Forged in Fire, Baptized in Blood - Ixar

Chapter 1: The Delegate

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When the dispatch from Alinor arrived, it took First Emissary Elenwen less than an hour to find the best elf for the job.

They needed an operative who would stay where he was supposed to. To spy in the daylight and distract everyone from his true mission.

Altmer are not good at discretion. Bosmer are terrible at most forms of magic. Khajiit are simply too suspicious. When the first emissary received the dispatch from the Supreme Ambassador herself, she knew the best man for the job: Ancano.

Ancano was a crafty operative. He was not only quite an expert in magic –one of the best torturers in Northwatch who had graduated from the Royal College of Alinor with flying colors in Destruction and Illusion- but he was also blunt in his approach. So blunt in fact that none had actually seen through his act to see if he is doing anything underhanded. In contrast with Ondolemar who everyone deduced was planning to stab someone in the back, Ancano’s unorthodox approach had never failed yet.

Oh, the fact that Elenwen was quite peeved at him helped too. A few years in the ice fields would probably do the mer some good.

When Ancano, agent of the Thalmor and servant of the Aldmeri Dominion entered her office, he was not amused. “First Emissary,” he said importantly, “why have you summoned me?”

“Isn’t it obvious, my friend?” The emissary, one of the few she-elves outside of Alinor itself who could trace her lineage back to the Old Guard, responded, “you have a new mission.”

Ancano did not reply. His stature nor his expression changed. Elenwen smiled, “Alinor has decided that our mission in Skyrim requires a delegation to the College of Winterhold, the only place of knowledge this wasteland has to offer. You drew the short straw.”

“Since when does Skyrim have a college?” Ancano raised an eyebrow. A question not without merit, the local Nords were known for their rather deep lack of trust for magic. Elenwen smiled coldly, however, “if you had paid attention in the history lessons you indubitably received in Alinor, you would know. Despite the hatred these… people… are prone to show for the clever craft, there is in fact a place of knowledge in this land. One of the oldest, in fact. The College may not be worthy of his historical fame nowadays, but it was nonetheless built by Shalidor himslf.”

“And what was this Shalidor? A Halfmer?” Ancano was not known for his affinity to read books. Or his knowledge about other races. “Ironically enough, no. He was a Nord. Or possibly an Atmoran, Providence knows they were still migrating en masse from the Cold North even that late into the first era. The old books aren’t quite clear on it other than naming him one of the Children of the Sky. Nevertheless, you are to travel to this so-called college as the Dominion’s delegation. Their Arch-Mage, Savos Aren, is a Dunmer well renowned for his tolerance of foreigners and he will expect you. You will receive the full briefing for your mission in a few days’ time after you arrive in the College. Auri-El guide you.”

The operative tried to protest, but he could not find a logical reason to evade this mission. Bailing would probably prove that he was not prominent enough to be candidate for any promotion anytime soon, and one had to resort to hardships for success to be in reach. He had no other choice, really. “Your will is done, first emissary. For the Dominion.”

It was a month later that Ancano arrived at the city of Winterhold. Five soldiers escorted him and Estormo, his closest confidant, walked by his side.

“If this is what goes for a city in this backwater, you can’t really blame the Nords for their state of life, can you?” Estormo asked mindlessly, “They have it all wrong”

He was, of course, right. A few wooden huts, less than a score of Nords walking around in rags, and one building for both the guard force and the civic government. The few Nords who still lived here walked around, got drunk at night, and cursed their poor life at day, not even working. Not that there was any work to be found. Maybe the city was notable in its long history, but it indeed was the most desolated waste Ancano had ever seen or read about.

The only point of interest in the entire frozen city built atop a frozen rock was a castle in the sky. The building was built on a reverse pyramid hovering in the sky, connected to nothing. At some point, it was probably built atop a hill, but the Great Collapse had destroyed much, Ancano supposed it was a show of the Magic of the college that it was intact, if barely.

Unlike most colleges Ancano had known, visited, or attended throughout Tamriel, Winterhold’s college had no use for teleporting runes. It used the much more sophisticated magic of a bridge. A gate, actually.

“I suppose this is your stop.” Looking at the college, Estormo sighed. “We will make base somewhere warm nearby, perhaps somewhere near the Shrine to Azura up in the hills. I will delegate your new objectives as soon as I receive confirmation that the Embassy knows we have made base. Auri-El’s providence be with you”

Dismissed by his confidante, Ancano walked towards the bridge. Nobody was even watching the gate. Even a rag-tag of Nordic Savages could probably break into the college if they really put their mind into it. As he walked, he ignored the look of disdain he was receiving from the locals. A few scoffed, a few spat, one dragged her child back into her hut. He paid no mind, all he wanted was to find a fire and a warm drink. At this point, even that was a luxury.

He had to admit, the college quickly exceeded his expectations. As soon as he stepped a foot on the bridge, everything changed. He noticed the visible power of the Mana Wells the college was built upon. He noticed that a foreign force viewed him as an enemy –at the very least a threat. The college, like other schools of magic (and unlike what he had expected), had a sentience of its own, and it did not seem to like Ancano very much. Ancano could change that.

The second thing Ancano noticed, of course, was a woman in front of him. More accurately, a female Altmer in what passed for the Expert Robes around Skyrim.

“Halt!” The lady behind the gates commanded. Ancano’s reaction, though embarrassing, was involuntary. He stopped where he stood, rigid and in attention, barely stopping himself from saluting as if to a sentry in a military base. He supposed the she-elf truly was a sentry.

“The way is dangerous” she started, “the gate will not open. You shall not gain entry.” She said so in a firm voice, even if her face looked like she had said it a thousand times to people who were probably all interesting but at some point had merged into a single blob of ‘useless tourist’.

Ancano said nothing. The letter from Lady Elenwen explained everything better than he ever could. The she-elf clenched his nose in disgust as she stared at the Imperial Seal and the Stamp of the Thalmor. She snorted when she read the text, and she sighed when she looked back at the new delegate. “Your letter is acceptable, I suppose. Follow me, I will lead you to the Arch-Mage.”

When the short –if somewhat challenging- hike atop the bridge was over, she opened the gate. “The Arch-mage is in his quarters. Atop the Eastern Tower near the Hall of the Elements. I suppose the gatekeeper of the Hall will need your letter too.”

The ambitious delegate did not respond for he was walking towards the hall. At this clear and evident dismissal, the she-elf abandoned her aloof attitude and meekly said “Welcome to Winterhold”

Chapter 2: The Victim

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As Eradil Enelvyn stared at the frozen ashes of what was once the proudest fortress against the Daedra in Skyrim, he could do nothing but remark on how it had come to this.

For his story to make sense, he had to return to the slopes of three weeks ago. He could remember it like it was not even a month ago. There he was, minding his own business. Protecting his pocket from probable thieves -rare as they were in Whiterun- when a pale individual in black robes went mad. Eradil –like most people of Whiterun- expected the man to be nothing but a monk on his way to visit Gildergreen before the Jarl could order it to be cut down and used as firewood for the incoming winter. He wasn’t the only one that had made visit –Whiterun had its own share of strange visitors.

What he didn’t expect was the monk not to have been here for the tree. He had made his visit two days ago. He hadn’t paid for a room in either the Bannered Mare or its less-known rival the Drunken Huntsman. In fact, Eradil didn’t remember noticing him going anywhere at night. Either way, the monk indeed went mad on that day. He went to the market square in the Plain’s District, where everyone in the city often was at this time of the day. He broke into the line in front of old Fralia’s stall only to buy a single sword –not even one of Eorlund’s own design, the absolute travesty-, scoff at the fresh products of Anoriath and Carlotta, and –exactly in the middle of the day, scream “Behold the power of night!”, drawing the sword, and plunging it into the neck of Brenuin, the local beggar who had just tried and failed to get some alms from Heimskr.

By the time Eradil had noticed what had happened and started to comprehend what he had seen, the city had fallen into chaos. After taking his first victim, the monk had abandoned his recently-bought sword entirely, turning towards the running townsfolk. “Fear me!” he screamed as he threw sharp spikes of ice at the fleeing people. Eradil, thrown into the ground at the beginning of the chaos, desperately came to his senses, trying to flee towards the nearest sanctuary.

By the time the guardsforce had arrived, the Pale Monk had took another seven victims, the largest in any single attack in Whiterun that Eradil knew or cared to think about, and that was only when the shedding of the blood started. The first guard to attack him struck with his steel sword at the man’s raised arm. The sword broke from the hilt. The monk roared, and the next second his arm was stuck out of the poor guard's back. “Send someone for Jorvaskr. We can’t defeat this ourselves!” someone shouted, a loud but calmly gruff voice responded “No need”

At this point, Eradil –the only citizen still in the battleground- was finally noticed by the Vampire. He turned around and Eradil could finally see his face. It was supposed to be a Nord. Or at least it resembled one, Eradil supposed. It was, however, not quite human. His cheekbones too high, his eyes too bright, his fangs too sharp. What wasn’t bright in the man’s face was decayed from the lack of blood. It was a creature of the night. The vampire noticed him, and the vampire pounced.

Eradil was not a fighter. By his nature, he had little skill in the melee. He could recognize that the sharp end of a stick was supposed to be plunged in an enemy, but nothing more. His knowledge of magic, alas, wasn't any more impressive. He was an apprentice in a city that tolerated no magic other than that of the Court Wizard’s or the Temple’s. The vampire did not care about his unfair advantage. With a swipe of his leg, he brought the fleeing elf down. Eradil knew his fate was sealed. The vampire was looking for food, and after so much bloodshed, there was no way he wasn’t going to take it. A blade, a spike of ice, or the dreaded Vampiric Drain, the only question was which would be the instrument of his death.

“Now your blood is mine!” The vampire grinned wickedly, and immediately afterwards fell on the elf. Eradil screamed, and then noticed the absolute lack of a bite or a moving enemy.

“Ugh” he cursed, “get off me” he did as he had demanded from the vampire, as it rolled away, he noticed the stick of wood sticking out of his stomack. He looked above to notice the extended hand of his savior. An Orc in a dark, grey chainmail Armor without a helm was looking at him. He held in his hand a crossbow, a rarity Eradil had heard about but never seen.

“Hey, you there” he said as he helped the elf up, “you alright?”

Eradil nodded as he cringed at a jolt of pain hitting his legs. “Thank you, kind sir” he said.

The Orc merely grunted. As the people slowly started returning to the scene of the crime –and as the guards began building a perimeter around the corpses of the vampire and its victims- the Orc shouted. “The Dawnguard is looking for anyone willing to fight against the growing Vampire Menace!”

Eradil wished he had the courage to say “Vampires? Sign me up!” Alas, his was not the path of courage. “What do you mean growing vampire menace?”

“Have you ever seen a vampire attack in broad daylight?” the Orc raised and eyebrow and scoffed, “no, let me reiterate, have you ever seen a Vampire attack a city center at all? You’re in shock now. Once you’ve come to your senses, you know where to find us. The Old Fort is east of Riften in the Dayspring Canyon on the path to Morrowind. You can’t miss it”

It was two whole weeks and three more Vampire attacks later that Eradil finally decided to join the Guard. The journey to the old Fort didn’t take long. The Canyon was on the path to Morrowind and a group of Dunmeri worshippers of Azura had stopped by Whiterun before returning home that he promptly joined on their way.

Three days later, one of the Mercenaries, a tall Dunmer wearing the Chitin armor native to Morrowind finally informed him that they had arrived at the Dayspring Canyon, Eradil’s stop. After wishing the elves a safe journey, Eradil entered the cave. A short distance down the path leading through the untapped canyon he noticed a nervous, excited Nord not even a day after his age of majority. “Ah, hey there!” the Nord said, “You here to join the Dawnguard too?”

Eradil ignored him. The Nord didn’t look any more a warrior than he did, other than the axe he had probably taken from his father’s home on his way here. Soon enough, he’d reached the Old Fort’s front door. Another man, wearing the same armor as the Orc had earlier, was waiting by the door.

The Warrior greeted Eradil and sent him in. “Isran”, he said, “will probably want to meet you.”

Inside the fort –in fact, in the only place in the fort that seemed to have any person in it- a Redguard with an armor similar t othe Orc was arguing with the only person nearby who’s regalia was recognizable. A Vigilant of Stendarr.

“Why are you here Tolan? The Vigil and I were finished years ago.” The Redguard asked. The Nord threw back “You know why I’m here, Isran. The Vigil is under attack everywhere. It wasn’t bad enough that your random hedge-witch summoned a Dremora on a rampage somewhere, now the Vampires are everywhere, and they’re more dangerous than we ever expected!”

“So that’s it? A ‘you were right’ and now you run to the safety of the Dawnguard?” The Redguard, the so-called Isran, snorted, “I remember perfectly well how Keeper Carcette repeatedly told me the Dawnguard is a crumbling ruin not worth the expense nor the manpower to repair. Now, you’ve pissed off the Vampires and need our protection?”

“Isran,” the Vigilant in question said solemnly, “Carcette is dead. The hall, everyone. They’re all dead. You were right. We were wrong. What more do you want me to say?”

“I never wanted this to happen, you have to know that” Isran, to his credit, looked apologetic, “I am sorry, you know- wait” he stopped, looking at the Elf for the first time, “Who’re you? What do you want in my Castle?”

“I’m here to join the Dawnguard” the High Elf said brightly. “You?” the Redguard was not quite as glad, “join the ‘guard? Have you ever raised a sword or axe at all?” Upon the meek shaking of Eradil’s hand, he snorted “what in Stendarr’s mercy do I even bother with guards anyway?”

“Look, I’ve seen the state of this place. Are you quite sure you don’t need any hands willing to help you?” Eradil pointed out. Isran wasn’t impressed, but he wasn’t quite unwilling to debate either. “Look around you, give me a few minutes to find something for you to prove your mettle first.”

Half an hour later, Isran had found his test. Eradil was dispatched to the Hall of the Vigilant three days later. There was no headquarters. The large building the Vigil had always boasted was simply no more. No outposts, guards, watchtowers, anything. In the place of the hall stood the burning remains of a building, a few of the still-intact corpses stacked here and there. Eradil had no way of knowing what they even were. Trying not to pay the smell much of a mind, Eradil tried to remember what the Vigilant in the Castle had said. Adavald, if Eradil’s memory could be trusted, had been abducted before the Hall was attacked. All Eradil could do now was to follow the trail of blood. Vampires weren’t one to waste blood, but he had no other leads. Hopefully that would lead him to his destination.

Obviously, it hadn’t. What it had done, however, was take him to a crypt; thus his current debacle. Inside, he was crouching behind a boulder as two vampires talked to each other below him; leaving the High Elf to question his own sanity. Who walks into a Vampire Lair anyway?

A damned Vigilant was lying on the ground. From up here, Eradil had no way of knowing who he was, but the Vigilant had taken two vampires with him.

Loading his crossbow, Eradil aimed at the head of the closest vampire. Fortunately, firing a crossbow didn’t require as much of a training as a longbow. All he needed was a straight hand, a firm grip, and a good aim. The first two he could train himself into in a matter of days –exactly as many days as one needed on a trip from the Rift to the Pale. The latter, Eradil supposed he had to rely on lady luck. With a prayer on his lips, he released the trigger. With a thung, a bolt left the crossbow. With a thud, a male Nord vampire crumbled to the ground.

That got the attention of the latter, a female Dunmer. She noticed his brethren, found the bolt, and began looking for a possible route. By the time she had found her target, Eradil had snuck to another boulder. By the time the she-elf had made way to the first boulder, Eradil had reloaded the bow. By the time the vampire had noticed him, she had a silver bolt stuck out of her neck.

The Vampire fell to the ground with open, confused eyes and Eradil released a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. That he came to regret only a second later. A loud, demonic bark somewhere in the large hall explained patiently that he was still not alone. A black dog leaving a whisp of smoke behind it glared at him and snarled with his mouth open, showing his too many teeth. Cursing at his stupidity, Eradil dropped the crossbow.

He was lucky. He may not be much of a fighter or a mage, but fire is something every person in Skyrim has to know. He called upon the aura of destruction and unleashed a turret of flames upon the beast. Fire is naturally a concept canids are fearful against. This one was a vampire. Fire did not make it flee, fire burned the unlife out of it.

Walking with caution, the elf walked towards the tower-like structure in the hall. The gate the the two vampires were guarding –and that the Vigilant had tried to enter- was locked. It was probably only opened from a grate in the tower. He was, of course, right. The gate opened. Eradil mindlessly flipped the Vigilant over. Of course, he sighed loudly. It was Tolan, the same man who had survived the massacre in the Vigilant’s Hall in the first place.

Walking deeper into the now-obvious crypt, he found another vampire. Quickly taking cover behind the wall, he silently raised his crossbow, aiming at his pale, bald hair.

“Master” a drone-like voice said from in the room, “there is an enemy nearby”

Eradil nearly dropped his crossbow. It was a hunter, if his bow and arrows –and the lack of actual armor- could be trusted. And quite probably a vampire’s thrall.

Darn

The creature turned around. Now that he knew what to look for, he could see it. “Ah”, he exclaimed excitedly, “food. Excellent!”

Eradil discharged the crossbow accidentally. The wooden bolt lodged itself in the Vampire’s left eye, and the creature of the night fell to the ground.

For fearsome monsters, these are quite easy to kill, he thought as he prepared to die by the hunter-thrall’s hand, but despite the cry of shock and pain, the hunter did not attack him.

“W-where in oblivion am I?” he asked as he regained his senses.

Really? That’s what your question is? Eradil scoffed as he answered “A crypt near the Hall of the Vigilant. Do you remember how you got here?”

“All I remember is tailing an elk. This guy in a crazy armor just-“ he looked at the dead vampire at his feet, “yes. This was him. A Vampire? Oh, gods have mercy, what has it done to me?”

“I haven’t the slightest clue, Nord” the Elf said, “But there is a settlement nearby. You can probably buy a potion to cure anything the vampire might have put in you. I’d visit a priest or a shrine too, but I don’t know how useful that might be.”

After the Hunter finally left the crypt -telling the Vampire Hunter how much he owed the man-, the unlikely Hero of this story walked deeper in the crypt yet. Close by, he found a fallen vampire, a large spider, and a few thralls. It did not require the Wisdom of Xarxes to knew what had happened here. As he killed his way through the vampires, he slowly began noticing the distinct change in architecture. The crypt had started Nordic –just like what Eradil expected a Nordic Crypt to look like- but now? This was not Nordic. Not even Atmoran. It was just as old, but different in every way. He had yet to find the last of the survivors. His task was not complete yet, and he was too curious to see where this would end now.

He opened the last door in the crypt, finding a cavern. It was quite likely meant to connect this crypt to another, but what he was in was a balcony and in front of him were two of the creepiest –most scary- statues he had ever seen. Grotesque monsters straight out of the nightmares of a Daedric Prince, with sharp talons and long stone wings. As he approached the balcony, planning on descending to the lower leve, he heard a clear oath.

“I’ll never tell you anything, Vampire!” It was a Vigilant, the survivor he had been trying to find. “My Oath to Stendarr is stronger than whatever suffering you might inflict on me!”

“Oh I believe you” one of the three vampires on the ground said in a bored drawl. “I don’t think you even know what treasure you have found here. Have no worry, you have your beloved god to meet”

There was an audible snap, a low grunt, and the distinct thud of a body falling into the ground. The last vigilant had been killed. Damn.

“Are you sure that was wise, Lokir?” a feminine voice –probably another Vampire- said, “He might’ve still told us something. we have no idea what-“

“Do be kind enough not to undermine me on my own mission, Amnala” the Vampire, Lokir, said, “We can talk after I-“

Eradil had heard enough. He aimed his crossbow at the male vampire’s head and squeezed the trigger. He failed.

Well, he supposed his luck had to run out some time.

Not that he missed his target entirely; oh no. The Bolt struck the Nordic Vampire in the shoulder, staggering it as the silver in the bolt began taking effect. A little higher or lower, and the Vampire would have died, but yet all Eradil had done was incapacitate the leader temporarily and enrage its followers.

“Someone’s here!” the other Vampire snarled, she ran to Lokir, Eradil noticing her throwing a spell at the dead vigilant’s body as he went by, “You’re going to owe me for this, Nord.” She warned as the dead Vigilant was arose by the blue hue of the spell the vampire had thrown his way.

A necromancer!

Eradil still had one advantage. The High Ground, and the fact that the vampire had no idea where he- The female vampire looked at him.

Nevermind.

The female vampire raised her hand. A red aura surrounded her palm that she unleashed at her new victim. A jet of red light emitted from the vampire’s palm, and Eradil winced as the spell began taking effect. As he began feeling the effect of the spell he understood why a Vampire would like to use it. If it went on for another minute, there would no longer be an Eradil Enelvyn. Eradil raised his loaded crossbow and aimed at her hesitantly, his strength leaving him by the minute. With the last of his strength, he squeezed the trigger.

The vampire fell with a thud, the bolt sticking out of its chest. As soon as she was down, her unwitting thrall –failing at climbing the stairs of the balcony- had been reduced to ashes. Eradil did not wish to take any chances now, and so unleashed his entire pool of magicka upon the other vampire, the named ‘Lokir’, the moment he heard it moan and regain consciousness. The entire magickal force of an Altmer, concentrated in form of white-hot flames, burnt the vampire alive as it screamed in pain and agony. Given what Eradil had just went through and what the beast had done to the Vigilant minutes earlier, Eradil had no sympathy to give.

The Vigilant’s ashes held one thing intact, surprising as it was. A book written by the now-fallen-man’s own hand. Eradil opened the book after clear off the dust. The place was, apparently, named Dimhollow Crypt. With the name alone, he could deduce it was Vampiric in origin. No wonder it did not look like any Nordic Ruin he’d ever heard about. That was, obviously, all the Vigilant had time to discover. Alas, the Wheel turned to Eradil Enelvyn to continue his research. The fledgling Vampire Hunter stepped forward, a bridge connected the mainland to an island inside the Cavern. It was as much of a proof as one needed to learn the sheer efficiency of the Ancients in architecture. There was a dome, high and tall as six men, in the middle of a ring of columns that supported stone archs. Some of them had to have fallen apart, being there for so long. In the center, there was a stone pedestal half as tall as him, made of a purple marble, with a stone mushroom on the top. He walked towards it, quickly deducing the mushroom had to be a button.

Whatever is inside the island will not reveal itself until I touch the button he pondered, and put his hand down on it, cursing a second later.

A thorn flashed upwards and with a snickt returned to the stone again, tearing the Elf’s hand apart. As pain jolted in his hand, he yelped and grabbed it, “who in Oblivion puts a trap inside a button?”

As he called upon the magic of restoration, he waited for something to happen. A door to open, a lever to be released, a gate to be raised, anything.

He was not disappointed. Once the thorn retracted and the blood on the stone disappeared, the lines carved around him lit up to what looked like cold violet flames.

Blood magic. He pondered. he noticed that a line of flame broke off from the circle and moved outwards. Following the line of flame, Eradil saw that there were even more lines carved in the stone beneath him. The line of flame moved, until it reached the first brazier. Then it stopped. Eradil, now with his hand healed as much as he could, walked to the new brazier. It could be moved. Eradil chuckled at the simplicity of the supposed puzzle as he moved the brazier to where the flames ended. He continued doing the same for the next other braziers, and once he was finished with the last, the center of the structure began sinking right beneath him, revealing more of the pillar.

As the shaking and the sinking and the moving stopped, he approached the pillar in the center. In the middle, right in front of him, there was a cylinder just a tad taller than him. He found another button. If this one has a thorn too, I swear to all the divines that I- he pushed the button.

Wait. That was no cylinder. It was a sarcophagus. Someone was inside.

Noticing his mistake too late, Eradil brought his hand to his nose as the sarcophagus lid fell down and it sprung open. He was ready to puke, but there was no need; for there was a body inside but she sure as hell wasn’t a corpse.

“Uhhh” The mysterious woman opened her eyes, “where is- who sent you here?”

Chapter 3: The Vagrant

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That night was quite a profitable one for Bee and the Barb. The bar was nearly full of patrons, the usual crowd –those few who never had a reason to return home until far later at night, the ones without the ability to cook, and the ones who needed the drink to make the days go by- were all there. A few beggars were filling their stomachs with venison –thanks to the priest of Mara who had took pity on them- Maul was sitting in a corner with a bottle of mead in his hand, trying to forget the day he’d gone through, and then there was Marcurio, Riften’s very own sorcerer-mercenary, telling another one of his tall tales.

“The damned Draugr were everywhere, none of them would step back. Fifteen deadly warriors, each back from eternal sleep; armed with gleaming swords of ebony you could see your reflection in. I knew I was screwed. That, I swore, was the last time I was ever taking a fetch job.” He paused, “or so I thought, like every other time I’m on a job.” Two or three were still paying attention –the action-packed part of the story with the Draugr and the singing was over after all- but most were busy wallowing in their own misery.

“Marcurio telling another tall tale?” the well-dressed man sitting next to him asked. He was new. Krex would have to know; the tavern was nearly his home given how much he frequented the joint. That didn’t mean he was new though. Brynjolf was a common sight in Riften. He had a stall in the open market and a history of selling ‘wonders’ every time he ran out of money. Like every other salesman in Riften, he was full of sh*t and empty of everything else. His ‘wonders’ were nothing but scams and everyone knew he was a charlatan, but in a city of charlatans, he never lost his customer base.

Chapter 4: The Rogue

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“Any new rumors you could share with us, barkeep?” said a stranger in hide armor. An adventurer on his way, most likely. Few visited The Stumbling Sabercat if it wasn’t on their way. Its unfortunate position inside a military fort –one that had until recently been used as a bandit holdout until the Stormcloak Rebellion had cleared it out- made sure that nobody would go out of their way to visit the inn. That made The Stumbling Sabercat both a poor business to hold and a perfect place for a man to get lost in. In this case, a mer.

The tavern’s new owner was Shadi Sendu. A Redguard woman who had lived Windhelm for most of her life until she had learned that Baral, the former owner of this joint and her distant cousin, had been murdered. She had been part of the contingent that had cleared Fort Dunstad. Well, not part of the contingent, she was an army cook, and she’d managed to appeal to her commander’s sense of pity to be allowed to visit the place her cousin had been butchered in. When the soldiers settled in, so did she.

“Not much to share, Orngar.” She threw back. “A runner from Windhelm posted a new missive for recruitment. I don’t suppose you wish to serve the land of your forefathers?” Upon hearing the scoff coming from the adventurer’s side, she continued, “three Vigilants asked for sanctuary for the night on their way to the Rift; a Companion popped up to cash in their price for returning a prisoner to the Fort.”

The lady continued to point out every event of interest that had happened the last few days, not even remotely aware of the fact everyone in the Inn had been aware of that. She finished her list of events with “oh, and apparently a lad in Windhelm tried to call for the Dark Brotherhood lately; if the traveler I heard this from can be trusted.”

That got Farwil’s attention. A sacrament? In Windhelm? Without taking his look off his venison, the Dunmer perked his ears.

“A lad tried the Black Sacrament?” the adventurer, apparently, was of the same mind, “Are you sure?”

“It’s just a rumo, Orngar. What I heard from a travelling mercenary on his way to Whiterun. A kid just above the Grey Quarter locked himself in his room. The man in question heard the sounds of slashing and stabbing, and he got curious. He asked around.” The adventurer shot back, “And what is Jarl Ulfric doing about all this? Why’s the lad not shipped to Honorhall yet?”

The conversation probably went on, but Farwil had heard enough. If he was lucky, he had finally found his opening, a way into the last Sanctuary of the Dark Brotherhood. Farwil Berano rose abruptly. He left a purse of coin on the table –probably more than enough to pay for the tab he’d gathered in his long stay in the inn- and rose to finally leave The Stumbling Sabercat. He had a reason to live again.

Farwil arrived in Windhelm only a day before Skyrim heard the Greybeards make their call for the first time in two eras. Despite its rich history with the Dunmer in the last few centuries, Windhelm had a reputation as the coldest city in Skyrim, and it was not just for the chill in the air. No matter how much of its atmosphere had been exaggerated by Imperial Propaganda the last few months as the war began in full force, Farwil had no intention of becoming the center of anyone’s attention in his hopefully short visit in the Oldest City of Skyrim.

Thankfully, there was one occupation that everyone would accept even a Dunmer of doing. Thanks to a surprisingly intelligent Orc’s timely visits to most important cities in Skyrim, the Dawnguard –an even more zealous version of the Vigil of Stendarr, if you could believe it- were famous enough that nobody would question a person beginning an inquisition as long as he wore the appropriate armor and acted appropriately self-righteous.

Not that Farwil even needed the armor for investigation. Walking towards what used to be the Snow Quarters, it took the Elf minutes to get as much of a confirmation as one possibly can get that an individual is performing the Sacrament without being in the know.

“So it’s true then, what everyone keeps saying” a child was saying, “That the weird Aretino kid is doing the Black Sacrament? Is he really trying to summon the Dark Brotherhood?”

“Ah, little Grimvar, always with the creativity.” A fellow Dunmer responded. She was a Sadri –a Hlaalu, not that there were many non-Hlaalu out of the Grey Quarters anyway- and apparently she had swallowed her pride, if the way she talked with ‘her little Lord’ was anything to go by, “No, no. Of course not. You know better than to trust baseless rumors, m’lord.”

“Oh?” The child –Grimvar- responded, “then I’m sure there’s no problem if I invite him out to play. I’m sure Sophie will be glad to have a new playmate other than little old me. I’m going to knock on the door and-“

“No!” the Dunmer caretaker snapped as she grabbed the boy’s arm roughly. Grimvar turned and stared at the Dunmer with a curious glint in his eyes. The Dunmer slowly took her hand off him with a sheepish look on her face, “You are right, m’lord. The house –and the child- they’re both cursed.”

“Then I was right. He really is trying to get someone killed!”

“I will not deny what you know for sure, child” the Dunmer sighed, “What you heard is true. But Aventus Aretino walks a dark path. His actions can lead only to ruin. Now come along, you have your daily duties to attend to, and I have Lord Torsten to return to.”

As the Dunmer and Nord left the house, Farwil had heard all he cared to. Aventus Aretino –he certainly remembered hearing the rumors of the first child in many decades to flee the Honorhall Orphanage- but not that he was so desperate for death.

As he entered the house –picking the lock was not much effort, especially thanks to Farwil’s hefty opening spell- he winced at the stench. The filthy, stinking smell of a corpse. Someone was certainly doing something here. Farwil raised his head. The shadow on the roof completed the scene for him all the war. All he could see was a hand, holding a sharp blade, coming down again and again.

“Sweet mother, sweet mother, send your child unto me; for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear” a boy was whispering, chanting quietly as he stabbed something in the chest. It was probably a human once but whoever the boy’s volunteer had been, she had been dead long enough.

As the Elf climbed the stairs, he took note of the person responsible for the first Black Sacrament he’d ever heard in Skyrim in many decades. It was clearly Colovian. Too pale for a Redguard, not pale enough for a Nord, taller than any Breton had the right to be. Didn’t have the Colovian accent, but that was understandable. The boy was stabbing the corpse, firmly held inside a circle of candles leaving grey fumes with a dagger coated with petals of nightshade. He was sobbing quietly as he recited the summoning words. That was understandable too. Few were in a state of calm when they resorted to this most excessive way for retribution. Even grown men and aged Mer were shaky when performing a Sacrament, no wonder the child was sobbing.

“Enough” he said calmly, “Your cries have been heard and answered”
The child nearly jumped in shock. He quickly grabbed his dagger in a poor icepick grip and turned as he dropped low into a fighting stance. But then, he actually took the meaning of what Farwil had insinuated. “You came!” he said, sobbing as he laughed, “you’re finally here! I performed the Sacrament for too long, oh divines I was almost losing hope”

The Elf said nothing. He probably should have mentioned that thanking the divines after one of the most heretical acts one can take is generally not a good idea, but that was not his place. The boy continued, “but now you’re here. You can receive my contract!” he cleared his throat, “I want you to kill a person. I want you to kill Grelod the Kind.”

“The kind matron of the Orphanage?” Farwil looked at the boy, speaking after a few seconds of silence, “why?”

“My… my mom passed from the cold last winter. I was sent to the orphanage in Riften. To Grelod. They told me –they told us- she was a kind woman, that she was ‘the mother we couldn’t have’,” he scoffed, “well she wasn’t. She hit us every day and didn’t give us food and made us do- and… and… and I want her dead” he said with a tone only a few seconds away from bursting into tears. This much hatred, Farwil had not seen in a child –though mind you, it was common in people who performed the sacrament. “I wasn’t even the only one-“ he boy continued, “everyone wants that old bag of nasty gone. I was just the only one who managed to escape. I escaped, escaped and returned home. Please, sir. You have to kill Grelod!”

“I will see what I can do” the elf sighed, “do me a favor. Get rid of the sacrament. The corpse, the petals, the candles, everything. If anyone comes to talk to you about a contract, deny everything. Can you do that, young man?”

“I will” he said as he sniffled, the elf responded “good. I will be back as soon as I am able to.”

And thus began Farwil’s second trip to Riften.

Grelod “the Kind” was not a nice woman. She did not exactly care about being nice; if anything she thrived to be as nasty to everyone as possible. It was, in reality, a surprise that she was still alive –one that she thought about every night as she took refuge in her room, trying to sleep. Nearly half the number of the guards in the city proper were his own former charges. In a city as lawless as Riften, with a person of her reputation? It was only the sheer fear they all had of her that left her standing.

“Now listen up, you no good pieces of skeever dung!” she said, giving the children their evening promotional speech, “Nobody needs you, nobody wants you! That’s why you’re here in the orphanage rather than with a parent or a relative or some other rubbish. You’re going to be here until you’re of age, and when you’re of age, I’m sure you’ll be just glad as I am to get your ugly mugs and your fat behinds out of my building and into that wide, horrible world outside. You get me?”

“Yes, Grelod, you’re very kind” the five children still in the building said in a monotone. Four had that lovely, dull look of hopelessness in their eyes. One still had some will left in her. Probably new, it generally took then a few weeks to lose that hatred and accept their fate.

No. Grelod was not kind, and that was by design. These children didn’t need, want, nor deserve kindness. They needed someone to show them the world for what it really was when they were still young and naïve. They would understand her kindness when they grew to have their own children, but not before that. Grelod could live with that.

When Grelod opened the door to her room –the only room in the Orphanage with a bed- she sighed. Her evening drink was on the table next to her reclining chair –thank the divines for Constance. She sat on her chair, she raised the mug, and she sipped her drink. She winced at the taste, it was sweeter than usual. Constance was not one to change habits this easily. Something was amiss.

“Had a nice drink?” The door to her room closed. Grelod’s eyes widened as a figure practically walked out of the shadow in the corner of the room. The figure –if it indeed was a figure and not a result of her old age catching up with her- was clad in all-black, not even its face was visible. “I hope you enjoyed it. One of your charges paid quite a hefty sum to make sure you could drink it as your last.”

That was when the poison kicked in.

As Farwil Berano left the building the same way he had arrived, he failed to notice two things. Failed, or did not care to. The door had not been closed completely, and –once they had heard Grelod’s gasp- the five children had all gathered behind the room, eavesdropping on whatever it was that was happening. Once the voices stopped, the children slowly opened the door. Their curiosity was enough that they were willing to even brave a beating –one that Grelod promised any child stupid enough to go into her room unannounced would receive.

The old hag was on her seat. Her eyes were open but her chest not moving. It was Francois Beaufort who was brave enough to check on her. As he raised a hand to catch her pulse, he half-expected the woman to grab it. A second later, he turned towards the other four. Upon seeing their curious looks and the untold ‘what?’, he shook his head discreetly.

“She’s… she’s dead?” Hroar, another child whispered. “Can’t believe it, she’s finally dead.” And the room exploded in exclamations about her death. It was only Runa Fair-shield, the newest addition to the Orphanage, who actually understood the ramification of what had happened. Aventus had finally did it. He’d freed them from Grelod. As she cheered along everyone else, she couldn’t help but ponder, kill one person and so many problems are solved. One can’t help but wonder…

“So” Aventus asked after the Assassin had returned to his home, “is Grelod… you know?”

“Yes” Farwil Berano responded, “Grelod the Kind is dead.”

“Yes!” The child jumped and punched the air, “thank you, thank you, thank you! How can I pay you for you-“

“I don’t take babysitting money” Farwil sniffed, “Instead, promise me to find yourself a caretaker. One way or the other. You have your entire life ahead of you, it will not do to be remembered only as ‘the weirdo who did the Black Sacrament’”

The child, of course, wasn’t paying any attention. “Kill one person and so many problems are solved! Oh, when I grow up I’m definitely going to become an Assassin too!”

By Sithis, he had created a monster.

Farwil already knew what was coming when he put his head on the pillow in the Inn. As he had left the Aretine residence, he had noticed the note pierced to the wall with a dagger. The piece of paper with a single Black Palm and two words: WE KNOW. His plan was working perfectly.

That was why he was not surprised when he woke up to the sounds of a marsh, and not that of Eastmarch. And that was why he did not lose his bearing when a woman, sitting leisurely on a shelf nearby said “slept well?”

The woman wore an armor Farwil hadn’t seen for a long time now –not since he burnt his own. She wore a face mask and most importantly, she had the signature blade of the Assassin Brotherhood on her hip.

“soundly. At least for a murderer.” Farwil grinned. He was in a shack, it was colder than even Eastmarch, but the sound of the frogs and the distant hissing of reptiles was a good enough reason for him to know that he was at least two holds west. The shack was made of pine. Somewhere close to High Rock, then. The Brotherhood had gone through quite the effort to abduct him.

The assassin lady jumped down from the shelf she was sitting on. “Don’t worry. You’re warm. Alive. Still breathing, with little poison in your body. You slept quite soundly too, as you yourself said. That’s more than what can be said for poor old Grelod.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not angry at you. It was quite the professional performance -Sithis knows it was better than half of my siblings’” Upon seeing Farwil’s blank face, she continued, “but the thing is, Grelod wasn’t yours to kill. Aretino was calling for the Dark Brotherhood” here she pointed at the black palm imprinted on her armor, “that’s us. Grelod was ours to kill. A kill stolen is a kill that ought to be repaid.”

The old “figure the contract” trick. He knew that one. He’d been on the wrong side of the joke once, and he’d played it far too many times not to recognize it for what it was. Recruitment. But, to continue with the charade, he dumbly said “repay? What do you mean?”

“There are three people with you in the cozy house we came to borrow. At least one is a contract.” She pointed to her left. A well-dressed Khajiit, a Breton in a tunic, and a Nord Mercenary were shackled to the walls nearby. Each with an execution hood on their head.

“So I get to choose which one is the contract?” “Aye, and if you pick the right choice, you’re free to go. Simple as that”

Not quite. Farwil had no time to cast a detect spell, but he was willing to bet his own dagger that he would be killed the moment he stepped foot out of the shack alone. OR rather, the assassins would try. He already knew this game. He’d played it too many times not to. But she didn’t know that. She unlocked her shackles and waved.

“Look, I’ve done nothing, alright?” The Nord said, “Just let me go. I don’t have to drakes to rub together, whatever you’re hoping to get from me, I can’t pay you!”

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to do anything” Farwil said reassuringly, “tell me, why are you here. What could you possibly have done to find yourself in this scenario?”

“How in the nine should I know? I’m just a drakeless mercenary. A blade for hire, you know. I’ve never done anything out of line that I wasn’t paid for!” he paused, “There may have been- no, it was war, right? sh*t happens. Can you blame me for doing what everyone does in war?”

In other words, a rapist and a bandit who used the badge of privateering he had received to go on rampages too many times and made the mistake of leaving a survivor once.

“Get me the f*ck out of here, you lousy, good-for-nothing milkdrinkers! I have six children to feed!” shrieked the Breton woman with an irritating aura of self-righteousness.

“So why are you here? Do you think anyone might want a reckoning with you?”

“I’m a single mother of six. I don’t have the time to make enemies, much less someone who wants me dead. How should I know?”

A bitter widow who humiliates her fellow citizens, then. One of her many victims did something drastic. Maybe committed suicide. Now, the victim’s relatives look to make the person responsible for their suffering pay. Dull.

“You are finally here for your true target, are you?” The Khajiit said, “worry not. It is Vasha. Obtainer of goods, taker of lives, defiler of daughters. If this one’s enemies did not ask for his head, Vasha would be offended. Now, release Khajiit so he can pay you in kind.

A bandit chief, then. Probably the leader of an organization Fultheim would work for. He didn’t even need to be a seasoned assassin with multiple contracts finished to figure this one out.

“Have you made your decision?” the assassin asked the dunmer. Farwil smirked. It was time for the big reveal.

“You’re not really a speaker, are you?”

“What?” the woman asked, losing her bearing, Farwil continued, “A speaker. You know, one of the four fingers of the hand. You are a dark sister, that much is obvious, but you don’t wear the robes. How can you be sent to recruit anyone?”

“The last Speaker died in Cheydinhal ten years ago.” The woman frowned, “there are no Speakers alive anymore.”

“The last speaker died five months ago” the dark elf corrected, “Sacrificed herself in Kvatch only so I could escape”

“You are a dark brother too?” “Yes. Took you this long to figure it out? These three are all contract. They will be dead no matter who I pick. They all deserve death too.” He said, “and that is irrelevant. Grelod is dead. I killed her to get in contact with you –that is to say, apart from doing every single orphan in Skyrim a favor. I want back in.”

“The more the merrier” the Dark sister sighed. “I suppose you know about the guards outside too. Fine, allow me to escort you to the Sanctuary. I’m sure everyone will be glad to see the person responsible for Grelod get his dues.”

The only active sanctuary in Skyrim was located in the Pine Forest, in a cave under the hill right next to the City of Falkreath, where he had first entered Skyrim from. The four assassins led him to the sacred door. The Breton, an assassin with two daggers strapped to her back, said “Well, we’re here.”

“What is the music of life?” the otherworldly door voiced. “Silence, my brother” The Breton answered, “Welcome Home”

The figure of the dreadlord on the door opened its eyes. The eyes flashed red. The black door opened. Inside, as is with all sanctuaries, there was nothing but darkness for those who could not see.

The Breton walked in first, vanishing into the void. A Dark Elf with a bow on his back followed suit. The Dark Sister that had the displeasure of recruiting him grabbed his arm and said “Like the door said, Welcome Home.”

The sanctuary was like any other in Skyrim. Apart from the fact it was quite obviously the lair of assassins. Banners of the Black Hand hung from the walls, and the inhabitants of the cave were all in an assassin armor, some form or the other anyway. Walking down the stairs, he entered a room almost identical to the old office in Kvatch.

A table with a strategic map of Skyrim in the middle of it, multiple black flags stuck out of the map, marking the known sacrament locations. There were two bookcases with morbid choices of words on them, and a room with a bed –probably that of the Sanctuary Matron- just behind the table.

“Finally!” The matron sighed in relief, “I hope you did not mind the entourage. The last person we told the location of the sanctuary turned out to be a Vigilant. The battle was messy.”

He nodded. The last person Marion the Speaker had made the mistake of informing the location of their own sanctuary had happened to be Morag Tong. The following battle was one bloodbath he wished never to see again. “I understand. What happens now?”

“Now? Nothing” the matron chuckled, “You join the family –well, return to some distant relatives, more accurately for you. Get comfortable. But first, some explanations: as you quite well know, we have no Listener”

Well, that was true. The last one had died in Bravil, protecting the Night Mother’s crypt. The Night Mother was en route, if the letter he had received a few days before Marion was any evidence, but she had not chosen a listener. Well, not yet.

“As such,” she continued, “finding the people who’ve performed a sacrament is a bit difficult. Once in a blue moon, we learn of a rumor like young Aretino’s problems. We dispatch a brother to take the job. Normally, however, we’re just blades for hire. Deadly blades that aren’t supposed to be seen, but blades nonetheless.” She paused, “I hope to change that soon.”

“How?” he asked, “Well, the Night-Mother is paying us a visit soon. She’ll be here, hopefully she’ll find us a Listener too –Sithis knows that’ll make things much much easier.” She sighed, “for now, we use Nazir’s system -I’m sure you remember the rules. Small-time contracts don’t come from the Matron herself. Nazir will probably have your next targets for you. For now, be sure to pick an empty bed. You’ll find a new blade and armor close by.” She paused again, “consider it a gift. May it serve well in all your” here she grinned, “endeavors.”

Chuckling quietly as he walked through the door, Farwil finally walked into what passed for a Great Hall in the Sanctuary’s cave. The main room was a large hall. It had a magesroom, a forge, and a sleeping chamber. A natural waterfall flew into a small cave next to a strange curved wall in the farthest corner of the hall –he wondered if the hall had been there for a long time. In the middle, there were a few people sitting around a spit. An Argonian was saying “again! Again, do the part where he tries to buy you candy!”

And when a little girl started talking, moving her hands exaggeratedly with a maliciously amused glint in her eyes, he smiled as he slipped into the crowd. He was home again.

Chapter 5: The Student

Chapter Text

For an aspiring mage to find his way, there are not many legal paths to follow in Skyrim. Rare as they are, Nords with an affinity for the Smart Craft have a few opportunities; most of these opportunities aren’t available to the unfortunate aspiring wizard who happens not to be born a Nord. One can visit the temples -rare as they are- for an education in Restoration, or at least the small part of it that pertains to healing. If one knows people in the right social circles, they might land an apprenticeship with a local mage -a Court Wizard is the most prestigious person in a hold to learn under, but there are more than enough mages to learn from in most courts. If an aspiring apprentice lives to see their graduation, they’ll leave the court an adept and left to their own device. Alchemists and Enchanters are more fortunate. Unlike the type of magic that manifests in form of forces of nature or otherworld, which most of Skyrim’s Nordic population -for good reason- tends not to trust, these more practical branches of the Fine Arts have always been an integral part of a society hoping for continued survival. If one has the money for it, he can find some dusty tome in a general store -something sold to the salesman by one adventurer or the other who found it on their travels.

Most aspiring mages tend to leave home early. Most have a poor home life -a mother not supportive enough of a talent that simply won’t bring food to the table or honor to the clan, a father wishing for a son to follow on his path- and few of them can ignore the call of magic for long. Eventually, every mage leaves home. Some of them find refuge in the mountains or the woods -teaching themselves magic with whatever books they can find. Some form covens -covens the Holds try their damned best to ignore so long as they don’t steal children from villages for experiments. Most of them die to the wild -magefights, the stray vampire or skeleton, not to mention the diverse and deadly wildlife of the land make short work of them long before they can hone their skills.

The smallest of the bunch do the smart thing. They travel to Winterhold. The College, the only noteworthy landmark of the once-capital of Skyrim -one of the small number of things of value still standing that far north- is home to all kinds of mages. Unlike Cyrodiil it busies itself not with the land’s politics, and unlike Morrowind, Hammerfell and -again- Cyrodiil few -if any- branches are deemed unacceptable to the tolerant mages in Winterhold. The College’s Arcaneaum is the largest collection of books available -within reason- to the public in all of Northern Tamriel, and its library of tomes can satiate any mage’s thirst for knowledge that the alumni just couldn’t.

Or at least, that’s supposed to be the idea.

The Class of 4E 199 had yet to see any such thing in action. In fact, their current lesson -held in the Main Hall by Alteration Master Tolfdir- was the first time they had experienced an attempt at this particular school of magic. Would be, at least, if they could convince their teacher to teach them any. Tolfdir, one of the greatest masters of Alteration in Northern Tamriel but also a master of Destruction -though he was nowhere as knowledgeable about it as his fellow alumni Faralda- and an expert in Restoration, was a great teacher in theory, but not a good one in practice. For the five weeks that had went by after the beginning of the fall term, Tolfdir had not taught his charges a spell. In fact, outside of telekinetically grabbing his textbook the first day, they had not seen him do even the smallest amount of magic.

The Class of 4E 199 was small. This was by design, the previous Class (4E 192) had been all-but cut in half. Two killed by bandits while on an ingredient collecting run and the other two killed by spell misfire, three expelled for poor scholarly practice. Three of that class still studied in Winterhold -both Adepts in their craft- it had taken until 4E 199 for the College to start taking students again. Class 199 would have no way of knowing this for sure, but the death of Yisra, one of the four, was the final nail in the coffin for Tolfdir, who had not just taught Destruction until 4E 196 but had provided the very tome that had led to her painful end.

The Class was made of four students. Brelyna Maryon, a minor member of the Dunmeri House of Telvanni, was an apprentice of Conjuration -courtesy, truly, of her upbringing by a house of Magelords- and well on her way to reach that level in Destruction and Alteration. Onmund, a Nord hailing from Kynesgrove, was probably only weeks away from making it as an Apprentice in Destruction though he couldn’t boast for his prowess in any other school of magic. The middle-ground between them was filled with J’zargo, a Khajiit who saw magic as mostly a source of prestige and fame. A thief by occupation and a braggart by choice, he knew enough in every branch -apart from Destruction where Onmund excelled and Conjuration where Brelyna had no competition whatsoever- to surpass his peers. The fourth, and final, of the class was a fellow Nord.

Asmund of Bruma, known by his peers as Firehelm for his flamelike red hair, was best described as a battlemage. He didn’t wear armor in class -like most Battlemages are supposed to- but his room in the dormitory had as much space for his armor and beloved sword as it had for tomes. Firehelm was an anomaly among his peers. He had much wider reserves of magicka than Onmund -or really, any other Nord in the College other than Tolfdir himself, who had the advantage of having studied magic for more years than most Nords even got to live. His tome collection was wider than that of any of his peers, but he flat out refused to learn, much less use, some of them.

On this particular day, class was held in the Hall of the Elements. Tolfdir was holding lecture, and as usual the foursome was in debate with him over applications of magic in real life. Tolfdir started his lecture the same way he did every time he held a sitting: “The thing you need to understand about magic- the thing that you frankly have no place in these halls if you haven’t in this last year- is that above all else, magic is, by its very nature, extremely volatile and dangerous. Unless you can control it, it can -and will- destroy you.”

This was normally when he started explaining on things that can -and often do- go wrong when an aspiring mage messes up the arithmantic equation -or much worse- the runiform sequence of a spell they cast for the first time. Asmund’s favorite was the one time he explained, in glorious details, what had happened to a necromancer who had failed to flow his magicka through his veins while trying to reanimate a skeever, only passing it from his under-breath to above-voice. This time, things were about to go a little differently.

“Sir,” Brelyna -by far the bravest of the four in her class- interrupted before Tolfdir could begin his rant in true, “I think we understand that fairly well”. She did not add the -frankly unneeded- ‘after the many times you’ve told us to justify not teaching us anything’. “We wouldn’t be here if we couldn’t control our own magic to some degree.”

“Of course, my dear.” Tolfdir had the ‘old mentor placating his rebellious student while not listening to him in the slightest’ part perfectly, if not much else, “You all certainly possess the inherent natural ability, that much one can’t deny. What I am talking about is true control: mastery of your own magic. It can take years, if not decades, of practice and study for a mage to learn whether that is even possible.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” J’zargo took part in the class the best way he knew how, by complaining, “It’s been nearly a year, Master, and we have yet to learn even a rune in this class. How can we learn if we are not taught? Are you going to teach us something?”

“Please, please!” Tolfdir said, calmly stopping both students with a wave of dismissal, “this is exactly what I am talking about. Eagerness in pursuit of knowledge must be tempered with caution, or else disaster is inevitable. A mage who forgets what truly controls his magic is dangerous not just to others but to himself as well. We must first go through the very basics -the fundamentals of magic as the Five-School Order teaches it- before we can begin to master it. Once you know how to control your magic, we can practice to channel it.”

“But you haven’t taught This One anything!” Jzargo cried. Onmund said “He’s correct. We have shown our aptitude -or the lackthereof- in every other class, but not Alteration. You have no idea how much control over our magic we have, because you haven’t taught us anything. Why not give us a chance to show you how much we need to be taught?”

“Novice Asmund” Tolfdir pointed at the only student not yet to say anything, “do you have anything to add to this discussion?” at Asmund’s meek shake of head, he sighed. “Fine. If you truly wish to be taught something practical, I can teach you what was first taught to me in this School. Should all of you show aptitude in this sitting, we will dedicate some part of your classes to practical use of Alteration.”

“As you all know, Alteration, as a primary branch of the Five-School Order, is built around forcing the very nature to do something it logically shouldn’t. This -as Alteration is both difficult to master and arcane compared to its fellow branches- might make this school seem to be useless, but what you need to know is that, like all Magic, it never is. As Alteration has no standardized branch-system like Destruction and Conjuration do, we will begin by practical, arcane uses for Alteration and then go for less common but much more applicable archetypes for this magic. As an aspiring Battlemage, Novice Asmund might take to this branch much easier than most do. What we will teach first is a Ward. Can any of you, after -what you say- is nine moons of study, tell me what a Ward is?”

“It’s- it’s a magic shield, right?” Firehelm said, for he wished to make a better impression than his meek headshake had, “one that can deflect magic at the cost of one’s magicka.”

“An appropriate answer, though not as verbose as befits your station,” Tolfdir conceded before he began explaining, “A ward is a defensive barrier sustained by its caster’s magicka reserves that can deflect or absorb incoming projectiles. While it is by no means as useful against incoming projectiles of the physical kind as a similarly physical shield or armor, it might as well be the most important spell you will have in your repertoire.”

Most of the class already had read their Tome on Lesser Wards. It was one of the twelve Novice Spells that the college provided the tome of for every student. While all four had tried their hand in summoning a ward, none of them knew how to sustain it for long. Not that they were to be blamed, the spell -if held for long- can be draining on one’s magicka reserves, and as Novices, they simply had not had the experience or magical maturity required to grow their reserves. Nonetheless, it was -to no one’s surprise- Brelyna who succeeded in casting her own Ward first. “Excellent!” Tolfdir, impressed to a point of his student’s skill, appraised, “If you could summon your ward once more for your peers to observe, Novice Maryon?”

Brelyna -now much less optimistic about her ward than she had been only minutes later, stood in front of the instructor, and summoned her ward again. “Wonderful” Tolfdir complimented again, before summoning the aura of destruction in his off-hand.

The thing one needs to know about wards is that their efficiency is primarily dependent on the relative strength of the magic they fight against. If Tolfdir had meant to, he could have burned the Dunmer down to her very bones, her -admittedly well-shaped- ward notwithstanding. Tolfdir, unlike Brelyna however, truly knew his own magic. What collided with Maryon’s ward was a firebolt. Not an impressive one- something all four students knew how to throw by this point, and even with her relatively impressive reserves, all it took for her ward to break down onto itself was that small firebolt. The firebolt, deflected only inches away from the Dunmer’s face, hit the ground in front of the two Nords and the Khajiit watching the spell.

“Given your magicka reserves and experience in Alteration, it is unlikely that a ward you produce can withstand a magic of your own level. A well-placed projectile of Apprentice level Destruction -or, truly, a turret spell sustained long enough- will break it down or weaken it considerably. That is not something you need to worry about however” he explained, “While a Ward spell can be difficult to sustain in long term -even for dramatically gifted Altmer with noteworthy reserves- it does not take much to cast one. It takes a short while to charge, and for a Novice, it is much more crucial to know to time it perfectly to deflect a single spell than it is to sustain it. For the rest of this week, practice your wards. Once I am convinced you are all adept in summoning, sustaining, and successfully applying your ward, we will begin with the non-sustained counterpart to it: the Mage’s Armor.”

Chapter 6: The Fledgling

Chapter Text

Sometimes, he wonders what would have happened if he had refused. Would he have made it to the Redguard in the Rift by now?

He sees himself on that very night. He sees himself as he had really been that day, standing upright and proud in front of a Lord who had lived longer than his whole line had existed. He himself knew how fearful he truly was -and, if Serana was true, so did every Vampire in the castle. The Lord would spread his arms wide and offer Eradil his blood. Eradil would turn in revulsion, offer empty platitudes and pleasantly deny the gift, and Harkon would expel him from the grounds of his castle, leaving him to the mercy of the exposure of Skyrim’s cold.

Of course, this would have never happened -he knows that now. Refusing Harkon’s so-called reward would only lead him to death or worse; Harkon had not named him guest, and he was smarter than to leave a mortal alive who knew where his court dwelled.

In his dreams, he refuses sometimes though, and that’s when he remembers. Vampires don’t dream, they suffer night horrors. He dreams that he says no. And he dreams that Harkon’s regal look turns predatory. “Then you are prey, like all mortals” he says with a tone sharper -more terrifying- than anything he has heard in his life or unlife. He runs. Sometimes, he makes it out of the hall. Sometimes he even makes it to the boat and begins paddling. In the most terrible, he reaches Skyrim and panting, begins running for somewhere, anywhere, that might give him shelter. He never does. No matter how far he gets, regardless of how he words his refusal, regardless of how he flees, they always catch him. Sometimes it’s the Deathhounds’ cold, unearthly teeth tearing him apart. Those are shortest, they might as well be pleasant dreams.

In this life, Eradil did not refuse, of course. He had no way to, and the longer he thought about it -in those excruciating, never-ending handful of seconds before he responded to the standing, flesh-made-Gargoyle that spoke to him with a tone more regal than a man had any right to- the less sense it made to refuse. Don’t even think about what had drove him to that dim, hollow crypt in the first place. Forget the burning flesh and falling wood of the Vigil’s Hall. See not the gruesome scenery in the castle’s hall -the carved flesh of mortals on the tables and moaning, living thralls with the unnervingly empty stare standing ready to be used by vampires too lazy to ever leave the safety of their castle. Harkon’s aura was the only thing that mattered. An adept mage he may be, Eradil was certainly not an expert in Vampire Lore, but even he knew that this was not what most meant when they talked about Vampires. The Castle in the Rift and the few who dwelled in it had no clue what they had sent him to -was Serana like this as well?

On that fateful day when he died for the first time, Eradil didn’t refuse. He didn’t even consider that possibility. When Harkon gave his offer, the elf stepped forward, like a moth drawn to a flame. The Vampire asked once, Eradil exposed his neck and his fate was sealed.

The thing every member of the Volkihar Court knows is that one does not play courtly intrigue in Harkon’s castle. Orthjolf -the Nord- and Vingalmo -the Altmer- are the only ones who have that right. It’s an unwritten agreement, one that none of the younger courtiers -least of them Eradil who’s been here for mere weeks- know the reason for. Orthjolf, Vingalmo and Garan Marethi do, but none of their agents have mustered the courage needed to ask from the former two, and one simply does not speak of politics with Harkon’s Steward.

That wasn’t really relevant to Eradil Enelvyn though. From the very moment he opened his eyes again, wincing at the overwhelming presence of everything he could sense, gulping at the site of Molag Bal’s fount of blood in the abandoned Cathedral of the castle, he only had one thing to care about. Getting used to his new unlife. Harkon’s education was pointless; powerful as he might be, a teacher Harkon was not. Eradil left Harkon’s cathedral -a dusted, ruined room he noticed few ever paid a visit to, least of all Harkon himself, honoring a profane god none of the castle ever invoked the name of- with overwhelmed senses, a thirst he knew not how to solve, and in a body that was no longer even remotely familiar to him.

From that point, he fell in a rut. His days were nearly always the same. Wake up in one coffin or the other. Fight against his every instinct demanding that he feed on one of the thralls. Visit the forge to work alongside Fura Bloodmouth -an often-angry Nord suffering from, at the same time, both extreme hubris and an incredible lack of self-worth- on his pride and joy, the crossbow he had been given by Isran all those days ago. He’d practice with the crossbow outside the castle once Fura had enough of him -or once he felt less enthused about the daily labor in the smithy.

He would then take the third shift on standing watch along the small Watchtower, watching Tamriel's coast. Occasionally, he’d see a ship come somewhat close to the -thankfully warded- island, but more often than not, it was six hours of nothingness, glaring at Northwatch, the fortress standing counterpart to Volkihar Island, daring for someone to do something interesting.

Later, as sun would come down, and as vampires began drawing lots over who gets to leave for the mainland, he would return to the castle. Here, he’d visit the laboratory, first to pester Feran Sadri, the castle alchemist and his long-suffering assistant Ronthil to teach him how to brew their precious potions of blood. When that would fail, he’d ask for a bottle -which he would, again, not receive- and then he’d just join Serana in trying to determine when she had been entombed. Thus far, that too had gotten nowhere.

The day his rut ended might have been the first of Sun’s Dust. It was late, probably. The sun had just come down, and he was on his way to return to the hall. He saw Stalf and Salonia leave the castle -apparently, it had been their turn to keep watch in the ruined Courtyard behind the keep. Or maybe they were just bored. Or maybe they were on one of their many get-away-together stints that everyone else pretended not to know about. And then Modhna -who normally took the fourth shift right after Eradil’s- came to relieve him of the watch duty.

“Lord Harkon asked for you, fledgling” she said. Which was six words more than what she had said the last twelve shifts she had relieved him of. Not another word needed to be said.

The Altmer found no other choice but to submit to the Lord of the Castle and answer his summon. When the Lord of your clan -much less your own bloodfather- calls, there isn’t much else to do.

He stopped at Harkon’s study. Knocked once, and waited patiently. “Enter” the calm voice of the Vampire Lord answered and beckoned him. He walked through the vampire’s door. “You summoned me, Lord.”

“Back at last” Harkon said nothing at first, only writing on the parchment on his desk. Minutes later, he slowly raised his head. “I can sense that the power is growing within you, and you have been taught -much as I was- to wield it. But mere explanation is no substitute for practice. And practice you shall. I have a task I would have you do that may test your skills more properly.”

“What is your bidding, master?” Eradil asked, for he had little question -or, really, little idea- about what Harkon had said.

“Speak with Garan Marethi. Tell him it is time. He will understand”

It was minutes later when he found Garan. The old Dunmer -one that was ancient even before he had been turned by Harkon four eras ago- was standing on the balcony over the dining hall, sipping Colovian Brandy from a glass when Eradil noticed him.

“Fledgling,” he greeted unceremoniously. Vampires can sense each other -better in detecting life or unlife, added to an already-enhanced set of senses belonging to a supernatural predator. This was, Eradil knew, only a power play, something to keep the young fledgling on his toes, remind him who was the ancient one in the castle. “I trust you have something of importance to tell me?”

“I have a message from Lord Harkon,” Eradil said, “he simply said ‘It is time’”

“Well, well,” Garan said, still his back at the younger Altmer, before slowly turning, “He wants the Chalice then. Are you familiar with the Bloodstone Chalice?”

A younger Eradil may have tried to bluster his way through this, but he knew better than anyone what this was. Like everything else Garan did, this was a power play. A bout of minor manipulation and psychological warfare that was meaningless but amused him just so. It wouldn’t work on Eradil. “I’ve never heard of it”, he said jubilantly.

“It is a rather well-kept secret” Garan conceded, before pausing. “Walk with me.”

“The Chalice has been in his lordship’s possession for some time now. It is, if used properly, able to increase the potency of our powers.” As they descended from the stairs to come to the hall, he continued, “He has neglected to see to its use for ages, feeling his own power more than adequate, and believing that his court could use the challenge. If he wants it filled now, grander things may be afoot. This is good.”

“Excuse us,” He stopped in front of Orthjolf and Vingalmo, back at it in the middle of the hall with one of their usual bouts. “I need to fetch the Bloodstone Chalice.”

“The Chalice? Why” Vingalmo said, his companion -and longtime rival- followed through, “what are you up to, Garan?”

“Only His Lordship’s orders, Orthjolf, Vingalmo. Calm yourselves” Garan said, waving his hand dismissively, “Our friend here has been tasked with filling it.”

“Truly?” Vingalmo said. “Best of luck to you then, fledgling” he tipped his glass.

As the two continued walking, Garan continued, “Vingalmo and Orthjolf are our Lord’s main advisors. I’m sure they’re quite surprised to learn that you are taking the Chalice.”

Then why did you tell them so? Eradil would have loved to ask, but he knew better than to do such a thing.

Eventually, they were in the Treasury. An empty room in the keep -one that was meant, probably, to hold artefacts though it was empty as of now, except for one old-looking chalice on a stone stand.

“Here we are,” Garan said, “Now, this Chalice needs to be filled directly from the bloodspring that is the source of the Redwater Den, but that is not enough.” He commented, “Once it is filled, it needs the blood of a powerful vampire. I’ve found that nearly any non-feral Vampire’s blood suffices, though it is clear that the more powerful the blood, the more potent the results.”

Garan took his fellow Elven Vampire back to his office once again, in the laboratory where Sadri and Ronthil were once more arguing over the application of garlic in a potion made by a Vampire. “Keep in mind,” he explained as he rummaged for a map to mark the location of the spring on to give to the other Elf, “the Den where the Bloodspring is placed in has fallen into the hands of some less reputable members of our society now. You have leave in how you choose to deal with them, but I would suggest that you hurry. Our Lord has many virtues, but patience is not one of them.”

Eradil left the keep -the Island, really- only an hour later for the first time in more than three fortnights. He donned his armor, a hooded cloak -just in case he was caught under the sun out of shelter-, packed three potions, a sword, and his crossbow -all done momentarily- and found his way to the small, run-down dock that held the only boat to and from the Volkihar Island. There, he found the first complication in his little quest.

Stalf and Salonia were waiting for him by the boat. Well, that wasn’t true. They were standing next to the boat, talking in a hushed whisper -one too quiet for mortals to comprehend, and quiet enough for a fellow vampire to know he’s not welcome to the conversation. Maybe they were breaking up. Maybe they were planning on going for a feeding run. But of course, neither was true.

“Fledgling,” Stalf greeted his fellow vampire, “I hear you’re out on a task.”

Eradil nodded. He might not play the game of intrigue, but even he -fledgling as he was- knew Stalf was in Orthjolf’s pocket through and through, as was Salonia in Vingalmo’s. Orthjolf’s vassal continued “So I thought we’d… volunteer to help you. Show you the ropes, as it were.”

“I know what I need to know.” Eradil said coldly, if only to mask his confusion as to why Salonia and Stalf were doing this together. Friends -or at least, friendly acquaintances- they might be, they still belonged to rival factions in a court where to lose was to die. Well, cease to exist. Same thing, really.

“Let me guess,” Salonia interrupted, “you know how to enthrall, seduce and fight?” she snickered, “maybe you know not to stand out under the sun? No, fledgling, we’ve been a vampire longer than you’ve been alive. We know what we talk about.”

Blood of a powerful vampire, Eradil thought, and then shook his head, “I’m sure I am more than enough for a task His Lordship trusts I alone suffice to complete.”

“But what are two more heads to help you think things through?” Salonia said, “worst case, you can complain to the Steward that we interrupted where we shouldn’t. Best case, you get to bring back the Chalice and we get to stand behind you while you do it.”

“As long as it remains clear who this quest is meant for,” Eradil said, showing displeasure. Stalf nodded, and the threesome boarded the boat.

The trip back was a lot quicker than the one that had got Eradil into the mess he now found himself in. He could remember it like it was only 43 days ago.

“I need to thank you for helping me get this far, but once get in the castle, I’m going to need to go on my own way for a while.” Serana, scion of the Volkihar Clan and quite possibly the most whiny woman Eradil had ever met, would say, “I know your friends would probably want to kill everyone in this castle but- and this is important- I need you to keep quiet. Let me take the lead, and for the love of the Night, don’t talk until you’ve been directly addressed.”

“Are you alright?” he had asked. Serana wasn’t a selfish woman -or one without compassion for a mortal- but this was still new. “Is something the matter?”

“I think not. Thanks for asking,” she had waved, “but, and this is important, you’re going to enter a place that you will almost definitely find appalling, filled with people who will see you as food. I don’t know how much my word is worth after Lamae-knows-how-long-it-has-been, but you aren't going to survive the night if I don’t vouch for you”

As it happened, her vouching probably would not have meant anything regardless if he was to refuse Harkon’s offer. He had not, and afterwards, Serana had -just like she had said- went on her own way for a while. She would not appear in the hall to feed -in truth, he hadn’t seen her take even the potions- and her time was mostly spent in the laboratory, pouring over books if only to find out how much she had missed.

“So fledgling,” Stalf said, when his turn to row the boat had ended, leaving the oars to Salonia’s capable hands, “what’s your story? Where did you find the Lady in?”

“The Great War and its consequences have been an unimaginable disaster for everyone under the Light of Magnus” he quipped, knowing neither of his fellow Vampires would even know what ‘Great War’ he spoke of. “In my particular case, it must have started when a vampire paid a visit to Whiterun in the middle of the day.” And thus, he began a tall tale not completely untrue to what had happened.

They traveled by night, of course. It was early winter, which meant -thankfully- that the day was at its shortest, so they could use the most of the time. They made landfall in the northern coast of Haafingar fifteen minutes after leaving the island. By the time Masser and Secunda had reached their height, they had crossed the Haafingar mountains and reached the Road to High Rock. They avoided Solitude and took shelter in Dragon Bridge right as the sun began dawning. The next night, they took crossed the border to Hjaalmarsh and sought shelter in Morthal. When night fell, they crossed to Dawnstar, and went as far down south as the place where the Hall of the Vigilants once stood. Hoping not to visit Windhelm -for Eradil had no illusion of having a lick of a chance surviving it without bloodshed-, they rested for the day in the Nightgate Inn, before coming to visit the sulfur-bound streams of the Old Hold. Eastmarch -hospitable as ever- saw them out through the Darkwater Pass, and at last -with no trouble of any sort- the threesome of Nord, Colovian and Altmer made it to the Redwater Den four nights after leaving the Keep. A record, Stalf promised, even as Salonia had mumbled that they could have made it much faster if they were willing to suffer just the slightest discomfort from the sun.

The longest of the three days they had to wait in was the one Eradil had spent in the ruins of the Hall. It wasn’t that he had a history with the Vigil -the most he’d seen them was the one time two of their number had stayed a day in Whiterun while on their way to deal with a supposed Werewolf infestation in Falkreath nearby. It was more the fact they were in Dawnstar, and so close to what Eradil had come to call the Dimhollow Crypt.

“By the Blood,” Serana had cursed, “I can’t believe I forgot how much the sun can hurt”

“I thought the sun burned Vampires” Eradil had said. He wasn’t sure why he was making small talk with a vampire, but it certainly beat getting chased by one.

“Maybe down south in Cyrod” Serana had thrown back. “The sun here doesn’t shine as brightly, nor as warm. The clouds -and all the snow- held form a natural barrier. Besides, this is Skyrim and I am a Volkihar from the Line to Lamae unbroken. I don’t get weakened by daylight; the night only empowers me.”

“Huh,” Eradil had said intelligently, “well, welcome to the Fourth Era and all that. Most vampires -even in Skyrim- aren’t from a ‘line of Lamae unbroken’, and the sun certainly harms them.” Here he had paused, “well, harmed them, I suppose. Tell me more about your home.”

“Well, I lived on the family estate, in an island off the coast of Haafingar in the Sea of Ghosts. It may be home, but welcoming it might not be, if we can find a way to get there at all.”

He hadn’t known it then, but Serana was not ‘Line to Lamae Unbroken’. In fact, -unlike her father- she was one of the handful of vampires whose relation to Lamae Bal was parallel and equivalent, rather than a line of succession. Harkon may have been one of Lamae’s very own blood-children, but he had not given Serana the gift of his blood. Someone else had, and Serana would hesitate to call it a gift.

The Redwater Den was exactly what Eradil envisioned an illegal Skooma den to be like. A rundown shack off the main road and away from the patrol routes of the Hold Watch. The shack might have looked like it had been a home once -from the outside and afar it looked nothing more than yet another decrepit burned house whose owners had abandoned it for warmer pastures. It seemed uninhabited, but few travelers would fall for that -rundown shacks were usually bandit holdouts, temporary or otherwise. Eradil and his two companions were stopped by what had probably once been a doorframe. Two men -Nord, one fair-haired and the other brown- were standing by a small fire they had made, cooking something on a stake. The vampires hid their wince -magefire or sunlight it might not be, but fire is fire. One of the two -probably meant to be guards- turned his head.

“Don’t get many visitors this time of the day” the guard commented, “and I don’t recognize you either. First time?”

Before Eradil could respond, Stalf elbowed him. Not painfully, but enough for him to understand this was not his turn to talk. Salonia was the one to respond, and she did so wordlessly. She put away her hood and merely gave the mortal a look. The brunet Nord’s eyes widened and his pupil -the little dark in his eyes- dilated.

“Not our first time,” she said calmly a subtle note of amusem*nt in her tone that both vampires noticed. The brunet, his mind a mush for the foreseeable future, only nodded. “Aye, Nelkir,” he said, in a tone just a little too peaceful for a Nord near a Skooma den, “My mistake, they’re regulars.”

“Regulars? But I thought-“ the other Nord, now identified as Nelkir, said with a note of confusion in his voice, “Why are they taking the front door if they’re regulars?” his now-enthralled companion said “not our place to question the customers, kinsman.”

“Well, if you say so.” He shrugged, and rose from his chair by the fire, “Follow me, and please keep your weapons sheathed. The folk inside don’t take to violence as much as we do.”

‘Inside’ was only slightly more impressive than the outside. It was tidier, and its guards more attentive -on guard- than the two mortals above ground. Salonia had stayed a few minutes above to do her business with her temporary thrall, and Stalf looked only slightly less out of his field compared to Eradil. Mortals were everywhere, but the only people seemingly aware of where they were would be the four guards and the dealer, an elderly fellow mer shielded behind a gated counter.

“Ah, welcome, welcome!” she said, her demeanor pleasant but the glint in her eyes as nasty as any drug dealer’s, “I don’t believe we’ve seen you here before, have we? You can buy from me, then join whatever booth you’d like.”

“Three samples then,” Stalf said, probably the first time he hadn’t looked at the mortals with barely-concealed disdain, “and we’ll be out of your hair.”

“Splendid, splendid.” She said, as she put three bottles on the counter, and Stalf dropped a small pouch -maybe 25 coin pieces, none of them from any point later than 3E 433- on the counter as he picked two of the three bottles. “The thing one needs to know in these dwellings is, go only with the flow.”

Eradil looked at one of the booths they were passing, a man in the red and gold colors of the Legion moaning as he struggled to reach a bottle of Skooma only barely out of his reach. He sniffed, “I’d rather not.”

“Oh, calm down. This poison has no effect on you” Salonia, still superstitiously rubbing her lips said as she joined them, “and besides, we won’t be drinking any.” She patted her pouch with a small grin. Once they were in the booth nearest to a suspicious door -probably leading to the spring he was meant to be finding- she waved a small key, “palmed it off the mortals upstairs. Now, fledgling, shall we get to our business?”

Fighting began almost immediately after they snuck through the door. Like Garan had warned, the whole place was utterly infested with Vampires and their thralls.

“So why don’t you just drink from the spring?” A voice said. Maybe a fellow vampire? But no, Eradil noticed, it was a thrall. Maybe not fully enthralled, if he had the mind to ask things -or string along words, really, “Seems easier than running a Skooma den.”

“It’s not real blood, Merell,” the thrall’s master said, “The boss says it’s some sort of profaned spring. Looks like blood, and if we drink from it, it might give us some strength, but the thing could mess me up as much as it would you. It’s why we dilute it with the sh*te Skooma.”

That was all he would say. Eradil’s loaded bow went off with a twang, and the bolt -a piece of wood with a silver tip, dubbed lovingly by Isran as ‘the stake that functions as a projective’ ran through the vampire, finding its juncture in the back of his neck and leaving through his open mouth. The Vampire fell down still twitching, and his thrall, a Colovian from the looks of it with some armor fashioned from hide, jumped away in terror, then screamed, and blood began flowing.

She had been young, she looked harmless, and there was a strange-looking scroll on her back.

Those were the first things Eradil thought of while beholding the woman he’d just released from slumber. The woman, a pale lady of unearthly beauty in what was probably the most stereotypically Vampire outfit that most Vampires would never even have a hope of fashioning, groaned as she struggled to get up. Three things he had thought, and two would be proven false within the minute.

“Who sent you here?” she asked.

“A man named Isran from the Fort Dawnguard,” Eradil had said, not lowering the crossbow. She looked to be in her twenties, with shoulder-length raven black hair, part of it in an intricate braid that wrapped around the back of her head. Her skin was pale as the snow Skyrim was so full of and Nords so fond of, making her lips only slightly more noticeable. The strangest thing about her were the eyes. They were not of any color Eradil had seen. Not the green, blue or brown you’d expect to see in a human, nor the red, gold and black of the Mer. For one thing, they seemed not to have an iris. The whole of her eyes were of the same color, a warm amber -orange as the sky upon the sunset. More importantly perhaps, her eyes were glowing. He continued “Who were you expecting?”

“Well, the least I expected was someone like me.” She had said. Someone like her. Suddenly everything had made sense. Her pale skin, her eyes. The fact she’s probably been either in slumber or stasis for so long -hundreds of years? Thousands? who knew. “A vampire?”

“I am a Child of the Night, yes” she had said, crossing her arms as though she was only talking about weather. Eradil would come to know only hours later that this woman did not simply talk about weather. She looked at ease though, as if her statement was of no importance. Her eyes gave a different story though.

“The- uh, the Dawnguard would probably want me to kill you”, Eradil frowned, though he neither raised the crossbow nor showed any sign of hostility to the young woman. “Who are the Dawnguard you talk about?”

“The Dawnguard is- it’s an offshoot of the Vigil of Stendarr, dedicated to fighting against the growing Vampire Menace.”

“What- what is the Vigil of Stendarr? Wait, no- stupid question.” She sighed, “Look, if you try to kill me, you won’t succeed. Even if you do, all you’ll have done would be killing one vampire. But if my- if people are after me, there’s something going on. I can help you find out what it is.”

“My family used to live on an island west of Solitude. I suppose they might still be there.” She commented some time later, after they had done away with a Gargoyle. “Oh, that reminds me. The name’s Serana, Clan Heir Volkihar, line to Lamae Unbroken. You can call me Serana.”

“Eradil Enelvyn” the Altmer had said, and a fast friendship had formed.

The three vampires, two Mistwalkers and a Fledgling, stepped over the last of their fallen foe. The fight had been short. Vampires they may be, but these poor little feral things held no hope against two Mistwalkers right out of Harkon’s court, much less a vampire with similar reflexes, also was armed with the weapon solely designed to kill their kind. Death Hounds, Thralls and vampires fell scattered, forming a path of blood and death carved from the very door all the way to what looked to be the master room of this little cave-ruin.

As the two began clearing away whatever loot could be found, Eradil found his own, much better mark.

Vulpin was an Imperial Expat in Alinor. Or at least, he had been at some point before he had turned. Now a vampire adventurer with little hope of living among mortals, he had on his travels found the true site for the Bloodspring of Lengeir’s Feast. That was a known legend -one even Eradil was aware of. Lengeir had once been a priest of Arkay before a series of unfortunate events -only beginning with his lover turning into a vampire and then infecting him with Sanguinaire Vampiris- had drove him to act against his god, desecrating a site of worship -a natural spring found to have holy, healing effects- into a profane wreck of a spring spewing something even fouler than blood. Vulpin had only found the true site of this spring in the middle of the Rift in 4E 201, and upon learning -to his disappointment- that it was only a source for all sorts of disease and not a fount for strength, he had decided it would do better as a hole to trap cattle in. Well, cattle befitting a vampire.

Vulpin may have been a vampire, but he was as pathetic as the posse he had gathered around him, maybe slightly more skilled. Eradil was sure he was being unfair -an adventurer would find it troublesome to deal with this vampire on his own, but against two Mistwalkers with more years of experience than he had seen, backed by a fledgling who could help them from afar? He had no luck. Venarus Vulpin and two of his fellow Vampires -along with four thralls and a Death Hound- came to fight. A thrall was immediately encased in a block of ice mid-swing, the canid pinned to the ground with a well-aimed bolt less than a second after. Then, the fighting began.

Magefrost and Thunder flew in the room. Stalf threw a chain of thunder at his foes, snapping through three thralls and leaving them steaming, twitching and very much dead. Salonia took the only other thrall in her vampiric grip, raising him to the air and summarily and unceremoniously slamming him to the ground.

Eradil forwent his crossbow, unleashing a bolt of lightning at his foe. The other vampire smirked, dodging the first two bolts nimbly and the deflecting the third with his ward. “Is that the best you can do?”

Eradil would unleash another bolt in response. Vulpin raised his arm to shape a ward, and Eradil’s charge -a swinging, silver sword- cut through it all, ward, arms and half of the head. The last vampire standing fell to the ground without a word.

“Not bad, fledgling.” Stalf threw, “first time I’ve seen you take someone in close quarters.”

“Had to happen at some point, Stalf.” Salonia joined in after pointing out the door -presumably- to the spring itself was locked. “At some point he’d run out of bolts anyway.”

Eradil huffed as he went through the body he had just dispatched. Four days ago, he would have thought this was courtly politics -a lesser effective version of Garan’s psychological warfare. Now, he might have entertained the thought it was just mindless banter.

The Bloodspring was… essentially exactly what its name suggested. An underwater spring -if Vulpin’s claims were right, that one was the result of a cave in- that looked as though blood was springing out instead of water. The truth of the matter, of course, the spring’s produce was neither water nor blood, but something profane and properly Daedric, courtesy of the Lord of Rape who had at that time in the First Era been in a state of war with Arkay over the question of Life and Death. Eradil kneeled in front of the spring, taking out the chalice and filling it with the produce of the spring.

“Well done fledgling,” That was when Salonia began clapping. Eradil barely avoided a sigh. The charade was up. “It’s really too bad, you know. The little accident you had here, completely unexpected.”

“Aye,” Stalf said, chuckling darkly as he drew his sword. Salonia had already summoned the aura of destruction at her own palms. “Lord Harkon’s new favorite, dead so soon after joining the family.”

“We’re just lucky I was here to return the Chalice to Vingalmo, so he could make sure Harkon can get it back.”

“Wait what?” Stalf said, as he turned slightly to his left, his offhand calling forth the aura of destruction as he aimed it at his fellow Mistwalker. “That’s not what we agreed. We take it back together.”

“You knew this had to end at some point, Stalf” Salonia said, looking slightly sheepish, though she too aimed her other hand at her fellow Mistwalker, “Vingalmo wants both of you dead.”

“Orthjolf told me to finish off anyone who got in the way,” Stalf said, snarling, “I told him nobody would.”

“Nobody needs to.” Eradil said, reading the room. “I only need one body to draw blood from for this thing, and it doesn’t have to be either of you. Ignore Vingalmo and Orthjolf. We can bring back the Chalice together and share the glory as we agreed.”

“Oh, you can’t be so stupid as to think we were serious.” Salonia said, not taking her eyes off from the other two. Eradil slowly put down the chalice. “I knew you weren’t honest, Salonia. I was as much planning to stab you in the back as you were, but we don’t need to-“

“Vingalmo will kill us all if he learns I’ve not killed you both.” Salonia said, though she certainly sounded less certain of her plan. “He will anyway when he’s done with you. You have to know that” Stalf pleaded.

“We’ll dry off our spells then. On three, we stand at ease and talk like the civilized folk we know we are.” Eradil said, “one.”

Stalf’s arms wavered.

“Two.”

Salonia’s magic blinked.

“Three”

Three mages called off the aura of destruction.

Eradil released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. As vampires who hadn’t breathed for at least an era, the others did no such thing. Stalf put his sword back in its sheath. “Now what?”

“Now? We go to Riften, spend the day there and take the carriage to Solitude. We’ll be back home much faster than it took us to get here.”

Eradil didn’t sleep until they were already in Riften. It was scorching hot, right under the sun when they made it to the city. It was early of course, and it was Skyrim’s sun, nowhere as warm as that of Cyrodiil -nor as bright, and Eradil was a True-blooded Vampire, ‘line to Lamae Unbroken’. As Serana often liked to say though, anything’s better than this.

He had bought himself a room, and the other two another. With the unpleasantness of that three-way stand-off out of the way, Stalf and Salonia had been much more awkward with each other than they had been on the way to the Den.

Eradil promptly went to his room. He locked the door -if Stalf or Salonia were to decide otherwise and come to kill him and take his chalice, it wouldn’t hold them, but it was the sentiment that counted- and then sat on the bed. He lied down, not touching the blanket but falling on the pillow the whole way. He stared at the ceiling, blankly reminding himself that he didn’t truly need to keep both Stalf and Salonia alive. It would be just too simple to slip something in the potions of blood that he had been tasked with carrying. The right poison would do away with them both, and leave him alone in the glory he was sure to earn. He could see it as clearly as though it was already happening.

And then he was in Harkon’s court again. It was day, everyone was sitting at the two rows of tables and partaking in the usual pleasantries. Harkon -Garan and Serana at his side, Vingalmo and Orthjolf a tad further- were sitting at a higher table, looking at the two rows. Like the first time, he was only down the stairs that led to the hall.

“My Lord,” he called, “Your will is done. The Bloodstone Chalice is ready for our use once again.”

“Splendid,” Harkon had to say. The entire clan’s eyes were upon him, as he walked towards the High Table to put the Chalice on the table where it would belong. Harkon continued, “as a boon, we grant you the privilege of drinking from our chalice first.”

Eradil stopped. He raised the chalice, filled with the produce of the Bloodspring of Lengeir’s Feast and spiced with mere drops of an elder vampire’s blood- to his lips and took a sip. He winced from the poor taste. This did not taste like blood. Not pleasant or sweet, nor invigorating. In fact, it was nothing like blood. It was almost as if-

His senses abandoned him. He could no longer smell the blood of the thralls moaning on the two tables. The Deathbell behind him gave only the farthest aroma. He couldn’t even hear the Watchguard’s heartbeat. Serana raised an eyebrow at his side, and Lord Harkon’s indulgent smile turned lopsided. Eradil felt his heart fall. His task was yet unfinished -he had done something wrong, and all his vampiric blood, Harkon’s own Gift, had left him.

Suddenly, Harkon was in front of him, like he had been that night. And he could do nothing but cry out as the clan descended upon him, Harkon’s sharp fangs ripping into the living flesh of his throat.

Eradil woke up with a gasp and a soundless scream.

It was still Riften. He was still in the Bee and the Barb.

The sun was still out.

He was still a vampire.

The Bloodstone Chalice was still in his pouch, untouched. The produce -and Vulpin’s blood- were in two separate vials.

He sighed. Vampires didn’t dream. They had nightmares.

Eradil made it back to the Volkihar Keep eight days after he, Stalf and Salonia left it. Vingalmo and Orthjolf looked … not shocked to see him, or the other two with him. Garan, unlike them, did look somewhat intrigued.

“I see you have returned. Lord Harkon will be pleased.” He pursed his lips, “and I see you’ve met Stalf and Salonia. We suspected they might wish to accompany you on your task.”

“You thought we would fight.” Eradil accused.

“I expected it, at least somewhat.” Garan conceded, “Their liege lords, Vingalmo and Orthjolf, harbor for His Lordship’s throne, and I expected they would assign their own underlings to kill you to keep the Chalice for their own.” His expression remained blank as he continued, “I suppose by bringing back the Chalice together you’ve increased our Lord’s power over them and deprived his two advisors of their own agents. I expected you to fall, or for you to kill off your companions… but you’ve exceeded my expectations. You’ve done our lord two great services, and carved yourself a place among his chosen -a new faction in this court. You may yet survive this court, fledgling.”

And what do you know, that condescending tone… was telling the Altmer the greatest praise he’d heard Garan give anyone in his month at the court. Eradil bit back a smile. Garan was right. Hemay yet survive this court. Next step would have to be getting everyone to stop calling him a fledgling.

Forged in Fire, Baptized in Blood - Ixar_Bargains (2024)

Chapter 1: The Delegate

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Chapter 2: The Victim

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Chapter 3: The Vagrant

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Chapter 4: The Rogue

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Chapter 5: The Student

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Chapter 6: The Fledgling

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