Civil War Aftermath Chapter 3: Season's End pt3

[Witchking of Angmar]

Lillin Quentas, Milly Quentas 
Castle Chorrol,
Afternoon, 

The tranquility of the Castle Chorrol was interrupted by a scream of rage, and the piercing sound of a slap. Birds flew in terror, and guards just continued their duties in shameful silence. This was commonplace for the guards, hearing the distant screaming of servants being roughened up by the so called “Flowers of Chorrol”. Nothing you could do, if you wanted to keep your job. Mental, sexual abuse, or  straight out plain physical was common place among the nobility against the plebeians, but the commoners had grown used to it. And they guards let it all happen, as the nobles gold clinked in there hand in exchange for shameful silence. “These things happened in Chorrol, nothing you can do!”, was just the common response. Men were stuck up, knightly buffoon's...but the woman. The virtuous “ladies of court” filled with such purity, were the true monsters. So petty and envious. Beasts in the form of angels.  It was a disgusting sickness that flowed through the green leaves of Chorrol’s bright forests, festering like parasites, and corrupting everything that touched it. A festering plague that consumed all that was good and decent. The country was one of the richest in Cyrodiil, but the gap between the upper classes and the lower classes was equally as large. The growing middle class was too afraid to loose their recent status that they didn’t do anything about it. As if thunder has been made manifest, the scream continued, as the dark leaves of autumn flowed in the distance, beyond the pretty, red curtains of the window “You uncomp peasant, you filthy commoner, how dare you!” The thunderous female voice was followed by a trio of other slaps, as a cry of “Please, my lady, I’m sorry-” That was cut of by another slap, this time with much more force. It grew into cries of rage, as the wooden doors into the bedroom were slammed open, as a young lady walked inside with a look of anger. The woman in question bore the regal stature of a lady of court, wearing a splendid, fancy gold-red dress. She had golden hair, done in strands of long length, wore golden spectacles, and her eyes were of a lovely, deep, almost-sapphire like blue. The room itself she had so rudely barged into was very spacious, were a noble lady of court would sleep, filled with rich oak furniture, a massive-queen sized bed with silver lined sheets, and some other items showing her stature as a high-class lady.  

Her attention was not drawn, however, to the room, but the scene unfolding inside the exquisite bedroom. 

A young looking woman was the first thing the noble lady noticed, the darkness in her dead eyes clear. The girl has soft brown eyes, and black hair. Pretty, and rather young. Perhaps in her late teens. For garb, she wore a simple black and green maid’s outfit, with the sigil of House Quentas embossed onto it. Quite fancy make too, showing her to be one noble ladies personal servant. Noble Handmaidens were used a good bit, but servants were cheaper, and better yet, you could throw them away and get a new one at a moment's notice.  All you really needed to give them was food, and the occasional bit of clothing, otherwise they would do what exactly you told them to do. A black rose, flanked by two burning stakes. The Quentas Family in question was known for it's bloody, and fiery history, being advocates of purity, and respect for the nine divine. Witch burnings were a very common place in Chorrol, about seven centuries ago, all carried out by the approval, and even assistance of the noble family. How ironic how things turned out as they did. The girl’s face was covered in crimson marks, and her right eyes was stark purple with a large bruise. She was on the floor, her face covered in tears. The most noticeable thing was the gold locket on her neck. A family heirloom. Very stupid to wear that in public, as a commoner, as a noble might mistaken that trinket as something she stole from her masters shelf.  Her attacker, in front of her gripping her by the hair quite hard. The girl in question was about half the servants size, and a good deal younger. Perhaps thirteen or fourteen. She wore a splendid dress of green, with yellow, blue, and purple flowers embroidered onto the rich fabric. Her hair was platinum, lustrous, and long. The impeccable posture of a lady, even in such a rageful mood, was clearly visible. Though it seemed, physically, the maid was able to fight back, she made no move too, as hitting a member of the high nobility was paramount to suicide in these parts. And...something compelled her to remain compliant to the abuse. To take it. She was inferious. She deserved it. Inside her chest, something urged her to stay down, and take the pain. Gorgeous, sapphire like Lapis Lazuli, the color of the deepest depths of the most gorgeous ocean, eyes stood plain on her face, as did a look of pure rage, marring an otherwise regal, beautiful appearance. Almost otherwordly. The young girl was gripping the servants hair so hard it put pressure on the scalp, drawing blood. A cruel grin stood on her lips,

Such rage. Such petty emotion. I do not blame you, dear sister, though. Mother raised you like this. Your innocence was taking right when you were born into this accursed family.

At the sight of this brutal exchange, the entering lady gasped, yelling, “Lilly, what in Arkay’s name are you doing?!” She ran up to the girl, the noblewoman demanding an answer, as her blonde locks flew in the wind. The younger girl, speaking in a pompous, arrogant tone, yelled, “What do you think i’m doing Milly, disciplining this little whore!” She pulled her hair even harder, a cruel grin appearing on her lips. Children acted like some of the most vile people, despite their pure hearts. Was that sign of inherent human darkness? Countess Millenirus Quentas’s mouth curled into a snarl, as she uttered, “Watch your tongue, little sister. You know how mother dislikes cursing.” She reprimanded her sister, Countess Lillin Quentas before gazing down at the cowering servant girl. She looked rather pathetic. Such frailty. No doubt Like an ant to be quashed. Perhaps to Lilly. A look of pure fear suddenly crossed Milly’s eyes, as she pushed Lilly away with a shove. This stuff happened so commonly in Chorrol, Lilly wouldn’t have bated an eye normally. She of course, felt rotten and horrid on the inside, but this was the way things worked around her, as it had for generations. She could never change it. But today, she knew there would be a different result for this girl, then a few bruises, and maybe being sacked.The girl lost her footing as she fell to the ground, losing her grip on the maid’s hair. “Hey!” She yelled. Lilly was...fiery. Didn’t take shit from anyone, to say the least. God’s forbid what her husband would have to put up with. Milly’s ignored her state, before looking down at the servant-girl, “What did she do?”  

The young girl’s mouth curled into a rageful frown, “She messed up my hair!” She grabbed a strand of her silver locks, and showing the broken and tarnished platinum hair to her older sister. “I heard Mary had one of her servant-girls whipped for such incompetence! This bitch got everything she deserved!” She slapped the young girl in the face, once more,  “Mother does it! You need to put them in there place! There no better than rats! We are the cats!” Another cruel grin appeared on her lips as she began to slap her over and over again, a cruel adrenaline rushing through her veins, like sap being fed to a tree through its gnarled roots. Such pleasure from such petty and cruel acts was unusual. Such sulfurous Venom was common place here though.

A sense of disgust brewed in the pits of the older girl. Cruelness and violence for it's own sake was not something the girl approved of. She raised her hand, “Enough, little sister. No need to dirty your hands on this...thing. I’ll deal with her.” Milly spoke with no trace of emotion. Without even bothering to ask her opinion, Milly physically shoved her out of the way, roughly grabbing the downed maid by the arm, and dragging her out of the large bedroom. Lilly was used to a few punches and jabs from her older sibling. They got quite physical with each other during confrontations . Loud shouting matches turned into physical fights. Milly almost always won. A few kicks to her leg, and a gut punch to the stomach was almost always enough to subdue the teenager. Milly herself was a decent swordsmen as well. Trained and taught by her brother. Mother...raised them differently then most noble families. Wicked little monsters. Oh for sure, Milly, and most definitely Lilly were spoiled brats, but they had to deal with alot of physical abuse growing up. Mother had a...huge “survival of the fittest” mindset. “The weak are trampled, and the strong thrive, among there carcesses, feasting on there remains”, as she was fond of saying. Only following the rules of nature. The golden-haired Imperial still remembered that time she left the duo in the woods alone for a week, and instructed them to get back to Chorrol. Milly ended up killing some bandits, and eating troll for dinner. Milly slammed the door behind them, as a cry of protest roared from behind. She no doubt viewed the maid with disdain solely for being half-bosmer. Pure blooded Imperials were valued heavily in the family, a dark shadow of the Empire’s own stance. They may preach tolerance and multiculturalism, and some aspects of the Legion genuinely represented race being no issue, but the Empire as a whole lived to serve the interests of Cyrodili, and her race, the Imperials. And she didn’t mind. The Imperial People had conquered and subjected all. Might rules all. Yeah, Lilly sure had a foul temper. The maid started to stutter out babbles, of apologies, tears drenching her eyes and cries for mercy, when Milly whispered into the girl's ears, “Be quiet, girl. If you want to live, follow my lead.” The maid’s face filled with surprise, as she glanced at the noble lady, a look of both surprise and fear.

Milly rudely dragged the maid behind her, grabbing her roughly by the end of her skirt Going down a hallway away from her little sister's bedroom, the countess increased her pace, but moved with a sense of stealth, like a panther.  Beautiful vases of gorgeous flowers sat on expensive, Valenwood oak tables, and decorating the hall were carpets of expensive silk. She even spotted an ancient, stone dragon statue, from the Imperial province of Skyrim. A sign of wealth, that house Quentas had always possessed. Countie Guards patrolled the halls, stopping to bow to the young girl, there eyes filled with worry for the maid, but there tongues silent. They wore mithril scalemail, underneath a leather hauberk, with the coat of arms of the Quentas’s etched into the leather. They had silvers helmets, and wore full mail coiths underneath to cover their faces, and add a factor of intimidation. A vivid, green cloak sat on their shoulders. The guards patrolling Castle Chorrols walls were knights, the Thorn Spears of Se’aem, a rather illustrious Knightly Order made up of noble blood, dating back to when the city was ruled by the Valga family in the third era. Each one carried a large heater shield, a elven dagger, and a spear, tipped with mithril.   The Countie Guard, the other forces guarding the city and the rest of the countie, were well trained, and loyal to the Black Rose of Chorrol, but as a precaution, the upper-officers were all nobles of blood-relation to House Quentas. Didn’t want a peasant uprising on there hands. They needed to be kept in a position of weakness, lest they rise up. Guards could trample on the peasants if they needed too, and, just as the guards looked the other way with nobles, the nobles never disciplined the guards when words reached them of abuse. A strange, sickness fell on Chorrol, as the peasants thoughts very rarely wandered to rebellion. They endured all the horrible abuse, and took it submissively, as if they accepted the abuse ingrained into the system. To the nobles, They were nothing more than rats...an expendable sources of power. Useful, to be sure. To be exploited, and then cast aside. Officially, the Countie Guards of Cyrdoili were part of the Legion’s structure but there loyalty tended to fall to their home Counties.  Banners of Chorrol, a wilting black rose flanked by two burning stakes sat proudly, behind a red background, as Guards stood at attention, there green capes flowing in the wind. Once the Quentas’s took power in the Countie, that drab Oak flag had been removed  and replaced by the Quentas coat of arms.  

A dark symbol of respect and authority, that all should follow or die. In Chorrol, most executions were public; the preferred method of impalement. 

The great Oak in the heart of Chorrol’s beautiful capitol lay healthy and firm, but forgotten. Just a sturdy looking tree in the center of the city.

The golden scenery of the great forest, melded with the rich, large city of Chorrol, flower gardens large and in abundance, strangers not realizing the weeds and thorns digging inside the city itself, coiling around like a serpent, strangling the city’s roots.. Most of the peasant population lived outside the city in, poor communities of dreary, gothic villagers, filled with fearful, huddled peasants tolling and wailing away in their poverty, on there way to there deaths. Once more, this is how things were, and the people felt it was impossible to change this. 

Milly politely, as a lady, nodded to a few of them, as she made her way to one of the many...less known exits in the castle. The noble lady speed had increased to the point the young maid was struggling to keep up with her. At last, they reached a servant's exit, that lead to the Great forest, among an ancient wrinkled trail of aged stone. Milly put a hand on the young servants shoulders, speaking in a firm, yet non-malicious voice, “Listen, and listen well girl. I know not your name, or where you come from. But heed my warning. Tonight is a bloodmoon, and you just royally pissed off my sister, the Countess’s, daughter.” She paused. Hircine’s blood moon was a sinister omen to the masses, even more so if you were deep in the Occult. Milly continued, speaking in a low tone, “ And for that, you are in mortal danger. You know the stories. There all true. I’m sure you can imagine what happens to pretty young servants taken out upon yonder moonlight, to dance macabre.” Her voice was soft but held a hard edge to it, her sophisticated accent, showing both intelligence and mockery.

The maid’s face grew pale, before she tried to lift her voice. The noble coldly lifted her hand into the air to silence her, the rich green fabric in her dress rippling. The girls eyes trailed around, only to see, in both shock and surprise, the woman carried with her, a sheathed longsword. Her piercing, lovely eyes sent shivers down her spine. She was a Quentas, and only now, right in front of her face, did the maid see...how strangely beautiful they were. Gazing into them led her agape. Ageless eyes, of pure sapphire, locks of gold or platinum hair of stunning glory. A hinge of alienness emerged from them. While she was not like most in her family, and seemingly well-meaning in her actions, she still had an air of elitism about her. She clearly, while not malicious or venomous like a serpent towards her, thought herself superior to the maid. 

“My, my, what do we have here? My sweet little flower, Milly, what are you doing?” A dark whisperer emerged, instantly causing the young noble’s face to fill with fear. She turned around, and in a single second, Milly placed her hand on the servant’s head, and before she could scream out in protest, the woman’s gloved hand glowed a sickly blue, reflecting the hard edge of her Lapis Lazuli eyes. The aura spreaded around her body, freezing the girl in a dark spell, the light whisping around like a cloud of smoke. The young, blonde yelled, with a frigid voice, “This one was preparing to flee. She messed with dear little Lilly, mother. Such putrid anger coming from such a beautiful little flower is intolerable. I was making preparations to properly punish her.” She said with a cruel smile. For herself, Milly would sacrifice this girl. Less she face her mother's arduous wrath. She made an attempt to save her. She failed. And now if she didn’t want to suffer, must do what she needed to do. Nothing about the greater good,  this was purely selfish. Better her then me. She’s just a peasant...

Aveline Claudette Quentas walked into the room, her lustrous blonde hair flowing down like an ocean of cider. As if she was an amalgamation of her daughters, she possessed Lilly’s hair’s length, and Milly’s golden color. A certain...sass emanated from her, as she placed her gloved, grey silk gloves on her hips, striding into the room with attitude. Old, antique spectacles sat on her face, showing her deathly pale skin, the glass reflecting her gorgeous sapphire eyes. While she looked like she was hardly in her late twenties, her subjects had remembered her rule for nearly a century, known to be a very powerful mage. Half true, the real reason was far darker than that. She spoke in a cold, dead tone, matching her corpse like skin, a common feature for when one uses dark magic to extend their life. The magic she wielded, however, prevented the dead skin from rotting and taking hideous shades. Her cherry red lips, matched her gorgeous chiseled face, like a statue.  A common saying was “Quentas blood was pure, and spawned pretty little creatures”, and Aveline was a perfect example of that. Her perfection was to the point she was very unsettling, almost alien in appearance. She wore a simple green dress, which was threaded with golden and silver thread, some parts shaped like they were leaves. She wore a black rose in her silky hair, while she placed a finger into her mouth. Dark, twisted, thoughts echoed inside, reflecting the ancient evil stirring inside her lapis lazuli eyes, devoid of warmth and innocence. Silently, as if her feet were muffled by a spell, she drew closer to the paralysed maid, an evil smile, showing her perfect white teeth. “My, my.” Her red nails, painted to perfection, went closer to the maid's face, fear filling the poor maids insides, “Such youth. Such beauty. You really are a pretty flower, my dear, Gemia.”

She went closer, inspecting every detail on the maids smooth skin, the maid in question shocked the Countess even knew her name, the Countess’s cold eyes squatted further, “I think...you will indeed make a passable offering. Upon the Black Sabbath, the Blood Moon rises…you look very delicious, for such a dark feast!” The evil smile sported grew into a full on grin, as the maid quivered in fear of what she meant. Aveline’s tongue wrapped around her lips, as if she was a glutton about to feast on a delicious meal, “I shall enjoy sticking you like a pig, and devouring your succulent flesh, dear child” She whispered, into the maids ear, a black whisper carried across the room. Milly could only stand aside, self hatred, and shame filling her, “Yes. I will defile you, and then I will make you love it. Shove razors into your body, and penetrate you with blades while you're bound and can't do anything about it.” Her voice become melodic, “I will corrupt you. Defile you. Torture you. Until your soul is blackened, and ready to be presented to Father Bal.” 

Snapping her fingers, Aveline stood up, gazing down upon the cowering maid. Such dominance made her feel shivers of pleasure, and satisfaction, a monstrous feeling of domination. The adrenaline rush you received, deciding someone lessers fate never got stale to the century old noble lady. Even better, Aveline coudl tell her what she planned for her, and yet she could do nothing to stop it. At that moment , three guardsmen strode into the servants exit, armored, and carrying their spears outstretched. Unlike the guards outside, these ones wore black, obsidian plate armor, and winged, slicked helmets covering their faces with dark ebony. They wore ragged, black cloaks, with hoods put up, and silk face mask covering the lower halves of there face, to further their sinister appearance. Another Knightly Order. The Order of the Black Moon. Aveline’s all-female, personnel guard, and enforcers. Very elite and selective in its recruiting. Sixty six members, all members or cousins of the Quentas’s. Most were drawn from, indeed another Knightly Order, the Red Manticore Knights. Famous for there longspear charges, and twin blade combat on horseback, the Manticore Knights were a welcome sight to any Imperial Force. In contrast, any one who knew the existence of the Black Moon grew pale in fear at mere mention of their foul presence. All fiercely loyal to their liege lady, The Black Moon Knights would do anything to appease her. The black, obsidian armor was genderless, and hid the fact all of them were females.  They gave everything to her, taking vows of silence by ripping out their own tongues. Spear. Loyalty. Body. Soul. Whatever she wanted, whether that be cutting down a fleeing nobleman, to torturing an entire family, the Order would do anything for their dark mistress. Nothing was too clandestine. Political assassination, kidnapping execution, torture,  even rape.  Dread and fear followed them wherever they went.  Aveline spoke once more, cold words still, but no less smug, almost a whisper among the wind, “Bring her to my chambers. I want to show her the futility of life, before her...busy night. Prepare her for the festivities.” She spoke in an almost polite tone. 

The maid could do nothing, but scream internally, as the Black Knights dragged her paralysed body outside the room, her frozen feet dragging behind her. Just as all who suffered beneath the Quentas’s the only thing the rest of the castle, and city could hear was silence in the wind. 

Aveline deathly stare wordlessly switched to Milly as she turned around, “Dear daughter, are you feeling *** for the festivities tonight?” A cruel grin formed on her lips. Milly nodded her head, speaking with no excess emotion, “Of course, dear mother.” Sweat formed on her brow, and a feeling of hopelessness filled her insides,

“Things will be especially... fun, I think. It is a Blood Moon after all. The rest of our sisters have been giddy with excitement. We must not draw Lord’s Hircine’s ire on his day of days. So I was looking for an extra...offering.” The horrid toothy grin continued, “That girl will do nicely. How dare she upset my sweet, little flower Lilly. I shall show her some things before tonight. Oh, I nearly forget”  Aveline placed a hand on Milly, causing the blonde to shunder in terror at her frozen touch. “I need you to prepare your younger sister for...tonight's festivities, under the crimson, bloody moon. I think tonight, will be Lilly’s night, dear daughter, do you not agree?”

Milly’s eyes filled with shock, as she struggled to control the emotion from her voice, “Mother?! Lilly is but a girl!!!” She thought her sister to be needlessly cruel, and Milly took pleasure in bullying her. But she was still her sister. Her sibling. And she loved her, so dearly.  Aveline nodded her head, getting in so close to Milly she could feel her breath on her neck, her pale, lithe fingers trailing on her back. Lilly knew Mother could...do things to her. Far worse than physical or mental abuse. “My dear, flower. Lilly is indeed a girl. But girls become women. Women wither and rot like flowers. Tonight is a rare night indeed, as the blood moon dances like a worm in the dark sky, and it's time she knew all about our family, and what her duty is to it. Do you understand, dear Milly. Shall we deny her living so deliciously like us, any longer?”

Milly nodded, “No, mother…” The fear she held of the woman before her was so much, her fingers began to quake in fear, and all courage she had fled her body. The black breath of her mother's fell over her, twisting her to her will, and putting Milly in the grip of her iron will. She needed to obey her, or mother would no doubt have no qualms punishing her harshly. She knew for a fact Mother knew about Milly’s discomfort.

A shrill cold spot sat on the back of her neck. This wasn’t good. Wasn’t good at all Milly herself was used to...nights such as this. Underneath the pale moon, humanity's ugliness was shown in the form of the whatever festivities the evil shrill hag she called mother had planned out for the night.  Milly fearing for herself, had not but one choice, to participate, and “enjoy” how fun things were going to be. 

********
Great Forest, 

“Milly, when are we going to be there?” The young Lillin Quentas asked, impatiently,  the sinister blood moon visible in the sky. Twilight had emerged, the bright sky still shining rays of wholesome light across the inches of forest it pierced. Dark vermillion haze's lay on the high sky, growing dimmer as red light consumed the dark sky. Autumn had fallen across the forest, as shown by the dead leaves that were scattered around, and orange tree’s, A howling wind heralded the slow march through the forest. Milly and Lilly were alone. The sisters had practically grown up in the forsaken place. They knew every nook and cranny in these parts. The great forest was gorgeous any time during the year, but a certain sickness lay on it, a black spell. Most people ignored it, or didn’t even know it existed, as if they were in some kind of unwakeable dream. Even when it was deceptively peaceful...it felt dark to Lilly. 

As was her families honor, she was expected to embrace that darkness eventually, and become one with the withering forest.

Milly had gathered her young sister from the study room about an hour ago, before forcing her to dress in this sickly, black robe, and head out to the great forest by foot!  Although terribly morbid, and quite unfashionable, it was very well made, being sewn with silver rune fabric; horribly expensive silk from Alinor. Mother had trade contacts within the Aldmeri Dominion, and such, was able to acquire exotic, magical goods that weren’t...entirely legal. Lilly smiled with pride. She did indeed adore her mother. Such a strong woman. Lilly wanted to follow in her footsteps! A figure to emulate. Alas...she was the youngest child, and no doubt her claim to the Countie throne was limited. Milly or her brother, Averius was to be made ruler in the event of her mothers demise.

It took a moment for her sister, whom was similarly dressed in a black robe of the same make, to answer her younger sister's question, “Almost there, dear baby sister.” She gazed above to the Blood Moon, praying in her mind, Lord Hircine. I beg of thee. I know you do not care for where the blood flows from, and my infernal, damned cult prays homage to you tonight, but please...it’s not my sisters fault in which her family she was born into. Do not let harm fall to her, my lord. I beg of thee, oh noble Prince of the Hunt. Why certainly sinister, being an expert of the Occult, Milly knew Hircine was far more honorable than the other...Princes the coven prayed to tonight. And she held a deep hope within in her heart, Hircine might hear her pleas...

She loved her little sister, and would protect her no matter what she had to do.  Regardless, that excitement her sister felt, would melt away slowly. Replaced by pure terror.

They walked in the forest trail for another fifteen minutes, the blood moon slowly consuming the sun, and causing it to diminish into the almost night sky. As if some eldritch monster was devouring the sun, only the dark blood remained in the sky. Twilight was at it's strongest now,

Slowly, the landscape had taken a sinister turn, the overwhelming darkness causing Milly to feel sick on the inside. Black leaves danced in the wind, as the tree’s became shrunken, and hideous, further and further they went into the deep forest. Twilight had turned into night, as blood red light pierced the tree tops. A faint, deathly glow to lighten the path through the darkness. Indeed, Lilly had remembered this trail, from long ago. But Milly had forbidden her from entering. And mother. These parts of the corrupted forest, were even more unwholesome and festering. Dark beasts prowled. Familiars of the coven, but only in the sense they all obeyed mother's orders. The feared her, as the haunter of the night.  If they gazed upon a small girl, alone in the woods, regardless of her relation to the Black Rose, she would be devoured in seconds.  

They were consumed in shadow, to the extent Milly couldn’t focus on what was in front of her. It was a dreary overcast that fell on her. She knew were to walk,, only feeling the dirt on her feet, and the warmth of Lillies hand. Minutes past...or was it hours? She couldn’t tell. The dirt had turned into black mud, and they seemingly had wandered into a swamp of some sorts. A faint dark fog held on the underlying, specks of red light flowing from above, due to the horrid bloodmoon in the sky. Rainfall had begun in a silent downpour, trails of red light piercing the falling water.  Decaying grass, and weeds, stuck out from the mud, as did dozens of white, disgusting maggots wriggle in the foul earth. The dirt path through the swamp they walked was surrounded by knee deep layers of murky, brown water, filled with unknown horrors. Illuminating the way, dozens of torches stood in the foul water, glowing dark blue, the witchlights haunted the swamp.

Not even dark beasts of primal might wandered this forsaken place. The Forgotten Bog. That’s what it was known as by the coven. For it held no other name, that wasn’t lost to the echoes of time.

As if a symphony of darkness was being conducted, piercing the thunderous rain, a choir of voices emerged all around them. Dark chanting in the woods.

As the wandered deeper into the dark mist guided by the witch lights, and faint blood moonlight. Three figures began to faintly appear in the distance, hooded and cloaked. Fear gripped Lilly’s chest, as she paused for a moment, there dark surroundings growing ever stronger. Sensing her fear, Milly’s grip on her hand grew even stronger, as if to silently say “I’m with you, little sister.” Moments later, Milly actually spoke, in an emotionless tone, “Do not wander away from my sight. Stay right beside me. Do everything like I do. Understand?” 

Lilly nodded, her pale hair falling down. The cruel, prideful, headstrong person from before had vanished, and only a shivering little girl remained. “Prepare yourself.” Milly muttered, quite clearly worried. 

They finally reached the trio awaiting them. Having walked the length of the swamp, they now found themselves at the entrance of some kind of glade, a massive circular forest of dark tree’s, surrounded by the bigger, murky bog.  The group of three wore the exact same black cloaks as the sisters, but bore their black hoods up, and wore...disturbing masks of white wood, carved out simply to resemble that of plague doctors. Black, rusty plate hid underneath the peaks of their robes, as did chainmail. Guards of some kind then. Beaked noises, and blank eye sockets stared at the approaching duo. Upon closer inspection, Lilly could make out crow feathers trimmed on the sides of their robes, and on there chest, amulets made from a black gemstone in the shape of the cresent moon stood.   At their belts they carried black steel akaviri blades, there gloved hands ready to draw the blades at a moment's notice. They silently glared at them, as still as statues. 

At the sight of the guards, Milly fell onto her knees placing her hands crossed across onto her shoulders. Lilly followed suit. The elder sister spoke in a respectful tone, “ Greetings Sisters, may Father Bal guide thy defilement.” 

The front woman spoke, darkly, in response, saying collectively as they copied Milly’s gesture,  “Mother Namaria gluttony fill thy devourment, sister.” Her voice. Oh by the gods, her voice. It wasn’t right...as if she wasn’t actually speaking, instead using something else to speak for her. Lilly said nothing as she followed Milly’s gaze. Grasping two of the same wooden masks the guards wore from her pack. Milly place one on her face, and pulled her hood over her head. She offered the other to Lilly, whom copied her actions. At her movement, only did Lilly noticed the ground she walked on, like the swamp, was muddy dirt. Feeling the scratchy texture of the mask, she hesitated for all but a moment, before placing it on her face, and putting up the hood attached to her black robe.

The rays of the bloodmoon glaring down at them Lilly could have sworn she heard...drums beating in the distance. Milly raised a question, “Sisters, has the black feast begun yet?”  

The trio shook their heads, almost in perfect sync, their movements like a puppets, “No sister. The blood moon hasn’t risen high enough, so says the Black Rose. She was waiting for you two to arrive.” Lilly nodded her head, repeating the greeting gesture from before. She grabbed Lilly’s gloved hand, and past the trio of guards, walking down the dirt path, leading deeper into the glade, the black trees gathering around them. Muffled screams rose around them, heralding their descent into the black woods. A chill breeze, a spectre of autumn froze them in place, as Milly spoke once more, the wooden mask muffling her voice, “Lilly, if mother tells you to do anything, do it. No matter how cruel, evil, or malicious it is.” She didn’t mince her words, and simply continued onward, not giving the stunned platinum haired girl  time to respond.

As they walked down the trail, strange noises emerged from the forest, growls and roars of dark beasts participating in the festivities. Guiding their way, the same witch lights like before, roared on as torches planted firmly in the filthy muddy ground in the trail. She didn’t really notice them, as the impaled, decapitated naked bodies of  young girls, placed on the sides of the trail caught most of her horror filled attention. Stark naked, and covered in blade cuts, the limbless torsos were impaled right into the reer, all the way up into where the neck was supposed to be, adoring simple, tall wooden stakes, drenched in blood. There bloody entrails wrapped around the stakes, like yarn. Among the black oaks, charms and bones hung in large, strings lingering among the shubbery. Lilly hugged Milly’s cloak in absolute terror, only for her to rudely shove her away, saying, “Weakness will not be tolerated by the others. Besides, these...were only the appetizers, it seems. Prepare for more nightmares.”

By the time they reached their destination, the blackened forest had parted way, and revealed a large clearing, the blood moon high in the sky shining down rays of unwholesome red light across the land. What horrors did lilly’s mortal eyes witness? Twisted, grey grass stood, and blackened tree stumps lay, as if their life essence had been suck out of them by some curse, in the glade. Not a single normal piece of greenery.  Dozens if not hundreds of cloaked figures gathered in dark communion,  all wearing the same masks as the sisters, a hollowed wooden plague doctors, and sporting black robes of different make concentrated in the center in one large group, though smaller pockets lay around the edges. All female going by their curves and breasts. Not a single man among them.  Lingering near the edge of the forests, large, cages of rotten wood stood, planted firmly in the dirty ground. Inside sat dozens of terrified woman, of all ages and race, naked, huddled among each other, most crying and sobbing, begging for their captors to release them, there skin covered in dirt and muck. At the edges of the wooden cages, more cloaked women, wielding long hunting spears, thrusted through the gaps, piercing their flesh, and torturing them with the steel tips, drawing blood.  Going by the lingering pieces of shit and puddles of piss in the ground, they seemingly had been kept there for the entire day, treated no better then animals. Unlike the majority, these spear-wielding sisters bore deer antlers head dresses. All “missing” woman from villages, and towns around Chorrol. At the edges of the clearing itself, captives shrieked, as they lay crucified on trees, there hands, and feet, pierced by large, rusty, iron nails, a symphony of screaming, a backdrop to the chanting from the others. Like at the cages, some spear-wielders stood, constantly prodding them with the jagged tip of there weapons, never giving them a moment's rest to forget about the long night of torment that awaited them. Lilly, to terrified to even speak, just followed behind Milly as they joined the larger group. At the forefront, standing upon a massive stone walkway, was the Black Rose herself, Aveline Claudette Quentas. Unlike all the others, she didn't wear a mask, instead having a veil of black silk, and a black rose adorned in her golden locks. She wore an identical black robe to Lilly and Milly, and was flanked by two of her dark moons, wielding two-handed Akavari Dai-Blades of Darkness, along with ebony armor, that literally bled tendrils of shadow.  As she lifted her hands, the chanting quieted down. Milly whispered into Lilly's ears, "Repeat what mother says..." 

Aveline, for the first time, spoke, "Upon the dark moon, we gather..." 

"Upon the dark moon we gather..." Arose a chorus of emotionless voices, echoing across the black forest. 

Aveline spoke a second time, raising a golden chalice, adorned with rubies, into the air.  As it did, crimson liquid that wasn't wine swirled like a tiny ocean. 

"Forsaken blood is wine we drink..." 

The group repeated, "Forsaken blood is wine we drink..." 

Aveline took a sip of the glass, before placing it down upon the stone. She grasped a severed  arm from the ground, lifting it and raising it upward. "Human flesh is our hallowed bread..." She ferociously bite into the arm, tearing up a massive chunk of raw flesh, devouring the piece with unmatched gusto, blood and bits of meat marring her previously perfect face. Hunger crept on her face, her white teeth covered in blood now. This time the chorus that everyone spoke, besides Lilly, her mistake drowned out by the sheer amount of other voices,  "By Mother Nameria, are gluttony shall be sated." 

"Screams of our victims is lullabies to our ears...."

"By Father Bal, our lust shall be quenched...."

Aveline, gazed downward, whispering, "Bring the sacrifice..." At the forefront, two more of Aveline's Black Moon's dragged in a hooded person, blinded by a black sack. Though naked...it would be hard to tell the gender, but you could see they were clearly female. Though she used the term loosely. Something...horrible had been done to her body. Such savagery and degradation. Her breasts had been cut off, replaced by two metal rods sticking out from the front. Her...head had been, moved? In its place stood the sewn together head of a deer, while the head, which had no more features, the eyes, mouth, hair, scalp, sliced off, was sticking out in a sickening way backwards. Hundreds of cuts covered her entire body. How the hell was she still alive? What twisted magic kept her alive, and in such awful agony. The two armored witches placed the...pile of flesh onto the stone ground in front of Aveline, who smiled. Milly whispered into Lilly's ears, saying in a serious ton of voice "The coven draws its power from blood sacrifices, a forbidden, and nearly forgotten, art of blood magic, drawing power from the sanguine life force, unlike most witches, who rely on the bones of the earth.  It requires human sacrifice.  To maximize our power, we worship the two daedric princes, Molag Bal, and Namaria, using ritualistic cannibalism, and rape to garner favor. As we already powered our spells and power through human sacrfice, rape, and cannbilism goes well togther with it, allowing us to gain both favor, and power at the same time. The third part of our cult is...rather complicated." 

 She spoke words, Lilly thought she wanted to hear, but now, know she really didnt. 

"My daughters, approach." 

Milly without hesitating for a moment, grabbed Lilly by the shoulder, and pulled her with her to the front of the cloaked group, all eyes trailing on the duo.  Pushing through the group. As they arrived, Lilly began to gag as she got closer and closer to the stone walkway, the smell of decay filling her nostrils. Milly whispered, "Look upon thy sins, dear sister. Confront your fear." As the got nearer, Lilly at once noticed something on the tortured persons neck. A small golden locket. Lilly was about to throw up as both guilt, and agony filled her, but was stopped by Milly punching her got, "Hold your bile in. Show no weakness." Lilly stopped herself, and to much discomfort, swallowed up the vomit brewing from her throat. 

When they got there, Aveline placed a gloved hand on Lilly's shoulders. She held a small knife...that was of strange make. Gold and green it looked vaguely...Argonian? It was adorned with what appeared to be Saxhleel jewels, colored deep blue. The gold itself was greenish, and the green was a dark, sickly shade. Like a swamps. Very slimly in apperance. She said, "Tonight's black feast is in honor of you, dear Lillin."  Her lazpis Lazuli eyes hardened, as she whispered into the girls ear, "Remember these words." She took the knife to the tortured souls skin, and began to cut deep slashes into it. The pile of flesh moved, but said nothing. Her agony was heard by no one. For she could no longer speak, or even heard. All her existence was to feel pain now. A pleasurable expression, as if Aveline was turned on by the cutting, appeared on her mothers face, as Aveline's free hand trailed downward...and did things to the tortured souls lower half, that no sane person wanted to describe, right as she cut at her flesh, as she whispered to Lilly, "You've never tasted another woman's flesh, before have you, dear? Both ways are equally delicious." Lilly could only watch in horror as the corpse-person shuddered, and fidgeted sensually at Avelines...caressment with blade and hand. The woman she called mother spoke once more, "Remember, you must engage in three means of torture to be one with Father Bal. Physical. Mental. Sexual. Sexual orientation has nothing to do with it. This is the means to gain true domination. You see." She began to carve Daedric runes onto her, placing her black gloved hands towards the scars, and lighting them up with Magika. "She belongs to Father Bal now. Body and Soul."

Lilly blankly starred, as after about ten minutes, right in front of her face, Aveline placed her jeweled knife to the woman's neck, and slit her throat, spraying crimson blood across Lilly's  masked face. Saying out loud, "Father Bal, accept this offering. May you find appeasement in this personnel offering. We send this soul to you in cold harbor." The Coven repeated her words. Before Aveline, kicked the body off the stone walkway, and onto the crowd below her.  The Blood Moon continued to shine its crimson rays of light, as if possessed by a demon, multiple sisters jumped forward, tearing off there wooden masks, and began to rip off chunks of flesh the tortured souls body, shoving the meat into there mouths like starving animals, intent on devouring them. A grin appeared on Aveline's face, as the grisly feeding frenzy continued below. She raised her hand saying, "The Ones Below, we thank you for your gifts. May you shower us in wealth, in return for our power, and human sacrifices." 

Aveline placed her hands to the ground, drawing bloody runes into the earth, using the crimson liquid from her most recent kill. At that signal, the rest of the witches, drew black hilted blades, there Athames, from there belts, placing the blade to there left palm, and cut down deeply. As there blood flowed, the members of the coven, began to draw similar looking blood runes into the ground below. Aveline, once more, placed her hand to the ground, and channeled a torrent of Magika into her spell, causing the rune to light up, crimson red. The other witches followed suit,  as Milly whispered into Lilly's ears, "Those runes act as a conduit of sorts. Any blood's power they spill, including there own, will be channeled into mothers blood rune, and super power her spell. Already a very powerful mage, the spell itself will be magnited by an enormous amount." 

"And what spell is that?" 

"Corrupting the Earth, and pouring dark magic into it" She said simply. 

Finally, Aveline lifted her hands into the air shouting, " In Father Bal, Mother Namaria, and The ones below's names, let the bouquet begin!"

[Witchking of Angmar]

Mila, Endar
 

In Mila's dream, she stood outside The Bee and Barb, peeking through one of its windows. Her mother and Boldir were seated inside next to Uncle Aerin. They all laughed as Aunt Vex told them some joke she couldn't hear. At another table, Kuslaf was sternly telling Jorri to calm down as the excited boy pulled on his sister's hair. Behind them sat Sharda, disguised in the stolen dress of some noblewoman. She was speaking to Runar the Boatman, no doubt conning him out of some valuable.
They all looked so normal, so at ease. But when Mila moved to join them, her foot knocked against a lone candle, and the flames immediately took hold. Her loved ones' laughter turned to screams of pain and fear as the fire engulfed the inn and quickly spread across the the city. Riften burned, and Mila could only watch. 
Amidst all the chaos, Kuslaf's voice shouted the loudest of them all. "You killed us, girl! It's your fault!"

"I didn't mean to," Mila cried back. "I didn't want any of this!"

"That's too bad, kid." She turned to find Sibbi Black-Briar standing at the center of the flames, his skin already beginning to melt. "Because it will never stop."

Mila knew that she had cried out in her sleep again, for when her eyes opened, Elara was kneeling over her bedroll wearing a look of concerned. "Are you alright?"

"Where are we?" she asked. The fire and screams still rang in Mila's skull, but the dreams were quickly fading, turning into a dark clearing lit by two ever-present moons.

"We're in the Great Forest," the stewardess answered. "Remember? A few days ride from Chorrol."

That's right. We're going to the place called Cloud Top. "I'm going to take a walk," Mila told her. "You can go back to sleep."

"Are you sure you're alright?" Elara still seemed worried. "I can come with you if you'd like."

"I'm fine," she assured. "Really. Go back to sleep."

By the time Mila was on her feet, the heat of the flames and the screams of her loved ones had blended back into her mind, where their echoes remained, calling at her as they so often did. They are what drove her to go out tonight. It would certainly be better than going back to sleep.
The forest air was brisk and cold. But wrapped in her cloak and clad in wool, Mila was plenty comfortable strolling away from the dim green campfire that warmed their party through the nights.
She did not have to wander far to find Master Drenim, awake as always, standing in the woods by himself with a different open book in each hand. She cleared her sleep-muddied throat. "What are you doing?"

Endar swore under his breath and turned to find the young Skyrim girl bundled up in a cloak that made her look twice her actual size. He had detected her approach the moment she'd stepped away from his balefire, but it had been Endar's hope that the child would end up walking in any direction but this one. It had been too much to hope for, apparently. "Researching," he answered. "Nothing that you need concern yourself with."

"I don't need to be here at all," Mila replied, moving closer. "What are you researching?"

The girl could not have seen the twitch in Endar's brow as he studied her. "It is beyond your comprehension. Decades of preparation and study would only reward a fraction of the mental fortitude that would be necessary to grasp even the most basic of concepts that I currently work with."

"Oh. Okay then... So you're not going to tell me?"

He frowned. "What do you know about hyperagonal media?"

Mila scrunched up her face. "What?"

Endar sighed. "As I said, it is beyond your comprehension. I would suggest reading the works of Galerion the Mythic for the most basic introductions, but do so with a conscious disregard for his mindset of containment and restraint. For all of his genius, Galerion has an annoyingly limited perspective on 'what is' and 'what could be'."

Mila didn't have a clue what Endar was talking about, but this was the closest the wizard had come to even attempting to engage her in something akin to a conversation, so she decided to bluff. "I wasn't aware that Galerion's views were incorrect."

"Not necessarily incorrect," he responded, "At least not in theory. But I strongly disagree with some of his views on liminal bridges and what mortals are capable of doing with them. Laws are stupid. Especially the kind that tell us what we cannot do."

"Isn't that all laws?"

"Pfft." Endar shook his head. "Imperial law asserts that we are not to turn the air a man breaths into smoke, but that's never stopped me in the past. Certain accredited scholars such as Galerion postulate that a transliminal mechanic cannot create a transliminal morpholith without resources obtained from planes beyond our own. I believe that their laws, while vastly more sensible, are even more ridiculous and limiting in nature. That no one has yet discovered a way to break them does not mean that they cannot be broken. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes," Mila said with a completely straight face.

"And of course it would be Mankar Camoran of all people who actually found a fashion to call this line of thinking into question. A shame really, that one so deluded as he was also so brilliant in his own way. If only it had been another. Such a thesis would have been taken more seriously had it not come from the lips of a madman."

"Maybe he wasn't mad," Mila stated. At this point she had no idea what the conversation was even about. But she was in too deep to back out of this now. Perhaps by faking her way through her interactions with Endar, she might actually begin to learn what in Ysmir's name he was talking about. And then maybe, she could get him to help her.

To Mila's surprise, the wizard actually laughed. It was an ugly, coarse sound that resembled something heavy being dragged across a wooden floor. "Now that is an abstract viewpoint. I do not know how much of this you've understood, girl, but I hope it has satisfied your incessant desire to investigate my affairs."

"I don't mean to be annoying," she responded. "I want to be useful to you."

"Elara is useful to me," the wizard said. "As are the various denizens of other realms that are bound to my service. Do you know why? It's because they respond and act when I call on them. You do this as well, but with the addition of a distracting level of curiosity that removes your mind from the tasks you've been assigned and averts my attention to its satisfaction. Few days have gone by that I have not received the very vague and open-ended 'What are you doing?' question. Because my answering it has yet to heighten your usefulness to me, I have to assume that you want more than just that."

"Well I... suppose it is just curiosity. That and, well... I want to learn how to do things." Mila's shoulders slumped. "I have lots of questions, but-..."

"But it's not your place to ask them," Endar interjected, "because you are a servant, and they are not pertinent to the task at hand."

"That's it." She said, lighting up. "If you understand, then why can't you spare the time to humor me, even a little bit?"

"Understanding and caring are two different things. Time is not gold. I cannot afford to spare it for the sake of others. And even if I were to live another five thousand years, it would not be enough to accomplish everything I set out for." Endar regarded the young human girl, with her 'secret' magic dagger and the Redguard spirit in her pocket. She was interesting, no doubt. And driven. In a way, that last part reminded him of when he had been a youth. Though, of course, even then he had been considerably more brilliant than she would likely ever be. "That said, you have a knack for stealing time from me regardless. Perhaps humoring you would at least see that it is not wasted. Ask me a question, girl, and I will answer it as best as I can."

"Really?" Mila's voice caught in her throat. "I mean- What..." She hesitated, thinking of the dream that had roused and brought her here tonight. She knew what she wanted. If anyone can do it, it's him. "I've heard that you Dark Elves can summon the ghosts of your ancestors."

"It's a common practice, yes."

"Well, I..." Mila envisioned her mother, smiling at her behind their stand in the Whiterun market. "I want to know, can I do that too?"

A few seconds passed before Endar answered. "Ancestor ghosts are not summoned like most undead. They are connected to their clansmen in a unique relationship that is established through ritual. Many rituals, actually. They involve the membership in a clan or house, kinship or new blood, and the burial of the deceased. My people are burned when they die, and the ashes are laid out in cardruhn, tombs consecrated with sacred rites that help preserve and strengthen this relationship. Even small discrepancies from the traditional practices have been known to sever the tie between members of a house and the spirits of their dead."

That all seemed very strange to Mila, but she understood clearly enough what he was saying. "No, then?"

"No," the wizard answered. "Probably not."

To her own surprise, Mila's eyes did not moisten. It had been a foolish wish anyhow, a stupid, childish thought that she should never have even had. "Thank you for humoring me," Mila said, and then she turned and walked back to the green campfire.

Endar watched the girl leave. So she's lost someone, he figured. It was unexpected, but not at all atypical. With all the wars in Skyrim these last few years, it would have been stranger if she hadn't. Given the circumstances the girl had come to him in, he assumed it had been her caretakers. Why else would she be living alone, thieving to survive? Of course, that did not explain what brought her all the way down to Cyrodiil... "Nchow," Endar swore. What does it matter? I have spent enough thoughts on her already.
He raised the two tomes back up and resumed his studies.

Back at the camp, Mila sat awake, looking up at the moons as she had done more and more often as of late. "Stupid," she muttered. She had finally gotten Master Drenim to pay her even a little mind, enough to answer a question even, and she had let the little girl in her squander that opportunity. She could have asked for something useful, like how to turn invisible, or make this green fire. But no. She'd forsaken the pragmatism that had kept her alive in favor of hope. And it made her ask something that she already knew the answer to. If mages could so easily just bring back their loved ones, then everyone would become one. "Stupid," she said again, in case Masser and Secunda had misheard her the first time. "Being a stupid little girl is what got Kuslaf killed," she told the moons. "You were there. You saw it. You saw me in Riften too, but you missed it when everyone there died trying to help me, because I couldn't help myself. Well I'm done with all that. They're dead and I'm here. Look at Elara. She's made a life of this, and I can too. I don't need them anymore."

Perhaps she was crazy, but to Mila, the way the moons stared back at her silently almost felt like they were judging her words and finding them false. It was as if they did not believe her, and so did not deem to respond. Even as the thought passed through her mind, Mila knew how absurd it sounded, but even so, she shot first Masser then Secunda a hard glare. "I'll show you."

Yet when she went back to sleep, Mila still dreamt of the family she had lost.

***
In the depths of Fanacas, it was impossible to tell what time it was when the necromancer's eyelids peeled back and he rejoined them all in the ruins. "I've found them," Rythe said, his raspy Dunmeri voice sounding triumphant. "They are in the Great Forest," he sneered. "No doubt bound for Cloud Top. Even knowing that I will pursue him, Drenim wastes no time in claiming the prize that he stole from me. Everyone get ready. The ride to Chorrol is a long one. We leave in one hour."

***

Near Chorrol
Three Days Later
 

Mila woke that morning with a strange scent on her nostrils accompanied by a tasted. It almost seemed like blood, but she could not be sure, for it faded with her dreams. Turning onto her side, she saw that Elara and Acivo were already up and had started on breakfast. The delectable aromas of darkened toast, melting butter, and crisp bacon quickly cast away any thoughts Mila had of the strange scent she had imagined.

"-never gotten to eat this well on the march." Acivo was saying as she lazily approached the fire. The Legionnaire was positioned to see her first, and he nodded in greeting. "Good morning, little stewardess."

"You're just in time." Elara smiled and motioned to the log Mila had sat on for dinner the night before. "Acivo killed us a boar early this morning. With his sword. Isn't that incredible?"

"She gives me too much credit," the soldier said, humbly. "I was taking a walk and nearly tripped over the beast where he slept, and I probably squealed louder than he did as I fumbled for my weapon. Had I caught him awake, I'd probably be bleeding out in the forest."

"He smells good, I can say that much," Mila told them, "I'm pretty sure after all this riding, I'd have slept another hour if I hadn't caught whiff of that bacon." She picked up a twig and prodded one of the strips with it. The fatty meat sizzled in response. "So, where is Master Drenim?" The wizard rarely spent the nights with them, but he was almost always there for breakfast.

"He said he needed quiet." Elara replied. "He's gone off to scry on those necromancers."

Mila felt a nervous tightening in her stomach. It had been two and a half days since Master Drenim had first used his magic to discover that they were being pursued by an unknown number of mounted wizards, and despite the others' lack of concern, Mila herself was more than a little worried about the prospect of being hunted. "Well what's he seen so far?"

Elara shrugged. "You'll have to ask him yourself. We know as much as you." She gave an encouraging smile. "Don't worry, you haven't seen what Endar can do, but I have. Some corpse-lovers will be no threat to him."

"And he won't be alone," Acivo said, patting the hilt of his sword. "Necromancers like to prey on peasants and unwary travelers. I doubt if this lot have ever gone up against a trained member of the Legion. And Elara's no scrub with magic either."

"And I've got my staff," Mila offered. "Master Drenim says its nothing special, but it can't hurt, right?"

The two adults exchanged a glance, and then Elara sighed. "I would never question your bravery, Matilda. In fact, you've got me beaten in that area for sure. But you're very young. There's no way in all the Planes of Oblivion that we'd have you involved in a fight with the sort of people who use souls for playthings."

Scowling, Mila started to argue, but in the end she held her tongue. There was no point in arguing now. She would prove her usefulness to them when the time came. 

"Time to pack up." Endar's voice reached them before the elf became visible in the tree line. "We've got people coming up the road and we're less than a day away from Cloud Top."

"People?" Acivo broke a piece of toast in half and passed one half to Mila. "What people?"

"I haven't a clue," the wizard answered. "This close to the city it's probably just travelers. We'll cross paths with them on the way."

"What about breakfast?" Elara asked as they all stood. 

"Eat as you ride. We have tarried too long as it is." 
With that, Endar snuffed out the fire with a wave of one hand and levitated a strip of bacon with the other. He took a bite and turned to march off, his breakfast following him as he went.

"By the Nine is he an odd one," Acivo muttered. "I don't suppose he's aware that we've got a whole pig that needs hauling."

"I don't think he cares," Mila said, munching on her toast. She risked a grab at the bacon and was pleased to find that Drenim's spell had sucked enough heat from the pan to make such a move rewarding. "There will be more food in Chorrol if we run out."

"Yes but... my boar." The Legionnaire cast a sullen look over at the half-butchered hog. "Alright, fine. But don't expect me to go on the food runs when we get to Cloud Top."

It was not long before the group was packed and on the road again. The trees were still too thick to allow for much else to be seen, but Endar assured that they were not far now from their destination. Of course, before they could reach it, they had to cross paths with the travelers he had detected. 
Mila heard the group before she saw them. The faint sound of metal sliding against metal echoed through the trees, growing louder and louder until four figures appeared around the nearest bend. Whether they were male or female, men or mer, Mila could not tell, for each of them was draped and hooded in scraggly brown cloaks, beneath those was some dark armor, and within the hoods, wooden masks carved with strange, devilish faces. They did not speak as they approached, though they did stop to watch. 

"Fine greetings to you, travelers," Acivo nodded, drawing his and Elara's horse up to the front of their party. "Have you come this way from Chorrol?"

The masked figures did not respond. They only looked on in solemn silence. Even with Endar, Elara, and a Legion soldier in her company, these four made Mila feel strangely unsettled. It did not help that beneath the wooden masks, she saw each pair of eyes was trained on her. Even without faces to go with them, there was something in there that seemed hungry. Suddenly, that scent of blood flooded back into her nostrils, and Mila wanted nothing more than to get away from these people.

"Keep riding," Endar commanded the group. "They will not speak to us."

The figures remained there and watched them leave. It was only after they'd rounded the bend that Mila realized she had been holding her breath. She let it out now, and was relieved to look back and see that they had not been followed. "Who were they?" she asked, quietly.

"Cultists, I should think," Endar answered. "Some kind of warrior-cultists from the looks of them. I do not know County Chorrol well, but I have noticed that the closer we draw to the city, the more it seems the bones of the earth have been tampered with."

"The bones of the-" Acivo seemed angry about that. "What does that even mean? I've been to Chorrol plenty. It's not full of people like that." 

"I never said it was," the wizard said, "But they're certainly around here. Have any of you had any dreams these last two nights that were unusual?"

At first, Mila thought that her dreams of Riften and the people she'd known were what he meant, but those were anything but unusual. Though now she could not recall if she'd had such a dream this last night...

"I dreamed of a cavern," Elara said. "And blood in the grass. It was rather strange, now that you mention it."

That was enough to help Mila remember. "I tasted blood when I woke up."

"I daresay that you will experience something similar in all your dreams here," the wizard told them. "I suggest you ignore it. We do not have time to get sucked into investigating whatever blood magics are being used to taint this land."

"You mean witchcraft?" Acivo asked. "It sounds to me like this is something dangerous. Evil even. Who would be better for dealing with it than a Telvanni Wizard?"

"Probably no one." Endar replied. "But it is no business of mine. And I have better things to do than go on a pointless witch hunt. If it bothers you so much, I'd suggest you wait until we return to the palace and write a report to whichever superior you think would most likely care. Besides, those four were nice enough."

"They didn't bloody speak," the Legionnaire said.

"If only everyone could learn from their example."

"Bah." Acivo looked back and spat. "I'd sooner learn from the Thalmor than daedra worshippers. That's what they are, right? Who else would do such a thing?"

"Don't be dramatic," Endar rolled his eyes. "Yes, they probably worship a Prince or two, what of it? Nearly every Dunmer in Morrowind worships at least three."

"They don't practice blood magic for them. It's wrong."

"Wrong? Pfft. Please. It's the powerful who define the standards of virtue, not the nameless grunts. Come now, we are nearly there." Endar urged his horse to speed up, forcing the rest of them to follow in suit. 

Two hours later, the forrest had dwindled enough to reveal the high stone walls of Chorrol. Its gates were open, and townsmen could be seen hauling carts of timber and other goods up and down the road. Along the towers, long banners drifted with the wind, depicting a black rose between two burning objects. Before they came close enough for Mila to get a better look, Endar veered his horse to the right and took them along a narrow dirt path that led north.

They spent the first half of the morning looping around the city, and the second half and putting some distance between them and it. By early afternoon, the walls of Chorrol had vanished from sight once again. This time instead of trees, their view was blocked by tall, rocky hills covered in wispy grass, as the terrain grew higher and more sporadic. In the far distance, Mila saw one such hill standing taller than all the rest, shining brightly at its peak as Magnus reflected off the snow that coated it. It did not take long for her to realize that this was where the path they followed seemed to be leading.
"Is that Cloud Top?" Elara asked, before she could.

"It would seem so," Endar answered. "It matches the sketch on Rythe's map."

Mila cupped her hands over her eyes and squinted, and did indeed spot what looked like a small segment of crumbled rock walls not far from the top. "I thought it was supposed to be a mountain."

"You kidding, girl, or are we looking at different peaks?" Acivo glanced back at Mila and motioned at Cloud Top. "Look at that thing! It'll take us hours just to climb to the ruin!"

Mila almost laughed. "There are mountains in Skyrim that take people days."

"Well you can keep them." the Legionnaire said. "This is already looking too bloody high for me."

They spent two uneventful days trekking through the Colovian Highlands, passing through the two small villages and the odd shepherd's farms along the way. The fur-clad locals always glanced up as they passed, but made no move to welcome or greet them before turning back to their own business. The nights were notably colder than they had been in the forests, but thankfully, only the first of them was accompanied by the strange bloody sensations that had been attached to the land around Chorrol. After the Great Forest had well and truly faded, whatever taint had been on the land faded with it.

It was mid afternoon on the second day when they reached the base of the hill and started winding their way up the side. Mila clutched at her saddle tightly as the surefooted Cheydinhal mare clopped along the narrow trail. The hill may not have been as tall as she'd expected, but it was plenty rocky, and steep enough in most spots to make falling dangerous. Though that changed as they neared the top. The path ceased to twist as the steepness subsided. The rocks were replaced by snow, which they soon they found themselves riding through as they approached a crumbed down grouping of stone bricks and fallen pillars.
"This was Imperial architecture," Acivo pointed out. "Did the Legion build here?"

"Yes," was all Endar said. Suddenly, the wizard climbed down from his horse and walked past them, heading deeper into the ruin. Acivo exchanged a look with Elara, then Mila, and then he led them in following suit. Whatever this place had been, it wasn't big. They passed a few stone piles across a snow-covered floor and what might've once been a wall before drawing up next to Endar in the ruin's center. There, draped in snow, stood the base of a broken white pillar that seemed much older than the ruin surrounding it. The thing stood at chest-level, and was covered in some ancient runes that could have been random scribblings for all Mila knew. 

Endar knew better, however. He had read the journals, and much of the strange book as well. He understood some of what the Ayleids had done here millennia before the Imperials and their guilds and colleges had come and tried to study it. Now, with the tools at his disposal, he could replicate that work.
"Soldier," he called.

"It's Acivo."

"We are going to be here for a while. I need you to go down to one of those villages on a food run."

Mila and Elara laughed as the Legionnaire's face took on an expression of pure indignation. "You're kidding."

"Why would I kid about such a thing?" Endar asked. "Are you so skilled a hunter that you could keep us fed without such a trip?"

"I killed a boar. It could have fed us for a good while." Acivo was getting visibly annoyed by the wizard's complete lack of regard for him. Endar, for his part, did not seem to notice. 

"Boar sounds nice. You are free to go and do that again, or whatever else you must."

Elara stepped in front of them, "I'll go find the food."

"Nonsense. I have greater need of you elsewhere." Endar reached into his satchel and produced a rolled up piece of parchment. "This is a list of supplies that you know how to identify. I would have you make haste, as I will need them sooner rather than later."

Elara took it and looked the list over. "Red paint? A map of Oblivion Gates? What does this have to do with your study of Dawn Magic?"

"It doesn't. As you are all aware, Rythe Orealo and his entourage are following us. If they're riding hard, they could be past the Imperial City by now. I do not question my ability to handle Rythe myself, but he is doubtless bringing enough of his stones to give himself an advantage. I intend to use whatever resources the land provides in order to mitigate that."

"And how will a ruined Oblivion Gate-"

"They're necromancers, Elara. Necromancers work with the undead. Do you know where the undead get their sparks from? Go now! You and Cicero both! Time is short enough as it is."
As the two of them started back to their horses, Endar turned back to the pillar only to find the Skyrim girl standing right beside it. Right. "Perhaps today you will not be completely useless. Step aside, but remain within earshot. Should I have need of a servant, I expect you to be there at once."

"Okay." Mila got out of the wizard's way, finding herself a nice spot in the rubble where she could sit down and watch him work.

***

Boldir
The Great Forest

The display before them was nothing short of nightmarish. The family's mutilated body parts decorated the ground around the ruins of their hut, forming a circle whose center was dotted by the charred remains of some poor woman who'd been burned at the stake. Rythe made no move to stop Gwella from removing the nails and lower the corpse to the ground. This did not stem from some newfound mercy, however. If anything, the ex-Telvanni necromancer was intrigued by the scene. "This is witch country," he said, matter-of-factly. "It wasn't so prominent before the Oblivion Crisis, but nowadays the spells are so obviously weaved into the earth, you'd have to be a troll not to notice them. Though recognizing is another matter.... I reckon these poor sods got theirs maybe... two days ago."

"Why would someone do this?" Sir Bremman asked. The Thorn Knight's hand gripped the hilt of his longsword as if the perpetrators could return at any moment. "It's vile."

"It's life." Rythe shrugged. "Or well, technically it's death. I'm sure you've read stories about rituals like the one performed here. Blood for power and all that. Personally, I have always found witchcraft to be an exceptionally crude art."

"And yours isn't?" Gwella looked up, her eyes flashing with anger.

"Not as I practice it, no," the necromancer replied, showing no signs of offense. "Drenim was here, though. He could not have camped too far. There are wards placed in this neck of the woods that are not the work of witches or any layman."

"How long ago?" Boldir asked.

"A few days. The magic has faded enough to be difficult to trace. But that it remains is a testament to the caster's skill. He'll be at Cloud Top by now, probably expecting us."

"Good." Between Gwella's spells, and the potions Rythe's mages had been making for him, Boldir was starting to feel like he was back to his original strength. And he was itching for a fight. Who he would be fighting, the Nord did not yet know, but the closer they came to their destination, the tighter that familiar pre-battle adrenaline gripped at his chest. "Let's get a move on. There's nothing we can do here."

"We can bury them," Gwella said, shooting Boldir an icy look.

"Yes," agreed Sir Bremman. "I was thinking the same."

"You're kidding, right?" Rythe glanced from the priestess to the knight, and then back to Boldir. "Every second that we waste is another that Drenim has to prepare. Worms in the mud, I was considering looking for a spirit or two to bind so we could grant them the chance to be useful one last time..." When he saw the priestess's ferocious look, he mocked one of apology. "But I didn't, out of respect for present company. Although..."

"Let's go," Boldir said again. "If there's no time to bury them, there's no time to mess around with your magic either."

He started back down the trail they had followed. Stoit followed closely, as Boldir had known he would, but it wasn't until he heard the rest of their group trudging after them that he knew this had been something of a minor victory. They returned to the main road and mounted up.

Their party numbered sixteen in total: An ex-Stormcloak, a priestess, a sellsword, a knight, and twelve necromancers, one of whom may very well have been the most dangerous wizard that Boldir had ever encountered. All mounted as they were, and draped in cloaks to combat the wind and cold they would face near Cloud Top, they probably looked far too suspicious for their own good. Five times, they had been stopped on the Red Ring Road by a Legion patrol and asked to state their business. Rythe's story was a good one though. He claimed that they were students of the College of Whispers, and that he was one of the magisters, taking them west to study some Ayleid ruin in Colovia called Sancre Tor. When one of them inquired about Boldir and Sir Bremman not looking like mages, Rythe explained that Sancre Tor was widely believed to be haunted, and that bodyguards were needed. That lie had gotten them all the way across Cyrodiil. It was almost a little shocking how easy it had been.

They continued west at a steady trot, eventually passing by the walls of Chorrol without sparing them much thought. The group had agreed some time ago that they would not bother with the city. Their journey took them away from the Great Forest and into the western highlands of Colovia, where the landscape looked like some infant version of Skyrim's Reach, with rocky outcroppings standing high and grassy valleys dipping low, all with no real rhyme or reason. If there was a terrain that was great for planning an ambush, this was it. 
It was just shy of nightfall when they came upon a small village, built all of stone and timber and with triangular roofs whose shingles resembled the scales of a dragon. In a way, it reminded Boldir of Whiterun.
"We'll sleep here tonight," Rythe told them. "We're making good time, and I do not want to stumble towards Drenim in the dead of night without making further plans."

"That looks like an inn." Stoit pointed to the village's only two-storied building, just off the road down a cobbled path on their left. The lower floor's windows glowed a warm, fiery orange, and a thin smokestack drifted from its chimney. Behind it there was even a small stable.

"So it does," Rythe agreed. "Looks like we're getting a roof tonight after all."

The common room was not as large as most, but the fire was warm and the food smelled smokey and delicious. The innkeep and all three patrons looked surprised at the arrival of such a large and diverse group. "I got three rooms upstairs," the middle-aged man told them as he started filling up tankards with ale. "Ten septims apiece. Anyone else's gonna have't sleep in the cellar or stables. That'll be two septims per man who's wantin' space in one 'o those."

"I will be taking a room," Rythe said, pushing to the front of his acolytes. He motioned to Ralimar. "As will my brother, here. The rest of this lot can work out where they'll sleep for themselves." With that, the Dunmer laid a handful of coins on the countertop and proceeded upstairs.

"I'm hopin' the rest of you'll be wanting drinks," the innkeep said.

"Aye," Boldir took a seat at one of the tables, and was quickly joined by Stoit, Gwella, and Bremman. "An ale for each of us. And we'll be taking that third room as well."

"And what about supper? I've enough left from today's hunt to feed the whole lot've you. Hog, deer, some pheasant. Was a good bounty today. Got vegetables too. The bread's a little stale, but it'll soak up a good soup well as any."

"That's fine." Boldir turned back to his group, and was surprised to see that Ralimar Orealo was pulling up a chair across from him, between Stoit and Bremman. 

"Care if I join you?" the necromancer asked, as if it as the most normal thing in the world.

Boldir looked at Gwella, who was already scowling. The rest of Rythe's men had already found seats of their own, some of them close to the other patrons, who were visibly uncomfortable. He shook his head. "You'd do better to sit with your people. None of us want to pretend to be friends."

The red-eyed Breton sat down anyway. "That's not what this is about. Look, I'm not my brother. I'm not nearly as powerful and I could never understand magic or the realms the way he does. But if there's one thing I know better than him, it's how 'normal' people think. You four hate us, and I might be the only one who understands that enough to not hate you back... What I'm saying is that I'm not as blind as the others. I know you don't trust us to keep our word. I think that you think you're using Rythe to find this Mila girl, and then you'll betray him for Endar Drenim if the situation isn't as my brother said it is."

Boldir's face was a stone mask. "If you think this, why tell us?"

"To talk you out of doing something stupid. You saw how powerful my brother is. The four of you were nothing to him. This Endar fellow might be stronger, but that won't matter. We've got the numbers, and the welkynd stones." He nodded to Boldir, "And if you're willing to cooperate, we'll have you. Now, I'm about to get really honest with you, and I expect you to be courteous in return: We need you a lot more than my brother lets on."

"I know the plan already," Boldir said. "You use your magic to shield me so I can get in close and hit the elf with the silence poison you've prepared."

"Yes, that's the plan, but it's not so simple. If it were, Bremman here could pull it off just as easily. Warding magic is well and good, but it can be draining when held up on another. And There is no guarantee that Endar's magic will not simply overpower our wards and kill you anyway. That's why we've been getting you ready."

"Getting me ready?"

"Yes. The potions we've been giving you, to heal your wounds and give you strength, they've also been readying your body for the magics that will shield it. Your own magicka will be brought out to fuel them, to make them stronger and less costly on us."

Boldir's fists tightened. "You've been altering me?"

The necromancer quickly raised his hands, "It's nothing major, and can only be helpful, as far as I know. It will save your life against Endar, which brings me to my point. If you want to save the girl, you must side with us. We've taken the steps necessary to ensure it will be an easy win. But if your heart turns soft, and you turn your axe on us, well... Rythe will take away all those protections and you'll be far out of your element."

"You think you can threaten us?" Gwella hissed.

"Believe me, I do not want to. I do so only because I fear that when the time comes, you will make the wrong choice." Ralimar stood up. "Don't do that, Boldir. Believe it or not, I actually like you lot. I don't want to kill you." It was then that the innkeep arrived at their table with five tankards of ale. The necromancer waited until the man had returned, and then he gave Boldir a solemn look. "But if you force my hand, I will."

***

"Elara!" Come now, I haven't got all night. "Elara!!!"

Endar's annoyance was stretched almost as thin as it could get when the young stewardess finally arrived at his side. "Elara's gone, remember? My name is Matilda."

"Oh by Azura, not you too." He rubbed his forehead. "If you knew what I meant then I fail to see the problem with simply responding to someone else's name." Not-Elara opened her mouth to respond, but he cut her off. "I have need of you now. Great need, in fact. Time is of the essence, and the usual precautions must be forsaken in favor of true Nordic exploration."

"True Nordic-"

"Exploration, yes. The bull-headed sort of experimentation that tends to yield more fruit more quickly at the expense of safety." He laid a hand on the Ayleid pillar. "I need you to cast a shocking spell on this."

Mila frowned. "I have never cast a spell in my life. I've never learned how." When she saw the deepening look of annoyance on her master's face, however, she knew she needed to try. "What about my staff? You said it would shock."

Endar's brow relaxed very slightly. "As long as you're the one wielding it, I believe that will suffice. Go on, go get it."

Mila hurried over to her small pile of things. The Staff of Indarys was leaning atop her pack. Returning with it, Mila gripped vine-covered weapon in both hands. "How do I-"

"Point, and will it to work." Endar said, shaking his head. He watched the girl begin to do as commanded, and then remembered a very important detail, "Wait!" He produced the welkynd stone he had acquired from Rythe, and the ancient Fingers of the Mountain tome and shoved them into her arms. "Hold these while you do it."

"O-kay." Mila had to fumble around a bit to get to where she could comfortably hold the two objects while still keeping hold of her staff. But when she was finally positioned, she took a deep breath, pointed the weapon's end at the pillar, and concentrated. And then... it lit up. Just like that. Easy as lifting a finger. "Shor's bones!" Mila exclaimed, excitedly, as the electricity surrounding the head of the staff lit the area around them. "Look at that! I'm making magic!"

"Well, borrowing someone else's, technically." Endar said, his arms folded. "Now release it."

Mila took a large gulp of air and nodded, focusing in once again. She willed the ball of lightening to release, and that is exactly what it did. Her eyes lit up as the bolt shot out of her staff faster than any arrow, and then it seemed like the entire world grew brighter than the sun itself... before going completely black.

Endar's brow raised. The bolt of energy his stewardess had sent at the pillar seemed pathetic in comparison to the one it had reflected back. The lightening struck the girl at the center of her torso, and hurled her all the way to the edge of the ruin, where she skidded a couple times before landing on her back in the snow. Endar quickly produced his quill and journal and started to record this result. Next, he moved to the pillar and ran a virtue test over it. No change. The stone was still cold. In fact, the snow had not even been heated by the energy that had passed through it. Just to be thorough, he reached inward and opened his hidden eyes, searching the pillar up and down for any trace of hidden magics. There were many, but none that had not been there before. 
Closing his eyes and dispelling his magics, Endar then retrieved the dropped tome and welkynd stone before turning to his final source. He waved his hand and caught Apotheosis as the staff came to his call, and walked over to where the young Skyrim girl had fallen. She laid there, cold and unmoving, but very much alive, as he had predicted. 
"Wake up," Endar said, tapping her with the butt of his staff. Not-Elara did not move. Endar sighed and prepared a healing spell.

In her own world, Mila was surrounded by darkness, and in that darkness, symbols. Runes. They glimmered a bright white as they danced in front of her, around her, in and out of her. She could see them, but she couldn't understand them. They hurt her though, that much she could tell. Every time her mind began to pull itself together, to make some sense of the world, the runes flared up, the lightening struck again, and Mila was shattered again to pieces. It could have been seconds, hours, or years that she endured this, she really could not tell. But in the midst of this eternity, one of the runes halted before her, even as all the others continued to swirl on and on. Mila concentrated on it, took hold of it, let it steady her mind. The single rune flashed, but it did not hurt her like the others, no, instead it comforter her, and then...
Mila's eyes tore open, and she returned to the world with a gasp. "Mother!"

"Mother." a familiar raspy voice repeated back. 

Mila's heart was racing, every beat like an explosion in her chest. She looked left and right, then up and down. She was laying in a bed of snow, still on Cloud Top. Standing to her left was Master Drenim, scrawling something in his journal. Mila started to rise, but felt the wizard's magic take hold as it gently pushed her down again. That's when she noticed it... a strange feeling inside her. Like a spark, pulsing and burning. It was like nothing she had ever felt before... or maybe she had, but without noticing. It did not feel bad or harmful. In fact, it was strangely comforting... enabling. It belonged there, no different than her hands or feet, and as Mila's mind turned to it, she realized that it could be moved and manipulated just as easily. "Uhh... Master Drenim..."

Endar stopped writing in his journal and looked down at the girl, only to see a jagged white light dancing between her fingers. It resembled electricity, but was far more pure, more capable. "So I was right," he said. "The Fingers of the Mountain."

"What?" Mila was confused, terrified even, but she could not for the life of her keep from grinning. "Master Drenim, look! It's a spell! I'm doing magic!" She lifted her left hand and brought up a matching spark of light to it. "Do you see this?!"

"Yes, I see it. Quickly. Tell me what you experienced."

"I don't-" Mila's mind went back to the darkness, to the runes, but try as she might, of all the thousands there must have been, it was only the final one that Mila could conjure into her mind. "I saw these symbols. Everywhere. And there was one in particular-" The lights on her fingers glowed brighter as she recalled it, but promptly vanished as the Telvanni shoved his quill and journal into her hands.

"Draw it. Now."

"Alright." Still very confused, and with a shaky hand, Mila drew the symbol exactly as it appeared in her head. "It was so strange," she went on. "I didn't know if I was dead, or- well, I couldn't think I was dead even if I would have... It's hard to explain. Everything was so..."
Endar took back his journal and started walking away from her. "Hey!"

The girl was shouted something after him, but Endar blocked it from his mind. The symbol she had seen was neither daedric nor of any mortal script that he was familiar with, including Ayleidoon. He needed to know more. Walking up to the pillar, Endar steeled himself with every ward against the aether he could conjure, and proceeded to release a stream of lightening into the ancient structure.

Mila had been following the wizard, but promptly halted in her tracks when she realized what he was about to do. The scene that followed was nothing short of amazing. She watched as night became day, for the world was lit by the white, blue, and even green lightening that danced across the ruin, bounding off of the ground and into the mountainside, traveling every which way. Ultimately, each stream found a path back to one of two targets: Endar or the pillar. Incredibly, both of them stood fast, taking every streak of energy without budging. This went on for several long seconds, and then the wizard's arms dropped, and Could Top grew dark once more. 

He could see them. The symbols, they weren't letters. They were musical notes. Endar could make them out as clear as day. They were not of this world any more than the stars themselves. But like so many other things, they had been shaped to fit it. Shaped for people like the Ayleids, the Aldmer, the Psijics. People like him. 
"Master Drenim?"

Endar turned, and saw the Skyrim girl standing there, looking confused as she always did. She did not matter. Not right now, at least. He walked past her and gazed out over the mountain's edge, where the Colovian Highlands stretched out before him, shaded from the dark by the glowing gazes of Masser and Secunda. 

"Did you know that was going to hurt me?"

"You were born an atronach," Endar said dismissively. "Few are born as suited for such a task as you."

Before she could speak again, the wizard turned and looked at her hard. "You do not understand the significance of this finding, girl, so let me explain. That light you brought out to your fingers, that was magic of the dawn. The magic of Creatia. This pillar, for reasons I intend to discover, was created by the Ayleids as a sort of translator. And the book... It makes so much more sense now. I shall be moving my lab here, for a time. Including all research of the sunbirds."

"Sunbirds? What are-"

"You can't just join my quest in the middle and expect me to halt everything to explain it to you. Elara will tell you about sunbirds when she gets back. For now, you will continue to do as I say. Maybe you'll continue to learn new things along the way."

"What about this?" Mila reached into her spark and summoned the white electricity at her fingertips again. "How do I use it?"

"You can't. While you have an understanding of the spell, it is far beyond your capabilities to actually cast it. Besides, atronach or not, you lack the necessary magicka. Even so, it would seem that this is the first time you have accessed your inner capabilities, and very dramatically, I might add. For that you should pat yourself on the back."
He turned back to the ledge. "I daresay that this was but a tiny gift from the Ayleids out of their wealth of knowledge in regards to Dawn magic. They have given it freely, but it is not enough. What remains must be taken."

"And that's what you plan to do?"

"That's what I plan to do... soon. Rythe will be close by now, and as much as it pains me, research must be put on hold in favor of putting an end to his incessant hunt. Were we farther along, it might be possible that we could turn these findings against him in ways that he could not possibly counter. But sadly, I am still at least one breakthrough short of harnessing this power the way our foes in Alinor have managed to."

That worried Mila. After the display she had just witnessed, she'd wondered if Endar might be the most powerful elf alive. "Surely you have something else planned?"

"Oh, I do." Endar nodded. "And when Elara returns, you will see it for yourself. "I do not know enough about the magic of the Dawn to wield it against Rythe and his men, but I know much when it comes to a different sort of magic. I assume, Skyrim girl, that you know about Oblivion."

[Witchking of Angmar]

The Colovian Highlands
 

"There were more than a dozen of them, judging by the horses. Probably about fifteen or sixteen. I'm sorry... I didn't get a very good look. Picked up my pace the moment I realized who it was in that village."
Elara looked exhausted. She had ridden hard through the night in order to reach them by morning. "They could be here in two days if they really take their time."

"They won't," Endar responded. "Rythe knows that I'm expecting him. I do not believe that he will allow me any more time to prepare than he can help, which is why we cannot waste that which we have. Did you obtain a map?"

"Yes." She removed a large rolled up parchment from her satchel and spread it open across Cloud Top's stoney floor. "There are a few ruined gates in the area." She tapped one spot north-northwest of Chorrol that had been marked with the traditional 'Oht' symbol of the daedric alphabet. "This one's the closest. In fact, we passed it on the way here."

"But we would have to get past Rythe just to reach it," Acivo said, kneeling down next to her for a better look.

"Right. But there is another one to the west of here. Even without stopping, it will take us the whole day to reach."

"It will have to serve," said Endar. He rolled the map back up and stuffed it into his own bag. "Everyone pack your things," he turned and looked over at the Skyrim girl, who had been trying to listen from the edge of the ruin, where he had tasked her with using melted snow to scrub their cookware. "You too. I doubt that staff of yours will do much good against Rythe's people, but it could at least find some use against the undead that they'll summon."

"You cannot mean for Matilda to fight," Acivo said, frowning.

"It is not a part of my plan, no. But I cannot help it if the girl has plans of her own," the wizard shot the girl another glance. She was staring back at him with an expression that was difficult to read. "She has a tendency not to listen."
The Legionnaire clearly did not like it, and when Endar looked to Elara, it was obvious that she did not either. "If it means so much to you, talk to her yourselves. I will not waste words on the effort." He led them to the horses. "But do so on the way. Wasting time is even worse than wasting words."

***

"Wait, so that's Cloud Top?" Stoit regarded the snow-tipped 'mountain' with obvious disappointment. "It's a hill." He turned to Ralimar. "You lot lived next to the Valus Range. How in Shor's name could you refer to this elf pecker of a rock as a proper mountain?"

"You're not serious, are you?" Ralimar shook his head. "Just because you've got the Jeralls to set a standard doesn't mean that all mountains must be as high. Cloud Top stretches well above the rest of this land. That makes it a mountain."

"Well by that rule, the White Gold Tower is a mountain too," interjected one of the necromancer acolytes. "And Ada-Mantia. And Red Mountain. And-"

"Red Mountain is a mountain you dolt. It's in the bloody name."

"That's just whoever named it being clever. Red Mountain is a volcano. There's a difference."

"Hold on," Stoit said, "I agree about Cloud Top, but do you really think that volcanos ain't-"

"Will you shut up?" Rythe turned in his saddle to flash the three of them a fiery gaze. "I cannot hear myself think over the raw stupidity." The leader of the necromancers turned back around and brought his horse closer to Boldir's. "They will be expecting us. Keep close to me, so I can apply the wards at the opportune moment."

Boldir nodded. "Just remember our deal."

"The girl will not be harmed," Rythe said. "You have my word."

It was the word of a snake, but right now, it was the best Boldir could hope for. 
It took them the whole morning and half the afternoon to reach the base of the mountain. By the end of the journey, Boldir could see that the others were growing anxious. The chatter between them was gone, and it seemed that every member of the group wore a mask of solemness. Rythe brought them to a stop not far from the twisting path that led upwards. "Alright everybody, it's time for us to be cautious. Ralimar, do you have the stones?"

"Yes, brother." The Breton held up a burlap sack that glowed dimly from within.

"Good. Have your spells ready. Especially wards." After saying that, the necromancer produced a blue crystal that shined like a star, and clutched it as he muttered some words. Suddenly, a black, misty shadow formed in front of their group, and from it emerged three wraiths, cloaked in robes that seemed to be made of that same darkness. Wordless and soundless, the undead took flight like birds and disappeared up the hillside. The group waited a few minutes in complete silence, until the wraiths returned and hovered close to their master before vanishing.
"They found no one," Rythe told the group. "I don't like it. We must proceed upward with caution."

And so they did. Leaving behind their horses, Rythe led the group up the hill on foot. It was a worrisome trek. Every step brought them closer to the trap that they all were expecting, but had no idea how to anticipate. The best the necromancers could do was keep their eyes up while also keeping careful track of their footing. One missed rune trap could lead to death for many of them. It wasn't until the path straightened back out, however, that any such threats revealed themselves. 
"Drenim must really think he's very clever," Rythe said to the group as he stopped and knelt just short of the old ruin. "There is an enchantment starting here that seems to encircle the ruin. I do believe it is meant to warn him of our arrival. No doubt so he can allow whatever creature he has marked to appear in our midst." Boldir followed the old elf's eyes as he scanned the area, and finally spotted the faintly glimmering circle of runes that had been carved into a nearby tree.
"Priestess, deactivate that, will you?" Rythe said, motioning to Gwella and then pointing toward the tree.

Boldir nodded to Gwella as she headed off with glowing hands to dispel whatever trap had been laid for them. "That's strange," the priestess said when she got there. "I can't see any-"

Whatever she was saying was interrupted by the loud *crack* that boomed in the center of their group. Boldir felt something akin to a powerful wind shove him from behind, and out the corner of his eyes, he could see Stoit and some others being thrown to their knees as well. He used his axe to stand back up and quickly pivoted to face this new threat head-on, only to find himself face-to-face not with a dark elf mage, but a tall, muscle-bound creature with a dark face tattooed in red and horns sprouting out of his long dark mane. He wore black armor that was covered in runes, and clutched a scroll in his right hand.

Of their group, only Rythe and Ralimar's wards had prevented them from falling, and now both brothers were preparing spells of their own. First, the Dunmer summoned two black skeletons, armored in translucent chitin and holding wicked looking curved longswords. The Breton mimicked this by conjuring up a pair of wraiths similar to the ones who had scaled the mountain. All of these undead descended on the creature, who casually held up the scroll, which turned to ash in his hands as it released a wave of energy that blasted all of the undead to pieces.

"I come in peace, mortals!" the creature shouted in a deep, angry voice that sounded as if it came from within a closed helmet. "I am an envoy."

With his axe at the ready, Boldir stepped up next to the two necromancers. By now, the others had collected themselves and were starting to form a circle around the creature, who raised his hands. Boldir looked at Rythe. "What is it?"

"A Dremora," the necromancer answered without looking away from the beast. "You are a servant of Endar Drenim?"

"That is the name he goes by, yes," the Dremora responded. "He foresaw your coming, and has ordered me to inform you that he wishes to do battle in a more suitable arena."

"Why wouldn't he want to fight us here?" Boldir looked around. "He had the high ground."

"High ground may mean a lot for a soldier, but magic like ours would render such an advantage moot." Rythe muttered something under his breath, and then announced, "The Dremora conceals no weapons. Daedroth, how far is Drenim from us?"

"I cannot say," the creature answered. "I am to give this to the one called Rythe Orealo," it held up a dark metal ring and placed it on the ground." 

Rythe looked down at the piece of jewelry, but made no move to pick it up. "Can you say what sort of arena he intends to meet me in?"

"I cannot."

"Well this might be the most strangely obvious trap I've ever seen," Stoit said. "Ask it why there were no tricks left behind for us on the way up here."

"I can hear you, mortal," the daedroth said, turning to face the sellsword. "My master wishes to face the one called 'Rythe Orealo' himself."

"He probably wanted us to trust the Dremora," Ralimar said. "If we'd lost men getting up here, we would've only seen this as another trap." The Breton looked at his brother. "I think this is honest. He needs to see you dead with his own eyes, to know you won't keep coming for him."

"Hmph." Rythe scowled. "Perhaps you're right, but the sellsword is as well. Drenim must intend to catch us unawares at some point." He motioned to one of his acolytes. "Put the ring on."

"Alright." She picked the ring up and slid it onto her finger. When she did, the Dremora vanished into Oblivion. After a few moments, the acolyte shrugged and turned back to her master, "I don't- oh..." Her eyes snapped toward the path behind them. "I can see a trail. Like a thin fog. It's leading back down the mountain."

"So he's leading us right to him," Rythe said, "No doubt this trail ends in the ambush." The necromancer folded his arms. "Though I see no choice but to follow it. If Drenim is in the highlands, then searching or scrying will do us no good. And if we wait here, he will find out and have all the time in the world to plan an assault of his own." He motioned to the acolyte wearing the ring. "Ilian, you lead the way. Boldir and Ral, you two stay close to me. If anyone gets tired, drink a potion. We're not stopping until nightfall."

***

It was nightfall when Endar halted his scrying.
"They have stopped to rest. We have until sunrise at least."

"What if he's just trying to throw you off?" Acivo asked. He felt a tightness in his chest. As if all his organs were pulling together, trying to merge into one. "Rythe must be cunning enough to know you've been spying on him. After all, we knew when he did it to us."

"Rythe has no idea where the trail I have left him ends," Endar replied, "As far as he knows, it could take them another hour or another week to reach us. I do not think he would be fool enough to tiredly stagger through the darkness into a situation that he already knows well enough will end in a trap." Judging by the man's narrowed eyes, Endar could see that the Legionnaire was not fully convinced, so he added, "Regardless, if Rythe somehow is fool enough, then he and his men will still activate my alarms upon their approach, and I will know of their coming with adequate time to prepare."

"And what if he evades or disables your wards?"

"I have laid many. To discover and disable all of them would take all night for even the most skilled of mages. And for a group his size to evade them would be... unlikely, to say the least. Do not worry, Heartlander. Worrying will only keep you from getting the rest that you need."

The Imperial's shoulders relaxed, just a bit, and he motioned to the giant ruined gate whose eerie shadow they had made camp in. At the heart of its jagged black arches, Endar had painted the daedric symbols for his various rituals. "I don't suppose you'll be getting any rest yourself?"

"I prefer to keep busy while I rest," Endar answered. "Get some sleep. And tell the others to do the same."

As the wizard returned to the ruined Oblivion gate, Acivo made his way across the rocky plateau they had chosen for their ambush site. The dim green flames of their 'campfire' were a comforting vigil in the otherwise dark, cloudy night. The girls sat there now with their backs facing him. For half a moment, Acivo thought of how funny it would be to sneak up and scare them both, but thought against it at the last moment. With Rythe on his way, it would be in poor taste.
"What are you two talking about?"

Acivo had not meant to scare them, but that did not prevent Elara from yelping or Matilda from jolting to her feet at the sound of his voice, knocking over a bottle of what looked like wine. "By the Divines," the elder of the servants gasped. She was trying to laugh, but the air caught in her throat. "Did you really have to sneak up on us to ask that?"

"I didn't mean to sneak," the Legionnaire said, fighting back the improper grin that desperately wanted to form on his lips. At least, not there at the end. "Apologies."

"I'll need some time," Elara responded, motioning for him to join them. "How about you, Matilda? You forgive him?"

"Only if he admits it was on purpose," the younger girl said.

Acivo could not tell if Matilda was bluffing or if she could actually tell he had been sneaking, but he decided to hold his ground regardless. "I don't appreciate this bold accusation, Snowgirl."

Matilda's lips twitched. "Apologies."

Elara snorted while a chuckling Acivo took his seat. He picked up the bottle labeled 'Shadowbanish' and frowned at its emptiness. "Master Drenim wanted me to tell you both to get some sleep. It probably wouldn't hurt."

"Not a chance," Elara said. "We tried that already, and both of us came to the conclusion that there is something about the night before a battle that makes sleeping impossible. Drinking, on the other hand..." she laughed and produced a second bottle, this one still mostly full. "You can have some, but I warn you. Matilda here'll take advantage. She knows this game, see?"

"A game, eh?" Acivo looked down and noticed for the first time that a few pebbles and some septims had been arranged on a small log in front of them. "Mind if I play?"

"Don't bother. The girl knows some pattern that she won't tell. Wins every time."

"We'll see about that." The Legionnaire pulled up his seat, and laid down a gold coin. "How fair is it for me to play sober?"

"I ain't drunk neither," Matilda announced. "But it wouldn't matter if I was." 

Acivo shrugged, and accepted the northern girl's challenge. After explaining the rules to him, she proceeded to beat him with little effort once, then twice, then three times. With each win, her stack of winnings grew higher, and his purse, lighter.
"Damnit girl, what am I missing?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Matilda answered with mock innocence. "Maybe you'll play better with more money at stake."

"That's a pit I'd rather not fall into," Acivo said with a wave of his hand. He grabbed the wine bottle and took a long swig. The stuff went down burning, but it tasted better than the finest Skingrad vintage, and immediately drove any trace of winter night chill from his body. More peculiar, however, was the way it made his head tingle and his vision brighten, to the point where all the darkness around him could do nothing to hide a detail in the landscape. "Wow..."

"That's what I said," Elara smiled. "Master Drenim has these stored... somewhere. He gave me a few bottles tonight. Apparently, they're pretty rare."

"I'd imagine so." Acivo took another drink, savoring the taste as the wine seared down his gullet. "Now, if we're not going to sleep, how about we do something that doesn't involve robbing me blind? Matilda, you're from Skyrim. That means somewhere deep down is the blood of a bard. How about it, Snowgirl? Would you sing us a song?"

"Pfft." The girl shook her head. "Not on your life, Milk-Drinker."

"Ouch." Acivo clutched his side as if wounded. "I ask for music and instead receive a confusing insult. You know I could die tomorrow, having never gotten my last wish."

"Should've picked a better last wish," Matilda smiled as she looked into the green flames. "I had an uncle who'd have done it. A great warrior-bard who sang before many battles. Sometimes he even sang as he fought."

"That seems like something a Nord would do," Acivo laughed. "Did you ever get to hear him yourself?"

"Oh aye. Uncle Baldur came to Whiterun for a time after the last war. He sang for me whenever I asked. And sometimes when I didn't." The girl's smile turned sad. "He wasn't really my uncle. I just called him that because he was best friends with the man who married my mother."

"You're lucky. My Ma married a bloody Orc," said Acivo. "Do you have any idea how early an Orc expects his sons -even the ones that weren't really his- to get up for training?"
Matilda shook her head.
"Really damned early. And you can bet that twelve-year-old me wasn't built to go toe-to-toe with a mountain of green muscle like him. Course, he got fat later in life, and didn't live to see sixty. Ma settled for a nice Argonian fellow after that."
The women laughed, and Acivo figured he would let them take or leave his made-up backstory as they pleased. "Anyway, if I'm not getting a song, then I'm going to bed. Some of you magical folks might be surprised to learn that we fighting men actually need sleep in order to function... you really should try to do the same."

He saw Matilda and Elara exchange a glance, and then the latter nodded. "Just give us a little more time. This is all very unfamiliar to us. I promise, we'll go to sleep soon."

Satisfied enough, Acivo got up and headed off to his bedroll. He could not blame the others for not wanting to go to sleep. Sleeping meant forgoing all the distractions that the night could bring. All the fun little jokes and stories that they could share. All the comforts of being with friends. Sleep would bring about an end to it all, and would quickly thrust him into battle, to that thing he had spent his life training for, yet never come close to actually seeing in his young life. He realized that the tightness in his chest had returned, fiercer than ever. In response, the soldier closed his eyes, whispered a prayer to Talos, and, incredibly, found the sleep that he needed. 

***

A couple hours after midnight, Boldir's eyes opened to find Sir Bremman shaking him by the shoulder. "Cut that out," he grumbled, pushing the knight's gauntleted hand aside. His slumber had been deep and surprisingly dreamless, the worst kind of sleep to cut short. "What is it?"

"Someone is watching us." Bremman whispered back. "The necromancers think it's Drenim."

Boldir sat up and got his bearings. Around him, the rest of the party were still in various stages of waking up, themselves. Stoit was waking Gwella, and Rythe stood off to the side with his brother and two of the acolytes. They were staring off into the darkness at something their mage eyes must've been more capable of seeing than his normal ones. The old dark elf's mouth was moving, but Boldir could not make out what he was saying. A spell, maybe?

He immediately started putting on his armor. The suit was beaten and worn, each piece sporting numerous scars and even cracks. Hopefully, this would be the last time he had to put it on. Scooping up his helmet and axe, Boldir walked over next to Rythe. "I hear Drenim is watching us."
The necromancer put a hand on his forearm and whispered something. Suddenly, the night seemed less dark, and across the rocky hills, a tall shadow glared at them from the distance, unmoving. Boldir frowned. "That's no elf."

"No," Rythe agreed. "It's a Dremora, or maybe a Xivilai judging by the size. That's not the only one, just the most dangerous." The necromancer nodded in the direction of the path they'd been following. At first, Boldir saw nothing but rocks and grass, but eventually he noticed the tiny yellow dots atop one of the hills and realized that they came in blinking pairs. "What are they?"

"Scamps. They've been watching us since shortly after nightfall. I don't know when the big one arrived, just that it was later."

Boldir looked back at the motionless daedric shadow and shuddered. "You think Drenim sent this one when he saw our guard was down?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, he may not have intended to attack us here. Just observe with his weaker minions. When he found that over half our group were going to sleep, he decided to take advantage of it and send a killer."

Rythe's face twisted into a sneer. "Well we won't make it so easy for him. Ral?"

His Breton brother nodded and used a scroll to summon a pair of floating wraiths, armored in black metal with eyes as red as fresh blood. "Erufid," the necromancer whispered, pointing at the daedroth. The specters glided toward the creature, but it vanished into a black smoke just as they started to draw near. Boldir turned his head to find that the scamps were gone as well.

"I think we should keep more men on watch," Boldir said. "I'm done sleeping for the night."

"As am I," said Ralimar. "Anyone else?"

"I'm staying up too," said Stoit. Bremman and Gwella agreed, and it quickly became apparent that all the acolytes did as well. No one was going to sleep after that.
Boldir frowned. Maybe that's what Drenim wants. Not to kill us, just leave us tired.

"Master?"

The Dunmer turned at his acolyte's call, and then groaned. Following his gaze, Boldir spotted the dark figure again, this time a little further away, but now facing their camp from the opposite side. For a brief moment, Boldir saw fear in Rythe. But it was gone before anyone else had a chance to notice. "Don't let it out of your sight," commanded the necromancer. "If it or anything else approaches, kill it. But do not expend the scrolls or energy unless you must. Martin, bring me one of the stones. I need to clear my head."

Boldir watched Rythe remove one of the glowing blue crystals from his bag and hold it in front of him like an infant child. Its vibrant blue glow invaded his normally deep red eyes, and he sat down with it in silence. Turning, Boldir found his companions watching the scene as well, each with a look that expressed varying levels of concern. "Come on," he told them. "We should keep our eyes outside the camp. Not in."

Stoit cast one last skeptical glance at Rythe and whispered, "You sure about that?"

"I'm sure that if he needs us. These daedra don't. Is there anything you can do about them, Gwella?"

"Not from this distance," the priestess answered. "But if one comes close, I'll handle it."

The acolytes were already forming a crude circle facing outward, and so the four companions took their places side-by-side on the far end. They were not settled long when Ralimar's angry voice boomed out from the center. "Everyone on your feet. My brother has words to share."

Boldir's group and the tired acolytes gathered to listen to Rythe speak. The necromancer still held the big glowing crystal in both hands. "I have decided that remaining here is too dangerous, and stopping was a foolish risk that we did not need to take. Priestess, I understand that you are trained in defending against the denizens of Oblivion."

"I am," Gwella said.

"Then I give you this," Rythe stepped up to her and handed over the crystal. "It will give you energy. Use it to maintain a ward around us as we travel through the night. My brother and Ilian shall light the way."

Gwella looked at the stone with a puzzled expression. "Why can't you fight the daedra? Or one of your thralls?"

"Because that would keep me distracted," Rythe answered with a roll of his eyes. "Which is exactly what Drenim wants. And no one else among us is as familiar with the ways of Oblivion as you or I. So stop questioning me and do as I say."

It took everything in Boldir not to strike the man for speaking to his friend that way, and he knew that Gwella was probably struggling even more than him. But the consequences of provoking Rythe Orealo were not a lessen that either of them needed to learn twice. And so, with a grim expression, the priestess cast a spell that drew a blue aura around the group. "Stay inside it," Gwella told the necromancers as they started to mount up. She then nodded toward the large black shadow that watched them from the distance. "Unless you want that one to get you."

***

While Endar let his minions keep Rythe's party on their toes, the wizard himself spent the night preparing every trick he could come up with. He brewed potions, emptied soul gems, laid out runes, even made deals with a couple lesser lords of Oblivion. But for all his efforts, he could not drive out the feeling that it would not be enough. Endar knew that he was the superior power. Rythe knew it too. Yet the necromancer came anyway, and with help no less. The Nords and knight were likely of no concern, but the Stendarr priestess was a factor he had not anticipated. Not to mention the near limitless pool of energy his foes will have to draw from with the welkynd stones.
No, Endar could not risk death over this. Not now. Victory was likely, but he had to take every precaution. He waited the last few minutes until dawn, and then picked up his jar of red paint. 

"Elara! Soldier! Marissa!"

Nobody answered his call, so with a roll of his eyes, Endar carefully stepped around his now vast network of interconnected runes and enchantments and made his way over to their camp. The balefire he had lit still burned dim and warm, and around it his 'esteemed' companions slept among several empty bottles of his Shadowbanish wine. I knew that was a bad idea.
He tapped the soldier with the butt of Apotheosis. "Wake up."

The Imperial jolted to a sitting position with a loud snort, dagger already in hand. "Legion soldier! Get back!"

Of course, his shouting was enough to wake Milonna, who was already clambering out of her bedroll on all fours like a startled fox, and Elara, who just looked tired and confused.

"Thank you, Soldier." Endar held up the jar of paint. "As I am sure you all know, the barriers between the worlds stand strong in the Fourth Era. My-"

"By Julianos, we just woke up," Elara said, rather rudely. "Are the bad guys almost here?"

"They draw nearer every moment. Which is why I have constructed a failsafe, should the battle go ill. Now get up and come with me."

"Do I have time to piss first?"

Endar frowned impatiently. "Be quick about it."

After they had done their business and were truly on their feet, the humans followed him at their own groggy paces, the little one rubbing her head in a feeble attempt to drive off the ache he knew she must have felt. When they came around the large black spike left behind from the Oblivion Crisis, the soldier whistled and Elara gasped.
"Did you spend the whole night making these?" his stewardess asked, motioning at the hundreds of runes he had painted, cast, or carved into the earth. 

"Yes. Now all of you line up side-by-side and face me." Endar dipped two fingers in the paint as they did so, and spoke the invocation while painting a red symbol onto each of their foreheads. He finished by marking his own. "In the eyes of Mundus and all realms beyond, we are linked." he told them. "I do not do this lightly."

He may have clarified to them further what this meant, but something stopped him. Endar turned and concentrated long enough to confirm the feeling in his bones. Rythe's men had triggered an alarm, which meant they would soon be stumbling all over them. He took a slow breath and was pleased to find that his feeling of nervousness had passed. "The time for preparation has come to an end," he announced. "Elara, take Matilda and leave the plateau. To the spot we discussed."

"Yes, Master Drenim."

"Wait, what?" Matilda struggled for a moment as the older stewardess tried to guide her away, but immediately relaxed when Endar weaved a calming spell.

"We will come for you when it is safe," he told his stewardess. "It will be up to you to keep yourself and the girl out of danger."

"You're the one battling necromancers." Elara's voice seemed light-hearted as usual, but her expression was serious. "Thank you. She doesn't need to be a part of this." Endar almost drew back as his stewardess put a hand on arm, but then she smiled, something in that smile stopped him. "I know you don't need luck. Give them hell."

And then she turned and guided Matilda away. Endar spent a moment watching the two women leave, feeling something that he thought seemed dangerously close to sentimentalism. What are you, a Nord? the wizard asked himself. Enough of all that. 
He then turned to the soldier, to the loyal Legionnaire. This would be the first time since the Oblivion Crisis had Endar gone into battle alongside another. "What was your name again?"

"Are you kid-" The soldier's perplexed face softened, and he answered, "Acivo Tricer."

"Are you sure you do not want to go with them, Acivo?"

"It doesn't matter what I want. My orders are to keep you safe."

"Well that's good." In the distance, Endar felt another one of his alarms being triggered. "Because without me, they'll probably steal your soul."

***

The first streaks of morning light were almost as welcome to the group as the departure of the daedra who had stalked them throughout the night. Though that light brought with it a confirmation that the exhaustion they all felt was warranted.
They rode west at a brisk trot. By now, Cloud Top was a distant object, and the earth was steadily turning from green to yellow. There were no more traces of forest, and what trees existed did so in sparse patches that managed to break through the rocky soil. The only other regular vegetation came in the forms of tall, wispy grass and dark thorny bushes that clung close to the ground.

Ilian led them from the back of her brown mare. Every now and then, Rythe would ask her if the magical trail she followed had changed at all, to which the weaker necromancer would always answer with a patient 'no'. Otherwise, nobody really spoke. The acolytes were all either too tired or too nervous. Rythe was too focused on the landscape. Gwella seemed weary from maintaining her wards for most of the night, and Bremman and Stoit from not getting any sleep. For his part, Boldir thought that he might've been the healthiest in the group, which suited him just fine. He would need his strength to get past whichever monster decided to stand between him and Mila.

Someone would die today. Of that, Boldir was confident. He did not know Endar beyond what Rythe and Bremman had told him, but even if the stories were untrue, the gods themselves could not stop the necromancer from attempting to accomplish what he had traveled this far for. A part of Boldir almost hoped that the necromancer was speaking true. From what Ralimar had told him, turning on Rythe would be a deathtrap, thanks to the 'potions' they had given him. At least if Endar was actually awful, it would be a simple matter to kill him and free Mila.

But even now, on what was presumably to be the day of their confrontation, Boldir knew that this was a call he could not make until the choices were in front of him. Whatever it takes to remove her from danger. After that, Oblivion can take both of these wizards.
Like that wizard, Boldir kept his eyes trained on the hills. A part of him kept expecting the 'Xivilai' to come back with its scamp pets. Or, better yet, Drenim himself. Boldir had a hard time imagining the figure who was powerful enough to set one as terrible as Rythe on edge. 

After several hours of riding in silence, Rythe announced to the group, "One of us just triggered an alarm spell. It's possible that this is not the first."

"I take it that Drenim can hear these things better than we can?" Stoit asked.

"Hear, feel, taste, smell. Who knows?" Rythe shrugged. "But I felt the rune being released. This means that he knows we are coming, but that was obvious. More important is that it means we are close."

"I'd say so," Ilian called back from the front of the front of their band. "The trail is starting to shift south. I think it's- it's..."

"Spit it out, woman." Rythe called up to her, but at this point, it seemed Ilian was ignoring him.

"I can't-" the acolyte gasped. She suddenly let go of her reins and went toppling off her horse. Through the confused mass of horses and necromancers between them, Boldir caught a glimpse of her right hand, and how it now appeared to have turned a nasty shade of black. "Please!" Ilian yelled now. She was on her knees looking desperately at her master. "Make it stop."
No one had time to ask what 'it' was before a foul dark liquid erupted from her mouth followed by every other hole in her body, and then finally exploded out of her stomach in a disgustingly horrific display.

"Nobody touch her," Rythe ordered. He looked prepared to say more, but paused when he noticed the big black bubble that was building up his dead follower's sticky corpse. After growing larger than a man's head, the blob of gas split away from Ilian's guts and drifted high into the air. Rythe and several of the others cast ward spells over the group, but otherwise nobody did a thing besides watch. More than a few of them flinched when it popped, releasing the cold, raspy message that had been trapped inside.

"I can see you."

All eyes turned to the hills now, and those who looked south were rewarded with three consecutive lightening bolts cracking into the clear blue sky. They were coming from the far side of a steep plateau.
"This is it," Rythe said, his eyes hungry. He produced a vial of... something, and downed the whole thing in one drink. Boldir watched the elf's body shiver for a moment as a strange reflective gleam rolled across his gray skin. After that, the necromancer practically jumped down from his horse and started forward, and all of his acolytes followed.

Boldir gave his friends one last look. Stoit looked determined, and Gwella, nervous. Bremman had already donned his helmet and lowered the visor. All of them stood prepared to fight and maybe even die for Mila, and for that they were family to him. "Whatever happens up there, thank you for coming this far," Boldir said. He had never been all that good with words, but those ones needed to be said. "And if I don't make it, take Mila to Kyne's Watch. She has family there."
He turned and removed his helmet from his saddle. It was as worn and beaten as the rest of his armor, but remained every bit as strong. Putting it on, Boldir closed his eyes and whispered a simple prayer for strength, then turned and led his companions to the final point on this long journey.

"She's waiting for you." Carlotta's voice told him as he marched. "This is it."

[Witchking of Angmar]

***

The black spikes jutted from the ground like the pincers of some giant subterranean insect that got stuck trying to dig its way to the surface. Boldir had heard tales of the ruined gates to Oblivion, of how they could still be found in the more isolated parts of Tamriel, but this was his first time seeing one with his own eyes. Even now, the ruins stood taller than a house, marring the landscape like a poorly-healed scar. Within those ruins stood two figures of less impressive stature: The foremost was a man, clad in the the heavy steel plate of a Colovian Legionnaire, and wielding a gray shield and longsword. Behind him was the dark elf who could only be Endar Drenim. He leaned against a long wooden staff, watching them approach from beneath his red hood.
Mila was nowhere in sight.
"Mila!" Boldir called, venturing to the right as the cultists fanned out. "It's Boldir! I'm here!"

There came no response from the duo by the gate. Drenim had not even looked his way, so intently was the elf staring at Rythe. The necromancer returned that look with a fiery hatred, and with a voice dripping with false civility, he called out to his foe. "It's incredible what lengths you would go through to prey those who would call you friend, Drenim." 

"I didn't take you for someone who has friends," the wizard responded. "Don't tell me I hurt your feelings."

"No," Rythe snarled. "But you did steal my work, and now you are going to answered for it."

"Boldir," Stoit whispered. He turned to find the sellsword holding up a familiar object. His flute. "It was by the spot where they made camp."

Boldir's heart was pounding as he took the instrument in his hand. He could feel the blood rising inside him. He pocketed the flute and turned back to the mages, who were were still trading words. "Shut up!"
Drenim, Rythe, and everyone else on the plateau were now looking at him. He pointed an accusing finger at the former. "You have my daughter! Where is she?"

Drenim raised a brow and turned back to Rythe. "And who is this?"

"I'm the man who will kill you if you don't give me what I came for," Boldir promised. "My daughter. She has been calling herself Matilda, and she was here. What did you do with her?"

Now Drenim looked puzzled, but it was the Legionnaire who spoke first. "Matilda's parents are dead. She has told us as much."

"Boldir," Gwella whispered. "I don't think that man is bewitched."
Boldir searched for any signs, but ultimately had no idea what he was even looking for. The soldier seemed normal enough to him.

"Enough of this!" Rythe demanded. "We will find your daughter when this is over, Boldir. He has clearly hidden her away for the battle."

"That doesn't make any sense," Boldir said, turning toward necromancer. "You told me she was nothing to him."

"She is." Ralimar interjected. "Look at me, Boldir." 

He faced Rythe's younger brother, and immediately scowled when he saw the scroll glowing green in Ralimar's hand. Boldir did not have time to take a step before the parchment flashed and was reduced to ashes. He felt something strange then, an unfamiliar tingle in his bones that blossomed into a terrible headache. 
"She is." Ralimar said again. "Think about it."
The first of Endar's spells ripped through the air faster than any arrow, colliding with Ralimar's ward. The Breton stumbled but caught himself. Still focusing his attention on Boldir, he said, "Why would Drenim have chosen an Oblivion Gate? Littered the ground with these markings? The fetcher was performing a ritual! Rituals involve sacrifice!"

Amidst the sensations that were currently piercing his skull, Boldir suddenly felt a raw clarity like none he had ever experienced before. It manifested in the form of the deepest, most intense rage a man could feel, all of it directed at the elven bastard who stood in the ruins.
Ralimar was saying something else now, but he barely heard it. Spells were flying, but he ignored them. Disregarding the poisoned dagger at his belt, Boldir turned and barreled toward Drenim with his axe raised. Alongside him charged a black hoard of the undead, screeching as they flew.

Drenim's first bolt came as a flash of bright hot lightning, but it bounced harmlessly off of the protections Rythe had imbued him with. The second was a great wave of fire whose heat scorched the ground and brought the nearby wraiths to a screaming halt, but its heat was nothing in comparison to that of the rage that boiled inside him. A girl. She was just a girl! She sold fruit in Whiterun!  

Drenim was right in front of him now. The devil elf's red eyes were thoughtful and calculating, darting between Boldir and the numerous other foes he had to contend with. The wizard raised his hand and was engulfed by a bright, multicolored light that instantly repelled the encroaching army of wraiths. Not Boldir though. The magicka bit at him as he stepped through it, but he didn't care. Right now, the only thing in the world that mattered was that Endar Drenim died. With a wild roar, he swung at his opponent, only for the coward to vanish moments before his head would have been cleaved from its shoulders.

Boldir turned to see where Drenim had gone and ended up face-to-face with the elf's Legionnaire minion. The soldier took a swing at his ribs, but Boldir knocked the blow aside with ease, twisted, and brought his pommel crashing against the Imperial's nose. The follow-through left him facing the spot where Drenim had appeared. The elf was at the edge of the plateau, and had once again surrounded himself with magical shields that were fending off everything that Rythe, his followers, and their summoned undead could throw at him. With a very brief glance at the Legionnaire, Boldir left the man to lay there bleeding.

"Boldir!" he heard Gwella scream. The priestess' call came from somewhere behind him. 

"Not now," he growled as his jog turned into a run.

"It's a spell! You're not-"

He drowned out her cries with another roar as he hurled himself through the mass of undeath. Drenim turned just in time to spot him tearing past the magical wall. One of the elf's hands flashed a dark purple, while the other sent a blue ball of energy that smacked against Boldir's wards like the kick of a giant. This time he felt the impact. It sent him tumbling back outside the ring. Remember Riften? All the things you went through to save her? All the things that she went through to survive?
Boldir stood up and retrieved his axe. He could feel a sticky warm liquid where the scar on his palm had split open again. Fueled by pain and fury, he entered Drenim's circle again and lifted his axe up for the killing strike-
-And could not bring it down again. The grip resisting his swing was far, far stronger than his own. Twisting around, Boldir's gaze halted on the gigantic muscle-bound daedra that Rythe had named a "Xivilai". It's right hand gripped the haft of a nasty-looking black battle-axe, and its left hand gripped the shoulder of Boldir's battle-axe.

He didn't have time to fight, scream, or resist in any way. He only had time to blink as the massive blue fist wrenched the weapon from his hand and brought it crashing backward into his gut. The armor saved Boldir from what would have surely been a fatal blow, but his feet still left the ground, following the rest of him as he soared several feet through the air, landing painfully in the rocks outside of Drenim's circle.
The wind was knocked out of him, and it was all Boldir could do to roll out of the way as his own axe came spinning through the air and buried its head into the dirt where he'd landed. All thoughts and emotions faded now, to be replaced by that blind instinct that told him that he needed to stay alive. Boldir reached for his stuck axe and tried to use it to rise, but was unexpectedly jerked back down by his shoulders. 
Twisting his neck, Boldir found four sets of yellow eyes staring down at him. He'd forgotten about the gods damned scamps! The little bastards were already starting to climb on top of him, raking their claws against his armor like wild animals fighting for a meal. As he struggled against their numbers, Boldir remained acutely aware that the Xivilai was approaching.
"Get off me!" he barked as he threw his fist into one of their flat, ugly faces. The other creatures hissed and growled and only tore at him all the harder. One claw found its way under his helmet and ripped a hot gash between his shoulder and neck. Another two tried to bite at the unprotected spots on his left arm. The worst of them was the one that stood on his chest, trying desperately to get its claws through his helmet's eye slits. After several seconds spent batting at the creatures, Boldir finally managed to grip the top one by its neck, and with a powerful squeeze, snapped its spine to bits.
With his vision clear, Boldir was able throw an elbow into another scamp and clear some room for him to get on his knees... only to find himself looking up again into the pale white eyes of Drenim's Xivilai. Its axe was raised to kill, and may very well have done that if not for the arrow that suddenly struck its arm. The daedra jerked back a bit and missed its swing, but otherwise seemed unfazed. That was, until Boldir wrenched his axe out of the earth and drove it into the Xivilai's unprotected right leg.

The daedra howled in pain. It was a deep, troll-like sound that seemed echo off itself a dozen times at once. But the fight was hardly over. The creature's skin and muscle was tougher than the pelt of a mammoth, and Boldir's blow, despite being strong, did not cut all that deep. Wrenching his axe free again to prepare for a second swing, Boldir was again assaulted by the relentless litter of scamps. One of them climbed his legs while a second clung to his arm. This threw him off-balance dangerously close to the edge of the plateau. Planting his feet, Boldir grabbed one of the creatures by the scruff of its neck and hurled it off the cliff. He then landed a solid clout on the other's head with the butt of his axe. That bought him a few moments in which he managed to get a picture of what was going on:

The Xivilai was lumbering toward him now with the remaining scamps darting around its legs. Beyond that, Drenim's shields were still holding strong against the onslaught of floating wraiths and magical projectiles that Rythe's necromancers were hitting him with. Stoit had plunged through the field of wraiths too, it seemed, because he stood just past the Xivilai, and was already knocking another arrow. Boldir did not get a chance to look for Bremman or Gwella before he had to steel himself again, this time on somewhat 'equal' footing with the daedra, who barely seemed to feel the arrow that thudded into his shoulder from behind.
It and the scamps were on Boldir in less than a heartbeat. He dodged a strike from the Xivilai's axe and used the momentum to drive his own into the torso of one of the scamps, splitting the little creature open at its sternum. He followed up by bringing the weapon around at the larger daedra, but was surprised to find that it had matched his speed with a near-identical move and quickly adjusted his aim to catch the daedric axe with his own. He succeeded, barely, and locked the belly of his axe with that of the Xivilai's. A mistake. The daedra was almost two feet taller than him and stronger than any foe he had ever met. It let out a roar and used its weight to drive Boldir to his knees. It then beat his axe from his hands. Another arrow struck the beast's back, but this time it did nothing to slow the assault. He prepared himself for the first strike from that wicked black axe.

You can't die yet! Not until you've seen Drenim go first.

Boldir snarled and drew his poisoned dagger, driving the pointed edge deep into the Xivilai's thigh before it could ready its strike. At that moment, a scamp grabbed hold of Boldir's hand and sank its teeth into his forearm, right above his gauntlet. He and the Xivilai both screamed in pain, but while Boldir punched at the scamp with his free hand, the Xivilai reared and delivered a powerful backhand that set his helmet ringing and knocked him back to the ground.

"Hey!" Stoit's voice seemed to be calling from very far away, but the young Nord that appeared twice in his dazed vision did not look very far. "Over here, you piece of Oblivion filth!"

He heard another arrow smack into the daedra. Then two more in rapid succession. Finally, Boldir's vision cleared in time for him to see the creature once more scooping up his axe. It was not meant for him this time, however. He watched in horror as the Xivilai turned with the speed of a sabre cat and hurled his battle axe full tilt in the sellsword's direction. Stoit attempted to move out of the way, but the throw was too quick, too unexpected, and the head of Boldir's axe sank deep into his torso. 
The sellsword opened his mouth as if trying to speak, but no words came before he collapsed to his knees, and then toppled face-first into the wispy grass.

***

"Yes!" Elara let out a loud whoop and threw a fist in the air. 

"What is it?" asked Matilda from across their little 'refuge', which really just amounted to a normal campsite that Endar had masked with illusion spells the day before.

"Master Drenim's Xivilai just took out one of the Nords. The archer." Elara returned her gaze to the crystal ball and watched as the large blue daedroth and its last two scamps stepped up towards the one with all the armor.

"We didn't even know they would be there," Matilda replied. "The magic ones are worse, right?"

"Master Drenim is holding them. Same as before. But it's the Nords I was worried about. I couldn't believe the way that big one took all of his spells like that. Rythe's men must have spent a lot effort imbuing him with whatever magic it is that shielded him. No matter now, though. He's about to be done for as well."

"What about Acivo? How's he doing?"

Elara stared into the orb and saw their friend still leaning up against the Oblivion Gate. After taking that nasty blow to the face, he eventually picked himself up and took cover behind one of the big black spikes, completely unaware that the "enemy" priestess had taken cover behind the other. This part still confused Elara, as it seemed that after Rythe's band arrived, they started turning on each other. First one of the necromancers used some scroll on the big Nord, which eventually prompted the priestess to attack him. That would have ended badly for her, if the man in steel armor had not intervened, buying her time to escape past the Oblivion Gate at the cost of his own life. One of Rythe's men had sent wraiths after her, but she drove them off with some kind of light spell.

"Acivo is still okay," she finally answered. "He's not behind Master Drenim's wards, but the bad guys don't seem to see him." She looked down again. She was so absorbed in the battle that she had a hard time focusing on a single aspect of it. "Divines... Matilda, you have to see this. Master Drenim just summoned another daedroth. I'm not even sure what it is. It's got clear skin and- oh my! It's using magic against the wraiths. And now it's killed one of Rythe's men! And now it's going straight for Rythe himself! It's-..." Elara's smile faded as she watched the necromancer lord blast Endar's summon to bits. "Nevermind. At least we still have the Xivilai. The big Nord is back on his feet now, but he can't keep going long. He's lost his weapons."

Her eyes darted across the battlefield in a strange mix of wonder and fear. Wonder at the display of magical prowess that few peasant girls like herself could have ever dreamed of witnessing. And fear for her friends, and even herself. Endar looked to be holding his own right now, though. He was drawing from the runes that dotted their campsite, and many still remained, but so far only three of his mortal enemies had fallen, and the worst were quickly surrounding him. By now, Rythe had moved into the middle of the plateau with a follower carrying a large bag filled with welkynd stones at his heel. Behind them, the armored man stirred.

"Wait! Remember the other one with armor that I told you about?"

"Aye..." Matilda said. "It wasn't three minutes ago."

"Well I was wrong. He's not dead after all. Maybe he and that priestess will help out some." Elara looked again at the armored warrior. He had marks on his shield and armor, but the tiny view through the crystal ball made it hard to make them out. "Hold on a second..." Are those thorn vines? The man rolled over onto his back, and Elara finally got a better view. Gods be good. They are! "Matilda, I think he's a Knight of the Thorn!"

"What?" Elara looked up in time to see the girl look at her with an expression of thorough confusion. Of course, she had looked like that ever since Endar hit her with that ridiculously powerful calming spell of his. The thing had been so potent that its effects were still not finished wearing off, which was probably why Matilda had not yet expressed any interest in sitting down beside her and watching the battle with her own eyes. It was as if she was perfectly content to just have it relayed to her. He'd provided Elara with two scrolls with the same spell imbued in case it needed to be done again, but seeing the effects of this one made Elara hope against hope that she didn't need to.

"I said he's a Knight of the Thorn. As in the ones back in Cheydinhal."

Matilda picked her stolen staff up off the ground. "You don't think he's here for this, do you?"

"I mean... surely not." Elara cast a worried look into the ball. The knight was rising now, or trying to. After taking a few steps, he doubled over and collapsed to the ground. 

"I wanna see," Matilda said.

Her suddenness surprised Elara, and it made her worried that the last calm spell was wearing off and Matilda would force her to use the scrolls. Still, what was she going to do? Tell her 'no'? Elara scooted over on her log and patted the empty space. "Best seat you can get."

Matilda came and sat down beside her and looked into the glass. "I see a bunch of lights. And black shadows."

"That's the wraiths surrounding Master Drenim's shield. Look beyond that and you'll see-"

"The necromancers. Got it. How many are there? Ten? Twelve? And what's- oh, that's the knight." Matilda leaned in really close, and then looked up at her. "That is a Knight of the Thorn! What's he doing-..."
Matilda suddenly went silent. She had been a generally quiet girl since Elara had met her, but this seemed different. Her mouth hung open, and her eyes had gone wide with what looked like shock. Before Elara's eyes, Matilda's skin turned pale as snow.

"Hey... are you okay?"

The girl stood up out of nowhere. "We have to get back up there, now!" A desperate, almost wild expression was writ across her face, and Elara realized that her young friend was on the verge of tears. "It's him, Elara! The Nord! it's B- Boldir!"

"Boldir?" Elara had heard that name before. No, she'd met a man who went by it back in the Imperial City. "What are you- No, Matilda. No! You'll get killed up there!"

"You don't understand, he's my father! I know it's him, I know it!"

"How? His face is hidden."

"Under a helmet that he made! I've seen it a thousand times. There ain't any others. And that armor, it's his set! And look at how big he is!" Matilda started off from the camp, down the half-mile trail that led back to the plateau. "Come with me or don't," she said. "I'm going."

"Matilda- You said your parents are dead."

"It's Mila. The girl turned and said. "That's what I want you to call me now that he's here. You're my friend, Elara. Please don't try to stop me."

Even if the girl was right, the wraiths would murder her before she could even get close to helping Boldir, and that wasn't even to mention the necromancers themselves. And then there was the Xivilai, who when last she'd checked was kicking the man's ass. He'd be dead before they could even arrive. "Matil- err, Mila, stop! STOP!"

Mila turned and looked at her, and that look said it all. There would be no convincing her not to go. Elara's heart felt heavy as she reached into her pack and drew out the rune-covered scroll. The green cloud of magicka engulfed Mila like a thick perfume, and with a sweeter voice, Elara commanded, "Please, stop."

Mila turned and looked at her again as the mist faded, and gently shook her head. "It didn't work."

What? Endar had assured her that the scrolls were every bit as potent as the spell he had cast. She reluctantly reached for the second one and hit Mila with a second round. The girl's walk turned into a jog, and then she was running.

"Damn it all!" In her anger, Elara kicked the crystal ball and sent it rolling through the grass. In it, she saw that Boldir. He was still bare-handed yet had somehow managed to kill the last of the scamps and was now dodging a strike from the Xivilai. Looking back up at the girl named Mila, the stewardess knew what she had to do.

***

Boldir panted as he dodged another swipe from the big daedra's axe, all too aware that he could not do this forever. Twice, he had attempted to get around the big bastard, to reach the axe that still lay embedded in Stoit's chest. But the Xivilai was quick enough to put down both attempts. Now Boldir was facing the beast with a jagged rock in his hand and blood streaming from his arm. 

Behind the beast, Drenim summoned a second monster. Some tall, clear monstrosity that took on the necromancers by itself. Boldir did not have time to consider it, however, as another blow soon rained down on him, one that he just barely managed to step away from. The black axe grazed off his pauldron, which alone was enough to stagger him and make his attempt to counter-attack with the rock feeble at best. The sharp piece of stone cut across the Xivilai's chest, but failed to even draw blood.
And then something finally went Boldir's way.
The daedra planted a foot to prepare a follow-up strike, and wound up stepping on the head of a dead scamp and sliding off-balance just beside the rocky cliff. Boldir didn't waste a moment. Using every fiber of strength and every ounce of his weight, he lunged shoulder-first into the his larger foe. The Xivilai tumbled and lost its footing. That was almost the end of it, but the demon of Oblivion was relentless. As the daedra fell, it caught Boldir's arm in its fist, and soon they were both falling to the ground.

The jagged black axe was gone now, having rolled down the steep, rocky slope. This left Boldir laying on top of a pissed-off, but unarmed foe. Their fight became a scramble then. A painful and confusing mess of fists and knees and elbows. Boldir connected his armored knuckles against the Xivilai's jaw and felt something crack. He also landed a kick in what he assumed were the daedra's genitals. The creature's sharpened nails caught him across his arm, ripping clean through the fur padding and leaving a nasty cut. It then managed to get a hand under the rim of his helmet and tear it off. Boldir watched as the Xivilai hurled his oldest possession far off the cliff side, he then raised an arm just in time to block the heavy fist that would have smashed in his face. Boldir reached up with with his free hand and grabbed at the Xivilai's face, digging his fingers into whatever soft spots he could find. It must've worked, because the daedra reared back and grabbed his foot just as he drove it into his chest.

The Xivilai let out a roar then. It was a powerful, blood-curdling sound that crossed the brutality of a troll with the desperation of a wounded bear. And then, with Boldir's foot still in its hand, the daedra pushed itself off the edge of the cliff.

*** 

Gwella peeked around the corner of the vile black spike that she'd been driven behind. Rythe and his men had moved past her by now, their attention now focused entirely on Endar Drenim.
All besides one. The brother, Ralimar. The Breton was standing in the open now, and hurled an ice spike her way the moment her head came into view. Gwella ducked back to safety just before the spell cascaded into the side of the gate and exploded into thousands of tiny glistening shards.

"Come on out, Priestess," the necromancer called in a casual tone. "You're not doing your friends any good back there. Poor Sir Bremman can barely move. And I think Stoit may be dead, but maybe not yet. If you kill me, you can try to heal them."
Gwella leaned out and hurled a ball of bright flame at his face, but barely managed to pull back before another spear of ice came soaring her way.
"You're going to have to do better than that," Ralimar shouted. "Come out on a count of three and I'll just paralyze you. Maybe when this is all over your group and mine can still work things out. Those of us who survive, at least... One. Two.-"

"Why don't you try coming back here?" Gwella challenged. 

"Because I'm not stupid. You grabbed one of Rythe's stones, and I'm pretty sure it's what you used to make that weird aurora that's holding back my summons. I'm not walking into that."

Damn. That was exactly why she wanted the necromancer to come after her. Within the light, she was strong. Her wounds would be healed and her magicka would recover swiftly. But anyone else would burn if they came too close. However, even fueled as it was by a wekynd stone, the spell would not last forever, and Ralimar knew that.

Even so, the necromancer clearly wanted to finish this quickly. "I've got an idea," he told her. "Why don't I take this ice spike, and shove it through Sir Bremman's throat?"

"No!" Gwella moved to the other side of the spike and lurched around it, sending two streams of fire scorching towards her enemy.
Ralimar easily caught the flames on his ward and answered with a bolt of electricity that caught Gwella on the hand and traveled up her arm. She felt her muscles contract, and all brain function momentarily ceased. When Gwella's eyes opened again, she was back behind the Oblivion Gate, smelling of burnt hair and with a bit of drool on her chin. She wiped it off and shouted at the man who'd struck her. "Don't you touch him!"

"So I didn't kill you," Ralimar's voice responded. "Pity. That means we'll have to bring Bremman into this after all."

"Don't!" Gwella tried again to launch a spell at him, but could not even steal a look around the corner before another lightening bolt blasted past her face.

"Don't worry. I've decided not to kill him," the necromancer taunted. "I'm going to make you do it instead."
Gwella heard the spell being cast, and dared anther look around the corner. She saw Bremman standing up, seemingly unhurt. The knight scooped up his weapons and turned to Ralimar, who pointed in Gwella's direction. "Your priestess friend has turned against us. She means well, but her efforts will prevent us from saving the girl. You need to stop her."

Even though she knew what the necromancer intended, Gwella still gasped when Sir Bremman turned and started striding towards her. She ducked back behind the gate before more spells could be launched . "Don't come any closer!" she warned her friend. "What he's telling you, it's an illusion! They don't care about Mila!"
The knight's clanking footsteps drew nearer. 
"I'm protected, Bremman! If you come near me, you will die!" 
Her warnings fell on deaf ears. The Knight of the Thorn rounded the corner and locked eyes with her. He's in pain, Gwella saw. He doesn't want to hurt me, but he needs to.

Without a hint of caution, Bremman boldly stepped into her protective aurora, and then immediately recoiled as a disgusting sizzling noise emitted from inside his armor. "Stop!" she wailed as the knight tried to approach again with the same results. Gwella could see the knight's strength wavering. The third time he tried to reach her, the pain dropped him to his knees. A fourth attempt would kill him.

Stendarr protect me. 

Gwella dismissed her spell, then she watched with sadness as Bremman used his shield to slowly get back on his feet. The knight was going to come at her again, and she knew that she would have no choice but to run and pray that Ralimar's aim would fail him. But where will I run to?
That was something she'd just have to work out on the way. Bremman was coming at her again, and unless Stendarr was going to intervene, there was nothing Gwella could do to hold back the armored knight without killing him. She took a step back, preparing to turn and flee, and then a figure emerged from behind the second black spike and plunged a sword into the back of Bremman's neck.

Gwella's mouth fell open in horror as she watched her possessed friend's legs buckle and take him to the ground. Behind him, the Legionnaire wrenched his sword free and looked at her with a face that was sticky with blood. He opened his mouth to speak, "Are you alri-"
An electric bolt struck the soldier in his back, throwing him right on top of the knight he'd just slain. There behind him stood Ralimar, a cocky grin spread across his cheeks.  "I was wondering where that guy had gone. Now your turn." 

His first and second spells slammed against her ward. The third shattered it completely, and Gwella was forced to retaliate with another ball of fire. It exploded into the necromancer, engulfing him completely, but when the flames subsided, he stood unharmed with his ward raised like a crystal blue shield. Ralimar stepped forward, and but was caught by surprise when the Legionnaire's fist clamped around his ankle and dragged him, flailing arms and all, to the ground. 
Gwella watched the two men struggle for a moment, then the soldier got the upper hand and proceeded to launch a series of right jabs into Ralimar's face. When he finally pulled back to reach for his sword, Gwella saw that Ralimar now looked even worse than he did. And yet, even now, the necromancer seemed to be smiling. She then noticed that his bloodied lips were moving. She screamed, "Watch out!"

Too late. A sudden darkness engulfed the two men, and out of nowhere, a pair of wraiths grabbed the soldier by his shoulders and wrenched him off of their master. Gwella tried to prepare a spell that would drive the spirits away, but Ralimar acted first, waving his hand as if to backhand her from out of reach. Though he did not make physical contact, Gwella felt a powerful force smack into her back against the Oblivion Gate. 
As she slumped down, Gwella could see that the wraiths were tearing at the Legionnaire, pulling each arm in an opposite direction. But she had more immediate concerns: Ralimar stood over her now, smiling triumphantly as he prepared another spell.

The bolt of lightening flashed brightly, filling their eyes with light. And the next thing Gwella knew, the necromancer lay dead in front of her. 

Gwella turned and saw a young woman standing near the slope of the plateau. Her forehead was painted, and she was armed with a staff. Is that...

"Matilda?!" The freed Legionnaire ran to embrace their savior.

It's her! Gwella felt warm tears beginning to form in her eyes. Whether they were from Bremman's death, her own near-death encounter, or the unexpected arrival of the girl she had traveled so far to find, the priestess did not know, but right now it was the last of these things that had her so stunned. By Stendarr, it's really her!
"Divines..." Gwella gasped. Had Mila truly aged as much as it seemed? Or was it just the way she carried herself now? This girl, back straight, eyes knowing and alert, she looked nothing like the sad, angry little one Gwella had met in the Imperial City. This was no child.

The last time the two of them had spoken, Mila had not thought kindly of her, but when the girl looked at her now, the look she gave bore none of per previous anger. Just surprise. "You're here too?"

"Yes," Gwella answered, trying not to choke on her own emotions. "And so is Boldir. We've come a long way to find you."

"I know," Mila said sadly. She and the Legionnaire joined Gwella beside the gate. "But why did you come with them? And what was the knight doing here?" She shook her head. "Never mind. We can talk about all that later. I've got to find Boldir."

"Hey!"
They all turned to find an exhausted-looking Breton woman running up the slope. Like Mila, her forehead spotted a red-painted symbol, and at her side was a bag that had scrolls poking out the top. The woman collapsed to her knees beside them, huffing and puffing. "Sure, don't wait for me or anything."

"You were taking too long," Mila said, "and Boldir still needs help."

"Last I saw he was fighting Drenim's Xivilai,"

"He was fighting Endar's Xivilai," the Legionnaire informed them. "It dragged him off the edge of the cliff."

"Wonderful. Let's hope it wasn't too steep." The new woman turned to Gwella, "I'm Elara. How are you doing?"

"I-"

"Bad. Yeah, I know." She redirected her attention to the whole group. "So if we assume that Boldir survived that fall, odds are the Xivilai did as well, meaning he still needs help. Anyone got any ideas for getting past a host of warded necromancers?"

Gwella stepped out from behind the gate and scanned the battlefield. Endar was fighting a purely defensive battle, maintaining his wards and traps as Rythe's band kept a steady assault of magic on him. All the while, their army of wraiths surrounded his shields, probing it for weakness, waiting for him to slip up. Though even under attack as he was, the wizard had somehow managed to kill at least four of his assailants.
Gwella returned shaking her head. "It won't be easy to reach Boldir or Endar. Not with things like they are."

"The necromancers' backs are turned," said Mila. "We can use Elara's invisibility scrolls to sneak past them."

Gwella shook her head again. "I've seen what Rythe can do. He'll know when we get too close to his wards, and would kill us in seconds. But I do think there's a way to make him weaker, maybe enough to give Drenim an edge. It's those crystals. The welkynd stones. With just one of them I was able to hold back Rythe's brother and his wraiths. I think he's only able to keep going like he is because he's brought along a whole sack of the things. If I can get those away from him, it might create an opening for Drenim to take advantage of."

"Rythe's right in the middle of them," the Legionnaire said, lifting up his shield. "I'll distract them."

"Thank you-"

"Now hold on a minute," Elara interrupted, looking at Gwella. "I don't know what you can do, but Acivo isn't a mage. This plan will get him killed."

"I'll be fine," the Imperial said. "You can use my distraction to slip past and get to Boldir."

"You'll need me for that." started Mila.

"No." Gwella, Elara, and Acivo said in unison.

"Do any of you have a good reason besides that you're protective of me?" Mila asked, "Because I'm young?" She pointed across the battlefield. "Well get in gods damned line! That man out there was fighting for me before any of you even knew I existed. Back when I actually needed it."

"He came all this way just to save you," Gwella said. "Do you think he wants it to be in vain?"

"I don't care," Mila answered. "Boldir would die for me in an instant, which means his wants are stupid. Look, you ain't gonna stop me from helping him, so quit trying."

"We're not gonna win this," Elara sighed.

"It seems we aren't." Gwella agreed. She did not like it, but the choice was not ultimately hers to make. Instead of fighting, she gave Mila a conceding nod. The girl was brave; there was no doubting that.

"Alright," Elara said, "Well we should at least work out the best way to go about this. The scrolls will keep us hidden until we get close to the wards Rythe put up. She turned to Gwella and handed her a pair of scrolls. "You and Acivo take these and get as close to Rythe as you can. Don't waste any time going after the crystals. It's like you said, if you give Rythe time to react, it's over."
She turned to the brave girl beside her. "You ready, Mila?"

"Aye."

"Alright," Elara handed Mila a scroll and led her along one side of the gate. Gwella and Acivo positioned themselves along the other. "Let's go."

One-by-one, they used their scrolls to turn invisible. And Gwella's all-too-brief reunion with Mila had reached its end. 
"You're name is Acivo, right?" she whispered to the patch of nothing beside her. 

"That's right," the Legionnaire muttered back. "It was a pleasure, almost getting killed with you."

"You saved me," she said, deciding not to tell the man that it was her friend he had killed. "Thank you. Now let's go. I'll watch your footsteps in the grass. Kill the one in the back, and I'll go for Rythe's bag... Once I have it, you have to run. They'll kill you if you don't."

"I know."

The Legionnaire's feet pressed down the thin grass, moving slowly but surely in the direction she had told him to head. Gwella followed cautiously, always making sure to peak up at Rythe to make sure the necromancer's back was still turned. They closed the distance quickly, and soon Gwella saw Acivo's footprints come to a halt just outside of the sparky blue field that swirled around their foes. The cultists were spread out, forming a crescent around Drenim's own shield. But that larger area no doubt meant that the wards were more difficult to maintain. Surely removing Rythe's source of magicka would grant Drenim the chance he needed to strike at them... right?

It's too late to doubt, she thought, as she saw Acivo's grass move again. Suddenly, a broad-shouldered, heavy-armored Imperial soldier appeared out of nowhere, and his sword struck true as its edge cut deep into the first necromancer's shoulder.

"FOR THE EMPIRE!" Acivo bellowed, and then he turned and slashed yet another of the vile figures across the chest. He raised his shield then as half a dozen spells came flying in his direction. That was when Gwella turned and started sprinting. Rythe was ahead. Fifteen yards. Ten. He stood in front of Drenim, hands raised for some spell, while the acolyte behind him held up the bag of crystals like an obedient slave. She gripped the "slave's" neck with hands of fire, and ripped the sack from his hands as he went drown screaming. 

"What in all the realms-" Rythe turned, and his red eyes lit up with fury when they met Gwella's own. "You!"

Clutching the crystals with her right hand, she raised a ward with her left, and was surprised when it not only held strong against Rythe's blast of red magic, but actually reflected it back in his direction, forcing the necromancer lord to catch it on a ward of his own.
The necromancer smiled then. As cruel a smile as she had ever seen. "You stupid holy bitch." He took a step forward. "You mean to use my crystals against me. My work. MINE!" He lifted a hand, and the sack started to vibrate in her arms. 
"You can draw from them," he said, "But you could never use them like me. You don't understand. You never learned!"

She started to run, casting another ward that she drew from the power inside the bag.

"You're just like Drenim!" The necromancer shouted. "A fetcher! A thieving s'wit! And you will end up the same!"

His next spell crashed against her ward so hard that Gwella was flung to her knees. But she still clutched at the bag.

"My work is wasted on you," growled the elf. When she looked up, he was standing right above her, alongside two of his cultists.

"I'll take that," said a new voice that came at the exact same time as a bright flash of light. There, between Gwella and Rythe stood Endar Drenim, regarding them both with complete and utter nonchalance. It was only for a moment however, as Drenim then proceeded to shove Rythe away with a spell, take the sack from Gwella's hand, and vanish just as abruptly as he had appeared.

Rythe and his friends spun around, searching in every direction. Drenim's shield of wards had vanished, and the dozens of wraiths probing it had taken to the skies in search. Gwella saw where the body of Avico lay dead not far from where he had revealed himself, and she now saw Elara and Mila standing still as stones by the plateau's edge. Everything was quiet. Until one of the cultists spotted Drenim. "At the gate!"

Gwella looked back to the place she had used to hide just as Drenim was stepping into view. The army of wraiths swarmed him again, and like before, he cast his circle of protection before they could close the gap. He followed with the bubble of wards against Rythe's magic. This time, Gwella saw a brightly glowing stone hovering by the wizard's side. Rythe and his men immediately launched a barrage of spells at the shield, but they were no doubt even less effective than before. 
"Don't think I forgot about you!" the necromancer yelled over his shoulder. Gwella launched a fireball at him, but he didn't even need to raise his hands to catch it. His passive wards were enough. "And don't think I missed those fools sneaking by us either. I take it one of them was the girl you've been looking for?"

Taking just a moment to look back and flash her an evil grin, Rythe pursed his lips and let out a long, low whistle. The wraiths heard their master's call, and about a third of them suddenly broke away from the crowd surrounding Drenim. They split into two groups: One headed for Elara and Mila, and one coming straight at Gwella, "If everything else goes wrong today," Rythe said, "I will take some solace in the knowledge that you suffered too."

Gwella lifted her hands, readied her spells, and said a prayer to Stendarr. And then the wraiths bore down on her.

***

After what seemed like days, the sharp pain in Boldir's head began to dull, and he was finally able to make himself roll over... which abruptly sent his weight downward. He fell again, crunching his bad arm against the rocks and began to slide.
"Oh damn it all!
He tried grabbing for something to cling to, but all his fingers found were dirt and loose pebbles that tumbled down with him. His armor carved through the earth like a metal sled, yanking up grass and mud and every little rock in its path and distributing all of it up into Boldir's face, hair, and even inside his clothes. He must have been cut a hundred times by the little shards of stone, and that wasn't the worst of it. His final attempt to stop or slow his plummet led to his left pauldron rebounding off of the rock and sending him rolling. At that point, Boldir lost all concept of direction. Up, down, left, and right became interchangeable, and the only semblance of order that remained was which part of his body he'd get to feel painfully crashing into the next rock.
It finally ended with Boldir on his stomach near the base of the plateau, a solid thirty yards away from where he had initially landed. His bruised eyes were caked with mud. Or was it blood? He wiped the stuff away without even thinking to check.

"Get up. Come on, get up." 
Boldir groaned and rolled onto his back, wincing as he did. Ten yards up the slope stood Carlotta. She looked happy to see him, but there was an urgency in her expression. "You have to get up, Love. Or he'll get you."

"Who will get me?" he asked, struggling to remember why he was even down here.

"The monster." At that very moment, Carlotta turned into a great blue beast, bare-chested, with a thousand bloody cuts and the hilt of a knife still sticking out of its thigh. The Xivilai let out a roar.

"Oh gods... Please give me a damned break." With every ounce of strength left in him, Boldir pushed against the pain and climbed to his knees. His left ankle protested so harshly that he could barely place it on the ground without crying out, but he knew right now that pain would be the least of his worries when the daedra reached him. Already, the horned creature was using an arm wrapped in black cloth to steady itself as it slid on its feet the rest of the way down the cliff. When its feet were planted, the Xivilai stood there for a moment, its white eyes regarding Boldir with what seemed like fascination, perhaps even admiration... or maybe it was just looking for wounds to exploit. Boldir didn't have time to tell before the thing was once again clambering through the dust and sliding pebbles in his direction.
Okay Boldir, you're hurt. Not dead. You're weaponless. Not defenseless. That bastard is no better off! You can do this. Just push a little more and Mila will finally be safe.

It was the last thought that brought Boldir to a full stand. He met the creature head-on and drove his metal foot into its bloody shin, grappling with its massive arms. He could not overpower the creature. Nor could he outmaneuver it. But he did have his armor. Battered as it was, the Nordic plate stood strong against the Xivilai's powerful elbows and fists, and it gave him the opportunity to get his hands on the big thing's face. He wrestled with it, back and forth as they slumped and rolled against the slope, choking and clawing and bleeding all over, until finally Boldir's thumb found an eye socket and pressed down until the squishy white orb had been filled with red. 
The daedra howled and jerked away, causing Boldir to fall back, sucking in air as the pain of his injuries jolted him from a million different points. When the Xivilai locked eyes with him again, one of them was hardly an eye at all, for all the damage he had done.
The creature came at him again. This time with the upper hand, it managed to get in close, so close he could smell the blood on its breath, and then the daedra did something Boldir had never experienced before. Not from this end at least. It reared back its head and rammed its skull against his own.

The colors Boldir saw were blinding. They were a thousand tiny shards of Aetherius, all spinning around his vision like torchbugs during a Falkreath summer. In his muddled state of half-consciousness, he could just make out a phantom at the top of the cliff. A woman with Mila's voice. "Boldir!" 
Boldir smiled at his name on her lips, knowing that this dream was the closest he would ever come to hearing his daughter again.
"Hang on!"
A bright light flashed, cutting through all the others, and he felt the daedra's hands let go of him.

"Boldir! Can you hear me?! Boldir!"

Oh gods... Boldir's eyes focused in, and he realized that this was no dream. Far above him, the woman still stood. Mila. "Mila!"
As the Xivilai descended on Boldir again, he surprised it by delivering a powerful fist into its bad eye, and then another in the good one. The creature, realizing he was back in the fight, managed to block the third strike and once more tried to grabble with him. "Hit it again!" Boldir shouted. "Mila! Again!"

"I can't!" The girl shouted. Gods, did she sound older! "I might hit you!"

"Then throw down my axe!" He yelled back. "Or-"

Mila screamed.

"NO!" Boldir pushed back the Xivilai just long enough to look up and see his daughter looking over her shoulder. "Mila, whatever it is, run! Do you hear me? Run!"
The beast then tried to grab his face the way he'd done to it, but Boldir did not let that happen. He caught it by the wrist and bent out of the way, using the movement to flip the two of them around and force its back against the slope. He then glanced up to see someone else at the top now, standing beside his daughter. The woman was launching streams of fire at some unseeable enemy. Drenim! I'll KILL him! Boldir threw an elbow into the Xivilai's jaw. The creature moved to get up, but he beat it back down, once, then twice. At last his enemy was too hurt to defend itself, and so he launched into a frenzy. He started by hitting it with his bloody left fist, then his bloody right one. Then left. Then right. Left. Right. Left. Right. Boldir's throat rumbled as he screamed Kyne's cry in the dying beast's face.
When at last, there was little left to recognize, Boldir looked down at the dagger lodged in the Xivilai's hip. It had been poisoned for Drenim. Hopefully some of that still remained, but if not, well...
He gave the hilt a hard tug, wrenching it free of the bone it had been stuck in, and then used it to slit his enemy's throat. The daedra died gurgling on its own dark blood. 

When Boldir looked up, Mila and her friend were nowhere to be seen. He started to climb.

***

The dead face's mouth hung open wider than any mortal jaw would permit. It's pale green skin sagged low, drooping beneath the hollow eyes like sacks of pudding. The creature hovered before Elara, bony hands widespread as its face moved closer to hers, that massive mouth emitting a foul, dead odor into her nostrils that made Elara's eyes water. It wants me dead. was all she could think. Elara had never felt a terror so horrible in her life. She lifted her burning hands between herself and the creature. They trembled violently, but she could barely tell.

The wraith screamed. It was a terrible sound, and Elara was immediately gripped by another wave of terror. It was unnatural, the way the creature's shriek seemed to fall through her ears and straight to her heart, tightening and coiling around it. It hurt. Her shaking hands barely able to remain raised, Elara glanced at Mila, who looked to be in as much pain as she was. The girl's staff flashed and sent a bolt of lightening searing through the thing's black chest, destroying it only for two more to take its place. The gloom wraiths swarmed them, going down like flies to their fire and lightening, but never stopping.

Eventually, Mila's staff fell from her hands, and the girl herself dropped to her knees, eyes wide with terror as the thing's bony white hand touched her forehead. Elara could not bear to see it. She turned away from the ones attacking her and launched a jet of flame into the one above her friend. She then mustered up every last ounce of willpower inside her and overcame the horrible trance their magic was locking her in.

The wraiths floating around Mila curled back against her flames, even as the ones behind her closed in tighter. Elara stepped above Mila's body and screamed, unleashing fire in all directions until the spark in her was extinguished, and she was defenseless. Elara knew things were pretty grim, but that was okay, right? She had done all she could. And now it seemed as though things were turning in Master Drenim's favor. Maybe he could save her. That wizard could do anything. Even now, a great blood-red light was flashing above the wizard's head. Yeah, Elara thought as the wraiths' magic killed her, I'll be fine.

***

The moment to prepare your offense is the moment the enemy becomes vulnerable to attack. -These words had belonged to Zurin Arctus as he won Tiber Septim's wars for him. Of all the rules for war magic that the great Battlemage had written, Endar found it to be the most applicable to his current situation. Had Rythe's stones provided him a greater edge than anticipated? Certainly. And had the Nordic brutes been an unexpected surprised? Most definitely. But as usual, patience and cleverness were now set to prevail. That was the problem with wizards like Rythe. He was too passionate. Too prone to be ruled by fury and anger. A foe like that was bound to slip up eventually. And so long as a smart wizard stays alert, he could capitalize on that every time.

Endar was under no delusions. The priestess had granted this particular opening. But there would have been another, no doubt. Not that it mattered. He had the stones now. He had his wards. His enemies were weakened. He was ready bring this to its end.

The dark mass of undeath his foes had summoned swarmed his protection circle, probing the ring of energy for any sort of weakness they could exploit. Their transparent green faces were old and decrepit, made more ancient in death than any number of years could have made them in life. Their thin hands simmered and glowed with magicka, making it clear that these were powerful beings long before their enslavement.
He closed his eyes and forced his mind to refocus on the task at hand. And when he opened his mouth, his voice emerged as a detached boom, every word feeding energy into the incantation.

"From fifty fathers... Frozen in slavepast,"
"...Rip from the wraithloom!
"... Sunder the lifeweave!
"... Lock tight in earthgrip!
"... Hold firm in gravefast!"

And so came the hard part. As the final words of the verse left the wizard's lips, his mind went deep into that place that was not here, but nor was it quite there either. To the place of understanding. He could see it now. Beyond the limen: The Padomaic chaos that was Oblivion and her realms beyond counting. He had been right to choose this place for his field of battle, for time had not healed the scar between realms.
He ripped at the scar now, tearing it open long enough for his words to be heard, and above him, a great red light cast its gaze upon the battlefield. The red was brief, for it soon changed green, then purple, then yellow, then some color mortals could not comprehend, and then blue. That was where it stopped, and it was into this blue portal that the wraiths were drawn, screeching and screaming, leering, crying, and even laughing. Their noise was brief and terrible, and then Endar let the gate slam shut behind them, and the plateau grew deathly silent.

Endar took in his surroundings. Rythe and his five or so remaining cultists were not looking so confident now. Apparently defeating Legionnaires and holy women was easier than taking on one of the greatest wizards of the age. Based on their expressions, the necromancers did not expect the task to be easier now that they had lost their army of undead. Two of them, an Imperial man and Orsimer woman, both turned and immediately ran for the hills. Endar let them, knowing that the Xivilai and his scamps would be able to hunt them down with ease. 

He took a step forward, and was immediately bombarded with more spells from Rythe and his loyal few men. Of course, with the welkynd stones floating behind him, Endar barely even needed to concern himself with the drain of maintaining more powerful wards. Yes, Rythe. Go ahead and attack. You're only draining yourself.

The necromancer must have realized this, because he stopped casting and began to back away. "It is too late for that," Endar said. He was about to summon a few daedra to rip the acolytes apart, but then decided against it. Too messy. Too likely to get Rythe killed before he was ready. Instead, he settled for launching a torrent of the basic elemental magics from Apotheosis at the tall one on the right. The acolyte's ward shattered, and his body simultaneously froze and burned, but not before the lightening had already destroyed his heart. For the next two, he altered the properties of their blood to make it acidic, a particularly painful and gruesome way to die, but also messy. Which was why Endar preferred to save it for when he really wanted to frighten his enemies. 

Now only Rythe remained. Even now, hatred filled the necromancer's eyes, but it was melded with fear. Good. That's what I want to see. "You know, you were right," Endar said as his wards caught an ice spike as a window might catch a fly. "I stole from you. I stole work that would have taken me decades to accomplish on my own. Perhaps centuries. Now, with your help, I will be finished within the year. New heights will be reached, and it will be thanks to you. How does that make you feel?"

Rythe stepped back and launched more spells in his direction, each one as harmless as the last. "You're a fraud!"

Endar shrugged. "I aim to take my work in a different direction than you did yours. A more ambitious direction. And when the kingdoms of man have been saved as a result, nobody will even want to ask how I learned what I did. They won't care."

"Molag Bal curse you, Fetcher," Rythe spat. "Had the same happened to you, your response would have been no different than mine."

Endar gave him a curious look. "Of course it would have been different. I wouldn't have failed. Do you remember the Principles of House Telvanni?"

Rythe's eyes widened, and he fell to his knees. "The powerful... define the standards of virtue."

"Correct. I am more powerful than you, Rythe. This could have ended in a multitude of ways, but none of them were in your favor. Even if you had somehow bested me, I was fully prepared to escape. Did you know that? Do you think the Oblivion Gate was just for stealing away your wraiths and bringing forth a few allies? I littered this plateau with spells, wards, traps, curses. I barely used half of them." Endar produced a smooth, jet black crystal from his pouch. "You never stood a chance."

Rythe looked past him, back at the gate. "Wait! Not yet-"

"No. This is over." He cast his first spell, draining his foe's remaining lifeforce to feed his own. "I sent your wraiths to the Soul Cairn. With that in mind, die knowing that your fate will be worse than theirs."
As Rythe obliged him, Endar cast the second spell, ripping out the necromancer's soul and trapping it in his gem. He would deal with it later, but now it was time to tend to clean up and deal with the aftermath. Bodies littered the plateau, but among them only two still lived: The unconscious priestess, and someone near the edge. Not one of the necromancers, though. It almost looked like... "Elara, what are you doing up here? I told you to stay with the girl." 
His stewardess did not answer. Unconscious. Typical.

He started toward her, past the ruined Oblivion Gate, only for some funny sensation to explode against his right shoulder.

"Pain?"

Endar felt like a fool for uttering the word out loud, but for some reason it was all he could think to say. It took him a moment to understand why he was staggering forward, falling onto his hands and feet just in front of the gate. There was something in his back. Something solid and sharp... He started to speak, but no words came out. The sensation was spreading throughout his body, flooding his thoughts, assaulting them. Endar reached back and pulled the dagger out of his shoulder, and turned to find that its wielder had been none other than the large armored Nord from before. Alive?

The Nord was hurt. Badly. No longer wearing a helmet, his face was bruised, swollen, and bleeding. What pieces of his armor remained were dented and chipped. He was coated in mud and what looked like his own blood mixed with that of a daedroth. He had been leaning against the gate, but as he pushed himself off, he came after Endar with a limp. Even so, it was faster than he could move right now.
Endar tried to scramble to his feet, but then the pain bit him harder than anything he had felt in a century. He wanted to respond to this! To paralyze this brutish fool before burning him to a crisp for good this time. Then he would heal his back, heal his friend, and leave this place. He wanted all of this, but to his shock and horror, Endar could not muster up the power to do any of it. It was one final curse from Rythe Orealo.
He had been silenced.

The huge, broken Nord followed him slowly, all the hatred of Mehrunes Dagon in his eyes. Not once in this era had anything frightened Endar as this Nord did now. Frantically, he clambered backwards and hugged the gate, all too aware of the trail of blood that he left behind. Concentrate, he told himself. Concentrate! You are a Master Wizard! You cannot die here, like this! There is too much left to do!

The Nord knelt down and picked up a battle-axe. A daedric battle-axe. The one that had belonged to the Xivilai. 

Endar closed his eyes. He could still see the plateau in his head, so he closed them tighter, focusing deeper. His mind's eye wandered beyond this world as it had before. He needed an escape, and he found one.

***

Boldir stared at the dark elf with nothing but disgust. "It's too late to pray now, Mage." He drove his new axe into Drenim's chest with a sickening crunch. The wizard's eyes opened then, and he gasped for breath. 

Then the world around them fell apart. The skies were ripped to shreds; the earth opened into nothingness... and Oblivion took them.

[Witchking of Angmar]

Morane Lynielle

Afternoon

“You must narrow in your focus,” Winvale said, his deep voice equal parts frustrated and critical. His pale green eyes narrowed in on Morane’s hazel ones, as if to demonstrate just what it meant to narrow one’s focus. It annoyed Morane how perfect an example he was, since he had seldom looked at, much less talked to, the other students in the room. They sat at the desks and in the reading chairs arranged about the tower, all of them splitting their time between reading the books they were supposed to and joining the wrinkled old wizard in staring at Morane.

She could feel the weight of their expectations, the students’ and Winvale’s, pressing down upon her shoulders. Ever since she had first learned how to see the world through her hyperagonal sense a week ago, to see things not only as they were but also as they could be through an infinite number of potential realities, she knew the expectations were high. Winvale expected much of her, constantly berating her failures and reminding her of how small her achievements were. The other students judged her, always taking pleasure in her failures and waiting to see what made her so special.

It was exhausting. Every time she tried to focus, she found her mind returning to all those eyes watching her, waiting for her to fail. She tried to funnel it into motivation, to prove them all wrong and show them why she was better than all of them. But the sneers and barely muffled laughter each time Winvale told her just how poorly she was doing were like chains, holding her down and preventing her from rising to her true height.

It was the same way when she focused her hyperagonal sense. Whenever she tried to focus, to narrow her vision to just the thing that mattered, it was inevitable the number of potentialities of so many people and objects would overwhelm her and force her to lose her hyperagonal sense. Instead of seeing with her mind, she’d be returned to the real world, always to the disapproving scowl of Dryston Winvale and the derision of her peers.

By far the most discouraging thing, though, was the object of her failures. She sat at a table in the middle of the room, the uncomfortable chair giving her splinters. Sitting on the table in front of her was an open book. She didn’t know the title or what it was about, and that didn’t matter. Her task was to make it opened to page twenty. Not flip through the pages with telekinetic power, or use illusion to make it seem as if it was open. Her task was to find the potentiality where the book was opened to page twenty, substitute that book for the closed one before her, and instantaneously and without moving the book would be open to page twenty. She was attempting to write on the scroll of this world, substituting is here with the is of a possible world. She couldn’t do it, so the book sat there, a constant reminder of her failure.

The task was meant to be simple, and yet looking through her hyperagonal sense was not the same as being able to access this book’s potentiality. And yet Morane knew the dullards who were also studying shadow magic could not understand the difference. To them, she was lucky, having used shadow magic once but failed to do so since then. Winvale knew the truth, and yet his disappointment was different. He knew she was not focusing on the book.

To use shadow magic is to see the potentialities created by conflict of the object that is to be manipulated. A warrior has a sword and is about to strike the shadow mage, who uses their hyperagonal sense to see the sword and cause it to not exist. When they use their hyperagonal sense, they are looking only at the sword, not at the warrior, the landscape, and their potentialities. If a shadow mage’s focus is too broad, it can lead to the magic twisting on them, and instead of the sword ceasing to be, it is now made out of the warrior’s flesh, or impaled in a rock. The substituting draws from the potentially of the other things and not the potentiality of the sword, and the magic isn’t what the caster intends.

“If you do not narrow your focus, your mind will become unmoored and you will lose your sense of this world. You will see only in potentialities, and lose all sense of what is,” Winvale said. “Our reality may be only one of many, but it does not change that if you lose your sense of what this reality is, your mind will lose its sense of what it thinks is real. Shadow magic will drive you insane if you do not focus. Only the most skilled can see and change so many potentialities at once.”

Morane cast her eyes from the wizard, having received the lesson, back to the book. She closed them tight, and peered sidewise into the shadows. She saw the room and its infinite potentialities, overlapping over one another and creating a continuous blur of possibility. She could see how this might drive someone insane, and how seeing this constantly would drive you further insane. She narrowed her view, focusing first on herself, the chair, the table, and the book. Then she narrowed to the table and the book, see both of them as they were and as they could be. She looked at the book, willing herself to see only it. The table and its possibilities began to fade, but just as they did, a noise caught her attention.

She pulled back, closing her mind’s eye and opening her two real eyes. Winvale was looking at a man sitting in a plush chair, and the two were talking. Morane’s mind was still busy with the transition back into the real world, and at first she could not make out their words. When she finally did, it made her stomach sick.

“I saw…I saw everything. A bird flying into the window, or not. A chair collapsing, or not. A bookcase falling over, or a shelf breaking, or a book sliding on the shelf. It was amazing, and then…” He took the same noticeable pause Morane had, his mind finally processing the impossibility and yet reality of so many things existing simultaneously because of the shadow, the conflict. “It was like I was seeing for the first time, but then I was seeing too much.”

Winvale went through the same talk he had with Morane, about how the man had accessed his hyperagonal sense but lost his sense of the tranpontine deformations that indicate reality. It was nearly word for word what he told Morane, and she realized she wasn’t so special anymore. A few other students were asking him questions, in a way they hadn’t asked her because Winvale had dismissed them the instant he sense she was successful at using her hyperagonal sense.

She was furious now, silently seething at the students, the man, and Winvale. She deserved the same admiration, but it had been denied her. Winvale was actively undermining her, she thought, he didn’t want her to succeed or be lauded for doing so. Instead of praise, she got skepticism, because he hadn’t wanted her achievement known. Now she sat like a fool in the middle of the room, staring at a book that wouldn’t open. Worst of all, this man had achieved far less than she had. She could see the transpontine deformations, she could see the reality when she peered sidewise. He had barely done anything, and she knew it would take him twice as long to get from where he was now to where she was. Her mind was clouded with anger and envy and hate. And Winvale had the gall to look at her with a sneering smile.

It seemed to happen in an instant. One moment she was in the tower, the next she was in the shadow tower. She was focused now, focused more than she’d ever been. She could see the book, closed, and see it open to every page imaginable. And she could also see the man, this new shadow mage. She kept her focus split between the book and the man. She strained, conscious of how much effort it was taking to focus on both, but then she found the potentiality she wanted. She substituted it, and then retreated into the real tower.

What she saw there was a scene of blood and gore. The book was gone from the table, and it stuck out at an angle from the new shadow mage’s back, a third of the open book imbedded in his shoulder blade. He was slumped forward in the chair, blood pouring down his back. The other mages had backed away, cowering in fear and shock. Only Winvale remained as he had been, leaning on his staff so he could talk to the man had he still been alive. The old wizard leaned down further and wiped blood away from the corner of the page. It showed the page number, twenty.

Morane was aghast, and like most everyone else, showered in droplets of blood. She’d never meant to hurt him that badly. She’d wanted the book to fly off the table and hit him, then fall the floor open to page twenty. Now he was dying, passed out from the pain or the shock. The other students stared at her in horror and fear. Gone was their derision and judgment. Morane sensed it, the fear they felt, and she pushed the incident away. Shadow magic was dangerous, and the man knew that when he volunteered. Accidents were bound to happen, after all, and sometimes accidents had horrible consequences. It was a tragedy, of course, that a prospective student, and a clearly skilled one, might die. But Morane knew that it was ultimately the same if a knight had been crushed by his horse, or blinded by a splintered lance.

Winvale knew it too, and said as much. “Shadow magic is dangerous. We are finished for the day.”

The rest of the students left, careful not to make eye contact with Morane. She contained her smile, the corner of her lip barely ticking upward. If she could not have their admiration or respect, she would have their fear. A fine substitute, and possibly a better one. She didn’t need friends, she needed to learn. And no more would she be distracted by scoffs and snide remarks.

Winvale pulled the book from the man’s shoulder and went to work healing the wound. He worked his magic on the deeper wounds first, repairing the bone, muscles, and finally skin. By that time two healers had arrived, and they carried the man out. Winvale then sat across from her, altogether unperturbed by the incident. He wiped blood from one of his wrinkled cheeks, then a bushy eyebrow, and finally from his beard, just below the ring that kept it held together. “Your focus was too broad. Keep your eye on the object, concentrate your energy towards it. Are you ready to try again?”

Morane took a deep breath and let the emotions wash away. The anger, the hate, the envy, the shock, the euphoria, all of it disappeared. She tucked a black curl behind her ear and said, “I am.”

Winvale pulled another book from a shelf and it floated across the room and landed gently on the table. She watched the green hue around it faded and then looked back to Winvale. He said, “Flip the book to the pages I say. Focus on the book, listen to my voice, and feel the conflict within it. Let the substitutes flow from the possibilities.”

Morane nodded once, this time keeping her eyes open and focusing her mind’s eye. She saw the book and only the book. Winvale’s voice echoed in her ears. 8. 76. 90. 132. 45. Every time she heard a new command, the book was opened to that page. Not turning or sorting through, just instantaneous. She could feel the shadow, the conflicts of the book, and the possibilities that created. She substituted those into the her world, and by the time she finished, she had made the book open to every single page. She wasn’t sure how Winvale kept track, but her curiosity at that quickly vanished. She had not only done her first real act of shadow magic, but she had done it ten times over.

“Good,” Winvale said, his face placid. “Now rest. Tomorrow, you learn to teleport.”

“Do you need help cleaning up?” she asked.

He glanced at the ruined, as if he had forgotten it was there, and what had taken place in it. His eyes lingered for a moment before he said, “No.”

Morane nodded and left. A small smile stretched across her face as soon as she did. She walked down the stairs to the rooms beneath Winvale’s, where the shadow mage students’ rooms were. There were a few rooms with beds and chests and little else. She went over to hers and grabbed a loose shirt and then went over to the wash bin. She looked down into the water and saw her faced covered in droplets of blood. It was disturbing, how happy she could be after what had happened. Yet she didn’t much care about the man, whose name she didn’t even know. It was the same way she’d never cared for her fellow students in Farrun, her comrades in the Wrothgarians, at Wayrest, and Evermor. The last time she’d cared for anyone, back when her best friend betrayed her. She didn’t have time for friends now, only herself.

This was right where she wanted to be. She could learn shadow magic, grow in power and ability, and then have free rein to unleash those abilities on the Thalmor once the time came. Until then she would learn, needing only Winvale to accomplish that. She didn’t care about the other students, the King whose army she’d fight in, any of it. She wanted knowledge and power, and Winvale would give her both those things. Even though she had hated him earlier, she saw now what he’d done. The smile, the criticism, he knew how to push her. And it had worked.

After washing her face, she felt too anxious to sleep. There was still light left, so the descended the tower and exited into the yard. The lesser shadow mages, though whose training would take longer and who spent more time training as nightblades and agents, were sparring down there. The bald battlemage who wore a constant frown led half, while the dour knight in his ebony armor led the other. The battlemage’s group worked with magic, the knight’s with weapons. She watched them, the two leaders mostly.

They were sparring against their students, and both were clearly skilled. The knight had learned how and where to wear blows, making use of his high quality armor. Whenever he faced an opponent with a blunt weapon, he changed his tactics, parrying blows instead of wearing them, using his opponent’s slower swings and heavier weapon to keep them off balance while he deftly attacked. The battlemage was a punishing fighter, relentless in his attacks, seemingly never on the defensive. What made him difficult to fight, she noticed, was his cunning attacks. He left runes, used different elements in the same attack, and once used chain lighting on a bird flying overheard to totally surprise one of the students. Morane was impressed with both, but realized she wasn’t in the mood to practice her regular magic. It seemed like cheap tricks compared to shadow magic.

She went back into the tower to grab some food. The bottom floor was had several tables, each with food splayed out on them. Several guards occupied one, while her fellow students, those that spent their days with Winvale, sat at another. Morane chose an unoccupied table and sat by herself. She cut off a few pieces of cheese and tore off some bread to eat with her beef and carrot stew. It was a plain meal, but she wasn’t all that picky about her food. She washed it down with some wine and then left to her bunk. She could feel the stares of the other students behind her as she left, but ignored them. She knew they were too scared of her now to do anything but stare. She climbed the stairs of the tower and went to her bed, where she stripped off her clothes and climbed in, falling into a dreamless, restful sleep.

The next day she rose early, having gone to bed early as well. She dressed and splashed her face with water before heading down the stairs to the dining hall, where she grabbed some bread and spread jelly on the slices for her breakfast. She ate as she climbed back up the stairs, and knocked on Winvale’s door. He answered after a few moments, and clearly hadn’t been sleeping.

Morane entered, and immediately noticed the chair the man from yesterday had been sitting in was gone. She thought about asking if the man was ok, but she dismissed it took a seat. The plush chair was between a strange looking alchemy table and a wooden writing desk. The alchemy table had the typical vials and bowls, but also a device that made a soft whirring sound, that looked like it was made of Dwarven metal. The writing desk, on the other hand, seemed relatively normal. It was only upon closer inspection she realized the legs of the table weren’t elegantly carved or crafted, but grown. They resembled straight tree branches, and what she thought was only darker wood was actually bark.

Winvale saw her looking at it and said, “I took it off a Druid of Galen. He infused it with a natural power that makes scrolls written on it more potent. Among other things.”

She could tell by his tone the hedge mage hadn’t given it up willingly. She wasn’t particularly interested in it, so she asked, “How do I learn to teleport?”

Winvale waved his hand and moved a comfortable chair beneath him as he sat down. He left his straight wooden staff standing. Morane wondered what the black orb wrapped in wooden tendrils at the top of the staff was, but she could spend a day asking the wizard about his various magical instruments and devices and not get through them all.

“First, read this,” Winvale said, and brought over a small book from one of the shelves.

She caught the book and looked over the letters on the leather cover. It read Stepping through Shadows and was written by the Glimmering Foxbat. Morane chuckled, and Winvale asked, “What’s so funny?”

“The author,” she said, looking up to find him not amused. “Well, whoever they are, they have a flair for the dramatic.”

“Read,” he commanded, and Morane flipped through to the first chapter.

There is no magic in the nightblade's repertoire more useful than the spell of instant translocation. Over time, its casting becomes almost a matter of reflex: one is HERE, and then, by an act of will, one is THERE. 

In fact, to the experienced practitioner, translocation becomes so routine that one almost forgets how difficult it was at first to learn. It is traditional to refer to this magical art as "stepping through shadows," and indeed, the key to its mastery is the ability to "peer sidewise" and perceive the shadows cast by each entity and object in the Aurbis. 

These are not, of course, the literal shadows cast by the blockage of light by an opaque object, but the emanation of the limen each object possesses—the depth-impression its existence makes in the local reality of the Mundus This requires learning to focus the hyperagonal sense through which the practitioner perceives the flow of magicka. Once the nightblade can "feel" local transpontine deformation, it becomes almost trivial to make the transliminal saltation to any point within range.

Morane was till early enough in her learning that she was unreasonably happy every time she read and understood something new. This was no different. She had already achieved the peering sidewise and the perception of the shadows objects and entities cast. She could even feel the deformations, letting her know what was real and not the conflict cause potentialities. All she needed was to learn the final step, the transliminal saltation. She didn’t see the difficulty, but she had already learned most of the steps.

“Is that all I need to know?” she asked, tossing the book aside.

“Is that all?” Winvale asked, mocking her in his annoyance. “If that is all, then you must be ready to teleport.”

Morane glared at him, but she had confidence in herself. She took a deep breath, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and looked at the world through her mind’s eye, seeing the shadows. Once there, though, she became quite unsure of how to proceed. She thought about accessing the potentialities of the rug, and substituting herself there, but she worried that method could end with her impaled by the rug, or with half her body stuck in the tower floor. The other option was to try and access her own potentialities, and substitute in the desired location. But that caused even more trepidation, as she didn’t know how to access her own conflict-shadow. So she returned to her real sight, with Winvale looking at her quite smugly.

“This book was written centuries before Azra Nightwielder established what we now know as shadow magic. The shadow magic described in this book is a precursor, and its method of teleportation is primitive. It only allows you to teleport within, say, the city of Camlorn. Real teleportation, through real shadow magic, is much more powerful, and difficult. You need not even bother learning how to do this simpler method, though if you wish to know, you simply substitute yourself atop the floor where it is you want to go,” Winvale said. He then demonstrated, by instantly appearing across the room. There was not a second between his sitting in the chair and his standing across the room. He then teleported back into the chair. “In the time that book was written, they found it much more difficult, because it wasn’t until Azra came along that mages realized the process of the magic. That realization makes this older form much easier to grasp today, once the nature of shadow itself is grasped. Now try again.”

Morane looked through the world with her mind’s eye, seeing the spot Winvale had teleported to. She focused on the spot, and in an instant she was standing there. She turned around to face Winvale, a grin on her face. Then she teleported back, just as smoothly as before.

“As I said, simple and primitive,” Winvale said, though his voice didn’t quite have the edge his words might suggest. Morane thought she saw his lip twitch, in what might’ve been a smile, but with his beard covering his mouth, it was difficult to tell.

“What’s real teleportation, then?” Morane asked.

“It requires finding the potentialities within yourself, the key to deeper and more powerful shadow magics. To teleport, you must find the location written on your own shadow and substitute in the new location. A more dangerous process, one that has been known to cause some mages to disappear forever, transporting themselves to another potentiality and never returning.”

“How do I find my own shadow?”

“Within the world of the potentialities, you must retreat from your own deformation. Not a simple task. Azra’s shadow metaphor is again particularly apt. When we cast a shadow, we are cognizant of both ourselves, it, and the light that allows it to exist. In other terms, we must be aware of ourselves, those things which conflict with us, and the shadow created by said conflict. As always focus on the object, your own conflict-shadow.” Winvale closed his eyes as he continued to talk. “See with your mind, find the potentialities, place what you desire, and then will it to be.”

He was gone again. Morane felt something in the air. Whereas before Winvale seemed to have moved across the room to quickly to notice, this time it seemed as though he was truly gone, like there was a void in the room, and it was not quite whole. She was worried, wondering if something had gone wrong. Then he reappeared, right back in his chair. In his hand he held a large mushroom, about the size of fist. It was a light brown, almost a tan, and splotchy. Winvale used his magic to move it over to a pot filled with soil, where he planted it.

“What is that?” Morane asked.

“A Telvanni mushroom. An acquaintance of mine allowed me a cutting from his tower.”

“You went to Morrowind?”

“Solsthiem. He hasn’t quite finished moving back to the mainland. But the distance you can teleport is limited only by your skill. So. Across the room, again.” Winvale waved his to the spot, and then set his green eyes on her and waited.

Morane hesitated. After the failure yesterday with the book, and earlier with the easy teleportation, she didn’t think it was worth trying. But she remembered who she was and why she was doing this. She didn’t fail when she set her mind to something, and she would become a shadow mage. She cleared her mind of those worries, but recalled how she felt when she first saw the potentialities. The satisfaction and confidence. She channeled that, taking those feelings with her as she looked at the world-in-shadow, and then turned her gaze inward. To her own shadow.

There she saw her many different selves, but she ignored them, moving down to the real her, the one sitting in the chair in the tower. That was it, her sitting in the tower. She found that and pulled from it both sitting and chair. She wanted to stand, and be across the room. She reached back and pulled forward the same spot she teleported to earlier and laid it within herself. She checked her magic, trying to see that she would not remove herself from this world. But it was straining, staying within the shadow world so long, and she had only moments left. She cast the spell, let the potentialities become realities, and came back into the real world to find herself across the room, and a real shadow mage at last.

[Witchking of Angmar]

Vincent Oges was not a handsome man. His widow's peak was sharp, like the edge of an iceberg jutting out into frigid waters. His grey hair was dull and thinning, though he was blind to how uncomely it looked. So instead of shaving his head bald and preserving some physical appeal, he kept the meager hair he still had, unaware of the sadness it seemed to project onto him, as if he still clung to the last vestiges of his youth at all costs. His bloodshot eyes were sunken beneath eyebrows that looked like ends of frayed rope, while his were cheeks pockmarked and scarred by the years. He looked older than his fifty eight years, as anyone who met him would attest to.

 

That is, once they took their eyes off what remained of his nose. It had been cut off at a diagonal angle, with more than half of it missing. Serving as the head of the Knights of the Ilessan meant accepting a certain level of personal risk, which Vincent Oges gladly did. At the cost of his youth and his nose, he gained a barony for his sons and daughters. As the War of the Pretender had drawn to a close, Vincent recognized his age meant a replacement was imminent. Old men could guard lords and ladies, but not kings, and the new head of the Knights of the Ilessan, renamed the Knights of the Bull, would be King Theodore's personal guard. Thankfully, kings had need for trusted men as vassals, and the war opened a barony for Vincent.

Now the Oges family would have a much more prominent place in the history of High Rock, as barons among the many past barons, instead of knights among the even longer list of past knights. It was what all Bretons hoped for, from the lowly peasants to the middle class craftsman like Vincent's parents. Even the lower nobles aspired to be more powerful nobles. It was why the churn of Breton politics hardly ever ceased, the desire to join the ranks of the above class a near constant goal for those of the lower class.

Vincent and his adult children were among the ranks of that nobility, serving loyally at the side of the king who united High Rock's factious kingdoms. To ensure that the Oges family would keep their place at the side of the Adrards was Vincent's goal, and that was what brought him to Farrun.

The Baron's Blade pulled into the docks of Farrun on a cold, blustery morning. Captain Ofelia Kirbath, the granddaughter of King Adrard's vassal Baron Kirbath, directed the ship into the closest berth they could get. She was a grizzled sailor, recently pulled back from hunting pirates on the routes between Camlorn and Northpoint. She'd earned her reputation as a fine captain and willing warrior. It was she who King Adrard trusted to guard the first merchant ship sent to Roscrea, and it was Baron Oges he trusted to be the first Breton emissary to Roscrea.

Baron Oges, wearing a light blue tunic with the sigil of his family, a snakelike wyvern flying in a spiral, disembarked from the Baron's Blade with two of his steel plate clad men and headed towards the castle at the edge of the city, where the Lord and Lady LaRouche hosted the Roscrean merchant who initiated the contact with the Bretons. Baron Oges didn't know much about the man, as Prince Roland's letter did not have as much information as he wanted, but that only matched the knowledge he had about Roscrea, which was lacking. Even before its self-imposed exile from Tamriel, the Roscreans were known only by a few Breton sailors and merchants, as well as the odd scholar. So it was with little knowledge, but more than enough desire to learn and a level head that Baron Oges was to travel to Roscrea to manage High Rock's relationship with them.

It was a quick trip from dock to castle, where Baron Oges was told the Roscreans merchant would be along momentarily. Baron Oges sat down at a table arrayed with the dishes of a simple breakfast. He helped himself to a fruit filled pastry and some sausage, though he wasn't entirely hungry as they'd eaten on the ship earlier this morning. But he nibbled at his food, happy to find himself surrounded by the trappings of nobility.

A few moments later, as promised, the Roscreans merchant did arrive. 

The Roscrean Lugubelenus was not of a pleasant outlook, The man looked mentally exhausted of which was the same case since the morning. For the past day the man had been under terrible affliction, Terrible and wicked omens filled his ever waking moment.

The day before when he was enjoying a walk about Farrun Lugubelenus had heard faint whispers wafting in from the far north, Domesticated animals avoided him in the streets and when alone there was always a dreadful feeling in the back of his mind that a presence was gazing upon him from behind.

It was maddening to say the least, His sleep was riddled with torment and terrible nightmares throughout the night. It was when he awoke that morning that he saw for but a instant a hoary figure cloaked in white standing at the end of his cot looking down upon him with a look of anger with bronze sickle held in hand, It was but for one fleeting moment as with his waking screams the figure vanished.

Lugubelenus had but a moment's glace though that was all he needed to understand, Such omens and afflictions were the work of the Druids. The depths of his stomach churned at such thoughts, The East Empire Company would have without a doubt docked at Boiliobris the day prior. What ever the reason the Druids were tormenting him with the day he was set out to return, Appearing before Lugubelenus the night before had shown him it was they to blame for the omens.

Such thoughts swirled in the back of his mind during the Roscrean's brisk walk through the castle.

The Roscrean entered, a disheveled looking man with bags under his eyes and his thick rust colored beard covering his cheeks. He came to sit down next to Baron Oges, who greeted the man with a bow. Talking in his slow way, his voice on the low side, made him sound bored, but it was only his usual manner. "I am Baron Vincent Oges. King Theodore sends his regards, and hopes you can direct us safely to Roscrea. You are Lubugelenas, yes?"

Baron Oges was a blunt man, but even he had the tact to not ask the man if he was up to the task of guiding them to Roscrea. He looked exhausted and distracted, and it started to gnaw at Baron Oges' hope that the trip would be safe and uneventful. 

Lugubelenus internally composed himself for the task ahead, He certainly couldn't make himself look bright and ready but a look of confidence was needed when one was about to sail the Sea of Ghosts. It was against the pride of all Roscreans to ever bow to foreign men yet the Roscrean man couldn't very well deny such things in a foreign court.

Returning the bow Lugubelenus greeted the Breton, "Baron, Lugubelenus Pahlke before you noble Breton." Lugubelenus subtly corrected him indirectly. "Prior to your arrival I've plotted the charts and prayed to the gods for steady winds and soft seas, Once we're seabound we'll plot a course through... Through.."

The Roscrean glanced up at the Baron, "Surely you have a mapped route of the Sea of Ghosts, I cannot use my own in this matter. It's for your own trade routes and for that I need a Breton sea chart for the northern sphere."

They were both sitting now, Baron Oges having returned to his breakfast. "Lugubelenus. Yes."

He took a drink of the red wine the LaRouches had paired with the breakfast. He looked to the Roscrean and said, "Captain Kirbath a great many charts with us. I'm no sailor so can't speak to what they are of, but I imagine she has one mapping out the routes we've used in the Sea of Ghosts. The issue she spoke of is the changing sea ice and our own lack of experience in the far north, closer to your home."

Lugubelenus raised both of his eyebrows at the baron, "Alright then, We can study the maps in the vessel. If that is what the Baron wishes I will discuss it with the esteemed captain and navigators, If you don't mind me speaking while you break your fast I could explain to you first on our journey."

The Roscrean was willing to talk about anything to take his mind of the Druids.

"You may," Baron Oges said.

"Wonderful, Now unfortunately we are in the winter seasons which makes travel within the Sea of Ghosts a much more daunting task. It is when we are closest to Roscrea without entering it's threshold that the sea will be at it's worst, Please do not ask how the Druids and Witch-Doctors acomplish such tasks as I am not magically educated but despite Roscrea's location the environment as taught to us was preserved at a time when Atmora was freezing over.

Now when we're talking about the Sea of Ghosts there is a threshold around Roscrea at which point the waters rapidly become warmer the closer to the island you'd sail, At this point it becomes obvious when the threshold is reached with the air quickly becoming warmer.

I won't lie to you Baron Oges the winter season is the most dangerous time to sail, I can almost guarantee an encounter with the Sea-Ghosts. Of all the endless frozen waters we'll sail it is the Sea-Ghosts that will be our greatest danger, Many ancient Atmoran sailors died from such beings. I do take comfort knowing how you people are magically inclined, Weapons were recorded as phasing straight through these beings. In all honestly the rest of what I could explain would require charts and maps." Lugubelenus caught his breath after such a long winded conversation.

"There isn't anything known of them, They aren't undead as such spells have been recorded useless against them. I had an encounter with them once before a single time decades ago, Faceless entities drifting inches above the waves. Gods above I'd be at the bottom the the sea had a Druid not insisted he accompany me all those years ago."

"Hmph. I suppose we'll just have to keep our eyes open and our spells ready," Baron Oges said. Dusting the crumbs off his hands and downing the last sip of his wine, he stood and pulled his heavy cloak onto his shoulders. "Do you have all your things? I would like to leave at once, if possible."

"What I brought with me were samples and gifts for the Lord and Lady, My crewmen are to be stationed in Farrun for the time being also. So long as their's enough supplies for the trip I'm certainly ready."

Captain Kirbath was busy bringing the supplies aboard as I left. She should be finished by now," Baron Oges said. 

Lugubelenus nodded, and together they left the castle behind. One of Oges's guards took the lead, followed by the Baron, Lugubelenus, and then the other guard. They waded through the crowds, which were relatively thin due to the cold winter weather. They made it back to the docks quickly, where the ship was indeed fully loaded. Captain Kirbath stood where the gangplank met the ship, awaiting Vincent and Lugubelenus. 

She was a lively looking woman, with bright blue eyes and an easy smile. Her hair was cut short, not much longer than her ears, and it was a nice shade of golden blonde. She wore a silver tunic augmented with chain maille, meant to allow mobility while still offering protection. A lighter cloak than the one Vincent wore dangled from her shoulders. An axe hung from her belt, a fine ebony weapon she had a protective hand on. She gave the men each a glance, and with a gleeful sounding voice said, "Baron Oges! I'm glad you found our guide. I was worried you'd gotten lost yourself. What say you two come on up and we set sail."

Baron Oges simply nodded and climbed aboard, Lugubelenus trailing right behind. Captain Kirbath nodded her head at the Roscrean, "Welcome aboard the Baron's Blade. Glad to have you. I'm Captain Ofelia Kirbath."

A thought crossed Lugubelenus' mind that hadn't yet before, Finding that it should be addressed sooner rather then later.

"A pleasure to be aboard your fine vessel captain, Do forgive my abrupt interruption were you to continue. It has crossed my mind that this may very well be the start of a healthy relationship between the Confederation of Roscrea and a unified High Rock, I think it best that a man who can speak in authority of High Rock embark along with us and perhaps when we return I would sail back with the the present company and help establish trade with beloved Roscrea?"

It was all out of fear he suggested such, Despite the Druids knowing of the East Empire Company perhaps he figured if he does enough right his life will be spared.

She gave a laughing glance toward Baron Oges and said, "I knew you were old, Vincent, but I didn't know you were so old that you'd forget what your job here was."

Baron Oges sighed and explained. "I may have forgot to mention, but I am here on the King and Queen's authority. I'll serve as emissary to Roscrea, to help establish our trade and establish a mutually beneficial relationship."

Lugubelenus didn't really take in how old the Baron was, For a fleeting moment he wondered if it was an honest mistake or a sign of an affliction from Sheogorath. The Druids would skin him alive and gift it to a Casurgian noble as a saddle if he brings in a man touched by the mad god, Though he hoped such thoughts were simple paranoia brought about by the Druids tormenting him.

"Then that all works out, Captain before we set off I'd like ourselves and the navigators to look over the charts. It's best we work these things out before entering the sea, When this horrid ocean is involved it is always better to be safe then brave or bold. If you will Baron, We could speak at later time." His question to the captain was more so a statement then a question, Hinting to not leaving the docks until they are fully prepared.

Baron Oges arched an bushy eyebrow at being dismissed. Because of the man's fatigued and anxious appearance, as well as not being able to discern why the Baron was here, made Oges skeptical of his usefulness. He hoped the Roscrean was a good enough navigator to make his lack of discernment worth it the bother. Then again, he was practically a Nord, and their lack of courtesy was as inherent as Skyrim was cold. He supposed he'd have to get used to it, since he'd be treating with them for some time if things went well.

Mumbling under his breath, he headed toward his cabin in the bow of the caravel. Captain Kirbath waved dismissively at the Baron's back, the led Lugubelenus toward her cabin at the stern of the ship. "Don't mind him. He's a proud sort. And you needn't worry about me. I've learned to never sail unprepared."

As the two walked for her cabin Lugubelenus asked a series of questions. "Captain while the opportunity still presents itself I must inquire, Is this vessel capable of breaking through thin layers of ice and are you prepared for the possibility of it colliding with the ship either port or starboard? I can almost guarantee that we'll be sailing through thick frozen waters, However the course we'll be running is a warm current stream coming in from the Eltheric ocean. If we follow that then the ice will be manageable should we not stray from the path at hand."

"Its sturdy enough to withstand all but the strongest sea ice. Like I said, I don't sail unprepared," Captain Kirbath said. She opened the door to her cabin and ushered the man in. She motioned for him to take a seat, while she went over and pulled a long tube from its sheath on the wall, next to a few others just like it. She twisted off the cap and dumped the contents onto the table. Several maps fell out, some expansive views of seas, others only snippets of bays and inlets. Using a few decorative weights, she kept the corners pinned down so she and Lugubelenus could look over them. She pulled the largest map to the top, one that showed most of the Sea of Ghosts and the northern coastlines of High Rock, Skyrim, and Morrowind all mapped out.

"Where's this warm water route of yours?" she asked, moving over to Lugubelenus's side of the table so they were both properly oriented, looking at the map's north.

He studied the map for a good long time, Such existing charts were in Druidic hands and he was not permitted to take them. Having memorized it Lugubelenus drew his hand from an area in the Eltheric ocean sliding it across the map far to the north of High Rock, When his finger came close to Atmora he took it sharply southeast and tapped the map said location.

"This will have to be our starting point, This current doesn't cover a large area and we'll have to sail to it through harsh waters but from there a warmer trip awaits. Do not mistake me as this isn't going to be warm in the slightest, It's the difference between standing in.... lets say Eastmarch against the Throat of the World. From this point your ship must follow this path."

Once again Lugubelenus drew his finger across the map, Drawing steadily eastwards making slight dips and rises. "Once the waters start turning a softer blue hue and become clearer we'll know that Roscrea isn't too far, A certain threshold is passed of which the air will get progressively warmer. Like taking a step back in time eh?"

Captain Kirbath simply nodded, taking out a quill that glowed dimly with the hue of magical enchantment. She traced the path Lugubelenus drew, and when she strayed from the path and needed to correct it, she used the feather to wipe away the ink, which flowed briefly with magic before it faded away. Finishing, she asked, "Does that look right?" 

Lugubelenus was satisfied with it. "If I have the permission of the captain I would like to check the cargo out, See what you're planning on trading and gifting and after that I'm rather eager to meet the crew."

"While you do that we'll set off. We'd like to get to Roscrea as quickly as we can," Captain Kirbath explained. She walked to the door, about to leave, when she turned around and added, "Oh, and be careful with the cargo. Most of its on the merchant ship we're escorting, but we kept some of the more valuable items here. Since we have more of the guards. But don't break anything, once you start poking around." 

Parting ways with the captain the Roscrean browsed the goods held within the vessel, Most of it was boxed and packaged as it should be though obscuring the contents held within. Lugubelenus preferred proper procedure anyways.

The mental exhaustion was finally catching up with him, The wonderful thought of rest outweighed the fear for more night terrors and horrific thought forms. Having inquired on his cabin or quarters a sailor directed him towards it, Lugubelenus drifted into a deep sleep within minutes of resting his head. Never even taking off his footwear.

***

It was two days into the week long journey that the sailors of the Baron's Blade found the stowaway. The boxes and barrels in the cargo hold had been arranged to hide a small space, large enough for one person to hide in with relative comfort. Had the stowaway not wanted to be found, chances are she could've remained hidden for the entire trip. As it was she wanted to be discovered, and she told Baron Oges and Captain Kirbath as much. 

Baron Oges looked her over for any sign of threat. His years as a knight taught him how to assess the danger individuals might pose. She was a skinny, almost feeble individual. Not the build of anyone suited for hand to hand combat or fighting with weapons. She looked to be in her early forties, her brown hair barely beginning to dull from time. Her eyes were inquisitive, constantly flicking between the Captain, the Baron, and the contents of the former's cabin. There were wrinkles radiating out from her eyes. She was definitely a mage, which she readily revealed, and from what Baron Oges's own magical sense told him, a very capable mage. Baron Oges knew she could be dangerous, but she didn't seem to be aggressive. If she'd wanted to sink the ship, she would've done it already.

The mage said her name was Demara Bracques. Baron Oges didn't see any reason for her to lie about that, but he'd seen people lie about less. He believed her, about the name. It was the rest of her story that seemed far fetched. 

"I promise you, that's why I'm here," she sounded, and looked, exasperated. "The Roscreans are a people more than worthy of study not tainted by Imperial bias."

"Why did you have to come now? Why not wait?" Baron Oges asked. 

"I..." she blushed, and her eyes flicked down to the table between her and the Baron and Captain. "I wanted to be the first. The first to give the Roscreans and their unique magic the attention it deserves." 

"Why not ask for passage?" Captain Kirbath asked. 

"I never expected you to say yes. And I wasn't going to risk getting left behind," she explained. Baron Oges noticed she spoke as if everything she said was only the most obvious answer. It was annoying and he found he didn't much like her. 

"There's nothing to do about it now," Captain Kirbath said. 

The options ran through Baron Oges's mind. They could execute her on some false charges of treason or sabotage. Or simply have her disappear in the night. The sea was dangerous for the uninitiated, especially as the decks grew icy the further north they sailed. But her crimes didn't fit either of those punishment, and the Baron didn't really consider them as options. No, there was nothing to do but let her continue on the trip to Roscrea. 

"So can I meet him?" Demara asked, a smile stretching across her face. 

"Who?" Baron Oges asked. They'd found the stowaway scholar a couple of hours before dawn, and the Baron was still tired. Beams of moonlight helped illuminate the room, but as soft as they were, they seemed too bright to him. 

"The Roscrean," Captain Kirbath said. "Lugubelenus."

"Oh, yes, that him," Baron Oges said. "If he wishes to talk with you in the morning. Until then I'm going back to sleep."

And sleep he did, though when he awoke after two more hours of sleep, he found himself still as tired as if he'd stayed awake after Demara was found. He sent one of his guards to fetch him breakfast, while the Baron dressed himself in warm attire. A tunic, thick pants, and a thicker cloak, which he pulled tight around his body. It was cold in his cabin, and he knew it'd be colder out on the deck. 

He opened the door and took a step into the grey morning, the sun obscured by clouds that must have rolled int since his late night, or early morning, meeting. The deck was frosted but not slick, and a few icicles hung from the masts. To the left and right, standing out like great mountains, were icebergs. It was a field of them, and both the caravel and the carrack that followed it were careful to steer clear of them. 

Baron Oges watched them as he made his way across the deck to Captain Kirbath's quarters. Hers were the largest, and had an area for socializing, if one wished. It was there the Baron knew he'd find the scholar and Lugubelenus, and find them he did. They were taking up two seats of a four person table, and the Baron joined them mid conversation. 

Demara didn't even look up at the new arrival as she continued talking. "I will have to see firsthand how they manage it. Keeping an area so vast warm enough for crops and sea travel is truly remarkable. Do you think they would talk to me about how they do it?"

Lugubelenus shot a look to the old Baron with an expression of exasperation, The reason for such somber looks obvious in origin. The glance was a short one as the Roscrean turned his attention back to the scholar, The ever eager scholar.

"Ugh, Well... Mhh, I'm not educated in such things, Not that I'm not educated!" It would no doubt tickle the Baron, Lugubelenus had never been in a situation with such a 'fascinating' person. Clearing his throat to regain himself Lugubelenus continued.

"I am not educated in such arts, The Druids are the only ones that know such knowledge and they teach the Witch-Doctors whom in turn use their" He made an exaggerated motion with his hands. "Magics to preserve the island, Or at least most of it. Colder then Bal's titty the Hearthland is."

"Would they teach me? I've never heard of such a thing happening in Tamriel. It would be enlightening. Think of the applications back home," she looked off into the distance, and didn't offer any of the applications, but seemed lost in her own imagining of them.

Baron Oges offered a more practical question. "What's the Heartland?"

"Hearth. Land. Hearthland, That's the translation not Heartland. Rather cruelly named if you ask me, You'll freeze to death up there outside the warmth of the hearth. It's the northernmost stretch of Roscrea."

Before blabbering on about the Roscrean region Lugubelenus realized that the scholar never got an answer. "One thing I do know about that magic is that it ain't going to work nowadays, That's the one thing you'd be taught with your Druidic Education is that such magics were put into place over a thousand years ago. Aside from that we common folk aren't taught the magics."

Baron Oges grunted a half-hearted apology about the confusion and then sat in silence. Demara took up the silence and continued with her line of questioning. "So they've had a magical regression? How long ago was the pinnacle of Druidic magic?"

"If there is one the thing the Druids will teach you is their own histories, The Druids teach of a long lost golden age for their Hermetic magics. Claiming that upon the northernmost point in Nirn the mythic Oppidum of Grithurnii, Of the Derwydd. This was in prehistoric times though and honestly what the Druids claim and teach just baffles the mind, I cannot help but doubt it due to how fantastical it was." Said Lugubelenus.

These oppidum are your cities, yes? Baron Oges asked.

Seemingly not hearing the Baron, again lost in her own thoughts, Demara blurted out, "Besides warming the land and sea, what other forms does Druidic magic take? Do they practice magic similar to the schools the rest of Tamriel recognize?"

Addressing the Baron first Lugubelenus gave his answer. "Oppidum refers to a Roscrean and prior to that Eastern Atmoran fortified settlement, It can refer to a fortified village up to sprawling cities so long as they're fortified and built by Roscrean hands. As for the Druidic magics, That's all they teach you if you're not part of their orders, Gods above I can only imagine what the Druids would consider esoteric."

"I'll have to talk to these witch-doctors," Demara said, speaking to herself, repeating it so as to commit it to memory. Again, to herself, she said, "I wonder if they use some sort of Alteration based magic. Or maybe a restorative method."

Baron Oges, glancing with some concern at the scholar, eventually ignored her and asked, "These Druids are quite respected from my understanding. Do they reside in the oppidum or in their own enclaves? How do they affect the politics of Roscrea?"

Lugubelenus smiled at the two with a hint of grimace. "Do the Druids effect politics? They are the Judicial and Educational factors in Roscrea as much as religous, They educate those who take part in politics! The ruling Great Chieftains have an Archdruid among them that also takes part in the ruler ship of Roscrea. As for their dwelling it depends, They may live in Oppidum with the Standing Stones or out in Sacred Groves with their menhirs.

From what I can tell the Druids are much more organized then they let on."

"What role do these menhirs, standing stones, and sacred groves play in their magic?" Demara asked, jumping into the conversation before Baron Oges could so much as draw a breath. "What are they, and what significance do they have?"

 

The Roscrean looked to the Baron, The look in his eyes clearly was a cry for help to get this eager scholar away for a moment.

Baron Oges looked over himself, seeking help from the guard who was entering with the breakfast for the Baron. "Master Demara, why don't you let Sir Conele show you to your room. You seem awfully tired."

"What, no, I-" she stopped short, her eyes wide as she thought to herself. "I have been up for quite a while. Maybe I should get some rest."

The knight sat the plate of breakfast down and placed a hand on Demara's back, steering the mage out onto the deck and away from Lugubelenus. Baron Oges took a few bites from his sausage before he addressed the man again. "I am curious, what exactly is the political situation in Roscrea? Since I'll be treating with these chiefs and druids, I need to know what factions will be vying for my, or Breton, assistance."

A look of relief washed over Lugubelenus, The Druids had ceased their tormenting but now a scholar took it up. "To my knowledge things are stable, The closest political events to suggest otherwise are the same old things. Great Chieftain Berahthram Silver-Shield whom is the king of all Casurgians had a month prior called yet another council meeting to discuss the possibility of holding a moot of their own, I sympathize with the man and his goal but like his father's work he'll get nowhere with the entrenched Chiefdom."

 

"Who as these Casurgians? A political faction of some sort?" Baron Oges finally landed on a line of questioning that seemed important, especially to High Rock and its interests. If he was to be a successful emissary, he needed to know the political climate he was walking into. 

 

"Well to an outsider this might be difficult to explain, While we as a race are all Roscreans and prior to our ancestors migration Eastern Atmorans. That said in ancient times there were many Eastern Atmoran sub-races and cultures, I for example am a Milhinngaet Roscrean. In the days of old all the tribes from central Eastern Atmora to the northern stretches shared a common language and culture, Thus Milhinngaet refers more to a culture then a sub-race."

Lugubelenus cleared his throat and took a swig of wine before continuing, He didn't wish to go into the shameful history of the Milhinngaet peoples under ruthless Agotomaedic rule. "The Casurgians however refer to a sub-race with two ethnic groups, You have the Royal Casurgians not to be confused with nobility were the varies tribes of the Nubeulunng Steppe in Southeastern Atmora's steppe peninsula. These tribes were united under a powerful central tribe; The Casurgos. Eventually uniting the entirety of the Nubeulunng tribes and becoming something greater then a tribe, They became a Kingdom of the Casurgians.

The Bosponin Casurgians refer to peoples not ethnically form the Nubeulunng Steppe conquered and absorbed into the Casurgian's kingdom, Unlike the Royal Casurgians whom have peculiar faces and dark hairs the Bosponin Casurgians were of a much larger spam of sub-races. Both Royal and Bosponin Casurgians have a single king in these days, That's Berathram for you the Royal Casurgian king vying for the position of Verrix of all Roscreans."

Baron Oges thought the explanation over. Sub-races or distinct cultures usually meant differences of some kind, and those likely bred conflict. He asked, "Is there a current cultural or political difference between the Casurgians and the Milhinngaets Roscreans? And what is a verrix, some sort of high king?"

Lugubelenus knew all to well the politically minded Bretons, Though surely Roscrea was stable enough to avoid political destabilization from a crafty foreigner at least that's what the Roscrean thought. "I'd rather have not gone into our less then honorable history, The Milhinngaets of Eastern Atmora lived as vassals to the terrible Agotomaedic Kingdom. It was the Casurgians that set the stones from our ancestors uprising at the time of Ysgramor. You would think that our peoples would be close, They are a strong folk like we but the steppe has never left their blood.

The Royal Casurgians have an air of arrogance about them, They have a tendency to outwardly show their wealth and power. The Silver-Shield dynasty are the worst about that, Don't misunderstand me Baron they are a powerful people well earning of their reputation but Royal Casurgians remind me a lot of the Imperials. Flaunting their wealth, Wishing to expand their hegemony over Roscrea instead of having the system in place for over a thousand years and believing themselves greater due to their history. Though Roscrea hasn't ever had a civil war, The Druids keep this confederation strong and stable yet another reason the Imperials sought to slaughter them all. As for the meaning of Verrix, There isn't a translation for that word yet you are correct, Closest meaning is 'High King of all Roscreans'."

"It seems a good deal many things that lasted centuries have recently ended. Especially established ruling classes." It was a warning, not a threat, and one that any person with a sense of recent events would know applied to all people. It hung in the air a few moments before Baron Oges sought to bring the conversation back to less alarming topics. "It seems the Casurgians might be a good people to trade with, if they value wealth and status. Foreign luxuries would certainly express both. Will they be open to dealing with us Bretons?"

Lugubelenus shook his head softly at that. "Ain't no way I'm speaking on their behalf, I have authority on trade that will effect Boiliobris and perhaps western Roscrea. Berahthram may be a Great Chieftain or Elder Chieftain depending on how you translate but with all things Casurgian he is lord and master, If High Rock wishes trade with the Casurgians then you'll have to get their say in things.

I had permission to.." Lugubelenus' words became stuck in his throat for a moment. "To gather trading rights with High Rock for the Milhinngaet peoples, Something on the level of trading does not fall under the jurisdiction of any tribal council that can override the words of their king nor approve without his knowing."

"Would you be able to secure me a meeting with Berahthram? And perhaps with other leaders of importance? It would be diplomatically beneficial, and help ensure a good relationship between our homes," Baron Oges said.  

Lugubelenus knew that any agreement would be lying to the poor man, In all likelihood he'd be detained the Druids had already shown him of their displeasure. "I'm sure that another more qualified could do so, Casurgufdom is so far away from Boiliobris and I wouldn't suggest trying to sail there. Ain't any foreign vessels allowed on the eastern side."

Baron Oges frowned. He had been hoping he'd be able to set up a meeting with various important leaders soon upon arrival. "Who is the leader of Boiliobris? What can you tell me about them?"

"Well that would be Chieftain Caratacos, He's a rather large man around the belly and oh so misses foreign foods and goods. I must respect the man as he is my Chieftain but Caratacos is very much disrespected and ridiculed by Chieftains greater then he will ever be."

"And how will these other, greater Chieftains view my arrival?" Baron Oges had some hope yet, though it seemed the people he would associate with immediately were not the most respected or powerful. He might be able to leverage his status and influence to raise up Chief Caratacos, and then Chief would owe him a great deal. More likely, he'd simply be the guest of a disrespected man and have little influence on things. 

"They except your arrival, I had to gain the permission of the Druids and the Milhinngaet Great Chieftains for trading rights. The sailors and merchants aren't likely to leave Boiliobris but you're an emissary and in this situation you'll most likely be at the Oppidum Ercoriobriga. Baron when you behold this city of stone you'll understand why the Imperials had such a hard time besieging our larger Oppida."

"Is Ercoriobriga a capital?"

"No sir Ercoriobriga is one of the largest Oppida west of the mountains, Roscrea doesn't have a capital with the closest thing to it would either be Casurgufdom or Ultansborough. Casurgufdom is the largest and most industrial of all Oppida while Ultansborough is the heart and soul of Roscrea and the first landing of man upon it."

"Why would I be in Ercoriobriga, and not in Ultansborough or Casurgufdom, if they are seemingly more important?"

"For all I know you might be brought to Casurgufdom right then and there, Though I suspect that the Great Chieftain of Ercoriobriga would like to have you in his domain first. Probably to prove a point to Berahthram."

"I assume they sit on opposite sides of the confederation and kingdom factions."

"Roscrea is ruled by one confederation, Though the Druids somehow worked out how the Casurgians rule like a kingdom while maintaining the confederation is beyond me. Though you are correct Baron, A swath of land and mountains would separate you from Casurgufdom."
 

"How well do they get along?"

 

"They who? The Great Chieftains?"

 

"The Great Chieftain of Ercoriobriga and Berahtham. Are there tensions between the two?"

 

"There's a tension between all of them, Each as wealthy and powerful as a king in their own right." Lugubelenus smirked at the Baron. "Planning on using those superb political skills you Bretons are known for to your favor? Ah think nothing of it was a simple joke, The Druids keep things stable in Roscrea. No Chieftain great or not would dare challenge them, They've kept out civil war for over a thousand years."

 

Baron Oges nodded. It seemed naive to think that historical precedence would keep Roscrea going as it always had, and yet he didn't know what these Druids might be capable of. If their political savvy was as great as the scholar suggested their magical skill was, they could very well keep a confederation together for another thousand years. "I'm personally more worried about what I may get dragged into than anything else."

 

"Don't stir up trouble and keep Breton interests benevolent and there is doubtful to be any." Lugubelenus was sure one to talk, It almost pained him to speak such words after the dishonorable transactions with the Eastern Empire Company.

 

Before Baron Oges could respond, the two men heard yelling from the deck. Sailors could be heard running across the deck, and someone was shouting orders. Suddenly, the ship took hard turn to port, followed by more yelling. Baron Oges exited the cabin, followed by Lugubelenus. When they came upon the deck, a thick, cold fog had descended on all sides. Sailors were walking about, in a strange fashion. Baron Oges grabbed one to ask what was going on, but when he looked into the man's eyes, they were glazed over with white. Looking into them was like looking into a frozen pond, the contents solid ice and lost, far away from the surface.

The sailors went about what looked like their normal duties, but Baron Oges soon realized it was terribly wrong. Some were tying and untying knots, others were climbing the rigging. But most were sailing the ship north, out of the warm water lane and into the thick ice fields. Ice fields that would wreck the ship and kill everyone onboard. Turning to Lugubelenus, the Baron asked, "What is this?"

 

Lugubelenus looked upon in horror, Hearing the softest of voices willing him along. The Roscrean was not skilled nor powerful in the magical arts, Exactly the kind of man the Sea Ghosts could manipulate.

 

Baron Oges grabbed Lugubelenus by the shoulders and shook him, first rather gently, and then much rougher. This didn't work, and Lugubelenus was beginning to strain against the Baron's grip, the voices telling him to join the quest to sink the ship. Baron Oges reacted quickly, half leading, half-dragging the Roscrean across the deck. He was starting to hear the voices too, an almost kind whisper that tugged at the Breton, insistent and unceasing.

Baron Oges used his natural Breton ability, his body now absorbing the bewitching magic instead of falling prey to it. The rest of the Bretons onboard must have succumbed too quickly to do the same. He then pushed Lugubelenus into the cabins at the bow of the ship, away from the sea and hopefully the voices. Still, something tugged at the man, so Baron Oges lit his hands aflame and grabbed the man's arm. That sent him with howling with agony, but snapped him out of the daze. 

"Can you hear me?" Baron Oges asked, his voice tinged with panic. 

 

Lugubelenus barely had his mind in order though it was his own, He shook his head in acknowledgement. "Oh gods, Yes I hear you! Gods above and below I hear them, I can't think straight... I, I don't know what to do?!"

 

Baron Oges shook him again, drawing the man's eyes up from the floor and onto his own. They both needed to focus now. "You need to go wake the mage. That'll take you further away from the voices. Explain to her the situation. She should know some magic that can protect you. Then get her to the deck to help me. Can you do that?"

 

Lugubelenus rushed throughout the cabin yelling for for the sailors and scholar, Had he time the Roscrean would admire the decency of it's interior without delving into luxury which is something the Roscreans lack. Normally it's one of two extremes in the island, Subtly is a rare trait among his folk.
 

At the end of the hallway that ran between the cabins was a larger door which led to the Baron's cabin. That door opened and a knight exited, his sword in his hand. To the knight's left the scholar exited, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and far from concerned. 

Almost at once, she asked, "Yes?" while the knight asked, "What's going on?"

The Baron, one hand alight with flames, the other gripping the doorknob of the door that led to the deck, said, "Explain, then meet me on the deck."

He left, storming through the door. The brief moment it was opened let in a fierce, chilled wind and inhuman moaning, but it slammed shut and cut the sounds off at once. But in the brief moment it was open, the voices slipped in, whispering their commands in the ears of all that remained in the bow cabins. They too were cut off when the door shut, but it was enough to snap the unconcerned scholar and the confused knight to attention. 

"Gods above and below! We're belayed by Sea Ghosts, The sailors are leading us astray into the ice fields that'll rip this vessel apart... Were's the captain at Sir Knight? We'll need her aid too.

"She would be at the helm. On the deck," the knight answered, the color draining from his face. 

Demara was awake now, pulling her hair back from her face, her eyes wide but alert. "What's a sea ghost? What're they doing to the ship?"

 

"I can't stand here and explain these things to you, You're both Bretons and are magically attuned yes? I'm not and damn near lost my godsforeboding mind out there, Get your arses out on deck with the Baron before we sink, I would only hinder the effort having shown no defense against the Sea Ghosts"

 

The scholar glared at him, but then she turned to the knight and asked, "Can you form a ward?"

"Yes," he answered. 

"Craft a ward, mold it to cover your head primarily. That should keep the voices at bay. Keep close." She drew her robes around her tight, to kee off the cold, and then she crafted a glowing golden sphere of magic around her head. The knight did the same, and then they charged through the door much as the Baron had.

What they saw was not at all what they expected. There was no moaning, no evil apparitions prowling the deck. A thick fog hid the ocean from sight, but it appeared all was normal. The sailors went about what seemed like normal routines. They climbed the rigging, tied and untied ropes, and kept the seawater from freezing on the sails. Or so it seemed. Upon watching them more closely, they were untying what should be tied down, needlessly climbing up and down the masts, while they were letting the seawater freeze instead of keeping the decks clear of ice. Worst of all, they had sailed out of the warm water lane, and the caravel was already running into icebergs. None big enough to sink the ship, but the wood groaned and strained against the ice. 

The other unnerving thing was the silence. The wind howled, the wood creaked, the waves splashed, and yet the sailors said nothing. They walked around with their glazed over eyes, bewitched and completely silent. As the scholar and knight walked from the bow cabins towards the helm at the stern of the ship, they tried to talk to the sailors, but soon gave up. They reached the stairs leading up to the helm without incident, and were surprised that was the case. They climbed the stairs, cautious that whatever these creatures were had taken over the helm. Instead, the regular helmsman stood in his place, but several other sailors stood about. They held two people between them, Baron Oges and Captain Kirbath.  

They were both conscious and unaffected by the whispered enthrallment of sea ghosts. They flowed with a faint blue hue, in what the scholar and knight both immediately recognized as the dragonskin ability granted by their Breton blood. While that had been enough to resist the sea ghosts, the sailors had still overpowered them. Likely, the Captain initially, and then the Baron when he attempted to retake the helm. 

The knight and the scholar had to act fast if they were to save the ship. The knight acted first, knocking out the helmsman with a blow from the flat of his blade. When the man fell, he knocked the steering wheel to spinning back toward the warm water lane, or so they hoped. Two other sailors pounced on the knight, tearing at his padded gambeson and chain mail, which was all he wore instead of his plate armor. The scholar, skilled in restoration, tried first a healing spell but it was ineffective. She then grabbed ahold of a sailor and knocked him unconscious with a strong jolt of electricity. She hoped he was only unconscious, but she couldn't be sure. 

The Baron and Captain took advantage of the scholar and knight's arrival, fighting loose from their captors' hold. The Captain punched one sailors in the jaw after wrenching her arm free, and then knocked another out with a blow of her own blade. The Baron turned to his magic, using his arm burning method to snap one sailor out of his trance, though he was forced to punch another into submission when the same method didn't work on him. They then freed the knight from his attackers, and had regained control of the helm. 

"Thanks the gods," Captain Kirbath said, taking the helm and sending them back toward the south. 

"We need potions," Demara said, looking from Kirbath to Oges. "I think I can free the sailors, but our magicka will run out before then. And you two will need wards of your own before long."

"I have some in my cabin," Captain Kirbath said. 

"Sir Conele, fetch those. And find Sir Metivier," Baron Oges ordered his knight. 

The knight had barely stepped through the door into the stern cabin when the first sailor died. He was on the port side, towards the north and the ice fields they were now leaving behind. His scream was a chilling as the icebergs, the howling wind, and the waves slamming into the side of the ship. A hand that looked like it was carved from an iceberg gripped the man's throat and siphoned his soul. The apparition was nearly transparent, its colors subtly shifting from grey, to white, to a light blue. It released the withered husk of the dead sailor, and let loose its magic. The bewitched sailors now turned their attention to those that stood at the helm, me with a frightful moan from the sea ghost, they charged. 

The scholar threw up a wall of lighting, blocking off one of the staircases to the helm. Those sailors that tried to come threw it collapsed, while most backed off and tried the other staircase. The Baron awaited them there, kicking the first sailor into those behind, slowing them down as they extracted themselves from the pile. Two more sea ghosts had appeared, siphoning the souls from two sailors. 

"We can't keep this up!" Demara yelled over the increasingly loud wind and the moaning of the ghosts. 

Baron Oges only grunted, another sailor buckling from a blow to the head from the former knight's fists. Captain Kirbath looked at them, cursed to herself, then vaulted from the helm onto the lower deck. She landed with a thud, and had formed a protective ward of her own by the time she charged the nearest sea ghost. The ghost let loose a draining spell, but the Captain countered with a bolt of electricity. The ghost screamed with rage, but was quieted when Captain Kirbath formed her bolts of electricity together and shocked the ghost, which dissolved into the fog. 

The other two were charging her, but both were staggered by lightning chaining through them. Demara had moved from the helm and was walking down the stairs, while Baron Oges was throwing himself into the sailors to keep them at bay. The knights arrived then, one quickly tossing Demara a potion that she drank, while the other helped beat back the sailors. Captain Kirbath and Demara squared off against the two sea ghosts, who had their backs to the ice fields that stretched to the north. Both of the Bretons wielded lighting, and both let loose bolt after bolt. The sea ghosts countered, their magic reaching out to beat down the women's wards. Demara let loose a bolt that impacted a ghost and disintegrated it, the explosion sending lightning bolts into the sea ghost. Captain Kirbath charged her final attack, combining two bolts once again to send the last ghost back into the frozen abyss from which it came. 

The women sighed, Demara clearly at her wit's end from the encounter. They turned around to see the knights and Baron Oges crawling out from beneath a pile of sailors, who had overwhelmed them while the women battled it out with the ghosts. The sailors themselves were disoriented, most of them sporting headaches as well as burns or bruises. Three of them were dead, and all of them would need to rest. But they were out of danger, with Captain Kirbath taking control of the helm and steering them back to the warm water lane.

Demara took charge of the wounded, as she was an expert in restoration. Baron Oges assisted her, while the knights took over some of the sailors' duties. The wounded were taken to the bow cabins, where Lugubelenus waited, forgotten by the defenders until the first injured sailor was carried into a cabin. 

Baron Oges sat the man down and, while Demara tended to the sailor, went to check on Lugubelenus. He was still standing in the hallway, and had seen the Baron and scholar caddy in the wounded man. Baron Oges shook his hands, the knuckles on both bruised and bloody. He'd had to resort to less magical attack, to conserve his magicka for his protective ward. 

"We lost three men, but the ship is safe and we're back on the right path," Baron Oges said. 

"It shames me and my ancestors to stand so idly by and allow you to throw yourself into the fray gaining honor, But... Gods I am thankful for the stout actions carried out by you and the others. These beings slayed Ysgramor's other son but we, You have today prevailed!" Lugubelenus was nearly ecstatic, So much so that he spoke less like someone used to Tamrielic folk and more like a true Milhinngaet.

"I would not rest easy however, One attack repelled does not mean our journey will become safe. The Sea Ghosts are said to be relentless, Safety we will reach only upon the island."

"Let's hope we reach the island quickly, then. And hope we find the merchant ship. It was behind us but after that fog rolled in we lost sight. We don't know where it is now. Captain Kirbath thinks it avoided the sea ghosts and continued to Roscrea. I'm not as optimistic," Baron Oges said, with a tired sigh. 

Lugubelenus felt it difficult to hold it in any longer, It would haunt him beyond this life if he brought his treachery to the grave. The Roscrean painfully brought himself to reveal what the Druids had tormented him over.

"Baron, The gods will never forgive me if we died on this voyage and.. And I kept this to the grave. I had deceived you all, Not in the way you think! Not too long after my arrival in Farrun after enjoying the company of the lord and lady I had been invited to discuss trading right under the table by the Eastern Empire Company, They wished for all Roscrean goods to go through them first and foremost probably forcing you to buy from them what you would have traded in Roscrea.

What they offered was too tempting for me to simply turn down, The thought of elevating my family's position higher into the Nobility and the gift of ebony was too great for me to turn down you see. It was prior to leaving Farrun in your voyage that I began to be tormented, The night prior to leaving the Druids came to me as a thought form showing it was they who tormented me so. Something must have happened in Boiliobris. Please understand it was not they who betrayed you, Do not hold against me countrymen what I had brought about.. Should, Should you wish to strike me I am honorbound to allow it."

"The Druids haunt you because you made a trade deal with the East Empire Company? Was this deal in conflict with the one you made with us?" Baron Oges thought he should be angry, but wasn't sure who exactly had been betrayed, the Bretons, the Druids, or both.

"Something horrible surely happened for the Druids to torment me so, The Druids are an awfully humble people who are difficult to anger. When one appeared as a thought form his face was twisted in anger, I have no doubt that the Imperials caused something. The Eastern Empire Company wanted all trade to go through them thus conflicting with our own trading rights, I wouldn't worry Baron in all likelihood I will be executed along with the Imperials and the Druids will state my transactions with them null"

Baron Oges sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, or what was left of it. This trip was turning into more of a headache than he ever anticipated. "Why would you deal with the East Empire Company if you knew it wouls lead to this? And why undermine your deal with us in doing so?"

"I knew that their deal would not be honored, When you arrived we'd deal with you as was agreed upon surely! I had secured the trading rights of two powerful entities, The Eastern Empire would have been displeased at my own scheming but surely they wouldn't end such trading rights it would be profitable to continue. That was the plan anyway, I never meant to undermine you plus I got a swell crate of Ebony out of it." Lugubelenus wasn't quite telling the truth, At the time he simply found the EEC to be more profitable and was only afterwards did he truly think things through and find a way to scheme against them.

"You may not want this to reflect on your people, but they obviously put their faith in an untrustworthy man. I'll have to discuss this with them upon our arrival. Until then, I think it best of you return to your cabin and stay there," Baron Oges said. He suddenly found he quite dislike the man, from his nervous attitude when the first met, to his unhelpfulness in the face of the sea ghosts. It was likely only their current problems causing this reaction, yet he didn't much care what the Druids did to Lugubelenus, and just hope this trip wouldn't be a complete failure at this point. 

Lugubelenus felt wounded with such words, True as they may be for the Roscrean it felt like a Royal Casurgian akinakes plunged itself within his heart. With little more then a deeply saddened nod Lugubelenus left the company of the Baron, Confining himself to the cabin. Even he felt it difficult to pity himself, For all the Roscrean knew he and he alone could have plunged Roscrea into a situation without gain.

The rest of the trip was calm, and no more threats appeared. While the weather was cold and unpleasant, the warm water lane meant it wasn't unbearable, and the Baron's Blade sailed through to Roscrea without any danger from the sea ice. They arrived in Boiliobris only a day later than anticipated, and even had the good fortune of finding the merchant vessel there already docked. 

Boiliobris was exactly as described, The Oppidum had even at their distance from shore a noticeably Nordic look about it. Historically Lugubelenus explained that it was destroyed during the Empire's original invasoin but due to it's important location for shipping too and fro Tamriel the Imperials 'encouraged' the defeated Roscreans to rebuild it, Without the Druids the Imperials had no other option then to have it rebuilt in Nordic fashion making the Oppidum one of a kind.

Though the presence of Nordic esque architecture was quickly forgotten when the Roscrean's words proved true, Docked two rows port from the Breton merchant vessel was an Imperial warship re purposed into a Eastern Empire trading vessel. It's sailors and merchants nowhere to be seen around the docks.

The Breton escort caravel, the Baron's Blade, docked between the Breton merchant ship, Fortunate Wind, and the East Empire Company ship, whose name Baron Oges didn't know. From the caravel Oges could see Roscrean people conversing with the Breton sailors from the merchant ship, which had not been delayed by the sea ghosts and had arrived earlier. When those sailors saw the caravel arriving, having thought it sunk in the Sea of Ghosts, they let out a cheer.

Baron Oges and Demara, with the Baron's guards and Lugubelenus in tow, disembarked, and were met on the dock by a Druid. The two knights brought Lugubelenus forward, and Baron Oges said, "I'm handing this man over to you. He confessed to subverting the will of those who sent him to High Rock."

Presented before the elderly Druid and his unforgiving gaze Lugubelenus couldn't bear looking into the Druids eyes instead facing down to the dock. Faster then any man of his age should do the Druids hand shot out towards Lugubelenus only to press two fingers upon his forehead, A moment later Lugubelenus feel upon the dock with a glazing stupor with a light trickle of drool pouring from his mouth.

In the shared language of Tamriel the Druid spoke. "Be at peace men of High Rock and bid yourselves welcome in open arms are thee greeted, I ask of among you whom holds authority of your wondrous king?" During the Druids greeting a few guardsmen dragged Lugubelenus off into the Oppidum at the Druid's approval.

Baron Oges bowed his head and said, "I am Baron Vincent Oges, the emissary of King Theodore. He is most grateful that your people have invited us here."

Demara stepped forward and bowed low, her head nearly dipping below her waist. She talked quickly, the words almost running over one another. "I can't believe it! You're a Druid. I'm Demara Bracques, a mage. I've wanted so long so meet a Druid. Was that paralysis? A sleeping spell? You'll have to tell me everything. Think of the volumes I'll fill with all your knowledge!"

Baron Oges glared at her and said, to the Druid, "I apologize for my guest's rudeness. She stowed away on our ship but seems to have forgotten her manners back in Farrun."

She turned bright red and said, "Yes, my apologies. I'll save my questions for another time."

 

"Were we all so eager in our youth, All things forgiven child. A thirst for knowledge is an admirable cause if benevolent in nature. Sir Oges come, You and your king's authority are needed in discussion before the standing stones."

 

"My authority? What is the discussion about?" The took off walking, but the Barong stopped. He turned to see Demara with a hopeful look in her eyes. "You may come, if you stay out of the way."

She smiled and trailed behind the Baron, the Druid, and the two Breton knights. 

"Lord high Baron there are prying eyes unfriendly to either of us here, Before the Standing Stones they are powerless. Men whom oppose you as business rivals and ourselves as obstacles against their plans of hegemony."

Taking a look at the youthful scholar the Druid motioned for her to come closer as they walked through the Oppidum.

Baron Oges nodded, while Demara moved to their side. She asked, "Yes, Master Druid?"

"You inquired upon what I have done to Lugubelenus no? It wasn't as complex as you may think, Placing my index and middle finger on his forehead I forceably caused his muscles to spasm and contract. Any educated wizard or witch could block such magic from traveling through the nervous system though Lugubelenus is no practitioner of the clever craft. You think too much of our magics, You would be surprised to know how the humble arts can be more valuable then expected."

"Oh! That is rather simple. But your advice is certainly the type of wisdom I expected. I'm sorry if I was too eager earlier. But I do very much have a desire to learn all that your people would be willing to teach me about your history and ways."

There was something off about how the Druid held himself Oges realized, Having witnessed genuine humbleness and acts of humility his intuition told him that the Druid was merely acting humble. His voice was too calm and warm while giving it a tired tone, Of which the Baron had seen all too many times. Elderly mages seeking to appear weak use their frailty as an advantage, Never the less this Druid has shown no ill intentions.

Owing to his wariness toward the Druid, Baron Oges continued the trip in silence, and became increasingly aware how vulnerable he was in this land. He'd be at the mercy of the Roscreans so long as he stayed, and that seemed like a less than safe position. 

At the group's pace it wasn't but eight minutes before reaching the Standing Stones laying in the center of the small man made island that holds the Oppidum's nobility and petty chieftain's palace, The Druid motioned for the Baron and his men to follow within while gently placing his hand on the scholar's shoulder preventing her from entering of which she understood.

To Baron Oges, it felt like stepping into a past he hadn't previously been aware of. He could feel the strange and foreign magics, old and but full of life. They were strong, and even a man more warrior than mage like himself could feel that. He turned to the Druid and asked, "Why have you brought us here?"

"Before these Stones only the Gods can hear us, A spell was cast with but a thought and no amount of magic can break such magic while before the Stones. Fear not you have your guards within and I dare not harm an emissary. Sir Oges there is a crisis brewing here that will take both the authority of your king and our own Great Chieftains with the King of Kings to avert the darkening skies."

The Druid's mood soured at the very thought of that Imperial.

"The Eastern Empire Company has foolishly shown their hand and it bares a poison dagger! Already they seek to tighten their grasp upon this Oppidum and it is without doubt their end goals are to extort Roscrea, Breton I know not if your king wishes to spread Breton Hegemony but I see no reason, Prosperity is created on commerce and cooperation between powers. Many in power here understand this and know there is much High Rock has to offer as do ourselves, Why provoke a friend after all?"

It was apparent the Druid left the end as a question and his eyes sought answer from Oges.

"I came here to ensure our trading partnership, not establish any sort of Breton authority. War with the Dominion will begin soon, and we don't have the resources or the desire to expand our borders. I am, however, concerned to hear the East Empire Company is here. Lugubelenus told us of his treachery and how he subverted the will of the Druids and the deal he established with us. My king does not want to interfere with Roscrean politics, but it seems to me this problem with the East Empire Company pertains to our deal as well as the safety of your people. In this case, we would like to see our agreement with the Roscreans upheld and the East Empire Company removed. Assisting you and your people, though, not as foreigners exerting our will upon your land."

"I am pleased to hear these words, With tensions high in Tamriel I am inclined to trust your tongue. I do not insult you Sir Oges understand that, There is a foul presence in the air and I fear the coming crisis will not be averted so easily. In Lugubelenus' foolish ploy he acted without any authority on our behalf and for the trading rights established with the Eastern Empire Company to be recognized as a legitimate pact it must be approved before the ruling men of Roscrea which rest assured it will not now that we know of their wicked plans. Unfortunately for all involved the Imperials here have but one foreseeable action that would bare no fruit, The people of this Oppidum have grown accustom to the lavishes and luxuries that do not exist on Roscrea and the Eastern Empire Company knows that should we forbid trade now that they seek to reestablish it unrest would ensue as the foreign luxuries would trickle and dry."

Placing his hand softly upon the Baron's shoulder the Druid continued.

"This is of an unprecedented importance, For a time no less then a foreseeable year High Rock must in relation to this Oppidum only trade the same goods as the Eastern Empire. Do this for a time alongside regular trade and the Eastern Empire will lose all profit and support within Roscrea and Boiliobris and we will trade exclusively with High Rock and Skyrim gaining greater profit for all parties involved while ever slightly decreasing the economic gain of Cyrodiil."

Baron Oges resisted the urge to shrug off the man's hand. Instead, he furrowed his brow and said, "Unprecedented indeed. To correct your mistaken trust we must take up valuable hull space with goods we don't specialize in. For a year, no less. Why not just bar the East Empire Company from your harbors, making your people accept our goods or Skyrim's? Forcibly bar, if need be. If the threat is as great as you say, and their ships do not respect your sovereign waters, then by rights they should be dealt with."

Seeing the Baron's darkening expression the Druid released his grasp upon his shoulder with flabbergasted look. "In Roscrea... That's an expression of comradery, I know not it's meaning in High Rock nor if it is insulting within your culture. However I do know how to defuse this situation with the Imperials, Simply forcing the Eastern Empire to cease trade cannot end well in the current state of Boiliobris. Already the words of one Imperial nearly started a fight before the very Standing Stones, Were this anywhere else in Roscrea the serpents would have been lynched for their insults against all that is we men of Roscrea. I fear that for now they hold enough sway in this Oppidum to make it rebel, The youth foolishly adore this man and the foreign luxuries they have brought for years and while the old and wise still know in their hearts that we and not they have Roscrea's best intentions.

Were the Oppidum to revolt then it would be besieged by the Netios of which are Western Roscrea's standing army, However revolting to the side of the Eastern Empire is becoming a puppet of the Empire and their territory making the inevitable siege upon it declaring war with Cyrodiil. However the youth's love of foreign luxuries outweighs the love of who brings it, A year's time is perhaps too long and expensive for both parties involved. I have looked upon the Imperial's eyes and see only cunning and hate, As men of law we followers of Jhunal will do everything in our power to avoid crisis."

"No apologies necessary. I am just uncomfortable with people touching me," Baron Oges lied. He then gestured to his scarred face and said, "Bad past experiences, you could say.

"I do think you're wrong, though. Besieging a revolting Roscrean town is not on the same as declaring war on the Empire. Even if it were, the Empire is busy elsewhere, with the war with the Dominion beginning after what happened in Windhelm. They would not dare spend resources to control a comparatively small town on an island so far away. The East Empire Company might, but even as powerful as they are, they cannot be foolish enough to believe they can conqueror this island. I hope it is not impertinent to suggest that you should use force against these Imperials. Force them onto their ships and away from here, while presenting me and the trader we escorted as the replacement. We could subvert them through our trade, but our merchants will not like that, and I imagine some would say that being forced to trade certain goods will breach the agreement we have."

 

"I will keep an open mind to your suggestions as we are not familiar with Tamrielic ways, In the old ways within East Atmora war was all men knew war and Imperialism ruled through Agotomaeds and Casurgians. It has however always been in our own and Jhunal's blessed be his name mindset to peer towards the future, This is a new dynasty of Tyrants that rules Cyrodiil and we have shown only neutral intentions as of yet. However conflict with the Eastern Empire will bring to some form conflict with Cyrodiil, Uriel invaded without cause or reason other then to plant the seed of Imperial rule yet had he landed with hands outstretched in friendship our ancestors would have taken it!

This is a new age of wonder and foreseeable propriety for Roscrea and has been so for over forty years, A corrupted Imperial company will not stop this age. Yet neither will our hand be forced in conflict if other paths are still shown."

"I will try and get the merchants to agree, but the Breton merchants are largely independent of the King. He does have influence over three companies based upon favorable relationships with their owners, but even still we cannot guarantee all the merchants will abide by your desires. Let us hope your people are as taken with Breton goods as they are Imperial ones."

 

"A single shipment of similar goods to the Eastern Empire could make all the difference, As we speak a council is underway in the city of Nebbezzar and once it is agreed as it shall be that trading rights with the Eastern Empire will only cause malice it will be denied. Merchants that are willing to go forth with this plan will for however many shipments receive a talent of amber without cost, The valuable resource washes ashore constantly in the northern coasts. With it's beauty I would be surprised if it held little worth in High Rock, Here in Roscrea it is a beloved commodity for jewelry."

 

"It's limited supply would also likely drive up its value in High Rock," Baron Oges said. "The merchants are more likely to agree to the deal if there is that incentive, so this should help in persuading them. As my mission is here, I will have to rely on Captain Kirbath, the captain of my escort ship, to relay this information to the merchants. We can rely on her to inform them and King Theodore of this new arrangement. Hopefully the merchants will see the benefits of this deal."

 

"And of course we would be thankful to your king and if all ends well I do believe he has a favor stored away, A favor with we may not be seen as much but all things are in perspective."

"I'm sure he'll be glad to know that. If the magical prowess of the Druids is all Madame Demara believes it to be, that favor could be very helpful."

After Oges' private conversation the Druid informed the Baron that a caravan of trading goods would be set out on it's way soon, Noting that he'd need to have his guards on high alert protecting the merchants. Without any official approval as the Druids knew there would be no trade with the Eastern Empire traders present.

Within four uneventful days of scheming from both the Eastern Empire officials and Druids there was commotion at the gates of Boiliobris, A caravan of mule drawn carriages with armed escort was before it's fortified gates. Guards manning the walls looked upon a conversation between two men, One of which a guardsman of the Oppidum and native to Western Roscrea while the other being a darker haired man with skin that bore a darkness of many days out in the sun. Even in Roscrea itself Milhinngaet peoples and Casurgians the inhabitants of Western and Eastern Roscrea respectively the two peoples don't have too much interactions with one another.

However the Royal Casurgian officer in heavy equipment had made this trip an uncountable number of times and had grown used to the decadence he felt in the Oppidum enough at least to avoid a disgusted expression, Holding a brief conversation with the gate guard the caravan was allowed passage into the Oppidum. Adurnarseh was these soft merchant's escort for a great many years now, Himself and the other men making up the armed escort were all Royal Casurgians from around East Roscrea. A well paying position for a Azata of which is a Casurgian Freeman, Adurnarseh could have been an Daθapati of any part in the King of King's armies yet the pay was too enticing in this position. After years of hoofing it all day Adurnarseh found out why, However for four years he was ordered elsewhere with Roscrea isolating itself from Tamriel there wasn't any caravans filled with tribute to the Empire and goods to trade anymore.

Certainly missing the gold Darics at the end of things the Royal Casurgian always felt sore after the long hauls and didn't have the patience to deal with the foul Imperials nor the decadent Milhinngaets of Boiliobris, Indeed this was different with the chance to see some faces not belonging to the hated Empire. Bretons he was told, The thought ran through Adurnarseh's mind while walking the busy streets paying little attention to the commotion the caravan brought.

After a quarter of an hour stopped trading locally with the townsfolk he persuaded the caravan's merchants to continue onward to the dockyard, He was hoping to see a fantastical vessel only to be slightly disappointed it was somewhat similar to some of the Eastern Empire vessels he'd seen. Hoping to have remembered enough of the strange shared language of Tamriel Adurnarseh led the caravan to the dockyard somewhat worried about Eastern Empire's vessel docked alongside the Bretons, Figuring the Imperials aren't going to like hearing what he has to say.

"They're here," Baron Oges said, alerting his guards, Captain Kirbath, and Demara to the traders arrival. "The Druid I spoke with seems to think the East Empire Company will cause trouble. Sir Conele and Sir Metivier will stand between the merchants, myself and Captain Kirbath, and the East Empire ship. If trouble arises, do not use force unless they do so first. Madame Demara, if you would stay here and provide magical cover it would be most appreciated. Do not set anything afire. That goes for everyone."

With the orders given, Baron Oges and Captain Kirbath descended, following their guards. They were met by the captain of the Breton merchant vessel Fortunate Wind, who would be doing most of the trading. She was a squat woman by the name of Eubella Nunier, an old sea hag from what Captain Kirbath said, shrewd with her coin but well liked by most she dealt with. 

Baron Oges addressed the traders. "I'm King Theodore's emissary, Baron Oges. This is Captain Kirbath and Captain Nunier."

Captain Nunier said, "Glad you finally showed up. I was beginning to worry the Imperials had scared you off. What do you have for us?"

The Royal Casurgians ushered in the mules into the dockyard with Adurnarseh directing the armed escorts in a their Athradodic language to secure a perimeter and much to various fishermen's anger escorting them away from the created perimeter, Normally with so much valuables some less fortunate men in life might get ideas and with the Eastern Empire folks stirring up trouble Adurnarseh wasn't about to get sloppy yet he made sure not to block the Eastern Empire's vessel.

During this exchange between the escort and the Milhinngaets out and about on the docks the merchants in the caravan whom were both Milhinngaets and Bosponin Casurgians went about unloading the cargo and splaying them about the dock while a burly Bosponin Casurgian returned the greeting.

"If we're running from Imperials it's on horseback and out of the kindness in our hearts returning parting shots, Was all the rage with Legionaries." The bearded Bosponin Casurgian couldn't help a toothy smile, The fellow wasn't all that different from Western Roscreans in appearance unlike their Royal counterpart.

"Well lets take a look about to see if it's up to your standards once it's all unloaded, Now while it's being unloaded lets figure things out. When are shipments to be expected based on the season and depending on said season with the shipments how many vessels are to be docking? Brought enough goods to fill up two or three cargo holds but there's plenty of mules in the world."

Baron Oges answered, "The various merchant companies I've talked to indicate they'd like to send a ship once every three weeks since spring is near. That way they do not create too large a supply of goods, as over time people would likely stop buying. I'd say you'll have one ship, maybe two, per week, weather permitting." 

"We've only got the two ships, and mine," Captain Kirbath said, "doesn't have the hold storage for a full load."

The Bosponin Casurgian ran a hand through his beard and pondered something for a moment. "How is it profitable for trade anyhow, Forced tribute and trade by the Empire cursed be their name made sense however unlike the Nords whom have been a fine contributor to trade and my coffers." Winking at the two Bretons he continued "Such few trips a season cannot be profitable to the good king of High Rock?"

There was something about his inquiry that rubbed Oges the wrong way, and he said, "King Theodore does not control trade and does not control the frequency. That is up to the merchants, like Captain Nunier here. He will get his taxes no matter how much they do or do not sell."
 

Captain Nunier crossed her arms and said, "Until we get a feel for what your people will buy and how much, we're limiting the downside of these lengthy and dangerous trips. I expect with spring nearing the ships will come more frequently, if trade is profitable."

 

"Well while Roscrea has a finite amount of gold compared to Tamrielic nations with the exception of 'The Wealth of Two Thousand Winters' though that's just the fancy name for our Xšāyathiya Xšāyathiyānām er.. King of King's coffers, Famous but not part of the island's economy. Mostly your profits are coming from bartered goods, Imperials accursed be their name imposed a hefty tribute of Iron and Amber among other goods and forced trade of the rest. For a feudal entity such as High Rock and I say this from a place of respect the most profitable resources we have to trade are as follows; Iron, Copper, Bronze, Tin, Amber, Salt, Silver and of course fine works of metallurgy that might I say are of rich design from all corners of ancient Eastern Atmoran culture! There are other resources that could be traded en masse but I suspect they will not find profit for the good Bretons."

 

Captain Nunier said, "I expect with war nearing the ores and ingots will be most desired. As well as any new luxuries that catch on in High Rock. So what've you brought for us today?"

 

"A fully selection of if I say so myself high quality goods, When the others finish unloading the crates onto the dock we'll all take a look given there isn't any ruckus from the Imperials accursed be their names..."

 

As if being called, a dozen or so East Empire Company sailors and crew stepped onto the deck of their ship. They didn't say anything loud enough for Baron Oges to hear, and simply watched the transaction unfold. He turned to the others and said, "If we don't want to have to deal with them, we might want to hurry this up. I'm not itching to get into a fight."

 

With a nervous look about him the Bosponin Casurgian nearly called out to warn his guards yet Adurnarseh was two steps ahead of him, With a tighter grip on his spear and thureos shield he gave out commands in calm manner to the other nine as befitting a Daθapati knowing that the foreigners couldn't understand a word of Athradodic.

Adurnarseh always despised what the Empire stood for and the most heinous crimes their people had committed, In the races various faces all Adurnarseh saw were barbarians who wanted nothing more then to burn every library, Every grove and slaughter all wise men. As a devout worshiper of ancient Casurgian practices of which revolves around both Anu and Padomay, Worship of the sword and fire for devout men of Padomay and that of water for devout men of Anu this sickened him more then anything else as Adurnarseh spent many nights before alters of water.

In another life he'd have made a fine Magi or even a Druid, For now however Adurnarseh stood vigilant against the wicked men of the dragon. A fine thought he realized, Perhaps this is a chance to avenge all that has been destroyed centuries past even if it is just through the blood of some ignorant beasts.

The sailors made no move to leave the ship, although they did seem agitated, their arms crossed and stern looks on their faces. A few shouted insults but none did anything more provocative than that. Baron Oges watched them warily, but knew there were plenty of Breton and Roscrean guards if things got violent. Still, he didn't want it to come to that, so he said, "Captain Nunier, I think it would be best if we hurry. We can't afford for things to get out of hand."

The merchant captain nodded. "Why don't we skip the display and get right down to it. I don't know you but I'm inclined to like you. I'll take equal parts of all the ore you can fill my hull with, with a double of iron."

"And I'd like some of that amber to take back to a few jewelers I know. Gods know noblemen love their jewelry," Captain Kirbath said.

"Agreed captain but do give a quick rundown of what High Rock has to offer in trade and the goods you've brought forth too for the records." Stated the Bosponin Casurgian with a weary look about him, Much preferring to get the transaction over with given how likely he felt an arrow was to be loosed.
 

"Gavaudon silks, perfumes, books, scrolls, jewelry, rugs, furs, clothing, ornamented weapons and armor, and orichalcum ore," Captain Nunier said. "As well as some fine cheeses and wines."

Captain Kirbath said, "I've just got coin to buy, nothing in trade."
 

"Do you take Casurgian Darics or must they be Imperial coins? Casurgian Darics are by no means worth less if you measure only by the gold itself, Though if you trade with Imperials I doubt they will take too kindly having coins depicting heroes of their once enemies."
 

"For better or worse, septims," Captain Nunier said. "We'll be using them for the foreseeable future, unless the royals establish a Breton currency. Though if we get this all rolling, we may be able to accept some of your coins as well."

 

"Septims are accepted currency though they will be melted down into Darics and whatever Milhinngaet chieftains wish their coins to be imprinted with, We do not produce coins of that Tyrant any longer and no self respecting man could be paid to do so over Darics. Unless Septims suddenly become purer in gold then Darics they bear the same value, Perhaps a compromise is creating coins with the imprint of a shared god. Jhunal or Shor as julianos and Shezarr respectively would be good choices no doubt."

 

"Our people aren't particularly religious, at least not in the way you Roscreans seem to be," Baron Oges said. "The king also recently had a conflict with the School of Julianos that would make him hesitant to print coins bearing his visage, even though he is one of our more revered gods. More likely, the coins will bear the faces of the royal family, or perhaps their sigil. Still, so long as they are of the same value, we should be fine in exchanging them. I will remember to mention this idea when I write the king."

 

"Sir Bretons? Lord high Bretons? The history of Eastern Atmora is that of religious turmoil and we Casurgians were once at the heart of it against the dragon worshiping Agotomaeds. Faithlessness my friends is like"  Adurnarseh without warning interrupted him. "A man without soul nor mind, What are we if not here to learn and make ourselves greater though nobility of spirit? How can man do so with faithlessness?"

Wincing the Bosponin Casurgian gave a sympathetic glance to the Bretons. "Some men are born to be Magi this one decided marching in armor was more appealing then wearing white robes, Forgive the Royal Casurgian for they are pious above all other when it comes to worship of fire and sword."

Baron Oges frowned and said, "Your friend is forgiven. It is my hope that with increased trade between our lands we will all learn about each other's culture and come to realize other peoples see the world in vastly different ways than ourselves. Some are pious, others are not. But I might add that we are not an entirely faithless people. The School of Julianos is the foremost magical university in High Rock, even if they do forsake their religion for politics, at times. But we are clearly not as devout as some of you."

 

Adurnarseh felt a pang of embarrassment and regret for his outburst though deciding it would save more face to simply be silent, He was the only one who felt that sentiment in the conversation once the Bosponin Casurgian continued their talks.

"Differences in religious practices and beliefs mostly, Gods above the Royal Casurgians have one foot planted in their past and another before the future. They've held onto their Atmoran identity while the rest of Eastern Atmorans have moved onward, Of us all they are the least Roscrean."

Baron Oges could see Captain Kirbath's confusion on her face when she asked, "Least Roscrean? I though you all were the same race?"

 

"Well we are... All of Atmoran blood. In days long before Ysgramor blessed be his name within the eastern split of Atmora men did have a common ancestry of that dates back to Kyne blessed be her name, However a common ancestry was all the Eastern Atmorans had in common with the western folk as the east men were less unified both culturally and as time developed racially at least to a degree. The largest of these sub-cultures were the Milhinngaet Culture whom were recorded as occupying large swaths of central Eastern Atmora, This very Oppidum and her people albeit dangerously close to decadence with Imperialization are Milhinngaets themselves. Southernmost in the east lied the Nubeulunng Steppe of which five tribes inhabited, Sogavrans, Kurdavar, Casurgos of which founded the Kingdom of the Casurgians, Kyrtavos and the northernmost of these tribes the Orthocoronz. Gods above I haven't the time to delve 'into the rich history of the Casurgos'" The Bosponin Casurgian said mockingly in earshot of Adurnarseh then continued. "North-Northeast of the Nubeulunng Steppe once unified into kingdom the Royal Casurgians conquered and absorbed the peoples up to the Milhinngaets whom were themselves subjugated at this point thus making the conquered peoples Bosponin Casurgians, Ah the last known culture in the east quite literally I might add were the Agotomaeds accursed be their lives. The ruddy skinned men once held a powerful empire in the east with dominion over many and nearly destroyed the Royal Casurgians, Needless to say these filth have been long Imperialized in their island off Roscrea's coast.

Ah I've blabbered on so long without truly answering and only creating more questions in place, Yes the Royal Casurgians are as Roscrean as all of us though in their heart and soul still lies a love of Atmora. Still bears memory of their own empire long lost, One foot within the past and the other before the future yet not in it."

Baron Oges, while listening to the story, hadn't noticed that Demara was now standing beside him. She was scribbling notes down on a scroll magically suspended in midair, and had a look of concentration on her face the Baron hadn't seen from her during the whole trip. Not even when fighting the ghosts. She looked primed to ask a thousand questions, but Captain Kirbath thankfully spoke before she did. "Do all Roscreans know that history by heart? Seems like quite tale buried in there. I'm sure Demara could listen to you talk about it all day."

"Oh, yes, I certainly could. I would love to be the chance to hear those stories from a Druid, maybe several of them, to get a full history of the land, the people, your migration, your ma-"

Baron Oges cleared his threat and Demara grew silent. "Truly fascinating," he said, "but, unfortunately, we really don't have the time." He turned and peered at the leering East Empire sailors.

"Right," Captain Nunier said. "Let me show your men where I want the ores stacked and we can get to loading."

Baron Oges watched the merchant captain and a few Roscreans disappear into the Fortunate Wind, and once he was satisfied no trouble was going to come from the East Empire sailors, he bid the Roscreans farewell and went to find a hot meal within the bowels of Captain Kirbath's ship

[Witchking of Angmar]

 

Avitus Agrippa 
Forest? 
Night? 

The soldier marched in silence, avoiding the sickly light of the dim moon. He needed to keep to the darkness, and avoid being seen, by whatever monsters lurked in the dark. 

Why this darkened path, before thyy...shalsn’t upon thy darkened earth!!!! Or maybe….this place is ******* stupid! ****. Hiking, when I can be hacking away at Elven Soldiers. **** this shit....wars probably already started. Avitus tried to mumble some of that old fashioned common tongue drivel Wulf was spewing out, only to fail miserably. He was glad language had evolved over the centuries, beyond the Lingua Franca of man. Avitus was honestly lucky to be still alive, and felt a tinge of guilt for his constant grumbling. First he had survived that lumbering behemoth, and then those little scampering horrors. His metal boots stomped on the leaves below, still expecting to see the frost covered earth. White to green. The world's gone mad. Or maybe it was just Avitus who had finally lost his marbles? After such horrors he faced in the Great War, and the death of his wife, maybe it was this blackened valley that finally consumed his psyche, and crushed his mind.   He hoped his men were alright, as he was, though. Tribune Jiub was a good officer, so he trusted him to lead the men to safety, and to complete their mission in his absence. Knowing Jiub, he’s probably still looking for the wayward Legate. A foolish endeavor. Avitus himself was exhausted, he had been walking for at least ten hours. He stopped counting after the eighth mark. Yes, legionaries were supposed to march long distances but this was ridiculous, Pure insanity. Looking at the red glowing object fluttering a few steps away just made him even more pissed off. 

Well, it was pretty mad to follow a ******* glowing insect in the first place. Through a massive forest. On the advice of some ghostly nord, and some crazy bitch I saw in a vision. 

Yep Avitus was the insane one in this situation. 

******* butterflies. Nords are such faggots. Hehehehe what a bunch of *******. What is the butterfly going to come and eat me? ******* nords and your stupid symbols-” Avitus, as he did more pathetic shitsaying to keep himself entertained, paused for a moment. His eyes filled with dread, the Legate felt fear stab in his gut. His smile at his own stupidity, turned into a look of pure, unfiltered horror. Dark miasmic mist formed around. The transformation, from such twilight beauty, and abysmal darkness caused a bit of his soul to twist into oblivion. His surroundings had transformed, as he blinked. The sheer shock of what had happened caused the Imperial to stutter, 

“What-what-what-the ****.” Oh great. More magical bullshit. 

The twilight glade, and green forest was nothing but a distant memory, in comparison to the horror that awaited him. Death and decay had fallen on the forest. Pure and utter decay, in the span of a second, outstretched in the cone of Avitus’s vision. Life always faded, and death took all, but this advancement of the natural process was just ridiculous. Disgusting darkness had come, as blackened tree’s once green, had become sickly brown, and black. Skeletons in comparison, as there long twisted branches acted as shriveled arms, pointing the Legate to his doom, as they swayed gently among the howling wind. As if a demon was wailing a horrible screech, the wind sounded as if blasphemous flutes were being played by some unseen, and unknowable mad god. Grass, as grey as a legionaries armor, stood tall, and dagger like, among the shriveled up bushes. Besides the wind, no insect sang it’s song. Besides the blasphemous howling, nothing but Avitus’s boots trampling the rotten leaves, and mud. The insects were all dead. Still no snow... Dead leaves covered the ground, as a sensation of rot seemed to emanate from the fallen leaves, that filled the Imperial soldier with such disgust, that it hardly seemed real. Such horrid decay, as if a certain sickness was infused within the leaves. What were dead leaves, to the countless corpses Avitus had stepped over, during battle? It was as if his nostrils had forever been cursed to smell the rotting decay of corpses. Outstretched, among the horizon, the sickly, but gorgeous vermillion haze of twilight extended once more in the sky. Darkness had turned into sickly twilight. Truly Fall had come early this year. Darkness hung around, and formed a black mist that seemed impenetrable. He couldn’t see. Besides the faintly glowing red of the crimson butterfly, fluttering away in the distance, slowly being consumed by the miasmic darkness. 

Well, shit. Nothing to do but follow the Crimson butterfly...

A grin formed on Avitus’s face, as he drew his new sword, the purple glowing blade shining a luminous glow among the darkened miasma, piercing through its depths. The darkened landscape had truly taken a nightmarish vibe. The black, accursed fog began to spread across everywhere, as if it was rising from the shadowed depths of the valley, consuming Avitus’s vision and body in miasma. What horrible creatures awaited, in this accursed black forest? What vile beasts stalked the trees waiting for a meal to pass? Wait and find out in the next volume... He cursed Martullus’s name. He should have provided ample warning for how much of a shit hole this place was. 

Maybe...maybe him and the High General have some kind of twisted experiment going on! Yeah, like...there cloning Werewolves, to build an army of supernatural freaks, to take over the Empire! Yeah that makes sense…

Avitus stopped for a second. Then he just rolled his eyes, Yeah i’m a ******* moron…

This place was unmanned, besides a single legion outpost. It was possibly the most remote area the Legion controlled. This large stretch of uninhabited land that was only Bruma in technicalities. Why the **** was he here? Questions poured down, like the endless rains drops of eternity. This riddle still eludes me...why the hell did the general send me here? To this hellhole...

A horrible noise erupted behind him, from a long distance as he yelped in terror, turning around, wielding his blade in two hands. Nothing but the skeletons of dead trees, and caught up leaves by the howling wind. His vision became blurry, as he started to hyperventilate in pure fear. A dread filled him. Of the dark. Avitus...had a fear of it. The all consuming blackness of the unknown. The black figure underneath the lamp post watching from the shadows. The unknown sound that you barely hear coming from the cellar. The daemons that stalked the forest, and feasted on the entrails of children.  I need to get out of this darkness…before I drown in it. Ignoring the arising terror, Avitus tried to calm himself with thoughts of his dead wife, and daughter. There sweet, angelic faces a guide in such blackness. Sweat formed on his brow, as the officer glanced from one part of the forest to the next, backing away slowly, scanning the area for threats, lifting his hands into the air, ready to deliver a killing, overhead blow. His hazel eyes focused on the dark forest, though the mist made it impossible to truly glimpse what lay beyond. Something was certainly stalking Avitus. A horror. The soldier trusted his gut, like any good soldier, and his gut told him some thing watched from the dark.  He turned around, and looked in front of him, only to see the Crimson Butterfly fly away into the forest, growing distant every second. Without looking back, Avitus sprinted towards it, 

He plunged into the depths of the dark forest, blade outstretched following the faint glow of the Crimson Butterfly…

****
How long have I been stuck in this accursed darkness?  Truly the gods are dead if they allow such corruption to fester on Nirn. Just ******* parasites. Like the Stormcloaks. Should be wiped off the planet like the maggots they are. Killed to the last man, woman, and child! As if a reflection of his surroundings, Avitus thought dark thoughts as he travelled through the impenetrable layer of shadow. It was almost as if a powerful spell was in place. 

Hours had passed, and the dark greenery still visible. No sign of the outside, except the mocking moon above.

With only a faint glow of crimson light to guide him through the dark, Avitus made extra care to avoid walking into one of those skeletal trees.  Avitus really didn’t want to feel the rotting wood on his skin.

The Imperial soldier had abandoned the rusty shortblade Wulf had given him, seeing no use for it now that he had the fallen sword he had found in the twilight hollow. Surely it could hack away at whatever beasts haunted this woods. Avitus was...rather dull on matters of the paranormal; though he did think his old house was haunted. He had read the infamous Ploaito-Vamympre, and Monstroum Vei Acroma, and knew the basic gist of supernatural horrors but was hardly an expert on the subject. A brief few months at the Arcane University, however, had led him with a small measure of interest in the subject. He had cleared, with his cohort, several Vampire Nests, and Troll Dens on the rare occasion, but that was his experience in general, and the only reason he had bothered to read such books on the occult, besides the faint recollection of his academic upbringing. He’d rather just kill men , as afforded his job as a soldier. Leave that stuff to the monster hunting professionals, like the Vigilants of Stendar, Dawnguard, or free-lance Monster Skayers. Avitus feared no mortal man, but beasts of the night rightfully frightened the Imperial soldier. The fear of the unknown. The lurking fear.  Damn politicians wanted to reconquer Skyrim when holdings in our own borders are haunted by ******* wolf giants. With mother ******* antlers. What a load of bullshit...

A sudden stab of pain assailed the Legate’s toe, as Avitus screamed at the top of his lungs, “*******, hell, cocksucker, ***** eater, fucker, **** **** fuckkk, mother ******* toad stool, bitch, shit damn it, fek, whore of a dump, damn, doggin, crazy bastard squirrel!” Avitus grabbed his foot, as he cursed into the night, and jumped around among the dead piles of leaves, his screams echoed across the desolate miasma, almost as loud as a symphony. The Imperial soldier continued to swear, as he furiously grabbed his foot with his hand, and began to jump on a single foot like a fool, before falling over, and landing in a pile of dead leaves. 

Truly the Legate was cursed.

Upon gaining his bearings, and ignoring the throbbing pain coming from his big toe, Avitus glanced at whatever he caused him to fall over.

“Ahhh shit another dead Stormcloak.” Avitus fell onto one knee to inspect the sight before him, drawing his glowing blade to illuminate his surroundings, allowing him to inspect the corpse. A faint dent from the Legate’s kick visible on a metal helmet. The crimson butterfly had stopped, before fluttering towards Avitus’s head, 

The insignia was that of the blue bear of Skyrim, upon a tattered tabard that lay over the bodies chainmail armor, which was by now covered in frost. The corpse itself was in horrible condition, frozen and chilled by the still invisible cold of winter.  The skin was decayed and rotten, with maggots crawling out of the eyeballs. The few strands of hair that remained were dirty blonde. That’s pretty strange. If the cold got him, why is his corpse so decayed? And where the **** is the cold? The lack of snow was getting stranger and stranger. On closer inspection, Avitus could see ragged gashes across his torso, which were barely visible underneath the chilly frost. Of other things of note, was the notched axe laying by his side. Avitus, keeping his glowing blade leveled, picked up the weapon with his freehand. The handle was wooden, probably sternwood going by the grey hue, simple, but well made. The axe’s blade was another matter entirely. Highly ornate, and covered in Nordic runes. The steel was...strange. Obviously of high quality, maybe bradden, but Avitus wasn’t sure (he was, after all, hardly an expert on metals and craftsmanship) It was darker than Imperial steel to be sure.  Gripping the wooden handle tightly, Avitus, with a roar delivered a strike into a nearby tree, which resounded with a heavy thud. The axe’s edge remained as sharp as ever. A fine weapon to have indeed.  Hmmmm, perhaps this is the sky forged steel that i’ve heard so much about. On the ground, lay an intact steel helmet adorned with silver, with two horns sticking out the sides. By the wavy steel, it seemed like it was made by the same blacksmith who crafted the axe.  A steel helmet adorned with silver. A sign of wealth. 

If this was indeed blessed steel forged from the bowels of that legendary forge, and his helmet a showing of his status,  then this fallen Stormcloak was no mere soldier. Perhaps an officer, or a noble. I doubt a regular grunt could afford such excellent material for his axe, or a silver helm, with the pitiful salary they get over there.  Still, even if Avitus knew what role he had in life, that didn’t give him anything about the man in question, or what the hell he was doing over on the Cyrodilic side of the Skyrim-Imperial border. 

Avitus had heard rumors of a handful of border skirmishes, and Stormcloak soldiers crossing over the border for some raiding. Maybe this “officer”, and the two from earlier were remnants of a raiding party? It would make sense. That would explain what they were doing over here.  Not how they died….Nords don't die from the cold. Though in Avitus’s experience, the things that made the least amount of sense were often the truth, 

Looking closer, Avitus noticed something…rather unusual. He squinted his eyes closer, inspecting the man’s body once more, only to notice strange, white dust littered all over. Upon a deeper inspecting, he could see even more of the strange powder, on his legs, arms, head, and lower body. Carefully reaching down, Avitus lowered the axe onto the ground, before picking up a small amount of it, pinching it.  He moved it to to his nose, and sniffed. A foul tasting odor emerged, as his senses became clogged by the disgustingly bad smell that assailed his nostrils. 

Sulfur…

A pain emerged from Avitus’s stomach. He hated that smell. Sulfur was an alchemical ingredient important in many magical rituals, as well as potion making. It was also a chemical often associated with the Occult and Daedra worship. Why it was on this frozen corpse, Avitus, did not know, but his gut told him it was all bad news. 

He needed to find that garrison, and fast. 

The wind had picked up, as the cold, bitter wind assailed his face. 

Before leaving the dead body, Avitus scanned the corpse for anything else of note, only to spy a small amulet that the corpse's hand clutched close to his body. My mother always told me “A corpse should be left well alone” Well **** you mom. Avitus hand reached for the amulet of Talos. The symbol the Stormcloaks valued so much. Rigor Mortis had already set in, so Avitus struggled for a few seconds, prying the hands grip on the object, before it became loose.  Such a little thing… and yet symbols such as this can cause wars, and untold suffering. 

In his hand lay the small amulet. Unlike a regular amulet of Talos  a soldier would carry, it was far more elegant, and ornate. It base was gold, and the dragon depicted on the amulet held ruby eyes. It would probably go for a very nice, and tidy sum at the market. A few hundred septims at the least. Avitus’s expression was blank, as he looked downward once more at the dead stormcloak. 

“I wonder what you’re last thoughts we’re, soldier.” He stared back at the amulet, “What you were thinking in your final moments. The seconds before the darkness closed in, and all hope had vanished. Were they to your homeland? To your family? The woman and the child you left behind, taking up arms against the dragon? Why did you? For honor? For Skyrim? For Talos? For glory? What kind of man were you? I’ll never know any of these questions. You're just another corpse, strewn across a battlefield.” Avitus’s sad eyes trailed down to the dead soldier, as his hand grip tightened to the extent the amulet he held threatened to break,  “Such a waste of life.” He gazed at the sky, He trusted you to protect him. And now look. He died, alone. Afraid. Clinging onto you. Avitus hand gripped even tighter, tendrils of pure rage sprouting within him, You disgust me. You abandoned us. You abandoned us all…

Avitus anger reached the point that with a thrash, the amulet shattered underneath his hand. With a heavy sigh, he left the pieces of the shattered amulet fall from his hand, as he lifted his sword into the sky, That was your mistake, stormcloak. You trusted that. He pointed his blade downward to the fallen amulet. Instead of this. In this horrible world, no god will protect you. You must protect yourself. He reached down, picking up the fallen war axe, and placing it on his leather belt. This might prove useful. Thank you, fallen warrior, I will confiscate this for Imperial benefit. 

And with that, the Imperial soldier turned around, leaving the corpse to be consumed by the maggots writhing in his flesh…

...only to be greeted by a set of six, blazing red eyes in the distance, among the dark trees…

As if possessed by daemons, the creatures began to howl madly, more akin to a Hyena then a wolf, and charge forward on all fours. Avitus suspicions were confirmed, as they stepped into the unwholesome twilight light, revealing there unholy bodies.  Avitus could recognize them as the same beasts that had attacked him before. Shaved mockeries of wolves, mashed together with humans, as there uncannily, yet disgusting,  human faces grinned with sharp teeth, and the prospect of manflesh. There dirty, disgusting claws ripped the ground apart, as they sprinted towards the lone imperial soldier at inhuman speeds..

Seems like I have company…With a lion's roar, Avitus hefted the steel battle axe with one hand, aimed, and threw it towards the group of monstrosities. Flying through the air, the axe found it's target, and embedded itself into one of the creature's head with a nice thud, causing the beast to scream out a disgusting death throe. Still advancing forward, Avitus flourished his newly found sword, and gripped the blades handle in a two-handed stance.  

Still hindered by their comrades death, the wolf-creatures continued to charge, until they were only a few meters from Avitus. A bright, purple light bathed his sword, glowing as luminous as the sun as if to banish the creatures of the dark, suddenly and without warning. The creatures screamed hateful cries, as they slowed down, and covered their eyes to protect them  from the bright light. Despite being nearly blinded himself, and shocked by the sudden display, Avitus pressed the advantage, as his march became a counter charge. As the horrors were already so near him, it took no more than five seconds to close the distance.

With a shout, “Die you twisted abominations, for the Red Legion!”  Avitus Agrippa was now upon them. 

Avitus rammed his sword into the first monsters gut, whom was pitifully standing on it's hind legs trying to shield itself from the glowing blade. It's disgusting, clear skin offered no resistance as the ancient blade easily entered, and pierced its organs and flesh, impaling itself.  Using all the strength he could muster, Avitus pushed the sword to the right side, showering himself in the monsters blood, and bile, as it cut the beast in half. Not stopping for a second, Avitus pushed forward, knocking the monsters two halfs to the side, in a delayed burst of speed, and wind.

Avitus may just be a soldier, but he was a damn good one. A veteran of over twenty five years

Bringing up his sword, Avitus shone more rays of light against his foes, stunning them once more. One of the beasts made a lunge towards him, flailing around desperately, only to be pushed forward, and on it's back by Avitus ramming his swords pommel into it's chest, throwing it backwards, and knocking the air out of it. Unbeknownst to him, the wind had picked up...and a torrent of snow began to fall upon the rotten earth. Winter had returned. Though Avitus saw no white, only red.  A familiar feeling erupted inside Avitus’s chest. The feeling of rage, and anger. It felt so good to him.  The beast covered its face with it's disgusting hands, pathetically attempting to shield itself showering disgusting saliva onto the human before it, while Avitus rammed his armored boot into it's face several times, with such force, and strength, the boot broke through it's skull, and ruptured it's brain. Pieces of the skull, and it's brain lingered on Avitus’s boot, as he repeatedly stomped the monsters face in, all the while Avitus seethed, and screamed out incoherent swear words. Simply ignoring the other three, Avitus straddled the still twitching monster, clobbering it's half open skull with the pommel of his sword, before he tossed it to the ground, and began to punch the monsters head with his bare firsts. Letting out a scream of rage, Avitus seethed, as the cold began to surround him, turning his breath into frost.

The Legate stood up, and turned to face the trio that awaited him, picking up his sword. 

The remaining three, still partially blinded by Avitus’s sword, hurriedly backed away. The Imperial Soldier, hunched over, breathed hard, seething in his pure hatred,  as he stood there, drenched from head to toe, in crimson blood, under the mocking twilight sky.  Bringing up his golden sword, he pointed it at the remaining trio, yelling in a hateful voice, “Who's next?!

The creatures looked at each other, before scampering backwards, sprinting towards the forest in all haste.

Avitus began to laugh madly, “That’s right, run away you little shits! You can't best me you fuckers not now that i’m properly armed! Go hide in the hole that spawned you, you little *****! Hahahahaha!!! I'M ******* INVINCIBLE!!!” Avitus screamed to the high heavens, raising his sword, as he yelled out in victory, . Truly, he was ******* invincible…

...and if the heavens themselves answered, another roar echoed across the twilight glade. A deep, throaty, roar, that came from a very short distance. His screaming had attracted something else. Something that sounded much bigger, and far nastier.  His eyes twitching, the blood soaked warrior turned around in it's direction, as he raised his blade, and began to beat his chest with his free hand like a drum. Yeah, he was oozing masculinity right now.  Whatever it may be, I, Avitus Agrippa, defender of the Empire, and Legate of the Red Legion, shall conquer this foe! 

The black trees ripped apart, as a massive, hunched creature broke through the layer of woods, that had previously protected the Imperial from it's wraith, shattering the rotten wood. A skull for a face, and a pair of antlers stood out the most, as a familiar, horrifying screeched echoed across the black forest. The fiend of Hircine had returned, its black fur covered in the various wounds Avitus had inflected on it before. The beast prowled, almost panther-like, on all fours, though it carried itself in a disturbingly human fashion.  Inside it's massive, horrible dark claws, clutched a small piece of blue fabric, which Avitus knew had come from his uniform. It's black, beady, soulless eyes stared at Avitus hauntingly. While the creature had frightened him before, something else lay within those eyes, which Avitus had only now realized. A horror that he only now saw. 

Intelligence. 

Avitus eyes trailed down to the piece of blue fabric, as the realization hit him. It hadn’t been attracted to him by the noise.

It was tracking him. 

As if it only now had spotted him, the creature reared it's hind legs, and upon it's deer skull face,

...a grin formed.

It howled into the night, letting loose another screech of abominable sound, before it prepared another charge. Swirls of darkness formed around it, and its black, beady eyes became alit with crimson flashes.

Avitus, without bothering to look back, turned heel and ran away screaming like a maniac, “**** this, who lives and runs away, will see a battle another day!” Before his sprint began, he quickly tore the axe from his previous kills head, and placed it on his leather belt, all the while he prepared to run as fast as his human legs could carry him.  Avitus ran like as if Mehunes Dagon himself was on his heels, using his hands to propel himself forward in a burst of speed. Leaping, Avitus cleared a downed tree trunk, and skipped over a few large rocks.  His previous exhaustion had vanished in a second, as the exhilaration of combat was still inside him. Picking up impressive speeds, Avitus tore through the tree's zipping past them like a mad man, careful to avoiding hitting them. Behind him, at the edge of his vision, he saw specks of the abyssal creature of his nightmares chasing after him, tearing through, and uprooting trees like they were nothing more then annoying distractions. The Imperial Soldier quickly swore to himself, in between heavy breaths, he screamed, "This is one of the shittiest days of my life!" 

What the ****? Avitus had only noticed the snowfall moments before. The torrent heralded the beasts arrival. Say...the blizzard from before happened just before the beast attacked camp...a ear piecing scream brought Avitus back to reality, as he ran even faster. "Less observations and more running Avitus!"

Although the Imperial Soldier was fast, the creature was, simply, far faster. Its giant, muscular limps propelled itself forward, appearing almost as a blur. Whatever Dark Gods had spawned this monstrosity, it was clearly made to run at inhuman speeds, and as such, was now meters away from Avitus, coming from the side. Swearing,  Avitus desperately brought up his sword wielding the sword in one hand, the blade shining bright rays of purple light against the shadow. The abominable fiend screeched in what was presumably pain, bringing up its massive, razor sharp claws to block the light. It even slowed down for a moment. A cruel grin formed on the Imperials mouth, “Praise the sun motherfucker!” Avitus shouted,  The moment was what Avitus needed.

Pushing his body to the absolute limit, and running off his stores of adrenaline within him, Avitus picked up speed, and clearled the gap, once more taking the lead. As he did, the Crimson Butterfly suddenly appeared through the flowing snow, just ahead of Avitus. Without even bothering to snark at the situation, Avitus ran forward, following the glowing insect, the beast not far behind him. Having recovered from the pale purple light, the fiend of Hircine continued its pursuit of the Imperial Soldier, seeming only angrier than before.  

Avitus, by now, already tired from all the walking, and the previous fights, was running solely on the adrenaline coursing through his veins. 

A sense of hope entered him, as beyond the blistering snow, and dark tree’s lay an end, which the crimson butterfly waited at. The treeline was about to end, and so too, the dark forest. Tearing through the tree,s the monstrous fiend snarled. Avitus rushed forward Finally An end to this accursed forest! Avitus pushed himself to go even faster, until his legs started to hurt, and his feet blister. Finally, he made into the forests edge, and cleared it, breaking through the tree’s. His vision saw…

...A tower on a hill, in a plain clearing. The snowstorm continued to rage, bringing down waves of snow.

Not even bothering to observe the outside, Avitus sprinted towards it. The Crimson Butterfly had vanished, almost as if it had a role to guide Avitus outside the forest. The monstrous screeching increased, and was getting closer and closer to Avitus. Like a madman. Avitus fell before the hill, scrambling up it's side, Nearly inside. Avitus would be fool to think the tower would provide him with one hundred percent protection from that thing. But it would be safety to be behind a wall of stone, and in a defensible position.  Without thinking further rushed forward, and with the best just behind him, pushed open the surprisingly heavy door, shutting it behind him.

Almost immediately a great force collided into the door, pushing Avitus, whom was leaning on it back, the door slamming open for a split second, bringing in a small amount of frost and snow. In an instant, Avitus put as much possible force, and strength as he could in barring the tower door. This could be it. He though. No one can I keep this door held forever.  As if the dead gods favored him, Avitus could suddenly hear another screech from the monster just outside, a scream of pure pain, and the hissing of metal. Its proximity caused Avitus's ears to ring, and sharp pain to be felt inside his ear drums. The Imperial Soldier collapsed in exhaustion, as he fell to the stone floor. Avitus could no longer hear anything, but his heart beat, and ragged breathing. In this sad state, Avitus still had enough sense to shuffle over to the door, and use his down body as a barricade. He closed his eyes.  He expected another great push...

...

..but nothing came. The Imperial soldier waited, his heart beating so fast he half expected it to break, and his breathing long and erratic, for minutes. Then tens of minutes. Still nothing. At last, after what seemed like an eternity, Avitus opened his hazel eyes What? 

...

Just the howling wind. 

Avitus stood up. Even after resting for a good twenty or so minutes, in a near catatonic state, Avitus still felt dead, and barely able to walk. That sprint took everything out of him. He feebishly lifted his sword, the blade illuminating the pitch black room. He turned to face the door, as he placed his blade close enough to it so he could inspect its features. His startled eyes opened further in confusion.

The door was entirely composed of silver. 

Yes, reflecting the purple light back, was the shining metal. That's why it was so heavy. And not only that, a strange, blue rune was drawn over it in paint. The rune itself was large, and crudely drawn, it was symbol of some sort, which Avitus didn't recognize. It wasn't Nordic. It wasn't Imperial. It had a certain animilistic vibe to it. Breathing a heavy sigh of relief, Avitus fell onto his knees Imperial luck. Damn, I thought i was going to die just now...His heart was throbbing, and going mad. Bump bump bump. The wind had been knocked right out of him.  When I see a shit head running for the fun of it, i'm going to snap there ******* neck. With a heavy heart (and great reluctance) Avitus used his sword to pick himself up, as he leaned on the back of the doorway. He brought up the sword to illuminate the whole room.

It was...quite bare. And small. A great Dragon Banner was hung up over the door, signifying this as an imperial outpost of some kind. Perhaps a watch tower?  It sure as hell aint the fort. A solid stone wall, and a cold stone floor, without any carpets. A circular room, with a desk, bed,  scroll  shelf, and a handful of weapon, and armor stands. The perfect outpost.  To Avitus's delight, they were not empty. Pushing forward as he found renewed vigor at the prospect of protection, Avitus ran up to the armor stand first, only for his eyes to fill with confusion and disappointment. It was Imperial armor all right, but it was in bad condition. A standard set of grey Lorica Segmeta that was it in the middle ground between acceptable, and rusting. Also the material used it its crafting was iron, a sign of low quality. Even regular soldiers wore Imperial Steel, forged by the finest blacksmith available to the garrison. Iron Imperial armor were given to penal Cohorts, or worse, the useless grunts that couldn't even act as proper cannon fodder.

In any case, a farcry from his brilliant set of silver imperial Templar armor. 

Still cant, complain. Armor is armor. With a sigh, Avitus picked up the Imperial Curiass in his hands, gently laying down his trusted sword, and inspected it closer.  Yes, it was made from iron, but was of pretty good forge quality, surprisingly. Guess if its IMPERIAL-forged, it cant be that bad. Though to be fair, this far up north, it would hard to request a shipment of good, solid, imperial-forged Lorica. Even with the inferior iron, the set was well-made, a sign of a good blacksmith. The design of ancient akvari had been used in the legion for a millennium, and even still, it was considered an iconic part of the Imperial war machine.  Getting back to the armor at hand, Avitus had noticed several notches made on it. Oh great. Notches. Avitus hated ******* kill markers. If he saw one of his legionaries mark there armor in scratches, Avitus would  beat the living shit out of them, with his centurion-stick. Hissing in disgust, Avitus hurriedly put the curiass on. This is going to slow me down, but i'll be able to take several hits from anything, but the big mother fucker from before.  With great haste, as he was quite used to putting his equipment on in under a minute as a good soldier,  Avitus put on the iron gauntlets, other parts of the armor on. He stopped at the helmet, which was, to his relief, an old fashioned closed helmet, with a red, classic cress (He hated blue. ***** color). He gazed at it for moment, taking in every detail of the equipment. The wear. The tear. The kill marks. This is well worn armor. 

Avitus smiled, a rare display of warmth, as he patted the helmet, Maybe I misjudged you. Sorry about that. Avitus placed the helmet underneath his armpits, holding it with his right arm, once more picking up his sword to light his way. He ignored the weapons rack after seeing it held nothing more then some rusty gladius's, and went straight to the desk. A filled penwell, and writing-feather lay with a handful of parchment papers, covered in black ink. Sighing, Avitus placed his new helmet on the desk, and his sword by its side, Avitus began to pour through the pages. Most were torn to shreds, and intelligible, but a handful remained partially intact, which he read in his head, 

Log of Auxiillary Dora Omega, Second Legion, 98th Cohort

The Captain has gotten us to do all kinds of insane stuff. Though, I understand, considering the reports. Damn villagers. First helping and feeding those damn traitors. And now open acts of treachery,  ******* Nords. Don't deserve what's happening to them though.

Avitus stopped for a second, anger brewing within him. This ******* font is horrible. Damn clerical errors...he continued reading. 

I think the Captain had gone mad. Thinks he'll be able to catch the villagers that helped the Stormcloaks out. Stuff he's ordered, pretty Draconian. At least we were able to slaughter the war party, stragglers aside. In contrast to the Captain, I dont think they will last long. Killed by wolves or the cold. Speaking of which, this place is getting freezing. Need to get a requisition in for double firewood. Man, while this solitary position has its perks (as in I barely have to do ******* anything), it gets pretty creepy at night, and when its freezing, its the worse. Things were so much easier on the front. Had to ruin it by cutting the throat of that squealing bitch. Now i'm stuck here. Oh well.

 The page ended there, and the once after it was unreadable. Avitus paused for a moment. His suspicion had been right. A penal cohort then. Who gives a shit if they disappeared though, ******* criminals. Come to think of it. Why the **** does the General have a penal Cohort station right next to a village of civillians. Rebel sympathizers or not. I think there's rules against that. Its a human rights violation waiting to happen... While a very large part of Bruma's population was pro imperial, he was sure there were pockets of Stormcloak enthusiasts here and there. He was more surprised there was apparently a village around here, this far, among the snowy wastes.

Going on, Avitus looked for the next intact log, which took a long while,  before reading it,

The witch said this would work. Thank god we manage to get that silver. Those ******* Nords can rot for all I care. Took all the silver , melted it down, and replaced the door with the help of Aquillas, and Morton.  The prefect tried to stop us, gutted the fucker. The idiots. Thinking they can keep order, when this valley has been consumed. We should have never dug that accursed thing up. Gonna hold up in here for as long as I can. Cant risk another trip through the woods. Its infested with dark beasts. It supposed to be day, but night has eternally fallen on this valley. Damn them. Its all his fault! 

The log ended there. Avitus swore, as he furiously began to tear through the pages to look for another log. Nothing. All the rest, he couldn't read. Damn it. Avitus grabbed his helmet, and went over to the scroll shelf. Most were just blank, but Avitus had seemingly lucked out, as in his searching one of the compartments he found was a full map of the region, drawn in dark ink. Finally. He ran back to the desk, and pushed off everything he didn't need, placing the map squarley on the desk. He brought up his blade, letting it shine its purple rays of light down upon it. The Legatus smiled. Dotted on the map was the entire region, the valley. Drawn onto it were several points of interest, which included the village he had heard about earlier, a handful of other legion towers, and his mission, the fort. His eyes briefly lingered at the bed, the ultimate temptation. No I have a job to do. Gotta to see if those villagers are all right. Rolling up the map, he placed his helmet over his head, grabbed his sword, and left the tower, intending to reach this mysterious village.

[Witchking of Angmar]

Cyrodiil
Imperial City

The Roscrean had been waiting in line for several hours. While the sun was high, and about all day, the chill of winter hung in the air, though like there distant cousins, most folk from Roscrea were used to the cold. Especially this mild frost.  Surely, the Empress of Tamriel would be a very busy woman, though he was rather surprised that she held open court to this extent. He could count all kinds of races, alongside all kinds of social classes, among the crowd. Imperial farmers waited to complain about the taxes there landlords were inflicted on them, mages sat with their dark hoods covering their faces, merchants looking for an royal contract waited patiently, ready to do a sales pitch. A large roar, from the dozens of people chatting erupted around. The massive, reinforced gate was closed, and about a dozen palace guards stood at attention, guarding it from would bee assassins, and thieves. All the while Imperial Watch Guards, at the side, aimed there weapons at the large crowd of people. The white stone marble of Imperial City made up the pavement, roads and many of the buildings inside the colossus, megacity. The sight of the white, almost glowing city, the center of commerce in Tamriel, was a sight to behold, not even ruined by the horrid, squalled conditions of the water-front district he had seen first. The bustling streets had instantly overwhelmed the man. Before heading to the Imperial Palace, the man had wandered the merchant districts, gazing at the exotic wares on the stands. 

No city in Roscrea could compare to such splendor. If the might of the Dragon still existed, it was certainly here.

At long last, it was finally his turn. Nodding to his bodyguard, a burly looking roscrean, clad in iron armor, the man stepped forward. 

A sharp, authoritarian bark, froze him in place. "State thy business." It was the lead Palace Guard, a burly looking Imperial, who stood at about 5.10 feet, who outstretched his hand, gripping his silver longsword by its pommel in warning. Oddly enough, he looked very different to how Roscrean art depicted Imperial Soldiers. Instead of the classical Lorica, the soldier wore heavy plate armor, colored white, and adorned with gold trimmings, alongside chainmail underneath, the traditional armor of the Imperial Watch, an ancient style of ceremonial Cyrdoilic plate. Upon his back, he bore a purple cape, which depicted a black dragon,  held by a silver broach. His helmet, which was an old fashioned closed full face helm, held a red plummage. Underneath his helmet, though he couldn't tell, the mans eyes filled with confusion at the site of the Roscrean's dawn colored skin. His harsh voice, continued, "Why do you seek audience with Her glorious majesty, Draconius, Lady of the Ruby Throne, and Empress of Tamriel."

"Altwidus Caladotoz, Magistrate under his holiness Clodovicus II Ninnavoz once Governor of the Imperial Province Agotus et Brthynocia. Loyal to Aka-Tusk and his holiest of mortals, The Emperor... And Empress."

"Hmpth." The Imperial Soldier looked down for a second, before asking. "You're from Roscrea then? I've heard of your'e ilk." The Palace Guard cleared his throat, "I say again, Altwidus Caladotoz, what business do you have with Empress Draconius?"

"I come under his holiness bearing my lord's authority to seek her audience, Our people have once again been forced under the oppression of the Royal Casurgians. My lord was years ago made Satrap at swordpoint to bend knee before the heathen King of Kings Berahthram, I come humbly before her holiness a cry for help from the most loyal of Imperial citizens north of Skyrim we Agotomaeds."

The guard muttered something underneath his breath, his heavy armor clanking as he made a move to walk to the side. He whispered something to another guard, before approaching the Roscrean magistrate once more. "Sounds like a dispute for the locals." He said, rather coldly, but added, "But that's not my decision to make. Very well. You shall be permitted to enter the Throne Room, and speak before the rightful ruler of Tamriel." Two other guards approached from his side, "Before you're audience with the Empress, I must insist you hand over all weapons you may posses. They shall be given back to you when you leave. Do you have an official seal of your liege lord on hand?" 

After relinquishing his akinakes and allowed himself to be searched for any hidden weapons Altwidus dug his hand into the inner tunic's pocket and withdrew a parchment bearing a red seal depicting the Imperial Dragon wings spread with a resting boar in the foreground lavishly fed and plump, Symbolizing the Agotomaed's willingness to allow Uriel V to peacefully invade.

"Locals you say? Were we to 'dispute' with the hinterland barbarians of the east they would storm Agotus et Brthynocia and massacre what remains of our people, We're ten thousand against tens of thousands and only a fifth are guards. We've long lost the privilege to defend ourselves, That was lost in Atmora."

The guardsmen chuckled, "Join the club, Roscrean. The Dominion have there teeth to our neck, and the thing holding them back, is our little alliance of nations in Tamriel. Surely if us on the mainland, including the Nords, Bretons, and Redguard, fell, your island would be next. Wouldn't care whatever sub race you were, they would butcher you all the same."  The Guard Prelate grabbed the scroll, inspecting the seal. "Guess this is legit." He muttered. The Palace Guard, tucked it on his belt, yelling in a voice, "Legios Commestati, open the gate!" The Captain whispered something to the soldier behind him, whom sharple saluted, "Aye Prelate!" Who then ran off. The Captain, his purple cloak trailing behind him, signaled the Roscrean to follow him, "All right. Keep your hands to your side. Speak respectfully and remember there's two dozen crossbowmen on the upper parts of the chamber who will happily turn you into a pinusion if you try anything funny, got it?

Altwidus looked mortified with a hint of disgust at the very thought of even wishing harm against a mortal blessed by Aka-Tusk, Though he didn't blame the guards for their suspicion. They have little idea he figured at the Agotomaed's faith, Altwidus couldn't fathom the thought of an Agotomaed laying a hand on the Empress lest damn their souls in the eyes of Aka-Tusk.

"By Aka-Tusk I dare not!"

"Man, its like i'm back in school."  The Imperial Soldier muttered underneath his breath, "Follow me then." The grand oak gate into the throne opened, as two Imperial soldiers pushed the twin gates ajar. Two other palace guards took position behind the Roscrean, as the group of four advanced forward, into the illustrious Imperial Palace. The entrance itself was quite massive. It was said the place was built over an elven ruin, and the inside certainly had that aesthetic. The white marble walls were adorned with the carvings of large, roots, and vines, leading all the way across down to the throne itself. A purple carpet, adorned with silver, lay as a walking point for the group to step on, and go down. On the walls lay Imperial Banners, some crimson, others purple, made from rich fabric, depicting the iconic Dragon symbol of the Empire upon itself proudly. On each side, lined Palace Guards, clad in the ceremonial plate there Prelate wore, about a dozen on each side, armed with tower shields, and ebony tipped spears. On the upper ramparts of the room, about six crossbow men stood on each side, there deadly ranged weapons trailed on the passersby belo. Intermingled were groups of nobles, proud looking Colovians, and sly Nibenese. Pretty noble ladies of Court gawked at the newcomer, as the Prelate shouted, "Introducing Magistrate Altwidus Caladotoz...of Roscrea." 

The Ruby Throne itself was...breathtaking. The vine carvings from before, met the throne, and linged around it, giving the impression of a garden of marble. Made from the same white marble as the rest of the city, it was adorned with several large rubies around the top half, and one massive one nestled on the top, adorned with gold trimmings. A red pillow sat on the marble throne. The woman sitting on it, was equally as impressive. 

Empress Dales Draconius was not a tall woman. Infact she was quite short. Shorter then expected to be honest. She was still quite impressive. Her honey hair hid half of her face, and was tussled underneath the Red Dragon Crown, the blackened steel, and blood red rubbies, clashing with her purple dress. On her belt, she wore a jeweled Gladius, and a ruby encrusted dagger.  With a slight slouch, she reclined on her throne, with an emotionless look.  She was a lovely woman, no doubt, but that femininity was offshot by somthing. Mainly her piercing, icy, blue eyes.

"Praise be to your rule holy Empress, I come before you a humble servant of the Empire across the sea. My lord the former Governor to the Imperial province Agotus et Brthynocia whom a loyal subject of her holiness' rule has befallen upon trying times, The hinterland barbarians of Roscrea Major has not only defied the treaties past upon them by her most esteemed predecessors and broke their Client status to Cyrodiil but has imposed barbaric rule against what remains the only loyal Imperial province of Roscrea."

He kept his eyes below Dale's own, Fearing Aka-Tusk's fury should he meet her eyes. "Already our people once liberated by Uriel V have faced oppression once again from the eastern men of Roscrea the Casurgians, My lord was at swordpoint forced into a Satrapy. We are at loss holy Empress, Our people devastated from genocide in ancient times are but a fraction of what once was and we stand little chance against our oppressors should we revolt. I must call upon the authority and aid of the Empire, We are as loyal as any true citizens of the Empire."

"I welcome you to the jewel of Cyrdoilii, Roscrean. I know little of you're customs, Altwidus. And you're history to be honest." She said with a small smile, though her voice was chilling and icy. Concern was there, "My knowledge of the island of Roscrea is limited to Uriel's conquests, and the fact you have excellent Client Soldiers that are renowned even in Ancient Akvari. You must explain to me the differences between you're people, and the ones oppressing you." She wasted no time in frivolities or greetings.

Altwidus bowed his head before speaking. "The enmity between ourselves and the hinterland barbarians extends far back into ancient times, Centuries before Ysgramor of the West as was known to us came back to Atmora speaking horrors befallen on his people Eastern Atmora was a place of unending barbarism and conflict. Our ancestors hailed from the eastern shores where a great League was founded, Fueled by a desire not unlike his holiness Tiber Septim's to unify the east. Paling in comparison to her most holiness' Empire the Agotomaedic League of old did represent stability with a everlasting desire of progress. The Tyrants of old with a people animated by single desire beset upon the misguided tribes bordering the League, A people connected by common language and culture the Milhinngaet Peoples whom are the men of Western Roscrea in these modern times. Our ancestors gifted a better way of living through bronze and faith the Milhinngaets were brought into the League."

Altwidus pursed his lips and grimaced at what he thought of. "The Casurgians.... While our own ancestors set out to unify Eastern Atmora the barbaric horsemen dwelling in the southern tip of beloved East Atmora were themselves expanding and bringing in lesser peoples into their foul kingdom, They are men of Eastern Roscrea and are divided into two groups being the Royal Casurgians and Bosponin Casurgians. Men of the Nubeulunng Steppe and those they conquered, These foul creatures are the worst of men. Given the chance they would destroy all civilization as they had done in Eastern Atmora. It was they who destroyed the League, They who proved most wicked against Uriel Septim V blessed be our liberator. Forced under Royal Casurgian rule once more our temples to Aka-Tusk lie destroyed, My lord's heirs have been imprisoned and we are under threat of annihilation should my lord prove disobedient as Satrap. We have for all intents been enslaved, Imperial citizens enslaved!"

Dales rolled her eyes, "Such a horrid fate has befallen thee indeed." Though she put her her hands to her lap, and muttered, "But what aid can you expect from my Red Legion? War is brewing in Tamriel, and mankind needs her strength here, on Tamriel." She paused, "How powerful is the Lord you serve?"

"My lord understands the growing storm with the elves, He does not expect nor dare demand immediate action. My lord is a man of insight who sees value in patience, We are but a minor part of the Empire and he knows this. We are willing to show our support in any way possible for at war's end as all wars end her majesty will know her civil servants, My lord holds power not through legions nor hoards of gold. It would be of little use but powerful Ambactoi and other client warriors hold him as their contractors and my lord knows many more to call upon."

Empress Draconius began to scratch her chin, "Intriguing." She paused for a moment before saying, "Who is the main aggressor behind these treespasses, and ill deeads against your'e people? Some petty king, or Warlord I presume." 

"Compared to the Empire just a petty king though in Roscrea he is among the most powerful of men, The Royal Casurgian King of Kings Berahthram I of the Silver-Shield. The man dishonorably broke his father's treaty with the Empire after the hinterland barbarians rebelled, When rebellion broke out in Skyrim the lines were severed with Tamriel. I remember it quite well that day, Hundreds of vessels out at sea and the beaches pouring out dark bearded men whom seized the island. The King of King too cowardly to do the deed himself had one of his generals force my lord into recognizing Royal Casurgian rule... I know you must think ill of us for such weakness."

"You do what you need to do to survive. There is no dishonor, in degradation when you have no other choice." Her face still showed no outward emotion. A scar lay on her left cheek, and her face was deathly, almost stickily pale.  The Empress had a sinister vibe. She paused, before adding, "How many soldiers does this Silver-Shield command? And what stock are his warriors, well trained?"

"I have not the slightest clue the numbers he could call upon, Though after Uriel V showed the barbarians how real soldiers fight the Royal Casurgians now field professional soldiers. The men who stormed Agotus et Brthynocia were well equipped and organized."

"So no mere barbarians..." The Empress paused, "Whatever levies you could call upon would be pushed asunder. Professional Soldiers. Knock off Legionaries I guess. What ultimatum does this man force upon you?

"We are forbidden from worshiping Aka-Tusk under threat of death, Before our people were liberated by Uriel Septim V the Royal Casurgians imposed no such thing against us. No doubt it is his own cruelty behind it guided by word of Druids or Magi, They have occupied an old Legion fort originally raised by Uriel's men to protect us against the hinterland barbarians during the war. Imposing hefty tribute from my lord's treasury and holding us under threat of destruction should my lord prove disobedient, All know in their heart that Berahthram is a man of his word when cruelty is the subject."

"Druids? Some theocratic group of fantastic, yes? They hold sway over Roscrean politics?"

"Druids hold themselves as wise men and scholars of Hermetic Arts, The misguided hinterland barbarians see them as guardians of Roscrea yet they are merely heralds of barbarism. Undoing much needed Imperialization has earned them unending praise, Even then seen as saviors foreseeing Atmora's destruction and leading what remained in Eastern Atmora to Roscrea."

Dales paused, taking in every detail from his speech, tapping on the side of her throne with her sharp finger nails. "You hold a certain reverence for me, I can tell. And as I know very little of Roscrean, and her sons, I have no choice but to trust you're word on what you are saying." She gazed upon the man, deep in thought. She sat there, nothing but the wind rustling, and heavy armor clanking for about three minutes. Finally, sighing, the Empress said, "Alas, while I can provide little in military support, at the time at least, I wont let loyal Imperial citizens suffer. As such, the least I can do is shield you underneath my political power, until a more permeant solution can be reached. I proclaim you're island under my protection. I shall send a squad of my Royal Palentina Guardsmen  with you to deliver my decree to these foul barbarians." She gazed outside, looking up at the ceiling, "In return, you shall provide me with a cohort of your finest client soldiers."

Altwidus let out a breath of relief that was being held during Dale's silence. "My unyielding thanks Empress, My lord will be more then willing to meet your demands. Though I must inquire on something, Some of the best client warriors in Roscrea aren't Agotomaedic and is that something you are willing to trust?"

"You are related to Nords? A pile of gold, and a blood oath is what usually takes to convince them to serve.  Or are Roscreans different? No matter what race they are, as long as there willing to serve the power of the Dragon, I shall gladly have them." She asked, showing no emotion.

Altwidus had done his best to avoid the thought but it was becoming difficult to do so, Dales unnerved him greatly. There wasn't any piece of humanity to her words, Her lack of emotion wasn't natural to Altwidus. "Well the best client warriors don't have the privilege to allow their beliefs on who they serve cloud their judgement, It is unfortunate that that some of the best men out there are either Royal Casurgians or Milhinngaet. In short yes they are loyal to the coin."

"Splendid. My Palentina are the finest soldiers in Tamriel. A glowing Albite Legion. I however, wish to increase my personnel troop of soldiers. You're Client Warriors would make an excellent addition on the battlefield, especially considering how well-regard Roscrean's mercenaries are. The Tsaesci of ancient Akvari favor them highly as bodyguards, do they not?" 

"They favored Atmoriants above all else Roscrean, There are no stronger men around if one would consider such creatures men in the first place."

"The Tsaesci are mighty indeed." She paused, "So are we in an agreement then? I shall provide my support, your people will supply my soldiers."

Having the Empresses' support Altwidus decided it best not to correct her in that he was speaking of the Atmoriants not the Tsaesci. "In my lord's name and authority we accept."

"Very good." The Empress reclined back into her chair, "I would offer you the hospitality of my palace, but alas, I make road for Skyrim the day after tomorrow. So I advise you to rest at one of the many inns the city provides, and to enjoy yourself for the reminder of you're stay. I shall send the guards to find you once everything is prepared."

With that Altwidus respectfully bid himself away with Dale's permission of course, His mission was successful more so then original thought. Even so the Empress worried him with her lack of humanity, Perhaps that is simply a sign of divine blessing from Aka-Tusk he reasoned. Whatever the case was Altwidus was relieved to know what remained of the Agotomaeds would find safety and peace back under the Empire and that warmed his heart.

[Witchking of Angmar]

Morane Lynielle

Camlorn

Morning

Morane had never been interested in alchemy, or plants, or even nature. That wasn’t to say she preferred the city, however. She held no real affinity for either city or countryside, or hate for either. Though the Wizard’s Garden, she had to admit, was pretty. The king hadn’t had a court wizard for a few years before Winvale came, so the plants were overgrown. Dark green ivy covered the walls of the keep and the castle, while wild, gnarled trees warped into angles that brought them the most sunlight. Shrubs leaned over the stone paths, grabbing at passersby. Flowers sprouted between the stones themselves, slowly pushing them apart. It was if nature was retaking its land, fighting back against the crowding stone.

Morane knew Winvale to be a clean and organized person. His room in the tower was the neatest she’d ever seen. But he hadn’t done anything to change the garden and its haphazard layout. She thought he seemed to like it, and noticed he spent quite a bit of time here. His large, shaggy white dog, Ki, certainly loved it. He was old and lazy, spending most of his time lying beneath trees, but occasionally he’d get up and chase the squirrels and birds that lived here, or splash in the pond, or dig around the bushes. Winvale left him down in the garden most of the time. He was mostly indifferent to the two mages training in the garden, only occasionally lifting his head to investigate some new sound they made.

Being as secluded as it was, the garden was the best place for Morane to practice her shadow magic, away from any prying eyes. Winvale stood in the center, directing her actions with frowns at her success and smirks at her failure. Morane knew he had latched on to that form of teaching to motivate her. Just as the other shadow mage’s success had driven her, so too would the need to prove herself drive her. She didn’t shy away from his scathing remarks or glares, but strove to make him eat his words and accept her successes.

The training exercise she was doing involved quick, short teleportation jumps, while using her other magic to fend off the wooden training dummies Winvale was using to attack her. They glowed a faint green from his telekinesis, hovering around her in a loose circle of six. Winvale sent one sprinting toward her, from behind. She teleported to the left, outside the circle, and used her own telekinesis to throw that dummy into the wall. Two more charged her and she waited. They were growing closer, and Winvale said with a sneer, “Be careful now.”

One shot flames, something she wasn’t expecting. It was a rune, she noticed, one Winvale activated to give the illusion the dummy was using magic. She cast an armor spell and deflected the flames, and then teleported away from their swinging blades. She was feeling strained, and suspected she could only teleport a couple more times. She targeted the closest dummy with a weight spell, pinning it to the ground. Two of them charged her from opposite sides, and she could see the other two moving towards her as well.

In a real battle she would have used some of her illusion magic, but that wouldn’t work here. And neither would trying to silence or blind Winvale. She had to improvise, so she used her magic to scoop up dirt and threw it towards Winvale’s face. He dodged or stopped it, which one she couldn’t tell as she had her eyes on the dummies. They stopped moving when she threw the sand. She grabbed the nearest one with her magic and ripped off its arm and then sent it flying towards another, where they crashed together in a heap. Winvale resumed the attack with the last two dummies. Morane steadied herself as they grew closer, waiting until the right moment to teleport away. Their swords raised, she summoned the shadow magic to teleport, and didn’t move.  

Both wooden swords hit her, one on each arm, and she let out a cry of pain. “You didn’t need to do that,” she said to Winvale, glaring at his smug expression.

“You do not need to continually overestimate your abilities. You are a quick learner but not as quick as you like to think. I know you felt your abilities straining. And yet you chose to rely on hope that you could do more. Don’t. Rely on what you know you can do. At least this time you were smart enough to not waste all your effort on substituting them out of existence,” Winvale said.

Morane was still glaring but nodded. She had thought she had a couple more jumps left in her. To know that wasn’t the case was disconcerting. As if hearing her thoughts, which he seemed to do far too often for her liking, Winvale said, “Don’t trust the shadow magic. It will work against you if you let it. You must have complete control over yourself if you wish to master it. The shadow magic will fool you, so you must look deeper within yourself to find the truth. Half the battle fought with shadow magic will be internal. Master that and you will win.”

“Maybe you should become a spiritual guide. You certainly look and sound the part,” Morane said.

Winvale frowned while Morane smiled. He said, “Take my advice or not. I have much less to lose than you if you fail.”

Morane wondered if that was true. Certainly she might lose her life if she made a mistake, and yet it seemed to her that, strange as it was, Winvale was investing quite a bit into training her. And training the dozen or so others who by now were able to peer sidewise. She knew the king had sanctioned this, and she wondered what the two of them had planned for these new shadow mages.

Ki snapped her out of her thoughts when he came over and rubbed against her leg. She scratched him behind the ear, and Winvale said. “Go get some food and meet me back in the tower.” She rubbed Ki’s belly some before she left the garden and went out into the courtyard.

The same group of knights and mages were out there training with Sir Maric and Sir Virelande. Several of those that weren’t currently sparing watched her warily. By now word had gotten around about what she’d done to the other shadow mage. Word of how she cursed him and made a book sprout from his back. Most thought she was a witch, which suited her just fine. She liked smiling seductively at them, watching the fear and interest mix as they squirmed under her gaze.

Unfortunately, the rest of the shadow mage students weren’t as easily scared. The first day after the incident they were all too fearful to look her in the eye, but by the second and third day they were back to their general disdain for her obvious skill. When she entered the hall to eat, they were seated there, talking and laughing amongst themselves. She grabbed her salted pork and bread and took a seat on the bench next to them. After a few bites, all while they glared at her, she said, “How’s the training going? The shadows still making you dizzy?”

None of them answered, and Morane chuckled to herself. She and the rest of the table ate in silence. By the time she was nearly finished, most everyone had moved off, deciding they were done eating or simply wishing to get away from her. Only one person besides Morane was still there. He was a Redguard, about her own age, and didn’t seem to be as scared or spiteful as the others. He sat there eating, same as her. As she was getting up to leave, though, he looked up and said, “You’re an asshole.”

She sat back down and looked at him with the iciest gaze she could muster. He didn’t seem to be afraid even now, but returned her glare with a firm stare of his own. “Go ahead,” he said, “make everyone hate you. That’s a good way to die early.”

She motioned her head up towards the top of the tower and said, “You think anyone likes him? And he’s as old as anyone I’ve ever met.”

The Redguard laughed at her, and despite herself she felt more embarrassed than angry. “The day you’re as skilled as him is the day the entire world can hate you. Until then you better make some friends. We’re all going to go into the field at some point, and you’ll want someone watching your back then. Or at least not stabbing you in the back themselves.”

She was angry now and shot back, “We? Who’s to say you’ll even be there? The rest of you have barely even scratched the surface of what I’m able to do now.”

He shrugged and stood up. “I guess we’ll see then.”

Morane sat there staring daggers at his back as he walked away. She stood up and left towards the stairs, stopped, made his shoes turned into old, hole filled versions, and then climbed toward Winvale’s study. She was angry at how much effort it took to substitute his shoes, but she ignored it as she entered the top of the tower. The old wizard was seated in a plush chair, looking right at Morane as she opened the door. As if he had been watching her climb the stairs. By now she was used to his disconcerting ways and they had ceased to unnerve her. For the most part, anyway.

“Don’t bother sitting down,” Winvale said. “You’re going to meet a woman outside the southern gate. She’s a sister of the Glenmoril Wyrd, and she’s going to take you to meet with a Wyress on my behalf.  You are to give her this list,” he conjured the scroll and it flew over to Morane, who caught it. “Ask her where these books are. She will claim she doesn’t know but they always lie. All you must do is press her and she will tell you, after she asks for something in return. Agree to whatever they ask for. Your only concern is to get the location of those books.”

Morane unrolled the scroll and read over the titles. Even a dunce could tell they were all associated with shadow magic. “Why do I need to go to the Wyrd?”

“They have eyes where I do not.”

“Are these for the training?”

“Yes. We’ll need them for the upper level magics,” Winvale said.

Morane asked, “Why don’t you already have them?”

“My old master had them. When he died they were spread to the winds. I’ve had no reason to get them back until now.”

“You haven’t trained other shadow mages in all those years since?”

“Not to the level you and the others will train to.”

“Why start training others now?”

“The king wants to use you for the war.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“There has to be more of a reason than that. You don’t strike me as the generous type. Or the selfless type.”

“I am generous enough to teach you shadow magic. It is a knowledge I would see passed on to those that are worthy. Is that not enough of a reason for you? Would you prefer I not teach you?”

Morane was skeptical. She looked down and reread the list before saying, “No. I guess it is a good reason.”

Winvale stared her in the eye, unblinking, for several moments. He broke the frozen silence and said, “Good. Now see to finding those books.”

Morane nodded and left, putting the list inside her pants pocket. As she closed the door behind her, the man from earlier came walking up the stairs. She looked down at his shoes, sad to see that he’d changed into new ones. She asked, “What’re you doing here?”

“What, are you the only one that can learn from him now?” the man asked.

“No,” Morane said. “I just didn’t think anyone else cared enough to do more than he makes us.”

“Maybe that’s because you only ever talk to the others to insult them,” he said.

Morane ignored that and pushed past him. What does he know? After all, it was Morane who was mocked first, and they who started the insults. They were jealous of her, with good reason of course, as she knew she was far and away the best of them. No matter how much extra training the Redguard was getting.

She left the tower and walked past the still training knights and mages to the stables, where she found a horse saddled and waiting for her. She was an old animal, her light brown mane laced with grey, but she kept a steady pace and moved with ease at Morane’s commands. Morane didn’t have much experience on horseback, but she was competent enough, and the horse was reliable, so it made the trip through the crowded city streets an easy one. She found the witch waiting outside the gate, dressed in the clothes of a servant but wearing a wool cloak over them. Morane thought she looked familiar, but couldn’t place her.

“Morane?” she asked.

“You must be my guide,” Morane answered.

“I am. Our coven isn’t close, so we’ll need to ride quickly. Are you ready?”

Morane nodded, and without another word the witch set off at a gallop. Morane drove her horse forward to match the speed, and they rode in single file and silence the rest of the way. The road they followed headed due south from Camlorn, following the contours of the western coast of High Rock. The Ilessan Hills, the small farms dotting the countryside and the forests between, were beginning to wake up from their winter hibernation. Some of the trees were budding, the grasses were a light green at their bases, and a few intrepid flowers were in bloom. Still, in most places the limbs were bare, and the wind still blew in from the north and chilled the riders.

After what Morane guessed was about two hours of riding on the main road south, the witch turned off the road on a trail Morane couldn’t see until they were on it. The dozens of people who traveled that road daily would pass it by and never once think there was a trail there. As they rode on it, Morane got the sense that it was more than just a well-hidden trail, as she felt a faint magical energy in the wood they rode through. It felt defensive. Trees towered over the trail at precarious angles, their roots arching over the pathway in dangerous ways, while vines and ivy hung from the limbs. She had a feeling that if the witches wished, the forest would come alive and prevent any intrusions.

They went deeper into the forest until they came to a hillock dotted with boulders. A cave opened up where the trail ended at the base of the hill. They dismounted, tying the horses off to a moss covered log. The cave was damp, but the walls were solid and supported by wooden beams, and the floor packed down by years of use. Floating orbs of magelight lit the way. It was a short, downhill path to the main cavern, which was high enough that Morane wondered how the roots of the trees on the hill above weren’t coming through the top of the cave. The room had five other pathways, besides the one Morane had come through, though she couldn’t see where they led. More orbs lit the cavern, and showed the dais sitting in the middle of the room. There were several altars on it, each one in a different shape, but Morane couldn’t identify them. The witch led her through the main room and to the hallway directly across from the entrance. They followed that hall for a short way until they reached a heavy wooden door.

“Knock when you’re ready,” the witch said.

“Ready? What’s that supposed to mean?” Morane asked, but the woman only gave her a sly smile, bowed her head, and left. It was then Morane realized who her guide was. She’d seen her laying out food and sweeping the barracks at Camlorn, a servant in the castle. It made her wonder if anyone else inside the castle was a witch, and how deeply embedded the Wyrd was. In a way, she admired their infiltration of the noble households, though she wondered just what the utility of having their witches be servants was.

Without any more delay, she knocked sharply on the door three times. A woman opened it almost instantly. She was middle aged, and stood an inch or two taller than Morane. She had a pleasant face with an annoyingly sincere smile, even though Morane knew they’d never met and she had no reason to welcome her warmly. Her silky brown hair was braided and reached down to her waist, and she wore a dark blue robe with satchels and pouches hanging from her belt.

“Morane,” she said, her voice calm and too sweet. “Please, come in.”

Morane entered into the room, which was not large and had a cozy feel. It looked like a witch’s version of Winvale’s study. The bookshelves leaned to their sides a bit, the plants overgrew their pots, the instruments were dirty from use, and the tables were stacked with papers, books, potions, ingredients, and soul gems. A fire burned in the hearth, though Morane couldn’t see a chimney. The room wasn’t filled with smoke either, so the witches had some way of extracting the smoke without it signaling where their coven was.

The woman sat down in a chair facing the hearth, and then used her magic to clear away the books and plant clippings from the chair opposite her. “Excuse my mess. I’m not as neat as you’re probably used to.”

Morane sat down and stared at the woman’s kind smile, uncomfortable with how comfortable the witch was. Finally she asked, “Who are you?”

“Oh yes, my name.” The witch chuckled and said, “I forgot that even though we know so much about you, you don’t know us.”

Morane narrowed her eyes in growing suspicion of the woman, and wondered if revealing how much they knew about her was a threat of some sort or simply a statement of fact. She remained tense as the witch continued. “I’m Wyress Thenitte, but you can call me Nyna. I am the head Wyress of this coven, which covers all of Camlorn.”

“You already know who I am, apparently,” Morane said.

“Yes, yes we do. And we are quite impressed. The stories from your upbringing back east and your time at the Thaumaturgical Institute paint you as a skilled mage.”

 “Thanks,” Morane muttered.

“I know you’re here on business, but I’d like to propose something first, if you don’t mind.”

Morane motioned for Nyna to continue, and she did. “Like I said, we are aware of your magical abilities. And your burgeoning shadow magic skills. We would like you to join us as a sister of the Glenmoril Wyrd.”

Morane was surprised at that. The thought of joining them had never crossed her mind. She could see the appeal of it, though. The Wyrd was powerful and had a reach that extended further than Winvale’s, that much he readily admitted. And while he was an old man, he had lived only one lifetime, whereas the Wyrd had existed for centuries. Their knowledge would far surpass his own. And yet the instant Morane heard the offer, she knew she would never accept it.

She didn’t care for knowledge or power that reached throughout the cities of High Rock. What she wanted was to learn shadow magic, and the Wyrd could never teach her that. Not the way Winvale could. The magic she felt here was powerful, but nothing like the power that she felt when Winvale performed shadow magic. Ever since she began learning it, she could feel the immense power that exuded from the simplest shadow spells he performed.

Morane thought about smiling, to take away the sting from her refusal, but then thought it was a stupid idea. She fidgeted when she said, “Thank you for the offer, but I don’t want to join you. I want to learn shadow magic, and Winvale can teach me that better than you.”

Nyna smiled tightly, and it didn’t extend to her eyes. “If that is what you wish. We won’t force you. But I think you’ll eventually come around to see the benefits of joining us.”

Morane didn’t like how vaguely threatening that sounded, but she ignored it and got down to what she came here for. She produced the scroll and handed it to the witch. “I need to know where these three books are.”

Nyna glanced down at it, obviously too quickly to read it. She raised her eyes and said, “We don’t know where these are, unfortunately.”

Morane leaned forward and tapped the scroll. “Look again.”

The witch did, and Morane could tell she was actually reading the list this time. When she finished she said, “We might know where they are. But we don’t give things away for free.”

“Do you want me to ask what you want?” Morane said. “Just say it.”

“We don’t have anything in mind right now,” Nyna said, all friendliness gone. “Tell Winvale he owes us a favor that we will call upon whenever we see fit.”

“I will. And the book locations?”

Nyna pulled towards her a piece of parchment, a quill, and an inkwell. She wrote as she spoke. “The collection was split into several groups. The books you want ended up in three places. The School of Julianos branch in Shornhelm has these two,” she motioned to her now finished list. “Two more are in the royal library in Solitude. And the final two are in the library of Anvil’s ruling family.”

Morane took back her scroll and the parchment with the locations on it. She stood and said, “Thank you. I’ll tell Winvale he owes you a favor.”

“Do. And keep in mind our offer. We have a lot to offer someone like you. Power like you couldn’t imagine.”

“I’ll try and remember that,” Morane said, leaving quickly the way she came. The servant didn’t appear to Morane went back the way she came.

She was walking through the main room, with the dais that held the altars, when she stopped. Four hallways, two on each side of her, branched off deeper into the cavern. Down one of them, she thought she heard humming. Not a person humming, but like the low noise that reminded her of some magical device. She’d heard something similar once before, at the Thaumaturlogical Institute. There was a Dwarven animunculi there that gave off a similar sound.

She wondered if she should go and investigate. No one was around to see her, and she was a little curious. It was then she realized why the servant had disappeared, and she remembered Nyna’s words, of the power the Wyrd possessed. They wanted her to wander around, to look at the various enchanted objects, mystical instruments, strange runes and idols they had. All in an attempt to get her to join. She was torn, wanting to see just what the altars were, what was making that noise, why the smell of flowers was wafting in from her left.

But to give in to her own curiosity was also to give the Wyress and the other witches the satisfaction that they had reached her, that their seed of an offer was planted in her brain and might grow. Morane didn’t much like the idea of them being satisfied with themselves because they had some interesting baubles and strange rooms. As much as her curiosity pulled her towards the room, her desire to make the witches disappointed in themselves won out. Without giving any more attention to the sickly sweet flowers, the low humming, or the mysterious altars, she left the coven.

The ride back to Camlorn seemed to go more quickly than the ride to the coven. Morane let the horse do most of the steering, and only occasionally had to spur it to keep the quick pace. She spent most of the trip thinking about the books. She guessed that Winvale would send her off to get them as a test. She wondered if she would go alone, or if he would make that Redguard or one of the others tag along. She knew she could get the books on her own. She’d always had a knack for sneaking around, and if anyone caught her, she could more than hold her own. But dragging along a former knight or battlemage or spellsword who couldn’t sneak would only compromise her. She’d have to babysit them, and more than likely they’d blow the whole thing. No, she’d have to make the case she could do it alone. Needed to do it alone. And she more than wanted to.

By the time she reached Camlorn, she’d decided she was going to demand Winvale let her steal the books on her own. She knew she could make the case, so long as Winvale was planning on sending her. He could easily do it himself, but he didn’t seemed inclined to. Morane got the impression he liked testing her and the other students, reveling in both their successes and failures. Both padded his ego, by showing how skilled he was at teaching and how inferior their skills were to his own. Morane recognized she would do the same in his position, but stopped short of thinking too hard about her similarities with Winvale. That wasn’t a road she wanted to go down.

Thankfully Camlorn castle rescued her from those thoughts. She rode into the courtyard and dismounted, handing the horse off to the nearest stable hand. A guard approached her as she walked toward Winvale’s tower. He said, “The wizard’s in the garden. He wants you to go there.”

Morane nodded headed there. The heavy oak door to the garden resisted at first, but eventually swung open on creaky hinges after she put more of her weight behind the push and walked in. Ki was there, still lying beneath his tree, but Winvale wasn’t. Normally he sat by the pond, on a stump the last mage had fashioned into a chair. Morane turned to exit, cursing the idiot guard for sending her there. Before she’d turned all the way around, though, she felt her body lock up, as a green film covered her from head to toe. She was paralyzed.

Three figures appeared before her, walking out from the shadows of the walls. Two guards flanked an exquisitely dressed man with a large belly, shaved head, and full handlebar mustache, brown as the earth of the garden. He used a handkerchief to wipe the snot from his nose. He was close enough to Morane that she could smell his breath. It smelled like rich wine. His skin was pale, with a sickly yellowish tint, and dark bags formed under his eyes. He took out another handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his face. She got the sense it was a cold sweat from whatever sickness he had.

“Unfreeze her,” he ordered the guards, then commenced to coughing as the paralysis dissipated. “You know who I am, yes?”

Morane took a step back and crossed her arms over her chest. “The King.”

“Yes. Your king, I might add.” He closed his eyes and nodded slowly. “I know where Winvale sent you today.”

“Maybe you should worry less about what I’m doing and more about yourself. You look like shit.”

“I don’t have the luxury of worrying about myself, not when my court wizard is sending away my only real shadow mage without my permission. To meet with the Wyrd, no less.”

“I’m not yours. I’m here to learn shadow magic, not serve you.”

She was paralyzed again by one of the guards, but she couldn’t see which one. The King leaned forward, and without raising his voice, said, “You do serve me. Winvale might have the power to do whatever the hell he wants but you are not nearly the mage he is. I didn’t undertake this shadow magic experiment without knowing full and well how to stop an insolent mage if they got too full of themselves after learning a few spells. Do not begin to think you are any more powerful than you were before because you know a little shadow magic now.”

She could hear the cold fury in his voice and she knew he wasn’t a man to be taken lightly. He may be fat and sick and not a skilled enough mage to paralyze her himself, but he had power nonetheless. He continued, “So, now you will answer my question. Why did you visit the Wyrd?”

The paralysis retreated from her face, and it was then she saw who the two guards were. The Royal Battlemage Sir Virelande who was doing the paralyzing, and the Captain of the Guard Sir Maric, who stood with his eyes locked on Morane. She glared at them but her gaze relaxed when she looked back to King Adrard. She considered lying to him, telling him she only went to do more training. But she had a feeling the King would know it if she lied, and besides, she didn’t care enough about keeping this secret to further piss him off. “I went to speak with the Wyress. Winvale wanted me to find out where some books were. Books on shadow magic he needs to train us.”

The King narrowed his eyes at her, and she could tell he was trying to figure out if she was lying. Seemingly satisfied, he waved and Virelande released her. “You are free to go. Tell Winvale I will want to know more about these books and where he intends to get them.” Turning his back to Morane he asked Sir Maric, “Did your men grab the serving girl when she came back?”

Maric nodded. The King asked, “Did she reveal anything?”

“No,” Maric said.

Without another word they left, and Morane was alone in the garden. She knew that since the servant was practically a spy, she’d likely be executed. Morane tried to feel bad, but ultimately couldn’t muster anything. If the servant didn’t want to be executed, she shouldn’t have joined the Wyrd. But Morane also recognized the question about the serving girl was for her. A threat, thinly veiled on purpose. She took a deep breath and left the garden to tell Winvale about the books and the King.

She was climbing the stairs when the Redguard mage stopped her, looking at her with a jesting smile. He said, dryly, “And here I thought you might’ve ran away. I certainly would’ve missed the competition.”

Morane was beginning to think he was making an effort to run into her now. She certainly didn’t have the time or the inclination to banter with him as much as he wanted. But she fumed at the suggestion that any of the other mages were close enough to her level to be considered competition. It seemed like everyone she met today was trying to stop her from doing what she wanted. So she punched the Redguard in the gut, pushed passed him, and continued up the stairs to Winvale’s study, a smile briefly tracing her lips.

The door opened as she raised her hand to knock upon it and she entered without hesitation. Winvale had his hands on either side of the silver bowl, and from his posture she could tell he’d been looking into the water within it. He released it and leaned on his staff instead. The door closed behind her and he asked, “What did the King say?”

Morane was silent for a few moments, trying to figure out how he knew. There were windows in the tower, but it was too tall to tell who the people standing below were. Her eyes found the silver bowl and she realized it was for scrying, and he had been watching them. “Did your wash bin not tell you?”

“No. I can only see, not hear.”

“Hm. I’m to tell you that he wants to know more about the books and where you intend to get them.”

“Anything else?”

“He also wanted to remind me I serve him,” Morane said with clear disdain. She then asked, “If you knew he was going to follow me or spy on me or whatever, why didn’t you just tell him where you were sending me?”

“It’s unimportant. I assume you got the locations?”

“It won’t be unimportant to the serving girl who’s going to be executed now that he knows she’s a witch.”

Winvale issued a short, gravelly laugh. “And you care?”

Morane pursed her lips. “Not especially. But I’m not so heartless to waste a life on something unimportant.”

Winvale waved a gnarled hand at her concern. “She won’t be killed. The King owes the Wyrd a favor.”

Morane thought she might be relieved to hear that, but again couldn’t muster any feelings one way or the other. “So do you, now. That was their condition for telling me the locations of the books.”

“Where are they?”

“Shornhelm, Solitude, and Anvil.”

Winvale snarled out, “Solitude. I should have expected as much.”

“What’s in Solitude?”

“It is none of your concern.”

“It will be. I want to get the books. I think it’s time I test myself in the field, and don’t see a better chance to do it than this.”

“I agree,” he said. Morane was expecting more of a fight, and her shoulders sagged a bit. Winvale raised an eyebrow but continued on. “After I meet with the King, you will go to Shornhelm and get the first two books.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. Zukhal is not yet ready. But you must accept the fact the others will be, in time. You can’t maim them all.”

Morane gave a slight nod, though she knew he was right. And, as much as she hated to admit it, what Zukhal had told her about getting the others to not hate her was true too. Winvale would eventually send them out with her, and she couldn’t be constantly worried about what they might do to her. She said, “I promise you, I won’t need help.”

“We shall see.” Winvale’s expression softened a bit, his aged face drooping from its usual tensed position. “Did the Wyrd ask you to join?”

Morane wondered if he was getting sentimental, or if he was simply tired. He was very old, after all. “They did. I said no.”

She thought for a moment that he might smile, but his expression hardened and he gave a stiff nod. “And why would you join? They have nothing to offer compared to shadow magic.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

**

Theodore Adrard

Camlorn

Morning

Theodore felt awful. He spent half his day in bed, sporadically coughing up green bile, constantly in a cold sweat. He usually only rose to attend his council meetings, and conducted any other important business he had from his study. Elayne was feeling marginally better, but neither one spent much time outside their private rooms. It was increasingly clear to Theo that if Corrick didn’t arrive soon, they would have to resort to more drastic options.

He’d considered having Winvale turn them into vampires. He owed the Glenmoril Wyrd one favor already, and part of that was freeing their servant to continue to work in his castle. But if they became vampires he would owe them another favor the day they were cured, as he had no intention of staying a vampire forever, even if it would stave off the disease for a time. He saw it as only a stopgap until they found a permanent solution. His hope was still in Corrick.

Still, Theo was worried he didn’t have the luxury of waiting. Their deterioration had plateaued for now, but the progression of the disease meant it could get worse at any moment. No matter how bad the disease was, though, he wouldn’t let it keep him from this meeting with Winvale. Theo rose and dressed quickly, not bothering to go through the motions of making sure all his attire matched and his looked his regal best.

Sir Virelande and Sir Maric were waiting, along with Winvale, in his study. Theodore sat behind his desk and took a long drink of the Tulun Ruz wine waiting for him, it helping to ease the pain and focus his mind. On his desk was the list of books, obviously all about shadow magic. It read:

Ruminations on the Reflections of the Infinite

On Shadow Realms

Shadow and Dawn

The Nature of the Shadow of Conflict

A History of Shadow

The Journals of Azra Nightwielder

Theodore did not know much about shadow magic, but knew enough to recognize the name Azra Nightwielder. His journals seemed obvious, and A History of Shadow self-explanatory. The others, though, he could guess little about.

Turning his gaze to Winvale, he asked, “Why do you need these books?”

Winvale said, “For training the shadow mages. They contain knowledge that I can’t impart nearly as well as they can, unfortunately.”

Theo said. “Explain to me what these books are about. In the common tongue, please.”

Winvale looked down his nose at Theo, his condescending manner ever present. “The first is a book detailing one mage’s exploration of the infinite worlds and shadow shades created by forces in conflict. It focuses more on the nature of alternate versions of a person. The second one is much the same, with more focus on the worlds. The third details the relationship between Shadow and Dawn. The fou-“

“Dawn?” Virelande asked, interrupting Winvale. “As in Dawn magic, that the elves use?”

Winvale raised an eyebrow and seemed, begrudgingly, impressed. “Yes. As I was saying, the-“

“What do they use it for?” Theo asked.

Winvale said, “Hard to say. It is really only speculation, as the knowledge is closely guarded.”

Theo leaned back in his chair and coughed into a handkerchief. He focused on what Winvale said and turned it over in his mind. “What does this relationship between Shadow and Dawn mean?”

“There is a dualistic relationship between the two. They feed off of and conflict with each other,” Winvale said.

“Feed off each other?” Theo asked. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Winvale said, “that they can both dominate and resist the other. In some situations Dawn can defeat Shadow. In other situations, it is the opposite.”

Theodore didn’t know whether that boded well for any conflict his shadow mages might have with the Thalmor or not. It seemed a double-edged sword if there ever was one. “So how do you plan on getting these books?”

Winvale said, “The first two are in the School of Julianos in Shornhelm. Two more are in Solitude, and the final two in Anvil.”

“We’ll have to get them in a way that doesn’t let anyone on to what we’re doing,” Sir Virelande said. “I suppose we’ll have to steal them.”

Sir Maric said, “We’ll need to cover that they’re missing, somehow.”

“Can you make fake versions of them?” Theodore asked Winvale.

“I can. They won’t contain the contents but I should be able to enchant some books that will take on the appearance of another book. So long as no one decides to read the book, they won’t notice it missing,” Winvale said

“That will have to do,” Theo said. He doubted anyone would connect him to missing books on shadow magic, but he still didn’t like the thought of anyone catching on. “I suggest you start sooner rather than later. Anvil especially will only get more difficult to get into the closer to war we get.”

“I will start tomorrow,” Winvale said. “I was going to send Morane to get them. And possibly any others who progress enough. As a test.”

“Do you think that’s wise?” Virelande asked. “What if they’re captured and reveal who they serve?”

“They have to train in the field at some point,” Winvale said. “I see no better opportunity than this.”

Theo sighed and said, “He’s right. This is a good chance to test them. Send Morane first. If she fails, I can smooth things over with the School of Julianos, and we will find someone else to steal the other books."

[Witchking of Angmar]

Windhelm, Skyrim

Empress Dales

The armored column of Legionaries bristly marched down the stone bridge in a tight formation, shields present, but blades undrawn in there leather sheaf's. The surroundings, ancient stonework dating back to times primordial, looked unusual to the Imperial soldiers, as did most nordic architecture. The clanking of there silver Lorica Semenentata plate arose like a symphony of steel, acting as a backdrop to the howling Skyrim wind, and fast falling snow. The stomping of there armored boots, sent up dirt, and almost overtook the howling snow.  Unlike normal legionaries, the assemble soldiers wore an extra layer of scale mail underneath the Lorica Semenenata cuirass, which was made from silver in contrast to the regular steel, covering there entire bodies, arms, and legs included from the bitter chill. Upon there backs most wore dark blue capes, with a silver Dragon embroised onto it proudly. The first one hundred ranks of Imperial solders, at the vanguard, alongside there beloved monarch were members of General Martullus's legendary Dragon Cohort, clad in the finest Imperial Templar armor Imperial smiths could forge. They numbered one hundred, about the size of a single cohort.  At the rear, guarding the flank, were the Empresses own Palace Guards, the brave men, and woman of the Imperia Palentina. Unlike the Dragon legionaries, they had different equipment. White-gold plate armor, forged from rare white-steel, to a brilliant shine. Far bulkier, almost being plate armor, they wore it with surprising ease. The unit that the Empress brought with her carried two handed, silver war hammers, and claymores, that they wore on there backs, along with a white cloak. Like the Dragon legionaries, however, they had old fashioned, second era styled full helmets, that covered there entire faces. The Empress had brought about one hundred and fifty of them with her. 

Cold and faceless, rigid and routine, this is how many Nords in Skyrim viewed the Empire as. At least, before, during there Dominion over the land.

It had been quite a long time since Legionaries walked unhindered through the snowy plains, and bogs of Eastmarch, so the sight was quite odd to the locals. Cold states, and burning gazes followed them were they marched, from peasents, as well as Stormcloak soldier but no one dared attack guests of the current High-King. The bear had been born here, and so, old prejudices died very hard. In return, many of the marching soldiers made no effort to remain friendly.

At the forefront of the large battalion of elite legionaries, rode five figures on horses. Two banner carriers, clad in the armor of there respected units, the Dragon Legionaries, and Palace Gaurds, rode at the back, carrying the large Dragon standards of there cohort.  Each stood at the others flank, following the small group of five. Besides the banner carriers, rode the Legion representatives, Prelate-Custodes Imperius of the Palentina, wearing no helmet, and no cape, only the white plate of the Palentina. His black hair was slick, and his piercing blue, almost violet eyes, starred emotionless at the massive stone gate before him, a downpour of snow in the background. At his belt, he carried a legion-styled broadsword, instead of the standard gladius, and on his back, lay a curved oak bow. Though his hands were on the reins, he had his focus drawn to his sword. Besides him, on a grey, old looking horse, was Legate Avernus Menthneil, a Breton serving under General Martullus. Because of war preparation, Gracchus couldn't spare a general, so they sent a Legate in its place. The old-soldier, looked exactly like his men, barring the the gold-purple cloak he wore in the place of the dark blue.

At the front of the group was the Empress herself, the most powerful woman in Cyrdoili. Dales Draconius. She road a black mare, armored in steel. On the top of her fair haired head, she bore the Ruby Dragon Crown, the darkened steel, and blood red rubies clashing with her blonde locks. Her chilling blue eyes, cold stare, and harsh expression marred whatever beauty she might have had, almost making up for her comical height. For garb, she wore a great cloak, to protect from Skyrim's frigid climate, made from the fur of wolves, and although she had a dress of brilliant purple embroided with silver and gold dragons, it was armored with dark steel, having metal gauntlets, leggings, and a steel chestguard acting like a corset. At her side, she carried a simple silver gladius like the rest of her men, and a gem encrusted Dagger, a gift from the Assassin Wraith. The Empresse's cold blue eyes, sparked with awe and wonder,

It's beautiful...what a magnificent city!

Standing before them was the great city of Windhelm, Skyrim's new capitol. Ancient, and wondrous, it wasn't unlike the Imperial City, but had a different elegance, that suited Skyrim just fine. It was hard to believe, going by the sturdy, ancient stonework, she had been attacked such a short time ago, by Dominion forces. As Skyrim's ally, the Empire had declared war on the Dominion, officially, after recieving word about Windhelm's siege, and had started its preparations for it's invasion of the Khajit homeland, Elswery. 

As the legionaries marched across the snow drenched, great bridge, Stormcloak sentries onlooked with a mixed feelings. They were certainly glad to have the Imperials on there side, but old hatreds died hard.  As they reached the great gate, Dales lifted her gauntleted hand into the cold air, yellling in an authoritarian voice, "Legionaries Seniores!  Legionaries Palentina! Halt!" The marching iron soldiers ceased marching all of sudden at there monarch's command, and in almost perfect sync, lowered there shields, and stood at attention. Dales and her men waited infront of the great gate. 

There were eyes from all directions on the grandiose display that the Imperials were known for putting on, but one pair in particular watched from afar, standing as still as stone as the snow falling over his bear fur covered head began to disappear in a blanket of white. He did not make any effort to hide himself, there was no need. The Imperials were not who he'd come to see. Just as they had done, the old Nord was waiting for the response to come from beyond the gate.

After only a few short moments as one would expect considering the guest that Windhelm had attracted, the great and ancient gates began to part with a mournful groan comparable to a wounded animal. And wounded she was. Between the gates walked merely one man alone, without soldiers or the like to accompany him. And why should he, this was his city now after all.

The aging Nord was at least a head taller than most of those in Empress Draconius's company, even the few Nords that were amongst her soldiers. He came into their presence with nothing more than Nordic greaves and boots; no furs to cover his bare chest, nothing but the brilliant blue paint that decorated his pale skin. Compared to her and even to her soldiers, his "attire" was simple and uninspired, and yet still, his presence commanded respect and reverence from those he commanded. He did not yet stand as king, but to the sons and daughters of Skyrim that watched from the walls, he was already Dales Draconius's equal.

Eyes as piercingly blue as Dales's stayed focused on hers, getting a measure of what he'd once viewed as merely a girl. A lot had changed in the years that Baldur last saw her, he knew.

"You're no longer the little girl I once remembered," said Baldur. "It seems some of my wife's lessons may have stuck with you and your friends." Baldur outstretched his arm, waiting for her to grasp it in kind.

"The ones who are still alive..." She said, almost-sadly. Dales Draconius, dismounted her armored horse. One of her legionaries made a move to help her down, but she waved him off with a single hand. Her armored boots hit the snow covered bridge.  She took the older man's features in, before an impish grinned formed on her lips, "And you call us Imperials dramatic, Nord thinking you can take on the Dominion without a shirt. It's been a long time, High King Red-Snow." Dales didn't refer to him as Jarl for a reason. In her mind, as well as the mind of the Legion, and Empire, he was the High King of Skyrim. And by referring to him as that, Dales wanted to send a message of support to the rest of Skyrim. The Empire would only stand beside Baldur.  She grasped his arm in friendship, quite firmly and strong for a girl her size, "It's good to see you again, circumstances aside, Baldur." 

"War's as good a circumstance as any," said Baldur. "Even with the death of our King. Ulfric was a warrior, and he died like one. Our land mourns his death, but Sovngarde is a worthy afterlife for such a worthy man. We will honor his name and carry his legacy." Dropping the professionalism finally, Baldur smiled at the young woman, and despite his men all looking down from on high, it was a genuine smile. Dales may have had her start as another Dominion boot licker, but the girl had come a long way from that time.

"As for being shirtless, that's Nord politics. It's hard to explain, perhaps we can discuss the attack and all that happened after in the warmth of the palace. You'll need to prepare for our journey up to High Hrothgar, and there'll be much to discuss I imagine before we do, including how Cyrodiil is faring as of late. We'll leave at dawn."

The Empress's dark blue eyes filled with surprise, as she took position beside Baldur, walking through the gate. Behind her, the Imperial Legate called out in the harsh, regimental voice that all Imperial Legate's worth there rank possessed, "All right lads, time to make camp. Let's head back to the outskirts, and pitch up tents. Palisades wont be necessary this time.!" A rhymic, "Yes sir!" resounded, as the soldiers began scurrying across the bridge. The Prelate, and a squad of Paltentia guardsmen made a move to go beside the Empress, but she lifted her gauntleted hand up, to stop him, "It's all right, Prelate. Security won't be an issue." Prelate Imperius called out in protest, "But your majesty-" The young monarch made an odd gesture towards the hulking nord beside her, saying deadpanly, "Strongest warrior in Skyrim. I'll be fine."  

The Prelate looked uneasy, but nodded his head. Disobeying a direct command from the Empress was not his intention. He spoke, "Of course, your majesty.  I'll get the men settled, then join you at the Palace of Kings, with the Legate." And with that, him and his sqaudron clanked back following the rest of the soldiers. Dales, her brow heavy with the ruby crown, asked Baldur in a friendly, but not overly engergetic tone, "The moot will be at High Hrogthar? I though the Greybeards seldom involved themselves with Skyrim's often..." She paused, trying to find the right word without being offensive, "enthusiastic politics. So we will be seeing the Throat of the World?" Her eyes had a certain, excitement to it.

"Aye, yes you will, Dales," said Baldur, not hiding his enthusiasm. "I'll be honest, I haven't contacted them with plans for a meeting. In fact, I've been to the Throat of the World before, and they did not grant me entrance. That was then, however. This is now. They will see me. They will see us both. I promise you that."

Looking back, Baldur said, "I'd offer your men accommodations within the city, but I'm sure you're aware of how the people of Windhelm are... They're free to try the local taverns and the like, but it's at their own risk. My soldiers know better than to start trouble, most of them anyway. But you know how Nords are with a bottle or ten in them."

"I'm quite excited to see its glory. I've heard much of it's wonder from the handful of Nord legionaries in my company who have seen it." She acknowledged his offer, "I'll give that word to the good Legate. The men I brought with me aren't green recruits. There seasoned veterans. They know not to cause brawls, and the like with the locals. I'm sure they'll appreciate the chance to drink reall Nordic mead." The young Empress made sure to keep beside the large Jarl at good pace. Didn't want to get lost in the labyrinth of ancient nord stonework. Dales may be small, but hours of training, and sparring had given her a good amount of muscle mass. More so then her petite handmaidens, and other lovely ladies of court, at the least. "I'm quite sure  they'll be happy to receive two monarchs of warlike kingdoms." She said in a low tone. "Especially considering, or i've read at the least, the Greybeards detest violence. I trust you have your'e reasons of holding the moot there, though. Although..." Dales hesitated for a moment, before saying, "I doubt many people will be happy to see me, as you are. The Empire will be seen as a noisy power, that has no right to be in the sacred halls of High Hrogthar." 

"On any other day, I'd agree. But these are desperate times. The Nords need allies, I need allies. I need credibility as well, for a number of things..." The two finally cleared the many snow covered houses of the common folk and stopped at the center of the city, where both the Palace and the left wall of the ancient city could be seen; crumbled and surrounded with workers clanking and hammering away at wooden constructs for future repairs of the wall.

"The Grey Beards once accepted the leaders of men into their home, including the Empire. We were at war and the Dragonborn was who they made exception for, but they did indeed let the world bleed into their domain. The Thalmor may be no Alduin, but the Greybeards must recognize the threat they pose to all of Tamriel, including Skyrim, and including them especially. If they do not, they will have failed us, and are no longer of any use to anyone. The people of Skyrim might not see it that way however, no matter what they might think of me. So, there is only one choice, Dales. We will make them hear us."

"I'm sure they will. As long as they dont drown out our words with there Th'um." The Empress's face went pale at the thought of being shouted off that monstrous mountain. but her features hardened, "I know many noble Atlmer, but those black-robed...demons." Her voice was infused with venom, "Need to be stopped. At all costs. If men, of such reported wisdom, and nobility such as the Greybeards can't see that, then they are fools, and cowards. Dales looked in awe at the impressive piece of masonry before here. The ancient carvings, and stone statues that decorated the outskirts of the palace were mighty impressive to the young girl.

Ancient Nords were an interesting people, and the Empress had indeed seen drawings of there structures in the large tombs she had brought with her to Skyrim, but they paled in comparsion to the ancient Palace of Kings. It was damn impressive. Breathless, she said, "The Imperial Palace is wondrous, certainly, but the one before us is certainly, equally as beautiful. In a different way. Bult by the hands of ancient man..." The wonder in her eyes turned, to pure scorn as she saw the walls, built by those same ancient men, torn, and tattered, "Those dogs did a number on the city. How many nordic soldiers did those bastards slay?"

"Too many," said Baldur. "We're still trying to get an accurate count. Many who were slain were reduced to ash before us. We've lost at least a few hundred, but luckily only a few of my Grim Ones. The citizens, they've suffered the most." There wasn't any sorrow detected in his voice, or any emotion at all for that matter. It was completely deadpan, as though he were focused on other things.

"You can be honest, it's not as pretty as the Imperial City. Not as grand, even I must admit that. I haven't had the pleasure of seeing the Imperial City up close, but I've seen the tower in the distance from the roads when I was a boy. That was long ago, back when my features more resembled your own, ha!"

"That sunbird must have been a nightmare. Our High Admiral faced one, and it decimated his fleet on the open seas. If we cant beat those..." She shuddered. At the thought of the previous discussion, her features brightened, "I'm being honest!" She said, smiling like she was girl, " The Imperial City is no doubt wondrous. What it lacks in grandiose, it certainly makes up in simplicity. Which I find oddly refreshing. No grand spires. No excess. Just a simple, strong, sturdy fortress, that can be easily defended. Very practical. The ancient nords were excellent builders it seems." She studied the features, looking at the large engravings of various names in ancient Nordic, "What are these?" She, asked, inquisitively studying them.

Baldur couldn't help but grin at the girl's enthusiasm. Her face completely changed its expression, where before she would seem much more like a grown woman. Now, she resembled the girl he remembered back in Falkreath. Or did she? Before, she looked like a scared child, but now even when surrounded by Nords and with her men outside the city for now, she was perfectly fine. He realized the young Empress trusted him, even, which was something that certainly gave him pause...

"These are the names of our Kings going from Ulfric himself, even all the way down to the Ash King and Ysgramor himself..." said Baldur.

As he did, one of his soldiers from the keep came by, saying "And so will his name be upon our wall once again. Sir, dinner is ready, and a training area has been made ready for you and the Empress, as requested."

"Great," said Baldur, cringing somewhat at the mention of his new namesake. "Empress Dales, I hope you don't mind, but I'd intended to spar with you to make sure that you'd be ready for the journey ahead. I've no doubt that your new spouse made sure you were battle ready. I intend to see for myself."

"Beating up a woman. How rude." The Empress laughed. Her face became serious after a little bit, "My dear husband saw no need for me to physically hone myself. I did that of my own violation. Though I doubt me being somewhat decent with a gladius, and spear will do well against the might of the Ash King himself." She said half jokingly, as she followed the Nord into the Palace of Kings. 

"Then use your magic as well," said Baldur, who spoke so simply and light heartedly that it almost sounded like a joke. As the two passed through the doors, Baldur pointed towards the throne where the grand dining table was moved aside so that the two would have plenty of space. There was a Nordic axe, a shield and a steel gladius of Nordic make waiting for the two, the latter of which found itself in the Empress's hands a short moment after Baldur tossed it towards her.

"We've got all day," he said. "It's not ideal, but it'll do. I'll give you the crash course. It's beneficial for both of us, I don't often get a chance to practice against experienced magic users."

"Fine. I wont go easy on you, Baldur." The Empress, surprisingly didn't bother to pick up the Nordic Gladius. She stretched out, drawing her knife. The Empress, cut parts off of the bottom half of her dress, tearing out the rich fabric without a second thought, skillfully slicing up the piece of the clothing with her blackened knife, allowing her free movement. The Empress, still wearing her blackened crown, suddenly, and without warning, charged forward like a crossbow bolt, as if she channeling magic to increase her speed. A flash of white mist entered Baldur's vision, as a large, massive ice spike appeared in her gauntleted hand, intent on skewering the large nord with it. The young woman screamed a battlecry.

Baldur was taken aback by the display, surprised that the young woman had come at him with such ferocity, but amused all the same by the telltale Imperial flashiness. Or was it a mage thing? He couldn't tell. Still, he was forced onto his guard, and only had time to raise his shield before dancing away, keeping at a distance to avoid the magical ice spike. As fast as he was, her training with the witch king was evident, and dodging wasn't something he wanted to risk.

Dales was surprisingly strong for her size, as was her mass. As if he was fighting an armored Imperial Soldier. More Magic probably. As if she was possessed, the young girls mouth curled into a snarl, as she wielded the large, ice spike as a spear. She pressed forward, the element of surprise lost, as was the advantage it provided. She knew Baldur was a much superior warrior to her, both in skill, and strength. As a man, Baldur inherently was physically, stronger, so she would need to use her magic to the full extent as possible. Not only an excellent student at the Synod, Dales was further enhanced by her master's training, leaving her a very large magika pool, and good knowledge in the arcane arts. 

She would need to combine skill in arms, as well as magic.

Dales continuously thrusted the magic ice spear into the Nord's shield, with surprising ferocity, and skill, trying to break his guard, as she channeled magical strength into her arms, causing her raining blows to be  deceptively powerful. As much as she loved the two handing fighting style, a spear made for boar-skewering would provide, it was quite impractical against a sturdy shield, so she made sure to prepare to doge, or summon an iceshield to block Baldur's eventual counterattack. 

It was evident that Baldur had underestimated Dales, which was uncharacteristically sloppy of him. When it came to Dales, most people did. He'd have to break her attack, and he'd have to get past her magic to do so. Sometimes the only way to combat a magic user like the Thalmor was in one of three ways. With the element of surprise, superior numbers, or with magic. Superior numbers was out, but it was possible that news of his thu'um wasn't widespread yet...

Getting beaten in his own palace was out, and that had dispelled all thoughts of consequences of mortally wounding the Empress. He let her blows land heavy upon his shield until her abnormal strength brought the thing to the brink of its integrity. He tossed it towards her face as she swung, knowing it would be destroyed, then at that moment cried, "Yol... Toor Shul!"

Yol. FIRE?! "****-" Dales barely had any time to raise her hand. In practically a split second, she had dropped her ice weapon, letting it shatter to the floor, as she conjured a blizzard of ice, practically emptying out half of her magika reserve into a massive wave oif ice in a desperate attempt to stop Baldur's thu'um. As the woman did, she ducked to avoid the incoming makeshift projectile, and crouching, raised both of her hands forward. The massive wall of cold, snow, and shards of razor sharp ice, jagged, rushed forward towards Baldur, as the woman drew her silver Gladius.

That's more like it.

Baldur had charged in as the words left his lips, fast enough to first experience the rushing heat of his own flame surrounding him as his thu'um was halted against the wall of cold. Then, he could feel the cold of Dales's magic, which he was also no stranger to as a Nord of Skyrim. The shards sent red ribbons trailing from his uncovered skin, and sent some of his hair to the stone floor as well, freezing in mid air before they could even touch the ground. Ignoring the pain and being careful not to have his eyes damaged, Baldur leaped through the mist, swinging his axe towards her legs to sweep her off her feet and get around her guard, rather than have his attack parried by her sword.

Baldur's method worked, and Dales was thrown to the cold hard floor of the palace. Baldur savagely brought the axe down, attempting to strike her temple with the nordic forged weapon. Dales managed to avoid the axes sting by a single inch, rolling away at the last second,  her enhanced speed saving her alot of pain,  the blade tearing off a handful of hair from her head, causing a yelp of escape her mouth. Not missing a beat, as soon as Dales confirmed a visual, she lifted her hand and launched a small ice shard toward's Baldur's hand, attempting to remove his axe from play.

 

Baldur was all smiles until he looked up and saw that the ice shard had stolen his axe from his hand. Disarmed and alarmed, his fist found her gut before she could capitalize. "You're rather skilled with ice magics," he said, thinking the punch would have finished her.

Instead, he saw a black flash, and despite his attempts to dodge, Dales's black blade slashed along his chest. Although wounded, the large Nord was still standing, and grabbed the girl's arm before bending it behind her back so that the dagger was pointing towards her skull.

"Hmm..." he said, thinking to himself.

Her skill with magic. If it's great enough to allow her to land a blow on me, then the Witchking himself... My Thu'um, it will not be enough.

"Girl... I mean, Empress Dales... You've certainly come a long way. I'd be happy to journey to High Hrothgar with you beside me. I acknowledge your strength."

"Thanks. You were lucky though. Bah. I didn't know you had the Thu'um.That was pretty fun...ah **** my hair is messed up" Dales coughed up a large mouthful of blood, smiling as she revealed her mouth full of blood, channeling a healing spell towards herself, and her fellow monarch, "Most people assume I use magic like most mages, as in ranged magic . Instead, I use it to enhance my ability to skewer my opponents on large spikes, up close...." Dales felt her scalp, as she angrily glared at the Nord, "I want my knife back please..." 

"I'd ask that you keep it a secret, but the Thalmor already know about it, intimately," said Baldur, grinning as he placed the dagger in her hand again. He wondered then what Rebec would say about all this. She'd probably throw up a little in her mouth at the sight of him getting along so well with an Imperial. He was surprised at it himself. Truth be told, he felt rather lonely in that big empty palace. Rebec and Ragna were back at Kyne's Watch... Ulfric, who once was a constant supply of daily headaches was now sorely missed by Baldur. His nagging presence was always a reassuring one, like that of an older brother. And Boldir... gods only know where he was.

His old friend from his merc days was shacked up with his lady friend in Kyne's Watch as well, and Daric nowadays didn't so much as say hello. All that he had were his soldiers and citizens of Windhelm, and they were too wrapped up in Ash King talk to be pleasant company.

There was Maori, but he too was gone. All there was, was Baldur. And for a sociable person such as himself, being stuck in a big empty palace may as well have been solitary confinement.

And if he wanted to end it, he'd need to get to business immediately.

"I suppose we should get down to business," he said. Though the sight of Dales's hair which wasn't that far from his own distracted him. Memories of Ysana, who hadn't yet replied to his letters, came to mind. He and his mother sometimes would spend time together after training his men, listening to her gossip about her new friends in the city while she tended to his damaged hair.

"First though, no matter how tough you are, an Empress shouldn't be allowed to parade around with her hair looking like that. Follow me. We can talk while I fix it."

"You want to do my hair?" She gave him a very strange look, as she grabbed her dagger, wipping the blood off it with the hem of her dress. She shrugged her shoulders, "Fine." But she eyed him suspiciously, "Just a warning Baldur. I prefer soft...shall we say, feminine hands running through my hair." Dales followed behind him through the hallways of the Imperial Palace. Stormcloaks stopped to gawk at the two of them for an instant. Surely they hadn't expected Dales to be so...messy. 

Baldur couldn't help but laugh. "Oh I've heard. Trust me, I don't plan on trying to change your mind, I don't want to think of what Rebec would do to me if I did, especially with a Breton woman. I'm no stylist unlike my mother, but I have an idea of something that'd suit you. Though I'm not sure how much your husband would like shorter hair on you. How are you two fairing, anyway? What's it like for a Breton girl to be married to a Nord?"

"Nothing to change. I was born this way. I'm proud of the fact, now. Whatever else people might say about it."  She gave him cold eyes, "How do you think its doing? I'll be honest with you, the marriage is non-existing. It's a useful political tool, nothing more, nothing less. Like I said before, I spend my nights alone, or...with other, more...delicate company" She finally said, admitting. She must have trusted Baldur quite a bit to tell him that, albeit she was being quite ambiguous, even if Baldur knew what she meant. She gave a sly grin, "Don't repeat what I just meant. I spent months trying to dispel that rumor, only for that pig Thedore Adravad to throw it back at me. The only advantage is people cant use it as leverage against me, since the rumors have been stated a thousand times, Cyrdoili has become bored of it. " 

"Yes, I imagine the imps have more to worry about nowadays than who their ruler is screwing," said Baldur. "This is Nord land, you don't have to worry about us gossiping like girls. We'll leave that to the Bretons. Which reminds me, I won't lie to you, because I'm no politician. I have met with the Bretons before in the past. Their king even. I like him. So on a personal level I can't take a side between your quarrel, so long as it doesn't lead to war. But I'm sure you don't need my help on that matter."

Baldur walked Dales into a nearby room with no doors to hide what was inside, sitting the young lady down as he grabbed comb and scissors.

"There is something I might be able to help you with, however. I'm about to tell you something in confidence. There's a reason I asked about your marriage to the Nord."

"Go on." Muttered Dales, still dumbfounded that she was getting her hair done by a mighty nordic warrior. It was so...surreal. 

Baldur claimed not to have been a stylist like his mother, but he was cutting himself short, much like Dales's hair. It was still regal in appearance, something you'd expect of a high born woman, just more refined, mature. It gave her the appearance of being a few years older, while better showing off her sharp features. Those lessons his mother gave him stuck, whether he liked it or not.

"Your husband, I knew the man. He used to serve under me in fact, or at least he pretended to. Were you aware of this?"

"Yes. An officer in the Stormcloak army. A lieutenant, or so our mutual wolf-friend told me." Dales admired herself in the mirror. The haircut was turning out nicely, "What of it? Marius defected to the Stormcloaks, and I respected him, it's not like I have anything against you. I wasn't Empress when you kicked the Legion out." 

So she does know. Good thing I didn't lie after all.

"I don't think you're getting the implication," said Baldur. "Your husband is an incredibly powerful Mage, something I'm sure you have realized. More powerful than one has a right to be in our day and age. During the war, he just left, went and started doing things on his own behind the scenes. He sent occasional reports, but beyond that he was not following orders from me or anyone else. The next thing I know, he has you as an apprentice, and soon after, he's found a seat on the throne. This was beneficial, it got you to help us defeat the Thalmor... But..."

Baldur stood in front of her then, and looked her in the eyes. "Just how exactly did the Witch King persuade you to turn against your father?"

"Krojun doesn't like taking orders, certainly. That's very much like him to disobey his superiors. But he's useful. Very useful. As a weapon, against the Dominion. Lay armies asunder with his horrible magic. He isn't a bad man either. In comparison, at the least. He's bloodthirsty though...he hates all of elven-kind. I worry for many of my mer subjects under his reign..." She eyed him suspiciously, her cold edge remaining as she stared him down "It didn't take much. I hated that man. He beat me. Hurt my emotionally. Called me a whore to my face. I was glad to gut him like the pig he was. That's a rather long story. But I think you know more of that tale then you let on...you know about it don't you?" Her skin went pale, but the iron in her face remained, "Who told you?" 

Baldur smirked in surprise and said, "Well what do you know, that wasn't all the Witchking's doing after all. How I know doesn't matter, what matters is that I want to help you. I don't know if I can, but I know some people that just might."

"How...can you help my special problem?" She glanced in the mirror, facing her reflection. She wanted to smash it, but showed no excess emotion. The young, vibrant girl had withdrawn, and only ice remained. Her cold blue eyes gazing into the reflection. Dales said, explaining, "It holds me back. That problem we both know about. It completely diminishes the potential he, the one who both know as the ancient nord king, saw inside me that faithful day. I want to be free. I want to be my own woman." She admitted, "But I still want to help him. He freed me from myself, and the fear of my father that held me back from doing the right thing. I....I almost hurt someone I care about, dearly, under his orders. So dark, and foreboding in every choice I make...I ask myself. Is it my own? Or is it his? 

 

Baldur stood back a moment, cautiously thinking out his next move. He'd taken a gamble in all of this. For one, so far the Witch King hasn't made a single move against Baldur, but he knew that after the war with the elves was done, it could be only a matter of time before he decided to take Skyrim again on a whim. 

And then there was Dales, who he thought surely would be angered at being enslaved, but it seems she was only irritated by it at best. Still, he took the gamble, he may as well see it through. And whether he'd admit it or not, he didn't like the idea of Dales being forced to aid them any longer, even if she just so happened to be aligned with their interest in killing Thalmor. Though how could he really know? 

He could be losing an ally by freeing her mind for all he knew, though it was a strong possibility he could make her feelings for him as a friend even stronger, thus gaining an even greater ally by having her feel indebted to him.

But most importantly, if there was truly a way to break whatever hold he could put on others, then it would most certainly be worth investigating.

"Well, I personally can't do anything," said Baldur, finally, feeling assured that this course of action was the right one. "But the Grey-Beards, they just might. There is a reason that I wanted you to come first before anyone else. This is why. If anyone can get the Grey-Beards to help, aside from the Dragonborn of course, it would be a student and friend of Ulfric Storm-Cloak I'd imagine. A student and friend who is destined to be his successor. I will see to it that they help us, if this is what you truly want. You should know however, that you risk angering Witchie. You do this at your own risk."

Dales sat there for a good moment, gazing into her own darkened reflection.  The Empress certainly pondered is this what she truly wanted. Already a venom of anger coursed through her, she had inherited her masters temper it seemed. She hated the Breton king. She hated the Thalmor with a passion. But she knew, whatever rage shew could conjured, it would be but a drizzle compared to the thunderous monsoon her teacher could unleash. A small part of her wondered, perhaps he would understand her actions, and not be anger, but only a small part. Dales knew, he would be angry with her anyway. Wherever, she could weather that storm, remained to be seen.

Dales had gotten this far with the help of her friends, and loved ones. Virtuous Gracchus, dear Elan, Captain Imperius, sweet little Helen, sly Victoria, wise Catia, brooding Krojun, brave Baldur, and insane Lorgar. She had made mistakes. She had cried. She had despaired. She had stewed in self-loathing. She had killed. She had maimed. She had laughed at the bitter struggle of human existence. But she had survived all that, with the help of those around her. And her own strength. 

She had the utmost respect for the anicent Nord King. She wanted to help him, as he had helped her to gain so much power. As much as Dales wanted to think herself as a selfless monarch, she couldn't. The power. The feel of impaling a foe on a massive spike of spear was intoxicating. The power felt good. But threw her, her body, her voice, her will, Krojun could cause great harm, to the thing that matter most to her.

Her people. 

Not just the Bretons, but the Imperials, the Argonians, the Khajits, the Nords, the Redguards, The Dumer, The Atlmer, the Orismer, and the Bosmer. Everyone in Cyrodili, no matter there race, was her family. She was there monarch, and she needed to protect them. 

She respected, and adored the man. But she knew, there was deep darkness within him. Right now, ensnared by his magic, she could be a liability. Dales wraith extended only to the Thalmor. Not her elven subjects. She was very certain, that Krojun thought very differently. 

Clearing her throat, Dales had come up with her decision, "What would this plan of your entail, Baldur?" She asked, once again with clear ice and stoicism.

"Mmm, it's best if I don't explain it," said Baldur, hiding a smirk. "It's less of a plan, and more like a gamble. You'll see. Get some rest, we leave for High Hrothgar tomorrow morning. Your soldiers can accompany us as far as the foot of the mountain but we're on our own after that."

"Fine. I trust you." She said simply.

"You trust too easily," said Baldur, knowing how far a leap it was that the Grey-Beards would actually help them.

And making them, well that certainly was out of the question... Right?

"I have experienced the worst of humanity, Baldur. I need to know some people are good enough for you to place your faith in them. To sleep at night  Or else..." She didn't finish her answer.

Baldur didn't say anything for a time... his face was blank.

When he did move, he looked like he wanted to say something, but stopped himself. Eventually, he said, "Sometimes, life only reveals one person. That person has to be yourself, Dales. Find reliability in yourself. Many people's lives count on it. I won't lie to you, there may very well come a time again when you and I are enemies..." He looked away from her, his eyes hardening as he pictured his long lost friend. "It's no secret that my people are hunting down the closest friend I've ever had, and with my blessing. In fact, when this is all over, I'll need to discuss that with you as well. But this place, this world, it was not meant to be a place of comfort. Life is an Arena. It doesn't matter how many are watching. In the end, we all fight alone. But enough of all that. Please, get some rest."

"As you say. Good Night, Baldur. Thank you for the haircut." The girl was quick on her feet, and had vanished out of sight in a mere moment, Baldur could hear her steps for a good moment or so, before they vanished into the quick silence of oblivion. It seems she had inherited her, wayward crazy mentors skills at vanishing.  Dales was gone, and once again, Baldur was alone in the desolate, stone palace.

Baldur watched her leave, waiting for her presence to be gone before he turned to his own figure in the mirror before him to fix his own hair. His mind ran on his daughter, realizing that he were speaking to Dales as if she were an older Ragna. His wife warned him once that he was too soft, and she was right, he knew. He should distance himself from the Empress, he knew. It was unbecoming of a Nord Jarl, even with this alliance, no matter the reason.

Picturing what Rebec would say, he smirked, imagining the scowl she'd give before banishing thoughts of her and his daughter as best he could so that he could sleep. Though sleep still hadn't found him, as thoughts of what he had to do soon left the would-be king's mind troubled all night.

Part 1 End

[Witchking of Angmar]

Dales and Baldur

-Continued-

"Rise and shine," said Baldur, shaking the Empress until she came to. Her room had no window, but if it did, she'd see it was early enough that the Sky was still decorated in colored ribbons. "It's time we've seen the Grey Beards of High Hrothgar. I've prepared my horse, and yours is fed and holding enough provisions for the journey. If we go now, we'll be at the foot of the mountain in about a week. That should give us enough time to get to High Hrothgar and speak with the Greybeards before Skyrim's other guests arrive."

The young girl yawned loudly, stretching out, shaking her head. She wore a purple nightgown that did little to cover he legs and arms. Dales was...less then developed.  She was oddly puggy too. Not fat, but she had a little amount on her belly.  Her arms and legs were strong though. Well-defined and muscular. Her body was completley different then say, one of Baldur's female soldiers, or his wife. Her cold blue eyes blinked, as she spoke in a deadpan voice, "I should have followed your advice and gone to sleep right away. Damn legionaries..."

"Legionaries?" he asked. "What, they came in bothering you last night? Probably didn't take too well to you staying here alone, I'll bet. Allies we may be, but having a bunch of legion soldiers sleeping in the palace of Ysgramor, well... no offense, but there's only so much hospitality I can afford."

"Nah, they just wanted me to treat them." She said, with a small smile "Spoiled children, my Imperia Paltenina are." She got up from her postion stretching as she went to a small basin, to splash water across her face, "Which means they made me go with them to a brothel. Got barely any sleep." 

Baldur was honestly stunned to silence, that being the last answer he expected to receive. He didn't bother hiding it, either, but laughed it off. "Well, there won't be any brothels where we're going. Just trolls, wolves, and a bunch of stuffy old men at the top. But we should be fine. I've sent a messenger to your men and mine, there's already soldiers camped at Ivarstead, but I figured your men want to make sure you're safe themselves, so they've already gone marching without us. They'll stay there, while we move on up. Don't want to give the Greybeards the wrong idea by marching up to High Hrothgar with an army. Well, come on then! Early Nord gets the mead!"

"No more booze!" She wailed, trailing behind Baldur. She paused for a moment, before asking, "Tell me Baldur. I read about Nordic politics on my way here, and during my studies back in the Imperial City, but i'd rather ask a Nordic "noble" like yourself. Can the Thanes, Jarls, and other upper class nobles raise armies with ease, and cause possibly coups towards the High King? I know Ulfric Stormcloak had his own millitira group, the Stormcloaks, but is it easy for the others." An odd question, but Dales seemed she had another motive for raising it.

"Noble?" proclaimed Baldur. He hadn't even begun to start thinking of him and his line as nobles, though the title didn't hold as much meaning in Skyrim as it did elsewhere. If his plans were realized, the Red-Snows would even be hailed as royalty, or possibly something entirely different altogether if the Greybeards received him.

"I suppose a Thane could indeed start up his own military force, Skyrim doesn't normally have just one united force. What Ulfric has done is rather unique, as even the Jarl's men were proclaimed 'Stormcloaks', giving Ulfric more control over the Jarls than the High Kings of old once had. When Ulfric was alive, however, even I, a general of his army had my own private military, the Grim Ones, though they were still Stormcloaks. If your question is wouldn't that lead to instability, then you're exactly right. That's partially why humanity's first empire failed. But that won't happen here, not in our lifetime. Provided that my title as Ash-King is recognized by all, not just those here in Windhelm."

"So the Stormcloaks have centerilised the military, tied it to the state and united it under a single command chain, similar to the Imperial Legion, correct?" Dales walked slowly, her purple dress trailing behind her, "In Cyrodili, we've avoided the problem altogther for a long time. The Count's of the various counties control much power, yes, but they are unable to field permeant armies, or even local militia. All units in the country are controlled by the Legion.  Even the Countie Guard is considered a group part of the larger Legion. They answer only to the Emperor, or in my my case, Empress and Elder Council." She chuckled, "That of course, fixes one problem, and leads to an equally large problem. Do you know what that is?"

"Sharing power with the Elder Council ties your hands almost as bad as sharing power with your counts. Correct?" said Baldur. "To satisfy the counts and citizens minds that their Emperors and Empresses don't hold total control. Luckily in Skyrim, no one really cares that Ulfric has taken so much control, at least not yet. Not while we have a common enemy to hold our attention."

 

"Exactly. The Elder Council, and the Emperor/Empress must exist with each other in balance. I have veto power over the Elder Council, but they can also overule a decision against me if they agree on something. Another major issue that comes with the Imperial system is it grants an immeasurable power to the milliyary. Several Emperors have been deposed by millitary coups, and highly ambitious High-Generals. The later isn't an issue, as the military, including the general and soldiers, adores me. During the coup led by General Jon, all the legions supported me over him. Also..." A sly grin appeared on her lips, 

"The common people love me as well." She refrained from using Peasant or Plesbian " I listen to them, talk to them at court, shake there hands, try my best to help them in there daily lives.  I view them as people, instead of lesser beings like many nobles. And to be honest, while it's a very effective image to have, I genuinley feel that way. A monarchs first priority, shouldn't be to themselves, or even there country, but to the people of there country. 

"The same goes to my soldiers. I love all my legionaries, and have the utmost respect for them. Even then, it is not useful for a monarch to have the love of her soldiers? I eat with my officers, I drink with my common soldiers, in the Palentina, and even the watch." She grinned, "And I sometimes treat them with brothel whores." It seems Dales knew how surprised Baldur was,

"I hold the hearts of the people, and my soldiers. That image I build, is a way to connect with the two groups, the common folk of Cyrodili, and the Red legionaries of the Empire. And to be honest with you, Baldur, is I prefer the company of regular people, over that of nobles. " She glanced to the side, "The nobility already has a distaste for me. For multiple reasons. They call me slug Empress behind my back. But why should I try to appeal to them, when instead, I can make my already large supporters even more larger and more loyal." 

Her grin widened, as she slyly chuckled, "It dosen't matter were you are. There's always three groups in a people. The Soldiers. The common folk. The noboloity. I have the complete loyalty, and support of two. Those two automatically cancel out the other one. Meaning they must follow my will..."

Baldur felt uncomfortable at the mention of their problems with generals in the past... the idea of him having anything in common with Imperial generals, who sometimes dabbled in politics was sickening. But this wasn't for his own gain, he reminded himself.

"Thankfully, things are more simple here. Generals and the like if they got ambitious, would have to overturn a Jarl, for only Jarls could become High King. To further avoid conflict, we have the moot, which decides by vote which Jarl will become King. Without the Empire to decide for us, and without Ulfric Stormcloak who held unanimous loyalty of the Jarls he'd placed, this will be the first moot in years that will be truly pure and free of outside influences. I'll have support from other kingdoms yes, but my people can choose to ignore that. I suspect some will in fact, as they may see it as a challenge or even a threat to Skyrim's independence. Others will see it as reassuring we stay free, since this alliance puts us at the head. That's why I asked for your help. I'm going in with that idea to spear my position to the top."

"Ah. But you must also understand, how an outsider, or Nord who dosen't understand your motivation for becoming king. You were a general. A great general, who had the love of the people and the millitary. Like you said, only a Jarl can take power of the Throne. Then you took Jarlship for yourself, right after Ulfric Stormcloak, a much beloved ruler, and one of your bestfriends, died. Hours after his passing." Se paused, "Despite the diffences in our race, humans are humans. And human nature never changes. Some, including the other Jarls, must feel you to be an usurper at best, rising from his established social standing as a soldier, and at worst, a miserable traitor, who took advantage of a tragic situation to further his own lust fot power. Those people wont change there minds, and you'll have to deal with eventually. Less your grip over Skyrim wane. What's the High Queen's opinion on the matter?" She looked sullen, "I have heard much about her beauty. I was looking forward to meeting her."

"As far as I know, she understands my position," said Baldur. "What outsiders don't understand is, Ulfric was, is, everything to Skyrim, especially to those of us in the East. When he died, it would have been a great moral blow. But then, as if the gods themselves intervened..." Baldur paused for a moment, recalling the events that played out after Ulfric's death. He planned to sway the people indeed, but how it happened, was almost too perfect. Even he was starting to wonder if this was the will of the gods.

"As if the gods had intervened themselves, I had come from what was supposed to be an execution by elven hands not only unscathed, but from the ashes of my fallen comrades who tried to protect me. As if Wulfharth was reborn anew. And now, fire cannot touch me. It is for this reason that I am called Ash-King. And now, instead of Skyrim losing its will to fight, its will to fight is even stronger. Veleda would be a good Queen, but she cannot muster the fighting spirit of Skyrim the way I can. No one can. And if we're to defeat the elves, believe me. You want them angry and their spirits inflamed. I did not take the position of Jarl, I merely accepted it when it was offered to me. Veleda knows this, and while I do think I am the best candidate for King, it was not originally my idea. Will everyone accept this, no. But that is why we are seeing the Greybeards, and why I chose to have this moot in their home. If anyone is an authority on such matters, it would be them."

"Religious fevor is powerful. Very powerful. But make sure that dosen't change to zealotry. Religion can often go out of control, and the person who started it looses the control as it completley sprials in chaos, becoming somthing that the original source did not want. But as you say, if anyone can solidfy your claim to Skyrim's throne, it's the greybeards."

"Exactly," said Baldur.

Upon exiting the palace, Baldur expected to see nothing but empty streets at such an hour. He was dead wrong. Instead, not only were the streets not empty, they were packed. When he opened the palace doors, shouts of good luck and well wishes for the Ash-King filled the night, as they knew that the next time they saw him, he would be proclaimed High King.

"What's all this?" asked Baldur.

Approaching the two, Bardok said, "Damage control. People wanted to know what the Empress was doing here, so we told them."

"Told them what?" Baldur said, leaning close to Bardok.

"Only the truth of course. That the Ash-King has the Empress on his beck and call, and she's supporting his call to the throne."

Turning to Dales, Baldur said, "Politics, until I get the throne, that's what we're gonna have to go with. The common folk don't want to see that we're friends. The moot will be different, the Jarls already know that we have history in Falkreath."

Dales eyes flashed with what appeared to be extreme anger, a flame of burning venom for a split second. She had a temper it seemed, but that was replaced by cool melancholy a few seconds later. "Of course, Jarl Red-Snow. The people of Skyrim would look down upon an Empress from Cyrodiil. Its best if we appear distant to the common folk here." She said, appearing as cold as possibly. She turned to face Bardok, saying in a venomous voice, barely a whisper among the wind, "I am no ones lapdog, soldier. The high justicar found that out as I personally removed his eyeball with my nails, and sliced open my fathers gullet with my knife." 

Knowing Bardok had a smart mouth, Baldur cleared his throat. "In front of all these people is not the place to have a pissing contest, Bardok."

"Aye," he said simply, turning away from the two. He sure did have a few things to say, but he kept his mouth shut, for now.

Shrugging, Baldur said, "It's like tending to children, really. Come on, Dales, walk beside me through the city. I won't insult you further as an ally by having you trail behind me. I ask for much, I know it."

"Forget it Baldur, I lost my temper, and behaved in a way beneath me, I apologize for that. I am your guest, and I acted rudely towards one of your men. " She said, her tempered mood returning, trailing by his side, and following him through the city. "I get angry often these days. I lashed out." 

Baldur leaned in so that he could be heard amongst all the yelling. "That's nothing, don't worry about it. I'm glad you showed your teeth actually. I want to make it clear that allies of mine are strong and worthy. Otherwise, your presence by my side would make me look weak. That's another reason I gave you that haircut, more fitting for someone that fights."

"Your people must be in a worse mood then I am. The attack from the Thalmor must have hurt them bad." Dales walked side by side with Baldur through the crowds of people, glancing at her Stormcloak escort. While some rude names were being shoved at her, she didn't mind. Whore, and Imps wern't that bad. At least nobody here knew that awful nickname that she's called in court. Slugs were probably not assoicated to what Dales was over here. The snowy torrent picked up, showering the Empress in the bitter cold wind, which her wolf-skin cloak did little to protect her from. She was no Nord, but she did like the cold. Over the summer heat anyway. "You said wild beasts were in abudance near the road to Ivarstead? Any chance we'll see a Dragon?"

Baldur said, "I have no idea, but that's another reason it's best we travel up the mountain alone, they're attracted to large bodies of soldiers like what you brought. I've only seen a couple dragons since the war however, they don't seem interested in bothering us." Listening to the crowd, Baldur said, "Hear them well. Take it in. This enthusiasm, I am not foolish enough to take as love for me. This is desperation. Angry doesn't begin to describe what it is they feel. Before, when Ulfric was alive, war for the elves was no longer something they all craved. We had our independence, our worship for Talos. They had what they wanted. That attack was a wake up call for everyone that thought they were safe. They now know that we will never be safe, until we remove the threat entirely. That desperation if not guided quickly, will be headed internally just like before. You see now why it is so essential that this moot is resolved soon? Their enthusiasm for war is useful, but also dangerous. But when focused, all of Tamriel will tremble at the sight of a united Skyrim, under one banner, with one enemy. These are Shor's people, Dales. Never forget their strength."

"Rip the infestation from the ground." Muttered Dales underneath her breath, so softly she was sure no one could hear here. That's all the Dominion is to me. An infestation of parasites. They finally reached the gate, and went beyond the large gathering of people. No. Baldur was right. This wasn't love. It was blind, desperation. His people were devoted to him, but it wasn't out of love. They saw Baldur as a way out, of a dark situation, and as a savior, but that wasn't motivated by how his people thought of him personally. It was because he was the Ash King. Baldur had been barely Jarl for a month, and the people have swarmed around him, like a moth drawn to a flame. She worried for her friend, but for the people as well. Because moths tend to burn, if they get close to that very flame there drawn too. Consumed by the zeal that drove them in the first place. At the same time, that draw to the Ash King, was a thing that could turn him, a regular soldier, into a High King of legend. A symbol Skyrim could rally behind. 

Dales was no fool. Her teacher told her to make sure the other nations contributed equally to the upcoming war effort, but she knew deep in her heart, the Empire, and the Nords would suffer the most. Spend the most. Those cowards in High Rock can cower in there castles for all I care. I will rip the infestation that is the Aldmeri Dominion from this world. Alone if I have too. And send those batards that took my beloved from to whatever dark pitt awaited them in the afterlife. The Empire will survive this, though. She promised herself, and her people. They had survived the Oblivion crisis. They had survived the Great War. They had survived the Civil War. They had survived High Rock leaving. The Dragon would endure, no matter what Dales had to sacrifice. 

************* 

It was a week of traveling that brought Dales, and Baldur to the Throat of the World. The duo of royalty had been quick, and stopped little, besides the occasional rest and respite. They kept to the roads, and made sure to stay out of any buisness that didn't concern them. They ran into a handful of Stormcloak patrols on the road, whom offered there amazement at the sight of there future High King, and cold, yet respectful greetings towards the Empress. Nords were surprisingly personable. They ran into some Wolves, and a troll or two on the road there, but the duo made disgustingly quick work of these would be beasts, as Dales unleashed barragments of flame, and Baldur threw blows of iron with his axe. They made a good team. 

Dales was overwhelmed at the sight of the monstrous mountain, her mouth led agape by the sight of it the first time she gazed upon it. They had stayed in Invarstead for about half a day, to rest, because they had traveled surprisingly fast and could afford it. Dales would have made her self more presentable, but she doubted the Greybeards would really care. She walked with the posture of a monarch, bore a crown, and a cold face. That was good enough for her. 

The two had traveled by horseback, the fabled seven thousand steps. Because of how dangerous it was, mostly the ice, they had made sure to urge there horses on slowly. They amount of snow assailing them, on there way to High Hrothgar was another thing entirely. Dales was much tougher then she looked, but the snowy blizzard was so bad, it almost looked like the assailing snow could throw the Empress off her horse and into the depths of mountain. Not to mention the very bad fact the snow, and cold completely dampened there vision. Dales, her voice almost consumed by the howling wind, yelled so her nordic companion could hear her, "Do you think there's any Yeti's up here?" Yeti's were beasts of legend in Bruma, and she always wondered if they were real or not, "Maybe an Ice Giant? Becuase I really dont want to end up a meal to some primordial beast of horror, Baldur!"

Baldur could barely hear her, but he heard enough to make out yeti. "I don't know what that is, but I was raised in Bruma! Never heard of it, only the uderfrykte! I don't think giants live up here either, at least not anymore! Rebec might disagree though! Either way, it's no monster we need to worry about right now, but this damn cold; we can't have the Empress freezing to death before the war, now can we!?"

She looked offended, trying to struggle through the wind, "Baldur, the frost potion I drank is barely protecting me! This isn't cold! This is frigid death infused in the wind! I'm sure even a nord would die from hypothermia up here! I dont know what's worse, being eaten to death by giant ice monsters, or freezing to death!" The Empress gently petted her horse, whom neighed with affection. She had replaced his armor with furs to protect from the cold, but she was still worried for the poor beast. "Which step do you think were on?" 

"I have no idea," he said. "Maybe 5000 something, if there's really even that many steps." Baldur hated to admit it, but she was right. Even with his training as a Grim One, if they stayed exposed to this blizzard for too much longer, they were all going to die. The last time he went up this damn mountain, there was no snow at all falling, just what was always on the top most part. Though that was in the middle of Summer. Even so, this was something else. After a deafening period of thunder, the storm seemed to just come out of nowhere... could it be? Did the Greybeards somehow know they were coming and trying to prevent it?

The idea seemed like pure paranoia, but it did remind Baldur that he had the thu'um at his disposal. Problem was there was nothing to burn. Well... Not entirely true. The wood all around them was frozen solid, too frozen to use in a fire. But, he did have the perfect kindling at their disposal. Kindling that would never burn out.

"Stand back, Dales," said Baldur, pulling down his hood and facecover. He flipped his hair over his face then, and suddenly let out the first word of YolToorShul, effectively setting his hair on fire and having a sizeable flame coming from the top of his head.

"Quickly, put up the tent and we'll wait out the storm."

Dales nodded, jumping off her horse. The woman seemingly had recieved legion training, as she effortless managed to put up there emergency tent in a couple of minutes with the efficiency of a soldier. She quickly uttered a spell of warmth, placing it on her horse, and herself, as well as Baldur, drinking another potion, and giving a dosage to her horse once more.  The Empress opened the flap of the tent, and took a sitting position. She didn't both to remove her partial armor, but removed her travel hood. Dales had left her crown with her men. She wouldn't be needing it until the moot anyway. Her gloved right hand suddenly went alit with a small, orange sphere, radiating intense heat. "It's ******* insane out there..." The girl muttered, "I didn't know it would be that cold here!"

Arms shivering, Baldur said, "Neither did I. Skyrim's cold, but this seems unnatural. Not even wild animals can withstand that." Eyes closed and legs crossed, Baldur seemed as though he had his own crown already, sitting with his head aflame in the tent. "There is a chance that this is the Greybeards' doing. Though if we were killed by their power, that would go against their teachings. Perhaps it's only meant to dissuade us."

"I though they were kindly old men that lived on a mountain, dedicating there lives to the Way of the Voice? Not people who would want to freeze royalty to death!" She placed her hands closer to the orb of orange, gathering as much heat as she could shivering. 

"Heh, take it as a compliment, Dales. Perhaps they didn't think this enough to kill you and I. Still, even with magic, we'll have to be cautious. If this storm doesn't let up soon, we'll have to consider our options. We have enough provisions from Ivarstead to last us another day or two. But after that..."

"If you saying to eat our horses, then I dont know what to say..." She said, with an odd expression. Before he could speak in response, Dales muttered, "I could muster up a particularly powerful Alternation spell, that'll keep as very warm for several hours. But that will be incredibly draining, both on my magika reserves, and stamina, so we would have to book it as fast as possible to the monastery."

"I'm fine with that," said Baldur. "If you're willing to risk it. We could just go back down the mountain, but that's a long way to go, having to come back up. And there's no guarantee that this storm won't just happen again, especially if it really is their doing. And of course, the doors may be locked to us. If they're pacifists truly, then perhaps they'd let us in before we froze to death."

"Agreed. Shall we then ash King? Once I release the power of this spell, we'll need to rush to the peak."  She waited for Baldur.

Dales gripped Baldur's forearm before like at the Windhelm gate. Before she closed her eyes. It seems like she was sleeping to an outside, but in reality, she was about to conjure forth powerful magic. Her peach skin, became deathly pale, as she lifted up her free hand, as it glowed a vermilion red, like the twilight sky. Banish thy thoughts, and let the darkened hour of twilight consume thy. She repeated the words of her mentor, small stands of red light began to envelop the two of them, as Dales further poured her magika reserves into the power of the spell. A second layer of glowing red light now clutched the two of them, appearing like a reflective barrier, the small strands of vermilion twilight growing in power, causing the tent to be filled with red energy. As if the hour of twilight was present, Dales herself began to feel sleepy, but she resisted. At last, the spell had finished, Dales let out a deep breath, opening her eyes. She told Baldur, "There. We should be completely protected from the chill." Even with the warmth spell from before, Dales was freezing. Now? She felt like she in a warm summer day, wearing full armor, sweating buckets of water. 

"Kinda wish we did this before," said Baldur, smiling at the relief he felt. "Should have stocked up on magicka potions. Ah well, lets go while we still have time!" Yanking her by her arm, Baldur started sprinting up the steps as fast as he could, with fire trailing from his head behind him.

Faint trails of blood start falling from her mouth, as she muttered weakly, "It's pretty taxing on the body though." She shook her head, dispelling the weakness, as she followed Baldur up the snowy peak. The two traveled at length, going up the stone stairs, there two horses trailing behind the two humans. The horrible snow was unrelenting, but now, with Dales powerful heat spell, the two felt only warmth as if the sun itself was shining against them. Dales was a pretty fast runner, but she could barely keep up with the Nord, the exhaustion not stopping her though, occasionally channeling small bursts of stamina into her. All of a sudden, while Baldur was focusing on the stair way, he heard his young companion scream out in terror, "******* YETI!!!!!!" A burst of steel could be heard, as was a barrage of aiming, bolts. Along with a roar, and a sad yelp. Turing around, Baldur saw the corpse of a frost troll, with Dales blackened dagger stuck in its eyelid, and various burn marks covering the large furry beast. 

Baldur looked confused for a time, but realized then that the Empress hadn't seen a troll before, at least not a frost troll. He opened his mouth to explain, but...

"Well I'll be. Never saw that before, certainly not up here! You killed a gods damned yeti!" While trying his hardest to seem truly amazed, Baldur could feel her spell growing a bit weaker. Looking around until he found one of the Greybeard's tablets, Baldur ran off temporarily, leaving the young Empress with her kill.

Emblem VIII

Jurgen Windcaller chose silence and returned

The 17 disputants could not shout Him down

Jurgen the Calm built His home on the Throat of the World.

"We're almost there!" He yelled. "Get away from that ugly thing and get on my back, I'll carry you while you focus on the spell! Leave the horses, they'll just slow us down, let them wander back down the mountain!"

"This is undignified!" She couldn't believe it! She killed a yeti! She made slight protest, as she wrapped her arms around Baldur's throat, in a piggie back.  The young girl made sure not to go too close to his head, which was still slightly alit. She began channeling the spell once more, rapidly draining her slowly building up Magika bank, yelling, "Run Baldur!"

"You tell no one about this, you understand? NO ONE."

With that, Baldur charged up the stairs. It was amazing that in all this, he was even able to sweat thanks to Dales' magic. But he savored it while he could. It was still slow going thanks to all the wind and their horses behind them.

Both Dales and Baldur were practically red in the face, but after over an hour, High Hrothgar in all of its ancient grand majesty was finally in sight.

"Auriel, be praised we made it!" Shouted Dales, as the sights of the anicent nordic temple filled her with awe and wonder. That ancient stone work, and carvings painted a picture. It looked more mysterious then the palace of kings! She jumped off Baldur's back, and once again, trailed behind him. 

"Auriel, pfft," said Baldur, cringing at the name of the elven god. "No time to waste, lets get through these doors before your spell wears out."

Baldur grabbed hold of one of the iron rings, pausing a moment to pray to whatever gods were listening that the old stuffy monks inside hadn't locked the door after all. Finally after a moment's silence, he yanked the door will all his might. And....

"Locked," he said, sounding defeated. "Stand back. I figured this might happen. Keep concentrating on that spell, while I knock this thing down."

Dales continued to channel the warmth spell, as she went behind him a good distance, "Maybe it's frozen shut?"

 

"Well then lets fix that. YOL TOOR SHUL!!!"

The Nord's flaming head grew with excitement as the tongue shot a great fireball from his mouth. Steam and smoke blasted from the entryway, but that was all that happened. The door remained.

"Again!" Clasping his hands together as if to gather energy, the Nord unleashed his fiery thu'um once more. Veins popping up in his neck, he said, "YOL, TOOR SHULLL!!!"

Same result.

"What kind of ******* doors are these?? Daedric?"

Dales sighed, "It seems the woman has to do all the work..." She muttered underneath her breath. She placed her hand to his armored shoulder, closed her eyes, and channeled a spell through her. Suddenly, Baldur began to faintly glow a small blueish him. Dales muttered, her voice slightly deeper, and resonating with power, "Try now." 

Baldur wanted to protest, first because he always insisted that Thu'um magic was different than ordinary magic, and also because he felt like the Greybeards were testing him, and he wanted to succeed with his own might. But, that was just the old stubborn Nord in him, he knew. The Thu'um was indeed different, but it was still affected by the Thalmor's magic back in the Palace of Kings...

"Fine then," he said.

"Yol.... Toor SHUL!"

This time his voice was loud enough to rival a dragon's. The flame erupted from his mouth in a stream rather than a fireball, blowing the door clean off of its hinges.

"Never underestimate magic, my dear nord." She said with snark, smiling. "It was a powerful amiplify spell, increasing your magic cabilities far from normal."

Baldur normally wasn't one to shun the usefulness of magic, but ever since he learned the thu'um, he got a bit cocky, thinking he was above its usefulness. It was a good lesson in humility.

Biting his lip, he took a moment to reflect on that, then dipped his head in acknowledgement of what she said and in gratitude. "Right you are, young Empress. A good lesson to remember when going into this war. Now, lets get inside already before the cold reaches us again."

Baldur and Dales stepped inside the ancient halls, ready to see whatever wonders awaited them.

Part 2 End

[Witchking of Angmar]

High Hrothgar

Baldur and Dales

Part 3

"This is it.. I've finally made it in! Do you feel it? Can you even feel it, I wonder. This place is the closest to lady Kyne. No other place has been touched by her very essence more than High Hrothgar!"

Baldur marveled at the stonework, the murals, the incredible sense of peace that radiated from it. All the while, he hadn't noticed the door returning to its frame, as if time were being reversed.

"For someone who holds such reverence for this place, you show great disrespect. For High Hrothgar, for the Greybeards, and for the very Thu'um you use with such carelessness."

A robed figure suddenly appeared in front of them. Or was he always there? Standing up from what seemed to be his meditation, the man said, "I am Arngeir. You could have just knocked, you know, Baldur Red-Snow. And... the Empress of Cyrodiil? My my, such grand company, indeed. What brings the likes of you two to my home?"

"Empress Dales Draconius, of the Imperial Draconis dynasty, at your service!" Dales said energetically. It's like she walked into one of Helen's novels. The young monarch took in the sights, the wonder of the place. Someone attuned to magic like herself could easily tell a mysterious power, of tranquility hung over the ancient monastery. Somthing so relaxing, so peaceful...To be honest with herself, she had never felt so at ease. She offered her hand to the elderly man, saying, "It's an honor to meet once such as revered as you, Arngeir!"

"Well well," said the old man, smiling. "I hadn't expected the young Empress to hold us in such high regard, especially since we're friends of the Dragonborn, and helped orchestrate the Empire's defeat here in Skyrim. Or at least in the eyes of some, who forget our neutrality."

"Your neutrality?" said Baldur, angered. "You're supposed to serve Skyrim! When Skyrim is in need, you're supposed to use your talents as tongues to help your people! And if Skyrim isn't enough, then know that all of humanity is in danger, and guess what? We've come to collect."

Arngeir said nothing for a moment, only watched the young man before him that stood with his hair burning, as if wearing some self given crown. "Hmph," he said before turning away. "At my service? It seems your friend thinks I am at his service, your grace. Not even a High King, and he thinks he can bark orders at me, and tell me of what my duty is to Skyrim? My duty is to the gods, and no one else."

"Holding a grudge is beneath an Empress." She said, in response. A dark voice whispered, or was it herself, Liar. Hypocrite. But she ignored it. Dales had...a rather low opinion on religion in general. However, if what she had read, and Baldur inferred, about the Greybeards were true, she really didn't want to piss them off. Less she be shouted off the mountain top! Perhaps Baldur was being a little too...aggressive right now. Dales loved a good scrap here and there. But right now, it seems the best option was diplomacy. "What my felow monarch is trying to say...I think is, that if Skyrim's in trouble, as well as its people, isn't it your duty to assist it? The gods must want whats best for there people." She asked, speaking in a respectful tone, "And because the stakes have been raised so much, as the threat extends to all humanity, perhaps you could help us in our endeavors to face those problems?"

"It wasn't too long ago that it seemed what the gods thought best for the people was for all of us to disappear in Alduin's gullet," said Arngeir.

"And who came along and stopped him," said Baldur. "The Dragonborn."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps the Dragonborn only temporarily sent him back to the spirit of Aka. Who can truly say? But, perhaps the gods do wish this world to last a bit longer."

Turning to the duo, Arngeir's eyes settled on Baldur, with what appeared to be angered eyes. "What assistance are you to seeking? I will not fight in the upcoming war, and while I have sensed your coming here, I have no idea what it is that you want. Speak up, I'm an old man and it's rude to keep an old man waiting."

Baldur wishes for you to support his claim to the Throne, and to hold the moot in the sacred halls of High Hrothgar." The Empress said plainly, "I am here to support his claim to the Throne...though I have other, more pesonally reasons for making the pilgrimage up the seven thousand steps." 

"You want me to do what?" said Arngeir.

"You heard the girl," said Baldur. "By right as Ulfric's student in the way of the voice, HIS way of the voice, I Baldur Red-Snow claim the throne given to me by his people after his death. By right as the Ash-King, Wulfharth's incarnation, I ask the Greybeards to recognize this claim."

Arngeir waved a dismissive hand, and said, "By Ulfric's way of the voice? How fitting that his way of the voice was what got him killed! I warned him this would happen, and now a student of his comes up here claiming that he's Wulfharth's ghost? Well, 'Red-Snow' I'll tell you this, what I do know of Wulfharth was that his arrogance was ALMOST as great as yours, yet even he knew better than to come here demanding anything of us!"

"Wulfharth had the luxury of time! I do not!" cried Baldur, the sounds of both their raised voices causing reverberations in the air. "I do not have time for diplomacy, for niceties! I do not have time to prove to you or anyone who I am, I AM the Ash-King! And while you do not have a duty to Skyrim in your eyes, I absolutely do! This is the land that my wife will raise my children, and that they will raise theirs! This is the land that Ulfric Stormcloak broke his sacred oath atop this mountain for, gave his life for! If you do not recognize my claim, then kill me now, because I do not wish to see all that we've worked for sundered in civil war and crushed at the hands of the elves. I will not!"

"ENOUGH!"

Arngeir let loose a thu'um so powerful that Baldur's vision turned blurry. It was the last thing that he saw, before what was left of him was nothing but a pile of glowing dust.

"I cannot listen to him invoke that name any longer. Not now." Arngeir's eyes then settled on the Empress.

"Now, what is it that you need help with, dear? I'm sure whatever it is will be easier to bear."

"What in Auriel's...name....did you do to him! ?" Dales voice was shaky and lanced with in terror. In fear, the Empress had conjured a large, icy shield, which she held with both hands, to protect her from the voices. While she was being consumed by her fear of the power that stood before, a sly whisper emerged in her head, "Embrace your emotions Dales. Fear is useful." The young empress straightened her back, and her cold piercing eyes trailed towards the old man, though she still spoke in a very respecful manner, her shield melting into water droplets "Due to rather...complicated circumstances, my soul had been....binded to another person. A very powerful, anicent nordic king. You might know of him. Krojun. I still have quite a bit of loyalty towards him, but the binding itself is...rather incovient. An Empress serves her people, and this binding has...me worried, that I wont be able to perform my job properly." She bowed her head deeply, "Baldur told me you might a solution, and the ability to remove this seal on my soul, by the grace of Mother Kyne.

 

"My my," he said. "These are very interesting times indeed. The one you call Krojun, I can sense his power in you. I may be able to help you, possibly. But, I'll have to receive counsil with a friend of mine. Our leader, his name is Paarthurnax. But tell me, why would I help you anymore than I would help this one? You both have much blood on your hands, though maybe less than this one here. I don't,"

"Ahhhhh!"

With a rumble, Baldur suddenly emerged from the dust, gasping for breath and speaking incoherently, as if in another language. Arngeir watched him closely, eyes curious.

"What happened to being pacifists, you bast-,"

Coughing up blood, Baldur crawled out of the pile on his knees.

Arngeir stood before him, kneeling as he spoke in the ancient tongue of the Dov in a whisper. How Baldur could understand him, he did not know.

In Draconic: "Listen to me, Ash-King. Pacifists we are, but what you've done is unforgivable. I planned on bringing you back to the land of the living afterwards, but it seems that is no longer necessary. You might very well be a ghost of Wulfharth, but if it is so, you are not Ysmir. The gods have already sent his spirit, but they have not deemed you worthy of such a gift. If they had, you'd have withstood my shout. However, one whose head stands aflame, you show resistance that one so green should not know. You may or may not be Wulfharth's incarnate, but that does not matter to me. He is not honored in these halls. Neither is one who would kill his teacher and take his place, no matter the reason."

Baldur looked to Arngeir with eyes so venomous it could stop a boulder in its tracks. He opened his mouth to speak, but Arngeir covered it with a finger. "You will not speak. Not in the common tongue. I know what you have done, and I will not withstand any lies you speak to justify it. The gods have allowed this treachery, and that is none of my business. But if you want MY help, you WILL repent. Speak not in the common tongue, ever, until it is time for you to fulfill your purpose and fight in this war. You are damned to silence, unless it is with this shout. It is the only time you will witness it, learn it by meditating on these words, in silence. Tinvaak Onlkaan Uth!"

"Aaaaaah!" Baldur's head rattled with the sound of Arngeir's voice. Crippled in pain, he laid there, grasping his head confused, and thrashing as if driven mad.

Arngeir looked perplexed, and didn't bother to hide it. He was surprised that Baldur managed to survive his shout earlier. He didn't know it, but at the last second instinctively, Baldur shouted with his own thu'um in defense. The power of Arngeir's thu'um sent it back on him, wrapping him up like a cocoon. The flame acted like a shield, protecting him from the Greybeard's power, leaving Baldur smothered under magical dust left from the impact of their thu'ums.

"I will help you, Dales Draconus," said Arngeir now, in Tamrielic.

he bowed her head once more, "I thank you, Arngeir." She eyed him, strangely taking in the features of the strange old man. She was concerned for Baldur, of course, but she felt obligated to respond to his previous claim, her stare becoming cold iron "I have no illusion of what i've done. Patricide is a sin in the eyes of god. No matter what kind of monster he was, I sinned. When I die, i'll face my sins with acceptance, and be judged before the will of the gods. Whatever afterlife awaits me. However...I will not regret my actions." She paused, "I am but a puppet. A puppet to the people. That is the job of a monarch. I do what I do in response to what my people need me to do, for them. A monarch who puts himself, or herself before the needs of the people, is no true monarch. To keep them safe, and happy, I will do what I need to do.. I have the utmost respect for your way. You live in peace, unlike the rest of Tamriel. Just my small time being here...i've never felt so tranquil. I envy you. I truly do.  But I can't do that. As a monarch, I must hand out death. With my own blade so be it. Stain my hands with blood. I will not apologise for it. All I can do, is accept that I sin by doing it, but to me it is necessary. I think, if its for me people, its worth being damned." 

"Once upon a time, that damnation of oneself would have been the job of dragonborn. Under Akatosh, your Empire would have been blessed, but those times are gone. Please realize, that I only help you now because I do not wish to invoke more violence here, and this one seems dead set on it. Also, because a Stormcloak and Empress coming for help allied together, is unprecedented. I hope that if you two do succeed, you will help keep the peace in these lands and yours for some time to come."

Looking down at Baldur, he said, "And also, because tongues are emerging here and elsewhere, and I cannot ignore the chance to teach at least some the Way of the Voice if given the chance, lest the Nords undo themselves once again, and this time all of Tamriel along with them. However, I do respect your answer. I sense wisdom in you, Dales. And good. Perhaps you can keep this Krojun in check. Now, take this one somewhere, where he can rest. And you, you'll need it the most. High Hrothgar, is open to you."

 

I do not need divine blessing. The Dragon shall endure....without the blessing of Akatosh. "Thank you." She bowed her head deeply, grabbing the wounded Nord, and letting him lean on her. "Come on, soldier, I think you've taken worst." She said with a sly grin, slowly channeling a healing spell into him. She went down a hallway, leaving the room with the hooded man.

***

 

It was a few hours, or was it days? Before Baldur came to. He wasn't unconscious, but his consciousness was dominated by the words that Arngeir shouted into his mind. So much that even when he thought about speaking in Tamrielic, the words seemed jumbled in his mind, as though he got them mixed up with something else.

The language of the Dov. That's what it was, he realized. But without context, without a way of knowing what it all was, it was just noise in his head mixing up with what he already knew. Shuffling out of the stone beds lazily covered in furs, Baldur did the only thing he could do at this point, which was read.

The wooden door into Baldur's room swung open, as the Empress walked in. Dales's hair was done lazily, and it was messy, black bags hung underneath her eyes.  It seems the Empress had changed the wet clothing, courtesy of the storm. Underneath her armored bits, the Empress was wearing nordic styled clothing, probaly given to her by the greybeards. Very plain, but comfortable. The young Breton gave Baldur a look, seemingly embarssed by his lack of clothing. The girl muttered, deadpanly, "Naked men are not my cup of tea. But whatever floats your boat." She gave Baldur a strange look, "Agrenir told me it would be a waste to try and talk to you. His shouting did somthing to you. Maybe you can write instead?" Dales offered the man a piece of charqoul and a plain scroll, "How do you feel?" 

Baldur looked at her strangely, then at himself, not realizing that he was even naked. He pulled the bedfurs over himself quickly. Hastily, he wrote:

His thu'um doesn't prevent me from speaking. I am choosing not to as a part of our deal. It's like a test I guess, or perhaps a punishment. Whatever the case, it's what I must do for his part in my plan. So be it.

Baldur was about to give the girl the paper, when he realized his words were all written in symbol. Trashing it, Baldur focused his mind this time, and rewrote the note in Tamrielic.

Dales took the piece of paper gently from his hand, looked it over, her deep blue eyes hardening, "Despite his...temper, I do not see Agneir as an unreasonable man. He opened High Hrothgar to me fully, a Breton, and a foreign member of royalty. You claim it is punishment, but punishment for what? What could you have done to piss off these pacifists so profusely?" She offered him another scroll, but she said gently, "I wont judge you. Be honest. I have my own phantoms, that struggle to let me sleep. Just tell me." If Dales had any suspicions for what Baldur might have done, she didn't show them.  How the hell is Baldur going to convince those stubborn, mule-like Jarls to give him the throne, when he's an invalid mute?! 

Baldur's expressions hardened, realizing he gave reason for suspicion. He wrote again quickly, but before he could finish, Arngeir came behind the Empress and said, "Transgressions of the Ash-King are past and present, and are between him and the Grey Beards. Do not worry, it is of no concern anymore to anyone beyond us. He'll reconcile for them, and if the gods deem him worthy, this moot will elect him king. Now that he is awake, it's time that you see our leader, Paarthurnax. Both of you. Paarthurnax has decided that it will be him that teaches the young man here our ways, after he has helped you with your predicament, Empress Draconus."

Looking to Baldur's confused expression, Arngeir said, "I know what you're thinking. What I've said puzzles you. Besides the complete lack of respect for our domain, amongst other things, if you really are the Ash-King, then in your past life, you are guilty of many things, and at least in the past were unfit to accept our teachings. And, I forgot to add, that writing in Tamrielic is also forbidden to you, unless you do it, with the thu'um. Now, follow me, both of you."

Paarthunrax...that's a very unusual name.

Damn it, Baldur...what have you done, my friend? Dales swalloed hard, before nodding her small, head, "As you say, I will not inquire when it's clearly not my buisness. Lead the way Arngeir." She gave Baldur a sympathetic smile, offering her hand, "You've been out for three days, you might want to lean on me for a little bit. Your legs are going to be weak.

Baldur gave her a surprised look, then a glare. After a moment, his look softened after smiling but nodding in refusal.

So stubborn...Dales nodded her head, "Fine then." She trailed behind Agenir, waiting for Baldur to get behind them. For the last three days, she had been exploring the halls, and mediating. It was...very tranquil. An air of tranquility, that she had never felt before. Perhaps Baldur was right, and this place was indeed very close to Kyne, or Kynreath. Dales did not really care about the gods, but if they still had power on Tamriel, this place was surely one of the greatest sources. The Greybeards were gracious host, and let Dales explore.  

 

Arngeir led the two outside, into the courtyard of High Hrothgar. In contrast to the day they arrived, the sun was shining as bright as the light of Akatosh himself. It was practically warm compared to three days ago. Even still, as they approached some stairs, the wind was howling so loudly that it looked as though the gods themselves were blocking their way ahead.

He stopped them both before letting loose a thu'um that collided with the winds, causing them to cease. There was some cloud coverage, but as Baldur glimpsed upwards, just by a whim, he soon noticed that the clouds too dispersed, just like the wind blocking their way.

"Follow me, Paarthurnax awaits. He's rather excited to see you two, especially you Baldur. You don't know how long its been since someone's agreed to be his conversation partner. Most of us tend to grow weary with it after a while. He has a lot to say, after living atop the mountain so long. But, you'll have plenty of time to listen, now won't you."

Arngeir didn't see it, but Baldur lifted a finger behind him as he spoke. The last thing he wanted to do was be stuck babysitting some old man while he rambled about hugging trees or whatever it was these men did all day.

"Well, i'm sure he has a lot of interesting things to say!" Dales said cheerfully, "If he's your leader, then i'm sure he's very wise, and knowledgeable in the ways of the Voice" Dales made sure that the ancient stone path wasn't icy, before firmly planting her feet on it, and beginning to walk the path of the mountain. This was a really big peak.

Arngeir smiled cheerfully, and mischievously. "That he is, young Dales, that he is."

For all his protest, Baldur was happy himself to speak to what he imagined would be quite the scholar. Hopefully, it wouldn't be just an attempt to convert him into a pacifist, and this Paarthurnax would actually teach him more of the thu'um.

The walk up the steep trail was a hard one, but brief. By now, Baldur could already make out what seemed to be one of the many word walls of Skyrim's crypts and peaks. But there was no old man to be found, aside from Arngeir.

Impatiently, Baldur looked to Arngeir, obviously wondering what trick this was.

Just as he did, a great gust of wind threatened to knock them all down, along with a tremor that almost did the same. Before them, a weathered and worn looking dragon came crashing down, sending snow flying everywhere as it had.

"Drem Yol Lok! Greetings! I.. am Paarthurnax. Don't be shy, come closer and greet an old dovah."

Dales face beamed with child-like joy. As if the frost in her eyes melted for a split second, Dales jumped up in joy, Paarthunax...Paarthunrnax is a Dragon! The leader of the Greybeards is a dragon! A dragon! I'm...looking at a Dragon!!!" Up close!" She started to breath in deeply, I'm talking too...a friendly dragon!!! A friendly Dragon! All those hours up late, reading up these giant beasts of myth, and here I am, looking at on in the flesh, As if she deaged ten years, Dales face brightened up in joy, as she completely ignored Baldur, and Arngeir, and the fact she was once again covered in snow, as she ran up to the great old drake. What should I say to him....? Her eyes filled with wonder and awe as she gazed at his grey scales, strong enough to deflect an throwing spear.

Dales bowed her head deeply in respect, "It is an honor to meet you Paarthunax." She struggled slightly to prounce the complicated name, but she think she didn't butcher the wording, "I am Empress Dales Draconius, Monarch of Cyrdoili, and Lady of the Ruby Throne!" Once again, a child-like gleam shined in her eyes.

Paarthurnax stretched his tattered wings in delight. "Ahh, so you are Dales. With your hair being so similar, I could barely tell the difference between you and the sulking Nord over there. A pleasure!"

"Indeed! I have no idea you were a great wyrm you see!" She said apologetically, "I had assumed you were a nord! How long have you been up here?" She asked with curiosity, she waved at Baldur, "Look Baldur, he's a dragon!" 

 

Baldur started looking around at Arngeir nervously the minute he saw the damn thing. The Greybeards were hiding a dragon? The Blades said that the Greybeards were hiding something troubling at the top of the mountain, and now he knew why they'd refused. The Dragonborn didn't say much about his particular dealings with them either. Is it because of the Dragonborn that they kept the Greybeard's secret? Or fear?

Baldur's expression grew hard. Friendly? The Empress was standing next to a dragon, they eat people! Baldur wanted to get her away, and he took a step back himself before the other Greybeards who he hadn't realized were following them started pushing him forward.

Now he was standing face to face with Paarthurnax. Looking between the dragon and the obviously excited Dales, Baldur had to admit this dragon did seem different from the others somehow.

Baldur couldn't take the silence anymore, he had to try and speak. Baldur spoke the three words that Arngeir shouted into his head, but nothing happened. He tried three more times, looking exasperated as all hell before he finally gave up.

"You speak without soul, without emotion," said Paarthurnax. "Tinvaak in the language of the Dov is different from the Joor. You must comprehend what it is you're saying, as you're saying it. Be conscious of every word. This shout is different even still, as it gives understanding to what it is you want to convey to others. Think on what these words mean, and how you feel at this moment. All that you wish to say will be communicated on a level that your people haven't known in ages."

Baldur could not believe that he was having... Tinvaak, with a dragon, even then. It was beyond amazing, the wonder of it almost brought tears of sheer awe to his eyes. Closing them now, he concentrated, letting his emotions at that moment, good and bad flow through his mind. Remembering his prior training, Baldur let his consciousness sink deep until he forgot about the presence of all around him. Finally, when all he could feel was his own thoughts, he said, "Tinvaak Onlkaan Uth."

The words came from his mouth normally, but shortly afterwards, a voice not his own echoed what he said through the mind of Paarthurnax in perfect draconic. It was faint though, coming off as a whisper that threatened to be drowned out by some opposing force.

"Ahh, this one has potential, Arngeir. I could hear him clearly."

"And yet I could not," said Arngeir. "He has a way to go, but this shout is more simple to learn, for learned men especially. If you are true to our ways, you will learn to utilize this thu'um. What was it that he said old friend?"

"He is delighted to participate in Tinvaak, but he does not yet trust me. He wants to know what the Empress wants to know, how long I've been here and if I was what Jurgen Windcaller found in his time of reflection."

Looking at Dales, he said, "Ro laan. A fair request. I have been here since the rebellion of the Joor. I helped the race of man fight against Alduin then, and now in your time with the Dragonborn. I participated in Tinvaak with Jurgen Windcaller, the founder of the Greybeards as well, and it was in sharing my way of the voice that Jurgen developed his own." Looking to Baldur now, he said, "But, I did not force it upon him, nor did I force him to try and spread it to the Joor. His way of the voice is his own, just as yours will be your own. Grik los lein. Such is the world. I have no opinion on whether or not Joor should speak and utilize the thu'um as dragons do, like Arngeir does. I only know that my kin would live more peacefully under my way of the voice, and so I've attempted to debate in Tinvaak with them, with varying results. I do not know if that will satisfy your suspicion, but your suspicion of a dovah is well placed, I'd say. 

Dales eyes once again filled with awe and wonder. She had seen Minotaurs. Lycantropes. Vampires. All kinds of fantastical beasts. On her way to Windhelm, she even stopped a giant a good distance away observing her and her soldiers! But this! This was a Dragon! The symbol of her Empire! A living, breathing dragon! And it-no, he had been living up here all this time! Dales could barely stutter out words, this was insane! "You've been alive all this time? There are records of a handful of Dragon Mercnaries serving the Empire in the early Second Era, but I thought your kind had been wiped out, until the recent resurgence here in Skyrim! Did you know any of the Imperial ones? Is there any more of your kind?" She paused, "As in, ones who didn't return to Skyrim recently?" Her eyes betrayed a sudden shock. She was being horribly rude, "Or forgive me for asking so many questions Paarthunax..."

"Hmm, Vahdin, it seems strange that one would apologize for curiosity, as curiosity is often a courtesy in conversation, is it not? I know of no Imperial dragons, I don't think there is such a thing. There may still Dov who once worked for payment with that of your Empire." Dropping his head, he said, "Would you rather speak to one of them? Is that why you've come? I should have known one so young would not have come for Tinvaak with such an old dragon."

"Oh no! Though i'm rather interested in that-never mind." Dales straightened her back, and explained her rather...unusual situation to Paarthunax, full detail, about the soul binding, her mentor, and her desire, not to betray him, but to break free of the foul spell so she can be a better monarch for her people. "You see...he dosen't really like Mer. And i'm worried, through his influence, I...might be forced to do somthing to them, that is the Mer living in the Empire,  that I really don't want to do." Her cold stare returned, as did her hard gaze, and stone-cold voice. Lifting her hand, Dales drew her blackened wraith dagger, flourishing the blade expertly, twirling it in her hand with dexterity. She was pretty skilled with those Knives she loved. She gripped it by the blade, and put it closer to the Dragon so he could see the symbol engraved on it, "This is his mark. You might have known him. He was an ancient nordic king, and a very powerful mage. Krojun" 

"Kro Jun. In your tongue, that means Sorcerer King. Many mortals have gone by that title, I know not of the one specific to you, but then, my mind forgets many things to time, for I have lived very long indeed. However, the binding I sense in you is not much different from the bind that our own Sorcerer Kings, our Sonaak, use on their servants. And the bind that we also have on them, in turn. If you truly wish to break that bind, I believe with the help of Arngeir and the other Greybeards, I can indeed. But are you sure you wish to break it? Often times these binding spells grant those bound great powers that were once beyond their ability. If your Krojun granted you any powers, there's no guarantee that they will remain."

"My enhanced stamina, strength, and speed are from his power, yes. As is some of my magical ability. However, I was already gifted in the arcane arts, before the binding was placed on me. And much of the physical strength I have gained was from hours sparring with my soldiers, naturally. The body strength I loose, I can easily compensate with a strength spell." She thought deeply for a momment, "Though, Yes, I will loose some of my physical power. Both my strength, and magic will diminish. But that's a risk I'm willing to take." She closed her eyes, "My people are at risk, as I am. And I cannot allow that. I would give anything, to make sure the people of the Empire are prosperous, and happy. Race means nothing to me. If your living in Cyrdoili, your under my protection. Mer and beastfolk included.  And I want nothing to undermine that vow." She bowed her head, "So please Paarnthunax. Agrenir." She faced all the other greybeards whom had come with me, "All of you . I am pleading for your assistance. Help me protect my people..." 

 

"Tinvaak. Onlkaan...Uth!" cried Baldur. Again the voice that followed sounded as weak and tired as Baldur was beginning to look. Arngeir claimed this thu'um would be easy to learn, but already it was proving to be even more taxing than his Yol Toor Shul. How that could be, Baldur hadn't yet understood.

Still, Paarthurnax was again able to understand his thoughts. "He says, the girl has...well, that doesn't make any sense to me, Sadonjun."

"Courage. He means courage," said Arngeir, shaking his head at the Nord's vulgarity. The amusement on Baldur's face was clear as day.

"Ah, I see. You must explain your concept of courage to me, Sadonjun, it is not one that I am familiar with, as the Dovah do not possess it, and from what I thought I knew of the Joor, neither does young Dales. Perhaps another time. If the young lady is sure, then I see no reason to leave her in her shackles... We can begin, if you are ready Dales. Be warned, the process is painful."

Dales let out a breath of fresh air from her small mouth. Her cold blue eyes hardened, as she prepared herself. "I'm ready." She said.

"Then prepare yourself for Dinok. Death," said Paarthurnax. As he said this, Arngeir let loose another thu'um from behind the young Empress, and in only a moment, the Greybeards, Baldur, everyone was gone. All there was, was cloud and sky.

Dinok...Lorgar's blade was Azhidinok. Bitter Death. This is what it feels, like I suppose... Bitterdeath. The pure adrenaline of being pushed into the sky by the force of the Greybeards th'um, caused Dales body to stop functioning normally. Her heart was pounding, and her chest felt constricted. She didn't scream in pure terror as she flew through the sky. Or anything of the sort. She remained silent, as a cold chill filled her body. What comes up, must come down. Dales plummeted to the surface, falling down as she starred into the sky, her cone of vision narrowing, as her ears filled with the sound of roaring wind. She wanted to throw up. Dales life flashed before her eyes, as she futility lifted her hand up into the roaring wind, as the Empress fell. All the way from her birth, receiving that burning scar on her stomach, meeting her beloved maid, getting her first kiss, meeting Krojun, meeting Gracchus, slicing open her fathers gullet with a knife, and being crowned Empress. In the split second, Dales saw her entire life. In the horrible seconds, Dales had completely forgotten why this was happening to her. As such, So this is how I die. I wonder...if all of it was just a dream. With a sickening crunch, Dales body slammed into the ice, near Baldur. Contarty to popular opinion, the Empress felt it for a split second, the utterly agonizing pain of having ones internal organs rupture, and bones shatter from the force of falling several hundred feet into cold, hard stone. In seconds, Dales life force left her, and the Empress of Cyrdoili's broken body. lay asunder in the crimson snow, stone dead. 

Baldur couldn't believe what he just saw, and gave Arngeir the hardest glare he could muster. He couldn't utter anymore words in draconic, and he didn't need to. If they didn't somehow fix this, he'd find a way to rip their throats out, for Skyrim and the race of men would be doomed to civil war and defeat by the hands of the elves if the Empress of Cyrodiil died in his care.

His lips parted, curling in anger great enough to make sweat appear on his brow even in this cold.

Arngeir said, "Begone," and so Baldur was. He could not be around while all of the Greybeards spoke. Arngeir and Paarthurnax had enough control of their voices not to kill him, but the others did not.

And so they chanted, and chanted on for hours on end. Baldur was back in the halls of High Hrothgar, and he could feel the rumble of the mountain beneath their combined voices. He knew not to approach them until the silence returned.

Time continued on, though as Baldur stood in the courtyard below the peak, he could have sworn that the sun was setting now in the wrong direction...

Suddenly, Baldur heard the most horrifying screaming rising like a dark symphony from were the Grey Beards had been conducting there ritual on the corpse of the Empress. Feminine screaming. So loud, it almost overtook the grey beards's voices, which were now silent. Pure agony resounded in the voice.

Baldur ran back to the top of the mountain as quickly as he could, though there was no reason to rush, the ritual was still ongoing in agonizing slowness. By the time he made his way back to the spot that Dales had fell, he could see her bones slowly snapping back into place and her insides trying to find their correct place, as if time were being reversed itself. In fact, Baldur could see that it was in fact being reversed!

The chanting of the Greybeards had died down now to only Arngeir while the rest watched. Arngeir explained briefly that at this point, all that he needed was the presence of Paarthurnax, as only that of a dragon's spirit could effect time strong enough to bring back mortal lives.

By the time Dales was 'complete', Arngeir stood over her and said, "How are you feeling, Dales? We are almost finished."

Dales was wailing, and her body started to shake violently. The Empress started to cough blood, as her violent screams continued. Her blood soaked face, all of which was her own life liquids, was pale as the snow around here. The Empress, stuttering in incomplete words, stopped her screeching, her cold blue eyes trembling in an utter terror, panting very hard, "A-I-Aliv-wha-fuc-happened!" She began to hyperventilate, as she held her stomach, as if she was holding in her organs.

"For this to work, we need to bind you again to Paarthurnax so that your soul may stabilize once more within your body with his power. Otherwise you might die again. The sorcerer Krojun is very powerful indeed, and his bind is not easily broken. It is the only way. Do you give consent? Once your soul is stable, Paarthurnax will release the binding, but it will take time."

"Do it!" The Empress screamed, she slammed her hand into the snow, screeching once more. The pain in her body was nothing she had ever felt before. No one on Tamriel could understand the pure agony that was resounding through her body. It was bad enough, that Dales had literally just died! But the pain from the aftershook of feeling such decay and death in her body was almost as bad as her bones shattering, and her organs bursting inside. 

"Baldur, come here," said Arngeir. "I need your help, or the Empress will die. Just nod if you comply." Baldur looked uneasy, but at this point, there was nothing for it. As soon as Baldur tilted his head, Arngeir shouted him flat on his back.

"RII...GRON...ZAAM!"

At once, the purple lights that decorated Skyrim's skies in ribbons were sucked away into Paarthurnax's gullet, gathering in strength before he released them all at once into Dales' chest.

"We could not restore your soul entirely, for your bind was for life, as well as in death. We discarded it, and replaced it with energy from this one here. As a tongue who regularly uses power from within, his life energy is large enough to have some taken without consequence, and should serve to heal yours quickly."

Baldur watched from where he lay. The skies swirled in anger at being disturbed by such powerful magic, wind and snow spiraling around the mountain and threatening to close in. The sounds of the wind were an awful howl, comparable to the cries of Dales herself. Finally, Paarthurnax ceased breathing into Dales' body, and at once, the storm dissipated violently; wind and snow shot away in the blink of an eye.

Suspiciously eying them, Baldur began to wonder why they did not use their own energy to help Dales. Perhaps because they were old? Or did mixing his energy with hers bind him as well?

"Tinv..."

"You'll overdo it and risk your life after all that, Baldur. Keep silent. If you're wondering, we used your energy because judging from how reckless you are with your thu'um despite being a novice, your spiritual energy is great. Possibly due to being a warrior. You have plenty to spare, and we've burned much of ours today thanks to this ritual. That is all, you may rest easy. I'm sending you both back to High Hrothgar for rest. Tend to her, make sure she gets water and food, and plenty of sleep. In the morning, you will head back here to receive training from Paarthurnax, and in turn provide him with Tinvaak until the moot starts. Any objections?"

Baldur nodded once more before Arngeir once again shouted him back to High Hrothgar, this time with Dales at his feet. Lifting the young girl, he placed her in her bed atop her furs, cleaned her brow and laid down in his own, eyes shutting. As much as he disliked Arngeir, he had to admit that becoming allies with the Greybeards in the end would be worth it. He knew that Witchie was powerful, but for a binding to be this strong? The Greybeards may have been the only force in Tamriel powerful enough to combat such magic. Getting them off their asses to help Skyrim was an absolute necessity.

Baldur found it hard to sleep, however, as he could screams coming from the young Empresses room. She was being plagued by phantom nightmares, in her dark, unhappy sleep. Her screams, were mostly names, names he did not reconise. However, he did hear her call out, "Gracchus...please help me..." After about an hour, the Empress fell silent, and Baldur could hear distant footsteps around his room, along with the flickering of a flame. It seems the Empress had woken up. Sleep did not find her. Hard to blame the young woman she had just died, and come back from the dead, after all. Perhaps she was being haunted by whatever she saw. Or maybe it was just the phantom pain that she had felt, but was no longer there. Physically. In her mind, it could still exist.

Baldur got out of bed as well, not sleeping much himself, despite how peaceful the place had seemed. Excluding the Empress's screams that is. Following her footsteps, Baldur caught up to her and placed a heavy hand on her shoulder.

Dales startled yelped as she screamed out in suprise. Her whole body was shaking. Dales turned around, and glanced at Baldur, before she said slowly, "Baldur...? It's only you..." She looked...destroyed. Not fragile like a young lady, but someone who had been completley crushed by a boulder. Her eyes were wide open, filled with dread, and fear. Great black bags hid underneath her deep blue eyes. Her hair was completley undone, and messy. Stress lines lingered on her foreheard, making her look a decade older then she was. Her right hand was having violent spasms, as she clutched a lit cigeratte in her hands. At Baldur's gaze, she put on a very sad smile, lifting the flaming narcotic upward, "I found them among a pile of offerings at the front of the moanstery. Agneir said I could help myself to what I found. There really ******* ****ty but whatever." Her voice was...diluted. Not madness, but ecentricism hung on her voice, as if she had recently just recovered from a breakdown. She gave a hollow laugh, "I really wish I could burry my face into some big, nordic titties right now. Yeah, a milk maid with great ****, blonde hair, and cherry lips. Anything to ******* feel more alive..." Her hand once again, was rattled as it began to spasm.

Baldur's eyes once again grew wide at Dales' antics, but let a silent laugh escape him. He nodded, pointing a thumb towards himself, then his marriage ring; a snake with blue sapphire eyes before shaking his head while his hands appeared to be grasping something in thin air.

His hands grabbed at something lower as well, evidentally round in shape, before the big Nord wiped an imaginary tear from his eyes, grinning.

"No doubt the admiral has some nice titties. Mine are tiny." She gripped her own breasts, some of her discomfort leaving, " Need to get some nordic ass soon, as well." She hung around with her soldiers too much it seems, she laughed. She gave a grin but it was hollow, "Nothing to cry about, but oh man, Baldur. Holy ******* shit. I got knifed in the gut by my sleeping partner, a Dominion Assassin that seduced me. That hurt like all ******* hell. But this...this was different. It was...pure agony. I felt my spine break, and my heart, lungs, liver, and stomach explode in my inside. I...think I ******* died. I died!" 

Baldur smacked Dales lightly on her head. He pretended to hold something in his hands, then draw back on a string, like an archer. The arrow flew around until it hit her in the back, then he pretended to fall dead. Standing back up, he pointed to himself, and then howled like a wolf. Pointing to his head, more specifically his mind, he began shaking it vigorously, then lifted an imaginary cup, then lay his head against his hands making snoring noises and pointed back to where they were sleeping.

"Lorgar shot you. Yeah, he told me, guys a crack marksmen." But suprise filled her face, "Your saying...you died too?" She glanced upward, taking a final whiff of her cigarette, setting the object on fire, and turning it into ash, "Your right. Alcohol is always a good cure to internal angst. Le'ts get a drink." 

 

Baldur took from his sack the last bottle of Baldurbrau that he had with him. Wiping the frost from the label, he smiled at his own image, but frowned soon after, remembering that it was the Witch King who gave him the original recipe, even if he altered it a tad. He felt guilty helping Dales, it seemed like a betrayal. Baldur betrayed Ulfric, Witchie, and now even Boldir.... what an impossible situation that was. He should have been there for him, but how? How could he have possibly known what was going on. Looking at his other bottle of mead, he frowned once more. He'd never wasted a single drop of good mead in all his life, but at that moment when he pictured the very people whose mead he loved so much ******* with the very people he called family, he tossed the bottle at the ancient stone walls without a second thought. Suddenly, memories of its taste made him wonder why he ever liked the shit in the first place. It was always too tart, now that he thought about it.

When it came down to it, Baldur realized he was always betraying someone. The only person he hadn't yet betrayed was Rebec. But with what he'd done and what he'd brought upon his family, maybe that was no longer true either.

Shaking his head and smacking himself the way he'd done to Dales, Baldur took a mighty swig from the bottle before handing it over to Dales as he rolled a few of Rebec's smokes for them both as well. He wanted to tell her to mind the chill of the drink, but figured the Witch King might've already given her some of his own brew, or even some of what Baldur made himself through use of the magic cloth.

Dales chugged the bottle of mead, taking a mighty swing herself. It didn't seem to affect her, although the Empress was more used to the watered down wine the Legion was known to drink, and simple Cyrodilic ale. She had embraced death, just like how Wraith had told her to do. And had survived. Or did she? When she died, and was returned to life, Dales wondered if some of herself had remained behind, in whatever hellhole awaited her in death.  A place she visited...Dales, refused  to even ackowledge the memory of were she went for the brief time her body was cold and lifeless, and her body seem to agree with her.  Her father used to say "Slugs" like her were destined to a bad place. And she had seen, whatever it was. 

The Empress wondered if what she did...what she held within herself, was worth it. She was free. Free from control. A part of her felt overjoyed by the fact. But she knew, Krojun would take that as a betrayal when he found out what she did. It didn't matter, though. She did what she did for her people. The pain deep inside her was worth it. 

The Empress snapped her finger, a flame forming on her fingers.  She placed one Rebec's cigarette's in her mouth, and lit it. Afterwords, her flame lingered near Baldur's own mouth, lighting his cigarette on fire too. 

Baldur watched the little thing down a man sized gulp in horror and quickly snatched back the mead before she downed the entire thing herself. Evidently he expected her thirst to match her appearance. Making sure that he got his fair share, he placed the remainder of the bottle in her lap before laying back down, nodding and grunting in gratitude for lighting his elf ear roll.

It reminded him of Vigge, the smell and the way he'd always been gruff and reluctant in his giving thanks. The smell reminded him of home, and allowed him to shut his eyes, drawing on the cigarette in his sleep until the little flame reached his lip and the ash settled in his beard.

The taste was....poor. Though it was probaly because Dales was more used to the tobacco and tar she loved in her own favorite brand. Nonetheless, Dales loved the good sensation, it brewed in her stomach. Dales had taken up smoking at fifteen. Elan always hated it. The thought of her beloved caused a smile to appear on her lips, as she gently took the cigarette out of her mouth, blowing a large cloud of smoke outside her mouth, before putting it back in. Sadness emerged from her stomach. She still hadn't got over one dead maid. How pathetic. Dales cold eyes glanced into the distance, as she once again inhaled a large amount of the smoke into her restored lungs, the phantom pain of them rupturing from the impact of her collision slowly leaving herself, as she posioned them with the narcotics effect.

She glanced to her company, I'm sure Baldur has lost people close to him. 

Too many, is what he'd say if he could hear her thoughts. Ulfric he missed dearly, though he hadn't the right to. Even still, his dreams often took him to the days when all they had were their brothers and sisters, as if they were all an extended family. Ulfric was the older brother that held them all together. No matter what the Nords thought of him, he was sure that he could not give them that same feeling. No one ever would or could as far as he was concerned, and no matter how long he was damned to silence, he could never atone for that.

[Witchking of Angmar]

Solitude

The races of man mer and beast had described to the Bosmer as best they could what the fear of heights was. It seemed like a simple concept to them, but to the Bosmer it may as well have been like an infant trying to explain to an adult why they were so afraid of walking upright. Even the least nimble tree dweller learns to traverse the trees and vines above by the time they learn to walk gracefully. It comes natural.

But Maori had a different fear of his own in Skyrim, much like the Imperial City when he got too close to the White Gold Tower. The vastness of Skyrim's mountains never ceased to send chills up his spine, especially from his vertically challenged view. And it wasn't the cold, that much he knew. That he never got used to either however.

To Daric, they were a silent comfort. The howling of the winds against their surface above, and knowing that it was far colder up there than it was down here in Haafingar gave him comfort as well. Made it more bearable. 

Even so, the two were running low on food and the cold was getting more and more intrusive for the two minuscule warriors. When they saw Solitude's awkward land formation in the red splattered horizon, Daric didn't even argue when the Bosmer changed directions heading straight for the city. 

Neither of them said much of anything on their journey, especially not Maori who was all to aware of the looks the boy was giving him. The battle of Windhelm was still fresh on both of their minds. They went through Riften Hold briefly on their journey, but hadn't ran into any Thalmor. Maori said that they wouldn't, scouts and Justiciar elites had cloaking and invisibility magic at their disposal from at least one of their ranks. That was all he'd said the entire time to him and Daric hadn't responded. 

 It would have continued on like that even still except Daric kept picturing Baldur the day he told him about his intel, then remembering how dumbfounded he was when he heard of Ulfric's death. All of which he had to hear from this smelly elf who wasn't even a native to these lands, and somehow "The Ash King" trusted him more than Daric. "**** this, hey knife ears!"

Maori didn't seem to hear him.

"Hey. Hey! Carcass breath!"

"I know what you're gonna say, you've been giving me the stink eye the whole time. It's too damn cold, wait till we get to the city."

Daric kept yelling at him as the elf just kept walking faster. Turning backwards but still advancing forward, Maori said, "I'm serious, shut up kid!" 

As he did, Maori's point of view began to rise, the earth rumbling beneath his wrapped feet as though a mountain decided to sprout beneath him. Screaming and trying to hold onto the earth, he soon found himself atop the head of a glossy black chaurus the size of a horse, writhing and wriggling out of the earth. Daric had his swords in hand ready to reluctantly charge the beast, but the ground began rumbling once more, bursting forth with pale arms grasping for anything above the surface before revealing their full visage. 

Meanwhile Maori kept screaming his lungs out whilst the Chaurus kept shaking its great thorny head, spewing dank putrid acid wildly as it did. 

The things, elves or whatever they were must've been Falmer, Daric surmised from what the Stormcloaks and Nords about Skyrim had said about them, including Baldur. Their strikes were so quick that Daric didn't bother trying to see them. His body merely moved to protect the parts of him that were most vital. The neck, eyes, groin. They slashed wildly, which his cheap chainmail was decent enough at stopping, exposing himself to glance blows to try and find openings. His left sword found itself in the belly of one elf quickly, stopping its advances while the thing tried to gnaw at his neck. The funk of its breath was made visible in the cold, and was almost as volatile as the Chaurus's acid. He cut the thing's head off out of spite before he used his boot to remove his blade. Another elf tackled him as he was doing so, aiding the process, but knocking the swords out of his hands

as he fell to the ground. 

As the others came to aid the slaughter, Daric closed his eyes, placing his hand over the Falmer's head. At once, heat seared its flesh as it screeched in agony and fled into the marsh with a permanent hand print on its skull, cursing the boy in whatever gurgled screeches passed for a language for them.

Daric scrambled for his sword and did not have time to see how the elf fared. Running as more of the creatures pursued him, he cast small bolts of flame from his swords periodically to slow them down, then directly towards a partially frozen puddle to create a screen of steam to hide from the twisted figures.

It didn't slow them down for a second, and Daric had no idea why.

He had no idea that the things were blind, and relied only on their hearing to track him down like wolves. He had no idea how many of them there were or where they'd even come from. But he knew he was alone, with nothing but his father's spells and Baldur's teachings to keep him alive barely as ribbons of blood arched from his body every time one of the things got a blow on the quick but outnumbered fighting protege. 

Because of his preoccupation with the Falmer, Darin couldn't see the dingy fast approaching, it's occupants paddling hard for the shore. It wasn't until one of the Falmer cried out in pain from the firebolt that slammed into it from behind that Daric, and the rest of the Falmer, took notice. A few split off from their assault on Daric to meet this new foe. They found themselves facing an entirely steel plate clad warrior, wielding sword and shield. Their blows were quick, but their chaurus weapons did little to even dent the plate. The knight bashed and slashed the relentless Falmer, while the rest of the boat's occupants continued to let spells fly. 

Daric was about to thank the gods, but he'd lost a bit of blood by now and was unsure if the assistance he saw and what he saw next was real or him hallucinating from the bloodloss.

Maori who Daric had completely forgotten about was still atop of the Chaurus head. Instead of swinging around wildly trying to keep it from eating him, he was comfortably striding atop of it into battle against what remained of the scampering elves. The sight of their monster mount turned against them and the arrival of the new fire slinging iron knight sent the rest of them in retreat beneath the frozen marshes to lands unknown. All but one remaining elf that began hurling lightning at the new assailants in frustration and desperation.

Its leg was lacerated at the heel by Daric earlier, and wasn't going to be able to flee like the others. It cast a summoning spell that brought forth several spectral chaurus and charged the knight and his men in one final push.

The knight stepped into the path of the first chaurus and cut it down in one swing, but that allowed another chaurus to clamp onto the knight's plate clad shin. That chaurus dissolved into the salty air when a young Breton man, slightly older than Daric and not wearing armor but glowing with the magical hue of an armor spell, stabbed it through the back with an ice spike. The knight was then free to confront the Falmer mage, who sent bolt after bolt into the oncoming knight. The knight absorbed them, slowing down only after the third bolt. The Falmer struck then, swinging its axe as quickly as possible, trying to find an opening in the knight's defense. It was for naught, though, as the knight knocked the Falmer to the ground with a powerful bash, where it was stabbed through the chest. The final chaurus dissipated, while the fireball aimed at it skorched the ground mere moments after it disappeared. 

The young Breton man stepped forward, his hands glowing orange with healing magic, and approached Daric. "Dame, guard that hole," he said to the knight. Then, to Daric, "Where are you hurt?"

"Everywhere," said Daric before collapsing in the man's arms. 

Maori stuck a dagger under the bug's shell plate, revealing the soft underpart which he stabbed, killing the thing before his charms wore off on it. "The boy gonna be alright? I'd hate to have to tell Red-Snow his Breton brat got killed by rabid elves. Too soon, you know? Who are you lot anyway?"

"He's Prince Roland Adrard of High Rock," the knight answered. She turned her helmeted head to look at the dagger before she went back to watching the hole. Roland was running soft orange magic over Daric, but he soon stopped. "We need to go. I stopped the bleeding but couldn't mend much else."

Roland squatted and lifted Daric up, carrying him in his arms. Daric was slightly taller than Roland, but whereas the former was lean, the latter was brawny. As quickly as he could manage it, he walked over to the boat and sat him in, where the other two soldiers were already manning the oars. 

"Let's go, elf," the knight said, climbing aboard the boat herself. 

"The name is Maori..." he said, obviously irritated. "What are you lot doing here, yer highness? Where's the fa- uh, the fabulous illustrous King Theodore? You're here for the moot I take it?"

The boat set off, with Roland still tending to Daric, though at this point that consisted of keeping his wounds sealed. Roland looked up and answered, "We are. I came in place of my father. What were you two doing out in the swamp?"

"Attending to business for the Jarl of Windhelm," said Maori. He hesitated to answer. "Going just peachy already. I gotta get the kid patched up quick, we don't have time to waste here. Guess that means I gotta take him to the court mage. Help me haul him there, I'm sure you're hungry, and as allies to Skyrim, Solitude's Jarl should accommodate you until the moot is called."

"That won't be necessary. We're here to meet with the Jarl, her thanes, and some merchants to check in on our trading contracts. We'll then do the same in Windhelm, and travel to the moot from there," Roland explained. They were almost to the docks, the soldiers rowing as quickly as possible. "But we will certainly help your friend. We have a healer at the docks that can better steady him until we get to the court mage."

"Good," said Maori. Pausing a moment, then stepping towards Daric, he tore off the boy's blue sash and placed it in his pack. The moot was too close and Maori didn't want to take any risks with a Jarl who had bad history with his friend. Who knows what could happen up until the moot took place. The Thalmor's eyes were everywhere, and ambitious greed even moreso.

"I'll run ahead, let the Jarl know she has guests, and make sure the court wizard is ready to assist him."

"We'll meet you there," Roland said, his eyes only briefly lingering on the bag Maori put the sash in. It was obvious the reasons for hiding it weren't lost on him, or Dame LaViolette, whose eyes did the same. She nodded to the elf, relaying their understanding, and silence.

They docked then, the knight hurrying to fetch the healer, the soldiers helping lift the boy from the boat, and Roland keeping his healing hands pressed on the wounds. 

Maori watched them briefly, wondering if it wise to trust Baldur's stray to these Bretons, but despite his unkempt wild appearance, he was kin to them. If you couldn't trust kin....

He stopped the thought, knowing all too well that one couldn't even trust kin anymore with the Thalmor's fingers in every pot. But the Bretons had little to gain in siding with Thalmor. The thought was pure paranoia born of simply not liking the disdain in the voice of the woman. In this land, she may as well have had pointy ears. "Pfft, the nerve."

Maori had never actually been to Solitude. Aside from the crazy land formation it was on, it seemed like a bit of an extension of a Cyrodiil city. The Imperials had more sense than to build a city on such a thing. The Nords... well, no one ever accused the Nords of being fearful. That was always their biggest problem if you asked him.

Instinctively Maori kept to the outskirts of the streets, with all the tall men and women stomping around from shop to shop. He was caught off guard by a pair of Altmer women staring at him, and instinctively grasped his dagger before realizing the two had noticed. 

"What?"

"Where is it that you think you're going, little carnivore?"

Maori's nostrils flared as his eyebrows arched. "As it happens, I'm going to see the Jarl and the court mage, butter elf."

"In those? Like that?" said the first elf. 

"What are those?" said the second one, who Maori noted was a bit cuter than the first one, but barely.

"Those are my feet." said Maori. The women's dual expressions said everything. "I don't have time for this, I don't care about the approval of two Altmer. I have to-"

"Oh this won't take but a moment, and it's not our approval you should be worried about."

"Yes, now quit fussing, it's for your own good!" The two worked in unison, one pushing him from behind and the other guiding him along. Before he knew it, he was being stripped naked in front of a pair of strange women and no wine was involved this time. Unfortunately for him neither was the sex and he wasn't doing the pricking either.

"Ow, watch where you're sticking that thing!"

"Stay still, and we won't prick you! Almost done. There, now, do us a favor and wear this when you go to meet the Jarl. She's far more likely to see you in our attire, compared to how you were before."

Maori struggled as they brought him a mirror. He had to admit, after they cleaned him up a bit and combed his hair, put on the new brown elegant robes, he didn't look to bad. "And what did I look like before, pray tell?"

"Like a vagabond. Like you were here to start trouble. And that simply won't do, not for an elf in Skyrim."

He eyed the two suspiciously. "You two often help random strangers that happen to look like trouble? For all you know, I could be."

"You'd be doing us a favor," said one of them. "And, we're trying to do one for you. We know what happened in Valenwood. What's happening in Valenwood."

Maori eyed the two suspiciously, but for the first time saw something more than snobby looks in their eyes. The Altmer actually seemed remorseful. His expression softened for a moment until his suspicion began rising again. 

"What's it to you two anyway? And how would you know? That isn't common knowledge, not here in Skyrim it isn't."

"We used to be with the Dominion of course, both of us."

Maori drew the same dagger he grasped earlier, its golden tint matching the skin of the one he held it against. "I knew it! I can smell your lot from a world away!"

The elven women stayed calm, even as a trickle of blood fell from her neck. The other one stepped behind Maori with her hands behind her back and said, "We were not Thalmor. But we served them none the less. We thought it was the right thing to do, though you know we had no choice in the matter regardless."

"Oh so you just had a change of heart when you saw the murder? Smelled the burning flesh? Is that it? Please. And you think some fancy clothes is going to change what happened? Make up for your roles in it? How many did you two kill, hmm?"

"We killed no one. We only fashioned the uniforms of the Thalmor Justiciars. You can choose to believe this or not, accept our gift or not, but I will have to ask that you take that blade from my sister's neck. I won't allow you to kill her."

Maori removed the blade eventually, licking the blade clean before putting it back in its place. "As if you had a choice in the matter. I'm out of here," he said. The two tried to say something as he left with his travel sack but he didn't give them any time to as he slammed the door shut. Blinking rapidly whilst wiping his eyes, the Bosmer's teeth ground together the entire way back to the Blue Palace.

The guards stopped him at the bottom of the stairway before he could even make his way up, putting a hand on his shoulder as they took his pack.

"What the hell are you two doing, I have business with the Jarl!"

"Not right now you don't, and not until we've searched you."

"Search away, the bag's filled with daggers and poisons, and here's my bow and arrows. I'm not an assassin, I'm a soldier for the Jarl of Windhelm, Baldur Red-Snow. I take it you've heard the news. The dumb looks on your face tells me... no? No. Great, where have you two been. Anyway, you know Ulfric has died at least? Ok good. Baldur has taken his place, not the Queen, Velara or whatever. I'm here on business for Baldur, and I need to speak to the Jarl but first I gotta speak to the court mage. Can you bring her here?"

The two looked at one another a moment, then back at the elf.

As the bars slammed in Maori's face in the Blue Palace's prison, Maori yelled, "You sons of sload sluts, I hope you choke on a blood sausage! Scullery whores!"

The guards laughed as they walked away, leaving Maori to seethe to himself. It wasn't long, though, before he heard soft footsteps and cloth lightly dragging along the ground, both barely audible. But the prison was quiet, and somehow grew quieter still as the footsteps moved about. They reached Maori's cell, and the elf found himself looking upon a slender, blue robe clad mage. Her hood was pulled over her face, even though she was indoors. She stood, most of her weight on her right leg, her right hand resting on her hip. She looked at Maori, searching his face and body with unnerving eyes. She stopped the inspection and asked, "You aren't going to struggle, are you? Neither one of us would find it pleasant if you did." 

Maori hadn't noticed the woman at first and noticeably jumped at her voice. "Excuse me? What are you, an avatar of Molag? No, he'd like it if I struggled... Try anything and I'll struggle your head from your shoulders lady."

"If only I had the time to watch you try and fail at that, it might be amusing. But I'm in quite a hurry." She lifted her hand, which glowed in a faint red and black magic, the tendrils it conjured reaching out towards Maori.

"Oh yea, well I'll... I'll... what did you..." Maori could feel his eyelids grow heavier by the second. Whatever the mage did to him, he was losing his faculties fast. In fact, he was starting to hallucinate. He could have sworn he saw the young woman baring fangs at him like a khajiit...

He drew a hidden dagger from his robe but lacked the strength to even hold it. As he fell to the ground, his only hope remaining was to use his people's birthright, hoping that some creature of the wild would hear his call. In a prison, beneath a palace.

"Shit."

Sybille Stentor entered the cell, her fangs bared, her eyes locked on Maori's soft brown neck. She heard scurrying behind her and stopped, turning around to see  two skeevers running across the room toward her. She conjured up a ball of flame and reduced one skeever to ash. It shrieked as it died. The other skeever leapt into the air, its own fangs aimed at her neck. It never made it, as she caught it on an ice spike she held in her hand. She tossed it to the floor, but before she could feed, she saw a guard descending the stairs. 

"This had better be important," she said.

"Uh..." the guard lifted a finger, pointing to the mer. "We need him. Jarl just ordered the prisoner released. Turns out he was who he said he was, a messenger for Jarl Red-Snow. What happened to him?"

"Fainted. I've never seen someone so afraid of skeevers before," Sybille said, with a stare that dared the guard to challenge her story. The guard nodded and went to pick Maori up, lifting the groggy mer to his feet and waking him up. By the time he had, Sybille was gone. 

 

"Mmm, not so hard baby. Mmm, seriously." Maori started coughing, kicking his legs when he felt water hit his face, as though he were trying to swim.

"Wake up!" The guard dumped another bucket of water over his head.

"What? What's going on? Where's the monster?"

"Shut up you crazy elf, and listen. For whatever reason, the Jarl has decided to have you for dinner."

Maori cleared his throat and wiped the water from his eyes. "That woman I just met was the Jarl?"

"Huh? No, that's just Sybille, the court mage. She's the one that healed your friend while you were away. They're probably eating now. I'm escorting you to the dinner table to speak with her, and her other guests. Show her respect or it's back in the dungeon. Got it?"

"Aye." Maori was in no mood to be mouthy after what he thought he saw.

"Good. Now get moving," said the guard as he tossed Maori a cloth.

By the time the two did arrive at the Dinner table, the guests were all well into their meal and a conversation. The guard bowed to Elisif and said, "Jarl Elisif the Fair, I present to you your guest, the elf."

"My name is Maori. Ack, damnit!" he cried when the guard hit him over the head to bow. "My name is Maori, Jarl Elisif. The Fair."

"Guard! That is no way to treat a guest, apologize to him at once and be off with you!"

The guard gave Maori such a look, especially when the mer started grinning beneath all his freakish tattoos. 

"Stuhn's mercy, elf I'll.... I mean... I'm. Sorry." 

"Don't beat yourself up too much, eyebrows," said Maori, mocking his accent, as well as his prominent brow. The Jarl snickering at him was all he needed to leave the scene.

Maori seated himself once next to Daric, who whispered in his ear, "So, you took my sash but then just blurted out what your purpose was? How stupid are you?"

"Not now kid, I'm not having the best day," he said between mouthfuls of rib. He almost choked when he realized who was sitting across from him.

"Careful, Maori," Sybille said. "What would Jarl Red-Snow think of us if you choked to death at our dinner table?"

Maori's eyes narrowed, the insinuation not lost on him. Though poison was one thing he hadn't needed to worry about, living in Valenwood. He spent his life building up immunities. 

The boy was another story, but judging from his plate, it was too late to worry about such things now.

Seeing Sybille's own plate, Maori said, "That the food must not be very good. Excuse me my Jarl, I don't mean to be rude, I only jest. But I can't help but notice, of everyone here, your court Mage is the only one that hasn't eaten anything."

Elisif eyed the court Mage, as if noticing this for the first time. It was of course, the last thing on her mind, as she was more worried about what Red-Snow wanted with her. 

Falk gave her a nod, and she reluctantly smiled. "Well you're right! Sybille? You always eat so little at my tables. Please."

Maori shoved a bowl of fruits and squash her way while he wolfed down a bloody lamb leg.

"Of course, Jarl Elisif. Excuse me if I don't have quite the voracious appetite of our guest, though." Sybille plucked an apple and began eating, taking a moment to wipe the juice from her lips. "Delicious, your highness."

Maori frowned. He didn't know a thing about vampires but he'd have sworn they couldn't eat food. Wiping the bloody meat juice from his lips, the thought started to leave his mind. Perhaps he was just seeing things, she might've cast a fear spell to intimidate him for interrogation.

Prince Roland interrupted then, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen over everyone else at the table. He cleared his throat and said, "Solitude is a beautiful city, Jarl Elisif. You and your people must be very proud of it."

 

"We're more proud that we've managed to maintain its beauty despite the late Ulfric Stormcloak moving the capital of Skyrim to Windhelm, and taking a large portion of our coffers with him," she answered.

"From what I understand, all that happened was that the late Ulfric, your husband, took his portion of the hold's coffers with him, which as High King was larger than yours, the High King's wife. And after that, traders started seeking to do business in Windhelm, the new capital, rather than here."

Elisif was visibly annoyed. Maori looked at Daric as though he'd just spoken in draconic. 

Falk sat straight in his seat for the first time that evening. "Boy! You are a guest in our hold, and unless you want to end up the way these Bretons found you, I'd suggest..."

"Enough Falk, the boy is right. That is what happened. Ulfric ended our marriage and left me here with my portion of gold to run the city, leaving with his. Gold that was only his because he'd claimed it as such after the war."

"That is what tends to happen when one loses. Gold is lost, wives are taken."

"What in the hell is wrong with you??" This time it was Maori's turn to speak up.

"We shouldn't even be here," said Daric. "We-"

"Are going to stay right here until Sybille says you're good to travel again. If it weren't for my hospitality, you'd be dead. Whatever business you have can and will wait until then, I'll not have anyone saying I treated Red-Snow's friends poorly with the upcoming moot. And since it's clear you two, or at least the boy has other things on his mind, and have no interest in me at all as it so happens, I'll have to ask that while our other guests remain, that you keep your mouth shut. Is that clear?"

Standing up, Daric said, "May I be excused, your highness?"

She signaled for Falk to take him to his quarters where Sybille was treating him. The stress on the young Jarl was clear to all that saw her. Especially when Daric called Ulfric her husband, though stress wouldn't be an adequate word for what she showed then. Neither was it anger.

Disgust.

"Are there going to be any more outbursts, Maori?"

"Don't look at me, I'm just here for the meal and conversation. Something's always up that kid's ass if you ask me, gotta forgive him."

"Luckily for you, Elisif the Fair isn't a name given in jest. Now, to our guests. I must apologize to you, I had not intended for such rudeness to intrude on the company of a prince."

Lady Gaerhart, the Breton Dowager Queen, waved Elisif's concern away and said, "Young people are emotional. You have been quite hospitable, and kind, to take him in and save him. Hopefully he will soon recognize that."

Roland coughed and said, "I can also assure you Breton merchants will always find their way here. Our trading relationship is a fruitful one, for all parties, and we don't anticipate that ending anytime soon."

Elisif let herself relax, admittedly glad to hear that she still had support amongst the Bretons. "It will be especially fruitful, on the chance that I become High Queen," she said. Before anyone commented on the likelihood of that happening, she said, "I've already heard the rumors, why you're here. Word is spreading that Baldur is to break even more tradition than he already has, by inviting outsiders to a moot of Skyrim's Jarls. Fear not, I am not opposed to this. It's surprising, but it's a welcome one."

Thane Bryling said, "Forgive me for butting in, but I think it's clear to all that the new upstart Jarl wishes to circumvent the authority of the other Jarls with any influence he can muster in the world. A bold move admittedly, but also an obvious one. And risky when the man he replaced was adamant on keeping outside influence out of Skyrim politics."

Elisif looked to Maori to see if he would interrupt but the mer was simply listening between mouthfuls. "Aye, risky indeed, but even so, I am worried. This claim of his, this religious fervor that he is building... It's dangerous. I've met the man, spoken to him on occasion. He is charismatic, like his predecessor though not as much then. Still, I worry about what he can do to this land, and with word of more foreigners, supposedly Atmorans or something similar coming to Skyrim on his behalf, it's starting to look more and more like what he claims may even be true. That's what the simple folk will think. That's what some Jarls east of here will think. In that case, outsiders, no offense your highness, will not cause as much harm to his claim to the throne."

Looking to them now, she said, "I remember what he said the day Ulfric left this hold with a new wife. The people did not respond to it well back then, certainly not in Solitude, but still, it troubles me, this move to the old ways. You must understand, what he is saying, it isn't dangerous for just me, or anyone else in Skyrim that may be potentially his enemy in his eyes. But to his neighbors as well. Hammerfell I understand, Cyrodiil less so, but High Rock even less. What allegiances do you have to him? There is no reason that you should feel obligated to siding with Baldur Red-Snow over another Jarl in this land."

Prince Roland gave the Jarl a small smile, which she later realized was meant to take the bite out of his words. "No official allegiance, no. Our choice in siding with him is because, frankly, we believe he is the best option. There are more senior Jarls, yes, who have more experience governing, but we aren't looking to support a ruler. We want a leader, and Red-Snow is that. Skyrim is going to lead this alliance, and Red-Snow will be the general in charge. Him ruling Skyrim as well ensures that everything that can be done to defeat the Thalmor will be done."

"If it is a leader you want," said Elisif, with hesitation. "Then... there is another you might consider. He's possibly the best person to be leading a war like this."

"Jarl Elisif," said Bryling again in protest. "You can't seriously mean..."

"Jarl Brund Hammer-Fang the Bull," she finally said, her brow wrinkled in tension. "If Jarl Brund Hammer-Hammer-Fang becomes high king, I am to be his second wife. Influence between Solitude and Windhelm will be spread evenly. That would mean more trade would come through Solitude as well, as a sister hold to Windhelm, and I will be able to grant High Rock unprecedented trading rights to Solitude after the great war, when we'll both need it the most. Baldur was not the only one who helped repel the Thalmor invasion, Brund's might was key to their defeat of a Sunbird. Under his rule, you get an equally strong war leader against the Thalmor, but with guaranteed benefits to your father's Kingdom afterwards as well. Brund is also the current Jarl of Markarth, and can grant you the same trading rights there with the Silver-Bloods."

"I have heard of him. He cleared the Reach, no small task. But Baldur has proven himself at both Falkreath and Windhelm, had the support of the late High King and was his High General, and built a respectable town from nothing. We won't support anyone but him for High King," Roland said. 

Lady Gaerhart nodded and wiped her twisted old hands on her napkin. "Why not support Baldur yourself? It would endear you to him and the eastern Jarls, and, if you don't mind my saying so, save your dignity. The Jarl of Solitude should not have to be a second wife. I know there are eligible Breton noblemen who would leap at the chance to be your husband. Or maybe a Jarl or his relations."

Bryling gave Elisif a look, but she gave one right back. Bryling clearly had suggested something similar.

She gave a sigh that was rooted in frustration but faded in her defeat of the topic. She couldn't tell them the truth of why she resisted supporting Baldur's claim. Yes, she feared his claim not only to the throne but to High King Wulfharth's soul as well. But more than that, it was her only chance to wrestle back control from Windhelm to Solitude. Yes there would be the indignity of being Jarl Brund's second wife, but she had no intentions of remaining as such.

Keep your friends close... I can't support that man and what he represents. It would be an affront to my husband, my true husband, Torygg. Who I've already brought shame to by not taking my own life when I had the chance. I must restore Solitude as the capital of Skyrim in his name.

Instead of explaining her selfish desires however, she said, "I have a duty to Skyrim to stand against anyone as potentially dangerous as Baldur Red-Snow, against anyone that will bring more death and war to my people and my friends outside of Skyrim. For this, I'll suffer whatever indignities I must."

"Oh please," said Maori.

"Sir elf, I thought we had an understan-"

"I understand only one thing, and it is that you are a fool."

"You will watch your tongue! I am the Jarl of-,"

"You know DAMN well that whatever fears you have of Baldur pale in comparison to what Brund Hammer-Fang brings to the table! You know better than I, you've met the man! Are you seriously going to sit there and tell me that Brund seems like a better choice as High King to you than Baldur?"

Guards were approaching the elf now as he erupted out of his seat. "I'm leaving, and I'm taking the boy with me. We'll be fine enough without anymore assistance from...her..." said Maori. "And here. I wasn't going to give you this, figured it was a waste of time. Baldur said that I was to give out these letters in case I came across any Jarls in my travels, to ask for your support in the moot. I still say it's a waste of time but whatever. Do with it as you will."

The guard snatched the letter from Maori's hand before he could throw it at her. He protested of course, but the guard ignored him. 

"Read it please," she said.

As the guard prepared to do so, the man parted the seal upon it, and it immediately erupted in smoke.

Coughing, the man dropped the parchment on the table, where the smoke gathered before them, and eventually displayed the likeness of Baldur Red-Snow himself.

"Well, this is certainly interesting," the smoky apparition said. Looking at the prince, he said, "I can see Theodore in you, but you're way too thin to be him. How goes the king? Couldn't make it I take it?"

"What in the blazes??" said Elisif. "What is this?!"

"Calm down, it's the workings of my own court mage. He calls himself a druid. Right now, we're all subconsciously communicating through something called a dreamsleeve transmission. It's something similar to what the Thalmor use to communicate, but less efficient since everyone can hear me instead of just Elisif. But no matter. This may be better seeing as how you've got important guests."

"Impressive," Sybille said, speaking mostly to herself. 

Roland said, "No, Jarl Red-Snow, he could not make it. He and my mother are doing well. I'm Prince Roland, heir to the throne of High Rock. This," he motioned to his left, "is my grandmother, Lady Gaerhart, and the man next to her is Duke Theirry, our admiral. We've come in my parent's place."

Baldur bowed his head in respect. "I'm very grateful that you've come all this way in his stead, especially you, Lady Gaerhart. I've heard that name before, even in Skyrim, though I confess I don't know the origin. I trust you've met Daric? He's... my ward, son of Maric."

Roland bowed back. "We met him. My guards and I saved him and your elven courier. We haven't had much time to talk, unfortunately. He was injured and is still recovering."

"I was saddened to miss you when you passed through Daggerfall," Lady Gaerhart said, before Elisif or any of the other members of her court could interject. "I understand you and your wife met my husband, the late King Dilborn. I know he did not give you any assurances of Breton support at the time, but I hope our attendance at this moot demonstrates our commitment to fighting the Thalmor. Even if my old bones may not be able to make it to the top of your mountain." 

Elisif was getting increasingly annoyed by the hijacking of her company, to Maori's great pleasure.

Baldur smiled and said, "Ah, that must've been when I heard your name! So much has happened since... And please believe me when I say this indeed shows me your people's commitment to fighting the Thalmor. Daric has showed me first hand the fighting spirit of your people. It'll be an honor to have you with us. And if you can't make it up the mountain, I'm sure I can have someone carry you! This isn't something you'll want to miss... Oh, and when we meet, communicating may be a bit of an issue until after the moot, you see I...."

Baldur's image began to fade as he attempted to explain and the Bretons and Elisif's court could hear the voice of an old man whispering in some forgotten language.

"Can't go into detail right now. We're only speaking now because we're connected via our minds. This dreamsleeve transmission is usually maintained by a mage's mind, which I am not. And my Druid is attending business elsewhere. If we can, we must find more of these scrolls the Thalmor have and master the art ourselves. Cyrodiil might know more. In the meantime I must part, I..."

"Enough of this! Jarl Baldur, you have shown this court the utmost disrespect! This...you...do you have anything to say for yourself and what you're doing? Ash King indeed!"

Baldur turned to Elisif once more, visibly annoyed. 

Maori said, "She plans to side with Brund Hammer-Fang you know. She's to be his second wife if he wins..."

"Really," he said. "Know this, I will be your King and neither Brund or you can change that. What you do now to delay this only serves the Thalmor and puts Skyrim and my family in further danger, as well as all of Tamriel. Think hard on those implications when you meet me."

Standing abruptly she said, "You dare threaten me?! I am not afraid of the likes of you!"

"It's no threat," he said. "I will not waste more than words on you. Killing you is beneath me. If you had any Nord pride, you'd do that yourself and end the sorrow I sense in you for your late husband. Rather than shame him further by laying with the Bull." He turned to Roland and said with a smile, "Ours I mean."

Elisif shot him a look of venom very much unlike her that even made Maori nervous considering whose palace they were in.

Her hand reached out as if she wanted to crush the little smokey apparition of Baldur, but it fell back. She wanted to maintain what dignity yet still remained.

"This conversation is over. Yol."

The word was thought, not said, but they all heard it anyway. Flame encompassed them all and their minds were overcome with Ehlnofex and daedric characters, then a series of 1's and 0's before ancient Draconic began corrupting the code. 

The last thing they heard before waking up was Baldur saying, "And thank you for protecting Maori and the boy. They are both very dear to me."

"It seems the Nords have found magic yet," Lady Gaerhart said, eliciting a smile from Sybille and the other Bretons. The tension in the room didn't dissipate, however, and no one had yet started eating again. 

Roland offered a new topic for conversation. "Jarl Elisif, has news made it here of the Roscreans returning to Tamriel? We met one of theirs in Farrun, and are sending emissaries to their island. It's my understanding Solitude used to control the island. Will you start trading with them once again?"

For a moment it seemed like Elisif hadn't heard them at all, and she didn't respond until Falk cleared his throat. That was the first time she noticed that he'd returned as well. He nodded, letting her know the boy was taken care of.

"Trade with the Roscreans, yes I'm sure the sailors will be happy that they don't need to make any long voyages to do so. Occasionally they'd return with stories of their strange people, fantastical stories about talking giants and so on." Her eyes didn't meet any of theirs as she spoke. "There's no reason not to trade with them, and the goods would find their way here from other holds anyway if they're really wandering around Skyrim. We may as well be one of the first."

"Do you see any sort of threat from them?" Duke Theirry asked, looking between Falk and Elisif. "If they took to piracy, they would be a formidable force." 

"I agree, they would be. And given how the Thalmor like to do things in the shadows, it's something that we should consider a possibility," said Falk. "Wouldn't you agree, Jarl Elisif?"

"I think that not only does opening ourselves to such a risk seem stupid at this stage of our war prep with the Thalmor, it also seems that if we were going to take such a risk, the new Jarl of Windhelm should have consulted the rest of the Jarls before doing so. We don't know much of anything about them, and now they're fiddling with magic that is not our own, and using it so brazenly in my palace?"

Falk cleared his throat again and said, "But I'm sure it wouldn't come to that. They are supposed to be Nords, of a sort after all. Solitude will lead the effort in assuring that these Roscreans will have no need to resort to piracy. In fact, an island nation could prove useful in guarding our trade routes, watching out for enemy ships and so on, if they're to help us in the war. High Rock should think about making an effort to speak with them as well I think, especially while you're in Skyrim. Don't you think Jarl Elisf?"

"...of course," she said. "That would be wise."

"An emissary is headed to Roscrea as we speak. He will help establish diplomatic relations with their rulers. But I will try and speak to this druid Jarl Red-Snow has employed. The man who visited High Rock did so in the druids' authority, but was not one himself," Roland said. 

"How are your people readying themselves for war?" asked Jarl Elisif, seemingly snapping out of her bad mood. "I'm curious, even if I myself am not taking an active role, the possibility of becoming Queen makes me want to look for out of the box solutions and be aware of what my allies are capable of."

Duke Thierry said, "We spent several weeks clearing the northern and western waters of pirates. It was good practice for our marines and mages, as well as the many sailors who had little fighting experience."

"We also recently partnered with the Direnni, so our mages can learn how to best combat Elven magic. And our levies are drilling as much as they can. Our knights, of course, are always prepared. We stand ready to fight once the war begins," Roland said. 

"These Direnni, I've read about them before. They partnered with Hoag Merkiller once upon a time to fight against the Alessian Cult. I suppose we can trust them then?"

"That was a long time ago," said Maori, not so thrilled about the prospect. "Though, some of them may have actually remembered those days. Who knows with mages, and how long they live. Any thoughts on that, court mage?" Maori narrowed his eyes, gauging her reaction.

Sybille sipped from her wine glass and licked the excess off her lips. "Everyone knows mages live longer. And Altmer have naturally longer lifespans. Not to mention whatever unnatural means they might use. The Telvanni are rumored to use necromancy, for instance. But the Alessian Cult was so long ago, as you so astutely stated, so chances are no one is still alive that was then. And even if they were, they would be far from human."

"Elves are far from human. Or do you mean something else? Like a lich, or a vampire?" said Maori, smirking.

"Obviously the latter," she said, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. "I should have expected a Bosmeri bumpkin to get caught up in semantics and completely miss my meaning. I meant that anyone who had lived so long would no longer be a whole person. Lich, vampire, necromancer, whatever magic they used to live from the time of the Alessian Cult until now would take something from them. Such a long and unnatural life has its costs." 

"Maori, maybe you should go check on your friend," Roland offered, as everyone at the table watched the court mage and messenger square off. They had all stopped eating by now. Lady Gaerhart said, "A sensible idea. He's had a trying day, after all."

Maori kept his glare with Sybille for an awkwardly long time. Finally he smiled and said, "Perhaps you're right. I've lost my appetite anyway. Too much bloody meat in my diet. Here, perhaps you'd like to finish my plate," said Maori, dropping a very large portion of rare beef in front of her over the fruit she was slowly nibbling on, blood oozing from where he'd bitten it last.

Grinning, he said, "In the name of the Jarl of Windhelm, I apologize for the state of your evening, your grace. I sincerely hope your color returns before you arrive at the moot. Ta-ta." Falk moved as though he was going to throw the Bosmer back into the dungeon, but Elisif shook her head.

"Leave him be," she said.

"The size of the snowberries on that mer..." he said under his breath.

"I must apologize too," she said to her guests. "I came at you with an agenda, when I'm sure what you wanted most was a good meal and rest. I hope you can forgive me, my home's well-being is at stake, as is all of our homes. You handled yourselves well, and regardless of what happens, I do hope that Solitude and High Rock will continue to have a beneficial and friendly relationship with one another."

"That is my hope, and my parents' hope, as well," Roland said. 

Lady Gaerhart added, "You and your husband were always good friends to our citizens and traders, and we would like that to continue. Best of luck at the moot." 

Elisif nodded, doing her best to smile. "My palace is open to you all, stay for as long as you like. If you'll excuse me I have a letter to write, then I'll be turning in for the evening. Sybille? Please see to our guest. Whatever differences you two have should be reconciled. I don't want to hear any arguing from you two tomorrow at the breakfast table."

"Of course, Jarl Elisif," Sybille said. She stood, bowed, and then left at a brisk pace to the guest rooms. She cast a defect life spell and saw Maori alone in his room, so she entered without knocking and locked the door behind her. She said, "Insolent elf. You won't be so impertinent next time."

Maori jumped at the sound of her voice, not hearing her approach once again. All of his weapons were gone, but he had a kitchen knife he snagged from the dinner table, coated with garlic.

"There, you smell that, she-witch? I know I'm not crazy. I know what you are! Guards!"

"No one can hear you, the room is muffled," she said, and with a wave of her hand sent the knife skittering across the floor. She raised her hands and pinned Maori in a chair. "You should know, I'm not going to kill you. Or even hurt you, much, though you likely deserve it. But you cannot be allowed to spread these rumors about me."

"I'll come back for you someday, you snaggle toothed bitch. I always bite back. So just get it over with already."

Sybille smiled to reveal her fangs. "I somehow doubt you will, this time."

She waved her hand and Maori was knocked unconscious. She leaned over him and drank from the vein in his neck, taking her time and drinking him for every drop she needed. When she was finished, she opened his mouth and poured down a potion to stop his turning, then healed away her bite marks with a quick spell. And to ensure he'd never utter her secret, she placed one hand on each temple and began the spell. Red tendrils stretched between her hands and over his head as she muttered under her breath. She probed deep into his mind, searching for the memories and feelings of their previous encounters. She found them, laced with fear and hate, and pulled them out with the crimson tendrils. She conjured a bottle and stored the memories, which were always useful for certain rituals and spells. With that she dissipated the spells in the room and left Maori sleeping in his chair. 

Daric came barging in sometime later that night, brow tensed up and as always sporting a bad attitude. "What did Baldur say? What's going on?" He demanded, but the elf was out cold. Daric walked over, shook him like a rag doll, then heard the clammer of a mead bottle rolling over the stone floor.

"Pfft, light weight. I thought you didn't drink our liquor though..." he said, but he didn't put much further thought into it. His tales of elven fermented meat juice always sounded like drakeshit anyway. 

Grabbing Maori by the collar, Daric lifted the elf and their gear he stole back from the guards and snuck out of the palace in the thick of night. On his way out he heard two things that gave him pause. The first, the sound of a woman sobbing down a dark corridor, and what he thought must've been a... chuckle? Either way, he was glad to leave the palace and Solitude behind for good.

[Witchking of Angmar]

Skyrim, Throat of the World, 

Dales, Roland, 

Afternoon, 

The Empress wandered down the ancient halls of the Nordic monastery, a look of boredom clear on her face. While the ancient murals had been interesting for the first few days, they quickly grew to be rather dull. What's the point of having ancient knowledge when ninety percent of Skyrim's population couldn't read it? Whiile she did like the Greybeards, Dales was certainly seeing Baldur's point more and more. They should be more active in Skyrim's affairs. Such a power was being wasted, when it could be unleashed on the Dominion. A wave of mer hit in the face, the smell of perfume clear in the air. Dale's snorted, a reminder of the decadence in the Imperial Court. Hundreds of Septims for glorified smells. It didn't even smell good, and caused the Empress to sneeze.

The Empress herself wore a purple dress, embroidered with crimson dragons, with small rubies sewn into the rune fabric. An enchantment had been placed on it to reflect sword blows, and magic spells. Her deathly pale skin, sat, standing out among the other vibrant colors. The few scars on her face were visible, if very hard to notice. Her dark steel curious, looking like a corset, sat horsey on her midsection, with another reflect enchantment placed on it. On her hands, she wore steel gauntlets, small, and they sat snuggly on Dales lith fingers. For boots, armored steel, the dark metalic boots causing the dust to disperse as she marched down the long hallway. On her belt, she carried her Imperial Gladius, quite bare, besides the jeweled pommel, and the old Breton carved onto the blade, which roughly read, "Upon the Dragons, fall asunder.", and her black wraith dagger.  Finally, on her honey locks, she wore the black Dragon Crown, the symbol of her power and authority. Even so far in Skyrim, it was a dark omen, and a symbol of Imperial control.

She looked more like a warlord then an Empress. Instead of a feminine, graceful walk, she marched with a feral, cat-like stride. At her side, one of her Paltenina Guardsmen marched, his white-gold cloak trailing behind him.

As she was about to round the corner into another hallway, she heard a man's voice call out after her. The guard turned first, his hand instinctively gripping his sword. Dales did the same, though with less obvious aggression. It wasn't likely that any assassin would find their way into the Nordic monastery, after all.

Coming towards her was a Breton man roughly her age. He was clean shaven, and his dark brown hair reaching passed his ears, though it was held back from his face by the sapphire inlaid gold circlet he wore. His eyes were dark brown, nearly black at a distance, but grew lighter as he approached. He wore a blue tunic with gold highlighting the edges, and no armor to speak of. His cloak was thick and fur lined, the fur light shade of brown, the rest darker. He wore one ring on his left hand, a wedding ring, polished gold with a diamond in the center. 

He was slightly above average height for a Breton, though the full plate clad woman behind him stood taller. Her armor had a bull carved into the center, a stout and proud creature. She had a long sword at her side, hand rested on the pommel, and looked on Dales and her guard with the same cautious eye the Paltenina had. 

Now they stood face to face, and the Breton man nodded his head in greeting. A simple, but not curt, gesture.  "Empress Dales. I am Prince Roland Adrard."

"Greetings Prince Roland. Please call me Dales." Her face didn't relax or brighten but she smiled, not pleasant but not exactly rude either. Her hand relaxed as she brought up the gauntleted hand and offered it forward to him.  She couldn't tell if he was as foul as his father, but she expected him to act like a proper knight to a lady.

"And you may call me Roland," the prince said, dipping his head to kiss her hand. He rose and returned her smile, but she could see something lingering behind it. Reticent, maybe. "How was your trip here?"

"Cold and bloody" She said simply, walking besides him. Her grip near her sword completely relaxed, and she motioned for her guard to ease a little, which he didn't, his cold grey eyes trailing on the duo. "My sole traveling companion was Jarl Red-Snow. I didn't know Skyrim had so many wolves and trolls. We made short work of them of course. How was your trip, Roland?"

Roland glanced first at her relaxing hand, then at her guard, and made the same motion Dales did for his own knight to back off. Instead she too kept the same distance, the two guards marching in lockstep behind their royal charges. When his eyes returned to Dales', he gave a considerate frown and said, "I hope they didn't give you too much trouble. My trip was less dangerous. The only trouble I encountered was in the form of nobles. And they are a less aggressive sort than trolls or wolves."

"Nothing we couldn't handle, I fear for you more." She chuckled.  how much I understand, dear Prince." She said with an entertained voice, "Constantly jabbering behind your back, but once your in earshot, there venom turns to smooth, honeyed words. I do not envy your position to say the least. Leaving the Imperial Court had been...a relaxing holiday." 

"Leaving court always is," Roland agreed. "Though we haven't gone far. It seems the Nords have taken to political infighting of late, between their civil war and this moot. Their type of politics, of course."

"Alot more refreshing in my opinion." She quickly added, "People tell me to my face they want to stab me with a blade from behind, instead of hiding the fact!"

"It is refreshing in that way," Roland said. "I can't remember the last threat I heard that wasn't hidden behind a smile and the offer of fine food."

"You would know all the finer details of High Rock court intrigue wouldn't you?" She said sharply

Roland sighed and the small smile he wore turned to a frown. "I imagine there are quite a few pointed things you'd like to say to me. Or better yet, say to my father."

"The Sins of the father do not concern me. Indeed, there is much I would like to say to your father, but you are not your father? Or are you?" She said somewhat cryptically.

"I'm not sure what you're suggesting, but no, I am not my father," Roland said.

"Then you should understand i'm not angry at you. Your father was the one who deceived and embarrassed me, not you yourself. I hold no grudge against you." She said plainly. 

Roland stayed quiet for a few moment, his brow beneath his circlet scrunched in what seemed to be some disquiet concern. When he spoke, he took one deep breath and said, "While I agreed with my father's decision to secede, I would like to apologize for his cruelty towards you and your soldiers."

The Empress gave Roland a sly smile, her brow rising, "Well aren't you a gentlemen. Like I said before, my dear prince, I hold nothing again you, and it wasn't you who was cruel to me, it was your father, whose actions weren't your doing." She shrugged her shoulders, maintaining a good pace as they wandered down the halls, "To be honest with you, I wouldn't really hold a grudge if it was just the insults. I walked right into his hands with my juvenile attempts at humor. Its my fault. Its not like i'm not used to..." her face grew dark "Those kinds of insults. I suffered through that quite a bit when I was in school, and as a Princess. Public humiliation isn't a stranger to me." Roland did not notice, but under Dales gauntlets, her left hand start to violently twitch

"It was the disrespect your father showed towards my men that causes venom to flow through my veins." She added

"His quarrel was with you, not them, so he should not have brought them into it. Paying their families was the least he could do after that, and I'm glad he did that at least," Roland said. "I hope we can be wiser than our parents, going forward, and keep the animosity between our homes at a minimum. Knowing how well you and General Red-Snow get along, I have hope you and I can bridge the divide, as you and the Nords have done."

"Well then, in that case, I establish familiarity with a handshake of friendship. Let's start over, without our fathers influence clouding are judgement." Dales stopped in her tracks, turned around, offered her gauntleted hand forward once more, "Dales Moitre, at your service." 

Roland faced her and shook her hand. "Roland Adrard, at yours. I do believe a fresh start will benefit us and our kingdoms both."

"No doubt. Despite...recent events, there's no reason for Cyrdoilli and High Rock to get into conflict, with the war with the Aldmeri Dominion so close. Close ties are necessary I think. Mankind should remain united against the common Thalmor threat, wouldn't you agree? I'm sure there's plenty of hawks who want retribution in the Elder Council, but I think its a waste of resources and time." Dales walked beside Roland, "War had its uses, but in this case I disagree. Infact, with High Rock gone, us in the Imperial government can focus on solely helping what matters to us most, Cyrdoili, and its well-being."

"I'm glad you feel that way. I agree that we can't focus on our differences in the face of the Thalmor and the threat they pose. High Rock will be there to help Cyrodiil, Skyrim, and Hammerfell fight the Thalmor. My father will assure that. For his faults in handling the secession, he is committed to defeating the Thalmor," Roland said.

"I do hope so. Baldur raised some...concerns over High Rocks involvement in the upcoming war. Apparently, he is of the mind that High Rock will leave most of the fighting to my red Legions, and his Nordic warriors." She said with a slight smile.

Roland returned the smile, but there was clearly no warmth in it. "No offense to General Red-Snow, but I'm not sure he should worry himself about High Rock, considering the state of his own home." Roland dropped the smile and continued. "We will do all we can to assist in the war effort. Our levies are training, our navy has been busy ridding the seas of pirates, and our mages will be integral to defeating the Thalmor. No other army has the magical capabilities ours does, especially since we have recently forged an agreement with the Direnni to train our mages in methods of combating Elven magic.

"I understand Red-Snow's apprehension. Our army is small compared to yours and his, and the majority of our fighters are not as well trained. But we stand ready to do our part."

"The good general is just weary, I suppose. Due to recent events, I suppose have made him pessimistic." They continued down the dark hallway, half glancing at the ancient symbols and murals "I for one am excited to see lines of heavy Breton Knights charging down Dominion soldiers!" She said with child like glee, "Though i'm rather dubious on your claims about magic. I'm quite sure good High-General Ceno's Shadow Legion could hold there own in skill against your mages. Discipline of a soldier, and the power of a battle mage is never to be underestimated."

"Let's hope we never get to see how our mages would fare against the other. Though I'm sure they'll have plenty of chances to test their mettle in battle," Roland said. "But I think we can all agree that it'll be a pleasure to watch the Dominion fall. Hate for the Dominion seems to be the most unifying force since Tiber Septim united Tamriel."

"Hatred is strong. It brings you back from anything. Makes you powerful."

Roland looked at her with a curious glance. "It sounds like you're speaking from some personal experience."

"Am I wrong?  Bretons hate for the Orismer had led you to ally with the Redguards countless times to slaughter them. As you said before, this "alliance" is based on the hatred of the Dominion. Strength is based on hate." 

"Dont we all have someone, or somthing we hate, my dear prince?" Dales asked, her head looking at him oddly.  Dales was certainly...as eccentric as Roland had heard her to be. But underneath that...quirkness, there was certain intelligence to her. "Has there been any times when you were completely broken, but latched onto somthing that you despised, and it brought you back from that despair? 

"I can't say that I've experienced that, no. The only time I ever despaired as such was after we lifted the siege of Farrun. I took an arrow, a rather nasty wound. I thought I might die, from infection or something similar. Looking back, it was an overreaction, but I remember I couldn't stop thinking about my wife, Lyenna. I like to think she stopped me from sinking too far."

"Ah so you've been wounded in battle before? A true Knight of Highrock then. I got my guts ripped out by an assassins blade. Quite painful. I suppose a near death experience like that would be rather tramuatising. Less so when your skilled in magic like me. But the love of a fair maiden can bring ones self from the brick of despair."

Roland's eyebrows ticked up. "What sort of magic? As a Breton I'd assumed you had some skill in it. I know a fair bit of Destruction, Restoration, and some Alteration. Things to augment my martial training."

"Without boast, I can say i'm an expert in alteration, and quite good in illusion. I had many very good mentors, and they say I was naturally gifted in the art." She gave a warry smile, "Ah, same with me. I use magic to enhance my fighting prowess, as Baldur found out. Conjured Ice Spears, strength spells, and speed magic is all I need. No flashy explosions." 

"They must indeed be skilled mentors. Becoming an expert at such a young age is notable. How young were you when you began studying?" Roland asked. 

"I think I was...thirteen." She grew rather sad, "My...father sent me to study with the Synod after a rather embarrassing incident at the Imperial Dragon Academy.  Magic if you look at as simply an energy thats to be exploited, manipulated, and used for a common purpose, can be quite easy to learn if you study hard enough. Are you skilled in the art?"

"Exploitating and manipulating magic?" Roland asked. "I've always viewed using magic as a form of extension of the caster. Making use of your inner magicka  to extend your will through various means. That was how I was taught. I suppose it differs from teacher to teacher."

She laughed, "I'm sure. Magic is powerful, regardless of how you view it. People should be more careful with the darker forms. My teacher taught me to appreciate all schools, even the darker ones, but self limit is important. The Nords, and the Atlmer are two extremes. One dosen't trust it, the other has too high regard for it. I do hope you find yourself in the middle."

"I like to think so. Magic has its uses, but as with all things, it must be in moderation," Roland said. "I had hoped under Queen Veleda Skyrim would grow more accepting of magic for the practical and useful skill it is. With Red-Snow taking Ulfric's place, I wonder now what'll happen to magic here. He seems willing to use it, but I'm not sure there'll be much patience for it now that the war is starting."

"Nords are a stubborn lot, I doubt there will be much change." Dales walked down the hallway once more for a little, her eyes trailing towards the two bodyguards following the duo of royalty. She narrowd when she saw the female knight. Not bad...She shook her head, before raising another question towards Roland, "I hear there was some turmoil in High Rock recently. A Duke Monte messaged me some nonsense. I suppose your father took care of him."

"The last I saw of him, Duke Mon was locked away in our dungeon. He hasn't seen sunlight since," Roland said. "What was in the letter he sent you?" 

Dales smiled, "If I recall he claimed somthing about a Thalmor plot, and other nonsense. I suppose it may have been a last ditch effort to salvage his plans. I guess the head block is all that awaits him and his family. Your father should just kill him already, no reason to let his prey suffer any longer." 

"A desperate plea of a desperate man," Roland said. "I'm not sure why my father has let him linger one. I suppose he has his reasons, though. And what of Cyrodiil? I understand things were a bit rough in the Niben. Seems they've calmed down now."

The Empress frowned, "Certainly, bandits had taken over a main city. We deployed the Legion, and declared martial law. Things have been going much smoother these days. The people have suffered enough, and the great war is on the horizon." 

"How close on the horizon?" Roland asked.

"Very close." She said without elaboration, "You cant smell the smoke of war? The Aldmeri Dominions assault on Windhelm is just the prelude."

"Have the Nords found all the Dominion soldiers that retreated?"

"Most fled to Riften and are being hunted by Grim One soldiers. They'll all be dead by the end of the week, or so Baldur tells me."

"Let us hope that is the case. Letting them linger any longer is asking for more trouble."

"I would hope, to keep the rumors of the skill of Dominion Special Forces true. There fearsome reputation aside, worthy foes to fight are important,  But indeed, i'm sure because of how isnane things have gotten in the Rift as of late, an effective guerrilla resistance wouldn't be too hard to pull off for trained commandos likle the Dominion Special forces. The Rift right now is infested by hundreds of bandits, and is quite literally anarchy, or so i've been told."  Her cold blue eyes fluttered, an icy chill emerging, "If the Rift isn't in control soon, it compromises the war effort. And that would be a bad thing indeed."

"I would suggest we offer support to the Nords, to help them clear the Rift of Thalmor and bandits, but I doubt they'd accept. They're stubborn, as you said, and when we offered to help them fight their Reachmen they declined. But I expect they'll deal with it. Red-Snow doesn't seem the sort to let a threat linger," Roland said. He shrugged, then added, "Of course, you know him better than I. I've never met him in person."

"They wouldn't accept help from a Breton prince, and an Imperial Monarch for anything less then full out war. Then again, Baldur is much more pragmatic then most Nords." She paused before asking, "To a more pleasant topic, how is your mother, and daughter?" Dales smiled, 

"My mother is doing better. My father and her lost their twins in birth. It was a trying time, to be sure," Roland said.

"Oh, I had no idea. My deepest sympathies for your lost. What were the complications if you dont mind me asking?" The Empresses face was curious. Though he couldn't see much else behind her icy blue eyes.

"Thank you," Roland said. He coughed to clear his throat and continued. "I think that the complications arose from her age, and the fact the babies were born earlier than expected.”

"Couldn't your court mage do anything about?" She said with an apologetic tone.

"The mages and healers did all they could, but it wasn't enough," Roland said.

"Such a shame. Is your mother weathering the storm of emotions that come from such a tragedy?"

"It seems so. She keeps herself busy, and I think that helps. Though she and my father did mourn for some time after it happened," Roland said. “And you? How is your family?"

"Same old. My daughter Abigial is a handful, though I have my handmaiden assiting my in raising her. Far too busy with running the country, unfortunately, so I rarely have time to spend with her."

“I'm glad to hear your daughter is doing well. How old is she?"

"A year and a half if I recall. Very quiet girl, barely cries at all."

"You hid the pregnancy well. I scarcely remember hearing about it. Though my wife also doesn't get out much since she is pregnant."

A smile played on Dales lips. "It wasn't too hard. I worked at the comfort of my desk. It’s only been recently I’ve decided to attend the throne, and have open court for anyone in Cyrodiil to come and present issues to me. The people should know there monarch looks out for them."

"My parents hold open court as well. I'm sure you heard about the incident with the Thalmor interrupting it."

"Hmmmm, no." Dales shook her head warily, "I dont pay much attention to the happenings at High Rocks Court. An incident with the Dominion? Did anyone get hurt?"

"A Direnni emissary, who was Thalmor spy, came to my parent's court and was espousing lies about my parents and the Direnni. That we were working with the Thalmor. Then a Thalmor justiciar appeared in court and killed this Direnni, to make the story seem credible. As if he was being silenced for speaking out. These accusations were not true, of course, and the Direnni's assistant was caught and told us the true story. You guessed right earlier, Duke Mon was in a Thalmor plot that fell apart. He had conspired to help the Thalmor in overthrowing my family. My father and I and the Direnni met and came to peaceful terms, and Duke Mon is captive as I said earlier. The only perpetrator not imprisoned is the Thalmor justiciar who killed his fellow Thalmor agent in our court. He's likely a high ranking agent and long gone." Roland finished the tale of courtly intrigue and cleared his throat before saying, "I am surprised you didn't hear about it, especially since Duke Mon sought you out for help."

"The rat never mentioned this. Some drivel about the people, and how your father had joined forces with the Dominion. Bah. The commoners-" Dales refrained from using Plebeian or Peasant, a more derogatory," I highly doubt care for who holds the crown, as long as there lives are peaceful, and stable. " Her icy blue eyes became angry, "Well I may have...my differences, with the Bretons of High Rock, its  disgusting to hear that one of your own kind in the nobility betrayed you to those vipers in the Dominion. Truly disgusting. Men shouldn't sell there own out for power, on the whims of some Mer." The Empresses teeth clenched shut, her anger plainly visible, 

"My family feels the same way," Roland said. "Mon's lingering imprisonment is due to how wretched his betrayal was. We will ensure he serves as an example of what happens to those who support the Dominion."

"Though i'm sure you can afford some mercy to his family?" Dales said, her face blank, "Perhaps punishment yes but I think the sins of the father should not be forced upon by the Duke's innocent family." 

"They wouldn't have shown us any mercy. And the Thalmor they were working with wouldn't have either," Roland said. "For better or worse, there is little room for mercy in Breton politics."

"Vengeance should be reserved for people who deserve it. Mercy sometimes shows who the better person is. I prefer executing the offending noble, but exile for there family." The Empress paused, "But its not my place to really comment on Breton politics, when an old Imperial favorite is castration and blinding." She worked up a weak smile, "So, good Prince, how have the nords been treating you? I'm sure the hospitality of High Hrgothar has been great."

"It has been pleasant. My grandmother was well taken care of on the journey here, and our lodgings here are quite nice. I'm sure you've received similar treatment," Roland said. 

"Of course. And you brought your grand mother up here?" She said with a faint smile, "Was it wise to bring an elderly lady up to the frigid north? 

"Wise or not, she refused to stay in the village at the base of the mountain. Jarl Red-Snow kindly offered up several Nords to carry her litter. He seems to respect her a great deal and wanted to make sure she was well taken care of. With spring nearly here, the cold wasn't as much of a danger. Nothing a few coats couldn't stave off." 

"Ah. Well, i'm sure she wished to see the majesty of High Hrghothar up close. Its quite illustrious to the rest of Tamriel.  I suppose High Rock royalty would be the ones to be carried around, yes. Me and Jarl Red-Snow traveled very light, but we had to get here fast, or so Baldur told me. The Moot is very important to him. There's not many other candidates who dare oppose Baldur though, besides that Brund fellow.  Its in the Empire's best interest to see Baldur coordinated as the High of Skyrim, I can surmise we are united on that front, with High Rock, yes?"

"We are. Jarl Elisif wanted us to support her, and if not her, then Jarl Brund, but we are not inclined to do so. My father sent me here to help get Baldur elected, not someone else. And frankly, I see no other real choice among the other Jarls."

"Elfief? The disgraced former High Queen of Solitude?" Dales had heard tales of her beauty. The Empress was quite...eager to meet her, to see if they were true. A slight frown formed on her lips, "She thinks she had a chance? After her support of the Mede Dynasty? You are serious?" Nobody could be that stupid. " From what Baldur told me, Brund is a sociopathic animal. If she wants you to support him or her, then she clearly just wants to deny Baldur the crown. Very...childish."

"She seemed desperate, willing to oppose Baldur at any cost. She's considered marrying Brund as his second wife, if you can believe it."

"Fate worse then death. Perhaps, I should speak with her. She might be a little open to a dirty imperial like me." She said with an entertained voice, "Its not like we can do much. No doubt many Jarls thinks it sacrilege to have me in these sacred halls, and while not as extreme, I doubt many want you here as well. But I guess by us being here, Baldur intends to intimidate the others by showing the allies he has in the rest of Tamriel."

"Or the problems that not electing him could cause. I don't believe you, my father, or Governor Jeleen would support Skyrim leading the alliance if Baldur was not its High King. The other Jarls will surely be made aware of that by our support for Baldur and no one else."

"Of course, we would fight by there side regardless, but the only one I trust among them is indeed Baldur Red-Snow. There desire for glory should overtake there dislike for Baldur's...aggressive ascent to power, hopefully. Though no one has a right to the claim like Baldur has, save maybe the High Queen. He was King Stormcloaks most trusted officer, and comrade. I think no one, in there right mind anyway, would contest Baldur's claim to the crown." She paused, "He's already being hailed as the Ash King by the commoners, and the soldiers of Skyrim. Such fevour and fantasism shouldn't be underestimated."

"Nor overestimated. Heroes have died, or been killed, before. And ones more establish than Jarl Red-Snow. If Jarl Brund is all he's been made out to be, I'm not sure he'll accept defeat peacefully."

"He would be foolish to attempt anything. I've seen Baldur fight, he's a beast. He wouldn't be felled by an assassins knife, or Brund's Warhammer. Besides, it's forbidden for any blade to be drawn on the steps of this monastery. Or they would be subject to the Grey Beards arduous Wrath."     

"I've heard Brund is just as fierce. He did help Baldur bring down that sunbird, after all. But I have faith the Greybeards will keep the peace. Anyone who crosses them has a death wish."

"So you've heard of there great power? A pity isn't it ? The Greybeards have such power, but don't use it. We could use there skill in the thu'um to defeat the enemies of Man, but still they remain pacifist when Tamriel is at risk of burning."

"They're monks. Powerful ones, but monks nonetheless. Warriors who have the thu'um like Baldur and Brund would be more useful. Do you know if Baldur is planning on training any more thu'um users?"

"If Baldur had a plan for that, he told me not. Methinks it would be unwise. The thu'um is very dangerous if exploited, and I can see many Nords using for nefarious ends. And that prospect would mean facing the Greybeards fury." She paused, a frown on her face, "From what I heard from others, Brund's thu'um is far more dangerous, and is corrupted in some way, while Baldur's is more pure. He's a loose canon, and dangerous. Like a mad dog. Reminds me of my former spymaster."

"All the more reason Baldur should be king. Let's hope the rest of the Jarls realize that as well."

"If not?" She asked, "What would your plan of action be?"

"I'm..." Roland paused, quiet for several moments before he continued. "I don't know. I'm not sure that we have any options. We're here to make the case for Baldur, not to decide ourselves. If the Jarls pick Brund I suppose we would have to accept that. Unless Baldur had some other plan. But even siding with him afterwards carries risk, as interfering in Nordic politics could break up the alliance."

Her voice lowered to whisper, "Do you really want a beast at the helm of the defense of Tamriel? To be frank with you, I see nothing different, when I look at Brund, and then the Thalmor. The same evil festers within him. Baldur certainly has his faults, but is virtuous at the end of the day. Alas though, this chat is becoming slightly dangerous. We are guests in these halls." She looked around suspiciously, "If worse comes to worse, I think we must consult with Red-Snow first, before accepting Brund's coronation. Baldur is much more pragmatic then most Nords, and I feel, if he thought it was just, would ignore the moot and seize power on his own." 

"Which is dangerous in and of itself. If Skyrim devolved into chaos, who knows what might happen to the alliance. But this is a topic better saved for a more private place," Roland said. "Until then, I think I will go get some rest. I'm still tired from the journey up. But it was pleasant to finally meet you, and I'm glad you were gracious enough to accept my apology. I think it better for all of us if we focus on the threat of the Dominion."

"Yes, it was good to meet you, sir Roland. Indeed, I think I will grow to appreciate your company. Good day to you, my Prince." She offered her hand once more, 

Roland kissed it and said, "Good day to you, Empress."

[Witchking of Angmar]

Island of Brthynocia.

"Bar thy weapons, Roscreans soldiers. We are envoys of the Dragon of Cyrdoilli, Empress Dales Draconius. Any attack against her Elite Palentina will bring death upon you." Shouted the white-plate clad Prelate Augutus of the Empress's own royal guard, his hand set on his ruby encrusted Spartha. He lead a small lance of about fifteen other guardsmen, along with a small company of about thirty Agotomaedic mercenaries they had gathered after landing in this miserable place. While the men here had a grudging respect for their now-Stormcloak comrades, and Nords of Skyrim, the Roscreans were mysterious, and they didn't know much about them. 

An old Imperial saying was scorn the unknown. The villagers around them muttered in awe, and immense joy. It had been a very long time since envoys of the Imperial monarch demanded entrance into the palace. Perhaps the Legion had returned to Roscrea to deliever them from their foe.

Contrasting starkly against the overjoyed Agotomaeds were a number of horsemen bearing shimmering scales of iron, Unlike the ruddy Agotomaeds these horsemen were of disgusted expression. Of the four mounted islanders the one who bore his set of scales gilded bronze had his horse gallop ever so to the Elite Palentina. High on his horse the black bearded man looked down upon the spectacularly clad Imperials, Reaching into his quiver the horseman withdrew but one arrow and flipped it to where the point looked back to it's owner.

The islander lowered the arrow for the Prelate Augutus, It was obvious to the Imperials this had a symbolic meaning to it.

******* savages. The Imperial said to himself. As his hand gripped the butt of his Spartha. He called, in a tern, authortarian voice, "Hail to you rider. Are you the officer in charge of this...Garrison." 

The horseman gave the Imperials a few more seconds to grasp the arrow either ignoring the Prelate Augutus or unable to understand the language, Jaw tightening the horseman snapped the arrow in his hand and threw it harmlessly to the Imperial's feet before spitting on the discarded arrow and galloping back to his comrades not too far ahead of the Imperials and their mercenaries. Even in a language foreign to their ears the Imperials knew by the tones the horseman clad in gilded bronze was furious.

Among the mercenaries a light laughter broke out. "Look at that barbarian galloping back after his offer refused!" shouted one among the mercenaries.

The Imperial solider looked confused. He turned to the mercenary and asked, speaking in common, "What just happened?"

Smacking the man who yelled out upside his helmet the mercenaries' captain a thoroughly rigid man in century obsolete Legionary kit stepped forward. "Lords! Royal Casurgian horsemanship is an ancient thing, They've never truly abandoned their steppe culture those cavalryman. The meaning behind his gesture is that he was gifting you the arrow.... That would have been lodged in your eye socket, As the loudmouths said it's barbaric yet a sign of peace"

"I told you it's simply Captain, or if you want to to be fancy, Prelate." His stare hardened, as he narrowed his eyes to the group of riders. "How savage. Commander, whom is the Lord that commands them? Are they part of the occupying Roscreans?" 

"Yes captain they are, The Royal Casurgain Farrukhzad-i Mah Azar a man of the eastern barbarians' King of King's entourage. He holds the real power on this island, He acts as Hazārapati of the garrison with his subordinates as 'advisers' to Ninnavoz. Farrukhzad is held up in the fortress just outside the city to the north, Are we to change our destination from Ninnavoz's palace to the fort?"

The Prelate scratched his chin, a frown forming underneath his archaic full Imperial helmet, What in Talos's name has her majesty gotten me into. I can already tell my duties here won't end with delivering the Empresses message. He thought, His old fashioned Lorica was a gift past down from his father, made from shiny quicksilver, who served as a Legatus to Titus Mede II during the battle of red ring. He had adorned with blue bells, and carved with magic runes to make it even more sturdy. 

After thinking it through, the Prelate decided it would be best for the Empire to make an entrance of strength. Go to the barbaric usurpers first, and then he could visist the assailed lord that requested the Empress's assistance in the first place. They probaly still thought the Medes were in charge, when they had already been consumed by the might of the Draconius's. The Empire lived, and would not have its subjects be tormented. 

Barking, he said, "Very well. We shall go to this Farrukhzad first. Lead the way commander." 

"Aka-Tusk be with us." whispered the mercenary captain. "I want a hollow square around the Imperials, You keep formation and you keep your damn pay! Through arrow and cataphract you will not break formation. Captain if we are beset by the Casurgians you keep a tortoise formation as if you life depends on it, It'll protect you from arrows while we'll keep cataphracts from exploiting the formation's weakness."

Orders were yelled, Whistles were blown and threats of cutting pay were screamed. Much to confusion of the Casurgian horsemen when the Imperials and their mercenaries made way around the city walls marching north instead of to the gates, Two of the horsemen galloped back towards the walls while the other two one of which bearing the gilded rider followed the Imperials staying well behind out their bow's range.

The mercenaries were nervous about the two horsemen following behind while Imperials ever disciplined never made a single complaint nor nervous turn of the head even as the mercenary captain berated each sign of nervousness, Through the group's brisk pace in formation the familiar sight of an old Legionary fortress greeted them. So too however did a great number of maille clad infantrymen manning the walls greet the sight of he fortress.

Well I'll be damned. I wonder how ancient that Legion fort is.  The Prelate stood at the front, ignoring the mercenaries fear. Discipline crushed the fear inside an imperial legionary before it sprouted,  as he shouted to the irregulars standing on the forts battlements. "Salutations, warriors of Roscrea. I am Prelate Augustus Balsterius of the Empress's own Palentina. I come bearing a message, I would speak to you're warchief, or the officer in charge." 

Having been watched the moment they came into sight the fort's θatapati looked to the infantryman around him speaking in his native tongue. "Did the foreigner just say warchief? He thinks us as savages, As western men no doubt!" Unlike the infantrymen of the Spāda around him equipped in partially plated maille the mustached θatapati had on his person a set of scaled linothorax armor, Leaning on the old stone walls the θatapati took in the sight of a group of red faced mercenaries being led by plated Imperials, What a strange sight!

Quickly losing his patience over the warchief remark he yelled down in their foul common tongue. "Dariush, θatapati of the Spāda garrisoned within this poorly made stone fort, A θatapati is also something men of warchiefs do not have. What reason do you have for trespassing on the holdings of the Xšāyathiya Xšāyathiyānām, Wanting war do you?"

"If the Empress wanted war savage, the Legion would have already been pouring upon you're shore, and bringing the sword upon you, filth!" A grim nord legionary shouted in old nordic. The Imperial leader rolled his eyes, before calling back, speaking as loud as he could, "The Legion does not seek war with you're king, warrior. We're just here to deliever a message to you're liege lord, Farrukhzad."

"Ah Nords, They dress in the skins of animals draping themselves in fur and yet we are filth? I assure you we bathe twice a week, Sometimes three." The insult brought out quite the chuckle around the fort's occupiers. "If it is a message you are here for then cease being a coward! Enter alone and speak to the Hazārapati yourself, Maybe while you're in the Nord can go about ******* animals and taking their fur eh?"

The Prelate whispered to the Mercenary Commander beside him,"Thorgrim, what are the chances of them skewering me if do go alone. Are these warriors bound by honor?"

"I wouldn't trust a hungry peasant to keep his word but these men are rather well fed sir, A high caste the Spāda is, Would be professional soldiery. Farrukhzad as I've known him to be is a man who keeps his word, Doubly so when it is the promise of flailing a man into their standards. Ghastly thing that is..."

"All right. I'll play their game. Who wants to live forever anyway." He grimaced, as he barked in the voice all Imperial officers possessed, "Listen up, legionaries seniores, i'll go parley with the savages. If anything, whether it be a dart, or a throwing spear, is chucked at you, make a strategics withdrawal to a safe position. I'll already probably be dead anyway. Complete the mission without me, if it comes to that." A soft chorus erupted, as all the legionaries spoke in synch, "Yes Prelate." 

He turned to his companion, "Thorgrim, you and you're men do the same." 

Without wasting another second, the Prelate marched forward to the gate, alone, shield at his side, and Spartha sheaved.

Rather surprisingly the Prelate's first sight of what lies beyond the two century old gate was the horseman from before gilded bronze armor still on his person, This time however he was dismounted and face to face bearing an arrow in hand. There was a sense of finality in his offering of the arrow, The man's expression was that of curiosity. How he managed to enter the fortress meant there was another entrance, In the event of besieging that knowledge was rather useful.

The Prelate snorted, as his arm extended, taking the arrow. At the same time, the Imperial Soldier, with his free hand, drew forth from his sheaf, a small, steel dagger. He expertly grabbed the knife by its blade, and offered its pommel to the horseman.

He only shook his head with amusement clearly etched on his face and parted for the Preplate to enter, The fort's courtyard was of standard design common to those built in Uriel V's time. It's occupants would have made the dead emperor squirm in his grave, Clad in maille with segmented strips of metal. Almost reminding the Prelate of a linothorax, Still inferior to properly made Imperial Lorica Segmentata. Even still one called out in a tongue he understood.

"Better then your footmen's leather ain't it Imperial?" The infantryman tapping his kit, The man's tone that of mockery.

"Anything bends to Imperial Steel, soldier." The prelate said, harshly barking, sheaving the dagger. "Now show me, to you're commander."

"You know the layout Imperial, Head to where your own commander would be stationed." Dariush called out from on high still manning the walls. "I'd say not to try anything foolish but really now, We both know you will. Now get!"

Bastards.  

The Prelate entered the main part of the fortress, and made his way to the central command of the fort. He was much more used to modern imperial fortresses, but the basic design was, surprisingly, unchanged. Why change somthing when it was already pretty damn good after all. 

There wasn't much commotion inside the fortress, Never the less the folks he passed greeted him with strange and suspicious looks though never stopping the Imperial. It was obvious the other two horsemen reached the fortress and warned the occupiers. Overall the soldiers looked miserable wanting to be anywhere else than stuck here. 

How do you think we felt, Ungrateful Bastards.

Reaching his destination the Prelate found the door being guarded by two rather well equipped soldiers, Unlike those outside these were fully armored in an exotic set of lamellar, Scale and maille with appeared like segmented rings running the length of their legs. These people obviously didn't use or perhaps even know how to create full plate. The Prelate didn't need to explain his purpose as the two guards each pushed the heavy doors open, Farrukhzad-i Mah Azar awaited within.

Well here goes. Better channel the voice of the emperor. They couldn't see his face underneath his ancient helmet, but the Imperial showed no fear regardless, as he entered the room.

Within Farrukhzad was seated about a table having a map of Tamriel spread across it, Two centuries old and still relevant to this day. The man looked more fitting in the heat of battle then sitting at a fortress, Equipped in brilliant set of gold plated steel scales that in the room's candle light shimmered ever so slightly, A golden pectoral adorned his armor. Only through the slight gap from the scale clad legs to the waist was a glimpse of maille making it obvious the man was clad in eastern Ceannlann of a striking expense, Empress Dales would have been sickened by the needlessly expensive kit.

Never looking up Farrukhzad motioned the Prelate closer, He had a rather curved nose common to most of the Eastern Roscreans, Sporting a ever slightly graying beard neatly trimmed to a length that would have been acceptable in the Legion.

The Prelate edged forward, his quick silver Lorca clinking and clanking as he walked towards the table. He waited for his host to speak first, Finally Farrukhzad decided the Imperial was of greater interest then the map.

"I would offer you to sit, Unfortunately such comforts are for Casurgians and friends. For now you will stand." He looked long and hard at the Prelate taking in armor, Looking pleased enough he once more conversed. "You know a long time ago I was being groomed for Legionary service, Yes don't look so surprised. We were supposed to see it as a great honor, The children of lesser nobles having a bright honorable future as prestigious cavalryman... I wonder if I was in your people's armor if you would look at me not as a barbarian."

"Barbarian simply means "un-imperial", to most people in the Empire. To me, it just means "savage", and "brutal", no matter if you're an imperial or not. Some Imperials are barbarians." The Prelate said, no venom present in his voice, his stare narrowing, and his features unmoved underneath his old fashioned helmet "Nepotism is an unfortunate aspect of the Legion I disapprove of. Because it brings, as you say, the sons, and daughters of the nobility whose blades have never tasted fresh blood" 

"You mistake me Prelate, I worry for the thought of an Imperial set capable of unmanning a proper Roscrean. I would hate to see myself unmanned by Imperial uniform. By the flame I should hope you see us as brutal, It might open your eyes." Said Farrukhzad amused by the Imperial. "You have the air of authority Prelate, But after a statement like that all I see before me is peasant. Dariush a damn fine officer of mine who no doubt greeted you, He deserves that position and gained it with the sweat of his brow. However he lacks the nobility of spirit and will likely never rise above his position." It was a flat out lie, Farrukhzad wanted to see just how the Imperial would act to such statements.

"My father was a soldier, just like me. No noble blood. So yes, i'm a peasant." He continued, with a bored voice,  "My job isn't to impress you, Farrukhzad. I lead soldiers, and follow the orders of my Empress. Nothing more, nothing less." He said, adding, "A soldier should be judged on how they command other soldiers, and how well they fight. Spirit has nothing to do with bashing you're opponents brains with a blunt object, or planning an ambush. There's nothing noble about the horrors of war." 

"And for all the war you people wage I would have thought you wiser, It is true for we knew firsthand there is nothing noble for the victims of defeat but the victors.. They triumph their noble cause." Farrukhzad actually felt rather insulted. "Empress Dales sends a peasant to demand the island from a man of noble blood, Why don't we send a peasant to demand the crown. Every second I speak to you is an insult on my character, I know full and well why you desecrate my waters. Go now to Ninnavoz and tell him of your success, We will not recognize Imperial authority over Brthynocia but you are welcome to occupy the palace. After all it was built by you people."

"Just a momment, my lord." He said with a mocking voice, "Do you know what the Breton term,  Danse Macabre is?"

"I had an Imperial education prior to a proper Druidic one, Consider this Prelate maybe we are equal in death or perhaps while I am forever feasting and hunting in Sovngarde you may rest as equals with your people."

"So you aren't a simpleton then. Such a shame, you could have been a great imperial soldier."  He said, clapping sarcastically, "A noble can die to a soldiers blade. So even if they aren't equal in status in life, they all die the same.  And you'll be going to Sovengard soon enough, if you don't change you're attitude, Roscrean." The Prelate, instead of leaving, walked closer to the warlord, striding as purple cape flew behind him. Before the Roscrean could speak, the Prelate interrupted him, 

"Consider this, before you say anything. I have brought two Cohorts of Second Legion veterans with me. That equals to about...300 elite imperial soldiers. I can easily gather several hundred imperial loyal militia among the populace. I also have enough gold to purchase an additional five hundred soldiers." He paused, "Meaning I can gather a pretty large fighting force in a very small amount of time. The garrison you have on our island, would be no match. After cleaning you out, we could hold down, fortify until reinforcements arrive and make you're life a living hell." He laughed, going right up to his face, his voice filling with venom.

"Kill me. I really don't care if I die here. My second in command will just enact the same plan. And whomever you serve will excute you, for bringing down the wrath of the Dragon upon you're miserable island, Roscrean. Skyrim won't save you, they fight alongside us now. Jarl Red-Snow is close friends with the Empress, a call to help from them would fall on dead ears, while my Empress exterminates you." 

"Or we can do this, the way Empress Draconius wants. No violence."

The air hung in absolute silence for but a few moments, Of all the thing to interrupt it was Farrukhzad mockingly patting the Prelate's cheek then standing up. "You have a way with words, It would break a lesser man and that peasant that is dangerously close to getting my respect not that you would ever want it." Farrukhzad found parts of the room suddenly more fascinating walking about while talking.

"You know Uriel V spoke of extermination too, Damn well beat us into the ground that man did though not until we bloodied his nose. I believe it is now your place to listen, You are damn near powerless at this stage. A war is brewing in the far south of Tamriel and I know, Berahthram knows and your Empress knows it would be a horrid waste of resources wage a total war against an island within the sea of ghosts while the elves pose threat." He ran his fingers across the map splayed out on the table, Tapping Dominion held kingdoms.

"Do you even know the most terrible powers held in those Druid's minds? They never once lied about sinking this island, Powers greater then you or I can comprehend. They've darkened the skies having it dance and spin about until the hand of Kyne reaches out from above, Nobody wants war Prelate but if you think this island can stow our hand then perhaps you are right but the Druids? Never. I say it again Prelate, You may occupy the palace but this island and it's waters is our territory and we will never allow you to have it."

"Fine then. I will send the go ahead to the Empress, we...have an understanding. Do I have you're word that you will not despose of our...mutual friend, and will not harm the loyal imperial citizens, subjects of Dales Draconius of this small island?"  The Prelate had one more card to play if this didn't go through. He was saving for when he needed it though.

"Prelate I would prefer you be honest with me, Say it. Declare your war against us if that is your intent. You will not return to your Empress empty handed, You will return with success or a seal of war ten thousand scales in hand. Perhaps before your decision is made why not greet the good Satrap?"

"As in satrap, dont you mean "puppet that I forced by sword point", my lord?" He said sardonically. "Who's the fool who bears the crown Prelate? Was he not the puppet years before my sword met his neck and the necks of his children? It is not a secret here, However there is one thing I wish to know myself. Is it true, Is Empress Dales a whore of pleasure?"

The Prelate slammed his fist into the Roscrean's chest in a sudden display of speed, and power. as he drew his blade with a dull thud. While the Imperial was pretty well built, he was a good deal less so then the Roscrean. What he lacked in his strength, he more then made up for it in speed, however, as his blade reached his neck before the Roscrean could draw his own. The prelate's voice remained as loud as before, though their was small tremble. Not of fear, but pure, rage, "Only a monster brags about putting sword to the children's necks, my lord. Oh, and never, ever refer to her majesty like that, or i'll gut you like a pig." 

Heart racing a mile a minute Farrukhzad remained calm as he could with a blade to his neck. "You sultry fool, The Satrap and his adult children are alive and well fed. By the seven worlds you stow that blade before you do something you will regret, Regret costing all of your men their lives."

"My men aren't afraid to die. I thought you weren't. But it seems you are. I can smell you're fear, Roscrean." He muttered, his voice becoming a low monotone, "Danse Macabe." His emotionless face, twisted into a cruel smile, "When you're men burst into this room, and they try to save you i'll cut you're throat, and we truly both will leave the mortal plain. Danse Macabe. Now, the Roscrean who requested my Empress's help also asked that I make sure his liege Lord, and his family wasn't punished for requesting her help. Swear that you won't, and i'll lower my sword, and leave."

"Fear, Fear? If I feared for my life I would grovel and beg, What you smell is pine tar soap I bathed my arse with. I will give no such promises not by the sword to my neck as I had to the Satrap but beyond so, His children are deep in the island proper no doubt being fed a meal far better then they could have here. Where is the savvy Imperial politics now, The voice of the Empire reduced to swords against necks is it?"

"You forget, it wasn't our voices that killed so many of you're kind, and conquered you. It was Imperial Steel. You dared mock my Empress. Legion steel is the only answer for that. But I see you're honor means nothing to you, warrior. You laugh about threatening children, consider yourself above those born of common blood, and think for a second you can laugh at the Empress of Tamriel, while it's she who can burn you're ports, and kill you're soldiers. I'm disappointed, I was expecting someone worthy.  It seems, the true Imperial that you so hate, is yourself. That Imperial upbringing has stuck to you closer then you thought." 

And with that, the Prelate lowered his sword, as, not even to bother with worrying about being stabbed in the back, turned around, and headed to the door, his cape trailing behind him"Listen well Roscrean. Any harm against the imperial civilians of this island will be met with legion steel. They aren't your's to torment anymore. They are under the protection of Dales Draconius, and I will enforce her will. If you do not fear her wrath, then stab me with you're blade."

"Oh no Prelate I am not so easy to manipulate, For all that you say the meaning is fractured. You are angered when I look down upon you for your... Commoner upbringing yet when I take your words to heart and look at your Empress at a common level it offends you greatly, You speak of laughter and dishonor yet I recall no laughter and only one race within this room as truly murdered children in the name of the empire. What of the children of our dead dynasty, What of the executed Casurgathradan children? It is sinful to threaten the adult children of a puppet in your eyes, While in the mouth forgetting what was gifted to ourselves." Farrukhzad had quickly lost the urge to continue this foolish game.

"The Septim Dynasty conquered us Prelate, His empire was power beyond power but look at the sorry state of Tamriel. Can the Kingdom of Cyrodiil accomplish such feats? I suppose we will find out soon, Reason looks to have been lost here. You come to me instead of the Satrap, You unsheathe blades and yet here I stand sparing a man who were I in his shoes before lesser...women I would be executed. The doors are locked Prelate, This room isn't sound proof."

"Then order you're men to kill me, if you're oh so sure you can face the Cyrdoillic Empire. A broken Dragon still has fang and flame. You would be inviting death." He turned around once more, "The East Empire is already marshaling around in these waters. One word from me, or my successor, I can have torch you're ports to the ground. Or blockade them and starve you rats out. Have the coast be swarmed by their mercenaries, and have you're farms burnt to the ground. The Empress has many means  of making live for an anti imperial roscrean without a single legionaries blood on the ground."

"Blockading ports? Starving us? Oh by all means don't let me dissuade you from that course of action, Wasting the resources of the Eastern Empire in blockading an isolationist island. All wars drain a empire or kingdom's coffers Prelate, Mercenary armies clashing against Neitos in the west, Cities of stone beyond your own petty stone masonry that only a real dragon could tear down. You turn and face me, Cast your spell or throw you dart it matters not. One year's time the very thought of Roscrea will turn a mercenary's bowls inside out." He had to resist the urge of spitting out why all those actions would result in overall failure, Farms would be burnt some ports would crumble but such actions would be costly without any profit such is the folly of mercenaries and merchants.

"Do you really think the Empress would want to conquer this pathetic rock? If you provoked her enough, it wouldn't be a conquest, it would be annihilation. The legion dosen't have the manpower right now to occupy you. It can however, kill every last one of your soldiers, and druids. It's called Scorched Earth. In a few years, the Imperial warmachine could grind this forsaken place to dust."  

"Coastal settlements would burn. Hundreds, if not thousands would die. And it would barely cost the Empire anything. A long term investment, a short term lost for the East Empire. The ones who would truly suffer would be you." 

He chuckled, his hands reaching to the back of his armor, stealthy, only appearing to be holding the pommel of his blade to any outlooker. Just in case, he had a backup plan.  "Dont play "strong warrior, we shall resesit you" Once the Empire, Skyrim, High Rock, and Hammerfall finish with the Dominion, you'll be the Empire's next target if you escalate this conflict. And the full might of the imperial legion would crush you. So lets say you kill me and my men. So. Buys you another year or three, before the Empire comes, and kills you all."

"Unlock the doors before this fool decides assassination is more appealing then civilized discussion, It boils back down to this Prelate. You may occupy the Satrap's palace at your leisure, Imperial authority will not be recognized. I am being unnecessarily reasonable with you, But by the gods quit your all powerful act. There are countless solutions that don't involve Imperial presence on the island, Empress Dales doesn't care about these people she just wants something to keep us in check with and to use as future launching point for the inevitable second invasion of Roscrea."

"Believe what you will, the Empress right now seems to be the only one who cares for the people on this island. You're not worth staining my blade on, don't flatter yourself with that opinion. Ignore my warnings at you're own peril, my lord. But I stand by what I said before, as the Empres''s will,  I will not allow you to mistreat the population any more."   And with that, the Prelate left the room. His face underneath his anicent helmet filling with dread, **** man, that was close. Hostile negotiations is some crazy shit

Events have unfolded that had gone unforeseen, Berahthram we are acting out a ever increasingly difficult ploy. I hope you'll have Western Roscrea by the time of the inevitable war... Farrukhzad was less confident about the plan, Not from any Prelate's words but his course of actions. The fool was meant to seek out the Satrap then the fortress, Never the less the good Satrap will see his children once again. Skin stretched out upon a banner of the Empire, One last gift and that he promised himself.

 

After his little foray into diplomacy, the Prelate had gathered his soldiers (including the 150 men from thr 3rd Legion he had brought along him), the mercs he had hired, and marched to the palace.  He had sent a handful of his soldiers, and a few mercs to gathers even more mercenaries. Clearly, he might need them.

The march to the palace was met with cheers as the gates were opened, Once again contrasting against the ruddy cheerful faces were now solemn looks of the garrison outside the fort. During the time it took to hire the mercenaries less equipped then the first Farrukhzad had the garrisoned informed of the present course of actions, These new mercenaries were overly eager and almost started a fight with the Casurgians who looked at them the wrong way. Aside from such eagerness on the new mercenary's parts the march to the palace went undisturbed.

Most of these sellswords lack legion-discipline. The Prelate thought with a small frown. That's mans last words to him really stuck to him. Did he truly think the Empire would be planning an invasion? For this useless rock? Yeah, he'll see pigs fly before that. The Palentina guardsmen was worried, Bastards planning something. But what...He turned to face his companion, Thorgrim. The mercenary commander was proving to be an excellent asset. "The Lord's manservant told the Empress his liege commands the loyalty of several sellsword companies. How many blades do you think he can actually raise to his service?"

"Ninnavoz has contacts all right, The Roscreans have their own guardsmen but for ourselves mercenary business is how we plan. You don't give the Magistrate enough credit, Unlike Ninnavoz he isn't fat and damn well more competent in administration. Maybe two hundred maybe more but from what you told me that kind of wealth is going to attract some very powerful Ambactoi, The ten foot Atmoriant kind."

The Prelate gulped nervously. Leading men we're one thing, but he had no experience with giants. Before being shipped out here, the Prelate had gathered a handful of books on the island in question, though stopping by "First Edition" had proven...less then successful. Roscrea was considered backwater by most people, if they even knew about at all, and the Prelate could only find a single book long out of print written in the second era that only had a small section dedicated to it. Apparently, their was a race of giants, loosely related to the mysterious ones in Skyrim, that mad their home in the rocky crags "We'll need all the help we can get. Fighting will be a last resort, something the Empress doesn't want, but we have to be able to defend ourselves." He approached the inner hall were he assumed the lord and his family waited.

"I'm telling you Captain I know a few Drwdae Cingetoi in the business, Drudic trained wizard-warriors bearing a crown of oak and falx of iron. Atmoriants and Drwdae Cingetoi ain't any better Ambactoi on Roscrea. No amount of gold promised in her service can convince them if their lives are at risk, It doesn't matter for myself but are you folks still hunting Druids?" Thorgrim was just passing time as the group passed about the inner hall.

"No, her majesty isn't...the religious sort. She really doesn't care what customs the people practice. The only reason we're here is to ensure the loyal imperial-citizens of this island are protected, and treated better. You can assure that, on my honour, and blood oath." The Prelate took his dagger from his sheaf, and slashed at his own hand, drawing sanguine blood from the wound. "Any man of the island of Roscrea, whom is willing to fight for both gold, honour, the Empire, and the people, are welcome among us. Druid or not. We need warriors. Warrior priests are still warriors."

Despite being surrounded by allies the Prelate still felt very uneasy. Why...why was that warlord so insistent of him visiting the palace? What game was he playing? "Like I said, I have the resources, connections, and gold to organise a sizable fighting force in a small amount of time. The only thing our foe respects is strength. We must be willing to show that, despite it being a last resort, we can put up a fight."

Anyone else and Thorgrim would be disgusted by such barbaric displays, With Augustus though he thought better of it and accepted the gesture.

The palace was quiet barren of people, The few flamboyantly dressed nobles wore a cultural hybrid of traditional Agotomaedic clothing and Colovian of which leaned closer to Imperial motifs. It had the air of despair recently uplifted, Most of the nobles strangely enough barely had the ruddy hue the Agotomaeds were known for undoubtedly from intermarriage between the natives and Imperials. These men and woman really were waiting for their liberators as they mucked about, A single figure however dominated the room. Having stood up from his golden throne depictions of Aka-Tusk adorning in what could only be Clodovicus II Ninnavoz, The supposedly overweight man hid that unappealing aspect rather well. A smooth brown beard respectably trimmed through too thick for most Cyrodilic people's tastes, Adorned to his person a less then ornate steel Musculata of obvious Imperial steel hid any protruding belly. Most striking about the man wasn't his Imperialized hybrid of clothing styles but the lack of their ruddy hue entirely.

The Prelate approached, his purple cloak floating behind him, as two fellow Palentina followed behind, along with Thogrim. Hopefully he's better company then his rival. The Prelate bowed his head, as he offered a legion-styled fist salute, "Greetings, milord. I am Prelate Augustus Balalaikas of the Empress's own Guard. I offer her majesty's greetings to you." 

"Prelate Balalaikas I don't know where to begin, Having sent for future aid I expected a war's lapse in the south before ever receiving such help. In but weeks after my Magistrate's departure here you stand, By your words and of that extent the Empresses the palace has been evacuated by the barbarians. Farrukhzad himself promised me the return of my sons, I am forever indebted to her highness." Ninnavoz was absolutely elated, Almost to the point of tears.

"I simply relayed my Empress's orders to the foul warlord. Nothing more, nothing less my lord." He said, an aura of coldness around him, "I am simply am an extension of my Empress, as are all her Palentina.  I fear I might have angered his lackey, however. Forgive me for not wanting to speak any pleasantries, you must gather as many warriors as you can.  You're foes respect nothing more then strength, and you must show them you aren't willing to take anymore abuse from them. My Empress dosen't want to see bloodshed, but if there is no alternative, fight we must." 

"Fighting?" Ninnavoz muttered rather confused. "They've withdrawn their guards from this prison and I am a free man once again! There will be no rash action until I have my boys safe here with me, Until then I don't have much of an option in ousting them from the city and it's fortress up north."

"If I may be so bold, my lord...you're oppressor did not seem like a reasonable man, at all. It pays to be cautious, at least let me fortify the palace with the small force I brought here, and recruit some sellswords for added defense."

"Yes of course do as you see fit here, This is important Prelate. Did he recognize Imperial authority over the island?"

"No." The Prelate said. "I made sure to remind him, that if any of my men, or myself are killed: or if he makes a move to endager the people of this island, the Empress's fury would be upon him." 

"What.. What is he playing at? If he isn't recognizing the Empire's authority then it's occupation of their territory by their foul laws." Ninnavoz could barely whisper "Decimation."

"Decimation?!" The Prelate's eyes filled with understanding, as he swore underneath his breath in ancient Cyrdoillic, "Damnation, this was a setup, I knew it!" The Prelate spun around, as he began barking order, "Legionaries Seniores, prepare for battle!" A collective shout, "Yes Centurion!" He turned to Thogrim, "How many men can you muster up in an hour? And tell me what he specifically means by decimation."

The room was filled with panicked screams as the nobles quickly fled deeper into the palace finding the room unsafe for their comforts, Ninnavoz stayed his ground answering the Prelate. "Decimation of our people, A two hundred year old promise to cast Brthynocia into the sea should we open the gates again as had for.. As had for Uriel. Aka-Tusk curse them! An axe!" He screamed. "An axe, A shield, My island for an axe!"

He ignored the old lord. Clearly he had played into the hands of his rivals, and his men would pay for it. 

"Accursed, they wouldn't dare!"  

Maybe their bluffing. Surely they see their dead if the bring down the Empresss's wraith upon them." 

"Sir." One of the Prelate's comrades approached, an Orsimer weapon in hand. He spoke in a low whisper, "Perhaps we should withdraw. Organise an evacuation of the island. Or if that's not possible, abandon this place-" The prelate interrupted, his voice a low growl, 

"We are the Empress's chosen. We shall not retreat, and leave these people to the mercy of butchers. Even if we die defending this place." He shouted, his voice manifesting as if he was a dragon, "Soldiers to me! We are the blades of the Empress, the will of the Legion. Upon this earth we stand, or we fall. Who wants to live forever anyway!" The other imperial soldiers, still maintaining the steel of their discipline formed around him in perfect unison. He shouted, "What do we live by! What is the motto our majesty gave us!"

The legionaries yelled in synch, "Danse Macabre!"  

He begin to bark orders to his men, "Everyone, this is the acting command center!" He pointed his blade to the first group, 

"First company, fortify the palace, use anything you can find to barricade the doors and windows! Leave a single place open. We'll try and funnel them here if it comes to a last stand!" They all shouted in unison,

"Aye prelate!" They rushed to do there orders. 

He turned, "Second and third company! We need to bring the villagers within the walls of this place! Organise a withdrawal to here. Get them to gather as much food, water, weapons, and armor as possible. We'll need to build a stockpile of supplies as soon as possible. "  He paused before uttering, "Kill any Roscrean guardsmen that stands in you're way." 

"Yes sir!" The fourty or so legionaries rushed off to do their assigned duties, forming a tight formation, as they stormed off.  He pointed his blade to the last concentration of soldiers,

"Man the walls of the settlement. The moment you see approaching scouts, or a force, I want to be informed right away!"  

They all nodded, wordlessly carrying out his orders. 

Before his Palentina could run off, and assist the other groups in their duties, he raised his hand, "Halt Palentina." 

He slowly approached the puppet lord of this accursed rock, he raised his voice, "My man Thorgrim told me you could gather a sizable group of mercenaries in a short time."

"You have in your service most of the worthwhile mercenaries, It would take time to gather more. Messages would need sending, Favors to call and men to pay."

"Paying wont be an issue. I brought quite a bit of gold with me. I need you on this right away." He said simply. Poor bastard. His sons are probably already dead.  He turned to his Custodes, "Averuis. Get the paymasters chest from the boat, and bring it up here. I'll have guards placed on it at all times." 

Wordlessly, the masked soldiers went away. "Aquias, Omega, Vlavous" A trio of Palentina approached. "Go to the fastest vessel we brought, and set sail for the nearest East Empire Outpost." He drew a small scroll, "This bears the seal of the Empress. Her majesty Moitre, has many friends within the company, and they'll do what you say. Gather reinforcements, and get back here as soon as you can." Never thought I would be waging a proxy conflict.  The trio vanished within seconds. He brought up his blade, "The rest of you, on me."

Not a moment after the Prelate finished issuing his orders the halls echoed with footsteps quick in their pace leading back to the command center, A member of the second company hastily reentered. "Prelate! It is imperative you see the situation outside and make judgement."

He reconised the voice immedaley, "Auxiliary Querter, what do you have to report?" He followed behind the imperial soldier, leaving the confines of the palace, surrounded by the remaining Palentina guardsmen.

"It's.. An awkward situation Prelate, The only commotion outside the palace are frightened citizens scared senseless by our procedures. Not one Roscrean guardsmen has been seen, Unless skulking in the shadows they've withdrawn and at the scale it had to be prior to our actions now. Prelate, I find the lack of Roscreans far more disturbing then a hoard at our faces. Do you think-?"

"Thrown into the sea...." He paused for a moment, before scratching his chin.  "Ah ******* hell! That cant be possible!" He screeched. It all makes sense. Never underestimate magic.  He turned around, and rushed to the palace, to find his mercenery commander. He yelled "Thogrim! You mentioned you knew some druids, and we're friendly with them, is there any here we can talk too right away?"

"Druids? Why in Aka-Tusk's name wo-" The look in the Prelate's eyes told Thorgrim all he needed to know. "No Prelate there aren't any Drwdae Cingetoi here, Most of those are Western Roscreans the Milhinngaets. Wait, Actual Druids?! Gods foreboding, I've never known a Druid to step one foot on this island!"

"Anyone who can practice you're islands form of magic?!" The Prelate was screaming, "Any hedge mages! exiled druids? Anyone?!"

"Prelate there hasn't been any practitioners here in years, Farrukhzad had our temples destroyed years ago and exiled the priests. They've prevented the education of such magics, Maybe there are practitioners who evaded exile among the citizens?!" Thorgrim was thoroughly fearful, It dawned on him just what the Prelate was worried about.

Killed by the actions of some ******* emperor from ages ago. How ******* ironic. "Well if i'm ******* right, we have probably an hour, or less  before were all ******* murdered by a giant tidal wave from the sea! Follow me!" He motioned for the sellsword to follow him, as he sprinted towards the town center. His legionaries, still confused, but not disobeying orders, had been gathering everyone their. He approached the large group of citizens as he yelled, 

"Good citizens. I know...what i'm about to ask you is selfish, and quite frankly, horribly ironic. I need anyone verse in the ancient magic that was banned by the Septim Dynasty to step forward." He placed his hands behind his back, which was straight as an arrow, and maintained perfect posture, flanked by his unofficial sellsword second, and his palentina guardsmen. The other legionaries looked on in confusion, The Agotomaedic citizens gathered about the palace were dumbstruck, Looking around one another hoping that for whatever reason the Prelate wanted mages would step forth. Amidst the crowd a woman hair as red as her skin called out stuttering slightly. "What magics? Daedric?"

See this is why everyone should follow the Empress's policy of letting everyone worship who the **** they want.  "Daedric? You're verse in the arcane then?" He said, with a slight inquiry.

"Yessir, I. I'm educated in the art of restoration, I was allowed to stay." 

"Can you detect large concentrations of gathering magic?" The Prelate continued, The woman's confused expression told the Prelate everything he needed to know.

Well of ******* course. He sighed. Should have brought a bloody battle mage with him. He yelled, not wanting to cause mass hysteria, "Let me rephrase my question. Is anyone here adapt in the banned arts of the druids. It is of vital importance!" 

It was an older gentlemen that spoke up this time, He looked like the educated sort. "But sir, During our first liberation the Druids destroyed every library and every grove holding knowledge. A sinful act of denial, Even now rebuilt it's all on the island proper."

"That was centuries ago." The Prelate said, "We must learn to go past that, to forge a better future. The magic of the druids may be fielded against us some day, and we need to understand it, to successful be able to deal with." He called out once more, "I ask again, I plead in the name of Empress Draconius. If not for my sake, then for your'e fellow townsfolk, if anyone knows the magic of the druids in detail. Please step forward. You have my word, as Blade of the Empress, that no harm shall come to you."

The old man once again spoke up. "I swear to you I know not their magics.. But I am a scholar of the histories. Magics aside sir what needs to be known?"

The prelate marched forward, and whispered to him, "You're liege lord thinks his rival is planning to fulfill an ancient oath of vengeance against him by having the sea consume this island. Who a druid, or archdruid be able to muster that kind of power?" 

"The Disaster of Adroicum, Of the war that slaughter has always stood out to me, If the surviving accounts are to be believed they spoke of ten Druids screaming curses unknown before the sky. Willing it to darken, swirl and dance before-" The old man bit his lip lightly, Nervous at the talk of Druids."- what was said to be the hand of Kyne reached forth to consume the earth. If the story is to be believed ten Druids committed the wicked act, There are nearly ten Archdruids alive now, Archdruids the highest of their order. Please Prelate tell me, Did the disaster truly happen did the survivors tell the truth?"

He didn't answer him, all his said in response was, "Scholar, I want you to return to you're dwelling, and gather me as much as you have on druids, Roscrean culture, geography, monsters, and customs and then deliver it to the palace. You seem like a knowledgeable sort, I may be calling on you later. Do this right away." He approached the villagers, "As acting hand of the Empress, I now declare myself military governor of this island. As such, I have the authority to grand powerful practitioners of magic as the local imperial-sactioned court mage, with all the benefits that entails. I ask once again, is their any hidden practitioners of druidic magic before me." 

As the old man shuffled away through the parting crowd still nobody among the Agotomaeds stepped forth, It was dawning on the Prelate that if there were any practitioners of Druid magic they'd likely be spies anyways... Spies. How had the thought of spies among the population escape him!

He whispered, to Thogrim "Will you able to send a message to your'e Druid mercenary druids and have them arrive as soon as possible?" Thorgrim chewed it over for a few seconds. "I don't think that wise Prelate, Those Drwdae Cingetoi are trained directly by the Druids and swear terrible oaths of secrecy. The prospect of great wealth will secure the loyalty of mercenaries in Tamriel but here on their doorstep I wouldn't trust the hinterland Roscreans." The Prelate paused for a moment. He was truthfully planning to do this later, but now was a perfect opportunity with everyone gathered, "The offer will stand indefinitely, now with that out of the way, I will bring forth three more edicts. Their will be a strict curfew at eight o clock until things become safer." He awaited their reaction.

It took a minute for the news to sink in for the Agotomaeds, It wasn't well received given the distraught faces in the crowd. Even the Royal Casurgians didn't impose curfews, One of the very few privileges kept strangely enough. Nobody wanted to say it but some Agotomaeds were thinking it, Have our liberators brought ruin or subjugation?

"Two, i'm authorizing the formation of an auxiliary corps here. The Roscrean occupiers fled, along with all their guards. These Commesntati-Auxiliary shall function as guards, officers of the law,  protectors, and guardsmen for the time being. I need any man or woman willing to join, to step forward now."

The Prelate while bringing a harsh edict did have an air of unquestionable authority about him, It was inspirational clearly to a great many of the Agotomaeds having quite a number of people looking eager to step up. One man bearing a slight ruddy hue called out from the back of the crowd. "What about the fortress?! Have they fled from the fortress, Are we to be massacred should the sword and spear be drawn?" The man's words were clearly etching doubt on the once eager faces, Still many stepped up.

"The old Imperial fort remains occupied. However, my men are fortifying the palace with wood, steel, and stone as we speak. Turn into from its decrepit origins, to a stronghold!" He yelled, channeling the voice of the Emperor, "The barbarians may be at our gates, but we will stand firm! We we hold, and we will not retreat! This island is your home, and I will not rest until it is safe for you all! I will not lie, the path ahead will be filled with turmoil, and danger, but we will survive this! We will not fall! Victoria aut morte! Victory or death!" He brought up steel Spartha, There wasn't thunderous cheers of applause from the shaken citizens though his words touched them and brought about less troubled faces, Mostly that is. "We're all going to die here." Was the last thing the man from the back said before heading back into the city head drooping.

The Prelate eyed the man wandering off to the distance. Strange. The Prelate-or shall we say Govenor now, yelled, "Three, the tradesmen must be organised. Any blacksmith, wood forger, and stonesmen gather now, and choose a handful of people, to represent you. I would speak to you." 

The now Governor watched less people gather together then he had hoped, While they conversed in hushed whispers in case he continued listing the edicts.

And with that, the governor yelled, "That is all. May Aka-tusk be with you. People who wish to join the auxiliary corps stay, for I will speak to you in a moment." He approached the medium sized gathering of tradesmen, flanked by his now-second Thorgrim, and another Paletnina soldier, before speaking in an authoritarian voice, "Have you decided on you're representatives?"

About half the crowd dispersed those remaining may not have all been in peek physical shape but each and every one had a look of confidence, Confidence towards Augustus if nothing else. Of the few among the tradesmen the man chosen might have been gutted were the situation different, He was clearly a man of eastern Roscrea the black curly hair and tanned skin gave it away. "I was an armorer in the Satrapie of Myrumbria in the northeast of Roscrea, Exiled for disobedience against my θatapati. Will you have or exile me?" He didn't speak of execution, It didn't need to be spoken.

"Aye. I will require much from the craftsmen in the coming weeks. The blacksmiths must forge steel, the woodworkers palisades, and the stone workers must repair the walls of the palace and the outer ring." Before anyone could raise objections, he said, "We will pay you for you're hard work with imperial gold? Is that satisfactory."

"Satisfactory yes but Governor this island is quite devoid of precious resources, There's a reason my forefathers forced the remaining Agotomaeds here. It is worthless other then land and fish, There's enough farming and fishing to feed us but iron and the likes is shipped from up north."

"I will have the materials from the East Empire here in a week or two. Make do with what you until then, understood?"

Nods from the tradesmen gave their new governor his answer. It almost made the people standing about jump when Ninnavoz forgotten about completely raised his voice. "Since it is clear I will not regain my authority as administrator... I request entry into your Commesntati-Auxiliary, I understand a twice ousted leader isn't going to be given a position of power within an army but I swear to you Governor regaining power is the least of my concerns now."

"Accepted." He turned around to face the old warrior, "Forgive me from usurping you're authority, but I do what I must. You've let things get out of hand, and now I must clean up this mess. I shall relinquish control back to you once this crisis passes over. You have my word." He said simply. He turned to face his unofficial second, Thogrim, "Commander, I want you're honest opinion, what do you think of our corps? Can they be turned to warriors?" He pointed at the large gathering of warriors. 

"The gift of Civilization-" Claimed Thorgrim. "-Has softened.. Most of our hearts but I believe if pushed properly the old Agotomaedic League spirit may just make these city folks decent combatants. I would never throw them against the trained Spāda of our enemy but they'll make decent enough militia... Augustus." It was one of the few times the mercenary captain used the man's name, Somehow it carried a weight to it. "I worry that we are playing right into the hands of our enemy, What if they want this? What if we're making all the wrong decisions?"

"You cant second guess yourself. Have faith in you're abilities, and do what you believe is right. No matter what anyone else thinks. That is what my Empress's believes, and as do I."  He paused, nobody could see his facial expression underneath his ancient helm, "Thogrim, you have proven to be an excellent assets. I need you on my command staff. Are you willing to accept the position of Captain of the Guard? I extend an offer to officially join the Legion." 

The man was taken aback flabbergasted even, It washed over him and faded away. For the first time since he was hired Thorgrim removed his bronze helmet with it's faceplate, His fluffy blond hair contrasting starkly with the ruddy skin. "I had always pictured myself dying alone and poor in some far off land hungry for mercenaries, You know Cyrodiil sounds an awfully nice place I hope that if we live past these coming days I should see it. I accept with my heart and tongue!" The mercenaries gawked at their now former captain, Their eyes did not escape the man. "You sorry lot will get your gold and then some, Don't you be quitting on me just yet men."

"Good." The Prelate turned, his purple cape flowing behind him, this time he faced Ninnavoz "Ninnavoz, I want you as my second captain, if that position is benefiting yourself." He didn't offer him the previous offer to join the legion, instead saying, "You two will command the auxiliary, and the mercenaries." The Prelate's archaic helm faced Thorgrim once more, "Those giants you mentioned might prove useful after all."

"I think eh, I think I can convince one maybe two. Atmoriants never reveal their names outside the clan they belong to, Believes that if their foes know the true names said foes gain power over them. The near-giants when rarely in the field of mercenaries and ambactoi take a temporary name of the culture they serve, Of the six Atmoriants I know of as mercenaries, Yessir there are to my knowledge only six in this field one I know will be swayed by gold. Last name he took was Aenesidemus, Served a king on one of the eastern islands for years only returning a few years ago. No man alive can best those monsters."

"Good. Good." The Prelate said, as he began to walk back to the palace. "You're first orders is to gather a list of all the new recruits we have. Captain." He turned to the lord, "Afterwords, I want you to organised them into groups that reflect their fighting prowess. We'll assign Thogrim's mercenaries as trainers, and have them whipped into shape." He then faced Thorgrim, "I need you get into contact with any trustworthy sellswords you know. Any regiment, if they can fight well, are welcome here, including that giant. With promises of imperial gold, and fame." He paused for a second, "Well soldiers can you handle you're first assignments? 

The mercenaries erupted into 'Hurrahs, Yessirs and Huzzahs', The ousted Governor turned Satrap turned soldier a temporary position for his sake raised his right hand in an old Agotomaedic salute then got cracking. Thorgrim didn't waste time with salutes and was half way to the palace by the time Ninnavoz finished his gesture. Perhaps things would work out, After all with competent folks leading the effort they all might just survive this crisis.

The Prelate was less then confident, but he would play his part. For all he knew, he could be walking into some trap. He really didn't care. He had a job to do. The job his Empress gave him. Protect the people of this island, and try to prevent bloodshed. And by the god's he would not falter. No matter what those warlords thew at him. 

With that, the Prelate stormed off to the palace. The day was far from over.

 

****

The Legionary fortress had swelled with men formerly guarding the city, The atmosphere had changed in hours from bored men tired of being in the frontier to a garrison believing war was inevitable. Lesser officers oversaw their companies of ten digging trenches, Felling trees to erect palisades and wooden towers ever increasing the perimeter of the fortress. After all Farrukhzad wanted to make it convincing, Berahthram's plans involving the island almost feel into disarray when the Prelate now governor damn near left without ever entering the city. Farrukhzad's spies gave quite the story, Only by chance did has his King of King's schemes been placed back into the path of what is foreseen.

Deep within the fort's dungeon Farrukhzad looked into each cell, Holding vile outlaws each having committed horrid crimes deserving either death or eternal punishment. However they will be better used as unwilling pawns, It was time they played their part. "As I stand here looking into the eyes of horrible men one thought dances about, Can these people ever establish themselves as law abiding folks once again? I should hope not, In one minute I'll be behind the door safely and you're cells will open. Down the corridor to my left is the way to freedom, Forty seax's are placed for forty men. Let this island be your haven, ****, Murder, Pillage do whatever your dastardly hearts desire. You are now the problems of men incapable of stopping you, Enjoy yourselves."

With that the Hazārapati parted ways safely behind the metal doors leading into the fortress when their cells were opened, Almost expecting the outlaws to kill each other right there and was pleased with the lack of fighting. The man almost pitied the farmers and fishermen outside the city as the outlaws slipped out into the night.

[Witchking of Angmar]

Endar

"I'm alive." They were the first and only words that managed to escape from Endar Drenim's lips before world around him once again shaped into something sensible. He was on his back, looking up at a clear blue sky with light streaks of green. Blue skies were good. The less mortal friendly planes of Oblivion tended to appear considerably less... well, mortal friendly. It appeared that he was in a grassy meadow, surrounded by yellow flowers and white clover.
After ruling out the eternal torture of his soul as an imminent threat, Endar's attention turned to the notable lack of a battle-axe embedded in his chest. He slowly turned over and pushed himself to his knees, then looked down to assess that particular situation. He found that his robes and the tunic beneath had indeed been torn open. He pushed them aside and frowned.
Ah.
Running down his chest was a long, bloody gash, an inch wide and deeper than he could see. The Nord's axe had cut him just above the heart, and pushed down through his right side, breaking every rib along the way. By all the rules of Mundus, he should have been lying on the ground, bleeding to death.
Thankfully, the lord of this realm doesn't care about our rules. Endar grinned and prepared a healing spell, only to find he could not cast it. Well damn.

"Come on now, you're a smart mortal. Did you really think it would be that easy?" The voice was strange. It sounded young and careless, yet at the same time, there was something sinister behind it. Its owner appeared before Endar now, seemingly just popping into existence. He appeared as a fair-skinned young man with a curly brown mane and a plump belly. More noteworthy were the curved mountain goat horns that protruded from his temple and the void-like emptiness that filled his eye sockets.
"Well," he said, "Are you going to speak or gawk? I can let that wound kill you now if I wish it."

Endar cleared his throat. He needed to choose his words carefully. "With whom am I speaking?"

"Maybe not so smart after all." The daedroth grinned, revealing razor-sharp teeth. "You are the one who knocked on my door. What if I'd been someone unpleasant?"

"If you are not, then I am most fortunate." He motioned at the bloody gash. "My hand was forced."

The daedroth threw back his head and laughed. It was a mocking sound, without a trace of humor. "You'd have spent an eternity praying for death if it had been Molag Bal who'd found you. But now we're talking in circles and that makes me bored."
A sharp sensation burned its way across Endar's chest, causing him to double over in pain.
"Stop boring me, Mortal, or I'll kill you and preoccupy my time with something more interesting."

"Come on, Clavicus, take it easy on the guy." Endar lifted his eyes to find that a big red dune-hound had appeared next to its master. The voice it spoke with was light and excitable. "It's not like you're actually going to kill him."

"Is that a challenge, Barbas?"

The blinding pain struck Endar again, driving his eyes closed and forcing him to bite into the folds of his robe. He could feel his organs failing him: His heart struggling to pump enough blood, his lungs desperately inflating and deflating in order to keep him breathing while thousands of droplets of blood swirled around inside them. It was like he was dying, but a hundred times slower than natural.

"Well if you just kill him, you'll be shorting yourself a soul," said the dog. "And earlier you were going on and on about your plans for making a deal with this mortal."

The pain intensified beyond anything Endar had felt before, and Clavicus Vile practically growled. "Shut up, Barbas!"

"So I was right!" The dog yelped.

"That was the plan, but it doesn't mean I won't change my mind and kill him!"

"Well you would only be hurting yourself, sir."

Finally, Endar could take no more. He blindly threw his hand out and struck the dog across its muzzle. "Damn it all, Barbas, shut up!"

Clavicus Vile's laughter echoed across the meadow. The sound entered Endar's ears and traveled downward, driving the pain from his body. He shuddered and gulped for air, somewhere at the back of his mind wondering what horrors Molag Bal could inflict that could possibly rival what he had just felt.
When Endar sat back up, he found Barbas's sad doggy eyes looking hurt, and Lord Clavicus still recovering in a fit of chuckles.

"Now that is more like it," exclaimed the Prince. "Don't feel bad. Barbas needs to be put in his place every now and then." His face then grew very serious. "But if you do it again, you'll find yourself begging me to let the wound kill you. Understood?"

"Understood," Endar answered without hesitating. No more foolishness. "You are the lord of wishes and deals. I would like to make an offer for my return to Tamriel fully healed."

Clavicus folded his arms. "Very well. Offer."

"If you will return me to the spot where I was struck, intact and unhurt, I will give you the soul of Rythe Orealo: A powerful wizard who hailed from the House-"

"Telvanni, yaddayaddayadda." The prince shook his head. "You think I don't know who Rythe is? Or you, Endar Drenim? I'll admit, I didn't start watching until you opened that first gate and sent a few dozen wraiths to some other lord for free -thanks by the way, for not tossing any my way- but you certainly had my attention after that. You people had a nice little romp, if I do say so myself."

"He did say so," Barbas chimed. "Twice, actually."

"But it seems to me that you lost, Endar. You lost and then turned to me for help salvaging the situation. The way I see it, I'm owed. So how about this: You'll give me Rythe, and then we can begin negotiating."

With his wound, Endar did not dare turn down the prince. He reached into his pouch and produced the smooth black gem that contained the necromancer's soul. "I offer this to you willingly."

"Why thank you!" The prince's voice dripped with sarcasm. "A pitiful gift, really, but it's the thought that counts." The soul gem vanished from Endar's hand. "Now, because it has been established that you are terrible at coming up with deals, I will offer one of my own. Turn around, will you?"

Confused, Endar rose to his feet and turned around. Before him was a large stone altar that had definitely not been there before. On top of it were the bodies of his three companions: Elara, Matilda, and Acivo. He would have thought this was some kind of trick if not for the daedric letters painted on each of their foreheads.
"I brought them with me."

"Correct. Well, some of them anyway." Vile walked up next to him and snapped his fingers, causing Elara and Acivo to instantly burst into flames.

"No!" Endar started forward, but the heat forced him to recoil. He turned to the prince, "Is this not a waste?"

"A waste of fertilizer, perhaps." Clavicus said with a shrug.

"They were dead already." Barbas added, appearing on Endar's left. "Rythe's pals did them in."

Endar shook his head. "I saw Elara before the end. I could see that she was alive."

"You saw wrong. She fell on top of... er... Matilda. It was her life you detected." The dog brushed its nose against Endar's elbow, "But hey, it probably saved the girl. Bright sides, eh?"

"Indeed," Endar recomposed himself. Letting emotions take hold was unbefitting even in the best of times. But it could be downright dangerous in a place like this. "Okay Clavicus, what is it that you want in exchange for my safe return and the girl's?"

"Huh?" Clavicus made a tsk tsk sound. "That's not part of the deal I had in mind." The daedroth blew gently on the altar and the flames subsided, leaving nothing but two piles of ashes beside Matilda's sleeping form. "I want a soul, and if you plan to leave, I will get a soul."
The mockery and mirth in his tone had faded. Clavicus Vile was all business now. "Hers."

"No deal," Endar said. "I can gather you a hundred souls when I get back to Tamriel, but you cannot have-" The pain returned, somehow even more intense than before. It made Endar drop to his knees, where he screamed and dug his fingers into the grass.

"Remember your place, Mortal," said the prince. "I have been civil with you, even though there is not a thing in the universe that says I must be. I do not ask you to bow and scrape before me, though I could. All I ask is for you to consider my contract. And that you do not presume to tell me what I cannot have."
The grass was stained with red when Endar's wound returned to its frozen state, and he once again found himself gasping for air.
"Seeing as you are trapped in my realm," Clavicus said, "These are your two most viable options: You can remain here, in which case I will let the Nord's work run its course and kill you as it would have. Or you can take his axe," The prince conjured a blood-coated daedric battle-axe and placed it on the alter beside Matilda, "And drive it into the girl the way he drove it into you. You will do this after casting a soul trap and pledging her soul to me. You will go home, and I will take care of things from there."

It wasn't a choice at all, and Clavicus knew that. Whatever bonds Endar may have unwillingly developed with the girl did not change the fact that she was merely a servant. She knows no magic and barely understands the world beyond whatever hut she ran away from in Skyrim... Nobody will miss her.
Alternatively, people would miss him. He was involved in very important research. The kind that could change the world! No, it's not even a question...

"There is a third way," Barbas barked. 

"What?!" Endar turned away from Vile to face the dog. "What other way?"

"Well, you could pledge Clavicus your soul. That way you can go back and finish your business in Tamriel. He'll claim you when the time is right."

Endar turned to the prince, who shrugged. "Yeah, I suppose that's an option. A stupid one, of course."

"Oh come on, Clavicus," the dog whined, "have a little compassion."

"No, he's right." Endar said. He picked up the axe. It was lighter than he had expected. "Why would I put her before myself?"

"Pragmatic," Clavicus mused. "How very un-mortal of you. I like it."

Endar could feel a sliver of his power returning as he approached the altar. It wasn't enough to go tearing holes in the limen, but it was enough to cast the soul trapping spell that was demanded of him. He did just that, and watched as the dark tendrils of his magic wove themselves around Matilda's body, waiting for him to finish the job. "I give this girl's soul to Clavicus Vile, in accordance with the contract we forged."
He brought down the axe, and returned to his world.
 

***

Mila

The world was darkness and the smell of burning flesh. When Mila came to, a long black rod was jutting out of her torso, and then the dark came back again. She couldn't remember where she'd been before, or what had brought her to be like this. There had been faces... dead faces. And Elara, and Endar... and Boldir!
But they were all gone now. Now, Mila was alone, and gods was she hurting! 
At some point, the darkness faded, and she was on a stone table, looking up at the night sky. Was this dirt that covered her skin? Or was it dust? How long had she been here? "Hello?" she tried to cry out, though her throat only allowed a raspy grunt.

Mila turned on her side and felt an instant jolt of pain that tore through her chest and drew hot tears from her eyes. Shaking, she reached across the pile of gray dirt and grabbed the corner of her stone bed. It felt like hours before she mustered up the strength to drag herself forward, every inch bringing forth another wave of pain.
"Why are you doing that?" a voice asked from some place far away. But Mila pushed away her doubts and kept crawling, unsure of where the act would lead.
Apparently, it led to a great plummet. The cold stone left her, and Mila was falling. In the distance she could see a shadowed field of grass and trees, but it took her ages to reach it. Her eyes closed again.
"Congratulations," it mocked. "You're on the ground now. What a feat."

Mila opened her mouth to tell the voice to shut up, but instead, the pain in her torso flared up like a rekindled bonfire, and the darkness returned. When her eyes opened, Mila was no longer in the field. She sitting in the Whiterun market, watching from her mother's fruit stand as children played and adults browsed.

"Sweetheart?" Mila turned, and there stood her mother, arms folded across her chest. "You didn't fall asleep again, did you?"

"I..." Mila choked out the words, "I can't breath."

"Oh, Honey," Carlotta came and knelt down in front of her, embracing her in the most motherly of hugs. Then she whispered, "A dying girl doesn't need to breath."

Her mother started to squeeze her then, so tightly that it constricted Mila's lungs, cut off her airway, rattled her very bones. She cried and gasped as Whiterun faded, growing darker, darker, until there was nothing left but her and her mother. But when Carlotta finally pulled away, it was the face of a great gray wolfhound that looked at Mila. It licked at her tears, and she could not move to push it away.
"Aaaaaaand done!"

Mila's eyes flicked open. She was in the same field as before, only it appeared to be daytime now. And there actually was a dog licking her face. She shoved it away and sat up, immediately reaching down to touch the area of her torso that had been the source of so much pain while she'd slept. There, she found a deep tear in her robe, which she pulled apart a bit, revealing a long pink scar that ran down her sternum and below her right breast.
"What in Oblivion-"

"Choice words."
Mila jerked her head around to find the speaker, but the only living thing out here besides herself seemed to be the dog. It's snout opened, and more words came out. "You know, considering that's where you are and all."

"What?" Mila shook her head. "No, no... I was in Cyrodiil! ... I  was with Boldir!" She pointed at her scar, "What is this?! The wraiths..." 
A sudden chill fell over her. A dying girl doesn't need to breath.
Mila looked around. There was nothing but field or trees in any direction.

"I know," the dog started, "you're probably confused-"

"Stay away from me!" she shouted, pulling herself away from the dog. She pointed at him. "You- you're not- This can't be-" 
And then Mila's anxiety took the reigns. She spun around and started to run. Where to? She didn't know. She just knew that she had to get away from this place. The meadow was soft and flat. Its white clovers and patches of yellow flowers could do nothing to resistance the girl as she stormed through them. The trees were another matter. Once she broke into the forest, everything became thicker. Thorns nicked at her robe, and tangles of branches swatted her arms and face, but Mila ignored them and just kept running.
"HELP!" Mila screamed, all logic having left her. "BOLDIR!"
He has to be here! she thought. I was just with him! He wouldn't have left me!
"BOLDIR!"

Or maybe this is a dream. If it is then I will wake up and he'll be there. But I just DID wake up! 
A dying girl doesn't need to breath.
"Oh gods," Mila could feel the tears returning to her cheeks, the heart pounding fierce in her chest.

"Not gods," laughed the voice she'd heard in her sleep. It came from all around her, like it was a part of every tree. "Not here."

"Leave me alone!" Mila's feet carried her deeper into the woods. She ducked branches, hopped roots, forced herself through bushes, all in a mad dash towards a destination that she knew in her heart did not exist.

Elara is dead. For some reason, that was the first truly coherent thought that entered her mind since she'd started running. The wraiths got her instead of me. She saved me.
That was it. Elara had saved her. She had shielded her when the wraiths descended. And the priestess Gwella, she'd gotten Rythe's stones. Mila had seen that from the ground. And Boldir... Boldir had been winning! He was fighting the Xivilai, trying to reach her. She'd heard him calling her name, telling her to run. She'd wanted to call back, but she couldn't. By then, the wraiths had sapped her strength and forced her to the ground.

All of that made sense to Mila. She remembered it now as clear as day. But what had happened afterwards? How had she come to this place? There had been a black rod sticking out of her. And now she had this scar. Had the daedra survived and come after her? No, that did not make any sense. Endar wouldn't have let it hurt her.

Mila was slowing down by the time she saw the light ahead. Still very confused, she jogged on through the final stretch of woods, completely oblivious to how many new cuts and bruises she now sported. The trees parted ways to reveal something Mila had never seen except in paintings: a sandy beach that ran out to meet a clear blue ocean. Mila mindlessly stumbled toward the water and, suddenly exhausted, collapsed to her knees just shy of it. There, she began to weep.

"As I was saying, you're probably confused." Somehow, Mila was not even surprised to look up and find the dog sitting on its haunches beside her. "Most mortals are when things like this happen. So where are you from, kid?"

"Skyrim," Mila answered, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Is... is this Sovngarde?"

"Sovn-what now?" The dog's head tilted. "Hang on, that's the place with all the hairy guys, right? No wait, I'm thinking of Hircine's-... no I could swear that the Sovn-place is for hairy people. Are there two places for hairy mortals? Seems redundant to me. Anyway, what makes you think this is Sovywhatsit?"

"I'm not a Nord," Mila said, "But I tried to be. I tried really hard. I even died in battle. I thought-... maybe, that I'd get to-"

"Hang on just a second," interrupted the dog. "What makes you so certain that you're dead? You look alive to me."

"I-" Mila looked down at her hands. They were covered in smooth sand and the clingy gray dirt from her stone table. She certainly did not feel dead. "Well, we were fighting. And the wraiths got me. And I and saw that axe- could... feel it killing me. I stopped breathing. And then there's you, and this place-"

"One second." The dog turned and started biting his hindquarters. When he was finished, he looked up at her and made a low, growly sound, "I swear, I think my master only put fleas in these forests to agitate me. What were you saying?" 

"If I'm alive, then I should be back in the Colovian Highlands. I'm not where I'm supposed to be."

"Seems to me that people can only ever be where they're supposed to be," the dog answered. "Or else they wouldn't be there."

"Great... So the talking dog spouts wisdom."

"And lots of it," yelped the hound. "Sadly, it is seldom appreciated or listened to. And instead just grouping me with every other 'talking dog' in the Arubis, how about you call me Barbas?"

"Barbas," Mila repreated. "Okay, Barbas, so you don't think I'm dead?"

"No, I know you're not dead. It would be painfully obvious to both of us if you were. But you are here. That's for sure. You got unlucky, kid. Really unlucky. But that's the way things work. And I am the sort of dog that likes to look for bright sides. Such as how in your unluckiness, there was actually a little bit of luck. Like the fact that Master's got a plan for you."

"You've mentioned a master twice now. Who is your master? The man with the voice?"

"Well that narrows my choices down to almost every man in existence," Barbas quipped.

"Don't be a wise ass," Mila said with a scowl. "The voices I was hearing in my sleep, and in the woods."

"Heh, if you're hearing voices, I know a madgod who would love to meet you." Barbas's voice turned into a low growl, "Or he'll tie your tail in a knot just for saying 'hello'."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. Yeah, the voices you heard were most likely my master's. Not that I would know since it was you he chose to speak to. He is the lord of this land, or the Prince of Wishes, if you prefer: Clavicus Vile."

Mila crossed her arms and looked back at the woods. "I wish I was home."

"Now who is being the wise ass?" Barbas flashed his teeth in what was probably meant to be a smile, but seemed more like a snarl on the lips of a dog. "Well as it turns out, you are home. Or as close as one can get, anyway. You see, you sort of... well your soul belongs to Clavicus."

Mila was surprised by her own lack of surprise at the news. She had already come to terms with being dead, then with being in some place she didn't belong. This was honestly less shocking than either of those things. "Well how do I get it back?"

"If I know Clavicus, which I should since, you know, I'm part of him, your soul will probably have to be returned in exchange for something else. Deals are kind of entirely his thing. In fact, if I was a betting pooch, I would place the odds on him already having a deal in mind. Why else would he have gone through so much effort to both spare your life and recover the Nord?"

"Nord?" Mila's chest tightened. She didn't need to ask, but she went ahead anyway. "What Nord?"

"Boldir," Barbas said, his weird dog-smile widening. "I hear you've met."
 

***

Boldir

One moment, Boldir had been on the plateau; he had taken the xivilai's axe and planted it deep inside that devil elf's chest. The next moment, he was falling. He wasn't falling as if he had tripped or been staggered. No, the ground had literally vanished beneath him along with the skies, the ruins, the elf, and everything else that could be seen, and Boldir was falling. Without ups or downs, he did not have a particular direction to fall into, so the sensation was an altogether alien one. The landing, however, wasn't. Boldir's injured body crashed against what felt like a smooth marble floor.
When he looked up, his eyes were instantly assaulted by the overwhelming brightness of the world he found himself in. There were waterfalls and great grand trees and flowers everywhere. The scene was so bright, so beautiful. It actually hurt his eyes just to look at it. He turned away and cast his gaze elsewhere, only to spot a silver palace many miles in the distance. Its great towers and keeps were even brighter than the reflective waterfalls. They were as bright as Magnus itself. Even looking at them for a moment blinded Boldir and forced him to close his eyes, yet even then he could not cast the image out of his mind. No kingdom of man or mer could hope to build anything so wondrous, so large and majestic. Not with ten thousand years and the blessings of Dibella herself.

Boldir tried to look again, and again his eyes were forced shut by the brightness. His nose suddenly twitched, and he caught a scent that put all those foreign perfumes to shame. Even the smells in this place were beyond anything he had ever witnessed. They crept to his brain, filling him with a strange sense of calm, driving away the sensations of fear and anxiety that he knew he should have felt.
Tears emerged in Boldir's eyes, both from the sharp pain of his injuries and overwhelming assaults on his senses. What kind of world is this? Why am I here?

'You're not supposed to be here,' Carlotta's voice said to him. 'You were about to save Mila.'

Then I need to leave. The weather was perfect. Neither hot nor cold, dry nor damp. He appreciated that, for the armor he wore was unsuited for any of those things. The fur that lined the insides was warm and matted with sweat and the mixed blood of him and the Xivilai he had killed. It would have suffocated him in the heat. But the battle had damaged it greatly. His right wristguard and both pauldrons had been lost, and the padded material beneath had been torn open in many places to expose his skin to the nonexistent elements.

And thus, blind but comfortable, Boldir stood up. "I can make this work," he said to no one, shielding his vision with one hand. "I'll just rest my eyes for a few moments between glimpses. I can reach the palace in less than a day."
He started to limp, his left ankle protesting in a pain that forced him to ease up on it. His boots clanked against the peculiar smooth path It was hard to identify what exactly it was made of. He could only open his eyes briefly before closing them again, and those brief observations only told Boldir that it was smooth, silver, and as reflective as everything else in this place. 

As he traveled, he called out Mila's name every now and then. She never answered, but Boldir didn't really have any idea what else he could do. This place was so strange, so different, he didn't have the faintest clue what to make of it.
This can't be Oblivion, he thought. Everything is too perfect. Too beautiful. But how could it be anywhere else? The Dunmer sent me here. It had to be him.

Despite the magical allure of the sights and smells, Boldir's new world was strangely silent. His uneven metallic gait echoed all around him, finding no other sounds to intermingle with. It made him feel strangely lonely. Loneliness was not foreign to Boldir. He had spent many weeks and then months without companionship after the sacking of Riften. The solitude had found him just after the city's fall, after he had left it behind with Carlotta's pale body on his saddle. The smoke reached higher than the mountains. She could still see it when I buried her. He had still felt sane at that point. Even as he had laid the dirt over his wife's body, Boldir's mind had been too clouded with grief and anger for the loneliness to set in. It was not until his ride for Cyrodiil that it had truly made its presence known. Is my mind clouded now?  he wondered. Is it just the shock and confusion that holds it together?

As Boldir peeked upward once more, he found that the palace had grown closer. The massive structure was still a great distance, but he could see that he had made more progress than a half-blind cripple had the right to. How long have I been walking?  he wondered. It felt like minutes, but the distance he had covered suggested hours. The rumbling in his stomach implied the same.
As if this world had heard his desire, Boldir's next peek some time later found a bush growing just beside the path. On it was a single plump fruit that contained more colors than a rainbow. He picked it and took a bite.
It was the best thing he had ever tasted.
Boldir was fortunate that there was only one, for if there had been more, he may not have been able to leave the bush.

Despite the pitiful size of his meal, Boldir continued on his path feeling completely satisfied. And maybe it was just a trick of his mind, but the Nord was almost certain that his wounds seemed to hurt a little less. He also felt rejuvenated in the spirit. He had arrived here, where everything was perfect. Surely Mila had come as well. That meant she could not have possibly been in danger. She was safe, and he would find her. "The palace," he muttered, opening his eyes several hours after he had eaten. It loomed ahead, just as it had before. "She is in the palace."

This place would be good for the girl, Boldir realized. After all she has been through, she needs this. How could it be any other way? Boldir had glimpsed Mila briefly during the battle, and what should have been the happiest moment for him in years had been corrupted by a terrifying sadness. The young woman who'd looked down at him had not been the innocent girl Boldir had known. She had been fierce, dangerous even. That Mila had been through more in two years than what many warriors experienced in their lifetimes. But Mila is not a warrior. She is a child. She should be happy and playful, surrounded by people who love her.
In that brief moment on the cliff, Boldir had believed there was no hope for the girl. But this place... it could prove him wrong. He was certain of it. It could cure Mila of the things she had been through, make her who she was supposed to be. Give her happiness. And a palace like the one ahead, it had to have children in it, kids for her to run around and make merry with as she had so long ago in Whiterun. Stay safe, Mila. And don't wait for me.

The passage of time was impossible to keep track of. Boldir's boots clacking against the path gave him some semblance of passing time, but the brightness of the world never let up, never gave way to night or the moons. It remained constant, even when Boldir knew that he had to have limped for longer than a day. Every time he grew hungry, another bush with another fruit appeared and sated him. Every now and then, the silence broke for several minutes as he passed another waterfall that seemed to drain into otherwise still bodies of water.
Everything would have been fine, if not for the fact that his destination was always out of reach. It was strange, how the beautiful palace got closer every time he opened his eyes, yet somehow it remained so very far away.
There was no telling how long he had walked before Boldir realized that he did not tire.

"You're not supposed to be here," a woman's voice reminded him. "You were about to save Mila."

"That's what I'm doing," Boldir replied. His voice seemed strange to him, like it was no longer his own. "What can I do besides go to the palace?"

"Anything else," she answered. "You have been at this for too long. If you were supposed to reach it, you would have already."

"That's absurd." Boldir opened his eyes and looked up. Amidst the intense glow, he could see the great spiraling towers, clearly closer to him than they had been the last time he'd looked. "It won't be long now. If Mila is not there, whoever is can help me."

"You will never reach it... but you know that, don't you?"

"Be quiet!" he growled. "Don't you want her to be happy? She deserves this- no, she's earned it! I've earned it!"

"You have earned an execution at Baldur's hands if you're lucky," a new voice growled. For the first time since his arrival, Boldir felt heat. He opened his eyes and for the briefest moment, saw Riften aflame, saw the dead eyes of civilians and Stormcloaks looking up at him. The fire engulfed his vision, and then he was once again squinting at the bright pathway.

Boldir's pace quickened. He opened his eyes less than before, trusting the straightness of the path to lead him true. You will never reach it. He couldn't believe that. He wouldn't. Every time he opened his eyes, the palace was closer. Wasn't it? He began to count his footsteps. It was only way he could possibly determine how far he traveled. One. Two. Three. Four. Five... Boldir was in the seven thousands when his stomach rumbled and he spotted another of the delicious fruits. After a quick break to eat, he realized that he had forgotten his count. No matter. One... Two... Three...
After hitting one thousand, Boldir ventured another look at the palace. He had been walking much more briskly than before, he was certain of it. But was the place closer? It seemed to be... but not as much as he had hoped. What was more, the pain he'd felt when he'd entered this place seemed to be returning. Boldir had not even noticed when it had gone away.

"Turn around, you dumb oaf."  Boldir saw his brother, now, clearer than he'd seen anything in ages. Baldur stood in front of him, looking angry, but also strangely sad. "You're never going to leave this place if you keep going forward. There might be ways out, but this ain't it."

"I don't want to get out," he answered. "My daughter is here. She has to be."

"Pfft," Maven Black-Briar stepped out from behind Baldur. "Your little whelp was never here, but I shouldn't need to tell you that. It's pathetic, really, how you march on, pretending like you're going the right way... You're afraid, aren't you? Afraid of what you'll find if you actually get to her."

"Afraid that things won't go back to how they used to be," Baldur remarked.

Boldir balled his fists. "I'm not afraid. I've finally found an answer with this place! Why are you trying to take it from me?!"

"An answer to what? YOUR problems? Please."  Maven snickered, and her voice grew more intense. "You brought one of the greatest powers in Skyrim to its knees because we threatened what was yours. And now look at you. You're a blind cripple wandering a place that is not your own. Tell me, hero, when you find the girl... when you see that she has grown up like the rest of us, that she no longer needs you, do you intend to give yourself up to Baldur? Is that where your fear is coming from? Or are you worried she will hate you for what you've done? For what you allowed to happen to her mother?"

Boldir's tears had nothing to do with the light now. He wanted an escape from the anger, the sadness. The palace would be his escape. He closed his eyes again and pushed past the figures on the road. He was close now, he could feel it.

"Mila comes first. She always comes first. That's why I chose you, remember?" 

Boldir stopped. It took him a long time to open his eyes again, but when he did, it was his wife that stood before him. The world suddenly did not seem so bright. "That's what you said in Riften," he answered, tears in his eyes. "And I've tried, Carlotta. I've tried so hard."

"I know."

He stepped towards her, reached out, and then stopped. The real Carlotta was gone. He buried her. And yet... "If I touch you, my hand will pass through. You'll go away."

"Yes."

He pulled back. "Every time I hear you speak, every time you come to me, it's so you can push me... drive me to find her. Once I do... will you still be there?"
Carlotta smiled sadly, but she did not answer. She didn't need to. Boldir knew the answer.
"Everything's wrong, Carlotta. Baldur hates me, I'm a traitor to Skyrim, and Mila... she'll never be the same. She doesn't need me. I know that now. Why should I give this place up, give you up for a future that I have no part in? Where death is the only end?"

"Because I'm not real," Carlotta said. "But the promise you made was. We don't know what the future has in store for our daughter, but no matter how much she has grown, she should not have to face it alone. If I recall, she saved you on that battlefield. She called your name, and it wasn't in disgust. There's a chance there. Keep looking. Don't ever give up. It may be that you need her as much as she needs you."

Boldir hesitated. "Maybe you're right."

Carlotta smiled with a trace of humor. "Of course I am."

"But what if-" Boldir's words caught in his throat when he saw the look Carlotta was giving him. He knew damned well that she was right. "Thank you." He gave her a nod, and then smiled. "Goodbye."

"We'll see each other again, some day," she promised. "And when we do, it'll be real."

Boldir closed his eyes, turned away from Carlotta and the palace, and started walking. Immediately, a jolt of pain shot through his bad foot. He stumbled and fell. With his eyes still closed, it was all the Nord could do to try and catch himself with his arms. The left one was slick with blood from the bite of a scamp, and it slid on the smooth ground and made way for Boldir's already-sore temple to crash painfully into the earth.

Feeling as though he had awakened from a deep sleep, Boldir noticed that the powerful fragrances were suddenly gone, replaced by far earthier ones. He struggled back to his feet and opened his eyes. All the light and beauty were gone. The palace and waterfalls and flowers were gone. In place of his last world, Boldir was now standing in the middle of an old gray ruin that had been overgrown by vines and trees.

"Well hello there." Boldir spun, and found himself looking down at a plump Breton-looking boy who might have looked normal if not for the horns and strange, empty eyes. The demon boy seemed amused. "I think you will do nicely."

[Witchking of Angmar]

Endar
 

Endar's head was still spinning when he returned to Tamriel. In fact, he was so lost in his thoughts that he did not react in time to slow the five foot drop that awaited him. He plummeted to the earth like the Ministry of Truth itself, landing so hard on his side that he actually bounced on the rock. "Dun nchow!"

Slowly, painfully, Endar stood up and cast a healing spell, all the while continuing to swear in the tongue of his people. At least the cursed wound is gone, he thought, looking down at the thin gray scar that stretched across his chest and down his right side. Clavicus Vile had kept his end of the bargain, and as far as Endar could tell, there had been no hidden agenda or downsides. His soul was still his, and he had lost nothing but time. 
And at the low price of just one girl's soul.
He scowled, annoyed with himself for getting attached to someone he'd only known for a short time. It's not my fault she insisted on joining me. Besides, she never stopped asking those incessant questions. I'm well rid of her.

Elara, on the other hand, was a rather tragic loss. Not since he left Morrowind had one of Endar's servants lasted more than an entire year and learned how to read and copy his notes. She had been one of a kind, and certainly deserved a better death than the one Rythe had given her. No, Elara was a star-eyed halfwit who voluntarily got in over her head and died for it. That's what happens to fools who aren't careful. The Legionnaire was no different, whatever in the blazes his name was.

Gathering his shredded robes in front of his chest, Endar looked around. He wasn't lost, thank the gods. Vile had returned him to the plateau where the battle had taken place, though it was different now. The grass seemed a little greener, and the air, somewhat warmer. The corpses were still scattered around the ruined Oblivion Gate, though they were far from fresh as they'd been before. Most of the necromancers' flesh was either rotted black or gone altogether, consumed by what seemed to have been trolls. Apparently, Clavicus Vile had kept him a lot longer than it had felt. 

Unfortunately, Apotheosis was nowhere to be found, which led Endar to release yet another string of curses. He had spent a fortune on that staff, and was not keen on the idea that some imbecile was probably out in the world right now, most likely utilizing a fraction of its potential. All the welkynd stones Rythe had brought were missing as well, but at least he could mitigate that loss by creating his own. 
And I still have the journal, he thought. It was the one bit of good that could be salvaged from this situation. The book, and all the other belongings he'd brought for the trip, was safely stored away in a place that most mortals would find rather difficult to reach without first knowing that it existed. So why did he feel so uneasy?
"Fingers of the Mountain," Endar said. "Bring it to me. I want to see it."

He finished the spell, and a Dremora servant appeared in front of him, holding out the ancient, tattered tome. "Is there anything else, Master?"

"No, nothing," he replied, snatching the book from the daedroth's hands. He waved dismissively. "Go away."

The Dremora vanished with a bow, and Endar opened the book just to see that its contents still existed. They did. Well, that's one good thing, at least. And it's the most important one of all. He muttered his spell and sent the tome back to the safety of the hidden slice of Oblivion. Now it is time to finally go and make use of it.
He lifted his hands and cast the recall spell that was to take him back to Cloud Top, only to find that it would not work. It was as if the mark had been removed, or was somehow being interfered with. "Of course."

Swearing even more (by now, he barely registered that he was doing this), Endar made his way down the plateau on foot. A staff would be nice, he thought bitterly. Or a horse. I wonder what happened to ours. Or Rythe's for that matter. Probably eaten by trolls.
Endar wasn't certain why, but he was really starting to hate trolls. It was strange. They weren't likely the ones responsible for his stolen staff, missing crystals, or any of the other misfortunes that had befallen him, but he found his mind illogically deeming the beasts guilty by association. It was not a concept that he relished, this emotion-driven lack of logic, but try as he might to be view trolls impartially, he simply couldn't. There was this negative spark that his mind linked with them now that simply refused to go away. It was a shame, because he had once been rather fond of the hulking shaggy beasts.

This region of the Colovian Highlands was not well-known for being particularly exciting or lively. In most directions, a traveler could only see rocks and grass. If they were lucky, they might spot a boar or a goat. If they were unlucky, it would be bears, trolls, or ogres. Endar was neither lucky nor unlucky, because he did not detect any of these things. For him it was just rocks and grass.
When nightfall drew near, Endar instinctively found a nice raised position to make camp, and lit a balefire, only to realize that this was not necessary. All the camping he had done since leaving the Imperial City had been for the sake of his companions. Scowling, Endar extinguished the green flames and continued his trek in spite of the darkness.

The night was quiet and uneventful. He did nothing but walk and mutter spells, trying to ignore the accusing glares of Masser and Secunda. Obviously, the moons were in no way actually judging him, but like with the trolls, Endar could not shake the strange feeling of negativity that was now unfairly tied to them. He knew why, of course. It was the damned Skyrim girl and her damned lunar dagger. She had asked him numerous questions about the moons during the trip between Cloud Top and the Oblivion Gate: The very path he walked now.

Well if the girl's spirit wanted to hold him in judgement, then fine. But he would not allow the moons to make him feel guilty over a decision that he'd been forced to make. Clavicus Vile had said it best: Endar's decision hadn't been based on emotions or morality. It was strictly pragmatic, as all great decisions should be. 
"How very un-mortal of you. I like it."
That was what the daedric prince had said. He'd meant it as a compliment. And rightly so.

Magnus was on the rise again when Endar finally reached the base of Cloud Top. Its golden light painted the rocky countryside in vibrant shades of orange and green facing east, and left dark shadowed patterns facing west. The 'mountain' itself was still shaded from the sun on the side that Endar approached from, and remained so as he followed the little trail for his ascent. He was less than halfway up when he first voices coming from above.
Endar stopped, cast a spell, and listened. 

"-tomorrow, I think he said."

"Good. We had mutton all last week and mutton all this week. I couldn't have done another week of mutton. I'd rather eat Yarf."

"HA! He'd certainly last you. Bloody wood elf reminds me of this fat little dog my wife brought home. Thing never stopped eating."

Endar rolled his eyes and continued his climb. Whoever these idiots were, they did not sound particularly dangerous. He knew that there were sixteen of them (plus horses) well before he reached the top. Of course, that was little cause for worry, as he'd laid a recall mark lower down just in case there was an emergency. When he did finally arrive at the old ruin, Endar found it surrounded by little red candles and littered with large tents and campfires (he realized that he would have seen their smoke hours ago had it not been nighttime). Sitting at the outskirts were two men, a skinny Imperial and a bearded Redguard, armored in steel and with their weapons laying behind them. They sprung to their feet at his approach, arming themselves as they did.
Endar cleared his throat. "I take it you're the ones who deactivated my mark."

That only seemed to confuse them. "State your business, Stranger," the Imperial barked.

"My business is to construct defenses against Aldmeri super weapons," Endar replied. "What's yours?"

The two men shared a look, then the same one spoke again. "We're studying these ruins."

Endar noticed other men and women now emerging from their tents. Most of them were still in their sleeping clothes, but a few had taken the time to throw on some armor. All of them were armed. "You don't look like scholars."

"They're not," said a voice from somewhere deeper in the camp. The warriors began to part, making way for a middle-aged Breton, still dressed in his night robe. "That would be me."
He came to the front, smiling as if they were friends. "Dunard Moorsley. I'm a mage with the Synod." His eyes ran up and down Endar, lingering momentarily on the wide tear in his robes. "To whom do we owe the pleasure?"

"Endar Drenim." He frowned at the man. "I do not like being scrutinized."

"Well you are a stranger who approached our camp at the break of dawn," said Moorsley. "I think at least a little scrutiny is in order. Now what is this business you speak of with Aldmeri -what was it?- super weapons?"

"That's right." Endar crossed his arms. "I was contracted by the High General to help with the war effort, so the lot of you can clear on out of my campsite."

"Your campsite?" One of the warriors snorted.

"Hush," the Breton commanded. His expression toward Endar remained unchanged. "If what you say is true, then we are all in service to the Empire, and there is no need for hostility. But I need to know for certain that it is indeed true."

"Pfft. I will not be tested by the likes of you." Endar scowled. "If you don't believe me, then scamper on down to the Imperial City and ask the Emperor yourself. Or don't. I don't care what you think, so long as you are willing to leave me to work in peace."

"Is this guy serious?" one of the warriors said. 

"You want us to tie him up, Dunard?" asked another.

'Endar,' a familiar voice spoke calmly into his mind. 'Just go along with the mage. You and I need to speak.'

Endar did not show it, but he was genuinely startled. His eyes darted around the campsite, scanning each and every body. There were the Imperial and Redguard who'd been on watch. There was a Dunmer woman. There was a fat little Bosmer. Some more Imperials. A couple Nords... and there she was: the Altmer, with her perfect skin and bright golden eyes. She stood among them, dressed in plain robes and with her brown hair unceremoniously tied back, looking every bit the part of the underpaid mercenary.
'What are you doing here, Psijic?'

'I will explain later. Just humor Dunard. These aren't bad people. There is no need to kill them.'

His scowl deepened. The monk could not have possibly known what he had done in Oblivion, but that did not lessen the sting of what she had said. 'Give me some credit.'

"Well?" one of the warriors barked at him. "What's it gonna be then?"

"What is what going to be?"

"You deaf as well as stupid?" the man shouted back.

"Be quiet, Felwart," Dunard ordered. He looked back at Endar. "My friends are losing their patience, and now so am I. You can either go back the way you came, or you can submit yourself to questioning. We cannot risk a Thalmor spy making away with our discoveries."

Endar's eyes never left the Psijic. "Fine. I'll answer your damned questions," he then muttered, "Wouldn't want anyone here who doesn't belong."

"Excellent." The Breton motioned for Endar to follow him. "Please, join me in my tent."

Endar made his way through the crowd of watchful guards. It required a conscious effort on his part to remain composed and not to further indignifiy himself by appearing angrier than he'd already proven to be. These people couldn't possibly be worth his anger.
Dunard Moorsley's tent was spacious. It had an actual bed, an oak work desk, an enchanting table, and several racks that contained magical tools which Endar knew were designed primarily for concealment and detection. 
"I take it your presence here is not public knowledge?"

"It rarely is." Moorsley smiled and tapped the long metal rod that he no doubt used to light the candles that surrounded the camp. "You know your instruments."

"Of course I do. I'd imagine every fool apprentice in the Arcane University knows what they are."

"But you are no fool apprentice, are you? Those torn-up robes you wear, they bear daedric script. What does it say?"

" 'The powerful define the standards of virtue.' There's not a child in House Telvanni who does not know the phrase."

"So you're from House Telvanni, then?" Moorsley leaned forward, his eyes wide. "I've heard that the wizards of House Telvanni are among the greatest in Tamriel."

"You heard the truth," Endar said. "You might also know that they have no affiliation with the Aldmeri Dominion."

"Nor do they have any with the Empire," Moorsley pointed out. "At least, not to my knowledge."

"I'm in Cyrodiil of my own volition. I have a house in the Imperial City, and my own quarters in the White Gold Tower - where I have spent the last year or two conducting most of my research."

"I see. You are a long way from the Imperial City. And alone at that. It strikes me as passing strange that Emperor Krojun would send someone as important as yourself so far away without any guards."

Endar grimaced. "I am not on some leash that the Emperor can reign in as he pleases. I left on my own when it became apparent that my work required resources outside the capital's disposal, and I shall return when I am content that I have gathered everything I need. Also, I did not leave alone. My servant and a Legion Forester accompanied me, but they died at the hands of a necromancer."

"A necromancer? In the Colovian Highlands? Is this necromancer the one who gave you that scar?" Moorsley pointed at Endar's chest.

"Essentially," he answered, annoyed at the way the Breton's eyes kept twitching down at it. "There were more than one. A whole band of them, actually. Give me a map and I'll show you exactly where the corpses can be found, about a day from here."

"Amazing." Moorsley's shoulders seemed to relax, slightly. "Your journey sounds like quite the story. I would love to hear it."

"Are you not interrogating me?" Endar asked, his scowl intensifying. "I am here for a reason, and it's not to regale you with tales like some common bard."

"Of course," the scholar said, his pale cheeks reddening. "Forgive me... I suppose I see no reason to believe you have cause to do us harm. I will tell the Fighters that you are clear to come and go as you please." Endar started to rise, and the man spoke again. "I do have one last question, if you will humor me. Are you aware of any magical anomalies at this site late last winter?"

It's not winter anymore... Interesting. "No, I am not aware of any."

"How unfortunate. I was sent to investigate two successive spikes of magical energy that were detected by my order. I am supposed to send updates back to the Imperial City, but have so far had little to write. Oh well. Perhaps you will discover something I have not."

"Of that, I have little doubt." Endar turned and exited the tent, discovering that three of the warriors were standing right beside the flap. Among them was the man who had challenged Endar's intelligence and the quality of his hearing.

"So you're clear then," the man said, looking apologetic. "Sorry about what I said back there. 'Bout you being stupid."

"Okay," Endar said, walking on past the man. He doubted that a moron such as this one could genuinely offend him if he tried his absolute hardest.

The Psijic was waiting beside the broken Ayleid pillar, sharpening a shortsword that Endar presumed was just for show. She looked up as he approached. "I heard your talk with Dunard."

"Of course you did." Endar placed a hand on the white stone. The last time he had done this, it had been with the girl. The two of them had each touched the structure with electricity, and in doing so, received a small taste of what the Ayleids had left behind here. Endar had no doubt that those interactions were the energy spikes that the Synod had detected. "And?"

"And I am glad to see that you are alive and well. When last we spoke, you were very enthusiastic about conquering the Thalmor's sunbirds. I still hope for you succeed."

"It's been a long time since we last spoke," Endar said. "You approached me, named me your 'seliffrnsae', promised to help, and then disappeared without giving so much as your name."

"I did not disappear. I left to attend other matters with the intent to return when I was needed. You, on the other hand, did quite literally disappear. I do not know if you understand how rare a thing it is for a member of the Psijic Order to fail in locating someone. What were you doing in Oblivion?"

"I had business there of my own. And what are you doing among these... people?"

"They are from Chorrol's Fighters Guild," she replied. "In friendlier times, someone from the Synod would have been granted Legion soldiers for protection, but the war draws them south. I joined the guild in the hopes of discovering what happened to you."

"And how did you know I was here?"

"The Empire's Synod use a Dwarven Oculory to locate traces of old magics. But we Psijics have even older methods. Greater, more precise. I did not know you were here until the human girl interacted with this pillar." She smiled and tapped it with her knuckles. "It wasn't long after that you and her both vanished from this world entirely. Even I could not find you at that point." The monk frowned. "I assume the girl did not survive."

"That is correct."

"A pity. She might've been the first person to produce such a response from the pillar in centuries. Dunard has spent weeks trying to do the same and has come up with nothing. I have done the same, in private, and yielded some results, but nothing of the extent that you two did. That was a similar form of power to Alinor's own magic of creatia."

"Indeed it was," Endar confirmed, turning his mind away from Matilda. "The Ayleids called it the 'Finger of the Mountain'."

"Fitting." The monk cocked her head. "But nothing of the sort is written on this pillar. You've found a different source of information, haven't you?"

"Yes." Endar looked around the camp, wondering which of these Fighters had the nicest tent. "And for now that's as much as I intend to tell you."

"We're not enemies, Endar. I only seek to guide."

"And what a splendid job of it you've done so far." He let the sarcasm drip through his words. "By all means, remain in the camp. If I decide that your help is warranted, I will call for you."

"Sometimes, that is the best we can hope for. Thank you." She smiled. "And not that you've asked, but my name is Illorwe. The Fighters have taken to calling me 'Lore'."

"I think I'll stick to Illorwe." Endar turned and walked off, shaking his head.

***

Endar spent most of the day inside his new tent, studying the symbols in Fingers of the Mountain. Much of what had been unclear prior to his interaction with the pillar now seemed so obvious to him. In fact, it was so obvious that it almost felt strange. He had some of the great secrets of the world at his disposal, and now he could not comprehend why they had ever been secrets in the first place. He looked down over the pages at the little blue crystal that was sprouting from the rocky earth. By evening it would be a full-sized welkynd stone, and by tomorrow it would be several times more powerful. 

This is mine, he thought, his eyes filling with the gem's blue light. For the first time since returning from Vile's realm, Endar felt a sense of relief. Before now, he hadn't really had a chance to put his newfound discoveries to the test. He had not known without a shadow of a doubt that everything he'd been through had not been in vain. But now, he knew. Now, he had the stone to prove it, and he could make more. This was not alteration, as the Synod would call it, or even alchemy. This was pure creatia. The oldest magic of them all. I can improve on this... I can learn to do it faster. Why should I hold myself to the standard of the Ayleids?

"Elara!" he barked. He would need to record the rate of growth. Endar waited several moments, and then frowned and hid his book. Right. "Illorwe!"

Several more moments passed, and then the Psijic Monk appeared through the flap of his tent. "Yarf says you called m-" Her voice trailed off when she noticed the stone. "That... did you bring that with you?"

"Irrelevant. You said you wanted to help me. Well I need a quill."

"A quill?" the monk's usually amiable features soured and her cheeks darkened. "Do you take me for a servant? I have offered you the assistance of the most prestigious order of mages in Tamriel, and you answer that by demeaning me?"

"Right now, the only assistance that I need is in acquiring a quill. If you won't do it, then send someone else."

"I have heard stories of the Telvanni's arrogance, but this..." She took another look at the crystal, scowled, and then stormed off.
A couple minutes later, one of the Fighters entered the tent with a black and white feather in his hand.

"Lore said you needed this." The man's eyes fell on the stone, and he whistled. "That's a pretty gem. My brother used to wear a ring with one like that on it."

"I doubt that," Endar took the writing tool and dismissed the Fighter with a wave of his hand.

"Well just holler if you need anything," he answered, "within reason of course. Ain't like most of us've got much to do out here." The man disappeared through the flap, and then immediately poked his head back in. "Oh, and we've got mutton if you're hungry." His face became sullen. "Yep... Lots and lots of mutton. And not much else."
He could still be heard grumbling as he walked away from the tent. Endar rolled his eyes, produced his journal, and returned his attention to the crystal.

[Witchking of Angmar]

Dales Draconius
High Hrothgar. 
Night, 

The haunting moon stood on the top of the monastery, beckoning the Empress with its unwholesome rays of moonlight. Dales had always felt a certain kinship to the moon. Look how lonely it is.  Though it's not so bad, at least Secunda has Masser. The moon is associated with femininity and fertility, maybe there like me, and my beloved.  She gazed outside of her window, the darkness surrounding the outskirts of her vision, as more snow continued to fall.  She knew Skyrim was snowy, but she never expected she would be staying this far up on the mountain, under the pale moonlight, and blistering snowstorms. The greybeards were gracious hosts, but they really unnerved her, and was glad most couldn't speak to her. So much power...And yet, according to that wise old drake, her teacher's power was almost impossible to break. Maybe it was a mistake breaking the binding... she would face his arduous wrath. 

...

She would endure. She always has. Gracchus would support her. She knew it. And the other generals would support Gracchus, if it came to that. She hoped anyway...

Nay. Even if she had Gracchus's support, the support of the Imperial Legion, and the common folk, Krojun would never respect her. She needed something else. A symbol to rally behind. That would inflame Cyrodiil with cries of her name. 

Here pale blue eyes gazed at the stars, and she was quite unsure of what to think of the current situation. She, thought anyway, had discovered a new ally from an unlikely source, the young prince from High Rock. She was still unsure of if he was like his father, but he had proven to be oddly pleasant. And right now, they were united with the same goal, have Baldur crowned High King. 

He was the only option. The only one she would respect. The only other candidate was that beast.  

She shrugged, and leaned out from her bedroom window, letting the cold air, and snow throw itself against her. It did little, to make her feel any discomfort. The cold did nothing to her anymore...

What she saw...when laid asunder and broken on that mountain would forever send chills down her spine that no arctic wind could compare too. 

As soon as anything entered her mind, she dispelled them, and forcibly relegated them to the deepest depths of her mind. She unconsciously forced herself not to to glimpse what she knew she saw in her mind's eye, less she replay the pure horror. 

"I miss you Elan." The young girl said, bitterly, as she placed her head into the stone windowsill. She knew going back to Skyrim would conjure memories of the one Dales wanted to forget, but couldn't. Her lustrous brown locks. Her cherry lips. Her infectious smile. Dales could still see her, as flesh. Down to every last detail. Her image was practically Phantom Pain to her mind.

She needed something to fill this growing hole of sadness. 

There was no way in hell she could find some female company up her, no way.

It would be damn improper to try and seduce Jarl Elsif (if she was even here), and there was no Nordic tavern wenches in sight. Dales had decided long ago no relations, romantic or sexual, with any of the woman serving under her. Mixing duty with pleasure was a bad idea. 

It seemed, she had nothing but the two moons to keep her company.

Her hands fell to her neck, and the silvery chain around it, for a small measure of comfort. She never took any stock in the divine. The world was too cruel, but perhaps it would bring some joy.  The Nords would consider this sacrilege to carry this in here.  Hell, I can see them throwing me off the mountain. She turned around, to see if anyone was watching. Knowing she was in the oblivion of isolation, she gently held an object underneath her sleeping wear, and lifted it up, for the pale moon to shine it's lonesome light upon on it in her palm. 

A sparkling, blue amulet lay in her pale hands. It shone the lovely light of a Welkynd Stone, the depths of the water reflected in it's lapiz lazuli glow. The blue mineral itself was a nameless mineral, something that seemed so otherworldly, and forgotten in the eons that surrounded it. Inside the middle, pure, almost-white silver formed in the shape of a dragon, which held two amethyst gemstones for eyes, and a strange, darker gem, deep like the abyss of the ocean, acting as crystal breath from its jaw . Not the Imperial Dragon, no, the silvery drake depicted on the amulet was Auriel, the elven variant of Akatosh, the Chief god in the Imperial Nine Divine.  

At the thought of whom had gifted her this, a deep shaded blush former on her face, as if she was a schoolgirl again. 

A vast visage of power lay inside the amulet, as it carried a strong enhancement of some sort. Most amulets depicting the divine had some kind of paltry spell placed on it by a priest, but this. This was different. 

It would no doubt be taboo for an imperial Empress to carry it, in place of one venerating Akatosh, so she had shown no one that she had it with her. Akatosh meant nothing to her. After the Oblivion crisis, Akatosh had abandoned the Empire to it's fate of decay. He deserved no worship, from her, or anyone. Perhaps her attention should be placed on a god who did show her favor...

She gazed outside once more, remembering the night she had received it. She was...so beautiful...so bittersweet...

Imperial Palace, Sparring Room 
Later Afternoon,

"The best leader is a constant student.”

Dales repeated the quote in her head, as she  made sure to remember how her soldiers fought, and incorporated into her stance, which she used against them.

“Strike!” Dales deflected the blow from the first soldier’s jab to her left with her own wooden sword, before grasping the blades handle in two hands as she delivered a lightning strike to his neck, causing the blade to snap in half at the force she put it into it, causing the soldier to scream out in pain. Dales quickly got her wooden spear to bear, and used its tip to knock another soldier onto his feet, before a sharp pain erupted across her shoulder, a guardsmen wooden sword landed. For a girl so small, Dales was really strong. And not just from her magical enhancements she sent through her body, a constant, yet very potent strength enhancement spell. 

Dale’s formerly skinny limbs were broadened with muscles, and well toned skin, as was her legs, marks and cuts of scrapes from dagger blows and sword slashes lingered. Hours of training had turned her body into a well-honed machine, helped by all the animal protein she consumed. Her pale, beautiful skin, had taken a disturbing white hue colored like the snow, marred by the many scars across her body. The only when she really bothered to hide was the branding on her stomach, which she kept as a reminder of what she was exactly fighting. Perhaps it was her teacher's dark magic tainting her skin, twisting it. It was something she needed to deal with, and a small price to pay for. The freedom she lacked was a bigger deal, than some measly pale skin. She lamented the fact her cutesy, adorable (The Empress was still fond of using those kinds of words) body had turned into this, but it gave her a brutal edge in combat. She had conquered the limitations brought on by being a woman, and forged a body that would allow her to fight against any combatant!

Well, except on her period, were she also got really cranky, anyway.  

Damn it. I should have been born a Nord...or at least a Colovia. 

...Actually, nah. I’m glad who I am.

Maybe once she would think the gods were being cruel by putting her in this body, as Dales Moitre. But that was a distant memory. She was an Empress. This was a gift. She could help so many people, and do what she wanted to do! She was the ruler of Cydoilli, and the Defender of the Empire!

The room itself was rather spacious, big enough for several soldiers to engage in mock battle, filled with training dummies, and marksmen targets. Racks of wooden weapons sat comfortably, holding the mock weapons well. A large, unsettling amount of dust sat on the corners of the room, as it wasn’t used as often as Dales liked. Especially the marksmen targets. While Lorgar had tried to teach her how to use the bow properly, it just wasn’t for her. She’d much rather impale people on her spear. The Palace Guards kept their skills up by doing joint training sessions with the Imperial Watch, and Second Legion, so they didn't frequent the training room as often as they could. Dales herself, too busy, had to make time to visit the grounds, one of the few ways to keep herself trained and well prepared for an assassin's dirk.

"Adhere to the style that defeats your opponent." Her fighting style usually prevailed against the guardsman's own.

The soldier launched a punch into Dales guts, flattening her stomach, and knocking the wind right out of her. Gasping, Dales was thrown to the ground, as two other soldiers got up, and pinned her in place, as they started unloading punches into herher. The Imperial soldiers were members of Dales elite Palentina, sporting leather jerkins, and shaved hairstyles of brown. Screaming out a battle cry, Dales kicked one in the face, throwing him backwards, before getting back up, and throwing a punch into the same soldiers stomach, throwing him backwards with the delayed burst of force rippling around her strike, faints wisps of magic lingering on her hand. Lorgar had always drilled the importance of hand to hand combat into her thick skull, mixing close quarters hand to hand with swordplay, though Dales had taught herself to mix magic into her fighting style. The young girl sank her teeth into her opponent's arm, the metalic taste of blood filling her mouth, causing him to scream out in pain, and drop his weapon, before Dales finished him off with a massive kick with her foot to his downward face. Such combat was...exhilarating. Dales turned around, and pointed her wooden spear at the four imposing guards struggling to get back to there senses. She spat the crimson blood from her mouth, a cruel grin forming on her lips, as she prepared for more.

Dales had started taking on multiple guards on in sparring practice, to sharpen her skills. Taking on multiple assassins would be a common occurrence for a monarch after all. She couldn’t rely on her bodyguards. She had survived two previous assassinations attempts, but luck always ran out, and she needed to fight better. To no one's surprise, while Dales could easily take down a single guard, fighting four at a time ended in a lot of bruises. No pain, no game.

"No duel should last longer than eight seconds" Already, she had failed one of Gaiden Shinji’s tenants.

The four guards relaxed, there sweat drenched bodies having taken a horrible beating, even more so than the Empress, whom was literally wheezing in exhaustion. They raised their hands in surrender, as the one farthest to the left, muttered in a tired voice, “You take this round, your majesty!” As afforded by her position and the fact they adorned her, her guardsmen always took on  the Empress half heartedly, despite her orders to do otherwise. Still, Dales was a whirlwind in combat, a fiery ball of blonde hair, daggers, and swirls of magical energy. Instead of using her magic to cast destruction spells, she tended to pour her magika reserve into enhancing her killing ability with her spear. She was quite adapt in alteration, and was considered by her former teachers, a prodigy in the subject.

A small clapping arose from the side, as Pentiulas Ocultus Agents watched the training session, taking a single moment to rest for a moment, enjoying the spat. There black leather imperial armor, a small variation on standard light imperial armor, trimmed with crimson cloth, with dark chainmail underneath, looked rather uncomfortable, alongside their leather helmets. The ones with her were trained battle mages, wielding a steel gladius in one hand, and a flaming spell in the other. A small, golden dragon symbol sat on there left pauldron, signifying them as members of Empress Draconius personnel guard, which most Imperia Paltentia, and Grey Wolf Agents wore as well. Dales had retained the uniform they wore during the time of Titus Mede II, having kept them in a place of honor, despite their failure to protect the previous two Emperors, having slayed the latest, before Krojun. 

In total, Dales had taken about thirty members of the Occultus into her personal bodyguard corps, not including her Grey Wolf Spectres.  They hungered for the blood of the Dark Brotherhood, and that vengeance would serve the Empire well. Although, to their shame, but bitter understanding and acceptance, much of their previous roles as guardians of the monarch, had been taking over by the Empress’s palace guards, the Imperia Paletina. They were all skilled warriors, spectres, adept in magic, blade, and bow, but there skills were better spent on espionage, policing, and threat detection, then guarding the already defended, and cable, Empress of Tamriel. 

Oh and Emperor, of course. 

The Occultus were some of the best soldiers in the Empire, and no one denied that. 

Dales turned to face her men, giving a sky grin, as she placed her hand to her hips, sassing them “Not bad boys not bad. Need to work on your awareness though. You totally left yourselves open for my teeth!” A sinister smile sprouted, as she grabbed a leather waterskin one of her soldiers offered her and downed it in one gulp, letting the water slowly fall from her greedy mouth as she drank the waterfall. One of her guardsmen gently rubbed his hair, saying,

“Well your majesty, not many of us expect to be bitten by a lady…”

"The best techniques are passed on by the survivors." She survived that, but it was a pretty clumsy battle. Maybe people shouldn’t look to her for combat advice, even if she considered herself pretty adept at fighting the way she did

“I am no lady, Arminius.” She sent a strand of her honey hair to the side. Dales wanted to cut it shorter, but she needed to keep royal appearances, and apparently longer hair was more “regal”. Yeah, for a beautiful lady of court, that look would be very appealing to men (and Dales) but the Empress wasn’t that, even in function. She was a warlord! A warrior Empress, like Alessia and the Wolf-Queen! She wanted to bash some skulls in! At the same time though...she did treasure her femininity. She did appreciate all the various forms that women took, but her favorite were pretty, perfect young ladies, with big rears. And without boast, Dales could call herself pretty!  They were a major weakness though, as when a lady met that criteria, Dales had to focus her entire willpower to ignore them! 

Oh gods, I get so giddy at the thought. Dales shivered. Yeah she had a really big problem. 

A few minutes later, an Imperial soldier offered her a fresh towel, which she accepted gracefully with a nod. She took another swing of her waterskin, before she began to wipe the sweat off her face, and than her arms, and then her legs. The four other soldiers she faced we’re doing the same, and chatting with their comrades, in contrast to the now stoic soldiers of the Occultus, whom hauntingly guarding their posts, and took up position quietly on the side. She threw down her wooden sword, letting it clang on the ground.  “Well gentlemen” She said, wearily, “I think that’s enough for today, wouldn’t you agree?” 

“As you say, Your Majesty.” The lead one said. Prelate Apollo, a grizzled middle aged guardsmen. Apollo had served in the Imperial Watch for twenty years, before joining the Palace Guard.  Not only was the incentive for legionaries, and Imperial Watch Guards better pay, but being in the Palentina was considered an honor, and a privilege, as was serving the monarchy.  “Lad’s let's hit the baths!”   

Another privilege the Palace Guards had. They didn’t have to pay to go to a public bathhouse.  

Dales nodded before heading off on her own, two female palace guards trailing behind her. 

Of course she wasn’t going to be bring male guards with her to bathe.

***
The young Empress walked through the halls of the Imperial Palace, her honey hair fluttering in the wind. A chill breeze from outside caused the bitter bite of cold to stab her skin, but she ignored it. Winter is getting colder. Flanked by her Imperial Palentina guardsmen that trailed behind the Empress like her own shadow. Underneath there white-gold plate mail, they wore chainmail, with purple adornments. The Empress always prefered the Legion Lorica Segmentata to the ceremonial plate of the Imperial Watch, being very fond of the ancient armor style of Ancient Akaviri. A symbol of Imperial might. Perhaps when she had time, she could send a request for some high quality sets, and give them to her most treasured guards, though favoritism like that would be unfair. Dales had taken inspiration from the old Septim styled guardsmen from the days of yore for her palace guards kit, wearing traditional cyrdoillic watch plate, albeit forged with rare white-gold, and lustrous silver,  Dales couldn’t see there faces underneath there full helmets, but she noticed there eyes trailing around for danger to intercept.

Not a single word from their mouth, but the heavy breathing underneath their helmets.

Her paletnina guardsmen had eyes like a hawk, and ears of like a fox.  Every watchful, as if they acted as her own shadow. Still, as much as she appreciated their diligence, and loyalty did they always need to follow her around? It’s not like I have a Morag Tong writ on me.  

Always on their blades pommel, their gauntleted hands lay, ready to strike like a viper. They were both her loyal followers, and hungry watchdogs. 

Dales walked for a good few minutes, occasionally stopping to give salutes to the various soldiers on patrol. Yeah, it might be a lot, but she appreciated the legionaries service to her cause, as well as the friendship she shared with them.  Might as well seem as grateful and approachable as possible, doing small things like asking how their day was, or how was their family is doing, established a connection with a soldier. Little things add up, and as fast as you know it, you can recognize them, and remember all their names. If you have a relationship like that with the soldiers that serve underneath you, the already strong loyalty a legionary had for their monarch was further increased, and they would go to impressive lengths to serve their Empress. In the name of loyalty and honor. 

In Dales experience, anyway, this had proven true. She wouldn’t have gotten this far without the support of the soldiers following her. They were her greatest treasure, and the best claim to Throne she could have. Her Palentina would follow her anywhere. Through the flames of Oblivion, if need be. 

Normally, she would retire at this time, as it was Sundas, and have a tutor be brought up, and lecture her for the rest of the day, but today was a little different. She had requested a specialist for a little history lesson.  “So, Quelas, how is-”

A large booming voice, interrupted the Empress’s own voice, cutting her off “And then, I took my sword, and slashed at the Minotaur! The horned beast was damn strong, but no match for my might, oh by the gods you should have seen how big it was, twenty feet tall I reckon, and could throw giant bolts of golden lightning, as if Kynreath herself had possessed it!!” 

A small smile formed on the young woman’s face, as a trio of men came into view.  The first one was a massive Imperial, clad head to toe in old fashioned, heavy legion-styled armor, with a great wolf cape. It was an odd mix of the plate the Imperial Watch would wear, and regular, lorica legion armor.  He had a massive grey beard, and wore a large claymore on his back, which was simple, and very bare, only having a ruby embedded into it's crossguard. He was flanked by two guards, wearing crimson, light legion equipment, made from leather. They carried iron shields, and iron gladius, in contrast to regular Legion steel, which identified them as a household guards. As his sparkling green eyes caught sight of the Empress, he roared, “Your majesty!” He fell onto one knee, while his escort did the same. 

It was Dux Lupus. The Old Wolf prowls. She hadn’t seen him since that little incident in court. 

She had heard strange...rumors, that explained his massive size, which was about six and half to seven feet tall. When Palentina Guardsmen that had served with him for several years claimed his father was a minotaur, another servant said he had Frost Giant’s blood in him. Maybe he had some kind of rare illness? Whatever the case, he greatly entertained the Empress with his presence. She considered him an ally, and a friend as well. Reminded her of a much more cheerful, and way less insane Lorgar. 

“Greetings councilor Lupus, how do you do?” She nodded her head in greeting.

The grey haired Dux laughed heartily, getting up from the kneeling position, which his household guards followed in suite “Quite good in fact. Though please, call me Viatilion. Although... “ He scratched his head with an apologetic smile, “It ain't councilor anymore. Thank Kynreath!” 

Dales smiled faded, as she crossed her arms, “Explain, Dux.” 

He rubbed the back of his head guilty, as he put on an expression of both shame, and happiness, speaking in a bombastic tone, “Well, as you know...I really didn’t take the position of Elder Councilor serious. I inherited it from my brother after all. All it was, was talking. And more talking. And taxes. And unimportant stuff. Especially since we’re on the verge war! And so I skipped a lot of the meetings, until last week, where I received a letter informing me they booted me off the council!” He began to laugh. Well, maybe only slightly less crazy than Lorgar…

“But being on the council is an honor, and a highly respected position!” Dales half meant it. Sure, there was plenty of good people on the council, and had several prominent members throughout the Empire’s illustrious  history, including one of her idols,  Potentate Ocato of Firsthold,  but to be honest...it was pretty much a den of snakes. At least in her opinion. The Empire always needed a delicate balance between the Monarchy, and the Elder Council, which annoyed her. She should command all the power, and they should follow her! 

“Bah, for my family, maybe. Why should I suffer, when they already live wealthy, and pampered lives. It already enough for me to be a Dux, as well as a Legate in the Second And that little bastard wont be a pansy like his father. He’ll be tough! A soldier!” He pumped his chest. Guess he was referring to the orphaned bastard child he kindly took in.  “Yeah, and me and him will fight in many battles together, as grandson, and grandfather!” He practically shouted.  

Dales gave a pained smile, he was being a little over enthusiastic, she asked, “What, your going to make him your heir?” 

The man’s expression became serious, his large beard partially hiding the scowl, he spoke to the Empress quite casually, “Heck no! Now, don’t get me wrong, me and my wife love the little bugger to death” She could tell by his tone he meant it, “But he’s a bastard! My living son, Theodosius, will inherit my lands, titles, and status before I croak.” He said, with pride, in his voice, “Was never prouder of the lad when he joined the Order of the Inferno!” 

Dales crossed her arms, “I thought you weren’t a religious type.” Some say that “order” had its roots in religious fanaticism during the Second Era, even today it was very close to the Church of Stendar.  Dales never liked Templar orders like that. She prefered her brave knights entirely Secular. 

“Now, now, the days of them being religious nutcases is, long, long gone. Now there a proper knightly order. And once the warhorns sound, he will lead the charge alongside his knights!” 

“As you say, Dux.” Dales laughed deadpanly,

“Well then, If you excuse me, your majesty, I must be off to a meeting! Good day to you, Empress Draconius!” With a final bow, he passed the trio, alongside his two guards. What a strange man...The Empress thought, before passing on her way.

After about five minutes going down the dark hallways of the Imperial Palace, she had found her destination, her humble study (which had been her unofficial bedroom for the last two months). With a heavy sigh, Dales gripped the door handle, and pushed the reinforced wood forward, entering the room as the duo of soldiers moved into position to guard the entrance, and as she did, she caught a glimpse of her dear little bird. 

A small girl melodically hummed to herself, as she did a waltz around the heavily cluttered, room. Her braided, raven hair hung behind her, as her small freckled face filled with happiness; the sparkling, Lapiz Lazuli eyes, deep as the watery depths of the oceans, glanced at the sunlight emerging from the window. Dales heart fluttered a little like a blue lilly, feelings of confusing nature; but before they could emerge, she pushed them back to the depths of her subconscious.

Slip, and sly,  like a panther, the Empress predatory sneaked her way into the room, invisible to the humming, dancing girl. Almost as if she was a dark shadow, she made her way across the room without making a single noise, until she was right behind the small girl. The Empress slowly leaned it, and whispered into her ear, “What a lovely dance, my little dove.” 

The small girl managed to stutter out, while her face became consumed by crimson, “Your-Majesty-?!” She pushed herself to the Empress’s desk, and tried to cover her face to hide the escaping blush, “I-didn’t-see-you.” 

The Empress gave her a sly grin, as she patted her on the top of her head, “I’m always watching, young lady.” Helen gave a warm smile, as she tried to get past the Empress, whom was getting uncomfortably close to her. Not that a part of her didn’t enjoy such close contact to her personal goddess, but the conscious part of her was suffocating, and drowning heat if the Empress got any nearer. The Baroness cleared her throat, saying, 

“Forgive me for slacking off, your majesty.”  She bowed her head deeply, her ebony braids falling to the side.  Upon closer inspection, the Empress noticed some odd traits for an imperial high born lady to have. Especially considering  she was one of those famed “flower of chorrol” She wore her hair in braids for one, uncommon, but not unheard of, with purple ribbons. But oddly enough, her back posture was really, really bad, almost always a constant slouch. Her face was freckled, and she wore silver glasses, which gave her  a very mousy appearance, even more so than her cousin, Millnerius. 

But her eyes. By the gods, her eyes.  She bore the gorgeous, Lapis Lazuli eyes of the Quentas’s.  

No matter what the Baroness told herself, Dales considered her beautiful. 

“That’s a Crimson Waltz correct?” The Empress eyes narrowed. The young girl giggled, saying, 

“No your majesty, it’s an Emerald Waltz. It’s Breton in origin, I think.” Helen moved a few paces back, putting her hands behind her back, as the blush on her face remained ever present. She always got this way around the Empress. 

Dales smiled, “Forgive me, Helen. I didn’t know you liked dancing so much. It suits you, well.” Dales smile, turned to a seductive grin, as she said, something possessing her “Who you were you dancing with in your mind?”’

The young girls scarlet face deepened, as she managed to stutter out, “No one!!!” Helen withdrew, the blush on her face growing further, as she managed to stutter out, "I..I...I...I....I can never get close to you like this. You're like a goddess, someone to be watched, and worshiped far away."

At the sound of her voice, Helen embarrassment skyrocketed, as she lifted up her arms, shouting, "Ignore what I just said!"

The Empress smirked, a seductive smile, her pearl lips looking suggestive and inviting. A voice told her to stop, but she ignored it. This is...very improper. The Empress knew, but...she wanted too. Certainly, the spymaster would be enraged if she knew Dales was making these...kinds of advancements to her beloved niece. As she turned around, an idea forming in her head. She dramatically spun around, startling Helen, who gasped. Dales placed a hand to her heart, as she got onto one knee, “In that case my lady, may I share a dance with you?” 

The heat on her face had gotten so bad, that Dales could imagine steam blowing out of her ears, as the young girl could barely think straight, “Dance-with-the-Em-press?!” 

“Well yes.” I really shouldn’t be doing this...it’s selfish. But she deserved to be selfish. "It would be lovely to share a waltz with you, baroness. You looked like you were swimming through the air before.”

The small girl withdrew, her shy face becoming even more with withdrawn then before, with a faint smile, the girl beamed, "I-I can't swim your majesty." 

Such youth. Such innocence. Such purity. I want her….Predatory intent filed within  her. As the Empress advanced, placing her pale white hands upon, the ebony haired girl’s cheek, which crimson color turned sanguine red. The Empress’s face remained emotionless, as her lithe fingers trailed down the young girls blouse, and entered into her own fingers, the cold touch from her hand sending shivers down Helen’s spine.  

Dales and Helen’s hands intertwined, as Dales gently gripped her little angels small, fingers.

The Empress initiated the waltz. 

Striding backwards, Dales placed her hands around the young girl's waist, wrapping her arms around, causing a luminous blush to form on Helen’s face. Dales, taking the role of the knight, gently outstretched Helen’s arm, placing her free hand inside Helen’s tiny ones. The Empress, gripping her tightly, twirled her around in a circular spin. She, following the melody set in her head, vibrantly moving across the studies wooden floor, with purpose and intent. The room itself was quite spacious, and Helen had moved the Empress's desk back to make room for her own solitary waltz. Their was plenty of room. She had taken dancing lessons when she was younger, and still remembered many of the moves she was taught. The Empress slowed down the speed of her stride, letting Helen keep up with her in her speed waltz. Their difference in fitness was...quite extreme. Already, the young girl was huffing and puffing, but she admirably kept distance with the Empress, and adeptly, despite the extreme embarrassment, set good pace with her. Dales previous instincts seemed correct, Helen was obviously familiar with dancing, and seemed to enjoy it. 

Dales briefly circled around, causing Helen's hand to wrap themselves around her, Dales unwound the girls small arms, and engaged in a brief duet, intertwining her hands with Helen's once more. A brief sense of warmth filled Dales's cold body, a faint blushing forming on her face. She felt...good. Dales stepped to the side deftly, as Helen followed Dales's steps, timidly. She hadn't felt this way in a long time.  

Dales had wordlessly chosen a Crimson Waltz, which Helen knew well, going by her mastery of the dance with Dales. A very vibrant, and colorful dance of Imperial origin. She had once, so long ago, done the waltz with Magdala Bathory. Ages ago. I miss Magdala. Dales thought sadly, closing her eyes. When she opened them however, the thought of the author left her, as she gazed at the face of the lovely little dove in front of her. 

Their bombastic Red Waltz, slowly faded, as the two women danced for what seemed lie an eternity. In Dale's stupor, and euphoria...she hadn't kept time. And the vermilion hue outside, on her window told her, the hour of twilight had arrived. 

How long had I been dancing for?  Dales felt sleepy.

By now, the waltz had slowly unraveled, and the Empress and Helen Quetas we're simply holding each other. Dales gripped Helen's waste, Helen Dales's shoulder. They melancholy slow-danced, under the crimson, twilight sun. 

"Helen..." Dales practically whispered, 

"Dales..." Helen's close breath fell over Dale's face. 

"You've finally called me by my first name..." Whispered the Empress,

It time to finish this....The Crimson Waltz had finished long ago, and now, the two had unconscionably chosen a different dance. Dale's knew it. And there was only one way to end it. 

The Empress hand slid down as she gripped the young baroness, holding her tightly so she wouldn't fall, as Dales lowered. Helen's luminous blush had disappeared. 

Their faces were inches apart, and Helen's gorgeous, Lapiz Lazuli eyes gazed hauntingly into the Empress's own, cold, icy eyes. Staring into her soul. 

Helen closed her eyes, and her sweet cherry lips invited Dales to taste them. 

The Empress's leaned in....

"Dales..." 

...and stopped herself, just as her lips nearly reached their destination. Dales imagined a dagger plunging inside Helen, and the shadowy mask of a Dominion Special force officer.  Ebony hair turned to brown, and Helen's Lapiz Lazuli eyes, turned green, filled with sorrow. All cradled by sanguine.

No...I can't watch that again.

Helen stood their for a moment, waiting for the contact she had longed for so long. Nothing. Her eyes slowly opened, to see the Empress’s look of pain. Helen sheepishly called out, “Your-...your majesty?” 

Dales slowly swallowed, saying, as she gently took Helen’s petite hands into hers, a dark expression forming on her face,  “Helen...we can’t do this.” 

With a surprising amount of force, Helen pleaded, yelling out with a shy voice, “Why not!?”

Dales, with her strength, slowly lowered the young noble girl to the wooden floor. Helen went into a kneeling position, peeking out of her downcast postion, her small eyes filled with confusion. With her blonde locks illuminated by the crimson, twilight sky, Dales said, in a gentle voice, “Listen to me Helen. Sometimes...well, quite a bit to be honest, bad things happen to adults, or the people that they love. And then they hurt on the inside. Alot.” Her voice lowered, “And that pain, never really goes away. And often, we try to do things and heal those wounds. All that usually does is create new ones.”

Helen remained silent, before uttering, “But-”

Dale’s expression darkened, "You're young baroness. These...these feelings you think you have for me, will fade, just as the twilight sky disappears consumed by the moons. You're just confused. Sometimes girls you're age confuse feelings of strong admiration for other women, as love. Its just a phase."

Why I am saying these cruel words?  

"But you asked me to dance-"

"I feel nothing for you. You're just a pretty little distraction. Nothing more. A plaything, for me to enjoy" 

Tears began to form around Helen's eyes, as she sat up, throwing the Empress's hand away. Dales tried to grab them, saying, instant regret filling inside her. Not for her actions, but those overly excessive cruel words she used, "Helen-" 

The small girl shoved the Empress to the side, tears finally steaming down her check, and wails of anguish left her mouth. Dale's words must have stung her like a swords bite. Without another world, but her agonizing screaming, Helen rushed outside, slamming the doors open, as she left, weeping. 

Dales herself hadn't taken her first, of many, rejections well, so she couldn't blame the girl. This was for the best though. 

Better she cut the red string that binded them in one, fast, if painful slash. 

Helen was far braver, and stronger then she let on. She would be fine in a few days, and hopefully move on. The Empress...shouldn't have done what she did. Made her dance with her. 

Given her false hope. 

Dales swore, as she angrily, in a display of seething rage, punched the wall of her study, her knuckle smashing against the wall, just as she channeled a strength spell  causing a small dent to appear in the stone work. Swearing again, and again, the Empress grabbed her desk, and moved it back into place, before taking a tired seat. She waited their for five minutes, doing nothing. She reached for a book to her right.  I was having such a good day...

Just as she did, the doors to her study slammed open. 

"What the **** is wrong with you bitch!"   

It was Victoria. The brown haired maid entered into her study, throwing open the wooden doors. More like marched in. The two guards readied their blades on instinct (not that they would strike down the maid. They knew her and the Empress had a really....volatile. but very close relationship), but were stopped as Dales raised her hand. "No. Shut the door." The two guards gulped nervously, as they obeyed their Empresses command with a worried nod, just as they two closed the oak doors. They really didn't want to deal with this kind of drama.  Dales rose above her desk, as her features darkened, her voice coarse and rigid. This wasn't going to end well "Victoria, lower you're voice. Don't refer to me like that again. I am you're Empress, before anything else. It undermines my authority, and makes me look weak infront of my men." 

The maid placed her hands to her hip, as she angrily yelled, "Did it ******* look weak when you started wailing about loosing High Rock, began tearing down furniture?" 

"Victoria!" Anger became visible on her face.  

"Or maybe it was when you broke the window, and decided to end you're pathetic life!"  

"VICTORIA ENOUGH!" The Empress gripped the wooden desk hard, as she seethed, dark breath reflecting as she breathed long and hard. A daemon had entered her. She relaxed slightly, "What do you want?"

"Oh what do I want?" The maid said. The anger replaced by a cold bitterness. "Helen's ******* wailing in the broom closest down the hall." Her voice became louder, "Damn Sergeant Scippo, and bloody Venus are consoling the poor girl, while i'm here! She told me everything you said to her!" 

Dales displayed no emotion, but you could anger was rising within her. Her left hand began to twitch, as it was having spasms. "So?" 

Victoria's green eyes narrowed, "I cant believe you would say all those hurtful things. All the things that other people told to you! How you felt in Helen's position right now!" She slowly approached the Empress, who was being stabbed by pain. "How could you be so cruel?" 

The Empress swallowed hard, "The world is cruel, Victoria. Better Helen know that-"

"Don't give that nihilistic crap you've been spouting! You think you're tough shit huh? Helen helped saved you're life, Dales. Remember? When you we're going to plunge those glass shards into you're miserable wrists." 

"She'll be happier when she gets a husband, and a family-"

"You really believe that?! Dales what the ****?!"

"I-"

"It's always I!" She shouted, "Stop feeling sorry for yourself! It's pathetic! Didn't you care about all the people who love you! Did you think how they ******* feel when you wanted to kill yourself?!" Tears began to form on her eyes, but the venom was still their, "What would Elain have thought if she saw?"  By now, she was just a few feet away from Dales.

The Empress's eyes filled with red hot fury. "Don't say her name again." 

Victoria stepped forward, "She would be ******* disgusted with you. How you spat on her wish of you being happy. How you crushed that girl who wanted to give everything to-"

Victoria was interrupted. Dales slammed her fist into Victoria's gut in a display of power and speed, before she could do anything. Dales grabbed her by the head, and smashed her into the wooden book shelf, causing the maid to be stunned, and thrown to the ground. Victoria's eyes opened to the Empress's hands going around her throat, her once pretty face completely marred by anger. Her mouth salivated in rage, and her voice expression of rage was to the point the maid could barely even recognize the Empress. Her voice..was hateful. So hateful. "Shut. You're. Mouth. You. No. Good. Whore." Her hands became tighter, as she began to strangle one of her oldest, and closest friends.

Even in this state, all Victoria could do was laugh, "Hows-it-feel-Dales-?-Huh?-Do you-think-you're-father felt the same-when he choked you're mother-and-slapped-you around..."

At those words, Dales grip on Victoria completely loosened. Her face softened, as she got up, and took a few steps back. She only managed to get a few feet, before she began to buckle, and nearly collapse to the floor. With a dawning look of complete horror, her face became filled with complete despair, "Victoria..." She said feverishly, getting into her studies corner. She stuttered out, "I'm...i'm so sorry...I-didn't mean to do that." She put her face to her knees.

Having recovered in an instant, Victoria, got up saying, "Yeah. Whatever." She turned around, feeling even worse then before she had entered. Dale's called out from behind,

"I...said those things, because I don't want her to end up like me. I don't want Helen to hurt like me... The ones closest to me get hurt....I can..only see Elain's blood when I look at her. It's my fault she died. Please...please forgive me Victoria. I didn't-mean to hurt...you or her. I'm so sorry..." The Empress began to sniffle. She wanted to cry, but she promised herself she wouldn't anymore.

The maid left without another word, leaving Dales to sulk in her study. The silence remained.

****

Work always made Dales feel better. She had cancelled her tutors for the evening after...those...encounters, and had buried herself into running the country. Right now, she had shoved everything that had just transpired into the back of her mind. Right now she was....contemplating her foreign manners, starring at a map of Tamriel.

Dales hand lingered on the map. Feeling the worn parchment on her leather gloves. Sinister thoughts filled her dark mind. She liked Baldur, and that was it. She had no opinion on the other foreign leaders, besides the hatred she felt for the pig king, and his horrid group of Bretons Jesters. Nothing to bind them together. Meaning they were expendable in the long run. Yes, she would cooperate with them in the Empire’s interest, but something inside her, a suicidal notion, desired Imperial Dominance. But alas, she had already conceded. Skyrim would be the ones to lead Tamriel against the Dominion, and the Empire would do its part alongside them. It's not like they would be undervalued. Or they better not be, or Dales foul mood would come along again. The Empire, alongside the Nords, would take the full brunt of the Dominion. The Imperial Legion, was without boast, the strongest, most well trained, and largest force the Allied human nations had to offer. Access to Dominion Lands, would primarily be through Cyrodiil as well. Plenty of glory to be shared. Between the Imperials, Nords, Redguards, and Bretons.  A weakened Dragon still has flame and fang. And for that reason, I don’t need to be at the front and center.

Anything to protect her precious Cyrodiil. Her pride, and desires came after it's well being. 

Maybe I should just read for the rest of the evening. 

Her thoughts went from Cyrdoilli, to her current reading.

She glanced at the open book, sketches of the mad Breton poet Le Poor plainly visible, as his trademark styled filled the page. Instead of his infamous manuscript of Dragons, Dales was looking at the ancient Tsaesci of Akavari. Though the dreaded snake people were seldom seen in Tamriel, their influence was shown far and wide, with the current Imperial culture taking much from them, which included Imperial politics, and the Legions military structure; even Lorica Segmentata, had originated from them. Painted in black strokes, they took horrifying appearances, even further by the stylized imagery in the painting. Jagged fangs sprouted from their mouths, a perpetual grin visible,  and there overblown bodies of green, reptilian flesh. While Argonians seemed to be more man than creature, these looked more serpent then man, even if there snakes eyes held a sparkle of intelligence, or so how the drawings depicted them. Dales took in their features, and found them...oddly appealing. What attracts me to this oddly enticing darkness? Dales could only wonder what they're females looked like. 

Serpents...mighty and cunning beasts.  Some call them “imperfect dragons”. The hunger to consume all flows through them.  Such voracious lust sometimes ends in them eating themselves.

Dragons. The Empress was still drawn to those fabled beasts of legend. Was she a Snake, or a Dragon? Being an imperfect Dragon, was better than being no dragon.
*****  

Dales awoke with a cry of pain. Her dreams hadn't been pleasant.  She got up from her couch, throwing off her blanket, and examining her darkened surroundings. The door...to her study was open. Instinctively, she drew the knife under her pillow, and brought it up into a fighting stance, her other hand conjuring a piece of magelight. 

Dales...

A voice suddenly called out to her. Entering her head...it was...coming from outside. 

Should she follow it? 

[Witchking of Angmar]

Brthynocia, Off the coast of Roscrea.
Augustus

The Prelate's eyes fell to the floor, the grip and tightness on his chest forming once more. He was pretty worried, but he couldn't show any fear. He needed to set an example to his men. He gripped the piece of parchment, the list that the deposed lord of these halls had given him, his rotten eyelids beginning to close, but he stopped himself. His silvery full helmet, over his accursed face, the prelate was getting tired. In all due honesty, the Prelate had been running for twenty four hours straight, and extreme fatigue was setting now, all the adreline having left his system a few hours ago. 

Perhaps...just a moment of sleep.

With a heavy heart, the Prelate let his pale blue eyes close.

Only to be greeted by a sudden blast of frigid cold and the howling of wind, In bewildered startlement Augustus' eyes shot open his strength all but returned. All about the man was an open range of snow topped mountains being slightly obscured by the light trickle of snow drifting ever lightly about him, The wind constant yet so distant. Augustus faced a long winding path of cobble winding down the mountainside, It's end never to be seen.

Ever still in silence he felt a voice echo across the range, Willing him to turn.

This is far too vivid to be a simple dream. The Imperial thought, as a matter of fact. If evidence presented itself to him, why should he try and argue against it? As unlikely as it sounded, things could simply be...unlikely, and still be true. Without a word, the Prelate turned around, and advanced warily, his hand by his scabbard at all times, underneath the chilling cold wind, his metal books crushing the stones underneath him.

Now facing away from the winding path to his salvation Augustus was greeted with the sight of a truly fantastical castle. It's look was utterly otherworldly and yet the stone it bore was familiar as ever, From the spiraling castle turrets bearing peculiarly carved wooden doors reinforced with steel as entryway to the stone masonry of it's construction. An iron gate ornate and overbearing would have prevented passage into the courtyard had it not been parted specially for him, Just through the silhouette of a cloaked man rested himself on the steps leading into the entrance.

"Dreams are the realm of Vaermina." The Imperial said, softly, but loud enough for the man to hear him, as he approached, "You do not look like a cultist though."

"And yet" Spoke the figure called out matching the Imperial's hushed tone. "This is no nightmare my son, Even as it may seem."

"Then speak, old one. I am more used to people sending messages if they wish to speak to me." He glanced over at the dreamscape. He felt relaxed, and calm. He didn't think their was a threat here, but cant be too careful. The Imperial glanced at the hooded figure, As a learned man the Imperial recognized the overall appearance. It had to be one of the native wise men, The native blended in well with the light snowfall having both cloak and robes the purest of whites only to be contrasted by the healthy green oak leaves adorned as if a crown.

The wise man raised one loosely sleeved hand and spoke but once, "Come" was all that parted his lips.

"I suppose you're one of those druids my second was telling me about." He went beside the wizened old man, taking up position.

"It has been many years since I was a Druid dear boy, In my elder years I the most humble of honors to be elevated as Archdruid. Now my son whatever confusion you may or may not have they shall be put to rest, My actions here are not malevolent however dear boy neither are they benevolent in nature. Do you know where we are? Because I sure don't."

"No. I've never seen stonework like it. It's almost...otherworldly." The Prelate said, coldly.

"Perhaps it is of this world just in another time, In my youth Augustus if that is your name I laid my head down in blissful sleep only to awaken as you have trapped upon this mountain in the shadow of the castle. The castle willed me ever closer even as my salvation lied elsewhere, There." The Archdruid raised his robed hand towards the rightmost castle turret bearing the ornate wooden door.

"I ventured down the spiraling stairs for what seemed like ages until I met a great iron door, You will meet the same door and like myself will brave what lies within. For now however we will converse."

"Then speak." Augustus leaned against the wall, "You say you are neither friend nor foe. Then I will assume, you're unaffiliated with that monster down by the fort."

"The scheming of men dear boy is not of our concern, Not yet. I am affiliated with Roscrea and her gods. I do believe the situation will peacefully resolve, That is partially the reason you are before me son. We cannot have folks endangering our beloved island, It is paramount you explain yourself."

"The Empress wants nothing more then to ensure the protection, and freedom of the imperial-affiliated minority on this sub-island. Her majesty had no business on the mainland, as do I. My mission is to protect these people. Nothing, more. Nothing less."  

"And then why as the question Berahthram's man will not ask do you not bring them down to Cyrodiil? There cannot be lasting peace with a foreign occupation right in our waters, Was your homeland not devastated? Would not ten thousand loyal folk make great edition?"

"That could lead...to complications. War is brewing in Tamriel, bringing a population that size to Cyrdoilli right now is not an idle solution." He paused. The Prelate was excellent at reading people, and he could tell the Roscrean druid was not deceiving him. He truly neutral in this situation."I have considered the option though. My men have a contingency plan if we're forced to evacuate the island. Perhaps when the war ends, but right now, I have the mind to dig in, and fortify."

"Yet you allow an entity that already stirs crisis in the west to encamp and scheme in Brthynocia, It is difficult to bare our eyes in the Roscrean sphere and for your actions it is hardly extending a hand in peace. I give honest warning dear boy not one man need step upon the island, Never were you lied to on the fate of the island. Though it would deeply sadden us to destroy the earth bones, As scheming men hold plans for themselves I give fair consul in your fate should the wheel continue spinning."

"Thanks for the warning, old one." The Prelate bowed his head, "If anyone attacks first, it'll be the forces stationed in the old fort. This is purely defensive mission."  His eyebrows raised, "Are you referring to that dog I talked to earlier? He was insentient that I go to the palace."

"Farrukhzad-i..Mah Azar, A man of insight he is. No doubt would have made an talented legionary cavalryman." A light chuckle parted from the Archdruid's lips. "Always remember my son that Uriel Septim never extended the olive branch, Had he those many years ago perhaps just perhaps it would have been taken and need not the war. Now I see a rotten branch extended before us and I wonder with all my heart, Will it nurture and grow or when grasped fall unto mulch?"

"I prefer people who don't makes joke about slitting childrens throats". The Prelate said with no emotion, Rot is a natural part of life. A sign of death. It isn't the end of life, only the completion." The Prelate said, quoting a poet of old. "If you a rotten branch, as being negative, then what can I do. Danse Maccabe," The Prelate said with a chuckle.

"You certainly adore that term Danse Maccabe, Dear boy. Perhaps it would serve you well to widen your narrow eyes instead of citing poetry as well delivered it may be, For a rotten branch may fertilize the soil it may also poison it. A crude saying if not accurate would 'To pour yourself a fine wine while to ourselves a glass of piss', We have foreseen what is coming my son it is my hope you and those of scheming hearts like yourself will listen to reason before our bitter end."

The Prelate grabbed his full helmet, and began to slowly remove it, revealing a sight of pure horror. His face was covered in torn flesh. His lips were puffy, and ripped apart, his face looking like it was rotting, "Danse Maccabe means everything is equal in death. I know that, because I was once a leaper. My village was raided by soldiers, foreign soldiers of the Dominion, and they brought with a magical sickness, before leaving. It didn't matter who it was, the lord of the town, or a beggar, everyone caught it. No matter their social status, they all died horribly, withering in pain.  So when I speak those words, I know those words. So in my turn, old one, despite the fact i'm an imperial, I am a man. Maybe not to our gods, but to death, we are equal. So heed my words in turn, and believe them. I have no other intention, but to defend the city we're I sleep now, and the people that live, around in it. If their are any scheming snakes, then they are outside of my sphere. I am simply an extension of my Empresses will, I follow the meaning behind her commands. Nothing more." 

Rising with his arms extended lowly towards him the Archdruid spoke with an expression of sympathy. "Oh my dear boy, A horrible fate such as which plagued you. You are an incurable plague of the name 'Imperialization' but ever still I would weep for the suffering your folk endured, Yet I would gift it unto every child and every elder if it would keep Roscrea the haven it is. While in my other hand I would offer cure to those who only listens and heeds.

You bring a plague with you in the form of merchants and schemers, Your words spoken of defense are like the illness you once held flaky and would crumble at any moment. Give your words the cure that mended your flesh, Bare the merchants that would see us ensnared."

"You have my word. I promise, the only involvement the East Empire Company will have here, is to deliver the goods I require to fortify the city. They will not establish a permanent colony on the island. As military-governor, and acting hand of Empress Draconius."

"And so we set upon you four laws, Of our laws the first is a limit of one hundred legionaries those brought with you must leave, Although I suspect they will only be disarmed into the populace. Of our laws the second is to allow free reign of Druids upon the island unhindered and unmolested of which harm brought will mark this island for annihilation.. Of our laws the third no harm shall be brought unto the Royal Casurgians unless provoked by means of physical force, Scheming as they may be like yourself they are acting defensively. Of our laws passed onto you the final is that of parting, You will part either at a determined date or when hostilities are rising."

"I agree to you're laws, arch-druid." Legionary was a very set term. He assume he could freely hire mercenaries, and client-auxiliaries. He would only be sending back, with the East Empire Ships, about twenty or so legionaries,. "Though I have one term. I sent when the Empire, and the people leave.  Which shall be when the Dominion lays sundered, and broken on Tamriel's mainland. Not a minute before."

"I can feel your thoughts my boy, Your mind is but a second mouth here." The Archdruid smiled like a father at his lying son. "Legionary is as I see it anyone in the service of the Legion, However I am willing to be lenient and recognize the Agotomaeds as being levied. Do not make me regret my display of kindness my boy. Already it has been our folly extending acts of leniency for you Tamrielic folk, Remember Augustus few is it that escapes our eyes"

"It seems a persons mind, isn't a fortress as some say. Thank you, so do we have an agreement, wise-one?"

"Your mind is quite safe dear boy, I find it doubtful there is any who know the hermetic magics like ourselves. Tell me, Do you wish to return now?" Proclaimed the Archdruid, Avoiding agreeing to the agreement.

"Tell me first, what lays beyond the iron door?"

"That. Is you're way back as was my own, When I found myself here as a child it was the castle's turret that called for me. I walked down the spiraled stairs of stone and mortar, As you will walk yourself the iron door marked a journey as I stepped through trapped. I knew in my heart I could never wake up unless I braved what lied within, It was a lifetime of great trials and triumphs. When after many years I remember returning as both a man and a world king of whatever realm or Kalpa I was trapped within, In which I opened the iron doors once again and awoke a boy."

"Yeah, i'm not even going to pretend to understand what you said." He began walking towards the downward stone stairway, that appeared to be clouded b a black voice of shadow, that would lead him to the iron door, putting up his hand in a wave, "Have a good day arch-druid."

The Archdruid was quite appalled at the man's display, Never the less refusing to show any outwardly signs of it not that the man's back had eyes... The elderly man decided it pointless to warn the man of what lays ahead, Unless whatever this plain is wishes otherwise the Imperial will spend a lifetime trapped.

"No need to fear the darkness." The Imperial spoke to himself. This was his own mind, after all, that he walking through. The Prelate drew his runeblade, covered in ancient Cyrdoillic, and Ayeleid markings. The sword itself seemed to shimmer in the darkness, a faint storage of magic upon its carved blade, but the glimmer was tiny, and did little to light his way. For every step he took, the light from above grew dimmer, and darkness surrounded him. It was no long before he was in utter darkness. He seemed to descend for minutes at first then as the time grew at faster paces hours etched by, Yet with every waking moment the once absolute darkness began to wane before the faintest of torchlight illuminating constantly around the spiraling corner until finally after what felt like an lifetime the Archdruid's words proved true, Standing before the Imperial was a plain entryway of iron reinforcing the wooden frame it stood upon. Beckoning the man through.

As if darkness itself had engulfed him, the Prelate was drenched in black bile, belonging to some nameless horror.  His helmet was removed, a long, grey beard having grown on his decayed face. His glowing runesword, lost a lifetime ago, having been replaced by a jagged, black obsidian sword, he wielded in two hands.  Already the memories began to leave him, of what he witnessed inside the nameless kalpa. He threw, the corrupted sword onto the stone floor, and pushed the iron door open.

And as his aching legs ascended from the ensnarement of this castle were it even such his memories and deeds began to fade with each upward step, Distant memories once forgotten on his decent ever slowly replaced the fading memories. It was remarkable with the the old thoughts returned how quickly the old Imperial seemed to rise, What was hours before turned into seconds and before reason could state otherwise the man had reached the surface with but a door baring him from freedom.

The Imperial pushed on with renewed vigor, and passed through the door being greeted with a familiar landscape of mountaintops and light snow.

Movement out of the corner of his eye drew the Imperial's gaze right, A younger looking man of red hair and a barbarian mustache to boot equipped in the old plate the Imperial once ever so vaguely knew. The red haired man stopped two meters away from the elderly Imperial suddenly feeling much warmer, The culprit being a peculiar white robe now adorned to his body of which seemed so familiar.

"And here you are, Against all my judgement and wonders on your fate you as I had braved and survived. Does it give a new perspective my boy?" Spoke the red haired man.

"Darkness ruled supreme down their. But I conquered it. I am no king, like you became, but I instead stuck to my tenants as a soldier, and was made a peerless warrior because of it. Every black thing that tried to bar my, in the dark, I exterminated, or ran away." He paused, instantly recognizing who it was, despite how different he know looked. Even with his memories being faded, he had so much more knowledge of the world, and its history by his experience 

"It makes me shudder at the thought of what abominations will sprout from Tamriel's soil, when the next kalpa comes. Perhaps, the Dragonborn should have let Alduin swallow this place." The Imperial spoke, with a hint of fear.

The youthful Archdruid if not looking the part had his eyebrows raised. "You're world was that of darkness my boy? Through the vague memories as you will soon have yourself I recall a world of green hills and plains of plenty, A world purged of all evil other then man's of which a world king united. Do you think this castle serves a purpose Augustus?"

"Yes. Perhaps it stores all the memories of the kalpa before us. Or maybe its a prison to something." 

"You destroyed every wicked entity you say? And I recall a world without such, If time truly has no meaning here as I believe it perhaps just perhaps my own experience was in the kalpa you purged. You a man I brought to my own dream of which I believe was created through your own actions, I sought to make you wiser and now I truly wonder if I have more to contemplate. Go now conqueror you have earned your freedom as had I, You shall be kept here no longer. I find it a damnable shame you will forget the fullest of your experiences down there."

The Archdruid gestured to the cobble path, The very first thing that Augustus witnessed in this place.

As the Imperial moved past the archdruid without another world, before, not even turning around, he lifted his hand in a ancient Roscrean style salute, "Thank you for showing me this... Galchobhar fab Myrthway of the Two Hills." He called out, The Archdruid had opened his mouth only to fall upon nobody's ears but his own, For the Imperial need not walk down the mountain as the action alone left the Archdruid to himself. The last thing the Archdruid did before himself choosing to awaken is looking back, The castle always calling for his return one day to be answered.

The Prelate's heavy eyes opened, a silent sigh escaping his throat. He had returned. Even as the memories of that dark place fell, the experience, and wisdom of a lifetime existed within his head. A feeling of confusion entered him, as he lifted his head from the wooden, oak table he had been sleeping on, What's Galchobhar game. He had just given an imperial officer a lifetime of ancient knowledge...strange fellow." He yawned, adjusting his ancient helmet, as he began to assuredly feel the steel on his precious Spartha.  A faint smile appeared, as he gazed at the runeblade, "Old friend. It's been years."

The Prelate turned governor's heartfelt reunion with Spatha would be short lived, A furious banging erupted against his chamber's ornate stone door. With a familiar voice belonging to Thorgrim behind it.

"Governor! Governor lord, You're needed in the command center right away. Your subordinates are attending as are countrymen that need word with you."

The sleepiness left him, as he strapped his steel blade to his belt, walking the distance to the door, and shoving it open. He made his way past his local second, saying with a bored tone of voice, "Report, Captain."

"Not wasting time are we? There's been a damnable spree of debauchery throughout the night, There's an upward of two hundred folk out from the countryside scared out of their minds. Apparently a common feature of the stories speak of a marauding band of men, Accounts vary but all are within the range of thirty to forty. It's a madhouse out there, Dozens of reports involving mostly pilfering, Murder and rape with very lightly if at all defended farms. If you want my opinion it looks like we have a very violent and active band of outlaws on hand."

"Preying on the innocent and defenseless. Foul daemons." The Imperial practically spat, though Thorgrim couldn't see his expression underneath his archaic helmet, "Gather thirty of you're best men, assign them into three groups of ten, and meet me back here. Also gather as many horses as you can."

"The men I can gather, Horses on the other hand are in the Royal Casurgian's possession. I'll be hard pressed to find even ten."

The Prelate placed his hand re assuredly on Thogrim's shoulder, "Do the best you can soldier."

Furrowing his brow Thorgrim let an audible exhale escape his nose, "Oh dear." Bolting back down the hallway whistling at a high pitch and yelling for two men and a roster.

A small smile formed underneath his heavy helmet, as the Prelate entered into the main hall of the voluntary deposed Lord of these Halls, as he prepared to face the gathered people.

 

A sizable gathering of legionaries gathered in the large hall, all casually whispering too each other. All in full armor, and bearing weapons. They were soldiers prepared for war. At the sight of the Prelate, they all went to attention, and sharply saluted. An affirmative, "Sir!" and the stomping of feet across the large hall, the bright flame from the hearth reflecting dark red lights across their crimson armor.  behind them, several dirty farmers gazed at the strangely equipped armor with a mixture of awe and fear.  The hall was stuffed and filled to the brim, with both commoner, and soldier. The Prelate returned their salute, with a brief, crisp, "At ease, men."

Without wasting any time, the governor spoke in a rigid, yet not unfriendly tone of voice, "Survivors of these attacks, step forward."

These countrymen didn't at all have the same look about them as the Colonia's citizens, These ruddy folks lacked the Colovian influence in their clothing and hairstyles. Instead looking more akin to what what the city folk might consider barbaric, With Royal Casurgian influence leaving it's mark instead of the Imperial culture.

All of the farmers in the room stepped forward, Question being rather redundant given why they were the folks chosen to explain the situation. One of the woman shakily chirped in. "They can for us at dusk, Husband fought with pitchfork and I ran. There were four, West men and east men I don't know" She spoke in broken common. Another more coherently well spoken fellow spoke up child still clinging to his hand. "We didn't resist when the dozen of them showed up, That was near dawn and they looked to be tired. Happy almost there wasn't any resistance, With my pride killed of course we were spared."

There were many more tells all involving pilfering half including murder and rape of loved ones.

"My apologies for my bluntness. I know you've all suffered greatly." He bowed his head in sorrow, "But we need to stop these marauders. Can anyone tell me, in detail, how they fought? What weapons they bore? Any discipline or was it just mindless barbarism? Was their hesitation in their eyes, or just a black void of remorseless?  Any details that might be useful in combating these fiends."

Murmuring commenced among the farmers, Trying to compile a single answer to avoid the whole giving out confusing half answers. Finally a man well dressed enough to be a wealthy landowner at the very least stepped forward. "They all seemed to be wielding Seaxs without shield nor armor in the beginning around dusk, By dawn it was an assortment of weaponry and shield the outlaws even got to wearing any armor they pilfered that barely fit. As it seems they were merciless early on with folks that either hid or ran surviving which I should add results in different levels of detail, Around dawn it looked to be the outlaws grew physically tired and actually spared people that didn't fight back."

"Bloodlust eventually dries out in horrid creatures." The Prelate whispered. He paused for a moment, a spark of anger flashing underneath his helm, "Wait, you said they weren't equipped with any armor? We're they wearing rags, and look like they haven't shaved in ages?" A spark entered his mind. The Legion fort would have doubled as a prison. Imperial forts always have an extensive prisoner holding area...no. That bastard wouldn't!

"Well eh, They didn't smell too well if I remember. When they came to pilfer my farm, The fools hadn't any idea how paranoid I was. Had myself and all my wealth safely locked away, As is every night. They did have damp hair if I recall, Probably jumped in the ocean to bath themselves." The man would have droned on had it not been for the looks of annoyance among the other farmers.

"Prisoners then. The Legion fort the oppressors control doubled as a prison, correct?" The Prelate said, eyesbrows raised.

Amidst the looks of baffled farmers Thorgrim spoke in their place. "I doubt any of them have ever been inside the fort, Thing was built in standard fashion and given this is technically a Colonia it is very likely the fort would double as prison. Surely you don't suggest they have anything to do with this?"

"I think they have everything to do with it." The Prelate scratched his chin, "Think about it Captain.  We're else would a group of bandits this size come from, that's not a prison. And what prison around her is big enough to confine upwards to forty prisoners?  Our foes gathered the foulest lot in their dungeons, armed them, and released them on the countryside, to pillage, sow terror, and install a sense of extreme fear into the population that's currently defying them. All the while ravaging the countryside to eliminate food supplies. They themselves don't even need to lift a figure. It's classical terror, and scorched earth tactics. It makes perfect sense."

The atmosphere around the room quickly transitioned into a mixture of depressed realization on behalf of the natives in service of the Imperial including Thorgrim and a growing panic among the farmers. Augustus' second shook his head now resting in his right hand. "Would it surprise you to know that man's a father, Damn hard to imagine Farrukhzad looking his little boy in the eye now though something tells me he'll be just fine doing so."

"Men hold darkness deeper then any corrupted beast, Thogrim. The only thing that matters is that we avenge the dead, and the defiled." He shook his head. How can someone order this? "There's always light at the end of the tunnel. The fact that I embrace despair, allows me to conquer it. Do not let yourself drown in it, soldier." The Prelate said cryptically, "We'll make them pay. And will protect the ones who are alive."

"Maybe you and your men will have a chance if we try to punish those Royal Casurgians but we won't stand a chance, They'll slaughter us in the grass. I don't know Augustus I think-" Thorgrim let out an exacerbated sigh. "-I think it'll be best if we hunt those outlaws down and just see what door opens to use then."

"I have no intention of attacking that fort....yet." He paused, "There obviously trying to bait us into attacking them. For what reason...I don't know."

"They surely have something else in mind, Augustus they're forcing people away from the countryside flocking into the city. That's going to cause squalor real quick and not to mention the lack of crops come next harvest, This island has a delicate system going on. Disturb a portion of the farms and people starve."

"Of course. Its basic logistics." A small grin formed underneath his helmet, "Speaking of logistics, how many horses did you gather up."

"Well you're not going to like these numbers, Fourteen sir and let me tell you I had a good yelling from the fort while doing so." Thorgrim forced a smile at the thought.

"You said you could only get ten. You got fourteen. Therefore, you've exceeded my expectations." Augustus chuckled, "Good work, Captain. Calvary will be the spearhead in my strategy, but the main focus will be the infantry. Fourteen is more then enough." He turned around, as he shouted, "Fetch the Wolf!" A trio of legionaries, sharply saluted, as they rushed outside. He once more turned to his second, speaking in a low tone of voice, "Are you're men better as light infantry, or heavy infantry?"

Mirroring his tone Thorgrim had his eyebrow raised. "Well that depends on your point of view, Would you consider maille and scale equipped footmen light infantry or heavy? If it's compared to your own plate clad men we're light though if you want my honest opinion we're in our own eyes heavy infantry."

"Covered in camouflage, and green war paint, will they be able to hide in an underbrush effectively, and adeptly surprise an onrushing horde of fleeing prisoners?"

"Ghmm Augustus we're not Southwestern Roscreans, Warpaint and camouflage is their practice. We're of the bodyguard mindset, That's ninety nine times out of a hundred what mercenaries around here are hired for."

 

"Make do." The Prelate said, simply "My men are too heavily armored to make true use of their strengths in the heavily forested area, we're going into. If my plan is to work efficiently, it'll need a mixture of night, and underhand tactics. You're people know the lay of the land much better, so i'll be relying on you're merceneraeis, and yourself, Captain. As well as him." The Prelate spoke with dread, as the wooden doors into the hall slammed open. 

Revealing a tall, massive, heavily muscular nord. Covered head to toe in blue warpaint, the Nord wore nothing, but a pair of leather pants as well as boots, and a bearskin cloak, revealing his deathly pale skin, and massive muscles that protruded from his body, which were drenched in large, jagged scars. His hair was blonde, and done in a strange looking, spiky look, as if he had smeared honey into it to make it stick. He had a heavy handlebar mustache, and a smaller beard, and piercing blue eyes. On the bearskin cloak, he bore a painted grey wolf. 

Identifying him as an Occultus, Grey Wolf agent.  

For a weapon, he heaved around a large, black-iron, two sided great axe. 

His accent was thick, and almost impossible to discern, "Aye, Prelate. Ye summoned me." 

"Agent Froki." The Prelate said simply, he turned to Thogrim, "Froki is the best tracker in Bruma. He'll be able to find the main group, while my legionaries prowl for stragglers." 

Thorgrim looked on in astonishment, Of all the things he wanted to say one thing blurted out before anything else. "Hair spiked with lime, You'd make an excellent hinterland barbarian champion, Have the looked nailed down. We'll see about prancing around painted  as the hill dwellers do up north... Wait when was he summoned?"

"Nordic runes laddie. I don't need armor if they can't catch me." He said with a grin, and a wink.

"A few minutes ago." The prelate said, with the same professional, cool tone he usually used, "Right when you confirmed we have horses."

"Well if the Royal Casurgians are involved lets pray they aren't going to intervene in a hostile manner, I don't know all that much about Cyrodilic horsemanship but I damn sure know we're outclassed. I'm certainly ready to brief the men oh and Augustus, I do need to note the mercenaries are getting restless. There's talk about charging double."

"Tell them I wont tolerate desertion. As they are employed by the Empire, currently, they will be punished like Imperial soldiers. That being said, i'm more then willing to negotiate better pay."  He said with a blank voice, his faceless mask adding to the haunting stare he may or may not be giving. Augustus would be one hell of a gambler. "Blood should sate them for the time being." 

Thorgrim could only imagine what kind of horrible training he'd have to undergo in Cyrodil in the future, That is of course baring I survive to see it happen and it's not just a bold lie. "Oh alright, I'll convey your wording to the letter. A mixture of fear and promise is certainly something I suppose."

 

*****

The farmstead was quite the pick, The elderly folks that once called it home made the mistake of wounding Beklahas a fine member of this little band. Man has a crooked curved nose and his brown eyes seep untrustworthiness but damn was he good with a bow, When that old coot threw that javelin seemingly out of nowhere it had ravaged his right arm pretty badly. The Western Roscrean Nolorix taken to leading his merry band of outlaws need only look out the frame once holding it's door and see the delimbed remains of the two folks, Beklahas having cut off their scalps as trophy damn sure didn't earn them.

Nolorix himself was resting on the fine tableware, Cooling himself down after hours of nonstop work. Back at their holdout it was a constant switch of men, Bringing the objects of worth back and letting the men rest while fresh men returned. Nolorix didn't have the privilege of that, He wanted far away from the north settling down some place temperate a wealthy wealthy man. Pretty well everybody's thoughts that were running about the spacious farmhouse.

They were nearly finished gathering the things of worth into a moderately sized wagon pilfered the night before, When things were nicely bound to the wagon Nolorix gathered the others and set outside. Whistling to himself down the road, Sadly to be interrupted.

"For the Empire! For Draconius! For the Empress!"  Screams echoed and all of a sudden, a loud, very regimental, warhorm sounded off, and from the south, out of nowhere, the sound of hooves colliding into the earth rose, as did over a dozen warcries. Though the night covered them, you could see the faint shape of heavily armored men atop, grim black steeds. Armed to the teeth. Arrows began to fly, as some of them seemed to be highly trained horse archers, others flashed greatspears. The most distinct thing about them, was the impeccable lance formation they rode in. Spearmen in the front, horse archers in the back. The leader, wearing strange, white-plate armor, blew into the warhorn again. As his men charged into the large group of brigades.

When the sounds first echoed and screams about the empire met Nolorix's ears he was amused as was everybody else, Thinking that some local yokels decided to ride their ponies. The amusement faded damn quickly when the outlaws caught glimpse of just what was charging forward, Some climbed the wagon to escape the charge only to be met with arrows lodged into their person. The irony wasn't lost when Beklahas being the Eastern man he is was felled by horse archery, Amidst Nolorix's thunderous roars for any assortment of a shield wall he was silenced with an arrow to the gullet.

The rest that survived the lancers scattered back towards the farmhouse and into the forest.

The lead rider, briefly took off his helmet, his face hidden by shadow, and from his neck drew a small metallic object. Many onlookers believed the the wooden stick they used for drilling, the Vitis, was the symbol of authority for an Imperial Officer, and Centurion. Infact, it was not. The real object of respect was the brass whistle they carried on their necks, which they used for quick tactical orders, and marching. Grasping it in his mouth, the leader blowed into it, causing an ear piercing scream-like sound, to be heard across the night. He blew into the whistle three times.

Surprisingly there wasn't much visible action in the forest given the time of night, There were newfound screams and yelling but not much else could be deciphered from the Imperial's position. It was the eerie near silence that followed with the screams replaced by distant moans of anguish, From the edge of the treeline a man painted in woad motioned for the cavalry.

"Paltenina, dismount." With a rigidness only known to Imperial Legionaries, the horsemen got off their mounts, the men leading the horses forward with one hand, drawn blades in the others. They slowly advanced in perfect formation, ready to jump back on their horses if they needed too. They entered the dark woods, carefully glancing at their surroundings. The leader spoke, with a professional tone, "How'd it go, Captain?"

Thorgrim was busy catching his breath and motioned for a moment's time to recuperate, Finding the air adequately in his system he briefed the Imperial. "We lost a couple of men to some of the more well equipped outlaws, Adalfarus had his neck snapped like a twig I tell you. The men are exhausted, I don't think they can handle any more fieldwork as of now. There's no clear number but around seven outlaws are wounded non fatally."

The Prelate step forward, grabbing the man, and letting him lean on him for support, "Good work, Captain. As soon as we're back at HQ, you are to grab a hot meal, and get at least elven hours of sleep. Orders from you're commanding officer.  If you and you're men are tired, you can ride the way back, me and my Palentina will walk by foot and guard the prisoners." 

"Oh I, I wouldn't suffer you the shame, We'll manage if a laxed pace is kept. Our own wounded could use the horses however, I see now we should have brought a healer from the city."

"Indeed." The Prelate blew his whistle, as he made a circle around his head with his gauntleted hand, "All right, Palentina, Auxuilartly-client warriors, its time to pack up, and withdraw from the field. Palentina Lance Axio, secure the prisoners. Lance Vertiox, secure that wagon, we'll return as much as we can to the remaining farmers. Auxiliary." The Prelate refrained from using a rude term like Dog of War, or Sellsword, "Gather you're wounded, and put them on the horses. Anyone too tired to walk can join them." He paused, "Oh by the way. Excellent work, soldiers.  You've prevented alot of destruction tonight. Feel pride for you're accomplishments. There's hot food, and sleep waiting back at HQ."

The worst of the wounded needed help from the other mercenaries just to mount the horses, With the outlaws that were so horribly wounded they couldn't walk execution on the spot was their treatment. The others were rounded up and chained together for the long march back.

 

By the time the Legionaries got back to the fortified town, fear had consumed the populace. That fear, turned to intense relief at the sight of the imperial soldiers leading a group of change prisoners. The townsfolk only angrily starred, and spat at the marching criminals. It didn't take long for the legion patrols sent forward by the Prelate to gather the stragglers, with the help of the nordic tracker, and soon the remaining members of the warband, we're joined by a couple more captured outlaws. The exhausted merceneries fell to eat at the hall, right before collapsing in whatever bedding they could find, and had lost consciousness as soon as they closed their eyes, the gift of sleep finally finding them. The few wounded mercenaries we're tended by healers, and the very few restoration mages in-town. Because of how quickly, and efficiently, the imperial force was able to march bach to safety, they didn't loose anymore, and even the most wounded would recover, in time.

Right now though, safety in his headquarters, in the deepest part of the decrepit palace, a prisoner screamed in horrid pain. Froki pressed a hot iron stabber into his armpit, as chains held him up. The Prelate had identified, with the help of some vengeful farmers, a confirmed rapist, and ringleader of the group. As such, The Prelate had no moral obligation to treat him like a human being. With his arms crossed, the Prelate lifted up his hand, "Hold, agent." 

The Prelate walked forward, as he faced the prisoner, his voice cool, and professional "This is only a fraction of pain, my man here can inflict upon you. Have you heard of the Atmoran practice, of Blood Dragon? I'll cease the hot irons, and order him to do it to you, unless you tell me who equipped you, who released you from prison, and what orders they gave you.

The prisoner blurted out incoherent half sentences, Looking overwhelmed by the imminence burning sensation. As his words fell upon the Imperial's ears as gibberish he had a rather tired mercenary translate from the Milhinngaet's own tongue to a common language he understood.

"Alright" Huffed out the translator. "From what I gather he doesn't know who released them having claimed the room was barely lit, I asked if he could put a face on the voice he heard and well he said he couldn't. As for any orders all the man claims to remember is being told he wasn't under their jurisdiction any longer and to do whatever they wished in this 'haven'."

"So my early suspicion was correct. Ask him if he comes from the former legion fort."

With the translator obliging it was quite noticeable that the language was a strange one indeed, It had common words to Proto-Nordic but was utterly incomprehensible in bulk. "He thinks so, Just remembers heading westward. Says before leaving there was a table with a bundle of Seaxs."

"That confirms it. Good work, soldier." The Prelate gave the translator a nod, "Get some gruel, and then rest." 

"What are we going to do about the outlaws? In Roscrea proper they'd be killed."

"What do you think we should so with them? I don't know Roscrean customs well. " He paused, "I originally intended to chain them up in the public square, and let the relatives of the people they raped and killed beat them to death with clubs. Is that a suitable punishment here?"

"As good as any, More humane then whatever fate they'd have up north. I think I'll enjoy a night's rest more so then watching them die." With that the translator took off.

The Prelate told the Nordic Grey Wolf who was busy poking the rapist with his poker, "Do it for another ten minutes, then throw him in a cell. The executions will be tomorrow. "

"Aye Prelate." The Nordic warrior, fist pumped in a salute, before he went back to tormenting his prey. As the screams echoed in the dark halls, the Prelate made his way back to his office, to get some sleep. Their was nothing more to do today.

[Witchking of Angmar]

 

"So how was it, boy?"

"How was what?"

"Oh you know what, don't act like no one's ever asked ya."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, elf, and you're breaking my-,"

"How was the Bathory woman, boy. Even I know about Magdela Bathory, and the way Baldy tells it, you got yourself a pret-ty big sip of that blonde ale."

The way Daric kept his eyes in his book, Maori could tell he had no plans on sharing the details. Sighing, he said, "You know, for an apprentice of Baldur, you're rather stiff. Nothing like 'em at all, come to think of it."

"Well, I wouldn't know, haven't seen him lately, since he'd rather just order me around with elven man servants than speak to me directly."

"Elven man servant? If you plan on keeping your mug on your neck I'd suggest you stow that talk, boy. Now that I think of it, that doesn't even make sense. Wouldn't I be a mer servant? Though saying elven mer servant would be redundant I suppose, but-,"

"DO YOU EVER SHUT UP."

"Not when I'm bored, lad, no," said Maori. "I hate traveling in these parts, barely any trees around. Forced to walk on the ground."

"Well if you're so bored, elf, tell me this," said Daric, closing the book his father gave him and looking at the elf directly for the first time. "You're so close to the Jarl of Windhelm, tell me why I gave him information of this attack long before it actually happened, and his Necro-Nords were nowhere to be found? Tell me why he went to the city alone, and why Ulfric and so many innocent people ended up dead? Why he sent an elf to babysit me on a job I've been doing for months now without his meddling, to keep me from seeing him face to face?"

Maori just stood there, eyes downcast.

"Silence, finally," said Daric. "I don't know exactly what's going on, but I think I'm starting to understand. I dare not, but gods help me, I think I see. What's more is he thinks me not trustworthy enough to know what he's up to. And there must be a reason for it. He let Ulfric die, didn't he?"

Maori looked up at him finally, which would have amused Daric any other time, as he wasn't used to having anyone look up to him, especially adults. But there was no amusement to be had now.

"Kid, you'd best keep your voice down when you talk such nonsense."

Daric's eyes almost bulged out of his sockets at the audacity of the elf, hands moving to draw his blade. He found Maori's arrow notched and pointing at his eyesocket before he could draw.

"Calm down, brat. You only just got your wounds healed from Solitude and you’re itching to go back into another sick bed. Now listen. I'm sorry he chose to keep you out of the loop, but this isn't exactly something light, understand? He has his reasons. You know more than me how much he loved that Ulfric fellow. Please for now, just trust me when I say it'll become clear later why Ulfric had to die. I'm sure he'd rather tell you face to face, but he sent me to find you and head to the Reach because time is of the essence."

Daric's face was full of hatred for the elf, even after his sword was sheathed.

"I don't want to hear the excuses. How am I supposed to look another Stormcloak in the eye, knowing what I know? How can I still even wear this blue sash? But fine, I'll get my answers, you're damn right about that. For now, just tell me what business we have in the Reach."

Maori placed his arrow back in his quiver, breathing deep to let his nerves settle. "We're spying on the one they call Brund 'The Mountain' Hammer-Fang."

Daric stopped walking, knocking Maori on his ass as he walked directly into Daric's back. Before he could moan about it, the boy turned to him and said, "Please tell me you're joking."

"No jest," said the elf. "Why, he tough?"

"Is he tough?" said Daric. "He's downright terrifying."

"Well," said Maori, "I guess we'd better not let him see us."

This time Maori took the lead as Daric watched him walk by. "No ******* kidding."

***

"Tell me who she is, Priest."

"It's not really important, what is important is-,"

"I'll tell you what's important, now if you don't want to end up like the rest of the Reachmen, you'll tell me right now what it is you know."

Smiling, the Priest said, "Of course, of course. I don't know much, all I know is what me pa told me. It goes like this, the Reachmen weren't always as mixed up as they are now. They were once just like Bretons more or less, and every now and then, the Nords would come into their territory to raid and take wives for pleasure. Their blood being half theirs already, made some of the children look more like their Nordic kin. And some of those kin were raised in Nordic society, learned Nordic things. Like the thu'um. Your hagraven is one of those offspring."

"I take it you are as well," said Brund.

Smiling again, the priest said, "Aye. But my kin hailed from Roscrea, not mainland Skyrim. Our ways were never diluted by the Imperials like yours. We used to often sail to mainland Skyrim in search for adventure and something more beyond that accursed Island."

"And your ways, they told you to serve willingly huh.."

"Aye, a ritual of fortune telling, hawk bone and hawk blood. It showed me the face of one of her children, and I saw your ugly mug. I knew when you found me, I was to help you become strong! See, the Reachmen? They are not the only ones that know what the Briarhearts are. They are seeds, gifts from mother nature, lady Kyne. In ordinary men, they give immortality and minor strength. But in a Nord, and one chosen by her?"

The Priest's hands wrapped around Brund's cheeks. "Well, you already know. The hagraven saw what I saw. She had the knowledge, but with your spirit, and this seed in your chest, you could draw from the bones of the earth and the trees, the water and air magics that most men have long forgotten. There is magic all around us, and it is this power that the hagravens tap into, much like the taproots that give Lady Kyne's trees life. This is old magic, nature magic born of Kyne, Brund. Don't fear it, but don't let yourself be lost in it either."

Brund pushed the man from him and yelled, "Not so close, fucker." Other than that, Brund was mostly silent for a time until he finally said, "Why is she tied to me?"

"I do not know truly, Brund. Perhaps upon death, she anchored herself to the seed. Like a soulgem. It draws power from all life around it, and yes, there is life in Earth. Earth is made of the bones of spirits, and our dead flesh. It would not be hard for someone with the knowledge of these seeds to trap themselves in one, I imagine. And its power flows into your spirit to keep you alive."

"Well, ****," said Brund. "But fine. At least now I can somewhat better understand what the hell is going on with my body. I don't understand it all, and I don't know what to make of your ramblings about Kyne. The idea that Kyne has any sort of connection to these savages is insulting."

"There's no connection to them directly," said the Priest. "Kye isn't the only one with a connection to Nature. Hircine manipulates it as well, Hircine hunts below our lord's bone spheres. And the Reachmen worship him, and other daedra as well."

Standing, he said, "Whatever. Anyway, that old bastard may have weakened me, but it may be a blessing in disguise. I can't afford to lose control at the moot. I have work to do. As do you, Priest. It's time I speak with the Silver-Bloods again. Summon Thonar Silver-Blood to my palace."
 
Brund was seated in the Mournful Throne when his guest finally arrived. Thonar Silver-Blood was not a handsome man. His black hair had receded near to the point of baldness, and his thick, clean-shaven face was weathered and pockmarked. Even so, no argument could be made that he did not radiate power. The guards in the hall ducked their heads as he and his steel-clad mercenaries strode past, and even Brund's steward hurried to step aside to allow the two of them to have their privacy. Of all his court, only the Priest seemed unfazed in the presence of the wealthiest and most feared man in the Reach. Thonar's eyes glared up at his Jarl with none of the fear or anxiety that so many others did. Brund respected that, just as he did the man's methods in keeping down his enemies.

"Thonar... It's been some time since we've spoken," said Brund, his voice uncharacteristically low, as though he were expecting eavesdroppers. It's true that one's voice did carry, and in Markarth, who knows where the underlying paths could take a man's voice. "We have a lot to discuss and little time to discuss it."

"I had wondered when you would call for me." Thonar answered, his voice lowered in kind. "Go on, then. I would know where you stand in light of all that has happened."

Approaching Thonar, Brund towered over his fellow Nord kin, the dim light of the throne room making his brutish features more pronounced, more exaggerated. Smiling with a grin that did not suit him, Brund said, "There has never been a better time than now for your family to seize power. My stance is a simple one, you need me and I need you. I have a vision, you see. One that was revealed to me very recently. I see a Skyrim overflowing in silver, a Skyrim with a strong king, one powerful enough to rival Ysgramor, or better yet, Talos himself! I see Skyrim, not just restored to its previous glory, but a Skyrim at the head of its second Empire... With an Emperor that carries the name of Silver-Blood... You following me so far?"
 
"I follow ramblings." Thonar said, his tone flat, though a look of amusement did cross his pockmarked face. "You seek to become High King instead of Red-Snow, that I understand. But what is this talk of an Empire?"

"High King is just the first step. Don't you see?" said Brund, his eyes animated with the enthusiasm of a child. "Being raised in the Empire, as regrettable as that is, I grew up with stories of Talos' greatness, even moreso than Nords here. That would be blasphemy on any other day, but it's the truth. The Empire loved that man, once upon a time. I grew up not loving Tiber Septim, but being jealous of him. Seeing how revered a Nord could be in the eyes of even an Imperial, all the while they looked down on me as though I was a dog."

Brund put up a hand and said, "But I'm getting beside the point. Basically, I've always been a fighter, hungry for more. Of a purpose. Like a warrior in peacetime. But now I know my purpose, and it's a purpose given to me by the gods. You think I'm mad. But I will show you. What does this have to do with you, you're asking? Look at you, your family. You have all this wealth, but it was built on silver, like your namesake. But your flow of silver has been slowed, like a clot in the veins halting the blood in a fat noble. Why? Because of my rival, Baldur Red-Snow. Baldur Red-Snow stands in your way, and mine, with his Grim Ones monitoring your men's every move here, giving care to these dogs that I've put down, these savages. Wouldn't you like to see that changed?"

"Of course I would." Thonar replied. "That is why we gave you my niece to marry like we're damned Bretons. But now half the kingdom wants Red-Snow on the throne and the other half doesn't exactly favor you. If you can change that, great. I'll help. But first you'll need to explain to me how you expect to win the moot, let alone outshine the greatest of Emperors?"
 
"One thing at a time, my new Uncle-In-Law," said Brund, sucking his teeth at the mention of the girl. "That niece of yours, she's a fiery Nord girl, and I'll make a woman of her yet. It will pay off, I promise. Let's see... first, Baldur. What does one need to be king? He needs power, yes, but there's many forms of power. There's power in the most literal sense, there's power in the form of money, which you're most familiar with, and there's power in the form of military might, and influence. Money brings influence. Baldur has military might, as do I. But something he does not have, is the coin that I now possess, and that you now possess. We are at war, we'll need more money than we have at our disposal. Stand back, say... All the way by that door," said Brund, as he began stripping off his breast plate and gauntlets.
 
Thonar moved back as he commanded. He still wore a scowl, but Brund could see a hint of curiosity in there as well. The man had brought his family to a new level of greatness thanks by exploiting opportunity when it reared its head his way. He may have harbored his doubts as any wise Nord would, but Brund could see in his new ally an ambition only matched by his own. Unlikely as it may seem, he would not refuse to hear out something this big.
 
Smiling, Brund's hands clasped together giving off an echo that reverberated throughout the room, as though a large stone had fallen within. With a thundering shout, Brund cried almost as if angered, his veins protruding in his neck and arms, sweat pouring from his pores in streams, and his ruddy face growing redder by the second. It sounded as though the man were dying.

This went on for a time, before the bandages around his briarheart began to bleed. Only then did he echo the ancient words of the thu'um, followed by his boot meeting the stone floors with a solid thump.
 
“FUS. GOL. STRUNMAH!!!!”

At first, nothing happened... but then a small but visible crack snaked its way from the throne to the center of the room, growing, and growing until it seemed that it would reach Thonar even at the distance that he stood.

It halted, just at his feet, and then the floor began to give way to a small hole between the two men. Before Thonar could speak, an explosion of rubble and silver silenced him, and in its wake... bodies... decaying bodies began to crawl forth, heads adorned in deer hides... The room was now sprinkled in silver ores and flakes, and clinks and clanks from beneath the hole began to drown out the moans of the vile things that crawled from that pit.
 
"Shor have mercy." Thonar gasped. He took another step back and lowered a hand to he hilt of his sword. The decrepit Forsworn ignored him, of course. Brund had already commanded them to. "They're... these heathens are alive. What did you just..."

This may have been the first time in his life that Thonar Silverblood had been rendered speechless. The noble watched Brund's slaves climb one after another from his secret pit and display themselves like the whipped mongrels they were. When the initial shock of what had transpired left the man, he finally dared to approach the pit and look down. Brund could tell from his expression that Silver-Blood was impressed. Finally, after some time, he looked back up at his Jarl with new eyes. "So you've built a new mine... And your thu'um has gotten stronger." He gestured at the motionless abominations that could barely be called men, many of whom ignored various wounds across their ravaged bodies. "How many of them are down there?"
 

"Hundreds," said Brund between labored breaths. In truth, his thu'um had grown weaker, and already he could feel the influence of the Hag clawing at his mind. He bit his lip to calm himself before he lost it; it was like constantly having to keep his head above water without proper footing. "I plan to wrestle control of this hold from the high throne, until that throne is mine. The Reach will continue its pursuit of silver, unhindered by outside threats from this lot, or Baldur. With the upcoming war, no one will argue with the silver we produce, or our methods, not with the likes of these savages. And while other lands falter under the weight of expense, we will prosper."

Brund sat back down, taking a swig of mead as the undead forsworn sluggishly crawled back into their pit to command his slaves. Signaling Thonar over, he said, "And when the time comes, when the Thalmor are defeated, I will make the elves our slaves as well, and on the sweat of their backs, I will begin to build the foundation of another Empire. I've never much given a **** about what the gods thought, they could be dead for all I care. But they've finally done something right. I won't give you too much detail, you don't need to know everything, but Talos had a secret weapon to defeat the elves, and now, so do I. I AM THAT WEAPON! BRUND! I'LL GRIND THEM INTO DUST AND BECOME A LIVING GOD! Will you help me, Uncle?"

Thonar looked down at the pit, and then back at Brund. There were very few things any man could say in response to what he had just witnessed. "Aye," the noble finally said. "If Skyrim continues to back the strong as we always have, your ascension is a certainty. I will back you, my King."

Brund stood from his throne to embrace Thonar, grinning from ear to ear. "Good. Then lets discuss our pl-,"

The sound of a pot shattering from behind them brought their attention to the corner of a room suddenly.

Brund's eyes focused on the shadows beneath a table. Without saying a word, his Nordic Pendulum swung downwards, crushing the table and whatever might be under it. But there was nothing, at least not anymore.

The sounds of scuffling and a closing door turned their attention away once more. Chuckling, Brund said, "Well well, looks like we've got a game of cat and mouse on our hands. Thonar, we'll discuss the moot further in a moment. But now, I need your help trapping the intruders before they can escape. Force them into the bowels of Markarth, I'll be waiting for them on the other side."

"Gladly." Thonar turned to the soldiers of Markarth who flanked the entrance. "Follow me. We'll show them Markarth's tolerance for spies."
With that, the Nordic nobleman led the soldiers in pursuit of whoever it was that had dared to attempt sneaking up on Brund Hammer-Fang.
 
***

Few hours prior

"Why are we scaling the walls? You do know the city has gates," said Maori.

"You saw the way those soldiers were looking at us. Isn't it obvious? They were told to look out for us."

Maori scratched his head with his free hand as they dangled from individual ropes. "They were looking out for you, must be. That Brund fella don't even know what I look like, don't know nothin about me!"

"Perhaps," said Daric through struggling breaths as he neared the top. Ducking his head again as a soldier passed, he whispered downwards, "Either way, it's better to be safe than sorry."

"You call this safe," said the elf. "I like climbing and all but I like climbing trees. This stone is slippery for my feet."

"Then use your arms and climb the rope, stop complaining already," said Daric, finally climbing to the top when the Nord sentry passed. Maori swung from left to right on his rope until he was able to hop up the rest of the distance, landing next to the Breton boy with slightly labored breaths.

"Getting old, enjoy your youth while it lasts, kid. Now, you know this city better than I do. Where we going?"

Daric looked around a while until he eyed one of the brass sewer grates that poked out of the mountainside. "See that over there? That sewer leads straight into Markarth's palace. We've gotta make our way into it from here, the walls are the only way to reach it. See, you'd have been climbing anyway. Maybe you should try eating less. Or drinking less of that weird beef beer shit you brought from Valenwood, smells like you're drinking beef stew."

Maori took a swig from a bottle he had fastened to his belt, burping in Daric's face to spite him. "Don't knock it till you try it. Don't even tell me you like that swill these Nords call mead, you forgot you're a Breton, lad?"

"A Breton born in Skyrim, elf. Now lets go, and be quick about it!"

The duo quickly scaled the mountainside, as quickly as one could before another sentry caught them running atop Markarth's walls. They were surprisingly light considering how populated they were before, but the war in the Reach was over, Forsworn hadn't been spotted near the city or in it, for some time.

Hooking the grated doorway as water fell below, Daric signaled with his fingers to watch him. Before he attempted to go inside, Daric pulled on his hook until the metal grate popped open. Quickly, Daric told Maori to climb up with him, until Maori was atop the boy's back.

"Now, jump up! There's a lever inside that will pull up a dam, hook it and pull!"

Maori seemed unsure but listened to what he was told, jumping up the grate and atop the Dwemer pipe, being careful not to touch the water lest his feet get slippery. Dangling upside down above the cascading water, Maori swung his hook counter clock wise and tossed it inside before jumping down, dangling under the Breton again. His weight wasn't enough to pull the stiff and rusting lever apparently, however.

"Blast it, maybe you should keep eating after all! Wait, I got an idea!" said the Breton, yelling to be heard above the rushing water.

"Wait, don't do that!" said Maori. Too late. Daric jumped on the elf's back to make the lever give, and give it did. The water finally stopped falling, but Daric and Maori didn't. Daric didn't see but Maori noticed the rust on the lever, which is why he threw another hook with a second rope at the grated door in case it broke on him. He hadn't planned on that happening with twice the weight however.

As Daric and Maori fell, the rope finally caught them, but its tautness was at the very limit. The grate swang back and forth, slamming shut and reopening as they dangled underneath. "Hurry up and climb!" said Maori. Daric didn't need him to say it twice.

Carefully, the Breton Boy waited for his chance to climb up towards the middle of the grate before it slammed shut again, jumping back and just barely landing inside. An arrow flew past his cheek, hitting the metal surface of the pipe inside behind him before he just barely managed to grab it, noticing the rope at the other end. The rope Maori was on had snapped, and the one in Daric's hand now held him almost literally by a thread, before he was close enough that Daric could drag him inside.

"Who the hell made this ******* rope?" said Daric. "We should've gotten some from Rebec, this shit is pathetic!"

"...Sorry," said Maori while he tried calming down. "It's just meant to support my weight, didn't think I'd be scaling for two!"

"Who the hell makes rope only just barely strong enough to support a load? Whatever, just follow me, and be careful," said Daric. "Lest you want to meet your kin."

"What kin? In here?" said Maori, walking closely behind the boy now after drinking a night eye potion he gave him.

"Aye, those things we saw in Solitude, those freaky elven monsters are in these Dwemer places beneath the city. We're not under obviously, but take a wrong step and fall down a pipe, you might end up there. So be. Careful."

"I get it I get it," said the elf, rolling his eyes. Elven monsters, indeed, he thought. "What a bunch of nonsense. Those things couldn’t have been elves.”

It took them another hour, or perhaps more, before they both finally realized that Daric was lost. Already on their last night eye potion, Maori was starting to get frustrated. "Listen, kid, I don't want to get on your case, but if you don't find the way soon, we're gonna end up living down here!"

"Keep your damn voice down, you idiot! We could stumble into the palace at any minute!"

"Stumble into the palace, you couldn't stumble your way into a maiden's pants if she were laying on her back with her legs over her head right in front o-," before Maori could finish, the elf slipped and fell down a hole, and grabbed Daric's tunic, trying to save himself. He dragged them both down a tunnel, until they hit another much smaller grate, which now popped open, sending them flying out into an open room.

"****," said Maori, rubbing his head. Daric did the same, rolling from over the elf onto the stone floor. After he realized where he was, he heard loud footsteps coming from a hallway nearby.

"**** is right! Hurry, elf!"

Daric dragged the elf by his leg, throwing him under a table leaving him to crawl behind a large pot beneath it. There wasn't anywhere for Daric to hide however. Looking around, he realized finally that they'd stumbled directly into the palace throneroom... not only that, but Brund's unmistakable figure was sitting right on the very throne the room was home to, along with who he knew for sure was Thonar Silver-Blood.

Quickly, Daric scrambled over to Maori, shoving the elf aside to make room for himself as well. "What are you doing, go somewhere else, we both can't hide here!"

"Just shut it, we don't have a choice! Be quiet and listen..."

And listen they did.

"Boy, this Brund guy is something else. He really is full of himself eh?"

"You got that right," said Daric. "I can't believe this, he really thinks this is the time to make a power grab for the throne? No one will support him, I can't believe Thonar's even considering it."

"Well, you fought in the war against the Reachmen yourself, a lot of people may be grateful to him for ridding them of those lot."

"Yea but... wait..."

Daric and Maori stopped whispering when Brund started screaming. When the ground literally began to crack however, both of them were so shocked that they forgot where they even were.

The things that crawled from within started walking around the throneroom until one was almost close enough to the table to spot one of them behind the pot. Daric was so terrified by the display that he didn't even grip a blade. He just sat there, shivering.

Once Brund had them crawl back into Markarth's new asshole, Maori said, "There's no way in hell he can get away with that. Undead? If word gets out about that, he's done for as far as the moot goes. The Nords wouldn't support such a thing."

"I don't know, Maori. He's using the Thu'um. They might not see it as dark magic like you're thinking... This is insane, this is insane!" said Daric. "This explains everything! This.. we gotta get back to Baldur. He has to know..."

"I'm up for getting out of here whenever you are Daric. We've seen enough. We..." They didn't realize it, but all the shaking and rumbling on the floor moved the pot just enough that it was no longer perfectly seated on its wooden circle to protect it from the floor. So when Daric pushed it aside just a bit to study their surroundings to make a move for an exit, the pot tipped over completely...

That's when the Breton and Elf made a dash for any door they could find, leaving nothing but a smashed pot in their place.
 

***

"Have every exit sealed off," Thonar commanded the guards around him. "All but those leading to the ruins. I want the sealed ones to be opened up. We'll hound them inside."

"The ruins?" The soldiers looked visibly chilled. "But sir, that place ain't safe."

"Which might be why our Jarl wants to force the spies down there, don't you think? Now go! You are wasting time."
Thonar did not have to tell them again. The guards in Markarth were used to obeying his commands. He and his remaining four men continued down the great passages of Understone Keep, moving in the direction the spies had taken off. The Dwemer castle was massive. Even without considering the city below it, most people believed it to be the largest seat of any Jarl. While that did mean lots of places to hide, it also meant lots of guards. Even now the Nordic soldiers were running too-and-fro, room-to-room, working their way towards the ruins of the Great Dwarven City: Nchuand-Zel.

The city's excavation was massive. Even after two eras, it's stone roads were held securely aloft by great stone pillars. Thonar had been here on a few occasions, and he knew the Markarth's underground better than most Nords, but once those roads were taken into the Dwarven city proper, his -and most everyone else's- knowledge of what awaited beyond ended.

Of course, it was not Thonar's intention to funnel their enemies into the main excavation site. There were other ways into the ruins from Understone Keep. Some of them secret. Some of them as obvious as large brass doors that had been sealed off, and it was through one of these that Daric and Maori had already been forced to retreat into, and it was at this door that three more guardmen now stood when Thonar arrived. 
"I opened the door as you ordered, Sir." He pointed to his companions. "And Tuslaf and Vor chased them through."

"And you didn't follow them?"

"Well, we did for a bit, but... it's dark in there." The guard pointed into the abandoned Dwarven hall as if to prove his point.

"Well, it's too bad no one ever thought to create some kind of portable light source then," Thonar growled. "You know, something easy to carry, like a stick with fire on the end. That would solve all of our problems."

"I'll get some torches, Sir."

"You do that."

As the guard disappeared, another one spoke his mind. "Are you sure about this, Sir? I mean, we've already got them trapped underground. And they say the Dwemer machines are still alive down here. And worse, Falmer."

"I am well aware of the machines," the noble answered. And he was. His own Cidhna Mine was huge and complex, and in some of its dark corners, the earth actually broke into the vast, interconnecting Dwemer ruins that ran through these mountains. But they posed no threat, for the Dwarves had been kind enough to leave their automatons behind to defend those breaches. "As for Falmer, I would suggest you stop believing the tales your mother read to you as a child. You think we wouldn't know if we lived atop an entire city filled with ancient elves? We're going to push down just a little further. Make sure they get as far as our Jarl wants them."

The first guard returned carrying a bundle of torches. They each took one, lit them, and proceeded into the city beneath the city. 

To the first guard's credit, it was dark down here. The halls reached a point where they became so wide that their torchlight could not reach both sides, which forced their group to spread out. 
"What's that smell?" one guard asked. 

"Probably chaurus shit," another answered. "I'll bet those things have infested this place. Another thing to worry about."

"Quiet," Thonar commanded. Looking ahead, the noble could see only darkness. And as far as hearing, well, there was no mechanical movement or hissing of steam. That meant that whatever marvels the Dwemer had built here were long past their days of functioning.

"Hey, the walls are gone," said the guard on their right. Sure enough, a portion of the Dwarves' smooth stone walls had crumbled, giving way dirt and earth, and a single black hole. Something had tunneled there. "I'll bet this is where the Falmer come out."

"He said to shut up with that nonsense," a different guard said. "It's probably just the chaurus. They won't bother a group as big as ours. Now come on."

They proceeded deeper and deeper beneath Understone Keep, until finally the sound of machinery started to pick up somewhere above them. "Sounds like we're beneath the city beneath the city," a guard joked. But nobody laughed, because that very moment, his torch fell to the ground, and they all turned to see him clutching an arrow wound in his neck. 

"Archer!" Thonar barked, "Form a circle!"

The Nords tossed their torches out in front of them and drew their shields, forming a defensive circle that faced fire and darkness in all directions. Thonar was in the middle, his own silver longsword drawn. 

"Did anyone see where it came fro-" one man said, just before another arrow immediately thudded into his shield.

"Shh!"

Thonar and his men went quiet. And then another arrow whistled, hitting the man's shield again. And then things went bad, fast. A slumped, white-skinned figure emerged from the darkness like a beast summoned from Oblivion. In its hand was a gray axe that looked like it had been fashioned out of some larger creature's bones. The creature leapt up and slammed against their shield wall, and then suddenly, five or six more of the things came from each direction. Thonar drove his sword into one's belly, and watched as another went down from a guard's axe. Unfortunately, for every creature they slew, two more took its place. 
A bone axe cracked against a guardsman's helmet and knocked him to the ground. Thonar tried to cut at the beast who'd felled him, but he wasn't fast enough to reach it before his ally had been dragged off into the darkness.

"Tsun protect us!" another guard shouted, just before he and the man beside him went down as well.

Thonar picked up his shield and joined the remaining four in a tightened circle. They hacked and slashed at the red-eyed creatures, until finally it seemed that this random spy hunt was going to be the death of them.

And then something heavy crashed into the ground deeper in the hall. The Falmer (as Thonar now had to assume they were) started to back away, sniffing the musty air in sudden alarm.
Next came footsteps, slow and heavy. That was apparently enough for the creatures. They broke away from Thonar's group and scampered back off into the darkness, leaving the Nords alone with the footsteps.
 
There was a long pause, though only to their perceptions. Amongst the sight of dead monster elves and their fallen comrades amongst the encompassing dark, a second seemed like an age. The stench of the creatures was noticably faint, and it was clear that they were truly alone with whatever beast was approaching them now.

One of the guards could make it out, a lumbering hulk of shadow visible before the barely visible blue illuminiscent growth on the stone walls before them. It had a spiked head, that much was clear, or at least it was before it seemed to have removed it entirely.

"What are you idiots doing, where's the rest of the men?" said Brund. Stepping into the light, revealing himself covered in what was clearly a crude assemblage of chaurus exoskeleton. Looking around, he finally seemed to notice the dead bodies half visible from the torches in their hands, the others stomped out by the Falmer themselves. "Put those out, and drink some of this. And try not to die, tracking two people in this place alone will be difficult."

The Nords stared at their Jarl in stunned silence. Even Thonar, who had only witnessed Brund's powers less than an hour earlier, was surprised to see him now. But he was also the first to recover. "You heard him," the noble barked. He then stepped up and took the bag Brund was offering. Inside was a large bottle that contained some sweet-smelling liquid. He took the first drink, shivered against the tingles the potion sent to his brain, and passed the bottle. It was a night-eye elixir, and it instantly drove the darkness from their visions, turning the blackness of the caverns into a dim gray.
Silver-Blood looked at Brund and nodded. They would all feel safer going forward, with a man like this leading them. "We're right behind you."

"No, you go down in that direction. I'll be watching. Close by."

"Alright." Thonar nodded. Knowing that Brund was watching was still enough to make the Nords feel more secure than before. The nobleman jerked his head toward the pathway and started off, and the remaining guardsmen quickly formed up around him.

***

"Boy. Boy. Please, stop your incessant breathing. They're going to hear us."

"Did you see?"

"I saw. Gods help me, I saw."

"He's a monster. Even amongst monsters."

"He's mortal, is what he is. But you're right. He's... we need to go."

Maori hopped down from his recently captured chaurus, grabbing Daric's hand, beckoning him to come along. He was shaking like a leaf. They both were.

"It was a good plan," he said. "You're a smart lad. Leading them to the Nords, it almost worked. But we couldn't have known..."

"You're right, we should just stop talking," said Daric. "Focus on finding a breeze. Even if it's the tiniest opening to the surface, this thing can help us dig our way out."

Maori closed his mouth and nodded. But he couldn’t help but think of how deep the shit they were in.
 
They had an advantage in this place that the Nords hadn’t. Maori had picked up the talent long ago of sneaking around in dark places. They found the Falmer long before they found them. And the Nords with their big voices, footsteps and bright torches… It couldn’t have been more simple to send the Falmer their way. 
 
The first arrow that killed a guard, that was his. The rest after that, was the Falmer’s way of sensing. After that, it should have been nothing to just watch them all die.
 
They heard the footsteps of Brund only after the Falmer almost trampled them in their hiding place. Seeing whatever it was, so close to them, then realizing their hunter himself was an arms reach away from them in the dark… 

They had no idea of knowing what time it was, how long they'd spent there underground. Had the foreigners come already? Was Baldur King? The only good thing that came of their predicament was, Brund needed them dead, so that they couldn't give Baldur their intel before the moot commenced. There's no way in hell the Jarls would elect such an evil, crazy individual, no matter how scared they were of him, or the elves.

Right?

Every now and then, the pair would hear scurrying, especially when their path took them to a great open chasm so large, and so bright with more luminescent mushrooms that for a time, after being in complete darkness, and lead by a man sized stinky bug, the two were more blind than they were without it. The scurrying never lead to anything more than the occasional jump scare, but that was worrying in it of itself. They knew eyes were on them. Fearful eyes. Eyes that knew they were prey to something worse than themselves.

After the sting of their eyes readjusting left them, the two finally had time to be struck with awe at what they saw. 

Ruins, buildings of stone and intricate bronze metalwork, further than their eyes could see, and then some, likely. Towers, spires, hanging giant chandeliers holding spheres of light, exposing dust and dirt hovering over the work of the Dwemer as though to protect it.

"It's... a city. A city beneath a city?" said Maori.

"No... I think Markarth and this place, it may all just be one great big city. I've... never...."

"Not even the Imperial City could match such wonder. Who knows just how far this place stretches underground!"

"It could go on for leagues. Scores of leagues...." said Daric. He didn't sound so enthusiastic anymore.

"No matter, we'll just keep following the bug."

"And how do you know the bug knows we want to get to the surface?"

"I know. Trust me, pup. I know what I'm doing."

"It's not you, I'm worried about, but that damn skeever shit with legs. One thing's for certain, we're not as likely to be found down here. In fact, I'd say Brund doesn't stand a chance. It's like a needle in a haystack."

"Aye, which is why we should make camp. Get some rest."

Daric eyed the elf with suspicion. "You're nuts. We've wasted enough time as it is! We've got to..."

"We will die of exhaustion before we find the way out. We're gonna be here a while kid, unless we have some sort of divine intervention, we're as good as fucked, unless we sit tight, collect ourselves, rest and be ready for anything. I want out of here as bad as you do, but this Brund fella has given us the break we needed. These things... elves. They're not coming out while he's down here."

"Four hours, that's it," said Daric. Maori nodded, and commanded the bug to turn into a nearby stone quarters that was small enough to have only one compartment to it. Daric's eyes gazed upwards at the overpassing mushrooms, their hanging tendril growths reaching out to him, intent to take him away, swaying in the air, a jellyfish deep at sea.

Fitting then, as sinking deeper and deeper beneath a dark sea was exactly how he felt things were going. Sitting at the entrance, Daric marveled at how quickly the elf fell into a trance, cuddled up with the thing that wanted to eat him not too long ago. Relatively speaking.

The walls, and the complexity of the layout gave him some peace of mind. And as the adrenaline settled, so did his mind, making the scared child with the burden of men finally succumb to his weariness in the dark.

***

High Hrothgar

Paarthurnax, Baldur

"Drem, Yol, Lok!" cried Paarthurnax, with a mighty roar beset in flame. Flame so strong, it knocked Baldur on his ass, leaving him sitting in a puddle of melted snow. Paarthurnax did it on purpose, he was sure. Somehow the old dovah took great pleasure in randomly setting him on fire, knocking him over. And this was the leader of the pacifist tongues?

Bellowing something that resembled laughter, Paarthurnax said, "Your thu'um is strong, your fire burns bright! Oh how it pleases me to be able to share Tiinvaak with someone new again! Yes, it brings life to these old bones!"

Baldur slowly sat up, brushing the snow out of his wool robes and beard. This was a daily occurrence but every time, Paarthurnax flew in from somewhere different as he walked up the pathway to the throat of the world. The air here was thinner, much thinner than what he was used to. Shouting, even normal speaking would be difficult here. 

Even so, Baldur echoed a question to his elderly tormentor in his ancient tongue, before collapsing to the ground to catch his breath.

"Ahhh, a fine question, my Ashen companion. Jurgen Windcaller, I remember him well. Come, come closer so that you can hear me clearly. I sense suspicion in your thu'um, and as always, man is wise to distrust a Dovah, just as Dovah are wise to distrust the Joor. Mortals."

Baldur sat up after recovering his breath, sitting criss-crossed in the snow. The question he echoed roughly translated to "Jurgen. Elderly Dragon. Your doing?" With all the effort it took to echo a simple question and series of words up here, Baldur came to understand just how powerful Paarthurnax truly was, especially in comparison to himself. It was humbling, but more than that it was maddening. He was a flake of snow in the wind, wind created by a gust from his wings. The thought angered Baldur to no end. He planned to stay atop this mountain for the remainder of his stay, day and night until his strength grew. Even if it meant suffering the Tinvaak of this old dragon the entire time....

Speaking of...

"It was a long time from now, in your eyes. A time where the Joor still spoke with the power of the voice, the Thu'um. All around the mountain, I could feel their voices. Bellowing out, sending color of emotions through the sky. Usually red. In the distance, to the east, I felt a new color arise, heard the Joor speak a new shade, this one grey. A color of defeat in a time of much strife in this land. Two wars had begun to consume your people. None of this concerned an old Dovah such as myself, I was alone and reflected only on what had concerned me, my past."

Baldur's expression lightened suddenly and Paarthurnax nudged him with a wing. "You look as though you wished to speak. But your voice is burdened with too much effort. This thu'um you wish to learn. You do not understand how it works, do you?"

Baldur looked frustrated, then shook his head.

"It relies on intrinsic understanding. It is a shout of my own creation, the one I used to teach the Joor long ago. Language, to communicate, relies on the relation of feeling, memories. And to associate them in new patterns, groupings, labels. This shout speaks to the mind, pulls thought that already is within, and brings them to the surface, forcing the one at the receiving end to think of what the speaker does, with their own associations. Tinvaak, manipulates those around you the same way the voice does the world. Every time we speak, we are bringing thought forward."

Baldur didn't seem to understand what the Dragon was saying. He got the concept, but he didn't see how it helped him.

"Arngeir has been using this shout on you, and you've been using this shout enough that words from my tongue should be within your mind already. A cipher. Think, Joor. And pull them out."

Baldur still seemed puzzled, but he tried what he was told anyway, closing his eyes to concentrate. Nothing came to mind however despite what Paarthurnax suggested. Frustrated, Baldur wrote in the snow what he was trying to say. It read "The wars of which you are speaking of, they remind me of today."

Paarthurnax's throat let out noises that resembled laughter once again. Confused and agitated, Baldur bellowed out an angry battlecry that made the snowfall leave them for a second. Not being able to speak was so unbelievably frustrating. For him, a bard, it was like having an itch he couldn’t scratch.

"You have eyes to see, but still you don't. Bex Hi Hahdrim."

Baldur wanted to say he was trying, and then suddenly realized that he understood what Paarthurnax had said. He didn't know what the individual words meant, but he understood its meaning. He looked down then at what he wrote in the snow, just before the snowfall returned and made it fade away.

It was in draconic.

"Now you see. This is the shout that brought power to your kin. Those that did not worship the Dov, and those that did. This is how your kind discovered kin of our own in their form. Dovahkiin. They quickly learned our tongue with the help of this shout."

Baldur eyed him curiously and tried to speak in the tongue, but again nothing came to mind. More time was needed, evidently. 

"Meditate further and it will come. You Nords are Venkiin. Believe yourselves born of wind. That makes it easier to teach you. This was the same for Jurgen, who already knew much of the Thu'um when he finally made it atop High Hrothgar. I was surprised, as was he."

Baldur sighed, glad that the Dragon knew to get back on topic all on his own.

"Jurgen began debating with me furiously, and it wasn't until the next day as he was still initiating Tinvaak that I realized he was trying to kill me rather than talk. I unleashed my thu'um then and left him humbled. Curiously, he then spoke of the gods and said they must've brought him here to learn. And so he stayed, listening to me and learning of my way of the voice."

Baldur stood then and pointed a finger at him. His face warped with anger, he continued pointing his finger at the dragon as he said Yol in his direction.

"Pruzah," said Paarthurnax as Baldur began coughing after saying merely one word. "This is a perfect example of why Jurgen spread my way of the voice. Why the Dovah became lost, and why your people soon followed. You overuse your voice, wastefully, even moreso than we. You Joor, you do not know restraint as we do. If the Dovah used the voice as wastefully as you Bron, Nords, the world would have flooded over eras ago. You were right to suspect me of helping Jurgen subdue his people. I gave your ancestors, those that fought the dragon cult the voice. It was mine to take back once more."

"KAAN OFAN BRON THU'UM!" Cried Baldur.

"Perhaps, perhaps not. But your Kyne also did not prevent your defeat. She did not prevent the Dov's either. Our doom, our own doing. As will yours be, if you continue your path. Curious, you do not seem to realize why Arngeir has decided to help. You do not sense the rising power in the west. It is an old power, one I recognize. It is your duty to study our way of the voice. To teach your people restraint. If you do not, the other power will consume them just as it did in the past. Keizaal is giving rise to power of old, and being lead like a snake with two heads. One must be cut, the one that is blinded by rage. But I cannot see which that is at the moment..."

Baldur knew what he spoke of. Brund. 

"Despite what you might think, I did not force Jurgen Windcaller into my way of the voice. I only made him hear it. It was his decision to agree with it once heard. And it will be your decision as well, but if you are going to stay here, you WILL hear it, just as my kin will. The voice is spreading across the land once more by forces unknown. It is up to you and this other, how it will color Keizaal's skies."

"Interesting conversation, the parts I could understand, at least.”

"Who is that?" said Paarthurnax. “Another guest come to seek Tinvaak?"

Baldur bolted up in surprise. He didn't see anyone at first, but then an old robed man came forward, walking out of the snowy mist. His hair was short, dark grey. His eyes bright icy blue, and his face covered in a deep poorly healed scar of what certainly was a mortal wound. His beard was short and neat, and beneath his robe was a red armored kilt with the drake insignia of the Empire.

"It's been a long, long time, my son. Too long."
 

***

"Yooohooo..."

Daric's eyes cracked open ever so slightly, before bolting open as he rushed towards the elf. "Maori...Maori!" he said, whispering low and daring not to make a noise louder than that. Maori's snores threatened to give away their position already. 

"Huh? I'm up, I'm..."

"Yoooohoooo....." called Brund again, though they couldn't tell from where the voice was coming from. The underground chasm seemed to be making his voice echo from all directions. But this hardly sounded natural. 

The strange Nord known as the priest was channeling a spell through Brund, surrounding him in a green aura as he kept speaking. "I know you're here, boys... our guide here took us straight to you..." Brund pulled on a chain in his hand attached to one of the monstrosities that passed as a snow elf nowadays. "Come to me, or we'll come to you. Now! No? Fine then."

At that moment, Brund released a cry from his throat that both Maori and Daric would have sworn was a thu'um, but this was an ordinary cry. And yet, it was enough to make the hiding Falmer scatter like cockroaches. They had no idea what was going on, no time to prepare. Before they knew it, the elves were crowding into every Dwemer dwelling, crowding the streets. They panicked, slashing at the first creature they saw, forced then to run amidst the chaos.

Brund grew tired of waiting, and began shooting boulders at the stone houses, gathering gravel into his mouth like a hamster, or a frog with a large fresh kill. “FUS, GOL STRUNMAH!”

As buildings collapsed, one after another, Maori pulled on the boy again, pointing upwards to a case of stairs. There was an elven mage atop the staircase blocking their way, along with a dozen other falmer trying to rush past the creature. It blasted them back with fire again and again, angered with their cowardice perhaps? It didn't matter. One arrow to its head and the crowd overcame her, Daric and Maori amongst them.

Before they could reach the top however, a large boulder fell before them, trapping them off from the rest of the way. They turned around slowly...

"Here, kitty kitty," said Brund with a grin on his face, twisted and showing off his crooked yellowed teeth.

Daric drew his blade. "Jarl Hammer-Fang."

Brund pushed the priest aside and said, "You know what they say, boys. It’s better to burn out… hahahahaha! The two rats are mine. Priest, go get the Thonar and the others.."

"Hello there," said someone from the dark of Black Reach. Brund's head turned sharply, eyes searching for the owner. Frowning, he said, "Bardok."
 
Bardok came forward, with a necklace of elven ears, and a blade freshly bloodied. His wild long mohawk hang over his shoulders, which he brushed aside, pushing it behind the fur collar of his Nordic Carved armor.

"The one and only. You two are hard to find. Hows it going?"

"How in the hell did you find us?" said Maori.

"It wasn't too hard, all I had to do was follow the bodies. I was already looking for a way in the city through here, I've been following you two for a time. Stopped by Solitude, they said you snuck off after getting yourselves almost killed by Falmer. Figured some of them may have had your scent still. I was worried you might have gotten into some trouble if you’d been stupid enough to come through these parts." 
 
“That’s not why we’re down here, and the Falmer were the least of our troubles." Maori pointed a finger at the grinning Brund.
“This one…”

Daric interrupted and said, "Brund's got Forsworn slaves under the palace floor attached to the mines, he's using them as leverage to get the Silver-Bloods to stand against Baldur! They're gonna try and kill him!”
 
“He’s got Forsworn slaves under the palace floor? What? I don’t understand what you’re talking about but we’ll get to it later.. Don't worry, you'll be able to tell this to Baldur in person. I'm your backup."

"Priest, handle it."

"Hahahahaha, with pleasure!"

"Run!" said Bardok. "I'll kill this freak, and then I'll kill Brund, but you gotta run for now!"

Brund turned his head to Bardok, cocked sideways. "You'll do what now? For that, after I kill the brats, I'll kill you slow. In fact, I won't kill you at all. You'll be my slave!" 

Bardok lifted his greatsword to his shoulders and said, "Try it."

When he did, the ground around him shook and gave away as shifting undead arose to the surface, all wearing blue sashes of the Stormcloaks. The priest grinned with glee as he watched the look on Bardok's face. "Go Brund, get them! I'll kill this one."

"You... what have you done to our brothers?"

The Priest rubbed his hands with delight as his fingers began channeling various spells over his minions.

"Their souls are in Sovngarde. But their bodies belong to me. These are all that remain of my berserkers who have died in battle. They served me well in life... but they'll serve me more in death. Observe."

Bardok prepared himself as the first skeletal thing, blonde beard still in tact charged him with a roar, while three more came from behind. Something grabbed his feet from below before the head of a man missing an eye popped out, laughing as Brund watched, satisfied the situation was handled.

"Now, where was I."

Daric and Maori were gone, but Brund could hear their footsteps. Brund smiled, knowing all they were doing was exhausting themselves.

Daric knew it too, as did Maori, but what they also knew was they couldn't win against the Jarl of Markarth. Running was their only option. They ran down another flight of stairs, turning sharply to climb to another level of the area near a waterfall and a cluster of red noisy plants that resembled what Daric thought might be Nirnroot. 
 
They used these to get the grip they needed as they scrambled up. They heard thuds against the stone walls below, as if Brund was trying to make the whole thing drop. But when they got to the top, a large Dwemer watchtower with a massive Dwemer construct at its center suddenly collapsed on itself before them, the top of the tower pointing directly at them both.
 
Brund marched over its remains, his helmet containing a chaurus maw that made him resemble a dremora in the shadows, and Alfrvega in hand as he brushed the dust of recently devoured earth from his chin.

After clearing his throat, Brund said, "Now, who's first?"
 
Bardok jabbed his blade in the direction of the three approaching undead behind him, impaling two of them as the third slashed at his armored back. With his hands free, he grasped the man's head by the eyeless socket, crushing his skull with an explosion of dust and bone bits. 

The thing behind him gave him a boot in the ass, sending him to the ground in push up position before jabbing downwards towards the back of his exposed neck while more undead closed in. He tilted his head to the side, spun to his back, and kicked its head clean off before jumping back to his feet. 

As he evaded, he crushed the exposed necks of any shamblers that got close, but he couldn't evade all, letting his armor take up most of the abuse. As the priest expected. He was using old magic on Bardok, weakening the integrity of his Nordic carved armor, rusting it slowly as the Nord fought. Before he knew it, his plated mail was chipping away, and the undead Stormcloaks he impaled, the great sword stuck in their tough rigor mortis ridden hides were standing behind the crowd that pushed harder and harder to reach their singular target. 

Meanwhile the priest continued to channel his magic as he cut and slashed amongst his slaves, diving away to avoid Bardok's powerful hands. Every time Bardok turned, he saw the Priest’s wild eyes peering through him, waiting for an opening. It was unnatural… crazy… was the Priest in his head?

Finally Bardok's armor clasps gave away and the entire thing fell to the ground, snapping a dazed Bardok out of whatever trance or train of thought he was stuck in. Seeing his chance, the priest had the creatures try and tackle the Grim One, the first of the lot being knocked away by his large fists, and then grasping at his legs. 

"Haha, die! Then serve me!" cried the Priest as he took a sword from one of the dead Stormcloaks. Charging with his blade pointing at Bardok's heart, the Priest's was crying with glee as blood splattered across his face.

But it was not Bardok's blood.
 
The Priest was still laughing even as the Daedric greatsword continued to solidify through his ribs. He inched closer, and closer still, reaching in a pouch on his waist before drinking a mixture containing skooma. 

"What in the **** are you?" said Bardok, disgusted by the display. "What do you even gain from helping Brund?"

"A god," said the Priest. "My clan was born in the bowels of the Reach. A mix of Roscrean and Nord, and enslaved Reachmen wenches! We know of things the rest of Skyrim doesn't. Brund? Baldur? They are like Masser and Secunda. Body and mind, split. Space and Time. Two halves of a whole. You think it coincidence that they rose to power at the same time? Think it coincidence Brund stumbled upon these abilities of his?"

Bardok shook his head, not sure what the man was going on about. Humoring him anyway for more information he said, "And just how did Brund stumble across his power? Who trained him in the Thu'um?"

"I do not yet fully understand the how, the who. I only know that she is old, and that Brund was drawn to her, destined to seek power because of what he is. Just as your Jarl and mine are destined to fight, and become one in the process. They always have been! I've seen it in the Sithis Shaped Hole! Padomay, Anu! Lorkhan, Auri-el! Sheogorath, Jyggalag! Wulfharth, Zurin! Talos, Emperor Zero! Even the First and Last Dragonborn! This fight will happen, and Brund is destined to be the victor! I made sure of it! He-..."

"He what? What did you do?" Bardok wouldn't get an answer however. The Priest's ramblings fell dead in his mouth, his defiled Stormcloak draugr gone, and the Priest fell to his knees.

Bardok placed his boot on the corpse of the two he stabbed earlier, yanking his blade free as he listened for fighting, or running. He heard footsteps but there were too many to be Daric and the elf. 

He heard yelling. "Over there! Someone's fighting!"

"Reinforcements," said Bardok frowning. He ran in the opposite direction, hoping that he'd get to Daric and Maori in time to help them with Brund. But more footsteps came in that direction as well. He saw no torches, but he knew that there were men, actual men running around in Blackreach. If he was going to save the elf and Daric, he’d have to draw Nordic blood.
The sound of men searching grew to the sound of men charging. Bardok looked up at the chandelier holding a magical orb of light above them, summoned a spear to his hands and chucked it high. As the Markarth guards grew closer, the lights suddenly went out, and all that was left in the immediate area was the glow of mushroom.
 
Chaos ensued immediately, as the sounds of rending flesh and men trampling over one another filled the dank thick air. Some of them killed their own by accident, thinking they must’ve been Falmer, or the Nord they saw. It didn’t matter. Many would die, but not one of the bodies that littered the ground belonged to Bardok, not even the blood.
 
Maori had faced many enemies in his day. Mages, monsters, Thalmor, even bizarre nightmarish creatures in the bowels of Valenwood, birthed from the Wild Hunt itself. None could claim to match the brutish nature of Brund, or the level of lethal that he could. He used no thu'um as they fought, and to Daric's credit, he distracted the man enough that Maori placed three well placed shots between the thick insect plate armor Brund was wearing, and if anything it seemed to make him fight more fiercely. 

Daric didn't dare try deflecting any of Brund's blows. The pendulum swings of the weapon he called Alfrvega were slow, it was pointless to do so. And yet every time Daric attempted to close in with his twin swords, there it was again, threatening to split him in two. This time Daric fell to his back, ducking under Alfrvega, only to receive Brund's large boot crashing into his gut. The wind flew out of him so hard, Brund could smell his breath and feel his spittle. 

"You know what this name means? Elf Killer. When I cut you in two, I'll separate the elven part of you, and maybe, just maybe it'll be enough for Shor to receive you in Sovngarde. If so, I'll be able to tell you all about how I killed Baldur. When I claim that throne too!”

"You talk too much, oaf!" said Maori. Before Brund could react, a giant Chaurus broke through the Earth from under his feet, freeing the Breton boy and leaving Brund to fend for himself.

It was very short lived. Brund severed a leg from the thing's body, making it fall forward in the perfect position for Brund to split its head open with Alfrvega. It started to shake and spasm out of control, and suddenly the air was alive with a sound that resembled rain. The chaurus as it died, even with its head split open must've called out to its kind for help, because Brund was soon surrounded by a mass of smaller chaurus in all directions, popping out of the ground around him, and sounding like running water beneath his boots. 

Brund dropped Alfrvega to the ground, stomped repeatedly while screaming. His thu'um was strong, as strong as when the Thalmor reached Windhelm, and though blood fell from his nose, and oozed out from under his wounded briarheart, he seemed otherwise unhindered as he caused the very earthbones of Blackreach to tremble beneath the weight of his power. The insects, confused and unable to move properly ran around in chaos until the shaking finally ceased, and they ran away. Daric managed to climb the tendrils of a hanging mushroom, which he used to swing towards Brund and slash at his head. 

Brund's head tilted, dodging the blow before yelling in Daric's direction. No thu'um came, but it was enough to paralyze him. A Nord’s battlecry was intimidating as it was already. Brund’s pierced every inch of his senses. "Heh, what's wrong boy? You afraid? I can't blame you. You feel my power, and it is too much for you to bear."

"Snap out of it, Daric!" said Maori. He shot three more arrows in Brund's direction, but they only made contact with stone as Brund sent a boulder his way. He almost avoided it, but the top of his head brushed with it, knocking him out cold, possibly killing him. Daric still stood, shaking again.

"Pathetic. I'll tell Baldur of your cowardice just before I kill him too!"

Daric's mind was in another place as the words went through his head. The last time he was so afraid, was when he and Baldur were alone. Fighting.

Daric had argued, begged to Baldur to let him undergo the Grim Trials. Naturally, Baldur refused, for the longest time. It was certain death, he told him, for any boy to undergo them. Men with the strength of three Nords, with far more battle experience had died during the trials. 

Daric wouldn't hear it. So he disguised himself. He was short, even if tall for a Breton boy, there was no hiding that. But he did find a few powerful illusion scrolls in his campaigns against the forsworn, enough that he could make himself look like a grown man. And so he did. 

He regretted it almost immediately. The cold of the water was bad enough. He'd lost two of his toes to frostbite on the second week. His body was riddled in fresh scars from the blows of Nord adventurers and soldiers in the fights, one of which Baldur decided to jump in. Said he saw something in him, and wanted to see what he was made of. 

Daric thought he knew who he was, but it wasn't the case. It was only on that day that he knew just what it meant to be on the opposite end of Baldur's axes when he was serious. Baldur truly did not treat these duels they had as sparring matches. Baldur was trying to kill him. And he would have too, as Daric froze up just like he had now, and almost lost his head. If the illusion spell from the scroll didn't fade away at that very moment, Baldur would have killed his own apprentice.

He was beyond furious. He wanted to kill Daric anyway, as he once again laid on the infirmary bed of Kyne's Watch. But, Daric survived longer than he'd have ever expected him to. In fact, Baldur wondered if he wouldn't have gotten to the end, if not for his interference. He wouldn't know, not then. When Daric woke up from his coma after all the trauma, Baldur taught him something that just might save his life.

And as the blood dripped out of his hand, a self inflicted wound, he repeated his words. “If a man is stricken with so much fear that his body betrays him, pain can help him overcome it.” 

"Not bad, boy," said Brund. Touching his cheek to see how deep the cut was, he realized he could almost stick his finger through it. Daric managed to sidestep Alfrvega, and almost took Brund's head clean off, if not for Brund's instincts. Smiling, Brund said, "You're full of surprises. Something in you changed."

Daric felt that way too. He didn't know what it was, but he could feel it. His skin tingled, his vision blurred red, his hearing dulled. All he could see was Brund, and the image of him dead in his head. He charged Brund with both blades in his hand. Brund swung Alfrvega in his direction once more, and Daric fell to his back. This time however when Brund tried to stomp him into the dirt, Daric's boot made contact with his groin, then his hands, causing Brund to drop his weapon. 

Brund punched Daric in his stomach so hard, he dropped his blades, but Daric gave the Nord two punches of his own, sending one of his teeth flying out of his mouth. Daric grabbed Brund by the throat, and gave a roar that pierced Brund's ears so fiercely that he mistook it for the cry of a Nord. Daric's forehead hit Brund in the bridge if his nose again, and again, and again until his blood stung the boy's eyes and blinded him. He wiped his eyes, left Brund bloodied a moment and grabbed his dropped sword, bringing it high above his head before savagely hacking away at him. Brund put up his arms, blocking the blows as best he could. Tears flowed from his eyes as Daric continued his mad onslaught.

"ENOUGH!!!!" said Brund, as his armored arm collided with Daric's sword, knocking it away into the dark of Blackreach. Daric lost his sword, but Brund lost a finger, his pinky. Seeing it lie in the blue light of the large cave's mushrooms made Brund laugh with delight. He charged Daric, ignoring the blade he swung at him, grabbing the boy's head as he tried to crush it like a grape.

Daric couldn't even yell, the force of it overwhelming every sense he had with complete agony.

"Put him down!" 

Brund turned his head. It was Bardok. "Come on you freak. Face a real Nord, and put the boy down. Though between you and me, I think that boy's got more Nord in him than you do."

"More Nord than... than me?" said Brund. He dropped Daric like a rock, and from where Bardok stood, he looked dead already. Biting his lip, he looked around for the elf. Maori was out too.

"More Nord... than ME? Me? Do you not see what the **** I see? I make these things, these twisted elves, that Nords tell stories about to their children to scare them from adventuring in the woods, run like freshly fucked tavern wenches. I make the ground tremble when I roar. Motherfucker, I am the, most Nordic thing you've EVER seen."

"Oh I see it. I see a milkdrinker that borrows power from someone, something else and calls it his own."

"Borrows? You think what these elves fear is my thu'um? Ha! I come down here to exercise. I hunt, I kill with my own two hands. My hands and Alfrvega here. And this thu'um? I took it. I not only took it, I've harnessed it, made it my own. It's now better in my hands. I'll prove it to you in the end. Show you what I mean."

Brund turned to Daric then, reaching for his blue sash.

"Leave him be!" said Bardok.

"Be quiet, I'm proving a point. To show you just how wrong you are, I'm going to gag myself. I won't use my thu'um when I take you apart. But after I'm done, and you're on the ground, broken. Then, I'll show you something I haven't shown anyone yet. Not even the Priest."

Bardok smiled, not bothering to hide it. "The Priest won't ever see it then, because I killed him already."

"Hmph, is that what you think? Cute. You see, the Priest, when I first met him? He was already dead. My thu'um, and my thu'um alone is the reason he lives. Or at least, walks among us anyway. I found his lifeless body in a Forsworn crypt, remarkably preserved, thanks to one of these...."

Brund removed his breastplate, revealing the metal infused with his skin. Normally you couldn't see past it, but now it was glowing. As it did, the blue light of the mushrooms around them grew dim, and dark.

"All it took was energy to revitalize him. That's all it'll take again. He's my servant, for eternity. As you'll be, once I'm done making you my bitch."

"If that's the case, then shut the **** up and gag yourself already. Or I will. I'll kill you and make sure neither of you come back."

Brund opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. Instead, he did what he said he would. He tied his mouth closed, he even dropped Alfrvega at his feet, and walked forward to face Bardok, the man that almost bested Baldur at the Grim Trials.

"You're gonna face me without a weapon? Heh, fine then." Bardok summoned a spear from Oblivion to his hands, chucking them both at the same time in Brund's direction. Brund caught the first, but it dissipated when he claimed ownership of it. The second cut his shoulder, which he ignored, and two more spears came flying towards his eyesockets, one actually cutting the gag and making the cloth fall from his face. 

Seeing his trick, Brund was ready, charging Bardok and evading the other spear throws well enough to close the distance. Bardok's greatsword was in his hands before he could blink, already between him and his enemy, reaching for his exposed ribs. 

Brund sidestepped it, his hands reaching for Bardok's throat. Bardok knocked Brund in the chin with his sword hilt before slicing downwards. Brund knocked the blade aside with his gauntlet covered fists, then sent two quick punches deep into Bardok's ribs. Bardok countered with two of his own with one fist, and a one handed strike that was surprisingly quick, quick enough to put a cut on Brund's forehead. This continued for another ten seconds, both landing hits hard enough to crack bone, and possibly having already done so. But every wound Brund sustained seemed to make him fight harder, and stranger, he seemed to like it...

Brund left his left side open, and Bardok capitalized, jabbing his blade towards Brund's shoulder blade. Brund sidestepped again, punching downwards and knocking the blade down before sending a skull cracking shot into Bardok's left eye. Staggered, Bardok danced away on his feet, fists at the ready. Brund was laughing hysterically at the man's pain.

"All that talk, all that talk, show me!"

"As you wish!" As Brund charged Bardok again, Bardok placed a foot over his sword's hilt while his other foot went under the blade, kicking the sword up in the air, before catching it in his hands and swinging it all in one fluid motion that would have cut Brund almost in half. Brund didn't evade this time. In fact, he was waiting for a moment like this.

Brund ducked down to one knee, in the perfect position for Bardok to take his head off. Instead, Brund's armored fist met directly with his sword, cracking the blade in two. Before Bardok knew what happened, Brund's boot was at Bardok's chest, sending him crashing into the dirt.

Brund lifted his boot to stomp Bardok's ribs in, but Bardok's hand caught it every time. This time Brund leapt in the air and sent two boots crashing down into them both. Bardok took the broken blade and jabbed it in Brund's leg, making the mighty Brund collapse to the ground. Bardok painfully crawled over him, holding his throat as he attempted to pound Brund's face into gravel. He was three punches in before Brund's hands went around his skull, trying to gouge his eyes out.

Bardok struggled for a time, then bit one of his thumbs before he began devastating Brund's face some more. Brund may have been strong, but he wasn’t smiling or amused after those hits. One of them made him think Bardok busted his left eye. He heard a sick crack and could no longer see out of it.
Brund was dazed, and could only see red in his good and bad eye as he let out a cry so loud it made Bardok hesitate for half a second. That's all it took. Brund's hand grabbed Bardok's throat, crushing it as he pulled Bardok down to the side and did some pummeling of his own. His knees rested over Bardok's arms, and he could do nothing but take the full brunt of it.

Until a tiny ball of elf came tackling him out of nowhere. Maori finally woke up, and he was apparently hungry because he started taking actual chunks out of Brund as the two tussled. "Go! Take the kid and go! Gah!"

"******* elves! **** OFF!" said Brund as he tossed Maori into a stalagmite so hard that it crumbled away to nothing, leaving but a pile of rubble and one Maori beneath it. 

"Grrr.... that's IIIIITTTT!!!! EVERYONE DIES!"

"No elf, you go! Take this scroll, and leave! My orders were to make sure you two make it out of here, and that's what I'm going to do."
 
Bardok tossed the parchment in the air as Maori struggled to get from under it...

"No one is making it anywhere!" said Brund, who moved to intercept it. An arrow pierced it, shooting it out of his grasp. As he spoke, the earth began to shake. Brund charged Bardok, slamming a rock in his face that put him on his back. Maori ran for Daric's still form, and pulled open the scroll.
 
Brund, eyes wild and enraged turned back to Bardok who was still moving even after everything. Brund gripped his arms, lifting Bardok up to his feet, though he was too weak to do anything but laugh.

"I win," he said.

"No, I win. You think this changes anything? It changes nothing. They don't know half of what I can do, but you will know it first hand. Watch closely, elf. This is what awaits your Jarl, and you.”

Bardok was still laughing, until his very skin radiated with an indescribable pain. It was as if Brund found a way to physically tear apart each and every cell in Bardok’s body.. Brund opened his mouth and cried, “Fus Gol Strunmah, Fus Gol Strunmah, Fus Gol Strunmah, Dinok Wuth Zah, Zaami! Fus Gol Strunmah, Fus Gol Strunmah, Dinok Wuth Zah, Zaami!” His strength left his arms, as his body turned frail. As Bardok began to age, Brund's body began to heal, glowing in a faint green.

Bardok watched as black smoke from Brund's mouth continued to pour over him like volcanic ash. And then, it stopped. "What... have you done to me... you...******* khajiiti ***** licker.”

Cracking his neck and fingers, including his newly formed pinky, Brund said, "I did what I said I would. Made you my bitch."

The Priest's laughter filled Bardok's head as he came walking out of the shadows, his chest glowing like Brund's, his heart exposed for him to see. "He did to you what Lord Lorkhan did to the gods, made you close to the bones of the Earth. Marvelous! So, that, is Brund's thu'um huh… his true thu’um. He controls earth bones, harnesses natural energy. He can even absorb your natural energy, and revert you to earthbones, make you crumble into dust if he wanted. Lucky for you he stopped. Death may have been preferable, however.” 
 
“A perfect thu'um for a Briarheart. This is why I cannot lose. I am a walking god. And you, are Brund’s slave." Bardok and Maori both noticed the use of his own name as though he were talking about someone else. 

"The time of demon cheiftains has returned! Power resonates in the blood of mine ancestors! I feel them talking to me! And the voices of the dead gods of the earth! You will serve me! But don't worry, you'll be able to see your Jarl. I'll make sure you're there to watch him die."

Bardok could do nothing but scream in fury and anger as the earth swallowed him whole. When he next woke, he was somewhere dark, surrounded by the pained voices of Brund's other victims. Bardok was now amongst Brund's slave army of Markarth, in Cidhna Mine.
 
Maori had seen enough. When Brund’s eyes set on them, Daric said, “We’re dead. Kill me, kill me now before he does that to me too. I won’t be a slave.”
 
“No one’s enslaving anyone yet, kid. Just hold on.”
 
“Only because I’d rather you both die, actually,” said Brund. “Fus Gol STRUNMAH!!!”
 
And as he spoke, the earth began to shake. Maori pulled open the scroll. Earth began to come at him in multiple directions as he read the scroll, and before Brund turned them into a red paste, the two disappeared in a flash of purple. They were gone.
 
***

YOL TOOR!!

"That's about the greeting that I expected," said Ulrin, gritting his teeth. A fireball the size of a cabin consumed the icy ground it traveled over as it grew closer and closer. Ulrin drew his blade, a splendid one sided wonder the color of Septim gold. 

Ulrin struck the mound of flame with this sword, causing it to dissipate instantly, revealing his son amongst it, eyes full of so much hatred that they were bloodshot. His axe, hidden in his cloak appeared, and the two clashed once again for the first time in years. Ulrin fought defensively in the legion style, letting Baldur's fury reveal his movements, then capitalized, striking at his blindspot after working his way behind him.

Baldur was no longer in striking range, knowing his father's tricks, and now having the skill to evade them. Ulrin smiled in surprise as his son matched his wit, and the two continued like that for a time, not striking anything, unable to gain any quarter.

"You nearly killed me once, I'm not going to allow it again, my boy."

Baldur said nothing as the two stared at one another.

"My how you've grown. You know, I was under the impression that this would be the one place I could talk to you, given how the Greybeards are about peace and so on. You beat me once. Why can't you now? Why don't you speak?"

Baldur seemed as though he was reflecting on his words, but clearly he soon dismissed them.

Sighing, Ulrin took a look around the mountain, leaving his back exposed...

Baldur saw his moment to strike, but heard the echoes of the Greybeards in his mind...

"Ahh, I see it! The tear."

"Drem Yol Lok, stranger, greetings. You stand before the Time Wound. Tread carefully."

“Of course, of course. I just wanted to see it for myself, while I’m here. How incredible… Baldur, what do you think about… Son?”
 
Baldur kept staring at him with the same hateful eyes as before, but no words came, none that Ulrin could understand.
 
“I don’t understand… I’d heard communication might be difficult. My Lord mentioned as much. But this is… Dragon? Paarthysnacks was it?”
 
“Paarthurnax. Drem Yol Lok, traveller. The Ashen One is under training. He won’t speak to you unless it is through the thu’um, voice.”
 
“Pfft. I can see now that we’re going to need to have this conversation…. Elsewhere. But on such short notice… hmm, I don’t know if I can pull that off… Hmm…”
 
“Tinvaak….Onlkaan….. UTH!”

“The Ashen One says…”
 
“Wait… I understood that… I don’t know how, but I did,” said Ulrin. “How did I get past the wind gates, he said. Simple, boy. I climbed.” Baldur was visibly impressed but immediately hid it. He tried the shout once more, again with laboured breath. 
 
“Tinvaak….Onlkaan...UTH!”
 
“Don’t stress yourself about it, you’ll see soon. Sit down, relax, stop trying to kill me, and… that… that ring, is it… where did you get this?” asked Ulrin, walking up to Baldur and snatching the ring from his finger. 
 
Baldur reached for his collar as his father paced away. “You even know what this is? Ring of Malacath on my boy’s finger? Bah! But this, this is a good thing. Maybe it was even meant to be this way… lets see…”
 
Ulrin got on his knees, as though praying, chanting daedric while drawing a circle and diagrams in the snow around Baldur’s ring he obtained from the old Orc in the woods. Paarthurnax to Baldur’s amusement lost interest and dosed off. He thought Dragons didn’t even sleep before he stepped on this mountain, but Paarthurnax slept more than newborn babes when talking was no longer the activity of the hour.
 
He eventually snapped out of his nap when Baldur’s ring literally exploded before them.
 
“My lady speaks!” said Ulrin. “Prepare yourself.”
 
What happened next, Baldur was unsure of. He remembered his head landing face first in the snow, then everything growing black… Then he was in a forest, surrounded by monstrosities he was sure he’d seen before. Then, he was falling in the sky, before a giant Hawk grabbed him by the talons. A snake with its mouth agape remained below. 
 
“I’m dreaming. I must be dreaming. I remember this dream! In… Hammerfell? I was falling, and Kyne saved me… She-”
 
As he spoke, the Hawk suddenly was struck by lightning, releasing Baldur, where he was forced to watch as he fell towards the maw of the snake, licking its non existent lips, eyes cold as Baldur screamed the entire way down….

What in the... **** is going on??

Baldur was sleeping... for... gods, who knew how long. What woke him was the tickle of ash falling on his cheek. When his eyes opened, the smell of sulfur and smoke, and... burning flesh filled his nostrils.

"Stand. Speak. The Greybeard's hold on you won't work in this place."

"What hold?" said Baldur, holding his aching head.

"What, did you not notice that you could speak?" asked Ulrin.

"I already could speak," said Baldur. "But thanks for dragging me to hell anyway, it's a fitting location for your new grave. Where in Oblivion are we, and how do I get back!?"

Ulrin said, "Heh, you broke their hold on your own. So you not talking..."

"I don't want them to know, and this method of theirs for growing in the thu'um, I want to learn it. I will learn as much as I can from them, and take it with me. It did make talking difficult though, but they’re slowly losing their hold over me. Now, why have you dragged me here? How are you alive?"

"This is, Bo-Eth-Ia. I am his...her.... Servant. This has been my home for years since the day I… died.. You... all that I've put you through, every hardship you endured as a child, every cruelty, I did it to make you strong, in the ways of Boethiah. This sword... it's for you. Great betrayer. I know you killed your King. She knows, and she is pleased."

Baldur spat in his face. "You... you know nothing! Know nothing about me or what I've done!"

"But son, I do! I've been turning you towards this path ever since you were born. This sword, I've been holding it since after the days of the Great War. It played a role then, and aches to play a role in the next. Your mother, did she ever tell you what she saw? Her dream of a snake crawling over you as a baby? You were chosen, to be one of her champions! You have any idea what an honor that is? What warrior also holds such prestige?”

"**** your prestige," said Baldur. "You... milkdrinking, treacherous cur. You let a Daedra have her hands in my upbringing. Do you know what that might mean? I could’ve… what if I did what I did at the whim of a Daedra Lord? Is that what happened? TELL ME!"

Ulrin stepped closer, holding out the sheathed sword in front of him. "I did. But Boethiah would not make you take any course. That would not interest her. You are like this already. It is your nature. You are always at odds with your fatherly figures in one way or another. Perhaps that's common for some but few can claim to have tried to kill two of them. Why do you think that is, boy? You’re special. You, are Shezzarine. This blade, it was forged in dragonfire. It suits you, and the task before you."

"My task..." said Baldur. “Shezzarine.”

"Yes," said Ulrin. "And I know about that too. And it delights Boethiah to no end. The treachery, the betrayal. To everyone. Even your own men... It mirrors Lorkhan perfectly. The Empire, the Bretons, they'll all come fighting willingly at your side. But none will know what is in store for them in the bowels of Valenwood. Many will die, including you, unless you have an advantage. This sword, is your advantage. Do this task in her name, and she will grant you knowledge of Shor. You will be a Priest of Lorkhan!"

"You mean a Priest of Boethiah. Her servant. Her slave, in death. I will not do it, I don't need your crutch."

"Don't be stupid! Listen to me, this is your destiny!"

"No! My destiny is my own to unfurl. I will decide how things go. Take that sword and shove it up your ass."

"If not for yourself, then do it for my grandchild."

Baldur's eyes looked up sharply. "Your grandchild, is none of your concern."

"But she is. You want her to grow up without a father? Or with another man raising her in your stead? That woman, Rebec, she is strong. She's not the eternal mourning type. She'll remarry more than likely, whether she wants to or not, or shack up with some other man, or men. She's just like your mother..."

Now Baldur did take the sword. It was at Ulrin's neck before he could utter another word. Laughing Ulrin said, "See? You're drawn to it. You want it, it belongs to you." 

Baldur shook his head, then after some time and great effort, chucked the blade in a flowing lava channel below them. "Like I said, take that sword and shove it up your ass. Crawl back into Boethiah's bowels, and let me go home."

"Brund... you know I knew him back in the day. I met him recently too. His power is immense, and still growing. You, you both are special. I should've killed him years ago when I had the chance, but I couldn't have known this would happen. Forces are making their way into this world like we've never seen in eras. The Bretons, the Empire, Redguards, they'll find power too. As will the elves. The Nords need to match them. We need more power. If you don't take that sword, Brund will end you. And for the sake of Skyrim, perhaps he should. If you aren't willing to do anything that must be done to win this arm's race."

"You... you and the Greybeards, my enemies, you're always constantly underestimating me. Boethiah... if she has such interest in me, then watch me. See what I can do. I may not be an all powerful ancient mage king, or an elite werewolf assassin. I may not have the strongest thu'um, or be a destruction master with the tact and knowledge of a Legate. I'm not a lot of things, but what I am, is cunning. And with my intellect, with the way that I see things, I will bring this world to its knees, and then cut the Thalmor from it. Watch, and learn."

As he spoke, another portal opened before them, and the ground rumbled beneath them.

"Heh, it seems Boethiah believes you," said Ulrin, smiling.

"Good. I'm going to claim what is mine now. Oh and, about what I'm planning. IF we cannot defeat the Thalmor conventionally, and I truly must unleash the Wild Hunt, there's one thing you haven't considered, father."

"The Grim Ones," said Ulrin.

"Yes. This is their purpose."

"You'll sacrifice them? Your men? Your friends?"

"That is our role. They were always going to die. We. If need be. That's our purpose. That's why they have that name. And each and every last one knows this. Goodbye, again, Ulrin."

"Goodbye son. If you change your mind, pray to Boethiah, give her an offering. Maybe she'll speak to you, and give you another chance to accept her gift."

".... we'll see," said Baldur.

With that, he was gone. When his eyes awoke once more, Paarthurnax was still asleep, and his father was gone. Whether any of it happened or not, he was unsure. He would ask Paarthurnax when the elderly dragon awoke. Sitting in the snow, Baldur’s memories went back to his wife, remembering his words:
 
As for Ulfric, no one watches him more closely. He would have stood in my way. Contrary to popular belief, his heart is soft. The harsh decisions made in the civil war, Galmar was behind that. Then it was me. This war is bigger than any of that, and it requires more sacrifice than what he was able to give. He’d risk everything we’ve fought for, everything we’ve built. I couldn’t let him.
 
So go ahead, let it out. Tell me what I did was wrong, that I’m evil. Go ahead! But know I’d do it again. Because I REFUSE to let anything else tear my family apart! And when I am king, there will be nothing that I cannot do.
 
Baldur couldn’t hold back his own disgust. 
 
Great betrayer. Shezzarine my ass.
 
The battle of Windhelm came next:
 
"Your King just died, and now you're pissing off the top of his palace."
 
I'm nothing if not consistent. 
 
"You were close to Ulfric, yet you don't seem terribly broken up over his death, Red-Snow.”
 
Careful what you suggest. I honor my friend and king with blood, not tears. It will be the same for all Nords in the coming year. Now, I suggest we do as you said and get back to killing elves.
 
GREAT BETRAYER. AE HERMA MORA CE ALTADOON. AE BO-ET-IA CE ALTADOON.
 
A voice repeating that phrase filled his mind, along with the image of a woman lying in a lake of fire behind his father, beckoning him to join her, where he’d thrown her sword. A mark appeared on his hand, a small brown wavy thing, almost like a birthmark, resembling a flowing river maybe, or...

Baldur immediately pulled out his axe, heating it with his thu'um before attempting to burn it off. When the metal touched his skin, and nothing happened, he began to laugh as if crazed, tears in his eyes as he dropped the axe in the snow. Scratching madly, his wife's words popped in his head, thinking about the woman again in the lake of fire.
 
I don’t understand it. But I wish he’d taught papa, too. I watched him burn alive with my own eyes. Fire took my ship, and now my father. You don’t go thinking it can’t take you, too.
 
I won’t, you won’t take me. I won’t. ****!
 
Standing up abruptly, Baldur let his tears fall from his face, as he screamed in agony of the pain he felt, a sick feeling in his gut. Even with his justifications, he’d attracted the attention of the great betrayer herself. A Daedra Lord. Even as he’d rebelled against his father’s plans, it seemed he was still following them. Forever a slave to someone, something’s intentions.
 
“TINVAAK ONLKAAN UTH! TINVAAK ONLKAAN UTH! TINVAAK ONLKAAN UTH!”
 
NO! NO ONE’S INTENTIONS BUT MY OWN I GO FORWARD, AND NO ONE WILL CLAIM OWNERSHIP OF MY DEEDS BUT I! NOT EVEN YOU, BOETHIAH! I HAVE MY WIFE'S CONFIDENCE. I HAVE MY DAUGHTER'S LOVE. I'LL NOT FAIL, I WON'T!

After rasping out this decree in draconic, he let loose a burst of flame that threatened to claim the very sky. Then, he repeated the shout, Tinvaak Onlkaan Uth... until he began turning blue in the face, then until he could no longer stand. Then, he shouted some more. Tinvaak. Onlkaan. Uth. Until his throat was hoarse, and his energy drained. As he collapsed, Paarthurnax watched him. Occasionally melting the snow away from his limp body until he awoke, and repeated the same process, day and night. And so he would remain, until the Jarls of Skyrim came. The moot was finally about to commence.
 
As for Daric and Maori, the duo had appeared back in Windhelm, directly in front of what would be Baldur’s throne. Or Brunds….
 
First they were running for their lives. Now they would soon be running to beat Brund up the mountain, to warn Baldur of the might that is Brund Hammer-Fang. Demon Chieftain of Markarth.

[Witchking of Angmar]

Ingun Black-Briar
Riften

"I cannot believe this is actually happening," Bersi Honey-Hand told her in that amiable voice of his. "I spent years answering to Maven Black-Briar and her thugs. Years being bullied and robbed until finally their war cost my family everything we owned. And now its one of her own kin who's helped me get it back."
Near the growing dockside, the new general store would soon be Riften's first business with an actual roof over its head. Ingun had already fronted Bersi the money he needed to purchase his first two rounds of merchandise, with rather generous terms in regards to the payback. If all went well, his door would open early next week. "There's a lesson in all this, to be sure. Though not one I expected to learn from one of you. No offense, of course."

"I'm not offended," Ingun assured. She decided not to mention the fact that the rest of her family probably would not have been offended either. "Are you expecting a big opening day?"

"Am I?" The balding pawnbroker's grin was ear-to-ear as he ran a hand along his smooth new pinewood countertop for the third time since she'd arrived. "Riften's citizens ain't had a proper place to buy anything in months. This shipment will bring in books, tools, toys for the children... There's a lot that needs replacing. And with fishermen finally back on the lake and the loggers hard at work, money is finally starting to circulate again. Me'n Drifa suspect the first shipment will be sold out days before the second is even scheduled to arrive."

"That is great to hear." Ingun laid a slip of paper down on the table next to Bersi's fingers. "If you haven't already sent out your orders for the third, I would like to request some items. They aren't much, or particularly hard to come by."

"Five pounds of mandrake root," Honey-Hand read from the top of the slip. "Three new mortar and pestle sets, two calcinators, a stone alembic, a silver knife, twenty blisterwort caps..." The merchant paused and looked up at her. "... half a pound of bonemeal?"

Ingun nodded. She'd known he would inquire about that. "It's for-"

"I know what it's for," Bersie interrupted. "The rest of the order makes it clear enough. But my Whiterun suppliers do not run in the sort of circles you're used to dealing with. Where in Shor's name are they supposed to get their hands on such things? How am I to afford someone else's services when they can't?"

"By charging me double whatever it takes to get your hands on them."

"Ingun," Honey-Hand signed, "I'll get you everything on your list. It's really the least I can do. But don't you have other things to do than spend hours brewing potions? More important things, like your own business? Or that elf child you've taken under your wing?"

"Sovi's fine," Ingun said, suddenly defensive. "I've been teaching her how to detect potion attributes, and how to separate the good ones from the bad. These things aren't harmful, Bersi. It's good for her to know them. Especially since if she is to continue helping with the sick."

That put a the smile back on Bersi's face. "Alright, alright... Such a good heart in that one. Did you know her parents? Maramal and Dinya?" Ingun shook her head, so the merchant continued. "They were good people. Possibly the best in Riften... If you ever need help with little Sovi, just say the word. Me'n Driffa ain't swimming in gold like she's like to be growing up in your house, but we'll still spoil her rotten any time you leave her here."

"And I'm sure she would love for me to take you up on that," Ingun laughed. "It is good to see things going so well, Bersi. I'll stop by again when you're open. Until then, farewell."

"Farewell, friend." Honeyhand waved to her as she pushed open his door. "And remember, tell your friends about the Pawned Prawn!"

Ingun exited onto fresh planks that still smelled of the forest they'd been cut in. All around her, Riften was abuzz with the sounds of saws, hammers, wheel carts, and shovels. The restoration was in full motion at this point. The dockside wall had been torn down, southern Riften remained completely in ruins, and most people in the northern districts still lived in tents. But they were working now. Whether it was outside the city in one of the logging camps or inside it helping with the restoration, every strong and able body had something to do for coin. Those who were less physically inclined found work on the lake or near the new docks, catching and selling fish or collecting salmon roe. Some of the Dunmer had taken to gathering the ash toward the eastern side of the city so that they could put it to use as soil in their ash farms, which yielded strange vegetables and roots that tasted awful but could fill the belly for cheap.

All-in-all, Riften was moving in the right direction even faster than she could've possibly imagined. They had a long way to go yet, but Ingun couldn't help feeling proud to see the city and people she had grown up with coming back to life with so much energy. And a small part of her was prouder still that she got to play such a major role in it all. Of course, that was a fact that the ever-grateful people of Riften had not let her forget. Everywhere Ingun walked, she received a random "thank you" from some passerby, and even when she returned to her tent at night, there were always new letters of appreciation from various men and women who were finally on their feet again thanks to the work she was creating. A part of Ingun had to wonder if her brother would have gotten this sort of love if he'd gotten the chance to enact these plans himself. She wanted to believe that Riften's people would have never accepted him back after what he and Maven put them through, but here she was, a Black-Briar, loved by many despite of all her family's sins. Money was a powerful thing.

Although to Riften's credit, not everyone had been so quick to jump behind the idea of Ingun suddenly getting behind every aspect of the rebuilding. It turned out that there were more than a few families in Riften who were unaware that she had been living among them at all, or that she had spent that time working with Sovi to heal their countrymen. Most of these people had been quite vehement in their desire to see her as far away from their city as possible. Others were heard saying that they would prefer a sharper, more permanent solution. She'd had no choice then to post a couple of Naspel Sintav's guards outside her door at night, and to have one of his sellswords from Windhelm shadow her during the day. 
Thankfully, nothing ever came of the threats, and after Ingun's ventures started to really pay off, and it became more and more apparent that she was not making any moves to exploit or endanger the people of Riften, even the dissenters started to lay off.

Of course, most of Riften's residents had fled to Shor's Stone, Ivarstead, or Eastmarch. The latter two were difficult to reach without sparing guards to ward off bandits, but the camps belonging to the former were close enough that Ingun had been able to establish regular communication with them within days of her agreement with Naspel. The refugees in Shor's Stone had reacted similarly to the dissenters in Riften when they'd heard her news. Thankfully, Aerin was the one leading them, and he was willing to vouch for her, bringing most of them back into the fold.

Now if we could just do something about the damned bandits, thought Ingun as she made her way through their ramshackle 'market district' and back to her new house. The two-room hovel was a quaint thing when compared to the wide, multi-floor mansion that her uncle had built when the Black-Briars were first on the rise, but it was a more than adequate place to call home in a city that had less than two dozen intact buildings. Besides, it was only temporary. She could live here for a few years while her money went elsewhere, but once Riften got to where it could effectively manage without her constant spending and loaning, Ingun would build herself what would likely be the first proper house in the revived southern district. This one would either be sold or converted into an alchemy lab. 
Unfortunately, right now it was nothing so interesting. There were two beds on the left side of the first room, and a hearth in the center. Right of the hearth was a dinner table, and behind it was a door leading to her alchemy laboratory.
"Sovi," Ingun called, knowing where the girl would be. "I'm back!"

The door to the alchemy chamber cracked open, and Dunmer child's big red eyes appeared behind it. She stared at Ingun for a few moments and then she stepped out into the light, revealing bright orange stains on her dress.
"You're a mess, you know that?"

Sovi's gray lips turned up to form a smile.

"Well at least tell me you made something good."

The girl nodded enthusiastically and motioned for Ingun to follow her into the lab, which she did. The room wasn't much. She had a few barrels and two cupboards for storage, and a stone counter for brewing. Currently, that counter was dripping with the same orange liquid that Sovi wore. Ingun sniffed and found that it smelled earthy, like pine, but with a dab of garlic, and most notably, some form of rot. "Shor have mercy, child, what is this stuff?"

Before Ingun could investigate further, someone knocked on the front door. She just shook her head at the mess and returned to the main room. Ingun correctly guessed that the visitor would be Naspel Sintav before she even opened the door. "Good tidings, Lady Ingun," the Colovian greeted as she allowed him inside. He was carrying a stack of books and papers, with a letter on top. "Very good tidings! From me and from Cyrodiil."
He handed her the letter, and then paused when he spotted Sovi still standing in the lab. "Hello Sovi."

The child smiled, waved at him, and then hurriedly shut the door. Ingun rolled her eyes, hoping the girl would at least clean up her mess before making a new one. "Good morning, Naspel."

Sintav was still looking at the closed door. "Isn't that your alchemy lab?"

"Aye," Ingun frowned. "Don't worry, she knows better than to touch the dangerous stuff. I was her age when I brewed my first potion."

The Imperial drew breath to say something, but then seemed to stop himself. "Right."

Right. Ingun thought, slightly annoyed. She'd heard this lecture before. "So what am I holding?"

Sintav's tone changed at once. "That, Lady Ingun, is from a man named Islod Rosentia, of Bruma. He was one of the original investors that Sibbi contacted. He's is interested in dealing with you now, and has offered to cross the border and meet with you in Falkreath."

Ingun's heart skipped a beat. Another wealthy investor could provide the exact sort of boost that she need in to rebuild the meadery and finally put Riften back on the map. But as desperate as she was, Ingun had watched her grandmother enough to know that she needed to handle this calmly, professionally. She could not give this Islod fellow the impression that he was dealing with someone of lower status than himself, or worse, that she needed him. "Send him a letter expressing my gratitude for his interest in Riften's wellbeing," Ingun said, "And inform him that in order to properly negotiate this partnership, he must either come to Riften himself or send an emissary in his stead. I am sure he will understand that I am far too busy to leave this city just now. Also, be sure to remind him of the bandit threat, so he does not come unguarded."

"I'll get to it." The Colovian replied, turning to leave, "Have you spoken to Bersi yet?"

"I just left his store. He is optimistic."

"As well he should be. This is a big week for him. We'll be having lots of those in the near future."

The Cyrodiilic noble smiled and left the house, and Ingun's attention returned to the alchemy lab. Time to see what we've gotten into today.

***

It was not men, but wolves who tended to the corpses at Faldar's Tooth. Few of the victorious bandits bothered to return to their old home after they'd loaded themselves down with spoils from Riften. Of those who did, none were willing to take on the burden of granting the dead Arkay's rights. The result was a foul-smelling boneyard many times the size of the fabled field of Imperial dead in Falkreath.
The fort itself still stood as strong as ever. Maven's dog had broken the gate, but the ancient walls had survived the battle unscathed. Now, for the first time since Riften's fall, a bandit chieftain walked inside them again.

"Here," Hrokvild barked, pointing his black warhammer at the kennels where he had once kept his pets. His men were far fewer in numbers than they had been before Riften, but those still with him were loyal, and they obeyed his orders without question. Little Lud grabbed their prisoner by his collar and and tossed him into the cage. He tried to scream, but the gag choked it down to a low muffle.
"You should be honored, Outlander," the chieftain said, grinning cruelly, "I'm letting you sleep in the same cage as my favorite wolves." He nodded over his shoulder at the four bodyguards that had accompanied the man, all similarly bound and gagged. "And you're going to have it a lot better than this lot."

Hrokvild's men lined the four up, and without another word, the chieftain crushed their skulls in the name of Shor. When he was done, his boots and gauntlets were painted with red, and the terrified prisoner was laying in the dirt, sobbing. "Cheer up, Islod," Hrokvild laughed. "After all, you get to live. And believe me, this is for a good cause." He left the man to his tears and made his way into the keep. Hopefully, he would only have to do this another time or two before the message would be worth sending. Hrokvild did not wish to remain in this place any longer than necessary. It brought back bad memories.

***

Two months after responding to Islod Rosentia's letter, Ingun was awakened by Sovi gently shaking her arm. "Huh? What's the matter?"

A loud knock on her door answered that question. Ingun rubbed her eyes and peered out her window to see that it was still nighttime. Something was wrong. "Go to the lab, Sovi." 
Barefoot, Ingun got up made her way over to the front door, grabbing a fur cloak to throw around her nightgown. She answered just as the knocking started again. Before her stood Arnath, Naspel, and a terrified-looking woman in robes who she'd never seen before.

"This lady has a message for you," the Arnath muttered, his red eyes set in a scowl.

"Y- You're Ingun B-B-Black-Briar?" the woman asked. Her accent was distinctly southern, though it was hard to tell where from due to the quiver in her voice.

"Aye," Ingun said, stepping aside so they could enter. "What's this about?"

"H-H-He He k-killed everyone," the woman stammered. "Gerard, Fathis, B-B-Borli."

"She don't know what you're talkin' about," Arnath said. "Start from the beginning. What you told me."

Ingun shot Arnath a look and then led the terrified woman to take a seat at the table, motioning for Arnath and Naspel to do the same. Once everyone was seated, Ingun met the Imperial woman's wide brown eyes. "What's your name?"

"V-Vialda," the woman answered, clearly trying to slow herself down. "I'm fr-... I'm from Cyrodiil."

"She's from the Imperial City," Naspel added. Ingun noticed that there was a tinge of nervousness in his own voice as well. "She's with the priesthood of Arkay."

"Just a servant," Vialda said. "We... we came to bring you the b- the bones."

"Bones?" Ingun's brow went up, and the woman nodded.

"Yes, I'm sorry. I'm- I'm not usually- Borli's the one who normally tells- I-"

"Slow down," Ingun said. "Take a breath and then talk."

Vialda nodded and did as she was bid. When she was ready, she spoke again, "Sibbi Black-Briar is dead. We were supposed to bring you his bones."

Ingun was surprised by her own lack of surprise. A part of her had always figured this was the case, as only death would have kept her brother from returning to claim what he felt was his. She might have felt relieved if not for the fact that something horrible had clearly happened to this woman's group. 
"Were you attacked?"

Vialda nodded her head. "Just north of the lake. Th-They killed my friends-... the big one with the red hair. He told me to find you. T-Told me to give you the letter." She started to cry. "Divines. Why did he kill my friends?"

Ingun looked at Naspel and Arnath. The latter produced a piece of parchment and handed it to her. She unfolded it and read.

I have seen what you're doing with Riften. Seems that the Black-Briar name was worth more than I had even thought. It has made me regret losing you in the first place, so I have taken a few new guests to fill the void you left behind. Their names are Islod Rosentia, Humilus Lex, Driffa Honey-Hand, and Minerva Gray. There are a few others, too. Some of their escorts, a couple farmers, and pile of bones that used to belong to Sibbi Black-Briar.

Return to me at Faldar's Keep, and I will let all of them go. You have until Sundas. If you bring an army, I will kill them all and dump their corpses in the lake along with your brother's bones. Do not fret, Black-Briar. This will be like old times.

"This person knows you," said Naspel. "Who in Stendarr's name is he?"

"The man who sacked Riften." Ingun stood up and started to pace, but she could hardly think straight over Vialda's weeping. "Naspel, find her a bed and some food, and take Sovi with you. Arnath and I have things to discuss."

At first the Colovian appeared ready to protest, but a hard look from Arnath was enough to convince him not to. "Yes m'lady." He stood up. "Do you want me to inform Bersi that his wife has been captured?"

"No," Ingun said. "I will do it myself." She went over and opened the lab door to find Sovi sitting on the floor with her little toy wolf. "I am going to need the house to myself for a bit. You go on with Naspel. Take care of him, and the lady he's with, okay?"

The elf child looked worried, but she nodded and silently followed the Imperials when they left the house. After the door was shut, Arnath voiced his opinion. "You ain't goin'."

Ingun clutched the letter. "He has Driffa."

"Aye, and it's a damned shame. Nevertheless, Riften needs you far more than we need her. And the other three are strangers. Not worth your life."

"I doubt it's my life he wants," she said. "Hrokvild is greedy and ambitious, but he's not mad. He is doing this because he knows I'm still worth something even when all the rest of my family is dead."

"Shouldn't he be rich enough, though? This is the fellow who looted Riften at his leisure. He killed the Jarl!"

"It is strange, isn't it? I'd have thought he of all people would've been on some beach in Hammerfell at this point." Ingun shrugged. "It does not matter. We can't let him kill Driffa, and those three strangers are all investors from Cyrodiil. Members of powerful families. Their help will be invaluable to the restoration efforts."

"Well you ain't goin' at this alone. Me'n my boys will do whatever you need."

"No armies. And besides, the more men we have on the walls, the better. This could be a trick to draw some of us out while they come back into the city. It would be just like Hrokvild to do all this just so he could be remembered for sacking Riften twice. In fact, tell everyone to be on alert, and maybe borrow some of Naspel's sellswords to help fill some gaps."

"Will do, but Hrokvild's demand... You ain't walking up there without a plan."

They spent the rest of the night discussing how they would proceed, ironing out every detail. When Arnath finally left, Ingun's mind was waging war with itself, with one side wanting to go over everything a dozen more times, and the other screaming at her to go to sleep. Sleep eventually won out, and Ingun returned to her bed feeling like the weight of the world was on her shoulders.

***

The little cart appeared along the road just a day after his message had been sent. At first, Hrokvild had taken its driver to be Ingun, but as the person passed, it became obvious that he was a man. No, an elf.
The chieftain watched from the battlements as Jon and Lud approached the traveling mer, killed his horse, took his cart, and led him back to the fort. Hrokvild was annoyed by the the waste of a good horse, even so, he went down to the broken gate and greeted them with a warm grin. "What's this, an ash skin in the forest? I'd have thought your kind would stick to Riften, seeing as how much it should remind you of your homeland these days."

The dark elf looked more frustrated than offended. "These supplies are for Ivarstead. They'll go hungry without 'em."

"So will we," the chieftain confessed. "They'll survive. Spring will bring them a new crop."

"Not enough for all the refugees. And when the Moot is called, they'll be housing half the nobles in Skyrim."

Moot? Hrokvild frowned. He knew of High King Ulfric's death, but this was the first time he'd heard that the Moot would be held so close by. Surely this means it will be held on High Hrothgar. He wasn't sure if that was a good idea or a really stupid one. And frankly, he did not care. If every Jarl in Skyrim was bound for the Rift, it was all the more reason to finish this business quickly.
"Thanks for the supplies," said the chieftain. He nodded at Lud, who shoved the mer to his knees. "Unfortunately, our guest rooms are full, and my ancestors would beat me bloody if I kicked someone out to house an elf."

The Dunmer lifted something to his mouth, and then the little bastard vanished before Hrokvild's eyes! He heard a scuffle in the dirt, and swung his hammer at it to no avail. "Someone guard the supplies! Damnit, I thought you two searched him!"

"For weapons!" Lud answered, drawing his sword. "Didn't expect him to know fuckin' magic!"

"It wasn't magic, idiot! It was a potion." Hrokvild's eyes scanned the courtyard, looking for any shimmers or disturbances, but he found nothing. "Orkey take his skinny ass," the chieftain growled. "If he wants to scurry back to Riften empty-handed, let him. We'll be gone soon anyway. What's the haul?"

"Lota food," answered Jon. "And a cask of mead."

Hrokvild licked his lips. There hadn't been much mead in the Rift since the people who brewed it were all dead. "Take it all to the storeroom. And don't you dare touch that mead. We're saving that." He turned his attention back to the courtyard. Several of his men had turned their attention inwards at the commotion. "I want all of you to keep your eyes peeled for the grey skin. There's always the chance that Black-Briar sent him undercover to free the prisoners. Do not let that happen. If the bitch wants to see her friends, she will need to come here herself."

***

It was the dawn of Loredas when Ingun set out to answer Chief Hrokvild's demands. She had chosen to go alone and unarmored, so the bandits would not mistake her intent. The only weapons she carried were a potion of speediness, a steel dagger (poisoned), and her limited repertoire of very basic spells. She knew that this was a big risk, but it was only through taking these risks that a business like her family's could ever come to be. Her own great uncle and his daughter had actually dealt with bandits in person many years ago, and it was through those dealings that the family first came to power. She needed to be like them. Fearless. Ruthless.

She found Naspel waiting by the main gate. The Colovian tried to talk her out of this for the third time, but she refused. And instead left him with instructions. "If I don't make it, you need to stay here. No running back to Cyrodiil. Riften needs all the help it can get, and I want you to continue with our work."

"But-"

"And you are to see that Sovi is well taken care of. Bersi Honey-Hand can help with that. When she comes of age, I would have everything under the name of 'Black-Briar' transferred over to her."

"What? I... can't! Sovi's a sweet girl, but she's an elf! And mute, besides! People wouldn't like-"

"I don't care what people would like," Ingun snapped. "Sibbi is dead. That means that I am now the full and uncontested owner over all Black-Briar holdings and it is my will that they be relinquished to Sovi in the event that I die without having any children of my own. The documents are in the house. I will hear no more on the matter."

Naspel nodded. "At least bring some of the sellswords with you. Or my men-at-arms."

"Hrokvild said to come alone. He'll kill the others if I don't."

"They can hold back and keep their distance. Yalvik is a good scout."

"And if they slip up and get seen? The bandits know the woods better than anyone." She shook her head. "No. I'm doing this alone."

The Colovian nodded. "Then I wish you all the gods' luck."

"Thank you."
Ingun did not want to linger. She found her horse in the stable, mounted up, and off at a brisk trot. The path west ran between Lake Honrich and the forests, first passing through a few abandoned farmsteads before turning into the utter wilderness that marked bandit territory. Elsewhere in Skyrim, the winter snows might have been giving way to some green, but here in the Rift, Kyne's blessings had left the trees perpetually golden. It made for a very peaceful journey, all things considered, though Ingun was too anxious to appreciate it.
When she neared her destination some hours later, she was 'welcomed' by a pair of bandits wearing plate armor, both of whom Ingun recognized but could not recall by name. The larger one, a lad of perhaps nineteen or years, smiled and helped her down from her horse.

"Been a while, Lady Black-Briar. The chief will be glad to know you've come."

"We sure are," said the other, a blonde and rather muscular woman, "Can't wait to leave this dump. Anyway, you know how this goes. Hand over the toothpick."

Ingun drew her dagger and gave it away. "Careful with the blade. It's poisoned."

"Thanks for the warning." The bandit produced a cloth and wrapped the dagger in it. "Now take off your coat. Lud's gonna pat you down. Make sure you ain't hiding nothin'."

Ingun consented and allowed them to search her. They found the potion of speediness. It wasn't labeled, but they took it anyway. "Chief told us to look for things like this," Lud explained. "A merchant used one to slip away from us a few days back. Can't have you doing the same."

When they were satisfied that Ingun was not a threat, the bandits had her follow them to Faldar's Tooth on foot while the woman rode her horse. Ingun let out a gasp when they arrived. Corpses upon corpses were strewn about around the fort and trees beyond. Most of them had been devoured by wild animals until only the bones remained. Others had been burned black or rotted inside their armor. Shredded blues of the Stormcloaks and purples of Riften dotted the field in some places, and many a broken weapon lay rusted in the dirt. The front gate was still broken, but the walls were guarded. 

As she passed through the courtyard, Ingun noticed that there were people in the kennels instead of wolves. Driffa Honey-Hand watched her through the bars alongside a few less familiar faces out of Riften and several complete strangers, including a few Imperials. Among them was a grey-haired woman with youthful features and a frown that reminded Ingun of Maven. She stood out among the prisoners as the only one not visibly scared or nervous, though she didn't exactly look happy to be there either. Ingun saw plenty of bandits too, their eyes silently following her from all over the courtyard until she finally escaped into the keep.
"This way," Lud said, and then he led her to and up the winding stairs to the same tower that Hrokvild had quartered in before. Though now, it was notably less furnished. It was warm inside, on account of the hearth at the center of the room. The chieftain awaited her at in a chair beside it. His mithril armor was as shiny and covered in bones and monster furs as ever. The troll-skull pauldron was gone now, but he made up for it with the new neckless that dropped well below his massive red beard and seemed to consist of actual dried up tongues. 

"Look at this," said Hrokvild, "I find myself graced once again with the presence of Ingun Black-Briar. Now the last Black-Briar." He motioned at Lud and the other one. "Leave us." 
After the henchmen were gone, the chieftain beckoned for her to come and take a seat by the fire. "It feels like it's been much longer than it has, don't you agree?"

Ingun remained standing. "I will talk to you when the people outside have been set free," she said coldly. "That was the arrangement and you will honor it."

"It was the arrangement, aye." He grinned in that annoying way that she remembered, and appeared to study her. "But now I have both you and them. Tell me why I will honor it."

"Because you aren't like other bandits," Ingun answered. "You are godly. In taking these captives for ransom, you practice the lessons of Stuhn. I have answered your demands and come alone. Kill them, and you will be cursed by the gods."

Hrokvild laughed. From the look on his face, she could tell that it was not the answer he had been expecting. "For months you lived under my roof, Black-Briar, and not once did you give the impression that you were a woman of faith. Was it the fires in Riften that opened your eyes? Did you witness Shor in the bloodshed?"

"It was Mara that I witnessed."

The chieftain grew quiet at that, and then nodded. "What a wonder it is to behold the glory of the gods. You have changed, Black-Briar. And I don't think it's just the gods who made that happen, is it? We had a hand in that as well, didn't we?"

She ignored the question. "Your godliness isn't the only reason. If neither I nor the captives return, you will be hunted to the ends of this world. You're smart enough to know better."

"Heh. Now that is a good reason, the one I was expecting, though the first was a nice surprise. Don't worry, I told Lisbll to let them out after she brought you up here. They'll be on their way back to Riften shortly. They were only a means of getting you here anyway."

"And here I am." Ingun finally took a seat. "What do you want, Hrokvild? Riften has not come after you."

"We'll get to that," said the chieftain. "First, I wanted to talk a bit. Do some catching up. You met the lass who wouldn't stop crying, so you know we've got your brother's bones. Surprised you didn't ask to see them."

"I've seen plenty of skeletons. Sibbi's is no different. All I'd ask is if you know how he died."

The braids in Hrokvild's beard rattled as he shook his head. "I'd love to say I did. You know, we chased your brother all the way down to the Jeralls, but the madman marched his men straight into them with a blizzard approaching. I figured he was dead there anyway, but it turns out he was tough enough to make it. Too bad whatever waited for him in Cyrodiil was even worse." He shrugged. "I got a theory -and I wanna believe it's true- that ol' Boldir himself is the one who got 'em. Big man disappeared when the flames started getting bad, but he was seen carrying some dead woman."

Ingun knew that it must've been Carlotta, and her face must've shown it, because Hrokvild's eyes immediately widened. "You know who I'm talking about, don't you? Damn. Well then, you know my theory. The great Boldir Mage-Killer, unleashed an army of bandits on one of Skyrim's largest cities for a woman..." His voice grew sad, even a little angry. "And she died anyway."
The chieftain shrugged. "A sad story. I'm glad your brother is dead, and I hope it was Boldir who got to do it. No one deserved that kill more than he. In his boots, I'd have killed every last Black-Briar. But with your father and Maven killed in Riften, and Sibbi in Cyrodiil, that only leaves you, the last one I would've expected to live through it all."

"So, what?" Ingun asked. "You want to finish Boldir's revenge?"

Hrokvild snorted. "What?! Gods no! I liked Boldir, but I ain't and never was his lackey. We were partners, and I think it's something of a shame that he's gonna die with an unfinished quest. Of course, it's a bigger shame for him than it is for me. My plan for you is strictly business, a different sort than what got me to sack Riften in the first place, and not nearly as crude. As you have probably noticed, I don't have the men I used to, and I ain't living in a faraway mansion going by some fake name. In other words, the aftermath didn't go as well as it could've. something needs to change. Plain and simple. It's only a matter of time before these 'efforts' of yours turn from rebuilding Riften to retaking the Rift. When that happens, a career in banditry will lose its appeal awfully quick. You know that thing people say about good things coming to an end." He sighed.
"Anyway, we noticed the rebuilding you lot were doing, what with the logging camps and all. We might've interfered if not for all the guards posted at 'em. Seems like a low-value target to put so much effort into defending, which is how I realized that these weren't just hard workers looking to rebuild. There was money involved in this. Didn't take long to figure out whose money it was."

"Money that could've been spent on assassins to take you out," said Ingun. "I didn't do that because I thought it would be pointless. You sacked Riften. Looted the castle, my family's home, and everything else that you could. I figured you would be the wealthiest outlaw in Skyrim by far, and that you'd never have a reason to come back after us."

"That's what I figured, myself. But that honorless cur, Grollin, stole most of it only to go north and get killed anyway." Hrokvild spit into the hearth. "Good riddance to my favorite lieutenant. Always thought he was loyal. Shows what a fool I was."

"He's the one who sacked the temple of Mara," Ingun reflected, "killed everyone inside." Except for Sovi. 

"That's right, even when I told him and all the others that it was off-limits. Apparently, a bunch of those cowards from Treva's Watch disagreed. Too much value in there to let it go. That was our first disagreement, but not the last. Only wish I could've smashed the bastard's head before he and those traitors got away."

"How many men did he take?" Ingun asked. She knew that most of their forces had come from Treva's Watch.

"Enough to carry off the loot," Hrokvild grumbled. "But this band you see me with today is still only a fraction of what he left me." The chieftain's face darkened, and he turned away from her for the first time since she'd arrived to look into the fire. "You've heard the bandit rumors. That was me. Even without those milk-drinkers, we practically owned the Rift. Without anyone to defend it, we were able to hold the roads, organize raids, live in several different forts, you get it. But then one day, Rommar spotted some elves while watching a road. Not your greyskin Morrowind rejects. I mean the elves. The same pointy-eared bastards that we fought in Cyrodiil."

"You found the Thalmor."

"Aye, and they found us too. Come down to these parts after they killed our High King. Our banditry turned into a war in the woods that nobody will ever know about. We are criminals of the worst kind, but we are also Nords, and so we protected our homeland against the devil elves the way any Nord should. I killed eighteen of the bastards, myself. Eighteen!" He held up his neckless and dangled it in front of her. "These tongues belonged to the mages."

"I thought that it was Baldur Red-Snow who defeated them. The word was that his Grim Ones broke them up and eliminated their holdouts."

"Aye, Hrokvild growled. "That's what happened. The elves had their magic, and I, not but steel. We fought them for weeks, but for every clash more of my men were killed or scattered. We went from one big army to five smaller ones. And then ten roving groups, each with its own chieftain. By the night of what should've been my final battle, I only had seventeen men left. Seventeen men, but we attacked anyway, certain that the elves were near ready to retreat. But when we reached them, we found that Jarl Baldur's Nords were already there. Hard, grim men they were. Armored like our ancestors and uttering not a word as they cut the elves to pieces."
The way that the chieftain stared into the fire, Ingun could tell that he was no longer here. His mind was wandering to a much more brutal place. "I fought at Red Ring," he said. "I fought Maul and his men, and Stormcloaks after that. I burned Riften and killed her Jarl myself. But I've never seen violence like this. It was as if Ysgramor and his Five Hundred had come back from the dead. Those men scoured the woods for days, slaughtering the elves to the last."
He blinked a couple times and looked up at Ingun. "My men searched the Rift for weeks after that, looking for fallen, hoping at least to claim one of those suits for themselves. But among the dead, we found no Nords. Only elves."

"Maybe they collected their dead," she said. "You're proof that scavengers would've been a problem."

"Maybe they did," the chieftain admitted. "But even so, it couldn't have been much. And if you'd seen these men fight like I did, you'd be unsure as well."

In all her long months under Hrokvild's roof, Ingun had never seen the man show any form of doubt. For the charismatic chieftain, confidence had been every bit as important as strength. But it was clear now that she was not the only one who had changed since Riften's fall. Hrokvild's secret war had shaken him. Perhaps she could use that.
"I have been through a lot as well," she said, carefully. "You suspected as much, but it is more than you think. I'm nothing like the woman you kidnapped in Riften. I see the world and the people in it differently. It's in us to change, just as the gods themselves do."

"Aye, of course it is." Hrokvild looked at her curiously. "It's why I wanted to meet you. A great many things are changing. Men are fighting elves. Kings are shouting like in the days of old. And now they're saying Wulfharth has been born again. Why can't a bandit go back to being a soldier?"

So it was as she'd hoped, but Hrokvild wouldn't have it that easy. He couldn't. "The gods honor strength, but I am not a god and neither are the people of Riften. We want to bring justice to those who have harmed us, not redemption."

The Chieftain grunted. "Some words, coming from a Black-Briar."

"I've paid for my crimes, and my family paid for theirs. You, on the other hand, you killed people just to get me here."

"Foreigners," said the bandit. "And armed sellsword foreigners at that. They were hired to fight and die to defend their masters if need be, and that's what they did. I gave them more honorable deaths than they'd have gotten if they'd made it back home."

"You also killed a holy man," Ingun reminded him.

"Aye, I did. The bastard came after me with a mace. A true Nord, that one."

"I'm sorry, Hrokvild, if you're hoping for a pardon, I fear you've gone well past that point. It wouldn't even be my call. Only Jarls have that authority, and Riften has no Jarl. You killed her."

"I don't care about a damned pardon!" The chieftain growled. "I'm not fool enough to think I've earned it. But that's what I want, a chance to earn." He looked her in the eyes, as solemn as she'd ever seen him. "How is Riften doing? Are things getting better?"

"The city is still a shadow of what it was, and will be for many years. But yes, things are getting better."

"Then here is my proposal. You take me, and my people, and you put us all in chains."

Ingun's eyes widened. "You-"

"Let me finish," He interrupted. "You take us back to your city as prisoners. Throw us in jail or wherever you have room. And then, when the big war comes, you send us to the front lines with the soldiers."

"That won't satisfy those who want you dead."

"Then throw us in front of the front lines for all I care!" Hrokvild's voice rumbled. "I'm getting old, truth be told. I know, it's a surprise considering how ungodly handsome I am, but it's a fact. Without Riften's fortunes, my chances of ever being more than a bandit are slim. And the decades of killing have made it hard to know much else. But fighting those elves... that woke something in me, and in my men. It felt... well it felt good. I've already decided that if I'm to die, that's how I want it to be. With a hammer in my hand and elf blood sprayed across my face."

Ingun's eyes narrowed. "That's really what you want?"

"Aye, I believe that it's the only thing that the gods have left for me."

"You know it's not my call. If I take you back... the people of Riften might just decide to have you killed."

"But you will vouch for me?" Hrokvild asked. "You will tell them that our deaths can be turned into something useful?"

"Yes," she said. "I will." Ingun knew that this deal was the best case for her. She would return home, not a prisoner, but with a string of them at her back. It was more than she could've expected coming in.

"That is good enough for me," he replied. "I have a feeling it will be good enough for them as well."

"Alright." She nodded. "We'll do this, then." Ingun smiled, wryly. "And to think, I came here prepared to kill you." She nodded over Hrokvild's shoulder, and a cloaked figure emerged from a shadowed corner, his red eyes narrowed. 

The bandit looked startled. "Elf! How long have you been in here?"

"Longer than you," Arnath said.

Hrokvild shook his head in disgust. "Be glad I came to you with an offer, Black-Briar. Or I'd have flayed your elven friend for failing to kill me."

If that had happened, the poisoned mead would've done the job instead. Ingun thought. She decided not to mention that, though. "Now, Chief Hrokvild, where can we find some chains?"

***

When Ingun and Arnath returned early the next morning, it was with a line of bandits at their backs. The people of Riften looked at them with expressions ranging from quiet confusion to outright bewilderment. Several of them cheered, or spit at the bandits' feet, to which the outlaws snarled and balled their fists, but luckily no troubles arose. A number of volunteer guardsmen and mercenaries quickly appeared and assisted with the prisoners, eventually escorting them away to the northern side of the city where they promised that they would find a way to properly secure them.

For her part, Ingun was exhausted, and wanted nothing more than to retire to her home, which is exactly what she did. Sovi was gone, probably off with Bersi celebrating the safe return of his wife. That was good. Right now, she didn't want to deal with anyone or anything. She just wanted to rest. And so she crossed the room and promptly collapsed into her bed. Her eyes closed the moment her head hit the pillow...

... And snapped open again after what felt like the shortest rest she had ever gotten. Though some time must have passed, for the orange light coming through her window indicated that evening had fallen. Someone was knocking on her door.

"Ingun," called Naspel's voice. "Lady Ingun..."

Annoyed to be disturbed, Ingun tiredly climbed out of bed. A quick look in the mirror revealed that her hair was a mess and that she was still in her travel clothes. Naspel would just have to deal with it. She opened the door. "What?"

"Oh," he said, taking a step back, "forgive me for disturbing you, but a meeting has been called at the city center. Arnath explained what has happened, and it has been discussed in detail. But now you are wanted."

"I vote we send the bandits to die fighting the Dominion," Ingun said. "That's all you need to know from me. Now let me rest."

"I fear you will have little time for rest in the coming days," Naspel said. His lips twisted upward in a weird grin. "Come, please. I implore you."

"Fine." Ingun stepped back to the mirror and ran a comb through her hair a couple times. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do. She then made her way with Naspel to what had once been Riften's marketplace.
She was surprised by how many people were here. When Naspel had said 'meeting' she had thought it would just be a few of the community's leaders and the prisoners that the bandits had let go. Instead, it felt like half the city was here, all standing in a tight crowd facing the center. When they saw her, the people grew quiet, and parted ways. Oh-kay...

She walked into the center of the crowd, where Sovi and several of the people she had freed awaited, along with Arnath, Bersi Honey-Hand, Aerin, Mjoll the Lioness, Bolli the Fisherman, and Asgeir Snow-Shod. All of Riften's most prominent remaining figures. It was Bolli who stepped forward to greet her. 
"Arnath has told us what happened at Faldar's Tooth," he said. "He told us of your deal with Hrokvild, as well as your plan to kill him had it been necessary. Besides Bersi, none of us knew that you had gone there."

"Thank you!" Bersi suddenly exclaimed. The man looked on the verge of tears. "You saved my wife. We are in your debt, forever."

"Aye, saved her and many others," Bolli agreed. "Including the people who have agreed to come and help rebuild. And it is because of this that we as a city have decided to honor your wishes and spare the bandits who have brought so much evil on us. At least until the Great War. Though, I would ask just this once on behalf of many, for you to reconsider."

Ingun shook her head. "No. Their time will come, but I would have their deaths help repay the damage they've done to Skyrim."

"Aye, if that is your wish." The Fisherman snickered. "They are a sorry lot anyhow. Hardly worth our time, eh?" Some people in the crowd chuckled at that. "But on to other matters. As everyone here well knows, the day fast approaches for Skyrim to hold its next Moot. A gathering that a Jarl of the Rift has never failed to participate in." He looked at Ingun. Everyone was looking at Ingun. "The holds of Skyrim are ruled by the strong and the wise. By those who can and will defend their people. Ingun Black-Briar, the people of Riften have decided that you are to be our new Jarl."

She didn't know what to say. Perhaps there was nothing to say. Riften had already decided. 

Grinning, Bolli took a step back, and then Bersi Honey-Hand bellowed. "Hail Jarl Ingun!"

"Hail Jarl Ingun!" the people of Riften took up the chant. "Hail Jarl Ingun! Hail Jarl Ingun! HAIL JARL INGUN!"

[Witchking of Angmar]

Boldir, Mila

The world he found himself in was nothing like the bright and beautiful one that he had left. The small ruin seemed to be in the middle of a green and overgrown meadow surrounded by rolling hills and a gnarled forest. The sky looked blue at first, but as the light faded from his vision, Boldir realized that they were streaked with green, and even as he looked that green shimmered, and shifted to a vibrant yellow, and then to orange. The shimmers made it hard to focus on, and Boldir found that the longer he looked up, the less sense the sky seemed to make.

He diverted his eyes back down to the tubby horned boy that stood in front of him. "Where am I?"

The demon lad's expression bore a mixture of amusement and surprise. "What? No comment on all that talking to yourself you just did?" he asked. "It's a good thing you landed with Azura instead of Sheogorath. I don't think he would have given you up."
Boldir looked the little person up and down. Compared to the viscous Xivilai, this one seemed unimpressive. Even injured as he was, Boldir was sure that he could beat this thing to a pulp, if he had to.
The daedra didn't seem to notice or care that he was being sized up. He folded his arms and grinned like a child. "Sooooo... who were you talking to?"

Boldir hesitated. Somehow, he felt that answering 'my dead wife' would not be the smartest course of action. "No one."

"You seem a rather confused individual," the daedra chimed. "Confused, bemused, or easily amused. Eh?" The boy's grin faded. "Alrighty then. Barbas and I have already done this, what, three times today? More? I don't know. Point is, introductions and explanations are starting to bore me, and there are few things I hate quite so much as being bored, so I'm not going to do a lot of bush-beating. That's a thing you mortals say, right? Whatever. My name is Clavicus Vile: Daedric Prince of Wishes, Pacts, Deals, Contracts, and other things of that nature and some other natures."

Boldir could hardly believe what he was hearing. "You're a daedric prince?"

"I am. Why? Is this form not princely enough for you? I could make myself look like one of your Emperors, if you'd prefer. Or maybe something a little closer to home."
Vile's featured morphed and stretched, grew taller, more muscular, until the spitting image of Baldur Red-Snow stood before him, identical in every way save the eyes, which maintained their emptiness. Clavicus Vile grinned with his brother's lips. "How's this for regal?"

Boldir scowled. "I get it."

"What, you don't like my new look? Is it the hair? No, no, that can't be it. The hair's the best part."
The daedra shrugged. "Oh well, you're the guest." Vile's body suddenly shrunk back down to its previous form, horns and all.
"And by guest, I mean 'idiot mortal who got himself trapped in the wrong plane of existence'." Vile leapt up onto a fallen pillar and sat on it with his legs crossed. His face was now almost level with Boldir's. "Now, I said I wouldn't do this, but I really can't resist asking, why in all the worlds did you think it was a good idea to attack an elf who can travel between realms, with nothing more than an axe?"

"I had help." Boldir wasn't sure what was safe to tell the prince, if anything was at all. "Lots of it."

"Yes, I saw that. They were idiots too. You know I actually got to keep one of them, that Rythe fellow. Nice soul in that one. Strong. But not as strong as the girl's."

Boldir's shifted his weight fully onto his good foot. "What girl?"

" 'What girl?' " Vile repeated in a mockery of Boldir's accent. "Please, if you insist on sounding like a dumb guy, at least try not to say dumb things. I can tell from the look on your face that you know 'what girl' I am talking about, so why don't you stop thinking you know something I don't and just ask for her by name?"

Boldir hesitated, then nodded. "Mila."

Vile's face twisted in another grin. "That's the one. Slightly less dead than the others he came with. Very slightly. You're welcome for that, by the way."

"If this is your realm, and Mila's here, then can you take me to her?"

Vile nodded vigorously. "I could. Instantaneously, as a matter of fact. But what do I get out of that? Not a thing."

"Please," Boldir started, "I only want to make sure she's okay-"

"Save it," Vile waved a hand to silence him. "I will be up front with you. Little mortal Mila is in a much tighter spot than yourself, in ways that are much deeper. It just so happens that I have taken ownership of her soul."

Boldir's nostrils flared. "You-"

"Ap ap ap!" Vile touched his own chest. "Daedric Prince, remember? All powerful? Immortal?"
He then pointed at Boldir. "Mortal. Weak. Puny. Easy to grind up and use for dog chow. You will listen to me, whilst controlling that temper, and then, when I am finished, you will be allowed to say your piece. Understood?"

Boldir could only glare in response.

" 'Yes' then? Good. Back to the girl's soul." The daedra sprung back to his feet and walked along the pillar until he disappeared behind crumbled wall. When he emerged on the other side, he wore the  three-eyed face of a troll. "I could have it for a snack if I wanted."
He disappeared back behind the wall, and reemerged again with his original appearance. "Or put it in a jar."
Vile's eyes blazed like dragon flame. "Or I could just set it on fire and use it as a nightlight."
The flames dimmed. "Or all of those things in whatever order I choose, because it's mine... With that said, this is not a situation that needs to be permanent. You see, as nice as the girl's soul is, there are other things that I desire more. Things I would be willing to trade it for."
The daedra paused and stared at Boldir as if waiting for him to say something. After a few seconds, he chuckled. "Oh right, I told you not to speak." He waved a hand. "You may ask what I want."

Through gritted teeth, Boldir asked, "What do you want?"

"Excellent question," Vile said, the sarcasm evident in his voice. "But I'm under no obligation to tell you."

Is this a joke? Boldir took a breath to calm himself. "Why would you tell me you want something if you're not going to tell me what it is?"

"Who said I won't?" The daedra lord clicked his teeth together. He seemed to be enjoying this conversation far too much. "I certainly didn't. But I'd prefer a trade."
He nodded to the ripped pouch at Boldir's hip. "There's a broken flute in there. Give it to me, and you'll have what you want."

Boldir could feel his face grow hotter. He knows about Jodun. He balled his fists, silently reminding himself that this was not a foe he could overpower, no matter how easy it looked. "Name something else. Anything else."

"Hmm..." Vile's stubby little fingers tugged at his goatee. "No."

Everything in Boldir wanted to reach out and throttle the demon. Vile must have noticed, because the daedra grinned, and as he did, a sharp pain erupted in his skull, so fierce that it dropped him to his knees.

"Remember what I said about your temper, little mortal. I'll not force you to deal with me, nor even to stay here. But so long as you choose to remain, you will abide my rules."
Vile snapped his fingers and the pain subsided. "Now, if you really want to know my price for the return of the girl's soul…" He extended a hand, expectantly. "The flute."

I'm sorry Jodun. Boldir scooped the splintered instrument from his bag and dropped them into the daedra's outstretched hand, gems and all. She's my daughter.

Clavicus smiled and clenched his fist. When the fingers opened, the gems were gone and the wood turned to ash. "Excellent. Though a little staler than I'd like. Poor sap must've been in there for a while."

"Now free Mila."

The daedra lord pursed his lips. "Now why would I do a thing like that?"

"You're the lord of deals! We just-"

"Concluded a deal, yes," interrupted Vile. "You just gave me this fellow's soul, and in return, I am now obligated to tell you the price for the girl's soul, as we agreed."

"That's not what we-"

"It is exactly what I said I would give." The Prince smirked, and never before had Boldir felt more hatred for a being than he did in that moment.
"Once you've learned to control that anger of yours, I'd recommend taking some time to wrap your head around deal-making as well. Take it from me, it's a valuable skill."

"What is your price, then?" Boldir asked, barely containing himself.

"I'll make it simple. Souls for a soul."

Boldir drew a long breath, let it out slowly. "My soul."

"Your soul?" Vile snorted, and the sky momentarily flared with an unnatural brightness as he did. "What would I do with that? No, for all the lengths I know you'd go for her, I'd wager that the girl is worth more than that. I'm thinking a couple souls, at least. Let's make it three. Yes. Three souls captured from your mortal world, in exchange for hers."

Boldir made no effort to hide his disgust. "You've already taken one." 

"Your poor bartering skills are no fault of mine; neither is your lack of leverage."
Vile hopped down from the pillar and approached him at eye-level. "You gave me the Redguard. Learn to live with that or don't; I do not care. But spare me the tiresome display of mortal righteousness. You made a choice. And I expect you'll make a similar choice three more times, because that is what it will take to free your girl."

It was true. Boldir knew there was no returning over the line he had already crossed. Forward was the only path to saving Mila. "Who are they?"

"That's the spirit!" Vile clapped his hands together, his face filling with glee. "Oh, I can't wait! This will be fun, trust me." He backpedaled until he was again beside the pillar. He leaned back against it. "I'll be nice and limit it to three souls you've never met. Why, in exchange for one you call 'daughter', that seems almost unfairly slanted in your favor. Perhaps I should make it five..."

"Three strangers is enough," Boldir said quickly. "Three strangers' souls-"

"Of my choosing."

"… Of your choosing… and in exchange you give up your claim to Mila's soul. She is to be restored in full, unharmed. And until then, I want her returned to the world with me."

Vile grinned. "It's a deal."

Boldir blinked, and suddenly he was staring up into a blue Colovian sky, shielded from the sun by the shadow of a ruined Oblivion Gate. He struggled to his feet, groaning as his ankle and multitude of bites, bruises, and cuts protested, and as he took in his surroundings, it immediately became clear that something was wrong. The grass had been gray and dead when he'd fought Endar, not tall and green, and where fresh corpses should have been now only scattered bones remained. He kept me for months.

"Bastard," Boldir growled. But his attention was quickly stolen by the sound of something rummaging in the grass behind him. Mila?
He spun, and his heart sank when he saw that it was just a lone timber wolf, chewing on a dead necromancer's femur. The beast eyed him like a rival.

Boldir bared his teeth, and for the first time since his fight with the wizard, let his fury take over by roaring at the beast with all the hatred he'd contained. It was a primal, animalistic sound that echoed across the highlands and made birds scatter for the safety of the clouds. The wolf had dropped its bone and fled before he even finished. 

Once the echoes had faded, the plateau was engulfed in an almost otherworldly silence. And then a voice... "Boldir?"

His chest tightened. Slowly, as if afraid to wake himself from a dream, he turned, and was greeted by the sight of a girl, standing alone in the tall grass by the cliff's edge.

Mila.

When they locked eyes, hers wide. "It's real…" she stammered, her voice choking on the words. "It's really-"

"Mila!"

He started to limp forward, but she was already running. He dropped to his knees as she flung herself into his arms, burying her face in his shoulder, sobbing. "I thought- I was-"

"It's okay," he said. "I'm here. And I'm not leaving again."

If there had been a time in his life that Boldir had ever felt such relief, such mind-numbingly painful happiness, he could not remember it. Nor could he remember the lesser times either. As he knelt in the grass, embracing his daughter, that moment was all he had.

To Mila, it almost felt like a dream,  The sweetest dream she had ever experienced. It's over, she thought as she felt tears rolling down her cheeks. It's over! The fear, the loneliness, the uncertainty, all snuffed out by the wondrous gravity of the moment. 

When the two finally pulled apart, it was only to take another look at each other. The child Boldir had known was gone, in body and mind. His hands now gripped the shoulders of a young woman, one who -beneath the bruises and grime- looked stunningly like her mother.

"You've grown up."

"Aye." Mila pulled back a bit, cocking her head very slightly. "And you've turned old."

They shared a laugh for the first time since Riften. Though doing so hurt Boldir enough to make him clutch his side. 

"You're hurt," Mila said, taking note of it for the first time. She felt stupid for not thinking about it sooner. He'd fought Drenim, for Mara's sake! "Gods, when I hugged you, did it-"

"It doesn't matter right now."

"Doesn't matter?" Mila looked him up and down. "Can you even walk?"

"Of course." Boldir answered. He climbed to his feet to prove it, keeping his composure despite a jolt of pain launching through his ankle. "What's important is that we're both okay. We're alive and together. We'll figure out the rest."

The words were sweet music to Mila's ears. After all the running, the hiding, fighting, she had not once comprehended how good it would feel to actually believe, finally, that things might actually be okay. "Well then," she said, "Where do we go now?"

"I have a suggestion."

The words came from a patch of brush in the heart of the ruins. Instinctively, Boldir put himself between the voice and Mila. All tenderness gone, he barked, "show yourself!"

"Yeah, yeah." The brush rustled, then a pair of dark eyes emerged just above a shaggy black snout. The hound that followed was nearly the size of the wolf from before. 

"Barbas?" There was sudden a darkness in Mila's voice that Boldir found almost as surprising as the talking dog.

"That's right." The dog set its eyes on Boldir. "Don't bother with the howling, tough guy; that only works on the stupid ones."

"And what are you, Vile's pet?"

"I prefer loyal companion." He wagged his tail and raised a paw. "Call me Barbas. Pleased to meet you."

Friendly as the words were, Boldir did not like the dog's tone, nor did he care to exchange pleasantries with a minion of Vile. "What is your suggestion?"

"Chorald."

"Chorrol?" Mila said. 

"That's what I said." Barbas growled. "Big city, capital of this region, or something like that, and the closest place to your first mark."

"Mark?" Mila looked up at Boldir. "What does that mean?"

"Not told her yet, eh?" Barbas wagged his tail. "I guess that makes sense. Sensitive topic, that."
The dog looked at Mila. "Remember how I told you Clavicus would have plans for your soul? Well, I was right. He returned you here, safe and sound, but not all of you. My Master held onto a little piece of your soul stuff that he can yank like a leash whenever he wants to pull you back." His nose twitched. "I hate leashes… Sorry, where was I? Oh, right." He turned his head to Boldir. "Big guy, Boldir Iron-Man, far be it from me to divulge the terms of a deal without asking."

"Tell her dog, she deserves to know."

"It's Barbas, and very well." The daedric dog sat on its haunches and gave Mila his full attention. "Your Boldir made a pact with my Master. He's gotta claim three mortal souls, and you will get yours back in return."

"What?" She looked at Boldir, then back at the dog. "Why was I was given no say in this?"

"Because the deal was not for you," Barbas explained. "Master's ownership of your soul makes it his to barter with, and he chose to barter with the large one."

"And you agreed to steal three people's souls for mine?" Mila stared her father in the eyes. "That's-"

"The only way," Boldir interrupted, though he could not bring himself to look at her as he said the words, and instead opted to keep his eyes trained on the dog. "It's all he would accept in exchange for your soul."

"I can't believe it." Mila felt betrayed, though she wasn't sure by who. Boldir did what he did for her, and Clavicus Vile owed her nothing. How did they reach this point? "Barbas, how did Vile even come to own my soul?"

"It's not my place to discuss someone else's business," the dog tilted his head. "As I said before, you should be dead. Were dead, kind of, but Clavicus fixed that right up."

"It doesn't matter how," Boldir said, "We're getting it back."

"At the cost of others?" She scowled. "We can’t do this, Boldir! We have to find another way!"

"Hang on, hang on," Barbas barked. "Hear me out; you'll like this. I'm guessing Master didn't take your Iron-Head for the soul-thieving type, cause he made this first one easy for him. She's already dead, see? She was his champion. Promised him her soul years ago, totally consensual, nothing shady about it. Then a witch killed her and sucked it into a gem before Clavicus could take what was rightly his."

"All we need to do is get the gem?" asked Boldir.

"Yup," the dog replied. "And you'd be doing her a favor. Whats-her-name loved Clavicus! Especially in comparison to the inside of some black rock. And I imagine Master will be just thrilled to get what he's owed. There's nothing he hates more than getting cheated out of a deal… So really, there's no losers here but the crazy witch. What do ya say to that, mortal?"

Mila still wasn't comfortable with it, but what other choice was there? Perhaps Barbas was right, and this would indeed allow everyone to win. "What's stopping your Master from making the next soul someone who doesn't deserve it?"

"Nothing at all," Barbas answered. "But if I know him, and I do, he'll be more interested in using a champion like your father for his strengths, to grab souls that are guarded behind something that muscles and an axe can break through. And it's not usually the innocents who are well-guarded… But all that aside, what's it hurt to try this first one, at least?"

Mila glanced at Boldir, whose face may as well have been carved in stone for all the effect the dog's words seemed to have on him. "This witch is in Chorrol?" he asked.

"Close. She is the Mistress of the nearby Valga estate. Roseloe Valga is her name, and she is as powerful as she is mad. I would avoid her if I were you."

"If she's also wise, she'll keep out of my way."

"Out of our way," Mila corrected. "If you're doing this for my soul, I ain't going to let you do it alone."

"No," Boldir said firmly. "I crossed Tamriel to find you, I can't just drag you into even more danger."

Mila frowned. "I crossed Tamriel too. And I've been dealing with danger since you went up those stairs in Vex's house and never came back down."

"I know you have." Sighing, Boldir decided that he would let the matter rest for now. They still had much to talk about, and a many miles ahead on which to do so. He turned to Barbas, who was back at gnawing one of the dead necromancers. "I take it you'll be traveling with us?"

"What?" The dog looked up, his teeth clamped on a hunk of dark flesh. "Of course not. I have important duties back home. Can't just go prancing around with every champion Master makes a deal with, can I?"

"Alright then."

Boldir moved away from the ruin, and upon seeing him limp, Mila rushed to his side to help him steady. "We need to find you a healer," she said.

"I'll be fine. Just need a walking stick would help."

"There ain't any trees out here."

"Yeah, I know." Boldir smiled dryly. "It's going to be a long walk."

For once, Mila didn't think she'd mind. The two of them set out, bruised, hurting, with one damaged soul, a devil dog behind them, and a dangerous witch ahead. But it was the best either had felt in years.

[Witchking of Angmar]

Lillin Quentas, 
Night,
Twisted Heart, Chorrol 
 
As the twisted horns sounded, emitting strange noises, so too did the spread of depravity. The witches who blew the monstrous horns wore dear headdresses taking the appearance of the prince being honoured tonight, the huntsman Hircine.  Signalling the descent were humans turned into monsters. With a roar of bestial savagery, the horribly silent glade  suddenly bursted with life. Coven sisters laughed like mad women, and began chanting blasphemous verses. The Ceremony of the Dark Rose had begun. The wooden cages were made open, as the stockades fell, releasing the captives into the surrounding area. The spear wielding members of the coven, wearing the animal masks cruelly thrusted their crude lances into the exposed, naked flesh of the terrified girls, propelling them forward, and herding them like cattle.  
 
Like a wave of bodies, almost at once, the prisoners ran like wild animals, and into the forest, pushing and shoving each other out of the way in a desperate attempt to escape this living nightmare. 
 
As soon as the hunt began, the first of many prey was felled, in a display of savage gore. With only the bursting witch lights, and sanguine red blood moon to light it's festivities, tonight’s feast had begun.
 
Glowing, red eyes materialised in the depths of the forest, a light to herald that it was now the time for beasts to roam, and rule nirn. Howls arose all around them, as hairy snouts lifted up towards the moon
 
Roaring in primal hunger, beasts came from the forest, we’re the fleeing peasants had rushed off to get to as soon as they were released from their sturdy yet-crude, prisons. An influx of great werewolves, and other man-beasts like ragged werebears, and grim were-lions swarmed into the glade, crawling on all fours, or walking on their hind legs in mockery of many of their former humanity. Other, more ancient terrors strood into the glade, pushing apart trees as they dragged their massive forms .The Bloodmoon had called them, and so in their Lord Hircine’s name, they will partake in the blood feast.  At the sight of the furry horrors, the naked peasant girl, leading the group screamed, right before impaled by the tusks of some nameless abomination of Hircine, and thrown back into a tree, a gaping hole forming in her torso as she coughed out copious amounts of blood. 
 
The other peasants were set upon by dark, tall lanky werewolves, which gnawed, and consumed there stringy guts, and intestines. Others were thrown to the ground, held down and “defiled” by the beasts, which held mocking grins as they committed their acts of disgusting brutality. One of the captives, a girl no older then sixteen, her chest and “private” area exposed pushed her way to the back, as she lifted her hands into the air, calling out desperately  “ARKAY SAVE US-” 
 
She was cut off, as one of the spear wielding witches launched her weapon into the air, which landed straight into the young girl's chest cavity. A look of surprise shook, filled her face. 
 
These people had taken her away from her family, treated her like an animal, and now she was to be set upon by beasts.  Her final moments, before her guts were ripped out by a black Werewolf, was to contemplate why she felt surprised.
 
As if a signal, the hundred or so sisters drew their black pommeled daggers, and rushed into the back of the horde of peasant girls, laughing, and cackling maniacally. 
 
They were, just as, if not more, merciless than the beasts. 
 
Some girls struggled, only to be forced onto the ground, and repeatedly stabbed over and over again in the stomach by the knife wielding witches, who manically cackled. While most we’re carrion eaters, other witches simply began to rip off flesh with their teeth, devouring the meat raw, while their victims we’re still conscious and alive. They couldn’t wait to consume the flesh At the far side, some Witches had “herded” a group of their captives, tied them to spits, and began to roast them over a massive bonfire, the screams overtaking every, and all other voices in the glade. Bloodlust had taken over. Many tore the peasant's clothing, and joined some of the beasts in “defiling” their prey. Others just threw themselves at each other, and did it right there in the woods. The worst part was it wasn’t lust that filled their vision, just wrath and wanton sadism. The screams grew louder and louder  The spear wielding knight-witches, slowly advance in ranked file, in contrast to the wild, erratic mad violence of the rest of the sisters. As if it was more horrible than the wanton acts of depravity, the masked witches acted with discipline, and purpose.  Acting as a phalanx, any sacrifice who approached the wall of spears would be skewered, and left to slowly bleed out on the forest floor, if a monster or wayward witch didn’t decide to have “fun” with them first. 
 
Some of the sacrifices didn’t even bother to run, instead getting onto their knees, begging for a shred of mercy. They weren’t spared, either being torn apart by monsters, or taking by cackling witches to be “played with” underneath the forlorn blood moon. Some brave ones just choose to run into the spear well, and impale themselves on the witch phalanx, screaming at their tormentors before expiring. A horrid death, but not nearly as excruciating painful and humiliating as the drawn out fate they faced.  
 
One of the the Black roses Darkmoons danced around, in the sanguine moonlight, carrying a spear with a dissected girls upper torso impaled upon the spearhead, the poor peasant girls blood soaked face staring blankly into space,  her dead blue eyes gazing at the night, as if she was heralding the festivities which we’re about to begin!
 
Mad drums began to sound off in the distance, as blasphemous flutes began to play, unknowingly by a source unseen. The witch lights in the distance began to macabrely dance, under the corrupted sky. 
 
The earth itself was being deformed. As each sister drew a circle with their blood, the ground blackened, the vegetation decayed, and the very air took a pungent, sweet smell. 
 
Pretty flowers of Chorrol, girls and women Lilly had grown to look up too, had decayed and become demons.
 
The blood orgy hadn’t even gotten close to it's climax, and already, the horror was too much to bear. 
 
Screaming widely, Lilly, overcome by primal terror, started screeching, her cries for help, drowned out by the gruesome display of violence before her. She madly dashed away from the group, running towards the black woods. The young countess’s mind had completely shattered, as the horror of the scene was just too much for the girl.  Her sister, attempted to grab her, shouting, “Little sister! Little sister!” Her voice was completely drowned out by the girl's own heart beat, and the other chilling voices behind her. As Millnerius tried to reach her dear little sister, other black robed bodies tore them apart, and pushed Milly in the opposite direction of the screaming novice. Milly gloved hands reached for Lilly’s hand a final time, her hand outstretching, trying desperately to cling onto her fingers  before she lost sight of her amongst the crowd. 
 
Milly, ignoring the grizzly defilement of some poor peasant girl, before her, ran threw the crowd, pushing and shoving the scores of witches who got in her way. In the distance, her black hooded mother gazed at her desperate daughter, grinning a macabre smile, as she walked away from the grisly orgy, and into the black woods. Just as she did, she raised her black fist up into the dark sky, and brought down a massive wave of red magic, smashing it into the earth below. This truly was the best, night of nights. All the magic pouring into her, powered by the blood of the weak, made her feel like a god,
 
A cry of “Hail Lord Bal! Hail Lady Namria!” Arose from the witches, as they cheered at the black roses display of arcane mastery. Mothers darkmoons, having already gotten at least one venial sin down, dropped what they we’re doing, and escorted a rather large group of the naked captives, away from the clearing, deeper into the woods. They were to endure the worst fate of the evening. The second, secret part of the ritual.
 
Offered to the ones below. 
 
****
Lilly huffed and puffed, as she sprinted under the dark woods, skillfully dodging tree branches, and other obstacles, using her years of experience of exploring the woods to push through the surrounding woods. Despite being a spoiled brat of the nobility, the countess was very physically able, as she occasionally spent days, even weeks hiking and camping in the Great Forest along with her sister. But even with her wealth of knowledge when it came to forests, the sheer terror, and horror she felt undermined this, casting her mind into pure chaos. The faint, dark, sanguine light of the blood moon plunged her surroundings into even further unfamiliarity, and terror. A chorus of savage howling, mixed with other, more primal, animalistic roars, mad cackling, and horrible, horrible screams of true suffering echoed among the woods, drowning Lilly’s mind in dark thoughts of what was occurring in the glade. Her sprint continued unhindered, even if she knew her ragged feet we’re now bloody, and covered in blisters. She tapped into her body's adrenaline, and pushed herself beyond the limits of what she thought possible. Alongside the infernal noise coming from the ritualistic orgy, the young girl could also hear the sound of her heart.

Beat. Beat. Beat. 
 
Beat. Beat. Beat
 
Beat. Beat. Beat. 
 
With a sudden crash, Lilly was thrown to the ground. In her rush to escape the black woods, a large, gnarly root had caught her foot, which she didn’t see until it was far too late throwing her to the forests floor. Her face, luckily landed in the soft dark dirty, but she was still dazed, and the wind was knocked right out of her. Quickly coming back too, Lilly pushed herself back up-
 
“Well look what we’ve found girls.” 

A boot was launched into Lilly’s face, with such force it threw her backwards. Dazed, and out of it, the only thing Lilly could really see was the flaming witch lights placed in the forest, to light up the dark forest in this most unholy of nights. A soft, yet clearly sadistic voice, whispered, “Lillin Quentas, first of her name. Daughter to the Countess Aveline Quentas, Black Rose of Night and Lady of Chorrol.” Another kick to the face, this time from another person, going by the voice. A soft, much more kind, quiet woman spoke up, “Come on sister….leave her alone. She’s a countess, we’ll get in trouble! Let’s just go back to the glade….”
 
“Quiet! I’m the oldest! I decide what to do! Whenever we’re at parties, this bitch and her sister are always looking down on us! It’s time to teach her a lesson!”
 
Lilly’s vision had returned, thought it was still blurry. When it fully came too, she could see four unhooded, yet robed figures, under the crimson light of the bloodmoon, staring down on her. The first, presumably the ring leader, stared down in the front, right over the teenagers head, a sadistic grin on her lips, marring her otherwise pretty face. She had long blonde hair, though unlike her lovely sister, the colour was more washed out yellow then sparkling gold. Boring, brown eyes stood on her face, alongside a large amount of freckles The second, hid behind her, feebishly peeking at Lilly’s battered body. The girl could be no older then sixteen, a bit older then Lilly, but she looked younger somehow.  She had the same hair, eye colour, and ugly freckles, so Lilly could assume they were related.  Unlike the sadism present on the other, this one looked more scarred than anything.
 
She….recognised them. Coarsely, Lilly managed to choke out, “Mirana?” 
 
The sinister grin on Mirana Amerus  grew at Lilly’s recognition, “So you remember me, dear cousin?”
 
Well, you-could say they were related. Maybe fourth cousins. She didn’t really know them. She remembered seeing them once at a family gathering, From what Lilly gathered from her mother, they we’re part of the “lesser” Quentas clan, and were merely landowners, barely noble at at all. Their blood wasn’t pure like hers. 
 
The two other members of the group we’re holding down Lilly’s wrists, pinning her to the forest ground. They looked much plainer, not visible identifiers to who they we’re. One had jetblack hair, the other, brown.  The countess struggled under their grip, using her impressive strength to try and free herself, only to fail. The force put down upon her by the duo of minions was just too much for the fourteen year old girl to handle. The smile grew on Mirana’s pretty face, as she leaned in closer, breathing down on Lilly’s neck, “I’ve always want to do this to you. I like girls who struggle. It makes it way more fun.” Mirana hand slowly went to Lilly’s...breasts, gripping them tightly.
 
Lilly began to scream, as she furiously struggled under the grip of the two other girls at Mirana’s touch, she knew what was about to happen as she began to scream out, “HELP! HELP! HELP-”
 
A musty, filthy rag was stuffed into her mouth to keep her from screaming, as Lilly was pushed deeper into the ground, as the other witches put all of their body strength into keeping down. Mirana began to take Lilly’s clothes off, “After we all take turns plouging you, maybe we’ll give you to the werebeasts for some fun.” She laughed, her voice cruel, and mad. Screaming helplessly under her gag, Mirana suddenly began to grip Lilly’s platinum hair, hard enough to draw blood on on the scalp, just as she began to whisper, “If you be quiet, and stop struggling like a good little countess, I won’t leave too many bruises on your pretty body!”  
 
In response, Lilly launched a kick into the girls gut, throwing her backwards a bit. Grunting in pain, the lesser noble screeched in horrible anger, “YOU ******* WHORE-
 
The smaller of the two sisters, whose name Lilly couldn’t recall, tugged on her sister's black robe, “Sister, just leave her, you know how much trouble we’ll get into!”

A backhand slap, quieted the witch, as her little sister shied  away in fear from her elder siblings aggression, “Quiet, Ava! Avessia, Curio, hold the bitch down, we’ll take turns!”  Lilly refused to consign herself to her fate, as she tried to scream through the gag, her voice still muffled by the filthy fabric, literally kicking and screaming. A harsh slap from Ava, this time throwing Lilly’s face to the side of the desolate glade, resounded across the forest, a backdrop of howling, and screams echoing. 
 
As Lilly’s eyes opened, recovering fast from the heavy slap, A familiar figure entered her vision, across the glade, by the dark trees. Appearing in a dark cloud of shadowy miasma. Visible underneath the dark blood moon. The pale sanguine light shone down on her features, revealing her unearthly beauty, statuesque face, and , golden, sparkling hair. As clothing, she wore a gorgeous dress of black silk, finely tailored, and threaded with runestring.

Deep as the ocean, Lapis Lazuli eyes, under the moonlight, gazed at Lilly. A grin forming on the face.
 
It was Aveline Quentas. Her mother. 
 
Lilly screamed underneath her gag, “Mother! Mother!”” 
 
The countess gazed at her daughter, the smile, turning sinister, as she placed a disturbing, porcelain-looking mask onto her face. Upon closer inspection, Lilly could  tell that actually wasn't porcelain, the glossy material seeming to be it, but the dark, reflection it casted when the blood moon's crimson light had more sinister connections. It was feminine daedric warmask. She put a finger to her mask black porcelain lip, and made a “shoosh” sigh. She couldn’t see under the face mask, but Lilly knew she was smiling at her. 
 
With a step back, Aveline disappeared into the woods, shadows forming around her, consuming her.
 
The Blood Moon heralded this forsaken night, and underneath it, Lilly’s entire life went crashing down. 

Was she in hell? 
 
After what I did to that girl...I deserve this. Mother and Milly...have abandoned me. 
 
Lilly’s body fell limp as she stopped struggling, her eyes becoming void of life. “Accepting it, little countess?” She ignored them. This was her punishment. She would be used, humiliated, and abused like a toy. Just like that girl. She deserved it. For such pettiness, and selfishness, an innocent girl lost her life, and her soul was now condemned to Cold harbor. Indeed, whatever suffering Lilly would endure tonight, would be paltry to what...that girl was going through.
 
The thing that hurt the most was Lilly didn’t even know her name.
 
“You’re my bag of meat. And I know it makes you wet…” Mirana’s tounge slicky licked Lilly’s tear striken face, as her hand trailed down, and started to caress-
 
BANG 
 
Suddenly, a bright white light came roaring forth from the forest, and into the dark glade. The circular ball of light, in a second, hoovered in the middle, above the group. Out of instinct, Lilly closed her eyes, just in time too. The sphere of light bursted into sparks, and bright, pure light flooded into the dark forest, luminous, blistering, and quite frankly, burning. Screaming out in pain, the would-be defilers, didn’t have Lilly’s good instincts and kept their eyes open, as the light released, causing them to be temporarily blinded by the sudden explosion of pure light, in a display of agony. Like a flair, the explosion discharged an ear piercing screech of sound, which disorientated the witches even further. Free from her captors, Lilly spat out the dirty rag, and ran to the side of the woods taking cover. 
 
A figure charged from the dark woods, and into the shadowy glade, sprinting, with a silvery sword drawn. 
 
It was Milly.
 
As soon as she closed the gap with her first target, Milly striked with a flash of inhuman swordsmanship, Millnerius rapidly plunged her sword into the first witch, turning her into a living pincushion within a few seconds. Her right hand was glowing a deep blue shade, so Lilly knew she was pouring some kind of magic spell into herself. Throwing the punctured body of the first girl to the side, Milly skilfully deflected a handful of dagger strikes. The aristocrat was moving at speeds almost impossible to see to the human eye. Lilly knew the girl was an excellent fencer, but she had never seen her unleashed like this.  Milly brought the second witch close to her, drawing her close with her blade, just as she drew her own Anthema from it's hidden location on her body, and plunged the blade into the other witches neck, with her free hand. Blood gurgling, Avessia fell to the floor, her pretty features becoming deathly pale, as she left for the void.
 
Two down in a couple of seconds.
 
The ringleader, the potential rapist Mirana, fearfully withdrew, her young sister hiding behind her who now looked terrified. Milly, who was now drenched in blood, seethed angrily, slowly advancing towards the duo, murderous intent in her eyes.  She lifted her gloved hands as she foolishly conjured a fireball, sending it roaring towards the enraged Milly.

With a flick of her wrist, a small w ward appeared right infront of Milly’s face, blocking the fireball. 

Mirana summoned another spell, this time a sparkling ball of lighting, which roared towards Milly, who once more brought up a protection ward, absorbing the feeble attempt of an attack.
 

Before she could do anything else, Milly snapped her figures. With a large howl, Mirana was consumed in a fiery inferno, a discharge of raging flame forming around her in a split second. Her sister managed to throw herself to the side just in time, to avoid the blast of fire, though she screamed in agony from the discharge of boiling heat reaching her. The consuming flame spread around, and within seconds, her entire body was covered in the flame, though the seconds felt like minutes, and the ravaging flame was the worst pain the noblewoman had ever experienced in her life. The blaze lit up the darkness, a fiery light in the shadow. With a scream, Mirana body was scorched and destroyed in the agonising fire. What remained of Mirana Catio, was nothing more than a pile of ashes in the dark forest. 
 
Still screaming, streams of tears forming on her face, Ava pathetically cried out, “Sister-” Not even bothering to check if Lilly was safe, Milly, her enraged face hidden by shadow, quickly ran up to the crying aristocrat. Angrily, and as she channelled a fortify strength spell into her, grabbed the crying girl by the hair, and threw her to the forests floor. The crying girl got up, her voice drowned out by the tears, and the pathetic pleading, she reached for Milly's knees, begging for forgiveness, “Please-I-didn’t want to hurt her-i-t-was-” 

Milly quickly delivered a pommel strike to her face, with her silvery sword, throwing her backwards. The pretty girls blonde hair was thrown backwards, as she weeped, and her nose began to bleed. Using her free hand, Milly wrathfully conjured a weak paralysis spell, the blue light forming around the helpless mage. Strong enough to keep her in place, but not strong enough to dull the pain. Milly roughly pushed her over  so she was lying on her belly. She spent a couple seconds, fashioning something together, using her leather belt, and a sizeable branch, which she sharpened quickly with her knife, the splinters on the tip falling to the ground just as quickly as Milly had returned her blade to its sheaf...  The scared witless girl, managed to stutter out, her voice trembling, “What-are you doing!” 

“An eye for an eye. Giving you my Muatra. In Lord Bal’s name...” The witch seethed, a dark, horrible wolf-like grin forming on her face, as she gently lifted it up, tying it on her waist.  Something evil inside Milly had taken hold, and she was about to commit the ultimate sin. Lust, wrath, and dark desire grew and took her heart. With a flick of her knife, Millnerius cut Ava robe, and disrobed her, before fully making her naked, removing everything. Ava began to howl madly, “No-please!-No please!” She was helpless, she couldn’t even move, only scream louder and louder. Milly put on her instrument of torture, and slowly moved forward…

…
 
Only to look back, as a pathetic whimpered from beyond reached her ears, “Sister…” 
 
Milly turned around. Only to see her little sister's face staring at her, under the crimson light of the blood moon. Lilly had dried her tears, her unkempt hair glowing under the red moonlight. Her pale face had gone even whiter, as if she had seen a ghost. Her pretty blue eyes were filled with shock. And more importantly, her face, was drenched in disgust. 
 
Milly, turned from the screaming girl, lowering her “weapon”, as she managed to stutter out, quietly, “Lilly?” 
 
Lilly turned around, and sprinted away from the small clearing without another word.
 
The imperial noble called out, as she ran forward,  lifting up her gloved hands chasing after her wayward sister, immense guilt and shame filling inside her, “Lilly!? Lilly come back, it's dangerous out there! SISTER!” 

[Witchking of Angmar]

Morane

It hadn’t taken much for Morane to wile her way on board the merchant’s carriage. Dressed as she was in a brown quilted cotton jerkin, with thin leather bracers and gloves, cotton breeches with leather knee padding, black riding boots, and a hood pulled over her black curls, she looked the part of a carriage guard. The one thing that might have stood out was her silver ring of alteration, but even that was unadorned by a jewel and scratched up enough to be a peasant family’s heirloom.

Of course, there wouldn’t have been a guard position available had she not furnished the former guard with drinks throughout the night before departure. It was a simple thing to find a merchant headed for Shornhelm, follow a carriage guard to a tavern, keep him drinking until he had no hope of waking before noon, and then Morane would just happen to be nearby when the merchant complained to the driver of the missing guard. So instead of paying for her own trip to Shornhelm with the gold the King provided, Morane was instead being paid to take the trip. The merchant, being desperate for another guard, had even agreed to her terms to give her leave to conduct her business while there. All in all she was thoroughly pleased with how she had managed to manipulate things to her liking, and while getting paid to do so.

They had travelled through the southern foothills of Kurallian Mountains, which reached to the coast north of Camlorn and were the western branch of the chain more commonly known as the Wrothgarians. The Kurallians marked the border between the lands of the Adrards’ and those of the Estermonts’. The carriage followed the eastern road and the Kurallians almost across the peninsula, until they arrived at the Three Corners Inn, at the junction of the roads that led to Camlorn, Shornhelm, and Wayrest.

The inn was not the primary thing of interest in the town, however. Situated at the corner of the lands of Camlorn, Shornhelm, and Wayrest, the town of Crosswych had been a place of border disputes and fighting since its founding centuries ago. It had gone by several names in that time, usually depending on who controlled it. Before Wayrest’s sacking and decline in power, it was Koegria, harkening back to the fiefdom whose seat was there in Queen Elysana’s days. Now, though, it swore fealty to the Adrards, and the Duchy of Eardwulf sat in the former Koegrian keep, guarding the important crossroads for Camlorn.

Crosswych and the Three Corners Inn also sat at the end a wide valley that split the Kurallians from the Wrothgarians, through which the road to Shornhelm ran. It was wide enough for travelers to not be in any added danger of ambushes, but thin enough that an army could be easily bottlenecked between the mountains, giving the town added defensive strength. Had The Pretender’s War gone differently, Crosswych might have been an important battlefield in staving off any armies hoping to attack Camlorn. Instead it sat safe in the shadows of the mountains, seeing to the needs of weary travellers and merchants.

From Crosswych and the inn the merchant’s carriage had turned north to Shornhelm. While the Wrothgarians continued to rise high to the east, the Kurallians gradually transformed into low rocky hills, and finally the dense Ykalon Forest. Since it was still early spring, the snowfall in the Wrothgarians had not yet melted, and so the rivers and streams running beneath the road’s stone bridges were low and languid. But the roads themselves were clear of snow and of dangers. The carriage went from village to village without incident, and as quickly as could be managed, they arrived in Shornhelm.

Like all major Breton cities, Shornhelm was surrounded by massive stone walls. Its main gate was guarded by four large drum towers, two at the front and two further back, between them a corridor that would subject any invaders to constant harassment from above once the first gate was breeched. Morane knew from some maps she had studied there was a second, smaller gate that handled traffic on the opposite side of the city, but that was mostly for peasants or for merchants who docked at the coastal town of Carn Prae many miles to the west. But the main gate, the Clan Gate as it was called, saw almost all the traffic from Camlorn and Northpoint, and it was this gate the carriage drove through.

They were given a cursory search and sent through in a train with other travelers. The towers and parapets high above flew the arrow-pierced black heart on red of the Estermont family. The guards and archers patrolling the walls wore red doublets with black ornamentation over their armor, while the knights had fluttering crimson capes with the sigil stitched in the center. They quickly were waved through the second gate without a stop, the guards eager to keep traffic flowing.

The city itself stretched out in a crescent shape, the points wrapping around a massive rock that thrust into the sky like a dagger pointed toward the heavens. Abutting that rock was Shornhelm’s castle, itself laid out in a crescent shape with two layers of crescent walls. One tower, taller than the rest, was build right up against the rock, giving the castle and the rock behind it a tiered look. Wooden switchback staircases climbed the rock as well, and at the very top a squat watchtower, only a story or two and no bigger than a house, gave views of the land for miles around.

The closer to the castle, the richer the houses, while the part of the city furthest from the castle, up against the southern walls of the city, was home to the poorer houses. Where the rich and lavish housed began to give way to more middle class accommodations in the center of town, a massive market square bustled with activity. Most of the incoming travellers made their way to the square, which was ringed with large inns and shops. In the center of the square was a stone statue of two people. It was only as the carriage drew closer that Morane could make it out.

Standing about fifteen feet tall were a lightly armored Breton man with a thick beard and a heavily armored Nordic woman with flowing hair. The Nord had a battleaxe in hand, a heart engraved on her chestplate, and was pointing toward the gates as she gave a war cry, while the Breton had an arrow notched and aimed at the new arrivals to the city, his face calm and eyes sharp. They were the first Estermonts to rule Shornhelm, Phillip Estermont and Okkhild Black-Heart.

Morane thought their statue less impressive than the fact they had stormed the gate and been able to take the castle. She made a note to find out how exactly they did it when she got back to Camlorn, since neither looked like the type to use subterfuge.

The carriage came to a stop near the statues’ pedestal, and Morane stepped down from the carriage and breathed in the cool, misty air that bore the smell of cooking meat, unclean stables, and sweaty citizens. In that regard, it smelled like every other city. The hint of pine, from the stout trees whose tops stretched above some of the shorter buildings, did set it apart from other cities. It was a fresh smell, one she wished was stronger to cover up the more unpleasant ones.

Morane turned around to see the other guard, a Breton man with a quiver on his back, helping the merchant from the confines of the carriage. She was a barely middle-aged woman with short curls of brown hair that bobbed just above her shoulders. She frowned as she looked at Morane and tossed her a small leather bag of coins.

“I don’t know what I’m paying you for. We hardly heard any howling, much less run into any bandits,” the merchantwoman said.

“I’ll try and see if I can find some unscrupulous types to make your return trip more eventful, then.” Morane flashed a smirk and left before the woman could say anything in response.

Even with the main market square so busy, it wasn’t hard to find mages from the School of Julianos amongst the crowd. There were a few of them out, shopping and visiting the merchant stalls, standing out plain as day in their rainbow robes and silver masks. Morane had read up on the School and its unique style of dress. Their robes were rainbow colored as those were the colors produced when a ray of light struck a perfect triangular prism, and since the triangle was the symbol of Julianos, Morane thought it made some sense to wear such robes.

The masks were another matter. Each rank, from the lowliest Initiate to the Arch Cleric herself, had a personalized mask crafted from silver. What that mask depicted was based on the wearers’ rank. For Initiates, it was a plain silver disc with holes for the eyes, nostrils, and mouth. As they advanced, the mask would be melted down and reforged. Acolytes had an actual face, though it was plain and nondescript. Disciples had a man’s face, Sages an older man’s face, and Clerics an older, bearded man’s face with a triangle on his forehead, meant to be Julianos. The Arch Cleric’s mask was highly detailed, and could be made by only the most skilled silversmiths in Tamriel.

The mages Morane saw strolling the market ranged from the disc wearing Initiates to a few Clerics, who also had plate armored guards trailing them. They were the Knights Mentor, the military branch of the School of Julianos, who took a more active approach to rooting out ignorance in the world. Morane wasn’t sure how they accomplished that, seeing as it would be difficult to force literacy on someone, but it ultimately didn’t concern her and she didn’t care enough to find out what they actually did. The knights wore masks as well, in the same fashion as the mages, though their masks were part of their helms. Their armor also changed as they progressed, having more intricate runes carved into it. All of them, though, wore a white cape with a black triangle in the middle.

Morane bought an apple, leaned against a wall, and watched the mages of the School go about their business. She thought it odd the Clerics had guards with them, and even noticed a few knights patrolling the crowd and not guarding anyone in particular. They were watching for threats in the market, specifically threats from King Adrard. He had seen fit to warn her of the School’s ill feelings towards him, and that he reciprocated them, though he told her through Winvale. She hadn’t seen the King since he confronted her in the garden. The Knight Mentor, though, weren’t looking for anyone in particular, and just kept their eyes on the crowd, so Morane was still anonymous.

Morane looked closely at the mask of every mage and knight to confirm what her reading had said. She saw the masks of the all mages and knights gave off a faint shimmer, as though enchanted. The masks were more than just a mark of pride amongst the Scholars. They were necessary to gain entrance to the School. Since masks were only given to those honored with joining the school, that meant even the plain silver discs of the Initiates were enchanted with a secret spell that would stop anyone not wearing a real mask from entering the School. And the more private areas of the School were closed off to all but the highest-ranking members. To gain access to the part of the library that held the two Shadow magic books, she’d need at least a Sage’s mask.

That was, unfortunately, the part of the plan she hadn’t exactly planned. If she needed it, she had a cover story worked out for once she was inside, but it was getting to that point she hadn’t exactly figured out. So as the morning turned to afternoon, she strolled the shops and used the crowds for cover, always keeping the mages in her sight, and when possible, listening in on their conversations. Several had come and gone by the time she formulated her plan and was ready to put it into action. First she went into an alchemy shop and bought the most powerful sleeping potion she could, and then went into bookstore and bought two pots of ink and before she went back into the square. She then identified her mark by getting close and listening to them speak, confirming they were a man, of the appropriate rank, and not unpleasantly old.

The Sage she had her eye on was walking away from an enchanting shop he’d been in. Morane walked quickly, keeping her pace just slow enough to not arouse suspicion, until she had worked herself in front of him and was heading towards him. She carefully moved through the crowd until she came within arm’s reach of him, then she tripped herself and sent the pots of ink flying, where they shattered against the stones and spattered ink all over the Sage’s robes.

To ensure the job was done, Morane pushed herself back to her feet, and in the process stuck her hand in the puddle of ink. When she went to check on the stunned Sage, she placed her hand on his shoulder, and then feigned shock when she saw the dark, inky handprint she’d left.

“I-I am so, so sorry!” she said, using a voice she hoped sounded more childlike and nervous than her usual voice. Deference could only help her, even if it wasn’t her usual demeanor.

The voice that came from behind the mask was not angry but exasperated. Perfect, she thought. The man said, “I-it. Hmm. It’s fine. Accidents happen.”

“You must allow me to fix this,” she said. “I will gladly pay to get this cleaned up at a washhouse.”

“No no, there’s no need for that. I can take care of it.”

Fixing her eyes to the dark holes in the man’s mask, Morane tucked a black curl behind her ear, smearing ink on her face, and then doing her best to blush when she realized what she’d done. “Please, sir, it’s the least I can do.”

She hated acting like this, all apologies and blushing, but she hated to fail even more, and that’s exactly what would happen if she let this Sage go somewhere alone to clean his clothes.

With a sigh that sounded slightly forced, the man said, “Oh alright, I suppose I’ll let you. Let’s go to Madame Souban’s.”

“I’m Marien, by the way,” she said, offering her right hand, remembering the ink, then pulling it back with a smile.

“Joncis,” he said, his tone a little lighter than before.

They set off, Morane taking care to walk beside him but half a step behind, so he would think she knew where she was going but she was actually letting him lead. They soon arrived at a two story building a block away from the market square. The first floor was built from dark stone, while the second story was dark wood. The sign hanging in front had a washbin full of bubbles and, above it carved in flowing letters, Madame Souban’s Washhouse.

Next came the hard part. Most anyone would agree to take a stranger’s money to fix a mess they had caused, but getting him to agree to drinks would be more difficult. Thankfully, the man tending the counter at the washhouse helped Morane out in that regard. When he looked at the Sage’s robes, he said, “Oh my, that’s quite a mess.”

“How long will it take?” the Joncis asked.

“A couple hours,” the washerman said.

Before Joncis could express any frustration, Morane stepped forward and sat down a bag of septims and counted out the payment, as well as a generous tip. The washerman reached beneath the counter and came up with a damp rag, which Morane used to clean off her face and hand. She then put the rest of her coins in her shoulder bag, where the two enchanted books were. Joncis had removed his robe and mask and gave over the former. He was a balding man in his late thirties with pale skin and a weak chin. He wore a simple tunic and pants, and looked upset but not angry, which was all Morane could hope for.

“I’m sorry about your robe. Since it’ll be a few hours, how about I buy you a bottle of wine? It’ll make the time pass faster,” she said.

She gave him her best apologetic smile, not a natural thing for her, but good enough since he smiled in return and said, “What could it hurt?”

“Do you know a good place?” she asked the washerman, who was tallying something in a book before sending the robe back. Morane wanted this third party to pick the destination, that way Joncis wouldn’t take them to a mage’s bar where he might have friends.

“Right across the street and down a bit, on the corner, is The Archer’s Alehouse. Can’t miss it,” the washerman said.

Morane gave Joncis a glance and he nodded, and then stored his mask in his own shoulder bag. This time she led the way. The bar was exactly where the man said, and had a moderate crowd, as it was a couple hours past midday. Morane found a table along the wall, near the stairs that led to the bedrooms on the second and third stories of the large, ornate stone building. She motioned to a barkeep and ordered a bottle of wine, Carn Prae Rezin, stout northwestern coast wine that would help the sleeping potion along.

The barkeep poured their glasses, and Morane raised a toast. “To less clumsy strangers.”

“Here here,” Joncis echoed. They both took a drink of their wine, and then Joncis asked, “So, what were you buying ink for?”

“Oh, nothing too exciting. I work as a courier, and our office inkwells needed replenishing.”

“A courier? Isn’t that dangerous, travelling the roads like that?”

“I actually know a few spells myself, Mister Mage.” Gods, she thought, I might kill myself if I have to keep this up much longer.

“Oh, I didn’t realize I was in the presence of a fellow practitioner of the arcane. What’s your specialty, Marien?”

“Alteration. Burdened enemies aren’t much threat, and paralyzed ones even less so.”

He chuckled, and then took another drink to wet his throat. “Quite true, quite true.”

“And what’s your specialty, Joncis?”

“Conjuration and enchanting are my areas of study. I see you’ve got an enchanted ring.” He reached out and took her hand, a move that ordinarily would’ve gotten him paralyzed, or at least slapped, but Marien was less aggressive than Morane. He inspected the ring, twisting it in his fingers and staring intently at it. “Fortify Alteration, I believe.”

“You do know your stuff,” she said, withdrawing her hand only after taking a sip of her wine, which led Joncis to do so as well.

They continued on like this, Morane doing her best to banter and flirt under the guise of the Alteration skilled courier Marien. An hour and a bottle came and went, with Joncis drinking most of the latter. Morane was careful to make it look like she did drink, but her glass was never totally emptied like his. Finally, the opportunity came when his bladder became as full as the bottles had been, and he excused himself to use the bathroom. Morane produced the sleeping potion vial and poured it into his drink. He returned, and soon after he finished his glass, she could tell the potion was beginning to take affect.

Morane drank half of her own glass, then grabbed his hand and said, “Why don’t we take this upstairs.”

Before he could answer, she got up and led him to the counter, plucked a few coins from her pocket and paid for a room, and then led him by the hand upstairs. By the time she got the door unlocked, he was wobbling on his feet, and she barely had enough time to steer him to the bed before he was out cold. She knew he would be for a couple hours.

Sorting through his bag, she found his mask and placed it inside her own bag, then hid his bag under the bed. She was about to leave when an idea struck her that might buy her even more time, should she need it later. She went back over to the bed, used a feather spell to better manage it, and then commenced undressing Joncis and roughing up the bed. Once he woke up and saw the state of the room and himself, he’d be in less of a hurry to go pick up his laundry, and so it would take him longer to realize he’d been thoroughly duped.

Morane left The Archer’s Alehouse and went back down the street to Madame Souban’s. Though she walked steadily and had only the slightest buzz, when she entered she the washhouse and approached the counter, she was walking with a bit of an unsteady sway.

The same washerman was there, and he asked, “Where’s the Scholar.”

“He’s asleep,” she said in a quiet voice, as if afraid she might wake someone. “He wanted me to pick up the robe.”

The washerman frowned, knowing this was irregular, but just as Morane suspected, he didn’t want to argue with a possibly drunk woman, and he gave the robes over without protest. Adding the finishing touch, Morane reached into her pouch and pulled out another tip, this one of a few coins more than was normal, but entirely inline with a drunk woman not bothering to count.

She left and ducked into an alley as soon as she could, throwing both the robe and mask on and drawing up the hood. Her disguise now complete, she had only the actual thieving left to accomplish.

Her trip to the School of Julianos took her back to the market square and then along the curving crescent road from the square. On her left were the houses of the rich, and beyond that the castle, while the more middle class houses were on her right. She followed the road, which she could see ended at the main city walls. When she reached the end, she turned toward the middle class district, where instead of nice houses, there was a wall that stood shorter than height of the castle walls but higher than the city walls.

White banners with black triangles flew from the ramparts and towers within, while several plate armor clad Knights Mentor guarded the gate. Beyond them Morane could see lush gardens stretching out in the main courtyard, and many masked, rainbow robe clad mages walking about.

Hesitating not a moment, she walked through the gate and the guards didn’t give her a second look. The courtyard inside of the School’s walls was wide and open. At the far end was a cathedral, with stained glass windows depicting Julianos. In the center of the garden courtyard was a large black pyramid, and just behind it a statue of Julianos, holding a quill in one hand and a scroll in the other. Morane approached the pyramid shrine and drew a triangle in the air, touching her forehead, left shoulder, right shoulder, and then her forehead again. The book she’d read told her of several prayers the Scholars had, and the motions associated with them.

She said, “Blessed be my studies, God of Wisdom and Logic. May I seek wisdom from the wise and walk in the light of knowledge.”

Once she finished, she felt a tingling at her temples. She wasn’t sure if that was the god’s gift or simply her still being unused to wearing the mask, but she was riding high already from the perfect execution of her plan and the truth in this regard did not concern her. The prayer was mostly to sink deeper into the guise of a Scholar of Julianos, and she didn’t linger too long on this rare moment of piety.

She lifted her head and went through the motions of straightening her bag, while actually looking around the courtyard as she did. The School was hexagon shaped, with towers at each of the corners. The ones at the front, between which the gate passed, where the shortest, while the towers to her right and left, which formed the ‘corners’ of the School, were tall and wide. The ones at the back where tall but not so wide as the corner towers, and they sat across from the gate and flanked an elegant cathedral.

The only tower that concerned Morane was the leftmost tower attached to the back corner of the cathedral. It held the library in its upper levels, so she set off towards it. Rather than go through the cathedral itself, which she knew was as much a lecture hall as it was a place of worship, she went around it along the loggia that stretched between each of the towers and went along the School’s walls. She could have entered the nearest tower and used the passages within the walls, but walking outside meant she could keep more distance between herself and any other mages. Giving friendly nods to those she did pass, she made it to the tower. A lone Knight Mentor stood guarding the door, but he only greeted Morane as she entered.

Inside the staircase spiraled upwards in the middle, while stained glass windows depicting mages at study and practice painted the interior of the tower in all manner of colorful light. She climbed the stairs and reached the library, which occupied the upper third of the tower. Disguised as a Sage, she would have almost full access to all materials in the library, while the less experienced students had only partial access.

She would have liked to ask a librarian about the location of the books, but when they were inevitably discovered missing, someone would recall meeting a woman asking about them. The less the Scholars knew about their soon to be missing books, the better.

Thankfully, there was an index cabinet on the first floor of the library. The book titles were in alphabetical order, so she searched for On Shadow Realms first, and found it quickly among the other O books. It was on the third floor of the library, where only Sages and above were allowed. The then flipped to the R’s and looked for Ruminations on the Reflections of the Infinite. She found the card, but when she looked to see its location, she instead found a large red script that read MISSING. She thought it interesting that one of the books Winvale wanted happened to be gone. She felt that it could not be simply a coincidence, and wondered if someone else was interested in Shadow magic. Someone also willing to steal books related to it. Regardless, she wouldn’t be finding the book here, so she left the index behind and travelled to the third floor.

Finding the book was easy, since she had the row and shelf number. Once she pulled On Shadow Realms from the shelf, she placed it underneath the enchanted book she had. The enchanted book began to faintly glow and it shifted and twisted in her hands, until after a few moments it was an exact copy of On Shadow Realms, except if someone opened it, there would be nothing but blank pages inside. Winvale had explained it was much easier to copy the outside, being only two covers, than the entire contents of the book. Morane placed the replica in the book’s former place and put the stolen book in her bag.

Instead of leaving the library, Morane climbed the stairs to the fourth level. While she was here she figured it best to have a look at where Ruminations on the Reflections of the Infinite used to be, in case there were any clues as to its whereabouts. But as she neared the staircase’s landing on the fourth floor, she heard whispering amongst the rows of shelves. She crept up as close to the top of the stairs as she could, and from listening determined the whisperers must be in sight of the staircase.

Taking a deep breath, Morane peered sidewise and substituted herself across the fourth floor room, so that she was behind them. She then picked up her robe so it wouldn’t drag and walked lightly on the balls of her feet until she positioned herself one row over from the pair of Clerics who were clearly trying to have a private conversation. She could just make them out between a gap in the books.

One, a woman, said, “I don’t know. But she came back from Camlorn in a much different mood than when she left. She was furious about Adrard taking the College of Whispers’ library and artifacts for himself, but she completely dismissed the issue after she met with him. And I know for a fact he didn’t make some other deal. Her steward told me as much.”

The other Cleric, a man, said, “She might be losing her grip. We’re supposed to at the forefront of Breton magic, with the influence due such a position. But now Jolvanne has allowed a hedge mage to become Royal Wizard, she let Adrard raid the College, and The Institute is being openly defiant. They’ve refused to attend the next magical conclave, apparently.”

Morane smiled at that. It had been years since she studied at The Institute for Thaumaturgical Enlightenment in Farrun, and she didn’t usually think of that time as good, but it did make her happy to see her fellow students and their masters there weren’t as stodgy as the rest of High Rock’s formal mages.

“I did not think they were organized enough to pull off a boycott. We’ll see if it lasts once we embargo their supplies. No one will sell to them if Jolvanne leans on the merchants.”

“I don’t think she will. I’m telling you, the Arch Cleric has lost her grip on things. All she’s done is ruin the relationship between us and the royals and given us a new school to staff. You know as well as I that it will only dilute our standards to fill a new branch. I heard the Academy Arcana is pushing for their turn at the helm. They say our standards are too low to be truly representative of Breton magic. Think what they’ll say now!”

“What do you suggest, then? We cannot simply push her out, not while she has Corgine’s support. The Knights Mentor will do as he says, and no one has been chosen Arch Cleric who did not have their support.”

“He will have to be made to see how detrimental her weakness is. The Arch Paladin is a sensible man, and he will come around.”

“If you say so. He’s never struck me as a turncoat. They’ll either go down together or both need to be replaced.”

There was a mumble of assent and the mages went on their way. Morane hid herself at the far end of the row, and they left without noticing her. She didn’t find much of the conversation that interesting, though hearing something scandalous that was meant to be private was thrilling. 

She moved down the row Ruminations had been on, and sure enough found its spot empty. There was nothing there of any help to her in locating the missing book, and nothing else she needed to do at the school. With the stolen book hidden safely in her bag, she descended the stairs and left the library.

When she passed back through the gate, Joncis was there in his underclothes, trying desperately to convince the Knights Mentor of his story. He looked groggy still, and from what Morane heard, he wasn’t exactly coherent. She guessed that before the day was over they’d figure out his story was true, although it might be another hour before the potion fully wore off. By then, though, Morane would be long gone.

She walked towards the main gate and found several carriages waiting there. Picking out a covered one under the banner of a nicer company, she paid for a private trip that cost her quite a bit. She’d been given enough for a few days stay in Shornhelm, though, so there was plenty with which to ride back in comfort. As soon as the carriage bounced along the road, heading south, she took off the robes and carefully folded them up and placed them in her bag, along with the mask. Excellent mementos of her successful theft. With one book down, and another missing, that meant only four left. She would be headed to Solitude, next.

[Witchking of Angmar]

Lillin Quentas, Karsh the Raven 
Imperial City, Emperor’s Quarters 
Morning

Part 1

Lilly woke up with a startled yelp, an abundance of sweat having formed on her temple, and the rest of her head. A nightmare. A horrid one. About her mother and sister. She gripped the silk blanket of the bed, and used it to cover her naked body. It was unspeakable. She wanted to throw up, but she stopped herself. She just put her hands to her head, and started to cry. 

Why am I so fucked up? She started to hyperventilate before she managed to calm herself and taking deep breaths. Sergeant Aquias had taught her this trick. After a second she noticed that Krojun was no longer with her in the bed. Slowly she opened her eyes and glanced around, seeing the first rays of sunlight shine around the edges of her window curtains. Krojun was nowhere to be seen. As she lied her head back down on the pillow she saw a familiar sight looking down on her from the headboard of the bed; the raven was simply sitting there and staring at her face with what she assumed was a mixture of curiosity and expectation.

****. I wish Lady Grey and her fair hair was here with me right now. I miss her…

"And what might you be doing, my dear magpie?" the spymaster said in a sardonic voice, a hinge of venom plainly visible. She was getting tired of pleasing Krojun's immature attitude lately. Even Lady Grey childish tendencies were less of an issue here.
Whatever. I need to listen to Mother's orders, so its not like I have a choice in this. She stretched, her face becoming impatient, waiting for the little raven to respond.

Karsh however kept staring at her, only tilting his head after several seconds of awkward silence. 

"Fine. Now please tell me what you're doing?" Lilly said with a slightly apologetic tone. Lilly could be a jerk sometimes, she had always been. Trying to emulate her beloved mentor had become second nature to her, as if being consumed by another person persona. Lilly’s former personality had subsided, sunk into the abyss of her subconscious. It still existed, but deep within herself.

Karsh croaked at her and then stared at her for another second before jumping down and landing besides her head. "What do you think? I'm watching you. Waiting for you to wake up." he spoke into her ear. 

"That's really ******* creepy. Is there any motive behind looking at me?" Lilly said with a strange look on her face. She found Karsh to be a rather annoying little bird. A bird that her little, dear Helen took care of. One of Krojun's minions. Very useful for scouting though, and the Spymaster had used his services more then once.  "I thought humans girls weren't your type." she said in a deadpan voice.

"You're not. And you're really boring to watch. But boss wants me by your side, so here I am."

"What, is Krojun so jealous? He's asking his crown minion to spy on me?” she said with a sarcastic smile. Though Lilly said with jest, she was genuinely uncomfortable with that prospect. Ironically, despite her occupation, Lilly hated being watched. She despised it. Nothing got to her more then the prospect of invisible eyes being glued to her back. There was a silence from Karsh and he simply stared at Lilly again.

"Fine, keep your silence. It changes nothing. My mother told me never to listen to a raven if it started speaking to me. Your kind is good at deception." Though she fully hated her mother, she now, being older, often acknowledged the wisdom in her many, more eccentric teachings. 

She got out of her bed, quickly put her armor on. Today was going to be a long day. Lilly grabbed her dark maille coat, placing it over herself, the chains rustling atop the thin cloth padding. She groaned as she faced the mirror. Her large breasts sticking out.

I hate these ******* things. As soon as I find a flesh sculpture, this shit is going. Just makes me a bigger target. Besides, Grey had said she prefered her when she was perky.  Groaning once more, Lilly grabbed her dark leather chestguard, placing it over her maille shirt, pushing her arms threw the leather sleeves, and, one after another, put on her leather leggings, boots, and gauntlets. She finished her look with a black half cloak, grabbing a sharp curved dagger, strapping it to her belt. Her dark armor added a nice contrast to her platinum hair, and her stunning Lapiz Lazuli eyes. Upon the center, the ever seeing eye of the Oculatus stared into the mirror, which reflected back an image of the spymaster. She barely could stomach it. 

She called out, as she put her mithril sword on her belt: "By the way, I need your services for a assignment." She glanced below at her sword. The blade itself was the type the Thorns of Chorrol wielded, a deadly weapon, her favorite type of blade, a two and a half bastard sword. The Thorns were a knightly order of honor, yet another group in service of the fiery stake was far more dangerous. She coveted their blades, but such a weapon of dark butchery as that would no doubt stain her honor. 

Karsh croaked, which Lilly took as some kind of acknowledgement, while continuing to watch her. She didn't know if was because of he found her the most interesting thing in the room or if he was just expecting food. 

"I need you to scare someone horribly." She gave a sly smile. "I'll have Helen feed you double for the next two months, and I'll give you a 'shiny' for your collection, if you agree to it." Ravens are omens of evil. It seems fitting, while I wield terror, to use a raven in conjunction as my weapon.

Karsh flew up from the bed and landed on her shoulder. "Uhm... Most people tend to find me more annoying than scary."

Oh, you have no idea how much I agree with you. Karsh, while useful, was a pretty ditzy thing. Almost as much as the Empress in her princess days. Especially since ravens had a fearsome reputation as being some of the meanest, nastiest birds around. Carrion eaters and heralds of death. Who knew they were morons.

"Trust me." She took a small vial from her desk, and showed it to him, with a sinister smile. Still a horrible prankster she was, like when she was but a girl. Some things never changed. "The person whose exposed to this, will see you as a horrible, monster of Oblivion. A bat-like abomination from Vaermina’s nightmares!” 

“Exposed to?” Karsh sounded a bit confused. 

"It's a hallucinogenic drug. Of my personal make." the Spymaster said with a horrifying grin, a twisted sense of pride filling inside her. Her skills had improved since the days when she would make disgusting tea with bitter leaves, and black cap mushrooms. Inside the clear vial, was a murky blue liquid, which held ripped up black leaves, "Once digested into the bloodstream, it makes the unfortunate victim suffer hallucinations of horrid, dark things."

"And how do you expect me to poison anyone with that?" Karsh said with a small sense of sarcastic disbelief. 

"No not you idiot. I'll position them, and when I tell you, you'll fly in and harass the target. Afterwards, I'll walk in, and you leave the rest to me." Lilly had a low tolerance for slowness, which would result in her barking.

"I'm no idiot." Karsh exclaimed. 

Lilly's piercing, gorgeous Lapiz Lazuli eyes shone, as she snarled: "Of course. Now can you do it or not?"

"I suppose I can swoop down for a small moment."

"Good." A cruel grin appeared on the spymasters face, "This will only take a moment of my time. ******* should know there place." Lilly had worked on this plan for months. She wasn’t going to let it be taking away simply because she fell out of favor with someone that could help her accomplish it. All thanks to an illiterate whore, who probably couldn’t spell anything past ten words.

"Don't you have work to do?"

"Yeah, but this won't take more than an hour." Lilly stretched out, and dramatically placed her hand to her head, and began to do squats. Exercise calmed her down, and cleared her mind. "You can handle this one job, correct?"

"Aaagh!" Karsh yelped which at the same time turned into a croak as he almost lost balance before flying off her shoulder and landing in her bed. He gave Lilly a croak that sounded a bit angry. 

"Sorry about that." Her tone was genuinely apologetic, before offering him her shoulder once more. The pauldrons on her leather chestguard were a little too bulky for her liking, and thought she should get another made without pauldrons.

Karsh flew up on her shoulder again. "You seem to have a habit to forget I'm not nailed to your shoulder." he said with slight annoyance and bitterness. 

"Well, I'm not used to a bird perching on my shoulder, all day." She made a move to grab another spare dagger on her shelf, Never knew when one could need a throwing knife. She strapped the small blade besides the other dagger and took a few small glass bottles from the shelf labelled with parchment of yellow, brown and orange. All of her make, of course. Various poison for coating her blades in. She gently pulled back her silver long hair, as she said in a sarcastic tone, "What, you think I'm some kind of blind prophet, that has a white raven perched on her shoulder all day, like in the old tales?" 

"I don't know any tales about freaky white ravens and old fools, but I do know people that do pay more attention and care when I sit on their shoulder."

"You don't read..." she muttered dryly. "You wouldn't know many tales. Unless you raven's have there own stories. Which, from what you told me about raven society, you probably don't." 

"We have tales. I know a guy that told me how he stole some food from an odd eagle some time back."

"Don't eagles eat ravens?" she asked with an odd look about her.

"Not if they can't catch us." Karsh said with an almost childish glee.

"But there above you on the food chain. Even with a dozen of your comrades, I doubt you could bring down an eagle." Lilly brought out her fingers, counting them briefly. The Spymaster did greatly enjoy the great outdoors, even after some highly traumatic experiences, but Milly was the one who was obsessed with animals and beasts. Lilly just liked the fresh air and sense of exhilaration. A small smile played on her lips, as she remembered the many times they got lost in the great forest, wandering from dilapidated ruins, to moss filled caves.  The darkness would almost be overbearing, but she still loved it. Lilly asked: "Eagles have sharp talons, speed, eyesight, and the strength to devour you. It’s the way nature works. I suppose you hide from them.”  The strong devour the weak. That’s what mother would say. 

"Bah. They're not that fast. And they're also quite stupid. It's all about picking your fights and having an escape. When they've caught something you can fling rocks at them all day. They can't chase you without giving up their catch." 

Perhaps there is some wisdom to that, Lilly thought to herself. Lilly laughed, she found the prospect of small black birds lobbing rocks at larger, more fierce eagles hilarious for some strange reason. 

With everything she needed gathered, Lilly opened up and went into the secret passageway behind a bookcase. Soon she emerged in a small and secluded lounge for special guests, mostly the relatives to the royal family.

The Empress, practically had a different room, sleeping in her "study" in which she even had her own bed now. The path to the Empress was guarded by Grey Wolf spectres, and a score of Palentina Soldiers, that even the most hardy and skilled of assassins would find it difficult to get past.

Lilly cast an invisibility spell upon Karsh before leaving the room and began walking down the highly decorated corridors of the palace, with guards saluting her on her way. "So, have you had an daring aerial battles with these foul eagles?" Lilly said with a grin. War stories were always fun. 

"No. No eagle has ever decided to chase me."

"What have you been chased by? You lived in Skyrim, correct? Wouldn't be surprised if some hagraven wanted to make you into a snack."

"I've heard about hagravens from boss. Never seen one though. From what I can tell they're really ugly."

"Quite. You wouldn't want to see one's face. I suppose there's no other intelligent ravens among your kind, like you." Lilly had nightmares when she was in her young teens. Her mother had introduced her to one of those horrors, an ally of the coven. Her wrinkles, boils and disgusting teeth were still vivid in her memory. Especially, and most terrifying, the horrid wheezing sounds they made when they breathed. Lilly had seen a peasant girl horribly violated by her sisters, a goat feasted on raw, and a stable hand vivisected and offered up to Hircine for favor. Rituals in the Black Sabbath. Disgusting and horrid. Her sisters acted like pretty ladies of court during the day, but at night most of them were monsters. The Spymaster brandished those thoughts for her memory, as she focused on the day. Today she would remove a threat to her gamble. 

"Hey, most of us are quite intelligent." Karsh said with slight annoyance. "But you're right; there's no one quite like me." he then continued with a smug voice. 

"That reminds me…" Lilly inquisitively scratched her chin. "I remember when my mother once baked a meat pie for me and my golden haired sister. The Witch told that she hunted some crows, and used there meat in the pie. She wanted ravens, but all of them flew away, in fear when she was offering them pieces of bread, with a dagger behind her back. Maybe the lot of you are smarter." Lilly rubbed her stomach dramatically. She loved meat pie. Especially meat pie with sheep. Her favorite food. She seldom ate the human flesh that her sisters were so fond of, unless forced too.

"Yeah, word tend to travel around pretty fast when someone has done, or tried to do anything against any of us."

"Intriguing. So you ravens have complicated means of communication?" Lilly was a doctor. A physician by trade. And a curious one at that. Any sort of knowledge was welcome. 

"Well it would depend on what you consider complicated." Karsh said with a slightly haughty tone. 

"Well, you seem to be able to communicate like humans, but without language. I presume, you communicate using a different system. Unless you do have some secret-raven language."

"Do you think we only croak for fun?"

"Wait here." She ignored his previous quip, and not so gently made the raven jump off her shoulder onto a ledge by a window. They had been walking for a few minutes, until they found the quarters of the woman she wanted to talk too. Lilly pushed the reinforced wooden door open, as she whispered to herself, the dark words emerging with venom in her voice: “Let’s do this.” Gotta do this to keep up this facade. It’ll all be worth it when I can finally nail that bitch. Lilly thought that Karsh could remain undetected for a while outside, because of his innate stealth, and the invisibility spell that was placed on him. Lilly thought the raven had grown slightly fond of her, and even if she was loathe to admit, she found the feeling was mutual. So their bickering was little more then friendly banter. Especially considering the fact Lilly was very generous when rewarding the bird with food, besides the utter spoiling he got from little Helen. 

Inside was a somewhat spacious room, about medium sized. Everything but basic furniture was absent. Especially considering who the room belonged too. The most notable features were the purple colored window curtains, embroidered with golden dragons. Very expensive looking, but that was to be expected, unlike the absence of anything else of note. From what Lilly had gathered, the Empress had recently gotten obsessed with the overgrown reptilians. As a child, Lilly quite liked mythical (or not so mythical, to Lilly’s shock when dragon sightings were growing all across Tamriel) beasts, and loved reading about them in the library her family owned. Until, of course, that night. But since Dales was a young woman, it was to be expected she had some “fantastical” interests, besides young damsels of course. Ah, speaking of which. I see her eyes trailing on dear little Helen. Predatory eyes. Gotta put a stop to that eventually. Lilly pushed those thoughts from her mind to the back of her head, as she put on a small smirk. “Good afternoon, Victoria.” 

The royal maid was lazily lying down on a simple bed, a red book in hand, her short brown hair messy. She wore casual clothes, nothing too fancy, but not simple, a make for the middle class. Victoria was quite lovely. Not beautiful, like Lilly’s beloved Lady Grey, or Magdela Bathory, but certainly very striking. (The Empress, of course, would surround herself with pretty girls. That’s all she loved.) Though she always had a look of mischief about her. And underneath the veneer, a sinister glow sparkled in her green eyes to cause chaos. From what Lilly had dug up on her, she had a very shady past. She used to run with the Thieves Guild, and a few other gangs in Anvil, often acting as an interrogator, which led to some odd interests. She had payed a mage to place soundproof enchantments all around the walls so she could have fun in private.

The Imperial woman had an apartment in the Elven Garden district, but she had her own quarters in the Imperial Palace. One of the many benefits she enjoyed, as the Empresses sole lover. A spot which many other servants eyed in envy. Though since Victoria had known her the longest, that spot was unchallenged, and knowing her reputation no other servant girl wanted to test herself against Victoria. Even worse, if they wished to exploit her beloved majesty, Victoria would make them suffer, and eliminated without question. The maid had some shady connections from her previous life. And had many contacts in the criminal underground. If Dales was threatened in anyway, Victoria would have no qualms with getting her hands dirty. That's exactly what she was going to play on.

The maid's emeralds eyes looked up as she yawned, saying in a slightly bored tone of voice: "Hail to you Colonel. What brings you to this humble maids quarters." Her voice changed to very sultry. "Perhaps you want to be disciplined, like the naughty girl you are?" 

"Is that really your best pick up line, dear Victoria?" She placed her hands to he hips and gave a sly grin. 

Victoria did a sharp salute, as she yelled: "Yes sir!" She lowered her book, placing it beside her on her bed. She stretched out her back, and reclined casually. "I presume, Colonel, you didn't come here to flirt." 

"Unfortunately, no." the spymaster said simply, the grin still present on her face. 

"Then speak your mind. I am busy woman!" Her emerald eyes sparkled in amusement.

"It's Sundas. You have the day off. You should be praying to whatever god you worship, to save your sinful soul, my dear." Lilly said jokingly.  

"Never took you for a priestess, Colonel." She placed a hand to her lap. "Now tell me, what brings you here?"  The Maid's eye brows moved upwards slightly, as if she was getting impatient.

Lilly wasted no time. "I have a problem that requires your assistance, and help." 

"And what would that be? Because I'm dying of anticipation." she said sardonically, opening her mouth wide to comical levels. 

"Poisoning Raine's drink." 

Victoria's grin suddenly disappeared, and her brow furrowed in surprise. The maid's posture tightened and her fists tightened into a vice grip.  She adopted a scowl and her emerald eyes narrowed to suspicious look in disgust. "This ain't a sting operation, right? I already told, you I don't deal moon sugar anymore-"   

Lilly shook her head, silencing her. "The past is the past. I've already told you, I wouldn't rat you out about that little thing. Especially after your contacts proved so useful. No, I genuinely need your help in doing this little 'prank'."  

Victoria relaxed slightly in her posture, but her scornful stare remained. She waited a moment, measuring her words carefully, as she seemed to be deep in thought. Finally, she muttered: “This is about Krojun isn’t it?” 

Lilly’s eyebrows raised, “So what if it is?”

Victoria’s voice was barely a whisper, “A man such as him is barely worth any attention at all. Let alone such extreme methods, but I did hear she tried to frame you for something. Fight fire with more fire I say.” Victoria reclined into the bed, making herself more comfortable, posing suggestively, before she spoke: “But my opinion on the man has nothing really to do with this. I suppose you’re tired of sharing the spot of mistress with such a whore, besides revenge for what she tried to do right?” 

“Nothing so petty I can assure you. Raine is becoming a thorn in my side for another reason.” she addressed her quip. “Owww. How personnel. What has Raine done to anger you so, oh mild mannered Victoria?” Lilly knew, but it would be better to hear it from the maid herself. She slowly approached the maid's bed.

Victoria chuckled. “Raine’s personality is quite grating, I will admit. Almost as if she feels obligated to the riches she desires. Not satisfied with being close to the Emperor. She wants everything. I always told her, her greed would eventually catch up to her. It never ends, she wants more and more.” 

“And you're afraid that greed will soon grow, and devour the Empress. As you said, you care nothing for the Emperor, but poor little Dales.” Lilly sulked, her eyes becoming sullen as she dramatised an expression of sadness, her voice turning venomous like her mother's. “She’s so obsessed with cute girls that she might become swallowed by Raine, and taken advantage of.” A streak of cruelty entered Lilly’s mind as she got even closer to Victoria, there bodies touching. With Lilly’s hot breath touching the maid’s neck, she whispered into her ear: “And where would that leave poor Victoria?” She paused for a moment to emphasise the single word, “Alone”. She continued: “ The only thing that matters to her is her precious Empress. Everything you do is for her benefit. You live to please her. I see the way you look at sweet Dales, there’s love in your eyes. Oh sweet puppy love. Yet Dales would cast you aside the moment another set of bigger **** walked up to her. Or some underaged baroness started mumbling like an idiot. Her eyes would fill with love, and admiration, which you desperately crave, but never get. Outplayed by some useless whore-” 

Victoria’s emerald eyes suddenly filled with pure rage, as her strong arm grasped Lilly’s right shoulder, her features becoming downcast. Victoria, with surprising strength, threw Lilly onto her bed and pinned her down, then straddling her body. A blade was placed on the Spymasters neck, a black elven dagger. The maid’s breath fell across Lilly’s face as the maid seethed, her voice tinged with madness. “Watch your clever mouth, bitch.”

I have you. Lilly maintained her grin, saying: “A commoner swearing, and forcibly touching a Lady of Court in Chorrol is punishable by private vivisection, you understand?” Lilly could only now notice, from her lowered angle, the dozens of scars that covered Victoria's body.

Victoria maintained her tranquil fury. “We ain't in Chorrol, now are we?”

Lilly continued to smile. “No we aren’t. But placing a knife to someone's throat, especially a military officer is at the least, a damn high hefty fine.”

Victoria was still pretty pissed, as she responded with: “You wouldn’t be the first woman I gutted to protect the Empress. Nor will you be the last!” By her voice, the Spymaster could tell she was being very serious. A certain madness had engulfed her.

Lilly kept her cool. “Confessing a murder, eh?” 

“And plenty of other sins I will tell to the gods the day I die, and proudly I might add. Everything I do, no matter how cruel, is for her. My Lady. My Empress. My Dales. I would let everyone die in Cyrodiil if it made her happy.”  The anger and her face visibly melted, and she withdrew her black elven blade, which Lilly could now see she had hidden in her sleeves. She wore a leather sheaf on her arm, underneath her clothing. All of a sudden the old Victoria was back, along with a half grin. Although she continued to pin down Lilly on her bed.

 “You do have the quite the point, though.” The same entertained, deadpan voice had returned. Almost bi-polar. “I have been worried that Raine might try and influence the Empress in a negative way once she grows bored of Krojun. You can’t satisfy a woman like that.  So I guess I will help you.” As she said that Lilly’s smirk grew, which caused Victoria to scowl once more. “Only, for the Empress's benefit. And nothing more.”

Lilly opened the reinforced door, after having given her instructions to the Empress's mistress. As she was about to step outside though one of her feet hit something and she stumbled a little. At first Lilly thought she had stumbled upon a cat or similar that might have been in the room. 

"Oh. Sorry boy-" She glanced down to her feet, expecting to see a furry cat, or slobbering dog, only to notice an annoying pile of black feathers. A grin appeared on her face. "Well, well. Did someone get caught on the door, trying to spy on little old me?"

The raven simply looked up at her before jumping out through the gap of the slightly open door. He didn't go far though as he stopped a couple of feet away in the hallway. 

She put on a face of amusement. "What. the guilty cant speak?"

Karsh simply tilted his head as he looked at Lilly. Lilly sighed in annoyance, going down to his level, and offering the Raven her shoulder. Lifting up her right palm, she drew from her Magicka reserves, and conjured a spell of invisibility upon the small raven. She said with a snort: "Better?"

While she could not see him, she briefly felt his beak against her cheek before hearing him. "Would you mind picking me up and placing me on your shoulder too?"

She rolled her eyes, grabbed him gently overhand, and placed him on her shoulder. "After we take care of Raine, I have other business to attend in the city, in which we'll part ways from there." 

"Why?" Lilly couldn't tell if it was curiosity or suspicion she heard in his voice.

"Because I can't be distracted by a magical raven on my shoulder while I'm leading an investigation like this." She began walking down the hallway once more. Victoria would gather about two other maids she trusted and everything would be set. Honestly, she didn't want it to escalate this far. Lilly respected Krojun as a mind who could get shit done, but she could share him. She needed him for her plan of course, but Lilly didn't mind Raine being showered in cheap trinkets like some overused whore. However, the fact she tried to sabotage, and indirectly, risked her status, was unforgivable. Fight fire with fire.

"What investigation?" Karsh asked.

Lilly fixed a strand of her hair. Man she half considered going to a barber today, and shave it all off. "Have you heard of the recently slain Black Briar? Nasty business." 

"Wasn't that yesterday or something?" 

"Investigation like this requires several days of intense... investigation." She paused. "The Wolves are even spooked. Pretty disturbing." 

"Well then you certainly need me. I'm not that easily scared." Karsh said with a sense of pride. 

"Indeed, you are an excellent pair of eyes to have." she said with a laugh. "But alas, I do not require your services besides this little errand today. You may return home, or go back to your master after we are done." 

"But my job is to sit your shoulder." said the raven like she was about to kick him out of his nest. 

"We make a fine pair, but like I said, I can't afford to be distracted on the job." 

"I can be quiet. I promise." Karsh said with what she assumed was his best attempt at sounding endearing. 

"What game are you playing Karsh?" Her smirk turned into a scowl. "Has your Lord ordered you to watch me or something?" There was no answer from the raven. 

"Well, tell you're boss that the Spymaster ain't going to be spied on." she said with a rude "humpth", as she increased her walking pace to a faster stride. Raine would probably be cleaning some rooms near the royal quarters. Few people moved about in those rooms but they were numerous enough that there was always some dust in at least one of them. 

"Though if you have a tricky investigation on hand, why not use a pair of eyes that can see things you featherless creatures can't? It's not like I can make the investigation worse, can I?" said the raven after a few seconds. 

"Oh believe me, you have no idea." She rolled her eyes sardonically, before stopping in her tracks at an older looking oak door. Maybe they should replace this. This was the spot, she put her ears to the door, as she whispered to the raven: "So I'm going to walk in there, and you're going to fly off my shoulder and hide somewhere until I say 'albite'. By then, the invisibility spell should have worn off, and the bitch will be able to see you." The Imperial Spymaster could hear the whore inside, jabbering on about some drivel. 

"Then what? I fly back to your shoulder?"

She began to dramatize flying like a bird with her lower arms, careful so not to disturb the raven sitting on her shoulder. "No you will terrorise the bitch. Fly around like a monster of the night, caw like a possessed bird of Oblivion. Try to peck her." 

"So you want me to fly around in a circle for a little moment and then what?"

"Then when the bitch has lost it, fly out of the window. And do your best laughing impression." 

"Uhm, alright. Just don't close the window after that." 

"Okay birdie, its show time." Lilly smiled to herself as she pushed the door open with her strong arms, before gracefully entering into the room. Lilly felt and heard how the raven flew off her shoulder towards some shelf on the wall to her right. Victoria wasn't there but there were two attractive maids, with there lustrous locks of long hair tied into ponytails behind their heads. They were expected of course, to look as presentable as possible. The Empress liked her maids pretty. Two maids hurriedly swept up the floor, busy doing there rounds. A raven haired Dunmer by the name of Cashia, and a golden locked Breton by the name of Avio. All friends of Victoria. Beside them was that no good whore, Raine. At the sight of the Spymaster, the two other maids smirked, they were fond of the Spymaster. Lilly put on a pleasant smile, before saying: "Well, ladies, how goes work?" 

Raine looked up along with the other maids from scrubbing the floor. She returned a pleasant smile. "Good. But the scrubbing is killing my back."

"Oh my Raine. Its not like we're doing most of the work here." Avio said rolling her eyes. Unlike most of the servants, Avio came from a solid, middle class family. She hid her complaints through snark. The maid hurriedly swept a dust into a neat little pile that would be easy to pick up. With the Empress gone, there was no one here that tolerated her terrible jokes, so she mostly kept them to herself. She turned and said to Lilly: "Don't you have work today, Colonel? Some fancy Oculatus business?" 

Lilly chuckled and rubbed the back of her neck with an embarrassed expression. "Well, you know little old me, always slacking off. I'm actually looking for Victoria. Have you seen her?" 

The freckled maid looked thoughtful, placing her hand to her chin. "No. But I know today is her day off." She laughed, taking on a friendly tone: "Since she's the Empress's favorite, she gets special privileges. Though I'm glad she doesn't take full advantage of that. Her majesty Motierre-oh sorry." She paused, most were still used to calling her by her fathers last name. "Her majesty Draconius is really weak when it comes to breasts. Victoria ain't the type to take advantage of a person anyway."

"Shouldn't she be in that bedroom of hers?" said Raine. 

"I'm right here lassies." Victoria entered into the room, carrying a large platter of cups and a bottle of wine. "Thought you girls could use a drink. Don't worry." she said with a grin. "Its not too strong. A cup would be nice. Her eyebrows raised at the sight of Lilly. "Ah, Colonel, good day to you. Shall you join us for a drink, dear?" 

Lilly chuckled. "Glad too. There's never a bad time to share a drink with friends." 

Victoria lowered the tray on a table, and began pouring the cups. The two other maids formed around the table, happy to take a short break. Victoria's eyes fell on Raine. To Lilly's surprise she looked no different than usual. There was no hint of malice or any kind of negative emotion. None of the madness she had seen earlier. Raine also gathered round the platter for a taste of wine, just before Victoria began to give out the cups. Though she was rather conservative about how much she drank. 

"So why the sudden hospitality?" asked Raine as she took a small sip.

"Victoria's the one who brought the wine." Lilly said with a small smirk. "I'm just here to partake in the festivities."

"You really shouldn't have drank that." muttered Victoria with a devilish smirk forming on her mouth. "You no good whore."  

"What?" said Raine, shocked and even more confused. The two other maids also looked at Victoria with confusion. 

Victoria put up her hand, as the other two threw down there goblets. "What the **** is happening, Victoria?" Avio said, before the head maid put up her hand. 

"Don't lie, you don't like this bitch. And its not lethal." 

The two went silent, before going behind the brunette, sinister smiles appearing on their faces. "Now that you mention it..." Victoria just gazed at them with her hollow eyes, silently. The other two left, closing the door gently behind them and Avio saying: "We wont say anything, don't worry dear Victoria." Lilly gently placed her hand to the heavy oak door and conjured a spell that wouldn't allow sound escape. 

"Now there's only the three of us..."

"What are you doing?" said Raine, sounding worried and a little afraid as her eyes darted between Lilly and Victoria before finally stopping at the maid. "And what's crawling out of your nose Victoria?" she said in disgust. 

Victoria went closer, and start to push Raine, getting close to her face, so whatever fevered hallucinations she was enduring would be magnified. "Don't you think I haven't noticed you eyeing my Dales. Planning to get your disgusting, greedy paws on my Dales?" She spat in her face.

"Get away from me! Get away!" Raine screamed as she backed away so fast she fell on her back. 

Victoria straddled her, before delivering a punch straight into her jaw, as her mouth started to salivate with rage. "You want to abuse, and take advantage of her! You ******* ****!" 

"Stop! Please, stop!" Raine screamed even more desperately as she tried to push and kick Victoria off her. 

Victoria got off, by her own. Going beside the Spymaster, who just cruelly grinned, as she yelled: "Albite!" Karsh flew down from his perch atop a shelf. Raine screamed and curled up, closing her eyes and covering her face before Karsh had even made half a turn. As such the bird only gave a couple of croaks before flying towards the window. He didn't leave though as he instead landed on the windowsill from where he watched the curled up and frightened Raine as a simple curiosity. 

Lilly walked closer and lowered herself until she was at level with the crying maid. She went onto a knee, and cupped her chin, quite forcefully as she was already struggling underneath her grip. The Spymaster's haunting, Lapis Lazuli eyes gazed into the maid's scared eyes. While from a distant, they were beautiful, up close, the perfection they held seemed otherworldly and unnatural. "My mother always told me 'greed is always a human's downfall'." Lilly whispered into Raine's ear, slowly caressing her neck predatory-like. "Tell me, my dear, was the silk dresses, and the silver rings worth it?"

"What?" Raine whispered, confused and scared. 

"You're lucky we aren't in Chorrol. Or that I am not my mother. If I was, instead of doing this, you would be a defiled sack of meat on your way to be fed to some abomination lurking in the woods. I leave you this warning." With that, Lilly leaned in an delivered a kiss onto her lips. 

Raine responded by violently pushing Lilly away from her with a strength Lilly had no anticipated. Then suddenly Raine began to puke onto the floor.

Lilly raised her right hand, with a grey light flashed on her black leather gloves she had dispelled the silencing ward. She shouted at the top of her lungs: "Guards! Guards come in! Quickly!" Victoria suddenly rushed to the downed girl, and began to restrain her, whom responded by violently jerking in the maid's grip.

A few moments later, the oak door was thrown open, as a trio of Palace Guards rushed into the premise. They quickly saluted as they noticed who called them. "Colonel! Ma'am, do you need anything? What the-By the Nine!"  

The Colonel responded, "Raine has had a violent mental breakdown! I need you to help me restrain her, and bring her to the Clovesfield Asylum... For her own safety!" 

Still confused, but not willing to disobey a direct order, the lead guardsmen nodded his head, and his two companions rushed forward to help Victoria restrain the redheaded maid. 

Raine kept puking though. As the guards picked her up from the floor she only managed to mumble lowly. "What? No... What..."

"By the God's she's delirious!" one of the guards said.

The other, a praefect, nodded. "Aye, gone mad as a bat I say!" 

Lilly told the lead guard: "Make sure she is given suitable quarters, tell the doctor in charge that Colonel Quentas will personally pay for her improved accommodations and treatment. Keep it quiet." The Officer, nodded his head, as him and his follows had fully restrained the maid.

Victoria gave a sly wink to the platinum haired Countess, who returned it wearily. The maid went outside, and followed the guards. She would handle things from here on out, and make sure Raine wouldn't be a threat any longer. Once Lilly knew everyone else was gone she shouted: "Excellent work, my feathered friend, it's clear." Messy business, this was. But it had been taken care of, and without Raine's interference, my position with the Krojun can't be compromised. Now I just need to take a more defensive stance on this. 

Karsh flew up and perched himself on Lilly's shoulder again. "So I'm guessing you're on top now?"

"Hopefully." She gave a witch like grin, "Have any idea what the girl saw you as in her drugged fever" 

"You said something about a horrible beast earlier."

"Did I?" She looked deep in thought for a moment. "Guess I did." She opened up the door and cast an invisibility spell on the black bird. "On that topic, have you considered asking your 'boss' to turn you into some giant crow demon monster?" 

"But that's not inconspicuous at all."

"Who needs to be 'inconspicuous' when you get to rip apart entire squadrons of soldiers?" She grinned. "Yeah, imagine, swooping in under bright full moons to tear apart an entire contingent of knights, and rip them apart while you're shrieking mad screams of blood curdling evil!" She paused. "Then again, I think it would be pretty hard to hide a giant crow monsters in the Imperial City."

"You're weird." Karsh simply replied.

"I prefer eccentric." she said simply, looking proud. She paused for a moment, before looking deep in thought- "I suppose with this business taken care of, and dear Victoria handling matters from here on out, I should check out that murder scene that was in the morning report. Do you really want to accompany me? It's going to be pretty grisly." 

"I used to consider the aftermath of battles a buffé of free food. Do you really think I'd be upset about a few dead people?" replied Karsh.