Celan

Rebec Red-Eye

aboard the Harpy, Sea of Ghosts

three months before the Battle of Pale Pass

"Hold water!" Rebec called down from the steering.

She waited and felt the ship slow as the oarsmen all held their oars at their armpits flat in the water to brake.  Turning her head, Rebec listened for any sign that the imperial vessel was still following.  There was fog, so she knew they couldn't see her.¨

Standing from her place at the steering, Rebec raised her voice loud.  "WE DRINK TO OUR YOUTH, TO THE DAYS COME AND GONE..." There where cheers and whistles from the crew.  "FOR THE AGE OF OPPRESSION IS NOW NEARLY DONE." The admiral paused and heard shouting off in the distance, not far.

Sitting back down at her place, she waited until the shouting was practically right behind them, then called the order. "Set to!  Row, gods damn you!" Afterward, she laughed loudly, a battle laugh, and gave out a loud whoop.  The imperials had been searching for her.  They'd be sorry they found her.¨

Mazoga Thorn-Orc, her first mate, came up near and watched her, waiting for orders.  Her face was grim, but the orc knew the drill. They were close to the iceberg. They all could smell it, even though it was almost entirely submerged. Rebec could feel it in her feet, the looming mass that drew closer with every oar stroke. She didn't know how she did it. Some said it was a gift of the gods, others that she had the benefit of her ancestors' experience somehow.  She just knew what the water wanted her to do.

"STARBOARD LIFT OARS, LARBOARD HEAVE TO!¨

She turned the keel to match the rowing actions. There was a shuffle and creak and instantly the ship made a sharp left turn. Rebec gave the order to lift oars and let the ship's momentum carry them forward. Then she held her breath, as she always did at this moment, wondering if this time she had waited too long.¨

When she felt they were clear, she ordered oars in once more and straightened the ship's course. Mazoga strode away, down the stairs, calling for the oarsmen to heave to. They were clear, but if somehow the imperial vessel didn't get caught in their trap, they'd have to flee.

Out a ways, Rebec called for a halt and then stood to listen, bracing on the ship rail. She had begun to think the imperials might have given up the chase when she heard the sharp, groaning crack of a ship hull meeting a hidden island of ice. There were shouts, and not long after there were screams.  Her own crew erupted into cheers, and Rebec turned to smile back at them.  Another imperial galley wouldn't be making the journey home.¨

Mazoga came up at her elbow. "Shall I set out the dinghy, captain?¨

"Wait." Rebec and the orc exchanged a glance. They didn't have room for a whole galley crew of prisoners. The imperial vessel was doomed, but it would take time before it listed and the sea swallowed it. If their small boat approached while there were many men in the water, it could be overwhelmed. They might still save a few, especially if there were Nords. The Sea of Ghosts would take the others. It was a harsh reality, but this was war, and the imperials had chosen to come here. Mazoga was as much a warrior as any of her people, and she made no objection. When there was nothing but the sound of Kyne's breath and the waves, Rebec gave the order for the dinghy to set out.

It would be a while before they returned. They would pick through the wreckage, salvage any prisoners and booty that was afloat, and try to identify the vessel for the paper-pushers back home. While Rebec waited, she sat leaning against the ship rail and let her mind wander. The naval war was going well, better than she had hoped. It had been an exhilarating time for her. She had never before felt so useful. People esteemed her. They sought out her opinion. She would never admit it to anyone, but Rebec found this immensely satisfying. It was something her father might be proud of. She hadn't asked him yet, but she hoped it was so.

None of it would ever have happened but for one man. Idly Rebec wondered where Baldur Red-Snow was then. He'd been made general, she heard, and was in Whiterun for a time. She had thought about writing to him before dismissing it as a ridiculous notion. What would she even say? The last she had seen of him had been in Solitude, at a strategy meeting, just after Ulfric had ordered her release. Baldur's manner had been professional, polite. It was expected. She was the first who'd say just because they had bedded down together one night didn't mean a thing.

Shivering, Rebec drew her seacloak around her. The image of the general's face as he stood over Ulfric's charts, expression stern, changed to her memory of the same face as it loomed over her in the bed at Neugrad. He had just shagged her senseless, but when he was done, he lingered, smiling down at her with a boyish shyness. At the time, it had astounded her.  Remembering it now made her stomach quiver suddenly.  He was a good man. She wanted him again, Rebec realized. Chances that she would get him were slim.  Even if she returned to Falkreath, he would probably not be interested. A man like him wouldn't go for a woman like her.  Not for more than a bit of fun.

Yet on the trip back to Solitude, she thought she had caught him looking at her once or twice.  It was probably his nether regions talking to him, Rebec thought.  But what if...

Just as Rebec was about to spin the fantasy, she was stirred out of her thoughts by the sound of the dinghy returning. The other crew members helped lift up the captured goods and a handful of prisoners. These were lashed to the rail and left to shiver. They would probably not make it until the ship put into Solitude the next morning, yet they were still the lucky ones.

Rebec walked along, looking down at the prisoners' faces. Most were barely more than boys. One of them appeared better off than the others. He was dark haired, with the broad, handsome features of a Nord.

"What's your name?" she asked, crouching down on her haunches in front of him.

He gave her an unfriendly glare, which Rebec didn't hold against him.  "Hjarn Helm-Hand."

"Well, Hjarn. How does it feel, knowing that you're a traitor to your own people?"

The glare turned fierce a moment, then relented. His voice was quiet. "I'm from Anvil. There was no work. The Thalmor don't like Nords, so the merchant captains won't hire. Then I got conscripted. At least my wife and children can eat.¨

This reply quieted Rebec, too. Soberly she said, "Then welcome to Skyrim. I'm Rebec Red-Eye, admiral here. I'll see that you're treated fairly. Tell the guards in Solitude I said so." The man nodded silently.

After that, Mazoga came up and said she'd take the keel so she could get some rest. Rebec didn't argue with her. She had trained Mazoga herself, and the orc was as capable a sailor as anyone Rebec knew.

In her cabin belowdecks, Rebec stripped down to woolens and buried herself in the furs, but sleep wouldn't come. The image she'd had earlier of Baldur Red-Snow returned. He was smiling at her like that again, reaching to kiss her.

The rock of the ship on a wave brought Rebec out of her fantasy, and she realized that she had gathered the bedding in her arms like an embrace. There was a throb in her thighs, but it was the ache in her throat that she felt most keenly. She'd never been able to go without a man for very long, but this felt different. For one thing, she was older now. The physical urges weren't as intense, but there was something deeper. I just miss Toki, she thought, feeling a little desperate. Lonely. The realization hit her hard. One thing Rebec had always been determined to do was to go her own way. Occasional loneliness was part of the price for that. Now, she was so lonely. She wanted... Rebec didn't know what she wanted. There was just an ache that wouldn't be chased away by diversions or by ordering herself to stop feeling.

Still, there was nothing to do but try to forget this Stormcloak general. Nothing could come of it. Out of sentimentality or some overly Nord sense of honor she had made him a promise of help, but she could worm out of it, plead the naval war keeping her away. Then if she ever saw him again, he would no doubt have moved on to some other woman, a town girl or one of the Stormcloak officers. That would be just as well. Burying her face in the furs, Rebec thought she  even believed it.

4E201
Skingrad
Shortly after the assassination of Titus Mede II

Maggie stood in front of her father’s desk, feeling as small as she had there as a child. Darius had not seen in her in over five years, but he barely looked up from his papers when she entered.

“I can get you a seat on the Elder Council, nothing more. Even that is not easy these days. Damned Nibenese think they own everything, to say nothing of the Thalmor.”

“The Thalmor are useful to us, and more open to our approaches than you realize, Father. As for a seat on the Elder Council, I don't need one. I’ve got my own ways of seeing to our interests.”

The Count lifted his hawk gaze at her. “I’m well aware of your ways. They’re dangerous. They expose us too much. Or did you not learn your lesson the last time?”

Maggie gave a little smile. It was not really exposure that her father worried about, but that popular acclaim gave her a measure of power that he couldn't control. “I'll be more careful than last time. Could we discuss it later? I’m tired from my journey and I need to look in on Mother as well.”

Darius dismissed her with a wave, and Maggie walked out, fighting to keep the anger down. I’m going to outlive you all, she thought bitterly.  It would be no mean feat.

Anna Bathory was in her bed surrounded by pillows and her enormous old housecat. She wasn’t really ill, of course, but loved to pretend she was. It gave her more reason to harass her bevy of personal servants and force sympathy out of them. One of these, a young woman Maggie recognized, was sitting at the bedside reading to the countess.

“I’ve returned, Mother.  Hello Leni.” Maggie touched the maid’s cheek, smiling at her. The maid smiled back. Her eyes were glazed, expression wan. She was a favorite, then.

Anna fluttered a hand out towards her daughter. “Come here, darling.  Let me kiss you.” She was still a beautiful woman, the plumpness in her body and face not unattractive, but she smelled of the half-dead flowers that were rotting in her room. The countess insisted on them being cut for her, and afterward couldn’t bear to part with them. Maggie leaned down to receive the kiss, then quickly stepped back.

“So tell me the news, Mother. What have I missed?”

As her mother launched into a long narration of all the gossip from Bruma to Leyawiin, Maggie wandered over to the desk and glanced at the stack of letters. Darius Bathory was Count of Skingrad, but Anna had a dynasty of her own, made up of a network of mostly female correspondents from across the old empire. It was her mother’s letter writing that had taught Maggie the power in words, not just in titles and wealth. The contents also helped supplied material for her books.

There would be no end to Anna’s narration, so when Maggie had heard enough she simply interrupted to excuse herself. She needed to wash and change, and she was expecting company. When the young stable hand who took her horse had heard Maggie's whispered invitation to come to her room that night, he'd been dumbstruck, as though unable to believe his luck.

Maggie had walked away before hearing if he would accept. She knew that he would.
 

Imperial City
Two months later

Julia Crescius eagerly took the manuscript from Maggie’s hand and sat down with her spectacles to read it. As she reached the bottom of the first page, the middle-aged woman's expression had soured.

“Sons of Skyrim? By the Eight, Maggie, you just returned from the gods-forsaken south. Where are the steamy jungles and coral beaches?”

“Skyrim is where the action is now. That’s what is on everyone’s mind. Even if they’d never go there, they want to imagine themselves in the thick of it.  And I didn't want to write about a jungle while I was stewing in the middle of one."

Julia was flipping pages, reading ahead. “You have the empire losing the war.”

“Aren't we? I'd say it's all but settled now, with the emperor gone."

“Be that as it may, reminding people will ruffle feathers.” The agent caught Maggie’s look, then they both laughed. A lot of coin had been generated from the controversies over Bathory novels.

“An imperial victory, that is what people think they want to read," Maggie explained, her voice animated. "I’m going to make them see the romance of an independent Skyrim, flaunting its barbaric freedom to a decadent south. The fierce, rugged Nord, subdued by no army but tamed by a lover’s hand, trembling at her very touch..."

Julia’s expression changed again, the older woman latching on to the picture and letting her own imagination carry it on. “Alright,” she said finally.  “When can you have it done? It’s been a year and a half since Affairs of the Justiciar came out, and we could all use a some gold in our purses. The bribes you have to pay these days, it's criminal."

“I've almost finished. I need to settle some things with the house, then I’ll get back to work on it.” Maggie gathered her cloak, preparing to go.

Julia peered out over her spectacles. “Are you sure about that schedule? I heard you got an invitation to dine with the emperor tomorrow night. You might be busy.”

“My, my. News does travel fast.”

“Pet, this may look like a great city, but it’s a tiny village if you know the right people. Tell me, Maggie, when are you going to get yourself a real lover?”

“I’ve got plenty of lovers.”

“Yes, of course. They wake up thinking it was the best night of their lives, only they can’t remember a thing that happened, and for a few days afterward they’re a little tired, a little under the weather. Soon the poor fools might forget they were ever with you. All they know is that they worship the ground you walk on.” Julia stopped, putting down the page she had been holding. “I’m not talking about that kind of lover.”

Maggie sighed. “Sofia is the one who was given permission to marry, you know that. I would never choose such a dreary existence.”

“Divines, who said anything about marriage? A beau, Maggie. Someone who cares about you. That isn’t forbidden, you know, not if you’re careful. I can arrange some introductions.”

Maggie was already at the door when Julia called after her. “Don’t tell me you aren’t lonely, Magdela. I think you might be the loneliest person in this city.”

Let’s hope there's at least one other of those, Maggie thought as she let the door close behind her.

Imperial Palace
Just after the Battle at Pale Pass

“You didn’t attend us at the garden party yesterday,” Amaund Motierre pouted. He was sprawled back on his bed, head propped on his arms. Maggie felt his eyes on her.  She was giving him a good view of her back.

“Excellency, I am a working woman, not idle like your other courtiers. And I must be careful not to draw the empress’ jealousy.”

Motierre snorted in disgust. “Who cares what Venusa thinks. She hasn’t given me any more sons. I’m thinking of locking her up, what would you say to that?”

“Your will, Excellency,” Maggie demurred. Venusa was the daughter of the Count of Anvil, and Motierre’s second and current wife. As such she was competition, but Maggie had nothing particular against her. They had been friendly towards each other in past years, and the young empress made no real objection to a courtesan's increasing draw on her husband’s attentions. In fact, she seemed relieved. Maggie had come to understand why. Even being locked up might be a relief.

Half turning, she asked, “What of the princess? When does she return from Skyrim?”

“Never, probably." The emperor laughed. “Skyrim has enough heathens to keep her busy for a long while, and they’ll likely kill her eventually. One less problem for me.”  His voice turned suspicious. “Why? What do you care for the little sow?”

“Only curious, sire. I haven’t seen Her Highness since she was a child. She must be very brave.”

Motierre made a bored noise, then returned to pouting. “Come here, my little lotus flower. What are you doing looking at those dusty old shelves?”

Maggie had been inspecting a curio cabinet filled with gifts from foreign ambassadors, and would just as soon have stayed there. Nevertheless she approached the bed slowly, walking around the canopy posts so that the emperor could see her, then not see her, and then see her again. Her shift was made of sea silk from Alinor, fabulously rare. Even the Altmer at the ball that night had gaped in envy. The fabric was so light that Maggie felt she was already naked. It was a pale cream color but had a marvelous quality with light, as well, tricking the eye to see soft coral and green as she moved. The front panels crisscrossed low between her breasts, and the back drape stopped just short of the rise of her backside.

The emperor caught her hand when she drew near the bed and pulled her to him. “I’m surrounded by idiots and traitors, and even you are cool towards me. Have I not given you what every woman in the empire would kill to have?”

“You are very good to me, Excellency. I don’t deserve it.”

“No, you don’t. I’ve got an empire to run and rebellious provinces to subdue, I don't have the time to chase you down every time I want you.” Motierre seemed hurt. He laid his head down against Maggie’s shoulder, and she cradled him like a sick child.

“I’m here now, my emperor,” Maggie whispered, kissing his temple. “I’m yours.”

“Yes, you are.” Despite his complaints, the emperor's tone was meek. His hand moved towards her breast, playing at the edge of the fabric.

Maggie prepared herself calmly. She might use magic on other lovers, but the protective wards in the palace limited that, and with Motierre she had to be very careful.  He did not even like her to heal herself, at least until he was satisfied. Maggie had soon learned why his other mistresses fled him. A normal woman could not long have endured his affection. Tonight he seemed subdued, however, even gentle. Perhaps she would only have to master the disgust. That, she had learned to cope with long ago, training her body to respond to it as if it were pleasure.

Motierre’s hand wormed its way under the fabric of her gown and he groped at her for a moment, grunting softly. Voice trembling with excitement. he whispered, “Go get my razor.”

So, not a gentle night after all.  It would be a shame about the sea silk.

Maggie

Imperial City

afternoon

Maggie sat at the desk in her house, flipping through her journals.  Her father might take away her publisher and printing press, but he couldn't stop her from writing. Even if he destroyed every quill and piece of paper or parchment in Cyrodiil, she would still be able to write stories in her head. She would write another book. No publisher would survive the Order's onslaught, but she would find a way to get it out to the public, even if she had to give it away. Maggie felt that if she didn't do this, she would die.  She would want to die.

Thus, she was flipping through the journals of her years in the south, looking for story ideas.  Her eyes fell on a name, Gedras Whatever had become of that creature? He wouldn't be happy about the Thalmor being chased out of Cyrodiil back to his hunting grounds. She would have to ask Skjari how progress on the Tower Scrolls was coming, and see if her little rat had tried checking in there.

Maggie thought back to the day she had met him. In her exile in the lands of southern Tamriel, Maggie's Dominion contacts had become useful to set up a series of missions against upstart vampire clans that had been using the empire's weakness to encroach on territory where they didn't belong. Accompanied by ten nightblade guards, she had elected to go herself on an especially dangerous mission, sensing that something more than just mass murder of the Order's enemies might come from it.

***
"How much further, Taeren?"

"Not long, not long."  The once-Bosmer was stunted even for his kind, a loathsome creature, almost feral.  His skin had deep wrinkles and his eyes were unnatural, glowing red.  Normally Maggie would have shunned such company, but they were beyond civilization now, in the deep forests of Valenwood, and this lonely worm knew the area.

"He's been saying that for half an hour," Maggie muttered to her nightblade companions.  

The land began to slope up, and ahead Maggie could see the ruins of a deserted tree village.  Old wooden platforms and shacks were built on the sturdy limbs.  After the ravages of the faction fighting that had led to the Dominion takeover, many villages such as this were left full of ghosts, literal and figurative.

From that direction came a loud, bone-chilling shriek.  It didn't sound like a ghost, but neither did it sound like an animal.

The Bosmer guide had stopped in his tracks.  "Screamers," he breathed, obviously terrified.

"Screamers?" Maggie demanded.  "What are those?"

"Imga vampires."

"You said there were only Keerilth."  The Keerilth were bad enough. Mist vampires, they were called. When attacked, they could vaporize into mist and re-appear a short distance away. These had been moving north, into the Nibenay basin, taking over Order territory. If the Valenwood clans were uniting, however, then this was more than just a vampire turf war. It could become a real war, with Cyrodiil's populace at its mercy. That would rouse the hunters.

"Screamers, very bad!" Taeren was whimpering. A moment later he darted into the brush and disappeared from sight.

This was not going as planned. Not at all. Maggie turned to the head nightblade. "We only need the Keerilth leader, remember that. It need not be a massacre. When he's dead, we can leave. Or we'll talk to him first, if he's willing."

According to Maggie's information, the clan's elder had died or gone feral fifty years before, giving an opportunity for a younger vampire named Gedras.  He had been imprisoned by the Thalmor, who cut off the tops of his ears as torture and to mock him for what they considered mixed blood.  Another vampire had turned him while in prison, and with the new powers he was able to escape.

"Watch the trees," she said to the nightblade, then cast invisibility and levitated off the ground.  She wouldn't be able to hold both spells for long, but hopefully long enough for the "screamer" scouts to be eliminated.

What followed was a slaughter.  The reason for Taeren's horror soon became apparent to her. The Imga vampires had razor-sharp talons and fangs the size of Maggie's hand.  They also had incredible strength even by vampire standards, and were merciless.  As Maggie's guard contingent dwindled, she was forced to reveal herself and use her remaining magicka to rally them and weaken the bleeding Imga.

The largest of them, seeing her casting, turned and came hurtling towards her. Maggie drew her sword with one hand and with the other cast telekinesis on the blood-drenched nightmare. Vampires were immune to paralysis, but she could at least keep him suspended for a time. Enough time for her to step forward and drive her sword through the creature's open maw. With her other hand she gathered magicka, then intensified the telekinesis spell, sending the ape hurtling backwards into a tree. He hit it with a crunch, and slid slowly downward, streaking the bole with red.

Then an unnatural calm settled over the forest.  Maggie rejoined her remaining guards, who were even paler than normal.

"Regrettable."  Glancing around the forest, Maggie felt menace even from the trees.  Maybe especially from the trees.  "We're here for Gedras," she said aloud, guessing that the vampire leader had other ways of hearing that didn't require the tops of his ears.  "We only want to talk."
 
There was a thick silence, then the air between Maggie and her guards appeared to fog.  A Bosmer materialized, with stringy dark hair and the telltale cropped ears.  His voice dripped with spite.  "You don't appear interested in talking. What do you want, Cyrodiil?"

"Less of this." Maggie gestured around to the bodies littered on the forest floor.  "Your friends left us little choice."

Gedras' hostile expression lightened, and his lips quirked in a smile. "Not my friends. You did me a favor. Those screamers were starting to act like they were in charge. That's the only reason we're talking."

"Then let us do each other more favors. I was sent to kill you, but you seem a reasonable sort. I would prefer to work out a less permanent solution to our problem."

"Why should I care about your problems?"

"Didn't I just say that I was sent to kill you?  Even if I didn't succeed, there would be others eventually. You are moving into territory that belongs to the Order."

"I piss on the Order! The Thalmor are hunting us. Since they're not at war with Cyrodiil any longer, they're getting better at it. I don't want your precious lands. I just need to be able to move, and your border is an inconvenience."

Maggie raised a brow. "Raise the ire of the Order Vampyrum and you'll have rather more than inconvenience to deal with. But, I see your point.  You are not seeking to claim territory permanently then?"

Gedras looked disgusted.  "This is my forest.  If I had a choice, I wouldn't leave it."

"Very well. You need flexibility to move across our borders when the Thalmor are on your tail. I will grant it, but in exchange I need something from you. Information. I want to know everything you know and can find out about Thalmor movements in Valenwood and eastern Elsweyr."

"Cats not part of the deal. Hate cats. Fur in my mouth, moon sugar in the blood, pfeh!"

Maggie smiled at this unique vampire problem.  "I thought you wanted room to maneuver? If the Thalmor learn your patterns, they will get you sooner or later. Range out further and you have a better chance. The grasslands are wild now, there are few guards who dare travel there. As for prey, the Khajiit allow some travelers. Smugglers and the like.  Be creative."

The Bosmer appeared to consider this, rubbing at one half-missing ear.  "You would never leave this forest alive, but I'm feeling generous, too, and I've got enough troubles from the south. Alright, deal. Now get out and stay out. No more Order hunters."

"Keep up your end of the bargain and I'll see to it."  Maggie took out some paper and wrote a few lines on it. "There are your dead drop locations in the Nibenay. Check in at least once every few months or I'll assume you're going back on our deal. This..." She drew out a small scroll case from her pack, and opened it up to reveal a scroll shimmering with magicka. "This is for emergencies only. Massive troop movements, that sort of thing. This will go to the Mede emperor's court wizard, not to me.  Write your message on the scroll and include this code." She showed him some gibberish numbers and letters on a piece of paper included with the scroll.  "The moth paper will do the rest. You might get instructions back, as well. Obey them if you can, but it's not material to our deal."

The Bosmer appeared disgusted at all this, but he was obviously intelligent and understood it.  "You're lucky I hate Thalmor more than imperials."

"You're lucky I dislike murder as a means of solving problems. Remember, Gedras. Though you're aiding the Order and the empire, it was I who spared your life."

"Hmph.  That goes both ways.  What's your name, Cyrodiil?"

"Magdela Bathory, at your service."

"The novelist?"

Maggie laughed. "If I had known you were a fan, I'd have brought a signed copy as down payment for your assistance."

"Don't bother," the Bosmer replied dismissively. "I don't read that kind of trash. Are we done here?"

"I hope that we're only beginning."

***
Gedras' story of torture and escape from Thalmor prison would make the good beginnings of a story, Maggie thought.  Of course, in the book he couldn't be a vampire. She had had enough trouble over that sort of thing. And he would have to be an imperial Bosmer. Imperials had a hard time with a story where they were not the heroes in some form.

Maggie began jotting down ideas, but was soon interrupted by one of her guards. "My lady, a message came for you. Your brother is waiting for you in the palace courtyard."

Jem.  His presence in the city could only mean one thing. "I'll be right there, thank you." Maggie then spent an hour writing down story ideas.  Her father's lap dog could wait.

Maggie

Imperial Palace

morning

When Maggie entered the palace's outer court, she met the ghoulish figure of Gervais, her brother's valet. Wordlessly he handed a note to her and brushed past. She cast a baleful glance back at him and opened the letter.

Mags,
Send some money. Off the books, as it were. I know you've got some. At least 4000s. Very important. Gervais will be back to get it. I know you won't fail me.
Yours,
Jem

Gervais could hang, and so could Jem, before either would get a septim out of her. It wasn't the first such request. Jem had probably been gambling or spending on whores beyond his allowance and wanted to pay the debts before their father caught on. He had the idea that she was rolling in cash from her books, though he ought to know Darius kept track of every gold flake.

Distracted, Maggie nearly ran straight into another figure walking across the foyer. He caught her elbow and started to snap at her, then stopped and laughed. "Magdela! Good to see you, girl. Lovely as ever."

Nearly before she recognized him, Rufus Imbrex was leaning in to give her a light peck on the lips.

"Sir Rufus. What brings you to the palace?"

"PO business. Dodgy mess, this, with the royal spymaster gone." Imbrex was knight of some sort, and in the past thirty or so years had been a middle officer of the Penitus Oculatus. He was also an elder member of the Order and one of her father's oldest associates.

"Yes. A sad affair."

"Sad? We're well rid of him, I'd say. Why, did you know him? I had heard you were occupied with the court mage these days."

Maggie's smile was wan. "I knew Lorgar a little. I tried to counsel him as best I could, but he was never suited for this life."

"Not like you, eh." He leaned in. "Aren't you tired of all this, Magdela? You know my wife is gone these three years. If you want out, tell me. I'll talk to Darius and make it happen. You and I, we would go places."

They would to to Oblivion before Darius would agree to such a match. Despite the long family friendship, there was no advantage in it. Nor did she believe that Rufus was really interested in a wife. He had hit a ceiling in the Oculatus, and believed her palace connections might break it for him. Even an elder member of the Order like him occasionally needed a hand up when it came to public stature. He would also help his standing in the Order by such an arrangement.

With a polite laugh, she replied, "I'll think about it. Let me know if I can help some way with Lorgar. Good day, Rufus."

Without a look back, Maggie went on toward her quarters. She tried to write, sketching out the outline of the new book, but found her mind wandering. Remembering the encounter with Imbrex, she thought back to an occasion some two centuries before when he had been a guest at their Jeralls keep.

Guests were few at the isolated fortress, since not even many in the Order knew of its whereabouts or even its existence. For a gregarious fourteen year-old Magdela, dinner guests were a special treat. She wasn't allowed to speak much, and her mind always ran with questions, but eagerly she would listen to all the adults' conversation. Imbrex was a building official in Anvil then, and knew a great deal of news from all over Tamriel, which was still reeling from the effects of the Oblivion Crisis.

After dinner, Maggie snuck back downstairs and listened in as her father and the dinner guest talked together quietly in an alcove.

"I thought of Samuel for this," Darius was saying, "But you did me a service, and I trust you with it."

"It's too much, Darius. I don't deserve this great honor.:

There was a silence and Maggie guessed that the man was getting one of her father's looks that could silence an unbound dremora.  He didn't like to be gainsaid, even out of false humility. Darius' voice was even. "I know you won't disappoint me."  That was the end of discussion.

Maggie started as she realized they were done and she was about to be caught listening, but then her father called her name. How did he always know?

Darius didn't seem angry, however, and his voice was uncharacteristically gentle.  "Magdela, I have a task for you. You recall what we discussed recently about your future, about how you can help this family.  It is time to begin your training. I want you to go upstairs and put on something nice, then I want you to join Lord Imbrex in his chambers. You will spend the night with him."

She blinked once, then nodded. When Darius turned to leave, she spoke up. "Should I fall in love with him?"

He looked back. "What was that?"

"Do you want me to fall in love with him?"

Her father seemed startled at the question. He hesitated, then stepped forward and took her face gently in his hands. "Magdela, I am the only man to whom you will ever owe any loyalty or affection. Do you understand?" At her relieved nod, he said, "Go on now. Don't be afraid, he won't hurt you."

Maggie did as she was told. She spent the next three nights in the man's room, learning how to please him, how to apply everything she had been reading about. Above all she was surprised to see the effect she could have on him. There was a strange delight in the realization of such power. Apart from that, she felt little.

Before the fourth night, Darius visited her and handed her a vial. "I want you to put this into Lord Imbrex's wine. Don't let him see you do it, and don't drink any of it yourself, not even a sip. When he falls asleep, leave and return to your chambers."

"Will it hurt him?"

"It will kill him." Darius watched her carefully. Maggie took the vial, looked at it a moment, then lifted her eyes and nodded. He smiled. "That's my girl."

That night, Maggie watched when Imbrex drank from the poisoned cup. He had her undress for him, but before he was finished, he fell aside on the bed and appeared to sleep. She returned to her room.

Maggie was still sitting on her bed the next morning when Jem came to find her. "Come on, sleepyhead, we've got riding lessons. What's wrong with you?" When she didn't answer, he stepped forward and punched her hard in the arm. "Get moving. I'll even let you win the race this time." She made no reply and didn't move, and eventually her brother gave up.

Later that morning when Maggie finally went downstairs, she was startled to see her father standing with Lord Imbrex in the foyer. Both men laughed when they saw her horrified expression.

"She performed beautifully, Darius." Imbrex hesitated, then added with pointed tone, "In every respect. Congratulations."

"Thank you, Rufus. I'll see you out."

"I know the way. Until next time." Imbrex looked back, and smiled at Maggie. "Goodbye, Magdela. Thank you for a lovely time."

Sitting in her palace study two centuries later, remembering the incident, Maggie suddenly realized what her father had said. It was supposed to be Samuel. She pondered that a while, then put it out of her mind and returned to her writing.

Now as then, Maggie felt nothing.

Race: Bosmer
Faction: Stormcloak
Rank: Battlemage Captain
Age: 72 (appearance late 30’s)
Birthsign: The Shadow

Physical appearance: 5’3”, stout; green eyes; dark greasy hair that sticks up in whatever direction he slept on it the night before; generally wears fur armor or fur-lined chainmail, no robes (“Have you ever felt a Skyrim draft up your skirt?”) and black war paint; wears the finger bones of a powerful ancestor around his neck; missing a toe and two fingers on his right hand and has numerous frostbite and battle scars

Equipment: Fryse hag staff, dragonbone dagger, orcish war axe with Fear enchantment

Skills: Illusion (master), Destruction, Restoration and Alteration (expert), Conjuration and One Handed (journeyman)

Motivations: pursuit of pleasure, loyalty to Veleda, grudging wish for Bosmer independence

Hedonist sorcerer turned assassin turned Stormcloak battlemage trainer, Menel Rivas fled to Skyrim in the company of Veleda Fire Hand with the Thalmor on their heels.

Born in Leyawiin, Menel had family on both sides of the border with Valenwood. The family moved to the Imperial City during his youth, but after his apprenticeship at the Arcane University, his parents returned to Valenwood to care for their aging parents. The elder Rivas’ had left the College of Whispers to stay out of its politics, and sought to stay neutral in imperial politics as well. They were secretly and cautiously hopeful that the Aldmeri Dominion would be an improvement over imperial rule. Menel mostly shared this opinion until he heard about Valenwood battlemages being used as cannon fodder in the Great War. The only chance Bosmer had of any kind of dignity, he realized, was if both the Cyrodiilic empire and Alinor threw themselves at each other with no clear winner.

It was Thalmor repression in the Imperial City after the White Gold Concordat that forced Menel to spend less time fondling apprentices and more on expressing his annoyance. During the Great War, he had lost contact with his parents and they were presumed dead. With little to lose, the illusionist helped to form the underground resistance group The Night Watchmen. Some wanted to resist peacefully, but Menel and Veleda Fire Hand were among those who chose a bloodier path. These were responsible for the murders of dozens of Thalmor collaborators in the city before treachery forced them to flee. During the brutal crossing of the Valus Mountains, he suffered frostbite and Veleda was forced to remove a toe and two of his fingers with her fire-enchanted dagger.

These experiences forged a close friendship between the two. Since he was always under suspicion as an elf mage anyway, Menel was content to let his fierce Nord friend take a leadership role in the Stormcloaks. All the better to pursue his love of drink, smoked meats, magical gadgetry and spell writing. As Veleda’s Second, Menel toured Skyrim helping to select and train battlemage apprentices, and accompanied her to Windhelm when she became the new Queen of Skyrim, and to the Moot where she relinquished the same.

Moniker: Fire Hand

Gender: Female

Race: Nord

Age: 36

Birthsign: Ritual

Faction: Stormcloaks

Rank: none

Appearance:  Tall, statuesque figure with broad shoulders; long dark hair; strong features; dark green eyes (visual reference); she has a Stormcloak bear branded into the top of her left hand

Equipment:  Chainmail-enforced black battlemage robe, Skyforge steel sword with fire enchantment, Nordic carved shield, amulet of Julianos

Personality: Fiery, charismatic, serious, educated

Skills: Destruction, Restoration, Alteration, One-Handed, Block, Enchanting

Background:

In the basement of an Arcane University dormitory, a collection of students and imperial battlemages gathered in secret to oppose the empire's increasing affiliation with the Aldmeri Dominion.  They all had their own reasons, but for Veleda Broken-Hammer- a woman known as much for her fiery speeches as for her fire spells-  pride in being a Nord was the main motive.  Her family was part of the wealthy middle class who had made good in the empire, but like all Nords, suffered special scrutiny under the White Gold Concordat. Veleda had joined the legion as a battlemage, training in weapons as well as destruction and restoration magic, but became increasingly disillusioned with not being able to fight their real enemy. A post as liaison to the Arcane University gave her pretext for putting her skills to use at something other than training apprentices.

At first the group printed pamphlets and devoted itself to preparing for a future Great War, but some became impatient with only planning and talking. They led raids on Thalmor outposts and began assassinating known Thalmor collaborators in the Imperial City. The victims of these assassinations were left with a brand of the imperial dragon on their foreheads. Irregular lines suggested that the brands were not done by metal, but written by hand using a precise fire spell. The violence was controversial in the little group, which had taken to calling itself The Night Watchmen. The group was also fractured by suspicions of treachery.  Members began disappearing.  Veleda's superiors in the legion were asking questions about her activities. Feeling the net close around her, the Nord gave one last speech to her fellow mages, urging them to flee north to Skyrim with her, where Ulfric Stormcloak had killed the High King rather than submit to the Thalmor.  'We do not leave the empire,' she declared. 'They have left us.'  Eight others joined her, one of whom died in the brutal journey from Cheydinhal north through the Valus Mountains into Eastmarch.

They then faced another grueling trial, as Galmar Stone-Fist insisted they first fight the ice wraiths before being accepted into the Stormcloak ranks. Only five chose to do so. Using fire and water walking spells as aids, they made it back quickly and with no loss of life, though one of them, a Bosmer, lost a finger and toes to frostbite. When Galmar questioned whether they had actually traveled to the Serpent Stone as ordered, Veleda angrily replied that she had carved her name into the stone and he was welcome to go look for himself. All five were accepted into the Stormcloak army.

Veleda earned her name Fire-Hand not only for the fire spells she used in battle, but for an incident in her unit when someone accused her of not being loyal because she had grown up in the Imperial City and was a legion deserter. With any other Nord, a brawl might have resulted. Instead, Veleda calmly stood, removed her gauntlets, and burned the Stormcloak bear onto the top of her left hand with one glowing fingertip.  'You wear the bear on your shield. I wear it in my flesh. Who's the real Stormcloak here?' This was not the only brand she made during the war. Those convicted of spying were found to have a T branded into their forehead on the night before they were sent to the block.  The bear was burned into corpses of Thalmor patrols, their bodies staked along the roads leading into imperial holds.

By the time the Stormcloaks gained victory, Veleda Fire Hand had the rank of captain, but asked leave to go to the College of Winterhold to set up a training program for battlemages, along with two others of the original Watchmen who survived the war.  She toured the holds, an outspoken recruiter and advocate for using magic to bolster Skyrim's war readiness. Due to her reputation, she came to the attention of Galmar Stone-Fist when he was looking for a woman to replace Elisif the Fair as Skyrim's queen. Reluctantly Veleda agreed to the plan, continuing to train apprentices from the palace and the nearby fortress of Morvunskar. She and Uflric adopted the war orphan Sofie as their heir.

Veleda was traveling when the Thalmor attacked Windhelm and returned to find her husband dead and his place usurped by Baldur Red Snow. She accompanied the body of the king to High Hrothgar for interment, where Arngeir put an unsettling idea into her mind that the death had not been at the hands of the Thalmor, but due to the thu'um. There was only one other at the battle who could have killed Ulfric with his thu'um: Baldur Red Snow.

At the Moot, Veleda was compelled to relinquish any claim she had to the throne, and publicly support the man who killed her husband, for the good of Sofie and her unborn child, while privately vowing vengeance between their clans.

Race: Bosmer
Faction: Stormcloak
Rank: Battlemage Captain
Age: 72 (appearance late 30’s)
Birthsign: The Shadow

Physical appearance: 5’3”, stout; green eyes; dark greasy hair that sticks up in whatever direction he slept on it the night before; generally wears fur armor or fur-lined chainmail, no robes (“Have you ever felt a Skyrim draft up your skirt?”) and black war paint; wears the finger bones of a powerful ancestor around his neck; missing a toe and two fingers on his right hand and has numerous frostbite and battle scars

Equipment: Fryse hag staff, dragonbone dagger, orcish war axe with Fear enchantment

Skills: Illusion (master), Destruction, Restoration and Alteration (expert), Conjuration and One Handed (journeyman)

Motivations: pursuit of pleasure, loyalty to Veleda, grudging wish for Bosmer independence

Hedonist sorcerer turned assassin turned Stormcloak battlemage trainer, Menel Rivas fled to Skyrim in the company of Veleda Fire Hand with the Thalmor on their heels.

Born in Leyawiin, Menel had family on both sides of the border with Valenwood. The family moved to the Imperial City during his youth, but after his apprenticeship at the Arcane University, his parents returned to Valenwood to care for their aging parents. The elder Rivas’ had left the College of Whispers to stay out of its politics, and sought to stay neutral in imperial politics as well. They were secretly and cautiously hopeful that the Aldmeri Dominion would be an improvement over imperial rule. Menel mostly shared this opinion until he heard about Valenwood battlemages being used as cannon fodder in the Great War. The only chance Bosmer had of any kind of dignity, he realized, was if both the Cyrodiilic empire and Alinor threw themselves at each other with no clear winner.

It was Thalmor repression in the Imperial City after the White Gold Concordat that forced Menel to spend less time fondling apprentices and more on expressing his annoyance. During the Great War, he had lost contact with his parents and they were presumed dead. With little to lose, the illusionist helped to form the underground resistance group The Night Watchmen. Some wanted to resist peacefully, but Menel and Veleda Fire Hand were among those who chose a bloodier path. These were responsible for the murders of dozens of Thalmor collaborators in the city before treachery forced them to flee. During the brutal crossing of the Valus Mountains, he suffered frostbite and Veleda was forced to remove a toe and two of his fingers with her fire-enchanted dagger.

These experiences forged a close friendship between the two. Since he was always under suspicion as an elf mage anyway, Menel was content to let his fierce Nord friend take a leadership role in the Stormcloaks. All the better to pursue his love of drink, smoked meats, magical gadgetry and spell writing. As Veleda’s Second, Menel toured Skyrim helping to select and train battlemage apprentices, and accompanied her to Windhelm when she became the new Queen of Skyrim, and to the Moot where she relinquished the same.