Civil War Aftermath Chapter 3: Season's End pt3

[BTC]

Tacitus Meridius
 

Vice Admiral Cyronin Goneld was an idiot. Tacitus got this same impression every time he spoke to the man. Goneld’s career was unremarkable, and though Tacitus had since learned Goneld was a well liked captain and capable sailor, he had no mind for tactics or strategy. The only good the ships under his command would do was to sit and guard a harbor. And even that might be beyond him.

He resented the Nibenean, Javolia Vanin, blackmailing him into appointing Goneld to be a Vice Admiral. The other Vice Admiral, Palenix was in Anvil, while Tacitus was stuck with Goneld here in Leyawiin, preparing for the raid on Senchal. Tacitus had to do something with the man, so guard the harbor it was, while Tacitus led the raiding force. Or rather, would lead the raiding force. The ships were still being outfitted for the raid and for war in general, and Tacitus was waiting on the scouting ships to return before setting off. A raid such as this could be a massive blow to the Thalmor in Elsweyr, but fucking it up would be an equally massive blow to the Empire.

Tacitus left the docks behind as he made his way back to his office. He needed a drink and to get as far away from Goneld as possible. The Imperial East Navy’s headquarters was a two story stone building that had once been a merchant company’s offices but that the navy took over for itself. With Argonians and Thalmor on the prowl in Topal Bay and beyond, there was little money to be made in trading in the southern waters. Khajiit saboteurs had destroyed the old East Navy headquarters during the Great War.

It was late in the evening, so the only ones around were the guards posted outside the building. Tacitus climbed the stairs and entered his office, only to find his seat taken.

The chair’s occupant was an older man, in his late forties or early fifties. Tacitus could tell he was a hard man too, his face lined with age, his dark eyes sunken and mean, and the hint of burn scarring on his neck. He had well groomed hair and a short beard, the former mostly silver, the latter still mostly black. His skin was dark as well. He had on a metal chestplate, but the rest of his armor was chainmail and leather. A hood fell around his shoulders, and he had his boots propped up on Tacitus’ desk.

The man smiled broadly when Tacitus entered, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He waved a hand and said, “Shut the door, will you?”

A pair of gloves was sitting on the desk, so Tacitus saw the tattoo on the man’s hand, lines running along each finger and disappearing up his sleeve. On the desk next to the gloves was the bottle of rum Tacitus had been after, along with two filled glass, one of which the man took a drink from.

Tacitus did shut the door, only so that when he beat the man to a pulp, no one would hear it. The man pushed the other glass across the desk towards Tacitus, who drank it down and said, “Who the fuck are you?”

“If you don’t know that means I’ve been doing my job well. But it can’t hurt to tell you now. Name’s Jaras.”

That meant nothing to Tacitus, but the older man’s smug face certainly needed punching. Tacitus barely moved forward but the man was quicker than expected, and Tacitus stopped at the sight of the crossbow leveled at his chest.  

“I think that’s close enough, for now. I’ve seen what you can do with that, after all.” The point of the bolt motioned to the brass fist where Tacitus’ left hand used to be. “Though, I think it was a hook at the time.”

“So that bitch Javolia sent you,” Tacitus growled.

Jaras nodded. “I saw what you did, Admiral. You’re a dog off its chain. If anyone else catches you, they’ll put you down. Don’t think for a second they won’t. So, you either listen or you die, by my hand or theirs. Those are your choices.”

Tacitus pulled a chair from the desk and sat down. “What do you want? You’ve already got the Vice Admiral.”

“And we’d like to keep him, to be sure. But it strikes us that this raid on Senchal is a perfect opportunity to raise his profile. He’ll go with you, I think. Find something safe but meaningful for him to do.”

“Is that all?”

“No. After this raid we’ll also need you to pack your things and go to Anvil. Cyronin can handle guarding Leyawiin, and besides, you’re more likely to run into the Thalmor out west. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

Tacitus had to admit that he would rather be out west, but not because someone else told him to go there. “Why do you care what I would appreciate?”

“Don’t bother yourself with the why. We want yes and no, not questions.”

“Fuck what you want.”

“That attitude won’t get you very far. Javolia is more lenient than I, but she’s not the one you’re talking to. Remember that.”

He would. Javolia had done the same, blackmailed him, but without the smugness and joy this man had. “And remember who you’re talking to.”

“Oh, because you murdered some fucking boy? Or maybe you mean your younger days boxing back in Bravil? Don’t think you’re the only one who knows how to beat someone, Admiral. The streets of that town bred harder men than you.” The man stood up, and Tacitus got a better look at him. He was as tall as Tacitus but not quite as big, though he’d already shown himself to be quicker despite his age. He pulled out a piece of paper and said, “I’ll be seeing you around, Admiral.”

Jaras’s eyes flicked back to the paper and he muttered a quick word. In a flash he was gone. Tacitus stayed in his seat, his good hand digging into the armrest of the chair. Managing the raid was going to be hard enough without dealing with Cyronin. He’d hoped the blackmail would be a one-time deal, but it was clearly a sword that would continue to hang over his head for as long as he lived. And Jaras was right, if anyone found out about the murder, they’d put him down, or remove him from his job. They already suspected him because of his imprisonment, because of course they would. If they knew he killed someone they would think he’d snapped. Hell, the palace or Oculatus or whoever were already spying on him with his first mate, he was sure of it. He had no choice but to play Javolia’s game.

At least going west would mean he was that much closer to Corio. And more than Jaras or Javolia or Cyronin, it was that fucking elf whose face he wanted to cave in. He’d get his chance, he was sure of it. Even if it meant he had to sail all the way to Summerset to do so.

**

Javolia Vanin
 

So barbaric, so brutal. Not beautiful in the least.

Javolia lounged on her balcony, overlooking the Niben Bay to the west and the Corbolo River to the south. A servant hovered nearby, waiting to refill her wine glass should it go empty, and sweating in the oppressive humidity all the while. Javolia picked up the glass and left her chaise longue behind, going over the railing. The slight breeze tugged as her chiffon and lace slip. She wore nothing else, leaving her long violet robes draped over the couch. Even for her, someone who enjoyed the warm air of Nibenay, it was much too hot for such attire.

Her thoughts kept going back to the events of two weeks ago, that horrible example of violence in the Elder Council chambers. The purest expression of Nordic politics she could imagine. There was nothing beautiful about that bloodshed, no art to it at all. Such actions were more suited to war than politics. It shouldn’t have surprised her the Nords made no distinction between the two.

Now the slate was wiped clean. She did not relish starting anew, though she had to admit, there was a certain excitement to it. With Serivus and Doron both gone, there were few, if any, on the Council as skilled as she. Even though, at times, they relied on violence, they had created a few works of their own worthy of admiration. It was a shame they’d bungled the last one. Both of them vying for the throne would have been something to behold, and she had no doubt she could have played things perfectly to rise herself.

Javolia knew from experience that art was unpredictable. One could start with a clear picture of what they wished to capture, but by the end there was only a sliver of that original idea in the final piece. She couldn’t count the times she’d planned on weaving a dress, only to end up with a robe or shawl instead. Such was the nature of art. The slip she wore was originally intended to be a gown, she recalled.

She swished the fabric against her leg, and the slip sang “Favored” in her ear. A reassuring reminder, and why she had made a slip and not a dress out of this fabric. It was far more comforting to be often reminded of her status in the eyes of her patron, and so she wore that reminder close to her skin. Some of her countrymen chose to imbue certain items with the songs of their ancestors. For them, the Cult of the Ancestor Moth was enough. But Javolia did not want to hear a chorus from her past, but whispers toward her future.

The sun was inching lower in the sky now, and the west-facing balcony would get increasingly hot. Javolia looked down at the ancient, moss-covered stones her family had cut and used to section off a portion of the bay, creating their own private swimming area. A dip into the cool water sounded lovely, but Councilors Goneld and Aurrus would be here soon, and she had to prepare.

The servant picked up her robe and followed her as she walked around to the eastern side of the house. The balcony, on the second story of the Vanin mansion, wrapped all the way around. It was an old house, the columns supporting the balcony covered in flowering vines. The stones were stained dark by rain and age, and the details of the sculpted stone, warded as they were, still showed signs of weathering. The house was perched upon a hill, to protect it when the bay or the river spilled their banks.

From the eastern side, the raised house gave her a perfect view of the fields her family had long cultivated. Silks, the finest in all of Nibenay, came from Vanin lands. The plants the silk worms lived on stretched into the distance, surrounded by the trees whose leaves fed the silk worms. And in the center of the fields, in a protected grove and surrounded by a tall stone wall, the spiders whose silk Javolia collected for her personal pieces.

She brushed a hand across her left cheek, where the most visible of her tattoos climbed up her neck to reveal itself. The symbol there was an old version of magic script, the swirl on her cheek was the flourished figure eight of the ‘S.’ It stood for silk, for secrets, for the Spider that made both possible.

The Spider, not the butcher Mephala. Javolia had no need for assassinations or political murders. That was for artless Bretons and Dunmer, or even Nords. It was far more gratifying, far more beautiful to remove someone via other means. To buy them off, blackmail them into submission, or turn their allies against them. That was the way of the Spider.

If only everyone saw it that way. Javolia looked up the bay, though the Imperial City was too far away to see. The nobles there were far more interested in power by any means necessary than creating something worthwhile, worth remembering. They rejected the nuance of the Spider in favor of the simplicity of their brainless and bloodthirsty gods.

Javolia grabbed her robe from the servant and entered her room. The wooden walls and floors were dark and rich, imported from deep in the Blackwood. It was beautiful, the grain fluid and swirling. Though it was ancient, it looked as if it had been installed yesterday. Her four-poster bed was in the center of the room, with rugs on three sides and the walls lined with either tapestries or wardrobes.

She dropped her robe and took off her slip, then went over to one of the several wardrobes, the one that held most of her full-body drape. She grabbed a dark red fitted bodice, one without sleeves that bared her midriff.  She put on a plain white silk underskirt, and then took out the several yard long silk cloth. It was made of strips of red silks, each in a different shade. Some were nearly purple, others nearly orange. Black designs were stitched into the cloth as well, the geometric shapes common to Nibenean tattoos. Javolia took it and formed the skirt, wrapping and tucking as necessary, and then wrapped it diagonally across her chest, before leaving the rest to hang down one arm.

She walked barefoot across the room and took a moment to savor the softness of the rugs. Someone in her family had woven them ages ago. A great great grandfather, she thought. Neither her father nor mother had been weavers. Her father was a collector of Nibenean antiquities, her mother an influential merchant heiress. Their marriage was a perfect encapsulation of Nibenay, Javolia thought, power both young and old. And she liked to think she was therefore the quintessential Nibenean. Certainly more so than someone like Doron Zethus, not proud enough to show his tattoos when he should have displayed them openly.

Leda, on the other hand. She was a true Nibenean. Javolia had not heard what became of Leda after her husband was killed. Regardless, she had long respected Leda’s fierce advocacy for Nibenay. And admired her collection of Nibenean texts, totems, and jewelry, as well as the Ayleid artifacts she had. Whenever the Emperor got around to auctioning off those items, Javolia planned on buying what she could of the collection. She had not her father’s obsession with artifacts of all sorts, but she did have a special place for those of Nibenay.

Javolia sat at her dressing table and went about applying a bit of makeup. Her skin was naturally brown and tanned even darker. Her bright blue eyes stood in stark contrast. Some distant Colovian impurity, she assumed. Still, they were beautiful, much more striking than most of her ancestors’ mud colored eyes. She put her black hair up in a high bun atop her head, and then put on her gold and ruby inlaid circlet. Next came the earrings, small rubies dangling from her lobes and four small golden rings stretching up the outside of each ear. Then came the esclavage necklace, a central golden chain from which smaller golden chains and rubies hung. Last were the golden bangles. She stood and inspected herself in the mirrors before putting on a pair of scarlet slippers and going downstairs to prepare for her guests.

The servants were finishing with the preparations and just in time, as it was only a few minutes later that Cydius Goneld and Itinia Aurrus arrived. They were Javolia’s closest allies on the Elder Council, and in fact the three of them were the only Nibenean survivors of the Emperor’s purge.

Cydius was a dull man, in all things. His skin always had a pallor to it, his hair was greying, his wits slow. He was tall and lanky, and even past middle age he wasn’t sure of himself about anything. But his coin still spent and his son, Vice Admiral Cyronin, was a much sharper political mind, so Cydius made a useful ally.

Itinia was his total opposite. She was vibrant and beautiful, youthful and smart. Itinia was shorter than Javolia, had hair and skin not quite as dark, but bore her tattoos just as proudly. She seldom wore sleeves, so as to better show the script and lines that covered her arms.

Cydius was a tool, like a spinning wheel, to be used in the making of art but something that could be replaced by a newer model. Javolia hoped his son would one day be that replacement. Itinia was silk, the very thing out of which art was made. She would be part of the work itself, not just a tool for its completion. She and Javolia had a bond forged in their shared worship of the Spider that Cydius would never be a part of or understand.

The three of them sat at Javolia’s more intimate dining table, a small round thing that she preferred for their meetings. They began their meal with simple gossip of happenings in Nibenay that none of them truly cared for. By the time dessert rolled around, though, so did the real conversation.

“A dragon in the Imperial City,” Cydius said with a slow shake of his head. “I can’t quite believe it myself.”

 “We’re in strange times,” Itinia said. “Councilors murdered, another Great War underway, the Empire fallen and dragons returned. There are opportunities and pitfalls both.”

“As our colleagues learned the hard way,” Javolia said. “We will need to tread carefully, especially now that the council is the Emperor’s.”

“Do you have a plan, then?” Goneld asked.

“Nothing as of yet. The Emperor was kind in telling us exactly what he wanted. Words and flattery will get us nowhere. Only actions will do,” Javolia said. “We have plenty of time to formulate a plan. Only something truly useful to the Emperor will get us in his good graces. Be patient, for I will have to think long and hard on this.”

“And what of the Empress?” Itinia asked.

“She will likely be searching for noble allies, trying to undo some of the damage that her husband has done recently. If she does not come to us, we can seek her out. But give her the chance to come to us first,” Javolia said.

“With this dragon at her command, I do not think she will be looking for allies so much as demanding them. The royal couple has not shown themselves particularly subtle,” Goneld said.

“She would be unwise to turn that thing against her own people,” Itinia said.

“And so we trust her in her wisdom?” Goneld asked. “I’d sooner parlay with the dragon itself.”

“If they decide that fear will keep us in line, then we will reevaluate. But I believe she will try something else. By all reports her trip to Skyrim changed her. Let us hope it is for the better,” Javolia said. 

They talked for another hour before Cydius went to bed. Javolia had invited both he and Itinia to stay the night, and they would travel to the Imperial City together in the morning. With Cydius gone, Javolia and Itinia walked the grounds of her plantation.

The night air was thick and muggy, but thankfully far cooler. A few guards walked the grounds, but they did a good job of keeping out of sight and not disturbing the Elder Councilors. Javolia led Itinia through the fields and to the protected grove that housed her family’s most prized possession. Old but strong stone walls surrounded tall dark trees with leaves so green almost to be black. Javolia unlocked the gate and they entered.

The twin moonlight filtering through the leaves revealed the shining silver strands of spider silk. They stretched from branch to branch, tree to tree, all across the canopy above their heads. Fireflies twitched where they were trapped, mosquitoes buzzed furiously, and moths fluttered, their dust falling to the ground. In this light, it looked like snow. And all across the webs black spiders with red hourglasses on the abdomen crawled, bit, wrapped, and ate their captured prey. Javolia could just imagine each strand a secret whispered in the dark, an indiscretion witnessed, a lie told to the unaware. It was the Spider’s web, and like all webs, it was a net with which to ensnare prey.

“Beautiful,” Itinia said in a hush voice.

Javolia felt equally breathless. “It is.”

They stood in awe for a few moments before Javolia took Itinia by the hand and led her toward the structure in the center. It was a small building made of the same stone as the walls. Carved above the door set below ground level was Vanin. Javolia unlocked the door and led Itinia inside. The first room housed the remains of the original Vanins, and then down another set of stairs were the rest of the family. They went down the stairs, past ornate stone coffins carved into the stone. Most burials this close to the river were above ground, as the Niben had a tendency to cause bodies to float up out of their graves. But this was an ancient, protected space, all due to the Spider’s benevolence toward her family.

Javolia stopped in front of the tomb of Jastia Vanin. Its lid was carved and painted in her likeness, though one thing was off. The gem on the necklace was should have been red was black, so Javolia pricked her arm and let the blood drip onto the necklace. The stone absorbed it, and the wall behind the coffin slid up. Javolia and Itinia entered into the pitch black room, leaving their magical orb of light behind. Without needing to see Javolia pressed the button on the wall and closed the door behind them. Only after it was shut did the red crystals ensconced in the wall begin to glow.

The soft red light revealed a detailed floor mosaic of a massive black spider with a red hourglass on its abdomen. The Spider sat at the center of a web, whose strands connected to scene of lies, greed, infidelity, blackmail, and secrets. Javolia and Itinia walked across the room and knelt so that they could look the Spider in her glowing red eyes.

Their prayers were silent in personal, though in truth, Javolia spent little time praying. This form of worship was for Itinia. Long ago, when the Spider had more worshippers, this was where they gathered. But the Vanins had long held other forms of worship not for outsiders, even devout ones, like Itinia. So Javolia muttered a brief prayer asking for guidance and waited for Itinia to finish.

She eventually did, and they walked back to the mansion together. From there Itinia went to bed and Javolia went to her workshop upstairs. Rolls of spun silk yarn were on spools around the room, dyed in whatever colors Javolia would need. All of this was her private collection, from the spiders in the grove. She had personally trained the workers who collected it, but only she spun from it and wove it. By itself it was only remarkable in its softness and strength, but when paired with the real worship of the Spider, the silk became something magical.

As she went about preparing her tools and the silk, she considered what her next work of art might be. For that’s all politics were, an artistic expression, something created in the image of the Spider to venerate her.

With the Emperor and Empress consolidating their control over the throne, it was unlikely they could be replaced without violence. And any ideas she had of that were nothing but daydreams, as she knew it was farfetched even in the best of times. Not something to be seriously considered. Besides, it had been done and done again. Javolia wanted something original.

There was always Bravil. She had long looked out at the city from her balcony, wondering if that was not the next step for the Vanin family. But the countess was a child and orphan to boot, and it seemed distasteful to upend her life once again.

She supposed she could make a move for the Chancellorship, though that seemed unlikely. She had not made a good first impression on the Emperor, trying to appease him with words. Such a mistake would not have usually happened, but seeing so many murdered had shaken her. Taking over the Oculatus would also not be possible. Besides requiring the Emperor’s approval, it would also mean getting rid of Lillin Quentas, and she seemed too firmly rooted in the Emperor’s bed. Not to mention Javolia had no desire to go against County Chorrol.

An idea struck her, and she laughed out loud to herself. “I could reunite the Empire. Maybe resurrect Tiber Septim and marry him while I’m at it, and become a god myself.”

No, it did not seem like inspiration would strike her tonight. At least, not without some help. There was one last preparation to make before she got to work finishing her most recent piece, a black shawl. She left her things gathered in the center of the room and walked over to the glass case atop a low dresser. It was a small terrarium with plants and moss and rocks, a perfect imitation of the Niben Valley landscape, only in miniature.

She removed from the dresser a container of live crickets and plucked one out. She kept it pinched tight, not enough to kill it though, and lowered her hand into the terrarium. It was a few seconds before there was any movement. The ground near one of the rocks slowly shifted, until a large black spider appeared. It was like those in the grove, only slightly larger. Her family’s lore said that one was born for each member of the Vanin family, though studies of records showed that in fact they appeared somewhat more frequently than that.

Still, they were unique, larger than the average spider and much more deadly. As it moved towards the cricket in Javolia’s hand, its appearance shifted from black in the shadows to green near a leaf, brown by a log, its color always changing to match its background. They spun webs as well, pit traps into which prey would fall. As it moved closer Javolia could see its bright red eyes, the hairs on its body twitching to catch the squirming of the cricket. It exposed its fangs in anticipation, and sprung into her hand.

It bit the cricket as she still held it, and she could feel the venom coursing through its body. After only a few moments, there was nothing but a puddle in her hand, from which the spider hungrily drank. After it had done so she lifted it from its cage, holding it up to eye level. It crawled along her arm, wrapping around it until it reached the shoulder. She could no longer see it but she felt it approach her neck, and she smiled as she felt the puncture and that same venom course through her.

She placed the spider back in its cage and closed it, then moved to her loom. As she sat down with the black shawl spread out before her, the visions started. Her eyesight was replaced with a swirl of colors, the room expanding outward in infinite direction. Her hands went to work though she could not see, as she knew she had the eight eyes of the Spider to guide her.

The room spiraled around and around as did her fingers. The spools of silk leapt from the walls and became the threads of a web once again. These threads spoke of lies, sex, plots, all manner of wonderful acts. They stretched on into the Niben Valley, up toward the Imperial City, all across Cyrodiil and Tamriel. They connected to lowly farmers and the richest merchants, kings and emperors and admirals and master wizards. The world was the Spider’s web, and from the blessed venom of her children, the Vanin family could glimpse that web.

When her vision faded to her normal eyesight she did not know how much time had passed. She was no longer sitting at the loom, having made her way to the couch in the room at some point. But the shawl was finished, the design more intricate and beautiful than she could have imagined. It was wrapped around her shoulders, and as she ran her fingers across it, the Spider whispered “Shadow.”

Like the Cult of the Ancestor Moth, this ritual imbued the silk with magic that spoke to its wearer. Usually that magic was something inane, like the spirits of the dead singing to the wearer. What use that was Javolia did not know. But from the Spider, the silken garments whispered one word. It might be Favored, reminding Javolia of who she was in the Spider’s eyes. In this case, Javolia did not know why the black shawl whispered Shadow, but she could not help but feel this was a direction.

She left her tools out, as they could be put up tomorrow. As she walked down the hall to her room, she saw from her father’s old Dwarven clock that it was near midnight. The memory of him made her stop for a moment, and turn to the door across from the clock. She opened it, and saw the familiar mostly empty closet. The only thing inside was a lectern holding a small black leather book. Besides, that, though the room was empty, as it should be. It had been her father’s habit to check his collection every night, and though she did not want to go through the entire ordeal, it was a nice reminder of him to look into the closet from time to time.

She shut the door and left it behind. As she approached the door to her bedroom, she realized it was occupied from the slight creaking of floorboards, and another squeaking sound she recognized. She took a moment to loosen her drape and let the shawl fall lower on her shoulders before she entered.

Inside Jaras was sitting on the bed cleaning his metal chestplate. He had removed the rest of his armor, and his chest was bare. In the soft torchlight she could see the lines of black tattoos that started on each finger spiraled up his biceps until they branched out upon reaching his shoulders. The lines swirled and spiraled and connected all over his back and chest, an intricate pattern even the oldest Nibeneans would need time to decipher. But Javolia knew every line and their meanings intimately.

He looked up at her as she approached, setting aside his armor without taking his eyes off of her. He was only a few years older than her, and looked it. He spent more time beneath the sun, though was only slightly darker than Javolia. He had lived a hard half century; growing up an orphan on the streets of Bravil would do that to a person. His hair was more silver than black now, though his scruffy beard remained dark. His eyes were dark and piercing, locked on to Javolia’s as she sat down beside him on the bed.

She reached her hand out and stroked his cheek, following his neck down the burn scars on his left shoulder before she stopped her hand over his heart. He reached out and took her face in his rough hands and kissed her as she dug her nails into his chest. When they broke away, they were both breathing hard.

“No yet,” she said. “Work first.”

He smiled and laid down on the bed so he was looking up at her, his hands locked behind his head to prop it up slightly. “The Admiral sends his regards.”

She placed a hand on his thigh and traced the tattoo patterns she knew lay beneath his pant leg. “Do you believe he’ll do what we’ve asked?”

“I think he wants to kill the Thalmor, and he’ll do anything that needs doing to stay out of prison so he can kill as many as possible.”

“So long as he kills them under our terms and keeps Cyronin alive and finds him glory, I could care less what he does.”

“He’ll do what we’ve asked. I’ll make sure of it.”

She smiled and hugged the shawl tighter to her. “Did you check on Janaurius as well?”

He reached up a pushed a strand of hair from his face. “I got word from a few of my friends. They say he’s alright, hasn’t gotten himself into any more danger than usual.”

“Is he still on the Gold Coast?”

Jaras shook his head. “He’s moved up the Brena River into Hammerfell. There are some ruins there he and his friends were hired to explore.” He sat up and put his arm around her. “Are you having second thoughts about letting him go?”

“No. I just worry. He’s too much like you and his grandfather for my tastes. Always has to be going somewhere, doing something. Hunters, the three of you.”

“A part of the Spider you don’t much like, I know,” Jaras said. “He could have chosen a career in politics. Much safer.”

“Or been like Junia and study at the Arcane University,” Javolia said.

“Better to let him be who he wants than resent us for making him be someone else,” Jaras said. “Maybe not your exact words, but you were right.”

“Of course I was. It’s just hard not to worry.”

“I did send word to him that we’d like to see him once this job is done.”

“Thank you, Jaras.”

“I also got word from my contacts in Anvil about something else, though. Have you heard anything about a court mage named Borkar being robbed?”

“I haven’t, no.”

“I thought not. It wasn’t publicized, but word is three Bretons from High Rock went to Anvil to break into the court mage’s study to steal two books on something called shadow magic. Claimed it was for a collector in High Rock.”

“Shadow magic?” Javolia had heard of it, but had only the vaguest idea of what it was. Powerful and dangerous both. And from the area of Hammerfell and High Rock border. But in light of the magic word imbued in her shawl, it suddenly took on much greater meaning.

“That’s not the most interesting part though. There were three of them that approached my friends, but only two got back on the ship that took them back.”

“Was the other killed?”

“If they were, not a single word of it was uttered in the castle. You don’t hide the killing of a thief anyway, unless you don’t want others to know what they were trying to steal.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure you know that from experience.”

He chuckled and continued. “But my friends don’t seem to think there was anyone killed. It certainly could’ve been covered up, but they think one of the Bretons split off from the other two.”

“I think they’re right.” She took off the shawl and rubbed her hands across it, so the word Shadow echoed in her ears. “I finished this tonight, and it said ‘Shadow.’ It’s clearly connected. What of this missing Breton?”

“That’s all I know so far. Do you want me to find out more?”

“I want you to find them, if possible. I have a feeling that certain people in the Empire will want to know about this, and I need to be the one to give them that information.”

Jaras leaned over and kissed her on the temple as his other had worked to unwind her drape. “And you shall.”

Javolia smiled and kissed him back, though for the moment her mind lingered on this new information. She did not know the full extent of High Rock’s connection to shadow magic or what she would be able to do with this information. But the Spider had set her on this path, and she would see it through. As she had told her allies, she had time. The upcoming war would reveal a great many things. And what war didn’t reveal, she and the Spider would.

Edited April 23, 2019 by BTC

[Centurion]

Ubbe

Kynes Watch

Ubbe woke up dazed and confused. He was sweating profusely and his vision was blurry. He blinked a couple times and the room became clear. He was in his room at the fort, all his belongings were where he had left them. He stood up and walked to the brazier, the fire inside had died while he was sleeping, yet he was burning up. He stretched his head and arms before reaching for his tunic. As soon as he put it on he let out a hefty scream and his tunic began to smoke. With one quick movement he ripped the fabric off his body and dropped it to the floor. He looked at his chest and saw his recently acquired tattoos glow faintly red like scattered fire salts. He stumbled outside and dove in the snow, but not even the frigid cold could sooth his smoldering body. He muscled his way to his feet and took of in a dash towards the trees before anyone could see him in the light of the dawn.

Kyne’s Watch grew smaller as he ran. The pain in his lungs could not match the burning of his body so ever onward he sprinted. He could feel his consciousness fading with every step, but yet he continued. The world around him began to fade ever darker and he could feel his heartbeat in his head. The ground came quicker than he could comprehend and he crashed with a thud. He attempted to raise himself up once more and failed, collapsing to the ground in a deep sleep.

He awoke with a weird sense of familiarity to the area he found himself in. He sat up and glanced around. He was in the middle of a small island on the inside of the pond he woke to when the tattoo’s first appeared. The burning was gone, but the glow remained. He stood and and walked around the island before a whisper on the wind drew his attention to a hole in the rock face at the center. He walked inside to find a well lit cavern. There was nothing inside, just an empty room with a confused, naked Nord. As he turned to leave his attention was drawn once again by the wind. He spun back around to see a fox sitting in the middle of the room. 

He walked toward the fox cautiously and bent down to pet it, but before he could touch the creature fire emerged from is maw engulfing Ubbe entirely.

Ubbe was lying conscious in the snow outside Kyne’s Watch. He couldn’t move, open his eyes, nothing. Just lay there and wait for his body to return to him. After what seemed like hours he heard boots stomping towards him in the snow, yet he couldn’t get his body to react. He felt himself being loaded onto a horse and spirited away to a place he could not tell the whereabouts of. Sleep took him on the journey, finally joining his mind with his body.

The cold touch of a cloth on his forehead brought him back. He jumped awake and tried to stand before a soft pair of hands touched his chest. “Please stay down, you aren’t ready to walk yet.” 

The voice sounded like it came from an angel and put his mind at ease. Ubbe laid back down and looked towards the voice. She was sitting next to him with a concerned expression on her pretty face. Her golden hair was pulled back in a braided ponytail the stretched down to her mid back. Her icy blue eyes, full of worry, stared back into his own with an aura he wasn’t familiar with. His voice came out as only a whisper, “Who are you? Where are we?”

Her expression relaxed as she answered, “I am Freya, and this is my home. I found you naked in the snow and brought you back here.” Ubbe starred at her before lowering his gaze towards his tattoo covered body. The ink was black as it had always been, unchanged, with no indication of the burning heat it had emanated earlier. Perhaps it had been a dream he thought, but why was he outside naked? Ubbe looked at his palms and saw they were blackened with soot. His concentration was broke when her soft hand grabbed his and wiped away the mess. “I thought you had been injured by a fire, but when I began to clean the soot off I found only untouched skin, unaffected by burns.”

Ubbe looked at her once again and was lost in her beauty. He snapped back to reality and with a dry mouth whispered, “Water?”. She nodded and walked around a corner before returning with a cup. She raised it to his mouth and he gulped it down in an instant. He coughed violently and after taking in the soothing liquid. His voice was stronger now, but still pained, he spoke. “How did you find me?”

She looked confused. “I had just returned from a trip to Kyne’s watch for supplies when a Hawk landed in front of my door. I don’t know why, but I felt compelled to follow it. It was if Kyne guided me to you.” She looked lost in thought for a moment before continuing. “What do your tattoos mean?” She said touching Fox’s open heart chamber over his own heart.

“I do not know, I woke up with them near a pond. Some of them are the Gods, but the others are a mystery to me.” Ubbe couldn’t take his gaze off her. 

They sat in total silence briefly before she took a hold of his arm and lifted him to his feet. “Come, let's get you something eat.” She helped him take his first steps and then he carried himself the rest of the way to the table. She quickly went to work bringing out salted meat and mead. Once it had all been laid out Ubbe began to eat feverishly, like he hadn’t eating in weeks. Freya simply watched him. After he had devoured everything in front of him and drank all the mead she could give him he looked back at her. Something about this girl had him entranced. “You live here alone?”

“Yes, my parents left years ago and never returned.” She looked sad and Ubbe felt strange for a brief moment before attempting a pained movement to his feet. He fell to his knees and grunted, punching the ground with all the strength he could muster. Freya jumped to his aid, but he waved her off and tried again. This time he was able to stand and limp his way to the door. He pushed it open the fresh air filled his lungs. He felt ten times better and took a step outside with Freya hot on his heels. 

Magnus had him blinded, but when his eyes adjusted to the bright morning sky, his heart jumped into his throat. The pond with the island he had been to twice was before him. Really before him this time. He spun around and looked at Freya, “Who are you, really?” 

She looked confused. “Who am I? I’m Freya, as I have told you.” She could see the strained look on his face and grabbed his arm, helping him down as he sat on the wooden planks outside her house. 

“I’ve been to the pond twice and have never seen you or this house. How long have you been here?” Ubbe was still entranced by her. 

“Since I was born seventeen winters ago. My families home has been here for many winters before me.” She said.

Ubbe looked towards the sky. Why have you guided me here Shor?  He looked back at her with a soft expression on his face. “I believe the Gods have been leading me here, but for what reason, I do not know.”

Her eyes met his before she snapped away. Grabbing him once again she said, “Let’s get you inside, you need to rest.”
 

[Centurion]

Ubbe

Outside Kyne’s Watch, Freya’s Cabin

Nearly a week had past since Ubbe had been brought into Freya’s home. After the first night Ubbe’s strength had returned to him fully. They had made many trips into the surrounding forest to hunt and sat together at the pond as one fished. Freya had made trips to Kyne’s Watch to get more mead to keep Ubbe well hydrated. All the while his nightmare’s continued. Everynight he would jump awake in the middle of the night after being engulfed in a torrent of flame to find Freya fast asleep in the chair beside his bed.

Ubbe shuttered awake once again, Freya was there as she’d always been, but this time he didn’t wake her. He slowly and quietly got out of the bed and made his way outside. The ponds water shimmered in the night. He could see the rock face that held an entrance to the cavern he had been led to the night his tattoos burned. He walked slowly towards the water and carefully stepped across the shallows, reaching the island at the center and walking towards the opening. He stopped just before calming his nerves then he walked stubbornly inside.

Once he got inside he saw that the cave was covered in Nordic totems, the emptiness of his last visit was replaced with shrines to the gods that had obviously been there for some time. He walked up to each of the shrines and laid a hand on their totems. Reflecting on what the gods were trying to tell him, or what purpose they wanted him to fulfill. Nothing. No vision. No feelings.

“My granda built this shrine before my da went south to fight the elves.” Ubbe jumped back and got ready to fight, before realising it was Freya and lowering his hands. Freya moved towards the shrines and began to place mountain flowers at each one. “I make offerings to the gods for guidance every night, but I don’t think they are listening.”

“The gods help those who help themselves, at least that’s what my granda used to say when I questioned whether they cared for us or not.” Ubbe moved towards her. He held out a hand for one of her flowers and placed it at Shor’s shrine. She placed the last couple of flowers and turned towards him. 

“You’re strength returned days ago. I thought you would have returned to Kyne’s Watch by now.” She looked into his eyes. “Why do you stay?”

“I don’t know. I feel pulled to remain until the gods reveal more to me. They keep bringing me back to the place, if I left I would surely return again.” Ubbe moved closer to Freya and she took his hands in her own. The pair stood a hairsbreadth apart and stared longingly into each others eyes. Ubbe pulled away and turned to leave, but Freya put her soft hand on his shoulder and he spun back around. He wrapped his arms around her waist and picked her up to eye level, locking their lips together. Ubbe carried her towards the center of the room as they engaged in their battle of tongues. 

The pair buckled to the ground still passionately locked, undressing on the cavern floor. Freya’s body was shaking as much as Ubbe’s as she rolled him to his back, straddling his waist. The moonlight came in through cracks in the cavern ceiling illuminating her soft pale body and free golden hair waving in the breeze. She unlocked her lips from his and began slowly pecking downwards from his chin, down his neck and chest. She continued downward as she undid his trousers and pushed them to his knees. Ubbe took over from there and made small movements with his legs until they were completely off. Freya straddled him once more and locked her lips with his, resting her warm body against his. This time Ubbe rolled her to her back as their breaths shortened.

Ubbe arched his back, bring his waist to hers. Both paused in anticipation before Ubbe entered. There was a small amount of resistance that gave way without putting up too much of a fight. Their quivering bodies were one now as he kissed her neck passionately. Freya locked her legs around Ubbe’s hips and her hands rubbed up and down his back. Soft moans escaped her as he pushed deeper in. She began to to dig into his back with her nails as their rhythm began, sending him on in pleasure the likes of which neither of them had experienced before. Freya shook violently digging deeper into Ubbe’s back as her own began to arch and relax with the drumbeat they were making. Ubbe’s breathing became more sporadic as his muscled tighten and released the two locked eyes as Ubbe reached his height, spewing his seed inside her belly in the presence of the gods. Their rhythm slowed to a halt as they locked lips once again. Holding each other in their arms as the drifted to sleep.

Ubbe and Freya woke when Magnus sent his light through the cavern ceiling. Freya was laying on Ubbe’s side with one leg still hooked over him. They embraced each others lips once more before rising to leave the cave.

Ubbe sat in front of the firepit, staring into the flames. Last night in the cave was the first night since his mysterious tattoos showed up that he didn’t dream of being engulfed by fire. Something had changed but he didn’t know what, he couldn’t know what. He was lost in thought when Freya sat down beside him with a plate of venison. Her touch brought him out of his trance as he turned to her. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” She said almost laughing. Her face quickly matched his sorrowful expression.

“I am a Grim One, a dead man walking. One day soon I will march to the south with King Baldur and I fear my dreams are a message that I will not return.” He looked at her sorrowfully before dropped his head towards the ground. “I should return to Kyne’s Watch, before any ideas surface in our heads.”

Tears began to well in her eyes. Freya got up and quickly walked away, around the corner of her home and collapsed on the bed, stifling her pained vocals in the sheets. Ubbe got up to follow her, but stopped and walked towards the door. He put on the clothes that she had given him the day she nursed him back to health. He reached for the door, but again stopped himself. He turned slowly towards the table and removed his iron torc from his wrist. He set it down softly as to not make any noise. He took one last look at the cabin, cleared his mind and walked out the door.

***

Nearly a month had passed since Ubbe returned to Kyne’s Watch. The town was alive a bustling with merchants, fishers, and soldiers all going about their daily lives. Ubbe made his way from the Humping Horker back to the Fort and arrived in his quarters. He was uninterested with people and activities besides drinking and sitting in his room thinking about the war to come. Ubbe walked into his room and collapsed on the bed with such force it knocked the bag holding King Baldur’s books to the floor, spilling the contents. He stared at them for what felt like hours.

Finally he motivated his body into action and set about picking the tomes up and placing them back in the bag. He grabbed his steel war axes and fastened them around his waist and slung the bag over his shoulder. I should return these to Baldur. He left the fort and breathed in the winter air. Something was off, but he couldn’t place it. He walked through the town heading towards the High Kings home with his head down the whole time. As he approached the door he finally raised his head, but the door wasn’t what caught his attention. Coming from the mountain outside of town was a cloud of black smoke. Ubbe’s heart skipped a beat and he dropped the bag of books. He took off in a dead sprint towards the smoke.

The dash was treacherous with fresh snow covering roots and holes in the ground, but Ubbe pressed on. He neared the pond and on the otherside he could see the outline of five bodies moving around in front of a burning cabin. Ubbe went into a rage and let out a vicious war cry as he sprinted around the pond. The men turned to see a lone Nord running towards them, drawing his axes. They began to laugh at the thought of this one man who looked as though he’d only seen twenty winters dashed towards the five of them. The first of their men to meet Ubbe quickly parted ways with his own head and crumpled to the ground. The next two fought with him for only a few seconds before limbs were separated from their bodies. 

The agonising screams of the men motivated the last two into the fight. One of Ubbe’s axes lodged itself so tightly in one of the screaming mans skulls that he couldn’t retrieve it before the last of the bandits were on him. He fought off the smaller of the two with his remaining axe, flipping him over his body with a blow to the stomach. The axe went with him as his lifeless body hit the ground. Ubbe let out another roar as he charged the last man with his bare hands. The final bandit plunged his dagger deep into Ubbe’s side but nothing could stop his rage.

He grabbed the hand that held the dagger firm in his side and broke it at the wrist. The man howled with pain. This man’s scream made Ubbe rage more as he shot his free hand to the man’s throat. Ubbe summoned his strength and ripped his foes trachea out of his neck before slamming into his mouth with his fist, ending the bandits life. Ubbe quickly retrieved his axes from the bodies and stomped the life out of a dismembered, but still alive man’s head. He sheathed his axes and ran towards the burning house. He smashed his way through the door and felt the immense heat. He couldn’t see anyone inside the room so he dashed through the smoke and flames to the bedside of the house. There was no one in the house. Ubbe’s tunic began to smolder and the smoke was becoming too much for his lungs. He commanded what strength he had left and smashed through the burning walls to the cold outside air, collapsing in the snow.

He laid there helpless for a moment, sobbing into the white blanket covering the ground. He raised his head and saw Magnus’s rays shining through the smoke, illuminating the island in the pond. He was revitalised in an instant and dashed across the water. The dagger still in his side began to hurt as he neared the stone entrance. He stumbled his way in the cavern, covered in other mens blood from head to toe with a dagger in his side. The shrines stood as they always had, but Freya was nowhere in sight. He stumbled towards the totems and collapsed on one of the shrines. He pulled himself up matching eyes with a carving of a wolf, Mara. “Ubbe?” Ubbe collapsed again with his life force fading.

Ubbe woke up in the fort. He tried to sit up, but the soreness in his side kept him down. He strained his neck and saw the bandaging around his gut. He slammed his head backwards into the bed and let out a pained scream. The door to the room pushed open and his eyes fell on a pale, blond, beauty wearing an iron torc. She was resting her hand on a small, swollen stomach. A tear left the warriors eye’s as he closed them, drifting back into a dreamless sleep.
 

Edited February 11, 2019 by Centurion

[BTC]

Damon Ivy
 

Damon noticed the shift in reception when they crossed the Morava Run. The river tumbled out of the Wrothgarians before winding its way to the coast, where it formed the border between Adrard lands and those that had fought alongside Lielle Rolston. The path from Camlorn to Wayrest that the King’s army had marched was dotted with small coastal villages, the stereotypically sleepy sort with tanned fishermen, drunken sailors, and cantankerous fishmongers. The arrival of bull-and-brown cloaked knights, even if only two of them, brooked a cold reception. It was these villagers’ sons and daughters who had fought with Wayrest and Lielle, and had died at the hands of Adrard’s knights.

The worst reception was in the two large towns on the route, Alcaire and Gelden’s Landing, the seats of the Aric and Decel families respectively. Unlike the fishing villages, Alcaire and Gelden’s Landing participated in the war firsthand, as the King’s army decided it should take the their castles before meeting the main Wayrestian army.  Though the castles had been left intact for the Adrard approved successors, the towns still bore the marks of battle. There were a few houses in each town that were nothing more than ash and blackened timbers, and Gelden’s Landing now sported a partially collapsed watchtower. Only in those towns was the reception outright hostile, as some aggrieved citizens made their displeasure known through curses and spitting at the hooves of Maric’s and LaViolette’s horses. The rest of the group, not obviously associated with the King, received only contemptuous glares.  

Sir Maric was not a buffoon like some knights, and he did not loudly nor often proclaim the royal sanctity of their mission to rebuke the common folk. Instead, he used the talents and strengths of those under his command. Namely, Damon’s standing as a bard of the Scenarist Guild. Though they often secured lodging in the castles and manors of the nobles whose lands they passed through, that was not always the case, and when it wasn’t Damon was there to ease the discomfort of anyone who might be angry or upset. Though in all honesty, he knew it was the King’s coin as much as any soothing words of his that ensured them beds for the night.

It was a doubly wise thing for Sir Maric to rely on Damon, as Wayrest was Damon’s home, and he had spent time in almost all the towns and villages along the Iliac and Bjoulsae. Though this knowledge was unknown to the knight originally, Damon made sure to fill him and the others in, detailing all he knew of the area through which they travelled. He told them which inns served the best shrimp chowder, where thieves were particularly a nuisance, and why Wayrest was vastly superior to Daggerfall.

“Complacency,” he said as they travelled east from Wayrest, leaving the city of his birth behind them. “Daggerfall doesn’t strive for anything. It simply rests on its laurels."

“And what does Wayrest strive for, exactly?” Dame LaViolette asked, an amused smile on her face. She was a tall woman, and stout too, her face Breton but her pale skin and blue eyes Nordic. He wasn’t sure from which side came the red hair. 

“To be like Daggerfall, of course.” That elicited a chuckle from LaViolette. He continued, “Wayrest has this older sibling to look up to and try to surpass. But the older sibling seldom cares about surpassing the younger. Simply by being older they take it as a given they will always be better.”

“And this makes Wayrest superior how?” LaViolette asked.

“Because it’s doing something! The city is always trying to better itself. It’s active, not passive. It makes the city feel alive.”

“If you’ve ever fought through a crowd at Tradesman’s Square, you’d know how alive Daggerfall is,” Sir Maric said. He was almost stereotypically Breton, dark brown hair, a sharp jawline, and pale green eyes. Of course, most Bretons looked, or at least pretended to be, far happier than Maric did.

Damon chuckled and shook his head. “I have, but that’s not what I meant. Wayrest looks to the future. Daggerfall is too obsessed with the past for my liking.”

The discussion on the merits of various Breton cities went on for some miles, with the Tynes putting up a passionate defense of Jehanna, while LaViolette’s defense of her home was more muted, much to Damon’s surprise. Morane chimed in only to denigrate Farrun with her usual venom. Like the good King’s man that he was, Maric defended both Camlorn and Daggerfall. Damon, Maric and LaViolette were all in agreement that Northpoint was the most dreadful by a healthy margin.

Eventually their trip took them through the Norvulk Hills, which marked the transition between the Wrothgarians to the north and the Bjoulsae riverlands to the south. The Garrison Road between Wayrest and Evermor wound through these oak, maple, and hickory covered valleys and hillsides. Only on the few small mountains jutting into the sky did firs and pines take over.

The most direct path from Wayrest to Evermor followed the Bjoulsae River, but even in the summer, melting snowfall from the highest peaks and occasional storms led to flooding, which made travel difficult. Damon knew it was a fickle river; the calm surface hid deadly currents, and the soil restoring floods could just as easily wipe out a farmer’s crop or sweep away a bridge. Jephre was particularly revered in the riverlands due to the people’s reliance on nature’s good graces. Jephre being god of songs and storytellers as well as nature meant Damon had always found hospitable villagers along the Bjoulsae.

Between Wayrest and Evermor the Garrison Roadway passed through the towns of Dorient, Arvaud, and Wind Keep. These were no quaint hamlets, but each a fortress in its own right. The Garrison Roadway was so named because it connected Wayrest and Evermor to the once mighty Bangkorai Garrison, which had since fallen. But it was equally appropriate now, as each of the towns on its path had long been a garrison against Orcish incursions from the Wrothgarians. Or a launching point of Breton attacks against the Orcs.

But with the Orcs now gone, either to Hammerfell, Skyrim, or Cyrodiil, the towns were more relaxed than Damon had ever seen them. They also bore the scars of the Pretender’s War, but they were superficial, as most of the defenders had joined Lielle in Evermor and Adrard’s army had marched through unopposed. In the villages farmers were in the midst of the growing season, with hedge wizards weaving what meager protective wards they could over the crops and fields in hopes of protecting them from disease, pests, and weather. Along the Garrison Roadway the group was unable to find lodging at any of the nobles’ castles, as they had all left for a weeklong festival in Evermor. Damon was glad to learn the group would arrive to catch the very end, as he always enjoyed a good festival.

Though the trip was not a brief one, Damon still did not have a good read on what his companions’ mission was. They were clearly serving the King, but he had agreed only to guide them to the Scenarist Guild citadel to gather information, and not to participate further. What information they needed he didn’t know, and hadn’t asked. It was clearly important, judging by Maric’s and LaViolette’s presence. But Damon owed Adrard a favor for painting the Scenarist Guild in a good light with the Montclair business, and so he kept his questions to himself. Not his curiosity, though, and he may have accidentally overheard some mention of ‘River Tribes’ and ‘summoning’ when he was assumed to be asleep. No good scenarist could get by without being curious.

As for the adventurers themselves, Damon was of mixed opinion. The Tynes seemed friendly enough folks, with Faida a more focused person than her brother, though Damon found they were both good humored. Asgen was a kindred spirit to Damon, both storytellers by nature. LaViolette was friendly as well, though tended to drift in and out of conversations, and seemed to spend quite a bit of time with her own thoughts. Sir Maric spent all of his time with his, and didn’t seem interested in any bardic tales. Morane spoke little, spending most of her time keeping to herself or reading a book Damon hadn’t caught the title of. She was intense and focused, but in a hostile way he found particularly off-putting. Overall, an interesting, though not merry, band of adventurers. They certainly seemed capable, though. If there was any similarities between them, it was that.

Evermor was rising into view now, almost two weeks since the group set out. The great tapering towers of the castle rose into the sky. They were elegant, with dark green vines climbing each of them, punctuated by roses of red, pink, white, and even yellow, the white stone beneath only occasionally appearing from amidst the colorful tangle. Cone shaped golden roofs topped each of the castle's four main towers, and they gleamed in the sky. The city rose like a three tiered cake between the craggy cliffs of the Reach and the roaring Bjoulsae River. The Great Falls of the Bjoulsae were audible even from here, as the city marked the furthest point of navigation up the river.

As the group approached the city, Damon chuckled to himself and said, “Have I told the story about the Prince of Evermor and the Great Falls?”

"No." Naturally, it was the twins who answered. Simultaneously, in fact. Then Asgen continued, motioning to the rest of the group for support, "But we'd love to hear it, eh?"

"I've heard this tale before," LaViolette said. "Though I've little doubt your version will be just as entertaining."

Damon placed a hand on his chest as if she'd wounded him. "My version? As far as I'm aware, there's only the truth, Madam Dame. And we bards are nothing if not purveyors of the truth."

Morane scoffed, which was the most reaction Damon had got out of her the whole trip. She might yet come around.

"The story goes that in the Eighth Century of the Second Era, Prince Leric-" Damon started.

"I thought it was Leovic, Master Bard," LaViolette said. 

Damon smiled and said, "Quite right. Maybe you should be the one telling this tale." She simply motioned for him to continue, a playfully smug expression on her face.

"As I was saying, Prince Leovic Guimard was an adventurous sort. Climbed the highest peaks of the Wrothgarians, delved into the deepest caverns of the Reach and the Kurallians. It was even said he sailed upon a reconstructed Dwemer airship attempting to pluck stars from the sky." Damon could see LaViolette shake her head and roll her eyes at that. "He was the fifth child of his family, with even nieces and nephews before him. So he had plenty of time on his hands. After the trip aboard the airship, he found himself increasingly bored, and returned to Evermor for a time.

"Not being one for royal revelries or the company of his kin, his boredom was not sated. But anyone who spends enough time in Evermor will know that the falls are a constant sound. One grows used to it after a time, but for Leovic they became only a call to challenge and overcome. His boredom led to a reckless plan: he would plunge over the falls."

Damon had timed the story perfectly so that as he finished that line, the angle of the road and the city revealed the falls. There were two of them, split in half by a massive rock that jutted defiantly into the air, unconcerned with the over two hundred foot high walls of raging water on either side. The sound was thunderous and echoed off of the hills, amplifying it further. Mist and spray were thrown into the air, which shimmered with the light of a dozen rainbows.

"It wasn't much of a plan, in the end. He climbed atop the rock and dove off into the water below as the entire city watched. Boats and divers were ready to help him, and nets were stretched across downriver to catch his body should he not survive. But even with all the attention and preparation, the body was never recovered. Most say he was dashed apart on the rocks below, but no one ever saw any blood. I tend to side with those that believe the plunge was actually a cover, as his time in Evermor had led him to a romance with the mysterious Spirit of the Bjoulsae. They were waiting below to catch him, and his spirit joined theirs in the great river."

"Poetic end for a fellow like that." Asgen's tone suggested that he believed every word of it, though the bard knew better. "Whatever happened to the airship?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, funny story that. Apparently it crashed into a glacier somewhere in the Reach. At least, according to rumors. There was actually a Princess of Evemor who set out to find it, but like her ancestor, she too disappeared," Damon said.

"So moral of the story, don't jump off cliffs and don't go into the Reach looking for airships," Morane said. "What ever would we do without your guidance?"

Faida sniggered, but her brother looked at the nightblade with a relaxed grin. "Funny, that's not what I got from it."

"And what lesson did you take, exactly?" Morane asked. Her expression hadn't changed from one of annoyance since he'd started the story, or really since the trip began. He always hated an unreceptive audience.

"To be content with what you've got," replied the Nord. "Come on, did your Ma never read you stories? There's always a lesson like that at the end."

"Whose Ma read them to you?" Faida asked. "It sure wasn't ours."

"Ma didn't read to you?" Asgen asked with a look of obviously feigned surprise. "Guess that settles which of us was her favorite, then."
She shook her head as he went on, "These stories are for rich little Breton brats who ain't learned to appreciate their silk sheets and golden piss pots. They think they've gotta get dirty, climb a mountain, and kill a big beast to be happy. But take a look at Sir Maric here. I'll bet he's killed a hundred beasts and I've not seen the man crack a smile since we left." He nodded to Morane. "You neither, for that matter."

"I'll smile when I'm content with what I've got," Morane said. "Being on this trip doesn't get me any closer, so I don't know what there is to smile about."

"You know what'll make me smile?" asked Faida. "Getting out of these saddles."

"I hope your legs aren't too sore," Damon said. "With any luck we'll get to experience the splendor of an Evermor ball. Here's hoping the Vettes know how to put one on like the Rolstons did."

"That would be the only reason anyone misses them," Sir Maric said.

"Here here," Asgen agreed.

A party will be good, Damon thought. Might add a bit of merry to this band of adventurers. And if a few lips were loosened in the process, he certainly wouldn’t mind that either.  

**

Morane
 

Morane would be content when she figured out shadow draining. She was delighted Damon had interrupted her thinking once again for another riveting tale. He and the twins and the dame babbled on, while she tried to go back to parsing Shadow Draining: Elucidation on the Transliminal Flow of Essence. Winvale had given her the book before she left, and though she had not yet actually cast the spell, she was beginning to grasp how the magic worked. Or so she hoped.

She did not yet have teleportation perfected, but she knew the mechanics of the spell. Now it was only refining those skills and continually strengthening her ability. Shadow draining was similar to short range teleportation, though instead of piercing and replacing, the mage pierces and pulls. Having read and reread the book, she spent most of her time turning over the ideas in her head, and it had taken her longer than she liked to admit to figure out that much. It didn’t help that some of her travelling companions were talkative. She found herself liking Sir Maric more and more, as he kept quiet. And compared to her brother, so did Faida, though she seemed a little too curious about Morane’s book for her liking.

As they entered the gates of Evermor, she was forced to concentrate on steering the horse through the bustling crowds. The atmosphere was lively and festive, with people better dressed than they usually were and banners strung out between buildings. From what Morane had gathered before, this festival was for no particular reason other than the nobles wanted to throw a party. She supposed the people of Evermor could celebrate surviving the war when the previous rulers hadn’t.

The streets climbed up toward the city’s castle and became progressively more crowded, merchant stalls and entertainers lining the road. The singers and jesters and magicians put on their acts for any who stopped to watch. One mage stepped out into the street and halted traffic as he blew a stream of fire from his mouth. But before the fire could set the banners alight, it turned into a group of butterflies that sparkled and then faded away. People clapped and cheered at the illusion, and Damon said, “How lovely. I used to do the same but with birds.”

Sir Maric evidently didn’t care for the trick as he spurred his horse forward and drove the magician from the street, heading toward the castle gates. Once there they all dismounted and stable hands came to lead the horses away. A steward, judging by his dress and the way he looked down his nose at everyone, approached. “Sir Maric. You and your companions are all invited to tonight’s ball by Lord Edwistyr Vette and Lady Lysabeth Vette.”

He looked at Morane, the Tynes, and Damon, his eyes narrowing. “We will have appropriate attire sent to your rooms for those that do not have any. Unfortunately the number of guests means you will have to partner up, or find lodging elsewhere. If you’ll follow me I can show you to your rooms.”

Morane ended up sharing a small room with Dame LaViolette. It looked like storage someone shoved two beds into. The steward returned a frilly dress that looked like child’s, though it was cut for an adult, and Morane didn’t hide her displeasure before she sent him away to find something else. He returned with another dress, better than the last, trim and dark blue, but she had no desire to dress up that nice.  

“Just show me where you’re keeping the clothes and I’ll find something myself,” she told the steward.

With a disdainful look he led her deeper into the castle and down a flight of stairs to a cellar. It was cool, not the enchanted coolness of a cellar used to store food, but the pleasant chill of being underground. It smelled strangely of flowers, not the damp earthy smell she was expecting. The steward produced a key ring and unlocked the first door, revealing a closet packed with clothes.

“Take whatever you please. Lord and Lady Vette have no use for them.” The steward then turned and left her alone.

It took Morane only a moment to discover why the Vettes had a closet of clothes they did not want. It wasn’t simply the excesses of nobility. The smell of flowers was strongest here, and many of the garments bore rose designs. These clothes were from the late Rolston family, the now dead former rulers of Evermor. The Vettes were from Camlorn, she knew, and had been awarded Evermor after the war. It was a little grim, perusing a dead family’s closet, but she didn’t think she was the one who their ghosts might haunt. Raiding their closet probably puts me at the very bottom of their list of grudges. 

The clothes weren’t organized in any way, so it took her a while to go through them. Eventually, after passing on dresses and jackets and robes and tunics, she found exactly what she wanted. It was a black coat that reached down to the back of her knees, the buttons a column of gold on the front. The inside was a soft fabric of some sort, a slightly lighter shade than the rich black of the outside. The collar was folded down but could be raised against the wind and weather. It looked more like fancy traveling attire than something to wear at a ball, but Morane didn’t care. She liked it and that was all that mattered.  

She wore the coat over a dark gray tunic she found, losing the hooded jerkin she usually wore. All things considered she liked the look, and enough that she’d be taking coat with her when she left. It was the least the Vettes could do, seeing as they were such poor hosts they made their guests bunk together.

After dropping off the clothes she’d changed out of and washing up a bit, she made her way to the great hall. A servant opened the door and Morane entered, but was stopped in her tracks by what she saw. Living in Camlorn Castle meant she’d grown used to seeing some of the splendor of royalty, though confined as she was to the main yard and Winvale’s tower, most of her contact was brief glimpses or forays into the main castle. And never had she seen it during a celebration. What she saw now was like something else entirely.

What had once been the great vaulted Rose Hall was stripped of any floral designs and replaced by the feathers that adorned the Vette banners. Those banners, white and brown mottled feathers on a light blue background, moved gently, as if there was a breeze. They did not hang from the ceiling but floated in the air by some enchantment. From the ceiling fell the feathers depicted on the banners, but before they could reach the ground or land on a guest, they faded into glittering light.

Even the pillars holding up the hall had been replaced. She didn’t know what they’d looked like before, only that it wasn’t the carved arrows that stood now. The pedestal base was the fletching of arrow, the column itself the shaft, which looked dangerously thin, though she assumed they were warded in some way. The top of the column was the arrowhead, ending in a sharp point that somehow held aloft the roof of the hall. The whole construction made her nervous, and she sincerely hoped that there was some sort of magic to strengthen the columns.

The thrones were gone from the dais, and instead musicians stood there and played their instruments. Soft, light music, not for dancing, but simply as background to the conversations. At the moment, the nobles in the great hall wandered around and talked amongst themselves, laughing and drinking without a care in the world. Morane guessed the ball had only just begun.

There was no dinner at the ball, only servants carrying around platters of small foods so guests could eat while they talked. At least that way Morane wouldn’t be trapped between two people and expected to make conversation. She snagged some bread and cheese and moved along the edge of the crowd. She hadn’t yet seen any of her companions, though she wasn’t in a rush to talk to anyone.

The Vettes are certainly staking their claim to this place, she thought as she wandered the hall, noting how prominently their sigil and motif were displayed. She drank her way through a strong and bitter glass of white wine the server had called Gwyn Avelle, finishing it only because it was alcohol and not because it was particularly good. She wanted something that was, so she made her way across the hall to wear servants were stationed alongside bottles of wine.

The guests were not only nobles, though it was easy to pick out who was and was not one. The sigils emblazoned on their jackets, broaches, circlets, and rings ranged from fighting stags to silver lutes to burning roses to an arrow pierced snake. She knew the last two came about because of the Pretender’s War, from those raised up following Lielle’s defeat. The men wore mostly solid color tunics with their sigils on the front, the women slim dresses with sigils mostly on jewelry. Morane assumed these were the current fashions, though they could just as easily been what the nobles always wore.

Once Morane reached where the servants dispensed the wine, she sought out a glass of Carn Prae Rezin, which was far more palatable. The servant gave her a skeptical look, though she didn’t know if it was because of her appearance or wine preference.

It was on her way across the hall from where the wine was being served that she spotted a familiar face. More accurately, faces that were strangely familiar, even though she didn’t know who the people were. Both were Redguards in their fifties, the man had greyish blue eyes and a thin beard, and wore silver and pink mage robes. The woman was lithe and fit, her short dreadlocks pulled back behind her head, and wore a set of ceremonial armor. Apart Morane wouldn’t have recognized them, but standing beside each other, she suddenly remembered Zuhkal saying he was from Evermor and that his father was a court mage for a duchy there.

She watched them talk to each other, laughing and touching, as if the party wasn’t happening and they were the only two people in the hall. She’d never seen her parents act that way, at least not with each other. She wondered what it must have been like for Zuhkal, growing up with parents who were so loving. Her parents had simply left her to her own devices and then admonished her when she did something wrong or they were angry at each other. When they noticed her at all, that is.

Without giving it a second thought, she approached Zuhkal’s parents. If nothing else, she could use this to mess with Zuhkal when she returned. “I’m a f- I know your son.”

They looked at her, then at each other, and back to her. “Who are you?” Zuhkal’s father asked.

“Morane.”

“Dhakir,” Zuhkal’s father said.

“Nisira,” Zuhkal’s mother said. “How do you know Zuhkal?”

“We train together. In Camlorn.”

“With the Coterie?” Dhakir asked. She heard the hope in his voice.

She hesitated, but shook her head. “In the army.”

“Well, then. I’m sure he’s glad his throwing in with Adrard paid off.” The disappointment was plain in Nisira’s lowered voice, which caught Morane off guard.

“What do you mean?”

“He hasn’t told you?” Dhakir asked. “I should expect he’d be proud of bet- of leaving us and picking the winning side. Her certainly made a show of it when he left.”

“It’s never come up.”

“He may not have learned any loyalty, but I suppose he’s no braggart,” Nisira said.

“I wouldn’t go that far.” She offered a smile to break the tension, but they gave no indication it changed anything. “What exactly did he do?”

“He chose to fight in Adrard’s army,” Nisira said, her voice low, though it quavered in anger as she spoke. “And not toward the end of the war, but from the very beginning. Raised a subject to the Rolstons, grew up in the Jastal household, and the second war breaks out, he abandons that all for Adrard’s army. He left us to fight against us.”

She knew why he’d done it. The same reason he became a shadow mage. Because he thought the Thalmor were the bigger threat. His parents obviously didn’t see things that way.

 “Hopefully he’ll avoid disappointing you as well,” Dhakir said.

“He hasn’t disappointed yet,” Morane snapped. This felt far too close to home, and she could feel the anger rising within her. Before Dhakir or Nisira could respond, she turned and walked away.

She finished the rest of her wine and the anger settled back to her usual annoyance, though the entire conversation was not at all what she’d expected. They hadn’t cared enough about their son to ask how he was doing. It had been over a decade since she’d seen her own parents, but Morane knew this is how that reunion would feel: like old arguments were being dredged back up, disappointment and contempt along with them. Above all, they were just glad to be rid of her.

And yet it wasn’t what she expected to find in talking to Zuhkal’s parents. He was so…well adjusted. Maybe that was the difference between telling your parents to fuck off and your parents telling you to. Zuhkal had made the decision to leave and fight for Theo’s army. But Morane’s parents had shipped her off so they didn’t have to deal with her anymore. They made the choice to move on from her, not the other way around.

Now she saw Zuhkal in a different light. She’d just assumed he had a good relationship with his parents. Now she wondered if Zuhkal telling her she needed someone to watch her back was friendly advice, or if he was looking for someone to watch his own back. She knew how hard it was to leave everything you knew behind and go it alone.

She was suddenly aware of how isolated she was again without anyone to watch her back. She didn’t like relying on others, but she’d grown used to it over the past few months as she and Zuhkal worked and trained together. She wasn’t going to find someone else to talk about shadow magic or make fun of Winvale with, but spending the entire trip looking over her shoulder would drive her crazy. At the very least, playing nice with the others could ensure they wouldn’t end up leaving her for dead somewhere.

When a servant passed by she took another glass of wine and wondered where her traveling companions were. With nothing else to do, she decided she might as well go find out.  The crowded hall made it difficult to navigate, but as she waded through a lively tune struck up and people began to clear out from the middle of the room. As the nobles parted and people took to the dance floor, Morane moved along the edges of where the dancers whirled and twirled around.

She'd noticed Asgen and LaViolette, paler and taller than most everyone else, standing and watching the dancers. Asgen wore mostly his normal clothing, though a red tunic in place of his usual shirt. LaViolette had on a tunic embroidered It took her a moment to realize they were watching one pair in particular.

Damon and Faida were not exactly the most graceful pairing, but what they lacked in skill they made up for with enthusiasm and flair. The nobles dancing near them didn’t look too pleased, but as far as Morane could tell they hadn’t stepped on anyone yet. When the tambourines and viols joined the flutes and drums and the dancers switched partners, Faida was paired with a rather unhappy noble who suddenly found himself paired with a much taller partner who then took the lead. But soon the pace quickened and the dancers were spun back around to their original partners. It was a nearly frantic beat at that point, and Damon and Faida abandoned all pretense of the steps and simply spun about until the song ended and both were left laughing, ignoring the glares all the while.

When it ended, Morane realized she had a smile on her face as well. Mostly from seeing how annoyed the nobles were, and probably because she was a little buzzed. She walked over to Damon and Faida, picking up two glasses of wine for them along the way. “I imagine they’ve never seen anything like that before.”

"Then they ain't spent much time in Skyrim," Faida accepted the wineglass with a grin and downed it in one go. Then she wiped a bead of sweat off her brow and nudged the bard. "This one, on the other hand..."

"Don't let this elegant exterior fool you, dear," Damon motioned with his glass to his patched blue vest and faded red shirt. "The people I usually play for dance a lot more like we did."

"I didn't take you for a dancer," Morane said to Faida.

"Oh, I've danced with greater lords than any in this room," replied the Nord. "Never at a ball, though."

"That's a story I'd like to hear," Damon said. "But first, I think it's time I showed the youngsters a thing or two." Without explanation, Damon broke away and disappeared into the crowd.

Morane finished off her nearly full wineglass, felt her cheeks and neck flush as the alcohol took effect. "My parents loved to go to balls. Not with each other, of course. I enjoyed the dancing. It was the," she waved her hand at the assembled nobles, "people that made it unpleasant. Rich Breton brats, like your brother said.”

"They ain't what I'm used to, neither." Faida's expression didn't betray her feelings for the attendees one way or the other, though being a mercenary, Morane could guess that the Nord could not have been too displeased to find herself among so many wealthy Bretons, regardless of her opinion of them. "Truth be told," Faida continued, "I took you for a noble. If these sorts ain't your preferred company, who is?"

Morane’s lips formed to say No one but she stopped herself short. That had never really been true, as much as she liked to think it was. Darya in her childhood, Sage Jurisa, who taught her at the Institute in Farrun, her comrades in the Shornhelm and then Camlorn armies, and even Winvale. And Zuhkal. Most of those weren’t friendships, but there was something there. She gave a soft shrug and said, “Most people aren’t. I guess the ones who are don’t scare easily, and aren’t boring. And you? What company does a Nord from the Reach keep?”

"Same as you, I reckon. The ones who scare easy don't stick around too long with Asgen and me."

Morane looked to Asgen, who was excitedly talking to LaViolette, trying to convince her of something and so far getting only a faint smile. “I would imagine it’s not because of your brother. He seems to get along well with most people.”

"Aye, making friends might be his greatest skill. Keeping them's another story."

“And what’s your greatest skill?”

The Nord smirked. “Making sure those friends don’t kill him.”

Morane smiled despite herself. The dancers in the center of he crowd fell still as the song ended, but before another could strike up, Damon climbed atop a table. A few guards started to make their way toward him but stopped when he raised his fiddle and bow with a flourish and called out to the band, “Tambourine!”

She looked over to see Asgen dragging LaViolette to the dance floor as Damon began to play, a tune that started slower and steady but one she could tell would quicken and build. The smile lingered as Morane said, “You must have your hands full with that.”

"Always. Especially lately." Faida was watching the pair now as well. Sure as they were twins, Asgen danced much the same as his sister, all grins and heavy steps. LaViolette wasn’t a trained dancer either, and surprisingly danced with the same abandon Asgen did. She grinned and stomped along with him, just as broadly or loudly. "What about you?" asked the Nord. "I don't imagine Theodore keeps nightblades because you're all so good at knitting."

The truth, that Morane was new to this nightblade business, almost slipped free, and she realized she might have had a little too much to drink. The lie came easy once she caught herself. “These days he keeps us busy with war preparations. But when you’re as good as I am, you get to leave on occasion. I returned from a mission right before we set off on this one.”

Faida looked curious, but she didn't seem intent on inquiring further. Instead, the sellsword caught a passing servant by the shoulder and relieved him of the wine bottle he was carrying. She took a swig from the top, and responded to his protests by telling him to take it up with "High King" Theodore. She then offered it to Morane. "Here."

Morane took the bottle and filled her wineglass to the brim before giving it back to Faida. She then raised her glass and said, "To rich Breton brats and their rich Breton wine."

"May they never stop making it."

**

Dame LaViolette
 

When Damon’s song came to an end and LaViolette and Asgen stopped spinning across the dance floor her grin did not leave her face. Even as she remembered that she would soon have to tell Sir Maric that his son was missing and his king had conspired to hide that fact from him. Like the march into battle, there was only anticipation, not fear. More than the wine she felt drunk on that anticipation, her body made of nerves and every sensation amplified. It was easy to get lost in that, and she had let go as she danced. But now she had to focus, to calm herself.

With the end of the song Damon bowed deeply from atop his perch on the table, and the nobles gave him a hearty round of applause. He soaked it up, a crooked smile filling his face. When he jumped down from the table he sent up a flurry of illusory feathers from the floor and went to join the rest of the musicians on the dais.

LaViolette joined Asgen, who was grabbing another glass of wine. She nudged him with an elbow as he took a drink. “That was practically graceful, for a Nord.”

"Aye," he laughed, spilling some of the wine as he did. "and you seemed to be having far too much fun out there for a Breton."

“You be surprised to learn not every Breton is a stuck up noble. Your dancing would fit right in most places in High Rock.”

"That's because my dancing fits in everywhere!" Asgen drained his glass and waved it at a trio of passing noblewomen. One of them scowled, one rolled her eyes, and the third blushed. It was her that Asgen's eyes were fixed on now. "Though lately I'm really starting to like your stuck up nobles."

LaViolette joined the second noblewoman in rolling her eyes. “A little taste of the fine things in life and now you’re getting greedy. You really are a mercenary, aren’t you?”

"Only till it kills me, Madame Dame." He gestured to the bottle and glasses. "Now how about some more wine? I doubt we'll have another chance to get good and drunk for some time."

LaViolette held out her glass for Asgen to fill. “Be careful how much you drink. I would hate for you to embarrass yourself in front of your new friends.”

The blushing noblewoman was stealing glances at Asgen. LaViolette didn’t recognize her but could tell from her fish shaped sigil earrings she was from the Emard family, marquis under Duke Jastal.

"Embarrass? Me?" He topped off her glass, then did the same to his own and clinked it against hers. "It'll take more than a few cups of grapewater to make a fool of the Raven-Son." He cut one more glance at the noblewoman and seemed to decide that now was the time to move. "Though if those are new friends, then it'd only be right for me to learn their names."

She couldn't help but laugh at the Nord's brazenness. It'd taken her a while to grow used to the formality of Breton high society, growing up poor as she did, but it was nice to see someone be so unconcerned with it all. "If you want to impress her, mention you originally fought for Jehanna. She'll enjoy something scandalous like that."

He grinned. "You know, me'n Faida might'a won that battle for them if Lady Roain hadn't given up."

"That so?" LaViolette tried to put on a face that said she was taking his claim seriously, but new she couldn't hide her own grin. "I think there's one thing you're forgetting, though."

"Oh yeah?"

She leaned in close and said, "You would've had to go through me."

The look he gave her was a mix of surprise and his usual amusement. But LaViolette was pleased to see that it was mostly the former. The Nord recovered quickly with a laugh, however. "The gods must be disappointed to have missed out on such a clash!"

"We just might have to give it to them one day," she said. "Now you better go on before your friend loses interest. Or wises up."

"Aye, maybe I should." Asgen smiled, and for once without a trace of arrogance. "Thanks for the dance, Madame Dame. We'll have to do it again some time." With that, the Nord turned and started making his way over to the Emard girl.

LaViolette watched them talk and a contented smile traced her lips. It was nice that someone’s night would end on a happy note. Hers would be wracked with the guilt over what she’d hidden from Maric and anxiety over telling him about his son. The thought crossed her mind that she could seek out some companionship. The friend of Madame Emard, the one who’d rolled her eyes, had caught LaViolette’s attention. She also knew Baron Renoit’s son would be more than willing.

But it was easier to ease her mind with drink than sex, so she turned away from Asgen’s flirtations to find another drink. In doing so she nearly collided with a lithe man in his early forties with thick black hair tumbling to his shoulders. Lord Edwistyr Vette, the host of this ball, reached out and grabbed her shoulders to stop their collision.

“Dame LaViolette! Enjoying the party, I see. You’re just who I was looking for.” A broad smile covered his face, one that said he too was enjoying the party and the wine it offered.

She stepped backward out of his grasp and bowed, happy that she did so without wobbling at all. “Lord Vette. Thank you for inviting us. It’s been a pleasant evening.”

He smirked at the emphasis on ‘Lord’ and waved her bow away. “None of that. How are things in Camlorn?” He leaned in close and attempted to whisper, though in his state it wasn’t any quieter. “Don’t tell anyone, but I find myself missing the place. Even ugly old Oges and Maric the Morose. Not nearly as fun out here.”

LaViolette faked a laugh, as she knew just how much more morose Sir Maric would be after tonight. “It hasn’t been the same without you and Alix around.  Who would’ve thought he’d ever become a Duke?”

“I know he certainly never expected it. He hates it even worse than I do. Before we could even move out here he wanted to go off and hunt down Baron Ashcroft. Good thing your Nord friends found him quickly, otherwise Alix might’ve used that as an excuse anytime he wanted to leave ruling behind.”

“I can’t say I blame.”

“Ruling isn’t so bad. I’m fine with sitting on my ass all day, so long as everyone around me isn’t dull.”

“Jastal not to your liking?”

Lord Vette scoffed. “The man spends every moment training. He’s obsessive. Even when he does come to Evermor it’s all so awkward. He knows no one will forget what he did, so it’s all ‘Yes my lord, no my lord, if my lord wishes.’ At this point I’d prefer it if we all could forget the whole thing and move on. The worst of it is either Caroline or Rowley will be marrying one of his children and then I’ll never be rid of it.”

“How are they? Caroline must be, what, eighteen now?”

“Nearly. You’ve been a bad influence on her, I’m afraid. She trains nearly as much as Jastal and has dreams of glory in battle. The last thing I need is her to turn into my brother. Gods know Alix is an even worse influence than you are.”

LaViolette grinned at that. “We can’t help it if your girl is smarter than you are.”

He scoffed again. “Right. Well, I can’t help but worry about her. She’s to the point now where she’s asked to join attacks on bandit camps and the like. My brother is a man grown and recognizes his place is in his Duchy. I worry Caroline has his same wanderlust without the wisdom of age to stop her.”

“I can sympathize.” LaViolette had run away from her parents when she was thirteen because of those same desires. To see the world, to make a name for herself, to gain something like glory.  

“I’m sure you can,” Lord Vette said. “Which is why I was looking for you. It’s about Caroline. I was wondering if you’d take her on as your squire. I don’t know that I can stop her, especially with the war coming. And there would be nowhere safer than with you, either in Camlorn or alongside Prince Roland down south.”

If she’d had slightly less alcohol tonight, she might have seen this request coming. As it was, her jaw dropped slightly as she thought through this. She’d made friends of nobles, fought alongside them, rise to a high command of the knights of the royal family. She was even tasked with guarding the heir to the throne. But this request, to train and mentor a Lord’s daughter, caught her by surprise. Maybe it was because of her own past, the way she’d looked up to Dame Melie, who had taken in the runaway daughter of poor dockworkers to be her squire and never treated LaViolette any different because of it.

The swirl of emotions, pride and fear and guilt, especially the guilt, rendered her speechless for a moment. She wanted to say yes. This was what she’d always dreamed of. The voice in the back of her head whispered Say yes. Look how far you’ve risen. They see you, respect you. Wait until they see what the three of us can do together.

Panic shot through LaViolette. The voice in the back of her head wasn’t her own. It should’ve been, the hammer was in her room, sitting in a chest. It had never spoken to her when she was not wielding it. And yet the formless voice continued, Why do you hesitate? You did not when we met, and I’ve brought you to these heights. This girl can help us, we can mold her as we wish.

Yet all LaViolette could think of was the cost of the respect she’d earned. She thought of Dame Melie but couldn’t linger on the memories. The guilt she felt about hiding this secret from Sir Maric paled in comparison to the guilt she would always feel over what had happened with Dame Melie all those years ago. And then there was the voice. LaViolette couldn’t bear the thought that something might happen to Caroline because of whatever it was inside that hammer. She wouldn’t let whatever was in there get its hooks into someone else.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t.” LaViolette watched Lord Vette’s drunken bliss deflate. She quickly added, “Not right now. This mission we’re on is likely to be extremely dangerous, and I’m worried about some of the company. I’ve never fought alongside most of them before. I wouldn’t want Caroline to step into this. But maybe when this is done, if we come back through here, I could take her in then.”

Lord Vette brightened at that. “Yes, that’s a much better idea. She’ll be so excited to hear it! Thank you, Simone. Sincerely.”

The trust in his voice twisted her stomach into knots, so she put on her best fake smile and said, “Thank you, Edwistyr. It will be my honor.”

**

Sir Maric
 

Duke Willem Jastal was the greatest swordsman in High Rock, and he was a traitor. That traitor was a tall, elegant man with closely cut brown hair, clean-shaven with pale green eyes. He smiled easy and often. From across the great hall, Sir Maric watched him laughing and joking with one of his viscount or marquess vassals. There were few people in High Rock Maric hated more.

In truth, Sir Maric never quite knew why. Before the Pretender’s War, their only interactions came in tournaments, where they were nearly evenly matched. In the tally to this point, Jastal had only a couple more victories over him. But even before their rivalry developed in the tourneys, Maric hated him. With the Pretender’s War and Jastal fighting for Lielle Rolston, the hate intensified, even more so once Jastal surrendered and was pardoned, retaining his duchy. As far as Sir Maric could see, even when Jastal lost he somehow won. 

Jastal’s perfect wife and his perfect kids joined him, and together they looked like the very picture of Breton nobility. Sharp, elegant features, every movement with a dancer’s grace, smart and personable with a happiness not even all the wealth in High Rock could buy. It certainly didn’t seem fair from where Maric stood that Jastal should side with Lielle and retain that happiness, but it looked as though the war had never even happened.

Maric forced himself to turn away, and took his thoughts to his own family. They were not all three together, but Madeleine was with him in High Rock, which for years was all he wanted. She enjoyed the creature comforts and relaxation that Breton high society brought, and he loved nothing more than lavishing her with whatever she wanted. It wasn’t just about their happiness, or celebrating that they were together. They both sought refuge from dwelling on their son, away in Skyrim. He had tried to write letters, but he never could find the balance between expressing his concern and conveying that he trusted Daric to make his own decisions. Really all he wanted was to know that he was doing alright. He and Madeleine had finally sent a letter to that effect, though as yet there was no response.

The start of another song brought Maric back to the party. It’s no wonder I’m the butt of so many jokes. At a ball and all I’m doing is frowning by myself. He looked around and saw his companions spread out around the hall. Damon was atop the dais, fiddling away with the other musicians. Morane and Faida were talking near the edge of the party, passing a bottle of wine back and forth between them. LaViolette was talking to Lord Vette, both laughing like they were back in Camlorn like the old days. And Asgen was…he didn’t immediately see Asgen, until he looked to the edge of the party, where he was locked in conversation with Madame Emard, sister to Marquis Emard, a vassal under Jastal. To other noblemen had just arrived and were talking to Asgen.

The frown returned to his face, as he knew that conversation could only spell trouble. He gave his empty glass to a passing server and started to head toward Asgen, when a man stepped from the crowd and headed towards him. The man was heavyset but not fat, and he stood a couple inches shorter than Maric. His square jaw jutted out like he had something to prove, and his ruddy cheeks meant he was deep in his cups.

Sir Maric stopped. He recognized the man, but the name didn’t immediately come to mind. The man bore no sigil, but wore a necklace nestled in the chest hair poking up through the man’s unbuttoned tunic. On the end of a black chain was a claw or fang of some sort. A bear’s claw, Maric realized.

“Sir Falion LaRouche,” Sir Maric said when the man stopped in front of him. “I’d heard you were in Hammerfell.”

“Thomas!” Falion slurred the ‘s’ on the end. “You heard right. Found work down there. Guided an Ansei here to Evermor most recently. He left for Balfiera. Loner, didn’t seem to like company. Reminds me of you, come to think of it.”

Maric wondered if the Ansei didn’t like company or didn’t like Falion’s company. “Right. Have you been in touch with your brother recently?”

Falion snorted and his mood dropped. “I don’t have anything to say to him. Couldn’t give a shit that he’s a Lord now neither. Farrun would’ve been better off with the Ryger babe than him in charge.”

“I was under the impression you’d sworn off returning to High Rock.”

“I had. Didn’t plan on staying after the Ansei and I split. But the ball was coming up and I wanted in the tourney. I’m still the Bear of the Gavaudon, no matter what my prick brother says.”

Maric remembered the jokes about Falion, how he was more like the Cub of the Gavaudon. Jokes started by Falion’s father. The same father who chose his second son, Marc to be heir over Falion. “How did you do in the tourney?”

“I’ve never been very good at the jousting. Never really been good on horseback, is the problem. Never can get the damned things to do what I want. The melee went better. Finished fourth. I swear Ambywyr’s a cheater. Dented my visor so I could only see out of one slit. Claims it was an accident but I don’t believe him. His father was the same way, I remember.”

Sir Maric was only half listening, as he watched Asgen over Falion’s shoulder. Neither of the men talking to Asgen were Madame Emard’s brother, thankfully. Still, he knew Marquis Emard and didn’t like what might happen if he caught a Nord flirting with his sister. Or if his friends caught that Nord instead. “When he was still alive I did hear some rumors about Ambywyr’s father. Of course, a man who cheats in the melee is one who’s the most successful on the battlefield. Or so they say.”

“Bah, I don’t by that crock of shit. A cheater is a coward, plain and simple.” Falion drained what was left of his wine glass. “But I didn’t want to talk to you about the melee. Though it’s a shame you weren’t here to participate.”

“What did you want, Falion?” He could see Asgen and one of the men were both rather animated about something. Madame Emard was trying, and failing, to calm them down.

“I heard you and LaViolette are leading some Nords on a quest. Seems like you could use some help from another Breton. I’ve always said, you can’t-“

“I’m sorry, Falion, but I’m afraid this mission is sensitive and we don’t have room to add anyone else. If you’ll excuse me.”

Before Falion could protest Maric pushed passed him toward Asgen. But the conversation had held him up too long. One of the noblemen was now inches away from Asgen’s face, and from the way he sputtered, it was clear the man was angry. “How dare you come here and act so dishonorably. You’re nothing but a brute and a liar. Take back what you said at once, or else.”

Sir Maric was near them, but a crowd had formed, and he was forced to push his way through to try and get to Asgen.

"Or else what, little man?" the Nord responded.

The nobleman took a noticeable step back, but spurred on by the presence of his friends and likely a fair bit of alcohol, he said, "Or else you'll have to answer to us. You do not get to come here and disrespect Bretons this way, Nord."

"That's how it is, eh?" Maric caught a glimpse of Asgen just in time to see his gaze very briefly flicker over their shoulders and across the room. Following it, he found that Faida was watching them closely. Knowing this, the Nord continued, "Well as it happens, I ain't disrespected any Bretons, because nothin' I've said should be of any Breton's damn concern."

Maric finally made it through the crowd to where the nobleman and Asgen stood, only to find Duke Jastal had broken through from the other side. Jastal said, "Viscount Bertault, explain yourself."

The nobleman started to answer, but Sir Maric's glare stopped him short. Maric turned to the Nord. "Asgen, what's going on here?"

"What's going on is this man and his friends ain't got partners for the dance." Asgen replied. He stared back at the nobleman. "This one was hopin' I'd join him, and he's taking my rejection hard. Tell 'em, Bertal."

Maric glared at Asgen’s joke before turning to look at the nobleman. “Your turn.”

It took a moment before the nobleman peeled his gaze back away from Asgen. “This Nord was telling Madame Emard a lie about Giraud Callyn being some Daedra worshipping Reachman freak. We cannot stand for that!”

Asgen responded with a loud snort. "Goiridh Caellein was a Reachman, but he was no freak. That was your word, fool, not mine."

Maric looked between them, his mouth slightly agape. "That's what this is about?"

"He's insulted a Breton hero who stood up to the Empire!" the nobleman said, his voice full of uncontrolled drunken anger. "I would think you of all people would recognize his importance. Unless the famed Sir Maric is less loyal than-"

Maric's fist cut the sentence short, and the nobleman fell into an unconscious heap on the ground. Duke Jastal peered down at his vassal before turning to Maric. "That was uncalled for."

"I agree," Maric said. "It's why I punched him."

Duke Jastal narrowed his eyes and shook his head. "I meant you punching him. That is not how nobles settle their disputes."

"I'm aware of how nobles settle things," Maric said. He glared at the man on the floor. "But I do not see someone worthy of being treated as one."

Jastal's face contorted into an angry grimace. "You shouldn't insult one of my vassals that way. He was out of line, but so was your friend, and so are you."

Maric could feel the smile rising on his face. "Maybe we should settle things, as nobles do."

Jastal's back straightened, and he stood his full height. He had a couple inches on Sir Maric, and he looked down his nose at the King's knight. "Is that a challenge?"

"Scared to accept?"

"Never."

Lord Vette’s voice boomed out over the now silent ball. "A challenge has been offered and accepted. Duelers, you have ten minutes to confer with your seconds before we begin."

The crowd dispersed, forming around the dance floor where the duel was to take place. Jastal leveled one last dismissive look at Maric before he helped his vassal to his feet and left to ready himself.

Maric starred daggers into the man's back before turning to Asgen. "What was that? You were not hired to cause trouble."

"I ain't the one who hit him, boss."

"I'm fairly certain you would've if I hadn't," Maric said, though the venom was gone from his voice. He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. When he opened his eyes again, LaViolette had joined them. She looked nervous, her hands fiddling with the glass of wine she held. He didn't know what she had to be nervous about, he was the one about to duel. "Would you fetch my side-sword?"

"I uh- of course, Sir Maric." She gave her glass to Asgen and hurried away from the great hall. 

Maric took LaViolette's glass from Asgen and downed it before giving it back. "What've I gotten myself into?"

"Seems to me like you've just signed up to be tonight's entertainment," replied the Nord. "Can't say I'm jealous. I know a dangerous man when I see one, and that Jastal character's got all the signs."

Maric waved Asgen's concern away, though the pit in his stomach was harder to ignore. "I suppose this is what I get for supporting the King's idea to pardon those who surrendered." He realized who he was speaking to and added, "No offense to you and your sister. You've certainly done more to prove yourselves loyal in the aftermath than he has."

"None taken. We were never loyal to Rolston anyhow. Not the way we are to your man."

LaViolette returned then, holding a thin, double-edged steel blade, shorter than the longsword Maric usually wielded. It fell somewhere between a piercing rapier and cutting longsword. LaViolette also carried a padded tunic. She handed the sword to Asgen and began to help Maric into the tunic.

"So what's a duel between Breton nobles like anyway?" Asgen asked. "I take it there are rules."

Maric nodded as LaViolette secured the straps. "Magic is not allowed except in the rarest cases. Often those duels are to the death. Otherwise, no magic and no killing. Superficial wounds only. It is as much about showing your restraint as it is your skill. Some duels are to first blood, others to three wounds. Sometimes blunted weapons are used and it is to three touches. Some are to submission."

"You got a preference?"

Maric looked across the room to where Jastal was undergoing the same preparations. It was foolish, this duel, given the sensitive mission he was on. He was the loyal servant, always doing what was asked of him. He could afford to do this for himself just this once. “Submission.”

LaViolettee fumbled with one of the straps and he wondered what was going on with her. Had she really had that much to drink? She was usually more focused than this. “I can finish this. Please go relay my preference to Jastal.”

LaViolette looked at him with a strangely pained expression on her face, one whose origins he couldn’t discern. He would have to inquire about that later. As he finished with the last strap he said, “Any Nordic wisdom for a moment like this?”

"How about some sellsword wisdom instead? You hate this man, yes?" The Nord nodded at his own question. "Of course you do. Don't fight him like he's someone you hate. It'll make you stupid."

Maric turned and grabbed the sword from Asgen, and he let his face betray a hint of respect. “That’s some sound advice.”

He was about to leave when he caught sight of Faida and Morane standing off to the side. Faida had the same look on her face when it seemed as though her brother was going to be the one getting into a fight. Given how those two operated, he knew Asgen would’ve had some help. He looked back to Asgen. “I expect Faida means well, but I don’t need any help.”

The Nord smiled with mock innocence. "I'll be sure to tell her. Make him bleed, Sir Maric."

Maric nodded and walked away. The center of the great hall, which had earlier that night served as the dance floor, was cleared. The crowd formed around it, kept at a safe distance by benches brought in to mark the edge of the dueling area, which formed a rough oval around thirty feet long and twenty wide. Duke Jastal’s second stood at one end, while LaViolette stood at the other. A few guards stood by to make sure the duel didn’t spill into the crowd and to stop anyone trying to interfere. Lord Vette was seated on the dais, overlooking the duel.

“The duelers have agreed to terms,” Lord Vette said. “This fight will be until one of them surrenders, or becomes unable to surrender. No magic allowed. Are both fighters ready?”

Maric and Jastal both nodded. Lord Vette said, “Then let us begin.”

As those words left Lord Vette’s lips, Maric let out breath, and the tension within him faded. Once a battle began, his nerves were always replaced by focus and resolve. Asgen’s advice and his own training flooded to his mind. Jastal wasn’t there. All Maric saw was the shift of feet and the tension in the arm as his faceless opponent prepared a thrust. He parried the first thrust, and with the ringing of steel, the fight began.

Duels were so unlike battles and melees. There was little armor, smaller weapons, and they were usually wielded with less ferocity. It was appropriate that it took place on a dance floor. The thrusts, parries, slashes, and ripostes resembled a dance more than a brawl between knights. Most in High Rock were either skilled knights or skilled duelers, and rarely ever both. But Maric and Jastal were not ordinary individuals, and for the crowd watching, that much was clear.

Maric shuffled forward, turning the thrust Jastal parried into a slash, aimed at the thigh. Jastal jump backward, landing with his characteristic grace. But Maric knew him, was expecting him to keep his feet, and with another thrust sliced into Jastal’s hip, right where Maric knew he’d land. The Duke’s fury redoubled and he pushed forward. With the reach advantage he had over Maric it was all the knight could do to avoid the blade. But slowly he was getting driven toward the edge of the oval.

Following Jastal’s slice aimed at his belly, Maric stepped toward the Duke and managed to lock blades with him. Jastal was taller but Maric was stronger, and he pushed the nobleman back and repositioned himself in the center of the oval. It was his turn to attack, and he did so not with the heat of hatred but with a cold fury. He aimed to cut, not stab, keeping Jastal’s longer reach limited as he pressed in close with blow after blow. Their movements were quick, instinctual, the strange music of the ringing of steel filling the hall.

Sir Maric aimed a slice across Jastal’s shoulder, who parried it and with a riposte sunk the tip of his blade into Maric’s left shoulder. Maric blocked a cut aimed for his leg and with a backhand slash caught Jastal across the belly. It was shallow, absorbed mostly by the padded tunic, but there was a bit of fresh blood on Maric’s sword.

The shift of eyes was all Maric saw of Jastal’s face, the rest a blank slate. Like any good fighter, Jastal’s eyes were nothing lies. But wrist told Maric what to expect, and he was ready for the downward slice aimed at his already injured left shoulder. Jastal aimed another quick swipe, but it was a feint, easily parried and followed up by a cut into Maric’s thigh. He fell to a knee and only just managed to roll away from Jastal’s next attack. The wound on his thigh was deep and it slowed him, and Jastal managed to land another, the edge of the blade slicing across his ribs. Had this been a typical duel, Maric would have lost. But he picked until submission because he knew he could outlast the Duke.

Bleeding from four places now, Maric pressed the attack relentlessly. He gave up a small and shallow cut across the left arm to land a much deeper one across Jastal’s chest. Once again the padded tunic absorbed it, but not enough, and Maric could see the growing bloodstain spreading. Jastal’s face was pale, and Maric knew his was well. But their movements did not slow, only quickened, the blades shaking in their hands as they caught attacks that would have maimed, and sent those same attacks right back.

It was time to end it. Any longer and he risked not having the strength to finish. Maric feigned a thrust, avoiding Jastal’s parry and slicing him across the lower leg. He staggered but did not fall, and Maric pressed him across the dance floor. They slashed and parried, Maric dodging Jastal’s increasingly wild strikes. And then he saw his opportunity. Backed into the end of the oval, Jastal resolved himself to press the attack. Maric could see his eyes searching for where to push, see his feet shifting in preparation for the attack. So when it came, a strike aimed at the chest hard enough to push through any block or parry, Maric dove forward, rolling beneath it and coming up to drive his blade into the back of Jastal’s calf, deep enough to remain stuck there when Maric let it go. The blow forced the Duke to his knees, and Maric used that chance to reach out and grab Jastal’s hand and force Jastal’s own blade up against his throat.

“Yield,” Maric said.

Jastal’s face was contorted into pain. Part of Maric wanted to reach out and twist the sword still stuck in the man’s calf. But as he looked up from his opponent for the first time since the duel began, his gaze landed on the rest of the Jastal family, their own expressions a mixture of shock and concern. Maric wouldn’t want Madeleine or Daric to see him in Jastal’s position, though he didn’t expect he would ever be so lucky as to have his family together again.  

Maric let go of the man’s hand and removed the sword from his leg and tossed it to the floor before leaving the makeshift arena behind. He didn’t need to hear Jastal submit to know he’d won, and he could spare the man that bit of humiliation.

Without a destination in mind but wanting to clear his head he eventually ended up standing outside on a balcony beneath a glittering sky. He pressed a hand to the wound on his thigh and let the healing magic spread until the bleeding stopped. That wound was the worst, and the rest would stop bleeding on their own.

With a deep breath the cool night air filled his lungs and he wondered what had happened tonight. It didn’t make any sense that he would waste the evening hating Jastal, punching a nobleman, and getting into a duel. Why was he so upset? It was clear this wasn’t simply a problem of tonight. It had been happening since he went to Skyrim and found out he had a son. A son he didn’t know, who chose to stay in Skyrim rather than join his mother and father in High Rock. Maric should’ve been happy to have Madeleine back again, to have some semblance of a family. Yet the knowledge that Daric had existed all those years while he was in High Rock, ignorant to it all, would always haunt him. Seeing Jastal, a traitor who he hated, happy with his perfect family had been the final straw of a stack that had been building for months.

The sound of someone approaching tore him away from his thoughts. He turned around to see LaViolette silhouetted by the bright lights of the castle. The lights cast shadows over her face, so he couldn’t see her expression, but he knew her well enough to know something was wrong. She always had some sort of tension and anxiety, had as long as he’d known her. But this was something beyond that. Her hands were held in front of her, fidgeting with a scroll as her eyes looked past him toward the city.

“Is everything alright?” he asked.

She let out a small sigh, really just the breath she’d been holding finally being released. “I should be the one asking you that. Even if the answer is obvious.”

He nodded and turned back to look out over Evermor. She joined him at the balcony railing, still fidgeting with the scroll. He pretended to examine the city as she worked up the courage to tell him whatever she came to say.

“I, uh, I want to apologize,” she said, which isn’t what he’d expected. Before he could ask what for she continued, “I’ve been keeping something from you that I shouldn’t have. It’s about Daric.”

He could feel every muscle in his body tense up, like he was on the verge of a full body cramp. He was facing her now, and though she had a few inches on him, she shrunk under his gaze. “What happened?”

“As we were arriving in Skyrim, we saved him from some creatures. He left not long after. And then when we were leaving, we got word that he’d been attack by Brund Hammer-Fang to try and get Red-Snow to fight him. Brund claimed to have killed him, but the rumors-“

His hand gripped the balcony railing so tightly it was nothing but a stab of pain, though it didn’t compared to what he felt at hearing his son might be dead. In his grief he couldn’t find the words to yell or lash out.

“No one knows if he’s still alive or not. We left a recall mark for you in Kyne’s Watch. Prince Roland planned to tell you when we returned, but King Theodore forbid it. He only trusted you to lead this quest,” LaViolette said.

Maric heard the hurt in her voice but it was nothing compared to what he felt hearing Theodore had kept this from him. Now the words came easily. “You tell that fat fuck that if my son is dead because he kept this from me I will kill him.”

The words surprised even himself, and LaViolette was clearly taken aback. She said, “I-uh, I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner. Prince Roland didn’t want his father to know he’d gone behind his back, and he made me swear I would wait until we left Evermor to tell you. But after tonight…”

There were so many things he wanted to say. About how Prince Roland’s benevolence was empty since he’d still ordered LaViolette to wait to deliver the message. About how LaViolette’s apologies were empty, since she’d kept this from him. But most of all he just wanted to tell his son how much he loved him and was proud of him, and he might never be able to do that again.

Instead, what he said was, “Tell Madeleine about this, and that I’ve gone to find him. If something should happen to me, take care of her. You owe me that much.”

Without another word he took the scroll from her and left to gather his things. He just hoped he wouldn’t be too late.  

**

LaViolette
 

When the sun broke through her bedroom curtains the next day LaViolette awoke with a splitting headache. It was partly from the wine the day before, but only partly. The rest was brought on by the knowledge that she might have destroyed the closest friendship she had. All because she wanted to stay in Prince Roland’s good graces, she’d gone along with his plan to wait until Evermor to tell Sir Maric. Now she could see that all she’d done was hurt someone she cared about, someone who was already so clearly hurting.

Morane’s bed was empty, though LaViolette knew she hadn’t come to the room last night. LaViolette had been wide-awake most of it replaying her mistakes over and over again. It felt appropriate that she would make another while in Evermor, so close to her greatest failure yet. She did not look forward to the next few days of travel, knowing where the road they were headed down led.

But first she would have to inform the others about Sir Maric. She wasn’t sure how she was going to explain it, though some version of the truth seemed the best option in light of how poorly keeping secrets had gone. She dressed, packed up her things, and put on her armor. Last of all was the hammer, resting by itself in the locked chest at the foot of the bed.

She resented that cursed thing more than ever after last night. Not only for the fact that it had spoken to her without a physical connection for the first time, but because it had tried to get her to take on Caroline Vette as a squire. LaViolette knew the hammer only wanted another pawn for it’s inscrutable purposes, and she would never allow it to take hold of someone she’d watched grow up. LaViolette took it and attached it to her belt, proceeding to ignore it’s presence as best she could.

A servant directed her to where the group was to be served breakfast, in a small dining hall away from the Great Hall. After the fight last night, LaViolette wasn’t surprised they’d been sequestered away from everyone else. Asgen and Faida were there already, the former looking more hung-over and much more smug than the latter. She almost asked if his night had ended well after all, but it felt wrong to joke after last night. Damon was there, not looking the least bit hung-over, and chatting amiably with a large, square-jawed man she recognized as Sir Falion LaRouche.

She was about to ask if anyone had seen Morane when in she walked, still wearing last night’s clothes, her new coat slung over her shoulder, looking nearly as self-satisfied as Asgen. LaViolette sat down across from Asgen and Faida, and Morane soon joined her. They all made small talk as they ate, though LaViolette mostly listened.

She was forced to talk, though, when Falion asked, “Where’s Maric? I wanted to talk to him again before you all left Evermor.”

LaViolette pushed her mostly uneaten food away from her and looked up. “He won’t be joining us for the rest this quest. Last night he received word his son was missing and feared dead, so he left for Skyrim to try and find him.”

That took the whole room by surprise. Out of everyone, Asgen strangely enough looked the most disappointed. The Nord asked, "What's the son of a royal knight doing in Skyrim?"

The story came to her mind and she almost told it, but she remembered the pain in his voice when Maric had told her the tale. "The last thing he would want is us gossiping behind his back. We still have our task to complete. Everyone should be prepared to leave within an hour."

"Same destination?" Damon asked, casting a quick glance at Falion, who seemed like an intruder amongst the rest of the group.

LaViolette nodded and stood to leave. "Any other questions?"

No one spoke, so LaViolette turned and left. She made it only a few steps down the hall before she heard footsteps approaching behind her. Turning around she saw Falion leave the hall, a dusting of crumbs on his shirtfront.

“Dame LaViolette,” he said in a gruff voice. His breath still smelled of sour wine.

“Sir LaRouche.”

“I wanted to talk to you. Meant to talk to Maric but since he’s gone I suppose it’s you who’s in charge. Last night I spoke to him about joining you all. He seemed open to the idea. Wanted to discuss it more this morning. Before he learned of his son, evidently. But I was hoping you would allow me to help you on your quest.”

She was skeptical Maric was open to the idea. “Why?”

He scratched at the shadow of a beard on his square jaw, his eyes finding something interesting on the floor to look at. “I assume you’ve heard my story. Banished by my brother. Been gone a while but I remember how High Rock works. I need to prove myself. I see no better way of that than helping the King’s men and women, sight unseen, so to speak.”

His eyes caught hers as she cocked an eyebrow. She certainly understood the desire to prove oneself in the eyes of a hostile family. Not to mention their group was currently short one knight. “No questions and you do as I say, and you can come. Deal?”

The corner of his mouth quirked into a brief smile but he tamped it down. “Of course, Madam Dame. Thank you.”

With a nod left to go saddle the horses and restock their food supplies. The tasks kept her mind occupied enough that she was caught off guard when the others arrived. Damon was late, delaying their departure, but by the time the rest of the castle’s noble guests were rising, the troupe was headed southeast out of Evermor and into Hammerfell, toward the Scenarist Citadel

Edited April 23, 2019 by BTC

[BigBossBalrog]

The First Hunt: The River Dragon Part 1 

“You know that time I ate Bosmeri wasn’t half bad.” Lorgar admitted with great reluctance. Hey, the situation wasn't exactly ideal, but can't complain if the meat tastes good.

Wraith glared at him with disbelief ““Is that the wisdom Lorgar Grim-Maw has gleaned from his year staying in the dark forests of Valenwood? I thought that was one of the most traumatic experiences of your life?”

“Eh. In hindsight it tasted pretty good.” The Werewolf shrugged leaning back on the Hoki tree to his back. He yawned, as he crossed his arm defensively, looking  at his second with his single uncovered, eye, "Now don’t you give me that look, they eat themselves, why shouldn't we be able to eat them too?!” 

"I can't believe i'm having this conversation. Skywind. Grim-Maw. Bahhhh, you should call yourself Tree huger-eater. " Lucienus said shaking his head. "Fucking Werewolves."  He muttered, slowly turning the spit over the roaring flames, his voice an echo in the darkness.

Lorgar looked offended, "That's real rich, coming from the parasite that feeds off blood!" He pointed his finger at the Vampire. Wraith crossed his arms, looking high and mighty. 

"It's like drinking salty water. That's red.  It's not like eating a person whole!" He spat, "You get some Vampires, mostly order fuck nuggets, who are picky about what they drink-

Lorgar interrupted him, speaking in a mock Imperial aristocrat accent, copying the way Wraith normally spoke, "Doesn't the good sir refer to the act of drinking a delectable sampling of the finest red wine in the entire country of sophisticatedville, my lord?" 

"Har har." Wraith muttered deadpanly, clapping his hands, "Anyway, as I was saying, some Vampires think blood tastes different based on ridiculous notions, like class, or race, or whatever. It's all hogwash. I'll drink rats in the sewer, it doesn't matter to me." 

“Shut up, and pass the meat.”  Muttered the Werewolf, already bored of this conversation. The shadows danced around the campsite, reflected off the dying embers of the fire, which consisted of a bonfire, two sleeping rolls, and a handful of bags.

“Oh woe onto us, the Duke of Blackwood, and the Marquess of Albonvale have been reduced to picking off the bones of poached animals! How the mighty have fallen! Woe to me, woe onto the Empire!” Lucienus placed his hand to his heart, as he yelled, very dramatically. He had a face of mock disgust, and sorrow. He gripped the spit tightly, as he lifted the lightly charred meat high into the air, for both the Werewolf and Vampire preferred their me at very rare. The once Spymaster frowned underneath his hooded face, as he gave the Vampire a “really?”. Lorgar continued to sharpen his blade with the worn whetstone he carried around. Truth be told, he could go on a few days without needing to feed. But he really wasn’t in the mood for games. 

Snickering, at last, his vampiric second in command handed him the spit, which Lorgar wasted no time tearing into, "You're "jokes" are getting old Vampire". The succulent taste of hog just recently skewered and cooked over an open fire, had restored the morale of thousands of Imperial soldier over the centuries of service. Wraith, unlike most Vampires, still enjoyed the taste of human food, and also had a much smaller, but still no meager portion of the skewered hog. The Werewolf told his companion, “I dont know what a fucking marquess is.” He paused for a moment, his wolf eyes trailing around there camping grounds. These parts of the woods were unwholesome, and not being aware of your surroundings in the outback of Valenwood was a suicidal mistake on it’s own, “ You know you didn’t have to come with me. I can take care of myself.” 

“And miss this? A Werewolf and a Vampire at a campfire, my lord, it’s like the start of an amazing joke!” Wraith grinned, 

“More like a stupid joke.” Growled the Skaal grimly, his Skaalish accent emphasizing the last word. He...wasn’t sure what to make of recent events.  He had heard reports of major Imperial activity in Elsweyr just before he left basecamp, no doubt an advance assault by a raiding force to prepare for the main invasion. A force led by General Martellus and General Hellcry of the Second and Fifth Legions. Lorgar considered the two of them some of the the most dangerous people in the entire Legion, not only were they highly gifted tacticians  they, unlike his former friend, fought with savagery devoid of any compassion or morality. Martellus may act all friendly, but his eyes...they were cold.  A part of him was glad they weren’t in Valenwood. The part that didn’t want to kill his brothers. Former brothers. But then again, for all of Gracchus humanity, he had seen him burn people alive without a second thought or feeling of any remorse. 

Perhaps his humanity made him more dangerous? 

Lorgar stroked the fire, pushing onto a burning log with a long stick. A burst of flame arose, briefly illuminating the Skaal in warm light. It didn't push back the growing darkness within him. A snickering howl erupted the darkness, one only he could hear. Lorgar didn't both to glance back into the shadows, less he see mocking red eyes. 

"Thinking of the upcoming war?" 

"Upcoming? There’s always a war happening, Wraith, on Tamriel. Someone's always fighting and killing someone else" The Werewolf gripped his newly sharpened blade, and swung into the air at an imaginary target, "This so called Great War's already begun. The Legion spills the blood of cats. The Nords the Blood of Elves. And we cut down the tree folk. A war to decide the fate of this blood soaked land.” He said dramatically, before adding, “Until the next world ending crisis.”  

The Imperial assassin chuckled, “Things all seem a lot less world ending when one’s lived and witnessed the Oblivion Crisis. Now that was one hell of a time let me tell you…” He reclined, letting the embers of the flame warm him bringing a sense of comfort Once again, Wraith was a strange Vampire. Though he shared the rest of his kinds affinity to the shadows, they brought him comfort...just as the flames did to him. "The world will survive, I think. It always does." 

"Indeed. The heroes will save it from the monsters." Lorgar looked deeply into the flames, trying to look for shapes in the fire, just as he used to do with Frea so long ago. 

"But what happens to the monsters?" Wraith said with a mocking tone.

"You know what happens to monsters in the stories." 

“Yes, slain and defiled. When the hero walks away into the sunset with the glory and the spoils of victory.” 

“A fitting end.” Lorgar’s eyes seemed...content. “A perfect end.” Knowing his self loathing, Wraith had no doubt who the monster was in this particular case.  The assassin stretched his legs out, gazing up, into the star filled sky above. The bustle of the city had it’s charms, but nothing else compared to this. “Another reason I choose to walk with you, didn’t want you trying to fall on your sword again.” 

Lorgar’s eyes sparked with anger, as he growled like a dog, “Why must you always remind me of that?” 

“So you don’t forget it.” Answered the Vampire, closing his eyes, pointing a finger at him, "Someone needs to look after you. You won't, so I will.". Rarely did his second mince any words. Lorgar tore a large chunk out of his meat, still growling as he muttered, “Suicide is a cowards way out, never again. I will find a warrior's death, and accept no substitute! Once this business with the Dominion is done...” 

Wraith grunted, “You'll fall on your sword, just like at Romulus."

Lorgar's teeth clenched, and under the darkness, the Fury of Hircine reflected in his eyes, "Careful now, Wraith. My mind is failing me. Not my fangs and blade..." 

Wraith, unimpressed, snorted. "I’d rather remain alive, thank you very much.” 

Lorgar glanced at him, giving him a weird look, before Wraith took another chunk of his meat, before he realized what he had just said, “Well okay, unalive, but my point still stands!  Seeking your death might as well be suicide. You’ve got a talent for killing things, why not share it with the rest of the world.” 

“I despise this talent now more then ever.” Lorgar seethed, his mouth clenching, exposing his fangs, as he snarled, yelling all of a sudden. “The All-Maker's path does not shun violence, as long as it has cause. I had that with the Legion-

"Hear we go..." The Vampire rolled his eyes, as he took another chunk out of his meal. "There's no difference to what your doing here, then what you were doing back in the Imperial Legion, my lord". Oppressing poor natives. "You were just able to to tell yourself back then it was all for the Empire." 

"It still is!" 

"Claim that all you want. Even if it's true in your mind. I see your face when you cut someone's throat open. The way you cut down dozens in a split second like your dancing." He revealed his fangs with a grin, unsettling when someone's actually doing it to you for once, "It's beautiful. The gods-"

"God." Corrected the Werewolf.

"The All-Maker" Wraith quickly added, "saw fit to give you these talents. You're a natural with the blade. You can tell yourself it's the beastblood, but that wasn't the case for me." He smiled, "I've always enjoyed killing. Whether it be for my family,  Molag Bal, or my lord Sithis, the feeling of satisfaction is the same." Wraith's purple orbs hovered in the shadows, as he stepped away from the flame for a moment, "People can call us monsters if they want, it's just simply what we are. There's nothing wrong with it. The world needs us!" 

"There's a difference between satisfaction from one's hunt, and the glee, the sadistic enjoyment, and pleasure from wanton slaughter!"  Wraith put his hands up in defeat, 

"I give up. Your brains been rotted since an early age on this pacifist nonsense, the Skaal brainwashed you with. Why shouldn't you enjoy what your good at? You do enjoy it," 

“And I despise that enjoyment. With my every being." Lorgar howled, throaty veins visible on his face, as it distorted from rage, "It goes against everything my uncle taught me. The way of the All-Maker is an honorable one. And no it is not pacifistic." He sharply barked, and said before Wraith could even respond, "You take from nature what you need, respectfully." He visibly relaxed, as his uncles words brought him comfort even now. The curse of Hircine prevent meditation, but Lorgar wasn't so lost that he didn't know how to briefly relax himself "And if something threatens the peace, you fight them.  You take no pleasure in doing it, but you fight anyway against those who would hurt you, your family, and your tribe.  My people fought the Empire's control of the island when they encroached on our territory,  we fought the Dunmer when they did the same. The All-Maker does not frown on violence, only being consumed by it. Death is a natural cycle, that's let new life spring from the earth. The relish of death, the enjoyment of inflicting it, that is when it becomes wrong" His eye became vacant, and expressionless, as he sadly gazed into the dying fire. " Everything that's happening to me..." 

His head sunk lower, the illumination of the embers dying, "Battle was the only thing I was good at, even back then. But at least...at least I always fought for what I believed in. Protecting the people of the Empire. Now? I’m killing people trying to free themselves from the yoke of the greatest tyranny to have enthralled Tamriel…”

Would the Stormcloaks inspire such doubt I wonder?  the Vampire thought, but dared not say, “If we take all of this" Nonsense -"philosophy into account, then it's nothing more then a means to an end, Lorgar-”

“Don’t give me that bullshit. I’ve been hearing speeches like that for my entire military career.-”

“Which is over, if you didn’t notice.” The Vampire said sharply, his luminous eyes glowing in the darkness of the trees. “Lorgar you need to look at reality." He actually seemed sympathetic, " Both the Nords and the Empire wants your head on a pike, good intentions or no. The Bretons and the Redguards are their allies. The Dominion has less quarrel with you then everyone else, and let's be honest." He paused for a moment, "That say's a fucking lot.  Are you still holding onto the hope you can go back to your previous life? Even if you stay true to your cause, you'll never be welcomed by anyone. Empress Dales was hurt by your...perceived" He choose his words carefully, "Betrayal. Really hurt. She loved you like an older brother. General Ceno was hurt by it. Tullius...well Tullius doesn't have a head anymore." Wraith rolled his eyes.

Lorgar growled, seething, "Is-is that supposed to be fucking funny to you?" 

"Just trying to lighten the mood. My apologies if I offended." Wraith bowed his head mockingly. "Regardless, most of the people who knew you as a friend, don't view you as friend anymore to put it mildly. That's not even getting into your..."friends" from Skyrim.  The High King. The Admiral. That Iron-Brow fellow, if he still live. Want to turn you into a rug, need I remind you?" 

"No, I know how much everyone hates me." Lorgar muttered bitterly. "It's all I deserve. To be hated, and reviled. "

Night Mother help me, this self-pity...

"My point is, everyone in that old life serving the Legion that you treasure so much wants to kill you. It's gone. It might as well have never existed. You have a goal. Help the Empire. I'm not trying to dissuade you from it, you have a chance to do it here, a situation no one else has. But getting to that, has costed you. That life you had...it's over. You cannot go back, no matter how much you want too. You cannot take back what you did to all those people who trusted you. What done is done. "

Wraith closed his eyes, his entire body being consumed by the dark of the trees as his eyes disappeared, leaving Lorgar alone, by the fire for a second, "You can only play the role of the monster to help them, expecting no thanks, because you'll get none. Only a beheading.  That is your role. You can embrace or deny it. The past is dead, all you can do is hope for the future-

“There is no hope. " Lorgar furiously, slammed his blade into the earth with such force it startled the Vampire, "Marius is dead. Tullius is dead. Both considered traitors to the Empire, the laters head adorning pikes on the walls of the Imperial Palace. Storn..he’s…” He clenched his hands, fighting back tears. He was dead. He knew, ever since he saw his phantasmal face in Falkreath. He just hadn’t accepted it until now. I never got to tell him how I respected him...how much I loved him…”He’s gone and only the All-Maker can see where he is.” Images of his friends sneering at him echoed in his mind, looks of disgust, “Dales, Frea and Gracchus think i’m a monster. The world wants me dead...and I don’t mind” He glanced at his hands, blackened claws, and dark fur sprouting in his mind “You can call me dramatic, but I fucking hate every fiber of my being, Lucienus. You think i'm trying to get you to feel sorry that i'm hated by everyone? There's no one. NO ONE, in this entire damnable continent who hates me more then me. I think i’m a monster….I am a monster….I’m lost Lucienus...I don’t know what to do anymore...I dont know who I am. There’s a thing inside...me…” He wrapped his arms around himself curling into a ball, “A dark, evil thing. I learned from an early age, killing felt really good. But now? It’s consuming me...devouring me. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t stop myself...it’s like a dark flame, ever growing in the pitt of my stomach. I pray to the All-Maker, but all I can see is that dark fire...what am I turning into?”

Wraith purple eyes reflected confusion, “This is no time for self pity.” He said, with an air of disgust, before his glance softened, and he smiled, “You are Lorgar Grim-Maw. Lorgar Sky-Wind. Legatus of the Sixth Legion. Tribesman of the Skaal. Commander of the Blood Wolves. Aspirant of the All Maker. Hound of Prince Hircine. My lord. But most importantly, your my friend.” The Vampire placed his hand on the Werewolf’s shoulders, before he pointed at his chest “I don't mean to harp on you so, I truly don't but I worry about you. I'm sorry for being so harsh, but I just want you to know there's no going back now. I know who you really are there. If you feel lost, just follow your heart. It has guided you this far. This path you tread in unchangeable, it's yours to walk now. You made your decisions, your mistakes, and you'll have to live with them.  Do not second guess yourself. Those people, the dead, and the living, all those who scorn you now, need you now more than ever. Don’t give in to despair. You just need to stop living in the past. Always hope for a better future”  

“Hope is built on a belief in something. I have nothing left to fight for, just the hollow pleasure I feel killing some poor sod….”

“You still have Lady Quentas.”  Wraith said, leaning close to the fire once more, "She would miss you." I would miss you too my friend.  

"She's better off without me. Her and my child will be happy with the Skaal. I know it. Frea will take care of them..." He looked forlorn into the fire. He saw Romulus burning. Baldur and Boldir killing his men amongst the dying flames. He saw Falkreath burning. His entire life has just been violence. Nothing else. He wasn't a soldier. He never was. Always a monster....he'd like to think Dales, Gracchus, Tullius, Milly, and Marius has saw him as a person, but maybe the sneering maw of a wolf always had lingered in the front of their minds. He gripped his sword, "I'll just keep killing until someone kills me. That's your future right there." 

"Even the love of a woman seems to have no effect on you, Grim-Maw. Don't you care about your child?" Muttered the Vampire darkly, 

“Better he or she stays away from me. Besides..." The darkness cast from the blazing flame cast itself about him,"Milly was always a light in a dark place, sure, but not like that. Having sex with her just felt like an obligation. To nature. That’s what sex is for, to pass on your blood. Make sure you’re species carries on. I love her, but it's a weird kind of love, I can't put into words.” 

"That's why you gave her a child?" Wraith looked at him is disbelief, the sadness in his eye growing, until his entire face was downcast.  He had finished his meat, and lay down on his bed roll. If they were lucky, they would reach their destination in the morning, and the hunt could finally begin. Before going to sleep, Lorgar muttered, 

“Perhaps...for once in my miserable existence...I wanted to try creating something, instead of just taking life away.” And with that Lorgar turned around, and shut his eyes, saying not another word, leaving Wraith to gaze into the dying embers of their fire. 

[ColonelKillaBee]

Kyne's Watch
Skyrim
 

It had been several days since Theudofrid had preached to the Nordic crew, repetition and frustration marked the latter sessions. What began as fascination towards the Archdruid soured from wonderment. They always wanted about Shor or Kyne; or gods forbid, Talos. Smiting enemies and mead halls. For a while they took a liking to his preaching of Stuhn but when he grew tired of those epics and taught of Jhunal they lost interest. The settlement's High Priest of Kyne would make better audience for the crewmen. It was all too apparent he began agitating the crew dockside with his wisdom, and with a divine irony they were all too respectful or complacent to shut him up. Somehow being ignored was more upsetting and in the end he hardly made appearance, didn't breath another word at all afterwards, a golden silence. Theudofrid took that until they make landfall or he is sought out for his unwanted wisdom he wouldn't utter wasted words.

He spent all day in fasting prayer, meditating to replenish his magicka. He was fully aware of a presence behind the cabin door before it knocked. Turned out to be one of the sailors, making it known that the fledgling Kyne's Watch was right on them. Unlike ancient Windhelm, this reminded him a lot of his youth in Roscrea's northernmost reaches. All that was missing were the enigmatic Atmoriants watching from the mountains.

Theudofrid shuffled behind the wave of sailors as they disembarked, feeling a bit relieved to have his footwear firmly planted in snow rather than wood. There were plentiful blue sashes draped around proud Nordic armors. From his familiarity of the Stormcloaks well decorated officers in Windhelm he singled out one and trudged through the snow towards him.

"Fellowman! Stormcloak, please over here!"

The Stormcloak in question was a dark haired young man, only a few years older than Daric. His demeanor did not give this away, only the light stubble on his face as he scratched as his grey eyes looked the old man up and down.

”What is it? You one of those Bretons come to trade?”

"What? How do you, eh, no I am Theudofrid son of Ingolf. A Roscrean, the court mage of Windhelm. Not a Breton. Please if you could with your seniority direct me to the.-" Theudofrid smiled mid sentence at his correct actions of aiding Baldur instead of his competitor. "High King, Baldur. I've news that should reach him."

The boy’s look changed at hearing the King’s name but only briefly. He didn’t know Baldur at all but he was sure his court mage would’ve been...

He wasn’t sure really. Nordic, was the word he came up with.

”But then, you are a mage....” said the lad, continuing his thoughts aloud. “Anyway, see that woman there? The one with the sour look. That’s the King’s wife and Priestess of Kyne. Go bother her.”

"Well, thank you son. I'll bother her." Priestess of Kyne, this is going one of two ways, thought Theudofrid as he once again had to trudge through the thick snow with his robes, not an easy thing to do.

She saw him coming about half way through, with the damnedest look on her face. "Hail, I am Theudofrid of Roscrea."

She gave him barely glance then gestured with a thumb over her shoulder. "Toffeehead of Gods Forsaken Wherever, I haven't got time to chat. Customs office is that way. Pay your taxes and we'll get along just fine." She continued shouting at the Stormcloak navy captain who had just reported in. "You expect that bucket of bilge to make it to Dawnstar, let alone to Summerset? Might just win the war, if the elves die laughing. Brilliant plan, Torsten!"

"I am told you are High King Baldur's wife, I was appointed his court mage in Windhelm the previous year. I should truly have audience with the High King whenever it is convenient. It details the reinforcements from Roscrea your husband no doubt spoke of." Theudofrid didn't have any doubts whatsoever, Baldur hadn't said much about things to her. He tried not to think about how little the High King seemingly valued his aid.

Rebec glanced at him, but didn't seem to hear at first. The captain was protesting back, and she shouted over, "We only got so many boatwrights. Get in line and wait your turn. You're grounded til then. And don't run off to Oarsinger and expect to hear any different."

Turning back to Theudofrid, she put her hands on her hips and regarded him coolly. "You're what now?"

"Your husband's court mage, he... He mentioned us right? We enchanted his crack infantry's armor, we're sending an army from the north, we..oh he didn't." Theudofrid pinched the base of his nose with closed eyes. "We're an islander folk, largest of the isles north of Skyrim."

"Must have slipped his mind." Rebec regarded the mage like something somebody had  hocked up on the street. "What happened to that fossil Ulfric used to trot out occasionally?"

He had to think back on the details, damn sure didn't forget his sore sunburnt skin.

"You're referring to the old court mage? He wanted to retire, Roscrea needed a good standing with Skyrim and Baldur needed a court mage. Had us duel for it, had a nasty burn from where the old fellow did a sort of absorption on Baldur's Thu'um and-"

"And you just blew in from Dagon knows where. Got it. What do you want?"

"Baldur. I need to speak with Baldur. Whenever it is convenient but preferably soon." Theudofrid attempted to speak clearly as possible without offending.

She seemed to be considering refusing, but eventually snorted, turned and blew a long, sharp whistle skyward. Nothing happened for a full minute, then a dark spot appeared in the sky. The hawk dove and alighted with delicate precision on Rebec's gauntleted arm, giving a shrill cry.

"Off hunting, Fjori? Still got blood on your talons. Good girl. Can you find Baldur for me?" Rebec fished a ribbon out of her pocket, Stormcloak blue for army business, part of the color code she and Baldur had worked out. The hawk took it in its beak and lifted into the air with a rush of wind.

Rebec watched her go, then turned back to Theudofrid. "Now we wait. Don't think he's gone far. So, Roscrea? Got tired of licking the empire's boots?"

"That we did. Took nearly damn four hundred years, decimated our ancestors so badly Uriel did that people just accepted it for far too long. Their frozen imprint just seeps in, now'a days you see their influence everywhere. You Nords should have taken Roscrea under Skyrim's wing all those years ago, instead the Empire's saliva covered boots did, as the quip you said brings attention to."

"'We" Nords? So you don't consider yourself a Nord."

"Skaal, Nords, Roscreans. We're a single race of differing subcultures. In the same way the ancient Nords politically separated from Atmora, we're politically separate from Skyrim and Solstheim."

She wanted to say something insulting about the Skaal, too, then remembered what Arle had told her about Rebec the Red being of the Skaal. "If you say so. Though you just complained your problems came because we didn't take charge of you. So here you are. And Baldur just up and made you court mage because you beat some old goat in a duel?"

"Roscrea is in a wave of independence obsessed stigma, we are just seeing how that will turn out, if it goes poorly well. There are better alternatives then the Empire. Oh and um, not that it matters at all here, but I am an Archdruid. A lifetime of study, practice and exploration in the clever craft. The Nordic Grim Ones, hadn't you noticed their carved steel armor was enchanted? A feat commissioned by the high king when he was a Jarl, by ourselves."

Rebec appeared bored. "If you make yourself useful, call yourself Archpriest of the Royal Pisspot for all I care. Baldur will probably be wanting one of those, too. Come to think of it, they made me Priestess of Kyne just because I flattened the other priestess in a fight. So that's how easily titles get handed out around here."

"You certainly are harsh enough to be her priestess. Should I just wait elsewhere? You are very busy." Theudofrid's booming voice, which absolutely did not fit the man, was monotone.

"Harsh? You haven't seen my axe yet, so I don't know what you're talking about. And I don't know that you are who you say you are, so you can wait here with me or go to the fort under guard." 

"It truly is your decision to make Queen-Priestess."

"My hawk is going to lead Baldur here. So here we wait." She crossed her arms and fell silent, staring at the mage.

Theudofrid smiled at her in the beginning, but her stare slowly ate away at it.

***

 

Bully the Bully, Baldur Red-Snow and Ragna Red-Snow

"If I have to hear one more time about your pa's pa's pa in whatever backwoods part of Skyrim you hail from, I'm going to explode!"

"You'll explode from eating too many pork chops ye fat glob o' snot! We deserves more land!"

"This isn't the time to be fightin over land! There's elves to kill!"

"It's always the time to fight fer land, city boy!"

"Enough!" said Baldur to both Bully and the Chieftain.

It was supposed to be a simple negotiation, but the Wild Chieftains hailing from all over Skyrim had made it anything but. He stood in sharp contrast to them in his blue silk linens lined with white fur and gold trimmings. The tunic had a deep cut that exposed the hair on his chest. His mother's work as the Dibellan runes could attest for. Her temple had been erected recently, and her followers took to making clothes to help fund it.

The chieftains however donned all sorts of mish mashes of furs and conglomerates of armor pieces from rival bandit clans and even Thalmor they defeated in the wild. Antlers, tusks, and even bleached dragonbones flashed brazenly for all to see, the bones displaying tales of their kills.

And for the past hour Baldur had been patiently listening to these tales, the boasts and stories as he dined with what had to be the most glutenous rambunctious group of savages to have ever called themselves Nords, and Bully was right at home with them.

Baldur had reached his limit. Ragna babbled cheerfully even as the sound of plates crashing and men roaring in anger echoed through the streets when the king and his men began flipping the tables over. The people of Kyne's Watch and the wild Nords of the wilderness all stared at him as he spoke with Ragna fastened to his back. Fenrald and Bully both stayed close to his side.

"How dare ye!" said Chief Thorimir, a man rivaling Boldir's size and stature. "You do not get to dictate who gets what in our land, no matter how many tables ye turn over!"

"It is MY LAND. I am King, and I have been generous enough! I could have put you all to the sword, and instead I've chosen to forgive past transgressions both with Scathe here and otherwise."

"Otherwise?" Thorimir looked to the chieftains of the Clan that Wants to Watch the World Burn as they whispered amongst themselves.

Scathe was the first to speak. "This un's the mercenary called Wulf Maiden-Hunter..."

At that Thorimir and several others drew swords and axe. The Grim Ones at Baldur's back did as well before Baldur signaled for them to lower them.

"What about the other one? Torald was his name right? That sneaky bastard... I want his snowberries on a plate for me dogs!"

"Now now lets not start talking about my snowberries just yet..." said Torald, speaking from behind the wall of heavily armored Grim-Ones. "What happened in the past should stay in the past am I right? There's elves that need killing..."

Thorimir tossed an axe in his direction before Baldur caught it. 

"Listen here, my friend is an idiot but he is absolutely right. You lot sit here bickering over petty things. Land, a few dead men here and there, some deflowered maidens, and it means nothing! I am trying to build something greater than the elves or Imperials could ever imagine. A Skyrim where Nords no longer have to tell stories of heroes of old and their deeds, but our own! A Skyrim where a Nord can be proud of what they've done. Not their pas or their pa's pa. We don't need to become like the Atmorans of old, we will be better! We will be mighty. And we will build that Skyrim upon the bones of the elves and it will be paid for with the riches we plunder from elven shores. But we cannot do that unless we Nords stop arguing and being such knuckleheads and act in the best interest of us all! Look at the Redguards... they are strong, but because they were divided they were easy prey for the Thalmor when the war started. You want elven plunder? You wish to be wealthy? We cannot have these things when we can't even decide on who gets what piss filled river and who can shit on what plot of soil! Lets fight the elves together, and then agree on land once we are at peace!"

"Yes, lets be friends! I like that idea much better than talking about devouring my snowberries."

"Shut it, Torald," said Bully.

"How much elven plunder are we talking exactly?" said Thorimir. "And what sort of plunder? I know you lot get squeamish at the sight of a little rape or a slave here and there."

Baldur didn't answer immediately, and for some that said more than his promises could. 

Eventually, he said, "Valenwood and possibly Alinor both have a population of people who are forcefully subservient. A part of my war strategy relies on the fact that these people may rebel against their masters willingly. If you lot go around raping and taking slaves, it may embolden them and strengthen the resolve of the people. Anyone who saw our fight in Windhelm knows just how badly that can go for the opposition. In other words, during the war, hold off your enslaving."

"And after?" said Scathe, who was also interested in the topic at hand. Baldur wasn't stupid. These men were not like those of the cities of Skyrim, and even they might not heed his words in the heat of battle unless they could expect the rewards they sought eventually. There would be much death and sacrifice. The reward had to match the cost. Surpass it even.

"Skyrim will be taking what we can and moving on, therefore if you wish to bring prizes of any sort when the fighting is done, I care not. I will be marching on elven land to destroy them, not to govern them. Let Cyrodiil worry about the populace after I am done with them. Valenwood is certain to have gold, much of their resources according to a source of mine are untouched, only recently being picked by the Thalmor, as the Bosmer themselves do not cut through shrubbery and trees to find cave entrances with alloys. And as for Alinor... the last time they were raided was in the days of Talos. The plunder from even small towns on the coast for us would be legendary."

"Finally, you say something I can get behind!" said Thorimir. "Nord togetherness is well and good when there's the promise of coin and cunt!"

"Here here!" The roars of approval came unanimously, his men included. It didn't sit well with him but Baldur had to harden his heart. It was war after all.

"We will accept you then as our Head-Chief and King, and accept our roles as a part of your Skyrim, so long as these raids are successful and there is a benefit for us. You will have your horde, and we will accept Scathe here as the ambassador for our clans, as well as your second Thane. With condition that one of our own is considered for Jarldom in the future should your pupil, Fenrald of Falkreath or any other Jarls in the war fall, and should our loot gained go untaxed..."

"Ah-ah," said Baldur, wagging his finger as he put a hand on Fenrald's shoulder. "I will need a cut of all loot gained to keep this kingdom from falling apart in the aftermath of the war. There will be much work still and preparation in case the alliance doesn't hold up under the brunt of the next Great War. We will discuss how much later. As for Jarldom..." Baldur looked to Fenrald whose brow folded like iron freshly pressed upon the anvil. "That will have to be discussed as well..."

"We will discuss it now," said Thorimir. "Falkreath would be a very nice spot for us..."

"He said we'd discuss it later," said Scathe, his great axe burying into the flipped oak table. "Do not be greedy, with the land given and the plunder surely to be gained, we could make our own territory worth calling a hold much like this very city we stand'n in now. Even if we don't gain Falkreath, we'll gain much from this war. I promise ye that. My family promises it. Ye ugly fucks."

"Hmm... I wonder what this one did to make ye so sure o' that," said Thorimir. "This man killed yer boys, and now you're one of his right hand men? Explain that."

Scathe watched as all the eyes of his kin settled on him... Baldur's as well. Relinquishing his axe, he said, "He's a bastard and plows only one wench, but he and that loud wench both can fight. He and I may settle things one day man to man, but for right now I want to see my sons as lords, with riches to rival our fathers. And besides, our fathers would reach down from Sovngarde n kick all of our arses if'n we passed up a chance at killin the elves an' plowin their lasses. This war will mirror the final reckonin' of Shor himself! I'm not passin that up for any of you cherry cunts."

Thorimir sniffed and spat in the snow before him, rubbing his chin. "Fine. Anyone that can tame Scathe must be strong. And the clans that didn't show. We'll get their land too, eh? And some of that Orc land you goin affer too?"

"If you put in the work," said Baldur. "The land is harsh but your people nearby are accustomed to it. Back up the men I've sent on the chance of an attack and their land is yours."

"Deal," said Thorimir. "You lot don't know them Orcs like we do. They're not likely to take any negotiatin' too well regardless of the offer. We're bound to get some of it." Thorimir tossed Baldur a pouch covered in runes.

Baldur opened it and took a sniff. The powder within glowed a sickly green and made his nose numb. "This is the stuff Scathe spoke of?"

"Aye, this is how we kept them damn elves at bay all these years before Ulfric ran them out. It's what my sons used to protect themselves from your thu'um. The amulets are made of wood, coated in this powder and then covered in Corundum before being blessed by the gods. It gives the wearer a temporary but powerful ward. It won't last long but they're easy to make. The best way to use it though is to put it in pottery and toss it. The powder messes with a mage's concentration and their spellcastin."

"Where in the name of the gods did you figure out how to do such a thing?" said Baldur.

"The pottery bombs have been in our arsenal since Ysgramor's days, elves ain't got the only alchemists around," said Thorimir. "Those amulets though, those were new concoctions from one of our clever men. Arodir."

"I would very much like to meet with this Arodir," said Baldur, still remembering what those amulets depicted. Before he could speak further however, a cry drew his eyes towards the sky. "Ah, Fjori," said Baldur as he put on his gauntlet he kept at his belt. Fjori flew just above their heads impatiently before seeing her landing spot as well as the morsel he had prepped for her. 

He was hoping to see a red ribbon fastened at her talons, but accepted any excuse to be done with this bunch. "Important business," said Baldur as Fjori caught her prize in mid air once tossed. Wrapping the blue ribben in his fingers, he and Ragna departed, following Fjori with Bully and Fenrald still behind him.

***

The war of stares was still going on, but Rebec glanced back when she heard the hawk call above them. "Baldur," she said, gesturing.

"Rebec," said Baldur, answering back with a smirk. Looking at the breton by her, he had a confused look on his mug until it finally dawned on him who he was. "Mage," he said finally. "It's been a while. Thought you took a ship to Roscrea and sailed home by now. Decided you'd wet your sword after all eh?"

"Hello there Baldur, High King Baldur for that. I can't very well leave when still entrusted as your court mage." Bypassing Rebec's horrific stare his smile returned. "While Roscrea is fresh in your mind Baldur, the army sets sail."

"Good," he said, eyes going from his wife's look to Theudofrid. Meanwhile, Bully was making silly faces at Ragna on his back.

"And is that all?" said Baldur. "You could've told me that later, love. I was in a meeting with Scathe's backwater kin, not that I am eager to see it continued."

In no temper to be chastised, Rebec answered curtly, "What's-his-name said he's your court mage and demanded an audience. So here you both are." That was all she would say in front of others, but clearly not the end of the conversation. Retrieving her daughter, Rebec's expression softened at the sight of her, but she also stood between the druid and Ragna.

Sighing, he said to Theudofrid, "I assume there's something you want from me in return for the additional manpower. And I suppose it is good you happened along, I have something of the magical sort that needs testing."

"I made no such demands the previous year for our support. Only the fair division of plunder towards the tribal army. First though, the army is going to need a good landing zone, baggage train and tempary camps... But you need something done Baldur, I can help you there, certainly."

"Why don't we talk about all this over some mead. There's a lot to go over, and my daughter is hungry. Kyne's Watch is getting rather crowded these days."

Theudofrid started to answer, but was interrupted when one of the Stormcloaks off the ship bounded into their midst. It was immediately clear that the man was drunk. "High King," he saluted with a fist to his chest. "Yrsarald says you must see the wizard elf now."

Baldur's eyebrow arched high and his hand rested upon his axe. "What elven wizard?" he said, looking to Rebec expectantly. 

Rebec returned Baldur's look and shook her head, disgusted.

"The gray skin," the soldier continued, not seeming to notice the look. "Endar somethin' or other. He's over by the ship. I'm supposed to find you. I'm supposed to tell you that Yrsarald told me that you need to see him." He blinked a couple times. "I guess I did good, then."
The man suddenly turned, and started back toward the ship.

"Even if it is a Dunmer, nowadays, I don't trust anyone, much less an elf," said Baldur. 

"I'd say that's good common sense," said Bully, cracking his knuckles. "In fact I don't much care for any of these twinkle fingered fucks in our town, elf or not, aye Rebec?"

"Why not," she replied. "Let's invite a few justiciars too, while we're at it."

"Least we're allowed to kill those ones," grumbled Fenrald. "Who the fuck is Yrsarald?"

"Pipe down, children..." said Baldur. "Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced, a commander since the civil war. He's someone that dislikes elves almost as much as you. And he's no fool... he wouldn't be sending any old elf my way with one of our own as a messenger unless it were important."

"If you say so," replied the Jarl of Falkreath. "You ask me, that messenger looked soft in the head."

"As do many of these fools under my command when they're drunk," said Baldur. "Which is frequently. Besides, it's not the messenger that sent him here, it's one of my Commanders. Come or don't, but no whining while I see what this is all about."

"I'd rather not ruin my appetite with the smell of elf but I can't rightly leave the King alone while talking with some twiddle dandy dark elf. Lets go see what the wind blew in," said Bully.

"I'm taking the baby to get something to eat." In truth Rebec didn't want Ragna anywhere near the company. "Don't let the wizards blow the place up."

"I'll meet up with the both of you at home," said Baldur. "Bully, have the men clear out the ship and send it adrift at sea. Just in case."

"A little late for that," said Bully, pointing towards the dock's end. "I can see 'em from here. And look, one of the butter ones is with 'em..."

Baldur nodded to Rebec and watched her leave with Ragna before signalling to Bully and Fenrald to secure the area. By the time they approached the two, civilians were rushed away and the King strutted towards the both of them with an entourage of 15, including Bully and Fenrald.

There were still curious eyes peering from outside of the wall of blue and silver that the Stormcloaks and Grim Ones made, but most decided to get out of dodge in case bloodletting started. If they could see what Baldur and his men saw however, they'd have wondered if it was necessary, as Bully was now.

The Altmer woman had a kind look about her, one he didn't associate with Thalmor Justiciars. And the Dark Elf didn't look any different than the rabble he'd come to know from out of Windhelm, or even Riften. 

Still, the charge in the air was unmistakable. Especially for Baldur and the Grim Ones. They were mages alright, and they were powerful, despite appearances. Their training made that clear, as did the natural look of smugness on the Dark Elf's face as though he wasn't the slightest bit phased by the men gathered around him.

Baldur took note of that especially. "You the one that wanted to see me, yes? If so, lets take this on the ship where we can speak in private."

The elf nodded and turned to his companion. "Did you hear that, monk?" he said in a raspy Vvardenfell tone. "Private." He turned and crossed back onto the ship, and the Altmer made no move to follow. In fact, she stepped aside to make way for Baldur, and dipped her head at him in a respectful bow.

"That's not something you see every day," said Bully as he walked past before Baldur stopped him with a hand upon the shoulder.

"Stay here with the others. Watch her, find out who she is. I'll see if the answer matches what I learn from the other one."

Bully almost protested but kept his mouth shut as Fenrald and the dainty old man followed his king aboard the ship. "At least the Jarl's there with him," he said to himself. "Who knows what could happen with those two freaks alone on a ship with our king..."

Bully looked to the woman. She was pretty. For an elf, he supposed. "Don't take too long up there!" said Bully, forcing a frown and trying to look mean. The elf only smiled in return.

The Dark Elf was waiting for Baldur at the far end of the ship. His arms were crossed, and his red eyes moved between the three of them. "I took the liberty of muffling the ship," he said. "The monk will hear us otherwise, and I like to keep her guessing." He nodded to Baldur. "You are Red-Snow, then?"

"Baldur these elves accompanied the ship when we set sail from Windhelm. Though I can't speak of intentions, they behaved themselves very well. High Elf was rather active with crew; However, the Dunmer was secretive." Theudofrid said aloud.

Baldur nodded to Theudofrid, then answered the Dunmer's question.

"Aye," said Baldur. "And this here is my court mage, Arch-Druid Theudofrid of Roscrea, and this is my apprentice, Jarl Fenrald of Falkreath. Now who might you be? The 'monk' as well. They say you're a wizard but I can clearly tell your friend is as well."

"She is a Psijic of Artaeum," the elf said dismissively. "Of even less consequence than your own companions. My name is Endar Drenim. I've come a long way to ensure that you win the upcoming war."

"Oh gods dammit." Theudofrid mumbled to himself, he continued the grumbling in the relative comfort of his mind.

"A Psijic?!" said Baldur, caught off guard both by the news and by how dismissive Endar was of her station. "Well then, that would explain her interest in all this, to an extent. Even they surely realize the threat the Thalmor pose both to their own people and abroad. But you however..."

"I, however, have different reasons to want to see them beaten." Endar finished. "Which they won't be, if you and your southern allies sail against their Sunbirds unprepared."

Baldur cocked his head, then said, "You're going to have to give me more than that if I'm to trust you. For instance, who says we're unprepared? I defeated them before, even saw the ship from within. What makes you so sure I need your help, elf? What are your credentials on this matter?"

"You saw a Sunbird?" Theudofrid asked Baldur, but was spoken over mid-sentence.

"My credentials?" The wizard's eyebrow raised. "Av molag anyammis, av latta magicka. There is no man or mer left on this plane who has studied the magic of the Dawn as I have. I am sure you need my help, because I do not believe for a moment that our enemies will be foolish enough to fall prey again to whatever fluke allowed you to defeat them the first time."

"From fire, life; from light, magic," said Baldur. "Ayleid. If that's supposed to wow the ignorant Nord, you'll have to go back to the docks and chat with Bully. You claim to know of Dawn magic, and judging from the magicka resonating from you I'm inclined to believe that you're no slouch in the clever craft... are you from Skyrim? Morrowind? What house are you from, Telvanni?"

"Yes, I am from House Telvanni, and yes, I am from Morrowind. Also, the sky is blue, the wind is cold, and your perception of resonant magicka is sharper than the average Nord's. Are we quite done with the greetings? I have aims to build a weapon that can only help you."

Baldur smirked. "Talk then."

The Dunmer's frown seemed to dissipate, and he held his hand out palm up. "If you have been onboard a Sunbird, then you may have noticed its power source." A strange magic formed in Endar's hand. It was bright at first, like a white flame, but it quickly hardened and crystalized before their eyes. The resulting stone was the size of a human heart, and glowed with the hue of a star. "Until recently, there were two people alive that I know for certain could replicate the Ayleid stones that the Thalmor still use."

He tossed the stone to Baldur, who caught it, and could immediately feel the energy within. It was far more intense than the magicka that radiated off spells or even the mages themselves.

"Now there is only one," the elf went on. "Me. And through studying these stones, I have discovered, or rather uncovered, how similar their properties are to a near-extinct species of crystal that was wielded by the Dwemer. Those utilized by the Thalmor can be used up, their Aetherial spark would meld fully and finally with this plane."

The stone's glow intensified, and then it cracked, and Baldur suddenly felt a jolt of strange power within him, for a short moment he might've been as Talos himself, until the power settled and became one with his own, fading to the point it was no longer recognizable. In his hands was nothing but dust.

"But the Thalmor are efficient," Endar continued. "and this would no doubt take centuries."

"Especially when they typically use them so sparingly," said Baldur, visibly impressed by what he just saw. "At least here against us. And the power source in question was a great Welkynd Stone. So obviously war of attrition is not possible."

"Or at least not plausible," returned the elf. "It is good that you already know what a Welkynd stone is. That will save us some time. Their stones are indeed greater than those found in old ruins and back alley markets. And if I had to guess, they are very old and rarely deployed. This is why I believe your alliance has the Dominion nervous. They did not use them last time."

"I would ask where you learned how to create these stones, because it is incredible indeed, but maybe we could discuss that another time. Skip to the part about a weapon. Making the Dominion nervous is like cornering a sabre-cat."

The wizard seemed pleased to hear that. Or as pleased as a Dunmer whose scowl seemed fixed could look. "To put it simply, destroying the power sources will cripple the Sunbirds, and while the stone can be damaged by enough force -which I presume their blunders allowed you to do in Windhelm- crystalized Creatia secured within an Aedric field is not so easily destroyed. At least in such a way that cannot be recovered. But, like all things, it can be unmade. And for that, I have turned to the Dwemer, the pioneers of unmaking things."

Endar produced a metal cube from the folds of his robe. The runes on its sides were red and seemed to pulsate. "They have shown me where to find their forge, and how to work it. In terms that even your dullest soldiers will understand, I can use it to make a physical device, one that could fit on a ship, that is capable of unmaking their crystals entirely. What I lack are skilled craftsmen and laborers, stone hewers and metalworkers most of all."

"Baldur." Theudofrid spoke up. "With Nordic manpower focused on the war, there are droves of Roscrean craftsmen with nary any large scale work. If the crown funds it, our isle can provide it."

"Looks like that's settled, then," said Baldur. "Thank you Theu. But let me ask you something, Endar. You mentioned it's a weapon of Dwemer make. A while back, my wife, myself and her orc friend discovered some ballista of dwarven make in a Dwemer ruin off the coast of Hammerfell. We took those ballista and mounted them on our flagship, the Black-Wisp. I have no idea what weapon you had in mind, but I do remember the writing on the weaponry and in the rooms. Some of it was daedric, some ehlnofex, and the rest I couldn't make out, but it suggested that if one spoke the right words, the true purpose of the ballista would be discovered. Could that have anything to do with what you're talking about now? Perhaps the concept is similar and they might be worth studying. Something reminiscent of tonal architecture, like the thu'um."

"Perhaps," the Dunmer answered, his interest clearly piqued. "I would have to see this weapon for myself. Later. However, what I intend to build is no ballista."

For the first time, Endar aimed his full attention towards Theudofrid, his narrow red eyes filled undisguised skepticism. "I have seen the capabilities of Nordic artisans firsthand. Their talents are in part why I have come all this way instead of returning to Cyrodiil where assistance was already assured. What I propose involves delicate schematics. I expect your people will not be lacking."

"We, a people so far from the troubles of the arena. The stone hewing mages, and Nordic stone stackers have great chieftains indebted to their practical genius. The idealistic Cyrod-settler folk and their unparalleled talents in the ornate and finely detailed mason craft. Under guidance of our cult, I assure you we will deliver to your... elven expectation." Theudofrid said, admitting noexpression beyond his well maintained kindly face.

"Very good. Failure will cost time and possibly lives." The elf returned his gaze to Baldur. "I will require quarters, at least until your court mage can produce these men."

“Tell Torald at the Humping Horker to give you whatever room you need, on me,” said Baldur. “I'm sure that's where he's run off to by now. If he protests, feel free to throw him around a little. Just don’t kill or cripple him. Ah, and watch your coinpurse.”

The dark elf did not look too concerned. "That will serve. I trust that you and I will have much to talk about in the coming days, but if I have sufficiently eased your mind, I would very much like to get off of this ship and begin settling in."

“What about your companion?” said Baldur. “Are you two lovers or will I need to get a room for her as well? If you are lovers, you might wanna tell Bully down there, he’s as red as Dagon’s ass.”

That seemed to amuse Endar. "She follows me, but we are not companions. Ask her where she wants to stay or give her to the brute, for all I care. It's no concern of mine."

“Alright then, I need to speak with her anyway. Off with you, but my guards will be escorting you. On the off chance someone starts trouble, I would rather not have you throwing spells about my town and pissing off the locals. Except Torald.”

"If their presence will make you more comfortable, fine. But you don't need to worry. I do not intend to throw any spells about your town."

“It’s for the best. They’ll have orders not to intrude with your work.” Baldur signaled with a nod that he was free to go, then tossed his coinpurse to the elf. “We’ll be in touch. Oh and, if you go on the Black Wisp, look out either for an unagreeable Orc woman or an even more unagreeable Nord woman. The latter is my wife. You’ll need my help if she’s on the ship. Throw spells at her and she’ll shout you into the sky.” Baldur’s tone was matter of fact, his expression stony. “Don’t test her please, Telvanni or no.”

"I assure you, I've no interest in 'testing' your wife or anyone else while I am here," responded the Dunmer. "So long as your people leave me be, you will scarcely notice my presence."

With that, the wizard turned and started off the ship. They watched him walk past the Stormcloaks and Psijic Monk without acknowledging any of them.

"A few of the men we brought are mine," Fenrald said as he left. "I'll put a couple on his tail."

"Baldur." Theudofrid piped up again. "I should wish to be present in all questionings of this monk. For the sake of Roscrean well being. The abhorrent order has caused catastrophe to our folk in days long past. It was they who cast the Emperor Uriel's hungry gaze northward." He extended his thin finger towards the monk.

“As you say,” said Baldur. “There’s a few others I haven’t introduced you to yet that’ll like a word with her as well. For now, let me speak with her alone. Questioning will start first thing in the morning at the Humping Horker, which will serve as my court. Fenrald, don’t let your men leave Endar's side.”

'Court in a brothel?' Theudofrid nearly asked and shook his head dismissing it, stepping back away and being silent for the continuation.

Baldur noticed the puzzled look on his face but chose not to address it. Instead he had everyone leave the ship and had the civilians clear out, choosing to only be escorted by Bully as he approached the monk in question.

”Anyone could be a Thalmor spy,” said Baldur. “Or, an assassin. For now I’m choosing to leave the real questioning till later, but you’re going to have to offer some sort of proof that you are who you say you are before I roll out the royal treatment.”

"I require no royal treatment, High King, and I fear that I am not carrying anything you would accept as proof. But you need not fear me. I am here because of Endar Drenim, and if you would feel safer for me to wait in a cell, or some other city entirely, I will not object."

Bully put a hand over Baldur’s chest until he saw his look. Backing off with his hands up, he said, “Hey, I vouch for her. She’s fine. While you lot were up there all night, I was interrogating her. She’s good.”

”She’s ‘good’? What do you mean she’s ‘good’?” said Baldur. “The only reason I’m clearing that other elf is because I know he’s Telvanni, and because of what he showed me. But she...”

”Is Psijiic. She’s not here to help the Thalmor.”

Baldur stood there dumbfounded for a while until he turned his attention back to the monk. “Bully, I love you but you're not the most informed. Now you're lecturing me on the motives of Psijics? What's going on here? I know Altmer are adept in charm spells. And what do you mean ‘all night, Bully we were only up there for a few minutes.”

Bully held his belly as best he could through his armor as he laughed. “Baldur, I’ve taken six pisses standing here waiting for you to finish up there.”

Baldur gave him another confused look eyes darting between them.

”Well... not right here...”

"Bully speaks true," said the Psijic, "though he does not fully understand. But he tells me you are a scholar, so perhaps you will." She smiled kindly. "I learned long ago how to say a great deal in very little time."

“Then I suggest you get to it,” he said. Grim Ones had trained to resist illusion magic. That this Altmer might’ve charmed Bully was alarming. "And the faster, the better."

"I am doing so right now, High King. As are you." She nodded to Bully, who Baldur turned to find was frozen stiff, his mouth still open from his last word. Beyond his lieutenant, the other soldiers on the dock had ceased moving as well, their faces similarly locked in their various conversations.

So many things began to race through the king’s mind. The first, that Bully was paralyzed. But then, everything would be paralyzed, as the birds, the waves, even the wind had seemed to be frozen in place.

”That can’t be,” he said. “That is too much power for a mortal, even a god. Are we moving faster than time itself? That would be much more comprehensible. And even so... fucking insane to even imagine.”

"The spirits you call gods are not as far removed from us mortals as you might think," replied the elf. "The monks of my order are among the few who truly understand this. Drenim does too, or he is on a path of learning. But where we Psijics spend decades and centuries mastering patience and restraint, he is brash, unpredictable as the movements of a flame. He has come to you with helpful intentions, but I follow in order to prevent oegnithir, bad change in our shared tongue, should his path stray towards catastrophe."
The monk stared at Baldur with an earnest look in her eyes. "I tell you this, and show you what I can do, not because I must, but because I want you to trust me and to trust Endar Drenim in turn. We are not of the Dominion and our intentions are true. Now, do you believe this?"

He didn’t want to acknowledge what he’d seen. A part of him was jealous. For all the power he had, if these people ever felt it necessary to take it from him, they likely could. They could undo everything.

If. Only if they knew...

He sighed, forcing himself to accept the truth of the Psijic’s continued existence. And the truth of their power. At least they were on his side, for now.

”I believe you.”

All at once, the waves resumed crashing, the gulls squawking, and the Stormcloaks nearby continued talking as if they had never stopped. Beside him, Bully seemed to be waiting for some sort of acknowledgement.

"Bully and I had a delightful talk," said the monk, who now looked at Baldur's second like he was an old friend. Nothing in her tone hinted at the fact she has just performed a monumental feat. "I answered his questions, and he told me about some of your adventures. It seems Skyrim has become a place of heroes once again."

“We’ve always had heroes, don’t let the Empire fool you!” said Bully proudly. “Without the legion ruling over us, we can truly shine once again! And Baldur is bringing our people back to our roots!”

Bully slapped Baldur on the back repeatedly, seeing the expression on his face.

"I would love to see it for myself, here in Kyne's Watch," she replied, before turning to Baldur once again. "If the High King will have me."

Decisions like this was why Baldur had killed Ulfric in the first place. Unconventional alliances that would've taken months to convince the old bear to accept. The old Baldur likely would’ve accepted her help well before the display of power. Things were different now, however.

Some might've called it foolish, or claimed that he was swayed by a pretty face. And though a certain memory did flash in his mind at her glance, an old memory of his younger more adventurous years, he was well past being swayed by such things. Pretty face or not, he'd strangle her the instant he thought her a threat to his family, assuming he had an instant to even do so.

”Rebec is gonna kill me for sure. You’ll need a constant escort, same as that other one. Endar. By the way, what is your name, monk?”

"Illorwe. But soldiers in the past have called me Lore."

“Where would you like to stay? I gave Endar enough coin to purchase you a room in the Hu-, the tavern, or you could share a room with him. Though from talking to him I think he’d rather have his own quarters. I’ll leave Bully and some others in charge of guarding you. No doubt you’d be a tantalizing target for the Dominion. I’m not really as worried about you setting my town ablaze or opening gates to Oblivion as I am the Telvanni but I’d still like to prevent the need for offensive Magics here around my people if possible.”

"Understandable. And it is likely the sight of your men will ease the minds of townspeople who'd be disinclined to trust a foreign mer. As for my quarters, any tavern room will suit me just fine. Thank you, High King."

“And thank you. I’m not ungrateful for help offered, but I’m also very cautious. This, is my home. Powerful or not, no one messes with my home. You two prove your worth, and my demeanor will change.”

"Of all those things, I have little doubt." She motioned into town. "With your permission."

Baldur nodded, his look firm as he signaled for more men to escort Illorwe to the tavern. After making it halfway down the docks, the Psijic turned and looked back at him. She was too far for Baldur to hear her words normally, but they sounded clear as day in his head. "Speak to Endar when you can. Not just about his project, but about everything. He knows a lot, and something tells me that the two of you will get along well."

It was too audible to believe he’d imagined it, though he had recalled Boldir back in Falkreath when he’d started hearing Carlotta’s voice in his head. He wondered at that moment if he still did...

But this was not the same. He’d seen flashes of a bygone memory, one that persisted like an itch in the back of his skull and one he did not want to recount.

And another thing that persisted, the distinct feeling that he was officially in over his head.

[Celan]

Kyne's Watch

Unbeknownst to Baldur and even his men, eyes were following him all the way home from the dark corners of Kyne's Watch. She was home to many a stranger nowadays, and yet those strangers had felt as though they'd been to such a town as this in a past life, or perhaps in the back of their minds when they were at rest, thinking of better days. 

Such a man was Arodir, a curious fellow with a bad habit of sticking his nose where it did not belong. Many a chieftain had found that the hard way, and yet Arodir was a useful man to have. And so his head remained upon his shoulder. For now. He approached quietly, unannounced, and even as he was being lifted off his feet from behind by Grim-Ones he had not noticed before, he kept his same smirk.

Baldur and the others turned around in surprise, not noticing him or the muffle spell on his boots. He saw them eyeing it, only now being aware of its presence. "Alchemy, boys," said Arodir with the same weaselly smirk. Baldur had his men drop him, and sure enough the man landed as though a cat. "Much more subtle than that of a mage channeling a spell. I am Arodir. I heard you were looking for me."

"Thorimir from the woodland clans tell you?"

"No one needs to tell me anything. I am simply very well aware of goings on," said Arodir. "I am their Clever Man, but now I look to be your Clever Man. For the right price."

"You continue to make this powder for me and you'll be well paid. Try sneaking up on me again and you'll be well cooked. Sound fair?"

"As fair as any maiden, my King! But here's the rub, see, I kind of have a few... bounties on my head in certain holds..."

"Your crimes?" said Baldur, getting impatient. 

"Oh, nothing too serious, just being accused of a little grave robbing and the like. It's not like you can get good quality bonemeal from just anywhere. And anyway, the ancestors did not feel disturbed by my presence. In fact they're very chatty for the dead. I wonder if some of them are dead at all.”

Baldur's men all appeared uneasy at this, but Baldur was unmoved. "You'll not be digging up any graves or burials here, understood? You need bonemeal, I'll see about getting it for you another way, perhaps traders from the harbor. I assume the issue is it's a necessary component for this concoction your people make to combat magic? If so, maybe this is something I can address with Jarl Ingun Black-Briar. Consider your bounties paid."

"Well enough," said Arodir, bowing, whether it was in jest or not was unclear, he always seemed to wear a smirk, even in his light piercing ice colored eyes beneath his messy mound of black hair. "I'll be off then, see you at the summit tomorrow, I'm delighted to meet my peers."

"Peers?"

"The Clever Men of course. Theudofrid, myself, Drela the Fryse Hag, and whoever else you've drummed up. I haven't heard their names whispered upon the winds just yet, but I soon will. Count on it, Ash-King."

With that, the strange man was gone before Baldur had much chance to say anything else. He'd had enough for one day of mages and other strange sorts, and for once was looking forward to Rebec's dismissal of such things. Talking with her sometimes made him forget mages even existed at all. However, when he barged in, he saw neither Rebec or Ragna, nor did he hear Ragna's happy singing or chatter, though he did see another sack of gold along with another batch of letters from Cyrodiil, all opened of course. His supplies were also delivered, fresh wood to work with from local woodcutters, already prepped for carving, as well as new carving tools, as the ones Vigge had were already beginning to fail him from long use over the years.

He'd lost account of the time reading through some of the letters and practicing his carvings on scrapwood. He let his mind focus on the things he'd seen that day, both from Endar and the monk, and let his imagination take shape upon the face of the fresh oak, aspen and butternut wood in his palm. The house had been decorated in these carvings after a while, like murals of scenes both from his life and not. There was even one of that mad thing from the bowels of Solstheim, Lorgar.

He was carving out Illorwe and Arodir's faces when the door flew open behind him, accompanied with the tell-tale chatter of his ever cheerful baby bundle.

Ragna was stashed in a sling around Rebec's neck, whereas her arms and back were slung with satchels from their shopping. These latter she dumped unceremoniously in the pantry, then unslung her daughter and deposited her on Baldur's lap. Finally she turned to unhook her axes and hang them carefully by the door.

Grabbing a cup of cold, frothy mead from the pantry, she returned to the hearth and sat down with a thump and sigh. Rebec then gestured at her husband with her cup. "Talk."

Rebec's jaw was agape, and she made no move to retrieve any beverages. "I was talking about the thrice damned Roscrean claiming to be your 'court mage,' as if we need any such thing. What is this about elves? If you think I'm letting an elf touch my boat..." She's so surprised that she can't even come up with a suitable curse.

“Would you rather the actual elves we’re fighting burn me and your ship to a crisp and make me the Ash-King for real, love. Even I don’t stand a chance against so much concentrated heat.” Baldur stood up with his daughter to get his own mead, along with some bread, krill paste and liver pate for himself and the baby when she inevitably wanted some too. He brought them one at a time with his free arm, then sat back down with weary eyes.

“You didn’t see the devastation. Not as it was happening. We need something to fight back, especially since Brund is dead and you aren’t going to be at sea to help me. Even with Brund, we got lucky.”

"I didn't see the devastation? I watched my father burn to death!" Rebec simmered a moment, staring down into her mead and mumbling while he got his food. "You're playing with things you have no idea about. These elves, they always have plans of their own. You don't think a wizard from House Telvanni is messing with our ships out of the goodness of his heart? And a Psijic in Skyrim? Gods below, what is Tamriel coming to."

“Hundreds. Maybe more. That’s how many civilians died in that attack. I’m not even entirely sure of the exact number because when the Sunbird hit, there wasn’t a body left to account for. I am sorry for your father’s death, believe me. But Kyne’s Watch didn’t have to see what a Sunbird can do, and if I have anything to say about it, it never will. I don’t pretend to know every motive of the elves but right now I see no better alternative. It certainly isn’t a Nord walking up to me with details of how to stop the enemy so I can raise my daughter in peace.”

"Yes. Convenient." Rebec stood and paced, hands on hips. "My ancestors' blood is on that ship, and you want to douse it with elven devilry neither you nor anyone else here understands simply because they strolled up to you and offered? What if they're painting us with a target?"

He downed his mead all at once, sighed heavily and said, “Rebby, we already are a target. You want to go in without an adequate weapon? It’s not like I just took them for their word, the Dunmer showed me something that should be impossible and that I know the Thalmor and pretty much everyone else is incapable of. And as for the woman...”

Ragna began to stir as he spoke, so he sat with her in his newly made rocking chair while feeding her the krill paste. The rocking always seemed to settle her, both here and in her crib. Perhaps it was the sea salt in her veins, he thought. Once she was settled, he continued.

”...as for the woman... The truth of the matter is, she wouldn’t need to paint a target. If she wanted me dead, she could do it before I could even lift my axe or utter a syllable. She’s not Thalmor. If she were, and others like her with that kind of power were too, we’ve already lost this war. They’re supposed to be peaceful. We have the Greybeards, the Altmer have the Psijics. Difference is the Psijics work to maintain the world. That is why she’s here. I’ll be questioning her more tomorrow with a group of mine I’m putting together.”

"And you just take her word for this, eh? Seems like if she was so powerful, she should be maintaining the world in Summerset, except they haven't done a very good job, have they? Look, I'm the one who urged the Bretons to get the Dirennis' help. But that was for them. They're practically Mer themselves, so who cares if they end up caught up in some elven scheme. I don't know why I'm even wasting my breath. You already made your decision, like you been doing a lot. Why even tell me about it?"

“Because you asked,” he said. “And because I don’t like hiding things from you, and would like to tell you everything. Everything that has happened, that will happen...”

Baldur stood to his feet, eyes heavy as he focused on hers. “But you need to have at least some faith in your husband. You think I’d risk this baby’s life for even a split second if it weren’t the most absolute necessity in my mind? I didn’t take her word for it no, I didn’t humor her until she literally froze time around me as we spoke. Bully stood motionless, the birds ceased to move. It was no illusion. And not everything elven is to be distrusted. We were married by an elf, your amulet has runes in it that were originally elven, I saved your life with an elven trinket on the day of Ragna’s birth...”

Baldur took a deep breath, and closed his eyes before reopening and focusing on her again, though it pained him to see the doubt in her eyes. Doubt in him, or at least that’s how he perceived it.

“I am no fool, regardless of what you might believe or what your father thought of me. That you think I am makes me feel like I’ve already failed as your husband.... I’ve sacrificed much so that this little girl might have a future. I will never jeopardize that on the words of a stranger alone. You can ask them all the questions you like. As I said, interrogations begin tomorrow for the Psijic monk.”

"My amulet has no elven runes on it! I don't have anything against the pointy eared bastards, but they don't get to mess with my ship. Your own words should be proof why they're not to be trusted! Stopping time, by Shor's hairy balls, that should be it right there. The only question I want to ask them is whether they'd like to leave tonight or first thing tomorrow morning."

Rebec's tense pacing continued. "I don't think you'd risk us deliberately, no. I know you think you're doing right, Baldur. Just... don't let my men see those bastards doing their devil work. Do it at night when no one is around. I'll get Maz to take them on a training exercise inland or something. Gods below, half of them would never set foot on the ship again if they knew what we're doing. And if you want your pet elves to do something really useful, get them to enchant the Grim Ones' armor with water breathing. They're going to sink like a stone the minute they go overboard, might as well not drown first thing." Her mind moved restlessly over other calculations. "And the Roscrean?"

Baldur sat back down, and said, “What about it? By Shor, he’s not an elf but you’re about to second guess me on that as well. I can’t do anything right apparently.” Shrugging, he said, “If that crew of yours is that finicky, then they’ll be replaced as soon as they leave. I’m not letting Nord superstition get in the way of what I need to do to keep my daughter from growing up in fear. It’s a weapon, not a magic spell or elven runes. It’ll be forged by humans. What more do you want?” 

After a while he sighed, stood again and put Ragna in Rebec’s arms, despite her protesting. He grabbed his box of carvings, but thought better of it after looking at what now seemed like a mass of imperfect orc shit to him as he dropped it on the floor and kicked it aside. “Why bother,” he said. Grabbing another mead instead and tossing the new stack of unread fan mail in the fire, he went to the bedroom alone without another word.

Rebec watched him go, simmering. She kicked the box, too, for good measure. Ragna slept heavily on her shoulder, but peeking into her diaper, Rebec smelled the all too familiar scent of baby leavings. Wonderful.

Muttering angrily, Rebec changed and cleaned the little girl, then laid her in her crib and tucked Woolly under her arm. After that she hesitated. The pull was so strong to do what she had been longing to do all day, for months really, though she knew she ought to go apologize to Baldur. That's what a good wife would do. Well I'm not that, and he knew that going in. Resolved, Rebec strapped her axes back on and grabbed her cloak, slamming the door behind her as she headed out into the night.

Rebec hurried along with a glance behind her shoulder to see if Baldur would follow. She was half disappointed that he didn’t, though not surprised.

A seafaring town never sleeps, even a small one like Kyne’s Watch, so there were plenty of people out and about even though it was getting late. Those who didn’t know Rebec got out of her way just from the look on her face, and those who did know her just got out of the way. She half stumbled into Mazoga coming out of a side alley between longhouses. The orc captain had her arm slung around a big orc man, mercenary or adventurer by the look of him.

“Cap! What you doing?”

“Nothing. What are you doing?”

“Getting shitfaced. Wanna join us?”

“Looks like you’re already there.”  She glanced between Mazoga and the soldier and could tell exactly what they were up to, but it was nothing to her. “Don’t tell Baldur you saw me. Or anyone else.”

If she expected Mazoga to object, she was disappointed. “Okay then!” the captain called after her, slurring her words. Behind her, Rebec heard the pair laughing in their rough orc voices as they stumbled towards the Black Wisp.

 Rebec knew she couldn’t take the Wisp out, even if it hadn’t been manned. Any of the naval ships would draw too much attention. Her trading vessels were all out to sea, and anyway they would be too slow for what she wanted. The only solution was to go to Vigge’s old skiff. Small, light, and very fast. No one could catch her, even if they dared. She had once thought to give the boat to Daric when he got back from his travels, but well… At least it would serve her tonight.

Selfish and irresponsible. The words echoed in her head in her mother’s voice. Rebec had heard those words when she’d run off with Toki at age sixteen and come back married. She’d heard them and much else besides when she wrecked her ship and got herself addicted to skooma. Probably a few times in between, if she cared to recall, which she did not.

West outside the village, the town got quieter. Rebec found the little dock that Vigge had shared with some fishermen and there was the skiff… listing, half full of water. She had waited too long to dry dock the little boat, and it had seen one too many Sea of Ghost storms. Crying in rage, Rebec kicked a piling so hard that pain shot up her foot through her leg, which made her curse all the more.

Limping then, she walked on further up the beach. There was nothing to do but walk, now. It crossed her mind to steal a ship, but the lust to sail, to get away from the town and its smell and press of people wanting things from her, demanding things of her, and to get away from… The urge had dimmed finally. There was nowhere to go and she would probably just get herself killed. Shame stopped her from pondering further what she was trying to get away from. 

You can’t run from your problems, Rebec. They’ll just be waiting for you when you get back, bigger than ever.

“Shut up, you stupid bitch.” This time the voice was her mother, it was Ysana, Arle, and it was Kyne. All the women who tried to tell her what to do and how to be. Hearth goddess, my ass. You made me this, mother. Rebec the Red, right? All that Skaal bitch wanted to do was sail and fuck and fight. That’s all Rebec was good for, too. This other, the navy, the having to make decisions and carry the weight of others’ lives on her, and the… it wasn’t her. She wasn’t made for it, that’s why she was so bad at it. Again, Rebec stopped short of actually thinking her husband or daughter’s names, or recalling their faces.

Stumbling, she walked further, so far that she soon saw the light of a campfire ahead, and men huddled on the beach, others being shouted at by a Grim One sergeant. The Trials. This was where the Trial participants were camped.

Now what? Not able to go further and not able to go back, Rebec turned inland and climbed up the little rocky rise that looked down over the beach. Lighting a cigarette, she paced, occasionally bringing it with trembling fingers to her lips. 

"That you, Rebec?"

She looked off to her right and spotted a dark silhouette at the bottom of the rise. Rebec didn't need to see Boldir's face to know it was him. "Junior! I was just..." She gestured vaguely back towards Kyne's Watch with her cigarette, but anything she might say to finish that sentence sounded stupid. "You alright?"

"I'm tired as all the hells and I hurt all over." He made his way up the slope and took a seat on the ledge beside her, sighing with relief as he did. After a few seconds, the big Nord glanced up at her, his quizzically raised brow just visible in the moonlight. "And you?"

"I'm... oh, Dagon take it." Shoulders slumping, Rebec lowered herself down on the ledge to sit beside him, and stretched out her sore leg. "Baldur and I had a fight. I was going to just... go, you know. Like I always used to. But the boat was leaking and then I just..." She took a drag and fell silent.

Boldir watched her with a frown. The silence continued for a few moments, and then he asked, "He didn't sleep with some other woman, did he?"

"Maybe." After a moment she conceded, "No. Probably not, even if he was gods know where for months getting crowned king."

"High Hrothgar. From what I hear, the sorts living up there ain't his type... So what's all this about a boat, then? Back in Falkreath, a fight with Rebec the Red meant some poor fool got a bloody nose. I've never seen you run, not once."

"Little hard to throw a punch with a baby in your arms." Rebec smiled ruefully. "Guess things have been different the past few years and you didn't know me before. Now I don't have a gods damned ship I can take out for a night or two. Maz still calls me Cap, but I'm not even a ship captain any more. And Baldur.... there are things you don't know, Boldir. But I guess you got enough trouble of your own."

"My troubles are being taken care of," Boldir said dismissively. "And for once by someone who knows what he's doing, thank the gods. I owe a lot to Baldur, and you too for that matter. I never expected anything awaited me in Skyrim but a headsman's axe. So whatever it is that I don't know, it doesn't change that the both of you have given me a second chance. And Mila..."
His voice trailed off. Clearing his throat, Boldir continued, "You ain't out here because of my problems. Baldur loves you, that's plain as day. And he doesn't get tired of saying that everything he does is for you and the little one. I know what that's like."

She thought of Riften burning, and how that was part of what got her and Baldur where they were. "Well, as to that. I still don't understand why you didn't come to us for help, Boldir. Might none of us be in the situation we're in if you had. Seems like you, me, Baldur, we were supposed to be a team."

"Aye, we were," he agreed with a resentful sigh. "And those people, that gods damned family, they made it clear as can be that my family would die if I tried anything of the sort. But I've told you this before and you're changing the subject. You didn't try to run off on some boat because of Riften."

"It is the subject, dammit! Baldur got himself made king because he thinks he's the only one who can save us- you, me, the horker pup, Skyrim. So now we got responsibility for the whole Shor blasted country on us. Devil weapons, butter elves stopping time, the whole gods cursed mess comes back to that. And me as useless as third tit on a wisp mother. He doesn't even ask my opinion anymore, just tells me what's what, then complains if I don't like it." 

"He's the High King," Boldir said bluntly. "He tells all of us what's what. And with Ulfric gone, who else is there? Vignar? That mage Ulfric married? I would take Baldur and you over any of their lot. But every Nord in Skyrim knows that you refuse to be queen. Couldn't that be why he leaves you out? Before tonight, I assumed you wanted nothing to do with any of it."

"I don't want a blasted thing to do with any of it, but he's got me in it anyway. High King, Wulfharth mantled, all that horker shit. What am I supposed to make of all that? You and Bully and the slackjawed jarls at the moot don't share a bed with him, it's easy for you to call him that."

Rebec looked out to sea and flicked a bit of ash off her dwindling cigarette. "No such thing as a real queen when there's a High King, anyway. We should never have filled Veleda's head with that nonsense. We're the ones who put her there, Baldur and Galmar, told her she was needed to save Skyrim, then..." She shook her head. "That's what a queen is. Not worth a damn thing."

"Fine. Queens are worthless and High Priestesses ain't much better. Does all this mean you no longer love him?"

"Of course I love him. I just don't know how to do that sometimes. Most of the time, I guess." Rebec dropped her cigarette and stood stiffly to her feet, smashing it into the ground with her toe and brushing herself off. "Anyway, Junior, you don't need me to bend your ear all night. Better get some rest so you can kick some ass in the morning. It was real good running into you, despite everything."

"Aye, I'm glad you did." Boldir still sounded troubled, though. He climbed to his feet and stood beside her. And after a few seconds' hesitation, he continued more somberly, "It's been more than a year, you know, since Carlotta died, but even now I can hardly close my eyes without seeing her face. The things I'd do for another day..." He shook his head. "I don't know what to tell you about all this business with Baldur and elves and devils. I don't understand most of it, and Cyrodiil didn't make me any better with words. Maybe just... ah, damn it all. I've said my piece. I hope the two of you are good again come morning, and that I don't hear you stole off on some fisherman's boat."

Rebec reached a hand awkwardly to Boldir's arm, then followed it up with a hug. "I didn't get to know your Carlotta much, but sure wish I could. Now you hurry up and come home to your girl." She then turned then and climbed back down to the beach, walking slowly back towards the town.

Halfway there, she heard a familiar screech in the air above. "Holgeir," she said as the hawk hovered above her, flapping his great wings. She reached to untie the red ribbon from his foot and the raptor cawed and took off without his usual treat. It was prime hunting time and he was after fresh meat, she supposed.

I'm sorry. Come home. Rebec read the message and sighed heavily, stuffing it into her cloak pocket. She had thought to go throw some axes at targets the rest of the night, but she wouldn't deny Baldur's request, and anyway the tiredness and chill had seeped into her bones as the adrenaline had retreated.

At home Rebec slipped into the longhouse hoping Baldur would be asleep and she would get out of any more talking for that night.

The winds slammed the door right behind her however, and not too long after, Ragna let her presence be known. Baldur and her both had fallen asleep by the time Rebec returned, but the sound of their daughter’s cries brought him back from troubled slumber.

Rising up from his chair, he rocked her in his arms and shushed her as Rebec approached. He peeked behind to see that it was her, then looked away.

”Wasn’t sure you’d come tonight,” he said. “Been thinking, I could stay with Ysana for a while. Or maybe the tavern. Windhelm even. You could stay here. Things don’t need to be this difficult.”

She hung her cloak and axes, biting back the angry replies that came to mind. Boldir's words about Carlotta stuck with her. "You got King business, then go," Rebec answered quietly. "I won't stop you. But I don't want you to go."

“I don’t want to either,” he said, still looking away, eyes trained on Ragna in the low firelight. “Then tell me what it is you do want. Whatever it is, I’ll do it. I just... don’t know how to do this...”

"I don't want to fight anymore. Not tonight." Rebec approached and reached to brush a lock of Ragna's hair back from her forehead. "She hasn't slept this bad in a while. I guess she doesn't like our fighting, either."

“Neither do I,” he said. “I honestly wasn’t expecting one. I didn’t realize how much the boat meant. I could take another ship, my own ship. It doesn’t matter. I just want to make you happy. But I keep fucking it up. I wasn’t there to protect you and the cub, and then Vigge got killed. So I thought maybe taking up carpentry and carving would remind you of your father, but... carvings can’t replace a father. I thought that if I controlled everything, I could prote-“

He trailed off. “I failed. At all of this. I fucked it all up. Even mother thinks so.”

She glanced at the discarded box of carvings on the floor, remembering how she had kicked it earlier. Nice work, Rebec, you ass. Turning back to him, she touched his hand, almost shyly. "We're both just trying to figure it out. Put the Nordling to bed and let's go. She'll be alright now."

"Go where?"

"To bed. I was going to go for a night sail, but then there was no ship, and I saw Boldir... I'm just too old for this shit."

“I can just imagine what Boldir had to say. He tends to be almost as blunt as you are.” He smiled then, looking at his daughter’s mead cropped head as it tilted heavily on his bare shoulder. She already looked so much like her mother.

He gently put her back to bed, and followed Rebec to their room shortly after. He brought her a mead first, combed his hair of course, and used the piss pot before he finally joined her. If it seemed like he was stalling, he probably was, but whatever they spoke of next, he was grateful to have her in his arms again.

He breathed in the scent of her hair, noticing the aroma of her elf ear rolls and said, “I could use one of your cigarettes right about now.”

"Smelled it on me, eh?" Rebec pulled back slightly. "Listen, I got an idea. You took up woodworking, and pa's little skiff has seen better days. Why don't we make one like it? You and me together. Give us something to do with our hands and while we work in the evenings, we can talk over things like... elves."

“Sure. I think that’s a grand idea. We’ll have mead aplenty while we’re at it. And maybe the Priest of Kyne could help me with our naval plans? Eilif wouldn’t admit it, but I’m sure he’d appreciate advice from Hull-Breaker herself.”

"I always do, whether you or he want my opinion or not," she said, smiling a little. "I'm sorry for earlier, Baldur. You caught me by surprise when I was already mad about the wizard." She crossed over to the bed and sat down on the edge, looking up at his wooden carvings on the wall as if seeing them for the first time. After a moment, she went on, "Sometimes I wish we were back at Falkreath. Even a mess as it was, it was just war like Nords have always fought. This is different, I know it is. It scares me."

“Me too,” he admitted. “And when I’m afraid I tend to take drastic measures, consequences be damned. I know it. And, I know it tends to be costly. I would’ve consulted you about the wizard, but I was in Windhelm at the time, and you were in Kyne’s Watch... and I was different then. What I became went to my head a little... I’d come to you now about these matters more but I thought you wanted no part of it. I felt guilty involving you at all to be honest.”

"I'd put that devil weapon on Oarsinger's boat, not the Wisp, if you want my advice," she said thoughtfully, glancing around at him and patting his side of the bed to invite him to join her there. "Not because it's my boat and the devil weapon is elven, but so you gain surprise. His dragon ship is faster on turns and not as big a target. And you be on his boat, too, Baldur. The Wisp isn't going to make it through this war, I can pretty much guarantee it. Every one of the crew knows it."

He came forward as bidden, scooting close. He put a hand on her leg and rested his head on hers. “Why do you say that? Not that I’m protesting. It’s a smart idea.”

"That big black ship, every enemy tub is going to be gunning for it. They know it's a symbol and important people are probably on it. After a while, they're going to want revenge, because we're not going to make it easy for 'em."  She paused, then corrected, 'I mean, my crew isn't going to." Rebec had fought these battles in her head dozens of times, and it was hard to remember that she wasn't actually going to be fighting in them.

“Then we should lose the paint, don’t you think? A navy should be uniform anyway I gather. We could differentiate ships in a way only known to us, maybe paint the sails with draconic symbols. You’d have to let me and my Clever Men teach some of the crew and sailors though. They’d have to learn anyway with how I plan to code our messages. What do you think? It would at least make them take pause before attacking, right?”

"The black will have its use at night. A command ship is always going to stand out, paint or not. Anyway having it as a decoy isn't bad if this weapon of the elves' really works. While the bastards focus fire on the Wisp, slide in with the smaller ship and take them out." She smacked her fist in a palm, eyes shining despite the dark circles under them. Glancing at Baldur, she then reached for a pot from the nightstand and gestured with it. "Flip over. Let me rub some cream on your scars."

He tried to hide a proud smirk by doing what he was told and exposing his back to her.

“What you said about Falkreath, it reminds me of how I got these scars in the first place. Dealing with powerful sorts, getting in over my head. You are right to distrust the elves. I don’t trust them either, not fully.”

She dabbed the cream on and rubbed it in, making a massage of it. Her hands were not as soft as a noble lady's would be but stronger for that. His neck and shoulders especially were tense and Rebec concentrated there. "It's not that I don't trust your judgment. You get carried away with ideas sometimes, that's all. You going to make Boldir your High General when he passes his Trials? You ought to have one you can trust. Another set of eyes and ears can't hurt."

“Tempting,” he said, eyes closed as he relaxed at her touch. His satisfied groans said that her efforts were well received. If not for her getting him talking, he might’ve fallen asleep right then and there. “But I can’t do that. He has his own mission to carry out, and it’s one thing parading him around in Kyne’s Watch. Telling all of Skyrim that I indeed pardoned my brother for burning down Riften, and made him my general, it would be too troublesome. They already tried to kill him at the trials, and I mean more than usual. I almost had to get involved, but Boldir is strong. He took care of them himself eventually. But it got bad. Worse for those in his way. Heh, some would say he’s more trouble than he’s worth. He’s costed me many a Grim One as is. But Boldir is worth ten Grim Ones. I knew it before, and now so do they.”

"I didn't realize that had happened." Sighing, Rebec got up to wash her hands and finish getting ready for bed. She dimmed the lamps, and climbing back into bed, drew close to Baldur and put her arm over his back. Kissing his shoulder, she thought about how the target painted on Boldir was another one painted on her husband, for sparing him.

He nuzzled her, eyes half open and about to sleep until something caught his notice. “You’re worrying again,” he said. “I can always tell. You look at me like... the way I imagine you looked at that baby troll.”

He held one of her hands in his, rubbing it against his beard before kissing it, playing at her fingers with his lips. He let it go so she could hold his face while he moved over her to kiss and play at her neck as he settled in.

Into her ear, he said, “I’m not helpless you know. Word has it I’m not too bad a warrior myself. You don’t gotta worry so much for me. I don’t deserve it.”

"You're not immortal, either, love." She stopped as she felt a telltale sign of where Baldur's thoughts had gone, pressing against her hip. Smirking, Rebec slid her hand down his stomach and tugged at his laces. She renewed their kiss, deeper this time, as her hand grasped and gently plied him.

He’d forgotten their way of intimacy, and Rebec had to remind him when he returned to Kyne’s Watch. Such things took practice, and he knew it was the same for a relationship, even one like theirs. But he remembered now.

He let her play with him a while, as there was no rush, feeling him slip over her stomach and under her hand, and falling back into her kiss. He said into her ear before lifting her shirt, “It’s been a minute, for us anyway. I missed you.”

The tension had melted away but the mental aches over the day had made him crave her as though she’d been gone for months. So he enjoyed feeling her close to him, her soft kisses and murmurs, her caresses and sighs as his fingers slipped down between her thighs. 

He flipped her impatiently when he felt her clench on his fingers, needing to be close as possible again. He laid over her, pulling her trousers and his down just enough to enter her all at once until she could feel him in her stomach and his chin holding her in place by her shoulder, and his breath hot at her ear.

Pinned on her stomach with legs barely parted as she was, there was a good deal of friction for both of them, and his movements ground her front into the bed as well. Her toes curled from the energy shooting down to them. Helpless even to squirm, Rebec turned her face towards his, hot breath and then a stifled cry against his cheek.

Her voice wasn’t alone. His grunts from both exertion and pleasure only grew more and more, and he only stopped momentarily to watch what his efforts did to her. That was the most exciting thing for him. He moved himself side to side, putting pressure every which way in her, stroking long and slow, burying his voice in her neck as he bit her skin. The more she cried, the harder he pushed, until he couldn’t take it anymore.

Drunk with lust, his hands went all over her before gripping her shoulders. He thrust into her long after he came, and he did so again, unsatisfied with doing so only once, and from how slick she now was. He wasn’t even sure how much time passed after he fell to her side, hands gripping her bottom and hips, letting her ride out the rest of his hardness. Just enjoying her heat and murmurs of pleasure now that he could focus all on her was as good as the rest.

She arched back into his embrace and let him hold her while she ground her backside against his stomach, moving his hand down between her thighs so that she could release again. This took some minutes but he was rewarded with soft gasps and then more urgent sounds until her body shook again. Whispering his name, she turned her head back and stroked his cheek, grateful to be close again and remember what it was to be his wife. He would be there come morning, too, not gone to some other woman or other life., even if his kingship frightened her.

He watched her touch him, and remembered how they’d share so much just by watching eachother like this in the night, listening to the sea in the distance as he held her, and the whistle of the winds around them. He had fears too and didn’t hide them from her. He told her about them by how earnestly he kissed her, and how gentle his touch was now, when moments ago it had been panicked and fierce. 

His eyes grew heavy as he studied her ocean blue eyes, until they both heard Ragna start to stir in the living room... “If we’re quiet, she might go back to sleep. We could really use a babysitter... a handmaiden.”

For once Rebec didn't protest, just murmured sleepily, "Not too pretty."

He did his best to stifle a snicker, as the danger of Ragna awakening again was very real. Eventually, she got quieter and quieter... and by the gods, she stayed that way. Mercifully.

Grinning, he brought the furs over and settled close again at her back. ”Ma could find someone. Someone that could handle a child. And maybe they could tidy the place up a bit. Someone like... Hulga. You remember Hulga.”

Rebec's eyes flew open. She remembered the priestess beating and flaying her all too well, in what the Dibellans considered a beauty ritual. Then again the she-brute was a Nord, didn't talk much and satisfied her primary criterion, since she looked like Bully's female twin. It would mean Rebec could ignore the laundry pile even more than she already did, and if anyone tried to hurt Ragna, Hulga could probably just squash the bastard's head like a grape. "Alright," Rebec agreed, closing her eyes again.

He was about to express his surprise but thought better of it. He was on a roll at this point and decided to keep on rolling. “Well alright,” he said, smiling behind her with closed eyes. 

[ColonelKillaBee]

Kyne's Watch

"So now we're invitin elves ta this little conglomerate we got goin eh? And we're supposed to believe this king of yours will bring us slaves and gold?"

The echoes of doubt rang high that morning, clear for all to hear. Scathe was up to his neck in it at this point, surrounded by his clansmen. The smell of shit and sweat as such was heavy, and already Scathe grew tired of their presence. But blast it if they weren't right.

"Aye, it's like Thorimir says. We saw how green he got behind the gills at the mention of rape. I'm calling his bluff!"

Thorimir raised his axe. "I say we go find that lass of his and show her how a REAL Nord greets yellow skins in our land! You ask me, I say we don't need no silver tongued city boy to take the elven lands! Lets go do what our ancestors have been doin, lets go raid their shores and leave a trail of fire and blood in our wake!"

"Ya!"

Even as the chants grew and grew, fire and blood, fire and blood, the morning sky's colors mingling in the background as though in response, Scathe sat silent, contemplating without saying a word. Even as Thorimir's hot breath settled on his cheek. This was not the Scathe any of them knew, but it was the only evidence they had that the stories of this Ashy king were true. Unfortunately, a subdued Scathe wasn't as flashy as seeing the thu'um first-hand, and Thorimir was tired of stories.

"You listen and you listen well. Whatever he did to break your spirit, doesn't effect us. If your new pa wants to befriend elves then by all means. But if we find her, we won't be so friendly... Now, we go our own way..."

The door of a humble loghouse slammed shut behind the crowd, turning heads immediately. 

"If it isn't papa himself," said Thorimir. "Wulfharth my eye! Wulfharth was the bane of elves, not their protector! Pretender! Come to me!"

The pretender in question marched his way up in nothing but leather trousers and boots, and a single axe at his hip. Thorimir watched, waiting for him to grip his. But when Baldur approached, he walked past him. He walked past all of them.

So perplexed by this was Thorimir that he began to follow, and the crowd followed as well, including a bewildered Scathe. 

This continued for a time until they approached a table occupied by two dice players near the docks that quickly vacated their place. Baldur sat, Thorimir stood, hand on battle axe and ready to swing.

Baldur took a sip from the mead they'd left, not regarding Thorimir at all. That was when Thorimir's axe found the table and buried itself there. Now Baldur looked at him directly, and the crowd was silent.

"Word is you don't like how I do things around here."

"That's right," said Thorimir. "None of us agreed to acceptin no-"

"I don't remember asking you a thing," said Baldur, his voice raised just enough to overtalk him. It quickly fell back to normal as he stood, facing Thorimir directly. "Here's what will happen. You will forget about whatever pet elves I decide to keep. You will not offend with your stench in my presence again unless called. And we will raid when I say we raid."

Thorimir crossed his arms after a moment's hesitation. This wasn't the same Nord they'd met before. Even after turning over a bunch of tables, he still understood his position. He needed Thorimir and his men. He needed numbers. He needed them, not the other way around. Right? So what changed. Realizing he was contemplating this instead of speaking, he hurriedly said, "Why? What will you do if I don't?"

"There is no more if," said Baldur. "What I say is not a suggestion, what I say is not a proposition. There will be no 'or', no follow up." He stood closer now, until Thorimir could smell his breath. But instead of saying anything, the shorter Nord just stared at him for an uncomfortably long time, and not just for him, but for everyone there. By the time Thorimir realized he'd diverted his eyes to see what the others thought, it was too late. Suddenly, things had turned as soon as he'd looked. That's what he saw when he looked into their eyes.

"Thorimir."

Thorimir looked back. In his ear, Baldur said, "Whether you see 'fire and blood' sooner rather than later relies entirely on how much of an annoyance you are for me. I've put up with your lot more than enough by now. No more."

The two seemed to have stood like that forever, so by the time Thorimir looked up, the crowd he'd gathered already began to disperse. As Baldur walked past, he said, "My elves are just that. Mine. Be sure to remember that, and remind those that forget."

By the time everyone had cleared, all that remained was Scathe and Thorimir. Now it was his turn to stare, although Scathe didn’t return his look.

“So that’s it huh? You’ve just let this Nord clip your balls. A Nord without even a proper beard, and that smells cleaner than most wenches I know.”

Scathe still remained silent, even as Thorimir grabbed him by the neck. “You’re pathetic. I should just kill you right now so that you don’t dishonor your sons any longer. This Baldur acts tough but he lives in a longhouse... he walks around with his babe in a sling, and has one wife. He doesn’t even have walls for this ‘Kyne’s Watch’, and you haven’t made plans to move on him yet?”

Scathe shoved his hand aside and said, “Who says I haven’t? Aye? You don’t know a fuckin thing, you just got here!”

”Then tell me, brother! Tell me, and our kin, and we’ll take this port for ourselves! We could take him, his wench or the babe for ransom without much effort, but I need you to help! What do you say? We answer to no one remember? Much less an elf loving king that fancies himself Wulfharth.”

Scathe looked away from him, turning around. And for a while Thorimir thought he’d refuse. So it was a surprise when he piped up after Thorimir put a hand on his dagger at Scathe’s back.

”We will need to be quick. Move quietly. Those Grim Ones of his are strong but we have numbers they don’t. If we plan carefully, we can outmaneuver them. The rest are inconsequential.”

Thorimir moved his hand from his dagger to his brother’s back. “That’s more like it.”

***

Baldur, Theudofrid

”So now that we’re past the threats and warnings, why don’t we get to the good stuff. I hope you two are worth it, you caused me a big headache already with the wife.”

If Baldur's familial troubles bothered Illorwe, she showed no sign of it. The high elf's face was a mask of impassivity. "As I have told you, High King, it is not my intention to help or hinder. You will find little worth in my presence. Master Endar is another matter. Have you spoken with him?"

“You and the greybeards are so much alike. You have all this power, you could stop the slaughter to come, make it unnecessary, but you’re, what, afraid?” Turning to Theu, he said, “I’ll be honest, I’m ignorant to the Psijics’ doings in Roscrea. Explain it.”

Seated around the table, by his lonesome, Theu never took eyes off the monk. Even as his smoking pipe was nervously puffed. "Little to be said Baldur. Little to be known, as is their order. Her grandfather's generation whispered in the ear of the newly crowned Emperor Uriel Septim, visions of grandeur and Tamrielic peace. So be it that they took the charts and placed a finger upon four isles, Roscrea the first whisper spoken. This elven order destroyed all we had built without ever drawing ire. Did your order perhaps foresee a resurgence?" Theu called out to the Psijic.

Baldur had a knowing look on his face. “A little off the mark there, Druid. With her power, she’d likely be old enough to have made those whispers herself.”

"Eh? Really now." Theu openly scrutinized the monk. "Never did interact with that Windhelm High Elf. Can hardly tell, fourth elf I ever saw after all. First of her race."

From the looks of her, the elf could have been forty or four hundred. It was impossible to tell and she made no effort to confirm or deny Baldur's suspicion. She merely focused her golden eyes on Theudofrid and spoke plainly, "I daresay that will change before long, Archdruid Ingolfsson. As to your question, apologies, but it is not for me to say."

"Well then monk. Some apology that was." Theu gutturally spoke to the monk, awfully didn't fit the man who spoke it.

“You don’t talk much for someone so old,” said Baldur, his mind made up about her. “My wife’s old man was always rambling about his stories. When he had a mind to.”

"Others have told me that I am quite talkative." A smile touched Illorwe's lips. "Never in Skyrim, however."

Shrugging, he said, “So you came all this way to tell me to talk to the Dark Elf? I don’t think so. Why is a Psijic monk shadowing a Telvanni? To mentor him? Is he to be a Psijic?” Baldur paused a moment, and said, “Is he a danger?”

"I did not come all this way to tell you anything at all," she replied to his first question. "It was merely a suggestion. On the matter of my purpose here, what I said yesterday remains as true today. I follow Master Endar to monitor his progress and guide him away from oegnithir as he allows me to. He is not my pupil. I have little doubt that he would consider such a position beneath him."

Now he was good and annoyed. Even for Baldur, the Psijic way was beyond frustrating. However, her reminder of her words had confirmed at least one thing, that Endar was someone to watch for at the very least. And probably more talkative than this one.

”Fine, whatever. Continue entertaining Bully, and see to it that Endar doesn’t bring ‘oegnithir’ to this land. Unless you have anything further to say, Druid, we’re done here. I’ll speak with the other one alone later.”

"Not in her presence." said Theu, snuffing the pipe and lifting himself up.

“Guards!” Baldur stood as well, signaling for her to leave. The Psijic stood, bowed politely, and followed her escort back outside. One of Baldur's men closed the door behind them.

"Baldur, High King of all Skyrim. In Roscrean, my lord has little to fear of outsiders... I am not him. There are few institutions that frighten me. Their magics are older and greater in all regards but one." Theudofrid spoke softly to the High King. For the first time Theu hasn't a pleasant look about him.

Not caring to wait for her to leave before speaking, he said, “Well. I don’t know what all the fuss is about, they seem even more useless than the Greybeards. I do believe both you and Rebec did a whole lot of worrying over nothing.”

“But anyway,” he said, rubbing his temple. “What one regard is that?”

"The holy science of astrology and astronomy. It is our devotion."

“Can the holy science of astrology and astronomy help us win this war?”

"No."

He sighed. “Monks.” He made his way to the door. “Go clear out the tavern, let’s get this meeting over with. I’ve had my fill of mages.”

"The will of a mage's hands have given you much. Never again spit upon our holy science, Ash King."

“Or what?” said Baldur, approaching him. “I brought you out of the dark of irrelevancy for one purpose, and one purpose only. To help me defeat the elves. If you can’t help me do that, then go back to your island. Dismissed.”

***
 

“Okay ladies, let’s make this quick. I’ve gathered you all because my Kingship was a sudden change at the worst possible time. We have to put together a team able to address the witchery and foul magics of the elves in the known future, and any other such devilry we might come across. More than that, you’ll all serve as my advisors when out of the box thinking is required. Unconventional means, but not always the unconventional. Clever men, and women should know when which is appropriate. Introduce yourselves.”

The eight men, and one woman looked at the assortment of odd-fellows as though none wished to volunteer to speak first. Baldur grew impatient, tapping his finger on the table as someone finally piped up.

 ”I am Drela Fryse-Hag, descendant of the mad witches of Solstheim. Clever Woman of Kyne’s Watch.” She heard snickering and said, “Fuck off.”

Before Drela could continue, “I am Arodir, Clever Man of the Clan that Wants to Watch the World burn, Clever Man of Kyne’s Watch.” Arodir sat down and offered nothing more as he sat staring beneath his dark hair at the others.

A Nord in a black robe and white hair with milky eyes proclaimed, ”I am Yogsamir the Inquisitive, He-Who-Watches-For-The-Woodland-Man, and Clever Man of Morthal, and Clever Man of Kyne’s Watch.”

 A robed man with grey eyes and a youthful face beneath a robe lined with fur said, ”I am Ode, the Early-Born of the College of Winterhold, and student of Veleda Fire-Hand, Clever-Man of Kyne’s Watch.”

”I am Ridyr the Red, ex Battle-Mage and Centurion of the Legion, student of Gracchus Ceno, and Clever Man of Bruma, Warlord of the Reach, Slayer of Mer, Bane of the Arcane, and Clever-Man of Kyne’s Watch.” The big red headed Nord in nothing but a fur kilt and jewelry of various cultures and races boasted and paraded theatrically as he stood. “My wealth is long, as is my cock. My children are fat, muscles made from rock, my foes are legion, their pride deflated... their shores stormed, raided, and my wife’s loins... sated. My foes are many, my lovers, plenty, my bed is warm, and never empty. I serve the Bard-King, the Ash-King anew. There’s elves that need killing, but alas... all too few.”

 Baldur couldn’t help but crack a smile. “Not bad at all.” 

 “High praise,” he said, turning a head to Drela.

”Your bed will be empty tonight if you don’t stop acting like such a fool in front of everyone,” said Drela.

Ridyr sat her on his lap and said, “I love this crabby woman, I really do! She’s so icy but so feisty...”

 ”Can we move this along or do you and your wife need a moment together?” Arodir's grip on his dagger tensed, as did Drela's...

 Her dagger made of ice sat at her husband’s neck, the cold dancing upon his skin before any edge made contact. “The fool was done, right fool?”

”But of course,” said Ridyr with his gravelly voice, flashing his gold and ivory carved teeth. “Just livening up the place a little, it is a tavern! Even if this collection of pretentious old farts, and my lovely wife are all that remain.”

”And your King,” said Ode.

”And my king,” of course, said Ridyr.

”I enjoyed the antics,” said Arodir. “In fact I was especially looking forward to its conclusion. Would've joined in but your wife beat me to it.”

”Maybe later, hehehe,” said Ridyr, “If you bring your wench too.”

”That can definitely be arranged,” said Arodir. “We really should move this along then.”

”I haven’t agreed to anything,” said Drela. “And you, puny man, I would break you.”

”I’m counting on it, Fryse-Hag.”

Drela said nothing to that, but Baldur could’ve sworn he saw her crack a smile. ”Alright then. Theu? You next.”

The old man of Roscrea took from his robes the golden sickle and placed it atop the table. "I am Theudofrid, One time Archdruid of the Totem Owl. Judge of the urbans and Court mage to the house of Baldur."

There was another sudden snicker, and this time it wasn’t just from Ridyr. 

“Old one, what is a Druid? Also, you forgot to say ‘Clever Man’ of Kyne’s Watch.”

”I never said you all had to say it,” said Baldur. He shrugged. “I think you lot just got carried away. But, I guess it is kind of a thing now, huh?” 
The rest of them watched Theudofrid then, expectantly. 

"We and as I, Clever man' of Kyne's Watch, are worshippers of Jhunal. We are the wise men, judges and mediators of Roscrea. Now allies to the Nordic throne." Said Theudofrid, gesturing towards Baldur.

“Why’s he get to be the court mage? And where’s even the court?”

”Who the hell are you?” asked Ridyr.

The Nord stood, and it was clear that he was the tallest of the lot. He had a thick head of brown hair and wore simple chainmail beneath a sleeveless padded doublet.

”I am Euroja.”

He sat back down.

”Well that was helpful,” said Ridyr. “So are you a mage or a warrior? By the looks of that axe I’d say you cleaved more men in half than burned.”

”Not all of us like to give ourselves away with how we decide to kill a man. If I come for you, I want you to be surprised. And the elves have eyes everywhere. So for now, know that I am Euroja.”

”He’s from the Hex-Blade clan,” said Arodir. “Euroja Hex-Blade, Euroja the Padomaic, Euroja the Giant-Tamer.”

Euroja eyed Arodir. “You know a lot about me it seems, but I know nothing about you.”

”And I’d like to keep it that way, Giant-Tamer. Your like and mine have never crossed paths. Directly, anyway,” he said with a smirk. “But how could I not hear about the man rumored to have a giant-wife, and be giant-born himself? I even heard you got some of them to aid the Stormcloaks, even wear the uniform!”

Euroja made no move to deny or confirm any of it.

”Big ol fucker like you should be off doing the Grim Trials or something,” said Ridyr.

”I did,” said Euroja. “I am one of Baldur’s new commanders.”

Ridyr frowned. “Well aren’t you special.”

Euroja smiled. “Not as special as you though, Warlord of the Reach, Bane of the Arcane, whatever that means.”

Drela leaned over and said, “How about him? I like him. He’s big.”

”No,” said Ridyr. “Who wants to follow after that, my damn wife’s poon’ll be whistlin from the winds blowing through her passages from the other end. Damn giant fucker.”

”Last but not least,” said Baldur, voice raised.

An old man in a simple tunic and leather trousers stood, clearing his throat. “I am Bjorn Iron-Clad. I am a simple scholar, not a great warrior or wizard. I am a keeper of my clan. We record old Nordic dialects and our clan stories of old. I know Draconic, Daedric, Ehlnofex, some ancient elven and a few spells some of you might have forgotten, but that’s all. And I am a Clever-Man of Kyne’s Watch.”

Theudofrid raises his sickle after Bjorn was done, and of course Ridyr snickered again. “Old fucks got to stick together.”

”Who’s the last man?” said Ode. “There were supposed to be nine of us, right?”

”There are,” said Baldur. Standing, he said, “I am Baldur Red-Snow, Baldur the Unkindled. Ash-King. I know the Atmoran arts of the thu’um, and I too am a Grim One. I know old Ehlnofex, Nordic, Aldmeris, some Draconic and Daedric. And I am a Clever-Man of Kyne’s Watch. Now let’s begin.”

Theudofrid spoke first among mages. "To the assembly, an issue is presented by the presence of a psijic monk. It is my station as court mage, and beyond that my people's history that caution is advised, heavily. I can say from her order that she is not Thalmor. She had accompanied the Dunmer wizard Endar from unknown points at unknown times. Her claim is one of neutrality to observe and catalog the wizard, for the protection of the realm. The assembly must debate and agree to her fate."

Baldur raised his voice just as Drela was about to give him an earful about the elf. 

“The assembly doesn‘t get to weigh in on something I’ve already decided,” said Baldur. “Forget about the Psijic Monk, forget about the Dark Elf.”

Ridyr stood and said, “Then if we can’t weigh in on that, let me ask, why is this one running the show? I don’t get it, why is he your court mage? He’s a foreigner!”

Baldur stood as well and said, “Because thus far the only two people that have proven useful to winning this war are the Druid and the alchemist. If you want a pat on the back then stop moaning about the elves and do something!”

Baldur watched the looks on their faces, waiting for there to be absolute silence, and then waiting some more so they could reflect on his words. “So, Clever Men, I don’t want another peep out of anyone unless it’s to say what you have in mind for ideas of a magical or otherwise useful application to aid the war. Theudofrid, tell them what you’ve brought to the table thus far.”

"The picked warriors of Baldur's house, his Grim Ones, their Nordic forged arms and armor are enchanted. I have enchanted his picked cadre and those under me have bore the rest. In matters of the arcane I advise the High King, as his position of Jarl demanded a court mage. Although not my own doing entirely, an army sails south to be placed under the banner of the Stormcloaks in your, our, coming war."

“And there you have it,” said Baldur. “You, Arodir.”

Arodir stood, followed by a bow. “I am one of the few that knows the exact formula for what we of the Clan That Wants to Watch the World Burn call an arcane suppressant. It hinders a magic caster’s ability to regenerate magicka. They can still cast, but will quickly grow tired and by the time they realize what’s happened, it is too late. This makes it especially useful against powerful wizards who might overpower a silence effect as soon as they feel it. This powder is much more subtle. I know many old practical ways to mitigate the effects of elven Witchery. The practices date back all the way to times of Atmora.”

"That's brilliant Arodir! Alchemical substance I take it? I had always looked to absorption and devouring their magical ability, you must equip the Roscrean wizard-warriors with this substance when they arrive." Said Theudofrid. Whether or not his praise to only two of the assembly mattered was up for debate.

Ridyr scoffed and crossed his arms. “My wife and I have our own ways, our own runes. Our own magic, Nord magic. She can manipulate the water in the air to change the weather in small areas, even make the winds fairer for sea travel by changing air pressure. I help with that with my destructive magic. I am hardened in battle and know how to lead battle mages like what Veleda raised here, and the best ways to utilize them to undermine the enemies most effective and thought out tactics. I am best suited on the battle field, and as a war advisor.

”I spin curses,” said Euroja. “If it must be stated. Our clan know things forgotten by others, passed down from the Jarl of Whiterun of old, and Priest of Shor. We have magic and enchantments that can even specifically target elves. It is said that her ancestor even enchanted Wuuthrad, but that hasn’t been proven.”

Yogsamir stood and said, “I am a keeper of old things unknown to most, including the Woodland Man. I risk much in sharing them with you, but to end elven kind, I would risk even losing my place in honored Sovngarde. For instance, I know of the old magic that works the moon forge in Whiterun, or know of it, and both Euroja and myself are working on a way to improve its magical effects. When we are done, not only will we have a supply of weaponry enchanted without the need for soul gems, but we shall be able to mimic the moonlight and gain their magical effects, at will.”

"Your struggles against the Woodland Man is a needed duty. It is our enemy god unlike no other, allow my kinsmen to share your burden as we have cursed and fought his name since our earliest days. I too have known open doors to his horrible name, I know your struggle as does my lord." Theu said to Yogsamir.

Yogsamir scoffed. “I’d say the Woodland Man already did their work on you. Your aura is half elven as is...”

"Don't stop speaking now Yogsamir. That can't be all you have to say. Continue, I wish to hear the entire insult."

“...and the other half? Milkdrinker.”

That got a snicker from all but Baldur and Arodir.

"I will see you after the assembly, but first let us not spread disunity at this table. Continue all." Theudofrid spoke with a tightened jaw. 

If not for the urgency of the meeting, Baldur might've let them settle things right then and there. However, he wasn't in the mood. The Nords in attendance had other plans however, and were chanting for blood. Sighing, he said to himself.... "Nords..."

"I tolerate many things, but I will draw blood at this grave insult to my person. I am Roscrean, not elven, not Imperial. You people think me a weakly old thing, think all you like, but stay silent. I have done more than you know, killed more than you think."

“Hey, milk-eyes. I think you pissed off the forest rabbit,” said Drela. “Even got him to boast. Might make a Nord of him yet.”

Yogsamir smiled. “Still to be seen. But it’s a start.”

"The assembly will continue, unless nothing more is to be said."

“Nothing more,” said Yogsamir. “You’re a true Nord. Here, have a mead with me.” Yogsamir slid a fresh bottle from the table his way. 

"I'll drink in better company." Theu touched the bottle with a single finger and shattered it.

“Did you just shatter my mead?” asked Baldur. “That’s some of my best brew, I save that for family, and you just shattered it?”

"The mead was offered from an unlikable hand, apologies for your wasted brew."

“Understandable,” said Yogsamir. “It was meant to bridge the gaps of our cultures. We got off on the wrong foot. Hopefully my hand will now be more agreeable for you. Here.” Yogsamir slid him another.

"To bridge our cultures? A reasonable price to accept." Theudofrid gripped the mead. Raising his eyes back up to Yogsamir then to the bottle. The stench surprised the Archdruid. "Your mead is sweet? Honey or sugar I take it? Ours hasn't such luxuries." He closed his eyes tight and downed a single gulp, holding back any urge to gasp or cough. Any price for his lord.

"It's good." Said Theu, half lying.

The others had looks of surprise, all except Yogsamir who did his research and knew Theudofrid wasn’t much for mead, or alcoholic beverages at all for that matter. Though even he didn’t expect him to drink it. “Glad you like it, he said. “Be sure not to insult our king by drinking it slow.”

”Drink, drink, drink!” Called the others. 

“Just finish the mead,” said Baldur.

"Of course." Theudofrid smiled at the assembly at large, mildly annoyed to be outdone. "But the assembly should share in this treat!" He took a deep swig and slid it to the next person afterwards. His smile contorted a bit with a furred brow before mimicking normalcy.

“We’re good, we’ve got our own,” said Ridyr reaching over and sliding it back. “Let it all drain down your gullet. Here, let’s help him Drela.”

Theu shook his head. "I'm not pleasant when intoxicated you know." That only made the assembly want him to chug more. 

“It’s just one mead, you’ll be fine.”

”Ridyr...”

”My King, we can't have a court mage that can’t even drink his mead. People will talk. This is the Ash-King’s Court mage. You wouldn’t want people to think poorly of the king because his court mage can’t handle one bottle of the good stuff, would ya Theudwarfid?”

“I really don’t honestly give a damn,” said Baldur. “We’ve had our fun, leave the poor man be now and let’s get on with it.”

"I am not a boy, none of you can bend me like some welp. Emissary be dammed, another may take my place. I would rather return to Roscrea with my dignity then be pushed about by my equals." Theudofrid said.

“Fucking Nords,” said Baldur. “Even the Clever Men are idiots.”

”Indeed,” said Bjorn Iron-Clad. Euroja shook his head in agreement, along with Arodir.

”Wait a minute, what about this one? What’s he bringing to the table?” said Ridyr. “And what about the College of Winterhold lad?”

”They can tell you later, now shut up and listen!” said Baldur. “The other purpose of this meeting is to find my son. Yes, the Breton Boy and if I hear one more comment about true Nords and mead and milkdrinkers, you and I will be meeting alone next. You all have a days time to come up with a list of men and women talented enough to track down his whereabouts. You will work together, whether you all drink mead or not, you will be competent and sober while doing it,” Baldur snatched his mead from Ridyr’s hand, “And you will not fail. Are we clear?”

The silence and sober looks from Ridyr and Yogsamir was all the answer he needed. “Dismissed. Theu, Bjorne, Arodir, you all stay."

Theudofrid waited for the others to vacate before speaking. "Your son never made it to the moot. That much I can see. He sought you Baldur, while your rival claimant still lived he commissioned my aid to reach High Hrothgar. Through alchemy and enchantment I doomed a horse to bring him swift. Windhelm was the last I saw of him."

“I don’t blame you, Theu, I blame Brund. You did well in helping him.” Baldur stood and paced. “But now I have reason to believe he’s not dead. I have no idea where he is, but it’s possible the Thalmor got their hands on him. I’ve not received a ransom or heard anything yet, so they could be trying to torture him for information. Thing is, I am powerless to do anything about it. The last person to have followed his trail was Falgrum, and he resides in the cells of the prison. The problem is, well...” Baldur stopped his pacing. “You’ll see soon enough. I’ve prepared papers for all of you on the matter, I want you to give them to your peers, explain the situation, and for all of you to put your heads together so we can solve this and bring him back home. Understood?”

"I am not a masterful scryer as my lord, nor do I know this land by heart Baldur. But I will do what I can. Perhaps you should enlist the aid of my lord? Galchobhar fab Myrthway of the Two Hills, Lord of all Archdruids. Among us he has no equal in worldly knowledge."

“Already got the biggest band of weird fucks Skyrim’s ever seen. Why not another. Could give Jjgmir and the idiots that follow him a run for their coin.”

Bjorne had a sour look on his face, evidently not at all pleased with being associated with the weird fucks in question.

”Speaking of scrying, I’ve heard that the Dark Elf is a member of House Telvanni. The Psijic will be of no use for us, but she’s not the only one with power. If the Dark Elf is who he says he is, he could possibly help us locate Daric much quicker than we could on our own.”

Baldur’s eyes practically shot open. “Are you sure Bjorne? If that’s true, I owe you an entire keg of mead! I’ll follow up on this, the rest of you go about your business. Dismissed!”

Bjorne opened his mouth to answer but Baldur was already rushing out the door before he could say anything. “Actually, I’d wanted to say that from the start as soon as he mentioned Daric, but with everything going on, I couldn’t find a good opening. Ah well.”

Arodir smirked but stayed silent, watching Baldur run up the tavern stairs to meet the elf as he made his way out, his glare focused on the room and imagining what devilish things the rabbit-eared elf might've been up to.

Baldur was too preoccupied in his thoughts. The guards at Endar's door commented that the elf in question hadn't left the room since he'd arrived, which Baldur of course did not believe. He was about to ask if they'd noticed much magic, but pangs like cramps went through his lower jaw and neck as though he'd taken the first bite of a meal and began to salivate intensely. It was a feeling he'd often encountered now after his training when confronting powerful magics, such as the Sunbird in Windhelm...

"Damn mages," he said as he cracked his neck. A bright blue light emitted from his coin pouch, and the gold rattled as though some invisible force were shaking it uncontrollably. 

"Step aside," he said as he patted his coinpurse to no avail. As he opened the door, his eyes previously adjusted to the dim light of the tavern soon felt a similar pang of pain shoot through them as the light of crystals growing out of the walls assaulted his vision "What's all this??" 

The elf's response came in the form of a raised finger, signaling to wait. He was sitting on the floor, facing away from Baldur. The metal cube he'd produced the day before was suspended in the air in front of his face, though now it appeared to be open, with a bright blue glow emitting from its core.

Baldur stood there, arms crossed, index finger tapping in frustration as he waited for the Elf to elaborate. Eventually he sighed and accepted that his curiosity would have to accept observation in place of direct inquiry. There were more pressing matters at hand.

As he sat beside the elf, mimicking him in his own meditation, he eventually said, “Can you scry.”

No immediate response, but after a few seconds, the cube snapped shut and vanished. Only then did the Telvanni's focus turn to Baldur. "Can an alit stand on two legs?"

Baldur’s eyes were still shut as he said, “My boy. I need to find him. Whether he’s dead, alive, or something in between.” 

"Yes, that should be simple enough. Simple. Not easy. I shall require a sample of your blood. A few drops will do."

An ice blue eye opened, staring the elf down. “For what?”

"For the ritual, of course. I have never so much as laid eyes on this ambiguously-animate boy of yours, so some muttered words and a wave of my hand will not be sufficient to locate him."

The Telvanni rose to his feet and went over to a bag that was hanging from one of his wall crystals. He started shuffling through it as he continued. "To use an analogy more digestible to your culture, imagine being tasked to hunt an animal by your... lord? No, Jarl. Your Jarl wants a specific animal dead, but gives you no description of it, no general location, not even a species. He will tell you when you have killed the correct beast, but everything else is up to you. Such a thing would hardly be feasible using conventional means, wouldn't you say?"
 He didn't wait for Baldur to answer. "Fortunately, the Arubis is so full of unconventional means that they are practically conventional to those who take the time to understand them. The most obvious way to make your request feasible is to use an anchor component - something that will connect my ritual with the creature I seek. Returning to the hunting analogy, this would be akin to presenting your hounds with the scent of the aforementioned mystery beast. Now your improbable task is far more realistic."

The Dunmer removed a bundle of red candle sticks from his bag and tossed them onto his bed, then he turned back to Baldur. "Fortunately for you, the blood of kin is an especially potent anchor component. Particularly immediate kin, such as a father and son."

Now both eyes watched before falling downcast. “I’m not really his father. His real father’s in High Rock.”

Drenim's brow furrowed. "Well that is inconvenient. Are there any siblings on hand? A mother?"

“She left to High Rock with his father.” Baldur stood, eying a crystal and grasping it, squeezing in frustration as he ignored the painful vibrations shooting through his fingertips. “What about your hound analogy? I still have some of his old things he left here. Amulets, training weapons, things like that.”

"Metal and wood," the elf said dismissively. "Not entirely useless, but unless designed to be so, such things are no replacement for true essence." He shrugged. "No analogy is perfect."

Baldur tried to think back on any time he’d have seen Daric’s blood. There was of course the few weeks he’d disguised himself and went through the Grim Trials, until he’d been frost bitten and needed to cauterize his own feet where the toes were cut off.

There was also their training sessions, which were brutal affairs. Sometimes he’d forget himself, forget Daric was a mere boy. He dropped his axe when he’d seen Daric’s own blood upon it, the look of fear in his eyes matching his own when he was still with Ulrin.

He’d long since cleaned it however, and the rags were burned. 

“Very well. I’ll take my leave until I find something to make this magic work.”

"I will be here," responded the elf.

When he left, he didn’t slam the door. However, as he walked down the stairs and past the chairs and tables, his fingers twitched. Suddenly, a chair was flying across the room until it hit the wall, knocking down a shield and two great axes.

Baldur grasped one of the iron weapons and hacked at the chair and the floor beneath it until the wooden shaft snapped, roaring the entire time until the foundations of the tavern shook.
 

 ***

"Go away," said Baldur as he searched for pen and parchment in what was now his office. The fort that once housed the elves was as quiet as ever, and he could hear the footsteps approaching well before the intrusive individual could even place a knuckle upon his door.

A brief audible jingle followed by the telltale sounds of tumblers being manipulated followed within the silence, and before he could protest, Bralla was standing in front of him, shutting the door as soon as she'd infiltrated it.

"You really need better locks in this place.. Were I an assassin..."

"You'd be a pile of ash lying on the floor. You almost were anyway," said Baldur as he sat in his chair. His eyes searched hers curiously. The way one studied the air about them in search of a fly constantly buzzing in one's face. "What is it?"

"You need to assign someone else for the job. This orc business. If I go..."

"That's not what you want," he said. "What you want, is for me to give you the go ahead to kill them all. Isn't that so?"

"Wouldn't you?" said Bralla, pacing around his desk before sitting upon it. She was surprised he'd let her get that far. Her eyes did her own searching, studying the flicker of flame from the candlelight dancing at the contours of his face. He'd aged, more than she'd have expected him to. And yet, she still remembered the same face not twisted in the sternness of command, but joyous from mead and song and sex. When she dared to touch that face however, his hand stopped hers dead in the air. She'd not see that same face again, not tonight anyway.

"The islanders and Rebec the Red may take pity spouses. I don't. War is coming, Bralla. I don't have much room for pity any longer."

"You never have," she said. "Not really. You'd give your last coin to a beggar, but that isn't the real you. The real you can't be seen except on the battlefield," she snatched her hand away. "You love battle just as much as me. Maybe more. And you of all people understand settling a score."

"You don't know anything about what I love," he said.

"Is this where you tell me you love your wife more than anything? Your child? What about our-"

"Stop..."

"Did you know that I had a miscarriage? After you left. I took a contract, and those savages you want to protect... they..."

"I said stop."

"It could've been yours! Ours! We-"

A swift hard hand stopped her mid sentence, and after the impact, he saw a wild look flash over her face. Her own hands flew, balled in a fist as the two tussled for a time. His hand was on her throat, and hers rested on her dagger's hilt, as did his. They were close, and her face was red, both from exertion and the pressure he'd placed on her neck. She was almost close enough to...

He drew her hand, along with the dagger and pressed it just in front of her eye. "Here's where I tell you, I love my wife more than anything. My wife, and my child. What happened to you was tragic, but it happened. Nothing will change it. You do anything to hurt what I have now....”

He let her go as she pulled away violently, cursing and muttering the entire time. "She doesn't even want to be your queen, everyone knows it! Yet you let her sleep in your bed? Have her child? Our friendship, it means nothing now?"

"Friendship isn't what you seek, Bralla. If it were, then I'd happily help you. I'm not the answer to your woes, or the cause. If you want that, you must find it yourself. The gods will show you how. Until then, I need our brigade's best negotiator to deal with the Orcs. That you know how savage they can be is the entire point. If things go belly up, you won't be caught off guard. Understood?"

There was another knock.

"Go away!"

"Come in!"

"I'll pray to the gods for what might've been. And you pray for me as well, so that my boy doesn't have the same fate as yours."

She turned, hands gripping the handle so hard, it shook. "If those fucks even flinch, I'll level their strongholds to the ground. I warned you."

"No you won't, Bralla. Even plagued by vengeance, you always had a nice streak beneath all that... you."

"Pfft," she said as she threw the door open and stormed out.

[BigBossBalrog]

The Great Forest, 
Night of the Bloodmoon,

Lilly ignored the screeching from behind, as she hurriedly ran away. What was...what was she going to do?  Lilly ran forward, pushing her way through the dark trees, her feet’s skin covered in scratches and built up blood. There was nothing else, but a deep desire to break free from this place. Mad howling, drowning out her sisters wayward cries erupted all around, with the occasional dance of witchflames in the distance. The girl ran as fast as her little legs could carry her.  All around her the screams of the forest, echoed, like a deathly symphony.  

A noblewoman brought down a heavy rock to a commoner’s head, amidst intense cackling, spraying crimson across the grass. Another one was being mounted by a Lycanthrope, a black Lion-man covered in straggly hair, as it roared to the Bloodmoon, thrusting itself into the moaning girl’s behind, which was drenched in blood and bruises. Two witches embraced each other, making out, as their bloody intestines wrapped around a dark tree. A deer standing on its hindlegs, fed on the flesh of freshly fallen people, devouring chunks of flesh with its fanged maw. Away, by the overgrowth of tree, the young woman could have sworn she saw the black, gnarled oaks dancing with their gnarled roots tangled within the corrupted earth, underneath the sickly crimson glow of the Bloodmoon. Or perhaps she had just gone mad, after everything she saw.

Blood. Endless amounts of blood. 

The ground around the glade had blackened, and reddened, perhaps some of it’s uncleanness from the light coming down from the crimson celestial object, but not all. The unhealthy grass, was now as black as the night, and the dirt on the ground had turned crimson, as if dyed by the blood from the sacrificial victims. Dark Magic had been poured into the earth, corrupting and staining the forest with blasphemous magic. As she hurriedly stepped across the ground, it felt almost like if hands were reaching from the dark earth, trying to drag her with them into the abyss. The vermilion, red light clashed with the natural darkness of the night, bathing everyone in it’s red light. The scarlet over haze made everything even more surreal, and the young girl had wondered more than once if this wasn’t just a horrible nightmare. 

 The red night heralded the coming madness. 

“I’m still your sister! Please come back!” A voice suddenly came from behind, now completely alien and inhuman to the young countess. Milly...she solemnly thought. There was now monsters to worry about in the darkness of the great forest, as well as home. A small part of her really wanted to go to her older sister’s embrace, and let her protect her...the present part wanted nothing to do with her. She was going too...defile that girl. She was enjoying it too. She's sick, she's fucking sick!

“What does that make you then, Liliana Quentas? This defilement is done in your name.” A voice echoed across her head, one she didn’t recognize. The young girl, felt bile building up in her stomach, she wanted to spray tonight’s dinner out, a little bit of her offering to the forest.  She tried to push the images of the servant girl out of her, but it was clear as the Bloodmoon.  As was the growing blood stains forming on her hands. She timidly raised them to the sky as she ran, her eyes filled with disbelief as the red stain formed. 

It was dyed blood red. She hadn't wielded the knife, but her endless torture now stained her hand forevermore. It could have been an illusion brought on by the red sky, but it looked wet. It glistened, a forever stained bloody hand. 

The young girl feet were covered in bloody blisters by the time she had stopped to gain a breath. It hurt just standing amongst the darkened grass, a trail of red liquid coming down from her feet. so she leaned on one of the oaks beside her for support. She wanted to collapse, close her eyes, and wake up from this awful nightmare. But the sounds of demonic howling, blood curdled laughter, and the screams of the dying  brought her back from her second long daze, as did the penetrating light of the Bloodmoon, hanging in the sky, mocking her. She gripped her knees, slouching, as she began to hyperventilate, taking long, deep breaths. Feeling her sweat covered shins, she knew for a fact this was real.  All around her the horrible noise echoed around her, but at least she had lost her blood crazed sister. She needed to move, fast-

"The blood of the innocent. Sating my thirst  The screams of the weak. How it beckons me. The flesh of the children. It's taste so heavenly..." In her stupor, the young Countess hadn't noticed there was someone else in the small clearing with her. A woman, in a blue hooded robe, laced with silvery thread.  She knelt over a body covered in rags, a pale girl, barely older than Lilly. Her lifeless olive eyes, stared into the blood red sky. The woman was furiously gulping down the child's life essence, using her tongue to slurp up the blood falling from a grisly wound on lower neck, a knife thrust.  In her other hand she grasped a Black Crystal. It could have just been her eyes playing tricks, but Lilly could have sworn she saw wisps of white smoke leaving the little girls body, and entering into the black crystal.

Lilly became frozen in fear. 

She spoke once more, the blood drinker's voice seemed... wrong, as if she was drunk or extremely sleepy. "The great tree. It calls, lurking in the black abyss. It calls to me, by Father Bal. Mother Namira, enter into me." She stopped sucking from the girl's wound, and took a small, bite, tearing a tiny chunks of flesh from the corpse's shoulder, gulping down the raw human meat without hesitation, before she went back to sucking the blood. 

The girl, in her haste to leave the glade, tripped on herself, and fell to the ground, causing the hooded woman to turn around, revealing herself. She had curled locks of red hair, along with a pair of fiery green eyes. Like many "flowers" of Chorrol, she was a beauty, but it was marred tonight by bits of human flesh plastered around her mouth, and the spray of blood that drenched most of her face. 

Recognition hit the young countess. As a name entered her mind. Roseloe Valga. She wasn't well acquainted with the woman herself, but she was said to have considerable favor in the Court of Chorrol back in the day, before she'd turned somewhat reclusive. Still, from how mother had spoken about her in the scant few conversations she remembered from dinner, Roseloe wasn't near the bottom in the coven's hierarchy. 

The young girl feverishly raised her voice, gripping the dark grass tightly, "-Roseloe-?" She could barely stutter out. 

"Lady Quentas!" The witch smiled. It was a grotesque gesture that revealed nothing but dark red. "Are you enjoying the Bloodmoon?"

The young Countess, felt more bile forming her throat, as it became hot, and she needed to swallow several times to keep herself from throwing up all over the ground. "What-what's happening?" She glanced from the noblewoman, down back to her prey, her voice very timid. "Mother-this..." She struggled with her words, "It wasn't supposed to be like this! What are we doing?!" 

"Darling, you must stop crying. It is an ugly look for you." Roseloe wiped her mouth on her sleeve, but then turned back to the bloody corpse and plunged a conjured dagger into its chest. After a few seconds of carving, she looked back at Lilly inquisitively. "Are you still sitting there? Go! Let loose! Honestly, dear, nobody will judge you."

The young girl just started weeping. She held it in, till now. But she couldn't believe what she was seeing. Her eyes turned watery, as her face contorted into an ugly expression.  She couldn't control herself..."Mirana...she tried...her and her sister tried to touch me....then I saw my sister carve them, and she wanted to do the same to them. With a smile on her face. None of this makes sense...why are we hurting all these people? We...we-we are protectors of the common folk." 

The more Lilly weeped, the more confusion mounted in the noblewoman's expression. Then, very suddenly, a look of understanding dawned on her. "Oh, I see. This is your first Black Festival!" As she spoke, Roseloe returned to her carving, apparently either oblivious or utterly uncaring of the fact that the girl in front of her was clearly terrified. "You think tonight is gruesome, darling, but for my first time they invited a clan of Thrafey. For the hunt of all things! That was a mistake I often remind your mother not to repeat- and there we are!" 

Roseloe's carving halted, and she reached into the dead girl's chest and pulled out her heart. She examined it for a few seconds, then paused and looked at Lilly, whose eyes were still overflowing with tears. "Dear, if you are not going to partake, then please begone. I must resume my ritual, and it is terribly rude to stare."

Lilly swallowed hard. The fear was still there...but something also was with it. She gazed at Roseloe, before looking at her victim, specifically her olive eyes. The other thing inside her...was burning rage.  She managed to rub her eyes, and rise from the ground...unbeknownst to the other Witch who had turned back to the business of dissecting the girl's body, she now carried a sizeable rock in her hand, which she had hidden behind her back. She slowly approached "So...what do I do? Do I drink her blood? Eat her? Fuck her?" A few sobs continued, but it was controlled now. 

"Goodness no!" Roseloe looked back at her. "Not after I've..." The witch frowned. She was looking past her now. "Flavimus, dear, is something wrong?"

Suddenly, Lilly heard a man's deep voice behind her back. "The young lady's coming at you with a rock. Does my lady want me to kill her?"

"By the Void, of course not!" Roseloe scolded before returning her attention to Lilly. "Apologies, Lady Quentas, he is new. But about the rock. That would be very naughty. And foolish. Surely your mother did not put you up to this!"

The young girl dropped the rock, as she cursed herself. Before backing away nervously, to the trees. She was thinking she could avenge that girl, but as always, the Countess was useless. "No. I just wanted to bash your brain in, you piece of shit!" She barked. Her fire had returned to her, "Cannibal. Predator." The sweat on her brow begun to fall down in dozens of drips, as it furrowed, "How can you, Milly, and mother look at yourselves?! That's a person you're cutting up!" 

"So it was." Roseloe waved at the corpse dismissively. "You poor thing, you've got it all so terribly wrong. I am not a cannibal." She smiled, almost warmly if not for the bloodstains around her lips. "This is the Black Festival."

With a look of pure horror, the girl gazed into her eyes, and saw someone who was utterly devoid of humanity. The gag reflex came back, and she wanted to spew it all out.  No pity. No Empathy. No remorse. It made her shudder, and shiver. Her bloodstained smile unsettled her more than any of those Werebeasts from before could. She feverishly muttered "-I'm-i'm going to find you. After this. You, mother, and Milly." The fourteen year old girls voice became a low whisper, as her stare hardened, her grip tightening. "I'm going to put a knife into your hearts." And with that promise, the Countess whipped around, and ran into the woods.

Her own voice from earlier today echoed, as she ran wildly into the dark forest, her mind a twisting kaleidoscope of various emotions. She didn’t even bother to avoid stray branches, letting them cut across her face, more crimson for the endless red light around her. “I heard Mary had one of her servant-girls whipped for such incompetence! This bitch got everything she deserved!” the cruelty in her voice reverberated around the forest all around her. The voices all around her. “Mother does it! You need to put them in there place! There no better than rats” She wanted to cry again, but she kept the tears down. Guilt. Shame. Self-loathing, it all assailed her at once, like a thousand swords being thrusted into her. "So it was." It was now Valga’s voice that surrounded her frantic retreat into the forest. She paused, stopping her tracks. She couldn’t hold it in anymore.

She knelt down, before emptying her stomach contents onto the black, corrupted grass. She upchucked all of her meals today, as well as the swirling pitt of pain that had grown in her stomach. The green bile left her mouth, as a disgusting noise echoed around her, Lilly wore a pained expression, and it continued being pushed out for thirty seconds, until the pool of vomit, intermingled around her legs, staining her robe. She kept her mouth opening for ten seconds, letting the putrid air around her mouth dissipate, as she spat little chunks. She wiped her vomit covered mouth, pushing herself back up. She couldn’t afford to lingering her. Feeling much more light, then young girl, despite still feel nauseous, pushed herself forward.

She wanted to kill them. Kill all of them. 

It was almost if the blood moon, and it’s surrounding carnage had lifted a veil that was over her. The so called Chorrol sickness. It was like it was the first time she could actually see the world, unburdened by a desire to dominant,  and hurt people who she perceived as lesser. 

“Lilly! LILLY COME TO ME AT ONCE!” 

The voice of her sister suddenly echoed behind, drawing the girl from her contemplation back to the reddish reality she had found herself in. She turned around sheepishly, to see the golden haired witch running towards her. She was almost a blur, as the girl channeled a fortify speed spell into herself. Lilly responded in kind, she wasn’t anywhere nearly as skilled as her sister, but she knew a few elementary spells, her pace increased, as she found herself and sprinting through the forest, with the light of the Bloodmoon on her back. All around her, the roars of the Werebeasts, the sounds of the tortured, and the cackling from her fellow witches thundered, almost drowning out her blood sister’s voice. She could barely understand her. 

“LILLY STOP, STOP NOW! IT ISN’T SAFE THERE!” The golden haired Witch was practically screeching. There’s beasts in the forest, and beasts at home. It matters not anymore, where I am. Ignoring her sisters wailing, she pushed herself faster-

Fwoosh.

Lilly felt the wind hit her square in the face. But more distinctively, the lack of feeling in her feet was the first thing that hit her. She felt ground a second before, but now...nothing. And then she plummeted, into the dark below... 

It would have been a mercy for her to be knocked out...but the gods the witches prayed too tonight had no mercy. 

She landed awkwardly on her foot, the bone and muscle breaking away from the force of the landing with an audible crunch. She screamed. A primal scream of utter agony.  The scream turned into a howl, as Lilly briefly looked up, and noticed shards of bone sticking out of her foot, even in the surrounding darkness, with faint red moonlight from the hole's entrance, surrounding where she had fallen. Tears began to stream down from her cheeks. In her delirium, from the adrenaline being pumped through her veins, she attempted to lift herself up, only for an even stronger pain to assail her leg, causing her voice to pick up. Her screech of pain was beginning to burn her throat, such was the intensity of the burning, agony that assailed her.  She slammed her fists into the ground beside her, only to feel the somewhat soothing feel of cold, water around her hand. With the pain dying down slightly, the young girl could feel it all around her. Perhaps this is why her body wasn't a mangled pile of broken bones and splattered brain. 

She was in a pool of water. She began to observe her surroundings. Crimson light from the sky fell into the cave's mouth, allowing the girl to see the center where she had found herself.  The pool was stagnant, and would have been utterly calm, if not for the young girl worming around inside it.  It extended everywhere, she didn't know how big the cave she fell into actually was or far the water went.  Perhaps it was endless. It wasn't too deep though, not enough she couldn't feel the stone on her but. She had rolled over, still clutch her ruined foot. The pain was unbearable, but she could actually think now. The first thing she did was curse herself for her clumsiness. 

If she hadn't been running that fast, she could have noticed the drop, and stopped herself before it was too late. Stupid stupid, girl.

"I was praying the drop would kill you, sister." 

A voice from above brought her back. It was her sister. She wasn't too much of a distance away, she could see tears forming in her eyes. But more importantly, was the facial expression she wore.

Paralyzed terror. Her mouth was agape in horror. 

Lilly managed to stutter out, “Milly...you...you” The pain prevented her from talking, she struggled. “You...you need to get rope...or...or something.”

Milly said nothing, just glancing at the moonlit pond below.

“Milly...you-you said it yourself. I’m still your sister! Please you gotta help me” Her previous resentment had left her entirely. All she now was a little girl begging her beloved big sister to help her. She began to choke up, her face contorting to an ugly expression, from the crying with tears streaming down her face. The snot from her nose dripping down made her look even more pathetic. The night had turned her once gorgeous platinum locks to a nightmarish shrub of leaves, clumps of bloody, matted hair, torn out strands. In desperation she tried to rise once more, only for a scream to leave the lips, as the pain assailed her legs. “You need to get me out of here! Please, goldie!” She called Milly by her childhood pet name. A primal fear resounding inside her, screaming at her that she needed to leave whatever this place was immediately. 

“The little girl skips, and skips down the golden road, down by the tree.” Milly...began to sing to herself. Her terrified blue eyes reflecting madness onto the water below. 

“The little girl skips and skips until she reaches the dirty fork, down by the tree.” She was singing...a nursery rhyme. An ancient nursery rhyme, one of the mothers of Chorrol had been singing to their children for thousands of years. Memories of her childhood nursery and the sweet smell of roses resurfaced. 

“The little girl skips and skips, she’s lost in the forest, the blackness of night rising above her, with the hungry moon high in the sky.” She lyrically sang to herself, as confusion, and then anger  filled the girl. 

“Milly...goldie...what are doing you? You need to get help!” “Help from monsters?” The voice from before entered, but she ignored it. 

“The little girl skips and skips, she finds a cave...” Her voice trailed downward, as the tears from her eyes began to dry up. She just looked helplessly melachnoc, as her eyes became downcast. She practically whispered. "The little girls skips and skips, down the lake, and finds the gate, burdened by black stone."  Her eyes filled with despair, as all color had now left her face. She had made her decision. 

“They take her. The little girl skips and skips no more…”. With a final look of forlornness, Milly turned around without another word, leaving the girl to her fate in the cave.

The countess screamed, “YOU FUCKING SUB HUMAN SKANK! CUNT! WHORE! SLUT! DON’T YOU DARE LEAVE ME HERE!” Her voice dripped with venom, as began to slam her fist into the water. Tears continued to fall. Tears of betrayal. 

No response. 

“YOU PIECE OF DOG SHIT! YOU CAN’T LEAVE ME HERE!” She suddenly broke down sobbing, the lingering pain on her foot an afterthought, all the anger gone replaced by pleading, “Please. I’m your sister. You can’t leave me here. Don’t leave me alone. Please, come back, I love you!”

Nothing but the distant howls of the Werebeasts, and the growing wind. 

No response. She had truly left her, alone and forlorn in the cave. The young girl sobbed, stewing in her self-pity. She had never felt as hopeless as she did now, in the blackness of the cave. She gently lifted her ruined foot, and rolled into a ball, continuing to cry like a toddler. 

Until she remembered. Her promise to Valga. Or more accurately, Valga’s victim.

She wasn’t a victim. Tears were for victims. She was a perpetrator. 

She was responsible for that girls death. The one mother had flayed alive. She looked at her hand, her mind projecting the ever dripping blood. 

In an instant, her tears dried. She wiped her face, sniffling for another few seconds, before hardening herself. 

People like her didn’t deserve tears. And she couldn’t afford to cry right now. She had a promise to fulfill. She couldn’t die yet. She swallowed, letting her fire return to her. 

Her first task was restoring her ability to move. She took a deeper look at her wounded foot. 

It was at an unnatural angle turned around, with shards of broken bone sticking out if it side. The wound was so bad, she was sure part of it had been ripped off from the force of the fall, and was holding onto her leg by a few muscles and bone. Swallowing hard her mind raced. She could barely think at all, but she forced herself to calm down. Lilly had been tutored in the arts of alchemy, medicine, and had basic knowledge in restoration. She always wanted to be a Doctor by trade. The girl quickly formulated a plan. It...wasn’t perfect, but it would make her somewhat mobile again. 

First, she took off her expensive rune thread robe. It would limit her movement in the cave, and she needed the fabric. Luckily enough, she was wearing pretty covering undergarments, a set of red line pants, and a shirt. She quickly fashioned a few sets of makeshift bandage, covering the more basic wounds she had gathered over the course of the night, covering them tightly (at this point she cared more about bleeding out then pressure). Next, she took out her leather alchemy satchel she always carried with her. At first, the young girl was worried she might have lost it in the mad dash, but it seemed the gods still had some favor for her left, as it had landed near where she had fallen. Inside were two stamina droughts, which she chugged.

It only took some basic tasks, and the tearing of her robe with her teeth to feel the exhaustion that had set in. 

Alongside the stamina droughts, there was a duo of health potions, the red liquid visible, among the plain vials.

She grabbed the largest bandage she had fashioned...and prepared herself, placing the rags into her mouth and biting down on them as hard as she could. For the pain before would be nothing compared to what she was about to do to herself. 

Without really thinking, she grabbed her ruined foot, twisted it around to its proper place, and slammed it back into its socket, all with a sickening crunch of her foot bones going back into position. The scream, louder than before, was drowned out by her voice, and the utter agony from this action threatened to kill right there from pure shock. Quickly, holding the foot in place with her left hand, she grabbed the first health potion, and directly applied it’s content onto the wound, pouring it. She used then both her hands to steady it, while the burning sensation of health potion being used directly on a limb for healing, added onto her agony. As the red liquid stewed on her rapidly regenerating wound, Lilly grabbed one of the cloth bandages she had made, and wrapped it around her foot tightly she could feel the fabric on bone.  She made a very tight knot, before she herself chugged down the remaining health potion before she fainted from the pain and trauma. 

She felt the underground water on her body, as she lay there for a good few minutes, channeling a weak healing spell throughout her body, taking away bits of pain, as well as the spell helping the regeneration from her healing potion. 

After about two minutes of this, and her entire magicka  eserves drained, she didn’t waste  another second, the girl, without hesitation, pushed herself up, rising from the ground, as she tried her best not to put too much pressure on the foot. It still hurt like hell. But the pain was bearable, unlike before. Her foot also now felt like it wouldn’t break apart by putting an incy amount of pressure onto it. She quickly retrieved what little belongings she could, spat out the gag, before entering the darkness of the cave, leaving the Bloodmoon’s luminescence. It was all black until she raised her hand, using the other to support her wounded leg. A wisp of glowing magelight emerged from her hand, as she cast the elementary spell with ease. The bright, white light illuminated what had previously been shrouded by darkness. 

As it turns out, the entire cavern was covered in the tibia high water. It was spacious, but not super large, in actuality. It spread around for a good dozen or so meters, with the stagnant water staying almost still around her leg. She could see a small tunnel, that left out of the cave to her right, she automatically made her way too.  It wasn’t that remarkable, patches of moss sat around the cave’s walls, and the mouth she had fallen down.

Barring of course the carvings that covered the cave’s walls, of course.

To the young girl’s wonder, and awe, the magelight’s glow had revealed  the Cavern’s walls were encrusted with dozens of strange carvings, almost bas-reliefs in quality, for they were seemingly made with tools. Nervously, the girl limped forward towards the nearest group of them, with almost child-like glee, and confusion. Her hands traced around the wall of carvings, feeling the moist cavern wall in her soaked hand, tracing over the carved images. They weren’t very abstract at all, but due to the moss that covered the dilepated cavern, some of them were very hard to make out. 

The first image was that of a marsh….? Water had been drawn, a steady, black wave of water that flowed around tall grass, strange trees that jutted from the ground, other vegetation lingered around, and floating bugs, perhaps mosquitoes, had been depicted flying around it all.  

Another image...was a temple? It wasn’t like any temple from Cyrodiil, but she read into the religious connotations, as on top of the structure itself was an altar, which held a bloody, human heart (poorly drawn she might add) in its cradle. The temple itself, or the drawing of said temple, was made from large bricks stacked onto each other, which held up a large walkway that lead straight to the bloody altar. 

There was an assortment of nightmarish lizards carved onto the wall. Reptilians. Four legged monitor lizards with spitting tongues. Ones that stood on their hindlegs, and walked over a lake of water. Fierce Dragon-like monsters, that walked on all fours, with long, narrow heads that ended in razor sharp teeth. Another walked on two, large and muscular, but having almost comically small arms, and it was drawn with feathers on certain places. She couldn’t say if they were meant to be allegorical, or depict real life creatures that once lurked in Nirn. 

And finally, the centerpiece of the wall, a great tree, carved into the black stone. Everything else seemed like adornments in comparison to it’s splendor. Just looking at this part of the cave carving made the Countess...shiver, almost like a draft of wind had suddenly found itself in the partially submerged cave. It’s...features were hard to make out, the more her eyes gazed upon it, a throbbing, bloody headache began to form around her head. Her vision began to blur, and an intense feeling of foreboding fell over her. Immense dread. It was...large...so very large. It dwarfed the other carvings on the wall by far, and parts of it seemed to be painted, although the eons the carving stood here had removed most of its sheen. It was a very strange looking tree, and very detailed. Four gnarly placed roots stood, holding the tree up, almost like it was supposed to be legs, and were stylised to have wooden feet. Tinges of grey paint lingered on the roots in places. It’s trunk was mighty indeed but twisted in a sense, being an almost circular ball of wood, black blotches of paint still drawn across it’s stern, with countless eyes being carved into its center. Dozens of sickly branches, ending with narrow, pointed hands, with bits of red paint intermingled onto the carving. Around it, hooded creatures crawled in it’s worship, but they were featureless, and Lilly couldn’t make out what they were supposed to represent. 

The image gave her shivers. 

Gripping her throbbing head, Lilly left the wall of carvings, for if she stayed, she felt like the bas-relief tree would consume her. She made her way to the small, tunnel. There was no other way out of the submerged cave. Examining it further, it looks like she wouldn’t fit upright. Groaning the girl got onto all fours, as she began to crawl forward through the small opening, letting the tepid water drench her limbs. With her head now close to the ground, she can smell the liquid; a putrid scent of ancient, motionless, cave water. The nausea once more formed in the pit of her stomach, as she suddenly had the urge to throw up once more, but she held it into, shutting off her nose. She crawled deeper into the tunnel, the pale magelight her only guide through this hidden subterranean realm.

Her horror ever growing. 

For there were dozens more carvings on the walls of the small tunnel. Of large Reptilian abominations. Queer looking humanoids, with the features of lizards and Crocdiles, perhaps...Argonians? They looked similar, but not quite, and they crawled on the ground on all fours like base beasts. Actual humans, being hunted by those things with crude looking spears. Mer, distant and haunty. A burning city. As her eyes trailed from carving to carving, the pitt in her stomach grew. Lilly’s mind’s eye kept flashing the image of the great tree. 

More terror gripped her as she began to realize something the longer she crawled. On my knees like a beast. She thought.

The angles and smoothness of the tunnel she went down. They were far too perfect, too smooth to have been made by nature.

Her mind went back to the crawling reptiles, and how she herself was being forced to walk by the tunnel dimensions. The girl pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind and went further down, before the madding revelation consumed her completely. Perhaps it’s not so bad to be covered in darkness...

Only the Gods knew how long she crawled in the writhing filth of the partially submerged tunnel, holding back the urge to breath with her nostrils to avoid inhaling the stench of putrid water.  Occasionally she felt something...skitter past her hands or feet, but she soon grew used to the feeling and ignored it, after a few nasty surprises. She went further and further away from that cave with the Great Tree, and consciously choose to go deeper into the darkness. The darkness keeps me safe, away from the red light…

After what could have been an eternity..she heard something. It was faint, almost like her heartbeat. But the deeper she went, the louder the noise had gotten. Then it started to sound like shuffling. And then moaning. A small chorus of moaning. The closer she crawled, the more she wanted to run back to the relative safety of the cavern, and let the tree devour her. But she pushed onward, for the sake of the dead. At long last, beyond her magelight, she could the distant appearance of torch scones. Dispelling her magelight, she brought herself deeper into the ground, enough that now her face was partially submerged in the disgusting water, as she edged closer to the tunnel's exist to see what could see.

It was...a simple chamber. Made from the same black stone of the cavern, but like the tunnel, it was an artificial construct.  It was too smooth to be anything else. The torch scones she had seen earlier were indeed real, but instead of a wholesome red flame, sickly, white lights flickered. It wasn't as big as the cave she had fallen into too, but it was by no means small, and the water sat a tiny bit deeper here then the cavern and the tunnel. 

No the chamber was unremarkable. It was the things inside the cavern....

People.

Scores and scores of people. Almost all of them were women of various ages, but she could see a few men among the crowd, or more accurately put, the pile. 

Though spacious otherwise, the amount of people flooded the entire chamber. Was there a hundred people? Two hundred? Five Hundred? A thousand?! She couldn't tell. Their hands were all bound by thick twine, with no consistency of the way they were tied. Despite it's spacious size otherwise,The pile was an ever expanding and moving pile of flesh. People struggled to get out of their restraints, hitting, and throwing other people around in there desperate attempts. People writhed in the putrid water, like worms. Some of them wore bits of clothing, most were completely naked, their genitals exposed.  She wanted to say they were peasants, but even the poorest of the poorest didn't look this horrible.

Recognition hit the girl. This was the group that had been herded off before, right as the main ritual for the Black Festival! Why had they been brought to this cave? 

The first thing that Lilly noticed before even understand their condition. It reeked. The stench. Oh gods, the stretch. A nightmarish mixture of blood, piss, feces, and rotting flesh. It wharfed around the room, enough it threatened to overwhelm the girl. How long Then the sounds. If she ever got out of here, she had no doubt they would haunt her nightmares forever. Some people sobbed. Others screamed in terror, the noise like how pigs squealed before they were butchered. Some talked amongst each other, trying to comfort their loved ones in this dark hour. 

Her first instinct was to rush in there and start to untie people. She would run in their, and rescue as many people she could. The young girl snarled, she was readying herself, preparing to push off from the entrance into the chamber...

But she stopped. She froze into place. An icy grip manifested, preventing her from taking breaths for a few seconds. It was because her eyes had trailed too another feature of the chamber, that the mound of living humans had previously stolen her attention from. 

It was a gateway. A doorway of black stone. It was monolithic in a sense. Nothing more then two large, black doors made from solid stone that currently lay closed, bare, besides the occasional word carved onto it's outside in some script Lilly had never seen before. She noticed the pool of water in the room, surrounded it in a semicircle, the water going underneath it's stone bottom.

A terror like never before gripped the girl. Looking at the tree had begun to cause her migraines, but gazing at this door filled her with such dread, it prevented her from moving.

And then...silence suddenly ascended. Everyone else in the room felt the same dread as the noblewoman. No child screamed for her mother. No little boy begged his father to help. The two lovers abandoned there sarnades, and became as quiet as the grave. 

Ring. A subdued chime echoed. Muffled, for it came from behind the stone doorway. 

Another one came from beyond, in the darkness. And then another. Then foul chittering. Noises. Noises the girl had never heard. Laughter? 

To make things worse...the doorway itself began to screech. The sound of stone ripping across itself echoed, as slowly, but surely the shut door...began to open itself. 

At that second, the room erupted into chaos. People began to howl like madmen, others cursed and then prayed to the gods for deliverance. Children wept, as parents cried themselves, rubbing against their children so they knew their parents were with them. 

The countess had regained control of her body, as she frantically pushed herself deep into the tunnel, away from the white lights of the chamber. The chorus of terrified people rose to such a degree the tunnel was reverberating from the sheer power of all the noise. Lilly began to cry again, as she covered her ears, biting her tongue to prevent noise from escaping.

She was afraid. I’m such a useless coward...

The doors had fully opened. The noises coming from the chamber were unspeakable. She had forced herself to stop crying out of necessity, and began to whisper her sister’s rhyme  “The little girl skips, and skips down the golden road, down by the tree.” The girl closed her eyes. And though she was gripping her ears tightly some sounds pierced her vice lock, causing images to play in her mind’s eye.

The writhing reptiles crawling on the watery ground, speaking in tongues older than the trees. 

“The little girl skips and skips until she reaches the dirty fork, down by the tree.” 

A child’s head being smashed into the wall, as it’s crunch echoed beyond the screams of its parents, compounded by cruel, deep laughter.

“The little girl skips and skips, she’s lost in the forest, the blackness of night rising above her, with the hungry moon high in the sky.” 

Women being dragged beyond the door as they broke their own arms, trying to free their bonds. Their nails splintered and broke, as they tried to grip the stone ground with their claws.

“The little girl skips and skips, she finds a cave...” 

The reptiles fell to the floor, lifting their claws hands into high above in thanks to One Below, chanting verses from a primal age. Some began to celebrate. 

 "The little girls skips and skips, down the lake, and finds the gate, burdened by black stone." 

A primeval roar echoed, as the unworthy were being feasted on, the weak, the elderly, the infirm, the children, they were devoured. Their arms and legs being torn off, their eyes mutilated, their stomachs punctured, their heads saved for last… 

“They take her. The little girl skips and skips no more…”

***

Lilly eyes opened, only to find darkness. She was barely able to kill the scream in her throat. She feverishly glanced at her surroundings. She was still deep within the tunnel she had found shelter in. Still alive. She wanted to feel relief, but she couldn’t. She was still trapped in this nightmare. Not wanting to linger here any longer, the girl went back to crawling and inched her way back to the cavern. 

It was still illuminated by the pale torch scones...but it had undergone a dramatic transformation. There was no pile of bodies. No human feces. No blood. No Piss. No gibbering reptiles.

The horrible gate stood, but it was now closed, it’s black, obsidian doors, locked shut. The stagnant water stood, reaching a little bit below her shins, and was clear as freshly fallen rain. No pollution from blood, bone, shit, it was clear, and hung by the black gate in a neat semi circle. In the middle of the center of the room, instead of a mountain of flesh, lay a large, wooden metal chest. 

It looked ancient. Rusted, and covered in strange markings. 

Curious, but after all she had seen, the girl approached it with extreme caution. For all she knew, it would come alive and eat her. Lilly poked it.

Nothing happened.

She went closer, putting her eat to it’s hood.

No sounds.

With a reluctant sigh, the girl found her courage. She grasped the Chest’s hood, and lifted it up, the contraption seemingly having no locks.

An amazing sight awaited her.

It was ...treasure? A large pile of shimmering objects sat in the fortified chest, the sheer amount of wealth almost radiating it’s own glow. Dozens, if not hundreds of large uncut gemstones, rubies, emeralds, diamonds, everything. A large assortment of exotic jewelry; rings, necklaces, bracelets, bracers, strange goblets, made from gilded, green-like gold, done in patterns in styles that vaguely looked...Argonian? It was also loaded with a few dozen scrolls, made from what looked like...papyrus, bound by golden lockets. Circlets made from the same strange gilded gold, alongside crowns and a full on truncheon! The chest itself was very large, and it was filled to the brim with these such treasures.  The young grasped it, holding the assortment of gilded wealth in her hands, as her eyes glistened. Even in this state, seeing a single pile of wealth at this magnitude shocked her....and then the blood began to drip around it. She looked at her hands, and say the pool of blood from before form around it. And it began to spray all over the chest and what it carried.

First she felt fear once again.

And then...understanding.

The entire tepid pool around the chest, began to turn red, and the crimson liquid dripped from the chest. And then, as if it wasn't there, the blood had disappeared as soon as Lilly rubbed her eyes.

The girl knew what it meant. What all of it meant. With pure anger, she slammed down the Chest's hood, closing the metal container with a look of utter disgust. 

She had made her way away from the chamber, through a tunnel larger than the one before. Unlike the previous instances of travel in the place, she knew she was ascending. Perhaps this part of the cavern had been made for humanoids. It gave her hands, and feet more room, and she felt far less claustrophobic. She still consciously made sure to put as little pressure onto her wounded foot as possible, even with the pain being little more than occasional jolts now. She continued down the larger hallways, ascending the cavern, using her tiny wisp of magelight to guide her. She hadn't encountered a single soul since the chamber, and barring her footsteps, and some whisperous noise a mile away from her, that she didn't even know was real, the silence was deafening. The higher she went, the less vertigo she felt, her migraine beginning to unravel. She didn't know how deep the tunnel from before had taken her, but she knew was getting closer and closer to the top.

She still saw infrequent wall carvings, some being simple carvings, others bas reliefs like the image of the Great Tree down in the first cavern, but remembering her experiences with them so far, so decided it was unsafe for her eyes to linger on them for more than a few seconds.

After walking for what seemed like a good forty minutes, she came across another chamber. By now her legs, still burdened by her injury were becoming harder and harder to walk on, even with the stamina droughts she had swallowed. 

To her horror, the chamber was submerged in even more water than before. In fact, there was a slight drop off from where she was standing on, into the murky depths below. Across from her and behind the long pool, an ascending, wide stairwell lead up from the water, to another tunnel entrance.

But...she could hear, wholesome noises. Birds chirping. The whistle of leaves and the wind. Noises of the outside. A faint breeze also wracked across her face, as she edged closer to the water's surface. It came from across where she stood. A faint draft of wind.

She was almost to the exit. 

Without measuring how deep the water was, Lilly plunged into it's depths, with reckless abandonment. Glee filled her, as it went straight up to her breasts. Deep, but enough she could slowly push herself through the depths without needing to resort to swimming. She used her arms to push herself through the water, splashes erupting around her. She smiled, the first real smile of the night. She was about halfway through the body of water,  She was so euphoric, giddy, that was about to leave this accursed place that she had not stopped to ponder.

What was the purpose of this pool? 

A sudden force threw the young girl to the side straight into the water, as something violently pushed the Countess, as it leapt from the water, causing a a stream of water to erupt around her in a wave. She fell into the large pond, as she instinctively pushed herself backwards. Before she could muster up anything. A great figure loomed over the girl. It was as if one of the carvings had come too life.

The nightmarish Lizard walked on all fours. It was scaly, slimy green, and honestly didn't look that different from what a modern day Water Lizard looked like. Except for the fact it was giant. It was perhaps ten feet long, and moderately tall, it dwarfed any Cyrodilic River Dragon she had seen. It extended it's forked tongue, as it's red eyes blazed. It felt like the beast was grinning at her. 

Without wasting another second, the colossal water lizard raked it's claws across the young girl's face, throwing her to the floor, and completely submerging her in water. Pain erupted almost immediately, as bits of the girls face were ripped clean off her, leaving behind a trio of large, jagged gorges on her face.  She cried out in agony, her voice being consumed by the water as she gurgled it, the putrid filling her lungs. She struggled in the water, the claw marks began to flair up. It wasn't the average burning sensation that came over for a few seconds after getting cut, it was like the wound itself was on fire. And soon the rest of her body felt the same. 

Even in her feverish state the young girl tried to push herself up. If-If I can reach the edge She dragged herself across the water spitting out and coughing up a large mouthful of the putrid pond water, as her body began to set itself on fire, creating a strange equilibrium in her body, the extreme heat of her insides, clashed with the now freezing water. She was stopped when bounding Lizard threw her into the water once more, using it's tail to whip the girl into the waves. It was toying with her. Toying with it's prey.

Lilly landed in the water, her eyes darkening, as more water pushed itself into her lungs.  She fell limp, like her body had finally given way to the events of the night. Perhaps...it was better now to sleep. Her eyes closed, and the last thing she saw before blacking out, was a scaly, reptilian hand reaching for her. 

**** 

As soon as the girl's eyes had opened, she began to wail. A wail of pain. She convulsed, her legs and hands flailing around in terror. A thick layer of sweat coated her face, and she felt heavy, linen bandages wrapped around a majority of her face. Flies flew around her face, she could feel there tiny hairs rubbing against her skin. She felt hands forcing her down, which caused her to struggle more. Glimmers of light pieced the linen covering her eyes, she could see bits and pieces through her binding. Her face felt like it was on fire, as did her entire body. 

"Calm yourself Lady Quentas!" A woman spoke. "Calm yourself dear! You're safe. You're safe now..." 

"DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME!" The young girl struggled against the distant shapes that were holding her down. It was as if she hadn't even heard the soothing voice. 

"She's still delirious..." The same feminine voice from before called out, "Vulcan! I need you to get more wet towels, along with more of the icebbam quickly, please!" 

"Mum." Another voice, this one way more masculine. Before she could scream again, a soft, gentle hand touched her arm. 

"My lady Quentas. You must relax. You are safe." A girl's voice, soft, and melodically. Lilly tried to struggle, the girls grip tightened, "You are safe, understand? Nothing can hurt you here."  Lilly pushed against the weight of the other people, until she couldn't push anymore. The woman stroked her bandage covered hands. "You...are...safe..." 

Finally relaxing, Lilly felt the comforting softness of a pillowed bed underneath her. She glanced from side too side, taking in all she could underneath the bandages. Rays of light from distant windows shone daylight through it's gaps. A table sat beside her. The people who had been pushing her down, relaxed, still gripping, sternly, but gently. They wore brown and grey robes, and had their heads shaved like monks. The woman who had Lilly in the embrace of her hand seemed quite young, just a few older then the countess itself...which had a certain queerness to it, as the woman in question had a full head of grey hair, alongside a pair of no less grey eyes, which were very kindly. The one across had the same grey hair, but she looked much older, with a face of wrinkles. Her face, however, was sternly kind. 

A fear entered her as she shouted, "Are-are we in Chorrol?!" 

She was pushed down once more, by the gentlewoman, "Shhhhh dear. It's alright, you aren't. This is Aquilla Priory. Me, my mother, my brother and the monks have been taking care of you. We weren't even sure that you were ever going to wake up." 

"Who-who are you?" She swallowed hard. Even now, she could barely talk. Her throat was very parched, and her forehead felt like it was going to burn off her scalp. It was a struggle to keep her eyes awake. 

"Decima Griseo. At your service, Countess. This-"

"I can introduce myself, Decima." The older woman knelt beside the bed ridden, girl. Her stern frown, melted into a smile. "Tanaquil Griseo, at your service."

The man holding her shoulder, relaxed fully. His face was withered, and ancient, complete with a massive, white fluffy beard. He gave her another kind smile, "Brother Aquisis. I'm pleased to see that you are awake young lady." The other monk, a much younger Orsimer, held a perpetual frown, but he wasn't unkind, "Brother Gron. You're a tough pup. You can fight this." 

Relief filled her. She knew the Griseo family. They were quite wealthy landowners, but occupied an awkward spot in Chorrol's hierarchy. They were new money. They held titles, but those titles were apparently hollow, there family had been commoners just two generations before. She had been told there bloodline wasn't even a bloodline.  She couldn't remember how they'd had found their fortune, but they were some of the biggest lumber exporters in all of the Heartland.  Her mother had talked very dismissively about them.

But more importantly, she was just glad to see friendly smiles. 

"I'm pleased to make your acquaintance." She softly said, as she softly smiled, before that smile turned to a look of despair.

It suddenly hit her. The Cave.

In a sudden second, the young girl began to cough, and her body shake on the bed. 

"Malacath's Hairy Toenails, hold her down! She's having another seizure! Come on pup, stay with us"  The large Orc, pushed down on her, as Brother Aquisis took her other side. "Whatever poison afflicts her, it still hasn't left her body! Young lady fight it!" He began to sweat. Just then the door slammed open, as the man from before ran too the bed. Through her blinds, she could see a vial in his hand. "Sorry I'm late!" 

The mound of bodies.

Tanaquil spat, as she grabbed Lilly's feet, pushing them downward, "By the Nine, bring that fucking thing over you slug!" 

The Black Door. 

"Eight! It's eight!" Aquisis, nervously began to glance around them. 

"Oh please, do you see any black robed High Elves around! To hell with them!" The woman spat, her voice becoming tense.

The Water Lizard. 

"Focus, everyone!" Decima yelled, she pushed down on Lilly's chest, as the girl's pupils dilated, turning over, exposing only the whites. Foam began to form around her mother, and her shakes turned into full on spasms around her body. It was nothing but endless pain. Decima grabbed the vial from her brother, who had taken over holding the young countess down. The young girl had crawled ontop of the girl, straddling her chest, it felt heavy, but kept her neck from ripping itself apart. She spoke, gently once more, "Liliana I know you can hear me." 

The girl was starting to choke on the foam, which was now overflowing. "Fight it." The girl opened Lilly's nostrils, sending shivers of pain down her spine, and applied the potion through her nasal. The group held her down for about ten more seconds, before the alchemical concoction began to go into effect. Lilly's violent spasms became violent tossing, and then the foam in her mouth stopped forming, allowing the Countess to spit it out. She was barely able to stutter out, "What's-what's-what is happening-....to me?" The sweat had once more began to drench her entire body.

Gron was quick and punctual, as his grip loosened around the girl’s shoulder. “Venom is coursing through your body. It’s been in there since we found you. It’s fiery, almost flame made manifest. I’ve never quite seen consistent temperatures like yours before. We’ve been treating it with Icebalms, trying to fight the flame with ice.  It’s a miracle your still alive, pup.”

“Gron!” Decima shouted, her voice echoing across the room. 

“I won’t lie to her! It doesn't look good, my lady.” His frown mellowed further, and a look of sadness spread across his face.

Tanaquil’s face became downcast, as she said, as softly as she could. “We need you to tell us everything that happened to you, Lady Quentas.” 

“We should have started with this!” 

“Vulcan!”

The boy shrugged, as he began to use a wet towel to dip the young girl’s forehead. Despite his crotchetiness, his face was clearly concerned. By now, she had almost fully adjusted to the fact she could only see through small slits in the linen bandages. The young countess gulped. 

“I...I-I was attacked in the woods. By some creature I believe...I-I don’t remember much. Or what it was.” 

She remembered everything. She just wasn’t able to relay that night, less they think she was both half-dead, and mad. 

Tanaquil gave her a look of disbelief, before she asked, “You had no guards with you?!”

She shook her head. “I-I don’t know. I don’t remember anything, besides the fact I left Castle Chorrol that day to walk in the woods. I often take hikes by myself.” 

The group exchanged glances of shock with one another, with clear disbelief spreading amongst the group. Tanaquil placed a hand to her the young girl’s cheek, as she smiled, “Okay. You don’t have to remember now, dearier. You just need to get better.” She got up from the bed. She was clearly exhausted herself. “Gron was saying earlier the attacks were happening in intervals of eight hours. One of us will stay with the young lady, and watch her. And we’ll gather here again in seven hours. In the meantime, i’ll pen a letter to Chorrol and the Countess, telling them the young lady is safe-

Lilly’s hand went straight for Tanaquil’s arm, as she locked her in an icy vice grip. Lilly voice became a scream, “Do not tell my mother where I am! They can’t know i’m here!” She began to sob, tears staining her facial bandages further “I’m begging you!”. Tanaquil turned, surprise wracking her face as it to the others. She didn’t know how to properly respond, as the girl started to cry uncontrollably into her chest.  The older Imperial woman wrapped her arms around the broken girl, saying, and began to rock her, while the others watched. “Shhhhhh. It’s okay. Shhhhhh, dearie it’s alright. Whatever you want. We’ll keep you safe. Nobody else will know your here if that’s what you want.”

It was when the girl had calmed down, the older Imperial woman had left the girl's embrace. The rest of the group gave her looks of pity, as they too left. Gron was the one that was supposed to stay with her, but before she could leave, Lilly's hand grabbed Decima's. The young land owner was jolted in surprise, by her touch. She turned around, with a small smile on her lips, "Yes Liliana?" 

The young girl muttered, "Can you stay with me?" 

The grey haired girl squished her small palm with her own hand, "If that's what you want, my lady." 

Gron nodded his head, giving a rare smile, as he left his seat beside Lilly's bed, offering it to Decima. As he went beside Brother Aquisis, she overheard a small argument between the two duo, 

"I'm telling you it was a Cockatrice!"

"There hasn't been a Cockatrice in these parts for a thousand years!" 

Her focus went to the young woman standing beside her, palm in hand. Lilly stuttered out, 

"Your hair. It's like a waterfall of ash" 

The older girl smiled, laughing, "Grey is my color, my lady."

Lilly swallowed, "If-if you don't mind me asking, how'd did your family find me in the first place?" 

A frown formed on the older girls lips, "It wasn't us. It was brother Aquisis. He found you slumped over by the dirt road, he-" She hesitated for a moment, before she spoke truthfully, "he-mistook your for a dumped corpse. Until he saw your chest rising. That's how bad of a shape you were in when they found you. You don't remember?" Lilly shook her head, she was being truthfully, all she recalled was being thrown into that pool of water by the water lizard, and blacking out. She stroked her bandaged hand. "My family and I were praying to the Nine-eight". She corrected herself, "at the Priory when they brought you in. We own the land the Priory is on, so we often travel here for a couple days for a low expense pilgrimage." She gave her a funny face, causing the young girl to laugh. "We've been helping them care for you, for...four days now, I believe."

"I've been asleep...that long?"

She nodded her head sadly. "Brother Gron was convinced you would never wake up." She paused, before realizing how harsh that sounded coming out, "He prayed with us, of course, just as much as the rest of us, if not more so. He isn't unkind...just honest I suppose. Father would have stayed with us to care for you, but he had urgent business in Bruma, and had to leave."

'Thank you." The young countess, said, tears forming on her face. "Thank you so much."

The other girl blushed a bit, before waving her hand, and rubbing the back of her grey head, grinning "Think nothing of it. What kind of citizens would we be if we didn't help a Countess of Chorrol in need?"

Lilly went cold, as did her voice, "Was it because i'm a Quentas then?" 

"What?" Decima looked at her in a strange way. Before she put her finger to mouth. She blushed in shame, "Oh heavens no, that came out wrong. Very wrong." She fidgeted in her pocket, before bringing out a silvery ring, with an emerald nestled in it's middle. It bore the script, "Leaves fall". It was Lilly's Sigit ring. "We didn't know who you were, until you let this thing go, about two days in. Mother told me it was a Quentas Sigit Ring. You had it in a vicegrip, refusing to let it go, until we managed to pry it away from you."

"Why...? Why were you caring for some no named stray?"  The young girl's eyes went downward. The other girl kept up her smile, "Mother and father have always told me "Children should never have to ask for help."" Decima patted the young girl on the head, still carrying her small palm in her hand. 

The young girl looked down, blushing underneath her bandages, before she looked back up. A face of scales awaited her, and jagged teeth roared, as a burst of blood and peeled erupted from Decima's head, revealing a long narrow snout of fangs, and a pair of hungry red eyes, they thrusted forward, as Lilly screamed, as the teeth clamped around her bandaged face.

****

The Spymaster awoke with a scream, as she bolted up with a look of pure terror in her eyes. She was gripping her own neck with enough force to break  it, so she instantly threw her hands to the side, and began to massage her swollen, sweaty neck. Her face was drenched in sweat, and she gave laboured breathing. Glancing at her surroundings, she was able to confirm she was just dreaming.  She placed her hand to her sweaty forehead, and began to clench her fists.  It 's been months since the last one...I was hoping they were gone for good. No such luck. 

Lilly got out of her bed, and began to pace around the room, whispering to herself.  She spent a few minutes pacing around, before she swore. She needed a relaxant. She hurriedly grabbed a simple red robe, putting it on, as she walked around her room in the Quentas family manor.  She walked past the furniture, and headed to the balcony, pushing her way through the silk curtains. 

The moons shone down light upon Nirn, and the stars danced in the sky. Her tiny terrace in the sky had a small table with currently held a ornate silver knife, a rocking chair, a rare metallic telescope imported from Morrowind,  a silver mirror for rituals, and a shelf of various herbs. 

The wave of fresh air made her feel a little better, but not enough that she felt safe 

She grabbed one of containers, the one which was labelled as "Silver Weed".  She then produced a metal pipe, stuffing it with the silvery herb. She brought it too her mouth, lite it with a snap of her fingers, and began to take long droughts, inhaling the smoke straight into her lungs.

It stung for a second...before she started to fell euphoric. 

Getting a buzz on was one of the highlights of her day. Letting out a sigh of relief, she sunk into her rocking chair, glaring at the stars. Splotches of red intermingled by the moon, but she pushed them back to the recces of her mind. Her body began to fully relax, as she lounged down. She inhaled several more times, her limbs becoming filled with euphoria each time she did. She fell limp, relaxing into the chair with the outside breeze on her face. She began to fall asleep, it would be a dreamless, deep sleep. 

Until she noticed her reflection in the mirror just beyond her. 

The Spymaster had grown to be a stunning woman, no boasts needed. Her gorgeous hair was platinum, like starlight. Her lips, an inviting cherry smile of desire. Her skin, just the right shade of white making her look like a porcelain doll.  And her eyes, by the Nine Divine, her eyes. The Quentas family eyes, an impossibly deep coloration of blue as if the ocean has manifested itself in her sparkling eyes. 

It made her seethe in endless anger. She wanted to wear her hair short. Wear it like a soldier again.

“Wearing my hair like a whore. Lipstick and powder like a lady. My eyelashes like a dancer.  Letting men and woman use me like some toy. A fate worse then death for a soldier.”  Or perhaps I was never a soldier? The woman spat. She placed the knife to her bangs, and was seriously tempted to cut the silvery, white hair, her hand trembling with the knife in hand. It disgusted her. Truly it did. It reminded her of how she used to carry herself when she was pampered brat living in splendor and her own palace...which she had become again. She glanced at the decadent wealth surrounding her, which had all been payed for with the blood of the innocent, and she cursed her family. 

Before she could begin tearing at her silvery stands, she stopped herself, and gazed into the mirror, getting over her fear. She promised herself when she joined the Legion she would't be afraid again. With a sad smile, she let the magic leave her body.

 When she gazed into it’s reflective quality, she felt immediate relief.

The jagged scars hadn’t changed at all.

The three claws of the Great Water Lizard had rended her face apart, parts of the bones were still exposed; an eternal reminder of her first Black Festivity. It had partially healed over, but the venom inside it’s claws had left their mark. Three, jagged lines stretched across her face, tinged with dark, unwholesome green. Parts of her lip had been torn off,  revealing parts of her normally hidden teeth, and the line stretched across her eyebrows had never regrown after they were ripped off. Her nostrils, the left portion, had been torn open, she could sometimes even see lingering traces of snot, buried just underneath, as well. Her left eye, once her mark of greatness, the sign of her blood and lineage, the ocean deep blue eyes the ladies of House Quentas wore with pride, had been polluted with the stench of the Lizard’s poison, now a sickly green hue sat, stirring inside her eyes, intermingling with the corrupted blue. It sometimes oozed with puss at night, and she felt the pain flame up once more.  

Her face was left permanently disfigured with the massive scars.

The wounds had been sewn shut with rune thread, after it had rejected countless restoration spells, so they had to heal it with conventional medicine. An extremely painful process of weeks, in the Priory, as she writhed and wiggled in bed fighting the poison and infections, her mangled face covered in bandages, and her body wracked with fevers. She spent her fifteenth birthday by herself, in utter agony. 

She never forgot what she had overheard one of the servants the Griseo had brought, saying to another servant by her bed.

“Poor thing. Perhaps it would be a mercy to let her die, a child should not be left in so much suffering…” 

This pain and humiliation was just the first steps of atonement for her. She deserved far worse. She gazed into the night sky, gazing at the moon, seeing crimson intermingled on her hands, a never ending tide of dripping blood falling off her hand.  Most of the people who saved her that week were convinced she was  still going to perish during the night, but she had endured. Her foot healed, her bruises and cut mended, her face fixed to an acceptable state, and her fevers conquered. 

Her family wasn’t made aware of her survival until three weeks after the...festival, and by then, the young girl had already made her way to the Imperial City, to join the Imperial Legion as a combat medic. It’s where she met General Tullius and Legate Grim-Maw, her friends. She had been tutored since a young age in the arts of alchemy and medicine, a slightly below academy level in alchemy, medicine, and apprentice understanding in restoration was all that was needed. She would devote her life to helping the people of the Heartland, using her family name only when it was convenient to do so. That is why she had signed up with the Imperial Legion. 

Or perhaps it was because she had remembered what mother had told her ages ago about the ancient organisation, "The Legion was for freaks and outcasts who have no other place to go within the Empire." 

She had always wondered why her mother had wordlessly consented to the young girl using her family name in official matters,  stained blood money from Chorrol being sent for her schooling and tutors despite the fact she had in essence, run away and abandoned the family.  It was clear, when she had forced the girl into this predicament. Use her influence as Spymaster to bind the Empire, and the Emperor himself to the whims of their coven. 

Lilly gripped the railings of her balcony, as she gazed into the moonlight. Regardless of how things turned out when it came to her service in the army, she would find her true calling within the shadowy Everseeing Eye of the Empire, and her path would be paved with blood from then on. 

First for Mede, then Amaund, and finally, Krojun and Dales. All power-mad beasts.  

Mede and Dales hid their desire for power behind a veneer of well intentions.  Amaund was just a psychopathic killer.  And Krojun? She didn't even want to think about what he was capable of.  She saw her mother in all of them. Or perhaps she just projected her mother into them?  

Was that it? Had she gone from serving the whims of her mother, to then being a blade to all these cruel people, then serving her again?  A cruel unintended loop. 

The Imperial Spymaster raised her gloved hand, clenching it with anger, into the sky, and her facial structure was restored, the beautiful Lady "Lilly Quentas" returning...until she brought it back, letting the illusion magic slip from her fingers. It was powerful magic to be sure, but ultimately just an illusion, one of appearance and of actual physicality. The charm she wore on her neck, a relic of the long past, made by the flesh sculptors of the Summerset Isles, casted a speck faint red light, before being consumed by the darkness.  And then the hideous image cast itself to the mirror once more. A reflection of what she truly was. On the outside, and the inside. 

Liliana of the Penitus Oculatus. 

Lilly...Lilly was dead. She had died that night, when the Bloodmoon danced in the sky, along with all those innocent people.  She gazed into a mirror. The woman in the dress was nothing more than a different person wearing her skin. A long distant memory that deserved to be buried. 

Perhaps that it was she felt a kinship to Lorgar. They were forced to play the role of two different people. 

She had imprisoned, murdered, and punished those she felt were evil throughout her career. Like her mother. Like Valga. Like Milly. That gave enough justification for her choice.  She couldn’t doubt herself now. 

You could only change the world, by forcing it to change. No exception. 

She had every intention to fulfill the promise she made that night. She would carve out her "sisters" hearts, and remove their taint from the forests of the Chorrol. 

And she would use the Emperor to do just that. 

[TheCzarsHussar]

Imperial City, Palace District
Client Barracks

Kyne, not Kynareth, damn not Kynareth, was spilling her words out. The storms of these southlands were soft and infinitely forgiving and still to Corvus it would be sacrilege to venture out in it for worldly pleasures. No, he and all of his fellowmen would retire within the old barracks tonight. Ever trusted Hagen with silver tongue managed well enough as liaison. Balancing the awkward culture and customs of these Imperials with the many tribal entities that made up their paymaster's cadre. Hagen with silver tongue, he eased into the middle with ease. Perhaps even enjoying easing the mixing of cultures?

With a godly patience Corvus pondered on the end of things, days were spent deep in the primitive man's mind, fasting even for drink and meat. Reclaiming memories of ages past, war in Roscrea, the great starving, service of the seemingly mystic far east. He felt stretched and longing. His life was becoming memories of older grandeur. Memories of a great warrior, against the southerners, against snow-beasts, against the gate spilling hoards, against the dragon, against the thawing devils. Four hundred years of bitter struggle only to falter now, he was not ready to sing his final song. Was it wrong then that only the epics of old remained? He carried the burden of enlightenment, the shunning of a final hall. 

For in all this time deep in thought he wasn't wise enough to understand. The old thing had a single purpose, he would have no more sagas or epics. Best enjoy the memories of old. It was good then that Kyne spilled her words in console to the weary Atmoriant. Better still did the harsh mother instill a test of will, the client guards had themselves an important guest to the barrack.

It was a knocking that announced that guest, the hushed whispering Client Soldiers from dark thoughts. An Imperial Soldier, his colors not of red, but purple entered, his white-gold shimmering like a star, underneath the water drenched equipment. The soldier did an Imperial Salute, old fashioned. "Her Majesty, Empress Draconus, your liege lord waits in the rain, outside. She requires her guard to present themselves."

It took a minute for the entirety of the Roscreans to flood into the barrack's foyer, which they overcrowded the entrance. Corvus' head stood above all others in the middle of the crowd, he stood stone faced and fidgeted with the wound in his hand, the oath wound he gave to Dales. Hagen at his right.

There paymaster waited for them in the dripping rain. You could tell by her drenched blonde locks, underneath her purple hood. The Empress was flanked by ten guards on each side, her Palace soldiers, and some of the Roscreans she took with them already. To there country man's shock, they had undergo a dramatic transformation. Though it was hard tell underneath the storm, they seemingly wore a new kit. A a kit of silver, crimson, and steel. And the Client soldiers who wore them, walked with a certain pride, and smug looks underneath there new helmets, as if they we're showing off to their comrades. 

Infront of them, crates of soaked wood we're opened. The Empress called out, her voice booming above the rain "Bloodsworn. Did the Empress not promise her soldiers arms and armor?  Think of it...as a gift. From the Empress to her favored warriors." She motioned for them to look inside the crates...

And inside, they found what she had promised. Finely forged Spartha's gleaming silver, with handles adorned with red stones. Two handed axes, of the finest forged Imperial steel they had ever seen, with handles made from finely crafted iron. Shields of stalwart steel, an Imperial style, but not like the equipment of this century, it was archaic, but no less finely made. The craftsmenship was excellent, though you could quite bit of the equipment on display had seen battle before And for armor, sets of expertly worked scaled chestguards, silverly plate halburks here and there, and other equipment, a fusion of Norse and Imperial influence drawn on some of them.  For helmets,  platinum coilfs that covered there entire faces, and a wide arrange of full face helms, all of differing Imperial styles from different ages, some of which were  Palace Guard helmets, or finely crafted Legion equipment, up to the warriors preference.

They clamored about the crates, there was some confusion of who was gifted what. All were vehemently pleased with gift giving; However, Corvus and Hagen both had the look of weariness and confusion. They didn't approach for the gifts.

"Chieften, speaker. Come forward to me." The Empress commanded.

Corvus was looking between the Empress' non-Roscrean guards, paranoid that one among them was a spy for the devil emperor. He and Hagen put themselves before their paymaster, Corvus raised his oath-wounded hand in her honor.

First she approached the Speaker, holding a weapon to him, "I gift this to you, officer. An heirloom of the guard. Wielded by Captain Atriumas a hundred years ago, it has passed to worthy soldiers from then, and now I relinquish it's care to you. May it serve you well" It was a ornate mace. The head had ridges, made from nothing other then a mix of silver, and mithril, and adorned with veiny dragons, en carved in the weapon. It's handle was of the same material, barring the small, but still noticeable ruby that lay at it's end. A beautiful weapon to be sure, strong, but almost uncannily light, as afforded but it's material.

"The lordly paymaster should not bare such an exquisite gift to my person. I, born a whaler in rags, this thing of beauty belongs to the high born." Said Hagen. His wisdom of denying such a gift above his status was lost on the Imperials, their culture too different to understand.

A look of understanding fell on the girl. "Can you kill people well enough?" The young girl asked plainly.

"Many times have I killed, many times have I raised my shield to my lord. Both be done for you paymaster."

"That's the only thing that matters here. The owners of this weapon belonged too men and woman who rose in the ranks through their talent, not spoonfed, silk-clad children of aristocrats. That is the way of the Legion. It's shiny now but it's drenched in the blood of centuries in defense of the Royal Throne. It needs someone who can properly feed it blood." She grinned, offering it forward, "Take it, and spill blood in my name. That is all that required to wield it, not fake titles, and crowns. Putting it too good use. My soldiers and guard will have not but the best equipment, as a matter of principal." The Empress had decided the best course of action was to draw from her family's wealth, rather that of the Imperial treasury.  Less her...teacher be made aware of her activities. Furthermore, while she had some equipment made, quite a bit of the pile was taken from the armoury of her own palace guard and the Second Legion, much of which was old fashioned equipment she had refurbished. Still of excellent quality and make, but a much lighter load on her expenses if she was to do otherwise.

"This exchange, the debt cannot be repaid, not in a hundred lifetimes. It is worth more than I" His rough hands liberated the mace from Dales, with such care and attempt at grace would seem he's holding his own soul in hand.

She nodded and approached, the half giant. "Chieftan. Alas, there was no weapon in the armouries...grand enough, for one such as you to wield. I had this made specially." At her words a guard approached, carrying the biggest sheaf anyone had ever seen. The guard himself was large, and strong, and even he struggled to carry it. The Empess, clearly channelling magic to assist her, lifted the leather sheaf, and motioned for the man to draw what was inside.

It was a sword. A great sword, some would say, but it was more like a slab. It's blade was large, very large, and seemed like it could be used as a crushing weapon because of it's weight. But it was clear to all the sword was tempered by an expert at the forge. In contrast to the silver light of the mace, the blade shone like darkness. Clearly Ebony had been used in it's forging, though it seemed to be an alloy combined with a separate mineral. Still, gorgeous. Embroided at it's large hilt, we're black gem stones, and silvery crows, haunting and wicked.

Corvus silently grasped the magnificent sword in his right hand, the weight of it crashing into his wrist. The blade slumped to the floor still in his hand. With a struggle he looked into Dales eyes. The thing was immense in his old age, yet so many eyes attached themselves to his increasing display of weakness. An unacceptable display. With an enormous strain he gathered himself and hefted it in a single hand, his oath-wounded hand, above his head. Scraping the thing atop the roof. The foreigners truly thought of giants then? He only thought of the impossibility of breath and an weakly beating heart, the tightening of chest and weakness of lungs brought the sword back to the world. 

She called out, "Men, are you pleased with your gifts!?"

The expected outcry went about, a whole bunch of furiously happy war cries and shouting. Dales alone could hear the struggle of breath on the old Atmoriant, he lowered himself below her head height in knelling. He acknowledged the transference of debt by the gift. The Empress could obviously see a great weight on the Giant's shoulder. Anyone could see...his tired eyes. Hopefully he still had the strength to crush and rend. 

"You have the tools you need. Use them well. Carry on gentlemen." The Empress gave a curt nod, before making her leave. "Your all beginning official duty tomorrow. Make sure to take care of your new gear." Most of the guard left, barring a trio of palace soldiers, stone faced as usual. They carried rolls of parchment, they went forward to the speaker, handing him the assembly of scrolls. "These are the details of your men's patrols and guard dity." The man's speech slurred underneath the rain. "Make sure they are punctional and disciplined. Long live the Empire." They offered an imperial salute, leaving the client soldiers.

After they left Hagen looked at Corvus with both eyebrows raised. "Did he say guard dity?" Corvus labored himself to rise. "Imperials are a strange bunch."

[The Good Doctor]

Mila Iron-Brow
Kyne's Watch

Dawn was drawing near when Mila finally calmed herself enough to fall asleep. Her dreams started pleasant, as her mind ran wild with thoughts of Nahfahlaar and flying like a dragon. But as hers so often did, the dream took a turn as her thoughts wandered elsewhere. 
She was standing in the snow, armored in the metal rings of a Nord and with a bloody sword in hand. All around her were the corpses of her attackers: a goblin to her left, a dark-haired bandit from Cheydinhal to her right, a necromancer with fair skin and red eyes, an Imperial agent, and a pile of Nords, all wearing armor like Boldir's. At the center of the pile was a spear with the head of Sibbi Black-Briar mounted on top.

Behind her, a great voice thundered, "Let me burn them for you." It was Nahfahlaar. The red dragon's neck arced around her, so that a bright yellow eye hovered next to her head. "Turn them to ash and move on."

And then without waiting, the dragon let loose a mighty jet of flame that consumed all the bodies at once. The corpses began to scream. It was a harsh, terrible sound. Mila tried to cover her ears, but the Nords in particular screamed too loud. "It's not working," she cried, "please stop!" Nahfahlaar relented. When the flames subsided and the smoke cleared, all the snow around her had turned grey. They stood upon a field of ash, yet the bodies remained.

"A nice effort," taunted the severed head of Sibbi Black-Briar. "What will you try next, I wonder?"

"What you need is more kindling," spoke another voice behind her. Mila turned to see a shaggy black dog resting on its haunches beside Nahfahlaar. Somehow, at a fraction of the dragon's size and with no scales or talons, he managed to be the more terrifying of the two. It was the eyes. There was a wicked hunger in them that seemed insatiable. "Ask your father to toss an elf on the pile."

"There shouldn't even be a pile!" she shouted back. Mila felt like crying. This was supposed to be a happy occasion. Nahfahlaar had promised that when the cleaning was finished, he would teach her how to fly. Her mother and Boldir would be so proud when they saw it!

"Quiet!" said a Grim-One. He lifted his head up, and Mila recognized the face and red sideburns of the Grim One Luthmar. They killed him in Dewridge. He was Boldir's friend. "All of you, hush! The Ash-King is coming!"

A figure emerged through the smoke and clouds of gray, armored like the others but for a fur cloak billowing behind him and a crown of large jagged fangs on his head. "Ash-King!" the Nords started to chant. "Ash-King! Ash-King! Ash-King!"

The man looked at Mila, and though he had the face of Baldur, he seemed completely unfamiliar. The Ash King turned to the pile of corpses, and from his mouth erupted another flame, this one even brighter and hotter than the dragon's. The corpses started to scream once more.

"Stop!" Mila bellowed. "Stop! It doesn't work!" But the king ignored her, and she closed her eyes as the screams went on. "Put it out," she muttered. "Put it out."

When Mila opened her eyes again, she was underwater, along with the dead men. They looked up at her with pain in their eyes but did not move to swim upward and save themselves. They were already dead. Baldur and Nahfahlaar were nowhere to be found, but in the distance, against the dark and endless blue, she could make out the black dog paddling through the water, his eyes glowing and trained on her, hungry.

Mila started to swim upward. The surface was clear above her, but it seemed so far. She looked down at the Nords whose armor pulled them deeper under. The terror in their eyes must have matched her own. Mila kicked with all her might, but she barely even knew how to swim, let alone weighed down by all this gear. Her chest was starting to hurt, and the need to breathe was becoming greater by the second. But the surface was close. Just a few more feet...

Mila opened her eyes, this time not in a dream or underwater, but in the warm and dry longhouse that Rebec had given her. Gods... She looked around, heart pounding. Next to her bed was an empty wineskin that she had bought from the islanders some days before. Never again.

She groggily climbed out of bed and dressed herself for the cold outside. Today was supposed to be the day that she kept her promise and made right with Baldur. Once that was done, she hoped that she'd finally be able to put aside what all had happened in Cyrodiil and embrace Kyne's Watch as her new home.

"Ash-King! Ash-King! Ash-King!"

She paused while pulling on her left boot. The face of a dead Grim One drifted through her mind. Would that ever go away? Every time those memories emerged, it was like a hole opened up in the pit of her stomach, and then came the anger, bubbling up inside it. 'Baldur is the one who sent those men after us,' she had once said to Boldir. 'It wasn't Ulfric, or some friend of the Black-Briars. It was Baldur!'

Nothing that Nahfahlaar or Boldir or anyone said would ever change that. And even now that she actually wanted to let it go, Mila realized that it wasn't so easy. The Grim Ones she'd killed would haunt her dreams either way, as would Clavicus Vile's pet. They had been so close! She would be free, both her conscious and her very soul... if not for Baldur.

"Quit being such a milk-drinker," Mila hissed at herself. Boldir never wasted time feeling sorry for himself. "It's done now. What matters is ahead."

"I'm sorry, are you talking to me?"

Mila looked up and spotted a green flicker in the rafters. Not for the first time, she wished they kept the witchbug in a jar. "No, just thinking out loud," then she added, "Talking to you would be much less useful."

"Hmph. Well, whatever it is that has you blabbering at empty rooms, I hope it will not distract you from today's lessons. Last night I discovered a den of... well, they don't appear to be rats... more like rat... dogs. No, not dogs, they were definitely rodents. But still quite large-"

"Skeevers? You've never heard of skeevers?"

"Is that what the locals call them?" If the tone of a person's voice alone could manifest as a pompous eye-roll, Roseloe's surely would have done so. "Of course it is."

"It's better than rat dogs."

"Well, whatever your brutish kin named them, there is a nest just outside of town. They will make perfect candidates for you to practice your soul trap. If you can catch them, we can-"

"We'll do it tomorrow," Mila interrupted. "I've got something more important today."

"More important? Yesterday, you forsook my teachings to go fishing. Was that more important as well?"

"As a matter of fact, it was."

"Well then. This time, I presume it is something even more dire. Is there a butterfly that needs catching? Some seaweed you need to gather?"

"No."

"Are you certain? Seaweed can do wonders to the skin. You may be able to save you soul without learning magic, but gods forbid you do it with dry skin."

Mila made for the door. "I'm leaving now. How about you make yourself useful while I'm gone and think of some ways to help me catch those skeevers, alright?"

She went outside, glad to escape the nagging witchbug. About thirty yards off, she spotted one of the the Grim Ones Baldur had ordered to keep an eye on her. The man was sitting on a boulder sharpening his axe with a wetstone, but he looked up when he noticed her exit. There was no friendliness in the Nord's expression, but no anger either. He just gave a quiet nod before returning to his work.

It didn't take long for Mila to reach the rough dirt path that led into Kyne's Watch proper. The town was expanding pretty rapidly, and even here on the outskirts, travelers and merchants were starting to pitch their thick fur tents and park their wagons loaded with supplies, lumber, and all manner of goods to trade. New blood was arriving every day to join the Stormcloaks, which apparently meant that there was gold to be made. New buildings were always in construction as well, most belonging to soldier families, and so even in the few short weeks since her and Boldir's arrival, the walk to town from their longhouse had gotten shorter.

Mila asked around a bit to learn that Baldur was in the fort. Having been all over Cyrodiil and inside some of Skyrim's largest cities, she felt that the old fortress at Kyne's Watch was a little underwhelming. Much of it was underground, she knew, but even with that in mind, "Northwatch Keep" seemed puny in comparison to Mistveil or Dragonsreach. Even so, it was no less well-guarded. Mila could probably walk through those gates and wander the halls if she wanted to, but only a handful of people in town even knew her by that name. To most, she was still Matilda. And some peasant like Matilda would be lucky if the guards didn't spit on her for asking directions.

Fortunately, there was at least one Stormcloak who knew her as Mila that she didn't mind inconveniencing one bit. Finding him was easy enough. Baldur hadn't moved Ivold Big-Bone from overseeing the Grim Trials since they'd arrived...

"This again?" The big Grim-One's scowl was weaker than Mila remembered. Like he knew she saw right through it and was only doing it for show. "I told you, you're not supposed to be here... Look, your pa's doing fine. Alright? It ain't like before since he snapped on Hrondar and the rest."

"I'm glad to hear it, but that's not what I'm here for." Mila jerked her thumb off toward the fort. "I need to talk to Baldur. He came looking for me the other day."

"Can't someone else take you to him? I'm busy here."

"Someone else like who?"

"I don't know. Rebec."

"She's with the baby. You know, the baby who needs to sleep." Ivold's fake scowl became a real frown, and Mila held up her hands. "Fine. I get it." She lowered her voice. "You like watching these naked men run on the beach-"

Now the Grim One's scowl was real, and for a moment Mila thought that he might actually hit her. "You watch your tongue, you little shit."

"Well who am I supposed to ask, Ivold?" She threw out her arms, looking around as if someone else might be there who could help her. "Thorald? He's as busy as you are. And do you really think he would leave his post to help me like you have?"

"Seems to me like it's his turn," he grumbled. "Watching men run on the beach- You know, Iron-Brow doesn't smack your head around near enough."

"You're probably right. So you'll take me? Baldur will be glad that you did."

Ivold rubbed his temple and let out a deep sigh. "Yeah, I'll take you. But I ain't walking you back. And I ain't gonna listen to any more smart comments, neither."

Mila beamed sweetly. "Deal."

The grim Grim One grimly led her through the grim halls of Northwatch. Mila stifled a laugh at that, so as not to ruin the grimness. It wasn't long, though, before they entered a familiar corridor and her nerves started to flare. This was where they'd first been brought. The last time she'd been down here, her hands had been bound and she'd sat in those chairs right over there, where she'd been forced to endure Baldur's chiding. After everything they'd been through, everything she'd had to do, his response had been to remind them of how foolish it all was! Mila remembered how badly she'd wanted so scream at him back then, and how only Boldir's presence had kept her as calm as she'd been.
Gods forbid we don't kiss your 'brother's' feet for ruining everything!

The anger was back in full, but there was no turning back now. There was only one door ahead, and Mila knew that she was only moments away from being face-to-face with the Ash King himself. He offered you a home, Mila reminded herself. He cares about Boldir, and cared about Mamma too.
In the end, that was the thought that helped calm her down. She remembered him still, that bard in the Bannered Mare who painted teats on cattle and knew all her favorite songs.

When they reached the door, Ivold looked down at her. "It's all you from here."

Mila nodded. Time to find out if the bard was still here, or if she would have to contend with her new Ash King. She knocked on the door.

"Go away!"

"Come in!"

Two voices simultaneously yelled out before the door swung open violently and a woman whose face was about as grim as grim Ivold's greeted her. "What are you looking at, brat?" said the woman, clearly a stormcloak. A red handprint around her arm was clearly visible. The only greeting she gave was a harsh shoulder as she bumped past her after slamming the door shut. More than a little confused, Mila watched her leave. She looked at Ivold, who shrugged and then started after the woman.

Alright then... Mila opened the door again, and was relieved to see that Baldur had no other 'guests'.

"Ignore her," said Baldur, yellowed hair poking out from behind his desk. 

Mila wasn't sure what to say. The sudden excitement had completely taken the wind from her sails, and she didn't even know where to begin with him. Had she ever known? The High King was staring at her now, clearly waiting for her to speak. "... What, uh... What was her problem?"

"She's a Nord," he replied, as though that would answer it all. When Mila gave him a look that said it clearly didn't, he sighed and said, "We had... history. Anyway, the sooner she's off dealing with the Orcs, the better. Now, come in."

Mila closed the door and took a seat. Just get to the point. "I heard you were looking for me the other day."

"I was," said Baldur, wriggling his nose as though it itched. After he had, he eyed her suspiciously before he wrote upon a piece of parchment. "What have you been up to, lately?"

"Training," she replied. But not to be a skire... whatever that even is. She wondered if Baldur had any idea what sort of 'training' she'd been doing. "And hunting. I learned how to make traps last week." She squinted in the dim candlelight. He wasn't even looking at her. He was just scrawling away, and the curious side of Mila could not help but wonder what sort of letters the king of all Skyrim put to pen. "What are you writing?"

"A letter," said Baldur. "Letters, rather. I have a man on the field that's been missing for a while now. He was the last to have seen someone very dear to me. I need to find him, and these letters are going to some individuals that might help me do that." Sighing, he pushed the parchment away and focused on Mila. "So, little one. What brings you here? I didn't really expect you to come seeking me out."

"I didn't expect to either, really." She tried to keep her expression neutral. "But I guess I changed my mind. Were you looking for me just to ask how I've been?" A part of her would be relieved if that was the case, but another part would be disappointed.

Baldur leaned back in his chair, studying her. His blue eyes searched hers for a time before he said, "Is there something so wrong with that? I look at you and I see myself, you know. More than that, I see my little girl when she's all grown up. I failed you, you and Boldir both. But even so, even if you go through life hating my guts, I just can't turn away from you. I... I still picture that little girl back in Whiterun, and though you like to think that version of you is gone, I still see her there, locked up inside from the world like those old stories about princesses locked away up high in a tower. And even if this Mila doesn't need me anymore, perhaps that Mila does. So yea, I was looking for you. I was gonna fuss and nag, but I really just wanted to know if you were okay."
Sighing, he said after a long pause, "More specifically, I had questions to devise the answer to that for myself, if that's okay with you."

For the briefest moment, Mila felt like she might've wanted to forgive him then and there. Or apologize. Or both. But it was fleeting, and before any of those possibilities could emerge, she remembered how sweet his words had sounded the last time he'd spoken to her, when he'd helped her pray for Boldir even as he drafted him to fight in his army. He was a bard. Everything he says sounds nice.
"It's why I'm here."

"Where's the bug?"

So he did tell you. Boldir had always been honest with her about his intention to tell Baldur everything, but after all this time had passed without the matter getting raised, a small part of her had hoped that perhaps he had allowed her just this one little secret. There's no point in lying. "I don't know. She comes and goes as she pleases."

"And I assume you've been busying yourself studying magic from her, right?" said Baldur. "You two weren't responsible for the runes people found outside of town were you? Please tell me you're not letting her teach you Necromancy..."

"Necromancy?" It took Mila a few seconds to realize that he was talking about her original training spot that had been discovered by the townsfolk. Despite herself, she grinned wickedly. "Oh yes, that was all us. One of your men foiled our plans to build an army of draugr."
Baldur just crossed his arms, so she let the grin fade. "No, I haven't been learning necromancy. And I don't want to. I haven't changed that much."

His arms dropped. "Good. In truth, I knew the runes were for simple recall spells after seeing them enough from Veleda, she used to have her own here in Kyne's Watch. However, she is a witch and you saw what she did. For that reason I know you know better than to trust her or think her your friend. By all means, use her if she makes you stronger, but be careful to avoid being influenced by her more than that. And try and keep her from Rebec please... I can just imagine the arse chewing I'd get if she knew you two were keeping a daedra cursed witch bug in her father's home..."

"Boldir hates Roseloe enough for a whole village already. I've got no plans to try and see how Rebec would feel." Mila tapped her hands on the desk. "But there you have it. I'm learning spells from a witch in the body of a torchbug. One who needs me more than I need her. It's all in the open now."

"Gods help me, I’ll probably have to tell her anyway. She'll find out. She always finds out." Baldur stared at her again. "I know that look, I remember seeing it in a mirror in my younger days. Overconfidence. You think you got it all figured out then do you? Fine. I really did think the squiring would do you some good. It wasn't meant to be punishment or anything. Anyway, thank you for humoring me. So, what made you come to me? I already know you're angry."

"I'm not angry," she lied. Just say it. "The last time we spoke, I said you were just like Sibbi, and you agreed with me. I don't know if it was true or if we were both wrong. If we weren't, then I should hate you... But either way, even if I'm supposed to hate you, I don't want to be angry anymore. And I guess I wanted you to know that."
Did that even make sense? 

There was a silence between them before Baldur's reply.

"I don't know what sort of man I am anymore, Mila. That's the truth. I've done terrible things, unforgivable things... and I've done much of it in the name of family. I've had to sacrifice much of my good nature to protect those I love, and there'll be more of that to come in the near future. I can't promise you that I'm not someone you should hate, and I can't tell you what I'll do down the line..."
He leaned back in his chair, resting his eyes with a sigh. "And another thing. To hell with what I said before. You'll have to kill me if you want to rid me from your lives. We're family after all, blood or not. And no one will ever tell me different."

"Maybe you're right," she said quietly. "Boldir doesn't want to leave. So that means I'm stuck here whether I like it or not. And maybe that's a good thing." How did Nahfahlaar put it? "A friend once told me that I'm not suited to a life cut off from everyone around me. And after spending so much time in Cyrodiil looking for people to take me in, anyone at all, I think he was probably right."

He looked at her with one eye, still reclined in his chair. "I like to think you could do worse than having a king for an uncle to watch out for you. But I haven't been right about that before," said Baldur shrugging his shoulders. "But I’m learning, albeit slowly. You busy today? I'm feeling a little awkward here interrogating my niece and I could use some fresh air. And some fresh fish for the girls. Guess that includes you now."

"Huh?" His sudden change of tone threw her off a bit. Damn bard. "No... no, I ain't busy."

"Well alright then!" said Baldur. "We'll have to get a few things, rods, nets, spears. There’s a few different kind of fish and critters I’m looking for."
Mila started to interject, confused at what the man was even talking about, but he hardly let her get a word out as he continued. "Want to cook up something special, and there’s a particular fish I’ve been hunting and haven’t been able to get. A man eater fish."

"A man eater?" Mila repeated. Baldur was already out of his chair and rounding the table. She got up in kind. "You want to go fishing? Now? For what, some kind of slaughterfish?"

"Something like that," said Baldur with sly smile. "The islanders have been talking about it for weeks now. They think it got fat off of the bodies from the blockade a few years back. It’s got rows of teeth, sharper than a slaughterfish's, and tentacles and wings... all of that’s probably an exaggeration of course, but the point is, it's big. If half the tales are true, maybe it’s something left over from a Wild Hunt."

"A what?"

“I’ll tell you on the boat,” said Baldur, smiling at his captive audience.

They had to gather the equipment quickly while there was still daylight, and what had started as a small endeavor turned into three teams of Nords accompanying Baldur and Mila’s boat. Word got out that the King was searching for the devil in the Sea of Ghosts, and if there was anything Islanders and Skyrim Nords alike couldn’t resist, it was adventure at sea.

Their own ship was one of the Sons of Wulfharth’s, as was only appropriate for the Ash-King as they saw it. Baldur grinned ear-to-ear as he boarded, but Mila stopped short before stepping onto the gangplank. She remembered her dream. The image of the Grim Ones she'd killed once again flashed through her mind. The greatest warriors in Skyrim, unable to save themselves as they silently drifted down into the dark. The idea of sailing had always excited Mila, but at that moment, she was flooded with an unexpected dread. There is nowhere to run on a boat. Only water, and that is death.
She noticed Baldur turning to look her way, and so she took the first step before he could notice her hesitation. Run from what, you milk-drinker? Mila grit her teeth and continued onboard.

The winds were good, and after setting sail the quick ship practically skipped upon the surface of the water. The other boats didn’t bother weighing themselves down unnecessarily whilst Baldur and his fishing crew began casting their nets.

"If we’re gonna entice the thing, we're gonna need to appear as a tantalizing target," said Baldur. "This thing's actually attacked before, always fishing boats after a day's haul. Here." Baldur thrust a net in her hands and grabbed the other side before casting it over the railing. "Once we've gotten our fill of krill and salmon, we can relax with some mead and cast the rods. Gotta get some eel. Then, we wait."

"Uh-huh." Mila tried to turn her thoughts away from drowning by looking back at the beach. She could just make out the trial grounds, which only ended up making it worse when she remembered what the Grim Trials entailed. "Has this thing ever eaten someone during the Trials?"

"Aye," said Baldur. "Actually it seems to prefer them when they’re already dead. Sometimes bodies turn up missing if they died in the water. There's not much in the way of predators out here, so it caught my attention."
Seemingly unaware of Mila's discomfort, Baldur continued to cast and draw, waiting for the moment that they'd catch something, anything at all.

First there was a fish, a flounder of all things which was odd this high up, and then a few krill next, and a stubborn mudcrab that didn't want to untangle itself from the net. Baldur drew his skullcrusher from his boot, cracking the thing in the center of its eyes before someone lost a finger, or worse. Using it as bait, along with the fish guts and krill they caught, plus some they brought on their own, Baldur with the help of Mila cast the net once more, and this time when they drew it back, the bounty was far more welcoming. 

"A score of salmon, some shrimp, this will do... Lets cast and tie off boys, get the dinghies too! Don't forget the krill and crab cages!"

This wasn't Mila's first time on a fishing boat, though holding a rod steady in the calm waters of lake Honrich was quite a different experience than all the work that went into the sort of fishing they were doing now, all while freezing cold saltwater splashed in their faces. It was all she could do to not drop whatever items got thrust into her hands, let alone to not slip and fall with any given lurch of the ship. When Baldur motioned for her to climb into a dinghy with him, Mila was tempted to outright refuse, but like before, she grit her teeth and climbed aboard. You won't get to see me scared.

To Mila's surprise, the little boat did not rock nearly as badly as she'd expected. The waves were dying down some, and remaining in one spot was much easier for a "landlubber" like her than hustling around had been, although it did feel less safe. She watched Baldur attach a krill to his hook, then cast it off into the sea. She mirrored his actions, then waited quietly as their lines drifted in the waves.

As much work had gone into it all, the crew Baldur put together seemed to be enjoying themselves. Up in the main ship, the red headed man with golden loops in his beard that served as their guide even started playing the drums as they started kicking cages overboard.

Watching them, she realized what they were really doing. After a good five minutes with no bite, Baldur signaled for the men to pull their dinghey in a few feet, then a few more with no bite again. Each time before casting he’d kiss the rune covered stone that helped to sink his hook deep past the salty ice filled deep below them. 

"Why do you do that?" Mila asked him after the third time.

"To get that bitch Kyne to be a little more generous with her bounty," said Baldur in a whisper as though she’d hear them. He pulled the rod back so she could make out the hawk rune carved into the weight that sank his hook.

She recalled their talk about the islanders' face paint. "Does it work?"

"That depends on you, pup,” said Baldur. “After today, you can decide that for yourself. Rebec would probably say no, I say you just gotta know how to get on her good side." Baldur pointed to his cheek. "She can be a great gale or a gentle breeze. A companion on a long road or a feral beast. You won’t experience her the same as someone else. Your favor one day might be good, but things change. As sure as the wind."

As usual, Mila understood maybe half of what Baldur said to her. But the heart of his bard-speak seemed simple enough: 'maybe'. She decided to move the conversation on to a simpler topic, and for whatever reason, it was the letters that first came to mind. "Back in the fort, you said that some of your people went missing. Do you think it was the Thalmor?"

Baldur lost the carefree grin he’d been wearing as they sat. "I don’t know. It’s likely. We had reports of a great flash in the sky not too long ago from Windhelm at sea. They described the event as a 'shooting star'. The accounts don’t match up perfectly with what we saw from the Sunbirds, but they’re close. If so, it means we didn’t get all the elves like we thought. They could be behind the disappearances. Both Daric, and now my top man, Falgrum. Daric, is to me what you are to Boldir."

"Oh." Mila had to hide her surprise upon hearing that name. Suddenly the vacant house and saddened looks made a lot of sense. And she had a thousand new questions that she knew better than to ask. "I'm sorry."

"I'll find him," said Baldur. His expression seemed pained, but also tired, and for the first time Mila was struck by how much weight must have been on the man's shoulders. When Sibbi took her to Cyrodiil, Boldir was able to leave everything behind and come after her. But Baldur was the High King. He was responsible for everyone in Skyrim, not just the people he loved.
"I'll find him, and kill anyone that lays a single finger on him, assuming he didn't first. And if he does, well, maybe you learning necromancy wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all..."

"You've got better people for that than me," Mila said, just in case he was actually serious. "And, well... you found Boldir and me. And we did our best to hide."

He was about to speak, then he stopped himself, and passed Mila her own rod with a weight engraved similar to his own. "Go on, do it like I showed you, girl. If our catch is good, we'll give an offering to the gods in thanks and ask them to watch over your father."

Mila held the runed stone to her lips and gave it a kiss. Yes, watch over him. And Daric too, if you would. She cast it out into the wave. Baldur watched, smiling as he saw her playing along. Though his content smile seemed to show he knew it was more than that for her.

He sat down against his seat, kicking his legs up, apparently intent on taking a nap amidst the drift of the sea. He was quiet, so much that she'd thought maybe he really was napping until he said, "So, you must've spent some time in Bruma on your adventure, right? What did you think of it?"

"We were only there for a night. The inn had the first bed I'd seen in weeks. Since Riften." Mila tried to picture the city in her head, but most of her memories were of the inn. And snow. There had been lots of snow.
"It was snowing," she added with a shake of her head. "I wish I could remember more."

"Heh, no it’s fine. Inns and snow, that describes it pretty well. It was my home, for a long time. I was born in Markarth, but I was raised in Bruma. By my father, and by the old scholars of Ysmir. I was merely wondering if you saw them. I can’t imagine they’re still alive though."

"They could've been, but Sibbi never would've let me stray enough to find out." Mila stood up as she felt a tug on the rod, but the fish must have thought better of it, as it immediately went slack again. She sat back down.
"I didn't know you lived in Cyrodiil. Did your father ever take you south of Bruma?"

"We took trips to the Imperial City on occasion," said Baldur. "But most of the time I stayed in Bruma, even when his duties called him elsewhere. On those days I stayed in the temple of Talos, helping clean or feeding the beggars. Those were the better days I’d had in that place."

She found it hard to imagine Baldur sweeping floors or serving soup to beggars, even before he was king. "Were you raised with the Nine, then?"

"Mm, sort of. The nine's conception was made from a combination of Nordic and elven gods. My father introduced me to the nine, but the old men of Ysmir's chapel strictly follow Ysmir and the old Nord gods. They acknowledged Talos was a rightful holder of the name Ysmir, but the title Ysmir and what it meant, that's what they revered. The Ash King, Wulfharth was also Ysmir."

Ash-King! Ash-King! Ash-King! the dead Nords had chanted in her dreams. "Some people call you Ysmir now."

"Some people also say Wulfharth strolled into battle upon a great Sabrecat that was really a khajiit," said Baldur, eyebrows raised.

"That would be crazy," she admitted. "Almost as crazy as having a dragon on your side."

"Uh... heh, yea I suppose so," said Baldur, rubbing the back of his head. "So what, you think I'm Ysmir now? Been listening too much to your pa."

"Boldir probably thinks you're Talos born again." She shook her head. "No, I don't think you're Ysmir. I think you're a bard who does things that other bards like."

"That sounds about right," said Baldur in agreement. "But I could be, so do as I say or I'll use my thu'um to turn you into an elf. An ugly one."

He tried to ruffle her hair, but she swatted his hand away. "Do it and I'll join the Thalmor. Tell them everything I know."

"Heh, and tell them what exactly, that I drink too much, eat too much, spend too much time rolling with Rebec and sleep too much? Or that we have a dragon? No doubt the Empress already made a full show of that in the South," said Baldur.

"Okay, okay. Never said I would be a good informant." Now that he'd actually challenged her to think about it, Mila realized that she had no idea what kind of information the elves would even want. She wasn't even entirely sure why they hated humans in the first place. She thought to ask him, but then something yanked her line, and this time it held on.

Baldur bolted up. "Seize it, girl, seize it! Not too hard, bring it in!"

Mila didn't answer. She was too focused. The creature tried to swim right and take her right off the boat behind it, but she was able to keep control, fighting her rod back while the fish tired itself in its struggle. Slowly, careful not to break the line, she drew the fish close and with Baldur's help managed to lift it out of the water.

"Well, it ain't your sea devil," Mila said, sizing up her long silver-scaled catch. She wasn't familiar with the species of fish in the White River streams she grew up beside, let alone the Sea of Ghosts. "But it ain't a bad catch, neither."

"Not bad at all, girl. Now hold it still," said Baldur. While doing so, he drew his skullcrusher from his boot and swiftly dealt the thing a clean blow between its eyes with the butt of the knife so it stopped its writhing.

After rendering it unconscious, he bled it out in a bucket, then started pulling on the rope that secured them to the Sons of Wulfharth’s ship. As they were brought up, they could already see the rest of the crew had a few catches of their own, and most importantly, the blood.

In the meantime, the Nords began their work in earnest, casting nets and cages, following known hotspots and adjusting by the catch. The cages were cast for the crabs and sank the deepest, while Baldur and the other men, and Mila (who was just grateful to be on the larger ship again), cast their large sets that sank into the ocean encompassing anything beneath them before being drawn back up in large heaps of small and large pike, and even trout, perch, and salmon.

It was night by now, and it had come as swiftly as ever, ushered in by the great northern lights of Aetherius where Magnus’ glare was strongest, and traces of his legacy bled into the world. The men of the north paid it no mind, using the light to fish longer, though the boat was now at capacity, as were the other ships who’d just come back from gathering shrimp and krill.

Baldur himself was already feasting on a freshly made bowl of krill paste with Mila next to him, as they waited for everyone to get ready for the final catch of the day.

"This is a favorite of Ragna's," said Baldur, passing the wasabi to Mila, along with some sailor's biscuits. After declining to eat that morning, she was good and hungry now, and accepted gratefully.

"Thanks." After a few bites, Mila, nodded out to the sea, where they hoped this great devil fish would emerge from. "Earlier you said something about some kind of a hunt. What did you call it? Wild hunt?"

"Aye," said Baldur. "Killer of King Borgas. It’s the only thing I can think of aside from Daedra that would lead to such a strange creature as described by the islanders. However, I’m not ruling out that possibility either."

"So it killed a king and involves fish, but what is it?"

"Wallowing whelps, widows and foes, elders, fathers and vengeance sowed, beating their drums with deafening tone, rhythm that’s driven deep to the bone, it speaks to the spirit of bosmer alone, the young, the able, the eldest of crones, for them time is bent, and their lives are spent, to bring suffering to all, and suffering they’ll know...

"Cats, dogs, and things in between, animals with vines running out of their spleens, tentacles, bones, cracking through skin, unspeakable things crawling amidst their grins.... barnacles, branches and fins of the deep, all these will find you, things that haunt from your sleep, abominations all, to the gods? An affront. These things and more, are the wild hunt."

"'Their lives are spent'?" Mila pondered on the poem for a few moments. "So it's like a summoning. Bosmer give their lives to create monsters. That's where you think this sea devil came from..." She could tell that Baldur was waiting for her to ask the question on her mind before responding, so she continued, "If it kills them, and it's an affront to the gods, then why would they ever do that?"

Baldur gave her a curious look. "Why else? Desperation. It doesn’t matter the war, there has always been acts of great desperation in the face of suffering and defeat. Our war will be no different. I’m counting on it, in fact. We don’t know a great deal about the second era, but the acts of desperation from that time were legendary. In fact, it’s how I turned the tide when the elves attacked Windhelm."

"I've heard. But you're still here, and so is Windhelm. You managed it without sacrifice or angering the gods."

"Without angering the gods, maybe. They love death. But sacrifice? There was much sacrifice. More than you could ever imagine."

She wondered what he meant by that, but the somber look in Baldur's eyes did not invite further questioning. Mila felt like she understood. No ruler could possibly be without secrets. And he must be better at keeping them than me, she thought, reflecting on all the things Boldir had probably told him by now. "Whatever you're talking about, I don't want to know," she responded at last. "And it might be best if Boldir doesn't either."

"Wise beyond your years," he said. "It doesn't concern him anymore anyway, and it never should. The past is done. All that matters now is what lies ahead."

Mila blinked. For a mad moment she wondered if he'd chosen those exact words on purpose. They were almost the very same that she'd whispered to herself over and over, day after day, trying to keep herself together while alone in Cyrodiil. Of course, Baldur couldn't have possibly known about that.

"Which would be the war," she said. After that, maybe staying in Kyne's Watch wouldn't be so bad. Although, the reminder of her time in Imperial lands made Mila wonder if she would one day be able to return and see what had become of all the people who had helped her down there. She hoped so, but they still had the issue of her soul to contend with as well. "And Vile."

"I liked it better when my biggest enemies were legionnaire werewolves with a tendency to shoot you in the back, and the occasional wizard. Now there's all this daedra business to complicate things. Well, if your father is to be believed, at least he likes my hair."

The conversation had been so serious that it took Mila a moment to realize Baldur was joking. She cracked a smile. "Seems there are some things even a daedric prince can't lie about."

"If you got it, you got it," said Baldur with a smirk, trying to reach for his niece and thinking better of it. "You know, there was a time I never took my armor off. Rebec hated that, made things a little difficult when you always had to tangle with armor straps t-... to...shhh.... did you hear that?"

Mila listened. All she could hear were the waves and the sounds of the ship. "No."

Baldur asked the same of the others. Most of them had said no while a few of them pretended as though they had so as not to insult him. When he was about to dismiss it, the ship rocked as though a large wave had moved under it. 

"Men, the blood! Dump it. Mila, how good is your recall spell?"

"What do you mean, 'how good'?" she asked, startled. "I can use it to get back to town, but-"

"-Could you use one on another person? Say, if some crazy Nord wanted to jump down there with a nighteye potion and see what’s what?"

At that, a number of men and a blonde haired woman taller than him stepped forward, already discussing amongst themselves who would be the first to go. Though none of them were too excited to have Mila cast magic on them.
"You're all crazy," she said, and then laughed. It had not yet been two days yet since she'd left the home of a dragon. "I learned how to use it on others," she replied. "But I've never done it, and I can't from a distance."

"That’s gonna be a problem, lass," added the tall blonde woman behind her.

"Well alright then, we'll do this the Nord way," said Baldur. He lifted up an amulet in his hand, Rebec's amulet. And sure enough, it was shining bright that night. "Drela, get me that bucket."

 She gave him such a look. “You know you’ll have to tell Rebec about this later. Or someone else will.”

He gave her a wink and took the bucket. "I'm counting on it. Wait till she sees the kill I bring back. She’ll forget all about the rest. Now, if you don't mind?"

Baldur signaled her over as she applied a twin swirl to his other cheek, in fish blood, though there were also other symbols she made around it that Mila had seen before.

"This is old magic, reminiscent of a cult in Skyrim close to that of the Atmorans," said Drela. "The swirl upon your right cheek is of Kyne, a breeze, the swirl on the left, a portal to the void. Together, they should act as a ward to protect the king from the evils of unforeseen magics. And hopefully keep you out of the clutches of whatever thing dwells beneath the surface."

"You sure this will work right?" said Baldur.

"If you are afraid, then you should send someone else," she added.

"No one else will last in the sea of ghosts as long as I will, not even fellow Grim Ones. My thu'um training keeps my temperature leveled longer. It will be me."

The woman nodded. "Then have faith. I wouldn’t risk the king dying in such an embarrassing way before the war even started... Though it would make for an entertaining story."

"That, it would. Right then," said Baldur, winking at Mila. "I'll be back before you can say Shezarrine."

She rolled her eyes. Baldur was grinning ear-to-ear. "You better not get eaten," she said as one of the Nords tossed him a harpoon and another tied a rope around his waist. To her surprise, she felt that she actually meant it. "I can't think of many worse ways for Skyrim to lose its king."

"If I do get eaten, I'll be sure to make it the spiciest shit it's ever taken. Ha!"

Without another word, he fell backwards into the dark icy abyss, the water not breaking as audibly as the others had expected from a landlubber. Evidently he’d been practicing, just as the rest of the Grim Ones had.

Mila and the others stood next to the railing and watched, though it was impossible to see much of anything. Maybe thirty seconds passed before anyone started to worry. He should at least come up for a breath soon, Mila thought. Though she wasn't too concerned yet. However, once it had been a full minute, she could even see a few of the Nords starting to look uncomfortable. And then, right as someone suggested they go in after him, Baldur's head emerged from the water with a splash.

"Get me out! Pull me up! Help!"

The High King had barely started to bellow before the Nords set to work. A number of ropes were thrown down to him, and several fishermen readied their nets and harpoons. A couple soldiers even pointed their crossbows into the darkness, looking for any sign of movement that wasn't caused by Baldur. For her part, Mila cast a mark on the deck and then immediately ran to the side.

Thankfully, and to everyone's relief, Baldur managed to take hold of one of the ropes and pull himself out of the water without a hitch. Mila was surprised to realize that she felt flooded with relief herself. She almost laughed as she looked down into the waves for any sign of some giant sea beast, but there were none, then when she looked back at Baldur and saw the expression on his face, it quickly sank in what he had done. Oh yes, I definitely hate him.

By the time he was halfway up, Baldur couldn't hold it in anymore. The smirk on his face was too apparent even in the dark. When the others started to catch on, Drela let go of her rope and grabbed a mead.

"You all should've seen your faces," he said. "You were all like 'oh no, the High-King, the fabled Ash-King's gonna get eaten by a fish!'" 

"Something moved our ship," said Drela. 

"It was probably just a wave," said Baldur. 

"And Rebec's amulet?"

"Look up," Baldur pointed at the auroras in the sky. "Raw magic. It didn't register until I was down there looking at absolutely nothing, even with the Night Eye potion. There's too much interference from the atmosphere right above our heads for this to be any good. Same with me, everything tingles. I'm no good at feeling out magic like this either. This part of Skyrim is very close to the tip of Nirn, where Aetherius showers its bounty on Mundus the most."

"You just jumped into water that can kill a man..." Mila said, trying her best to hide how rattled she'd been. "... and the joke is on us?"

Baldur shook himself like a dog, cold water spraying over Mila and the others. "I went through the same training your father's undergoing, girl. You all have forgotten, but I remember the tale of the Nord and the Clever Khajiit. The Khajiit and Nord were pirates, famous lovers in fact, but the Khajiit man thought he'd tricked the Nord woman. The Nord woman was a skooma addict, and it had been how the two had met and began their tumbling in the first place. He figured he'd wait till her mind was so addled that she'd trust him with the loot they'd accumulated.

"But the Nord remembered her birthright. She'd fallen into the sea of ghosts one day by accident on an especially good Skooma kick, and couldn't feel any of the cold... she stayed under there so long that her spirit almost left her, and in that moment, the ghosts in the sea communed with her. She saw men and women, dead elves and even drowned Akaviri, she saw old Yngol and the spirits that drowned him in their eternal loneliness, and even that of the Giant Kings of Atmora that didn't make it all the way to Skyrim in the Return of Man, so large that they could walk and stay above water.

"And those spirits showed her the nature of their ancestors, the Harbingers of Winter, Walkers of White, and the old Atmoran clan known as the Snowstriders. That memory awoke in her very being as she reconnected with the spirits of her ancestors, and she arose once more as the Terror of the Abecean and the Sea of Ghosts, for both the Southerners and Northerners knew her cruelty and skill at sea well before her habit, and she soon reminded them after.

"The cold had made her sober, instantly, but it also revived her. And she hid their treasure where only she could attain it, the very depth of the Sea of Ghosts, right off the coast of Kyne's Watch. She became so wealthy because no one could ever reach her treasure, and once it reached its peak, she had enough to make her very own castle..."

Baldur pointed towards the fire at the top of the lighthouse in the distance. "So you all think about that," he said as he plopped down beside Mila.

"I'm beginning to think you've taken some skooma too, you crazy damn bard." Mila said. "So your sea devil ain't around. Does that mean we should head back?"

"Yea, let's get out of here. All that said, I’m cold as Molag's balls right now."

"You'll wanna hold off on that," one of the fishermen called out. "Big squid about to pass under." He motioned at Baldur's harpoon. "Bugger's fast. Ten septims if you can hit 'im."

”The mans already king and you oafs still line up to give him coin?” said Drela.

”Nords never tire of a good wager, frost wench. Or losing gold it would seem.” Baldur grinned as he readied his harpoon. “But keep the coin... ready the wasabi.”

Mila followed Baldur to the side of the boat. Looking down, all she could see within the black waves were reflections of the moons. At least for several moments, then inside the red mirror of Masser, a dark shape darted just close enough to the surface for her to notice a large fin. Do squids have fins? Out the corner of her eye, she saw Baldur shifting his weight to take aim.

Then, all at once, the reflection of the moon exploded outward, showering them with water as an enormous creature emerged and grabbed onto the railing. The whole ship tilted inward, and Mila lost her footing. As she stumbled and fell, she caught a glimpse of a big gray-white fish-like face atop a humanoid torso the size of a giant's. The monster's mouth was wider than a man's shoulders, and lined with razor-sharp teeth. Its eyes were pale and slitted, but they were not trained on her. With its free hand, the devil fish reached forward and grabbed Baldur around his waste. The High King answered by ramming his harpoon into the monster's neck. It let go of the boat, and a second later both the creature and Baldur vanished into the ocean.

The whole attack happened in a manner of seconds, and the ship was still rocking like mad when it was over. Mila desperately climbed back to her feet and ran back to the boat's side, where Drela and another soldier had already arrived.

"Baldur!" the Stormcloak shouted. "Someone get me a crossbow, quick!"

The whole crew was shouting. Down below, the light of the moons was just enough for Mila to see a little reflection of metal thrashing around wildly. On her left, Drela was preparing a spell of some kind, and on her right a man was struggling to load a crossbow bolt against all the rocking. Mila heard a splash, and saw that one of the Stormcloaks had jumped in, but all the movement caused him to land far to the right of where he needed to.

Without thinking, Mila slid her dagger from its sheath and let it fall down onto the deck. She took hold of the boat's side and climbed up. Behind her, one of the fishermen started, "Hang on, girl, don't go gettin' yourself-" 

She vaulted over the side. Her plan had been to dive in cleanly like Baldur had, but she barely knew how to swim, let alone dive like a Grim One. Still, she landed in the water very close to where she had aimed to, though how and where she entered the water very quickly became the last things on Mila's mind. For the initial few seconds, Mila's entire world was nothing but the sensation of 'cold'. Her brain shut down, her body locked up, and even her heart seemed to freeze. It felt impossible. Worse than the Jerall Mountain blizzards, like every inch of her body was under an attack that cut all the way down to the bones.

It took a few seconds of suffering before she was able to will her eyes open, and from within the waters herself, Mila was able to make out the figures below her, locked in a violent battle that was slowly pulling them under. Baldur's foot was planted on the creature's right shoulder, and he was holding onto its arm with his left hand as his right wielded the knife that sawed at its milky flesh. A dark stain was rising from the blade like smoke, and she realized that Baldur had actually wounded the beast.

Then, at last, instinct retook its hold over Mila and drove her to swim downward. The devil was thrashing about with its free hand, trying to twist itself around so that its huge mouth could clamp down on the High King's legs. The struggle was too violent and confusing for her to follow without stopping, and so she continued to swim downward. But they were close now, just a few more feet...

Mila reached out and grabbed a big handful of golden-blonde hair, and with her free hand readied the recall spell. She felt Baldur give a hard tug at his foe, and then a moment later the two of them collapsed hard onto the mostly dry deck of the longship. Between the fall, the freezing cold, and the strain of recalling a second person along with her, Mila felt sick and disoriented. She tried to rise, but quickly collapsed again. Rolling over, she saw a dozen blurry faces moving back and forth, and a struggling Baldur rising to his knees. Then she noticed that between them laid the severed arm of the monster itself, its long fingers still opening and slowly closing.

A thought struck Mila, and she couldn't help but let out a weak chuckle. She looked Baldur's way and muttered, "Shezarrine," and then the cold returned and she decided that she had done enough for one fishing trip. Mila's head fell back against the wood, and she closed her eyes for some sleep.

***

The steaming bathwater felt like medicine against Mila's skin, though the chill in her bones seemed like it would never leave. The priestess promised that she wouldn't be losing any digits that night, which to her seemed impossible given how cold and numb they had been an hour prior. Even now as she laid back with her chin touching the water, unexpected fits of shivers still overtook her every now and then.

The tub had been filled and heated before they even got her back to the longhouse. No doubt by one of the Dibellans, who had been quick to rush her from the rough arms of the Stormcloaks and into a more comfortable environment. From all the fuss they'd raised, one might've thought Mila had taken a spear to the heart for their king, not jumped into some cold water and passed out. But apparently it was Baldur himself who had commanded their urgency. The whole thing was a haze to Mila. She remembered him holding her close on the ship, shouting orders, but also some words in a language she did not understand. A torch lit beside her, and for a time the heat of her uncle's breathing seemed like that of Nahfahlaar himself. She'd muttered for him to not tell Boldir what happened, but never was able to tell if he even heard.

That was all more than an hour ago. She came to around the time they made it back to land, and with a little help, was able to walk back to the longhouse on her own two feet. The others had left her alone after she assured them she would be fine. Now, her only company was Roseloe, who lazily drifted around the room, flickering every now and again.

Of course the longhouse had not been empty for five minutes before the witchbug started scolding her, going on and on about what it would mean for both of them if she died, and how selfish she had been. How fishing was a waste of time because they had plenty of food. And how the place now smelled like Dibellans ("Do you have any idea how awful that is when your nose has been replaced with antennae? Of course you don't")! But once Roseloe had finished her nagging, the witch's mood did soften just a little.

"You know, what I said this morning was not intended to be taken seriously," said the witchbug. "Well, not entirely at least. Seaweed is good for the skin, but you can just buy the stuff. There is no need to actually go out and try to gather it yourself."

Mila rolled her eyes. "I wanted it fresh."

"How distinguishing of you." Roseloe went quiet for a minute or so, seemingly deep in thought, then finally spoke again in a more curious tone. "Humor me if you will, girl. As I understand things, you hate your uncle. Were it I who stood on that boat, looking down on an unwanted relative, I would have summoned another monster to help the first, not jumped into the water after him."

"You haven't taught me any summoning spells."

"I was being sincere. Why did you jump in after the man you hate? Have you come around to thinking that we do need him after all?"

Mila frowned. "No... maybe. I don't know. It doesn't matter, Baldur would have been fine either way. He took the damn thing's arm off! But if he didn't make it back, Boldir... well, I don't know what it would have done to him."

"So you did it for Boldir?"

"I said I don't know. What's it matter to you, anyway?"

"It doesn't," Roseloe said quickly. "But I cannot turn the pages of a book, let alone engage in any of the other activities that I once found to be enjoyable. And due to the most tragic fact that you are the only person with whom I can even hold a conversation without risking my imminent death, this sort of 'drama' in your life is the closest thing I have to entertainment anymore."

"Well I guess we both got something out of this business, then."

The witch fell silent, and Mila closed her eyes and just enjoyed the hot water. Some time passed, and Mila knew she was doing better when there came a point that the water actually seemed too hot. She got out and quickly dried and dressed herself. Not for bed, though. Not yet. For all the day's events, there was still one thing that needed doing. "I'm going to Daric's house," Mila said to the sleeping bug. "Want to come with me?"

Roseloe's voice was sleepy. "Why in the Void are you-"

"You'll see." Mila grabbed an old rag off a shelf. "Do you want to come?"

The witch muttered something about being rudely awakened, but she followed nonetheless. They were greeted by a light snow outside, a surprise as the skies had been clear just a few hours earlier. In fact, it seemed the temperature had dropped a fair amount since then as well.
Baldur's Grim sentry watched her curiously from the same spot as before, though this was not the same man as before. "I needed a walk," she explained as she passed him by. "Make sure my legs are still working."

The man nodded, but didn't say anything in reply. And so once again Mila made her way into town. In no time at all, she was shaking snow off her boots in the doorway of Daric Red-Snow. The little one-room abode had seen better days. Note papers were scattered all over and around the bed where she'd been practicing her spell runes, and there were two painted circles on the floor, with no small amount of smear around them. With a shrug, Mila knelt down with the rag and started scrubbing at the dry paint.

The witchbug groaned. "Are you really planning on making me ask again what this is about?"

"We're done using this place," Mila replied. She didn't want to explain to Valga how it felt wrong to practice soul magic of all things in the home of Baldur's missing son. "We'll find somewhere else."

That only seemed to confuse her teacher even more. "Why would we-"

The painted runes flashed.

Roseloe's voice caught in her nonexistent throat, and Mila scrambled to her feet. Before her now stood a broad, black-armored figure with a longsword fastened to his belt. His back was turned, and he seemed to be looking around as if to get his bearings. "The door!" Roseloe hissed into her ear. "Go now, Girl, run!"

Instead, she drew her glowing dagger, conjured a flame in her left hand, and demanded, "Who are you?"

The figure turned to face her, removing his helmet as it did. In the light of her dagger and flame Mila saw a Breton man with dark hair whose face shifted from confusion to somber determination. His eyes glanced at her weapons before landing on her. When he spoke his voice was low and gruff. "My name is Thomas Maric, and I need to speak with Baldur Red-Snow about my son."

[TheCzarsHussar]

Roscrea
Middland Plateau

Traveling the midst of an arctic meadow valley a procession roamed it's way from the Kingdom of Ecoriobriga, an oddity of native power in a land seized and quartered by southern men. The warrior caravan marched with morbid gifts for the Nords. Their destination was not the longboats long set sail to the south, with many a' crusaders in toe, but the vast oasis-land stubbornly defying the permafrost landscape of Roscrea. The Old Dowry, once the seat of many native chieftains with nary a man to lord over them. Now, seated firmly with goatish stubbornness were petty jarls of Nordic stock. Haafingar-Folk thought themselves masters of good native folk, the Dowry-Oarcrafters were debt-slaved to the land, the Bone-Wreathed reindeer herders which so opposed the settled life embarked eastward into the tundra and so were lost, the very native chieftains once sworn to a distant nagging voice of far-south were taxed by hungry wolf banners. And all natives suffered horrid tribute to lesser men.

But those were golden days of Haafingar-Folk, once the bright men of Skyrim with all it's ten thousand thousand axes and spears to force natives to shrink and give tribute of furs and copper, and amber and gold. But the golden days of long distant heard mead drinking and feasting have dimmed and lessened. The long stretching spear has eroded and broke, leaving only splinters in Roscrea. Spears and axes and ring-mail of the south brought fear to the natives, but Atmoriants have little fear of splinters. And in the little world of Roscrea the splinters are soon to be pulled and snapped. For eighteen grim gifts and a parting farewell axe from the king himself, hoary with the memories of old, King of the Middle Roscreans, to the Dowry Hold, to the petty Jarl. And so the procession, the warrior caravan hauled these nineteen morbid partings southward and westward, through the oasis-land of the Middland Plateau. They cried and wailed, and begged and cursed.

Leading the procession was the finest of the favored nobles, a relative of the king himself. The favored noble sat in comfort in his finest clothing, a vibrantly blue over-robe atop hidden coat of mail, his robe was decorated with brilliant white patterns of volcanic veins swirling underneath the world and the sleeves and chest were embroidered with trimmed gold thread, in monastic reverence to Aka-Tusk. Several rings adorned his hands, a brilliant golden torc at his neck, hanging from his neck and sitting proudly on his chest were iconographic amulets to ward against Nord-Throat-Curses and show reverence to the Dov. Even the proud noble's mount, the hearty and heavy of foot mammoth was as decorated as rider. It's pelt was sheered down and a cushioned saddle adorned it's back. Protected by ring-mail underneath a richly decorated rug-pelt. All knew this lofty figure lived without want of mead, gold and loyal retainers. All knew he sat at the inner circle of the feasting table. For he was a gift giver and his retinue that ever loyally followed on foot reaped the rewards of companionship from their lord. The noble's retainers all to an Atmoriant and all wore the rewards atop their clothing. Torcs and rings all, mail and helmets all, not one among the procession were burdened with stone tipped weaponry. Nay they bore the tremendous honor of iron. Iron tipped spears and iron headed axes. Their lord and most noble Atmoriant armed himself with composite bow slung in quiver at the mammoth's side, armed in glass tipped spear and steel headed axestaff. Several heroic antennae swords hung at his side, a mark of the tremendously wealthy, or king-favored. The retainers carried the mundane spear and mundane javelins though this most noble of patrons would wield both in battle.

And again there was crying and wailing, begging and cursing. And blood trickled the meadow.

The procession traveled a cobbled road, past village and farm, past hill fort and keep. All Haafingar-Folk who laid eyes upon the procession fell to despair and fled from the gift-bringers. All lowly native Dowry-kin who laid eyes upon the procession quivered, some with fear at the coming storm, others with clarity and longing for the day to join the coming storm. Gifts were passed on to the kin who would follow the road to Ecoriobriga, the city of the procession. The warrior caravan was single minded, both noble and retainers would not seek nightly warmth and shelter, they fasted through the night and feasted on bread and ale on foot in the cold light of day. Mounted colonist-warriors followed from afar, weary of the procession. At last the mighty walls of Boiliobris, home to the Petty Jarl Frithuwald, was reached. The tyrant, the despot, the hated, the now-weak, the now-isolated. Boiliobris was a mighty hold, powerful in ancient times before the conquest, lust for power led the Haafingar-Folk to extend and expand the city, into the now hold capital. It was stone-walled and rivaled Ecoriobriga in size, exceeded her in population but without Solitude, her wealth was crippled and her power stagnant.

For the final time there was crying and wailing, begging and cursing. And blood trickled the crucifixes. Eighteen grim gifts were held upon the shoulders of the retainers. Colonist tribute collectors, advisers, nobles and their thanes were horribly wrought to the crucifixes, carried throughout the journey like standards of war. Each cross was planted within full sight of the coastal stronghold. The noblest of the procession dismounted with the farewell axe in hand, each of the suffering men were disemboweled, their innards ran down their legs, down the wood and saturated the earth. With his fine clothing, and fine jewelry sullied by Haafingar-Folk blood this favored noble took the farewell axe to the closed wooden gates and parted. Leaving the mark of war embedded into the wood.

[TheCzarsHussar]

Nightmare

 

The Doom Drum takes form.

 

Bright-Hewer, descendant of the Mages-Under-Ice. Kingship do you bear, eldest son of passed King Hrewldrum, in sworn vassalage to the majestic son of the invincible Ysmir. Coronation of your furrowed brow, hoary and ageless at once may bear your majesty all lordship. The realm will provide tribute as bespoken by the voices of man, the realm will provide arms when rallied under the twin red banners, the realm will never partake in hostile actions against benevolent overlordship-across-the-sea.

 

An age passes. The Doom Drum turns and beats a different form.

 

Nine blessings on you, King Cassivelogenos, first of his name.

One-Eighth blessing to your crown. May it splinter and crack your addled mind.

One-Eighth blessing to your feasting table in all it's majesty. May your ale spill and meat spoil evermore.

One-Eighth blessing to the noble palaces. May all your work crumble and be forgotten.

One-Eighth blessing to the realm of Atmoriantry. May your people drown.

One-Eighth blessing to the valiant spirit of war. May your spear be forever shattered and spirit destroyed.

One-Eighth blessing to the Ashen Usurper, the serpent rides with he. May his voice bring darkness to your people.

One-Eighth blessing to all the realms of man, the true favored and predestined to eternity. May your kin never know Sovngarde.

One-Eighth blessing to the chains that bind, slavery to your kin. May your people's day never dawn.

Ninth blessing to TALOS, the herald of your doom.

[BigBossBalrog]

Dales, Imperial City 
Late Afternoon 

“Bandits add complications to grain shipments, Your Majesty.” Caesia Luciana said, in a very “matter of fact” tone of voice. 

“Evidently.” Dales wasn’t in a good mood right now, and the annoyance was clear in her tone.

“Evidently.” Caesias muttered deadpanly. Her tone was always straight to the point, and concise. The Empress glanced up with a look of “really?”, which didn’t change the Imperial woman’s expressionless face. The woman said, with her trademark scowl,  “Say again the five breadbaskets of the Region.” She went beside the Empress, her hands trailing across the wooden table, across the map of the Imperial Province stretched out.

“Flortam, Riverside, Meadow’s Wind, Oltoaf, and Rock’s Silence.” She recited the list from her memory. The Empress began to read from the scroll once more in her head. She reclined in her chair, putting her hand to her head. The Empress had more of a sharp mind then she gave herself credit for, but the sheer logistics behind running the country more directly, she completely underestimated. Luckily, Dales had plenty of people helping her with these matters, mentors, and advisers, Sometimes people acting like both. Caesia was one of those.

As she was always saying, “The best lessons are those you learn through actual experience.” 

“And two of those produce a whole score of grain for the whole of the Heartland.  Which makes this a problem that extends beyond less bread in our soldiers stomachs.” She sharply muttered, before adding sardonically, “Your majesty.” 

The Imperial woman was another retired veteran of the Great War, a common theme among her retainers. In Caesia’s case, she had been the head quartermaster for the Third for decades, a Tribune. She was strict, authoritarian, and amazing with numbers, all traits suited for a position such as that. She wore a black quilted surcoat, embroidered with gold colored thread, done in a male style, and despite being retired, she wore an Imperial longsword on her side. Her hair was done in a short bob cut style, and whilst wrinkled with age, her face had a dignified, if somewhat intimidating, aged beauty to her, marred only by the three small scars going across various parts of her forehead. She carried herself with impeccable posture, and an expressionless face, her Legion standards would not let anything else slide in her presence.  Whilst her respect for the position, and her conditioning in the Legion, made her impeccable polite in her interactions with the monarch, she never let barely hidden sarcasm leave her words. She spoke her mind too, perhaps a leftover from her time as the Guard-Captain of Bruma after she retired from her commission as an Imperial Officer. 

Right now, Dales needed people who could tell her what she was doing wrong, rather than sycophants, who bowed to her every whims. 

“Attacks on both the grain caravans and villages.” Dales read from the musty looking scroll a second time in her head, which held a black broken seal depicting a ram, the seal of the Eighth Legion, “Mostly during the night, but some during day. Which indicates a particular boldness. One that doesn't sit well with the integrity of our supply trains. And my stomach..” 

“Focus. Your Majesty.” The older Imperial woman gripped the table tightly as she gave the Empress an annoyed glare, as her sharp gray eyes fell to the scroll in the Empress’s hands. “Supply trains aren’t the only thing we should be worried about, less grain being delivered to cities and towns is not good either, as I mentioned before…” Her eyes remained fixed, “But the Prefect's report on the bandits themselves worry me more. He described them as bold, systematic, well-organised, and numerous. These aren’t simple highwaymen. And to be frank with you, we can never have a situation like Bravil ever again. In my opinion, of course.”

The report itself had been sent by a certain Prefect Alistaur Adomonous, a supply officer. Apparently, the supply caravans in his region had begun to face frequent attacks from a particularly large clan of bandit, so large in fact several villages in the same region had been raided by the same villains. They attacked in force, took all they could grab, including prisoners, and left before anyone could muster any resistance. Cold and efficient.  

She continued, her brow hardening, 

“With all the deployments happening to facilitate the invasion of the Dominion, it means less Imperial soldiers stationed to protect from issues such as banditry and thievery. War is always when vultures, figurative ones and actual corpse scroungers, decide to be opportunists. And in this cases, the Legionaries still here are being focused on the borders of the Heartland, to protect from Dominion raiders, though I doubt the common folk would see much difference between Elven and Human vagobonds raping and pillaging. Which means less patrols and safety buffers around manned forts, and the interior itself, which is now easy picking for thieves and bandits alike.” 

“I am not a child, Caesia.” Dales looked annoyed, “What you’ve described I already know. Bandits have always been a problem here in the post-war years, hell even before that. It would have been foolish to think my husband thinning their numbers would have much of an effect, these types of people arise during times of strife such as this. Of course the number of bandits increase during times of war. Cowards the lot of them…” Dales groaned, thinking out loud with a quiet voice, “I send my legions to scourge the dominion, to protect the people. Then bandits arise because the soldiers I sent to protect Cyrodiil, are no longer here to protect the same people! Would the Gods think it amusing as soon as I send men to deal with these villainous thieves, giant rat people invade from the sewers of the Imperial City!” 

“I suppose a colony of Wererats existing underneath the city wouldn’t be out of the question, your majesty. They’d fit right in around here.” Cassia muttered dryly. 

Dales gave her another “really?” look, as she rolled her eyes. “All i’m saying it seems whenever I move soldiers to deal with threats, more just sprout up in the place they were in before.” 

“We don’t have limitless armies. Perhaps an era ago we could afford to throw legionaries endlessly until a threat was dealt with, but not now. Not when we are so weak.” 

The Empress groaned, “What kind of Empire can’t protect its citizens from thugs springing up in its own territory…”

“One that can’t keep it’s own provinces from seceding, prevent it’s last two Emperor’s from being diced by assassins. One that is made up of a single territory, along with one more that’s “tentative”. And apparently can’t make wine properly anymore…” Cassia looked downward at her glass of watered wine, and pushed it aside with an annoyed glanced. 

Dales groaned once again, “Not helping…” 

The grey haired woman coughed, “I hear alot of mumbling, but not many solutions to the problem. Does Your Majesty have any suggestions?”

The young Empress rubbed her eyes, yawning. She was raised with the proper etiquette her station demanded, but she seldom forgot it unless within public view. “I suppose we could put up more bounties up in the region. There’s never a lack of sellsword and adventures trying to make a quick Septim off slicing the heads off those deviants.” 

“An excellent idea-”

“No” Dales suddenly lifted her hand, reclining into her chair, “Better make it a bounty for bandit chiefs and their lieutenants for the proper payout, and lesser rewards for individual heads.”

“Your Majesty does have a worrying fascination with severed heads of late…” The older woman muttered drolly as she began to make scribble on a piece of parchment with her hawk feathered pen, 

The Empress rolled her eyes, “As I was saying, this will make sure the focus is on removing the brains behind these groups. Cut off a snake's head, and the body dies with it. If we kill their leaders, the rest will slunk off to the woods.” She put her hand to her temple and began to massage it, “Have the chamberlain-” though to be honest, Dales was starting to consider the woman her unofficial clerk, -”draft instructions to as many villages, towns, forts, and cities as possible to spread the word that the crown-no, the Empress, will pay handsomely for the heads of high ranking Bandits. We’ll incentivise the population to be more brave to deal with them themselves!” She gave herself a self satisfied grin,

“And how will the Empress finance this new campaign, pray tell? Especially with that expensive little trip to your beloved home city so soon.”

The pit of her stomach suddenly became discomforted, and insecurities once more began to plague her mind. She snarled, “We’ll deal with one problem at a time, Cassia.”

Ever since her mentors red meeting with the Elder Council, the Empress decided it was now the perfect opportunity to gather support, particularly amongst the horrified nobles of the Heartland, a group she had avoided up till now. 

What better place then to start at the bottom?

Dales...didn’t like talking about, or even really thinking about her home countie of Sutch. Ironically, it was one of the Legion’s most valuable recruiting grounds, the Heart of Colvia,  and quite possibly the most militarised part of Cyrodiil. For it had been the site of one of the largest sieges in the Great War, and the land itself was said to be stained with Imperial blood, for not many other places had suffered as much as Sutch.

And from what Dales had gathered, her and her family were reviled there. There was no greater shame, then the Motierre’s to the proud defenders of Sutch. 

She had probably gotten a warmer reception at the Moot, then what she was marching towards.

But if Dales could find support from a place that she knew despised her, she could find it anywhere.

Besides...she wanted to show the people of her home territory she was not her father. And maybe, an even deeper part of her wanted to see home again, after so long…

Bringing her back from her contemplation, Cassia muttered, “As you say Your Majesty. I will handle the exact numbers on what this will cost to undertake and get back to you.” She finished writing on her piece of parchment, and sealed the document with a wax sea, putting it to her side.  “To your credit, the timing is certainly unfortunate. Back to our bandit issue, this will no doubt help, but it does nothing to solve the immediate problem. A particularly large, bold, and organised group of marauders attacking our supply trains.” 

She joked with a grin, “I suppose it would be stupid to take some of the men we have on the border, and redeploy them against the bandits…”

Cassia maintained a straight face, as she spoke strictly, “The people of the Imperial Province are blessed by natural borders, we have the mountains to the North and East, open waters to the West, and wet bogs and rainforests to our south to keep them safe. We don’t need as many soldiers as one who isn’t familiar with the terrain would think to mount a proper defense of the province. One advantage that has not wavered over the centuries  is the integrity of our borders are naturally enhanced. But yes.” She remained emotionless, “It would be very stupid. Perhaps the Empress could look at the actions of her predecessors to see why it is so.”

Dales knew for sure, but she humored her,

“Titus Mede II defended our border, he was no craven. Whatever else he was.” Dales cut her nails across the black lines across the map.” She paused, closing her eyes, “Right or wrong, his priority was to protect the Heartland at the expense of defending the rest of the Empire. Our concentration of Legions was primarily on the border of the Cyrodiil, and he intended them to stay there.” She paused,  “He refused to commit real resources to the Civil War in Skyrim, and so I believe he had no intention of holding onto the rest of it. Perhap he viewed it as dead weight, that would impede our chances of success in the next Great War. I agree with his assessment, but…” Her eyes glanced to the report, “He prioritized securing us from the Elven threat Cyrodiil suffered internally from banditry and civil strife, so much so we are still in the process of recovering. With so much resources focused on protecting our border, we didn’t have enough to protect us from the threats that lurked inside our own province. In a sense, building up strength at our border was Mede’s only concern.”  There must be a middle ground I am not seeing. 

She gave the Empress a curt nod, apparently pleased with her answer, and agreeing with it. The Colvian women's gray eyes didn’t even blink, “And your fathers?” 

Dales’s look immediately soured, as she gritted her teeth, “Amaund.” That bastard wasn’t my father, “...” She paused for a moment. A horrible individual and puppet yes, but perhaps there was rhyme and reason to his actions. “If you don’t believe he solely wanted the power of being the Dominion’s puppet, perhaps he viewed the Empire’s subjugation as a means to end in that regard. Protect us from the Dominion by bowing to them.” She spat, “Horseshit.” 

“Horseshit indeed.” A grin flashed on Cassia’s face for a single instant. “So then how will you, My Empress, deal with the situation?” 

“Your Majesty.” The knock on the door interrupted the young girl before she could tell her tutor the answer she was seeking. It was one of her Palace Guards, she recognized the voice. The door to her study swung open, revealing a plate armored guard. Before Dales could answer back, Caesia barked at the soldier with an authoritarian tone, and a harsh glare

“Do not open the door to the Empress's study without her permission, guardsmen.” 

The man became flushed underneath his helmet,  “Of course, Tribune. My apologies.” Most people still called Casesia by her military rank as a sign of respect, “My apologies, Your Majesty. It wont happen again." He bowed his head deeply.

"Think nothing of it, Tiberius." Dales gave the soldier a kind smile, which cause the older woman to roll her eyes in her annoyance. She bite her tongue, keeping her words to herself, but she would approach the Empress later for a chat. If she wanted to truly command the respect of her troops, she needed to start being more distant, and strict with them. Love and respect can both be acquired from soldiers, but it needs to have a balance that leans towards the later. Dales paused for a moment, before asking, "What do you have to report?"

"Well..." He paused for a second, clearly awkward, "An Imperial Soldier from Chorrol is requesting an audience with you, Your Majesty." 

Caesia's brow furrowed, as Dales adopted a confused look, "A messenger from one of the Generals?" 

"No Your Majesty. If  he held a missive from one of the Legions, we would have brought you it immediately." He coughed, "The Legionnaire claims to have important intelligence for the Empress ears only.  He-"

"Did you tell him to go through proper channels? Or to leave whatever had had for the Empress in your care? Why does he need to see her directly?" Caesia interrupted the soldier, her harsh stare eyeing the the Palace Guard like a hungry eagle. The Palace Guard awkwardly rubbed his head, 

"He was very insistent that he needed to deliver this in person to her. He said he would only give it to the Empress, and no one else."

Odd. "Can you say again, where this Legionnaire from?" Dales pondered a question

"Chorrol. A Prefect of the Eighth. He said the Empress was a friend of the Legion, and that she would see him." 

Caesia muttered, "Highly irregular. Very irregular. Perhaps I should speak with him-"

"That isn't necessary." She gave the retired Legionary. a calm look, "If this soldier has deemed it necessary to speak to me directly, then I will grant him what he seeks." Whilst she didn't say anything, the soldier didn't seemed convinced. Causing the Empress to say, "Surely protocol goes after trust in the people serving under you. He has placed his trust in me to hear him out, and I will hear him out. Tiberius, he is who he says he is, correct?" 

"Yes, his writ was authentic, Your Majesty." 

"Splendid." She gave the soldier a sympathetic look, "I am protected. By my guards, my magic, the wards of the palace, and you." 

The older woman's face relaxed, as she nodded her head, "Perhaps it is wise to hear him out. When a soldier comes to an officer in confidence, that that trust must be rewarded." 

"Good. Send the man up then." 

Tiberious nodded his head, "As you say, Your Majesty."

He saluted and the door closed. A few minutes later, it opened again, and Tiberius allowed in a somewhat grizzled-looking bearded man who was clad in a travel-stained soldier's tunic. The broach that clasped his red cape was shaped like a tree, but aside from that and his rugged appearance, the Prefect was fairly nondescript. The man's expression was neutral when he entered, but upon laying eyes on her, he immediately dropped to one knee. "Your majesty."

She gave the Imperial soldier a gracious nod of her head, "Rise, soldier. Tiberius has told me you've traveled a long way to deliver something to me.  First your name, Legionnaire?"

The soldier straightened. "Dunen, your majesty. Junior inspector of the Penitus Oculatus."

"A Spectre. I knew something smelled of rot." Caesia mouth curled in disgust, but Dales lifted her hand. Her own eyebrows raised, but she didn't seem upset,

"I was under the impression you were a Prefect from the Eighth Legion." Her icy eyes narrowed, taking in the man's features. "But I suppose only a poor agent would make himself known, and that's how you acquired that Legion writ." 

"You are correct, majesty. Apologies, the deception was not intended for you." He produced a leather package, sealed on the front, "I am under orders to deliver you this briefing directly, as my superior believes that following chain of command would have posed too great a risk."

"What investigation would cause such a breach in protocol-" The Empress paused for a moment. Realisation hit her on the face, remembering Tiberius word's, " Reporting to Lillian Quentas, the Spymaster you mean." She scratched her chin, she suspected this was the case, "That broach you wear...you actually came from Chorrol then? Whose your commanding officer?" 

"Inspector Trevis Hayne, your majesty."

"I'm not familiar with the name, Dunen. What was the nature of the Inspector's investigation, and what's the need for so much secrecy, even from your own organisation?" 

"Our assignment was to find and apprehend the killers of Sibbi Black-Briar," he answered. "But during our search, we came upon another matter that Inspector Hayne believes to be unrelated. As to the nature of this matter, I will tell your majesty, but I believe that after hearing what I have to say, you will agree that the fewer people who heard it, the better."

Her eyes glanced the other people present, the Tribune and her Palace Guard. She trusted them, but the foreboding tone of the Junior Inspector made her think whatever he had to say was grave indeed. She turned her head around, "Caesia, Tiberius. Would you leave the room for a moment please?" 

Tiberius had a small outburst  "But your majesty-" 

"Do not question the Empress's orders, guardsmen. Just do as your told." She didn't look too happy at the order herself, her strict, disciplinary expression particularity pronounced. But she would never question the Empress in front of other people, it wasn't her place. "We will wait outside of the study. " And without another word, or protest, Caesia marched with the Palace Guard in tow. Her eyes glared at Dunen, who waited for the door to close before he continued.

"Thank you, majesty." He handed her the document. "Enclosed is Inspector Hayne's final report before departing Chorrol. In it, you will find details pertaining to our findings there, and more importantly a countryside estate owned by a Roseloe Valga."

She grabbed the leather bound tome, nothing identifying it as anything more then a mundane message, with a regular blue wax seal. She drew a letter opener, and cut open the thick seal, revealing the set of binded parchment that made it's contents, with letters written in neat, black ink. Coughing, the Empress began to read its contents. 

Your Royal Majesty, Empress Dales Draconus,

I must apologize for the circumstances of this letter's delivery. I understand that by writing to you directly and without addressing any of my superiors, I am responsible for the crime of circumventing chain of command and potentially that of committing deceit against the Crown and its higher offices. I accept whatever consequences this entails, for the gravity of what I have uncovered has forced me to place the spirit of the law higher than the letter.

The following documents contain reports pertaining to my findings in County Chorrol while conducting an investigation that was at first unrelated to the matter of which I now write. Included are my own firsthand accounts as well as copies of writings retrieved from a secret wing in the manor of one Roseloe Valga (whose whereabouts are currently unknown). These accounts detail blatant practicing of the more obscure occult, including the illegal acts of human soul theft, black soul gem creation, nonconsensual necromancy, association with banned daedra (including at least one Prince), murder, possible cannibalism, and the kidnapping and mutilation of children. Even more disturbing is the implication in Valga's writings that some of these acts were performed by a group, suggesting the existence of a larger cult or coven.

The report's introduction ended there. Dales quickly flipped over to the next page, and then the next, then the next. The report was long, she saw, with the Oculatus agent's own very detailed writings supplemented by entire journal entries written by the witch Valga, herself. There were even a few sketches, mostly of unfamiliar ritual symbols and the like. It would take hours to go through all of it, so Dales skimmed a little before turning to the end, where the agent concluded:

I have not confirmed it at this time, but it is my concern that whoever these people are, they may have ties within the nobility besides just Roseloe Valga. It is for this reason that I am leaving three of my agents in Chorrol when I continue my current mission westward. They are already undercover, and I do not dare commit their names to writing. The courier of this report, Junior Inspector Dunen, knows them and can inform you upon delivery. It is my recommendation that they be allowed to pursue this lead in secret and unimpeded, should that course of action coincide with your royal will. It is for the same very reason that I took the precaution of contacting you directly and in secret from my superiors. For though I serve loyally under Spymaster Quintas, I am unable to rule out the possibility that her own noble family might be involved. The Valgas were once Counts and Countesses of Chorrol as well, after all.

I leave this report and my recommendations to you, Your Majesty, and trust in your wisdom and judgement on the matter going forward. 

The report was signed 'Chief Inspector Trevis Hayne of the Penitus Oculatus'.

Dales face grew paler and paler as she read on. The hue of her skin had improved ever since her...contemplation on High Hrothgar, but the contents of the report had restored it's pale, ghastly hue to her face, as if she was under thrall once more. Her lips curled into a snarl of disgust briefly, before she banished it, her features darkening as she read the final page of the report once again in her head. She was silent for a good few moments, processing what she had just read, before she finally spoke, which just rose over a barely, audible whisper, "This...this is grave tidings indeed, Junior Inspector. Ill news. I very much now understand the actions of your superior. You did well to guard this.." 

She paused for a moment, thinking a little detail over, Surely Inspector Hayne could have gone to someone like my husband? But he trusted her. 

"I know the frankness and professionalism of the ever-seeing eye, and I won't question if this darkness is even a little bit exaggeration, but it's hard to believe such dark occultism and what seems to be witchcraft could go unhindered in a place like Chorrol, a county that was known in it's past to be so rigid and orderly. And no less to emerge in such a respected highborn family. The Valgas...regardless, the report mentioned Hayne had a belief she was acting in a group. In your own experience, Junior Inspector, how far do you think this "cult" has penetrated into the nobility? It's very clear he rightfully worried about the local authorities." 

"I cannot say, your majesty. I helped conduct the search of Valga Estate and gather some of this information, but I haven't been briefed or had the opportunity to review it all together. Although..."

He hesitated for a moment. "Well, I resorted to using back roads instead of the main one after being attacked two days outside of Chorrol. I cannot say for certain if the assailants were anything more than common bandits, but I have my suspicions. Their weapons appeared to be of fine make, and they never spoke or threatened me. Just attacked. It's possible that someone in the city knew I was leaving under cover and tried to prevent my arrival here. Our raid on the estate was no secret."

"And it's even more suspicious that no news has reached the Imperial City of any of this. Rumours spread across the heartland fast, surely such a horrific story, of one of the most respected families in Chorrol, would have reached us by now. So strange... " 

She paused. She was already formulating a course of action. She sighed deeply, going to another topic "Your superior indicates he intended for you to carry on his investigation. However, if you were attacked, and you suspect they those who did are aligned with some higher authority within the powers of Chorrol then they already know who you are. I fear if you returned, not only would your life be in danger, an investigation would be fruitless, and much more difficult. I am of the mind you can't return to the city." 

The inspector bowed his head. "Your will, majesty. Though I fear for the safety of my fellows back in Chorrol. Trev- Inspector Hayne ordered three of them to remain in the city undercover and continue the investigation independently. If I was found out, then it is possible that they were too."

This is worrying. Dales already had the other concerns to worry about, such as the bandit raids, and not getting stoned to death in her home city. Already the mountain of issues piling up threatened to consume the girl in stress. Perhaps it would have, a year ago. But the Empress couldn't let that hinder her any longer, not now, not as she was. Inspector Hayne had trusted her enough he went above the chain of command. She would prove that the faith he had put in his Empress was well placed. That dosen't mean she couldn't look to those around her for assistance.

 She quietly took in a mouthful of air, and breathed, letting her worry fall away in one fell swoop of her lungs. She spoke again, "I would defer to you on this matter on a potential replacement as an investigator, we owe it to the Inspector to see this through. I've been told the Spymaster maintains a vice grip over most of the Oculatus. This means we cannot trust any of your comrades to take up this mantle, less they inform her.  Perhaps someone from the College of Whispers, or maybe even the Imperial Watch?" 

"Forgive me, Empress. I have no affiliations with the College of Whispers, and with respect to the Watch, they are not trained for subtlety the way we are. They can solve a crime, but I don't know any that I'd trust with spy work of this sort. Maybe..." The inspector paused. Dales got the impression that he wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to say whatever had come to his mind. "I do have contacts in the Thieves Guild. I would not use them as investigators, or even tell them what's going on, but I could get them to locate the three agents in Chorrol. If they are alive, then that means they'll have been carrying out the investigation all this time anyway. There would be no need to involve anyone else."

"If that's what you think the best course of action is in the circumstances, I agree to it. Very well. You may contact your connections in the Thieves Guild, and we can go from there." 

"I'll see to it, your majesty. Will you be wanting future reports brought to you directly like today, or is there someone you trust that I can bring any findings to?"

"Directly if you will. The crown's eyes has seemingly fallen blind on Chorrol for too long, I wish to remedy that." 

The inspector bowed. "Then by your leave, Empress..."

She got out of her seat and offered him a legion-styled salute, "Carry on, Junior-Inspector. And thank you for bringing this to my attention. You and your superiors loyalty does you credit.  We will unravel this mystery. Dismissed."

The agent took his leave. No doubt his mind was already honing in on whatever next step he thought would be necessary. Such was the way the agents of the Oculatus operated, always focused on the next task, never the break that came after. On that front, Dales was beginning to relate.

A second later Cassia had returned, with a look of extreme annoyance, “What was that about.” 

The Empress returned it, “Not now Cassia. If you wish to serve me, then do not tell a soul about the Junior Inspector’s visit. And drop the matter."

If there was any defiance, or anger at being locked out of the loop, her eyes showed none, “As you say Your Majesty.” 

Dales sighed deeply, as she reclined into her chair, “And now to answer your question from before. What do we do about the bandits…” She rubbed her throbbing forehead, grinning “ Silly Dales. Why should I struggle to find soldiers when I have my own private army...Send for Corvus.” 
***
Cassia had left the Empress alone in her study, already the dying sunshine bathed the room in reddish light, twilight was soon to fall. She had double checked, and made sure her numbers accommodated what she was about to order. Her detail wouldn't have to be large anyways for the trip to ravaged Sutch, and this matter came before it. It was not too long, before she heard loud footsteps coming from outside the study.   

There was only one individual who's slow, thudding steps belonged to. The summoned near-giant stood before his paymaster. Lacking not in arms, the brilliant if not woefully cumbersome greatsword lay stashed in a baldric slung about his back. Though such fine a gift in arms he did bear, Corvus wore only the large well tailored heartland tunic.

His guttural voice reverberated a simple, "Paymaster."

The Empress had a fear that the doorway would have collapsed from his height and width, but to her relief it held firmly. Dales gave the Atmoriant a cut nod of her head, "Corvus." She paused beginning to dote something down on a scroll of parchment,, "Are you and the rest of the Bloodsworn settling into your duties in the Palace District? How goes it?"

"My fellowmen enjoy the ale, it is fine quality. The duties of my fellowmen are carried out, there is nervousness among some of us... about the Dov." His face was stony as it was wretched and wrinkled.

"Nafaalilargus?" She paused, "Most people are worried about the fire drake. Are Dragons especially feared in your culture?" She asked, genuinely curious,  

Corvus stared at Dales' face for a good long awkward moment before mustering words. "Where I hail... they are revered. I do not share... that way of thinking, anymore." His choice of words were labored and carefully chosen. Corvus was not quick to admit only he felt poorly of the Dov.

That piqued her interest especially, "The Ancient Nords, or so I hear, worshiped them thousands of years ago. This hasn't changed in Roscrea?"

"Paymaster Dales. A tender thing you inquire about." Was all Corvus laid in response.

Dales put her hand up, with an apologetic smile, "Oh, I see i'm prying into something you'd rather not talk about. My apologies.  I get a certain way when it comes to matters such as this. Back to your orders then?" She took out a map of the Imperial Province, spread it out across her desk's wooden surface, and showed it to the Giant. "Your strength and skill in arms has been made evident by the other client guard, as is your wisdom, but I wish to ask you do you have much experience leading soldiers into battle?"

"Yes, yes Paymaster I do. I have commanded retinues in my lord's name, in far-east and isle-east. Am I to exercise my right of rule among the band?"

"Not just in the band." She pointed to a spot on the map, "Cyrodiil has always been infested with bandits, and now with the Legion's deployments in Valenwood and Elsweyr, the problem is spilling over." Her finger trailed a circle around a part South West of the Imperial City, "I'm going to start a campaign of incentives for sellswords and adventurers to help with the problem, but the immediate threat remains. Important farming villages, grain caravans, and even a handful of our Legions supply trains have been hit by a single, large, and well-organised clan of Bandits in this region. I am going to send a combined force of Second Legion Soldiers, my Palace Guard, and  Bloodsworn to find them, and eradicate them." She paused, "I wish to know if you feel you are qualified to lead such a force." 

"This is a large body to command, I have only fought the legion, never commanded it. But I know how it repels and how it kills. Can you say with confidence these warriors can rival Uralseptims? If these palatial guards and second warriors have even an smidgen of what I remember, I could lead them to Elvendom itself."

"Uriel Septim?! You mean, Uriel Septim V?" Dales practically shouted, suddenly, "Corvus...you...you fought the Septims?! Impossible, that would make you hundreds of years old..." Her eyes briefly sparkled, but she shoved her wonder down, and regained control of herself.

She coughed awkwardly, "Well our Legion's might have diminished since the time of the Septims, but only a fool would not fear facing the Imperial Legion even as it is, and the Second is widely considered the best of the best, and the cohort their general gave me is the Legion's cream of the crop. My palace guards are also all veterans."

Corvus couldn't help but snort, which was much louder then his faltering ears realized. "Yes Paymaster I am wretchedly old, magicless and enemy of all Imperials." He pretended to lean in but the slightest crack of a smile betrayed him. It would appear Corvus' face wasn't etched of stone. "I will take your commission Paymaster, and lead in your ordained name."

She nodded her head, having recorded from the revelation of Corvus's age quickly. They lived in strange times after all.  She ignored his past quip, before saying, "Very good. I want you to choose fifty warriors among the Bloodsworn to take with you, on the parameters of the least experienced, and eager. Having such fine warriors sitting around surely pains them." She grinned,  "Drills can only do so much." She took a sealed scroll from the side of her desk, which held a silver seal in the shape of a Dragon, the seal of the Empress, along with another scrolls.  "This will give you a writ of royal command. You are on a mission from the Empress. The other is the report that was sent to me, which details the bandits, their attacks, and the region itself. Study it." She paused, "You shall leave tomorrow morning. Report to the front gate with your chosen Bloodsworn, and take command of the palace guard detail, and the Legionaries who will meet you there. I will make it expressively clear to the Legate in charge that you are in command." 

"Any questions?" 

"Prisoners?" Corvus asked.

"Kill them all." She said simply, 

[BigBossBalrog]

Dales, Gold Road
Midday 

“Now this is country!” Dales stretched out her legs, as she basked in the sun, letting the rays hit her. She reclined in the wooden chain her guard had produced for her, and took a sip of watered down wine from it’s glass. Dales had taken refuge atop a grassy hill that overlooked miles of the Imperial Province. Dales wore travelling garments, expensive black ones inter threaded with silvery rune fabric, alongside a pair of black gloves, and black boots. She had a dark travelling cloak, clasped by a silver broach. “I can see myself with a hunting party, preying on some massive, black boar that has been terrorizing the locals!”  She let the cool breeze hit her on the face, with a satisfied smile. Truly, it was good to be away from the capital, regardless of her destination. This was her land. Her people. 

“I thought you didn’t want to stop, “get there as soon as possible with no delays”. If you wanted to hunt boar you could have just said that.” Cassia groaned, sharply eyeing the surrounding countryside. Her usual doublet was replaced by a travel cloak, along with an expensive looking leather jerkin. It was wide open to be sure with fields, rocks, trees, an assortment of ponds, and even some farms in the distance.     

“There aren't any boars around these parts, I'm afraid. None of the big ones anyway.” Tiberius suddenly spoke up, his soft, young voice clashing with his mature looking face.  “If you wanted to hunt those, it would have been best to go around Bruma, or maybe Chorrol.” He carried his helmet in a vice grip, but was otherwise completely armored. Like usual, he always had his hand to his sword’s handle. She had brought only a handful of her Palace Guards with her, as most were currently marching with her Bloodsworn,  but compensated by acquiring a full company of Imperial Legionaries, with a squad of Oculatus Specters intermingled with the group.  Most of them were resting just at the base of the hill, taking a moment to quickly cook up some stew, and stretch their bones out.  

Dales grinned, taking another sip of wine, “An expert on boars now are we Tiberius?” 

“Just five of those monsters can ript apart a field in the manner of minutes. My family has been farming in Cyrodiil for…” He paused for a moment, “Well as long as there's been people living in these parts, I reckon.”

One of the guards beside him, snarked, “A mighty fine dynasty of mud farmers the Carto’s are!” The Orc guardsmen chuckled, as Tiberius gave her an annoyed look, “Anyway, you farm in one part of Cyrodiil, you’ve farmed in all of it. Just big expanses of fields, grasslands, forests, and trees. I hate the fucking country.” He adopted a scowl, resuming his alert position, “Better our fields be as boring as sin, then ablaze with the flame magic of the Dominion anyhow.”

“The calm before the storm.” Dales gazed at the beautiful landscape, ignoring the growing argument from her guards, and tried to ready herself. Though in truth, she was terrified of returning to her home city. 

They lingered in that spot for half an hour more, before they resumed their journey, south-west to the heart of Colovia, Old Sutch. 

Well, it’s nickname, “Old Sutch” wasn’t entirely honest. Sutch was considered by many to be the heart of Colovia, but was both old and new in a sense. Old, because it traced itself as one of Cyrdoiil’s oldest counties, and was very proud (some would say unbearably so) of the fact. It was mired in endless tradition, as well as echoing the long forgotten past.  In its current rendition, the place was only a couple hundred years old. During the Third Era, Sutch had become desolate, and depopulated, by the time of the Oblivion crisis, all that really remained of it was a handful of villages, a set of ruins, and the frame of an ancient fort used as an outpost by Legion foresters. Said fort played a vital role in protecting Colovia during the onset of the invasion from the Deadlands. Since then, the population has steadily recovered, and a vibrant city (though Dales considered it more of a large town really), surrounded by smaller villages and towns had sprung up, with their quality vermiculo lumber and rich stone quarries facilitating the counties grown and attempts at rebuilding,

That was until the Dominion siege fifteen years ago.

But even in its current...state, proud Sutch was a prime recruiting ground for the Imperial Legion; for the soldiers it produced were as stalwart as it’s famous fortress. 

A couple hours later the Imperial column had passed several rice fields, the surrounding hilliness making it hard for the horses to proceed, thank the god’s for the road. This particular farming village was very spacious. Large groups of citizens toiled underneath the scene, consisting of people from all races, and ages, of wearing light, easy to move in clothing, wading through the crops with ease. The peasants grasped farming blades, as they cut the stocks of rice plants, pilling them high on wheelbarrows, to be pulled toward the outside of ramshackle shacks. The peasants then proceeded to, holding large bundles at a time, violently slam the crops across wooden tables, letting the grains of rice fall from the stocks and into large containers. 

To the Empress (who had never witnessed rice being harvested) it looked like exhausting work, but from the universal smiles and laughter, very rewarding and honest. She was fascinated by it.

Dales, who was gently caressing her horse who was nervous about the uneven hills, asked “I thought most of Cyrodiil’s rice came from Niben?” 

“It does.” Tiberius said, helping Dales in calming the horse down. “But it’s a pretty common crop throughout the entire heartland. It’s...easy enough to harvest, can be used in a variety of ways, and is pretty filling. There’s a reason it’s one of our biggest agricultural exports.” 

One of the guards to the right of the Empress laughed, “Guess farmboy here misses this.” 

Tiberius muttered something underneath his breath, before getting back into position. 

By now most of the toiling farmers had noticed the Imperial column forming beside, along with the crowned figure who led it. Shouts of, “Is-is that the Empress?” “By the Nine!”, “The royal family!” They all uniformly fell onto their knees in terror, and dropped their heads downward as a sign of respect. 

Dales, who was embarrassed by such a greeting, lifted up her hands, smiling, “By the Nine, don’t stop at my expense. Carry on with your day, citizens.” 

They all breathed sighs of relief, bowing their heads with a “Thank you, Your Grace.” as they went back to work cutting the fields, and crushing the crops. Before Dales turned away, she noticed a small child looking at her with an expression of awe. The little boy wore a simple set of blue clothing, with a straw hat just like the rest of him. He looked no older than six, and was already with the rest of the villagers hard at work. He was missing his two front teeth, and had a messy face of freckles, alongside unkempt brown hair. 

Dales made a silly face, as she waved at him with a smile from ontop her horse. The little boy giggled, as he waved back at her. He was hurriedly rushed along by his parents, who gave a small bow to the Empress. Dales gave another sad look at the rice farm, before pushing her horse onward.

The column traveled for another few hours. The light was starting to fade, as twilight began to take form when they reached their first destination. 

A vermillion hue hung around in both the sky, as well as the ground, for beyond them lay a red forest. Dales lifted her hand into the sky to stop the column, before turning around. “We are almost at our destination. Be on guard, there’s a reason why this forest is called Sutch’s first wall.”

As the group pressed forward to the distant forest, she noticed how worn down the roads were going to get around here. They weren’t dirt, but they might as well have been considering how unkempt they were. The Gold Road itself had suffered much from the Empire’s misfortune, and if something wasn’t done soon, she feared it might become unsalvable; Cyrodilli’s ease of travel thanks to it was a commodity that the Empire couldn’t afford to lose, especially in the state it was in. Dales drly groaned, as she urged her horse forward, looking at the worn down highway forlornly. 

“I wonder when the Empire is gone, will people look at these roads, and wonder “who built them” “what were they like?” “were they an honorable people?”

Cassia sardonically said, “Just look over there for your answer, Your Majesty.” She pointed to her left. 

A ruined, white structure, lay among a small sea of red trees. A hutting spire of ancient marble, with interlocking arcs around and around, it looped downward in a semi circle around the main part of the building, which led into the deeper part of it’s bowels. An Ayleid ruin, one of many, which thousands, if not tens of thousands, dotted across the landscape of the Heartland. 

Dales looked at the dilapidated structure with a degree of sadness, before saying,  while grinning, “It’s kinda weird to think about people digging up our bones. I wonder if i’ll come back from the dead as some kind of Imperial Wraith haunting the deep bowels of an Imperial ruin!” 

“Don’t joke about those sorts of things Your Majesty!” A mounted Palace Guard glanced at the lonely ruin with a terrified expression. He brought up his white-gauntleted hands, holding onto an amulet of Arkay as he whispered a prayer. Another soldier, an Orismer Legionnaire marching on the ground, laughed, 

“I don’t think Arkay appreciates you being an arsewipe, Lorento.” 

“Watch your language around the Empress, worm!” A startled yelp arose, as another horsemen, the regimental commander of the cohort, Tribune Aquillam brought down his “officer stick” across the Orc’s back. “The lot of you quit yapping and put your mind to the road!” A weary, “Yes Tribune.” Arose from the column of soldiers, like it was a father scolding his children in front of their friends. Dales couldn’t help but grin, as she rode up beside the spooked palace guard,

“You have nothing to fear Lorento, if worse comes to worse you can hide behind me.” She gave him a melodically laugh, which caused the soldier to blush,

“I-I fear no mortal warrior, Your Majesty. But a shambling Undead Corpse is another matter. It ain't natural!” 

“An undead Elf to be precise.” The Orc walked beside the Palace Guard once more, soothing his aching back, whispered to horseman, “Which makes you a double arsewipe.” 

“Quiet you!” By now Lorento’s face was as red as, in Dales’s words, a “holy tomato”. Tiberius, who had heard the entire conversation, went up behind the bickering duo,

“Fear is unbecoming of the Empress’s Palace Guard, Lorento.”

“Yes Prefect.” The Imperial Guardsmen dropped his head in shame and defeat. Cassia, who was eager to get past the fast approaching forest as soon as possible, said with her usual, “Matter of fact” kind of voice, 

“Farming is also unbecoming of the Palace Guard, Prefect.” 

The assembled men snickered, as Tiberius adapted a scowl and “Hmpth.” He urged his horse onward, muttering about “legion dogs”. Dales couldn’t help but smile at the display. 

By the time the column reached the edge of the red forest, twilight was still fast encroaching, but there remained a couple hours of sunlight. At its edge lay a bare wooden sign, which read, “Road to Sutch. Be on your guard.” 

Cassia glanced up at the fading sun, “We could camp just by the forest's edge, or brave the woods. We still have daylight on our side, and it should take us only a couple hours to get through.”

“Fear the red trees, for they are our shield.” Muttered Dales underneath her breath. She called out to the assembled force “This forest is cursed. Or so I remember my nursemaid telling me. Even if that isn’t true, countless dominion soldiers lost their lives alone trying to brave these woods during the siege. And after it was broken, many more vanished without trace as their army fled.” 

“I’ve heard the stories.” Muttered Cassia, as she rode her gray mare beside the Empress, 

“They aren’t stories. We shouldn’t brave the dark of these trees, unless we have the daylight on our side. Which we currently do.” She urged her horse forward, trotting alongside the fading path.

A muttering broke out among the assembled soldiers, which the Tribune tried, and failed, to stop. Dales brow furrowed, and she placed her palm to her forehead, deep in thought. With a final sigh, the Empress raised her voice, “We push to the city. As long as we keep to the road, we should be fine. Look for the red painted signs.” She looked back to see worried signs coming from her men. It seems the forest’s reputation preceded it even for them. With a groaning, she lifted her hand up, yelling, “I don’t want anyone wandering off, do you understand? Stay with your squad at all times, till we are in sight of the city clearing.”

“Aye, Your Majesty.” The assembled soldiers shouted. Cassia trotted up alongside the Empress alongside the Tribune. Cassia muttered, “As a precaution, I think the men would rest easier if you rode at the middle of the column.” 

Dales had the mind to argue, but she stopped herself, instead simply nodding in agreement, as she fell behind the marching soldiers, before taking a spot right in the middle of the Imperial column. They marched about three ranks wide. With a large air of unease, the Imperial soldiers entered into the dark forest, as if passing into another realm. 

As they entered the redwoods, an almost ethereal light began to cast itself onto the Red and Purple Legionaries. The leaves and the wood itself intermingled with the twilight light from the sun, casting itself upon the ground, and reflected itself as an otherworldly, crimson haze.  The troops marched in near silence, as even the most chatty among them kept their eyes trailed, glancing from whistling leaves, to the felled ancient trunks of dead trees, leaves falling from the canatops above. Glimmers of lights perceived through the tree top leaves, shining down more red light onto the forest floor, as shadows began to slowly encroach with the dying of the sun.  A howling began to play from the wind whistling, as the heat itself almost vanished entirely. It’s beautiful. Quickly, another wooden sign lay at the foot of a tree, painted fully in red. 

Ten minutes passed. The column went across a small stream of pure, clear water, that trickled from the foot the of tree across to a large cave. At the foot of the cave was a red sign. 

Thirty minutes passed. A few minutes later a pair of foxes were spotted playing among the fallen leaves, rolling around, as they cackled. They were quick to disappear as soon as the armored legionaries came into view, but Dales caught a glimpse of them. The ambient sounds of the forest clashed with the crashing of armored feet slamming into the ground as the troops marched in formation. Many of them kept their hands close to their sides, blades at the ready just in case they needed to draw.  The dying sun was slowly beginning to fade, as shadows began to creep closer to the formation with less and less red light. Something was...strange. Outwardly, the forest was otherworldly, but peaceful, but the young girl fealt something buried beneath just the surface of the earth, a faint hue, of disgust. It felt like when she was around Brund, that monster at the Moot. The defilement of nature. A rot. 

 Dales was beginning to wonder if braving the forest this late had been a good idea, but her doubts were erased once another crimson sign came into view. 

An hour passed, and while they could still see, it wouldn't be long till torches were needed. The sky itself, the bits they could see through the dark treeline anyway, were now painted in splotches of purple. 

"Colum halt!" The Tribune’s voice echoed across the forest. The Imperial line suddenly stopped in its tracks, as the Legionaries instinctively drew their blades, and brought up their shields, forming a wall in mere seconds. They were still by that massive creek, with the wonderful “swishing” of Nirn Root echoing across the forest floor. Annoyed, the Empress pressed her horse forward, shouting, "What is the delay tribune? We are losing literal daylight..." Her voice trailed off as she approached the Legion vanguard. The assembled soldiers looked frightened. Dales and her horse went beside the Tribune and Cassia who looked more amused than anything. 

It was...a warning?

Three corpses were tied to a great tree. Well...more like skeletons. Their forgotten bodies had almost completely decomposed. A set of rusty iron chains  bound them together, across a great, red oak tree, as if it was their prison.  Were those...Justicars?  The skeleton in the middle unmistakably wore the infamous black-gold robes of a Thalmor Justiciar, the remaining rags of black fabric blowing with the wind. The other two had the corroded gold armor of two Dominion soldiers, bent and practically smashed to pieces. Faded black rags sat over their eyes as blindfolds. Moss had grown over them, as if they were being consumed by nature. Their arms and legs were bent at unnatural angles, but it was impossible to tell if they had happened pre or post death. Frozen in time, their skulls betrayed a fate of pure horror and unimaginable pain. 

It made the Empress ecstatic.  

“Probably lynched. If only this had been more widespread across Cyrodiil” Dales spat at the corpses, turning her horse away with a grin, “Tell the men to keep moving, I do not want to camp in these woods. Oh and if anyone tries to bury them, they’ll get twenty lashes.” And without another word Dales went back to her place in the middle of the column, leaving the Tribune to shout her order to the assembled soldiers. 

It wasn’t ten minutes before they had another encounter. The group has passed the creek, and according to what little Dales remembered about the trip, they were nearing the city itself. When suddenly…

“Whoosh!” An arrow came roaring from the shadows of the forest. It came out of nowhere, and embedded itself into a tree right beside the Empress’ head, who was jolted from her stupor by the sudden missile. 

“Akatosh be cursed, AMBUSH! It’s an ambush!” Tribune Aquilla reared his horse, “Ambush! Form a shield wall! Protect the Empress!” The Tribune screamed at the top of his lungs, blowing his whistle, three times in a row to signal a formation, as he drew his spartha and waved it in a circular motion. Dales herself dismounted her terrified horse, and took cover, conjuring a ward of magic to protect herself, Cassia and Tiberius going to her side with blades drawn ready to protect their ward to the death. Shocked, terrified, and surprised for all but a moment, their Legion training kicked into gear almost immediately, as they drew out their blades once more, with an assembled shout of “Aye, Tribune!”. The three soldier wide  row, suddenly evaporated into a ten wide rank, like a wave of armored bodies moving in almost perfect sync. They slammed their shields into the dirty, steadying themselves as most were now on uneven, forested terrain. In less than ten seconds, a wall of shields, armor, and human bodies had been constructed roughly ten men wide, and ten men deep. The trio of battle mages with the company summoned forth magelight in the form of flares they threw into the air, casting this part of the forest in bright, white light, illuminating the poorly lit woods for the legionaries. 

“Ceasefire! By the god’s fucking caese fire! Friendlies, we are friendlies!” A voice arose from across the forest, as the assembled soldiers glared in confusion. 

A moment later, a group of hooded individuals came into view, illuminated by the floating magelight and the ghastly fading twilight light. Hooded Imperial soldiers. They carried bows and swords, which they pointed aggressively at the Royal column. 

The leader, or who she assumed to be the leader,  sank onto one knee, bowing his head. Dales could tell there was barely contained hostility in his voice despite it being apologetic , “Pardon our rashness, Your Grace. We mistook you for a scourge.” It was stern and deep, and belonged to the person who called out to the column moments before.  Upon closer inspection, their kit was...strange to say the least. They wore Imperial Legion colors rather than the garb of the countie, alongside layered scale armor, with bits of Imperial forged steel present, mainly for their gauntlets and leg guards. Bits of armor stained with fresh blood. They had crimson cloaks, that perfectly blended with the local redwoods, and intermingled them with the fading twilight sky, clasped by copper dragon pendants.. A vibrant red scarf sat over their bearded mouths, which peeked underneath the cloth, covering them uniformly, and their hoods sat firmly over their heads, though Dales could still see many of them had tribal-nordic styled markings over their faces, colored in varying shades of blue and red. “I beg thy pardon.”

The men had already lowered their bows, and followed their leader in kneeling before the Imperial Monarch. 

Dales groaned, Imperials pretending to be Nords perfectly describes Colovia. Baldur would be having the time of his life right about now. 

 The man in question did an old fashioned salute. His posture and manners were impeccable, despite the fire in his eyes “I take full responsibility for the transgression. I simply request any punishment be given to me, rather than my men for they were following my orders alone.” 

The lead guardsmen, Prefect Tiberius, who had his blade drawn and pointed at the hooded soldier, screamed in anger, his face contorted with rage underneath his full faced helmet, “You will speak when spoken too cur! Aiming weapons at the Empress is a serious offense let alone shooting an arrow in her direction-” Tiberius was talked over by the Empress, who interrupted with a nod of her head, “Think nothing of it. I can see we stumbled upon you and your party at a bad time.” Dales scanned the red forest for bodies, but found none.  The recent skirmish must have taken place farther away. Tiberius backed away with a snarl, before falling back in line with the rest of the Palace Guards she had brought with her. “Though I would ask you what has you so on edge.”  Dales icy eyes scanned the group; they, like their leader, kept cool underneath the piercing eyes of the Throne. 

He spoke quite professionally, “Bandits, Your Grace. We were dispatched by Count Domitius to deal with a group of apparent deserters from the 9th. We received word they had been raiding some of the outlining villages near the Forest. They probably believed Old Sutch to be easy pickings.” His voice curled with disgust, “We caught them squatting in a ruined fort by the creek. They didn’t put up much resistance, but we spotted your vanguard of Legionaries, and assumed they were a returning company that had been looking for targets to attack.” He bowed his head, squarely looking at the Empress’s feet in a gesture of shame, “I once more beg for your forgiveness.” 

His tone seemed half assed. Cassia's eyes sharpened, as she crossed her arms, whispering “Fifteen lashes, at the least.” 

“That isn’t necessary.” Dales gave the former Tribune a dirty look, who just shrugged. If Dales was convinced, she didn’t say, but she let bygones be bygones. “Now, first your name and show me your face..” 

The hooded ranger plainly said, “Lord Valerius  Domitius, Warden-Captain of the Guard. It's been a very long time, Your Grace”. His hands reached upward, pulling the scarf down. He was...handsome, in a grizzled kind of way, at least as far as Dales skewed standards could tell. His skin was oddly pale for an Imperial, but not ghastly so, marred by a handful of scars that went across his cheeks, it was angular, but not so chiseled to make him look like a statue. He had jet black hair. The most distinct thing about him were his gray eyes, they looked so forlorn and grim. She could see he wore markings like many of his men, but instead of elaborate patterns, his was simply two gold tiger stripes that went down his forehead. 

“You are the Count’s son?” Dales eyes raised suspiciously, she glanced down to his sheathed sword and dagger, “Not the usual activity of an earl.”

"Here in Sutch it is, Your Grace." Valerius muttered sharply, his tone becoming more annoyed, before it reverted back to its bored politeness, "It is tradition for the children of the Count to serve with his household guards. We have always been the first line of defense for our people, and this forest." He glanced upward, admiring the crimson stained leaves that dotted the treeline, "The first layer of Sutch’s walls."  

“Red trees mark the arrow fall of Sutch.” Dales repeated an old saying from her home city.

A sly grin emerged on the man’s face, “Indeed, Your Grace. Now, if we can get underway, me and my company would be honored to guide you to the fortress.” He attempted to drop the entire business of such an aggressive gesture aimed at the Throne.  He was intelligent to be sure, educated as a member of the ruling family, a veteran of battles, and seemingly a woodsman of some skill. She really doubted he and his men could mistaken her company for a group of deserters. A green nobles scion playing with a fresh Imperial Legion commission perhaps, but not for the likes of the famous Domitius family.  

Dales studied him. His excuse was all too convenient, but indeed, it seemed they had fought some battle moments before her and her escort had arrived. The Empress made a mental note to remember the exchange, but kept her doubts to herself. Dales gave the Count’s son a smile, “A noble offer, which I accept. Lead the way, Captain.” 

The ranger nodded his head. He shouted, “Rubrum Guard, fall in line! We are heading home!” He blew the whistle around his neck, causing the men around him to uniformly salute the Empress the Legion-Way, before falling behind the advancing Earl, silently acknowledging his order. With their red cloaks trailing beneath the leaves and dirt, they quietly took position in a semi circle around the Empress’s escort, acting as vanguard  for the group.  Wearing their bows over their shoulders, they gripped their blades tightly as they scanned the forest for threats. “Stay close, there are older and fouler things then bandits that lurk in the dark of the forest. Stick to the road.”   

Tribune Aquilla brought up his Vine Staff, and sharply ordered, “Stick with the Captain lads! Let’s keep this short and quick, and have no more incidents today.” Dale’s escort uniformly shouted, “Aye sir!”  The calvarymen took up position behind the Empress who had just mounted back up, whilst the infantry in the group, both Palace Guard, and Legion soldiers marched. 

Dales herself began to urge her horse forward, following Captain Valerius, before she noticed something. One of his rangers had lingered behind and was staring at the Empress. Upon closer inspection, Dales could tell, to her surprise, they were a woman. Though her red garb was otherwise the same as the rest, she could tell by her smaller build, and the angles around her hips.  A pair of splendid gray eyes, as hard as stone, peaked underneath her hood, as did a hint of pale skin, and jet black hair. For a split second, the girl’s face contorted with what seemed to be anger, before it disappeared like the fall breeze. The two’s gazes locked for a mere moment, before the Ranger went forward with the rest, joining the perimeter beside Valerius. 

Dales wanted to shudder beneath her gaze, for she was bewitched by those hateful eyes. 

They marched for about thirty minutes, before moonlight peaked underneath the red trees before them. By now, night had practically fallen across the the forest, and the area was shrouded in such a deep darkness, the moonlight was made even more noticeable. The Captain lifted his hand up, motioning for Dales to come forward, hiding a layer of venom underneath his polite speech, "We are here Your Majesty, as promised." The assembled Legionaries breathed deep sighs of relief, happy they had gotten through the legendary red forest unmolested, causing the local rangers to roll their eyes and snicker.  Dales edged her exhausted horse forward, as she passed underneath the red trees.  Her breath was taken away. 

The two moons hung in the sky, illuminating the large clearing with silvery light. She gazed upon her home-city for the first time in practically fifteen years. It was more of a fortified town then an actual city. Most places build walls to accommodate the city itself, but it was the reverse for Sutch. And the sight would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Dales wanted to weep at the sight of it. 

Massive, double layered walls made from fortified stone sat, bordering a large hill too it's back, that almost unnaturally jutted out on it's lonesome, behind it a sea of red trees. The walls themselves were cracked in many places, at it's utmost left, the wall was partially destroyed, with incomplete rails jutting it above it. In alot of places among the wall, wooden scaffolding had been hazardously constructed in an attempt to repair it's damaged portions, but they lay empty at this hour, and somehow Dales doubted construction to repair the massive defensive barrier to ongoing anymore. Four great towers stood at various points among the double layered wall. One of them, the foremost right, was more or less intact, and Dales could make out what seemed be a balista emplacement. Two were severely damaged, and could no longer accommodate the siege weapons, and the fourth was basically a pile of rubble. Sutch's mighty gate, a mighty oak door fortified by steel, and protected by an iron portcullis, surrounded by a series of makeshift palisades, and an outer gate made from wood, to accommodate for the fact the portcullis had been utterly wreaked, and the gate itself a barely held together scrap.  Her gaze went across to the distant buildings inside the city itself. They were many. All in varying degrees of disrepair.  Once splendid, marble buildings had been cast asunder by Dominion siege engines, and many were downright skeletal ruins, and their worst, crumbling piles of broken stone. The most lucky among them had some visible damage crudely repaired and held together by wooden fortification, the only proof she had seen that the place even had a sizable population of citizens at all.  At it's furthest end, a second, much smaller inner wall, protected the Fortress Sutch itself, the Imperial Fort the entire city had been built around, though from this distance, Dales couldn't make out what state of repair it was in compared to the rest of the city. She didn't have high hopes. 

Gone were her childhood images of proud Sutch, a stalwart bastion of Imperial might and power. Replaced by it's reality, a slap in the face. This crumbling, dilapidated ruin. 

Alot of the Heartland wasn't in good shape. But here, it looked like the Great War hadn't even ended! Cyrodiil had been bled by the Dominion during the Great War. Sutch had been smashed by it. 

Not hiding his resentment anymore, the Captain spoke, his face hidden by his hood, "Welcome home, Your Grace." 

[TheCzarsHussar]

City of Ecoriobriga
Middland Plateau, Roscrea

The city bustled in full, an eruption of activity from it's Atmoriant population. The arctic air was filled with scents of priestly incense and native foodstuffs, the snowy nimbus clouds that wafted through the volcanic city carried the joyous mood. Ecoriobriga's Clan-Commune, to which all citizens within the city belonged to in mutual oaths of kinship-by-faith and protection all partook in the activities. Festivities and celebrations, communal processions and prayer, a filled field of games below the volcano was active with a growing priestly army, the Second Procession. The most favored noble had returned to the city, bloodied and proud, with the parting gift embedded in the west and so the dragon worshiping communal priesthood ordained the days with happiness abroad. From the great stone palaces of the surface dwelling natives, to those within the veins of the extinct volcano in more humble homes, all partook in the festivities. There were no humans of any calling within to celebrate, the minority of non-noble Cyrods and Nords had been expelled from the city in good faith, despite their faithlessness in the native gods, the Dov. They were not of the Clan-Commune and enjoyed no protection, though they were spared the grim gifts that befell the foreign Haafingar-Folk nobility.

The king of this grand capital was not among the festivities, nor feasting with the high nobility, not even in prayer among the communal priesthood. Cassivelogenos was in his retreat, above even the clouds that breezed through the city in a place of antiquity. Once a grand perch for the gods to survey all that was theirs was, in King Cassivelogenos' reign repurposed into a royal retreat of his own enjoyment. His Perching Garden was richly arrayed in all manners of hardy winter loving fruit plants, herbs, and vegetables. He wasn't much for nice looking gardens if it didn't provide a reason to tend them, and tend the garden he did. The Perching Garden was decorated with a near circular pond, green of tint and filled with brightly colored fish, many objects of his youth surrounded the pond as it's decorations; many of which was taken across his long pilgrimage to Atmora and several royal raids against the snow-devils of the far east. Adjacent to the pond was a plain, if not well furbished and comfortable wooden shack that housed differing tools and seeds, alongside a bed with plenty of fur blankets and several wool filled pillows. Many different vines hung over the edge of his garden, each bearing different fruits and vegetables that he had to tend with a levitation spell.

In a well urban and high density volcanic city, to have a secluded semi-natural retreat was a blessing for the forlorn king. But was once a place to enjoy the simple joys with he and his long passed friends was greatly lessened. Cassivelogenos outlived all his most cherished fellows, and though he was ordained as an Archdruid, was distant from the theocracy...and from Hoary Father Drought. He could find no friendship among the Archdruids, they were all his lord's shadows, and thus he was alone in the world. There were times of unbearable loneliness the king would visit the barrows and raise his long passed companions just to sit around the garden like had been done in an age past, weeping when the motionless draugr proved blankly loyal thralls. There was not a time gone by he wished his pact in Atmora went undone, though that was his private burden to bear. What a beloved gesture his great great grandson had done for him then, Alduacer Horned-of-Hymn arose from his sorrow at the death of Ald-Tusk with renewed passion, and newfound anger. The stress-grayed Alduacer long sought for his beloved grand-sire a return to the old. The young communal priest was among the very privileged to join Cassivelogenos at his Perching Garden, though in the days of late the favored Atmoriant was below in the field of games, the ordained Lord of the Procession could be at no other place then at the army's head. Once the festivities ended, they would carve a path of destruction against the Haafingar-Folk in the west, and perhaps even the far south as well.

Thus with an entire age of mourning thoughts swirling about his head, and the noise of the festivities, the other individual's voice was drowned out. Catching himself nearly dozing off into a nightmarish daydream, Cassivelogenos stroked his hand through his incredibly lengthy beard and spoke. Displeased at the admittance of the other one in his private retreat.

"I'm sorry, I'm not as good a' listener as I used to be. Please, once more?" Said the old king in his loud whisper-voice, whom sat at the edge of the pond watching his little fish swimming.

The foreign officially outfitted Altmer sitting cross legged at the other side of the pond smiled in their squinted eyed way.

[The Good Doctor]

Endar Drenim
Kyne's Watch
One week ago
 

Where did I leave those blasted spores?

Endar turned over the fur pelts that passed for blankets in Skyrim, then he lifted the whole bed with a spell. But the only things underneath were a glowing crystal and some swollen frostbite spider eggs he'd purchased in Eastmarch, and while it was fortunate that he found the eggs when he did, they were not the jar of spores he was looking for.

Endar recalled that he'd had them when he got off the ship. He knew this because he had removed them from his pack in order to test their reaction to the new town's climate, at which point one of the locals had attempted to purchase the whole jar under the notion that it contained 'some fancy elf food'. That was the last Endar could remember of it. Surely I didn't leave them in the street. Endar's certainty waned. He was sure of no such thing.

It was times like this that he most lamented the fact that Elara had gotten brutally murdered by wraiths. How was he supposed to get anything done if he had to spend his own time locating every little item that he put down in a day? That's what servants were for.

Endar picked up his journal, turned to the miscellaneous objectives log, and quickly scribbled a note: Get new steward. He paused, and then wrote directly below that: Tell new steward to find spores.

Endar considered underlining the latter entry, to emphasize the urgency, but then decided against it. Worst case scenario was that some local found the spores and somehow managed to spread them all over the town, but Endar doubted even the dullest of Nords would do something like that. He had labeled the jar, after all... wait, had he?

Endar shrugged and put the journal aside. The spores were unlikely to survive in the frozen north without his assistance anyhow, and on the off chance that they did, the odds were even lower that they would actually grow, and if by some incredible chance they did grow, they would never reach their full potential without the alchemical aid of a Telvanni wizard. And while it was true that these spores were an alchemically-mutated breed from their conception, Endar doubted very much that the alterations he had made would be that drastic.

All-in-all, the chances of Kyne's Water losing buildings to an unexpected rise of giant mushrooms were negligible enough that the issue surely did not merit an underline.

The far more pressing concern, he felt, was the fact that he had just wasted a whole five minutes searching for a jar that may not have even been in his room to begin with. In fact, he suspected that the amount of time he had spent on menial tasks since the loss of his steward now numbered in the hours. Endar's first solution had been to try storing some of his thoughts in the lexicon to better organize them and hopefully lessen the need for menial tasks in the first place, but the Dwemer memories did not seem to want any company. No, what he really needed was a new steward.

***

In the center of Kyne's Watch, at the edge of the yard where the Time Tree had been planted, a drunken man staggered through the night. Behind him, a girl of seventeen winters scowled as his intoxicated ramblings interrupted her prayers. The girl turned to give the man a piece of her mind, when the air between them suddenly shimmered and darkened. A short creature appeared between them, with long arms, big eyes, and almost no hair on its slender body. The drunk screamed. The creature screamed. The girl drew her knife. The creature screamed again, then it dropped to all fours and bounded over to the local notice board and hid behind it. The creature peaked out, and when it saw that neither the drunk nor the girl were giving chase, it eased back around the board and quickly slapped something onto it. The creature let out a whimper, then vanished the same way it had arrived.

The girl let out a deep breath. The drunk sniffed at his mead to make sure it hadn't been spiked with moon sugar again. After a few seconds, they both approached the board and read the new notice. The handwriting was barely legible, but the parts they could make out were clear enough.

"Help wanted," read the girl.

"Shteward poshishion," slurred the man. "For a Tel-... Telvinny wizard?"

"Must be organized and level-headed under pressure."

"Unqueshtioningly obedient."

"Very good pay."

Both their hearts sped up even more upon reading that. The girl's because she realized that her prayer had just been answered. The man's because this could be exactly what he needed to pay his many debts.

Both of them jumped when a voice spoke behind them. "Is everything alright?" It was a soldier. A torch was in his left hand, and his right rested on the pommel of a mace. Two others flanked him, one was a fellow soldier and the other some townsman with a whaling harpoon. "We heard shouting."

The drunk just blinked, but the girl answered immediately. "Sorry about that. This fool was slinking around in the shadows like a damned chaurus. Scared me half to death."

"I wasn't slinkin'," the drunkard rebuked. "I ain't even... even..." The man paused, then let out a painful hiccup. "-even had much drink tonight. Honesht. I'm jusht..." He rapped his knuckles on the board. "Jusht lookin' for some work."

"Yeah, I'll bet," said the soldier. "Get on home, Lodi, before you hurt yourself. And you, lass, you're Hrondar's kid, right?"

Her brow lowered. "Aye."

"Thought so. You should get on home too. It's late and your Pa might worry."

That annoyed her. "My Pa doesn't worry." 

She saw a twinge of pity in the guard's eyes that she had gotten all too accustomed to. It made her want to curse him, but she held her tongue, unlike the drunk who belched and started to sing as he lumbered off in the direction he hoped led to his home. "Twonce twas'a wizard! Could make gold from iron! T'would see good man Lodi an' him he would hire!"

The guard shook his head. He and his companions departed while keeping clear of the belligerent fool. The daughter of Hrondar the Goat watched them go, then tore off the wizard's notice and wadded it up. If her only competition was the drunk, then the job was as good as hers.

***

The next week was a busy one for Endar, so busy that he forgot to leave his room. Not that he had reason to. The tiny Nordic quarters contained all the resources and companionship one would ever need. The crystals, his crystals, like children almost, sang the wordless notes of a pleasant song that echoed within his very essence. The Dwemer, or at least the memories they had stored in the lexicon, recognized some of the notes and helped Endar understand them. The spiderlings, for two of the eggs had hatched, scuttled around beneath his bed and generally made the place feel more lively.

That wasn't to say that his new quarters did not have its flaws. The floors were hard and the walls a little closer together than he or the crystals (or the spiders) would have liked. There was not enough space to set up proper work tables or perform larger experiments. There were few comforts and no refreshments that could be enjoyed without going down to the tavern below and having to interact with the locals, who it seemed were always either fighting or singing.

On the day that he had allotted to choose a new steward, it seemed that the Nords downstairs were engaged in plenty of fighting and singing. Though he tried to ignore them, Endar could not help but overhear that the latest boisterous group were an assembly of King Baldur's "clever men". During their loudest moments, he heard discussion and poetry pertaining to matters as crucial as cock length and who among them the one female could lie with. At one point, they broke into chanting "Drink! Drink! Drink!"
All-in-all, Endar felt that it sounded like a rather productive meeting by Nordic standards.

In the end, Endar managed to distract himself from the ruckus by reversing the muffle wards on his door and delving deep into the lexicon with his mind, where the whispered secrets of the Dwemer appeared louder than any Nord. Within their shared memories, it sometimes felt as though Endar stood among them in an era long past. With firm and experienced hands, they shaped the metal using tools that the world had forgotten. They harnessed power from their crystallized creatia, building even greater tools for even greater purposes. The birth of a god. The ascension of a race. The construction and deconstruction of the infinite. All could be quantified, understood, harnessed. The crystals' song of Arubis grew ever louder, the sweetest thing he had ever heard or felt. Was this how the so-called gods felt at the Dawn?

Somewhere, very far away, or perhaps thousands of years in the future, a man's voice spoke. "What's all this?"

Someone was behind him, in his room. It had to be the Nord king. Anyone else would have gotten sick within moments of crossing his wards. Endar was not ready. The link he had established between his mind and the lexicon was strong. Severing it too suddenly could be dangerous. He held up a finger to stall, and then slowly pulled out, leaving behind a few memories he'd picked up on the way, but always marking their place.

By the time Endar's mind fully rejoined his mortal flesh, King Baldur was speaking again. He needed Endar's aid for a scrying. "My boy," the Nord said, "I need to find him. Whether he’s dead, alive, or something in between."

"Yes, that should be simple enough." Endar turned. The king had assumed a seated position that mimicked his own. His eyes were closed, and he did not seem to notice that one of the frostbite spiders was creeping toward him from beneath the bed. Endar shot the beast a look, and meeting his eyes, it scuffled back into the shadows without a peep. Endar shook his head and continued. "Simple. Not easy. I shall require a sample of your blood. A few drops will do."

The king opened one eye. In the light of his crystals, it shined like ice on a clear day. "For what?"

"For the ritual, of course." Endar proceeded to explain in some analogy-ridden detail exactly why an anchor like the blood of kin would be needed to scry for someone he had never laid eyes on. He expected the king to be overjoyed by the news that such a vital component was something he had gallons of on-hand, but that turned out to be a miscalculation.

"I’m not really his father," Baldur explained. "His real father’s in High Rock."

That was inconvenient. More so for the king than for Endar, of course, but he did feel a twinge of disappointment all the same. King Baldur's demeanor seemed rather dark when he took his leave.

"I will be here," Endar offered. He hoped the man would succeed in finding his boy, if only because this alliance needed leaders with their heads on straight. Missing family members seemed to get in the way of that with humans.
He is a fair deal more clever than most of his countrymen, Endar thought. Surely he will keep it together well enough.

The door closed as Baldur departed from his room. And then, half a minute later, there came a loud clattering of metal downstairs, followed by what sounded like the roaring of a troll as something heavy pounded against the floor again and again. This went on for some time, and then promptly ended with the slamming of a door.

Well he didn't kill anyone at least, Endar figured, after casting a quick detection spell to make sure. Nords. He shook his head and scooped up his journal, jotted a few notes, and then went outside. The two guards the king had posted by the door seemed more than a little surprised to see him leaving the room, but he ignored them as he proceeded downstairs. The tavern was a mess. All around were the splintered remains of what appeared to have been a chair, and there was a big spot on the floor that looked like it had been hacked to pieces. Some of the decorative armaments had fallen from their place on the wall, and a number of bottles had shattered on the floor. If not for what he'd just heard, Endar would have assumed this was just the inn's normal state.

A few people stared at him as he reached the main floor. Stragglers from Baldur's assembly of clever men no doubt, but Endar ignored them as well, even the ones who spoke. It was time to return his attention to the things that mattered most. Namely, getting himself a new steward.

He made his way over to a man with a broom who appeared to be too distracted sweeping up shards of glass to notice his approach. Baldur had given the man's name, but it escaped Endar. He had also given his blessing to 'throw him around a little'. But at the moment, Endar could not think of any good reasons to take up the offer.

"You there, proprietor."

The man was muttering something to himself... a chain of curses and various profanities. When he saw Endar before him, his eyes squinted and his hand went around his ear.

”Huh? What’s that, laddie?” The man was shouting as though Endar were across the room.

"I have important business this evening and will require-" Endar paused. The man was still cupping his ear and appeared to be straining hard to listen. "Are you deaf, innkeeper?"

The Nord slapped at his ear and dug into it with his pinky to no avail. "Damn Baldur, I very well might be if he does that again in the tavern. Come, come closer, elf. Want somathat... Shoe Jam? Might have a bottle around... if he didn't smash it too."

Shoe jam? Though his curiosity was piqued, Endar had no desire to get any closer. He pointed at the man's ear and cast a healing spell. "Is that better?"

“Hmm... let me see... LALALALALAAAA!!!! FUS GRO BLAH!!! Aye... aye it is! Not bad, here, have a free Shoe Jam on me. Name’s Torald.”

The Nord handed him a gourd-shaped clay bottle, the contents of which had a surprisingly familiar scent that no Dunmer would expect to encounter this far west.

"Endar Drenim." Endar took a drink. Not bad. This was no local substitute. Either the liquor or its ingredients had been imported. "You will have an easier time selling this if you call it sujamma."

“There’s only two bottles left, and one’s in your hand. Unless you could conjure more? None of the Nords would be caught dead drinking that. Well, except me. I come from Riften stock.”

He lifted a brow at that. "Are Nords of Riften stock known for their enjoyment of Dunmeri liquor?"

“Not all of Skyrim is so... Skyrim,” said Torald. “Riften had a decent population of you red eyes. Merchants and the like. Every now and then a brave soul dares a taste. Anyway, what’s it matter now. Riften is no more... not as it was anyway.”

"Many say the same of Morrowind. It does no good to dwell on such things. Besides, there are more pertinent matters at hand." Endar motioned with his bottle to an empty table in the corner. "I will have need of a table tonight, back there will do, if you would keep it free for me. A reduction of the usual noise would be rather nice as well."

“You haven’t spent much time in a Nord tavern, have ya grey skin? I can’t promise anything about the noise, not unless I had the Septims to hire some muscle...” Torald extended his grubby hands, fingers rubbing greedily for coin.

"No need. If it is muscle you require, I can summon a dremora."

“NO DAEDRA, where in Dibella’s holy bush do you think we are?” The Nord brought a hand to his face, mumbling off curses and something in Nordic. “I need an additional 100 septims to do what you require. No more, no less, and no gods damned magic unless the King permits it. Understood?”

"Auditory restoration notwithstanding, I presume." Endar rolled his eyes. "Very well. You may speak with my steward for compensation."

“Your steward better come see me, my shake down days are over, Master Telvanni. The quicker I receive my coin, the quicker I can begin preparations. Keep that in mind, will you?”

"With all my diligence," Endar answered, though the man was starting to lose his attention. The talk of stewards turned his mind back to the task at hand. "I will be back down this evening."

With the goals of that meeting accomplished, or at the least with a surprise bottle of sujamma obtained, Endar returned to his room, where the crystals hummed at his return. It was quiet tone that made his liquor-buzzed mind recall voices he had never heard and gave him a strong urge to reopen the lexicon. How foolish that would be. To connect with such ancient memories while at all impaired would be fraught with risks to say the least. Endar was not averse to taking risks, but there was no need over such a needless indulgence. Instead, he spent the rest of his day reading daedric poetry to his crystals and recording the results. No changes were noted, but the frostbite spiders seemed to like it.

Four hours later, Endar sat with his back to the wall, not at a corner he had selected before, but close enough that the annoyance was only miner. The tavern was quiet, with only a handful of patrons who seemed content enough to keep to themselves that night. He wasn't sure if the innkeep had made any effort to uphold his end of their deal or not. Or if they had even made a deal in the first place. Did I pay him? No matter. These conditions are satisfactory. Now to wait.
He had not put up a sign, nor had he instructed the innkeep to direct people to him. Endar had assumed that his gray skin and recently-mended Dunmeri robes would make locating him easy enough. Naturally, he was right.

The first person to approach him was a Nord, no surprise there. He smelled strongly of ale and other fluids, and bore the look of a troll trying to figure out how door nobs work. He practically fell into the chair across from Endar, held out a large hand as if to shake, and bellowed, "Lodi Lodison, at your service!"

Endar looked at the hand, then jotted a quick series of notes in his journal.

"So it's true," the Nord remarked, letting his hand fall back to the table. His eyes followed Endar's quill as it scribbled across the pages guided by magicka instead of Endar's own fingers. "You really are a master wizard! An' that creature t'other night, was that yours?"

"Are you referring to the hob that posted my notice?"

"The very one! Hob you say! See? We ain't even started and I'm already learnin'. And there's more where that came from! I learn real fast, like a horker snaggin' yarddies off the ice! And stronger than one too. So are you ready to begin?"

Endar did not deign to ask what a 'yardy' was. "We began the moment you took your seat."

"Oh." The Nord cleared his throat and straightened a little. "Thought maybe you'd buy drinks or somethin' first. Ya know, meetin' in the tavern and all. But nevermind that. Let's start with the questions!"

"Actually, I have everything I need. You can go now."

For the briefest moment, the Nord appeared stunned, "How could you-" He paused, and then his eyes lit up. "Ysmir's beard, you are a great wizard. You been readin' my mind this whole time, ain't ya? Figured out all ya needed to know 'fore I even sat down!"

"You are right about that part."

"Incredible!" Lodi Lodison stood up, a look of genuine awe spread over his hairy face. "I hope to work for ya, Master Telvinny. I really do. I reckon there's a lot ya can learn from me as well! Ya know I'm a well-traveled Nord."

"I'm sure you are." Endar started to dismiss him when a pair of loud voices caught his attention. An argument had broken out near the entrance between a man and woman. Endar would have paid them no mind, except the two of them were very plainly motioning in his direction. Seconds later, the man shook his head and hobbled over to the bar on a walking cane. The girl looked right at Endar and approached. 

"Hey, I've seen her somewhere," said Lodi.

"It's not a big town," Endar replied. "Now off with you. Your interview has concluded."

"Of course." Lodi shot the girl a competitive glare. "Don't forget, I learn real fast."

With that, he took his leave, and nearly bumped into the girl as she approached. It was now apparent that she was quite young, even for a human. Endar sighed. An oaf first and a child second. How frustrating. He took some consolation in the knowledge that he would no doubt have many others to choose from. Very few peasants in some upstart country town like this would pass up the opportunity to enter the service of a Telvanni Master Wizard.

"Sorry about all that," the girl said as she reached him. "Pa doesn't want me taking this job, but that ain't his call. It's mine."

"Actually, it is mine." Endar eyed the girl. She seemed of a similar age to the last one he'd hired. She even had a similar look in her eyes, that fiery and sort-of-annoying determination. It got the last one killed and Elara along with her. "What makes you think yourself worthy of serving a Telvanni master?"

"I can read well. I'm smart and strong. And I will do whatever is asked of me. My name is Heidrun, by the way. Folk call me Goatsdottir."

"Uh-huh." Their names weren't very important to Endar. He would learn them eventually if they mattered. "You say you will do whatever is asked. Do you truly mean that?"

"Aye."

"Without question?"

She seemed to hesitate. "Well, as much as I can. People say I ask a lot of questions. But I've got a good head on my shoulders. Everyone says so. I've been helpin' my pa around for weeks now, and always tended the household before that. I know how to serve."

The last one had asked a lot of questions as well. "Service to a Master Wizard is not like service to some cripple. My work is abroad, and you would be forced to leave your home."

"I understand."

"Sometimes even beyond the boundaries of Nirn itself."

The young Nord blinked at him. "You mean to Oblivion?"

"The position is not even yours and yet already the questioning begins."

"That's not fair!"
Endar raised a brow at that. The girl seemed to understand her mistake, because she continued in a much softer tone. "Sorry. I got excited is all... Aye, I'd do what you ask. Even follow you... to Oblivion?"

"Is that a question or a promise?"

She nodded, seemingly more to herself than to him. "It's a promise."

Endar's quill jotted a note. "Very well. I have heard enough."

She looked at him expectantly. "So you'll hire me?"

"Possibly. If that is my decision, then you will find out. Now go. There are no doubt be many others who are waiting their turn."

"Okay."

She got up, looked back at the man sitting at the counter, and then left the building. Endar rolled his eyes. Hopefully the prospects improve going forward. 

His hopes were quickly dashed when the big crippled man, the last one's father apparently, got up from the bar and lumbered over to him with help from a walking stick. The man grunted as he sat down. "Hello, wizard."

Endar eyed him critically. "You want to enter my service?"

"No. I'm here to tell you not to hire my daughter. She ain't cut out for the sort of business you wizards get into. She'll-"

Endar raised a hand to cut him off. "If you're not here to work for me, then I have no interest in whatever it is you have to say. Begone."

"Now listen here-" The Nord pushed himself up, and Endar hit him with a calming spell. Surprisingly, the Nord laughed. "I was a Grim One, fool. We're trained to resist sorceries."

"Is that so?" Endar examined the man with renewed interest. The spell had been a weak one, to be sure. He doubted that the cripple's resistances would have held against something with more power behind it. Even so, such a trait would prove useful in a wide variety of situations that a soldier might find himself in. Or a Telvanni servant. "Are you certain you're not interested in serving me? I could fix your leg."

The Grim One's eyes widened a bit, but then he let out an annoyed grunt. "I'm a soldier, not a servant. Least of all for some elf. And neither is my daughter, so keep her out of your nonsense."

With that, the Nord limped away. Endar shook his head. As if the girl ever stood a chance at getting the job to begin with.

He sat back after that and resumed waiting. However, things slowed down considerably after those first three people. An hour passed, and only one additional person came to his table, and it was a Nord who had not seen his notice, but was curious why a dark elf would be sitting alone in the corner like he was. They spoke briefly, and the man did in fact seem very interested, capable even, but unfortunately he turned out to be a traveling bard. A lutist. Endar detested the sound of lutes, and so he dismissed the man immediately upon learning this fact.

More time passed, and Endar started to wonder if the standards for literacy were so low in these parts that he had overestimated the number of people who could read his notices. Surely the inn would have been flooded with takers if word had gotten out that a Telvanni Master Wizard was recruiting aid. It wasn't as if a bunch of fishermen and soldier families could have plausibly had anything better to do.

Eventually, the inn became abustle with activity as dozens of fishermen came pouring in, shouting and singing about how King Baldur had fought some devil in the Sea of Ghosts, and something about a 'young lass' who had helped. Annoyed by the intrusion, Endar toned them out, and eventually decided to retire to his room, where he reassessed his options. He had summarized a few pros and cons for each of the candidates in his notes.
 

The Drunk
Pros:
Cons: Talkative, foul smell

The Grim One
Pros:  Experienced, magic resistant, not talkative
Cons:  Unpleasant, unwilling

The Bard
Pros:  Intelligent, decent conversationalist, accustomed to hard work
Cons:  Is a bard

The Female
Pros:  Hard worker, desperate, not a bard, not a drunk, walks properly.
Cons:  Similar to last servant
Reminder:  Last servant got stewardess killed

Endar didn't like it, but after weighing all his options, the choice was obvious.

***
 

Near the outskirts of Kyne's Watch, just inside where the new wall was coming up, Lodi Lodison was sitting on his bed, his bare right foot propped up on his lap, and a thin iron dagger clutched tightly in his fingers. The man appeared to be using the blade as some sort of hygienic device, as he slowly and carefully navigated it beneath his big toenail, scraping out the crusty gunk underneath.

He was singing as he worked, some Nordic tune about a giantess who sailed the seas in a boat the size of Whiterun. That changed when a portal flashed open at the foot of his bed, and the same little creature he had seen the other night jumped right out of it. Despite its small size, the creature had a mouth full of sharp teeth that could no doubt make it easy to gobble a man right up.

Lodi screamed. The hob screamed. Lodi screamed again. Forgetting about the knife already in his hand, he reached across his bed and grabbed an empty Honeybrew bottle by the neck, smashed the bottom on a bedpost, and aimed the now-jagged end at the frightened little daedroth.

Both were still screaming, but the man stopped just long enough to form actual words. "Gobble my arse, demon!" And then he screamed again while waving the makeshift weapon in the creature's face.

The hob finally went quiet at that, and then opened its mouth again to reveal a bright, star-like light at the back of its throat. The man recoiled. "No no, wait! That came out wrong! I didn't mean it!"

The light became brighter, and then filled the creature's eyes as well. Then, without moving its mouth, a raspy, accented voice spilled out of it. "Malacath's toenails, do you live in a squaller! Congratulations, drunkard. You got the job. Now hurry to the inn, I have menial tasks that need doing."

The light vanished, and so did the hob.

[BigBossBalrog]

Dales, City of Sutch 
Sundown, 

The Empress passed through the fortified gate with an emotionless gaze, but on the inside she was in far more turmoil. Her horse trotted, as her hands gripped her reins in a vice. From the outside it looked bad to be sure, but that was nothing compared to what lay before the Empress. 

Destroyed buildings lay in the town center, interwoven with a handful of merchant stalls, which were being tended by a handful of joyless citizens peddling their wares. The town pavement was covered in filth, the marble streets tarnished, with rats crawling up and down the sidewalk unhindered. It was a typical town square, with the typical ring of buildings, albeit all in varying states of disrepair, surrounding the gate’s entrance. The one in front of the Empress was a seemingly three story, stone structure, with a wooden sign post at the front. Damage was visible on it’s walls, but it was the most intact she had seen so far. Though the darkness crept further, she could still make it out; a red painted tankard with two Imperial blades sitting at each side with “The Cross Swords Inn” painted in large blue letters. Curiously, looking forward, there was only one street that went deeper into the city, just one, large road. If one passed through the gate, there would just be the large city square, and one road leading out of it besides the gate itself. 

The Rangers leading the party breathed signs of relief turning home safely, and without casualties. Most of them had brought down their hood and scarves, revealing their blood soaked, tired faces to the night sky. 

Guards wearing simple chainmail and carrying spears and shields manned the ruined streets, the derelict towers, and the crumbling walls. They, like the Rangers, wore Legion colours rather than Sutch’s coat of arms, and wore red cloaks with bronze clasp pins to hold them in place.. At the sight of the returning Warden Captain, who was still at the advancing column's vanguard, they sharply saluted their commander. At the sight of the Empress, they offered her the same gesture, but with a certain robotic coldness the other salute lacked. Their faces were bearded, marked with tribal tattoos, and were certainly older looking than expected, being covered in age lines, as well as scars.  Their eyes were cold, and angry.  I had gotten a warmer welcome at the Moot! Unease filled the Empress, but she carried on. 

The wind caused the Empress to feel a chill, as she hugged her travel cloak a bit. 

A strict voice from beside her spoke, “The Vigille-excuse my archaic terminology-Countie Guard are considered part of the Legion, but in Sutch, it is customary for them to have all served in the actual military, before being granted assignment here. They are older, sure, but also more experienced. And experience outranks everything.” Cassia was mounted on her gray warhorse, and kept even pace with the Empress.

She trotted along, ignoring the harsh stares. To her left, another large building sat. It had a strange cone shaped roof, with black bricks; and it’s entire left wall had been leveled and replaced by now rotting wood. Unlike the one from before, it had no identifying signs or posts. 

There was still a fair number of people, thankfully dispelling the Empress’s fear the city had become depopulated once more, despite it being almost night time, but it was clear the crowds were in the final step of dispersing; people finishing the final task of the day, and shop owners hurriedly closing house. Their faces were almost as grim as the soldiers, they were mostly Imperials, but she could see other races in the crowd, including Nords, Redguard, Bosmer, and Orcs. At the sight of the royal escort, they went to the side, letting the horsemen through. A handful briefly fell to their knees, and lowered their heads with a respectful “Your Royal Majesty.”, but most simply moved out of the way, and gave the Empress rage filled glares. No jeering, but cold, stares of hatred. Nothing being thrown at her, but their eyes and silence cut far deeper then some filth being lobbed in her direction. So the rumors were true. My family is truly hated here. 

If there was one thing that was missing; it was the less fortunate. Where were all the beggars?  The Empress spoke for the first time since her hostile exchange with the Count’s son, “Valerius, are there no beggars in this city?”  She inquired sarcastically, 

“No city is free of them, but Sutch has a special situation many can leech off of. If there’s anything we do not lack, Your Majesty, its living space. There’s so many ruined buildings it’s hard to enforce any kind of property law when said property is ruined. We gave up years ago, and in the more uninhabited districts, those types can seek shelter wherever they see fit.” He motioned towards the West, and Dales could make out a bunch of dark, ruined buildings huddled together. 

“That kind of laxness is begging for mass crime; illegal brothels, gang rings, Skooma dens all these surely have sprung up?” Her eyes hardened, causing the Imperial man to around with a look of annoyance, before a grin formed under his lips,

“Those things don’t happen in Sutch, Your Majesty. And I said nothing about laxness” He pointed to his back, causing the Empress to turn around. What she saw didn’t really affect her, as she had inflicted similar injuries, but it was still a jolt, albeit one she didn’t physically show.  At the back of the main gate, and strung up with chains were the remains of vivisected prisoners, their guts carved open, and exposed for everyone to see.

“How pleasant.” Dales said deadpanly under her breath. 

“We don’t tolerate those types in Sutch. We don’t have the manpower for constant patrols for the entire city, but as soon as the Guard hears a whiff of something like that, we mobilize, and burn the rot before it can spread to the rest of the city.” He motioned towards the displayed corpses, “Create an example like this, and those who would seek to spread Chaos are far less inclined to do so. There’s a saying in these parts, “Two prisons for Sutch’s walls. A cage of iron, and a ditch.”

She would imagine it wasn’t as simple as that, but she didn’t inquire anymore. It wasn’t like she disagreed with him. 

“As for the homeless taking shelter in the ruins.” He glanced around with barely contained anger, “It isn’t that different from the rest of us. Besides, I'm not going to put a man or woman in chains for being down on their luck, and having the sense to find a sturdy ruined wall to help keep out the cold. It’s not like they're harming anyone.” A certain...sadness was in his voice, but it was gone as soon as it arrived. He wordlessly pushed himself forward, and away from the Empress. 

Barring people, the city was somewhat lifeless. She couldn’t judge it based on the fact it was almost night time, but from what she saw of the city, she couldn’t imagine it becoming meaningfully more lively.

Torch scones were beginning to be lit up by the City Watch, as the entire ruined city became alive with fire almost in sync. Darkness had nearly fallen. As they continued down the streets towards the Fortress, Dales gave nods to citizens who greeted her with fake politeness, ignoring their stares of hatred. People made way for the royal column, before getting back to their business. She could see Imperial flags flowing from the wind, hung across the doors of many broken down homes, some possessing the Imperial symbol, but most holding the heraldry of the city itself;  a gray Wyrm resting on a pile of gray blades. 

She continued to look at her surroundings. The buildings around her were a mish match of  broken stone, mostly marble, hastily fortified with wood. Houses which were once adorned with fortified brinks, had flimsy straw roofs constructed to fill the gaps created by Dominion siege engines and disrepair. Stores, once filled with patrons, were practically abandoned and used for storage space. Proud watch towers were reduced to piles of literal rubble. And by God's oh so much graffiti.  It was like the giant studio of a deranged artist. Truly it was a pathetic sight to see such a proud city reduced to all this debris.

But something was playing at the back of her mind. Sure, one could see tragedy and devastation among the ruins, but Dales was beginning to notice...purpose? 

For one, there was no real way to get past the wreckage line. One would assume the skeletal frames of the ruined townhouses could be bypassed allowing access to the street beside them, but that wasn’t the case. Gaps were uniformly covered by heavy ladder wooden frames, piles of debris moved to block passages, private gates repaired crudely, and even amongst the seemingly abandoned among them, the same fortifications were being applied. Everything that could be repaired with the scarces resources they had, had been so. The way the town square had been designed meant that men would be forced to walk down this single, main street. A street which was guarded by soldiers even now. 

Speaking of which another aspect confused Dales. It was long, and wide. True that would be the case for most cities. But for one so famed for its defensive might, wouldn’t a smaller one be more prudent? It’s width meant enemy soldiers could maneuver more easily through its streets.  She passed by a particularly large ruin, the white marble shimmering under the baleful flame coming off from a braizer which had just been lit. The escort column marched, the few passerbys hurrying along getting out of their way, icy eyes trained across the young girl leading the forage into Sutch. They walked another fifteen minutes, still ignoring the local stares, before Dales got her answer.  The street was getting narrower and narrower until they reached a strange looking wall. A diagonal twin gate. It was hard to describe. The street’s middleway led to a dead end! A fortified wall made from stone, which was being manned by a few dozen soldiers. Sprouting diagonally, to the left, and the right of it, were a pair of currently open iron portcullis, adorned by a set of battlements on it’s suitably tall top, where Archers would rain down fire from below. It was more like a mini fort, then an actual gate. The fortification was connected to two stone buildings on either side, which had no doors, but dozens and dozens of narrow slits. It could presumably be only accessed from the other side, and existed to ambush enemies from the left and the right, when they reached the double gate.

Dales was beginning to understand. The initial width of the main street was a trap to funnel enemy soldiers down this way if they managed to breach the first gate. The maneuverability of the street would make it a tempting approach, and the only visible one to take when they reach the square. They would only be able to access the inner part of the city through this deceptively narrow leadway that eventually led to another fortified gate, in which they would now be under attack from all sides. The fact they would have to choose from two approaches would add even more confusion. 

The Legion Soldiers looked at the miniature fort in awe, before they stopped at the fortification, placing their shields to their sides in customary fashion. Captain Domitius saluted the Gate’s guardians, as he made a motion signaling the Empress and her troop to follow him. “The gates into the Reman and Remus districts close at seven, but since the Guard knew we were returning from foray into the woods, they kept it open for us. The only way to reach Stronghold Sutch is to travel through the Reman district, which is the Eastern Gate.” He motioned to his right. “Come quickly, And keep close, it’s easy to get lost, especially when darkness has fallen.” The escort column closed into a tightly knit formation and followed the Captain through the iron gate. The soldiers guarding the gate, fell onto their knees as the group entered into the inner part of the city.  “Close the gates after us commander.” Valerius said. 

One of the soldiers on top the rampart offered him a Legion Salute. The only difference to his kit was his bronze helmet, which held the carving of a face implanted like a mask. “Yes sir.” 

After which the iron gate fell with a large bang once the group had been clear of it. Tiberius, who had been eyeing the ranger with much hostility since their encounter in the forest rode up beside the Empress with a frown. His purple cape trailed behind him, as he always had his hand gripped to his Spartha's handle. He whispered in a hushed tone, “I’ve been observing the crowds, guards included, Your Majesty. I’d think it would be clear to a blind Cliff Racer that everyone here wants to stone us!”

“That’s uncharacteristically blunt of you, Tiberius.” Dales said light heartedly. 

“I am serious, Your Majesty! I have no doubt in my mind this place isn’t secure! The city’s a crumbling ruin, and the population clearly hates the crown. It’s plain to see!” His voice was filled with concern for the monarch, “

“They want to stone me.” She corrected him without emotion on her face, but she was infinitely sad on the inside. “They don’t like outsiders, but they despise traitors, and who wouldn’t?” She urged her horse forward, without letting Tiberius a chance to respond.

Dales was wishing she hadn’t wondered about the openness of the streets, because now it was the exact opposite. They were tight, and completely confining. So much, she was beginning to bump into her fellow riders, and even some of the unmounted soldiers. They went right, and the left, and then right again, the buildings in this part of the city smaller, but still large enough it was hard to see what was behind them. It was like the city was intentionally built like a Labyrinth! 

On their march following the Captain through the maze-like streets, someone called from behind her. The voice was care-free, and familiar, “Excuse me Empress Dales!”. An Orcish legionary approached from behind bellowing with a grin, Tiberius made a move to stop him, his face becoming wrack with shock and anger at the Empress being called by her first name by a Legion grunt, but Dales gave him an amused grin (she was impressed by the audacity), as she let him approach her. It was the Orcish soldier from before, the one harassing Lorento.  He was tall, even for his race, with greenish-black skin, a heavy girth, bulging muscular arms, and he wore a set of heavy Imperial armor that made him look even bigger, clinking and clanking as he walked, forged from what seemed to be Orichalcum going from the greenish-grey shine it had. His face was covered in white warpaint, he had his hair done in a tall braid and his tusks were particularly large and impressive “I think the proper term is, “Your Majesty”. Auxiliary.” She remembered the incident from before, and his rank. The woman softly laughed, giving him a grin, “What do you need?”

The Orc began to scratch the back of his head with a stupid smile, and a bellow, causing the Legionaries beside him to give him an annoyed scowl. He held the usual sword and board of a Legion soldier, but carried a massive, serrated great axe over his back, forged from the same material of his armor. “Forgive me Your Majesty, this old orc isn’t so good at formalities. Auxiliary Ghoragdush Ghamorz! I just wanted to apologize for my behavior earlier.” 

Suddenly a voice filled her head. It was Ghoradush’s voice, but far more articulate, and subdued then how he was speaking to her. Still deep and guttural though “Forgive me for my impudence, Your Majesty. I would not speak to you so lightly, if I wasn’t protecting my cover. I am shamed by my own tongue. Senior-Inspector Uzgakh, of the Penitus Oculatus.”

Dales wanted to laugh, for the first time in awhile. “It’s alright, Auxiliary Ghamorz. I’m used to crassness. I am no lady. I think your encouragement will keep Lorento young, ain't that right?”

The young Imperial who was mounted behind the Empress rolled his eyes with a, “Thanks Your Majesty” underneath his breath. The Orsimer bellowed another chuckle, rubbing his stomach, “I’m glad you think so!” He was really going overboard.  She got over her surprise quickly, she had heard some of the higher ups used in the Ocultatus communicated to their troops through telepathy. It wasn’t exactly a common magical skill, but the Empress herself knew how to do it, a practical expert and child prodigy in the school of Alteration. She let their minds briefly connect and began to communicate, “There’s no need to apologize Inspector. Truly, you are giving me much amusement. Though I think you're overdoing it a tad” She giggled. 

“I doubt the troops would agree with you, but thank you, I'm glad someone is entertained by my antics.” His voice was stern (as all Oculatus soldiers were) but he had a certain carefree attitude even when so professional, “There’s so many people willing to believe all you are is a stupid orc, it makes things very easy to blend in. Soul shattering to be sure, but very convenient for me.” He was way more talkative than most agents she had met. He had fallen behind the Empress back into formation as the Tribune began to scold him with another whack of his Vine Staff. They gave no indication that they were talking through magic.

“I apologize, the request to the Eye was very sudden, so I couldn’t properly brief my people. I would have approached you earlier, but I wanted the rest of the company to be fully engrossed in belief that I am a stupid buffon, before I made contact.  Your Orders, Your Majesty?

The Empress’s eyes trailed ahead to see a set of destroyed statues, and a ripped apart piece of the road, which she made sure to guide her horse away from. “First, how many agents did you bring with you?” 

“Enough.” The Orc soldier's tone became more formal, “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, it isn’t our policy to specify our numbers. It’s for your own safety.” 

The Empress didn’t like being essentially told no, but she understood considering the circumstances and the way specters operated. “It’s alright, I understand Inspector. Then please, I need you to recover some information for me as soon as possible.”

His voice was confused, “I was under the impression you wanted a special guard detail?”

Dales responded coyly, “Are you not trained for those kinds of things?” 

Everything looked the same to the Empress, the intermingling of stone and wood became tangled. Perhaps it was the dark doing this

“It’s not that-I.” He stopped himself. It wasn’t his place to question orders, “Never mind. Of course, Your Majesty. Me and my men are all trained in intelligence gathering.  We will be your eyes and ears in Sutch. “

By now, surely most had gone inside, and most passersby were just guard patrols, twisting and turning in the tight confines of the street. 

“Good.” She said firmly. “Now onto specifics. I want to know about the Domitus family. Their recent edicts, what the people of Sutch think of them, and especially their grievances with the crown. I want to hear what the people have to say about recent events, how they are getting by,  the state of the city.” 

The Orc’s voice returned to being carefree, “Understood Your Majesty. Though-” He paused as if he was unsure if he should say it, “Though you should know, while we didn’t have much time to prepare, we did our best to compile documents and research the city before we deployed to your guard. We didn’t find much at all about the city’s recent history. Almost nothing in fact about the city at all. It’s startlingly absent in Imperial records of the last decade, as if that snake Amaund wanted to forget it even existed.” 

She grimaced at the mention of his name, “Unsurprising. My father liked to forget things that inconvenienced him. One more thing, I want you to pay special attention to the Count’s children. His son, Captain Domitius. And I believe the Count has a daughter too. More specifically, I want to know if that arrow that nearly pierced me was really accidental as they said it was.”

“Yes Your Majesty, we will leave no stone unturned. Is that all you want gathered?” The Orismer Agent was eager to begin his mission. 

They passed by another military checkpoint. A crude set of wooden stakes and rubble blocking a small roadway, with a trio of guards protecting it. Dales had already been ushered through half a dozen like this. 

The Empress responded with, “Aye. I know I don’t have to remind you of this, but keep to the shadows. I don’t want the Count and his family aware of your investigation.”

“The Eye does it’s best work in the dark, Your Majesty. You needn’t worry about that.” 

“One more thing.” The Empress eyes lingered in the night sky, “Tell your agents the Empress personally thanks them for their service. Such splendid soldiers.” 

The Orc smiled, “Of course, I will inform them, but the Oculatus needs no thanking for our duty. I will begin the investigation as soon as your detail settles, and everything is as quiet as the stars. I will be in contact with you in short order. With your leave then?

“Happy hunting inspector.” 

And with that, the silence had enveloped the Empress once more. She was alone again, and the gnawing in her stomach grew. 

It had been an unmeasured time wandering the labyrinthine streets of Sutch before they reached the inner wall. It had a much smaller outer bailey then the one that surrounded the city, it was still quite impressive. Though it was dark, and she could scarcely see much details on it, it looked like it was in a better state of repair then the rest of the city. Cracks and gaps here and there, but solid. She could see the figures of Guards huddling over braisers, warming their hands from the fall wind. It seemed to be decently manned. Infront of her, a massive oak gate with it’s door frames firmly open, invited herself into the inner fortress. Her and her men finally passed under, but this time the gate didn’t close behind them. She noticed a silver portcullis peering above them, held firmly by cranks and chains. They entered the inner gates, tired and hungry. 

A semi circle of large, braisers illuminated this part of the city much better. It was another square, a square that accommodated the fortress itself.  

The Legendary Fort Sutch. 

It's gate was a simple portcullis, black as the night. It's reflection showed it actually was made from Ebony, and both of its sides, twin Imperial Banner flew in the wind. She could see the basic outline of what had once been a simple Imperial fort, the circular, walls, and frame, but it had become far more than that. The fortress dimensions had been carved into the massive hill at it's back. Double layered walls, made from black bricks, complete with battlements sat on it's outside, starting, and connected to the original fort itself, just at the gate's level, but another tier raised just behind it. Much had been built around it, the original skeletal fort by the Imperial General, Galerius Faventinus, with the help of the best builders in Orsimer, as did the city itself, one of the reasons it was so formidable. Several towers lay at the final layer of walls, none as big as the front gates, they were small and box-like,but they provided an excellent vantage point for archers to rain fire down. A moat lay in a semi circle around the fortress, a silvery depth of water sitting in turbulent waves pushed by the wind, a draw bridge connected to the frontal part of the fortress just in front of the black, metal gate. Like the outer gate, it was manned by tired guards. That wasn't even going to the Fortress itself, which had been given several layers and tiers by builders, expanding it's circular frame to accommodate new levels, rooms, and other amenities; while still remaining practical and spartan. 

It was nothing like the castles most Imperial nobles dwelled in. If anything, it was truly still an Imperial Fort, albeit one expanded to massive levels. It reminded her of how Baldur’s fortress in Windhelm had been designed.  She had heard the Dominion had gotten as far as the inner gate, before they routed, and it seemed true, for the fortress itself had little in the ways of visible scarring from the siege.

By the flaming braizers a group of Sutch Guardsmen had assembled, fifty or so of them, in regimental fashion. They held their bronze spears diagonally, gripping them with such force Dales worried they might shatter their own weapons. They had helmets made from bronze, complete with ornate face masks (like Imperial funeral ones), and had the same kit as the Rangers, just without the hoods and cloaks. Their masks held expressions of sadness. At the sight of the royal column, they went on their knees, but Dales suspected they held the same anger towards her as the rest of the population. The Captain and his rangers had taken up position, with the other guards. He went onto one knee, successful containing his rage this time. “Welcome to Fort Sutch, Your Royal Majesty. We are the Rubrum Guard, the Count’s own chosen men. Forgive us, this is all the ceremony we can offer you.” 

“Think nothing of it, Lord Domitius. I accept the gesture regardless.” She motioned for the men to rise. “Though I would have expected your father to greet me himself, is Count Domitius well?” 

His eyes betrayed no emotion, “You must forgive my father. He is very ill, and spends much of the day resting. It may not seem late for the likes of us but he is no doubt already asleep. Once more, I must ask your pardon.” He bowed his head deeply, “He will be there to formally greet you at tomorrow’s luncheon, as well the rest of my family. Fortress Sutch is open to you, and we’ve arranged a garrison barracks for your men by the main gate. An assembled groan arose from Dale’s escort, but Dales herself just smiled, 

“Actually, Captain, if it’s alright with you, I would like to have my men quartered in the fortress itself.” 

The Ranger’s eyebrows raised, as he asked, “I can assure you Your Majesty, the barracks we arranged for them is most suitable-”

“And with all due respect, Captain, I expect nothing less then the finest amendments for my troops.” She lied through her teeth, but made no indication she had, retaining her friendly demeanor. “Please.” 

“If that is what the Empress wishes, then I will see it done.” He bowed his head once more, making no motion of whatever he felt from that order, “I will try to arrange quarters for them here. But for now they’ll have to rest in the courtyard. Dales responded by giving the Tribune a nod of her head. The Imperial officer raised his Vinestaff into the air, and made two circular motions. “Alright men, you can rest here for now. Agrippa Cohort will begin to unload our supplies and Forossa Cohort will take up perimeter on the wall.” 

The Tribune began barking orders at the exhausted soldiers, who feverishly complied with their officers command. Dales attention had been briefly taken away, as she had turned around to face the moon, only to get a surprising sight. 

Scores away from the City itself was a large tower, overlooking a large hill, just beyond the city’s clearing. It was illuminated by the moon which hung high in the sky, but was otherwise blanketed in darkness. It was made from splendid white stone, and adorned from top to bottom in gemstones, of all colours. On it’s top, the seat of it’s tower was glistening with golden bricks, which shone underneath the starlight. It was...a strange sight to be sure.

Dales closed her eyes, and as if the tower collapsed from her gaze, it had been reduced to a ruined skeletal frame when she opened them, still high in the sky, but broken down and ruined. A throbbing had erupted in her temple as the Empress gazed upon it, so much she had to turn away. Confusion filled her, and such sad and melancholic feelings floated up like butterflies.

Startling her was the ranger from before. The female one with the hateful gaze. Unlike the others, she still had her scarf and hood up. Her grim gray eyes peaked underneath her hood, and she looked at the Empress with curiosity rather than anger, this time having seemingly been looking at the tower herself. Their gazes locked for all but a moment, before she had turned around, and joined the rest of the Rangers crossing the drawbridge into Fort Sutch. 

“Your Majesty?” The Captain stood beside her, his red cloak trailing in the wind. “If you will follow me, I will show you to your quarters.”

She gave him another smile, “My apologies, Captain I was lost in thought. I had forgotten till now. I have some business I must attend first in the city. I will retire in a couple hours. There is something I need to do first.”

Disbelief was visible on his face, “Surely this business could wait till the morning, my Empress?” 

She gave him a sad, forlorn look, “No. It can’t.” She then turned around, “Tiberius, Jiub, Nazirr, with me.” Her bodyguards gave her confused looks, but it had vanished with a regimental, “Yes Your Majesty.” She turned around, flanked by her guards. The Ranger half-heardley called from behind, “Your Majesty at least let me send a guide to assist you, the city is like a maze!” 

Dales eyes hardened as she muttered, “I know the way, Captain.” 

***
Away from decaying old Sutch, on top the ruined tower of Veyond, which overlooked the entire valley, a trio of hooded figures watched the encroaching royal column enter the city with dreadful interest. Among the ruined rubble, they stood, channeling a spell of far seeing, with the profaned runed symbol they had drawn with Spriggan blood sketched on the white stone.  Their tattered, robes were filth stained, covered in rot and if one looked close enough, writhing maggots. Underneath the cloaks was rusted, stained plate armor, corroded and as decaying as their rotten visages.  The red glow from their magic, illuminated their hands, which held rusty, silver gauntlets. One of them held a greatsword, black as the night, covered in similar glowing runes. Across from them, another held a mace, which eternally oozed sickly green slime. And the final one carried a two handed Dai Blade on their back, holstered in a golden sheaf.  As they channeled their magic into the spell, the red magic revealed images to them. A column of Imperial soldiers and knights marching in the ruined city. A small crowned girl, riding a horse at it’s vanguard with a sad face, the red hateful guards of the city silently casting judgement. 

Without warning the Warrior Cultists dispelled the conjured images, as they moved silently, unnaturally like string attached marionette puppets, down the tower, disappearing from the top of the lonely forlorn ruin.

*** 
Images of bright, happy streets filled the Empress as she trailed down the lonely street clashing with what her eyes were showing her, her guards silently following behind her. They were confusing and confusing to the soldiers, but Dales knew where to go. It had been installed into her head, after all, a practical lifetime ago.  She had been travelling down the labyrinth streets for thirty minutes, before she took a turn down another street, leading to a much smaller path. The buildings here were especially decrepit. She doubted anyone lived here.

Though she had her guards with her, the Empress felt truly alone, with nothing but the moon as her only companion. 

She passed by a ruined store. It was crushed and beaten down. Her vision, illuminated by the interwoven flames from a nearby braizer, was filtered by a memory of a happy shop in which children played around, with a kindly owner offering them sweets and freshly made Ako leaf tea. 

Dales sadly walked past a small clearing of overgrown vegetation, and forgotten benches. It was blocked with rubble, but a certain little girl would play here all day, pretending to be a knight rescuing damsels. She snorted, trailing her blonde hair through her gloved hands, and she walked further down the ruined street.

Dales turned around to see a wooden stall at the end of the street. The sun had returned, and the She saw a little girl with blonde hair, skipping down the road with a simple, plain purple dress. Her skin was tanned from the Cyrodiilic sun, her eyes innocently blue, and her face had freckles. Threads of the bright sun illuminated her cheery face, which was as happy as could be, She sang a song, being chased by children her same age. The little girl briefly turned to face the stone faced woman stopping dead in her tracks, with scars, impossibly icy blue eyes, whose face was marred by endless pain. With a sad look, the cheery faced child disappeared as day became night, leaving the Empress alone underneath the moonlight. The Empress continued down the road, the vividness of the memory on display surprising her, but she remained undeterred.

Dales saw a wooden stall, that was surrounded by children. The bright sun had returned, and the Empress saw the girl from before was gazing upon a variety of stunning toys. Finely made oak toy swords, a Dumner spin cap, a magnificent miniature bow made by Bosmeri craftsmen, a little longship from Skyrim! The little girl was hugging a man. A Breton, the man had fair skin, had a stern look about him, but his smile was genuine enough. He patted the girl on the head, and as he handed the stall owner a small purse of Septims, the vision faded. The moonlight and darkness returned, showing Dales a broken pile of rotting wood.

Finally she had reached what she had been searching for. A decrepit looking manor at the end of the city’s streets. The outside was practically a collapsing pile of wood and stone, covered in crude and jeering graffiti. An image of a tall, proud, dwelling of a loved noble family interwoven with this destroyed rubble in front of her.  It had been large, with a beautiful rose garden at the front. A roof of red brinks sat at its top, with a spire extending from it’s top. Various wings of the manion were decorated uniquely even on the outside, such as the library wing, which was interwoven with spruce wood from Valenwood, and had a green painted, slanted roof. Stained Glass windows, depicting beautiful mythical creatures, took up most of the it’s window space. Snarling gargoyles, which had frightened the little girl despite insistence from her father they were guardians, had made the roof their home, and on it’s very top, in a spire was a ruby symbol of Arkay, the family’s patron deity. The memory collapsed on itself, revealing the dilapidated ruin before her. 

With a heavy heart, the Empress lifted her hand into the sky, letting magical energy flow through her. Her vision became interwoven with red splotches, signifying her guard, but there was no other red signature among the ruins. Sighing, she dispelled the Detect Life spell, and walked forward, saying, in a low-growl, “I want to be alone for a little, wait out here.”

Tiberius raised his voice, “But Your Majesty-”

The Empress turned to him, with a look of extreme anger, so much so Tiberius shut up, and took a step back in shock. “Do as you're told. There’s no one here. Wait outside, I'll only be half an hour at the most.” And with that Dales left the trio, who saluted behind her. 

Dales had learned to bury her sadness with anger, but it wasn’t working this time. With a heavy sigh, the Empress walked into the ruined structure. 

She passed through the shattered door, the stars above her only witness, as she gazed upon the inside. Destroyed furniture, ripped apart carpets, ripped apart walls, all melted to the sight of its former splendor. Illuminated by a monochrome filter, Dales saw rich vividness. silk carpets of all colors plastered on the ground. Furniture made from wood imported from Valenwood sat in a parlor, with blue wallpaper plastered across. Light shone through the sparking stained glass, and Dales could see a blonde-haired girl, happily running through the halls, dancing with an invisible partner, with the smell of sweat cakes strewing from the kitchen. Dale's hands trailed across the richly colored wallpaper, before once more, the moonlight revealed it to be what it really was. A pile of rumble. The two scenes flashed for another second, before staying in the present. 

Dales was now standing before the home's hearth. A fireplace made with red bricks, that would have lead out to a chimney on the roof. Oddly, it hadn't been touched by graftati or vandalized. It was quite simple, besides the heraldry that was chiseled into the painted stone itself.  

A Black Moon flanked by two red spears, piercing it diagonally. Above it, carved into the stone were the capital letters, M.O.T.I.E.R.R.E. And below it were inscribed the words, "Reap the wind." 

The hearth became alit with fire, as the little girl she had seen so many times, appeared one more. She was gazing into the swirling flames with such wonder, as witnessed the fire pratically dance. She held her knees to her hands, as she began to rock around, giggling. She glanced to Dales, with confusion, rather then fear, as the two's eyes locked onto the others. They had the same eyes, but the older woman's had seen too much. She had lost the child's depth of innocence.

The two were completely unfamiliar with the other. 

The girl pushed herself forward, she knew the upstairs had already collapsed, so she instead ignored the rest of the ruined manor and, went through the broken backdoor. As if she was stepping into another world, night became day once more

Dales witnessed a splendid garden. All kinds of flowers, sat like a vibrant wave of color as far as she could see, the blinding light threatening to overwhelm the Empress. Layers upon layers of green grass sat beside the flowers  with fountains made from white marble, fences painted with elaborate designs and colors, and even a tiny forest of great oak trees. And all in the middle, a kind looking woman with splendid, pale-blonde hair, hummed to herself as she worked in the garden. The phantasmal little girl ran up to the woman, who pulled the girl into a large hug, as both of them began to laugh. To the girl terror, the woman face remained...blank. And they both disappeared as if they had never existed in the first place, revealing the backyard as it was now. The sun shifted to the moons, and it's warm light replaced by the ominous glow coming from the sky  The glade was illuminated by Secunda’s silvery glow.  The oak forest had withered and died. replaced by skeletal tree trunks. The flowers were long gone, replaced by mostly weeds, greedily devouring the soil's richness. The fresh grass had grayed, barely still clinging onto life. The fountains had long dried up, and had been smashed by looters long ago, split upon the defiled earth. Even in it's state, it still had a certain beauty to it.  The Empress walked among the garden, letting the nostalgia overwhelm her. 

In the place of the faceless specter, there was now a stature of a woman, sitting in the middle of the garden. It was made from white marble, and had never been painted. The woman's features, carved into the statue, were kind, and lovingly detailed into the chiseled stone. She wore a simple, dress, and held a rose in her loving grip her soft hands depicted by the pale stone. Vines and moss had overrun the statue, clinging to the stone like a dress made from nature herself. But Dales knew that it could never capture the warmth of the woman it was trying to depict.

The Empress couldn’t hold her tears anymore. She fell onto her knees and began to weep. Her hands raked the ground, as she buried her face into the earth. She brought her nails to her face, and let them bury into her skin, drawing blood. She finally spoke, with an uncontrollable gurgle, “Mother…” Tears streamed down her faces, as the young woman’s head fell to the dirt, prostrating herself before the stone monument in complete and utter shame. She bawled, letting the blood from her scratch marks intermingle with the freshly fallen tears. Emotions she had been repressing for practically two decades spilled forth. Her crying became a wail, and then an anguished howl. She wrapped her hands around the grave, and cried into the night. 

***

"She didn't suffer long. It was a very painful death, but not a drawn out one. Water filled her lungs, and she screamed, but it was over quickly."  When Dales came too, she found herself removed from her surroundings completely and on a mist shrouded beach. The sand was practically white, as she moved herself, getting out her stump. Her mind was wandering. The voice who had just spoken though, the Empress immediately recognized. She practically seethed,

"Dunmaor." 

The golden Ayleid floated in the water just beyond were the Empress was sitting. The water's edge was calm, almost becoming a silver mirror, with the only ripples coming from the she-elf making tiny waves with her hands.  "My Lady Motierre." Those golden, circling spheres of her examined Dales. She placed a finger to her purple, water-logged lips, and her sickly, golden skin began to distort, "I do hope, the Lord of Sutch is treating you with hospitality, young Empress. One that your station affords."

Dales was in no mood to play games, “Who are you?” She said, her eyes narrowing,  

“The Nords curse me as Svartrvatn. The Dark Elves fear me as Ouadacorpus.” The she-elf’s golden eyes raised, as her sharp mouth curled into a cat-like grin, “But those are just names. Always with that question. Perhaps you should ask yourself that same inquiry more often, then ask it of others. As I said before, Lady Motierre, I’ve told you what I am. A simple priestess of Auriel. My lord deemed it suitable to offer you a boon, the Fire-Drake, Nahfahlaar the Red.” The Elf trailed her hands across the water, and began to hum to herself. 

“Me and Baldur made the bargain.” Dale's eyes narrowed suspiciously, “What do you want?" 

Dunmaor remained silent, the smile ever present as she began to trace the water with her fingertips. Dale’s anger threatened to overwhelm her but instead she changed the question, “Why is your lord helping me? The Thalmor and Dominion serve his interests.” 

Her voice echoed across the expanse of the vast ocean, as calm as the ocean’s surface during a sunny day, and as thunderous during a storm “A servant serves their Lord without question. Who am I to say? I told you once before, I am privy to the whispers of the well.” The golden orbs began to twist and turn within her ancient gaze, “But I do not presume to speak for a God. I see everything, the past, the present, and the millions of futures interwoven in the threads of fate. These baneful secrets I know, are not mine to give away. That whisper of betrayal was all that shall leave my sealed lips.” She grimaced once more, revealing, black rotting teeth, “Auriel shows you favor, but it is not my place to make assumptions. As I said before, the Altmer are little more than monkeys to me.” She chuckled melodically “They can throw their cosmic tantrum if they wish, but children will be children.” 

She crossed her arms, "Besides...for once, I drew you to this silvery ocean for a reason."

She looked at the Empress gravely, “Aba'varlais, you are in great danger.” 

[BigBossBalrog]

Dales, Fortress Sutch  
Morning

“The Domitus’s appreciate punctuality no doubt, they are a military family. And if you spend so much time doing your hair, that prophecy of a dragon eating the world will come to pass before you leave this bedroom!” Cassia said with a matter of fact tone, as she struggled not to make any snider comments. 

Dales cheeks blushed, as she waved her hands erratically, “Cassia I don’t need someone hounding me when I dress!”

The older woman barked, “It’s all about the timing. Wearing something fancy won’t make them like you anymore then they do now!” Which is practically zero. Dales scowled, 

“Oh gree, thanks for the honesty. It’s not like I already know they hate me!” Dales paused for a moment, gulping nervously. The episode in the garden had affected her more than she was willing to admit. Her previous confidence was beginning to melt away. She was about to take off her sleeping wear, but she glanced nervously at the older woman, which caused Cassia to huff. 

“Don’t flatter yourself, Your Majesty. I’m a Legion Officer, I'm used to the sight of half naked men and women.” She turned around, facing the wall, “But in this case, I'd give myself a hundred lashes if I gazed upon my monarch. Heresy.” Sighing in relief, Dales went back to fussing over what she wanted to wear. 

She knew how compromised she was by being so horrified by the prospect of revealing herself to another woman. 

Dales nervously glanced around her room; it was modest in size, but very, very bare. No furniture, besides a wooden wardrobe, a desk, and her bed, which wasn’t even king-sized. It was fluffy, but not particularly comfortable either, as the sleep it facilitated had been dark and not heavy.  A very dusty, blue rug sat, leading from her bed to her doorway, which held a reinforced metal and oak door, and she had an open window carved into the stone wall right beside the torch sconce, which apparently doubled as an arrow slit during a siege! She gazed into the mirror in front of her; her hands began to have spasm, sweat formed on her brow, and she felt a gnawing deep within her stomach, I need to calm down. I was able to face those murder-hungry Nords, I can face this too. She tried relaxing herself, but she only felt superficially better. At the least her hand spasms stopped. 

She had left her family’s ruined manor after a little bit of crying. The lonely walk to the fortress had been almost like a dream, she didn’t remember much of it, besides the fact she was as silent as the grave. 

She didn’t want to think back to that night, but all she saw in the mirror was that little girl.

Entering Sutch had opened memories she now understood were better left buried.  So much so she worried if she should have come here at all. Regardless, it was now too late to back out. 

The Empress had finally settled on a simple red and silver dress; nothing too fancy, besides the fact it was embroidered with rune thread. It’s upper part was hemmed with white wolf fur. It was practical, not too confining, and simplistic, almost rustic. She had also brought with her a grand, sur dress, made from brown bear fur, embroidered with silver, gold, and sewn a dozen rubies, made to be a homage to Colovian fashion, but she decided such a display would do her no favors; the family that hosted her was known for its practicality and simplicity when it came to it’s displays. 

She casually slipped on her leather sheath that held her ebony, jewelled Spartha, onto her belt, before gazing back into the mirror. She gripped her ornate rune leather gloves, putting them on firmly, as she grabbed a silver bracelet, alongside her sigit ring. 

She began to play with her light blonde hair, but realized Baldur had granted her another gift. It’s relative shortness meant she didn’t need to spend nearly as much time upkeep it. She brushed it for a minute before deciding she didn’t need to give it any more attention. Her hands lingered by her makeup box, but she stopped herself, deciding she wouldn’t put any on, she rarely infact did, except when she wanted to impress a girl. 

Sighing, she reached for the Ruby Dragon Crown. For such a grandiose, dramatic, and self conceited at times, race as the Imperials, the symbol of their power wasn’t that outwardly impressive as one might think. It looked more like a war tiara, then a royal crown. It's was black as the night, holding a dozen ruby and sapphire gems alongside it’s metal horns. Gripping it tightly she placed it over her head. She wouldn’t lie to herself, putting it on gave her a small sense of relief, and she felt strength fill her once more. I am the Empress of Tamriel.  I am no longer that frightened girl. I can face anyone as an equal. As long as I remember; I defend the people. I rule to protect the Heartland, not for my own vainglory and power. She gave herself a boost of confidence, letting her fire fill her once more. She began to stretch, as she turned around to face her advisor. “Okay, i’m ready. Let’s not keep the Count and his family waiting. 

***

Everything looks the same! 

The inside of Fort Sutch...was just like an Imperial fort. A massive Imperial Fort. Dark hallways, lite by torch scones, occasionally slits that let the growing sunlight in, with gusts of drafty air coming into the windows. The floors were dusty, and covered in dirt, but otherwise clean, somewhat empty, barring the occasional wooden doorway that led to another wing of the fortress. It was almost completely bare of any type of furniture, and the few rugs that she came across were animal skins; not a single silk rug! She took back what she had said earlier; the Palace of Kings was designed for defense, but it's halls were made also for the grandiose and comfort for those who lived under it's roof. This was all about practicality. 

"Rex."  A pair of Rubrum guards went onto their knees at the sight of the crowned monarch passing their position, which caused Dales to give them a curt nod. The unit seemed far less uniformed, now that Dales could see them properly, barring their red cloaks and bronze brooches. Many wore mismatched pieces of Imperial equipment, all in various stages of disrepair and mismatched style. For example the soldiers before Dales carried with them third era cavalry helmets, one with horsehair, the other bare, alongside parts of the archaic Septim-era equipment, that had only been half restored.

But the way they wore the almost-rusting equipment, and gripped their bronze tipped spears made it clear they knew how to use it whatever was available to them. The two infront of Dales were Imperials but they looked different to most. Even compared to other Colovians. They had heavy, black beards, and their skin wasn't as nearly tanned as most other blooded Imperials. Thick and muscular, they really did look like they had Nord Blood in them. Both of them had tribal styled tattoos, done in what seemed to be blue woad. Dales had earlier assumed in the dark they were copying Nordic styling, but upon closer inspection, these at least were more Imperial then she gave credit for; stylized drawings of Imperial letters, tiger stripes, and one of the pair even held a primitive dragon like wyrm on his face. 

Dales briefly said "Hail guardsmen." Before she passed the duo, who drifted apart to make way for her entourage; which included Cassia, Tiberius, and Nhakir. 

They walked for a good ten minutes before they finally reached their destination. The entrance into Sutch's throne room. 

Now this is more grand! A pair of stone columns sat on either side of the door, a fortified wooden gate made from Sutch's own redwoods. There was some infact drab poetry Dales remembered reading stating that said entrance had been painted with the blood of a Dremora; which was of course horseshit. It was on a flight that had two stone stairways that lead diagonally down from either side, with more at the front that lead to the inner gate itself. The room was...otherwise bare, barring, finally, a red carpet with embroidered dragons, set just in front of the wooden gate, and torch scones. 

Six Red Guard stood at attention, three on either side of the gate, all falling onto their knees as the Empress approached. Besides the half dozen rangers, a curious duo sat just beside one of the pillars; the good captain, and another soldier carrying a girl. 

The Captain had switched out his armor for a more elegant look; a very simple, but well made leather vestment, with a pair of black cloth pants, leather gloves, and a silver buckled belt. He carried a bronze longsword on said belt, along with a silver knife. Very simplistic for a member of the high Imperial nobility. 

Under the fire from a cone, Dales could see his features better. He was handsome, palish, but still more tanned compared to most Colovians. He had a well kept beard, far less wild then his red guard brethren, Though Dales knew he was in his mid thirties, he looked far older. She could now see bits of gray hair intermingling with his raven hair, which was done in a military-styled bob cut. Weathered lines of stress, lay on a heavy brow, which fit rather well with those impossibly gray eyes of his. Which almost looked...sad? 

As soon as the Empress was in sight, that melancholy vanished, replaced by professional stoicism. "Your Royal Highness." He dropped onto his knees, "I approached you as a soldier last night so I will formally introduce myself as the Count’s son, Warden-Captain Valerius Caeparius Domitius, Earl of Sutch. I, and my family are at your service, Your Royal Majesty.” 

Dales offered her hand forward, causing the man to plant a kiss on her sigit ring. He got up from his knees and indicated to the figure next to him, “May I present my daughter?”

Dales looked to her side; a very strange sight awaiting her. There was a tall, very muscular Red Guard. Strangely, it was an Orismer, rather than a native Sutchian Imperial.  He carried himself well, but the true strangeness was in his arms. 

A girl. 

She looked no older than nine. She had some of the same features of the Captain; a strong jawline, tanned but not olive skin, and the same gray eyes, albeit hers were filled with child-like warmth. Rather than raven headed, she had long, curly brown hair, currently done in a bun. For clothing, she had a very plain, blue dress, embroidered with red string, again almost-scandalous in its simplicity. She had a pair of brown leather shoes, which rocked in the arms of the large Orismer guardsman. Her most notable feature was her kind face, and the fact she seemingly couldn’t walk on her own. 

The crippled little girl gave the Empress a wry smile, “Auxiliary Viatrix Apollo Domitius! At your service milady!” The way she said that made Dales want to laugh. Her father became red-face as he barked, “Viatrix! My apologies, Rex. It’s Countess Viatrix Apollo Domitius, Lady  of Sutch.” Dales mind wandered to where this girl’s mother was for all but a moment, before she approached the child with a kind smile. 

“And what a strong and able Legionnaire you are! It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Auxiliary.” Dales gave the little girl a curtsy, and when no one else was looking, a silly face; she closed her left eye and stuck her tongue out; causing the little girl to giggle. 

Her eyes wandered from father to daughter, before confusion hit her Is this...everyone? “Not to be rude, Earl Domitius, but I was under the assumption you also had a sister, and a whole score of cousins, aunts and uncles?” 

“My apologies to you, my Royal Highness.” His eyes flashed with anger for a second, but he brought it down just as quick, “Indeed we have more family that you probably vaguely remember when you lived in the city. Most were killed in the Siege, or subsequently left with...the complications that have arises. As for my sister, she was supposed to meet us-”

“I am here, brother.”  A stern voice from above called out to the tiny gathering. Dales glanced from the tired looking little girl, to just above the flight. 

The voice belonged to an Imperial woman. She was...pretty. Quite pretty in fact, but the attractiveness of her face wasn’t that pronounced. For example, the beauties of the Colovian Nobility liked their faces ideally pale (with makeup if the commonly olive looking skin of the Imperial Race was too pronounced), oval-shaped, and soft. Who Dales presumed to be the Count’s daughter contrasted to that vaunted image. Her skin was sun kissed and tanned but not quite olive colored (as was her brother and niece), with a healthy helping of red freckles scattered across her cheeks. Her brow was heavy, and pronounced, and her eyelashes thick. The girl’s hair, which, Dales may add, was done...pretty messily and half haphazardly, was let down freely, dark as the shadows of twilight, reflecting that of her siblings color.  Her face was completed by those striking, grim, gray eyes that had peeked underneath her red hood from their first meeting in the forest. An expression of sternness sat on her face, making her the spitting image of her brother. As her gazed fixed to the Empress’s face, she saw her brother’s fire within her eyes, 

 Even before Valerius made his declaration, the Empress knew who she was. “May I present my younger sister, Warden-Tribune Valerie Soaemias Domitius, Countess of Sutch.”

She walked down the stone staircase, without gripping the railing, instead using her hands to grip her dress's skirt firmly. The dress itself was...strange. It was a very plain looking dress, dark blue and gray in color, with a hemmed skirt. It’s material seemed to be regular cloth. Decently made to be sure, but it was so plain and drab with not even the simplest of threaded embodiment made, something perhaps, at best, a Merchant's daughter would wear, not the garb of the high nobility, let alone a Countess. Another thing odd about her garb was it barely fit her; she looked like she was perhaps a little bit younger then the Empress, but her dress, while not super overwhelming in it’s tightness, visibly constrained her with it’s cloth, and it looked hard to move it for her. She was tall, quite a bit taller then Dales (which wasn’t that big of an accomplishment).  The only visible sign of any kind of wealth was what she carried on her belt; a jeweled Sica, an Imperial curved blade, tucked in a bronze sheaf. 

Simple sandals peeked under her dress; she somewhat awkwardly moved down the stairs. It revealed another striking aspect of her. The way she carried herself. Perfect posture, proud fiery eyes, and a walk filled with confidence. She was highborn through and through. 

As she got closer to the Empress and her siblings, a horrible smell arose from the air. The smell of  cheap perfume, and more importantly, too much being applied by a person who clearly didn’t know how to wear perfume.

A few seconds later, and the black haired officer was in front of the Empress. Her face was just as grim as her brother; serious, no-nonsense, and almost angry looking, especially when she glanced directly at Dales. She gave her brother a very annoyed look, who nodded with equal annoyance at her defiance. She then proceeded to do one of the most awkward looking courtesies the Empress (who wasn’t good at courtesies) had ever seen, with the exact same confidence as before, so much so she still didn’t look comical despite the strong stench that made even her niece wince. “Warden-Tribune Valerie Soaemias Domitius.” Her voice was harsh, and drill-like. She got up, and then offered the Empress an Imperial Legion styled salute, which she did flawlessly, “At Your Service, Your Royal Imperial Majesty Rex Draconius.” Her brother glanced at her with extreme annoyance, rubbing his temple, but before he could say anything, Dales spoke up, 

With a stern smile, Dales returned the salute, “Dales Draconius, at yours, Tribune.” She clearly preferred her military title. As she did with her brother, Dales offered her gloved palm forward. 

“My lady.” Fire glared in her eyes, but she brought it down, as she went onto her knee, and planted a quick kiss on her hand.  Dales relaxed, going backwards, with a warm smile, seemingly ignoring her hostile stare, “I believe we’ve already met Valerie, in the forest.” That stare of yours is unmistakable. 

“Yes Your Royal Majesty.” She gave Valerius a glare, before she faced the Empress once more, this time being able to hold in her wrath. “I would have introduced myself then and there, but the...unfortunate accident made it seem inappropriate, as did the situation; I was just another warrior in my brother's retinue.” She straightened every further, as if on a marching drill, as she lowered her head in a bow, “My apologies for the incident before.”

“I accepted your brothers, and I accept yours.” In the corner, Tiberious eyed the sibling duo with a scowl, keeping his hand to his blade at the slightest provocation.”Let’s leave that business in the forest behind us, shall we?” Dales gave her a friendly smile, but the other girl’s face remained blank, all she did in response was give Dales a curt nod of her head. Another oddity Dales noticed was her hands; they were covered by thick, leather gloves that tightly wrapped around them, something that clashed completely with her outfit. 

Valerius went forward, with an apologetic bow of his head, “I must beg your pardon once more, Your Royal Majesty.” He gave his family another annoyed glare, “I instructed my daughter and sister to make themselves look presentable, but it seems they can’t even follow such a simple task!” He gave them angry glares, causing Valerie to return it with equal defiance, but Viatrix instead looked more confused than anything. He was about to bark again, when Dales raised her hand. 

“I think they have presented themselves to the crown adequately.” She stepped forward, giving an apologetic smile, “Though perhaps later, If her ladyship wouldn’t mind, I can help do her hair?” The Empress gave a chuckle. Cassia, who edged beside the crippled noblewoman, rolled her eyes, Oh Brother.  

Valeria looked mortified, she gave an aside glance to her brother, who gave her an anger face, and nodded his head. In defeat, she breathed in with , “If that would please you Your Majesty.” 

“Can you do my hair too?” The little girl suddenly called out. Her father sternly yelled, “Viatrix!”. Dales raised her hand once more, and approached the crippled girl. She gave her another kind smile, saying, “Of course, it would be my honour to do so, little lady.” The little girl gave Dales another smile, exposing her teeth, which was crooked to an extent.

 Dales eyes glanced from each member of the Domitius family, and their plain, tight clothes, and then to the little girl herself. She was skinny, even for her age. She had a certain haggardness that was shocking to see for someone in the upper class. Clearly she was looked after, but it still didn’t sit right with the monarch. Perhaps it could be attributed to her condition, but the thought of a child going hungry, no matter if they were of the lower class, or the upper nobility, didn’t sit well with the Empress. Doubly so, if the family was old money like the Domitus’s. But it was becoming clear to her, that hadn’t been the case for a long while. The family’s fortunes were seemingly as bad as Sutch’s itself. The city and it’s ruling family were joined in desolation. 

The Captain motioned with his hand up towards the fortified gate, “Now that introductions have been made, I can present you to father.”

***

The Throne Room was as imposing as the Fortress itself. Made from the same black stone as the city walls; the centerpiece of the room was the throne itself. Dark as the night, it made quite an imposing sight for the little girl. It was large, intimidating, and extremely uncomfortable to sit on for long periods of time, and had no cushion, fabric, or cloth. It was practically a slab of black stone. It had been designed to be the seat of a General, not a Count, and as such, it was still considered the Legion's seat of power; some would say especially in these times, what should be the source of power within the Empire. Besides it,  two banners had been erected; one of the flag of the Imperial Legion, and the other, the colors of Sutch itself; the Gray Worm Noirgramm roosting among a pile of gray swords. Going down to the gate itself from the throne, was a long red carpet, which was spit roasted between six sets of two braisers a piece; the dying embers screaming at the little girl.

Across the side of the fortified walls of the throne chamber, from the fortified redwood gate, all the way around the throne and back, like a serpent holding its tail within it’s fangs, was a massive, intricate tapestry, grand in its colors, iconography, and the story it depicted; that of when the gates of Oblivion roared opened, and how the dilapidated ruins of Sutch had shielded a large detachment of Imperial soldiers that managed to hold at bay the horde from Oblivion. Images of Legion soldiers being strung up and tortured in flaming infernal devices, woodsman being devoured and ripped to shreds by great beasts, Imperial soldiers forming a line as great horned humanoids weaved their flaming blades clashed with them, and at the forefront; a figure in golden Lorica charging into the gate itself, while the Legion held the ten thousand strong demonic host at bay with nothing but their valor. The tale of how the Hero of Kvatch and the Imperial Legion stopped a massive incursion force that could have destroyed all of Colovia.

A Breton man was holding the hands of his daughter as he led her down the carpet towards the black throne; the little girl held her father’s leg tightly; though she was terrified by the blood curdling imagery, it also fascinated her. Truthfully, right now, her father terrified her more than the images in the tapestry. Her father was normally. very strict, but also mostly kind. But right now his face was marred by anger, his grip ever tight; all reflected under a veneer of stale sweat. He approached the figure on his throne. A deep, booming voice, echoed across the halls, "The starving wolf approaches the claws of the well fed lion; if not for the Emperor's edict, i'd cut your head off, filth. Tell me, what does the rat-faced Elder Council want in my halls?"

"You still have your mother's eyes." A calm, deep voice brought the Empress back into the present. The vale of vertigo ceased, and she found herself back with her entourage inside the Throne Chamber. She looked to her side briefly; the grand tapestry she remembered as a child was discolored, ripped at places, torn apart by the passage of time; with the proud red Legion soldiers and horrible daemons from Oblivion nothing but stained shapes on what might as be a washed out rug. The cones had dimmed, the proud red carpet discolored and stained; but the Black stoned Throne of Sutch itself had been unchanged. If only she could say the same about who sat on it.

It was an old man. An ancient looking man. His face was practically consumed by an ocean of white hair, so long that it surpassed his own daughters. What was once a proud, but controlled mane of ebony, had dissipated. Rather than the groomed well kept beard she remembered, another long wave of overwhelming hair, bigger than even the proudest of Nord's could tolerate.  His tanned skin was as gnarled as the ancient roots of the Red Forest were; sagging, almost-rotten looking, with a massive array of stress lines, bleeding sores, and liver spots. He wore a fancy black doublet, embroidered with silver rune thread, but also had an encompassing steel cuirass, with blue emeralds, and silver adornments decorating the gorgeous piece. On his hair consumed brow, he carried a silvery circlet. Within his hands, sat one of the most beautiful looking hand and a half swords the Empress had ever seen; it's heavy blade was made of sparkling mithril, like the pale light of the moon had manifested itself in the Throne Chamber, leading down to a golden crossguard with two jeweled serpents snarling at either side.  It's handgrip had been wrapped by the black leather of an ancient river Drake, and it's pommel was ended in a circular disk, sharpened and as dangerous as it's end. A faint, roaring fire danced across it's edge, waiting for it's user to unleash it. 

The legendary Dragonsword of Lainlyn.

He was a warrior ruler, even in his twilight years it seemed. His face was decrepit, but a pair of noble, intelligent, gray eyes peaked underneath all that hair. Dales finally spoke, almost a whisper

"Lord Domitus." 

The elderly count, with great strength lifted himself from his lonely throne, silencing his son's protest with all but a wave of his hands. He struggled to move, heavily breathing, but he carried himself with dignity. Even in his old age, the Empress could see he tried to keep himself strong; as he retained strength in his elderly years, being able to carry that large sword of his. Placing the Dragonsword's tip onto the ground, he knelt infront of the Imperial monarch, his steel cuirass chinking as he did. He spoke once more, bellowing with pride and respect, 

"Count Vortigernus Marcellus Domitus, at your service, Your Imperial Majesty Rex Dales." His mind hadn't dulled. 

Dales plainly said, "Rise." 

The ancient Count got up from his position, and went back to his throne, not once reclining, and retaining that Legion-honed discipline that served him when he was a Legate in the Second. He spoke, a grumble, coughing a little at the start of his slurred sentence, "It's been years since a Motierre approached my throne; last time with a company of sycophants, some of my own family, to depose me, bah! If only my brother had never married a Breton-"

"Father!" Valerius shouted, embarrassed as he looked to his feet in shame. Tiberius snarled, yelling, "You dare speak to the Empress in that manner!" The two were quickly silenced by the Empress lifting her hand, as she gave the palace guard, a harsh glare. She turned around, saying, "Leave us." 

The Count nodded, "Indeed. Clear the throne room, and leave us to converse." The trio of other Domitus looked on with concern, but did so without any complaint. Dales retuine followed the trio outside, but both Cassia and the Palace Guard looked concerned. When they had left the Empress finally spoke, 

"I am a Draconius now."

"When a Legionary retires, they afterwards call themselves a farmer, but they'll always be the stone faced killer of the Empire. It's the same; we are born into our family and we die in that family, name differences mean nothing. I am a Domitus, and you are a Motierre. You are a smart girl, you don't call yourself that name besides in official capacity." 

"No." She admitted sadly, "Perhaps I would have been happier born into another family, but I can't change that."

"Indeed you can't." The two figures gazed at each other, just the faint dead air swirling around in the ruined chamber. Dales said simply, offering no more courtesies, the two crowned figures speaking plainly as possible. Honestly part of Dales was relieved; she expected venom, but she’d take it over all these honeyed words with stares of hatred. 

"Do you hate me, Lord Domitus?" 

'Does the sheep hate the wolf cub born to rend and tear? Do I hate them for being tempered by their innate nature they can't escape from?" The old man said, coughing once more, his hands shaking a little underneath the metal of the Dragonsword. Dales chuckled at the analogy, 

"Wolves aren't people, Count."

He nodded his weathered head in agreement, "Indeed; unlike beasts, what we are born into doesn't define as fully as what we will become. So, no I do not hate you because you are Amaund’s daughters.” His coughing became violent. Dales approached to offer him aid, but he waved it off. “But I will also tell you plainly; just as my condition reflects the decay of my beloved city, so are the roots of my hatred for your family and your father. It is in my children, my citizens, as it is the city itself, the very ruined stone and wood roaring in rage, roots of rage and anger for the shame and embarrassment your father had cast upon Sutch! Even now, I feel it threatening to rise like the flame from my Dragonsword.” His gnarled hands gripped the edge of his sword, his voice contorted to a low and bestial growl, making a part of her want to shrink back and hide like the girl she once was, but the Empress kept firm, and starred back. “The shame of my great-niece marrying that "man" who you call father is already much to bear."

"Amaund wasn't my father." When she thought of the word, a certain, kind faced, Imperial High General came to mind. But she kept that to the back of her mind, "He hurt me, just like he hurt Sutch. When I killed him, I made sure he suffered for his misdeeds, Count. As you yourself have said, I am not my father." I am nothing like my father. 

His anger had subsided, as he finally relaxed into his chair, "Which is why I agreed to host you, and why I am willing to hear whatever you have to say-

The older man was suddenly consumed by an episode of coughing. Deep coughing from his very lungs; bits of black bile and blood were upchucked to the ground, and he had to use his sword to strengthen himself.  Dales approached the black throne, concern plain on her face, as he gripped his shoulder, "My lord?! Are you alright?" He gently pushed the Breton girl back, with a wave of his hand,

"No I'm not. I grow old, and twilight is about to become night. My bones weaken, my organs shut down, and my eyes begin to close. But I think there's still more to do before I sleep." He gave the young girl the first kind smile she had seen from him in over a decade, "You needn't concern yourself over me, i'm just getting very old, young Empress." Dales gave him a smile, nodding her head, he spoke again, struggling to keep down a cough, "Though i'm unfortunately feeling very ill at the moment. I will not be able to join you and the rest of my family for luncheon i'm afraid." He finally reclined into his stone throne, breathing harder than before, "I will hear what you have to say. Only later, I already grow weak." 

Dales stopped back with a nod of her head, "I will inform them of your illness then; and I look forward to discussing my proposal to you later then. Take all the time you will need." She gave him a sly grin, "Until then, however i'm afraid I will be a burden to your family." 

"Sutch is already burdened by everything it can be burdened by, Rex. One more can hardly matter."  On his throne, he did a customary bow of his head, letting his snow white hair fall down like a waterfall. The Empress returned the bow, As she left the throne chamber, the ancient noble called from behind, "You carry yourself like your mother, Your Majesty. Walk proud under these halls, the blood of Sutch is in your veins as well. Feel free to explore the city once you are done lunch" 

Though she didn't like being forced to wait, it could hardly be helped. Her spirits were high though; the meeting had gone as well as it could under the circumstances. She looked forward to what the rest of the day would bring, but she felt a deeper darkness over the Fortress she couldn't put her finger on too. A rot. 

[BigBossBalrog]

Dales, Fortress Sutch  
Morning

The Empress sat at a large wooden table. Being polite, she might describe it as “grand”...but that would be a lie. It was a simple family-sized top made from the red trees that littered the forest outside of Sutch, bare with not a single carving or adornment to it; as if it was fashioned and given to the family right after it’s initial creation.  She was currently having a luncheon in the Count’s dining hall, which was dedicated to her visit. Like the rest of the Fort, the place was Spartan and functional; no decorated foundations spewing lily scented water, no golden statues, no large displays of wealth and power, just a large, wooden table, some lit torch scones, and the stone floor.  The Family hosting her still wore their oddly plain clothing.

In terms of arrangement, Dales sat at the forefront of the table in a similarly simple table, in which the Count would presumably sit as the head of the family; though in this case the Empress superseded that position as she was supposed to be the spiritual mother of all Imperials, not that it mattered, as the Count himself was absent from the luncheon due to his illness.  Sitting beside her on her right was Lord Valerius, the heir of Sutch, but wasn’t why he had commanded such a high seat. He was the highest ranking military official, as the military stronghold symbol of the Legion, that had priority.  Tribune Valerius, on the other hand, as the Count’s Daughter, and the second in-line for the county had a spot to the left of the Empress.  Finally little Viatrix sat just beside her auntie, though the “traditional” spot as the “Lady” of the Castle lay vacant, the chair across on the opposite side of the Empress. (It was a position of high honor, as the individual fully facing the royalty she was expected to entertain them.)  Cassia, as the Empress’s advisor, got a seat just beside the little girl, and as the leader of her entourage, Tiberius sat beside her, giving each family member a glare. 

Dales bite her tongue at the confusing set up as she recited the explanation in her head, Wrap your fucking head around that. What they lacked in wealth, the Domitus’s certainly made up for with their adherence to Colovian traditions. One would think...

“I can’t wait to dig in!” Little Viatrix slammed her wooden spoon into the table with a cry of happiness. 

“Viatrix!” The Captain shouted; though he looked more embarrassed then truly angry at his daughter. The little girl looked down glumly, like a kitten who had just gotten her yarn taken away. 

The Empress gave the girl a kind smile, before saying, “Forgive me for my ignorance, Lady-” 

“Call me Viatrix!” The little girl interrupted the Empress. 

“Viatrix!” Valerius called out, much more sternly this time, causing the little girl to pout.  Valeria grinned, and  rolled her eyes as she began to fidget nervously; this really was awkward. 

“-Viatrix.” The Empress continued, “How old are you again?” 

The little Imperial girl gave her a kind smile, “Seven! I’ll be eight by Sun’s Dawn!” 

“You're very mature for your age.”  The girl blushed a little at that praise, before revealing a small gap in her teeth with another smile.  Her unkempt brown hair seemed to spike a bit at the salivating aroma in the air, "Meal time!"

Several servants entered from the kitchen, carrying a handful of large trays, while a full trio was carrying a very, large, metal pot. Most of them were Imperials, but she spotted a few Mer, of all things, in the group. One among them, a very pretty Wood Elf, eyes lingered in the Empress's own, just as she and her coworkers dropped the large steaming almost-vat like pot onto the table. The wood elf smiled, and gave her a very quick, almost invisible wink. The Empress, startled, played it off, but gave her a smile of her own. Anything more would be extraordinarily rude, and the Empress dared not get caught. Trying to take her mind off pretty faces, the Empress’s eyes gazed across the table. 

Well the food wasn’t quite meager.  Again, Dales wasn’t complaining about the seemingly modest accommodations, she was pleasantly surprised. She remembered even Baldur had provided her with an exuberant feast in Windhelm; prepared with molten hot-mammoth cheese stewed over mouth watering mammoth steaks, the succulent flesh of a Saber Cat, potatoes glistening with spices and herbs, even more delicious and the finest mead from the ice-star meadery to wash it all down! 

Before her was a simpler arrangement. The servants opened the glistening pot, revealing a white-grainy substance, still boiling from heat. It stewed, as another servant began to stir it with a great wooden spoon. Beside it was a large tray filled with...dough? Fried dough or a strange bread of some kind. It was golden, and wrapped around in a circular pattern. Another tray; which displayed a full spit roasted boar, it’s meat charred and crispy, with a potato thrusted into it’s gaping mouth.  There were several other smaller dishes, but nothing that noteworthy, such as a plate of assorted vegetables stir-fried in oil, and some white dough bread.  

Incense sticks were placed on the table, causing an otherworldly, but pleasant smell to emit from the table.

Inspecting the large vat with interest, familiarity light across the Empress’s face, Is that ...congee? It was kinda like a porridge made from rice, a very popular dish in the Niben, but she hadn’t expected to see it here. It smelled delicious though. 

The servants began pouring into porcelain bowls, very...pretty? They were ornate, and decorated with snarling lions and goldfish. Again...not out of place in the Niben, but strange here. A large helping of the rice congress was poured into one of the ornate bowls and placed infront of the Empress, who of course was the first to be served. Cast iron, curved, almost-bowl like plates were followed, each containing a different dish; a large helping of pork, vegetables, the golden dough, and a meaty broth, circling with salt, corn and chicken. Every time a servant put down another  plate, they bowed graciously to the Empress.  Then the servants went to each of the other  people on the table and presented their food. The little lady of the table waited impatiently for her food to be served, pouting, and gripping the table as she salivated. 

Finally a tea pot was brought from the kitchen, and placed on the table. It was...beautiful. It was made from clear white pottery, and covered in blue waves that danced across the white surface, otherwise, it was adorned with green-whiskered dragons, made from a strange crystal. She had heard of it, it was called, jade? A very rare material from the far east, though apparently it could be found in small quantities in Morrowind.  It was clearly the most expensive thing on display in the entire Fortress. 

Several cups, made from ceramics, were brought before the Empress, and the Empress of the family. One of the servants, an elderly Imperial woman with deeply tanned skin, and a hair of ash approached, lifting the teapot with grace and care. She lifted it into the sky, angling it to perfection, before pouring the steaming liquid into the sky. Though the Empress couldn’t see it, the Captain’s eyes filled with pure hatred, so much more the Empress could muster out of him for a single instance, but it had left almost as soon as it arrived.  She had poured the Empress a cup of the tea. Following, she did a customary bow of her head, outstretched her hands as she did, doing a strange gesture.

The Captain, having recovered from the encounter, spoke, bringing his own cup to receive the tea “It is family custom for the head of the table to have the first drink. I would offer you rice-wine,  but the little one’s been sneaking it!” He gave the little girl a glare, who just shrugged. Dales had the sudden urge to howl in laughter, but kept it down. 

“Wine brings out the worst in me, so tea is quite fine, there’s no need to apologize.” She had not expected a family that was notorious for being such traditionalists to drink Nibenese Rice-Wine and eat Nibense food though. Dales brought the cup to her mouth and took a sip. 

She almost choked, but managed to swallow it fully before that could happen.

It wasn’t..bad persay. Just extremely bitter, almost more so than coffee. After almost upchucking it from the initial shock, the after taste brought in a delectable taste of strange herbs, sweet scented lotus flowers, and honey. Bitter and sweet. It was...pretty good actually. Though she really could understand if someone told her it was an acquired taste.

“Well well, she didn’t spit it out. Impressive.” Valeria gave a toothy grin, speaking in a sardonic tone, causing both Tiberius and her brother an angry glare. The young officer followed her brother, and then her niece in taking a swing of the tea. Cassia took a swing of it without any problems, but Tiberius nearly spat out the drink, coughing as he finished his chug. “Though I can’t say the same for your man there.” She muttered sardonically, 

The Empress gave a smile, giving her Guardsman a friendly look of “Please don’t have an outburst”, who looked like he wanted to attack the family. “They say the best medicine is bitter. It’s...a unique taste, but I enjoy it.” 

The Captain forced a smile, “I’m glad you do, I apologize to your captain if I judged it to be suitable for his taste pallets.” He gave a bow of his head, causing the red-faced guardsmen to mutter “think nothing of it” in a low, angry voice. “It’s called Pale Lotus tea, very rare in these parts. Though still expensive to make, the Nibense drink it much more than we do.” He caught Dales glancing at the rice congress and pottery, before nodding his head apologetically, 

“Ah. I apologize if the food is not to your taste or standards.”

Dales shook her head, “Oh no, I am infinitely grateful. It looks delicious.” She bowed her head, she really didn’t want to seem ungrateful, “It’s just...I never expected to see so much Nibense flavor here this far into Colovia.” She brought her hands up into the air, “I hope i’m not being offensive.” She took her spoon, seeing how hungry the little girl was getting, so she rushed things a bit for her sake, they were clearly waiting on The Empress. She scooped up a little bit of the congee, placing it in her mouth and chewing down on the porridge-like meal.  An aroma of spices suddenly assailed her, as did the distinctive taste of ginger, garlic, eggs, pork and a whole other array. It was...amazingly tasty.

“It’s...delicious.” She gave a smile and a nod of her head, already wanting to eat more. 

Cassia nodded her head in agreement, “Beats the congee-gruel I got while guarding the Niben.”

“Ivata will be glad to hear it. She cooked the meal.” He smiled, beginning to dig into his own meal. The grey haired Imperial woman from before stepped forward. Dales eyed her; she looked like she was in her late fifties, early sixties, but was still fairly striking. Dales, before taking another mouthful of congee said, giving her a bow of her head and a grinning, “As someone who nearly burned down the Imperial Palace trying to make a sweet roll, your cooking skills are unmatched, miss. Truly astounding.” 

The aging woman, beamed with pride, went to the ground, bowed her head deeply, “You do me great honor, your Royal Majesty. I am ever your servant.” 

Dales motioned for her to stand with a smile, causing Valeria to roll her eyes, and begin to eat the food in front of her. The Captain responded to Dales earlier question, 

"It's a fair inquiry. Ivata has been our household chief for decades, and Nibense cuisine her specialty. It's not..." He hesitated, before saying "It's not the way of Sutch, but it does taste good.” He admitted, taking a sip of his tea, with a serene expression descending amongst all that chaos.  “Little Viatrix only eats Nibense food. And I am partial to it myself-Oh gods…” He looked up for a single instant, his face suddenly becoming as pale as a ghost and his fists clenched. A rush of scarlet erupted on his face, he whispered, “One fucking day. One fucking day of etquitte! That’s all I fucking asked…” The Empress, surprised by his horror, glanced up from her own food to see what he was on about. 

“Little Viatrix”, was shoving food into her mouth like it was her final meal; the little girl grabbed her bowl of congee, using the spoon to shove huge bits of it into her mouth, holding it up to slurp it; using the spoon not as a utensil, but as pusher. She grabbed a piece of pork, using her hands, and devoured it in a second, before tearing up a bunch of the stir fried vegetables. 

On the other side; the Tribune was a little better. She was carrying her congress bowl in one hand, shoving the porridge-like substance into her mouth, and using her free hand to grip the metallic plate carrying the meat broth, drinking it in breaths. She put them to the ground, grabbing bits of pork meat with her hands, and then taking sips of tea in between breaths. 

There fucking animals! My family are fucking animals! Deeply ashamed, he placed his hand to his throbbing head.

Dales, who was being moved to laughter by the display, gave a small smile. She glared at the young Tribune, slobbering all over food, disgust not on her face. You know what? I like a girl who helps herself to a meal! A little weight on her wouldn’t look that bad.

Cassia, who knew what the Empress was thinking wanted to throw her food up, The Empress has some sick fucking tastes let me tell you.” She glared at the little troll sitting beside her with a look of discontent, This girl needs a beating. 

His sorrow at his family having fallen so low in manners, soon twisted to anger. She knew, while her sister lacked table manners, this was being played up by. All to embarrass him. Little fucking bitch.  He gripped the edge of the wooden table, his hands throbbing with wrath. His great temperament flared, as he continued what he was saying before he saw his sister’s gluttony. “Ivata is a retainer of my disgusting sibling's dead mother.” 

The previously grinning Tribune dropped her congress bowl with a heavy thunk. Her striking grey eyes narrowed, as the entire room went silent at the two siblings' death glares. Dales could feel the chill in the air, So their half-siblings. Dales...could see it now. Her father's features overwhelmed her, but her skin was actually a bit darker then her brothers, and her face more narrow and pronounced.  The Empress was a second away from speaking up to diffuse the situation, when the Captain finished speaking, “A Nibense concubine bred by my father-” 

Valeria suddenly grabbed her table knife,  throwing it at lighting speed aimed at her brother's shoulder. As if in sync with each other, The Captain drew his blade and deflected the throwing knife in a singular motion. The Empress jolted, throwing herself back from the table. Tiberus got up from his seat, drawing his sword. “Funny from the son of a used Colovian cock sow who wasted away from the diseases she got fucking pigs!”  

“Bitch!” He spat, his face contorting with utter wrath, “One day! Even for one day you can’t act like the bastard you are! YOU NEED TO KNOW YOUR FUCKING PLACE WHORE!” He pointed his blade at his sister who had also drawn her curved blade.

“Cock-sucker!” She spat in response. Little Viatrix, half her face still covered in congee, now looked terrified, she looked like she was going to cry, she shied away from the family fight. Grabbing the little girl from behind, Cassia got up from her chair, stroking the startled girl with a gentle hush. She carried her to the side of the room, patting her on the head, she put herself in front of the crying girl to shield her from her siblings spat, all the while grabbing the handle of her own sword.

“Enough.” I thought my family was fucked up. The Empress spoke, her voice authoritarian and very unlike how she normally talked. 

“She’s out of line-”

“I said ENOUGH! BE SILENT”  Dales voice manifested like thunder across the room, as it reverberated and shook the furniture. Her hands glowed blue, her blonde hair flowing upwards, and the flames from the torch scones were put out by the wind from her booming voice. She narrowed her icy eyes. The siblings lowered their blades, gazing at the Imperial monarch, with an expression of shock. Her guards, and the Count’s Men who were about to intervene to prevent their Lord and Lady from doing anything stupid, looked equally terrified,  Her voice was akin to a hurricane, “I have tolerated your disrespect, but you go to far. Close your lips of venom. I have not walked through the soul-cairn, and tasted sanguine on High Hrothgar to be talked down by impudent brats, playing Legionnaire. You will be silent, and listen to Your Empress.”

She let out a deep mouthful of air, and her voice returned to normal, albeit complete with extreme severity and sternness, “Lord Domitus, attend to your terrified daughter before I punch you across the room.

The middle aged Officer went red with shame, as he muttered very quietly, “Yes Your Majesty.” He limped in defeat as he threw down his sword. He went up to Cassia, who was giving him the eyes of a devil. Dales gave the older woman a nod of her head, to let him pass. He instantly went down on his knees, and hugged his crying girl.  Dales face was filled with stress, and she was drenched in sweat. She turned around to face Valeria, who looked equally as ashamed as her brother, having thrown her sword to the ground moments ago.

“Cool off.” Dale said, with an angry glare, “I should slap you too!” 

The girl bowed her head, “As you say, Your Majesty.” She turned around, and left the room without a second thought. 

Dales sighed deeply, taking a breath of fresh air.  She gave her guardsman a glare, "Clean this mess up." She turned to face the cowering servant, Ivata. She bowed her head deeply, "My deepest apologies for ruining this delicious meal you prepared for me. I will have you and the other cooks compensated." Before she could respond, she turned away, going after the retreating noblewoman. Something pulled at her heart
***
It took her a few minutes to catch up. A trio of her guards followed behind. Spying the young woman making her way away from the dining hall, Dales called out, “Tribune! Wait.” 

The other girl looked behind her shoulder and dropped her pace to a small advance, like a turtle's run. Dales went beside her, motioning to her guards to stay behind them. “Your brothers words were cruel, but surely drawing a blade in front of your niece-”

“He’s an idiot.” She said sharply, “His mother was a whore, while mine was a literal whore, so we weren’t saying anything dishonest.” She gave the Empress an emotionless glare. “I have no issue listening to his commands as a superior officer, but as my brother, he’s not the Lord till father dies.”

Nine, she’s fucking blunt. 

A flash of pain erupted on her face, as she muttered, quickening her pace. Dales matched it, lifting her hands up on a gesture of peace, “You may not believe me when I say this, but I can empathize with you, I had a...complicated relationship with my own siblings-”

“You had them killed.” She said very  plainly. 

“I-”

“You had them killed.” She gave the Empress a serene gaze. 

“You just threw a knife at your brother!”

“I was aiming for his shoulder.” The Tribune muttered, “I knew he could block it, my knife arm isn’t nearly as good-” She stopped herself, before saying, “Though it’s no outsiders business, I wasn’t trying to kill him. Or even maim him. He’s an idiot, but I love him, as hard as that is to believe. And I know he loves me beneath that bile he was spewing. Things are difficult between us, I question-”

She paused,  suddenly looking more conscious. Dales motioned with her hands, “Please, say what you will, be honest.”

She looked long and hard at the ceiling, with a conflicted look, her tanned skin marred by the emotions running across her face, “As his second, I questioned him, and his desire to suck up to a traitor, eating, shitting, and sleeping in our halls-”  

“Heresy.” The two girls suddenly stopped in their tracks, the Tribune eye trailing downward to her throat, which was now being applied with pressure. A great spear was pointing at the younger, ebony haired girl.  Sweat poured on her face, but she didn’t look afraid, all she did was glare at the Spear’s holder. 

A masked figure wearing the armor of a Redguard Cataphract. His heavy chainmall clinked. Using one hand, he pointed his spear, fully intent on skewering the young woman's throat , while he used the other hand, holding a slanted knife to a Rubrum guard’s throat on patrol in the same hall, who had drawn his weapon at the sight of the threat against the Tribune. “Heresy.” He whispered once more, coiled like a venomous snake read to strike.

I’ve...i’ve never heard him speak before... “Nhakir!” Dales shouted, stepping in front of the girl to shield her from her own bodyguard.  She placed a firm hand on the venom tipped spear “Lower your spear..” 

He was seriously tempted to disobey her and plunge the spear into the horrible girl’s throat. Dales pleaded, whispering, “I am no tyrant. I don’t care what people think of me, as long as they see reason. Please,...lower your spear.”  Her hand went from his spear to his shoulder. 

With a low growl, the former-cataphract, withdrew his weapons in a single instant. He bowed his head and went back to his position with the other guards. As soon as he withdrew, the Tribune continued forward  Dales went forward, giving her guards a nasty glare as if to say, “Wait here.” She was trying to be diplomatic, as much as she wanted to scream back at being called something so horrible, she held her anger on the inside. Just like Gracchus and everyone good in her miserable life had taught her.  She caught up with the angry girl, who had just opened a door, and had taken off those tight gloves of hers. “I deeply apologize for my guards behavior, I will discipline him-”

“Why are you here, Empress?” The black haired ranger turned to her the golden haired Empress, with a look of calm serenity that was consumed by an expression of pure hate, “Sutch hate you.” Dales became cold. Her teeth gritted, her face became ugly with anger, and she wanted to wrap her hands around the Empress’s throat. “ It's people hate you.  My brother hates you. My father hates you. My Niece hates you. I hate you." The chill grew. " I was born and raised to be a soldier of Sutch. I do not hide my tongue behind false politeness,  unlike my brother, who was forced into this role as a necessity, no matter what he says. You want me to be honest? This is me being honest. I think you should go back to that stink hole you call a city, and leave us to rot in our self-pity. I don’t give a shit if your father beat you. Or those wolves in the nobility mocked you because you slither like a slug. Or that your "sorry". You and your family collaborated with the serpents that tore apart, defiled, and cast OUR city into this broken ruin! Your people suffered in starvation, while you grew fat devouring  the morsels they threw at you! Oh Miss Inquisitor!” Her face contorted with malice, and pure loathing, her hands clenched as the years she was taught to hate the Motierre  family came to its head.  Valeria cruelly smiled at the pale faced Empress, who looked frozen in place at the mention of that she had wiped from her memory. “You took that pretty little seal those pointed hooded bastards gave you, and allowed them to torture and burn hundreds of your own people! If only the Stormcloaks flayed you when they had their hands around your pretty neck, you disgusting parasite.” She was no longer thinking, her mind had been taken over by a red rage, as she vented the decades of resentment. “You can say your sorry, but it doesn't matter; you are a traitor! A TRAITOR! DO YOU HEAR ME?! You walk in these halls, acting like you belong, acting like you're owed something! Acting like you are of Sutch!” Dales remained stone-faced. These are all things she had told herself. “I’m so glad my cousin died when she did, she’d kill herself in grief if she saw what thing her only daughter had become- 

*SLAP*

Dales hand connected into the other girl's face, with enough force to throw her to the ground. The slap threw the Tribune into the floor. Dales began to breath heavily, huffing and puffing as she was going for the other girls throat, but she had enough control to stop herself.  She was drenched in sweat, all formulating in a single instant. Her labored breathing calmed. A single tear went down the Empress face. 

The other girl coughed up a mouthful of blood, as she wiped the red substance from her face, and she got up. “Excuse me, Your Majesty” She said sardonically. She opened the heavy oak door, making her way inside-

“Don’t fucking turn your back on me! I’m not finished with you-” Dales angrily grabbed Valeria’s hand. Before the other girl could scream in protest, it was too late. The girl stopped dead in tracks. As if vertigo suddenly had assailed her. Her breath was stolen, as she turned around to face the Empress. Her face went blank, and she became as quiet and pale as the grave. 

An iron poker in the back.

So much crying.

A dagger in her stomach. 

A knife she cut across her own skin, 

A warm kiss with female, cherry lips.

The warmth of an old man holding her as she sobbed. 

Dragon fire surrounding her.

Her guts exploding in her stomach as she was thrown into a  mountains

A thousand images played in her mind, reflecting into her eyes. A thousand sensations, of pleasure, warmth, pain, being inflicted onto her.  

She trembled, her mind becoming devoid of thought. The Empress hand only held hers for but a second, but the Tribune had experienced a lifetime of agony in that second. 

“I-” 

The Tribune pushed herself away from the Empress like she had leprosy, slamming the wooden door shut behind her.

Calm yourself Dales. Calm yourself...calm yourself. Do not taste your father's pride. Do not embrace Lorgar's rage. Be...be better.

When she banished her anger, all she had were the other negative emotions brewing within her.

Dales was too stunned to properly respond. She slumped to her feet, placing her hands to her face. She wanted to cry again, just like last night. But she held the tears in. Remembering her subjects were just yonder. There’s nothing for me here. She’s right, why am I here? She wanted to leave and leave now. But that would be admitting that everything Valeria had said about her was true. Or maybe it wasn’t? She was so confused. 

“Your Majesty.” A warm voice brought her from her contemplation. It was Cassia and her guards, the older woman gave her a rare smile, as she offered her, her hand. The Empress let the retired Tribune help her up. She whispered, “You do well to compose yourself.” 

The Empress looked downcast in her melancholy, but she prevented the tears from flowing. She shoved those emotions back into a box, deep inside her “How is Lady Viatrix?” 

The older woman nodded her head, “Well, a little shaken up. It’s hard to believe, but she told me she’d never see her father and her aunt act like that before. Poor thing.” 

Dales gave her a grin, she back to her old self, at least outwardly, “I saw how you were looking at her when she was slurping down congee; I've never seen more scorn.”

“If that was my daughter, i’d give her a smack on the back of her head. If it was one of my soldiers, I'd use my vine stick.” She looked saddened, “Apparently the city’s rationing,” 

“Rationing?” The Empress gave the woman a confused look, “What on earth for?”

Cassia shrugged. “I have no idea. I don't think the girl was starving, but she certainly was going to bed on an empty stomach for awhile. Imagine if you saw all that food suddenly infront of you.”

“And your beloved aunt is chowing down like a pig.” She groaned, “This situation is fucked.”

“More fucked than it was?” Cassia grinned. She turned around to the trio of Imperial soldiers. “Albero was telling me she overheard what that.” She paused, “skank was telling you. These three had to restrain themselves with charging forward and carving our host into pieces. It was quite the sight, Albero and Vladir holding Nhakir back, while they themselves had to restrain each other. ”

“Cassia!” She glanced at the three bodyguards infront of her. She gave them a dirty look, causing all but Nhair to scratch the back of their heads in shame. It switched to a mischievous grin, “Your loyalty is appreciated, but leave the bitch slapping to me.” She whispered the last part. The other soldiers returned the grin, but were frowning as the Empress did. “This was one of the worst lunches of my life.” She let out a deep breath. “I could high tail it out of here, but that’d mean this trip was for nothing”. She talked to herself in a quiet voice. “Dales...what are going to do…” She began to rub her temple. 

Cassia was glancing at the locked door, the one in which the Tribune had slammed shut just infront of the Empress. “Is this why you don’t like Tomboys?”

“This is why I don’t like Tomboys.” The Empress muttered, I need to get fucking laid. 

She glanced at the door; her heart throbbed, That girl is almost as dead as I was. 

***
Dales was just heading to her room to drink herself to sleep. She had decided she would stay, at least until the Count was healthy enough to hear her proposal. Apparently, the Captain had felt so guilty about the whole situation he pleaded to be granted an audience in which he could go onto his knees and beg for him, and his sisters forgiveness. Dales had sent the messenger away, telling him to tell his lord there was no need to apologize to her, and she would see him in the evening anyway, but secretly Dales just didn’t want to see another Domitus. She’d actually never gotten drunk in the early afternoon before, and wanted a new experience. She made her way to the royal guest chamber; but was stopped by a voice. 

“Your Majesty.”

She turned around, expecting to see another sycophant...but was pleasantly surprised.

It was the maid who had winked at her earlier. 

She was Bosmer. A very pretty Bosmer. She had seen her earlier, but it was only now the Empress knew just how pretty. Her eyes were jet black, like a never ending abyss. She had heard that their beady, almost-alien eyes unnerved alot of people, but the Empress had found them to be beautiful, in their own creepy way. She had chestnut brown hair, a healthy helping of freckles, and bronze skin. Like most of her kind, she was short, but again, Dales didn’t mind. Her bosom was big enough. She wore the clothing of a servant, with the same timid posture, but her voice was friendly and warm. “Your Majesty.” She said again.

She followed it with another wink, and the placing of her hand to her breasts

“Greetings, my lady.” Terrible. I’m a spiteful, lustful creature. Dales, despite her reputation as a monstrous leech, had rules. Mainly, she tried once, if the person was uncomfortable, or rejected her, back off.  This girl over here, had already engaged it.

“You look cold, my lady.  Do you want to share my bed and warm your stomach with some brandy?” I’m such a fucking idiot! Why am I being so straight forward!” This isn’t how this stuff worked. This was straight out of a shitty romance-no, a smut novel! Or if you paid some whore to do it for you. Think Dales, when ever has some sexy elf servant offered you sex! She’s going to stab you with a knife!” 

“As long, as that brandy...comes from your mouth.” She said shyly. 

The two guards around the Empress looked at each other as if their brains had fried. Oh shit. Here we go again. They thought, 

At this point, Dales didn’t care if it was an assassin. She grabbed her and was prepared to go inside… when a harsh, authoritarian voice called from behind. It was a certain grey-haired quartermaster. She gave her a look of annoyance, as she sternly crossed her arms. She glanced around to see if it was anyone but the Empress, her, and her bodyguards. To her relief no one else was in this part of the fortress. 

“You told me when you started this trip; no shenanigans with pretty girls. You're insulting our hosts!” 

Dales gently let her inside her quarters, glancing nervously around. “Come on Cassia, they won't know!” She pleaded, sweat drenching her temple, “The last few days have been some of the shittest in my life. I’m losing it!” 

Cassia groaned, crossing her arms “Your being over-dramatic.” 

The Empress pleaded, “Come on she offered to feed me brandy with her mouth!” 

Cassia became silent, as she glanced in all directions. Finally, she said resolutely, “Alright fine, make it quick.” She took up position infront of the door, “I’ll cover you. The walls are soundproof?” She was very disappointed, however. 

“Of course. “ Dales nodded her head. Cassia responded with a nod of her own. “If she draws a blade on you, just dispel the charm and holler.” Dales started to salivate, opening the door. Some things never changed. “You and me in a beautiful moon-lite garden, rolled up in those silk sheets. I’m staying here a bit, so let me know if you'll be around-” 

“Your Royal Imperial Majesty.” 

The Bosmer, rather than ripping off her clothes and waiting for the Empress to ravish her...was kneeling. A strange position, with an outstretched hand, gripping a circular object. A piece of ebony, with an Eye carved into it. 

The Everseeing Eye of the Penitus Oculatus

Dales swallowed, a rush of annoyance assailing her temple. She groaned, If something is too good to be true, then it aint fucking true. Her body deflated, and before she let it get to her, she inhaled a deep breath and exhaled, banishing the miasma. Rather than the horny Gremlin she was morphing into, she had become the Empress of Tamriel, once more. She returned the salute, “Present yourself.”

She got up, her timid posture changing to that of a soldier, and her mannerisms shifted. She gave the Empress a strict, but respectful glare. She spoke “Junior-Inspector, Alira Swiftblade; at your service, Rex.” She gave another nod of her head...before she gave the Empress a sly smile. “I am truly sorry I lead you on, Your Majesty. I knew about your particular...taste in fine women, and I simply thought approaching you this way would be the safest way to protect your cover. Though…”

Dales motioned for her to speak, “As lame as your come onto was, I think you are a very pretty and sweet girl. If it was a different situation, soft silk sheets with you in a garden would be acceptable!” 

Dales couldn’t help but blush, “Trying to be sweet on me, after what you tried to pull? You're a sly one.” She gave her a grin, “Very pretty but sly. I need to be careful around you.” 

“Is that so?” Her flirty demeanour melted in a single instance, as she barked, “Back to business, under the orders of my superior I am to deliver our first report to you.  Senior-Inspector Uzgakh sends you greetings.”

Dales was...shocked. “You...you have something to report this soon?” 

“The Eye is everseeing. No one can hide knowledge from our Empress! We work fast, and we work hard!” She pumped her chest. 

The Empress was amused by the display, “Not used to the whole, military-agent thing are you Junior-Inspector…”

The Wood Elf grinned, “I kinda deserve that.” 

“You do.” She paused, “Care to explain how you’ve been able to blend in with the locals as a servant, in the fort itself?”

“I cannot. Better you don’t know, for your protection, and the protection of my cover.” She bowed her head in sorrow, “My apologies. Your Majesty. 

“But enough foreplay, what news do you bring?” 

*** 
“-one thousand strong.”

That’s not too bad. The Agent had just finished explaining to Empress the size of Sutch’s garrison. A thousand strong, a few hundred which were stationed in outlining villages, quarries, and logging camps. But before the Empress could respond, Agent Swiftblade spoke up, “Don’t let the on paper number fool you, it’s just like the city design itself, it’s a deception. If you hadn’t noticed most of the guards are veterans from the Legion. As in the ones on duty. There’s also scores and scores of retired Imperial soldiers that make this city their home, Sutch isn’t called  the Heartland of the Legion for no reason. If the city is under siege, he can produce an additional five thousand; five thousand  legion-trained militiamen, armed and equipped for a fight  it’s a surprise reserve force. More or less, if the City is under attack, they can muster six thousand soldiers, all of a generally decent-to-high quality. And those are the only ones registered in the reserve.” 

Dales swore, “That’s practically a Legion.”

“Indeed.” She stopped, before bowing her head. 

Dales paused, rubbing her chin. “This is valuable information; I'm further impressed by the Eyes skill. However, while very useful knowledge, perhaps it would have been better to wait a bit and gather more, deliver a more complete report instead of it bursts?” 

The special agent shook her head, “Your majesty. You know yourself the utter lack of records we could find about Sutch in the Imperial City.” Dales nodded her head, “The Senior Inspector thought it would be prudent to provide you with intelligence as soon as we gathered a sizable amount, fill in your gaps as soon as possible.”

“A wise decision, in which I commend him for. 

“That’s not the worst of it.” 

Dales frowned, her features hardening. The Wood Elf leaned it, and began to whisper.

***
“That’s...circumstantial, it doesn't have to mean what your implying.” Dales features grew pale, thinking the exact opposite of what her words implied. She wanted to think the best of people, but the display earlier increased her growing doubts. 

“We know it is, we are rushing to gather more intelligence on the matter. But the Inspector believed you’d want to hear it as soon as possible.” She bowed her head apologetically, “Forgive us if we overstepped our bounds.” 

“Nonsense.” Dales waved her hand, “You did very well to bring this to me. I have one more question, if you don’t mind.”

“I will answer it to the best of my ability.” The Wood Elf said resoundingly.  

“Besides Fort Sutch, what are the city's most important buildings?”

*** 
“I’ve decided to go on a long walk through the market district; I will stop by the Inn, Blacksmith, Temple of Arkay, and the Fighters Guild, at your recommendation.” She was surprised at first by the fact they actually had a chapterhouse here, a big one apparently, but this place would have no shortage of tasks well-suited for a sellsword. The Empress gave the Wood Elf agent a bow of her head, “Thank you so much for bringing all this to me. I will make sure you and your fellows receive commendations for such exemplary, quick work. If you’ll excuse me then” The Empress turned to leave, but the Wood Elf stopped her with a quick grin and a call out, "Have a good day Your Majesty!" 

Dales gave her a sly grin, "You too, Agent."
*** 
Cassia eyebrows raised as the Elf quickly left the room. She giggled, give a wry grin to the retired Legion-soldier. "Tribune." She muttered seductively. 

Cassia gave her an angry glare; "I'm watching you, criminal scum." She muttered, bleak and venomous. The Mer Servant gave her another grin, before quickly disappearing from view. 

Spectres reeked a certain way, she knew for a fact. She wouldn't bring up that she knew to the Empress, but that quickie was most likely a delivery of information. They acted on the authority of the Crown, but what they did with it made them more less criminals in her eyes. Pariahs to the honorable Legion.

Muttering a curse about the Eye, Cassia, without knocking entered into the Empress room. She was oddly clothed for an apparent quick session of sex. She was also grinning from ears to mouth. She also looked relaxed, the first time in days. "Was it satisfactory, Your Majesty?" She posed sardonically. Did...did they even doing anything.

"She fed me brandy with her mouth." Dales slapped herself into the face, as was restored from that state of euphoria back to her usual self. "Are your hormones satisfied? 

The Empress didn’t answer her question as she quickly got dressed,  removing her fancy dining dress, getting into a set of simple garments; leather adorned around a white blouse, a pair of grey pants, a simple purple travelling cloak! “Why are you rushing? Have somewhere to be?”

She finally spoke up, “It does no good to be stuck in this room all day, drinking away my sorrows. I need to be on the ground, checking things for myself.” 

“Checking what?” Cassia was secretly overjoyed to see such productivity from the Empress, but was still confused, “Things.” The Empress groaned, 

“I’ll explain on the way. Prepare a cloaked bodyguard unit.” 

***
The Empress glanced up to see the flags of both Sutch and the Empire blowing from the heavy wind; like a gail had manifested in Sutch at her arrival blowing her own pale-blonde hair around. She looked to her companions; Tiberius, Cassia, and Audormo were beside her, dressed in similar garb; well-to do, but still common clothing, leather jerkins, and old-looking travelling cloaks. They, of course, carried weapons on their belts, but practically everyone did around these parts, they wouldn’t draw too much attention. Just before leaving the Fortress gates, Alira’s voice played in her head, causing an unbelievable foul sense of dread to befall the Empress; “The Red Guard, their spellblades, all of them!  They fight in the dark of the woods. Not only do they train their eyes to see within shadow, they all know how to augment their vision with Night’s Eye!” 

*** 
“Is there anyone sane in this fucking city?!?  The Empress seethed. They had arrived at the Fighter’s Guild Chapter House. The establishment, from the outside at least, wasn’t that unusual. It was a big building, made from fortified marble  and unlike the rest of the ruined city, it was in pretty good condition. 

What isn't normal was the sign in front of said chapter house.

It...it was a blue stick figure, holding a sword to a horribly drawn troll. Or at least what they thought was a troll Written in common were the words, “WE FIGHT FOR YOU! CONTRACTS AND NEW RECRUITS ALWAYS WELCOME!” 

“It’s a pretty ugly image.” Cassia muttered in agreement, 

“I’ve seen worse.” 

“Shut up Tiberius.” The group of Imperials muttered at the same time. 

You know what? I’m starting to think despite what Lady Valeria screamed this city perfectly suits me! Everyone here is fucking insane!

“I mean, it was probably some guildsmen who child drew it, All I'm saying is I've seen worst images!” 

“It’s one of the ugliest signs i’ve seen!’

“Everyone's a critic for art it seems!” Tiberius muttered underneath his breath. 

As horrible as the image was, and how out of place it seemed for a gathering of elite mercenaries, the Empress pushed on. She made her way to the door of the Fighter’s Guild and dramatically opened it. 

***

Manning the front desk of the establishment was a young, but weary Nord. She wasn’t a fighter like the rest of them, just someone who handled the numbers. 

“Excuse me.” A kind sounding girl called from behind the desk. Writing in a thick tome of numbers she didn’t even glance up, as she said, “Welcome to the Fighters Guild. Please write your offered contract details there. A representative, usually an Officer, will be with you in a couple of hours” She pointed to a smaller desk beside the larger front reception. On it was a stack of papyrus paper, and an ink well. “Please be as descriptive as possible. We didn’t accept extreme interpretive dancing lessons anymore, so please don’t ask.” 

She had expected the group to shuffle away to the other table, but they stood there. I’m going to be late with these bookings again.  The woman looked up, only to see a ringed being shoved into her face. A ruby ring depicting the Royal Sigil, she looked up to see the girl who the kind voiced belonged to. A head of white-blonde hair, and icy eyes. 

“I wish to see the Chaptermaster. The Empress of Tamriel seeks an audience with them. Please” She gave the Nord a kindly smile. 

***
They were quickly ushered into the inner chambers of the guild. Warriors of all types glanced at the group nervously; some wearing sets of fur armor carrying bows, some in steel mail, others in full plate armor, hefting great mauls. The ones who recognised the short blonde haired woman fell to their knees, bowing their heads in deep respect. It seemed most of the sellswords here weren’t local. And there was seemingly a staggering number of them. 

The four Imperials walked in the halls, which ended in a small circular chamber. A small group of people awaited them. They all stood out, but there was individual among them the Empress was immediately drawn too. 

A Dark Elf warrior. 

His armor was surprisingly simple, it’s material...iron? Fine caste, studded with steel, but still mainly iron. It was a simple iron cuirass, seemingly finely made, with studs of steel adorned. He wore a single pauldron on his left side that was studded with square spikes. However it held paintings of many colors, stripes of purple, adorned with black drawing; in the style of the Ashlanders of Morrowind. The Dark Elf had a similar styled tattoo painted across his face, overcast with white war paint done in the pattern of a skull. The man had his black, albeit greying, hair done in a low hanging mohawk, almost like the helmets she had heard the gold faced Ordinators of Vivec City to wear, albeit much smaller. A bushy, but wellkept gray beard at on his, chin, styled long, but refined. His face was stone-cold, like that of a Legion-soldier, and literally covered in scars, so many scars it was like most of his face was scarred tissue.He wore no gauntlets, revealing similar tribal tattoos, all across his thick, veiny muscular arms. Underneath his arms, he carried what seemed to be a peculiar helmet; it was carved from a rather insidious skull  of a snarling forgotten beast, the clear, red bonage been polished to a mirror-like sheen and then forged into a piece of protective headwear. 

On his side he held a simple steel mace; like his armor, well-made but surprisingly spartan, but on his back was one of the strangest, yet most beautiful weapons she had ever gazed upon. [[ https://cdna.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/010/779/196/large/dane-brennand-showcase-4.jpg?1526197148 A great sword, yet it was akin to an Eastern styled-blade, similar to a Dai-Katana, but much wider and larger, the blade was colossal, it’s cast ebony folded into a thousand bits in it’s forging that gave it’s blade such sharpness, it looked like it could cut into the void itself, as well as it’s surface being a dark mirror, in which the abyss itself cast itself upon. Its  circular handguard was adorned with gold and bronze, but was otherwise bare, with no other decedent embellishments.]] The sword as a whole was a little bit bigger than Lorgar’s Greatsword!  How can that thing be wielded? 

At the sight of the Empress, him and his companions looked at each other with unease, before, without question, they fell onto their knees. His blazing red eyes, while filled with fire, were also respectfully downcast. Much of his stare was stern, but you could see as much nobility on his face. 

The Dunmer voice wasn’t a rasp like mainlanders, but it was nevertheless deep, and authoritarian, like the bass of a drum, “Modryn. Modryn Oreyn. Champion of the Fighter’s Guild. At Your Service, Your Royal Highness." He grinned, "And of course, expert painter." 

[The Good Doctor]

Kyne's Watch

"My name is Thomas Maric, and I need to speak with Baldur Red-Snow about my son."

The girl he spoke to was fair-skinned for an Imperial, or perhaps just short for a Nord. She faced him bravely, but her eyes and quick breathing betrayed her nervous confusion. Even so, her voice was steady. "He'll be asleep... How did you get here?"

"He will wake for me." Maric replied, ignoring the second question. He nodded at the enchanted blade in her hand. "You put that away. I'm not an enemy."

"How am I to know that? Who's your son?"

"His name is Daric."

Her eyes widened, her familiarity obvious. "Daric! You mean Baldur's son?"

"Yes. Do you know him?"

She shook her head. "No. He went missing months ago..."

The tension in Maric's muscles grew tighter. Of course he had known this already, but having it confirmed here in Skyrim killed off that tiny sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, Roland had been wrong, that Daric had just gotten hurt or lost but turned up again since the Prince's departure.

"We never met," the girl continued. She lowered her dagger and looked at him with more sympathetic eyes. "But this house belonged to him."

Sir Maric looked around. It was a small building, no more than a peasant's hovel by High Rock standards. Had his son come home with him, his bedchamber alone would have been larger than the entire structure. In addition to being small, it was nearly empty as well, with just a bed and a few pieces of basic furniture. The only items of note were a few dusty tomes and a wooden practice sword with faint red stains on the blade. Upon seeing the latter, Maric's thoughts went back to the Reach, to the first time he had fought side-by-side with his son. How proud he had been!

"I'm here to find him," he said, turning back to the girl. "And if he's alive, I will save him. If you know where Baldur is, then please, take me to him."

She glared at him for a few moments, clearly curious and still a little skeptical. But then she jerked her head to the doorway. "Come on, then."

The girl opened the door, and a cold wind flecked with snow blew through, tossing around the papers that lay scattered on the floor. Even beneath his armor and wools, Maric shivered. Northern Skyrim seemed even colder than he remembered. He followed her outside, into the streets of a town that was barely recognizable from the little village it had been during his last visit. Houses stood tall in every direction, and even in the dead of night, there were a few locals out and about. Every Nord that they passed looked at him funny, but nobody seemed intent on disturbing the peaceful night by speaking.

It was his young guide who broke the silence as they walked. "You never answered how you got here. I was just cleaning up when you appeared right in front of me."

"I had a recall scroll. Prince Roland must have placed the mark in my son's house." The girl had no answer for that. In fact, she suddenly seemed disinterested in speaking at all, but Maric had questions of his own. "Why were you in there?"

"Like I said, I was cleaning."

The lie was obvious, though she told it well, with confidence and not a hint of guilt. His first thought was that she might have been a thief, looking to steal from Daric's home while it sat vacant. But if that were the case, she would have fled the moment he appeared, not confronted him and then agreed to go to the king. "What's your name, girl?"

"Matilda."

This time, he couldn't tell if she was lying or not. "And you don't know my son, but you know Baldur. How?"

"He's my father's brother."

Sir Maric raised his brow, but said nothing. Hopefully, everything would soon make sense, and he would know enough to be on his way.

They continued through the town a little further. As they walked, Maric started to notice more dwellings that had been there during his last visit, and soon the familiar longhouse of the now royal clan Red-Snow was in sight. As they approached, a pair of big armored Nords emerged from nearby shadows to meet them. Grim Ones, Maric recalled. Baldur's elite.

"Hold there," one of them said. He was taller than his companion, and although his left hand rested lazily on the pommel of a longsword, Maric knew it could be drawn and ready in an instant. The warrior continued, "It's late. If you've got business, come back in the morning."

"This cannot wait," Maric responded impatiently. "I'm here about my son, Daric."

"Who?" The Grim One looked annoyed, but his companion's eyes flashed with recognition.

"You were with that High Rock lot! I knew I recognized the armor! What's this about young Daric, though? He was Baldur's lad. I thought Brund did him in."

"He is my son," Maric asserted. It took everything in him not to force his way past them and barge through the door on his own. "Wake your king, or I will wake him myself."

"Listen," the taller one said. "Baldur spent his evening doin' battle with a Sea Devil. He ain't-"

"Baldur!" Sir Maric cupped his hands and bellowed. "BALDUR!"

The Grim One scowled. "Knock it off-"

"BALDUR RED-SNOW!" Maric shouted again. And then to his surprise, Matilda joined in.

"BALDUR! It's important!"

A few people were stepping out of their homes nearby, but Maric ignored them. His eyes were trained on the door ahead and the Grim Ones who blocked his way to it. The tall one scowled, but the shorter just rolled his eyes, put a hand on his companion's shoulder, and said, "Let's just take him to the king, before his wife stirs. We can warn him about our guests before they arrive. Send word, I'll lead them to the fort. Go on, get moving!"

"Fine." The Grim One didn't look happy, but clearly wasn't in the mood to argue either. He glanced around at the handful of locals who had peeped out their doors and windows, and shook his head, saying, "It's nothing, people! Go back to your beds." Then he turned and started for the fort at a jog.

After he left, Maric looked at the one who remained, "Why didn't you just say he wasn't home?"

"Well I would've. Kyne knows I did not expect you to start hollarin' into the night." The Nord shrugged. "Ain't a big deal. Come on."

Maric didn't need to be told twice. He started walking in the direction the other Grim One had gone, forcing Matilda and the remaining Nord to hurry after him. "So you're Daric's pa," said the Nord. "I'm guessing you plan on looking for him."

"I plan to find him."

"Of course. Well, you ought to know that Baldur's had some of his best searchin' all over Skyrim for months now. Even recently brought in some dodgy clever men."

"Clever men?"

"Sorcerers, knight. Magic folk. And not your common temple healers, neither. On my axe, one of them hails from the frozen woods of Atmora herself. If the lad can be found, rest assured he will be."

Maric did not answer. It was good to know that Baldur was doing everything he could already, but it was equal parts unsettling that the Nords had not yet succeeded despite this. I will, he told himself. I must.

Walls and basic towers had been erected at the fringes of town, but Northwatch Keep stood tall outside them. At so late an hour, there were more soldiers to be seen going to-and-fro within its walls than there had been civilians in the streets without. Nobody questioned them, though; the Grim One leading the way clearly had more authority than the average guard. He took them inside the big stone keep, and then down several hallways and torchlit flights of stairs, into the extensive underground that these old Nordic fortresses were known for. There were more doors and side passages than Maric cared to count, but eventually they came upon one that the tall Grim One from earlier stood outside. "He's in the dungeon," the Nord said with a gesture down the hall. "Third level."

The one leading them nodded, and they proceeded down yet another corridor, this one notably darker than the others. The dungeon's first two levels had torches, but they were spaced out and the orange light was only just bright enough to make out the ragged prisoners whose sunken eyes followed them as they passed. The third level, however, had only two torches. One was at the entrance, and another burned faintly at the far end of the chamber. Beyond those two glows, this entire section of the fort was blacker than Sheor's heart.

The Grim One withdrew an unlit torch from a barrel by the door and dipped its head into the one burning beside them. Then he handed it to Maric and pointed to the distant torch. "He'll be down there." Then, looking at Matilda, he said, "Don't you go talking to any of the prisoners down here. Understood?"

The girl nodded, and she and Maric made their way into the darkness. The dungeon smelled of feces and death, and although the cells were shrouded in darkness, Maric knew they weren't all empty. Even the softest whimpers and the slightest shifting of bodies were audible in the silence imposed by the chamber's thick walls. From behind one set of bars, a prisoner made a hacking sound, and then a glob of spit came flying out only to land a few feet in front of them. The girl kept quiet, but Maric did not get the impression that she was overly surprised or bothered by the conditions down here.

Together, they approached the second torchlight, and nearing it they found the High King himself standing solemnly in the half-darkness at the edge of its glow. He had watched them approach, but it seemed like his attention was also on the cell beside him. Its occupant was as hidden in shadow as the rest, but as they came closer, it let out a snarl like that of a beast.

Now that they were near, they could make out at least partially what contributed to the smell. In fact, the King didn't even try concealing what was likely the rancid remains of a fresh cadaver. The fleshflies buzzing around as though mimicking the swishing of the small bottle in the Nord's hands only further confirmed it. 

"What trick is this?" he said, stepping towards Maric after placing whatever concoction he held in his hands on the table. His eyes searched Maric's... Daric's sharp features stood out as though to taunt him, marred by age as they were. "How are you here? Did the elf bring you?"

"No," the knight answered. "I came on my own. When I learned what happened..." He frowned. "What did happen, Baldur? The girl tells me that Daric has disappeared. Others say that he was killed by Brund. I need to know the truth. Is my son alive?"

"More than likely," he said, turning from him and back to the corpse. He grabbed the concoction once more, pouring its contents down the throat of the dead Breton's... no, Reachman's throat. The markings on the woman's body were unmistakable.

"More than likely," Maric repeated. It was better than 'I don't know', but not by much. "Would you care to elaborate on that?"

”If Brund killed the son of Baldur Red-Snow, he’d have dragged his body to the moot to inflame me. He didn’t. Granted, he didn’t drag my elven friend with him either, but I did find his body. Daric was nowhere to be found.” As he spoke, whatever was in the cage behind him in the shadows began to stir again, thrashing at its chains before slamming itself into the door, again and again. It’s breath was like a draft over the battlefield, carrying the stench of hundreds of dead and decayed throughout the stale damp stone encompassment they stood in.

“I sought the help of experts in my ranks,” he continued. “Men of the North who stalk the woods. I could sense the presence of elves in the forest Daric was last seen in near Ivarstead, but they could smell them. They followed the trail, and for a time we heard nothing from them. Until now.” He gestured behind him. Looking at Matilda for the first time since they entered, he said, “You shouldn’t be here for this, girl. Why are you here?”

"I couldn't sleep," she said mordantly. "What's going on, Baldur? Who is that?" 

He looked down. “Food. Let’s get this over with. Maric, you stay here. Mila, fetch the guards, and while you’re out, there’s a Dunmer mage in the tavern. Go there and tell him to prepare his spell for me."

'Mila' hurried off. While they waited for the guards, Maric eyed the dead woman of the Reach, then the cell behind her. "This will help us find out what happened to Daric?"

"What, you feel sympathy for the savage? Don't, she was a spy. She'd have likely slit my throat, or Daric's were he here and had she known who he was. Instead, she came for one of my men, a decoy. To them, we Nords all look the same. At least, that's what she said before I took her life." Baldur dragged the woman in question right before the cage where the torchlight could focus on her. "That thing in the cage, its name is Falgrum. That thing has an illusion spell keeping it transformed, a powerful one. More like a curse than a spell, really. It could be Reachmen, but that far into Skyrim, near Ivarstead? I doubt it. Plus, we found him wounded and blood raged in our forest during the trials not too long after a great light appeared in the night sky near Windhelm. A shooting star. Except we'd seen such light before, and it was far brighter than any star. And before that, a good deal of my men were found slaughtered near where Daric wound up missing. The wounds were consistent with the Justiciar's handiwork." 

The bad feeling that had been in the pit of Maric's stomach all night grew even worse. He cared nothing for the savage, and would have gladly slain a hundred like her before breakfast if it helped. Brund too, were it possible. But if the Dominion were involved in this, then the task of finding Daric just became a lot more difficult.

By the time Baldur had finished explaining, two guards' footsteps were coming up behind them. The same Grim Ones from earlier. "The girl said you sent for us," said one. 

Baldur nodded. "Aye, time to wake up our brother from his battle sleep. Open the cage. Maric... stand back. I need you alive. Or at least, I need your blood, and don't wish to try and decipher which of it is yours on the stone floor."

Maric took a few steps back and put on his helmet. Nearly everything Baldur said invited more questions than it answered, but that would have to wait. Hopefully whatever came next would provide some of those answers. He steeled himself, ready to draw his blade at the first sign that this strange plan might go awry.

The ceremony was over, as Baldur cried, "Do it!" With a voice loud enough to match the beast's. Not to be outdone, the beast's roar reverberated through the room, stunning the men near the cage door as soon as they jingled the keys. "Falgrum" was Hircine incarnate, and was too tall, too large to even stand fully in the confines of the underground dungeon, and Maric could see him in all his pale splendor. His fur was as white as the snow that blanketed this place, with some traces of red around his maw. Whether from the blood of men, or the fur itself, he could not ascertain with the torchlight of the room alone.

To his credit, Maric did not seem shaken by the thing before them, as noted by the King. Even as it ripped the door off its hinges now that it was loose, even as it charged for them and only took pause when fire and heat erupted from Baldur's throat, lighting the whole room and charring the corpse before them. 

The Werebear,... for that is assuredly what the beast before them was, took great interest in the corpse once burnt, and if not for that, one could only guess whether or not the beast would've charged them, fire or not. The smell of it was unbearable even for them, so for this creature, it was practically forced to go for the fresh grilled offering, being both easier prey and better smelling to boot. It didn't take long for it to begin its feast; the snapping of sinew and the smacking of its mouth, saliva dripping on the floor... it was enjoying its snack. But if the men expected it to be full from this mere morsel, they quickly grew despondent, as its haunting blue eyes like that of a draugr fixed on them, Maric specifically. The knight drew his sword.

It sniffed and pawed at its nose, licking its lips and grunting in recognition. Of what, only it could ordain, but this was short lived indeed, as those sniffs soon turned to snorts and growls from deep within. It curled in on itself, almost in fetal position, then lay on its back as it growled and moaned, and most disturbingly, screamed like that of a man, not a beast at all.

In mere seconds, flesh exploded, coating the room in fur and blood and meat... among all this chaos, the prisoners once somber and silent howled in fear and anguish, rattling their cages in futility for escape of whatever was going on just out of their view.

"It's done," said Baldur. "Falgrum is saved. He will need time to recover. The potion I gave him is an alchemical mixture meant to lure werebeasts and also turn the iron in their blood to silver. He'll be in great pain, but he will be fine. Lesser men would be driven mad by such pain, but Falgrum is strong. Then, he will tell us what he knows."

Sir Maric slid his sword back into its sheath. One might have thought that he'd used it from all the gore the werebeast had left behind, and one might have thought that Falgrum had been the victim, for the Nord now lay shivering violently on the floor, coated in blood. Maric was eager to find out what the man had learned, but in the meantime there was still plenty that Baldur had not told him.
"You said that you needed my blood," he said to the king. "Why?"

Baldur sighed, his shoulder slumping before he said, "Be silent! Or you'll get more time alone, with me." The rattling of cages ceased, for a time.

His own blue eyes rested wearily on Maric, as did a heavy hand on the knight's armored shoulder. "He's your boy. Whether I like it or not, it's you who carries his blood, not me. The elf can explain it to you better than I, but apparently, this is good. It means regardless of what Falgrum says, we might be able to find him quicker than his nose can."

"Good," Maric replied. "I look forward to hearing from this elf, and your friend here too." He removed his helmet and met Baldur's eyes. "I was in Evermor not two hours ago, attending a gods damned ball. I didn't know what had happened. It was kept from me." By the very bastard I serve. "I'm sure the elf can explain things very well, but I have lost my patience for being in the dark. Please, Baldur, tell me what we're about to do."

"The first step is to have the Telvanni mage track down Daric's whereabouts, using your blood. Then, if the elves really did take him from this land, I will send an elite force, a group of men and women who either have endured my trials, or otherwise have some specialty that can aid in this search and rescue. Daric knows much about us, and if he lives, likely much about the enemy, so this is important not just for myself but also for Skyrim. Seeing as such, I am not skimping on gold or expertise. I will find Daric. And if he no longer lives... I will end Alinor. I will invoke the name of every Daedra, I will seek every means necessary. Nothing will remain. All will be ash and regret."

If Daric was dead, then reducing Alinor to ash would be a good start. None of this would have happened if he had just come home like we planned. A part of Maric could not help but resent Baldur for keeping the boy only to fail at protecting him. It may have been unfair or irrational, after all Daric had become a man and it was his decision to make. But how could the most powerful figure in all of Skyrim let this happen? He stifled the thought. I need him. "This force you plan to send, I would join them."

“Good,” said Baldur, pointing down at Falgrum as he rested upon the stone floor, piss spreading in the cracks from the man after what he just endured. “You just met the first to join you.”

***

The witchbug waited until they were well clear of the fort before she spoke into Mila's ear. "Do you have the faintest idea what is going on right now?"

"Not a clue." After the evening's craziness, Mila hadn't expected Baldur to be out of bed, let alone in a dungeon with some monster. Is this sort of thing normal for kings?

Either way, she was disappointed to get sent away to miss whatever was about to happen down there. At least I get to meet the Dunmer wizard. Mila wondered if he would be similar to Endar Drenim. Probably not. Master Drenim had been a Telvanni lord. As she understood it, those were unique even among mages.

"The Breton," Roseloe continued in her hushed tone, "He does not appear aware that he hijacked your mark."

"I didn't even know that was possible."

"It is indeed an uncommon feat. Such a spell is well within my own significant capabilities, naturally, but it is not the sort of magic I would expect to find wielded by some half-peasant hedge knight. I do believe that Daric's father is of noble stock, and particularly wealthy noble stock at that."

"How can you tell? He could've used a scroll like we did. Besides, the man's barely spoken."

"His armor is ebony. Many a lord would kill for such a suit. As an alchemist, the sight of so much almost made me glow. Besides, I've met enough High Rock nobles to know one when I see him... You would be wise to endear yourself to this one. Perhaps ask more questions about the son."

"Baldur's son," Mila reminded her. "His missing son. And anyway, why do you suddenly care about any of this?"

"Because whether I like it or not, my fate is now tied to your own. I'll be flayed alive if I ever return to my home in Cyrodiil, which means my best chance of scratching together an even passable existence for a lady of my stature is to ensure that you do the same."

"That's assuming I'll even keep you around."

"Or course it is."

"Okay, so how would 'endearing myself' to a Breton noble help me in any way?"

"Must I spell out everything? Because you are effectively the niece of Skyrim's High King. In any land outside this backwards country you would be a step removed from royalty. Sir Maric has a son, possibly poised to inherit his father's lands and wealth. Should he be found, a marriage between the two of you would not be out of the question."

"Gods, is there a single thing about you that isn't terrible?" Mila could feel her cheeks warming from sudden anger. "They don't even know if Daric is alive!"

"Which I dearly hope he is-"

"Because you'd like to use him and me to... what? Get land in High Rock? And it is your hope to just tag along?"

"As your tutor, dear," the witchbug replied without a hint of shame in her voice. "Magically trained nobles are highly valued in High Rock. With my help, you would go far."

"I'm fine right here. And if you don't like it in Skyrim, you can buzz off to High Rock yourself."

"The knight is rather handsome," Valga added, utterly undeterred. "If the son resembles him-"

"Daric," Mila growled. "His name is Daric and he is Baldur's son. We're done talking about this."

After that, the witchbug finally shut up, allowing Mila to simmer down a little just in time to pass a late-night sentry who looked at her funny as she passed. He thinks I talk to myself, Mila knew. She might've been embarrassed were she not so annoyed.

The tavern was quiet when Mila arrived. A couple drunks sat off to one side, one of them with his eyes closed and his cheek flattened against the table. The other was talking to him, oblivious that his friend was past being able to hear his words. The awake one looked up at Mila, and his eyes flashed with recognition. " 'sit the Diver," he slurred, raising a mug as he nudged his friend awake. "T'one who shaved the king! Good'n ya, lass!"

While the fisherman threw back his drink, Roseloe muttered in her ear. "Did that man just say you shaved the king?"

Mila rolled her eyes. "Saved. And it ain't even true."

Torald wasn't up at this hour, so one of his wenches sat behind the counter looking bored. She stood up when Mila approached. "You need a room?"

"No. I'm looking for a Dunmer wizard."

"Then look in the morning. I ain't supposed to tell patrons' business to strangers, let alone so they can wake 'em in the dead of night."

"Baldur sent me."

The woman did not look impressed. "Yeah? Baldur also lives down the street. If the king wants to bother some elf, he can come do it himself, or at least send one of his men."

A slurred voice spoke up from behind. "Wha's this about lookin' fer a dummer wizard, now?"

Mila turned to see that the drunken fisherman had passed out and it was now his companion who was awake. The man somehow appeared even drunker than his companion, and was attempting to stand with much difficulty. After two failed attempts, he used the wall behind him for support yet still managed to knock over his chair and an empty mug in his struggle.

The wench sighed. "Time to go home, Lodi. You're idiot friend looks like he's done buying you drinks."

"Tha's where you're wrong, wench. Tonight's aaaall on me." He produced a pouch of coins and tossed it several feet to the left of the woman. "I'm done beggin', see? My new master's made me an honory member of his Grand Wizard House."

Her brow furrowed with frustration. "It's honorary, Lodi."

"You deaf? Tha's what I said!"

Mila stared at the drunk incredulously. Grand wizard house? "You mean your master is from House Telvanni?"

"Tha's right! And now so is Lodi! And, uh... Telvinny is like wizard nobility." He nodded to himself. "Yes it is. So sod off, peasant, 'fore I knock ya on tha head! Wait, no! I'll turn ya into a frog! Or a skeever! You wanna get turned into a skeever, lass?"

"Do you even know any magic?"

"Well, no. Not yet. But I learnt to fight watching me pa beat on folk easy enough, so I'll learn to skeever ya after spendin' a little time doin' this, no problem. Meantime, I'll knock ya over tha head and toss ya outta this fine establish..."

They stared at him for a moment, before the serving woman finished the word for him, "-ment?"

"Mint?" Lodi blinked. "No thank you, I don't like tha taste." He returned his gaze to Mila. "What was I sayin' again? Sorry, lass. I've been celebratin'... a lot."

"You were just about to tell me which room your master is staying in."

The serving woman shook her head, while Lodi scoffed. "D'ya think I'm stupid? I don't care how many kings you shave, I promised ta keep out tha riff an' tha raff!"

The serving woman shouted. "Shor damn you, Lodi. Your piss is running on the floor again!"

"Oh come off it, wench! T'ain't nothin' you never cleaned before."

Mila watched the two argue, and was wondering if it wouldn't be easier to just sneak over and steal a peak at the inn's logbook when Roseloe suddenly whispered in her ear. "If you're quite finished with these fools, it's the third door upstairs."

Mila breathed a sigh of relief and quickly slipped away while the two Nords traded insults. Neither of them noticed her going upstairs until she had already reached the door. At that point, Lodi tried to follow but he tripped over another chair. She whispered to Roseloe, "You're sure this is the one?"

"Definitely. Be careful. There are wards in the walls."

Having collected himself, Lodi finally made it to the stairs and started climbing, grumbling all the while about how he was 'gonna knock her over tha head'. Mila knocked on the door. Nobody answered. Come on... She knocked again. Lodi was now at the top of the steps. She knocked once more, and declared loudly, "Baldur Red-Snow sent me! It's about his son!"

A big hand grabbed her shoulder from behind, but at the same moment the door swung open. Lodi froze in place, not because he had decided against tossing her out, Mila realized, but because a spell of paralysis had been cast. She was frozen too, and to such an extent that even her eyes were locked forward, unable to so much as twitch upward to see the face of her assailant. All Mila could make out was a brown robe with golden trimmings covered in daedric script.

"Interesting," said a voice. It was the gravely sort that many Dunmer of Morrowind had, but still very familiar. Is that...

Another spell was cast, and some unseen force seized control over Mila's head and pulled it back so that she now looked up, directly into the burning red eyes of Endar Drenim. There was the briefest flash of... something... in them. Relief, maybe? Regardless, it was gone in an instant and the Telvanni did not otherwise appear particularly moved by her presence. "Ah, Malinda, you're alive. That's surprising."
He waved his hand and Lodi's grip on her shoulder relaxed. "You can go now."

The Nord turned and started back downstairs without a word, but Mila remained rooted in place. The spell was weakening, though, as she was slowly regaining movement in her face and fingers. "Free... Me... You... Ass!"

"Hm?" Endar looked mildly surprised, and then sighed and muttered, "of course... damn atronachs." He cast another spell, and instead of regaining her ability to move, Mila found herself completely frozen once again. "I'm not sorry," the wizard stated. "Such precautions are necessary when dealing with agents of malevolent daedra."

Mila wanted to shout curses at him, but all she could muster was a weak grunt.

"I'll take that as acceptance. Very mature of you." He returned to his room, and the magic that had moved her head now pulled Mila's entire body through the doorway behind him. A few dozen glowing crystals shined in place of candlelight, and the room smelled faintly of earthy mushrooms. "Now then," Endar faced her. "Let's see what Clavicus Vile's done with you."

He cleared his throat, then muttered a spell that made his red eyes turn dark purple, and then he began to speak using words in a tongue that Mila did not know. But even without understanding the words, she didn't like the way they sounded. It was as though the language itself was somehow dark or wrong, or perhaps whatever magic existed behind Endar's speech was reverberating inside her. She tried to ask, 'What are you saying', but of course she could not speak.

This went on for maybe half a minute, though it felt longer, and then Endar's mutterings ceased. As his eyes returned to their normal color, he gave her a strange look. "It is as I figured. You belong to Clavicus Vile now, don't you?"

He waved his hand and the paralysis lessened enough for Mila to speak, though her body was still locked in place. "I don't belong to anyone," she threw back, still a little shaken by whatever sorceries he had just probed her with. "Now let me go!"

"He must have sent you after me for a reason," stated the elf. "As a spy? No... that is not the Pact Maker's nature. Have you come with some new offer from your master?"

"I just told you," Mila growled, "he's not my master."

"You cannot fool me," he replied. "He's branded your soul like a Khajiiti slave. So save the poor attempts at deception and just tell me why."

"He. Didn't. Send. Me." Mila wasn't sure what she found more infuriating: that Endar didn't believe her, that he believed Vile's games with her soul were about him, or that she was still rooted in place. "I came because Baldur sent me. I didn't even know it was you I would find. I thought you were dead!"

"You expect me to believe that we just happened to cross paths at the corner of Tamriel months after Vile attempted to take my soul and succeeded in capturing yours?"

"Skyrim is my home. Baldur is my uncle. Where else would I have ended up? I should be asking why you're here!"

The wizard suddenly looked annoyed, which was fine by her. It was better than being dismissive. "Assuming this is all true, why then has Clavicus Vile spared your life? Why has he allowed you to escape from his realm if not to strike a deal with me?"

"Release me! I'm not saying anything else until you do."

A second later, Mila was able to move, and the first thing she did was attempt to deliver a kick straight into the wizard-lord's shin, but his hands flashed and she was suddenly propelled back several feet and smacked painfully into the door. Endar closed his eyes and massaged his temple. "It seems losing ownership of your soul has had little effect on your temperament, at least. Now will you answer my question or not?"

Had it been anyone else standing there, Mila might have tried again, but honestly, it was stupid enough the first time. She sighed and relented. "Vile promised my soul back in exchange for the souls of three strangers. You're not a stranger, so you've got no reason to worry."

He didn't answer immediately. He appeared to be studying her. "I see. And who is your friend?"

Mila blinked, confused. "What friend?"

"The one who is doing a poor torchbug impersonation."

Mila turned her head and barely glimpsed Roseloe before the witchbug darted through the crack beneath the door. Turning back, she answered, "She's harmless, I promise."

"I doubt that," said the Telvanni. "But fine. Now, you said that the king sent you. Am I correct to assume that this is about the boy he is searching for?"

"Aye. Daric. He wants your help to-"

"Find him by way of scrying, yes yes I already know. We spoke at length on the matter just today. If he is already requesting my aid again, it must be because he has found a suitable anchor component."

"A suitable what?"

The wizard rolled his eyes. "It doesn't matter. Am I correct to assume he is ready to perform the ritual?"

"Yes. He said to go ahead and prepare it."

"Very well. I will prepare the ritual downstairs. Go and tell him it will be ready when he arrives."

Mila stepped into the hallway. A stubborn part of her wanted to remain a little longer, partly because she was still mad enough to try for another kick, but also a silent desire to share more words with the man she had crossed Cyrodiil with. To possibly get more answers on what had happened in Colovia and Oblivion afterwards, or even to yell at him for being such a frustrating ass. It was a strange and confusing feeling, and sadly not altogether unfamiliar. But her own feelings could wait. Baldur's son was out there, and finding him was more the more pressing issue at the moment.

She looked back at Endar, but the Telvanni had already turned away, and seemed entirely focused on a metal device he had produced. With a sigh, she turned and started back for the fort.

***

The ritual circle was like none that Maric had seen before. Scrying was an advanced magic, uncommon even in High Rock, but those few mages who could pull it off often relied on drawing magicka from the people around them. The Telvanni chose instead to draw from eight blue crystals that he had aligned in a circle around him, interspersed with daedric scrawlings written in black paint. The tavern had been cleared, and whatever patrons it might have had at this late hour had been replaced with four Grim Ones, all of whom watched the dark elf wizard with stoney expressions. Aside from them, King Baldur was there of course, and as well as Drenim's Nordic servant. Oddly enough, the girl Mila had been allowed to remain and watch as well.

After the elf finished painting his symbols, he turned to the king. "Remind me, what is the boy's name?"

"Daric Red-Snow", said Baldur, his posture straightening as he spoke the name. "Find my boy, and you will be handsomely rewarded, elf."

"So be it. Step forward, Knight."

Maric stepped up to the outer edge of the wizard's circle.

"Your blood. A few drops should suffice."

Maric removed his left gauntlet, then drew his dagger. He spoke quietly, "I'll be in your debt for this."

"I'll keep that in mind." He motioned at the floor. "Go on. Into the circle."

Maric nodded, grabbed ahold of the dagger, and drew it along his bare palm. His blood spilled into the ritual circle. Suddenly, Endar's eyes darkened and a deep voice filled the room:

"By the sun, moons, and stars,
progeny of blood spilled,
Daric Red-Snow, be revealed."

The crystals flared, and the runes between them started to sizzle as if the paint were boiling. A faint smoke filled the air, and a warm draft seemed to come over them. Maric did not move. His gaze remained fixed on the elf, whose own red eyes peered through him, to a place no one else could see. Then Drenim spoke two words, "He lives."

Maric almost felt dizzy, so great was his relief. "Where, then? Where is my son?"

The wizard gave no sign whether he could hear him at all. But the smoke around him did thicken, and the crystals continued to throb. A minute passed, then at last, he spoke again:

"Magic everywhere. Great wards."

The crystals' glow flared again, but this time with even greater intensity. They did not dim. Instead, they continued to glow ever brighter, until each was like its own little sun. Maric squinted, struggling to keep his eyes on the elf, who soon continued:

"White cliffs. White walls. Glistening like diamonds. Banners. Wings. Elves in golden armor. Dominion."

Drenim's brow tightened with focus, and for a few moments, he almost looked in pain. Then suddenly, his voice reverted to normal as he exclaimed, "Aha!" immediately followed by a return of the deep tones of his divination:

"Daric Red-Snow resides on the Isle of Auridon, in the City of Skywatch."

The smoke vanished, the crystals dimmed, and Endar Drenim grinned. "Thought they could keep me out, did they? Ha! Amateurs!"
He then blinked a few times and looked from Maric to Baldur. "Oh, and your son is a Thalmor captive. That's unfortunate."

Baldur’s expression betrayed nothing. Only the heat that filled the air of the small room gave hint to the storm that brewed under the surface. 

After a moment’s pause, he said, “You have a month, Telvanni. A month to forge this weapon. After that, we march to war, with or without it. Maric, you leave for Falkreath tomorrow.” 

Maric would have been gladder to leave there and then, but he knew his body was more tired than it felt. It would be morning soon, and it was hard to believe his duel in Evermor had been half a night ago. So much had happened since then. "Is there somewhere I can rest?"

”Take the house near mine, Mila can show you the way. I’ll have a maiden sent to see that your needs are tended to. And men, I have no time to deal with squabbles and bickering. If anyone impedes the progress of this weapon, or gets in the elf’s way, apprehend them, or kill them if necessary. That is an order.”

Baldur went on to speak further with the elf, but Maric turned away. A day prior, the conversations between a Nordic king and a Telvanni Master would have been of great interest to him, but now the entirety of his thoughts were focused on the journey ahead. 
He lives. Despite everything else that had been revealed, Maric could take comfort in that fact. Saving his son was no longer some abstract hope. It was possible, and that was enough.

He followed Mila outside, where the barely-visible clouds were starting to reflect the early traces of dawn's approach. The girl walked beside him in silence, but every now and then, Maric noticed her head turning to sneak a glance at him. She looked as though she wanted to speak, but was hesitant to do so. "If you have any thoughts, then share them."

She didn't respond immediately. She's weighing her words, he realized. The girl wanted to say something, but wasn't sure if she should. At last, she simply asked, "So you're going to the Summerset Isles?"

"Yes."

"The don't allow humans, you know."

"I know."

"Well how do you plan on getting there?"

"I haven't figured that out yet."

She hesitated again, and Maric could tell that she was finally getting to her point. "I... my father and me... we have to go there too. I'd hoped you might know a way."

On another day, in another place, he might have found the notion amusing, and if she were a little younger, he'd have thought she was playing some game, but it was clear she was serious. "What business could a child have in elven lands?"

"I'm not a child," she replied firmly. "And I can't say why, but it's important... Do you think you'll make it?"

Maric knew the odds were against him. Every Blade in the Empire's service had been rooted out by the Dominion, even those who were elves. It was said that no human had stepped foot in the isles in decades without chains on their wrists. Not even the Direnni of his own homeland guarded their reclusion so expertly. Even so... "My son is there," he said to the girl. "I'll make it."

[BigBossBalrog]

Dales, Sutch  
Afternoon

“The Champion Modryn Oreyn? The Hero of Anvil?! One of the heroes of the Oblivion Crisis?! The one who charged into Oblivion with little more than a squad of sellswords and saved the region Blackwood?! The blademaster who carved his way through the Thalmor lines in the Siege of the Imperial City?!” Dales' eyes began to sparkle as she lifted her hood with glittering eyes, like she was a little girl, and one of her childhood heroes stood before her in the flesh. All of stress had vanished for a single second, and the old Dales; the bright, happy young girl had returned for an instant.

The aged Dark Elf gave a throaty chuckle; His voice was certainly not as raspy as a native mainlander, but it was guttural to an extent. Rather than an authoritarian Legion-Officer, it was the voice of a wizened, ancient warrior, almost soothing, but harsh and as sharp as the blade he wielded, “The Empress does this old dark-elf much honor. Those are all titles my blade has won me” He beamed with pride, before he looked embarrassed. He remained in his kneeling position, “Honour that is not deserved, but still appreciated.”

“Nonsense!” Stopping her guards from moving with her, she approached Modryn with her hand outstretched, “Now rise; you have defended the Empire for centuries, one such as yourself need not bow before me.” She gave him a kind smile, her blue eyes receding in their coldness. She offered her hand, “Empress Dales.” Her men rolled their eyes. Modryn’s face was surprised at first, but it soon gave way to a cocky, self satisfied grin, “Champion Modryn, at yours.” He took the Empress’s tiny hand and gave it a firm handshake, which the Empress returned. 

He became more casual, but still stood at attention alongside his company, “We are honored to host the Empress of Tamriel at our headquarters.” 

“That’s probably the warmest greeting i’ve gotten since i’ve arrived.” Dales laughed, but the dark elf gave the Empress a look of concern, 

“Sutch has that effect on people to be sure.” He muttered grimly, scratching the back of his mohawk. “These people are good and honest though. They're just rough on the edges.” 

“Honest about their dislike towards me?” The Empress deadpanly muttered,

Modryn became red-faced, “That’s-not what I meant your Majesty.” He said apologetically, 

“Relax, champion. I merely jest.” She laughed, before saying, “I’ve heard much of your exploits. From books, and scrolls of an age before.” 

“Meeting such an ancient relic has that effect on people.” One of his companions, a leather wearing Bosmer said with a sardonic tone. The little Wood Elf carried a wooden “ashai” style bow, with a string made with rune-thread. His face was covered in vivid red tattoos, and his leather armor was rough, but finely made. Modryn gave him a snarl, 

“Quiet meat.” He turned to face the Empress, “You must forgive my companion over there. He’s a savage.” 

Dales chuckled, bemused, “You seem like quite the band. Gearing up for a contract?” 

“Indeed Your Majesty. A troll infested cavern by yonder, in the red forest. The loggers pay good money.” He remained tight-lipped otherwise, but kept his stern gaze. The Empress seemed surprised, 

“Seems like a waste of your talent.” Her eyes were starstruck, “You must forgive my ignorance, but i’m shocked to see a fighter of your fame in such a decrepit place. Alongside a Fighter’s Guild Chapterhouse of this size.” 

“Your Majesty, it’s the exact opposite.” His skull-war paint did look quite unsettling now she had a clear view of it, “Sutch’s...remoteness makes it a very good spot for contract mercenary work. There’s no shortage of things to kill, and no shortage of people who will pay you to do so. That forest is teeming with monsters. He gave her a toothy grin, “Sellsword work...and logging, are actually the only careers that make you good money around these parts.” His face went a little pale, “Mind you, in both cases it means you have to leave the safety of the walls-” 

“What’s left of them anyway.” The Wood Elf interrupted him again. Modryn rolled his eyes, “I digress. If you want to hew wood, or hew Forest Ogres, there’s really no better place. Sutch is a higher earner despite its remoteness.” 

“Still, for the Champion of the entire Fighter’s Guild to be in such a backwater place.” 

Modyrn gave her another toothy smile, his ego was being stroked, “I could say the same thing about the Empress of Tamriel, visiting such a remote Imperial county.” 

“Fair point.” Dales smiled. She wasted no time, “I would have your skills be put to better use.”

“Oh?” The skulled Dark Elves eyebrows raised.

“The Great War is on the horizon. I find myself in the need of skilled retainers. A champion of your skill and strength in my retainers would satisfy me greatly.”  

“I respect you Your Majesty, and your offer humbles me. But I am no Legionnaire.” He gave a slight frown, fidgeting nervously, as the Dark Elf was clearly weighing what he was going to say. For such an infamously brutal fighter, he really watched what he said, “ I was born here, Your Majesty. I may be of the ashy wastelands by race, but my heart is that of the outstretching forests, marshlands, rice-fields, and mountains of the Heartland. It belongs to this land people, just as much as yours, and that of your Red Legions.  I will die for her people without question. I have defended it for centuries, as a sellsword. You may think me nothing more than a mercenary, but I take pride in that label.” His voice became regimental and coarse, and his face beamed with martial pride “I am Modryn Oreyn, Champion of the Fighter’s Guild, and Blademaster For Hire.”

“I am loyal to Cyrodiil; but not to Your Empire.”`` He gave a look towards the Empress assembled troops, “I value my independence too much to be bound to the Legion or the royal family.” He paused, bowing his head, “I am sorry, I cannot accept your offer as generous as it may be.” 

“My Empress heaps honor upon you, and you refuse her?!” One of Dales soldiers called out in a sudden outburst of anger, causing her to lift her hand, silencing them. Dales gave him the same kind expression as before, “And no price would have you change your mind?” 

Modryn’s face turned into a frown and a look of disgust crept upon it for an instant, “Money is not the issue, Your Majesty.” 

“So it isn’t.” She gave him a sad smile, before she bowed her own head apologetically, “I must beg your forgiveness if I offended you.”

The Dark elf’s toothy grin from before returned, “Think nothing of it, Empress.”

If Dales was disappointed she didn’t let it show, as she returned the smile, saying, “Well I don’t want to take up more of your time. It was an honor to meet the legendary Champion of the Fighters guild.” She bowed her head deeply once more, as she prepared to order her company away, but she was stopped by Modryn. “Wait Your Majesty.” He scratched the back of his mohawk awkwardly, “I don’t usually talk about contract details, but the least I can do is tell you the circumstances of my visit. Indeed, you are right despite how it fills our coffers, Sutch isn’t really a high class location for sellsword contracts.” He paused, “Not that I mind low paying jobs, if there’s not enough to go around, i’ll certainly help people out. But…” Modryn's face became dark and pained by an unknown memory. Modryn gripped his shoulder tightly, and though the Empress couldn’t see it, if one removed the pauldron of iron, they would see a black tree tattooed across it. “Small communities like this...well, I don’t like them.” He finally said, before finishing with, “The reason i’m here is because the Count sent a special request to our headquarters, requesting me and my companions to come to Sutch.” 

“The Count?” Dales eyebrows raised in surprise and confusion. 

“Indeed. Though; a matter of the utmost urgency. A couple months ago.” He shrugged, “When we arrived; we were driven from the castle. Fucking rude. The Count was almost angry at seeing us. It was strange.” 

Dales kept her thoughts to herself but she looked deeply troubled by the Dumner’s words. Modryn gave a light-hearted grin, as he rubbed the back of his head, “Could have been the Count’s mind finally slipping.” 

“Perhaps.” Dales said, crossing her arms with an expression of extreme contemplation.

“Your Majesty?” The Dark Elf looked at the Empress in confusion “Is there any other way I can help you?”

“Now that I think of it; there’s a service you could provide me.” 

***
At the city square, the gathered citizens of Sutch saw plated figures arrive, and placed several posters at the forefront of the gathering.  A Fighter’s Guild crier, clad in a quilted doublet step forward, amplifying his voice with a magic scroll, shouting “Her Majesty, the Empress of Tamriel, has graciously arranged an arrangement with the local Fighters Guild Chapter. All citizens of Sutch are to be provided with level 1 through 3 contracts on the house for the next week.” 

***
“You can’t just throw endless amounts of money at every situation!” Cassia grouched, giving the Empress the evil eye. They walked through the streets, her guards on standby in their disguises. 

Dales rolled her eyes, “It wasn’t that much. Modryn gave us a generous discount.” She eyed more of her surroundings, Sutch in the light wasn’t at all an improvement from when shadows were cast upon it. Layers upon layers of dust sat on the destroyed stone beams, cast asunder by Dominion siege engines, guards patrolled regimental, with stares of anger, but also with a deep sadness about them. A sadness the Empress felt deep within the city’s core, rooted in every facet of it’s being. Urchins played in the streets, people mulled about there amongst the ruins of the once proud city, a creeping sense of decay permitting in the area.

It...it hurt her. To see things this bad. She knew things weren’t sunshine and rainbows in the Imperial Province, but the firsthand look at the decay of Imperial authority was soul shattering. Dales walked amongst the ruined streets, looking at her subjects that loathed her so. What were originally anger stares when they looked upon the woman they hated so much, were replaced solely by sad faces of people who’d have given up without her visible presence. Mothers held their babies tightly with looks of sorrow, struggling husbands and fathers muled about terrified of the prospect of their families going hungry or cold if they couldn’t find work, guards with stone-faced expressions wondering why they even bothered. 

Her subjects were suffering in object agony. And she couldn’t do a damn thing. 

“Was it because you wanted to raise support? Repair your image?” Cassia said, with her usual dead-toned voice.

“I don’t give a damn if they hate me.” Dales gave her an angry glare; a glare that caused Cassia to stop in her tracks with a look of surprise. I just hope this helps them in a way.

In her dreary state the Empress found that she had stumbled upon a cathedral of sorts. It was a derelict, gothic gathering; a stone-built Imperial-styled church, with high walls, and a roof of red shingles. It must have been an impressive sight when it was in pristine condition, but now? Horrible, mangled gargoyles prowled on it’s news, it’s walls were cracked and visible in some places even. Stained glass windows were mostly in ruins, with a single one in its completion. It’s great oak door was stained with age, ripped paint, and it’s ruined archway looked...almost sad. 

It’s ruined majesty held Dales heart, but she moved forward intent on seeing the rest of the city, but just as her gaze moved away. Monochrome flashed in her eyes. 

A massive snow storm sweeps across the city, a little blonde hair girl rushing towards the stone cathedral for warmth, lights flickering inside it’s strong walls. 

In but an instant, the past returned. Dales remained struck by the sudden vision...before a sense of realisation hit her. She...she knew this place. Dales strode forward, blocking out Cassia’s criticisms and the rest of her soldiers chat.  She approached the stone steps, and as her men, curious, moved to follow her, she raised her hand. “Stay outside. I will be but a moment.” 

“But-”

“You will obey me.” Dales turned around with an angry snarl. Her men stepped back, taken aback by the display. The Empress of Tamriel moved forward, her black cloak trailing in the wind behind her, as she strode forward with an unknown purpose towards the ruined cathedral. Memories that didn’t belong to her played in her mind, but they were only small flashes she could barely discern. Images of vivid colors and memories. With a heavy heart, she opened the splintered doors of the cathedral. 

Shadows lingered everywhere, with the only light source coming from the cracks and ruined walls that let sunlight shine through. Overgrown blotches of green moss grew on the ruined walls and tapestries. Ancient masonry filled the room with carved walls, adorned with shattered stained glass windows, with their colorful jagged shards being the only memory of the beauty they once had. Nature had taken this place long ago...but it was a calm nature. As she wandered the Red Forest, she felt the teetering edge of a sickness infected the woods. None of that was here. 

The light from the destroyed windows and crumblings walls danced on the overgrown greenery, bathing the plants with an ethereal light, with so much grace the image wasn’t ruined by the debris or the destroyed pews. 

A feeling of peace and tranquility filled going into the depths of Dales being. A peace she had not felt since she braved the Throat of the World.  Not the ethereal wind of Kyne’s kiss, but the comfort of eternal sleep. 

Her heart grew heavy. She knew who this temple belonged to. 

At the forefront of the Church was an altar; lovingly tended to, it was filled with offerings of sage, gold coins, and a few weapons. A series of beautifully painted Frescoes lay in separate enclaves surrounding the altar; depicting lovingly drawn images of the cycles of death; a baby Drake hatching from an egg, the drake playing amongst it’s serpent-like siblings, becoming winged, ripping apart a village in graphical renders of flames and dying villagers, and finally the Dragon laid asunder, smited across a mountain side by lightning. It had a hand-painted statue as it’s center-piece; a stone symbol of the Imperial God of Death, Arkay. 

The patron-god of her family. 

Dales became weak on the knees, as a force compelled her to kneel, but she stood strong. She put down her black hood, and let the angelic light shine across her pale skin and blonde locks. Glimmers of light shone down upon the shrine, coming from above; another partially destroyed stain-glass window; a circular vista; the Red Drake of the Empire in glass shards of red and black. Dales felt the light shine across her skin, and the tranquility filled within her. Bringing alongside it a very deep longing and sense of immense sadness. 

It’s ruined beauty almost brought her to tears. 

“A lost lamb walks in from the cold.” A dark voice brought her from her senses. “

“Who goes there?!” The Empress turned around, not pleased that someone interrupted her contemplation. 

It was a man; clad in the gray robes of a monk. Bare robes, with no adornment, besides the beads he wrapped his sleeves tightly. He was tall, but was otherwise featureless, for his face was hidden by shadow. He tuck his hands beneath the gray sleeves of his robe. “No one, but the custodian of this forgotten place.” The monk said; his voice was sleak; not warm like a priest, but narrow laced. It...lacked anything, as if it was devoid of any emotions.  No sardonic deadpan, not angry whisper, no regimental bark, almost nothing at all.  The priest continued, “Most don’t go here anymore. Least of all people like you. Dales Motierre ” 

Hearing that name felt like a dagger was being thrusted inside her. The Empress bitterly muttered, “Is it because I enjoy the carnal flesh of other women?” She knew nothing of the Imperial Creed spoke against homosexuality, but she wasn’t in the mood to be fair. She began to circle the priest, the years of resentment for his deity and religion finally spilling forth in the venom that wrapped around her tongue, “Or is it because I willing committed Fratricide? Was it because I enjoyed doing patricide? Or-”  

“You reek of death. The stench is unmistakable.” The hooded figure remained motionless, keeping his hands to his sides, the dying sunlight reflecting through the shattered stained glass. 

“I kill for the greater good.” Liar. A voice whispered in the deepest depths of her soul.   Looking at the priest made her...feel a chill down her spine. “You smell the same as I.” His voice stung with venom. 

The man’s hand went into the sleeves of his robe. “What does the Dragon Empress want in this ruined cathedral?” He didn’t speak a word about the Empress words.

“Is that what they're calling me now?” She grinned, “I thought I was a Slug Empress? Traitor Princess. Thalmor Whore.” 

“Self-pity does not suit you, Empress Dales.” The hooded man’s face was cloaked in shadow, he didn’t react when the Empress’s face was filled with anger. “Your former allegiance does not bother the Lord of the Death. Nor does your carnal taste in the flesh of another woman. I ask again, why are you here? Do you wish to offer a prayer to the divine?”

“Will they all of a sudden listen?” She muttered glumly, gazing down at the stone floor, the dusk from the pew dancing around the air. 

“You’ve lost faith in the divine.” He sighed.

“No, I think they’ve lost faith in me.” Her face became downcast, as the shadows of the cathedral played amongst the speckles of light coming from the holes in the walls. Her mask had been removed, as if the light coming from the distant altar or Arkay had ripped it off.  Her emotionless face was wracked with a trembling expression, her age lines made her look twenty years older, and her eyes were downcast, surrounded by dark tiredness. “Us.” She glanced to the shattered stain glass window, the downward light shining through it’s shattered edges. “The Empire. We call ourselves one, but all we are is a fading speck of light, surrounded on all sides by darkness.” 

Dales put her gloved hands to her tousled blonde locks, and began to rub it, she had to fight with all her willpower to prevent tears from leaving it. The ripped carpet trailing from the makeshift shrine of Arkay, the rubble from broken stone pews and ripped apart scaffolding. 

This was her ravaged land. This was her Empire of broken stone. These were her cowardly Gods.  

The hooded priest approached the pew Dales was sulking in, before taking a seat directly beside her. They remained silent, but turned to listen to her. “A confession then. The Elder Council butchered in it’s own sanctuary. My husband sitting on the ruby throne; an overlord worse than a Tharn. Wolves ripping apart our carcass; our allies seizing up our weakness and waiting for the right moment to strike. The Empress...a pawn, a puppet of greater powers dangled like a child’s theater performance.” She reached to the sky and let the particles of dust fall through her fingers. As it landed, she noticed to her other side another person had sat down. A little girl with blonde hair, and pale blue eyes.

There two eyes met, for a single. Her vision became monochrome, and she had vanished just as soon as she appeared.

For once; she recognised the truth. She was still one and the same, with that girl.  

“You fought to free yourself. For the sake of your people.” He finally spoke up. “Your crimes against the Heartland were grave indeed, but by wearing the burden of the crown-”

“I thought the priest was supposed to be silent during a confession, “ The young woman muttered under her breath, a seething whisper. “As silent as the grave, is that not afforded by your patron?” 

The Priest was expressionless under his hood, but he held his tongue, letting the Empress speak her peace. “Free my people?” She laughed bitterly, a few shards of tears falling from her eyes, “I told myself that. I really believed it. Honeyed words brought from those that lied to me. Used me. I made myself think that I was being like one of the heroes in my storybooks. Out to save the day.” This is the second time in two days. I’ve really gotten weak.”I did it all, because I wanted to hurt the people who hurt me.  Who took my beloved away from me.” More tears intermingled on her eyes. “This poison they put in me, turning me into a revenge-driven animal.” She glanced at her hands, she could feel the skin ripping apart, claws breaking from her fingers, being consumed by the sickness that took Lorgar. “You know what’s the worst part?” Dales was forlorn. The priest was silent. 

“I can’t even remember her face anymore. It’s been so long it’s a distant memory.” Dales gripped her temple, specks of light intermingling on her face. “I wanted to bury the pain inside, so much, wear a mask of strength to mask all this sadness; a mask I built from the people around me that I admired and loved.” She sighed, sadly stewing on her broken, destroyed relationships, “Present myself as a person I wasn’t. Be a person my people could look to as a pillar of strength. The charm and wit of Baldur. The strength and nobleness of Lorgar. The wisdom and kindness of Gracchus. The beauty and grace of Magdela. It all fell apart horrifyingly.” 

“You can wear a mask, all you want, Empress Dales.” He broke his silence, “But the person the Gods made you to be, is who you always are on the inside. You shouldn’t have pretended to be people you aren’t. That was never you.” The priest placed his hands in his sleeves as he looked downard, almost as if the advice was for himself, as much as it was for the Empress. His voice had become softened by kindness and sympathy, her earlier impression of the man had vanished in the wind, 

“Then who am I? She pondered, tears freely flowing on her cheeks, “The person who lost High Rock to secession. The girl who condemned thousands of innocent Imperials to Thalmor torture and mass graves. The daughter of the most hated man in Tamriel. The woman responsible for so much pain.” She wanted to sob, “The person who killed her own family.” 

“You failed in those instances. But reflecting on failure is just another gift from the god’s; because it means you're still around to make up for that failure. “You’ve been suffering inside all this time haven’t you, about it? About killing your father? Your brothers?” 

She covered her eyes with her petite hands, “It was wrong. Even if it was necessary to do. They were awful people, horrible even. Even after everything they did to the Empire...to me...they were still my family…” She gazed once more at the broken, shattered glass, “I simply told myself that I enjoyed it. But I never did, I see that now.” She sadly smiled, 

“I wanted to impress them. My loved ones. My mentor. Lorgar. Gracchus. I wanted to show them I had changed as a person by enjoying the deed. That by taking his life, with my own hands, pain inside would go away. It just made it worse and worse. It made me wander from the path, and go deeper and deeper into the artificial person I tried to build to escape it.  And I became more and more wayward the further I tried to become something I was not....I...I... I lost my way.” She admitted to herself, finally after years.  She gripped the edge of the wooden bench and let the splinters from the bench push into her skin, she exhaled. 

“You don’t have to pretend, Empress Dales.”  The Priest said resolutely, 

She gripped the pew even tighter, tears freely spilling forth, her voice trembling, “I was afraid. I was weak. I was unwise.” Perhaps that is why she was so forgiving towards the count’s horrible family? She was projecting her own flaws and self-hatred onto them. 

“As we all are.” He said simply, “We overcome it. Our fear. Our weakness. Our doubt.” 

“I wanted to hold onto it.” More and more tears were gathering around her eyes. “The pain. It was the only thing I had left. Everyone I love leaves me. Mother...Elan….father. My brothers.” She admitted it, “Lorgar. Magdela. Krojun used me. Even Gracchus is distant. I didn’t want to lose it.” 

“Even if you do not from the gods, seek comfort in those still around you. And keep the memory of those gone deep in your heart.” He said gently. 

She was beginning to sob, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. For everything. For my family. For all the pain I've caused. For all the people I've failed.” She sobbed over her arm.

“The God’s forgive you, Dales.” He placed a hand on the young girl’s shoulder. His hatred left him in one fell swoop,  I forgive you. He wasn’t talking as a subject to their monarch, but as a priest consoling a crying child. “Your words do not paint you as a revenge obsessed animal you’ve claimed to become.”

She stopped her weeping, but tears were still freely falling, and glanced up at the priest.

“You are someone who values her subjects. The decay of Sutch and the suffering of her people, deeply pains you inside. All the abuse her sons and daughters hurl at you makes you just feel more and more guilty. So Your Majesty, I do not believe you say all you wanted was vengeance or it was selfish desires that put you on this path.” 

She remained silent, transfixed on the beautiful stained glass. 

“You saw the suffering of the people of Cyrodiil, suffering you helped inflict. You took the burden of killing your family, the burden of wearing that crown to free them. That pain you talk about; you wear it because you don’t want anyone else to do so. Because that is the person you are, Empress Dales. The person the god’s made you to be.” 

“I am a flawed, mortal woman. No Dragon’s Blood flows through my veins.  I’m no Septim. I can’t be the leader they all deserve. But…” 

Her vision suddenly became monochrome. The man standing beside her flashed. In monochrome. He appeared, and reappeared.

She glanced once more at the stained glass. The bright red Dragon Symbol of the Empire. The warmth she felt...yes. She remembered. “I know you…” 

It was freezing night. The young girl, her father and mother barely had time to go back to their manor. Snow fell, and it fell hard, as the winter sky, threatened to overload. Surrounding them was about forty armed men, who were nervously glancing around them. People on the streets were giving them angry glares. They intermingled among the slabs of destroyed stonework, ripped apart woods, and carnage in general.  This wasn’t the Niben, these people weren’t degenerates who bowed to the whims of black robed, gold-skinned, knife-ears; they were Imperials of Colovia. They respected and adored their bond to their God-King, and the very foundation and core of what the Empire stood for. Anyone who’d help that traitor Mede subject the Empire to the whips and yolk of the Dominion was not welcome in the streets. They cursed, They threw rocks. And the guards stood by and watched half-tempted in drawing their weapons and carving them up.  The half dozen of gold-armored High Elves,  led by a black-robed Justicar, on the other hand, got nothing thrown at them. Just cold, hard, stares of seething, hatred that threatened to explode into a frenzy of violence. 

The lead Justicar scoffed his nose, “Does this city always smell so foul?” 

One of the gold-plated guards muttered, “I think it’s a little too cold to smell anything.”

“At least if we were lynched we won’t have to worry about the bite of winter anymore.” Another muttered, gripping his gold-adorned great-hammer in a threatening manner.

The woman brightly held the little blonde haired girl in her arms. She wore an expensive, fur-lined Colovian style great cloak, colored deep red, that practically engulfed her. She was young, but the long months had clearly taken her toll, the stress lines were very visible on her face, as was a general look of tiredness.  Right now however, it was red-faced. “Good job, Amaund. Bringing an escort of Thalmor Justicars to the most anti-dominion city in the fekking hellhole of a city to demand my Uncle’s resignation! Brilliant play, I bet the other members of the Council are singing you praise!”  

“Silence, the old fool has no real power anymore!” The man leading the group turned around to face his wife. He was skinny, even for a Breton, and just like his wife, the last few months had really taken a toll on his already gaunt appearance, “You are making a scene in public why are you always making fucking scenes!”  

“Why are you going to hit me again? Such a big man!” She held her daughter close, the bitter wind was biting into her, the howling snow throwing around her blonde hair.  She barked once more “If you couldn’t tell, tht “old fool” has the city riddled up and ready to cut the throat of any collaborator! Nobody here gives a fucking shit if you have the Emperor’s Edict! They’d rip him apart too!” She pointed a finger, “And you have the fucking gall to bring your daughter into this scheme-”

“She isn’t safe at home!” He was screaming now, his escort had noticed. They were used to seeing them fight. The Justicar rolled his eyes, muttering “Humans.” Under his breath, while his men looked more amused then anything,  the man drew his blade,  “Me and my men will protect her-”

“You mean run away when the crowd gang rapes us to death!” She barked her voice becoming a crescendo, 

“I said stop it!” He got up into her face. The woman dropped her daughter to the side, she was being hysteric, but to be fair, so was her husband, and anyone would be maniac in a situation as volatile as this. “You are a craven. A disgusting worm. My uncle is right. I hope they gut you slowly-” 

The man slapped her with his backhand, causing her to be thrown back. A sliver of blood formed on her lips. Not missing a beat, she went forward and started to wail on him, “Coward, craven, traitor!” The whole scene was comic, but after a while the soldiers moved forward to stop them. “Sir, we shouldn’t linger here. Your carriage is waiting in the morning. We need to get you to a secure place right away.” A justicar on the other hand gripped his wife silently, his black face mask underneath his gold helmet covering his expression. Underneath it however, was an aged face. Almost impossibly old, considering he was a Mer. There was a look of genuine concern. The woman threw him off, before fixing her hair. She was a lady of Colovia. She couldn’t lose her composure. Like it or not, she had a duty to her husband. She made ready to apologize, before a realization of horror hit her. She began to slowly turn around.  And then she did so again. And then again. And then again. Her face became frozen with utter terror as she screamed, “Dales! DALES WHERE ARE YOU?!” 

***

The little girl had run off, closing her ears, letting the snow carry her away from that horrible place. She hated when her parents fought. It was becoming so common. She especially despised it when her father hit her mother. It made her sad. 

Her little feet carried her a good distance away. But soon the bitter chill of winter was piercing her child-sized great cloak, sending waves of pain. She was getting colder and colder. She liked the cold, but this was getting a little too much. Still she wandered through the forsaken streets, glancing at the debris as the blizzard howled. She was beginning to think it wasn’t a good idea to leave her parents side, no matter how scared she was.  This was all her fault. 

When she had reached the peak of terror, she had stumbled upon an open building. One she had seen before. The cathedral! Her parents used to go to her all the time for prayer, before the last few months. Lights were inside, but the great door was bare shut, and someone as tiny as the little girl couldn’t open such a huge door! She waddled to the door and began to knock on it. And then again, using the large metal circle attached to it’s frame, jumping to reach it! 

Knock. Knock. Knock

She did it once more.

Knock.  Knock. Knock. 

She did it again. 

Knock. Knock. Knock.  SWOSSH. 

With a startled yelp, the girl jumped backwards, as the great oak door swung open. 

“What in the Nine....Ah.” A very elderly woman opened the door.  She wore the simple robes and beads of a monk, and had a topnot haircut, with decaying skin, but a kindly face. “Who's there?” She asked, sternly but with no malice. 

The little girl gulped, “Hello. I’m lost, can you help me find my parents?” 

“A child! Oh heavens.” She began to mumble something as he took the girl’s hand gently and led her inside, “You shouldn’t be out in this freezing storm young lady!” The little had just noticed something, the full whiteness of her eyes. She was blind.  The girl’s worries dropped as the warmth from inside the Cathedral took alot of the cold away. There were dozens of people inside, all huddling together, but pots and homegrown fires, snuggled together. It was quite a diverse group; people wearing low class clothing, in a trio wearing dirty but still clearly expensive Colovian style fur coats like her own, a handful of individuals clad in rusty Imperial armor, she even saw a few Nords clad in animal furs huddled together. And there were quite a few children amongst the group. Everyone was giving her strange looks. 

“What’s a child doing in that storm all by themselves?!” 

“Poor thing, lost and alone.” 

“Those damn elves have alot to pay for.” 

The blind monk herded her into a corner of the cathedral and sat her down. “Get yourself warm, i’ll have my assistant bring you blankets and a hot bowl of stew! Poor dear…” She muttered. No one had seemingly noticed her expensive fur garb.

A few minutes later another monk came before the Empress. He was hooded, and kept a low profile. Though the young girl could see he was bald underneath, and had a heavy beard, though he looked no older than thirty. The Imperial Monk carried a steaming bowl, alongside a handful of blankets.  He wrapped the blankets around the Empress and put down the bowl for her. “Stay warm, little one. The night will be long and cold.” He patted her on the head, giving her a warm smile, which the little girl returned. “If you need anything just ask me or Carmilus.”

The girl watched the people go about their night, families huddled together in the warmth. People pouring each other stew, giving each other items to help through the night. Children playing amongst each other; as the roaring ambers of the fire painted the cathedral in a vermillion haze. Expressions of warmth and contentment. These people barely had anything, yet we're still sharing it amongst themselves. The crickle crackle of flames brought a feel of warmth from the little girl, obfuscated by the vivid scarlet light illuminating the Cathedral. 

Perhaps her little child-like mind could barely comprehend it, but whilst her tutors lectured the Empire as borders and a piece of land, this is how she viewed what it truly was at it’s core.  Just when she was about to drift into sleep by the soothing flames, a voice called out. 

“Wait, I know that child! That’s that Snake Amaund’s daughter!” The little girl was summoned from the twilight haze of sleep and got up startled. The woman in question was one of the people wearing Imperial armor she noticed before; a middle aged Imperial woman.  Her face was covered in stress lines, and burdened by a deep sadness, sadness now consumed by a rage that had engulfed her olive eyes.  The little girl got up from her seat, startled as the woman rushed forward in rage. 

“Calm your fury, Antonia.” A deep throat voice brought her back. It was from one of the Nords she saw earlier. A massive, burly man. He was huge, practically the size of an ogre, with thick veiny muscles, all covered in vivid tattoos. Though he was mostly clad in the hide of a snow leopard, you could tell he wore light Imperial armor underneath it. He had a massive red beard, and his voice was deep and erratic, with a face so buried in hair and tattoos she could barely make out his features, besides his black rotting teeth.  To be honest, he looked very scary. 

“That brat-that brat!-” The Imperial soldier stuttered out pointing her finger at the frightened girl, 

“Oh yes, the pup’s responsible for all of this”. He said, sarcastically raising his hands into the sky, “I’m sure she drafted the White-Gold Concordat herself.” He spat. By now everyone else in the cathedral was gathering around, including the two monks looking on in worry. 

“Her father shames this city! This entire country!” She spat herself out her mouth foaming in anger, she made a move forward causing the little girl to feebishly raise her arms. But the Nords did not get out of the way. Instead he put his hand to his sheaved shortblade,

“If you touch a hair on that lass’s head, i’ll cut your fingers off.” He spat, and his face narrowed. The soldier looked enraged, before in an instant she was consumed by that deep sorrow once more,  her eyes began to water, and she stopped her advance placing her hand to her face, “It’s an insult, an insult to Lucio’s memory. A mother shouldn’t have to bury her son!” The nord’s features softened, as he put a gentle hand on her shoulder, 

“I miss the lad too. But how is hurting an innocent child honoring him?”

She sobbed, “I-I wasn’t planning on hurting her-wait.” She looked up tears clogging her vision, “Where did she go?”

*** 
The little girl ran from the Cathedral, sadness welling up inside her. It was just like at home. People fought because of her. The little girl made her way to the steps outside the cathedral and planted herself on them, letting the snow whip across her pale face. She started to cry, like all children did. She was all alone….she missed her parents. She sat there for several seconds, letting the empty feeling of loneliness get to her. The sheets of snow came down, amongst the howling wind, like waves of a turbulent ocean. The little girl glanced up to the freezing sky, and let her tears freeze.  Until…” 

“Thank Arkay.” A kind voice interrupted her solace. She looked up to see a gold-plated figure, wearing the embodiment of Elven armor, alongside a winged golden helmet, which had a black leather mask covering the bottom half of the individual’s face. The girl knew who this was, one of the black robed Justicars she often saw her father with. They terrified her. 

Upon seeing her face of terror, the masked Justicar gently knelt at the girl’s level, and slowly removed his helmet, to reveal a withered and aged High Elf with a stern, but almost impossibly kind face. It was quite shocking to see an elf with grey hair but this one had it. He gently lowered his mask, and gave the girl a kind smile, “There you are  little one. Your parents are worried sick. We’ve been searching everywhere for you in the baneful storm.” His face froze, “Why are you crying?” 

The little girl tearfully said, “I...I don't want people to hate me anymore. I don’t want to cause them so much pain.”

“Oh no. None of that is your fault, child.” The High Elf justicar offered his gauntleted hand to the girl, which she hesitantly took.  “My...papa will be so mad at me for running away…” 

He picked the girl, and gently stroked her back, “You need not fear anything. I will protect you.” He slowly began to channel a warmth spell as he prepared to carry her back to his company, but he was stopped by a voice. 

“The Thalmor takes children away, never to be seen from again. What business do you have with that girl?” Dales turned gently to see the monk from before, the younger bald one. The wind and snow caused his robe to go alongside the wind. “If you mean to harm her, I will put down my life to protect her.”

A look of shame and unease crept on the High Elf’s face, he had left his helmet on the ground. He said, using him as a shield to protect the little he carried, “I’m returning Lady Motierre to her parents. She is the daughter of an Elder Councilor. “ He looked hesitant, “This is the official Dominion business. Leave citizens. I appreciate you caring for the girl, so I will overlook this.” 

“So it’s true, she’s the daughter of a snake.” The hooded priest backed away slowly “I believe you. Harming the family of your most important puppet would do the Dominion no good. If you ensure the girl’s safety, I have no quarrel with you tonight.” And with that the Priest turned around, his robes trailing behind him in the howling wind. Before he could fully leave however, the Aldmeri soldier called out from behind, his voice being consumed by the wind,  his face wracked with guilt “Wait….i’m...i’m sorry.” 

***
“You insolent brat, you know how worried you made us!” Her face’s face was scarlet red, as he approached the child carrying the soldier under the snow. The little girl recoiled and prepared for a hit, just like what he did to her mother, but it never came. The same kind voice from before stopped him. “With all due respect sir. “ Her rescuer was stern and professional, “We should waste no time securing you and your family. You’ll be leaving tomorrow, and tonight’s...distraction has already wasted precious time. I recommend we head to that secure spot without any more delay. 

Amaund was enraged, but he slowly nodded. Underneath the red hot anger, one might be able to see what was genuine worry, but right now it was being consumed. He turned away. The girl’s mother rushed up to the soldier, with a new black eye visible on her face, “Dales thank god your safe i’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry.” She was crying.  Though when she tried to grab her precious child, the same elf stopped her, with a stern bark, “With all due respect, ma’em. “ Her stare was harsh and cold, “I think this night’s travel has made you weary. Let me carry her the rest of the way.” 

She looked stunned and mortified. A growing anger grew on her face, as she made ready to shout and scream, but the Elf’s cold stare silenced her. She looked away, with an aside glance of shame, before she nodded and went down her merry way, following the cohort. The Justicar gently lifted the girl up, who looked like she was going to pass out at any time, and went into formation with his comrades. His black robed commander gave him a curt nod, “Good work Runil.”

*** 

“You….it’s you.” As if in synch, the man put down his hood as the Empress did, revealing a bald headed Imperial, with wrinkled skin, and a dozen scars. The monk smiled, 

“It’s been a very long time Your Majesty. I scarcely fathom you remember me. Our last meeting was very brief.  You were but a little girl, and I fool. We were both lost and seeking sanctuary. Tell me then, Dales of Sutch. What would you do?” 

Dales briefly looked down; she remembered that night. All of it. The wisdom of the monks, the warmth of her citizens, the accusations, the kindness of that Justicar. She gulped in a breath of the air; letting her memories fill within her. She remembered them, her struggles, her pain, her suffering, but also all the kindness she encountered, the love, the courage, the wisdom; all the things that shaped her into the person she was, the person she tried running from. She cried at the futility of fate, but also took solace in the struggle against it. Perhaps she doomed to fall; for her rule to be the death of the Empire. Maybe it was her destiny. But no matter if things were hopeless...she would try. Try to be better.  As she’d been doing for the last decade. She’d keep moving forward, no matter if the entire world was against her. Tears of happiness swelled in her eyes, “I would see proud Imperial banners fly from this city, under tall stone walls. It’s proud people basking in merriment and joy, as no one in the city went hungry, or no child went to sleep cold or alone. Mothers and Fathers would cradle their children, and hold them tightly, without worrying about their future. I would see proud Red Legions parading in the paved adorned streets, to applause and laurels being joyously heaped upon them. Marching not for war, but a celebration of peace and prosperity. Farmers would happily toill in the fields content at the richness of the harvest, travellers would march on our roads without fear of bandit attack.” She touched her chest, “If I knew how, I would do it. I would have the Empire restored to its glimmer; this city rebuilt, and our people made to prosper once more.” 

“You already know what you need to do. You have everything you need. You've always had it.” 

Dales got up from the wooden pew, and finally dried her tears. She smiled, the first real smile she’d had for as long as she could remember. “Thank you. I’ve never talked about myself like this before.” She gave a deep bow of her head. 

"Sanctuary is never in one spot, we carry it with us. I pray you find repose." He returned the bow, with one of his own.

The Empress said no more; she moved to the front of the altar, and let the heavenly light shine upon her pale skin, breathing in a whole mouthful of air. The tranquility of the shrine went deep into her heart. Moving towards the exit Dales felt someone brush to her side.

It was a little blonde haired girl, with innocent blue eyes. She smiled at Dales.

And Dales smiled back. 

The little girl offered her hand to Dales. And rather then run from the little girl, which she had been doing for a decade, she tightly gripped the little girls hand, and walked out of the cathedral with her, hand in hand. 

With a sad smile, the monk muttered, “Talos and Arkay be with you, Young Empress. It's begun.” He made his way from the gathering of light, and went down a ruined corridor deeper into his temple, until he reached a locked door. He furiously fumbled with his chain of keys, and opened the door. If the Empress had wandered her, perhaps she would have glimpsed the truth. 

It was a trio of carved corpses. 

They were mutilated beyond belief; all carved up with a dozen slashes to them by an impossibly sharp blade and skilled hand. Barring the oozing slash mark, disfigured faces; they were unbound, and carrying weapons; seemingly this was done to them in the thick of combat. They could barely be recognised. Barring one clear feature...

They all wore the scarlet uniform of the Red Guards of Sutch, the Count's Chosen Men. 

The priest knelt down, taking time to close the eyes of the flayed Red Guard, whispering a prayer underneath his breath, before making his exit, More will be crawling over this place within the hour. He thought. The Catacombs are the only place they dare not enter. He hefted a leather ruffsack over his shoulders which lay discard by the side, as he revealed from his sheaf, the narrow blade of an Akaviri warblade. He made his way down a stone hall, glancing in every direction. I need to find the Black Eyes of the Empress before it’s too late.  With a final sigh, he gripped his Akaviri-short blade, and an amulet of Talos deep in his pocket. 

*** 

Unbeknownst to the Empress a hooded figure had observed the entire display, hidden, perched on a ruined walkway, on the half destroyed second floor of the cathedral.  Laying half crouched, the figure carried a longbow made from red wood.  Long dark bangs sat underneath her red hood, and a pair of striking gray eyes watched the Empress leave the cathedral. 

[TheCzarsHussar]

Roscrea


Nothing he had ever known was more dreadful then visiting them, no chieftain's hall or kingly court was more unpleasant and venomous...or talkative then Holangaard Splendor-Mace's familial cousins across the glacial mountains to the east. His clan had the financial splendor of ties with the far south, but the cultural burden of being related to the mixed half giantry river-barons that had those ties. What things a short distance and centuries of intermixing, both culturally and quite literally can do to a native folk. And if familial ties were weak, then money isn't, and gold rare as it is in Roscrea, flows from his cousins. Holangaard's branch of the Splendor-Maces were longtime natives of Roscaen Hold in the Middland Plateau; yet unfortunately for he, his clan, and kith, they were not Dragon worshipers. Without the draconic-minded communal priests' blessing, nobility meant for naught in attaining positions of power within the kingdom, nor any prospect of mentorship; for the communal-priesthood dominated both. The absolute lunacy of the capital's war decrees had evoked a panic in the less-than-Roscrean branch of the clan, clamoring for some assurances of assets and Intercourse of action; whatever in all the hells that meant.

***

Young Holangaard; for his beard had not fully grown, was elected to go to the river-isle of his Imperialized kin and put some damn sense into it all, much to his displeasure. He was after all educated there in his youth, being a third son he would inherit nothing, only the life of a retainer available to his station.

'So foreign, so damn foreign.' He lamented and stewed, damning ever having learned the southern tongue of...southern man, and Nords? 'No not Nords. Damn Nords.'

He drew fire into his lungs from the wooden pipe at his lips, then expunging it from the corner of his mouth, the smoke instantly lost itself within the snowfall. It was soothing just as much as the bitter cold struck at his person. Holangaard thanked his lucky stars that all the damn ships of the realm were still in the far south, allowing a much needed respite in the freezing wilderness; mounted on his grandfather's mammoth. Clever grandfather, can't much risk your mammoth-mount in war if it's in use by family. Clever grandfather. 'Too much for his own good.' Thought Holangaard.

It wasn't entirely safe to be crossing mountains at the moment, wild Nords; half crazy from snow whales (of legend) were raiding anyone without blond hair, all hells, even with it things weren't safe. But Holangaard was higher than any Nord of the Foot, and he was armed in splendor. He sported a tall pointed felt arrow catcher hat, trimmed in spotted fur of a toothy snow leopard, in fact he also wore the fangs as broch pins. This he wore atop a ringmail coif, for it was fashionable in the realm. His tunic was strewn with tartan patterns of yellows and reds, like the hews of sunset lined his garb. His trousers were plain brown and puffy, kept pressed with wool wrapping bands around his ankles to protect against dense brushes, and he sported simple footwear; and though it was not expressly on his person, he also carried a pair of wooden-skis need he dismount in loose snow. A cloth sash was worn around his waist to keep his trousers tight to his person, and to store some valuables within it's folds. He could not afford to arm himself in mail, neither had he a master of which to arm him in their household mail. Holangaard's person was armed with a flat textile-fabric gambeson, dyed a cheaper red with a trim of slightly thicker blue thread. He wore a long white snow-repelling cloak, being smeared in wildly dyed animal fat and pinned with the broach-fang. Armed in a familial mace of volcanic rock, heavily condensed through the clever-craft. His grandfather had not allowed the young Holangaard to equip himself with his elder's great mammoth lance, brilliantly fire-hardened wood and tipped with expensive iron.

There were no roads across the mountains to the east, indeed hardly anywhere had maintained roads. Although, there were tribal paths that lowlander Nord hunters from Boarstruffles and the enigmatic mammoth riding nomad-clans use frequently. 

As the day grew shorter, and days in the far north were much shorter this time of year, so to did Holangaard's pipe-supply. Expelling the fire from his lungs one last time, the icy wind blew it straight back ahead of him. Fanning the smoke away from his stinging eyes amidst a coughing fit, his mammoth bellowed and stomped her feet in a nervous pitter patter.

"Kos stiildus mamutah." He spoke in native noble-tongue, rubbing and patting the mammoth's ear even as he rubbed the water from his own eyes. "Hi fen vopraan strunmah... voth tol..." Holangaard's gaze lifted and was graced with the visage of a mammoth-herd. Many had a grim faced tundra-giant mounted on their backs, dressed in the most primitive of garbs. The harsh mountain blizzards had deafened their approach, they who wield long burning branches as torches in blizzards and in the night, though their journey must have been long. Their branches were nothing more then smoldering embers, with a most dim of lights. Holangaard held the reigns of his mount and kept in place. While the herd largely remained, one among them rode forward. His face was worn down with the many cuts and blisters of bearing too many hailstorms, and too many battles. Both his hair and beard were extremely long, braided in hundreds of knots and tangles they both rested atop the mammoth; white as snow. There was no luxury of any kind on his person, whatever he wore was obscured by a fully encompassing cloak of dead tundra brush and grass. The weathered chieftain, as without a doubt, he must have been, commanded his weary mammoth to stop adjacent to Holangaard. Each stared into the face of the other, against the mountainous weather neither said a word. Holangaard's right hand rested atop his mace, tucked away against his trousers by his sash. The chieftain hungered for any signs of weakness or fear.

The strength of wills were stronger than any speech and the chieftain, weary faced and yet strong for his tribe nodded at the young Holangaard, then turning forward against the howling blizzard and his tribe followed, herd and all. He pressed on too, and in passing saw the hard faced womenfolk and youth, lacking in strong men. In the privacy of his mind, he mourned the tribe for he knew, they were thrown down and forced to migrate westward by stronger rivals. In ancient Nordic he spoke. "May y'r rise again."

But it was drowned by the blizzard, and the tribe would never hear his blessing.

***

Holangaard knew he crossed over into the Imperial Fief not by great marble cities, you wouldn't find any here, but the great expanse of the tundra. Cold as Atmora it was, and nearly as frozen. His destination was the westerly end of the River Ros, unlike the easterly river tributaries and lakes; this part of the river was near always frozen. He traveled along the coast, which until he reached the westerly delta-bogs was quite devoid of settlement.

'Stupid southern Cyrods.' He thought. 'If the water is damn always frozen, why then, why do you need to build a bridge?' It didn't stop him from using the foreign stone bridges then risk his mammoth cracking the ice. The river delta ran through an infertile snow-pelted peat bog before running out into the Sea of Ghosts, it was more an extension of the tundra enriched ever so slightly by the frozen river. Within the river delta lay an river-isle with solid ground, unlike the spongy bogland that surrounds the delta. A prehistoric fortress-temple once graced the isle and though it's ruins have fully vanished, it remained a continuously habited strategic center. It controlled the westerly river trade, where goods from the far east would make port an easterly tributary of the river and most far easterly goods would make its way downriver to the fortress of Stonemoss atop that ancient river-isle. Sailing downriver is cheaper and faster then on foot or wagon and that is where their power comes from.

Imperial legion-settlers and other Cyrod colonists intermarried with the old nobility of the isle, members of clan Splendor-Mace. Worst of all, and entirely why Holangaard so dreaded his half-giant cousins...was that they intermarried with Nibenese settler nobles.

The winter whipped bridges gave neither bend nor moan at the heavy trot of mammoth and near-giant. Like the bridge, a foreign built gatehouse kept the other end firmly enclosed with gate down. Coastal sea-winds made the Nord atop call out.

"Aye! Ain't the city wanting none yer tundra walk'n mammothry, don't ye get yer tribe?" The illiterate heavy-voiced man called out. To which Holangaard snorted, at least some people talked normally in this wretched place.

"Aye! Y'open them gates right n'aw'er I'll crash the lot of ye' heads in. With this." He raised his volcanic rock mace. "I'm Holangaard Splendor-Mace ye scrawny-bearded lot!"

Not one more peep or murmur (that he could hear) was said. Momentarily the wooden gate, which used to be iron many years ago, damn thieves, raised. He had to not only dismount, but the mammoth had to hunch down in the bridge to make it under. 'Grandfather's mammoth is better trained than these Nords, where in all the hells are the professional warriors?' Thought Holangaard.

Stonemoss encompassed a large portion of the river-isle, whatever native settlement was there had long been dismantled and replaced with a Cyrod built castle. Outside of it's bastion walls the remainder of the isle was a chain of ports and warehouses, intermixed with the village outskirts of Stonemoss. It was after all the largest river port in the River Ros. Even though Solitude had robbed the importance of the port since the annexation by refurbishing a more westerly port, for more Nordic nobles, the importance of Stonemoss remains, even if diminished.

Taking his mount by the reigns, he walked the short distance to Stonemoss. Finding the gatehouse readily opened...and his cousin waiting on the other side. His lip twitched at her voice.

"I knew that unmistakable voice was yours cousin Owl Tower." His cousin, Aeliagnum Roscæmella do Splendor-Mace ever so properly spoke. "Oh and do speak normally to me dear, I think of you too fondly to hear you talk like an idiot." Besides her hair being nearly entirely white, she looked exactly how he remembered her from his youth; even wrinkles and moles are too uncomfortable to sport her face. No matter how much she and her ilk acted like Cyrods, she still had the unmistakable appearance of a Vulgar-Roscrean, an intermixed half-giant. Her pale face contrasted with clothing, and her clothing contrasted even more against the snow. Both her heavy, fur trimmed coat and richly sewn gown were black as could be. With dully dyed red thread drifting in and out of obscurity with each brush of the wind upon her fur trimmed coat; while golden twine in the unmistakable Imperial-style lined the same dully red colored buttons that lined her gown. A large fur cap, which made her look a foot taller was gilded in ivory pins, amber globs with small bugs trapped within, and of course pearls. 

"I have never known you to wear black Aeliagnum." Spoke Holangaard, holding the reigns of his grandfather's mammoth so tightly he might have thought his hand would pop.

"Well, it's not just black Owl Tower, oh I've offended you. I'm sorry, Holangaard, like a proper giantry name." She placed her snowy hand on her chest, head ever so cocked with that horrible fake little smile of hers. "As I was going to say." She snapped her fingers and the courtyard servants, sprang to attention. Taking the reigns from Holangaard and leading the mammoth to a small stables...meant for horses.

"Walk with me dear." She turned towards the castle's keep, or more accurately a palatial-villa. It's only deviations from the southern counterparts was that it was many centuries out of fashion, and built to withstand and accommodate the freezing weather. "As I was going to say, black contrasts so well against the snow. And there's been too much of that lately. And I think, as of now, I'm enjoying more subtleties. I'm certain you know all about subtleties my dear. And this is no ordinary thread dear, it's, and this will be a mouthful, detoxified jellyfish tendrils. Isn't that something? I think so and I do enjoy setting the standards, why my husband; you know him don't you? Your mind isn't going is it? You're far too young." She didn't even catch her breath.

How she does it, Holangaard doesn't understand it. She's a vampire, as sure as the day is cold, sucking the energy out of him with that never ending voice of hers.

"No, I-"

"Good. Now don't interrupt me. Word has reached the court of Berahthram, before my household, I can hardly fathom that. As I was saying, word has reached Berahthram's court that a massacre has occurred in the west. You know my husband is the Magister Militum don't you? Well he is. And I for that matter, what to know everything dear." Aeliagnum rested herself against one of those unbearable Cyrod couch-beds in front of the villa's central hearth-furnace.

Holangaard elected to sit like a damn normal person. "I thought..., you were talking about, your garb?"

His cousin's eyebrows raised even as she lowered her head. Raising her voice, just enough to dig it in worse than if it had been a yell. "This is far more serious then regalia boy. You will not-"

"Stop." Holangaard gutturally growled out to her. He was no longer a boy, and would tolerate it no longer.

"Hmm, Finally got tired of it have you? Good. I was wondering when you would stand up to me, it disappointed me to no end when you left some years ago having never done so, you've no tact Holangaard, but at least I now know you have some man-parts on you." She cut him off with her precise fork-tongued voice of hers. She gave him a moment to speak, having silence as her answer, she raised her voice again. "Now I must speak to you as an adult. There is more to upholding power and-" She scoffed. "-splendor, than the strength of one's arm. Now our family...and clan, have upheld strong ties that have made us very wealthy, and dare I say powerful? Our balance of power is upset by this conflict between the Kingdom of Ecoriobriga and, who? This is what I must know, if these Alduin worshipping giants will turn eastward once there are no more Nord nobles to put to the sword. Now, you may speak."

Holangaard leaned out his hand expectantly, a servant hastily procured a goblet of wine. He took a deep swig without knowing that and his face of displeasure was met with the look of wrathful amusement from Aeliagnum. Clearing his throat, and ten times wishing for proper drink in thought alone he spoke.

"They...an assembly of the communal-priests of Ecoriobriga had decided to revolt against the authority of Solitude." Holangaard said.

"Or at least it would have been against Solitude, had their colony hold not decried independence from the mother-city." Remarked Aeliagnum.

"Aye, uh. Yes, emboldened by this and stirred on by no lack of religious zealotry." He said. "Oh, they have always been so fanatical. We used that to our favor you know? Uriel Septim had a synod convene and had them all convinced Alduin and Akatosh were the same deity...Oh, go on, I won't do that again." She gestured with a wave.

"The priesthood petitioned King Cassivelogenos Bright-Hewer to bless them and their parting axe, so to declare war against the-" Aelignum chuckled as does an old woman, but waved him on. "-against the Haafingar-Folk. They seek to wrest the Hold back into the realm of giantry. And have slaughtered many Nords in doing so."

"Has your grandfather answered the call to assemble, in their war procession?"

"Yes, I'm sorry but he has."

"Don't be sorry, thank your lucky stars that someone in your family has got common sense. His presence there protects your side of the clan, giants you are. It's mine I'm worried about. Now, who is their leader?"

"Cassivelogenos Bri-"

"No boy, I will get to that; who commands their war procession?"

"A communal-priest called Alduacer Horned-of-Hymn, he is a high noble of the realm and I don't think it aught to surprise you, but Lord of the Procession."

"Ah, but a prayer procession is not a war procession. What do you know of this Alduacer?"

"Only that he has shown himself to be an respectable combatant, accepting  single duals against Nords of noble birth. Unfortunately he is alive and they are not."

"Well, and what has become of Old Dowry Hold?"

"The city of Boiliobris is, as of my knowledge, under siege. Their procession has sacked many villages that have resisted."

"Are they...killing every Nord they meet?"

"No, but it's not much better. Nobility and landowning Nords are being slaughtered with no quarter, it's no better for the giants who are closely allied with them."

"Good, then it's not as severe as I had believed it to be. What about Imperials within both the Old Dowry and Middland Plateau?"

"Good is a horrible thing to say. But Imperials are under the protection of the faith of Aka-Tusk, looks like your historical synod saved their lives."

"And their lands, and their assets?"

"Protected under punishment of equal accord."

"Well then, praise Akatosh!" As soon as Aeliagnum reached her hand out, a goblet filled with wine was placed in her cold hand. She took only a sip and set it down, that was damn near offensive to see for Holangaard. "Now let me educate you my poor baby on a crucial matter." Holangaard didn't say a thing, he was busy forcing down the prissy tasteless drink.

"Cassivelogenos Bright-Hewer, he is powerless."

That got him to stop downing the goblet, evoking a look of disbelief.

"He is too old, too deaf, and too mute. The power of the monarchy has diminished when the warrior-king became too old and weak to uphold his status as such, and worst of all, he doesn't have the good graces to hurry along and die. I think he's immortal, or a draugr, maybe a vampire? Regardless, I have heard that it is the reigning communal-priesthood that has access to his holy seal. That giant is no more than a figurehead. And I don't want to hear one word about his magical prowess, I have heard of that too. That hasn't stopped him from becoming strong again. Now, I have letters to write, with what I know now. Do stay a while though, I'm quite fond of you. I won't have you scurry back without some time to spend with us."

"I never knew you were capable of something so natural as missing someone cousin."

"Well I only said I'm fond of you, don't think too highly of yourself boy. Now, you may kiss me and go." She lazily upturned her cheek to be kissed, which it was, and she was left to herself.

***
For Holangaard, there was one tiny port in the storm of dealing with his Imperialized family. Amidst all his fake family, there was one man he truly trusted and loved. And there beyond the castle walls, relaxing by the frozen beach and staring into the Sea of Ghosts was his old mentor, he had only ever known him as Old Longwrinkles. Holangaard could see puffs of white smoke coming from the man as he approached, Old Longwrinkles didn't turn to look as the giant sat next to the only one he so dearly loved on this isle, the only real person. But he knew the old man was happy.

Holangaard procured his own pipe, something he emulated from his friend at a young age, and put it in his mouth. Only to realize that he had smoked it all on the way. A hand took it away before he could himself, and turning to see, Old Longwrinkles held out his own pipe to take. Their smiles turned into laughter, the giant hugging his old friend. They sat there, staring out to the Sea of Ghosts in silence, a lifelong friend truer than could ever be asked for just enjoying one another's company. Holangaard wept, though he didn't wish it to be known, Longwrinkles knew it nevertheless.

Edited December 19, 2020 by TheCzarsHussar

[BigBossBalrog]

Dales, Sutch  
Sundown

"And another fucking hallway." One of Dales guard bitterly muttered, swearing, as they went down another hallway through the fortress. Fortress Sutch was one hell of a maze. "And this one leads to a fucking statue" Dales had found herself trying to get to the blissful rest of her quarters after a long day sight seeing and getting food thrown at her, but seemed to not be able to pernitrate it's depths. 

Statues are merely gravestones of vainglory and ego. 

“Blasphemy! Blasphemy! BLASPHEMY I TELL YOU! How dare they! "Mortals! Always getting something wrong! Insufferable! A mustache! A bloody mustache! I had no mustache! I had BREASTS; BREASTS! AND LONG FLOWING BLACK HAIR....or did I? I can't really remember now to be honest? Was...was I a girl or a boy? Maybe both! Who can tell!" 

The trio emerged to a really strange sight. It was a man arguing with a statue; a proud figure of white marble carved from the very rock that made Sutch it's base. It was seemingly a mustached man wearing golden Lorica; with a bronze tipped spear and a splendid jeweled spear. Dales had seen one of these before; it was a common depiction of the Legendary figure  of the Oblivion Crisis, the Hero of Kvatech. 

Though she didn't know what to think of the man before her; 

He was filthy, clad head to toe in a hideous robe and cloak; made with patchwork mismatched colors. Though Dales could see little underneath his hood, she could tell he was just as dirty as his clothing. Must be a relative of the Count. She thought deadpanly. The man was also rambling in a loud, unstable voice. Upon noticing the trio, he angrily barked,  

“Greetings! Salutations! Welcome! Now go away! Can't you see i'm admiring myself!" 

"You dare to speak to the Empress of Tamriel like that, filth!" One of Dales escorts made way to draw his blade, but Dales stopped him with a shrug of his hand, "Empress of Tamriel? Just the person I was looking for he!" He cried, turning around, the tone of his voice suddenly friendly.  "I have a gift to give you! Don't worry it isn't a severed head!" 

A faint smell of must permitted the air; and not the usual, it was filthy,  I think this man is homeless. She thought. Upon closer inspection; an air of familiarity settled over him. That's...that's impossible. I know this man. "Do....you know me, citizen?"

“Of course; I know you lass! Or at least I know your guts. The period explosions! The screaming! The glass!” He quickly added with a look of terror; “The awful AWFUL CRYING bleh! You aren’t popular at parties, little Dales, but at least…” He closed his eyes with an apologetic look, “At least you aren’t in the loonie bin like poor, dear Pelagius.  Royals, regardless of their parents, doing the birds and the bees while related, and then called the storks...or was it the vultures and the ants...or maybe it was the storks and beetles?”  He made a dramatic motion with his hand, before instantly returning to that friendly smile. “Of course, my mistakes; the trees and the deeds!” One of his eyes opened awkwardly, and he scratched his bald head, “Actually I think it was the birds and the bees!”  A deep guttural feeling sat inside Dales stomach. Something felt...wrong about the hermit. Something deeply wrong. It was indescribable; a formless black hole in the pit of her stomach that threatened to consume her  Dales entourage felt it too, and made a motion to approach the man with their hands gripped on their swords pommel,  but Dales called them off with a singular motion of her hand. If she couldn’t handle a mad man; she really wasn’t fit to sit on the Imperial Throne. “Your point sir?” 

“Sir! SIR!” He suddenly shouted, causing her royal guards to step forward once more, but Dales kept her hands up, despite the growing sensation of mania. “Now that’s a greeting if i’ve ever heard one!” Her gave the small Breton a bright smile, one she could pierce and had none of the malice of before. He bowed his head, “Anne, at your service!” 

Dales could barely contain a laugh, “Anne? It's strange to see a man carry that name.” 

“It’s strange to see someone jump tightrope with some vivisected intestine, really!” Dales was startled, but he carried on, “But for one as accomplished as thee, I shall allow it.” 

Dales returned the bow of the head, “Dales. At yours.”

"Marvelous, marvelous!” He began to clap madly, “Charmed! The Dragon-Empress! The Slug Queen!” Dales eyes hardened and her lips curled into a snarl, but she still kept her guards from attacking the mad hermit with her cold hands. Unphased by her resentment, “I don’t know why you don’t like that name; slugs are wonderful! Well wonderful to eat. I'm trying to decide what to have for dinner. Oh, how I love eating. One of my favorite things to do. Maybe slugs friend in cheese?” His face twisted to become absolutely serious, before he melted into a laugh. “Sorry little Dales, if we can’t laugh at ourselves, there’s really no point of laughter at all!” A look of pure malice crept up on his wizened face; the darkness suddenly cast from the dying light giving his face flesh a disgusting sheen of grease, 

“With melancholy as deep as the ocean's black depths. And vivid screeching; like the tearing of flesh and limps, you really should  laugh at yourself more.” It disappeared before Dales patience broke, becoming friendly once more; “Everyone’s a little mad! Us more than others, but that doesn't mean you shouldn’t laugh at your own expense once and awhile.”

“If we were in High Rock, they’d probably cut your head off for saying what you did. They are quite mad about those sorts of things; insulting the royal family in such a manner” Dales anger was consumed once more, and she’d shrugged her shoulders, with her own grin, “Though whose really insane, them or me, the one trying to converse with a madman!” 

“Madman?!” His face became red with anger, as he protested, raising his fist into the air, “Absurd, vile slander!’

Dales kept her grin, “I thought we were supposed to laugh at our own expense more often?”

The man’s face became blank, before it lit up and he let out a massive, hearty chuckle “Indeed! Now you're getting  it! Wonderful! Time for a celebration... Cheese for everyone!" To the confusion of her guards, he began to shake and dance like a jester; doing fruity, strange movements in the air. Dales was amused, but crossed her hands in response; “You said you had a gift for me; citizen.” 

“Yes cheese?” He looked at her with confusion, before they began to sparkle up, “Oh yes! Now I remember; it’s why I approached you.” He reached inside his patchwork cloak, and grabbed something inside it; Dales guards eyeing the spot very closely with their hands drawn ready to strike at any second. To her surprise; he brought forth a key, which he held with his wrinkled hands outstretched. Dales eyed it with curiosity; the throbbing in her temple started to erupt in pain, and her body began to scream to stay away from this man, but she put it down, locking it deep inside her. Upon closer inspection Dales could tell it was ornate; made from silver, and socketed with a ruby. “A gift. A....get well present so to speak. Or perhaps a present for becoming well?”  He said cryptically, before he began to scratch his bearded chin, "I'm sure you'd appreciate a pair of butt naked Aureals and Mazken feeding you whipped cream, but we can't have everything." 

The Empress gave him a strange look, I know those names. "What's it for?" 

"The sweet roll pantry? The cheese larder? The place were they store the entrails of children!" His voice became thunderous, before it was normal toned, "We lock doors to prevent people from finding what's inside; whatever this key leads too, little Dales, someone wanted buried and forgotten." He dramatically flipped it in his hand, playing with it's silvery frame with his hands deftly causing it to spin around in the grip of it's knuckles, flipping it to it's side. Dales had only now noticed a family crest plastered on the key.

The Crest of the Ruling Family of Sutch.

One the guards behind Dales finally drew his sword, and pointed it at the man, "A thief, you are a bloody thief!"  Sweat began to drip on his brows, and his eyes became hollow with blackness, "Shut up, just shut up, I hear you! I fucking hear you!" 

"Sulla!" Dales gave him an angry look, but it was mired in confusion, 

"Thief! How dare ye-" He facial expression looked shocked, before it melted away to that of acceptance; "Well yes-I guess there was that moldy scroll and that hideous leather cowl. I digress. You can't steal what you already own, boy!" 

"Silence" The soldier stepped forward, his plate armor clanking as he did. He was now maniacal, huffing and puffing until he was forced to the ground by the sheer pandominia that was swelling the room. His comrade was doing little better; her eyes were fixed on the hooded man, with images of unspeakable things being interspaced in vivid red in her vision. The only one unaffected was the Empress. 

It’s rather hard to make someone already crazy, insane!  After all! He happily thought. 

"Put that blade down laddie." The darkness around his cowl grew, as his voice became a low growl, "Don't get me wrong; I'd find it hilarious to see your guts covering the ground around yet. Hilarious; as your buddy over hear gripped your threat and tearing it out with his teeth!" He pointed to the woman next to him. That horrible, bone-chilling smile extended forth once more, and his voice adapted a demonic hiss, causing the Empress to snap back and look on in terror "The Legion has fallen so far from my time. Filling the heart of criminals with endless fear and terror. Now look at ye; a bunch of tin girls and boys playing soldiers. What a shame."  He turned around to Dales, before bowing his head, speaking once more normally "But I doubt this one here would appreciate those kinds of jokes. No gold armor ye see," His hand outstretched offering the key forward, "That's the best part of gifts I say! They are free! A rare thing. Like free sweet rolls!" He smiled before muttering; “There’s a door that leads to the Domitus armory; in the forgotten delves of the Fort’s dungeon. Inside there’s…” Light danced inside the crazy hermit’s eyes, but it was gone as soon as it lingered, “Something that once belonged to me. The Domitsus recovered it from the ruins of my old home; a broken and forlorn ruin, alongside that magic sword, the Count likes to swing around. I hate to see it gathering dust ye se.” He planted his walking cane in the ground, “Let’s just say something of it’s ilk would suddenly come in handy if.” He began to swirl his hand into the air, like a pendulum, “Say...I don’t know...a province ending crisis reared it’s beautiful head here.” 

Dales eyes widened with confusion, causing the hooded man to lift his hands into the air, “Not that a world ending crisis is coming soon or anything like it!” His own eyes widened, “It can’t hurt to be ready; there always seem to be some kind of evil wizard or Daedric Prince who wants to destroy life on Tamriel. It’s a real bummer...kind of like rotten fish.” He scratched the back of head, “All I’m saying, little Dales, is it’s yours if you want it!” 

Dales hands lingered near the key; it looked authentic to her. Even though her inner self screamed at Dales to get away from the man in front of her, something else also told her she could trust him. Trust a lunatic; Dales you really are insane.  Finally,  she gritted her teeth and accepted the key from the stranger. 

He finally stepped back, and did a final bow of his head, “Very good, young Empress! Very good! May it serve you; as it served me once! OH!” He glanced at his wrist, “Look at the time! LOOK AT THE TIME! You should be off like the wind, solving problems and doing good deeds!    And I really need to be home by now! "Always forward, never back. Is the concept of time correct? Is time relevant? It matters not. One way or another, I fear that our time has run out! Entrails need skipping, moons need throwing, and-” He gave a look of dread, “Clothes need washing! He better have my boots grimed and cleaned from all that gut jumping!” 

Dales gave the madman a kind smile; one that wasn’t faked. “The more people I run into here, the more advice I get. Thank you; I mean it. Thank you for the help, Anne.” 

“ANNE! Nobody calls me Anne!” He screamed suddenly, causing Dales to yelp and jump back, but she was calmed by him once more, “Oh right, I said you could use that! Silly me!” He smirked, jumping back with an apologetic smile of his own, which Dales returned. A sad smile played on the man’s lip, “Your smile. It reminds of someone I once knew. He didn’t have your madness, but he had your heart.” His voice became morbidly melomaniac, as if his insanity pulled from another, much darker, and sadder place, “ He too always though of others before himself; and it killed him." He closed his eyes, "Farewell, little Dales. It was good to finally meet you in person." He turned around, but was stopped by the voice of the little Breton woman behind him. 

Tears clung at her eyes; the same tears that clung to her during her episodes of mania, "I...I...know you. I know you. But that's not possible" She fell to her knees and began to sob, at her side, her escorts were slamming their heads into the walls, causing bones to snap and break. Sulla gripped a knife as he plunged it into his crotch, stabbing it over and over. His female companion had jammed her finger nails into her eyes as she began to laugh jubilantly and with gusto, before it became a wail. The remaining sun had died, leaving only the shadows and the moon to dance across the darkness. A chill fell over the Empress. 

Darkness dragged his frame down, as he slunk into the shadows of the corridor;  that terrifying grin and raspy, demonic voice manifesting again, "That's because I am you, Dales. I am a part of you, little mortal. I am a shadow in your subconscious, a blemish on your fragile little psyche. You know me.  You know me. You've known me your entire life." 

Dales fingers clawed into her face drawing blood, as she tried to cover them, terror finally consuming her, and gripping her soul utterly,  A pair of glowing pair of eyes suddenly peaked from his hood, eyes that resembled those of a cat, followed by a blood curdling laugh, 

She heard names being called to her ; The Skooma Cat, Lord of the Never-There, Raverall all the while blasphemous music played under the night with pan flutes made from the skeletons of a woman torn apart...it was her bones. Dales felt punctured by a thousand knives, and her body wracked with extreme pain;  the man with the cat eyes stood over her, that horrible grin, "Do not think insanity to be a curse, Dales. For some, it is the greatest of gifts; much more then that rotting key. It's been a gift to you; a bitter mercy, but mercy nonetheless." Dales couldn't hear him at this point; she was being assailed by a thousand voices ripping apart her ear dreams, "It times like these were we make our presence known; times of Legends, times of great calamity, times of heroes.  The return of the Dovah was just the beginning.  And a silly, crazy girl  whose returned from the dead, sung to life by the melody of time itself is a beacon; a beacon that draws all the writhing insects to her, especially a girl who happens to be the Empress of Tamriel. My brothers and sisters will come for you.  And I can't protect you, child. " His voice subsided, quickly adding, "Ain't that a laugh." The man's horrible face was right infront of young girl's, 

"Don't trust the Mer. Don't trust anyone in this blasted rock. A devil in the shape of men. What’s about to come to this city is a thousand times worse than whatever horror you glimpsed on that mountain. Trust your gut, and nothing else.” He gave the shivering girl a sad smile, “I’ve known you since you were a little girl; you glimpsed me when you hide while your father wailed on your mother with his drunken fists, and you pretended they were monsters lurking outside your room. I held you while you scraped those pieces of glass across your wrists and you cried into the night. I am a part of you, Dales"  He placed a gentle kiss on the Empress's forehead,  the malice melting from his face, replaced with that ridiculous grin, “If you ever find yourself in New Sheoth, feel free to stop in for a chat! Now little mortal, it’s time to wake up.” 

***

"Your Majesty?" 

Dales was stopped as her eyelids opened. It was just a blink...but for some reason, it felt like it had been the heaviest of her life. 

"Are you alright?" Sulla glanced at her with a look of concern; the defaced statue looked formless she couldn't make it out after all. "Yes. It was...a long day."

"Everyday in this blasted place feels long." Muttered Sulla's comrade; who scraped her drawn blade to the side of her shield. Some sleep will do me good. The Empress thought. In her sleepy delirium she never noticed the silvery ornate key, stuck in her travelling cloaks pocket. 

[BigBossBalrog]

Dales, Sutch  
Night

The Empress tossed and turned in her sheets; she held a splitting headache that grew with each passing second she kept her eyes closed. She felt like something was watching her in the darkness, and there was an intruder with a knife ready to slit her throat when she was fully consumed by dreams.  As if phobia and mania had infected her very being. Dales gripped her throbbing head; This very place tortures me. She was being dramatic like usual, but it really was a very annoying headache. At last it grew to the point she felt like she was seeing yellow slitted eyes staring at her from the darkness. With a yelp, she brought herself up; a thick darkness permeated the room, a veil that lifted as soon as her eyes adjusted in blotches of monochrome. She pushed the fur of a mountain lion she was using as a blanket away, before drying the stained sweat from her pale skin. Even with the fur blanket, she felt a chill across her body.  She’d complain it was because she didn’t have some tavern wench to warm herself beside, but there really was something wrong with this place. She briefly closed her eyes, trying to impart the warmth of her hand to her face, Dales what are you doing in this forsaken place.

“I sang of leaves, of leaves of gold, and leaves of gold there grew.” 

A woman’s voice; as faint as a soft shadow brought Dales from her contemplation. It was a distance away; what little she could hear of it sounded heavenly, however, as did the accompanying music. Intrigued and knowing she really wasn’t going to get much sleep tonight regardless, the young Empress decided to investigate the source of the melody. 

She slipped into her pair of slippers, and without changing her nightgown brought forth a whisper of magelight, softly illuminating the shadows around her. 

Pushing the heavy oak doors open, Dales quickly moved through the stone hallways, glimpsing the forsaken stronghold at night and under the pale moonlight. An eerie atmosphere hung the darkness, with nothing but the gorgeous song and the faint conjured light to guide her. She stopped by broken statues depicting nameless figures, carvings, empty display cases, and so much more devastation; maybe the fighting really had gotten to the fortress before the siege was lifted?  The ruling family had only shown her the frontal, inhabited part of the Castle, she had been told parts of it were uninhabited, as it was so large they didn’t have the manpower. A brisk air of wind suddenly fell across her face, and the chill deepened. Shadow figures played in the depths of Dales imagination, she glimpsed nameless sprites beckoning her closer. The depths of the hall made way for a simple enclover, it was bare...besides for a portrait, the first one she had seen since she had arrived in Sutch. She let her magelight expand to see a better look of it.

It depicted a man wearing fine Imperial armor; with a clean shaven beard, and slick black hair. Most distinctively were his haunting gray eyes, and the sword he proudly carried; a silvery blade with a reflective surface of flame, and a golden crossguard in the shape of a Dragon. His deposition was strict, and his features darkened by splotches of black paint around his eyes. Is this the count? Something...felt wrong about the painting; the chill had returned and intensified, a darkness she had felt once before began to fill her entire being, until an onset of terror erupted in her. She quickly left the enclave, and went again to find the source of the singing.

The voice grew suddenly louder, as another brisk breeze of air fell across her face, “There long the golden leaves have grown upon the branching years” That voice...it’s familiar.  To her surprise her surroundings suddenly opened up, as the wind assailed her face. She was suddenly outside! 

Or at the least this part of the Fort had opened up; Strange for an otherwise impenetrable fortress. The Empress had found herself in an alcove of stone...alongside flowers? The dripping of water surrounded her; a small, ruined, but still working fountain spurted an array of fresh water from it’s upwards mouth, which sat beside a gorgeous gathering of red, black, and blue roses, which lined the garden’s topmost. This strange wing of the castle was quite small, a square of stone, with four interlocked gardens hugging the centerpiece fountain in the middle. Strangely; the rest of the garden was filled with decaying vegetation, a disgusting helping of black, thick weeds had wrapped around whatever had been grown there before; only the roses remained unmarred. Ontop, 
above even the mighty fortress Sutch, the dying stars and moons hung in the night’s sky, illuminating the tiny hidden garden.

And the person who had led Dales to it. She sat on a stone bench right beside the gathering of roses, gazing longingly at the moon. It was a woman wearing the familiar set of leather armor; the Red Garb of the Rubrum Guard of the Count. A pair of gray eyes peaked underneath her black, long bangs, which rustled in the wind, and under her own voice. It was the Count’s daughter, Valerie. She sang to herself; a voice so beautiful it consumed the Empress’s mind with visions of golden trees and sparkling lakes. Dales feverishly approached. She stopped singing, not even bothering to gaze upward, her cold voice aimed towards.

“The moonlight here is unwholesome, not for those born under the sun. You shouldn't be here, Your Majesty. Rex Draconius, needs her rest. She must maintain her strength.” 

“That song was lovely.” Whispered the Empress as she strode forward under the dying stars. The Tribune was sharpening a strange blade, and held her Athala bow outstretched on her legs. “Why are you here, Empress?” The girl said coldly as her whetstone grinded against the blade, she ignored the Empress’s praise. 

Dales looked at her with longing sadness, “I’ve asked myself that so many times; my fate is truly-”

“No I meant why are you in this garden? This part of the fortress is unmanned barring skeleton patrols when we can muster them. It’s practically forgotten, and I don’t like company.”

She really doesn't honey her words. A thick shade of red fell over the Empress; who cursed herself for the degradation into her hormonal-self. She mustered a “I followed your voice.” 

“Hunting for prey I see?” She said sharply, not bothering to gaze up. Dales took insult to what she was implying, but the girl kept her cool. 

“Don’t worry, tomboys aren’t my type.” Dales said with a grinned, which caused the Tribune to groan, 

“One would think the Empress would know not to open with her inclinations to almost-strangers. I heard Homosexuals were burned alive during the Alessian Heresy.” Dale grew dark at that remark, but still maintained her lighthearted tone, 

“Normally, I agree. But I figured my homosexuality would be the least thing you hated about me. Am I wrong?” Dales gripped the wooden centerpiece, and waited for her response. The Tribune nodded shook her head, 

“Flesh is flesh. If you were attracted to beast-folk, I honestly wouldn’t care much. Everything dies the same way.” She took her knife upward and continued to sharpen the blade. “No, your attraction to other women doesn't bother me. You are born the way you are. It’s one of the things you can’t change. I can't commend you for anything else, however.” Upon closer inspection, Dales could notice not just her red Nordic styled woad, but also a pair of scars she wore crossed diagonally across her otherwise pretty face, just like her fellow Rubrum Guards. Self inflicted; ritualistic scaring is a queer practice.  Her words echoed that of the priest; she had found acceptance in a place that otherwise despised her! The gods are ironic.  

Dales forced a smile, as she muttered “That’s a very morbid thought.” The Tribune returned the same smile, but with robotic forceness and sardonic mocking, before she went back to her scowl and turned away as if the Empress didn’t exist. She put down the strange looking knife, before she went to re stringing her bow, seemingly ending the conversation. Dales, unhindered, went forward, taking a seat beside the young soldier. Without lifting her gaze, the Tribune spoke.  “There’s a story supposedly from the time of the Amoira...” 

Dales curiosity peaked, “The Amoria?” 

“A forgotten tribe who were said to dwell in the red forest beside us in ages past.” She said,before her look became increasingly dark, “A daughter of Sutch who doesn't know of the Amoria. Pfft?” She snickered. "The wind is singing songs tonight, of your foolishness." 

“I left when I was but a girl.” She said tiredly,  

“When your family was driven out with pitchforks-”  Dales quickly interjected with “Let’s go back to these Amoria, please?” Valeria shrugged, before saying, 

“There’s no child in Sutch’s holdings who haven’t heard tales of them; they are said to have haunted the woods in ages past; wearing masks of red and white paint, with crystal-tipped spears and redwood arrows they defended the crimson wall from intruders. Nedes once, but they became something far more” Her eyes lingered on the dying moons, “The blood of bulls were said to flow through them; they bred with Minotaurs and wielded enormous strength.” 

“Bastards of Minotaurs?’ Dales eyebrows raised in confusion and disbelief, which caused the younger girl to roll her eyes, “They existed.” Her eyes became ghastly, “It was well-before our city grew. They are only now in the stories of our people.” 

Dales was still doubtful, but she was still curious, “What was the story?” 

“An Elf maiden travelled along down by the red trees and was approached from the shadows by a fox. The fox fell in love with the girl, and to seduce her, it took the form of another woman.” 

Dales eyebrows peaked, “What happened to them?” 

“Tragedy.” She began to wrap thick linen on parts of her bow, “I don’t remember much of it; one of the elders told me it long ago. I’m not into that sort of thing.” 

“Romance between girls?” Dales said grinning. 

The Tribune groaned once again, “Yes;  but also frivolous and meaningless things in general.”  

“Romance and love are not frivolous! You're a girl, you can’t tell me you haven’t chatted about your crush!” Dales pouted, as she got offended by her downplaying such a serious issue. She usually didn’t act like this, not anymore anyway, but she didn’t interact with girls her same age often, maybe that’s why she felt so casual, despite the angry glares. The Tribune glared upwards finally, those gray orbs of hers clearly annoyed, 

“Excuse me, Your Majesty, I never got the opportunity to have sleepovers with the daughters of other aristocrats; I didn't talk about boys, get my hair braided, or have pillow fights.” She said snarky. “I’ve never swooned over a visiting Duke’s son, been courtsied by prospective suitors and fed glazed candle apples while we talked about our feelings. Mock me all you want.” She looked revolted, and her eyes narrowed, “I was taught to kill other people, survive, command soldiers, and defend this city from threats outside, and from within.” She glared at the Empress, the balls of her fists tightening. Dales just noticed, like before, they were tightly wrapped by scraps of linen, almost like the makeshift wrapping  of a pit fighter. A part of her face looked sad, “I never had the opportunity, as you call it, it to be a girl. I’ve been a soldier my entire life, and that’s how I die.” She went back to preparing her bow, “And by the Nine, that’s fine by me. Life’s simpler if your only job is to kill people. I am an arrow to be wielded by Sutch. Nothing more, nothing less.” 

Dales eyes widened with confusion, “But you aren’t just an arrow. You are a person, a woman. You know your father too tried pulling a dumb metaphor with me earlier.” 

That caused Valeria to actually adopt a small, but still visible smirk, “He sure likes his metaphors.” Her hands lowered her bow just beside herself on the stone bench, before bound fingers caressed one of the vibrant flowers growing in the terrace. Dales heart grew warm at the sight of tiny smile. She gazed back to the Empress, her dark hair half covering her tanned and scarred face, “With the few manners I was taught, I believe it is socially acceptable to offer someone a seat to rest on.” Her tightly bound hands presented the stone bench just across from her. Dales adopted half-hearted smirk,

“Try letting the Empress of Tamriel stand.”

Valeria ignored the Empress quip, as she began to string her bow once again, as Dales went to sit down on the offered chair, letting a brief gust of wind fly across her face. Even with her bound hands, the younger woman deftly applied maintenance to her weapon, as if she was an expert woodsman.  “I wasn’t actually mocking you, you know? I think it’s very noble, a person of your station  being so dedicated and stalwart. You, your brother, and your father.”

The girl’s eyes grew dark at her brothers mention, she tightly gripped the bow’s body. With a long sigh, she finally said, “I’m...i’m sorry for how I acted earlier, it was beneath a Tribune.” She closed her eyes and then did an apologetic bow, 

“It really was.” Dales said in agreement, “A display like that could get your head chopped off anywhere else.” She pondered, “It was unfair to your brother too. Embarrassing him so. My relationship with my brothers wasn’t exactly great either.” Dale's expression became stormy, causing Valeria to remain silent. Dales chuckled darkly, 

“The flash of your steel swords reminded me how it ended with my own family. I dont want to see that as a matter of principle for anybody. Do try to make up, please.”

Going right to murder “Does Rex Dales make it a habit to mess with the private affairs of other people's families?” 

“I do when it ruins the perfectly good food set before me.” Dales grinned, and the tiny smile appeared once more on the soldier’s lip. 

“Fair enough.” She said. 

“My childhood wasn’t exactly ideal too you know.” Dales said sternly, trying to push back the memories. “Privilege and wealth doesn't mean one is happy. I bet those pampered aristocrat daughters you keep hammering have problems of their own.” 

“Like what dress to wear to Cheyndiel’s winter ball?” Again her features went dark and she shifted nervously, as her gray eyes betrayed a hidden darkness, “I did not imply the sort for you. I could only imagine what father that snake was.”

“Indeed you could only imagine.” She said, grips of fiery pain exploding on her stomach for a single instant, before she conjured those memories down.  She grip her wrists and let the pain slip away, she had no idea why she was talking so personally with this girl, one potentially hostile, but she felt a kinship to her. We are third cousins after all. She gripped the stone desk she sat on, letting the wind flow across her face, “While I can fulminate on my forsaken childhoods and feel sorry for myself, tell me, how did count raised you?” Dales added snarky, “Are you another one in our tale with father issues?” 

She snorted, perking up  “That’s implying my father raised me at all. More like train.” 

"Daddy issues then." Dales muttered beneath her breath, which caused the Valeria to give her an annoyed look. "It seems every figure throughout history has cursed their fathers; me and you can come together on that at least." 

The Tribune's casual monotone suddenly blazed up and her face adapted a scowl as she practically spat, "Do not even think of comparing our fathers; Lord Domitus is a thousand times the man your parasitic, craven of an Emperor your damnable father was!"  

Dales lifted her hands apologetically, "I meant nothing of the sort, milady. As i've said, I have great respect for your father." She paused, "All i'm saying is raising a child for the purpose of being a weapon is barbaric."

“What do you know of barbarism?" She was more relaxed, but her voice was still accusatory, "Because I was raised by a mountain goat.” She said sarcastically.  Her grey beads narrowed, “Father didn’t need a daughter. Or even children, he needed soldiers. He didn’t even need heirs anymore. And that’s fine by me; your acting like I don't enjoy being a soldier. That i'd rather be running around and frolicking's with those Imperial harlots." She seethed, "if any of those aristocratic...brats hung around me, they’d probably puke at the sight of a gutted deer or a man turned into an arrows pincushion!”

She had a very angry personality, Dales tried to defuse the hot-headed younger girl, "I didn't mean it that way! The aftermath of the Siege was a brutal time for this city, raising a child in those conditions to be a disposable meat shield just dosen't sit well with me. Your struggles-"

“How dare you. You know nothing of our struggles. None of the Empire does. Or what’s left of anyway.” She had a sudden outburst, her fists curling into a ball, and the veins on her temples manifested, alongside a layer of angry sweat. The darkness the Empress felt from her had returned, she sharply retorted, her eyes becoming downcast as she glared at the decaying moonlight; there was so much visible pain and sadness on the Tribune’s face for that single second.  “The siege was just the beginning. Our vulnerability was a beacon to vultures across the Heartland. And they came. Bandits plucked on our side like wounded mountain lions being tormented by scavengers. Slavers abducting people from their decaying hamlets, disappearing in black crass carriages, children and women never to be seen again. Monsters preying on the weak from the forest; the unguarded roads a haven for abominable infestations.” The girl’s face snarled, “The Dominion nearly rended us apart, and Mede stomped on what was left.” Her wrapped fist clenched, “Father didn’t want another child; he acknowledged me as his daughter because it was convenient to do so, another sword to wield. He needed Captains to organize soldiers, ready supply wagons, order what troops he still possessed, and consolidate, fortify, patrol, and secure what resources we had left. Not aristocratic brats screaming about what golden pig roast was to be fed to them, or the latest gem adorned dresses from Alinor they could acquire for them. After the devastation of the Great War, we weren’t his children, we were to be groomed as his commanders. And it was his right to do so. Do you know what our condition was?!  Our city falling apart around us, while we scampered like rats seeking shelter in destroyed buildings! While you ate from the fat roasted pigs the connections your family, a family of Sutch, had to White-Gold and the blasted Knife-Ears, children froze from exposure, people starved, woman's skin boiled from disease!  

Dales felt a pit in her stomach grow, guilt, shame, and such regret from what he family did. She managed to stutter out, “Emperor Mede must have done something.” 

“The cur left us to rot in our devastation.” Her voice suddenly raised, drawing the attention of Dales men over yonder. Dales was startled by the outburst, but she didn’t jump back. Tears formed on Valeria's face, but she held them back like any good soldier. 

“They forgot we existed. We were null to the Ruby Throne, nothing. Nothing.” Dales found the blazing source of Sutch’s bitterness. A mad accusatory smile played on her lips, “No troops, no supplies, no help. After father refused to accept the White-Gold Concordat he was removed from the Countship, and your.” Her nails entered her palm, “Miserable. Parasite of a father given his throne. On paper only mind you, the people of Sutch did not cede their honour and authority to Thalmor-fucking sycophant's.  We were nothing....nothing at all." 

Pain crept on the Empress's face, "I...I don't know what to say...." 

"Of course you don't, you stride into here with your white-gold guards, with your head held high, like you have the right to belong here, that this is your home because you were born here." Her bound hands dug into themselves, as she got up from her chair, her black locks flowing in the breeze. The moonlight illuminated her eyes, "A lost lamb, begging for forgiveness for her families crimes." Dales felt her heart stir, "You tell yourself, it was a quest for allies around the heartland. But I see the self-loathing you wrap yourself in, the pain, the agony for your families sins and your own."

"You know nothing about me." Dales expression became bitter and dark, she snarled, facing the Tribune's accusatory gaze with one of her own,

"Tell me then, Dragon-Empress." Dales shuddered at that nickname people had been calling her, "Tell me, explain the situation to me."

Dales thought long and hard. Her features were relaxed again, and in the starlight, the Tribune could see guilty tears begin to fall. Dales freely and often cried, it was just the way she was. Her cold blue eyes closed, as she began to mutter, “Father wanted a title; it looked good for him regardless. It made him seem legitimate in the eyes the rest of the Elder Council and the aristocracy; for his aims that was enough.” So much loathing overwhelmed Dales, she hated her father, but that didn’t describe the seething emotion within her, as a daughter of Sutch . Disgust crept on her face, she finally understood after all those years; “It didn’t matter if it was nominal, “in name only” rule; as long as he held such prestigious labels, alongside it’s lands and titles  it mattered not to him...and It made him seem even more legitimate on the throne when Mede was removed from the picture." Was that bastard planning this since the start?!”This pleased the Dominion even more; one of Cyrodiil’s most defiant City’s, humbled, and trampled under control of a public sycophant.” Dales blue eyes filled with rage, “Titus Mede II let this all happen...because it fit the narrative he peddled. Sutch….Sutch was to be a display; a reflection of what would have happened if the Concordant wasn’t signed, and what would happened to all of the Empire if the Dominion wasn’t placated for the time. That bastard....” Dales eyes filled with horror, “The Dominion did this to you, and …the Empire...we sustained it. To send a message." 

The Tribune solemnly nodded, “The stark finds the mountain top. So no Your Majesty. I don’t hate you. I hate the thing you represent; other provincials often say the only thing White-Gold cares about is Cyrodiil, but I disagree.  The Ruby Throne did nothing while bandits tore apart Anvil, when brigades roamed the forests burning and raping, and destroying the livehood of Imperial citizens, when OUR city rotted!  Amaund, Mede, there all the same! All of their actions were to secure their own power, screw the other provinces, screw the rest of Cyrodiil." She looked at the Empress with a forlorn expression, "My anger earlier was aimed at the piece of jewelry you wear, and the throne you sit on. I am not my brother. As long as you wear those, this hatred inside me will never wane. Never grow dim to what the Throne has done to it's own people." And with that, the raven-haired ranger sat up from her bench, taking one final look at the dying stars. "I will take my leave then. The night still has wonders to show, so you may linger if you wish. Nine protect your sleep, Rex." She retrieved her arms, and then did a proper bow and turned away...

Only to be stopped by a flash of blonde hair. The Empress had gotten off the bench, and grabbed her by the hand. She began to pant, as her tongue became twisted with words. The Tribune gave her a strange look, as she glanced down, Dales was gripping her hands. Taking a mouthful of air, she managed to stutter out, “Your...your eyes are beautiful, just like the dying starlight.” She had never been drawn to another person like this.  "Stay with with me. Let's watch the fading stars together." 

The Tribune regarded her strangely, a frustrated look of bewilderment. It melted away, before she managed to say. 

“And your eyes are like cold embers; expelling their frozen chill into the hearts of man. So bitter and unforgiving in every choice you’ve made since sitting on the Ruby Throne.” She paused; lingering on the Empress’s face in the moonlight; seeing the girl's unchanged annoying smile linger on her face caused her temple to pulsate with annoyance; a gaze of both sadness and acceptance. She laid forth her bitter feelings of hatred, yet the strange Breton girl still accepted them with open arms. Without any struggle, she let Dales hand remain where it was, but still unsure of accepting them.. Her tightly wrapped hands trailed around Dales palm, before they relaxed, and let their hands brush against them. The much smaller, but older woman stepped to the side, closer and closer, and she went right beside the hooded Tribune, gripping her hand, as if she was pleading for help in her own way. 

She’s just as alone I as am. 

Forlorn as that broken tower we both glimpsed. As alone as when herher blade fell across the skin of the Dominion Assassin. 

They both thought at the same time, feeling each other's deep pain and longing for the same thing. 

Without another thought, the Tribune fingers wrapped around the Empress’s, accepting her extended warmth and they wordlessly gazed above at the fading stars for hours, holding the others hand.