the upper class patrons of the Gold Coast Inn to not go running to the guards if someone was asking questions about the castle.

There were more than enough inns there to inquire in, but they headed to a rundown looking dive called The Salty Mariner.  The door didn’t quite close all the way and the walls were thin so when they approached they could hear the voices inside laughing and talking. That was a good sign, Morane thought. The more customers a place had, the more its bartender would know. Entering, they saw the tables were indeed filled with sailors of all sorts, though very few who looked like they served in the navy.

Zuhkal led the way to the bar. When the bartender set down their tankards of ale, Zuhkal made a quick hand motion and his voice took on a sweet, almost seductive tone. The spell wasn’t aimed at Morane, but for a moment she felt drawn to listen to him, though she brushed it off.  The bartender smiled a broad smile and seemed enraptured. Zuhkal said, “We’re new to town and looking for some information. Think you could help us?”

“I’m sure I can,” the big-bodied Colovian man said. He had crooked teeth and a thin head of hair. “Anything you folks need.”

Zuhkal put on an almost sincere smile and said, “How kind of you. We’re supposed to meet the court mage but we don’t know much about them. What’re they like?”

“Borkar? Well, I’ve never met him, but most folks that have seem to like him. He goes out into the town quite a bit. Real friendly old Orc, from what I hear.”

“Well, I can’t see why he wouldn’t come here. It’s a fine establishment,” Zuhkal said, laying on the magical and verbal charm as thick as he could.

“I like to think so,” the bartender said, and Morane wondered if he was blushing or just had naturally red cheeks.

“We were also looking for someone that could help us get some information about the castle. Discreetly, as you can imagine. Anyone that could help us do that?” Zuhkal asked.

“Talk to Jera over at The Rusty Saber. I think she’ll be able to help you out.” He chuckled and added, “Just don’t tell her I sent you.”

Zuhkal fished out some gold and said, “For the excellent service.”

Before the bartender could respond, Zuhkal left, with Morane and Laure following quickly behind. Once outside, Morane asked, “Why’d you pay him?”

Zuhkal said, “He’s likely to realize what happened pretty soon. Leave him some coin, he might not take issue with it. I don’t want to wait around and find out, though, so let’s find this Jera.”

They headed back along the docks toward the gate into the city, and about halfway there spotted the sign for The Rusty Saber. It was a nicer establishment, with a stone first floor and a wooden second, with windows that overlooked the street. It butted up against a warehouse on one side. As they entered, though, it was much emptier than The Salty Mariner. About six people were seated inside, a few drinking by themselves at booths along the walls, while two sat conversing by the door, a man and a woman. It was darker too, with fewer lamps in the room.

Zuhkal again led the way to the bar, where a tall, bald-headed man with bushy muttonchops greeted them with a grunt. Zuhkal said, without any magic this time, “We’re looking for Jera. You know where we can find her?”

“Who’s asking?” the bald man said.

“People with the utmost discretion.” Zuhkal didn’t smile, but he kept his voice clam and friendly.

The bald man looked at all three of them. Morane could tell he was sizing them up as best he could, and she returned the look. “We’ll see.” He then raised a hand and a man in one of the booths stood and walked past the bar, deeper into the tavern.

As he did, three of the patrons stepped outside, while the rest stood and turned to face the trio. Laure flinched, but didn’t make any aggressive moves. Morane hoped this wouldn’t come to a fight, even though they seemed to have wandered into a den of criminals.

A few moments later the man from the booth returned with a short and skinny middle-aged woman behind him who Morane assumed was Jera. Her hair was cut short and pulled into ponytail, and she wore a white blouse and black pants. Morane took note of the two daggers on her hips. Jera looked at the group much like the bald man had, though Morane got the sense she was more discerning then her compatriot.

“I’m Jera. What do you want?” she asked, her hands resting on her daggers.

Zuhkal flashed a smile and said, “We heard you’re the woman in the know around here.”

“Might be. Depends on what you want to know. And why.”

“Well…” Zuhkal turned and glanced at Morane, who shrugged her shoulders. What can it hurt?  Zuhkal continued, “We’re here to steal something from the castle. We need to know how to get in.”

Jera arched an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Could be you’re assassins. The first ones failed, and now they send you three.”

“Do we look like Thalmor to you?” Morane said. She saw Zuhkal tense some out of the corner of her eye, but ignored him.

“Well, I can’t say I’m well aware of how they operate. Might be they thought you lot would blend in better.”

“How about you go ask the captain of the Drudging Jack. Or anyone else onboard. They’ll tell you we came from Camlorn, just like they did,” Morane said.

Jera looked and nodded at man who’d been sent to fetch her, and he quickly left. Jera said, “Who’s to say they aren’t in on it too, eh? Or maybe you’re telling the truth. Doesn’t mean you can’t still be assassins.”

“Are you always so paranoid?” Morane asked. Her patience was wearing thin.

Jera gave a sardonic looking smile. “Only with those trying to break into the castle after two assassins tried to do just that.”

“If we were assassins, why would we come to you? Why would we let anyone know?”

“Maybe you thought your story would work. Maybe you were so desperate to succeed you thought you’d take the chance on getting some information. Like I said, I don’t know how the Thalmor operate.”

“Fucking hell,” Morane muttered to herself. She had to admit, it sounded plausible enough that it could be true. And with someone clearly as paranoid as Jera, that just might be enough.

They waited in a tense silence for fifteen minutes before the person Jera sent returned. The man walked in and said, “Captain and a couple sailors all say they came from Camlorn.”

“They offer that up?” Jera asked.

“No, I paid them. They looked real confused about it, this time of night,” the man said.

Jera turned her attention back to Morane, Zuhkal, and Laure. Her face was unreadable, and the only movement her hands toying with the pommels of her daggers. “What are you stealing?”

“Books,” Zuhkal said, before Morane could speak. “Two specific books.”

Jera nodded absentmindedly, like she was thinking more than listening. When she finally spoke again, she said, “Search them.”

When a hand reached for Morane’s bag she almost instinctively slapped it away, but Zuhkal gave her a look pleading her to go along with it, while Jera gave her one that dared her to resist. She handed over her bag to the bald man and he handed it to Jera while he patted her, then Zuhkal, then Laure, down. After he did, Jera looked through the bag. Inside she found a change of clothes but more importantly, Morane realized, the two enchanted books and the list of books they were after, as well as the robes and mask from the School of Julianos.

Jera flipped through the blank pages of the books and asked, “What’s this for?”

“It’s enchanted,” Morane said. “You can make the outside of the book look like the one you want to steal. So they don’t know it’s missing.”

Jera smiled then, a genuine one, Morane thought. “Clever.  And this list, you’ve marked through three already. This isn’t your first job, then?”

“No,” Morane said. “I stole the other books from Shornhelm and Solitude.”

“And this?” Jera lifted the robes, striped like a rainbow, and then looked closely as the silver mask.

“Magic school in Shornhelm wore them. Needed them to get inside,” Morane said.

“Fucking Bretons,” Jera said. “So who wants all these books on shadow magic? Is that like necromancy?”

Zuhkal shrugged. “Couldn’t say. Some collector wants them. We were just hired to steal them.”

Jera looked over the list again before putting it, the robes, and the books back in Morane’s bag. “Either you three are assassins with the world’s most prepared backstory and worst plan, or you’re telling the truth. So, you want to know how to get into the castle? It’s going to cost you.”

She then proceeded to fish around in Morane’s bag for the pouch of gold, which she took and weighed in her hand. “About this much, I think.” She tossed the bag back at Morane, who caught it with a scowl. “You won’t be able to get in the main gate, not now. But rumor has it there’s a cave on the south side that connects to tunnels in the castle. I’ve never seen it myself, but it’s your best shot.”

“Anything else we should know?” Zuhkal asked.

“Nope,” Jera said. “You asked for a way in, you got it. That’s all I’m willing to give you. Now leave, and go steal your books or whatever.”

Morane gave her one last glare before the she, Zuhkal, and Laure left. Outside, flanking the door, were a few of the patrons who had left earlier, but Morane ignored them as she led the group south along the docks once again. Back by The Salty Mariner, she ducked into an alley, with Zuhkal and Laure following behind.

“Teleport to the cave, and we’ll figure it out from there,” she said. “We’re not going to be able to plan this one out, so the quicker we can get the books and go, the better. And don’t get caught.”

In the darkness she couldn’t see if they nodded, but she hoped they understood. Nearly a reflex now, requiring just a second’s hesitation, she placed herself in the south-facing cave beneath the castle.

When she appeared, the air was thick with humidity and the smell of salt. The waves crashed against the islands and the caves interior, though she couldn’t see any of it. The darkness was absolute, with neither Masser nor Secunda in sight. She stood still for a moment, looking around to make sure there wasn’t some flickering lamp or torch light nearby. There was none, so she sent up an orb of faint orange light.

With her surroundings illuminated, Morane could see she was only a few feet from where the cave floor met the ocean off to her right was Zuhkal, and Laure to her left. Behind them the darkness extended beyond the light of her magical candle, the waves rolling and splashing against the cave walls. She thought she saw a cave within this one, out in the wall and open to the water, but it was so dark she couldn’t be sure.

“Let’s go. Watch your step, we don’t know if this place is trapped or not,” Morane said as she led the way.

The cave quickly narrowed and headed slightly up hill. The fungus and mildew covered walls pressed close, rubbing their shoulders where it jutted out. They passed what looked like a separate cavern, a large one at that, but Morane ignored it for what seemed like the more direct path, the one that would lead beneath the castle. The cave didn’t extend very far, though, and soon the trio came upon a heavy steel reinforced wooden door blocking their path.

Morane lowered her blue orb and took a closer look at the door. It seemed fairly standard, thick and old, though nothing that gave off any clues about runes or traps. The lock and bolt looked thick and heavily rusted over. It would’ve been difficult to pick, if she knew how. Instead she dispelled the light, which Zuhkal picked up, and then she reached out as tendril of green magical energy extended from her hand. She felt it flow into the lock, and though she couldn’t see it, she imagined it surrounding the tumblers. She muttered to herself, and in a moment they shifted into place and the bolt retracted. She had to slam her shoulder into the door for it to open, but it did, just enough for them to slide past.

The door opened to a dirty stone staircase, one that indicated they were within the castle itself now. She moved slowly now, careful to watch her steps, and kept her orb-light as low as she could. There seemed to be nothing amiss here, though, and they soon came upon a hallway that branched off, both to the left and right. To the right there was a doorway, and to the left another staircase.

Morane stopped and turned to Zuhkal and Laure. “Either of you know any detection spells?”

They shook their heads. Morane cursed to herself and said, “Stay here.”

She dispelled her light, and as it faded away, she focused for a second and her eyes, magically assisted, adjusted to the darkness. She imagined her hazel eyes taking on a catlike appearance. Creeping along with muffled footsteps toward the door, she realized as she neared the door that it was made of stone. A hidden door. She looked it over for runes or traps and found none. She got the sense this passageway was not only unknown but forgotten. This door wasn’t locked, and didn’t have hinges either. She looked around for some way to open it and found a button on the wall nearby. She reached her hand toward it and stopped an inch away, suddenly unsure if pressing it was the best idea. It seemed to be the only option, though, so she pressed the rectangular stone button. Faintly, something within the wall made a clicking noise, and the door slid open a couple feet.

Morane saw into a dusty and crowded storage room, with barrels and crates stacked along the walls. The hidden door was a pillar that had slid aside, and was almost entirely hidden from the other side, with just enough space between some barrels that she could see into the room. There was a door across from her, a real door, but she didn’t think this was going to get them to the court mage’s or the library. Up the stairs seemed the safer bet.

She made her way back to Zuhkal and Laure after shutting the hidden door. She said, “It led to a storage room. I think we should try upstairs.”

“Lead the way,” Zuhkal said.

Morane climbed the spiral staircase to the next floor, where a similar stone door with a button beside it awaited. Morane didn’t want to cast muffle on the other two, so she brought a finger up to her lips to tell them to be quiet, and Zuhkal put out his light.

She pressed the button, and opened the door into a small sitting area, where silver bowls and vases decorated the table and dresser. Morane peeked around the corner and looked into the larger room on the right. Lace curtains and paintings and tapestries covered the walls, while in the center was an extravagant four-poster bed, on which slept two figures. Morane froze, and as slowly and quietly as she could manage, backed into the secret hallway, and then reached up and closed the door.

She turned around to see Zuhkal and Laure’s confused expressions, but she didn’t say anything until they were back at the bottom of the stairs. “It was their bedroom.”

“The nobles?” Laure asked. When Morane nodded, Laure said, “Shit.”

They walked back to the first door, the one into the storage room. After the stone door slid open, they carefully moved a barrel aside so they could crawl over another and into the room. It was small room between the crates and barrels, but they managed to fit in as they shut the door behind them.

“If something goes wrong, head back here,” Morane said. She hoped they would, because if it came down to it, she wouldn’t be waiting around to find out.  

The door to the storage room was unlocked, so Morane chanced it once again and opened it. Outside was a dimly lit room, a couple lanterns hanging on the walls giving just enough illumination that it took a second for her eyes to adjust to from the perfect darkness of before. When they did, she saw a large dining room with a U shaped table in the center. There were no guards that she could see, so she snuck out, her steps still muffled.

To her left was the entrance to the dining hall, and she slowly made her way there. She peered around the corner, and there she saw two guards in conversation. They wore red tunics over their mail and plate armor, each with a sword hanging at their sides and a black and red cloak hanging from their shoulders. They wore steel helmets, though not full helms, with a Y shaped opening revealing their eyes, mouths, and nose. They had their backs to her, mostly, though would undoubtedly see her if she tried to move around the corner.

She pulled back to Zuhkal and Laure inside the storage room. “There are two guards standing outside in the hallway. How should we do this?”

“I could calm one while you two take out the other,” Zuhkal said.

“Can we do that quietly?” Laure asked.

“I can silence the other, keep him from raising an alarm,” Morane said.

“We should draw them closer to us, out of the hallway,” Laure said. “Hide them, once we knock them out.”

“What if,” Zuhkal said, “we teleport past them? Could we?”

“Within the castle? I think so,” Morane said. “But we wouldn’t know where to go to. We could appear in front of two other guards for all we know. We can’t risk getting caught.”

That thought lingered with her as they made their way into the dining hall. They spread out a little, keeping to the shadows, and Morane sent the sound of illusory footsteps into the room. After a couple second the guards appeared in the doorway.

One looked around and said, “Who goes there?” They had their swords drawn, but hadn’t spotted anyone.

Zuhkal stepped from that shadow that hid him and a ball of soft blue light floated from his outstretched hand and touched one guard in the chest. His concerned look melted away, and a blank look with a slight smile washed over his face. The other tried to yell out, but Morane’s outstretched hand, glowing pale green, stopped whatever it was he might have said.

He continued at Zuhkal, the only one revealed. As the guard’s sword swung down, Zuhkal deflected it with a conjured dark blue cutlass. As he did, Laure stepped behind the guard and grabbed him by the shoulders. The guard’s knees wobbled, and then arms fell slack at his sides. Morane could tell from the dark green magic flowing from the guard and along Laure’s arms she was draining his energy. The guard soon crumbled to the floor, though Zuhkal caught him and kept his collapse as quiet as possible. Together the three of them hauled that guard into the storage room and tied him up, and afterwards did the same to his blissfully unaware companion.

They continued down the hallway a short ways, until it ended in a grand throne room. A thick red and gold carpet cut the room in half, with pillars on either side holding up the high ceiling, from which hung chandeliers. The two thrones at the end of the red carpet were empty, though a guard paced the room, and Morane bet more were guarding the entranceway as well. Two sets of grand, curving stairways flanked the thrones, and a guard stood atop the balcony there for a moment before he disappeared through a doorway behind him.

Morane motioned up there, then teleported to the top of the steps. She didn’t wait to see if the others followed, but peeked around the corner and into the doorway the guard had disappeared in. It extended all the way to a grand looking door, which had two guards standing on either side of it. They were chatting with the third guard who had been on the balcony. Halfway down the hallway it branched off to the right and left.

Morane didn’t know if there were guards in those hallways, but she didn’t see much choice except picking one and teleporting to it. One had to lead to the court mage’s. Laure and Zuhkal had teleported up behind her, and one at a time glanced to see down the hallway. Morane held up her right hand, then teleported once again.

There were no guards in this hallway, but a door at the end, and one on either side of her. She wasted no time in going to the door at the end and unlocking it. From what she remembered of the outside of the castle, there was a tower near where she was. That better be where the books are, she thought.  

As she unlocked the door, she could hear one guard saying, “I think they’re paranoid. With the wards in place, no elf is going to be able to get in.”

“You’re right. But if the Captain sees you, he’s going to have your hide,” a female guard said.

“Yeah I know,” the guard said, his voice then replaced by the sound of his boots coming down the hall.

Morane had the door unlocked and was crouched just inside the room, but Laure and Zuhkal had yet to appear. The footsteps were growing closer just as Zuhkal appeared before her, and he scurried into the room. The guard was too close now, about to pass the hallway, where all he had to do was look to his left and see Morane and Zuhkal crouched inside the doorway. Morane cursed under her breath and closed the door and held it just a hair’s breadth from actually shutting. She listened for the guard’s footsteps to pass, and once they did she opened it again. Laure had to come now, or he’d see her for sure. Morane was holding her breath, and she could feel Zuhkal beside her doing the same.

Laure appeared in the emptiness of the hallway, right when Morane was sure she was going to be seen. They quickly ushered her inside and shut the door, and Morane said, “Don’t wait so long next time.”

“I know what I’m doing,” was all Laure said.

Zuhkal threw up an orb of light, which illuminated the large, circular room. Just as Morane had hoped, bookshelves lined the walls. On the left, a staircase along the wall ran up into the darkness, while various magical implements lined the other walls. A desk and a couple upholstered chairs sat in the middle of the room atop a thick rug.

“Look for A History of Shadow and The Journals of Azra Nightwielder,” she said.

They went to work, poring over the spines of the books in the dim light. Occasionally Morane had to pull one from the shelf to check the title. After a few minutes, Zuhkal pulled a book and said, “A History of Shadow.”

Morane gave him the enchanted book, which rippled and took on the appearance of A History of Shadow, and then she put the real book in her pack. But as the search went on, she and the others couldn’t find the last book they were looking for. Morane was worried that it too had been stolen.

Eventually, they’d gone through the shelves of books. There was an organizational method, and from what Morane could tell, they’d searched all the shelves that might possibly hold the book they were looking for. It was then she looked around the room itself, and saw, tucked between an enchanting table and cabinet holding various herbs and potions, a lectern with a book resting on it.

Morane walked over to it and lowered her orb to read the title. The others were looking over her shoulder and they all saw the title: The Journals of Azra Nightwielder. Morane reached into her bag for the enchanted book as Laure picked up Journals.

Like a wave washing over her, Morane stopped and felt a profound hopelessness. What’ve I been doing, all this time? She’d never seen it before, never realized it, but everything she’d ever done was for nothing. Personal power and strength was never going to fill the void left by her unloving, selfish parents. Becoming the best shadow mage, or the best at anything wouldn’t bring her happiness or love or peace. I’ve always been alone, I’ll always be alone, and when I die no one will miss me. She dropped her bag and sat on the floor, and pulled her knees pulled up to her chest. She hung her head, her black hair falling around her face like a veil. She watched the pale stone beneath her turn dark as her tears dropped down, a slow, incessant drip. Shadow magic, these books, they wouldn’t bring her power or fulfillment. They were nothing, and it was useless to think otherwise.

She wallowed there, disturbed not by Zuhkal and Laure’s crying, but by the sound of footsteps behind her. She raised her head just enough to see a dark green hand grab the book from the ground next to Laure, and then her head fell back onto her knees as she thought about every cruel word said and selfish action done throughout her life.

“So you’re book thieves,” interrupted a gruff, distinctively Orcish voice. His words did not stop the mire of distraughtness that suffocated Morane’s being, didn’t lessen the pain or guilt, but they did anchor her mind back to the present, at least for a moment. Not that it mattered. Stealing the books wouldn’t change anything.
The orsimer could be heard rummaging through her pack. “And not just any book thieves... Interesting.” A large shadow fell between Morane and the orb of light, blanketing the ground before her in darkness. “Do you have anything to say for yourselves?”

"What's there to say?" Zuhkal said, the question accompanied with a sob.

Morane lifted her head to stare into the darkness, part of her hoping the shadows would just take her already. She waited, and they didn't, so she said, "No. We thought it would help us. I thought it would help me."

"Hmm. Well you wouldn't be the first to have thought that." The shadow shifted, and Morane could hear the orc's heavy breath just in front of her. "Look at me."

Morane did as she was told. She didn’t see the point in doing anything else, so she might as well oblige the shadow. As she looked, she peered closer, and saw the orc standing before her, a concerned look on his grey-bearded face.

When he spoke, there was no malice in his voice. "Why did you believe that these books would help you?"

“I-“ Morane started, but Zuhkal interrupted her.

”I thought it would help me protect people, empower me to kill those that deserve it,” he said, looking at the orc as he did. “But what if it corrupts me, what if I can’t control it?” Morane looked at Zuhkal's grey-blue eyes searching for answers from the orc, but she knew there weren't any. Everything was in question but there were no answers.

"I daresay that is more the likely result than what you seek," replied the orc. He placed both books on the enchanting table, and took a seat in the chair beside it. "What are your names?"

"Zuhkal." He was still looking at the orc, and Morane wondered what he could possibly expect to learn.

"Morane," she said.

"Laure," the quietest member of the group added. She'd stopped crying, but her voice was a hoarse whisper.

"Zuhkal, Morane, and Laure," the Orc repeated. "I am Borkar, the person you've decided to steal from." He sighed. "I have met many aspiring mages in my time, but few pursued the arts that you do with noble intentions. Why shadow magic? If you wished to help people, why not become healers, or mythics?"

"The Thalmor are too powerful to be beaten with healing spells and curses." When Zuhkal spoke, Morane noticed something in his voice. His tone was less melancholy and more determined. Maybe he'd found some answer after all.

"Why does it matter?" Laure asked. "Noble intentions, ignoble ones, we'll all die. Nothing we do will change anything."

"So you disagree with your friend?" Borkar asked with a frown. "If nothing matters, why did you come here?"

"I don't know. I thought...I don't know what I thought. It doesn't matter now," Laure said as she withdrew into herself and hung her head once again.

Like a dam bursting or a rope snapping, Morane felt a shift inside her. Watching Laure there, listening to her speak and hearing her own thoughts echoed in those words incited something within Morane. The melancholy was fading, and feelings of rage and resentment replaced it. Resentment at her own dismal thoughts and anger that she'd been reduced to such a state. "I came because I need that book," Morane said, caught her breath, and then continued. "We can't learn shadow magic without it. Not to the level we need."

Zuhkal seemed fully himself, though he didn't move from his position seated on the floor. "Not to the level all of us will need to defeat the Thalmor. They have their dawn magic, and we need something to counter that. Shadow magic is it."

"It is a dangerous path that you three follow," the Orc sighed. "But if you knew what these books are, then I don't need to tell you that. You come from High Rock, correct? Tell me, how is it that you intend to fight the Thalmor with this power, should you master it and not be corrupted?"

"We can infiltrate their defenses better than other mages," Zuhkal said. "The Thalmor won't be prepared for this."

That sparked an idea in Morane, one she hadn't even thought to try before. She closed her eyes briefly and reached out, peering into the dark, multitemporal shadow world hidden from most. She wasn't trying to use shadow magic, only look, and what she saw wiped away all her dismay. She opened her eyes and with a half- smile said, "Their wards won't work. Yours don't, and unless they catch on and change theirs, they won't be able to stop us from moving as we please. But we need to master it first."

"And who better to teach us than the original shadowmage?" Zuhkal asked.

Borkar appeared surprised. “That was quick.” He picked up the books now, looking plainly aware that it was now in the two shadow mages’ power to try and take them from him. “You two are strong-willed at least. That will be necessary for what you are trying to do.”

Morane raised her hands to show she was no threat and Zuhkal followed suit. She said, "Will alone won't be enough, though. We still have more to learn."

"I understand your concern," Zuhkal said, his voice charming but without the magical edge. They both knew how foolish it would be to try and charm Borkar. "But is what's in those books really worse than what the Thalmor will do if they aren't stopped? I’m sure you’ve heard the tales of sunbirds and all the destruction they’ve caused.”

"The Thalmor are a threat," Borkar conceded. "One of the greatest the world has known. But wielding lightning to combat a flame is not likely to bring safety." He studied them both. "You are not cruel. Perhaps you are even well-intended, or even right... but also very new to this. Tell me, how did you come to know that I possessed these books, or even that they existed to begin with?"

"The School of Julianos," Morane lied. She nodded toward her pack. "I'm sure you saw the robes and mask in there. I snuck in and found one of the books, and they knew of some locations where the rest might be. We've been looking for them since then. It wasn't easy to find yours."

"I see." The Orc stroked his beard as he studied them. It was hard to tell if he did not believe her, or if he was simply pondering on by what thread the school could have led them to him. He turned his attention to Laure and did a motion with his hand. "You can get up, dear."

Even as the curse dispelled, Morane could still see a hollow look in Laure's eyes. Laure sat up and swept the long hair atop her head out of her eyes, then dried her cheeks. She cleared her throat and said, "Thank you."

Morane wondered what Laure could've felt that would lead her to thank the same man who cursed her.

"You are quite welcome. Believe it or not, it pains me that the dismay you three have felt today was inflicted by my hand. But you must understand the need for some protection. In the future, you may want to consider speaking to people before resorting to theft."

"Our original plan was to come here when the Count and Countess were holding court and request an audience," Morane said, and it was half true. "The Thalmor complicated that."

"But you're right," Zuhkal said. "We could've gone about this a better way. We got the last two books on our list by talking to the mage that had them. We should've done the same here."

"That so?" Borkar's eyes didn't leave Zuhkal. "And what did you say him that you haven’t said to me? There are few mages I know who would part with such dangerous tomes at the words of a stranger."

"I talked to her." Morane thought back to her conversation with Sybille. "She was like you, and offered warnings about the dangers of the path we were on. She admired our commitment, though."
She didn't like the path this conversation had taken, but she couldn't afford to make every word she said a lie. She knew this orc would see through that. "It didn't feel like we were strangers. I think she saw something of herself in me. She had her reservations, but trusted my judgment."

"Because you were like her?"

Morane sighed and shrugged, as much because she didn't truly know Sybille's motivations as in exasperation at Borkar's questions. "I guess, but she didn't say. She had experience with shadow magic. Maybe she thought I could handle it, because I was like her."

"Perhaps she trusted you because you were like her. Perhaps she did not exist at all and this is all some trick." He frowned. "You seem like alright enough people. Perhaps I'll be saving Tamriel by giving you these books. Or perhaps I'd be dooming it."
Borkar tapped a finger on the books and they vanished from his arms. "I am sorry. I do not know you, and unlike this last person you met, I have no power to tell what kind of people you are."

Morane sat there on the floor, scowling at Borkar. There was no point in hiding what she felt any longer, though in truth she didn't know if she was mad at him for not giving them the books or herself for failing. Regardless, she didn't want to be sitting on the orc's floor as he lectured them, so she teleported back to the docks, the action almost instinctual now.

The twin moons shone faintly overhead as the cold spray of water and the stench of fish hit her. There was no one else out that she could see, and only creaking ships and lapping waves made much sound. It was late into the night. Laure soon appeared, but it was another few minutes before Zuhkal arrived, her bag in hand.

Morane didn't bother asking him what had taken him so long as she took her bag from him. She knew him well enough to know he'd probably been apologizing to the orc, or talking to him about shadow magic, or something like that. Nothing Morane was interested in hearing, not now, and nothing he seemed interested in telling. The three of them walked in silence back to the inn in the Chapelgate district.

Morane stayed on the ground floor and paid for a bottle of cheap wine. Both Laure and Zuhkal headed upstairs, though Zuhkal had come back down as Morane finished her first cup and refilled it.

Zuhkal sat down across from her and filled his own cup. He took a big drink and then said, “She’s still shaken up about what happened.”

“Yeah well,” Morane started, then stopped and took a drink. “I guess I can’t blame her. That was fucking rough.”

Zuhkal nodded. They drank in silence for a few moments before Zuhkal said, “He told me he’d welcome us back. As fellow scholars, to talk about shadow magic. And maybe he’d give us one of the books, eventually."

“Maybe he’d welcome you back,” Morane said.

“He said all of us.”

“You don’t think he’d be suspicious of my motives? Not all of us are in this to save the world. I basically admitted as much.”

“You’re telling me there isn’t some part of you in this for unselfish reasons? Not even a little?”

Morane wondered that herself. Her whole life had been in search of power, of control. Shadow magic was just another part of that, she thought, though the things she’d felt from the spell earlier in the night cast doubt on that. And she’d read part of one of the books she’d gotten from Sybille, Shadow and Dawn, about shadow magic being the other side of the coin of dawn magic, or something like that. Like everyone else, she’d heard what the Thalmor had done to the Imperial fleet and to Windhelm.

She looked down to see her cup empty again, and knew she’d had too much to drink to really think this through, and she wasn’t sure she even wanted to. She poured herself some more. “I don’t know. All I know is I spent the whole night lying to him and he didn’t strike me as an idiot.”

“It’s not like I told him about our original plan to steal from the library in Solitude. We wanted those books and we both tried to steal from him and lie to him to get them. It didn’t work, so now we need to try something else.”

“So what, you want to go back tomorrow and sit around and talk some more?”

Zuhkal shook his head. “We should head back, tell Winvale what happened, and tell him our plan is to come back and get the books a different way. And maybe it’ll be good to learn about shadow magic from someone besides him. We still don’t know if we can trust him. And Borkar might be willing to tell us some things Winvale won’t.”

Morane shrugged. “We might as well. I doubt we’ll be able to steal the books now even if we wanted to.”

Zuhkal nodded, finished his second cup, and stood to leave. As he did, Morane asked, “How are you feeling? After what happened.”

“Well, I haven’t forgotten it yet. Not sure I will.”

“Yeah, me either.” Morane finished her drink as well, then corked the bottle and headed up to the room with Zuhkal.

The room was dark when they entered, and Morane assumed Laure was asleep. But as her eyes adjusted she saw Laure’s bed was empty. Zuhkal lit a candle and the faint light showed neither Laure nor her things were in the room, and that a note was resting on her pillow.

Zuhkal picked it up, and Morane asked, “What’s it say?”

He read it aloud. “This isn’t what I thought I was signing up for, and I want no part of it. Tell Winvale whatever you want, just don’t come looking for me. Good luck to you two. Laure Marceau.”

“That’s it?”

He flipped it over and checked the back, then said, “That’s it.”

Morane sat down on the end of the bed, uncorked the bottle, and took a drink. Zuhkal held out his hand and she passed him the bottle. Morane knew neither one had known Laure all that well, but after all that had happened that night, it felt like one last punch to the gut. They finished that bottle, ordered another, and finished that one too.

When Morane woke up the next day it was past noon. There wasn’t much said between the two of them as they packed their things and boarded their ship home. Leaning next to Zuhkal on the ship’s rail as they sailed from the dock, Morane noticed the woman Jera watching from nearby. No doubt Jera had noticed there was one less member of their group. Morane searched the dock to see if Laure was watching as well, but there was no sign of her, and soon Anvil faded away.

[ColonelKillaBee]

Tyrian

Of all the times he'd been in human lands, Tyrian had never before marveled at the barbarity they'd displayed like this. What he'd seen before was impressive, to be sure. Like a great beast taking down its kill right before your very eyes, and feeling the thrill, the captivity only adrenaline can hold on a warrior's heart, that you, you would have the honor of turning such a beast into prey, in turn. That you would only be elevated to greater heights by finally having and overcoming worthy adversary.

That's what these Nords were. Not beasts to mock and berate, to enslave and neuter, unless left no choice. No, they were the stepping stone that would take he and his people far beyond the confines of this world. The pedestal where they could show all generations of Tamriel from here on just how righteous and true their path is. The only true law humans followed was right by might. And so, the Thalmor would beat them at their own game.

But at the moment, with the human boy over his shoulders, and Tyrian sweating like a pig, panting, feet crunching in the snow with wild eyes that of a mortal that had seen too much... at that moment, those thoughts were the furthest thing from his mind. Yes, he had marveled at the barbarity, at the slaying of his kin. Because he, he too could have the fate of being mauled and torn apart in the blink of an eye, blood spraying so high it reached the rim of the very skies itself, just like this place's namesake.

He dared to stop, suddenly, turning, holding his breath... a cracked twig... then another. Rustling birds. 

A growl.

He heard something else too. Rushing water. He was close. The river! He had to get to the river. 

The elf broke through the clearing of dead frozen trees and sure enough found the winding snakelike river that led him to the Sea of Ghosts. Dangerously close to the very city that he and his people fled months ago.

His eyes almost swam at the sight of the boat his men procured for this very moment. He practically collapsed over the bow with the boy in tow, his sweaty mage robes growing stiff as frost encased him from the deathly cold waters that encompassed his feet. He pushed and pushed, the wood alive, complaining, truly an old man moaning at being stirred by this elf. Once it was in the water though, its groaning ceased, and the elf cast spell after spell to rid himself of the chill as he began to row. 

More rustling in the trees. To his left, his right... 

"Tyrian! Wait for us!"

There were still more of his people... more importantly they managed to recover the Demon Nord's body! The gods, they were truly merciful.

Tyrian stopped rowing momentarily so that they could make the climb aboard whilst he secured their prize, but before even two could make it aboard, something else burst forth from amongst the dead trees as well. And soon the nightmare had seen it fit to repeat itself. Tyrian ordered them to set off, row like their lives depended on it because it damn sure did that day. He used a spell to make the oars that were missing men row themselves as best he could, trying desperately to ignore the cries of those left behind as the monsters the Nords shapeshifted into bathed in their elven blood.

The charge in the air from so many spells cast from a desperate fight to live was felt even as the figures of their comrades grew more and more distant. For a second, they thought they'd escaped until they saw the fat lumbering figures chasing them down with the quickness of a boulder rolling down the steepest of mountains. Suddenly the whole winter desert was alive with things that wished to see them red. The cries of the monsters that grew closer to them by the second brought the attention of wild beasts, bears the color of snow that they surely hadn't noticed before were now attempting to cut them off in the river, even jumping overhead from overhanging ridges before the crew of three cast them away telekinetically.

And as long as they were casting, no one was rowing save for Tyrian via his spell, but he could only do so much under duress... and the Nords, they were getting closer... and closer still until he could see the color of those keen all seeing eyes that seemed to already see him as the mound of meat and tissue he truly was. All the time he'd spent mastering his craft, learning of cultures and finding love in fellow Altmer. It would all amount to shit, cast from the backside of bears and Nords on a mound of snow.

"No! I will not die here!"

Tyrian stood, and before the two knew it, they were sent flying directly into the monsters' respective maws while Tyrian summoned a daedroth to help with the rowing. His comrades barely bought him seconds, as they were reduced to sprays of blood and fleshy chunks like a rat that had fallen into a spinning Dwemer trap. When he saw them gaining on him again, standing at the front of his boat ready for him to come around the river's curve... he knew, it was over. 

He looked down at the boy, still unconscious from earlier, and he cursed him. If he were awake, he knew the boy would be smiling. Taunting him and his weak resolve. The weakness of their endeavor. They thought themselves predators. Gods even. And the gods laughed in their faces. Hircine, that horrid name. His machinations had left him undone for that audacity.

As he watched the two mighty bears that were once men watching him, waiting, Tyrian's eyes looked to the night sky. He looked to the stars where his kin had once dwelt, where they truly belonged... They were so far away. Was their goal ever truly achievable? Or were they no better than wolves, howling at the moon.

The bear men scratched at the ground in anticipation... they knew the answer even if they didn't hear the question. He had dared to reach for the stars, and the Nords would once again bring them back down to earth.

As if to illustrate this point, Tyrian saw a star, falling from heaven itself. Yes, the gods truly did mock him. In fact, the star seemed to hang in the sky forever, just so they knew he'd see. Hell, it even seemed like it was growing closer. By the gods, it was growing closer...

Tyrian suddenly felt a tingle upon his arm, and a familiar faint whisper in his ear. And then, runes shined upon his arm like someone had just branded his skin.

The bears were close enough for the leap now, and they stood upon two feet, roaring at the sky for they too saw what he saw. His salvation. 

They leaped, and got so close that Tyrian could see the flesh caught in their teeth. But none of it would be his, that day.

***

Naarifin and Corio

In their haste to return to Mundus, Corio was completely unprepared for reentering the mortal world... He didn't realize it, but his body had gotten accustomed to breathing in the nothing of the abyss that surrounded Nirn. Even within an Oblivion realm itself, breath... it was a thing of the living. And although the land of daedra could mimic it just fine, the body could not be fooled.

The rushing air invaded his lungs, sending him into a mad coughing fit as the Aldtam-Eshler fell from the sky. All the while, Naarifin stood as composed as ever, unnatural eyes glaring.

"A suit... I needed a suit," he said. But there wasn't any time for that. Standing, forcing himself to breath the natural air, he said, "We're going to make quite the scene when we land! The Nords will surely spot us. Slipping past them might be impossible alone! We'll need to feel for our kin, try to reach out to them!"

Naarifin did not immediately respond. His eyes were transfixed on the stars. How long has it been? 
It was not until he detected someone's magicka that the elf turned his attention back to the ship. Corio was still going on about Nords or something, but behind him a portal was opening up. Naarifin's eyes went wide, and in a fit of madness he shrieked, "He has followed us!"

However, it was not so. Corio turned and the two generals watched a group of bodies pile out of the opening. First emerged an Atmer of their own faction, then the the corpse of a hulking Nord, then an unconscious Breton boy, and lastly, a huge snarling beast whose claw gripped the Breton's ankle.

Daric's eyes snapped open, as though some fog had been lifted from his eyes, woken from a dream, only to reveal the beasts he fled pawing at him as the ground beneath them shook and tilted. As if that weren't enough, his surroundings were completely alien, and there was a fluttering feeling in his gut unfamiliar to him. 

He threw up, looking to the sky and seeing the clouds rush past them. His heart was beating almost as fast as they were falling, and for a moment he thought his heart was giving out on him as the world began to spin and he gripped the floor for dear life.

Giving up on that and guessing how in the all fuck he ended up wherever this was, he scrambled to get away and grabbed the first thing that was within reach. Tyrian. 

The elf tried to fight the boy's death grip but couldn't in time before a wall of fur swallowed him up. Before he could be reduced to pieces, the ship tipped forward even further, increasing the rate that they were falling which was already dangerously rapid.

Sliding over the deck, Tyrian saw Corio floating overhead with his hand outstretched, grasping and lifting him away just before he was crushed by the weight of the monster at the bow.

The beast's claws scraped against the surface of the Aldtam-Eshler as it tried to find some purchase. It may have succeeded, had its fur not suddenly gone up in a blaze of fire. The monster howled and tumbled across the deck and away from the elves. Its screams seemed to go back and forth between those of an animal and those of a man.

Naarifin started to tell the others to deal with the boy as he finished off the creature, but it was at that moment the Aldtam-Eshler crashed into the Sea of Ghosts like Baar Dau itself. The crystal vessel let off a deafening screech as the defensive enchantments came to life and spewed light and water high into the night sky.

Corio found himself upside down against the rails, unable to get himself up. The werebeast didn’t have that same problem. 

It practically threw itself at him, it’s fur still alight... He opened his eyes to see the thing right before his face, the smell of flesh from its maw and charred fur and skin forcing its way into his nose until he could taste it upon the tongue. 

It flailed about, to no avail before Tyrian launched it so high the thing burst through the wards that held back the water.

”Thank me later, master. We really aught to get this thing back up before she sinks any deeper.”

”Behind you!” Corio flopped backwards until he was able to stand but by then Daric was already on Tyrian. He drew the elf’s own blade, then sliced straight through his robes as the elf attempted to evade. 

Daric shot a fire bolt at Corio, not stopping to see it stop dead in its tracks before him. He chucked his blade at Naarifin, then practically tripped over Brund’s body as he attempted to jump overboard and swim his way up before they were too deep. He cleared the railings, and finally felt the kiss of freedom in the form of the Sea of Ghost's icy waters. It did not last. The moment Daric's head and arms cleared the ship's wards, something gripped his collar and yanked him back with the strength of a saber cat. Soaking wet from his chest up, Daric rolled across the deck and looked up to meet Naarifin's orange eyes.

The old elf clutched Tyrian's blade in his right hand and a had a spell readied in his left. The moment Daric started to rise, he released the spell, and the boy fell limply back down, his energy completely sapped. Naarifin continued to drain him. It would not take much to kill the young Breton in his current state, which was exactly what he intended to do.

"Stop," said Tyrian, between fits of coughing up his own blood as he tried to stand. "The boy. He's valuable. He's my prisoner. Stop!"

Naarifin gave him an exasperated look, then he rolled his eyes and released the spell. "Fine. And what am I to call you, Aldmeri?"

"I think I should be asking you that question. Either I'm crazy, or you're..."

Corio stood between them. "Yes, it's Naarifin. In the flesh. And as much as I'd love an exchange of names between guests..." Corio pointed a finger at the wards above them. They were beginning to quite literally crack...

"You three better kill me," said Daric, eyes swimming. "Kill me or I promise I'll kill all of you..."

Corio eyed the boy beneath them.

"Maybe later. Right now I intend to make sure we don't die along with you. Naarifin? Tyrian. Let's begin."

Naarifin shrugged and hit the Breton with a paralysis spell in case he proved stronger than he appeared. Then the three Altmer gathered together and joined their power into one spell. The Aldtam-Eshler shuddered and groaned against the sea, and the magicka surrounding it strengthened, and then slowly began to lift it back up.

How did this happen? Why did this happen? Where will they take me?

Daric could do nothing but watch... the pressure from the combined magicka of the three wizards settled over him, suffocated him. It reminded him of the strange nights when he couldn't move, but he could see and feel everything. His mother used to say a Scamp sat on his chest at night, sapping his strength so that it could return to Oblivion.

He couldn't even scream. All he could do was lie there, thinking about what Baldur told him. About his time being tortured by the Thalmor. The scars at his back, and the burns on his fingers. Being able to fight was one thing, but that sort of helplessness scared him even into manhood.

As Daric thought of his fate, Corio's mood soared upwards along with their ship. He was even smiling.

Tyrian, figuring the two no longer needed his assistance collapsed to the floor beside the boy, healing himself as he gasped for air. Eyeing Corio, he said, "You know... from this angle you look... different somehow. Did you get taller? And your hair... What happened to you two? Where in Oblivion did you find... him?"

“Where in Oblivion indeed,” said Corio. “Secure the boy please. I don’t want anymore interruptions. Our journey back is likely to be just as perilous and I’ll need both of you if we’re to make it alive.”

Naarifin looked at Tyrian, then motioned to Daric. "You did say he's your prisoner." The old elf then turned and started walking about the crystal deck, studying the wards imbued with it, and using his own magicka to strengthen them in lieu of a proper crystal.

Tyrian frowned at Naarifin... it was such a long time since he last saw the mer. Even in such desperation he had an air of superiority about him that was much even for Altmer... he wasn't the only one though. Corio was different. As was his brand of superiority. It wasn't so deliberate. More like accidental. The way he flaunted himself, looked right through him.

Between the both of them, plus the boy, it was surely going to be a long trip home.

Finally, the Aldtam-Eshler breached the waters and was afloat once more, giving a view of the Nord city of old in the distance. Windhelm.

Corio began activating the invisibility wards immediately, gesturing with Tyrian to do the same once Daric was secured and out of the way. There was enough work that they had to summon daedra to assist with the task, but soon the Aldtam-Eshler was just another ghost amongst the Sea of Ghosts. And there was enough magical warding that they wouldn't need to worry about any actual spirits aboard the ship, unlike the Imperials had years ago.

[The Good Doctor]

Boldir and Mila
The Gold Coast

"Alright, here’s another one," Mila told Boldir as their horses trod south past a lone watchtower. Its Legion occupants silently watched them go by, their armored forms appeared as shadows against the midday sun.
"There is a warrior of magical origin. He is spawned, gleaming, by two dumb creatures to aid mortalkind. He slays foes with ease; and provides comfort to his masters. He must be fed carefully; or his strength will falter. This warrior is celebrated for his vigil against all darkness; but he will betray anyone who permits him to become too proud. What is the warrior's name?"

"A warrior of magical origin..." Boldir repeated under his breath. "Spawned... This isn't some daedric nonsense, is it?"

Mila laughed. "I told you, these ain't for mages."

Boldir did not say anything for several minutes. He prided himself on figuring out Mila's riddles in as few guesses as possible. After the watchtower had grown small behind them, he finally answered, "Fire."

"Damn. Good job." She drew her horse closer to him and handed over the Green Book of Riddles that they had purchased in Kvatch. They had found it to be an entertaining way to pass time during the long stretches of nothing that made up much of southern Colovia. "Maybe one of these days you won't make me think you've fallen asleep while thinking on it."

"And maybe you'll get one in fewer than ten guesses."

"Point taken."

Boldir flipped to a random page and tried to steady his grip on the book against the movement of his horse. He cleared his throat and read: "Four travelers journey together; leaving dark tracks behind them. They are trailblazers; for the golden path they traverse has never been explored and contains no tales save the ones they forge.”

Mila had to refrain from immediately blurting the first six guesses that came to her mind, and was glad she did, because none of them were hard to rule out. 'Muddy horse hooves' was her best answer, but the last part of the riddle did not really fit with that. Dark tracks. There are four of them.
She looked out to the breezy countryside, as if the swaying grass and gold-specked dunes would hold some answer that her mind did not. Her eyes landed on a ruined windmill a ways up ahead, then they widened when she realized what was attached to it. The riddle faded from her mind. "Whoa."

"What is it?"

"Look up there." Mila pointed. The structure itself was clearly visible, but still far enough that she wasn't surprised Boldir had not seen what she did.

Following Mila's finger, Boldir had to squint to make out what she wanted him to see. When he finally did, a sense of grim familiarity set in. Five narrow cages had been nailed to the side of of a distant windmill. And now that he focused, Boldir could make out the carrion circling above it. It was by the roadside, so they eventually drew close enough to better make the cages out. Mila confirmed his suspicions when she rode up beside them. "They're all elves."

"Aye, wood elves," Boldir replied. A few dainty Bosmeri limbs dangled between the bars while crows picked at them. "They were probably caught scouting for the Dominion."

"I suppose they deserved it, then." Mila glanced around, but didn't see any other dwellings besides the watchtower they had passed earlier. For some reason, that made the scene feel all the more eerie. She tugged her reigns and started back on the path, only to stop again when one of the cages made a sound.

"Ooooh..." moaned a weak voice that came from the leftmost cage. The crow perched on it barely moved when one of the elf's feeble arms, bloody and sun-scorched, extended towards Mila, as if begging her to end his suffering.

Boldir shook his head and grimaced. "Keep riding."

Mila nodded, and the two went on their way. Eventually, she asked the question that had been weighing on her mind. "Why didn't the Imperials just hang them?"

"Lots of people ain't all that afraid of dying," he replied. "At least not quickly. Drawing it out like that is meant to intimidate. To scare others who might do what they did into reconsidering."

Mila looked back. "Does that actually work?"

"Sometimes. Usually not."

Mila could tell from the somber look on his face that Boldir had seen his share of things like this, maybe even had a part in it. She did not press any further.

Not much of interest happened for the rest of the afternoon. They moved aside at one point to let a Legion patrol pass by, and they met a few travelers heading north who informed them that they should arrive at Anvil in about a day. It was their assurances that convinced Boldir to push on harder than they might have, so that they could spend the night beneath the roof of an inn rather than in tents. The decision paid off that evening when they emerged from a patch of woods and were greeted by a breathtaking view. The massive coastal city sprawled out in the distance, but it was the sea that drew their eyes.
The waters of the Abecean were as blue as sapphires and shimmering pink and gold with the reflection of great Magnus behind them. What could be seen of the horizon stretched as far as the world seemed to go, and what could not be seen was filled with ships beyond counting, anchored in massive clusters and sporting the flags of their Empire.
Mila was transfixed. It was different from the paintings. So much wider and grander than they could capture, so much more alive. Boldir placed a hand on her shoulder. "It ain't Lake Honrich, is it?"

She swallowed, and then broke into a smile. "No. It really isn't."
They stepped off the road to let a short caravan pass them by, and lingered there for some time, taking it all in. The moment lasted until a cloud moved in front of the sun and broke her trance. She looked up at Boldir and gave his hand a squeeze. "Let's go."

The city's thousands of lights grew brighter as the day became night, and then vanished behind looming walls as Boldir and Mila got closer. They could no longer see the waters by the time they reached the gate, but the smells of fish and salt filled their nostrils, and the ocean breeze nipped at their faces. One of the first things they noticed upon entering Anvil was that the Legion presence seemed to be even greater than in the Imperial City. Or at least more active. The walls were heavily manned, and the towers were all occupied. Groups of soldiers patrolled the streets among the civilians, orderly and armed for war.

"Is this what it was like in Falkreath?" Mila asked.

Boldir nodded. "Aye. Quite a lot, actually."

"It was like this with Whiterun, too," she said. "Before the Stormcloaks took the city..." Mila gaped at a team of six mages who used their magic to levitate some sort of jagged metal contraption onto the city wall. "... but this is much bigger."

"Come on." Boldir adjusted the big rucksack that contained his armor and pulled his hood a little tighter over his face. He was not too concerned about anyone looking for him here in the corner of Cyrodiil, but if any of those soldiers were from Chorrol or the capital, there might have been some slim chance that they could remember him from some rumor or poster. It was unlikely, but he decided to be careful nonetheless.

It was a little surprising how busy things were in the city despite it being after dark. It was not very late, but the life of nighttime Anvil would have been that of many Nordic cities during the day. There were torches, braziers, and lanterns at every turn, which made the darkness a nonissue for the dozens of individuals milling about or wandering to-and-fro, many with a drunken stagger. This suited Boldir and Mila fine, as it made their passing all the less noteworthy. Particularly given that Anvil was teaming with people who were far more likely to attract attention than themselves. Such as a pair of High Elves clad in bright blue robes that seemed to reflect torchlight, an Argonian whose weight was likely half-doubled by his hundreds of silver piercings, scores of bare-chested men covered in tattoos, and lots of scantily clad women who called out to Boldir as they passed by. And there were more than a few people who kept their hoods up just like him.

The first place that they found was a larger building called the Gold Coast Inn, and it was thankfully not too rowdy. The owner welcomed them inside, exclaiming that he was proud to welcome them to the "finest establishment in all Anvil". However, when he named his price for rooms, they left as quickly as they had entered. Until Boldir could sell his armor, they only had a small amount of gold to live by.
They followed the streets and directions from a strumpet until they arrived at a second inn. It was as large as the first, but in a much less attractive state, with cracks along the walls and boards on several of the windows. As they approached the door, a Redguard seaman burst out it, singing a slurred shanty to the the pair of women who accompanied him. Behind him, the same song could be heard on the lips of a crowd of patrons.

"Fun place," Mila remarked.

"At least we'll be able to afford it." Boldir led the way. The inn was more or less what he had expected. Lots of drunk people, lots of voices and jumbled music, lots of good and bad smells mingling together. Nothing a Nord wasn't used to. They made their way to the counter and purchased a room and some bread at a tiny fraction of the price charged at the Gold Cost Inn. Then they went upstairs and unpacked.
"We'll look for Vile tomorrow," Boldir said, though he did not have the faintest idea how to even begin such a search. "And someone to buy this armor. You sure you'll be able to find a fence?"

"Anrich told me that Anvil is right behind the Imperial City when it comes to the guild's presence. And he once mentioned that finding them was as easy as using some of our cant on any dockside tavern keeper." Mila shrugged. "Guess we'll see if he was right."

There was only one bed, but Mila did not mind getting out her bedroll and sleeping on the floor. After spending weeks on the road, a roof and some walls were blessing enough. They both slept soundly for most of the night, until at some point a voice made Mila's eyes flick open.
"Huh?" She sat up and rubbed her eyes. The moons cast enough light through their window to clearly see that there was nobody in the room but her and Boldir. Must have been a dream.
Mila started to lay back down, and then she heard it again, a little more clearly this time.

"No." It was a woman's voice. Faint, but familiar. "No, please!"

Valga. Mila's eyes darted to the ceiling, but it was too dark to see. Every now and then, Roseloe's voice muttered another plea, but they didn't seem to be directed at anyone specific. Mila realized that the witch might have fallen asleep while watching them through an insect. Slowly, she crawled out of her bedroll and crept to Boldir's side. She gently shook him, and placed a finger over his lips.

Boldir's eyes opened and blinked a few times. Mila shushed him before he could speak, and then pointed to the ceiling. As soon as she did, someone other than her muttered the words, "Have mercy." 
It took a few moments of being awake for Boldir to realize who the voice belonged to. When he did, he groaned, then leaned over to Mila's ear and whispered, "Use your magic to make a light. She can't hurt us."

Mila nodded, and reached inside herself for the only spell she knew. The one she was too weak to truly cast, but understood well enough to bring out. As Boldir climbed out of bed, her fingers of the mountain sparked to life, dimly illuminating the area in front of her in dancing patterns. She got on top of the bed and held her hand up to the ceiling. She pointed it at one corner and ran it in a line to the next, and continued to do this until she saw a black speck against the boards. The moment the magical light fell over the insect, Roseloe's voice cried out with a start.

"What in the Void?! ..." The insect fell silent. 

"We know it's you, Valga," Boldir said. "Out with it. What do you want?"

Roseloe adopted the same tone she had spoken with in her home. "You are even denser than I believed if you truly require an explanation for why I would follow the ones who robbed me and killed my favorite servant."

"He was your only servant," Mila pointed out.

"Irrelevant!" shrieked the witch. "I told you that you would regret coming into my home, and I meant it. You will not escape me, even if it means I shall follow your entire journey through the eyes of this ridiculous vessel. And when my vacation ends, I will come for you both."

Boldir snorted. "You're still on your vacation?"

"Of course, fool. Why should I interrupt my expensive and long-planned period of relaxation for your sake? You might even get yourselves killed dealing with Clavicus Vile, and then the inconvenience of pursuing you would have been for naught."

"What a tragedy that would be." Boldir frowned. "And what if I just kill your bug?"

"Don't bother, brute. I would only assume control of another."

"That's some impressive magic," Mila said, folding her arms. "I thought the bugs in your home might have been special. But any?"

"Are you questioning my abilities, girl? I'll have you know that I-"

"We don't care," Boldir interrupted. "Spy on us from outside. We don't want to hear your mumbling."

"My mumb- I do not mumble! And who is some savage like you to give commands to one of Cyrodiil's elite?!"

"Ysmir's beard." He looked at Mila. "I don't care if she comes back. I'm killing this one."

He climbed onto the bed, and Roseloe's "vessel" darted to the door and crawled under it. Boldir rolled his eyes and turned to Mila. "Stuff a shirt or something into the crack. I don't want her coming back in here."

Mila fished a tunic out of her bag. "You're not worried about her coming after us?"

"Right now I'm more worried about finding Vile and getting a good night's sleep. And every time the witch speaks I become more convinced that she is more of a talker than a threat. I've never met a bigger bluffer."

"Then why would she follow us?"

"I don't know," Boldir said. "But if she could hurt us, she would've done it by now. We'll worry about it later."

***

Falling asleep again was difficult. Mila managed to, eventually, but Boldir never truly did. That did not stop him from being awake and alert the next day when they traversed the crowded Anvil streets. The city had been alive last evening, but that morning it was downright bustling. The streets were crowded with all manner of characters, from beggars to dockworkers, to sailers, to soldiers. And a thousand things in-between. They came in all races and ages, and judging by attires, many different places as well. Where the Imperial City's diversity had been split across its districts, Anvil's was shoved together into a tight squeeze.

In the inner market, merchants loudly haggled with locals and travelers alike, holding their wares high as they argued for their authenticity. Customers who couldn't be bothered to pay what was asked would wave their hands and leave, much to the delight of those that competed with them. Shields and weapons were popular, Boldir noted. If the war came to Anvil, the Legion would not be the only force that the Dominion would have to contend with. He wondered how many privateers dropped anchor at the city docks, how many mercenaries accosted its brothels.
They walked past stand after stand, or sometimes windows -in the case of the wealthier merchants- eyeing the multitudes of foreign and Colovian goods but without showing too much interest. Their goal right now was to find Clavicus Vile. They could worry about supplies after they knew what he wanted from them.
Despite Barbas' clear directions to meet his master in Anvil, neither of them was entirely sure how to actually locate the shape shifting daedra. Mila brought up the idea of paying a visit to the local Synod headquarters and consulting a conjurer, but they both agreed that bringing Imperials into the matter would be risky.

"Maybe one of your guild friends will know someone," Boldir eventually suggested.

Before Mila could answer, one of the streetside merchants called out to them. "You there, Nord! That’s right, and the girl. Come, come!" The man spoke with the accent of a Redguard, but his face was obscured behind a bearded mask. The Ra Gada stepped in front of their path. "You wear the faces of travelers who know what they want."

"We do," said Boldir. "And it ain't-" He glanced at the merchant’s stall and found it was covered in papers, weighed down by rigid pink rocks shaped like stars. "-whatever in Talos' name those are." The man didn’t budge, and so Boldir shoved past him. "We’re not here to trade."

"Come now, we both know that’s not true, Boldir." The merchant’s voice lowered as he spoke, until it sounded dreadfully familiar. He removed his mask, revealing the spitting image of Jodun Hunding underneath. The Redguard's taunting grin was like no look Boldir had ever seen him wear in life. "Let's have a chat, shall we?"
As he said this, a large, brown-coated hound stepped out from behind the stall and wagged his tail. 

Mila was confused. Was this Clavicus Vile? "I’ve heard that voice before," she said. "When I was on my own. The flute-"

She stopped speaking mid-sentence, her mouth still open as if her every muscle had locked in place. Boldir turned, and saw a strange dim glow in "Jodun's" hands. It was let off by a formless, silvery mass no larger than an apple. All around them, people walked on, apparently blind to what was taking place despite how obvious it should have been. Clavicus Vile spoke plainly, "Take a walk, Mila."

The glowing "object" vanished, and Mila wordlessly turned to leave. Boldir put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged him off and started walking. He didn’t spare a second to think about what he did next. His fingers wrapped around Vile’s shirt and pulled him close. He could barely find his words. "You free her, now!"

"Careful, mortal. I’ll call the guards."

Boldir felt a strange, familiar sensation all across his body. Particularly on his various burns and scars. It was like a shadow of the old pains he had felt before, teasing at how excruciating it could be. He released the daedra. "Where is she going? That... thing," he motioned at Vile’s hands. "Was that her soul?"

"You are asking the wrong questions, Boldir. What you should be asking is 'whose soul am I to fetch next?' and 'where am I to find it?' On that we have much to discuss, and the brat would have only irritated me with questions."

Barbas piped up. "Don’t worry. Your girl is just on a stroll. Perfectly safe, honest."

Boldir looked back at Mila. She was already down the street, casually maneuvering the market throngs as if she knew absolutely where she was going. He looked back into "Jodun's" eyes. There was something off about them. Something hard to place. "Tell me, then. Whose soul are you sending me after next?"

The daedra wearing his old friend’s face straightened and fixed his shirt, suddenly all business. "I presume you are familiar with those elven pests who call themselves the Thalmor?"

Boldir grimaced. "Very."

"Is that distaste I’m detecting?"

"Sounded more like disdain, to me," said Barbas.

Vile ignored the dog. "If you have problems with those pompous fools, then you might be intrigued to hear that a trio of their leaders sails the Sea of Ghosts as we speak. In a few weeks' time, their route will take them south to their homeland, but to get there they must first pass through waters controlled by your dark skinned friends. Past their fleet at the isle of Stros M'kai."

"Fortunately, all three of them are wizards," Barbas added.

"I was getting to that," snapped Vile. "Your target is one of these elves. Their wards should be more than sufficient to make the Redguards blind to their passing. But if a certain champion of mine and his soulless orphan companion were to tip off the right captains..."

Boldir frowned at the orphan comment, and had to stop himself from hitting the deceptively mortal-looking Lord of Oblivion. He waited for Vile to continue.

"You know," Barbas said, tilting his furry head. "Master did that thing you mortals like where you leave what you're saying open so that the listener can come in and finish it. It proves that you're paying attention."

"Forget it, Barbas." Vile scowled at Boldir. "Well?"

"Sending half the Redguard fleet after a single ship seems like a good way to make sure someone else kills the elf before I can get his soul," Boldir said. "How am I supposed to prevent that?"

"Must I come up with everything for you?" The daedra wrinkled Jodun’s eyebrows. “You would not have gotten this far if you weren’t a resourceful mortal. Strike a deal! Get the captains to spare him for you or something. But know that you will need the aid of that fleet. I would be immensely surprised if you and the girl could handle even one of these elves, let alone all three."

"Convincing some Redguards to help shouldn't be difficult," Barbas said. "They hate the Thalmor. Just make sure you bring plenty of them with you."

"The word 'plenty' sounds rather mild, don't you think?" Vile said. He looked at Boldir. "Your quarry travels slowly on a vessel that they call a sunbird. Normally, this would mean that neither you nor all the ships in all the oceans would stand a chance at capturing them, but as it happens these three elves are in an almost unique state of vulnerability. Away from their islands, armies, and defenses, on a vessel that no longer functions as it should. There will be no better opportunity to claim the soul that I seek."

"And which of the three elves are you interested in?"

"Why, the most interesting one, of course. His name is Naarifin."

"Naarifin." Boldir knew that name. Everyone did. "The same Naarifin who took the Imperial City?"

"Yes indeed."

"I thought he was dead."

"No deader than your girl. Now stop interrupting!" Clavicus frowned as if annoyed. "What was I about to say, Barbas?"

"You were about to explain the value of Naarifin's soul, sir."

"Ah yes, good Barbas." Vile's frown lessened. "This Naarifin struck many deals with many Lords throughout his failed conquest of Cyrodiil. Of them all, it was the one called Boethiah whose dealings held the highest cost: his soul. But ownership matters little if you fail to take that which you claim. And as it happens, Boethiah's unpleasant rival, Molag Bal, took the elf for his own before she could properly seize him herself."

"That is why everyone thought Naarifin was dead," Barbas unnecessarily added. "Living with Molag certainly gives that impression. But it seems that the fellow with the sunbird brought him back to your world very recently, and now we've got Boethiah, Molag, and a whole bunch of others looking to get their paws on the most valued soul in the market."

"Why is some elf worth so much to you lot?" Boldir asked.

"Demand begets value, my dim little champion. It is a universal truth across all the planes. Not always as clearly as in this case, but a truth nevertheless.”

"Think of Mila," Barbas said. "There are thousands of mortals out there who are smarter and stronger than her, or more enjoyable to be around, more physically appealing, better smelling, and so on and so on. Yet you would kill many of them to protect her. Not because she is better, but because she matters to you."

Vile nodded in agreement. "Truth be told, I find Naarifin to be a pitiful creature with a soul that has been warped and raped to the point of grotesque. But to Boethiah and Molag, he is worth their very pride."

"You want his soul so you can sell it to one of them."

Vile grinned. "Now you're thinking like a merchant. Exactly. Naarifin’s soul is a less impressive specimen than your girl's or even yours. But right now it is one of the most coveted in your world, and that makes is worth having, no matter how unsavory I find the thing. But this is also why time is of the essence. If you fail to capture Naarifin's soul as he passes Stros M'kai, he will reach his homeland and become nigh untouchable for the likes of you. I will have to find another champion then, and hope they are competent enough to finish the job before a mortal in service to some other Prince beats them to it."

"That won't be necessary," Boldir said. "How long will I have in Stros M'kai before the elves get close?"

"I have no idea," the Prince admitted. "Their wards make tracking them a very involved and boring effort. Barbas will tell you. Barbas! Keep an eye on that sunbird, will you? Give our good champion a fair warning when it is time for him and the Redguards to set out for their ambush."

"You're the boss." Barbas barked and then started biting himself.

Vile clapped Jodun's hands together. "Splendid. I'm sure you have much to think about, but you'd be wise to do it on the first ship to Hammerfell."

Boldir nodded. "I’ll do that. First I need you to-"

"Wait!"

Boldir scowled at the sound of Roseloe Valga’s voice. Damnit. Not now. 
A torchbug flew between them, and Boldir balled his fists. "Get out of here or you'll be finding a new bug to spy with."

For once, the witch completely ignored him. Instead, addressing the Prince himself. "I have waited patiently, my lord. Respectfully. But now I beseech you. Free me from this curse! I aided this Nord by giving him the soul that you wanted, and am prepared to offer up both his soul and the girl's in your name."

Vile seemed more amused than surprised. He nodded to Barbas, who said, "Master already has the girl's soul, and Boldir's is not yours to give. Unless your tiny insect body can kill him, trap his soul, and offer it up, you have no currency to bargain with."

"And I wouldn’t accept your deal anyway," Vile informed. "I don’t know how much you have listened, but I like having these particular mortals alive. They’re more useful that way. Besides, you stole from me and I find this curse of yours amusing." He grinned wickedly. "Was it one of mine?"

Boldir has never heard Rosleoe sound so defeated. "But... It has been years. I- I would not have taken the woman's soul had I known she was one of yours. Please, my lord... take pity. I will do anything you ask."

"There is nothing you can give me that I would find more pleasing than this," said the daedra. "Now away with you, bug."
Those eyes that weren’t really Jodun's watched the pitiful insect fly away. And then he let out a cruel laugh. "No wonder you survived the first task without a scratch. I was so caught up in getting that soul back that I must have forgotten cursing the thief who stole it!" He turned to Boldir. "You got an easy one, there. Do not expect the same from the elf."

Boldir was still thrown off by the whole Roseloe affair. "You turned her into a bug?"

"Right after calling her an insect, if I’m not mistaken."

"A puny little mortal insect, to be specific." said Barbas.

"You told me she was a dangerous witch."

"She is," Barbas replied. "Albeit less so now than before."

"Less so and irrelevant," Vile cut in. "And a distraction on top of it all. You have your quest, mortal. Focus your thoughts and efforts on Naarifin, and your orphan will be a step closer to being made whole again."

As he said the words, Mila reappeared by Boldir’s side, rubbing her eyes as if awakening from a slumber. He turned to her. "Mila, are you alright?"

"Yeah," she nodded, blinking a few times. "Something must’ve got in my eyes." She looked past him. "Wait, I was just- ... where did the merchant go?"

Looking back, Boldir found that the daedra and his pet were nowhere to be found. He sighed. "Come on. We have a lot to talk about."