Civil War Aftermath Chapter 3: Season's End pt3

[Witchking of Angmar]

Valenwood,
Just another day in a war without end,
Operation Fallen Sword

What time is it? 

The green landscape was a sore spot for many of the mercenaries. Not that they really disliked the color green. However, when the scenery was the same color, all the time, you became bored with it after awhile. Months of crawling underneath vines, and savage plant growth would do that to you as plants, trees, and other vegetation existed for miles upon miles Seen one tree, you’ve seen them all. The faded wood, in such an overgrown, and ancient jungle, untouched for over a millennia, was so covered in moss, and vines, that not a hint of brown popped up to liven up the dark green colors. Thousands of smaller, creatures, including rodents, and insects scurried across the jungle floor, intent on finding their next meal. Despite being hardened mercs, some of the men really didn’t like rats. Regardless, in a worn torn place like this valley, small, furry carrion eaters like this were all too common. Normally, because of their cannibalistic tendencies, Bosmer had little to worry about in terms of carrion build up. But with so many dead bodies, you couldn’t eat it all, leaving much to feast on for the forsaken rodents, causing their bodies to swell, and faten to disgusting sizes. Disease was common place now, because of the horrid little vermin spreading decay and plague around

It doesn't really matter anymore...
 
Despite their boredom, the soldiers knew losing focus in the Valenwood jungle was paramount to  near suicide. All kinds of beasts stalked the jungle floor, and in a second, the group could be felled by a volley of arrow fire from the forest. These parts were crawling with rebel patrols. With their vision obstructed by both the thick foliage, and heavy rainfall, they needed to be alert. Not just regular rain, but a month long typhoon. There hearing, normally lessened by the fact they heard the sounds of the jungle all around them, which included beasts roaring, streams trickling, and men screaming, was even blocked by the heavy torrential downpour.  Large, black thunder clouds extended across the sky, as the sound of thunder echoed, with occasional flashes of thunder, piercing the vegetational overgrowth, and dark tree tops.  Normal dogs of war would be lost in the overwhelming darkness, but they weren’t hounds.

These were Bloodwolves. 

When they had received their standardised equipment, such as their iconic leather, black mail  surcoats, and Bosmer-styled face masks, they were in perfect condition. Now? The cured leather was misshaped, covered in scratches, the mail was dented, the pure black dye had been discolored from the filth that it received, including blood and dirt. Destroying even further the former black color, was the dye they used to put a greenish hue on the equipment, putting a pitter patter of light green, and dark green, camouflage to the equipment. Most wore, along with their leather surcoats, and Bosmer leather face masks, green travel cloaks, with hoods up, to protect against the horrid rainfall. There faces were covered in black, and green warpaint, made especially oily, so it would rub in the skin, and wouldn’t easily wash off from the rain. Covering there cloaks, were bits and pieces of moss, vines, and other vegetation to help them blend in. The group here had forgone the use of longswords, instead each man carrying a dagger, and a large, iron machete, which was very useful cutting through the overgrowth of vegetation. All of them also carried, wooden bows, and a quiver of steel tipped arrows. Almost all were longbows, but a handful bore shortbows. Depended if you wanted increased accuracy at short, or long rage.  Such basic, and cheaply made equipment did wonders to the unit's budget. Besides, they didn’t need fancy weapons or armor to be good soldiers. Regardless, the types of weapons they bore, was usually dependent on the mission parameters. 

The oily warpaint they all bore on their faces, and their bodies, had the added bonus of masking their scent. If they were facing green recruits from the Imperial Legion, or Stormcloak Army, then they wouldn’t have to go the extra mile, but the opponents they faced were battle hardened Bosmer guerillas. Master hunters, many of them.  Hours of training a day had turned them all into silent killers, adept at sneaking up unnoticed to even the most stalwart sentry, but the heavy, unending rainfall had eliminated the need for pure stealth. As if right now, they weren’t ghosts, but panthers. Stalking their prey yes, but, with the intent not to sneak by, but kill. There steps, and arrow fire were silenced by the rain. If the intel was correct about the target, they wouldn’t need to worry much. The plantation was fortified to be sure, but hardly a fortress. Several dozen rebels, all young men, lightly armored, poorly equipped, and even worsley trained. The best fighters among the resistance were being used sparingly, and being saved for the eventual confrontation against the Dominion war machine. Sellswords, and local militia were one thing. Fighting an actual Dominion army, composed of foreign, elite thalmor troops was another. The hardened guerrilla’s stalked the forests, while there useless fighter were manning their facilities. 

The region, and this jungle had recently been turned into a hotly contested warzone. The Aldmeri Dominion held an iron grip over Valenwood, but that usually only extended to the large, population centers. While it was true, the roads, towns, and cities were well-guarded, and relatively secure, the jungle was another matter entirely. Tribes of Rebel Bosmer stalked the forests, and warred with local militia fighters, Dominion mercenaries, and the occasional company of Dominion soldiers. A week ago had been a particularly nasty, bold, and more importantly, surprisingly series of attacks. Launching devastating assaults against several key facilities, and outposts on the outskirts of the fortress town of Velidani, the Bosmer guerilla's had captured, and contested the area surrounding the heavily garrisoned bastion of Dominion power. The Bloodwolves, several Khajiit sellsword companies, and about a thousand local Bosmer loyalists had been deployed into the region  to recapture these vital positions, and establish dominion control in the region once again. Aldmeri Dominion support, besides funding, had been limited. Supported by Thalmor Shadow Company soldiers, for logistical, and tactical support, but besides that, the Aldmeri Dominion was keeping most of it’s soldiers stationed on the Cyrodili-Dominion border, in case the Imperial Legion attacked before schedule. 

Why waste the lives of its own soldiers, when they could send sub-elven Bosmer, dirty sellswords, and black ops units that didn’t exist, in their place?

Corvio. Ulfric Stormcloak. Thedore Adravad. Gracchus Ceno. Baldur Red-Snow. Dales Moitre. There all the same. They don't care about their men...

Technically, the Blood Wolves didn’t exist. They were a secret unit. Kept in hush whispers, among the upper command chain of the Thalmor. They removed their unit badges, before going into battle, so there enemies couldn’t identify what company they belonged too. They were phantoms.  That way, there employers had plausible deniability. 

A low, growl woke the assembled Blood Wolves from there melancholic stupor, as the rain continued to fall. The leader of the Blood Wolf squad raised his gloved hand, the hardened leather drenched, stopping his group, falling onto one of his knees, crouching to the  mud covered jungle floor. Unlike the others, he carried a large greatsword, covered in fur, on his back.  Among the dozens of vines, a horrid monster reared its ugly head, turning to face the squadron. Covered in thick green fur, dozens of jagged spines on it’s back,  the monstrous creature’s six crimson, glowing eyes stared hungrily at the group. The beast seemed to have the body of a lion, with the armored carapace of a scorpion. It’s mouth, filled with hundreds of razor, needle like teeth, disgustingly twisted into a grin. It walked on all fours, and had a long tail, that ended in a razor sharp spike, which could easily skewer a lightly armored rebel soldier, with a paralyzing venom, which would allow it to devour it’s prey alive with no struggle. This beast was a manticore. Normally found in the Alkir deserts, a species of the cunning horrors lurked in the forests of Valenwood. Smaller than their cousins, and adapted to the jungle, they were nevertheless powerful beasts that you wouldn’t want to run into. Sadly, they weren’t even the top predator in the region.  

The manticore eyed the group of soldiers, rearing up it’s hind legs, roaring a hateful scream. The assembled mercenaries, collective aimed their bows, notching arrows as they did at the creature, but a hand from there leader stopped them from firing. The bloodwolf in front, eyed the creature with his pale blue eye, and saw that the creature face held fear. It was more afraid of them, then they were afraid of it. The manticore snarled, before, with hesitation, stepping a few paces back, lowering its stinger and claws. Lowering his hand, the leader spoke, “The beast knows it’s no match for all of us. We aren’t an easy hunt, and it dosen’t want to risk loosing it’s life. It’s letting us pass without conflict.”  The endless rainfall echoed behind them, as the leader drew his iron machete from his side, using the dark blade to cut a path through the vines with one hand, gripping his longbow with the other...Fearfully, the group trailed behind him, lowering their bows. There commander waited for the group to pass through the underbrush, guarding the rear, machete drawn. When all were through, the commander glanced at the manticore, before placing his hands together, and bowing his head, “Thank you mighty one for letting us pass. I am sorry to disturb your hunt. We will leave your territory at once...” The beast roared, as if acknowledging the commanders apology, before running off through the forest, disappearing from view. The Bloodwolf leader watched it leave, nostalgia, and mellow sadness brewing in the pits of his stomach. Such a mighty beast. A true hunter.  

With disdain, the Blood Wolf leader looked back, and with a heavy heart, turned around to rejoin his comrades. The group of commando’s traveled through the gnarled vines, and other fauna, careful to avoid poisonous plants. The soldier at the front of the party, a particularly tall, and lanky figure, briskly whispered to a comrade adjacent to him, “So did you hear? The 54th was defeated yesterday.” 

Though you couldn’t really tell because of their leather masks, he seemed surprised, “Serious? The old hawk has finally gone squawk?”  The frontguard nodded his head, the duo continuing down the jungle path “Or so the Warrant Officer tells me. Though the rebels apparently never found his body.  The surviving members of the warparty have merged with 15th, and are planning a second assault on the bridge, backed by elements of 24th division. They’ll probably send us there to help the poor bastards once we’ve dealt with the plantation.” 

“Maintain strict, mission silence.” The lead soldier said quietly. Caught, the two soldiers blushed in shame, as they continued, prowling under the rain, and tree tops. There leader, spoke once again, “Even a single whisper can give your position away. We need to be silent, and speak only when required.” The blood wolves trailed behind, hidden in the secret path.  Among the trail, they stumbled upon about a dozen dead bodies. Going by there garb, they were civilians. Ripped, and torn apart, most likely by Rebels, going by the fact there were dozens of arrows embedded in their corpses, besides the pieces of meat ripped off there corpses. 

A cruel grinned appeared on his lips, underneath his balaclava. Life's end. Isn't it wonderful? It's almost tragic. This is a paradise, born from the blood soaked earth. When we were cast out, we became demons...

The tree’s themselves were dark, and tall. Each over a thousand years old. Patches of moss intermingled with the brown, rough bark, which was almost as strong as iron. Besides the moss, dozen’s of vines tangled around the great tree’s allowing small critters, such as monkeys to climb upon them. Among the ground, vermin scurried underneath, eating away at any smaller creatures they chanced upon. Some would regret that, as ponds of filthy water existed in the dozens, around their surroundings, meaning many poisonous frogs made this patch of jungle their home. Rat’s, and other rodents, being foolish creatures, couldn’t identify a good frog, from a bad frog, and would often devour the ambition, too late to realize they would die in horrible agony minutes later.  Even if the heat, and humidity was almost unbearable, Blood Wolves, and guerilla fighters who wanted to last more than five minutes, made sure to cover themselves up as much as possible, to avoid the poisonous frogs, toxic plants, and disease spreading mosquitoes. 

After about fifteen minutes walking in silence in the jungle, the group finally reached their destination. A small, tiny clearing, that overlooked another, much larger clearing. Skirting the edges of the cliff, under the dark tree’s and away from sight, was another group of Bloodwolves. Six soldiers in total, wearing the exact same equipment as the commander’s group, besides one weapon each. Each Bloodwolf was permitted to carry a single custom weapon, whether it be a crossbow, axe or polearm. One of the soldiers, sharply saluted the commander, saying in a hushed whisper, “Welcome, Boss.” He was hooded and cloaked, just like the rest of the Blood Wolves. The Commander responded with, returning the salute, “Report, Sergeant.”

The sergeant and his men had been here several days, ahead of the main strike force, observing, and gathering intel, acting as a recon team. 

The Commander’s group, about a dozen, fell in line with the other six, crouching low, and observing the scene before them. Beyond the small cliff was there target. The Plantation. The sergeant cleared his throat, explaining as he pointed to various locations below, which the Blood Wolves could see despite the heavy rainfall “ Yes, boss. First things first.” His index finger pointed towards the easternmost part of the large clearing, which was covered in strange vegetables, growing from the ground. 

“They harvest Doki, vegetables native to the jungles of Jhi’star in Elswery. The dominion brought the foreign vegetable from the Khajit’s homeland, and have been growing it to feed their cat servants, and soldiers in the region for about a decade. As it’s taboo for Bosmer to take harvest vegetables under the Green Pact, some have taken a liking to it, despite being exclusively meat eaters most of the time. When food is so hard to come by in the forest, these types of locations are strategic gold mines to the rebels. Most swallow there pride, and eat their veggies without complaint. Although…you should observe closer.” He offered a spyglass to the Commander, who took it. Using his good eye, Saladin peered into it. He trailed around the farmland, observing the situation. About a dozen Bosmer labored in desolace, guarded by eight rebel soldiers, who watched them. Gazing at the rebel commando’s, a grin appeared on his lips. They were just as poorly equipped as reports indicated. A rough-looking leather jerkin, was over some shoddy looking green clothing. Each carried a quiver of arrows, a wooden bow, and a shortblade at the side. On their left arms, they carried a piece of red cloth, tied to the arm, identifying which warband they belonged to. Are these rebels stretched so thin, they have these...boys guard there food production sites. Going by the labourers ragged appearance, poor clothing, and look of exhaustion, the Commander could assume they weren’t being paid, and were forced to labor. 

Just another Kingdom of the Flies…

The sergeant spoke, “Those are members of the Vershi clan, a rather small tribal ethnicity of Bosmer that make this region there home. Traditionally, there staunch Dominion supporters, and make a living off hunting, and harvesting vegetables for there Altmer masters in these jungles. The rebel group oppressing them, are mostly tribesmen of the Ghalari, a much larger, more vicious group, that live around the Quelari river. Going by some of the things we’ve heard...the Ghalari despise the Veshi, and only keep them alive for slave labor. Afterwards, it goes to the various warbands entrenched in this region. ” He paused. Some of the assembled soldiers spat in disgust, “Bastards…” A nordic commando said, his race evident by his thick accent. I hate ******* Nords... The commander simply muttered, “The side that pays us does the exact same thing, remember that, soldier . What about their defenses?” 

The sergeant coughed, before guiding the Commander’s spyglass to another position. Further down, a medium sized palisade, which acted as the facilities makeshift gate, “A wooden watch tower, and that palisade. Made from imported wood, the Bosmer seized from a caravan. The barracks is located beyond the paladide. They have about four dozen men. All newbloods, except for their commander. Mostly low-quality archer. A few have shields, but nothing we can't easily handle. I advise we take out the commander first, send an infiltrator to do the deed. Once the commander’s dead, and everything goes to hell, we deliver volley after volley of arrow fire, until they're all dead. Although…” He paused before adding, “I saw a rebel “armored column” stop by the plantation a day ago for supplies. From what I heard, they’ll be in the area for about a week..”

The Bloodwolves used the term “armored column” to describe heavily armored patrols of Bosmer fighters. Hardened, and disciplined soldiers, clad in iron equipment, they had proved far more cable than their counterparts in the past, and were not to be underestimated. Some were even supported by wagon-mounted scorpions stolen from Dominion garrisons, clad in metal platings, dubbed “Ironclads”

“Irrelevant. The plantation will be in our hands before they're even aware.” The Bloodwolf commander, Saladin, took a small cigarette from his pocket, and placed it in his mouth. Only an idiot would lit one during an infiltration, at the risk of being spotted, so he had no intention to smoke, using the reassuring feeling of a cheap cigarette in his mouth to calm his nerves. He never showed visible worry, but during a stealth operation anything could go wrong.  His mind formulated quick, yet effective battle plan, 

“This is how the Operation will commence. One of our numbers will do a solo-infiltration of the rebel compound. The one objective will be to eliminate the Rebel commander. If the sergeant is right about the quality of these soldiers, then they’ll be as good as dead, once there commander drops. Because of the Sergeant’s good work, the commando in question will have intelligence on their patrols, schedules, and  other important stuff to carry out the mission. After the deed is done, we’ll commence the assault. Make no mistake, All of you are worth ten of them, but I dont want to risk any chances, as they heavily outnumber us.  Any volunteers?” Saladin took out a small cloth bag from his pack, “The commando who volunteers and successfully complete the assignment will receive an extra purse of fifty septims.” A chorus of whispers erupted, Thankfully, the Commander had excellent hearing, supernatural even, as he was able to tell, right away, who asked for the assignment first, the differences by essentially a second. Lightning quick, Saladin tossed the purse towards the command farthest to his left, one of his own group. With keen reflexes the soldier grabbed it from the air.

“Ashart, i’m counting on you.” Saladin said, simply. The Breton Bloodwolf sharply saluted, “Thanks for the honor, boss." Besides his standard issue equipment, the Breton commando bore a bastard sword on his back, the silver blade's handle adorned with rubies.  Why do they keep calling me that...Saladin mumbled to himself, as he spoke once more, "Take ten minutes to talk with the sergeant, he'll give you all the intel you need. I'll act as your cover, providing sniper cover if you need it. The rest of you, get into position, and wait for the corporeal to hunt his prey. This position is forward HQ-"

"Boss, you should see this." The Sergeant interrupted him. Groaning, Saladin stepped forward, and took the offered spyglass from the Sergeant's hands. "12 O clock." The recond expert said. Saladin glanced through the spyglass, to what the Sergeant say. Three Bosmer children, armed just like the other rebels, positioned on guard at the makeshift barracks. They were dirty, covered in mud, and shit, wielding bows, and iron machetes. Unlike the other rebels, they didn't even have leather jerkins, instead clad in makeshift leather pieces, as a substitute.  Saladin simply said, "Child soldiers...." This wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last. From what the Blood Wolf commander could tell, boith the rebels, and the Dominion-backed militia, utilized them. Children were blank slates. You could easily turn them into killing machines. Offer a begging child food, give them a weapon, and point them towards the enemy. This wasn't like Skyrim, or Cyrodili. There was no orphanages.  Many Bosmer children would rather fight in the army, then go hungry. 

A dark thought entered the Skaal's mind, Who I am? It seems...even in my own thoughts, I refer to myself as Saladin. Lorgar Grim-Maw is truly no more, it seems. A name, dosen't really matter though. I am who I am. It doesn't matter which name I go by. Or what people refer to me as. I am me. 

The assembled Bloodwolves began whispering among themselves. They were killers. Black Ops Operatives. Sellswords. But they had there code. They weren't child killers. Another reason why Warrant-Officer Fair Face was so despises.  Saladin's words silenced them, "Try to use non-lethal methods to eliminate them, if you can. But remember. You cant see them as children. There soldiers. Enemy soldiers. Any less, your spitting in there face, and disrespecting a fellow soldier. Now, as I was saying...this position will be forward HQ for the duration of the mission. Saddle up, because Operation Fallen Sword is underway." 

All of the soldiers saluted, whispering, "Yes Colonel!" 

****

I wonder what things are like back home. With High Rock separating from the Empire, maybe his majesty Adravad can give my family justice. Or maybe he was in league with those blasted nobles-No. Now is not the time. I need to focus on the mission...

Ashart crept towards the outskirts of the facility, his steps being dampened by the nevernding rainfall. The pitter patter of rain hitting vegetation, the thunder, and his own breathing, was the only sound he could hear. Thankfully, since his hearing had been dampened, the enemies was as well. 

Ashart used the cover of the forest/jungle (The Commando's themselves often refereed to the Bosmer's province as both a jungle, and a forest. The place was strange like that) to sneak past the palisade. The rebels themselves were horribly inattentive, and were easy to get by. Ashart was skirting the tree line, and he would have to leave it's confines in a moment. Hours and hours of drills every day, had turned him into a silent assassin. Well, being less dramatic, he had gotten decent at sneaking around places. The tree's the camouflage, and common sense did most of the work. It wasn't that different from hunting. 

He knew the Commander was trailing him. While it was a "solo op", Ashart was still being covered from the tree's, but Colonel Fury-Eye himself. A crack shot with the longbow.  

Lying prone, under the pouring rain, Ashart crawled through the mud. Avoiding the the sentries cone of vision, Ashart made sure to go slow, but not slow enough to impede his progress. According to the Sergeant, the enemy officer, made his rounds in the barracks, so he didn't have to travel far. A quick blade to his neck, before retreating towards the tree line, and the cover of a hailstorm of Blood Wolf arrows. The money was just a nice bonus. He wanted to refine his skills. Ashart slowly made his way through the mud, towards the barracks, briskly away from the sights of the sleepy rebel soldiers. Finally, he went back into a crouched position, hiding behind a  wooden crate.  Beside the barracks, a sentry stood guard. The child soldiers had left their previous patrol, and had made there way to the fields, so he didn’t have to worry about them. Only a single guard, stood between him and the commanding officer. 

The way he was positioned, meant the Corporeal needed to eliminate him first. 

The water fell from the dark clouds, onto the blood stained earth, as Ashart, slowly drew his shortblade, from its leather sheath, slowly, and briskly, walking up to the sentry. He positioned his hand in the best place, for him to strike, and eliminate the sentry without problems. As he got closer, his heart rate increased, as he prepared to plunge the dagger into his neck. 

He was a few steps away from his target. Ashart raised his dagger-

The guard suddenly turned around, and faced the masked Breton. 

At the sight of the Bloodwolf, the rebel soldiers pale grey  eyes went wide, as he starred. Ashart's eyes starred into his, as the two looked at each other. Both felt shock. Ashart couldn't move, as he gazed at his eyes. Something paralyzed him.  Why couldn't he strike? 

In his moment of confusion, the Rebel screamed, "Intruder, raise the alarm!"  Ashart was snapped back into focus, as he threw himself against the rebel soldier, using his body mass to pin him in place.  In the spur of the moment, and the force, his bastard sword slid off it's sheaf, and fell into the mud. The two of them were thrown onto the ground. Ashart's hood, and mask hid him, but he could see all of the guardsmen's details. He had a brown Mohawk for hair, which had bits of grey hair intermingled here and there, and a black tattoo, depicting a skull on his face. On his side, he held a strange-looking, knife forged from bark, which he would be reaching for, if not for the fact he was grappling with sudden stranger. Ashart cursed himself for not seeing it sooner, but this was his prime target. The enemy commander.

Ashart attempted to plunge the blade into his exposed throat, which the Rebel commander struggled against, gripping Ashart's hand tightly, attempting to wrestle the blade from his hand. 

Downward force always had the advantage. 

Silently, Ashart broke through the Commander's defenses, and plunged the blade into his neck, as a torrential flow of crimson red blood poured forth through the open wound. The Rebel's eyes became vacant, as life flowed out of his body, and into the mud surrounding them, with nothing but the torrential rain, and thunder to herald his demise. His eyes closed. And Ashart no longer say them, those pale blue eyes.  

A scream from behind caused Ashart to quickly roll away from the dead Bosmer's body. A group of four rebels had arrived to the scene, and one had attempted to skewer Ashart with a spear. Bells erupted across the camp. The element of surprise was gone. Backing up on the ground, with his dagger stuck in the dead commander's throat, Ashart drew his iron machete, using the large blade to block a few strikes coming from the advancing soldiers. He was at an immense disadvantage though. 

The rebel with the spear, suddenly, dropped to the ground, as a steel arrow entered his eyesocket. From the east, a figure thunderously sprinted towards the small skirmish. It was Saladin.  And he was running very, very fast, as if he was blitzing towards the engagement. He was so fast, he seemed like a lighting blur. 

Upon reaching the group, The Commander slide in front of the trio of rebel soldier, using the mud, as he slammed his foot into the first soldiers kneecap, the force behind the strike causing a sickening crunch to echo, also doubling as a means to stop himself from going any further, his dark green cape blowing in the horrible wind. The Bosmer screamed out in pain, as he fell to the mud covered ground screaming in horrible pain. Before the other two could react, in a blur of lightning speed, The Commander wrapped his legs around the Bosmer, crushing him with force, that caused him to scream out in pain, and brought him into an arm lock. Though the rebel soldier struggled against his grip, he couldn’t escape the iron vice of the nord. In the span of two seconds, The Commander had, with a disgusting crunch, snapped his neck, drawing the deceased rebels own short-blade from its leather sheath, and propelled himself off from the ground, towards the other rebel. As if he was pouncing like a tiger, Saladin delivered a quick punch to the rebel soldiers gut, with such force it flattened him, knocking the air out of the rebel soldier, before delivering the shortblade into his exposed, unarmored neck, spilling crimson blood across the ground.  As if an expert dancer, Saladin, pushed himself off the still standing corpse and towards the third, and final, rebel soldier, knocking him out with a thunderous punch to the face, throwing him backwards, and onto the muddy ground. 

Though the rainfall dampened the sounds of battle, already, you could see groups of rebel soldiers gathering around where the fight was taking place, noticing the commotion. Upon seeing he was about to be surrounded, The Commander swore underneath his breath, wasting no time, to offer his gloved hand to his downed subordinate, he muttered, in a low tone of voice, that was nearly consumed by the rainfall, “On your feet, soldier.” Quickly, Ashart retrieve his fallen bastard sword, and accepted his commander’s hand. After being helped up, he brought his bastard sword in a two handed fighting stance, glaring at the charging rebel soldiers. They were completely outnumbered, and surrounded. Saladin, got into position, placing his back against the Breton’s, drawing from his hide sheaf, his massive runeblade, Bitterdeath. He said, in a low tone of voice, flourishing the greatsword,  “Little word of advice, Ashart. Don't look into there eyes, when you're about to strike. At least, wait until you’ve gotten a respectable body count. Your comrades wont be able to get your out of every situation you find yourself in.” Shame filled him, as he nodded his head, “Yes, Boss.” 

“Good” Saladin said, simply. “Prepare yourself…” 

The first rebel reached the duo, using his blade to slash, intent on cutting the Commander's midsection. Saladin ducked, and, slicing forward with Biterdeath, sliced the rebel soldier in half, at his midsection, showering him with crimson blood.  Ashart backing up, blocked another rebels forward cut, retaliating, with a quick chop, splitting his skull with his bastard sword. Another two attempted to flank around Saladin's side, but were stopped by Ashart waling against them. Quickly, Saladin decapitated another Rebel, rushing from his potion, to assist Ashart against the two rebels, drawing his own dagger from it's sheaf, and throwing it forward, which plunged into the Rebel Bosmers eye socket, just like the arrow. Using the distraction, Ashart quickly dispatched the second bosmer, impaling him on his bastard sword, the leather jerkin offering zero resistance against the well forged sword.  Three rebels infront of Ashart, wielding bows, launching there arrows at the Breton. Saladin grabbed the rebel soldier he was fighting with in a headlock, and in the split of a second, brought him infront of Ashart, using the rebel soldier as a human shield. The arrows flew forward, and embedded themselves into the screaming rebels body. At the same time, a rebel was about to strike downward at Saladin from behind, but was stopped by Ashart rushing forward, and pushing his blade into his stomach, protecting his CO. As the trio despartley notched another group of arrows, Saladin had sprinted forward towards them, and engaged them in combat before they could fire once more.

Commandos were taught that teamwork was there ultimate weapon. As Saladin, and Ashart, were in almost perfect sync. 

Saladin let loose Bitterdeath, shattering the trio in a single stroke of his greatsword, the Bosmer's erupting in a spray of crimson mist. 

As he did, a hail of arrows emerged from the forest, towards there position. Each one of the dozen arrows missing the two commando's, and hitting rebel soldiers, who were literally thrown backwards, in surprise, at the volley.  Seconds later, another volley erupted, skewering about half a dozen rebels.

Out from the woods, a dozen or so Blood Wolves emerged from tree's, armed with various weapons. They sprinted forward, killing every rebel soldier in there path, and soon rejoined Saladin and Ashart.  Realizing the duo of killers weren't alone, the remaining rebels reformed into a half-assed battle formation. There ragged breath betraying pure, and utter terror.  Under the rainfall, they cried warcryys in the Bosmer language to increase there shattered moral. 

On the other side, the Bloodwolves, stood silently. Not one of them had uttered a single word during there rampage. Hooded and cloaked, the silent merceneries prepared to engage the, still, larger enemy force.  The two groups faced each other, as the torrential downpour fell on there heads.  There leader, Saladin, stepped forward. He pointed his greatsword forward, "Send them to there god." 

********

Forty minutes later.

Saladin glanced at the mirror, then the surroundings. Made from stone, the barracks was, not that rare for a borderline military facility in Valenwood. He was using one of the rest rooms. Very primitive, the toilet being nothing more then a bucket. But it had a mirror, and another, cleaner bucket filled with water.  Apparently, it had previously been used to house the farmers, as well as the Dominion guards, but that was before the rebels took over. It had then housed the Rebel soldiers once they took over. The previous occupants, were either in a ditch, or forced to sleep outside in pens, guarded twenty four seven. 

Now the Bloodwolves held it. 

That occupation would last only a few days, until the Tribal militia was contacted, and informed the Plantation had been retaken. 

Saladin's squad, as well as Sergeant Verdili's squad, had been away for HQ for about three weeks, in constant battle with guerrilla forces. This two day guard duty would be the closest thing to R and R they would get for the next six months, besides the occasional recon, and patrol. 

They weren't simple sellswords. They were Special Forces. Elite para-millitary born from the Occultus, even if most of them didn't know it. They were Dogs of War, but they were proud of themselves. 

The Skaal warlord, glanced in the mirror, taking in his appearance. A haunting wolf-skull starred hungrily at him, a white wolf skill painted over his leather balaclava. Currently drenched in blood. As was his entire body. The Bloodwolf commander, using his leather gloved hands, removed the balaclava from his face.  Showing it. 

Saladin's face, although recovered by magic from his fateful duel with that Dremora Lord, was carnage. The Balaclava let plenty of blood through, as his face was drenched with the red liquid. Several massive, jagged, scars covered his face, the biggest being the one from his lip, to his left ear. Right now, he was also wearing his black leather eye patch, that covered that blasted, glowing red symbol of his curse. The mark of Hircine. His hair, once snow pure, was now intermingled with many grey hairs, as was his beard.  Pale blue eyes, deep as the ocean, stood out among the the pile scarred tissue. Once before, they had innocence within them, no more. Not since Falkreath. It was there, Lorgar had been shown his true fate. Along with his razor sharp teeth, Saladin couldn't be called an attractive man. 

Saladin took off one of his leather gloves, and placed it by the bucket, grasping some water, and rubbing it against his face, to wash the blood off it. 

What would Frea, and Storn think if they saw this face. Would they see there beloved Lorgar, or someone else? Me. A demon...

******

Saladin stepped outside the barracks, refreshed. That bloody typhoon hadn't let up, as the torrential downpour continued, showering the facility in rainfall. Saladin walked briskly to there designated command center, a former supply building. As he walked past them, individual Blood Wolves stopped in there tracks to salute him. Saladin eyes trailed from the rainfall, to the wooden watch tower. It hadn't done the rebels any good, but perhaps the keen senses of the Bloodwolves could put the defensive structure to better use, as what it was meant to be used for, a means of observation. Bloodwolves worked diligently to remove the dead, to a place were they could be burned. Any survivor they found. they swiftly deposed of. 

For there own benefit. They really didn't like giving prisoners to the Thalmor intelligence corps. 

Thankfully, it seems the squad of Child Soldiers had fled when the battle was going down. There corpses hadn't been found, and they hadn't been captured. Saladin didn't need the shame of murdering children at the back of his mind. Nor did any of his men. 

As the Commander walked towards the Command Center, he was stopped by one of the farmers. An old looking Bosmer, with silver hair. Perhaps the village elder? The man was standing with about fifteen of his kin. They looked exhausted and half-starved. They had helped in the fight, turning on there former overseers, and even manged to contribute to the fight. He spoke in a strange language, that Lorgar didn't understand. Several of his men had gathered around him, and looked as confused as Saladin. One of them, a Bosmer commando wearing a dark leather mask, said, "He say's "Thank you, sir. You and your men saved us.", boss. He's speaking in a dialect of Bosmeri. I can roughly translate it for you, boss." 

Saladin glanced at the commando, nodding his head, "Tell him we were simply doing our mission, but we were happy to be of some assistance."

The Elder, and the Bosmer commando exchanged a few words in Bosmeri, before the commando turned to face Saladin once more, "He say's, "I dont want to sound ungrateful, but could you provide us some food? Not for me, or the other adults, but for the children. They practically starved us." Saladin glanced downward, and spotted a small looking Bosmer girl. She had a tattered dress, and pale skin. Her long-dagger like ears stood out, but she looked like a normal child. She had piercing green eyes, blonde hair, and her face was covered in dirt. She was hugging the elders leg, hiding away from the adult soldiers, but she gave them angry looks. Starring down Saladin, she seemed unafraid of the Wolf-Skull drawn on his face.

Saladin went on one knee, and took out a small pack of rations from his pack, and offered it the girl.  The Bosmer girl eyed it with suspicion, before finally grabbing it. After realizing what it was, the girl smiled at Saladin, speaking in Bosmeri. The Bosmer Commando said, "She said, "Thank you, Dark Wolf." 

Dark Wolf...

Wordlessly the other Blood Wolves, took out there ration packs, which was some stale bread, and salted meet, offering the packs forward to the farmers. They didn't need to be asked.  Gratefully, the bosmer peasants accepted, speaking in there language, words of extreme thanks, and gratitude. One of the woman even tearfully hugged one of the commando's.

They could forget they were monsters for a little. 

**** 

"We've crushed them here! Not only have they lost fifty men, we've deprived them of slaves, and food production!" Sergeant Axius slammed his first down. Stretched out on a wooden table, lay a large chart of the region. Printed in black ink, the chart detailed the terrain, villages, and facilities located in this jungle, along with allied supply routes, allied positions, and allied forts.  A dagger was puncturing there current location, the nameless plantation simply refereed to as 998.  The Imperial Bloodwolf continued, "Now that we've reestablished control of plantation, the Dominion can supplement are allied supply lines with more crops, and feed even more hungry bellies, while the rebels go even more hungry, and resort to hunting solely! Let's see the rebels fight with an empty stomach..." 

Sergeant Blood-Reap shook his head. He wasn't wearing his balaclava or his cloak, only his green-black leather armor, so you could see long red braids, as well as his blue warpaint, which he choose to wear instead of the standard green camo.  Crossing his arms  he said, "You forget they still have control over 456 and 317." He pointed to two locations on the map, "Those filthy High Elves would be smart to consider an alternative. Instead of starving them to death, they should ********* them before they can cause more damage. Yes, removing there remaining food production plants could work. But they still have the forest that provides them with unlimited game. We need to remove there stronghold. Yalersha. Before they have a chance to mobilize against Velidani. If they take the fortress town, things are going to go to shit around here. Once we've destroyed there command center, they rest of there infrastructure will fall apart.  Including the warband itself. And Axius's farms...." 

"And to take Yalersha, we must capture, and cross, the Kuwai bridge, yes?" Sergeant Yashnar said, the Khajit Warrant Officer said. "Yashnar thinks this is a good plan, as we have plenty of allies mobilizing against it. Wood Elf natives, and Khajit merc companies. We will have support." 

Axius spat, "******* cats!" 

Yashar glared at Axius, showing off his fangs, and hissing at him, "Yashar is a cat too!" 

He shrugged his shoulders, "I meant the "other" cats..." 

Saladin, whom was overlooking the table at the far end, said, "The Dominion is planning a massive offensive against the bridge. Once we capture it, we can move on to the rebel stronghold, and remove it from play. As such, I think it's likely they'll send us there next to support the Bosmer militia, and the Khajit sellswords.  That being said..." Saladin walked from the side of the table, to the exit of the command tent, "We have no means of knowing for certain. We need to wait for communicae from the Dominion before making any plans. With that, good day NCO's." 

The assembled Bloodwolves sharply saluted, as there commander left, shouting, "Yes, boss." 

********

Ashart wandered in the dark, placing his back to the palisade. He had messed up. Big time. The dark rain continued to fall as he cursed his mistake, 

"Don't be to hard on yourself, son. We all make mistakes." Breaking him out of his stupor, Ashart glanced to his side, seeing a familiar wolf-skull. It was Saladin. The Blood Wolf Ceo stood there, leaning on the wall just him. How long had he been there? "Out on patrol I see, Ashart. Didn't you know someone else was on duty?"

Ashart blushed underneath his mask. It was true, one of his comrades had told him someone else was on patrol duty, but he didn't know it the commander.  Saladin was weaning a balaclava, that had a mouth hole cut out, allowing a cigarette to be nestled in his mouth. Which he was currently smoking, lit and all. 

"But sir-"

Interrupting him, Saladin said, "You didn't. You killed the enemies commanding officer. Yeah the execution was pretty lazy, but you got the job done. Which is why I didn't take that reward of yours away. Just learn from the past, and make sure you have the gut to take a persons life, as you gaze into there eyes next time. Because there wont be a next time."

Ashart remained silent, as the duo gazed at the darkness, and never ending rain. 

Breaking the silence, Ashart, said, "Boss...can I ask you something?"

"Shoot." He said simply. 

Ashart pratically yelled, "Sir, I want you to train me!"

"Nope." 

Asharts heart sunk, as he responded, "Why not? I know, if I learn from you, I can gain any victory!"  

Saladin laughed, a hearty, yet dark laugh, the painted wolf-skull gazing at the Breton hungrily “There is no victory, no defeat, for people like us. It doesn't matter if we win or lose. We are cursed to remain on this earth, as phantoms, wandering from battlefield to battlefield, in endless, war. That is our lonely fate. Our destiny.  The destiny of all soldiers.” The nords glowing red eye shone vibrant in the dark of Valenwood, as it eyed Ashart, “The sooner you realize that, the better Corporeal. You hesitated, and nearly got killed as a result. There is no room for weakness, and mercy on the battlefield.” The commander took another whiff of his smoke, inhaling the horrible, black fumes, “Weakness, gets you and your comrades killed.” 

The Corporeal shook his head, “That’s not true!” Ashart couldn’t accept that. For his own sake, and the sake of his soul. The humanity within him compelled him to resist, Saladin eyed him strangely, “Oh?” The Breton commando managed to stutter out, in a voice that made it seem he half-doubted his own words, “I-I know plenty of soldiers, and sellswords, who have retired from combat! It’s not impossible to live a normal life afterwards! 

“On the contrary, my dear Breton, it is.” The Breton’s face seemed confused, as Saladin continued his lecture, “Once you’ve tasted the battlefield, it becomes a permanent part of you. An euphoria better than an orgasm, butchering dozens of soldiers. The exhilaration, the tension,  the pure bliss of cheating death in combat, makes you addled to it. Once you’ve made your first kill, there’s no hope for you. You become a killer. Addicted to death.  Some claim there’s a difference between a killer, and a soldier, but the truth, the reality, is that’s a lie. A justification used, by sniveling glory-seeking Stormcloaks, duty-obsessed legionaries, and chivalrous, buffoon knightlings Forever more, your dreams will be haunted by the people you’ve slain” The venom infused words, stung like a manticore's sting, “You still take a life. Tell me, Ashart, why does a legionaries life matter more than a Dominion soldiers? Or vice versa. It’s because the other side thinks there cause right and just. It never excuse the fact, you’ve taken another life. The Empire, The Bretons, The Redguards, and the Stormcloaks, think there cause, and war is good. That there defending themselves. That doesn't change the fact thousands, on both sides, will perish for it. They’ll claim all Atlmer are genocidal maniacs, but is that true? Is every Dominion soldier doomed to die in the dirt, blood, and mud of the front lines like the Thalmor? Do they deserve to die for it? No. There is no difference. A life is a life.” He paused but only for a moment, giving a chuckle, “You remind me of a man I once knew. A general in the Imperial Army. A nice man. Pathetic, and weak though. Shackled by his own morality.” He seemed...nostalgic. “He too, tried to claim he wasn’t the same as me. That he said something to fight for. Duty. Honor. His wife.  It’s all just an excuse. I think he gets a thrill from lighting dozens of young dominion soldiers on fire with his flame magic. He’ll learn... “ Saladin said melancholic, once more inhaling a breath of smoke, his hands trembling in fury “Perhaps, if I killed his whore of a wife, instead of sparing her life, he would see the futility of his existence as a soldier. We are used by the powers of the world. Kings send us to die in droves. The politicians treat us like tools. And the peasants expect we give there lives for them. That's why we've all chosen to become mercenaries. We fight for ourselves, instead of a government who will throw us away like pawns on a chessboard."

Ashart’s breath became shallow, as underneath his leather mask, his face grew pale. He asked, “So...if you know it’s wrong to kill, why do you do it?” 

“Simple.” Saladin uttered, laughing a little, “I don’t care about right or wrong. I kill, because it makes me feel good. Not for honor. Not for duty. Not for peace. Not for glory.  Not for anything so...heroic. Not even for money. I do it for pleasure. The exhalation of combat.” He paused, “ That General. My rival. My wife. My Queen. My country. No doubt they view me a monster. Their right, of course. I am a monster. But at least I admit what I am. No justification. No excuses. I kill people, because it makes me feel better about myself. If I get played while I do it, all the better.”  Why do I rush to help people who hated me so much...Saladin thought to himself. 

He stopped, the wolf skull hauntingly glaring at Ashart underneath the pale moon, “So, my little soldier, do you still want to be taught by a person like that?” 

"I do, boss!" Ashart said, sharply saluting, and standing at attention. "Your the best there is, and I want to learn from the best! We may disagree on a few things, but I want you to know, I respect you utterly sir. I want you to teach me!" 

Saladin gave him an odd-look, before laughing. It wasn't mocking. And it wasn't a chuckle. It was an outright, bombastic, laugh. "It seems you wont be dissuaded then." Getting up, Saladin uttered, "If your serious then, fine. I'll teach you the arts of war. " Before Ashart could speak, Saladin cut him off, "From now on, you'll be waking up 4 AM. Each training session will be three hours, and will count as your personnel time. This will not interfere with your regular scheduled I will beat you. Cut you. And hurt you. Very badly. But you'll learn how to fight the way I do, and take life as I do. It's going to be long, and painful. But you will become an excellent soldier, as well as a warrior. My apprentice...."  He got off the wooden paladise, and turned around, "It seems my shift is up. Your turn. I'll see you bright and early, starting tomorrow. Oh and Ashart?" Saladin paused, and glared at Ashart. The Breton Bloodwolf looked confused, "Yes, sir?"

The Blood Wolf commander grinned, "Welcome to paradise..." 

[Witchking of Angmar]

Boldir

He had been warned of the darkness, but not the smell. In the light of his torch, Boldir could make out the foul substances in the water below, thickening the liquid into a dark, disgusting sludge.
"The rich shit just like the rest of us." Gray Cap had mused when they first entered the tunnels. "Be glad this ain't the Market Sewers. The way those are built, we'd be walking in it."
He was glad of that. Wading through the muck in his Nordic carved armor would have been a difficult, slow, and altogether repugnant procedure. They walked in silence for the first half mile or so of tunnel, the only sounds the flowing water and Boldir's heavy footsteps, he was more than content with keeping it that way, but as they rounded their third bend, Gray Cap's voice broke into the long quiet. "This is it."
The Thief stopped at a set of iron rungs bolted into the moldy brick wall. The two had passed many like them that night, each leading up to a different trapdoor. Gray Cap produced two small hourglasses from a pouch at his hip and handed one to Boldir. "Are you ready for this?"

"Just make sure your distraction works."

"It'll work... Good luck." Gray Cap flipped his hourglass and continued down the tunnel, disappearing from Boldir's sight within seconds. The Nord swallowed and flipped his own hourglass. The purple sands tumbled through the little trinket, but not nearly as fast as he would have liked.

This is happening. It almost felt like a dream. When this sand runs out, all of this, everything, comes to a head... 
The final two words that rushed through Boldir's mind were like a whisper, yet he heard them clear as day. They came in the voice of his wife. "You're ready."

*

Mila

The night was cold, probably the coldest of the year. The wind's bite left Mila wishing she still had the thick fur cloak she had worn in the Jerall Mountains. It had been too big for her, having been looted from a fully-grown Nord, but there was no doubt that the dead man's furs had kept her alive in those trying times.
This is nothing. the girl told herself, not for the first time. You're from Skyrim, Mila. These Imperials don't know cold.

It helped that all the Imperials were indoors at this hour rather than hiding among the shadows on rooftops like some ridiculous gargoyle. Even the watchmen had fires lit near their posts. Mila could not afford such luxuries. Not now, when she was so close.
Across the street, sellswords patrolled the block. Some were Nords that she recognized. Others were the Bretons she had seen in the Waterfront. A few were Imperial, no doubt hired locally. They changed shifts every five hours, though most of them didn't go inside the mansion that she knew housed Sibbi. Instead, they left for the hotel near the city entrance. So far, Mila had yet to spot a weak point in their patrol. These people were professionals, motivated far more by gold than any city guard could be by duty. But that didn't stop Mila from remaining vigilant. They'll have to slip up eventually. thought the girl. And that's when Sibbi dies.

*

Sibbi Black-Briar
 

Ulfric Stormcloak is dead. Had Sibbi just been told that Azura herself had come from Oblivion wearing a goofy hat, he wouldn't have been more surprised. Long live Jarl Red-Snow, Ash-King of Windhelm.
The death of his king came as a shock, for sure, but it was the manner of his fall that truly caught the noble's attention. "How many Thalmor are in the Rift now?"

"I don't know, m'lord." said the messenger. He was one of Maven's own, back in the day. One of the few to survive Riften. "Enough to warrant Jarl Red-Snow sending Grim Ones into the hold to hunt them down."

Not long ago, the Rift would have been an exceptionally poor place to run. With the Black-Briars' backing, Jarl Law-Giver could field a larger army than any hold save for Eastmarch or Haafingar. The elves would have been trapped between Baldur's men and their own. Now though, with Laila dead, the hold's forces dead or scattered, and Riften in ashes, the Thalmor would have nothing left to contend with save for the bandits that had ruined the Rift in the first place. And as fierce as those bandits had been, Sibbi doubted that they would be interested in exposing themselves for this cause.
Which meant times were ripe for the last Black-Briar to make his return.

"Very good." Sibbi said, making sure to keep his expression stoic in light of the ideas he was beginning to formulate. "Go and talk to Nelvar for payment. And help yourself to some food or rest while you are here. Find me when you are ready to depart again. I'll have a letter for you to take back north, for Jarl Red-Snow."

"Thank you, m'lord."

The messenger left the large solar the same way he'd come, taking care to close the door behind him. Sibbi wasted no time. He went over to Serivus's long maplewood desk and started to write.

Baldur,

Black-Briar grimaced and tore the parchment in half before throwing it into an empty trash basket. Red-Snow didn't know it, but Sibbi had written him over a dozen letters this past year, all of them in the handwriting of Boldir or Mila, and addressing him as though he were family. That was a habit he would need to watch out for now.
He started again:

To Baldur Red-Snow, Jarl of Windhelm,

It is only recently that I have learned of the friendship between yourself and the one called Boldir Iron-Brow. I know it must be painful for you to have learned what he has done, but it was because of that man's actions, his commands and deeds, that every member of my family, from my strong grandmother to my gentle sister, was slaughtered. And so it with a heavy heart that I write these words.

Aye, he thought, pausing his writing, the heaviest of hearts... That's what I will come to him with. Baldur knows what happened by now. He'd know about Boldir's role. I could bring him the best of news, and he still won't be happy. He loves the man too much. It wouldn't matter. The evidence was all in Sibbi's favor. The Black-Briar family had fought alongside the Stormcloaks at Faldar's Tooth. Sibbi had been there himself, while good and loyal Nords of the Rift had been cut down by Boldir's own hand. It wasn't some secret, and as much as Baldur may want to ignore it, there was no way the man could. Especially if Sibbi did even more to help the Rift before it was time for judgement. He still had his sellswords, and much of his wealth. Given a few days spent calling favors here in Cyrodiil, he could have even more than that. I'll return to the Rift with an army at my back... Yes... And we will remove this Thalmor filth from the hold. And when it was over, Sibbi would go further north still and throw himself before Jarl Red-Snow. He smiled. With the heaviest of hearts...
I can rebuild Riften myself, using no coin besides my own and my Cyrodiillic backers. It wouldn't have to affect any other hold in the slightest. With war on the horizon, even a man as proud as Baldur could not ignore such an offer. Sibbi would restore the Rift to its former glory, like Maven had done before him. Only this time, the people of the Rift would have no one else to call their leader. No one to look up to but him. I need support... And Baldur needs votes if he intends to become Skyrim's king.

Sibbi realized his heart was pounding, and he quickly resumed writing. This letter needed to be good. With it, and his actions in the coming days, he was poised to become the second most powerful man in Skyrim. Sibbi Black-Briar, Jarl of Riften... The Rebuilder. Staunch ally of the Ash-King.
He was somewhat shocked by how little stood between him and this vision. The Thalmor were on the run already. They could not be too tough to root out. Rebuilding Riften would be a long and difficult project, but he had the funds to make it happen. His most worrisome obstacles, oddly enough, were a bandit and a little girl.

It took Sibbi another two attempts and a good ten minutes minutes to finish just the one letter, and thirty more to write the nineteen others he would need to send to send out with it. By the time he was done, the noble was ready for sleep. Of course, it was not to be so, for the moment he reached the door, a knock came from the other side. Frowning, Sibbi opened it to find Nelvar standing in the hall, still armored from an evening on the hunt. "Sosia Silver is downstairs. She has an update on the search for Mila that she wants to share with you herself."

"Take me to her." Sibbi followed his lieutenant down to Serivus's main common area, with the big fire and comfortable furniture. Off to one side, Ullin Goatsfoot, Stoit Giant-Slayer, and Ennaf Longspear played a dice game, while Sosia Silver and one of her own men sat by the fire, speaking to one another in hushed tones. Leaving Nelvar to stand, Sibbi approached and took a seat in the adjacent chair. "I hear that you have a report for me?"

Sosia nodded, a half-smile on her face. Her hands fidgeted, though, and to Sibbi she seemed anxious. "I do. The gang we were told about at the Waterfront, the one hiding the girl? They're Thieves Guild."

"Thieves Guild?" Sibbi wasn't honestly sure if this was good or bad for him. If these thieves were like their Skyrim counterparts, then they would only be composed of the best... but even professional thieves could be bought. "How did you find out, and what else do you know about them?"

"We made a few beggars talk. They weren't the Guild themselves, but worked with them. For them. But not anymore. They've left the Waterfront," Sosia said.

At least we got something out of that whole debacle. Now we know who to look for. "You and your Brigade have done well, but there is much work to do yet." Given the hour of her arrival, it appeared that Sosia had spent the better part of the night on the job, working to procure this information. She wants that bonus. "Tomorrow I want every man you've got questioning the beggars of this city. Bribe them if you must. Promise the ones who can be especially helpful that I am willing to make them rich. I want to either find this Thieves Guild or speak with someone who's in it. Can you make that happen?"

"I can, and I will. Whatever it takes, we'll find the Guild," Sosia said.

"Good." Sibbi rose from his seat. "You can sleep here tonight if you wish, or return to your inn. Your call. Either way, you can meet with Nelvar in the morning to make your plans." With his lieutenant behind him, Sibbi returned to the Elder Councillor's sonar and left Sosia to her thoughts. Once the door was closed, he turned to Nelvar. The man's beard had filled with gray during their time in Cyrodiil. This ordeal was taking its toll on all of them.
"I have nineteen investors who have agreed to help with Riften." he said to the sellsword. "And now word arrives that Thalmor are in the Rift. I cannot remain here much longer."

"I understand." the Nord said. "How long will you wait?"

"I can do another month, but no more than that. If you and the sisters haven't succeeded by then, I will have to take a portion of the men and leave without you."

"You won't be leaving without us." assured the mercenary. "Mila was in the Waterfront. And now we know who has been hiding her. We've set fire to the rats' nest and sent them scurrying into the streets. They're hidden now, but how long can a guild with so many contacts avoid us?

"I'd have said the same two months ago about a child who's half a world away from home, but if there's one thing we should've learned from the Jeralls it's that that kid is adaptable. And what of Boldir? Even with the guild on Mila's side, he remains the greater threat, I think."

Nelvar grimaced. "There's been no sign of him at all. The Nord is proving every bit as elusive as he'd been in the Rift."

"We knew where he was in the Rift." Sibbi replied, slightly agitated. "By Azura, the man's covered in scars, a head taller than half the city, he's all over the papers, and he's here to kill me. Of the two, he should've been the easy one to find."

"You would think so. And yet he's nowhere to be found."

"I suppose it's not all on you. I set the Dark Brotherhood on the man and even they haven't found him yet. He must not be going out much."

"Perhaps we could draw him out." the sellsword suggested. "Hire one of those face sculptors like Lady Maven did back in the day. Stage an appearance or two of you going out and about in the city. That'd draw him out.""Hmm." Sibbi drummed ran his fingers on Serivus's desk as he walked alongside it. "I must admit, that idea isn't bad. But I have only ever heard of the one woman who even knew how to work that sort of magic, and she's probably dead. Nevertheless, I'll write some of my contacts in the city and see if any know of someone. In the meantime, keep following the leads on Mila. And I'll prepare for things in Skyrim."

Nelvar nodded and turned to leave. He was almost out the door when Sibbi remembered the letters. "Wait, I almost forgot." He picked up the stack of envelopes and handed them to his lieutenant. "Take these to that courier who came by. Should still be here, somewhere. I included a note for the delivery instructions." He put a hand on Nelvar's shoulder. "We'll be home soon, my friend. Just a little more work, and all of this will be behind us."

As expected, the sellsword did not reply with words. Just another short nod, and then he headed down the hall.
Not so tired as he had been before, Sibbi decided he had one more thing to do before it was time to turn in. He left the solar.
Serivus's house was vast, with many rooms both small and large. And some of them were better hidden than most. Sibbi had found one of these early on, a small chamber with virtually nothing in it save for a dusty old chair and some ancient Legion journals that he had no interest in reading. He'd claimed the room for his own purposes, bringing in a small table and, more importantly, the flute.

Had the noble known what that piece of wood was when Maul's man had given it to him, he probably wouldn't have taken it. How Boldir had gotten his hands on the cursed instrument, or why in Oblivion he'd carried it, Sibbi did not know, but all across the Jerall Mountains, into Bruma and down the Orange Road, the voice had plagued him in the nights. Usually it came to him as he slept, but sometimes it remained even after his eyes flitted open, as if to ensure he knew that the waking world was no true escape.

Sibbi took a seat and gripped the instrument. Things were different now. Now, the poor trapped soul could haunt him no longer. The warlock he'd hired had seen to that. Not by banishing the spirit as the old man had initially suggested, no, Sibbi would not allow the being that had haunted him to escape him that easily. Instead, he had layer after layer of magic wrapped around the flute, enchanting it even further than it already had been, binding the spirit not only to the instrument, but to its wielder as well. Now, the ghost of Jodun Hunding, as the warlock had called him, could only emerge when Sibbi wanted him to. The summoning spell was bound to a single note, high and pretty like the chirping of a bird.
He lifted the flute to his lips and blew.
Moments passed and nothing happened, but Sibbi was used to the routine by now. It usually did take a moment.

The Nord smiled when the foggy substance began to appear before him, flowing from every pore in the flute like steam from a Dwemer oven, it rose up toward the ceiling and gathered together into one dim, faded cloud, which eventually drifted down to match Sibbi's height. Deep within the gray-green cloud, a pair of white eyes just barely peaked at him. They were full of anger, hatred. The spirit of Jodun was all too aware of what he'd done to it, just as it was aware of the things Sibbi had done to the Iron-Brow family and plenty of others who had stood in his way during that time. When the ghostly voice spoke to him, it was low and with an accent that was distinctively from Hammerfell, but whatever voice Jodun had spoken with in life had probably not sounded so distant and layered, as if coming from the end of some long hallway with an echo. 
"What do you want?"

"I want your help, dead man." Sibbi said, fully aware that the being could not harm him for his insults.

"It will do you no good." the ghost replied. "Not when you have joined me in death."

Sibbi dismissed the vague and empty warning. "I appreciate the concern, but I'd like to hear from you anyway. I don't intend to die any time soon."

"Nor did I... You're trying to do something good for Skyrim. I once knew this Baldur Red-Snow. A good man, bound to be a good king. But for all the good that could come of your plans, it remains next to nothing compared to the evils you have committed-"

"Yes, I'm a bad man, I get it, move past it." Sibbi said, agitated. "Helping crown Baldur is not the only good act I'm prepared to go through with. How would you like to be released from this prison you've found yourself in?"

"I already know what it is you offer, Black-Briar. The answer is 'no'. I will not help you find Boldir, though I could."

"I figured as much." Sibbi sighed. "It's people like you that force me to do all these evil things that you hate me for. Boldir is no saint. He's a traitor to his own kinsmen, and he prevents me from fixing the Rift and helping give Skyrim a good king. But you would rather me force you to help me catch him than do it of your own volition. You're making me the bad guy because that's what you've already decided I am."

Sibbi wouldn't have thought spirits capable of sniggering had he not heard this accursed Redguard's ghost do it with his own two ears. "You're right about that last part, at least. But you cannot force me to help you."

"Oh yeah?" asked Sibbi, "And how sure are you of that? I can bring back the warlock. Or perhaps return tomorrow with a black soul gem. Surely an eternity in the Cairn isn't worth protecting some traitor?"

The ghost did not respond immediately, most likely because he was contemplating the severity of what Sibbi had just threatened. Finally, those pale eyes blinked several times and Jodun's spirit answered. "I can't help you, Black-Briar. Not tonight, at least. Your sins have caught up with you."

"What do you- What's that supposed to mean mean?"

There came a pounding on the door, and the Redguard's spirit vanished just before Nelvar's large frame burst into the room. "You need to get upstairs, M'lord, now!"

"Why?" Sibbi's head was spinning. Your sins have caught up with you. "What's wrong?"

"I think we're under attack."

*

Boldir watched as the final grains of sand trickled down the hourglass. He left his torch on the floor as he stood up and put on his helmet. The trapdoor above him was locked, as Gray Cap had said it would be, but that wouldn't delay him long. Boldir lifted his axe sent the back end of it crashing into one of the hinges.

*

All of that night and the night before, the torches carried by Sibbi's men had shone like dim orange stars over an otherwise dark neighborhood. If not for the light they cast, Mila might not have even noticed that something was amiss. The patrols had halted, men were moving together, and sellswords could be seen hurrying back and forth through the mansion's entrance with their swords drawn. What are they doing?

Mila got her answer soon enough. Just at the edge of the torchlight, two of the Breton sellswords could be seen dragging one of their friends by the arms. The man was fidgeting as if in pain, the cause of which became apparent when they brought him closer to the light. An arrow protruded from the Breton's lower leg, where it seemed to have found a gap in his armor. When some of the others saw this, they scrambled to ready their shields against any sort of assault.
"Guards!" one man's voice rang out across the street. "Someone's attacking-"

His words were cut short when another arrow struck his shield. This time Mila saw what direction it came from, and so did most of the sellswords. With little hesitation, three of the seven guards proceeded out into the street. The remaining four started to fan out, covering the grounds as best they could with fewer numbers. There was shouting going on inside now. So loud that it could be heard from the streets and set the district's dogs to barking.
Another sellsword came outside to relay orders to the guards, but as he ran back to the house with his reply, a third arrow thudded into the door, followed rapidly by a forth, forcing the man to dive aside behind some bushes for cover. He and the others shouted more orders back and forth in frustrated tones.

Mila couldn't hear what they were saying, and she had absolutely no idea what was going on right now. But she didn't need to. She had her opening, and had already begun her descent.

*

Whatever Gray Cap was up to outside must have been working, for Boldir's entrance into the basement went completely undetected. No doubt the sound of him breaking in the trapdoor was masked by the shouting and frantic footsteps coming from above. 
The Elder Councilman's basement was massive, with long rows of wine casks and dusty trinkets lined up like soldiers in formation. One wall had a big stone fireplace that lacked wood and probably hadn't been lit in decades. In fact, if not for the dozens of empty wine bottles and the single lit sconce near the staircase, Boldir would have assumed that this part of the house had spent the last couple years completely untouched.

When he got to the stairs, Boldir took care to step as lightly as possible, a practice that proved very difficult and not particularly effective, armored as he was. Alright, enough of this. Talos, if ever you intend to give me strength, do so now.
With that short prayer, Boldir let out a deep breath and stormed his way up to the main floor, and with his shield he flung the door open.

Four pairs of shocked eyes turned to him. And the sellswords went for their weapons.

*

Sibbi's palms sweated as he grasped the possessed flute as though it were a weapon. Down on the lower level, something heavy had just smashed into the ground. "What's going on? Is it Boldir?"

"I don't know, M'lord. You need to get upstairs and lock the door. I'll see to this."

Though he was not fond of receiving orders, Sibbi listened to Nelvar. The man hadn't survived so long in his profession out of luck. He knows what he's doing. 
Without another word, the noble and sellsword each headed off in different directions. Nelvar downstairs for the fighting, and Sibbi upstairs for his room. When he got there, Sibbi immediately locked the door.

Outside his open window, Black-Briar could hear his men shouting in the streets. Their voices ranged from annoyed to weary, but none sounded scared. That was reassuring to the noble. It was good to know that when it came time to earn their keep, the Bretons and Imperial's he'd hired were able to keep their cool just like the Nords. There's no force in this city capable of attacking this place outright. he thought to himself. Not with the Legion all around us.

Sibbi wanted to believe, but then again, there was no denying that somehow, someone had gotten inside. Even two stories up, Sibbi could hear the sounds of struggle below, and the words of Jodun's ghost echoed in his mind. It will do you no good. Not when you have joined me in death... Your sins have caught up with you.

Black-Briar ground his teeth together and walked over to his desk, upon which his sword rested in its sheath. To Oblivion with my sins! If the gods want to take me from this world, they can damn well come and get me, themselves!
Black-Briar reached for his weapon, but his hand came to a sudden halt when something cold and heavy pinned it to the desk. It took Sibbi several moments to register the pain, to realize that the blood he saw was his own. He followed the dagger with his eyes, tracing up the arm that held it, and found the face of Mila Iron-Brow staring back at him, her eyes filled with hate.

*

The sellswords numbered five now, after a large bald-headed Nord appeared at the stairwell to join the fray. The other four hadn't moved on him yet, not seriously at least. The older one with the gray beard had struck once, testing Boldir's defenses. As he'd deflected the blow with his shield, another of the Nords attempted to ring him on the helmet with his sword, but Boldir had been quick enough to evade it answer the attempt with a strike of his own that took the the sellsword in his own shield and sent him staggering into the couch. After that, the others backed away, opting to probe him for an opening. Just from watching the way they moved, Boldir decided that the most dangerous of them were the bald Nord and the Breton woman with the dark hair and long scar on her neck.

"You don't have to die tonight." Boldir offered. "I only want Mila and Sibbi. When I am gone, you can have anything he leaves behind."

"You know that ain't gonna happen." said the old man. Where all the others looked angry or determined, Boldir noticed that his expression was strangely sad. "I'd offer you the same opportunity though. Lay down your axe, and maybe Sibbi will let us take you prisoner. Then you can see Mila when we find her."

When you find her? 
"Shut up, Ennaf." said the Nord Boldir had knocked into the couch before. "For what he did in Riften, this whoreson dies tonight! I can't think of anything I'd like more than to put a blade in him, myself." He glanced at the scarred Breton. "You know who this is, Sosia? This is Boldir Iron-Brow. The bastard who betrayed his people."

Sosia grimaced, glancing between Boldir and the Nord. Settling her eyes on the former, she said in an unnaturally raspy voice, "I don't give a damn who he is or what he's done. Killing him's our job, so shut up and do it." But she didn't move to attack him herself, only stood brandishing her mace.

She wants me to attack first. Boldir realized as the male Breton and angry Nord edged closer to him on the sides. Pull me into the middle so the others can get behind me. Boldir's eyes moved from once sellsword to the next, never resting on one for longer than a second. But when they fell at last on the angry Nord, he noticed that the man was just about to attack again. Boldir didn't let him.

Turning, he barreled into the Nord with his shield, catching the man by surprise and throwing him off-balance. Before the sellsword could recover, Boldir's axe sliced deep into his neck. The others fell on him then, though with all the room's furniture, he made it difficult for more than one or two to be on him at a time. It was the Breton woman, the one called Sosia, who struck at him first, her mace coming down hard on his shield with a loud metallic thud. When Boldir tried to counter, Ennaf's axe came down on him in a heavy arc that would have caved in his helmet had he not moved at the last second. Instead, the strike bounced off his shoulder and sent a spike of pain down his arm.

Sosia sprung next, swinging her mace toward his injured shoulder. She missed, but still hit him in the side, denting the metal where it impacted. She danced away from his retaliatory strike, but her cloak caught the better part of the blade, and she ripped the torn shreds from her shoulders in one quick movement. The furs hadn't hit the ground by the time Boldir had to ready himself for another strike from Ennaf, and then another from the bald Nord. 
Keep moving. Don't let them overwhelm you.
As Sosia approached him again, aiming her mace at his axe arm, Boldir sidestepped and parried the blow off to the side. Next he took a step back and used his shield to block another blow from Ennaf.
I need to take another one out. These sellswords were good. Better than most soldiers Boldir had gone up against. And with their numbers, they didn't give him a lot of opportunities to land a killing blow. 
Create your own.

Boldir's shield caught another blow from Sosia's mace. By now the quicksilver cover was thoroughly dented, and the wood beneath was groaning with every blocked attack. It wouldn't last many more blows from that mace. With a snarl that his foes could not see, Boldir took a bold step forward, bringing his shield too close to Sosia for her to properly strike, while whirling his axe in a sideway arc that tore Ennaf's axe away from his hands. 
The male Breton tried to step in then, to join Sosia at the front and save Ennaf, but Boldir wouldn't let that happen. He buried his axe in the old man's chest just a moment before the Breton could shove him out of the way. As Boldir wrenched his axe free of the bone and metal it had hewn through, the Breton managed to graze him on the arm. Armored as he was, Boldir barely felt the blow. He turned and answered it with one of his own, but Sosia got in the way again. She deflected the axe, directing it away from her compatriot so that it merely dented his armor and knocked him backwards, rather than open him up from chest to waist. He staggered, but quickly regained his feet and swung his sword toward Boldir's head. Sosia, meanwhile, turned her parry into a strike of her own, aimed down low at Boldir's knees. Where she aimed low, Boldir aimed high.
Ducking the male Breton's strike, Boldir caught Sosia's mace with his shield and rammed the blunt of his axehead into Sosia's face, the sound of her nose breaking coincided with that of his shield finally giving out, and the two warriors pulled away from each other. 
Boldir cast aside the broken shield and used the shaft of his axe to parry another strike from the Breton, who now was pushing forward all the harder to protect his injured ally. He managed another blow at Boldir's ribs, but the Nord let his armor protect him, and responded with a slash that cut right across the sellsword's face, leaving a gash from his forehead down to his right cheek.
"Gods." the Breton gasped. And then he collapsed to the floor.

The big bald Nord was after Boldir next, stepping over the Breton, he hacked at Boldir with a steel greatsword. By the time their weapons clashed, the Breton woman had recovered enough to join back in. Sosia spat bloody phlegm and wiped the blood from her face. She then pressed Boldir from his shield-less left side, as the bald Nord kept his attention with a relative flurry of strikes with his greatsword. Sosia came down with a heavy swing, catching the giant Nord on his left arm, just below the shoulder. The was steel folded like paper, and the bone beneath was unquestionably broken. It was therefore all the more surprising when he used that same arm to bat Sosia away, catching her square in the face and knocking her straight to the ground.

*

If everything else were to fail, if she were to die that very night, Mila figured it will have been worth it to have gotten to see the look on Sibbi's face when his eyes met hers.
Mila didn't intend to die, though. And she sure as Oblivion didn't intend to let this fucker escape. Wrenching Anrich's dagger from Black-Briar's hand, Mila shoved the blade into the noble's belly, and smiled as she felt his warm blood trickling onto her hand.

And then Sibbi hit her, right below her left eye. It was a hard, powerful blow that no wounded man had the right to dish out. And it came as such a surprise that Mila made no effort to raise her arms or otherwise protect herself. The next thing she knew, she was on the floor with her head slumped against a bookshelf. A few feet away, she could make out Sibbi leaning against the desk for support as he yanked the steel from his stomach and dropped it with a pained groan. 

"Does it hurt?" she asked, trying to ignore her own throbbing pain as she got back on her feet. "Do you think that it hurts worse than when you killed Runar? Ullin said that you shot him twice and stabbed him in the heart."

Sibbi sputtered blood at her in response. With his bad hand, the nobleman cast a seemingly ineffective healing spell, while he fumbled for his longsword with the good. The slender silver-hilted weapon looked as though it had the weight of a battle-axe in his shaking arm. Sibbi managed all of two steps in her direction before falling to his knee, only managing to catch himself by jamming the point of his sword into the floor for support.
Mila didn't let him enjoy his rest. She kicked the blade aside and shoved him to the ground. "What about my Aunt Vex? It was your man that killed her. He filled her with more arrows than I could count! Do you think you're in more pain than she was?" She kicked him. "Or Sharda?! I hope you are!"

Mila noticed Sibbi's bad hand going to his belt. He still has it! She jammed a thumb into the hole in his hand, drawing a cry from Sibbi's lips as she slid the lunar steel dagger from his belt and held it up into the moonlight so that the enchanted blade gave off a dim white glow. "You know Boldir made this for me. You made me tell you lots of things, but never that."
She flipped Sibbi onto his back and rammed the little blade into his chest with a sickening hiss. The dagger's magic allowed it burn through his flesh with ease. She leaned into his ear and whispered. "Do you think this hurts more than the poison you used to kill him?"

"Ack!" Sibbi seemed hysterical the way he looked at her. The pain was there, plain as day, but the way his lips parted... He was smiling. "I-... I'd wager so." Black-Briar stammered. "You got me pretty good."

"Sibbi?"

Mila turned her head at the sound of someone calling out from the hall outside. She knew the voice. It belonged to the sellsword she'd foolishly allowed to become her friend.
"Go away, Stoit!" she shouted at the door, but the room must have been muffled, because he just kept on hollering away. Time to put an end to this. Mila lowered her dagger to the dying man's neck, and, to her surprise and annoyance, Black-Briar laughed. It was a dry, pained cackle.

"All those names... Don't forget to mention your mother, girl..." He coughed, spewing a coat of blood across his own face. Every word that left his mouth was a strained gasp. "She was in Riften with Maven... with the flames... I'd wager she d-... she died worse than any of them."

For that, Mila wanted to just sit there, to watch him die slowly, choking on his own blood. Kill him. They'll catch you if you wait. "I didn't forget her." Mila said, her voice barely above a whisper. She ripped her dagger across Black-Briar's throat, watching in the moonlight as his blood sizzled and ran over the half-burned flesh.

"Sibbi!?" Stoit's voice shouted at the door. "Sibbi, are you in there? Sibbi!"

"Sibbi's dead!" Mila shouted back, knowing Stoit couldn't hear her. Her lips broke into a smile. "Sibbi's dead and I'm done with you lot!"
She tugged the dagger's sheath from her fallen foe's belt and tucked it tight under her own. Looking at the white blade now, and the steaming blood that down, Mila remembered all her talks with Boldir as she tried in vain to come up with a name for the little blade. Later. she decided.

Mila made for the window she'd entered through, but stopped just before reaching it. Something had caught her eye; the tiny orange glimmer of gemstones adorning an ornately-carved wooden flute. The girl's smile widened. What was I thinking? 
There was no time to name a weapon, but a good thief could always make time to loot.

*

Boldir bit his lip, ignoring the pain as he brought his axe round and down toward Sosia. It was only by a thread that the bald Nord managed to barrel into him in time, staggering Boldir and sending his axe skirting off the floor, inches to the right of Sosia's face. 
The Nordic sellsword followed up with a wide, overhead blow that Boldir just managed to raise his axe in time to deflect. His breathing was turning to jagged gasps now, and the pain from his injuries was beginning to set in. He was slowing down.
The big bald Nord noticed it too, and continued to rain blow after crashing blow on him. Boldir blocked and parried them all, but his left arm throbbed with each one. Ignore it! You're too close to lose now! 
Boldir wanted to ignore it, perhaps more desperately than he had ever wanted anything in his life. But it wasn't just the pain and fatigue that worked against him. This mercenary was a powerful brute of a man. He knew to straddle Boldir's left side, to keep moving around him so that he would be forced to move in response, or else expose his weak spot. And to make matters worse, the Breton woman was rising again. 
Gods, she's tough!

Boldir knew he couldn't let them gang up on him again. If they regrouped, it would mean his death. He had to act. Now.
The Nord was preparing another overhead blow. Throwing everything he had left into one last effort, Boldir lifted his wounded arm and caught the blade in a tight metallic grasp. His glove and the flesh beneath were cleaved open until the greatsword caught in the bone beneath. This time, Boldir could not ignore it. He screamed in pain and fury as he buried the head of his axe into the sellsword's neck. No sooner had the man wrenched his blade free of Boldir's bloody grip than he'd begun his collapse onto the floor.
Still dazed herself, Sosia had less than a moment to prepare for the Nord's blood-covered axe moving to take her in the shoulder. Sosia swung her mace at Boldir's head, clearly trying to end him before he could end her. He was quick, though, even in excruciating pain and weary from the prolonged battle in full plate armor. The axe went deep in her shoulder, and she let out an agonizing shout in response. Her mace hit Boldir's left shoulder, sending a bolt of pain shooting down his already broken arm, but her own mortal wound weakened what as intended to be a death blow. 

Blood gurgled from her mouth, like she was trying to say something. She dropped her mace and wiped away the blood. Clearly now, she rasped out "**** you," in a voice more unsettling than Boldir expected. Then she collapsed to the floor, dead.

"You did it... You actually killed them all." His wife's voice conveyed all the shock and relief that he was too exhausted to express himself. Boldir fell to his knees. 
"Come on, big guy. Get up! You're almost there. The hardest part's done. Sibbi's in here somewhere, and so is Mila. Find them. Finish this!"

Boldir wasn't certain if the tears in his eyes were from the end being in sight, or the pain he felt in so many places, but he blinked them away and nodded. "Okay."

"Sibbi? Sibbi, are you in there?" The voice came from upstairs. It sounded young. Like a kid's. "Sibbi!"

"... Okay." Boldir stood up and made for the stairs. The first flight brought him to a long, lavish hallway with doors on each side and a thick red carpet running the full length of it.

"Sibbi! Come on out! We've won!"

Higher. Boldir continued on up to the top level, and found himself in a hall just like the last one. Only this one came with another Nordic Sellsword. He was a handsome youth of sixteen or seventeen winters. The bow on his back was strung, but he had no quiver or arrows. Boldir was grateful of that, at least. That 'Sosia' woman had given him quite the thrashing, and he wasn't sure how many more difficult fights he'd be able to manage.
"Sib-" The lad's voice trailed off when he caught on to Boldir's approach. Immediately, his hands went for the ceiling. "You... You... " he didn't seem to have many other words. "You..."

"You didn't seem to have trouble speaking to your boss just now. What happened?"

"She ain't here!" the sellsword shouted at him nonsensically. "I promise, she escaped months ago! I coulda stopped her but I didn't! I swear!"

"Shut up. That door you're pounding on, is Sibbi in there?"

"I think so. Look- You won't believe me, but I swear-"

"Didn't I just say to shut up?" The lad backed away from the door as Boldir reached it. If not for the equipment and muscled arms, he'd have assumed that the boy was a servant, rather than a sellsword. He would have to die too, of course, but with no arrows and nowhere to run, the young archer wasn't a threat at the moment. And he might be able to answer questions later. "Open the door."

"It's locked."

"Break it then."

The sellsword made no effort to argue. Putting all his weight behind him, he slammed into the door once, twice, and then a third time, where it finally broke in. Both Boldir and the lad gasped at what they found inside. There, in the center of the room, was the corpse of Sibbi Black-Briar, bleeding from several wounds.

Gods damn it. Gray Cap's thief girl had gotten here first after all. Boldir felt a massive sense of disappointment. He had dreamed of this moment a hundred times. And in each consecutive dream, he did something worse to Sibbi than in the one before. After all the Black-Briars had done to his family... they met their end at the hands of some kid thief. It was good the man was dead, but this seemed... hollow. It should have been me. This was my kill.

"He needed to die." Carlotta's voice whispered. "And he did. But that's not why you're here."

You're right. Boldir thought, feeling guilty. He turned to the stunned-looking sellsword beside him. "Well it seems someone did my job for me. Now on to the next step. Where is my daughter?"

The lad blinked, snapping back into the real world. "Didn't I already say? She ain't here. She escaped. I let her go-"

Boldir raised his axe to the boy's throat. "Lie to me again and see where it gets you. Mila's a child. She can barely lift a sword. You expect me to believe she got past all of Sibbi's men? Or that you'd be alive if you'd helped her escape?"

"I expect you to believe she got past one of us." the sellsword said, his eyes on the blade. "We'd had her moved to a cell in the dungeon. She found a secret tunnel. I was the one wh-"

The steel of his axe bit into his neck, and Boldir gave a bark of laughter. "A secret tunnel?! Do you think I'm dense, boy?"

"Will you let me finish?!" shouted the sellsword. "I saw it! And I pretended not to. I let her escape! Sibbi's dead! Why would I lie about this?!"

Try as he might, Boldir couldn't come up with a good reason on the spot. "This tunnel... Where did it lead?"

"Out to the City Isle. But she's still here, we've seen her since. She's with the Guild. The Thieves Guild. I swear it!"

The Thieves Guild? Boldir took a second look at Sibbi's bloody corpse. And all at once, a cold, unsettling realization washed over him. "By the gods..." He ran to the window. "MILA!"

"Are you crazy?! There are more of us outside! Keep shouting and they'll realize that it's you-"

"MILA!" Boldir boomed again, out to the night sky. Sibbi's blood was still running. It could not have been long since she'd been here. "MILA!"

"If it was her, you'll get her caught too!" yelled the sellsword. "Roaring her name to the rooftops and such. And then you, her, and now me too, we'll all be in deep trouble."

"You're in trouble anyway." Boldir shot back as he turned away from the window. "And what would you have me do? Lose her again?"

"You never found her! She's been gone for months. Whoever this was, it-"

"It was her." Boldir interrupted. "I came with the guild." Gray Cap! Gray Cap had called her Matilda... Boldir, you fool! You need to leave. She's safer that way. And she's not with Sibbi. The guild will find her. He nodded to himself. The boy was right. Hollering out the window of a house piled with corpses wouldn't end well. He needed to leave and regroup with the thieves. They would know what to do next. "You," he beckoned at the sellsword. "Come with me. Down to the basement."

"The basement?" The lad seemed confused. "What's in the-"

"Our escape. If my friend did his job, we should have some time. But more will be coming. What's your name?"

"Stoit. Stoit Giantslayer."

Boldir snickered at that. The lad's eyes didn't reach his chin. "Well Stoit Giantslayer. You're my prisoner now."

[Witchking of Angmar]

Mila
Imperial City Waterfront

The Waterfront was just like she’d left it, minus the army of sellswords. Under the pale light of the moons, Mila could make out the dozens of ships moored along the docks. Most of them were Cyrodiilic galleons, large and mighty vessels hired by the East Empire Company or one of the city’s wealthier merchants to transport goods down Niben Bay. It was not a galleon that she was looking for, however, but a simple, single-mast trading cog.

It’s still here. Mila breathed a sigh of relief when she spotted vessel near the district edge. Four nights prior, she had hidden behind some cargo that had been unloaded off of this very ship. And based on what she’d overheard at the time, it could very well be one of the few ways a wanted criminal had to put some distance between herself and the city.
It was a good run. Mila thought, quickly making her way through the shadows cast by the dockside warehouses. But nothing good can come from staying here. She had been a fool to try and make a new life in the Thieves Guild. Mila knew that now. For all the care they pretended to show, the thieves proved to be just that: thieves. They would never stick up for her the way a real family would. I can only rely on myself. No one else.

 

A pair of armed, burly sailors stood at the edge of the cog. Like her own, their faces were hiddn in shadow, but Mila could feel their eyes follow her approach.

“That’s close enough, kid.” said one in that same unfamiliar accent she had heard four nights prior. “What’s yer business ‘ere?”

“I need to speak to your captain.” Mila ventured. “It’s urgent.”

“Urgent to you, maybe. But there ain’t a lot of things that’re so urgent that the Captain’d be okay with me wakin’ ‘im up four hours past midnight. Besides, our business in the city’s concluded. We ain’t takin’ on any more cargo.”

“Anrich sent me.” Mila said, hoping that they might know the guild branch’s leader. “Gray Cap. Like I said, it’s urgent.”

“Gray Cap?” the guards shared a glance, “If that’s true, then why did the fox climb up the tower?”

“To steal a scroll from the blind.” She answered, suddenly a little less resentful of her time with the guild.

“Damn.” muttered one of the shadowy figures. He looked at his companion. “You do it. Loneld likes you. If I go in there and wake ‘im, it’ll only serve to piss ‘im off.”

“Fine.” The guard turned and went over to the Captain’s cabin. After a few minutes passed, he returned with two more figures. One of them was a tall woman clad only in a silken nightgown that must have been very cold this time of year. The other, a thick-bearded man who must have been the Captain, though with the moons behind them, their features were no easier to make out than the guards’.

“Ammos tells me that Gray Cap sent you.” said the one Mila assumed to be Captain Loneld with a yawn. “Says you know the passphrase and that it’s urgent. Well out with it, then. What’s so urgent?”

“I need you to take me south when you go.” she said. “I need to link with the branch in Bravil.”

“That so?” Loneld asked, his head cocking ever so slightly to the left. “Gray Cap usually works these things out himself, you know. Always does, actually. In fact, he and I concluded our business ‘bout a week ago, and he knows I ain’t takin’ in anyone else this go-round.”

“This time is different.” Mila insisted. “He couldn’t make it. That’s why this is so urgent.”

“He couldn’t make it, eh? On account of the Waterfront raid, I take it? Not seen hide nor hair of him in that old tavern o’ his since that business went down.”

“That’s it.” she said. “Half the guild’s gone into hiding. Should blow over soon.”

“Good to hear.” said the Captain. “As I recall, it was a kid they’d been lookin’ for. A young girl... “ He let his sentence hang as they all stood in a rather uncomfortable silence. And then he said, “Take off your hood.”

“What?”

“The hood, girl. Take it off.”

Uh oh. Mila knew that hesitating would yield the same result as fessing up here and now. She may have waited too long already, but she tried to play it off by pushing back the cowl with as much fake confidence as possible.

Loneld studied her for a good long while. The moons may have been to his back, but they shone directly down onto Mila’s face. If he remembered the picture at all, there would be no mistaking who she was.
“Well?” The Captain glanced back at his crewmembers, all of whom stared at Mila with a similar level of interest. “Anyone remember?”

“I don’t think-“ the woman started, but she was cut off by one of the guards.

“It’s her. Ain’t a doubt in my mind.”

His companion nodded in agreement. “Aye, that be the girl. I’d know. I ‘elped those Nords in their little search.”

“I’d thought as much.” Turning back to Mila, Loneld said, “Sorry, kid. I don’t take cargo if I ain’t damn sure Gray Cap’s checked it and double-checked it, and I ain’t damn sure about anything when it comes to you except that you’re hot enough to drive the Thieves Guild underground. Sorry, kid. You seem nice, but I ain’t gonna risk a year long stint in the dungeons for ya.”

“There were an army of sellswords lookin’ for her, Cap.” said one of the guards. “She’s gotta be worth a lot to ‘oever it is that hired ‘em.”

Mila’s hand fell to the dagger at her belt, but her grip loosened when Loneld smacked his own man across the face. “We ain’t in the business of rattin’, Bredes!” the Captain shouted before looking at her again. “Sorry ‘bout that, girl. We ain’t gonna sell ya out. But I ain’t gonna take ya on neither. I work with Gray Cap. Not for him. And I’ve turned down less-shady deals than this one. We’ll return in a month. Perhaps next time you’ll have him around to prove this is actually his idea. Might be I’ll actually consider it then.”

Captain Loneld and the woman started to leave, but Mila wasn’t done trying yet. “Wait! I can pay you. A lot!”

Loneld laughed. “If this was just about money, I’d have listened to Bredes and sold you. Like I said, try again in a month. Now off with ya!” And with that, the Captain and his lady friend returned to his cabin, and there was nothing Mila could do to stop them.

“You heard the Captain.” said the guard whose name she still had not learned. “Go on, get!”

Beaten, the girl turned to leave, and was surprised that she was only a short ways down the street before the one called Bredes came up behind her and said in a low voice. “Meet me tomorrow morn behind the Sailer’s Rest. Bring yer pay.”

 

“What?” Mila hissed. “You tried to sell me out! Why would I-“

“What’d she say?” shouted the nameless guard from way back behind them.

“She accepts my apology.” Bredes hollered back in a voice that was louder than Mila was comfortable with being close to. “Not that it’s any business o’ yours!” He winked at her, and for the first time, Mila got a good look at his broad, pockmarked face. “You do accept, don’tcha?”

“No I don’t accept! And why in Oblivion should I trust a meeting with you?”

“ ‘Cause I only wanted to sell you for coin.” He whispered, already backing away from her. “And now I know you got some o’ yer own. Meet me there, and I’ll get you out of this city.”

***

As far as meeting places went, behind the Sailer’s Rest was as safe a spot as any. It was away from prying eyes, but if ever Mila found herself in danger, she was only one shout away from some form of curious help arriving. And after Bredes’s attempt to sell her, the girl was more than prepared to do even more than that.

“Alright,” started the sailor, “This is a big risk for me, so I’m hopin’ you wasn’t lyin’ to the Captain. What sort ‘o pay do you have to offer?”

Mila unbuckled the strap that went across her chest and produced the long bundle of cloth from under her cloak. She unrolled it to reveal the silver longsword she had hidden inside.

“What’re you-“ the sailor’s voice trailed off as the jewels on Sibbi’s hilt drank in the moonlight. “Who’d a girl like you have to steal a weapon like that from?”

“No one who’s gonna come looking for it.” Mila promised. “It’s yours if you help me.”

The smuggler’s eyes were still transfixed on the glimmering stones. “That’s... that’s a lot better than what I was expectin’. Alright. Alright, yeah, we’ll do this. But none of the other’s can know.”

Mila frowned.“ And what if one of the others finds me?”

The sailor shrugged. “Then you’re a lone stowaway who don’t know nothin’ about me. That’s the best I can do. We got a deal?”

Odds were that she was already wanted for murder. There was little other choice. Mila handed over the sword. “Deal.”

Bredes smiled greedily as he grabbed the weapon by its hilt. “We leave on the morrow, but we’ll be finishin’ our loadin’ today. Come down to the Imp’s Tail in an hour and I’ll getcha situated.”

“The ‘Imp’s Tail’?”

“Didn’t ya know? That’s the name of the ship.” Bredes’s grinned. “You’ll be getting’ real familiar with ‘er soon enough.”

That had been a poor choice of words. An hour later, it became clear that the only thing Mila was going to be familiar with was the inside of a large empty crate. The only light in which came through gaps in the staves no wider than her fingernails.
“With these winds, it’ll take a few days to reach Bravil.” The smuggler had whispered as he’d hefted the crate with her inside it. “I can bring you food and water, but you’ll be doin’ your business in the dark, and smellin’ it too, I’m afraid.”

Those weren’t the most pleasant of words to be the last she would hear before leaving the city, but when the thought crossed her mind, Mila couldn’t help but chuckle. There was little about her journey that anyone could deem pleasant. But things would be different now. She was away from this awful place, from all the awful people who wanted to hurt her. Mila was bound for new lands and a new beginning.

[Witchking of Angmar]

Raine

It had taken time and patience along with quite a bit of finess and subtlety, but now Raine was finally ready to set her plan in motion. To get a potential man to set up Lilly with Raine had had carefully asked around for rumors. It had taken time to do so without raising suspicion but she had managed to get a couple of potential names. After doing some investigation she had that Councilor Harper seemed like the safest bet. He had a terrible relationship with his wife and was apparently also quite the secret pervert. A man that Lilly would likely exploit Raine reasoned. The rumor around him and Lilly was also the most reliable as it was said to originate from him bragging to his own bodyguards.

Raine walked down a street in the Market District. Her thoughts began to wonder about what and why she was doing this. She began to think about the previous night; when the Emperor had been sitting in a large armchair and suckled on Raine's breast as she had been sitting on the left armrest. As his hand worked to bring her pleasure, she looked down on him and gently held his head close with her right hand. Lilly was down on the floor in front of the chair and Raine had her left hand holding Lilly's head to control her rhythm. 
Raine had felt a sense of superiority and importance as both the Emperor and Spymaster were beneath her. The Emperor was where he should be and Lilly was where she should be; Krojun servicing her and Lilly being under her control. That self indulged illusion however began to crack as the Emperor's lips left her with a quiet gasp as he looked to Lilly, to then shatter completely as he whispered the Spymaster's name. Jealousy and silent fury had surged through Raine as she too looked down at Lilly, thinking about either tightening her grasp to pull at Lilly's hair and maybe push forward to choke her. But Raine knew she had to maintain appearance and simply let things be.

Raine entered a small bookstore named "The Literate Owl" with a fitting sign of an owl holding a quill with one wing and writing in a book. The shop was quite small and seemed to only consist of two rooms. The first being a small room with a simple desk and a few locked display cases holding books with decorative covers. The next room was just past an open doorway on the other side of the room. Through the doorway Raine could see multiple filled bookcases, which made it look a library was hidden back there.
Behind the desk was a Dunmer standing. He wore simple grey and deep red clothes that matched both his skin and his eyes, along with medium long, black hair that was combed behind his head, and a slightly grumpy look about him overall. Raine had had to do some careful digging to find out about this man. His name was apparently Uleth Rozth and was both quite discreet and proficient forger. 
"Excuse me." said Raine to the Dunmer. "Are you Uleth Rozth?"

"I am. I sell books and also do some work as a scribe." he replied. 

"I need you to write a letter." 

"What kind of letter?" Uleth showed no real interest or curiosity about what Raine wanted. His plain professionalism made him sound a bit dull but it made Raine feel more secure in what she was about to request. 

"I need you write a form of love letter in a certain handwriting." 

"Do you have a large sample of the handwriting? And what do you want the letter to contain more precisely?"

Raine picked up some folded and slightly crumbled papers from her pocket and put them on the desk. Most of them were simple lists of menial tasks Lilly had occasional put Raine on doing along with a couple of letters with actual indecent proposals she had left for Raine. "I want the letter to be addressed to Councilor Harper from Lilly, saying that she enjoyed the last time they shared a bed and she would like for him to show up in her home before dusk for another night."

"Hmm." mumbled Ulet as he skimmed through the notes. "Come back in two days and you will have a sealed letter to pick up. It will cost you two hundred. I'll take half now, half when you receive the letter."

Raine took up the pouch she had at her belt, hidden under a piece of cloth in same color as her dress. She'd have to use up some of her own savings to afford this but she figured she wouldn't have to care about money at all soon enough. 
"There you go." she said after having counted the coins and given them to Uleth, who then began to recount them himself. 

When he was sure Raine hadn't done any mistakes or was trying to cheat him, he deposited the coins in a strongbox hidden under the counter. "A pleasure doing business with you."

"Same. Goodbye." said Raine before leaving the store. As she now walked back to the palace she felt both a sense of dread and a sense of relief. The first step of her plan went without a hitch, but at the same time she felt as if she was at the point of no return. If things didn't turn out well she could have to pay a high price. Doubt and second thoughts began to fill her mind. But the promises and dreams of success proved too tempting. Besides if things went wrong she could probably apologize to the Emperor a number of ways in the bedchamber. 

***

Lilly

Lilly was polishing her longsword's blade, that was made of shimmering mithril sending rays of light, which were being reflected by the sunlight from the open window. She wore the simple leather tunic and skirt that was used for padding for her armor. The Imperial Spymaster didn't have work today, so she spent her afternoon taking care of some chores. Helen, and Rubilious always called her a workaholic, but she'd rather make a productive day out of a day off. Her office, a rather small, at least in comparison to the one at Oculatus headquarters, but suited her just fine. She needed to look at her accounts at the Imperial Bank later, and write a few letters to Chorrol, as well as the office of the East Empire Company in Anvil. She didn't want to waste any time. 

Suddenly a knock on the door came and she heard one of her servant girls speak: "Colonel Quentas, Councilor Amadus Harper is at the door and wishes to see you."

Lilly yawned as she said to her servant: "Let him in." If he has business with the Oculatus, he could have arranged a meeting. Lilly thought as she put away her sword. The spymaster was confused by his appearance, so she hurriedly made her way to the mansions entrance. There she saw an Imperial middle aged man, wearing a robe like clothes in rich colors of red, blue and gold. He wasn't really obese but neither that fit. His head had short brown hair neatly combed to the side and a clean shave. Lilly recognized him as the man the servant had claimed he was. Putting on a courteous smile and face, saying as she noticed her guest, "Excuse me Councilor, but I did not expect you tonight. Though please, come in."

"Was I supposed to come tomorrow?" he said slightly confused but still managed to maintain a somewhat cheerful tone and expression. 

"No...?" Lilly trailed off, confusion on her face evident. The spymaster fixed her luxurious platinum hair, which was done in a bun. More then once, the Spymaster had considered cutting it short, for her sake. Long hair such as her's, would be horrible to have in a fight. "Do you have Oculatus business, good sir?" 

Amadus looked even more confused for a second before shaking it off for a more friendly face. "I'm here for a simple social visit." he said. 

What the ****?  Lilly was getting really annoyed. What the heck was up with this guy? Inviting himself to her mansion for a "social visit?" Better keep my manners, invite him in for some tea, then kick him out right after. Mom would be pissed if I didn't. Lilly forced, a really convincing fake smile, "Come in then..." she said simply. "Would you like some tea?"

"No thank you. But some wine would do nicely." he said. 

Oh great. Now I have to waste my wine collection. Lilly welcome him into the living room. offering him a seat on one of her couches. She grabbed an antique chair, made from spruce wood in Cheydinhal, and positioned herself in front of the couch. One of her servants approached, and Lilly whispered in her ear, "My dear, can you please bring me some vintage septiumus?" Something in the middle. Don't want to offend the bastard with cheap shit, but I don't want to waste expensive stuff. 

The servant bowed her head. "Yes, Colonel." 

"So how have things been going for you Lilly?" said Amadus after he had sat down in the couch. 

First name basis are we? "Alright. Quite busy with all the stuff that's been going around. And you, how have you been?"

"Trying to recuperate some some losses in my shipping business. But I think things are finally starting to look up for me."

"Forgive me, sir, but I do not know what you deal in. Perhaps you can explain to me? I do love discussing the market, and trade." That at least wasn't a lie. The topic did indeed interest Lilly, though she left most of that stuff to her mother, and brother. They had the head for business, after all.  While trade routes did interest her when she was younger, she much rather preferred espionage, and military matters.

"My business consisted mostly of trading ebony to and from the Imperial City. You probably heard about the theft from my warehouse some time back."

Oh my... heheheheh. Lilly had to contain a wolf-like grin, as she said, "Oh my. No I hadn't. How terrible. Did the Watch ever find these ruffians?" 

"No, they did not. And I had to sell the warehouse to some Breton merchant just to help cover up the losses." he said, trying to sound unbothered but still had a hint of annoyance in his voice. 

"That's horrible. Did you get a good price for the warehouse? It's the middle of winter. I'm sure extra storage space would be useful for anything." Lilly would approach the situation like this: Try to keep him talking about business as long as possible, until she could excuse herself. That was the best option. "What does the Breton merchant deal in?"

"Don't know. Didn't ask. And I didn't get as good a price as I'd hoped. But I guess it could have been worse for a warehouse with a broken door and recently emptied."

"What was exactly stolen? The contents of the entire warehouse?! The heist seems to have been well-organised and coordinated." One of Lilly's servant girls arrived, carrying a bottle of wine, and a duo of cups. She poured the red liquid into the two glasses, offering one to Lilly, and then too her "guest". Lilly took a small sip. She always preferred whisky, but wine wasn't so bad.

Amadus took a sip from the wine as well. "Not everything was stolen. A few boxes of ebony still remained in some corner. The thief's must have run out time or maybe missed them. But other than that, the warehouse was practically emptied." he said, as if both a bit bitter but mostly amazed and dazzled by how it had happened.

"Well, enough this dreary talk. Besides the little... warehouse incident. how goes trade? Who are your primary contracts, and what other provinces do you primarily trade with?" She said taking a little sip of wine.

"Well you see, after the incident I more or less had to change business leanings..." said Amadus and continued to talk about his new trade in silk as well as a bit on how he had opened up a brothel and an inn in Anvil and Sutch respectively. Lilly tried to look for opportunity to excuse herself but the conversation simply went on to then incorporate her family businesses and other types businesses and how they all were affected by the secession of both Skyrim and High Rock. 
While Lilly found some of the talk interesting she found how the wine bottle became more and more empty as they talked for longer and longer. She was a bit unsure how much she drank in comparison to Councilor Harper but she suspected she drank the most as she was beginning to feel rather noticeably the effects of alcohol in her blood. But she nonetheless managed to appear and talk courteously and without much more than a tiny hint of her intoxication. 
Amadus seemed to take the wine about as well as she did. Though Lilly thought his smile had gotten a bit more stupider. But that could also have just been her own intoxication affecting her view on things. 
"So Lilly, planning any parties in the near future?" asked Amadus. 

Cant even hold his liquor, "No. Military business is keeping me quite busy. War's brewing, wont be long till the Dominion war machine is on the move." Lilly took a small sip of her wine, glancing upwards to face the ceiling for a second. Just keeps talking... and talking....

"Well that's a shame. Would you be interested in coming to one of my parties? I'm sure you will like it as much as last time you visited."

"I'm rather busy with work, councilor." You were awful in bed. Give me a servant girl any day.... She said with a sympathetic smile: "So busy in fact, I barely have time to attend my own parties. Just the other day, I had to sent one of my friends to take over as host."

"That's too bad to hear." said Harper. "Anything I can do to help?" 

"You could actually." Lilly paused for a moment. Really, that little pillow talk and provided useful information. Maybe Harper could be of some use after all. "You still have ties with the ebony trade, correct? The Empress's personnel bodyguard, the Oculatus Lupius, uses only ebony for their weapons. My ebony contact has been rather... annoying, and has insisted on hiking up the price. Perhaps, we could... come to an agreement, and you could give a good word in to one of your former colleges? I would owe you a favor of course." Which will be you getting into my panties. All men are the same. Lilly thought as she smiled.

Suddenly there was a knock on the front door, but Harper ignored that and said with a small mischievous smile: "Yes, I still got some friends and connections in that trade." Harper took another sip of what little remained in his wine glass and Lilly heard how one of her servants opened the door before then shortly closing it. "Now what favor do you have in mind?"

"Hmmmm. I have a few ideas." Lilly said. She then called out to her maid from inside the room: "Evelyn, dear, who is it?"

"Uhm... No one. Probably just some kids playing pranks." replied the servant girl. 

"Mind if I get a sneak peek on those ideas?" asked Harper with increasing lust and excitement in his eyes. 

"Fine. No touching, my dear ebony trader." She showed off her left leg, revealing the pale, milky skin. 

"I deal in silk now." said Harper without much thought or focus in his words. His eyes glanced over her leg for a second before moving a bit further up to her chest where his eyes lingered. "But I was hoping for a peek on your more ample... assets." 

"What part of 'no man but me' don't you understand?" Lilly suddenly heard a familiar voice whisper into her ear. 

"Not now, your majesty. I'm busy. Trying to seduce this lout, so I can get better ebony prices." Lilly said with some magic and a small sigh. Evelyn did sound a little masculine. She wondered for a second before she returned her attention to Harper and gave him a grin. "Oh no. You'll get to see them the moment you get your pleasure. Maybe at your next party?" 

"Next week then?" said Harper with a poorly hidden eagerness.

"That seems like a good plan. Shall I have dear Evelyn escort you out, then?" she said with a grin.

"No need. I'll find the door on my own." said Harper as he got up from the couch, almost forgetting to leave the wineglass as he left the room. Soon Lilly heard how he left through the front door, almost as if in a hurry.

"What a ******* pervert." Lilly said grimly before she called out: "Your majesty, you can come out now."

Lilly felt how his hands gripped her shoulders. Looking behind and up a bit she saw her lover standing tall behind her chair, looking down on her with a slight displeasure. He wore his black robe with the hood pulled down.

"Going for the creepy cultist look, my dear Emperor?" She gave him a warm smile. "What do you need."

"I had just finished a small Council meeting, and I heard you had a day off, so I decided to pay you a surprise visit. Hoping we could spend a lovely dinner a night together. But I'm having second thoughts about that." he said.

"Maybe I should go find your wife instead? Though from what I heard, she's isn't sleeping with any lovely ladies as it." she joked. Then she saw his angry face. "Come on. He invited himself over! I was just taking advantage of the situation. You want the Oculatus to go bankrupt?"

"I can maybe share some of the funds I got from the warehouse heist. What I want is you. With exclusivity."

"And yet you let me **** every servant girl, in town. I bet you wouldn't even care if I had Dales for a night." She gave a sly grin. "A little sexist, no?"

"A bit." said Krojun and tilted his head. "And you can have Dales, as long as I get what I want."

"She's really cute. But I'll pass. I'm not lying by the way. He came to me unannounced, and I was taking advantage of a situation. Strange though... He was acting like I had invited him over." Lillin curiously started scratching her chin. "Did you inform anyone of your visit here?" 

"Well, it was Raine that mentioned that you had a day off." he said thoughtfully, before then returning to to look at her with his displeased look. "But I want to know if you'll give him what he wants?"

"I can please him in other ways. Don't worry, I wont let him penetrate me. It's always good to have a wealthy merchant in my back pocket. Could threaten to tell his wife." she said with a grin. "Raine is a jealous bitch. Victoria was telling me she was giving her dirty looks, because of how much favor she holds with her majesty." 

"I don't care about Raine now." he said and then lowered himself, letting his arms wrap around Lilly in a hug. "I don't want him to touch you with his manhood. And I don't want him to touch your private parts."

Talos help me... he's a big softie. "Let me handle it. Don't worry." She returned it gently. "Though if Raine was trying to frame me, I wont have it..." she whispered with venom.

"Forget about her for now. Why not just send someone else?"

"Nah, I can't dear." Her face was getting red hot from rage. "Raine tried to sabotage me..."

"You can't forget about her you can't send someone else?" He asked, a little puzzled.

"If you insist, I'll send one of my agents in my place." She looked angry. As in enraged. Genuinely pissed off. Coming from the normally, carefree Lilly, that sight was rather horrid. She grabbed his arm and said. "That blasted maid thought I wouldn't notice her plots? I'm the spymaster. That little bitch. Even after I slept with her, she still stabs me in the back." She broke contact with Krojun, and her face slightly eased, from a snarl, to a smile. "I'll join you later in the royal quarters. But right now I need to do a little errand. If you don't mind, your majesty.'

"I do mind. You do know how far fetched your theory sounds?"

"I'm the Oculatus Spymaster. It's my job to dig up far fetched theories from the ground, and prove them to be true. But fine. I'll relent. But not now. I'm not in the mood for sex. Later. I was about to have some grub. Wanna join me?" the Spymaster said, informally, and with a sly smile. 

"I did say I came here dinner, right?" he hugged her even closer and gave her a light peck on her cheek. Lilly also felt his hands trying, and partly failing, to get at her bosom through her leather padding. Then suddenly there came another knock on the front door. "I swear; if that Harper is back, he wont live to see tomorrow." he said bitterly. 

"Hey, don't break my pawn before I've had a chance to use it." she said annoyed. She left his embrace, before going to the entrance hall and opening the front door. She had a hand to her longsword just in case.

Outside the door stood a simple Imperial man, early to mid twenties and wearing simple travellers clothes. He had a bag on his side with one strap over his shoulder. "Package for Lillin Quentas from her mother Aveline Quentas." he said in a rather drab and obviously routine tone before holding up a small and rather inauspicious wooden box to Lilly. Though his unbothered face became a little nervous when he saw her hand on her sword. 

Lilly took out a handful of septims from her leather skirts inner pocket and handed them to the messenger. "Here, for your troubles, and thank you." Her hand rested, as she gratefully took the package. She closed the door behind her and placed the box on a wooden table nearby. She glanced to her lover in the lounge. "Better be careful. Hopefully, mom didn't send me anything dangerous."

Her lover had sat down in the chair Lilly had just left. Seemingly waiting patiently for her. Inside the small wooden box was first a folded note, lying on top of a lot of crumbled paper that were evidently wrappings for holding some things. Lilly took it up and read a simple line: "If you wont let Mary do it, then you'll have to." 

Lilly then put back the note and carefully opened the other wrappings to see a half filled little vial, holding the half finished brew, along with the ingrediens necessary to finish it. 

Lilly eyed the objects inquisitively, before closing the box and stowing it away in the bottom of a nearby drawer. "Ah..." She turned to face Krojun. "Just some coven business. Nothing you need to worry about..." 

"Ahah." he said first, seemingly uncaring about the delivery Lilly had just gotten. "Hey, maybe you can send one of your coven sisters in your stead." It was obvious that his mind was still fixed on Lilly's deal with Harper. 

"Nah. That wont do." 

"So your agent will be good enough?" he asked. 

"Yes. Now lets go get food. I'm starving." 

"Sure. What's your cook cooking today?" he asked as he came out into the entrance hall.

[Witchking of Angmar]

Boldir
Temple Sewers

The Black-Briar family is gone. In less than a day, the news had traveled to every corner of the city. Some stories said he'd been betrayed by one of his own sellswords. Others, that the Dark Brotherhood had gotten him. Most theories, however, were based on what was known from the article written by Albecius Plebo earlier in the winter. Outrageous claims they were, stating that the notorious Skyrim bandit Boldir Iron-Brow had tracked down Sibbi Black-Briar and finished the job he'd started in Riften. There was no statement from the City Watch as of yet, but they were investigating the scene.

"No talk of young women." said Anrich. He dug into the wooden table with the new dagger he'd 'acquired' to replace one that he'd recently lost. "At least, none that my people have heard yet."

"And how long does it take your people to hear things?" Boldir was worried. It had been his hope that Mila would return to the guild after she had dealt with Sibbi. It seemed instead that the girl had taken to hiding from them as well.

"Few days at the most, usually." the thief answered. "But this is big. If Mila was suspected, I reckon we'd know it by now. Seems like she's in the clear, far as the public is concerned."

"Then why hasn't she left hiding? If she thinks I'm dead, then you're the only people she has to turn to."

"We didn't part on the best of terms." admitted Anrich. "She thought we'd abandoned her by refusing to start a war with Black-Briar, and so she marched off to do it on her own."

"And you let her."

"Well it's not like we didn't try to talk her out of it. But Sibbi wasn't going anywhere, so what else was there to do? Lock her up? Anything short of that would've only led to her going on her own eventually."

"You could've agreed to help from the start rather than let her go at it alone."

Anrich's look was sad. "Yeah, I could've. I'm sure there's plenty of things this past year or so you wish you'd done differently too."

There was no arguing that. Boldir turned his attention to the map of the city they had sprawled out on the table before them. "Then we need to double our own efforts. She's not in Talos Plaza or Green Emperor Way. That's certain. Probably not in the Arcane University either. You're sure she's not in the Waterfront?" 

"If she was, I'd know by now. There ain't a lot of folks there who aren't friends of the Guild. And those who're not ain't the types who'd take her in."

 "Then that leaves us with the Arena, Temple, Market, and Elven Gardens Districts."

"Probably not he Arena." Gray Cap added. "Not many places to hide there."

"No? I hid there for two weeks at one point."

"Did ya?" The thief seemed impressed. "That old inn by the wall? Low key place. I'll send someone to search there. Otherwise, it's the Market and Elven Gardens that're our best bets. Hundreds of places to hide in both. From guild or guards."

"And the remaining sellswords?"

"My people say that more than a few are still roaming the streets. Sibbi must've told them Mila was wanted in Skyrim, because they seem to think bringing you and her in will still be worth some pay. Perhaps from your Stormcloak king. Or whoever the next Jarl of Riften is."

Boldir didn't want to think about Riften. "Then let us hope she hides well."

"You can count on her doing that. Girl learned from the best."

"Don't remind me." It still baffled Boldir that he had some how once again teamed up with a guild of thieves in his search for Mila. And under a completely different set of circumstances. It felt as if he was on the receiving end of some joke that he didn't yet understand. It wasn't so long ago that I'd have thrown these people in jail. Now Mila is one of them and I'm hiding from the law.

"What is it?" asked Anrich, having obviously noticed the look Boldir wore.

"Nothing. It's just strange where we find ourselves. Did Mila ever tell you much about before all this?"

"She said that you lot were in Riften when it burned down. That-"

"I don't mean in Riften. I mean before any of this mess with the Black-Briars started."

The thief shook his head. "No. Not a peep far as I remember."

"Good girl. She's had to learn a lot of lessons the hard way. But she always learned them. I was a guard back then. Captain of Whiterun's forces. Two years ago, I'd have spit on my crone mother's grave before I'd have tolerated your type having anything to do with Mila."

"And now you've got no choice." The old thief took off his gray cap and scratched his head. "So now that you know my types better, has that opinion changed?"

"I suppose it has. Strange as it is to admit. You took in my daughter when she was in danger. Fed her. Kept her alive. Even hid her from Sibbi once you found out. She survived thanks to you."

Anrich gave a coy grin. "Is the guard captain thanking me?"

"Aye," Boldir nodded. "I am. Mila may be missing, but she's safe and we're going to find her. I still have a daughter thanks to you. It's not a debt I can ever fully repay."

"Bugger that." The thief dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. "She's not my daughter, but I care for the runt, myself. It'll be payment enough to have her back with her family. Her real family that is. Don't worry, Boldir. Me and the guild are looking hard. You just need to sit tight and stay hidden. There's nothing left you can do."

The dark, damp chamber in the city's underground mazes was not an ideal place for waiting, but it was perfect for hiding. "I can do that."

"Good." Anrich stood up. "And please don't kill the lad while I'm gone. He may be one of those wretches, but this is a guild hideout, and as strange as it may sound coming from the guy who set you up to take on Black-Briar, the guild don't kill. It's a rule much older than you or me."

Boldir glanced over at the far end of the room, where Stoit was chained to the very bed he slept on. "I won't."

"Good. Shadow hide you."

With that strange parting, Anrich left Boldir alone in the dim round chamber. There was something about the thief's tone that gave Boldir hope. This is what they're good at. It's what they do. How hard can finding Mila be for the likes of them? 
 

***

Mila
Somewhere in the Upper Niben

There were small spaces, and then there were cramped spaces. Mila had thought that her year spent in various Black-Briar prisons would have more than made her an expert on both. But down in the underbelly of The Imp’s Tail, tucked away into a crate that was too short for standing and too narrow for laying, Mila was quickly learning how wrong she had been.

It was her second night at sea. Or at least, that was what the girl assumed. Her only means of determining the passage of time came in the form of Bredes’s brief visits below deck to sneak her some water or a leftover piece of whatever meal he could get his hands on. The last one had been half a loaf of bread and a couple of carrots. And judging by how long it had been since then, the girl could only assume that the paltry meal had been her dinner, and that Bredes was either working topside or had gone to sleep for the night.
That left her with nothing to do but ignore her cramping muscles and listen to the gossip that came from the rest of the ship’s ‘cargo’, the lucky ones who had arranged for their passage with Captain Loneld and didn’t have to hide in boxes that were half their height.

“Talk’s turning back to Skyrim.” said the gruff-voiced man Mila had secretly dubbed ‘Tusk’, on account of her suspicion that he was an Orc. Most of the passengers down here didn’t seem too keen on sharing their names with one another, so Mila had been forced to make nicknames for each different voice. “One of the sailors told me that word only just reached the city before we set out. Apparently the Dominion’s attacked. Killed their king and everyone else along the coast. They’ll have the whole country by winter's end. Count on it.”

“If the Thalmor take Skyrim, they’ll be coming after Cyrodiil next.” replied the nervous-sounding woman she called ‘Jitters’. “I’ll be glad to be back in Morrowind, then.”

“First of all, that’s a load of troll piss.” the angry tone of ‘Olaf’ said in answer. “The Dominion couldn’t take Cyrodiil even by surprise. Not a chance they can invade Skyrim in the dead of winter. Ain’t no one but Nords that can fight properly in all that. And Ulfric’s got himself that Grim army that can’t be stopped. Second-”

“Believe what you want, Nord.” Tusk interjected. “But cold weather and Grim Nords didn’t stop the Thalmor from taking away your favorite god for three decades.”

“Piss on that. It ain’t the Nords who gave up Talos, and you know nothing about the Skyrim. Besides, these Grim Ones hadn’t been formed back then. They’re something new. Now like I was saying, secondly-”

“Goblin Tim still hungry.”

“Shut up, freak!” both Olaf and Tusk shouted in unison. Goblin Tim was the one criminal on board this ship who Mila hadn’t needed to make up a name for. In fact, the strange fellow seemed unwilling to go more than five minutes without reminding everyone who he was.

“What were you saying, Nord? Secondly what?”

“Secondly... Ah damn it. I don’t remember. It doesn’t matter. Skyrim ain’t going anywhere and neither is Cyrodiil.”

“Then what do you make of the rumors?” asked Jitters.

“Fools believe rumors.”

“I don’t know what you do, Nord, but in my line of work, it’s the ones who dismiss all rumors who are the biggest fools.”

“And what line of work is that, Orc? Breeding horses for stew?”

“Mmm, horses.” said Goblin Tim, which made Tusk laugh.

“Meat’s meat. Don’t condemn what you haven’t tried. If me and the weird little man are the only ones on this ship who’ve had horse, then I suppose the rest of you are missing out.”

You’re not the only ones. Mila thought, recalling back to her time in the Jerall Mountains with a frown. Living off of horses was easy when you were starving. In fact, the very thought made her realize how unfulfilling the bread and carrots had been. I could go for some horse right now.

“So that is what you did.” Olaf sounded a little unsettled. “I thought the crewmen were making jokes.”

“Of course they were making jokes, you idiot. How many humans do you know that’d rather eat horse than beef or deer? There’d be no profit in that. What I did for work is none of your business, just like how what you, the lady, and the weirdo did is none of mine.”

Olaf grunted, but gave no response.

“Where horse and deer?” asked Goblin Tim.

“What in Shor’s name is wrong with you?” the Nord asked.

“No meat. You say horse. Orkeyman say horse and deer. Tim want meat!”

“A better question,” Tusk said, “is how in the world the little bastard wound up on this ship in the first place. The Guild must have been feeling even more bleeding heart generous than usual.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, before Jitters finally spoke again. “So the Thalmor aren’t coming to Cyrodiil?”

“No.” said Olaf.
“Probably.” said Tusk.

“That’s... good to know.”

The silence resumed. It might have been ten minutes or an hour before Olaf spoke again. By then, Mila had grown drowsy, and her already poor perception of the passing time was all but deadened.
“I’ve remembered!” the Nord proclaimed proudly. “I’ve remembered what I was going to say.”

“Hooray.” replied Tusk.
“Horse?” asked Tim.

“What- oh, no. No horse you dumb savage. I was going to say that there’s no way Skyrim could’ve fell to butter elves because Ulfric Stormcloak’s got the thu’um.”

“What’s thu’um?” asked Jitters. The question surprised Mila. How could someone have not heard of the thu’um?

“That’s Nord magic, that is.” said Olaf. “None of that fancy elven hand waving and chanting. When our ancestors shouted at the mountains, they moved out of the way or got blasted into dust. And now High King Ulfric’s brought it back, and he taught it to every Captain and General in his army. It’s gonna be how we win this war. You’ll see. The Nords will lead humanity to victory, as we always have.”

That night, with her legs crossed and her hands wrapped in the folks of her cloak, Mila’s dreams took her to the wars that were spoken of; To a snow-kissed forest, where the golden elves and grim-faced men clashed with steel in their hands. The Nords breathed fire, but the elves called it down from the very skies. Mila stood to the side of it all, watching as the warriors slaughtered one another. When one man fell at her feet, bleeding from a dozen cuts, she tried to help him, but his body turned to dust at her touch.
She looked up and saw Boldir, wounded but alive, cutting down elves and men alike as he screamed a name that was drowned out by the sounds of battle.
Out of nowhere, war horns sounded, and the Nords began to cheer as a new army approached with a familiar figure at its helm.
“Ash-King!” they roared, “Ash King! Ash King! Ash King!”
Baldur marched at their front wearing a crown made of the teeth of a dragon. When he spoke, flames erupted from his mouth and those elves that remained were reduced to ashes.

In all the confusion, Mila realized that she had lost sight of Boldir. As she turned to look, a new voice spoke to her, new, but strangely familiar, as if from another dream she’d had long ago. “Go home. They miss you.”

“No.” she answered. “I can’t go back. I don’t want to.”

When Mila awoke, she was clutching Boldir’s flute tight against her chest, and six pairs of eyes were looking down on her.
“I hope you don’t think this means I’ve changed my mind.” said Loneld, Captain of The Imp’s Tail.

“What?” Mila blinked, startled and confused as she tried to adjust from sleep to this sudden development. “I-”

“Come on Lon,” said the woman Mila had seen in the Waterfront. It was now obvious that she was a Nord, blonde haired and beyond beautiful. “She’s just a child.”

“Save it. You wouldn’t think that way if you’d seen some ‘o the things I’ve seen kids younger ‘n smaller than her do. I did some ‘o them myself. And this one... This one’s friendly with the Thieves Guild. The only things we know ‘bout her is that she’s wanted, she’s sneaky, and she’s not innocent.”

Mila knew she needed to defend herself. “I-”

“You save it, too.” Loneld snapped. “I won’t be changing my mind on this. It’s a gods damned breach of protocol’s what it is. When we get to Bravil, I’m handing you straight over to one ‘o my fellow Captains. Got it? He’s gonna take you to the Imperial City with a note for Gray Cap, demanding an explanation.”

“Anrich wanted me on here. I already told you-“

“You told me a lot of things, aye. But I don’t believe them. Gray Cap and I have always, always maintained a very careful relationship. Risks on my end are always minimal. I can’t believe that he sent you, a strange child with strange bobbles who ain’t even careful enough to call him by the right name, onto my ship. It goes against our very arrangement. Now I don’t know which o’ my crew helped you get aboard. Maybe it was several of them. Maybe you’re just sneaky enough that you did it yourself. But I’m thinkin’ it was one o’ those two from the other night, who heard you gettin' greedy. Am I far from the truth, child?”

There was a part of Mila that wanted to repay Bredes’s attempt at selling her by ratting him out, but strangely enough, it was the thief in her that compelled Mila to keep her end of the bargain and lie for him. “I got on here myself. Snuck into the crate before two of your men carried it on board.”

“What did I tell you? Loneld said, turning back to the Nord woman. “She’s sneaky.” Motioning to one of his guards, he said, “Get her outa there. Crates are for stowaways. Now that she’s a prisoner, she’s to be treated like one. Find her a cot, some food, and clothes that don’t smell so damned disgusting. Alva, would it bother you if she used your tub?”

The Nord woman shook her head. “Of course not.”

“Good. Then show her to it. When she’s clean, have one of the crew show her to her new cell.”

One bath and a simple meal of dried venison later, Mila found herself staring at what must have been the third or fourth door she’d been locked behind in the last year. In place of her old gray roughspun shirt and brown sackcloth pants, Mila now wore a sheep's wool tunic, and some brown trousers that she’d had to cut several inches off of just so they wouldn’t drag under her feet. They were held up by a wide leather belt.

“Sorry they’re all for men.” Alva had said when she’d shown them to her. “I’d give you something of mine, but I’m afraid it’d be even bigger on you. “I’ll have someone wash your old stuff when we get to Bravil.”

Mila’d shaken her head then. Looking back now, she was proud of how well she had acted in that moment. “You can keep them.” A little moisture had begun to form in her eyes. “He won’t care what I’m wearing when I get back to him.”

“Who?” Alva had asked. “You can tell me.”

“Sibbi Black-Briar.” That had been when Mila had really let the tears begin to flow. “He’s already imprisoned me once. He- he killed my mother, and- and my father too...” Mila started to weep in the Nordic woman’s arms. “He knows I’m with the guild. It’s why he raided the Waterfront. Anri- Gray Cap might be dead... When I get back to the city, he’ll be waiting for me. I know he will! He always is-”

“Shh shh shh.” Alva hugged her gently. “It’s okay, I won’t let that happen... By the gods... it all makes sense now. The sellswords, the raid... Child, no one ever asked, what’s your name?”

“Matilda.” the girl had immediately answered. Even looking back, she wasn’t sure why she told that particular lie. Perhaps it was because the other passengers refused to give up their own names. Or perhaps it was because of Anrich’s teachings. But for some reason, Mila had thought of Boldir when she’d told it.

“Don’t worry Matilda,” Alva answered. “I’ll talk to Lon for you. You’re not going back to that city.”

And so here Mila stood, staring at her locked door, but for the first time not worrying about what would happen next. Despite what ‘Matilda’ had told the Nordic woman, Sibbi Black-Briar was dead, and nobody outside the Imperial City had any idea who she was or what she looked like. Bravil would offer a fresh start. Or maybe she would take a carriage to the beautiful Cheydinhal, or the eternally warm port city of Anvil. She wasn’t yet certain.
Mila was almost free of her past, and for that, she would take all the uncertainty in the world.
 

***
 

"A game you say?" The smuggler named Middig looked at her with curious eyes. "Ain't any games on board here that're fit for a girl your age."

"I know one that we can play with some pebbles." said Mila. "Or some coins. Anything small, really."

The word 'coins' caught the sailer's attention. "You got any coins? We could go half 'n half. An' the winner keeps all that's used."

The girl suddenly felt less certain. She just wanted to practice, to try finding the winning pattern that Sharda had known. Betting real money on a game she hasn't figured out yet seemed like a really stupid way to begin her new life. "Why don't we just play for fun?"

"Well alright," muttered Middig, clearly disappointed. "But it already don't sound half as fun as it could be. How's it played?"

"Well like I said, we need a bunch of little things. Sixteen. Coins, pebbles..."

"Ain't no pebbles on board, and we ain't usin' my coins unless there's a chance I'm makin' more back. How about corks?"

"Corks will work."

Middig left her in her room for a few minutes while he went to gather up what was needed. When he returned, two more people had joined him. One was a fellow sailer, and the other was one of the criminals she had listened to while hiding in the crate. The Orc she'd named Tusk.
"Middig says you're playing games, Crate Girl." said the sailer.

"Aye." Mila answered, "But it's only for two at a time."

The Orc shrugged. "Then we'll watch. I'm sure it beats listening to the idiot who thinks he's a goblin yammer about horses."

"Alright." Mila smiled and arranged the sixteen corks atop a closed barrel. They were in four rows to make a pyramid. One row of seven, one of five, one of three, and the last cork, by itself. "Now, the rules are easy. The two of us take turns removing corks. We can remove as many as we want from any given row, even all of them, but we can only take from one row per turn. The person who has to pick up the last cork loses."

"You know, this seems like it'd be more fun with coin." muttered the second smuggler, drawing a snort from Middig.

"Shut up." Mila shot Middig a glare. "Do you understand the rules?"

"Ain't exactly Summerset mathematics." the sailer muttered. With that, he plucked two corks from the row of three and shoved them into his pocket.

Mila frowned and copied his move, but on the row of seven, bringing it down to five. Middig, with a toothy grin, scooped up all five of those remaining. The rows were now one, one, and five. And Mila's eyes lit up as she saw a winning move. Without hesitating, she removed four of the five from the third row, leaving only one cork in each row. The two spectators laughed and Middig's brow crinkled as they all saw that he'd been left with an unwinnable game. "Alright," he said, "Maybe corks weren't a bad idea after all. I'll figure this out. Let's start a new one."

"Not until it's over." Mila said with a smug grin. That's what Sharda had always said to her when she'd gotten frustrated and tried to quit early. Though Mila knew her smugness was unearned. She had stumbled on this winning move by chance. Sharda had known how to get it every time.

"Fine." grumbled the sailer." He picked up one of the three corks. "Happy?"

"Very." Mila said as she removed one more, leaving only one left on the barrel for Middig. "Go on, pick it up. Loser resets."

The man begrudgingly accepted his loss and reset the game. The next time, Mila went first, remembering that when Sharda had opened the game, it had been by only removing one piece. They went back and forth as they had before, only this time, nobody took big moves as Middig had done before. This time, it was Mila found herself staring at a losing game as she had a hundred times before. That, and a grin from Middig that made her blood boil. "Go on." said the sailer. "Make your move."

Damnit. Mila finished with her inevitable loss and reset the table.

"Let me have a go." said the other sailer, shoving his companion out of the way so he could face Mila. Grinning an ugly grin, the Imperial man held out his hand to her. "Acilin Mosich."

"Matilda." Mila shook his hand. "Would you like to go first?"

"I'd rather go second, actually."

"Smart man." muttered the Orc. It was the first thing he'd said since he'd decided to stay and watch. Though Mila wasn't sure what he meant by the statement, especially considering the fact that she beat Acilin less than a minute later. 

Looking up at the tall, green-skinned beast of a person, she asked, "Do you want to play?"

"It wouldn't be fair." muttered Tusk. "I know how to win."

"Oh please." Middig rolled his eyes. "It's not that hard to figure out. You just gotta keep lookin' ahead of each other."

"Alright then." The Orc motioned for Mila to move over and for Acilin to switch seats with Middig. "I'll show you."

The Orc and the smuggler played four consecutive games, and every time, the Orc won with seemingly little effort. Mila watched his every move as they played. As she followed his eyes, the girl noticed that he always silently counted the corks when it was his turn. One. Two. Four.
"You've found the pattern." she said, after Middig finally raised his hands and admitted that he'd been wrong. "The same one as Sharda."

"Don't know about anyone named Sharda, but yeah, I know it. Not much of a game, really. If you know how to play, you'll always win."

"Can't you teach it to me?"

"Where's the fun in that? Then you'll just whip fools around without them having a shot at challenging you."

"Come on Tusk, I really-"

"Tusk?" The Orc raised an eyebrow.

Oops... Mila could feel her ears redden. "I uhh, I gave you all false names while I was hiding in that crate... Yours was Tusk."

His glare was frightening to say the least, but it quickly diverted when Acilin suddenly howled with laughter, which Mila felt only made things even worse. "You-" the Imperial stammered, trying to stifle his guffaws. "You named the Orc 'Tusk'!" And then he was bellowing again.

Now, Mila was sure that her whole face had gone red. "I'm sorry." she muttered.

"Mhm" grunted the Orc whose name definitely wasn't Tusk. "But not nearly as sorry as this one will be if he doesn't shut his trap."

"I'm sorry," Acilin sniffed. "I'm sorry." His eyes were still teary when he looked at Mila. "You didn't name the Nord 'Snowback' did you? I'm sure he'd have loved that."

"No!" Mila said, but then she paused, realizing that the smuggler would no doubt find the name 'Olaf' to be equally funny. "It's none of your business what I called them. It was in my head."

"Okay, okay." The sailer grinned. "Games and laughs. It's a shame you're switching ships in Bravil, girl. This will no doubt be the best part of the voyage."

"That's still happenin'?" Middig asked, "I thought Alva was convincin' the Captain to let 'er off after all. She seemed pretty adamant last I heard."

"I heard them arguing near the cabin. Loneld was plenty adamant himself." Acilin's smile waned as his eyes fell back on Mila. "Don't get your hopes too high. He's a good man, and caring too. But he doesn't take risks."

"I don't understand." Mila said, exasperated. "I'll already be in Bravil. What's the point of bringing me back then?"

"Captain Loneld's worried that you might be running from something that'll come down on him if he helps you. Maybe he thinks you'll get seen in Bravil by someone who knows you, and they'll put it together how you got there. Whatever the case, he wants word from Gray Cap before he makes any sort of move."

"I won't get him in trouble!"

"It ain't me that you need to convince." Acilin said, "But I ain't near careful enough to be in the Captain's boots. It's why he's managed to do all this for so long without getting caught."

"I still think Alva's gonna win him over." Middig started to arrange the corks on the barrel once more. "If anyone can sway ol' Lon, it's her." He turned back to the Orc, who had spent most of this exchange watching them all, mostly Mila, with what seemed like curiosity. "Now, Tusk, how about you and I play another game. And I want to go first. Damn if one of us ain't gonna spot what it is you're doing."

They went back to playing after that, each of them taking turns losing to the Orc. Middig was the most frustrated by his inability to figure out the pattern. Mila wasn't sure what the other two picked up, but for her part, she did notice that the Orc, when going first, mostly stuck to small moves. When she tried to mimic this, however, he would change his tactics and beat her anyway. It was infuriating. 
Eventually, the Acilin grew tired of losing and retired to his bed. It wasn't long before Middig followed, leaving Mila to face the Orc alone. They played an entire game in silence before the girl worked up the courage to ask the question that had been on her mind. "What you said earlier, to the other passengers, about the Thalmor taking Skyrim... Do you really believe that?"

"Heard that did ya?" The Orc grunted. "Yeah, I believe it. If the Dominion have decided it's time to take Skyrim, they'll take it. I've seen first-hand what those elves can do. Seen what the Nords can do too. I don't think I need to tell you which one was more impressive."

"But Ol- the Nord you were with, he said that Ulfric's teaching his men how to shout like the Nords of old." Mila's mind raced back to the legends she had heard growing up. Of heroes like Ysgramor, Derek the Tall, Wulfharth, and mighty Talos himself. They all used their voices to save Skyrim from the long-dead "devil elf" races who would have wiped out all humans on this world. In her dream, Baldur himself had breathed fire like a dragon. "The thu'um can bring down mountains. Nobody can stop the Nords."

"You grew up on too many stories, northern girl. The Nords may have once been able to do this shouting thing they enjoy boasting about so much, but it's an oddity in today's world if it still exists at all. The Thalmor don't wield forgotten oddities. Their magic is old, yes, but they never forgot it. When they came into the Imperial City three decades ago, they brought the sun with them. Magic from the Dawn. Man, Mer, Beastfolk, it didn't matter. Any who opposed them were reduced to ashes. And most who didn't were as well... That was a long year."

"But the city was taken back." Mila said, recalling what her mother had told her of Red Ring. "The Emperor took back the city, because the Nords helped him."

"They took it back, yeah. And then came the White Gold Concordat. I doubt I need to tell you about that."

There wasn't a person from Skyrim who needed to be educated on the White Gold Concordat. "You think the elves wanted to lose?"

"I don't know about that. But I do know that it didn't take long for them to come back. And for us to be groveling at their feet when they did. Sure, that's over now. And sure, there's this new human Alliance that's been made up to oppose them, but what's it got that Emperor Mede didn't?"

"Baldur Red-Snow." The girl said without thinking. She immediately regretted it. It'd been the fire-breathing king in her dream she had been thinking of. Not the kindly, crafty Stormcloak she knew to actually exist. The kindly, crafty Stormcloak who tolerated the Black-Briars. Whose men tried to kill Boldir.
"Never mind." Mila quickly said. "I don't know what I'm talking about." And then, trying to change the subject, she blurted, "What are you wanted for?"

The Orc frowned as he studied her. The movement made his tusks drag along his upper lip. "Lallygagging. Your move." After beating her one last time, the Orc rose from his seat. "Divide each row into ones, twos, and fours."

"Huh?" Mila looked at him, puzzled. "You mean in the-"

"Game. Yes. Divide each row into ones, twos, and fours, and keep an even number of each. That's the pattern to win."

He took his leave, and Mila was left with a lot to think about.
It was several hours later when Mila heard the knob on her door turn ever so slowly. She had been laying on her cot trying to figure out how to make notes on Boldir's flute when Alva stepped into her room. The pretty Nordic woman was dressed in a nightgown as she had been the night before the voyage, and in her hands was a large brown rucksack. Mila set the instrument aside and sat up. "What's going on?"

"I came to see what you thought of an idea I had." Alva said. Her voice was just above a whisper, and she wore an anxious expression. "I spoke to Loneld, see. And his mind isn't going to change. In fact, he now intends to move you onto the other ship first thing once we're mored. For fear that I'll try to smuggle you away. When I told him about Black-Briar, he insisted that the other Captain he's leaving you with would see that you're be kept safe and hidden once back to the Imperial City. At least until they can find Gray Cap. But I say that's not fair. I say we don't know these people the way you do. And I say I already promised you wouldn't have to go back there... Which is why I'm bringing you this alternative. We've got a jetty. Just one, but that's alright. We can use it to sneak you off the ship tonight. My father lives in Cropsford. You can go there with a note from me explaining everything. He'd be glad to help you." The Nord smiled. "What do you think?"

That was a lot to take in. Bravil had been Mila's next step. It was a big city. The guild worked there. Even if she didn't like it, there would have been plenty of opportunities to hop on a carriage with the coin she had and choose any other city in Cyrodiil for her next destination. That was all off the table now. And Mila had never even heard of Cropsford.
Alva must have seen the doubt in her eyes, because the Nord quickly added, "It won't be hard to find. We're almost to the Niben Bay now. You'll just want to row in the direction I point you in. East. Until you find land. Keep that land on your left and keep on rowing. You'll wind up turning a bend and moving upriver. If you can, keep in the jetty. The Corbolo River has a weak current. When you come ashore to sleep, just make sure you're well hidden, as those woods are goblin country."

"Goblins?" Mila remembered the sewers. The pale green creature would have killed her if she'd let it.

"Don't worry, they don't often come near the banks. I used to fish those waters myself when I was a younger lass than you. As long as you're quiet, you'll be fine."

"I can be quiet." You're doing this, aren't you Mila? You're actually going to do this. "I'm good at staying hidden."

"Lon told me you were sneaky." Alva said with a smile. "You're gonna want to follow the river until you come under a bridge. You can hide the jetty under there, and follow the road on the left side of the bridge. That'll take you north. Straight to Cropsford. Pa lives in the little wooden house at south side of town. He's got an apple tree out front... So is this what you want to do?"

Mila was already nodding. There was nothing for her in the Imperial City but sellswords and maybe even guards, if they suspected her of the killing. The Thieves Guild wouldn't take her back. She'd broken their most important rule. And even if they would, Mila couldn't stomach the thought of facing Anrich again. "So Cropsford is a village?"

"Aye. A big one, but far enough from the Imperial City that no one would ever think to look there. Talos be good, it'll probably take you a week or so just to get there. That's why I brought this." Alva handed her the rucksack. "It's got food, a blanket, and some water skins you can refill in the Corbolo. And also the letter for you to give to my father, explaining everything. Oh, and your daggers. Lon meant to give them back anyway once he'd handed you off."

The mention of Captain Loneld reminded Mila of a question she had meant to ask. "What about you? Won't you get in trouble for this?"

"I doubt it." Alva said. "Lon's as stubborn as they come, but he and I have an, um... arrangement. And when you're gone, there'll be no trace that you were ever here in the first place. All his fretting won't matter then. Only thing he's like to get onto me for is the missing jetty. And I'll buy him a new one."

"You can afford that?"

"No. But I know where you'll be leaving this one."

That made Mila smile. She decided that Alva was the sort of person she'd have liked even if she hadn't been helping her. "I'll be sure to hide it well."

"I wouldn't expect anything less." The Nord's hands opened and closed nervously. She seemed as excited about this plan as Mila was. "Now let's get to it. You've got quite the trip ahead."

[Witchking of Angmar]

 

Avitus Agrippa, 
Forest of Twilight, Dark Woods
Twilight,

So that’s what he meant when he said “It didn’t matter…”

The roaring wind heralded the single legionaries descent through the blackened woods. Like a little stray sheep the lone man was, among the hundreds of trees, and grotesque abominations lurking within. The Second Legion soldier made his through the forest, not knowing what pure horrors awaited him. Beasts stalked in the shadowed corners and hidden paths of the forgotten forest, eyes trailed on his flesh, for the succulent fresh meat of mankind was unkown to them. A human hadn't walked these trails for centuries. They did not approach, however. He was marked by the ancient warden, and under his protection. The masters creatures; hounds and thralls of Hircine born from powerful conjuration magic, dared not provoke his wrath.The true demons were yet to come, and when the did, those lessser beasts would run and hide in terror. Parts of the blackened woods flickered in and out of existence. Time...had no meaning here. Or did it? Was reality distorted? Or fleeting in some way? Was he the only me? Or was the only me, you. Nothing made sense, in this valley consumed by twilight. The sanguine, red strands of the twilight sky remained above, as the full moon danced it’s horrible sanguine macabre. Strangled whispers of the accursed souls yelled, and screamed across the darkened wood, appearing as only silent, blasphemous whispers to the living. Avitus, however, could not hear them over his own rants, plunging his psyche into venomous rage,

Trees....trees...and more trees.... God damn. Screw this shit. **** General Martullus. I'll stab him with a gladius. **** General Ceno. I'll cut off your head. **** Empress Moitre. Go **** some whores, you lesbian ****.  **** Tiber Septim. He's an asshole anyway. **** Talos.  **** the Empire. **** the Stormcloaks. **** the Bretons. **** the Thalmor. **** the war. **** EVERYTHING!!!  Even I have limits....this place is a mad house. A ******* MADHOUSE!!!!  

Avitus began to hyperventilate, his mouth foaming with spit. Uh oh, he was getting into one of his "moods". In response, The Legate, took a breath of fresh air, slowly relaxing himself, and gripping his hands into fists. Remember what the Legion councilor said. Happy thoughts. Avitus had an anger problem, a really big anger problem. So big, he had seeked professional help on more than one occasion to stem the growing, unending rage within him. It never worked. "I promised myself I wouldn't get angry....I promised myself I wouldn't get angry....I promised myself I wouldn't get angry! I PROMISED MYSELF I WOULDN'T GET ANGRY!” Avitus breathed in deeply, taking another helping of fresh, clean air. Happy thoughts. "The sun is shining...the grass is ******* green...."  He muttered to himself bitterly.  Most of the time, however, Avitus had kept that anger aimed at himself, or ideas. Why take his own problem out on other people? His dead wife, daughter, and men shouldn’t had to have suffered for his deteriorating mental health. 

The darkened forest lay agape with mist, and white fog, as Avitus made his way through it. Now i've done it. Join the Legion they said. See the world they said. Walk through Dark forests they said. Fight Lumbering monstrosities they said. Talk to disappearing Nords, that act like mentally retarded asylum patients they said. What a load of bullshit. Worlds gone ******* mad. Tall, blackened redwoods stood proudly, as time itself hasn't been able to touch them. They had lived hundreds, if not thousands of years, and only grew in pure power, as well as wisdom. The forests could tell people knowledge, surely, if they could only talk to them. As wacky, and utterly insane his day has been so far, the Imperial Legate would still be surprised if tree's started talking to him. It had been one of those days. Regardless, the imposing giants at least, gave the soldier some comfort, in a way he couldn’t explain. Seeing things like trees, that had lived through era’s always made Avitus feel a little better. Green leaves flew through the strong gale, the sight of them, also bringing a strange comfort to the Legion veteran.  The thick, atmospheric fog blocked much of his vision, so he had to keenly glance around to observe, and keep in check his surroundings. The thick, massive tree trunks didn't help, as he was lost in the forest of redwoods. Where in the Empresses name was he? Bruma? No ******* way. It couldn't be...Bruma was a frozen wasteland! It was the ******* middle of Winter! Along with the white fog, a howling wind blew, halting his progress even further.

As if fate itself was against him, he couldn't tell the time. He knew he had been in this valley (although he was hesitant to call it that, as he knew it was impossible, geographically to be this ******* big) for at least four hours...yet, everything had stayed the same. Well...in terms of the time. For four hours, the sky remained the same. As for everything else...

Even stranger than the codiulim of frozen time...the snow had dissipated. As in there was no snow! The formerly snow covered ground was bare with the frozen liquid. Instead in it's place, black rotten, tree leaves sat, on top tall, dark grass. The windy, chilly blizzard had left, leaving a strong, but otherwise bare wind. Avitus had left that hidden cave Wulf, or whatever his face was (Nord names sounded all the same to him) had led him too. As he left, all of a sudden, his surroundings had changed, compared to how they were when he had entered. A look of pure disbelief had come across his face, and his mouth stood, wide agape. Avitus hadn't bothered to think about how utterly deranged the implications were behind that, for the sake of his sanity, and found himself wandering through  this impossibly,  large forest of redwoods. As he mentioned before, the skyline was still the same, though. Skirting through the tall treeline, a faint, yet wondrous vermillion haze signalling the hour of twilight, stood proudly.  The twilight sky, fit well with the scenery though. Instead of the bitter winter, the environment around him was reminiscent of cool Autumn. Especially the dead, decaying leaves. As twilight heralded the end of the day, and the start of night, Autumn signalled the death of summer, and the entrance into the cold harsh winter. 

Before disappearing, Wulf had, thankfully had the courtesy to leave him behind an Imperial-styled short blade, which he now wore on his belt. The blade itself was rather old fashioned. Like...second era old fashioned. The hilt, tarnished bronze, had a two etched on it, in Imperial numerals, and the blade itself, made from steel, was corroded, and rustic from centuries of wear and tear. An antique no doubt that had many kills to it. But out here, better then ******* nothing. Whatever those things he had encountered before, thralls of Hircine, Wulf had called them, Avitus didn't want to encounter again, unarmed or not, but at least a sword, no matter in what condition, could give him an edge in combat. Avitus was a good swordsmen, but just a regular soldier. Monsters weren’t his forte, besides the occasional goblin tribe he had exterminated, but even then he had a cohort of legionaries with him. The distorted faces of man, upon there sickening skinned corpse-like bodies left Avitus fearful, at their memory. Even worse was that monstrous deer-fiend that attacked him and his men, especially those sounds…. 

At the thought of his mysterious, and quite frankly, presumed crazy, nordic rescuer, Avitus recalled his final words before poofing out of the cave, Seeketh thy Crimson butterflies...yeah why dont you "seeketh" my crimson ass, fuckwit. I have no time to chase butterflies in the middle of ******* winter...or in this case autumn...The Legate shook his head, still confused about what the hell was happening in this valley. Nords. Barbarians the lot of them. Crimson butterflies? Bah. Might as well ask me were the ******* crimson frogs are. He needed to find his way out of this forsaken valley, meet up with his men, and find that ******* fort. Oh man. If the situation there wasn't all out despair, the Legate vowed to hand out harsh punishments to the lazy layabout legionaries over there. What kind of legionaries drops all communication with their general for over six months? Probably a punishment assignment to be stationed in this miserable wasteland. The men up there are no good, goof balls. Or worse, depraved criminals that still have some use. And if the Stormcloaks were involved in some way, he swore on his dead wife, that justice would be enacted. Even if he had to do it himself. No treaty, no nord-loving High General, no nord-loving Empress would be able to stop me for the excuse to kill those horsefuckers. 

Though it was still strange. Wandering the darkened woods, had given Avitus plenty of time to think. Which was mostly centered on his assignment. Avitus had never heard of General Martellus sending miscreants up to the extreme, harsh north, before. Ten years ago, Avitus had caught a child molester in his ranks. A rather disgusting Breton. Avitus had personally castrated the fucker, before reporting him to Martellus, who had him hung. (Back when the good general was a promising Legate, and Avitus a boring Tribune). See if the Legion just hung molesters, what act would be so bad, to send  troublemakers this far up north, when you could just give them a horrible assignment closer to home base? Like patrolling the forest. Or being assigned to a dangerous village.  It would cost a rather (and in the Legate’s eyes, annoyingly frustrating) large amount of Septims to properly man, and hold an outpost like that blasted fort this far up north. Septims which would come from the dangerously low budget of the Second Legion. For god's sake, they could barely afford to keep all their men equipped, let alone man somewhere this remote. Leave that to the bloody fifth, or the Countie Guard.  What was the ******* point of this fort? 

Unless of course...the fort was being used for another purpose. A purpose, that Martullus had failed to mention to the Imperial Legate. Some kind of secret project maybe...

Avitus went deeper into the woods, passing by countless trees. A plethora of ******* trees. Endless amounts of wood, and leaves.  It’s not like he didn't have anything better to do! He didn't know where the **** he was! Or did he? As he passed by more tree’s, and had looked at the fauna more...he wasn’t so sure. His vision trailed from tree to tree, taking every small detail in. What was this feeling? This is...really weird. The feeling he was getting. Was this...nostalgia? Avitus shook his head, Banishing those strange feelings from his mind and heart. He walked through the forest, his armored boots trampling over countless dead leaves. Besides his gauntlets, leggings, and boots, Avitus had no real armor, thanks to that giant dear creature, so he needed to avoid being hit. He could take a spear thrust no problem, but a jagged bite from an abominable horror was another story.
 
Zaaaaaa!!!! Zaaaaa!!!! The sound of leaves rustling in the wind, echoed across the forest. 

A faint blue outline extended forth from the next set of trees. Avitus's eyes squinted to see what was beyond them. They acted as a barrier of sorts, of wood, and leaves, preventing anyone who wasn't supposed to be there from entering into whatever they guarded. Snarling, Avitus, making sure he couldn't hear, or see those horrible beasts, rushed forward, trying to close the distance between himself, and the faint glowing blue light. By now, he was so deep in the woods, the tree's acted as a bulwark, preventing any of the faint, vermillion twilight sky from entering the thickets. Avitus gulped a mouthful of air, as the luminous glow grew brighter, as the Legion soldier went closer. Once again, a feeling of familiarity stabbed inside him, out of nowhere like before. If before, the feeling was like a soothing touch, now, it felt like a dagger was being thrusted inside his gut. A sharp pain erupted in his temple, and he began to see faint outlines of red forming on the edges of his vision.
 
Had...he actually seen this forest before? Avitus could not tell. It was ridiculous. He had never been to Bruma before. But...a sense of familiarity assailed him. He knew his surroundings…. 

Perhaps in a dream? 

Avitus vision went back to nomral. And just then, the soldier had just noticed….his surroundings had changed once more, albeit, a lot less extreme than the previous change. Instead of blackened, shriveled up dead woods, what lay before him was a gorgeous sea of dark green, healthy vegetation. The wild underbrush had given way to a very faint, yet prevalent dirt road A magnificent and beautiful forest, untouched by the ravages of time, and snowfall. Leaves danced across the sky, brushing gently across the Legate’s face. Lush bushes stood tall, besides the giant, healthy redwoods, which were as mighty, and giant as ever. It was like Avitus had been transported to another place. Another time. More importantly...he was at the edge of the glowing blue light. Shards of pale blue light pierced the green veil, but were extinguished and diminished by the makeshift wall.  More emotions swelled inside him. Inside his soul. Most noticeably fear, as black as the night. Avitus swallowed those emotions, as he steeled himself. He had no fear. For a Legionary felt no fear. The Imperial Legate, rushing forward, pushed his way through the thicket of greenery, and entered the guarded area. ...Zaaaaaaa! Zaaaaaaa! The leaves blowed across his face, as the torrential strength of the wind stopped, leaving a small breeze to gently whip past his lips.

The first thing he saw was among the blue light…

...a great tree. 

Extending forth, in his vision, was a massive, stalwart tree. Remarkable, for its birthe as well as height, Avitus had never seen such a large tree The other ones Avitus had seen before, in the great forest of Cyrodiil, as well as the blackened oaks of this valley paled in comparison to this, ancient wonder of nature. Its heavy trunk extended forth, massive, hardy, and brown, being able to weather the strongest of galls, and blizzards. Thousands of years of rainfall had fed this grandfather tree, from being a sapling, to it's awesome power right now, as a monstrous, yet noble grandfather, an interwoven existence of wind and rain. The great roots, that sustained, and fed it, were gnarled, and interwoven within the earth, as on it's base, it gathered nutrients from the ground below. So vast, and deep, Avitus could only shudder at how far it went beneath the earth. It’s bark was dark brown, with large portions of it being covered in bright green moss. And ageless. The tree had been here since the primordial dawn of Tamriel.  What species it was, Avitus could not tell, but he could assume it's noble visage meant it was an oak of some sorts. As if all the other trees stood in reverence to its splendor, the tree was in the center of the clearing, or glade.  Even right now, awestruck by what he saw before him, Avitus knew that something else, besides nutrients, flowed through the roots, and into the tree. Something far more powerful. Great branches, tall, and wide, were scattered around its trunk, the upper part being a massive collection of branches, that held atop large dome of green vegetation. It’s large trunk, stood tall, and proud, bearing the rest of the great tree with strength Scattered about on the tree's branches, white petals flew in the wind, around it. Strange. Avitus had seen those types before...but he couldn't place his fingers on it. Otherworldly to be sure. Very exotic. As Avitus got closer, the blossoms scattered in the fleeting wind. 

The strangest thing about the place, was the pale blue light. An otherworldly glow, surrounded the tree, and a, low yet luminous glow, consumed the clearing, bathing the entire place in its wholesome, blue glow. From what Avitus could tell the source of the glow were dozens of spectral....butterflies. They danced around in the sky, giving off the blue light and showering the clearing in there pale light, glowing, as if kissed by the moon itself. The luminous butterflies danced in the glade, in the sky, and near the tree, as if drawn to it. One flew up to Avitus’s face,  It’s wings were transparent, and glowed pale blue. Well I'll be damned...no red ones though. It lingered there only for a moment, in front of the stunned Avitus, and fluttered off a few moments later. The Legate, now somewhat recovered from his initial impression, seethed hot air from his mouth. Man...this shit is weird. Am I high? Or maybe I've finally lost it. Probably the later. Stepping forward, Avitus went closer to the treep, closing the distance at a brisk pace, walking slowly towards it. Oddly enough, despite how weird the situation was, it wasn’t like before. He felt...oddly at peace. Relaxed, and soothed by the presence of the grand tree, and the floating butterflies.

Avitus felt...power, surging around him, as he entered deeper into the sacred glade. Even someone as mundane as Avitus could tell, this place was magical. There was no doubt about it. And not just tinges here and there, Avitus felt enormous surges of energy enter him, as he walked closer to the grand old tree. Which he, presumed, was the source of the magical surges flowing through his body. That feeling....The nostalgia once again entered into him, as Avitus set his sights on the tree. Just below it, a sword, rusted and broke, stuck into the earth by the blade, stood lonely. Hauntingly, a small part of it reflected the blue light, casting a dreadful shadow across the ground. The Legionary approached the discarded blade. A wave of vertigo hit him square in the face, with splotches of red appearing on the edges of his vision, as that feeling of nostalgia, as strong as a ballistic bolt to his stomach, hit him. He...knew, were he was....

I...knew this place. 

This was were....

Someone important to me...

Died....

That pure moment of clarity faded, like bubbles floating towards the surface, in the split of a second, and he was once again confused. So confused. It felt like his mind was recovering from a long, deep sleep, and he was now just waking from it. Flashes of his dreams in the night before played with his head, as Avitus struggled to figure out what was real, and what wasn’t.  Avitus longing starred at his gauntleted hands, as the metal armor reflected the pale blue light of glowing butterflies. Mirror images of a time long past played in his mind, just as mental pain throbbed in his head. What the hell is happening to me... This was really ******* weird...he started out in a winterized wasteland, chased by horrible monsters, met an archaic nord, and now stumbled into...here. This magical glade. And now, memories stored within his mind, had begun to surface.  His eyes once again, went to the grounded blade. Long, but still imperialized, it, like Wulf's swords, combined Nordic, and Imperial influences to form its cultural look. Like the sword Avitus had procured, it was in horrible condition, the blade being rusted,  and the hilt a bitter copper, as if the eons had turned it gold. 

Speaking of which, etched in the hilt, was the number, once again in Imperial numerous, two. What was the significance? He didn't ******* know. But the blades purpose was very clear, and evident. 

It was a grave marker.

Though he'd rather not disrespect the dead, Avitus had a gnawing feeling. It would not be sated, unless he touched the blades rusted hilt. Curiosity got the better of him, as he outstretched his arm, and gripped, tightly, the copper hilt. Vertigo like before, struck him, and his vision went, suddenly, and completely, pitch dark. For only a moment. Images began to play in his head, depicting a scene, 

A scene of vivid scarlet,

******

Village Center, Dream?

The destroyed village went up in smoke, as the blood starved legionary strolled through the ruins.. Tall tree's lay in the distant, but they did little to hide the smoke rising to the clouds, and the all consuming  torrents of. Among the burnt out husks of dead men, women, and children, a single turkey vulture pecked at the charred meat, devouring  it's fill. Going by there blackened, pointy ears, they were Elves of some type, but you really couldn't tell because of the burns.  Her heavy Legion armor armor was literally soaked in blood, as was his entire body, the red liquid washing the man's many sins. Or so she told herself.  The woman  walked through the village remains, trampling over the burnt corpses, as he made his way to the village center. Around the huts, fires roared, as the entire place was up in flame, and smoke.  Lingering here and there, sat the dead bodies of similarly armored figures, covered in arrows, and crossbow bolts.  

In the distance, besides the roaring  flames, the sounds of battle, and screaming villagers echoed. 

Suddenly, springing forth  from a pile of dead bodies, a soldier jumped out, bringing a long sword down  upon  the man, in an ambush  attack. The soldier in question bore Elven armor, made from ebony, as the black color suggested, underneath, to cover his mouth, he had a dark scarf. Going by the yellow spots underneath his helmet, and his pointy yellow ears, he was a High Elf.  

Jumping away at the last second, the woman avoided the attack, drawing a small redguard kurki from its sheath, and jamming it into his exposed neck, squirting  even  more crimson body across his body. Stunned eyes heralded the enemy soldiers doom, as the other woman, ripped the blade from his neck, and pushed him to the ground. He joined the other bodies. 

The man threw the knife to the side, just as a duo of soldiers rushed towards her intent on murder. This time, it was two humans. Two. The first one wore heavy plate armor, a blue tabard depicting a black dragon, and a closed Heavy Imperial helmet. The Nord, had simple chainmail, underneath a leather jerkin, as well as a tabard heralding a dragon too. The first Nord bore a heavy mace, and the other brandished a steel gladius. 

The blood drenched woman, grabbed the hilt of her greatsword, strapped to her back, and let loose a mighty sideways strike, rippling the air with  power, as the blade collided into the duo of men. Slicing them both in half, spraying crimson blood across the dirt. With a small explosion, in the distance, another hut blew up in a fiery maelstrom. The discharge of magic in the distance, clashed with specks of ice, and flame spells. 

The helmet wearing woman  tossed her greatblade to the ground, just as another soldier rushed forward, intent on skewering him on his spear. Anther nord, clad in the light red armor of the Legion. Though it was archaic in style, and matched drawings, and paintings from ancient times. She closed her eyes, and let the spear fall towards her. At the very last second, the woman turned around, and gazed at the incorporeal spectre. As the spear lunged towards her heart, a sinister, horrible, nightmare-inducing formed on her lips, as did the words, 

“Seeketh the Crimson Butterfly…” 

*********

Glade of the Butterfly, Twilight Dream

Avitus eyes opened. Still, the pale blue light danced around the corner of his eye as butterflies continued to fly around him. He gently looked around, only to see the clearing, fresh as pale moonlight. So it's not a twilight dream. This is real...The memory, or...whatever he had seen was still fresh in his mind. As was the woman’s words, the same words Wulf had spoken to him, Seeketh thy Crimson Butterfly... The blade was still stuck in the dirt, by Avitus leg.  As Avitus lay on the ground, he saw directly above him, starring hauntingly into the sky. So that’s why the darkness hadn’t consumed the tree...Twilight had finally ended, and the night had taking hold. Above, beyond the forest, lay a bright, white moon, gently stirring above in the sky, sending down its pale rays of moonlight upon the forest.  Hundreds of stars sat beside the glorious moon, shining. Avitus felt...peaceful. Tranquility filled the glade as he quietly gazed at the night sky, comfortable among the grass, and blue light of the sacred glade. Avitus...could remain here for an eternity, and be content with himself. The venomous rage that poisoned his body had evaporated, like bubbles floating to the surface and evaporating. A pece that he had never felt before filled him, Avitus gently closed his eyes. Maybe he could go to sleep for a little….

Crimson.

A gently red glow plunged his vision, into chaos, as Avitus opened his eyes, startled. 

Floating above him was a glowing, red butterfly. 

A Crimson Butterfly. 

Like it’s blue brethren, the creature floated above the surface, shining a luminous glow. Instead of blue, however, it was a sanguine red. It's small wings fluttered, and kept the Crimson butterfly afloat. As the glowing insect was so close to Avitus, he could make out the pattern on it's wings, a small vermilion haze, with strange runes.  Avitus, with disbelief gazed at it, getting up from his downed position on the grass. The Legate reached out for it, with his gauntleted hands, only for it to flutter away, into the sky, and away from him. The darkness around it melted, pierced by the crimson light, as it made its way to the sword marker, hauntingly hovering above, the crimson light, consuming the blue, and reflecting off the rusted steel. Gently, leaves blowed, like before across Avitus's face, as Avitus, once more, reached for the blade. As he touched the copper hilt, and instinct caused Avitus to shy away in fear of what happened before, but to the legionaries immense relief, nothing happened. He briefly glanced upward to gaze at the Crimson glowing butterfly, who contentiously floated above the sword.  

Seeketh Thy Crimson Butterfly...wait. Butterflies are...a symbol in Nordic culture aren't they? What do they mean, though?  Just another mytersy to the puzzle that is this nightmarish day...

A dim memory entered into Avitus's mind, and as soon it entered, it left, leaving Avitus in confusion. This had happened again. Something ageless, and ancient, that he held within himself. He had grasped it for a mere moment, giving him a sense of clarity, before it disappeared, almost as if it wasn't there to begin with. He had no idea how he knew that little piece of trivia, but he was sure it was correct. Butterflies meant something, to the Nords. He didn't know why such as graceful, gentle creature fit into the culture of those savage warriors, but it wasn't Avitus's place to judge. In fact, he was interested in what they meant. What these blue, and crimson butterflies meant.  Once more, Avitus glanced around his surroudings. The blue, glowing butterflies contuined to fly around, spreading there glowing luminous lights, adding an ethereal ambiance to the glade. The great tree, remained, tall and proud, being center of the clearing. In the sky, the moon, had an otherwordly, blue glow, which came from Avitus's limited vision, and his perception being fiddled with by the glowing butterflies. The sword, he touched, had taken a redish glow, from the Crimson Butterfly. A feeling of intense familiarity, and longing filled him as he gazed at the sword. He knew, the blade...

I think...I know...at least....I was meant to have this sword.....

Avitus, gently, tore the longsword from the ground, wielding it one hand, as he slashed in the air, throwing off the dirt that caked the blade's surface. He briefly glanced downward, and inspected the weapon. To his extreme shock, just like his surroundings previously, the sword had undergone a dramatic transformation, when he had drawn it from the earth. The sword he wielded, looked brand new, as if it had been forged not a day ago. The previously rust covered blade was shining brightly, crimson due to the glowing butterfly, made from Mithril, as a Imperial Dragon was embedded into the bottom part of the blade. It's copper colored hilt had been restored to a golden, and bright shine, as a sapphire sat in it's hilt, the blue lapis Lazuli gem, deep as the ocean. The blade as a whole, seemed to exert a faint, purpish glow, just like Wulf's blade. It was magical then. 

A faint whisper entered Avitus's mind, that uttered a single word. He didn't know if the whisper belonged to someone else, or himself. 

Faaddrem...is that your name? 

Avitus glanced at the sword. It...filled him with tranquility, as he held the sword in his hands. A similar tranquility he was feeling before.

The crimson butterfly danced around the blade for a few more moments, before flying away, beyond, into the darkened woods. crimson light trailing beyond it and illuminating the shadowed woods.. Seeketh thy Crimson Butterfly...Avitus grinned, glancing back to the blue butterflies, and the great tree one last time. With a heavy heart, he turned around, with his new sword in hand, and headed beyond the faint blue luminous, into the darkened tree's. While it was mostly dark, besides the illuminated white moon which shone rays of white light down up the woods, Avitus could see the Crimson, glowing butterfly, fluttering, and floating in the wind just ahead of him, acting as his guide. Avitus intended to follow it, and solve this mystery. The secrets of this, Twilight Dream.

The fort...these twilight woods...Wulf...The Crimson Butterfly....this sword.....there all connected. Somehow. I intend to discover how., and unravel this mystery...

Avitus followed the Crimson Buttefly, down the dark paths, and away from the glowing, blue glade, and it's magnificent, tree, to whatever awaited him, in this forest of twilight. 

[Witchking of Angmar]

The Tynes
The Imperial City

"... Shit."
Asgen didn't know what else to say. And the one word did manage to describe their new situation rather aptly. He and his sister had spent weeks tracking, searching, scouring Cyrodiil for the Silver Sisters. And when they finally had begun to close in on their prey, some other bastard had to come along and make a big mess of it all.

When he'd heard the rumor, Asgen had gone to Talos Plaza to see for himself, and sure enough, the manor of some Elder Councilman was thick with guards. It was from one of the many Silver Brigadiers still roving about the city that he managed to get a confirmation that Sosia was indeed among the fallen. By now, the whole city knew that their once-secret employer had been none other than Sibbi of the mead-brewing Black-Briar clan. What the Skyrim noble wanted with a young girl in the Waterfront, Asgen had no idea. Probably a runaway bastard daughter of his or something. 

It didn't matter what the kid had been to him now. Sibbi himself was also among the dead. The rumors differed on what exactly had happened, but the prevailing one was that some rival of his called 'Boldir' had led his bandit friends into Talos Plaza and invaded the manor during the night. Though Asgen found it passing strange that this was such a widely accepted theory, what with the Imperial gods-damned Legion keeping the city's peace.

He was on his way back to the All-Saints Inn now, to deliver the news to Faida and their new companion, Christophe Sele. Asgen wasn't yet sure what to make of the young scribe. He seemed a decent lad, and given that they'd found him imprisoned by the Brigade, there wasn't much doubt that he and the twins shared a foe. But the guarded manner in which Sele carried himself, the careful pause before every word left his lips, the way he liked to deflect conversations away from himself... There was no doubt in Asgen's mind that there was more to the scribe than he was letting on.
Not that he had a problem with that, of course. Everyone had their secrets. Asgen just hoped that Christophe's weren't the dangerous sort.

He stopped in the doorway of the inn, from where he spotted Faida eating alone at a window side table on the far wall. He wasn't surprised to see his sister by herself. Neither she nor Sele were the type to ask the other for company while they ate. No doubt both of them were content in their solitude. 
He wasted no time in interrupting it. "I've got news, sweet sister." Asgen said as he approached. "Bad news."

Faida looked up at her brother with a hint of a smile. She's been enjoying the quiet, but she wouldn't give Asgen the satisfaction of knowing that he'd disrupted that. "Did you bump into one of your children?"

He rolled his eyes. "You can do better than that. It's about Sosia. She's dead. And there's more too. Is Christophe upstairs?"

"Hold on, what?" Faida had too look her brother in the eyes to make sure he wasn't messing with her. "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything. And I can explain everything, but I'd rather only do it once. So Sele, is he upstairs?"

"Err, yeah, far as I know he's in his room. Asgen, what's happened?"

"Like I said, I'll explain what I can. But first let's go meet with our new partner. I'd like to tell you both at once."

The scribe was indeed where Faida had thought he'd been. The twins found him closing some book or journal when he told them to come in. Sele's room was smaller than the one they shared. Just a bed, a desk, and one wooden trunk. Despite the day's cold, the one window in the room was open, probably in case his eagle decided to swoop in for a visit. Once Christophe and Faida were seated at his desk and on his bed respectively, Asgen closed the door and told them everything he had learned. Of how Sosia had died along with her employer and several others, and that this was big news all over the city. He told them about the impenetrable crime scene, with a reminder that the only way they could salvage this at all would be by getting proof of Sosia's death to bring back to High Rock.
"So," Asgen clapped his hands together, "Got any ideas?"

"We could wait." Faida suggested. "They'll have to move the bodies eventually. Especially since it's the home of a member of the Elder Council. The Black-Briar fellow will likely be sent back to Skyrim, but I doubt the others will be so heavily guarded once they're taken to wherever it is this city's nameless dead go."

"That won't work if they give them back to the Silver Brigade." Asgen said. "It's no secret now that that's where they're from. And word's likely already on its way to Senna Silver. She'll probably want her sister's body back, at least."

Faida shrugged. "We don't know that they'll be given that privilege just yet. No doubt the Watch is investigating them now too. If their search turns up that lot we killed at the inn, they'll probably be put under a lot of scrutiny." She twisted around to face Christophe. "You live here. Do you know what they do with their unimportant dead? Criminals and the like?"

Christophe was quicker than usual to answer, with a short and decisive, "No. I mostly kept to my scribing and studies, and am somewhat ashamed to say I didn't get out enough to fully explore the city. But I imagine we could ask a priest of Arkay."

"And where might we find one of those?" Faida asked, hiding the fact that she was not particularly fond of the idea of asking a devotee of the false Nine for help.

"Well, here, in the Temple District," Christophe said. "The Temple of the Nine will have a priest, of some sort. They can tell us about burial practices for criminal types."

"Then that's a start, at least." Faida turned back to Asgen. "If the Watch does take to seriously investigating the Brigade, I think we'd be best off learning as much about the situation as we can."

"You're right." Asgen knew better than to suggest Faida go into a Temple of the Nine. "Christophe can come with me to meet with this priest of Arkay. Why don't you go see what you can learn from the guards on site. Just don't be too obvious about it."

"And here I was thinking of asking them for Sosia's head straight-up."

"Then do it tactfully." Asgen said with a grin. "You've got the harder job, Sis. And me'n Christophe have high standards. Don't disappoint us."

"Uh huh." Faida stood. "And if there's anyone who can find a way to turn a conversation with a priest into some sort of drunken street brawl, it's you." She looked at Christope. "Don't let him do that."

"I won't," he said. He started to smile, but one look at Faida's serious expression and Asgen's mischievous one stopped that.

"I think you're in good hands, Brother." Faida turned and left the room.

Deciding to have a little fun, Asgen looked at Christophe all seriousn, and asked, "Ready to go kidnap a priest?"

Christophe grew wide-eyed and nervous, and looked toward the door. Asgen could tell he was hoping Faida has heard that and would return. When she didn't, the Breton said, "What good would that do? I'm sure they'll tell us what we want just by simply asking."

"Hmm, you make a good point." Asgen stroked his beard as he pretended to mull over what the lad had said. "Alright, fine. You've convinced me. We talk to the priest without kidnapping him... I'm not sure how I ever operated alone without you around."
He couldn't contain his grin any longer when Christophe realized he had been messing with him. Laughing, Asgen slapped the Breton on the shoulder. "Come on Scribe, let's get this over with."

"So long as you control your kidnapping tendencies, I believe we'll be just fine," Corrick said with a joking grin of his own, as he followed Asgen out the door. 
The two of them made their way to the center of the Temple District, where the Great Temple of the Nine, or Temple of the One as some still called it, dominated the district. The big rotunda was made of similar white and gray stone to the city's walls and older buildings. In place of a roof, a great dragon statue stood tall at the center, it's snout reared back as if mid-roar. Asgen couldn't help but frown as they entered the doorway and fell under the beast's shadow. The Imperial reverence of the dragon god truly was sickening. It was a good thing he had come instead of Faida.

"Alright," Asgen said, looking around the crowded rotunda. There were plenty of robed men and women and at least a dozen locals mulling about. None of them were in ritual. Just prayer or servitude in the forms of kneeling and sweeping. A couple of the hooded men were preaching to a small crowd, while another seemed to be performing a healing near the back. "Which one's the Arkay priest?"

Christophe have Asgen a strange look, before he answered, "The healer. You can see his red Amulet of Arkay dangling from his neck. And they usually tend to the sick." 

The Nord's eyes shifted across the room until they finally landed on the person matching that description. Beneath that amulet, he wore an orange-red robe with golden inlays, and carried a long thin staff in his hand. He was indeed tending to a man who must have been sick. The priest's baggy eyes did not leave the kneeling man he tended as Asgen and Christophe approached.
"Lord Arkay grant you not only better health, but great health. The health of life and fertility. May you breath it as you walk, breath it as you speak, and breath it as you love. Bless you, child of the Nine, and be well."
The kneeling man stood, nothing apparently wrong with him, and bowed his head gratefully to the priest before moving on.

"Well that was something." Asgen said as the priest moved to a washbasin and dipped his free hand inside. "Could you do me next?"

The Priest of Arkay looked up, and his face sort of scrunched up like a... well Asgen couldn't think of any good comparisons at that moment, but the old Imperial man certainly had a funny looking 'disgusted' face. "Go talk to Gwella or Anthrald." he said in a far less pleasant voice than the one he had used with his previous visitor. "They have more patience for the dissolute."

"Careful," warned Asgen. "My friend here may be a regular Crantius Colto, but he's with me and I'm spotless. So don't go saying things like that, okay?"

The priest blinked. "I don't know who that is or what it means. Now go away."

"Hold on, hold on." Asgen held up his hands. "Perhaps I came on a little too strong asking for the blessing. We really just want to ask you a question and we'll be on our way."

"Fine." The old man waved a hand. "Ask."

"We wanted to know what it is you lot do with dead criminals in this city." Asgen asked. "Foreigners and lowlives, who ain't got friends or family here, far as you can tell. Do you just dump 'em in the lake?"

The Priest frowned. It seemed Asgen had stricken a nerve. "If you are mocking me-"

"I'm not. It's a serious question. Why? Was I right?"

"The old man signed. "Ver well. Yes, you were right. Southeast of the Prison District is an inlet where the Rumare enters, but does not escape. The Synod claims it drains into caverns deep beneath the ground. Wherever it goes, that is no doubt where the corpses of these poor, unattended souls go also. That is, the ones who are not consumed by the slaughterfish first."

"So there's a cave under the city filled with centuries' worth dead lowlives?" Asgen whistled. "That's... not a pleasant thought."

"Not centuries. Decades." the Priest said. "The gods held a stronger hold on this city before the Thalmor came. After the elves filled the streets with corpses, and our Legions slew them in turn, there were more dead than a hundred of Arkay's Devoted could have hoped to give proper rites. We helped the Legion as we could, but in the chaos, the elven dead were tossed into the inlet. It was the same inlet they had been using for the humans they'd killed that entire year. People began to see it as the perfect disposal ground for the dead they deemed not worth bringing to a temple priest, or even burying in unmarked graves outside the City Isle... It, regrettably, became a tradition of convenience."

"Well, I think that more than answers our question, Priest. Good luck with your unhappy memories." He quickly turned away with Chrisophe in tow. As they left the temple, he said, "Well it doesn't sound like corpse retrieval won't be near so pleasant as your typical grave robbing."

"Let us hope your sister found a way to get to Sosia, then," Christophe said. "If that fails, I don't like our chances at getting her body, at least not in any recognizable form."

***

Talos Plaza was alive with guards. Not the usual sellswords and household guard of the many nobles who lived there, but real Legion Watchmen. They had always maintained a strong presence in this particular district given that half the Elder Council and Old Gods know who else living here. But today, the heavily-armored soldiers numbered in the dozens and dozens. They patrolled in groups of two or three, and were especially thick towards the southeast, where the manor of Elder Councilor Serivus Marillan had recently hosted a massacre. 
Even innocent as she was of any involvement in the conflict, the sheer number of them made Faida nervous as though she'd cut down Black-Briar herself. 
It's the looks they're giving me. the witch decided as she turned away from a pair who had been glaring at her. They'd love for a culprit to return to the scene.

The Watch could glare all they wanted. As much as she wished she could have had a hand in delivering this blow to the Silver Brigade, it was not so. If I had been involved, it wouldn't have ended up so messy. And Asgen and I would be long gone by now.
Of course, whoever was responsible probably was long gone at this point. For all their searching, Faida could see on the guards' faces that they were frustrated. They had a dead Skyrim nobleman, several dead sellswords -one of them the leader of an outfit- and no killer to speak of. There were rumors, of course. But an organization as professional as the Imperial Legion could not operate on rumors alone.

The scene of the crime itself was massive. The rooftops of the Councilor's manor sprang up far beyond where the courtyard in front of it began, and its walls seemed wide enough to house a small village. It looked right at home in this district.
As she approached, Faida wondered how fared the man who actually owned the place. Asgen would have mentioned it if he had been killed in the massacre, which meant the lucky bastard had probably not been home at the time. Probably won't be home for a good while now either. she thought while crossing the street.
Faida strolled up to the entrance with purpose, trying to look like she belonged. The guards patrolling paid her no mind, but the one at the entrance certainly did.

"Move along, Citizen." the Imperial said. "This is a crime scene."

"I'm aware." she replied, stone-faced. She locked her eyes with the guard's, keeping his attention there while the fingers of her left hand twitched out the motions of the spell she was preparing. "My name is Thana Galis. I've been called to examine the bodies."

"The Imperial Coroner is already here for that." he said, obviously not buying her story. "Now-"

"Who do you think called me?" A tiny green mist emitted from her left palm. It subtly drifted between them after Faida interrupted the Legionnaire. "I'm sure the Coroner would very much like to have his assistant at his side."

The guard sniffed, and she could see his pupils begin to twitch and dilate as the charm took hold. "I-..." he paused for a moment, seemingly confused. "Well maybe you're right. That is a lot of bodies for one man to examine alone."

"Exactly." Faida knew that right about now, her voice would be starting to sound very sweet on the Imperial's ears. He did not seem to be a particularly intelligent man. If she pressed him a little longer, the witch was certain that she could have the fool trusting her like an old friend. "So I'll just go on through, alright?"

The guard stepped to one side and nodded. "Ma'am."

Faida walked past him, into the large courtyard garden that preceded Marillan's manor. It was somewhat overgrown, as if its tenders had been slacking in recent weeks, but Faida could not help but envy the Elder Councilor's vast array of flowers, vines, and roots. The potions I could brew with some of these...
She shook her head and continued into the house. Stay focused on the job. Don't forget, Faida, you're surrounded by Legion.

Through the large oak front door was a high-ceilinged entrance hall with another small garden at the center and doors to the left, right, and back. In the far right corner, a pair of City Watchmen stood chatting in low voices. Faida frowned. She was a decent mesmer, but she couldn't charm both men without one of them noticing. Not on the spot, at least. Play your role. You were allowed inside. They have no reason to suspect you.
"Excuse me," she said in a voice that easily carried across the room. "I am here to assist the Imperial Coroner. Where can I find the bodies?"

The guards shared a glance, and then the one on the right answered, "Right through this door. Watch your step, Ma'am. It's a mess in there."

Keeping her eyes ahead, Faida walked passed the men without a hitch, and entered a room that was in a state more befitting the Imperial City Arena than a nobleman's house. Furniture was overturned, bloodstains were everywhere, and five bodies bodies were strewn across the floor. Faida had no time to try and identify any of them before one of the room's five Watchmen stepped forward. "Can we help you?"

"Yes. I'm here for the Coroner."

"He's upstairs." the guard said, nodding to the staircase on her left. "I can take you to him."

"No need." Sosia's body may have been in this room. But she had no choice other than to stay in character and keep moving. But now the guard was giving her an odd look...
Why is he looking at me like that? Then Faida realized it must have appeared strange that she'd dismissed his offer to help when it was obvious she didn't know where the Coroner was. Thankfully, there was a rather convenient solution in the form of a thin dripped blood trail. "I'll just follow the bloodstains."

"Ah, alright then." That seemed to ease the man's mind. "Do you have a message for him or something?"

"A message? No. I'm here to assist him."

"Well he's certainly got his hands full." the Imperial grinned. "Just be careful not to eyeball the Inspectors. They don't call them the Gray Wolves because they're cuddly."

Inspectors? Faida hoped the sudden apprehension she felt did not show. 'Inspector' was an official term for an agent of the 'Penitus Oculatus'. Even growing up in the Reach, she had heard stories of the Empire's most elite killers. It was said that they felt no remorse or fear, that to even become a member, one had to prove themselves by killing a stranger in cold blood, and even that only came after years of the most rigorous education and training the Empire could throw at them. She wouldn't be able to charm her way past these men. She wasn't even sure if she could lie her way past them.
Keep it together. Faida commanded herself as she thanked the Imperial Watchman and followed the trail of tiny blood splatters upstairs. They're human. Dangerous, but human. You'll just have to use slightly different tricks this time... 

The blood brought Faida up to the second floor, and it continued on up to the third. They're up there. she thought. I'm about to be face-to-face with agents of the Penitus Oculatus.
For the second time that year, Faida felt like she had accidentally stumbled into something far bigger than anything she had business being a part of, as though she was in way over her head. Sure, these men were only human... but that didn't stop the feeling she had that going up those stairs was no less foolish than strolling into the lair of a dragon. Faida took a breath. Her right foot moved to the first step, but then suddenly, self-preservation won out over her desire to see this through, and she quickly turned away.

The second floor was empty. Faida could spend some time here in relative safety. Just need to regroup a bit. she thought. Collect myself. I'm taking this way too fast... and rushing into things head-on is the sort of foolishness that gets Asgen in trouble. Not me. I'll find another way.
As it turned out, Faida's 'other way' ended up being aimlessly exploring the abandoned floor. It was just a series of long hallways with doors on either side. Most were locked. Those that weren't revealed various sorts of boring rooms one would expect to find in a family home. Bedrooms and closets, mostly. There was a little study too, with a desk and some bookshelves that had nothing interesting on them. The relative safety of just walking around in her little checkpoint of a floor helped calm Faida's nerves.

She opened another door, swearing to herself that it would be the last. She had expected another closet, given its placement in comparison to some of the others, and was surprised to find instead that it opened up into a small dusty chamber. Inside it were nothing but a wooden chair and table, and a few old books stacked up on the floor. The walls were bare save for a closed window, half-hidden behind a thick set of red and black dragon-patterned curtains. But there was something else about it as well.
Faida gave a sniff. Nightshade. It's scent had soaked into the walls and floors. And that was not all. She felt it now, in her little bones, both inside her and on the string around her neck. This room had been the casting place of soul magic. Of a ritual. Whatever spirit had been tampered with was long gone now, but she could feel his recent presence, like an echo, or the ripples left behind by a pebble dropped in still water. Was this Black-Briar? ... What was he doing in here?

Faida almost jumped when she heard the voices. Almost. She wasn't that careless. They came from above, through the ceiling. It wasn't ghosts or spirits, but men. Men speaking just loud enough to advertise their presence. She smiled. Maybe the second floor isn't such a useless place after all. Carefully, the sellsword climbed up onto the wooden table and cocked her head, straining to make out the muffled words. After a few seconds, she decided it was no use. Faida sighed, climbed back down, and prepared another spell. It was simple enough that casting wouldn't be a problem. It was holding the spell that would become draining. Releasing her hands and muttering the words, Faida felt a funny sensation in her ears that was almost akin to inhaling, airy taste and all. And then suddenly, every sound around her became sharper than the thinnest glass. The voice speaking now was male, middle-aged, and scratchy. She cocked her head again and listened:

"-know what else to tell you, Sir. I've been saying from the first that this wasn't the doing of a Nord. Definitely not the brute that made all that mess downstairs. The hair your man found finally proves it. Seems it was a girl who offed Sibbi. As for downstairs, if the sewers were a dead end, then I don't know what else to say."

"It's not for you to say anything." This voice was deeper. It had no emotion to it at all. "I only expect you to answer questions about the bodies. You've done well with that... Wait..." The deeper voice trailed off, and the silence it left behind went on for so long, Faida began to wonder if he hadn't left. But then, after a full minute at least, the man spoke again. "Do you feel that?"

"Feel what?"

"Magic." 
Faida's heart stopped. The icy tendrils of fear were squeezing it. He knows... How could he have sensed such weak magic? That guard downstairs... he had called the Inspectors Gray Wolves.
The man finished, "You're not the only one here who's casting."

Like a ball had been dropped, Faida panicked and released her spell, only to immediately regret it. No! Fool! He'll have noticed you dropped it the moment he said that! ... Damn it!
There was nothing to be done now. Instead of wasting time cursing herself, Faida's mind turned towards escape. She pushed aside one of the long red-patterned curtains to reveal the window behind it. It might have worked, if she could fly. The drop was two stories down onto stone pavement, and even if she were okay with making her escape on two broken legs, the guards who were down there would not be.
Footsteps bounded down the hallway above her. They were headed in the direction of the stairs. Hide! she told herself. There's nowhere to run!

But where could she hide? The dusty old room was virtually empty, and now that the Inspector was coming, she did not have time to run somewhere else. He was listening now. He would hear her. 

More footsteps. They were faint now, but only because they were all the way back at the stairs. Faida turned back to the window, to the dragon-patterned curtains that kept the room halfway covered in shadows, and she had her idea. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to serve. She threw up her hood and pulled the curtain over her lower body, taking extreme care to steady it so there was no shaking. With a few silent words, she tore into her remaining magicka reserves and let loose the strongest chameleon spell she could muster. Her hands faded into the patterned curtains. As did her clothes and lastly her face. 
Now she just needed to be still and hope that the illusion would hold long enough to matter... And perhaps more importantly, that the Inspector's uncanny sense for detecting magic wasn't so impossibly good as to work on concealing spells.

A door opened elsewhere on the second floor. She breathed slowly, forcing her hands and legs to remain steady. She heard another door open, this one closer. He was right across the hall now... and then the footsteps moved again, ending in front of her door.
Be still. Don't. Move. The spell will hold... The spell WILL hold.
The door creaked open, and the Gray Wolf stepped inside. In the half-cast light of the window, she could only just make out the Imperial's features. He was tall for his race, and lean-muscled like her brother. But where Asgen had swagger in his step, the Inspector was like a statue. Straight and rigid. Dark, and cold. He wore a gray surcoat over mail, and his face beneath the eyes was hidden behind a mask. 
Why is he standing here so long?! Faida wondered. Does he know I'm here?

The agent sniffed the air and took another step into the room. Oh no... She racked her brain for an offensive spell that might save her. The Penitus Oculatus may have been legends, but perhaps if he did not see her attack coming... But what could she do? Faida was not a powerful mage who dueled with fireballs and lightening. She was a witch. Her true power derived from the earthbones. From the Grey. Her own pool of magicka was rather pitiful by most mages' standards. Already, she was running low from just the three spells she had cast today. And to make matters worse, Faida knew the chameleon effect would not last a whole lot longer. If only Asgen were here. This man would already be dead. There'd be a mess of new problems, but at least this one would be solved. 
The Inspector took another step into the room and laid a hand on the table. Faida steeled herself. She had her dagger. It wasn't as sharp as her brother's, but it could kill if she was quick.

Slowly, so very slowly, her hand that was behind the curtain moved down to the folds of her cloak, and then halted when a set of heavy metallic footsteps started ringing down the hall, culminating in a City Watchman appearing in the doorway.
"There you are, Sir. Major Infernus sent for you. He wants a-" the Legionnaire paused and took a sniff. "What's that smell?"

"Nightshade." responded the Gray Wolf, turning his back to Faida. "The wood absorbed the scent. What does Major Infernus want?"

"For every Inspector on the job to report to him at that inn in the Elven Gardens. Apparently two more dead Brigadiers turned up in the Waterfront. Old corpses. He's got a theory, I think. But it's not for me to speculate."

"You're right. It isn't." The Oculatus agent followed him out into the hall, but stopped again in the doorway. "You haven't seen anyone casting spells in the manor, have you?"

"Well, there's the Coroner."

"It's not the Coroner. It's someone else."

The guard shrugged. "His assistant, maybe? I don't really know what she can do."

"Assistant? He doesn't have any assistants."

"She's only arrived recently. With so many bodies, it makes sense he'd call in another set of eyes to look them over."

"And you saw her yourself?"

"Yes sir. Nord lady with dark hair. She seemed decent enough."

"Well if you see her again, send her to me. And I'll have no one else involved in this investigation without my knowing of it. Understand?"

"Yes Sir."

The Inspector cast one last look into the room, his dark eyes scrolling across it until they were satisfied. And then he closed the door.
Seconds passed where the only sounds were their leaving footsteps and Faida's own heartbeat. And then she finally allowed herself to breath again. It was at that same moment that her chameleon spell wore off.
Old Gods wicked and strong. That was too close.

It wasn't a trade Faida desired to ever make again, but for all that fear, she had learned a few new things. She knew that the Oculatus were interested in the Silver Brigade, or more specifically, what she and her brother had been doing to them... that was troubling. But there was a silver lining in this. Any Inspectors in the manor had just been called to the Elven Gardens. Which meant that the terrifying man she'd hidden from ought to be the last she'd have to face. Just to be safe, Faida forced herself to count slowly to one hundred, and then backwards again down to zero. When she was done, her breath was calm, and she was ready to go to the third floor.

The top level of the Elder Councilor's manor was much like the second. Hallways. Doors. Rooms. But it did have the noteworthy distinguishing feature of that small blood trail that started downstairs. The splatters were faint and spread out by now, as if the wounded person had tried wrapping his cut to slow the bleeding. But what remained did manage to lead her to a large office room. It was not as destroyed as the living room downstairs had been, but there was still blood and, most importantly, the well-dressed and half-mutilated corpse of a Nord who could have only been Sibbi Black-Briar.
Faida had never expected to see that, no more than she had expected to have to hide from the Penitus Oculatus. It had been a strange day indeed. Kneeling over the corpse was an Imperial man in a bloodstained apron, with graying brown hair that jutted out on the sides. He looked up at her with curious eyes. "Who are you?"

"I'm your new assistant." Faida said, closing the door behind her. She knelt down across from the Coroner.

"I don't have any assistants." the man said, "Don't need them. There's nothing to be learned from these corpses than what I've already told them. So who are you, really? Should I be calling the guards?"

"That's awfully strange." Faida said. "Because he specifically told me that you would want my help."

"Who did?"

"Major Infernus. Of the Penitus Oculatus."

The Coroner frowned. "The man's the best at what he does, but he assumes too much. Go back and tell him I don't need any help. My work is basically through here."

"I'll be sure to do so." She stood up. "So there's no more need for the corpses, then?"

"No. In fact, I hear the Councilor who lives here, whatever in the blazes his name was, has been very adamant about having them removed. As much as the Legion loves pissing off Elder Councilors, I see no reason to deny him that at this point. They should be leaving come morning."

Faida had only just thrown off his suspicions. She didn't want to ruin that by pressing for more information, but she couldn't help herself. "What's to be done with the bodies?"

"No idea. Not my side of this business." He tapped the corpse with no concern for the powerful man it had once belonged to. "Though if I had a guess, I'd say this one's going home. Someone in Skyrim will know what to do with it."

"I understand. And I'm sorry for intruding on your work."

The man waved a dismissive hand. "Just make sure Infernus knows not to send you again. Goodbye."

Faida gladly took the gesture as an opportunity to leave. The guards she passed gave her some off-hand glances, but no one said a word. Even the one she had charmed had not been thoughtful enough to realize he'd been duped. She smiled as she made her way back to the Temple District, still a little surprised that she'd had a run-in with the Penitus Oculatus and come out on top. And she'd learned when the bodies were being moved, making the trip not a complete waste.
She couldn't wait to tell Asgen.

***

"Pssh! Yeah, and I'm Emperor Leovic!"

"It's true!" Faida couldn't believe her brother. Well, more accurately, he refused to believe her. And it was infuriating. "He was standing less than ten feet away. He looked right past me!"

"Okay, right." Asgen knew his sister was probalby telling the truth, and he was actually rather impressed with the story. But it was a lot funnier to make her think he didn't. I'll congratulate her later. For now... "Well, while you were hiding in curtains, the scribe and I braved the heart of the Temple District and learned the secrets of the city's downtrodden dead. It's actually kind of interesting... in a morbid sort of way" He gave the Christophe a nudge. "Go on, tell her."

Christophe had apparently been lost in his own thoughts, because Asgen's nudge brought him back into to the sibling's conversation. "What? Oh, yes, the bodies. According to the priest, there's a cave beneath the prison, into which water from the bay drains. They dump the bodies in that inlet, and they disappear beneath the city. Horrifying, isn't it?"

"Aye. Though I'd wager that whatever critters live down below love it." Faida paused, thinking. "I learned that they'll be moving out the bodies tomorrow morning. As well as that the Penitus Oculatus," she glared at her brother, "are investigating the Silver Brigade. It turns out someone's been killing them."

Asgen grinned. "Oops."

"Yes, oops. Though it might be a blessing. If they're looking into the Brigade, they won't likely be letting them leave these next few days, meaning Senna's still gonna be up north with half her men missing when we go after her. And if none of them are leaving the city, we can rule out their chances of getting Sosia's body back. Though as long as it's been sitting there, I'm not sure they'd even want it."

"So she's getting a watery funeral after all." Asgen said, less than pleased. "I don't suppose we can intercept her before she gets dumped in with the slaughterfish."

"Asgen, we're this close to being a part of the investigation ourselves. All that they're lacking is our identities. What do you think will happen if we attack a wagon full of Brigadier corpses?"

"We'll confuse them even more?" Asgen shrugged. "So, what are we gonna have to draw straws to see who jumps in?"

"Draw straws?" Faida's brow arched. "I just infiltrated a crime scene and hid from an Oculatus Inspector while you asked a priest some questions. You're going in."

"You allegedly did all that." her brother teased.

"You're the athletic one!"

"And you know magic!" Asgen's shoulders slumped. "But fine. I'll do it. But I expect you to come up with something that will keep away those fish. And I mean it. The Rumare slaughterfish are vicious, and I'll bet that the corpse dump site's got to be a favorite of theirs."

"I'll come up with something." Faida promised. "Now come on, let's give Christophe his room back. We're gonna want to be up early tomorrow. Pre-dawn. We don't know when the... I guess... funeral?"

"Funeral sounds right."

"Alright then, we don't know when the funeral will be taking place, so we're going to want to get there very early. We can't risk missing this."
Faida realized that she and Asgen had more or less excluded Chrisophe entirely. It was strange having a third member. She looked at him now. The scribe did not look bothered to have been left out of the planning, but she had to make sure. "Is there anything you want to add, Christophe? Any thoughts or ideas?"

Christophe gave an apologetic look, which the twins didn't expect. He cast his eyes down to his bag and rifled through it for a few moments before producing a scroll. "I should have mentioned this sooner. It's an invisibility scroll, and one that lasts a good deal longer than any we could afford. It would have been safer than how you snuck into the manor. Maybe we can use it now, though, to get the body. Or avoid whatever creatures live in those caves."

The twins exchanged a glance. Asgen saw shock in his sister's eyes, and Faida saw humor in his, though she knew her brother well enough to recognize when it was genuine and when it masked something else. This time was among the latter sort. 
"You're right." he said, with a chuckle. "With that, Faida might not've needed to hide from her scary 'wolf man'. But there's nothing for it now. Do you have any other incredibly valuable university tools hidden down in that bag of yours?"

"Nothing else, unfortunately. I originally had two more invisibility scrolls, but I used them to escape from the Oculatus myself. They like to monitor the Embassy's letters, and the one I'm carrying need not be seen by the Empire," Christophe said.

"That's... concerning." Asgen wasn't going to pester the Breton for details of the letter. He had done enough of that already, with no success. "Just go ahead and put that back away for now. I ain't planing on going into no caves. Bodies don't sink that fast. It's the fishes I'm worried about."

"And slaughterfish hunt by smell as much as sight." Faida added. "Still, keep the scroll close. No doubt we'll need every advantage we can get when we go after Senna."

Christophe nodded and put it back in his bag. "Let's hope we won't have to use it before then. Like if the Oculatus comes sniffing around."

"From what I saw, I'm not sure if three scrolls would be enough." Faida smiled tiredly. "I'll be glad to be on the road again, and away from this city. I don't know about you two, but to me it feels like a rope is being drawn around it."

"Right." Asgen pushed his sister toward the doorway. "You must be sleepy. Analogy ain't your style, Sis. Let's get some rest. G'night, Scribe."
After the door was closed behind them, the twins shared another glance. "You don't think we need to be worried about that, do you?" Asgen asked as they made their way to their own room.

"What?" Faida rolled her eyes, "So you'll believe the Scribe had a run-in with the Penitus Oculatus, but not me?"

"Absolutely."

She punched him on the arm. "I think it's just all the more reason to get out of this place as soon as possible. In fact, I wouldn't be the least bit upset if we could be saddled up and ready to leave the moment we're done at the lake."

"I was thinking the same thing, which is why I'm going to stay up for a bit and pack for the both of us. I'll even drop in on Sele in a bit so he knows to do the same. Now get some sleep, Sis. I know you had an eventful day."

***

Dawn came, and under its light the trio crouched at the edge a wooded stretch of land on City Isle. The inlet mentioned by the Priest of Arkay was roughly fifty yards to the north, and they had tied up Ulf and Rose to a tree another fifty yards to the south, where they were guarded by protective runes that Faida had carved into the surrounding land and trees.

"It's all about patience." Asgen was saying to Christophe as they laid in wait. "People it's rare that people actually go about their important business at sunrise. It might be one in a twenty who actually do. But in our line of work, you can't afford to miss that one, which is why we're out here laying in the bleedin' dirt while the corpse draggers are probably still snoring in their half-cold beds."

Not quite. Faida thought. She squinted her eyes to better make out the distant figures who'd just come into sight. She whispered, "I think that's them."

"What?" Asgen turned, incredulous. "I don't see anyone."

"Over by the city wall. Way back." She held out a finger. "Look where I'm pointing. They've got a cart. No, two carts... And some folks on foot."

Asgen saw them now. Two carts and some walkers, as his sister had said. He turned back to Christophe. "Well bugger what I just said, then. Who'd have thought corpse draggers would be the one in twenty?"

"Well, it's possible they wanted to get rid of the bodies quickly, before the Silver Brigade could raise a stink. Or before the bodies themselves could." Christophe chuckled quietly, as the carts and their keepers were drawing closer. 

They were almost to the inlet now. The twins counted nine men, or women. It was hard to tell through the brown sack cloth robes most of them wore. Once the procession reached the water's sandy edge, the tallest of the figures stepped apart from the rest and began to speak. It was impossible to make out the words from this distance, but his tone was grim.

And then, as he still spoke, two of the others hoisted a naked male corpse from the cart and heaved it into the water.
"Shit." Asgen muttered under his breath. That tall man was a priest, there to save the dead some dignity by bestowing their funeral rites. "I'd hoped they'd dump them all and be done with it."

Faida agreed that the Imperial practice was a massive inconvenience. If Faida went in too early, there was nothing they could do to keep her from getting devoured by slaughterfish. Though they were safe at the moment at least. "They've only dumped men so far." she pointed out as the acolytes tossed in a third corpse from the front cart. She was about to add something else, but stopped when the next body to be lugged up was a dark-haired female. She agreed with her brother again. "Shit... Here, take these." she handed Asgen the two mixtures she had concocted that morning. "Don't get these mixed up. The clear goes on your skin. It'll keep off the fish. The pink's for drinking. It's how you'll breath."

Asgen sighed as he took the pink vial. "I remember this stuff..." he glanced at Christophe. "Foul's too kind a word." Looking back at his sister, he asked, "And you're sure the repellent will work?"

"Well... I've never tested it... but I don't see why it wouldn't."

"Great. At least if things get bad, I won't be able to drown myself before the fish eat me alive."

The procession had moved on to the second cart now. They tossed in another female, also dark-haired. That gave the Tynes hope. The next two corpses were male, and then one last female, a Redguard. Asgen began to grow antsy as the carts were wheeled around, but the Priest remained in place, still speaking to, or for the dead. 
"Come on, man!" Asgen hissed. "Hurry up!"

Eventually, after much longer than any of that dead rabble probably deserved, the Priest and his acolytes turned and began to depart. By then, Asgen had already stripped down to his underwear and coated himself in the slimy clear stuff his sister had made. In his left hand was the water breathing potion, and in his right was his dagger.
"How do you expect to use that?" Faida asked.

"Hopefully, we won't find out." he answered. And then, as of Arkay's devoted marched off, he broke out of the woods at a dead sprint. Don't turn around. he thought at them. Don't you dare turn around!
They didn't turn around, and so Asgen safely came to a stop at the edge of the water, where he downed Faida's potion in one gulp. It was thick like mud, but tasted far worse. He felt his throat shift and stretch to let it all down, and in the potion's place was a strange tingly sensation that flared up every time he inhaled. With one last breath of real air, Asgen placed his dagger between his teeth and climbed down into the water... where he continued to breath no differently than he had before. 

The Rumare was clearer than he'd expected. This inlet was nowhere near as murky as some of the areas that got more traffic. But it was dark. And deep. As Asgen swam away from the shore, the sand below quickly disappeared into nothingness beneath him. Just focus on the job. he told himself. Not the darkness or the monster-infested caves below...

The bodies were not far from him now. There were twelve in all, slowly drifting down into the blackness. The Redguard who'd been dumped last was the first to greet him, her dead eyes set in a blank stare. Asgen shivered. Why did it feel like she was looking right at him?

Down further he swam, pinching his nose every few feet to blow, so as to balance out the pressure in his head. Next, he passed a male Nord. Unfamiliar. The third corpse he came to, however, was a dark-haired woman. He turned her over and frowned in disappointment. This one was not Sosia. She was far too old and lacked the neck scar Silver was known for. He was going to push her away, but instead, out of nowhere, the dead woman was torn from his grasp and dragged several yards away. 
Asgen's surprise was so great that he nearly gasped and lost his dagger, but he settled for letting his heart skip a beat instead. The slaughterfish had come out of nowhere, a dark arrow in the water, longer and wider than his arm. He could see it now, ripping into the flesh of its stolen prey, releasing a thin trail of black blood that drifted up in the water like smoke.

Overcoming the shock of what he had just seen, Asgen turned his attention back downward, thankful for Faida's spriggan piss, or whatever in the world it was that his sister had coated him with. He was quite deep now, and the next female corpse was deeper still. At least he thought it was. The dim morning sun seemed to be having trouble piercing all the way down here, and at this point most of the dark masses looked the same. He swam on anyway, grabbing the next corpse he spotted, a quick feel of it confirmed that it was male. As was the next.
Something fast and slimy brushed against his leg, making him jerk away. The slaughterfish darted off as well, but when he looked up, he spotted its silhouette tearing into one of the corpses he had already passed. There were several of them now, fighting over the corpses. No doubt they had been drawn by the scent of blood.

Keep going. he told himself, praying that there would be enough of Sosia left to recognize by the time he found her. The next corpse was male again, and then... finally, after going so deep that he could've sworn that he was starting to feel the pull of the caverns down below, Asgen's arm wrapped around a female figure. In the darkness, there was only one way to tell it was the one he sought. He fumbled around for her neck, and felt the long, rough bundling of scar tissue he had hoped for. Desperate to get out of here as soon as possible, Asgen pulled one of her arms over his shoulder and began kick his way upwards. The weight of the water was stronger going up, and Sosia's own weight certainly did not make his task any easier. Eventually, he reached the last body he had passed and found it now lacked an arm.
Another slaughterfish shot by.

Asgen's kicking became furious. They were everywhere now. Dozens of them, jumping from one corpse to the next. His eyes widened when one of the razor-snouted monsters came straight at him, but then veered off mere inches away from his face. 
Faida's repellent may have shielded him, but he soon found that the body of Sosia had been granted no such protection. It, and he along with it, was very forcefully jerked off to the right as one of the beasts slammed into the corpse's legs. When Asgen looked down, he saw that Sosia's body now lacked a left foot.

He kicked all the harder, pushing up, straight through the throng of fish, blood, and bodies. Even the repellent did not keep them away from him entirely. Scales and fins brushed Asgen on the legs and stomach, and once, one of the slaughterfish actually braved a nip at his belly before deciding it did not like the taste.
He was getting close now. The color of the water had gone from black to a dim green. He felt a jolt as another fish ventured a bite at his shoulder before swimming away. Another tore a chunk off of the corpse's cheek. The force of it dragged Asgen back down several feet. That's it! 

He let go of Sosia's corpse, only to catch it by the hair. He then used his free hand to 'unsheathe' the dagger from his teeth. He lowered it to the exact spot where the woman had suffered her fabled wound in life, and he started to cut. Dark blood oozed from the wound, no doubt drawing the attention of every fish in the lake, but Asgen did not care. He worked through the flesh, through the bone, and then through the flesh again, until it was finally free. Instantly, a team of slaughterfish, assaulted the headless corpse, but Asgen had already turned away from it. With the head in one hand and his dagger in the other, he swam upward feeling light as a feather. He swam past the first dark-haired corpse, now torn to pieces, past the two men, past the Redguard, until at long last, Asgen could see sand again. It was beautiful.

When he emerged, he chucked the head ashore and waded after it as it rolled. Once Asgen had put ample distance between himself and the water, he fell onto his back and began to swallow the clean, unbloodied air. A concerned Faida and Christophe were looking down at him. "You're hurt." his sister pointed out, already preparing a spell. To her surprise, the scribe was already kneeling down beside her preparing to help with healing magic of his own.

As for her comment, Asgen didn't even answer, he just laid there and stared at the sky. After a long while, he forced himself to sit upright. Nodding to his sister, he said, "Next time, you're going into the water."

"Next time." Faida promised. "You did good. Now we've just got to deal with the living one."

"And the head," Christophe said, having retrieved what was left of Sosia Silver once Asgen's wound had closed. He was using his robes to wipe away the water and sand, and it looked like he was swaddling the world's most disturbing baby.

"And the head." she agreed. "It's already gotten pretty bloated. Best if we get back to the horses and tar it now."

"Do you think he'll recognize it?" Christophe asked, handing it off to Faida as the walked briskly toward the horses. They left Asgen behind, wearing a faux dejected look, though he still wasn't quiet ready to leaving his lounging position. 

"He won't need to recognize it," she answered. "Senna will. All the more reason that we can't afford not to take her alive."

"Should we fail, I'll be happy to vouch for the head's identity to your employer. For all the good the word of a scribe will do," Christophe said. "Of course, seeing as he hired you for this job in the first place, I imagine he trusts you more than a common sellsword."

"He trusts we want his money. I'm not certain he has much reason to go beyond that."

"I'm willing to do my part so you two get that money. And Erer too, who is likely more helpful than myself," Christophe said. The eagle was sitting on a tree near the horses, guarding the mounts along with the runes Faida had cast. "I'll probably need to get a horse of my own, before we get too far from the city."

"You can ride double with me until we reach the bridge." Faida offered. "The stable there should have something affordable." 

"Thank you. I wouldn't mind walking, but seeing as we are in a hurry I'll not slow us down by doing so," Christophe said.

"Good."
When they arrived at the horses, Faida dropped the head and started rummaging through her pack for the thick glass jar that contained the tar. Once she'd found it, she rolled back her sleeves, knelt down, and set to work applying a thick layer of the stuff to their new 'prize'.
Without looking up, she said to Christophe, "Now your letter, I know it ain't our business what you're carryin' for King Adrard. But seeing as how the three of us are already pushing the boundaries with some dangerous folks in that city over there, I've gotta ask, for my sake and my brother's, is it something we should be worried about?"

"I wish I could say. I know the Penitus Oculatus were after me initially, but I used an invisibility scroll, so I don't know how they could have followed me. But if they figure out where I am, they will be coming after me, rest assured. Though they do not know the nature of my letter. All they know is I disappeared mysteriously, and with the scrutiny placed on the Breton Ambassador, that is more than enough to warrant a hunt. So in truth, it is me they're after, and not the letter."

"Wonderful... I suppose there's nothing to be done for it now."
When Faida was finished, she dropped the severed head into a burlap sack and tied it to Ulf's saddle. It was not long after that Asgen caught up with them, still half-naked and a little pale. He found his bundle of clothes and gear beside a tree where he'd left them.

"Let's get out of this place." he said while dressing. "Between sellswords, Oculatus, and the gods damned slaughterfish, I think we can all agree that we're about done with it."

"I know I'm ready to be away from the smell, at the very least," Christophe said. 

"You and me, both." Faida laughed and pulled herself up onto Rose. The horse threw its head back in acknowledgement of its owner, and probably to show gratitude that it had been Ulf, rather than her, who had been forced to carry the stinking severed head. The male horse was already looking at its own owner with what Faida could swear was indignation.
"Here," she held out a hand for the scribe and helped him climb on behind her just as Asgen mounted his own steed.

It took several hours to cross the island off-road in order to reach the stables. Beyond that brief stop to procure Christophe a horse of his own, the trio had no intentions on stopping again until they were good and far away. The Imperial City had been pretty, for sure, but in the end it proved to be rather unforgiving to foreigners will ill-intent. Neither twin voiced the exact words aloud, but after crossing the bridge and moving onto Red Ring Road, the same thoughts were going through their minds. Good riddance.

[Witchking of Angmar]

Mila
Cropsford
 

The journey to Cropsford had been long and exhausting. Never in Mila's life had her arms ached half so much as they did after so many hours of rowing upriver. On the first day, she had needed to bring her little jetty ashore twelve different times just to rest. On the second day, it was even more than that. By the third day, however, it seemed that her poor muscles were finally getting used to all the torture, for Mila managed to row the entire morning and afternoon with only six stops in total, two of which were not even because she had grown tired.
It was the forth morning when she came upon the bridge Alva had mentioned. After hiding the little boat she'd grown so familiar with beneath some fallen branches, the girl started the long, uneventful walk north. She spent five days alone on the road, not once passing by a fellow traveler or even seeing any interesting wildlife besides the odd deer, snake, or squirrel.

Her efforts were rewarded though, when the fifth day's evening brought the bustling town of Cropsford into Mila's sight. That last mile or so brought her past several locals. Farmers mostly, by the looks of their clothing and the things they carried. Mila kept her head down and ignored their stares as she treaded on past. 
Night had only just fallen when Mila reached the town, and the moons combined with the last slivers of light from the previous day allowed Mila to make out the details on some of the buildings. Most of them were built of stone, with thatch roofs and glass windows. The house she sought, with the apple tree out front, was one of the first she spotted.

Just go up and knock. the girl thought, hoping that the person receiving her would forgive the rugged appearance her travels had left her with. He'll help you. Alva said he'd be happy to.
Taking a slow, deliberate breath, Mila walked up to the door and knocked.

Several seconds went by, and then she heard a click, followed by the door opening to reveal a candle-bearing older man with rugged gray hair and a thick, droopy mustache. These features were plain, however, compared to his empty left eye socket. When he spoke, his voice was course, and low. "Can I help you, girl?"

Mila blinked. "Yes, um... are you Alva's father?"

"Yes. What's she done?"

"Nothing! Well, not exactly nothing. She uh, she said you could help me. Give me a place to stay... at least for a bit."

"I've already got three daughters." Alva's father grumbled. "And a son... Why's she dumping another mouth on me?"

"She wrote a letter." Mila said, digging for it her rucksack. "It should should explain everything." She found it. "Here."

He took it and held up his candle for light. "Seal's broken."

"Yeah," Mila scratched her head. It had been a long trip to Cropsford. There were points when she would have done anything to stave off the boredom. "I read it..."

The old man grunted and turned his eye down to the paper. It poured across it several times, straining in the dim light. When he was done, he looked at her as if it was for the first time. "Right then... uh, come on in. Hreke will fix you something to eat."

She followed him into the house. It was cozy enough, and very warm compared to outside. But it appeared that the room she had stepped into was the only one.
There was a fireplace at the back. The kettle above it was being tended by a blonde girl who looked to be to be around Mila's age. At her side stood a boy with similarly golden hair. He might have been a couple years younger. Both of them stopped what they were doing to stare at Mila.

"Hreke, you're cooking for four now." The old man said, waving for her to get back to it. "And Jori, put together some blankets on the floor."

"Is she staying here for the night, father?" the young boy asked. 

"Yes, she is. Her name's Matilda. And she's been on her feet for s long time. So you'll be giving up your bed tonight, okay?"

"There's no need for that." Mila cut in. "I'll sleep on the floor. That's nothing compared to..."

The old man held up a finger, still looking at the boy. "Okay?"

"Yes, Father." Young Jori made his way over to the right side of the room, where three beds were all made up. The larger of the was beside the far wall, and two smaller two were arranged by the close one.

"Make yourself at home." The old man said, motioning to the other side of the room, which consisted of some cabinets and a round wooden dinner table set up to seat six. "We'll talk after you've had some food and rest. My name is Kuslaf. Let me or Jori know if you need something."

Kuslaf had not lied about his daughter's cooking. Within the hour, Hreke had finished up a venison and tomato stew mixed with a pinch of fire salt and something called Dryad Saddle. Every bite sent a tingle down Mila's throat and into her gut that made her anxious for the next. It took her far too long to realize that she was pigging out on the meal in front of her hosts, who had barely even began to eat.
"So you like it?" Hreke asked in a small voice.

Mila put her spoon down and tore off a piece of the bread she had been given. Mouth half full, she nodded enthusiastically, which made the Nord girl beam. The food Alva had given her had been no less plain than what she'd had on the Imp's Tail, and had only been just enough to keep her from going hungry on the journey. It had been a while since Mila had eaten this well.

"So where did you come from?" asked Jori. "Where are your parents?"

"Don't pry, Jori." the boy's father said. "Matilda is a friend of Alva's. So we're helping her. Her past is her business."

"Yes, Father." the boy grumbled. The silence that followed did not last long, though. Because Jori piped up once again. "So where'd you get that dagger?"

"Jori!" Kuslaf put his spoon down.

"What? I'm just asking about the dagger-"

"I got it in the Imperial City." Mila cut in, not liking how much trouble the boy was getting in on her account. Of course, the dagger she spoke of was Anrich's curved steel blade at her belt. The more valuable one Boldir had made for her was carefully hidden in her bag. "A man with gray hair who was too old to use it said that I could have it for just a few coins."

"You get to carry coins? As in, gold?" Both the children's' eyes were wide with shock. "How much do you have right now?" Hreke asked, "Do you buy your own toys? I have some toys if you want to see them. My doll, Kintyra-"

"She doesn't want to play with dolls!" Jori interrupted, folding his arms.

"How do you know?"

"Look at how she's dressed!" He smiled at Mila, "When we're done eating, I've got something to show you."

That 'something' turned out to be Jorri's own toy collection. There were a couple of carved soldiers and a broken puppet head, but it was the wooden sword that made Mila inhale deeply. "You like it?" Jorri grinned, taking out the toy weapon. In the firelight, she could see the boy's name crudely carved into the blade.

"I used to have one." she muttered. That set Jorri off. Bug-eyed and excited, the child began to recount to her the many adventures he'd been on with his trusty weapon at his side, of the 'hardships' they had faced and the 'monsters' they had slain. He described to her the evil goblins who lived in a cave across the street, and the wicked witch in her tower two houses down. He described them, but all Mila could see was Whiterun. Her friends Lars and Lucia, even Braith. She had not thought of them in so long. Are they still children? Do they still play with toys and dream about adventures?
Mila pushed them away. "I'm sorry, Jorri. I don't play with it anymore."

"Oh," He looked disappointed. "Alright then. Well what do you play with? Not dolls, I hope."

"Jorri, come here." Kuslaf called from across the room. "We need to have some words."

"Uh oh."

The boy dropped his sword and left Mila alone by his toy trunk. She cast one last glance at the wooden weapon and moved over to sit on the bed she'd been given. Hreke was on the one next to it, silently brushing her doll's straw hair. It was a long time before the Nord girl finally asked, in a shy, quiet voice, "Are you from Skyrim?"

"Huh? Why would you think that?"

"It's just, the way you talk sounds..." the child averted her eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry?"

"I don't... for prying, I guess. I'm sorry."

It was a little more annoying the second time. "Don't apologize to me if you didn't do anything."

"Right, I'm s-..." the girl nodded and her voice grew even quieter. "Okay."

After that, Hreke did not say much of anything. Even Jorri, after finishing his talk with his father, seemed a lot less chatty than he had been before. That was fine with Mila. She was more than ready for some sleep.

***

Boldir
Temple Sewers
 

"I can't believe Anrich didn't tell me about this sooner." Gwella made Boldir lay down flat on his cot while she prodded at his injuries. "He called your wounds scratches. Scratches! This cut on your hand goes all the way to the bone! And you've got more broken bones than any thief I've ever treated. I don't know what's more amazing, that you've been walking all this time or that you haven't got an infection living down here."

"It looks worse than it is." Boldir muttered. Though in truth, he knew he was in a bad state. Every movement was painful. Not so much as when he'd been burned, but painful nonetheless. And his left arm, well... catching that sword had been the last time he'd managed to use it for anything at all.

"I'll decide how bad it is, okay?" The Priestess of Stendarr ran a gentle, golden spell over his palm, making the pain go numb in place of a strange tingly feeling. "I can heal your hand. But you waited too long for me to prevent scarring. And if you aren't careful, you'll run the risk of breaking the weakened threads and opening it again. And I probably won't be there to fix it then."

"I'll be careful." he promised. "What about the shoulder and ribs?"

"That... might be a little trickier. Especially the shoulder. I can fix bones when they're not used to being broken, but these... They've already found themselves new ways to sit. I'll do what I can, but there will be pain. And, well... I'm no master. I cannot promise that this will be as clean a healing as you'd like."

"Will it make my arm work?"

"Not with the strength it did before. And it will be a long time before you're fit to fight again."

Boldir's head fell back onto the pillow. Everyone he had a reason to fight was dead now, anyway. "Go on then."

She started with the hand. He couldn't see what the Priestess was doing beyond the flickers of gold, blue and white that sprung up in the corner of his view, but when she was done, Gwella gave back his hand. He saw that the skin had indeed pulled back together to meet in a long pink scar. "Don't close that fist too tight." she reminded him. "Or you could break it again. The bones and deeper wound should be okay though. Now," she frowned, sliding a leather belt between his teeth. "On to the nasty part."

The Priestess of Stendarr had promised Boldir pain, and pain he got. While the magic wormed its way through him like the fast-growing roots of so many plants, his muscles yanked and pulled on each other as if in a race to regrow and fill the void left by their damaged companions. The bones were the worst part. He could feel them, shifting, shaking, even rattling together sometimes as they reshaped and rearranged themselves to what he hoped were their proper places. On several occasions, Boldir audibly screamed through the belt, which his teeth clamped down on so hard he feared he might bite through it.
When it was over, both Boldir and the Priestess were sweating like a pair of lovers, though the experience wasn't nearly as pleasurable.
"You're better... I think." Gwella leaned against a wall, obviously drained from the procedure. "Try sitting up."

Boldir did as he was bid. The healed areas were tender and sore, and the movement was painful, though it was the nipping of a flea compared to what had come before. The important part was that he felt intact. No longer did cracked bones rub against one another with every twitch. He slowly rolled his left arm in its socket, testing the way it moved.
"Everything feels like it's in the right place." He could see the relief flood across his healer's face. Obviously, she had not often treated wounds this severe in her service to the guild. "Still feels like I was on the bad end of a troll's charge."

"I told you it would." She smiled a kindly smile. "And it will continue to hurt for some time. But pain's less likely to keep you from getting your daughter home than a mess of broken bones and open wounds."

"Thank you."

"Thank the gods, friend. They are the ones who set me on this path. And it is Stendarr's mercy that showed me that even criminals may be deserving of his blessing."

"Tell him I said 'thank you' then."

The Priestess stared at him curiously. He was about to ask what was wrong when she finally spoke up. "You wear a similar look to your daughter. Not as angry, mind you. But I can see that you have no love for my god."

Boldir nodded. "You're right. I mean you no offense, Priestess, especially after you've healed me, but I'd rather be thanking you than Stendarr. He's not one of the Nine that I've grown soft towards these past few years."

"Maybe that can change."

Boldir doubted that. Carlotta had prayed devoutly to the Nine and only suffered for it in the end. "Until it does, I'll stick to thanking you, if it's all the same."

"It isn't. But you will continue to be welcome, regardless. I pray that you and Mila both can understand that."

He snorted and rotated his arm again. "You don't have to convince me." Boldir paused, looking the Nord woman over. Even in her unshapely green robes, she was pretty, with long blonde hair and a warm smile. What she was doing in a place like this was beyond him. Somehow, he doubted Stendarr had actually told her to come down here. "Why are you so concerned with us?" he asked. "Gray Cap tells me that you were as determined to help Mila as he had been, yet it sounds like she didn't even like you if she knew you at all."

"Is it so hard to believe that there are some who truly care for the broken people of this world?"

"I'm not broken."

"You were. Minutes ago your bones were in pieces, and I healed you. And in a less literal sense, you are from a family that's been fractured. Do you mean for me to believe that you'll ever feel whole again if you do not find Mila?"
When he didn't answer, Gwella continued. "She was even worse off than you. Where you have taken what's left and committed it to finding her, Mila has left it behind. I did not know her before she joined the Guild, or even for most of her time as a member, but I could see the sadness in her eyes, try as she might to hide it. Could the girl you knew in Skyrim have brought herself to kill Sibbi Black-Briar?"

Boldir's face darkened. "You presume too much." He could not bring himself to say more. Not out of respect for the Priestess as his opinion on Stendarr had been, but rather because Boldir genuinely had nothing truthful to add. It felt wrong, listening to a stranger speak of Mila like she knew her better than he did, but Boldir knew in his heart that she was not lying. Mila the child would never have been capable of murder. Not even if it was Sibbi. She may have talked and boasted of what she'd have done, but it would have been just that: Hot-headed, childish, empty talk. Mila had changed.

"Forgive-"

"Please, drop it. Mila's been through a lot, I understand this. Once she's home, she'll never suffer again. I'll make sure of that before it's all done." It was the most he could hope to accomplish at this point. No god was so merciful as to undo the suffering she had already experienced.
"Let's just... let's go back to the main chamber. I'll bet the sellsword heard my wailings through the walls."

Boldir was surprised to find the rounded chamber he'd been living in occupied by more than just a chained-up Stoit. Three figures sat around the table in the middle of the room. Anrich was one of them. The two others, however, were unfamiliar. One was an angry-looking Redguard man with long braided hair and tattoos all over his face. Next to him sat a Nord woman. Had Gwella not been standing right next to him, Boldir might have mistaken it for her. This woman also had long blonde hair, though hers was tied back. And her face, while narrower and less serious, had a similar beauty to it. The biggest difference was their attire. Where the Priestess was dressed in robes that hid her figure, this newcomer donned a leather vest and corset that was more revealing than most outfits worn in the wintertime.

"Alva?" The Priestess stepped forward, a look of surprise on her face. "What are you doing here? I thought you were in Bravil."

"Hey Sis." replied the woman at the table, confirming Boldir's suspicion. "I was in Bravil... For an hour or so. But Lon was rather insistent that I come back with Captain Silif here."

The Redguard next to her grunted. "She disobeyed her Captain's orders and released a girl he'd taken prisoner."

"A girl named 'Matilda.'" Anrich added. "Sound familiar?" Boldir's heart skipped a beat, but before he could say anything, the thief went on, "Only problem is, this one," he pointed a finger at the woman apparently named Alva, "won't tell us where she escaped to."

"You've seen Mila?!" Boldir stepped up to the table. "Where- How is she? Is she safe? Comfortable?"

"She's both." Alva said, studying him. "More so than she's been in a long time, I wager. She's far away from this city, and she'll be staying that way too... I think I'll be keeping her far away from all of you as well."

"Alva-" Gwella started, but was quickly interrupted by Boldir.

"I'd beg to differ." he said, hiding the relief he felt behind the frustration that accompanied it. "If you know where my daughter is, I suggest you tell me now."

Even as Boldir towered over her, Alva seemed unfazed. "The lass I helped has no father. She made it wisp-piss clear that Sibbi Black-Briar did him in. Her mother too. So I don't know who you are, but I don't think you're that."

"She was mistaken." Anrich said firmly. "Our friend here was poisoned, yes, but unbeknownst to the girl, he lived."

"It's true." Gwella said. "Boldir wants to take Mila home. Not kidnap her."

Alva still eyed Boldir with nothing but suspicion. "That's about the sort of story I'd expect some rich man to come up with to give a lackey hired to steal her away."

Boldir balled his fists. "The rich man you're talking about, Sibbi Black-Briar; he's dead. He can't hurt Mila. If you don't believe me, go out to the streets and ask someone. It's not exactly a secret."

"That's what Gray Cap here tells me." Alva said, crossing her arms. "He also tells me that the girl did him in herself. If that's the case, then why'd she tell me she's on the run from him? Why did she stow away on our ship?" 

"Probably because she was scared." Boldir persisted. "She'd just killed a man and had no one to turn to. She wanted out of the city."

"Or, Black-Briar got ahold of Gray Cap in that raid, and set this up to catch the girl who knows his secrets. Matilda told me that he and his men would be here, waiting with open arms for us to deliver her to him. So here I return, only to find a man I've never seen before claiming to be her dead father, waiting with open arms for me to deliver her to him." Alva looked to the Priestess. "Come on, Gwel, even if I'm not being lied to right now, I know you've gotta see where I'm coming from."

"You don't need to look to her for that." Anrich said. "We all understand you're just trying to do right by the girl. If you need convincing, come topside with me and I can prove to you that Sibbi is dead."

"I don't know what the bastard looks like. Showing me bodies won't change anything. And neither will getting some paid fool's testimony." She threw her arms up in the air. "Or maybe the rich man faked his own death. He's desperate enough to try to kill her. Why not go as far as he can to bring her back?"

"Alva, listen to me." The Priestess stepped up and knelt down so that they were eye to eye. She took the sailer woman's hands in her own. "Mila's her name. Not Matilda. She used the same fake one with you that she used with Anrich for two months. She lied to you so you'd help her. But she's lost. She needs her father, she needs to get back home. You know I wouldn't lie to you, Sister."

Alva looked from Gwella to Boldir. For the first time, her guard seemed to waver. "I- You could be tricked as well."

"I'm not. I met Mila myself. Down here. After the raid. Sibbi had not found her, I promise you."

"Then you're really her father." Alva said to Boldir. "You don't look much alike."

"I married her mother." Boldir explained. "Her name was Carlotta. They looked alike, save for in the eyes. Carlotta's were blue. Mila's are brown."

"So they are." The sailer woman nodded. "Okay. Okay, you've convinced me. I'll tell you where your daughter is. But only if Gwel goes with you to find her."

Boldir glanced at the Priestess of Stendarr, then back to Alva. "Why?"

"Because if this has all been some masterful ploy and we've both been fooled, I trust my sister to do the right thing in the end. And also, well... Mila's with our father."

"You're kidding." Smiling, Gwella sighed and shook her head. "Of course that's where you'd send her. You were bound for Bravil. I'll bet you sent her right up the Corbolo River..."

"-And into the Niben Basin. Straight shot home." Alva grinned. "Father knows what I knew. I told him in a letter. So you'll be needing to go with Boldir to convince him the way you did me. I can write another letter too, to make that part a little easier."

"Why can't you just come yourself?" asked Boldir.

"I've got other commitments." responded the sailer woman, nudging the Redguard Captain beside her. "Lon wants me headed back to Bravil the moment our business is concluded. After disobeying him once already, I figure it'd be best to make the poor man happy this time."

"Will everything be okay?" Gwella asked.

"It'll be swell. You know Lon. He's too skittish to even consider coming back here until this has all been cleared up. Now that it has, I can tell him and he can get back to business as usual."

"Can I come too?"
Every eye in the chamber turned off to the far wall, where the mercenary Stoit sat in his bed, chained up and forgotten. "With Boldir, I mean. Not to Bravil. Give me my bow and I can help. I told you that's what I wanna do!"

"Who's the lad?" Alva asked.

"One of Sibbi's sellswords." Boldir frowned. "He claims he helped Mila escape back when she did. And he's been all too happy to tell me everything he could of her time in captivity."

"A truly regretful heart may find forgiveness from gods and men." Gwella preached. "I do not believe that there would be any harm in bringing the boy, but it is not my decision to make."

Stoit's eyes were wide and full of determination. Boldir could see that much. He knew of Sibbi's demise, knew that he had nothing to gain from betraying them, perhaps most importantly, he knew what Boldir had managed to do to his previous allies. He wouldn't likely stab them in the back. But there remained one question. "Why?"

"Because I owe you that much, at least." Stoit answered at once. "And Mila may hate me now, but that's because she doesn't know I let her get away. The two of us, we bonded in the Jeralls. Strange as it sounds, well... she's my friend."

The gods know she might could use some of those when this is over. "Alright." Boldir nodded more to himself than to Stoit. "You can come. But if you rub me the wrong way even once-"

"You'll do to me what you did to Ennaf and the rest. I got it."

"Good." There was another reason as well. A reason that Boldir preferred not to share with the room. Gwella had not known how long it would take for him to fully recover, but judging by the way every sudden movement sent jolts up his left side, he decided it would be best to bring along at least one person who could handle himself in a fight. Long roads were never guaranteed to be safe. And bringing the boy in no way meant that he would have to let his guard drop around him. "Unlock him, Anrich."

"You sure, Boldir?" the thief still looked a tad skeptical. "You and Gwella can handle yourselves, no doubt. But with the lad comin'-"

"He had a dozen chances to escape when I led him back through the sewers. It was dark and I was wounded. But he didn't. I believe him."

"If you say so. Far be it from me to dictate how a father goes about his quest."

The lad rubbed his wrists after the shackles came off. "Here," said Gwella as she moved over to his side, fingers already alight with magic. "Let me take care of that for you."

Within moments, the raw pink rings around Stoit's wrists had vanished, and the sellsword was grinning as he rotated his hands. They'll be a useful pair to have along. Boldir decided. And perhaps even good company. He was feeling good now. Perhaps the best he had felt since everything went wrong. Mila was safe, and like her, he would soon be away from this dreadful city.

***
Cropsford
 

"Matilda?"

Mila's eyes snapped open. There was sweat on her brow and her chest ached. Hreke and Jorri were looking at her with concern.
It was just another dream. She told herself. The girl must have cried or called out, to have drawn that much attention to herself. She put on her best attempt at a smile. "I'm alright." she told the children. "It was just a bad dream."
She was getting used to those.

That morning after breakfast, she took to the streets with Jorri in tow. Apparently there was something going on today. Some commotion about a priest from the city who'd arrived a couple days ago. Half the village had come out to listen to his sermon.

"Listen to me, 'o people of Cropsford. Toilers and travelers alike! Listen to me and hear my words!"
The Imperial man was older, as most priests seemed to be. He had a stern face half-concealed by the wide hood of his dirty gray robes.
" 'Heedless, the wicked man turns away, and forsaking the simple wisdoms granted to him by the all-wise and all-knowing Nine, he lives in sin and ignorance all the days of his life. he bears the awful burden of his crimes, and before Men and God his wickedness is known, and neither blessing nor comfort may he expect from the alters and shrines of the Nine!
"Yet the wicked and foolish are not doomed, for in their infinite mercies the Nine have said, Repent, and do good works, and the fountains of grace shall once more spill forth upon you!' "
The white-headed priest swiveled where he stood on his little wooden pedestal, turning so that he could face a different portion of the gathered crowd. 
"But I say now unto you, when the wicked know of the foolishness of their ways, and the foolishness are taught the wickedness of theirs, and both choose not to live in ignorance, but spitefulness, spitefulness in light of the Nine, who now shall they answer to? Is it for the gods to strike out in anger at all those who scorn them? No! It is for us, my brothers! us, my sisters! We are the instruments of the Nine! We are the hands with which Stendarr's justice may flood into this world! With which Talos's strength may lay waste to his enemies! It is for us to seek out the foolish and the wicked, those who spite their very creators, and cast them down!
"They live among you now, o' children of Cropsford! Outside your homes, but near enough to see. Bloody Hands they have, as their very name suggests! These evildoers have cultivated their wickedness throughout the century. The Divine Order has come! And with your help, we may finally cleanse evil from this land!"

"Bloody Hands?" More than a few of the villagers started to laugh.

"What's so funny?" Mila asked one. The Divine Order Priest reminded her a lot of Heimskr in the sense that she did not have a clue what he was talking about. "Besides his voice sounding like a wounded mammoth."

"The Bloody Hands are a goblin tribe." the villager replied. "A minor nuisance, really. And he's talking about starting a bleeding crusade against them all." The man turned and walked away, she heard him mutter to himself "Goblins." before he started laughing again.

Well that whole thing was... something. As crazy as the Priest sounded, Mila had half a mind to go and ask to join. After three days in boring old Cropsford, fighting goblins did not sound like such a bad thing. Besides Hreke the Meek, as Mila silently dubbed the girl in true Nordic fashion, the only children her age were a Breton boy named Grevin and an Imperial boy named Tullius, and all they ever wanted to do was play pirate, which looked ridiculous given that they were both going to be fifteen in the Spring.
Mila had tried to play her little pebble game with Jorri, but the boy could not sit still. Hreke had enjoyed it more, even though she could not win against Mila, but the girl still preferred to spend her time with a mortar and pestle. Besides, the nameless pebble game wasn't exciting enough to prevent boredom. 

There were chores to do, of course. The old man was kind enough to give her a roof to sleep under, but he did not expect her to freeload any more than he did his own children. Mila drew well water for the family to drink, she swept and dusted and kept their house clean, and she even washed some clothes that were not hers. She was surviving, but it was as if she was living someone else's life entirely. It had been that morning, before the goblin-hater had made his scene, when Mila came to the conclusion that she would not stay for much longer. She needed something... else. What that was, the girl did not know, but Cropsford was no home to her.
"Hey, Mila!" It was Jorri's voice she heard, somewhere in the dispersing crowd. "Over here."

She was still turning when she felt the tug on the skirt Hreke had given her. Jorri's gray eyes were wide like the two moons. "Was that the Priest? What's he talking about? Is it about the goblins!"

"He wants help in fighting them." Mila answered, putting a hand on the young boy's back and guiding him through the throngs of people, back toward his house. "According to him, they're wicked sinners."

"Pssh!" Jorri kicked a pebble, which just missed the shin of some older Breton lady. "Bloody Hands aren't tough enough to be wicked. Throw some rocks at them and they run away quicker than dogs."

"You've seen the goblins?"

"Course I have. Everyone has They live in caves, but they hunt outside. The woods are crawling with 'em."

"And that's never a problem?"

"Well I mean, they might steal a chicken once in a while. One time Tul's dog went missing and his Pa told him it was the Bloody Hands. Travelers come in asking for help sometimes, claiming they got attacked, but no one from Cropsford's ever seen it happen in person."

After all the stories Mila had heard about goblins, and even her own encounter with one in the Imperial City, she found it hard to believe that the ones out here were so timid. "Why are they called the Bloody Hands, then?"

"Well it's said that they used to be a lot more frightening. Story goes that they used to war with other goblin tribes in the area, and that they eventually killed them all. Back when Cropsford was first started, they burned it down and killed near everyone. But then some hero came and gave them such a thrashing that they learned to be afraid of humans for the rest of time."

"And now this Order wants to thrash them some more. I wonder why if they're really so harmless."

The boy shrugged. "I dunno. Tul told me that the man wanted to preach to them when he first showed up. But I don't think they know our words, so that's kind of dumb. Maybe it went bad."

Mila couldn't help but laugh at the image of the Order Priest trying to preach to goblins and giving up in anger. Jorri found it funny too, and the two of them ended up laughing all the way back to his house, where Kuslaf and Hreke were waiting. The shy girl looked more excited than Mila had ever seen. "Jorri, we're going to the city!"

The young boy's face lit up. "All of us?"

"All of us." Kuslaf confirmed. He looked at Mila. "Know anything about Cheydinhal, Matilda?"

"No." she admitted. There were those in the Waterfront who said that it was a beautiful city, more open and serene than the tightly-packed capital. But she felt like just telling the old man that she knew it was pretty would sound a little dumb. "I've never been there."

"Of course you haven't. Neither has Jorri. Hreke's in need of some things that can't be bought 'round these parts, and well, I've been promising Jorri he could come the next time we went. Doesn't seem right to leave you here by yourself. Are you up for traveling?"

"I am." The only times of late when Mila wasn't traveling were those when she was hiding. It would be nice to be bound for a destination that was safe for her, yet not as boring and tucked away as Cropsford.

***

The Red Ring Road

"A bandit, a sellsword, and a priestess were on a road. Sounds like the start of some joke... Hey, you with us, Boldir?"

"You said it sounds like a joke. I heard you, Stoit." Boldir hadn't answered, for he had been too busy scanning the distant road and wooded hills for any sort of threat. Robbers and Highwaymen would not dare to prey on travelers this close to the Imperial City, but Anrich had warned him that some of Black-Briars sellswords were still in the area, hoping to claim some unknown bounty in Skyrim. Boldir had already told his two companions to be on the lookout as well, and to be ready to kick their horses into galloping if need be. He would not be taken unawares.

"Though I suppose the punchline will have to wait until we get to Cropsford." The sellsword gave his reigns a light tap so that his paint would bring him up next to Gwella. "So Priestess, how long's it been since you've been to your village?"

"Ten years." she answered, her voice strangely solemn. "I went home to help with the birth of my brother, Jorri."

"Isn't that more the sort of thing a Priestess of Mara should be doing?"

"It is." She said no more.

That night, they made their way into a quaint little riverside village consisting of a couple dozen houses. A few people were still out, including a guard dressed in an old rusted iron cuirass. The man approached them carrying a torch. "Got business in Pell's Gate, travelers?"

"We're just looking for a place to stay for the night." Gwella answered.

"Talking Dog Inn's just by the river." the man pointed out a two story wooden building. "Don't make any trouble now."

"You sure this is a good idea?" Stoit whispered as the guard's torchlight drifted down his patrol route. "I mean, I'm a sellsword. And if I were patrolling Red Ring in hopes of catching a bounty, I'd spend my nights at the inn for sure. It's cozy, and the most likely place for my target to stop by."

"I agree." Boldir nodded. "I think it'd be best if we avoid spending time in towns until we've put more distance between ourselves and the city. We can make camp in the woods a little further down."
And so that's what they did. Their fur bedrolls were nowhere near as comfortable on the hard ground as an inn's fresh sheets might have been on a straw mattress, but all three of them were used to worse. And the cold night air was almost comfortable when it seeped into their Nordic blood. Boldir took the first watch while the others slept, and then, hours later, when it came to be Stoit's turn, he continued to lay awake. It was only after the lad had woken the Priestess, hours past midnight, that Boldir allowed himself to drift off.

He awoke the next morning to the smell of stewing rabbit. Stoit had lit a fire nearby, and was humming quietly to himself as he stirred. He grinned when he noticed Boldir was awake. "Caught us some breakfast." said the sellsword. "Glad you brought me, yet?"

Boldir's stomach grumbled the moment he sat up. "Aye. Now how long until- Wait, where's Gwella?"

"She went off to pray by Lake Rumare." Stoit said, nodding to the north. The woods north of the road were pretty narrow, and angled downward as the earth dipped down into the valley. It was just enough that one could see the tip of the White Gold Tower peeking over them. "I guess she likes to do it near the water."

"Or she prefers to be alone." Boldir didn't like that Gwella had left him with Stoit while he was unconscious. Though the boy had not tried anything during his shift, and everything continued to suggest that he was trustworthy, Boldir still did not want to put his fate entirely in the sellsword's hands. Still, he hadn't betrayed them yet. And last night would have been the optimal time to attempt such a thing. 
Oh well. What's done is done. Boldir stood up and stretched, only to immediately regret it. His bruised bones and sore, weakened muscles certainly did not appreciate the movement. Wincing, he went and sat by the fire. "How long did you say that stew would be?"

"I didn't. But probably another twenty minutes or so. You might not like the taste too much. I wouldn't know what to add even if we had something for it."

"Nor would I." Cooking had never been a skill Boldir had needed to learn. All his life, he'd had someone there to take care of that for him. He could make raw meat edible, but that was about the extent of it. "We can buy some things to add at the next village we come across. Spices or the like. If Gwella doesn't know anything about cooking either, we'll just have to try and figure it out together. I'm sure we've overcome greater."

"Overcome greater than what now?" The Priestess stood behind them in her usual dark green robes. Her hair was wet, and her face, spotlessly clean. Now it was obvious why she'd gone to the lake alone.

"Greater obstacles than learning how to cook." Stoit said, motioning for her to join them. "Turns out Boldir and I know about as much together as we do separate. Which is to say, next to nothing"

"Well that's one thing you need not worry about." Gwella grinned. "My mother was an alchemist. And she would use her skills for cooking. That woman was so good, she once was invited to cook for the Count of Cheydinhal, himself. And she taught Alva and me everything she knew. Even our kid sister has the gift, I hear."

"Well that's a relief." the sellsword mused. "So does that mean you'll know what to look for in the next village?"

"Next village? Maybe I should have told you, there are no more villages between here and Cropsford." The Priestess gave Stoit an encouraging smile. "It's no matter. I'm sure your rabbit will be delicious without."

To call Stoit's rabbit delicious would be like hailing a farmer as king. It was very gamey, with most of the meat's flavor overcooked out of it. But it served, and it wasn't awful. Most importantly, it filled them up enough to make the next few hours much more bearable. Though Boldir did have the problem of being rather tired from his secretly-long watch shift, but he wasn't a natural enough rider to feel comfortable dozing off in the saddle.
"Maybe try asking the Priestess to carry some of that burden." he heard Carlotta's voice whisper in his ear. "There's no reason you should go every night with so little sleep."

Boldir agreed. Cropsford was still several days away, and while he did not intend to watch Stoit forever, he did want to keep an eye open for the first few days and nights. Just to make good and sure they boy could be trusted. Surely Gwella would be willing to help with that.

"I'd rather not." the Priestess whispered that afternoon, after Boldir had taken her aside under the pretense of needing her healing abilities. "The boy is not deceiving us. You can see the truthfulness in his eyes."

"What, did Stendarr teach you that trick?"

"My father, actually. He's very good at telling liars by their eyes. Though I do believe I am better at it than him these days. Father has let the years fool him into believing he knows better than everyone, and that can cloud one's judgement."

"Of course." Boldir rolled his eyes. "But I don't know you well or your father at all. Why should I put faith in this lie-detecting magic of yours?"

"Well for one, you've already chosen to trust the boy." She reminded him. "Down in the sewers it was you who vouched for him."

"And I still believe I was right, and I want to be. It's just... that's still a risk. One that's payed off so far given his skill at hunting. But there's always the chance he could betray us. Just a few more nights. Until we're off Red Ring and city is far behind us. Can you do this for me?"

"It's not necessary." Gwella nodded. She cast a healing spell, pretending to run it over his hand so that Stoit would see the light if he'd happened to be watching. "But if it will bring you some comfort, yes, I will stay awake during his shift tonight."

Boldir felt a weight leave his shoulders. "Thank you... Now let's get back to camp. My hand's feeling much better now."

"Glad there was no screaming this time." Stoit laughed as they returned. "After listening to you down in the sewers, I dread her healing more than I do any actual injuries."

"Funny." the Priestess rolled her eyes. "It's true, I'm no master. But if you treat your wounds properly and come straight to me, I should be able to handle it without much, if any pain. It may even be soothing. Boldir made the numerous mistakes of fighting, climbing, running through a sewer, and waiting several days before getting help. Don't do those things, and we'll have no problems."

"Well, there aren't any sewers and you're rarely more than ten yards away, so we're clear on those fronts, at least."

It was mid afternoon when the trio came upon the Great Niben Bridge, the longest bridge in all of Cyrodiil. Supported by a series of stone columns as wide as houses, massive gray structure spanned the entire length of Niben River. From where they stood on the western shore, the trees on the eastern bank looked smaller than the nail of an outstretched thumb.
Stoit whistled, Gwella smiled, and Boldir frowned. If I was going to lay an ambush. This is where I'd plan to do it. 
Once they were on the bridge, there would be no direction to run or fan our save forward or back. A few archers or spearmen on both ends would be enough to pull it off with ease. "Is there any other way to reach the other side?"

"Two." Gwella answered. "We can follow the river down to Fort Alessia and ask the Legion for a ride across..."

"Or?" None of them were fool enough to think it would be a good idea to go to the Legion.

"Or we can double back and follow the entire Red Ring all the way around Lake Rumare, and head south from there. That would take a very long time."

And give any bounty hunters many more chances to find or ambush us. "Alright then. Forget it. Let's cross quickly. I don't want to be on this bridge any longer than we need to be."
He spurred his horse onward, it's shoed hooves 'clipping' and 'clopping' over the old cobblestone at a trot. The other two fell in on either side of him, which was easily enough done considering the path was wide enough for four or five horses to ride abreast. 
"You know," Stoit said after several minutes had passed in silence, "it may be dangerous for us right now. But it's hard to beat that view."

Boldir had been thinking the same thing. Off to their right was the great golden Niben, the widest river in the known world. Boldir had heard tales that there were points where entire lakes could be fit between her two distant shores. Until now, he had thought them to be exaggerations. The river was massive, and only seemed to widen further as it stretched past his mortal vision, ending in what he would have thought an ocean had he not known better.
The view to their left was a different sort of grand. The Imperial City, in all its strength and majesty, towered over its massive island like only the seat of an Empire could. Even miles away, it continued to exert his presence over them. Boldir looked back to the right. He had no desire to dwell on his time there.

"I crossed this bridge often as a girl." Gwella said. "My father always went to Cheydinhal when we needed something from outside Cropsford. But Mother was born in the capital when the Mede Dynasty was in its prime. This was long before we realized the Dominion were the threat they turned out to be. Mother would make the journey three, sometimes four times a year, to see her friends and take in the sights she'd grown up with. When I was old enough, she started taking me with her. It was something the two of us shared that no one else in the family ever could. Alva hated the city just like Father. And Hreke and Jorri have never even been."

"I think I'm with Alva on this one." Stoit muttered, to which Boldir silently agreed. "I'm not going to miss those walls."

"I think that's the case with most people these days." The Priestess's voice sounded sad. "It was never the same after the Dominion came. The people turned fearful, then hateful. Now they're both. I wouldn't expect a foreigner to find much to love unless they've spent their life dreaming about the Empire from their books and songs. And even then, once they have seen the outer layer: the beautiful gardens, the brave Legion, the grand statutes and dwellings... they'll find themselves saddened that it is all past its prime. The gardens overgrow, the statues wither and crumble, and the Legion is somber, its men preparing for a war from which many will not return. Even our dragon has lost its jewel."

"Then why do you stay?" asked Stoit. "Do you think it will get better some day?"

"I believe it's the will of the Nine that this Empire dies a slow death. But the gods still love their people, and a slow death need not be painful. If I can help in any way to make its last breaths as calm and gentle as possible, I will gladly do so."

"But it's not loyal Imperials that you're helping." the sellsword pointed out. "You heal thieves."

"And beggars. And common folk. And any others who come to me for aid. Stendar says: 'Protect the weak, heal the sick, and give to the needy.' It is not for his servant to deny that mercy to one group of sinners and not the next. I do not condone the Guild's thievery, strange as that may sound. But I have seen what they use it for. Their ill-gotten riches keep food and blankets in the Waterfront, while the ill-gotten riches of, say, people like Sibbi Black-Briar, or even our former Emperor, Amaund Motierre, tend to fund war and strife. Tell me, when the Empire finally draws its last breath, whatever the cause of that may be, who do you think will suffer more? The 'upstanding' nobles who've spent years hoarding what they own, or the thieves and beggars?

"The thieves and beggars, of course. Pa told me that the last time the Empire fell apart, the nobles went to fighting each other for the throne while. That's not exactly the behavior of a group that's barely scraping by. All the while, half of Cyrodiil's cities were reduced to wars in the streets as people fought for every scrap of food, gold, property... whatever they could get their hands on in the chaos. A man with nothing can't survive in a climate like that. Not without resorting to murder, at least."

"Exactly. So while I am happy to help all those who truly need it, I find myself drawn more towards the Guild because they bring peace and comfort to those who may one day be lost without it. They preserve the innocence of man by forbidding murder. They protect the weak and give to the needy. If Cyrodiil falls to infighting as it did before, I will be glad to know that with the Guild's help, the poor may have a chance of survival."

"We could've used someone like you in Riften."

"We had people like her." Boldir muttered, remembering the Temple of Mara. "It wasn't enough."

"Not enough to save Riften, perhaps. No more than I could hope to save the Empire. But can you say that these people like me did not ease things at all, for anyone?"

He could not. If not for those priestesses, he may very well have succumbed to his wounds that day. And he had been one of hundreds before the end. "No," he finally confessed. "They did."

"That's good to hear." Gwella laughed, all somberness suddenly gone. "Thanks for the assurance, Boldir. Perhaps this means I didn't spend the last few minutes speaking complete nonsense."

It was with great relief that Boldir and his companions eventually reached the end of the bridge without issue, and continued along the road northeast. It was growing dark now, though Gwella promised that they were nearing the end of Red Ring. "If we keep a steady pace, we'll reach Cropsford tomorrow evening." she said as they made camp in a small forest clearing about thirty yards south of the road. She put a hand on Boldir's shoulder. "Your wounds make you tired. As your healer, I command you to get some sleep. I'll take both our watches tonight."
That would mean she had no intention of sleeping at all. Or has she already forgotten her promise to watch Stoit during his shift? A wink from the Priestess confirmed to Boldir that she had not. 
"Don't worry. I'm not tired. Now get some rest."

"Hey, I'm a little tired." Stoit said from his bedroll. "Want to take my shift as well?"

"I'm only human." she answered with a grin. "Sorry, Stoit. Maybe another time."

Whatever was said after that, Boldir did not know, for sleep took him instants after he had found a comfortable position to lay in.

~~~

"Boldir." It was Gwella who woke him. Her voice was so quiet he could barely hear it. The Priestess is taking care of it tonight. he thought groggily, refusing to open his eyes.
"Boldir."

The Priestess! Boldir's eyes snapped open. There was only one reason she would be waking him. And to think, I'd almost believed him trustworthy... "What's he done?"

"Shh!" He felt a finger press against his lips. Finally, his eyes snapped open, and there the Priestess was laying face to face with him with her hood drawn up. She was so close that he could feel the warmth of her breath. 

"What's-"

The finger pressed tighter, silencing him again. "We're being watched." she whispered, "Stoit saw them. At least three. Getting closer. Surrounding us. I'm going to light the area. Will you be ready?"

Boldir was wide awake now, his fighting instincts kicking in. He'd been waked like this many times before as a Stormcloak. Without saying a word, he slowly turned and reached for his axe. Once his fingers had coiled around the handle, he gave Gwella a slow, deliberate nod.
Moments later, Gwella let out a slow, shaky breath and nodded back. "NOW!"

The two of them sprung up, just as Stoit leapt from his sitting position, bow already out. The Priestess threw a bright white spell into the air that expanded amongst the treetops, illuminating every inch of forrest within twenty yards.
"Come out!" Boldir roared, ignoring the pain in his left side. "We know you're out there!"
Nothing moved. Boldir's eyes scanned his surroundings as he turned, searching in all directions. Then finally, they landed on a glint of silver that was reflecting Gwella's magelight. "We can see you!"
Still, nothing moved. "Stoit," he said, loud enough for them all to hear. "I'm going to count to three. If all of these men aren't in the open by then, choose one and put an arrow in him."
The young sellsword nodded and knocked his arrow.
"One... Two..."

"Wait! Alright, alright!" The armored man Boldir had spotted stepped out from behind a tree. He was a Breton, covered from head to toe in mud-covered steel and carrying a fine-looking longsword and shield. It was only by the intensity of Gwella's magelight that a tiny spot on the shield had managed to catch Boldir's eye. It was the image of a Silver Man.
To Boldir's right approached another figure. This one Imperial. She was clad in mix-matched armor, half rusty iron and half the same good steel as the Breton, also like the Breton, she had smeared it all in mud and leaves. Behind them appeared a brown-haired Nord, clad in muddy steel of his own and hefting a nasty-looking iron battle-axe.
"Those are some good ears your lookout's got." the Breton said, grinning. "I mean, I cast a muffle spell and everything."

"I didn't hear you." Stoit turned to face the Breton, while Boldir pivoted to cover the Nord and Imperial. The lad finished. "I saw you."

"Well, seeing as how it was darker than a Dunmer's bunghole, I'd say that's even more impressive." The Breton laughed. He slowly circled left, coming back into Boldir's view. "You hear that Jatira? I bet it's your ugly mug he saw first."

"Eat shit, Verard." spat the Imperial woman as she moved behind Boldir. They're sizing us up. Deciding who's best to take on who.

"Well I'll be." the Breton laughed again. Despite his crudeness, he had a strong voice. A leader's voice. "You look like a Priestess, Lady. Is that it? Well damn. I'm sorry about that bunghole talk. And Jatira's talk of shit. We don't meet lots of Priestesses."

"You're Silver Brigade." Stoit said. "Not all of you. Just you."

"I was, yeah." replied the Breton. "No more. Between this one," he pointed at Boldir, "killing our leader, and the damned Penitus Oculatus snooping up our trousers instead of his, it seemed high time to leave. Course when it turned out someone was running around killing more of us for seemingly no reason, that only reinforced the point. I packed my bags. And I wasn't the only one."

"Hang on a moment." The Nordic ambusher spoke for the first time as he moved behind Boldir. "I'll be damned if you ain't Stoit Giantslayer!"

Boldir looked over his shoulder. "You know this one?"

"I recognize him now, aye." Stoit said. "He's Rorlad. One of the original crew from Riften. What are you doing out hear Rorlad? Don't you know Sibbi's dead?"

"Of course I do." the Nord said defensively. I was chasing ghosts in Talos Plaza when it happened. But it ain't Sibbi we intend to collect from anymore. Turns out Boldir's now got a price on his head by the Ash King himself."

Ash King? Boldir knew the title, but it made no sense the way the mercenary was using it. "What do you mean by the 'Ash King'?"

"I wasn't done talking!" the Nord barked. "And I don't answer questions for the likes of you. Now tell me, Stoit, cause I always liked you and I need to know, what in the blazes are you doing traveling with the man who burned down Riften?"

"The same thing I did for the family who kidnaped and murdered innocents. I'm serving him."

Rorlad spit. "That was business. Crime was involved, sure. But maybe you're too young to understand the difference between that and the high treason this man committed! And now you're a part of it."

"Whoa there big guy!" said Verard. He still wore a confident, mockingly courteous grin. "There's no need for that. I'm sure the Archer understands now the magnitude of the big man's crimes." Boldir turned his head and saw that the Breton had lowered his sword's tip into the dirt. Though he had no doubt that the man could easily have it up again in time to fight. "Listen, Giantslayer, was it? We only want the big fellow, here. Got no designs on hurting you or the Priestess lady. Now, seeing as how we stand three against three, it seems very likely some of us will die on both ends of this tussle. I'd rather that not happen. So, now that you've been fully informed of just how heinous the man you're standing next to really is, there's no shame at all in you turning that arrow his way instead of mine. We can take him easy, without losing a man. We'll even give you a fourth of the cut."

Boldir didn't have time to turn before Stoit had drawn back his bowstring and loosed the arrow. No one did. It sliced through the magelit air like a shooting star, and buried itself in the Breton's throat.
"Shit!"Jatira yelled. She charged the boy while Boldir took on Rorlad.

The two Nords' axes clashed with a devastating ring that sent painful throbs into Boldir's shoulder. He moved to block his opponent's counterstrike, but was was too slow and ended up having to fall backwards to avoid the blow.
The Nordic ambusher laughed. "That's it? I knew the stories couldn't be true. You didn't kill Nelvar and Ennaf alone." He moved to deal a killing blow, when suddenly, Gwella's light in the treetops shifted and morphed into a more focused, powerful beam that shot directly into Rorlad's eyes, blinding him. That light would have been the last thing he saw before one of Stoit's arrows smacked into his chest at too close a range for his armor to protect him. Another followed, and then another. Finally, the blinded Nord collapsed to the ground, defeated. Boldir turned and saw Gwella's hands moving as she manipulated the light back to the way it had been before, and Stoit Giantslayer standing before him, hand outstretched for Boldir to take.
He took it and was immediately hoisted up.

"Maybe now you two will go to sleep." Stoit said, glancing from Gwella to Boldir. "Or are you still worried that I'll betray you?"

[Witchking of Angmar]

Commander Saladin Fury-Eye,
Valenwood, Headquarters, 
Just another day in a war without end,

The darkened room, ill-light by the faint candle light, seemed almost consumed by the darkened shadows. The roaring fire cracked, as the glowing red embers began to die. The cigarette lodged in the commander's mouth, also added a bit of ambient light to the darkness. The great oak door was locked, and a weak, but useful enhancement had been placed on it, to prevent any, rather...distracting sounds to escape into the rest of the hallway. Normally a guard would be posted outside of the door, but not at this hour. Graveyard shifts patrols were underway, but only by a handful of commandos, all in the inside of the facility, and outer gates. You didn’t want to wander in the blissful darkness of the Valenwood night, unprepared. Under any circumstances. This place was hell made manifest. Only very stupid, and thus, non dangerous warbands would launch an attack against the fort at night. For risk of being devoured by dark beast.  Primordial monsters lurked, and stalked in the dark places of the forest, all of whom, would gladly feast on a bloodied wolf. Not to mention the fact that experienced rebel warbands traveled through the forest at night. A snap of a branch could give you away, and end with an arrow lodged in your eye socket. Outside, the resonating noise of heavy rainfall hitting the stone pavement echoed, and consumed all other noise. This rain is becoming a bother. Achidinias played there maccabee song outside, but they were drowned out by the torrential downpour, and howling wind. A certainly chilling night. The already blackest night, was even further drenched in shadow by the dark thunder clouds, and heavy rain, with no pale moonlight piercing the black clouds to lighten the darkness. 

Khajit sellswords, and Bosmer mercenaries were getting more common in these parts. Nothing more then rival PF’S. Saladin almost thought they were simply copying his Blood Wolf unit.  Almost all government hired, but the Commander had heard rumors that the rebels were utilizing a small number of them. Which was good for them. Bosmer were excellent, unmatched archers, skirmishers, as well as guerilla fighters, but they sorely lacked in open combat. Foreign mercenaries could tip a fight in their favor, certainly. It didn’t matter though. For every one the rebels could hire, The Dominion could buy one hundred more. Every victory the rebels got, the government scored ten. The Dominion would rather spare it’s disciplined, elite spell-infantry the horrors of the jungle. One Atlmer life, was worth more than one thousand Bosmer to them. They wouldn’t have that luxury anymore, though. The fighting was getting way out of control. Sudden and brazen attacks were happening daily against Dominion held facilities. At least in this region. Information had been scarce, so Saladin didn’t know if it was as bad here, as the rest of the Imperial province.  

The man gently grabbed the middle part of his cigarette, and took it from his mouth, delaying about three seconds, before releasing the cloud of black fumes from his mouth, exhaling with to gusto. His black leather eye-patch stood out, as half of his face was clouded in the dark, while the other half had the fire to light it up. Smoking always cleared the mind, if only for a moment. He repeated the process, before jamming the butt of the cigarette, the burning part, into a small stone cup, disposing of it. The cigarette fell into a large pile of previously extinguished butts. Along with the stone bowl, a pile of yellowish parchment, an ink pen, and a sheathed, steel shortblade, a small leather bag stood, illuminated by the dying fire. The burning embers were silenced by the outside rainfall. Further adorning the room was a oak bookshelf, filled with large, moldy tomes, that sat beside a collection of skull, sitting proudly on a wooden shelf. Some of great beasts, others of decapitated Bosmer rebels. Trophies, from glorious hunts. The dim fire sent an atmosphere of vermillion orange across the bones. Dozens of weapons, sat on racks around the room, looking more like an armory then an office.  His mind went back to his work, as he continued to read, in his head, the document placed on his wooden desk, scratching his grey beard as he did.  He wore his usual black leather armor, which included dark boots and gloves. He had his grey, white hair cut to make it shorter, removing the ponytail, along with his beard, which he kept, but cleaned up with the help of a razor. He didn’t need to wear his balaclava anymore, as he felt there was no need to hide his face.

His men had become fanatically loyal to him. He knew for a fact, anyone of them would put there lives down for the mercenary commander. What fools...

-furthermore, the rebel outpost is acting as a resupply depot for wandering squads of guerilla warriors, providing food, weapons, and other equipment to the tired rebels. From what are intelligence has gathered, after group 666 reestablished government control over farm 347, the rebels have, in desperation, doubled their devouration of friendly corpses, and are using methods unknown to quickly dry the meat in bulk, before giving it to their soldiers. We will send a more detailed report on the situation when able.   It is imperative, Agent 203  that you deal with this, as soon as possible. Getting rid of another safehouse will provide a good push in re establishing full Dominion control over the region.You will receive a bonus shipment of gold for your efforts.

As a side-note, a child soldier's unit has gone rogue in the Vushiil forest, attacking both government, and guerrilla caravans. They are being a nuisance.  Eliminate them with extreme prejudice. Intel will be provided shortly.

Darkness hide thy blade, agent

Long Live the Aldmeri Dominion,  Long live the Shadow Korps

Justicar Rugio Alverin, Dominion Shadow Corps, Intelligence, Fifteen Branch

The man finished reading the letter. He scratched his chin, before going back to the last, paragraph, reading it once more in his head. “Eliminate them with extreme prejudice.” Sighing, the darkened man reached for the pack of cigarettes on the desk, only, annoying, to find it empty. Swearing, he tore open the sealing of another pack, drawing another cig from the now opened pack. It’s better this way I suppose. Killing them before they see the ugly truth of this horrible world. No...actually. That’s not it... Their child soldiers. They already have... He placed it in his mouth, taking a box of matches from his pocket. He understood the effectiveness of the idea. Child Soldiers. Children were cruel. Very cruel. Cruelty was a useful trait to have on any battlefield. And they were an empty visage. You could fill them with any venomous thought, or ideology, and they would grow with it. Take it as their own. Those who survived into adulthood would be very valuable soldiers. The next generation of great warriors. Alas, instead of getting proper training, they were usually used as cannon fodder. The Commander himself would find a much better use for them. Use them as special ops, reconnaissance specialists. Children could hide quite a bit better than adults.  Saladin’s first kill was when he was fourteen. He joined the Legion at fifteen. And look how he turned out. A killing machine. And what to show for it? I have lost to two opponents in the last two years. Those dogs, Baldur Red-Snow, and Boldir Iron-Brow. Varus and Seldyrn would be ashamed of me...His hand curled into a fist. I shall have my vengeance...Baldur will probably be in Valenwood soon. Alliance be damned, I will kill him if he steps into my territory. And add his skull to my trophy collection. Blood for Hircine. Skulls for his Skull throne... He snarled like a beast. Darkly smirking, Saladin chuckled, So this is what Gaius meant. To be completely bitter, and nihilistic. No hope. No light. Just a single emotion. Despair. I can rid that despair, unlike him. Everytime I make a kill, it feels sooooo good. But that feeling always ends. And I need to kill more...  Using his gloved hand, he attempted to lit the small piece of wood, grinding it against the edge of the box, which was made from cheap flint. Nothing. “****…” The man whispered, before, trying once more. Nothing. “Damn it…******* hell!” The mercenary commander scratched the back of his head, anger and rage swelling within him, festering like a parasite. It was going to be one of those nights. 

“Those are terrible for your lungs, young master…” A light flicked into existence, a strong fire by the side of Saladin’s face, casting the unison of flame and shadow into chaotic disarray, along with a voice. The voice of a sly trickster.  Normally, a dark whisper would react a quick dagger to the source, but instead, Saladin grinned , and placed the tip of the cigarette into the fire, neatly lighting it on fire. Saladin smoked, as he looked through the pile of yellow parchment for another report to read. He blowed a wisp of smoke across the dark room, as a strange noise entered his ear “ A little late for a walk, in the moonlight. I was wondering when you would show up…you're still fond of dramatics, my dear, Wraith…” A pair of glowing, purple eyes shone through the wall of darkness. “I learned from you, young master.”  A figure stepped out of the dark part of the room, clad head to toe in a dark cloak. Despite his features being obscured, Saladin knew who this was, by mannerism, and by his voice. The man placed his darkened gloved hand, towards his heart, and bowed his head deeply, kneeling onto the ground, “My Lord…” Saladin stood up from his chair, and took another whiff of his cigarette, nodding his head in ackowledgement, “Lucienus…” He reclined back into his chair, his entire body illuminated by his angle by the dim orange flame. His dark leather armor had been painted over, with a light green, dark green camouflage. continuing his smoke, he muttered “It’s been awhile, Captain. How was your trip to Cyrodiil?” 

“Quite good, infact. Thank you for asking, young master. It was at your behest though. And alas…” Saladin knew he grinned underneath his scarf, “I didn’t have any time to look at the sights, oh woe to me…” Saladin wordlessly picked through the large pile of documents, reading them at his leisure for a handful of seconds before going to the next one. This isn’t important. Despite his appearance, Saladin was an avid reader, and could trail through pages like a madman. There was still plenty of report to read through though, that even his reading skills weren’t much of a help.  The Bloodwolves numbered about two hundred, and were required, by their contract, to provide one hundred, and twenty five, commando’s to the Dominion war effort at one time. Leaving the other seventy five. While Saladin, depending on the mission, put extra manpower to fireteams on the occasion,  there was still a few soldiers who had nothing to do. To fix that, Saladin had established the intel unit. Scouts, and recon experts that gathered intelligence from towns, villages, and cities, which they made rounds around. Which included rumors of rebel movements, monsters, and interesting developments within the government. Occasionally, Saladin would send them before the main attack group, to gather information on the enemy target's strength, and weaknesses. Maintaining it was expensive, but more than worth it. Anything was worth reducing the danger that his men faced on assignment. The Commander asked, “How is the good general, and her majesty doing?” 

“Fine, on both counts. General Ceno is as boring as ever.” The vampire gave a toothy grin, taking off his scarf. “He used the information I provided quite well, to take out a turncoat. I think he was rather pissed with our gamble though…” The skaalish warlord shrugged his shoulders, showing off his fangs, “That’s to be expected. What about the Empress?” 

“The fair lady Moitre? Well, good. Besides the fact she tried killing herself….” He smiled, before Saladin had a chance to yell out in  surprise, “Don't worry. I stopped her. She’s doing much better after I gave her a...little pep talk.”  His grinned widened, “Have no fear, my master. I took care of everything you instructed me too.” 

Saladin eyes wandered back to the pile of parchment, as he began to read through another report. So Dales wanted to end her tortuous existence. Pathetic weakling...such cravens The high-General, and the Empress leading the Empire into oblivion. The Dominion will grind them into dust. After which they’ll set their sights on independent High Rock, Hammerfall, and Skyrim, before butchering, and enslaving them all. That dosen’t sound too bad...actually…The Dominion can got to hell though. I hate them more than the others. So I suppose…. Saladin thought darkly. 

Saladin stopped reading midway through the report in his hand, before his eyes went dark, and his hands numb. A frown formed on his scarred face and his cigarette nearly fell from his mouth, hanging limp nestled in his gums.  Lucienus, whom had taking a seat by the fire, noticed the Commander’s odd behavior. He stretched out like a cat, yawning ferally.  He said, in an entertained voice, “Everything alright, master Fury-Eye?”   

Saladin didn’t blink, as he once again continued to read the report, taking another whiff from his cigeratte “Another village has been destroyed. This is the fifth one in the last month…” 

Wraith’s eyebrows raised in surprise, as he asked, genuinely curious, “Thats common during wartime, which I needn't remind you. Civilian population centers, that are unguarded are prime targets for looting, and other acts of horror. What are the specifics?” 

Saladin’s eyes trailed down the sickly yellow parchment, reading the black ink letters with speed, “ The commando say’s “Tree huts burned down. Villagers nothing more then charred remains, all dead. A…” His voice trailed off, before his eyes filled with surprise. The Vampire Assassin sulked his head downward, as he motioned for his master to continue, “A pungent smell of very sweet fruit hangs on the village air.” “ Saladin inquisitively scratched his beard, “Strange. In the report, the commando explains he was worried some kind of pestilence was spreading around the village, which would explain the very strange smell, and the fact it was burnt to the ground, along with it’s inhabitants. He made sure to chug a few potions down, and report to the medical staff back at base. How reassuraing...” 

“That’s rather odd. If there was a plague going around, we would have been made aware. Did the soldier in question see any sign, to show if it was government, or rebel forces that did the massacre?” Lucienus asked, his face oddly intrigued, and interested. “It doesn't matter, at all. Which side did it. It’s the same to me. Just another dead village.” The Skaal muttered darkly.  Saladin wordlessly, getting out of his seat, drew his silver Kurki knife from its sheath, the blade itself causing a measure of weakness to inflict upon his arm from the contact with silver. He took a map of the surrounding region, and placed it on his desk. The chart was quite detailed, and explained the geography quite well. Saladin slammed the dagger into the center of the chart, causing it be embedded into the wooden desk, “Government soldiers are battling rebel guerrillas for complete control over the Nhanlishi jungle, as you know. Everyday, border-skirmishes, ambushes, and small-scale conflict are taking place, between the government controlled militia, and rebel militia. Civilians are being caught in the crossfire…and are the ones being exposed to the most cruelly.”

“Of course. It’s human nature, and the nature of all sentient beings to commit such acts of depravity against their fellow men.” Muttered the vampire, amused at his lord’s display. He himself drew his own blade, a simple dagger, and casually slammed it beside Lorgar’s silver Kurki. His purple eyes shone underneath the dark, as he display his dagger-like fangs,  “Just yesterday, when I was in the Veshi jungle, traveling to here, I stumbled upon government soldiers gang raping a poor girl. Couldn’t have been older than fifteen. Mer and humans are all the same.” 

Saladin let out a throaty chuckle, not even bothering to ask if Lucienus had intervened, which he probably did. The Vampire disliked cruelty, especially rapists. And just like Saladin, he made most of his kills clean. His eyes narrowed on Lucienus’s pale face, and mocking smile, “Really? A week ago, when out on a mission, I came across several Dominion-loyal villager corpses stewing on palisades, impaled on the wood. Their bodies ripped apart, and scourged. Killed, and tortured by the rebels, of course. For the crime of supporting the Dominion. The woman among the grisly display’s crime was sleeping with Aldmeri soldiers.” Seethed Saladin, his hand curling into a fist, “There’s no difference between the rebels, and the government, Wraith. If you're trying to guilt trip me, i’m beyond feeling bad for slaughtering those bastards. If I was fighting the government, I would feel the same…” His teeth clenched, “There nothing more than meat to me. Twisted, and evil. Just another bad person to kill....” Or more accurately, another bad person killing them. Am I just as bad? Do I deserve to be put down like a dog?

“Oh I agree. Why should we, as creatures beyond humanity, and mortals, worry about slaying a few of them?” The Vampire said sarcastically,  “There just meat, as you say. They breed like guppies. And die just as fast. They might as well fall on our swords...and be consumed by us wolves. Evil fills their hearts, so why should we feel bad by reaping there souls? Pay evil, unto evil.  They join Sithis in the void, where they belong…” Wraith grinned. Saladin also smiled, but it was more of a grimace,

“Is that what you tell yourself, at night, dear Lucienus? That it’s justice? When you kill a target? That it’s something more than wetwork, played with bloody gold.” Is that what I tell myself? He pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind.  Wraith grinned, mockingly “Some people, just need to be killed for the greater good. Whom is my usual target, tell me, young lord. Corrupt officials. Crooked guard captains. Shady businessmen. Pedophilles. Rapists. Will anyone mourn them? Do they deserve to live, and further ruin the lives of the innocent?” 

“You can't change the system.” Muttered Saladin bitterly, placing his hands to his lap, “ All you can do is exploit it. It’s ingrained into Tamriel, festering like a paradise. Those innocents will suffer anyway, in some form or the other. Victimized by war. And we mercenaries will profit off their suffering, being paid to kill. Fan the flames of war, make victims off the conflict, offer your services to the conflict, one side or the other, and kill the opposing side. Then go the next conflict, and the cycle repeats,” He paused before continuing,  “Ethnic Conflict. Religious strife. Terrorism. Genocide. There all symptoms of the same problem. Mortal nature. The Nords genocide of the Falmer. The Alessian Cults burnings. The Thalmor purging the populations of Valenwood and Alinor. Everyday here... It’s been proven time and time again.” He gripped his fist tightly, the leather portrouding, “The government soldier calls the rebel a monster, yet he watched in silence as his comrades butchered innocents. The rebel soldiers calls the govemment soldier a monster, yet him and his friends tortured and ate a justicar’s family to death.” Saladin briefly glanced at his discarded balacava, the white-wolf skull painted over it, staring longingly at him. “The truth is, men want to feel righteous, so they see the wickedness in their enemies eyes. They ignore there opponents viewpoint, ideology, and state of being, and focus solely on the wickedness they see before them. See one as the devil, and you have no moral concern with eliminating them. The Stormcloaks do it. The Imperial Legion does it. The Thalmor do it. The Government militia does it. The Bosmer Rebels do it. I do it. Everyone does it." Saladin inhaled a large whiff of smoke, and blew it out of his mouth, 

Lucienus entertained, grinned at Saladin, "My, my. How you've changed since i've last say you. You're starting to think...instead of following orders. Most impressed." Wraith clapped. Saladin practically spat,

"Indeed I have. And i've come to the conclusion, by thinking, that Tamriel is a god damn shit hole. Festering with parasites, and disgusting things, that need to be extinguished with holy flame.  Barely worth saving at all. For every good person there is, fifty more bad ones spring up. The leaders of this place are selfish, glory hounds that would see thousands of there soldiers die, to satisfy their own egos. Jarl Baldur Red-Snow. Empress Dales Moitre. King Theodore Adravad.  The king of the Dominion. There all the same. They should all just die, and burn in a ******* hole. Tamriel should be united under one rule. But instead, those monsters seek personal power...the Empire is no better. That whore Dales Moitre, puppet to that monstrous soul eater. Soldiers should be in control, and make this festering pile of corruption, orderly." His gripped his hands strong enough to draw blood,  “I’ve been following someone else will for too long. It’s time I started fighting my own battles. Fighting for myself, instead of a corrupt because. National Borders. Languages. They shouldn’t matter. The world that I envision will become a reality, and it will make mankind whole again! Soldiers aren’t tools of the government, yet were cast aside like pawns. The Empire has betrayed me…” There was a clear hint of madness in his voice, as Lorgar yelled. 

Wraith, with a smile on his face, felt good. At last Lorgar saw what he saw in him months before. Good. It’ll be much easier now…” Slightly yawning, Lucienus asked, “So, I assume you want to break contact off with the High-General, and cancel this plan of yours? Embrace the life of a mercenary...”  He muttered sinisterly 

“I dont know…” Saladin slunk back into his chair, a look of pure exhaustion spread across his face. Along with guilt. “I dont know…” He gazed back at the wolf mask, a look of horror slowly spreading across his features. Was that me? Or him talking? Saladin felt a longing inside him. He admitted. He was tired of taking orders, and being subservent to a cause that he may not agree in. He wanted to fight for himself, and whatever that brought, true. But not to the extreme. Besides, “Gaius...died for this. I won't let his sorrow go to waste, in the heartless void. We will go along with the original plan.” For now…

Wraith seemed disappointed. But gave him a nod of his head, “Of course, young master.” Saladin was about to read another report, putting that philosophical debate behind him, but he was stopped by Wraith, calling out to him, “Ah I almost forgot. Quite a few letters for you. First of all,  I received this from Miss Pacifica a week ago. She said to only give it to you, and she would be arriving on base in a month's time.” Wraith, a faint reflection of red flame across his face, held a small scroll in between his right index finger, and middle finger. He offered it forward. Sighing, Saladin grasped the scroll, noticing it held a pitch black wax seal to bind it, in the shade of two swords, and two angel wings. The sigil of the Thalmor Shadow Korps. Saladin removed the seal, drawning his silver Kurki from the table and using it to cut the wax item, and read the red ink letters. To his surprise, a small item fell from the scroll. A black metal badge. Saladim grabbed it, before reading the letter, 

To Agent 203, Black Wolf, 

By the order of  [redacted] you have been promoted to Shaodwblade. (Under act 3214 of the “lesser races accord”, you now outrank any lesser soldier, and NCO in the Army. All Dominion Army Officers still, and will forever outrank you, human. This is the highest rank a human in the Shadow Korps can ascend to.) You have also been given the officer rank of Sub-Commandant in the Valenwood Militia, under the Ceycellia government.  That badge is a sign of your office, and to show your authority. 

Furthermore, you are to triple your unit, the Bloodwolves numbers, and expand your facilities to accommodate this. 

Contract has been extended for another five years. Supplies for base construction, and payment shall be delivered shortly.

No inquiries allowed. 

You have people whom are very impressed with you, and your wolves. Powerful people. Keep up the good work. And you’ll be rewarded. 

The letter was unsigned. Saladin was left breathless, as he reread it to see if he wasn’t dreaming. He wasn’t . Saladin passed the letter to Wraith, whom took only a moment to read it. The Vampire actually seemed unhinged, “Well...that’s odd. Congratulations on the promotion, my lord.” He said with faked enthusiasm, Saladin responded, equally snarky, with a “Thank you…” He scratched his beard. Before releasing the insanity of this. “Triple the Bloodwolves?! Are they mad?! This order probably came from some idiotic High Elf princeling, whose never seen a day of battle. Were a black ops unit...not dogs of war….”

“Quite.” Wraith responded chilly, but with clear happiness in his voice, “Nothing wrong with having a mysterious patron in the upper echelons of the Dominion. That would make us...the second largest mercenary company around, second only to the Fighters Guild. Maybe even bigger then that…my lord, if I would be so bold, I think this is the perfect chance to start expanding. Under Dominion directive as an excuse.”

“I beg your pardon?” Answered the confused Lycantope. Wraith took another set of scrolls from his bag, and offered them forward "These will explain, much better then words, my lord". With disdain, Saladin read though all of them in a few minutes. His face plain.  He sat there for a good minute or so, before turning to face Wraith, a look of confusion plainly visible on his features, “These...are requests for support. From various para-military bands in the jungle. All government militia...I recognize the names of the units these officers are from. From Valtari dog fighters, all the way to the 123rd Versdhi Devils. All pro-government units, but not part of the Thalmor command chain.  Requests for training, bodyguards military support, espionage support, and plenty of other categories. They want to hire us...what the heck happened to us being a shadow unit?" 

Wraith shrugged his shoulders, "Legends begin to spread, that take the form that is unlike its source. Survivors from the battles we've fought have no doubt spread news of our unit, even if they dont know our name.  About the black-hearted Wolves that butchered the rebels under orders from the Thalmor. A unit that in includes every race, and not just elves. I...heard from some people, that those groups that sent us you letters were seeking us out. So I...might have visited them, and offered our services..." 

Saladin gave Wraith a suspicious look, "Wraith..."

The Vampire shrugged his shoulders, "What? I did what I thought was best. You want the Bloodwolves to remain as dogs to the Dominion forever? You intend to keep the unit, even if you go through with your gambit for the Empire, don't you?"

The Skaal Warlord nodded his head. Wraith smiled, closing his eyes, "Then we need to establish ourselves as renowned sellsword contractors. You think the Legion will just forgive you, even if you help the Empire win the War? We need a contingency plan.  Not just mercenaries, something more then that! Were an army without a nation. Sellswords, with the function, and skill of black ops units. I was thinking of easing you into the idea, with a few commando's being moved to a merc team for deployment, but this...this letter gives us a golden opportunity." Lucienus had lost his usual cold deadpan mockery, and instead...became sparkling. Like a kid on the harvest festival. The vermilion flames dancing off the surface of his pale skin.  l" Build up our numbers! Two hundred Bloodwolves was substantial. But six hundred? We can deploy blades for-hire all across Valenwood." 

Saladin put his black gloved hands up. The early sleepiness had left him, and even at this advance hour, the Skaal was wide awake. "Wait, wraith. I haven't even agreed to this! What the hell would the Thalmor think, this could blow our cover!" 

Wraith motioned is hand, "Nay, my lord. I've read our contract with the Shadow Korps. Several times. It expressively states, nothing about our allegiance specifically belonging fully to them." 

The Nord's pale blue eye, widened, "Wraith, you want to feed soldiers to both sides of the conflict-"

"Forgive me for interrupting, my lord, but that's not what  I meant. What I mean, by allegiance, is simply exclusive hiring. We have no obligations to solely hire out our men to the Shadow Korps. We must serve Dominion interests, but were obligated to only provide one hundred and fifty commando's at a time to the Shadow Korps war effort. And now that we've been ordered, and given the means too expand, we can also expand our clientele to multiple parties, as long as they serve the Dominion interest. Which includes militia-groups, government, merchants, traders, villages-" Saladin interrupted him, "Basically a good portion of Valenwood..."

"Exactly." Saladin's second in command uttered, "With the war taking such a toll on all those groups, they'll need highly skilled operatives to handle problems, the Dominion isn't willing too. We can serve that purpose. Provide training to militia forces, undertake support operations, slay monsters for villages that are willing to pay, defend caravans. The job opportunities are limitless. And the potential to make money and expand our organisation.  All the while keeping our cover up...Those scrolls you read are just the first few offers of jobs. We can get a hell of alot more." Saladin began to scratch his beard, inhaling a massive amount of smoke into his lungs.  This was...actually a good idea. Wraith added "We'll need the Bloodwolves to step out of the shadows though, young master..." 

"We solve that problem when the time comes. For now, we can have the intel team dig up promising recruits from the taverns. Local hiring only, from now on." Said Saladin, getting out of his desk, and grabbing a parchment of paper. Better start working now. "I have another idea. We'll inform the men as soon as possible, about the plans for expansion, and merc work. I think it'll increase the moral too. Even if were Black Op Mercs, there's now some potential for us to do some good for the people around Valenwood" Saladin warmly said, pleased with himself.  "I want you to get the order out tomorrow. We'll need another method to increase our numbers, quickly... All rebel guerrilla's whom are captured are to be given the option of joining the Bloodwolves. And swearing loyalty to me..." 

Wraith's eyebrows raised, "You...want to recruit from the rebels?" Saladin nodded his head, "Trust me. Between joining up with a merc unit, or going to a Dominion logger camp, most will choose the former."  

The Vampire grinned, "I thought you were going to put up a little more resistance, young master. My, have you changed..."

Saladin grabbed the small leather bag from his desk, and tossed it towards Wraith, whom, without even looking, grabbed the bag from the air, his supernatural reflexes quite useful. He opened the cover, pulling the black string to open up the bag, only to reveal dozens of small, glowing, white diamonds. Wraith, actually confused, looked up, to see Saladin smiling down on him, "There's a diamond mining operation a few miles from here. Mostly slave labor. The foreman at the mine, a militia commander, is running the operation, and occasionally...makes some of the valuable stock disappear. Some of the intel memebers found out about it, and I threatened to report him to the Justicar Branch. We made a little deal. I provide some Bloodwolves to guard the place from Rebel incursion, and he pays us a small helping of diamonds a month. If i'm helping to harvest conflict diamonds, and using them to run my private outfit, some merc work isn't any dirtier" 

Wraith gave him a look, as if to say "really?". Saladin shrugged his shoulders, giving a sly grin, "What? I need to pay some extra bills for the men. Besides, I made sure to "gently" tell the foremen to treat the workers better, and the men protect them from the abuse they would be given by the militia soldiers." He took another whiff from his cigarette, going to the desk to grab the ink well, and pen.

"I can do some altruism ,while getting payed. Nothing wrong with that." 

Wraith chuckled, "We'll make a sellsword of you yet, young master." 

[Witchking of Angmar]

Albecias Plebo

The Imperial City

Morning

 

Albecias knew he’d put off confronting High General Ceno long enough. He’d spent days inside his apartment practicing his confrontation, and he knew he was ready. Still, he had waited even a few days after that. It wasn’t that he was scared, of course, but that there were things he wanted to settle, in case his meeting went as poorly as he expected. After all, Ceno was a man undermining the current Imperial royal family, with the intent on seating himself on the throne. And on the verge of war, no less. He was not to be trifled with, and Albecias was making sure his affairs were in order. He wrote letters to the editors of the Black Horse Courier and his publisher, instructing them what to do with his notes and manuscripts. Then he wrote his friend at the College of Whispers, instructing him that he should continue to turn up whatever he could on Krojun Draconus. Though the current Emperor was the target of Ceno’s coup, he was nonetheless a mysterious and secretive figure, one whom Albecias would gladly like to unmask. Whether he did it himself or his friend did the unmasking, it mattered not.

Now the time had finally come for his grand reveal to take place. Though neither prudent nor wise, Albecias needed to see the look on the General’s face when his plot was revealed. With the assurance Elder Councilor Marillan would reveal the plot should Albecias die, he felt confident his potential martyrdom was the right course of action. Dead or alive, he would be revealed as the savior of the Empire, at a time when it stood on the precipice of disaster.

And so Albecias dressed in his finest clothes, a scarlet and gold shirt with black silken pants and boots polished like gems. He took nothing with him, needing only the intricate unfurling of the plot that lay within his mind. He left his apartment, not bothering with locking it and unconcerned with his belongings. His writing was his most valued possession, and that would live on forever.

He charted a path from his Elven Gardens District home to the Green Emperor Way. He briefly considered taking the longer route through the Talos Plaza District, so he could see what all the commotion was about, but he knew it was only so he could again delay his meeting, and besides, he wasn’t all that interested in street fights or criminal infighting, or whatever had happened there. His walk was a brief one, and he arrived and was admitted into the palace. He climbed the stairs to the High General’s solar, his heart beating rapidly, his breath shortened. Not from the ascent, though, but from anticipation, that soon everything was going to come to a head. This is my legacy, Albecias thought, as Ceno’s scribe admitted him into the general’s private solar.

“An unexpected visit,” Ceno said, motioning with his hand for Albecias to take a seat. He did so, but kept his eyes trained on Gracchus the entire time.

“I would think not. You had to have known this would come, sooner or later. Surely you do not think that poorly of me, otherwise you would have never given me this task,” Albecias said, unable to hide the smug grin growing across his face. The fake confusion on Ceno’s face was surprisingly genuine, but Albecias knew better, and that this man was a master manipulator and liar, and he must not be thrown off course.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t play the fool. We both know what you’re capable of, there’s no need to hide it.”

“What I’m capable of? I’m sorry, Mr. Plebo, but you seem to know something I don’t.”

Albecias was angry now, that posturing and deflection should delay his moment of triumph. “You know damn well what I mean. This letter lays it all out, though you seemed to think me too stupid to figure it out.”

“What letter?”

Albecias had pulled the letter from his pocket, gripping it tight in his hands, as he read it aloud.

“Mr. Plebo,

You no doubt question the origin of this letter, but I’m afraid I cannot sate your curiosity. All you need to know is that what I tell you is true.

Skjari Snow-Strider, court mage to the Empress and her soon to be husband, has bound his soul to hers using an ancient form of magic. No doubt you’ve noticed he rose to prominence rather quickly, which seems mysterious, until you realize he controls her every move.

I have compiled a list of people who may know of this conspiracy, or who may have helped him with it. They are listed below. I should not need to tell you though, that this man is dangerous, and if you choose to investigate you must do so with the utmost discretion. Your profiles on the Imperial leadership should make that relatively easy. There will be no further contact between us, besides the sum of gold that has been left in your apartment. That should help you decide whether or not to undertake this investigation.

High General Ceno, who was in Skyrim with the man.

Spymaster Lillin Quentas, whose affair with the man is well known.

Magdela Bathory, whose affair with the man is also well known.

Generals Retrius and Lithin, who have previously questioned who he is.

The Synod, where he reportedly studied before going to Skyrim.

My agents inside the palace also tell me that he frequently beds the maids, so they too may know something. Again, do not try to contact me, or you will be all the worse for it. Find what you can, and if it is worth publishing, do so. There may be a reward for that if you do.

-L.”

Gracchus sat there, the look of confusion on his face as if it was carved there. Albecias smiled again, condescending and smug. “You see now, don’t you? That your plot is laid bare, that you are revealed as the snake you are. I read between the lines. You include yourself, clearly to cast off any suspicion. You of course have agents here in the palace, besides yourself obviously, and know who might know something of Snow-Strider’s past. And you even signed the letter to hint toward Lorgar Sky-Wind, whose conflict with Krojun you know intimately. All very clever. You have me risk my life, do the dirty work digging up the Emperor’s secrets, all so you could supplant him on the throne. But you underestimated me, General, and now Cyrodiil will know of your plot.”

Gracchus continued to sit there, though the look of confusion slowly dissolved into a firm, glaring stare. “So someone sent you this letter, so that you would investigate the Emperor, and you believe it to be me?”

It was condescending, Albecias thought, for Ceno to continue to play ignorant, but he simply responded, “I know it to be you.”

“And I did this so I could reveal the Emperor’s true self and usurp him?”

“I assume you has designs on the throne. After all, your generals said they would back you. The entire Legion, in fact.”

“And your plan is to reveal this plot, this information about the Emperor, to all of Cyrodiil?”

“So that you may be imprisoned, or executed, and the Empire saved.”

Gracchus cast his eyes down toward his desk, his hands rubbing both temples. When he looked up, his eyes were sad. It momentarily caught Albecias off guard, but then he realized the man must see his work falling to pieces, and Albecias thought his sadness pitiful.

“You have been caught, General. I suggest you surrender and not wretch the Empire apart, now in its most dire hour. If you ever had any love for Cyrodiil, other than coveting its throne, you would do the right thing.”

With a small nod, the sad eyes still locked with Albecias’s, Gracchus rose and said, “Albecias Plebo, you are under arrest.”

Just then, a small ball of green magic hit Albecias in the chest, and he was rendered still. The High General hoisted him up, took the letter from Albecias, and carried him awkwardly to the hall. There he handed Albecias off to two guards, who grabbed an arm each and held on tight. Albecias attempted to break free, to attack the General, the guards, anyone, but by the time the paralysis wore off, the guards had him in their vice like fists. They followed Ceno, dragging Albecias down the hall, and then, strangely, up the stairs. Albecias assumed he was destined for the dungeon, but now he feared defenestration was his imminent cause of death. Instead, Ceno stopped in front of a thick door, and knocked twice sharply. When it opened, the Emperor stood in the doorway, and the High General wasted no time in stepping in the room and leaving Albecias deaf to their dealings.

**

Gracchus found Krojun Draconus in the royal study. The Emperor was sitting at the desk with a thick book, containing text made up of triangular like dots and slashes. Gracchus could not really discern where one symbol began and where it ended. Besides the book was a simple silver ring with some delicate leaf carvings. 

“Read this,” Gracchus said, handing Emperor Draconus the letter. It was not like the High General to be this abrupt, but this matter was urgent, and the consequences dire. He could see the confusion and slight annoyance on Krojun’s face fade as he read, until his eyes again met Gracchus’s. “I’ve had him arrested. He’s outside as we speak.”

"I'm guessing it's Plebo and not Lorgar you've arrested." said Krojun with a dry attempt at humor. 

Gracchus didn't laugh, and said, "Yes. He's accused me of writing the letter, and fomenting a coup. He plans to publish an article about this plot. I was...I was afraid of what might happen, what factions might take advantage of the rumors he would release. We can't afford discord, not now."

"No we cannot." said Krojun. He looked thoughtful as he closed the book and put away the silver ring into his pocket. "What do we know about this article?" he said after a small moment of silence. 

"Nothing. I would assume it'll contain what's in the letter, and what he accused me of. The coup, the soul-binding nonsense," Gracchus said, trying to sound as dismissive of the claim as possible. "But who knows what else he may have concocted. We can also assume that should something happen to him, it will still be published. He was far too brazen to not have a backup plan in place."

"Hmm." the Emperor mumbled as he looked over the letter again. "Lets try to find out where he keeps this article first."

"We should search his home and the Black Horse Courier first. Beyond that, I couldn't say. The Oculatus would seem suited for the job," Gracchus said. He was still so unsure of this whole thing, his stomach twisted in knots, forehead creased into deep canyons of consternation. "We must also prepare for the possibility we cannot find his article, or that it gets published regardless."

"I'll think of something in that case. But I think you should question Mr. Plebo first and then I'll get search set up."

"Would you like to question him as well? I can have him brought in, if you wish," Gracchus said.

"I think I'll stand outside or stand invisible besides you. He seems particularly interested in gloating to your face. I think using that will be the best way to make him talk."

"I'll take him back to my office, then," Gracchus said.

**

By the time they returned to Ceno's office, Albecias was about ready to kill himself, just to finally be rid of the traitorous general. In all the scenarios that ran through his head about this confrontation, he hadn't expected such a prolonged encounter. Nor one he was in so little control of. Gracchus had the guards set him back in the same chair as before, though this time they stood sentinel on either side of him. 

"So, I suppose you know of my plot," Ceno said. "Clever, Mr. Plebo. But what was your purpose in coming here? Why gloat, when you could have safely published and then fled my grasp?"

Albecias smirked, clearly enjoying Ceno finally having admitted to his conspiracy. “To see how you took being beaten. I do not think that happens often for you, General. You managed to turn that debacle in Falkreath into this job, and managed to outlast your comrades, and managed to fend off Thalmor assassins, supposedly. You needed to be brought down a peg, and I would be the one to see it done.”

“I am impressed,” Gracchus said, his face still set in a deep frown, and clearly not impressed. Albecias wondered how a man with so obvious little skill at lying could craft a plot as large as this. “It seems stupid, however, to confront someone who has as much to lose as I do.”

“My death doesn’t matter to me,” Albecias said, indignant, as if any suggestion his work was not the most important thing in the world was the very definition of insulting. “And no matter how you may try, you won’t find my article until it is published. Of that I am sure.”

“I won’t have to find it, because you will tell me exactly where it is,” the High General said, his jaw clenched in anger. “I don’t have time to play your games. There is too much at stake here.”

Albecias knew that was true, both from his own knowledge of the plot and how secretive it must be, but also because there was no doubt in his mind Ceno was telling the truth about the stakes. “And why would I do that? You can try and torture me, General, but I scarcely think it’ll do you any good. Like I said, I came here to die, so my work may live.”

The High General bowed his head, one hand clenching into a fist so tightly the skin was turning as pale as the snow. He then stood, and walked around behind Albecias. Before the author could turn to see what he was doing, he felt the ice spike slide deep into shoulder and pin him to the desk. Albecias yelled out, screaming for help, but no one answered his pleas. Twisting the icy spear, the High General asked, “Where is the article? Who has it?”

Albecias bit his tongue, but he knew not whether that was to keep himself from yelling, or to keep himself from telling the General what he wanted to know. But as the pain increased with each small twist of the spike, he knew which one he was truly suppressing. He was prepared to die for his work, but not to suffer. And he knew Councilor Marillan would uphold his end of the bargain, so he relented. “Stop! Please, I’ll tell you, just stop!”

Ceno did stop twisting, but the ice spike remained. “Where is it?”

“My book editor, she has a copy, she promised get it published for me."

“And her name?” Ceno asked, and Albecias could hear a slight waver in his voice. He thought the man must be overjoyed at having a loose end tied up, and that delighted Albecias, knowing there was another copy of the article out there where the General would never get it.

“Fallaise Tucca.”

“What does the article contain?”

“Your plot, all the information I could find. Which general support you, how you somehow rose so quickly and outlasted your supposed friends. Its all there.”

“When will she publish it?”

“In the next edition of the Black Horse Courier.”

“Are there any other copies?”

Albecias smiled at that, but with his faced pushed down onto the desk, he knew Ceno couldn’t see it. “No, only the one.”

Ceno then released Albecias, and called the guards back in. “Heal him."

The High General then left, and after a quick healing, Albecias was left with his two guards, captive in the High General's office.

**

Gracchus left his office and Albecias, his conscience burdened with what he’d just done. He knew it was necessary for the good of all of Cyrodiil, but that did little to set his mind at ease. It had at least been clean, as he had taken inspiration from the way Krojun had treated the treasonous Breton Elder Councilor. But it left him wondering just how far he’d go to protect Cyrodiil, and suddenly he realized that maybe he wasn’t so different than Lorgar after all. Lorgar had done who knows what for the Dominion, all so that he might one day help the Empire, while Gracchus had forsaken his own moral code to save the Empire this potential insurrection. He felt a fool to not have recognized Lorgar's sacrifice before now.

He did not have long to ponder how far he would go Cyrodiil, though, as Krojun was waiting outside, having heard everything. "What shall we do now?"

"I have an idea. Though that'll require me to know where this Fallaise lives and where she keeps the article. As well as to keep Mr Albecias in captivity for about a day or two."

"I don't know where she lives, but it shouldn't be hard to find out. Either he'll tell us or the Oculatus can find her easily enough," Gracchus said. "What's your plan for the author?"

"I'll need to speak with Lilly to figure out the details, but my plan is for him to make a great fool of himself. Now see if you can find out where Fallaise lives and keeps the article. I think asking around for her could raise unneeded suspicion."

It only took Gracchus a few moments to get Albecias to give up the information, as the author was more than willing to avoid any further pain. He returned to Krojun shortly. "She lives above her office in the Market District, just east of the main road that leads into the Arena District. She'll have a set of scrolls in a brown satchel he dropped off."

"Good. I'll go speak with Lilly. You keep Mr Albecias locked up, discretely, in the meantime."

Gracchus nodded and Krojun left to carry out his plan. The General stood in the hallway, thinking about how this mess could've happened. Whoever had truly sent the letter had no idea the damage they might have caused. Gracchus had a suspicion he new who it was, but knowing did him little good now. So he took Albecias, ignoring his questions and pleas, and locked him up in one of Endar's spare cages in the basement. It was much too small for a person, so Albecias was forced to curl into a ball. Gracchus looked sadly upon the author before he left him imprisoned alone in the dark basement. 

[Witchking of Angmar]

Albecias awoke, his muscles so stiff he couldn't sleep any longer. He had no idea what time it was, and the darkness of the basement left him nothing to reference. He had tried to feel around for something to aid his escape, but he felt nothing, and he wouldn't have been able to see whatever he found regardless. He guessed he'd been down here less than a day. He tried his best to stretch out, but the size of the cage left him only able to sit up with his back bent over and his arms wrapped around his knees. Practically the same position he'd slept in, only upright. He sat like this, wishing the High General had just killed. He wanted to be a martyr, not a prisoner. At least he had the security of knowing Marillan would release his work, as Fallaise would likely be stopped before she could. 

As Albecias sat there, awaiting whatever his fate was, he was blinded by a light from the direction he knew the staircase was. He cried out, "Who is it? Help me, please!"

Suddenly he could see what appeared to some strange form of blue-white light shine from somewhere nearby, but hidden behind some wall of corner. "Hello? Albecias?" he then suddenly heard a male voice call out from where the light source seemed to be. 

"Yes? I'm here, down here," he called out, beckoning the voice and the light to come closer. Instinctively, he began to shake the door of the cage, trying to free himself, to go to his savior. He could tell by the voice it wasn't Ceno.

Soon enough the source came into view, which he could then see to be a magic light orb. The orb was floating above the palm of the hand of some tall, man shaped figure. Though the light proved so strong for his eyes that had grown so used to the darkness that Albecias was forced to avert his gaze before he could get a good look at who it was. 

The man walked up to the cage and began to fiddle a bit with the lock. Albecias could get a half decent view of the man's clothes, which were somewhat colorful in red, black and gold, suggesting that the man might be some kind of nobleman. Then after a couple of seconds the cage was unlocked and the door hinges screeched lowly as the cage door opened. 

Albecias crawled out like some primordial creature, awkward and stiff-jointed and half-blind. He rose and stretched his back before rubbing his eyes. By the time the adjust, he could clearly see the man before him was none other than the Emeperor. His Nordic features were hidden in shadow and his long black hair, though he was easily recognizable from his scar and beard. Much more deferent than he'd ever been before, Albecias bowed and said, "Thank you, thank you Your Majesty. What has happened? Where is Ceno?"

"A guard overheard his... confessions when he interrogated you. General Ceno is currently under arrest during further investigation." the Emperor said, sounding a bit troubled as he did. "Good news is that you are now a free man." he then continued with a more cheerful tone and outlook. 

"Thank you, sir. I knew the truth would be revealed soon enough." Albecias smiled, echoing the Emperor's own happiness, but like an inverse version he grew more dour. "But what about his meeting with you? Did he not tell you then about my 'crazed' ramblings?"

"No." The Emperor looked a bit confused for a second. "He told me he had caught a spy from High Rock."

"Well, my liege, I am glad this was settled. You can be sure the rest of Cyrodiil will soon read about his treachery. I feel obliged to mention I discovered his plot a while ago, and came to coerce a confession. It seems I did just that, though not how I imagined."

"You did a good job. You should go home and celebrate. Though I would suggest laying a little low for a while as I'm sure Ceno had other accomplices within the Legion."

"General Lithin and Retrius to be exact," Albecias said, a smug grin plastered on his face. "They both expressed willingness to support Ceno for Emperor, and I believe they are his accomplices to that end."

"Hmm. I'll have to look into that." Krojun said thoughtfully. "Though your part is now done. Come. I'm sure you want to see the sun again."

Albecias followed Krojun and realized he very much did want to see the sun again. He knew he hadn't been imprisoned long, yet it seemed an eternity since he'd been outside. But as always his fame, and thus his work, was chiefly in his mind. And so he said, "Of course, I am more than happy to be of service again should you need it. But for now, I think I will be content to see Cyrodiil saved."

They soon came to the entrance to the palace, and there Albecias stood soaking up what he surmised to be the morning sun. 

"Goodbye Mr Albecias. Go home and celebrate. Now if you excuse me, I got some business to attend to." the Emperor said. 

As the Emperor left, and Albecias did the same, he wondered what all this might mean. He would undoubtedly grow more famous than ever, and he even imagined going down in history as one of the most important writers ever. He saw riches and titles and ever more important stories pouring in. So great were his fanciful notions his fame that he scarcely noticed he'd arrived before his apartment. There was a young woman standing by the front door, which only residents possessed the key to. She was pretty, with long brown hair and doe eyes, holding a copy of some book, dressed in a nice blue dress which seemed to be the color of the sky. 

As Albecias grew closer, he noticed it was his book she was holding, one of his first ones about some gruesome murders in Anvil. In her other hand was a small woven basket with a cloth covering it. She noticed him too, her eyes lighting up and her mouth moving but nothing coming out, so great was her excitement. 

"How may I help you?" Albecias asked, wishing he didn't look so dirty and dingy in his clothes. 

"Are you Albecias Plebo?" she asked with some self-restrained glee.

"Yes I am. How did you find me?" he asked, excited to be meeting someone who was obviously a fan of his. It seemed as though this day was getting better and better by the second. 

"I wrote a letter to your book publisher." she said. Her gleeful smile unwavering as she stared at him with wide eyes.

"Well, I'm certainly glad found me. What can I do for you?"

"Well, that could take quite a while. Shall we go inside? To a tavern, maybe."

"Yes. Know any good taverns?"

"There's one right down the street," Albecias said, pointing it out. "If you'll follow me."

Albecias led the way, and once they were seated Albecias asked, “What'll you be having?"

"Some wine. Maybe some of that Skingradian Lifeblood, just like in your book."

Albecias called a waitress over and said, "Two glasses of Skingardian Lifeblood."

The server took only a few minutes to return, pouring their glass and leaving the bottle. Albecias took a sip and said, "You really are a big fan, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am. Can you tell me where you got your inspiration? How much of the stories are based on real events?" she said, her eyes wide with anticipation. 

"I've done some extensive traveling, especially when I hear about a particularly heinous or unique crime. So many of my stories are at least inspire by true events," he said. He took a long drink of his wine, remembering the Emperor's advice to enjoy today. 

"Can you tell about your travels and those events?"

"Well, in that book," he pointed at The Murder of the Fishmongers, which was sitting upon the table between them, "I tagged along with a guard captain who was intending to retire at the end of the week. Instead he found himself with a serial murderer prowling the docks for months, preying on fishmongers and sailors. It was a maze of a case, and eventually he discovered the culprit was a man seeking to attract the attention of Mehrunes Dagon with murders in his name. But they weren't sacrifices, as his mental faculties were too far-gone to accomplish that. He was so nondescript and at home on the docks, though, that far too many people for the description, and made finding him difficult."

Albecias took another drink of his wine and refilled his glass. He had never talked to a fan like this, and was enjoying it as much as she was. 

"So what happened? How did you find him?"

"We eventually took to stalking the docks at night, and were fortuitous enough to catch him in the act. He and the guard captain fought, and he prevailed. I obviously dramatized the events for the book, but it was nonetheless an exciting investigation."

"What can you tell about the inspiration behind Blood on the Rose?"

"Well, that one is obviously set in Evermor. I wasn't personally able to go to the city, but my acquaintance who lived there kept me well informed. As you well know, the disappearances started in the winter..."

Albecias continued on this tale, relating the events of that story as his fan listened intently. As he did, and she asked more questions, he drank more and more of the wine. By the time he finished he'd drank his way through two bottles, and was more than feeling the effects of it. He tried to apologize, but his words were slurred. The second time, they came out correctly. "I'm sorry, I seem to have drank all the wine. My apologies."

"No need to apologize. I can buy some more if you need."

"No no, I've had plenty. It is delicious, though, one of my very favorites. That's why it made it into the book, you know," Albecias said. He reached for his glass to drinks the last drops still clinging to the side, but knocked it over in his drunken clumsiness. 

The woman seemed however unfazed by Albecias clumsiness. Though she had also a bit to drink, however not nearly as much as Albecias. "Waitress! Another round of wine." she called before returning to Albecias. "So how did you get into writing?" she asked. 

"Oh, I have always been great at it. Natural talent that once recognized has vaulted me here," he spread his arms, indicting the tavern, but more likely meaning the city. "Now I am famous, the greatest author in all of Cyrodiil. No! Tamriel!"

"What got you into writing detective novels?" she asked as the waitress came and refilled their glasses. 

"The murder and mayhem make them ripe for drama! Especially when you're dealing with low level guards, who usually only seek to get home safely at the end of the day." Albecias took another drink and leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment so the room would stop spinning so much. 

"What is your next novel going to be?"

"Oh, no novel. But I do have a story that will break soon, which will shed light on the greatest political plot since...well, since High Rock seceded. But it's even bigger than that, as you'll soon see!"

Albecias took another drink, then looked out the windows of the tavern. "What time is it? We should be going, I think. You can come see my home! It is exquisite and tasteful, I assure you."

"I'm sure it is quite big. You must be making lots of money from your novels." she said almost sheepishly. 

"Oh yes, I am quite rich. You wouldn't believe how much money I have. I'm positively swimming in septims."

"Really?" she said with humorous disbelief.

"Come to my house and you shall see." Albecias stood, but nearly fell. He braced himself against the table with one hand, and grabbed the bottle of wine with the other. "Can't forget this."

"Cheer! To lots of money!" She raised her glass that still had a little left

They toasted, Albecias drinking half the bottle of wine when he did. Then they walked back to his house. Though it wasn't far from the tavern, Albecias was forced to lean on his fan for support the entire time, so it took them considerably longer than expected. By the time they made it, Albecias had finished off the bottle of wine and threw it against a building. They went up together, and the last thing Albecias remembered was lying down on his bed and removing his clothes, and then his fan doing the same. 

When Albecias finally woke up, sometime afternoon, he had a splitting headache. He rose, rubbing his eyes, and walked into the kitchen. When he got there, it took him a few moments to realize what was wrong. There was nothing there. No food, no drinks, and when he turned around to face his living room, all his vases and decorations were gone as well. He ran back to his bedroom and saw the decoration there were gone as well. And when he threw open his wardrobe and chests, all his clothes, gold, and everything of value was gone. There was no sign of his fan, the obvious culprit. He felt so dumb to have allowed himself to fall for such an obvious scam. He went back to the kitchen and went through the cabinets again, looking for anything to eat or drink. This time, eyes less foggy and head throbbing less, he found a bottle of ale tucked away in a corner. He popped off its corks and took a drink.

It was soothing on his sore throat, but tasted different than any ale he’d ever tasted. He turned it around to look at the label and saw it was a Nordic variety, with some berries he hadn’t heard of mixed in. It tasted fine, and he soon finished the bottle. He was about to begin formulating a plan to get his publisher to bring him some clothes when he started seeing flashing red and green lights. He rubbed his eyes, but when he opened them he thought he saw movement down the hallway. Then he heard the growling. It was a guttural, booming growl, like massive boulders splitting apart. When Albecias ventured a peak down the hallway, he saw a long limbed, sharp-clawed beast with a mouth full of razor sharp teeth crawling out from the wall. The wood stretched in an unnatural way as the claws dug out, but Albecias didn’t wait around to see the result. 

He bolted instantly from his apartment, sprinting down the stairs faster than he’d run in years. Every time he turned around, though, the monster was always right on his heels, and he could feel the claws swiping at the air just behind him. Albecias burst onto the crowded midday street, screaming for people to scatter, pleading for them to get out of the way so that he might flee the horrible creature chasing him. Instead, they looked at him in confusion and derision, and laughed at his mania and nakedness. He saw two guards and ran too them, grabbing them and pointing toward his apartment, yelling about the monster chasing him. Instead, one hit him with the blunt of his blade, and knocked the author unconscious.

This time when Albecias awoke, he was clothed. He had on a roughspun wool tunic, and sat behind the bars of a cell in the Imperial Prison. Two guards stood over him, both reading several pieces of paper, pointing and laughing at things on the page. When they realized Albecias was awake, they looked up and turned their points and laughter upon him.

“Albecias Plebo, greatest man, greatest author to ever live,” one of them said. It took a few moments for Albecias to realize he was reading from the article. “Presents to the noble citizens of Cyrodiil a tale so astounding, it is nearly unbelievable. And yet, all the things I say are, in fact, true.”

“Are they true, Plebo?” the other guard asked. “Is the Emperor really an ancient vampire that used Amaud Motierre’s blood and the ‘power of Molag Bal himself’ to bind Dales’s soul to his own?”

 "After she drew up a bath filled with her father's blood while cackling like a banshee, of course," the other added.

 

“Yes, mustn’t forget that part. Very integral to her ascension, that was,” the guard said. “And then of course High General Ceno, famously a harsh and cruel man, discovered this nasty bit of magic. And then constructed a plot of his own, wherein he and the Legion generals would overthrow the Emperor and Empress and Ceno would rule.”

“Ah, how smart Ceno was to have Lorgar Grim-Maw write you, Plebo. You discovered the whole thing yourself, off of Lorgar’s accusations! You truly are a genius of our times.”

The guards burst into laughing, and tossed the article into Albecias’s cell. He grabbed the copy of the Black Horse Courier and read over what was supposed to be his article. Instead it was…something else. Several details were there, but most of them were replaced with horrible lies or gross mischaracterizations of what the author had discovered. The Black Horse Courier had prefaced the article with a note that it did not support the views expressed by Albecias. Even worse, the following article was a tear down of everything Albecias had written, and threw the Courier’s full support behind the Emperor, Empress, and High General. Albecias threw it across the room and curled into a ball, not caring in the least what happened next, or whether he should even live a single day longer.

**

Serivus Marillan

Imperial City

As Albecias Plebo was being imprisoned by High General Ceno, Serivus Marillan was in the midst of his own problems. His manor was still a mess, his furniture destroyed, and he had yet to remove all the bloodstains from the floors. Sibbi Black-Briar had brought nothing but trouble, and even worse, he had dragged the Elder Councilor’s good name through the mud by turning his manor into a war zone. Of course no one really spoke ill of Sibbi, as he had clearly been the victim of ruthless and bloodthirsty assassins, yet the other nobles could not believe an Elder Councilor could allow his own house to turn into such a slaughterhouse. After all, what kind of person allows their guests to be killed by brutes while they flee to the countryside?

It made Serivus sick to think all of this had happened and he was being blamed for it. And his house was still far from being cleaned, even when he was ready to move past the events Sibbi had brought down upon him. As Serivus was bemoaning his fate, there was a knock at the door to his solar.

“Come in,” he said, looking out the window where one of the assassins had supposedly jumped after killing Sibbi.

One of his guards came in, the guard who Serivus had sent to tail Albecias Plebo. His arrival made Serivus remember his agreement with the author, to reveal his article in exchange for not being closely attached to Sibbi Black-Briar. But after Sibbi had died here, any hopes of keeping his distance were quickly dashed.

“He never came out of the palace,” the guard said.

“Thank you. You’re dismissed,” Serivus said.

He then took out the article from his desk. Reading it, he realized it was even more ridiculous than he remembered. Especially how little he seemed to understand General Ceno. Without a second thought, Serivus walked over to the fire and tossed the article in. Though he couldn’t yet put Sibbi’s murder behind him, he could at least be rid of the author and his blackmail attempt. 

[Witchking of Angmar]

Mila
The Blue Road

Cheydinhal is a Nibenese city, Hreke told her over breakfast. "You can tell by the name. Just say it. 'Cheydinhal'. It flows off the tongue so smoothly. Just like Leyawiin. Hear the difference between those and 'Kvatch' or 'Chorrol'? You'll love the city, I promise. It's got a castle, and little rivers inside the walls. Oh the walls! They're higher than houses!"
Mila hadn't known the Nord girl was even capable of getting so excited, especially not if it meant speaking full sentences without shying away somewhere towards the middle.

"The Imperial City had big walls too." Mila said, taking a bite of the Sweeter Dreams Inn's crisp bacon. The big stone inn was a popular stop along the Blue Road, almost halfway to Cheydinhal from the Red Ring.

"That's what my sister says. She says that they make a perfect ring around what has to be the largest city in the world. She also says that it's an awful place and that we should never go there. But she doesn't say why."

"She's right." Mila said. She did not want to talk about the capital, and already regretted bringing it up, so she decided to change the subject. "You know a lot about Cheydinhal. How many times have you made this trip?"

"Eight." Hreke peeped. "Father's been bringing me with him for years. He needs me to pick out the ingredients for cooking. Sometimes, when I've been good, he even lets me choose a few other things to bring back. Last time was a jar of green nectar and some root pulp from the West Weald."

"Nectar and roots," Mila said, lost. "Why did you buy nectar and roots?"

Hreke looked at her as though she had just asked for the color of grass. "For alchemy, of course! I grind them up and mix them together."

"And then..." Mila knew little of alchemy. The only person she knew of who practiced it in Whiterun had been Arcadia, and she had never been allowed to go into her shop.

"And then I mix it with water and distort it to make a potion." The Nord girl's eyes shifted downward. "Or at least I try to. Father always tells Ethal -that's the herbalist we buy from- that she's not to let me leave with anything that might be dangerous. Apparently, that's a lot of stuff. Sometimes it's hard to find ingredients that mix right to make a proper potion."

Mila was intrigued. "And did the nectar and roots work?"

"They did," Hreke said, nodding excitedly. It was clear that she was not used to having new people to share this stuff with. "It made me and Jorri change colors for a little while."

"What colors did you change to?"

Hreke's face scrunched up. "Well, I never got that part right. It wouldn't stay the same. The colors would change when we moved. Out in the forrest, we were green and brown. In town, we were gray and muddy. In the house we became real dark. Some day I'm gonna get that stuff again and see if I can make it stay at one color." A mischievous smile crossed her lips. It seemed out of place on her typically shy, innocent face. "I'm gonna use it to turn Tul and Grevin green and convince them that they're turning into goblins."

Mila remembered Tul and Grevin to be some of the only youths in Cropsford. They was of an age with Mila, and only a little older than Hreke. "Why would you-"

"They like to scare me." Hreke said before she could even finish the question. "Two months ago, Tul told me that he had found an actual Nirnroot growing down by the pond. I was so excited! But when we got there, Grevin jumped out of the water covered in moss and wearing a wooden mask he'd painted green. He chased me all the way back to the village."

"She didn't go outside for the rest of the day." said Jorri's voice as the boy popped up at their table and snatched a piece of bacon from his sister's plate.

"Hey, get your own!" Hreke hissed, putting an arm between Jorri and her plate. She looked ashamed when she turned back to Mila. "And yeah, I hid inside. That mask was really scary. I thought he was one of the Bloody Hands."

"That's why it's so funny." Jorri laughed. "The Bloody Hands are about as dangerous as squirrels."

"They are not." Hreke countered. "The ones around our village maybe, but they're bigger and meaner deeper into the woods."

"But the pond isn't deep in the woods." Jorri reminded her. "It's just outside the village."

"Jorri, Hreke, you two quit your fighting." Kuslaf approached them from the staircase, already dressed and carrying his walking stick. He joined them at the table. "Sun ain't been up long. You three are up early."

"I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep." confessed Hreke. "And then I saw Matilda was already awake too, so I asked her to come down with me for an early breakfast."

Kuslaf looked at Mila. His one eye made his expression hard to read. "You holding up alright?"

"Yes." Mila answered. And she was pretty sure that she was. Hreke had been kind enough to leave out the detail of it being Mila's nighttime thrashing that had actually woken her up. She couldn't hardly sleep anymore without dreaming of some awful thing or another. Usually it related to Sibbi, or her family. But that was only in her sleep. When awake, Mila was more than capable of pushing those memories away and focusing on the present... she hoped.
She realized that Kuslaf was still looking for her, as if he expected more than just a 'yes'. "I'm fine, promise."

"Alright." The old Nord stole his daughter's last piece of bacon before the girl could react.

"Hey!"

"You payin' for it? Didn't think so." Mila thought that Kuslaf winked at Jorri, but it may have just been a blink. "We'll get some more for the road. The way you three drag your feet, we'll probably be making camp another time or two before we reach the city." It was hard to tell if he was joking. 

"How long will we be in Cheydinhal?" Mila asked. 

"Few days. Maybe a week. Give you and Jorri a chance to see what it's like. Hreke'd love to show ya around, when her face ain't buried in that herbalist's flower books."

I can show you that too, if you want," his daughter said with an enthusiastic nod. "Alchemy's fun once you start to understand how it works!"

Jorri stuck out his tongue. "No thank you."

Hreke rolled her eyes. "I was talking to Matilda."

"That could be fun." Mila agreed, which brought a huge grin to the Nord girl's lips, and set her off to talking even more about the 'incredible' things she could do, of how Mila could be her helper, if she wanted. And how she could use her coin to buy ingredients of her own, if she wanted. Mila tried to keep up, but found herself more than once losing focus of what Hreke was talking about. There were too many words like 'distillation' and 'alembic', which she had never heard said in her life. Jorri seemed visibly bored until his and Kuslaf's own breakfast was served. The old man seemed to be in his own world.

"Alright," Kuslaf eventually said, some time after his own plate was clean. "We tarry any longer and Spring will get to Cheydinhal before we do. Go on and get your stuff together. It's time we head out."

It wasn't long after that the four of them were on the road again. County Cheydinhal was mostly wooded, it seemed. Though unlike down near Cropsford, the woods surrounding the Blue Road weren't thick with vines and brush. The great big trees were spread out enough to walk a horse between, and you could see a good distance into them before your vision was broken. Between that and the wide road, Mila was surprised by how few travelers seemed to be. About an hour after leaving the inn, they passed a traveling merchant. And two hours after that was an armored man wearing an amulet of Stendarr. After that though, nothing. They managed to reach mid-afternoon without seeing a soul beyond those two. When Mila inquired about this, Kuslaf agreed that it was rather odd.

"I don't know, child. Perhaps it's the weather. The way it's clouding up way out east, I'm betting on rain. Or even snow if it cools enough."

"Aww, I hope not." Hreke muttered. "I hate walking in mud."

"Then you ought to walk faster." her father responded. "It'll be another night, for sure. But if the weather holds until tomorrow, we may reach the city before it starts."

Hreke immediately started to walk faster, and encouraged Jorri and Mila to do the same. "Come on, you don't want to walk in the mud, do you?"

"Yes." Jorri immediately answered. Though he quickened his pace regardless he saw that Mila had. And Kuslaf's adult Nord legs had no trouble adjusting to their new pace.

From that point forward, everything went fine, until night fell. 
"Will we be making camp soon?" Jorri was complaining. "I want some more of that bacon!"

"Soon." His father promised. Kuslaf seemed intent on them covering as much ground as possible. "Just hold on until I see a good place to camp. Keep an eye out for fires in the woods. Might be another group we can join up with, least for the night."

But after walking over an hour in the dark, it became apparent that there were no other groups that night. "Damned weather." Mila heard Kuslaf mutter to himself. "Gonna force us to camp alone."

"So? I sleep in the woods all the time back home."

"Our woods, Jorri." the old man answered. "And far away from where most folks live. Any Legion Forester would tell you it's not safe to camp alone out here."

Even so, that was exactly what they ended up having to do. The old man found them a spot not far off the road, in the ruins of an old cottage that had burned down years ago. The trail leading to it had been so overtaken by the forrest that Mila found it somewhat bewildering that Kuslaf could actually spot it in the dark with just one eye. He carried a torch, but still, it was rather uncanny.
Mila and Jorri set about building a campfire while Hreke readied her ingredients to cook something that would undoubtedly be good. For Kuslaf, who seemed to find contentment in staring into blank spaces, a seat on a log and a dark patch of wilderness to look at was more than enough to satisfy. They got the fire lit, and everything seemed to be going well until Jorri managed to burn his hand trying to adjust a log. The boy yelped.
"Hush!" Kuslaf told him sharply, suddenly standing.

That's when everything seemed to happen all at once. Two figures emerged from the darkness, stepping over the ruins of what had once been a wall. The first was tall and thin, with long blonde hair and a beard to match. He wore a rusty mail coat with iron greaves and boots, and carried a sword that was chipped and cracked. His bald companion was clad similarly, though over his mail, he wore a ragged brown surcoat that was covered in patterns made of green vines. 
Hreke's frying pan clattered to the ground as the girl backed into Mila. Behind her, another two figures had emerged, one hooded and dressed in wools, and the other in a mixture of irons and leathers.

"You chose a dangerous night to be walking the woods." the blonde one said as he glared at Kuslaf. "Haven't you heard it's supposed to rain soon? Your children could get sick."

"These are Nords." said another voice. Mila turned to see a fifth man emerge from the darkness. He was a dark-haired, dark-bearded Nord with an arrogant smile that made her skin crawl. It was the same smile that Sibbi had often worn. "They can handle some cold."

"If it's money you want, fine." Kuslaf said. Walking stick in hand, he moved to put himself between his children and the first two bandits.
Mila drew her steel dagger and faced the Nord.

"Aye, it's money we want." said bald one behind her. His voice was not as harsh as the last two had been, but that meant little considering the words he was saying. "And some supplies as well. You're not far from Cheydinhal now. You won't be needing all this food to make it the rest of the way."

"It's all in the bag, over there." Kuslaf pointed it out for them. "Take what you need and go."

"Too bad they're not all this easy, eh boss?" said the blonde one. Mila twisted her neck to see him striding over to Kuslaf's gear, but when she turned back, her eyes locked with the Nord's. He was looking at her with what looked like amusement.

"Feeble old man ain't scarin' me half so much as this one." he said. "Where'd a child get her hands on steel that fine? ... And is that a coin purse I see at your belt?" The Nord's eyes lit up. He stepped toward her, iron warhammer resting on his shoulder. "I'll be takin' both of those. First the dagger."

Mila looked down at the long, curved knife. "I don't-"

"It's alright, girl, I ain't gonna turn it on ya. Just give it here." He reached out a hand. "Slowly now." He flashed her that grin again, and suddenly Mila was back in Riften, looking into Sibbi Black-Briar's smug eyes.
She handed over the dagger. And then she drew her second one, it's enchanted blade glowing pale against the night, and drove it deep into the Nord's neck. His scream was cut off by the blood suddenly gushing out of his mouth. 

"What in Oblivion?!"

Hreke screamed. Jorri screamed. Half the bandits seemed to be screaming. But Mila's eyes were still locked with the Nord's. He did not look so arrogant now. Just afraid. Afraid and confused. And that's the way he looked when he died. It was more than Sibbi had given her.

Mila heard people struggling behind her. A child's crying drowned out most of it, but she could make out lots of people arguing, and the next thing she knew, she was being yanked backwards and thrown to the ground. When the blur left her eyes, Mila saw Jorri's bawling eyes looking down at a fallen Kuslaf. But that was all she had time to see before a mailed fist came crashing into her temple.

~~~

Her eyes drifted open. It was still dark out, but a large fire was lit nearby. It wasn't the fire she and Jorri had made. Mila tried to rise, only to find that her hands and feet had been bound. Instead of getting up, she opted to roll over. Doing so revealed to her that someone else was lying next to her, sobbing uncontrollably. As her senses slowly came back to her, Mila realized that that someone was Jorri. The boy was laying facedown in the dirt. She was about to speak to him, but stopped herself when she realized that Jorri was the only person wither her. Hreke and Kuslaf were nowhere to be seen.
It was at that moment that Mila realized someone was speaking elsewhere in the camp. Their tones were hushed, but it did not take long for her to focus in and pick up on whom they belonged to. It was the first two bandits to come into their camp: The mean-looking blonde and the bald man with the surcoat and the soft voice. It was hard with the fire crackling and Jorri whimpering next to her ears, but by straining, Mila was just able to pick up on some of what they were saying. It sounded like an argument.

"-you have me keep them here, then?" baldy was saying. "Feed them every day like prisoners in a damned dungeon?"

"Of course not. It'd only be a matter of time before the crazy one gets loose and slits someone's throat. And even with Ulgi dead, we still don't have more than a few days' worth of food as it is."

"Then what exactly are you suggesting, Nug?"

"Are you really gonna make me say it? Fine. The runts've got to die, Vandus. I don't like it either but I don't see any way around it."

Mila drew in a deep breath that made her miss most of Vandus's response. But he sounded angry. "-point of leaving if we're gonna stoop to that? No. I forbid it."

"So what then? You gonna send them on to Cheydinhal? Hiding's easy when it's just from Indarys and the rest of those idiots at Thorn Lodge. If these kids make it to the city though, the knights will find out where we are, the Count's men will find out where we are. By the Nine, the Divine gods-damned Order might even come after us. Do they target bandits?"

"None of those people targeted us when we were just robbers... You shouldn't have killed the old man."

"Shouldn't have- So were the weapons for show all this time? He attacked me. Was kicking my ass with that damned walking stick."

"And now we're murderers... And if that's not bad enough, you want to throw child-killing into the mix."

"The girl killed Ulgi! Stabbed him right in the neck like it was bloody nothing! And look at this dagger, and the gems on her flute... I don't know what that girl's deal is, but she's no child."

"And the boy? What's your excuse for him?"

"I've already said it. There is no excuse. It's as simple as 'them' or 'us'. The others agree with me. They just haven't got the stones to say it out loud."

"Then to Oblivion with them as well. It's my call and I've made it. Until I've come up with a suitable alternative, the children stay with us. They'll get Ulgi's share of the food."

Nug did not answer. Mila heard him instead storm off. She closed her eyes as he walked past her, and only dared to open them again when his footsteps faded beyond her hearing. Some time passed, and nothing happened besides the occasional coming or going set of footsteps, their owners impossible to see from the position she was laying in. At one point, a bandit commented to someone called 'Brendrik' about how he must have put a hell of a lot of power behind his punch to have laid her out for so long, but other than that, they spoke very little. It must have been a couple of hours before an out-of-breath man's voice broke into the camp. 
"We couldn't find her." the man said. "Searched up and down the forest, miles around where they'd camped, but there were no signs of the girl."

"Damnit!"
Nug kicked something metallic in anger, but Vandus, who was definitely their leader, sounded neither angry nor sad. It was hard to tell how he felt, actually.

"Get some sleep. You can try again in the morning. Dark as it is, the girl could've been ten feet away from you and you'd not have known it."

So Hreke escaped. Mila was both surprised and impressed. The bandits had been around them on all sides. Things must have gotten very chaotic after she'd killed the one called Ulgi.

"Girl?" a voice asked from above her. She did not move. If they knew she was awake, they might stop talking around her. Unfortunately, that did not fool Vandus. "I know you're not asleep. I saw your eyes flickering just before. Look at me."

She hesitated, but then twisted onto her back and glared at the bandit, who was kneeling down near her feet. "How long have you been awake?"

"Long enough to know you people killed Kuslaf." The sentence drew a sharp breath from next to her as Jorri began to sob again.

"That was... not supposed to happen." There was remorse in Vandus's eyes, but remorse wouldn't change what had happened, and it would not change Mila's mind on the man. "We only meant to take some of his gold. Not even all. Then that fool Ulgi got greedy. I cannot hold it against you for killing him. We're robbers. I know what that means."

"You're worse than robbers. You're murderers."

"Not before tonight, we weren't." Vandus sighed, rubbing his bald head. "We used to serve the Count. All of us agreed with his stance against Motierre and that foreign mage of hers. But he went back on that and bent the knee anyway, so we left, refusing to serve an Empire that would so easily sell itself to some bully and stranger. We've survived on careful robbing all this time. Even with the knights, it's always been easiest to do in County Cheydinhal. That worked until tonight. You scared some of them and things got out of hand."

Mila cared about the bandits' reasons for being out here about as much as she cared to hear their excuses. "Doesn't change what you did."

"I know it doesn't. I just want you to understand what happened. Nug's not evil. He was scared, and he killed the old man. Just like how you were scared, and you killed our friend."

"I wasn't scared." Mila told her captor. "And I'm still not. I've had people worse than you try to hold me prisoner. And now they're all dead."

"Divines, girl." Vandus's eyes went wide. "What in Mara's name is- ... No, never mind. You don't owe me any answers. But I will ask you this, not for my sake but for yours and the boy's. Is there anything we could do with you that won't result in our deaths? I know it sounds awful to ask, but know that I'm really trying to work with you here. If there's a place we can take you that's not filled with guards, I'd like to do that. We may have killed the old man, but I refuse to kill children."

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone about this." Mila promised. Vandus looked relieved until she continued. "Because I mean to come back for you myself, just like I did for my last captor. I'll take back my things, and I'll slit each of your throats as you sleep." She turned her head, and noticed that a couple of the others were watching. She glared at the blonde one. "I'll save Nug for last."

"Well if that don't settle things, I don't know what does." Nug shouted.

"I'm not going back on this." Vandus responded before turning his frown back to Mila. "If it's your goal to make it hard to protect you, then congratulations, you're doing an excellent job." He got up and walked away.

It wasn't until morning that Mila was able to get a truly good look at her surroundings. They were in a clearing, surrounded on all sides by trees. But it was the ruin that marked this as a noteworthy location. To Mila's left was a giant black spike, wider than a tree trunk and almost as tall. It jutted out of the landscape and curved like the beak of a crow. Next to it was a second spike, though this one laid on the ground, broken at its base. They were covered in vines and bushes to indicate their age, but beneath all the brush, faint red symbols could just be made out. This place had clearly been abandoned for some time, and whatever had lived here was long gone now, but Mila could not pretend that something about the ruins made her feel uneasy.
A lookout called 'Del' arrived some time after daybreak. He seemed surprised to see Mila and Jorri. "Who's this?"

"Some kids that're gonna get us killed." she heard Nug mutter. 

"They're prisoners" Vandus told the lookout. "What is it?"

Del cleared his throat. "There's a carriage on the road. Fanciest one I've ever seen in my life. Wood's all dark mahogany, with golden inlays and nice red curtains. I didn't get a good look at the occupants, but there was something peculiar. The thing had no driver. The horses pulled and steered all on their own. There was also one rider behind them, wearing Legion armor. But I think we could pull this one off, Vandus. These people must be rich and they're barely guarded."

"Barely guarded." Their leader scoffed. "More like, they don't need lots of guards. If the horses are pulling the wagon on their own, then that can only mean there's a mage in that carriage. Leave this one be. It's not worth the risk and we've got troubles enough as it is."

"Are you sure?" Nug asked. "I mean, there are six of us now. And we got three bows. Surely we can manage one mage."

"One mage can make horses drive themselves, or he can level an entire city. We'll not risk it. Go on back to the road, Del. We'll pass this one up.

"As you say, Boss."

Eventually, maybe an hour or so later, Mila felt something bump against her elbow. She turned on her side to see Jorri squirming like a mad man. He was twisting in every direction, making all sorts of odd noises as he did. "Jorri?"

"No!" the boy cried, still thrashing. "No! No! No! No!" His head banged against the dirt, but he did not stop. 

Mila knew he was going to hurt himself. "Jorri. Jorri, look at me. Look at me." She wriggled closer and tried to speak in a calming voice. "Jorri, stop squirming. You're gonna hurt yourself!"
The boy did not listen, so she tried something else. "Hreke is still out there, you know? Your sister? She's alive, Jorri. They didn't get her. Shh Shh Shh, look at me. Jorri!"
When the boy's movement slowed, his teary green eyes met with hers, and he began to sob again. "Jorri," Mila didn't know much about comforting others. But she knew what it felt like to be in pain, to lose someone you love. "Look at me, alright?" She wouldn't tell him that things would be alright. She knew better than to say something like that. "Have I told you that my real name is Mila?"
The boy shook his head.
"Well it is. I've used a fake name for months now, to make it easier to hide from some bad people. What about the time I went to Silent Moons Camp? Did I ever tell you that story? I used a wooden sword, like yours but a little shorter. I helped stop a bandit there."
Jorri began to sob again. Why in the world did I think that was a good idea? Mila wasn't even sure why she was trying to comfort him. She didn't get any comfort when her mother and Boldir died. And she hadn't wanted it, either. She'd have been happiest if no one spoke to her for days after their deaths. Weeks even. And yet...
This was her fault. Mila knew it. She'd let that bandit get to her, as if he had actually been Sibbi. If she hadn't killed him, Kuslaf would be alive and they would be on their way to Cheydinhal, lighter of purse, but otherwise unharmed. Mila hadn't even thought about it at the time. Something in her had just snapped... and she'd just done it, as easily as scratching an itch.

[Witchking of Angmar]

Gracchus Ceno
Morning
Imperial Palace

The High General felt like the past year was all some horrible nightmare. In what realm besides one conjured by Vaermina could the Stormcloaks and Legion become allies? How else could previously celebrated heroes such as General Tullius and Lorgar instead become villains and traitors, at least in the public’s eye? How else could a fresh legion descend from the mountains and cause insurrection? How else could a Nordic mage now sit the throne of the Empire? How could the Empire be reduced to a single province, in so short a time? How else could a High Admiral be captured, returned, and then defeated by sunbird, all by the Thalmor, if this was not a dream world? How else could those same Thalmor run amok inside Skyrim itself? And, not least of all, but certainly the most ordinary in retrospect, how could a farmer’s son, an older-than-most legate, rise to High General so quickly?

All this, and so much more, made Gracchus wonder if Albecias Plebo did not have some reason for descending into madness and conspiracy theories. It seemed only right to lose ones mind, when so much of the world was clearly doing so as well. He wished he were more of a historian, so that he might somehow set his mind at ease with a discovery of some other strange, tumultuous era, but he had no time for reading much besides reports dealing with the army. And he was somewhat afraid that if he did look to history for answers, he would instead find only how far the world had fallen.

So it was the High General was entirely morose as he strolled the elegant halls of the palace, somewhat wishing they would blow away like a fine powder and he would awaken in the Laughing Fox, when at least the world had some modicum of sanity. But he was not one given to excessive daydreams, and quickly pushed them from his mind. He began to read the latest report from Generals Antonia and Fork-Beard, detailing their transplantation from Forts Caractus and Cedrian, respectively. Both Legions, the 1st and the 8th, consisting of a great many recruits, would head north to Cheydinhal, to guard against any Thalmor incursions from the Rift.

Gracchus was about to begin to read General Bical’s letter, which likely discussed his move to Bruma with the 3rd Legion, but instead he was abruptly, yet somehow naturally, interrupted by a Dremora materializing in front of him. Gracchus wondered if maybe this day really was a dream, yet he somehow felt this unexpected Dremora was only one more moment in a long list of strange occurrences, and really no different than anything else that had happened over the past year or so.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked, sliding the letters into his belt so as to free his hands. The Dremora wasn’t immediately antagonistic, but the High General was ready nonetheless.

"I bear a message, mortal." The denizen of Oblivion's voice was deep and guttural. "My Master, the one called Endar Drenim sends his tidings, and says that he has been gone for several days, and will remain away for several more. He also borrowed money from your Legion. That is all."
As quickly as it had appeared, the daedroth vanished again in a swirl of chaotic darkness.

Gracchus stared at the empty space the Dremora left. He briefly wondered where Endar had gone, and how much money he'd taken; but the eccentrics of the Dunmer left little room for surmising. He would need to inform the Emperor, but it hardly seemed pressing, with Endar not due back soon. So Gracchus brought the letters up, opened the next one, and read as he continued to his office, hoping the rest of the day held as little madness as possible. 

***

Endar Drenim
An expensive carriage, paid for by the Legion

Endar waved his hand and the Dremora, his task complete, returned to Oblivion. "There. Do you feel better now?"

"Yeah, I do." Elara gave him that look he had grown so used to by now. The one that suggested she considered herself the intelligent one of their duo. As if she could even operate on the same level of thought as someone who had achieved Master Wizard status among the Telvanni. "Would've been nice if you'd told him in the first place. You've sat on councils, met with some of Cyrodiil's leaders in person. You know things that no one outside of that tower knows... What do you think they'd do if they believed you've run off on them?"

Endar's tone was dismissive. "They would probably send someone to find out where I went. That someone would succeed, I would waste a few words with him, and then he would report back to his masters that my work is not the sort that can be done entirely in one location. Sometimes matters arise that require resources that are outside of what they can provide me."

"It's the Empire! They can provide you with anything you want. I'm sure that if you'd brought the matter to her attention, Her Majesty would've preferred to send someone else on this fetch quest in your stead."

"There are some matters that are best handled in person."

"Meeting with hedge wizards and swapping notes is the sort of matter you need to handle in person?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact." Endar frowned. "Or would you have me trust my research with some Legion pup? He could be an agent of the Blades, or whatever they call themselves now, and I would still consider this task above him. Because he doesn't know the wizard we'll be meeting like I do. Because neither he nor anybody else at the Empire's disposal would have the faintest idea how to approach this situation with anything remotely resembling tact. And because he wouldn't even know what he's looking for. There are few alive who do."

"And you're among them?"

"In a way. I know that Rythe's experiments derive from the notes of a long-dead citizen of the Empire who never published his works. What he's learned from those experiments is as great a mystery to me as to anyone else. But the market for Welkynd stones has apparently grown exponentially in the east these past several years. And that's exactly the sort of result I would expect from Rythe finding success in his endeavors."

"You said that you know Rythe. How well?"

"Well, for a start we are both of the Great House Telvanni. Where I was and am loved by many, Rythe has always had a tendency to drive others away. He despised interaction with his own kind, and hated dealing with Outlanders even more. It's no wonder that he wound up dedicating his studies almost entirely to the non-living. Necromancy was a favorite field of his, which did not make him popular outside of our House. Of course the outcast would be lucky enough to somehow stumble across some of the most valuable hidden research in Cyrodiil. It suits him too, living in caves, growing crystals. Crystals don't talk near so much as men or mer."

"Well that's... a little weird. And he's a necromancer?" Elara shifted in her seat. "You failed to mention that before. He won't take issue with you paying a visit, will he?"

"He probably will. All the more reason for me to do this instead of some Imperial lackey."
Endar turned and leaned out the right door window. "Soldier." 

The single mounted Legionnaire who accompanied them was tall for a Breton. Elara had insisted they bring one, as if it would make them appear important. "I have a name, mage."

"Yes," Endar didn't see the point of the comment, "Most people do. If all goes well, we will arrive at Cheydinhal in a few hours. Ride ahead and inform the Knights of the Thorn of our coming." He returned to the shade of his carriage before the soldier could reply. "I would prefer not to arrive at their lodge and be left waiting because they chose today to go steal from honest bandits, or whatever it is that knights do these days."

"I remember some knights who came to Skingrad once." Elara said. "They stayed at Father's inn for a week. Far as I could tell, they didn't do anything special besides wear expensive armor. They'd go out into the hills and kill goblins, and then they'd come back and drink. Not much different from our Fighters Guild, really."

"Fascinating." Endar said. He had meant it sarcastically, but his stewardess seemed to take that as encouragement to keep talking.

"Though I heard about this new group that's making a name for itself. The Divine Order. We might run into some of them in the city."

"Let's try not to." Endar had not heard of the Divine Order, but if they were anything like the Knights of the Thorn, he doubted he would be particularly fond of them. "In fact, the ideal situation would be for us to acquire what we need without setting foot in the actual city. Sir Whatshisname told me that the lodge sits outside the city's walls."

The skies darkened as their carriage drew near to Cheydinhal, the smell on the air promising rain. It held off for most of their journey, but around the time they arrived, a heavy shower took to beating against their roof. Endar figured that much of it would freeze come nightfall.
Thorn Lodge, as the knights had so cleverly dubbed their headquarters, was a two story wooden building that resembled an inn from the outside, though few inns boasted their own stables, and fewer still had a manned lookout tower built off to the side. And Endar wagered that there wasn't a single inn in existence whose 'lookout tower' was built less than three hundred feet away from the considerably taller towers that lined the nearby city's walls. Even Elara in all her simple-mindedness, saw the pointlessness of that particular feature.
"What do you think he's gonna spot that the city guards won't see first?" she commented as they stepped out onto the puddly road and threw up their hoods. 

Endar said nothing in response, which was  probably the correct answer anyway. The door was opened to them as they approached by a young lad in a drab sheep's wool vest. He eyed Endar's staff as he and Elara walked inside, where they were greeted by the strong scents of dark beer, roasting chicken, and man musk. The first floor was a large square, with a hodgepodge of round and wooden tables scattered about, and an unmanned bar near the back, beside which a dozen or more wooden casks had been stacked. The fireplace to their left was huge enough to fit several kettles and and a four-foot long spit, covered in poultry. 
The tables were crowded, with men and women of every race (except for beastfolk, thank the gods) loudly milling about over drinks and games. Quite a few of them were armored, some in steel and some in tanned leather. Both types of uniform bore exquisite carvings or embroideries of the thorny pattern for which the knightly order was known. 

Near the middle of the room sat the Legion fellow who had spent the last few days on the road alongside them, chatting it up with the only man in the room who Endar recognized: The dark-haired, thick-mustachioed Imperial knight that he had met with in the past. The man spotted him across the room and put on a smile that was too large to not be exaggerated. "Master Endar Drenim arrives at last!" he shouted stupidly. A few others in the room looked up when he yelled, but then went back to whatever they were doing before. Most did, at least. Endar noticed a few eyes lingering in his direction. He doubted any of them had seen Telvanni robes before. They probably were curious as to what the daedric lettering that lined them was supposed to say. Sir Whatshisname had warned him that their order had a deep-rooted mistrust for 'all things Oblivion'. Imbeciles, the lot of them.

Endar motioned for the Legionnaire to move so he could take his seat across from the Imperial knight. Elara completed the set by sitting to his left, across from the soldier, who's poorly focused eyes suggested that he had been drinking.
"I had wondered when we would be meeting again." said Sir Whatshisname in his comically deep voice. He grinned at Endar's stewardess. "And I don't believe we've met, My lady. I am Sir Bremman Senyan the Sixth."

"Elara," she answered with a smile of her own. "Just Elara."

"Well it is a pleasure, Elara. Might I say, it is rare that such a beauty walks through our d-"

"Yes, yes." Endar gave an impatient wave of his hand. "You are so very chivalrous. I did not come here to watch you meet my help."

The knight cleared his throat. "Of course. Master Endar, it seems so long since you and I began to make plans for this little excursion of yours. I was beginning to worry that the new group would catch wind of your necromancer before you got here."

"New group?" Endar raised a brow. "You mean the Divine Order?"

"So you know of them, then?"

"Not beyond the name, no."

"Lucky you. Those righteous pricks damn near run things as of late. Been-"

"Do they relate to our matters in any way at all?"

"Well, no..."

"Good." Endar was growing bored Bremman's irrelevancies, and so he decided to dive right in to the business at hand. "If these other knights haven't discovered it yet, then I don't suppose there have been any changes in the situation since we last met?"

"None," admitted the knight. "And our eyes have been open. Ever since you and I last talked, Commander Indarys has been sending a scout to check out the place from afar once every two weeks."

"So you lot have been casting stray glances at the place a couple times a month?" Are you really that stupid? "It is an underground ruin. And by your own words they live deep within it. What in Azura's name did you expect to get out of these half-monthly peeks?"

"I mean, we'd hoped to see someone coming or going..."

"A stupid endeavor. The odds of your distant and uncommon glances matching up with their even more uncommon days of emergence, which are more likely nights by the way, are not particularly high. You say that Welkynd stones have turned up in the city's market as of late. Have you thought to investigate that instead?"

"Uh, no. But we have been awful busy with other endeavors than just this one. Traitors and bandits still plague the countryside. Discontent fools who despise the Count for supporting our good Imperial Dynasty. This necromancer issue of yours is far from my order's greatest concern."

"Quite right." Endar agreed. "Which is why I would very much like to see this business over with quickly, so we can all move on to 'greater concerns'. When will one of your men be prepared to escort me to this Fanacas?"

"I would be happy to do it myself. It may give us a chance t-"

"No thanks." Endar interrupted. "You annoy me. Is there anyone in this social club who speaks less loudly? Or better yet, one who barely speaks at all?"

The knight seemed at a loss for words. Though Endar wasn't sure why. It had been an honest question. If the man was already so flabbergasted like a dumb infant just from this one conversation alone, the mage doubted he would have lasted as their guide for the entire trek to Fanacas. And now Sir Bremman was stammering as though he had suddenly forgotten all words.
"Have you gone completely mad?"

"I, uh- No. Uh, no I haven't, I just..." Bremman paused and took a deep breath. He looked defeated, which was again, very strange. This was a meeting. Not a board game. Finally, the knight looked at him and said, "Sir Thessius might be the knight you want. He's the dark-haired lad over by the stairs."

Endar turned and spotted the man in question. He sat at a small round table, listening to one of his comrades speak. After a short while, it became apparent that listening was all the man was doing. Endar nodded. "He should do nicely."

The words had only just left Endar's lips when the front door slammed open and a little Nordic child came stumbling in from the downpour outside. She was soaked from head to toe in mud, leaves, and rainwater. Half the room's occupants jumped to their feet and surrounded the poor girl before she could get a word out. Uninterested, Endar turned back around only to find that Bremman, the Legionnaire, and even Elara were already up and moving themselves. "Hold on now, we have-"

The sentimental humans left him before he could even finish his sentence. Typical.
Endar reached across the table and picked up the wooden mug that his Legion escort had left behind. It was a dark beer, not his preferred drink, but it would do. Endar finished it off and placed it back where he'd found it. A few seconds later, Elara returned to his side.

"Her name is Hreke." she said, sitting back down. The stewardess's eyes were the sad sort of wide. "She says that bandits got her brother and killed her father."

"How unfortunate for her." Endar said in a dismissive tone. "Did you get a good look outside, perchance? I'd like to know if the rain is likely to let up by the time we set out."

She seemed angered by the question. "You're unbelievable."

Endar rolled his eyes. "I'll take that as a 'no'. I suppose it does not matter. We leave tonight rain or no."

"Master Drenim." Bremman's deep voice announced his return before he reached the table. "Apologies, but I will no longer be able to assist you on your quest..."

Hadn't they already covered this? "I didn't want y-"

"Unless," the knight continued, completely cutting Endar off, much to his annoyance. "you would be willing to accompany me and Commander Indarys himself on an expedition west, to root out and destroy the bandit menace that has terrorized that poor girl's family."

"No thank you."

"Master Drenim-" Elara started, only to take her own turn in being interrupted by Sir Bremman.

"Are you certain?" boomed the knight. "This task will not be an easy one, and will no doubt be wrought with peril. It would bring us and the child great relief to have a renowned wizard of the House Telvanni in the party. All of Cheydinhal would be in your debt."

"Master Wizard. And is the girl from Cheydinhal?"

"No. She hails from a village in-"

"Then I fail to see how the city would be in my debt." Endar concluded, quietly satisfied to have set up his own opportunity to interrupt the annoying man. "Best of luck luck with your search, Sir Knight. I am sure the perils it is wrought with will tremble before your brave order."

"They would be foolish not to." Bremman nodded. "Very Well, Master Drenim. I bid thee fair well, and wish you the greatest fortunes on your own quest."

As the knight turned to leave, Endar glanced over at young Sir Thessius, who was standing quietly near the back of the throng that now showered the terrified Nord child in promises of the justice they would bring in answer to all the wrongs that had befallen her. She's in shock. Endar noticed. And that gray around her elbows, wiry, with the puffed skin. "The girl has rockjoint." Endar muttered to no one in particular.

"What's that?" Elara asked. She still looked a little annoyed with him, as if she'd actually expected him to accompany all those idiots on their little 'quest'. 

"It's nothing important." Endar said. "Have you ever met any dedicated necromancers?"

"What?" She seemed puzzled. "No, of course not."

"That's what I thought... I'm starting to wonder what good you'll be in Fanacas." Endar frowned. "Necromancers can be touchy people, you see. Say the wrong thing to one and he'll be convinced that you're more useful to him as an undead thrall than you are alive. Given your poor people skills-"

"Hey-"

"-It may be better if you remain here." Endar nodded at the child. One of the knights was kneeling in front of her now, saying words that her deadened face barely seemed to register. "The child is sick with rockjoint. She's breathing it all over that man's face as we speak. There's a way for you to occupy your time if you get bored while I'm gone."

"Wait... really?"

"Yes, really. You'll be no good to me as Rythe's thrall. But if you get sick, you're fired."

Elara was already nodding. She really wanted to help that child. As the knights began to filter out the door, she moved over to replace them by the kid's side. Besides those two and the Legionnaire, who was off puking in a corner, the lodge was now only occupied by a few squires and Sir Thessius, who was looking at Endar from across the room. 
Back to the matter at hand. "Well are you going to keep staring, boy, or are we going to get ready to depart?"

Thessius approached. He was a plainly faced red-headed lad, with freckles on his thinly whiskered cheeks. His expression was not one of a deep thinker, but nor was it that of a loud boaster as with most of his fellow knights. "I'll get ready." he said quietly, but not shyly. And that was all he said. Endar liked the knight already.

***

East of Cheydinhal
Early Morning

The rain never let up, and so Endar and Sir Thessius were forced to ride wet. Their trek was almost entirely spent off the main road, which ended at Cheydinhal. They instead followed a series of narrow paths and muddy game trails that led through the woods and fields. They traveled through the night without stopping. This was of no consequence to Endar, who could do without sleep, but he could tell by the end that his guide was having to fight the desire to doze off in his saddle. To the knight's credit, he never asked to stop or said a word of complaint. In fact, just as Endar had hoped, he barely spoke at all...
... which why it came as a surprise when Thessius suddenly brought his mare to a halt and spoke up after a good many hours' worth of silence. "We're almost there." He pointed a gloved finger toward the wet, frosty landscape that stretched out before them. "See that cluster of trees near the Valus Mountains?" 

Endar squinted his eyes. The snow-covered slopes were littered with pines, but right at their base was a particularly large patch of green. "Yes."

"That's were the ruins are concealed. Would you like me to take you closer?" There was some hesitancy in the knight's voice when he asked that last part.

"What?" started the elf, "You're not coming inside with me?"

"I didn't plan on it." he said rather bluntly. "Do you want me to?"

"Not really." Endar admitted. Thessius was braver than some of his comrades to even be willing to go at all. But that had not been a part of the deal, and a frightened knight would be of even less use to him than a frightened Elara. "Go home, Knight. I'll take it from here."

And so Endar urged his horse onward, up the narrow path made of half-frozen sludge that made a smacking noise with every step his horse made. The hills grew steeper as he got closer, and the mud slowly turned to full-on snow.
It wasn't long after he reached the tree line that Endar began to see the signs of Rythe's presence. The wide pine trunks bore daedric lettering, and hanging from their higher branches: skulls. Most of them were purely ornamental, Endar knew. They had been placed to warn off the weak and foolish. But there were curses and spells weaved among those branches as well. Wards, detection magic, and even a few nasty traps for anyone fool enough to try and steal Rythe's decorations. 
The Ayleid ruin of Fanacas was cracked and ancient. Where once there had been a winged statue now rested a pile of broken rubble. Around it were a few crumbling archways and some half-collapsed walls. Of everything Endar could see, only the main entrance remained in worthy condition.
It could really use a good sweeping, though. the wizard thought as he dismounted. The entire stairwell was covered in fallen pine needles, which had gathered and bunched up against the square door at the bottom. Lifting his hand, Endar ran a quick virtue test over the stones. Once he was certain there was no trap, he pushed the round mechanism at the door's center, and the great stone slab slid into the floor, revealing a long, wide hallway that was lit on either side by glowing blue crystals.
Welkynd stones... Uncut. Well Rythe, it seems the rumors about you are true.
Endar took his first step inside.

"Halt!" The layered voice seemed to boom at Endar from every direction, but he knew a projection spell when he heard one. A gaunt figure appeared at the end of the hall, it's skin pale like only a dead man's can be. As it approached, Endar noticed that the thrall's left hand was clenched tight around a black dagger.

"There's no need for all that." the wizard said to whoever might be listening. "I'm here to see Rythe. We're old friends."
Silence was the answer Endar recieved. Silence, and the shuffling zombie that drew ever nearer. He rolled his eyes and lifted his hand. The undead minion halted in its tracks, twitched a few times, and then collapsed into a pile of ash. "I'm not here as a foe." Endar said, starting forward again. "Stop being so damned dramatic."

The next figure to turn the corner was very much alive. He was a human man, with a scraggily brown beard streaked with gray. His face was gaunt and pale, and dark rings shadowed his eyes. Naturally, his look would not have been complete were he not hooded and cloaked in dirty black robes. In almost every way, he seemed to be an incredibly typical, 'evil'-looking necromancer. The human even had red eyes! Does he know what he's doing for his peoples' image?
"Forgive the welcome scene." said the necromancer in a voice that Endar was disappointed to find wasn't sinister or snakelike. "If you'd been some fool adventurer or dungeon-delver, that would've been meant to dissuade you. Or kill you, if the dissuading didn't work."

Endar raised a brow. "Are adventurers a common problem?"

"Not at all. You'd have been the first in over a year." The necromancer motioned for Endar to approach, which he did unflinchingly. "So you're a friend of Rythe's, then? You must be of the House Telvanni. My brother used to wear similar garb to yours."

"I wasn't aware that Rythe had a brother."

"Well, half-brother as I'm sure you've already figured. And no doubt you haven't heard of me because you have not seen him in a couple hundred years, correct?"

"Close enough." Endar admitted.

"I am not nearly that old. Wasn't born until long after he and father left your lot to join the Order."

"I never knew of Rythe's father either."

"Most people didn't. Our father was a vampire when he conceived me, but even then, Rythe was the powerful one in our family. The brilliant one. But he's not half as clever as I am. Or as good looking." The necromancer laughed. "I am Ralimar Orealo. You don't seem intent on killing me, so I say it's a pleasure. We don't get many friendly visitors out here."

"Of that, I have no doubt. Endar Drenim, Master Wizard." Endar did not offer Ralimar his hand. There was no telling what the corpse master had done with it since its last washing. "Now where can I find your brother?"

"Rythe is busy with his stones right now, as he so often is. He hates being disturbed, but I believe he would make an exception for Telvanni. Follow me, and do not mind the thralls."

Ralimar led him deeper down the tunnel, past various chambers that were mostly filled with dust, books, partially written scrolls and runes, some ritual sites, shrines, and yes, servant thralls. None of this interested Endar half so much as the blue stones that lit the rooms in place of torches. He could see the naturalness of their shapes that these too were recently made. And their glow... even Endar had never seen a Welkynd stone that glowed so brightly, and he could practically taste the magicka that they resonated with. It was a very good sign.
"Keep quiet as we pass the ritual chamber." Ralimar whispered just before they entered the next hall, which opened up into a balcony overlooking a large chamber fifteen or so feet below. It was the first part of the ruin to be lit by candles instead of stones. Blood, bones, hearts, and other organs were kept in jars along the walls, which were in turn decorated with skulls. And on a large stone slab were various bloody body parts spread out before a group of black hooded figures.
"I thought Rythe preferred solitude." Endar muttered after they exited to the next chamber. "He never seemed the type to run a cult."

"It really has been some time since you've seen my brother, hasn't it?" Ralimar's smile was full of admiration, no... envy. "During the Oblivion Crisis, long before I was born, Rythe was visited by the King of Worms, himself."

That gave Endar pause. "Mannimarco was here?"

"He was, indeed. I am sure you know about our war with the Mages Guild."

"Everyone knows about that."

"Of course. Well, Rythe was to be one of the Black Moon's greatest weapons. Whatever the King of Worms said to him, it was enough to change him quite a bit. You'll see. He's much more likely to hear someone out before stealing their soul now."

"You do not seem to take it very seriously." Endar noted. "Ever Worm Acolyte that I have met has been even more grim than the corpses they play with."

"A fact that I am all too often reminded of." Ralimar shrugged. "This lot doesn't like to go outside, but I spent much of my life up there. I'm as devout as anyone else in this place, but being devout won't nourish the body. It's up to me to ensure they don't all starve... or resort to eating the dead, which I think one or two may very well be willing to do."

They rounded a corner, and the stone ruins came to an end only to be replaced by a rocky tunnel supported by wooden beams like a mine. "Are these expansions your group's doing?"

"They are. Well, the dead did the actual digging. But these tunnels belong to Rythe. He needs the space for his work." 
The tunnel twisted and turned a few times, until it finally opened up into a massive cavern that glowed brightly from thousands of natural, uncut, unharvested Welkynd stones growing straight out of the mountain. They ranged in size from pebble-like to bigger than a troll's head, and all of them glowed like the stars themselves.
Even the floors shined. So many stones sprouted from the dirt that Endar and Ralimar had to watch where they stepped, lest they crack one. They carefully made their way the way up to the center of the room, where a small quarters had been set up, complete with two desks, several filled bookshelves, and a bed. Amidst it all stood the great necromancer himself, white-bearded and clad all in black. Rythe Orealo's dark red eyes peered at Endar with curiosity.
"You are of the House Telvanni." said the necromancer in a voice that had long ago been harshened by the ashen air of Morrowind. "When I saw you approaching, I'd thought you'd come to kill me."
Rythe took a step closer. "Then Ralimar commanded the dead to let you pass. That's when I thought you wanted to beg for me to return, after all these years. But no... that's not it either, is it?"

"No, Rythe. It isn't." He doesn't recognize me. "I have come on a quest of knowledge."

"Knowledge." The Dunmer grinned, revealing teeth that had rotted to a disgusting degree. "Leave us, Ralimar." Both the master wizards watched as the younger Orealo left without a word. Once he was gone, his brother beckoned Endar to come closer. "He is a good lad, my brother. Annoying, and far too talkative. But he manages to be far more useful than the rest of this lot."

"Spoken like a true cult leader." Endar's voice dripped with sarcasm.

Rythe waved a hand as if annoyed. "Mannimarco must have gone bloody mad to think that anyone stood to gain anything from me taking in a bunch of useless mouths to feed. They practically worship me, yet there's not a damned thing I can use them for that I can't already do myself."

Spoken like a true Telvanni. "I understand what it is to have useless servants. My last four or five died or vanished before I finally found one who knows how to listen."

The necromancer gave an understanding grunt and walked over to his desk, where he picked up a small wooden cup and took a sip. "Canis root tea. Would you like some?"

"I despise tea." Endar said respectfully, before deciding to push ahead to his reason for being here. "You've been busy, Rythe. The art of cultivating Welkynd Stones has been lost for thousands of years."

"Impressed?" The necromancer smiled and put down his cup "You know who I am, so I have to assume you are familiar with my studies of the undead, the human body, the daedric possession-"

"Soul and flesh magic." Endar finished for him.

"Yes," Rythe clearly did not appreciate being interrupted. "But that is not so well known. You have not only heard of me. No, no, we've met. I'm sure of it now. That voice of yours..."

"Endar Drenim."

"Endar Drenim!" Rythe's eyes widened. "The one who saved Tel Mora! You were not but a Spellwright when last we met. It was criminal, the way Dratha kept you down like she did. By all accounts, that old hag should have been scrubbing your boots."

"That worked itself out in the end. I was named Master Wizard after the Oblivion Crisis. It wasn't long after you left. Your brother makes it sound like that is quite the tale."

"The King of Worms admired my work." Rythe said. "Had he come to me sooner, we might've brought down the Mages Guild. Not that it mattered with the Empire falling apart so soon after. It practically did the job for us. It would have been wiser to wait."

"Though you're no worse for wear."

The necromancer smiled his ugly smile. "I waited." He took another sip of his tea. "And then I happened upon my next line of research, which you can now see all around us. I never realized how impressive the Ayleids were until I stepped into their shoes."

"The giant white tower did not stand out to you?" Endar joked.

Rythe scowled. "A shack made of mud compared to the brilliant mansion that is their work with earth and crystal. Do you know how much power is in this cavern, growing all around us?"

"No. But any fool can see that it is a lot. But even your largest stone is nothing next to what the Ayleids could grow."

"Is it? To produce a Greater Welkynd Stone would take many years. Centuries, even with my acceleration techniques. Perhaps I have found a superior alternative."

"Have you?"

"Perhaps..." The necromancer frowned. "You obviously knew about my research before coming here, which says a lot about your dedication and resources. Why are you here, Drenim? Besides to seek knowledge without offering anything in return."

"The Thalmor use crystals like these for weapons of their own." Endar replied. "I don't know how much news of the world reaches you down here, but it is in the best interest of every mage to know how to protect themselves from them."

"The Thalmor." Rythe snorted back laughter. "I never thought I'd see the day that a Telvanni Master Wizard confesses a fear of goldskins."

"I am not afraid of the Thalmor. No more than I was of the Oblivion Gates during the Crisis. But I do acknowledge the threat that they pose."

"Of course you aren't."

Endar was beginning to grow annoyed. "My concerns regarding the Thalmor are irrelevant to the business at hand. I have come to ask for your help, your teachings even. I have gold, and lots of it. And powerful spells that I can teach you in return.

"Gold and spells, eh?" Rythe knelt down beside one of the Welkynd Stones in the floor. It was almost the size of an apple. Placing his hand on it, the necromancer closed his eyes and whispered a few words under his breath. The crystal twitched, and then started to shake and shift in its rocky foundation. Its glow grew brighter, and the magicka it radiated increased tenfold. When it stopped, Rythe removed his hand and smiled at Endar. "I am the master of these crystals, the one and only person alive with the power to work them. They are my children far more so than those fools in the ruin. What is your gold to that, Master Drenim? Or your spells? The day you understand my secrets is the day they are no longer mine."

Endar sighed. That was more or less the answer he had expected. He thinks we are equals. "Well, I could take them from you."

"You could take..." Rythe's smile faded. "You could damned well try, fetcher!"

The wizards cast their spells at the same time. As Endar had expected, Rythe's was a summoning spell. Dark fog formed around him, and out of it drifted four skeletal men, black as soot and with a dark mist where their legs ought to have been. Their eyes glowed a menacing red, and each of them wielded a long, ghostly sword. The mistmen advanced on Endar and the creature he had summoned in answer, long-armed it was, with thin humanlike fingers and big green eyes. When it opened its mouth, the daedroth's voice came out in a proud squeek. "Me!"

Rythe cocked his head at the monkeylike creature. It was just around the size of a house cat. "A hob? What is this trickery?"

Endar's lips cracked into an exceedingly rare grin. But this was an occasion that called for it. "A joke."
The frightened little critter turned tail and ran from the mistmen, vanishing into the field of blue crystals. Endar doubled over, laughing even as the Soul Cairn's guardians advanced on him. "You should see your face right now, Rythe! You were worried. You were actually worried!"

Endar's host did not seem amused, but he did raise a hand to halt his mistmen. "It has been a long time, Drenim. But I do not remember you for your sense of humor. What was the point of this game?"

"The point was to get back at you," Endar said, using his staff to straighten himself back up. "You mocked me for fearing the Thalmor. But may the gods forbid that Rythe Orealo comes face to face with a hob!" Endar laughed again. It felt strange to him. The sensation was rough against his throat. 

"You mad bastard." Rythe waved a hand and dismissed his mistmen back to their realm. "I was prepared to kill you!"

"And I was prepared to prevent that." Endar shook his head. "Do you really think that I would have tried to kill you for your work, Rythe? You are Tamriel's leader in your field. I respect you too much to do something like that."

"It is for that exact reason that I suspect anyone I meet of wanting to kill me." Rythe's shoulders drooped, he was finally letting himself relax again. "What I know is more valuable than gold or spells. It is more valuable than my own life. Without great walls or thousands of wards to protect it, secrecy is the best defense I have. You must understand that in the rare event, like today, where that secrecy fails me, I must be on my toes."

"I understand." Endar said. He often worried that his own work was not as secure as it could be, and he did have great walls and thousands of wards to protect it. "Still, I must insist one last time that you reconsider. You would not need to teach me everything, obviously, or give me your notes. Nothing that extreme. I just want to begin my own line of studying into the Welkynd stones. Their physical makeup, to be specific. The manner in which they contain the magicka."

Rythe stood there for a few seconds, slowly stroking his beard, then the necromancer nodded. "Very well. I suppose I can do that much. In return, I ask that you do not tell a soul about this place."

"That's more than fair." Endar said. "I won't tell a soul."

"And I'll need you to wait aboveground. I don't exactly keep my journals in a desk, you know. Safest if you do not even see where I go."

"Alright. Will you be delivering it, or one of your acolytes?"

"I will send Ralimar up as soon as you're gone."

Endar nodded. "Thank you, Master Rythe. It has been both fascinating and amusing, much like Kvatch now that I think about it." He started off, only to stop again just shy of the tunnels he'd come in thought, "By the way, I have recently taken up a renewed fascination in soul-based magics, myself. I know that your focus has shifted toward stone cultivation, but do not be surprised if I return some day looking to do some collaboration."

"Well that is unexpected." Rythe shrugged. "So long as you come alone, I take no issue with the possibility."

"Excellent." Endar left the room, only to immediately return. "Oh, and I nearly forgot to tell you. There is an order in Cheydinhal, the Knights of the Thorn. They know about you. Where you are, what you do. They even know that some of your smaller stones are being sold in the area."

A wicked smile drew across Rythe's face. "Do they, now? Now it's my turn to thank you, Master Endar. I'll be sure to put this information to good use."

It was around noon when Endar emerged into the frost-covered glade in the land of the living. He hadn't even reached the top of the stairs when a breathless Ralimar thundered up behind him. "Here you go, Telvanni." He handed Endar a dusty old journal that seemed to be missing half its pages. "I don't know what you said to my brother, but I've never known him to share his work on the stones with anyone save for me."

"Your brother and I were able to find common ground." Endar answered. "We both understand the importance of not trusting anyone. A solid basis upon which to build an alliance, if I do say so myself."

"I'm gonna go inside now." said Ralimar. "And maybe pretend like that makes any kind of sense. Fair well, Master Wizard."

Endar's horse was exactly where he had told it to stay. He mounted up and took off at a quicker pace than he'd come in at. It was many miles back to the lodge, and he hoped to get there before it was too late in the night. Of course, there was one thing that still needed to happen. As it turned out, that one thing occurred almost two miles of the road, where his magically-altered steed came to a very sudden halt, just as he had told it to. 
That must mean-
There was a flash just to Endar's left as the invisibility and muffle spells were dismissed. Out of the murky trees emerged the same hob he'd summoned earlier, and on the little daedroth's back, a large rucksack, fat with what Endar presumed were all of Rythe's notes, his research journals, and judging by the fat glowing bulge in one of the sack's side pockets, a free Welkynd stone.
"Me Thief!" the hob said in its squeaky voice.

"Yes." Endar grinned. Unlike in Fanacas, this amusement was genuine. "You thief."

[Witchking of Angmar]

Mila

The rain set in on the second day of their captivity. It started light, but by lunch the drizzle had turned to a cold, heavy shower. Thankfully, the bandits had some large pieces of canvas that could be tied between the trees and their black ruins.
"Here." The plate of food set in front of Mila consisted of some radishes, the leg of a chicken, and one strip of bacon that she was certain came from the provisions that had been stolen from them. Vandus set an identical plate in front of Jorri. "I'm gonna cut your hands loose again so you can eat, understand? Just like last time, I want nothing funny from either of you."
He looked at both of them when he said it, but Mila knew who he was really talking to. She held her hands steady so he could cut the rope. There were patches of pink where her skin had been rubbed raw.

The rain forced them to eat around the fire with their captors. Not that Vandus would have let them go far anyway. He wasn't stupid enough to leave them alone with their hands untied. As close together as they all were, it was inevitable that one of the bandits eventually spoke to Mila.
"You're from Skyrim," he said, "aren't you? I've met a few Nords with your accent."

"Aye." she answered.

"Skyrim, eh?" the fat one named Brendrik looked at her curiously. It was always her that they paid attention to, never Jorri. "Wouldn't have guessed that. Which hold?"

"Whiterun. I grew up in the city."

The fat bandit whistled. "Well girl, you are a long way from home." He shared a glance with Vandus. "You don't think a couple of us could drop 'em off at the border, do you? Stormcloaks might just take her home if we convince them she's-"

"No," Mila cut him off. "I'm not going back to Whiterun." She had been gone for so long now. Their stall would have been sold, maybe even the house too. There was nothing for Mila in Whiterun, or Skyrim for that matter. "If you take us to the Stormcloaks, I'll tell them that you're murderers."

"Stendarr preserve." Nug growled. "You are lucky we haven't killed you already, crazy girl. Keep making threats and that might change."

"Enough." Vandus shook his head. "Let's just go an hour without bickering, alright? Girl, it's been two days and you haven't given us your name. Even Jorri did that much."

It was true that Mila had not given her name. She would have, if it had not been Nug who'd first asked. And as petty as it sounded, spiting Nug was one of the few sources of joy Mila could get out of this situation. She shot the blonde-haired prick an intentionally smug glance before she answered. "My name's Matilda." She heard Jorri shift beside her. "I was named after the Shieldmaiden from a bard song."

"Ragnar the Red!" Brendrik exclaimed. "I fine but bloody tale, that one. And catchy."

"Aren't Shieldmaidens typically Nords?" grimaced Nug.

"I am a Nord." Mila snapped.

"You ain't tall enough to be a Nord. Jorri here's four years younger and ain't an inch shorter."

In truth, the boy probably wasn't even half an inch shorter. "Even so, I'm a Nord. What about you, Nug? How did a goblin find a place in a bandit group?"
Some of the others snorted. Brendrik and Vandus audibly laughed. Even Jorri chuckled a little bit.

"You little-"

"Calm down, Nug. It was a joke." Brendrik placed a hand on his comrade's shoulder. "Matilda probably wouldn't enjoy getting under your skin so much if you didn't look so damned angry all the time."

Nug shoved his hand off and stormed out into the rain, loudly muttering about how he was the only one among them acting with any sense. For his part, Fat Brendrik looked at Mila and shrugged. "Since it'll be hard to talk about that without breaking Vand's sacred 'hour of no bickering' rule, how about you tell us some more about yourself? Or you, Lad? I understand if you don't wanna talk, but we'll listen if you do."

Jorri lifted his eyes from his plate, and then lowered them again. "Real nice, Brendrik." muttered one of the others.

"Why are you out here?" Mila decided to ask. "If you hated the Count so much, why not just go some place else?"

"My reason's family." Brendrik answered. "Got a couple brothers I still like to visit from time to time who ain't quite as serious about leaving Cheydinhal as I was. Though a lot of us just don't see any real alternatives. Our new 'Emperor' did a number to quell any attempts at splitting off, so just packing up and moving cities is pointless. And what else does that leave? Skyrim? High Rock? That's a long and dangerous journey with an uncertain ending."

"Besides, this is our home," said Vandus. "We grew up here. Served faithfully for most of our lives. When Emperor Krojun was still called Skjari, I urged the Count to hold fast. To contact Bravil and Leyawiin, maybe even Bruma, and to not accept the rule of some foreigner who was whispering into our Empress's ear. That might've worked, if the gods hadn't cursed every potential ally we might've had. Leyawiin fell to chaos when the Khajiit started killing Imperials. Bravil's Count Rest was murdered and replaced with his child daughter. And Bruma... well, Bruma's previous ruler was thrown out and replaced by another Nordic foreigner."

"Jarl Balgruuf." Mila said. "He was my Jarl too, before the rebellion."

"Jarl then. Count now." Brendrik spat. "And he's proven loyal to a fault when it comes to our usurping Emperor."

"So you see," Vandus said, "just how disastrously things went for us. But this all happened so quickly. And more will happen still, with the next Great War finally on the horizon. I remain in Cheydinhal because I would like to one day return. But only if things change."

"I don't understand. Krojun is foreign, but wasn't Tiber Septim also? I didn't think Imperials cared about that like we Nords do."

"It's not just where he's from. It's how he got here." Vandus said. "Amaund was an awful Emperor. Weaker than his predecessor, even. But before her ascension, his daughter was even worse. Dales worked closely with the Thalmor. Helped enforce the White Gold Concordat, even. And then the next thing you know, she's killing Thalmor and her own father to boot. And along with her change of heart, she now had this strange wizard no one's ever heard of before. Not long after, the two are married, and this stranger is the most powerful man alive. It'd be one thing if he wasn't a mage, but he is, and mages are a fickle, dangerous sort of people. The Count suspected he might even be the next Jagar Tharn, and I agree."

"It's one thing to follow a coward," said Brendrik. "And another entirely to back someone who may have evil designs on our homeland. He's not from here. Why should he give a damn about any of us?"

"So that's why we're out here." Vandus finished. "We're surviving how we can until Cyrodiil comes to its damned senses or someone else makes us. In a much more pathetic way, we're kind of like your Stormcloaks."

If that last part was supposed to make her view them more favorably, it failed. The Stormcloaks had proven in the Rift that they were not the heroes she'd thought they were. Maybe they had been at one time, but not anymore. Mila started to answer, but she was cut off when their lookout Del suddenly came stumbling into the clearing. His brown hair was drenched with rain. "Night-" he said, breathless.

"Night?" Vandus stood up. "What are you-"

Del shook his head. "No, knights... Knights of the Thorn. Lots of them. They're on the road and coming this way."

"Alright everyone, pack your things." Vandus barked. "We'll lose them deeper in the woods."

"Boss, they've brought dogs."

Mila saw the fear flash across Vandus's face. "We need to move, quickly! As in now, people!"
He drew his knife and moved over to Mila and Jorri. "If you two try running away," he looked at Mila, "or attacking any of us, I won't stop Nug from whatever he tries to do." He cut their bonds. "Now move it!"

The bandits were already moving at a hard jog by the time the campsite was out of view. Between the rain and the low forest brush, the terrain proved to be a nightmare. Twice, Mila almost tripped when one of her boots sank into the sodden earth and came up under a root. Both times, she somehow managed to catch herself and keep running. Not everyone was so lucky. Jorri fell three times. Brendrik fell twice. Half of the other bandits stumbled and fell at least once. Several of them insisted that they were going the wrong way, though Vandus and Del insisted that they were northbound. Mila had no idea how they could tell through the leaves and rain. The only things she could see were oaks, maples, and pines. And every oak, maple, and pine looked the same to her. 
I could do it, she thought to herself. I am better at running than them. I could escape right now. Nug would not be able to catch her. But leaving would mean abandoning Jorri, and Mila wasn't sure if she could live with that after doing so much to ruin his life already.

They pressed onward, in the direction that was supposedly north. Their jog went on for a long time, passing tree after tree after tree, and nothing else. Mila's calves burned, but Jorri seemed downright in pain. And Fat Brendrik was huffing like a dog in the summer. Even so, they must have covered several miles before Vandus allowed them to slow.
"We'll have to stop eventually." he told them as they enjoyed the slower march they moved at now. "But so will the knights. We're several days away from Lake Arrius. Not many if we keep a good pace. We can lose the dogs there and break east to loop around the city."

"You don't think the rain's washed out our scent?" someone asked. 

"Some of us, maybe. But we can't risk it. I think we should-"

Somewhere behind them, a dog barked. 

"Damnit!" Vandus swore. He looked frantic now. "Alright, everyone scatter! We'll meet at the far side of Lake Arrius in four days."

He took Mila and Jorri by the scruff of their necks. "You two are with me."

That plan failed miserably. The bandits' attempt to split up was thwarted when horses rounded on them about a hundred yards out to both left and the right, and proceeded to drive them back towards one another. Brendrik was the first to go down. Mila saw him about twenty feet away, leaning against a tree with a sword in his hand when one of the steel-clad knights trotted by and slashed him across the chest.
To Mila's left, two more knights had dismounted and were making short work of Del and the hooded one named Braig. Vandus had already moved away from her and Jorri, and was brandishing his own sword. Off to to her right, Mila heard Nug let out out a blood-curdling cream.

Rain washed the bandits' blood deep into the earth. The barking dogs, the clashing steel, and the thundering hooves drowned out the sounds they made as they died. Mila had felt this sense of chaos once before, in Riften, when townsfolk, criminals, sellswords, and guards had all taken to killing one another. She'd run then, but she couldn't run now, for the killing had barely began before it was already reaching its end. She stood there, holding Jorri's shaking head to her shoulder as she watched the bandits fall one by one, until there were none save for Vandus himself, desperate and surrounded. 
One of the knights dismounted and strode up to the bandit leader.  His sword gleamed like silver, it's blade, long, thin, and letting off a dim red glow.
Vandus roared and charged the man, but the fight wasn't even close to fair. Besides his enchanted blade, the knight was covered from head to toe in steel plate, and bore a shield of the same make. He blocked the bandit's blow and followed up with a swipe that caught Vandus across his hip. When the bandit retaliated, his sword bounced harmlessly off a thick pauldron. That's when the knight finished it, delivering a powerful downward stroke that sliced through Vandus's surcoat, his mail, and the flesh underneath.

When it was done, the knights turned their attention to Mila and Jorri. The one with the magic sword seemed to be the leader. He lifted his visor to reveal the gray skin and red eyes of a Dark Elf. Bits of sweaty black hair had fallen across the elf's forehead, and a thick, bushy mustache drooped down both sides of his mouth. His voice was crisp and deep, very unlike that of any Dark Elves Mila had met in the past. "Fear no longer, my friends," said the mer, "for the Knights of the Thorn have come."

***

Thorn Lodge

The moons shined brightly in the clouds' wake, and the air smelled crisp and clear as it only could the night after a rain. Mila inhaled it deeply as she sat on the bench outside Thorn Lodge and looked up at the sky. She'd never thought much of the moons: Red Masser and white Secunda. People said that they were dead gods, or a single dead god who'd been split in two. Whether that was true or not, the girl didn't know. What she did know was that after everything she had survived, every hardship and obstacle faced, the moons had stood with her through it all. Her mother, Boldir, Vex and Aerin, the Red-Snows, Sharda, Anrich and the Thieves Guild, they were all memories now. But the moons she'd known in Skyrim were the same ones that watched over her now. It was a comforting thought, and one that she was surprised to only be having for the first time. It almost made her feel guilty.
Perhaps Masser and Secunda were dead gods, but at that moment, Mila felt closer to the moons than she ever had to any of the Nine.
Maybe you're not dead. Is that why you still shine?
She drew her dagger, not the steel one that had belonged to Anrich. Her dagger. The thin, sharp blade took in the moons' light and gave back a pale white glow. If the moons were dead, then why could they still grant her this tiny sliver of power? It was more than Kynareth or Stendarr or Mara had given her. If those gods were real, then they had no love for Mila, but the moons... they had always been there, and that wasn't likely to change. 

She was still looking up at them when an orange light opened behind her, displaying the long shadow of a man across the grass. It returned to the darkness when Knight Commander Indarys closed the door behind him. He had exchanged his armor for a more comfortable woolen doublet and a thick fur cloak. Mila did not particularly care for the Commander. Whenever he looked at her, it felt like his mind was in some faraway place.
"Thessius said he saw you come out here." The knight walked down the front steps. "It's a lot warmer inside, you know."

Mila eyed him. "I'm a Nord." she lied. "The cold doesn't bother me."

"Of course." The knight stood there in silence for several moments, seemingly looking at nothing, until he ventured to ask, "Forgive me, but in all the chaos of these last few hours, it seems I have forgotten your name."

"You never asked for it. It's Matilda."

"Well, it is my pleasure to welcome you to our lodge. There's a bed made upstairs if you need a place to stay for a few days. Your friends have decided to. Though, they are quiet... but you seem to have held together through all of this. It might do some good for you to be with them."
Mila doubted that very much. In fact, on the list of people that Hreke and Jorri might want to see right now, she was willing to bet that she was somewhere near the bottom. Still, she had seen enough conflict these last few days, and Sir Indarys was hardly worth the outburst that was running through her head, so she kept quiet.
"Just thought you might want to know." the knight said after he realized she wasn't going to answer him. "Our door is open to you."

With that, the knight commander finally left her alone again, with her friends, the moons. He hadn't commented on her glowing dagger. Perhaps he had seen plenty of magical items, or perhaps he did not even notice it. Whatever the case, Mila was glad of it, and she was glad he had not stayed long. Naturally, the door came open again just a few minutes later. This time, she would be a lot more blunt. Mila turned to the doorway, an insult for the knight already prepared on her lips, when she saw that the person standing there wasn't a knight at all, but rather the Breton lady who had tended to Hreke after the knights had left to save her and Jorri. What was her name? Elara, that's it.

"I'm sorry," said Elara. She obviously saw the look Mila had intended to give one of the knights. "If you want to be left alone..."

"I do." Mila jerked her head toward the lodge. "From them, not you. You helped my friend."

"Then you don't mind if I join you?"
Mila scooted over to make room for the Breton. A younger woman, Elara was in good health and probably still in her twenties. Her face was long with big dark eyes long brown hair that looked to be very much the same color as Mila's own. Elara smiled thankfully as she took her seat. "You know the knights helped your friend too."

"Aye, but that's what knights are supposed to do. And then they came back and got drunk like it had been a good day. You helped because you wanted to."

"Yeah..." The Breton rubbed her arm, "They're kind of pricks, aren't they? I thought they were going to scare poor Hreke half to death when she first came into the lodge, the way they surrounded her like bees to honey. They didn't even seem to notice how terrified she was... or the rockjoint she'd gotten in the woods."

"How is that doing now?"

"It's better. I'm no great healer, but I've learned a lot about diseases these last two years and I think she should be feeling much better in a day or two. Well, she'll be cured at least." Elara hesitated. "I can't imagine what those two must be going through, right now. Or you for that matter."

"I'm fine." Mila said. And compared to Hreke and Jorri, she certainly was.

"That's good, at least. Your name is Matilda, isn't it? That's one thing Hreke told me. She hasn't wanted to say much."

“Would you?”

“Well, yes." Elara looked a little ashamed. "But maybe I’m not the best person to ask that question. My father’s an ass... I wouldn't be sad to hear he's gone. So Matilda, Hreke... she told me about you... well, she said what you did before she ran away.” She nodded at Mila’s dagger. “That what you used?”

Mila held it up. “Mmhm.”

“It’s pretty, the way it glows like that. What do you call it?”

“I haven’t given it a name.”

"So it's new."

Mila shook her head. "I've had it... well, it's been mine for a while. I just never gave it a name. 

“Well you should." The Breton cocked her head as she studied Mila's blade. "I’m no expert, but that looks like the sort of weapon that deserves a name. The Commander calls his sword 'Thornblade'. And they've got that 'Staff of Indarys' as well... Yours looks like a ‘Whiteblade’, or ‘Starfall’, you know? Well, not those because I’m as terrible at naming as the knights are, but you get what I mean.”

"I do.” Surviving bandits and robbing nobles were a thousand times easier than coming up with a proper name for this dagger. The weapon meant a lot to her, after all. Like the moons, it was one of her life's rare constants. An echo of a time when things had been better. Mila had toyed with calling it ‘Sizzle’ after what happened to the things it cut, but that felt too childish. She had also considered a hundred different 'great' names like the ones Elara had proposed. But none of those felt right either. It was a dagger, not a greatsword. "I'll come up with something eventually."

"So what's the enchantment on it, anyway?"

"It burns things."

"Burns things?" Elara's brow lowered. "I've seen lots of fire enchantments. None of them resonated white like that."

"Well it ain't a fire enchantment." Mila said. She ran her finger along the cold metal blade. "There's never any fire or heat except exactly where it cuts people. And it only works at night and outside. The forge it was made at was connected to the moons, somehow. And so is it."

"No kidding?" Elara seemed genuinely surprised. "I work for a mage, and have learned about and even helped document a lot of enchantments. But never any that were moon-based. I have a feeling Master Drenim would be interested in something like that."

"It's not for sell."

"I understand. Still, he might be willing to pay you just to take a look at it-"

"No," Mila said, flatly. "It's not for rent either."

"Fine, fine." Elara raised her hands. "I won't bring it up again." The two of them sat in silence for a few moments, and then Mila opened her mouth to speak, only for Elara to do the same.
"I'm sorry," said the Breton. "You go ahead."

"No, you first." Mila was curious what the mage's helper had to say. Her own question could wait. 

"Alright then. I was just gonna ask you, since all that's happened... what do you think you and your friends are gonna do now? I'm sorry if you don't wanna talk about it. I get that. You don't have-"

"It's fine.... I don't know what they're gonna do. They live in Cropsford. And they've got an older sister who's a sailer. She carries cargo from the Imperial City to Bravil. They'll probably go to her if they don't go home."

"You're saying 'they' a lot. Won't you go with them?"

Mila shook her head. "I don't think they'd want me to. Besides, it's time I moved on anyway. I'll go to Bruma next, maybe. And then Chorrol. See if I can't work my way on down to Anvil."

"That's a long and expensive journey you're planning." Elara was studying her. She could see that now. "What's in Anvil?"

"Well, I've never seen an ocean." Mila gave a half-hearted grin. She knew how dumb her 'plan' sounded even as she said it. In truth, with Kuslaf dead, she was now well and truly without anything even remotely resembling guidance or help. He had been the last in a long line of adults who had been there to give her some direction to walk in, and his death left her alone with nothing to her name besides twenty-three septims, a flute, two daggers, and the clothes on her back.
Nirn had never before felt so vast and alien, and it was for this reason that Mila had come out here in the first place. Seeing the same moons she'd seen in Whiterun made it feel just a little bit smaller. "Now my question. You said that you work for a mage. That's the same thing as a wizard, right? What do you do for him?"

"Whatever he asks." Elara took a breath. "Which means that there's always a lot to do."

"I used to know someone else who worked for a wizard. He was a bird, though. And he could talk."

"A talking bird?" Elara laughed. "Master Drenim doesn't have any of those, as far as I know. Though admittedly, there is a lot that I don't know."

"But you know some magic." Mila pointed out. "Enough to cure Hreke. Did he teach you that?"

"Not on purpose. I've asked before, but he says he doesn't have time to take on an apprentice. Master Drenim's taught me a few things that he said I needed to know, but most of what I've learned, I picked up just from being around him. You can learn a lot from watching, and even more from copying. From drawing runes, reading some of the books on what they mean... I can almost speak old Aldmeris, Dunmeris, and even Ehlnofex passably enough to hold a conversation. And that's just from the recording and translating. Dawn magic, transmutation, the void... it's amazing, really."
Mila shifted in her seat. She understood what some of that meant, but not much. Elara must have realized it, because she laughed again. "I know that look. It's probably just like the one I wore for the first few months. Divines be good, that's a lie. I still wear it all the time. I'm just a stewardess. I can hardly comprehend most of the stuff I just rattled off to you."

"But you're picking it up," ventured Mila. "You're a mage too. Even if you ain't as smart as the one you work for yet."

The Breton beamed, but shook her head. "Calling myself a mage would be like calling come Count the Emperor. Anyone can read some tomes and learn a few spells."

"Not me." Mila admitted. "My mother used to learn healing magic from a book. I tried to read it plenty, but couldn't understand most of what it was saying. I've never made a spell."

"Cast." Elara corrected. "And I used to think the same thing, but I was wrong. Magicka's innate. Everyone can wield it. It's just something you've gotta work at is all."

"Eh," She'd given up on magic years ago. It was neat and pretty, but not for her. And Boldir used to say it was for elves anyway. Still though, it sounded like Elara had a fairly comfortable life working for this 'Drenim' person. A thought struck Mila. "You said that you've always got a lot to do. What if I went back to your master with you, to help some?"

"I-" the Breton hesitated, "I don't think that would work. He's not the most trusting mer out there. Or kind."

"I don't care if he is nice to me." Mila responded. "And I'm a good worker. I learn quick. Couldn't you ask him, at least?"

"Believe me, he'll say 'no'."

"Well how did you come to working for him, then?"

"I- uh..." Elara rubbed her arm. It was hard to tell with only the moons for light, but Mila could have sworn that her face had reddened just a little. "I don't remember.... Trust me, my situation was different from yours. Master Drenim is now involved in some very important research. Secret stuff that he is very careful with. He won't be letting anyone he doesn't know get near to it. Actually, that's true for people he does know as well."

Mila was about to answer when her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of hooves clopping toward them. A short ways down the road, a lone figure was riding their way, with a single horse following him carrying an empty saddle. As the figure drew near, Mila made out the red of his cloak and the gray of his skin. The Dunmer had a staff as well, strapped to his back alongside a large rucksack. And in right hand was a very large book.
"That your master?" Mila whispered.

"Uh huh." Elara was already standing up as the elf dismounted. But he barely looked in her direction as he guided the second horse to her.

"Get your things and mount up." said the dark elf in a raspy voice. "We're going to Chorrol."

"What about the carriage?" Elara asked. "That belongs to White G-"

"They can buy a new one. We don't have time for that..." The elf paused as he was stepping past Mila. His dark red eyes seemed to notice her for the first time. "Who's your friend?"

"That's Matilda." Elara started. "She-"

"I wasn't talking to you." the elf interrupted with a frown. He spent another second regarding Mila, and before she could even begin to formulate a response to his nonsense, the elf shrugged and moved on into Thorn Lodge, muttering that "It doesn't matter". Elara shot Mila an apologetic look before filing in after him.

And then Mila was alone again, but only for a moment. With a shrug to no one but herself, she got up from the bench and followed the strangers inside. On its own, Thorn Lodge was a cozy place, with a large fireplace, lots of tables, and a ginger-like scent in the air. Unfortunately, even at this late hour, there were a number of knights who preferred to remain here rather than go back to their homes. And tonight, after the 'great battle' they had fought, it seemed that the entire order had decided to remain for the celebrations. One man had drawn his sword, and was mimicking the one-on-one duel he had won against the largest of the bandits while his friends drunkenly cheered him on.

Apparently, Elara and the wizard viewed it in a similar light. Mila could see the elf's mouth twisted in a disgusted sneer, and his stewardess was rolling her eyes. The two were making their way to a large empty table near the back, where a similar rucksack to the one the wizard was wearing sat on a table alongside a few scrolls and some other effects that must have belonged to them. They were still gathering their things when Mila approached and reached to tap the wizard's arm. To her surprise, he pulled away without even looking. The look he gave her was one of annoyance and revulsion. "Why in Oblivion did you just try to touch me, girl?"

"You weren't looking." Mila said. She didn't really know how to talk to a wizard. "I wanted to get your attention."

"Congratulations." The elf scowled. "You are truly a master of your craft." With that, the wizard turned back around.

Now Mila was scowling too. She reached out to tap his arm again. This time, he turned and swatted her hand away. "I suppose you are one of those people who needs to be told when sarcasm is used on them." he said. "That's what my 'congratulations' were. I didn't mean it as encouragement to continue harassing me." He flicked his hand toward the door. "Now begone!"

"Not until you look at me and answer my question." Mila hoped her voice sounded braver than she felt. Because at that moment, all the stories of what wizards could do were going through her head at once. 

Thankfully, 'Master Drenim' did not turn her into a newt or any of the other strange and unnatural things he probably could have done. But he did give her a rather menacing look that was made all the more terrifying by his naturally red eyes. "Listen, human kid. Every second I spend in this room is a second not spent saving all the lives in Cheydinhal by putting some distance between myself and its vicinity. But you obviously have something exceedingly important to tell me, so please, by all means, let me hold off on that so I can hear you out... that was not sarcasm. That was me being facetious. Tell me what you want so I can get on without your distractions."

Mila opened her mouth, but no words came out. To Endar's right, Elara was looking at her with obvious pity, and a look that said 'I told ya so'. Mila wished she would intervene, but she now understood why the stewardess had said it would be pointless. "I... can I work for you? Like Elara does?"

The elf's scowl faded, and everything about his demeanor returned to a completely neutral state. "No. Goodbye now."
He turned back around and set about finishing his packing. When he was done, he walked past Mila as if she had never even been there. Elara smiled as she followed. "It's not too late to let him  borrow that dagger of yours."
Mila shook her head, to which Elara nodded. "I understand. Well, it was nice to meet you, Matilda. Good luck."
With that, she followed her master to the exit. Mila listened to their conversation on the way out. 
"What about Acivo?" Elara was asking.

"Who?"

"The Legionnaire... You only brought two horses."

Mila did not catch the wizard's response, for the room was loud and they had already passed out of earshot. Soon, they were out the door and no doubt on their way to Chorrol.

"Interesting fellow, that Endar Drenim."
Mila turned around to find herself almost face-to-face with one of the knights. He was an Imperial man, still clad in his shiny steel armor. If Commander Indarys's mustache had been the longest and bushiest she had seen south of Skyrim, this knight's dark bristles were not far behind. Another trait he shared with his commander was the low, throaty voice. "I heard all of that," he continued, a smile too large to be real forming on his face. "Did you truly expect the Telvanni to let you go with him?"

Mila scowled. "What business is that of yours?"

The knight threw back his head and laughed. It was even more fake than his grin. "Forgive my missing courtesies, child. It seems that the rush of battle has not yet worn off on me. I am Sir Bremman Senyan the Sixth. And your name is Marlina, correct?"

"That's right."

"Well, it is an honor," Senyan told her. "Do not worry about the mage, Marlina. That is a life you are better off not getting sucked into."

That only made her scowl deeper. "Why do you care what I do with my life?"

"Why, it's the duty of every knight to protect the innocent. And it's no secret that the servants of Telvanni wizards tend to be short lived." The knight's powerful voice lowered a little. "And between you and me, mages are given more credit than they are due."
He turned his head and pointed above the massive fireplace, where a glass case glimmered above the mantle. Inside it was what seemed to be a long and gnarled tree branch, wrapped tightly in old vines. "That there is the magical Staff of Indarys. An artifact of the Commander's ancient family. That piece of wood can make someone as plain as you or me every bit as powerful as someone like Endar Drenim. Shows how "special" mages really are. Of course, we feed their egos and make them feel important because that's what they're used to. They'd throw a fit if we stopped. And no one wants to deal with whiny mages."

"Maybe you're right." Mila said, making only slightly more effort to sound sincere than the knight had when he'd fed his line about his courtesies. Though she somehow doubted that he picked up on that. "Thank you for your wisdom, Knight."

" 'Sir Knight' is the proper address." Bremman Senyan corrected. "Though I am not so prickly about these things, there are others here whom are far more serious about their courtesies. Just a forewarning... And you are welcome, of course."

With that, Sir Bremman Senyan the Sixth patted her on the shoulder and went off to join his brothers and sisters in their revelry. Half of them were drunk, and the other half were almost there. Mila knew that they probably wouldn't even notice if she snuck one of the ales for herself. Or maybe some wine. She had never had wine before.
Mila made her way over to the dozens of barrels as casually as possible, but nobody even seemed to notice or care what she was doing, so Mila didn't bother to hide it when she grabbed an empty pewter mug from beneath the counter and filled it to the top with some dark, foamy liquid that smelled like grapes. After one sip though, she found that the stuff tasted nothing at all like grapes, and was far more... well, bitter wasn't the right word. Tart, maybe. After spitting out her first mouthful, Mila set her mug down and decided that the stuff wasn't for her. She went back to a corner table, far away from the knights, and took a seat. It's for the best, thought the girl. I should keep my head clear.

The Knights of the Thorn had no such desires. They drank and reveled late into the night, playing games, wrestling, and even conducting a 'knighting ceremony' for an exceptionally drunk squire. In a way, it reminded Mila of how the Nords of Whiterun sometimes got back in The Bannered Mare, though with all-round kinder words, fewer broken tables, and much less blood. None of what she saw was particularly shocking until at one point, a few musicians among them produced instruments, and several of the the deepest-voiced men, including Sir Bremman, broke into song. It was ridiculous, of course, but Mila was surprised by how well put together the thing was. They were very drunk at the time though, so she had a little trouble picking up on some of the lyrics.

"We are the Knights of the Thorn,
We dance from dusk 'til morn,
We choreograph and swing and laugh
To the sounds of flute and horn!
We feast like kings in Thorn Lodge
We eat meats and beets and black stodge!
We are the Knights of the Thorn,
And for our lives we're sworn,
To defend the weak to protect the meek,
We've yet to reach our peek!
We're the greatest here in Thorn Lodge,
Although our songs are hodgepodge,
To our foes we warn,
Beware the Thorn,
All evil'd do well to dodge!"

For that last line, Sir Bremman's deep voice got lower than Mila would have thought possible, and stretched out every word to a comical degree. Those who watched applauded their brothers in arms, commenting on how they'd been practicing. Mila just shook her head and smiled. Thorn Lodge is a silly place.
As it turned out, the knights actually only danced 'til around three or four in the morning. Dawn was still several hours away when the last of them finally either fell asleep or stumbled off to their homes in Cheydinhal, leaving a tired-eyed Mila alone as the sole conscious guardian of Thorn Lodge. She glanced at the dwindling embers in the wide fireplace, and then up to the magical staff that was locked above it.
Mila had no intentions of giving her dagger to Drenim or anyone else, but the Staff of Indarys... well... What did she have to lose?

[Witchking of Angmar]

Naspel Sintav
The Rift

The road, if any of the the backwater northern kingdom's dirt trails could truly be called that, followed Lake Honrich faithfully for the majority of their journey. The waters themselves were rarely visible through the wood that dominated the hold, but every now and then, an opening appeared and revealed to them a stunning view of the great golden lake that dominated much of Skyrim's southeastern corner. The lake's color came from the surrounding leaves. Red, orange, and yellow, they were. Beautiful by all accounts including Naspel's own, and yet that beauty did not sit right with him. It's the heart of Winter, he thought. Every tree in northern Cyrodiil is dead and leafless, yet Skyrim's biggest forest remains stuck in the Fall.
Though he supposed it made sense. The Rift was famously one of the strongest holds in Skyrim. If the rest of them were as cold and barren as he had found Eastmarch to be, it was no wonder that these woods of eternal Autumn attracted a larger population.

... Or at least they used to. Even in Cyrodiil, the stories of Riften's destruction had reached the ears of everyone who gave half a hoot about the goings-on of the world. Some bandit warlord and his army of outlaws had sacked the city, butchered its populace, and burned its remains out of spite before fleeing into the hills. And if that was not enough, Skyrim's capital city of Windhelm was assaulted by the Thalmor only weeks after. After killing Skyrim's king, the elves were beaten and repelled... right into the Rift... Ensuring that no sane man would dare to enter the hold in the weeks to come. They're in these woods somewhere, the Colovian noble knew. Bandits or Thalmor, there's someone out here who would be all too happy to rip my head off. Naspel regularly peeked into the golden trees on either side of the road, but besides the occasional deer, he spotted nothing alive. Not that that would matter much if he did. The Imperial had brought a dozen men-at-arms into Skyrim with him, and had hired nine more Nordic sellswords in Windhelm just to be safe. If they weren't enough to protect him from the forrest's many threats, then surely a few seconds' head start would make little difference.

Naspel did not know what to expect when he reached his destination. Already, this entire plan was showing signs that it was falling apart. Of the nineteen investors Sibbi Black-Briar had written to meet him in Windhelm, only eight had shown up, including Naspel himself, and all eight of them had been just as confused as he was by the Nord's absence from his own meeting. It would have been one thing for Sibbi to have been a few days late. The road to Skyrim was long, and the road through Skyrim was even longer, thanks to the bending 'roads' and uncertain terrain. But four days passed and still Sibbi did not turn up. The representative from the Milvan family left on the second, and the one from Clan Bradus left on the third. Finally, when Naspel himself was contemplating cutting his own losses, one of his men came to him with a lead he had gathered elsewhere in the city. According to some refugees from Riften, the Black-Briar family wasn't gone, as all the rumors had said. One member remained, and could be found somewhere near Riften.

Half the other Cyrod nobles had scoffed at the notion. According to them, even if this far-fetched tale was true, it was Sibbi they had agreed to work with, and unless this kin of his was Maven Black-Briar herself, they were not interested in dealing with them. That left Vala Scribonia of Chorrol, Humilus Lex of Anvil, and Naspel Sintav himself as the only investors who had not yet ducked out of the venture.
Naspel did not know what reasons Vala and Humilus had for deciding to stay, but for his part, going home to Clan Sintav empty-handed would only serve to make him more of a laughing stock than he already was. A couple years ago ago, his daughter Millona had foolishly fallen in love with with one of the Atius lads. Like the idiot he was, Naspel saw how happy she was and fell for the notion that his daughter would be the one to end the centuries-long feud between their two families. Against the judgement of many of his kin, he had supported their engagement. As it turned out, the Atius boy was even worse than Naspel's family had warned, and had used the opportunity to try and steal a precious heirloom from Arvos Sintav, the clan Elder. And then he'd had the audacity to frame it all as though it had been a gift from Millona. Maybe it had been, maybe it hadn't. Either way, on that day Naspel became known among the Sintavs as the one who had let their rivals get the better of him.
Obviously Sibbi had not known that, or else the Nord would have surely sent the offer to his brother instead. But Naspel was glad of this. Skyrim was colder than the breath of a frost golem, and the Rift was a danger he had not anticipated braving first-hand, but the prospect of redemption was too sweet to pass up. Clan Sintav was older than the 4th Era, and thanks to a long tradition of successful 'adventuring', investing, and eventually, backing the right people, they had accumulated and maintained a great deal of wealth and prominence in the Imperial City. But their last great member was Arvos, and with him getting on in years it had been some time, decades even, since they had actually done anything substantial with their wealth besides spend it. This opportunity, this chance to be a part of Riften's restoration, it would no doubt turn fortune back in their direction for years to come. They wouldn't be able to laugh at him anymore after this. He would become a hero to their clan... But only if they could get a return. For that he needed the Black-Briars, and if Sibbi wasn't going to help him then maybe this kinsman of his would, if they existed at all.

The thought sent a nervous shiver up Naspel's spine. If they didn't, then this was all for nothing, and he was riding through the most dangerous part of Skyrim in search of a ghost. All while Vala and Humilus sit in Windhelm drinking mead and reading those stupid books Vala brought. I should have made them come with me. At least together, we could've hired have enough sellswords to make any bandits think twice. 
Naspel wasn't a fool, of course. Three of the Nords he'd paid were scouts, with eyes trained to pick up on every detail they rode by. Two of them were further along the road, riding ahead to watch for traps, while the third remained with him and the rest of his men in case of an all-out attack. He wore a silver longsword of of his own for just such an occasion, but Naspel felt like he was lying to himself by even putting the thing on, as his skill with the blade would likely be a joke when observed by the war-loving locals of this strange, cold land.

The Nords had all assured him that they would reach the ruins of Riften around early afternoon. Looking at the sky, Naspel saw that the sun had reached its peak and was now beginning to droop west. We've ridden hard. It shouldn't be too much longer. 
The Colovian didn't know what to expect. There would be ashes, obviously, and probably some broken walls and fallen towers, but what about the people? Their possessions? He figured that normally, after events like this, refugees would eventually return and search the ruins for any belongings that might have survived the damage, but with the bandits and Thalmor in the area, Naspel doubted too many of them were willing to brave the trip. Would there be anyone alive at all? The refugees in Windhelm had told his man that there was a Black-Briar 'near Riften'. Near could mean a lot of things, and those things didn't necessarily equate to the mysterious survivor being easy to find. If no one remained in or around the city, how would he ever even hope to find what he sought? Will I just aimlessly ride these threat-infested woods until I find someone to ask? Or, more likely, until a bandit finds me?

These are the questions Naspel was asking himself when the sound of a horse's hooves came drumming down the road. Without thinking, he dropped a quaking hand to the hilt of his longsword, only to feel awfully foolish when it was one of his own scouts who appeared before him. "Riften's just ahead," the Nord said in an accent so thick that he had to pay close attention just to understand. "A little less than two miles east and north. It'll come into view soon."

"And did you see any signs of life?" He hoped he did not sound too hopeful when he asked. The Nords did not seem to appreciate his nervous tendencies. "Anyone in or around the city?"

"There was someone there, aye," she replied with a grin. "They saw me'n Yalvik from the walls. Even gave us a wave though I saw they were keeping a bow handy. Yalvik stayed so he could warn us away if anything changes."

So it's not deserted after all. Now it just remains to be seen if these are friends or foes. "Thank you. You've more than earned your pay."

"That mean I'm getting paid more?"

In Cyrodiil, Naspel would have thought that the sellsword was joking, but this wasn't Cyrodiil, and the Nord's face showed no traces of humor. "It does indeed," he said, clasping his sweaty hands and putting on a fake smile. "There'll be a bonus for you and Yalvik."

That seemed to please her, though it was only seconds before the scout he'd ordered to remain by his side brought his horse closer. "What about me? I'm doing the same job as her, just further back, and sure enough we ain't gotten attacked. Do I get a bonus too?" He was grinning, though whether it was in fun or just his nature, Naspel could not tell.

Divines preserve. "Yes." Before any of the other sellswords could pipe in and force his hand as well, he quickly added, "All of the scouts will receive a bonus for your specialized service."

"Well ain't that something." The scout's grin widened. "Lead on then, Boss. I'm anxious to see if there's anyone in Riften that'll make us actually work for it."
Hiding his contempt for that entire conversation, Naspel urged his shaggy little Skyrim-horse onward.

The walls of Riften were shorter than he had expected, maybe half the height of Windhelm, and not even a third that of the Imperial City. There were places along them that had crumbled and fallen beneath the weight of destroyed watchtowers. And to the right of the closed wooden gate, a massive heap of rubble and stone was piled higher than the walls themselves. That must have been Mistveil Keep. 
True to his companion's word, the scout Yalvik was waiting for them near the final bend in the road before city. They had traveled the long way through the western side of the hold and around the southern bank of Lake Honrich in the hopes that it would help them avoid the Thalmor, and that route brought them up to Riften's postern gate rather than its main one. On the wall behind it stood a lone figure, still too far away to speak to, but when he spotted them, he gave a wave before holding up an object that certainly appeared to be a bow. "Can he hit us from there?" Naspel asked, hoping there was no fear in his voice.

"At this range?" Castan, the captain of his own men-at-arms said. "Nah."

"I've seen shots like that made before," said one of his Nordic sellswords. "During the civil war I watched one of my brothers shoot down a messenger hawk that was twice that far."

"That's reassuring." Naspel nervously swallowed some air and let out a deep breath. "The longer we sit here, the longer he or anyone else might have to plan an ambush. Yalvik, I want you to ride up alone and see if he's friendly. He's less likely to shoot at us if we don't frighten him by all riding up at once."

The Nord nodded and, without a word, wheeled his horse around and started for the city. As the sellsword neared the lone archer, he slowed down and raised his hands to show that he did not mean to fight. The man on the wall did the same with his bow. Naspel could hear them exchanging some words, though what they were was lost in the sounds of the wind and rustling leaves. Seconds later, Yalvik trotted back to them and nodded. "He's an elf. Says he's no bandit, and that he wants to talk to our leader. I told 'em that was you."

"Thanks, Yalvik." Naspel was careful not to mention money or bonuses this time around. "Alright everyone, stay with me. And keep your eyes on the woods. Even now, we can't be too safe."

They approached the city in a strange formation. Naspel's men-at-arms rode two-by-two, with a pair to his left and right, and the other four behind him. Meanwhile, the sellswords rode behind, in front of, and between these pairs with impunity, making what should have been an orderly grouping appear rather haphazard. As the ragtag bunch of Nords and Imperials drew near Riften, Naspel saw that the archer was indeed an elf, Dunmer to be precise. Even with the sun at his back, the mer's ash-colored skin was unmistakable. This was only further reinforced when he called for them to stop with the rasp in his voice that Morrowind's people were known for.
"Who are you," he shouted down at them, "and what's your business in Riften?"

"I am Naspel Sintav," Naspel yelled back. "I hail from the Imperial City." Why did I say that? As if that will impress anyone here. "I seek Black-Briar."

The elf regarded him for a few moments, and then said, "Which Black-Briar?"

The Colovian knew how dangerous that question was. If these were bandits, then saying 'Sibbi' would no doubt get him killed. And yet, if there was another Black-Briar living in this area, surely that meant his or her enemies were no longer here. That, or they already got 'em. Naspel decided not to risk it. "I'm not certain," was his reply, "I was told that there was a member of the clan in the area. I mean them no harm." Surely I won't get killed for that. 

Naspel began to doubt even that when the Dunmer stared at him for a long time without answering. Finally, he shouted, "I might be able to help you find her. But first, you and your men must surrender your arms."

Naspel glanced back at Castan, who shook his head. "If these are enemies, or even just thieves, they could just keep them. Or even turn them on us. Let me and one of the Nords come with you while the rest keep their weapons and stay outside. That way they can mount a rescue if need be."

That seemed wise to Naspel. "Alright, the others can make camp here... Well, how long should they wait before deciding we're in danger?"

"Nightfall's easy to remember." said one of the Nords. "Don't worry, Boss. Ash Skin's all alone up there. I reckon the nineteen of us could make short work of him and whatever friends he's got if need be."

"Nightfall it is. Just... please be careful if it comes to violence." Naspel didn't doubt that these men could probably take on some bandits, but it's protection he hired them for. Not killing. And he doubted the bandits would be too keen on sparing him if they were getting slaughtered to the man. "Well, any volunteers to be my second bodyguard?"

"I'll do it," said one of the Nords, a tall, axe-wielding man with long brown hair beneath a rounded helmet that covered everything above the nose, a braided beard, and green war paint covering what could be seen of the right half of his face. The Nord was armored entirely in fur-lined steel, and seemed as comfortable in it as Naspel was in his riding clothes.

"Good-"

"For a bonus."

Of course. The Colovian nodded. "Of course. Specialized services and all that." He noticed that a few of the other Nords looked disappointed that they hadn't been quicker to volunteer. "Alright." He nodded to Castan, then to the Nord. "Alright, let's get this over with." He urged his horse forward, and the other two followed. Looking up at the Dunmer, he said, "It'll just be us three. We'll give you our weapons at the gate."

The elf did not answer, though he did turn and say something to an unseen ally. Seconds later, a female Nord appeared atop the wall, seemingly via ladder. She took the elf's place as he disappeared the same way she had come. Shortly after, the gates opened in front of them, and the Dunmer stood inside with his bow at the ready. He was flanked by a Nord and Imperial, both wearing chainmail beneath a quilted coat and dark purple sashes, and both carrying long, two-handed axes. The beardless Nord couldn't have been even twenty years old.
"You can give Hroar your weapons." the elf said, motioning at the young Nord. Naspel drew his sword and handed it over. After his companions had followed in suit, the Dark Elf nodded. "Understand that this is the only way to ensure you don't cause too much trouble. Now, with that out of the way, my name's Arnath. Welcome to Riften."

Arnath and his companions stepped aside to allow them past, into the wide expanse that had once been one of Skyrim's greatest cities. Now, all that could be seen was rubble and ash. The gray dust blanketed everything in sight. Even the air was so thick with the stuff that most of Riften's landscape was a blur lost within the murk.
"You look disappointed, Outlander." Arnath's voice was bitter. "What did you expect?"

"This." Naspel muttered. "This is what I expected. I just..." I just hoped you'd left me more to work with when I profit off of fixing it. With his eyes finally on the city he had spent so much time imagining, the Colovian found himself feeling more than a little guilty that this was the first thing that had come to his mind. "I hoped I was wrong."

"Yes, well you're not the only one." Arnath's red eyes glared at Naspel with a strange intensity. "So, you're looking for a Black-Briar. Why?"

"Business..." The large wooden gate swung closed behind them. They could only proceed forward now. "I received a letter requesting my aid in a restoration project. To help rebuild Riften."

"Hmm. Sounds to me like you got this letter from Sibbi Black-Briar."

This was unavoidable. "Yes," Naspel nodded. "Sibbi wrote me and quite a few others in the hopes that we could help fund-"

"If you know Sibbi and you really want to help Riften, go back to the man wherever he is, and put a dagger in his throat. We don't need or want his help."

"I- see." What in the world did you do here, Black-Briar? "Well as it happens, I do not know where Sibbi is. Nor do I believe that the restoration project cannot go through without his participation. You seem to know of another Black-Briar..."

"I do." The Dunmer stared at him, his look guarded yet thoughtful. "Her name is Ingun. But I don't know how she can help you."

"Well, with no other relatives, she is Sibbi's heir, set to be the sole inheritor of the Black-Briar fortune, its business, all of its land and property... Even with Riften in ruins, they have holdings all across Skyrim, and remain one of the wealthiest families. And with Sibbi missing and most of these holdings currently neglected and untended... well, most deeds are no doubt in the family's name. I think it would be an easy case to make for this Ingun to step into her brother's empty shoes."

Arnath rubbed his stubbled chin. "I don't know nothin' about laws besides when it comes to stealing and killing. But if what you say is true... well, long as it's Ingun and not Sibbi, I've got no issue. Ingun lives in the city circle. Let me take you to her." 
The elf turned and led Naspel and his companions down the street, over a large bridge, and deeper into the crumbling city. As they progressed, Naspel was able to get a better measure of the destruction that had occurred. The great pile that he had rightly assumed to be Mistveil proved to look no better from the front than it had from the back. Black spikes jutted out of the heap in every direction, and chunks of lay scattered in every direction, including atop the fallen enclosure that had once been a protective wall around the keep. Someone had climbed to the center of the heap and planted a purple flag bearing Riften's crossed daggers standard, though the meaning behind that was lost to Naspel.

Eventually, a fallen bridge forced Arnath to lead them along the canal and through a few other parts of the city. It appeared that very few houses were spared the flames. Those that had been were the smallest ones. Perhaps they had been easier to protect, or even had been left alone by the bandits who'd decided to commit this atrocity. At one point, Naspel noticed a pair of figures watching them pass through the window of one such house. He also could see more guardsmen atop the nearby eastern wall, and somewhere to the north he could hear the sound of voices paired with hammers beating on nails. 
"I had been under the impression that Riften was abandoned." Naspel said to his guide. "How many of you are left?"

"Riften was abandoned." Arnath answered curtly. "And I help keep the peace, not the count. You wan to know how many of us there are, ask someone else."

The elf led them on, further north and then across a bridge leading west. It brought them to a larger district that seemed a little 'cleaner' than those they had already passed through. More houses had survived in this area, and tents had been set up amidst the wreckage of those that hadn't. New structures were being built as well: small hovels and shacks made of wood and scavenged stone. But the fact that there were people out here at all, building in this war-torn ruin came as quite a surprise to Naspel. He watched a Nordic family walk past him with a wagon and armfuls of building supplies. Another dark elf was standing next to a basket filled with what looked like some sort of fat purple vegetables. "Ash yams!" she shouted at them as they passed. "Home-grown ash yams! Only two gold pieces!"

More merchants appeared the closer they got to what Arnath said was the city circle. Tents had been put up all over, and bedrolls were out as well. They mostly offered very basic tools and simple foods. Though there was a blacksmith near a crumbled section of wall whose forge was surrounded by all manner of iron goods, from nails to hammers to axeheads. He even had a few weapons on display.
"How do people pay for this stuff?"

"With coin." Arnath answered in a condescending tone. "I ain't a tour guide. Ask Ingun. That's her tent just up ahead."

The tent Arnath pointed to was not like the others. It was a sprawling canvas at the southern end of the circle, twenty feet wide and long, and closed on all sides. Drawing nearer, Naspel heard the coughs and pained cries coming from within and realized that it was a sick tent. They had only just reached the front flap when a tiny, gray-skinned she-elf popped out right in front of them. The child couldn't have been older than five. Arnath knelt down in front of the Dunmer girl and smiled. "Hullo Sovi, could you see if you ma ain't to busy to visit?"

The little girl's massive red eyes stared at Naspel curiously. And then she nodded to Arnath and retreated back into the tent. When she returned, it was with a young, plainly-dressed Nord woman who in no world could have ever been her mother. She had a long face with narrow eyes and lips, a prominent nose, and dark hair that fell just short of her shoulders and sported a single braid along the left side. For a Nord, she was not particularly tall. Probably only an inch over Naspel at the most. What she lacked in distinguishing features, the woman made up for in the way she carried herself. Her walk, her straightened back, even her gaze spelled that of someone who had once lived lavishly.
"Arnath." She smiled and nodded at the elf. "It's been a while." Even her accent, while distinctly Nordic, did betray a hint of the nobility in her.

"Ingun." Arnath nodded back, then motioned at Naspel. "This one's here to see you. He's an Outlander-"

"From Cyrodiil." Naspel interrupted, extending a hand to her. "I have come a long way to find you, Lady Black-Briar."

"Believe me, you don't want to shake my hand." Ingun said unapologetically. "There are many people in there who've taken ill. I fear it's from trying to live in the Ratways. Sovi and I know how to keep safe from it, but a foreigner's probably even more susceptible than most."

"The Ratway?" Naspel had never heard this term.

"The city beneath the city." Ingun said. "Lots of people prefer it to breathing ash. I've been hard at work making elixers to help protect and soothe the throat for those living up here, but potions of disease curing take more time and require rarer ingredients."

"You're an alchemist." Naspel wasn't sure why this fact surprised him. But it did.

"If by alchemist, you mean life-saver, then aye that's what she is." Arnath gave Ingun a wink. "I'm going back to the gate. Send word if you need anything."

With that, the elven archer left, and Naspel turned to his own men. "You two go around the city and learn what you can from the people. I would prefer to speak with Lady Black-Briar alone." Castan seemed a little uncomfortable with the order, but he nodded and followed the Nord all the same. Turning back to Ingun, Naspel reminded himself that he was speaking to a noblewoman who by rights should have been of far greater stature than himself. In fact, if all went well, she could one day become one of the most influential people in Skyrim. I must address her as such. 
"Apologies, my Lady. In my excitement, I forgot to give you my name. I am Naspel Sintav, of the Imperial City, and I have an offer that I think you will be interested in."

[Witchking of Angmar]

Ingun Black-Briar
Riften
 

In less than two years, Ingun had been assaulted, kidnapped, and used as a hostage for a war between criminals. She had survived the battle at Faldar's Tooth and the sacking of Riften. She'd seen her Jarl die, and watched as her own family's sins cost them everything. Afterwards, she had wandered the Rift with refugees, treating the sick and protecting the weak from bandits. She'd adopted an elf, met a king, poisoned a warlord, and broken bread with her father's killer... And then she had come home, to start over in the ruins.
None of that surprised her as much as what the Colovian proposed.

"... Once we've started and they know that you are real, I am certain that your brother's other investors will see what we can accomplish and offer their support as well." Naspel Sintav was a determined man, of that there could be no doubt. He had traveled through the Rift to find her, which was no small feat these days, and he spoke like a man who gave his words a great deal of thought many days before he would ever speak them. He did not come here to be turned down. "But I'm getting ahead of myself, Lady Black-Briar-"

"I told you to call me Ingun," she interrupted. Black-Briar was her name. She deserved it and would never change it. But that did not mean that she liked having it thrown in her face every time she was spoken to. 

"Apologies, Lady Ingun," the Imperial corrected. "I have done almost all of the speaking between us, and I fear I might overwhelm you if I don't stop to allow you some time to think. Do you have any questions, maybe? Any thoughts you'd like to share?"

"More than I can count." Ingun confessed. With a simple 'Yes', this man promised to make her wealthy again, to put her where Maven had been, where Sibbi was supposed to be. They would rebuild Riften, he said, they would retake management of the Black-Briar businesses and direct that wealth back into Riften. Naspel was certain that with some smarts they could have actual houses built for every refugee by the start of next winter. It sounded impossible, and yet Ingun knew it wasn't. Riften had fallen before, after the reign of Jarl Hosgunn Crossed-Daggers. It had taken five years to rebuild then, and that had been with no money and virtually no outside help. If she had learned anything from her upbringing besides how not to treat others, it was that there were few problems that money was not a solution to. Sure, it had been taking on one of those problems that cost the Black-Briars everything, but this hardly seemed the same.
"Where would we even begin, for starters? The Rift is currently the most dangerous hold by far. You said that Sibbi meant to do all of this with the addition of an army of sellswords. I don't have that."

"No, you don't," admitted Naspel. He smiled as a pair of children ran past them in a game of tag. Compared to the south side of town, the streets of northern Riften were quite safe. Most of the debris had been cleared or was being cleared, and the ash was not nearly as thick. That was unlike the side that the Colovian had reportedly entered from, where everything was still a great heaping mess, where the ash was pile high and looters and robbers camped in their hiding spots, and where one unfortunate step could lead to death in what might've once been some wealthy family's basement.
"I would offer you my men, as a start," the Imperial continued. "At least for the duration of my stay, which could be quite some time. And I would not be surprised if Vala Scribonia and Humilus Lex -those are the interested benefactors I mentioned are staying in Windhelm- would be willing to hire some men of their own to help see this through. Whiterun's Honeybrew Meadery never stopped running, you know, which means that whoever is keeping it in line probably owes your family a lot of money. We can send someone there for a start, and use those funds to reopen a few of your family's other locations in Eastmarch and Falkreath. Once the coins have started to flow again, we can start focusing on rebuilding the Rift. It will start slow, of course. We will need to divert a solid chunk of our gains to protecting the labor and supplies we bring in from other holds. But once the barrels starts to roll, it will gain speed. Especially if a few letters with your signature can convince some of Sibbi's Cyrod friends to become your friends."

"And what about Sibbi?" Ingun pointed out. In fact, whatever her brother's reasons were for abandoning this project of his, she very much doubted that he would appreciate her picking it back up. "He wouldn't like that."

"Oblivion take Sibbi!" Naspel waved his hand. "I'm kidding, of course. Please don't think I meant that. But in all truthfulness, this was his idea and he let it come very near to falling apart. I do not know what your brother is doing now, but it seems that he either no longer cares or has far greater concerns. Either way, if left untended, your family will lose its gains. If you really care so much about the man who almost cost you everything, you can give it all back when he returns." The Imperial smiled slyly. "But I wouldn't."

"You don't know My brother like I do. He killed his own wife-to-be for getting angry when he laid with other women." Naspel looked aghast. "What, you didn't know? My brother is a monster.  He's not as smart as Maven, but he's far more viscous, and still plenty more cunning than most."

"I had no idea... That makes what Arnath told me by the gate a lot more understandable. He told me that Riften would be better off if your brother died."

"He may not be wrong. I have no doubt that Sibbi's ultimate goals for these plans were not for the good of Riften. The city would have benefitted, for sure. But who's to say what he might've done with it afterwards?" Ingun smiled sadly. "Maven always told our father that he should've had a third child. Sibbi was too dangerous, she said. And not careful enough. And I, well... I preferred old Elgrim's alchemy lab to meaderies and decorated estates. The family business was all just noise in one ear."

"And now?"

"Now I've got people to look out for. Little Sovi for one. The Temple of Mara was ransacked and burned to the ground with the priesthood inside it, her parents among them. All of Riften's healers died there together, but she was found among the ashes, clutching the wolf totem around her neck."

"That's... I don't know what to say. Dunmer are naturally resistant to fire. Do you think-"

"It was a miracle," Ingun cut Naspel off. "I know it was. Her mother was a Dunmer as well and yet her body was unrecognizable from the burns... Sovi knew enough about healing magic to be of use in the aftermath, so the poor child wound up tending to the wounded when she should've been playing with dolls."

"Is that how you met her?"

"Aye. As it just so happens, I was fleeing Riften like everyone else. One of the bandits had slammed me against a wall in Mistveil. It was only later, after I started getting dizzy, that I realized my head was bleeding. I fainted while searching my bag for a potion that could help, ended up smashing half the bottles in the process. When I came to, a pair of big red eyes were looking down at me, and all the pain was gone. That's when I decided to stay with her. To use my own talents to help the people of Riften."

"That's quite the tale."

No doubt the Imperial meant his words with total sincerity, but it slightly irked Ingun that he would use a word like 'tale' to describe what she and so many others had been through. "That's not even half of it. But the rest doesn't matter. I'm here to stay, and I'll do what I can to help around here."

"And from what I have gathered, that help has been tremendous. It is truly amazing what a single master of alchemy can achieve."

"I am no master." Ingun said, remembering Elgrim, and how the man had so skillfully been able to identify every single property in every single ingredient, no matter how rare. He was a man who could sniff some leaves and tell you what to add to make those leaves do something amazing. More magical than any spell. Even after years of his tutelage, she was less than a novice by comparison. 

"An expert then, at least." Naspel raised a hand to stop her from correcting that point. "I don't mean to downplay your talents at all, Lady Bla- Ingun, or worse, the good work you have done. But if you go through with this, the amount of good you have to offer Riften will increase a hundredfold. No, a thousand! But you never did fully answer my main question. With all these developments, all that's changed for you and Riften, for little Sovi, do you still view your family business as you did before?"

"I don't know. It's the family's fault this all happened in the first place, if you look to the core of the problem." Once again, the Imperial looked shocked. "We didn't burn down Riften, but it was my grandmother who forced the hand of the man who did. If that's what it takes to do what we did-"

"It's not." Naspel promised. "You don't have to be like Maven or Sibbi. You don't even need to understand the business inside and out the way they might have. You'll have help, from me and others. Instead of throwing away the name of Black-Briar and all the power that comes with it, you can redeem it by using it for something good. By using it your way. After Honeybrew, you'll be able to afford to bring in actual healers so you and Sovi can take a much-needed break. From what I've gathered, no one around here will blame you. In fact, if Arnath is any indication, the people here love you."

"That's because I've been with them for months." Ingun replied. "This is less than half of Riften's refugees. The rest are still in Ivarstead, Shor's Stone, Eastmarch, even Whiterun. Those people don't know me. They just know the name 'Black-Briar'. What will happen when they find out? Or Sibbi?"

"You're asking about Sibbi again." Naspel smiled. "This mean you won't be turning it over to him when he comes back?"

"Gods no." Ingun answered. And then she realized that her answer also meant she was on board for this. As I should be. This is what Riften needs. I cannot deny them this. "If Sibbi wants Riften, he can damned well try to take it from us."

"Yes!" The Imperial's grin was ear to ear now. "What can he do anyway? You'll have the family's money, and you have incriminating knowledge of his deeds. Ingun, you're about to become one of the wealthiest people in Skyrim. And I'm gonna help you!" He gritted his teeth as if to keep from squealing. "Who's the embarrassment now!?"

"Huh?"

"Oh, nothing." The Colovian straightened, but he could not hold back his smile. "I will return to Windhelm and inform the others at once."

"Wait." Ingun cut him off. "You keep saying you and your friends are investors. What does this mean? What do you hope to gain from all this?"

"At the moment? Nothing at all. It's a risk, and a big one at that. But we all seek to help revive the Black-Briar name in the hopes that you will see to it that we may be involved in its future. It would still be yours, of course. Some of the others hope that you will grant them trade deals, or even percentages from certain locations of yours. Though the biggest fruit in your tree is the possible joint ownership of meaderies and businesses south of the Cyrodiil border."

"They want us operating in Cyrodiil as well?"

"It was your brother who proposed it. And if we can get the Emperor and next High King to allow it, I do not believe it is too far-fetched of a plan."

Ingun smiled. Naspel Sintav had come a long way through some dangerous lands when none of the others had been willing to. Regardless of the coin put forth, he had already probed to be willing to put more at risk for her than the others. "Maybe it isn't. How much does the Sintav clan know about running a meadery?"

"Lady Black- Ingun?" She saw the man's eyes light up. "Well, not much... but we can learn! If- are you saying-?"

"I'm saying that if this plan works and if you keep Riften at the front of mind above all else, and do everything that you can in the city's best interest, I would like your family to become my main partners in the Heartland."

It had been a long time since Ingun had seen a man so happy. "Riften comes first, Lady Ingun. Of that, you have my word."

"Good." Ingun's heart was beating furiously. She was not the sort to make a fool of herself when excited, but she could not pretend that the idea of what might be coming wasn't so great, so wildly blessed, that she wanted nothing more than to see it happen here and now. "Go then, and do what you have to do. But please return with news soon. I will be here, tending the sick."

[Witchking of Angmar]

Empress Dales Moitre, 
Imperial City, 
Night,

The kiss lasted only minutes, but it felt like they were interwoven in time, as both girls desired the moment to never end, the purity, and fragerence of lilly's hanging on the air. The blonde-haired Princess, and her brunette maid. Tears were strung on the Princess's eyes, as she expected. It was a different kind of crying, though. She had expected to be crushed for the hundredth time, and be left crying at her bitter loneliness. Instead, just moments ago, she had heard the single word she had always wanted to hear,  Yes. Yes Yes .Yes. Yes. It was a dream come true, for a girl like the Princess. So lonely. So desolate. Someone who always cried. 

The kiss finally broke, after minutes interlocked with one another. There two eyes gazed longingly at each other. The Princess's blue eyes. The maid's green. "I love you Princess."

"I love you Elan..." The Princess uttered

They had found each other, in a city of thousands.  And now they were finally together, forever.

****
Not again...your phantom still haunts me, my beloved.  

A phantasmic nightmare engulfed the woman just last night, plaguing her dreams with darkness and decay. She found it hard to believe, tonight she felt pure bliss, in heavenly light.

The woman tried to gasp, as the younger, much smaller female dug her face underneath the blankets. Sweat clung to her skin as she placed her hand to her mouth, prevent any gasps of air from leaving. The walls had been made sound proof by magic, but that didn’t matter. She was already embarrassed enough. A shade of crimson hung at her cheeks, as her dagger like, point eyes hid underneath her long hair. The lower half of her tanned body was protected by the fur blanket, and the warmth of her sleeping partner. Though she was a good deal fair skinned than most Wood Elves, implying a mixed race. The room she was in was spacious, and filled with expensive furniture. Although she had never minded serving female customers, whom were quite rare at her brothel...the Bosmer never knew how...stimulating a female lover could be, until this night. Mara be praised...I never knew a girl this small could be so- She squealed, interrupting her previous thought. Her client was applying...pressure to a special place on the lower half of her body. The woman in question peeked underneath the blanket, to see messy, blonde hair. A head gently came into view, popping underneath from the blankets, as her body straddled the Elf. A very pretty face, filled with youth. Though that prettiness was offshot by something. Mainly her piercing, blue eyes.

Warms hands trailed across her naked body, and into her own. Interwoven, the two held hands, and kissed passionately, under the white kiss of moonlight

The Empress’s lips tasted like blueberries. She never knew, growing up in the slums of the Imperial City, she would taste an Empresses lips one day.

******
All Viliana had been told was she had a client tonight in the nobility, and the Madame hadn’t been told of the identity of the person, other then they lived at the Palace. A dark cloaked man, had been there to pick her up, and lead her through a secret passageway in the Talos Plaza district, leading her to the most powerful woman in Cyrodiil. While Vilana had seen the Empress at parades, once or twice...she gave a completely different vibe in person. She was kinda scary at first. Speaking in a harsh voice, and holding a cold stare. The Wood Elf had... heard rumors of the Empresses sexuality, though she had never imagined them to be true. Or the fact she was going to sleep with her. 

“So…how did you like that, Viliana?” The Empress asked, her cold blue eyes trailing to the Wood Elves. Her naked stomach rose up and down, as she breathed hard. Such… clear eyes. The Bosmer lay naked, cuddling next to the Breton woman, who had her left arm wrapped around the Bosmer’s shoulder, lying next to her, in the bed, with fur sheets covering their bodies. Empress Draconius was a very pretty woman, although the Bosmer didn't think she met the stereotypical portrayal of royalty.  She didn't have a perfect frame, and was oddly flabby at her stomach. Her arms, and legs were strong, and well-defined, as she had noticeable scars across her body. Her long blonde hair, was radiant, not golden, but creamy like honey. The Empress was much more gentle than most of her clients, though no less ferocious in love making. Before the young Bosmer could speak, Dales placed a finger to her mouth, and seductively asked, “Be honest, sweetie...”  

The Bosmer’s face flushed in embarrassment. She had to admit...she hadn’t expected to enjoy “it” so much. Viliana voice was low, as she stuttered out, “Very...different, you majesty. Though very enjoyable…” She didn’t lie. Maybe I am a lesbian...Though it never really occurred to her. She didn't bother to think about which sex attracted her, when she was struggling on the streets to find a meal, or that her job was selling her body for a few septims. 

Things had gotten much better, when she found herself at the Blackened Rose, but her lifestyle was still disgusting, and she had no time to think about which sex, or even race, naturally attracted her. She needed to service whom she was told to service, regardless of how she felt. While the Blackened Rose was a fancy, expensive establishment. The life of a prostitute was always the same.   The Bosmer herself was very tall, an oddity of her species. With dirty blonde hair done in long, and with a ponytail, large firm breasts, a very pretty face, she was very appealing to the eye. Her father had been Imperial, or so she was told. A legionary. She never knew him. He raped her mother, whom was a working-girl, and left with the rest of his unit to parts unknown, leaving Vilian mother to raise her herself. Her friends had told her to abort the baby, but her mother wanted to keep her. Alas, her mother lasted only till she was about seven. Died from a mixture of exhaustion, and disease. Since Vilian had no relatives to take care of her, she was sent to an orphanage, until she was fifteen, and let loose on the streets.  Either way, no one cared about her, so she needed to care for herself. Like mother, like daughter, she took up her mother's occupation. First doing blowjobs for a few septims in the waterfront, all the way to working at a high class brothel. 

She couldn’t complain. Her life could have been alot worse. 

The Empress smirked, once again speaking in a sultry tone, “Do you like women, Vilana?” The Empress’s cold eyes gazed into Vilana’s, staring into her soul,

Gods..she can see right through me..Viliana weakly smiled, “Do you like Elves, your majesty?” She tried to deflect the question. The Empress slyly smirked, obviously seeing through her blunder, but playing along, 

“As people, of course.  What difference is there between an Elf, or a human? People, are people.” Her smirk extended to a sinister grin, “As lovers? Doubly so.” Empress Draconius trailed her hand across her neck, settling on her large, ears. The Empress started to nibble on them, saying seductively as Vilana gasped for air, “You have gorgeous skin, lovely ears, silk-like hair, tall, broad bodies, so exotic...and you nectar is so sweet…heheheheh. Going by your reactions to my touch, I think I know the answer to my question.” Empress Draconius leaned down, going for Vilana’s lovely “titties” to plunge her face into, as the Empress would say,  but was stopped by the Wood Elf, asking a question in a worried tone. She couldn’t take another “attack”. It's not like she didn’t like the Empress’s touch. She really did. However, she was exhausted from hours of sex. The Empress had alot of stamina, afforded to her by her magic. “When...when did you know you liked women, and have you slept with a man?” 

The Empress stopped, gazing down. Her expression becoming...sad. Her haunting blue eyes starred into space, as she stopped biting down on the prostitutes ears, A frown developed on her face, as the Wood Elf began to worry, she said something she shouldn’t. Right away, the Wood Elf muttered, “Forgive me your Majesty, I have upset-” 

“Think nothing of it. Yes I have. Once. It will never happen again, and it was the most disgusting thing in my life.” Empress Draconius first clenched, as she seemed to get angry. The Empress broke from her spell, a sly grin sprouting once more, “You just surprised me, that’s all. No doubt it’s an interesting question. I personally choose to...patron the Blackened Rose because of its well-earned reputation of discretion. I also took the extra step, and had one of my agents investigate you, personally. Can't be too careful, my dear…” The Empress said, 

Kinda creepy. But also flattering. 

The Imperial monarch continued, “I suppose I could tell you the tale…” Dales wrapped her arm around the Bosmers shoulder, snuggling closer to her, both their bodies warming up at the contact “I think i’ve known since I was a little girl…” She paused. It obviously meant quite a bit to the Empress so Vilena kept her mouth shut,” Empress Draconius continued, playing with a piece of Vilena’s silky hair, “And I was never not interested in other girls. I was born this way. I didn’t know back then, of course, that my feelings were strange, or even romantic.  I thought it was quite normal for girls to be in love with other girls. I was very...naive, let's just say. Very innocent emotions  Now that I look back to it as a fully grown woman...I realized I harbored romantic feelings for my targets of affection.”She grinned once more, and began to count with her fingers, 

“One was my school instructor. I was about..five, if I remember correctly. And I very much admired her. She was an Imperial. Middle Aged, tanned skin, raven hair.” A sad smile appeared on her lips, “ I asked if I could marry her when I was older, she told me girls didn’t marry other girls, and told my parents about “unwarranted advances” and “silliness”. My father wasn’t very happy with me. Told me woman married men, and if I thought otherwise, he would hurt me.” She closed her eyes, and made a stabbing motion with her hand. “I was to be a proper lady of court. Marry at sixteen, have children, be a loving wife, and stop this “nonsense.” Dales began to stroke the Bosmer’s hair, her gentle soft hands cool against the dirty blonde hair,

“My mother was kinder to the situation.” A pained expression grew on her face, “She told me she would love me, regardless of the gender of a person I wanted to marry, but I needed to listen to father, and be a good girl. And that I would need to do what’s best for the Moitre’s, as was my duty as a countess of Sutch.” Another sad smile crept up on her lips, “I of course, felt it unfair. What was wrong with me liking another girl, the same way father loved mother? That’s what my stupid five year old self though. That leads too.”

The Empress lifted her hand, holding up two fingers, Veliana’s face snuggled up to Dales arm. She felt comfortable with the Empress, “The second  was another girl in my class.  Instead of having a private tutor, I studied at the Imperial Dragon Academy, as my miserable father was staying in the Imperial City for business for a full year, leaving the management of Sutch to his council. Anyway, the girl in question was Duchess Catherine Aquilla, a rather gorgeous, to my eleven year old self, lady from Anvil.” Dales stared into the ceiling, a devilish grin forming on her lips, “I tricked her into kissing me, asking if she wanted to practice with each other for the day when we married our husbands. She of course,  fell for it…” Velina gently nudged the Empress, who was laughing manically, smirking, 

“Your majesty!” She pouted, 

“Yeah, it was mean of me to do. I admit it. I was a bold child.  We were caught by one of our teachers, though after the fourth “pratice” session. And her parents, a duke and a duchess, were pretty enraged that a young female delinquent had taken their beloved daughter's first kiss. Since I was a countess though, I got away scott free. Although…” The sad smile appeared on face once more, “My father was pretty pissed. Hit me a few times too, in his erratic rage…” Velina frowned, “You poor thing…” 

“Think nothing of it. I’m sure your childhood was worse then mine.” She frowned, before continuing her story, her face darkening,”I took it...very badly.I Finally decided it was best for everyone, to hold this feelings deep within my heart. I was crying alone...when a very important person stumbled upon me. It was Emperor Titus Mede II.” Dales paused for a moment, as Veliana’s eyes filled with surprise, “I thought you hated him?”

“I did publicly renounce his policies, yes. To please our allies. In private, I heavily respect, and admire the man.” She gently closed her, as she uttered,  “He did what he thought was best for his people, and kept the Empire together during the Great War.” A sinister grin appeared on the Breton’s lips, the shadows forming around her, causing Velina to shiver. A dark whisper, emerged from the Empress’s lips, “Nothing else, but Cyrodiil matters to me. I would do the same, if I had no choice. I would sacrifice more than the Redguards to keep Cyrodiil safe. Let them burn....” 

A shiver went down the Bosmer’s spin, the Empress’s dark words haunting her as she, finding her own words, muttered, “What...about the ban on Talos?” 

“What happened to his mortal followers underneath the White-Gold Concordat was deplorable, and disgusting, certainly. A reason why my respect does not extend to like. But Talos himself can rot in Oblivion…” The Empress’s eyes narrowed, fire burning in her eyes, her tongue taking glee in uttering such blasphemy. This aspect of the Empress was certainly scary. “He and his ilk abandoned us long ago, as did Akatosh, ever since Martin Septim died. Religion is foolish. The Empire has suffered, as Akatosh does nothing. While us mortals rot, and die in droves to war, Akatosh does nothing. He abandoned the Empire. And it's now up to us mortals to fight to preserve the Empire. We don't needs gods to help us, we can endure, and flourish on our own. The Dragon shalt endure, without Akatosh’s covenant!” Dales gazed to Velina’s eyes. Velina’s frightened eyes. The Empress face softened, as she muttered, with an apologetic tone, 

“Ah forgive me, my dear. I tend to ramble when I get to the topic of politics, and religion. I was talking about the time, the Emperor stumbled upon my crying, yes?” Dales coughed, “Well, I was crying my eyes out, when the Emperor came upon me, in the Moitre mansion. He was visiting my father you see. To be honest with you...I don't recall quite how he looked. Just a shadowed face in my memory, wearing brilliant gold, Legion Lorica Segmenta.” A faint smile appeared on her lips, 

“He asked me why I was crying.  I told him because everyone hated me, for kissing girls.” She giggled, “I was pretty stupid back then. The Emperor laughed, but his stare hardened a moment later. He told me a true soldier does not cry for herself, but for her comrades.” She paused, “I asked him who he crys for. And all he simply said was “my people.” before leaving me alone in the dark room.” Dales, stark naked, sat there in the bed beside Viliana, “Even after all the lessons about kingship from my mentor, I hold those words closest to my heart, and try to follow them, as a monarch.” 

She chuckled, “Listen to me rant. You asked me a question to learn about girls who love other girls. I shall continue with that. Before the Wood  Elf could apologize, the Empress continued on with her story, “The third was...when I was fifteen.” The Empress’s hands began to clench, as a shadow crossed her face. A thousand yard stare “I was still at the dragon academy. The girl in question was...my best friend, Duchess Aversia Axio. I had met her when we were both little girls, as our families had been very close for a long time, and we were friends growing up. Coincidental, we had the same class together, and started spending alot more time with each other.    We became...very close.” She yawned a little, getting closer to the Wood Elf, snuggling around her armpit. 

“Teenagers and young love. Since I was dealing with...puberty, and inflamed hormones, as all teenagers do, I fell...quite in love with her. Of course I did. I had known her my entire life, and was seeing her every day. Her cherry lips. Her soft brown hair…” The Empress closed her eyes, as if she was imagining Aversia in the flesh once more, “I was in love with her. So in love...I thought she felt the same. And like me, she was just worried about how other people who think about us, as lesbians." The Empress's face edged closer to the Bosmer's neck, breathing waves of hot air across her skin, causing her to shiver. Why was this Breton woman affecting her so much? She was just another client. "I had fantasized it to, how the confession would go. I would finally confess my feelings to her, she would accept them, and we would kiss under the moonlight." She edged closer, whispering into Viiana's ear, 

"How naive of me. That's not how it went...." 

*****

"Your disgusting...slug..." Aversia, backed away slowly, as the look of shock still stood across her pretty face. A look of both malice and surprise   Her hand outstretched, the red mark still plain on Dale’s face. The Countess wore the garb of a regular student, but her eyes were already flowing with tears, as she lay on her knees.  The Imperial Duchess spat once more, the saliva hitting Dales in the face. Dales could only stand there, as Aversia eventually left her view. Other students had surrounded her, and were gawking at her. Some of them were whispering words of malice about her among themselves. It had happened again. Dales was truly no good. Just a useless whore as her dad called her. 

“Am I...disgusting?” Dales asked, tears all over her face. Did this make her disgusting? Having love for another women, deep within her heart? Everyone thought so. Dales uttered, once more, 

“Am I disgusting?” Dales slammed her fist into the brick wall, as she cried out tears. Dales repeated before, doing the same thing, putting more force. She screamed, “Am I disgusting?!” Tears streaming forth, Dales shoved her first into the brick wall, the pain becoming overwhelming, as she repeatedly slammed into the school’s wall, until a faint crunch echoed, as did a barrage of extreme, pain enter Dales now numb arm. 

***

“You ******* bitch!” Fathers slap echoed across the halls of the mansion. While he hit her quite a bit, this strike was different. He put alot more force into it, throwing the small teenager to the floor. She coughed, the pain assailing not just from her battered face, but her arm, which had been fractured by her own actions, which she landed on roughly. Her father's left hand began to have a spasm, something that happened often. Just one of his mannerism. Dales tried to get up, but was stopped by an intense pain coming from her head. Her father was holding her by her hair and pulling her up, causing her to scream out in pain, “Stay down, whore. You think you could get away with this? Publicly embarrassing me!? You filthy *****-lover!” Dales was crying once more, just like earlier today, “Stop crying!” Amaund fists clenched, as he launched a punch into her face, letting her fall to the ground, “I said, stop ******* crying! Your whore of a mother isn’t here anymore. She’s rotting in the earth, which you’ll be if you do anything this stupid again, i’ll make sure of it!  They laugh at your pathetic self, they laugh at me, and the family! Do you know how ******* stupid you are? You filthy slug! Aversia father is enraged! He want me to give him to you for a night, after you scarred his daughter with your filthy advances, and i’m half tempted to grant that request. Teach you respect. Maybe cure you of this...curse. This blight to our family, you and your disgusting thoughts are!”  Amaund raged, his mouth foaming with rage. He grabbed the hot poker from the firepit. Dales, whom had crawled to a corner eyes filled with fear, as she began to scream, “Please...please don’t father!” 

**** 

The Bosmer eyed the Empress, pity welling up within her stomach though she remained silent, as Dales showed her the burn scar, on her side. It must have hurt alot. The Empress sighed slowly, her eyes welling with tears “I still remember the pain, and humiliation of the poker, sizzling my skin. The day after, my father sent me to apologize to Aversia and her family. Tell them I had a mental illness….tell them I was a sick person. I was filled with fear that my father had agree to Aversia’s father request to let me “stay” over for a night.” A faint smile appeared, “Luckily my uncle went with me. I came, and I went as quickly as I entered. My uncle was a very powerful merchant so, I doubt Lord Axio wanted to try anything with me. Afterwords...I showed him what father did to me.” She glanced up into the ceiling, “A day later, my bags were being packed, and being sent away to the Synod, to be trained in the arts of magic, in small school in Anvil.” She let out a sigh of relief, “I found out later, uncle was threatening my father with promises that he would report his “business” dealings with the Thalmor to the Emperor, as well as expose his abuse, if he touched me again, and if he didn’t agree to send me far away, away from him and my brothers. I dont think I would have retained myself, if it wasn’t for him.  I never really saw father again, only for public appearances, and small meetings. I was worried when he took the throne for uncle, and myself, but that was unfounded. Father was so used to him barely seeing me, that he began to quite like it. I was in the inquisition at the time, so I barely interacted with hi. And uncle owned a huge amount of the family business, the he dared not move against him. He was the Thalmor’s puppet, and barely had any power of his own.

A small tear fell down the Bosmer’s eyes. Dales gave her a sad smile, “Don’t cry for me. Once I was ascended the throne, I tracked down my father's allies once more. They were all in on the plot that murdered Titus Mede II. Including Lord Axio” A twisted smile appeared on her lips, “I made sure he died slow, public execution style. And afterwards I sent sweet Aversia a letter of condolence, along with the dagger they used torture her father. Thalmor scum have no sympathy for me.” 

“Really?” Viliana asked, fearful. Dales grinned, saying “Knowing what I know now. I would have accepted it, if she turned me down. Most girls are attracted to men. It's natural. I was such a little fool to think she felt the same about me. That it was anything but unrequited love. But I still think it's natural for girls to like other girls, and men to like other men. Even if what happened afterward, still happened, I would have okay with just saying she wasn't interested in me that way.” Her words slowed, “But the way she talked down upon me. The glee on her face, when I came to school the next day, covered in bruises. That bitch deserved more. I only regret I didn’t send her his severed head. Things...are more accepted here in Cyrdoili, but it certainly isn't common face. That didn't give her the right to call me a disgusting...slug.”  Dales closed her eyes, lettings the sounds of outside, her own breathing, and the breathing of her lover enter her ears, “Anger is an venom, that does more to it's vessel, then what it's poured upon. Revenge. It’s a bitter emotion. I feel nothing for Aversia. No love. No hate. After doing what I did to her father, he was a criminal after all, and sending those...items to his daughter, in the place of joy I was expected to fell, nothing. Nothing at all. I felt completely void of any emotion. No pity. No shame. Just darkness.” Dales leaned in, and began to nibble on Viliana’s ear, placing her hand on her naked body, which began to trail down slowly to her private bits, whispering with a seductive, silky voice, “No more this, I dont want to talk anymore Does that make me a disgusting person, Viliana?” 
The Wood Elf prostitute began to gasp for air, as Dales began to softly chew more, taking in every bit of the Woof Elf’s ear. Viliana struggled to stutter out, as she got more excited, “No it does not, your majesty!” 

“Oh? Tell me more.” Dales smirked, as she applied more pressure to the “spot”, Viliana had to control her moans from escaping, “I think it’s nature for you, to want to punish such bad people!” Dales smirk widened, as she whispered into her ear, “Aren't you being a little naughty? Perhaps I should punish you?” 

“Oh yes your majesty please!” Viliana had gotten into the mood again, and yeah she knew she at the very least, liked woman now. 

She didn’t notice the look of pure despair the Empress was giving. 

**********

Dales helped Viliana put on her underwear, braiser, and clothing, her soft hands trailing across her tanned body. The Occultus Lupius agent waited outside, rolling her eyes when he heard moans here and there. She wore nothing to identify herself as an Occultus agent, just simple chainmail armor, and a full coilth to cover her face. Another one, a man, sat beside her, eying patrons that wandered around the top floor of the inn. Afterwords, Dales placed a soft kiss on her lips, as Viliana held it for a good moment. Dales took a small purse of Septims in between the Bosmer's breast. While small, it was quite heavy, and very filled.  The young Empress, placed a kiss on her round "titties" as she said, "The rest of the payment I own to the brothel has been already relieved. A little bonus, for the princess." Viliana blushed a deep sanguine shadow, as a smile formed on her lips "Your majesty...you really know how to make a lady feel special. Although if that's from the Imperial treasury-" 

"I pay for personal things, and services with my own purse. After my father died, I inherited his holdings in the family company. Quite a bit, I give away to charity, the rest I keep for rainy days." She gave a peck. Viliana returned it, "Thank you for tonight." The Wood Elf said, "I...I really enjoyed myself. If your....needing some company, under the yonder moon. You can always...request me. I..." 

Dales gave an **** grin, "Want to come back to your arms, your majesty?"

Viliana giggled, a smile of pure warmth forming on her lips "Yes."

Dales gave her a hug, "Take care of yourself honey. I dont need to remind you, are pillow talk is very private." 

"Of course, your majesty" She bowed her head, "It was an honor servicing you."

"Likewise." The Breton uttered, the cocky, self-satisfied grin staying on her face, causing the Wood Elf prostitute to cough, and blush red deeply. "Excuse me your majesty, I must be returning to the brothel now!" My heart cant take much more! With one final, embarrassed bow, the Wood Elf disappeared out of the door, to the waiting Occultus agent that would whisk her back her brothel. It was the brothel's policy to make sure no one, but the servicing woman, was to be made aware of the client identity. No even the upper management, which simply handled the payments delivery. Which made it very popular spot for the nobility. If a serving girl was caught, or reported talking about there clients identity, harsh punishment, if not outright expulsion was to occur. The benefits of being part of the Blackened Rose was so great, no one dared to risk it. The silence was golden, which was a reason why the Empress had chosen it in the first place. Along with the establishment, she had sent one of her agents to find someone with the lowest possible risk, which was already tiny, of reporting her sexual encounter with the Empress. She had found Viliana. The Empress smiled, 

Such a sweet girl...

One of her agents entered into the inn's room, his face covered by chainmail. To an outside, he would like nothing more then a sellsword, hired to protect a young noble whom was out on a night of whores, and drunken debauchery. He closed the door behind him. While the walls of the inn were naturally sound proof, Dales had confused a spell just in case. He did a legion-styled fist salute as he uttered, "Your majesty. Are you ready to leave?" Dales gave the Grey Wolf a smirk, "My, my, Septum, aren't you impatient..." The soldier gave a cold, and rigid state, showing no emotion, "Forgive me your majesty. I'm just concerned about getting you back to your "study" as efficient, and safety as possible." 

"I'll be ready to walk the secret passageway in a few minutes. Just need to freshen up in the washroom." 

"Of course. I'll wait outside of your room." The agent quickly saluted, and closed the door behind him as he left. Dales let out a small sigh. She rarely went on "dates". Barely once a month, if anything. She was so busy with her court, and her own studies. She got up from the bed, and went into the small bathroom. 

Her hand had a sudden spasm, the limb acting erratic and violtile. That thing happened often to her. Dales used the toilet. Afterwords, she started to wash her hand, using the soap to scrub it clean.  The Empress took a small handful of water from the basin, drawing it in her hand, and throwing it over her face, letting the cool water slide across her face, cooling her down, and refreshing herself, and getting the cold sweat off. She gazed into the mirror, trying to see her face's reflection. 

A chill ran down her spine, as her vision gazed into the expensive bathroom mirror. Dales...saw someone. 

What lay beyond the mirror?  

An expression of pure, hatred fell across her face. A look of venom, and all the negative emotions she felt rolled up into one. With a flash of magic, a gauntlet of ice formed around her hand, as she delivered a punch straight into the glass object, destroying whatever reflection lay on its edge, and shattering the mirror fully

Dales wasted no time in leaving the bathroom, and the room, to the waiting Imperial Agent. Not noticing, the bull on her sigit ring, faintly glowing red. 

[Witchking of Angmar]

Theodore Adrard

Camlorn

Morning

Theodore watched the flotilla of Breton ships disappear into horizon, where pale blue sky met black sea. They looked so small from his vantage, inside his castle, upon the cliff overlooking the docks. On those boats were his son, his mother-in-law, and the Lord Admiral, heading first north around The Point, then east toward Skyrim. It had been a week since Jarl Red-Snow’s letter arrived, and a day since Lord Traven and Princess Lyenna had returned from the funeral of Lord Traven’s sister. With Roland able to spend a final day with his pregnant wife, he and the other emissaries left before the sun rose.

Lyenna had gone to see her husband off, but Theodore and Elayne hadn’t. Elayne was still asleep, her skin pale like a Nord’s, and she was sweating slightly. She was fine, for the most part, but neither she nor Theodore had the energy that they’d had even a week ago, and the potions weren’t fully holding back the symptoms. Thankfully, Roland and Lyenna were so far unaffected. Lady Gaerhart was also in perfect health, though how she avoided the affects Theo did not know.

There was a knock at the door to his chambers, so Theodore left the bedroom window and went into the study, where he sat at his desk. Once he was situated, he bid the visitor to enter. It was Sir Maric, who bowed and gave the king a letter. Theodore took it without a word and began reading.

It was clear from the small words that flowed with the grace of a skilled dancer that Lady Gaerhart wrote it. It was not long, and it did not mince words, just as he expected from her.

King Adrard,  

I did not wake you or Elayne this morning, but I think the time has come when other options must be considered. I don’t propose giving up on the young Baron you entrusted but if your condition continues to decline we cannot afford to wait for his return. Now that the potions are wearing off as well, it may finally be time to consider permanent solutions.  

For myself, I sought out the Glenmoril Wyrd. You know as well as I they have agents in courts of every noble family, and it was not difficult to contact them. The wizard can do it easily enough. They were able to slow the affects of the curse, though by what means they would not say. But there are few enough options that I took the risk. Seeing that their treatment hasn’t born any ill affects, and I’ve been under it for quite some time, we must begin to consider allowing Elayne and Lyenna to undergo it as well. Though they have, in the past, provided cures to men and women, they said this they could do only for the women. For the sake of Lyenna and the child, we consider this an option.

I allowed the wizard to examine me. He can tell you more about the nature of the treatment, though in my understanding it is not nefarious. But payment is required for the witches’ services, though the form that payment takes won’t be decided until you meet with them.

Lady Joslin Gaerhart

Theodore glanced over the letter again, and then set it on fire. It was quickly reduced to a pile of ash, which he dumped out the nearby window, where a morning breeze sent the ashes spiraling through the air like dirty snowflakes. When Theodore sat back down, he could hear Elayne and her handmaidens stirring in the next bedroom. Sir Maric stood, uninterested in the letter, but clearly attentive should the King need him.

Theodore, meanwhile, was lost in thought. He didn’t like the idea of relying on the notoriously fickle, oftentimes malevolent Glenmoril Wyrd. Though, he hadn’t liked relying on an age old vampire or an unseasoned Baron, and yet he had relied on them. With varying degrees of success, thus far. But with Winvale and Corrick, he was facing individuals. Trying to deal with the witches presented an entirely different sort of challenge. Even Winvale expressed some manner of disgust toward the Wyrd, and he spoke of himself as an ally of theirs. A tenuous ally, with a possibly strained relationship, but that was a stronger relationship than Theodore had with the Wyrd. And somehow, he thought having Winvale vouch for him wouldn’t do much to set the witches’ minds at ease. This all without considering whether or not Elayne and Lyenna would want to be treated by the witches.

It wasn’t an appealing proposition, but then nothing dealing with the curse was. At the very least, he knew he should talk to Winvale, and see what he detected during his examination of Lady Gaerhart. And then he could get an update about the shadow mages and their first week of training as well. First, though, he needed to see what Elayne thought. He walked back into the bedroom, where Elayne’s handmaidens were dressing her. They had picked out an elegant blue dress that reminded Theodore of the sky he had just been watching this morning. The handmaidens finished quickly and left, leaving Elayne and Theodore to consume the breakfast a servant brought in during the dressing.

They ate boiled eggs and cream filled pastries in silence. Both knew the other wasn’t feeling well, but there was an unspoken agreement that if they didn’t talk about the curse, it might be ignored, and hopefully it would disappear. Eventually, though, Theodore was forced to tell Elayne of the letter.

“Why did she not tell us this sooner? We might have saved them, or spared them, or done something,” Elayne said, her voice wavering as she referred to their recently cursed and killed newborn twins.

 

“I do not think she had done anything before then. None of us really knew how deep it ran, until then.” He reached across the table to hold his wife’s hand.

“After that, though, what good could it have done to keep this a secret. She might be bewitched, she could have died without us knowing what she’d done.”

“She is a secretive woman. But I think she had something in place if she should die. I think she was testing the treatment, to see if you and Lyenna could be saved.”

“I won’t do it. Who knows what those witches could do with half the royal family under their influence. And Lyenna, and the child, who knows what manner of sorcery they could use to control them? Its too dangerous.”

“Joslin talked to Winvale, and had him examine her. I will talk to him and see what he discovered. But I agree, this seems only an option as a last resort.” Theodore assumed that it wasn’t time for a last resort, not yet, but he didn’t know if it was time, or when that time would be. It was reassuring to hear Elayne still had faith in their plan, but he wondered if it was faith or fear in the other option.

“Are you sure you can trust him to be impartial about this? He has professed to be friends with the Wyrd in the past, and he’s not what I would call loyal.” Elayne wore her clear disdain for the wizard on her face.

“If he means to betray us he need only wait until Drenim’s cure arrives. We are at his mercy, and I suppose that means we must trust him.”

Elayne simply frowned and said, “I’m going to talk with Lady Loseph today, make sure she’s moved in and well accommodated. She’ll likely want to speak with you once she is situated. Will you be free later?”

“I will be after I meet with Winvale, then Sir Virelande and Sir Maric.”

“You still have not told me what it is you have them doing,” Elayne said, the displeasure in her voice plain.

Theodore frowned, and wished he hadn’t brought up he was meeting with Virelande and Maric. That had only turned his wife onto the fact the meeting was about his shadowmage project. “I do not think you would approve.”

“Then it must not be a good idea,” she replied.

“We will need an edge in the war, and the world formed in the wake of it. Our warriors are not the best, our armies our not the largest, so we must rely on the strength of our mages and our subterfuge. This will help us with both. Winvale’s involvement is a necessity, as much as we may dislike it. It is not the first time we’ve done the necessary thing, no matter how much we disliked it.”

Elayne withdrew her hand at that. Theodore could have meant any number of immoral acts the royal couple committed, and yet his assertion that they were necessary seemed to ring true, as evidenced by an acquiescing sigh. Theodore realized he didn’t want her to be in the dark any longer, though. He might need her advice on something, and regardless of whether or not she approved, she would see the necessity of the shadowmages, that much Theodore knew.

“Shadow magic,” he said. “I’m having Winvale, Virelande, and Maric form a shadowmage corp.”

After a long pause, during which Theodore was questioning if he was right to assume his wife’s assent, Elayne finally said, “I better go. I don’t want to keep Lady Loseph waiting too long.”

And with that, Theodore knew she had accepted the shadowmages as a necessity.

After she left, Theodore changed into a nicer set of clothes. He put on a fur-collared cloak over his golden silk tunic, his bull’s head sigil stitched on the chest. He placed his crown on his head, made sure his mustache was tidy, and then went back into the study. There Winvale, Virelande, and Maric were all seated and waiting.

Winvale, the Court Wizard, wore his usual dark green robes, his emerald inlaid golden circlet, and he gripped his oak staff, which was topped by a black sphere. Both his snow-white hair, pulled back into a ponytail, and his equally white beard were held together with small golden rings. His face was craggy like the highlands from which he hailed. He seemed equally as annoyed with the meeting, as he was with most everything else.

Beside him sat Sir Maric, Theo’s bodyguard and Captain of the Guard, his dark brown hair nearly black, cut short so that it didn’t hang passed his ears. His light green eyes, though not looking at Winvale, seemed to occasionally twitch in that direction. Sir Maric knew who was the greatest threat to the King’s safety of those assembled, and had already committed to keeping a close eye on him. He wore most of his ebony suit of armor.

And on the other end was Sri Virelande, the Royal Battlemage. He seemed lost in thought, though what he was thinking about Theo could not say, as he was almost always frowning no matter the circumstance. Snapping out of his thoughts, he ran a hand over his baldhead before scratching at his bristly black beard. He shifted under the weight of his steel plate armor, and from the fresh scratches Theodore could tell he’d taken an active part in this morning’s training.

Theodore sat down, quickly looking each man in the eye, before he asked, “How far along are we in the training?”

 “Magically?” Virelande asked. “Most of them have schools they already specialize in. Some of them are willing to learn destruction, but some prefer what spells they already know.”

“I do not think that is a problem. They won’t be operating like normal wizards, battlemages, or spellswords. Since they will be more independent, have them focus on their current skills, and hone those for use in assassination, commando, and infiltration situations,” Theodore said. He thought he saw a twitch of Winvale’s lip, of what might be a smile, but it didn’t last and Theodore only knew he was happy because of the petty feud he had with Virelande about the usefulness of destruction.

“And their skills with arms and armor?”

“We’ve effectively split up the recruits into two groups,” Sir Maric said. “Those that are primarily mages go with me to learn how to use weapons and wear and move in armor. Those that are primarily warriors went with Virelande to learn magic. As he said, some are resistant to changing their methods, but they are coming around. As per your commands, we’ve stuck to mostly lighter armors, and have concentrated our weapons lessons on daggers and shortswords.”

“And the shadow magic itself?” Theodore asked.

“It will take longer than the other skills, of that I can assure you,” Winvale said. “The metaphysics of it must first be taught, before one can begin to use the magic. Some grasp is quicker than others. Peering sideways, perceiving the depth-impression an existence creates in Mundus is no simple task. Though this barrier, once broken, will allow these mages to quickly grasp most aspects of shadow magic. But breaking the barrier is the true test of who can and cannot be a shadow mage. What they are teaching,” Winvale motioned dismissively to the two knights seated to his left, “is inconsequential. If these chosen men and women can perceive shadow as not darkness but a reflection of the possibilities created by conflict, then they will be shadowmages regardless of whether or not they can cast fire or wear steel."

Theodore tried to understand what it was Winvale meant, but try as he might the explanation was lost on him. But he understood the main point, and it was one that didn’t make Maric or Virelande happy, judging by their perturbed expressions. Theodore too late realized he had been trying to understand Winvale’s shadow magic explanation too long, as soon all three men were attempting to talk over one another in refutation or defense of Winvale’s assertion only shadow magic made one a shadow mage.

“It does not matter what they perceive in shadows or whatever nonsense you said, if they cannot fight they will die,” Virelande yelled.

“They will not need to fight if they know shadow magic. You will not see me dragged down to battle it out with balls of flame, and neither will they,” Winvale said, his smug look making it difficult to side with him, as Theodore did.

“Quiet,” Theo said, and the three went silent. “We are creating shadowmages here. Their first priority is to learn shadow magic. If they cannot do that, they are not shadowmages, and thus have no use being in this training. Continue to teach everyone how to fight with steel and magic, but if they cannot learn shadow magic, they will be removed from the program. Understood?”

Sir Maric affirmed with an emphatic nod, though Virelande’s was less assured. “Good. I expect some report on their progress every day. You’re dismissed, Sir Virelande. Winvale, stay a moment.”

Sir Virelande rose, bowed, and left. Winvale, surprisingly, didn’t look more annoyed than usual, which Theodore supposed was progress. Though the impatience was plain, as he tapped his arthritic, varicose veined fingers on the arm of his chair. He asked, “What do you want?”

“Lady Gaerhart said you examined her. What did you find?”

“Oh, that?” Winvale made a noise Theodore knew to be his laugh, but his was harsh and bitter and not at all like the laugh of someone who did so frequently. “She is fine. The witches did nothing to her, in fact. I believe, based upon her account, she was bewitched while they made sacrifices to appease Peryite so he would ignore her, for a time. It is nothing more than a stopgap and likely equally as effective than the potions you take. Though, I do believe the witches could be persuaded to attempt a more permanent solution. The costs would be high, however.”

“I’ll take that into consideration. Thank you,” Theodore said.

Winvale vanished, there one moment, and without so much as time to blink, gone. Sir Maric remained, looking suspiciously at the wizard’s empty chair. He relaxed with a sigh, and leaned back in his chair. “I haven’t discovered any ulterior motives yet, if he has any. He let us sit in on the shadowmage lessons, but I understood nothing, and Virelande scarcely more than that. But nothing spoke of duplicity.”

“Continue to watch him. But if he does have any other reason behind doing this, I’m afraid we won’t know until it happens,” Theodore said, relaxing as well. He hadn’t realized just how tensed he had been simply being in the same room as Winvale.

The wizard’s presence evoked an anxious fear, full of anticipation. The last time Theo felt like that was back before the first battle he ever saw, in Hammerfell, surrounded by sand as gold as the armor of the Dominion soldiers they faced. This was during the Great War, when he was helping his father and his grandfather, as they joined with the Redguards to push the Thalmor back. Theo didn’t think back to those days much, but Winvale evoked that same sort of fear. Knowing something would happen, but not having the experience to comprehend what. A fear of the unknown coupled with a feeling that what was unknown was lurking just around the corner.

Theodore was thankful when the door opened and Elayne and Lady Loseph came in. He didn’t want to be left alone with his fear of Winvale for too long, and as loyal as Sir Maric was, he would let the King sit at his desk all day, so long as he was safe.

Sir Maric stood and went off the side, while Elayne and Lady Loseph sat down. She was had auburn hair, which she kept in a bun and held in place by two decorative pins. She gave Theo a small smile, but her lips then resettled into their usual pursed position. She wore a black dress, since her husband, though of only a few months, had died last week. Unlike his wife’s pleasant smelling perfume, Lady Loseph’s assaulted Theo’s nose. It was far too sweet for his liking.  

“Lady Loseph, I do hope everything went well with the funeral,” Theodore said.

“It did,” she said, then paused and continued. “We don’t have to pretend I’m a grieving widow. We all know the marriage was politically motivated and nothing more. It’s a shame, but I won’t have to wear these hideous black gowns after today, and at this point I care more about that than I did Leland.”

“Yes, I didn’t expect you to stay in mourning for long,” Elayne said. “How are you finding the accommodations? Don’t hesitate to ask the servants for steward for whatever you may need.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Lady Loseph said.

“And do you have any questions about your new position?” Theodore asked.

“I think I have a good handle on it. I’ve run plenty of businesses before, and managed Wayrest while Leland was here. I do not think this will be that different,” she replied.

“If you do have any questions or concerns, feel free to bring them up during the council meetings. Or, if they cannot wait, you can ask us personally,” Elayne said.

“There is one matter I would like to discuss with you now,” Theodore said. “Previously, to wrest the trading contracts away from Cyrodiil, we were giving the Nords a forty-five percent tax reduction. I think we can change that to a forty percent tax reduction. With the Thalmor reportedly prowling around the Rift, and winter making it difficult to travel the Pale Pass, they won’t likely be able to drop our contracts for Cyrodiil’s. And if there is any indication they will, we will simply revert back to the old tax reduction, and blame unsavory merchants. Not to mention they are a bit preoccupied with choosing a new king, rebuilding their capital, and mobilizing for the war. What do you think?”

“What goods are the tax reductions on?” Lady Loseph asked.

“Some luxury goods, but wheat from the Bjoulsae floodplains and from Daggerfall is the biggest export,” Theodore said.

“I think we can get away with it. I can instruct merchant guilds and companies of the new standards,” she said. “Will that be all, Your Majesty?”

“Yes, Lady Loseph. You are free to leave,” Theodore said.

She rose and bowed before leaving. Elayne turned her body away from where their visitor had been sitting so that she now faced her husband. She asked, “Did you inform Roland of this plan, in case it should come to light while he’s in Skyrim?”

“Of course. Most of the merchants began lowering the tax reductions as soon as they smelled blood in the water. Lady Loseph telling them to do so will be meaningless for the vast majority. But I wanted to see how she thought and where she stood on such matters. I think she’ll be quite fine.”

“Good. I did not want him caught off guard if the Jarls of the port holds or General confronted him. Or whoever becomes High King, for that matter.”

“He knows what to do. As does your mother. He’ll do well, I’m sure of it,” Theodore said. He was sure Roland would do well. He’d watched the best all his life, and more recently been surrounded by others just as skilled as Theo, like Lord Traven, or by those who had their own area of expertise, like Lord Estermont. Roland had to succeed, or everything Theodore had done to build this dynasty was for naught. He knew Roland understood that, and would not fail, at the moot or in the future.

“I know. I still worry about him. I am his mother, after all,” Elayne said with a playful smile.

Theodore replied with a brief smile of his own, but it was gone when he said, “I need to go check on our prisoners. Hopefully today Mon will finally confess.”

Elayne frowned and looked displeased to be reminded of the prisoners’ existence. “Yes, of course. I will look after things up here.”

“Thank you,” Theodore said. He kissed his wife on the cheek, and then left the room with Sir Maric trailing.

The staircase to the dungeon wound round and round, as the cells were deep into the rock cliff on which the castle sat. First Theodore passed the regular cells, which held the Mon family’s children. They were comfortable enough, with beds and books and ample lighting. But below them were the cells too small to lay and too short to stand. Closest to the staircase at that level was Brenon, the mage apprentice of Mon’s Thalmor partner Fallo. Next to him were the Montclairs, the husband and wife singers Mon paid to spy on Theo. And then came the adults of the Mon family. But all those cells were empty, now, with only Mon’s son and wife remaining, besides the Duke himself. Duke Mon’s daughter, son-in-law, and daughter-in-law had all been dealt with. Theodore did not want to dwell on their fates, though, so he hurried to Mon’s cells, which the turnkey unlocked.

Mon sat huddled in the corner, his gray hair taking on a whiter shade than before Theodore took him prisoner. His nails were long and dirty, his face scruffy and unshaven. His hand moved to shield his eyes from the light that poured in around Theo, though to Theo it seemed the light barely enough to see with.

“Did you feed him today?” Theodore asked the jailer.

“Yes, Your Highness,” the soft and pudgy looking jailer answered.

Theodore turned back to Mon. “Are you ready to confess yet?”

Mon made a noise that Theo thought was supposed to be a growl but instead it sounded more like a gurgling whimper. Theodore was about to roughly prod Mon with the toe of his boot when the sound of someone running down the stairs filled the jail. This person’s boots were slamming into the stone staircase at full force, and as they grew closer Theodore could hear their breathing. Finally, a guard emerged from the stairwell, struggling to catch his breath as he bowed.

“Your Majesty, the Queen needs you. She says the Arch Cleric is here, and she’s angry.”

Theodore scowled and slammed Mon’s cell door shut. The large-bodied jailer hurried to lock it, while Theodore brushed passed the messenger-guard and hurried up the stairs himself. The Arch Cleric’s arrival meant the School of Julianos knew he’d taken all the books of value from the College of Whispers instead of turning them over to the School. Theo knew this meeting would come, eventually, but he didn’t want to be interrupted while he was trying to coerce Mon’s confession.

So when he reached the top of the staircase and then met his wife and Arch Cleric Jolvanne in the great hall, he was none too happy to see the rainbow-robed mage. She wore a silver mask molded in the likeness of Julianos, so that his bearded visage stared at the King and Queen like a statue. Only his eyes and mouth were missing, replaced by the Arch Cleric’s. Theodore thought the masks stupid and not at all venerable, which was their intention. It was a religious shield they wielded to beat down their opponents with piety.

Before Theodore could sit down upon his throne next to his wife, or even ask what the problem was, the Arch Cleric began her diatribe. “You promised us the contents of the College of Whispers. And yet neither myself, nor Magister Bellamont, nor Grand Wizard Dolbanitte has seen so much as a single page from their library. Explain yourself, Your Majesty.”

There was real hate in that, which Theodore somewhat respected. Not many people said what they truly meant when talking with nobles in High Rock, and if they did, never with the full force of their true feelings. To say such brash words, to the King no less, was either courageous or truly, insipiently idiotic. They were equally uncommon and thus had to be lauded when they appeared.

Theodore starred unflinchingly at the mage. “Say another word, and you will lose your head, Arch Cleric. I know many worthy substitutes for your role, and I will not hesitate to give it to them. The only thing keeping you alive right now is that I do not have the patience for insurrection. Duke Mon is my prisoner, and he will confess. His followers and family already have, and when he breaks, it will destroy his soul.”

Theodore stood from the dais and walked toward the Arch Cleric, the very picture of confidence. Sir Maric took a few steps forward, but Theodore gave him a wave and the knight halted. Theo was now face to mask with Arch Cleric Jolvanne, where only she could hear him. Not Sir Maric, not his wife perched on the edge of her throne, not the other guardsmen who lined the walls of the great hall. Just the King and his disobedient subject. She tensed, her hands clenched into fists, the words of the spell to end Theo’s life ready to burst from her lips like a broken dam. Theodore knew she could kill him, but he did not fear.

He smiled, as wicked a smile as had ever traced his lips. “Do you know why I will ruin him? Why his soul will snap like a twig? Because he’s been eating his family. I have not told him yet, for the simple fact he has two members left. But rest assured, Arch Cleric, once he’s finished with them, I will tell him, and he will confess to anything before he begs for death. And if you ever say a word against me again, you will wish for his fate, so cruel your punishment will be. “  

Arch Cleric Jolvanne, wearing the face of a god, fainted. When she did the mask fell away, revealing a middle aged woman whose skin was so pale almost to be transparent, sweat streaking down her face like raindrops upon glass. Sir Maric and Elayne rushed to his side, though neither bent to help the mage.

“Did you kill her?” Elayne asked, her voice as even as if she was asking what the weather was like.

“No,” Theodore said, prodding the mage with the toe of his boot. She did not stir.

“What did you tell her?” Sir Maric asked.

“Only the truth,” Theodore said. Casting one more disdainful look at the unconscious woman crumpled on his floor, he turned and left. Stopping in the doorway that led back into the castle, he said, “When she wakes, tell her she should warn her friends at the Arcane Academy and the Sorcerous Society. Bring a healer for her as well.”

Theodore was delighted. Not at the promises he made to the mage, or at Mon’s punishment. No, both those were cruel, necessary as they were, but cruel nonetheless, and he did not delight in cruelty for its own sake. What made him happy was the power his family held. His goal, to bring his family to power and build a dynasty, was fully underway, and they had survived all threats thus far. Only a Daedric Prince stood in their path, and Theodore was determined to defeat him and his curse, one way or another. 

[Witchking of Angmar]

Boldir
Cheydinhal

After the giant crowds and constant noise of the Imperial City, Boldir found Cheydinhal to be much more pleasant. Sure, it was still half-again larger than he would've preferred, but at least the houses were spaced out, and there were no giant walls separating the districts. The houses, which combined skillful stone and metalwork with neatly carved wood, were almost all two stories high, with roofs and rounded 'towers' that reached for the skies in pointed spires, and windows that were segmented by thin iron bands that created ornament patterns in the glass. Beyond the houses, Cheydinhal seemed more like a walled forrest than a city, for all throughout it were massive parklands great drooping trees that Gwella called 'willows'. Separating the more populated west from the forested parklands to the east was the great Corbolo River, which ran straight down the center of the city. 

It was here that Boldir and his companions had been directed after finding that Gwella's family had left Cropsford, presumably with Mila in tow. Boldir was starting to get nervous, frustrated even. How many places would he have to go before this was over? It just seemed all wrong now, the way Mila continued to remain outside of his reach, even though all the dangers that had faced them had passed. It was as if this was all some game set by some gods, bent on stringing him along in a search that seemed to never end. He had voiced as much to Gwella, after Cropsford, but the Priestess had only put a hand on his shoulder and promised that that was not the sort of thing the gods would do. He hoped she was right.

Right now, the Priestess was off on her own, asking her friends at the Chapel if they knew anyone who might have seen her family or Mila. Meanwhile, Boldir and Stoit were in the market, essentially going door-to-door asking people if they had seen an old one-eyed Nord, his two blonde children, and a teenage girl from Skyrim. So far, the search had turned up nothing, though the local herbalist did know of the family they were talking about. "You're asking for Kuslaf and his kin, aren't you?" the woman had asked sweetly. "I only ever met the daughter. Sweet young thing named 'Hreke'. But I ain't seen hide nor hair of either of them in a good few months at least. Have you tried heading down south? I think they hail from Cropsford."

Of course, besides telling them that Kuslaf and his daughter hadn't visited the shop, the herbalist's knowing them did little to help in their search. "You'd think if they came here, that someone would've recognized a man with one eye." Stoit said as he and Boldir walked down one of the wide, cobbled streets. "I mean, they can't be more than a week ahead of us at the most."

"That's what I was just thinking," said Boldir. "Gwella was sure that if they left Cropsford, this is where they'd have come. And people in the village had agreed when we asked."

"And yet there's no sign that they ever made it," the sellsword muttered. "Gwella's been away from her home for a long time. Maybe she doesn't know as much as she thought. Maybe they went elsewhere."

Once again, that was exactly what Boldir had been thinking. "Maybe," he grunted. "Let's keep looking for now. This is a big city. They could've been here for a year and still gotten by just fine without visiting one of these shops. It's the inns we should be checking."

"Good idea. Have you seen any inns, though? All these castle houses look the same to me."

Boldir had to laugh, for it seemed he and the lad were of a mind in this as well. Cheydinhal's tall, fancy buildings could have all been built by one man, for how similar they appeared. "We'll ask a guard."

It wasn't hard to find a member of the city watch. He was a skinny Imperial man, dressed in chainmail beneath a brown surcoat decorated with the city's standard green vine patterns. "Well met, Citizens," said the guard. His smile was friendly enough, but Boldir noticed the weary look the man had given him and failed to hide in time. "How can I be of service?"

"We're looking for an inn," Stoit said. "Any inn will do, but we'd like to hear our options."

"Of course." The guard nodded off to their left. "Two neighborhoods down you've got The Sage's Flask. I wouldn't recommend that one though, unless you're the casting type. The Angry Badger Inn is a block further. The Cracked Tankard is across the river, down south of the Chapel. I go there myself, but that's because it's cheap. Newland Cornerclub over by the west gate is even cheaper, but as you probably guessed, it's an elven tavern. Cheydinhal Bridge Inn's the oldest in the city, and the nicest by far. If you're the upscale types, or at least looking to feel like it for a night, that's the place you'll want to be going."

"Thank you." Boldir gave the guard a nod, but as the man turned to leave, he reached out and stopped him. "Wait." The watchman spun around, startled. "Have you seen a family of Nords by any chance? They may have come this way from Cropsford. The father is older, and he has one eye. His children are yellow-haired. An Imperial girl is traveling with them."

"I- uhh, no." The guard shook his head. "No, I think I would remember a family like that. Especially the man with one eye." He started to leave again, and then stopped. "Well, actually I did hear about some Nord travelers passed this way a few days ago. Far as I know it was just children. But they got saved by those knights. Think they could be what you're looking for?"

"Maybe." Boldir felt his heart beat faster. "Did you hear anything else? Their names? Where they went?"

"I didn't. Sorry. Though it hasn't been all that long. They could still be around for all I know."

"You said they were with knights," Stoit jumped in. "You're talking about the Divine Order, right? I've seen my share of them since we got here."

"No, not the Order. " The guard frowned. "It was the Knights of the Thorn. Their lodge is outside the city gate a short walk down the road. You probably saw a big building when you entered the city. The one with its own own stable and watchtower. You can't miss it."

Boldir and Stoit exchanged a glance. He could see in the lad's eyes the same look that he knew was in his own. It's worth a try. "Thank you." the Boldir said as the guard turned to leave again. The Nords set off to find Gwella. If her family was at Thorn Lodge, she would want to see them.

***
Thorn Lodge

Gwella stared at the Knight of the Thorn with eyes full of heartbreak. "How," she asked. "What killed him?"

"He and the little ones were on the road headed this way," Sir Bremman said. "They were waylaid by bandits. Was he your kin, my lady?"

"He was my father."

The knight shuffled uncomfortably at that. "Condolences, my lady," said Bremman. "If it is any consolation, we brought justice to his killers and the children are being escorted to Bravil to be with their- your sister."

"Alva will take care of them." Gwella sniffed. "And what of the other one, the girl who was with them?"

Boldir was shocked. After learning what she had, he'd expected Mila to be the last thing on the Priestess's mind. Even the knight seemed a little startled. "She was a traveling companion to them, but no kin of your father," Bremman said awkwardly. "She- uhh... she fled before the children left. I have men out pursuing her now."

"Fled?" That nervous feeling returned to Boldir. How many times could this happen? "Fled to where? From whom?"

"From us." The mustachioed knight's gaze suddenly turned stern. "The girl stole a valuable artifact from our Order and a personal heirloom of Commander Indarys's family. A mage's staff of no insignificant power."

"And what would drive her to do something like that?" The knights may very well have had every right to be angry, but Boldir could feel the anger rising in his stomach regardless, like a fire that had just been lit. "She was safe here, wasn't she? She was with her friends."

"I didn't hear a word between them the entire time," Bremman swore. "They mourned upstairs while the older girl kept to herself down here. But she did speak to the mage."

Talos preserve. Not another one. "What mage?" 

"The Telvanni wizard, Endar Drenim. He was in the area on business of his own. And it wasn't long after he left that the girl disappeared from our lodge. We now believe that she may have been working in collaboration with him in order to steal the Staff of Indarys."

"... What?" Boldir might have laughed had his friend not just learned of her father's death. The image of Mila working in cahoots with a mage to steal from a group of knights was too ludicrous to not find funny. "And then I suppose the two of them hopped on a dragon and flew off into the sunset?"

Bremman brustled. "This is not a joke, good Nord."

"No? Then it's just idiocy at its finest. She came to you with the children, correct? As in separately from the mage? How in Shor's name do you suppose the two of them were part of some scheme to steal your stick? Couldn't the wizard have done it on his own?"

"He left hours before the staff went missing. The girl disappeared some time later, along with the Staff of Indarys and the Commander's own black mare. Likewise, the mage left in a hurry, even left behind his expensive carriage in order to do so." The knight puffed up his chest. "I do not know how the two came to working together, but our order does intend to find out. They will both be found and brought back here to await the Count's justice for their cri-"

The knight found himself pinned to the wall, with Boldir's left hand wrapped tightly around his neck. It hurt the Nord all over to exert himself like this, but he fought through the pain and pressed in all the harder. A few swords could be heard drawing behind him, but Stoit had already knocked an arrow and aimed it at the nearest potential foe. 
Boldir squeezed the knight's thick neck and leaned in close enough to smell the wine on his breath. "Tell me again, Imperial, that you plan on arresting my daughter. Go ahead."

Bremman's frightened eyes regarded Boldir's for a long time, and then, finally, he said in a strained voice, "Perhaps my theory has its flaws."

"Uh-huh."

"Perhaps your daughter was scared."

"Perhaps."

"I think it might be best if we- we... give her the chance to explain her side of things." The knight made a strange croaking sound as Boldir adjusted his grip. "Or we could just... get the staff back... and then let it slide. She's just a child."

"Smart call." Boldir released the knight and took a step back. Everyone else lowered their weapons, but the tension was still plenty clear. "Now, if you're so sure she's with this mage, where is it that you think he is bound?"

"I don't know," Bremman gasped. His voice that had been so deep before had suddenly turned strangely high-pitched. Boldir thought it suited him much better. "I only know that the mage came here to meet with another of his ilk. The necromancer, Rythe Orealo."

"What?" Gwella gasped. 

"A necromancer?" Stoit breathed.

Both their voices sounded worried. But Boldir refused to show any signs of his fear at the word. "And if you're searching for the mage, I presume you're looking into the necromancer already?"

"Well..." The reddened lump in Bremman's neck wobbled as he cleared his throat in a failed attempt to make his voice deep again. It cracked instead. "We are under orders from the Commander not to provoke them. It's too dangerous and we're not to confront them until we're fully prepared."

Boldir looked around the lodge. There were seven knights in here, and enough gear and empty mugs scattered around to indicate a dozen more at least. "What, you're not at full strength already? Are you frightened by the dead, knight?" He didn't give Bremman time to answer. He was ready to get to the root of all this, and to make sure that this pompous fool knew that his worthless order wasn't fooling anyone. "What about all the searching you claim to be doing? How's that going if you're not even following your best lead?"

"We have men out-"

"On the road? You've just said you have no idea where they're going. It could be Morrowind for all you know. Am I wrong, Imperial?"

Bremman shook his head in shame. "No, Nord... We have no idea how we're to find them."

Boldir shook his head in disgust and turned to his companions. Stoit wore a fierce look. As usual, he was on board with whatever Boldir planned. Gwella... well, for a woman who'd just learned that her father was dead, she seemed to be doing remarkably well. "I'm going to meet this necromancer. I know this is more than you expected to get involved with, but-"

"We're with you." The Priestess said at once. Her voice was dry, but determined. "We set out to find your daughter. And I do not intend to stop until that is done."

"Hear that, Bremman?" Boldir asked, turning back to the knight. "The priestess and the sellsword are braver than all of your knights combined. But you can still make up for being a coward. I want you to take me to the necromancer's lair."

***
Endar, Mila

"Stop? Why? We just stopped a few hours ago."

"Nine hours ago, Endar. Nine. And that was for lunch. Just because you don't need to sleep doesn't mean that me and Acivo can go on without it."

Oh, here she goes again, with the 'sleep' thing. Endar turned in his saddle to give his stewardess a hard look that he knew would be lost with the moonlight at his back. "Fine. We shall stop for the night. But let me remind you that we are not far at all from the woods that the sick girl and her family got attacked in."

"I'm sure we'll manage." Elara muttered as she and the Legionnaire dismounted on the spot. In his haste to put some distance between himself and Rythe's band of necromancers, Endar had forgotten to purchase a horse for the soldier, and so Elara had been forced to ride double with the man these last few days. Perhaps that is why she grows more petulant with every hour. Endar hoped that letting Elara get that sleep she so desperately craved might be enough to silence her complaints for the next day or so.

"Just know that we set out again before dawn," Endar told them. The Legionnaire groaned and Elara waved a hand as she unpacked her sleeping mat. Children. More concerned with their own petty needs than the importance of the task at hand.

For his part, Endar felt that he was the only person save perhaps for Rythe himself who truly grasped the importance of what the necromancer had discovered. True, the man had found a damned near revolutionary method of optimizing and utilizing welkynd stones, but the way he did this is what so greatly stood apart from anything bordering on conventional. Rythe's journals, for all their great value, paled next to the half-deciphered Ayleidoon tome that the necromancer had hidden away along with them. In today's common Tamrielic, the runes on its cover translated quite literally to "Finger of the Mountain". And it may very well have been one of the most powerful, and dangerous, devices that Endar had ever possessed, making even his staff, Apotheosis, seem a weathered piece of knotted wood in comparison.

Although the writings of the Ayeids were a popularly studied subject in almost every noteworthy Cyrodiilic institution, Endar rather doubted that there were many wizards, or even Arch-Mages who could read this book and make sense of its words. Even he found some of its cryptic passages to lead nowhere useful... not yet at least. But there was one, describing a stone pillar that Rythe had been kind enough to draw up in his journals, and better yet, write the location of. The structure was in the Colovian Highlands, northwest of the city of Chorrol.
And so that was where Endar meant to go. If this pillar was connected to Fingers of the Mountain, and through that, the welkynd stones, the knowledge he might glean from its study could be invaluable in achieving an entirely new understanding of these ancient magics. 
Or it could be an incredible waste of time. But at least the scenery would be appealing. 

While the other two set about making camp just off the road, Endar walked out a short distance and started weaving runes and protective wards into the surrounding landscape. These were easy spells, despite how uncommon their teaching was beginning to become. Endar wasn't sure why that was, for as a well-traveled mer, he found them to be essential for preventing outsiders from sneaking up on him... as one seemed to be trying to do right now.

Endar's brow arched as he watched the dark figure approach on the back of its horse. In the black of the night, they might have been completely invisible if not for the fact that the spells made them glow in Endar's vision. His knuckles tightened around his staff. Rythe would not have pursued him alone, nor would the necromancer been fool enough to trust one of his acolytes with a task as important as saving his life's work. This had to be a trick.
With a glance back at Elara's campfire, he vanished into the night.

There it is. Mila thought as her horse brought her up the darkened road. The campfire ahead illuminated the faces of Elara and that soldier man who'd been with her. The soldier must have said something funny, because Elara's laughter carried out into the night. "This is the Staff of Indarys," Mila whispered. This was her last chance to rehearse what she would say upon confronting the mage again. She needed to sound confident, but not demanding or arrogant. And smart. The mage was smart, so she needed to speak in a way that might impress him. "It is a powerful tool, carried by great wizards and warriors throughout the eras. I offer it to you, in exchange for your..." Ah, damn it all!
Mila gave the reins a whip and rode straight for their camp. Elara was the first to look up. Mila saw the instant of surprise on the Breton woman's face. Then the campfire went out, and the world became dark.

Mila might have contemplated on that, had her horse not immediately let out a terrible cry and bucked her high into the air. She braced herself for a painful impact that never came. Instead Mila found herself suspended inches above the grass beside the road, so close that it tickled her nose. She waved her arms in a desperate attempt to grasp for something, anything that might root her to the earth, but the ground seemed to grow further away the more she tried to reach for it. Next, she was soaring again, though this time seemingly thrown by nothing. Her new staff skirted against the road beneath her as she spun and then landed, hard, right beside it. Mila felt the force grip her again. This time, the girl did not struggle, and she let herself be lifted upright and to her feet. By the time Mila was planted, she could not see straight from all the dizziness.
Two blue lights appeared in front of her. No, it was just one. And then two of the wizard himself appeared, red wisps of some unknown magic twirling around his fingertips. 

"This is the staff of Indarys." Mila blurted. And then she puked on Endar's boots.

"Charming." the wizard muttered, taking a step back. His eyes narrowed. "Why have you followed me? Speak."

"I..." Mila used a sleeve to wipe her mouth. "I uh... I brought you that." She pointed at the staff she'd dropped while being thrown around.

Endar's eyes darted to the piece of wood lying in the middle of the road. A quick virtue test told him all he needed to know. "So?"

"It's a very powerful tool, and well... it's been carried by many great mages and warriors..."

"It's a staff of lightening and sapping. And not even a particularly good one."

Mila shook her head. "No, you see the knight told me-"

"There's your problem right there," the wizard interrupted. "You assumed that those fools had enough intelligence between them to speak on even one matter that was only moderately more difficult to grasp than drinking and riding horses. That staff is a toy. A twig created by a novice to be used by novices. You can keep it. Now run along, shoo!" Endar waved his hands at her as if she were a stray mutt, and then turned back to his companions. "Elara, my boots need cleaning!"

Mila watched with slumped shoulders as the wizard tossed a ball of fire into their smoldering logs and immediately relit the campsite. The soldier and servant were both looking at her with pity, and Endar Drenim did not even seem to realize that she was still around.
No!
Something strengthened in Mila. She scooped up her new staff and marched over to the campfire, looked the Dunmer dead in his red eyes, and said, "I want to travel with you."

"Matilda-" Elara began, only to get cut off by a wave of her master's hand.

"You really do, don't you?" Endar asked, unblinking. "And what, pray, would I have to gain from bringing a child into my service? And not just any child. A fool of a child who thinks mundane staves are powerful artifacts, who seems to hold no notion of when not to speak, who insults my intelligence by coming to me and pretending that she is less than she is."

Mila blinked. Just like that, she was back to being confused. "Pretends that sh- that I'm less than I am? Wait, what are you talking about?"

"Do not play games with me, girl. I am not one of those knights. You carry a man's soul in your pocket. It was there in the lodge and it's there now. If not for Elara seeing you long before I'd left Fanacas, I would think you work for Rythe. Seeing as how that makes no sense, I must presume you're just a down-on-her luck little fetcher who has an affinity for magical trinkets because they sell for more."

"... What??"

"You're a fetcher. A thief. A stealer of goods from the people who own them. Is that clear enough for you, or must I draw a picture in the dirt?"

Mila was glad of the darkness, or else they'd have surely seen her face going red. She couldn't exactly deny being a thief when she'd just presented the wizard with a staff she'd stolen. "I only took it because Elara told me you'd be interested."

Now it was Endar's turn to be confused. He glanced back at his stewardess. "Why would you tell her a thing like that?"

"I didn't." Elara said. She gave Mila a look. "I was talking about a different magical item and you said 'no'. I didn't mean for you to go and just steal someone's heirloom." She glared at Endar. "Not that we have the right to judge."

"Can I say something?" The Legionnaire suddenly said, to which everyone else at the camp gave a resounding "Shut up."

"Look," Mila locked eyes with Endar once more, hoping against hope that the elf would see the truth in there, "I promise I'm not a, erm... fetcher. I don't want to rob you. I took the staff because I thought it would impress you, and I only want to come with you and do what Elara does. If I try something you can just throw me around again... You've got nothing to lose!"

Endar stroked his beard. The human child was persistent, if nothing else. "You say you stole the staff for me. But you still have not explained the soul."

"That's because I don't have a clue at all what in the blazes you're talking about."

"I see." Endar watched her carefully, casting a subtle spell to help him look for any signs that she might be lying. Any twitch, any adjustments to the heat she let off or the sound of her breath. Her heartbeat was rapid, but she had just been thrown from her horse. In the end, he found nothing. "Your satchel. Open it."

Mila did as she was told. The contents were sparse enough. Just a near-empty pouch of septims and Boldir's flute.

"Is that a flute? Hold it up so I can get a better look."

She gave the elf a suspicious look. "Why?"

"Because I said so. And because there's a soul trapped inside, obviously. I want to run a virtue test to make sure it will not be a problem."

Mila's eyes widened. "What? No there's not. This flute belonged to my father. He hated magic."

"Your magic-hating father owned a magical flute. Get over it. Or don't. But I want to see it regardless."

Feeling like the world was quickly becoming madder and madder, Mila held up the flute for the wizard to see. He leaned in close, running his dark red eyes along the Redguard patterns and glimmering gemstones. He sniffed it, and muttered a few words beneath his breath that the girl could not understand. Finally, Endar straightened back up. "Yes, there is indeed a soul in there. Human, most likely, the poor sap. But he seems harmless enough. You can put it away now."

Mila wasn't sure if she wanted to. She'd been carrying a human soul all this time? "Who is it?" she asked. "You said 'he'. Is he really a man? Can't we help him?"

Endar rubbed his temple. He hated it when people asked him a bunch of questions at once. "Yes, he's a man. I don't know who he is. And yes, he can be helped. But not here and not now. I do not have the time, the tools, or the concern to bother with such a thing at the moment."

"At the 'moment'?" Mila smiled. "But maybe later? So I can come with you?"

The wizard groaned. He couldn't believe he was doing this. He had considered taking in extra help before, but never one so young and seemingly clueless... And yet she did have a certain tenacity about her. More so than most. If she could focus that energy on work and not on talking so much, she could prove useful yet. "Fine," he finally relented. "Now clean my boots."

[Witchking of Angmar]

Boldir
Valus Mountains

"There's something up there," Stoit said, motioning high up in the trees.

It took him a moment, but Boldir eventually saw them too. "Skulls." The carefully strung-up ornaments hung from from the higher branches in clusters. Now that he knew to look for them, he noticed that the things were growing more numerous the further uphill they progressed. "We're on the right track."

"What an evil place this is." Gwella whispered. "They make sport of profaning Kynareth's work."

Wait until you see the undead, Boldir thought with a shiver. His mind wandered back to his childhood in Shor's Stone, to the nearby Northwind Summit, and the robed pair who had stood atop it, chanting. He remembered the dead girl's face as she'd stood up and looked at him, the way her mouth had hung open, and her eyes had gone a milky white. He had never run so fast from anything, ever. And it wouldn't be until Boldir was a man grown that he stopped dreaming about it.

Boldir had fought undead since then, of course. It had been alongside his kinsmen in search of that blasted crown. He knew from that experience that he'd outgrown his fear. Or at least, he'd grown braver in the face of it. Even so, Boldir was taking no chances today. He donned his full suit of armor for the first time since Talos Plaza. The weight of it seemed heavier than it used to, but there was no denying that he felt much safer once it was on. This was the armor that had seen him alive through countless battles. If the Empire and Thalmor couldn't kill him in it, there was little to fear from some bonewalkers and their hermit puppeteers.

Contrary to how most mountains typically worked, the woods of this particular glade grew thicker as they drew higher up the mountain. And the thicker the trees became, the more frequent were the signs of dark arts. First it was the skulls, but eventually, Boldir spotted runes carved into the trunks. These were like no Nordic or elven runes that he had ever seen before. They were sharp at the ends and thick at the middle. These were the letters of Oblivion.

"Stendarr shield us," muttered Sir Bremman. Boldir had told the knight that he was free to turn back once he'd gotten them to the forest, but surprisingly, he had declined that offer. Probably because of the fool Boldir had made him look in front of his comrades. Now he felt the need to prove himself. As long as the Imperial did not make things worse, Boldir saw no harm in it. In the state he was in, he felt more comfortable with more allies at his back. "What do you think they say?" the knight asked now.

"They're warnings," Gwella told them. "And traps." She pointed at one tree that was particularly laden with skulls, bones, and even some dried up blood clinging to bits of the bark. "Go to near to that one and a terrible ice trap will freeze your blood. See the way the runes glimmer?"

Boldir peered more closely at the otherworldly lettering. Sure enough, he noticed that every now and then, a tiny white sheen ran along them like ice in the sunlight.
Only there was little enough sun here. The pine trees cared little whether it was winter or summer, and their thick green branches stretched into the sky. A light could be seen ahead, however. It came from a clearing a little higher still. When they finally came upon it, Boldir's eyes widened at the structure that stood before them. It was tall and built of smooth white stones, with crumbled walls and cracked decorative archways surrounding. Dead and black vines drooped from the arches, and many more skulls had been lined up along the wall.

"Fanacas," Bremman gasped. "I never thought..."

"That you would actually see it in person?" Boldir grimaced and dismounted, drawing his axe as he did. "It's not too late to turn back, Imperial."

Bremman straightened. "I will do no such thing." The knight climbed down from his big white horse, drew his own sword, and lowered the visor of his helmet. Gwella and Stoit followed in suit, readying themselves as they did. The Priestess carried no weapons, but she now wore her amulet of Stendarr openly above her robes, where it had previously been beneath. 

"Remember, we're not here for a fight," Boldir said to all of them. "No matter how much we may want one with these people." He glanced specifically at Gwella before continuing. "But we also need to be ready if it comes to that." He put on his own helmet, and couldn't help but smile when the familiar metal came down over his face and filled the edges of his vision. He had his armor. He had his soldiers. At that moment, Boldir Iron-Brow was a Stormcloak again. "With me."

Without no hesitation, he turned and led them into the crumbling elven ruins. The exterior of Fanacas was small. Little more than the squat tower itself and the winding stairway down into the actual ruin's depths. Boldir had never seen a door like the square one that faced him at the bottom. It lacked a knob, but when he placed a gauntleted hand near the center, the ancient stone slab rumbled and slid down into the rocks beneath them. The light from the doorway poured into a long hallway. Hanging from the walls in place of torches were a series of strange, blue crystals no larger than a human head. They let off a dim glow that lit the entire way to the end. Even so, Gwella cast one of her magelight spells to brighten the room further. Boldir was thankful for it when the square door slid closed on its own and took the sunlight with it. 
That wasn't all it took. All the noises of the world above, the birds, the trees, the wind... all of it was gone. Replaced by a still, eerie silence. There was nothing to be heard but their own breaths. And those were loud enough, especially his own as it resonated through the holes in his helm.
Boldir blinked. He had stood here long enough. Taking his axe in both hands, he started down the hallway, step by slow, heavy step. 

"Halt!" The voice thundered at them from ahead, behind, above, and below. Despite being deep, it bounced around in Boldir's skull like the sound of clattering metal. At that moment, a pair of shadows emerged from the doorway at the far end. One of them was large, and wielded a great-sword in both hands. The other, notably smaller, and carrying a pair of daggers. As they drew nearer, Boldir saw the familiar pale skin and dead eyes. These were zombies.

"We ain't here for a fight." Boldir yelled back with an equal intensity behind his words. "We are looking for the one called Endar Drenim!"

Whether the speaker heard Boldir or not, the Nord could not be sure. But the undead minions did not slow their approach. Fine then. He gave Stoit a nod, and the sellsword knocked, drew, and loosed an arrow into the larger bonewalker's throat. It kept on coming. 

"I'll deal with it." Gwella said, stepping forward next to Boldir. She lifted her hands and conjured up a pair of bright golden balls of fire that shined every bit as brightly as her magelight and then some. She sent the first flame hurling down the hall, where it collided with the smaller zombie and set it ablaze. She then hurled the second ball, which yielded the same effect on the big one. Within moments, both undead were reduced to ashes. The Priestess wasn't done, however. Next, she clutched her amulet with one hand and summoned another ball of light in the other, which immediately seemed to explode in every direction, engulfing Boldir and the others in holy light. When that light faded, they were left with a dim yet comforting aura that drifted a short distance in every direction. "Stay close to me." Gwella directed. "This is a Guardian Circle. These monsters cannot enter it."

Never had Boldir been more glad to have a priestess in his party. "That's a nice trick," he said. "But we cannot let our guard down. The wizards may very well have any fighting men of their own. Gwella, I want you and Stoit to stay near the back where its safest. Bremman, you're with me."
If the prospect frightened the cowardly knight, the man gave no indication. In fact, his only response was a nod. Maybe you're not entirely useless after all. "Okay, let's move. And remember, don't kill the living unless they make you."

They headed on further down, into the next chamber. It was a wide square room, with a few bookshelves and some empty tables. Like the hallway, it was lit by the glowing blue crystals. 
"Halt" that same voice boomed once again. This time to accompany it were four black shadows that materialized in each of the room's corners. Boldir readied his axe and Bremman, his sword. These undead were not like the first, nor any others that Boldir had ever seen. They were dark, hooded creatures whose robes drifted down to the floor that they hovered over. The worst part were the faces. The eyes were hollow, the mouths, wide and misshapen. They were twisted in the shapes of men in pain, yet they approached in total silence. That ended when Gwella struck one with her golden fire and set it ablaze. The creature let out a shriek then: a terrible cry that pierced the ears straight to the brain and down the spine from there. The next one she struck let out a similar soul-shattering cry. The third wraith managed to get close before the Priestess could hit him with a spell, but when it drew into her Guardian Circle, the thing screamed in pain and drew back. She destroyed it too, and then turned and did the same to the final one.

Once all the shades were destroyed and their horrible shrieks had ceased, Stoit complained, "These bastards actually make it painful to kill them. I can't imagine what happens if they actually get their hands on you."

"Let's try not to find out," Boldir answered. "You good to move forward, Gwella?"

The Priestess nodded and renewed her magelight. "Lead the way." 

Boldir nodded, and turned to do exactly that. But then he saw yet another of the cloaked figures standing by the door. He was about to tell Gwella to destroy this one too, when it spoke in a voice that was very much alive. "Did you not hear me when I told you to 'halt'?"

Boldir was taken aback. But he collected himself quickly enough. "Did you not hear me when I said we weren't here to fight?"

"No," responded the hooded man. "I was too busy making my way up here. Why have you come?"

"Boldir..." Bremman muttered. 

Boldir turned and saw the sign of the knight's distress. Approaching them on either side were numerous more undead figures. A mixture of the dark wraith creatures and the half-rotten bonemen from before. They had stopped just at the edge of Gwella's protection circle. He looked back at the necromancer and repeated, "We're not here for a fight. We seek a Telvanni Wizard."

"Do you now?" The hooded man seemed to be thinking it over, and then he asked, "By what name?"

"Endar Drenim," Boldir answered at once. "He's a dark elf."

"I know." The necromancer continued to regard them in silence for a long time, all while his soulless minions waited with expressionless hunger. Finally, he raised a hand and pointed a slender finger straight at Gwella. "Why then, did you bring her?"

"She is my companion." Boldir returned. He turned to the Priestess to allow her to speak for herself. She agreed with a nod, but clearly did not wish to trade words with this man, so Boldir continued. "She's here to help me in my quest, and that quest ain't to bring harm to you or anyone else in this place."

"That's reassuring." The necromancer's voice sounded sarcastic, mocking, as if the idea of them harming him wasn't even a thought that had yet crossed his mind. "The thing is, my brother doesn't like the Nine or their priests. And the rest of you, well... I don't like how cocky you all seem..."
A dark cloud of purple and black engulfed the necromancer's hands, and the magical aura that surrounded their party suddenly collapsed, and the undead closed in as it did. Gwella immediately set about burning them with her golden flames, while Boldir and Bremman engaged the more 'physical' ones face-to-face. Boldir first felt his axe crunch through one of the bloodless creatures' collarbone. It twitched, and then its entire body dissolved into dust. The next one was quick enough to catch his axe on its shield and follow up with a swipe at him with its black longsword. Boldir deflected the strike easily and felt a sharp pain up his left side as he overextended his arm. Falling back, Boldir allowed Bremman to grapple with the creature long enough for Gwella to blast it to ash with her magic. When Boldir looked for Stoit, he saw that the young sellsword had just broken free of the chaos and was preparing to fire an arrow at the necromancer himself. The dark wizard saw this too, and casually waved his hand, sending a bolt of green energy across the room to collide with Stoit's chest. Boldir watched his companion tense up, and then collapse to the floor. 

"Bastard!" Boldir roared, and then charged at the man, only for two more of the dark armored figures to appear directly between them. He clashed axes with the first one while using his armored left forearm to painfully deflect the first strike from the second. At that moment, a series of loud shrieks filled the room, and Boldir saw out the corner of his visor, Gwella being driven to the floor by a number of the terrifying dark wraiths. At the same time, Bremman was thrown down by the two bonemen who stood against him. Boldir was the last man standing now, and he finally realized just how severely they had underestimated their foes. 
Furious and desperate, the Nord hacked the sword arm off of one of his two attackers, and then dodged away from a swipe from the one with the axe. Now others were joining it as it moved up on him, and Boldir looked around to find himself helplessly surrounded.

"Halt" the necromancer's voice thundered again. Like well-trained dogs, each and every undead in the room halted in its tracks. The ones in front of Boldir stepped aside as if to give him a better view of their master. "That's much better," said the hooded mage. "Maybe now you better understand your situation." His face was invisible, just like Boldir's, but it was quite clear that he was staring at him specifically. "No... you don't, do you? You're prepared to keep fighting. Look around you, Nord. How many of these creatures do you think you can take? One? Two? You seem determined, so I would even wager at four. It wouldn't be enough. There are many more here than just me, and I'm not even the most powerful of us... If it's your friends you're worried about, don't worry." He motioned to the others. "They live. I have merely paralyzed them. Now tell me, what is it that you want with Endar Drenim?"

"Only to find him." Boldir said, biting back his anger. It was clear enough that the wrong move, or words, would get them all killed in an instant. "He might be able to help me find someone."

The necromancer regarded him, and then waved a glowing hand. In an instant, all the wraiths, all the bonemen, and all the other twisted and evil shadows vanished back to whatever horrible place they might've come from. Boldir's companions began to move as well. One-by-one they climbed back to their feet. When he returned his attention to the mage, he found that the man's hood was no longer up, and the face it had hidden was that of a middle-aged Breton man, with gaunt cheeks and a scraggly graying beard. Most notable, however, were the mage's eyes. They were red, like those of a dark elf. 
"As it so happens, we are also looking for Endar Drenim. Perhaps that makes us allies" The Necromancer smiled. It was so plan a grin that it might have looked friendly in a different context. "My name is Ralimar Orealo. What am I to call you?"

"Boldir," he answered with an unseen scowl. 

"Well Boldir, you and your friends collect yourselves. And make sure none of them are going to try anything stupid. Once that's done, come on through this door. I'll be waiting to take you to see Rythe." With that, Ralimar turned and exited the chamber.

Once the necromancer's footsteps had faded, Boldir turned to his companions. Gwella and Stoit looked visibly shaken. Bremman's visor was down but it was likely the same with him. "Any thoughts?" 

"Lots," Stoit replied at once. "All about how badly I want to turn around and go back the way we came."

"I have never met someone that... powerful," Gwella said. Boldir was surprised to hear that the Priestess's voice was shaking. "The wraiths just kept coming. And what he did to my Guardian Circle... I'm sorry. It's just this place... I let you all down."

"To Oblivion with that," the sellsword said to her. "You took down more of those things than any of us. My arrows sure weren't good for much." He nodded to Sir Bremman. "You didn't do too bad either, Imperial. I saw you take down one of those big ones."

The knight gave a small jolt upon being addressed, almost as if he'd been awakened from a deep slumber. "I did. Didn't I?"

"You fought well," Boldir agreed. He then focused his attention on the entire group. "Ralimar's second name was 'Orealo', and he mentioned his brother when talking about hating the Nine. I'm guessing that's this Rythe person. Gwella... it's you who he hates most. After all that, I'm not going to ask you to come with me any further. Any of you, actually."

"I'm staying with you." The Priestess's face hardened, her expression resolute. "I promised I would help you find Mila, and fear is not going to keep me from that task. Besides, if things go bad again, you'll need me by your side."

"Ain't no one gonna argue that," Stoit muttered. "Well I think you're both crazy. But I also ain't gonna be the coward who waits outside. When we find Mila, I want her to know that I was there with you every step of the way." The sellsword swallowed deeply, and gave a weak, light-hearted smile. "You'll tell her that if I die, right?"

Boldir gave the lad a nod, and then looked at Sir Bremman. Through the slit above the knight's visor, Boldir saw him blink. "I, uh... I'm staying too." He nodded, more to himself than to any of the group, and then he drew himself up and seemed to puff his chest a bit. "Yes. That's what I'm doing."

"Well alright then." Boldir felt a mix of relief and worry. He did not by any stretch of the imagination want to head deeper into this place alone. But he also had no desire to lead these three to their deaths. If Rythe was even worse than his brother, there was no telling how this could play out. But one thing was certain. They had no way of finding Endar or Mila without the necromancer's help. We just need to avoid provoking him. "Everyone stay close to me," Boldir said. "Don't touch anything. Don't speak to anyone unless they speak to you first. I'll try to do all the talking." 
He turned and headed into the next chamber with his companions close behind. Ralimar was waiting in there, tapping his foot impatiently like an impatient drillmaster.

"It took you long enough. I suppose everything is worked out then?" The Breton flashed an unnerving smile at Gwella, who gave him no sort of response. "Good. Right this way."
The necromancer led them through room after dusty room, each one lit by either torches or those strange blue stones, and each one bearing some different horror from the last. There were undead thralls throughout the place; and not just wraiths or armored bonemen like they had seen before. In fact, those were sparse compared to the smaller thralls in tattered robes who stood around and mindlessly sifted through books, no doubt trying to find some piece of information for their masters. They passed through other rooms with beds and tables, one with a large red circle written in bloody runes, and another with two stone tables that supported dead bodies of the as-of-yet unmoving sort.
"We're about to enter the ritual chamber." Ralimar said to them. "Do not speak unless in whisper. I do not want to distract my brother or his acolytes from their work."

"Work?" Boldir muttered.

He soon found out exactly what that work entailed. The next doorway brought them to a balcony, which overlooked a large room down below. In it, six robed men were on their knees in a half-circle, surrounding a lone standing figure. Rythe Orealo was a Dunmer man, with a dirty white beard and hair pulled back in a tight knot. His face was long and narrow, and his skin a very dark gray. The necromancer's eyes were closed at the moment, and his raspy dark elf voice was quietly muttering a string of words that Boldir doubted he'd have understood even if they'd been shouted down the corridors. Unsurprisingly, there was magic involved in this little ritual of theirs. Boldir could see plainly for himself the thin strands of transparent energy that seemed to pass from each of the kneeling figures on to their leader.
He heard Gwella gasp. "They're feeding him their magicka," she whispered. "What kind of spell requires the power of seven men?"

She had been speaking to Boldir, but Ralimar heard and stepped up next to them and said in a low voice, "You must not know many spells, Priestess. But I am sure you know what scrying is. Rare magic, especially among the masses. They are too difficult to cast, let alone hold, for most ordinary mages. And when scrying for someone like Drenim, who is constantly hidden behind wards and shields, the power necessary is far greater than can be wielded by one man. Even with six and himself, Rythe's sight is clouded."

"Wait..." Boldir frowned, "So this scrying magic, it shows where a person is?"

"In a way. Supposedly, the caster sees an image, as if through a mirror inside your own eyelids. You cannot move. And the one you seek cannot see you back or be interacted with. Wards, distance, and bodily distractions can all distort what can be seen or heard, so constant vigilance must be maintained. Rythe has held onto this particular spell for four hours now." The Breton sounded in awe.

"He's been spying on Drenim for four hours and he doesn't know where the mage is yet?"

"Like I said, sight and sound can be distorted. Dark, as my brother describes it. All that we've gathered is that they travel by road, which isn't particularly useful. Rythe is waiting to see or hear of a destination."

"Has he seen anything else?" Boldir asked. "A girl, perhaps?"

Ralimar's eyes bent suspiciously. "That is why you seek a Telvanni Master Wizard? To find a girl?"

"Aye. That's why I seek him. The wizard himself is nothing to me."

"I see. Well you'll be glad to know that Rythe heard the girl the very first time he scried for them. Our quarrel is with the mage, not her. It's not up to me, but I should think that my brother could be persuaded to find an arrangement that is agreeable for all of us. So long as you contribute in some way."

"Let me talk to him and he'll see that I can."

Gwella pulled Boldir aside by the wrist and whispered to him. "Directions are one thing Boldir, but these are vile people. Evil. They spit on your gods and mine. I would not advise entering a deal with them. Such a thing cannot end well."

Boldir sighed. "These wizards-"

"Necromancers," the Priestess corrected. "Call them what they are."

"Fine. These necromancers are going straight to Mila. What other means do we have of achieving that?"

"You heard what he said about scrying. We can find our own mages from the Synod or College of Whispers. Anrich and the guild could pay them. I'm sure someone among them knows how to scry. And then-"

"And then nothing. You heard Ralimar. These necromancers are looking for Drenim because of some quarrel. If they reach Mila before we do, they may very well kill her along with the mage. At least if I go with them, I can prevent that."

"So you say. I do not trust these people."

"I didn't trust thieves or bandits either. Perhaps this will be the same."

"You know it's not the same. Not even close." Her face softened, just a little. "I said before that I am with you, and I meant it. But I just want you to tread carefully going forward. Necromancers deal power and domination. Do not let their promises seduce you into a deal that you will regret."

"I'll be careful," Boldir promised. "And trust me, I don't like this either. But I'll be damned if my dislikes stop me from finding her now. If a bad deal is the only way to accomplish that goal, then I'm willing to make it."

Boldir turned away and walked back to the balcony, where he was surprised to see that Rythe's spell had come to an end, and the head necromancer was nowhere to be seen. 
"My brother noticed your coming," Ralimar told him. "Follow me. He is anxious to meet you."

With a deep breath and a nod, Boldir led his companions behind the Breton. They were taken through more rooms, smaller than the last ones but no less gruesome, and then down a flight of winding stairs which brought them to the ritual chamber they had just been looking down on. This area was the most horrific of them all, with numerous body parts, organs, and mysterious potions and poisons were on display atop various tables and shelves. Luckily, they were not forced to be in here for long. There was an adjoining archway that went beneath the balcony and led them into a little square room, lit by torches, oddly enough. The room's only furniture was a rectangular table, where Rythe Orealo himself sat with his back to the entrance.
"Enter," the elf said as he twisted around to look at them. "Enter. Don't mind walking around the table. I prefer keeping my back to the door."
Boldir and the others did as they were bid, shuffling past Rythe and the two necromancers on either side of him so they could take their seats on the other side. Boldir chose the one directly opposite the main necromancer, whose red eyes studied him for a moment before he said, "Remove your helmet, Nord. I do not treat with men who hide their faces."
Reluctantly, Boldir took off his helmet and set it on the table. Though Rythe made no such demands of Sir Bremman, the knight followed in suit. That seemed to amuse the necromancer, judging from the way his lip twisted upward at the corner. "That's better. You're a mean-looking one, aren't you? That's a nasty scar. Mage fire, I presume?"

Boldir nodded. "An assassin."

"How fun." The old dark elf shrugged. "But you came here for a reason, and despite your company," His eyes shifted to Gwella. "that reason was not to kill me. That's good, for you at least. But it does beg the question of what that reason is. Tell me now."

"We're looking for a girl," Boldir told him. "She may be with the mage you are looking for."

Rythe laughed, though it came out as more of a dry bark. "Of all the reasons one might have to be after Endar Drenim, and you're after a girl. How... human of you. Well which one is it, Elara or Matilda?"

Boldir's heart jumped at the sound of his daughter's adopted alias. "Matilda."

"Well that is very sad," the necromancer said. Though his tone gave no hint of sadness or even real care. In fact, it sounded almost mocking. "Very sad, indeed. Had you reached me only days ago, such a thing might have been much easier."

It took everything in Boldir not to yell at the elf and tell him to drop his tone and slow speak and just tell him what he needed to know. But doing so would likely spell out their deaths. Instead, he settled for just asking, "Why?"

"Because by now Drenim has her, mind, body, and soul. She is a living thrall to him only different from the corpses you've seen in my hall thanks to the heart beating in her chest. I daresay that if Matilda is a friend of yours, she would not recognize you on sight."

Boldir could feel his chest tightening as dread gripped it. "Why? What reason would he have to enslave her?"

"Does it matter?" Rythe asked. "Endar Drenim and I are similar in a number of ways, one such being that we do not let the restrictive mortal ideals of morality and conscience hold us back when there is progress to be made. Do you think I thought twice about killing those people upstairs and making them my thralls?" The necromancer smiled, and Boldir noticed the way it made Gwella shift uneasily. "You're seeing it now, aren't you, Nord? You've stumbled into a conflict of far greater powers and far greater importance than you can comprehend. Matilda did too, it seems. And now you want to take her and get out. Am I wrong?"

The Nord hesitated. Maybe Rythe spoke true. Maybe this really was as big as he claimed. Even if it wasn't, Boldir's concerns began and ended with Mila. "No. You're not wrong."

"Of course I'm not." The necromancer's smile widened. "But you're already involved now. And there is no escaping this until its over. Not if you plan on saving Matilda, at least... But right now you're probably wondering why I would consider it worth my time to even waste words discussing Matilda with you. Well, the answer is simple: I need a warrior's help. It's embarrassing, really, but the truth is that I do not know the full extent of Drenim's powers. They could possibly outclass my own, and if they do, they will also outclass those of my men a thousand times over. We need, for lack of a better word, a brute."
Boldir ignored what might have been an insult, and let the wizard continue. "Drenim will see us coming, you see. And he will no doubt be anticipating undead and magical attacks. What we need is a man, a strong man, who can wade through his wards and attack him in person."

"Stoit is an archer," Boldir offered. "He could-"

"That's no good," Rythe cut him off. "He will have shields for that as well. No, what we need is a living, breathing man. One whom we can cover in wards of our own that will shield him long enough to get him close to Endar. From there, fighting wouldn't even be necessary. Just contact. I have a poison prepared. Very, very powerful stuff. Applying it to Drenim should silence his magic for a brief period, but not so brief that we cannot bring him down in that time with ease."

"And what is your issue with Endar?" Gwella asked, suddenly. "What has he done to deserve any of this?"

The necromancer's grin wavered, and his red eyes narrowed as they turned to the priestess. "He has stolen something very valuable to me. If you seek to find good in our foe, Priestess, I suggest giving up now. Were you to meet Drenim in person, I assure you that you'd be filled with detest."

"He stole from us as well," Sir Bremman said. "You claim that he has enslaved the girl. It would make sense for him to do so in order to have her rob my order of our prized staff. Boldir," the knight looked at him, "it adds up with what we know. Perhaps we should aid these... gentlemen. In doing so, we can both take back what was stolen from us."
Boldir noticed that this had drawn an uncharacteristic scowl from Gwella. She doesn't believe them. 

"You can indeed," Rythe replied. "But only if we win. And our chances will be much greater with a warrior such as yourself accompanying us. As for the girl, don't worry," The necromancer's grin was neither attractive nor convincing. "I am not without a heart. A living child enslaved by my enemy is a horrid thing. With the luck of Stendarr, we'll see her out safe and sound."

That was when Gwella finally snapped. The Priestess slammed her fist against the table. "Don't pretend like you're doing this for her!" Boldir had never seen her look so angry.

Rythe immediately answered by bringing down a shadow-engulfed fist of his own. When it struck, the flaming braziers were reduced to flickering embers. Darkness flooded the room, accompanied by twisted, evil sounds. "Do NOT presume to talk down to me in my own hall, you insignificant pup!" the necromancer roared. 
Dead beings drifted into the room. They were twisted and gaunt, eyeless, faceless, centuries gone from this world. The folds of their torn black robes billowed behind them. All at once, the wraiths screeched. The sound was shrill and high, and it grated through the ears.

Boldir tried to rise, but was immediately pinned to his chair by some invisible force. He saw that Stoit and Bremman had suffered the same. Only Gwella stood, her right hand glowing a powerful bright light that fended off the encroaching shadows. It was holy and pure. The one good thing left in their world. With a wave of the hand, Rythe snuffed it out like a candle, and then the Priestess was thrown back into her chair as well. 

Now that they were all seated, the necromancer continued, no longer bothering to play the friendly host. "The only reason, the ONLY reason I allow a Priestess of Stendarr to stand in my hall with a heart that beats is necessity!" He jammed a thumb at Boldir, who, for all his struggling, could not move so much as an inch. "That man may be useful to me. And so I let his friends live."
The wraiths glided deeper into the room, coming around and over the table, surrounding the frozen company. Boldir's eyes locked with one, and in those black sockets, he could see something... wrong. Somehow, he could sense that the spirit was enjoying their fear. Feeding off it.
"But you want me to be honest." Rythe went on. "To speak my mind. So fine, here are my thoughts, all out in the open... You were right. The girl you seek is nothing to me. Less than dirt." The necromancer pointed a gray finger at Boldir, "As is he." He pointed at Bremman. "As is he." He pointed at Stoit. "As is he."
All the wraiths suddenly turned towards the Priestess. Boldir could see the tears in her eyes. For all Gwella's bravery, there was nothing but terror in her now.
"But you," Rythe's finger moved on to her, "you, I actively hate. Everything, every single thing about you, what you stand for, I hate it. I want to make a thrall of you, a disgusting mockery just to spite your pathetic dead god. But I won't. Because the the thing I seek is more valuable to me than you are abhorrent. It is more valuable than all the gold in Cyrodiil, than all the lives of all the men and women that you or I have ever met. So you see... I can set my hatred aside to achieve our goal. Our common goal... Do you understand?"

The wraiths swirled about her face now, snapping at it with broken teeth, laughing at it with broken voices. Gwella's eyes were streaming, but finally, after a painfully long time, the Priestess nodded.

"Good."

As if the room had awakened from a nightmare, the wraiths vanished, the braziers blazed back up, and the four of them could move again. Boldir opened his left palm and found it bleeding. When he looked up, Rythe was staring straight at him. The necromancer's voice was cold and uncaring. "The girl may survive yet."

[Witchking of Angmar]

Windhelm
Morning

The ancient city was now almost always filled with noise, even in the night. Other than the usual strong winds that came from the sea or approaching blizzards of course, Windhelm echoed with the sound of construction from Nord and Dunmer alike, as the recent damage to the city gave opportunity to anyone willing to work on the city's repair.

Baldur managed to convince the wealthier of the locals to pay for the worker's wages thanks to his newfound reverence. That would not have been possible if it hadn't been for the attack on the city. Ulfric Stormcloak had become a martyr, just like he'd always wanted. The mere mention of his name awoke something in every Nord who'd heard it. The time for mourning was over. Now, Windhelm's citizens had a focus on avenging their beloved King, a focus so potent that the atmosphere of the city could be felt just by gazing at its citizens. Children could not be heard playing in the city, but they could be seen running with supplies to help blacksmiths make weapons, or to help bring nails, wood, whatever that needed constructing. Fathers were training sons to fight for the upcoming war, and mothers were stitching up wounds so that they could go right back to training.

One of these children, a thin but broad shouldered boy with a cut on his arm was running with a box of healing supplies for soldiers who still had wounds that needed healing from fighting the elves. His father was one of these men, and he'd been staying with a healer for over a week now to his ma's great displeasure. Having seen the woman himself, he understood why she was so upset, the woman was rather beautiful... and although she was indeed a priest, he wasn't sure that priests of Dibella were the right priests to visit when a soldier was wounded. Not that he knew a great deal about Dibellan priests, he only knew that they did something other than heal, and that his ma hated this woman.

Almost at the house now, the boy overheard a group of elves talking about their new Jarl. The young lad immediately stopped, as talk of Jarl Red-Snow caught the attention of most whenever anyone heard the name. Especially when it came from the mouth of elves.

"I'm telling you, we need to leave. Morrowind's the safest place for us, we should have left this damn land years ago."

"Leave? Why would we leave now, General Baldur Red-Snow is gonna be the king! Things will be better than they've ever been for us here in years and you want to leave? The General's not like that Ulfric, he likes our kind! I heard it from fellow Dunmer that served as Stormcloaks."

"And how many of those fellow Dunmer are still alive, hmm?" The other elf man hadn't said anything, downcast as he realized that he couldn't name more than a handful. "The Nords used up our kind for their own cause and what has it gotten us? This Red-Snow, if he's really the so-called 'Ash King', then he'd hate our kind. Killing us off would be one of his main priorities once the Thalmor are out of his way."

"What makes you say that?" said a young dark elf man.

"Don't any of you remember the old tales? Vehk taught them to us himself. The Ash King that he once defeated in battle, was a great bearded king whose voice was so powerful, they had to gag him lest he destroyed his own people by speaking. He was a demon that hated elves."

"Vehk was a lying bastard!"

"That talk is why we are here in the first place!" said the Dark Elf, silencing whoever had just spoken. "Now you all better take heed. The Nords are preparing for war, and when Nords prepare for war, you'd best get out of the way. Me n' my family are leaving as soon as we can. We're taking whatever wages we can save up from helping Windhelm rebuild, then we're leaving this frozen wasteland for good. When the Nords say they've got their elf killing king back, I listen. They said elf killing king, not just Thalmor. You mark my words. I've seen enough fire and ash in my day, I'll pass on living under a fire breathing 'Ash-King' thank you."

The boy scoffed. Pfft, good riddance then.

Moving on, the boy turned, almost stumbling into what he thought was another elf. When he looked up though, it was obvious that the man was no elf. He was far too tall, and had far too much beard. His beard was as fluffy and white as any mound of snow he'd ever seen, and his robe was also white. So white that had he been outside the city, it'd have been hard to even see him standing amongst the snow.

"You a priest, mister? Or a mage? Think you can visit my father, he needs a real priest that knows how to heal hurt soldiers. My pa's been with this lady forever and he's still hurt. I can hear his cries of pain walking by sometimes at night."

The old Archdruid was taken by surprise by the boy, The unfamiliar city that dwarfed the Oppida that he knew of had taken it's toll. He hadn't seen the boy and amidst the noise of such a busy city neither was the child heard in his approach, Although the Archdruid braced himself with his staff like the boy mere moments before slamming into one another.

The hoary man was to apologize for his negligence yet the boy had spoken first in which the Archdruid responded in the best manner he could, Choosing his words carefully.

"I suppose I could consider myself a priest my child, Although my worship and practices have faded away in these lands surviving only in obscurity. Helping your father would certainly be an undertaking I would gladly partake in, After all certainly it was no accident we found one another."

Looking around in his surroundings once more, He had already crossed the bridge and ventured through such a beautiful entrance yet like before he hadn't the slightest idea where anything was with one exception. In the distance one structure shown itself that the Archdruid knew of at least fundamentally. Having the architectural designs of an ancient Nordic palace meant it could only be the Palace of the Kings, Information that had been humbly accepted before hand in Dawnstar.

"My son I am foreign to these lands and have not a clue where your father is, I will help you but I must be taken to him."

The young boy looked at him with a look of confusion he didn't bother to hide. "You talk funny, so you're definitely foreign. You from Solstheim?"

The Archdruid gave forth a good hearty smile, Thinking that perhaps he had overdone the formal way of speaking. After all it was a child, Not that he looked down upon the boy because of it as the youth is a vessel for great knowledge.

"Nay child I hail from the island of Roscrea deep within the Sea of Ghosts, Indeed I do speak rather 'funny' as it's a rather hard habit to break when it is expected of you when in my position. Your father awaits though, Looking around I fear for his health when seeing the aftermath of this devastation." 

The boy had no idea what or where Roscrea was, but he shrugged it off. All he knew was that the man looked 'magicky' and that he was willing to help his pa. Smiling the boy said, "I'll take you there! Come on!"

Wandering past the early bird workers, which was like maneuvering past draugr at this point since they were mostly still in a morning daze, the boy lead the Roscrean old man to the modest little stone hut that was evidently the woman's den. There were no cries of pain this time, to the young boy's relief, but he knew his father still needed his help.

"He's in there, said the nord lad. Just knock, I gotta take this stuff to the other priests for the Stormcloak soldiers. The lady will let you in, she's really nice. Gotta go!"

As the Archdruid was being lead thoughout the city he had confirmed his suspicions, This city was larger then the largest of the Roscrean Oppida. Casurgufdom was dwarfed by Windhelm and it quite apparent both inside and out of the city.

Passing by the working crowds he made sure to cast glimpses of their faces, Hoping to figure out how they feel by outward expressions. Never the less he had been led to a rather respectable hut of admirable stonework at least in his eyes.

When the boy left him the Archdruid did not barge in and even though he considered the healer inside might be unable to answer he knocked anyways upon the doorframe.

No answer came at first... in fact the silence went on long enough that it appeared no one was home. Finally, the silence was broken and a woman with slightly greyed brunette hair poked her head out of the door frame, letting the snow from outside sprinkle over her.

"Can I help you, sir? I'm busy tending to a soldier, his physical therapy needs are very extensive."

"Who's that, it's not my wife, is it? I told that damn boy to tell her I'll be home in a few days!"

The woman closed her eyes in frustration, and said, "Keep quiet, you keep yelling like that and you'll tear your stitches! Damn loud mouth. So, what is it that you want? You don't look hurt, you in the need for some physical therapy too?"

"I have been sent here with the promise of aiding in the recovery of a boy's father, While not my purpose in the city I did not refuse the child. Unless you have objections which I would understand the legitimacy of them I deem it important I be taken to said father, Indeed I wish I had a better description but that had been all I was told.

"My charge is more than fine, the boy just doesn't understand the benefit of my ways. So you're a priest too then? What is your name? I'm Ysana, priestess of Dibella, mother of the Jarl."

"Great tidings Ysana, I am Theudofrid Ingolfsson of the seven current Archdruids I am one among them. I know not if I am welcomed in a house of the Nine, However in the common spirit of we kinfolk from Atmoran decent I would bring forth folk magic to aid in the recovery of these men and woman."

Ysana looked at him as if a goblin just spat jibberish in her face. She obviously didn't know what an Archdruid was.

Stepping outside, and closing the door behind her, she said, "First, I am not a priest of the nine. The Imperials borrowed our god and used her in their pantheon, not that Dibella would mind. She's not a loyal type. Doesn't need to be. Second, the boy's father is fine, as far as his body goes. His mind is what I am truly attending to. A man's pride is hurt when his body is hurt, I'm restoring it. That's not something magic can help with, and apparently, neither can his wife. But, so the boy and his mother can have peace of mind, I'll tell him to return to his family. Now, you're obviously not from Windhelm... what is it that you're doing here, if I might ask?"

"Forgive me for I hadn't known your magical practices and teachings was of the older ways, The ways of Skyrim is still so very foreign to me. I had thought all in this land worships the Nine, Knowing that I am utterly wrong brings hope into my being that my mission here in Skyrim has a chance."

"I hail from the island of Roscrea and my reasoning for venturing down into this land of our common ancestors is a matter of spiritual reconciliation, It was believed the time was right for our southern kinsmen to embrace their ancestor's ways and we were to be the ones that brought them back into these ways."

"I must seek audience with the current High King, Should it bring my execution for in priests of the Nine's eyes blasphemous and heathenous then that is the risk I take to bring about this new age of reason and logic in the worship of the Nord's true gods."

The Nord inside was eavesdropping on the two, and after hearing the druid mention the High King, he promptly swung the door open, proclaiming, "The High King is dead, long live the Ash-King, King Ulfric's avenger!"

"Oh hush and go back to your wife, you oaf! I'll have none of that talk in front of me!" said Ysana. Looking back to the druid, Ysana said, "Well, like he said, we no longer have a High King. This city was recently attacked by the elves and... well, now the High King is no more, he died... defending the city. My boy, the one these buffoons keep calling the Ash-King, he's one of the Jarls who may be chosen to be the High King."

"He will be the High King, and your son holds King Wulfharth's spirit, Ysana! Sir, you hail from the island of Roscrea? I know of a soldier who also once hailed from that land, I can take you to him, and he'll get you an audience with Jarl Baldur."

In agreement the Archdruid was willing to believe the soldier although curious on how a man of Roscrea could end up in Skyrim but in a position that could grant audience with what the other man considered the soon to be High King.

Never the less before setting off the Archdruid had a underlining feeling to leave a little something, Grasping the hanging bundle of holly leaves that hung from his robes he gentle tore one leaf that held a single berry. Held in an outstretched hand he gestured for the priestess to take it.

"Those who hold our gods in reverence are friends to we Druids."

Ysana took the berry, albeit hesitantly and said, "Just don't fill my son's head with too much nonsense, I'm afraid he'll actually start believing he's Wulfharth... And don't tell him I'm in the city either."

Before leaving to follow the mentally wounded soldier the Archdruid gave his parting words to the priestess. "If it is any condolence for you I know not whom Wulfharth was nor much of any Nordic history within Skyrim, Roscrea is very detached from the events within Tamriel as we are so isolated. We know not of Nordic history while here there is little knowledge of Roscrean history."

"I will not fill your son's head with lies and dogma, Only what I believe is best for our kinsmen as a whole. Skyrim needs above all else the wisdom of Jhunal in these times to come."

With that unless she had something else to say the Archdruid would be off, Following the other man towards a destination unknown to the Archdruid.

Taking the man outside of the city entirely, the Stormcloak, who wasn't walking like a man that needed healing assistance from any priestess said, "Now, I don't know what goes on in Roscrea, but it seems awfully strange to me that you lot don't know about King Wulfharth. He's called the child of Kyne, Ysmir. What kind of Nords are you if you never heard about Ysmir anyway." While he spoke, they approached a large crowd of Stormcloak men, evidently watching some kind of fight. It seemed like an ordinary sparring match until sparks of lightning from within the circle flew overhead.

"As I told the priestess Roscrea is very unconnected from the affairs within Tamriel, Certainly you must understand this. We have our own great heroes and champions yet it is doubtful the written or oral deeds is known here, Our people have been very disconnected with only Roscrea's subjugation by the Empire bringing us into the Tamrielic sphere centuries ago."

"Indeed the moment it presented itself we orchestrated a series of events once the Stormcloak rebellion happened to cut ourselves off from the Empire, Unlike the last revolt forty years prior there was nothing they could do about this. Once again however I cannot stress this enough, Our people are disconnected and we do not tolerate other people aside from our southern kinsmen. This shows itself when the Empire utterly failed to Imperialize our people."

When the two reached the sparing area the Archdruid took to observation, Looking out for Roscrean facial features.

The Nord had to push his way through until he saw that the first row of Nords in the crowd had made a giant circle of shields. The magic casting was the obvious reason for it. As for who was casting the magic, all that he could see were several golden skinned elves. Scratch that, there were more than several, but some were hiding themselves with what must have been chameleon spells. Amongst all of this was one man alone who the Stormcloak that brought Theudofrid knew to be Bardok of the Grim Ones.

"Who are the elves?" he said.

"You didn't hear? These lot were captured by the commander there on a lone scouting mission in the Rift."

"He captured these lot? Alone?"

"Aye."

An elven arm, still twitching with electric power from a recently cast spell flew over their heads, smacking one of the soldiers in the shoulder.

"Then why is he killing them all?" asked the Stormcloak.

"They all silenced themselves with some kind of enchanted stone. Before we could start torturen 'em to find out where their own was hidin, they started swallowing these things, and no matter how many times you poke and prod 'em, they don't make a peep."

"Huh." Looking at the fight again, Bardok was a rather impressive sight. One of the elves that was camouflaged tried flanking the big Nord while his buddies distracted him with magic, forcing him to hold his shield up. When he got close, Bardok took the claymore from his back sheathe and chucked it at an elf in front of him before caving the elf's skull in behind him with the shield in one spinning movement. The Stormcloak man cheered like the rest of them, awed by the display, then said, "Wait, can't they just beat one down enough then give them ink and quill? And if they're silenced, how they still casting spells?"

"Beats me, I'm not a mage. Anyway, after Bardok's done humiliatin 'em, and there's only one elf left, that's exactly what he'll do. Just watch."

Watch they did, until Bardok had seven dead elves at his feet, and the last one that remained could only muster a few weak flames that licked at the Nord softer than a baby puppy. He gripped the mer's hair and pulled his head back, carving the pointed part of his ears away with a dagger while he said, "I'm gonna give you the chance to die with dignity. Tell me what I want to know with ink and quill, or I'll keep going. Still not ready to cooperate huh? Fine, we'll throw you in a dungeon with the worst criminals Skyrim has to offer. A lot of 'em are Orcs you know. You know what those Orcs like to do to dainty little elves like you?"

This got nothing from the elf even then. Bardok smirked, admittedly impressed. "Fine then. Off to have your arse plundered it is. Take 'em away, boys," he said once his carving was done. Looking at the crowd of soldiers, Bardok smirked again until his eyes fell on the white robed Druid in the crowd staring at him. Stomping his way past the men, pushing them out of his way until he stood directly before their guest. "What in the gods' name are you doing here in Skyrim, druid?"

Certainly flabbergasted for a moment at being mistaken for a Druid instead of what a Roscrean would instantly recognize, Indeed for a moment he suspected the other Roscrean was fully aware of what he is. Never the less Theudofrid was not the kind of man to take to anger, Far too humble and mindful of Jhunal's teachings to resort to that.

"Archdruid my son, I am of the Archdruids. Let me start off by saying that was mighty skillful elf slaying, Should I know your surname or clan I would make sure to record these deeds. Never the less as for your question this is a matter of a Druidic mission, I had came seeking a audience with the High King whom I had thought was Ulfric Stormcloak given the blue kit and the banners that fly. Yet now I had been informed of his tragic death and now seek audience with the Jarl of Windhelm. While I come with the authority of Roscrea itself I wish not to sully what must be a close relationship between the our two spheres."

"No surname, at least none you'd recognize, druid," said Bardok. "The gods take note of my deeds anyway. I am Bardok the Impaler, commander amongst the Grim Ones, ex slave of Roscrea. I'm not angered by this, before you ask. I had debts to pay, I eluded them with my escape. And so a life in Roscrea is now behind me. Or so it was..."

Eying the Stormcloak behind him, he said, "Soldier, what does this old man wish to talk with Baldur about?"

"He says he's looking to convert," said the man.

"What's there to convert, the Nords of Skyrim worship the same gods, more or less, but then I was never one to pay much attention to such things. However, it's not my place to deny you an audience with the Jarl. I do think he has better things to do than worry about if people call the lady of the sky Kyne or Kynareth."

"The gods may record our deeds but what of we mortals, We must take note of one another for it is our history and culture never lose sight of that.

"But on the matter of this conversion tell me my son, Why were in many ways the Nords of old more advanced then of today? Do you not think the gods had nothing to do with that, Here in Skyrim can bring about the willpower of thousands for this is the land we all hailed from in days uncountable. This is our holy land so to speak, But enough of this as you do not seem to be swayed by such honeyed words. 

"Though the Druidic mission is of my main concerns I bring forth more then being a herald of our ancestor's ways, I am here with authority on behalf of Roscrea itself. The time is right to reenter the Tamrielic sphere as an independent entity, One that wishes to have a healthy relationship with the people of Skyrim.

"You may have a point about the gods," admitted Bardok. "The Nords here used to be far more formidable under the old ways and the old gods, but for all I know, that could be coincidence. I'm not a learned man, I am merely a noble turned slave for excessive gambling debts, and now a killer to boot."

Bardok's expression changed, but it was unclear what it meant until he spoke. "However, if you're here for more than just talking about gods, then you may actually do us some good after all. We can do trade alright, the island is always in need of resources from afar. Tell me, how goes the land's supply of ores? Could they use Skyrim's ores if we happened to have an abundance of it suddenly?"

"Certainly you have been away from Roscrea for a great time, Or perhaps leaving in your youth? While lacking in almost all luxuries these Imperials take for granted Roscrea is bountiful in the resources needed in practical life.

"In the northmost mountainous reaches of Roscrea is saturated with raw iron throughout, While on the more coastal northwestern shores washes up a never ending tide of amber. Lead is in abundance at a number of nooks and crannies while wool and cotton are perhaps the most produced and refined resource, As you knew in your time in our homeland the people does not drab themselves in fur and leather but cotton and wool.

"While never given a truthful answer we suspect that centuries ago the Empire invaded us because of our island's strategic location alongside the abundance of iron above all else, Taxing our people with demands of iron ore over that of gold. It breaks my heart to think that we were only an iron mine to them for the duration of such occupation, Though I would be a fool not to admit that our people did benefit with such luxuries being imported and traded by the Empire.

"I will wait until whatever time is deemed necessary but I simply must have audience with the Jarl, I am more then willing to bide my time until he is willing to have me in his hold although a brisk pace is recommended.

Bardok's eyes lit up as the man described his old homeland. It certainly had been a long time, he was sold into slavery by his own father as a young man. He was big enough by then that he could be passed on as his pa, to a drunkard. No one wanted an old man as a slave anyway, so the debters looked the other way, ignoring that the old gambling Nord didn't have grey hair or even a beard.

But there was no need for long winded explanations. The important thing was that even though the Roscreans might not have need for their ores, Skyrim still potentially had a new and willing land to trade with. He knew enough to know that in wartime, this was good.

Something did come to mind however. But he'd save it for Baldur to explain himself.

"Come along then, old man. You want to see the Jarl, I'll take you to him."

The Archdruid's right eyebrow raised, Intrigued on how he'd be granted an audience with the Jarl so swiftly. Believing that the Jarl must certainly be relaxing without expecting to be disturbed, How else could the civic leader of Windhelm be able to see him immediately? 'Then again' the Archdruid thought Skyrim could very well not hold the same systems as Roscrea.

"I am honored that the Jarl would see me so quickly, Certainly I extend my regret to those in waiting for his audience."

Thus the Archdruid would be off with his Roscrean kinsmen to none other then the Palace of the Kings. 

"Just shut it and don't drag your feet old man. I got connections, so consider today your lucky day."

Pulling on the drui-... Arch Druid's sleeve, Bardok hastily walked the two through the city. The fact of the matter is that Roscrea's own revered druids showing up in their city was a shot of good fortune. The Nords may not see it, but he'd make them.

Bursting through the door while Baldur was choking down a goat leg, Bardok said, "Hey, Ash-King, got some company for ya."

"For the last time, Bardok quit trying to bring whores in the Palace! Wait, that's no whore. Unless you're trying to be funny," said Baldur from the dining table. Putting his leg aside next to a letter intended for his wife and child, Baldur said, "Who's the old man? Between him and the court mage, I think I've had my fill of old."

"Ironic, considering this place is ancient. And if you want to live to be ancient, you'll mind your tone. Ash-King or not, the young need to respect their elders."

"If I'm the Ash-King, then that means I'm already ancient in soul, and it's you who should respect your elders, Wuunferth," said Baldur. Grinning at his defeated glare, Baldur said, "Enough, what's this all about already?

While the two partook in their conversation the Archdruid stood next to Bardok in an unblinking gaze towards Baldur, Surveying the self proclaimed Ash-King. There was no magical insight involved yet the Archdruid truly doubted that the Jarl held within him the soul of a great ancient warrior, Of course the words of the Jarl's mother influenced this decision. The Archdruid found it best to stay his tongue on the matter, Whether or not the man truly harbors the souls of an exalted Nord matters not as the other folks believe it. Knowing all to well how to sway minds of the common folk.

Once the two finished in their conversation the Archdruid would tap his staff upon the ground giving forth a hearty click and stepped forward a ways while speaking.

"Jarl Baldur of Windhelm I come before you in this court of our kinsmen with the authority of Roscrea and it's people, I bring word of our Druidic Mission along with that of the country as a whole. Roscrea is to emerge into the Tamrielic sphere as it's own independent entity and thus I have came to this land to fulfill our mission and bring word that we of Roscrea wish to partake in trade rights with the Kingdom of Skyrim.

"Should you give unto me your answer then I will delve into the Druidic Mission.

Baldur's eyes squinted at the man before him, as if he didn't believe his words. "You came from Roscrea. Bardok?"

"He's tellin the truth, and don't let his... frolicky appearance fool you, he's Nord through and through. They revere the old gods. Kyne, Shor, Ysmir. But not Talos, at least not him particularly. We acknowledge his title as Ysmir, that's it."

"Well," said Baldur. "What's your title that you have the authority to come here seeking trade?"

"I am of the seven current Archdruids of Roscrea, There is no greater mortal authority within Roscrea then we Archdruids. We communed with one another for weeks in discussion upon what actions should be taken, Needless to say it had been decided that we would reach out to our southern kinsmen."

Baldur finally stood, curious of the Archdruid enough to finally properly address the old man with his full attention. With curious eyes, Baldur looked the man up and down, as he said, "What is the opinion of the Roscrean people and the purpose of Mundus as Shor saw it? In your eyes, why are we here?"

The Archdruid's eyebrow arched once more.

"Shor Oh mighty Shor would have me swear oath and say: 'We are here to follow our warrior god to the bitter end then join him there in the aftermath.'

"Alduin would demand I say: 'Man exists to serve the Dovah.'

"Dibella would have me speak of: Improving upon the mind, Body and soul in a quest for beauty in ourselves and others is the purpose of man.'

"Herma-Mora would wish to bind me to say: 'Man can only come to realization of it's existence through my service and knowledge..' 

"Jhunal Oh god of all things Hermetic would teach me to say: 'Man is of this world to increase his understanding of all things mathematical, Magical and astronomical'

"Kyne Mother of us all would through stern voice gift unto me the will to speak: 'Man exists due to her holy breath and to throw off all shackles that bind us to others.'

"Mara would embrace me within her care and coax unto me: 'Man must keep close in his heart my love for without it man cannot exist'

"Orkey would hold the golden scroll and fool me into speaking naught for his trickery would mean the doom of man."

"Stuhn would bring light the importance of such that we can see whom we really are: 'To spare your most hated enemy when able to brings into light the strength of man, Whom can strike all foes down yet must learn to show restraint this quest is the plight and purpose of man.'

"And Ysmir Hero to all Nords would roar out unto all our people: 'Man exists to carve out our own destiny through the strength we each hold, Let not the Elven Devils halt our ambitions for it is our purpose to undermine them and bring forth our own age.'

"Baldur that is not a question that can be answered so easily, I as a man of Jhunal's teachings would say hold favor for his words. Yet here what meaning does Jhunal hold? What would my words hold with you should I preach of Hermetic knowledge?"

Baldur's eyes twinkled with delight. "Ah, truly a kindred spirit! I spoke only of Shor's reasoning for why we are here however, for Shor is the one who dared to dream of the world, even if Magnus is its architect.

I would say that Shor would say: To forge ourselves in the flames of the Arena, so that we are better than ourselves and worthy to follow him to the bitter end. This is why my people recognize Talos as Ysmir, just as we did Wulfharth. We follow his example, and embrace the hardships of life so that in death, we will not disappoint Shor in his final battle.

This is my purpose, to better Skyrim, to help them remember who and what we are. But more than that, I do this for love as Mara would want. Love for my kin, love for my child and love for my wife. I do battle with the elves so that this love may survive.

And I deny Stuhn his answer, for mercy I cannot show our enemy in these trying times. For Ysmir demands that I serve the ambitions of my King. And to serve those ambitions, I must build them with the bones of the enemy who seeks to erase our gods and us along with them.

And I shall do this with the holy breath that Kyne has gifted us with! Yol Toor Shul!" Cried Baldur towards the ceiling of the Palace of Kings in a burst of flame.

The Archdruid was taken by surprise with the Thu'um, Never in his life had he witnessed such an act. Sure they revered Kyne's gift yet as the Roscreans themselves were never gifted with it, Thus the Druids strictly ordered that the Thu'um isn't for Roscrean tongues.

It was amazing to witness such a gift being used, Even from his distance to Baldur Theudofrid could feel the sudden heat warming his cold face. A few tears ran down his cheek, This was nothing less then beautiful to the old man. Indeed the Archdruid was left speechless.

Baldur let the flames diminish from the stone before he continued. "If your mission is to spread the influence of the old gods in Skyrim, then you will have my full support. That includes funding from my coffers, for whatever reason you'd need it so long as it's with the goal of spreading knowledge of the old gods throughout Skyrim, but before we do so we must discuss Talos, Wulfharth and myself."

Upon mentioning Talos the Archdruid's thrilled expression soured a bit, Never the less he was not dissuaded.

"A question of worship and a matter of reincarnation no doubt, Baldur from what you expressed moments before it is clear that Talos is held highly by you and to that I feel I will be unable to sway you. However on the matter of Wulfharth and yourself?"

"I will not attempt to persuade you on the matter of my name-sake. That is a title bestowed by Windhelm, but I would have you understand why it is that we revere Talos, and Wulfharth, who we have both called Ysmir. How do you view Ysmir?" asked Baldur, inviting the priest to sit and eat beside him.

Heeding the Jarl's wishes Theudofrid took his place at the feasting table across from Baldur, He used his silverwear and ate lightly while speaking with the Jarl.

"Ysmir, Firstly naught any Roscreans have ever held that tittle. To hold it surely marks a herald of a changing age, I bear no resentment to the gods for not bestowing such upon the Roscrean people. I view Ysmir as great heralds, Yet Ysmir is not a tittle that holds the greatest meaning upon our people for who can call themselves champions of Roscrea? We've never been blessed with such champions in many of age." 

"Great heralds, aye," said Baldur. "We revere Talos as a god, it's true. And I won't lie to you, we see him as a god in his own right. However, even though this is the case, we few that follow the old ways still recognize that he is Ysmir. I don't know why the gods have not deemed it necessary to reveal men such as this to the people of Roscrea, but if I had to guess, I'd say it was because your people were not in need of a ghost of Shor. From what I know of you, you were allowed to keep your gods and ways despite meddling from the Empire yes? We've faced opposition first from the Alessian Order, who Wulfharth dealt with himself, then Talos came and faced opposition against elves and the southerners. Then today, we Skyrim Nords had to deal with Alduin, defeated by the Dragonborn, and now with Thalmor, in the Dragonborn's absence. So where is our hero now when we really need one?"

Taking a breath, Baldur leaned in closer and said, "I cannot prove to anyone that my spirit is that of Wulfharth's. I can't prove to you that Wulfharth was Ysmir. What proved to us that he was Ysmir was his deeds. We called him child of Kyne when he swallowed a cloud that was raining down on his men. And like him, I will show through deed that I am worthy of the title of Ash-King given to me, when I showed the elves that the power of mage-fire cannot touch my hide. I will show them far more, but before I can, I need the help of holy men to spread the word."

Standing now, leaning towards the Arch Druid, he said, "What I am saying is this... If you really wish to spread the word of the old gods to my people, to spread news of Ysmir to those who would soon forget the names of the old, then give them something new and current to believe in. You don't have to believe it yourself. Just tell them what you have seen here today, and what the Nords of this city say will coincide with what you tell them. Then they can't help but listen to what it is you have to say. This is the best way to see that your mission is successful. Remind the Nords that the gods that brought us here and made us strong are still here, while the ones the Southerners worship forsake their withering Empire. Just as they forsook Talos. Just as they forsook Ysmir."

As Baldur spoke of the Empire and the Roscrean's religion Theudofrid felt a knot in his innards, Feeling far to sick to eat anymore he lay his silverware down. He knew the Jarl knew not otherwise surely the man wouldn't have said anything.

Never the less the Archdruid listened to what Baldur stated, Though the enthusiasm Theudofrid had had faded leaving a melancholic expression. When finished the Archdruid told Baldur why exactly he changed expressions so quickly.

"Jarl, You spoke of how we kept our gods while under the Empire. Nay for that isn't what happened, Nor was it like this during the invasion."

The old man rubbed his face, It pained him to recite these events but it must be known.

"It was upon the final months of the war, Our forefathers fighting three long years against them stood with less then a third of the island left. One of their legions had marched towards an Oppidum which lay beyond our most holy site. It was the Menhir's Grove, From the earth of Nirn rose these Menhirs which sprouted the holiest of Sacred Groves. The significance to our people could not be exaggerated."

"Here hundreds of Druids stood in guard of it though it would do little good, Soon they were encroached upon by one of their legions whom ordered the Druids to surrender. There wasn't any surrender of course for each and every Druid was prepared to die to keep the stones intact. They were quickly overran yet the Legion didn't slay them all, The occupied this sacred site and fortified it while keeping the Druids as prisoners."

"Eventually the Legion sallied out and left behind a minor garrison."

It took a good minute before the old man mustered the strength to speak what came about next.

"Though the Oppidum beyond lay under siege a great many of it's occupants had sallied out before and through avoiding the incoming Legion would circumvent the army and with hast head to the the grove, Once the Legion had committed to besieging the Oppidum those whom sallied out made themselves noticed. It is not known how they knew the men approached but the garrison was greatly outnumbered, As Orkey would have it those within the fort were mostly Auxiliaries which as our horrid luck would have it were mostly of Elven stock. With the force of freemen soon approaching the Auxiliaries at this point took to the one thing they knew would break our people."

"Before being reached the Elves protected their stockade with wicked Elven magic and without orders took to the Menhirs and the grove that surrounded it. The very Druids that recorded these deeds watched in horror as flames sprouted from their hands unto the trees of the grove, Hammers and magic broke away at the Menhirs all the while the horror struck Druids watched. By the time the freemen arrived to come within view they were greeted with the image of their most treasured site in ruins, Needless to say they broke instantly with a third taking their own lives as recorded by the Druids as the rest fled."

"The Druids whom recorded these deeds stayed imprisoned for the rest of the war which lasted only another month, For with the destruction of this site our people were no longer willing to fight. The last bit of resistance fled into the northernmost mountains to bolster Ultansborough which is where the war ended."

"The Imperials expressed their 'sorrows' at our destroyed site at war's end but who are they to dare express sorrow for their own Legionaries burnt it to oblivion and afterwards with the grove destroyed the forest soon died in it's entirety while the earth it lay on bleached black and to this day all magic is dead in the ruins of our most holy site."

The Archdruid stood above his chair.

"If it were in my hands I would see all their temples to ash, Baldur what ever must be done to restore our ancient ways in Skyrim will be done. It must be done and I dare tempt Orkey by saying 'It will be done.'

A smile crawled over his face as he shook his hand to get rid of the flame. "Well, then. It sounds to me like we're in agreement then. It will be done, and we will start before I am declared High-King. Specifically, I want you to target Falkreath, Whiterun, and Morthal first, as these are holds that I know are not as fond of me as Windhelm, Dawnstar... well, I'd have said Riften, but there is no Riften any longer. When my men have finished clearing out the elves and the people can return to rebuild what they've lost, then things will be different. Whoever becomes Jarl there will also be thankful. But to do that I'll need a lot more coin with the war coming. Bardok, you remember our previous conversation?"

"Aye," said Bardok. "Is it time?"

"It's time," said Baldur. "Bardok, you'll take however many Grim Ones you'll need to reclaim the mines of Skyrim from the Orcs. Once the Thalmor are taken care of, of course. After the moot, I'll join you in removing the Orsimer from the mines and also our land entirely if they resist. We'll give the Empire a good deal on the ores since I know they'll want them, and that should be enough for them to accept the Orsimer into their land, since they're already making a new Orsinium for them. That trade agreement will also extend to the people of Roscrea."

"Actually, the Roscreans don't have as much of a need for ores, the island still has ores a plenty," said Bardok, remembering what the Arch Druid said.

"Hmm, well I'm sure there's something we have in Skyrim that the Roscreans don't. Ebony, quicksilver. If not, then no matter. There are other things we have in Skyrim that I'm sure the Roscreans would appreciate. We have excellent enchanting services, fine craftsmen all over, especially in Whiterun. There's wasabi, elfear and tobacco, special brewed meads, whale oil and the like. Though I'm sure Roscrea has that as well, amongst other things. Incense, mead. Did I already say mead? What kinds of meads do your people drink?"

"What I suggest above all is that we have among the trade is an exchange in architecture, I see superior woodcrafting skills all around in Skyrim though in Roscrea our stone masonry is of quality only found in your first Empire. I could see both our lands benefiting from sharing techniques.

Our island lacks most luxuries that the so called civilized lands take for granted, Though what our smiths would give to know the secrets of steel. The Empire made sure to prevent our people from learning it's secrets when they defeated our forefathers, I doubt they would ever punish Skyrim for sharing the secrets now would they. But you're correct in that we hold no Ebony nor quicksilver.

Both would be invaluable to those that can afford it, I'm sure that Chieftain Berahthram Silver-Shield would jump at the opportunity to secure foreign Ebony. Our lands can offer unto Skyrim through trade the iron ore be it refined or raw, While we were never given answers to why the Empire conquered our island no doubt the thought of a rich source of iron on a minor little island was worth the lives of countless Legionaries.

Lead, Amber, Timber, Cotton and wool are our biggest produces if not mostly shrugged aside for favor of the iron. Produce by way of food stuff isn't something commonly exported nor wanted by the Eastern Empire Company back before the Stormcloak Rebellion."

The old man was a tad bit hesitant to tell the Jarl the situation with mead up but just ignoring his kinmen's words would be worse.

"In Roscrea we favor the clean water the land provides us over mead, Not to say we don't drink it just not regularly as clean spring or well water. I assure you that once you take a sip of it knowing that there is no threat of becoming sick it will stick."

Baldur's eyes bulged practically from his sockets, threatening to fall on the table.

"Well, we'll have to see how you feel about mead after tasting some of our finest," said Baldur, trying to control his reaction. "Trade between Skyrim and Roscrea should be rather beneficial indeed. We're not the Empire, but there's luxuries enough here that I'm sure would impress. Steel especially, and that is something you can see for yourself when you go to Whiterun. Just talk to the Companions, I'll give you gold to buy one of their Skyforge Steel swords. You might need it on your journey throughout Skyrim, it's not always the safest place due to the creatures that lurk the woods. Bears, trolls, the occasional dragon and so on. And we'd in turn be very interested if you think your stonework is superior, certainly."

"It is not for the luxuries that other nations have that interests us in Skyrim, We are people whom can call one another kinsmen and indeed that truly means something for us. Skyrim is the one country that is to have the greatest influx of iron through trading, For it has always been in the minds of our ancestors to trade luxury for luxury and practical resources for other practical resources. Though our iron is the only thing that marks trade worthy to the more 'civilized' folk of the Eastern Empire Company.

As for a means of defense I am not unarmed." Theudofrid patted his soft robes making clear something bulky hidden away. "The Falx is a Druidic weapon that is not to be used lightly, Nor do I fear any mortal creature of Nirn through the forests only one entity frightens me." Theudofrid leaned in. "The Old man in the woods is known in Roscrea too."

"Now if it is possible I would request that a number Nordic blacksmiths be employed within our greatest of Oppida, A number of our own metallurgists could likewise journey to Skyrim and be employed under your service. There will have to be journeys being made for both our people anyways as you have agreed to not only trade but for us to gain in the other's craft.

Where of the cities you requested would you wish for myself and the Druids that came with me go? Oh yes I had indeed taken this journey with company, They are waiting out in the forest as I hadn't known if I'd be executed for what men of the Nine would consider blasphemy."

"Executed? Ha! At most, you might've had to brawl a man or two, but execution you'd not have faced, we don't kill men for such things here. Likewise, I am not trying to start a war, you have permission to pass through these lands freely and spread your word, killing only if any from my land threaten your safety. The whole of Skyrim is not yet my own, but the majority of the military still recognizes my leadership, for now. Blacksmiths will also not be a problem, I doubt I'll have to send any myself, as the promise of making weapons for a foreign land is always a prosperous one. I'll get the word out for you, though you should go to Whiterun first, you might be able to gain some blacksmiths of ours yourself in your trip there. There's also an interesting forge I'm sure will intrigue you, two of them in fact. One was discovered by a dear friend of mine. Now, mind if I hold that weapon of yours? What was it?"

"Surely you must understand, We had not known what would happen once I made my intentions clear. A puppet or worshiper of the Nine would have my head, At least should that have happened the others would have escaped."

With that Theudofrid reached into his robes with his right hand and pulled from it the weapon that was spoken about moments ago, It was simple in decoration and detail with the hilt being long enough to be gripped with both hands which was made of wood while the blade itself was a little longer then a shortsword with a curvature upon the end. Unlike Akaviri or Redguard swords the blade's curved end faces forward.

"With strong enough arm it could slice clean through an Imperial steel helmets and wooden shields, Delimbing is a fearsome thought the falx brings too."

He handed it to the Jarl.

"Yet.. What are these forges you speak of?"

Baldur grasped the blade, instinctively wanting to point the curve of the blade inwards instead of outwards. Fixing his grip, he waved it around, bringing it down hard on the table carelessly, being used to Skyforge Steel's quality and becoming used to not worrying about protecting a blade's edge.

"This is a rather interesting weapon... I'd love to see what Eorlund's steel could do in this shape. It's his forge I speak of, one of them anyway. Much of our officer's weapons come from his forge, a forge believed to be blessed by Kyne and enchanted with the spirits of heroes. The steel from it is well known all through Tamriel. The other forge is less renowned but apparently has an interesting property for enchanting beneath the moons, but I must confess I do not fully understand it. It was a relatively new discovery."

Theudofrid inwardly cringed in dismay when the Jarl slammed the blade into table, No matter the claims of excellent metallurgists or the high quality of Roscrean iron forged weaponry it can be dulled with such force.

"Well..." He eyed his weapon again with a look of dismay. "No doubt our people would benefit with the high quality steel designs your people hold."

"Now from what I have been told you are to be High King of Skyrim? Where are you to be crowned?"

Baldur still didn't realize what he'd done, noticing the man's worry in his expression. Dismissing it from his thoughts, he said, "Well, atop High Hrothgar I suppose, if I am successful in the moot. I am not yet the High King, and it's something that the moot must decide, which is a gathering of all our Jarls. But, as I hold the command of Ulfric's Stormcloaks, I'm already the most powerful Jarl in Skyrim. It isn't likely that I'll lose."

"I was under the impression that you have been chosen yet not crowned yet, Well I doubt that any word of mine would hold any significance but should you wish it I could cast in my favor for you. Were our positions reversed and you're High King your word would hold merit in Roscrea though how much I cannot say."

"Aye," said Baldur enthusiastically. "Outside influence normally isn't appreciated much here but you're far more Nord-like than the Imperials; your support should hold weight, friend. Especially since you've come all this way, though lets leave out that Roscreans aren't too familiar with Skyrim's politics, or it would undermine your support."

"No matter what the Imperials classify us as we are still a Nordic people as like your ancestors our own hailed from Atmora too and we still hold that blood." Theudofrid was visibly pleased with this. "Supporting you at this Moot would also legitimize myself in this mission at least on a superficial level."

"While also being an educational experience, Now Baldur we must have a place of our own somewhere in Skyrim. To erect the Standing Stones and use as our place of operations."

"Standing Stones?" asked Baldur. "What are those, Skyrim truthfully doesn't have many statues or monuments depicting the old gods, we tend to worship through way of mouth. It's simply how things are done here, likely since days of old due to the ancient tongues."

"Nay Baldur they are not temples nor monuments to our gods, While they serve many a purpose the Standing Stones along with Menhirs are centers of right hand magic. They ward off left hand influence while strengthening the magics used by our ancestors, While Skyrim surely is not plagued as Roscrea is.

The island was before our ancestors migrated there a place of Daedra worshiping Goblins, Who saw Molag Ball and his Daedroth as their greatest of gods. Their stain hasn't left the land and I fear it never will, The Sacred Groves, Standing Stones and Menhirs help negate this and reduce their influence. The Menhirs are erected in their shrines our ancestors destroyed, The Sacred Groves within the forests protect the spirits within and the Standing Stones shield the mind and souls of our people.

To have the stones within an Oppidum will protect the people in many ways."

Baldur had to bite his finger on that one.

"And this is where I come in," said Wuunferth the Unliving. "I'm not familiar with these particular stones, though I have heard of them. Any mage worth their lick has studied wards of this kind, they are benign. I must say, my talents lie mainly in the field of destruction. I cannot reproduce something of the like, and it would be fascinating to see up close."

"I'm sure it would be," said Bardok rolling his eyes, "But where do you plan on this being placed? Not in Windhelm, if the citizens get a whiff of anything magicy, you know it'll mean trouble."

"Yes, that was my thought as well," said Baldur. "Well, we don't erect statues normally, but if we're going to do this, it will be for the best if you have these stones have murals of owls on them to represent Jhunal. Will that work with the druids, Theudofrin? If so, you may have your stones here, there is room on the Western side of the city where the Thalmor attacked us and destroyed some of our buildings."

"It's Theudofrid." He said as to correct the Jarl.

"I'd never have thought that the Nords would object to such an distinctly Atmoran construct, Albeit Eastern Atmoran. They must be created through a certain way which I must say inscribing owls will negate the purpose and the effects. 

If it would truly bother your Freemen then the Standing Stones will not be erected, Though I must insist the Menhirs be constructed within the wilds. Ah and forgive me for I hadn't greeted you, You hold yourself like a man of many magical principles. I am Archdruid Theudofrid Ingolfsson of Roscrea and whom might you be?"

 

"I'm the present court Mage, Wuunferth the Unliving, and you'll have to forgive him, the whipersnapper is learned but knows little of magic," said Wuunferth. "He's also not good with names..." Wuunferth cut his eyes at Baldur who regularly got his name wrong in the past, mostly on purpose because the old man was a grump. 

Baldur said, "The woods might be better actually, as far as the people are concerned, though it won't be very comfortable for you, Theu..."

"Theudofrid," said Wuunferth.

"Theudofrid, right. My people may still worship the old gods, and most don't shun magic outright, but many are made uneasy by it. Even with our previous Queen, who is a Mage. Jhunal and his teachings as you know are not held in high regard here. Just one more thing we can change in Skyrim."

"Baldur at some point the Nordic people must embrace their past, If it will take somebody to force their eyes open to see how they are suffering without Jhunal then so be it. Though I will respect your wishes and only after the whole of Skyrim's majority shuns the Nine completely will we work to introduce Jhunal back into the Nordic culture.

It may seem strange to you, But for we Roscreans Jhunal is held in such high regards that Shor himself is seen as his equal in importance to our people." The Archdruid truly hoped that his words were spoken properly, The more he delved into explaining Jhunal the more he worried it would anger the Jarl. Though thus far this hadn't been the case, At least outwardly.

"Held in equal importance, as Jhunal?" Baldur couldn't hide his amusement.  "Theudofrid, here in Skyrim, Shor holds the most import. Or at least he did before the elves attempted to take Talos from us. Without Shor, the magic that we have which leaks from Magnus would not even exist. I recognize the importance of wisdom and craftiness more than any Nord in this land in my eyes, because I recognize it is more than an interest in casting fireballs. But the message that Shor sent through his actions, to better ourselves in all aspects, mind body and soul, through forging ourselves in this arena called Tamriel, that must be chief in all Nord's hearts. Jhunal's message is to do so through cleverness. Valuable, but there are many ways to better oneself. Shor was the one who presented the obstacles so that we could!"

"Baldur Shor is not seen below Jhunal not in the slightest, We see them as equally important to our society. Surely you can understand why we hold Jhunal in such high regards can you not? Shor is extremely important for the people of Roscrea, Though Jhunal is too it is simply our ways as strange as they may seem to you."

"It's not that strange I suppose," said Baldur. "It's likely just as strange to you that we hold Talos in such high regard. However, you must remember that some gods are simply more active in certain places over others. Perhaps Jhunal wasn't as active here because the Nords did not hold as much importance in Jhunal, but Shor has been very active, the most active in fact. If your goal is to convert the Nords who revere the Imperial gods over ours, then consider that Shor speaks to us in Skyrim more than Jhunal does. That is why I agree that Jhunal should come into focus later, though that doesn't mean he should be ignored. I want those who follow his path but do not know it to feel welcomed in our armies when we fight the elves, not shunned. Magic and cleverness is very valuable indeed."

"I had not planned to spread the teachings of Jhunal here until the population had been fully converted back to our old ways, It is of no doubt to me that Shor is held in the highest of regards which is a good thing. Indeed our problems in life were solved when Jhunal's Hermetic Teachings were used, Before in Eastern Atmora the Druids whom held Jhunal as their patron god then were often ignored by many of tribes in favor of Shor." Stated the elderly Archdruid.

"Perhaps though it was by the hand of gods that we were defeated by the Empire, No doubt Orkey or Talos influenced the mind of Emperor Uriel the Fifth."

Baldur said, "I cannot say, though Talos is a conquering god. Perhaps it was a sign, or a message, for Roscreans to participate in the battles of this Arena. Maybe that is why you felt it was time to come here, besides reminding my people of the old gods. Shor might have brought you here to be reminded of something as well. Which brings up something I've forgotten to ask. Can Skyrim count on their brethren in Roscrea's support against the elves in the next great war?"

Having said that the Archdruid rubbed his chin as he was lost in thought for a while, Though he did speak after around twenty seconds.

"Perhaps there is merit to that statement, I cannot lie that it was the hand of a god that directed us to reenter the Tamrielic sphere. Perhaps it was the will of more then one... On the matter of support I take it these Thalmor dwell in the Summerset Islands? Should that be the case here then I dare say Roscrea would be untouchable for the beginning of the war.

Such a strategic positioning should not be misused, As our island holds no threat of Elven Invasion at least from these Thalmor I am certain aid would come. While not much I can absolutely guarantee an army of at least eight thousand, Perhaps even more if our people gear up for war although given the unlikelihood of invasion I doubt such precautions need to be heeded."

"Indeed," said Baldur, "Especially since as an ally who we intend to do trade with again in the near future, the paths the ships take will become a part of our supply lines and will need to be protected. And we will, along with your own ships which I imagine an island nation must have a lot of, or I'm hoping at least."

"We lack any form of navy, The Imperials destroyed everything we had when they invaded and up until becoming a client state we were forbidden and prevented from building one up again. While for these few years our people have been building one it is by no stretch of the word close to being completed, All we have are ships meant for trade.

A far cry from our past, The eastern islands in between Tamriel and Akavir had always been the victims of Roscrean aggression. No doubt had the Empire not came as conquerors but to gain our forefather's aid they would have gleefully aided in attacking the islands one last time for great riches."

"Hmm, no navy huh? Well, no matter. Bodies on the ground will be needed even more." Looking back at Wuunferth, Baldur squinted his eyes, then looked back at Theudorid.

"Wuunferth, you don't have all that high of an opinion of me do you."

"You're no Ulfric as far as I'm concerned," said Wuunferth. "And you can keep cutting your eye at me all you want Bardok, my loyalties lie with him, even in death. I remain here out of respect for him."

"And I appreciate it and your honesty," said Baldur, smirking. "But, your usefulness to me as court mage is limited, I realize. Theudorid, your people will need an ambassador, someone who can represent your people's wishes and leave whenever he wishes. With your current task as well, I will need you close. Will you show me what your capabilities are? Duel with Wulfherth. Show me the way of the druid."

Wuunferth yawned and said, "I'll do it, but only to test myself and to satisfy my own scholarly curiosity. Nothing more."

Without word Theudofrid stood from the feasting table, Went half way to the palace's entrance and stood before Wuunferth.

"To you goes the courtesy of the first blow my friend."

Wuunferth couldn't help but laugh. "I highly advise that you don't let me have the first move, or our Jarl here will be without a new court mage. In all my years, there hasn't been a single man or elf alive that could hold back my attack. Every ward I've ever hit, broke."

"I have faith in myself." Replied Theudofrid. "There is strength in knowing wards, It speaks of a sharp mind much more then a flame caster not that I claim you aren't an intellectual. Never the less you've never casted against my ward, You must have the first blow as I cannot return it. We do not teach destruction magics nay for the only real common practices we hold are wards."

Wuunferth blinked... very slowly. The disbelief in his expression was palpable. Looking at Baldur, he said, "Well Jarl?"

"Well what? Get on with it already, I wanna see what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object."

"Okay, you asked for it," said Wuunferth. He started chanting to himself, moving his hands in the air as if the old man were dancing in front of them. Actually, he was dancing it seemed, and as he did, the wind around the palace began howling so loudly that it drowned out the sound of anything within, roaring fires and all. Eventually the fires all went out, frost covering the surface of the walls and table.

The doors suddenly burst open, the frost rushing in, converted to raw mana in Wuunferth's hands. What remained was water, soaking the rugs and covering the stone floor in a puddle around them. Wuunferth subtly took a single step, to what he knew to be dry stone. The magica he gathered in his hand began to change again, and the hair stood up on Baldur's neck.

Without any warning, Wuunferth let out his first attack indeed, a powerful bolt of lightning striking the wet floor that Theudorid stood in presently.

As Wuunferth was busy resting his chants Theudofrid was busy all the while, Whispering softly in the old Atmoran language as he prepares himself for what will come. Even with the chaos swirling around the Archdruid was steadfast in his stance, Arms at his side and griping his staff tightly in his right hand.

Theudofrid knew not what spells the court wizard held, Though expecting either flame or lightning. The puddle that was growing around his feet did not go unnoticed nor was his opponent taking a step back. Having an understanding of how conduction works the Archdruid was standing in something that if struck by electricity would be fatal.

With but a second to spar he thrust his staff in the puddle of water, When Wuunferth let lose the lightning it struck it's mark. Although Theudofrid struck his too, Casting a spell upon his staff it became unnaturally more conductive then the surface it was struck into which in this case was the puddle upon the floor.

It surged into the staff as he concentrated a very localized ward with the same hand that holds the staff, With the magical attack being trapped and without circuit it exploded from the point of the ward in multiple directions non of which hit any occupant to everyone's luck.

With that Theudofrid keeps his staff upon the puddle, Protecting himself from any other attempts at using the sciences against him. All the while keeping his left hand free for the inevitable ward.

"Hmph, very impressive!" said Wuunferth, who hadn't stopped planning even though he expected his opponent to be dead. Stomping his foot, the chill in the air from his gathering of ice magics settled to the floor before raising ice spikes all around the Arch druid.

They launched at him from all sides, but he didn't stop there. As he prepared that attack, he gathered frost in his hands as well, casting a spiked ball of ice at Baldur himself!

Eyes widened in anger and surprise, Baldur reacted instinctively, yelling, "Yol, Toor Shul!"

The ice-made morning star melted instantly, and before his flames hit, Wuunferth cast a spell of absorption on himself, which added to the intensity of his next spell. He had to dodge most of it, as it was too intense, but it would be enough. This time there were no tricks, only raw power gathered in his hands, strengthened by the power of Baldur's shout.

Released from his hands was a beam of light so bright that the inside of the Palace lit up as though a sun were within. Baldur had to shield his eyes as he pondered when Wuunferth learned such a spell.

"Learned this from studying the attack on Windhelm!" he bragged. "I hope you put up a strong enough ward, I don't do well holding back." Wuunferth continued the attack until not a single bit of magicka remained. When it was done, his hands carried smoke and the smell of singed flesh from the intensity of his own spell.

As the ice sickles formed it took no intellect to understand it's purpose, The puddle Theudofrid stood in was evaporated when he struck his staff upon it though it didn't stop the other ice sickles. He slowly brought his arms up from the his sides and raised them high into the air, Though no magic persisted from his palms.

When Wuunferth unleashed his barrage upon the old Archdruid the man extended his palms and though there was strain upon his face from the usage of such ancient Atmoran magic all the ice sickles flying towards him and been halted midair, Then Theudofrid closed his palms and let his arms drop which the ice sickles followed suit.

Catching his breath he looked up once more to see Wuunferth using a spell absorption, Theudofrid tensed up upon seeing this as no doubt his next cast would be of great power. He doubted the strength of his ward for a moment knowing that only a fool is too stubborn to recognize the situation, Theudofrid had but one piece of knowledge that he had enough faith in to shield him from what Wuunferth would unleash and seeing him absorb the power of a Thu'um he knew it to be great.

Lowering his staff he braced his wary limbs upon it and mentally began the casting, What he was to cast was beyond mentally tasking though it was the only spell he know to protect him from what may come. In moments he felt a subtle shimmer of magicka emerge from his body that no doubt would be unknown to his company, Oral traditions passed down from the ancient Archdruids had preserved the spell. There was no waving nor chanting.

The spell had been completed before Wuunferth's attack though Theudofrid hadn't enough time to bring up wards before being engulfed in the light, Having to face the full force of his spell for two seconds before bringing up his burning hands. His right extending farther then his left and cast his ward while his left hand came another, The combination of the three layered magical protection had prevented in his disintegration at the hands of the Court Wizard.

When the light faded Theudofrid had to catch himself upon the wall next to him to prevent falling to his knees, Though for all things considered he had escaped death with second degree burns upon his face and arms.

"Elven magic?" Blurted out Theudofrid. "You linger on left hand magic Wuunferth." Stated Theudofrid in between breaths.

Wuunferth collapsed to his knees before his face hit the stone, completely exhausted.

"It was a Nord using it, wasn't it? Best way to beat an enemy Mage is to use his power against him. Magic is magic. And that goes for the Thu'um as well." Even in defeat Wuunferth managed to have an air of superiority in his voice. 

Bardok planted a boot on his back, the point of his great blade resting at the back of his neck. "Old fool, you'll be put to death for what you've just done."

"Let the old man go," said Baldur. "I've been in more danger than that. From you, in fact, Bardok. Good fight, Wuunferth, I've seen what I've needed to see. Theudofrid, your suppression of magic, can you enchant armor with such properties?"

Still leaning against the wall Theudofrid gave his answer. "What I just used isn't to be taught to anyone, Though I could inscribe unto objects a resistance to the magics, Though it is normally done by Druids not Archdruids not that I would complain."

"As for you Wuunferth there is a time to use such magics upon the foes of man and indeed I do not object to using Elven magic, So long as it's used on the elves not a kinsmen and I am no Mage."

Wuunferth transported towards the door of the palace which was still blown in.

"Humph! I never duel half arsed, a duel in Skyrim amongst any who study the craft of Magnus is a duel to the death! But you have denied me this. I must go now. I will return when the time for war has come."

"Not so fast," said Baldur. "That spell, it was very similar to what the elves used on their Sunbird. What knowledge you have could be useful."

"Hardly. My spell is merely a cheap imitation, it lacks the fundamental principal of mirror dimension surface reflective parable, but if you really must, I've left notes in my office. Now, I really must be off, been looking forward to a vacation for years!"

Before anyone could object, Wuunferth was gone in a cloud of purple. Not that anyone tried.

"Right then." Baldur tossed his Nordic Carved shield at Theudofrid's feet. "I want my shield to be the first enchanted. By you personally. Your Druids can enchant the shields of my Grim Ones. This will be payment for my full support of your mission here in Skyrim. Do this, and you can build whatever gods damned stone you please, where you please within this hold until I am king. Then you can build wherever you wish in all of Skyrim. As well as teach what you wish, so long as you also spread my title of Ash-King wherever you go. Do not say that I am Ysmir, but an avenging ghost of Wulfarth. There's a key difference that I must uphold. And say that it is with my blessing that you guide Skyrim back to the ways of the old gods. Do not condemn Talos' name. If you must, refer to him as Ysmir. Do this and I can see a bright future for Roscrea and Skyrim both."

"I accept your demands, The price is nothing compared to the goal we seek. Your wishes will be respected and as for you shield I may not require any bench or station but to do this will take time and proper transmutation cannot be rushed otherwise your shield would become useless." Theudofrid bent and picked the shield up with his left hand and inspected it.

"Hmm. To do this properly I'll need at least three hours and a quite place to work. Oh and Baldur the Druids aren't mercenary enchanters, I will have them preform this for you but only these Grim Ones will have their shields enchanted. After that you bring fourth what mages you trust and they will be taught."

"Fair enough," said Baldur nodding. "Please believe me when I say that I recognize you're not common mages or wizards. I am grateful for the services of one with your talents, which is why I am granting you position as my court mage, or court arch druid, whichever you prefer to be called, as long as you would have this position that I'm offering you. Wuunferth's room, study and lab are now yours, and you can consider this palace a home away from home."

"I certainly do not object to this, While my original plan was to journey throughout the holds and convert back to the old ways. However given the chain of events I believe it best to serve the roles here in Windhelm, Though depending on how many Grim Ones that have equipment you wish for us to enchant it may take quite a while for two dozen Druids.

And if it is all the same to you could I be directed to my new quarters here?"

"I'll take him. There's quite a bit of us, Baldur, and soon to be even more," said Bardok.

"Yes, indeed. It would take them at least two months likely to enchant that many shields, and Eorlund is behind schedule and likely strained as it is going at this pace. We'll have to do what he's doing then, rely on students to take up the mantle if we want this done in a timely fashion without slowing down your main purpose. Are you confident that you can teach our battlemages your ways thoroughly enough to mimic your work?"

"Could I teach them? I've taught hundreds of aspiring Druids in my time as an Archdruid, If they are willing to be taught then they will learn what I have to teach. With all said there is so much that needs to be done, I'll be shown around the palace then I need to pass on the news to those in wait out in the forest."

"Great," said Baldur, smiling in delight. "This will be the edge that my men need. Show him around quickly, then leave him be. You and I must talk about our preparations for removing the Fort Orcs from Skyrim in greater detail."

"Got it, boss." Looking to Theudorid, he said, "Congratulations, now follow me. Keep up, I'll be moving quickly. It's a big place."

With that Theudofrid was at a brisk pace shown around the palace, The ancient architecture made the old man feel at home as if he was in the halls of a old Roscrean Oppidum. With Wuunferth's now his quarters he certainly was pleased with the room itself, Although all the previous occupant's belongings would need to be removed which could be done in no time and his own belongings set up.

Satisfied with what he was shown Bardok parted ways, After a few hours of cleaning out Wuunferth's belongings Theudofrid made his way outside the palace where off the side to it's doors he whispered forth into his staff. Soon a light breeze brought forth his words to the awaiting Druids outside in the forest. It was time to prepare, The Standing Stones await their placement.

[Witchking of Angmar]

Roscrean Vessel

 

 

Sea of Ghosts, near Skyrim

 

Upon the terribly frigid waters of the Sea of Ghosts which even to a Roscrean was bitterly uncomfortable sailed forth a vessel that bore markings which had yet to be seen in these waters since the Stormcloak Rebellion of Skyrim, The ship itself wasn't too remarkable in it's design as it was to a first glimpse nothing more then a Nordic longship.

Though mostly identical to that of a Nordic longship it had a greater width and length while holding no shields upon the side nor unique designs upon the sail or ship itself, Aside from the minor details the only thing marking it as greatly different was a small cabin slap in the middle of the vessel below the sail.

There part of the crew stood stood eight men huddling their clothes and blankets close to their bodies while sitting on each respective cot, Dressed in thick wool and cotton clothing which unlike their Nordic kinsmen to the south the Roscreans don't drab themselves in animal skin instead preferring the warmth of wool and cotton. They had sailed from a coastal Oppidum on the western edge of Roscrea for nine days now through the treacherous ocean.

Within the cabin that never seems to stop rocking from the waves also sat the longship's captain; Lugubelenus Pahlke. Lugubelenus hailed from the western stretch of Roscrea down by it's southern coast, The Rosco-Nede made his living working with the Eastern Empire Company by acting as the local Roscrean company that would cooperate with the East Empire Company. The business was heading by his great grandfather for fifty-seven years before he himself took it over, Before being annexed by Solitude the Pahlkes were a freeman family. Afterwards the Eastern Empire Company saw it a prime opportunity and started picking up trade at great frequency with the island.

Lugubelenus himself was a peculiar sight at least for those outside of Roscrea, Having the face of someone who would fit in more equipped with Maille. Having a long round face that gets rather narrow the further down his head, A lengthy hooked nose that unlike the Nords most Roscreans have narrow noses and he was no different. Baring the blue eyes most Nords and Roscreans are known to have. His hair was orangey brown and bore six long braids that hung down atop his back and shoulders, Upon his face was a respectable style by Roscrean standards. Having a curved mustache that connected with beard, which it split in two around the chin.

Rather uncharacteristically non-Roscrean thinking on behalf of his forefathers had gotten the Pahlkes to be the Roscrean side of trade with the Eastern Empire Company, It didn't take long for the Pahlkes to be wealthy enough for noble status. Enjoying the luxuries of Tamriel that the rest of the island rarely frequents, The business had been a healthy and continuous one for centuries. Until the Stormcloak Rebellion had planted seeds of rebellion in the Tribal Confederacy, Far from Tamriel the island had cut ties with the Empire, which at this point was a client state instead of a territory. The inability to trade with the Eastern Empire Company and the purposeful unwillingness to reestablish themselves caused Lugubelenus and his ilk to lose their revenue and connections.

They were by no means Imperialized by any stretch of the word yet the luxuries that was found on Tamriel was greatly missed by that family including the gold it brought them and by extent the Chieftains yet the latter was perfectly fine with having their absolute independence from Tamrielic powers.

Thus for years that is how it went for the Pahlkes, Ridicule and disrespect followed for the Roscrean family including a steady loss of gold and workers. It was with great vigor that when the Archdruids commanded that contact with Skyrim would be established Lugubelenus jumped for the opportunity that presented itself.

Securing the blessings of the Drudis and multiple Chieftains he had gained permission to establish trading rights with High Rock. Skyrim was forbidden for the man to secure trading rights for an Archdruid would represent all of Roscrea and he was not to be meddled with by a man seeking trade.

With this turn of events Lugubelenus had set out to sea for Tamriel, with something so important he dare not pass it up to an underling and along with this there was nothing for him in Roscrea that would need his attention. Making this trip to Tamriel was damn well needed for Lugubelenus, Nine days of sailing through the bitter weather of the Sea of Ghosts made everyone aboard dearly wish they had not been the ones to sail south. All except the one Nord of the crew whom stayed outside the cabin in lookout along with some men at the oars.

Throughout the day the men had switched shifts and swapped out to work out in the open vessel, which continued for the better part of the day. Though even the Nord had his limits and took his break within the warmer cabin, Nordic resistance to the cold be dammed this trip was terrible in the longboat.

Yet as the day grew on and dusk began to set in the lookout at the bow of the ship whom's main duty was to watch for icebergs had spotted off in the distance as far as the horizon would allow a thin line, Making sure his eyes didn't deceive him the Roscrean sailor sat there for seventeen minutes intently watching what he hoped was the shore. While minuscule it did appear to grow in size to which the sailor being confident that this was not his mind playing tricks plopped himself up and made his way to the cabin.

Alerting Lugubelenus and those inside of the news, Thrilled to finally be making progress he exited the cabin to see for himself. The outside was no doubt ten to fifteen degrees colder yet it didn't bother him too much more then it already did, Seeing the shoreline was enough to make him ecstatic. Soon the entire crew was made aware. Gleefully working throughout the rest of the night with thoughts of warm bedding and clean spring or well water. It wasn't until six hours later that they were in the midst of sailing into Dawnstar's port.

The city was well illuminated and made docking the longboat a easy task, After haling the cargo inside the cabin and locking it the crew with it's captain settled down in the city. The Windpeak Inn was the crew's home for two days, The warm beds were ever so greatly needed by the crew and they were certainly used the first night. Although the lack of available water was disappointing to them all with exception of the Nord whom chugged whatever mead found its way into his hands.

Never the less Lugubelenus enjoyed his time on dry land, the local Nords were friendly enough but that's most likely because he was no elf and was rather generous with drinks around the inn. With their bellies filled with warm food and the ship stocked up a bit more it was to the crew's dismay time to bid farewell to Dawnstar.

The second day saw the longship off, this time they'd only be sailing around the coast towards Farrun in High Rock. The weather was much more forgiving along this coastal run then the stretch between Roscrea and Tamriel which at the time made Lugubelenus wish he owned those fancy ships the Eastern Empire Company used.

Never the less the hours went by quickly and soon turned into days. The sightseeing was nice being able to look Port and not see an endless ocean. It was an uneventful trip and soon on the second day the Breton port city made it's way into the lookout's view whom this time was Lugubelenus himself. Ordering the crew to ease the sail they drifted towards the closest port that held no other vessels.

Once docked, Lugubelenus and the rest of the crew found themselves in serious want for attention. Eventually the harbormaster did arrive, but his confusion at the identity of the Roscreans and their home made the conversation slow. Eventually he, upon realizing this was a previously untapped source of revenue for Farrun, left toward the castle. Again the Roscreans waited, until several hours later the harbormaster returned with the steward of the LaRouche family, who ruled the Breton port city. The captain was then invited to the castle.

Having been invited to see the Lord and Lady made Lugubelenus think about his approach to this situation, Firstly he changed out of the clothes used in the voyage and into much nicer dress by Roscrean standards that was packed for such occasion albeit he never expected to be called to a Breton court.

Draped in a plaid kyrtill tunic that bore a wide number of colors from green to brown, red to orange, yellow to blue and a number of other masculine Roscrean colors which under the kyrtill bore an undertunic that was light blue with darker blue vertical stripes through the length of it although with the kyrtill only the long sleeves were seen. His trousers were like the undertunic and bore the same pattern and tucked into his boots, A simply belt was held tight around his waist which he preferred this to tucking his tunics in. Humorously enough the must distinguishing thing about his outfit although unintentional were the puttees wrapped around his legs, which came up to the knee.

While bringing a set of maille within the longship along with a respectably crafted (if not archaic to the Bretons) Roscrean sword. Lugubelenus left both safely locked away in the cabin, He had enough contact with other foreign peoples to tolerate their ways and while uncomfortable without it Lugubelenus left his sword back upon the vessel. Knowing that he'd be in the presence of the 'Civilized' folk and believing they'd not allow him entry while armed.

Lord and Lady LaRouche greeted Lugubelenus in the great hall. Lord Marc LaRouche was large bodied man, but with thick arms and a muscular chest that spoke to a warrior gone fat, and not a man who had always been soft-bodied. He had a trim brown beard that clung close to his cheeks. His wife, Lady Evangeline LaRouche, was a fair-skinned woman with dark blue eyes and light brown hair. She was a fit looking woman herself, and stood only slightly shorter than her husband. Flanking them were several guards, each wearing a tunic of garish gold and green over their steel armor. On the breast of the tunics, on the banners hanging from the walls, and on the flags atop the tower, were the dark green bear on a gold background that was the sigil of the LaRouche family.

While never really dealing with Breton royalty he assumed that bowing in some form or another was customary, Thus when entering the presence of the Lord and Lady he bowed his head down tilting it to the left a little while bringing up his left hand. A simple bow but to Lugubelenus it should be enough.

"Good evening, sir. Welcome to Farrun. We understand you've come quite a way," Lady LaRouche said. 

"I have sailed down a great distance to reach your domain, The trip was terrible and frigid and the ocean dotted with icebergs. I represent nay head the one form of trading commerce within Roscrea, Having reentered the Tamrielic sphere I find it good tidings for a healthy and profitable time for exchanging trading rights." Replied the Roscrean, His voice not quite booming throughout the court yet neither was it quiet. Having done enough exchange with Imperials Lugubelenus finds it better to deal with foreigners with a softer voice then what he is used to which is indeed loud and booming.

"Sounds like quite the perilous journey. We are glad you've made it here safely," Lady LaRouche replied with a kind smile.

"Fortunately, you need not travel further. Luck would have it Prince Adrard is on his way to Farrun as we speak. In a few days time, you can meet with him and together we all shall forge a very profitable relationship," Lord LaRouche said.

"That is rather fortunate, Now unless the two of you exalted as you may be knows what resources and luxuries High Rock can put forth in these trading rights could I speak to those whom know?" replied Lugubelenus.

"For Roscrea isn't an island that bores luxuries, what we can offer is a rich output of raw and if requested refined materials. From our northern shores washes up a never ceasing tide of amber which is valuable to our people if not in great abundance. Timber, wool, cotton, lead and produce are perhaps the most mundane of what we can offer on top of fine silvers although this is not in abundance."

"What we would favor in trade are luxuries that is unfound in our island, Though I suggest nothing against your honor the Eastern Empire Company had in the past tried to swindle us as though we were too uneducated to know I think that the civilized people of High Rock would not try such underhanded things no?"

Truth be told of the races of man seen in the eyes of Roscreans it is the Bretons that are looked down upon mostly, while holding great aversion to their conquerors the Imperials the opinion of the Breton is seen as cowardly people who would rather triumph through words then iron and that while seen as honorless they do have slight respect for Imperials as they were defeated by them. Of course Lugubelenus knows that's only a half-truth if at all.

"What luxuries through trade does High Rock offer?"

"Silks as fine as any you've ever seen, jewelry crafted by the most delicately handed smiths, books and tomes long thought lost to history; all this and more we can offer you. Our textiles are among the best in Tamriel, and our luxuries perfectly suited for the people of Roscrea," Lord LaRouche said. His eyes seemed almost twinkling as he spoke of the Breton luxuries. 

"These words are like honey, It leaves a sweet taste in the mouth yet leaves you wanting more. I wish to see the quality of what you offer and I have brought a sample of our own goods, It is stored within my vessel out within the docks. Certainly I would wait until it be convenient for the good Lord but I should see with my own eyes what is offered."

"Yes... Our people have very strict and peculiar tastes in many of things."

Lugubelenus refrained from showing excitement although he was becoming quite pleased, unless the Lord was exaggerating then this could be just what he needed. Trade without Imperial imposed restrictions with such fine luxuries. Or so they claimed.

"Our steward will accompany you back to your vessel to gage the quality of you samples. On the way there, he can take you through the markets, to show you just what we offer. Once you are satisfied, return here and you can stay as our honored guest until the Prince arrives," Lady LaRouche said.

The Roscrean nodded his head, looking pleased with what honeyed words were passed on and that the Bretons spoke more then of 'honey'.

Once released from the court Lugubelenus toured throughout the port's varies markets, Having the steward direct him most of the time although deviating from the chosen paths to browse around the sections and stalls meant for the serfs and poorer folks. Overall he was satisfied with the quality of the goods that at the very least reflected Farrun's stock Lugubelenus was ready to show the Stewart his own stock albeit what he brought was not of abundance due to the perilous journey.

Making their way back to the Roscrean's longship he unlocked the cabin and hauled his cargo out, the cargo was splayed around in front of the cabin and whatever may be wrapped or stored was taken out.

There was a small satchel of Roscrean carved gold coins, While archaic in many regards the Roscreans had extremely skilled metallurgists among them which reflected in the coins. Unlike Imperial coins they didn't all have the same stamped image, Instead it greatly varied from coin to coin. The prominent styles of the coins depicted Sacred Groves, Menhirs, Runic carvings and faces of great Roscreans long passed away. However Lugubelenus noted to the Stewart that not all coins were carved in such detailed fashion and that this was done by numerous skilled metallurgists.

Moving on to show the man another thing was a set of Roscrean armor splayed out neatly onto the deck, It was what the Roscrean called a 'Set of Ceannlann' explaining that it was scales sewn unto maille which in turn was sewn atop linen making a finely crafted three layered set. While this set mirrored a hauberk in which it covered the entire torso and arms but didn't extend farther, Lugubelenus explained that sets which fully cover the body are popular among the wealthy. All in all this was an example of the quality of the iron from Roscrean mines to Roscrean smiths.

These were the two important bits at least to the Roscrean, Within the cargo also lay a couple of pieces of amber jewelry which one piece actually held a small insect trapped within, A couple of lead busts of very Rosco-Nedic looking people which while nothing compared to the quality the civilized sculptors could do it wasn't poorly crafted either.

With that Lugubelenus explained that he couldn't exactly bring along all the resources that could be offered, this was just an example.

The steward looked generally pleased with the goods from Roscrea, and soon they returned to the castle to report back to Lord and Lady LaRouche. They, too, were pleased to hear of the Roscrean goods, and the group retired to a light evening meal of stuffed dove breasts, pickled fish no longer than a finger, and eggs cakes filled with a peppery sauce. They exchanged exaggerated tales of their own exploits, and all had a merry time.

**

Roland Adrard

Farrun

 

The Prince of High Rock leaned out the window of his carrack and vomited profusely. He considered himself lucky that this was purely a bout of seasickness and not from the cursed plague, but it was hard to feel very lucky when the inside of his throat burned and his stomach was totally empty. Having retched up the last of his breakfast, he pulled his head back in a flopped onto his bed. He would have preferred to lie there all day, but unfortunately for him, they were docking at Farrun. And that meant meeting with Lord and Lady LaRouche, for at least a day or two. It would mean getting on dry, immobile land, but it also meant moving, and right now Roland wasn’t sure which he preferred.

Ultimately the choice wasn’t his, because if he didn’t meet with the LaRouches they would be offended, and if there was any mantra that guided a prince in High Rock, it was to keep the nobles happy. Even that didn’t guarantee a peaceful rule, but it certainly did more good than ignoring the social obligations one owed to their vassals. Especially ones like the LaRouches.

Unlike the present lords and ladies of Jehanna, Evermor, and Wayrest, who all owed either their titles or lives to the Adrards, the LaRouches were as self-made as a noble family could be. Which made them dangerous in a way none of the others were. They swore allegiance to the Adrards, of course, but the depth of that allegiance was unknown. Roland suspected it was merely superficial, since they had no real vested interest in seeing his family succeed. But, so long as many more nobles were tied to his family, the LaRouches were worth only keeping an eye on, and nothing more.

In this case, that meant several of his grandmother’s spies. Roland wasn’t quite sure how she managed her spy network, and knew he needed to ask at some point. When it came time for him to rule one day, without her and without his parents, he’d need to know how to conduct those affairs on his own, or have some knowledge of how they worked. But his grandmother was not the most forthcoming person, so he hoped she would actually tell him something when he asked.

It always felt strange to Roland to think about ruling without his family members. His parents and grandmother were the ones that solidified their rule and ensured familial stability atop High Rock. Roland had played only a minor role, and though he’d been able to observe and learn, it left him feeling somewhat like an outsider. And yet it was he who would rule when his parents passed, and his soon to be born child who would inherit afterwards. His disconnect wasn’t helped by the fact his parents were naturally secretive, and that some of the choices they did make left Roland feeling ill at ease. That was, again, something he needed to discuss with them. The more he considered his rule, the more he realized how much he still needed to learn, and how much his parents and grandmother kept from him.

Thankfully he could put those disconcerting thoughts aside for the moment, as the royal flotilla docked at the port of Farrun. Roland, thankful for the quiet waters of the bay, stood and drank a pleasant tasting potion that would settle his stomach and clear his head of the dizziness. He put on his fur-lined blue silk cloak over his brown doublet, which was emblazoned with the Adrard bull sigil. He checked his appearance in the mirror. His light brown eyes were slightly bloodshot and the bags beneath his eyes from the previous sleepless nights were just beginning to fade. His chocolate colored hair was tousled, but it was short enough that he fixed it quickly with a brush. With the boat now done with its rocking, he called his servant in and had a quick shave, and afterwards was ready to meet his vassals.

Lady Gaerhart and Lord Admiral Theirry were waiting on the deck for him, surrounded by more than enough knights to keep them safe, with more on the other ships should trouble arise. In truth, the guard was here for Skyrim, due to their recent Thalmor problem. Everyone thought it was prudent to be prepared in the event the Thalmor took advantage of the moot to try and kill several prominent persons in one fell swoop. Red-Snow promised safety, but Roland and his family had their concerns.

Even still, it made Roland feel safer to have the guard with him in Farrun, given the LaRouche’s questionable loyalties. It also made moving through the crowds surrounding the docks and the nearby markets a breeze, though the guards of Farrun in their green and gold helped in that respect. It was quick walk to the castle, and by they time they arrived Roland realized just how much he’d missed dry land.

The gates were thrown upon and a fanfare of minstrels and musicians greeted the Prince and his entourage, though the songs they sang were of his father’s exploits, and not his own. Still, it was a warm reception, made even warmer when the LaRouches ushered their guests into the great hall and his massive, blazing hearths.

Once the tumult subsided and pleasantries were exchanged all around, Lord LaRouche said, “And we have a surprise visitor for you, Prince Roland. A visitor from the far north, from Roscrea.”

Roland could see the gleam in his eyes as he said that. He knew instantly what it meant, too. LaRouche suspected the Prince might not know of Roscrea, given its removal from and relative insignificance in regards to Tamriel. But Roland, though not studious as a child, was not dim, and was not naïve enough to think this would be the only LaRouche sally to test his defenses on this visit. “So the Roscreans resurface once again? In winter, no less. Where is your visitor, Lord LaRouche? I would love to meet them.”

“This way, Your Majesty,” Lady LaRouche answered for her husband, the false smile of Breton nobility covering up whatever it was she truly wanted to express. Roland returned the smile and followed the LaRouches toward the end of the great hall, just beneath the dais on which their thrones sat.

A tall, Nordic looking man sat there, drinking a glass of water. At least, he looked Nordic to Roland, with no discernable differences from his southern relatives. He did wear cotton instead of fur, and the water instead of mead was an obvious departure from most Nords. Still, he seemed more normal than Roland expected from a person who lived just as close, if not closer, to Atmora than Tamriel.

“Prince Roland Adrard, meet Lugubelenus Pahlke, from Roscrea,” Lord LaRouche said, sweeping his meaty hands toward the Roscrean as he announced him.

Lugubelenus had after the splendid feast with the Lord and Lady had with the knowledge that someone of importance would be docking made sure to be as presentable as possible, Taking time to have a Breton barber tidy up his face which was until then scraggly and somewhat unkept from the voyage. Aside from this and cleaning himself up in an overly fancy private bathing room he donned some clothes that better showed his status as a Roscrean Arjos.

In fact the most striking thing about him was the very ethnic looking golden torc around his neck, Which was the only piece of jewelry he chose to wear and was not uncommon for Roscreans as it was quite popular there. It was of great detail and spectacular design at least from a Roscrean point of view. Other then these Lugubelenus had similar clothing that he wore when first meeting the Lord and Lady.

With the entrance and announcement of the Breton prince Lugubelenus set down his drink and stood.

"Hail to thee Breton, I hope that our meeting here today will be a merry one."

"As do I," Roland said with a small, friendly smile. "I hope your journey here was a safe one. I do wonder, why did you brave the Sea of Ghosts to visit High Rock?"

Lugubelenus grimaced for a moment. "The journey was bitter and cold, Roscrean blood be damned it was painful. Though I hadn't encountered any Sea-Ghosts, which would mean the end of my journey, Yet I dread the thought of sailing back in the weather. As for why I had braved the horrid spirit infested waters?" Lugubelenus indulged his habit of stroking his beard as he spoke.

"Upon the orders of the Archdruids our island is reemerging into the Tamrielic sphere which for me means only one thing, Get my damnable hands on trading rights and High Rock is while not the closest it will be able to benefit from trade as would we from you. Our island cannot offer any more luxuries then your people already hold but Roscrea can offer many practical resources and what our people could really use is some luxuries they've been without for years.

“Our people are too proud to admit it but trade with other nations besides Skyrim would bolster the economy, though I dread the public opinion of both freemen and arjos once the Empire is included too."

"Pride is dangerous. People often make unwise decisions because of it," Lady Gaerhart pointedly said. "If trade with us will be such a boon, why do your people shy away from it?"

Lugubelenus looked a bit flabbergasted as he tried to explain the situation. "It's difficult to explain. Our people have for thousands of years been independent without outside influences. Come the Empire and suddenly our ancestors are forced into a foreign Empire's land.

“My family was the only ones willing to do trading with the East Empire and that started two centuries ago, Our people will welcome with upen arms trade with Skyrim, Begrudgingly accept trade with High Rock and will have my head if I get trading rights with with Empire itself."

"Once they see what High Rock has to offer the Roscrean people, I'm sure they'll come around," Lady LaRouche said with bubbly optimism. 

"The Empire has a way of engendering resentment. More skill in that then keeping their Empire intact," the pegged legged Lord Admiral Theirry said, the first time he spoke since they arrived. 

Roland hoped Lady LaRouche's optimism would prove true, or at least a bond could form based upon their mutual dislike of the Empire. The Prince sat down, and the others followed suit. "You mentioned your land has practical resources. What resources specifically?"

With the rest of the group sitting down Lugubelenus did the same, Next to his glass he picked up what seemsed to be a scroll and splayed it across the table which revealed it to be a map that was dated 3E280 and written with Imperial font.

He pointed to the northernmost stretch. "This entire mountainous region is absolutely rich in iron ore, It was and is our most valuable resource and our production of it is enough to make maille quite available to even Freemen so think about how it can benefit High Rock and even then we aren't even mining the entire region.

“Given what I've seen here I could list our other resources but the iron is the most valuable thing we can offer in trade."

Roland was impressed the man came so prepared, but he began to sense the purpose the LaRouches had in this surprise meeting. It was another test, a far more important one, to see how he handled operating away from his mother and father. Roland wasn't about to given them any cause to doubt his abilities. "This is a pleasant surprise, especially on the eve of war with he Dominion. Being able to better armor our troops will undoubtedly help us. Out of curiosity, what other goods do the Roscreans traffic in?"

Instead of answering himself Lugubelenus looked upon the LaRouches with an arched eyebrow, He would not answer the question, instead choosing to put forth a test of his own. To see if they were truely serious about the trade rights, if they were then surely in Lugubelenus' mind they'd remember.

Lord LaRouche didn't immediately notice Lugubelenus's gesture, so it was Lady LaRouche who said, "I believe our esteemed guest mentioned they also produced cotton, wool, and lead in quantities enough to trade."

"How is it you manage level of production so high as to produce a surplus for trade?" Though Roland doubted the LarRouches would be so brash as to attempt it, part of him thought this all could be an elaborate set up by the LaRouches to humiliate him. But that was paranoia, as every indication was that this man was a real Roscrean. And though they didn't owe their position to his family, they didn't seem any more a threat than most nobles.

Lugubelenus gave forth a toothy grin, His barbaric looking face didn't help it look any less menacing albeit unintentionally.

"No doubt it would boggle the mind to think of why we aren't mud hut dwellers, My friend we have had over a thousand years of development and with the Druids our people have continued to embrace Jhunal. Roscrea is so often overlooked by the outside world that they forget how developed we are. Though I admit we are not as advanced technologically.

“You see our population is around a hundred and seventy thousand, Compare to Tamrielic countries and that's nothing. Roscrea is bountiful indeed for our folk."

"So these druids use magic to make the land arable enough and the cold tolerable enough to thrive?" Roland asked. 

The Roacrean made a grunting noise in response. "I have not the slightest clue how they do it. You'll have to talk with a Druid because I sure wasn't taught how that works."

Roland nodded in understanding and briefly drifted off into his own thoughts. When he returned, he planted a finger on the map, right where Farrun sat and where everyone in the great hall sat. Tracing a path straight through the Sea of Ghosts to Roscrea, he asked, "How long does take to get from here to there?"

Lugubelenus tapped his finger on an Oppidum settled on the western coast of Roscrea "Well the coastal Oppidum of Boiliobris would suite the needs. It was the one Oppidum where the Eastern Empire made the most trade in and the closest port to Tamriel that has the greatest ease of access. With a longship it would take at least a week if the weather favored you. Though with your fancy vessels and a strong wind I say about a week and a half there and back."

"With as an ill a reputation as the Sea of Ghosts has, and after seeing what it did to the Empire's and Skyrim's vessels during their war, is the trip safe enough to justify this trade?" 

"Well that's up to you, Solitude greatly benefited from trade with Roscrea when they annexed us way back when. The Eastern Empire found it profitable to trade with us when we became a client state gods that was in my time anyways, If you get yourself Nordic or perhaps Roscrean sailors then it's doable. Just gotta be sharp men and woman. Bit of luck involved too otherwise the Sea-Ghosts will take your mind."

"We will want to hire Roscreans or Nords as guides. But I do think this is something we can agree to," Roland said. 

"Ah! So we have agreement then?"

"I believe we do. The crown will contract with a merchant company, who will sell their luxury goods and buy iron ore or ingots. Then the crown will buy the iron for use in weapons and armor. Will that suit the Roscreans?"

"Certainly will, upon my return I'll have word spread to the Chieftains and it will be set in stone. Of course I'll be leaving a few men here in High Rock so there is someone to contact with a bit of authority on the trade with our side.

"Of course if it's all the same to your captains I'd sail back on one of your merchant ships. Gods above it's better sailing then on longships. Plus I'd show them the correct routes and what to avoid."

"It will take some time before our ships can leave for Roscrea. I'll need to write back to the King and Queen in Camlorn, and then they'll negotiate with the merchant companies before contracting with one. It may be best if you send your ship back to contact your people, while you wait to guide the merchants to Roscrea.

"I apologize for the delay, but we are headed to Skyrim on a diplomatic mission and cannot afford to wait around here to negotiate a contract."

"Quite understandable that is, If the Lord and Lady does not object I suppose I could continue to dwell in Farrun for the time being. Come favorable weather I'll send off my ship. Poor sods gotta sail back without me and don't worry about delays. I've been waiting for an opportunity for years now and I'll wait a little longer to make it work."

Roland looked to Lord and Lady LaRouche, who were cheerful and accepting of their new visitor, though whether they actually felt that way he couldn't say. Lady LaRouche said, "Of course, you may stay as long as need be."

Roland started to clap his hands together, but realized he was merely imitating the gesture he'd seen his father do. Instead, he motioned a servant over. "I think we should celebrate this trade deal. A vintage from Skingrad should do nicely, if the LaRouches would so kindly oblige."

"As Your Majesty wishes," Lord LaRouche said with a deferring nod.

The servant bowed and soon returned with a bottle of a fine red reserve from the West Weald. Their glasses were poured, and Roland raised his in a toast. "To healthy trade between Bretons and Roscreans."

Lugubelenus was truly pleased with the events that transpired. Damn all the Arjos that doubted him back in Roscrea. Come some time soon he'd make sure to humiliate them in similar fashion. Pushing these thoughts to the back of his mind he raised his glass for the toast and proceeded to chug it down in two gulps. He had to suppress a burp afterwards too.

"To newfound luxury for Freemen and Arjos, Along with safe tidings on the deadliest sea."

[Witchking of Angmar]

Farrun, 

The waffing smell of spices, cooked meat, and exotic food hung on there air, as the bright sun shone down its rays of light across Tamriel, even in this cold winter. The market place was fulled with people, of all cultures and races, and there voices hang on the air like an orchestra. Even in this cold weather, this place was filled with so many people! This was to be expected from a large port city, such as Farrun, but it was still a grand site! Breton merchants sold there wares to passerby's in stalls, Khajit skuled around, looking for the cheapest prices, Imperials yelled, and argue with a merchant for such inflated prices, and nords screamed for more drinks at a nearby tavern. Armored Breton Guardsmen patrolled, clad in steel armor, wearing the colors of there noble lord,  hoping to catch a thief, or stop a brawl in progress to impress there captain. Lugubelenus had rarely seen this much commotion and chaos in Roscrea.

The Roscrean sailor walked down the cobbled robes, glancing around at all the sights the port had to offer. Surely a day or two of relaxation would be okay? 

His wondrous sight seeing was interrupted by a voice from behind. "Excuse me, good sir, are you Captain Lugubelenus  of Roscrea?" The voice belonged to a man. An Imperial. The man in question was average looking, brown hair, brown eyes, tanned skin and a small goette. His hair had plenty of grey streaks in them, so one could assume he was in his late forties or early fifties.  Going by his very clean, handsome face, and rather fancy-looking red garments, one could assume he was a merchant. Probably a wealthy one. 

Spinning on the heels of his boots he spun around and faced the Imperial. "Greetings!" he yelled out over the constant noise of the market. "You're speaking to him though I wouldn't consider myself a captain in the truest sense rarely don my sea legs, What can I do for you on such forgiving of days?"

"Ah forgive me." The man offered his hand forward, surprisingly, they were covered in scars and other ripples that ruined the skin, "I am Arvio Sexitus, of Anvil. I run the local East Empire warhouse. One of my...contacts told me a well-to do merchant from Roscrea was making the rounds around here. I was wondering if you were interested in some...business talks, and perhaps a few cups of Cyrdoilic brandy?" The man smiled. Though it was kindly, and did not seem false in any way.

Lugubelenus' bottom lip slightly quivered as the Imperial spoke his name, Thankfully it was subtle enough to hopefully be unnoticed. Imperial names sometimes tickle his funny bone. "Ah..I see well I've dealt with the East Empire before and if you represent them here then I suppose it's in my interest to hear you out. As for the brandy I must decline, Can't handle that brand too rich for me."

"Then perhaps some wine?" He motioned for the Roscrean to follow him, before walking in a moderate pass down the cobble road. The bodyguard followed behind them, eyes trained for threats. A bodyguard didn't need to even make a single stroke of his blade, as most would-be assassins wouldn't dare try it. He spoke in a supringly deep voice for an Imperial, "Is this your first time in Farrun? Many interesting sights to be seen." They walked past a large gathering of servants carrying large furniture through the crowds.

"First time here, First time in Tamriel actually. You know I cannot remember for the life of me, Does the Empire officially consider Roscrea to be a part of Tamriel?" Asked Lugubelenus as he followed the Imperial, He wasn't testing nor messing with the man. It was an honest question.

"Yes, though...the official Imperial Stance is a tad bit different." He didn't elobate further "I've been to a handful of your ports before, actually. Roscreans are quite different then the Nords in Skyrim, and the Skaal in Solsthiem, let me tell you! Food tastes better too!" He said with a slight laugh, "Though yes. If the dozens of distant, East Empire outposts and colonies on far out islands are considered Tamriel, a rather large and distinctive Island like Roscrea, should be considered part of Tamriel too, wouldn't you agree?

"Whether I agree or not Imperial steel made Roscrea a part of Tamriel." Lugubelenus laughed at the joke, It happened so long ago so in his opinion why still hold a grudge against a people that can mutually benefit from trade now. "Though ask most Roscreans and they'll tell you differently, Humor aside geographically Roscrea is in between Atmora and Morrowind along with Skyrim so it could be either or."

"Ahhh, yes, the Septims annexed you. Though a few Roscreans warriors I met, long ago, said there was still some respect for the Legion, and Imperials as soldiers. They did beat your warriors after all." He said with a small smile, increasing his speed a little. "I've never had the pleasure, or fortune of going to Atmora. I've heard the East Empire have made several attempts, but haven't heard from them. They could be a prosperous coloney by now, or maybe in a Sea Monsters gullet! I mainly led charters to explore desolate tropical islands." 

"Oh no doubt from a warrior's point of view the Legion is to be respected, Three hard years of fighting an entrenched population that was well supplied  was no easy task yet the Emperor at the time did it. Our own folk tried to recolonize Eastern Atmora too with limited success, For a time a few ports along with southernmost stretch was used as a base to travel further inland but it proved to difficult to maintain and was abandoned. Gods above that was what seventy years before the Empire conquered Roscrea.

I'm guessing you stayed along with ports to the southwest, Southwestern port Oppida are used to contact with outsiders and tolerates it though inland there have been murders." He cleared his throat to change the subject, No need to talk about the string of unfortunate events with Eastern Empire folks.

"As for the attempts surely they could have set up upon the coast for a time but like our attempts they likely failed."

"Ah, that's unfortunate. Just a moment" He paused for a moment. They had reached the warhouse it seemed, as they were now very near the waterfront. They stood outside a large building. The Imperial merchant took a small key from his pocket, and used it to open the sturdy door, into the warehouse. A few guards, all clad in light Imperial armor, stood on guard duty. They weren't soldiers, but hired mercenaries, mostly Nords and Bretons. Inside was a massive room, filled with wooden crates, and boxes of all widths and heights stacked up to each other. In the warehouse alone, the Roscrean sailor could only imagine how much money they made from this haul alone. It seemed, even after High Rock has left the Empire, the East Empire Company still did alot of business in its borders. The man told the bodyguard to stay here, and the two merchants walked on inside, passing by several East Empire employers and more guards. Finally reach a wooden door, the merchant took out, this time from his belt, another key, using it to open the door.

Inside was a spacious room, with a small desk, expensive couch, chairs, tables and several shelves, all covered in moldy books, and artifacts of all kinds were scattered across the room, mostly attached to the walls. Just from a casual glance, he could see a cliff racer  skeleton hanging over the room, with ancient blades, axes, spears, and shields of all cultures and make scattered around. A few other objects of note, including a dragon claw made from solid diamond, with nordic runes etched into, and even a small, horrible dagger, sickly, oozing a black aura, safety tucked away in a locked glass case. The merchant drew a chair, and offered it forward, "Make yourself at home, friend! Shall you have some wine, before we get to the business at hand!"

Lugubelenus heeded the Imperial's words and set himself down on the couch, The soft cushions threatened to make him drowsy though he stayed awake. "Quite a collector you are Sexitus, Quite the collector... I'll take a small glass, Nothing more as a clear mind is essential in transactions." A low chuckle escaped from Lugubelenus' mouth. "And you were saying we're different from Nords of Skyrim eh, You ain't wrong there."

"I was quite the explorer when I was younger.  Most of the stuff here I found an expeditions! Never had time to marry, as I was always rushing to sign up for exploration assignments from the head office! Nothing beats the smell of an ancient nord tomb fille with Draugr, or a desolate, ruined Maormer port filled with giant replies that want to eat me."

He paused, taking a large bottle from one of the shelves, grabbing two glasses pouring crimson liquid into each one. "Truth be told, i'm most fond of the Skaal from Solsthiem. Nords can be proud and stubborn. Roscrean's even more so.  No offense of course. The Skaal are firm, but a very welcoming people, as long as you respect them and there culture." 

He gave the glass to the sailor, "You must forgive me. I have a rather limited selection of wine. I drink mostly brandy, and whiskey." He took a glass, and brought it up in a cheer, "To Roscrea!" 

Mirroring what the Imperial did he raised his glass. "For Cyrodiil." Lugubelenus took a sip of it, While certainly of good taste he was growing sick of beverages. Too many rich drinks in the past week for his taste, Though it wasn't at that point just yet.

"I ain't taking offense after all that's a true statement, We aren't the friendliest bunch more isolationist then the Nords. Truth be told not many people realize it but our Chieftain's actions would have meant war had the Empire not been tied up with the Stormcloaks, Of course you know this being an Imperial. I hope that with these Thalmor being a threat that the Empire won't turn it's eyes up north once again."

"Her Majesty Draconius is rather fond of Nords, or so i've heard. I wouldn't worry about it that much. I've actually known the Empress since she was a little girl. I am quite close to her uncle, a very high ranking memeber of the East Empire Companies inner circle.  Stern, but very fair. From what i've seen, she's far more concered with keeping Cyrodili safe and prosperous, as well as gathering allies for when the Dominion comes knocking on the door, then reconquering lost territory. A realist, that woman is." He took a small sip from the glass, giving him a small smile,

"You must know, that contrary to popular belief, the East Empire company is not the Empire. We have very close ties with it, but we aren't part of it. We are centered in Cyrdoili, but we maintain contracts all over Tamriel, and beyond. Infact, we have are own mercenary force, fleet, and charter colonies we control. A propsperous Empire, however, is quite favorable for us. And even in its weathered state, its still by far the strongest of all the human nations on Tamriel." 

"No doubt of that, Out of curiosity do you know why Roscreans have such an aversion to the Empire? It's sad really because personally I think we could have benefited had things gone differently, But the Empire is hated so because when Roscrea was conquered our ancestors were plunged into a dark age which continued up until my very own lifetime." He downed his glass in a few gulps and couldn't suppress a burp that time.

"Aside from that why hate the Empire? They brought luxury to a luxury deprived island and by the Gods the Eastern Empire Company could bring back these goods. With High Rock and no doubt Skyrim partaking in trade the Eastern Empire would benefit our folk, Though our damn hatred of the Empire prevents the common man from wanting it!"

"Exactly my point, good man! The Empire is rich in wealth, and goods that would certainly benefit the common man in Roscrea! And us in the East Empire Company, could provide the means for that to happen! Trade with Cyrdoili would be a win, win scenario for every party involved!" The sailor was beginning to see why Arvio had brought him here. Perhaps he was proposing a business deal. "Surely they would understand in Roscrea, that the Empire of today, is far different that what it was. A completley different, more humble dynasty Her majesty is a fine, good woman. She cares for her subjects deeply, if you would visit Cyrdoili, you would see that. She would no doubt be very open to trade with Roscrea. I'm very aware of the high quality iron ore your people are known to produce. Perhaps we can come...to an understanding? What did the princeling offer you?"

"The biggest problem in Roscrea if you consider it a problem is that there isn't a central authority, We are ruled by a Tribal Council of the Chieftains of our greatest Oppida. Nobody admits it but this very system of governing had played a huge part in our loss to the Empire, A few Chieftains might approve of trade rights but the others would object and the Archderuids would have to be called in and just...It's not efficient anymore. Only Chieftain in the Tribal Council who speaks out against this and for a Roscrean Kingdom is Berahthram Silver-Shield, Then you have the Freemen and Arjos whom will mostly object.

They'd be feasting upon Cryodillic grapes and curse the Empire at the same time, Ain't much to convince them otherwise. The failed Imperialization of Roscrea attributed to that. Personally I'd not even hesitate to gain trading rights with the Eastern Empire Company."

"Well then, you have a problem. A big problem." The Imperial began to scratch his chin, "Have you considered going the route of Skyrim? It has a similar system, if i'm not mistaken. Jarls. The jarls meet at a moot to elect a High King. The High King is the ultimate power, but the various holds still have a great deal of autonomy. Perhaps Roscrea could adapt a similar system? Keep your tribal confederacy, but matain a High Chieften, or something similar. Or, this Silver-Shield could seize power for himself. But enough of that." He waved his hands, "You mentioned before that a part of Roscre is very open to outsides, compared to the rest at least. Perhaps we could start there, and once the others see the wealth, and splendor it brings, could convince the other tribes to agree to it."

"In our history we've had two who claimed the tittle of Brennus, One was Aerventorix and the second was Ariogecorix. After Ariogecorix our far ancestors did not have a worthy successor which is why the Druids stepped in and formed what you still see today. Alas we cannot go that route, The old ways are set in stone though there are those that would wish to see a Roscrean Kingdom few have the power or authority to back these feelings. Only Berahthram has the means yet I doubt he'd ever oppose the Tribe." Lugubelenus couldn't but indulge in stroking his beard.

"Western Roscrea has the population that benefited the most from trade given that's where it comes in from, Further east you go the more traditional it gets and it gets that way quickly. Think of it like Skyrim in fact! It wouldn't be too difficult I suppose though the backlash against my name will be severe, I fear it will be seen as an attempt at Imperializing Roscrea once again."

The Imperial Merchant smiled, "Let us be honest with one another, two merchants to another. Besides our love for our countries, family, and friends, somthing else binds us. Profit." He said with a smirk, "The trade with Roscrea and the Empire would make you very wealthy, don't you think? A great deal more wealthy, then just trading with the Nords, and the Bretons. I'm sure you would admit, the wealth, and richess the Empires posses far excess the Bretons here." He paused, "Yes,  your reputation would indeed take a hit, for a time. But this is a necessary step back, and only in the short terrm. Once all the trade flows, the life of quality improves, I think your people will appreciate the service you've done for them. What is wrong with getting rich, and helping your people at the same time?" 

"The Bretons either asked for exclusive trade rights, or lowered prices, for your iron goods, correct? Let me propose a counter offer. I will give you a letter, with an official East Empire Binding. A letter of introduction. You will take it to the Empress, and she will grant you a personnel audience. The Empress is a smart girl, her majesty will see the benefits of trading with your people, and agree to a trade route, between Roscrea, and Cyrodili threw the East Empire Company. To keep the Princeling happy, he can keep his lowered prices. However, Roscrean goods would instead of have to come from Cyrdoili, first, and then by either a serrate boat or caravan, go to High Rock. Effectiley giving the East Empire Company a surplus of new Roscrean goods to flood the market, and slight control over the trade. You will convince your people, of the East Empire Companies good intentions, and encourage trade between the two of them."

"You will not tell Prince Adravd of this. You are not going back on your word. Your simply not telling him an important detail."

The man smiled.  He was far more business savy then his airhead personality gave him credit for. He clapped his hands, and two soldiers went in carrying a large crate. "As a show of my good will, here is a gift, to show you I mean no ill will. Towards you and your people."

Lugubelenus took a look at the Imperial then the crate, Taking a gander over to it he was shocked once the lid was removed. Ebony, More Ebony then he and most Roscreans had ever seen in their life. The precious ore was absolutely dry within Roscrea which made it beyond valuable to the warriors and guards of the land. Just seeing the amount of ingots within Lugubelenus pictured himself in a fine set of Ceannlann armor glinting black, It was damn near mouth watering though for the sake of personal appearance he refrained from outwardly being giddy about it. Yet he couldn't hold back all of his excitement.

"Gods above this is a treasure trove! Your words are beyond that of honey they strike a fine offer that your people are known for, This offer is too great to pass up. High Rock brings luxuries but the Eastern Empire would bring luxuries and practical resources. Perfect way to get a good reputation in Roscrea is appealing to our folk's war hungry side. I would be a fool to pass up such an offer even though my honor demands I do so, I would agree with your offers though I must remain in High Rock for at least another week our two to direct their ships on a favorable route to Roscrea as per deal."

Lugubelenus spoke with vigor. "Though Eastern Empire ships already know the routes, A number of captains and crews know how to brave the journey to Roscrea."

"Of course. We have veteran seamen that would love the challenge to brave the waters from Cyrdoili to Roscrea. We have charts and old maps still. It wont be an issue. I've seen anicent beasts in the waves, but they are rare these day's. Asleep, sleeping in there dead cities." The Imperial took a cigar on his desk, his face growing dark, and drew a match from his pocket, striking it, before inhaling a breath of smoke.  "Ebony is very valuable, we've been approaching on Solsthsiem to reestablish a colony there, but those damn Dark Elves keep getting in the way. It wont matter though. War brings out...opportunities. Still we have a steady supply." A grin formed on his lips, "I'm very sure your chieftains would appreciate the ability to import somewhat large quantities of the ore. Make suits of armors, and powerful weapons. Direct trade with Cyrdoili would be appealing, would it not?"

"Biggest thing to watch out for are the Sea-Ghosts, They're still out there and are just the threat they were in Ysgramor's time." Lugubelenus' expression darkened when the Imperial mentioned the Dunmer. "Even though Roscrea is close to Morrowind nobody would want to even think about trade with them, They'd sooner behead an Elf rather then trade with a country of them. While I think in time our people may very well open up to the idea of commerce with Cyrodiil, But after that incident that destroyed the Druid's most holy site I doubt the people would agree to elven trade."

He fanned the smokes away from his face with his right hand, Not that the Imperial was purposely blowing it on him.

"On the subject of resources many of Roscreans have pondered on why Imperials value leather, A poor Roscrean Freeman could have a better chance at purchasing a linen gambeson and it would still be more protective then leather. So why do the Legionaries use leather of linen? Bah I'm getting of subject, No doubt the Chieftains and Arjos would benefit as they had before. Not so ironically the men who benefited the most normally complained the least, Though not the same with all Arjos and not at all with Freemen."

"We use Leather for our light infantry, and our archers, but that's about it. We try to equip our Legionaries with steel Lorica Segmata. I'm sure you've seen it occasionally. Well, your chieften decides things, correct? If the chieftains are on board, then the people would become on board as well, correct? The people of Roscrea would want Cyrdoilic goods after seeing there chieftens with them. It would benefit all."

"Well most of the Oppida from the smallest to the greatest have a Chieftain but only those on the western coast really don't complain or object, The few don't sway the many at this point. But Lorica Segmentata isn't that expensive to maintain, While I don't speak from experience from what I've been told in the past it's superior to maille but much more expensive and difficult to maintain."

"Well, i'm sure you could figure it. The population on the West will be easier to convince once they see you with all that ebony." The man inhaled a deep breath, "Before, were you referring to Sea Ghosts?" A shiver ran down his spine, "I've never seen one, but i've heard from some Nordic Sailors that they are very dangerous, and try to lure them to there horrible deaths. I use to dismis that stuff as legends, but i've seen some very...dark things in the dark corners of Nirn, and beneath the waves." Giving a dead expression, "People think monsters lurk in the forest, but i'm far more worried what lies deep beneath the ocean."

His face looked a bit pale, It was never enjoyable to even talk about those wicked entities. "They're real all right, Seeing one doesn't guarantee a terrible death but oh once they are seen then it is very likely. Some of the only ways to combat against them are to instantly lay anchor in the sea and wait them out inside the ship, Have a Druid or perhaps a Tamrielic priest inside to to prevent them from entering. Other then that if you continue then you will die."

"Oh I do love a good ghost story." His tone became slightly more jovial, but going by his eyes you could tell he was taking this quite seriously, "What are they exactly? Undead of some kind? I've encountered sea-wraiths, the spirits of drowned sailors in ancient ship wrecks, but some silver banishes them. Seeminly, these ghosts are more dangerous." 

"Quite honestly nobody knows what they are, Silver don't work on them though. Yet they can be destroyed it seems as Ysgramor was able to but how he did so was unknown, Perhaps they are the remnant of the last Kalpa. What ever they are those entities pose threat to any and all no matter the species."

"We always have books on the local fauna, and known dangers lurking beneath the waves avaible to our vessels crew." He began to scratch his goatee, "But not much on these Sea Ghosts. Perhaps its time to send an exploration crew to the sea of ghosts to discover as much as we can about these daemons, and whatever horrors lurk deep beneath the frozen water. Sea Exploration is terrifying, but also very exhilarating, dont you think?" He paused, putting his hand to his chest. An explorer and a sailor. A very common sight, "Tell me, friend, have you ever been near the Pyandonea continent?" 

"Honestly I've rarely been off Roscrea, Only time I've ever been gone was to Atmora and that was for a group of Druids. Was supposed to sail to Akavir a few years back but one of those strange Serpents had sailed to Roscrea however and demanded that I not sail. How in the God's names they know what I was going to do is beyond me. I'm not a man that enjoys sailing though the Sea of Ghosts, I'll take calm lakes any day. But that thing is on the other side of the world, I cannot think of any Roscrean that has ever sailed the entire globe."

"I wouldn't recommend it. Akavari is different. It's mostly civilized." He gave a dark chuckle, "The islands are filled with riches, and treasures, but there cursed. The East Empire Company rarely ever goes that far out, but there's been several expeditions, of which i've almost always taken part of. I'm one of the few people that can translate Sload runes. The hundreds of tropical islands around it are covered in ancient horrors. Dark temples with hideous frog-men worshiping blasphemous idols underneath the horrid gibbous moon. Giant sea serpents the size of castles devouring Mamori ships in single bites....Things...tentacled and horrible being worshiped in underwater cities." He stretched out, giving a laugh, "Or so some Mamori sailors have told me. When we rarely go there, we tend to stick to the outlining islands closest to Tamriel. I've seen many ruins, and catched...glimbes of dark things. But nothing too serious. Though you really must watch out for the sea serphents. Those things are horrible." 

"You know some of those Serpent folk value Roscrean mercenaries as bodyguards, Few would want to be over there in the service of those creatures but there are men that do. Some never return but those that do always are highly decorated with foreign golden jewelry and many tales, Apparently those serpent folk enjoy having foreign men in their service to avoid being assassinated something about not being involved in their politics makes our mercenaries favorable. Gods above know I wouldn't want to be there, I was to sail there for trading rights but I'm damn well thankful I was stopped.

Like I said though Roscrea is my home and I prefer to keep my feet grounded most of the time, I have a name to uphold anyways."

"Foreign bodyguards have many advantages over home-brewed ones of course. I've heard tales Tsentchi having very powerful magic that binds monstrous serpents to there will. I would rather have one of those beasts as a pet bodyguard." He laughed, "Many men would agree, but I don't. I serve my empire, and my company, with the utmost loyalty and respect, but I do love traveling to distant places. Seeing things that no one else has seen for centuries. Gives an adrenaline rush, unheard of. And of course, its always nice to discover ancient caches of gold!" He glanced around, before saying apologetically, "Ah, look at the time. Listen to me rambling. I'm sure you have much business to do with these silly Breton's, before you leave. To Skyrim, was it?"

The man took out a small scroll, speedily using an pen and ink to dot down dozens of inky letters in the span of ten seconds. He took out a burning seal, and stamped into, sealing the scroll, with a red, E letter flanked by two swords in a triangler seal. He offered the scroll to the man, "I needn't remind you not to loose this. I'll have your "gift" transported to your vessel. Make sure to guard it well, and with your most trusted men. It's worth a small fortune. Do not tell anyone of our arrangement. If you are questioned by your gracious hosts, tell them I offered you something that you refused. Understand friend?"

"To guide the Breton sailors on a favorable route to Roscrea, Nothing to do with Skyrim." He took the letter and stuffed within his left pocket. "Telling the Bretons would only lose me two contracts, Better to keep my mouth shut or gods forbid lie and keep two. I take it that our meeting has ended, It was a splendid one though I must inquire." Said Lugubelenus with a grin. "Another attempt of Imperializing we savage folk?" He could barely contain his laughter.

"Oh I much prefer the company of savages over my fellow Imperials. So terribly boring, i'm afraid." He said laughing. He offered his hand again, "This is a mutually beneficial arrangement my good man. You'll see the fruits of your labors, as will all Roscreans in time."

While bellowing too he stood and reached over the desk to shake the laughing Imperial's hand firmly. "Hey our people already wear too much red clothing as is, I'm certain that opinion's will be swayed in time."

"Good, good." He went back into his seat and reclined. "One of my guards will show you the way out. I'm afraid I have much work to do. Have a good day, good sir." 

With that Lugubelenus left a rather happy man, Weary of treachery but happy never the less. The Ebony was stored within his longship among the goods brought that was sampled by the Breton, At the end of the day he made sure to get a good nights rest. But not before getting a good glass of Roscrean well water, Lugubelenus was tired of all those fancies drinks and needed something truly refreshing.

Ocean,

The wailing waves arose, as a blanket of blue sea water flowed forth, in a dark waves. The call of Ocean. The boat slide through the dark waves, as it bobbed up and down from the rough sea. What beasts lurk in the depths in this damnable stretch of ocean... Dark clouds brewed above, but the Captain of the vessel found a storm and unlikely prospect. Maybe some heavy rain, but nothing his experienced crew couldn’t handle. Standing with his spyglass, his one good eye focused on the distant, dark fog gathering around. That worried him far more than the dark clouds above, which he could barely see because of the mist. This stretch of ocean was dangerous. Captain Vulka Amedies of the Cloud Reaver, groaned in annoyance, putting it away. Filled with monstrous horrors. The damnable port was still not visible, and that made him uneasy. He had followed the sea charts perfectly, and knew the route by heart. He was one of the few captains under the employee of the East Empire Company that regularly traveled to Roscrea, bearing passengers from and to the icy, miserable island, and the occasional shipment of goods. There was no official channels between the East Empire, and the local chieftains, however, so the supplies he brought were limited and quite expensive. Hopefully that would change soon.  Not that he did respect the natives. After dozens of trips to the place, he had taken a liking to the rough nature of the local Rosecrans. Still they were an unfriendly bunch, even the comparatively friendlier locals of the Eastern Ports, and were horribly stubborn. Almost always, they would rudely haggle for a better price for his Imperial goods. 

After going there so long, however, Vulka had gathered a small amount of respect from the natives. He was welcome, at the least, to trade and deal with the businesses on the island. He even made a few friends among the local traders.

A privilege granted to very few Imperials. He was well-liked and respected at port.
Which is why he had been chosen for this important contract. There was no one in the East Empire merchant fleet that knew Roscrea quite like he did.
 
Vulka himself was an impressive looking man. Standing at 5.11, he was quite tall for an imperial. Broad shoulders, heavily muscular, and covered in scars, Vulka gave the impression he could rip a man in two. His entire torso, and duo of arms, were clad in black tatoo's of horrid krakens and sea serpents. Even more so with his blind left eye, which he didn’t bother cover up. He found eyepatches ridiculous, instead leaving the jagged scar of destroyed tissue in the place of his eye plainly visible. Black hair, adorned with silver strips, and bronze skinned, common in many Imperials. For equipment, he wore old iron Imperial maille, with a deep blue cloth shirt underneath, identifying him as a former Marine in the Navy. He had a simple Imperial helmet on, but no gauntlets or shin guards, simply wearing leather boots, and leather bracers.  On his belt, he carried an Imperial broadsword, which unlike his other equipment, was rather fancy and ornate, having a single sapphire on its pommel, and having the end be shaped like a sea-serpent. For a cloak, he wore the rich Imperial blue of the Navy with a silver broach in the shape of an Imperial Dragon. Most impressively, on his back, he hefted a massive two handed axe, made from Roscrea Iron. A great navy boarding axe, covered in nordic runes, which he had taken from the corpse of a great pirate chieftain that tried boarding his ship decades ago. Small flames danced around the blade, as the axe was enchanted with powerful fire magic.

Surrounding him, his crew tirelessly continued to work, adjusting the sails fixing various ropes, and rowing the great oars on his ship. Glancing at the blood red sails, he felt a tad bit of relief, Well...at least the wind is on our side. They had made good time.  Most of his crewmen wore similar garb to him, with some variations, old Imperial Mallie. All of his sailors were ex-imperial navy. Still, while they no longer fought for the Empire, they still held their nation dear to there heart. One of the reasons why they proudly bore the colors of Empire on their sails, and flew an Imperial Dragon flag. Most of his rather large crew were Imperials, Nords, or Orismer, but you could see a few Argonians, and Khajiit on the ship deck. 

As long as you were loyal to the captain, your crew, and the Empire, Vulka tried not to judge based on race. 

The Imperial captain placed one of grizzled hands on the wooden handrail, gripping it tightly, and letting some splinters gently brush against his hand. This was his ship. His crew. His journey. The Pride of the East Empire Fleet. Or...at the least one of it's tarnished gems.

The Cloud Reaver was a re purposed Imperial heavy battleship, a war galley, that had served in the Great War against the Aldmeri Dominion. The long battleship wooden hull, painted blood red, war.  however,  was reinforced with iron plating, and each side covered in rusty Imperial shields. The hold had been expanded at the expense of speed, and increased bulk.  For a figurehead, they had a great ebony sea-serpent, snarling, and grinning, showing life-like black fangs. On each end of the ship, a large Wooden Scorpion sat, equipped with jagged harpoon bolts. Glancing at the heavily armed crew, fortifications, and siege weapons,  Pirates and would be Nordic raiders tended to stay far away from the Cloud Reaver. The beast of a ship could destroy anything the Aldmeri Dominion, Nords, Bretons, and anyone who dared attack it threw at it.  Though it flew Cyrodilic colors, it was part of the East Empire trade fleet. It has gone as far up north to the icy shore of Atmora, all the way south to the mysterious islands of Pygorea.  Tbe Captain had seen it all. 

The captain leaned on the wooden rail, nostalgically glancing into the ocean depths below.  The Lapis Lazuli waves so beautiful and calming. The veteran appreciated both the roughness and serenity of the ocean. The swirling water, appearing as soothing to the sailor as any dance. He let out a relief. He was sure the voyage was going to go good. Besides some turbulence in the last few weeks, everything had gone smoothly. It was only now, the dark clouds had appeared above, and the fog had rolled across the water. 

His second mate, a High Elf by the name “Longshanks” approached from beyond. Unlike the others, he wore a blue hood alongside his imperial mallie. The two of them had known each other since before the War, and had been inseparable every since. Once he had bought the retired Reaper, he had made sure to invite Longshanks to be his second mate.  The Atlmer looked...rather different compared to most of his kind. His skin was hard, and covered in scars. He had a dirty appearance, his face filled with dirt, and a large, scraggly beard. On his belt, he carried two cultasses, but his primary means of fighting was magic, bombarding the foe with flaming bolts. He wasn’t too shabby in either. The Captain turned to face his second mate, waving his hand forward, He spoke in a deep, authoritarian voice, “How is the crews moral, Longshanks? High?” It went without saying Longshanks wasn’t his real name. 

The High Elf nodded his head, speaking in a thick nordic accent. To add to his weirdness, the Elf had been born and raised in the former Imperial province of Skyrim, “Aye captain. Though there a little worried that the coming storm will drown us in the accursed depths…”

Just when the Captain was about to respond, the uncomfortable feeling of heavy rain hitting ones face started. Swearing underneath his breath, the Captain suddenly shoured, “Damnation, crewmen, prepare for rain!" As he said those words, the previous pitter patter suddenly picked up, and down come volleys of large raindrops. The other officers on decks began shouting words, as some of them rushed down below to the holds to tell the rowers to increase speed. While they couldn't outrun the Storm, they could at least try to increase there distance to land. He knew they were almost there. In the distant, thunder roared, and lighting began to strike the water. 

A storm had come. 

******* hell...

But it wasn't the storm that caused such horror inside him.

A feeling of pure dread began to fill in the stomach, as some nameless terror entered his mind. It was definitely not a pleasant experience. He knew what this feeling was. It was a reward for being at sea for so long . An instinct he developed after decades on the water and sailing. He turned to face the discomfort of his seconds face. He felt it too. A frown formed on the Captain's face, as the backdrop of heavy rain heralded something horrible. slowly but surely he drew his boarding axe. His was completely damp by the time he uttered, 

"Somethings coming..."

Just seconds later, half of the entire crew topside was thrown to the wooden deck, several needing to grab the wooden railings to prevent them from falling into the chilling depths of the horrible crashing waves.  This weather in unnatural.  The wind has picked up, and the waves had grown even more violtile.  Howling like a daemon of legend, the wind was growing in intensity. They were caught in a storm, but Vulka knew that was the least of there problems. This storm...seems unnatural.  One of the crewmen, an Orc, and veteran marine, screamed, "What in Malacaths hairy toe did we just hit?" He grabbed the wooden rail, a storm of rain hitting his face, as he looked into the oceanic depths. 

That was a grave mistake. 

With a horrid, scream, in a flash of a second, something latched onto the Orcs face, and before any of his mates could assist him, was dragged into the ocean waves, waving his arms. 

Starring in fear, everyone ran away from the deck, backing up slowly, blades raised. The Captain raised his regimental voice, so it consumed the storm, and screamed, "Marines, grab shields, form defensive permiter!" With almost legion-level of unision, they all screamed "Aye, Captain!" Rushing to the side once more, with speed, but care, they grabbed the rusty shields from the side, and held them firmly, as they slowly backed up, and formed a defensive wall in the middle of the ship. Several crewmen left the hold, and ran up into the deck, carrying naval crossbows. They formed behind the shield wall, eyes trailed on the edge of the ship. Vulka raised his sword, yelling, "Quartermaster, rush downstairs, and tell the roarers to book it double time!" A Dark Elf nodded his head, "Aye Captain!" throwing off his Imperial helmet in his rush to get downstairs. They would attempt to loose whatever had taken that one crewmen. No point in trying to retrieve him. He was lost beneath the waves. 

And most likely in the gullet of some deep sea horror. This wasn't the first time they dealt with sea-monsters. 

Follow behind by his second mater, who had lighting dancing on his gloved hand, as the rain fell ontop of them, Vulka rushed to the nearest Scorpion, pushing the man on station off of it. Cranking the handle, as one of his crew members placed a harpoon bolt, attached to a chain on the contraption, Vulka's one healthy eye trailed across the water. Wish wash. Wish wash. Wish wash. The roaring waves went up an down, the rain fell down in waves across the ocean. Thunder roared. Rain droplets fell down his skin, and clitter clanked off his maille, and helmet. 

Suddenly, Vulka spotted a faint, whitish shape in the ocean. With pin point accuracy, and an emotionless stare Vulka released the bolt without a second to spare, propelling in into the ocean. With a thud, the harpoon made contact with the skin of whatever beast was in the water.  Several of the crew rushed forth to grab the chain, and force whatever it was to break from its hiding place.. And so, the Hunter, was about to become the hunted. All silent, the entire crew on the deck gazed at were the bolt had landed in the ocean, with both curiosity, and extreme fear. With a tug, the boy began to sway, as whatever was below struggled to get free. The sailors weren't dumb. They had a handle that released the chain just incase whatever they harpooned was strong enough to cause the ship to go below with them, but this wasn't the case here. 

One of his officers made a move to speak, but Vulka raised his hand to silence him. Once again, his eye trailed to the water. The rain fell in the backfrop. Pitter patter. Pitter patter. This time, the scorpions bolt was a regular one. The tip jagged so it could dig into the skin, or scales better. 

Letting out the most horrifying noise unknown to man, the waves broke, as a ginormous, sickening, worm thing leaped out of the water and onto the deck, the previous scorpion bolt embedded into its skin. 

Vulka released the second bolt, a second too late, as it missed its target by an inch.
The nameless spawn of the depths, the...thing, as no sane man could properly describe it, roared, and wheezed like a pig mixed with a dragon. It squirmed and shook so hard on the deck, it caused the ship to rock back and forth dangerously. The nightmare was albino, not a hinge of color, besides the greenish scales it wore on some parts of its body, as was its ugly, long dorsal fins attached to its spine. It was long...very long, 2/3rds the size of the warship. It's stickily pale skin was....slimy, and disgusting, oozing see through liquid. It reminded the sailors of a worm, as it had a long, fat, body that ended in tail. So horribly fleshly, like a maggot.  It screamed out...a noise so horrible to the ears, some of the men, hardened sailors, screamed out in pure horror and terror, holding their ears, as crimson blood leaked from them. The abomination was covered, in dozens of eyes, blood red in color, but without pupils, all over the upper half of its body. Tiny, little hands, about a dozen of them, lay on its lower half. The most horrible, and disgusting aspect about it was its mouth. Circular, the front had massive dagger-sized teeth, and as it went down into its throat it was layered in thousands of razor sharp teeth. Screeching, the monster used its jaws to grab a sailor, and gobble him down with it's razor sheep. 

The noise. Oh gods the noises it continues to emit. They arent of this world. I...I thought these were gone. All long dead….

Despire it's horror, and alienness, the Captain knew what this...thing was. He had seen drawings, and ancient carvings of it on decrepit ruins. Truth be told, he though these things were nothing but legends and myths. Facing it fearlessly, Vulka unfastened his blue cape, and let it fly in the howling, wind. He whispered, with pure, dread, and utter terror

“Merworm…” 

Indeed, this thing matched the description of that Eldritch horror of the dark depths, from Ancient Sload mythology. An ancient spawn of one of their gods, Pythmous, the Sea God.  A Merworm was a monster only spoken in whisper, by frightened sailors at inns. Most considered them legend, or, more popularly, long extinct and gone from this world. Sightings were extremely rare. Even the foul Sload grew dark at mention of there name. According to Myth, they were spawned in the deepest depths of the world, in the sunken city of Lag’roab’ish, and were daemons of the ocean. Just one of many, horrors that lurked beneath in the dark of Nirn. They were supposed to be the size of entire castles, and could eat entire ships! If this was indeed one of those nameless terrors, it must have been a youngling. 

Meaning they had a chance. 

As if it was whimpering it shined away. The bolt had gone deep into it's side, and pieced threw it. Drawing his naval axe, Vulka screamed, “Marines, open fire!” The dozen or so Crossbow made a line behind the shield, which had formed around the creature, blades drawn. Without any hesitation, they unleashed a storm of bolts. Screaming it's blood curdling wails, everyone of them hit their marks, and pierced it's skin. It oozed green, luminous blood. Longshanks cast a powerful lightning bolt, using both of his hands to combine a spell. The searing lighting roared into the beast, searing it's flesh, and burning. One of the two manned scorpions launched a bolt towards it, the weapon rippling through the air, skewering the creature.  Acting out, it began crawling across the floor, using it's tiny hands to rush forward, closing the distance in moments, opening it's maw. It grabbed another marine, consuming him as he screamed in pure pain and fear, and then launched it's disgusting body forward, throwing the shield. line of marines across the ship. The sea monster giggled, as it ripped the leg off a downed marine, blood showering as he screamed out in pain, with one of his tiny hands.  

“Arghhhhh!” The creature let out a horrible scream of pain, someone had crawled up it's back, and striked it. It was Vulka, wielding his boarding axe in both hands, he yelled a war cry, the Imperial throwing his axe into it’s scaly, white flesh a second time. The enchantment on the axe burned it's flesh, as he started to hack away. The monster roared, the rain falling down in droves, and lighting struck in the distance. With a cry so loud, and terrible, the supersonic scream threw Vulka backwards and into a railing, just barely preventing him from falling into the dangerous waves. He clenched his ears, which were bleeding, profusely screaming in such agony he had never felt before. The slimy Merworm used all the strength it could muster, to tip the chains off of it's back. The rest of the Marines had reformed, and had surrounded their captain weapons and shields drawn. 

They would give there life for there captain.

With one more blood curdling screech, the Merworm skewered across the deck, and lept into the sea, disappearing into the dark waves in seconds. It had feasted today, on manflesh, but it was very wounded. 

And with that, the ancient horror had gone back into the depths were it came from. 

Having recovered from the supersonic blast, Vulka got up from his downed postion, as his crew rushed to help him. He waved them. Some had there weapons still drawn, others had fallen to the ground, crying, and screaming in terror. Both Scorpions were being manned once more, and Longshanks was glancing furiously around the waves, looking for any signs of that horrible eldritch beast, ready to pummel it with magic if it came within centimeters of the Cloud Reaper, which was in supringly good shape. Within seconds, Vulka had ordered the roarers to triple time it. They were leaving, and by the gods, they would reach land by the end of the day. With terror still in his stomach, Vulka could only wonder in horror, what other ancient creatures lurked in the dark corners of Nirn? 

******

"Land captain! I see port! To the North!" 

Happiness welled within in him. The weather had returned to normal, and the sky was clear and bright blue. He took out his spyglass, and examined the port in sight, truly hoping to Akatosh that this was his destination. 

As it would seem the captain could fully thank the Gods, There upon the horizon was a faint blur which to the seasoned captain meant that his eyes were gazing upon the sweetest sight any sailor in the deep ocean could look on. It was Roscrea all right, The once mythical mist shrouded island's coast loomed in the distance beckoning the ship closer.

Most from Tamriel that even know about Roscrea wouldn't wish to brave the horrific Sea of Ghosts to reach the island, It was largely unfriendly with the ironic exception of the port Oppidum of Boiliobris which was where the Empire first invaded from centuries ago. As the minutes rolled by and the Cloud Reaver inched ever so closer the port's details became more apparent to Vulka even though he had seen it a hundred times before. Remembering it's primitive wooden huts being contrasted by such advanced stone masonry though mind boggling it was anything but modern, He had long ago learned that the Roscreans still held the means to create stone structures that were similar to both appearance and durability to the ancient Nordic buildings of stone. 

His ship encountered nothing more then calm waters and a soft sail the closer they bore to the Oppidum, Eventually getting close enough to no longer need his spyglass.

Immediately he found the central man made island in the middle of a semicircle connected by sea, There housed the Chieftain's palace along with the Oppidum's Standing Stones; Religious stones erected by the Druids was what he figured they were and the captain wasn't far off from the truth, Elsewhere in the central island housed the Oppidum's nobles whom quite enjoyed the captain's goods brought from Tamriel, Housing a marketplace and number of taverns of more Nordic style then Roscrean. It had the feel of a little village in a city, The entire man made island served as the Oppidum's town square which connected to the rest of the Oppidum over the water with a wide wooden bridge.

Though something caught his eye. The small island had wooden palisade walls which were not only missing but in it's place stood a low stone wall with it's own palisade like fense atop it which surrounding the island, It was nothing like the Oppidum's outer walls which made sense to the Imperial. Noting the new stone towers in place around key points such as the gates to the sides and the bridges themselves.

Boiliobris' little island does draw the eye but the rest of the Oppidum was in a number of ways just as interesting as it's center. All throughout the stretch of land on the coast stood a countless number of streets, Housing both stone and wooden but mostly combined and from the distance Vulka was it was impossible to tell what was what. He had been all around the Roscrean city though so even though he couldn't physically see where everything was at he knew it by heart.

Years ago he had cataloged this city with a population roughly estimated around six or seven thousand, To the Roscreans this was a moderately populated city though for the Imperial in comparison it had a population smaller then large Cyrodillic villages. The outer wall was an impressive feet of Roscrean stone masonry, It's walls were respectfully high for barbarians and quite sturdy looking. Historically these aren't the original walls though as they were destroyed during the Rosco-Imperial war centuries ago.

Though taking in the Oppidum wasn't his primary objective just yet, Though he had been away for years Vulka spotted the port he had always used and made way.

Vulka shouted, "Land hoy!" The rest of his crew began to cheer, the officers barking orders to the others to hurry it up. The better they did there jobs, the sooner they could rest on shore. They had survived the journey through the sea of ghosts, and that horror from the depths. Despite how close they seemed, it was another two hours before they reached the docks. It was more of a much smaller place, then an actualy dock, but it could still accomdate the Cloud Reaver. The certain dock was used to hold larger vessels, and warships during times of war. While the Captain had loved the waves, he had never been glad to be on solid ground in his entire life, as he left his ship, flanked by two of his crewmen. A trio of guards approached from the wooden docks, one of them raising there hand. The Imperial Captain was well known among these parts, so he wasn't worried he would be barred. Vulka yelled, "Greetings, from the East Empire Company, my good Roscreans!"

The two guards had that look about them, Boiliobris was the only Oppidum on Roscrea that has noticeable Nordic and Imperial influences and even the guard's equipment reflected that. Both were equipped with a set of maille though it lacked the extra maille that protects the shoulders and instead was more like a Nordic maille shirt, Having a spangenhelm with maille coif helped give that appearance. They both had the same kit which included a cream colored uniform, Tunic and all. Both bearing Nordic styled weaponry which was a roundshield over the popular Oval shield the Roscreans favored and in their hands drawn swords in Rosco-Nordic fashion.

Having a good look at Vulka and hearing him yell put their weary stance at ease, They hadn't seen the Eastern Empire in years damn well missed them too. The guard on the left raised his sword straight up and cheered.

"Damn well missed your fancy goods, Tired of eating spice less slop. Gods be praised you're returning here captain."

"Good to see you too. We brought mainly spices from Hammerfall, spirits from Cyrdoili, and of course, mead from Solitude. Some dresses of Imperial make, and jewelry for the young ladies too" A remneat for one of his plans to get in favor with the Empress, and receive an offer to rejoin the navy. Bring her a young roscrean lady of court to serve as a concubine. He brushed it aside, but he was still quite sure the dresses and jewelry would make a killing. The Captain didn't know the Roscrean guards, but they weren't soldiers to be sure. Levies most likely. They seemed to know him though. He yelled, "Start bring the goods ashore!" Crewmen tirelessly carried out crates and barrels from the hold, bringing them ashore. It would take a few hours. They had brought alot, at least three times the amount they usually carried. The Captain took from his pocket a scroll, "Before I meet with the merchants, and while my crew bring all the stuff we brought ashore, I must meet with your chieftain, good guardsmen."

The Roscrean on the right grabbed the scroll and looked at it though unopened. "You want a meeting with Chieftain Caratacos, Well sure I'll inform the captain..Eh not you captain our captain of the guard. He has the authority to arrange it." The man made his way to the bridge that connected the Oppidum's center to the rest of it at brisk pace, The remaining man engaged in a conversation with the Imperial.

"You know I don't think we've ever personally met but gods have I enjoyed those goods you bring in, Always wanted to greet you but never had the chance and then our oh so wise leaders decided to cut all ties. I'm Ninian the Younger by the way, It's a pleasure to meet you Imperial!"

"Vulka." He nodded in response, "A pleasure Ninian." He spoke with sophictication, but his voice had a very rough edge to it. Like a sailor, "I tend to keep to myself on my many trips here, but it seems i've gotten famous in these parts for being one of the few tamrielic captains willing to brave the sea of ghosts, without an official trade route too." He laughed, "Most of the officers, and merchants know me by now. I'm practically the only life line you have to Tamriel, it seems." His face grew pale, "This trip, I nearly didn't make though. Was set upon by an ancient scourge of the Pygoan islands. A merworm, I think it was. Nearly devoured my crew." 

The youthful guard whistled. "I ain't ever getting beyond the shallow ocean, Too much risk in it for my liking. Better to stay in the solitude of city life, Better indeed now that we have the essentials flowing through again. I can not understand how folks outside this Oppidum live, They're without so much and happy about it. But about your crew, I'm sorry about that truly am."

"Thank you. It's of little comfort though. We lost three crewmen. Devoured in its maw. Assailed by a storm, it appeared to be able to conjure thunder and wave." But he shrugged his shoulders, "That's the life of a sailor. Usually drown, be eaten, or skewered by archer fire. I think your career choice is pretty wise. Things may be changing soon too. For the better. If things go well, instead of every year or two, i'll be taking monthly trips here, bringing Imperial goods back to your island for the market and the Roscrean people."

The unblooded man looked ecstatic. "Gods above monthly?! Maybe now those folks up in the Hearthland running the Iron will start cracking the whip a bit more, Hopefully our western Chieftains don't put an end to this. Damn prideful fools I say." He lowered his voice on that last part. "Well those Pahlkes should be happy about the increased goods, Gods know they need it."

It wasn't too long with them talking that another man came into the picture, Coming down onto the ramparts leading to the port came Faramund Borr. Vulka and Faramund knew one another quite well having interacted in each trip, Faramund was the captain of Boiliobris' levied guard and the two would talk as friends sometimes about the Imperial's daring adventures out at sea and others about the Roscrean's grandfather Teutorigos Borr the Chieftain of Ultansborough and all things in between. Faramund had a rather round face though not pudgy, Bit of a weak chin due to it. He sported a bushy if not groomed mustache and beard, After all Roscreans have a minor obsession with facial hair being well groomed. He had what the Imperial's called a Barbarian Mustache that was not connected to his beard which extended just beyond his chin and cheeks covering both.

As the Roscrean was on duty though nothing really bad ever happened in these parts he had his kit equipped, As Captain of Boiliobris' guard Faramund had to have much more distinctive equipment. The Oppidum's contact with Tamriel really shows in certain areas and this was no different to the other guardsmen, Though his kit had more of an Rosco-Imperial design to it. Sporting a full maille hauberk over his body covering his torso and arms but not extending down his legs, Sewn atop his maille was a modest set of lamellar which wrapped around his chest and back but extended no further, Like the levied guards he sported a maille coif from which was connected to his helmet and that had no more nor less then three feathers hanging atop it, Both his tunic and trousers sported a purplish blue color with vertical orange strips running up them while puttees covered his ankles and shins.

Vulka waved his hand as he approached the Roscrean Faramund, "Ah, my good captain its been awhile." He offered his hand forward, "How long has it been?"

The Roscrean took his hand and shook it while speaking. "Oh it's been...Too long years I dare say, Last time you were here Teutorigos was in good heath though now he ain't doing to well." Faramund squinted his eyes in suspision at the Imperial. "What's the matter Vulka you look distraught, Did...Mhh something happen out at sea?"

"We ran into some...trouble in the sea of ghosts. An ancient horror. I think it was a Merworm, or somthing akin to it.  Beast devoured some of my crew before we drove them off."

"Shor's Bones! A Merworm here in the Sea of Ghosts, I don't know how you have the guts to brave those waters infested with Sea-Ghosts and all other sorts of horrors." He moved out of the way for one of Vulka's sailors as they continued to unload.

"Damn that's horrific truly is, Some folks here wonder why you used to sail here in between long periods of time. Events like this are the reason to it, That and the distance."

"So much adventure! Nothing beats stumbling upon an ancient Nord ruin and exploring its halls." His face grew dark, at the thought of that beast. "I personally thought they were make believe, or long extinict. Even stranger seeing them in these cold waters. Sea-Ghosts are dangerous, to be sure, but can be easily avoided if you know how to deal with them. Can never tell what abomination lurk in in the deep water," He began to walk beside the man, "It was a youngling, the only reason we survived. Should have listened to those Sload... Anyway, i'd rather not talk about this anymore. I need to speak to the Chieftain."

His old ship-mate Sexitus had sent a pigeon to him, with an assignment, and by the gods he wouldn't fail. The Company was giving him the attention he deserved, and years of traveling to this island were finally paying off. So much untapped goods. Soon, trade would flow between Cyrodili and Roscrea, filling both the Empire's, and the East Empire companies coffers.

The two walked around the Oppidum with the man made island in the center as their destination, Personally  Vulka felt that these Roscreans were a bit on the primitive side. Though having had more time then any other Imperial in the island for the past fifty years he grow to have respect for it, They were not mud hut dwellers and while it palled in comparison to the fine Imperial works of architecture he found admiration in it's simplicity and sturdiness.

They had their own problems here for sure but being so disconnected from the troubles of the outside world, The irony of these war like people living such peaceful lives did not escape the Imperial. The two didn't have to walk too far through the streets of stone, The Oppidum being rather populated didn't mean it was in a constant state of chaotic activity. Men and woman went about their way and the smell of the ocean was in the air, It was soothing to say the least.

Eventually they came upon the bridge leading into the Oppidum's central area, There were already a couple people walking across the southern bridge which was the one the two came up to. Small fishing boats sailed underneath with bountiful catches and the newer stone wall and towers were a breath of fresh air to the Imperial. Simplistic but truly advancing forward in the world.

Faramund greeted the men up in the towers as they passed them, The gates were wide open for there was no reason to keep them closed on such fine a day. Off a ways were the Oppidum's Standing Stones which had a number of hoary Druids conversing in the sanctity of the stones, One of the old men gazed upon the Imperial with a look of dissidence. There was a lot of bad blood between the Empire and the Druids of Roscrea, Though they left well enough alone as the Druids didn't seek conflict with the man.

A little ways away from the Standing stones stood an imposing stone structure that of which could only mean the Chieftain's palace given the decorations, Standing outside was a single Pritanoi Ambactoi and as the Imperial knew meant the fellow was a lesser bodyguard. Faramund had a quick conversation with the man whom pushed the heavy wooden doors open for the two.

Inside stood a feast of a great many Arjos setting at two long wooden tables having merry a time stuffing their faces with food, Caratacos himself had just finished up a large platter of mismatched foodstuff of which the messy remains were unrecognizable.

"Chieftan Caractoarcos." The Imperial prounced his name perfectly, as he bowed his head. Vulka was lacking his trademark cape, but he still looked rather presentable. "Greetings from the East Empire Company."

Faramund stood next to the now closed door and watched things unfold, Meanwhile Every Arjos in the room stopped their joyous feasting and all conservation stopped when that Imperial voice was heard. The Chieftain himself ceased his bantering and jolly laughter to look up at Vulka, Caratacos was a big fellow both in height and gut, Everything but his eyebrows and eyelashes were shaved atop his head. He wasn't wearing any fancy clothing due to having food splattered over himself, He knew full well and so did Vulka how messy he is thus no need to dirty up good clothes. The Chieftain was in his mid fifties and had been much more welcoming to the Imperial in his time in Boiliobris then it's previous Chieftain.

Caratacos placed his hands on the table and pushed he and his chair back before hopping up, Bellowing with that rumbling voice the Imperial knew all to well. "Ah! I had expected Breton merchants given Lugubelenus sailing down to Tamriel, I hadn't expected you but oh this is a truly pleasant surprise. Better folk I know fondly then strangers hoping to behave proper like!"

Being squeezed underneath the massive mans arms was uncomfortable, but Vulka bared it. The Chieftan was very friendly, even to strangers. Although he expected similar respect and decorum. "It's good to see you again as well, Chieftain. I come bringing heaps of rich Cyrodilic brandy, Hammerfall spices, and Skyrim ale. And some rich dresses of Imperial make for the fine ladies of court. My usual stock, except I brought with me triple the amount as usual." He took the small scroll from his pocket, and offered it forward, "One of your merchants Lugubelenus accepted a trading deal from an East Empire official, and Cyrodili. Apparently he was given permission for such actions by the local chieftains and druids of the island. If all goes well, goods will flow between Roscrea and Cyrdoili once more."

The Chieftain read over the scroll a number of times then rolled it up in his hand. "Well yes both myself and the local Druids approved of Lugubelenus gaining trade rights with the Bretons in High Rock, That's what the other Chieftains were told too. Well unexpected things happen when we least expect it after all but to be safe perhaps.." He snapped his fingers a few times and beckoned a guard to come forward. "Go outside unto the Standing Stones and respectfully  request the Druids and their attention." Truth be told Caratacos always had a slight fear of those wise men.

It wasn't too long before the doors to the palace were opened once again and like before all the Arjos within were silently watching, The Druid stepping through broke that silence when the hoary man spoke.

"There has been discrepancy with a matter I am needed in?"

The Imperial man bowed his head respectfully, before relaying what he told the chieftan to the druid.

The Druid looked about the room to see men holding their breath, Waiting to hear the holy man's judicial answer to this dilemma. After pondering on it for a good long three minutes of unwavering silence he had decided.

"Truly I express sympathy for you deceased sailors, Their memory will live on in your mind. We had approved of Lugubelenus' gains for trading rights and here he has them, While I express suspicion on the benevolence of the Empire and Eastern Empire we will not deprive the Oppidum of it's much beloved foreign resources. For the time being until the matter is officially addressed by Archdruid and Great Chieftain trade will commence as planned, Should the Bretons show up with goods and honeyed words then I will grant the same answer."

The Arjos around the room expressed relief both inwardly and verbally, Before exiting the Druid looked to the Imperial. "Take time to relax in tranquility by the Stones, I will speak to you there."

The Imperial left the room, giving a final bow to the chieftain and the rest of his court, before heading out, and wait for the druid by the large standing stones. Truthfully they gave a relaxing feeling, that, alas, compared nothing to the air of serenity the waves gave the sailor.

While in the privacy of the Standing Stones awaited a number of Druids though only one spoke.

"And so you come back, Imperial I know not how easy it was to purchase Lugubelenus but your very presence here has shown that his resolve and honor is naught. We are not blind, We know that if a people cannot be forced to convert culturally or religiously then gift unto them tickets and luxury and they will come willingly."

"The Druids are not so fickle nor easily bought out like men such as Lugubelenus who holds gold in greater value then Roscrea itself, I know not your or those higher up then you's goals here though I know in my heart that nothing comes from Cyrodiil that holds no hidden price. Already this Oppidum has been clutched by foreign influence and all around me here I see men turning into Imperials."

"You bring with you thrice more then anything ten years prior and this is alarming to us, It shows a peeked interest and that is not welcomed by us. It has been allowed and tolerated thus far but Imperial I warn you from the bottom of my heart, If but one prayer in the name of the Nine is uttered, If men shun all things Roscrean then everything will end. All trade and all contact will cease with the Empire, Do my wishes fall upon listening ears?"

"Do not think you can intimidate me druid." The Captain narrowed his one remaining eye, the dark brown is eyes hardening, as if a sea storm itself was summoned, "I have traveled the Sea of Ghosts, while your men cowered in fear, for forty years, bringing supplies to this island. I have the respect of your chieftain, and your people. I have explored the ruins of black eon old tombs, filled with nameless undead horrors and slain them, stealing nordic gold. I have fought the six pirate clans of eastern, frozen wastes around Atmora itself. I have conversed with ancient frost giants around the frozen coast, for ancient knowledge. I have killed, and maimed, and consumed the flesh of monstrous sea serpents, daemons of the deep. I have spilled the blood of elves on the ocean, and raided supply lines in times of war. I am an Imperial, but I am also a soldier. A sailor. A captain." His lips curled into a snarl, "If men become more Imperial, then it is a blessing for your warriors. They beat you, did not they not? The Steel clad Red Legion."

"If but one prayer in the name of the Nine is uttered, If men shun all things Roscrea then everything will be your fault, not the Empires. I have traveled this island for fifty years. I know your culutre, and how your religious power is beginning to wane. No longer do the people go to your kind for advice. You sulk in these glades, asking questions, and never acting.  If Roscrea falls to outside influence, druid, it is your fault. You failed in your duty to your people before, and you shall once again, if you refuse outside.

Vulka's voice was harsh, but he was right in at least, that he knew this island better then any other outsider, "Look. Your people huddle in there huts, complaining about there lot in life. Outside goods will bring smiles, and warmth to the people. They want it too."

"The more you try to limit there freedom to choose, the more you noose on your neck tightens, druid." 

Vulka disliked most gods, but he preyed to Akatosh the most. 

"You were warned Imperial, Well educated, Linguistically proper, But wisdom is something you lack." Some Druids tightened their jaws holding back the want to curse the man into a untimely grave. "You know not what you speak, Beyond the Jyagral Mountains that split west from east your kind are still hated. Deep in the heart of every Roscrean true to their spirit is a great hatred for those that attempt to culturally dominate our people."

"Who in Tamriel knows wisdom like we of the Druids, Priests of Julianos?! They know not the wisdom lost with Jhunal's death, They no not wisdom like we. Nor do you who make claims of which he does not understand." The Druid inhaled deeply to continue.

"Conquering Roscrea rightfully spilt the blood of tens...Of thousands of Imperials for the whim of a lunatic in a seat of power whom drove Roscrea into a dark age, It is we who have kept this island stable it is WE who keep Atmoran tradition alive and it is we who create stability and knowledge for our people. You look down upon us for not being submissive to Imperial law and culture, That we are independent angers something deep in your and every Imperial's heart. The men of the west are being corrupt by such influence though hope is not lost, This Oppidum has a sickness that cannot be healed with foreign medicine but western Roscrea as a whole has not been fully taken by your kind's influence." Practically speaking through tight lips the Druid continued speaking. 

"Indeed we have had to spend fifty years undoing the Dark Age that your people caused, Though you have shown your true form that of a snake, That of Orkey. Like Jhunal guiding us we will guide Roscrea away from such bitter poison, You've shown me that it is indeed time for we to take greater action against it."

"Now..BEGONE, I no longer seek to speak to the snake."

The Imperial grinned a devilish smile, that of a real snake, "Even a snake, can quote scripture, and make it sound sane, old fool. Gods are the same, wherever you go. Fickle, and unconcerned with mortals. Akatosh did not stop the Stormcloaks from beating the Imperials. Auriel did not stop the Imperials from slaughtering the Dominion.  Your gods did not stop Imperial soldiers from destroying your holy sites, and putting hundreds of your druids down like dogs." He raised his voice, as he roared, " They did not stop as they set fire to your wooden structures, raped and defiled your woman, killed your children, you fool! Men are the one who act, not the gods! Your soldiers spilled there blood, and gave there life for you while you hid in your glades, praying to whatever gods you held in your heart, did they save you? Nay, the did nothing. You were to be chased down, and out down like animal! Atmora is nothing more then a frozen wasteland, inhabited by dark beasts, and men of evil ilk.  I have seen it with my owns eyes corward!" 

He pointed his finger accusingly at him, "You are no better then the Dragon Cult of yore, old man! You druids want to control all of Roscrea and keep them in the dark age!" 

The Imperial had once his voiced raised drawn quite a crowd, Including Faramund who had a look of horror etched on his face. Not only what his friend yelled had felt like a dagger but he verbally opposed the Druids and that was frightening the most.

The Druid whom had spoke to the Imperial sat up from the stone he rest upon and paced around the area in between the crowd and the Standing Stones. "This is the man you look kindly upon, Who would shower you with gifts while reveling in the memory of slaughter? He whom calls the Druids cowardly while our ancestors fought and died to protect the holy sites, He whom insults our Gods and ridicules our ways? He whom revels in the murder of the elderly and the young? For Jhunal did not abandon man, Man abandoned him though not all of man for we have never left his side and he naught ours" He stopped pacing to look the Imperial over.

"It saddens me how barbaric these men are, It boggles the mind on why you all..Look up to him." The crowd wasn't exactly cheering or booing either man but they looked betrayed. "What he said of us would only be repeated if they grasp Roscrea in their clutches again, Men put to death for opposing the Dragon. Imperial you admitted all of my fears, You and your ilk have set your sights upon Roscrea once again either through war or trickery you wish to dominate us." The old man looked about the crowd.

"Shall we see what has happened to logic, Whom do you all think has you interests in hand? The Druids whom have protected our shared beliefs, This man claims that we keep the common folk in a dark age yet you all know what happened after our beloved land was conquered and we driven into hiding." One last time had he looked upon the Imperial. "It is HIS  kind that seek to destroy our culture and it is his kind that will do it if we had not protected you from his ilk. Imperial you are hereby Banished from this Oppidum by will of the Druids... And... The people unless they object?"

"I speak the harsh truth, druid. I haven't survived twelve years in the navy, and another fifty on sea in the East Empire to moderate myself from speaking. I have gone from port to port here, for the last fifty years, trading with your people. The fact of the matter is, your gods did nothing to stop the Imperial invasion, and yet you claim to speak for them. Did they now? Or are you claiming that slaughter was your gods interest, then?"

It was as if the man was channeling the voice of the Emperor. His words left his mouth, dripping with a certain....appeal. Certainly, a large part of the crowd agreed with his side of the debate.

He turned to face the crowd, speaking in a rather subdued tone, but it still had an edge of iron in it, "I do not serve the Empire anymore. For most of my long life, i've been nothing more then a glorified merchant, delieving goods from one side of Tamriel to another.  Many of you know me. Many of you I call a friend. I treat everyone fairly. I honor all of my buisness deals, and try to conduct myself how Akatosh would want me too. I tried to learn you culture, and I greaty respect the Roscrean people. Why then, when Roscrean decided to leave, did the Empire not raise a finger? They respect your decision, and respect the fact you want to be your own nation I am not an Imperial soldier anymore, but I am an imperial citizen, I admit to you. Empress Draconius has allied, and befriended the High King of Skyrim, Baldur the Ash-King. She respects the stength and honor all nordic people posses. Sons and daughters, of not Skyrim, but Atmora as a whole.  She mobilizes her armies, not in the interest of conquest, but to defend Cyrdoili, and nothing more, from the true foe. The Aldmeri Dominion. Unlike the Septims, she is a friend of the Nords, and someone who would value Roscrea, as not something to be conquered, but to coexist in peace, and trade, as fellow nations. You are neither Tamrielic, or of Atmora. Roscrea is its own, and should be treated as such."

He continued, eying the Druid with a stare of iron will, stronger then the Roscrean ore itself, "My words are very harsh, yes. But that's because I try to be honest. And when I see injustice, I label it as that. It is an injustice that you are bringing down the Roscrean people with your xenophobia and fear of outsiders! The people around you are not like you! They welcome, and respect the differences of others, as do I, instead of cowering in fear before them!"

He once again looked at the Chieftain, and then to the rest of the people, "For fifty years, I have made the journey through the sea of ghosts, Roscrea. Braving the Sea Serpents, Sea Ghosts, drowned Draugr and other horrros that lurk beneath the waves. Why? I could have made triple the profits going to someplace far safer, and less filled with giant sea monsters that want to tear me limb from limb. Because I love the people here, and want to see them happy and prosper. Many here I consider friend. I like bringing goods that help the people of Roscrea, and make there days more enjoyable. Again, I will not lie to you. The sense of adventure is appealing as well. Indeed, I love the smell of the open ocean, and the feeling of dread when I see some unknown beast lurking in the waves. But what man dosen't?" He smiled, "My friends, I, the East Empire, Cyrodili, mean you no harm. These druids, in there dung ages, wish for Roscrea to be isolated, and thus, stay behind from the rest of Nirn in advancement and propsiery. Yes, the Empire did a great evil to you. But that Empire is no longer existing. It is a new Age, a new Empress, and a new dynasty. Not the Septims. Not the Medes. Not the Moitre's. But the Draconius's! 

"I am an Imperial. And yet I view everyone of you as my equal. I have always done my best to treat you all with respect and dignity, as you deserve! Imperials. Nords. Bretons. Roscreans. We are all men!" 

His voice echoed, as if it was thunder itself, "A Dragon can be terrible and monstrous yes! But was it not the ancient Atmoran way to respect, and revere the Dragons for there wisdom, and bravery as well! 

The Druid had waited for him to end his roaring speech though the Druids remained unfazed by his words in their resolution, In fact the Druid whom spoke clapped his hands together four times. "Truly your languistic skills are as I said exceedingly well spoken, Though you layer your words with lies and seek to mislead the folk. If it was we who wish to keep Roscrea in a dark age and isolated from Tamriel then why was it we the Druids who ordered the reemergence into the Tamrielic sphere?... Ahh you cannot answer that can you, It was with our blessings had Lugubelenus went to the Bretons for trading rights so that our people could benefit from it, It was Archdruid Theudofrid whom traveled to Skyrim to unite our peoples by trade and alliance not the will of Chieftains." As he looked back to the Imperial his eyebrow had been raised, He needed not yells or screams to insult the man more then this.

"Do you know what we spoke of in the Standing Stones, I had warned this man to respect our wishes and not campaign to convert our people to Imperial culture. If what he said held any weight then why did we Druids tolerate trade with the Eastern Empire, If we wanted to isolate ourselves then it would take only a swipe of the hand and trade would end but alas it had not. I need only speak the truths for honeyed words of the Imperials relies on deceit and trickery. We were addressing the issues of technology, Already in the Western regions of Roscrea are people with the aid of Nords building beautiful pieces of modern woodword and the Nords are learning from Roscreans how to rekindle the knowledge of Stone masonry that they have lost." The Druid felt within him that the Imperial would loose his ground.

"Why and how? It was because of us the Druids, The only thing we have ever sought to avoid was being culturally and religiously stomped out and overtaken by a foreign power. Yet this Imperial is with all his heart and soul trying to turn you against us and for what? To subtlety inplace more power and influence for the Empire in Roscrea to destroy our ways and instead force in their own. You need only look at history to see beyond his lies, It was only when we were outlawed due to the wickedness of Imperials that Roscrea feel into a Dark Age. Thus it had ended when our influence was restored, Imperial the Empire did not give us our freedom we seized the opportunity when it presented itself not due to the kindness of your Emperor at the time. Indeed he claims to hold every man equal in standing and I fully claim the opposite, I seek to carry the weight of Roscrea upon my shoulders as all Druids would do for the betterment of our people and to carry it out we must prevent our culture and religion from being destroyed by those who would seek to use our folk."

The Imperial man was unfazed by this, speaking once more with iron, "I speak, with not an inch of cultural posing, that the Empire, even as a weathered drake, is still stronger, and far richer then any human nation left on Nirn, unless you go to the shores of some distant land I know nothing about. If trade was established with Cyrodili, your ports would fill with riches, and trade unheard of in time immoral! Dales Draconius, seeks not to subjugate, but to befriend, and to put aside old grievances and form new relations in the interst of putting man's interests first! I do not seek you to stray from you culture, as it has made Roscrea mighty in the past, under the gibbous harvest moon. I simply wish to see Roscrea prosperous! Gods exist. Your gods exist . The Imperial gods exist. The nord gods exist. The elven gods exist. But it is up to man to choose what to do with the gods gifts. Join Tamriel, and join the modern age! Break this cultural stagnation! The Empire does not desire to control you, like these druids do! They wish to engage in mutually beneficial trade, that will benefit both the Empire and Roscrea!" Vulka shouted to the crowd "Have I ever misled any of you, in the decades I have known you?" He asked the crowd.

The crowed was divided with themselves, The more educated argued in the Druids favor claiming they had not lied while the younger more bashful argued against the Druid. Liking what the Imperial was saying, The crowd erupted into yelling and screaming which threatened to spiral into a fist fight or worse given that a great many were armed with at the very least seaxs.

All thought of fighting was put to an end when the Druid in unison raised their staffs and crashed them upon the stone, Erupting from the sky was a thunderous noise as if lightning had struck overhead causing the crowd to jump all except Vulka. With all attention from the crowd upon the Druids the one furthest in the back stepped forward, His left hand had been concealed inside his robes for the entire duration of the argument. Yet as he pulled his hand out it was reveled that he held a spell in it, Raising it high above his own head the Imperial heard his own voice and everything that escaped his lips prior to him yelling and gathering a crowd.

After letting every horrific thing the Imperial said before gathering the crowd sink into the folk the first Druid once more spoke. "He has the interest of our people in his heart no? If it will truly appease the minds of all involved then trade will continue albeit under watchful eye and only within this port."

"My words do not betray my opinion, and care for this island. I simply say the truth, no matter how cold and bitter my words may be, druid. For I have seen much, and my heart is hardened. But yes, we are both in agreement then. Let us all fall asunder. " And with that he turned away, several of his crewmen had gathered around, and were ready to defend there captain, but simply followed him back to the ship.

A cruel smile appeared on the captains mouth. He did not lie. He did truly care for the people of the island. But you could have good motives, and still like the sound of coins chinking down on your palm. You could do what you thought was good, and just, but still get paid

It seems like the debate was a draw. Vulka had convinced many, but no doubt, many were against him. Imperial Trade would flourish at this port. But only here. The status quo had continued. 

A smile formed on his lips. This was what Sexitus wanted. He knew a sizable amount of Roscreans, at least in these parts would want the trade between Cyrdoil and Roscrea happen. He had inflamed the opposition, but he had also inflamed his support base.  He needed to go to the next stage of his plan. Find a pro-east Empire Chieftain. Or at least one that was against the druids. Axio was right. The druids, and this archcaiec means of "government" would get in the way.

As a con to his display, the druids would be highly suspicious of East Empire Company activities. He would need to watch himself.

Everything was going as exactly as he wanted. 

[Witchking of Angmar]

Boldir
Fanacas

The blood ran hot between Boldir's fingers, but he only had a moment to pay it any mind before the necromancer's cold, uncaring voice yanked his attention away from it. Rythe's burning red eyes were looking right at him, challenging Boldir to take issue with what he had just done. "The girl may survive yet."
The necromancer smiled at him then, it was mocking, without a hint of kindness, joy, or any other trait that a smile should bring with it. "So what do you say, Nord?" He motioned over to Gwella, who sat in her chair, defeated and motionless. "The priestess submitted. The knight is willing, and your pup with the bow has yet to raise his voice... will you ignore your hatred for me in order to bring down a different evil? One that has wronged you personally?"

In kinder world, Boldir might have answered the dark wizard with his axe instead of words, and gone on to save Mila without the help of these monsters, but he was not fool enough to believe that he lived in such a world. Rythe could kill all four of them on his own if he wanted to, and that was ignoring his acolytes and the fact that they were his only hope of finding Mila and challenging this 'Endar Drenim' who had ensnared her.
The whole thing made Boldir seethe with anger. So much anger that it actually surprised him. After all that had happened with the Black-Briars, after they killed his wife and turned his country against him, Boldir had not dreamed that he would ever again hate anyone the way he had hated that family. They were cruel, and greedy, and ruthless... And yet these people were even worse.
Endar Drenim had made Mila a slave with his sorceries, and Rythe Orealo didn't even hide that he was no better. These wizards were not like Marcurio or Gwella. They were a different sort of powerful, so much so that they seemed to view concepts like morality or decency as entirely beneath them.

He had no choice but to do as Gwella had done and submit. "Aye," Boldir finally said after staring at the wizard long and hard. "If you will help me save the girl, then I will cooperate."

The necromancer's grin widened. "Good," turning to his Breton brother, he gave his next order. "Ralimar, go and begin preparations for Drenim's poison. I will brew it tonight." He looked back at Boldir. "In the meantime, you lot make yourselves at home. But don't touch anything. I'm going back to the ritual chamber to resume my search."

With that, Rythe stood and the necromancers exited the room, leaving Boldir, Gwella, Sir Bremman, and Stoit alone together once again. He could not speak for himself, but Boldir could see that his companions were visibly shaken. It took a long time, but eventually, Bremman broke the silence between them.
"That... well, I think it went well, all things considered." The Knight of the Thorn rushed to cover himself, "I mean, we're all alive, right? And we, well we've got their aid."

"An evil thing," Gwella practically spat. "I cannot believe how strong he was. I thought... I thought Stendarr would have granted me the strength to hold him back. I've never been so powerless."

"If the gods worked like that, we'd all be priests," Stoit muttered. "You did your best, Gwella. We all did. That elf, he could have a thousand years on you. By Ysmir, I'm impressed that you challenged him at all!"

She looked up at the sellsword, and then to Boldir, who nodded both in agreement and for encouragement. "Our cause is still righteous," he promised. "We will use these people to save Mila and then we'll leave them and never look back."

"Do you believe him about Endar?" Gwella asked in a voice that had gone soft. "What if he's lying, and he is just using us?"

"He knew that Mila is with him," Boldir said. "Even if everything else he said was a lie, we know that part was true. He will lead us to her, and we can decide for ourselves what to do next."

That seemed to lift her spirits a bit, but Boldir could still see a certain pain in the priestess's eyes, and suddenly he remembered that she had only just the other day learned that her father had been killed. Even after that, she remained driven to find Mila.
"Stoit, Bremman, could the two of you leave us for a moment?" Boldir asked. "I would speak with Gwella alone."

"Boldir," the priestess started. "There's no need-"

"It's alright." Stoit stood up, and the knight tentatively followed.

"Go out there with the necromancers?" Bremman muttered. "Sure, of course. Why not?"

After they were gone, Boldir put the question on his mind to words. "You've done so much already... suffered even, for a child you barely even know and doesn't even like you. Why?"

"I've told you why," Gwella said. "I promised to help Mila before you and I had ever even met. I continue to because it is the right thing to do."

"I think there's more to it than that. Gods preserve, woman, you didn't take a minute to mourn your own father!"

"We were not especially close." Gwella sighed and her shoulders slumped. "Alright... Alright. I can explain these things, but it would take some time."

Boldir motioned about the empty room. "We've got nothing to do but wait."

She nodded and began. "I told you that I haven't visited my home in ten years. Hreke was just old enough to be annoying back then, and I loved her for it. And Alva spent most of her time in the woods hunting game to keep us fed. Jorri, well, I already told you that I had gone home to help with his birth. Even with my magic, it was not enough. The boy lived, but my mother did not." The priestess's tired eyes grew distant. "Mother wasn't herself in those final days. She didn't recognize me, Alva, or my father. Poor little Hreke was the only person she would even speak to. I didn't even get to find out if she was still angry with me, as Father was."

"Angry? For what?"

"For betraying them." Her voice was just above a whisper. "Five years before that, before Hreke was born, Alva was a kid, and I little more. You would've had to have been in Cyrodiil at the time to know how much it has changed. City after city was falling to violence and chaos. It was the worst in the east. Leyawiin and Bravil were bad, and eventually Cheydinhall was too. The Legions were still in shambles thanks to the Great War, and bandits from Morrowind and Blackwood were ravaging the countryside.... Now my father, he was from Skyrim: a Legion conscript who settled here after the Great War. When the bandits started showing up in our lands, he was the one who first took action. Said he'd taken his oaths as a soldier, that it was his duty to protect our village when the Legion could not. And so while he prepared our people to defend themselves from bandits, I went off and married one...."
Gwella's face shifted from sad to angry. "I was so stupid. So, so stupid. I didn't know what he was at the time, all that I knew was that... well... he was handsome, and charming, in that dashing Redguard sort of way. But best of all, he made me think he loved me. His name was Kayoc. We were together for months, and he even helped serve in my father's militia."

"He was scouting you."

"He was. And when the time was right, he and his friends made their move. They knew exactly what time our lookouts changed shifts and which guards were the weakest. They knew the best direction to come from, how many men we had, how good our weapons were, everything. The town bell had even been sabotaged, so most of us didn't even know they were attacking until it was much too late... Sixteen people died, our stores of food and gold were plundered, and my father was stabbed in both the leg and the eye."

"And your husband?"

"Kayoc was one of only three bandits who died in the assault. Stendarr granted us justice, at least. But the dozens of others... they pillaged and murdered and disappeared into the night. I do not know what became of them."

"Forgive me," Boldir said, "but if your parents were angry with you over that, then they were fools. They had been no less tricked than you were."

"I'm not done... Our dead had been buried for little more than a week when I learned that I was pregnant with Kayoc's baby. Father was bedridden from his injuries, and Mother spent all her time taking care of him. We'd lost everything. Every Septim we owned and every scrap of food. Alva learned to hunt, and I learned quickly not to go outside without a knife. The villagers blamed me. Some even wanted me dead. So I mostly stayed indoors, feeling more and more useless every day. I hid the fact that I was pregnant for as long as I could, and with my parents as distracted as they were, that went on for months. But that eventually became impossible. When he found out, Father demanded that I go to Cheydinhal of all places and find a potion that would kill it. And Mother... she agreed. They were furious when I refused, as if by merely having Kayoc's child, I was siding with him all over again. Alva was the only person in the world who stood by my side. She wanted me and her to just leave. To go to west and leave Cropsford behind. But I couldn't do that. Without Alva, Mother and Father would starve. And even as angry as I was at them, I couldn't bring myself to let that happen. So instead, I snuck off on my own one night while Alva was away hunting. Said goodbye with a note under her pillow... I didn't know how angry that would make her, at me, at our parents, at the world, really. I didn't know that she would leave herself the very next day. And so we separately abandoned them, our own parents, when they needed us the most."

"But they survived," Boldir said. "It wasn't as you'd feared."

"They survived thanks to the kindness and goodwill of the people of Cropsford," Gwella said. "And only barely from what I later learned. But it does not lessen what we- I had done. And all in vain... the child, my daughter, was born a corpse. There was never anything I could have done to save her, and I had abandoned everyone I loved for nothing." She made a sound that seemed like a cross between a cough and a very dry laugh. "Stendarr's justice was not complete with Kayoc... There was never any hope for that child."

Boldir had no words for that, nor did he find some before the priestess spoke again. "But who are we to question the ways of gods? I see his mercy every day, I feel it when I wake up free of the pain or hunger that I deserve. When I look back and see that my family survived in spite of me abandoning them. And, well... I was recently given the brightest sign I have ever seen." She smiled sadly. "I had hoped for a daughter, you know. I had the perfect name for her, right out of an old song my father used to sing me. Matilda, after the Brave Shieldmaiden."

"The name Mila has taken up."

"Aye. It is no accident that I met your daughter, Boldir. It was the will of Stendarr. He has used me to bring justice, and now..." Gwella perked up, the anger and sadness leaving her to be replaced by a strong determination. "Now he would use me to bring mercy."

[Witchking of Angmar]

Morane Lynielle

 

 

Camlorn

Dawn

The yard far below the tower echoed with the clanging of steel and shouts of instruction from the knights. Morane listened to it, and found herself surprisingly wistful that she wasn’t down there. She had little love or use for weapons, but here in the court wizard’s tower, it seemed almost a tranquil escape. There was no commotion or tumult, though. What made the tower far from peaceful were the piercing green eyes of the man who lived here. Every time Morane looked up from the book the read, she found Dryston Winvale’s eyes locked with hers.

She’d noticed, over the three weeks she’d been studying under Winvale, that he rarely watched any of the other students like he watched her. But he did not gaze at her in a lustful way, or in an angry way. He seemed almost curious, like if he did not watch her constantly he might miss whatever it was he was looking for. Whatever it was, though, Morane could not provide, so Winvale continued to lean on that sturdy wooden staff of his and make Morane uneasy.

The tower itself was quite interesting, with most of the walls covered in book shelves, while underneath the windows sat tables holding all sorts of magical devices. Under one window was a silver bowl filled with water, while under another was an alchemy stand, but one that looked homemade from the numerous additions and vessels that Morane had never seen before. The echanting table also seemed to be constructed by the wizard himself. A staircase led up to the top of the tower where Winvale’s bedroom was, but she’d never seen him go up there.

Instead he stood in the center of the room, surrounded by the ten students he was trying to teach shadow magic too. Morane, as soon as she heard of the project, immediately volunteered. She had little knowledge of shadow magic, but what she did know was that it was dangerous and powerful, and besides, sitting around for the next Great War was boring enough that she needed some new occupation.

And so for the past three weeks she’d been sitting on the rug-covered floor of the wizard’s tower, reading from different books for an hour every morning before they began their actual lessons. Winvale was a distant and cold teacher, but Morane liked him more than the over-bearing battlemage and the uninteresting captain of the guard that worked in the yard with the other students. She hadn’t gotten much tutelage from them, and she was glad for it, because that meant she got to focus on the shadow magic. But whenever she chanced a look up from her book, she thought she might like the physical work in the yard, if only because she’d be away from Winvale’s stare.

Morane ignored the somewhat beckoning ringing of steel and bursts of ice and flame, brushed a lock of curled black hair from her face, and refocused on her book. Winvale was insistent that they read every morning; oftentimes from books they’d already read. But until they “Learned to focus the hyperagonal sense,” as he said, they couldn’t even begin to attempt shadow magic. Morane’s book was from a student of Azra Nightwielder, and the things they learned under the first shadow mage. The concepts were difficult to comprehend, but a particularly apt metaphor stuck in Morane’s mind. The author spoke of shadow as a metaphor itself, and described its presence in life as a parchment hidden beneath a boulder. One had to reach beneath the boulder, unfurl the scroll, and translate the foreign language it was written in. To alter the parchment was to substitute the ‘are’ that you desired for the ‘are’ that is. Substituting, not writing, was the nature of shadow magic, as only the most powerful shadow mages (if any) could possess the ability to create something new from the fabric of the universe, to pluck the heretofore nonexistent from that which already exists, and to make it exist itself. The present, always in the process of formation, is the easiest to alter, to substitute your will into that which is.

But finding the parchment and the boulder was the first task, one Morane found herself still unable to do. She again read over the part about seeing the shadow with her mind and not her eyes. She closed her hazel eyes tight, willing her mind to reach out between the threads of existence and see. She thrived here, in these moments when she desired something so greatly she fought to will it into being. In that way, she was already preternaturally prepared for shadow magic and willing the substitution of one thing into what was.

And so she focused, clearing her mind of everything, from the sights of the tower to the sounds down below. She focused inward, envisioning the boulder, willing her mind to find the threads of existence which she knew existed all around her. Slowly, they came into view, turning the world around her into so many threads like a those on a loom, but felt like she still could not look at them or they’d fade away. She felt herself drawn towards the threads, for a sliver of something between them. She struggled against the taunt threads of existence, straining to see them, to reach between them for the shadow she knew to be there. Instead, a voice disrupted her focus and her mind, whispering, “Pull back.”

She pushed just as hard against the voice as she did the threads. The shadows between brushed against her fingers, just beyond what she could see, dancing at the edges of her mind, a cavalcade of dismal silhouettes. She found herself unwillingly pulling back, as the voice commanded. As she withdrew, she could see the threads falling into place, like the thinnest of brushstrokes that painted of picture of all that was, all that is, all that will be. She viewed them as if she was flying, watching them move, some in uncoordinated jerkiness, some with the fluidity of water.

It was then she saw, truly saw, what it was she was looking at. She was at the top of the very same tower she was reading the book in. And the threads were those of the knights and soldiers down in the yard, practicing and honing their skills with sword and shield. When she focused on the threads that made up the people, their armor, their weapons, even the beads of sweat trickling down the insides of their helmets or the grains of dirt that stuck to their boots when they moved, she could see the endless possibilities that existed within those threads. She saw the shadows, the conflicts, the possible existences. A shield broke, but it didn’t, or it caught fire, or it didn’t, or it snapped the arm of the man wielding it, or it didn’t. She couldn’t even begin to consider altering or substituting what she wanted onto the parchment, but she now knew exactly where it was. She did not know how to read it, but this was the first step, to find threads, between which the shadow lay. To find the boulder beneath which the parchment sat.

As she watched the threads simply exist, she came to the sudden and unnerving realization that she did not know what was actually true. All these contradictory and opposing events happened concurrently, and the affect was disorienting. What had mere moments ago been a revelation was now disturbing and obfuscating. She suddenly began to feel as if nothing was real, as if reality itself didn’t exist. These overlaying alternate existences pressed down on her in such a fashion as only entire worlds can press down upon someone. She wanted to pull back even further, but something warned her that the scale of that might totally upend her mind.

And so she breathed deeply, regaining her focus and once again willing herself back through the miasma of worlds, this time in reverse of her initial journey, though it was beginning to feel more like an intrusion the longer she lingered. The threads retreated from her view, and as the shadow faded, she regained the consciousness of where she physically was. When her eyes popped back open, she found herself sitting in the very same spot, surrounded by the very same students, none of them having any recognition about what she’d just done. The noises in the yard were the same, and when her eyes drifted up, instead of to the side where the other prospective shadow mages sat, she found Dryston Winvale still staring at her with the same unflinching gaze.

This time, though, his cracked, wrinkled lips twisted into a smirk. Though it was still early in the morning, he tapped his staff twice on the floor, and the pupils all looked up from their books. “Dismissed,” he said sternly, and the students replaced their books on the shelves exactly where they found them before leaving. Morane did not leave, but did rise from the floor and lean back against the table behind her. She realized now how draining it had been, both mentally and magickally. Her intuition told her that she’d spent far longer there than was normal, and yet she’d spent no time at all given she returned in nearly the same moment she’d left.

In retrospect, though, her entrance felt oddly simple. She was reminded of her initial teachings when she was still learning the basics of magic. Her tutor had told her to search inward for her inner magicka reserves, which seemed now what she had down, searching for the conflict-shadow instead of magicka. It was a more focused search, undoubtedly, but she now felt that, whereas initially it was like trying to squeeze through the eye of a needle, now she might simply walk through a full sized door.  

Morane’s smile grew on her face, and when she met Winvale’s gaze it mirrored his own smirk. She had done it, and the euphoria sent her spirits sailing higher than the tower in which she stood. It was intoxicating in the same way her first spells were, in the way her quick and jealousy inducing grasp of alteration was at the Institute for Thaumaturgic Enlightenment, in the same way her first battle against Orcish raiders and the storming of Evermor were. But this far surpassed them. An entire new realm of magic was opened before her, one only a few were privy too. And she was determined to master it.

Morane stood from the desk on which she leaned, giving the plain silver ring on her finger a few twists, as she was like to do. Standing a few inches shorter than the aged master wizard, she asked, “Now what?”

Winvale, in his deep, caustic voice, said, “We talk. You can accomplish no more today through magic. But you will tell me what you saw, what you felt.”

Morane frowned and crossed her arms across her brown cotton jerkin. “It was dark and confusing at first. I didn’t know what I was seeing. I was pushing against it, going nowhere, but when I pulled back, I could see it all. All the possibilities for the training in the yard. It was illuminating, at first, but then overwhelming. So I came back.”

Winvale nodded, but did not seem satisfied by her answer. “You saw the multi-temporal through accessing your hyperagonal sense, but you could not see the transpontine deformations that indicate reality. The multi-temporal hides this. These deformations are the shadows between the threads. You must learn to access these deformations to manipulate the conflict created shadow.”

Morane tried to make sense of this. The multi-temporal were the overlays of the possible presents, with the shadow presence she felt were the transpontine deformations. A realization hit her, about why the she could feel, intuitively, that these shadows were between the threads. “Focusing the hyerpagonal sense, that’s searching for the magicka that leaks through the shadow?”

“Yes, yes, precisely,” Winvale said, shaking a gnarled finger to indicate she had it right. “To peer pass the multi-temporal you must learn to focus the hyperagonal sense, first to see the is was will and the maybe is, maybe was, maybe will. Then you must focus it even further, focus it on the magicka, to get to the conflict created shadow. The there you can substitute your are for the current are, as the are is always shifting and much more easily substituted for the are you desire. Only later, when mastery of the substitution is at hand, can you begin the more difficult tasks of accessing these alternate worlds and substituting their are for your are.”

Whereas the first time he spoke with the shadow magic jargon Morane felt lost, this time she understood as he spoke. The words all fell into place with what she saw, what she felt. She had her bearings now, and when she returned to the shadow magic, she was confident she could go further, all the way to substitution, to real shadow magic.

“I understand,” she said.

“Yes, yes you do,” Winvale replied.

She could see the real happiness on his face, and again she knew it mirrored her own. She also knew this was the last time she’d ever long to be with those oblivious, soon to be failures down in the yard. Until they attained the knowledge she possessed, they were as far beneath her as the ground was the tower.