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Civil War Aftermath Chapter 3: Season's End pt3


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Albecias Plebo

The Great Forest

Midday

The carriage Albecias hired arrived at the forest manse of Elder Councilor Serivus Marillan just before lunch. It was a hunting retreat that lay to the south of the Black Road. The pathway from the main throughway wound around hills and ponds, so that the lodge itself wasn’t visible from the road. The giant trees blocked out the clear winter sky, and filtered out the sun, so that the forest floor was rather chilly. Albecias, though inside the carriage, pulled his fur-trimmed cloak tighter to his body. As the author looked out the carriage window, the manse itself came into view. It was a mostly wooden structure, with a stone first floor, very much in the Colovian style, with tall, thin windows and a high, pointed roof. It sat in a large clearing, with some stables off to the left and a well off on the right. A few guards stood about near the entrance, and after they checked the driver, permitted the carriage to enter.

As it was lunchtime, a steward ushered Albecias into the dining hall, where a roaring fire kept the winter chill at bay. The walls of the Elder Councilor’s abode were lined with all manner of mounted creature, from boars and deer to a minotaur and a forest troll. Between the animals were weapons on plaques, mostly bows, though there were a few spears, and a heavily ornamented sword on the fireplace’s mantle. At the head of the large oak table, which was laid out with many different foods, was Serivus himself. He ate alone.

Albecias took his place next to the man, his back toward one of the windows. The clean-shaven Colovian was dressed in rather practical clothing, some simple brown pants and a nice, though plain, white shirt. He also wore a sleeved brown cloak, accented with gold trimming. His graying white hair was in its usual unkempt state. Albecias could tell the man wasn’t delighted to see him, though neither was he upset. Just slightly bothered.

“You may help yourself to whatever you want,” Serivus said, motioning with a dismissive wave toward the table.

Albecias did just that, pulling a slice of meat and a few vegetables onto his plate. They ate for a few moments in silence, until Albecias had enough food to momentarily sate his hunger. His poured himself some of the dark red wine, and after taking a sip, asked, “You know why I’m here, I trust.”

“I do. I knew the cost of what I asked, and you upheld your part of the bargain. Now it’s my turn. Ask away, if you must,” Serivus said.

Albecias’ part of the bargain was keeping Councilor Marillan’s name out of the Black Horse Courier article about Sibbi Black-Briar, and thus kept their association a secret. With Boldir on the loose, Serivus was none too willing to get embroiled in a blood feud between the two Nords. In return, Serivus was to use his connections to dig up everything he could about High General Ceno, and Emperor Draconus.

“Lets start with the General. Where does he come from?” Albecias asked.

“Far as I could find, he came from some small Heartland farm,” Serivus said.

“And his family? All peasants?”

“No. His father’s brother was a mage, studied at the College of Whispers. His cousin, Arvatus, was the assistant to the Court Mage before the Emperor.”

“Anything remarkable about him? Or the uncle?”

“The cousin disappeared during Amaund’s reign, though that’s no more suspicious than all the others that Amaund and the Thalmor might have had killed. The uncle died several years ago, and did not do much besides study and teach magic.”

“What of his time as a legate? Anything suspicious or noteworthy?”

“The only thing of note was his involvement in Falkreath. As you know, he took over for General Marius and instigated the siege of Falkreath. Then, even though he was sent there to fight the Nords, they instead turned on and killed the Thalmor with the intent on crowning Dales Motierre Empress. We both know how that turned out.”

“Was Draconus there, in Skyrim?”

“Some of my friends in the Legion say he was serving as the Empress’s magical tutor at that time. They also say there are rumors that he summoned some massive beast in the battle, though I don’t know if that’s exaggeration or truth.”

“He studied at the Synod, yes?”

“Yes. His family is from Bruma, though I could not find much about them.”

“Does he still have relatives there?”

“I can’t be sure. Some say yes, others say no. The only way to find out would be to go yourself, I suppose.”

Albecias thought he just might have to do that. He wished he’d thought to do that during his forced vacation after Iron-Brow threatened him, but he could do it some other time. And he still needed to find a way into the Synod’s records, which is friend continually assured him he was working on.

“Is there nothing suspicious about the High General you could find?” Albecias was sure the councilor’s digging would have found something. It only made sense that Gracchus sent the letter, as the intimate knowledge of palace politics could only come from someone inside the palace itself, not to mention Gracchus had all the motive, since several in the Legion supported him potentially becoming Emperor.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Plebo. I looked, and found nothing. I don’t see why you care anyway, the man has never been political. If he’s political, he’s very poor at it, otherwise he might have become general sooner.”

Albecias had to admit what the councilor said rang true. But it was not as if Ceno wasn’t amassing power before he became general. He had been the leader of the battlemages for quite a bit of time, and though that was not a generalship, it clearly set him apart from every other legate. “But don’t you think it suspicious how he rose so quickly from Legate to High General? Especially when there were more senior options available for the latter?”

“It is curious, but he is evidentially close to the Empress and Emperor. And, since he had no political ambitions, he may have been seen as a safer bet than some of the senior options. Not to mention he was well liked by the other soldiers.”

“What if I told you the man was more political than even the most ambitious Elder Councilor? What if I told you that I think he’s planning to overthrow the Emperor and seat himself on the throne, with the help of the Legion? My contacts, as well as your own, show how well liked he is. Not to mention he’s maneuvered himself into the High Generalship with surprising quickness. The reason I am even investigating the Emperor is because someone wrote a letter that prompted me to. And the author of that letter displayed intimate knowledge of the politics in the palace. I think he was planning to help the Empress rise to power, so that he could rise with her. But Tullius and Draconus rose instead. So, he formed a rebellion that sunk Tullius and Hard-Heart, while also playing Draconus against Grim-Maw so that he might oust his competitors. He then rose to the highest military position in the land. Now all he has in his way is the Emperor himself. And he has already undermined his rule. Theodore Adrard stayed with Ceno when he was visiting the city, and they traveled as far as Hammerfell together. Upon Adrard’s return home, he secedes, though there was no indication he was planning that before he came to Cyrodiil. I believe Ceno and Adrard have partnered to bring the Emperor down so that they could rise together. Why else would someone have me investigate the Emperor, except to bring him down?”

As he laid out his theory, Albecias could see the disbelief on Serivus’s face, though by the end, it had lessened some. “Any Elder Councilor could have written that letter, as well as any number of well connected nobles or generals. Knowledge of the interworking of the palace isn’t confined to the palace itself. And they are all ambitious themselves, and could be looking to angle a piece of information into a higher station. I think you are looking for you next sensational story, and not looking for the truth.”

That infuriated Albecias, the insinuation this was all a scheme concocted to sell papers. He was no liar, and neither was he a fraud. He would prove how right he was, no matter the cost. Frowning, he said, “He is better positioned than anyone else to benefit from the Emperor’s decline. And if you assume, as I do, that he only pretends to be non-political, than it is very easy to see why he, more than anyone, would try to hasten the Emperor’s fall.”

There was something, a flicker of acceptance, on Serivus’s face, but it was quickly replaced by a more skeptical scowl. “If one were to assume that, then yes. But I do not assume that because there is no proof, other than your speculation. You are stacking up sticks and calling it a fort, though stiff breeze would dismantle it easy enough.”

“You shall see. I am certain enough in my theory that I plan to confront Ceno about this. If he is as I say, he will certainly not let me escape. I am prepared to show the world just how right I am, even in death. When I am proved right, and he doesn’t let me live, you will reveal who he is to all of Tamriel,” Albecias said. Everyone would know, then, that he was the greatest writer in Cyrodiil. He would reveal the High General’s plot, and be celebrated for saving the Empire. He would go down in history, not Bathory, not any other author, but he, Albecias Plebo, savior of the Empire.

“You are mad, if you would confront a man you think so dangerous. He’s more likely to laugh you out of the palace than kill you. But if what you say is true, I will make sure it is known. Though, I would prepare yourself for embarrassment, not vindication,” Serivus said.

“I think that’s all I’ll be needing from you today, Councilor,” Albecias said, and left before he was bid farewell.

As his carriage carried him back to the Imperial City, he seethed at the insinuation he was wrong, that all his work on this, connecting all the dots, was for naught. Everyone would see, in the end, how right he was. He would be martyred, remembered forever as a man who revealed the truth, a man who brought down the most dangerous mage since Jagar Tharn. He would be loved, adored. He would be famous. 

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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Lorgar Sky-Wind (Saladin Fury-Eye), Black Wolf 
Valenwood, Cey Village,
Night,

The mocking, gibbous moon, lay in the sky, gazing the scene of macabre horror before it. As if dancing under the shadows of the night sky, the sickly stars were out and about, shining some rays of starlight onto Tamriel below, though the overwhelming darkness, and mist, wouldn’t be pierced. Valenwood was a horrible place at night. Mosquitos, the size of rats flew from the swamps, to the villages of Bosmers, to suck blood out from the living, in large swarms. Ancient, giant beasts of eldritch origins, prowled the forests for elf flesh, to devour with unmatched gusto. Nameless creatures, thousands of years old, lurked in the large lakes, waiting for fishing boats to come, and be eaten by there horrible maws, whole. Werevultures, and Werebats stalked the swamps, and dark caves, searching for mortals to prey on. If any place on Tamriel was untouched by mortals, Lorgar considered Valenwood, followed closely by Solsthiem, to be the prime candidate. Primordial, ancient monsters were still in abundance here, that no Bosmer resistance fighter, or Atlmer Patrol wanted to stumbleupon. The forests were overgrown, and everywhere. The cities were few, and the villages in between were even less numerous. Roads were practically non existent, and any invaders would face a hail of arrows from the forest.

When the stars were right, nameless horrors would drag their darkened bodies from the backwoods. A crawling chaos, of Eldritch power. And there’s nothing we mortals can do about it.   

Lorgar loved it.  It was a perfect place for a hunter like himself. 

The ardent stench of dead bodies lingered in waves around the remains of the Cey village. The ruins of shattered huts, as well as Bosmer tree homes lay uninhabited, there owners either in the chains of bondage, or the peace of death. Some of the fires scattered about the village, burned still, a raging pyre to guide the dead souls to Aetherius. The Colonel made sure the fire only burned the foreign made buildings. As mighty as he was as a hunter, even he feared to provoke the wild hunt  The battle had occurred not two hours ago, but already, the crows had already begun their feast of carrion, devouring the remains of Cey warriors, The Bloodwolves did not stop them, for scavengers always came after a hunt. Corpses were sprawled across the ground indiscriminately, almost all belonging to the tribesmen who dared to stand against the fury of the Aldmeri Dominion, and there infernal hounds, spawned from the deepest pits of oblivion . 

Dozens of Saladin’s commando’s ransacked the village, not out of dreams of plunder, oh no they were far too disciplined for those kind of activities, but to acquire any intel that remained. If the soldier in question so happened to stumble upon any valuables in their pursuit of intelligence, they were permitted to keep them. If they so happened to stumble upon any helpless, cowering non-combatant, and the commando in question decided to take…certain “liberties” with that person, the soldier in question would receive a dagger to the armpit, courtesy of the Colonel himself. If he knew about it that is. He hated rapists. Pedophilies doubly so. The Colonel expected his soldiers to act with extreme discipline, 

Even if they were Dogs of War,  they still needed to have pride in their work. 

About three Cey warriors survived the fight. All of them were bound by rope, in one of the surviving buildings, guarded by the unit’s head mage, Shade, as well as a unit of Bloodwolf Conmmando’s, all of their black cloaks flowing gently in the wind. 

Some of the mercenaries wore dark leather armor underneath there longcoats, that or chain mail mixed with steel plating.  The unit itself operated as a sort of mix between Skirmishers, and light to medium infantry. They were commandos, stealth specialists, but at the same time able to hold there own in open conflict.   They were the best of the best, recruited from a large talent pool. Their numbers included ex-legionaries, High Rock hedge knights, experienced mercenaries, and even some former Stormcloak soldiers. 

The woman and children numbered over three dozen, and were held separately, outside where they could be watched, until it was decided what to do with them.

While there bond was iron, The other Bloodwolves stayed far away from Shade. The woman lived by herself, away from base, and everyone else prefered it that way. She always gave off the smell of rotten flesh, and creeped everyone else out. Rumors about her were varied, but most agreed she had been a necromancer of some kind, attributed to the fact she always carried a metal talisman around her neck, bearing the seal of the Cult of Worms. No one dared to ask if they were true, however, as despite the overwhelming prevalent opinion that she was a freak, she was equally feared, shown on the battlefield to be an extremely skilled mage. She could conjure bolts of dark lightning, and summon hordes of skeletal warriors. As the Bloodwolves were a rather small mercenary company, her skills to conjure hordes of undead proved invaluable, to dealing with the rebel cells of Valenwood.   At night, in the forest, people have claimed to see her spewing out black bile along with blood from her mouth, and besides  in battle, she was physically a wreck, practically dragging herself and limping around most of the time. Above all, no one had ever seen her face under that porcelain mask of her’s.  

At best, most Bloodwolves would say she was more likeable than Farni, the other female officer in the company. 

Beside her, was the Bloodwolves commanding officer himself, Saladin. Clad in dark armor, over his head, he bore a simple dark grey helmet, painted black, which clashed with his deathly pale skin and snow white hair. Etched with white war paint, was a crudely drawn wolf-skull over the visor of his helmet. The helmet had originally belonged to a Breton knight, Lorgar had slained. He had removed the plumage, and drawn the wolf-skull with white paint.  The rest of his armor was painted pitch black, with the occasional red stripe running down. He wore mostly rusty plate, as his enhanced strength let him carry the heavy armor with ease. On his back, he bore his greatsword, nearly twice the size of other blades of it’s ilk. The blade itself resembled a giant slab of iron more, than an actual blade. Carved on the blade, were red runes, apparently nordic in design. The blade itself was a simple massive slab, besides the runes,  but the rest was highly ornate. The hilt, had a snarling wolf carved onto it, which held two black gems as eyes, which glowed crimson red under the moonlight.  On his belt, two jagged combat knives, made from ebony rested, alongside pouches filled with various poisons and potions. That, and bootleg cigarettes won in a game of cards.

The colonel paused, inspecting the prisoners, saying to Shade in a low tone of voice,  “They say, the  Cey were infamous guerilla warriors...feared for their cunning and brutal tactics... ruthless...remorseless...intent on driving the dominion out of Valenwood. Now look at them. Hopeless . Defeated. Consigned to their fate. All thanks to a group of foreign sellswords.” 

The lieutenant’s voice was raspy, twisted, and to people not used to it, downright horrifying. It crackled with power, and disoriented at random times, and changed tone in random intervals “They cannot stand against our might and strength of arms , Saladin.” Unlike the rest of the soldiers under his command, Shade referred to him by his call sign, instead of his rank. “I have no love for the High Elves, but these rebels...disgust me. Once there corpses lay stinking deep beneath the earth, eternally gnawed on by worms, I shall rejoice.” 

“That’s a little over dramatic, don’t you think, lieutenant?”  The Colonel said, rather dryly, 

“You know little old, me, Saladin.” Shade said, chuckling underneath her breath. She placed one of her gloved hands towards her face, and adjusted her mask. 

The Colonel and the Warrant Officer shared a mutual respect for each other. Both under the thrall of a higher power. The Beast Blood of Hircine drove Saladin to near madness, and whatever “boons” The Lord of Worms granted on Shade caused her body to rot in eternal agony.  They related to each other.  They had both sold their souls for more power. Lorgar was a peerless warrior. Shade a peerless necromancer. Power always had a price. Lorgar had lost everything. And yet, he still hungered for blood. 

She grasped the handle of her longsword, which was tucked in it’s sheaf, underneath her black robe. The woman, besides her black porcelain mask, had nothing distinguishing about her. She wore simple black robes, which went down all the way to her feet, along with a hood. She had a simple leather jerkin, over it for some protection. But she didn’t need it. Nothing could get close to her, or they faced a barrage of magical energy.  On her hands, fancy embroided raven colored black gloves, the type a noble would wear sat and for shoes,  a set of fine black leather boots. Lorgar didn’t ask any questions about the pasts of his elite “Black Wolf” squad, but Lorgar knew the young woman has some connection to the College of Whispers. That mask was so similar to what they usually wore.  The colonel nodded his head. “I agree. Besides, the sooner we butcher them all, the sooner we all get payed.” 

It was a small understatement to say Lorgar was in a foul mood. While the mercenary unit was intentional small, flexible, and hardy, the lack of supplies and coin for the mercenaries pay was starting to take its toil. 

Morale, while not low, was beginning to take a hit. Due to recent activity on the main roads, it’s been taking a long time for the latest batch of supplies from Dominion headquarters to arrive. Most Bloodwolf commando’s fought for gold, not for victory, or bloodshed. The campaign to eradicate resistance in the forests of Valenwood’s amazing success, had nothing to do with mercenaries moral.  Better yet, there handler, Pacifica, had heard rumors that the Dominion had launched a surprise attack against Windhelm, with the results being unknown. For all the Skaal could know, Dominion flags were being raised in the ruins of that ancient Nord city right now.

Baldur could beat back any attack force that fool, Corvio sent. I have faith in him. 

He was sure the High-General of Skyrim’s army, the Stormcloaks hated him. Lorgar shared that hatred. But behind that hatred, he had a respect for the man. Maybe once, Baldur returned that hidden respect for him as well. But no more. Lorgar was nothing more than a beast to him, no doubt since Solitude.  They were no longer even rivals. That role had been taking by that elf-hating general Lorgar had briefly clashed with in Solitude.  He prefered it that way. Let everyone remember him as nothing more than a beast. Gaius had sacrificed everything for him, and his plan to work. If he was to be remembered as a traitor in the history books, Lorgar would go down with him as a monster. 

Lorgar had done so much wrong, Let his over confidence get to him in Falkreath, which resulted in the extermination of his unit, and the dishonor of the 110th Cohort of the Fourth. Lorgar ruined the chances he had of saving the Empresses soul from that disgusting Court-Mage. Because his lack of competence in politics. Used his best friend for his own personal plans. His selfish actions ended in the disownment of his beloved pregnant wife from his family, whom was waiting for him back in Solsthsiem. Knowing Milly. She’s probably trying to seduce Frea right now. Damn.  He had failed his men, his two best friends, his wife, his Empress, his Empire, and himself.  Despite his extreme skills in battle,  Lorgar was nothing but a living failure.  

Except in two regards. He was an excellent hunter, and leader of light infantry. Valenwood, and exile suited him best. Here, he could serve his beloved Empire to the best of his ability, and enjoy the fruit of his labors. Which was eternity on the battlefield. The only thing that made him happy was cheating death on the battlefield. Not even having sex with his wife, had given him such a europhoria, as cutting through a unit of Bosmer guerillas with nothing more than his fangs. It was the one thing he craved. Death, and despair. 

Only money influenced the moral of his unit. While the Bloodwolves were considered elite operatives, under the jurisdiction of the Thalmor Shadow Corps, they were still mercenaries. They fought for neither ideology, or loyalty. They were sworn to their contract, and would uphold their end of the bargain. But only if the money flowed through the groups coffer. Lorgar had their complete loyalty, though. The only loyalty they had, was to themselves, their comrades, and their commanding officer. Lorgar.  The Colonel was very strict, but fair in regards to his men. He had saved them countless times on missions, with his supernatural reflexes, and they put their faith in his leadership.  They adored him,

What fools they are. To think so highly of me...

“High-Justicar Tragrilar wants to make sure his pet wolves are worth their price.” The mage said, 

“They pay us very well, as you know.” Shade glanced at the prisoners, her dead grey eyes vacant and lifeless, Lorgar could only shudder at the thought of her mouth twisting into a sinister smile underneath that mask of hers, “Political Assassination, Wetwork, Black Ops, nothing is too clandestine for us. The world calls for wet work, and we answer. No greater good. No just cause.” Saladin, let out a hearty chuckle, before adding, “And I wouldn’t have it any other way, Shade.” The Colonel paused for a minute, taking in the glorious sight of pure destruction. 

Bodies lay everywhere, the craven feasted on the flesh of the deceased, and burnt out husks of Bosmer huts were scattered about. Flames and smoke rose from the gathering of Chaos. The dead on the Bosmer’s side numbered many, and the would feed the scavenging beasts that would come after Saladin’s company had left. Werevultures. Wolves. Senche Tigers. Crocodiles. Monkeys. Every beast in the forest knew, a meal was a meal. In the hostile environment of Valenwood, no carnivore had the luxury of refusing to scavenge the dead. Unless you were at the top of the food chain. In that case, a recently dead carcass was too good for you. It wouldn’t bring you the primal bloodlust of chasing, and killing a live meal.   

With prisoners in tow. Most awaited a Dominion logger, but some, would be given to the internment camps. Mostly the women and children, the ones who couldn’t work.  Though in official channels, they were called internment camps, Lorgar knew they operated like concentration camps. The price of fighting the Dominion, after an olive branch was offered,  was slow, and painful, death by exhaustion, or starvation. For the lesser races at least. Still...Lorgar tended to give the woman and children a choice. To be released in the woods, to brave the beasts and maybe find sanctuary. Or be given a swift, and painless death. The later was practically a mercy.

It was beautiful.  

At least the first part. Lorgar twirled his drawn blade. The colonel had participated in the late skirmish, launching an assault against the rebel village. His form was sorely lacking, as he needed assistance from a squad that was sent to back him up. For some reason, Lorgar’s skills had rusted over the months in the province. Things weren’t the same anymore. 

Interrupting his contemplation, Lorgar’s assistant, Corporal Ashart went into view. The Breton commando sharply saluted, as he hurriedly went into position in front of the Colonel. Ashart was....a sweet kid. Lorgar couldn’t call him anything else. The Blood Wolves really didn’t suit someone like him. He was always trying to make himself useful. As a reward for saving his life from that bloody Dremora, Lorgar had promoted the Breton, and given him a place as his personal assistant. The Breton wasn’t too bad with the blade either. Wraith had refused to elaborate on where he had found the Breton, but Lorgar had suspected he was a member of the High Rock nobility.

The young soldier wore grey armor, of which was of very high quality. It was plate, and covered his entire body. He had a small, fur cape that went down to his shoulders, along with a full face helmet, which had a single sideways slit so the Breton could peek out, and see.  On his back, he carried a one and a half, bastard sword. Colored silver, and embroidered with markings, he knew it was a family heirloom. It had a single gem nestled in it’s hilt, an emerald. The blade seemed to be made from Mithril. 

At the sight of the two senior officers, Ashart sharply saluted. They used the Legion fist pump as the standard salutation, though some in the company prefered the hand from there forehead.  His curly black hair visible underneath his helmet, Ashart said, “Colonel, sir.”  The Nord returned the crisp salute, and turned to face the Breton, “Report, soldier.” The Breton mercenary cleared his throat, before saying, “Sir, a group of rebels are holding out in a building. Lupus team was about to go in to clear them out, but they wanted to inform you first-”

“Take me to this building, Ashart.” The Breton’s eyes filled with confusion, before he nodded his head, “Aye, sir.” Without wasting another second, the trio moved to there destination, following behind the Breton. The village was quite small, so it didn’t take too long for the group to get there. The building was small, single floor hovel. On each end of the door, a Bloodwolf commando stood. At the sight of the group, the duo, sharply saluted. Beside them by the door, a group of half a dozen Blood Wolf commando’s sharpened their blades. They all wore a surcoat of chainmail, along with a black leather longcoat that covered them. For headgear, they wore the leather masks of their unit, along with a chainmail coil, that was colored black. For weapons, they each duel-wielded short blades, and carried a longsword on there back. Those would do little in such close corners. Lorgar raised his hand, as the group, seeing their commanding officer, stopped to salute. The nord said, “You men wait here. I’ll deal with the rebels myself…”

A little warm up would be good for me. 

The soldiers glanced among themselves, saying “By yourself? Sir...are you sure that's a good idea?” Lorgar nodded his head, “I’ll be fine.” He turned to shade, “Wait out here. If anyone comes up but me-” The necromancer cut him off, “Of course, Saladin. They shall feel the wrath of my spells!” Nodding his head, Lorgar drew his greatblade. One of the commando’s told him “Sir, the main room is empty. We suspect there hiding in the basement.” The nord nodded his head, throwing open the doors with a kick. He ran into the room, as the pair of soldiers by the entrance, closed the door behind him. The room was quite bare, with nothing of interest, besides a few tables, and chairs. Quite visible, however, was a passage that led downward, into the dark below. Lorgar quickly made his way through the passage, his eyes and ears trained to detect any sounds of danger. This passage was quite long, as it took a good twenty seconds, to traverse and reach the first room. And the sight of it, caused Lorgar to instantly regret his decision to come alone. 

Arranged before him, was a room of pure horror, lit by several torches. Dozens of meat hooks were arranged on the ceilings, which carried the severed limbs of people. Mostly elves. Altmer, going by there decaying skin color. Severed limbs, still covered in blood, some wet, most dried, hung everywhere. On the tables, instruments of horror, such as rusty knives, iron pearls, thumb screws, and butcher cleavers sat, the rusty metal more pronounced under the flames. He was sure the sight of this would cause Farni to get wet, but just seemed so horrific to the Nord. Only the tables, there were about dozen bodies, most missing various amounts of limbs, but were quite clear to whom which they belonged too. Mostly Altmer soldiers. Their faces contorted with pure agony, and there naked bodies were covered in cut marks. There privates, were ripped off, and burnt. He...didn’t want to get into details about the few woman he saw among the pile of corpses,  

His dark, depraved surroundings were merely reflections of his soul, twisted, rotting souls. 

The sight made Lorgar boil with rage, as he walked down the room, stewing in both anger, and despair, Is...this what i’m fighting for? Are these the heroes that oppose the Dominion?! Torturers!! Cannibals!!! There….by the gods. No better then the Dominion…

He eyed the end of the long, wooden table. Glancing at it, with surprise. His pale blue eyes flooded with pure, and utter despair, as he spied a small, tiny hand. It was covered in blood, and been apparently sawed off. The color was yellow, so him or her had been an Atlmer. An expensive set of jewelry lay beside it, apparently belonging to her. She might have been in a caravan, when they were assailed by rebels. Holding it still, so precious to them, the hand held a small, simple doll. 

Lorga felt pure, and unrivaled rage, never felt since Falkreath. 

Suddenly, an arrow came from the shadows, entering his arm. With a yelp of pain, Lorgar fell to his knee, as pain like never before assailed him. The arrow was silver-tipped. Yelping, the silver caused such damage to him, he could barely stand. The bane of all Lycanthropes, silver was highly effective against him. Surrounding him, about ten or so Bosmer warriors approached from all sides, weapons drawn. They bore steel swords, axes, and maces, as well as wooden bows. For armor, they had leather equipment, along with similar clothing. There chests, faces, and arms were covered in black warpaint, that crudely hid them in shadow vaguely, to non enhanced vision that most mortals possessed.  They approached him, weapons on the ready. As Lorgar made move to fight, another silver arrow pierced his backside. The pain, was once more excruciating. 

So this is how I die...in a basement..surrounded by  severed body parts...murdered by rebels. How ironic. 

Lorgar gripped the floor, his expression wracked with pain. 

“Hey this is how thy end...it seems..a dishonorable end, no less. You deserve it…” A familiar voice resounded in the room. A mocking voice. The beast appeared in a cloud of shadow, it’s disgustingly narrow snout, and eyes of red lightning present. It laughed, “Is this how you imagined thou end, Nord? I wonder…you will be consumed by darkness. And no light will be able to pierce you...” 

The Bosmer took their time, savoring the pain of the Nord, as they stepped forward, slowly. They were uncanny hunters it seemed, as they knew the scent of a Werewolf, and how to best deal with him. Lorgar glanced at his captors, before glancing at the wolf, whose grin was growing, “There is a way though. Out of this, baneful trap. Accept my help, and thou shall fight another day, white wolf. Together.” Lorgar looked upwards, and faced the smiling beast. A sinister grin sported on his lips, as he nodded his head. He stood up, his face radiating pure will power, as he ignored the silver arrow. That sinister grin, grew to a look of pure malice, as he clenched his greatsword, and brought it to his face, his face wracked with pure, feral, seething, hate, his voice tinged with insanity, “You never shut up...always talking...and talking….” The Bosmer looked at each other, confusion evident on his face. One of them, lifted his sword, saying, “The Nord’s gone insane. Put him out of his misery…” Lorgar, took off his helmet, showing his face. His pale skin, and snow white hair clashed with his black armor, but his fang filled teeth.  Lorgar spoke once more, the grip on his sword tightening, “But it seems...thou has won this day. So be it.” Lorgar’s left eye, went alit with red light, “Come then, take my body, and turn me into a beast of Darkness.” He practically screamed, “ Fill my bones with your agony!” 

The beast of the miasma eyes went alit with sparkling, dark crimson, and exploded in a flurry of lightning, as it grinned at Lorgar with it’s hungry gaze, filled with desire. 

One of the Bosmer lifted there blade to strike Lorgar from behind. As if time had slowed down, the blade was ready to unleashed, and decapitate the fallen nord…

...when Lorgar had turned around in a blaze of speed, he sunk his fangs into his throat, tearing it open in an instant. Lorgar ran his hand through his stomach, tearing out a large chunk of him. The rest of the Bosmer, stunned, took a step back, and formed rank. To shocked to comprehend what had just happened. The one whom Lorgar had attacked, eyes filled with surprise, as he stared at the nord, spitting out the skin from his throat. Lorgar grinned, a hungry, bestial grin of primal intent. The nord pushed the dying Bosmer onto the ground, 

...and pounced.

As red vision consumed the Lycanthropes eyes, Lorgar partaked in the flesh of the Bosmer. With feral ferocity, the Nord’s body shook with rage, as he begun to tore chunks of meat from the dead body, along with the strips of leather. Using his hands, he began to shove the red, bloody meat in his mouth, using his razor sharp fangs to gulp down the meal in his throat, devouring the raw flesh. Roaring like a crazed animal, Lorgar tore off the Bosmers torso, cutting it up into pieces with his jagged combat knife, and as if it was his last meal. The Werewolf jammed his hand into the chest, using his supernatural strength to puncture through it, all the way, his jaws making for the other parts of his body, tearing up bloody chunks into his mouth, blood dripping from his lips. He fished in the rib cage for a good few seconds, before finding his prize. Gripping the organ with the strength of the wolf, Lorgar pulled, ripping the Heart out, laughing like a maniac,

Lifting up in the air near his maw, Lorgar’s grip around the heart tightened, as he dug his nails into it. The skin around the heart ruptured, and blood gushed forth, finding it’s way into his mouth, as he guzzled down the blood, drinking it like it was rare, sweet, wine. He whispered, 

“In Hircine name, I partake in the blood of the hunt. My Prince, bless me with your might…I am Sky-Wind no more.” Lorgar tore the embedded runeblade from the corpse,  as he grabbed it in one hand. Crossing his blood soaked left-hand, he drew one of his Bosmer combat knives, and wielded the two blades in a duel fighting stance. He slashed through the air, making a symbol as he did. The symbol of what his hunt would be. Two blades crossing over, in the darkness. Grinning like a madman, Lorgar whispered, his voice tinged with stoic insanity, “Tonight,  Lorgar Grim-Maw joins the hunt…”

In the first time since Falkreath, Lorgar let the beast completely take over.

Before the stunned and horrified group of Bosmer could respond to the grisly carnage they had just witnessed, Lorgar charged forward, holding the runeblade over his back, he ran on all fours snarling like a crazed hound. He was scrambling like a beast on the stone ground. His already lightning fast speed was increased by the blood craze of his new found hunger for elf flesh, and him running on all fours. Like a wolf, Lorgar’s face turned into a cruel wolf-like smile, as he drooled saliva, his fangs seeking the comfort that was brought upon by digging into flesh. He screamed in-human cries of rage, and hunger. Tonight Lorgar would feast.  The Bosmer in front of the group, heartily raised his blade, only to be torn in half by Lorgar’s strike, in an instant. Lorgar practically leaped from the ground, from his legs, bringing the sword around using one of his hands, shattering the spine, and bones with a single strike. He cut through his body, and in a delayed burst of crimson, the body split in two, from its waist. Lorgar’s face was masked by shadow, so the terrified Bosmer could see his one glowing red eye, a beacon in the dark to illuminate their violent end, as the Nord cut them all down, and devoured them with a grin. 

Jumping up into the air, Lorgar lifted his blade into the air, front flipping as he did, his blade’s target, the head of another Bosmer soldier. With a crunch, the blade landed in the skull, and due to the sheer force of a blade it’s size and weight,  strike being preluded by the flip, cut the Bosmer straight in half from head to toe. The body stood there for a good second, before falling from the sides, showering, blood, organs, guts, and shit onto the floor. 

In a flash of movement, Lorgar made a flurry of a dozen slashes in less than a few seconds, against a single Bosmer warrior that was adjacent to Lorgar. The rebel soldier foolishly attempted to block against the strikes, which didn’t help him when he got cut into little pieces, as Lorgar literally cut off his hand, arm, leg, and head in the span of three seconds. The Werewolf was too fast. Way too fast. So fast, when attacking, he seemed like a blur of shadow.  Even worse, each strike he made, he put as much force, and precision he could muster into them. Lorgar’s body, in his frenzied state, seemingly never forgot Telydrn’s lessons. 

A third warrior, striked from the front with a battle, intent on splitting Lorgar’s skull in half. Dodging it in a blur of speed,  Lorgar, launched himself forward in a pounce, using his forward monument, to slice off the Bosmer’s legs, using his greatblade. With a scream of utter pain, the rebel’s upper half fell to the ground. Howling madly, Lorgar stepped forward, dodging the other rebel’s sword strikes. As if he was a child having a tantrum, Lorgar jumped on the Bosmer’s body, his heavy iron boots biting into the Bosmer’s chest cavity. Screaming horrible cries of pain, Lorgar repeated his jumps, until with a sickening crunch, he broke through the ribs, spilling guts, and organs onto the ground, and staining Lorgar’s boots with blood. Laughing like a school child, Lorgar smiled at that display of blood. Howling like a mad beast, Lorgar lept from one side of the room, to the other, delivering his hooked dagger into the stomach of another rebel soldier. The Bosmer’s eyes went wide, as he looked down to see his life blood spill out of him. Lorgar rammed the blade deeper and deeper, tearing it out, and putting it back in, in a rhyme of gore. Until the Bosmers entire body was covered in his own blood. With a final gurgle, the Bosmer closed his eyes, and slumped to the floor, dead. Lorgar, howling madly, went back onto all fours, dropping his two weapons. He was starving.  The flesh wouldn’t sate his hunger, only increase it, 

Rushing to the body, Lorgar dug into the fatal wound he had made with his hands, tearing up pieces of meat, and shoving them into his mouth, to be grisly devoured, and swallowed. His stomach craved more meat. He needed more meat! Then he tore of one of their limbs, ripping apart the muscle and skin. The beast didn’t know if it was an arm or a leg. He didn’t care. The remaining Bosmer’s, most of them anyway, ran screaming like little girls, away from the room, deeper into the basement, so he was free to indulge his meal. 

He ripped flesh from the limb, until there was none left, and all the meat to be devoured, was eaten. Gripping the bone, that had bits of flesh scattered here and there, Lorgar smashed it on the stone ground, until it was cracked enough for marrow to flow through it. Sucking it, he drank from the bone as much of the hearty, pink liquid he could get from the object. Roaring, Lorgar used his nails to tore threw the rest of the elf’s body, eating bits of skin, and chunks of meat from the Bosmer, before finishing with a loud roar,  

Another one of the rebels, one who decided to flee, attempted to strike at Lorgar from behind, his face plain with horror, with a mace.  In a flash of almost impossible speed, Lorgar had grabbed the dagger from the floor, and severed the man’s hand, spraying blood as he screamed, dropping his weapon. Lorgar lifted the blade, a mad grin Sheogorath himself would be proud of him, and cut diagonally from the side, chopping off his legs. Lorgar grinned as the man yelled in pain, falling to the blood soaked ground

The fallen Wood elf attempted to drag his body across the blood soaked floor, screaming in utter terror as he did, using his one remaining hand. His dead comrades, chunks of flesh missing from their bodies, and their vacant eyes, stared back at him from the ground. He crawled through guts, blood, and shit, before he was stopped by Lorgar putting his boot to face face, sending out jolts of pain into him. Laughing, Lorgar grabbed him by the hair, saying in a raspy, deep voice, ignoring the cries of pain . As if he was a wolf, speaking in a human's voice, Lorgar...or the beast within, spoke, “Does it hurt? Does it hurt?!?” He repeated.  

The bosmer nodded his head, and in between the screams,  shouted  “Yes! Please...have mercy...have mercy!” 

Lorgar laughed, a mad, deranged sounding laugh, “Did you show those soldiers mercy when you tortured them? Did you?! Did you spare that little girl?! You sick fucks...you deserve no mercy. Hircine does not like those who hunt the defenseless. I send you to Aetherius with joy! Eat this shit!” 

Lorgar shoved his face into the ground, making him eat the shit on the ground. The shit from the torn out bowels of his comrades.  Crying the Bosmer’s mouth trailed on the ground, swallowing the foul subances painted into the floor with his tongue. Smirking, Lorgar pulled on his hair so hard, that it caused parts of the Bosmer’s sculpt, along with his hair, to be torn out, causing the Bosmer to shriek. Still alive, despite all this trauma and abuse he endured,  Lorgar finished him off by slamming his boot into the back of his skull, crushing him underneath the metal foot. Bits of brains lingered, as he brought it up, and glanced infront of him. A single Bosmer stood there. Shivering, he wore little armor, besides his leather breastplate, leggings, and shoes. Going by the stains on his pants, you could tell he had pissed himself in fear. He was frozen by terror, and had thrown his weapon to the ground.

The being that stood before him, had no mercy to show. As Lorgar prepared to charge forward, a familiar voice filled his head, 

“This is why thouth fight...the smell of fear...embrace it...You are the wolf, to there lamb. There hunter, to their prey. You feed off their despair, and fear.  This is your true nature. Your destiny, Lorgar!”

The beast of the miasma stood there, it’s disgustingly narrow snout snarling in a smile of such depravity that even in this state, Lorgar feared it. It laughed, it’s red lighting filled eyes overjoyed, “You see! You could be so much more! Embrace the darkness within! Be me!!! I am you, and you are me. We are the same, you and me! You were born to be a hunter of the Great wolf. The father of werebeasts. Hircine, is your lord!” 

“The taste of fear...this is why I fight...my true self...my nature…” Gibley laughing as if he was under the pale, dancing, full moon, Lorgar rammed his greatblade through the Wood Elf’s midsection, spraying crimson blood sprayed over his body. The Elf screamed out in pain, as his lost control over the lower half of his body in an instant. The wolf howled, disappearing in a form of dark mist. Still alive, he gripped the edge of the blade with both his hands, letting the blade’s edge cut into his skin, in an attempt to put pressure on anything to take away from the massive pain from the greatsword.  Slowly, Lorgar stabbed the greatblade deeper, taking about ten seconds per inch to drive the sword deeper into the rebel soldier. He took so much pleasure for inflicting as much pain as possible, being as slow as possible. The elf screamed, moaning horrible sounds of pain, as the Lycantope’s massive blade, went further into him. The pain was so excruciating. As he inflicted more pain, Lorgar grew more excited. It wasn’t like it was sadism. He was feeding off the suffering of the Bosmer. To the Bosmer, he could only see the dark orb of light coming from his eye, along with grinning teeth, and the skull of a painted wolf.  The sight sent shivers of fear in the remaining parts of his body he could feel.

Lorgar at least, ran the blade through fully, impaling him on his runesword. Drawing his knife, he let go of his greatsword, and in a single step,  used the knife to slowly decapitate the pinned down Bosmer. He edged the knife around his neck, smiling, as he drew blood, and took his sweet time severing his head from his body, as the soldier screamed at the top of his lungs, sweat and blood dripping from his brow. Lorgar made sure to make the initial severing of his throat as slow as possible, as if he was too quick, the bleedout would be instantaneously, and he wouldn’t suffer. At last, Lorgar had severed the Bosmer’s head, spraying sweet crimson all over his face. with a triumphant roar.

Grabbing his discarded sword, and lifting it above his head, he threw the severed body part by the hair onto the ground, before pursuing the remaining elves, whom had fled, down this way. The darkness was thick to the trained eye, but Lorgar, due to his gift, held night vision. He could see through the dark. And what he saw in the final room, surprised him. 

About five or so Bosmer, lay on the ground, dead. There corpses as pale as freshly fallen snow. In their hands, half carried vials of poison, while the other half, dagger marks were visible on their throats, the  blood soaked blades still clutched in there cold hands. The remaining rebels had all committed suicide, rather than fight him. On the furniture surrounding him, like in the main part of basement, hooks of meat, and torture instruments were in abundance. Many yellow body parts were visible, along with tanned colored bits of flesh. It seemed the group had enjoyed both Altmer, and fellow Bosmer. Cannibalism

Laughing, even further then before, Lorgar screamed, a howl of victory. He had won the day. His enemies feared him so much, they’d rather kill themselves then face him in battle. He was truly a hunter of glory and power! 

“Not bad, Lorgar.” 

Suddenly a deep sounding voice assailed his hearing. It wasn’t the Beast of the Miasma. It was sinister, but far more deeper.  A voice he knew. Deep within, his primal self. The voice that called out to him when he saw a deer prowling the woods, to be filled with arrows. The sound that encouraged him, when he was stalking Bosmer soldiers in the woods, with nothing more than a dagger in hand. He knew that voice. 

And with that, Lorgar’s red vision faded, as he could only see darkness. 

*******
Unknown 
Night?

Lorgar eyes opened up wide, as he awoke. His head hurting, the Nord had remembered what he had just done moments before. And the thought filled him pure repulsion of the monster he had briefly become. Going up onto his knees, Lorgar mouth gagged, but no green bile fell through onto the grass, that laid out before him.  Wait a second, 

Grass? 

Lorgar glanced around him. His surroundings were vastly different than what he had seen before he was unconscious. He was surrounded by forests. Just pure forests. Forests of such length, that it seemed the place he was in, was the only clearing in miles. The trees were of all types, from grand oaks of the Great forest, to tall pines of Skyrim. Dozens of different species from all parts of Tamriel, stood in the same place. And that wasn’t the weirdest part. The sky was blood red. The color of that salty, metallic, crimson liquid Lorgar had drank moments ago from his victims. Along with the sky, he noticed streams of flowing crimson right beside him. Assailing is enhanced hearing, he spotted the calls of other Werebeasts emerging from the forest.   He looked up above, into the dark sky, which oddly held not a single star and saw a thing he hadn’t seen in ages. 

The circular, crimson red of the Blood Moon. 

Yes, floating in the darkness of the sky, Lorgar saw that very thing, he had witnessed during that fateful day in Solsthsiem. That pale object of darkness that signalled the annual Hunt of Hircine, the fabled event were the greatest hunters of Hircine were gathered, and competed.  The foul symbol of Werebeasts. 

“Greetings. Lorgar Sky-Wind. It’s been too long.” That voice from before. Lorgar turned around, and faced what awaited him, 

A large throne made from skeletal remains, of creatures of all types. He could see mammoths, wolves, bears, elks, rabbits, werebeasts, and things he didn’t even recognize among the throne. The throne itself was quite tall. Massive even jutting up to the sky, clad to head to toe in the bones of hundreds of different species of wild-life, though it had a larger than normal chair for sitting, which was tiny in comparison to the rest of the throne.  Flanking the Throne, two massive wolves. The one to the front, had a fur that was colored jet back, and the other, snow white. The white one was tall, and bore itself proudly, though you could see feral, behavior in it’s grey eyes. It hungrily glanced at Lorgar, letting loose a howl. The black one was different. It savagely had its back hunched, gazing at Lorgar with the clear intention of eating him. She had dark red orbs for eyes. Both wolves were massive, easily taller than Lorgar, and bore razor sharp fangs.  Strangely enough, each massive wolf bore antlers on their heads, which wouldn’t look out of place on great elks, but seemed very odd on the savage hunters. Sitting on the throne, however was the thing that interested him most.

A tall vaguely looking humanoid. It was heavily muscular, and had brownish skin. It wore nothing, but a bright blue sash, that it wore proudly on its lower half. For it’s feet, it had goat hooves, that had leggings just above them, and for hands, savage looking claws, that ended in razor sharp nails, which also carried copper bracers. It each claw, it bore a spear. On the right claw, the spear it had was jagged, with dozens of smaller spikes coming from the wooden weapon, and the spear head was made from jagged stone. In the left hand, the spear he wielded was black as the abyss, being made from some kind of metal. Most likely ebony. It held a silver spear head. The most distinct thing about it was it’s head. Which was the twisted skull of a deer, it’s upper part ending in long, proud antlers.  It reclined on it’s throne, gently tapping the sides, as he held his twin spears beside each arm of the throne. 

Lorgar knew whom he was in audience with, in a single instant, 

The nord drew his greatblade from the scabbard he carried on his back, and planted it with all his might into the dirt in the ground. He knelt onto a single knee, bowing his head as deeply as possible. With a heavy heart, Lorgar uttered, “My prince…”

The Father of Manbeasts. The Huntsman. The Daedric Lord, and Prince of the Hunt, the Sport of Daedra, the Great Game, The Chase. Hircine. The Daedric Prince gazed at Lorar with his gaping holes for eyes, before letting out a hearty chuckle, “Rise, Lorgar, my servant. I didn’t summon you here for you to grovel to me. How long has it been? A few decades?” He spoke in a very deep, almost growling, sound. The voice of the Legion, as if he was speaking in the tongue of thousands of different animals. His voice...seemed friendly. Hircine was kind to his followers, as long as you pleased him. He looked out for them too. Which was more than could be said for some. Lorgar, very shaken, and unwilling, rose from the ground, sheathing his blade, as if to not risk offending the person that stood before him. 

Placing his hand onto one of the thrones arms, he raised the other, “I hear your...mate is pregnant. I do hope everythings goes well. And her or he grows up to be a mighty hunter, like their strong father.” 

Was the Daedric Prince of the Hunt giving Lorgar...pleasantries? Lorgar, confused as all hell, simply nodded his head, “Thank you, my Prince. I’m pleased you show concern for me, and my family, your grace. If you don’t mind me asking...is this a dream?” He bowed his head deeply once more. Chuckling once more, Hircine spoke one more in his raspy voice, “Yes and no. I’m presenting an image of the Hunting Grounds, into your mortal mind. In this dreamscape I can communicate with you. So you're not, technically, in a realm of Oblivion.” 

“Ah…” Lorgar muttered underneath his breath, glancing at his surroundings. So this is a dream. Lorgar faced his Prince once more, whom said, his deer skull emotionless “I suppose you're wondering why i’ve summoned you. After all, you hear me every day.” He laughed, his voice taking that of an old badger. Lorgar nodded his head, “The stalking in the woods. The voice in your head, whispering to you to take the life of the Elk. That silent whisper, when you thank the spirit of the prey for their sacrifice, and your glory. That is me. I exist in every aspect of the hunt. I am the hunt. So it seems, we're old friends, you and I. As are all hunters.”

He chuckled, “I was very pleased with your offering today, my dear servant. Very pleased in fact.” Lorgars face filled with shame, the redness on his cheeks, further compounded by the red moon light, and red shimmering creeks of water around him, “Thank you...my Prince. I’m glad your pleased by my actions…” His voice was fake, and it seems Hircine could tell, 

“Do not feel sorrow for those butchers, my servant.” His voice suddenly became far angrier, becoming that of a bear, as it echoed, and thundered across the forest, shaking the  ground. His extreme rage surprised, and terrified, the Nord, “They kill defenseless innocents that cannot defend themselves in anyway. Restraining them, and slowly killing them with torture instruments. What sport is in that? When the prey cannot defend, or avoid its hunter. What kind of hunt is that? They dare have the gall to consider themselves true hunters?!” He voice subsided, for a moment, and went back to normal, as he waved his hand, “Back to the topic on hand, as were both very busy. I wish to grant you a boon.” 

Lorgar’s eyes filled with surprise and shock, “A boon?!” he said, his voice tinged with surprise. A boon from a Daedric lord was no trivial matter. All this for butchering a small group of Bosmer rebels?! Hircine laughed, a hearty chuckle, “Why so surprised, Lorgar? You have served me faithfully throughout your life, with excellent.  You have lived a true hunter. Besides...some rough patches in recent years, I think no one else in Tamriel is worthier than you to receive my favor.” He chuckled once more, “Besides, because of those rough patches, I was worried for your well being.  I must take care of my most loyal followers, so I thought it kind to give you something to aid you on your journey.” 

Lorgar was...stunned. Kneeling, and lowering his head, as low as he could bow, “You truly honor me, by your kindness, your grace. Thank you, my Prince.” He meant every word, 

“Excellent. But as you know, a hunter must work for his prize. I expect you to do the same.” Hircine raised his hand, and a map of Valenwood appeared from thin air. Six spots on the map lit up in various colors. Hircine’s voice distorted, into that of a wolves. He spoke, almost the same as Lorgar had earlier, “On each spot on this map, there is a Bosmer village. Proud, and ancient hunters, these tribes are. Each speak of a legendary beast that haunts their surrounding environments. These monsters, are not simple legends, and have claimed the lives of hundreds over the long centuries. Each beast, excels, and is well-suited fors it’s surroundings.” He paused, reclining once more into his throne “ Maketh holy pilgrimage to these spots, and slay, each and every one of these creatures. Show me your true worth, and worthiness as my servant. As my abyss-hound.”Another spot on the map glowed crimson red, right in the middle of the province, deep within a massive jungle, “If thou shall succeed in thy quest, an ancient shrine, of primordial age, shall open, here. Were you shall face one final test, before receiving your just reward.” 

Lorgars surroundings began to distort, as if a painting had caught water. Hircine placed his clawed hands, gripping the ebony spear, before saying, “I shall present myself to the six chieftains of this village, as there god, Y’ffre in dreams.” He chuckled once more, “You Skaal do know me as the Deceiver, after all.  I shall tell them you, the white-haired Nord, is my champion, and prophet. They will prepare you for the hunt. If you succeed in your hunt, and give them the head of each beast, they will swear there, and there tribes, fealty to you. You shall command six powerful tribes, you see the advantage, for your precious little Empire, yes?” 

Hircine's form slipped away, disappearing as Lorgar was consumed by darkness. The last thing he heard was, “Good luck, my servant. I wish you luck, on your quest. May the hunt be with!”

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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Titus Scipio
Late evening

The night sky was chasing away the last remains of daylight in the horizon. Clouds were sweeping in as well, blocking out the stars and moons. It appeared to become a very dark night as the small group of Titus and the warriors of the Order of Divine Purity slowly approached the village that had been attacked. Their goal was to strike at the necromancers and kill them all before they could get a chance to flee. According the scout Malder had sent; the necromancers numbered around five and were held up in the village largest house, which was also the only house with two floors. Around the town wandered at least two dozen of the necromancers undead minions. Only about a third were of fresh corpses, suggesting the the rest had been pillaged from local graves. 
Malder was leading the group and Titus tried to stay close to him. Mostly because Malder was giving him advice on what he should do under what circumstances, so Titus wouldn't make any grave mistakes that could endanger them all. The village soon appeared within view just over the next craggy hill and Malder stopped the group before they would be getting within hearing distance of the undead. 
"Here's the plan. The main group charge in and try to beat our way to the big house. Try using the nearby houses or even the undead as cover should the filthy necromancers decide to attack from afar with their spells. Baro and Bere will circle around the town and cut off any escape route for the necromancers." said Malder.

"Can we light a torch or something? I can barely see where I'm going." said one of the warriors. 

"No. No lights. We need the element of surprise." replied Malder. "Now get into position." 

The two rangers sneaked off into the darkness and the rest formed a rugged line outside where the main road entered the village. They followed Malder as he at first, as quietly as he could in his armor, sneaked forth towards their target. The undead were slow to react and only seemed to stare blindly at them through the darkness with their dark, hollow eyes. Then suddenly one of the zombie's let out a roar. Not a very loud or powerful one, but unnatural and coarse that sent a shiver down Titus's spine. That became the signal that the time for stealth was over. 
Malder was the first to charge into the fray, smashing the skull of one rotten corpse before breaking the arm of another that was just about to attack him with it. The other fared also rather well against the undead, cutting against the joints and bashing their bones so they crumbled to the ground. A few were still raving and trying to attack despite being felled but were however easy to finish off with one or a few hits. Titus mostly stayed behind Malder and finished off any rotten undead the other left behind, just as Malder had told him; one thrust in the head and another in the heart was enough to break their curse. 
They were halfway towards the large house when they saw a window open on the second floor and a dark robed and hooded figure watch them approached. The figure shouted something into the house before sending a lightning bolt at the attackers. Luckily it missed it's closest target by a large margin. Soon though the other two windows on the upper floor opened and similar dark figures appeared to help shoot lightning bolts and ice spikes at them. One such ice spike glanced by Titus's head so close that he both felt and heard it brush against the steel of his helmet. With a quick thanks to Talos he then raised his shield in defense and rushed towards the nearest house corner to take cover behind. There he tried his best to catch his breath and gather his composure from his near death experience. 
Suddenly thought he heard something moving behind him. Quickly Titus turned to see what it was, but the sound came from the pitch black shadow of the house he was taking cover behind, so he just stood there staring into nothing.
"Who's there?" said Titus with a badly suppressed panic in his voice. Though no answer came. But the thing just came closer towards him. Steeling himself for another undead he raised his shield and waited. Then slowly appearing from the darkness was the figure of a girl, seemingly mid teens and with dirty clothing and messy brown hair. She walked as if wounded with a hand against the wall for support and looked down in the ground as she did. Suddenly Titus felt a sting of doubt, wondering if this girl might have been a survivor instead of an undead villager. "Who are you?" he asked. Though no answer came. After she got another foot step closer Titus made up his mind: she was not alive. He readied himself to stab her. But he hesitated as he looked on her, stumbling towards, she looked more like a wounded girl than shambling undead. His mind told him to stab and cut the creature down while his gut told him to not harm her. 
Then suddenly he heard Malder call out for him. Titus quickly looked over his shoulder to see that the others had moved on and he noticed that he didn't hear any more fighting going on. He looked back the girl slowly coming towards him and thought about stabbing her once more. Then Malder called for him once more and Titus felt the stress piling up in his mind. Without much more thought he thrust his sword into the girl's stomach and then hurried away from the scene, not caring to check if she was still walking. 

Titus headed up to the large house where he could see the other waiting inside. Inside the house there was a fire going and a couple of candles lit, giving Titus a great relief of leaving the darkness behind. The first floor was just one large room with a stair on the far side and a fireplace on the left side. Malder sat in a simple wooden chair near the middle of the room. 
"Where did you go?" asked Malder with a little surprise and displeasure. 

"I took cover from the mages' spell behind a house. There I was attacked by an undead. Though she-it is dead now." he said, hoping that he was telling the truth. 

"Ah, no matter. You did well enough for your first time. We took care of the mages on the top floor. We can all rest a little easier now with them gone."

"What now?" asked Titus. 

"Now we rest. I'll take the first guard shift. Tomorrow we'll burn the bodies and give them their proper rites before heading back."

Titus couldn't agree more about needing a rest after all that walking they had done that day. Though that night he had trouble sleeping. Even though the house was warmer than the outside, the floor was harder than the dirt. But what really kept awake was the thought of the girl he had stabbed. He wondered if she hadn't died and would attack them in the night, or if she had been alive and he had murdered her. Titus tried to push the thoughts away, telling himself that it was useless thinking about it now and that he should get some sleep. So it went on for how long he could not really tell. All he knew was that the sun was beginning to rise when his consciousness finally faded from the waking world.

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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Titus Scipio
Late morning 

Titus awoke, feeling about as tired as he had been before falling asleep. As he got up he saw that a few others were still sleeping, including Malder. One woman was over at the fireplace, cooking roasting a rabbit. Titus stomach grumbled as he wished for some food. Searching though to meager pack he had he found some dried fruit, which wasn't very satiating, but managed to still his hunger just enough. 
Then he remember the girl from the night before. The girl he had assumed an undead and stabbed in the stomach. Titus wanted to know the truth about her, and about what he had done. With determined and quick steps he strode outside where he was met with almost blinding sunlight. After a few seconds of his eyes getting used to the new lighting he now saw what had been the night's battlefield. Before stretched the familiar wide, dirt covered street with corpses strewn around and rotting in the sun. As Titus began to walk down the street he could smell a few corpses so bad his eyes began to water a little. Walking up the house he remembered hiding behind he looked at where he had encountered the girl. But there was no corpse laying on the ground nor an undead waiting to ambush him. There wasn't even a pool of blood. Titus knelt where he had stabbed her to look for any clues. All he found was a small splatter of blood. It had dried and Titus had too little knowledge and experience to tell if it was from the night before or from the necromancers attack days ago. 
He began to think on what it all meant. The lack of blood on the ground suggested that she had not really bled, which meant that she had either been undead (Titus assumed undead don't really bleed) or that she had managed to bandage the wound right after he had stabbed her. Since the second option seemed very unlikely, he concluded she had been undead. This brought a sense of relief to his mind over not having murdered an innocent. But as he got up a small realization dawned to him: if she was undead and he didn't returned her to death, then she was still roaming about. This realization turned to dread and then to panic. Quickly he strode down the small street the girl had come from, his hand on the hilt of his sword and ready to draw. He need to find her before the creature might attack again. 

Titus walked and searched around the nearby houses. When noticed he was beginning to walk in circles he suddenly bumped into one of Order's rangers, the Colovian named Baro.
"What's you looking for?" he said with a slightly raised eyebrow. 

"Uhm." said Titus at first, unsure if he should let Baro know of his mistake. "I think an undead might still be prowling about."

"What makes you think that?"

"A corpse is gone."

"A corpse is gone?" said Baro, even more confused. 

"Yes." Titus felt that must sound really stupid and that didn't make it easier to talk. 

"I think you're mistaken. Any undead would have gone back to being dead when their masters got killed."

This made Titus stop and simply stare into empty space. If the girl had been undead and then gone back to being dead when the necromancers were killed, then she should have been laying where he had left her. Unless she wasn't undead. But Titus was sure that the wound he delivered would have caused quite the bleeding had she been alive. None of it made any real sense to him. 

"Are you alright?" said Baro after a few seconds which cause Titus to snap back from his deep thoughts. 

"Are you sure kill all the necromancers?" asked Titus.

"I'm pretty sure we killed all that were here."

"Then I don't simply know." Titus hated to say it but he was just becoming confused over the situation. Part of him even began to wonder if he was going mad and had just imagined the girl. 

"Maybe it's just the stress getting to you. I have to admit that fighting undead do takes it's toll. Especially when you're not used to it." 

"Probably." said Titus reluctantly. 

"Anyway, we should get back to the others." Baro then began to walk back to the main street and the two story house with Titus in tow. 

Malder and the others were already up begun to work. They were carrying the corpses to the largest and flattest part on the main street, where they were lined up neatly next to each other. Baro and Titus didn't say anything and simply went to work and help them move the bodies. As they all worked in silence Titus felt a form of solemn ambience over them. Even thought carrying decaying corpses felt like unglamorous dirty work, being part of sending these people off to the afterlife and granting them peace gave a sense of holy purpose to the ordeal. 
Once they corpses were assembled and placed besides each other in a tight but neat enough pile with some timber placed between and on them, everyone gathered round in a large circle. Malder lit a torch and stood closer to the pile of bodies than the others. 
"Today we shall give these poor souls their rest." Malder began in a solemn tone. Then he began to recite the holy scripture of the blessing of Arkay. Titus listened to some extent but the thought of the girl still crept back into his mind. His eyes slowly examined each of the bodies as best he could to see if she was there. He had already looked over the pile a couple of times when he helped assemble it. But the girl were nowhere to seen then nor now. 
Malder then finished the prayer and put the torch against the wood near him. It took a moment before the flame began to spread. Soon enough the entire pile and the corpses were burning. The heat from the flames warmed the otherwise rather chilly air and soon enough Titus was sweating beneath his armor. Regardless though, Titus was rather content with what he had helped to achieve here. As the fire consumed their bodies, Titus was sure that they may now rest in peace. 

After the ceremony and the flames had died down enough for them to be sure that the fire wouldn't spread, Malder gathered everyone up and they left the village. Titus walked at the furthest back and before the village came out of view he looked back one last time. The village now seemed so peaceful. If he hadn't been there to send the souls off to the afterlife, Titus might even have considered it ghostlike. Now it was simply filled with a stillness. But one thing still gnawed at his mind: What happened with the girl?

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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Dales Moitre, 
Imperial City, Empresses Study
Night,

The night sky extended, waves of thunderous roaring, snow across the bitter, horrid tundra. Below her that is, as she walked on what seemed to be a tall peak. Among the stars of Mundas, and moon, the aurora borealis extended as far as the eye could see, showering Tamriel below in green light. The sight of it was the most beautiful thing the Empress had ever seen.  That beauty, however was marred by the advancing waves of snow fall. Her entire vision was clouded by the white fall. Where was she? Skyrim? Bruma? Solsthiem? She didn’t know. She couldn’t know. Most of her vision was heavily clouded by the snow. The freeing, blistering cold chilled her to the bone, and her arms were becoming frozen.  Steps of...chiseled rock awaited her vision, well that parts she could see, that led upward even further beyond, into the gathering torrential blizzard. 

Was Dales on a mountain? 

She certainly thought she was. The roaring wind, pointed to that kind of altitude, along with the thundering blizzard. Right infront of her, she could see small, shrines. She couldn’t read them. They were in some dialect of...Nordic? Ancient most likely,  She couldn't recognize it. Perhaps this was a sacred site, for the inhabitants of this frozen wasteland,.

As if something answered her desire to know, what the hell was going on, a loud roaring emerged around her. It wasn’t the simple roaring of a beast, it was a resounding clash of pure thunder, that shook the very mountain, all the way to it’s core. The roar echoed once again, primal, and thunderous. As if thunder itself was manifesting among the blizzard on the desolate mountain peak. Waves of air, more than before hit her square on the face, as she struggled not to fall off the mountain, and the beating of wings could be heard in the darkened distance. 

Suddenly her vision filled, as red clashed with snow. Massive wings, spiked ridges on it’s back, reptilian, jagged claws and teeth. 

Red scales. 

*******


The young Empress awoke with a yelp, silencing the scream before it could emerge from her hoarse throat. Another nightmare...the same one like last night, she thought. Cold sweat dripped from her brow, as she gently removed the linen blanket from her lower body, getting into a standing position on her crimson colored couch. The window was open, and pale moonlight was seeping through it, a light in the darkness. A small, red pillow was tucked underneath where her head was before, her fair blonde hair becoming quite messy, and tattered in comparison to how she wore it regally during court. Her white skin, was flustered, crimson by the cheeks.   Both items were rather simple make, the pillows only noticeable differences being a small dragon head being embroidered onto it. The plain linen blanket, was even more bare. The Empress, did not like trivialities such as expensive silk, or pillows covered in jewels. Her considerable personal wealth, was better spent elsewhere, such as paying for her tutors, gathering tomes of knowledge, and funding charities, for the more needy. She tried to live a simpler life, than most monarchs, in regards to excesses. She ate bread, and simple cooked meat instead of exotic food. She drank, or more accurately, guzzled ale, instead of sipping rich wine. She usually tried to dine with her Palentina guardsmen, or by herself, instead of with the court.  The Empress had...admittedly been rather frugelent with buying prostitutes for the nights at the brothel, but that stage of her life was long over. She’d much rather spend her night pouring over tomes of ancient lore, or, much more rarely, sleep with her precious maid, Victoria.

The former was seemingly becoming a huge issue to her. If only for one subject Dales had...taken a liking too. 

I need some sleep. I have such a big day tomorrow...

Open, on her desk ,which lay just beyond where Dales had fallen asleep, sat a massive, mouldy tome. The thing was at least a thousand years old, and very out of print. You certainly wouldn’t be able to purchase it from First Edition.  The book's pages were thick with dust, and some of them were damaged. Dales had personally requested it from the grand archives of the White Gold Tower. The Moth Priests would give the Empress anything short of an Elder Scroll if she requested it from them, and they had the book in their possession. 

Drawn, in vivid, horrible details, were ancient Wyrms of legend, and terror. Dragons.  Indeed, the book, the infamous, and priceless Draconus Necromico was all about the subject. Images, taken from the fever dreams of the mad Breton artist, La Pooer were plainly visible among the faded pages. Drawn in blackened ink, as well as horrid splotches of paint, the monsters of legend seemed more like Eldritch horrors, then Reptilian giants. The book was one of a kind, and extremely valuable. It described apparitions that had apparently whispered to him, and shown him images of these reptiles of legend and yore, from ages long ago. Massive, winged monsters, of fang, claw, and flame, Dragons of all types were shown, and named. The writing, was barely legible, and done in tiny sizes underneath the horrid sketches. Dales had requested the most valuable tomes on the subject of Dragonkin, been given to her for a certain amount of time. Eager to please the monarchy, the Moth-Priests had done so without lifting a word of protest. Perhaps, it would have been better if they had. 

As a harmless interest, had turned into an unhealthy obsession.  

Dales spent her entire nights pouring through ancient tomes detailing the monstrous drakes. The very symbol of her empire. The compulsion that made her read more about the legendary beasts, got to the point, Dales had to force herself to read at least three hours of other subjects, such politics, and military, before getting into the books about Dragons. She had no idea why the subject interested her so much. Sure, she had always found great beasts, and magical monsters interesting, but Dragons had lit a passion inside her to learn about the recently revived species. Dragons had returned to Tamriel. They were illusive to be sure, but there had been many confirmed sightings of them, especially in the former-Imperial province of Skyrim. As well as some attacks.  If one would read only the Draconus, a painting of monstrous, wrathful, creatures of pure destruction would be drawn. 

While it was true, Dragons were creatures of extreme power, they weren’t mindless beasts at all! They could think, talk, and according to many sources, were just as intelligent as the other species around Tamriel. Nafaalilargus, a legendary hero of the Empire, was a Dragon, and had served under Tiber Septim himself as a loyal soldier, and vassal. Several other Dragons were known to serve the Empire, in exchange for protection. Simply put, Dragons fascinated the young Empress. And it wasn’t just because the symbol of the Empire had always been a mighty, black Dragon. She certainly would like to meet a living one! But it seems, her newly sparked interest was taking a toll on her mind. For the past several nights, Dales had had the same dream. She was by herself, in a snow covered mountain in the middle of a great blizzard. She had no idea where she was, could have been Skyrim, or Bruma for all she knew, but she had a feeling inside her gut, that told her it was somewhere very important. Afterwards, she would hear a creature roar so loud, that it would shake the mountains, and lay asunder the peak. 

She would then see her illusive, reptile. For a split second, Dales beheld the mighty creature of myth, a dragon colored deep crimson!

She was sure it meant nothing. But for some reason, the split shot of the Drake was enough for Dales to will herself to awake, always covered in sweat, as if she had a nightmare. It sent shivers down her spine. 

Speaking of which…why am I wearing a blanket, and why isn’t the candle still burning? 

Dales knew she had fallen asleep on her couch, reading. But she wasn’t wearing a blanket, and she hadn’t put out the candle on her desk. Like usual, she had gone to sleep unknowingly, without properly putting herself to bed. That candle was magical, and would burn for very long peroids of time, unless the wick was snuffed out. Maybe someone had entered her study, and given her a blanket, and pillow. Stretching out with a yawn, Dales scanned the room for any signs of intrusion, before her suspicions were confirmed.

Dale’s heart fluttered, and fell asunder,  Basked in his pale moonlight, was her little dove. Helen Quentas. Her pale skin absorbed the moonlight coming in rays from the window, and illuminated her features. Her raven-hair was done in childish braids, with purple ribbons. As she was taken by the mist of sleep Dales couldn’t spy them, but she knew her Lapis Lazuli eyes were gorgeous, without her large, golden spectacles hiding them, and her pale skin smooth as silk. She wore the standard outfit of a maid,colored red,  along with a small brown blanket, that fully covered her, besides her head. She gently snored, as she dreamed under the moonlight.     The girl was asleep. Dales thought the image to be utterly adorable. The girl must have come in to check on Dales, before falling asleep herself. Helen worked very hard, and seemed to disobey the Empress when she ordered her to return home early. Smiling warmly to herself, Dales got off her couch, and tip toed across the room, avoiding the book shelves, and her large, wooden desk.  The Empress reaching the sleeping girl, making sure to be as quiet, and gentle as possible, softly lifted the girl, wrapped in her blanket, in her arms.. Dales was very fit (which some people found quite impossible, as she ate, and drank like a pig in private), so the small schoolgirl was rather light in her arms. Dales made sure not to wake up the girl, as she lightly opened the door, and made her way out into the white marble hallway, making little noise, carrying her bridal style in her arms.

No guardsman stood on duty to greet the young monarch. None were in plain sight. 

An assassin, to assume that Dales was unguarded at the very late hours of the night, was a foolish killer indeed. Dales was guarded by her own private guard, Grey Wolf, twenty four seven. They lurked in the shadows, away from view. They would be sorry special operatives, if there Empress could see them after all. If so, then any competent assassin would be able to notice them as well. They were there, alright. Dales made her way down the hallway, which was somewhat illuminated by candle light, before reaching a heavy wooden door. Opening it by pushing against it, Dales brought the young girl into a guest bedroom. It was quite bare, though Dales appreciated it’s simplicity quite a bit. The bed, which was by the farthest wall, was queen sized, with the mattress being made from soft linen, dyed blue. Being as gentle as possible, Dales placed the sleeping girl on the mattress, making sure her head was on a comfortable, pillow. Seconds later, Helen buried her sleeping face into the piece of furniture, giving a smile, as she snored. Dales grinned, whispering in her ear, “Sweet dreams, my little dove.”

********
The Next Day, Royal Wedding 
Noon,  

Dales stood in front of the mannequin displaying her wedding dress. The dress was made of soft silk and was tailored and colored in such a way that it looked like a shining white dress with a bright red coat covering her sides and back. Delicate golden embroidery covered the red cloth with a fiery pattern while silver decorated the white with calming flowers and waves. The dress was rather tight fitting on the upper part, hugging her waist and hips so it could make her bosom seem even larger than it now was. Dales had naturally...rather small breasts, which went with her pixie skeleton. Victoria had always complimented them for being perky, however. The skirt hanged and flowed very freely around the legs. On the back the backside of the skirt lied on the floor several feet long and decorated in real, fresh flowers. In front of the dress on the floor stood a couple of very tall, high heeled shoes covered in silver. The shoes were not that decorated but as the dress would cover the feet it wouldn't really matter. 

I would have chosen more pink...she would have wanted that. We were supposed to have a pink wedding, if I remember.  No...that's not true. I would have gone with black. The color of deception, and lies...the color of darkened intentions, and ugliness. They reflect me as I am now.  So consumed by my desire for revenge…I barely remember how it felt to be perfectly happy. Just glimmers of light and regret. 

She smiled faintly to herself,  her ruby colored lips display rare warmth, “When you were around...my love.”  She childishly played with her fingers. Remembering her face always gave her a glimmer of joy, if only for a moment, “Our days would be chasing butterflies through meadows. We would dance in the garden under the starlit sky at night, and finally retire cuddling with each other in bed…” 

She placed her hands on a bousquet of red roses on her dresser, grasping one of the flowers gently in her hands. The Empress’s smiled only lasted another second, as her face became basked in rage, as she crushed the red flower head with her hands, “As I ordered countless executions, atrocities, and horrible acts committed upon my people, all in the Dominions name...” 

Dales sadly,  mused to herself, as she clenched the red gloves she wore, in an angry, and hateful fist of rage. She was so ashamed of it. That unending rage that had been plaguing her. She had replaced one venom, for another. This one may have made her far stronger, but the intensity of the pain that flowed through her veins increased.  She wanted to kill Theodore for embarrassing her, despite knowing, deep down, she had given him the ammunition. She wanted to murder her father again for all the things he did to her. She wanted to tear apart, and maim the assassin that took her most precious thing away from her. Such petty, and disgusting  desires. The Empress was so scared of being consumed by her dark thoughts, and those thoughts would take over her, and that would define who she was. All of the bitter emotions she held, deep within herself before, were coming to the surface finally. 

And she embraced them all.  A person was weak when they tried to keep back there darkness within them. Shove it into the subconscious. Dales would accept everything that she was. Everything.  Destroy the aspects that made her weak, and keep everything that would make her strong. Even the negative aspects of herself. Dales had replaced her self-loathing, with hatred for someone else. A negative, with a negative. That hatred gave her purpose, and strength. Already, the venom of her anger flowed through her body. That hatred had brought her up from the dark, and empowered her. As she was now, even pain was precious to her. To love someone, you must accept everything about them. That applied to yourself. She would become a being of wrath, flame, and darkness. 

A Dragon. She thought to herself. She knew it was quite childish to keep insisting she would become a reptilian beast of legend, but that wasn’t her intention. She didn’t mean in the physical sense. The Dragon, or so she called it, was a mental state she wanted to embrace. A state of being, she would achieve if she worked hard enough, and sacrificed enough, The Dragon was her end goal. The steps she would  reach that goal, however, were hers to walk, and step down. She would walk those steps, stained in the blood, of both enemy and innocent, with relish. 

Oblivion take me,

Dales had betrayed her, she thought. Her one beloved, by doing this. She had promised her, the two of them would marry, and run away. Run away from everything. The stress of politics. The cost of war. From what they were, a Princess, and her maid. They would be joined together in union, and become simply. a woman, and a woman, a wife, and a wife. But she knew now, that was merely a fantasy, a dream. And like every dream, one must wake up from it. Her beloved, body was deep in the earth, and Dales was here, about to marry the man who, quite literally, stole her soul. Ironic. She wanted to marry the woman who stole her heart away, and made it flutter like a butterfly on a white Lily. Now, the cold, ruthless man, she called master, would be her husband. 

She was his willing servant, but even still, Dales took little pleasure in doing this. It was selfish of her. Horrible even, for her to think that way though. She needed to solidify her claim to the Ruby Throne. Her King was a very powerful man. Dales would always be his loyal servant...no, soldier. Though, it felt...like the binding was holding her back from her own potential. The potential he saw in her on that fateful day. The bidding kept her as a lizard, instead of the Wyrm she wanted to become.  That night, were she tried to take her own life, had awoken something within in her. A desire to live once more, and conquer herself. That brought phantasmic desires to be free. Free so she could become her own woman.   And with him, she could claim her niece as her own.  Even with all these reasons, every fiber in her being didn't want to do this. She craved and desired, the affection a female partner would give her. 

Despite my bravado that night, i'm nothing more then a horrible...selfish little slug-no. No more thinking like that...

Dales vehemently shook her head. Now wasn’t the time for self-pity. Never again. Dales would face this obstacle like anything else. Head on. She wouldn’t run away, or bury herself in that disgusting thing she hated so much. She promised herself she would become a better woman. Feeling sorry for his situation wouldn’t help that. Dale had a thing that most people didn’t posses. She had a special love. A special love, she could share with another girl. Something only the two of them could have. She was proud of that. She was proud of the woman she fell in love with so long ago. It was part of her identity. A strength to her. Anyone could laugh at her. She didn’t care. 

Many in the highborn class, could consider same-sex attraction a curse, if not a foul thing. For it complicated many affairs. One was expected to marry to cement alliances, and deals between the families of Court. Uncommon, but still prevalent, these political unions led to happy marriage, and romance. For someone like The Empress, happiness would be impossible to find, in marriage. That’s how it was, for nobles like Dales. And that’s how it always would be. The Empress, knew she had it far better than anyone.  For example, that little jest she had used, that Theodore read to the world, could have caused much more consequences. Fatal even.  Like that noblemen in High Rock, that the Breton King decried using his homosexuality, which ended in his demise. To her it was a curse, that only her, and another woman could be affected by. A curse only girls could know.   

She was proud of that curse. No matter what anyone else would say to her about it. 

No man could, or would,  ever own her heart.  The Emperor may own her soul, but her spirit, and being, would always belong to her.

But the fact, her newfound resolve to be proud of who she was, was a pathetic paradox, made her feel intense sorrow. She wanted to express who she was. She wanted to be seen in public with the woman she loved, so she could share her happiness and joy with the rest of her world. And yet she couldn’t, the notion self admitted, and embraced. She needed to hide this part of herself, let it jeopardise her claim to the Throne, and be used against her. No matter how she changed as a person, that fact would always cause her feel despair.  

Dales knew, deep down, in time, she would have to face her phantoms. You couldn't run away from them forever. She would feel Phantom Pain in her heart, forever. She knew what it felt like, to truly, and utterly love a person. And the pain from losing that feeling, would remain in her for eternity. 

Suddenly she heard the door open and close behind her. Dales turned her head to see her master, fully dressed with black pants and red and gold tunic. "Admiring the dress or do you hate so much you don't want to put it on?" he said. The Empresses scorn was reserved for her enemies. Even still, the sight of the piece of fabric made her seeth, "The later." She said, honest, "It's not the dress itself. It's what it represents for me..." A gilded cage. That’s all this marriage will be. 


"And what does it represent to you?" The ancient nord said, 

"Deception, deceit, whatever you call it. I have the utmost respect for you, my master. But I don't love you. You don't love me. It's a sham. A lie. A deception to our subjects.” 

"Deception is a tool. And as the woman you are, it will be the most useful tool you will have." Answered the Emperor, Dales responded with a sad smile, "I still prefer impaling my enemies on conjured Ice Spikes." 

Dales found underhand tactics...very unsatisfying. She didn’t want to sulk in the dirt, slivering, and crawling around the shadows, like King Theodore, or the leader of the Dominion. She wanted to lead her nation in the front, alongside her soldiers. Feel the satisfaction of getting her spear caked in the blood of the enemy, and impale Dominion soldiers with her conjured magic.     Dales wanted the roar of her soldiers screaming her name resounding in her ears. She acknowledged a good monarch must have, and undergo, underhand tactics, but she wanted to rule primarily with strength. 

"While it has it's charm, it can also be quite amusing to watch them chase ghosts of a cliff." he said with a slightly more humorous smile.

"Well, when do we begin?" She asked, her face becoming sullen, "Waiting is the worst part. I want this miserable day to be over. And back to arguing with the Merchant Guild..." Dales spoke the truth, she would rather be in court, arguing with petty nobles, and traders. Making decisions that benefited and helped her people. Instead of wasting an entire day of productivity, doing such a trivial and meaningless act. Or better yet, in her study...studying, the annals of history, and actions of her glorious legion.  Reading about military matters, and civil disputes were so much better, after all, then being paraded around like some doll, "Whenever you're dressed and ready." The nord.

Before Dales could respond, Victoria entered into the room, with a sly smirk on her face. Her short brown hair was cut like it usually was, and her green eyes stared hungrily at her Empress. She said, "Alright, Mister Emperor." While Victoria hadn't had intimate contact with the court-mage, now emperor, for over a year, she was still one of the few who could get away with such casual remarks towards the man, "I need to help the Empress get into her dress, so you need to leave."

"Well I guess someone should waiting at the altar with the guests. Just don't be too 'fashionably late' dear." he said and gave Dales a little smile before leaving.

A fake smile. 

Victoria’s features were...rather distinctive. The woman wore her hair rather short, though not short enough for her to be mistaken as a legionary, or other military group. More like short bangs. Her brown hair, which was light brown, was very silky and smooth, giving off a luxurious color. Her skin was pale, and impeccably gentle feeling, like a baby . Though if a special lady saw the other side of her, you could see her back was covered in whip scars, and branding. Along with dagger slashes, and cuts on her arms and legs.  She really gave the appearance of a highborn lady, though that image was offshot by something. Maybe her horrible back posture, as she always slouched, and her toothy, devilish grin she always bore. According to her, she washed her hair every day, and skin, which is how she maintained her appearance, using the bath in the Imperial Palace. Many of the other servants spoke of her in rumors, as she had practically served the longest in the Empresses retinue, as one of her personal handmaidens.  And her lover, an open-secret among the other servants, and Palace Guards. 

Dales had a...special relationship with Victoria. Very special. They were more than an Empress and her maid. More than close friend. More than lover. Dales couldn’t put it into words. She had fallen, deeply in-love with her dear beloved, but Victoria had a special place in the Empresses heart. The Empress, though couldn’t describe what there relationship was in words. Dales...needed to relax. Or else the stress would get to her, as it had before. Besides sharpening her mind with matters involving statecraft, beasts of myth, and military knowledge, Dales...needed to give control to someone she trusted, for relief. Victoria was that person. She...tied Dales up every Sundas, and did rather...deviant things to her. It was purely physical, and physiological stimulant to Dales. It did wonders to the mind. For one night of the week, Dales could give control to someone else. Dales cared for Victoria. Greatly infact. But Dales wasn’t in love with her.  Regardless of her feelings, that side of their relationship was strictly in the bedroom of Victoria’s apartment, and didn’t leave it. Out of it, Victoria treated Dales as her boss, and friend. Her Empress. Victoria had always been there for the young member royalty. When her beloved died. When Mathilda died, when the Empress has so consumed by despair, Victoria was always by her side. 

Wordlessly, Dales began to take off her clothes. She felt no shame in showing her body to a woman she had shared it with many times before. Once before, she might have blushed and looked away in childish shame, but not now. Victoria took the cue, and, not saying another word, began to dress the monarch in the complicated crimson dress. 

Smiling, Victoria said, her voice filled with genuine warmth, “You look beautiful, my lady.” Victoria had a tendency to use that improper salutations to address the Empress. She moved a string of brown hair from her face, saying, as she tied a string “My little Dales is all grown up now.  I meant what I said. You look gorgeous, my lady. Truly stunning...” Victoria got closer, adopting a sly grin, as Dales cheeks became alit with crimson color, as she turned away, “With your vibrant, golden hair. Porcelain skin. Cheery lips. I’m very jealous!” She said, uncharastically giggling like a schoolgirl struck by love for the first time. This was….very unlike her. 

Her brow lifted, and her features sharpened, a scowling forming on her face suddenly, “He doesn't deserve to have you. He doesn't even deserve to look at you…” She said underneath her breath, almost whispering her voice tinged with venom, Dales sharp hearing, heard everything. Dales icy blue eyes opened, contrasting with, the bright smile she wore, “What do you mean by that?”  The maid became...very sad all of sudden, as she frowned, and her eyes became downcast with sorrow. “I know what this is. This wedding...He’s using you. To secure a place on the Ruby Throne. Nothing more, nothing less.” 

If someone else had said this to Dales, she would have responded with much more force, but this was her best friend. Dales spoke, gently “Victoria-” Victoria cut her off, raising her voice a tad bit louder then before, “I won't keep silent, while you suffer, Dales! I know you don’t want this! That’s not even going to what kind of man he is!” She paused for a moment, as if to let the Empress absorb her words, before continuing, “And I know I’ve slept with him once or twice…but I can clearly see his black heart.” Her voice trailed off, as she looked away, her hands almost magically continuing to get Dales into her dress despite her lack of vision, Victoria spoke once more, “His chosen mistress is Raine for god's sake! That girl really pisses me off...” Victoria’s voice became annoyed, “Always bitching about how she doesn't get enough attention from him, or how she isn’t being showered in gold coins.” Raine and Victoria had never really gotten along, though  Dales certainly favored the brunette far more than her masters mistress. She knew, behind all of her lustful vices, Victoria was a genuinely good woman. Very kind, and good-natured.  

Dales hand trailed down Victoria’s arm, and to her hand. She gently touched one of her fingers to see if she was still wearing it. Indeed she was

A small copper band was located on the maids index finger. It was very simple, almost bare, except a carved on date. Victoria’s birthday. The ring was given to Victoria almost ten years ago, by Dales, when the young monarch was just a girl, and Imperial princess. Victoria had since treasured the cheap gift, always wearing it proudly. Since then, Dales had given Victoria many gifts, some expensive. But the maid always wore that copper band. Material treasures meant nothing to the maid. The memory of a young, innocent girl, offering a member of the thief’s guild that ring, as a birthday present, was a treasure worth keeping, however. 

That memory has been glued in my mind forever. Every time I see her. 

As Victoria finished putting on the dress, Dales all of spinned around, and pulled the maid into a hug, startling her greatly. But soon enough, Victoria had returned it with great gusto, burying her face into Dales’s shoulder, holding back tears. The brunette whispered into her ear, as there bodies were intertwined with each other, “He doesn't deserve someone with such a good heart as you, someone so infinitely kind.” Dales laughed lightly, before saying, “Do I detect some jealousy in your voice, my dear, maid?” Victoria remained silent, hugging the smaller woman even tighter. Dales continued, “You know me, Victoria. I like girls. I’m a lesbian. But even more then that, the only thing he’ll own, through me, is a crown. I’ll always belong to myself. Nothing can ever change that. My soul. My spirit. My body. They’ll always be mine. If he thinks to conquer me, then he something else coming, as he never will have me. For all eternity, my heart will only belong to one person. Feel it. It beats only for one.” Dales planted a kiss on Victoria’s lips, which she returned with gusto. Though at the same time, her words and that kiss, sent an intense sorrow down Victoria, as she knew the Empress wasn’t referring to her. 

After all this time...she still loves her.  Victoria thought, bittersweet emotions rushing through her body. Elan...my old friend. You would be so happy...

Breaking off their kiss, Victoria smiled, gazing at the Empress. She wore the dress stunningly, with her back proper and straight. She was beautiful. So beautiful.  Radiating, like pure starlight, “You look so beautiful...so mature.” She gave a slight smile, “Though I think pink would suit you far more…” The Empress returned her smile, a single tear falling out of her eye, “Thank you, Victoria.”  The Empress turned around, she walked past her, saying, “I really must be going now, or i’ll be late for the ceremony. I’m sorry, I truly must be off…” As Dales made way to leave the room, Victoria stopped her, calling out, “Wait a second, Dales! The Empress stopped, glancing behind her, saying, “Yes?” Victoria revealed the true reason she was here. Taking a small black stone out of her pocket. The stone was smooth, black as the abyss, and rather small, a pebble to be honest. Victoria  went up to the Empress, grabbing her red gloved hand, gently placing it inside her palm, before closing it. Dales’s eyes filled with confusion, before Victoria explained, “In my home village, a black stone will void a marriage in the eyes of Mara, if the bride carries it with her on her wedding day. Keep it.” Victoria closed her eyes. Dales became silent, before she smiled, saying, “Thank you, Victoria. Truly…Thank you.” She gripped the small black stone, before hiding it underneath her foot in her shoes. Dales waved to Victoria, heading for the door, 

When we make love, I always say I own you. The truth is, my sweet Dales, the opposite. You own me, my Empress. You own my body. My loyalty. My heart. 

Dales reached for the door handle, 

Why can’t you look at me the same way you looked at her? 

The Empress opened the door, 

Why can't you accept the deep feelings within my heart for you? 

Dales made her way out of the door, and into the hallway beyond. It led to the outside, were cheering crowds would be gathered for her, as well as a small pathway to the chapel she and her...teacher were going to be wed. She disappeared from sight, when she closed the door behind her. The steps coming from outside indicating were the Empress was. Victoria waited for the sound to be completely faded in the background, and the Empress was out of hearing. Afterwords…

...Victoria fell to the floor, weeping, and crying tears. 

*******

Dales walked down the red carpet, that lined the path to the church, with the afternoon sun on her back. Her heavy, red dress made her feel intense discomfort, and heat, but she would have to bare it. One of her maids helped her carry her dress. All around her, crowds of people cheered her name, a roaring, thunderous sound,  throwing flowers, and flower petals on her path. Around her, about a four dozen or Palace Guards surrounded the Empress, just in case an attempt was made on her life. Each of the soldiers were clad head to toe in White-Gold Plate Armor, carrying ebony spears, and wearing mithril swords on their scabbards. The had white, laced with gold,  cloth cloaks, that they bore proudly on there backs, that suited the white marble of the Imperial City quite well, as it did there current surroundings. Members of Greywolf were scattered, disguised, in the crowd, ready to plunge a dagger into anyone who rushed forward, weapons drawn. 

One last punishment I must endure…

Every step she took resounded with Dales, heavier than it seemed. The black rock was sticking into her foot, but she didn’t care. The crowd’s cheering was drowned out by the Empresses breathing, and heart beat.

Fluttering towards her, among the wind, a thrown, red rose petal flowed near her face. She gently grasped it, placing it in her hand. She inspected the vividly red, flower, taking in every little detail of it. The color was dark, but not too dark, it had a certain beauty to it to be sure. 

Dales crushed the flower underneath her palm. 

After a few more seconds, another flower came to her. Dales grabbed it without thinking. It was a white Lilly. The pale flower fluttered towards her without a semblance of wind. Unlike the red rose, it looked far simpler, but to Dales, was far more lovely, and elegant, it's white color being further brightened by the sun.

Dales placed the White Lilly to her heart, before letting it fly free in the gentle breeze. Only one woman will ever own my heart. Not any man. This feeling is mine to endure alone.

Dale had reached the steps of the church. A cruel, grin formed on her lips, as she reflected, her mind becoming deep in thought. Krojun claims my best weapon is deception, and deceit. That makes me a snake. Everyone should fear that. Even him. For even if i'm a snake without fangs, Venom still courses through my body. I am, and always will be Dales Moitre.  Poison is dangerous to everyone. Dales stepped up the stairs of Church, and beyond, into her ceremony. 

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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Kyne’s Watch, day of the Battle of Windhelm

 

“Don’t you give me that military secrets line again or I’ll rip your head off and piss down your throat, you elf loving son of a Khajiit street whore!”

 

Even though Rebec had a baby strapped to her back, the threat sounded genuine enough that the Grim One captain left behind mumbled a reply. It evidently didn’t improve Rebec’s mood, because she drew an axe from her belt. “Gods damn that man to Oblivion!” The captain drew back a step and reached for his own axe, but at the last minute Rebec’s axe flew and sank into a nearby barrel of mead, which began gushing from the leak. The fact that Baldur had forced her to spill mead made Rebec even madder.

 

“And YOU. All of you. Letting him slink off then pretending to me for a day and a half that he was off hunting. I ought to gut every one of your mothers and feed you the entrails. I...”  Rebec relented finally, sighing. Baldur had given orders, but for the life of her Rebec couldn’t figure out why he just hadn’t told her that he was going to Windhelm. It made no sense, but it couldn’t mean anything good.  “Come on, Ragna. We’d better go find out what he’s up to. I swear, being bard brained is almost as bad as being an elf. You’re not to sing any songs, ever. And no writing books, either, unless it’s about something sensible like sailing.”

 

She had retrieved her axe and was walking along the shore towards their longhouse while she delivered this lecture to the sleeping child. Out on the Sea of Ghosts, the sun was drawing low, and it caught the sails of distant ships coming in towards the Watch. Rebec thought nothing of it. These days, merchant ships including her own stopped daily on the way from many lands.

 

Rebec had to feed the baby and prepare her pack, and by then it was nightfall. She was accustomed to night sailing but now she had no ship except for hers and Vigge’s small fishing craft. Mazoga had taken the Wisp out along with much of the navy, also to Windhelm. They would have to wait another night before she could commandeer a ship and get there herself. As she sat rocking Ragna to sleep, Rebec thought about Boldir, about what they’d learned of his deeds in the long absence. She’d never seen Baldur so shaken since the day she nearly died in giving birth to their child. It did feel like a death, or worse. Baldur running off, it had to have something to do with Boldir. If Baldur was going after him, maybe it was better for her not to see.

 

She started awake a couple hours later, the baby nestled against her side on the furs. There were shouts outside, then war horns. A long blast followed by a quick reveille- an attack. Rebec was up and strapping on her armor and axes before she was even fully awake. She checked outside, expecting to hear Forsworn war whoops, but the racket was coming from the quay, not the landward side. Someone was attacking by sea. There were flashes on the horizon like lightning, but Rebec recognized their look and smell. It was mage lightning, not natural. These were no pirates or orc raiders.

 

Ysana came running up still in her nightgown and Rebec left Ragna to her care, strapping her crossbow to her back as she ran towards the fort. She commandeered the first ensign she came across and had him man the oars of one of Vigge’s small fishing skiffs. Most of the navy ships left behind were out to sea, keeping clear of the merchant shipping lanes. She would have to row to one.

 

The flashes of lightning and fire illuminated small birdlike caravels with crystal hulls and sails that seemed to shimmer like gauze. Alongside these were more conventional craft that Rebec recognized as Khajiit. Her heart pounded fiercely in her chest, and not only because of the hard rowing. The stuff of her nightmares lay before her. These were Dominion ships.

 

There was no time for panic. The first navy vessel she came up alongside proved to be the dragon ship of Eilif Oarsinger. “Welcome aboard admiral!” he hailed Rebec as she scaled the ladder. “It’s a fine night for battle!”

 

“Spare me your jolliness, Oarsinger. They’re in triples. Do the ram and drag, just like we practiced.”

 

“We were already on it until we had to stop to pick you up. I don’t need no Red wench to tell me my business. You take the keel. I prefer an oar anyway.”

 

There were still limits to the Nord’s respect of authority, but he made up for it by having the best oarsmen in their fleet. With Eilif calling out a rowing chant, the dragon ship leaped forward in pursuit of a threesome of elven ships that were speeding towards the quay. The Redguard admiral had taught Rebec about this formation. Elven ships, small and fast, would travel in threes, surround a vessel, and nip at it like birds swooping in to peck the eyes of a larger beast.

 

She steered alongside the first of the three ships, as if to try to outrun and cut them off. At the last minute he veered towards it instead. The two vessels collided, the dragon ship’s ramming prow slicing through the elven ship’s hull. Built to resist steel, the elven ships could not resist the dwarven metal tips Rebec had installed on all ramming prows. Mazoga had activated the orc stronghold smithies to help with their forging.

 

Nord arrows began to pepper this ship and the other two, and grappling hooks were thrown across, but no boarding party followed. Instead Eilif’s song changed and the Nord vessel abruptly lurched backwards, dragging the elven ship into its neighbor. A volley of fire bolts began to land on these and the third ship’s decks. These were also dwemer tipped and laden with dwarven oil. The centuries of internecine warfare among elves had its benefits.

 

From there, it was a matter of hard fighting to put down the crews. The oarsmen joined in the fight and made quick work of the lightly manned ships. Rebec took several shots of mage lightning, which burned her hair but otherwise dissipated as the sign of Kyne glowed blue at her neck, protecting her.

 

She had to use her rope to get back to the dragon ship once the enemy ship were subdued. As she did so, she saw more flashe nearby, more fighting. A Nord ship was on fire. When the crew had all returned, Rebec steered the ship that way to assist. As they neared the burning vessel, her heart leapt into her throat when she heard a familiar voice shouting curses.

 

Standing on the deck of the burning ship, Vigge Tsun Biter was locked in a deadly embrace with a Khajiit warrior. The cat’s deadly claws inched towards his face and were held back only by sheer stubbornness and a strength the old sailor didn’t know he had. Abruptly he broke the defensive grip and just as the Khajiit was about to take out his throat, grabbed a burning piece of wood and smashed it into the cat’s face. The Khajiit released him and let out a scream, batting wildly at his eyes, but Vigge kept beating him with the burning piece of ship rigging until the enemy lay at his feet, dead or near to it. Vigge stumbled over to where his axe still lay buried in the back of an elf’s skull.

 

“Papa!” Rebec shouted over to him. “Papa, jump! We’ll come pick you up!”

 

Vigge looked, and lifted a hand to let her know he had heard. Just as he was about to jump, however, the main sail of the ship collapsed as its mast burned through. Rebec’s screams were joined with the old man’s as he was covered in fiery sailcloth, smothered and engulfed.

 

***

 

Veleda crossed her arms and gave the slumped-over figure a hard stare. “I’ve kept this portal open for his minions, so I don’t know why your lord is complaining. It’s more than my advisors wanted to do, and I risked the anger of my king to do so. Stop bringing me these ridiculous requests for bargains and wagers at all hours of day and night. Those I will not entertain.”

 

“Not yet, anyway.” The old drunk sounded bored. “Very well, off I go. I have a more important appointment to keep anyway.”

 

With a bottle of daedric wine, no doubt. The queen of Skyrim watched as the man slipped back through the portal, then she waved her hand to seal it once more. It was no permanent seal, but so far Sanguine had not violated it, at least to her knowledge.

 

As Veleda turned to leave the cordoned-off area of Morvunskar, she was stopped by a tremor beneath her feet. It was more a sense than a sound, one that only a thu’um user might notice. Someone close by was using the thu’um, and in strength. Just then Veleda heard shouts in the courtyard.

 

As she reached the top of the battlemage fort’s ramparts, Veleda heard a rush as of a powerful wind, then the crack of Windhelm’s walls being breached. “Talos preserve us,” she breathed, paralyzed. The shock lasted only a moment before it broke into action. She turned and began shouting orders at battlemages who likewise stood slackjawed in shock.

 

“Mount me on a stick and call me a corn dog.” Her Bosmer second had appeared at Veleda’s side, gaping out at the battle in the valley below. Menel was disheveled, obviously roused out of sleep.

 

“I need to get to Ulfric and Sofie,” Veleda said urgently. “Stay here and...”

 

The queen’s words were cut off by a brilliant flash in the sky. Illuminated by the moons and its own aetherial light, the bird-like lines of an elven vessel now floated in the air above the capital. Menel’s food analogies failed him. Veleda’s urgency soon returned, and all the more vital. She had studied the diagrams delivered to her by a mysterious benefactor, so the sunbird was not a complete surprise, even though it was the stuff of her nightmares.

 

“Coordinate a counterattack!” Veleda had to shout over the sound of elven magic cannons booming. She didn’t wait to hear his reply before casting her recall spell.

 

The already terrified kitchen staff screamed, first in terror and then in surprised relief, as Veleda appeared among them. Her mark had been placed here with the guess that any assassin or assault on her would target her chambers first. Outside, the queen heard tongues fighting. You didn’t need any special skill to hear the thu’um now. Ulfric’s voice, and Baldur’s, and a strange, powerful voice that sounded familiar but she couldn’t quite place.

 

“Mama!” Sofie appeared from behind a pantry shelf, connected to a tunnel through the thick palace walls. Mother and daughter embraced tightly. “It’s the Thalmor! Papa said to wait for you here.”

 

“Good girl. I’m going to get you out of here.” Veleda wasted no time, reversing her spell back to the Morvunskar courtyard. She saw to Menel’s preparations, then gathered Sofie again. “We’re going to Kyne’s Watch. It’s not safe here, the elves could attack at any moment.”

 

“What about papa?”

 

“He’s fighting for us and for his people. I won’t let anything happen to either of you.”

 

At that moment, though there had been a lull in the fighting for some time, Veleda heard Ulfric’s thu’um followed closely by Baldur’s. Something inside her felt like it was being ripped loose as if by a rusty dagger. Then the thu’um was silenced.

 

“Mama?”

 

Veleda forced herself to look down at Sofie, smiling. “I’m ready. Let’s go find Rebec and tell her what’s happening.”

 

As the pair arrived at a deserted spot on the shore east of Kyne’s Watch, it was apparent that the admiral already knew. Out to sea, there were the sounds of clashing weapons and war horns and the sight of fire. Already the night tide was washing in bits of ruined ships and bodies. “Dear gods,” Veleda said, hugging Sofie to her. “They’re attacking here, too. We have to go to Solitude.”

 

Jarl Elisif wasn’t happy to see them, but the Blue Palace was the safest place Veleda could think of to take her daughter. Silently she prayed to Talos that the Red Snows’ daughter was safe, too. There was nothing she could do about that now.

 

Sofie likewise wasn’t happy about being left behind. Veleda crouched down and took her hand. “I have to go, love. Papa needs me. You be my eyes and ears here, and find out as much as you can about what goes on here. You know what happens when there’s a war. Friends turn into enemies, try to take advantage.” The queen wasn’t afraid to speak frankly with Sofie, as young as she was. She was a Nord and thrown into the middle of Skyrim politics, a home which was in some respects harsher than the streets she’d come from. Sofie had devoured all the books on history and politics she could get her hands on. She had become a distant admirer of King Theodore of High Rock, following all the gossip about his rise. The little girl was already a lot smarter than Elisif.

 

The two hugged and then Veleda tucked her into bed. Outside in the hall, the queen came upon Sybille Stentor, who gave her an enigmatic smile. “A bold move, leaving your heir here in the care of the one whose place you usurped.”

 

Veleda stared hard at the court mage, trying to work out if this was a threat. There was something off about her even on a good day. “Elisif knows her duty. She knows, too, that her life is forfeit at any sign of treachery.”

 

“Of course. But you know what they say about a woman scorned.”

 

“What do you want? I have no time for politics.”

 

“That’s exactly when politics will strike. I like Sofie, my queen. She reminds me of me when I was younger, in her Nord way. I promise to keep an eye on her as long as needed.”

 

“And in exchange?”

 

Stentor smiled again. “Simply remember me someday, when Wuunferth the Unliving moves on.”

 

“He’s not likely to die anytime soon. Hence the name.”

 

“No, but his loyalty is to Ulfric. That could change. Many things could. I hope you are clever enough to see the only other mage in Skyrim powerful enough to replace him, and remember my loyalty as well.”

 

Veleda remembered the feeling she had had back at Morvunskar. Many things could change indeed. She feared they already had.

 

***

The pyre of Vigge Tsun Biter had been built by his enemies, and it remained only to bury his ashes on the hill overlooking Kyne’s Watch, on the site where Rebec and Baldur planned to build their clan home. Rebec stood by the pile of rock with Ragna on her arm, and found that she couldn’t even cry. Her father had been whaler and trader, had lived a long life as a simple man, but he had died a warrior and was now grousing about the quality of the mead in Sovngarde. She said the Nord rites as he had taught her, then stood by while Ysana prayed her own blessings.

 

When they were done, the two women looked out at the sea littered with broken ships. It reminded Rebec of the blockade. This time, the elves had sent their own, not imperial lackeys, but the end result was the same. “I have to get to Windhelm,” she said firmly.

 

“Now? There might be another attack.”

 

“I don’t think so. This one, this was too small, not even a poke. It was a diversion. Otherwise we’d all be dead now, not just my father.”

 

“So you think...?”

 

Rebec looked over at her, and didn’t need to say anymore.

 

“You’ll leave Ragna with me?”

 

“She’s coming with me. You can come, too, if you want.”

 

“But if there is an attack on Windhelm?”

 

“Then we all die together. I won’t be left behind again.”

 

***

 

It didn’t matter what battle it was, it didn’t matter what it was for. The cause, the glory, none of it.

They all ended just as this one had. The gravely wounded cried out just as they had when they first entered this world. Now they cried to leave it as Elf and Nord alike were put out of their misery. Those that would live if elf were hauled away to Windhelm’s dungeons, while the Nords were treated by healers. There weren’t many that would be saved, however. Soldier and civilian lay on the ground, side by side. Warriors all on their way to Sovngarde. Mothers, fathers, and children… all were grieved for as death had come to all.

 

Soldiers struggled to keep those with vengeance in their eyes from killing the Thalmor that survived. The elves begged for their lives, for their enemy to keep them safe as they were dragged through the snow, leaving trails of red behind them. The soldiers drew their swords, hoping to keep the vengeful mobs at bay, until a lone figure came walking from amongst them, bare and bloodied.

 

“Let the people of Windhelm have their revenge,” said Baldur. “They’ll tell us nothing, and their magic makes them too troublesome to keep as prisoners anyway. Stuhn will not have his part to play this day.”

 

“No, no Nord, don’t let them! Don’t!” Cried the elf closest to him. He was silenced with a pitchfork in his neck before he could plead his case any more. As an elf watched the people of Windhelm fall on those that weren’t lucky enough to escape, Baldur grabbed him by his white hair, dragging him painfully away.

 

“Thank Auri-El,” he said.

 

“Except this one. Remove his hands and take him to the palace.” The elf soon wished he were slain instead.

 

Bardok came behind Baldur, covering him in furs as he said, “What in the hell were you thinking? What the hell even happened? Are you alright?”

 

Falgrum met with the two as the question left his lips, wondering the same thing. “Everyone that doesn’t have a dead loved one is talking about it. They’re calling you Ash-King, saying you’re Wulfharth reborn. Well, is it true?”
 

Baldur looked at is hands as the steam escaped his mouth. His breathing was laboured, and even in the freezing cold of Eastmarch, sweat covered his brow. “How the hell am I supposed to know?” Baldur tried to wipe the ash of his countrymen from his skin, but it clinged to him and his perspiration in the freezing cold air. “I wanted to inspire the people. But I didn’t expect those soldiers to try and save me... I knew my thu’um had strengthened me, that their flames wouldn’t hurt me. Especially after…”

 

“The King’s death,” said Falgrum in a whisper.

 

“Aye,” said Baldur, nodding to them both. Something awakened within me when I saw the light leave him. I felt it, my strength. Ulfric always said that Yol represented power, not just fire. Perhaps with what I’ve done, I’ve come to understand it more deeply.”

 

“That’s a question best left to scholars in another lifetime, far from here,” said Falgrum, eyes watchful of everything around them. “We shouldn’t discuss it here.”

 

“Agreed,” said Bardok. “We need to get you inside, you need a healer.”

 

“Not yet. I need to speak to the people. I need to plan for the moot. And plan for what to do with Veleda if she wasn’t killed. She probably fled to Kyne’s Watch, but she’d be back by now if that wer-” Baldur dropped to a knee, coughing and groaning as Falgrum and Bardok lifted him back to his feet.

 

“If she comes back, I need to speak with her. Explain that the people made me their Jarl in her absence.”

 

“I don’t think that will go too well,” said Falgrum. “There may be some change of heart if they see that their queen is still alive.”

 

“I’m not too sure about that,” said Bardok. “You’ve heard the talking, the rumors. How they look at him even now.” He was right. Even as the three walked toward the city gates, the people bowed their heads in reverence, parting to make way for the Ash-King and his army of modern day Companions.

 

“In any case, I’ll need to explain that because they did make me Jarl in desperation, and because a moot will be called, I plan to remain-, ack, raise your shields, all of you!”

 

“What?” Said Falgrum and Bardok simultaneously.

 

“Raise them!” As Baldur said this, the Grim Ones did as they were commanded, just in time too as Baldur collapsed, his face planting in the snow among the armor clad Nords out of view from the public. Falgrum and the others immediately lifted him, taking him to the palace before anyone could see the Ash-King in such a pathetic state. Just as the outside doors closed, Baldur began screaming in agony, his skin turning red at an alarming rate.

 

“What is wrong, Baldur? What’s going on?”

 

“I don’t know! I must have overdone it with the thu’um, my skin is on fire!” Baldur screamed until his voice was hoarse, flailing about until his men had to restrain him and take him to the cells.

 

“Get one of our Dunmers to treat him, no one but us is to know about this,” said Falgrum. “It’s amazing he’s even alive at all after so much magic.”

 

It was hours before Baldur could even speak without risk of biting his own tongue. The Dunmer Mages all worked their healing spells on him, fighting back the reddening of his skin and the rapid heating of his inner body temperatures with frost magic simultaneously.

 

Looking for an explanation, the others questioned them relentlessly. “I’m no expert of Nord magics, but if I had to guess, I’d say whatever resistance he has wanes if he keeps overusing his shouting. That battle lasted quite a while, and he was coughing out fire the entire time.”

 

“Brund was there too, and he seems just fine,” said Bardok. “When did he even learn the thu’um?”

 

“Now that you mention it, I did notice something’s off about him,” said the Dunmer. “When we were going through the river, my cousin said it was abnormally easy to keep his water breathing spell going. Like his endurance was unbelievably high.”

 

“Well I can believe it, from watching him fight,” said Bardok. “He’s a monster, for certain.”

 

“Keep an eye on him,” said Baldur. When he suddenly spoke, the others all rushed to him to keep him down.

 

“Don’t move,” said Bardok. “You almost died. You were practically cooking right in front of us!”

 

“Fine,” said Baldur. “But keep the palace locked off until I recover. Don’t let anyone inside, no matter what. Say that I’m planning for the moot or something.”

 

“That will seem suspicious, won’t it? What if Veleda returns?”

 

“Make an excuse!” Said Baldur. As he did, he started groaning again, just before passing out.

 

***

Rebec hailed the Wisp as she passed it outside Windhelm, but she didn’t stop to see Mazoga. It had taken her several days to bury her father and then find a seaworthy vessel she could take to the capital.

 

Even from a distance, she saw charred and crumbled stone, and the fires of funeral pyres outside the city. “Gods. It’s Falkreath all over again, though worse than I could’ve imagined.”

 

There were rumors about Baldur and Ulfric passing through the crew, but Rebec paid them little mind except to take comfort from the fact that Baldur seemed to be alive. The rumor was that Ulfric had died in the battle. Rebec would believe that when she saw it. Even though she didn’t favor the man as much as Baldur did, he was larger than life.

 

With Ysana and the baby following along behind, they made their way through the ruined city full of bleak, angry faces. Rebec approached the doors of the palace and addressed the Grim Ones standing there. “Stand aside. You know damn well who I am.”

 

Bardok frowned beneath strands of his long dark hair, agitated at having to deal with the cityfolk for days, all wanting to pay Baldur a visit. This was different, however. And by different, meaning likely to be a very big pain in his ass.

 

“Aye, I know who you are, and I know you’re likely dying to see your husband. But these are his orders, and it’s very important that the palace stays sealed until the Jarl is ready to come forth,” said Bardok.

 

“Ulfric can stay in there if he pleases, but tell Baldur his family is waiting outside and he’d better get his ass out here now.”

 

“Ulfric Storm-Cloak is dead. Jarl Baldur Red-Snow is who I’m speaking of. Your husband is the future High King of Skyrim. Ash-King to the people of Windhelm. I will pass on the message, when he is ready to hear it,” said Bardok, hoping that would be the end of it.

 

“What kind of horker shit pile is that? Open the damn door.”

 

“Don’t make me tell you again, please,” said Bardok. “I can’t risk it. I’m doing this for both your own good and Jarl Red-Snow. Which, I guess makes you Jarl too. Please let him explain when he’s able, or I’ll have to perform my duties as his guard.”

 

“If I’m your jarl- which is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard by the way, congrats on that- then I order you to stand aside. I’m going in there, through you or over you.”

 

“Try it. You’re not Jarl until your husband declares it. Admiral.”   

 

From behind her, Ysana spoke up. “Rebec, your baby is here…”

 

The admiral didn’t seem to hear. “I’ve had about enough of oaf brained Stormcloaks standing between me and my oaf brained husband. I just buried my father and now you tell me my husband has barricaded himself inside this palace like some kind of imperial lordling. To Oblivion with your orders.” Rebec drew both her axes and backed away a step. “If you want to be the Grim One that kills the admiral and has to explain to Baldur how he was just following orders, then step right up, you piss swilling son of a Dunmer halfbreed.”

 

“Right this way, Admiral,” said Bardok, cracking his knuckles. “Only way I let you in is if I’m taking you to the infirmary. Lets make it quick before you draw attention.”

 

“Draw your axe, elf breath. I’m not dueling an unarmed man.”

“By Shor, you’re off your nut, lady,” said Bardok. He wanted nothing more than to meet with her steel, but she was right, he didn’t want to be the one to explain to Baldur why his wife was dead. Or to be laughed at by the rest of the men if he lost. Besides, she had the thu’um, and that would definitely attract attention.

 

He thought about having the others grab her and knock her out, but this was obviously the real Rebec Red-Snow, and if anyone gave a fuss over letting in Baldur’s wife and not them, they could stuff it.

 

“Just hurry up and get inside before any of the townsfolk see us open the doors,” said Bardok.

 

Rebec lowered her axes and began replacing them. “At last. A man left in Skyrim with some damn sense in his head.” She turned around and took Ragna from her grandmother, then proceeded towards the door.

 

Upon her entry, she was met with weapons pointing her way until they realized who it was. Some seemed annoyed that she’d gotten in, Baldur’s orders were very specific, though they hadn’t known why Baldur didn’t make an exception for his family other than extreme paranoia.

 

In truth, Baldur simply hadn’t thought of what to say to them yet, and certainly didn’t think he could while he was out of sorts.

 

By now, Baldur was clean again, though freshly painted. His bandages he removed were replaced, the ash of dead men was gone from his skin. And yet, he was still deathly tired, but did his best not to show it as he stumbled down from what was once Ulfric’s chambers.

 

Falling back into Ulfric’s… his… throne, Baldur drifted to sleep.

 

Rebec walked in and then had to stop, seeing her husband asleep on Ulfric’s chair. “Give us a minute,” she asked Ysana, then approached. Her voice had softened, but as she reached the chair Rebec drew her axe and smacked Baldur’s shin with the haft. “Wake up, Red Snow. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”

 

Bolting up, and seeing his wife in front of him suddenly, Baldur groaned like an old bear from hibernation. “Where do I start?” He said, trying to recall all the events. “Ulfric Stormcloak is dead.” Seeing that his men had left the throne room, Baldur looked into his wife’s eyes. His own expression softened a moment, looking away only briefly. When they returned to her glare, his own eyes hardened as he said, “I killed him.”

 

Rebec shook her head. “I can’t believe he’s dead. Damn.” Ragna squirmed towards her father and Rebec leaned forward to transfer the bundle. She sat on the arm of the throne, not caring a bit if it was protocol or not. “You’re not responsible for everything, Baldur. He died in battle, the way a Nord king should. It wasn’t your fault.” Her anger subsiding, she leaned to kiss him, her hand briefly grasping at his tunic. “You’re alive. That’s all that matters to me.”

 

Pulling away, Baldur brushed her hand aside and declared it once more. “No, woman, I mean I really killed him! The Thalmor may have injured him, but I’m the one that killed him in battle. Ulfric is dead, by my hand. It had to be done.”

 

Her brow knit. “You’re raving, Baldur. You’ve been hurt, I can see it. What are you doing up? Come on, baby girl, let’s get your father into bed.”

 

Baldur stood from his throne with Ragna in hand, getting increasingly frustrated. “I KILLED HIM!” Cried Baldur, two seconds away from shouting to make his point. “He stood in the way of absolute victory. He grew soft, showed weakness. So I. Killed. Him. Ulfric’s blood is on my hands. And I regret nothing.”

 

Rebec gaped up at him, the fact that he was serious finally dawning on her. Wordlessly she stood and took Ragna from Baldur’s arms, walked away with her and handed her back to Ysana. The baby was crying both from Baldur’s outburst and from being taken away from him. Pausing, Rebec finally walked back towards her husband. “Those rumors. Something about you being king. Those are true?”

 

Waiting for the storm to hit, possibly even literally considering who his wife was… he searched her eyes for a sign of her thoughts. “I’m not the king yet, but I will be. The name they gave me, it’s just a mistake. An accident,” said Baldur. “Things got out of hand, the Thalmor showed up with a Sunbird, more people died than I ever would have expected…”

 

Trailing off, recounting the events, he stopped a time, then said, “An elf demanded I give myself up, one that claimed to know you personally. When you were their prisoner. So I did, with the intent of inspiring the people of Windhelm to fight, knowing their fire magics wouldn’t work on me. But the soldiers, they wouldn’t stand by and just watch me die. They charged, they were killed, their ashes covering me. And now they think I’m king Wulfharth. It’s all crazy, but… I don’t know. As far as disasters go, it turned out for the best. If the people are convinced of the story, I won’t stand in their way. In the end, I will be king. And nothing will stop me from destroying every last one of those butter elves.”

 

Walking back to his throne, he sat and said, “I knew this attack would come. There were signs, Daric had some semi-reliable intel. The Imperials sent me my weapon from long ago, the elves kept it and tried tracking me with it. So, I used it. Made them think I was with Ulfric while our armies were busy in the Rift and the Reach. So… there you have it. Now Boldir and I are both traitors.”

 

Looking at her with eyes aflame, he said, “So go ahead, let it out. Tell me what I did was wrong, that I’m evil. Go ahead! But know I’d do it again. Because I REFUSE to let anything else tear my family apart! And when I am king, there will be nothing that I cannot do.”

 

Rebec’s face was whiter than the snow on High Hrothgar. “If you think that, you weren’t paying attention to Ulfric. I… I don’t know where to start. You knew this was going to happen? So you left me behind knowing you were going to come here and fight the elves?”

 

“Aye,” said Baldur simply. “As for Ulfric, no one watches him more closely. He would have stood in my way. Contrary to popular belief, his heart is soft. The harsh decisions made in the civil war, Galmar was behind that. Then it was me. This war is bigger than any of that, and it requires more sacrifice than what he was able to give. He’d risk everything we’ve fought for, everything we’ve built. I couldn’t let him.”

 

“Risk how? Shor’s balls, Baldur, do you realize…” Rebec stopped, then pointed. “I’m glad you told me. For the sake of that little Nord, I’m the last person you tell.” She paced in front of the throne. “I can’t believe you… he was your friend.”

 

“Don’t you think I know that,” said Baldur, staring at his child. “So was Boldir, and look what he did. They were both more than that. In the end, this was for his own good. His legacy will live on.”

 

Standing, Baldur said, “Perhaps to truly understand, I should share with you my plans for Valenwood in its entirety. Maybe I should have long ago.” Baldur left his family momentarily, coming back from the royal chambers with a scroll showing a picture of Tamriel. It detailed everything from troop movements of each human nation, and a large red X at the center of Valenwood. Detailed descriptions of what he intended were written in red.

 

Rebec stood with arms crossed, looking down at the diagrams. “So you showed this to Ulfric and he, what, told you it wouldn’t work and to obey him? Don’t you think he might have changed his mind?”

 

Baldur shook his head frantically saying, “No no no, I know by now when Ulfric’s no really is a no. It’s not when he says it in anger that you should be worried, but when he’s as calm as a temple mouse. He didn’t question if it would work, only if it was worth it. I saw the look in his eyes as he read over my plan. He didn’t have the strength to see it through. Whether I could have convinced him or not, I’ll be honest, I’m not sure. But I can’t take that chance, not any longer. I have to be the one calling the shots to pull this off. Don’t you see that? It’s drastic, but so was burning Falkreath’s farms, so was using the powers of the witch, so were the Grim Trials, the torture, what I did to the Redguard chieftain, and enlisting children. It all paid off in the end, as will this. You saw what they did to Windhelm. THAT is what we’re facing. There can be no half measures.”

 

“You’re so sure that you’re right? And what about Veleda?”

 

“Veleda,” he said. As if he’d forgotten all about her. “I won’t kill her. I won’t need to. The armies are mine, and she’s not here. If she’s even alive, it won’t matter. The people in their desperation made me acting Jarl, and I was the one who was here to save them. After this is all over, I will gladly step down and the remaining Jarls can make her Queen if they see fit. But, so long as the Thalmor remain on Tamriel, I will be King. And you, Queen.”

 

Standing, he grabbed her arms, holding her close. “If you know another way to defeat the Thalmor, please tell me. Tell me this wasn’t necessary, that I was wrong. See that little girl over there with her mother’s lips and nose? Could you live knowing our children would grow up having to look behind their backs every day of their life? That they could have what happened to me in Falkreath happen to them? Or worse? This IS the best shot we have. Hoping that Nord might will be enough may be Ulfric’s way, but it is what almost cost him the civil war in the first place.”

 

Rebec was stiff in his arms, and stepped back away from them. Her face was hard. “What’s done is done. Papa’s dead, too. The Thalmor killed him. I suppose I’d do anything to make them pay.” It was clear she didn’t like a bit of what she heard, however.

 

“Vigge,” said Baldur. It was the only thing that managed to break that hard shell he was building up all day. “They attacked Kyne’s Watch as well? A diversion, no doubt. I should have seen that coming. Rebec…” he trailed off, unsure of what to say. Tears betrayed him, but he wiped them away as soon as they came. “All I can say is when I’m through with Valenwood, our children will know peace. Neither the Thalmor, nor the Empire will make war with us for generations. I promise you this. I beg you, believe in me the way you did our king. I will not fail. But I need you by my side on this. Even if you don’t like it. I don’t either, but it will work.”

 

“It will indeed,” came a voice from a hallway. A small figure in a green cloak walked slowly over, removing the hood and revealing a heavily tattooed elven face. “I’ll help make sure it does. We haven’t met yet, but I’m a friend of your husband. I’m Maori. My condolences to your father.”

 

After a moment, Rebec said, “The elf from Baldur’s stories. You cooked this up?” Her voice had a tinge of bitterness. “I’m going to go find a bed. Haven’t slept in a couple days. Maybe I’ll wake up and all this will be a mead binge gone wrong. Baldur, Veleda is alive, or she was a few days ago. She said she had to keep on the move. I guess she must have known or suspected that Ulfric was dead. In the Reach now, I think. She said something about the Silver Bloods.” The admiral turned and walked away to leave Baldur to his friend and to his mother, who might be able to understand this even if she couldn’t.

 

It was quiet for a time after Rebec left. All except Ragna who could evidently feel the uneasiness from her parents. “Shh, it’s okay little one. It’s your uncle Maori! Can you say Maori?”

Little Ragna blinked a few times at the elf, then suddenly scrunched up her face before crying some more as she pounded her squishy little hands on his head.

 

“You’re scaring the poor girl, you little goblin,” said Ysana, pulling her away, obviously not in the best of moods. “I’ll be at whatever tavern still stands with the little one,” said Ysana.

 

“Mother…”

 

“I don’t want to hear it, ‘your highness’. I may not know a lot, certainly not enough about politics to know what kind of a man Ulfric was. But I know what kind of man you are, and you know what you did was wrong. If we’re going to become worse than our enemies, then no I wouldn’t say any of this was worth it.”

 

Storming off, Ysana left Baldur to his friend and his throne.

 

“I’m sorry, Baldur,” said Maori. “But you knew they wouldn’t like it.”

 

“Are they really as powerful as you say, Maori?” Asked Baldur.

 

“Do you really need to ask me that? I’ve never seen those damned Sunbirds, I thought it was a myth up until last week. Even without those, you’re gonna need everything to uproot them from Valenwood. It’s my home we’re talking about. I wouldn’t help you if I thought this wasn’t necessary. But it isn’t my king we killed. For what it’s worth, I think you’ll make a good king.”

 

“I couldn’t care less about being a good king,” said Baldur. “All I care about is destroying the Thalmor and keeping Skyrim safe from all our enemies, internal and external. If I can do that, I’ll consider myself a good king. The rest is irrelevant.”

 

Sitting at his throne, Baldur said, “Open the doors to the palace. Let the people in. And send for Falgrum and Bardok, have them organize teams to send word across Skyrim about what happened here. Arrange for couriers to be sent to Cyrodiil, High Rock, and Hammerfell as well, on my behalf. The sooner the moot is called, the better.”

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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(continued)

***

As people streamed in to petition the new King of the Nords, the crowds that had gathered around Ulfric Stormcloak’s body in state were smaller than they had been since his death. There was a stir among these, however, when a dark-robed figure wearing black war paint and flanked by Stormcloak battlemages walked up to the bier.

 

“Queen Veleda!”

“She ain’t the queen no more.”

“Who says?”

 

Even the more heated arguments fell to a hush as Veleda reached the bier and looked down at the face of her dead husband. Wuunferth had done a masterful job of preserving the body. Ulfric looked as hale as the afternoon she left him, with the exception that his careworn wrinkles had smoothed. “At peace, at last,” she whispered, struggling to keep her composure. Their people weren’t at peace, however. By now she had heard the news about Baldur, but she would deal with that later.

 

Turning to Ulfric’s guards, she gestured. “Remove him to the Talos temple. He has given enough for the Nord people. Now is his time to rest, and mine to say goodbye.”

 

No one was allowed into the sanctuary when Veleda went in. She came out with clear eyes and a determined expression. To the Grim Ones who had guarded his corpse, she said, “Prepare an honor guard for tomorrow morning. I’m taking him home.”

 

There was one task Veleda had to accomplish herself before they left. She followed the crowds in to the Palace of Kings. They were so focused on getting a glimpse of Baldur that few took any notice of her at all. It was obviously already his palace. Veleda remained in the rear, prevented by petitioners from moving forward, and just observing for the moment.

 

Baldur was watching the small crowd of people as his soldiers tried shutting them up. A Nord crowd was as stubborn as a pack of mules though, and one with mead in them even threw a swing when a soldier pushed at him a little too hard. Standing from his seat, Baldur said, “Enough! I’ll be answering questions and listening to the lot of you for the better part of the day, so there’s no need to be in a hurry.”

 

“All I want to know is are the rumors true,” said an old man that managed to make it to the front with the help of his sons.

 

“What clan do you hail from, sir?” Said Baldur, walking up to his family until they were on eye level.

 

“We don’t have a ‘clan’, we’re just Nord men, me and my boys. No family crest or none of that. We fish, we eat, we sell what we don’t. All throughout their lives, I’ve raised them up on stories of the gods, but they were just that. Stories. Then I saw what everyone saw. So before I go claiming to my young lads here that the stories are true, I wanna know straight from the horse’s mouth, see?”

 

Baldur frowned, not expecting to have to actually answer for the claims of others. “You want me to say before all that I’m Wulfharth reborn, that it?”

 

Finally the crowd shut the hell up. Evidently this was what most of them wanted to hear.

 

“I grew up on the same stories that you all have. Some of you may even know that I’m a scholar on the subject of the gods, and that I’m a strong advocate for returning Skyrim’s Nords to the old teachings and the old ways. So was Wulfharth in his day. When he was king, he abolished and pushed out the Alessian Order, right after his king died and he succeeded him. King Wulfharth was a tongue of great power, slayer of elven kind that threatened our lands. Back then it was the Direnni, now it’s the Thalmor. Wulfharth was born of ash, brought back by the gods. I can’t claim to know them, but I must say, my understanding of Yol while taught to me by Ulfric, is something of a rarity even in his eyes.”

 

Some of the people were getting impatient, but Baldur ignored them, considering carefully his choice of words, for he knew he couldn’t take them back.

 

“King Wulfharth fought all his life for the Nordic people. So will I. He fought tooth and nail against enemies within our land and from afar. So will I. I will not stop until the Thalmor are no longer a danger to our children. I’ll go to the ends of this world to see them dead. I have embodied the very cause that our great king fought and died for, and I will unleash a wrath upon his killers that the world hasn’t seen in ages. You ask me if I think what you yourselves claimed to be is true? You ask me to say that what the gods spoke to you and what your eyes showed you are lies? Well I tell you now, I will not. I tell you now that when I am through with the Dominion, they will no longer be able to differentiate me from the elf slaying demon they know as King Wulfharth, and through me... Skyrim WILL have its vengeance. On ALL of her enemies.”

 

Veleda watched the people around her more than she did Baldur. It was obvious that they needed someone to believe, needed to see that victory was possible, even on the thinnest premises. Yet it was also obvious that Baldur was exploiting that need. She stepped forward, pushing past the crowd, until she faced him. “Baldur Red-Snow. We should talk.”

 

“Veleda,” said Baldur, evidently surprised, as was everyone when the Queen of Skyrim suddenly appeared amongst them. Some of the Nords looked ashamed when they realized who it was, though Baldur wasn’t one of them. In fact, although her sudden appearance during Baldur’s speech seemed almost like a challenge, Baldur smiled despite himself, genuinely happy to see that she was alive. That was almost a surprise in it of itself.

 

Approaching her, Baldur didn’t know what to say at first. Eventually, he said, “We have a lot to talk about indeed. If the rest of you will excuse us, the Queen of Skyrim and I have matters to address.” Signaling his men, the Grim Ones began making the crowds disperse, causing lots of grumbles, though Veleda’s appearance gave them plenty to gossip about in the meantime.

 

Veleda waited until the people had been ushered out, then turned back to Baldur. “I’m surprised you still use that title for me, given what I’ve heard. More about that in a moment. I want to know how Ulfric died. They said you were with him.”

 

Baldur lost his smile quickly, nodding to Bardock, who was listening in. When he returned, Baldur said to him and the men, “You all leave us as well.”

 

Bardok seemed annoyed, but complied, having his men drop a large chest they’d been keeping in a cell downstairs. After they unlocked it and left, Baldur opened it, giving her his axe.

 

“Careful, it’s been tampered with,” said Baldur. “It’s my axe. It was sent here, supposedly meant for me, but I was not in Windhelm. All I know is Ulfric was shot by an arrow, and he ended up in the palace. I entered to see how he was, and a Thalmor agent I met years ago appeared in this very room with that and a battle maiden’s head in his hand. They must’ve enchanted it, it’s got a barely visible glow to it.”

 

While she examined it, Baldur said, “I threw this axe in his shoulder just as he disappeared in front of my very eyes, years before the civil war even started. That’s how he obtained it. When he appeared in the palace, he struck me in the shoulder with magic, but I lived. He was powerful, even able to silence Ulfric’s thu’um for a time. But then I caught him off guard with my own, giving Ulfric enough time to recuperate. We both shouted as one, causing a large explosion, but the elf was gone.”

 

Looking down, he said, “That’s when Ulfric was shot in the heart. The elf appeared behind me after our attack, but instead of killing me, he aimed straight for him. The lightning from his hand struck him right in the chest. Then he was gone once more. And Ulfric was dead. I’m sorry, Veleda. You weren’t married long to him, but he was still your husband. I failed you both.”

 

Veleda held the axe, her analytic mind turning to subtly test its magic as Baldur related his story. By the end she was only listening, however, and the hand holding the axe trembled a little. “It seems a long time now, if I consider the void left in me.” Slowly she replaced the axe in the box and straightened as if it pained her to do so. Hands on her hips, she said, “But I have little time for grief. We are at war. Is the situation stable now?”

 

“Define stable,” said Baldur. “My men are hunting down the Thalmor as we speak, hoping to cut them off before they escape this hold. I’m guessing they’d head for the Rift, considering it’s basically a no man’s land. And with Ulfric dead, things aren’t going to be ‘stable’ at all in Skyrim. Which is why I’ve acted so quickly in your stead. I thought you were dead. And yet, even though you are not, I must insist on continuing my course.”

 

Sitting at the dining table, Baldur looked up at his former queen. “You must understand, with Ulfric dying now of all times, we risk losing momentum in our war effort. The only way to combat that is to give the Nords of Skyrim something just as strong as a hero rebel king to believe in.”

 

“You should have sent messengers to look for me. My battlemages were here, Menel was up the road in Morvunskar, and knew of my whereabouts. It is my place to rally the people, and yours to lead our armies. What you have done, claiming my place, is technically treason. But what’s done is done. Our people are frightened and rightly so. Where do we go from here?”

 

“Please, do not insult me by suggesting such a thing,” said Baldur. “You weren’t here in the city. We were closed off from everything. Ulfric was dead, you were missing… It’s not as if I just took your palace, the people practically begged me to step up and be their Jarl. It may have been hasty, but I stepped up and managed to keep the Thalmor from sacking Windhelm entirely by building up their Nordic spirits. It got a little out of hand, I admit with this whole Ash-King thing, but that was an accident. I had nothing to do with that.”

 

Standing, in front of her, he said, “As for where we go from here, this is the situation. Legally, when the King is killed, the moot is called to see who will take the throne. That means technically there is no queen of Skyrim either. And as said, they made me their Jarl. If you wish, we could have them decide once and for all who they want as their Jarl. Normally this sort of thing is decided in a duel, at least in the old days. But, I’d like to think we are still friends. And as friends, I’m asking you to support me as Jarl, and eventually king. Ulfric’s death changes everything. If it were any other time, you’d serve just fine as our queen. However, this is a great war, and we’re invading the dominion. I am better suited for this. They need their ruler on that battlefield with our men on such an important fight, not at home, so we can’t just send me as your general. All the other allied leaders will be there, or at least close to the battlefield. And if I die, we’ll still have you back in Skyrim to take up the throne. It’s the best option we’ve got.”

 

Veleda’s face was impassive. “I will not challenge the arrangement for now, but neither will I be forced to accept it as permanent. I’m still assessing the situation, including the mood of the other jarls. I was in the Reach and Hjaalmarch prior to returning here. Our gains in the Reach are solid thanks to General Brund, and clearly the threat now is here, but there is no telling what will happen when our backs are turned. Don’t forget that I am a soldier, too, Baldur.”

 

She turned and walked a step away, looking up at the crest of the Great Bear above the war table. “My duty now is to bury my husband and secure our daughter’s safety. Where is Rebec? Did we take naval losses?”

 

“They're still trying to assess casualties,” said Baldur. “Rebec’s here now but she wasn't with the ships. Neither was Mazoga, but she’s helping them search the seas. I've asked some argonians to help. So far, we’ve lost at least six ships. Hard to search though when a lot of what we’ve lost is now debris.”

 

Sighing, he said, “And ash. What are your plans? For Ulfric I mean. Somehow a simple burial just doesn't seem like enough.”

 

“I want to take him to High Hrothgar. It is our home, our true home. He restored the Nords to our ancient heritage, and he deserves a place there. I’m not sure if the Greybeards will agree.”

 

“I don’t think they would approve either. We don’t come close to following their idea of the way of the voice, not as Ulfric described it,” said Baldur. “Not myself, anyway. Perhaps you should try, we could put Jurgen’s way to the test for ourselves and see just how true those old legends are.”

 

A thought occurred to Baldur, one he hated himself for even thinking. The path up High Hrothgar was perilous, even for himself. It was far more dangerous than the locals beneath the mountain lead on. If something were to happen to Veleda on that journey… nobody would question such a story…

 

No! Don’t even think it.

 

“Veleda, if you are going to make such a journey, you shouldn’t go alone.”

 

Tell her to take your soldiers, Baldur. Do it…

 

“Bring some of your battlemages with you. People you trust,” said Baldur, before he could change his mind. “If something were to happen to you… I don’t want to be doing this forever, if I’m made king. And I’m running out of friends.”

 

“I will do so. My poor Sofie will need to stay behind. Already once in her short life she was abandoned and orphaned.” Veleda paused heavily, glanced at Baldur, then nodded once and said, “Very well. I need some sleep. If… if you have no objections to my using my old chambers still. I will also reset the wards in the palace, which the Thalmor must have disabled. For them it was probably child’s play.”

 

Baldur looked as though he were watching a play behind her, through her perhaps. Then his eyes snapped onto hers, and he opened his mouth to say something, but didn’t. After a moment, he said, “By all means. But please think about what I said about supporting me as Jarl, and eventually king. With your support, this would go a lot smoother, and we can focus immediately on mobilizing the rest of our forces for the war. I sent word to the leaders of the other kingdoms. They’ll be attending the moot with hopes to organize things with the High King, or Queen immediately after it is decided. It wouldn’t bode well for any of us if that process was dragged on before them, or if it broke into conflict.”

 

Walking towards her, Baldur said, “And it very well may, with Brund as Jarl of the Reach now. Whoever is chosen will have to face the possibility that he will try to kill them through his right as Jarl to challenge. You are a soldier, I haven’t forgotten, and I do not underestimate you. I was there when Ulfric and Galmar singled you out from amongst many to be his Queen. But Skyrim needs more than a soldier, Veleda. And you’ll need to be more than a soldier if you ever have to face him. Brund is a monster. He cannot be allowed to sit on Skyrim’s throne. I won’t let that happen.”


 

“Be careful with him. There is something…” Veleda’s voice trailed off. She was clearly exhausted, moreso now that she was in the presence of powerful memories from the past year, and the realization when she saw Ulfric’s body and felt his cold hands that the impossible had indeed happened. “Thank you, Baldur, for saving Windhelm. This wasn’t a victory, but we live to fight again. Some of us.” At that she turned and practically fled up the stairs towards her chambers.

 

Even if she’d given him time, he wouldn't have said thank you. Not to her. He felt a pit at the bottom of his stomach every time he lied to her face about Ulfric. It sickened him to see how easy the act came.

 

What's done… Is done.

 

As he got up, Baldur said to the first Grim One he saw, “Send for Bardok and Falgrum. We need to mobilize the Stormcloak army in full capacity. And send for Maori as well. Tell him to find Daric, they're going to the Reach. He knows why.”

 

The soldier nodded, running off and leaving Baldur alone once more. Exhausted didn't begin to describe the mental and physical wear he felt. Luckily it didn't take him long to stumble across an empty bed he could call his own. It was absent of his family, but that was just as well.

 

No nightmares came to him, no dreams, no voices of Ulfric haunting his mind. It was the oddest thing, but he welcomed it; a void, blocking him from old memories. Good memories that would be tainted by his deeds if he recalled them now. For now they were safe, and the gods allowed him one escape from the personal hell he himself created. Sleep.


 

***

 

Burdened as they were with a heavy bier, the procession made its way slowly up the 7000 Steps. The queen, dressed in sable fur armor and black war paint, stopped at every memorial to Kyne. She insisted on helping to carry the bier. She would not let anyone else take that place from her.

 

The beasts that tormented some pilgrims seemed to observe the solemnity, too, or else they recognized a force that was not to be trifled with. Veleda saw the flash of white sabrecat fur and heard a troll’s roar but she did not need to launch any fire.

 

By the time the procession reached the Greybeard temple, she was shaking with exertion and cold and struggled with the latch on the offering chest. She laid her gifts there, then tested the great doors. To her surprise, they opened, and with a wave she directed her cohort to bring Ulfric’s body inside. They waited in the foyer for someone to appear. Veleda didn’t disturb the silence there. It was pierced in time by a shout that she felt reverberating in her soul. The non-tongues cried out and had to cover their ears.

 

The men couldn’t make out the words, for they were not of their tongue. All they did know was when the words parted the lips of whoever spoke them, their swords, staves, clothes, all of it became so overbearing that they fell to the cold stone floors beneath them.

 

More words thundered through the room. “TIID, CLO UL!”

 

With impressive, if unusual speed considering his age, a tall greyed Nord in robes with snowflakes trapped in bits of the fabric appeared before Veleda, who was the only one of the lot that remained standing. His speech was also unusually fast, slowing down considerably all of a sudden. It was as if someone drugged them all, and the skooma just began to wear off. “What is the meaning of this intrusion? Have the Nords of today lost all respect under my pupil’s rule? Well?”

 

“Ulfric Stormcloak is dead.” Veleda was surprised at how impassive her voice sounded. “The Thalmor killed him. I have brought him here for burial.”

 

The old man’s expression softened at the news, though not by much. “Then it is as I feared. I felt him, you know. We feel it every time someone in Skyrim uses the thu’um. Something that was almost overwhelming when the dragons first came. Then things went quiet once Alduin left this plane. Until recently.”

 

Signaling with a wave for Veleda to follow him, the man said, “Don’t worry about them, the shout will wear off. My name is Arngeir. Considering that Ulfric not only left the Greybeards, but betrayed our trust by teaching the ways of the thu’um to those he deemed worthy in his hubris, what makes you think he’d wish to be buried here?”

 

“He respected your philosophy. He was one of you in his heart, his whole life. But surely you must understand that things are different now. Skyrim will not survive without the power of the thu’um.”

 

“Skyrim will survive without the thu’um. You hasten its doom by spreading it. Those who do not truly understand it will use it for crude things, for killing and conquest. I sense that you are not like those I speak of, but what about the other two? What sort of men has Ulfric spread this knowledge to?”

 

Veleda paused, but only a moment. “He may save all of us. Did you also sense the sunbird? Does Kaan control Aetherius? Because a weapon that moves through it and draws on its power could destroy everything, even you. Perhaps she has allowed her gift to spread for such a purpose.”

 

“In the hands of those who do not understand the thu’um’s true purpose, only chaos and destruction on both sides can follow. I cringe every time I feel it. So much careless use… But maybe the gods do have their hand in it. With the return of the Dragons, then the Dragonborn. Now this. I spoke of two others, but there is a fourth. Ulfric couldn’t have taught him, what we sensed from him was too strong. Much destruction has followed him.”

 

Arngeir lead her to High Hrothgar’s courtyard, continuing to speak. “I don’t know of these ‘Sunbirds’, but we saw great flashes of light from atop High Hrothgar. I hope for all our sakes, it truly is the gods’ doing, to allow their gift to be learned and spread amongst the Nords below, and not simply a consequence of our misjudgement. Whatever the case may be, Ulfric’s path ends here. Let us hope that it ends in our salvation as you say, and not our destruction.”

 

“Salvation comes from destruction. We are born in pain.” Veleda paused heavily. “Ulfric’s death will not be wasted. Our people now see the threat we are under. I have some decisions ahead. I couldn’t make them until he is at rest, and here, not in the hands of Arkay. Tell me, what do you know of the fourth tongue?”

 

Arngeir’s face looked troubled as she mentioned him. “I’d have hoped you could tell me more. All we know is that he is powerful, though not as powerful as the dragonborn. His soul is old, and it is dark. Nothing good can come of the power he now holds, however he has obtained it. If it is the will of the gods, then the gods are angry. With the elves, with us ourselves? Only time will tell. If he is one of yours, I suggest watching him carefully. I don’t know how he got his power, but we know he obtained it somewhere within the reach. As for Ulfric Stormcloak, as much as his decisions have angered me… I gained no joy at seeing him die. How did he die exactly, if I might ask?”

 

“The Thalmor entered the palace through a binding to an axe brought back by one of their captives. One of their operatives wounded and then killed him. I was trying to save our daughter or I might have… My wards were useless. I failed him.”

 

“If you weren't there, then who saw this happen?”

 

“Our High General, Baldur Red Snow.”

 

“Just him? Well then, he must be another of Ulfric’s pupils. I felt both their thu’ums, just before Ulfric’s death.” Arngeir narrowed his eyes, looking at Veleda’s feet.

 

“Is he trustworthy? A good man? I ask, because Ulfric is aware of our teachings and knows that certain individuals have the potential to learn certain thu’ums quicker, if it is in their character. However, those particular shouts are also more likely to corrupt them. A risk he would have been aware of. You say this man was the only one to see Ulfric die. Well I'm telling you that when Ulfric did die, the power of the other one grew as well. That can happen out of a desire for vengeance, but it can also happen when one performs certain actions, actions that bring them greater understanding of the particular thu’um. Do you understand what I am saying?”

 

Veleda regarded Arngeir blankly. “Baldur is fairly new to the thu’um, as am I. I suppose he was trying to defend Ulfric and the exertion might have caused the power you’re describing. They were very close.”

 

“It's often the ones who are close that are in the best position to stab us in the back. The thu’um when used by dragons to fight, is really a debate between two forces. When they collide, others can sense their conflict. Now listen to what I am telling you, we felt that conflict between them. This is why ancient Nords of old solved all conflict in the open. Too big a risk of being discovered. It is possible their thu’ums crossed as they were fighting the Thalmor together… But I would question your general if I were you. See just how well you do know him, and if he and Ulfric ever had a disagreement in the past.”

 

“Are you suggesting…” Veleda fell speechless, then images of Baldur sitting on Ulfric’s throne came back to her. Disbelief turned to anger and grief in her face, then these receded and her jaw set firm. “I understand you. Thank you for telling me. I can’t believe I didn’t see it myself. Forgive me… is there somewhere I can rest before we proceed? I need to be alone for a while. I feel the power in this place, and the peace. I need both.”

 

“High Hrothgar is open to you, High Queen Veleda. And your escorts, for a time. It seems times are changing a great deal. The outside world just keeps finding its way to this place.”

 

As Arngier turned to walk away, he said, “And for what it is worth, I do hope that I am wrong.”


 

***

 

After leaving Baldur in the throne room, Rebec slept hard, not hearing the drunks stumble through the inn, and only waking when Ragna started to fuss. Asking Ysana not to talk about Baldur, she nursed the baby and then got herself cleaned and dressed.

 

The talk around the inn’s common room was that Veleda had returned that night. “Maybe she could talk some sense into him,” Rebec grumbled. She wanted to stay away and pretend the whole mess wasn’t happening, but a leak in the hull never fixed itself. This, this here was a gaping hole. Finally she strapped on her axes and went back to the palace, mumbling to herself all the while.

 

Baldur was dead asleep the entire time they were gone, until a thought suddenly came to him. That happened often as of late, sudden realizations that needed to be addressed. This was a big one, however. He rushed to the room’s dresser and cabinets, hoping there was ink and parchment around. “Before all this Wulfharth talk gets out of hand, I’m going to need to prepare. I need leverage… I need…Oh what was their names again? Ah blast it, this will do.”

 

On an envelope, he wrote, “From Jarl-”, then trashed it, writing on the new envelope, “From the High King of Skyrim, Baldur Red-Snow to the Blades.”

 

Biting his lip, he said to himself, “This is only to be prepared in the future, nothing more.” Even so, he continued writing his letter, not noticing when the door opened.

 

Rebec entered and started pacing near the door, watching him. When Baldur didn’t look up, she stood with her hands on her hips. “Am I supposed to bow or something? Do I need to be announced?”

 

Baldur glanced behind himself with a look of surprise. Sighing, he turned in his chair, legs spread around the back rest.

 

“Well, what are you waiting for. Come on in. Where's my daughter?”

 

“Weren’t too concerned about that when you ran off and left us behind without a word.”

 

Baldur’s brow folded harder than a piece of steel under a blacksmith’s hammer. “I left to protect her, to protect you. I knew that if I told you where I was going, what I was doing, you’d try to convince me it wasn’t necessary or try to come with me. Can you imagine? ‘Goodbye honey, I’m off to fight the elves and commit regicide!’ That would have gone really well with you, Rebec.”

 

Rebec took a step towards him, then another, glancing around the room that was once Ulfric’s. In the next instant, Kyne’s Talon was out of her belt and she had closed the distance between them. Rebec buried its blade into the letter on Baldur’s desk. Leaning over him eye to eye, her blue eyes were wild. “If you fight, Baldur Red Snow, then I fight. The elves came for us too. If we go down, we all go down, all three of us. You understand that now?”

 

Baldur glanced down at his ruined letter, bringing his eyes back to hers. Casting aside the desk and the axe with it, Baldur pushed her to the wall by her neck. Seething, he said, “No.”

 

“Then you got a thicker skull than Iron Brow.” Without hesitation Rebec tried Boldir’s classic move, and looked for a moment to wrench free.

 

Baldur’s head was bleeding as she wiggled away, but he grabbed her around the waist with his arms, and said, “You’re one to talk, woman! Why can’t you just listen?! You really expect me to willingly put your lives in danger too?”

 

She turned around and pushed at his chest. “We were in danger anyway! There is no more safety, Baldur!”

“I know that,” said Baldur, refusing to let go, but his expression softening. “I know that. And I’ll never forgive myself for Vigge’s death, or leaving you and my child to fend for yourselves. I didn’t know. But that is why what I am doing is so important. Can’t you see that? This isn’t a game any longer, the elves won’t let us live in peace. I must have my way in Valenwood. For the sake of our child, for the sake of Skyrim.”

 

Blood trickled down her brow but Rebec ignored it. “How long have you been planning this?”

 

“What does it matter? You think I’ve been secretly craving the throne all this time? I wouldn’t risk our lives in Kyne’s Watch unless I thought it was necessary,” he said. “Please believe that. You know me. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it, but I didn’t to protect you and the child.”

 

Rebec let out a grunt half of disgust and frustration. Wrenching away from him, she walked a few steps and picked up her axe, then kicked at the heavy desk, sending an inkwell flying across the room. “This is a gods damned mess, Baldur. What am I supposed to do now?”

 

“What we’ve always done,” he said. “Don’t leave me alone in this. I won’t ask you to be my queen, you won’t have to involve yourself in anything you don’t want to. But I can’t do this without your blessing. I know it seems late for that now, and I’m sorry, I am. I couldn’t take the chance that you’d talk me out of it.”

 

Sitting, weary of it all already, he said, “Your blessing might be too much to ask. Just promise me that when this is over, when I step down as king, that our home will still be our home.”

 

Rebec glanced over, her expression softening a little. “I couldn’t leave you alone even if I wanted to. That’s what I’m saying. Wherever you go, we go.” She sheathed the axe and approached him wearily, looking down at him and brushing a hand across his cheek. “I don’t know if I believe in what you’re doing, but I know you seek a victory. And we got one, this time. It was close, though, Baldur. What is this about you being an ash king?”

 

Glancing up, he turned his head into the caress, not realizing how much he missed it. “Just bard foolishness that got out of hand. Vigge warned me about that once,” he said, smiling briefly at the fond memory until he remembered Vigge was gone.

 

“It’s a long story, but it’s not something I planned. Some of the soldiers and townsfolk are insistent that Wulfharth’s come back to lead them against the elves. Me. Now, I’m stuck with it. It could be useful, but claiming such a thing could also be dangerous. The only thing I have going for me is that I don’t have to prove anything. So, what people believe is out of my hands.”

 

“You walked out of the ashes. Because of your thu’um? So Ulfric protected you.” Rebec lowered her hand and shook her head. “I don’t understand it. But I wish he’d taught papa, too. I watched him burn alive with my own eyes. Fire took my ship, and now my father. You don’t go thinking it can’t take you, too.”

 

“Wise words,” said Baldur, a pit in his stomach festering at the mention of his friend. He wondered then if Ulfric’s words weren't genuine after all. ‘I forgive you.’ That would be even worse than if he said it in jest.

 

Realizing he'd gone too long without saying something, he said, “Anyway, I found out I still have a limit. I'll heed your words well. You have Vigge’s wisdom… How did he die exactly? What happened? There should have been plenty of Nord ships nearby to repel an attack.”

 

“We did repel it. The village was mostly saved, just some char here and there. Papa would still be alive if he’d stayed home instead of rushing off like a damn fool. Maybe he was just ready to go.” Rebec reached up and wiped her face. Still bloodied, she stepped back to Baldur and this time when she leaned over him, she grabbed his hair and kissed him fiercely, pouring out her anger and relief. The rest of it was a mess, but the two of them was always clear to her.

 

Baldur made her sit atop his lap, holding her and wiping her bloodied brow. “I can’t see Vigge lying sickly on a deathbed. Your father is a true Nord and died like one. Stubborn old man, his skull was almost as thick as yours.”

 

Rebec felt some of the anxiety and anger of the past week go out of her. Laying her head on Baldur’s shoulder, she said, “Almost. What are you going to do about Veleda? And Boldir?”

 

Baldur rested his head against hers, and having her close was almost enough to keep the anxiety he felt when thinking of Boldir away. Almost.

 

“Veleda, I will convince to step down, one way or another. If it really comes to it, I will do what I must politically to uproot her, though I’d rather not. And as for Boldir…” It was a while before Baldur spoke again, as if forgetting what it was he was going to say.

 

“As for Boldir, I’m not going to wait for the moot to act. I will send my best to track him. Those who knew him personally as well, that fought alongside him. Men that might be motivated to take him alive. If they can. A bounty for his capture and his death will be passed, the capture bounty being three thousand septims, and one thousand if he is dead. I don’t know what his reasons are, but he has to answer for Riften, regardless of the reasons. And he owes us an explanation for lying to us as well.”

 

Rebec sighed heavily, her hand stroking his singed hair. “We’re all traitors now, all three of us. A damn mess. I should go back to Kyne’s Watch. I’m no good at politics, I’d just muck things up for you. We’ll stay the night and I’ll see what’s going on with the navy, too.” She thought a moment. “You want to get to Boldir, find Carlotta and Mila. It’s what our enemies would do if they wanted your attention.”

 

Baldur thought about himself being all alone in this cold big palace every night while his daughter continued growing. The idea didn't appeal to him at all. He didn't say anything however. It was just more motivation to get Skyrim into Valenwood. He’d do it without Cyrodiil’s help if he had to.

 

“I'll get to Boldir, because if I were in his position, it’s what he would do, lest he cause any more trouble for himself and his family. I'll help him, whether he wants my help or not.”

 

“Good.” Rebec sat up. “I don’t like what he did any more than I like what you’ve done. I trust you both, though, gods help me, so I have to believe you had your reasons.” She stood. “I’ll go get Ragna so you can hold her.”

 

“Please do,” he said. “I need to see her again, show her that I'm fine after my yelling.”

 

Rebec returned a short time later with the fur-wrapped bundle in her arms. When she laid Ragna on Baldur’s arm, the baby stirred fussily and opened her eyes. She looked at Baldur with the confusion of sleep, and reached up curiously towards his beard.

 

Somehow, Baldur hadn’t faced the reality of what he’d done until his baby looked him in the eye. Maybe it was imagining his baby girl growing up, hearing of the things he’d done, or the realization that Ulfric wouldn’t get to see her grown. All of it even. Tears met her little fingers, both mingling in his beard while he tried to hold them back by closing his eyes.

 

Waking up and recognizing Baldur, Ragna burbled and pulled herself upright in his arms, now more convenient to the beard. She glanced over at Rebec, who stepped over and joined her on the new king’s lap. “Your home is still here, Baldur. Just don’t forget about us.”

 

“Of course I won’t,” he said, grabbing them both as tears kept rolling down his cheeks. Kissing his daughter and wife, he said, “I won’t fail you, I promise. I’ll make all this worth it, and come home to you for good. No more war, no more soldiering, no crown. I’ll end this war in time to see all of our daughter’s years. But if I’m to make that happen, I might need to do more things you wouldn’t be proud of.”

 

Rebec’s eyes grew hard. “Seeing those Dominion ships get near our home, near our daughter, that was my nightmare come true, Baldur. Only one other thing could have scared me more. You do what you have to do to beat them, then you come home.”

 

“I swear it,” he said, as hairs stood up at his neck from her words. His will to carry out his purpose had been renewed. He started to continue throwing out words of assurance while kissing Rebec’s cheek but was cut off by Ragna’s whimpering in her frustration of feeling sleepy and having her father not acknowledging the fact.

 

Laughing through tears, Rebec let Ragna grasp her finger. The baby’s whine cut off as she let out a horrendous sneeze, blowing snot across both her parents. Rebec let out a yell, wiping her face, and said, “It’s a good thing that wasn’t a thu’um.”

 

Baldur closed his eyes at the little Nord’s attack, then he couldn’t help but laugh at the cute little bundle all snotty nosed in front of him. Wiping it clean, he said, “I’m used to this by now. Who’d have thought? Girl’s probably got a cold from all the snow. She may be a Nord, but she’s young. Come, let’s get her some hot stew from the tavern.”

 

The couple made their way through the city together once more, ignoring the townsfolk and soldiers as they escaped the cold within the Candlehearth Hall. For once in a very long time, Baldur was high enough in spirits to entertain the people there and his family with song, and to their great amusement, little Ragna tried singing along in baby talk as her father held her in his arms.

 

Oh give me a mead over a good steed, I’d rather drink any day,

There’s not a free mead that I’ve turned down, and not a wench I hadn’t slayed!

And from the color in her face, you can probably tell the battlefield was in the sheets,

Oh Rebec Red-Snow it’s just for a show, Oh, she’s angry, quick, lets beat feet!

 

You all better run, yes run while you can or you’ll soon end up dead!

Oh woe is me for I married the ball busting Rebec the Red!

She’d as soon put a punch on me as she would a kiss, under the bliss of a drink,

And as much as she does, you can pretty much guarantee, the amount would make a mountain sink!

Don’t try outdrinking her with liquor, you’d never be sicker, and you’d more than likely soon die,

Such is the legend of my ballbusting wife, run for your life from Rebec Red-Eye!

 

The crowd was rather amused, even if Rebec was not, and he and the baby both dodged a swing from the mother while Ragna kept mumbling the tune. Baldur planted a kiss on her as she hit his shoulder, getting some whistling from some onlookers. The whole atmosphere of the place would have seemed strange after what happened to their beloved city and King, but this was an escape for many of them. There wouldn’t be too many moments like this in the near future for Skyrim, or Tamriel as a whole.

 

So they celebrated and drank, occasionally laughing at the antics of the family. Including one man beneath a cloak sitting alone in a corner. His jaw heavily scarred, and his nose clearly broken. He had the look of one who had seen enough fighting in his lifetime, the look of a soldier. And beneath those scars, the man kept smiling at the three, and the baby especially, the cloak hiding the tear that fell from his face down into his mead.

 

The man got up as if to greet the family, but thought better of it, and stepped away from the tavern. “They deserve some peace. You deserve it, Baldur. And Ragna, Red-Snow.”

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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Brund Hammer-Fang

Eastmarch

“You need to relax.”

 

“I...can’t!” yelled Brund, hands clenching the rail of the carriage until it nearly cracked… the bloodshot eyes of the Stormcloak Priest beneath a cloak stared without blinking. It was only moments after the attack on Windhelm, so close that Brund could still see smoke coming from the city.

 

He cared nothing for it or the losses that they suffered. He cared now only for the elves that still remained in Skyrim, and his blinding rage swelling up inside. His neck muscles tensed, bulging more and more until it threatened to pop. Blood flowed from his mouth, teeth clenching until the gums were loose from the stress.

 

“What is happening to me??” He cried. His hate for elves was great, but this hate was far beyond his own.

 

“Shh… relax. A great thing is happening, boy,” said the priest, laughing beneath the cloak. “Relish the feeling. Take it in.”

 

Brund’s hands were around his throat quicker than the priest could blink, but there was no strength in it. The priest’s hands were outstretched at his chest…

 

“A paralysis spell, Jarl Brund. All will be explained soon. When you wake up, it will be a different world, and you’ll be a different person entirely. And then, nothing will stop you, not the elves, not Baldur Red-Snow…”

 

Brund, for all his strength could do nothing but watch as the strange Nord continued casting spells on him. His consciousness was slowly slipping away, and the last thing he heard him say was, “Don’t be angry at me, Brund. Don’t you think you should’ve been more worried about sharing a body with one as old as she? But you wanted power… Power comes with a cost, boy… Everything costs….

 

But you know that better than anyone. Don’t you, Brund? You gave your life away just to become stronger… I gave my very humanity, same as you, to gain knowledge from Hircine. One who hunts beneath Shor’s corpse, one whose sphere is aligned with our Sky Mother. He knew things, things he’d stolen from our kin, kin he’d stolen from Sovngarde…

 

But enough about me… I want to know more about you! Lets see….

 

“Brund! Come inside, it’s time for dinner! Your brothers and sisters are waiting!”

 

A tiny Nord boy sitting on the sidewalk of an imperial street in front of a typical Imperial designed home ignored the woman’s cries, choosing to watch the stars and the moons instead. Meanwhile the children looked behind their mother, as if playing hide and seek with their sibling, though the mother knew better. “Run along now, papa’s waiting on you all. Your brother will join us when he’s hungry.”

 

Little Brund waited for the sound of the door to shut before he stood and continued down the street alone. “Pfft, pest. I’ve better things to do.” He stayed towards the shadows, though in the Imperial city, a Nord boy was always overlooked. It suited him just fine, as it made it easier for him to pick their pockets and purchase real steel weapons to train with, not just the blunt training weapons his mother insisted father get him, if he really wanted to be a legion soldier one day. The boy couldn’t have been older than eight, but to Imperial eyes he could have been twelve or so. Enough to let him buy his own blade.

 

He ducked off into the Arena district, letting the sounds of the Grand Champion’s late night fights feed his efforts. Hacking and slashing away at the straw men he set up, he secretly wished they were real men. Hacking again and again and again and again…

 

And again and again, his hand now resting over the woman’s mouth, the memory of himself as a boy that night, longing desperately for his blade to find real flesh. And now, it had. His blade was covered, as was his face, the elven woman beneath him almost unrecognisable from what he’d done. That night, he’d never slept better, until he awoke suddenly to the sound of a whisper…

 

“You sleep rather soundly, for a murderer.”

 

Yes… you’d heard of them before, haven’t you. The shadowy organisation, the Dark Brotherhood. But you Brund are no child of Sithis, are you? You are a true son of Shor!

 

It was true. Brund had heard of them before, and he had to admit, the idea of getting paid to sate his appetite did appeal to him… but those eyes. Those golden eyes… He knew those eyes anywhere. The eyes of elves. The eyes of Altmer. It was unfortunate for her that they knew and cared for nothing other than the fact that Brund was like them. A murderer at heart. So it came to her as a complete surprise when the Nord that was sleeping only mere moments before proceeded to clench her throat and tear off her cowl, revealing her glorious blonde hair beneath it, as well as her petite elven body as that too was torn from her. He took her flesh that night, again and again, before he murdered her too, in a way that even the Dark Brotherhood would not attempt to contact him again, and only once did they try to take his life after. When it ended with a dark elf’s head on a pike outside for all to see and wonder who the man was, the message was clear. He hadn’t revealed their identity, at least. That was enough for the now fading Dark Brotherhood, and was only the beginning of their waning influence.

 

But what’s this… even one such as you can love it seems…

 

“Promise me.”

 

“Promise what, girl?”

“That no matter how high in rank you climb, now that you’re a big time legionnaire, that you’ll always be the same Brund,” said the young woman, an Imperial, resting her dark hair on his shoulder as the sun began to set below the White Gold Tower.

 

“Whether I change or not, what would it matter to you?” said Brund indifferently.

 

“Oh I know everyone says you’re an asshole, and that you like scaring little kids for kicks, but I know it’s just an act. Deep down, I know you’re a good person, or you wouldn’t have saved me from those marauders. You act like you care for nothing, but I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not looking!”

 

Brund’s cheeks reddened as she kissed his cheek. “I just don’t like elves is all. They happened to have several of them, and I had an excuse to practice what I’d learned from my training.”

 

“Uhuh, big scary Nord that hates elves just wanted to fight. It had nothing to do with the pretty Imperial girl they were cornering begging for someone to help her. You don’t fool me.” Running her hand through his hair, she said, “And I see you took my advice on the haircut. It suits you. Those Imperial Captains would have shaved it all off if you went in with your hair all wild and long like that. I really like it like this.”

 

“...You do?” He said, still blushing. Her smile was confirmation enough. “Valentia.. There’s something you should know about m-,” her finger rested on her lips, interrupting him.

 

“I know everything I need to. Just promise me you’ll be the same Brund, and come back to me if you ever have to fight.”

 

“I promise.”

 

And you kept that promise. But she never promised she’d be there when you returned, did she?

 

An image of a gravestone overtook all of Brund’s senses. The Great War took many lives, and when Brund returned from the war, disgraced by Ulrin Red-Snow… he wanted nothing but to fall into her arms and stay there forever. But it wasn’t meant to be.

 

“GET OUT OF MY HEAD!”

 

Roars erupted from his throat, and he had no idea what time, or even what day it was since the priest had last put him to sleep. He could feel the old soul of the hagraven piercing his every thought. Why was it so difficult to control her?

 

The ground began to shake from the power of his voice, and the priest only continued to laugh, as he snorted moon sugar and danced beneath a full Masser and Secunda.

 

“Hey, could you tell your friend there to shut the **** up already? I’m trying to enjoy my stroll. Which way to Windhelm, by the way? Been a while since I’ve been here.”

 

The priest turned in an instant at the rude man’s voice. “Boy, you have no idea what you’ve just stumbled upon, do?”

 

“Not exactly, but I think I’ve got a pretty good idea,” said the man looking at Brund. The priest had stripped him naked, his flesh as white as the snow beneath him. His chest was glowing with magic from the Briarheart beneath the metal plate he’d nailed into his ribs around it.

 

The man unsheathed his blade, revealing an Imperial insignia at the hilt. “That looks troublesome. Guess I ought to deal with it. Someone should.”

 

“Deal with it?” said the Priest, chuckling madly. “Brund! We’ve got a legionnaire in our midst! Give him a good old Skyrim welcome!”

 

Brund roared out ancient words no one understood any longer, before disappearing beneath the ground, only to burst up beneath the supposed cloaked legion soldier, hitting him so hard that he hit a frozen tree behind them. The man coughed blood and fell face first before he knew what hit him.

 

“KIIIILLLLL!!!!” Cried Brund, who was practically howling at the moons as his fist gathered earth to it like a great hammer. The man was certainly dead, but it didn’t concern him in this state.

 

Before that hammer fist fell, Golden magics began to encircle his ruined flesh, restoring his open wound and restoring the color to the bruised and battered back of his skull. It was enough that he could avoid the immensely powerful blow, and he was close enough for his imperial blade, flickering with the magic of storm, could cut a gash right over and through the steel that protected his Briar-Heart.

 

Brund’s muscles instantly ceased growing as he held his chest, looking at the wound. He could hear nothing but the pained cries of the woman inside his mind before he blacked out entirely.

 

“An interesting trick!” said the priest as he cast a spell. The cloaked man raised a rune to protect himself, but it wasn’t quick enough. He could feel the magic being sapped from him as the Priest said, “Only advanced restoration mages can do something like that.”

 

The Imperial soldier smiled and bowed. “Guilty as charged. Well, this was fun, but I got someone to see that I haven’t seen in a long long time. Tell Brund it isn’t personal, but the Empire can’t afford him challenging the High King’s power. You understand. It’s exactly what the Thalmor would want after Ulfric’s death.”

 

“Going so soon?” said the Priest, charging the Imperial soldier as he walked away.

“Afraid so.” As he said this, the Priest noticed too late as he stepped upon a rune glowing red beneath the snow as he approached it. A great explosion shot him back over Brund’s injured body, leaving him laughing in excitement at the skill of the warrior he’d just fought.

 

“You! I know who you are…”

 

***

Brund woke to the sound of horses and a headache that could have killed a bear. He remembered very little… but remembered enough to know that the carriage driver they had now was definitely different from before.

 

“Where are we?” he asked. “Why… why am I in such pain…”

 

“Don’t you remember?” said the Priest, from over his face, looking at him so that his head appeared upside down to Brund as he laid down.

 

“Remove your ugly mug from my sight,” said Brund. “Remember what?”

 

“You, my friend, were attacked. Your heart was injured.”

 

Brund looked at his now covered chest beneath a new Stormcloak sash. He could feel it. He felt different. Then…

 

“Ah ah,” said the Priest, paralyzing Brund again in the exact same way as before, hands around his neck. “I am trying to help you.”

 

“HELP ME?? What is happening to me? TELL ME?”

 

“Is your friend okay there, Mister?” said the carriage driver.

 

“You’re paid to drive not talk. Ask anymore questions and you’ll lose more than coin,” said the Priest.

 

The carriage driver asked no more questions, and already regretted taking coin from such a strange shady man.

 

“Now,” said the Priest, his voice rusty as ever, still as though bees or flies were trapped within. “You need to listen. You have been given great power, Brund, and with it, you can not only rule Skyrim, but you can change the course of this war, if you embrace it. At the right time. Our visitor has shown me that you are not yet ready. But you will be.”

 

“This power isn’t worth it if it means giving up who I am!” cried Brund.

 

“Fool’s talk! You are strong enough to handle this, I’ll make sure of it!” said the Priest. “But you must accept my guidance! Do not attempt to use the thu’um for the time being. Any further use of that power will likely kill you, as it strengthens her grasp on you. That is what got you in this predicament in the first place. You overdid it. But no worries, you will be ready when it is time to fight the elves.”

 

“**** you, you freaky little ****! I should kill you right now!” said Brund.

 

“But you won’t, will you? See, that’s what I like about you mmmost! Your hunger, for power. You know you need it. So you tolerate m-”

 

“Let’s get something straight right now, motherfucker,” said Brund, his Alfr Vega pendulum at the Priest’s neck. The Priest was obviously taken by surprise at his quick movement. Brund was his old self again, and his reflexes were better when he was all himself. “I run things around here. I’M the Jarl, and I’M the general! You do what the **** I say, and if you ever try something funny again, I’ll remove your tongue and shit down your throat. Now, that man. Who was he, and where did he go? He could be an imperial spy.”

 

The Priest’s look was fiery for a moment, but the glare faded as he noticed his neck was bleeding from Alfr Vega’s cut. Its enchantment sapped whatever energy he had for being angry, and he simply gave in. “Of course, Jarl Hammer-Fang, I only wish to serve you and the Stormcloak cause. I don’t know where the man is, but to know who he is, I must first test my theory. That is why we’re here.”

 

“And WHERE IS HERE?”

 

“F-falkreath,” said the carriage driver, who was now certainly wishing that he hadn’t taken the Priest’s money. Brund and the Priest had completely forgotten about his presence, and before he could wish one more time that he hadn’t taken the money, the Priest’s blade lopped off his head, his body soon falling with it down a hill as if to race it to the bottom.

 

Hopping on the seat, he said, “We’re here.”

 

The carriage came in view of the city moments after the strange Nord’s sword ended the man’s life. He was in good company though, as he wasn’t too far away from Skyrim’s largest cemetary.

 

As the two limped their way through the city, both covered in bandages and being quite the shabby sight, Brund said, “Why are we here? That Nord is likely on the complete opposite of Skyrim by now! What theory are you testing?”

 

“Just listen, fool. Go, walk in that direction, and don’t stop walking until you see what I’ve already seen in dreams…”

 

Brund cursed the Nord and spat at the ground. “Fool talking son of a bitch.” But he did as he was told. Slowly, Brund walked past gravestone after gravestone. One of them read ‘Here lies Borumnir, son of Gond. Even the mightiest of Nords may be slain with one arrow. Borumnir was struck by many.’

 

That gave Brund a chuckle as he kept walking, until his foot touched not but air, and the great Nord fell beneath a shallow grave. The Priest’s head poked out, looking down at Brund again in the same way as before, this time from above the gravestone.

 

“An appropriate place for you, dead man!”

 

“Shut it, fucker!” He cried, pulling himself from the ground before someone saw him. “Whose grave is this?”

 

“See for yourself,” said the Priest.

 

“An unfortunate thing,” said a Nord from behind them as Brund stared at the gravestone. “We usually get the odd graverobber every now and then, thinking the dead soldiers here might have some valuables, weapons maybe.

 

Brund said, “And this grave, you know for certain it was robbed?”

 

“Well, after what happened here, it was likely vandalism. Imperial soldiers are not loved well, this one even less so after Baldur Red-Snow saved Falkreath. Everyone knows about the story, how he killed his own father for Ulfric’s cause. So it’s no surprise that Ulrin Red-Snow’s grave was dug up.”

 

The Priest smiled at seeing Brund’s blood rise in his face at the name.

 

“Still want to kill me, Brund?”

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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Gracchus Ceno
Imperial Palace
Evening

The grand hall had been quite decorated for the occasion. Large red banners with the imperial emblem in gold hanged along the walls. A large table with chairs had been set in front of the throne in the middle. The tables had been aligned like the seats in an amphitheater, with the large royal table taking the place of the stage and the rest as the seats around it. The royal table had two large, wooden, throne like chairs for the couple to sit in. 
But the banquet had passed and the royal table brought to the side, along with most other tables, to make room for dance all around mingling and gossip. The tables that were still around and had several plates filled with small delicacies and treats. A few magical ice dragons stood watch on a couple of the tables where the wine and some mead was served, and provided a light coolness to the drinks. Once in a while the dragons changed pose, striking a bit of awe into some of the guests nearby. A small band of musicians stood near the middle of the hall, playing a cheerful tone for some of the guests to dance to. 
Everywhere were nobles in expensive and fancy clothing, either dancing or gossiping. The royal couple itself was out on the dance floor and enjoying themselves. 

Gracchus wandered around the party with Catia, arm in arm. He wore his carved gold cuirass and red cape, with new brown leather boots. The cuirass was the same he always wore, though the cape was new, as was the leather skirt and boots. He was without his saber, though as a mage, he was truly never unarmed. Catia wore a long green dress with gold fringe, and comfortable brown shoes, in case they danced. Her auburn hair was curled slightly, and hung down past her shoulders. On her hands, she wore nothing, save her wedding band.

"My, I don't believe I've seen a party this grand before." Catia said. Gracchus could see, from the way her smile tugged at the corners of her eyes, that she was having a wonderful time. 

"The coronation was the last I can remember so large and elegant." Gracchus said.

He was doing his best to avoid any Elder Councilors, or the sulking High Admiral off near the wine serving, so Gracchus steered them towards a pair of young nobles. He didn't recognize them, until he was close enough to see they slightly resembled the Empress. Recalling her cousins were visiting, he said: "Hello. I don't believe we've met. I'm High General Ceno, and this is my wife, Catia. You must be Her Majesty's cousins."

"Hello." said the woman of the two with with a courteous smile and nod. She wore a red dress with gold embroidery and quite a bit of jewelry on her fingers and around her neck. Her light brown hair was tied up in a rather extravagant braid behind her head and was kept in place with a number of gold pins. "I am Alessia. This here is my brother Hannibal." She gestured to the man besides her. 

"Hi." Hannibal just said, seemingly both slightly curious and disinterested in the General's approach. Hannibal was wearing much simpler clothing than his sister, green trousers and a black tunic with silver embroidery. 

"Enjoying the party?" Alessia asked. 

"Splendidly." Catia answered. "It's a beautiful affair, and quite a lift of the spirits after that High Rock affair, and that horrid monster in the city. Are you two enjoying yourselves as well?"

Hannibal just nodded with a "Hmm" as courteously and dignifying as he could while he was shewing on a treat before taking a sip from his glass of wine. 

"I just wish Dales could be a more gracious and welcoming host." Alessia said with a little sadness in her voice. "I get the feeling she is trying to avoid us."

"I was under the impression she met with you a few days ago." Gracchus said, slightly curious how Dales might have been an ungracious host. 

"It could be the stress of the wedding put her on edge." Catia said. "I know when we were preparing for our wedding, we were both somewhat edgy."

"And neither of us had a country to run." Gracchus said with a chuckle.

"She only met us briefly. I'd appreciate if she'd take the time for us. Family should support one another after all." Alessia said.

"Running a country is a busy affair, so I think some leniency is in order. And now that the wedding is over, she might have more time to visit." Gracchus said. 

"Where is it your family is from?" Catia asked, clearly trying to change the subject. 

"Oh, my dear Alessia. I'm very sure the Empress has many reasons to avoid you." Interrupting the group was Colonel Quentas, the Imperial Spymaster. She had a sly grin, that suited her. The statuesque woman was dressed far simpler compared  to many other Imperial noblewoman, wearing the black leather armor of the Oculatus, which clashed with her platinum blonde hair, and stunning, blue Eyes.  In contrast to Alessia, she was  more casual, being far more relaxed and had her hair done in a plain ponytail. She nodded to Gracchus, and then to Catia. "It's good to see you again, General Ceno. Catia." 

"Have we met before?" Alessia said, looking a little confused at Lilly.

"Good to see you as well, Colonel Quentas." Gracchus said, the corners of his lips turning down slightly at the tension between Lilly and Alessia.

"Colonel Quentas." Catia said, smiling cheerfully. Gracchus knew it was a reflex, to try and diffuse whatever was going on between the two noblewomen. 

"We've met before, once my dear lady.  At my mothers ball in Chorrol."  Lilly turned to face Gracchus, "My apologies for such... brazen behavior. But might I borrow you for a moment, dear Gracchus. Oculatus business, that I would like to discuss with you."

Gracchus and Lilly stepped away momentarily. He was somewhat annoyed that pettiness and secrets were interrupting the festivities, but he knew such was life in the White-Gold. He asked Lilly: "What is it, Colonel?"

"Be wary around Alessia and Hannibal." muttered the colonel, her face serious and her voice rather low. "Her Majesty recently ordered the good major, and his wolves, to keep an eye on them, and investigate there fiefdom for any evidence of foul play. There's quite a bit of bad blood between the two of them, if I remember from my time in the Chorrol court, when little Dales was nothing more then a Princess." 

"Well, bad blood doesn't set them apart from many of the nobles in this room." Gracchus said with a small smile. "I'll be sure to keep my guard up, in any case."

"Their 'bad blood' kinda does. I mean Alessia publicly stated she wanted the family to disown the 'Slug' awhile back. You and me know what... Dales does in her spare time. I don't think Alessia appreciates that." She gave a sly smile. "Me and my sister spent half the time fighting as young. Dosen't mean I don't love her. This is... different. I think Alessia hates the Empress. And the Empress hates her."  She gave a slight wink. "Just saying, I wouldn't get too close to them." 

"I'll keep that in mind. Though they don't seem friendly enough to spend the entire party talking to." Gracchus said. They then moved back to the group, where Gracchus noticed Catia was somewhat annoyed with Hannibal telling her a drunken story, standing uncomfortably close. He came up placed his hand around Catia's hip. "Why don't we go get a drink, dear?"

They went over to a table along the wall, where a few servants were pouring glasses of wine for the guests. They each grabbed a glass, and joked about how awkward the encounter with Dales's cousins was. Afterwards, they moved back into the throng of people, trying to find someone else they recognized. 
After a few moments of wandering around and exchanging pleasantries with a few nobles, Gracchus eventually spotted General Fury-Blade across the room. Gracchus and Catia made their way over, snaking through the crowded hall.
"We're a bit out of our element here, Martullus," Gracchus said, coming up behind the general. 

"God's I agree with you, sir. Give me a horde of bandits,  or a troll than all these noble's." the General said with a deadpan voice. The general was moderately dressed, wearing a simple blue robe. Like the High General, he too was unarmed, but as Gracchus knew Martullus was a skilled mage and could cause quite a bit of damage without a sword. "Just endless pleasantries." He then noticed Catia was with the High General. "Ah, greetings my lady." 

"Hello General." Catia said. "I think you two old soldiers exaggerate how bad these nobles are. At least here, today, they aren't busy with their agendas. I'm sure you'll take pleasantries over plotting any day."

"Nah." He said with a wink. "I'd rather be plotting some military operation. But alas, as a general, I suppose it's my duty  to attend this.... wedding. I'm sure you agree with me, eh sir?" 

"It is indeed our duty, though not one I anticipated when I signed up for the Legion." Gracchus gave a nostalgic smile. "Things change, though, especially when you've been in as long as I have.

And I think this change," he motioned toward the dancing newlyweds, "is one of the better ones. It's been too long since we've had stability in our leaders. Let us hope they've stopped the wheel of chaos, for good."
Even with he the claims of soul binding, and Martullus's accusation the creature that attacked the city was Krojun's, Gracchus couldn't help but admit the newly crowned Emperor was more effective than his predecessors. Even losing High Rock would not fall on his shoulders, but Dales's, and thus he had only a positive record in restoring order to Cyrodiil. 

"Hmpth. The Wheel of Fate always turns, spinning the red strings of destiny. Chaos is simply the natural order of things, as is order." He gave a hearty laugh, "While I do indeed prefer the later, there always needs to be a little chaos. Frying that abomination a few weeks ago, seems to be enough chaos for a good few years, but alas, the drums of war echo." He scratched the back of his head. "Listen to me ramble. I'm afraid with Avitus gone, I tend to say random, and disorderly things. My apologies."

"Don't apologize, we all can ramble on at times." Gracchus said.

"Who is Avitus?" Catia asked.

"My second, Catia. Legate Avitus Agrippa. A fine officer. His... grounded attitude, keeps the silly part of me in line." Martullus said with a smile.

"A good man, though short tempered, if I remember correctly." Gracchus said. "I would say a good second should both compliment and contrast his commander, so as to offer a different perspective. Legate Sejanus is a bit bolder and harsher than I, and compliments me well I should think."

"Avitus's first response is to punch things. His anger has always complimented my dryness I think." Martullus frowned. "Though it has been out of hand lately. You see... his late wife, Annabelle perished in the Siege of Whiterun during the Skyrim Civil War recently. She was serving under Gaius, and had recently given birth. He hasn't been the same since. He means well. He's just... very short tempered." He added, with a small laugh. "Though not to the level of our dear friend, Admiral Tacitus." 

"I dare say no one has his temper." Catia said. "I pity Gracchus has to be in the same building as him, truth be told. It's a shame, since I hear he was rather pleasant before he was captured."

"He was indeed." Gracchus said. "I just hope his temperament isn't indicative of any tampering by the Thalmor. If so, our naval power would suffer another great blow."

"I do hope not. Hopefully, the Oculatus has a good watch on him." He put his hand to his forehead. "I can't imagine how disastrous it would be for him to be some kind of sleeper agent. We've taken quite a few blows. Even the Strongest Dragon can only take so much arrows."

"With you two leading us. I'm sure we'll be quite all right." Catia said, smiling at both the generals. 

"If only I shared your optimism that we are sufficient enough for the Empire." Gracchus said, with a playful grin he hoped showed he was only being self depreciative, and not overly pessimistic. A servant came by, and they handed off their wine glasses, though Gracchus was still mostly full. 

"Oh, my dear lady. I'm sure most people would be worried to have two old war horses, like me and Gracchus leading the war effort." Martullus laughed. "Though I think I'm not old enough to be classified as that, unlike our mutual friend over here." 

Gracchus gave a good hearted laugh, while Catia chuckled heartily. She then squeezed her husband's arm. "He may be an old war horse, but I'd say he still rides pretty well."

Gracchus turned beat red at that, but was saved any further embarrassment when he noticed something on dance floor. "I think the Emperor has a new dance partner." The two generals and Catia moved to see who Krojun was dancing with. 
In the middle of the dance floor the Emperor had exchanged his wife as a dance partner for a little girl. She looked to be slightly above ten years old and appeared at first glance like a little Nibenese version of a young Dales. The girl wasn't had some trouble following to the tune but that didn't seem to bother in any way as she smiled a gleeful smile.

"Strange kid." muttered Martullus underneath his breath, as he watched the small child dance with the Emperor. "Coldblooded and bloodthirsty. Or so says Grom. It's hard to blame her though, after what happened to her family, and herself." 

"Bloodthirsty? She's so young. I doubt she's as cold as you say, General." Catia said.

"Age is meaningless, I'm afraid, my lady." Martullus paused. "She personally watched the executions, and maintained a cold smile throughout it. Or so says General Grommash. She's a rising psychopath.  The girl hugely creeped out the troops, who were glad when a newly restored county guard took over the defense of the retaken city." The general eyed the waltz, before turning to face the Empress, who was standing in the background, looking oddly calm. "Her majesty doesn't seem to be as cheerful as you'd expect though."

Gracchus knew several reasons why Dales might not enjoy her wedding, from the possible soul binding to the more likely reasons that her sexuality played, but he didn't mention either. Even if General Martullus knew of those things, it was better to handle these cards close to the chest. "I think the secession of High Rock still weighs on her mind, and this wedding likely reminds her of why High Rock seceded."

"It still weighs on my mind." He snickered. " Maybe she's just sad she lost her dance partner. I would offer her majesty a dance from myself, but I doubt she would be... appreciative towards my charm."

"Martullus. I see your socializing. Good. My dear, General Ceno, Catia, a pleasure to see you again." Approaching them was Lady Grey. She, like usual, wore a pretty black dress that suited her grey hair quite well. Though a little unusually to see such pure grey in someone as young as the Baroness, it was rather charming. Her dark grey eyes lit up, as she approached the trio.

Martullus chucked underneath his breath. "Astrea. It's been awhile, my lady." 

"A pleasure to see you again as well." Catia said. 

"How've you been?" Gracchus asked.

"Terribly dreadful I'm afraid." the Baroness said, taking on and emphasizing a dramatic voice. She placed one of her gloved hands to her forehead. "Dealing with the Merchants Guild everyday is giving me horrible migraines. And you, dear general?" she said, giving him a bright smile.

"Tired, most days, and worried as often as not. But things in the Legion are going well, so I have few complaints." Gracchus said with a slightly cheery air. 

"Oh, are you still down in the dumps for that whole thing with High Rock?" Astrea said with a laugh. "One less province to worry about I say! Now you can focus on the thing that matters most to the good hearts of the common people, protecting the heartland of Tamriel, Cyrodiil!" she said cheerfully. "And you Catia, how goes your day to day affairs? I'm sure being the wife of one of the most powerful men in the Empire keeps you quite busy." 

"I can't say I'm used to the idea that Gracchus is a great leader in Cyrodiil. He still seems like the same man I knew as a legate." Catia said. "And his stature doesn't keep me all that busy, besides events like this."

"Events, like this! How innocent of you Catia." the Baroness said with a devilish grin. "After so many delicious scandals, the Empress is finally married! To a man like the former court mage, no less! Though from what I read in the papers, some people still love to think the Empress is screwing everyone with a skirt in a five mile distance!"

Martullus began to chew air, as he drooled a little. "And on... and on. Keep talking."

Lady Grey placed her hands to her hips, looking not very amused. "How rude of you Martullus! You haven't aged in maturity it seems! In front of a lady such as Catia, no less!"

"Don't be offended on my regard. I ran a tavern for many years, after all. There is nary a thing I haven't seen, and many far, far worse than the General's mockery." Catia said. 

"Oh?" The Baroness seemed surprised. "Dear Lilly told me you ran a fairly respectable establishment before..." She paused, not wanting to offend the duo, "your husbands promotion. Your clientele was very rowdy?" 

Martullus shook his head. "I'm afraid Astrea can drag out a conversation far beyond the normal limit." He turned to Gracchus. "Shall we grab a drink, and leave these two fair ladies for a few minutes?"

"After you." Gracchus said.

As Gracchus walked to the bar, he heard Catia explaining what exactly The Laughing Fox was like. It reminded him how far he'd risen, from farmer's son to High General, and her from tavern owner to a high society lady. It was quite a climb, and he often wondered if it was worth it. He longed for the simple days of her tending her tavern, and he training soldiers. Looking back, he wondered why he didn't retire then, and live out their lives in content simplicity. But he was always reminded that Cyrodiil needed him, though he never quite liked to think he was that necessary to its survival. And yet here he was, the Legion's highest officer, with those simple days seeming a past far more distant than they were in reality.

He and Martullus reached the bar, and there Gracchus grabbed a glass of wine. He took a sip and chuckled. "I never liked wine, no matter how nice the vintage. Yet here I am, drinking it at the Empress's wedding. Could you have imagined any of this a year ago?"

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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"No. Not really." Martullus said with a slight smile. "I've always respected you as a soldier, and a fellow officer, sir. But not the leader of the Legion. I was very fond of Lorgar, and Gaius, but never expected the events to consume them. I would have assumed... your closeness to them, would have cast doubt on your loyalty. But here you are, beloved and respected by everyone who serves under you. A fine commanding officer." He glanced at the Empress in the distance. "I wanted to murder her father. Turn him into ash. After the civil war, me and Grom were planning to gut him. Rally the remnants of the Empire from his clutches. Lead it." He paused, whispering: "But here you are, leader of the Legion. Here she is, the Empress. The Emperor over there, the one pulling her strings. Me? A simple general in the army. Gracchus, you should accept the absurdity of the situation your in. Many would kill for the chance you have. You should embrace your role. No doubts. It would certainly make many of the generals at ease. Tulluis's betrayal stings us all. It would make us feel better if our leader was confident in his ability to lead us. You should believe in yourself, as we believe in you. "

Skjari... Krojun as a puppeteer still vexed Gracchus. It was evident the Emperor was the power behind the throne, but he could not say if that power came from force of will or something more nefarious. Were it the latter, Gracchus wondered just what role he should embrace. Was it better to continue under a soul bound Empress, if her husband led well and brought stability and safety to the Empire? Or should he risk that stability and safety for the soul of a young woman who saved the Empire from her father? Or was that the mage's doing as well?
Gracchus felt confidence sorely lacking when the sands beneath his feet were shifting, swirling in confusion. He was almost glad for the existence of the Thalmor, as they represented something he could focus on, that would not change for the better, and would always stand as enemies to the Empire. In that, he could be confident, and he certainly did believe in himself. 
Gracchus smiled, though he wasn't sure if it was a thank you or a gesture to hide his shifting doubts toward all things unrelated to the war. He was past the point of knowing what he really meant when those things were concerned. "Thank you for your kind words, Martullus. I could not hope to run the Legion without the support of you and the other generals. And make no mistake, I have faith in myself because of my generals, who I know have faith in me. Our strength comes from that trust, I believe."

"Trust. An interesting word." Martullus said with a mischievous grin. "Though I think we've lingered here too long. Shall we return to your lovely wife?"

"We had best bring a drink back for them." Gracchus said. As he grabbed a glass of wine for Catia, he wondered what Martullus was getting at, but with no answer obvious, he pushed it out of mind. 
"Here you go." He handed his wife a glass of wine. She and Lady Grey were still discussing the life of a tavern owner, though the conversation was winding down. Gracchus said: "I hope you two didn't have too much fun without us."

"Oh no of course not. Catia's been telling me about the apparent horror that is running a tavern! I had no idea!" Lady Grey said energetically. "I'm sure your glad you don't have to run it now. A proper lady of the court!" Her face became annoyed, before saying sulkily: "It such a shame a lady like yourself must endure here. The Imperial City's court is too much for a person like me. I much more prefer Chorrol. As does Lilly, but both of our jobs always keeps us here." 

"I don't have to deal with the city much, since we live outside it." Catia said. 

"Any specific negotiations you're working on right now?" Gracchus asked. 

"Yes. The Merchant Guild is getting rather stingy in regards to trade caravans. Less guards. Less protection from bandits, and so on." Lady Grey made a gesture with her gloved hands. "I've been trying to get them to re-implement the old protection system.  That, or I'm threatening to take my business to a private contractor. Certainly more expensive, but worth every little coin." she said with a smile.

"What goods are you moving these days?"

"Lumber. Lots and lots of lumber. Mostly from Cheydinhal, as I own many mills over there, but I get quite a bit from Chorrol as well. My family is the biggest lumber trader in Cyrodiil." she said with pride. "I supply the military the most." She pointed to Martullus. "Which is from where I know our mutual friend here."

"I have to thank you for your generous rates. I haven't had any need to negotiate lower prices, so I suppose I never looked into who operated the company that supplies our wood."

"Oh, don't thank me. Lilly introduced me to the Empress, whom requested I give you the Legion lower rates than my usual customers. I was happy to do my civil duty! For the Empire of course!" she said, saluting in a joking manner. "Though the Empress has been quite... droll since I last saw her. I wonder if she's alright. I do hope she's at least enjoying her wedding day!" she said with a slight look of puzzled cheerfulness. "Regardless, you must let me introduce you two to some of my friends while they're here!" The high general and his wife had seen Lady Grey at previous parties, and she always seemed very optimistic and rather giddy. Maybe she was just her way of trying to be friendly.

"Of course, we'll be delighted to meet them." Catia said. 

"Splendid!" Astrea said with joy. She took the trio to a large group of people. One person clashed horribly among the nobles. She was wearing a surcoat, including full mail shirt, without the gauntlets, helmet, or leggings. The chain was of mithril make, as you could tell by the brilliant, shimmering, silver color. The surcoat she bore was bright green and had a colorful, albeit somewhat disgusting, gold manticore depicted. Although she had smooth pale skin and brilliant copper hair. Her cold stare and military, boyish styled hair cut really dampened her femininity. Lady Grey waved at the woman, who gave a slight smile as she waved back. "Catia, Gracchus, this is my cousin. Sir Averyln, knight of the knightly order, The Manticore Knights." 

The woman let her head fall down, she spoke with a posh voice, but seemed far less friendly than Lady Grey's joy filled voice. "Greetings, milord. Milady." 

"Nice to meet you." Catia said.   

Gracchus nodded in greeting. "Sir Averlyn. How go things in Chorrol?"

"Fine." Averyln said with a bored expression. "Chorrol never changes. Things are moving quite fast though. The rest of the knights are readying for the upcoming war, while I linger here giving pleasantries." she said grumpily. "I'd rather things start soon, so we can end it soon." 

"I doubt the war will end quickly no matter when it begins." Gracchus said. "It seems destined to be a long, laborious fight."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." she said, her face remaining as cold as ever.

Lady Grey placed her arm around her cousin's shoulder and said, smiling: "Come on dear cousin, why must you remain so dour! Especially in front of the High General and his wife!" 

"Astrea you know me. I speak however I see fit." she said with a tiny smile. "So how goes Legion preparation general? I assume the mighty war macine will be ready to crush are enemies."

Suddenly there was a bit of commotion as people began to move about. It quickly became apparent that the royal couple was going to retire as the little Empress had been picked up in the arms of her much more comparably larger husband. The sheer size difference between the two made Dales almost look like a miniature of herself and her husband appear like a giant. 
Dales had her arms wrapped around Krojun's neck as she rested her head against his shoulder. Krojun left arm couldn't be seen, hidden under her large dress that almost threatened to get caught under his boot and topple him. Both had solemn smiles and looked at each other, seemingly with more of an acceptance than joy. 
Most people remained quiet, but all eyes were fixated on the couple as they left the large hall. Some people were whispering among each other. Most likely telling each other dirty or sneering thoughts of what was going to happen in the royal quarter. 

Catia and Gracchus watched the royal couple leave. Gracchus wondered if Dales was willing to forsake her sexuality for the Empire, or if Krojun would force her to, one way or another. She at least wouldn't have to bear any children, should she decide to take her brother's child as her heir. Assuming, again, Krojun would allow it. Gracchus thought it frustrating that he would never know if the Emperor was forcing Dales because of her potentially bound soul, or because of his will. It made determining her motivations all the murkier. 

"Hopefully they enjoy themselves." Catia said, though Gracchus could see she was slightly worried. 

"I hope so too." Gracchus said. "As to your question, Sir, I do believe the Empire is ready. We still have some work to do perfecting our siege weaponry, but that should be done before winter is out."

"Ah, good." The knight said underneath her breath.

Lady Grey watched the royal family leave as she said: "I do know a young maiden who wont be happy with that display. Though the Emperor is going to need some rope." She placed her gloved hand to her mouth and giggled. "Oh my. Did I say that out loud? My apologies."

Gracchus flashed an uncomfortable smile. "Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Sir Averlyn. And to see you again, Lady Grey."

"Yes, wonderful to see you both." Catia added.

"Yes of course!" Lady Grey said, energetically waving her hand. The knight just nodded her head, before going back to sulking.

Gracchus and Catia walked to the edge of the party, near the wall of the great hall. Gracchus sighed and shook his head. "I never thought we'd escape her."

Catia playfully punched his arm. "At least you weren't left alone with her. I don't know how we run into her at every party we attend."

"Maybe she has a spell on my armor that can track my movements." Gracchus said with a chuckle. 

"That would explain it. Maybe she's attracted to your grey hair." Catia traced her husband's beard with a finger. 

"I'm not nearly drunk enough to believe that."

Catia's smile quickly turned into a frown as she looked past Gracchus. "Speaking of drunk..."

Gracchus turned and saw High Admiral Meridius passed out in a chair near the corner of the room. His mouth was agape like the entrance to a cave, and he was snoring loudly. "We had better get him home. Or at least out of here."
He and Catia made their way over, and each positioned themselves under one of the Admiral's arms. They carried him from the great hall, and found two guards waiting outside. "Please take the High Admiral home, I think he's had enough fun for tonight."

Tacitus was waking up then, but was still too groggy to stand on his own, so the Cenos handed him off to the guards. They didn't look to pleased to be carrying the Admiral home, but they carried out their task without complaining. Gracchus and Catia went back into the great hall, but with the royal couple gone, some of the guests were starting to leave as well.

"Time to head home?" Gracchus asked.

"I think I've had enough sullen knights, talkative nobles, and somber generals for one night." Catia replied. 

Arm in arm, they left the Imperial Palace, heading for the comfort of their country home.

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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Titus Scipio
Cheydinhal
Noon

It had been almost a week since Titus and the others had gotten back from the border villages. The Divine Order had some access to the Great Chapel of Arkay. It had survived much and was still in rather good shape after hundreds of years. 
The Order had a house near the chapel square that they had turned into their headquarters. Apparently it had been a gift from the head priestess of the Great Chapel of Arkay to the Vigil of Stendarr when they were still active. Once the Vigil had dissolved and the remnants joined to form the Divine Order, they brought along the house which had proved to be very useful. Malder and Baro had been part of the Vigils when the house was given to them. Though neither was keen to talk about how things fell apart. 
Once back Malder simply seemed to lose much of his authority as Jeanne instead took charge. She would order people around, mostly just to collect coin for their charity or simply have them carry a large cauldron filled with stew she cooked up for the poor. Baro would disappear and then reappear a couple of days later, speak with Malder in private before disappearing again. And during it all Titus stayed with them. Partly because he didn't really want to go back to mercenary work and partly because he simply liked it there. Though he did find the chores Jeanne set him on to be somewhat beneath his dignity. Titus spent most of his time either working scrubbing the floors in the Great Chapel or simply lifting one end of a cauldron. 

One day Malder approached him and asked him for help. Malder had gotten word from Baro that a few witches had sunk their claws into a small town a day's ride from the city. The Order was going to need the authority to root them out and for that they needed to see the count. Malder wanted Titus to be there and help with the talking as Titus was one of the few members with a noble background and experience. While Titus admitted that his experience was limited, Malder still insisted him to be the best help he got at the moment as the other noble members were out of town. After some convincing Titus agreed to come.

The sun stood high as Titus and Malder walked along the main street of Cheydinhal. The streets were filled people walked here and there on their daily businesses. The castle ahead of them towered above the city on a green hill. As they approached the outer gates a guardsman stopped them from going any further. 
"We're to see the count." said Malder firmly. 

"Who wants to see the count?" asked the guardsman. His eyes ran over each of the men, lingering momentarily on their weapons. "He's a very busy person, doesn't have time for common rabble."

"We're from the Divine Order." said Titus with a lot more grace and courtesy he had been taught since young. "We were told the Count would be open for an audience at noon."

"You lot should get a sigil, so people can tell you apart from common sellswords. Look real official." Walking toward the keep, he said: "If you'll follow me."

Titus just nodded and followed. This time it was Malder's turn to follow him instead. Though as Titus glanced back at the big Nord over his shoulder, he could that Malder was rather out of his element. 
"How is the count today?" Titus then asked as they walked across the courtyard, wanting to get an idea of what they were to expect. 

"Fine I suppose. Busy, as he is most days. I'm sure you'll be well received," the guard said, though Titus couldn't tell from his tone if he was being sarcastic or sincere. 

"Hmm." Malder muttered. Though he otherwise remained quiet throughout their walk, which Titus thought was for the best. 

The guard led the group into the great hall of the keep, where Count Viranus Claevius sat on his throne. He was a Colovian, in his early forties, with pale skin and shaggy rust-colored hair. Beside him, within arms reach, was a large hunting dog, black with a brown muzzle. He looked attentively at the newcomers, though he continued to lay on the floor. Guards flanked the approach to the Count, while a few archers stood in on the raised balcony above the hall. The colors of Cheydinhal, green and gold, highlighted the hall, from banners and tapestries, to the dress of the guards and the Count. Titus' and Malder' escort left them at the entrance, so they made the approach alone. 
Titus approached the Count at a moderate pace, stopping just a couple of yards from the throne. "Greetings Count Viranus." he said with a deep bow. Malder stood behind Titus on his right and also bowed, though much less graciously. 

"Greetings." said the Count, nodding his head. "You are from the Divine Order, yes?"

"Of Purity." Malder added.

Titus gave the Nord a glance over the shoulder to silently tell him to keep quiet. Titus knew unneeded correcting of one's superior was generally considered bad manners.
"Yes we're from the Divine Order." Titus said. "We come to you seeking your blessing and approval of rooting evildoers in your realm."

Count Claevius narrowed his eyes at Malder, but then shifted his attention back to Titus. "All evildoers, or a specific group of them?"

"Witches, vampires, necromancers and other ilk that play with darker powers." Titus felt a little bit weird saying those words as they were more Jeanne's than his. He just hoped he didn't sound as preachy as Jeanne did. 

"If you plan on killing these people, you'll need to prove they're committing crimes. Especially since a large part of Cheydinhal are Dunmer who worship Daedra. You won't be allowed to mistake that for playing with dark powers." said Viranus.

"Necromancers kill to create their corpse armies, vampires prey on the living and witches cast curses that ruin the lives of entire villages. How much proof is required?" said Malder. 

"You may kill vampires and necromancers, but witches could simply be old mages blamed for crop failures, or disease," Viranus said. "Any witches must be proved guilty of actually cursing a village. And don't quote those outdated 'guilty until proven innocent' statutes at me. This is my land, and these are my rules."

"A fair judgement." said Titus. "We will find proof and present the proof along with the guilty to the local lord."

"Then you have my permission to carry out your crusade. Abide by the law, and we will have no trouble," the Count said. 

"Thank you, my count." said Titus with a bow. It took a second for Malder to follow suit and also bow. 

"You are welcome. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other business to attend to. One of my guards will show you out." said Viranus. He pointed to the two men, and a guard came forward to escort them out. 

Titus and Malder left the hall and the castle with the guards accompanying them to the castle gates. They were halfway down the hill when Malder suddenly drew a heavy sigh. 
"You did good." he then said to Titus. "I hope you didn't mind me dragging you into this."

Titus felt a sense of pride and accomplishment at those first words. Words he had never really heard from his own family. "I didn't mind. Though I think you could practice your courtly manners." said Titus half jokingly and a little smile. 

"Gods I hope I wont have to." said Malder with a chuckle. "Anyway, I got to go see Baro about the good news." 

"Can I come with you?" asked Titus. He wanted to get away from dullness of the chores Jeanne was having him do. Hunting some evil witches was also something that sounded exciting and reminded him of stories he had heard and read as young. 

"On the witch hunt? Sorry, but I think this endeavour will require delicate care. Something requiring people with experience."

"Fine." Titus couldn't help but sulk a little at the thought of having scrub the chapel floors on more time. 

"Don't you worry. You'll become a champion one day. Just wait and you'll see." Malder sounded somewhat sympathetic to Titus's plight. 

Titus drew a small sigh. It was reassuring to hear those words from someone as Malder. Though it didn't really make his plight of boredom that lied ahead of him any easier to endure

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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Titus
Cheydinhal, Great Chapel of Arkay
Late morning

Keeping the floors clean in the house of the god of death and life wasn't exactly work that brought divine wisdom. Titus hated the work and couldn't understand how Jeanne could keep getting him sent here. All the talk of learning how to be humble in the face of the gods seemed all like an excuse to use his labor to gain favor with the head priestess. Though scrubbing the floors was such lowly task that anyone could do that it seemed unlikely to curry any favors from anyone. 
The chapel itself was rather large with several pillars along the sides. Numerous lines of benches, with a narrow path in the middle, faced the circular altar at the head of the hall. Windows made of colored glass depicted each of the eight divines around the hall. The window that had depicted Talos was just a plain window. Despite the Thalmor being gone, the chapel had not yet been able to properly fund a new window. 
Though Titus could not see much of any of it all as he was at the moment busy with scrubbing the floors between the benches. Mumbling to himself over he had never had to scrub floor ever before in his entire life, he the large wooden doors into the chapel open slightly as someone walked inside. Titus just assumed someone was coming to pray a little and payed little mind to it. He heard the person sit down at one of the front row benches. Each sound little sound echoed ever so slightly throughout the hall. Soon enough he heard footsteps approach from deeper within the chapel. 
"Ah, Caelia. Good to see you." Titus heard the person from the front rows say. He immediately recognized the voice to Jeanne's. Curious, he carefully peeked his head above the benches to see the back of her as she was sitting at the front row. 

Titus saw another woman approach Jeanne. She was short, neither slender nor fat, her hair tied back in a simple braid. Her clothes were humble, the robes she wore a light blue and her shoes plain leather. Her only adornment was the amulet of Arkay she wore around her neck.
"Always a pleasure." Caelia answered, in a softer voice. "How are you, Jeanne?"

Titus then turned his head back down as not to get spotted for eavesdropping. Part of him thought it strange to overhear a apparently private conversation. But he was not exactly in a position to not listen into it as he could not leave or else forsake his task. 

"Good. I think things are going quite well." said Jeanne. 

"I'm more than glad to hear it." Caelia said. "I heard about the village your people saved. You continue to exalt Arkay in your mission, and for that I applaud you."

"Nothing to applaud. Returning the dead to their slumber was just something that had to be done." said Jeanne with a slightly humble tone. 

"But the Legion wouldn't have done it, and neither would the guards. You protect the sanctity of our souls, just as important as their protection of our walls and borders."

"Yes. It's a pity so few others take the time to protect the gods and their faithful."

"The Vigil were the last, and their fall discouraged so many. Those vampire hunters in Skyrim are valiant, but their focus is much too narrow. But the Divine Order, can take up the mantle and be the true protectors of the faith." Titus could hear Caelia sit down next to Jeanne, as the wooden pew creaked slightly. "And we at the Great Chapel are here to assist them, in whatever they need."

"A bit ironic since it's the men and women fighting in the Order that are here to assist us."

"We must help each other, if we are to protect the souls of the faithful," Caeloa said. "Do you know if the Divine Order needs any assistance? As I said, I am here to help."

"What I think they need the most is faith. Reassurance that they're doing the right thing. An official approval."

"A proclamation of support is the least we could do, for those that purge this land of heathens and transgressors who spit in the face of almighty Arkay." Caelia paused for a few moments before she continued. Titus could sense the hesitation. "But before we did, I would like to know, is there someone who leads the Order? Are they a strong leader, who will ensure the Order lasts? I only ask because we lost some dignity after the failure of the Vigil, and I would not want to make the same mistake again."

There was a brief silence before Titus heard Jeanne speak. "Malder is the one that leads the more active actions of the Order. But I'm the one that usually tells them of their purpose." There was another pause. "Maybe we should lead the Order." said Jeanne, her tone suggesting she had suddenly come up with an idea.

"You and Malder?" Caelia asked. 

"No. You, me and the other priests. Put the Order directly under the priesthoods control."

"Would they agree to that? It turns the organization into something new, something closer to a holy order than a charitable one."

"But that's what the Order was created for. I think the question is rather if the priesthood would accept them. And if the priesthood would be united enough to lead them well."

"This chapel? We're united enough. The others is a different question. It might be best, for the Order, if they didn't become a pawn of religious factions and politics."

"Though I think it's best if the Order gets an official leadership that the people can trust."

"Is that what you want, or what the gods are calling you to do?"

"I became a priestess because I knew it was my calling by the gods." said Jeanne solemnly. "And I believe this is what the gods want."

"Then you will have your support, from this chapel and from Arkay."

"I will inform the others. I'm sure they will become quite happy about this." said Jeanne with a mix of joy and hopefulness. "I think this will be the beginning of something great."

"Good luck to you, Jeanne, and may the gods bless your mission."

Titus noticed that he stopped scrubbing and began doing his chore again. He heard the footsteps of what he assumed was Jeanne walking towards the exit. He wondered what this would mean. There had been holy orders before, but they usually were neither influential enough to matter nor particularly pious.
Then he saw Jeanne walk by his row. She turned her head ever so slightly and glanced at him. But then she just returned her gaze forward and kept walking like she hadn't noticed him. Titus felt a little bad for getting caught eavesdropping and wondered if Jeanne would berate him for when they spoke again. But then again, she could just not consider it a big deal as she would now clearly have bigger things on her mind. 

Titus didn't know what to think of it all or where he would fit in in the grand scheme of things. So he just kept scrubbing the floor

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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Empress Dales Moitre,
Imperial City, Throne Room, 
Noon, 

The sun was high in the sky, sending its rays of light towards the surface of Tamriel. This year's winter in Cyrodiil, were surprisingly warm  (unless you were in Bruma)  in comparison to many before it. While being situated in the central part of the continent, Winters could be still very cold. Not as bad, as Skyrim of course, but not nearly as warm as some place such as Elswey. As such, the days, and nights, didn’t affect the population's decision to remain outside quite a bit. The heat was so unusual, some common folk weren’t even wearing long shirts, or pants! Children were playing among the white marble walk-ways of the Imperial City, woman were cleaning clothes on the laundry lines, men were grumbling about the price of bread, and patrols of Imperial Guardsmen were making their rounds. Despite what it was called, mid-day, was just the beginning of the day. And more importantly to the young Empress, woman were wearing less clothing. 

That would be a pleasing sight...alas. I’m trapped here, listening to the noblemen grumble at me. It had its own appeal, no doubt, and it’s my duty, but I wish I could enjoy outside. It is an unusually warm winter day, after all. Mother Kynareth must be drunk or some shit…. Dales grumbled to herself,

Unlike the day before, the Imperial Throne Room was heavily crowded with people, and very busy. Nobles wearing fine clothing, which included lovely young ladies of court clad in the latest fashions, Imperial Legionaries on duty patrolling (as the Empress always kept a detachment/century of Second Legion soldiers stationed in the palace, for security reasons), merchants worriedly waited to say there proposals, servants hurrying around to do their jobs, were in abundance. The surrounding area around the Ruby Throne was certainly very vibrant, and full of life. At court, seldom did things get boring. The white marble walls, and pillars, went along with the bright red fabrics of the carpets, and window curtains that adorned the throne room. Twin Imperial banners stood at the entrance to the door, blood red, and depicting a black Dragon sigil.  It was so odd to the Empress. The Empire had been reduced to single province, two if you count Orismer which in its latest form was in its infancy, and yet, the Empress dealt with so many issues in a single day. It seems Cyrodiil had enough of it’s own problems to contend with. A thought which kept back the Empresses dark desires of expansion to the back of her head.  

The Empire was an undying Dragon. Eternel. She knew expansion would happen, almost certainly after her death. Far after. But the Empire would rise again. For all the mockery, and scorn like an ex-lover it got from the other provinces, the Empire was notoriously difficult to permanently put down. Her dynasty would extend forth from the ages, and her descendants would conquer Tamriel! Abby may not be her daughter by birth, but she still had her blood, and Dales had grown to love the baby girl as her own. She was her daughter. And she would give birth to sons, as well as daughters. And they would carve a name of Draconius for themselves. They would be Princesses, Princes, Knights, Generals, Legionaries, Emperors and Empresses. The Empress could, frankly, not believe, she had been the start of an entire line of rulers! She would live on, through their blood. If she lived the next fews years that is.  Dales truly was, the last Moitre. 

Blood is strength. Blood is power. Blood is family. Blood is everything. 

The Empress gently closed her eyes, and listened to the sounds of court. The clinking armor of Imperial soldiers marching in patrol. Jabbering from noblewomen bickering about the latest fashion. Servants sweeping the floors. It relaxed her, and put her mind to ease, Especially at the thought of gorgeous highborn ladies. Scarlet lips. Pale skin. Inviting smiles. Plump rears. Appealing breasts. 

Maybe The Empress shouldn’t fantasize about beautiful young noble women, but she had to pass the time at court somehow! 

While Dales found it quite hard in the beginning, she paid the young ladies little mind. As beautiful as they were, they were nothing more than sweet faces She couldn’t have them.. She was not her master, she couldn’t attempt to seduce any pretty woman. She needed to maintain decorum. It was expected of her, as the Empress of the Empire.  

No more hookers and booze for the Empress. Alas...

The Empress, her cold blue eyes staring at the crowd, made a sideways glanced, yawning slightly as she reclined in her chair. Today, the Empress wore a magnificent dress of splendid purple which went down to her feet, which had small gems sewn into it, along with purple cloth gloves, red shoes, and a silver ring adorned with a emerald. Her pale blonde hair was done loseley, which held the Imperial Ruby Dragon Crown. She didn’t bother to fix her long, blonde hair. The darkened steel crown, looked downright sinister, and along with the Empresses cold, dagger-like stare, black bags underneath her eyes and, dead voice,  made her quite intimidating to face. Her short height notwithstanding. Elan, and Victoria had always called Dales “adorable”, and rarely “beautiful”. She found herself, without boasting anything, fairly attractive, a highborn lady in appearance. That was completely marred by her mannerism, and look. The slouch she wore, on her throne added to that.  Someone, obviously not well-informed, might infer the material used to make the crown, being high quality bradden steel, showed a certain “cheapness”.  That wasn’t the case. The Ruby Dragon Crown was a symbol of strength, and martial might. Most Emperors, and Empresses, were warrior-monarchs, and that was reflected in the crown they choose to wear. Steel was the metal of war, and the ruby, the gem of war, reflecting the crimson blood that was spilled in abundance. As one of the most powerful women in Tamriel, Dales word could bring forth untold destruction, and blood. 

The detachment of Palace Guards stood on duty, there white-gold armor reflecting the light from the windows, which were adorned with crimson, embroidered window curtains. Each one of the eighty members of the Imperia Palentina whom had the honor of guarding the throne room wore the heavy plate mail. Very similar in appearance to standard Imperial Watch armor, the white-gold plate was lustrous indeed. The armor was a symbol of the Palatina’s honorable position in the Legion as the protectors of the royal family. The plate itself was made from galatite ingots, and adorned with Calcinium, to give it the shining gold edge. They wore black leather belts, adorned with a golden Imperial Dragon buckler, which sat underneath, black leather pteruges. On there back sat white cloaks, which were clapes with gold brooches. For helmets, they had old fashioned, closed Imperial helmets, with black horse hair. On their belts they carried silver gladiuses, which were adorned with a single, blood red ruby on the hilt.  The short blade was both a side weapon, and a symbol of their office. For main weapons, about thirty bore silver claymores, and the other thirty had ebony tipped spears, which they wielded with steel tower shields.  On the sides, upon the two balconies of the throne room, sat the other twenty Palace Guards, ten on each balcony. Unlike the soldiers on the ground, they carried white-oak crossbows, ready to fire bolts upon the ground in a moments notice. They sat on overwatch, ready to eliminate threats, constantly scanning below. The entire Imperial Palentina consisted of about five hundred members, and guarded the Imperial Palace, including the surrounding Green Emperor Way. All were chosen from the best of the Legion, and Imperial Watch. They served in five separate cohorts, lead by five prelates, and one prelate Custodes. Despite their small number, the Imperial Palentina even had there own Imperial Dragon Standard. Each standard was a symbol of the Legion that bore it, blessed by Tiber Septim himself in the Second Era. Any Legion that lost their standard was dishonored, and shamed, as such, to avoid capture, a Dragon was usually held in the Legion headquarters, and not on the field.  Each Dragon Standard was unique to each Legion, which included the Dragon's material, and the gemstones it bore in its eye. The Imperial Palentina’s Dragon Standard was made from rare white-gold, and held pale diamonds for it’s eye, which the kept in a deep vault, hidden within the Imperial Palace. 

They were the Empresses Loyal Legion, and served her with both pride, and honor. 

About ten of them surrounded the Ruby Throne, though they didn’t guard the Empress herself. That was left to her personal bodyguard, a former Redguard cataphract, who was by her at all times. A member of Greywolf, the soldier wore heavy Lamellar armor, with sheets of chainmail, as well as a mail coith that covered his entire face. On his back, he had a purple cape, embroidered with a silver dragon. He had a long, great spear drawn, as well as a scimitar on his hip. He silently gazed at the crowd, scanning for threats against the Empress. Nhakir had no reason to speak, so he seldom did. Unless to give orders. In the Legion he was a Tribune, in the Occultus, he was a Captain. His family had served in the Legion since the time of Tiber Septim, so his loyalty to the Empire went past his loyalty to his native province by far.  He leaned on a white marble pillar, beside the Empress. He always kept his spear dipped in Manticore poison, so normally, a single thrust of his spear would kill an enemy combatant, regardless if the spear stab was fatal or not. 

As the Empress reclined on her throne, with a look of mild boredom, her steward, called out so the assembly of nobles, guardsmen, servants, and more importantly, the Empress could hear him, despite the fact he was right beside the Empress. The man, wore crimson red garments of silk, and bore a funny hat, odd in design, which held a red feather of a sparrow on the top, “The next case her Majesty, Empress Dales Draconius the First, Ruler of the Empire, Guardian of Cyrodiil, Lady of the Ruby Throne- “ The steward went on with more titles for the next fifteen seconds, “-shall receive, is the homicide of an Elder Councilors son, Tiridus Lupus. As by his right, his father, Dux’s Viatilion Lupus, of House Lupus, has requested that Empress Draconius stand judgement on the accused.”

Ah...the old wolf is howling.  

The Dux was a rather...unusual rank, in the Imperial hierarchy.  A Duke of the Imperial Nobility, who had taken an upper military position in the Imperial Legion would be given the rank of “Dux’s”, roughly equivalent to a Legate, or General. It was usually reserved for times of war, but some dukes choose to wear it outside of war in periods of peace. Usually heads of Imperial Knightly Orders. But the Empress already knew who this was.  

Stepping inside the palace, walked brisly, a massive figure of a man. The Imperial was almost seven feet tall, and heavily muscular, which his width was further increased by the heavy set of Imperial armor he wore, so large, one could mistake him for an Orc or Nord. Plain and bare, the heavy plate was nevertheless, dented, and covered in scratches from times of war. The tabard he wore over his equipment was grey, and adorned with his family sigil, a white wolf howling, among a white moon. On his leather belt he bore a large broadsword, like his armor, plain with no discerning things of note. In his right hand, he carried a simple Imperial helmet, though it’s top carried a skinned wolf’s head. On his back, he was wearing the rest of the wolf, as a cloak. His hair was black, though specks of grey mingled here and there, which he wore short, military style. His grey beard was well-shaven, and not too long, but still had a respectable length. At his side, six household guards, clad in the exact same armor, followed behind, and in tow, walked behind a much smaller woman. She had the clothes of a commoner, along with a pink shawl she wore over her shoulders. Long brown hair, and brown eyes, she was young, and beautiful. Going by the shackles she had on her wrists, Dales could easily assume she was the accused. 

Long ago, Dales couldn’t even comprehend such a...lovely young woman harming a single soul, but the Empress knew all too well looks could be quite deceiving. 

One of the Dux’s guards, his herald going by the fact he wore the Dux’s personnel family sigil, announced, “Introducing Dux Viatilion Lupus of the House Lupus, Elder councilor, Lord of Hearthacre,” As the Dux walked down the scarlet carpet, the few second legion soldiers stationed crisply saluted, which he returned. The young woman was pushed roughly, as she hesitated to walk forward, by the Dux’s household guards, as she followed behind. When the Dux reached the stairs leading up to the ruby throne, he crisply did a Legion fist salute, and fell onto one knee, followed by his soldiers, “Your Majesty, Draconius…” He said, his voice rough and coarse, 

“Dux Lupus. It’s been quite a long time. You haven’t really attended any council meetings recently, have you?” The Dux said, “I have time better spent doing things of actual importance, your majesty. Like preparing my soldiers for war, instead of haggling with greedy old men.” His back posture was impeccable, and even after so many years without war, he carried himself like a proper officer of the Legion

The Empress chuckled, before raising her gloved hand, “Indeed.” Said the Empress. She reclined in her chair, before saying in a slightly disinterested tone, “My condolences for your son, Dux.” The Empresses cold eyes took in the Dux. Though she thought he wore plain armor from a distance, she could tell he had modified it in some ways, most noticeably increased steel plating added to the pauldrons, and chest guard, as well as some gold adornment on his chest, and shoulder pads.  The Empresses gaze passed to his household guards, which like him, had a slight difference in Legion equipment. The material used to make their armor seemed to be iron, instead of legion steel. Cheaper to make to be sure, especially for a glorified militia, as all household guards were, which were usually little more than forty, or fifty men. 

It seems, the Empire had avoided the problems that the Breton monarchy had always faced. It seemed so simple to them. Don't let your individual nobles field armies...Of course, this opened up a completely different can of worms. Generals controlled there legions, and more often than not, the soldiers of that Legion were loyal to their general before anyone else, including the monarch in power. Instead of being backstabbed by the nobility, an Imperial monarch needed to keep his or her generals happy. 

The dux solemnly nodded his head, “Thank you your grace. He was an idiot.” The Dux paused, some of the assembled nobility shocked by such disregard for his recently deceased son, before  he continued, “But he was still my son, and I loved him.” He glanced at the young woman with disgust, and hatred, “ I would have him receive, proper justice!” He grabbed her by the shoulder, and pushed her towards the Empress, “Kneel before your Empress, whore!” 

Such foul language…

The woman yelped after her rough treatment, before falling onto her knees, as she said, her voice low toned, “Your majesty.” Viatalions herald spoke, “The accused, Julia Scipio is accused of the murder of Tiridus Lupus. The Empress shall stand in judgement, and declare her guilt, or innocence.” Dales cold blue eyes opened up wide, as she scanned the woman. She was surely attractive, as she could tell from a distance. Going by her rather...revealing garb, makeup, and general mannerism, Dales could automatically assume she was a prostitute. So the Dux was describing her profession.

Dales eyed the woman oddly, before saying, calling out, “I need the details, and reason for this suspicion, Dux.” She leaned back, and relaxed in her chair. This is going to be a long day. 

The Dux wasted no time, “Tiridus hadn’t returned home, so I sent my men to find him in an...establishment he was known to frequent, a rather high class whore house. The girls there told them they had seem him earlier, going into a room with...this ****, who my son was a well-known patron of. When they entered, they found her kneeling over his corpse, covering in his blood, bloody dagger in hand!” He pointed his gauntleted finger at the woman, “This whore murdered my son, her guilt is clear! Both to us, and the gods!” 

Dales placed her hands to her lap, before eying the group. She choose her words carefully, as she told the prostitute, “A very precarious situation you were caught in, wouldn’t you agree, milady?” The young girl nodded her head, tears forming on her eyes. The woman said, her voice tinged with sorrow, and shyness, “My Empress-” The Dux slammed his elbow into her side, saying, “You will address her as, your grace!”

The girl's tears remained, as she yelped in pain. Dales raised her hand, speaking in a stoic voice, “Dux, let the girl speak.” The ex-soldier grunted, but nodded his head. The prostitute spoke, batting her eyelashes, “Your grace, what I was about to say, was, it would only be considered precarious if you believed this man’s words!” 

The Dux’s eyes shone with rage, as her grabbed her by the arm, shouting, “Are you calling me a liar whore?!” 

The girl pleaded, “You're hurting me!” Dales raised her voice, as she said, “Enough, Dux! I commanded you before, and I won't do so again, let the girl speak.” The Dux snarled, before letting her go, crossing his arms in anger. Dales crossed her own arms, before speaking up again, “Barring his displays of anger, i’m more inclined to trust the Dux, milady. After all,  after finding you by his dead sons body, he could have strung you up on a tree outside the City, but instead choose to contact the authorities, and give you a proper trial. Regardless, I wish to hear your side of the story.” The Empress placed her hands to her lap, and inspected the young girls facial features. She didn’t shudder under her gaze.
 
She began to speak, “Tis true. I did kill the Elder Councilors son.” The Dux began to yell, but Julia continued before he could speak, “It was, however, in self defense…”  Dux Lupus yelled, his hands quivering in anger, “Liar! My son couldn’t hurt a fly! He was a weak, mewling kid to be sure, but no abuser!” Dales raised her hand, leaning forward on the Ruby Throne, “Will you stop these constant interruptions, Dux? Or i’ll have you removed from the Throne Room…” The Dux face flushed red with shame, as he nodded,

“Yes your grace…” Dales motioned towards the prostitute with her hand, “Continue, Julia.”

The prostitute nodded her head, “Thank you, your grace. As I was saying that night...Tiridus came to me...drunk. Normally, I wouldn’t care but he told me he wanted..”a little extra tonight”. I’m quite used to being treated rough by men, so I agreed…” She made a sniffle, as tears fell from her eyes, Poor girl…

Julia continued her version of events, “When I took off my clothes, he grabbed me by the neck, and put a knife to my throat. He...wanted to do things to me. I feared for my life, so I struggled against his grip, and fought him throughout the room. I...wrestled the knife from his hands, and grappled with him, before slitting his throat. I’m sorry, I had no choice!” Julias makeup was now distorted by the salty tears spilling forth from her eyes, and to Dales, she looked pathetic. The Empress felt immense sympathy for the girl. With her eyes downcast, Julia spoke up, “Please dont kill me...I did it to defend myself….” 

The Dux’s face distorted with anger, as he pointed one of his gauntleted fingers at the woman, “Do you think a pretty face will save your skin?! The Empress won't fall for your tricks! You Lying bitch! You murdered my son in cold blood!” The prostitute snickered, as she became angry, “Nay, I think the Empress will see the truth behind my words, cur! Your boy was a whoreson, who abused woman, and in her wisdom, the Empress will know that!” The Dux became even more angry, as he shouted, “You good for nothing ****!” 

The Empress got out of her chair, yelling with a resolute, and stern voice, that was filled with authority, “Enough of this bickering!” The Dux faced the Empress, and fell onto one knee at her wrath. The prostitute once again became teary eyes. Dales sat back down on her throne, reclining on the glorified chair, she made a hand gesture, “Dux Lupus tells me one thing, you tell me another!” She motioned towards Julia. The Empress placed one of her gloved hands to her chin, deep in thought, before continuing, “It seems we are at an impasse here. The fact of the matter is, Julia, milady, that you killed Tiridus Lupus. You do not deny that. But you plead self-defense, correct?” 

Julia nodded her head. Dales turned to face the Dux, her pale blonde hair obscuring part of her face, “And you Dux, have nothing to contest that claim, besides your words about your son's...benevolence, correct?” 

The Dux’s features hardened, as he practically spat, “Aye, your grace. Nothing. But I wouldn’t trust the words of a common whore!” He doesn't view me as a lady it seems. Such a potty mouth… Dales gave the Dux a slight smile, as she said, “It’s my duty, to view the words of a commoner, equal to the words of a Dux, dear Viatolion when I sit on this Throne. I am a judge in this case, and a judge judges based on facts, evidence, and truth. I cannot value a person's words, based on their social standing, or reputation. And to be frank, neither of you have really convinced me on any side. You have nothing but words. I cannot rely on you, or Julias word alone. I need more information.” She clapped her hands together, as she yelled to one of her guards, “Summon my wolves, and spectres…”  One of the palace guards guarding the stairway leading to the throne, sharply saluted, kneeling as he said, “Yes, your Majesty Draconius.” 

After about ten minutes or so of waiting the Palace Guard came back with a duo of Occultus operatives. A member of Greywolf, and a Spectre. The spectre was clad in the leather equipment of a standard Occultus agent, blackened leather armor, but wore a cloak and a hood, which went well with a dark scarf he wore over his mouth. She could only see his eyes, which were green.  He had a dagger at his side, along with a quiver filled with iron tipped arrows, and an elven longbow, which he had on his back. The Greywolf agent, was clad in the usual leather, and chainmail surcoat his group usually had, along with a two and a half sword. He had oily black hair, and a well-shaven beard. The duo, as they approached their monarch, fell to their knees bowing, “Your majesty…”

****
Imperial City, Naughty Daedra’s Brothel
Noon, 

The Greywolf agent, Valerian Atreides crouched among the blood stained ground, inspecting every little detail on the wood before him. The room was rather large, a place to entertain the noble patrons the prostitutes received daily. The bed was large, and had rich silk bedding for covers. Which were currently bathed in blood. When it came to tracking, the smallest details were often times the most important.  That's what Colonel Grim-Maw had taught him. At the same time, the fact Valerian couldn’t find anything was equally telling. All that was here was blood it seemed. No marks in the ground. No broken furniture. No torn bedding. No signs that a fight had happened here, as the whore had described. The agent scratched his beard. This was rather unusual. As Valerian inspected the room for anymore clues, his partner stepped inside, opening the door slightly. The Bosmer said, rather deadpan, pushing the door open only to the extent he could see a slight shadow, “Has the little dog sniffed enough?” 

Valerian nodded his head, ignoring the little quip, “Aye.” His companion asked, “And what conclusion has the mighty hunter come up with?” Valerian spoke, “Well, I think the little bitch is lying. That much is clear.” He pointed to the perfectly intact chairs, drawers, and other furniture, “Nothing is damaged. If this was a fight, like she said, there would be, at the very least, some marks here and there, but nothing.” Valerian paused, before saying, “I also talked to the Imperial Watchman who was summoned here, and he inspected the corpse before it was taken away. He said not only was his throat cut, he also suffered several repeated stabs to his torso. As in dozens.” He glanced away, “The person who did him in, must have taken whatever offense very personally, to kill him in such a brutal way. Already several holes in the girl's story…nobody would have been able to hear him scream anyhow, sound proof walls.” He eyed his spectre brother, before saying, “And you, heard anything interesting from the other girls?” The Bosmer motioned behind him, opening the door fully, to reveal a sad looking woman. She had red hair, and brown eyes. An Imperial by the looks of her.  

“I think we have enough to illuminate the situation to the Empress, my friend.” 

****
Imperial City, Throne Room, 
Noon 

“And that’s how it is. I can say for certain, no fight took place in the room where the murder happened.” The Occultus agent finished explaining to the court, in front of the Empress, and the rest of the court. Dales had listened in on the agent's explanation with much interest, occasionally glancing to Julia to see her reaction. She hadn’t moved an inch, or even figeted. Dales nodded to the Occultus agent, “Excellent work, Sergeant.” The member of Greywolf, bowed his head deeply, “So it seems the accused lied to me…” Uttered the Empress, as she eyed the prostitute with scorn. The spectre beside the greywolf, stepped forward. The man bowed his head deeply, before saying, “Not only do we have Sergeant Atreides report on the crime scene, we have a witness to the crime.”

As he said those words, Julia’s eyebrows raised, and a look of fear appeared on her face. A young, pretty woman stepped forward. She was wearing similar clothes to Julia, and looked a good deal younger than her. She went to the stairway leading upwards to the Throne, as she knelt, “Your grace…my name is Maria Valecia” Dales motioned forward with her hand, “You witnessed the murder, milady?”  The other prostitute nodded her head, “Heard, your majesty...and I also know quite a bit about the motivation, and the surrounding details.” Suddenly out of nowhere, Julia screamed, bloody murder, “You traitorous bitch!”. Her one pitiful face became wracked with pure, unbridled rage, as she charged forward, intent on snapping the other womans neck. Thankfully, before she could reach her, Sergeant Atreides had grabbed hold of her, restraining her with his large, broad arms. She kicked, and bit at his arms, but the Occultus agent held firm. Dales ordered, “Restrain her!” She turned to face Maria once again, “Continue milady...”

The terrified Maria breathed in a huge mouthful of air, before explaining everything.

Being watched by the entire court, Maria explained Tiridus’s, and Julia’s love affair. About how how Tiridus smothered the prostitute with gifts, treated her with infinite kindness, and affection, almost like she was his mistress. He didn’t even sleep with anyone else, but her.  And even if he no other reason, he was very kind to the other girls, and gave them gifts as well.  That happiness ended when Julia revealed to the noble, a dark truth. She was pregnant. With his son. The nobleman himself was overjoyed, if a little uneasy due to the fact he would need to take care of a bastard, but nevertheless, was very happy. Until Julia insisted that they make their son, and there liason public. Tiridus venomously refused. Julia gave birth a few months later, and all was well. Dux Lupus listened to the prostitute's tale with an expression of shock.  For a time. Julia began to stew in her anger, and soon started to have delusions that Tiridus was sleeping with other women, She would rants for hours to Maria about her suspicions, for an entire year. On the night of the murder, Maria had heard Julia rant for hours, about finally, “giving him his just deserts”. She had seen Tiridus walk into that fateful room, and never come out. 

After she finished, Dales placed her hands to her lap, and sadly sighed, Again, I was nearly fooled by a pair of breasts, and a female smile. Thank the gods for the Occultus.  Dales, her cold eyes, staring down upon the obviously guilty prostitute, said in a monotoned voice, “Does the accused have anything to say, in response to this?” Julia’s eyes filled with rage, as her fists curled into balls. For such a skinny girl, she had a surprising amount of strength, though the Occultus agent held her in place. Her voice quivered with anger, and hate, 

“I deserved more! I deserved fine silks, gems, gold chains, silver plates, everything! That man…” Her voice was filled with pure loathing, as she practically spat, “Was content to keep me his private whore! I was nothing else to him! Our son, was nothing to him! He should have been raised in a mansion! I should have been living in a mansion! But no.”  Julia eyes narrowed down at the Dux, “He said his father would never approve!” The Dux crossed his arms, as he spat, “No, I wouldn’t. My son deserved far better than a selfish, greedy ***** such as yourself, you mad bat!” He spat on the ground by her feet. Dales eyed the duo, her cold, emotionless stare ever present. 

Speaking in a monotoned voice, Dales uttered, so the assembled court could hear her, standing up from her throne “As my right as Empress, holder of the Ruby Dragon Crown, The defender of the Empire, I, Empress Dales Draconius, in front of all the people, soldiers, and gods of the Empire, declare you guilty of murder, Julia Scipio. In my view, everyone is equal in death, in the eyes of the gods.” She glanced at her surrounding subjects, speaking loud enough so everyone could hear her, “Whatever their social status, or class. From commoner, to nobleman. Justice should be the same for any of them. However, the laws of the Empire are very clear. Tiridus Lupus was the son of an Elder Councilor.” She paused, eying the girl, “And you murdered him in cold blood. Therefor, your sentence shall be thrice as harsh as it normally would be.” The woman's eyes suddenly filled with fear, as she reverted back to her fake persona from before, “No, please your majesty, have mercy! I...I have a son!” Dales yawned, her cold eyes remaining indifferent, “Then you should have thought of him, before you murdered his father.” Dales paused for a moment, before continuing, “As Dux Lupus gave me the mantle of judge, instead of a civil court, I get to choose the sentencing as my right as your Empress. I could have you imprisoned…” She began to scratch her chin, as Julia’s eyes filled with hope. False hope. Dales shook her head, “But I think not. Instead, I will give Dux Lupus the choice of your punishment.” At her words, Dux’s Lupus’s eyes raised in surprise, he bowed his head deeply, “Truly your majesty Draconius, you honor this old soldier.” Dales yawned slightly, “I honor those who do not lie to me, Dux. And I condemn those who do. Your are the former.” She faced the Julia. “And you are the later.”  She said, “So Dux, what will it be? I give you the power over life and death. Now choose.”

I hate liars...

The armored Dux scratched his beard, deep in thought, his brown eyes filled with rage. He glanced at the sniveling woman before him, and then to the Empress, before saying, “Hang the *****.” Julia’s eyes opened up widely, as she pleadingly glanced at the Empress, silently begging for mercy. Dales closed her own, as she sat back in her throne, waving her hand, “Guards, escort Miss Scipio to the gallows in the market, and hang her. Make sure there’s a crowd. Show them the price of unquenchable greed and lust.” Dales reclined back into her chair, as she placed her hands to her lap. Julia screamed, pleading, and begging, tears rushing forth from eyes. All fell on deaf ears. Sergeant Atreides passed her off to a palace guard, who grabbed her, and roughly put her in chains.  A group of ten formed palace guards formed around her, as well as the Dux and his guard. Without another world, Julia was being escorted to her public execution.  

As Julia's screams faded in the distance, Dales closed her eyes, and listened to the sounds. Odd. Like before, when she summarily executed the Baron, Dales felt...nothing. No hatred but no empathy.  She a murderer. A criminal. She was deserving of the her fate. She took a life unjustly, now her life would be taken. So this is what it feels like to condemn a criminal. And yet I feel...no pity. No shame. Just a cold, bitter feeling. Empty. A slight smile formed on her lips. She could take life without feeling guilt, or anything. This was good She wouldn’t have to worry about her feelings getting in the way. She would not harm, or condemn the innocence. But people who deserved her wrath, would receive it without mercy. 

*****

Imperial City, Empresses Study 

Night,

Look how the moon has risen, The Empress had though to herself as she glanced outside of her window. The pale, hunger gibbous moon danced under the stars, shining rays of unwholesome moonlight across the plains. Her mother had told her, that Dales was born on a gibbous moon. A night filled with fog, and rain. A dreary, and horrible night. Today had been a very busy day. She wasn't in the mood for reading. Just thinking of the events that had happened were more then enough. Julia had been taken to the marketplace, and hung. Her body, was on display still, or so the Empress thought. The was quite content with the results of her trial. Thankfully, after some convincing from the Empress, the Dux had been convinced by Dales to take his sons bastard in. A young baby such as himself shouldn't pay for the sins of his mother. Truthfully, the actions she had taken to make sure the baby was taken care of was, was the only way she would have been able to sleep tonight. 

Like she had said, Dales was not in the mood for reading. Some days, she would simply stare at the window, and glance outside at the growing stars, moon, and other sights. 

It was very relaxing, and soothed the mind. 

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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Theodore Adrard

 

Camlorn Castle

 

Morning

 

 

 

Theodore wound his way down the stairs into Camlorn’s dungeon. It was over a week since Theo imprisoned the Mon family down here. A week of solitude for the adults, all separated from each other. The children were kept together in a larger cell, a floor above the lightless, cramped quarters that constituted the real dungeon. Here too were the Montclairs, those treasonous singers Mon paid to spy for him. The third member of their trio, the fiddler Damon Ivey, had turned them in. Theodore descended towards the imprisoned traitors cloaked in confidence. He had effectively, and quickly, suppressed the first threat to his reign, and upon Mon’s confession, he would show to all High Rock what happened when they opposed their king.

 

Getting the confession was more difficult than anticipated, though. Mon had so far withstood threats to all his family members, and even repeated torture could not coerce a confession, though there were plenty of screams. Theo hadn’t expected such resilience from the man, though Theo knew it was stubbornness, not valor, which kept Mon’s mouth shut. Today he would begin to break that stubbornness, and reveal to the world the cowardly nature of the Duke.

 

Theodore approached the cell and had the guards unlock it. It was too small for him to enter, so he stood in the doorway. The King had Sir Maric bring a small bowl of cold stew forward, and Theo set it down in front of Mon, who huddled in the corner furthest from the door.

 

“Eat. I’ll not have you die before you’ve been properly punished,” Theodore said.

 

“Kill me now, kill me later, its all the same,” Mon mumbled, but he crawled forward and took the food anyway.

 

Pitiful coward. Doesn’t even have the stomach to go out on his own terms. The only downside to nobility is that a rat like him could have as much power as he had simply by birth. Men like him deserve less than the poorest peasant.

 

Theodore let Mon finish the soup before he spoke again. “You know, you plot was quite clever, having that Direnni killed in my court. No one could ignore that. Not half as clever as poisoning yourself at your brother-in-law’s coronation, though.

 

Mon looked at Theo with venom in his eyes. But it was a sad anger, as Mon could never tell anyone Theo’s confession. No one would hear it, and if they did, no one would believe it. Theo smiled at the man’s state. “You would have had the position, you know. Leland is spineless; he would have capitulated since I gave him the lordship of Wayrest. But your rude treatment of the Nords was enough to end those thoughts. And your own pride made you work with the Thalmor, of all people. Was it really worth it?”

 

Mon didn’t answer, but Theodore hadn’t expected him to. It was true, what he said, about Mon intended for the position. But Mon’s rudeness and less than skilled diplomacy sunk that. He couldn’t stand to be pleasant for even one day, and evidently High King Stormcloak hadn’t taken to him. And Leland was more than capable of managing large financial sums. Theodore didn’t say it because he felt bad, of course. It was to anger Mon still, and Theodore knew it worked as Mon silently seethed in the corner. But there was something else there, hidden behind the very real hate. A flicker of hope, maybe, or a hint of smugness? Theodore could not place it, but he didn’t like it. Nothing should bring Mon happiness down here.

 

“I’m surprised at you, Duke. Three days and nary a question about your family. Don’t you want to know what crimes they’ve confessed to? Which ones survived the questioning?”

 

The hope, or smugness, whichever it was, disappeared, rage and loathing the only emotions Mon displayed. He spat at Theo, his saliva showing the hate his words could not. That’s better. Wallow in your disgust for me. But you will be punished, slowly, so that when you finally break, you will be dead inside. Then your execution will unite your body with its dead soul.

 

Theodore cast one more disdainful look at Mon before he left. The guard locked the cell, while Sir Maric followed the King back up the stairs. They quickly climbed the stairs, back to the ground floor, and then followed the hallways and climbed more stairs to the chamber where Theodore held his meetings with his Council of Lords.

 

When Theodore and Sir Maric entered, the remaining members were already assembled. Lady of Secrets Gaerhart, Lord Admiral Theirry, Lord General Estermont, Royal Battlemage Virelande, and Court Wizard Winvale. Queen Elayne and Prince Roland were there as well. Lord Regent Traven, and his daughter, Princess Lyenna, had returned to Northpoint to attend the funeral of Traven’s sister, who had sadly committed suicide recently. Apparently her son’s death in the war weighed too much on her mind. Theodore noticed Lord Treasurer Leland was also missing, but without reason. The room seemed oddly still, as if most of the occupants were afraid to breath. He knew something was wrong.

 

As Sir Maric, the Captain of the Guard, took his place at the oval table, Theodore asked, “Where is Henry?”

 

“Not in this realm any longer,” Winvale said, chuckling to himself.

 

“He was assassinated by a whore,” Elayne said, her voice soft but not sad.

 

 

“Mon’s doing?” Theodore asked.

 

“Yes; it seems this prostitute owed something of a debt to him,” Joslin Gaerhart answered.

 

“And was she captured?” Theodore asked.

 

“Killed trying to escape,” Lady Gaerhart said.

 

That was it, then, the source of Mon’s smug expression. He’d ordered the hit on Leland before he was taken prisoner, and had expected Theodore to find out at that day or those following. Theo frowned, not at Leland’s loss, as that was of the least consequence, but at Mon’s obtaining even a modicum of success. It was sickening.

 

“Who will inherit his company?” Roland asked.

 

“Better yet, who will inherit his position on the council?” Elayne asked.

 

“I suppose that bastard of his will. He’s been working for his father for sometime now, running parts of the company,” Theodore said. “As for his position, it seems we have two options. Duke Charien of Farrun, or Leland’s wife Madame Loseph.”

 

“Charien? Him?” Admiral Theirry said. “I’d rather give the job to my wooden leg. The man has no spine.”

 

Theodore agreed, but didn’t vocalize his agreement, and simply nodded at Theirry’s description. He didn’t want Charien either, but Madam Loseph was a much more clever woman than her new, now late, husband Lord Leland.  She was more than smart enough to handle the financial matters of the realm, though, and her kids were now the heirs to Wayrest. Better to keep her close, and allied with the ruling family.

 

“It seems Madame Loseph is the only real choice. Is she still here? I know she came to discuss matters with Leland only a few days ago,” Theodore asked.

 

“She has not left,” Lady Gaerhart answered.

 

“I will discuss her new appointment with her later, then,” Theodore said. “Anything else?”

 

“That letter from Skyrim,” Lord General Estermont said. “Seems they’re not wasting any time trying to find a new king. They’ve called a moot, whatever the hell that is.”

 

Skyrim was a mess, Theodore knew, so it was better they not waste any time. They had just suppressed their Forsworn when the Thalmor attacked Windhelm and the new city, Kyne’s Watch. Not to mention raiders burned Riften to the ground, and Ulfric Stormcloak was dead. It worried Theodore that the provinces of the alliance were experiencing such upheaval, and hoped that it wasn’t a foreboding sign of things to come. It especially worried Theodore that the province that was supposed to lead the alliance was suddenly looking unstable itself. It certainly would give Cyrodiil just cause to protest the Nords being at the helm.

 

Suddenly curious, Theodore asked, “Who wrote the letter?”

 

Lady Gaerhart pulled the letter from a pocket. It hadn’t been opened, though Theodore suspected his mother-in-law knew anyway. She’d been chosen as spymaster for a reason. “The Nord delivering it said it was from Jarl Red-Snow. I thought he mistaken, but when I pressed him he said the General was now a Jarl, in Windhelm no less.”

 

Theodore thought that curious, as he distinctly remembered Veleda Stormcloak, and wondered why the living wife of the dead king and jarl had not taken her husband’s place. Not only that, but his friend and High General had taken it in her stead. While he didn’t suspect anything nefarious, it was intriguing nonetheless. Theodore pulled the wax seal from the letter and began reading, to himself.

 

King Theodore Adrard,

 

It's funny how life works. The last time I addressed you, it was more or less as a greeter for Skyrim before you moved on to Ulfric. And now it is my hope that you will return to our cold land to meet with me again on equal terms. I am but a Jarl, a position I've had to hold once temporarily, and now fate would have it that I hold it once more, again temporarily for I now seek to become the High King in Ulfric's stead.

 

Our king is dead, by the hands of the Thalmor, and word has reached even us that the Bretons too have been targeted by the treacherous elves. I'm glad to hear they were unsuccessful in dethroning you, but we are all in danger. Regardless of what your people might think of us, Tamriel cannot afford to have Skyrim fall to civil war once more, or to drag our feet in crowning another.

 

I seek the help of friends outside of this realm, you being one of them, to convince my hard headed kinsmen that I am the rightful successor to Ulfric's cause. I will not lie to you, I too seek the help of Dales Motierre, but I promise you there will be no action taken upon you in our land from her or anyone else. Or your land for that matter, as our alliance still stands whether you or a representative shows up or not.

 

You can also be sure that you will be safe from any Thalmor attack, as the Moot will take place in High Hrothgar, the safest location in Skyrim, and our borders will be filled with Skyrim soldiers previously on reserve, including my personal army of Grim Ones, the same responsible for repelling not only the Thalmor, but their Sun Bird as well.

 

The time for death has come. This moot is merely the prelude to what will be a council for the next Great War. Your good friend Jeleen will be here as well. If you cannot come, please send someone that you think can competently represent High Rock in your stead and to support me as the general of this alliance.

 

Sincerely,

 

Jarl Baldur Red-Snow

 

 

Theodore frowned. He did not like that Red-Snow sought to wield not only martial control over the other provinces as the leading general of the next war, but political control as well, being the High King of the foremost nation in the alliance. It seemed too great a power for a man so young, with little ruling political ruling experience. He also thought it strange that the Imperials would support this man as ruler. If ever there was a time when they could strengthen their place in the alliance, it was now, in supplanting someone else as High King so as to reign in Red-Snow, and wrest some control from the Nords. Even still, he could not think of another Jarl as qualified as Red-Snow. Those longer tenured were in smaller holds, and those in large holds were as fresh as Red-Snow. Which meant that, regardless of High Rock’s or Cyrodiil’s or Hammerfell’s support, Red-Snow was the presumptive king. Of course Theodore could not be sure he knew all the qualifications of the Nordic Jarls, and there might yet be a superior choice, but politics dictated he support Red-Snow regardless.

 

Looking up from the letter to his seated council, Theodore said, “Its an invitation to the very moot Lord Estermont mentioned. Baldur Red-Snow, a Jarl as Lady Gaerhart said, seeks to become High King at this moot, which will choose the High King.

 

“Did Stormcloak not have a wife? Would she not be the presumptive High Queen?” Sir Virelande asked.

 

“He did, but evidently that’s not how things work with the Nords. They’ll choose their king, or queen, at this moot, and Red-Snow seeks for me or someone I send to back him as the choice for High King,” Theodore said.

 

“Will you?” Roland asked.

 

“I feel I must. He may not be the savviest politician among the lot, but the Nords value strength and martial prowess, and that he brings. Not to mention he will have the support of Cyrodiil and Hammerfell,” Theo said. “But I would like Lady Gaerhart to look into these other Jarls. I would have myself, or whoever I send, as knowledgeable about their political situation as possible, so in the event Red-Snow does not get the job, or faces serious opposition, we might be prepared to help or resist the alternative choice.”

 

“It will be done,” Lady Gaerhart said. “And will you be going, or sending someone else?"

 

Theodore looked at Elayne, who wore the same worry on his face she did. Lady Gaerhart wore it, as did Roland. With their Daedric curse, it might be dangerous to leave High Rock when Baron Tilwald could return any day with the cure. But it was also likely the cure was something that would have to be formulated, and not in a vial in Corrick’s hand when he arrived, so they would have some time. Either way, though, no one could know when or if the cure would arrive soon, and it seemed a dangerous gamble to leave High Rock. Theodore was already beginning to feel the affects of the disease resurface, the potions he and his family took no longer able to hold them at bay. He found himself coughing at times, and recently the green bile started coming up when he did. But it seemed to be moving down the chain of succession, with only he and his wife suffering for now. Lady Gaerhart seemed immune, oddly, but as she was no longer royalty it could be she was not affected. He hadn’t asked, though, because were that not the case, it might mean something far more sinister was afoot, but Theodore doubted that. More likely was that there was something about the disease they didn’t know, or it only specifically targeted the ruling family and not former rulers.

 

“I think it best if we send a representative. I should not like to leave High Rock, in the event the Thalmor turn their attention here. And the business with Duke Mon must be finished soon, and I would see that to the end,” Theodore said. Good excuses, but they were just that, excuses, and in truth he would have liked to go could he have managed it. “I think Roland should go. As Prince, no one is better able to represent my family’s wishes, and to speak for High Rock. I would also send Lady Gaerhart and Lord Admiral Theirry.”

 

“I agree,” Elayne said, and Theodore saw her smiling to their son.

 

Theodore knew Roland would do well, and it was high time he took on greater responsibilities. Lady Gaerhart and Lord Admiral Theirry both had experience dealing with the Red-Snows, and hopefully by sending two members of his council along with his son, he could make up for not going himself. And his son would gain great experience dealing with rulers of other provinces, and hopefully form some relationships with those he would be leading with in the next war. There was also an added benefit of sending Roland, one he could not resist. With Empress Motierre also going, it seemed the perfect insult to have her rejected suitor be there, so that every time she saw him, she would be reminded of her failure.

 

“Are there any objections or questions?” Theodore asked. No one had any, so he continued. “I believe it would be best to have you sail within the week. Once the Travens return and Roland can say goodbye seems like the best time to leave. I believe that is all for business today. If Winvale and Sire Virelande would stay behind, the rest of you may leave.”

 

It was less an invitation to leave than a request, and the councilors and family members all filed out, leaving Winvale, Virelande, Sir Maric, and Theodore as the only ones left in the room.

 

“How goes the shadowmage recruitment process?” Theodore asked. The three men had partnered to find the most suitable members for the shadowmages, with Maric determining the skill of arms of the participants, Virelande the battle magic, and Winvale the mental aptitude for shadow magic.

 

“I’m am fully against the participation of a battlemage, and find he adds little value to the search,” Winvale said. Theodore sighed, as this was only a further volley in the wizard’s assault on destruction magic, which Virelande passionately defended.

 

Virelande huffed and grew red in the face, as he usually did. “This is a petty insult and you know it. Illusion will only get these soldiers so far, and there comes a time when flame and frost and lightning are the only alternatives.”

 

“I reject that assumption. If they are reduced to destruction magics then they deserve to die for their sloppiness and lack of skill,” Winvale said.

 

Theodore couldn’t let this go on any longer. “I don’t care about your feud or arguments over magical schools. I want to know if you have selected those soldiers best capable of learning shadow magic. That is all.”

 

“We have,” Sir Maric answered quickly. “We have fifty candidates, fifteen from the ranks of knights, twenty from the battlemages, and twenty-five nightblades.”

 

“They’ve all passed the tests and trials we put them through, and have passed the wizard’s evaluation,” Virelande added.

 

“Though I must point out that we can only expect a third to stick, once we begin with the shadow magic training. And even that may be a high estimate, since I’ve not trained someone in shadow magic and these men and women have no knowledge of if,” Winvale said.

 

“Begin the training immediately,” Theodore said. “I want fully capable shadow mages by the time the war starts. How many, I don’t care, but once we have the first class we can reform our search criteria and begin with the second, hopefully with a better idea of what skills lead to learning shadow magic.”

 

“As you wish, King Adrard,” Sir Virelande said. Sir Maric nodded as well, while Winvale gave a slight scoff that Theodore knew to mean he was in agreement as well. Begrudgingly, as usual, but still in agreement.

 

“Good. You are dismissed as well,” Theodore said. Winvale quickly vanished, though Theodore could not quite tell how, or in what manner. It seemed as if he was there, but even without blinking or looking away, he had suddenly vanished without so much as a movement of his hand or a light dancing across his fingers. Virelande left more traditionally, by walking from the room. Only Sir Maric remained with Theo.

 

“Has he shown any signs of ulterior motives?” Theodore asked his guard.

 

“None. From what I could tell about his questioning of the candidates, it was personal questions, and hypothetical situations to determine how they would react in said situations. I don’t know how it is relevant but evidently it was necessary, according to what he said,” Sir Maric said.

 

“Continue to keep an eye on him,” Theodore said. He then left to find Madame Loseph, the new Lady Treasurer. She was not in the castle, however, and her guards said she was arranging for Leland’s body to be transported back to Daggerfall, where his family owned a familial tomb.

 

Instead, Theodore retreated to his study, where he quickly wrote a response to Jarl Red-Snow.

 

Jarl Baldur Red-Snow,

 

I was saddened to hear of the passing of Ulfric Stormcloak. He was a brave man, an excellent politician and general. It is because of his courage in rebellion that we can meet Cyrodiil at your moot as equals, and not subjects. I think he has found a worthy heir in you, and I know that you will continue the Nordic tradition of great leaders. With your ascension to Jarl, I hope that this does not mean any ill befell Queen Veleda. When we met she seemed a measured, strong woman, a great compliment to Ulfric. Her abilities shown through even then, and it would be a great loss to hear she also fell to the Thalmor.

 

As for the moot, High Rock will support you for High King, though I will not personally be in attendance. My son, Prince Roland, will be my representative, while my mother-in-law Lady Gaerhart and my admiral Duke Theirry will accompany him. I believe you and your wife have met the both of them, and they will all do whatever it is they can to help Skyrim elect you as its High King.

 

I cannot, unfortunately, bear only good news, though. Henry Leland was killed by the traitor Duke Mon, but Mon has been imprisoned and will soon face justice. But that is the extent of the damage Mon and the Thalmor did. Their plot to sow discord in High Rock failed, and from it I have forged a renewed alliance with the Direnni. Should the other provinces wish it, they would join us in fighting the Thalmor. Their troops are not many, but their mages are skilled, and they have a knowledge of the Thalmor that no one else possesses. I of course understand that there may be some reservations, and for that I leave it up to my fellow leaders as to whether or not they are permitted to join us.

 

Send my best wishes to the High Admiral, and I wish you luck in both your coming rule and as leader of our alliance.

 

With that Theodore signed the letter, poured the wax, and stamped his sigil on top. He then gave it to a courier, who left to carry the message to the land of the Nords. 

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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Matilda
Talos Plaza House

The decorative plate was solid gold, just sitting up on a shelf, guarded only by the locked front door. Matilda hadn't even used that door. Why chance being seen entering on the street when the house had more windows than rooms? Nine times out of ten at least one of them is going to be unlocked. Especially on the upper floors, where the poor dumb nobles seemed to think it would take a pair of wings to get in.
After stuffing the plate into her bag, the thief turned her attention to the bedrooms. As she'd expected, on a long dresser across from the nobles couple's bed was a small jewelry box. This one was locked, and as she quickly found, far more intricately so than she was capable of picking. The girl snorted and slid the entire box into her bag.

Matilda was almost laughing when she came back into the street, bag carefully secured underneath her traveling cloak. That had been almost too easy, and it might've been the most profitable location she had visited so far. It made her wish she had been willing to brave Talos Plaza for personal work sooner. Not that she'd be back any time soon. Between the gold she'd get from these last two hits and that which she still had from the job she'd done with Sharda, Matilda could afford to relax for a spell and give the nobles some time to lower their guard again.

It was high-time she returned to the Waterfront anyway. The girl had not been to her shack in over a week, as she'd mostly been keeping to the Arena District when she wasn't busy stealing from the rich. Unfortunately, Karsh never came through with the Elder Councilor's Amulet, but she had not given up on him yet. The bird was clever in his own strange way, and given time she felt that he could eventually pull off what she'd asked of him. Plus, she was sure he'd be delighted to know that the previous 'shiny' that had been promised was now replaced by one that was real silver, and of far higher quality. That way, the trade felt less one-sided, even though Matilda knew it was still heavily in her favor.

At this point I may be able to get into one of their houses myself. thought Matilda. I mean, how hard could it be?

"Excuse me..." she heard someone shout off to the side, "Excuse me, girl!" At first Matilda had thought the voice was speaking to someone else. But when she glanced over to her right, she saw a cloaked man looking right at her. The glints of steel and general bulkiness beneath his cloak suggested that he wore armor. And now he was beginning to walk in her direction.

The man was no Nord, so he wasn't one of Sibbi's. At least not from the original group. That thought alone was all it took to get Matilda to turn heel and run. She heard the man call after her again, but she didn't spare him even one more glance before tearing away at all speed. It was a mistake to come here. she thought. How stupid! Stupid, stupid girl! You really thought you could get away with spending so much time in the same district they live in?!
"Help!" Matilda cried as she ran through a group of nobles walking in the opposite direction. "That man is chasing me!"

She did not wait to see the response they gave. Instead she just booked it several blocks further, all the way to the Elven Gardens District, where she knew at least she was less likely to bump into one of Sibbi's goons. After putting a fair amount of distance between herself and the Plaza, Matilda ventured to look back. As she'd suspected, no one seemed to be following. The streets were filled with travelers and city-dwellers, all coming or going somewhere, but none of them seemed to take any interest in the girl who'd run past. They probably thought she was just one of the many children who could be found playing in the streets throughout the day. That was one advantage of her youth, at least.

Her heart pounding, Matilda walked over to a giant stature of some Septim and leaned against it, allowing herself a moment to rest and catch her breath. Okay, new rule, Matilda. Talos Plaza is OFF LIMITS. That was just too close.

"Mila Iron-Brow?" Matilda's heart nearly stopped. When she looked up, she saw different man who was dressed almost identically to the first. The moment she responded to her true name, the man's approach turned rapid.

"Shit." This time with a meager four feet between them, Matilda darted away only seconds before the armored figure would have been upon her. She felt the cold metal of his mail fingers as they brushed against her tunic, and then she was off, sprinting toward the nearest alleyway.

Once again, she heard a voice shouting after her, this time accompanied by heavy footsteps, and once again, she ignored it. Entering the alley, she ran until she reached a branching path. There was no time to contemplate, as the man could be heard drawing near. Matilda took to the right. The path took her down several more twists and turns. Left, right, left again, right again, past a wash pond filled with bathing locals, through several gardens, and finally back into the street at what seemed to be the southeastern edge of the district. She wasn't about to stop there though, Matilda made for the giant open gateway that led to the center of the city: to the Green Emperor Way of the Imperial Palace itself. She darted through the gardens and graveyards, stomping over dirt that covered the city's most famous dead. If this had incurred the wrath of any guards or residents, the girl never found out. She was in too great of a rush to reach her destination. If Elven Gardens wasn't safe, then the only place she could trust were the slums of the Waterfront.

The Sailer's Rest was nearly empty when she arrived. Anrich's assistant Vaulla tended to pair of dockhands at the long table, but the fence himself was gone. The maid seemed surprised when she turned and saw Matilda come through the door. "You looking for Anrich?" she asked. "He's been gone all day. Out looking for you."

Looking for me? Does he already know what's going on? Matilda waited until Vaulla was finished pouring drinks and met with her back at the counter, where she asked, "Do you know where he went?"

The maid shook her head. "Nuh uh. All I know is what I told you. What's going on, Matilda? Why would he be looking for you?"

"I might be in trouble." she answered, not wanting to go into specifics. "Listen, if he comes back, tell him I'm waiting in the Garden. Alright?"

"Sure thing." Vaulla looked concerned. She wasn't technically a member of the Guild, but she was a good friend to them. "Is there anything else you need, Matilda?"

"I don't think so. Telling Anrich where to find me should be enough."

"Alright then. Good luck. Shadow hide you and all that."

"Thanks."

The Garden of Dareloth was one of the oldest and best-kept secrets in the Waterfront. To an outsider, it just appeared to be some overgrown old courtyard wedged between the warehouses and an old stone wall. In truth, it was one of the most popular places for guildsmen to meet in private. The place was ancient, supposedly protected by some old magics that Matilda could not see. However, standing there among the flowers and vines, she always did get this strange sense that there was something special about the spot. In it, she always felt safe.
"Keep a lookout for me?" Matilda asked of one of the old beggars who almost always can be found living behind the warehouses. She dropped a few coins into the man's outstretched hands. "Loudly shout if anyone comes this way who is not with the guild."

With that, Matilda continued on into the Garden, where she found a nice patch of grass and stretched out for a nap. She knew the beggar would warn her if someone approached. And, once again, magic or not, there was something strange about the garden that convinced the girl that no harm would come to her here. She closed her eyes and started to sleep.

~~~

"Wake up."

"Huh?" Groggy from sleep, it took a few moments for Matilda to remember where she was or why she was there. The sky was dark above her, and the air had grown quite cold. She drew her cloak tight and blinked a few times to help her eyes adjust. Anrich stood over her, wearing an apron covered in dark stains and an accusing expression. "Is that blood?" She was so confused. "Did you kill someone?"

"No." the Imperial answered bluntly. "You know the rules. Get up. I need to show you something."

"What is it?" she asked as she rose to her feet. "Why were you looking for me? Where did you go?"

"Mara's mercy, girl. It would be easier to answer you if you'd ask one question at a time. Come with me and I'll explain everything." He turned and headed over to the edge of the garden, to the side of the warehouse, and opened the door.

"Wait," Matilda didn't follow him. This had to be some sort of dream. "There's never been a door there!"

"Yes, there has. You just couldn't see it. Still shouldn't, really." He grumbled that last part.

Curious and now beyond confused, the girl followed him into the dimly lit building. It seemed like they were in a basement. The ceiling was low, supported by stone pillars that held candle sconces. There was a staircase in the back corner that led up to a higher floor, though Anrich ignored it, heading instead to a closed door on the right wall. "As you know, I've been lookin' for you all day. Word came to me that there were a bunch of foreigners outa High Rock that've spent the last few days doin' the same. I couldn't find you, but these guys tend to stick out." 
He pushed open the door, revealing a small room, empty save for a blindfolded man who was tied to a chair. There were bruises on his face, and little splatters of blood around his feet. Before Matilda could say anything in response, Anrich closed the door again and locked it.
"They call themselves the Silver Brigade. Least according to that fella. And they're looking for a young girl named 'Mila'... Something you want to tell me?"

The girl had been afraid this would happen, but she knew that lying would be pointless. "I'm not really wanted for hurting a guard captain." she said, eyes on the floor. "The reason I came here was to hide from someone else."

"Yeah, no shit." Anrich scowled. "Lyin' to the guild's serious business. How am I supposed to trust you with sensitive tasks when I don't even know how much heat's following you?"

"You can't." she could only mutter the words.

"Once again. No shit. So tell me girl, what is it that you did? Fancy pants mercenary in there says that you're a fugitive from Skyrim. He doesn't know much, but he does say you helped burn down Riften. Now personally, I find that hard to believe, but then I may not know you half as well as I thought, so enlighten me."

"I-" She rubbed her arm. How much did he already know, and how much would be okay to tell? Anrich had always been good to her. But would that continue if he thought it would be too risky to let her stay? She didn't know what she would do if the guild banished her. She had nowhere else to go. "I didn't help burn down Riften... I wasn't even in the city when that happened."

"Go on."

"It was bandits who did that... And my father... But I had nothing to do with it."

"Then what did you do, girl? Because this lot hunting you clearly think you did."

"Nothing! I swear I did nothing. They're after me because of what I know, not what I did."

"Who's after you?"

The look Anrich gave her was hard and knowing. He already suspects it. The girl knew better than to lie. "Sibbi Black-Briar."

The older thief nodded and sighed. "That's about right." He took his cap off and scratched his graying brown hair. "I don't suppose it occurred to you that I might've wanted to know that you were wanted alive by one of the most dangerous people in Skyrim?"

"I couldn't tell you when I joined. All I knew about you back then was that you were a thief! How could I have known you wouldn't turn me in?"

"Gods damn it, girl. You had plenty of time to tell me since then. I offered you a roof over your head for cryin' out loud! Do you have any idea what these people are capable of? Obviously not, or you wouldn't have just let this boil!"

That made Mila angry. "I know them a lot better than you do!" she threw back. She could feel her face turning hot as she spoke. "They killed my parents, my aunt, and more others than I can count! They made me help them write fake letters to trick people. I spent a YEAR living in their basement! And then they dragged me to this damned city and locked me in a different dungeon. They ruined my life! So don't tell me that I don't know who they are!"

She didn't care if the prisoner or the whole rest of the guild had heard her voice as it rose. As hard as she'd tried to hide it and move on, Mila's past refused to leave her the hell alone, and she wouldn't let anyone, even Anrich, try to act like they understood. They couldn't.
To the thief's credit, he was humble enough to look ashamed. "This goes a lot deeper than I thought." he said. "I'm sorry, girl. I presumed too much... But that doesn't change this mess of a situation we're in now. There've gotta be a hundred mercenaries out in the city lookin' for you. They've even got some on the Red Ring... You're friends with Sharda, right?"

"Aye." Mila replied, still angry.

"Then I'm goin' to have you stay with her for a while. There's no way you can leave the Waterfront. In fact, I don't even want you out near the docks. You'll stay hidden until I can figure out what to do with you." He jammed a thumb towards the locked door that concealed the tied up mercenary. "And him."

"He's working for Sibbi." said the girl. She felt like she was back in Riften, once again being hunted. "Just kill him."

Anrich frowned, looking disappointed. "You know that's not how we operate. And right now he doesn't know it's the guild who has him. He thinks we're rival sellswords, or some gang hired to work against them. His theory, actually. I just played along. As of now, this is salvageable. But if Black-Briar or this Brigade somehow find out that the guild offed one of theirs, we might as well start diggin' ourselves some graves."

She didn't like the sound of that. "What if he heard us just now?"

"These walls and doors are soundproof. Same old magic that hid the door and muffles the garden. He didn't hear us."

"Okay." Mila said hesitantly. She would still prefer to have someone kill the man. She could do it herself, if she had a weapon. But Anrich had been in this business a lot longer than she had. She'd trust his judgement.

~~~

Some hours later, long after Matilda had left the Thieves Guild's secret hall and Anrich had gone upstairs, a rope snapped down behind a certain locked door, and the mercenary winced in pain as he moved to take off his blindfold. Nevertheless, he smiled. His captors would regret messing with the Silver Brigade.

***

Sosia Silver

Sosia hated her voice. It was grating and raspy and harsh, even to her own ears. She'd never been the quiet one, not before the wound. She was always joking and making cutting remarks, but now she was reduced to a brooding freak. She could at least cover up most of the scar by wearing her long black hair down, but she'd never liked to before. She knew she was lucky to have survived, but that didn't stop her from hating what came with that survival. Still, as a sellsword, it paid to have an intense, quiet type on your side, as most people seemed to equate her injury and silence with a brutality above that of normal sellswords. Thus, Sosia didn't have to work hard to maintain the facade she was a cold-blooded killer. 

That came in especially handy when she was performing a job such as this one. She hadn't been too enthused about hunting down a child, but the job paid, and paid well. Not to mention the ransom they'd get from Sir Lywel's captured nobleman, which was a very pleasant surprise. Currently, she was guarding him, though he was muffled and chained so he couldn't move, and asleep on top of that. They were holed up in a tavern in the Elven Gardens District, near where it became the Talos Plaze District, though it was off the main road.

Sosia was enjoying her easy shift watching their hostage when she heard heavy boots coming up the stairs. Reflexively, she stood ready to defend herself. When the door opened, though, it was one of her soldiers, though he looked roughed up around the edges.

"Who kicked your ass?" she asked.

"Some gang." the man said. It clearly hurt him to speak. "Don't know who they were, but... I think they might have the girl."

Sosia smiled, uneven as her scar. "Where?"

"The Waterfront." he answered. "They asked me a lot of questions about her. Her in particular. Didn't mention the Nord."

"Just the girl," Sosia said, mostly to herself. At least it was the girl. That meant the bonus was nearly in her grasp. "Good work. You stay here, watch him."

She put her steel cuirass on over her thick undergarments and slid a gray cloak over her shoulders. She then went downstairs at a near run. There several of her men were sitting at a table, serving as guards for their prisoner and waiting until it was their turn to get back to the search. 
"We've found the girl. You four go gather thirty-five men. You come with me. You stay. Meet at the entrance to the Waterfront as quickly as possible," Sosia said.

The men stood and dispersed, save the now lone guard. Sosia walked at a brisk pace on the road that cut through the heart of the Talos Plaza District. She made not move to be nice, pushing through the crowds with the weight of her armor shoving most out of the way. Since the road passed right in front of house Sibbi was in, so she stopped to tell him herself. The guards in the garden let her through, though they kept the woman with her outside.

Sosia found her employer in the same room he'd been in last time, deep in some discussion with Nelvar that the two immediately broke off when she arrived. They must have known it was important. She would not have come to them so early in the morning if it hadn't been. When Sibbi spoke, she could hear the barely-controlled anxiousness behind his voice. "What news have you brought for me?"

"The girl is in the Waterfront," Sosia said, her crooked smile showing her own excitement. "One of my soldiers said a gang has her. The Nord wasn't mentioned."

The both men rose immediately. "Take your men and find her." Sibbi said to her at once. "Nelvar, I want you there as well. Gather what help you can and meet them there."

"Of course." The Nord hurried from the room.

"I'll make sure the watch doesn't bother you." Sibbi said as he turned back to Sosia.

"Appreciated. My men are gathering as we speak. Thirty-five of them," Sosia said. This was the moment where the Silver Brigade would prove itself capable to the Imperials, and make a name for themselves in Cyrodiil. A new age was coming for the sellswords. "We will find the girl."

***

Matilda was ready to pull her hair out when she found herself staring down at the the final pebble that remained on the wooden table.
"I win." Sharda said to her, grinning that annoying grin. "You can reset the board."

"So you can beat me a tenth time?" the girl frowned. "Fine." She began to lay out the sixteen tiny pebbles into their four rows of seven, five, three, and one. The Redguard knew a trick to winning this game. She had to. There was no way Matilda could lose this many times in a row. "You start this time."

Sharda shrugged. "Alright." She proceeded to remove one pebble from the row of three. The objective of the game, which the Redguard admitted to not knowing the name of, was to force your opponent to remove the final pebble left on the table. You could remove as many as you wanted on your turn so long as they were all from the same row. So far, the only pattern Matilda had noticed was that every time Sharda went first, she only ever took one pebble.

Matilda responded by removing one pebble from the same row. She knew it was a mistake immediately, by the way the Redguard woman's lips curled up. "Oh, come on! It was my first move. How can it possibly matter that much?"

"Every move matters. In fact, because of that, I've already beaten you. Watch." The game continued, and the Redguard proceeded to beat her in just a few more turns. "It's actually quite simple. Just takes some learning is all. You've gotta be able to visualize the pieces in segments and keep count."

"... You lost me."

"Here. Reset it and I'll go first this time. The second player to go controls the entire game if they understand how-" She was cut off by a light tapping on the door. "Weird." said the thief. "It's awful late for visitors."

"Think it's Anrich?" Matilda asked.

"I don't know why he wouldn't wait until morning." She got up just as the tapping started again and called out to the door. "Yeah, what is it?"

"A friend." some man responded in a hushed tone. "The Fox climbed up the tower."

Sharda looked at Matilda and nodded as if to say He's fine, and then proceeded to open the door. The skinny Nord who stood there was as rugged and poor as anyone Matilda had seen, with clothes made of sack cloth and so much tangly blonde hair around his face that it was impossible to tell if he was thirty or seventy. "I bring tidings from up high," said the man. "Gray Cap is hurt and the Waterfront's compromised. He had orders for ye." He glanced over at Matilda. "Get her outa here. They're comin' now."

"Wait, what?" Matilda looked past the man as if they were behind him already. "Who's coming? The sellswords?"

"Aye. And no tellin' how long ye got. Gray Cap was stabbed earlier tonight. Fell unconscious. Don't know how long ago it was but the fella who did it is apparently comin' back. Now I gotta go. More people to warn."

"Shadow hide you." Sharda said as the man ran off. "Come on Matilda. We've gotta get out of the Waterfront."

Doing so would be much more easily said than done. This place was home to all manner of criminals and low-lives, and it was the perfect place to hide from the law. But sellswords weren't the law, and even as the two thieves exited Sharda's shack, Sosia met with her thirty-five Silver Brigadiers at the Waterfront's only entrance.

"We're not here to make friends. We're not here to play nice. We're here to find the girl, and get paid. Anyone stops you from doing that, make sure they don't stop you twice," Sosia said. Her throat burned even after that short speech, but her steel clad soldiers responded with bang yells and waving of their arms. Unburdened by law and guards, they would do anything to capture the the girl. "Check your sketches. You're here for her, not the nicest pair of teats or broadest chest you come across. And don't do anything stupid, these shacks'll burn like hay. Now find her."

The sellswords marched in a loose group across the bridge do the Waterfront. Any beggar or sailor knew well enough to get out of the way, and they walked uninhibited into the district. The Silver Brigadiers broke into groups fifteen groups of two, while the extra five, under the mage-officer Jolie Bielle, guarded the entrance. Sosia partnered with a thick man named Mordwyn who wielded a two-handed steel battle axe.

Sosia and her companion passed a few shacks by, as they were already occupied by their comrades. They found an undisturbed one, but quickly disturbed it when Sosia broke the door down. The two sellswords stormed in, overturning tables and beds in search for the girl. The family inside screamed but cowered in the corner. A mother held a small brown haired girl, and the father stood between them and the mercenaries. Sosia pushed the man aside, while Mordwyn ripped the mother and daughter apart to make sure she wasn't Mila. Her face was all wrong, though, eyes too wide, jaw too pointed. 

They left and went a few shacks down, and when they entered this one, it was empty of people. Inside were several barrels and crates, all stacked up agains the walls. They only furniture was a table and chairs in the center. Using her mace, Sosia smashed a few barrels open, revealing a foul smelling liquid inside. The crates were the same, though they held wooden plates and bowls. Mordwyn had checked his half, but they were empty as well. 

When they went outside, Sosia could see the sellswords moving from house to house, checking alleys and warehouses for any sign of the girl. The only resistance was a piss drunk sailor, and a quick fist of mail to his jaw silenced him. She heard the screams and yells of angry denizens, but so long as they were only angry, and not killed or raped, she didn't care.

"Who?!" Sosia glanced over at a small cropping of trees where two of her men where shoving a picture of the girl in some beggar's face. "I never seen 'er in me life, I swear it."

As her sellswords moved on, so did Sosia, but hiding in the army of low bushes that crept toward the beach, Matilda and Sharda watched their hunters pass by. "We have to move." the Redguard whispered. "It'll be impossible to hide here once the sun's up."

"I don't understand." Matilda muttered back. "These ain't the sellswords who brought me from Skyrim. None of them are. Where did Sibbi get this many new people?"

"When you've got that kind of money, there's not a lot you can't do." Sharda frowned as she scanned the shantytown. It was alight with torches. Getting to the other side would be a challenge. "And it seems that includes getting rid of the Waterfront guards for a night."

"Can't we go back to Dareloth House?" Matilda asked. "The magic door-"

"Won't work now that one of them has escaped through it. It can only be hidden from those who don't already know where it is."

"What about the Sailer's Rest? We could hide in the kitchen until they leave."

"Why wouldn't they search the kitchen?" Sharda asked. "If they do, we'd be bringing Anrich and his wife down with us. No, we need to sneak through. Just be patient..." The Redguard's eyes carefully followed the searching mercenaries. "We'll get our opening."

Matilda turned her focus on the guards as well. She counted two dozen torches already, though every now and then more of them appeared around the warehouses, indicating more on the other side where the ships were moored. After a little while, she also noticed that the sellswords seemed to be reporting to a woman. The same one who had passed them by a few minutes before. If she's the leader, then what happened to the rest of Sibbi's men?

As if they'd been waiting for the thought to cross her mind, a large group of torches soon appeared beneath the archway that connected the warehouses. With their faces illuminated, the girl could easily make out the faces of the Nords she'd crossed the Jerall Mountains with. Six of them had come, and at their helm walked Nelvar, grim-faced as ever. He was followed by the young giant-slaying archer. Stoit. Matilda felt anger pooling up inside her at the sight of the man who treated her like a friend, and yet stood by Black-Briar to the end. 

As a group, the lot of them strode into the shantytown at Nelvar's back. Eventually, he said a few words and they all split up to go and search the area around the Sailer's Rest. Now alone, Nelvar looked around until he spotted the leader of these new sellswords just as she exited another hovel. He immediately started toward her.

"How goes the search?"
Sosia Silver turned around at the sound of the grim Nord's voice. Even now, as he stood before her, armed and armored for the most pivotal moment of this entire assignment, Nelvar's expression was as dry as ever. 

"My men'll get fleas from this shithole, no doubt. But that's all they've gotten so far. No sign of the girl," Sosia said, frowning at their luck so far. One girl shouldn't be this hard to find, and it was only a matter of time, she hoped. 

"If she's here, we'll find her." replied the Nord. "Your soldier said that a gang has her. So that is what we should be looking for."

Sosia whistled, getting the attention of a couple groups of her men. "Move into those warehouses."

Turning back to Nelvar, she said, with a slight scoff, "The problem is telling the gang members apart from everyone else. I don't suppose they're wearing sigils like we are."

But Sosia didn't quite believe it would be that difficult to determine who was part of this gang, so she raised her raspy voice and shouted, "If you find anyone suspicious, make sure they talk. They'll tell us where that girl is."

"I'll be out near the docks." said Nelvar. "Send for me if you learn something new. I will do the same." With that, the Nordic sellsword turned and left.

Once the large man was gone from the area, and the Silver Sister had moved on in her search, Matilda and Sharda found their opening.
"Stay close." the Redguard whispered. And then she was off, gliding low over the dirt and grass, so quick and so silent that she'd have likely gone unnoticed had it been broad daylight. Matilda kept at her heel, hoping that she was managing to be half as stealthy.

The two thieves cleared the street and made their way between two houses at the edge of the shantytown. Torches could be seen marching back and forth, creating all sorts of uneven patterns and risky windows for the two to move about. But they needed to. The little community of ramshackle hovels and illegal merchant stalls was the only way past the warehouses, and past the warehouses was the only way to escape the Waterfront. 
They eased over to the corner of one of the houses, and Sharda peered around. Looking back at Matilda, she leaned in to the girl's ear and practically breathed the words "Two men. Wait."

Matilda waited, wondering what they would do if the two men were to pass by and look their way. She was unarmed and Sharda only carried a dagger. And killing was strictly forbidden in the guild anyhow. Thankfully, it never came to that, as the two men apparently moved on in another direction. She never even got a look at them. "Alright," said Sharda. "Follow me."

The two darted out again, from one hiding place to the next, and then the next. Constantly getting deeper and deeper into the shantytown. At one point, they were almost spotted when a dog saw them behind some bushes and wouldn't stop wagging its tail and trying to get Matilda to play with it. Eventually, the girl had been forced to smack the dog and send it running away with a yelp. Luckily, the sellswords who had been approaching at the time only spotted the dog as it was sauntering off. The girl had held her breath as one of the men knelt down to pet it, and the animal turned its eyes back toward the bush that concealed them. But once more, they were lucky, as the sellswords did not seem to notice.

"Damned mutt." muttered Sharda. "Good job." Soon after, the two were moving again.
What would have been a three minute walk to reach the warehouses ended up being a half-hour long crawl, wrought with danger and filled with enemies on every side. But even as they closed in on their first destination, there was no relief for them. It seemed that the bulk of the sellswords were in this area, surrounding the warehouses like flies on a thrown out piece of fruit. More than once, Matilda spotted their leader with the scar on her neck, moving to and fro, barking orders at her soldiers in an unnaturally raspy voice. Already, they had seen three different 'warehouses workers' get brought outside for questioning. The sellswords must have been more wary now, as the questions were growing more intense. That was especially worrying, as Matilda recognized two of the workers as being members of the guild.

"We'll have to stay close to the houses." Sharda whispered from where they hid behind an old shack's porch. The warehouses divided the district into two halves, with the docks on one side and the shantytown on the other. Great big archways ran between them to grant passage between the two halves. But over the years, the poor of the city had grown in numbers and overtaken even these, to the point where the hovels of the shantytown ran straight under the archways and ran close to the docks. Sharda explained to Matilda that it would be through the cover of these that they would have to move. But that would be difficult with the sellswords so thick in the area.

"What about our guildmates?" Matilda breathed.

"They know how to deal with questioning. Me and you've gotta worry about me and you."

With a nervous glance back at her 'family members', Matilda nodded, and the two of them moved on.

Meanwhile, Sosia stood eye to eye with one of those family members, waiting for the Imperial man to answer her question.
"There ain't any gangs 'round here." the warehouse worker swore to her with an annoyingly smug grin. "This is a respectable neighborhood."

Sosia smiled back, but her cold eyes motioned from Mordwyn to the worker. The large sellsword moved slowly, almost methodically, but the worker had nowhere to go, and his arm was soon wretched painfully behind his back. With a nod, Sosia knew her companion could destroy the man's shoulder, beyond the repair of only but the most talented healers. She didn't want to give that nod, but she'd dealt with lowlifes before, and knew this man was one, and wouldn't hesitate to hurt him if he wouldn't yield. "Tell the truth."

"Aack!" the man grunted as they all heard his bones rub against one another in the most unnatural of ways. "Alright, so maybe there're a few! But-" He glanced off for a moment, and then immediately returned his gaze to Sosia. "Between you and me, I think we've got some thieves living in the Waterfront."

Sosia still didn't like the man's tone, so she gave her soldier a look that said, Make him hurt, but don't break him. That very thing happened, the worker's arm twisting just a bit further, but not enough to break anything. She leaned even closer, enough to smell his rotten breath. "Who and where?"

"No idea!" the man forced out between grinding teeth. When Mordwyn twisted his arm just a tiny bit more, however, the man fell to his knees. "Lots of us!" he finally screamed. "Everywhere! The Waterfront's a slum! Of course it's filled with thieves!"

"Let him go," Sosia said. She could see the look of relief on the thief's face as Mordwyn released him and he used his hands to brace himself from falling. Sosia wasted no time in bringing her mace down on the man's left hand, leaving it a bloody pulp of bone and flesh. "Where are these thieves? Where is their base? Do you have this girl?"

Sosia shoved the sketch in front of his grimacing face. She knew the thieves were the gang she was looking for. They could easily hide the girl, under the noses of even the guards, who were likely taking payment from nobles like Sibbi and the thieves both. And even if they were everywhere, they would have a base somewhere in the Waterfront. 

It seemed like the thief tried to answer her, but after a short, panicked pause during which he stared down at his ruined hand, the man let out an exasperated scream. It went on for a long while, ringing out into the night. Sosia was prepared to hurt the man again if only to shut him up when he finally lifted his good hand and pointed past her, off into the night, whimpering all the while. She turned her gaze after his finger, but all it pointed to was more of the filthy district's hovels that stretched under the archways that led up to the docks.

"Search those hovels. Thoroughly," Sosia said, though it likely didn't need stated. The soldiers went off to rifle through the shacks, but Sosia stayed. She looked down at the thief, still whimpering, holding his hand and shoulder as tenderly as a baby. She wasn't happy with what she'd had to do, but she was growing increasingly worried the girl would slip through their fingers. Thoughts of chests full of gold, all for her and her sister, crowded our her conscience, and she didn't care what happened with this thief. Casting him one more disdainful look, she motioned for Mordwyn to follow her as they too searched the shanties.

"Shit." Sharda muttered. Whatever she'd seen around the corner must have been bad, because when she turned to face Matilda, her look was frantic. "Brenus saw us. Move along the wall, towards the docks, now!" 

Without hesitating, the girl slid along the side of the shack. This wasn't good. The sellswords would find them back here for sure if they just circled the building. When she looked over her shoulder to question Sharda, however, she found the Redguard to still be back at the far end of the shack. "What are you doing?" she whispered. She had spoken so softly that there was no way her friend heard. But when her eyes met Sharda's, she recognized the look the Redguard gave her. Mila had seen it in the eyes of her mother. It was the last look she had ever given her.

"When you get the chance, run." And with those words, the thief stepped out from behind the hovel, out of Matilda's line of sight and into Sosia's, and that of all the sellswords she had ordered toward the hovels. Many of them stopped in their tracks when she approached their party. "Hello there."

Sosia turned to look at the girl, and approached while her soldiers flanked her. She was a young girl, too dark to be the one they were looking for, but the smugness of her voice told Sosia she knew something. "You saw your friend, huh? Tell us about the girl, then."

"Have you checked the beachside?" the girl asked, "Lots of bushes growing out there."

Sosia scowled at the girl, and drew her mace. Her patience had reached its breaking point. Sosia lunged and grabbed the girl's arm, but when she did, she found a dagger slicing at her side. She could feel the wet blood, even though it hadn't struck anything vital. In a flash of fury, she smashed the girl's head. Before she could see anything besides the blood and flesh covering her mace, she stumbled, clutching at the knife wound. Mordwyn braced her, while the soldiers moved gathered around to check on her.

"I'm alright. Go search the rest of the hovels," she said. She felt weak and light headed, and was still gushing blood. She quickly sealed the wound with a bit of healing magic, but she knew she'd need stronger magic to truly heal it.

Her men obeyed her command and moved on to the abandoned dwellings, but it would be in vain, for the moment Sharda had drawn her dagger, Matilda took off for the docks. She didn't look back to see what followed. She didn't need to.

Don't think about what's behind you. The girl told herself, fighting back tears. All that matters is ahead. 

Her friend's sacrifice had not been for nothing, at least not yet, as no one saw Matilda escape past the warehouses and cross over to the Waterfront proper. Not wasting any time, she bolted for one of the long rows of planks the moment she heard some men exiting a nearby warehouse. 

Stick to the shadows. Don't make a sound. Don't think about what's behind you. Matilda skirted around a long puddle in the road and dropped onto her stomach behind some cargo barrels just in time to avoid being spotted by the men she had heard before. Slowly, the girl peaked around her cover and watched as the sellswords, this time Sibbi's Nords, crossed over to the ship moored nearest to her. It sounded like the crew were discussing how to deal with them. She tried to focus on what they were saying, while keeping as still as she could manage. Anything else might have given her position away, for it was only feet away from where her hunters now stood. When the first Nord spoke, she could understand him clearly.

"We've got orders to search the Waterfront for a wanted criminal." The voice that spoke was definitely familiar, though the girl couldn't remember which of the Black-Briar sellswords it belonged to. "Warehouses ain't turned up a thing. And apparently the shacks haven't either. Now your turn, seafarers."

"We're not from here." responded a voice with an accent that was indeed unfamiliar to Matilda. "And I'm gonna need to see some damn important-looking papers before I let you onto my ship."

"I've got your papers for you here." came the reply. Matilda heard a longsword sliding from its scabbard. "If you ain't got nothing to hide, then this shouldn't be a problem for you."

There was a long pause, and then finally the sailer said, "You only care about that girl?"

"That's right."

"And you're not with the Legion?"

"Do I look like I'm with the gods damned Legion?"

The sailer must have turned to consult with some of his friends, because Matilda couldn't make out what he said next even as she strained to listen. But after a painfully long wait, the man spoke up once more. "All right. Come on up."

Peering around her cover, Matilda glimpsed the pair of Nords cross the boarding plank onto the ship. The moment they were up there, she rounded the barrels and crept up the road, keeping low and close to the edge of the docks. Her movements would have been impossible in the daylight. They relied on sticking close to the warehouses, and remaining in the shadows cast by the many ships that were docked, their numerous great masts blocking the moons in all sorts of oft-shifting patterns. But the girl knew this strategy would only get her so far. Not far away now was the bridge leading back to the City Isle, where the lighthouse stood. It was wide enough for wagons and carts to cross over easily enough, but not so wide that the three sellswords who guarded it wouldn't notice a girl squeezing between them. Just as they had done with the city's main bridge, Sibbi's men had Matilda trapped, and she was quickly running out of places to retreat to.

The boats... If I could just get into one of the little fishing ones.
Plenty of small jetties were tied up as well. Any one of them would be perfect for taking her back to the Isle proper. Matilda's eyes narrowed as she scanned the docks for one that was sufficiently distant from anything resembling torchlight. It took a few moments, but eventually she spotted one laying in the shadow of one of the larger merchant ships. Perfect!

Waiting for an opportune moment, the girl crouched down so low she could have been mistaken for a large house cat. She watched sellsword after sellsword pass by. Many were Bretons. But she did recognize a few of the Nords as well. Eventually, the terrifying woman from behind the warehouses emerged into the streets herself, flanked by two guards. In the light of the torches they carried, Matilda could see the bloodstains on the mace she wore at her hip. That made her scowl. Sibbi will pay for what he's done. the girl decided then. And so will you, and all the others.
She continued to watch the Breton sellsword, following the woman with her eyes as she approached a figure at the bridge who turned out to be Nelvar.
When he spotted Sosia, the Nord said. "We got a confirmation from some beggar that the girl is in fact here. Said she's hiding on the ships. Another told my man that she must be in the shantytown, and one more said that there's a secret room in the lighthouse basement, and that's where we'd find her. I'm beginning to think that this 'gang' your man was talking about is bigger than he thought. They all know how to keep their mouths shut, at least."

"They are, and they do. One of them told us the shantytown while the other suggested the beach. Neither turned up anything," Sosia said. Her side hurt when she breathed, and she could feel the wound was only lightly sealed. She tried not to move her body or twist too much, but she was afraid it might start bleeding again anyway. "There anywhere we haven't checked yet?"

"Nowhere that we've been able to find." responded Nelvar. "I think she's here, though. I think she's here and they are moving her."

"They know the district better than we do. Even with our numbers we can't cover every alley," Sosia said. "I can call for more men, but by the time we gather them, she could have escaped."

"In that case, I think we should pull back on the searching, and focus more of our efforts in covering the places she can escape to. The bridge is covered, but we could use some torches on the banks along Red Ring and City Isle too."

"The docks too," Sosia said. "I wouldn't doubt if they tried to sneak her onboard one of these ships. But we should pull back."

"My men have kept close to the docks for that exact reason. They're searching the ships as we speak."

Sosia was about to respond when a shape moving across the water drew her attention. It was a small boat, a dingy boat, whose oars slapped the salty water. But it still rowed across the smooth waters of the bay, shielded between the waterfront and the City Isle. A lump grew in Sosia's throat, and eventually her staring caused the others to look. Without anyone saying a word, they all seemed to realize at once what the boat sailing away from them meant. Finally, Sosia said, "We have to get men over there."

Matilda had almost reached the opposite bank when the shouting started, as she'd feared it would. Frantically, the girl forsook her slow, quiet pattern of rowing and frantically started to paddle as hard and fast as she could. She was almost there now, just a few yards to go, though already Matilda could see the torches moving across the bridge. How many were there? Twenty? Thirty? Gods.
She shook her head and set her eyes straight. This was not the time to panic. She had a head start, and a good one. For once the odds were stacked in her favor. Don't screw it up!
She was up the instant her dingy scraped against the sandy beach, where she leapt into the cold murky water and waded ashore. The shouting was growing louder, now. She took half a second to glance back, and when she did, she she saw dozens of torches on the bridge, the foremost of them almost across. They were close, but not too close to lose..

It'll work. You know this city. Matilda kept running inland, deeper into the shadow of the Imperial City walls. The front gates would be open, she knew, but she had no intention on using them. The university had another entrance, one that was sufficiently far away enough to throw off her pursuers. You're not helpless anymore.
And so, with one last look back at the Waterfront, Matilda turned and left behind the place she had only recently started to call her home.

It wasn't long before Sosia and the soldiers of the Silver Brigade rushed to the opposite shore. They found an empty rowboat, not quite beached, bobbing up and down in the water of the bay. A pair of footprints in the sand headed east, but the quickly disappeared as the girl ran from sand to grass. Sosia sent several men to follow the direction of the tracks, but within a few minutes they returned with nothing to show for it. 

Sosia drew her mace and hammered the rowboat, sending splinters flying into the water and on to the beach. She then set it ablaze, and kicked the burning wreckage back into the water. They'd lost the girl, and had no clue as to where in the city she might be. Their best chance, maybe only have, at the time sensitive payout was gone. Worst yet, she feared Sibbi would lose faith in their abilities, and this respectable line of work was the only thing keeping the Emperor from slashing their numbers. She cursed and yelled, but it was fruitless, and eventually she had calmed down. As the flames of the boat petered out and it sank into the water, she thought it a horribly perfect metaphor for her hopes of catching Mila.

***
Two hours later

Matilda let out a great sigh of relief as she found a nice patch of grass deep within the trees of the city Arboretum. There, she allowed herself to rest for the first time since the raid had started. What happened? she wondered to herself. How did things go so wrong? But the girl didn't need to think too hard about it. Not when the answer was so clear: The gods hated her. Why else they absolutely refuse to allow her to go more go more than a couple months without losing everything? 
A few stones' throws away, an ancient, massive statue of one of the Nine stood high amongst the branches. Vines and cracks grew over him, but she stood tall and strong regardless, as a god ought to. Suddenly angrier than she was exhausted, Matilda stood up and proceeded over to the divine, who she identified as Mara, goddess of love. The girl spat on her gigantic right foot. 
"You never did a thing for me!" she said, leaning back so she could stare the being in her eyes. "Never helped me, or answered any prayers to make things easier. None of you did! You just helped the Black-Briars! Or maybe you didn't. Maybe that's what everyone means when they say you're dead. Well you know what? I'm glad you lot are dead!"

"The gods ain't dead." Matilda's heart jumped. For a wild moment, she thought the goddess had just answered her. But of course, it was just a beggar, limping out of the darkness with an old walking stick. Her hair was dark, but filthy. She seemed much too young to be built so frail, probably the result of consuming the skooma that stunk up her clothes. "They just died. But it ain't the gods who're your problem."

"What do you mean?"

"Take this." she muttered, holding out a rolled up piece of parchment. "It's from a friend."

Matilda took the letter and unrolled it. It was written hastily, and there was a tiny red stain on the bottom corner where some blood seemed to have splattered, but the message was clear enough:

Temple District
Sewer grate behind split tree
Southwest of Akatosh
Friends waiting
-Gray Cap

The beggar was gone by the time Matilda had finished reading, leaving her alone in the patch of woods once more. The girl glanced back up at the statue of Mara. "This doesn't change anything." she said. "You still let Sharda die. Still took my home from me."

The goddess of love answered her, again, with silence.

Frustrated, Matilda started to walk away, but then stopped and turned back to Mara. "And you know what?" She held up the letter. "They'll agree with me! All this time I've been telling myself not to worry about what's behind me. That the only thing that matters is what's ahead. Bugger that! When the guild finds out what happened to Sharda, they'll take my side. I'll do what Boldir tried to do in Riften! No more avoiding them. I'm gonna kill your precious Sibbi! How does that sound, huh?"

Still, Mara gave no response. It's almost as though she's a statue. the girl thought, sighing. Come on Mila, get out of here. You still have friends. Friends who'll help you.

Turning her back on the ancient structure, the girl started for the Temple District. The hour was late, and she was eager to find a bed.

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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Matilda
Temple Sewers

"Shh shh shh... It's alright. It's alright. Let me see." The priestess of Stendarr could not have looked more out of place in the damp, moldy chamber. Lit by a single brazier and a few torches along the walls, the little round room beneath the temple grounds stank of piss and blood. And everyone in it could have passed for a beggar or a corpse. Everyone except for the green-robed woman who walked among them, fair-skinned, with golden hair and a kindly face, the Nordic priestess was beautiful even with hands covered in blood.
Her gentle blue eyes swept over Anrich's freshly-open wound. Blood had run down the thief's shoulder and soaked his leather jerkin, but the priestess used a wet cloth to wipe it away, revealing the deep gash at his collar. "The gods continue to smile at you, Anrich. This was almost bad."

"You mean to say it's not?" the thief grunted, clearly in great pain. "Just heal it, Gwella... please." 

"Your wounds can wait." she replied, producing a clean rag from the satchel at her side. "My magic is limited, and your need is not the greatest."

Off in a shadowed corner of the room, the thief Brenus lay on his side, staring at the wall. He was trying to keep quiet, but every now and then a light sob or whimper escaped the injured Imperial's lips. What remained of his left hand was stretched out on a nightstand next to him. It was stained with red, and not one finger was the proper size or shape.
From a chair at the room's only real table, Matilda watched as the priestess crossed over to him and carefully began to whisper in his ear. The thief seemed unresponsive, until the tips of her fingers emitted blue and gold swirls of magical light, and she lightly placed both hands on his broken one. For a few seconds, the room was lit brightly as if it were daytime, and Matilda could make out every detail on every thief's face, from Anrich's worried lines to Brenus's expression of fearful guilt, and the uncertain looks of confusion that all the other thieves wore as they too glanced over at the powerful light. It was only a few seconds before the spell finished, and the room returned to dim candlelight.

Ask him now. Matilda thought, with a glance over at Anrich. The branch leader had removed his cap, revealing the salty gray streaks in his hair. He looked old. He's not doing anything else. 
The girl was about to rise when the priestess of Stendarr suddenly approached her with that overly kind expression of hers. "You have a look of hate about you child." she said. Even her damned voice was smooth and sweet and gentle. For some reason that annoyed Matilda.

"I'm not a child."

"Oh. Forgive me..." The Nordic woman sat down next to her and turned the chair so that they faced one another. "Matilda, was it?"

"That's right."

"But it's not your real name, is it? You are the one they are looking for."

She scowled at the priestess. Obviously. 

"I am not your enemy, Matilda. Any more than the gods are. "

"What makes you believe I think you or the gods are my enemies?"

The priestess frowned. "Because Stendarr told me, just now..." She was watching Matilda's face carefully, obviously waiting to see how she would respond. When the girl refused to give her much to work with, the priestess cracked a wistful smile. "Alright, I've seen the way you've been looking at me since I arrived. You made up your mind the moment you realized what I am. Why is that?"

"I'm not here to talk to you about the gods or why I hate them."

"Nor am I. I came to heal your injured friends. But it seems to me that you need help just as much as they do. That look you wear. It is a terrible thing, filled with hatred, and not just for the gods. Tell me what it is you are thinking, Matilda. I would like to help you if I can."

The girl stared the priestess in her big blue eyes. "Would your god let you swing a sword? Or drive a dagger into someone's throat?"

"There are some who believe Stendarr wants nothing more from his disciples." she replied. "I am not one of those people. I cannot believe that the god of mercy would be so unwilling to forgive the evil people of this world. Not when we see time and time again that they are capable of changing for the better."

"Stendarr's also the god of justice, and these people," Matilda waved her hands around the room, "the ones who did all this, and so much worse besides, they deserve death more than anyone. Yet Stendarr and your other gods bless them at every turn. Why haven't they been judged yet?"

"Believe me, they are judged every day." said the priestess. "I do not believe the gods favor them as you think. Justice will come, but unlike the Vigil, I do not think it is for us to bring on these men. All it will do is drag us down into the mud alongside them."

"If that's what you believe, then you're as useless as your god is." Matilda's blood was boiling when she looked across the room to Anrich. "Hey Gray Cap! Anrich!"

"Eh?" the older thief looked like he'd been about to fall asleep. Probably a side-effect of whatever potion the priestess had given him to help with his pain.

"What are we doing here?"

"We're hiding, kid. Remember? There was this thing that happened in the Waterfront. It was sort of an ordeal."

"I meant, what are we doing in here, right now? Shouldn't we be coming up with a plan? Or something?"

The thief blinked a few times, as if trying to wake himself up so he could make sense of what she was saying. "A plan for what?"

"How about getting back at Sibbi, for a start?" said Matilda. "Or have you forgotten what he did to Sharda?"

Suddenly wide awake, Anrich scowled and pointed a finger at her. "Don't you talk about her like that to me! I knew that Redguard when she was years younger than you, and I can damn sure promise you that her death was as hard on me as it was on anyone. Maybe I just knew her well enough to know that she wouldn't want me breaking the rules and misusing the guild on a fool's quest."

"Misusing the guild?" Matilda couldn't believe what she was hearing. "They killed our friend! You got stabbed and Brenus's hand is ruined. This wasn't some botched job, Anrich. They attacked us!"

One of the others, a thief named Martin, gave an annoying scoff. "They weren't after the guild. They were after you."

Matilda's chair crashed into the floor as she stood up, it was the hands of the priestess that held her back. Before she could say anything, though, Anrich shouted, "She is a member of the guild! Yes, Matilda, you're right. They did attack us. Coming after one is coming after the others."

Finally. "Then you have to understand why we need to do something about this. Sibbi won't stop. He won't feel safe until I'm dead!"

"And why in Oblivion won't he?" Martin asked. "What kind of threat's a little girl pose against one of the riches men alive?"

"Eat shit, Martin. I don't have to explain anything to you. Anrich knows and that's enough."

Anrich tried to interject again, but Martin didn't allow it. "Hey, I lied to cover your scrawny ass just like everyone else in the Waterfront! I could've taken a beating for you, and I was okay with that. What I'm not okay with, is starting a war, with killing people for someone who I've just learned is an ungrateful brat! Do you even know what you're asking of us, girl?"

Matilda was fuming. Of course she knew what she was asking. "Aye. I'm asking those of you who ain't milk-drinkers to help me kill the man who killed Sharda! Who will keep attacking us if we don't do something about it!"

"Here's an idea... Why don't you just leave? Go far away where Sibbi won't ever find you. That way, you live, and we don't have to get ourselves killed over a problem that can be avoided! We've got contact at the docks, you know. People who can smuggle you out of here."

"What?" Matilda paused for a moment and looked at Anrich. What Martin suggested sounded... well it didn't sound like a solution. "How will that help? Sibbi will still be here."

"He's right." Anrich said. His expression was solemn. "We could have you on a ship to Bravil in two days. We're not an army. We're thieves. And whatever you're used to up in Skyrim, we don't solve our problems by killing. There are lots of guildmates in Bravil. I can connect you with them. You can start over, and we can sew some misdirection to send Sibbi the wrong way. That should take care of the problem."

"You want to send me away? After what Sibbi did to-"

"What he did was tragic. But it's not our place to enact revenge. We're a family, and we take care of our own. Starting a war wouldn't do anyone any good. Not when we have alternatives."

"What good is a family that won't fight for its own?!" the girl spat back. Boldir had fought for her. Her mother, Vex, Aerin, even the other thieves in Riften, had all fought for her. Sharda too. Those people were the ones who'd been her family. They were dead now, but that didn't mean she couldn't fight for them herself. "**** you, Anrich! I'm not gonna run from Sibbi anymore. He's taken enough from me, and I'm done running away from it all!"

"Matilda-"

"Don't call me that! My name is Mila. And if you won't help me, I'll do this myself!"

She started for the door, and when Anrich rose to try and stop her, she put a hand on his wound and pushed him back. The thief grunted and fell against the wall, clutching as the blood started to leak again. "Mila," he said as she exited the chamber, out into the darkness of the sewer tunnel she'd come from. "MILA!"

Her name echoed off the walls and tumbled down the long dark passage. Mila! Mila! Mila!

~~~

"She took my dagger." Anrich muttered, long after the girl's footsteps had faded into the darkness. "When she pushed me, she reached over and took it right from my belt."

The young Bosmer, Unea whistled. "Damn. She got away with stealing from you?"

"No. I felt her take it. Saw the steel disappear into her sleeve. She's good. But not that good. Lots of promise if she'd finished training with us."

Gwella came and sat next to him on his cot. "I think the gods have other plans for Mila."

"Yeah," muttered Martin, "Like disappearing forever the moment she sets foot near Black-Briar's army of sellswords."

"Shut up, Martin." Gwella and Anrich said together.
The priestess looked her friend in the eyes, a solemn expression writ on her face. "What are you going to do?"

"You're the priestess. What should I do?"

"As far as the gods are concerned? I don't know. But you were right not to lead the guild to their deaths. It would have been brash and pointless-"

"But I just let that girl do it alone."

"I doubt anything could have prevented that."

"Doesn't change the fact that I let it happen. And now even if I can find her before she gets herself killed, how am I supposed to convince her that what she's doing is a mistake?"

"Maybe you shouldn't."

"Huh?" The thief looked at the priestess desperately. "Then what-"

"Help her in some other way. Create distractions and false rumors for his men to chase. Cause racket where they sleep to keep them tired. Make whatever she's about to do easier."

"The world has truly gone mad when Priestesses advise thieves to assist children in committing murder. Where is this coming from, Gwella? Just earlier you preached to Matilda-"

"Mila."

"Right... 'Mila'... Sounds strange to say... You preached to Mila that you do not believe it is for us to carry out Stendarr's justice. What changed?"

"Nothing changed. I still believe that to be true. Right now, I'm not speaking for the gods. I'm speaking as one who doesn't wish to see that young girl die at the hands of an evil man. And I know you want to help too. Or else you wouldn't have let her keep your dagger. I want to help you both."

Anrich nodded, "And you have. Thank you. I'll do it. I'll do the things you've suggested and more... Mat- Mila's a smart kid. She won't just walk up to the place. She'll keep her distance and stake it out. Wait for an opportunity. And she'll probably go in through an upper window. Climbing's her strong suit, after all. What we need to do is give her the window she needs... Draw everyone's attention in the opposite direction."

"Down?"

"Down. So far down they'll be finding rats. I don't know if Mila knows this, or even if Black-Briar does, but the man has enemies in this city besides Mila. One of them tried to contact me almost two months ago. I didn't tell Mila because I was trying to keep her from doing something drastic. This man missed a meeting set up by a mutual friend of ours, and you know the rules. I never bothered with him again. Now though..."

"Do you know what the man wanted?"

"He wanted me to find Sibbi and get them in a room together. Boldir was his name. And I think he could be exactly the help Mila needs."

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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Boldir
Home of Marthe Lort

 

When the beggar-turned merchant had offered Boldir a safe place to hide, the Nord had been surprised. But when she told him about the Thieves Guild reconsidering their decision almost two months after making it, he was downright incredulous. It had been a long time since the gods had shown any interest in dropping something good into his life without some severe payment. 
"And you are absolutely sure that the man who wants to see me can be trusted?"

Marthe Lort was already nodding her head vigorously. "I know the fella tha' brought the message. A good sort. Works for the guild like me."

"So he's a beggar?"

"Course! Ain't a lot 'o rich folk willin' to give the little folk a helpin' hand. You were a rare exception."

"Aye, and getting your help was easy enough. Sibbi's got a lot more money than I did. Don't you think your beggar friend could've been hired to lure me out?"

Marthe's eyes flashed with shock at the notion, but that shock quickly turned to fear as the realization hit her that what Boldir suggested was very possible. "I- uhh... That could be the case, yes. All-in-all though, you ain't gettin' anywhere holed up 'ere with me. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're gettin' comfortable with the idea of droppin' your quest an' just movin' in fer good."

Boldir scowled. "I'm not."

"I know, I know," said the merchant, raising her hands defensively. "That's why I said I know better. All I'm sayin' is that you might need to take the risk."

"Not if I don't have to." said Boldir. "This thief wouldn't take a risk with me before. Now it's my turn to play it safe. When this beggar comes to you for a response, tell him that you want to speak with the thief in person."

"That ain't how these things work." Marthe crossed the room to stop her youngest son, Tacitus, from scaling the dinner table. "I don't get to send the guild terms. I don't even get to see them most times."

"You will this time. Tell your friend to tell the thief that he needs to come here, and that you will discuss with him in person what happens after that."

"What if he says no?"

"Then we'll make him help." Boldir looked around the messy room. Even now every Lort child save for young Tacitus were out spying for the guild. They were good at what they did. Good enough to find him when Sibbi's men had failed. "When the beggar comes back, tell Jaclyn to follow him to wherever he goes. And if he meets with anyone, have her follow that person instead. Hopefully we'll be able to tell if the orders are coming from a thief or from Sibbi's lot."

"You'd use me children to spy against the guild?" Marthe looked shocked. "Don'tcha know how much they done for us?"

"Probably less than I did." Boldir responded. "And either way, this ain't an act against the guild. It's just... insurance, to make sure I don't walk into a trap that gets us both killed. I'll talk to Jaclyn when she gets back. In the meantime, your shop's late for opening, so you go on ahead down. I've got a lot to think about."

It was just past noon when the young girl returned home from a morning of unnecessary begging. Of all Marthe's children, Jaclyn was Boldir's favorite. Short, blonde-haired and shifty-eyed, the girl was sneakier than any child had the right to be, and sometimes too clever for her own good. In a lot of ways, she reminded him of Mila. Hell, they were even almost of an age. 
"You want me t' spy on the guild?" The look the girl gave him was that of a full-grown adult, "You know how much they done for us, right?"

"That's almost exactly what your mother said. I don't want you to spy on the guild... Just follow this one man to make sure he's actually a friend."

"I've met Gilbert. He's poorer than we were, but he's a friend."

"He probably is. But there's a good chance he's working for someone who isn't. That's what I need you to discover."

"And what'll you give me in return?"

Boldir motioned at the roof over their heads. "I gave you all this."

"And thanks for that, Mister Boldir, but that was for spyin' on a whole different fellow. What'll you give me for this?"

Boldir sighed and massaged his temple. A real opportunist, this one. "I don't have much to give. Just my axe and what gold I have left from Skyrim. Probably a couple hundred septims. You can have half of that now. But I promise you, when this is over, I'll see to it that you're paid well for this."

The child crossed her arms. "Not good enough. How about this: I help you now, and your plan works, you tell the thief who meets you to consider me for the guild."

"The guild?" Boldir frowned. "A girl your age's got no business in a guild of thieves."

"Why's that any concern o' yours?"

Yeah, Boldir, why? She isn't Mila. "Fine." Boldir relented. "If this ain't a trap, and I manage a meeting with this thief, I'll put in a word for you."

Suddenly a child again, Jaclyn leapt from her chair, smiling a big, joyous smile that reminded him even more of Mila. She took his right hand in both of hers and shook it fiercely. "Thank you, Mister Boldir! I won't mess this up, I promise!"

An hour later, Boldir learned that the beggar, Gilbert, had just returned and spoken with Marthe. To Boldir's relief, his message was not a refusal to meet. Instead, this mysterious 'Gray Cap' was now suggesting that he and Boldir meet in the Temple District. Marthe had told the messenger that she still didn't know where Boldir was, but she could find him and arrange a meeting, but only if he'd be willing to meet some place closer.

Two hours after that, Jaclyn returned to Boldir, claiming that Gilbert had met a different beggar, who'd gone on to the Temple District, where he met with some priestess of Stendarr. After that, the Priestess went down a sewer grate, where even Jaclyn did not dare follow her.

"That sounds like the Thieves Guild to me." Boldir admitted. Sibbi's thugs had a spot in every inn and tavern in the city. They were careful, but not so secretive as to hold meetings in the sewers. That was the kind of place someone went to hide.
"Could you find this sewer grate again?" He asked, "Or the Priestess?"

"Yeah." answered the child. "Easy."

"Then we have our backup plan, if this thief refuses us." Boldir hoped it wouldn't come to that. Reaching Marthe's house unseen had been nerve-wrecking. Getting all the way to the Temple District would be much worse. Unless the kid can go and buy me another disappearing potion. I should have enough coins left for that. Barely.
"I need one thing from you, child."

"I'm thirteen. I'm not a child."

"Of course you're not. My mistake. I still need your help. This one's easy. I just need you to take my coins to the best alchemist in this market, and purchase the strongest, most long-lasting potion of invisibility that the place carries."

"What'll you give me in ret-"

"You can keep any coins left after the purchase. And don't even think about buying a cheap one. If that potion wears off while I'm in the streets, I'm a dead man. And a dead man can't hardly convince the Thieves Guild to accept you as a member, can he?"

"I should think not."

"That's right. Now off you go."

As the little girl left, Boldir sat back and waited, a past-time he had gotten exponentially comfortable with in these past several weeks. While he waited, Boldir considered what he might use the potion for in the event that things worked out for the better and this Gray Cap came to him. It could help get me close to the manor Sibbi's staying at. But not inside. Not past the guards. But when it's time to leave the manor...
I'll have Mila with me then. 
The thought gave Boldir pause. It was a strange one, indeed. There will be two of us. And a good chance guards or more sellswords will be coming. She'll have to drink it... So she can escape. She can't fight them like I can. 
Boldir had thought over this assault a thousand times and was still no closer to coming up with a viable way to pull it off without getting caught during the escape. Even now, he knew that the potion would be absolutely vital in ensuring Mila could leave the place unseen. But that would only leave her alone in the Imperial City, half a world away from her home. The girl wouldn't survive long on her own. He needed to at least survive long enough to see her north of the border. He prayed that the thief would offer solutions.

Jaclyn returned with his potion half an hour later before disappearing into her room, presumably to count and hide the coins she'd just made. This better work, he thought, because that was my last purchase until this is over.
It wasn't until midway into the afternoon that the entrance door swung open again to reveal an excited-looking Marthe at the top of the stairs. "He's here." she whispered, excitedly. "It's Gray Cap!" 

"What's all this?" came a gruff old voice from behind her. "Marthe, what are you-" the voice trailed off the moment it's owner stepped into view. He was a weathered man, Imperial, with a big nose and graying brown hair peeking out from under the gray cap he was named for. The thief's eyes traveled up and down Boldir a good five or six times before he finally cleared his voice and spoke. "Well, how about that?" He cast a sideways glance at Marthe, "I figured you knew where the man was hiding. Not that you had him stashed in your own house!"

"Aye. Me house. A house that he paid for." Marthe started back down to her shop, though it was easy to make out the parting words that she muttered, "Ya'd think the guild'd bother to check where all this came from, yes you would." The door drifted shut behind her.

"Gods be good." the thief massaged his temple much like Boldir often found himself doing of late. "And this is why I don't like risking coming to these places myself. It's never what they say it is. You ain't about to smash my head or something, are ya sir?"

Boldir shrugged. "Are you friends with Sibbi Black-Briar?"

The thief snorted. "I'm gonna go ahead and guess that it's a 'yes' that ends with the head-smashing then, eh? No, I ain't friends with Black-Briar. Never even met the man. Never wanted to meet you either, truth be told. I've read the papers about you, and I've heard the rumors about him. Don't want nothin' to do with that mess."

"Then why did you change your mind about meeting me?"

Gray Cap lifted his palms, "Let's just say my hands were forced. One of my thieves, Nord girl named Matilda, she's got her own issues with Black-Briar. Wants revenge after his sellswords killed a friend. Now believe me, there's nothing I want more than to find the lass and talk some sense into her, gods know she could use it. But she's gone missing. Probably gonna try to kill the man herself before long."

"Which would only end in her death. You want me to kill Sibbi before he kills your thief."

"Call it desperation, but right now you're the only way I can see that happening."

"Only if you can help me." Boldir said. "Getting in and getting out. I need the safest escape route you can possibly come up with."

"Oh, I can give you that." promised Gray Cap. "In fact, you'll be walking in and walking out as easy as a man walks the streets."

Clearly, you haven't seen me try walking the streets lately. "What have you got in mind?"

"The sewers." Gray Cap said with the sort of mischievous smile you could only expect from a thief. "Every house in Talos Plaza is connected to them. Most even keep trapdoors and locked hatches so the city's nobility can escape in the event of an outside threat. As it just so happens, the Thieves Guild's had those mapped out for centuries."

"Must be pretty handy for thieves to know of secret entrances to all the wealthiest houses in the city."

"Aye, and these rich folks' ancestors obviously figured that out too, because almost every one of them's locked and barred from the house-side. Even held down by furniture in a lot of cases. Only way through them is by making a lot of noise, which ain't exactly an option in our trade. Especially when dealing with rich folks who're like to keep personal guards inside the place. Course, what you're going there for don't require much stealth, given that your plan's to just kill the inhabitants anyway. Which actually brings me to my question: How in Oblivion do you intend to do that, exactly? I mean, don't get me wrong, you're a big bastard, but this Black-Briar fella's got himself a little army."

"That little army is spread throughout the city." Boldir said. "But I'm sure you know that."

"Aye, but that don't mean there won't be five, maybe even ten hired swords inside the place."

"I'll handle it." Boldir said, confidently. It wouldn't do for the thief to call this off because he was afraid it wasn't possible. "I just need my armor. I buried it, along with some other valuables, less than an hour's walk outside the city. I can't get to it, but one of your thieves probably can."

"Definitely can." Gray Cap said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "And I'll be sure to tell him not to touch the other valuables you've got there. Course I can't promise he'll listen."

"It'd definitely be in his best interest to listen."

The thief nodded, "Aye, I reckon it would. Now, back to the house. I'm sorry if it seems like I doubt your abilities as a warrior, because believe me, I don't. But given the unpredictability of these things, I'm gonna go ahead and offer up a slightly more refined plan than you marching up through the basement and attempting to take on what could easily turn into twenty or more people."

"By all means. This is why I wanted to meet with you."

The thief nodded respectfully. "Thanks. Now what I'm thinking is that you and I go through the sewers together, and we bring with us a pair of what may be one of underrated little tools in the thieving world: hourglasses. As we part ways, you and I'll flip our glasses to start the counter. From there, I go topside and make a few preparations of my own. When our sands run out, I'll kick off a distraction that's sure to draw away any sellswords or guards who're in the streets, maybe even some of the ones in the house, and you'll break in the door, axe at the ready."

Boldir smiled. "I like the sound of that."

"I thought you would. There is one caveat though. Something I'd like to ask of you, if it comes up."

"What is it?"

"The Nord girl I mentioned, Matilda. She ain't a fool. No doubt she's watching Sibbi's place now, waiting for an opening. Like as not, she'll see my distraction for you as exactly that. Now I ain't gonna ask you to rush after Black-Briar to slay him before she can, but please, please, if you see her, make sure she gets out safely."

"I promise." said Boldir I'll already be escorting out Mila. A second should be no trouble. "If I see her, I'll do what I can."

"Thank you." There was a look of genuine relief in the aging thief's eyes. "She's got herself a temper to rival ol' Dagon on a bad day, but damn if that girl don't remind me of my own little one..."

Boldir didn't like the way the thief's voice trailed off toward the end. "You used to have a daughter."

"A son. Spirited little thing named Tiber. Name like that's sure to be blessed, eh?" Gray Cap's eyes had grown wide as he spoke, only for him to blink and shake his head. "It's no matter. This girl's a good thief. One I'd very much like to have a long and successful career. And that's why you and I are gonna kill this Black-Briar fella. And then all will be right with the world once more."

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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Imperial Palace, War room 
Before Noon

Krojun sat in the royal chair in the war room. The only reason it was royal was because it had a higher back and had some carvings of dragons and swords along armrests and back than the other chairs. He wore (for an emperor) rather plain clothes in black, grey and silver and is sword was leaning against the left side of the chair. Before him was a large rectangular table with the map of Tamriel with the different factions in their respective colors; red for Cyrodiil, blue for Skyrim, orange for Hammerfell, brown for High Rock and an ugly yellow for the Dominion. Small wooden pieces of soldier in different armors and holding a small banner of their faction's symbol stood on the map and represented the known armies their locations. Boats in the same fashion of differences marked the navies. 
On Krojun's direct left was Lilly seated in a chair. She wore her Oculatus leather armor and had her hair tied up in a bun behind her head. She sat with a demeanor befitting of her noble birth and had a calm but determined look to her eyes. Gracchus sat a bit further away on his right and wore his decorative general's armor with cape. He did not have the same highborn demeanor of Lilly or Krojun and instead sat slightly leaning on his right on to the side. Tacitus was seated slightly to the left of the far end of the table as if to make as much distance from the rest as possibly. He wore rather plain clothing and sat half slouched and half tense, like he was going to rush up for battle. 
"You all know why we're here." said Krojun. "Skyrim's new capital Windhelm has been attacked and a sunbird was involved in the attack. We don't know what their current state is or if Windhelm is even still standing."

Gracchud sighed, a frown plastered on his face. "So we are practically blind. Do we know anything about the outcome?"

"The messenger fled on horse as soon as the Thalmor appeared and barely got away. Only saw that the enemy had breached the city walls and that the sunbird appeared and began to burn everything."

"I've got nothing." uttered Lilly, her face hardening in annoyance and anger. "I've sent several messenger birds to my agents in Windhelm, but it'll take time for them to respond, if they're alive at all." She crossed her arms in a slightly sulking manner. "I've asked the good major if his wolves have heard anything, but they got nothing as well. Windhelm could be a smouldering pile of rubble right now, and the Dominion war machine could be marching towards the ruins of Riften, or Whiterun as we speak."  Pausing for a moment she continued, her impeccable posture remaining resolute and turning to Gracchus. "I do hope you sent messages to the other generals, informing them about the situation. Martullus's legion, and your's, can muster near the Imperial city, but it'll take time to gather everyone else up." 

"My men are marching here as we speak, and I've given my officers orders on their deployment within and without the city. Our border troops were alerted as well, and they are ready in the case that the Thalmor attacks from the front lines. We've also alerted the troops guarding the passes into Skyrim that they should send warning at the first sign of trouble." Gracchus said. He was stoic, his face even and determined. "We've been preparing for this day, and my men are ready for whatever comes."

"I think we should also prepare the border guard to receive Stormcloak missives. They might need extra help against the bloody elves. We could provide, right now at such short notice, limited infantry and cavalry support. Maybe some skirmishers and sabotage units in the form of the Imperial Rangers." She gave an annoyed grin. "Though knowing the stubbornness of those damn Nords, they'd probably rather fall on there own blades then ask us for our assistance."

"We should help the Nords by striking back at the Thalmor." Tacitus said, snapping at that final word with clear disdain. "We face them on our terms, hit them hard and fast."

"As the sunbird and probably a sizeable force of the Dominion is tied up in Skyrim, I was thinking the same thing." said the Emperor. He then leaned forward and pointed at the Valenwood border along with a little magic to light up that part of the map with a low and dim red light for the others to see. "Valenwood as I understand it is too heavily guarded for a direct attack. But instead," Krojun gestured towards Elsweyr and light shifted to cover the border regions of Elsweyr. "we should attack where we have more maneuverability. The northern part of Elsweyr is mostly desert but the regions near and along the borders are nearly all steps with farms. Attacking them there we could force the Dominion to engage us in a battle of our choosing."

"I don't know that we can bet on probably here. As we've established, we don't know how many Dominion troops are in Skyrim. It could be a sizable force, yes, but it could also be merely a strike force. I agree that Elsweyr is the safest plan for an offensive, but as this is our opening attack of the war, I think we should not act until we have more information in hand." Gracchus said. 

"I agree with the High General" muttered Lilly underneath her breath, her gorgeous lapiz lazuli eyes shinning. "We have no idea about the situation Skyrim's in, and it would be more prudent to wait. We cannot attack without proper intelligence." She put her hands on the table. "I think our time would be better spent fortifying and preparing our own borders, as well as readying the invading force for the time when it is prudent to strike back against the Dominion."

"I'm not going to wait for the Dominion to strike at us." said Krojun. "If they bring the war to our lands, it's our people and our infrastructure that will suffer. The Dominion forces in Skyrim must cross the mountains to reach us. We'll have plenty of time to get a warning and prepare if they decide to move south."

"I don't believe we should wait to be attacked, but we also should not rush in until we know what waits on our flanks. As of now, our forces closest to Skyrim are mostly recruits, and if we do attack, we risk leaving only recruits between Skyrim and the northern cities." Gracchus said. 

"I think we should leave 9th and 10th Legion to keep guard against Valenwood. Two legions north to guard Bruma and Cheydinhal. The rest, except the two recruit legions, should move south and cross into Elsweyr to put some pressure on the Dominion. If things go bad we should easily be able to retreat back to our own territory."

Gracchus looked over at the map and the Legion army markers, clearly deep in thought. His fingers traced the air, moving armies here and there to facilitate the Emperor's plan of attack. "I think we should allow the 12th Legion in addition to the 9th and the 10th to remain stationed on the Valenwood border. They are all blooded veterans, and would delay any incursions from the Dominion into our lands. The 11th, the 2nd, and the 7th Legions can then advance into Elsweyr, as per your plan. I would propose moving the 3rd Legion to guard Bruma, while the two recruit legions, the 1st and the 8th, can both guard Cheydinhal. That would leave my 6th Legion and the 5th Legion left. Mine would likely stay near the city, while we could deploy the 5th, already near Leyawiin, into the city itself to prevent an attack from the south. There they would have control over the mouth of the Niben as well as the two roads leading north toward the Imperial City."

"This city and Leyawiin got strong enough walls to last long enough for reinforcement. Your 6th should follow into Elsweyr and provide support. The 5th should go west and make a nuisance of themselves between Rimmen and Leyawiin. Anvil and Leyawiin still got the navy to defend them. And I highly doubt the Imperial City would suffer an attack unless it's by a sunbird. Speaking of which, I invited Endar to talk a bit more in depth on them. Should we let him in?" said Krojun. Part of him wanted to keep the damned elf waiting outside, but he knew everyone, including himself, would want to hear what the elf had to say on the matter. 

"My boys can hold those cities as well as yours." Tacitus told Gracchus.

Gracchus didn't address the man when he continued. "We can bring Endar in once we finish discussing our plan. I think there is too much risk in sending five legions into Elsweyr. We can send the 5th Legion in, as you suggested, but I would have my men remain stationed between the Imperial City and Elsweyr. In the event of a sunbird attack, they can fall back to the city. If support is needed in Elsweyr, they are close for that as well. And if Dominion troops made landfall in the south, my men could block access to the Red Ring Road from the Yellow and Green Roads."

Lillies eyebrows raised at the Emperor's and General's plan. "I have some contacts in the Elsweyr resistance. If you want, we could rally the cells, and use them to our advantage in the upcoming invasion. Of course, it would require some gold, weapons and armors, to properly gain their support, but I would find there assistance invaluable." She grinned. "It would be pretty great if we had some of those giant, armored, attack cats...." 

"I think that sounds good for the 5th." said Krojun as he looked over the map. He then looked to Lilly. "If you can either get them to cause trouble in the jungles in the south or open the gates for us at Rimmen or Riverhold, that would be great. Though I don't trust them to not get in the way of our legions once we've moved into Elsweyr."

The Imperial spymaster glanced around the table, before her brow raised in suprise, "Say... where in Talos's name is the Empress? Has anyone informed her about the situation? Before making any decisions, I think we should consult her." 

"She is playing with Abigail and I didn't want to interrupt." said Krojun. Though that was only partly true. He feared that Dales might accidentally order something he did not want. So not having her at the meeting could save them both the risk of the humiliation of him having to walk all over Dales' authority.

"You know, me and my niece were playing a game of chess when I got word from one of my officers about this whole mess. Dales should be made aware of what's happening in her realm, and her military, regardless if she's spending time with her baby." Lilly's voice was sharp and judgemental. She crossed her arms, and glanced at Gracchus. "I think the Empress should be aware. Do you, dear General? Less she gets angry at all of us, when she eventually finds out later on, and wasn't invited to council."

"I agree, she should be informed. I think that whatever arrangement you two have on who deals with what side of the Empire should be set aside when something of this magnitude occurs." Gracchus said. 

"Who's Abigail?" Tacitus asked, as if he was suddenly waking up from a nap.

Lilly's eyes opened, as she let out a long, huge sigh. "The Imperial Princess, Admiral."

"When did the Empress have a baby? I know I wasn't gone long enough for that to happen." Tacitus said, his eyes flicking from each of the other leaders in what seemed to be suspicion.

"Me and Dales tussled quite a bit before our wedding." said Krojun with a little smile. "Anyway, I'll go get her then." said Krojun and got up from his chair. He felt a bit annoyed as he walked out of the room. Endar stood outside, scribbling in his journal. Krojun gave him a quick glance, though Endar didn't even appear to notice him. 
Krojun then continued down the halls and up a couple of stairs till he reached the private quarters. There he stood in front of a door leading to lounge near the royal bedroom that had practically been turned into the child's bed- and playroom. He drew a small sigh before he knocked on the door, as he knew Dales would probably be a bit upset of not being told. She had grown more difficult to control as of late and he suspected it was because some kind of girl problem. Something he didn't quite know how to deal with in a subtle manner. 

Dales quiet voice responded: "Enter." To which Krojun opened the door and entered the room. Dales was  sitting on a chair inside. Her long blonde hair, was very neat and tidy, along with her general garb. She wore a long red dress, that had black here and there intermingled with the crimson color. Her icy blue eyes were glued on a book, which she was reading intently. Little Abigail, was in her other arm, sleeping it seemed.

"Too tired to play?" he asked softly, hoping it would not trigger a foul mood, as he walked up to the Dales. There he crouched down in front of her so she was taller than him before he carefully patted the baby on the head to see if she really was sleeping. 

"Yep." She said simply. "What do you need?"

"We just got word that Windhelm has been attacked by the Thalmor. We're holding a meeting where we're planning how we should retaliate."

Dales eyes shoot up, as her lips curled in what seemed to be anger. She got out of her chair, dropping the book, keeping the baby close to her "What do you mean 'we're holding a meeting?' It's happening right now? Why wasn't I informed immediately?" 

Krojun considered being rather blunt with Dales for a moment. But then he looked at the baby and decided that he'd rather not cause an argument that would cause the baby to wake up screaming. "It's a military matter that I didn't think I'd require your presence for. I also wanted you to spend some time with Abigail."

"What in Oblivion!" She was getting visibility more and more angry by the second. While her voice wasn't loud, the tinge of venom made up for the lack of noise. "Our allies are under attack, The Dominion making the first moves of the war, and our borders are possibly threatened. Please explain to me, how in ancient Skyrim is this is solely considered a 'military matter'?" Dales spoke so loudly that Krojun felt a little relief that her habit to muffle the walls and doors still was in affect. "My daughter can wait, this is a matter of kingdoms and monarchs. As a monarch, I should have been informed immediately, Krojun!"

He got up so he stood much taller than Dales. "Truth be told, I don't have much faith in your abilities. Whatever you may think, you should understand that as long as I do, I will limit your influence in areas I fear you to make a too large a mistake."

The cool mask of indifference Dales had worn for the last week didn't break, though he could see the fury burning in her eyes. "Then let us be off to the meeting." She went to open the door.

"Wait." That's an order. This stopped Dales from reaching and opening the door. He drew a small sigh. Part of him didn't really want to be so forceful with her. But he wouldn't allow Dales to storm off to the meeting like an upset teenager. "If you want to be part of my rule, we're going to make sure I can trust you." he said, trying to sound sympathetic instead of otherwise rather neutral tone.

Dales eyes remained fiery, but that really clashed with her otherwise cold facade. "I know how to keep my emotions under control. I learned it the hard way, but I wont display any excess of it at the meeting. Now let us be off."

"You don't know how to control them. Otherwise you'd not be trying to avoid me and rush off to the meeting."

"Skyrim is under siege from the Dominion, and your telling me not to rush off to a meeting that decides our course of action?" Her eyebrows raised.

"Yes. While I admit this is a bad time, we need to come to an understanding of how we're going to rule. I wont let you go to any meeting until I can trust you and we can understand each other."

Dales puffed up, "This isn't the time to have this conversation. Like I said, our realm is in almost direct peril. And you want to talk about something as petty as this, while soldiers are dying?" Dales gave a look as if she was wondering if he was serious. 

"Fine, I will let you join the meeting on a couple of conditions: First is that we will enter as a dear couple, treating each other as proper spouses. Second is that I give the final orders. You will at most make suggestions and arguments."

"Yes, yes." She waved her hands around, "Now can we go?"

"Yes. Though we're talking more about this after the meeting."

Dales opened the door, and called out: "Victoria!"

The brown haired maid rushed to the door, as she bowed her head. "What do you need, Dales?"

The young Empress handed the maid her baby. "Look after little Abby until I'm back."

The maid gently grabbed the baby from her hands. "Of course." 

Krojun then walked up and grabbed Dales' hand. "Come dear, lets go." he said as he led her down the corridors.

Dales whispered in the Nord's ears: "There's no reason to try and pretend in front of Victoria. I sleep with her every Sundas after all." 

"I'm just getting into the act." he whispered back. Then on the way he filled Dales in on what they had more or less already decided. When they arrived to at the war room, Endar was still standing there with his ledger, seemingly stuck in his own little world. Krojun ignored him as walked back into the war room with Dales in hand. 

"Welcome back, Your Majesties," Gracchus said. "I trust the Empress was informed of the situation?"

"Yes, she is." said Krojun simply. He then walked with her around the table to the royal chair where he came to realize there was only one royal chair in the room. There were a few more regular chairs lined up against the broadside wall. With a simple spell and a wave of his hand one of the chairs floated forth and placed itself right next to the royal chair. Krojun helped Dales sit down in it as expected of him before he himself sat down.
With their armrests being lined up with each other he put his hand over hers. While he knew it might be a bit indecent, it would allow for some indirect control over her by the simply fact that they had to act as lovers, as well as the physical contact would mean he could use magic to talk with her without the others noticing. 
"Did we miss anything?" he then asked. 

"We were discussing what the plan for the navy might be." Gracchus said. 

"He wants us to sit in harbor like guards. I think we need to take the fight back to the Dominion and regain control of the seas. We can and will beat them, as we were doing before." Tacitus said, his voice very pointed toward Gracchus. 

"The Thalmor have shown to be more than willing to deploy their sunbirds, and if our fleet faces another one of those, it could destroy half our naval forces. If we keep our ships in harbor, they can protect our port cities and strengthen our defenses there. That's where they should be, at least until we know how to stop the sunbirds and have the support of the other provinces." Gracchus said, the weariness in his voice making it evident how many times they had argued this point. 

"What about Senchal?" said Krojun. "Would the Thalmor care enough about the Khajiit to spend a sunbird on protecting them?"

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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"We could take that city, sure as the sky is blue, whether they use a sunbird or not. We'll be ready this time." Tacitus said. 

"We really cannot know if the Thalmor would use a sunbird there. The only way to find out would be to attack, and if they did use one, we would suffer another defeat, unless Endar has something new." Gracchus said. 

"I don't intend to capture the city. But I wonder if we could raid the city; steal what we can, torch what we can't and leave before the Dominion are any wiser. Maybe there is a way to avoid the sunbird if we can't fight it." said Krojun.

"We don't know what the response time of a sunbird is, or how they're signaled, but I'd bet we can pull of a hit and run attack on Senchal. We would need to determine the strength of the naval presence there first." Tacitus said.

"It's not like we can just launch rocks at them." muttered Lilly, gazing at the map. "Just one of those bloody contraptions can wreck an entire Cohort of Legionaries in seconds. Going against them in a straight fight is practically suicidal." she said with gusto, her blue eyes sparkling. Lilly edged in her chair. "Like I said before, I have contacts in the resistance. I could organise some kind of pact with them. I don't think it's wise to piss off the cats. If we start pillaging, and looting their cities, the common people will side with the Dominion. Foreign invaders are bad enough as it is. I think we should go in as liberators, not as invaders." 

Dales in the meantime sat calmly in her chair and eyed the map, taking in what she could. 

"We are going in there as invaders, whether we like it or not," Gracchus said. "The Khajiit revere the elves after the Void Nights, and any resistance that exists won't be enough for us to shape the narrative of the invasion into one of liberation."

"Just a suggestion, your the big boss, after all." Lilly said, yawning a little. She gave the general a warm smile. A somewhat strange way for the Spymaster to act. Maybe she was just being friendly, or maybe she other motives. "Though with your permission, I would like to divert some funding and put into the resistance. Start a little proxy war, to warm up for the main event. Like I said before, our Legions will be going in blind, against a people that has traditionally, excelled in skirmish warfare. They have the lay of the land, and the home field advantage. Our legions will need guides, and auxiliary support. Which is why I'm still very much in favor of contacting the rebel cells."

Krojun just gave Lilly a slightly inquisitive glance as he thought her acting a little bit off. "What's her game?" he asked his wife telepathically. 

"Lilly has always been a friend of the Legion. She's good friends with General Grom, Martullus, and formerly, Gaius Tulluis. She probably wants to best prepare for the invasion, and make sure our soldiers don't walk blinding into giant attack cats." The Empress said. Krojun however found little comfort in Dales' words, though he did find some reassurance that Karsh was always following the spymaster.

"We don't have much coin to spare from the Legion itself between arming and training the new recruits, as well as keeping the attacking legions well supplied." Gracchus said. "We could divert money from the crown, instead of the Legion's budget, if the Emperor and Empress agree."

"It's not like I need a steak dinner every night." Dales said simply in her monotone voice. She turned to face her so-called husband. "What's your opinion on the manner, dear. I think being more familiar with the lay of the land, and extra support for the Legion is worth the cost. We can't have our men running through Elsweyr blind after all."

"I think we divert some initial funds. If you're ploy turns out successful we might divert more in time." Krojun said.

"Of course. That's all I ask." she said bowing her head. "I'll make the arrangements as soon as I'm able, and work on gathering the rebel cells armed and gathered in the area around Senchal through my agents."

"Now shall we go back to how to deal with the sunbirds?" Krojun asked. 

"Let's see if the elf has anything useful to say." Tacitus said.

With a spell and wave from his free hand, Krojun opened the door to the war room. "Endar!" he then simply shouted. 

Quite a few seconds passed with no appearance from the wizard, which was odd considering he had been right next to the door when Krojun and Dales had walked past him. The Emperor was about to call again when the red-robed Dunmer finally came around the corner, looking more curious than prepared. "I thought I heard my name." he said in his raspy voice. "What is it?"

"We want to hear what you know about sunbirds. Especially how to either fight or avoid them."

"I had wondered if you lot had forgotten you'd hired me." mused the elf. "Well I do not have much in the way of updates that will be of use to you. The sunbirds are Aetherial constructs of crystal mirror-make that wield aetherfire. To build and anchor one requires far more power than the Empire likely possess in a compressed form that can maintain connection with Mundus for any extended period of time. And you certainly lack the capacity to crew one. Not that this matters, as you asked me to find weaknesses, not give you one of your own. While I have yet to see a sunbird in person myself, the Admiral's accounts do support my theory that they should lack mobility in this plane, or rather, the Thalmor lack the means to control theirs to the full extent of its capabilities, and you should be thanking the gods for that. Avoiding the vessels should be as simple as avoiding large bodies of water, as their current anchoring mechanisms, based on the rather primitive diagrams I have, do not allow for flight or easy maneuvering. They must operate similarly to a wooden ship in that regard, though with even less capacity for sailing. Jumps are possible, but they cannot be over long distances, as the coordinates must be available."

"So to avoid these things, we need to avoid the seas. What a practical strategy for our navy," Tacitus said, his lips twisting into a contemptuous snarl.

"Why are they limited to water? How many sunbirds would you estimate the Thalmor has?" asked Krojun.

"They are not limited to water." responded the elf. "But the vessels are not constructed for land use. To deploy one on land would render it immobile until it can be redeployed. Also, anchoring a sunbird to a specific location on Mundus would be very, very difficult without fairly specific coordinates. A mark spell, for instance, should do the trick. It is unlikely that the Dominion would have too many locations marked that are not viable for travel. As for how many vessels our enemies might have, I cannot say for certain. But at a guess, probably no more than three at the most. The stones required for anchorage are exceedingly rare. The last time one turned up for certain was during the Oblivion Crisis, but obviously the Thalmor have managed to find their own. Or perhaps they've always had them."

"Would it be possible to disrupt the teleportation? How fast do you think they could call on a sunbird in case of an attack?"

"Teleportation?" Endar shook his head. "As I said, they are anchored, not set. There is no teleportation. The powering down of the crystals they use returns them to Aetherius, where they can be used again to return to a specific set of coordinates. To determine an answer to your first question, I would need to know more about the crystals. And to your second question, the speed at which a tone might be able to anchor in a sunbird would depend entirely on how prepared they are."

"You mentioned recall marks. Where would be the best place for these to be? And what would happen if one dispelled such a mark mid-anchoring?" Krojun felt like an apprentice mage again, asking questions about this and that. Hopefully Endar would be more patient with him than his previous teachers. Even thought he also hated having to ask things of an elf. 

"The Thalmor can place these marks wherever they wish, so long as they can reach the location, and dispelling one would be of little use. They are used as a target for coordinates. Not a literal recalling of the sunbird. That would be ludicrous. Removing such a mark, if found, would only benefit you in that it would make a precise landing difficult for those crewing the vessel, assuming they do not simply have another mark elsewhere."

"So if a mark is set near a coastal city, there would be nearly no way to avoid the sunbird in the event we attacked said city?" Gracchus asked.

"It would certainly be difficult." admitted the elf. "Although I am no strategist, and I cannot presume to know what cities the Thalmor would deem important enough to defend in this manner."

"If you got nothing else to add, you're free to leave." said Krojun. 

"Keep us updated with any major discoveries, if you would." Gracchus added. 

"Sure, sure." Endar said rather dismissively. "I'll send the message upstairs when I have a new update." He nodded to the whole room before taking his leave.

"We shouldn't let his speculation stop us from an attack." Tacitus said. "Senchal is there for the taking, and those cats won't put up a defense worth a shit against our men."

"I think an attack could be possible without much fear of a sunbird. But it would be tricky." said Krojun. "My idea is that you attack under cover of dark. With the proper weather conditions the sunbird would have a hard time hitting anything, or even discern friend from foe."

"Can we bet on the weather when we'll have to launch the attack at least several days in advance?" Gracchus asked. 

"If not, we can wait in the area until the time is right." Tacitus said. 

"Would the objective be to attack the ships stationed there, or the city itself?" Gracchus asked.

"The weather should be little problem. I should be able to produce a scroll for that. I think the main objective should be to either capture or destroy any ships in the harbor as well as destroying the docks. Maybe do some pillaging if you got the time." said Krojun.

"That we can certainly do." Tacitus said, his grin showing his crooked teeth.

"Seems that's settled." Gracchus said. "What about the specifics of our land attack? Do we want to take the border cities or just keep them occupied while we raid the countryside?"

"Keep them occupied so you can raid the countryside. Pillage then burn any and all villages and herd the refugees south and west. I think it could be quite interesting to see what will happen if Valenwood suddenly finds itself with thousands of hungry cats within its borders." said Krojun. 

Dales suddenly slamming her fist in the table and yelled, in an half quenched outcry: "That's barbaric! We cant just slaughter civilians!" She then regained her composure a mere moment afterwords, relaxing and taking a breath of air. She adapted her monotone voice, which reflected her icy blue eyes. "What I mean to say, certainly there must be another way to effectively keep the Dominion occupied, without amassing unmeasurable civilian casualties. The Khajiit would forever curse the Red Legion if we burned their villages down. Not to mention it would cause dissent in the ranks. What about the Khajiit officers, and soldiers that serve in the Legion?" Dales placed her hands on the table, and turned to face Gracchus. "Certainly, I think we could capture the border cities. Provision grain from the villages, certainly, but not burn them down, to feed our armies. An expanded military campaign, and occupation would be costly, yes. But I think it's the better alternative to destroying the provinces infrastructure. What's your opinion, General?" 

"Whether we like it or not, the infrastructure of the province will be destroyed eventually. Our own villages took years to recover from the Great War. The plan is not to kill these villagers, but to force them deeper into Dominion territory. Let the Dominion take care of its people, and divert resources to do so. These people's lives will be upset, one way or another. And likely, we'll will be seen as invaders, not liberators." Gracchus said, the solemnness in his voice apparent.  

Dales breathed a mouthful of air before saying: "I remember much from the Inquisitor days." There being a hint in her voice and face that those days were a sore topic. "I know, from intelligence reports, and... my own experiences, that the ruling Thalmor justicars wouldn't lift a finger for these people. They will be placed in interment camps, and left to slowly die. I trust all of your judgement. And if even the High General says we must destroy the outlying villages, then so be it. But I worry for our reputation. The Empire is already seen by many to be a monophonic entity devoid of any compassion or remorse. I say screw what other people think of us." she said, with conviction. "But at the same time, this just confirms their opinion. I want to liberate these people. The Khajiit have suffered under the Dominion just like the rest of us. I know it's childish, but that's how I feel. The Empire failed them. Under the Septims. Under the Medes. I don't want to." 

Lilly turned to face the Empress. "Your Majesty, I think the Emperor, and High-General have the right of this. This is a necessary evil. Even if we win the support of the local rebel cells, this is necessary. We are denying the Dominion valuable resources, and forcing them to spend there own on the fleeing refugees. This must be done." Her tone was soft, and sympathetic. 

Tacitus stared down at the table, and when he spoke, he seemed less angry than usual. "I've seen firsthand what the the Dominion does to Imperial sympathetic Khajiit. The one who saved my life died a brutal death. But he was reported by his fellow villagers. Whatever feelings the rebels have, it is not one widely shared, and we won't have local support unless we come bearing gifts of gold."

Lilly eyed Tacitus, her features becoming strange, before saying: "Like I said before, I think we can use the resistance to our advantage, and they would make worthwhile allies to have. That being said, like you have stated; a rather large part of the Khajiit population supports the Dominion. We should contact the resistance, offer to arm and equip them for local partisan support to our forces as auxiliaries, and then go from there." She turned around, sayingin a rather rather deadpan manner. "We could try a smear campaign against the ruling Altmer. Incite the people with the truth with Oculatus operatives. But that would definitely be a waste of resources. We should gain the support of the local cells, and let our actions speak for themselves in regards to the common people."

"The cats of Elsweyr has been our enemies for a hundred years." said Krojun. "I highly doubt any gifts of good will would change that. And if what my dear wife says still holds true, then the Dominion will do more to drive a wedge between themselves and the Khajiit than any propaganda we can amount."

Dales crossed her arms. "If that's our plan, then so be it."" She paused before saying: "Is there any other military matters we need to discuss, because I have something else to bring up."

"I believe we've covered the most pressing issues." Gracchus said. 

"What is it Dales?" asked her husband.

Dales took out a letter from a pocket. as she moved a strand of her lustrous blonde hair, she read out loud to the group: "Your Majesty Empress Motierre,

I must apologize profusely for not writing sooner. But under this brutal regime, I’m afraid I feared for my family’s safety. You see, Theodore Adrard has done nothing but murder and lie to the Breton nobility since he so wrongly ousted your rule. But that is not the worst of it. I was contacted by a Direnni ambassador, who revealed to me a plot between Adrard, the Direnni, and the Thalmor, in which they would betray the alliance in exchange for retaining their titles under the Dominion. But when the ambassador sought an audience with King Adrard, a Thalmor justiciar murdered him. I then revealed the plot, but now I fear that my service to truth will be rewarded by death at the hands of this tyrant king. For Adrard met with the Direnni recently, and I believe he will move against me soon. I think we will have to flee, likely to Cyrodiil, to escape Adrard. In the case we cannot, however, I send this letter as a plea to my Empress, in that she may retake this province, and return justice to High Rock. You are the Breton peoples’ only hope.

Ever your servant,

Duke Jhared Mon." Dales reclined back into her chair, and placed a hand to her chin, yawning loudly. "Utter hogwash though." Dales icy eyes shone. "I sent my wolves to see if his words were true. Alas, what they tell me is the opposite, from sniffing in the mud of that province. King Adrard, as foul as the pig-king is, has no connection to the Dominion, or contact with it. Furthermore, the good Dukes forces have been smashed, his keep taken, and him and his family taken captive for execution by the royal army. He acts, and dies alone. Nothing but a distraction. Whatever it be for Mons personnel ambition, or orders from the Thalmor."

"So its too late to bother either way now." said Krojun, with a small sense of disinterest. "Though I do think if Adrard had made a deal with the Thalmor, we wouldn't be able to find out either way till the war is in full sway."

"He is unfortunately rather good at keeping his plots hidden." Gracchus said. 

"We need to focus on the Thalmor anyway." Tacitus said, grumbling as he did, his arm and metal fist crossed tightly across his chest.

"Sometimes your worst enemy, is the one fighting at your side." Dales said, seemingly quoting someone as she said it, before continuing: "I think we should be more careful around our so-called allies. Besides General Red-Snow, I find the rest of our human allies, quite untrustworthy." She paused for a second. "Regardless, I agree with Tacitus. Eliminating the Dominion's presence on the mainland is our number one priority."

Well that was pointless. thought Krojun as nothing came out of the discussion. "Anything else to bring up?" he said, wanting to end the meeting as he thought it was beginning to drag. 

Dales shook her head. "Nope."

Neither Tacitus nor Gracchus spoke up, and the latter shook his head as well.

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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"You're dismissed." said Krojun. "And Lilly, wait for me in your office, I want to discuss some foreign matters with you."

Gracchus stood and bowed, while Tacitus gave a half-hearted bob of his head before the two military men left.

Dales snickered. "I need some bloody meat." she said and got out of her chair.

Lilly asked, following behind; "Your still coming over to the Quentas mansion for dinner?" She gave the Empress a slight smile and a wink. "Helen is very excited, and has been looking forward to it all week."

Dales returned the smile. "Of course, Colonel. I'll be there at six." And with that, she walked out of the room, following the two military officers.

Lilly gave the Emperor a sly grin. "A dinner with the lovely young Empress, and a night with her handsome Emperor. I'm a very lucky woman. I'll see you tonight." She blew Krojun a kiss, before following the group outside.

Dales then walked back in after a few seconds. "Ah, I forgot. You wanted to speak about something?" Dales tapped her foot impatiently.

"Yes, I do." said Krojun. He drew a small sigh, trying to keep calm. Dales's attitude frustrated him more and more by the second. "Please, sit."

Dales took a seat, before rubbing her eyes, "You need anything, my emperor?" She said. Dales looked tired. The Empress yawned. "My apologies. I'm quite tired. Little sleep lately."

"I understand. That's also part of why I wish to speak with you. You need to sleep more, get rid of those dark rings under your eyes."

"I cant." She said simply, "I cant just close my eyes, and fall asleep. I've used sleeping spells, they're only good for about two hours. " She yawned once more. "I don't need it anyway. Three or four hours a day is all I need to run myself effectively until court is over." Dales scratched her chin. "I'll be fine."

"Then find a hobby to help you relax. The lack of sleep is bad for your work and for your appearance."

"I have one. Two in fact. Gardening and reading. You don't need to worry about me, Krojun." Dales gave a weak smile. "Best I've felt in years. I'll be alright." 

"So make sure to get some sleep, or at least wear some makeup so you don't look so tired when you make public appearances. Speaking of public appearances; you will have to find a tutor in speech craft. Your monotone voice is... difficult to listen to."

Dales looked like she was about to protest for a second but then went back to a more dignified expression. "I suppose, that would be better." She said in her monotone voice. "Only in public though." Her tone become slightly softer. "Is there anything else? I have a dinner date with a little dove to prepare for, as well as some other matters to attend to." 

Krojun was about to tell her that she would need to learn for all occasions. Though he decided against telling her as he figured it would be easier to convince her once she had begun her lessons. "Whatever you may think of me criticizing you, I am not doing it to be mean. I'm trying to do what I can so the crowns will remain on our heads and our heads remain on our shoulders. So don't be dismissive of what I tell you and instead think on why I'm telling you." He paused for a second. "And one last thing: No more outbursts in front of others." Krojun couldn't even put up the effort to sounding stern or really authoritative, but instead he simply sounded weary. 

"Of course." She said, and with that she got up from the chair and left the room with her head held high. She at least didn't give the direct impression of defiance as she left. More an impression carelessness that Krojun didn't really know if he should be irritated at. 

Krojun remained for a moment, trying to think of where a good tutor for Dales could be found. But as it was far from his area of expertise he figured he could only find one by asking around. He considered asking Lilly but she rarely gave the impression she had been in contact with a good tutor. The only thing that came to mind was Maggie and the possibility of asking the Bathories. 

He got up and left the room. Walking the hallways till he arrived at Lilly's office. He knocked a before opening the door.

Lilly gave a brief glance up as she grunted. The woman showed herself having a very good penmanship, as she wrote insanely fast, scribbling black ink into the parchment with little effort, "Tad bit busy, your majesty. You need anything?" 

"Yes, it's about that foreign matter." he said and sat down in the chair on the other side of her desk. "What contacts do you have in High Rock? Any friends in the high nobility?"

"Nope. I have a few friends in the Glenmori Coven though. One of them, is a really low-ranking noble." She finished her first scroll, sealed it with a wax seal in the shape of the ever-seeing eye of the Oculatus. "The Elder Councilor ordered not to engage in hostile actions against High Rock. I of course have plenty of agents there, but they're mostly there for military reconnaissance; to see if High Rock is planning anything."

"Well spying is what I want to do as well. At least for the time being. I want a spy nested into the royal court that can also become in some way close to the crown prince's wife."

"And what would the motivation be for that?"

"Because she's going to be queen one day and I want a spy near the throne. And while I don't think she'll be an easy target, I suspect she'll be easier to approach than the current king, queen or prince."

Lilly continued without even looking up: "Is that all you need? I'll get into touch with my contact and what she can do."  

"Good. Just one more thing: 'big boss'?"

"Just a little nick-name for the High-General. Just trying to be friendly." She said plainly. Lilly was intently focused on her work it seemed.

"Well please try to limit it to less serious events." he said and got up from the chair. "And also do us both a small favor: Wear a cheap dress this evening." he then said in a more friendly and slightly mischievous manner.

She ignored his first remark saying: "If you excuse me for not being in a flirty mood, but I'm rather busy." She then glanced up, waving her hand and saying jokingly: "Now shoo, I'll see you later..."

"As you wish, my lady. I'll leave you to your work." he said jokingly with a small smile and a courteous bow. Then he left the room and headed to his own office in the private quarters. He had a couple of letters to write himself.

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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Empress Dales Moitre,
Imperial City, Palace 
Afternoon,

“Don't you have any spare crops, or other means of feeding yourself? Surely your village must have planned a contingency for a horrid event, such as this.” Empress Dales Draconius said, her voice uncharacteristically soft, her icy blue eyes filled with understanding and care. The young monarch sat on the Ruby Throne, her white skin, clashing with her vibrant purple dress. Like before, the almost robe-like piece of clothing nicely fitted on her small body, with the rich fabric  practically glowing. The linen cloth was embroidered with gold fabric, which depicted several different Drakes. While she was expected to wear, such over the top, and expensive clothing, Dales longed for a simpler garb. The days were still quite hot, and she wished she had something short-sleeved. 

The Red Dragon Crown, her symbol of authority, sat atop her head along with her pale blonde hair, which she wore with pride. Her hands were at her lap, wearing cloth gloves, along with her, currently invisible, gladius. The Empress prefered to fight with a spear, and a shortblade in unision. A dagger, or shortblade like a Gladius would do quite nicely in the event of an assassination attempt. Easy to hide on yourself, with either magic, or clever thinking. Better to look unarmed.  Beside the Empress, her trusty bodyguard Nhakir stood vigil, and even further out, a group of several Palentina Guardsmen protected the Ruby Throne, besides the unit that guarded the entirety of the Throne Room. The white-plate armored men stood at attention, and were prepared to fight to save their monarch's life.  Among the crowd gathered at court, she had inserted a handful of Grey Wolf agents into the large crowd. If they saw any erratic movement, or the flash of steel from an onlooker, they had orders to incapacitate. 

On her chest, she wore a blue choker, made from brilliant sapphires. The Empress had completely stopped wearing black, as she was no longer in mourning. While she had claimed she was in mourning for her beloved Elan, Dales knew that was a pathetic excuse. She was mourning herself, and that no longer was the case. Dales lamented the fact instead of wearing the fabled Amulet of Kings, she consigned herself to wearing impractical, over the top, hugely expensive jewelery. At least the fabled, lost artifact was a symbol of great power, past down from Septim to Septim. Alas I am no Septim. The blood of dragons does not run through my veins. The Empress thought bitterly. She probably couldn’t even wear the ultimate symbol of Imperial power, as she wasn’t a septim. The bloodline had been extinguished when Martin Septim sacrificed himself on the steps of the Temple of the One, and the amulet had vanished from existence.     There was a silver-lining to this tragedy, however. Besides the Red-Dragon Crown, she held another piece of jewelry that had been passed  down from monarch to monarch. Nestled on her finger, was the Imperial Bull Ring. Made from pure platinum, the ring was adorned with a blood red ruby, which had a small, silver bull engraved on its top. On each side of the jewel, held two tiny silver wings. The ring itself, was commonly believed to be simple piece of jewelry, akin to the crown, but in truth, it was far older. While the crown has been in the royal family's possession since the Reman Dynasty, nobody knew how old the sigit ring was, and had been in the care of countless Empresses and Emperors. But going by the bull iconography, some had people theorised it has originally belonged to a follower of Saint Alessia, and had somehow ended up in the position of the royal family. Regardless, Dales could sense a tiny hint of magical energy coming from the ring. So small, and insignificant, but still there. Dales knew not what the priceless artifact could be used for, and why it radiated a visage of magical strength,  but Dales figured she would never know anyway. Besides the bull ring, she also wore a less impressive, but still dazzling piece of jewelery on her hand. The Moirte family ring. Made from solid gold, holding three emeralds at it’s base, the head of the Moitre family was expected to wear it all times. As she was the sole heir of her fathers, with both her horrible brothers dead, Dales was expected to wear it.  While having them in her possession, she seldom wore them before, when she was moody, but had begun wearing the duo of rings when she held court in the Throne room. She had earned both of them, 

Dales had taken both rings from the cold hands of her dead father. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

The Empress quickly banished those thoughts from her head, as she instead focused on the scenery in the throne room.

The red-dragon clad banners stood, flying in the gentle breeze, flanking the entrance into the Throne Room. Like the day before, the Throne Room was quite crowded, and the Empress had listened to many people in court today. Up on top, Imperial Palentina crossbow men stood, attentively scanning below for any threats that popped up in their vision. The Empress spent half her day in here. Listening to the common people's concerns and requests. The nobilities inquires, and often complaints.  This throne room, and crown, was hers by right. She didn’t scheme her way into it like that filthy Breton Pig King. She murdered her father with her own blade, slit his throat, and put him down like a pig to slaughter. Next time she saw Wraith, perhaps...she could hire him for a one time job. 

Make the King of Breton’s suffer. Killing him would be too easy. She wanted him to suffer, and feel despair. She wanted him to beg her for respite, and ask for death. She would humiliate him. Like how he had humiliated her.  Dales was consumed by vengeance. A blackened pit, in her stomach.  Alas, a destabilized High Rock would be rather bad in a time like this. As much as she hated to admit it. The Dominion could capitalize on it, causing much trouble to the chances of winning the upcoming war. High Rock’s Knights, and peasant armies would die in place of her men. She couldn’t complain.  Dales vengeance would have to wait. Though after victory against the Dominion, nothing could stop Dales from seeking her revenge. 

Dales was still quite at edge, as she half-listened to the sounds of court, and half contemplated the precarious situation. She hadn’t heard from Skyrim for about a week now. Dales feared, perhaps Windhelm lay in smouldering ruins by now, and the Dominion war host marched from the burning ruins of Skyrim’s provincial capital Eastmarch, to the tundras of Whiterun, and hither, into the frozen wasteland of pale pass. Skyrim would be needed to fight the Dominion in the upcoming war, and the Empress was quite ready to intervene on the nords behalf if it came to that, by deploying legions to assist their nordic brethren in their own soil. The Imperial Legion, despite it being a rusted shadow of it’s old-self, was still a Dragon, and one of, if not the most, powerful forces on Tamriel. She was sure, they could hold Cyrodiil, while providing reinforcements to their northern allies if needed. It would be a nightmare for logistics, but she was sure Gracchus could handle it. She trusted the man completely, and utterly. Still…at the same time, if she thought about it, doing nothing while maybe better in the short run, would be utterly horrible, and an earth shattering disaster to the war effort. Cyrodiil could withstand a war on two fronts, against Valenwood and Elswery, but if there back was exposed, and there Nordic allies defeated, a war on three fronts would destroy them. Still...

I hope Baldur’s alright…i’m worried about him. 

Dales quite liked the Stormcloak general. Even thought of him as a friend.  They tortured together after all, and the man was kind to her during her brief time as a hostage. At the very least, she trusted Baldur far more than her other “allies”, the traitor Ulfric, that snake Theodore, and whoever the Redguards choose to represent them. Baldur was a smart and cunning man, but he was very straightforward, which was very refreshing compared to alot of people the young Empress dealt with. She’d rather strab her enemies to death with a sword, then kill them with words. She had faith that he was able to beat back the odds that were stacked against him, like what he had done in the past. Dales remembered how distraught she was after torturing that bastard, but now, Dales really wished the two of them had gone through with the blood dragon. Such pain, and suffering against the person who was responsible for taking her beloved away, would have been such a good sight to the Empress. Alas, Baldur had given him a quick death, and pussied out at the last second. Damn that Admiral...... next Justicar I get my hands will suffer far worse…his pain will be exquisite...Dales childishly adapted a look of ill-content mixed with annoyance. Some things never changed it seemed. 

Her growing hate was snuffed out by the words from court. Beyond her layer of bodyguards, a humble looking man stood, holding a straw hat. He was wearing very dirty, and cheaply made clothing. His brown eyes were deep, and his skin very tanned from working countless hours under the beating sun. The calluses on his hands, his look, his posture, and other features identified him, as almost certainly a farmer. The farmer's expression was downcast, as he lowered his head, “Forgive me your majesty. We hadn’t prepared for so such a disaster. Yes, occasionally we get bad harvests, but we always manage to get enough to barely feed ourselves. Our lord is rather kind, as well, and has helped us in the past.” 

The village the farmer hailed from was a rather poor farming community. A village on the outskirts of the Imperial City. Last night, there grain stores caught on fire from arson, and burned down. So they had sent one of their own to purchase grain from a trader in the Imperial City.  The perpetrator was caught, and “punished”, which the Empress assumed meant “lynched” which didn’t bother the Empress at all. Dozens of innocent people could starve to death because of them. She hoped there last moments were painful.

Dales gave the man a rather entertained smile, “Of course, Sulla.” She turned her head to face the other person standing beside the farmer. Unlike the farmer, he was clad in expensive clothing, made from rich fabrics dyed vivid blue,  and wore a funny feathered hat. Going by the smell of spices coming from, she assumed he was a merchant. A Breton by the looks of him. One from High Rock, going by his accent. Dales icy eyes wandered from Sulla, the farmer, to the merchant, before she asked, her voice once more taking a cold vibe, “And so? Monfte, why can't you give them the grain they requested? They’ve offered a more than fair price for it…” 

More like pooled in everything they had

The Breton wheat merchant, coughed, speaking in a deep accent, “Forgive me, your Majesty. The price these...peasants have offered, is not nearly enough!” He pointed a finger at the farmer, saying, angrily, “I meet with him in good faith, despite his...stench... and all he does is offer barely a fraction of what my wheat costs! It's insulting! These filthy peasants have no manners, your majesty!”  

I wanna punch this guys mouth in...The Empress said to herself. She glanced at the merchant. Fairly handsome, or at least, that’s how she perceived it, as her opinion on how men looked was...rather skewered because of a little something.  His clothing was well-made to be certain, but not fancy enough to be some high lord. Dales had never heard of his family either.  His surname was Aloquis.  Going by the elitism, Dales would say, he was either upper-middle class, or low-ranking nobility. Then again, when addressing himself, he didn’t add any outrageous titles to his name, so the former was far more likely, Dales swallowed the anger that was boiling for such blatant disrespect for her subjects. She put on a smile, and placed her hands to her lap, “There are...external circumstances to this case. Can you not negotiate the price Montfe?”  The Empress asked. 

The Breton wheat merchant raised his hand, “Maybe, if my personal honor wasn’t insulted by the filth!” His mouth practically spat at the words, causing Sulla to wince. “Not to mention it’s the middle of bloody winter! Of course prices are going to be inflated! What price do you expect when some common, dity covered, peasant asks you for enough grain to feed, literally, an entire village!” Dales truly understood the position he was in. She did. Of course in the middle of winter, crops would be more expensive, and the amount the farmers were asking for was rather large. That being said, couldn’t he be more understanding to the situation the village was in? And less rude? Dales spoke, her voice crispy, and authority-filled, “Montfe, I truly understand your position, I do…” She glanced to the two men, before saying, “But if you refer to one of my subjects in that kind of manner again, there will be consequences…” She smiled, but her facial expression gave off a vibe of tranquil fury. She was quite clearly pissed off. The Breton man’s face filled with fear, as he bowed his head deeply, “Forgive me your majesty, for my rudeness. The situation does stress me.” He paused, before asking, “You do not intend to force me to lower my prices for this…” he paused, “Farmer?” 

Dales nodded her head, “You are not an Imperial citizen. Your liege lord is...King Adravad correct?” The man nodded his head, “Yes your majesty.” Dales had given up on High Rock. It didn’t matter if she was a Breton. The Bretons in High Rock weren’t her people. Everyone in Cyrodiil was her people, every Imperial, Breton, Orsimer, Redguard, Nord, Altmer, Breton, Bosmer, Dumner, Argonian, and Khajit. It would cost too much resources and soldiers, to retake the province, and with little benefit. She wouldn’t needlessly throw her soldiers away for her pride. Especially now that war with the Dominion was so soon, the kingdoms of  Tamriel needed to be unified.   For now, the Empress needed to to put her people, before her pride. And antagonising High Rock wasn’t in the best interests of Cyrodiil. And as a true monarch,, the people of Cyrodiil came before her personal desires. A monarch's job was to protect, and make sure there people prospered. Screw personnel power, glory, and wealth. She couldn’t do anything about Theodore until the war with the Dominion ended. 

The pig king can have his throne of mud. For now.  He’ll receive a knife in the back soon.  Courtesy of the slug Empress. 

Continuing with a grin, the Empress said, “Then you shall not be forced to do such a thing.” Dales turned to face Sulla, saying, “As for you, Sulla. I will personally pay for the grain your village requires!” The crowd of people adopted shocked looks, as Sulla himself swallowed a large gulp of fresh air. Montfe looked equally surprised, as he fidgeted uncomfortably,  Sulla’s eyes drifted from the Empress, down to the floor as he said, “We-we could never accept such charity from you, your majesty…” Stubborn folk these people were it seemed. Stubborn and proud.

Dales face softened, as she said, “Nonsense. What kind of Empress would I be if I couldn’t feed my own people. Besides, it won't be charity. You seem like honest folk, and hard workers. Next harvest, when things are more successful, you can pay me back, for the money you borrowed. Or when you can afford to.” She gave a kind smile, “Don't worry about it, Sulla.” The farmer looked like he was going to say no, before he let out a sigh, and then a smile, “In that case...thank you your majesty…” He bowed his head deeply. The Empress laughed, as she said, “No need to thank me, Sulla. Your borrowing, remember?” Dales gave a cheerful look, as she said, “Shall we shake on it, then?” 

The crowd of nobles began to start talking among themselves, as they looked even more shocked, with a trace of horror among there faces. The farmer himself looked horrified, “Your majesty?!” Dales chuckled, as she said, “Well, when your promise to do something, don't you usually shake the others person's hand?” Dales outstretched her hand. The farmer scratched the back of his head, warily approaching the ruby throne. The Palentina guards got out of his way, as he reached the steps of the Ruby throne. He had never dreamed of going to the Imperial Palace, let alone getting this close to the Empress. Shakily, he offered his hand forward. Dales gripped it with surprising strength, as she the Empress, shook hands with a farmer.  She could practically feel the rough life the man had had, as his rough, coarse skin, made contact with Dale's gloved hand. 

After the handshake, Dales broke contact, turning to face Montfe, who also had an expression of shock on his facial features. She said, “This arrangement is convenient for you, Montefe?” The Breton merchant bowed his head, “Of-of course your majesty. I’ll have the grain you purchased ready as soon as possible.” Sulla had retreated back to his place before, leaving Dales alone on the ruby throne. The Empress called out, “Prefect Aquides” A white-armored palace guard approached the Empress, before falling onto one knee, he said, “You called, your majesty?” The Empress nodded, “Prefect, I need you to grab the amount of money from my personal vault, and deliver it to Monrefe’s warehouse for payment. You are then to escort Sulla, and the grain back to his village, taking a lance of Imperial Watch guards. Understood?”

The Palace Guard nodded his head, offering a crisp salute, “Yes, your Majesty.” He turned around, his cape billowing behind, before the Empress called out to him, “Wait a second, Prefect.” The Imperial Soldier turned around, his face filled with confusion, “Something else, your majesty?” Dales nodded her head, she leaned in and whispered into his ear, her breath on his ear, “Observe the village when you reach it. I want to know if things are truly as bad as Sulla say’s, understood?” The Palace Guard, did a Legion-styled fist salute, as he turned away, saying, “Of course your majesty. I will be your eyes and ears!” Dales nodded her head, reclining into her throne. She didn’t like not trusting her subjects, but you couldn’t be too careful. The Empress wanted to make sure they truly needed there Empresses help. She gestured using her gloved hand, speaking once again in her cold monotone to the assembled court, “Then I suppose we have a deal. That will be all then, Sulla, Montfe, Talos be with you all.” she said, with little enthusiasm. Both men bowed their heads deeply, and headed to the exit. Imperial Palentina Guards parted, drawing their swords, and banging their shields, shouting “The Empress has spoken!” As trumpets played in the background announcing another session in court, the Empress grinned, she appreciated her mens enthusiasm a great deal.  The Empress placed her gloved hands onto the thrones side. Today was going to be a long day.

*****
Imperial Palace, Empresses Study 
Night,

“Dales Moitre…” A venomous whisper invaded Dales mind, as the young girl awoke with a scream. On instinct, she reached under her pillow, grasping her ruby-adorned knife, flourishing the blade, and wielding it in a single hand, bringing it forth in a downward strike to fight the invisible enemy. Cold sweat dripped from her brow, which Dales was covered in, as she heaved in and out, her breath was hard and ragged. The young woman’s eyes darted around the room, the visages of sleep heavy on her mind, as dark shadows trailed around. Dales wielded her dagger in one hand, and a chilly ice spell in the other, white, cold mist extending forth from her hand.  She was still in her private study it seemed. Unlike most nights, Dales actually managed to put herself to sleep, instead of falling asleep among a pile of books. The fireplace in the room brightly glowed, showering trails of crimson light across the room, as the grizzling, dying embers faded slowly. As the Empress glanced around, looking for invaders, wielding her dagger, a strange filter on her vision made everything seem so sluggish, even more so with the prevailing darkness. Almost as if dreams still clouded her vision. Was...was she dreaming? Was she awake?

A faint vermillion haze skirted in the room, coming from the dying fireplace. Dales carefully lifted herself out of her couch, quickly taking of her fur blanket. The Empress was currently wearing a set of white pajamas, which went down to her feet, like a dress. In one hand the Empresses wielded her blade, in the other, she conjured a ball of white magelight to illuminate her way through the darkened halls. Her pale blonde hair was very messy, as the Empress didn’t bother to brush it before she went to sleep. She scanned the room for intruders, and when she made sure there was none, she let out a sigh of relief. Just a dream then…or was the dream this? 

“Dales Moitre…”

The same voice from before, called her name. Now that she was awake, or not, the young Empress could tell the voice was feminine. It was certainly not aggressive, and was quite soft in tone. But something...was odd about it. The Empress couldn’t place her finger on it, It echoed...and didn’t echoe. It was in one place. But no place. Something...was very off about the voice. Dale’s...didn’t feel afraid though. With a heavy heart, the young Empress dropped the dagger, and let it fall to the ground, though she maintained her magelight. Gently, opening the heavy wooden door, the Empress stepped out of her study, and without bothering to change into something respectful, entered into the hallway. She wasn’t wearing any slippers, but the carpet going down the hallway prevented the Empress's feet from stepping over the coarse stone. It was still very cold out though, and the Empress was half-tempted to turn back to the warmth of her bed, but something was calling to her. The Empress continued down the hall. 

Something was...very strange about her surroundings. The edges of her vision was consumed by shadow, as she couldn’t even make out the other rooms that surrounded her study. The same, dreary filter over her eyes was still present. But she felt every step she took, and she felt the physicality of her knife, before she dropped the weapon onto the floor. This couldn’t be a dream? 

“Dales Moitre…” 

The voice again. Dales was going to call out, but she felt...oddly strange. She couldn’t find her voice.  She knew she could speak, but a part of her prevented her from doing that. She just moved forward, seeking the source of the voice. The darkness had enveloped her, but she could still make out the stonework of the Imperial Palace. Or should she say the White-Gold tower? Something was very off about where she was. She recognized the actual stone work of the palace, but some of the doors, and furniture were missing, and strange runes covered the white-marble walls, as she also spotted blasphemous statues depicting otherworldly nightmares, disgusting eldritch. The foundation of the palace was here, but where was the rest?  “Dales Moitre…” The voice was getting closer and closer, and as Dales went past a corridor, her vision suddenly filled with pale light. The darkness dissipated in in existence, as the stone walls of the White-Gold tower illuminated as the light reached her. 

In the distance, at the end of the hallway was a woman. And by the gods...she was beautiful. Enough to cause Dales eyes to fill with tears. Dales could see her clearly She was tall, very tall infact, and clad in a white dress. Embroidered with gold thread, it covered her entire body, as it seemed her arms and neck were covered entirely by the white cloth. Her dress went all the way down to her feet, which was strange enough, but oddly, her feet were covered in the same white fabric, instead of wearing shoes or a pair of slippers. It almost looked like a wedding dress, without the veil. Dales could also also make out her facial features. Her skin was....a very odd pigmentation, the only way she could describe it was being similar to a Bosmers, but it appeared to have a slight hue of an Atlmer, having a hint of yellow, instead of straight up olive. It was strange to say the least. She could tell she was a Mer, going by her pointy ears, but her skin, besides the above mentioned pigmentation, was sickly pale. The she-elf had brown hair, which she wore in a very fancy way,  with the top front being braided in a semi-circle around the front of her head, the rest was done short, besides the long ponytail that fell down her back, like how a high-lady would wear her hair. For jewelery, she had rather large earrings, made from gold, that ended in amethyst jewels, and emerald hairpin that she wore alongside two white ribbons. As...beautiful as she was, so graceful, and so lovely, the woman also...horrified Dales in a way. Her eyes. By the gods her eyes, were just wrong. Almost as if they were colored in different shades. Her iris was blood red, which mingled with bits of darkness, and her pupil seemed gold in color. The way she looked at Dales, seemed to be a mix of contempt, and respect. She glowed, an ethereal, otherworldly, blue light, and strange, glowing dust occasionally left her body. Her body, seemed to phase in and out of existence. She seemed so distant, so otherworldly, as if she didn’t belong here.  Dales was so awestruck by the woman, she hadn’t realized she was staring directly at her face for about two minutes. The woman’s hard gaze didn’t change, as Dales cowered, looking away in shame. 

As if they were looking at each for eternity, the elf finally spoke, “Dales Moitre, Lord of the Ruby Throne, Monarch of the Empire, follower of Alessia, true heir of The Dragon.” The woman spoke with authority, an ethereal choir that echoed and made slight vibrants of power as she spoke, but oddly enough...did not sound harsh. She couldn’t call it friendly, but the voice somehow soothed the Empress, the woman continued, “You are summoned to the Spring....”  The woman’s horrible eyes glowed ethereal light,  as she lifted her hand, which was still covered by the white cloth. Dales, bringing up all the will-power she could muster to leave this trance, barely managed to stutter, “I-I don't understand…”  The woman’s expression didn’t change, as she pointed to the wall. One of the marble slabs held a strange looking inscription. It was some kind of sigil. A bull, flanked by two spears, on fire, “Seek this emblem. Trailed by moonlight, you shall walk among the dead in pilgrim, and offer the blood of Dragons to find entrance to the Spring of Whispered Dream. There you shall find me.” Her white gloved hand erupted in light, showering the entire room in its majesty. Dales vision was blinded, as she put her hands forward to shield her eyes. The woman spoke once more, “Auriel be with you, young Empress.” 

*******
Dales woke with a scream. On instinct, she reached under her pillow, grasping her ruby-adorned knife, flourishing the blade, and wielding it in a single hand, bringing it forth in a downward strike to fight the invisible enemy. Cold sweat dripped from her brow, which Dales was covered in, as she heaved in and out, her breath was hard and ragged. She glanced around, her palms drenched in sweat. ******* Deja Vu. The young Empress muttered to herself. So was that...a dream? Inside a dream? ******* weird….Dales got out of her bed, yawning. She had slept in very late it seemed, as the sun was already high in the sky, which she found by glancing outside the window. She was about to scream in horror at her being late for court, but relief filled as she remembered. Today was the religious festival of Stendar. There was no court. Dales childishly grinned, as she remembered her plans for today, was to get drunk on ale, have sexy time with Victoria, and eat alot of meat. Alas, she had no mood for drunken debauchery, for the events of her last night, still existed vividly in her mind. 

She remembered everything. The darkness. The woman. The light. Her words. They were ingrained into her mind. Dales repeated them, as she spoke, “Seek this emblem. Trailed by moonlight, you shall walk among the dead in pilgrim, and offer the blood of Dragons, to find entrance, to the Spring of Whispered Dreams. There you shall find me.” Dales confusion grew as she spoke to herself. What is the Spring of Whispered Dreams? Dales had found no mention of that in all the history books she had read. So what that woman, and her words, just the product of her imagination or something else? 

Dales face filled with crimson blushing like a schoolgirl, as she remembered the elf. She was...beautiful. So beautiful nothing else could compare to her. Not even the memory of her beloved. A beauty not of this world. Something otherworldly. Perhaps she was a visage of another time? A ghost? Dales shuddered at the thought. Hundreds of ghost stories existed about the Imperial Palace. Perhaps one had contacted Dales while she slept. 

As if fire had branded it into her memory, Dales also remembered the sigil. Vidily. The bull with the two flaming spears. Dales….could have sworn she knew it. Saw it in an old book. 

“So look whose finally awake…” Starling Dales, and waking her up from her contemplation, was Victoria. The maid had her hands to her hips, with a clear grin on her face, “You look like you saw a ghost or somthing, Dales.” The Empress shook her head, throwing off her pajamas. The fact she was naked infront of the maid didn’t bother the two of them. She had seen her naked countless times before. Dales quickly put on casual wear. A pair of pants, and a short sleeved, simple white shirt. She grabbed a leather vest, and her gladius,which she wore on her hip, placing her ruby adorned dagger back under her pillow.  She fixed her long hair, putting it in a bun, as she said to Victoria, clenching her fist “Get me meat, bread, and ale. I’m ******* starving!” Her stomach growled.  

Victoria bowed her head, still grinning, “As you say your majesty.”  Dales finished changing, before going to her desk, taking a small book with her. Tactics for the Legion officers volume 3. Dales was learning about all the duties the officers had, and which duties were assigned to each rank. The Imperial Legion was a well-oiled machine, that had many different officers, each with a variety of different jobs. The maid returned ten minutes later, carrying a large tray of food, along with a pitcher of ale. Dales could drink alot. 

Everyone wondered, how such a small girl, could eat and drink so much without getting fat. 

The meat was mostly pork ribs, guzzled in sauce, the succulent meat made even more tender by the delicious, yet simple gravy. She had a simple baguette of bread, along with a small bowl of olive owl for dipping. The ale she drank, was of good quality, though nothing fancy. This was her breakfeast. Yep Dales was a fatty, and she was proud of it.

Clasping her hands together, and preparing to dig in like a starving animal, the Empress eyed the meat with gusto, when she heard the door knocking. Let out an annoyed sigh, Dales yelled, “What?”  “Forgive me your majesty.”  Ah. It’s Septimus. One of her Palentina Guardsmen. Dales responded with, “It’s alright, Auxiliary. What is it? “ Behind the door, the Guardsmen let out a cough, “Ma’em...a Stormcloak messenger has arrived. He say’s he has a letter to deliver from Jarl Red-Snow….”  

Jarl Red-Snow?!

Dales quickly got out of her chair, not bothering to think of the implications behind that title Baldur now bore, yelling, “Well send him in!”. The Palentina guardsmen yelled, “Yes your majesty!” The wooden door opened, and entered in a nord. He wore mostly chairmail, along with the blue tabard bearing the white bear of the Stormcloaks. He had a fur cloak, made from a bear, along with a set of fur gauntlets, and fur boots. Under his armpits, he carried his steel helmet, which was horned. On his back, he wore a large scabbard, which probably held a greatsword, along with two small scabbards on his belt. Three swords huh? His blades were probably in the care of the Palentina, as no way in hell would they allow a foreign soldier to approach the Empress armed. The nords blonde hair was braided, along with his large beard. On his face, he wore blue warpaint, as well as on his exposed, heavily musclar arms. The nord did a legion-styled fist salute, as he yelled, in a booming voice, “Greetings, Empress Moitre. I am Sergeant Olvir Great-Blade, of the Grim Ones, and Stormcloak army. I have a message to deliver to you, from my commanding officer, and soon-to be king, Jarl Baldur Red-Snow!” 

My my, Baldur has surely gone from the bottom to the top. 

Dales glanced at him. Despite the pride he bore himself with, he looked haggard, and very, very tired. His eyes were barely kept open, and large, disgustingly black bags hid underneath his eys. He was exhausted. Dales gave a smile, as she said, “Greetings sergeant. You can pass the message to me.” The soldier nodded, taking a sealed scroll from the leather bag he carried, offering it to the Empress. Taking it, the Empress grabbed the scroll, eyeing it. The wax seal was that of the Stormcloak bear. Eying her food, the Stormcloak soldier looked quite hunger. Letting out a sigh of defeat, Dales motioned to the meal, smiling “It’s okay, sergeant. You look starving, i’ll have another meal brought up for me afterwords. Go ahead.”

The stormcloak soldier looked uneasy, “I wouldn’t want to impose on you, Empress Moitre…” Dales shook her head, smiling still, “It’s no trouble. You're my guest. I wouldn’t have a guest of mine go hungry. Sit. Take a breather. It looks like you rode all the way from Windhelm, to Cyrodiil without a second of a break.” The nord scratched the back of his head. Well he wasn’t going to turn down food when offered. He went past Dales, took a seat in her chair, and began to dig in. He ripped apart the meat, pouring him a cup of ale, downing it in a single chug. Looks like he was starving. Turning around from the grisly massacre, Dales opened the sealed letter, and read it,

Dales,

Forgive the lack of formality in this letter, I've been writing letters now for the past week, and have already grown tired of pleasantries and the like. I suppose I should get used to it, considering that I plan to become the next High King of Skyrim, hopefully with your help.

Our king as you might already know by now, is dead. Ulfric Stormcloak was slain in a large scale attack by the Thalmor, which included two very powerful Sunbirds at the helm. Windhelm was almost sacked, but we managed to repel the Sunbirds and the Thalmor, who have now taken up residence in the hold of the Rift.

Our men are hunting them down to the last man, there's no worry there. Good training for my Grim Ones. What does worry me is that my stubborn kinsmen will try to drag the selection of a High King or Queen on until the Thalmor attack the human nations with their true army, rather than us being the ones to start the next Great War.

High Queen Veleda was our rightful Queen, but in our custom, High King's wives are usually just that, wives. While being the rightful heir, it is up to the Jarls of Skyrim to decide, and to be frank, I believe that I am the one who can best lead Skyrim and our alliance in this time of war, now that the people of Windhelm have made me their Jarl in the absence of High King Ulfric. If you agree, I would like for you or someone that can represent you to come to Windhelm before the moot commences in High Hrothgar, with the intent of supporting me in the next moot. You will be safe, I assure you. You'll be permitted to bring whatever protection you deem necessary for the venture, and Skyrim will be swarming with soldiers newly enlisted.

I will be honest with you, I have also contacted King Theodore, requesting that he send someone to represent him, or that he come himself. The more allies that back me to lead the war effort and the alliance, the more likely my kinsmen will come to the quick decision of making me High King.

I am aware that you now have a second, but I'm only requesting that you come if you can, for we have a history and despite my bias against the people of Cyrodiil, I saw first hand that you have strength, a strength that my kinsmen will see as well. It might've been more politically smart to invite him as he is a Nord, but I'd rather have those that I can call friends by my side, and I do not know your mage friend.

Sincerely,

Jarl Baldur Red-Snow

So...Baldur needs my help…

Empress Draconius scratched her chin, as she reread the letter once more in her head. This is alot to take in...Ulfric Stormcloak was dead. The Dominion repelled and driven to the Rift. To be honest...Dales didn’t feel half bad. She had no love for the King of Skyrim, and there flank remained protected by the Nords. It seems, she was right to put her faith in Baldur. Baldur himself had risen to become a Jarl, a lesser king, from what she had read how the nords regarded there Jarls. And now he seeked to become the High King itself, and lead Skyrim under his banner. Quite a bit to take in. And now Baldur had requested her help in making that happen….which didn’t make much sense to her. The Empire, would surely be viewed as, at the best, a noisy foreign power that had no right to be at the Moot. Of course, they wouldn't participate in the vote at all, but their very presence would no doubt insult many of the Jarls present. Even stranger, Baldur wanted the Empire to support his claim to the throne. Wouldn’t that...do the exact opposite of what he wanted? Some nords might see it as the Empire backing Baldur, and using him as a puppet. Or something ridiculous like that. The Empire was surely, still disliked, at the very least, over there. 

It didn’t make any sense. 

Regardless, Baldur had requested her help. Personally. Dales wasn’t going to turn down that kind of a request, especially now that Baldur was seeking the throne. A friend in Skyrim’s throne would be very useful to Cyrodiil indeed, if only to promote closeness, and cooperation. A small part of her felt anger that Baldur was seeking the pig kings help, but only a small part. The Empress didn’t need to think about it too much, before she came up with her decision. Dales got a piece of parchment, grabbed a chair, and sat by the fireplace.  Grabbing an inkwell, and a pen, Dales began writing, 

Baldur, 

It’s been a rather long time. I wish you were writing under better circumstances, but alas, here we are.

I will not lie. I had no love for Ulfric Stormcloak, as did many Imperials in high positions. Regardless, I respected the man for his strength, and could tell that he was beloved by Skyrim’s people, as monarch. Skyrim, will mourn for her fallen son., no doubt. 

Regarding your request, I will be quite honest with you. I see no gain, by having the Empire present at the Moot, no offense. No doubt, many of your countrymen, still hate us, and  I suspect us being there might...dampen your chances at winning the throne. Even moreso, your other allies might take offense to my presence. No doubt...the king of the Bretons will seek to embarrass me further, probably by sending his son to the moot in his place. However, I will honor your request. I shall personally attend, and bring all the power I can to empower your bid to throne. You have mine, and the Empire’s support. When you receive this, I will be on my way to Windhelm, with two cohorts of  legionaries to act as my escort.  I will assist you in anyway I can, when I get there. 

If your other allies find offense to me being there, well, they can live with it.  

Make those Dominion soldiers suffer, and purge them from your land, Baldur. Long live the Dragon, and the Bear.

With Regards, 

Empress Dales Draconius,

Dales finished writing, as she sealed it with a wax seal, bearing a red dragon. The royal seal. Dales offered the scroll to the messenger, who was still devouring his meal. Dales told him, “Once your done, and rested, make sure this gets to Jarl Red-Snow. Understood sarge?” The nord nodded his head, speaking with his mouth full, “Of course, Empress Moitre!” Dales gave him a curt nod, before heading to the door of her study, she asked the auxiliary, “Has the High-General, and the Emperor been informed about the messenger?” The soldier shook his head, speaking in a low whisper so no one else could hear them, “No your majesty. We received the messenger, and found it prudent to inform you first. We serve you.” Dales smiled, “Thank you auxiliary. I need you to tell Prelate Custodes Imperius to ready the 3rd Cohort, for travel and send a message to General Martellus that i’ll require a century of his men.” 

The auxiliary sharply saluted, and ran to deliver his orders. Dales turned back and said to Victoria, “Stay with our guest, and make sure his needs are met.” Victoria bowed her head, “Yes your majesty.”

If that was more than a dream, i’m sure if i’m involved in anyway, it’ll reveal itself in time. Dales thought back to that dream, and that woman. Right now, she needed to inform Gracchus and Krojun about the situation, and explain to them her decision. They both would be needed to stay here, and watch the war effort. Dales was the only one who could go. Baldur trusted her. War was soon, and the Empire needed to make sure it’s allies were in prime condition to fight against the Dominion. 

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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Titus Scipio
Cheydinhal
Noon

Titus now was a real knight of a proper order. Jeanne had really gone through with her plans of making it a proper holy order. They had dropped the 'of Purity' part of the name and made themselves an official emblem: a sword and shield surrounded by a golden halo. Though at the moment most members only wore a brosch with the emblem on or had it painted on their shields. There were plans on proper armors and tabards but most of the money from the church and donations they did get went to either helping the people in need or spread the faith in the form of building and rebuilding shrines out in towns and villages. The Order had also gotten a more orderly structure with Knight Commander at the top, then Knight Champion, Knight and then Squire. There was also a separate branch of witch hunters that were in the making under Baro that would serve Knight Commanders. Though little was said about it as the only ones that seemed to know anything substantial about it were Baro, Malder, Jeanne and possibly the head priestess. 

With this new structure and official recognition came also the need for formal initiation into the Order. A necessity to make sure that members were bound to the Order and could be held accountable by the Order. Titus had payed little attention to much of the formalities and bookkeeping the new structure had brought. But when the imitation ceremony had been created and formalized, it came the time for each and every member to swear an oath to the Gods and the Order. A few got cold feet and left when they heard of the ceremony and oath, but the majority remained. 

Titus had had some doubts over the initiation ceremony where he had been required to not only take an oath in front of the gods, but cut his hand with a silver dagger to seal his oath with his own blood. Later Baro had told him the dagger actually served another purpose of revealing any creatures of Oblivion trying to infiltrate the Divine Order. 

Over time the church and the Order had increased in popularity and influence in their quest to spread light and justice. Though with that increased popularity they also came more often at odds with the Knights of the Thorn. Glory seeking knights that often came to kill something, make a mess and then leave without a care about any damage they might have done. While there's was nearly no contact between the two orders, Titus had heard there was a subtle animosity brewing between the groups. Luckily the Knights of the Thorn preferred to keep to themselves in their own secluded headquarter, holding parties and celebrations to their own glory. 

With the increased influence Jeanne had begun to take a more active role in controlling the Order. Grave sinners were to found and made to confess and repent their wicked ways. It had even gotten so far that the church, or rather Jeanne, could arrest and fine people for their highly immoral deeds.

One nobleman stood accused cheating on his wife the a married noblewoman. His wife and his servant were the witnesses and a hearing was to be held in the Great Chapel. Titus and another Knight named Lucius were on their way to escort the man to the hearing. Titus wore his full armor now, with a small triangular, white cape over his back on which the brosch with the Order emblem was. Lucius wore a similar steel armor but more Colovian in its design. 
The approached the manor of the nobleman and Titus stepped up to the door and knocked. Then they waited. No answer ever came, and a second knock fell upon the silent house once again. Lucius tried the door, shoving it with his shoulder, but it stood steadfast against the Knight's assault. A few more bangs with his fist were met with only silence.

"You've been summoned to a trial." shouted Titus as he banged on the door. He was thinking of just trying to open the door. But patience was a virtue and so he decided to wait. 

Again, there was no response, though Titus thought he might have seen a flicker of movement from on of the upstairs windows. Finally, when breaking the door down seemed inevitable, someone on the other side of the door asked: "On what grounds? It seems you thugs are the ones acting unlawfully."

"On breaking your holy vows to your wife, and for making another woman break hers." replied Titus, doing his best to sound courteous instead of irritated. 

"I-I don't know what you're talking about. Go away!" the nobleman yelled.

"We're not going away. Now please come out. We're not going to harm you."

"I don't believe I will come out, and I don't believe you won't hurt me. Don't make me send my guards out."

Paranoid, crazy man. Titus looked to Lucius for a second, neither of them wanted there to violence, bloodshed even less. "We're not going to harm you." said Titus with a bit more sternly. "We're only going to escort you to the Great Chapel. Your wife is waiting there for you."

"That bitch can rot in Cold Harbor. And you tell her I said that when you return without me."

Titus was growing more and more frustrated. There was a pause as he was trying to come up with something to say when Lucius spoke up: "What are you afraid of?"

"You brutes and your false court convicting me of something I did not do."

"If you're innocent, then why are you hiding in your home?" said Titus.

"I don't have to prove my innocence to you or your court."

"Would you rather we get your wife to let us in?" said Titus.

"Is being hauled through the streets like a common criminal better than walking on your own with some dignity?" said Lucius.

There was no response, but after several minutes the Knights could hear the locks on the door jingling, and it eventually swung open. The nobleman, a tall, stocky man with long blonde hair exited his house, dressed in what was obviously his nicest clothing. It was red and gold tunic, with a fur-trimmed burgundy cloak over the top. His black boots were brightly shined, and rings adorned each of his fingers. It was obvious to Titus that he was a proud man, though handsome enough to have as many affairs as he wanted. "We will do it your way. No chains, no hauling."

"Right this way." said Titus as he stepped slightly aside and with a light courteous bow gestured for the nobleman to go first. Lucius also stepped to the side but did not give the same amount of courtesy. 

The nobleman glared suspiciously at Titus, as though he suspected the bow was mockery. He ignored Lucius altogether. He was clearly not happy with the circumstances, but he walked ahead anyway. 

The nobleman went onward with the Order Knights in tow. They walked through the streets of the upper class district towards the main square. A few people did pay attention to the nobleman and his company but most didn't bother to look enough to notice that they were Knights from the Divine Order and most likely just assumed them the nobleman's bodyguard. 
When they got the Great Chapel of Arkay, Titus opened one of the two double doors for the nobleman who stepped inside without as much as a glance at either of the Knights. Inside the Great Chapel was a few people sitting at the front rows. Jeanne was standing by the main altar with a slightly stern look to her face. 
"Veranus Varia, you stand accused for adultery and for breaking your holy vows." said Jeanne.

"So say you. I say this is all a sham, designed by the jealous to bring me down. I will not have it! The Count will be hearing about this, you can be sure." said Veranus. 

"You call the Gods a sham?" said Jeanne. This made nearly everyone to turn their heads to Veranus. 

"Do not twist my words, priest. I respect the gods, same as everyone else. I don't respect people dragging me from my home, accusing me of things I have not committed."

"If you're innocent, come forth and prove it to everyone in the eyes of the Gods."

"What obligation do I have to prove anything to you lot? This is nothing but a group of jealous zealots hunting down the rich and successful."

"You're obligated by your vows. Regardless if you're rich or poor."

"This is preposterous! I won't stand here and take this." said Veranus, turning and heading back toward the door. 

Titus and Lucius stepped in front of the door, blocking the nobleman's exit. Lucius had a stone face, barely looking at the nobleman. Titus tried his best to also put on a stone face expression but his eyes couldn't completely hide the contempt he felt for the man's complete disregard for others. 

"Move you brutes." Veranus turned back to face the church and those in it and yelled: "The Count will be hearing about this, I swear it!" He then tried to barge between the guards with a lowered shoulder, but was knocked clear to the floor by the immovable knights. 

"Gods damn it Veranus!" shouted a woman at the front row and stood up. She was an Imperial in her late twenties, with brown hair neatly combed and tied behind her head, her face was a bit round and slightly pretty but mostly plain. Her clothes were a simple dress in a muted blue color. "Come forth and confess your sins before you make yourself look like an even bigger fool."

"Jena?" said Veranus. He quickly covered his surprise with further indignation. To the church at large, he said: "I don't know what theyve told you, but none of its true. Don't believe them, Jena." 

"I know it is. Your little lovebird has already confessed all." said Jena. 

Veranus tried to hide his shock, placing his hand to his chest in a gesture of disbelief. "I-I don't know who you're talking about. It all lies, Jena."

"Are you calling my wife a liar?" said a man that then stood up from the front row. He was a grumpy looking Dunmer with with oiled and combed back hair and clean shave. He wore black and red clothing fit for a minor noble. 

"I don't know who you are or who you wife is. If she is the one making these outlandish accusations, then yes, she is nothing but a money grubbing, lying whore."

The grumpy looking man looked rather furious at those words. Yet still managed to look oddly grumpy as if it was an expression etched into his face. The person sitting next to him now also turned her head. She was also a Dunmer and very pretty looking woman. She wore a simple black dress and a cowl over her head. She looked very sad and her eyes said she was almost about to cry. 

Veranus broke, his eyes growing sad along with the woman's. "Tadara, what did you tell them?"

Tadara said nothing and instead just turned her gaze away so they couldn't see her face.

"Enough for there to be this trial." said Jeanne.

Veranus refocused and regained his hard stare. "This sham, you mean. I don't care what she told you, or my wife, none of its true."

"Then come forth and prove it then."

"Fine. You'll all see." said Veranus, false confidence exuding from him like a foul aroma. 

"Come then, stand before the altar." said Jeanne. 

Veranus did just that, holding his head high as he walked between the pews to the altar at the head of the church. He stood there, the light streaming in through the stained glass windows. He turned to Jeanne and asked, "What now?"

"Unless you've got something to confess, the trial will begin." said Jeanne in a now rather soft but still rather stern voice. 

"Then let it begin." said Veranus. 

"Veranus Viria, you strand accused of adultery and for breaking your holy vows. You plead not guilty. Do you swear to the Gods that you are telling the truth and that you are innocent?"

"I swear by the Nine."

"Then we call our first witness: Aryne R'an."

Another Dunmer woman got up from the front row. She looked very young and rather thin, with short red black hair and nervous eyes. Her clothes were simple servant clothes. She took a few steps towards the altar but stayed to be just out of reach of Veranus, whomshe avoided eye contact with. "Yes?" she said.

"Tell us what you know." said Jeanne in a reassuring tone.

"I... I am Tadara S'thain's handmaiden." said Aryne shyly and nervously. "I was the one that opened the backdoor to let Veranus into the house and sneak him into the bedroom. I was the one that covered up Tadara's affair to her husband."

"I may have visited once or twice, but I used the front door like all visitors, and did no such sneaking around," Veranus insisted. 

"And for what purpose did you visit?" said Jeanne.

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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"To visit. Tadara and I have known each other for years."

"Then how come I've never known about you?" exclaimed Tadara's husband. 

"Why your wife never told I don't know. Ask her, not me."

"I did. And the answer I got was that you were screwing her." he said furiously. He then looked to Jeanne. "Why is he getting a chance to tell his lies? He said enough earlier to prove his guilt."

"What your wife tells you is of no concern to me." said Veranus. "Our meetings were innocuous, not illicit. Why she would lie to you I don't know."

"Thank you Aryne. You can sit down now." said Jeanne the servant girl, who then quite quickly left the spotlight to sit down on the pew near Tadara and her husband but still with some space between them. "Now I think it's Tadara's time to testify. And to see who is telling the truth."

Tadara got up from her seat and stepped forth. She dared to stand closer to Veranus than her handmaiden but still kept him at an arm's length. She still looked like she was about to cry and refused to look at Veranus and remained quiet. 

Veranus glanced at her but his eyes did not linger, and he faced forward with his chin held high. "Yes, it's about time we uncover these lies." he said. 

"I..." Tadara then grew quiet again. 

"Don't worry, the Gods forgive those that repent." said Jeanne to Tadara. 

"I met Veranus at a party over a year ago. He seduced me and we..." she became quiet as she had trouble maintaining a steady voice. "After that we used to meet about once a week in my home."

"We did nothing of the sort!" said Veranus, his voice loud enough to echo in the lofty cathedral. 

"Though it seems like you did." said Jeanne. "Everything seems to speak against you."

"These jealous liars and whores, maybe, but I am a man of good standing in this county, and it is absurd that I should have to answer to these people."

"Though why would they lie? The only that got a reason to lie is you."

Veranus didn't respond, but stood there red in the face, as tightly wound as a spring. Eventually, like the top of Red Mountain blowing off into the sky, he exploded. "Fine! I did **** her, as many times as I pleased, and she wasn't the only one. My bitch of a wife drove me to it, and I don't regret it for one instant. It's not my fault their husbands can't satisfy them like real men."

Veranus's wife Jena looked both insulted and angry but no one looked more furious than Tadara's husband. He quickly got up from his seat and looked almost like he was going to try to kill Veranus. Titus made himself ready to charge in, although he knew he would most likely not reach them in time. Though Jeanne quickly lifted her hand which caused him to at least stop from rushing Veranus. 
"Looks like we have a confession." said Jeanne. "Now is the time for a verdict."

Veranus again turned and tried to leave, but much more forcefully this time. He charged the two guards, but at the last second veered of to the side, attempting to slip by the slower armored knights. 

Lucius tried to grab him but missed him by an inch. Though when Veranus tried opening the large wooden doors he found that they were too heavy to open up quickly and he was grabbed before the door had moved more than a few inches. 

"Let me go! Let me go!" he yelled, flailing his arms and kicking like a child having a tantrum. 

Titus and Lucius brought Veranus back, with some effort, to the altar where Jeanne stood. Tadara had gone back to sit besides her husband and Jena was hiding her face in her palm to hide her embarrassment from her husband. 

"Veranus," said Jeanne. "you have broken your holy vows and lied about your word to the Gods. You shall serve two years in the Divine Order, or till you repent your wicked ways. Whichever comes last."

"You can't make me serve! This isn't legal, it can't be! Where is the Count? Why would he allow this sham?" Veranus was clearly unhinged with rage and hate, as he spit with each screaming sentence. 

"You will need to calm down and contemplate your behaviour. Take him to the vault." Lucius and Titus then began to drag off to the side towards one of the doors leading deeper into the chapel. 

Veranus's yelling echoed through the hallways as he was carried deeper below the chapel. Titus felt a little sympathy for the nobleman for where he was moved to. Locking up the man in the complete dark seemed a little cruel, even though it was apparent that it was necessary. 

The chapel once housed quite a few religious relics that were stored in a vault below the chapel. Though the relics were gone and the vault stood empty in disuse. A large empty room in pitch black. Nearly impossible to break in and out of. The key was already in the lock, though Lucius had to struggle a bit as the lock was rather old and a bit rusty. Veranus struggling wasn't helping either. Eventually the knight got the door open and the two threw Veranus into the large black room. 
"This is unjust, it-it's cruel. You cannot do this to me!" said Veranus. He was silent for a few moments before he shouted "I can pay you. Name a price, any price, and I can match it. Just don't put me in here."

Titus felt like saying something but he couldn't find the words. Then Lucius simply shut the door and turned the key. There was an eerie silence after the door closed. Titus didn't feel like leaving the nobleman in there, but he was not at all keen on the idea of letting him out either. All he could do to still his mind was hope that Jeanne knew what she was doing.

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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The Tynes
Imperial City
 

Half of the Waterfront was in an uproar. The other half pretended to be oblivious to the fact that anything had happened at all. Asgen and Faida had spent enough time around criminals and idiots to know which were which. 

"Bunch of gods damned foreigners, barging into houses, riflin' through people's shit. All to find some girl. Who in Oblivion would keep around a kid tha' ain't their's anyway, y'know? This ain't Talos-fuckin'-Plaza. Folks can barely afford to feed 'n clothe themselves, let alone some random urchin' from the streets."

"Did any of them go into detail?" Faida asked the grumpy onion salesman. "Did they say anything about who they were working for or why they were doing this?"

"I told ya what I know." said the man. "Angry sword sellers lookin' for a girl. That's all I know. They weren't a talkative lot. And I weren't in a hurry to get to knowin' 'em either. One callin' the shots, a mean bitch with a scar on 'er throat, she smashed poor Brenus's hand with a gods damned mace!"

The twins exchanged a brief glance. "Thank you." Faida said to the merchant. As they turned and started off, she knew Asgen was thinking the same thing she was.

"Well that was definitely Sosia." he muttered. "No doubt about that. But it's odd that she'd be the one leading the raid. Wasn't that always Senna's thing?"

"Yeah. And more about this girl." This wasn't the first the Tynes had heard of the the mysterious 'wanted' girl. She was the talk of the Waterfront, despite the fact that no one seemed to know who she was or why the Brigade was after her. "You don't think she's a friend of King Adrard's do you? Maybe some lord's daughter?"

"Maybe. But-" Asgen paused as they neared the giant archway that led back to the Waterfront docks. Faida saw it too. A few feet ahead, the grass was painted red with blood. Lots of it. He headed over and knelt down, running his finger over the stain. "This ain't old at all. Last night?"

"Aye." Faida said, after picking a blade of grass and touching her tongue to it. "See that?" she pointed off a few feet to their right, where a small piece of gray caught some sunlight. After Asgen handed it to her, and she examined it for a few moments, the witch sighed. "This is part of someone's skull. Whoever died here got their head bashed in."

"Any chance you can communicate with them?" Asgen asked, hopefully.

"No." Faida put a finger to the bone charm around her neck. "This one is gone."

"Damn."

"What was it you were saying?" Faida asked, as they stood and started for the docks. "Before you spotted the blood. About the girl?"

"Oh right." It took Asgen a moment to remember what he'd meant to say. "We, um... No, you'd just said she could be some lord's daughter. I was about to say that this would explain why the Sisters are all the way down here, but I'm honestly not so sure that this has anything to do with High Rock."

"Yeah, me neither. Seems like they cut ties when they abandoned the Orc hunt and wiped out their allies. If that's the case, then this might just be a completely separate job."

"Aye, but bounty hunting for one girl is pretty small time for the Brigade. Which brings us back to her being someone important."

"Seems this line of thought ain't taking us anywhere."

"It seems that way. I say we go back to the old plan and just try to get a few words outa one of the footsoldiers. They're all over the damned city after all."

Faida sighed. "Asgen, we talked about this. They don't know we're after them right now. Making a move like that could cost us that advantage."

"Come on, Sis. We're careful, ain't we? And when was the last time we did things my way?"

"Jehanna, the Gavaudon Forrest, Anvil, and even sort of at the Orc camp."

"And all those things turned out well for us, didn't they?"

His sister snorted. "We got arrested in Jehanna, had to kill a gods damned Knight of the Point in the Gavaudon, and for a while one of those Orcs was prepared to murder you!"

"But Anvil-"

"Anvil went well, yeah."

The twins shared a chuckle before Asgen continued to make his case. "Despite all those minor setbacks, we got what we needed from each of those places. Right?"

"We did." Faida had to admit.

"And since you don't have any alternatives besides walking up and down a beach asking tight-lipped locals the same questions and staring at bloodstains, why don't we make things easier on ourselves and go the more direct route? I mean, there's an inn at the far side of the docks, and I'd bet my last septim that there are some Brigadiers in there."

Faida sighed. As much as she hated to admit it, her brother was right. At the rate they were moving, they'd be lucky to find Senna and Sosia before the sisters finished their current job and left the city. "Alright, brother. We'll try your way."

***

The Sailer's Rest
Shortly after
 

"You're a bleedin' liar."

Asgen touched his right hand to his chest. "I swear it. On my honor and all the gold in my pouch. My sister and I sat there while the king of High Rock bowed at us just like this." Asgen bent at the waste and dipped his head downward. A perfect bow, as King Theodore Adrard had taught him.

"Oh yeah," asked the incredulous dockhand, "and what was the context of you gettin' bowed to by a king?"

"The Bretons are a funny people." Asgen grinned. He couldn't help himself. Besides teaching the twins how to bow, his majesty had also given them some rather interesting advice when it came to embellishing... or just flat-out making up their heritage. "They've got a great deal of reverence for truly royal blood. Even their king acknowledged the blood of old Erling in us."

"Erling? Who in Oblivion is-"

"Erling was the High King of Skyrim a thousand or two years ago. My ancestor."

"Oh, piss off!"

"Hey, you don't have to believe it for it to be true. So how about a drink, eh? You can tell your kids you bought ale for the rightful king of Skyrim! No?" he said as the dockhand waved a hand and started walking away. He made sure he was loud enough for everyone in the room to hear his offer. "Anyone else?"

"I'll buy you a drink, King Drunkard."

"Who said that?" Asgen asked with a mild slur, though he already knew the answer to his question. At the far end of the tavern's long feast table sat a pair of Bretons bundled up in wool cloaks that were probably meant to conceal the arms and armor they wore underneath. He smiled when his eyes met theirs. The one on the left was built broad, with a bald head and the kind of grin you'd expect from a bandit. The one on the right was thinner, with long hair and a beard. Unlike his companion, he made no effort to fake a smile. 
"Why thank you very much." He moved to take the seat across from them. "If truth be told, most folks don't buy into my royal-blood story. But you two must be-"

"That shield on your back," interrupted the man on the right, "where did you get it?"

"No need to sound so aggressive." his companion said, before Asgen could answer. "Forgive Ermine. He's had more than a few drinks today. Though we were both curious when we saw you walk in with it. That's a High Rock coat-of-arms painted on it, if I'm not mistaken."

"You ain't." Asgen said, smiling politely. This was going every bit as well as he had hoped.

"And what wood is that, ruby ash? It is, isn't it? That's a fine shield."

"My prized possession."

"Now I don't know about royal blood and all that, but it seems to me you've got some interesting stories to tell regardless. Like what brought you, a Nord of Skyrim, wearing a shield from High Rock, to the capital of Cyrodiil. You're quite the traveler."

"Aye, that I am. But so are you, it seems." Asgen and the more amiable Breton both laughed, and even the one called Ermine joined in with what was undoubtedly a fake chuckle.

"Indeed. There are a good few leagues behind us. But you still haven't answered our question."

"And you still haven't bought me a drink."

The Breton smiled. Without taking his eyes off of Asgen, he called out, "Vaulla! Another ale for our new friend! And be quick about it, this one's royalty!" lowering his voice again, he said, "Now how about it?"

"Alright," Asgen's grin widened as 'Vaulla' laid a bottle of ale in front of him. "Here goes. So this shield... I actually had to kill a man for it."

"Oh yeah? A knight?"

"Aye, a knight. Now shut up so I can tell it right! So, this tale begins with a game of dice, way up in the Gavaudon Forrest..."

Across the room, Faida rolled her eyes. Asgen had a dozen variations of this story, and in less than a year she was certain her brother had told each of them another dozen times over. Some versions were pretty close to what presumably occurred, but others were so outlandish that even Asgen couldn't always keep a straight face while telling them. For her part, Faida just wished that her brother could speed it along and get to the part where they actually accomplished something useful, but she knew his methods well enough by now to know that that wasn't how it worked. Asgen liked to toy with his victims long before they even knew he was against them.

"... And that's when I started feeling strange," her brother's voice was low, and he spoke slowly in an effort to build the tension, "an odd feeling in my gut sayin' something was wrong. A voice in my head screaming 'Pay attention! Pay attention you damned fool! That ain't an ordinary light you're following!' It took a lot of concentration, but eventually I was able to snap out of it and focus. And just like that it hit me... I'd fallen prey to the trappings of a Will-o-the-Wisp!"

One of the Bretons gasped, "A will-o-the-wisp?!"

"You deaf or something? Aye, that's what I said. And the creature had done a right good job of putting me under it's spell, for by now I was well and truly lost..."

Faida drummed her fingers on the counter and blew some air through her lips. Eventually, she waved over the tavern maid, "You got any mead?"

"No mead. We got ale and wine."

"Wine then, something cheap." She was counting out coins on the table when she heard one of the Bretons whistle and make some exclamation about how he'd have not dared to take on a Knight of the Point in single combat. She chuckled. Her brother had chosen a good version of the story for what he was planning. It was far-fetched enough that the Bretons wouldn't believe him, but realistic enough that they would pretend to out of politeness. Right now, Asgen certainly sounded like a lying braggart. Which he is... Not that I can judge.

"... with the sword broken, I had no choice but to go for my dagger. Didn't have a clue what I was gonna do with the thing. I mean, it's a sharp little blade." Asgen drew his real prized possession and held it out over the table so the Bretons could get a good look. "But as I said before, ol' Traven's knight was armored head-to-toe, and he still had his sword and shield besides..."

The wine was placed in front of Faida just as Asgen was getting to her favorite part. 
"And I swear it," said the Nordic sellsword as he brandished the dagger in his hand. "on my honor, this next part is true. Backed against the tree, I was. Nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. So I flipped this here dagger, like so..." Asgen turned the dagger over so that he held it by the blade, recreating the motions as he described them. "I reared back my arm... And I launched it straight into his eye!" 
Several patrons yelped when Asgen sent his dagger flying across the room. He had done this countless times before, and every one of those times, the blade's tip found itself embedded in some impressive target he'd found while telling the tale. This time, however, it was not so. This weapon whirled almost a foot to the right of the wooden beam he'd seemingly been aiming for and crashed out the window behind it.
"Well shit."

One may have thought Asgen had spent all that time telling a joke for how hard the Bretons laughed. Indeed, besides the enraged tavern maiden, most everyone in the room was laughing at the drunken storyteller's display. Even Faida joined in. She hadn't expected her fool of a brother to get so into his drunken character that he would miss the target, let alone break a damned window!
She watched Asgen loudly trade apologies for threats as the tavern's one worker demanded he pay for the window. All the while, the Bretons, especially the larger one on the left, grasped at their sides. "I'll pay for it!" Asgen was saying, his hands in the air as he stumbled out of his seat. "Just let me get my dagger. I promise I'll be right back!"

"You won't go anywhere until some septims land on this table!"

"In a minute. I swear! Just..." Asgen pushed past her as gently as he could manage and darted out the door, which drew an entire new wave of laughter from the room.

Faida's smile slowly faded as she noticed the woman starting to follow him. "Hey!" she said as the tavern maid neared where she sat, "Hey!" She grabbed the wench's arm and said, "I need another drink."

"You ain't even touched yours yet. Now let go of me! That man just-"

"I said, I need another drink." Faida wove a tiny spell into her words. It wasn't much. Nothing she had prepared beforehand in the Greys as she preferred to do. But in this case, her own magicka sufficed. 

The tavern maid blinked. "Uhh, right. Wine or ale?"

"Ale. Pour it for me, will ya?"

"I'll get right on that."

The laughter had only just begun to subside when Asgen returned to the room. He would not be pulling a stunt like that again. Not after he'd come so close to losing his beloved dagger to a pair of children who happened to be passing by when it shattered the tavern window. Their hesitancy to approach the scene had been the only thing to hold them at bay long enough for him to get there first. Could've been worse.
Vaulla was off behind the counter again, pouring a pint of ale. He knew who to thank for that. Asgen flashed his sister a grin as he walked past. When her eyes met his, Faida's own lips twisted into a little half-smile.

"All hail King Drunkard!" laughed the bald Breton as Asgen reclaimed his seat across the table, "It's a good thing your aim was better in the Gavaudon than it was in here. I'd wager even Ermine here could've hit that column, and he's half blind in on eye."

"It's true." said the previously-sullen Ermine, "Can't aim a bow to save my life."

"I know, I know. Laugh it up." Asgen said with a grin. "Catch me sober and I can pin flies to walls."

"I'm sure you can." said Ermine, though his tone was more light-hearted than before. "So, before Vaulla sees you've come back, there's something else I'd like to ask you."

"Ask away, friend."

"So we know how the Skyrim Nord came to get a shield from High Rock. But what's he doing in Cyrodiil now?"

Asgen's eyes darted from one Breton to the other, and his voice lowered, "Okay, so I'm a little drunk and this may be a mistake... but I think I can trust you. I can trust you, right?"

"Of course." said Ermine.

"We're honest as they come." said Baldy.

Asgen cast a glance toward Faida, who was watching them intently now. Better be ready, Sis. "You swear?"

"We swear."

"Alright... That's good to hear, because being Bretons and all, you two might even be able to help me. You see, I'm here in Cyrodiil on a mission. Was sent by one of High Rock's lords to track down a pair of sellswords called the Silver Sisters."
To the Bretons' credit, they hid their reactions well, but Asgen saw the subtle clues. The twitch in Baldy's brow. The shift in Ermine's weight. Though like they did with him, Asgen continued to play ignorant. "Apparently they're twins." Asgen continued. "And together, they're as dangerous as sellswords come. Being from Skyrim, I'd never heard of them before this job, but apparently they lead an outfit."

"An outfit?" asked Baldy in a convincingly clueless tone, "How large?"

"I don't know." lied Asgen. "Fifty swords now. A hundred? I couldn't say. Apparently lots of them died back in High Rock."

"Yeah." said Ermine with a soft voice, "They did."

Both Asgen and Baldy looked at him. "You've heard of them?" asked the Nord.

"Heh. You could say that. I used to be one." Ermine pointed a thumb at Baldy. "He's playing dumb, but so did Branoc. We left the Silver Brigade when the sisters made a pact with the Emperor to lower our numbers in exchange for asylum."

"That so?" Some of that may actually be true... They certainly teamed up with the Legion against the Chevaliers. Asgen looked from one Breton sellsword to the other. "Do you know where the sisters are now?"

Baldy, or Branoc, started to answer, but Ermine cut him off. He was smiling now. "Yeah. We know where they are. And we can show you."

"Friend, you don't know how much you're about to help me." Asgen said as the three sellswords stood. "I just hope I'm not too drunk to remember, ha! ... So is it close?"

"It's not far." The three sellswords took their leave, dropping ample coin on the long table for their drinks. Vaulla did not disturb them about the window on the way out, which made Asgen wonder what exactly his sister had done to her.
"I assume since you're here that you know about what happened here in the Waterfront last night." said Ermine.

"Aye. Though for all my searching, I ain't found shit. It's why I paid the tavern a visit. Needed something good to come outa it all."

"Now that is unfortunate. Did you check the warehouses?"

"They wouldn't let me in." muttered the Nord. "Answered my questions polite enough. Not that they had anything helpful to say."

"They were smart not to. Considering Sosia Silver's set herself up inside one of them."

The tall warehouses loomed over them as they approached. And out the corner of his eye, Asgen saw Branoc's fingers wrapping around the hilt of his dagger. "So what, are you two gonna take me right up to the front door?"

"Just close enough to point it out." said Ermine. "All these damned hovels stacked up against the place-

"Like barnacles to the bottom of a ship." muttered Branoc.

"Yeah. Like that. They make it difficult to get a good look at the warehouse entrances from this side. Only way to see them is up close in the alleys."

"I remember." Asgen said. His heart was pounding now. And he could hear the heavy breathing of the Bretons as they steeled themselves for what they were about to do. Or, about to try to do. They turned down one of the alleyways that ran adjacent to the longer ones beside the warehouses. It was empty. Here we go.

Asgen heard the Bretons' steel sliding out, one against a leather sheath, the other against an iron ring. But before either of them could even finish drawing their weapons, a cold chill swept through the alley, sucking out all feelings of sound, touch, taste, or smell. The sellswords were left wondering what had happened, why they felt like standing corpses, and why Asgen was seemingly unbothered by the fact that the sky had gone dark and the walls around them were dripping with blood.

"What is this?!" screamed Branoc, though neither he nor his companion could hear the words escape his lips. "What in Oblivion is going on?!" Ermine was hollering similar questions and getting similar results.

"You broke the seal." said a woman's voice. It came into the alley from all directions, loud and powerful like the voice of a goddess. But this was no divine. This was a wicked being. Evil. Malevolent. This was a creature that wanted them to suffer. "You betrayed my brother's trust."

"I didn't know." Branoc cried, dropping his weapon and then his own body so that he collapsed at Asgen's feet. "I didn't know. I didn't know. I didn't know..."

"How do I fix this?!" pleaded Ermine. No longer the tough guy, he fell down to his knees and looked up at Asgen with nothing but fear in his eyes. "How? Please! Make this right! My skin... It's- it's starting to itch! Oh gods... Oh gods, it itches! What are you?!"

"I told you, I'm a sellsword." said Asgen. "I'm looking for Senna and Sosia Silver, and I need you to tell me where they are." 

The two pitiful Bretons stared up at him with dumb expressions. Ermine was now scratching all over, and Branoc was still on the ground muttering "I didn't know." again and again. Neither of them could hear a word he was saying.

Asgen looked past them both, back at his sister in entrance to the alley. "Do you mind?"

Oh right. It had been a long time since Faida had last placed this seal. Her mother said that its name in common Tamrielic loosely translated to Dismay. "Turn around." she commanded. Nothing about their curse bound the Bretons to Faida's word, but of course, they obeyed the only voice that they could hear besides those they conjured up in their own minds, which was apparently quite common among those who suffered the curse's effects for a prolonged period of time. "You promised your friend the locations of the Silver Sisters. You will keep your promise."

"Yes! Of course!" said Ermine.

"I didn't know." said Branoc.

Faida glanced at her brother, who looked down on the bald Breton with a smidgin of pity. He brought this on himself. "Tell me then!" She pointed at the one who could actually speak. "You do it."

"Senna's up north!" the Silver Brigadier wailed. "Way up north! In Bruma County. We had to split our forces for this newest job! She's watching the road to make sure the girl doesn't escape to Skyrim!"

"What girl? What is this job?"

"The girl from the picture! Mila, her name was. The job's to find her!"

"Why? Who hired you for this? Does it have anything to do with High Rock? With King Theodore?"

"I- She- We-"

"Poor bastard might have an easier time answering you if you'd ask one question at a time." Asgen chimed in.

Faida shot her brother an annoyed look, but took a breath and slowed down for the terrified man. "Does this hunt for Mila have anything to do with High Rock?"

"No." Ermine answered with a whimper. "We got this job here in the city. Don't know who's paying, but it's a lot."

Then it's irrelevant. Looks like Asgen was right. Back to the basics, then. "Alright. Now where is Sosia?"

"She's here. Not in the warehouse. In the city. She's hiding out in a tavern in the Elven Gardens... oh- oh gods! Gods, it's getting worse! Make the itching stop! Please!"

"Which tavern is she hiding in?"

"I can't remember the name! I've only been there once! This was my posting! This was my- ahh- I- I remember! Yes, I remember it was off the main road! Near Talos Plaza! Real near! You could find it easy if you look. It's Silver's command center!"

"Thank you." That was enough for the twins to work with. But Faida had one last question. "One more, and we'll be done. I know Duke Mon sent you to Cyrodiil. What did he expect to gain out of that? And don't say dead Orcs. We know that's a lie."

"I- I thought that was the reason! Honest!"

The twins believed him. It wasn't likely that the Sisters of Silver divulged everything to their men.

Faida looked from Ermine to Branoc, who wasn't saying anything that he hadn't been for the past three minutes or so. "Thanks for the help, lads. You've been instrumental in our search. Just as you promised."

Asgen peered out both ends of the alley to make sure the coast was clear. It was, and so he moved up behind the Breton sellswords and cut both of their throats. After wiping his blade on Branoc's tunic, he stood up and sighed. "Gods, that one's brutal."

"They brought it on themselves."

"I know. I'm just saying is all."

"Well I say we get out of here before anyone passes through."

"Couldn't agree more."

The Tynes left the Waterfront as quickly as they could, in part because they were anxious to discover this inn Sosia Silver was hiding in, and in part because they wanted to put as much distance between themselves and the crime scene as possible.

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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Corrick Tilwald

Midday

 

 

Elven Gardens District

 

The chains chaffed Corrick’s wrist, and he could already feel the scabs forming where they’d been shackled for the better part of a week. It wasn’t his only injury, but by far the one he felt the most. His ribs were bruised from a failed escape attempt, while his black eye was a seemingly random injury the throat-scarred woman inflicted after she returned from something the other night. Corrick deduced it was something violent, as from the little he could see looking out from the bottom of the blindfold, he saw blood upon her boots.

 

 

Injuries aside, his conditions weren’t horrible. The cook from the tavern downstairs was far and away the best Corrick had found in his travels in Cyrodiil. And besides the scarred woman’s attack and his failed escape attempt, he was treated decently. The wooden chair he sat in was mightily uncomfortable, and he thought me might die of boredom eventually, but he couldn’t complain about the details of his imprisonment. At least I’m not in a dungeon, and there aren’t any rats, he thought, always trying to find some hint of optimism to cling to.

 

He still ran over in his mind the incredibly bad luck he faced in becoming capture. The man who recognized him, Sir Lywel Liric, had once been one of the Tilwald families’ most trusted knights. Though not exceptional with arms or as a fighter, he was one of the more dependable people Corrick had ever met. That was all revealed to be a ruse, however, as he’d been taking a pay cut from a group of bandits attacking trade caravans. He was lucky to be only exiled from Shornhelm lands, and not executed, but no had died in the attacks, so his sentence was less harsh than it could have been.

 

Corrick didn’t even regret only exiling the man, even with it leading to his own capture at Sir Liric’s hands. It had been the right decision then, and unless Sir Liric suddenly dove off a moral cliff, his hostage taking was no worse than his caravan betrayal. Corrick thought that the optimist in him taking over once again. In this case, though, the optimistic approach was the right one. Upon his initial capture he was informed that this was only so he could be ransomed back to his family. No harm would come to him, unless he tried to escape, and they only wanted coin. Typical sellswords, he thought, even greedier than they were ruthless, but in this case it literally paid them to be as stereotypically greedy as possible. There would be no ransom for a dead Baron.

 

The one thing that worried Corrick was how Erer was dealing with all this. Likely, he was one the roof of some building, across the street from the tavern, closely watching the exits and waiting for Corrick to leave. Or, maybe he had found Corrick and was watching through one of the windows into the room. Corrick looked out them every meal, which along with using the bathroom was the only time his blindfold was removed, but he never did see him. Corrick was worried, even though the bird was totally self-sufficient. He didn’t know what trouble Erer might run into in a city so large and a land so unfamiliar.  But with lunch soon approaching, Corrick hoped this would finally be the day he say his companion.

 

The meal, consisting of stew with fresh bread and a glass of ale, arrived a little later than was usual. The scarred woman who brought the food took off his blindfold and removed his gag. It was into the afternoon now, judging by the angle of the light coming in through the window facing the west. She set it down on his lap in a rather ungentle manner, causing the stew to slosh onto his legs a bit. She then sat down across from him, her mind obviously preoccupied with other things. Corrick looked out the window to the west, hoping to see Erer. He indeed saw the familiar set of wings opened wide and flap twice. Corrick knew Erer saw him, and it made him retroactively happier that Erer had likely been watching him most of the morning.

 

He smiled, forgetting his predicament, but happy that Erer was safe. The scarred woman spoke, snapping his attention back to the room. “Your foods on your lap, not out there.”

 

Corrick glanced at her before he set upon the stew and bread. After a few bites of both, he took a drink of the ale, leaning his body over so that he could reach it on the floor. The shackles ran through the gap in the back of his chair, limiting how far he could reach with his arms. He stopped after that, looking at the sellsword who he’d deduced was some sort of leader. He knew his captors to be the Silver Brigade, and had heard someone call her Silver, though he didn’t know her first name. Corrick could tell she was angry and upset, her fingers tapping at a table, her jaw clenched tight.

 

Though Corrick thought it might be unwise to talk, in the event it provoked her, he nonetheless asked, “Something the matter?”

 

She glanced at him with a steely gaze, and Corrick regretted having made a sound. She sat there quietly, and as Corrick ate, he chided himself for even speaking. I probably earned another black eye, he thought. He quickly finished his food, and this time, his voice softer and, he hoped, somewhat nicer, he said, “I don’t mind listening. Not like I have anything else to do, or anyone to tell.”

 

It was true, and Corrick had always been a good listener, but he was also curious to see what captor was actually like, and talking to her would help quite a bit in that endeavor. She starred at him, but her glare eventually softened and she muttered, “**** it” to herself before she said, “We were hired to do a job, and we failed. Lost a lot of coin in the process.”

 

“Ah,” Corrick said. That explained the frustrated punch from not long ago. “Was it your company’s fault that the mission failed?”

 

She starred at him momentarily, but again she seemed to brush off her qualms about speaking to her prisoner. Corrick couldn’t say or guess why, but she had a captive audience, and he wasn’t exactly in a position to doubt her like her men might, should she speak this openly to them. “Not exactly. But we still played a part in it. Now we have to meet the man who hired us. And I’m not sure how forgiving he’ll be.”

 

“If it wasn’t your fault the mission failed, surely he would understand,” Corrick offered. He didn’t know why he was consoling his captor, but it beat eating in silence while daydreaming about how Erer might be able to free him.

 

“We didn’t meet his expectations, and that usually has consequences in this line of work,” she replied in her low, raspy voice. She got up and looked out the window to the south, but nothing there interested her, because she turned back and took Corrick’s empty bowl and plate. He finished off the ale, and she took the bottle as well, setting them on the table in the room.

 

“You could make it up to your employer somehow,” Corrick said. “Offer him something else, something that softens the blow so to speak.”

 

The scarred woman seemed to like that, as she smiled a roguish grin that was oddly a mirror image of the scar on her throat. It was unsettling, as was the hungry look in her eyes, like a predator catching sight of its next meal. Corrick smiled nervously, but the woman was preoccupied with her own thoughts. She rested one hand on her mace, drumming at it as she ran through something in her mind. To Corrick, it was though her mood had shifted in an instant, from anxious to enterprising.

 

“I may just have to knock down the price of your ransom,” she said, the tone of her voice that suggested sarcasm, though it was hard for Corrick to say for sure.

 

She then gathered up the plate and the bowl in her hands as she left in a hurry. Corrick wondered what exactly she took from his advice. He didn’t want to think about the implications of what a consolation prize might be in her line of work, and thankfully his thoughts were soon focused elsewhere. Because in her hurry, the scarred woman had made a mistake. Still sitting on the table, only a few feet away, was the glass ale bottle. Corrick knew he only had a few moments before the next guard arrived, to he scooted his chair over to the table as quickly as he could. Because of the manacles, though, he could not reach it, and when he tried he leaned so far he tipped the chair over and fell to the floor. He was nearly panicking now, but he slowly, carefully, pushed himself up, and this time was able to grab the bottle. He then scooted back into his normal position, which meant he could hide the bottle behind his back and the guard wouldn’t see it.

 

When the guard did arrive, he fitted the blindfold and gag back over Corrick’s head. Corrick could hear the man sit down in the other chair in the room, and he leaned his head back just enough to see that the sellsword was facing toward the southern window, and thus had his back to the imprisoned Baron. Corrick had the seed of a plan planted in his head, but it was crazy, insane almost, and destined to fail. But he knew he couldn’t hide the bottle for long, and it was the closest thing he had to a weapon with the manacles warded against the use of magic.

 

So Corrick shifted the bottle from his right hand to his left, then leaned over so that his right arm could reach his neck. He moved as quietly as he could, though he worried that the guard might take interest in him shifting in his seat. The guard didn’t, and so Corrick was able to reach his neck. There he drew a small ‘X’ on the back of his neck. To anyone else it would have looked like he was scratching his neck, but to the large eagle sitting on the roof across the street, it was a command to come.

 

And come Erer did, crashing through the window in a spray of glass and thin wood from the cross-frame of the window. Corrick, still leaned over, removed the blindfold and gag to see the guard sprawled on the floor, using his arms to bat away Erer’s attack. Corrick scooted over, switching the bottle from his left hand back to his right. The guard was moving to his feet now, and drew his sword, but was still concentrated on Erer, who had already cut and clawed at his face. Sticking his foot in the guard’s path, Corrick tripped the sellsword, and then brought the half-full bottle down on the man’s head. It hadn’t worked liked Corrick expected, as the man was only dazed, but he didn’t have time to worry about that. Picking up the guard’s chair, Corrick drug it and himself over to the door. Even with the guards two floors down, they would have heard the window smashing and the fight that ensued. It was a slow process, scooting the chair and dragging the other, but the room was not large, and soon Corrick had wedged the guard’s chair under the doorknob and barred it.

 

The guard was dazed but was once again standing up. Erer pushed the attack, and in a violent display of blood and gore, ripped off a large chunk from the side of the man’s neck. The man yelled out and grabbed at the wound, which spurted like a fountain, but the eagle didn’t relent, and sunk his talons into the man’s arm, pulling off another piece of flesh. Corrick watched, somewhat appalled at the brutal display of animal instinct, but he didn’t have time to sit in shock. He scooted back to the guard and rifled through the man’s pockets, even as the sellsword fumbled at his two wounds, the blood pooling on the floor. Corrick was covered in it as he searched, and the men occasionally pawed at him and plead for help. Corrick couldn’t, though, not so long as the shackles were on him and their magic suppression in place. Finally he found the key, right as the guards began pounding at the door and yelling. He unlocked the manacles and reached for the sellsword with hands aglow in healing magic, but as they pressed down on the neck wound, the man fell silent, and his breathing stopped.

 

 

 

 

Corrick kneeled over him for a few moments, running over in his head what had happened. It wasn’t his intention or anyone to die, but Erer couldn’t have known that, and if the eagle could be called anything, it was protective. And now two sellswords were pounding on the door, which thankfully was well made. Corrick stood, and took Erer on his arm, where he inspected the bird. There was a cut on Erer’s leg he healed with a bit of magic, but besides that and some missing feathers, he was fine. Corrick released him and Erer flew to the windowsill. Corrick then drug the where the guard had set and put it in front of the door as well, and then did the same for the chest which held his belongings. He took out his bag and checked to find all his things were still in place, for which he felt very relieved. As he grabbed an end table and drug it to the door, he heard something from the hallway. To him, it sounded like the weapons clanging together, and no one was beating the door any longer. After a few moments, the fighting stopped, and Corrick tentatively removed his barricade. He wasn’t sure if it was the right move, but whoever had dispatched his captors was at least his savior, if not an ally.

 

So he flung the door open and backed away. The bodies of the Brigadiers lay at the feet of a pair of Nords. The two Nords, a man and a woman, were obviously twins. They had sharp features, both with cool blue eyes, pale skin, and black hair. The man was bearded, and had blood on his heavy dagger, while the sister had no weapon, and was clearly a mage. As much as Corrick was confused by their presence, they seemed confused by his as well. No doubt they saw the furniture he’d cast aside from the door, as well as the shackles, and the dead sellsword within the room.

 

“Th-thank you?” Corrick said, unsure if his saviors were as benevolent as they appeared or had some other foul intentions he didn’t yet know of.

 

He and the twins stared at one another in mutual confusion for a few seconds longer before the brother finally spoke. "You ain't a girl."

 

"Huh?" Was all Corrick could respond, and rather stupidly, he felt, at that. After seeing no explanation was to be offered, he said, "Who are you?"

 

"Asgen and Faida." replied the man. "Who are you?"

 

Corrick didn't know what he should say. He didn't know, or trust, these newcomers, and yet his created persona wouldn't explain why he was captured by the Silver Brigade, and why he needed to get to High Rock. Thinking on his feet, he said, "Christophe Sele. I'm a scribe for the Breton Ambassador and am tasked with taking a message to High Rock. But these sellswords kidnapped me because the message was so important. Evidently they're from High Rock, so somehow got wind of my mission. They intended to ransom me to the king."

 

"The King, eh?" It was clear from Asgen's tone and the way they looked at him that the Nords were skeptical of his story. Though whether that was because they'd only just met him, or because his lie was less believable than he'd thought, Corrick couldn't tell.

 

"What kind of message are you delivering?" asked Faida. It was the first time she'd spoken.

 

"A private one," Corrick said, hoping he adopted the tone of a guarded messenger. "You told me your names, but who are you? What did you want with the Silver Brigade?"

 

"To find their leaders." Asgen knelt down and wiped his bloody dagger on a dead man's pants. "These poor sods had the misfortune of not being worth a thing alive. But the Sisters of Silver are."

 

"You didn't happen to see a dark-haired woman, did you?" Faida asked. "She's got a big scar along her throat-"

 

"-And talks like this." her brother interrupted, doing his best raspy-voiced impression of the sellsword.

 

"I escaped right after she left. She was going to do something, to make up for her failure at whatever her job was. Give her boss something instead of what she was supposed to give," Corrick said. As he did, though, he grew uneasy, suddenly remembering the girl the Nord had mentioned upon entering. And he sincerely hoped he hadn't convinced the woman to go after this girl. 

 

"Well that's something." Asgen said, rising again to his full height. "I guess it'd be too much to hope that she said this boss's name or where we could find 'em now?"

 

"Or any details about what it is she's up to." Faida added. "How she intends to make up for this failure. What exactly it is that she failed at. Anything you can think of that might help us."

 

"She mentioned the boss was a man. And that there was a lot of coin on the line. She was hoping to bring this consolation to a meeting planned for tonight between her and her boss," Corrick said. He racked his brain, thinking of anything else. He reached back to the night of the punch, trying to recall anything that might help the Nord twins. Finally, he remembered. "Fish. She smelled like fish when she came back from a job a few nights ago. She was frustrated, and that was the mission they failed, I think."

 

"So she never found that Mila girl, then." said Asgen with a shrug. "But this doesn't tell us where she is now. How often does she visit you?"

 

"She rotated in as my guard about twice a week," Corrick said. He was relieved Sosia hadn't found the girl originally, and hoped that she wasn't ever going to find her. No one should have to be that woman's prisoner.

 

"That could be a long time to wait." the Nord muttered. He looked to his sister. "Well we can't sit here and just kill everyone who shows up until Sosia happens to be one of them."

 

"And we can't leave without them discovering what happened." Faida responded.

 

"They could relocate. And they'll be on to us then... Damnit Asgen, I told you attacking was a bad idea!"

 

"A damned bird flew in through the window! When else were we going to get a distraction like that?" Asgen nodded down at the broken glass scattered all the way to their feet. His eyes fell back on Corrick. "What was that all about, anyway?"

 

"It was my pet, Erer," Corrick said, motioning with his head to the window. There the cliff eagle sat, talons gripping the windowsill, it's eyes trained on the doorway, past which the twins stood. 

 

"Your pet? Where in the world does a courier get a trained eagle as a pet-" Asgen paused, "Y'know what? Never mind. I'm sure this will make for a great story some time later. But right now, I vote we leave. Faida?"

 

"Ain't got much of a choice, do we?"

 

"Here," Asgen knelt down and grabbed one of the corpses by the legs. "Help me move these into the room. Might buy us a couple hours assuming too many of these bastards don't return in that time."

 

"I'm not a courier," Corrick said, feigning exasperation. "I was a scribe for the Ambassador and I study at the Arcane University." Corrick went to help move the bodies, and as he did, he saw the shield lashed to Asgen's back, the fading green sigil of the Traven Family still visible. He stopped, and suddenly asked, "What're you doing with a shield from Northpoint?"

 

He could see the bounty hunter's eyes light up as he started to answer, but Faida abruptly cut him off. "He won it in a dice game."

 

"Aye," Asgen said, his shoulders slumping a little, "A really good dice game. Up in northern High Rock."

 

"So you've been to High Rock recently, and you're hunting the Silver Brigade, a Breton company. Who hired you?" Corrick asked.

 

"As it so happens, that's private too." Asgen said as they dropped the third body into the pile. "You seem smart, so I ain't gonna bother with trying to lie to you. We're bound for High Rock when this is over, same as you."

 

Bound for High Rock. Those words were like the sweet relief of a cool water on a hot day. Corrick could feel the stress that sagged his shoulders dissipate, though he knew he hadn't even askedy yet, and they could always say no. "Could I-could we, travel together? I'm sure the King would pay you handsomely for escorting me back, and I'm handy enough with spells that I could help you capture the Sisters."

 

The twins shared a glance. "I mean, if you're offering..." said Asgen. "I ain't gonna say 'no'. Especially if the pay'd be coming from King Adrard himself. Sis?"

 

"Well, considering you and that bird of yours just killed one of their men, I'd say you're just about the only fellow in Cyrodiil we can fully trust right about now." Faida said. "If you can help us and not get in the way, then sure. Why not?"

 

Corrick beamed, and Erer flapped his wings once. Even though the trip wasn't going as planned, he still felt confident it would end in a success. Especially now that he had bodyguards to help get him home. "Great! So what's our next move?"

 

"Well," Asgen started, "We'd hoped to find Sosia here... you were something of a consolation in an otherwise completely botched attempt." He looked at his sister.

 

"Could be worse though, right? I mean, we've got some help now at least. I say we find ourselves another inn here in the district and keep an eye out for other Brigadiers. Might be we'll get lucky again and find one who knows something."

 

"I'll go and take care of things downstairs." Faida said without giving her opinion of the plan. Maybe the siblings were close enough that she didn't need to.

 

When she was gone, Asgen turned back to Corrick. "What do you think, eagle-man? This sound like an okay next move to you?"

 

Corrick had never bounty hunted before, so he wasn't sure what constituted a good or bad plan. But waiting for Sosia to come back, and looking out for her, seemed like the best bet. "I think that'll work."

 

The Nord grinned and patted him on the back. "Then let's get to it."

 

As Corrick left he saw Erer take off into the sky once more, angling toward the roof he'd been on before the attack. Corrick's light blue robes were stained dark with blood, and he would need to get those replaced, but otherwise he had all his belongings and was no worse for wear. He planned on growing his beard back out, so that anyone still looking for him might not recognize him so easily, but that wasn't something he could accomplish immediately.  For now, all he could do was change into his spare robes and hope he took to working as a bounty hunter. 

 

 

He and Asgen exited on to the main floor of the tavern, where Faida was waiting for them. The patrons and barkeeps seemed strangely uninterested in the group, even going so far as to not look at them entirely. It was as if Asgen, Faida, and Corrick didn't exist at all. It unnerved Corrick, but they left the tavern, its denizens, and the bloody bodies upstairs quickly enough. When Corrick looked up at the sky for the first time in what felt like ages, he saw Erer soaring above, and he smiled. 

Power corrupts, absolute power... is a whole lot of fun!

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