Civil War Aftermath Chapter 3: Season's End pt3

[TheCzarsHussar]

Dales made a habit of attending the drills of whatever force caught her fancy in the Imperial City. She had watched the Imperial Watch practice archery, her Palace Guards siege tactics, and even the Second Legion in a mock battle. It was a good learning experience, and it let her interact with her men in a deeper way. As soon as she heard her Bloodsworn were organizing a drill of their own, she jumped at the chance to observe. While she had seen some impressive (and surprising) discipline from the perceived "barbaric" client soldiers, a fact which made it clear to her her investment had been worth it, there was one warrior that had almost all of her current attention. 

Corvus.

Obscured by view, she observed the imposing figure of giant, or perhaps near-giant stature. There was some slight mixed feelings on his station, no doubt a ferociously intimidating thing, he nevertheless could hardly hold the magnificent greatsword she had gifted him, if he was unable to fulfill the contingency or just wield the damn thing, how useful was he? Though perhaps it was a bit unfair, her near-giant spent so much time in the old barrack's courtyard, something the natives fashioned into some sort of joint field of games, training ground....and mead hall? Judging by the wooden kegs they kept in the shade, several cups and chalices skewed across the ground next to it. From the obscenely loud crashes of metal against stone, he was hard at work making the oppressively weighty greatsword feasible.

It was honestly mesmerizing, the way Corvus manipulated the excessive mass and weight to his favor. It was like witnessing the creation of a new school of combat. The Roscrean wore nothing but a light kilt fashioned to his waist by a cloth sash, his greatsword digging hard into his well calloused shoulders, leaving trickles of blood from it's grinding pressure. He swung it around with impeccable smoothness, his body like a lever against the weight. In his self-training, he never fought against the will of his greatsword. There he stood, legs bent and wide of stance, holding the greatsword vertical without any support of his shoulder. Shifting his body with a step forward, he maneuvered the hilt, tilting the blade backwards and as it began obeying gravity, he swung downward with incredible power, breaking the old stonework with a deafening clash and digging slightly into the earth. Corvus did not try to muscle the blade and pull away upwards, but with a twist of the wrist and swiveling of his form, ground the greatsword against his right shoulder and thrust his body forward. Breaking free from the rubble and mending the momentum, the near-giant continued the swing, though instead of another downward crushing blow he teased the oppressive greatsword into a path parallel to the ground and continued the swing a hundred eighty degrees behind him before crashing the blade into the ground. With a lack of momentum and the sword near horizontal, Corvus stomped forward at an imaginary target and would have pummeled the foe to the ground with his shoulder, and with only a slight bit of forward momentum, the near-giant put his greatsword in motion, swinging the opposite way horizontally and continuing the trajectory teased the greatsword above his head and against a nearby decrepit stone pillar; holding nothing up thankfully, swung perpendicularly downward against the slab of stone, completely crushing through it.

It was very unconventional, the greatsword could conform to no martial prowess. She had expected the client guard to swing it as a giant of Skyrim would a club. Instead she observed an incredibly.... intelligent way of wielding it? Some of his movements were familiar in principle, very Nordic and recognizable from the old manuscripts she read. Yet others confirmed to completely alien martial skills, could these be from the far east? Whatever the truth, Corvus portrayed tremendous capability. Whether obeying set martial treatises or creating his own, he looked unstoppable when in action, only breaking the illusion when after minutes of continuous combinations of swings, kicks, bashing and feints; where he would suddenly stop all momentum and step forward with a powerful thrust of his sword, did the near-giant drop his weapon in a coughing fit and beckon for some mead. He was drenched in sweat and blood, looking exhausted beyond measure. As impressive as he was, the heat of Cyrodiil was sapping him of his lessening strength. Dales wondered what kind of monster he would be like in his native country, with it's arctic cold. If he could barely stand the heartland heat, the poor near-giant would collapse of heat stroke rather quickly in Southern Tamriel.

Dales, greatly impressed by such a display, grinned. He is a living weapon. The Empress turned to one of her palace guard, saying, "I want a custom pauldron-no, better yet make it a full set of armor, made for Corvus. Whatever material, as long as it's reasonably fine, doesn't matter, what's important is I want one of our battle mages to conjure an enchantment protects the wearer from heat. It needs to be strong. Understood?" 

The Palace Guard nodded his head, and quickly went to carrying out the Empress's orders. Dales stood up from her chair, and began to clap calling out to the giant, "Well done, Corvus. Your technique is suburb, were did you learn such swordsmanship?"

The panting near-giant shielded his eyes with his hand and squinted towards the voice of his paymaster. "You'er watching Paymaster? Your praise honors me. Isn't much to be learned Paymaster, centuries spent in far away lands you see how they fight n'ya pick things up. Never have I used such monstrous of swords in all my days, had to clever myself new ways." He poured the rest of his mead down his shoulders to wash away the now drying blood and made his way over to Dales. "I cannot imagine even a Snow-Devil withstanding such a sword."

"Snow Devil?" Realization hit her. "You mean you've fought in Akavir?" She was ecstatic, but she kept her excitement down. Perhaps if they were in private she would behave differently, but this as an Imperial Drill, a certain level of professionalism was expected, especially from her, "When I was travelling to Skyrim, I witness a giant launching a deer pratically into the air with a club that might as well be an uprooted tree. I had Orismer blacksmiths forge that for you, not much could stand before it from it's weight alone."

"Aye but this was before my clientry days. After the war I took up with raiders and the like, hit the far northeast we did. My hearty praise as well Paymaster, to your forge and it's masters." Corvus' sagged face was neutral in expression, if looking utterly exhausted and sun-beaten could be considered neutral.

"Seems like the Heart of the Heartland isn't agreeing with you." She gave a look of concern. "I instructed one of my guards to reconisition some equipment for you, it'll be enchanted to protect you from the sun, so you need only bare it for a little while longer." 

"What a wonderful thing that will be. I don't know how I could have fought in this hellish landscape otherwise. You people are strong indeed to endure this heat. And I'm getting restless, I can only get drunk and eat so many times without anything to do. Keep me in your mind Paymaster, I'm of little use with nary a man to lead, or enemy of the court to kill."

She gave the giant a sly grin, "Is guard duty not agreeing with you and the men?" 

His bulky, protruding eyebrows raised themselves in thought. "Aye, was pleasing at first being handsomely paid for so little effort. But your city is boring, we're more than palace guards. Sick us on your enemies paymaster, it's dreadful now, no attempts on your life, no enemies of your household. Never had I thought it possible, but we're unhappy, good mead needs to be taken after conflict. I'm tired of happy-mead."

Her grin extended, and she started laughing, "I was hoping you'd say that. Don't worry, not only will you have plenty of chances to test that blade of yours once the Imperial warmachine has mobilized, i'll be needing the services of you and your men in a very short time. Just be a little more patient." 

* * * *
Paymaster Dales had demanded patience, patience with the promised reward of action. Though for a good long time the client warriors had only been tasked with inaction. They were well and truly growing restless for something, anything of note. Policing the Palace District was boring work, and that had been their only task as of late, aside from the paymaster parading a few as her aids and guards every now and then. The company of foreigners from that far off island began longing for the turmoil of the Padomaic ocean islands, and for the few veterans among them, the far east. The heart of Tamriel was too miserable and hot for any of their liking, gold and oaths of more gold was just about the only thing keeping their band loyal amid the lack of chaos they longed for. By this time the entire old barracks had been pretty well converted into something familiar and comfortable to the natives. They divided the space based on their various clan-cultures, with those closer to the Nordic sphere of influence decorating and accommodating their portion to their liking, while the more island-Imperialized mercenaries enjoyed a combination of native delights and decorations and heartland ones. Finally then, when an Imperial courier arrived with orders to assemble at a mustering ground outside the city, the client warriors practically showered the man in gifts they were so happy.

While in excessively high spirits at the prospect of battle, many fantasized with one another the scale of things. However, Corvus had been ordered to one of the Palace District's armories. There in her abstinence from the city, Paymaster Dales intended to make good on her offering of good arms and protection from the heat. There his appointed palace retainers aided the near-giant in his kit. Firstly from the royal gift-of-arms did Corvus on his own accord slip himself into the threadbare light tunic and trousers, they were simply woven with powerful enchantments seeped into it's being by her majesty's clever men, it stayed constantly freezing to the touch and emitted a deathly cold air from it's presence. Something of which was essential in such a hot environment should Corvus have any chance at all in such arms without dying of heat stroke. What would instantly frostbite even a Nord should they lay finger on the garb, did the near-giant don in great comfort. Thus his retainers took great caution in wearing thick fur gloves.

At this his retainers aided the near-giant in the equipping of his gambeson arming doublet, it was of fine modern makeup, it was lighter and thinner than a standalone gambeson. But it cleverly had mail lacing betwixt the gambeson to protect the armpits, and sported full length mail sleeves. This they helped lace up the front. Once properly fitted to his person, the near-giant sat on a stool and the retainers slipped quilted cloth chausses atop his trousers, lacing where the upper chausses meets his waist to the arming doublet. Despite being fine of quality, they were unadorned and plain aside from their quilted appearance. Once his legs were adorned and person complete in his gambeson and enchanted clothing did Corvus stand once more.

The servants retrieved several different pairs of fine footwear, of good outward expression they were both wider and longer by a slight margin than his feet, once a fine embroiled pair was chosen they were set aside. His retainers then took well crafted if not plain and unremarkable footwear, with soles and sides cushioned with sheep's wool. He stepped into these arrayed footwear and the retainers tugged his trouser's pants-legs down slightly, tightening his trousers to his ankle as close to his footwear as possible with a thin lace. With his under-armor well fitted and conforming to his body, as the near-giant tested by stretching in various ways, he bid they continue. Now the retainers brought out mail chausses and the near-giant once again sat down, each leg had the mail chausses fitted on, lacing the top near his waist to the same small rings the quilted cloth was attached to the arming doublet. Standing once more, the retainers laid out the fine footwear chosen earlier and stepping into them they confirmed well to the thicker silhouette his cloth and chain chausses and padded footwear created. 

The retainers procured a finely tailored creamy-white robe of native noble variety, although it was fashioned in the garment style of his native Ecoriobriga it was adorned with rich Imperial heartland motifs and patterns. It was not unlike the popular styles worn by higher class aristocrats of the Imperial City, albeit in a more alien (to the Imperials) long robed way. As it was fitted for war-wear the robe was slightly shorter than lofty drab and ended around his shins. It was loose enough below the waist to allow for a complete squat and didn't hamper his movement whatsoever. Once clad in his robe the retainers procured a light cloth belt sash that the near-giant tightened the robe to his waist with, it was patterned with stylized native patterns of rainfall. After presented in comfort, the retainers produced a pair of hourglass gauntlets. Fitting his hands into them one at a time they were slightly tight, although that tightness would prevent the pair from being flung in the midst of battle.

The retainers then procured a heartland styled hauberk, lacking in the shoulder mail of common make. Knelling down, the retainers aided the near-giant in equipping the mail which ended just above his knees. Producing a leather harness and wrapping it around his shoulders and between his armpits before tightening it, allowed for better redistribution of weight for the hauberk. The retainers then aided the near-giant in mantling a quilted cloth coif to his head, lacing a cloth strap under his bearded chin. Then atop the hauberk the retainers fashioned a mail mantle that hung from his shoulders to collarbone, lacing the mantle from the back of his neck. They then procured the well respected helmet of the palace guard, painted white with a mail aventail, it was tailored such a way to be tightly fitting to the near-giant's padded coif while the aventail had a slight excess of mail that hung down to his chest. Taking great care not to catch his impressive forked beard in the mail, the retainers fitted the helmet to his person with his beard arraying itself through the helmet and atop the aventail. His wrinkled snowy complexion blended well with the white helmet, with his northerly blue eyes clear.

The retainers then procured the brother piece to his helmet, the white palatial cuirass was adorned with heraldry of his paymaster's household, he flew her own personal heraldry and not that off the Empire at large. Among the vastly ordained and ornate household heraldry he flew was a ruby pendant inscribed in common text, 'Palatina Roscorum Rex'. With the forward breastplate pressed firmly onto his hauberk, the retainers laced the breastplate parallel across his back and back to the breastplate. His aventail which had a slightly baggy form was tucked under the breastplate, it's slightly longer form allowing for full freedom of head movement. Next the retainers produced the rear breastplate and having pressed it onto his hauberk, they connected it with the front facing breastplate through small leather laces across the shoulders, and sides of the now full cuirass.

Now the retainers procured a fine long white Imperial styled cloak, richly decorated with heraldry from his paymaster's household further separating his person from the Empire or legion at large. Knelling down the retainers wrapped it around his shoulders, connecting it with a fine golden brooch in the shape of his paymaster's household symbol. The fine cloak when at rest was light, much longer, and very baggy around his right arm which itself had the cloak draped around it with his hand free and his left arm was completely outside the cloak which encompassed his entire silhouette.

Finally the retainers procured his royally gifted weapons. First they presented the near-giant with a finely bejeweled Imperial spatha sword, facing it to his person by a baldric. It hung off his left hip in fine sheath and was unobstructed by his cloak. Then both retainers gave respected legionary salutes, they could not present the near-giant with his clunky, overly weighted massive greatsword his paymaster gifted much earlier on. It was firmly sheathed on top of a cabinet to which the near-giant produced it himself, slinging the thick baldric around on his left as well. It was a field weapon and thus was not meant to enter battle with the baldric and sheath on his person, but he could carry it into the field himself. Exceptionally well clad by Imperial standards, and well protected from the harshly hot(er) weather of central Tamriel by the greatly enchanted clothing he was a thing to be reckoned with. The chieftain of Dale's Bloodsworn was a fearsome sight indeed. All the old mercenary's age melted away in the great equipment he bore, in the field of battle he was not an aging, aching, decaying old creature anymore. He was Dale's white crow, soon to be heralded as a thing of coming death.

Presenting himself to the mustering ground drew nearly every eye of the citizens and passerby's of the Imperial City, walking among a marching column of legionaries avoided contact with the inhabitants.

His charges were gathering outside the city by the stables, a few hundred or so. Mostly a regiment of Second Legion soldiers. They gathered as if about to attend a parade, rigid and strict in their posture they all stood at attention, their shields, sheathed Spartha's, and javelins to the side. The Legionaries wore far less ornate equipment then the handful of Palace Guard that stood beside them. Tunics dyed sapphire, with an overcoat coat of chainmail, over which sat steel Imperial cuirasse's, almost bare but a small Imperial Dragon that had been carved into the equipment at it's center. They had steel vambraces and leg guards, quite worn, but well-crafted and it showed the troopers veterancy. In contrast to most Imperial soldiers, many had very old fashioned full-face helmets, which they carried at their sides.

The story of the Empress's guardian giant had spread very quickly among the Imperial Legion's ranks, and many Legionaries eyes went a gap in a mixture of fear, and awe, but they quickly managed to dispel such worry. They were Legionaries, professional soldiers, and they were trained to be prepared for weird scenarios. At the sight of Corvus, they all further straightened, slamming their shields into the earth as was customary for greeting a new commanding officer. 

The Legionnaire at the front was a Redguard. He was taller then most in the company, but otherwise wore the same kit. Barring the Legion-Officer helmet he carried under his arms.  He raised his Vinestaff into the air, shouting, "Legionaries, present yourself!" 

The blue Imperial soldiers took a single step forward, almost in sync, as they lifted their hands into the sky, performing a crisp Imperial Legion salute, "Hail to you Captain, Sir!"

"May your shieldwalls hold, heirs of Septim!" Corvus bellowed out, much to the coarseness of his throat. The near-giant scanned the mustered cohort and found the entirety of his fellow Bloodsworn arrayed into their own group, it was practically a double strength cohort now. "Redguard-Lord." Corvus spoke at a normal, for an Atmoriant, tone of voice. "My kindred and I can form a stout shieldwall, but we are belike champions, our favored place is single combat. If you can form the first rank, we'll have y'r asses well woven by mail."

"Tribune Samael, is fine sir." His eyes trailed upwards, but he seemingly unafraid of the giant warrior. "I have no idea how your men fight, but I was told the Empress has expressed tactical command of this assault has been given to you. We will of course, follow your lead in the order of battle " He offered a salute, before saying, "We have time to discuss such specifics on our way to the Bandit base."

"Aye. I've seen the best of your people fight Tribune Samael, think can you surpass the legion of old?" Corvus winked at the Redguard before his face once again set itself in stone-like expression. If he was leading these heartlanders, then he'd accept them as comrades, perhaps like kith to his kindred warrior-brothers.

"As you will learn, the Second is the best in the Legion, sir" He paused, he remained cordial, but retained his professionalism. 

"My Paymaster, your empress, has ordered no quarter be given. Are y'a willing to accept this charge?" Asked Corvus as the two marched to the stables proper. Corvus didn't attempt to make any mountings, he'd break any horses's back before it'd get ten gallops.

"Those who prey on the defenselessness to line their own pockets deserve no mercy. This land has suffered enough, one less bandit will never be a bad thing I have no hesitation in ordering a slaughter such as that."  Samael took the reins of a horse, before glancing up to the giant beside him. "I doubt we would be able to find a horse from here to Stros M'Kai that could bear you, let alone that "sword"." He coughed awkwardly, not wanting to offend his company's temporary leader, "Shall I fetch a wagon for you, or will you walk the Golden Road?"

"The Golden Road?" Corvus looked around and meandered a moment in his head. Mumbling native profanity under his breath. "I'll....take the carriage. Save my strength for the battle to come." Corvus' Law-Speaker and friend, Hagen whom already was mounted called out in some archaic language that sounded Nordic and laughed. The near-giant's retort sounded mocking if not playful, wiggling his spatha with his hand, still in the hilt.

The Tribune barked some orders, before mounting his own steed, a red mare. On his saddle, the giant noticed a curved blade tucked away. The Tribune muttered, "If we only stop for rest once a day, we should reach the rally point in no time. Can your men keep up the Legion?" 

"My honest tongue say no, Tribune Samael. We're islanders, for most they've just recently learned how to ride. But we'll do the best we can." Corvus said. Pulling himself into the baggage train's carriage. 

The tribune nodded, as he dragged his horse outside the stables, "I'll be easy on you all this one time, but the Heartland is a big place, better get used to the Imperial march." He effortlessly mounted his horse, and brought up his vine staff, putting on his helmet with his other hand. He drew two circular motions into the air, yelling, "Alright dogs, it's time to march! Double time it! I want our column near Axo by tomorrow. If this takes anywhere near a fortnight, you'll become really friendly with this over here!" 

The assembled soldiers all secured their helmets, equipment, and brought up their weapons from the ground. They uniformly yelled, "Aye Tribune!" The Imperial soldiers began to march. 

The journey was both arduous and wearing on the Roscreans, most have only now touched a horse, and completely standard forced march for the detachment of the Second Legion. The riding was long indeed and many of the natives lagged behind several times, though as dilapidated as the road became in places it was still leaps better then the infrastructure they were akin to. For the great majority of the Bloodsworn, the stonework roads was a mark of power and prestige, but for Corvus it alarmed him. Though a distant memory, he knew what pristine legion-built stone roads looked like. This was a far cry from the brilliance his old enemies had built atop existing footpaths. That alarm grew the further from the Imperial City the company drew, until it built up in his stomach and give it a knot. Ruins of waystations, the husks of crumbled villages, and destroyed forts on the horizon actually scared him a little.

The legion was an invincible enemy in his youth, only the mightiest and impregnable fortresses could withstand their hurricane of terror. What then could have devastated the homeland of his people's old conqueror? He knew of nothing worldly that could, and even in the deepest reaches of his mind he could only think of one such entity that might. The uncertainty wracked his back and arms with goosebumps, well hidden from sight. Corvus said nothing on the hasty forced march along the road, eventually he could not bare the forlorn ruins, once of grandeur any longer and refused to look at them. His kindred asked plenty of questions and made plenty of remarks, but the near-giant tuned them all out. At rest in the baggage train, and with his comfortably frigid armor protecting him fully from Cyrodiil's oppressive heat, he was lulled into sleep. Filled with silent nightmares of ruins and the end of days, the eastern dragon tormented him with decimation of smoldering serpant-men and client warriors alike.

Thwack. The noise of an boar's tusk-greataxe embedding itself into the baggage train was enough to wake Corvus, spatha unsheathed with his surprisingly deft hand. Good friend Hagen, in all his lowlander ways made a gesture of silence, removing his weapon from the wood and using it to point the way. The Cyrodiilic air was about as cold as a warm summer afternoon, and it looked like Corvus had slept the day away, it must have been uneventful then. The only noises to be heard were heartland critters, both companies, foreign and heartland-native were doing their best to lightly encamp with as little rustle as possible.

After sharing a brief, and quiet conversation with Hagen, Corvus made his way past the legionaries and his kinsmen who were trying to sleep on the grass. Amid the watch and patrol, the near-giant made his way to the only erect tent in the field. Why in all the hells the company had lightly encamped in the middle of nowhere was beyond Corvus. He slipped through the tent's flaps, saluted by it's two sentries in their awkward fashion. No matter how long Corvus had been from home, he missed his native ways of greetings and respect, a simple hand blessing-sign was all any man needed.

The Tribune stood at a small wheel barrow they had converted into a makeshift table. He wore full battle dress, his weathered Imperial kit reflecting the flames from a nearby lantern, that illuminated the inside. Splotches of his blue dress were discolored from all the travelling, barring the black stains of sweat on the tunic as well as his dark face, but he looked completely fresh and unhindered by the very long ride. He carried his Spartha proudly on his side, and held his Officer's helmet tightly underneath his grip. He did a crisp salute, "Captain! I thought it would be prudent to wake you. The Scout's have returned." 

A Bosmer Legionary was beside the Redguard, he looked almost comical to the giant, being much shorter then the Redguard. His face was oval, his eyes dark and beedy, and his skin so tanned, he was comparably to the Redguard in the darkness of his skin, clashing with the white war paint he carried over his face. His tunic and had been replaced by the furs of a black wolf, including it's skinned head, which he wore over his short hair like a hood, and his armor was leather rather then mail. He offered the giant a salute, saying "Prefect Forestmire, sir." He voice however, was much deeper then the typical wood elf. 

Personally and very much privately, Corvus couldn't take the little elf seriously. He was about as big as Corvus was, before he was old enough to even speak. The old near-giant hadn't any clue if this was a child-warrior or not, maybe not all elves are so abhorrent, there is pride in having battle-lust a life at such youthful age. "Prefect Forcemiren, what news have'ye? Egh, and why are we encamped.." Corvus looked down at the provincial map. "Wherever we may be, in place of a good stone comfort ruin?" Asked Corvus, yawning in his guttural, rumbling way during near the end of his question.

The Tribune spoke first, "Concealing the march sir. We had little information as it on the enemies whereabouts, so I thought it would be safer, and stealthier to be in the middle of nowhere rather head to some ruins or other encampment. For the element of surprise." He motioned for the little Bosmer to speak, who was a little incensed by the mispronunciation of his name, though he kept it to himself. 

"My men have seemingly found the Bandit's base of operation, we spotted it by a little ravine to the North West of here, a couple hours march from our current position." A map of the region lay flat across the makeshift table, with dots here and there from various ink marks and positions drawn the Tribune had dotted down. The Wood Elf placed his finger on a part of it, within a small forest. "In my professional opinion, they seem to be bold. They aren't really bothering to conceal themselves, as they've gathered around a fort, an old Alessian ruin by here." He pointed to another spot deeper within the sketches trees. He was  was concise, and straight to the point "A very large assembly of tents have been erected around the fort. My men didn't get too close, but my elf eyes observed quite a bit. I can relay the information, if you have questions sir"? 

"Who is their chieftain elf of the woods? Describe his holding if you are able to. If Tribune Samael should lead his shield wall, I and a chosen javelin bearer will slay the warlord. I entrust Hagen to lead the isle-band in my stead, does my word-will resonate well legion lords?" Spoke Corvus.

The Wood Elf spoke, "There's a particularly large looking Nord who seems to lead the band; I oversaw him barking orders to what seemed like his officers, going by their garb. He wields a silverly bardiche and you can spot him easily with his bronze adorned war-helmet. He hangs around the very center of the fort, the skeletal frame of a watch-tower." 

The Redguard officer gave the giant a nod of his head," That's suitable. Even if there well-armed, they are still vagabonds, I doubt they'll much of a fight once their leader is removed from the picture." 

A wayward Prefect spoke, but Corvus had already left the conversation in his mind, "Bandits often have camp followers and hostages with them, we should drill into the men to be on the lookout for innocents."

Something guttural rumbled in Corvus' throat, a grunt of protest. "Of course. Elf-Eyes, gather Hagen to the tent. I must find my javelin-bearer." Corvus' hand was threw the tent flaps when he turned back around momentarily. "Egh, may your Storm-Crown protect you." The near-giant said half heartedly, he wasn't entirely sure what war-deities to bless them by.

* * * *

The thugs mulled about; sipping their hare stew half heartedly. They had plenty of wheat and grain to thicken the slop they were eating, but not much in the way of meat, they had gone through the supply of cows they had taken from the farms a couple weeks ago. A couple dozen sat in the makeshift, outside kitchen, groaning as their rusty bowls were filled with the substance. A great big iron bow sat; as their cook, "Umgz" poured another layer of "spice" (most of them assumed it was his shit) into it. At least there bellies were full, no matter the quality of the meal.  A set of makesift wooden dwellings were built around the center-piece kitchen. a barracks of sort, alongside several supply sheds. The armory and the place were they stored the loot, were in the center-piece tower, right by the quarters of their company chieftain. They drank their beer-rations with a glumness; it wasn't anything like the army, but it was alot more strict then other gangs they'd run with. Booze was only allowed to be drunk after "duty", and the amount they were allowed to drink almost overshadowed the abundance of food and loot.

They were poachers, thieves, thugs, hired goons, deserters, and other dregs of society, they weren't soldiers, but they were a tough enough group. 

On the overgrown, stone, thick vines permeating the fort wall, a few more dozen walked on wall itself, most sleeping, others only doing their patrol-duty with eyes half open.  The wall itself was moderately high, with splotches of moss and vines covering it's ancient stone-work. It was good protection from the winds and wildlife, but the more experienced members of the clan eyed the several gaps with fear. 

Just outside the wall was where the majority lay. A half-circle, wooden palisade had been erected half-hazard around the two dozen or so wicked tents and other wooden ramshack, acting as a defensive barrier, alongside the filth and waste. Almost a full hundred had been quartered here, the least-experienced members of the group; the down-trodden, the camp followers, and the children unlikely enough to have parents among the group. To give a good idea of how well the bands fortunes had been, even the dregs of the tribe here seemed to be relatively well-fed  Most of the trees in the area around the camp had been cleared, but a thick wall of oak sat around the bandits dwellings.

The final throws of daylight ebbed throughout the dilapidated holding, sending an ever growing shadow throughout the forest. It was here that Corvus and his javelin-bearer, Teutarn, a Nord of Clan Borr; tapestry shield and all, stood in waiting away from the approaching cohort.

The child-warrior elf accompanied the near giant as well, his visage was all but hidden even to the islanders around him. They were behind the fortress, not for an attempt at a secret entrance, Corvus had something else in mind of that. Even in the waning hour of day, the near-giant was obscured from the fortress, his back against a mighty oak, which buckled at the frozen air emanating from the warrior. Teutarn was entrusted with the baldric of Corvus' greatsword, who wore it as proudly as one would a tartan sash. The soothing sound of wildlife covered the faintest prayers of Teutarn, praying for a worthy death in the eyes of Shor.

"Teutarn." Grumbled Corvus as softly as he could muster.

"Chieftain?" Replied the Nord still in prayer, his forehead against the tapestry kite shield that bespoke sagas of his fathers. 

"Would you look upon me, fight and die beside me, as if I were of the Borrshird?" Asked Corvus. The Nord's head rose from his death-wishing prayers, and looking into the depths of the giant's eyes he placed his sword hand against Corvus' heart, or at least where it would be under the armor.

"As if you were my brother, I know not your truth-name, but you are Borr. So say the hand that kills." What more need be said, an oath spoken to seal the first spilling of blood in Cyrodiil. Were the elf not there, both he and Teutarn would cite the names of ancestral warriors and patron gods in pledge; but such tongues would doom the ears of an elf.

Little more time passed when the clanking of legion arms, an ancient sound engrained in Corvus' memory, became more detailed and pronounced as it drew forward. There was no war horns sounded to detail the coming doom, but there need not be any, for the keen ears within the stronghold knew what it heralded. By the counting of seconds, there was pandemonium inside the fortress. As orders from inside the stone-proper shouted orders of muster, to grab arms, man walls and knock arrows. Corvus hadn't even realized the legion war machine was to the wooden palisades until he heard the all too distinctive sound of missiles clanking harmlessly off an impenetrable Cyrod shield wall.

That was that then. A harsh sound of metal grinding against itself pierced out as the greatsword was slung against his pauldron. Corvus took a jog towards the palisade, grasping his greatsword with both hands at an almost vertical angle. Slurring a grunt out as he slammed the weapon between two thick stakes, cleaving a path between the two and nearly cracking both in half. Wasting not one moment, he pushed the hilt of his greatsword horizontally towards the palisade as hard as could be managed. Greatly weakened but still not budging, his left hand gripped one stake and with a heave, tore it completely off from about half way down. Committing the same to three other stakes, he forced his way in.

An unfortunate soul investigated the sounds just as Corvus tore his way in, whatever the man was he tried spinning on his heels to run away alongside the palisade. He hadn't any chance at all, evidence being a terrible swing of Corvus' greatsword that ground the man against the palisade, what was the beginning of a scream ended as a death rattle as his spine was grinded in half. Elf-Eyes and Teutarn were at his person as Corvus made way across the ramshackle outskirt, making a footpath to the portcullis. Several stragglers were cowering as far back from the cohort as they could, trying to escape the battle happening at the palisade's entrance. After splattering their bodies across the ground, the three came to the portcullis already closed shut.

Bow armed bandits inside the gatehouse loosed their arrows through murderholes at the three. While Teutarn and Elf-Eyes took cover against the deadly barrage, Corvus stormed through it. Reeling up to the rusted gate, and still under attack, the near-giant planted his feet and battered against it with his greatsword, crushing pieces of the gatehouse with sheer force. Most of the arrows deflected off his expertly made armor; however, one or two bandits must have had equally well fashioned arrows as those lodged through the mail by skilled archers who avoided targeting the plate. As much as he was battering down the gate, the constant barrage of arrows was wearing him down. The aches in his neck and shoulders were demanding he take cover, and the old giant was damn near about to when a flurry of unnaturally muffled noises emanated from the gatehouse. Which ended the barrage of arrows.

Corvus was about to take another swing at the toughly worn gate when a voice rang out through a murderhole, coinciding with the gate opening. "Ave Corvus, may Talos protect you." The clever man, a battlemage, hide himself from sight and sound once again. Allowing Corvus and his three inside, the cohort wasn't far behind slaughtering the bandits.

"GRAGAR!" spearmen to the front, archers in the back! The wolves of the Legion are upon ye! Bring forth your arms, strike these heavens down! Tsun will bring ye victory!" Corvus was drawn instantly to the center of the ruined forification; a Nord wearing ornate plate was barking orders. His steel-armor was thick and broad with dozens of slash marks, adorned with bronze studding's and Nord-style carvings. His helmet was plummed, with an adorned horse, and a bronze face mask. In his hands he heaved, a heavy polearm, a silver fanged bardiche. He had half a dozen soldiers surrounding him, armed with a mix of heavy axes, spears, and swords.  

Elf-Eyes gently tapped the giant, "Sir, over there!" He pointed to the man.

Corvus batted away his hand with a motion, eyes already squared against the rival chieftain, no no, bandit chieftain. His grip tightened against the greatsword as he leveled it at his hip level, blade prodding outward. Corvus inhaled a mighty breath of air, squaring his shoulders and then stomping outward. Raising his enormous greatsword upwards to the skies, Corvus at first rumbled like a whale-song and began getting louder and louder, until his roars more resembled a howling mountain avalanche. Completely ignorant as to whether or not his companions were among him, the ancient near-giant sprinted towards the stairwell with his greatsword being half-sworded.

Screams of terror echoed across the battlefield as the inner workings of the bandits descended into pandominia at the sudden sight of a charging giant. These bandits had more valor then most, but they were still mortal men. Mortal men with, mostly, no military training. At the scream, the bandits went from terrified, to absolutely broken; three of the chieftain's men fled at the very sight, while the other three sheepishly raised their weapons and began to back away but still remained in formation. The  chieftain's eye became agape with fear, as he barely managed to raise his weapon in defense with a "A-a giant?! South of pale pass?!"

Deep snorting and snarling came from Corvus' helmet, ironically a product of breathing issues more than intimidation. The bandits not on the direct path of carnage loosed their arrows at the sprinting near-giant, none that hit their mark did anything more than tinker off.

The spear armed bandits could back no more and stood their ground, hiding behind their shields and thrusting with all their might against the charging Corvus, the bandit to his right's spear was passively deflected off the side of his greatsword while the doomed man at this face, his spear snapped in half in a spray of splinters as it cracked against the giant's cuirass. With a mighty step, Corvus thrust his weight forward, while half-swording, his greatsword broke through the bandit's round shield and caved in the man's chest; sending him flying backwards up the stairs, his ringmail in tatters. The screaming bandit to Corvus' right dropped his spear and attempted to don the axe on his person. His hand barely gripped the thing when Corvus' greatsword, still in the the same thrust-position was forced above the giant's shoulders and slammed down upon the man. Crushing the individual against the stairs, his final moments were gasping for air that was knocked from him, before Corvus grinded the slab of ebony across his torso, violently tearing through flesh and bone, then scraping against stone.

The near-giant stomped against the dead man's body, and heaved the embedded greatsword from his corpse. He faced down the final brave bandit, Corvus' mouth parted in surprise as he faced down a longbow at point blank range. An instantaneous wet thwack greeted the giant's face as an arrow made it's way under his right eye, nestled just next to his nose. Blood and spittle was spat from his mouth, immediately after finding it's mark, Corvus tore the arrow straight out of his face, stomping forward and embedding it under the bandit's exposed chin.

Corvus rose to the top of the stairs, staring down the Nord 'chieftain'.

He jittered, but still held strong, taking his position on the top of the stairs as he lifted his half-axe in the sky. His hands trembled, but he held his ground. His voice changed, "I've felled your kind before, monster. You won't be the last, bastard of Mammoths!"

Corvus slung his entrails-splattered greatsword against his shoulder, which like his face wound dripped downward. How many Nords have I felled? Corvus wondered. Nevertheless he spoke to the chieftain. "Tell me your name, before I kill you."

"Ungrim the Fell-Heart! Warlord of Whiterrun!" He let out a warcry of his own, pulsating his lungs to the highest he could. A frenzy had onset in him, and the Giant could see saliva pour out of his mouth like a beserker. His mountain lion coat swung in the air, as he moved left to right swinging his polearm in a circle in his frenzy.

 

Corvus stomped his right foot back a step, while doing the opposite with his left. Sliding the greatsword upwards off his shoulder and lowering it into both hands, the giant spoke just loud enough for Ungrim to hear. "I am Magalos Magorixson, fight well chieftain."

The near-giant threw himself into the frenzy of the Nord and getting bashed twice by the bardiche, leaning his body slightly to the left; he swung his greatsword at first downward then swiveled his body to swing horizontally.

With surprising speed the maddened berserker rolled deftly to the left, keeping his footing on the stairwell. He rose with a frontal slash, cutting the giant's chainmail coif protecting throat with a single blow, all the while screaming a rage-filled scream of his own.

His teeth gritting from the sensation of mail tearing upon, and loosening the grip of his greatsword, Corvus swung his body around, clubbing the Nord's facemask off with his fist; even as the Nord's bardiche came around again. The near-giant's greatsword clanking to the ground. With both his hands free, the near-giant drew his spatha right handed. He was tattooed and marked with a dozen black drawings, intermingled with wave drawn in blue war paint. He held a great blonde beard, tangled and filthy, with a long flowing mane of tussled white-blonde hair. His teeth were rotten, and his breath disgusting in it's smell. 

Frothing like a rabid beast, another mighty swing of the bardiche came against Corvus. Who ensnared the bottom of the axehead with the spatha, following was a riposte that flurried with a deft wrist into delivering a nasty cut across the Nord's face, his nose hung in two pieces that barely remained attached to the man's face.

"Tsun take ye, filthy mammoth fucker!" He screamed in pain, deftly pushing himself off the staircase, choosing to retreat. He landed perfectly on the fort's mossy earth, and ran to the side."Alduin take thee, spear the animal! Kill him!" He shouted as he pointed his fingers to the giant. Around four bandits heard their leaders orders, and even in the chaos, remembered what he had drilled into their heads. Though gripped with terror, they charged the giant. In the background, the chieftain had hefted a few discard javelins and began to toss them towards the giant with surprising force and speed.

Despite the tossing of javelins and getting surrounded, the near-giant's lipped stretched open in a big sadistic toothy smile directed at the chieftain. Who was driven through the neck by Teutarn's throwing spear, albeit thrusted into instead of tossed. The chieftain leapt from the near-giant just as the Nord-of-Borr was about to rush up the stairs.

 

Three of the bandits didn't have time to regret their life decisions, as Corvus, as if was but a single thrust of his weapon, carved through the group. The first bandit was crushed overhead by the colossus blade thrown to the earth like a broken puppet, the second was severed from his waist up, and his top half didn't fall to the earth in time before Corvus finished the third with a monstrous slash of his blade, decapitating the man cleanly due to the sheer sharpness of the ebony edge. With a delayed burst of blood, Corvus was like but a blur to the naked eye. 

In a flurry the last remaining bandit suddenly dropped dead with two arrows sticking to his throat; Elf-Eyes had finally rejoined the group, having been busy helping his brothers down by the palisade. He notched another arrow, before the remaining bandits in the area suddenly dropped to their knees, throwing their heads down, while screaming, "We surrender! Give us quarter! Please!" 

Elf-Eye notched the arrow again pointing it point blank at one of the surrendering bandits. He eyed the giant, "Your orders, Captain?"

Corvus, who's heart was rapidly, and weakly, beating from the fighting looked over the bandits. "Give the Nords a moment to pray for their weakness, that they may still know Sovngarde, kill the rest now."

Turning his back to look at the tower, his gut told him there was people there, fleeing bandits maybe. Thawk. The bandit in question slumped. Corvus pulled the wooden door to, stepping inside while patting down the loose stinging flesh wound at his face. He was damn thankful to still have two working eyes. There weren't anymore bandits between him and the tower proper.

His ears were ringing fiercely by the time he rattled the door, proving it was locked, then preceding to unlock it with his foot was met with the screams of womanfolk. There was a fairly well dressed, but unarmed Nord woman, tattoos and all...warrior tattoos, who's hands were bound by cloth.

"Y'gods thank you! Thank you! Merciful Tsun my children and I have b...been held here for so long." Her eyes were red from crying, and at the mention of children; Corvus knelt down ever so much to see child cowering under a fur-clad bed.

Corvus placed down his greatsword, and placed a freezing cold gauntleted hand against her shoulder as he untangled her bindings, she recoiled from him slightly. Corvus was to consul her and pray to Mara for her defilement when he noticed something. There hanging on the wall was an untouched axe, his eyes trailed down to the woman again who wore some modicum of jewelry. The woman seemed to perceive a darkening air in the room, and as her eyes met Corvus, her lip trembled for a moment. It was cut off as her neck was broken by the hand that was once on her shoulder. Her lifeless head was cracked against the table and throw to the ground.

The ringing in his ears worsened as they were met with high pitched screams from the cowering child from the bed, who was dragged out from it, flailing and begging. He was a spitting image of the bandit chieftain. Corvus could not hesitate or his hand would be stayed, he drew his spatha and plunged it into the child's stomach, who cried even louder and clawed at the sword which embedded itself within. When Corvus withdrew the blade, he was met with a whimper and then silence, though his ears were now in pain.

Turning he saw the wood elf staring at him.

"Y'ffre be damned. Captain." The Wood Elf eyes were agape with horror, before they darkened one more. The cold edge of his voice returned, "That blade is a butcher's weapon after all." He pushed himself passed the giant towards the corpse of the child he stood before. He knelt down, and closed the children's eyes. "May your lord Shor guard your soul." He faced the giant again, his darkness replaced by the cool professionalism of the Legion, "The Tribune's captured the gate, he needs orders."

Corvus gripped the blade of his spatha just above the hilt, and as he ran his gauntleted hand through it, wiping away the blood and by doing so stained his gauntlet, he spoke. "I don't, egh, think he does. I have carried my paymaster's will, let the horsemen kill any who flees. I need a fucking drink."

Edited March 7, 2021 by TheCzarsHussar

[BigBossBalrog]

Fort Sutch

The fanged gargoyles haunting plastered themselves on the stone walls of Fort Sutch, one of the few adornments the otherwise spartan fortress had been allowed to receive. Despite being built like a fortress; there was still a rather creepy feel to the Castle that one woud notice if they had spent their life growing up around the place. Most of the guards here had seen the place a thousand times, so their thoughts barely touched upon the snarling horrors barring one or two scares they had, their stone-faces puncturing the darkness with terrifying animalistic snarls and fearful gazes. 

So a guard on patrol couldn’t figure  what drew him this night, to the stony beast. 

A backdrop of thunder and rain erupted on the outside this night. Sutch was quite damp alot of the time, it was good. Fires couldn’t break out as often with so much rain, making the place even harder to siege, but even the locals who were used to it found the weather miserable. Especially guards on patrol during a thunderstorm. This particular, a Breton-native to Sutch, eyed the haunting piece of masonry; his patrol was out the outside, in the courtyard that was sandwiched between the inner and outer gate. Besides the spartan arrow slits that hung on each part of the wall, and just above each gate, the snarling gargoyles stood, in eternal vigil, observing the blasted courtyard. 

The foul mouthed Gargoyles stood at attention better than the guards; they were a household gurds; trained in the ways of the Legion, the Nightblade, and the Ranger, but still were affected by the hourglass of boredom like anyone else. The guards eyes lingered from gargoyle to gargoyle, before he sighed, giving up at finding anything. His attention moved to the spear he gripped, then the annoying rain dribbling across his head, and then to the heavy shawl he wore, tightly wrapped around himself to protect from the rain.  

Even his eyes affixed the position deeper, the Shadow doubted he would see what lay ontop. A black figure hunched across it, surrounded by a swirl of reflecting lights. To the naked eye, if one really, really looked close enough, they could see a reflection of swirling lights, almost dancing across a certain part, but with the rain and darkness, and the flames from the torch stone so seldom, it would be impossible. The swirling lights were so fast, they became almost see-through, and occasionally changed color based on the material the see-through layer punctured, like camouflage. It was like a living shadow.

The vortex of reflected lights suddenly moved, from onto the parched gargoyle, to a spot just below a wall. The reflecting sheen, masked by darkness and rain, was vaguely humanoid shaped. Without wasting anytime, it went to work. 

Suddenly a pair of hands were drawn from inside the swirling vortex; they peeked outside, and the whirling material became texture like a cloak. Inside the reflective cloak; a pair of black, scarly hands stood, with sharp, jagged claws sitting menacingly on the person’s hand. On the inside parts of the strange-swirling camouflage, one would glimpse pitch black-fabric, it really seemed to be a black cloak.  The figure, in a display of both strength and speed, began to rapidly scale the stone wall. If the rain hadn’t been here, it’d be dead silent, but the thunderous rainfall, and the thunder itself would be just as effective as dead silence. The mirage made it’s way to an arrow gap, used for archers to rain fire below, and suddenly began to push itself inside. Bones made sickening, disgusting sounds, hands moved at unnatural angles, an eruption of even more depraved expulsions of bones sounded, and it seemed the humanoid compressed itself to fit inside the slit, but it amazingly did, and was soon away from the rain. 

Scaleless vermin. It thought. 

Inside a portion of the inner fortress shadow skulked into a darker corner, moving with unnatural speed and grace, before producing a  very large piece of parchment. The parchment depicted a handrawn sketch of the fortress itself, with countless little notes done in tiny handwriting. The cloak was parted, revealing a simple hardness of black leather, which held a dozen pouches, a sheaf for a dagger, a slightly bigger sheaf for a shortblade, and a strange-looking side quiver filled with weird looking arrows. Alongside a naked chest of strong muscles, punctured by hundreds of black scaless, adorned in gray warpaint. The figure drew a piece of seemingly normal charcoal from a pouch and dotted,  “After seeing it in both rain and clear skies this shadow confirms. The courtyard patrols are strict and alert, but the darkness when night fall brings the haze of sleep upon them. From two to sundown, they are especially sluggish.” And with that, the figure's features disappeared in the camouflaged cloak, as it went down a castle hallway. 

It ran into a guard, whose torch was caught by it’s night vision, before it prepared itself; The stone hallway was narrow to the extent he couldn’t skulk into a corner, so it simply climbed to it’s top portion, and let it’s cameo do the rest. The see through cloth adopted the color of darkness and the stone itself, as if the figure melted into the stonework. 
 
The shadow skulked slivering on the wall like it was wearing it like another skin. His bones bended at impossible angles, and angled itself to the extent the guard could not see past the illusion upon inspecting the spot closer. With a disgruntled sigh, the Sutchian snarled as he finally reached the part where the shadow dwelled. He could have sworn he saw something; like a fading willowwisp a set of dancing lights, but in response all he could do was curse.  “Damn Attribes. I told him we needed to stop drinking at the Sundered Artery so much. I’m still half-drunk…” He wandered off, leaving the shadow by itself once more. It relaxed, slightly, going into a crouch, as it pulled over it’s cloak. The reflective enchantment; like the dying sun mirroring the surface of a lake rippled at the sudden change in environment, before reappearing as a see through fickle of light. He let his grip on the strange-dagger go, it was almost instinctive. He knew he couldn’t use it, but prepared it anyways. 

This infiltration was to be bloodless, he wasn’t allowed to kill or injure anyone. He was nothing more than a ghost in this situation; observe. 

Cancelling out the pitter patter of rain he heard from his left ear, the thing focused; he put his senses into seeing if he could hear the tapping of armored shoes falling on the stone floor. He skulked back into his hiding spot, letting the darkness surround him once more, before bringing forth the parchment. He deftly used the charcoal pointer, and drew the section he had observed with lightning reflexes and speed, along with adding a few notes about patrols and oddities on the floor. This second took him a minute in a half, his face was glued to the ground, with his slits trained on the area around him. Strikings reds; I dread but desire them! My naked blade grows me weary. He hastily finished the portion of the map, putting it back into his cloak’s pocket, before skulking around the corner, and advancing.  

A few strides through the dark, castle corridors, took him to another large room. This one was adorned with ruined furniture. A single guard sat just by the draped arrow slit, letting the cool breeze glow onto him, with the pitter patter of rain as a background noise. The left of the room was impassable, for the guard would surely be startled by the moving reflective mirage, and the right was adorned with a bright torch, with no speaks of shadows to hide his form. 

Damnation. 

The shadow patiently waited, observing the man till fives minutes passed. And then another five. Finally, after an eternity peeking from the door, the red armored man’s eyes lingered from the tiny indoor circular chamber, till his gaze went around towards outside the window itself, gazing at the darkness outside. The shadow, eyed the man’s features, as he counted with his hand

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven-

SHRZROOOOM! 

The thunder blared outside in a colossal sound. His hands moved on their own; suddenly, a black-oak shortbow peaked from the shadow's scaly black skin, as part sof his strange cloak was lifted upwards, revealing the weapon itself. Gripping it’s edges, a very peculiar arrow stood at it’s end; instead of an arrow-head, it’s shaft was adorned with a blue, almost-crystal head. A blue, gem adorned the end of the arrow, and a tiny, set of watery droplets swirled around it, like it was shifting particles of liquid around it. Shadow lifted the bow, pulled it’s dark, silvery string and fired it towards the torch, it’s string and wood was muffled by an enchantment. 

In an instant the flame was consumed by a silent arrow shot; if one could freeze time they would see a miniature explosion happen; an eruption of water, like the ocean’s strongest wave crushing the small torch-cone and extinguishing it’s fire, but it was almost too fast for the naked eye. And as the water fell across the flame, the tip of liquid was consumed by it’s own seemingly magical heat; it became steam the instant it fell across the flame! The end result being a put out fire, but no hint of the arrow's formerly watery texture left from it’s transformation into steam. The crystal arrow head was a curious marvel of alchemy.  

Before the man's gaze left the darkness, the shadow pushed forward, rushing the distant with the now safe darkness cloaking him, and in but a second, had left the room. A chill fell over the man; who nervously gazed at the suddenly consumed fire, “I could have sworn that was lit...must be the wind.” as he moved to relight it with the tinder box the guard’s carried, but by then, the shadow was long gone. 

Pink flesh, just as rotten as their brains. It thought sarcastically, as it quietly put away the silver-stringed bow, and went back to skuling under the dying flames of the other torch scones. It made a mental note to remember this particular spot as an annoyance for infiltration, but kept going forward, he would map out a few more rooms. Another dank corridor; the black stone almost seemingly melting by the haze of fire that surrounded it. A duo of guard’s, guarding the doorway, talked to one another in casual voices. One of their backs was turned, and the shadow had to briefly resist plunging it’s dagger into him as instinct.  

A leftover from his days haunting the Blackwood rainforest and leading guerrilla raids on Dominion forward outposts .

Instead he hugged the door, letting the shadows cloak him as he peaked just away from the light’s edge. His bones once more bent at unnatural angles, and looked to edge his way closer, hugging the wall, and trying to squish his frame into the specks of darkness. In the meantime, he listened to the conversation; 

“Our taxes go to that bitch. It’s bad enough we have to line White-Gold’s pockets with our pay, but now we have to feed the whore, and host her in our own castle? It ain’t right, and you know it Shaqoel.” 

The Redguard...Red-Guard nodded his head, but kept his hands up, “Look, I don’t disagree, but remember what the Captain said, we need to shut up about this when Amaund’s Spawn is is here. I see her white-tink clankers strutting around, and they're always giving us the evil-eye. There’s something creepy about them; like the she-wolf could order them to cut down Sutch’s children, and they wouldn’t hesitate!” He shivered, “I ain’t afraid of them...but there here in the castle, and that means we all have to keep our hands to our shortblades!” 

The other man-nodded his head, “It would make me sleep alot better if they were in that barracks the Captain had prepared for them out in the city. But anyone whose Amaund’s daughter is a coward. Can’t sleep without her tin killers eyeing her every breath! And now we got to share the halls with them. It ain’t right!” He repeated himself. “The Tribune said we had to tolerate it. For now.” 

Now I long for those days. Skinning Knife-Ears had a charm to it’s layers. This...this is no assassin’s calling. The shadow muttered to himself, an overwhelming layer of boredom fell across the Shadow, it simply waited for an opportunity to go forward away from these cretins  

“Ha. That’s funny coming from her.”  The redguard laughed. 

“So you heard?” His companion muttered, becoming suddenly a little more silent. 

“Me? Of course. It’s kind of hard not to hear. I always thought she was a little bit of prude, but that our countess, striking back against the tyranny of White-Gold!”

Shadow’s ears suddenly peaked, and he relaxed, going back to his position before.  

“You really think it happened?” His friend spoke, nervously scratching his beard. His blue-woad clashed with his red garb. “Truly?”

“How many times do I have to tell you this; my friend Averno serves in the twin’s retuine, they saw it with their own eyes! The Tribune fired that warning shot!”

The Shadow’s black heart grew ever darker, as he tightened his fist. 

“Shhhh” His companion hushed the man with a frightened look, “Watch your tongue. You know...until we get that second company back here, we barely outnumber the Empress’s guard. Someone hearing the wrong thing, could trigger anything!’’ 

‘’None of her cronies are allowed this deep into the Fortress! What happened was no accident! Averno saw her pluck the arrow and launch it at her as soon the royal column went into sight, before anything else could happen.” A gasp came from the other guard, “Nine by praised. The balls on that woman. Too bad she missed.” 

“Our Tribune never misses, I've never seen a more gifted archer than that girl. Must have wanted to send a message! That Sutch won’t be pushed around by the crown anymore!” 

The conversation went awry from there, as they discussed stupid things like Sutch’s old ways, and how they wouldn’t be bullied by someone as vile and cowardly as Amaund’s daughter. The usual drivel. 

The shadow skulk backed into his hole, withdrawing back into the depths of the previous corridor. He contemplated, 

My slivers were easier when this one had to do nothing more than plunge my knife into Bosmeri scouts, and salivate at the screams of dying battle-mages. I cant kill these fucking traitors, because it’s too “poltically controversial” to kill Imperial citizens without clear orders.  This complicated things slightly. He had been ordered to map out the west, noth, and south wings of Fortress Sutch, along with doing a comprehensive examination and report of the Guard’s patrol routes and habitats. He had was almost-completed that objective; all he needed to do was find the quarters of the Count’s family.  Furthermore; his orders had been to take “three days” in doing it, he had just almost-finished in two, he was going to use the final days to observe and gather more detailed information about the areas he had previously recorded.

But he really needed to deliver what he had heard back to HQ as soon as possible. 

“Quiet now.” The Red Guard smacked the back of his companion, muttering, “You know how Captain Domitus gets; he could go on one of his night-walks and have us for a whipping for not being alert enough!” His friend began to comfort his aching head, muttering, as he got back into proper position infront of the door, 

“Weird for the Tribune and Captain who live inside the barracks with the rest of us louts. It’s strange, even if they have their own rooms, But I guess they’ve always been our commanders first, and our Lord’s second. While everyone else sleeps inside, we’re stuck guarding the door!” 

As fate has it. It seems my mission was already over! Now I will be away! The shadow eagerly stepped backwards, letting the darkness consume him, as he realized he had unknowingly found his final objective, and with that, began to retrace his steps to the passageway in the Servants Quarters. 

*** 
“Confound it; our budget has been cut as it is. Fuck, I’m guarding the Empress of Tamriel, and it’s like i’m wrangling informers in Vrgoth again! Not enough money to buy the loyalty of a drunk Cat-fucker!” Senior-Inspector Uzgakh yelled at the top of his lungs, as he read the junior’s report. Especially the budgetary. It was half true and half an act, he wanted to see if anyone in his company was a suckup. 

“Sir-it-it was just a suggestion! We-we could-” The young looking Imperial nervously said; Uzgakh’s reputation preceded him it seemed. He still wore his legionary garb, with his ancient steel great-axe just at his side, so he must have been quite the intimidating site. Eaven with his intermingled beard of mostly gray strands, and almost fully-white hair, his bulging muscles made it clear, he could still kill anyone in this room. As assembly of noises and voices arose from the other tables and desks around the duo, as all the other agents were also busy at work, the ones currently not on the field anyway.

The Orc agent began to repeat the young man’s stutter mockingly “Sir-Sir-Sir. Come on, man! Spit it out! I ain’t going to bite!” 

“Sir! I apologize sir! I’m sorry sir!” The Imperial agent’s back straightened, as sweat began to form around his brow. Instead of barking again, he gave the younger man a break. Rolling his eyes, he indicated with a brief pushing of his hand to tell him to go on, 

Gulping and regaining his composure; the agent continued, “Beggars often hear more than you’d think, there’s a reason why the Thieves Guilds around the provinces always use them as their eyes and ears as policy. It...it’ll require money, yes, but I think in a place…” The younger man, choose his words carefully.  “In a place where we lack any initial groundwork for an intelligence network of any kind, the beggars are the place to start. It should be mandatory infact.” 

A small grin played on the Orc agent’s lips, as he took a chug from his glass of water, mushing through the gathering pile of paperwork and reports. He still only “almost” finished reading them despite the late hour. “That would be going into the Thieves Guild’s territory, wouldn’t it?” 

The younger man shook his head, “From what we’ve seen, which is admittedly surface-level, I doubt the Thieves Guild has any presence here. Sutch’s laws are too draconian, and the risk-versus reward of such a backwards and money-less country goes against every and all of their interests in reserve. As everywhere, Sutch must have some level of organised crime, but I doubt it’s little more than a couple of street gangs, bankrolling small-storages of skooma and maybe moon-sugar.”

The Orc knew that of course; but wanted to see him fight to get what he believed was necessary to be done. Show some assertion alongside common-sense.  The orc reclined in his chair, and gave a look of fake-disbelief, “Convince me then, Agent Apollodown. How will your place proceed? Lay the groundwork for me in two minutes.” The sweat had left the agent’s brow, and he regained his straight-lance composure. The young Agent Apollodown, in a very organised fashion, unveiled his plans; from going forward with a very quick risk-versus reward assessment, and then detailing the steps to establish, at the very least, the start of an intelligence network built on the backs of the beggars.  He did so with a few seconds to spare, before standing at attention once again, “Sir, I think it’s worth it.” 

Uzgakh reclined on his chair, and began to re-read a dossier before him, muttering; “I can supply you three quartrs of the initial money you requested, and we’ll go from there in terms of intel we can gather and how much it’s worth. Handpick two free agents, get Louise to do the logistics, and I want a report on my desk as soon as you hear back from your chosen sources. Start right now, understood?” 

The young man’s face brightened up, as he gave a crisp salute, “Sir!”  The Inspector was already going back to his dossier. I wish I still had that enthusiasm. 

A bored voice from across the room muttered feverishly, “Yeah, more work.” 

It went without saying; things had gone from bad to worse. After almost forty years within the Penitus Oculatus, the Orcish Inspector had finally been given a full-command of his own. A huge rarity for an Orismer to be sure, but alongside the commission, it came packaged with a nightmare assignment. He was to facilitate the Empress’s visit to Sutch, and establish a network inside it. A countie with barely any records associated within the last two decades, a place famous for it’s militarism and hostility towards the crown, and a place with no real proper Oculatus resources attached to its service. One of these factors would be a huge red-flag, but all three of them made it clear. And this was the end result of a lack of preparation. Their HQ was literally at the bottom of some ruined town-house; in a junction that was in the perfect spot between being close to the main part of the city, and an area that was heavily patrolled. A gathering of hastily brought together wooden barricades, desks, and storage, alongside just enough space in side rooms were the agents could sleep and shit, though no had really had time to do anything but a few hours of the former. 

Uzgakh had pissed someone off. 

Or the very least; become a proxy scapegoat if the worst was to happen. And indeed; a stay arrow had already been “accidently” shot in the Empress direction. Politics; he should have stayed in the Legion. 

Fuckers might as well be handing me a sword and telling me to kill myself with it. 

Uzgakh didn’t care; he would pass this test like any other, and would do his duty in doing so. It just was nerve-wracking and quite frankly, terrifying to him. He had wanted this promotion for years, but it was so sudden in getting it, and now the lives of dozens of his brothers, and the Empress herself was in his warty green hands. He knew the responsibility that it entailed for sure, but upon getting it, he felt like he wasn’t ready at all. Talk about a mood-killer. He rubbed his sculpt, and decided to take another sip of his water, to keep the sleep from fully consuming him. A shrill voice woke him further. 

“Sir” The inspector looked up to see a pretty-faced Bosmer in servant’s clothing, “Junior-Inspector Alira Swiftblade!” She did a quick legion salute, “Reporting as ordered.”

The orc’s blood veins began to become blood red, as rage filled inside him. Not the fake barking, but real annoyance.  He put it down, as he brought down the dossier he was reading, give the young woman a strict glare. “I’m busy, so i’ll make this brief, Junior-Inspector. You should be commended for being able to blend in so easily, it's good you were able to find cover so quickly.” She smiled, in a very smug way, “However, I wouldn't be calling you forward if I was entirely pleased with your conduct and performance.” The smile suddenly faded, 

“I’ll be blunt, whatever you do in your free-time is up to you; if you want to lick some whore’s cunt, go right ahead. I don’t judge.” The room became quiet all of a sudden, as the other agents looked at each other weirdly. The Orc practically fumed with anger “You will not sully the Empress’s modesty and honor in any way like you did earlier today! If you are given the honor to report directly to her again, you will conduct yourself like a proper soldier of the Everseeing Eye.” 

“How-” The Bosmer stuttered out, but was cut off by the barking Orc, 

“Understood?!” He got up from his chair, red-faced from the boiling annoyance. He made it clear this isn't even up for discussion. 

She bowed her head in shame, a hint of red shade on her cheeks. “I-I have no excuse. It won’t happen again.” 

“See that it dosen’t. Now, go back to the castle; keep your ears open and your mouth shut.” 

Rookies...The Bosmer nodded her head, before disappearing from view into the desks of the other Agents, who had gotten back to the usual routine after that little show; decoding and processing the information before them. There were slight tinges of regret here and there, but better he stomp out the junior-inspector's bad tendencies before the grew, it was a cruelty with kind-intentions, she could have gotten into so much trouble from doing what she did to the wrong person. Better she receive a humiliating scolding now, then something much more serious later in life. 

Uzgakh couldn’t see it, but she gave a venomous glare to another agent who was grinning at her. despite his mild temper, really didn’t enjoy yelling at his men, or even deceiving like he did earlier with the beggar-thing. These were new people; people he had not served with, or more importantly, had never led into battle before. He needed to establish boundaries, see their qualities, rules, unit cohesion, and the ability to work, even more so with an annoying fact.

Most of them were fresh off-training. 

Always filled with fiery vigor. You think your hot-shit after the...The inspector paused, before going around it. The test. Bloody memories began to play in his head, but he banished them as soon as they appeared. Fuck, I long for that youthful spirit, for all their stupidity. He grinned, before sitting back onto his chair and finishing the dossier. 

“That was a crude display, I thought you orcs were civilized folk now.” A sly voice from beside, startled the orc slightly, who grunted in annoyance,

“That’s funny from the guy’s whose race raped and conquered all of Tamriel.” He silently muttered, 

A smile in response; beside him, an Imperial with a crooked nose, several jagged scars on his face, and slick, black-gray hair, took position beside his desk. The man wore a set of fancy chainmail, style with a gray tunic over it, with a sheared broad sword at his side. He looked rather dashing, even if his face was marred with scars, in his hands, he held an apple with a silver knife jammed into it’s side, which he plucked and took a bite out of, expertly cutting another piece for himself and offering it forward. The orc refused, “Anything to report; Inspector Marcello?” 

Marcello dramatically winced, “How cold! You wound me! I’ve known you for forty years!” He gave another grin, before muttering, “Shadow’s back.” 

“This one can speak” A slimey voice caused the Orc to glanced up in surprise, alongside the rest of the gathered agents.  The black-scaled Argonian hissed, his camouflage cloak being only partial brought up, revealing his dark scales and gray warpaint.  He sat on a one desk, and had seemingly arrived without being noticed by anyone, despite orders being put forward that required agents to announce themselves as they got back from assignments. His head was more narrowed, with a blue skull drawn as a tattoo around it, then most Argonians. Hundreds of razor sharp teeth sat inside, with a jaw powerful enough to snap necks.  He offered a large scroll, sealed tightly with string, “The castle’s wings have been explored, as ordered.” The Orc took it without hesitation, 

“Impressive. Though I remember ordering you to take your time with the operation.”

“This one does not need to take time!” The assassin hissed. He reclined “Besides,I spied a tune, shall I sing it to you?” The black-scaled Lizard grinned, he left down his face covering, as he “sang”, “The streets will soon be filled with dead Imperials. The Count’s Daughter was the one who fired upon the Dragon Empress, intetionally.” 

A silence fell over the room, as the darkness around Shadow's heartless interior spread to everyone else. A chill fell over the group, even Marcello was dead silent. Everyone became quiet and glanced at the morbidly happy Argonian, The Senior-Inspectors eyes widened, his heart sank-low, “Explain.” 

“I said what I heard; a duo of pink-fleshed cretins discussed it. They spoke of her skill in archery, and how it couldn’t be an accident.” The assembled agents looked at one another, a mania falling over the group. And the quiet broke, 

“They dare try to assassinate the Empress?!

“Treason! The Nine will not stand for this!”

“Subhuman-backwater provincials, we should slaughter them!” 

The zealous rookies began to be rowley and rounded, they drew their blades, ready to seek vengeance, but the Orc lifted his hands and with a violet, “Quiet!” silenced the group of eager avengers. The orc’s gaze fell over the shadowy Lizard, “Tell me want you heard exactly!” Shadow relayed everything he knew, pleased at the display of violence. Uzgakh knew he was getting what he wanted; the damn Lizard should have told him this in private! 

He rubbed his temple; “So you didn’t hear it directly from the Count or Countess? It was gossip from guards who hadn’t witnessed the event?”

The Argonian Agent nodded his cloaked head, hissing. 

Why can’t my job be simple? The Orc contemplated; “Then it’s hearsay.” Before anyone else could respond, the Orc silenced the group with a grunt, “The hearsay from two buffons who can’t keep their mouths shut. How could we go to the Empress with such unsubstantiated intel? It could turn a volatile situation, explosive. And become our word, based on untrustworthy testimony, versus the Count’s family. The Empress would need more; before we bring this treason forward.” 

Marcello was the first to speak, “This isn’t the Elder Council. Hearsay or not, we need to act!” The fiery rookies nodded their heads in agreement, but the Orc only grunted in response, 

“Did I fucking say, we weren’t going to do anything?!” He gave his second a sharp glare, which caused the man to shrink away, guilty and ashamed. “Lucies.” A blackhaired Imperial got out of his chair, “Sir.” 

“Contact Swiftblade, tell her to prod the other servants, as discreetly as possible. And keep her eyes peeled specifically for acts of treason by the Count’s family.” 

The Imperial nodded his head. The orc turned to another, “Acerces.” A Dark Elf woman got up from her chair, “Sir.”

“I want to hear what the locals have to say about that. You’re already going to be “haunting” the taverns, keep your ears peered.” 

“Sire” And finally his gaze lifted to another, a young looking Breton, “Draco. I need you to get into contact with our contact in the Palace Guards. Do not tell the Empress directly, but tell him to have the Guard be on triple alert, and to never let the Empress leave their sight. Afterwards, you’ll join her hidden detail full time, monitor her directly, and guard her with your life.” The Breton nodded their head. The Orc wasted no time, gazing at his “Shadow”, the Argonian giving him a smirk. Admonishing him would do no good, he had known “it” long enough to realize that. “Go back to the Fortress, and skulk through every nook and cranny; the Count’s Quarters, his damn bastards living space. Find real, physical proof of treason, and don’t come back till you do!” The Argonian hissed, “Sir…” He slithered away, and had disappeared from sight. The Orc looked around, adopting a scowl of fierce determination,“As for the rest of you, keep doing your assigned duties to the best of your abilities. Nah, beyond your abilities! We know now the Empress’s life may be in peril, we will safeguard it,  and give our lives in doing so, if we must. I know most of you haven't been in the Penitus Oculatus long, but I expect you to be worthy of the Eye you wear!

“SIR!” 

And with that, the room exploded once more into a frenzy of activity, causing the old Orc to grin, as he ruffled his hair. Their enthusiasm, at the least, is commendable. He got up from his chair, and gave Marcello a glare before the Imperial could excuse himself. He kept his tone to a lower voice, so only the duo could hear.

“Don’t question my authority again. It’s the second’s job to question his Commanding Officer’s orders in a private setting, but not undermine it in public.”

Marcello gulped, scratching the back of his head in shame, as he muttered, “Yes, sir. Sorry Inspector. I’m still not used to the Senior-Inspector part of that title.” 

Uzgakh relaxed and his face softened, “Just keep that in mind. Remember, i’m not used to it either. I’ll be relying on you alot in the coming days. We will endure.” 

The older Imperial nodded his head, “Would have helped if we could have brought more vets with us, damn shame.” 

The Orc frowned. He had some drapes installed in which, if he needed privacy by his desk, could close, which he did, “We’ve had this discussion. They gave me the rank, a chest of Septims, three days to prepare for the trip, assemble a team, and formulate a plan of action.” 

Marcello shrugged,  “Look, all i’m saying is there are options.

“You wanted to bring the fucking Wolves with us?!” The inspector gave a frown, as he lifted his hands into the air, “Trevis's little escapade into Hammerfall cost us manpower.” The Orc growled, the fury of Trinimac filling within him, “And before that, the disaster in Skyrim cost us our numbers, honour, and our Emperor.” His grip tightened, he always believed Trevis nothing more than a pompous prick, but he was a damn good agent. And they hadn’t heard anything from him in  a good while….that province took everything. “The Eye is in a perilous position, our remaining agents are stretched as it is on the border. Nobody trusts us like they once did, we let two emperors die on our watch.” He eyed the spread out sheet of paper, “It’s like they gave me this assignment to fail.  At such short notice and in this situation; If I  had the option of bringing that animal’s pets, or greener than my skin, recruits. I rather have the recruits. I need reliable men, not mad animals in the shape of them.  And that's a huge if." He paused, before contuning, "The Wolves were on assignment, they being deployed to Valenwood.” Marcello looked shocked by that revelation. The Orc began rubbing his scalp, feeling the stress of the position exploding “I shouldn’t have taken this promotion.”

Marcello took another swipe of his knife, cutting another apple slice, “That’s the problem with us career soldiers; willing to jump on a sword for something that will make our hair gray and shorten our life spans by another few decades from the build up of stress. I trust your judgement, you know. We’ve been through a lot. Me, you, and Shadow. But the others-” 

“They think i’m a relic of a shameful age; another stupid Orc obsessed with proving his worth, he interjected, “I don’t give a shit about any of that, let everyone think im a rot-brained greenskin. Makes my job easier for me”  He paused, giving a look of pure, tiredness, “The only thing that matters is our honor.” He gripped the table tightly,  “I won’t fail like her like we failed His Majesty Mede.” The Orc’s eyes narrowed, “On this old orc’s honor, I will not fail her.”

[BigBossBalrog]

Fort Sutch

The woman opened her eyes, stifling in a scream, which she barely kept down with a hateful grunt. Her tired, gray eyes peaked open, and began to look at her surroundings. It was a room; a tiny almost closet sized room; something even the least proud aristocats would refuse to sleep in. But the young woman had long-since abandoned that view of herself. 

Home sweet home…

Her room was almost bare; a ramshackle of a bed, a dresser, a small chest to store her few personal belongings. A few bound-tombs, herbs, and tonics she had made herself. She pulled her head back, wiping off the sweat from her head. She felt her oily black hair, before standing up with a groan. She wore nothing but a thin tunic, though she doubted many would care to take a peak, as her body had been warped from the ideal feminine frame; alot of muscle, scarred flesh, and a chest as flat as a rolling pin. Hardly quarters fitting for a Countess. It was barely the size of an officer's quarters. The young woman didn't mind. 

With a yawn, she pushed herself up, removing the white auroch pelt over her sweat soaked skin, one of, if not the only showing of any kind of wealth in the room. Normally, it would be cold oatmeal followed by drills, but her normal duty had been suspended by that super annoying girl, she found herself host too. At the thought of her monarch, the woman's scowl returned as she muttered a prayer of thanks for the fact she had nothing planned with the Empress. 

"Stay with me." A voice played in her hands, as well as the feelings of warmth, followed by a lifetime of memories being rubbed against her. With another grunt, the Tribune hurriedly went too doing her first part of the day. She opened the chest and found a duo of heavy threaded cloth. Without pause, she went to wrap her calloused hands in the fabric. She began to massage them, as images from a time lost past intermingled with the present; the hands of a child covered in blood, before another one became interwoven with a scene of blade being stabbed into someone’s throat. Her head throbbed with pain, causing her to drop her heavy threaded fabric, and then it exploded in more images. She had to concentrate to dispel the images, but the strain caused her temple to flare up in pain. 

Infamous for her promiscuity and clouded in rumors even Sutch had heard, Lady Domitus had assumed the wayward Empress had propositioned her for sex, but all she wanted was to hold her hand, desperate for the warmth of another person. She knew she shouldn’t have accepted them, but curiosity got the better of her. She had seen dark glimpses of her memories during the encounter in the hallway, and she wanted to see more. The Empress was a flame, and like a moth she was burnt by the captivating fire. Though her touch had caused an explosion of her own memories she wanted to forget to touch her mind, and be brought forth into the open, alongside the pain it brought.

She hadn’t had this much trouble controlling her “fits” since her childhood. And once more, a monochrome fell over her vision. 

***

“Nibenese whore…”

A guard whispered under his tongue, as he left the room. The little girl had heard those words often, they weren’t aimed at her however. She was huddled by the holy woman into the room, and instantly an aroma of rot arose from the black surroundings. A faint candlelight played soft light in a sickly hue, revealing a small room, with it’s centerpiece a queen-sized bed, covered in exotic silks and rich pillows, drenched in blood and bile, along with poorly cleaned remnants of shit and piss. Though no human excrements could compare to the person on the bed itself.

The woman’s face was bloated, with pulsating bulges of decay all over her face, whose once pale, lovely face was marred with blotches of rotting flesh, practically stripped away with layers of black and green patches in the parts the bandages didn’t cover. On her neck the same bulbous circles of oozing liquid sat, going all the way down to her legs and through her entire body. Her delicate hands had eroded away to the point the bloody bandages she wore barely covered them, and sagged under the weight, or lack therefore, of her now skeletal body. Her chest rose and fell at random, with each breath acting like it was the last she would utter. 

Lady Claudia’s decision and insistence on personally looking after the sick from the recent plague outbreak in Sutch’s remaining townsfolk had cost her everything. She was content however, she followed Lady Mara’s example.

A trio of servants looked after the decaying woman, her handmaids, who tried desperately to keep her alive. Another startled gasp of air caused their despair to grow, “Hold on milady, don’t give in! Don’t give up! The healer will be here again” An older looking woman wiped a tear from her eyes, tightening her bandages and holding up a bucket of water as she dabbed her Lady’s blazing forehead. “Thersa we need more towels!” A younger girl beside her nodded, before getting up, “Mara by damned, where the hell is the Count?” 

“That blasted fort siege.” The older woman said, yelling, as her temper began to flare, “Abandoning his woman now….men.” She spat, “They should be with them in their final days.” 

“I’d say hours” The healer said sadly, an old looking Priest. He went forward gripping his yellow robes and went forward as he began conjuring a spell of healing. “I was called for healing, but there’s not much restoration magic can do at this point, besides making her comfortable.” The priest went to work right away. The lady’s servants grew dark as they glanced around, before a realization of horror fell upon them. The priest wasn’t alone. 

The little girl sat at the door, looking upon the decayed cadaver who was her mother. A pair of gray eyes peaked underneath her raven hair, and she fiddled with her blue and purple dress. The gray eyes looked hollow, as she had already seen much in her short life so far. 

“Valerie…” the corpse woman spoke. 

“Damn it.” No child should remember their parents like this!. The older woman shouted, “Away with you Valerie! Your mother has the plaque, stick around, and you’ll catch it too-”

“No.” The dying woman managed to mutter weakly. I...I need to speak to my daughter.” The half-rotted woman gazed upward, as she spoke, “Give us a final...a final-” Bile and blood gurgled in her throat, threatening to upchuck it with a howl, but she kept it down, “Just clear the room.” Her handmaidens sadly nodded their heads, and the cruel guards did it without answering, with the priest following suit. When at last the duo were alone, the dying woman faced the little girl beside her bed. Her breath had become shallow, and she could no longer stroke her daughter’s hand, for she was too weak to even move. She swallowed, “Valerie…” She whispered.

“I’m here mother.” The little girl was still very young, but like the other children in this forsaken children, she acted more mature for her age. Despite the risk of contamination, the girl gently held the older woman’s hand. Tears clung to her eyes, “Dry your tears, my daughter.” She wheezed, “Your father has acknowledged you as his daughter, but once mother leaves, your place in this court will be questioned-” She coughed a mouthful of blood, as she got more angry, “This pot of colovian goats and filth. A court is a den of Vipers, this place is a gathering of lions. You..you must be- “Speaking so much had brought the blood and bile up, and she had to fight with her own voice to make sure it did not falter. Your father wanted to raise you as a soldier, and it’s the biggest regret of my life that I let him do so.” He still hasn’t come. Nay, he won’t.  No one but my daughter to mourn this foolish woman...it is enough. Tears would flow if her eyes hadn’t practically rotted away. “Remember…” She seethed, staring into the eyes of the little raven-haired girl with fire, as her arm sprung up and gripped the little girls arm with surprising force, terrifying the child  “Tell no one of your gift child. Not even to the ones you love.” 
***
Her hands curled remembering the pain from her mothers final works to her. She began to wrap the thick pieces of cloth around herself, tightly, but enough to remove the circulation of her blood. Most people assumed it was some kind of complex related to how her mother died; she feared the plaque so badly she always needed her hands covered. 

Gift...more like a curse. As she finished the wrappings, she gazed longingly into her hands. She felt another memory resurface. She fought it, getting out of her bed and putting on her gear. A thin display rack had it. The traditional garb of the Rubrum Guard. 

She began putting the equipment on; first she brought up her leather adornments, not dissimilar to what the Imperial Legion wore, barring the fact it’s leather was made from river-drakes, and her mail darkened mithril. She put on her chain chestguard, grunting under the weight of it’s crest, the sigil of Sutch, before adding her plated leg guards, and arm guards, which she had carved protective enchantments upon with Nordic runes, which glowed a soft shade of blue, alongside the crow feathers she had put on it’s barding. She grunted, as she put on her chainmail coif but wore it down, alongside her leather scarf. At last she wore her crimson mantle, threaded with rune fabric, adorned with raven feathers and strange bone runes she had carved herself. With a huff, she drew her Curved Imperial Sword, tucking it away on her belt, but left the strange crystal dagger, alongside her arrows and bow behind for the day. Without bothering to fix her messy hair, she sighed, finally leaving the tiny quarters she called her room. 

A grunt of “Sir.” arose from her fellows as she passed the barracks of the Red-Garb, though it sounded more impressive then what it was, just another Legion holding ground.Some of them grinned at her, with occasional salutes. So, they know. She assembled they were celebrating her fuck up from the night the Empress had arrived. She seethed, she did not view her meltdown as a moment of pride. Her men respected her, but it was tempered by a strange casualness, a casualness they treated her “beloved” brother in the same way. For all the drilling, and skills they had, they lacked the unbreakable mask of professionalism true Imperial Legionaries had. 

She continued, before standing infront of an assembled drill. A pair of three guards duked out with wooden blades, in the barrack’s “fighting” pit. While shirtless, though such things never the Tribune. With slashes and parries they fought with extraordinary strength and fitness. Braided and bearded, with thick ginder and blonde locks,  the Imperials of Sutch had a more wild Nordic look then their southern cousins, though you could tell they were Imperials by their tan skin and olive eyes. Across their chests they had vidly detailed tattoos and warpaint, done in both Nordic, and old Cyrodiilic styles, making them seem like a moving painting. 

“Xiphos!” The drill-sergeant called, as the sweaty soldiers thrusted their short blades at their opponents. They shattering of wood against harder wood resounded. They wooden blades clashed again, as the soldiers charged at each other, their brothers cheering them on the sideline. The Tribune crossed her arms, Why is brother organizing battle-drills so early? A chill fell over her spin. Before monochrome fell across her vision once again. 

***

The girl slashed fiercely against the older boys wooden shield but it did little to dent it, his solid mass took all of her hits, she was strong, but he was stronger. With a sudden burst of monument, the girl made a stabbing motion at his undefended region, but it was deflected. A cruel grin appeared on the boy’s lips, “You must do better then that sister. Your womanhood has enfeebled you.” 

“Be quiet.” The girl snarled, her black hair falling across her face as she did another strike, using her forward momentum to carry her strike with force she couldn’t muster otherwise. The blade impacted with a crash, crushing into the wooden shield, and causing the other boy’s face to fill with pain. With a snarl, he used his torn shield, slamming it into the girl as he charged forward, “Bastard, know your place!” 

The hit was sudden, and knocked the wind right out of the girl. With a thud she was thrown to the ground, though she recovered. A deep pain erupted from her private area, but she ignored it. From the same source, a deep fatigue had sent in, but she wasn’t a weakling. She was a soldier of sutch, even as a child. Besides-

“Again.” A cold voice arose from the sideline. A bearded man was watching the duo fight; his hair was braided, and he wore a heavy circlet over his troubled brow. Most of his features were draped in shadows, so the little girl couldn’t tell if he felt anything. A heavy layer of sweat formed on both of the children. Despite being exhausted; an exhaustion that was simply a pain woman felt naturally. She still wasn’t quite used to them, it had only been her fourth or so, but she couldn’t let it interfere with her training. With a tired groan, she lifted her wooden sword as she muttered “Ave” in salute. She could barely hold her sword at this point, as she pointed it forward and faced her brother. 

She made a half-hearted strike that was deflected, as he followed off with a brutal shield bash, all with a sneer. The girl was thrown to the ground by the strike, a dull pain erupted from her temple, as she could now taste blood. The shadowed man lifted his finger to the air, before stranding up and gazing down at his offspring with a look of disappointment. “So your period has affected your ability to fight.” Shame and embarrassment filled her, and if on cue, her private area, linen was now stenched in blood. 

“You-you knew?” She said, not being able to look at her father, who was glaring at her harshly.

“Of course, you're my daughter. As i’ve said, a woman should never be excluded from the path of the warrior. But you are inferior, nature has deemed it so. I let you fight, because I knew you would not learn without feeling the curse nature has bestowed upon you. The most important lesson of a warrior, this goes for the both of you, know your limitations.” He pointed at the patch of blood forming, as the pain threatened to overwhelm her. “Do not let pride overwhelm wisdom. Think. As for your womanhood...you shall simply train twice as hard, once your blood haze passes.” 

The girl feverishly nodded, “Yes sir.” 

Her face relaxed, and a stern, but friendly smile played on his lips, “Good soldier. Never forget, your honor as a warrior of Colovia. A Knight of Sutch” He helped his daughter up. He then turned to other child, with a look of utter sternness, “If can barely defeat a girl on her period, you aren’t worth your blade. Be better boy. Understood?” The boy nodded in shame,  “Aye Sir.”

He turned away, leaving the room. The girl steadied herself on her wooden sword as she spat out blood, and took the moment to relax as she coughed. Ther boys first curled into a ball of anger, he resentfully glared at the girl, “You’ll always be inferior to me, bastard. Remember that.”

***
Inferior.... With a snarl the girl stepped forward, drawing her Imperial blade. “Rubrum Guard, make way.” Her fists filled with red-hot hate, as she couldn’t contain the anger that had been forming the last couple of days. The drilling soldiers wisely made room, going to the sidelines and letting the Tribune take out whatever had fallen over her and her brother had a really nasty temper.  With a cry, she began to attack a hay training dummy with her curved sword. 

The first strike was a downward slice, intent on skewering it in half. Even then she felt ashamed, but she imagined it was her half-brother’s head. As her blade cut cleaning through it’s head with a display of skull and strength, she sidestepped back, before making a slashing motion, as her curved blade vibed through the blade, and entered into the dummies midsection. She spat, as she did another attack, a huge slashing motion with her arms extended for range, as she made another backwards step back, before she entered a midway stance, slamming her foot into the ground, as she pushed forward, like she was dancing with the blade. 

All of her attention was punishing the dummy, she didn’t hear a bunch of startled “By the Nine!” “It’s her…” “Your Majesty!” She thrusted the blade, trying to skewering it’s organs as a sweat played on her brow, her focus consumed by the effigy symbolizing the person she both hated and loved the most. 

“Your blade, Tiberius.” 

Better than me? Brother? 

Another flurry of slashes. 

Scheming in the shadows with father. You're nothing but another Imperial snake. 

Her slashing became more erratic, her strikes had none of the skillful grace as before, and she was using her sword like a bludgeon more than anything. 

Clang 

A flash of steel came from behind, as the soldiers surrounding the fighting pitt gasped. With lightning fast reflexes, the girl whirled around as she blocked the strike by a single second.  Steel faced steel, and she quivered in anger for anyone who dared to interrupt her. ‘

A flash of pale blonde hair entered her vision, alongside deep, cold blue eyes, and a mischievous grin. The Empress of Tamriel was the one who striked her. 

Same as she was under the moonlight, Dales stood infront of her, with her blade crossed in a diagonal stance. 

To her shock, she could barely hold the blade back. The Empress was strong for her size, almost impossibly. The girl pressed further with that damn grin, as the Tribune’s had barely recovered in surprise at this point, before she could begin to push back. The Empress made a backwards jump at the resistance, as she landed a few feet away from the rest of the group. The Tribune’s mouth twisted into a frown as she examined her would-be opponent. Like the night before, she wore a simple, yet, elegant set of leather travel clothes, rather than a dress, alongside a black travel-cloak threaded with silver. In her hands she carried a silver longsword, ornate, with purple gems, a silver blade covered in Imperial runes, and a crossguard made from rich steel. The blade of a palace guard. 

“Not a bad block!” She gave her a childish grin, “People usually aren’t able to block my first attack; they think i’m a little goblin!” She laughed, 

What a fucking airhead. Annoyance, all this girl does is annoy me!” She barked, her teeth clenching, “You could have killed me!” 

“I doubt it.” The girl shrugged, displaying her blade to the young fighter. It shimmered with an outlier of glowing blue. “The sword’s dull, could have knocked you out for a little!” She gave her a dumb smile. 

Why is she acting so weird? The Tribune ignored it, instead choosing to withdraw her blade, pointing it at the Empress was a stupid idea, even for her. “You’ve interrupted a practice session, your majesty. I request you let my men train.”

Dales gave her a sharp glare, “Seemed more like an execution. Of a wooden  mannequin.” She glared again, “Imagining a certain someone? Me or your brother?” The Red Guards gave her dark glares at the woman’s casualiness, one the Tribune shared. Dales pointed her dull blade towards the Tribune, “You’ve clearly wanted to hit me this entire time, i’m giving you a chance to do so.  Miss Sweaty-hands!” Dales giggled, no one but the Tribune understood what she meant by those words. And she became fucking pissed. The Empress grinned, like how a bobcat would veer at it’s prey. She whispered  “May I have this dance?” 

Seething, the Tribune took up her sword and pointed it at the Empress. A soft blue aura glowed around it, indicating a blunting spell had been put on it, but they were still bludgeons. 

One of Dales guards, Alexandros spoke up with a strict tone, “Your Majesty I must insist- ”

Dales silenced him with a harsh glare, “No one interrupts us. It’s just a friendly sparring match.” She gave a smile, before it twisted into a stoic expression. She brought up her blade, twirling it before, before she settled for an upwards grip; she pointed her blade at the Tribune with a middle stance, she had it outstretched diagonally in a stance she hadn’t seen barring some old books. It's a Redoran sword-grip.She thinks she’s some kind of Dunmer Blademaster? Cocky bitch. Valerie seethed, not realizing her grip was a tribute to someone she knew. Someone who was now lost to her. 

The two simply looked at the other, as the room fell completely silent. Both waited for the other girl to make the first move. 

What seemed like an eternity extended, both girls eyeing the other waiting for the right time to strike. The Tribune stance changed, she wielded her sword with a downward hold, like a Dai-Blade. She moved a pace forward, causing the Empress herself to switch, to an overhead strike, countering her. She knows her sword-grips, I'll give her that. The Tribune made a step backwards, sheafing her blade, while still holding it’s pommel, all with a narrow look of hatred. The Empress snorted, keeping her overhead stance as she waited for the woman to make a move. She was beginning to notice Lady Domitus had a fiery temper, and she had doubts she could remain this docile for long.

She was right. 

With a fiery scream of her lungs, in sync with a forward push of heavy momentum, the Tribune made her move. As she ran, she drew her blade from it’s sheaf, and combined that motion with a singular attack, all in one like the extension of an ocean wave, all with lighting speed. 

But her blade found nothing but air. The Empress had deftly sidestepped from the attack, retiring her blade for the second. She backed away. Recovering in an instant and pissed, the Tribune’s mouth foamed with anger, as she did another slash, closing the distance with another hit. 

More air. Dales skipped away, with a childish grin. She mocks me! Even angrier than before, the female ranger, brought up her sword for another attack-

Thud.

A dull thud smashed into her chest, alongside an explosion of pain. The Empress had suddenly attacked, throwing her sword’s pommel into the other girl’s stomach while she was off-balance from her dodge, causing her to be thrown backwards. To her surprise, she had almost lost her footing. With a slash, a look of shock was plain on the Ranger’s face, as she had barely managed to recover, bringing her blade in a parry. The Empress had brought her sword down in a diagonal slash, an attack the Tribune was barely able to block. The Empress faced had morphed from cocky, to downright frightening. Something about those eyes screamed murderous intent. There blades locked, and Dales began to push down, clearing intent on smacking her dulled blade into her opponents head. Valeria could barely hold the sword back with all her strength, no matter how she pushed up. She was considering feinting acceptance and throwing a surprise hit on her own, but the Empress sidestepped backwards, freeing the Tribune, only to rush forward, blood lust clear on her face. 

Drips of sweat formed on both of their brows as exhaustion had begun to set in. The Tribune slashed, causing Dales to block the strike, who responded with another attack. Then they disengaged and began to circle the other, like hungry wolves. Eyeing the other up for weaknesses. With bated breath, Dales took the first move, attacking with a sideways strike that was once more blocked. Dull sparks of blue erupted as the two glowing swords made contact. Swearing the Tribune had had enough. She was embarrassing her, her family, and her men by this pathetic display. She had backed away, and returned to her sheathed blade stance. The two faced off, as silence once more arose. They two eyed the other. As if accepting her challenge, the Empress brought back her sideways sword grip. The battle would now be decided by a single stroke. 

With a burst of adrenaline, it was the Lady of Sutch who made the first move, charging forward with an angry scream. She cleared her mind, and imagined herself severing the Empress in two, and put as much speed and force as she could muster in the final blow. Though she looked like a blur to her amazed soldiers, Dales had already seen her attack to it’s fullest. She stepped forward, intent on greeting her. In a mili-second she had switched stance, holding her sword blade in her gloved hands. Just before, Valeria’s blade connected, Dales pushed forward. She gripped her sword in the opposite hand, wielding the blade’s edge within her hands, pointing it’s guard and pommel at the Tribune. She put forward force and let the rest be up to the swordswoman. 

Thud. 

The pommel smashed into the Tribune’s face, throwing her to the ground. She had no time to react to the blow, she had just essentially thrown herself into the Empress’s blade guard, causing the silver pommel to smash herself against her face, just as her sword was inches away from the Empress’s neck. Her face became mired in blood, which was flowing freely from her nose, and all she saw was crimson. 

Even in this state, her instincts as a soldier kicked in. She made a move to grab her discarded weapon, but it was shoved to the side, and someone slammed their heavy food into her arm, pushing it down with the force of an iron cauldron, all the while pointing her blunted blade to her throat. The girl screamed in pain, as she looked up. It was the Empress, with a blank expression. “You're a pretty good swordsman, but those fancy techniques of yours…that’s Dai-Iadio, but you aren’t using one are you?”

“You tricked me!” She protested, 

“A spellblade should know the differences between honor and victory.” She seethed, “Do you yield?” The Empress began to push down on the girl’s arm, crushing it beneath her, causing agony as she screamed in pain. Her soldiers looked enraged, but were placated by the Palace Guards eyeing their own blades. “I said, do you yield?!” 

The other woman mustered her pain, and yelled back in defiance. “Death before dishonor!” 

“Heh.” Dales pushed down again, but eased as the ranger screamed a final time. She stepped back, and joined her guards. She gave her a smile, she was back to her usual self, though it had an aura of disturbing dissonance, as looked like she wanted to murder her before. “That was fun though. I want to fight you again, Tribune." She gave her a wink, before turning around and leaving the furious Tribune on the ground.

***

With her head bowed in shame, the Tribune walked the dirty path through the forrest. A blackness hung underfoot, as the heavens poured rain. Her hands tightened in rage, still shamed due to the hour before. I should have just beaten that bitch to the ground and used my fists to tear her hair apart! She raged. Why the hell did use such flashy dimwitted swordsmanship? It wasn't like her to show off. Why did she during that fight? She knew her men were snickering at her expense, father would have known by now; another reason she had left the city was to avoid a hypocritical lecture; a lecture about staining the family's honor and embarrassing them by losing to the brat from White-Gold. As if it isn't stained enough. The girl's vision became monochrome once more.

*** 
"Ulfric's rebellion worked! The Legion has been driven from Skyrim. The time is now to strike, the White-Gold is weak. Mede is fucking dead!" The girl peaked through the door hole in wonder. She had heard news the Empire had lost another province, but now the traitor himself has been slain?! She wanted to rush in there and join the celebration. But her father silenced her brother with a quick palm, stopping him from speaking further, causing the Tribune to pause. A dim light played in the Count's private study.

"And Amaund Motierre is now Emperor of Tamriel, the Thalmor are flooding into our borders, and chaos reigns. What of it son?" Valerius looked shocked, 
"A sniveling wretch now sits on the Ruby Throne. A weakling!" 

"A weakling who now has an army of Justicar at his beck and call, and six Legions sworn to his name. The others will soon copulate..." The ancient man grabbed the pommel of his Dragon-Sword tightly, and began to cough violently. "

"Father! Don't you see! Join forces with Ulfric. Make a deal with him! Bring together the remaining Legions from Colovia, the Generals from the North will surely support you!" He paused, his olive skin betraying a mania, "The time is now. We've been dragged into the mud by corrupt leaders and Nibenese politicians, Thalmor bootlickers! It's doesn't just have to be Sutch, we can liberate our countrymen! All Imperials!" He looked down, "With you as our rightful Emperor!" 

A slap echoed, causing the girl to stop the gasp escaping from her mouth. Her father had just slammed his palm into her brother's face. 

"I have no ambition for the Ruby Throne! I seek no Tyrant's crown... You foolish boy! Sutch is all that matters, the rest of this place can go to hell. Cyrodiil is mired in stench, corruption, and foulness." He mired, "Whores fuck Justicars in the streets, politicians peddle their lies and bring damnation upon the people. That...animal sits on the Throne, and commands his sycophants to sell out humanity more and more...it's not worth saving anymore. Tell me then son, how will liberate the land with but eight thousand men, and a ruined city that produces naught but death?" 

Valerius  turned around, but was still defiant "Seek out Ulfric Stormcloak, come to an agreement!" Her father brought up his gnarled hand, 

"Ulfric is no fool. I doubt he wanted a total war with Cyrodiil. Not that it matters, that snake serves the beck and call of Alinor. Once he's secured his rule, he look to reconquer the Province." He begun to tug at his beard, "I said nothing, against  about a possible alliance with the Stormcloaks." He paused, "I've spent the last decades building what was smashed by the great war, this place was a pile of ruins! Ruins! And a few companies of Imperial soldiers, huddled in the Fortress. I rebuilt it with the resources available, even when Mede sold us out! I harvested our sacred wood, displeased the spirits, dishonored Morihaus with deals with those harlots in Chorrol, to give us an inkling of an economy again! I brought in the thrown away Legion soldiers who were betrayed by our leaders, rebuilt the Rubrum Guard, rebuilt our watch guards, brought law and order back to the land!" He was shouting now, "I will not let everything I have done to give our people a future gone to waste due to the impulses of a spoiled princeling!" He eyed his son, who was cowering away from his father's presence, his head deep in apology. 

"Sutch's yoke to the Ruby Throne will end my son. But I will not sacrifice our people's future to do so. " He stopped, before adding, "Ulfric feared a total war with the Empire. I have no doubt. Defeating a few Legions brought up local recruits, sure. But not the full might of the Legion. And now, he has to contend with both the Legion, and the might of the Thalmor.  He gambled on the fact that Mede would be preoccupied defending his territory, and not bothering with Skyrim. But now Mede's dead, the Empire is in bed with the High Elves...his gamble failed. He will be swept asunder by the might of the Dragon and the Hawk. Nay my son, Ulfric cannot help us. I doubt he'll be able to help himself..." His father reclined into his chair, "Send an agent to Skyrim. Tell him to contact Captain Snow-Falx." 

"Snow-Falk?" Her brother's eyes opened in surprise, 

"A battlefield-brother of mine. Former-Legion, like most of the Stormcloaks command chain. Instruct the Agent to inform him that he and his liege Lord have friends in the Heartland. I'll write a letter to him."

"But you said-"

"I said I doubted Ulfric could win. Him fighting a prolonged war without our direct aid will benefit our cause, even if he can't win as long as we don't create a paper trail that leads back to us. We'll send them a wagon, filled with the finest made red-wood bows. Disguised of course. And offer them other aid, localised information. We'll observe. I doubt Skyrim can hold against them, but if he can, a Stormcloak victory will benefit our cause."  His son nodded his head, "If Skyrim is somehow victorious, we can take advantage of the chaos here to further Sutch's interests, But not a minute before." He began tapping his throne, sighing, "I'll also pen a letter to...the Countess of Chorrol. She can also help our cause. See." He gave his son a grim look, "Overt action against the crown will lead to ruin, fool. We must bid our time. Lurk in the darkness, until there's a perfect moment to seize. There's no reward without risk, but when that risk involves the demise of everything we've slaved to built, there's another way."  And so begins our shadow rebellion. And with that he sulked back into his chair, the darkness blanketing his face once more. "One more thing, tell your sister none of this." 

"But-" 

"None of it, you hear. " 

The girl skulked off, without bothering to catch the final few words. Her hurt stung...stung with betrayal.

***

Lurk in darkness? A warrior's blade should be reflected in the son. Where is your warrior-pride, "father"? She was disgusted. She understood the wisdom in her father's words and plan when she heard about a year and a half ago, but couldn't accept the pragmatism. She had been taught by him the opposite; you slew your enemies and challenged them to combat. Honor was everything. And he casted it aside so flagrantly. She gripped the edge of her blade as her anger threatened to overtake her. Whatever plot they hatched involving the Empress, it was cowardly and shameful. It's why she shot that arrow, she wanted to turn her into a pincushion! That's how you deal with your enemies!

Her eyes trailed downward to the bag she carried with her before she glanced around. The forest thick canopy let little light through, especially with the constant downpours. Rotten leaves played in the wind, darkening the landscape further. 

Amongst the secret trail she travelled around, were dozens of stones. They topped one another, in dozens of piles, cairns to mark something. The dead. It was unknown to most outsiders, but Sutch had a peculiar way of setting it’s fallen to rest; civilians were placed in barrows not to dissimilar to Nordic ones, but there warriors were buried, mummified, and placed in tombs adorned with cairns tipped with magical stones that protected them. Hundreds of blades were stabbed inside the stone shells, their rusty blades thrusted deep within the earth. But the ones here were special. They belonged to the thousands of men and women who served in the Rubrum Guard, and the Nobles of Sutch over the thousands of years of Sutchian culture. And alongside it, a peculiar ritual preceded this burial; the Du Aberth. And once more, her vision became dyed with crimson.

***
The girl was led deeper into the darkness, a cohort of Ruby-tinged Guards walked with her surrounding her and her family. To be honest, despite being fourteen and a trained woodsman, she was terrified. The silence and darkness these men were emitting were akin to a funeral procession. An assortment of torches lit the way, but they were sparse compared to the overwhelming shadow that extended in the dead of night. She had been taught since she was a little girl, never to leave the city when it became dark, for the forest was full of inhuman things, some older than the city itself. So, to her surprise, she was shocked when she was awoken by her father and brother, and forced to go outside in her nightwear. She shivered under the control, but her brother had firmly wrapped his arms to warm her. 

She had seen hundreds of these strange stone figures assembled across the dark dirt path they had entered from the only inhabited part of the “dungeon”, a pathway blocked by a hidden door she never knew existed. She had been forbidden to speak, so she kept her mouth shut.

They went down the lonely dirt walkway, until they reached what seemed like a clearing, as she approached a large bonfire, the visible flames becoming more and more bright as they got closer and closer. Finally, the cohort reached its destination. 

A secret grotto in the dark forest. 

The bonfire illuminated it, a sparkling waterfall sat at it’s yonder, bright flames dancing across it’s thundering flow of water, mixed with speckles of moonlight. It was large and spacious Overgrown ruins that didn’t look Imperial hung around the vast trees, adorned with veins and moss. Dozens of rusty blades had been planted in the ground around the pretty piece of nature, and black and blue flowers intermingled amongst the grounded blades stuck into the earth. As a final centerpiece, swarms of fireflies played and intermingled in massive swarms, lighting the dark sky with vivid colors of all kinds; sparking blues, twilight reds, and exploding yellows! 

It was quite the sight. But so was what else was in the glade; dozens of smaller bonfires lay. And surrounding it were dozens of people. Of all kinds, Imperials, Redguards, Orismer, even a few Dark Elves joined their ranks. They were bare, besides the red cloaks they wore, pinned by their bronze badges and hidden by hideous bronze-faced masks. She knew who these people were; it was her father’s household guard, The Rubrum Legion. 

 They were feasting on red meat and drinking cups of rich wine. Some of them...were doing things only for the adult eyes. Which caused her to flush in embarrassment. Though busy in their seemingly joyous feast, they all stood at attention as soon as the Count’s party made themselves known. “Hail!” Giving them a Legion salute, the Count responded in kind, before he brought his daughter away from his son, and brought her to the head of the glittering waterfall. The girl hurriedly walked there with her father. As she reached the front of the pool, she realized there was several other youngsters who looked as confused at the girl, as soon as they reached the crystal clear waters the Duke turned around, 

“You are called to serve.” He spoke, his voice thundering as the cloaked and masked soldiers had grown silent, and had fallen behind the group, standing at attention. “Those we do not do what they serve, can step back. They are free to walk to the glade, never to return. No harm will come to you.” The youngsters looked at one another, and remained silent. The Duke suddenly shouted out, his voice echoing across the darkness of the glade, “Who do you serve?!” 

“SUTCH!” All of them shouted in unison. 

He remained stone-faced, “And who is Sutch’s shield?”

“The trunks of the forest, and the wood of our bows!” They all screamed, not just the confused guests to these sacred woods. 

The Duke continued, “And who assails our forest!” 

“The Traitor-Emperor. The Sons of the Eagle.” 

He finally relaxed, “Our enemies gather. They are many, and we are few. But tonight, under the gaze of the Bull-God, our power will grow.” As with that, a trio of bronze masked figures stood forward. Going infront of the inflamed youngsters. 

The Duke spoke, “You are called to serve Sutch. Today, you will join our brotherhood. Today, the brightest of our warriors shall swear themselves to the Bull. Under the harvest moon, you shall become stained with crimson. Tonight, you become a Rubrum Guard.” 

The trio looked at one another with a look of awe. But Valeria was composed. The Duke cleared his throat a sudden onset of sadness,

“But tonight is not just for celebration. It’s a goodbye to dear comrades.” The trio of bronzed face soldiers stepped forward further, kneeling before the pool of water. They took off their bronze helmets, but kept their crimson colored cloaks on. To the girl’s shock, she could now see their advanced age; there was a Nord, an Imperial, and Orc. And from the tired wrinkles they carried they looked like they were in their sixties at the least. Tears lingered on their faces, but they composed themselves. 

“To join the Rubrum Guard, one must leave their place. And we are sworn to our cause for life. It is ordained by our scriptures. A Rubrum Guard lives by the blade, and they die by the blade.” While the duke’s face was pained, he did not cry like the others. He would not dishonour his men by doing so. With a heavy heart he muttered, “In the absence of hope, we create red blossoms. May they mark the spot you fell, your duty forever remembered by the land you dedicated your blades and souls too. Die well brothers. May your seconds deliver you swiftly.” 

And with that, they gave their commander a final salute, stifling their tears. 

The elderly soldiers produced blades, drawing the curved Imperial swords they wielded in defense of their home. They knelt bowed, their heads, and sang songs of poetry. With a uniformness only Imperial soldiers could muster, the gathered revelers knelt in respect to the trio, and the “replacers” who were still confused and ignorant, did so as well. A trio of other masked figures joined the ones standing beneath the waterfall, They took positions behind the older men, blades drawn. But the procession was interrupted. One of the “seconds”, a middle-aged Redguard, pushed himself downward, taking off his bronze mask, and giving a kiss to the Imperial's brow. Though shocked and surprised, the man held him. The two men cried.  The Duke looked saddened, but his voice was strict, 

“I grieve with your lost Adamus, but I will not tolerate another interruption. Please...do your duty. For his sake.” He dried his tears, telling his commander he was sorry. Other soldiers weeped at the display, but kept their strict posture. With a heavy heart, the Redguard put his mask back on, and went into position behind his lover. With a heavy sigh, the men brought up their steel. The Orc whispered, “The Sharp-edged sword, unsheathed, cuts through the void. Within the raging fire a cool wind blows.” And without hesitation, to the shock of the younger trio, the Orc plunged his sword into his stomach. Screaming out a cry of pain, his stomach became painted red, as the blade plunged into it. With an agonizing scream, he began to move the blade circling it into his guts. During this grizzly display, one of the trio began to vomit as the side, but the more vetern soldiers became dead silent, and watched the display in silent respect. After an agonizing moment, the man standing behind the Orc, sniffling in tears, brought his glistening sword into the moonlight, before bringing it down in a crash. Splitting the man’s spine with a single blow of his blade, and slicing the gap in his neck till his head was nearly, but not quite, decapitated. “Farewell.” The executioner said, standing back.

The Imperial suddenly drew his own sword, he simply said "Death poems  are mere delusion —death is death” and without warning plunged his own blade into his stomach, causing crimson to spray across the grass. “With strangled roots I spread, splitting in whole.” He muttered seething as he began to twist his guts around. The Redguard, who was now as serene as the pool, wasted no time as the agonizing countdown to one ended with another strike to the gape of the neck. As the Imperial fell to the ground, he gave his lover a final smile, as he went on to the next life. 

And at last, the Nord stood up, facing his executioner, “As agreed.” He gave the female Dark Elf a sad smile, “You won’t get me to say one of those pansy letters. It’s a shame they don’t let you knife-ears enter Sovngarde. I guess this is goodbye.” 

“I won't miss the smell for sure.” The woman said with a grin of her own, which the Nord returned. And without a second thought, the two took up positions. The Nord wielded a heavy broad-sword, and he drew it, pointing at the girl. “Tsun won’t let me pass his brittle bones if this isn’t real. I’m sorry I can’t hold back.” 

“I never miss.” The Duke gave them both a nod of his head, before bringing down his Dragonsword. He usually accommodated Nordic brothers, and this case was no different.

With a war-scream the tattooed Nord charged forward, “BLOOD BRAKE MY BONES, VARGARA, VAGARA SOVENGARD!”. He brought down his blade, and in a display of blood he was carved up by a flash of blue. Gripping the conjured warblade, the Dark Elf woman stepped forward, causing the blade to scrape against the stunned Nord’s bisection, causing blood to spray all over. He fell over, but was still alive. The paralysed Nord who had his spine severed, managed to mouth,

“Send...send...send me to...Sovengard. Brother...” 

She wasted not a second ending his suffering, plunging her blade into his throat. Tears clung on her eyes, but she said nothing. And with that, the trio was dead. Pools of blood steeped from the grass into the shallow pool, as the waterfall thundered. Valeria turned to her father with a look of shock, she knew about this practice, this ritual sucide, but she didn’t know it was still practiced in Sutch. Without a pause, the Duke stepped forward, “Purify yourselves. Become my brother. Take off your clothing.” The trio stripped naked, and put aside their clothing. Without hesitation, Valeria plunged first into the bloody spring, and was followed by the others. They washed themselves in the spring water, rubbing the water intermingled blood onto their limps. They went under the waterfall and let the spring clean them of their mortal sins. They cried away their innocence, and after a few minutes in the blood stenched water, they came out, naked, and covered in a mixture of blood and water. 

"You are Rubrum Guard. The blood of your now brothers will be your true cloaks, but every Warrior needs a symbol of office. But the purification is not complete. Each of the initiates were given stone knives. "Groom yourselves."

She took the knife, and began to cut her long hair. Others armed with knives arrived to help with the task. She sniffled in tears as the soldiers tore at her raven-locks, with the stone blades, tearing at it till there was nothing left, “Swear upon red-oak. Swear you will ensure it’s crimson hue with your blade and bow.” The girl's face became stone-cold, as the desire to cry left her, as if she was expelling her remaining innocence. Her gray eyes hardened, the killer instinct her father had been installing into her " I swear she said." 

He nodded, the Count went up to her and placed his hand on her shoulder, his face beaming with proud, "Welcome, Valerie of Sutch. Welcome my brother." The assembled soldiers all cheered, raising their blades and bows into the sky. "Welcome Valerie of Sutch! Welcome my Brother!" She cried tears of joy, she had never felt as welcome or accepted, or loved at this very moment. Her half-brother stood infront of her, his arms crossed. He had a frown, but it soon melted to a grin. "Welcome Valerie of Sutch! Welcome my Brother!" She hugged him. This was going to be a night to remember...

...

Screams echoed. The screams of terrified people. With a shock, the naked woman turned, to see her father adopt a darkened glance. "We have one final duty." The screams became maniac, as the darkness entered. All the bronze-faced soldiers glanced into the woods. Something was rolled into the glade...something horrible.

The wooden effigy of a bull.

It was giant, and made from wood. Wicker, in the form of a monstrous Minotaur. The thing bellowed in the darkness of the grotto, with branches and makeshift trappings holding it barely together. It made...it made her sick to look at. Dozens of bits of it wingled like some kind of disgusting insect, flowing it's fabric like it was alive. The screams echoed through it...and then the girl had a horrible realization. 

There were people inside.

They screamed, begging to be let outside, they huddled together, as the bronze-faced killers watched them in silent mockery. 

The disgusting monument was presented to the watery depths of the spring. It was being wheeled by a squad of Rubrum Guard, who stood at attention, just behind them. A figure was presented to the Duke, a High Elf clad in dark robes. A Thalmor Justicar. The soldiers removed his black hood, revealing a typical High Elf, though instead of the sneering smugness most Agents of the Dominion had, this one looked terrified. He mumbled, "You...you-filthy monkeys! Your Emperor will hear of this! Alinor will bring it's fist smashing down! Don't you dare harm me-'' The Count gave him a slap of his palm, He spoke up, 

"Our loyalty is to Sutch, but we are all servants of Morihaus. The true Morihaus, not the pathetic fake effigy the rest in our country pray to. He is a Bull-God Render, and he demands red flesh.," He went beside his daughter and pointed to the Justicar, who was screaming for "the apes not to touch him".

“The Thalmor are Eagles in sheep's clothing. They’ll devour us, under the guise of friendship. All of humanity. So, child. I taught you to hunt them, yes?” The stern faced man once more pointed towards the skeletal tree, and the wrangling masked figure. “Eagle in the shape of Elves. We are Dragons. We will devour them first.” With that he indicated for the men to put him inside the wickerbull, but was stopped by a cry. "Wait," The Countess, or Guardsman as she was now, approached the black hooded figure who glared at her in defiance, she removed her hand bindings and drew her dagger.  She inched towards him, hesitating if she should do this or not. But her curiosity got the better of her. Her knife trailed across the fabric, and hidden from the others she touched him on the shoulder.

Thousands of memories poured into her mind, and she wanted to scream like a little girl.  But she kept it inside, instead she stabbed him in the shoulder, and spat in his face, "Black robe!" She pushed him forward as he began to protest once more, "YOU FUCKING APES, WE"LL KILL YOUR CHILDREN, BREED YOUR WIVES WITH PIGS! SOMEDAY WE"LL COME FOR YOU ALL! DEGENERATE PARASITES!" He wailed into the night as thrown into the opening map of the Minotaur, which was locked once again. The screams of the Elves. 

The Count muttered, “The Du Aberth has been conducted by the Rubrum Guard since time immemorial, since the eons when the Bull-Men of Car Ahrodis ruled our people. It is our sacred duty. One who does not relish in, but the god’s provide; our most hated foes shall be used this hallowed moonlit night,” He looked at the effigy plainly, "In time immemorial, our own people offered themselves to a hollowed feast. But we can offer our enemies instead." He gave the girl a look, "Do not enjoy this. They are parasites that must be killed, but still people. This is a horrible way to die. But all must do our duty. You may not understand yet, but this ensures the safety of Sutch beyond what our bows and arrows can provide '' The girl solemnly nodded her head. Surely her father knew best-

"Bring in the other sacrifices."  With one glimpse her hurt dropped to the abyss. 

Her father's men were carrying a little Elven boy and a woman. The boy looked like he couldn't be older than twelve. He screamed at the top of his lungs ``Save me! Please save me Auriel! Save me from the savages!" The bronze masked barbarians glared at him silently, causing him to scream in horror. The woman was gagged, but her eyes were covered in tears, her muffled screams echoed into the knight as she fought her bindings trying to get to her son. But to no avail. Valeria looked to her father in shock, “What-what are we doing?” 

“Doing what must be done.” Her father said resolutely. 

She screamed, “What do you fucking mean?!” The other soldiers glared at her, but were stopped by the Count. He glared back, “I told you, girl. They’ll kill us if we don’t kill them first. That child is the son of a Justicar. How many innocents will he grow to murder? Won’t he seek revenge for his father? That Justicar brought his escort with the hopes he could bring us to heel, oppress our fields with heretic burnings and tortures, all mandated by White-Gold to be done to Imperial citizens! The child needs to die. I take no pleasure in doing it. But there’s a way to be merciful…” He threw his bow down to her feet with a duo of crystal-tipped arrows. He spoke with a deep groan, “The Du Aberth allows for one of it’s victims to die a painless death away from the fiery wicker of the bull. I will allow you to save this Elven child you call innocent from a fiery death...but they will still die. How much pain they’ll endure is up to you. 

As her mind raced, the naked woman glanced to the ground, eyeing the fiery grass reflected. “Save them from a fiery death…” She picked up the bow, her hands trembling as she aimed it forward. She stopped as her grip loosened from the sheer spams her hand was having. The little elf boy sobbed, the human hands began to tremble as the grip on her bowstring faltered. “You have the arrow of mercy, kill her. Or…”  Her father flickered his dragon-sword, causing the flame to play around the screaming duo, who had been thrown into the front of the effigy, the bronze-faced barbarians grunted widely, screaming as the child was hugging his mother, begging for mercy. The girl swallowed hard….before she dropped the bow. She gave her father a defiant look, “There...there is no honour in this. I will not stain my blade with the blood of a child!” 

“It’s truly a shame you have yet to understand Arkay’s mercy, child.” And with a flick of his sword, the wicker bull was consumed by a raging inferno. Valeria screamed as she rushed forward, only to be stopped by her brother who pulled her back. The High Elves became consumed by the inferno, as the girl pushed herself back with a look of pure horror.  They screamed as the flames ate away from them with such intensity nothing but two charred corpses remained at her feet. Their faces contorted with the agony of the Dragonsword’s fury, especially the Justicar’s son, whose last moments were spent in abject agony.  Like the ashes of a bonfire, gray ashes hug the bodies like they’d been buried by snow. The Count gave his daughter a sad look, as he put on his bronze mask, and joined the other who had turned away. She fell to the floor, and began to weep; this was her fault. Her doing. In the shadows of the forest, a chill suddenly went over her. As the screams of the dying wickerbull sounded across the night, she saw something in the dark woods. Watching the burning inferno, she saw a giant figure, wearing the skull of a bull, and the hide of wood. Wielding a great axe of enormous proportions, the figure, under the backdrop of the burning wicker-bull, faded into the shadows as soon as he arrived. 

***
A burnt out husk lingered in the grotto, alongside the remains of buried blades and ruins that looked inhuman. Rain fell from the dark clouds, submerging the Countess in the torrential downpour. Her hands lingered by her side, as she felt the bitter-sweet warmth of that person she had just gotten humiliated by. She didn’t want to think of her family's atrocities, but they kept coming. 

She had let the Empress hold her hand for the simple reason she wanted to glimpse her memories like she had with that Justicar. See if she was the creature she was raised to hate. The negative void was still in her gut, after seeing her memories, but was less of a burning hole, and more of a freezing chill.  Had it become...pity? Lashing out against something as black as the Thalmor...and becoming consumed by it. Letting it mold you, shame you, and turn you into as vile as the knife-ears..She glanced at the bound hands, the hatred of the Empire had consumed her father, and it had consumed her brother. They conspired treason and who knows what else to free Sutch from the yolk of the Ruby Throne, without her priv..That she knew for sure. And they told her nothing. Skulking in the dark like a bunch of weaklings, doing dishonorable things. Weak as always. She smiled sadly. But it was for the sake of Sutch, she had been told that so many times. 

Yet....Sutch was still a desolate ruin. It’s people still suffered. They went hungry. Plague ravaged them. With a sigh, she touched the makeshift stone-shrine, and placed the trio of objects she had taken such an effort to smuggle out. The first was a small wooden horse; crafted from hours of labour by knife and hand. The other was a doll, embroided with fancy clothing, one of her few possessions she kept from her childhood. And the last was a wooden practice sword, made for a young boy of the finest redwood available. The toys of a child who would never see adulthood because of her. Her inability to do anything. She glared at her sword, letting the rain fall over her head. The truth is I've never had any honor. Honor is standing up for what I believe is right, and I can’t do that. I can’t go against my family.” She glared up into the dying sky, and prayed for the souls of those killed that night. 
 

[The Good Doctor]

Endar and Baldur
Kyne's Watch
 

The scrying was complete. The boy Daric Red-Snow was hidden no longer, and now it was time for Endar to return to the task at hand.

"You have a month, Telvanni," said High King Baldur, who stood just outside the ritual circle with an unreadable look on his face. "A month to forge this weapon. After that, we march to war, with or without it."

Endar nodded, and the king turned to share a few words with the Breton knight who had fathered the missing boy. They were preparing for a daring mission of some sort that would no doubt end horribly, but that part was none of the Telvanni's concern.

A month. If the Roscrean craftsmen did not arrive soon, Endar would have to spend half that time just finding suitable replacements. He was starting to weigh the pros and cons of resorting to mind-enslavement when Baldur spoke loudly to everyone in the room.

"If anyone impedes the progress of this weapon, or gets in the elf's way, apprehend them, or kill them if necessary. That is an order."

That's more like it. The Nords of Skyrim may have been superstitious to a fault, but their king was different. When first they'd met, it had been caution that Red-Snow had regarded Endar with, not fear, and justified caution at that. He saw the value in working with allies that most of his kind would sooner turn away. The humans will need leaders like this if they're to have any chance against the Thalmor. Hopefully he doesn't die horribly.

Endar stepped over the script he had painted on the floor and approached the king. "If there is nothing else, I will be in my room."

"We will speak, once I am done here," he said, nodding in recognition. "I feel there may be much to gain in doing so."

"Perhaps so." Endar turned and headed upstairs. As he went, he motioned for his servant to follow. "Come, Lonny."

The Nord hurried after him, saying: "It's Lodi. Named after me pa, y'know." He squeezed between a couple of Grim Ones, " 'Scuse me, Telvinny comin' through." He took care not to bump into Baldur, nodding. "High King, Sir, Baldur, mighty joyed yer son's still livin'."

The King’s eyes were fierce, but softened suddenly, as his eyes met Lodi. He nodded respectfully, and went back to whatever dark thoughts haunted him, though if there were such thoughts visible on the King's face, they hadn't even so much as caught Lodi's eye. Oblivious, the wizard's hireling continued upstairs and out of sight.

Though he wasn't aware of it, Baldur sensed magic in a very specific way that differed from his brothers in arms. In fact, in that way you could say it was uniform. Some sensed it simply as the mages did, be it a heavy power in the air, or an involuntary effect on the body that resembled an allergic reaction. 

In Baldur's case, it was a nagging feeling... a memory... one he did not wish to recall... and the closer he came to sources of magicka, the closer he got to almost recalling.. something. Yet, it was always just out of reach. He could try all he'd like to remember, yet all he could picture, all he could comprehend was symbols that he could not translate, and yet felt familiar still, and the feeling of something drawing him in. 

It was as though there were a block in his mind, a dam. And magic, the ever present flow, was wearing it down.

It was this disturbing predicament that made his disposition sour as he stepped once more into the room of Telvanni Wizard Endar Drenim. His every being as a Nord told him to leave that place, and yet just like the memory that he could not recall, something drew him in. Was it a malevolent force, or merely curiosity? 

"The khajiit have a saying... curiosity killed the cat, and his name was Lorkhaj." he said to himself as he stood in the room, forgetting momentarily that Endar was even present. "Greetings, Telvanni," he said finally, snapping from his sudden trance of self-epiphanic realization. "Thank you for your help in finding my son."

"What is that thing you people say?" The Dunmer's back was facing him, but when he turned, Baldur saw that he was holding a small vial of something blue. "It was the right thing to do."
Endar downed the potion in one gulp, grunted, then set the vial aside. "I have hope that this good deed will earn me a measure of trust."

"To my kin, you are a devil elf, come decorated in the script of Herma Mora and his kin. A thing to lead me off of the path of Shor and into the Woodland Man's forest. You aren't dead, so... it's a start."

"And to you?"

Baldur looked away from him at an angle, then settled back on him. He shrugged. "A means to an end."

The elf nodded, seemingly satisfied by the answer. In truth, Endar was again pleased to find that the Nord had a head on his shoulders. "Then we have an understanding."
He waved his hand, and the door closed behind Baldur, a muffle rune burning into its center. At the same time, the room's only chair slid across to the Nord's side. Endar beckoned to it. "It's no throne," he admitted, "but I suspect you'll find it preferable to a daedroth summoned in the shape of one. For all my skill in binding, the furniture always ends up far too jagged."

“You’re an amusing one,” said Baldur, chuckling as he took his seat. “I have no throne here in this town. Mine technically is in Eastmarch but... I make do without it. You too are technically quite far from your station. I know you aren’t here to make friends so, what is your ‘end’? Truthfully.”

"Truthfully?" Endar joined Baldur in sitting, crossing his legs in the air as he cast a levitation spell. "I suspect that my goals here are the same as yours. Truthfully, I have no love for the Aldmeri Dominion, and it seems as though this alliance of yours stands a chance -a slight one, mind you, but not insignificant- at bringing it to the ruin of its predecessors. I would not waste time offering my considerable aid if it appeared otherwise."
A gourd-shaped clay bottle and two cups floated from the nearby counter into the space between them. It poured into one cup, then hovered over the other. "Sujamma?" offered the elf. "Your man downstairs gifted it to me."

"Did he now," said Baldur, taking the cup and quickly downing it. "Wasn't aware Torald was in the habit of giving away my drink, but at least it's not the good stuff." The king made a face but kept his drink down all the same. "You know, you could've poisoned me just now. And yet I feel the need for strong drink, today of all days."

Endar drew in his own cup, taking hold of it in both hands. "Do not worry. If I wished you harm, poison would not have been the first method I would have attempted. In the past, I have found exploding couriers to be considerably more reliable. And amusing." He chuckled and took a sip. "Though I hope that the man leading such an important alliance would be well-guarded against many such threats."

“Well guarded, but not invulnerable,” said the king. “Exploding couriers... very Dunmeri. Brings me back to the civil war at Pale Pass.”

"Oh? Were similar methods used then?"

“I had some Dunmer in my employ, yes. If you think one is effective, try a whole counter wave of them charging your front line.”

"I am surprised that you found a whole group of Dunmer willing to give their lives. Was it hatred of the Empire that motivated them?"

“There’s no simple answer for why men choose to die. Even with the promise of Sovngarde, that is never an easy choice. Some probably hated the Empire, others wanted to prove their people’s worth. Each man’s answer is their own. All I did was show them how to die gloriously, and with purpose.”

"I see. That at least is very Nordic indeed. In my own experience, the threat of imminent cataclysm has proven to be a sufficient motivator for getting others to sacrifice their lives." Endar finished his drink, then refilled the cup. The bottle then drifted back to Baldur's side. "Will you have another?"

He made a quick gesture of the hand and held out his cup. "Well your people weren't exactly convinced that the Imperial or Thalmor threat was any concern of theirs... to be honest it impressed me seeing any Dunmer sign up at all. Let alone give their lives. It takes acute awareness of the world's state for someone from a foreign land to fight our battles for us. Which is why we're here I suppose. Sharing drinks."

"Such sentiments are rare, no doubt, especially among my people. Though I must confess that I have no intention of giving my life as your friends did. I still have much to do, and death would present quite the obstacle for most of it."

“Neither do I.... Nords are too eager to give their lives. I’m looking to make a lasting contribution to the world, for the sake of family. You might not have the same motivations, but point is neither of us wants to die needlessly. Which is all well and good, of course. But I won’t know how viable my plans are truly until I reach Dominion lands proper.”

Endar raised a brow. He had heard nearly the same sentence spoken the same way a thousand times before. The only difference was what the king called 'plans' most Telvanni would call 'experiments'. "You have an idea. A hypothesis you intend to test."

“I do. It’s never been tested... that is, no one has ever intentionally caused a wild hunt. But under the right amount of societal stress and under the right conditions... I do believe we can make the Dominion eat itself from the inside out. Literally.”

"Interesting." Endar was pleased that Baldur had a mind for more than conventional invasion, though he wondered if the king understood the magnitude of the risk. "A proper wild hunt would indeed cause great havoc in Valenwood. But you are not the first to have this thought. Numerous Bosmer have tried, but the Thalmor have many safeguards in place. Green-wards, Silvenari contingencies. I can provide information on some of these, of course, but not all."

“Tell me everything you know,” said Baldur. “And I’ll tell you what I intend to do.”

"Everything I know..." Endar considered that for a moment. "How long do you have?"

“A month,” said Baldur, grabbing the floaty bottle and pouring his own drink.

"You had best get comfortable then," he replied as last remaining drops of Sujamma trickled into Baldur's cup. "Because that is not nearly long enough."

[The Good Doctor]

Kyne's Watch
 

The light of the moons hit the Time Tree in a way that made its snow-covered leaves appear to glow against the night sky. Or rather, morning. Mila felt like it had been a lifetime ago when she'd jumped into the freezing Sea of Ghosts after Baldur, yet it had only been earlier that evening. The arrival of Maric and everything that came after had somehow managed to overshadow that particular brush with death. And then there was Endar...

"You never told me that your wizard was a Telvanni Lord," Roseloe whispered into her ear. "How could you have traveled so long with such a mage and yet failed to learn a single spell?"

"I thought he was dead." Mila stared at the tree, watched one of its smaller limbs snap under the weight of snowfall. "Boldir... well, Boldir axed him. Right here." Mila made a motion down her torso, tracing where she too had been scarred in that bizarre encounter. "He said he killed him."

"Boldir? Your Boldir, slaying a Master of House Telvanni?" The witchbug laughed. "My dear, if you could even comprehend the absurdity of such a notion." She paused abruptly. "Hang on, was this the same battle that resulted in your unfortunate soul-predicament with Lord Vile?"

"Don't say his name." Mila hissed, remembering what Baldur had told her about evoking the devil's name. She had never heeded him before, but if there was any time and place where going against that advice felt wrong, it was while kneeling in front of the tree of Kyne. "Not here."

"If I had pupils, I'd be rolling my eyes. These backwards-"

"Yes," Mila interrupted before the witch could go on a tangent about the silliness of Nords. "It was just afterwards that we got sucked into that fiery gate." A long silence followed, Mila continuing to watch the falling snow, hoping for once that the witch would have something to say. But she didn't. At last, Mila said quietly. "It was him, wasn't it? Endar is the one who stole my soul."

There was a hesitation. "It could have been, or perhaps it was one of the necromancers you spoke of."

"They were all dead or gone," Mila answered, thinking back on Boldir's recounting of the events. A part of her had long suspected Endar, ever since Roseloe pieced together what she had been through. But there had always been that consolation:

Endar was dead.

In her mind, it had to be someone else. Someone Boldir missed, regardless of how improbable that might have been. Now, though... "There is no one else. The portal was his. If he made it through like we did, then maybe that's how he survived his wounds. My soul for his life."

"Don't be brash, girl. You don't know for certain."

"You're right, I don't know for certain."
Mila remembered the pain she'd felt after waking in Oblivion, an excruciating burn that ran crooked down her sternum, leaving behind a scar that almost looked like it came from an axe... very much like the one Boldir had left embedded in Drenim's chest.
"But I'm pretty damn sure."

[BigBossBalrog]

Dales, Sutch  
Sunrise, 

The vermillion haze of sun-rise dyed the world in a rising crimson , Fort Sutch bareness still looked odd, but the born-again sunlight gave it a certain charm. The early tranquility, however, was broken by a sharp, but blunt statement, servants eagerly pushed themselves forward in their duties“ No.” The black haired girl said gloomy as she hurried paced away, “I have military matters to attend to this morning, my apologies. Now if you’ll excuse me, Your Majesty.” 

“You didn’t hear my offer!” The Empress, acting more like a hyperactive child, put up her hands. Dales had awoken a little bit before, and had decided it would be a good idea to learn more about the city she was born in, and what better person to ask then the Countess herself?

Valeria wanted to chortout a spittle of disgust at the prospect of being the Empress’s tour guide for a full day, after that humiliating showing yesterday (she was so embarrassed she hadn’t returned to the barracks since that horrible display; she had been disarmed by her family’s most hated foe! A little girl!). She wanted to jump in a hole and die. She didn’t quite detest the Imperial Monarch anymore, but that didn’t mean she had to like her. She pressed forward, only to be stopped,

“A rematch! All I want is a tour of your grand city, nothing more!” The Tribune stopped in her tracks, looking behind with a grunt. Dales gave her a stupid smile, “If you want to redeem your lost-”

“It was a fluke.” She spat. Dales shrugged, in response, 

“Wouldn’t you want to prove that?”

“The only thing that matters is what I believe. Good day.”  And with that she crossed her arms with certainty, as she began to leave.

****
“What stonework!” The young Empress eagerly yelled as she gazed upon a grand tower easter of the Keep.  Dales kept her blonde locks flowing in the wind, as she gazed back at her dreary guide. How the hell was I suckered into this? Her pride had gotten the better of her; she didn’t much care for how her men viewed her as a disgusting cretin losing to a green,hated Thalmor whore, but the fact she knew she lost was something she couldn’t accept. 

What the fuck was I doing with that swordsmanship. She trailed behind the absent minded Empress through the stone-laden streets of Sutch. She let her anger get the best of her, and she was sure she lost a great deal of respect amongst her soldiers, respect she had spent half a decade earning. 

“I think that’s a ballista on the top!” The Empress shouted leering upwards while placing her hand to her brow like a kid, causing the passerbyers to give her strange looks and her soldiers to shake their heads. Valeria groaned, She’s too much of a fucking airhead too really despise.  This was the famed Dragon-Empress of White-Gold?

“Yes, that's a ballista, Your Majesty.”  The Countess eyed the stationary siege emplacement on the command tower; Fort Wallah, as they called it. The circular tower could be a centerpiece Fortress itself in a smaller Imperial Fort, with large stone walls and long hallways, with several guard posts a piece. “There used to be eight of them.” She half-heartedly pointed to different parts of the city, “With eight towers before the Dominion knocked them down.”

“How many are left?” The blonde haired girl pondered, 

Valeria stayed silent, causing Dales to grin.

“Afraid of giving up military secrets to the foreign ruler?” She coyed, teasing her, “Oh wait, I believe I'm the Empress. And it’s technically treason to withhold information as an Imperial citizen.” Dales smirked, causing Valeria to groan,

“You would have lopped off my head if you cared about that back when we first met.” She muttered glumly, 

Dales laughed “True! But I don’t think there’s much I can do with that information!” 

“One.” Valeria finally said after a minute paused, “Only one to survive the Dominion’s balefire.” She gazed at the other towers with a look of sorrow, before she glanced at the crumbling outer wall, the once mighty carved stonework just as ruined as the rest of the decaying city. The wind reached down, causing both girls to look sorrowfully at its state, the duo’s escort watching any with the same sadness. Her piercing gray eyes gazed up into the sky with an emotionless expression, “Even half a dozen heavy ballista can stall a siege; they brought countless siege-towers with their bolts and rendered infantry formations, but it just drove the Dominion war-machine harder.  Their own constructs proved far more accurate, and their mages spells far more devastating. The outer-wall’s foundations were ripped apart by waves of searing baleflame, and the rest pounded by Dominion Hawk-Renders; a sea of falling stars as my father called them. A breathless sight; hundreds of falling stars falling down on the city. Burning soldiers, and citizens alike.” 

Dales solemnly said, “We won.” 

“My father won!” She suddenly shouted, causing people to glance at the royal escort in confusion. She brought down her voice, but she was clearly still angry, “My father won; Sutch broke the siege without Legion reinforcements. They threw everything they had at us, and we slaughtered them like animals! Sutch stood alone, and withstood the storm of the Dominion.” Her voice was barely a whisper at this point, “And then, White-Gold signed the concordat.”  

Dales became uncomfortable, most of their conversations always went to this topic; “I-” She paused, deeply careful with her next words, finally sighing. “I won’t defend the concordat to you, Valeria. Not me.” For a brief second, images played in her head; images of tearful Imperial citizens gripping Amulets of Tiber Septim amongst a chorus of agony, but she cast them aside, “But it’s intent was to protect Imperial citizens-”

“Not this bullshit again-” Valeria rolled her eyes, huffing as she crossed her arms, 

“Misguided, yes. Wrong, yes. But it was-” 

“Disgusting.” Valeria barked, facing the Empress’s cold gaze straight with her own, “It’s disgusting, even moral royalists like yourself used the same tired shit; “We were well-intentioned!”, “We did it for the Empire!” “We did it to protect ourselves!”!” Before Dales could respond the Countess continued, “It was submission; submission rooted in the desire for White-Gold to protect itself. Our fields burned, or cities ruined, and they let the Thalmor commit even more atrocities, mandated and helped by Imperial authorities. It was a betrayal.” She gazed upon the deep blue sky, “For the Nords. For the Redguards. The provincials perspective, while understandable, that the White Gold Concordat was the quintessential “Imperial” thing to do, always enraged me. For it is an utter betrayal of Imperials themselves; our swords and shields have forged three Empires, conquered the entire continent, and laid waste to our enemies.  And they made us bow; abandon our god’s. Shame us for being of the Blood of Cyrodiil. What more of a betrayal can there be?” She gave her a cold glare. One that kept the Empress silent and shamed. 

Before the Countess could move onward; she was stopped by Dales entering the tower. “What are you doing?” Following behind, to her annoyance the Empress was scaling the stone fortification, only stopping to give a greeting to the guards on duty. The others followed behind, until a gap of blinding light revealed the spire above; a circular stone centerpiece, with arrow slits and stone merlon’s, with the siege emplacement straight in the middle. 

The Baslista itself was impressive; like most grand siege weaponry, but it was a regular type. It’s wooden frame was great, with a few metal bits and crimson Imperial symbolism heaped upon it. A bolt was currently strung upon it, it’s tip aimed at the red forest, with it’s engineer primed and ready to fire it. Beyond. Valeria observed the Empress eyeing the weapon with wonder, as she glanced from tower to weapon, and then viceversa, the gentle wind carrying her blonde locks. The happiness in her eyes, the sprite-like joy in her movements, all followed by a childish laugh. This was the same woman who was about to snap her shoulder without a second thought.

“She’s a beauty.” Dales approached the ballista and began to examine it. The arbalest on duty gave her a strange look, before she muttered, “Aye, Your Majesty. That she is.” She was older, looked like she was in her fifties; not many people in Sutch were trained to use Siege Weaponry, so they didn’t have much of a choice. Her name escaped  the Countess, though Dales recognised the Sutchian’s aged face. There was deep rooted resentment like the other soldiers, but she hid hers well. 

Dales asked, “You're its keeper?”

“Aye, Your Majesty. Furia Fursos, Sergeant and Arbalest of the Sutch Vigiles. Former Imperial Legionnaire.” She proudly placed her crossbow to the stone ground and did a Legion salute. Dales began to touch the wooden as she eyed it with curiosity. Valeria crossed her arms, Ah, Furia was her name. 

“The walls of the Imperial City are defended by such emplacements, though I've never really seen them up close. How many bolts can they fire?” 

“An experienced crew can cock and fire two bolts a minute.” She said, her voice dripping with pride. She had relaxed considerably, and even a small play on her lips.  “It’s arm is strengthened by bronze and it can deliver an iron tipped bolt from a mile away.”

 Dales gave the older Imperial a bashful smile as she gripped the horsehair, “Splendid! I myself know little of siege warfare, you must be a skilled engineer!” 

She nodded her head “Though I indeed lord over it, it takes a full crew of four to properly operate, so the sole credit doesn't belong to me.”  The two continued to chat, while the rest of the escort watched the group with little attention, but it caused Valeria to raise her eyebrows. She had seen glimpses of it with her palace guards, but the Empress was very casual around commoners. She was known to be, but Valeria had assumed it was the usual propaganda. If one was a cynical sort, they could assume she was putting it on for show, but the birth of her smile, the casualness in her tone, and the genuinely friendly demeanor painted as being honest. It surprised the Tribune.

****
“I think the introduction of aqueducts should be a reason enough for the other provinces to respect us!” The Empress said joyfully, gazing at the proud set of spiral, bride-like structures prodding out of the city, filled with green overgrowths and vines. 

“Us is very loose.” The younger girl groaned as the Empress’s next place of interest was Sutch aqueducts. She crossed her arms, “I wouldn’t pay the Empire much homage for those bug infested water channels.” 

“Preposterous!” Dales was actually offended. An open minded Imperial is still an Imperial. She deadpanly thought. Cultural posturing was their middle name. 

“Not much different than an overgrown well; only a fool would drink untreated water from an Imperial aqueduct. I’ll tell you that it looks kinda nice.” She muttered gloomy; looking at the Aqueducts stone-frame work, mired with carvings and other intricate detail. For a city as spartan as Sutch, it’s Orc builders really liked stone carvings. “The roads were nicer, till of course the whole societal decay set in.” 

Dales sneered, “Most common folk would kill to have access to Imperial waterways! Our sanitation-”

“Is effective.” The Countess cut her off, “But not perfect. Any kind of large storage of non-flowing water will always become mired in stagnation; disease and bugs will breed. The fact it’s Imperial aqueducts, does not change that.” 

Dales mumbled, giving her an annoyed look, “I think you enjoy downplaying our culture’s success.”

“Bah!” A few of the passerbyers saw the two girls arguing and shook their heads. “Success at oppressing everyone? Besides, it wasn’t Imperials who constructed the aqueducts, it was Orc builders!”

“Pffts with Imperial plans!” Dales stopped in her tracks and sneered. First time her fuse had been blown around the younger girl, “An aqueduct can quench the first of an entire city-” 

“That aqueduct nearly killed the city.” Valeria interrupted, causing Dales to quiet and look in confusion. Valeria was calm on the outside, but her cool had evaporated, “After the Siege, we spent our time trying to rebuild the rubble. Our negligence for the water we were drinking poisoned the dark water deep in the waterway from stagnation and lack of maintenance. Our one main source of water became polluted, and a plaque arose from the stagnated depths. We lost hundreds of people before it was over. Loved ones.” A clear expression of immense pain fell over the girl, which caused Dales to soften, 

“I didn’t know this was a painful topic for you. I’m sorry.” Dales frowned apologetically, 

“It’s fine. How would you know the Daughter of the Count was so invested in santitations so much?” She chucked, “I’m at odds with the notion that being Imperial makes it somehow superior”, a trend our countrymen have exercised since the start of our civilization. Aqueducts, though flawed, are effective because they are aqueducts, not because Imperials invented them.”

“But they are an extension of our culture; a culture that promotes order, cleanness, and stability for all!” Dales pouted, “Can't you see what our stewardship has given the other races? Our roads make it safer for them to travel upon, aqueducts make it so no one will go thirsty, our Legions protect the common-folk of all races. There's been...bad things, we've done, but surely you can see the Empire has been good for Tamriel."

“Our roads. Cyrodiil’s roads lay ruined and broken. You saw the state of the highway.” She lifted her hand to the large structure beside them, “Are aqueducts mirie with filth and decay. Our Legions are scattered in the wind, and people are assailed by bandits. And you speak of other races' problems, while the people of Cyrodiil itself need help?” Dales was downcast, she had already long acknowledged those specific grievances and had taken steps to attempt to correct her; her campaign of eradication against the bandits spoke for themselves. 

“I preach the greatness of Imperial engineering because it is simply better. I will not speak around you; I very much agree that Cyrodiil, and all who call themselves Imperials, have problems we must confront. And we have the opportunity now to fix it. But in the centuries after; when the problems brought on by the Great Wars are finally corrected; it is in our blood, the blood of Dragons and the Heartland, we will look outward, like we’ve always done. Three Empire’s have been forged here, and a fourth will come again. And we shall take what is our duty to protect.”

Valeria was motionless, but a shadow gnawed on her inside. “Did you think maybe the people in the other provinces don’t want to be part of your Empire?” 

“Our Empire”. Dales corrected. 

“Sutch has stood alone since White-Gold. That’s not an answer to my question.” Dale's icy eyes opened, and the girl who had almost dislocated her arm with a smile returned. 

“I believe in all my heart that Imperial leadership has prevented calamity after calamity. Tamriel is better off united under us. We will fix the societal rot brought by the devastation of the Thalmor, and will take our birthright once more.” Her eyes glared under the dying sun, “If the other provinces believe themselves to be better off independent, then they are simply wrong.

“You aren’t like your father.” The younger girl eyed the Empress with a look of understanding and sadness, “But you aren’t so removed from the tyranny of that throne you sit on. People are entitled to their liberty. Why should they suffer the yoke of a foreign ruler’s crown?”

“A true Emperor or Empress does not oppress their people.”  

“Your viewpoint will not be charged, so there’s little to discuss on this matter.” Valeria said resolutely as she walked forward, 

“As will mine.” Dales followed behind with a look of understanding. 

****

“Is-is that Morihaus?" Dales gazed up at the grand statue the younger girl had taken too, just to the side of the entrance to the city, surrounded by vegetation and other overgrowths.

"Before his image was defiled by the Imperial Cult, yes."

It was a great statue; taller than a building, made from a dark rock, carved into the earth itself with powerful tools. A pair of jeweled red eyes sat in stone eye sockets, a thick layer of stone fur sat across, and for horns, a duo of what seemed like actual ivory lay on his heavy head. For a weapon, the stone Bull held a giant crescent axe, adorned with more jewels, with a pair of heavy feathered wings on it's back. "Is this a temple?" Dales glanced around to the oddly bare center, with this heavy vegetation, and the statue itself adorning this part of the city. Valeria knelt in the garden, offering a bow her head to the great bull.

"Nay. Such impudence would be sacrilege." Her visage grew dark, "The Bull-Render place is the dark forest. One inside the city would dishonor him." 

"Bull-Render." Dales glanced up to the sacred statue; "I've seen images of him as a bull, but the Shrines in the cities I've seen have always depicted him as a man." 

"Another lie spread by the Imperial Cult; they've also tried to blahemphous the Old Nordic God's with their false tongue." A look of hatred swept over her face as she made another bow, " Morihaus was a consumer of Elf-Flesh, a tearer of red meat, and butcher of warriors. Alessia's greatest warrior. Most Imperials have forgotten, but Sutch remembers. We honour his children."

"Minotaurs." Dales said. Valeria nodded, 

"They have protected the Heartland far longer than we. The Imperial Cult and those scholars would have you eat up the butchered retellings they peddle. And declare the rest heresy.  That is why most Imperials recognize Mordihaus as a man, instead of what he was. Why his children are bled in the arena and hunted like animals by those who owe them everything. Only Sutch remembers the truth. And will never forget” Dales gazed at the statue, strewing with mixed emotions loneliness. 

****
The grip of twilight had fallen across the city; a dying red flame arose across the soon to be night sky, returning to the blood color it had in the morning. Citizens returned to their houses, soldiers went on to mull about the night patrol, and mothers tucked their children in. The royal escort wandered the ruined streets; talking amongst the guards and citizens, and basked in it’s ruined, but still wonderful culture for hours upon hours until the twilight sky had manifested itself. The darkness encroached from the red forest, basking the land in it’s crimson hue, however briefly it came upon the world. In a courtyard just beyond Fort Sutch, eight people gathered; the Empress of Tamriel, the Countess, and their escorts. 

The two girls faced each other; their hair flowing in the breeze. Both had blades outstretched, the steel withering from the twilight breeze. Dales gripped a silver palace guard sword with the same Redoran guard, while the Countess held an Eastern sword; it resembled a Dai-Blade but was less brittle, with a heavier blade and a far less pronounced curve. They both cackled with blue swirls of energy, indicating they had been blunted by magic. 

Dales smiled at the other, “That was quite a day. Thank you for showing me your city.” 

“You were born here too.” The black haired girl muttered, “A truth many would despise, but something no one can change.”  She brought up her blade, 

“I would have chosen a place more public, no one will see you redeem your previous loss to my blade. If you do, that is.” Dales grinned

“A true warrior should be concerned for their own pride and dignity. No one elses opinion matters to me. This is between me and you.” She paused, “What will you do when the great war is over, Rex Dales?”

“That’s a sudden question.” Dales laughed, as the wind howled in the gathering breeze. 

“It’s but a continuation of our discussion about the aqueduct.”

“A discussion ended by yourself.” Dales responded.   

The girl remained silent. 

“I will rebuild Cyrodiil and Orsimer; devote my life to the betterment of our people. Those we have chosen to follow the banner Dragon.”

Her eyebrows raised in confusion, “Conquest is not on your mind? You said-”

“I said nothing more than I believe we know best for the other provinces; I did not say a single thing about enforcing that belief, you put that in my mouth.” She gave a sad smile; “The god’s have given me the opportunity to help the people that matter; the ones who make the Heartland their home. I do not need to have the glory of the one who will restore the Empire to its peak. I am content to make life easier for those who have chosen to remain.  If the foundation I build leads to future glory, then it is enough. I have no need for it. A monarch's only duty is to provide for their subjects; Theodore can have his power, Baldur his story, and Krojun his hatred. That is my one duty.” 

The black haired girl stayed silent, letting her black locks freely fly under the dying sky.  Without another word, she took a sword stance; the woman let her sword crunch underneath her metal braciers, letting the steel grind against them,  sending a horrible screech to erupt around the group. She took a huge breath of air, and let the never-ending tide of impermanence and nothingness fill within her, she grabbed her sword’s tied up handle and brought up her blade with a release of the air she had gathered.. Like she always did, Valeria Domitus made herself feel like she had only existed in the here and the now; this battle. 

She was a simple blade to be wielded by Sutch.

Dales brought up her own weapon into a diagonal cross-guard, honoring her teacher with her Redoran sword technique. The two girls faced off, under the dying sun. 

They remained motionless for a full minute, seizing the other. Before once more, the Tribune made the first move. She slivered across the courtyard, as she controlled her breathing. Unlike before, her mind was as clear as a gentle pool of water. No anger, no resentment, no emotions. The Empress prepared to strike, with a flurry of feints. She readied her sword arm as the other girl charged forward and let her hand go.

SHINNGGGG

What was supposed to be Dale's feint was caught by the Tribune’s sword. Sparks clashed, as Dales took the offensive and this time aimed to slash her face open. Valaria blocked it in a second. Dales was thrown backwards as she began to retreat, as Valaria launched blow after blow, her strikes so strong it eventually it cause larger gaps to open in the Empress defensives, everytime she had a blade blocked the opening for Valeria to counter-attack became wider and wider, until Dales hands and weapons were practically being thrown side to side. The Empress knew the other girl could see each opening, but she wasn’t taking them, which meant…the more experienced warrior was simply playing with her. 

Getting angry, Dale's face furrowed into a furious expression. She let out a huge breath as she punctuated, changing her sword stance and did a massive downward cut with all her strength. 

The black haired Countess sidestepped away from the attack, and then began to grip her blade in one hand. In a flash of speed, Valeria rushed forward and slammed her fist into the Empress’s stomach. 

The wind was immediately knocked out of the other girl, who spat up a mouthful of blood as soon as the hit connected. A look of shock arose, before the Countess, almost right after the first blow, used her knee to slam the Empress’s groan, which was followed by a full on tackle, throwing the other girl to the floor. Dales slashed at the other girl with her nails and landed a heavy blow of her own to her face, but it wasn’t enough to deter her.

Valeria began to wail on the Empress. She kicked her sword away and then slammed her fist into her stomach again, causing the Empress to spit out another mouthful of blood, as the force from it caused ripples around the skin. Dales could only lift her hands to block her face as Valeria delivered another punch, this time to her ribs, causing bones to crack. She kicked her face, causing blood to form on her temple. But as soon her guards readied themselves to defy orders and rescue their bloodied Empress, Valeria stopped. Taking large mouthfuls of air she got up, and coughed up her own draught of blood, spitting it to the side. “I told you. My father raised me to be a soldier; your victory back there was a fluke. You’ve been trained well, but your experience is lacking.” She harshly barked, letting her raven hair flow in the wind.  She got  up, sweat  pouring from her brow, as she grabbed her sword. The Palace Guards had drawn their own blades at this point, and were ready to execute her here and there, but Dales stopped with a laugh. 
 
Dale's face was swollen and blood-caked, but she managed to spit out, “Fair enough.” But through it, she still smiled. “You win this round...but the Empress of Tamriel will be back again...oh shit. My back. Did you have to punch that hard? Is this how you treat a lady?” Dales giggled, as she tried to get up, but she could barely feel some parts of her body, which were now heavier than a rock. 

“Says the person who almost broke my arm. And cut at my face” The other girl's teeth were reddened from her own injury and you could see scratch marks forming on her bloody face, but for the first time since the Empress arrived, Valeria gave her a small, but genuine smile, “You silly girl. “  The smile wasn’t pronounced but it was there, and for once, Dales could feel warmth coming from the other girl. It changed her impression of her immediately with that simple gesture.  She knelt beside the Empress, with a look of worry, 

“Sorry about that, my body took over as soon as I entered that headspace. Didn't mean so much bloodletting.” 

“Sure. I don’t quite believe you, Lady Domitus.”  

She relaxed, the smile still there, “But like I said, not bad. For a Bosmer.”

“Ouch. Trying to insult my height now?” Dales chucked as she tried to steady herself, but was surprised when a hand was lowered. Glancing at her, the black-haired countess was offering the Empress her hand to help her up, her face was relaxed, but the small smile on her lips matured into a full one.

“You aren’t like the others.” And with that the Empress took the younger girl's hand. 

****
“My father will see you know-” For the first time since that disastrous lunch, Valeria’s brother, Valerius has shown himself to the Empress. He wore full chain mail, but had an expression of confusion witness his sister lightly chuckle towards the Empress. The duo had approached Castle Sutch with an escort, which was shocking enough, but had done so laughing at some hidden joke. The black haired countess became ice cold as soon as her brother came into sight. The Empress simply turned to her, saying, “I shall hope to see again tomorrow, Tribune. Thank you for showing me Sutch.” 

She cooly nodded, but it would be plain to anyone who saw their icy interactions from before, there was a good deal less tension between the two girls now. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Majesty.” The siblings eyed the other, as Valeria quickly added, “Captain.” As she left the Castle Courtyard, heading for the barracks. Upon noticing the dirt and bruise covered monarch, the shocked Tribune asked, “Are you alright? Did my sister-”

“It was a friendly sparring match! No need to concern yourself over it, my good man!” Dales bellowed in a friendly manner, as she dismissed most of her escort, letting a single soldier accompany her, as the two walked into the Fortress and headed to Sutch’s throne room. 

It's darkness was not helped by nightfall, but somehow, without any windows it seemed blacker then the day before when she had visted the Count in the afternoon. Torch scones were everything, but the effects of the shadows were just made more pronouned by their presense. The Count himself sagged and hugged, coughing wildly at several point, but as soon as the Empress came into view, his ancient frame straighened. His father approached the throne, and went forward, whispering to him, before the Count dismissed him with a nod of his head. Valerius gave a final bow to the Empress, before leaving the chamber. 

"I trust you are enjoying your stay, Rex." He got up and bowed his head. 

"Indeed I am, Count. Your children have been very hospitable." 

He chuckled, "Indeed! I hear Valeria has already crossed blades with you! That girl is something." 

She returned the smile, "Twice. Were currently tied." 

He coughed "I was worried you would have forced her to do something else with you."

Dales features immediately darkened. 

"A joke in very poor taste, my apolgies." He mumbled, causing Dales to nod her head. "These things happen when royals visit. I remeber young Titus II's father, took my older sister as a concubine when he visited." He began to cough once more, "But I think we've all had enough pleasentries. The suspense is audible and echoeing the Halls of Fort Sutch." He gripped his Dragonsword pommel, which he had outstetched on his lap, "Tell me, Rex Draconius. Why have you come to my halls?"

She smirked, "Perhaps I wanted to visit family?"

"Bah. I'm old, not blind. Perhaps senile in a few years, but not quite yet. Only an idiot Emperor would do an ole family gathering just as a war is starting." He began to cough, "And while you have made, mistakes, young Dales, I do not think you are an idiot like your father or Titus II." 

Dales paused gazing at the enfeebled noble, his eyes echoing strengh he shouldn't still posses. 

"I neglated to tell my advisers the reason. They wanted to stop me from coming, but I had no choice. You are aware of what happened in the chambers of the Elder Council." 

"Your husband more or less butchered the entire Nibense bloc, if I rember correctly." He began to play with his bird, "But my memory isn't what it used to be...i'm sure the Elder Council has been bloodied countless times before. And as my father used to say, one less Niben in-charge is a boon."

"It was a disgrace." Dales eyes opened in anger. "Purging dissidents is not the answer." 

"It happened when you were at the Moot, did it not?" His heavy eyebrows raised, "Perhaps if you had your husband on a tighter leash and attended the affairs of you realm, instead of meddlign in other nations election, you could have prevented it."

Dales remained silent. Before adding, her eyes cold as ice, "I intend to create a hegmony in Colovia." 

The old man's eyes opened with suprise, as he began to tug at his beard. "And the Niben." She added. "But that's not the topic on hand. Tell me Count." She paused, "Were does the strength of the Empire come from?" Her played with his beard once more, his voice a low growl, 

"A complicated question rex;. multilayered. Some would say the Nords were Empire's strong-arm, they themselves ten fold like to pat themselves on the back. Others would bring up the Orismer; we've incoporated them as loyal Imperials into our Legions as heavy infantry, builders, and blacksmiths." His ancient beady eyes flashed, as he began to cough violently. The Empress went forward, but he put his hand up, "Others would say; Colovia. This is the Legion backyard for a reason. Our people are as much warriors as the Nords, countess warlords have risen from our hills and moutains, and the blood of the North and the Dragon run strong through us. Titus Mede.  Attrebus Mede." 

'I am inclined to agree. Our remaining millitary might is centralised here. I would recontextualize that as power itself." The Count reclined in his throne, letting the Empress speak, "Our Legions are exhausted. Our roads are destroyed. And bandits swarm our territory, as i'm sure you aware." 

"One of the few things your father isn't guilty of doing." He muttered, "Mede let the interior fall to this dissarray with our border." Dales nodded,

"I intend to rebuild Cyrodiil when the war is over. Rebuild those bridges. Those roads. Our infanstructre. And that will start here." Dales raised her voice, "We have been blessed with resources and manpower to do. I would restore the Imperial West to it's glory, and through it the rest of the Empire." 

He looked serious, "The Nibense will be incensed, especially after your husband butchered most of there representatives in the Elder Council. I'm surpised there hasn't been any open rebellion. I suppose war with the Elves and cat-folk will be a good deterent...for now." 

She nodded, "I will visit the Niben as soon as i'm done here; and build alliances to facilitate it. We are strong togther, and not divided. By drawing strength from the West like we've always done, I will facilitate prosperity to the Nibense."  He relaxed his hands, 

"There's generational blood, Your Majesty. Between them, and us." 

"Cyrodiil must overcome them to survive. Our hatred. That's why I came here first." She gazed at the tapestry of the Champion of Cyrodiil, "If the daughter of Emperor Amaund could come here, and forge an alliance with the people in Cyrodiil who hated her the most, then anyone else could do the same. Put aside our hatreds for the betterment of the Empire. My family." She looked like she was on the verge of crying, but she held it in, "Has done so many horrible things, that no amount of wergild will pay for it. But the God's have allowed me this chance to save our people." 

"The Empire is dying." Be begun to cough violently, "I do not lie, Your Majesty. I occasionaly present half-truths, and blurry mirred image of the truth, but I do not lie. There's a part of me, that wants nothing more then to leave it to it's sorry fate. That Sutch should follow the lead of our Nord cousins"

"Understandable." Dales said.

"But once..." He gazed to the stone floor of his ruined throneroom, "I was a patriot. A Legate in the Legion. I served the Dragon and it's people, only to watch it's decline as lesser men drove it into the ground. And I couldn't do anything to stop it." 

"The power of the Ruby Throne has eroded our soul. Sold itself in the name of it's own protection." Dales muttered. "Who am I to fix the scars that have been rended? Such a frail and pathetic thing as me..." She seethed, "I can't do it alone. I can't rebuild without help. That is why I intend..." She paused, "I intend to name a Protector of Colovia, and a Protector of Niben." The man's expression was unchanged but he was clearly very surprised. 

"One will guard the West, the other the East, and wield power given by the Throne to protect the interests of Cyrodiil. They will be chosen by the Crown, and blessed to do so in the name of the Nine. They will help me rebuild Cyrodiil. If the crown must give up a degree of power, so be it. " 

The Count relaxed in his throne, tugging his beard. "And who will be these protectors?" 

"I haven't decided, that's why i'm visting the Counts and Countess's of the realm. To see for myself. Measure the worth of Cyrodiil's elite. Gather allies and rebuild the bonds that were broken by my husband's...and my actions. To build a better Cyrodiil for all. After my trip here, I intend to visit Bruma, and discuss the same matters with Count-Oh my mistake." She stopped herself, "Jarl Balgruuf. i've heard he is a keen admistrator, and capable warrior."  The Count tugged at his beard, 

Dales continued, "I came here, for your support in this endevour." She gave him a sad smile, "Uncle." She finally muttered, "The God's have given me a chance to make things right."

He sighed, "I believe you, daughter of my Niece." 

"I need support. Your word carries much weight with the other Lords of Colovia. If I can gather enough support from the Lords, I can enact the start of my plan, and we can rebuild the North as a stronghold of strength." 

He tugged at his beard, before letting out a long sigh, "You have it then. Rex" He gave a nod of his withered head. Dales simply smiled and bowed her head, a terrible weight had been lifted from her shoulders. "There will be much more to discuss i'm sure; details, many details, but you have my sword in this endever. It will not be easy in any form of the word..." He bellowed deeply. 

"We can discuss it again tommorow, but I grow ill at this hour. Forgive me Your Majesty." 

The girl bowed her head, and turned around, saying "Then I shall leave you; I hope our discussions bear fruit." And without the Empress had excused herself from his presense.

The ancient man collapsed on his throne, and mania had taken over him as soon as the Empress had left his sight. He began to sweat, as his body moved on his own, voices not belong to him played in his head, and parts of himself were forcibly thrown into himself., “By my heart’s death a thousand fold; I am truly sorry for this Rex Dales.” He meant it one percent; it was agony. 

“It’s far too late for reconciliation.” 

[TheCzarsHussar]

Old Dowry Hold, Roscrea

Throughout the war-camp, many of the Atmoriant priests turned their faces towards the nighttime clouds. Watching with keen eyes amidst alit field of magelights, and smelling for thunderclouds as droplets fell onto their cloaks and mail-coats. Though no rain would hamper the war-procession, none would risk Kaan's wrath that all too oft struck giantry-folk dead. Such was the unease that mightily clad warriors would flee into their tents at first sign of thunder, or it's frightening streaks of white-blue. However, one such priest was drenched in equal conceit as rain. The hoary Akaluthwain; bearing a poor man's arms of gambeson and snowy spotted sabre-pelt across his shoulders, awaited just this very twitch of the skies. The clever men felt it's coming, and the powerful ones skewed their great staffs upwards in deference challenge, even as the muddied permafrost came to be stampeded underfoot. 

Akaluthwain rose from his watchful prayer with brow turned downwards, and trudged towards the baggage train with only weighty hunting spear, now that it's guards would seek shelter. The mud threatened to turn back his slow foot, yet as he trampled the tundra ferns, the powerful ones that risked sacrifice so that Kaan's wrath might strike them instead of their kin did what they could to aid the hoary Akaluthwain in his struggle when he faltered. They might have done so even if they knew of his conceit, such is the kinship of the priesthood. When he thus reached the baggage train under the cover of thunderclaps, the terribly weary near-giant clamored about for the hidden things he snuck into the war-procession. A towing sled, pulled by a rope about the waist that had within it numerous skis of wood or bone, dried meat, black burning stones, and several pairs of heavy bear cloaks that hid the sled within it, such things that could not fit an Atmoriant's boot.

It was an even greater anguish to carry such a weighted sled, for he could not tow it in the permafrost lest he leave a trail to be followed. Of the fleeing kinsmen, rushing into their tents away from the storm, a few in panic cried out for the elder. In passing they begged him to take refuge before Akaluthwain slipped into obscurity.

**********

Despite his conceit, he felt no safety from Kaan's enmity to his folk. Fearing at any moment his death would come from her heavenly throat-curse hidden behind streaks of white-blue. Perhaps then, as the trudge of his foot gave way to harder soil, and the storm passed beyond him, did Akaluthwain betray a prayer of deference to Kaan for her mercy before continuing on in his grave conceit.

This journey across the Hold had to be taken in swift. Thought the old near-giant, for though he had the opportune coverage, there were still those who witnessed his escape and they... he paused in thought as eyes fixed upon him from some nearby hill...then another's presence did he feel upon his person. His rain soaked pelt rocked his body as he quickly spun about to witness the silhouettes of two mounted humans, perched with their horses at the hill-crest. He might have feared unavoidable confrontation had they not flown clan-heraldry of a distant but native Atmoriant clan-commune. Nevertheless, they would no doubt suspect desertion. It was unavoidable that they caught him, no giantry-folk could outpace a steed. An unarmed Akaluthwain stood his place, making no motion to any nonexistent weapon of his person. He watched the two figure's speak to one another momentarily, before gracefully spurring their mounts down the gentlest slope, then towards the lone near-giant. At least when they came upon him, it was clear these two were descendants of Cyrod settlers rather than Haafingar-Folk.

Of the two, the splendidly armed one bid his mount stop several arm-lengths away from Akaluthwain. His obviously enchanted round shield was ever so shifted in his direction. Perhaps nearly as weary himself did the warrior address Akaluthwain. "Lightning, eh, you know isn't really all that likely to strike you. It is a superstition I don't quite follow..." He trailed off, giving a few tense seconds for the old Atmoriant to say something, anything.

"Look, please don't make this hard Lord." Said the warrior hesitantly. "Just, please, come back with us. You're too venerated for me to harm, I would not wish it. But sir, I cannot let you desert the right honored war-procession. Even if the slaughter is too... great, we are all bound by our commitment to Lord Alduacer."

"No, friends, I beg your silence and leave me in peace." Akaluthwain's deep, guttural voice, and his arm gesture spooked the horses into shuffling and snorting, though were quick to be reigned in by their riders.

"Lord, by my oath to my masters I cannot allow that. I beg you again, return with us. I swear no punishment will befall you. I am Theubrand, son of Theudoric, I swear this by Stendarr, and if that is too foreign a god, I swear by Stuhn."

"I do not shame your kindness Theubrand, and were I not sworn to a blood-oath, I would honor your generosity. I must now beg you, answer me just this. Do you adhere to the Primacy of the Imperial Cult of Roscrea?"

"I am unshamed my good Lord, and yes elder one. I adhere to the Nine Divines and the Primacy of the cult, though to Ald-Tusk I show deference."

"My son, then we are allies. Though I carry it in secret as the schism remains unreconciled, Akatosh is hereupon my lord. He who mantled Alduin." Akaluthwain pleaded to the warrior. Placing his final chance to avoid bloodshed in it.

"Father." Spoke the warrior, who avoided the near-giant's gaze. "You have thrust an evil upon me, I cannot betray you, yet my oaths would be... gods." At that, the warrior dismounted. Though the other man looked rightly conflicted, and remained seated. "Why have you deserted the war-procession? You spoke of a blood-oath, are you sworn to secrecy?" The warrior continued, leading the horse by it's reigns closer to Akaluthwain.

"In a more heroic time, this oath would have gathered a warband at it's utterance...yet in more heroic times, I would never have been called upon. It has not been uttered in the waking world, and I would bring no powers against it by doing so."

"What of your family Father? If you do not return with us, your clan name will be sullied, and yourself an outlaw."

"I am a woodland wander, a seeker of knowledge. A hermit as myself has neither home nor a hearth to call my own. That I am a clever man marked me for the priesthood, I would not walk the alternate path." A singular, cold thought threatened his mind, and was banished promptly.

Theubrand looked between the hoary near-giant, and to his comrade. "Oedalaric, have you anything to weigh in? I am utterly at a loss."

"It is too great for the likes of us I think, he is bound by an otherworldly oath. That spear, I think is truly for hunting, he wears armor but I think his clever craft is a killing one." Said his companion.

"Aye too great... Father, you are untraceable, the Daedra themselves could not find you." Theubrand said, showing himself the elder of the two by his decision.

"The Daedra themselves d-could not stop me."

Theubrand knelt, still with the reigns in hand, following in suite, in spirit, the mounted Oedalaric bowed while the former spoke. "Father, nameless you be, I swear to you that I will safeguard your conceits, your blood-oath, and if it does not conflict with my prior oaths, your person. By the invincible Ysmir I swear this, may Akatosh devour my soul if I dishonor this oath unto you." He drew his seax from a hidden place within his cloak, and placed his sword-hand as high as he could, Akaluthwain grasped the blade with his own sword hand. 

"I accept this oath, honored Theubrand, honored Oedalaric. This is a gift no debt can repay in true. Even at my age, in most dire times, far from the splendor of old. I have found myself folk of integrity. Don't go sacrificing yourselves needlessly." He released it and the three wordlessly parted ways. The two Cyrod-descendants spurred their mounts back towards the encampment. As for Akaluthwain, he gathered up the supply-toting sled and made way northward to the stead of his long passed blood-brother.

Edited October 10, 2021 by TheCzarsHussar

[The Good Doctor]

Endar Drenim
Kyne's Watch

The white-blue crystal hummed gently on the table, its asymmetrical faces pointing away from the center like a haphazard crown. The stone was almost two feet in diameter, the largest of Endar's creations to date, and contained within was enough concentrated magicka to make a lesser mortal sick by proximity. 

He looked across the table to the Roscrean stone-hewer he had commissioned. The atmoriant had been given an enchanted amulet to protect her from the effects of the stone, which now dangled over the schematics Endar had drawn for her. "Well? Can you make it?"

The decrepit craftswoman rose from her hunch with the aid of an axestaff. Having cleared her throat with a grunt, her flesh-yewn hand, bearing the swirling patterns that giants are often fond of gripped one of many carving tools arrayed at the station. She presented it to the crystal from afar, facing the draconic-script YEWN etched into the curved iron tool towards the mass. As she leaned inward, her hand began trembling as did the blade itself, emitting a light hum that only grew to match the crystal itself the closer she brought it.

By force of will, and raised eyebrow, she tapped the tool against the crystal to elicit a familiar tone. At that, only the swiftness of her other hand, in dropping her brace did she grip the tool before the vibration-hum destroyed it.

Reeling back she spoke as the chamber returned to its present sound. "This is no worldly stone my tools can carve. I would need imitations of the hewing tools these elf-folk used, iron elicits a noise I have never heard from stone."

"That can be arranged." Bthar-Zel was a veritable warehouse of Dwemer tools, and Endar had claimed the most useful of them during his excavation. "Provided that you can work with tools made for hands somewhat smaller than your own."

"I can hew it into shape, make marks of its form in detail." Said the near-giant, placing her tool back against the burgundy dyed sheepskin.

"Very good. I shall send someone to fetch everything you will need. I give you this day to familiarize yourself with the equipment. But tomorrow, the real work must begin."

[TheCzarsHussar]

Deepwood Vale, Skyrim
Ruins of Hags End

Under the bitterly cold night, clear as it could ever be to the makings of the nightly heavens, did the Reachman part the blackiron doors of the old Nordic ruin. The short man was huddled in highland goatskin and deer fur, in which he held shut tightly the fur of an arrow catcher across his already freezing cheeks with his free hand, the other braced his unsteady waddle with a stone-head spear. The decrepit and scar gored once-Forsworn limped across the ruins of the old ruins, for that was the state of things after the lowlanders destroyed flesh and stone and carried off many slaves for the toil of the all too familiar mines. 

Too slow to keep with the hunters out in the woodland at this time of night, nor his weary hand could loose the spear with vigor and accuracy. He wandered the grounds as the young and infirm slept, keeping an eye on the herd and ready to skew whatever Hircine sent to test the folk and the herd of goats and mules. Or at least die upon that strife, give his own flesh in place of the herd that the survivors depended on. The tribe of his oaths died in this valley, yet what better way to spite the lowlanders than to survive in it again?

But... the herd, where was the ragged, bleating goats? Where stomped the stubborn mules? The rubble-stone stacked walls of their pen was intact in the lower terrace of the ruins yet their occupants were deathly silent. With the little painful shocks of pressure that went up his bum leg at each step, his bewildered eyes went crazily at the most gruesome sight of the pens. The entirety of the herds were pushing atop one another in one of the far corners, their deathly heads all turned towards the center. It was all an ill omen, as their bodies were all blackened and engorged with frostbite, not all of it intact upon their bones. He felt like his chest was contracting, yet he couldn't cough, only the mountain breezes prevailed there. 

He was not like the hoary shaman woman, he knew not which of the gods had struck a curse upon their herd, or if the spirit of the valley's river had devoured their lives away. It was beyond his churning mind, he could only think of the Reachman shepherd family in the eastern tower and the danger they were in for being witness to the omens. Still unable to breath words into being, as he too had gazed upon the ill omen, the old man at first sped in a walk, then mimicked a lame horse and trotted with the brace of his spear towards the ruins of the tower, screaming wordless warnings.

The closer he came to the tower, a feeling of terrible burden came upon him, nevertheless he pressed on in valor. Turning the corner, readily with his spear braced for one final mighty thrust, or a rather inaccurate toss. When he witnessed the folk all under their beds or arrayed around a now lightless hearth. To the father of the family, sleeping in his bed, he rushed towards and violently shook. There was no stirring of his peaceful eyes. Yet not a wound or disturbance revealed itself, on his person or their steading, but he was cold as the mountain air and his heart offered no drumbeat.

The old man pitied the family, the folk were standoffish and kept to their own gods, so he did not know what gods to bless their souls to. He could only place his hand to his spear and pray their souls made it to the hunting grounds of the afterlife, his own interpretation of struggle. He pricked his thumb to his spear, drawing some small amount of blood and lowered it to draw it across the father's face, so that an aspect of his lord might smell the blood of devout, and devour their bodies to bring them to the afterlife. He felt such powerful burden on his body at invoking the gods, and at placing his mark, the peaceful corpse lifelessly stirred and rose at such a touch, and the old Reachman recoiled his hand from the cursed man. 

As did the cursed folk of the hearth rise in death, and so did a great moonlit shadow cast itself from the ruined entrance. The old Reachman could barely comprehend the aspect of utter terror that soundlessly came upon him at a sprint. The faint, almost empty red light that bathed upon him from within it's white robes nearly brought him to his knees, the burden he felt approaching the tower was now like being buried in an endless avalanche of snow and drowning in it. It's hidden face within the robes betrayed a frozen, petrified visage of a man, gazing upwards in a horrified silent scream, and a gaping, bearded mouth. The towering draugr was upon him as he thrust his spear with the drained might of his now dying body, and it was hewn away by the two handed falx-sword of the creature.

As was his head.

*****

At the old sacrificial alter, gracing the peak of the ruined fortress temple, the hoary shaman woman continued to decipher the ailing omens that plagued her near-tribe throughout the waning day. The troubles began the year before, when in a dream, a white hare had drowned in the river and was scooped out by the shadow of an owl that flew past the dreadful moon of an-elfgod-she-would-not-think-of and into the void, the light that puts rest to dead could not illuminant the shadow. All manners of ill and woe manifested itself since, yet they had nowhere to go. The Nords slaughtered and enslaved her folk in the west, driving the tribes north or further west beyond the crags.

She and her once-forsworn husband had done their best to drive a new tribal identity, invoking worship of the river spirits and honoring several aspects of Hircine with the most bountiful game the hunters caught. Yet since the ill dreams, the once bountiful game bore beautiful white coats of fur made poor sacrifices, and their breath spoke of doom from the skies. She had interpreted it as hellish winters to come, thrown upon them by the Nord gods. Yet the winter was gentle and kind, silent and watching. It felt like remaining in the eye of an impending storm to her, though her folk felt safe in their pelts and furs.

All signs, in dreams and in the living world was that of dread. And in the previous days, the severity was upon them. And at the closing of the day, she put to sacrifice their most splendid goat, and she put to sacrifice their fattest mule, to beg the gods for understanding into the coming storm. She knew better then to ask for protection, it was not their way. Thus, at the lowering of Magnus, and bathed in the gore of sacrifice, did the auspicious reveal themselves. For both the sacrifices closed their eyes in sleep the moment before her plunging dagger put them to rest upon the stone alter. She climbed atop the alter and rested in the bed of her offering, lulling herself into slumber. For she knew fate would lend itself into knowing.

Yet, where was the voice of the aspects? Where was the subtle omens of the river spirit? These dreads built within her, and when at the precipice of slumber. She witnessed the worldly river spirit flee the temple downstream, and in that moment she was ensnared. In a silent nightmare, where she could not rise from the alter, she witnessed a sky of dread. There before her was the nightly void ever closer than the laws of the world permitted, lit not by the light of the moons, but the far tears of the heavens. And from within the deep fathoms of that heavenly void did a presence manifest. First alike a form woeful whiteout, like that of an all obscuring blizzard. Then did the swirling blizzard twist and corrupt into white robes, and the eye of the storm corrupted into the deathly visage of one who has witnessed the face of a god. It's form came to the world alike that of a sinking corpse, did it's white hair and robes contort in unnatural ways.

So too, did the stone alter of sacrifice welcome a priest of old, and so did it speak the name of god: JHUNAL. In the nightmare of her marking, the vague screaming of the waking world drew into her ears. And as the visage of terror neared, she made witness of it. The terror was as deathly as it was ethereal, it's form was like that of something which had died at the frozen peaks of the world and turned to stone by the cold. Entrapping the draugr visage in a false, enlightened immortality. A thing of stasis and stability, never to rot away. The alter of sacrifice did speak: THAT WHICH HAS SEEN THE FACE OF GOD. 

Her doom made manifest when the robes took against the worldly laws and laid against the earthbones, yet in doing so, the howls of a distant beast awoke her from the nightmare. Hircine would not allow her to perish without a chance of fighting against the otherworldly thing in the waking world, so spoke the animals of sacrifice. And in the waking world, the thing was not yet upon her. She forsook the sacrificial alter of stone, cursing the god it served and spat upon it. Then turning and taking flight to into the temple to die, mourning the doom of the folk within that so too awaited her.

*****

Within the ruined temple, she stood in the doorway, all that which the light of the moons could not touch through it was obscured, for the candlefires, and hearths within were silent and empty. Yet there in the deeps of the empty ruin were the baleful eyes of her doom, dimly manifested in the ruin. Their presence set a curse upon her, that threatened to devour her vigor and will, yet so did she cast a ward upon herself that protected wholly from the evil.

By her hand, did she cast a magelight that traveled down the empty chamber, illuminating as it fluttered. And as it stopped before the thing of doom, so did she witness the fate of her near-tribe. There they stood about the thing, flesh blackened and bloated by an otherworldly frostbite. Some held their children, frozen to their bodies, others having their blackened flesh torn off from where they died against stone. They all bore faces of agony and fear, all too similar as that which was frozen across the thing's face.

She could bear it no longer, and made present her dagger, that which brought sacrifices to her gods. And made mark of her foe, charging against it wailing like a banshee. So too did it part from the hewing sword of it's right hand, throwing it down and silently came upon her, making no such noise at all. Her dagger was parted when it found it's horrid body, clanking and slipping from her hand as if it hit stone. Her blow was answer by the severed head of her husband, swung like a flail gripped by his hair. It struck her with such force that it threw her before the creature, broken and woeful did she defiantly slide her hands below it's robe and grip it's ankles with as powerful a touch spell as she could muster. Yet she cried out as her hands bloated and burned with cold, flesh tearing and frost-boiling until only bone was left at her palm. What fire she mustered had been snuffed out at it's creation. Gritting her teeth, and fully understanding what was to come, she turned her head upwards with a look of hatred that drowned out her suffering. She would die a warriors death, not a sacrifice.

There she was met with a stalhrim sickle, plunging into her skull.

*****

The iron doors, bearing the divine face of Aka-Tusk parted. Making way for the procession, led by an Archdruid. He thus made his blessings in the liturgical dragon-tongue.

"Yed ahrk thiik zos zahrahmiik, wah vozahlaas hol do rahus krah. Gein zahrahmiik wah rah do dilon bron. Gein prelah zahrahmiik wah tirah rah do liiv ahrk liivor. Kog los dii raald, werid kos Jhunal."

This long forlorn temple of Jhunal had itself a new priest, blessed in offerings. Upholding tools of stone hewing, he carved out from the sacrificial alter, a mask of stone. As one lowly dead woman shuffled from the sanctified temple, to rot in the valley as a token of sacrifice to another...

[TheCzarsHussar]

Here do we pray.

Before the temple that Nords have abandoned.

Bespoken by tablets in language you have forgotten.

That you might remember.

Your ears once heard.

Your eyes once knew.

Your voice once mumbled.

And when the owl hears.

And when the owl knows.

And when the owl speaks.

 

Julianos will cease to be.

Edited January 7, 2022 by TheCzarsHussar

[The Good Doctor]

Ingun Black-Briar
Riften

Avrusa Sarethi's milky pink eyes stared blindly into the void, but her nose was sharper than the keenest of hounds. It twitched when she sniffed at the vial of green powder, which she lowered gently to the table. "Green. Like a pine needle, or a sickly Orc?"

"More like the Orc," answered Ingun.

"Hmm." The old Dunmer's fingers felt their way along a shelf, tapping each bottle, jar, and satchel in turn. She was seemingly able to discern them by touch alone. "And this clan of wildmen, you said they can be found all over Skyrim?"

"That is what I've been told. Particularly in the north."

"Then they make do with common ingredients. Nothing too localized. Odd, considering the rarity of the effects. Perhaps it is the alchemical process that makes this formula elusive." She removed the stopper from one vial, sniffed, then returned it to the shelf with a shake of her head.

"Baldur said as much in his letter. The clever man he got it from says it is easy to make, but the man wants control over the making it. His clan is guarded with their secrets."

"The-Clan-That-Wants-to-Watch-the-World-Burn are not prone to sharing." Avrusa chuckled. "Who could have guessed it?"

"They bring a lot of men and are easily offended, so Baldur wrote that he'd let me take a crack at this first instead of threatening them as a first resort."

"So all of this, it is for Baldur and the Stormcloaks?"

"Yes," Ingun detected a trace of suspicion in the Dunmer's tone. "What of it?"

"Oh, well, your mother never did a thing for free."

Ingun frowned. "I am not my mother."

"Of course not. I know that. But you do run her company, still need to do things a certain way."

"I'm well aware. If it's my finances you are worried about, don't be. The Stormcloaks get the best rates I can offer, and anyone else will pay well, especially Cyrodiil. I'm not doing this for free. I can't."
That wasn't strictly true. Clan Silver-Blood and two Thanes of Solitude had already invested a considerable amount of gold into Ingun's efforts to produce potions and balms for the troops. Enough to cover a considerable amount of the costs. She would not go broke from all this.
"But money is not the point. Skyrim needs every weapon we can get in this fight, and the wildmen lack the resources to produce a fraction of what I could. These secrets are wasted in their hands."

"Mass production, cutting out middle-men. There is no doubt I am talking to a Black-Briar. Aha!"
The old alchemist turned back to Ingun with a jar of some silvery gray substance in her hand. "Don't worry, my jarl, I am only teasing. Now try this."

Ingun took the jar and examined it. There was no label, only a symbol scratched onto the side that she assumed the blind mer could read through touch. "What is it?"

"A separating agent of Master Sinderion's making. He used it to extract essence of nirnroot from potions he created."

"That… would allow him to perform multiple experiments with the same ingredients, correct?"

"Precisely."

Ingun marveled at the little jar. "This would be invaluable to the right buyers. I would have paid a fortune for it. Avrusa, why haven’t you tried to sell this?"

The Dunmer laughed bitterly. "Because I never learned how to make it. That jar you're holding is from a limited supply."

"And you're willing to share it?"

"I never even would have told you about it a century ago, but I've far less use for it since I learned to cultivate nirnroot myself. Besides, you are paying me. Sharing my resources is the least that I can do."

Ingun wouldn't argue there. She had hired a great many alchemists and apothecaries during the last year, but Avrusa was the most valuable of the lot, and that value didn't come cheap. "Well then, let's see how it fairs with this powder."

Ingun spent the next few hours working with her calcinator and alembic. The powder was surprisingly easy to convert into a liquid form, and Sinderion's separating agent mixed with it easily and evenly. Within an hour, the potion was swirling and bubbling all on its own. By evening, the elixir had separated into two distinct liquids, a dense green-yellow in the bottom half, and a light blue on top.

Ingun smiled. She would have told Avrusa, but the old Dunmer had fallen asleep in her chair while the powder was heating. It didn't matter. She could finish on her own.

Carefully, she poured the blue liquid into a smaller vial, then poured the thicker green stuff into a jar. To her surprise, the emptying of the green liquid revealed a third ingredient at the very bottom of the container: just a tiny pinch of silver shavings.

Ingun collected the silver onto a dish, then began the process of running virtue tests on the two liquids.

The tests revealed the blue liquid to have some minor healing virtues and, under the right conditions, a weak magicka nullifier. Between the virtues, the appearance, and the scent, Ingun was fairly certain that it was just an essence of common mountain flowers. A simple comparison with a sample from Avrusa's stock confirmed this to be the case.

Ingun's tests on the green substance weren't as clear, but she was able to glean that it had magicka restorative properties that were fairly robust, as well as a trace of something more harmful, the kind of virtue that she was certain could be turned into a particularly lethal poison.

She crossed her arms. What in Mara's name could combine with silver and mountain flowers to produce such a potent effect as the one Baldur described, and in powder form, no less? Certainly nothing from the common plants or creatures that a clan of wildmen would have regular access to.

"Have you had any luck?" 

Ingun turned to see that Avrusa was up from her seat. "Some, but I'm not certain what ingredient one of these extracts came from."

"You've run the virtue tests?"

"Yes. It doesn't match with anything I'm familiar with. I'll have to check one of my books."

The old mer stepped up and sniffed at the vial. Her nose wrinkled, and she immediately recoiled. "Foul stuff. But you won't be needing any books. I know this one by its odor."

"You do?" Ingun felt excitement well in her. Perhaps this whole affair would be easier than she'd thought.

"Yes, I learned it in my homeland. Your extract comes from ectoplasm, discharge harvested from the remains of vanquished ghosts."

"Ectoplasm…" Ingun's brow lowered. Ghosts were not nearly so common in Skyrim as they were in Morrowind. The-Clan-That-Wants-to-Watch-the-World-Burn could not have possibly had easy access to such a rare ingredient. That is, unless…
Ingun glanced over at a pot in Avrusa's windowsill. In it, a home-grown nirnroot sprout hummed gently. "They make their own ghosts."
How brilliant.

"That seems likely, yes. How else could they maintain such a supply? But that would mean that our High King's got a necromancer skulking in his court."

"It would."

"What a shame, and a waste. We'll have to tell him, of course. You've met the man. How do you think he will respond?"

Ingun glanced at Avrusa, and for once was grateful for her blindness, or else the Dunmer might have seen the guilt in her expression. They were friends, of a sort, and the old alchemist was beyond valuable for her potion-making knowledge, but never in a hundred years would she even consider the use of necromancy as an option. It was one of the greatest blasphemies of her people's culture.

"He'll likely arrest him," Ingun answered, though she felt almost certain that this was a lie. "The war is important, but we must have lines we won't cross."

"Good." Avusa nodded approvingly. "It would serve the sorcerer right. In Morrowind, we put scum like him to the death. A shame about the formula. It would have been useful."

Ingun stared into the jar of thick green-yellow liquid in her hand. How much ectoplasm can a single mage extract from a ghost? Does it vary with the ghost? The harvesting method? Would animals work, or does it have to be men or mer?
These questions and a hundred more were already swirling through her mind. One thing was certain, though: this would not stop her from accomplishing what she'd set out for. What sort of price do necromancers charge, she wondered.

"A good thing we looked into this, huh?" laughed Avrusi. "Can you imagine the profanity that would have come of this going uncaught?"

"Yes," Ingun replied. "How awful that would have been."

[The Good Doctor]

Vrage of Dawnstar
The Pale

Torch in hand, Vrage of Dawnstar led the procession of grim-faced priests of Orkey as they descended into the barrow of his half-brother's kin. There he waited, silent and unmoving, as the death god's servants delivered the final rites necessary to complete the entombment of Jarl Skald Felgeif the Elder.

When the priests' work was finished and Vrage alone remained in the dark, he at last approached the embalmed corpse and knelt beside it to say some words of his own.

"We were different, and I know you loved me not. But blood is blood, and for the mother we shared, I did love you, brother. And it saddens my heart to know how you suffered. I hope the pain strengthened your spirit where your body was weak, so you might yet find joy in the Hall of Shor."
Vrage stood and lifted his torch to illuminate the rest of the barrow, where all of Skald's forebears from the last three eras stared silently at the roofs of their dark crevices. "A mighty clan you have been, to have led Dawnstar for so long through so many dangers. Though your final son now rests, may your deeds never be forgotten… It humbles me to follow you, great Chieftains of the Pale. Though I am not of your blood, I do swear that my family will honor you in our rule of this land you have left us."

Having said all he had to say, Vrage left the dead to their halls and returned to the light of dawn above. There, a small procession awaited him, and from it came Skald's Housecarl Jod, to give him the heirlooms that were not intended to go with the jarl in death: a torc and a sword.

"The Torc of the Pale," said the Housecarl, "has been passed down by rulers of the northern wastes since the Felgeif clan still roamed these lands as nomads."
Vrage took it and put it around his neck. Immediately, the cold winds that nipped his cheeks seemed to grow weak against him.
Jod continued. "And the sword Keenblood was won in battle against the Ice Tribes of Old Frostheim."
Vrage held up the magical sword, admiring how its stalhrim blade refracted the early rays of sunlight passing through it.

"It suits you well." Jod gave an approving nod, though there was a slight drifting in his tone that betrayed an unspoken sentiment shared by many: 'It suits you well… Unlike its last owner.'

Vrage frowned. By his oath, he would honor those who came before, including his brother whatever the man's faults. He would do this by serving this land as they had at their best, not by dwelling on the times they had been at their worst.

"Thank you, Jod." Jarl Vrage looked to the procession, which included the priests, a few members of his scant court, his wife Jytte and their three sons and two daughters, and a handful of Thanes and ship captains who either lived in Dawnstar or had arrived shortly before Skald's sickness turned for the worse. To all of them he said, "The time of mourning is now done. Come then, we have much to do."

Riding back, Vrage slowed his horse to ride even with his Court Mage. "Have all the letters been sent, Madena?"

"They have, my jarl."

"Good. I'd like to avoid any confusion when we get to Kyne's Watch."

"You're setting out soon, then?" asked Jytte. "I thought you meant to wait for the blizzards to subside."

"A letter arrived this morning bearing Baldur's seal. Skyrim's first fleet is setting sail at the end of this month, and I intend for the leading ships of Dawnstar to count among it. The time for waiting is behind us."

There were some inland Chieftains and Thanes who would not be pleased to learn that their new jarl had departed before they could arrive to sail alongside him, but it could not be helped that frozen storms slowed their travels. Most of them, he hoped, would be glad enough to have a jarl of sound mind again that they would not make any trouble in his absence. For the rest, he would leave Jod behind with a well-sharpened axe to remind them of the oaths they had sworn. They may not be coming as part of Dawnstar's primary force, but their men would still prove invaluable as reinforcements.

"Our ships and men are ready," Vrage continued. "I will allow the Captains three days to oversee their final preparations. And then we sail to Kyne's Watch."

[The Good Doctor]

Naarifin

Sleep did not come easily for a creature such as him. His body demanded little, dead-yet-alive as it was. But contained within the cold, cursed corpse were the mind and soul of a mer who never stopped dreaming. And so the creature slept and the creature dreamt.

Of late, the dreams were varied and many. Some ended in victory with the raising of eagle banners. Some ended in defeat beneath the flaming sword of a shadowy human Emperor. Others ended differently still, often for him to awake in a state of confusion and dismay. The one commonality of all his dreams was that they always they took place within the walls of a city of white and gold. 

This dream started much like the rest. He strode atop the marble battlements, clad in the armor of a General, listening to barking of orders below, feeling the cold fog on his skin, and smelling the odors of smoke and waste. But as he walked, the battlements soon became the grounds of a palace, and the grounds soon became the dim inner chambers of an ancient library: the one place in all the city that his soldiers had dared not molest.

Tiny wings fluttered across the air, and priests both human and mer, clad in gray with blindfolds over their eyes, went about their prayers and studies aloof from the city that burned around them.

One priest, an elder by the standards of man, approached him with a large scroll in hand, the spokes of its umbilicus gilded with gems of many colors. The priest said nothing, only presented the scroll to be taken. The General took the Elder Scroll, opened it, and read.

The symbols within were fire to the eyes, their meaning somehow both clear and eldritch, their intentions both pure and profane. They were branded into the knowing part of his spirit so that they may never be forgotten, even in death.
They spoke to him of pasts, presents, and futures. And among the countless legions of time, the General could see one -one glorious future- that awakened old dreams within new ones: Aldmeris. The salvation of mer. The one light in a sea of doom and darkness.

So few could do what was needed. So few had the knowledge, the will… It had to be him. Without the Hero, there is no Event.

When he closed the scroll, he looked down on the blind priest. The priest 'looked' back, waiting, seeing nothing but appearing to understand everything. The priest's mouth opened, wide, wider still, so wide as no human jaw could allow, and from his maw a swarm of moths erupted, engulfing the General's face, smothering him, blinding him.

In the darkness, a golden Emperor emerged, his face a shadow, his flaming blade the only light in the world as it pierced the General's chest.

Naarifin's eyes opened. They did not open to the sight of a dimly-lit palace, nor to a dream of twisted memories. His eyes opened to the translucent crystal walls of an Aldmeri cell, enchanted so heavily that not even an infant's sliver of magicka could be produced within.

Beyond the reaches of his cocoon prison, a tall figure stood watching. It was Altmer, to be certain, and Thalmor judging by the sharp trim of its robes, but the figure's face was a blur from within the thick walls between them.

Naarifin understood his predicament. He knew why he was in here, a prisoner to the very people he hoped to save. In their position he surely would have imprisoned the bloodsucking creature as well, regardless of its allegiance or accomplishments. Anything less would be too much of a risk.

But even so, he remembered was it was to hold the rank of "Lord General", a rank he had never relinquished nor had stripped, and Naarifin stood and straightened to look his captor in the eyes. "Cousin," he said to the mer, "tell me where I am."
The figure's head tilted, looking him down and then up. No doubt vision into the cell was clearer than vision out, and it annoyed Naarifin that this mer who was no doubt his subordinate was sizing him up rather than answering immediately. And so he spoke again: "I may be a prisoner, but I still hold my rank, and shall always be a Sapiarch. You would be wise to respect that."

"How long, my lord?" The voice was so very familiar. "For how long was I the one in the cage, and you the shadow looking in?"

The awakened memories struck Naarifin like he'd been splashed with cold water, and he smiled with all sincerity. "Alondril! Old friend!"
Alondril had been in the Imperial City when the humans launched their counter-attack. It should have been no surprise that the former-Blade managed to escape, and yet Naarifin had not even dared to hope. "It is good to know that you live!"

Alondril was silent for several seconds, no doubt studying his eyes for signs of deception. It was some time before he answered. "We are beneath Skywatch. It's been decided that you are to be held here for the time being."
Alondril's head turned, presumably toward the prison entrance, and then as his attention returned to the cell, his voice grew quiet. "There are many on the council who want you dead… High Kinsmen, even some Sapiarchs. They think keeping you alive is too much of a risk, that you are compromised."

"I am compromised. Molag Bal has claimed me for his own."

Again, there was a hesitation, but only a brief one. "Then perhaps you should be killed."

Naarifin narrowed his eyes, focusing his blasphemous sight on the blurred visage of his friend. The waves between them straightened, the crystal fogs cleared… There it was. His friend did not appear to have aged a day.

"Tell me… how long has it been since White Gold?"

"Just about thirty years."

"Thirty years… The life of a child." Naarifin cocked his head, barred his fangs, and snarled, "Is that all it has taken to make you forget the dream?"

"I have forgotten nothing."

He slammed his fists on the crystal cage, shaking the whole thing. "Then WHERE is the fire in your eyes?! You were the only one, the ONLY ONE who survived seeing what I have seen! The only one who truly grasps what must be done!"

"I still do."

"If that is so, if you have forgotten nothing, then this talk of killing me can mean only that you have given up hope."

Alondril stared back at him, his blasted expression as stoic and unrevealing as godsdamned ever. "You had a year. The White Gold Tower was in your hands. The dream, our dream, in your hands. And you failed. The chance was lost. And now you return thirty years later, a twisted shadow of who you once were, asking for a second chance."

To Naarifin's own surprise, the statement actually hurt him. Here he was, a wretched, blood-starved creature who had suffered the worst of Mundus and Oblivion, feeling stung by the words of a friend who no longer believed in him. "I needed more time," he muttered weakly. "More time with the Elder Scrolls. And the Crystal, it never arrived, never reached me… have you truly lost all hope?"

Alondril shook his head. "As long as I breathe, I will have hope. But you, friend… dark things have been done to you. Your soul belongs to Aldmeris no longer. They will never let you out of this cell. Not as you are."

"Not as I am." Naarifin did not miss the hint behind that final statement. "… You have an idea."

"There is a coven in High Rock: the Glenmoril Wyrd. The Dominion has no ties to them, but the Blades did. They may know secrets that can cure your affliction."

A cure? A cure?! Naarifin had not believed such a thing possible. He had witnessed the power of Molag Bal, felt the endless fire of it. How could any power ever undo what the Lord of Torment had wrought? "My friend, brother, if you can do this… I will owe you my very soul."

"I can promise nothing right now. 

"How long until you send agents?"

"Send them?" Alondril did not smile. He never smiled. But Naarifin recognized a shift in his tone that betrayed a hint of self-satisfaction. "They arrived in High Rock this morning."

[The Good Doctor]

Ilessan Glade

The twin lanterns of Mara's Tear and Shandar's Sorrow shone down on the forest glade, reflecting off the surface of a pond so still that one could scarcely distinguish the moons in the water from the moons in the sky. The pond's eye, a small island steeped in the magicks of old, was watched over by spriggans and faeries whose names had first been whispered by those spirits whose remains were now the bones of the world.

It was an ancient place, a forgotten place, disturbed only by the sounds of the wild: the humming of insects, the croaking of bullfrogs, the hooting of a nearby moss owl. A stag approached once to drink from the cold waters, and later a bear led her cubs to the islet so they could lick sap off the unmoving spriggans.

The moons were an hour from their peak when a new disturbance occurred, one that the dateless clearing had never witnessed once in its millennia of tranquility: A woman, human save for the faintest trace of distant merish ancestry, panting and sobbing as she sprinted through the wooded hills.

Leaves crunched and twigs snapped beneath her bare and bloodied feed. Branches cut at her cheeks and snagged at her dress. Squirrels chirped in annoyance as her flight interrupted their slumber, and the moss owl who had been so consistent in his hooting, paused to turn his head and observe the wretched scene.

Guided by magic, the woman burst through a thick patch of brambles and stumbled into the glade. Pixies and fireflies scattered as she leapt into the water, sending ripples across the moons' watery reflection.

The spriggans watched curiously, but made no move to impede as she paddled across the pond and pulled herself onto the bank of the little island. She sputtered, having swallowed water in her haste, then scrambled to a ring of moss-covered standing stones and crouched down among them.

Minutes passed, the woman's breath steadied and her sobbing subsided. The waters calmed, the bugs and pixies returned, and the moss owl resumed his hooting. Before long, the only anomaly that remained was a human form, low and motionless in the shadow of an ancient stone. 

An hour passed, the moons reached their peak, and a new figure entered the glade. This one was an elf of the purest blood, tall, clad in dark, with movements so subtle and silent that not even the most skittish of faeries were disturbed by his arrival. Only the spriggans paid him mind. Hatefully they watched, and the moment he passed from the shade of the trees into the moonlight of the clearing, so too did their gnarled and mossy forms begin to emerge from trees, from dirt, from the thick growth on the side of a standing stone. All over the glade, a dozen green lights flickered to life, and a dozen wooden faces twisted in the elf's direction.

The calm stillness that had settled over the glade shifted to an air of deadly tension. The faeries, the moss owl, the bullfrogs, and even the insects all fell silent, either out of obedience to the woken guardians or fear borne of some instinctive comprehension that the hallowed ground on which they lived would soon suffer violence of a most unnatural sort.

The spriggans' leaves and smaller branches swayed with the wind. Otherwise, the only living motion came from the elf, whose fingers twitched in preparation for the sorceries he would soon unleash.
The woman thought herself hidden. She thought herself safe behind these relics of the Dawn. She was wrong.

"Witch."
The elf's voice pierced the silence like the shattering of glass. The sound of it carried loud and clear over the pond.
"I know you're here."
No response was given, but the glowing of the spriggans' taproot hearts intensified at the sound of his terrible voice.
"Submit yourself without resistance. Do so, and you have my word that no harm will befall you."

Still no answer, but the elf did see what even the moss owl's keen eyes failed to detect: a quick movement at the center of the island, a shape vanishing behind one of its overgrown stones. A few more quiet seconds went by, and then the elf shrugged to himself. "So be it."

The spriggans moved, but the elf moved faster. Flames roared and lightning crackled, and wicked things screamed as they clawed their way through portals from Oblivion. More elves appeared, their invisibility coming to an end as far crueler spells erupted from their fingertips.

The battle, if it could truly be called that, lasted less than two minutes. When it was over, not a mythical or mundane creature of the glade still lived. The spriggans were charred husks, the bullfrogs and moss owl suffocated on toxic smoke, and the blood of a hundred faeries blotted the moons' reflection from the water.

The lead elf took a step onto the red water, and then another. His companions remained at the ready as he walked across its surface, approaching the woman who even now laid among the moss and prayed silently that they could not see through the chameleon spell that concealed her. She knew her prayers had gone unanswered when a tall shadow blocked the moonlight from her face. 

The elf said nothing, merely extended his hand to cast a paralysis spell. Her body stiffened, and when at last she tried to speak, only a pathetic whimper could be mustered.

With the prisoner in hand, the elves departed. The glade, a tranquil monument to the loving spirits whose bones formed the earth, was left smoldering in their wake.

[BigBossBalrog]

Something wicked this way, Part 1 

“That was the bloody Empress of Tamriel!” Maurice screamed at the top of his lungs, as he fitted his steel hauberk, very awkwardly and with a lack of any skill, indicating to the rest of the hardened band, he was as green as a Spriggan. Yes, we know who it was. You can stop bringing it up. They’d comment the Fighters Guild was accepting anyone these days, but it was a simple fact mages had always been in high demand, even a hedge apprentice dropout from the Arcane University was welcomed into the group.  Didn’t mean his brothers had to like it. A pair of chestnut brown hair tucked underneath his brown hood, which they added, was stained in worried sweat, like the rest of his traveling robe. 

 The assembled mercenaries groaned at their newest members' display. This was all very sudden, so they all hurriedly worked to put on their gear.  

“This Khajiit has never heard a mewling so loud. Perhaps it’s just spellblades.” A large Khajiit sharpened his large Khopesh by the side already full dress in his bronze splitmail, the excotic desert weapon catching Claurence’s gaze. It was a Pahmar-raht by the name of Dardo, who intimidated most new members, thanks to his muscle and sheer size. His fur was snow-white, with black spots intermingled here and there, which, along with his heavy whiskers and great white, braided beard, gave him an appearance of a snow-leopard. He quickly added, gently lowering his oversized scythe-blade, as he began to wrap cloth around his wrists, “Besides Dardo does not think that little-Breton is Empress. Nothing to get excited over. Empire doesn't really exist. Queen of Cyrodiil is more apt, in this Khajiit’s opinion.”

“Urg.” The thick-plated Orismer barked at the Cat’s comment though she said nothing more, crossing her arms (though you couldn’t tell they were a woman by just looking at her).  Her armor was hideous, but well-crafted, and she carried a strange-looking mace, fanged with greenish shine, alongside a shield made from the same material, forged in the likeness of a Legionaries.  

"This Khajiit also adds Moghakh wants to strangle this one." He grinned, literally cat-like. "Once Legion always Legion." 

“She has a piece of mighty fine ass though. The Empress's that is.”  The Nord on the right teeth narrowed as she snarled in a grin, letting her axe’s blade shreek against the whetstone. Like the Orismer, you'd have to look at her face to tell she was a woman. Her heavy-set shoulders, giant limbs,  mixed with her chain-mail laden, wolf-fur covered armor, gave the impression of a burly, beard-covered lumberjack. Her face might have been more feminine, if most of it wasn't covered in heavy scarring. They didn't hide her reflective blue eyes that glowed beautifully underneath the fire, which matched with her blue war-paint, which was shaped like a crude-drawing of a beast, probably a bear. 

"What-Greta what are you on about?!" The novice mage scowled as he tried to hide a luminous blush forming underneath, 

"I knew it! You're a virgin!" The Nord laughed, bellowing her deep voice enthused, "Perhaps we could change that later, I love fresh meat!" Her eyes narrowed predatory as she winked at the mage, "Puckered Virgin Imperial ass is the best. The Empress is a rare flower, but you might as well be just as pretty…” She laughed again. A pair of dark-skinned and haired Redguards eyed the others from the side of the room, shaking their heads in annoyance, as they silently continued stringing their bows. They wore crimson travelling cloaks, with heavy sheets of chainmail going all the way up in their coifed turbans, curved blades at their side. The Orc, Moghakh the Vanguard, grunted as she sat up, snarling, giving a prominent display of her tusks. Greta Whisper-slaughter rose to meet her, continuing with her arrogant smile, 

“Your Empress would gladly take my fist in her cunt. Oh wait, I guess you don’t like being reminded how much of a whore your monarch is? I forgot we have an Imp in here.”

“I forgot you were even a soldier at all.” The Orc said in a surprisingly subdued and quiet voice. 

The Nord’s face blared red hot in anger as shouted, “What was that pig?!” The Orc nostrils flared as she got right into the Nord’s hateful face, who proudly stated. “Don’t forget who was the on the winning side, Imp-” 

“I thought Skyrim and Cyrodiil were friends now?” An authoritarian voice caused everyone in the room to suddenly get up and snap at attention, even Greta, albeit half-heartedly. 

“Oh come now, is this the Legion? Your sellswords, act like one!” It wasn’t protocol, only two of them had been members of an army, but they couldn’t help it in the presence of such a renowned figure. Modryn Oreyn. It was still a shock for all of them that they were going to be commanded by the famous Champion of the Fighters Guild for a mission, and still didn’t believe it. None of them relaxed.

The Dunmer snorted, his gray and white mohawked hair not betraying this person could probably kill everyone in the room in under a minute. He eyed the group, with his harsh red orbs and skull shaped face-paint, measuring their worth and being found wanting, In contrast to the others, he wore simple iron-plate, crudely painted, but a sharp eye could see the lustrous shimmer of magical enchantments being woven into the plate, though non could identify which he wore. Underneath his armpits he gripped his infamous skull-helmet tightly,  “Already an argument I see, perhaps I choose poorly.  “Moghakh….I thought the Legion teaches you to bury your emotions underneath it’s Lorica.”  

The Orc silently nodded her head, causing the Nord to grin, which received a harsh reprimand from Modryn’s red glare.  

“And you, Stormcloak?” 

“Aye! Long live High-King Red-Snow!” Greta shouted. Modryn rolled his eyes, 

“You wouldn’t be an ex Grim One would you? 

Greta’s eyes beamed with pride, being compared to the best of the best in the Stormcloak army, “No, I served underneath Captain Ulfgar-” 

“That was sarcastic. I can clearly tell you aren’t one of the High King’s chosen. More like a piss-drunk Nord stumbling out of the tavern.” He shouted down, causing her grin to turn into an angry frown. Her fists clenched as her temper overwhelmed her. 

“I wont take that shit, lest of all from a knife-ear” No one else could react, as Greta was thrown into the wall with a dull thud. Modryn was infront of her with the pommel of his half drawn greatsword flat into her stomach, her mail having absorbed none of the strike. The shocked Mercenaries pushed themselves away from the Nord and the Dark Elf. None of them had seen the Champion move, not even a blur. Greta’s face contorted with pain before a little trickle of blood dropped. The dull pain began to erupt as the wind refused to come back, she couldn’t even stutter. Modryn voice dropped to a low whisper, 

“I don’t care about slurs, but I don’t like arrogant piss-stains. It’s impressive you’ve risen to a swordsm-” He glanced at her discarded axe, “Axemen in six months, but if you act like you're better then your brothers again, I’ll have you thrown back to associate and have you clearing urinals. Do we have an understanding?” 

The Nord painfully nodded her head. 

“Good.” He helped her up with an offer of his hand as she sheaved his blade as soon as it was half drawn, which she took. She glared at the Orc but said no more. 

“Now that that’s settled…” His face relaxed slightly, "I know this job is likely going to be Goblins or Ogres but a battle below ground, no matter the foe, can go bad really quick." He eyed them all, "As you know, as regrettable as that business with the Count was, this...waste of a trip, it gives me the chance to see how our new Sutch Chapter is growing. This is Cyrodiil's frontier, and with the war starting, I doubt i'll have much time for this in the near future. The Protector of this Chapter tells me your the cream of his crop. I know all your names, but jackshit  about who you are.  The best way to find that out is to see how you all fight." The ash that clung the throat of most of native Dunmer made it very clear to most Modryn was not a Morrowind-native, but his voice was equally as deep and authoritarian, if less raspy. "

 Dardo suddenly interrupted; "Cream of crop of thirty people isn't that creamy." Greta chortled.  

"Or really thick enough." Mordyrn continued, "We still have a a decent amount of Chapters outside the Empire, but our core business remains in the Heartland." His red orbs narrowed in alot of annoyance,  "As our dear Guild-Master has forwarded towards. But with our numbers  stretched so much from legion-contracts"  

Dardo muttered "This one wants to burn Bosmer villages already." 

"-Legion contracts" a vein on Mordyrn's temple throbbed, "Every "little bit of our business diversity portfolio"" The Dark elf began snickering as if he was quoting another person who annoyed him, "helps." 

The sweating hedge-mage gulped nervously, still recovering over the earlier incident, "So this is a test?!" 

"Pretty much."  Mordyrn gave the newly minted journeymen and amused grimace, "More or less I want to see how the best of Sutch's Fighter's Guild fights. And that'll show me what this chapter needs to expand and prosper." 

One of two Redguard's spoke at last, glaring at the mentally unravelling mage, "Cream of the crop my ass." The other one nodded his head in agreement, "Looks greener then Moghakh other there." 

The Orc grunted. 

Mordyrn shook his head, "Oh, the hedge-mage is only here because, as you know, he's this Fighter's Guild only real mage." He smiles sarcastically, "They might as well be the same to me, but I would imagine Ogres or Goblins are a pretty big step above giant rats, so make sure you stay behind us." Maurice gulped nervously

The Dark elf laughed, giving him a little jab on the arm, "Only jesting, kid. I know firsthand the first "real" job is the most nervous, but you'll be fine. Just remember your instructions, and stay with the group." 

Moghakh had strapped another dagger to her side, "What foes must we rend then." 

"I'll explain on the way. We have a moss cave to clear." 

*** 

As the column of mercenaries left the small Guild hall, a massive crowd of Sutchian citizens had formed at the front-gates, all violently pushing there way though to reach the contract-counter. All over the town square, crudely drawn posts, depicting stick-figures in various poses, armor, and wielding weapons were plastered everywhere. In big black letters, they said "PAID BY YOUR EMPRESS DALES DRACONIUS, level 1 through 2 CONTRACTS ARE FREE FOR THE NEXT FOUR DAYS TO CELEBRATE HER MAJESTY'S RETURN TO HER HOME CITY! LIMITED AVAIBILITY, BOOK YOURS NOW!"

[TheCzarsHussar]

Kyne's Watch

Awaking gently from his dream, Theudofrid sat upright in bed and in the the mind's eye assumed a kindly face. With a turn of his head, and by his gaze, the embers in his lodging's hearth erupted, bathing the longhouse in rapidly dimming light. The longhouse built to his name, by the patronage of the High King was more than enough for a single old clever man. With tomes from as far away as the College of Winterhold sat neatly, organized, and shelved; albeit by another as Theudofrid hadn't yet browsed very far into things. As well, was there a separate semi-underground laboratory of sorts; befit for a skilled enchanter. Several new Skyforged panoplies of arms for the king's picked men were interwoven with dread magics in the previous day alone. In truth there were better enchanters present in Skyrim; none however, with the craft's knowledge held by Jhunal's mystery cult. Chiefly he had woven enchantments to his utter extent for that burly warrior kin of Baldur's, Boulder The-Brow-of-Iron or some sort was in some way of hiding in the former's picked warband; not that the High King willingly involved Theudofrid in such knowledge.

The woolen covers crinkled and folded themselves as he emerged from bed, already feeling much colder in his nightshirt. Taking time to remake his bed, with a neat gap to quickly nestle in come the setting of magnus. Afterwards he made his way to the hearth, sacrificing some firewood to the thing, and stood in front of it a while, warming his bare legs up in the now mundane flames until the whole of his steading was comfortable.

'They aughtn't be here for a while...' Thought the old man. Who walked to the storage pit, plucking a jar of butter, hewing a slice of cheese, and setting them all aside the hearth. With a telekinesis spell, he moved a mastercrafted wooden chair that had no right to be so comfortable from the enchanting equipment, up to the hearth. There he sat, enjoying the cheese and a generously thick loaf of bread, specially baked underground by a hot spring. Theudofrid reminisced on the familiar flavor, far away from his volcanic isle. For a time after breaking his fast, he just relaxed in his chair, deep in the thoughts of many things. Eventually though it turned to musing how to spend the rest of the early morning.

'Might I spend some time in prayer to Kyne under her holy tree?' Mused Theudofrid. 'No. Too clear of sky, what use is prayer when she isn't testing us...' He scratched under his long beard, then scratched through his shortly wavy hair; both white as snow. 'Wonder if that bard is still preforming at the tavern, his recounting of the Ragnar Saga was well sung...' But he did just eat, and a visit to the tavern simply must entail roasted venison or saltpork. 'Why don't I have a meal there tonight, can't live off breakfast alone...' Clearing his dry throat made Theudofrid realize just how parched he was. With a slight rocking motion the old man sprang from his chair, snatching up an empty wooden mug inside the miniscule pantry. He had a craving the previous days for either some eggnog or cider to no avail, but as a substitute, he tapped the bottom of his mug a number of times. With each tap, water increasingly appeared within. 

After passing the generously donated collection of tomes, Theudofrid selected at random a handful of the things. Now seated with a pleasant content, Theudofrid looked over the two he plucked... and one found itself tossed into the fire, something of a disturbing nature on activities with servile Argonians. While the other was a journeyman accounting into the nature of destruction magics. So it was, throughout the awakening of the morning and well into the first rays of light that escaped into the deathtrap that was his longhouse, Theudofrid nestled by the fire with the tome, holding in one hand and turning each page with a contemptuous flick. A byword skill of learning to read with axestaff in the other hand. He understood the theoretical nature of destruction magic, as one should in dispelling it; but never dabbled in it's art. Certainly unusual for an archdruid of Jhunal's mystery school. And with that trail of thought, he pondered on other clever folk in service to the Kingship, at least those from the assembly, whom never sought council on otherworldly lore, or exchanged arcane philosophies. There was no mistaking it, much as he wished it otherwise, they disrespected and ostracized him. Again his thoughts turned to the Altmer. Revealing herself a Psijic Devil, whos very presence brought a weariness to Theudofrid. They are powerful, many times beyond the living men of his god. 'What of this devil? Have they once again come to seek the ruin of our lord?...' No doubt through devilry they are aware of things to come, even as tremendous efforts are emplaced to hide from their clairvoyance. The ruin they brought many years past was without direct involvement, merely directing the Cyrod King Uralspetim to invade was enough to break the threads of prophesy.

Soon enough, just as his mind churned at piecing together why her Dark Elf companion's work required such skilled goldsmiths, the sensation of someone's presence neared his longhouse. They were far earlier then expected. He might have been to the door as they arrived were it not that Theudofrid pulled something in his back as he stood in swift, sharply hurting himself. His groaning curses against the Old Knocker mixed with the sounds of heavy knocking. "Just, eh...oh, a moment please!" Said the old man. He stretched out his arms with no small grimace felt, and heard a pop. The power of his hand had diminished greatly, for he drank too deeply from hermetic wellsprings not present in mundus. Or maybe he was just getting old. Whatever the cause or reason, he donned his robes and the door was soon enough unlatched to the four Nords, who were ushered in.

"I could hear that from out here court mage. Why don't you relax in the ocean some time, the cold strengthens the muscles." Said one of the Grim Ones as the other three payed their respects in brief, before making way down to gather the enchanted arms. "A'yep, and if you'd really be accompanying High King Red-Snow south a ways then it aught do some good seeing fight'n techniques. The other clever-men, Nords at least, carry axes and swords on them, you look to be trustin magic alone."

Theudofrid nodded at his words. The bluntly genuine way of speaking made him believe it was without any subtle insults, mayhaps the man was really passing along a warrior's wisdom. "Were I a young and upcoming mage, yet to spend my days learned, I would... leap into the waters myself, axe in hand. But I have counted too many winters, and now it is beyond my ability." He laced a hint of sadness in those words. Yet he had secretly observed their fighting, which to their credit was especially brutal, far more then Theudofrid believed he could hold against in close combat were he silenced. Though the image of a mage who shied away from the warrior ways was exactly what he wanted known of him. Somehow whispers that he was a woodland wanderer from Atmora was prevalent rumor. 

Theudofrid could read his next thoughts as easily as the destruction tome, and answered the question on his mind before it was spoken. "It makes me sick to my stomach. Even the smallest drink holds poorly, no matter how finely brewed, no matter the quality." As he prepared to interject, Theudofrid once again spoke first. "I know every Nord with weakness such as myself drinks anyways, yet I have no tolerance to it."

The other man was entirely confused to hear such sacrilege. "I be honest with you Theudofrid, Court Mage. You are a very strange Nord. You do good in the service to Baldur, your preaching is enthralling and honest, but even the elves don't shun the mead man. There's even grumbling at the mention of your name with some folk."

"The other clever-folk mock and disrespect me you mean. Perhaps one might even challenge me, as I had done with the elder Wuunferth?" Said the old man knowingly, seeking to spur the events of fate. The clever man, Yogsamir had gravely insulted his person, albeit near all the mages at the assembly did, yet he had a sight none of the others possessed, one that saw something horrible deep in Theudofrid's soul. In truth, Theudofrid suspected the man a servant of Herma-Mora; few beyond his service know such lore. And though no god shall come before Jhunal, there was no kinship between followers of the Woodland Man. He need only await the sacred procession that shall bear his artifacts south, then whether it is his own or Yogsamir's, there will be much gore spilt in the snow. Theudofrid had parted ways with his arms of the occult when he journeyed across the Sea of Ghosts. At the time, he thought it wise to assume a kindly face. What a shock it would be, he mused, when Baldur might see Theudofrid clad in the judicial arms of his hermetic panoply. Better still, he wished to see the expression of Yogsamir; so worried about his passing into Sovngarde would then enjoy it's splendor. 

"Aye, be sorry to say you're right, some of the other mages don't respect you. But they won't disobey Baldur, no infighting until the elves are dead. Not so sure after we're coming home laden with elf treasure your position as court mage won't be challenged." As had been done many times over, the heavily enchanted arms of Baldur's officers and picked men were carried out with deference. Even Theudofrid showed such respect, for they were of the Skyforge. Something the old clever man dearly wished to lay eyes upon one day should he live long enough. Unsurprisingly the Grim One took the opportunity to break off the conversation and bid him farewell. Praising in swift the enchantments.

Now to his lonesome once again, Theudofrid stood in the longhouse's entryway. Looking out upon Kyne's Watch, unthreatened by the cold. The hidden sickle, golden in resplendence yet still bent from when the then Jarl Baldur mindlessly slammed it into a table was ever within reach, at a profane angle just beyond mortal sight. 'He knows much of Herma-Mora, yet what of his lord? Whatever his will, it will be no more when he gazes upon the frozen face of Jhunal...' The mere invoke of thought, by his god's name all warmth fled the longhouse, and the hearth was no more.

The door was closed.

[The Good Doctor]

Fullhelm, The Rift
Two days after the sack of Riften

"Hei! Hei, wake up!"

Heidrun Goatsdottir awoke half-delirious to a cacophony of screams and tolling bells. Her head throbbed, the painful price of a night spent on too much drink, and now each of these new sounds felt like a fresh nail being hammered into her skull.

"Get up, Hei. We have to leave!"

She rubbed her eyes and saw Jytia standing by the window, fingers fumbling with the laces of her dress. "What's happening?"

Her friend's voice was quivering with terror. "I don't know!"

Heidrun got dressed and the two girls climbed down from the little barn loft they had spent the night in. They made for the Thane's keep, not bothering to stop by the empty homestead of Heidrun's own family. Along the way, they met other villagers who filled them in as they fled in the same direction.

"Bandits comin' up the road," declared Old Yonlef Blue-Blood, "a whole pack of 'em!"

"What?!" Jytia was almost at the point of sobbing. "No, that can't be right! Pa, the soldiers, they rode out to stop-"

"They lost," announced Adar the Stern. "If the bandits got this far, then Riften's up in smoke. Damn Kyne, the bitch! We'd have known if not for this cursed blizzard!"

It wasn't the only thing they had to blame Kyne for. The knee-deep snow grabbed at their boots and made them fight against it for every new step. What was ordinarily a short hike up the road had become a desperate crawl that was driven forward by the screams of their neighbors behind them.

It was all in vain. The bandits came on horseback, their grins wicked and cruel, and their weapons already dripping with blood. Old Yonlef was the first to draw his axe and the first to fall, then Idda Open-Eye attempted to hide in the snow and got crushed by hooves. Jytia shrieked, and Heidrun turned to see her friend grabbed beneath the arm and wrenched onto a bandit's saddle. Heidrun tried to rush them, but someone got a wad of her hair and yanked so hard that she tumbled backwards into the snow. The hand released her, and she desperately raised both arms over her face in fear of getting trampled in the confusing tangle of horses and bodies.

"Goatsdottir!" Another hand grabbed her, this one gentler than the last, and Heidrun felt herself getting lifted to her feet and guided through the chaos. Her eyes burned with tears, and she had no idea if they were still on their way to the Thane's keep or some other destination. She simply followed, completely numb to her surroundings and too terrified to stop and look around for even a second. It was not until much later, after the screams and cries grew faint behind them, that she realized they had run into the forest.

The following days were the hardest of Heidrun's life. Her small band of refugees started off numbering five. It had almost been six, but Olgor the Humble died of blood loss shortly after escaping the raid. They had planned to hide in the woods and return to Fullhelm when the bandits were gone again, but that changed when Adar the Stern returned to their camp with news that the bastards had no intentions to leave any time soon. The bandit 'chief' had taken up residence in the Thane's hall, and his men were enjoying every scrap of food and bottle of mead the village had to offer.

Options were scarce. Fullhelm was lost and the roads were no longer safe for travel. The blizzard still raged, and the only thing they could think to do was flee into the Velothi foothills and take shelter in the nearby Unnvald Barrow.
After three days spent clutching their empty bellies and praying for the storm to end, they finally decided that they could wait no longer. One of them had to venture out to find them some food. Adar volunteered; borrowing a spear from one of the ancient dead, he ventured outside with the promise that he would return with something to eat. He never returned at all.

Another day passed, and the storm showed no signs of letting up. Fear and hunger paved the road to anger and frustration, and with nothing else to do in their cold little barrow, the survivors began to argue.

"We should all hunt," declared Yara Honey-Finger. "Between the four of us, we're bound to find something!"

"The game's all burrowed, fool," replied Velnir the Ugly. "We must wait out this storm."

"Who knows how long that could be," cried Jon Jon, "We should use the storm to sneak food from the village."

"Do you want to get killed?" Yara shouted. "I'm not going back there!"

Heidrun was the only one who did not engage in the bickering. She was still hoping that this was all a dream, that she was asleep in the barn loft, that Jytia was with her, and that she would awaken soon to learn that the soldiers had returned from Lake Honrich after decorating Riften's walls with the head of every last bandit they found.

Jon Jon's idea won out in the end. That night, he and Velnir snuck home to steal back some of their own food. After being away for hours, Velnir returned, breathless and alone, one hand clutching a sack of dried meats and the other covering a bloody gash across his right hip.

The three of them ate ravenously, then Velnir and Yara spent the next hour arguing about whether it was safe to remain in the barrow or if they needed to leave. After Velnir insisted that the bandits had not followed him into the woods, Yara rebutted that his blood would have left a trail. He then called her a "useless bitch" and pointed out that the snow would have already covered it.
Yara must not have liked that very much, because they awoke the next morning to find her gone along with all the remaining food. Velnir's wound prevented him from returning to the village for more, and so he decided to fall back on his original plan to wait out the storm and then try to hunt. "You can hunt, can't you lass?" he had grumbled at Heidrun. "Because I'm gettin' real bloody sick of doin' everything myself."

Heidrun was no huntress, but her father was a great warrior, and had made damn sure that his only daughter knew how to properly swing a sword and loose an arrow. She had never let fly at any living targets, but how much harder could that be than hitting one made of straw? "Yes," she told him, "with a bow."

In response, Velnir limped over to one of the ancient corpses that laid supine in alcoves along the barrow walls. He pried a bow from its hands and thrust it into hers. "String's rotted off. We'll make a new one. Arrows too."

Unfortunately, they would have to spend another four days and nights in the barrow before Kyne saw fit to bring her blizzard to a merciful end. By then, any satisfaction from their single night of good eating had long subsided, and both their stomachs ached with pain. Hunger aside, the days had been made all the longer by Velnir being a man of very few words. He spent most of his time sleeping or fletching, and paid no heed whatsoever to the fits of sobbing that took Heidrun by surprise when her mind started to dwell on home. She did not want his pity, but the man's silence almost made her feel like she was alone with the dead.

After nine days of squatting hungry in the musty darkness, they finally emerged to a sparkling white landscape overlooked by the bluest of skies. Heidrun spent her whole day on the hunt, and after missing two squirrels and startling away a rabbit, she succeeded at putting an arrow into a young pheasant that made the mistake of landing on a nearby cliff. The little bird tasted delicious, but after four days without a bite of food, it was hardly the satisfying meal they had hoped for. Velnir said nothing, but the looks he gave Heidrun betrayed his frustration. 

The next day was even worse. This time, Heidrun saw even fewer animals than before, and broke three arrows trying to hit the few she did. She returned to a disappointed Velnir with nothing to eat but a pouch full of snowberries.

Two weeks after the loss of their village, Velnir's leg had healed enough that he dared to venture back and see if the bandits were still around. Heidrun accompanied him this time, determined to pull her weight.
To their dismay, they found that not only was Fullhelm still occupied by bandits, but that they seemed to be in even greater numbers than before. Watchmen had been posted around the perimeter, and fortifications had been erected at key parts of town.

Heidrun felt her ears burn as she stared down at the houses and wondered if Jytia was in one of them. She had always been a delicate sort, easily frightened and in no way a fighter.
To her own horror, Heidrun realized that she hoped the bandits had killed her. Killed Jytia, and any other villager who had been captured during the raid. Better that they be in Sovngarde than subjected to the whim of these monsters.
She squeezed her bow, wishing it was one of their necks. Velnir must have noticed, because he chose that moment to motion that it was time to depart.

They did not return to the barrow. Instead, they traveled north while avoiding the roads. The snow made for hard trekking, but Velnir said that it was preferable to encountering any bandits. Heidrun was no longer so certain. By now, she longed for the opportunity to put an arrow in one's chest, and if they managed to kill her then so what? The grief, the hunger, the loneliness, they would all finally come to an end. Was that so bad?

Each passing day brought these thoughts closer to the forefront of Heidrun's mind. Each passing day brought more hunger, more pain, more scowls from Velnir over her failure to keep them fed. This only became worse when he managed to kill two squirrels after taking the bow from her. The creatures barely had any meat on them, but that didn't make a bit of difference to Velnir. She could see in his eyes that his patience was wearing thin. Had he been alone, those two squirrels might have been halfway filling. He hates me, she realized. I am taking food from his mouth. 

Somewhere along the way, Heidrun lost count of the days, so she had no idea how long they had been traveling when they came upon their first living humans since setting out. Velnir spotted them first, far ahead in the distance: two figures skinning a deer the edge of the forest, one wearing a bear pelt on his head. He pointed them out to Heidrun and whispered, "Bandits. Get ready."

The thought of roast venison made Heidrun's stomach growl, but it was the prospect of revenge that truly set her mind to the task. Without a moment's hesitation, she crouched down, drew her bow, and crept slowly forward through the shadows until she arrived at a good position behind a tree some ten yards behind them. Meanwhile, Velnir flanked right all the way up to a thicket just beside them. His eyes met hers, and he gave a nod. Upon that signal, Heidrun loosed an arrow directly into the bear-headed figure's back.

Her target fell screaming, and the other turned just in time to see Velnir barreling out of the bushes, sword raised. He performed a horizontal swing that looked liable to lop his foe's head off then and there, but the bandit was young and quick to react; he ducked away just in time, then dodged again as Velnir aimed a thrust at his chest.

Heidrun knocked another arrow and moved forward for a clearer shot, but as she did, her eyes fell on her first victim. The man was old, his face deeply-wrinkled and halfway hidden behind a white beard. There was no wickedness in his eyes, only confusion and pain. She glanced back up at Velnir, who finally landed a strike against his unarmed foe, cutting him across the hip in such a way that he fell to his knees.

"No!" came a shout from the downed elder. His voice was course, and his tone broken and desperate. "Please, stop!"

Velnir ignored the pleas and delivered a kick that sent his opponent back-first into the snow. He then raised his sword to deliver the killing blow. It never came. Instead, an arrow pierced Velnir's chest. He stood in that position for several seconds, arms raised, sword ready to come down, and a look of utter bewilderment in his eyes. Then at last, he fell.

Heidrun's bowstring quivered a moment, then stilled. She looked from the elder she had shot to the youth Velnir had slashed, then finally to Velnir himself, who laid motionless in a drift of snow that was already beginning to darken from the pool of red emerging within it.

The elder was in too much pain to keep his eyes on her, but the youth clutched his wound and glared, no doubt wondering what in the blazes was going on. Curiously, he seemed less afraid than Heidrun herself, despite having just been a second's passing away from certain death.
For her part, Heidrun's whole body was shaking, but she mustered up enough courage to speak. "My name is Heidrun Goatsdottir... Who are you?"

The youth's glare softened, just a tad. "Kjal of the Longfoot." He motioned at Velnir. "Were you with him?"

"Aye."

"And you killed him."

"He was going to kill you."

"He was… I think I might be in your debt, Heidrun Goatsdottir."

This was how Heidrun befriended the Longfoots, mountain folk from the Velothi range. The two men turned out to be father and son, Cnut and Kjal, and -as she had suspected in the heat of that fateful moment- they were not bandits, merely huntsmen and guardians of their people. In fact, their hunt had been spurred by necessity following their clan chief's decision to bring refugees from Riften into their homes. The kind of friends she wished she could have found weeks ago.

By Mara's mercy, neither man's wound proved severe. Kjal knew a basic healing spell that turned the slice on his leg into an ugly but harmless scar. And Heideun helped him load both Cnut and the deer onto a hunting sleigh, which they dragged several miles east, to a cave occupied by some of their people and a handful of refugees.

The Longfoots were generous hosts. They fed Heidrun, let her bathe in their pools, and provided her with new clothes that were dry and warm. Their shaman even gave her a poultice to treat a sickness Heidrun had no idea she had even contracted. Overall, they were a tough, simple folk who lived off little, but compared to the last few weeks, their cave might as well have been the Blue Palace.

From her time with them, Heidrun learned a lot more about what had happened at Riften. They told her of a great battle at Faldar's Tooth, and a bandit lord named Boldir Iron-Brow, whose horde overtook the Stormcloaks and breached the gates of Riften during a riot. Fires had been started at the docks, and eventually spread across the entire city. The Jarl was dead. The Black-Briars were dead. Riften was no more. 

Now bandits ruled the hold, roaming the countryside and preying on travelers just as Velnir had predicted. Ivarstead, Shor's Stone, and Fort Dawnguard had become the main havens for refugees, but supplies were scarce and hard to acquire. Everyone hoped that High King Ulfric would arrive soon with his army and drive out the menace, but now there were rumors that Eastmarch had been attacked by elves and no help was coming.

The others were surprised when Heidrun told them she hailed from Fullhelm. Longfoot scouts had searched that area, but to this day she was the first and only person they knew of to make it out of the village alive. Upon learning that she had survived the blizzard by sheltering in a barrow, some of the clan took to calling her "Snow-Wight".

And so it was that Heidrun "Snow-Wight" came to be a nomad, at least for a time. The Longfoots patrolled the Velothis from cave to cave, scouting bandit activity so their runners could report it to other towns and clans, and searching for refugees who they could help deliver to safety.

"And when does Snow-Wight mean to depart?" asked Kjal one night as they shared mead beside a campfire. "I suppose I could take you for wife, make you a true Longfoot, but I aim to have at least three one day, and I know how jealous you city girls can be."

She punched him for that, but in truth, Kjal's jokes were just about the only thing to make her crack a smile since Fullhelm. "Jealous, and good with a bow," she reminded him. "So I suggest you speak carefully."
Kjal grinned, and she continued, "My pa left the Rift months ago. He's in a place called 'Kyne's Watch', way off in Haafingar. I used to think I'd go find him there, but… I don't even know how to reach him."

"Well, I ain't an expert, but I'd think our best bet would be to strike north; find a boat up in Windhelm."

"'Our'?"

"I owe you a blood debt, remember? I'll not have a city girl spreading word that Kjal Longfoot don't pay his debts."

"Are you saying you'll help me get there?"

"I'm saying that where you go, I go. Least til I've paid what I owe."

They drank heartily that night, sharing stories of their upbringings and the lives they had lived, of Heidrun's years tending the homestead while her father fought in wars, of Kjal's misadventures hunting and scouting the Velothi range, of loves, hatreds, hopes, and dreams. Most of it no longer mattered; the reaving of the Rift had changed everything. But it was nice to share, to preserve those memories that so few now carried.

As the hour grew late and the bottles ran dry, their tales became sadder. Kjal told her of his last journey to Riften, of stone ruins jutting skyward from fields of ash and debris. The walls remained, though severed heads now lined the battlements. Above the main gate, the stripped corpses of Maven Black-Briar and Laila Law-Giver had been staked up as a royal feast for the crows.

Heidrun in turn told Kjal of the people she had lost, of brave Adar the Stern who had gone out to find them food and never made it back, of Dorsi the baker who made the tastiest sweetrolls in the Rift, even of Velnir who helped her survive even as the wilds turned him cruel and violent, and of course poor Jytia who had never harmed a fly. They were gone now, all of them, and for Heidrun, life would never again be the same.

***

Kyne's Watch
Present Day

Cold winds rustled the leaves of the Time Tree, and in her solitude, Heidrun prayed the names of those she had lost. Brunwulf, Dorsi, Adar, Velnir, Yara, Jon Jon… Jytia. And she prayed for her father Hrondar the Goat, who she finally reunited with only days before his crippling at the hands of the singular name that stood out most hauntingly in her mind: Boldir Iron-Brow, the Scourge of the Rift.
After all the horrors, all the pain and grief she had endured, Heidrun had thought herself finally away from it all, ready to start again. But not a month had passed since her arrival in Kyne's Watch when she heard that name once more, and soon discovered that the very monster who destroyed nearly everything she loved had somehow followed her here. And he was already doing it again, unchecked, unpunished, protected by the traitor who called himself Skyrim's new High King.

No more.

Beneath the Time Tree and the dim red-white gaze of Shor's own corpse, she drew her dagger and slit the throat of a trapped fox, letting its blood run deep into the roots below before she began to carve at its chest. It was a profane ritual, but Heidrun did not care. The gods of her fathers had granted no relief to the people of the Rift, and now they offered no justice either. Vengeance was all that remained.

And so she prayed: "Hear me, Old Knocker. Know my pain. Know the pain of my people."
She plunged her hand into the dead animal's chest and withdrew its heart, which she placed at the foot of the tree.
"Accept my offering, and let my enemy know it too. Let there be no peace for Boldir and his kin. Let there be no home or hearth."
With bloody fingers, Heidrun painted three dots on the smooth white bark of the holy tree: each representing one of the Hearth Goddesses. She then drew a series of twisting circles around them: the coiling of a snake.
"Let them wander as we wandered. Let them hurt as we hurt. Woe unto them from this night forward, until the dead at last have their vengeance."
Heidrun's final thoughts were silent: And may that day come swiftly.

The leaves of the Time Tree that had rustled all throughout the night suddenly fell still, and a shiver went up Heidrun's spine. Something heard her prayer. Was it the vile grin of Orkey that she felt? Or did Mother Kyne bare talons at the profanity of her ritual?

In response, Heidrun spit on the tree and took her leave. Clouds moved over the moonlit sky as she made her way across town, darkening the muddy pathways between buildings. She found Kjal Longfoot asleep in his small hut near the southern edge of town. But her friend slept lightly, and awoke when she entered.

"Hei?" The nomad rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "What's going on?"

"Your debt to me. You are serious about it, aren't you?"

Kjal sat up, suddenly wide awake. "I am. Kyne strike me if I am lying."

"You would save me twice, or kill for me twice."

"Aye. Once for me and once for my pa."

She nodded, well-aware of his reasoning. "Good. Because I am ready to be repaid."

[The Good Doctor]

Dreamworld

Beyond the weight of Mundus, in a tranquil limbo of circling red heavens dreamt an old clever man. Godly and ungodlike, he stood in meditation within a temple of thought; a communion of eldritch philosophy that was the makeup of his very soul. He was as true, neither disguised or false. His face was as wretched and terrible as it was kindly. Yet it remained mortal, and in this was his power. His Mundane Law.

Those who were bound to his will surrounded him like standing stones of a shrine, petrified into fossil by an otherworldly cold. Many crossed the sea with him, not all of them mortal. Here they dreamt, seekers of knowledge all. The sum of their lamentations entombed by his Geis.

Though the old clever man was powerful, and wished it otherwise, Aka-Tusk and all his shattered fragments held presence here and time moved akin to the waking world. In which the old clever man whisked himself back to in terror.
 

***

Kyne's Watch
Present Day
 

Theudofrid leapt from his bed, frantically throwing his woolen covers to the ground. It was no form of nightmare, weaved by the webspinner that spurred his trembling hand; which held a conjured shortsword. It was the presence of the Old Knocker, whos eyes hung right above his bed for a moment before fleeing the longhouse. 

Though the sound of his frantic heart nearly deafened it, he could feel the echoes of spoken blasphemy in his mind. A terrible rite was being preformed in the city, one which brought the ire of gods. He might have expected a world ending blizzard to engulf the very sun itself for how furious Kyne grew. Here he hid himself in the longhouse, warding to his greatest extent until the Old Knocker moved on; blown away by the wrath of Kyne. His brow had become furrowed and heavy with uncertainty, as he was at his weakest; and now even the brief presence of Orkey struck fear in his heart where what once would be booming dismissal.

He might have caught whomever dared defile Kyne's holy tree, had he braved the town in that moment. In that reality's stead, crept out once he felt it safe enough. There was the usual sparse activity at this late hour, yet unsurprisingly Kyne's holy tree was vacant of all earthly presence. There he looked upon it, an imprint of sacrifice remained. Theudofrid reached out to grasp the freezing cold fox-heart, he would not suffer it remaining here. With it in hand, his gaze grew unfocused and a wound appeared upon his flesh. Again and again, he consumed the hewing runes into his own flesh. Whimpering with each one. At last the heart collapsed into itself and in the mind's eye knew Kyne had snatched away the animal's spirit.

He did not, nor could he undo the offerings given to the Old Knocker. But he had hoped to do right by Kyne and preserve the sacred place. Orkey already was a graven enemy of Theudofrid, these carvings could draw him no more than he already was to the old man's soul. He shuffled away from the holy place, seeking out the voice which profaned so; drawn to the words alike a dread spirit. What was muffled and distant grew increasingly clairvoyant as he chased it down. Betraying inordinate speed from a feather spell, it appeared as if he glided across across the ground with subtle, and very quiet motions. No sooner was Theudofrid standing before an unassuming hovel. He knew not what awaited inside, and so cast in secret, by the breath of his lungs a life detecting spell. Revealing a single waking soul.

He knocked once upon the hut. Prepared to contest the power of whatever witch emerged. Some seconds passed, and Theudofrid sensed a feeling of trepidation coming from within those walls, then at last the door opened wide, revealing no witch or indeed woman at all, but a young man who like as not had yet to see twenty winters. For a flicker of a moment, the youth's eyes contained unguarded suspicions, and Theudofrid knew immediately that the lad's right hand, which was at that moment concealed behind the open door, was clutching the hilt of an unseen weapon.

To the young man's credit, he did well to mask whatever distress must have plagued him, for his voice betrayed no fear, only the mild agitation that would come natural to one who'd been awakened in the dead of night. "You lost, old-timer?"

Exhaling the breath that might have ensnared another's soul, yet still tightly holding the sickle hidden within his sleeve. the old clever man spoke. "In a manner of speaking, greetings to you young Nord. I am a clever-man, and priest of the pantheon. Grim words I would have you hear. If you are true hearted, I bid you hear them." 

"Oh yeah?" The lad hesitated. Was he thinking of flight? Of attack? Or simply of an adequate response? It was hard to tell, for his eyes were careful to avoid straying from Theudofrid's own. When the moment ended, the young man relented with an exasperated sigh. "Alright, then. What words do you have for me at such a late hour?"

"Some time ago, a profane ritual was driven into being. Not in any distant gloom or glade, but here, before the holy tree did someone sacrifice in the name of... and I do not speak this lightly son; Orkey." Theudofrid let that sink in for a moment, his unrelenting gaze was intense, yet the young man was unwavering before it.

"The Old Knocker? Huh." The lad's surprise appeared sincere. He was either a skillful actor, or this was truly news to him. "Well, I am glad to know this, Priest, but I don't see what it has to do with me, or why it couldn't have waited til morning."

"Had I waited until morning, you might be dead. By the power of my hand, I am seeking out the witch responsible, and It has led me to your steading." Theudofrid's harsh expressions rested itself, and though his hand was at the ready, it was now outwardly turned. "I had thought to take your life, and display it before Kyne. Now? Your honest character declares to me your innocence."

He knew it before. Witches taking advantage of gullible Nord men, oftentimes robbing them of all possessions and leaving them with naught in the wilderness. If this young Nord was held in thrall, it was too subtle for the old man to perceive it.

"Well that's just grand, seeing I've never dealt with any devils and never would."

"Most do not, nevertheless my measure has brought me here. I am Theudofrid, son of Ingolf. May I enter your stead?" He was polite about it, although his poise relayed it was a formality, as he looked ready to step forward at an instant.

"If it'll clear things up, sure." The lad took a step back, revealing the hand-axe that Theudofrid had correctly suspected to be in his right hand. He indicated himself by tapping it broadways to his chest. "I'm Kjal of the Longfoots."

"Thank you Kjal." Said Theudofrid, giving a weakly smile. Crossing the threshold into the man's hut, Theudofrid was graced with a rather familiar homely Nord cabin. Simple and fit for a humble occupation, the assortment of craftworks and pelts gleaned the man a hunter. As he suspected, it was mundane within as without; not even the vestiges of magic revealed itself. Either the power of this witch was so beyond Theudofrid that she left not a trace at all, or this was not where she dwelt. Despite all the fantastical adventures and ring cycles the old man has lived through, he considered the simple and straightforward answer as truth.

"Honestly Kjal, I'm at a loss. I know in my bones that she has stepped foot in here before... Ah, I understand this question will be a strange one. Have you any relation with women in Kyne's Watch, or abroad whom might have been here?"

"Relations? You asking who I've bedded?"

"I'm asking who you've shared your hut with, be it friends, family or strangers. I don't need to know details beyond this." Said Theudofrid.

"I see. Being honest, there ain't many folks who've been here since I moved in. Most my kin are back in the Rift, and I'm not much for entertaining friends."
Kjal paused, appearing deep in thought. "I suppose the last time would be the Stormcloak lass about a week ago. Name was Skira, Skirda, something likethat. Pretty sure she ain't your witch, though."

For a moment longer, Theudofrid scanned the hut, measuring its area that if need be whatever spells he might cast would merely destroy just the hut. Satisfied with his mathematics, he faced Kjal. "Beyond the High King's inner circle, I am unfamiliar with his kingship's warriors. Best I confront Skira-or-Skirda anyways. Now, I'm going to cast a spell called a Mark in your home Kjal, should you find yourself beset; call upon me and I shall appear."

"Uh, I appreciate the offer, Priest, but we just met. I can abide the questioning, but I'm less keen on letting a stranger cast spells in my house. Least of all so he can listen in on me."

"That is fair, would you then permit me cast my spells beyond your stead? In this I will unlikely hear you cr- uh, battle cries in time before the witch is slain; but you will have privacy in full."

"I'll be careful," Kjal replied. "But sure, do whatever you must out there. Long as walking near it ain't gonna set me on fire or somethin' of the sort."

"Thank you Kjal," Theudofrid replied. He needn't tell the man his authority ended beyond his home. Theudofrid intended to have Kjal watched, if not by himself then a fellow druid, plucked from some deep place of learning would. The old clever man bowed his head. "Fair you well my son. May you sleep soundly." For we shall meet again.
 

***
 

"Okay, we're good and alone now," said Heidrun. "Pretty sure it's safe to speak."

"Not yet," replied Kjal, who kept his eyes forward as he continued up the narrow mountain trail. "Just a little further."

"We must be a mile off the road."

Longfoot gave no answer, which Heidrun found beyond frustrating. It wasn't like him to behave so nervously. He'd been positively eager with her the night before. He's getting cold feet, she thought. Was it cruel of me to ask this of him?

Another ten minutes up the trail, the duo came upon a trap, its jaws closed tight around the body of a snow hare. She knelt down and opened the mechanism so Kjal could begin skinning the dead animal. 

"Good weather for this," he muttered as he set to task. "I found another trail closer to the mountain's base. Lots of tracks. We'll move the trap there."

"Kjal…" Heidrun was frowning when he turned to face her. "Why did you bring me out here? If this is about the debt, don't worry, I can kill him myse-"

"It's not the debt, Hei." Kjal's expression was disarmingly grim. She had not seen such severity in his eyes since they left the Rift. "It's about you. I-…" His voice trailed off a moment, and it was clear that he was struggling to find his words. But he recovered quickly with a curse. "Oh, damn it all! What I agreed to do, I agreed to do in your name, not the Old bleedin' Knocker's!"

"Huh?" That took her by surprise. How could he know? How could he know when no one else does? Heidrun knew it was wrong, but she didn't know what else to do besides feign ignorance. "What in Oblivion are you on about? I want Boldir dead for us, for the Rift. That's got nothing to do with any devils."

"Molag's balls, it don't!" Kjal dropped the hare into the snow. "How about you try telling that to the old Rossy priest who knocked on my door last night!"

"A priest?" Heidrun tried to stay calm, but she felt a tightening in her chest. "So what? Did he want a donation?"

"Quit playing with me, Hei. He followed the scent of devilry to my home not ten minutes after you left it. He was lookin' for a witch to slay!"

"A witch?" Heidrun let out a dry bark of a laugh. "Alright, you've caught me. You've been under my spell this entire time!"
Kjal's frown dropped to a scowl, so she let up on the joke. "You're serious? You really believe some foreign priest over me?"

"I'm not a fool; his timing was no accident. Don't you dare try denying it again, Hei. Not to me."

It was no use. The Old Goat didn't raise her to be a liar, and Kjal was too clever by half to fall for it anyway. But what would he think of her? Whatever it is, he already thinks it.
She sighed. "Alright… I should never have kept this from you, and for that I apologize… I'm no witch, truly, but the thing your priest detected, that was me."

"Of course it was!" Kjal threw up his hands, flicking blood off his hunting knife. "Damnit! Why? That priest, he means to kill you!"

"Well what did you tell him?"

"I told him I didn't know any witches and sent him on his way."

"Then it sounds like I'll be just fine."

"Fine? He followed you with magic! Something wasn't right with that man, Hei, I could feel it. He won't stop looking."

"If he could find me so easily, he would've done it last night." She tried to imagine a holy man barging into her house in the night. Even with his injuries, her father was still a survivor of the Grim Trials. He would tear the priest limb-from-limb. "Besides, I'm not afraid of any priest. Are you?"

Kjal glared at her. "What I'm afraid of is the thing he's after."

"What?" She snorted. "Me?"

"You did something dark last night, Hei. I don't know the details and I don't want to know them. What matters to me is that this is the only time. It is, right? You ain't done anything like it in the past, have you?"

"No," Heidrun replied at once. "Never."

"Swear it."

That stung. "You're serious?"

Kjal's nostrils flared. "Oh no, you do not get to do that right now. Swear it!"

"Alright, I swear it! By the bones of my mother, I swear this was the only time I've done what I did, or anything of the sort!"

Kjal's gaze softened. "Good. You messed up, but if it's just this once, maybe the gods will forgive it." He nodded, seemingly more to himself than to Heidrun, then he met her eyes. "I also want you to promise me that it won't happen again."

"I promise. I won't do it again, ever."

"Thank you." He seemed to relax a little, and knelt down to retrieve the hare. "The gods are good, Hei. There ain't no need to deal with any devils."

She gave a half-hearted nod. "I'm sorry, Kjal. Truly, I am. I shouldn't have lied to you."

"That's the least of it."

"No, it ain't. After all we've been through together, after what you've promised to do for me, you deserve more loyalty than that."

"Aye, I'd say I do. And I'd like for that to go both ways, I really would." He sighed. "What's done is done. We've still got the future to work with, and I'm still with you."

Heidrun was truly relieved to hear that. She harbored no regrets for her prayer to Orkey, and stood by every word of it, but she felt awful for involving Kjal.
In that moment, she felt uncommonly fortunate. Thankful, even. Whatever her sufferings in the past or future, she could at least say that she had made a good friend in it all. A better one than she deserved.

Kjal must have picked up on how strangely she felt, because he gave a reassuring smile. "But enough of all this. Once the priest gives up, we'll never speak of it again."
He unslung a pack from his shoulder containing two sets of the ski boards his clan were named for and handed one to her. "So chin up, Snow-Wight. We still have a trap to set."

[Centurion]

Tythis Relas
Refugee’s Rest, Eastmarch
About 3 months before the Thalmor Assault

The frigid winds of Skyrim were vastly different from the warm ashy winds of Morrowind and the change was almost unnaturally quick when the pair crossed over the Velothi Mountains. He could see the walls of the ancient city in the distance and wanted to get there to complete his business quickly. Tythis muttered on frozen breath, “Come along Serandas, I want to reach Windhelm by night fall.” 

“Coming master. I was just looking over the decree for this tower. ‘This tower once served as a meeting place where those brave souls who achieved safe passage to Skyrim would find loved ones, and leave notice for others who could not be found…’ We shall see if the words inside remain true.” Serandas explained as he ran up beside his superior.

“When we reach Windhelm I want you to enter separately. Councilor Relas informed you of your duty on this mission, yes?”

“Indeed master. I shall remain and send back any news that would be of interest to House Redoran.”

“Good.” Tythis looked towards the sun as it began its slow descent in the sky. Wrapping his cloak tightly, the pair started off once again. The road was quiet with only the distant howl of wolves to be heard off in the distance. The landscape was really quite beautiful to Tythis, though it could never compare to Blacklight and the lands that had been reclaimed from the ash. The light of magnus that had shone brightly on the waters of the White River and the undisturbed snow of the world around, began to fade as clouds rolled in and fresh flakes began to tumble down on the wind. 

They passed a destroyed house on the road that looked to be still inhabited, but upon closer inspection, no one was around. Arrows stuck in the wood and sword marks on the walls told enough of the story for the Elves to move along. Further down the path the air began to warm slightly, though not enough for Tythis to loosen his cloak even for a second. Catching sight of buildings with crops growing around them he wondered how anyone managed to farm in this place. The Nord farm hands unknowingly answered his questions by displaying their vigorous toiling against the frozen and rocky soil. The pair of elves shared a knowing glance and continued on determined to reach the city before nightfall.

Tythis and his grandfather's retainer reached the stone bridge across the river an hour later. The stone walls stood high and would have been imposing to a lesser being, but Tythis was not impressed. He didn’t care for these Nords or their crude and archaic architecture. With one last look at Serandas, who was hanging back by the stables, he set off for the gate. As he neared the gate a soldier in a blue sash stopped him. “What is your business in Windhelm, Elf?”

“I’m a traveler from Blacklight. Just stopping on my way home to rest.” Tythis said as he summoned the best tone of sincerity he could muster. The soldier hesitated a moment and shrugged before letting him pass. The bustling nord city was just beginning to draw down for the night when the gates opened for him. He stepped hesitantly, unsure of where to go now. His directions had only been enough to get them to Windhelm, after that it was up to him. 

The district was well-lit by both lanterns and braziers, and thankfully so, as otherwise the walls and multi-story stone and wood buildings would have cast the whole place in shadows. The streets were not very crowded, so it did not take long for most of the loiterers to notice that yet another Dunmer outlander had just come through the gate. Most of them were Nords or at least humans, and most of their glances were about as welcoming as Tythis had been led to expect. There was one set of red eyes, though, belonging to a young Dunmer whose tattered clothes looked filthier than a dungshalk burrow. He had been running adjacent to the gate when Tythis entered, but stopped when he had spotted the newcomer and quickly changed directions.

"M'lord!" the boy shouted in a strange accent that seemed like the bastard mutt of Nordic speech and that of the northern Morrowind countryside. "You're an outlander, yeah? Can see that clear as day, I can! And from Morrowind too!" He closed the distance to Tythis quickly, chattering all the while. "Be needin' help gettin' around then, yes you will! I ain't charge as much as nobody else in Windhelm an' that's a fact!"

Tythis looked disgusted at the sight of a fellow dunmer in such tattered clothing and at the fact he had been called “outlander”, but he decided it best to let it go. He tried his best to lose as much of the noble Redoran accent as he could. “And just were is it I will be needing to go?”

"Well that'd be fer you t'say, M'lord." The boy looked him up and down, eyes stopping on the ebony sword fastened to his belt. "But goin' off yer getup I'd wager you ain't lookin' for the Grey Quarter like most of our sorts."

“The Grey Quarter? Why do most of ‘our sort’ go there?” He asked, eyeing the boy.

The kid shrugged. "I dunno. We just do."

"Well then lad, take me to this Grey Quarter”

“As you wish." The boy nodded enthusiastically. "C'mon then!" 

The youth started off at such a pace that Tythis needed to quicken his steps just to keep up. They went east, first, then north. And before long, it became difficult to keep track of what direction they traveled as the neighborhoods grew windier and the stone buildings taller and more close together. Their path started sloping downward, and as they descended into the lower reaches of the city, the streets started to become narrower as well, and soon they were passing through tight and twisting alleys and streets whose cobbles were coated in icy black filth that seemed to be a mixture of snow, mud, and whatever filth drained down from the upper levels of the city.

The braziers and lanterns that dotted the upper streets were less common down here, and with the sky obscured by overhanging roofs, the district was dark and sometimes even black. The boy did not seem to have much trouble navigating, but more than once Tythis had to watch his step lest he trip over whatever pieces of discarded junk or waste had been tossed out someone's window.

It was just starting to seem as though the boy might have been leading him into some sort of back alley trap when they rounded a corner and Tythis was suddenly met with a familiar sight. Up on a wall before him, just within the glow of a nearby torch, was draped a ragged gray banner with three interlocking chains depicted at its center: the symbol of House Dres. Just beyond it, a little further down, Tythis could just make out a rope strung between two buildings with a similar cloth hanging horizontally along the length of the alley, but instead of chains, this one sported the scales of the disgraced House Hlaalu.

It took just about every ounce of self control Tythis could muster not to scoff and rip the Hlaalu banner down from its perch. House Hlaalu had always been the staunchest rivals of House Redoran and when they were booted from the Great Council and disgraced their rivalry turned into hatred. Tythis had fought off Hlaalu assassins coming after his grandfather and himself enough times to know that hatred ran deep in the hearts of those dunmer still holding on to their house heritage.

"Here y'are," exclaimed the boy, snapping Tythis out of his anger. "This'd be the Grey Quarter. New Gnisis Cornerclub is down a little ways more'n on yer right. An' Sadri's got some bits for sell a few doors down."

“Very well, how many drakes do I owe you, sera?” Tythis said, grabbing for his coin purse while keeping a close eye on the various dark corners present in the rundown thoroughfare.

"Three'll do me good, m'lord."

Tythis dug into his coin purse and pulled out a few golden coins that glistened in the torch light and handed them over to the boy. The young Dunmer snatched the coins quickly and looked them over before stopping and holding out one of the coins. “M’lord, this ain’t no sept’m”

Tythis quickly grabbed another drake and exchanged the currency. He looked down at the shalk quickly studying the black shalk insignia of House Redoran on one side, flipped it, and eyed the triangle hand of the New Temple and Reclamations emblazoned with “Hail Resdaynia” in deadric script underneath and put the coin back in the boy’s hand. “Keep it, may it remind you and every dunmer here of the homeland.”

The boy eyed the coin curiously for a moment, then pocketed his meager earnings, whipped around, and disappeared back down the alleyway, ignorant to the great meaning of what he now carried.

[Centurion]

Ubbe

Kyne’s Watch, The Fort

Ubbe laid flat on the bed in a deep sleep. Freya’s body and now bulging stomach radiated with a soothing heat beside him. The drums had returned and the claps of thunder and pitter patter of rain pulled him awake, no not awake, something… different. The bed and his pregnant partner were there but nothing else. They were in the woods, but the rain wasn’t touching them. Ubbe sat up and looked around. He closed his eyes and with a deep breath pushed himself out of the bed. His feet sank into the snow, but it wasn’t cold. He took a few steps and stopped when a shadow darted behind a tree. He inched forward slowly and then quickly jumped behind the tree, but there was nothing there. He felt a shift in the air and turned around to look at his family but the bed was gone. Only still forest remained. 

Ubbe. A whisper in the wind made him jump. The voice was familiar and comforting. He turned back around and saw a tiny torch bug in the distance. He started towards it, but when he got close the tiny light darted away. He gave chase and the bug led him up to a cave. He entered cautiously and found a campfire that gave off no heat. He sat down on the closest stump. Three stumps sat propped and ready on the other side of the fire. The dancing flames illuminated the wall behind them and he could barely make out the etchings of a fox. He looked down and stared into the fire for what felt like an eternity. When he looked back up a familiar woman was in front of him. Ubbe’s heart stuttered, “Ma.” 

A soft smile escaped her lips for the briefest of seconds. Before fading. Next to her another figure appeared that made his head hot with rage. His father was looking at the ground. Ubbe stood and spit at the man. He looked up at his son with nothing but pain. On the other side of his mother, Ubbe’s grandfather appeared and smiled at his grandson who was still seething with anger. Ubbe turned towards him and a tear escaped his eyes. The fire grew taller and taller until it had formed a wall between them. He tried to call out to them, but no words left his mouth. He backed out of the cave and looked to the sky to let out a vicious war cry, but again no sound was heard. The sky was different. It was a swirl of colors all centered around a bright center. He was enthralled. The strength left his body and he collapsed.

Ubbe woke up to Freya getting dressed. He looked around and everything was how he left it. Nothing was different. He sat up and rubbed his head, trying to make sense of it all. Freya turned around and waddled her pregnant body over to him before grabbing his hand and placing it on her belly. Ubbe felt a forceful movement and drew his hand back before looking at her with bewildered eyes. She let out a soft laugh and leaned in close whispering in his ear, “He has a strong kick.”

“And how do you know it’s a boy?” Ubbe leaned back on the bed, staring at her with a joking look.

“Because the Gods told me so.” She said matter of factly. “They came to me last night and spoke to me about our child.” Ubbe stared into her eyes and could see the truth behind her words. He leaned in and kissed her stomach before standing.

“Oh? And what did the Gods have to say about our child?” He asked amused at the whole thing.

“That he will be strong like his father!” She said with a smile on her face. Turning around she walk to the basin to wash her face. “I need you to go into town and fetch some supplies.

***

Sometime later

Freya’s grip was strong. In the passing moments between contractions she would release Ubbe’s hand and he swore he could feel the blood rushing back in. After several more minutes of this Freya’s grip went limp as her eyes closed and her body relaxed rapidly. Ubbe rose from his seat in the healer’s hall. He looked quickly at the priestess, “What’s happened?”

“She is fighting hard right now. The pain has caused her to lose consciousness. Ubbe I need you to go get the strongest bottle of ale you can find…. and do it quickly.” The priestess said with the urgency in her voice apparent. Ubbe darted quickly out the door and into the frozen night. He ran with all the speed and power he could in the direction of the fort.

The streets of Kyne’s Watch were all but dead this evening. The only thing greeting him as he darted through the houses was the biting cold and an unnaturally strong gust of wind at his back followed but absolute stillness in the air. The fort was coming into view now and he would be in and out before any of his comrades knew something was up.

He slammed into the sturdy double doors after trying to slow on the slick stones out front, but that didn’t deter him as he nearly ripped the door off its hinges and darted into the interior rooms. Luckily the mess area was just down a short flight of stairs and the alcohol contents of the fort were open to the soldiers at all times. He quickly grabbed four bottles of ale and the one bottle of colovian brady that sat on the shelves and took off on his return flight to the healer’s hall.

The bottles jangled and clanked in his arms and one slipped and smashed to pieces on the frozen yet muddy ground. He paid it no mind as he kept up the pace. Any other night and under any other circumstance he would have noticed the tall white-bearded man having a seemingly existential crisis near the Time Tree, but not this night.

He flew through the doors of the hall and fell to his knees, the bottle falling and rolling towards the healer. She finished laying the white linen down upon the bed and turned around. Taking gentle steps she approached Ubbe as he buckled over with his face to the ground. She laid a hand down on his shoulder and, with a soft voice, spoke to him, “I’m sorry….. there’s nothing I could do. My magics were sustaining her when suddenly everything changed.”

Ubbe clenched his jaw. His heart felt as though it were about to explode. He felt as though he fought a thousand dremora to raise his head to her gaze. “The boy… the boy…”

“The baby…. passed with the mother”

Ubbe’s whole body went numb as he buckled to the ground once more. The pain was almost too much to bear as he let out a guttural roar. He laid on the ground for what felt like an eternity before managing to force himself up on weary legs. He moved slowly to the bed and grabbed the edge of the linen cloth. He moved it down off of Freya’s face and caressed her still warm cheek.

***

The air was colder in the wilds outside of Kyne’s Watch, but Ubbe didn’t notice. He walked with steady stride through the tree and across the undisturbed snow of the forest floor. Even the predators of the night knew to avoid his path this night. Eventually the trees gave way to a solitary part of the shore on the Sea of Ghosts and the snow turned to frigid sand. 

With only the sound of the waves lapping upon the shore Ubbe set to work felling trees and binding the trucks together. He worked through the remaining hours of the night and finished the float just as Magnus began to creep over the horizon. He set the float in the water and gently laid Freya’s body onto it. He used what strength he had left to push the float into the waves and collapsed to his knees. He threw his head upwards and let out a pained scream before settling his gaze back on the float as it drifted further into endless reaches of the frozen northern waters.

[The Good Doctor]

Mila Iron-Brow
Kyne's Watch

The hound's breath was rot and death when he barred his fangs. He circled Mila like a carrion bird, waiting for its next meal to die. Twice, she awoke, only to discover that the nightmare persisted. The first time it was to the sight of Vile's empty eyes looking down at her from the shadowy rafters, and the second time it was his hound again, sitting by the bed, drooling over her motionless body.

When Mila finally awoke for real, it was with a cold sweat and her fingers wrapped around the hilt of her dagger. She sat up quickly, ready to fend off the intruding devils. After a few seconds passed, she sighed and replaced the dagger in its sheath.

"Another nightmare?" Roseloe Valga's voice echoed from elsewhere in the room.

"Aye." Mila fell back onto her bed, staring up at the place in the rafters where Vile's eyes had gazed down from. "At least, I hope so."

***
 

The midday sun did little to combat the freezing gales that blew over the Grim Trial grounds. Even wrapped in furs as she was, Mila shivered against their bite, and looked not for the first time in wonder at the Nords who sparred and ran drills with bare chests and ice in their beards.

From her rocky perch, she could just make out Boldir near the beachside, his weapons discarded as he and three others maintained a shield wall against a barrage of illusion magic. They were doing well, their resistances having strengthened beneath the weight of the Trials. 
The mages were shouting at them now. They first barked orders to disband with the aid of domination magics, then tried taunting them into break rank and attacking, and finally they delivered battle cries in an effort to make them flee under the effects of a fear charm. The shield wall held strong against all of it.

Mila took that as a good sign, but Roseloe was unimpressed. "College mages," muttered the witchbug, who was nestled deep in the fur of her collar. "Pfft! These fools would be drooling like infants under the influence of a true sorcerer."

"Like you?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Although it was your Telvanni who I had in mind, naturally."

"Naturally."

"Yes, I do believe that if he was down there right now, that elf would be making your father drink sea water for his amusement."

Mila rolled her eyes. She knew exactly why Roseloe was harping on this. She had been doing it ever since Mila confided her suspicions about Endar being the one who sold her to Clavicus Vile. The witchbug feared what would happen if Boldir found out. She feared that he would make the wizard's death his personal mission.

Which Mila had no doubt was true. Boldir would not allow this to go unpunished. Neither will I, she told herself. Their lives had been ruined by this. Friends had died. Her very soul was doomed. If it was Endar's doing, then he should die for it!

So what are you waiting for? Go tell him! Mila started to rise, then hesitated. He's beaten Endar before, and the Black-Briars, and everyone else who's stood against him… He wouldn't even be alone, Baldur and Rebec would help. 
She stood up again, all the way this time, then frowned, folded her arms, and plopped back down once more. But what if it wasn't Endar?

"Do you mind?" grumbled the witchbug from her collar. "It's bad enough that you forgo training again to sit in the cold and watch apes play with sticks. The least you could do is remain still for five minutes."

"If you're uncomfortable then leave," Mila growled. "I didn't ask you to come with me."

"Hmph! If not for me, your entire day would be wasted on empty-headed nothings such as this. At least by accompanying you, I keep alive the possibility of something productive actually occurring. Gods know you could benefit from the presence of some intelligence in your life."

Mila ignored the insults. Roseloe issued them with such frequency that they had lost their sting long ago. Instead, she kept her thoughts on track. "What do you think Endar is doing for the Stormcloaks?"

"Why do you ask?" The witchbug paused a moment, then her voice became harsh. "You're not still thinking of sharing your suspicions with Boldir, are you? I told you, girl, that would be a very foolish thing to do."

"No," Mila lied. "But I still want to know what's so important that we must keep around the elf who stole my soul."

"Allegedly," the witchbug pointlessly reminded. "And to answer your question, he is providing magical aid, obviously. Your uncle didn't partner with a Telvanni lord for his woodworking skills."

"Baldur has lots of clever men already. And-"

"Clever men." Roseloe snorted. "Right."

Mila scowled. "And… Endar has his own studies he is working on. Why would he help Baldur?"

"Oh, I don't know. Money? The favor of a king? An exchange of secrets? A better question is why in the Void you are asking me these questions when both men are twenty minutes' walk from here. Bother one of them if you're so curious."

"I'm Baldur's niece, not his General. You think he tells me secret Stormcloak plans?"
Mila could already imagine how that conversation would go down. Baldur would say something cryptic and illusive, probably quoting some old song or edda, and compliment her curiosity without giving away anything. As for Endar… who knew what that cursed wizard would say?

A chill ran through Mila that had nothing to do with the cold. Endar knows what happened in Oblivion. He has to.

Mila watched the future Grim Ones resume their formation with Boldir at its center. Soon enough, a barrage of fire crashed against their shields. The Nords held fast, undaunted by the force or heat. 

"I'll tell you," Mila breathed to her father, so softly that not even Roseloe could have heard it. Of everyone in her life that Mila could keep this a secret from, Boldir was the one person who she couldn't. Not after everything he'd done for her, all the pain he had endured as her guardian, all the lessons he'd given, and all the laughs they had shared. He deserved to know. "But only once I know for sure."
Mila got up. This time for good, and started back to Kyne's Watch.

"I presume it's too much for me to hope that we're going to resume your lessons," asked Roseloe.

"We will," Mila assured. "But I've got a couple things to do first."

A dozen more ships had arrived from Windhelm that morning, and the town was teaming with a fresh wave of soldiers and merchants that flooded every street and open doorway in a manner that almost reminded Mila of the Imperial City's backstreets. Stalls were no longer just popping up overnight, but now seemingly had the ability to appear, sell out, and vanish again in a matter or hours.

The tavern was even worse; at least the Nords outside were mostly sober. Mila slipped through the tangle of swinging elbows and sloshing mead, dropped a coin in the mug of a flute-playing bard, and continued upstairs to the doorway of her former master.

There was no reply when she knocked once, then twice. Mila then heard movement inside and knocked a third time. Finally, she tried shouting. "Endar! I know you're in there! It's Matilda!"
Still no response, although the movement could still be heard. Mila scowled and raised her voice again. "Baldur sent me!"

No response. And so she decided to concentrate on the door itself, remembering Roseloe's lessons.

"The school of Mysticism is, fundamentally, about the detection of patterns," the witchbug had taught. "Magicka is inconsistent and ever-changing. A mystic must consign herself to locating patterns within a roiling imbroglio of energy. One can only manipulate that which they have the ability to understand."

Mila placed her hands on the door, closed her eyes, and reached deep inside herself to awaken the spark within that was becoming more familiar by the day. The spark ignited -she could feel it- and Mila directed its energies through her body, down her arms, across her fingertips, and then smiled when she felt them mingle with an alternative pattern of energy that resided in the door itself. Her suspicions were correct: "The door is trapped."

"Then you would do well to wait," replied Roseloe. "The dispelling spells that I have taught you are not meant for Telvanni wards."

Mila maintained her focus on the door, allowing her magic to probe Endar's own. "I know how Endar can be. He could keep us waiting for days. Besides, you told me that the act of experimentation-"

"-no matter how objectively implemented, can influence magicka by its very existence."  Roseloe interrupted to conclude the quote. "I know what I said. And it is good to see that you retain at least a modicum of it as well. But a mere apprentice has no business experimenting with the enchantments of a master."

Mila ignored her mentor's doubts. She could feel herself getting close to something, like a needle rapidly weaving itself through an entire blanket of threads, fast approaching just the right strand.

"Child, I am serious." Roseloe's voice was suddenly stern. "This could severely harm you. It could melt your eyes, destroy your mind, anything really."

She shook her head, too focused to speak. The witchbug was only observing; she could not feel what Mila did as her magic intertwined with Endar's trap, merging with it, twisting with the strands, forming into patterns that shaped into concepts that her mind could understand: defensive, impermanent, weakening…

"It won't," she finally muttered in response to Roseloe. "It's a paralysis trap… I can dispel it."

"Don't try it, girl!"

Too late. Mila was already tightening her magics around Endar's own, fitting them together like a key into the tumblers of a lock. Mila turned that "key" with a release of magic, and felt a satisfied tingle in her chest when all traces of Endar's trap vanished.

"It worked!" She grinned and withdrew a lockpick from her pocket and picked the door's mundane lock without any effort. "And you doubted me."

Mila pushed the door open with a hint of satisfaction, but her elation sank as she noticed a green runic flash in the door that she had thought fully dispelled.
A sudden numbness pierced her fingertips and shot up to her arm.

"Oh." It was the only word she managed to utter before her legs gave out and she tumbled facedown into the room. She tried to stand, but her limbs refused to budge. 

Somewhere above, the all-too-familiar voice of Endar Drenim spoke. "Is this the third time we have met this way, or the fourth? I must admit, I have lost count."
She heard his footsteps approach, and a shadow fell over her. "I don't suppose you have come to…" Endar paused a moment. "What is this? Oh, no you don't!"

There was a flash, the sound of a spell being cast, and then Roseloe's tiny torchbug body fell and landed right in front of Mila's nose. Following that, an invisible force hoisted Mila to her knees and then closed the door behind. Endar now stood before her. She tried to shout at him, but found that her mouth could not move.

"Where was I?" asked the dark elf. His crimson gaze drifted from Mila to Roseloe, who was suspended in the air just beside her. "Oh, right. I was just about to inquire if you had returned to plea for your old job. You may speak."

Mila felt the paralysis lessen, and answered immediately. "No, I didn't come for a job! Now release me, you son of a who-"

"Never mind." With a wave of his hand, Endar left her silenced once more. His eyes turned back to Roseloe. "You, insect. I know you can speak. Explain the whelp's intentions."

"Nothing harmful, I promise you," the witchbug blurted as soon as she was able. Mila was surprised by the nervous edge in her voice. Not since their first encounter had she heard Roseloe sound so distressed. "The girl does not listen, nor does she think things through! But she means well, truly. She came to ask you questions, to sate her curiosity. You must understand-"

"Azura's skirts, enough!" Endar rubbed his temple. "I demanded an explanation, not a thinly-veiled plea for mercy. I am quite busy, as it happens. So if you two do not mind, I would appreciate it if we could skip all the emotions and the groveling and get straight to the conversation you came to have." He looked at Mila. "Can we do that?"

Mila felt the paralysis weaken once more, this time across her entire body. She stood up, looked the Dunmer in his fiery eyes. "Aye."

"Aye," Roseloe echoed, and then quickly corrected, "Yes! I mean, yes."

"Good." Endar folded his legs and sat in the air. He then looked up at Mila and frowned. "You have gotten taller."
A chair scooted over from the corner of the room. Mila sat in it, while Roseloe drifted down and landed atop her collar.
"Now tell me," said wizard, "why do you bother me?"

Mila wanted to shout that he should know damn well why, but she took a slow breath, collected herself. "I want to know what happened back in Colovia. At the end."

"Simple. An old rival was defeated, his knowledge secured and put to revolutionary use. To put it plainly: I won."

"But it wasn't so simple. I passed out and woke up in Oblivion. Boldir wounded you-"

"Stop." Endar held up his hand. "Boldir. I assume that is the name of the brute who made the mistake of thinking he could kill me. How do you know this?"

"He's… uh, he's my father." Seeing the arc in Endar's brow, Mila raised her hands quickly, as if to shield Boldir with them. "He didn't know we were together! The necromancers lied to him. Told him you killed me. He knows better now." 

"And I assume this means he will make no more attempts on my life?"

"That's right," Mila answered. Not yet, at least.

"Good. I'm sure you would consider it a shame for me to liquify your father. As for the rest of the story, it is quite straightforward, really. Yes, the Nord did manage to strike me, and yes, my victory required the opening of a portal to Oblivion, and came at the cost of my best servant's life, as well as your own. Or so I believed at the time."

Mila felt a tightening in her chest. "So Elara is dead, then?"

"She is. An unfortunate loss, to be sure. Loyal servants are rare. Loyal servants who can provide even an ounce of their own wit? You do not find one of those every decade. But it matters not. It is a price I would pay again, a thousand times over."

"How can you say that? She was my friend. She was your friend."

Endar snorted. "Even if that were true, it would not matter. Mortal relationships are cheap and fleeting. But the knowledge I procured on that day will change the world forever."

"Change the world?" Mila balled her fists. "What about the world needs changing so badly that Elara should die for it?! That you should have the right to sell my soul for it?"

"That is neither your business nor your concern."

"So you did do it!" Mila could keep up the mask no longer. She could feel her face burning, and every muscle tightened with anger. "Everyone else was dead."

"You must feel very clever for that." The wizard replied, his expression unfazed. "Yes, as a matter of fact. Clavicus Vile would only allow one of us to leave, so I planted an axe in your sternum."

"You tried to kill me?" She stood up, took a step in the Telvanni's direction. "Every night, I see his hound, following me. Hungry! When I die, the things they'll do…"
She took a breath, slowed herself again. She was getting angrier than she had even expected, and she would need control for what might come next. "You damned me. You owe me."

"Don't make me laugh." Endar smirked, but there was no humor in it. "You were a servant, a would-be apprentice at best. I owe you nothing."

Her dagger was out before he finished the final word, and Mila closed the distance with all the speed and balance that Boldir's training had instilled in her.

"Girl, no!" Roseloe cried. She was much too late. The tip of Mila's blade went into Endar's chest and kept on going. She stumbled forward, surprised by the lack of resistance, and passed straight through the wizard's body, landing face first in a pile of snow.

She leapt to her feet, dagger at the ready as she took stock of her new surroundings. She was in a snowfield, with cold winds whipping all around her. 

"Oh no." Roseloe groaned. "What in the blazes have you done?!"

"Shut up!" Mila shouted over the winds. She had to squint against the snow beating on her face. "Keep looking for him!"

"Why? So you can attack him again?" Roseloe's voice grew muddled as she buried herself deep in Mila's furs. "Never have I seen such- What in the Void were you thinking?!"

"She was thinking that she was the first fool to try and end my life that way."

Endar's layered voice cut through the winds with a magical echo. Mila turned to face it, dagger in her right hand, and a spell in her left. The moment she saw his silhouette, she launched the spell. White lightning crackled from her fingertips, followed by a powerful boom.

"So, you did learn to cast," said Endar. This time, his voice came from her left. "And with the Finger of the Mountain, no less. Impressive."

Did I? Turning, Mila glanced at her fingertips. White sparks danced between them. She had never been able to cast the spell before. He's distracting you. Focus!

"Unfortunately, such a spell would drain an apprentice for all she-"

Mila loosed the spell again, and this time saw it strike its mark. Moments passed, and then she saw snow refracting through the shimmer of Endar's ward.

"Impressive indeed," repeated the elf. "But this grows tiresome."

Roseloe screamed. "Behind you!"

Mila spun, and barely managed to duck in time to avoid the metal grasp of a dremora reaching for her neck. Muscle memory kicked in, and she thrust her blade up and into the demon's armpit just as she had done so many times against Boldir at Weynon Priory. But Unlike Boldir, the dremora was not expecting its opponent to fight back, nor was she stabbing it with a practice sword. The daedra howled in pain, but before Mila could follow up, an invisible force gripped her from behind and yanked her backwards, forcing her arms to her sides.

Now, it was Endar who stood before her. Or at least, a creature with Endar's body and robes. The thing's face was a purple-blue shell with insect-like mandibles and clusters of black eyes on either side.

"Your tenacity is admirable," said the thing with Endar's modified voice. "You could even pass for a proper Telvanni, given another century or two.
Mila could hear the demora's footsteps trudging through the snow behind her. Soon after, a dark red blade rested against her neck.
"Now listen, girl, and listen well," the Endar-thing continued. "The reason I was able to leave that wretched plane in possession of my soul is that I had the power and the will to keep it. You did not."

"I was knocked out!" 

"A stronger being would not have been."

I'll show you strong! Mila pushed with all her might against his magical grip. She still had her dagger, and even a few inches of movement would allow her to stick it in the dremora's neck. And though her spark felt dim, there was something strange about it. Something that, in her adrenaline-fueled awareness, Mila could tell was happening. The spell that Endar held her with was feeding it, somehow. Every second, she could feel his hold weaken as her magicka returned.

"Now," said the wizard. "Perhaps we can try speaking once again."

"Yes, Master Telvanni" Roseloe piped. "Yes! If we could just-"

Mila managed to ball her fingers, and knew that the spell's grip had been consumed by her spark. Without a moment's hesitation, she turned her blade and rammed it into the dremora's neck while unleashing the Finger of the Mountain directly into Endar's monstrous face.

The resulting sound was like a thunderbolt in their heads, and for a moment, even the falling snow vaporized in the air between them. Mila fell to ground, ears ringing, but having never felt more alive, more powerful. Behind her, the dremora dropped as well but did not rise, and before her, the Telvanni had recoiled backwards, so far into the storm that he was once again just a silhouette.

"You fool!" cried Roseloe. "What could possess you to-"

Mila knew she had strength enough for one final cast. She launched it at Endar's shadow. The blast reached its mark and exploded in a brilliant swirling display of fire and light. 

"Enough!" 

The swirling flames and magic formed into a ball, and Endar's voice emerged from it. "You have made your point, girl, but it ends now."

The fires suddenly leapt towards Mila, faster than she could avoid, surrounding her, drawing close, replacing the cold with a terrible heat. 

"Rarely in my travels do I meet a doomed soul contained within a mortal so determined to die." Endar's voice came from all around her. "Perhaps you do not fear Clavicus Vile as you should. Or perhaps you are too much like your Nord father. I could not care less. You have taken your chance at me, and you have failed. Normally, this would end in your death."

"Coward!" Mila spit. "Face me!"

"No. I said we are done. For the services you once provided me, and for the kinship you bear with the High King with whom I have partnered, I shall grant you this mercy."

The fires began to close in. Roseloe shrieked. Mila closed her eyes, focusing on the recall spell. Her magicka was almost extinguished, but she had to try. Then, before she could even attempt to cast, both the heat and cold vanished. When she opened her eyes, she was standing once again in Endar's room, and the Dunmer was once again glaring at her with his actual face.

Before Mila could rush him, he cast another paralysis, and though she could feel the magic once again feeding into her own, the power by which he held her this time was far greater than before.

"Damn atronachs," Endar muttered, and then he rubbed his temple. "I suppose as your once-almost-master, I should take some pride in seeing how much you have developed. Not in common sense, perhaps, but at least in the arcane. No need to thank me."
His voice grew serious. "In a few moments, I will release you. You will then turn, walk out of this inn, and go back to whatever it was that you spent your time doing before your head got filled with foolish notions of revenge. You will not return to me as a friend or foe. Is that understood?" He paused a moment, then added, "Blink if it is understood."

Mila did not blink.

Endar sighed. "Very well, let me put it more simply: If you cross me again, I will take care of your Clavicus Vile problem by tossing you and that precious little soul of yours into the Scuttling Void. How is that?"

Mila blinked, but only because a bead of sweat had trailed into her eye.

"Excellent. Remember this mercy the next time the word "owe" enters that childish human head of yours. Now, begone!"

The magic lifted, and before Mila could react, a force shoved her onto her arse and out the door, which slammed shut and flashed with a runic seal. Roseloe must have noticed her eyeing the lock, because the witchbug immediately hissed into her ear. "Don't. You. Dare."

She got up, brushed the loose snowflakes off of her cloak, and departed from the inn. Once they were outside, Roseloe whispered again with venom in her voice. "What in Hircine's name is wrong with you, girl?! I mean, really, what did you expect to happen?! Do you have any idea how lucky we are to be alive?! … And where are you going now?"

"To the Trial Grounds," Mila answered. "I promised that I would tell Boldir once I knew for sure. Now I know."

The witchbug dislodged from her collar to buzz around Mila's face. "No. No. No! Absolutely not! You told me the opposite, in fact! And what even- What is- Why in all the realms does that strike you as an even remotely reasonable thing to do right now?!"

Mila stopped, facing the witch. "Because it's Boldir. He is part of this. He's my father. He deserves to know."

"Enough of this nonsense! Tell me, when you tell him, what then? We both know what happens next. Boldir will go after Drenim just like you did. There is no preventing that!"

"Exactly. Then we will kill him."

"Honestly, child, sometimes you impress me, and other times I wonder if I had the misfortune of partnering with the most foolish creature in all of Mundus! Look back on what that wizard just did to you! That was him being nice!"

"You have no idea what Boldir is capable of."

"Of course I do! The two of you hardly shut up about your ridiculous adventure! Oh, I am sure the man has killed many a wizard in his day, but this is different. This is not some two-bit hedgemage or an underpaid Dominion officer. This isn't even like going up against the daughters of my own coven. This is a Telvanni Lord. Do you even know what that means?"

"Of course I do. I just fought him. I almost had him, myself!"

"No! You entertained him. Are you aware of what he could have done? Has life suddenly become a game to you?! There have not been fifty Telvanni Masters since the founding of that House before recorded history! Your father may be good, and strong, and brave. He could be the greatest warrior in all of Tamriel. He is nothing to Drenim!"

"And yet he beat him last time. Even Endar admitted it."

"You keep saying that, and it is getting so very tiresome. Drenim admitted that he took a blow, sure. But how? How exactly did your father achieve this?"

"By driving an axe into his chest."

"And that's it? That's all you've got? You don't intend to regale me with any additional context?! Because what you just said does not happen! There was some fluke, some distraction, something absolutely freakish that occurred to secure your father's fate as the luckiest brute of the Fourth Era. And I am not underestimating him. I am telling you, with absolute certainty, that this is not a fight that Boldir can win."

"You can't be certain!"

"I am! And if you don't believe me, and you intend to go through with this foolishness anyway, I tell you now that the best scenario that could come of it is your father telling no one and confronting Drenim alone, only to get blasted to ashes and scattered to the winds with not a soul the wiser, and you having learned a most painful lesson.
"That is the outcome I would pray for, because the more likely scenario is your father telling the High King, and the High King bringing soldiers, which ends with lots of people dying including most likely the High King… the very man who is about to lead a war for the fate of humanity! ALL of humanity!
"This 'problem' you have, this desire for revenge, this idea of justice, or fairness, or being dutiful and honest and sharing secrets with your father… that is all very touching, but it is your problem. Nobody else's. Is satisfying your vanity so important, so cosmologically vital, that you would gamble the fate of Tamriel? Is it really worth that, you stupid, stupid girl?!"

Mila had no response. She could only glare at the witchbug for a moment before turning away to hide the tears that were coming. She pulled up her hood and started home. 

[TheCzarsHussar]

How Clan Borr Hears the Call of High King Baldur
Heroic Prose by the great skald Haligthegn Hymn-of-the-Barrow
 

By way of running foot and tamed hoof-beasts did the Voice of Baldur, High King of all the Skyrim Holds enter the hall of proud-chested Teutorigos.

"Hear me oh Cult of the Berserker; valiant Nords of Clan Borr! Drink from your giant skull-cups no more, know the taste of wine when poured from elf-ivory, take to your wave-horse!. I am Ysmir, Son of Ysmir, Tongue and High King."

This mighty Teutorigos knew was true, for Baldur's words fanned the raging fire in my master's eyes and as it traveled and sank in his throat, he did roar out with such might that it broke the hall-hanging icicles.

"Your words I have heard, Baldur, High King of all the Holds of Skyrim, Ysmir Son of Ysmir! The Hird goes to war, to break the bones, and crash against shield!"

And so was the Rune-Letter of Baldur, High King of all the Skyrim Holds was hewn into the Tapestry-Shields of the Borrshird. They sung in happiness, for the greatest saga of their age had begun.

"Hooooooooo! We Come, We Come, with roll of tongue, we come for war, to the ruin of Mer! Break the world-runes, burn the roots, drown the elf! Though the isle of elf be far, and barred by waves of storm, long and hard be hewn by oars of Shor! We go to war! To the Land of Mer, to the Whalebone Bridge, We Come, We Come with roll of Tongue! We are the Sons of Shor's War!"

Find true deaths oh Nords of Borr!
 

How Clan Borr Sails the Sea-Roads
Heroic Prose by the great skald Haligthegn Hymn-of-the-Barrow
 

The Borrshird looked upon the ocean, and then to one another. The years, flowing from the sea, memory-bound swelled in the stomach of Teutorigos Borr, mighty chieftain of us all. His shadow cast far across the sea, a compass lain out by Shor himself. It passed the terrible light of the elf-moon-always-dead and settled on where the Broadwall once stood.

Hoary Teutorigos roared, sending the screaming-sea-swells that flocked about the wave-horse into flight and silence. All the folk knew they would survive the journey, to the dismay of some, for a death at sea earns a fair praise.

All had boarded and prepared their hearts to farewell their home, bowed of head did the folk of Borr take their places to the oars. So did Teutorigos Borr, mighty chieftain of us all rise from his perch as winter rises to engulfs the brief warm days. Outstretched of hand he took the lung's dragons-full and breathed a blessing most sacral, blowing his blessing against the sails.

With the vigor only found in the children of the sky, the Borrshird oar in hand, hewed the waves. In no time at all the isle of their homewhen disappeared across the horizon, obscured by glaciers and the coming of Sea-Ghosts. All the while Teutorigos Borr, mighty chieftain of us all blessed the wave-horse with his sacral breathes.
 

To Borr's shield hand sat Ysrotha, brother of Rotharune. Who sang out so that Kyne might hear.
"Kyne, Mother of us all! I am young and strong, I shall enact such deeds that the Hall of your dread-lord will quake with my song!"

To Borr's sword hand sat Rotharune, brother of Ysrotha. Who sung out so that Kyne might hear.
"Hear me Kyne! Grant me a thousand enemies, that I might die mountain-high, corpse-laden!"

At this the glaciers hummed as the wind struck cold tunes, and the Wave-Horse's sails groaned. Kyne huffed at the boasting of the brothers, shield companions of Teutorigos Borr.
 

To Rotharune's shield hand, the oar-manning Theudoom, Son of Theudoom sung out so that Kyne might hear.
"Witness me Kyne! I am braver than any who crossed the whalebone bridge, have you the might to overcome me?"

To Theudoom, Son of Theudoom's sword hand, the oar-manning Teutoborr Unblinking-Lid sung out so that Kyne might hear.
"I have not forgotten, Storm Mother, that secret learnt when you claimed an eye. I invoke you."
 

At this the sea rumbled, and the tops of the glaciers collapsed, mountains of ice no more. They were blown to faraway Skyrim, where hoary greybeards caught them in tongue. Kyne grumbled and growled, as her dread brow furrowed into black sky-groves. 
 

To Teutoborr Unblinking-Lid's shield hand, the oar-manning Hrotha Ysrotha the Bear-Yodeler, who was adopted by the hird sung out so that Kyne might hear.
"I was found but a raging pup, yet the fires of Clan Borr forged me into a man, mightier then all the hell-beasts of Hircine. I hunt only for you oh Mother!"

To Hrotha Ysrotha the Bear-Yodeler's sword hand, the oar-manning Teutorune Who-Chipped-His-Tooth-Chewing-Shields snarled out madness-like so that Kyne might hear.
"Kyyyyyyyynnne!"

At this the sky-groves pitched black-fury-like and struck down the glaciers, water-smacked; they erupted the sea, heaven-drawn the waves disappeared, embraced by her black sky-grove. 

To Teutorune Who-Chipped-His-Tooth-Chewing-Shields' shield hand, the oar-manning Theudhunal Tapestry-Of-The-Mountain sang out in sorrow so that Kyne might hear.
"Wait but a little long beloved Ynglhenga, I hear you calling for me in these winds, wait but a little longer beloved Ynglhenga."

To Theudhunal Tapestry-Of-The-Mountain's sword hand, the oar-manning Theuwyrm Who-Died-Then-Sneezed sung out so that Kyne might hear.
"Your icy hands are known to me Kyne, Mother of us all. I still feel the warmth flowing across the bridge when I close my eyes, how I long for it again. Deliver me to greater heights."

 

At this the black sky-grove grew, swelling with springs from the sea. It drank the dew-colors of the sky, and evermore was Magnus lost in her black sky-groves. A moment of stillness filled the sea, the zenith of a godly breath was drawn. The seer-chimes of Halgithen stilled. Kyne had heard their song, thus she answered.

To Theuwyrm Who-Died-Then-Sneezed's shield hand, the oar manning Rheundofrid Singing-Swell sung out so that Kyne might hear.
"Kyne, Tempest-Hewer! Swell the gale and break the sea! Lest we be late to war, a bitter shame to adorn! Can you not hear the sacral breath? Answer in kind!'

To Rheundofrid Singing-Swell's sword hand, the oar-manning Theulfrid Wounds-of-Shor sung out so that Kyne might hear.
"Hhhooom, Hhhuuum! The oars, they beat the sea-drum. Calm skies we shall see no more, our mother has heard us! Drum and Tongue!"

At this the sky-embraced waves stalled, and were cast down from the black sky-groves, it's realm having swallowed the horizon. Into the darkness of the sea it fell in agony, collapsing like a mountain, and was thrown upon the Borr. The breath of Kyne, heaven-drawn, was released. She threw the sea at the Borr, that they might be drowned and swept to hell. It was not the way of the gods to give boons without trial. Such is the way of heroes that wish to earn her good-winds.

To Theulfrid Wounds-of-Shor's shield hand, the oar-manning Theulthane God-Mouth roared out in chant-song, the sum of his voice near drowned in the screaming sea.
"Kyne! Shor! Tsun! Shor! Kyne! Mara! Shor! Kyne! Stuhn! Shor! Kyne! Mara! Kyne! Shor! Shor! Shor! SHOR!"

To Theulthane God-Mouth's sword hand, the oar-manning Ysrotharune The-Clan-Of-Us-All neither sung, raved, or chanted. In the realm of sleep, did Ysrotharune throw down the devil Orkey. And so looked to Kyne with hoar-wizened face, fearful of immortality, of aging into a stump or stone.

At this the sea crashed against the wave-horse, with the rage of a berserker did the sea snatch the Borr away. But the Borr were strong, their oars like bear-jaws pierced the sea. Spurred by the Borr, the wave-horse fought against the sea, galloping up the wave. The realm of the black sky-grove erupted in ephemeral white-fire, the fingers of Kyne danced in the false night, weaving her storms.
 

To Ysrotharune The-Clan-Of-Us-All's shield hand, the Great Skald Haligthen huddled against the wave-horse's foredeck. It was here the battle against the sea would be decided. For as valiant did the wave-horse gallop atop the sea, as it nearly leapt beyond the wave's crest did the world become ever skewed. And the Great Skald Haligthegn looked upon the black sky-grove of Kyne, a swirling black crown in a blue sea. In their moment of doom it was not the strength of the Borr, nor their oars that faltered, but the wave-horse itself! A moment of clutched stomachs came to the Borr; motionless and weightless, the wave-horse began to tip, overcome by the sea!
 

It was not to be! Teutorigos Borr sprung across the deck, his grim face illuminated by the fingers of Kyne, weaving his fate as much as her storms. Mighty in step, his foot crashed against the foredeck before the light of Kyne could fade, before their fates sealed. The wave-horse crested the wave, it's second wind spurred by the power of Teutorigos! From his person did the chieftain of us all draw his white-blade, the storied sword; Avalanche! The only such weapon to withstand the chieftain's strength, it sent the sea-ghosts to flight.
 

Leaping triumphantly, the wave-horse galloped down the collapsed wave. Hereupon the screams of Kyne roared across the ocean. All at once, the world spanning black sky-grove fell from the horizon and was tossed it into the sea. Swirling and churning it ripped a hole into the bones of the sea. Terrible was the whirlwind that raged across the sea, both chasing and propelling the wave-horse. It was by her will alone that the wave-horse was not obliterated, for as powerful as the Borr was, they endured but a trial. Kyne was now blowing the good-winds! The winds that would carry the Borr to Skyrim!

****

Kyne's Watch

Much to the bewilderment of the sentries on duty, keeping an eye on activity in the Sea of Ghosts. A lonesome, battered longship emerged from an unusually strong thunderstorm in the far distance. The sentries imagined they certainly must have a story or two about the voyage!