Double Dragon Disventure (Skyrim double SI ft. Nihilo)

Chapter 6: My Big Skyrim Hangover

The awareness came back with the taste of sand in the mouth and a headache like a team of Nords hammering a steel plate in their skulls. Their backs hurt as they slowly came to realize that they, at some point, fell asleep on a cold, stone floor. Groaning, Jean rolls over the side, blearily opening his eyes, blinking to try and regain his sight.

“Ah, the blasphemers are finally awake. Get up, you sloshed idiots.” Comes a sharp, decidedly unamused voice from… somewhere above.

Stumbling to his feet, Jean tries to shake his head, only to hiss as the movement makes the headache worse.

There is a sad, pitying sigh. “Of course. Can’t even wake up properly. Drunks. Here, drink this.” There is a bottle shoved into his mouth and his head tipped back to force the liquid down his throat. Jean shudders as headache fades and he no longer feels like he is standing onboard a ship in the middle of the storm.

Erin had marginally less difficulties forcing herself back onto her feet, long experience with migraines and the aftereffects of strong meds helping her cope with the hellish hangover. A few moments of running a healing spell on herself, and she feels ready to attempt speech, “Right, since I don’t remember anything past the first drink, I’ll go out on a leg and say I made both a complete fool and nuisance out of myself.” She grimaced, sighing, “Just point me at whatever needs cleaning up. I’ll also pay for anything that needs replacing, if my idiot drunk self decided to go the extra mile.” She was ninety-percent sure Sanguine was to blame for this entire clusterfuck, but it HAD been her drunk ass who’d caused trouble, so she’d suck it up and deal with the consequences.

The priestess, for it is a priestess, which means it’s that clusterfuck, nods, a bit stunned. “Huh, so you do have manners, even if you have left restraint behind. Well, the two of you are lucky, your Nord friend woke up a couple hours ago, so the worst part of cleaning up is done. I am, however” she continues with narrowed eyes as she points an accusing eyes on Erin “keeping my eye on you especially. You may not have made as much ruckus as your friends, but you spend the entire time licking the statue of Lady Dibella, and I don’t know what ‘dummy thick’ is, but I don’t want to know.”

There is a sonorous slap as Erin’s palm impacts her face, dragging down as if it could wipe the embarrassment from it, “Suddenly I am glad I don’t remember a thing after chugging whatever Sam slipped into my drink.” She quietly grumbles. She wouldn’t be surprised if the totes-not-a-daedra-prince had slipped everything up to and including fucking Hist Sap.

Snickering, Jean gets to work on the absolutely cluttered floor. It is a small wonder they had any free space left to sleep on. “I don’t suppose you could tell us what happened last night? Last I can remember was drinking in Bannered Mare.”

The priestess blinks, surprised. “Bannered Mare? Isn’t that in Whiterun?” Getting a nod in return, she continues to stare. “How did you… no. I don’t want to know what trail of chaos you left behind. What I know is that, the first thing you did on entering the city, was stabbing a man in the back. You are lucky he turned out to be a Forsworn, or you would be waking up in Cidhna Mine.”

“Lovely.” Jean grimaces. “Anything else?”

“The lady he was going to kill slapped you pretty hard when you confused her thanks for an offer of sex, but I believe she will be understanding if you apologise.”

Jean can feel his face burning red and instead, decides to focus on cleaning. The sooner they are out of Markarth, the better. He really doesn’t want to get mixed in the whole King in the Rags mess. At least Riften was open about how much of a corrupt hellhole it was.

The two work in silence for the better part of an hour before the priestess lets them go, handing them a note from ‘another one of their party, who made himself scarce before they could catch him and make him clean his mess’. Jean finds himself giggling uncontrollably at the thought of Sanguine being forced by a bunch of unamused women to wipe the floors clean. The image has the apron. And ends in an orgy, because again, Sanguine.

Lydia greets them at the temple entrance, looking as pained as they feel, and they make themselves scarce.

“I must say, this has to be one of the most unique starts to taking the position of thane I have ever heard of. ”

Jean shakes his head. “I just hope my purse will survive this. I do remember funding the drinks, so I am kinda dreading the tab. Also, we need to stop by Silver-Blood Inn.” At her questioning glance, he blushes and coughs awkwardly. “Apparently, I have a lady to apologise to. And apparently Sam left us a note?”

Lydia nods. “Probably about his staff. It is in… less than ideal condition. Completely in pieces, in fact. I don’t remember how it ended that way, or even when he got it out, but mages. The only clue we’ve got” she says as the trio makes their way down the twisting, stone pathways of Markarth “is that we have passed through Rorikstead and something about a goat. I am already dreading the punchline.”

Giving the woman a pat on the shoulder, Jean pushes the door to Silver-Blood Inn open, blinking as his eyes get used to the dark. It’s not that the inn is basked in darkness, but the soft glow of the Dwemer lamps illuminating it is far less intense than the midday sun outside. The innkeeper, a balding, white haired nord looks up, his face lighting up in recognition as he sees Jean.

“I see you came back, boy. I assume you want a talk with the lass you… offended, last evening?”

I wonder if there is a Shout to let the ground swallow me whole. Jean thinks to himself. At this point, he is pretty sure his face will match his hair permanently.

“I… yes.” He sighs, defeated. This is what he will be known for in Markarth, won’t it? A guy who had sex on his mind after stabbing a man. Turning towards Lydia and Erin, he continues. “Just… wait for me. I could use some privacy for this.”

Lydia gives him a pitying look, but doesn’t say anything. Erin contents herself with offering a thumb’s up and an awkward smile that screams ‘better you than me’. The innkeeper snorts and shakes his head, but points at the door at the end of a ramp.

“There, she lives in our best rooms. I hope you have a sturdy head, because she might be pretty angry.”

Swallowing, Jean nods and moves through the inn, trying really hard to ignore the amused whispers of the patrons. That just makes his mind really go for a spin just imagining how bad of a fool he made himself out. Suddenly, he would rather go a round or ten against that fucking draugr in the Bleak Falls with nothing but his fists than be here.

But here he is, and if he makes a run instead, this is going to be way, way worse. So, sighing, he very pointedly does not look back and instead knocks on the door. There is a sound of footsteps, and the lock being undone before the door opens just a little.

“What is i-… You.” The woman on the other side all but growls, and Jean barely suppresses the instinctual urge to shrink on himself.

“I… yes. Can… can we talk? I want to apologise for… well, yesterday.” He shifts awkwardly, breaking eye contact. The woman glares at him in silence for a moment before pulling her doors wider and gesturing him to enter. Once he does, she quickly shuts it behind him.

“You put me in a really awkward situation, you know?” She says once they sit at the table. “Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate that you saved my life. And if it was just a matter of… poor wording on your part, I would honestly have forgotten about it already. Maybe even take you on it once you were sober.” She adds, and Jean can only choke and cough. The woman cracks a weak smile.

Hiding his face in his hands, Jean sighs. “So what else did I say in my completely drunken stupor? Because I literally don’t remember the last… Shit, how long does it take to go from Whiterun to Markarth on foot?”

She quirks her eyebrow, surprised. “Four days if you travel light and manage to not get across Forsworn ambush. Or any other unpleasantness. How are you not dead from alcohol poisoning?”

‘Daedra bullshit’, he wants to say. “Hell if I know. Anyway?” Is what he says instead.

The woman gets serious. “Yes. So, after you stabbed a man as literally the first thing you did in the city and turned down non-existent offer of sex, in the middle of the market, may I add” Jean is pretty sure the whine that escapes his mouth could rival that of a kicked puppy “you shouted ‘Talos advises you to run’ to the man who handed you something you dropped. And then, you somehow managed to imply I am part of the Brotherhood in your goodbyes.”

Jean blinks as he tries to process that piece of information. So that’s the conspiracy quest and… “I implied you and I were part of the Dark Brotherhood?”

“Hence me being less than amused, yes.” The woman notes, before slumping. “Look, I am just waiting for the jewellery for my sister, and now Thonar Silver Blood makes not-so-subtle insinuations that he would like to hire me. Or you.”

“Gods...” Jean groans.

“Yes. At least we are lucky Penitas Oculatus managed to reduce the Brotherhood to remnants scurrying in the shadows, or you and me would either never wake up or we would be strapped to a table in some dark hole.”

“Yeah, I can see why you don’t want me anywhere near you after that. Will.. will you be okay?”

She snorts. “I will. You were really, really drunk, so Thonar may give up soon, with some help convincing him it’s all just the drunken ramblings of an idiot. And you did make my job easier.” She mutters to herself, and Jean wisely decides to keep his mouth shut. It already landed him in a deep enough hole. Then, he notices an additional weight on one of his fingers. Blinking, he feels his mouth dry as the implications set in. “... Did I have that ring when I came?”

The woman blinks and looks closer, before guffawing. “By the Eight, this is gold. So you got engaged during your bender? Go, you incredible, glorious moron, because something tells me your newfound fiancé is going to be even less amused than me.”

His newfound fiancé, Jean wants to retort, is a human sacrificing, possibly cannibalistic monster camping out in the wilds. He doesn’t, because even he knows it’s bad to admit, and partially because… well, after saying you don’t remember anything, how would you explain that you do, in fact, know there is a hagraven involved.

“Kill me… Anyway, no… no hard feelings? Besides the Brotherhood thing?”

Still laughing, she waves him. “Sure, sure. If you manage to straighten this mess up, hit me next time you are in Markarth, I could really use some solid laugh.”

Grumbling, Jean shakes his head as he leaves. Coming back to the counter, Lydia offers him a mug of water.

“Here, my thane. I made sure it’s clear. Chug and let’s hit the road.”

Accepting the drink, Jean sighs. “Let’s. I want to put as much distance between myself and this city as possible, for as long as I can.”

“That bad?”

“Probably. Maybe even worse. We will see. Let’s just grab the carriage.”

Giving a vague noise of approval, the trio soon leaves the stone city, the carriage driver accepting the coin with no question as the group, plus a couple other travellers departing Markarth soon leave the ‘safest’ city in Skyrim behind.

---

“Say, about how costly IS a goat?” Erin asks idly, facing the very real possibility that they’d have to pay for a replacement.

Lydia sighs, sitting on the hill overseeing Rorikstead, shoulders slumped after her talk with the man their faint trail led to. “We could afford one. Hells, we could afford a couple of herds, I am sure. But.” She says, hiding her head in her arms. Jean bets the clothes on his back that her face matches his hair. “This is a prize goat we are talking about. No. Don’t ask me what the prize is supposed to be, but… In the countryside, this is the matter of prestige, not money. Years of careful breeding. Generations of work to show off one’s prosperity.”

Jean pats her on the back, staring into the clear sky. “Let’s be positive. You speak giantese, we just need to find the one you apparently bartered the goat off to and reach a compromise.”

Lydia grumbles into her hands. “Easy for you to say. Giants don’t care about goats. Too small for even a light snack or source of milk and fur. Too delicate, relatively speaking, for a pet. And somehow, I have managed to convince one they need a goat.”

“Look, all I am saying is that compared to casual murder and publicly implicating myself as belonging to Dark Brotherhood, you have it amusingly mundane. The sort of thing to make for an amusing anecdote once it’s past you.”

“This is not a contest, my thane.”

Jean rolls his eyes. “Oh come on, you big baby. Nords get drunk all the time. Besides, that way you may learn something new about giants.”

The thought does seem to spur Lydia, who sighs once more and jumps to her feet, her face carefully blank. Jean and Erin follow her, more out of idle curiosity than anything, seeing as neither of them knows a single word in giant tongue. So Lydia also has that going for her. The giant that Lydia fenced the goat off is apparently a solitary sort, not belonging to any of the tribes living in Whiterun Hold, instead choosing to wander the cliffs of the western Whiterun and overall, being a regular sight for the people of Rorikstead. Which means that, fortunately, the group doesn’t need to comb the hills for hours on end, especially as the giant’s silhouette eventually shows on the horizon, at which point it is only a matter of meandering between steep falls and rocky paths.

In the end, Jean and Erin stand back as Lydia speaks with the giant, who has the goat in question on a leash, of all things, the humanoid obviously amused as the talk goes on, even laughing at a couple points. It sounds a bit like a rockslide, but it also obviously doesn’t plan to take offence to Lydia’s attempts at getting the goat back. Eventually, the giant snorts, bends over and pats Lydia on the head, who shoots her companions a glare.

“Grok and I reached an understanding.” She speaks in a strained voice, shooting Jean a glare when the redhead proves unable to contain his giggles. “So we can go and take the goat back.”

Before the sunset, they are back in Rorikstead, with Grok in tow, apparently determined to stay with the goat as long as possible. The goat owner’s face lights up at the sight of his animal, even if he shoots the giant a dirty look.

“A leash? Seriously? My Greta is well behaved enough not to need it!” The giant simply shrugs as it let’s go of it. “Anyway. I did promise I would point you in the reverse direction of your drunken escapade. Apparently, you owe something to some Ysolda, back in Whiterun.”

Lydia makes a noise between a whine and a deflating balloon.

“Personally, at this point I just want to know what Grok wanted the goat for.” Jean muses.

“Want to experiment.” Comes a rumbling voice, which everyone present realises belongs to the giant. “Mix goat milk. With mammoth. New cheese. Only the really good goat.”

“Ha!” Ennis, the farmer, cries. “If that’s what you wanted a well bred goat for, my friend, I believe we can work something out.”

The giant smiles and laughs, even as Lydia’s face reddens again.

“Still, the carriage already rode off, and I don’t think we want to wait for the next one?” Jean prods, offering a change of topic, which Lydia latches onto.

“No. Let’s go, we can camp in the wild. Western Whiterun is beautiful this time of year, and you may see the dancing lights if we are lucky.”

Shaking their heads, Jean and Erin let Lydia lead the way, even if Jean has to correct her when he notices they seem to be travelling in the direction of the sun, which is the opposite of where they want to go. Sighing, Lydia takes off her map, consulting it in the last rays of the day.

“This is just not my day.” She mutters, shaking her head.

“Being pranked by a giant?”

“That too. Anyway, there seems to be a landmark resembling a burial ground to the south. Not an actual mound, or I would have us go in the opposite direction anyway. Only madmen sleep in the shadow of the graves. But we can camp for the night there.”

The group moves in comfortable silence, scaling the rocky hills until they arrive at the aforementioned mound, a large, clearly artificial stone hill surrounded by the sextet of standing stones.

“Huh. What do you know. We won't have any rocks under our backs tonight. Luxury.”

Lydia places the firewood at the top of the mound, and the trio puts up their tents under the stones, the spikes easily going into the ground.

And then, once the fire is roaring happily, they are thrown for a loop.

“Mmmm… Who sits on top of me? Dovah, mu tinvaak?”

The trio is silent for a moment, before they simultaneously look underneath their feet. At the burial mound. A very, very big burial mound. Say... dragon sized.

“Only you, Lydia” Jean eventually speaks up, ignoring the pleading stare “would decide to camp on top of a dragon grave.”

Erin, meanwhile, decides it is only good sense to answer the dragon. She’s honestly delighted to have a dragon to speak with, y’know, without the whole trying to kill each other bit getting in the way, “Greetings. We’re travellers, retracing our steps after a fair few nights and days of revelry.”

The ground rumbles and the voice answers merrily. “Ha! Ages change but the Nords do not, it seems. Still, the question remains. I awoke feeling the presence of dovah, of dragons. Do you, perhaps, have any explanation, travellers sleeping on the graves?”

Jean pats the ground, more to gather his thoughts than out of any thought the buried dragon will feel it. “Well, it’s either because the dragons in general seem to be coming back all over the place, or it is because me and my friend are Dragonborn. Whichever makes more sense.”

“Dovahkiin? Interesting. I have thought only one at any given time could exist, but perhaps things have changed. Your presence is… sahlo, weak, faint. Like a newborn freshly crawled out of the cradle. Your souls must have awakened not too long ago.”

“You seem to have quite a lot of knowledge about that.”

“Nid. I have seen one already, had the chance to study, nothing more… Ah, but where are my manners, dovah but joor, I am Nahagliiv, Fury-Burn-Wither, once, the fierce warrior. The grave, however, put an end to the first two, and so, nowadays I contemplate Liiv, the Withering. Whenever I do not sleep that is.”

Lydia blinks, staring at the ground in something approaching amazement. “I didn’t realize killing a dragon would let it sleep it off.”

Nahagliiv chuckles. “Dovah qahnaar dovah. Only a dragon can permanently kill a dragon, by taking its soul. Mortals may end our shell, but our sil, soul, it remains active. It is tiring, however, without a body to satisfy our nature, so we tend to slumber instead. A deep, deep slumber that does not notice the passage of ages. Similar to the death joor experience, yet different.”

“Makes sense, I guess.” The Nord woman sighs. “So, any idea why your… siblings? Kind, in general sense? Are suddenly back? There hasn’t been a sighting of a dragon since… I think the Second Era? Currently in Fourth, by the way.”

Nahagliiv remains silent for a moment, before speaking. “I have theories, yes. The most probable is that it was foretold. Prophecies are fickle things, but there is a reason joor fear and want them at the same time. The question would be, which prophecy is coming to be? Or perhaps something, or someone, brings them back to life. The amount of power that would require however… only a few beings are powerful enough to resurrect one of dovah, let alone many. The strain on the soul such a feat would put… ”

Jean thinks for a moment, weighting their chances. So far, Nahagliiv turned out to be a pleasant company… Still, worse came to worse, it was still buried underground. “What about Alduin?”

Lydia pales just hearing the name and Nahagliiv chuckles, this time, the sound much, much darker. “Then, Dovahkiin, pray. The Eldest of our father is a cruel, prideful one, and if he is, indeed, back, then he shall make it his mission to make sure joor never again think to rise against him. Perhaps he might even be tempted to fulfil his role, even. And you, you two are still too young, too weak to stand against him. In such a case, he will make his way to me, and I will have no choice but to bow to his Thu’um.”

“Not much room for choice when there’s a clawed foot slammed down on your neck.” Erin says with a rueful chuckle and a shake of her head, “Let us hope it does not come to that, or if it does that we manage to grow fast enough to challenge him.” She hums, thoughtful, “And maybe give dovah who’d rather not bow down to him an alternative.”

Nahagliiv hums. “Mmmm… Hind. Hope. Such a curious concept, you joor have made. Standing up against those many times more powerful, such that even gods took notice and lent their hand to you. Ha! Listen to me, being all moody! I should rejoice. I have been Liiv for too long. The winds have changed, and so did I.” The dragon falls silent for a moment, before it speaks again. “Alduin already lost tinvaak once. If he wants to make me his aar, servant again, he will find I have learned the value of trickery. And” a note of amusement sneaks into dragon’s voice “what greater trick is there than to make his enemy stronger? Gather Dovahkiin, and let me share with you Liiv. Let’s spend the night contemplating the meaning of Withering and, if by chance, Alduin sends me your way, I hope you will show me all the ways you made it yours. Do not worry, no wildlife will interrupt our meditation.”

Jean sputters as the implications catch up to him. “You want to teach us a Shout?”

“Not the entire one, never managed to get that far, but I have managed to turn at least part of my name into the Word of Power. Ahhh, it brings back the memories. Another Dovahkiin lived here once, you know, and I spoke into his dreams when he was but a child. Such was my yearning for the tinvaak with another of my kind. I am sure that child went on to make great things.”

---

“Let me guess.” Ysolda greets them, her eyes twinkling and a small smile on her lips. “You need to know where you married?”

Jean looks around the market and sees many, many awkward glances and hears equally many equally awkward coughs.

“However did you manage to guess?” He finally responds dryly, earning himself a giggle.

“Oh you know, just the biggest windfall in my life. I have been doing nothing but selling wedding rings for the last couple of days. Sure, most of them got returned, but enough did not to turn over a tidy profit. Amren even managed to somehow woo a giantess. We might have another Titanborn in a generation or two.”

Lydia sputters from the side, choking for a while before managing to get herself together. “He what?! Ysolda, are you sure? The giantesses weren’t seen since... ”

“Since the Second Era, yes. Obviously, they are around, else the giant tribes would be long gone. I have seen the bride to be, by the way. Tits like boulders, so Amren is obviously not regretting the drunken decision.”

Shaking his head, Jean prods further. “So he got lucky. I suppose it bodes well, but I honestly don’t remember anything after Sam announced the drinking contest, so I can’t tell you if you’ve got another satisfied customer or not.”

“Pfft. Even if you aren’t, nothing will top the sheer, unbridled rage Nazeem expressed when he found out his little girl used the ‘got drunk at the dragonslaying party’ to marry against his wishes. His face when Skati presented her husband will be my most treasured memory.”

Lydia narrows her eyes as she leans in. “You are way too smug, even if we can all agree Nazeem is a condescending fuck. Spill it.”

“Senche. Mazaram, the temple keeper.”

“Isn’t Skati… little? Lithe? And aren’t Senche...” Lydia tries to find a nice, non offensive word even as she gesticulates. Somehow, Jean doubts it is just about the size of the whole body.

“Massive? Aye, turns out we’ve got a size queen who didn’t want to just settle for a horse.” Lydia just shakes her head in amazement.

“Right, as fun as it is to hear about that… where did I say the wedding was?”

“Witchmist Grove. A bit to the east of the hot springs south of Windhelm.”

“... How? We woke up in Markarth.” Daedra bullshit, not that he can say that.

Ysolda just laughs. “Probably daedra bullshit.” At their sputters she shakes her head. “Look, half the town getting shitfaced so hard the Bard’s College sent some folks just to get a song about it? The Vigilants came out of the woods before anyone could finish saying ‘Sanguine’. If you are lucky, the lady to be is conventionally pretty. Daedra may require some work.”

“I have apparently stabbed a Forsworn assassin without knowing about it, the first thing I did in Markarth.” Jean answers dryly. “I do not have high hopes about my luck.”

“Well, I did give you my nicest ring, so at least I will have that to look forward to.” Ysolda comments idly as the trio says their goodbyes and moves to pick up supplies for a long, long trek to Eastmarch.

---

The way east has been peaceful for the majority of the day. Apparently, a large portion of the drunken misadventures had been local, to the quiet relief of worried families. There were still people not accounted for, mostly on the account of both distance and lack of money for carriage. Still, that left the journey uneventful, all the way to Valtheim Towers. Once a fort blocking the direct route between Windhelm and Whiterun, the twin towers have since been reduced to a pair of towers connected by the narrow stone bridge. And, with the casualties of dragon attacks, it has been temporarily taken over by a gang which stopped the group demanding a toll.

It was not a good ambush, even in Jean’s inexperienced opinion. Just a group of thugs who left a sentry demanding a toll, with the majority of the band safely situated in the towers. Which meant they couldn’t help their comrade when Lydia, shaking her head, simply punched the woman into her own campfire and slit her throat open before she could get the scream out. The narrow bridge helped clear the rest out without much of an issue either. Fire runes and Shouts saw to that.

On the plus side, it meant they would not be sleeping without a roof for the night. Thus, after getting their bags inside the tower and putting the pot over the fire to prepare the dinner, Lydia and Jean moved to the side of the road, after grabbing a pair of swords from the corpses. Mostly on account of Jean’s enchanted sword being overkill for a spar session.

As the soup happily bubbled, Erin keeping an eye on it even as she thumbed through the tome of Stoneflesh she’d bought herself at Whiterun, the two circled around each other, quick slashes and ripostes, blocks and bashes. Even with the Ring of Swiftness, Jean found himself copying Lydia’s movements as the black haired woman easily saw through his moves and all but danced around them, her sword finding its way past his guard every time. When it was her time to attack, he fared a little better, in the sense that hiding behind his shield and trusting the heightened awareness worked well enough. All the way until he ended backed into the cliff face, or a wall. Or a river. Still, as the minutes passed by and sweat formed on his back, Jean found himself surer of his movements, even if Lydia still proved to be infuriatingly untouchable.

“I think it’s a good place to stop for now, my thane.” She eventually says with a small smile. “A good progress, but it wouldn’t do if you strained yourself too much.”

“You know you don’t have to call me a thane, right?” Jean asked, feeling a bit embarrassed with the complement.

“Hmmm. I was raised with the expectations of knowing my etiquette, and you did manage to do something worthy of that much respect.” Tilting her head, she shrugs. “If it bothers you so much, however, I will try to at least not do so when we are in private.”

Nodding Jean sits by the campfire and pours the soup into Erin’s bowl before passing Lydia hers and then, finally himself. Before they can dig in, there is a sound of footsteps from up the road, and as they look up, they see a cathay Khajiit walking towards them, yellow monk hood and brown robes hiding most of his body. Seeing them, he smiles, putting his hands forward, palms open.

“M’aiq does not look for trouble, even if trouble seems to find him anyways.”

Lydia snorts, but nods. “Life can be like that, aye. Would you like to camp for the night with some friendly bodies around? We will share the meal too.” She adds, reaching for a spare bowl.

The Khajiit bows and sits gracefully, accepting the bowl. “M’aiq appreciates the hospitality, and will be thankful for a warm meal. M’aiq never thought he would have had enough snow before he visited Skyrim.”

Jean nods. “I feel for you. You are a traveller then?”

“Aye. M’aiq was in Morrowind once, a drastically different place. Almost like an inverse of Skyrim. He was in Cyrodiil too. He has heard it became quite unrecognisable over the years. May M’aiq know what pushes the three of you towards travel?”

“We got caught up in some of the most… exciting, let’s say in lieu of less kind words, parts of the Whiterun revelry or whatever the bards will decide to call it.” Erin supplies with a light shrug and a wry chuckle, “So here we are retracing our steps and cleaning up after the mess our inebriates selves oh so kindly left for us.”

M’aiq nods sympathetically. “M’aiq had skooma trips like that, he can understand. Fortunately, they pass quite fast.”

“Can’t say that’s the case for us. There are a couple of days missing in our case.” Lydia mutters into her bowl.

“M’aiq would say to drink less mead, but it would be like M’aiq telling the sun to not rise. Nords seem to really like their alcohol. M’aiq has yet to see a sign of water being used as a drink.”

Shaking their heads, the group finishes their meal in silence before Jean and Lydia stand up, ready to get an hour or two of practice before resting, M’aiq following curiously. As they take their positions, the Khajiit steps between them, approaching Jean with a tilted head.

“Is… something wrong, M’aiq?”

The Khajiit hums, stopping in front of the redhead who suddenly realizes the Khajiit is, in fact, towering over him. His hands are warm and gentle though.

Wait, what?

M’aiq steps back, a ring in his fingers. “Now, that's a better way to practice, friend. M’aiq finds that multiplying a small number is worse than multiplying big numbers.”

“How?” He had that ring on his finger, under his glove.

M’aiq radiates smugness as he answers. “M’aiq has found that having deft hands is useful for more than just practicing his one-handed skill.”

Is… Is that a double entendre?

“I… fair enough. Still, do you mind stepping in as my partner in that case?”

There is a mischievous glint in the Khajiit’s eyes as he pockets the ring and brings the mace that hangs at his belt.

“Very well. M’aiq finds that the practice goes best against other people anyway. And he will give you your ring back once you have won a spar.”

Reassured, Jean assumes his stance again, though now, without the ring, he really notices the difference. As the khajiit lunges, he feels sluggish almost, his body taking painfully long to respond.

There is a bang against his shield and M’aiq dances away before he can bring the sword against him, circling around, forcing him to turn with his movement. Jean tries to lunge, only for M’aiq’s mace to swing close to the crossguard, almost ripping the weapon out of his hand. The khajiit steps back, nodding approvingly.

“Nords make good weapons. M’aiq always worries his will break.”

“You have no idea.” Jean agrees. Seriously, how the hell did draugr maintain theirs? He had not seen so much as a grindstone in Bleak Falls.

Then, it’s back to practice. If Lydia was untouchable on the account of always managing to parry, intercept and block his strikes, M’aiq is untouchable the same way water is, always flowing around Jean’s clumsy attempts at hitting him, showcasing incredible amounts of flexibility even restricted by his robes. By half an hour mark, redhead’s head rings from all the punishment his shield withstood. He is fairly sure M’aiq didn’t hit his body on purpose anyway.

His shield. Jean fights down the urge to slap himself. Instead, he grunts and dive rolls away from another strike, moving past M’aiq and springing to his feet, swinging his shield in an arc. There is another loud bang and M’aiq’s mace falls out of his hand. The khajiit looks at his hand curiously, moving his fingers before smiling.

“Good. M’aiq was always of the opinion it’s better to hit than be hit, and he is not a fan of the shield.” Then, he reaches to his back, and with a quiet hiss draws a sword. “Besides, that’s why M’aiq carries two weapons.”

From the side, Jean can hear Lydia snort and has a faint feeling this entire time, Khajiit has been going easy on him. Then, he is suddenly lying on the ground, M’aiq putting his foot on his chest as he puts his sword by Jean’s throat. He can only gape.

“You did well, but sometimes, M’aiq wonders why people no longer teach about the importance of speed. If one can end the fight quickly, it leaves more time for more important things.”

“I get it. I didn’t even see you move, by the way, no way it’s all natural.”

M’aiq smiles, nodding. “M’aiq just loops and loops until the world gives up and gives him what he wants.” Then, he steps back.

Grumbling, Jean stands up. “Again.”

M’aiq just keeps smiling.

---

Still grumbling over the loss of his ring, Jean carefully goes around the basin of hot water littering the volcanically active area south of Windhelm. M’aiq turned out to be true to his word, in a very literal way. Since Jean did not, in fact, beat him in a spar, the Khajiit took the Ring of Swiftness for safekeeping. Even if he did promise to give it back if the conditions were met. Considering the skill and speed the khajiit displayed, Jean doesn’t have high hopes, unless he enchants himself a new one.

“Cheer up, Jean, at least we are pretty close to your fiancé. Just behind that mountain, in fact.” Lydia speaks, patting him on the shoulder as she points at the lone mountain looming in the distance.

There is a roar resounding through the sky and something takes off of said mountain. Jean gives his housecarl an unimpressed look, which Lydia has enough grace to take with a sheepish smile.

“Are you sure it’s me that is the legendary dragonborn and not you, considering the track record with finding the damn things?”

“Maybe it’s not going towards us? I think there is a giant camp in the area.” She tries to defend herself.

In response, the speck grows larger, forming a very distinguishable silhouette. Lydia just sighs and runs towards a small grove, Jean and Erin hot on her heels.

“I have already spotted you, joor! Now stand and face me, or pay for the privilege of walking through MY land!” The dragon roars, its words echoing through the plain. It flies fast, faster than Mirmulnir and the nameless dragon at the Western Watchtower. The group barely manages to dive behind the trees before its breath freezes the ground where they stood solid and turn the vegetation into statues sparkling in the sun.

“Oh? On the other hand, I rescind my generosity. Come Dovahkiin, let us have tinvaak.” It speaks mockingly. “Convince me you are worth anything.”

It hovers over the grove, its crimson eyes watching carefully for any sign of movement.

Lydia takes out her shield, eyeing the beast wearily.

Erin’s frown slowly shifts into a growing grin as her eyes glint with the sparking of a dangerous idea. “I got a plan.”
___________________________________________________________________________

Faraanfrinofaal drowns the small grove in his Thu’um again, hoping the Dovahkiin would get over it and face him. Truly, so far the joor proved to be disappointing prey, neither facing him nor surrendering to his majesty and offering their treasures as a tribute. Was this truly what Alduin has been worried about? A pair of cowards hiding behind trees and stones?

Bah! At least the small settlement to the north of his new home had the good sense to pay him for not unleashing his wrath. The miners would be allowed to continue their work. For now. At the very least, until Faraanfrinofaal brought the giants under the heel. The big cretins didn’t have anything actually valuable, so he would need to figure out the way they could pay him. Perhaps a tribute of meat? Mammoths were certainly bigger than anything the other joor could ever hope to present to him.

A movement catches his eyes and he looks back to the groove. The joor who is not Dovahkiin leads, shield shimmering with a layer of magic held up, clearly meant to try and withstand his Thu’um. Foolish. She is a warrior, not mage, that he could tell, she definitely had a weak enough grasp on magic anything she bothered with would be easily broken. The Dovahkiin walk behind her, flames dancing in their haal, hands. Bah. Clearly their Thu’um was lacking if it’s not what they defaulted to when faced with one of the Dovah.

“So you finally show yourselves. Pft. Cast your lah, I will weather it easily. And then, I will show you how a dovah ought to be. Not enough to kill you, obviously. You will need to repay me for my generosity after all.”

The joor bring their limbs closer, forming the balls of fire. Truly small and pitiful, compared to the glorious firestorm a Thu’um could unleash. Then, they throw them and the four balls sail towards him. Faraanfrinofaal wants to laugh, but he catches the Dovahkiin inhaling and…

“FUS!””FUS!”

Force hits the fireballs and the magicka explodes onwards, the will imposed upon the world carrying the heat and the flame faster and stronger than it has any right to be. Faraanfrinofaal screams as the flames hit his skull, his eyes bursting in the sockets. Not enough to kill him, no, but enough pain for his wings to stop beating and for his body to drop, shaking the ground under his weight.

“DOVAHKIIIIIIIN!” He lashes out with his jaws blindly, using memory of their position. His fangs met the air. His tail collapses the trees to deny them their hiding place.

“Hey, you overgrown, scaly bandit!” Came a shout from the joor. The actual joor. Faraanfrinofaal sneers as he turns his body towards the voice. Her death will be a good start. Then, he will freeze the Dovahkiin. Not enough to kill. Oh no, he is going to have fun taking his share out of their pathetic hides. He turns, his body tensing and he jumps. His fangs are too good for the joor.

Then, he lands, and the ground underneath him explodes and he roars in pain as he feels his scales fall off and blood leave his body in geysers. And as he trashes, more explosions go off, setting his blood on fire and Akatosh, his insides burn…

He howls, pain and agony carrying on the wind, drowning the sound of footsteps as he desperately tries to not move just to not risk another explosion. Then, something pierces his eye socket, and Faraanfrinofaal feels his sil be ripped out of his shell, adding to agony.
___________________________________________________________________________

“So, how does it feel to be a dragonslayer?” Jean asks Lydia as the woman wrestles her sword out of the dragon's skull while Erin slurps the beast’s soul.

The woman is silent for a moment, a complex expression on her face before she smiles. “Invigorating. I know I only managed to do that with your help, but still, it feels like nothing is impossible.” Shaking her head, she laughs. “And it’s a second dragon you manage to kill by exploding it.”

Erin snorts as the last bits of the covetous idiot filter in, “Few things that won’t go down to enough explosions at point blank.” Commentary done, she turned back to the soul, going with her gut to squeeze the fucker for that frost Shout. Being a dragonborn may not come with a manual, but it was a very user friendly system.

Dipping into the hot spring to clean the dragon blood off of herself, Lydia snorts. “Oh, absolutely. Now, let’s finish checking out Jean’s lovely bride. Then, we may check that mountain for anything interesting the dragon might have collected.”

Jean sighs as he is reminded that yes, he did almost absolutely marry a hagraven and would have to become a widower within a few hours, since, if he remembered correctly, the damn thing was possessive. Though, considering the general looks of hagravens, it was probably not surprising that if one managed to land a significant other, they would want to keep them.

(Un)fortunately, the rest of the journey to Witchmist Grove goes without a hitch. Lydia casts curious glances at the absolute ton of mammoth skeletons littering the area. Once they enter the woods however, her expression grows grave as she notices the… decorations, Jean’s wife put on the path. Dismembered corpses impaled on stakes, some having their hearts ripped out. Animal skulls propped on the branches, or entire heads. And, of course, an overwhelming stench of blood.

With a sigh, she takes her crossbow off her back and loads it. “Lovely. I hope you are not attached, because this shit wouldn’t look out of place in the Reach.”

Snorting, Jean shakes his head. “Nah. Though… the two of you should hang back. I have no idea how she will react.” a small lie, but he really didn’t have a good explanation for how he knew. “And that way, I will take her attention away so Lydia can put a bolt in her eye.” The woman nods and waits with Erin for a bit before carefully following Jean.

The redhead approaches the small house, fighting down the bile at the sight of the fence decorated with severed goat heads. There is a screech from inside, and in the doorway appears…

Ah yes, the biggest argument against the bird girls.

The old woman is wrinkly, that much is sure, with long, crooked nose and beady eyes. Lanky, with both her arms and legs turning into bird's legs, ended with enormous claws, at least for the hands. And she is skimpily clothed. Very skimpily. Jean shudders as he suddenly finds it incredibly easy to maintain the eye contact.

“Darling!” She… it… she squeaks. “I knew you would come back! Did you finish your business in Markarth? Did you bring any gifts?”

Oh god, drunk me, what the fuck did you say? Quick, bullshit something.

“M-moira” he chokes out, managing a very awkward smile, hoping the hagraven will mistake it for a different kind of smile “I am sorry, but I had to leave it quickly. There was a Vigilant sniffing around.” And it was true, even. Of course the poor fuck was snooping around the shrine to Molag Bal, but details.

The hagraven screeches, looking at him as if to check he is still there. “Are you alright, darling? My dear Anise was killed by the Vigilants recently, you know. If they had taken you in addition to my dear sister, I wou...” Jean, fortunately, never learns what exactly Moira would do if he died as in that moment, a crossbow bolt lodges itself in her eye, the monstrous woman falling back, dead, mid word.

Releasing the breath he didn’t know he held, Jean turns around and gives the woman a shaky thumbs up before walking into the house in search of any clues. There is a note, by the bowl of blood, with a rose sticking out of the liquid.

Officiated at Dimhollow. If you need the Rose, a proof of the joy everlasting, repaired, come back.

Shaking his head, Jean carefully picks up the rose, as well the note, checking the back of it. There is a small, hand drawn map of the area around the Crypt, with Hall of Vigilant marked for reference. Then he leaves, carefully stepping over the hagraven’s corpse.

“So, have you learned anything?” Lydia asks as he approaches her and Erin.

“Sam is waiting for us at some place called Dimhollow Crypt. He was even helpful enough to provide a piece of map to it.”

“Can’t say I have heard of the place.” Looking over the note, she frowns. “Huh. I wonder if Ormund knows anything about the place. It’s really close to the Hall.”

“Worth a shot. Better than prodding the Vigilants about it, I’d rather not be on Sanguine’s shitlist by ‘ruining the fun’ in the form of a bunch of twitchy Vigilants busting in there.” Erin supplies. She held no illusion that the air of cordiality around “Sam” would dry up real fast if they rained on his parade.

Lydia grimaces as she thinks about that. “Yeah. Let’s… let’s just go.”

---

 

Chapter 7: Welcome to Vlad’s Crematorium, You Stake ‘Em, We Bake ‘Em

“Dimhollow, eh?” Ormund mutters hunched over the map of the Pale and Hjaalmarch, cross referencing it with the scribbled location. “I think I have heard about it. Adalvald found the cavern with a ruin of a tower and thought it suspicious. I mean, why would anyone build a tower inside a cave? One of the paths deeper in was caved-in gods know how long ago. According to Adalvald, the markings in the tower were associated with some sort of ancient vampire clan. Last I heard, the Vigilants were planning to excavate the corridor. They thought it might be hiding a vampire artefact.”

“So we might find undead.” Lydia summarizes.

Ormund snorts. “Aye. Skeletons most likely, maybe some well preserved zombies. Other than that, depends on the clan’s specialty.”

“You are… surprisingly helpful with this, considering a daedric prince wants us to get there.” Jean notes.

The larger man sighs. “Sanguine is… well, not benevolent, no, but easier to manage. He wants revelry, wild and uncontrollable, preferably, but compared to the likes of Molag Bal or Namira, he is pleasant. And he is right there with Sheogorath when it comes to amusing himself with sowing chaos. If he wants you at the centre of some Divines forsaken vampire vault, it means your presence will cock up some vampire’s plans. And that is always good.”

Thinking about Harkon’s innovative suicide method, Jean can agree with that. The sun would not be gone for too long, no, but it was still better to not have it gone in the first place.

“So that’s a ride to… either Morthal or Dawnstar?” Lydia prods, looking at the map.

“Dawnstar. I swear to Talos” Ormund grumbles “all the maps of Skyrim are shit. Even novice Vigilants have trouble finding the Hall with one. Most of the higher ups simply memorise the route.”

“Off to perform an unboxing then.” Jean says. “With a carriage, we won’t need as much food, but other supplies… gonna stock on potions.”

Ormund nods. “That you will. Actually, hold that thought.” Jean tilts his head, shooting the man a questioning look. “I wanted to give you lot something as thanks for helping straighten things up with the jarl.”

“That’s mostly Lydia…”

“And now that she is your housecarl, it means you are included.” He waves the protest off before opening a trunk and pulling a box and a bundle. Putting them at the table, he opens the box, revealing the trio of white, softly glowing potions. “Here, Cure Disease. Vigilant fare, meant to purge even Oblivion borne illnesses. If you meet any vampires, you should be fine as long as you drink within three days of the fight.”

Accepting the vials and carefully stashing them in his bag, Jean nods. “Why is it always three days? You would think Bal would change it, if only to throw the attempts to cure it off.”

“Beats me. Every single case of contracted vampirism over millennia has been three days after. No more, no less. Probably some stupidly arbitrary rule of magic.” Unwrapping the bundle reveals a sheathed sword. “Silent Moon steel. Works like a charm on the undead, just like silver, but it will also burn them at night as if the sun’s rays were upon them. Consider it me wanting to try it out on the real deal without endangering my men.”

Lydia accepts the sword, giving it an experimental swing before nodding, seemingly satisfied. “Thank you, Ormund. Is there anything else? Perhaps you have found a set of enchanted armour that makes vampires explode when near it?”

Snorting, he shakes his head. “Would be nice to have though. Scram now. Wouldn’t want to see what a daedric prince does when you force them to wait.”

“See you.” Jean agrees. “We will come back to give you a review of the sword after this is done.”

“Can’t always Fire Rune away the undead, after all.” is Erin’s own commentary, mouth set in a crooked grin.

“Aye, a vampire will just detonate it prematurely.” Ormund snorts before going back to his paperwork.

A few hours later, the group is back at Whiterun, off to prepare themselves for the final step of their adventure. Jean holes himself up with Farengar, working on another ring of swiftness as well as deciding to cash in his thane promised enchanted gear. Rifling through the vaults, he eventually settles on a pendant which Balgruuf says is called Whiterun’s Mantle. Putting it on, Jean suddenly feels lighter, as if he spent his entire life walking through syrup. It is made of a dragon fang encrusted in silver and topped with a bundle of horse hair. While M’aiq might have a point, against vampires, he prefers to take no chances. Additionally, he takes a trip to the Warmaiden to get outfitted for a new armour. Leather and fur was warm, yes, but against vampires he prefers something more lasting. Eventually, he settles on the set of elven armour, or, as the Ulfberth calls it, the moonsilver armour. It’s light, surprisingly so, and the inlay makes it comfortable. Additionally, unlike what the elven variants look like, it has far less in the way of visible engravings, except for wolf-like pauldrons. That or it’s just Companion’s influence on the city.

Lydia is left to manage their supplies, as well as to haggle with Arcadia for potions she might think will be necessary.

Erin would normally help by brewing up a storm, but her attention is instead solely dedicated to ensuring she has Stoneflesh mastered. She was interested in becoming a vampire, not getting bodied by one, thank you very much. It is with that thought in mind that she goes and finally buys herself some proper mage robes. Her travelling clothes were lightly enchanted to aid a neophyte mage, but her new Apprentice Alteration robes are a step above that, with the gloves and boots pointedly enchanted much like the hood. It is costly, but after selling her share of dragonbone and scales off to the jarl, she has plenty of funds to play with. Speaking of the jarl, she uses the visit to cash in that thane-hood reward she’d nearly forgotten about thanks to all the daedric shenanigans. There wasn’t a lot of enchanted gear in the vaults meant for wizards, no, but she’d found something plenty useful nonetheless. The very fittingly named Spelleating Pendant, ebony shaped like a dragon head biting down on a mass of fire and lightning.

The next morning, they take the carriage to Dawnstar.

---

Fortunately, the journey is largely uneventful. Between small scale, short lived bouts of drunken heroics and intensive Stormcloak patrols in the territory under Ulfric’s sway, the roads are fairly bandit free. They have a bit of spook on the third day when they spot a dragon flying in the distance, its roar barely reaching them. The carriage spends the next hour in the snow covered woods as they wait for the beast to vanish behind the horizon.

Eventually however, they reach the rough area where Ormund pointed the Hall of Vigilant was located, and get off the carriage and move the rest of the way on foot. As they get closer to the woods hiding it, Lydia stops, eyes narrowing.

“Something is wrong.” She mutters, sniffing the air. “Something is burning and the forest is too quiet, be on your guard.”

Bringing their shields up, Jean and Lydia step to the front, eyeing the trees on both sides of the path. Erin calls up her Familiar, setting it to sniff about. The daedra sniffs for a moment, pacing restlessly before shooting deeper into the woods, the party following behind.

The Hall might’ve, once upon a time, passed for a particularly out of the way inn, if on the large side. Now the wooden walls are either collapsed or torn apart, bearing the signs of heavy fire. The roof is simply gone, as are the windows, the shards of glass littering the ground. And then, of course, there are corpses. Most of them, unmistakably, belong to the Vigilants. There is a group of broken, ripped apart bodies surrounding a hulking, grey statue, their guts spilled on the ground. An Argonian is nailed to one of the walls, missing a head. Some are burned beyond recognition. Aside from that, the courtyard is littered with bodies of black hounds, their wounds emitting a faint mist into the air. On the doorstep, there is an absolutely giant pile of ashes with broken weapons scattered around it.

“This is… ” Lydia whispers, gripping her sword tighter.

“It seems the vampires got the word of their secret lair being found out.” Jean finishes. Lydia nods silently.

The most unnerving detail of the entire scene is how silent it is. Aside from the steady, dying fire and the crunch of the snow beneath their feet, the Hall and its surroundings are silent as grave. Inside there are even more signs of battle, furniture overturned where Vigilants attempted to barricade themselves off, smashed apart by more of the unmoving statues, or bodies crushed under tables and wardrobes. The altar dedicated to Stendarr stands, but desecrated, the carved liquid painted red with blood, obviously as a means of sending a message.

The Familiar moves through the ruined hall to the staircase to the basement. There is a flash of golden light and Erin can feel the daedra being banished back to Oblivion. Investigating, the group finds the corpse of a redhead woman covered in ashes, the body leaning against the door with a broken warhammer at her feet.

The group leaves, rounding the Hall, spotting the path Ormund mentioned. It soon gives space to the stone staircase, half buried under the snow.

“And they decided it might have been important just recently?” Jean mutters as they slowly climb the stairs. The damn thing was even pretty well maintained, save for the parts buried under the earth, probably more because of the passing of centuries. Eventually however, the staircase ends at the mouth of a cave, the entrance being suspiciously narrow and tight. Squeezing through, the group finds themselves in a much larger cavern, with a hum of a stream passing through. There is a lantern on the ground somewhere behind a stone pillar, as well as the sound of conversation.

Creeping closer to turn around the pillar, the group notices a pair of pale, dark haired people leaning against the sides of a gate with a corpse of another Vigilant between them, currently gnawed on by a hound.

“Tch, I thought Vingalmo said the Vigilants were weak. The damn pests did a number on us.” One of them complains.

“Vingalmo is an Altmer. We could be going against the champion of Molag Bal himself, and if they weren’t an Altmer, Vingalmo would think them weak. Nay, I am glad they put up a good fight. Killing them proves our worth to the Prince of Domination better that way.”

“I guess so… Still, what do you think is inside?”

“Beats me. Only Lokil knows, and he is not sharing. Thinks he will advance the ranks that way. If you ask me, Othjolf will… ”

The group exchanges looks before Lydia takes point, her new sword ready, shield held close. Jean stands to her side, fire dancing on his fingers. Erin is a step behind, both hands likewise full of fire.

With vampires, there’s no taking chances, so it is no surprise they silently agreed to re-enact Faraanfrinofaal’s death. Jean and Erin cast together, the runes being seared in a flash of heat into the ground around them, leaving only the spot directly in front of Lydia free. The flare of magic draws the vampires’ and their hound’s attention, the two stepping away from the gate and drawing their swords. The one on the left eyes the runes.

“Think you will get anywhere by limiting where we can go, worms?” He sneers, mouth twisting into a grin. Then, he sprints, becoming less than a blur. “Thing aga-!”

He is interrupted as Lydia’s shield hits him in the face and sends him into the rune to her side. In a flash, the vampire howls as the spell explodes under him and his body is consumed by the flames. Jean quickly recasts the rune on the spot while the vampire’s body turns to ashes in front of their eyes.

“Moron.” The other vampire comments with an eye roll. “Right. Balin may have been impulsive, but don’t think your cute trick is going to work again, mortals.” Strolling nonchalantly closer, he whistles at the hound, the beast jumping in front of him. “Any last words?”

“Just one.” Jean replies with a smile. Eyeballing the distance, he feels confident about the… trap. Is it really a trap when the dumbass handed himself on a silver platter? The vampire gives him a bored look but gestures him to continue. Taking a deep breath, Jean Speaks. “Liiv.”

The Wither bursts forward, the runes it touches fizzling out with a gentle hiss, the rock it passes over cracking and fragmenting. And when it washes over the vampire and the hound, their bodies dry in a blink of an eye, clothes unravelling on the man’s back, his sword rusting and falling apart, skin flaying away, muscles and organs rotting and decomposing until nothing but bone remains. And then, the bone itself breaks and turns into fine powder as it falls to the ground. As soon as it starts, it is over, before their enemy has a chance to so much as cry.

Lydia speaks first, inspecting the Shout’s path. “Not something to use if we want to have any treasure left.”

“Great for carving out a new path without risk of blowing ourselves up, at least.” Erin pipes up as she dispels the runes she’d placed, familiar enough with the spell by now to be able to reclaim a fair bit of the magicka invested. The rest, her Altmer blood and all her enchanted gear see to easily enough. “Then there’s draugr clearing, who don’t carry much in the way of valuables anyway.”

The group continues into the tunnels deeper into the mountain, the rough walls of caves giving the way for well maintained brickwork which turns back into the untreated stone as they reach the next cavern. It is dark, a few braziers scattered across the giant room barely dispelling darkness which Erin is hesitant to push back with Candlelight, not when it’d be a beacon to any vampires watching them while killing the party’s night vision. In the darkness, there is a faint clatter of moving bones, as well as a dark figure illuminated by one of the braziers.

Moving slowly ahead, Lydia freezes when her foot disturbs the water flowing through the centre of the cavern, the splash causing the figure to turn around as the shadows of the skeletons emerge from the darkness, grasping ancient weapons in their clutches. Sighing, the Nord woman rushes forward, scattering the bones with swings of her shield before the undead can finish even swinging their blades. Jean follows just behind, intercepting the sword strike from the vampire who suddenly steps to Lydia’s side. The woman wastes no time thinking, instead elbowing the shadowed figure in the face, causing the bloodsucker to back off with a hiss.

Spinning on her heel, Lydia pushes forward, a flurry of strikes forcing the vampire to keep backing away as it tries to slip away.

It gets a nasty surprise as Erin makes purple light bloom just behind it, an irate daedra hound flying out of the portal mid-pounce. Her other hand sees about flinging a bolt of lightning at the bloodsucker to keep it busy for a precious second.

In light of the fire the group can see the vampire’s eyes widen as she is frozen with indecision as to which threat to address first, less than a second, not even a blink of an eye, but it is enough. She raises a ward, the lighting washing over the spell without effect, only to pop as the Familiar pushes her forward, straight on Lydia’s sword. The vampire whimpers as the steel impales her stomach, before the blade glows a soft, ephemeral green and she screams as the wound erupts in flames. Lydia steps back shocked, pulling her weapon out as she watches the vampire scream and roll on the ground in panic and pain. Then, face hardening, she delivers the killing blow.

“Let’s hope the rest is too busy to have noticed.” She comments, giving the sword a look.

“And let’s prepare in case they weren’t.” Erin adds softly. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. Idly, she let a pulse of Clairvoyance light up the room to her eyes. The spell was invaluable in navigating barely lit ruins like these. And in drawing her eyes to valuables, of course.

As it turns out, after some time wandering the tunnels, the vampires have bigger problems to worry about. The tunnels echo with the clash of blades, the howl of the hounds and the battle cries in dovahzul. Slowly moving forward, the party encounters the bodies of the draugr covered in the ashes of the fallen vampires. Some dismembered, heads turning to cast their baleful gazes at them as they pass, some lying listlessly on the ground like puppets whose strings have been cut.

Guided by Erin’s Clairvoyance, the group slowly makes their way through the crypt, stepping over the corpses and the piles of ash signifying the clashes between the two groups of undead. Soon enough, the walls become covered in a thick layer of webbing, the path ahead clearly hacked by blades. The chamber ahead is filled with corpses of spiders, each the size of a large dog, each accompanied by at least one corpse of the vampires’ strange black hounds. There is even a pile of ash where one of the vampires managed to get killed by the spiders.

Following the trail of the magical compass, the group eventually makes their way to another raised gate, behind which they can see the corpse of an enormous spider, easily the size of a house, barely fitting the chamber. Its body is covered in wounds, its carapace cracked and leaking blue blood. Cautiously crossing the gate and walking around the corpse, the group spots a man panting in the corner, hands pressing against the wall.

“You might as well stop sneaking like thieves, mortals. I heard you coming from the chamber away. Might I inquire where the rest of my underlings are?” He calls out suddenly, the voice strong and commanding even as he turns around to display a horrific wound around his midsection where the giant spider most likely tried to bite him in half.

“When the invader doesn’t use fire, draugr turn out to be quite a determined security measure.” Jean provides as he tries to pass as far away from spider’s corpse as possible while maintaining any semblance of group cohesion, which only earns him an eye roll from Lydia. Erin gives the corpse a speculative glance, before dismissing the possibility of raising it as a zombie. Corpses from non-sapient creatures made for especially dim undead, to the point of having serious trouble distinguishing friend from foe.

The vampire, surprisingly enough, nods. “Our ancestors knew how to make defences. It is a shame most of them around this particular crypt have eroded. I would love to study them. Now, however… ” He drawls, bringing up his sword, the other hand erupting in crimson light.

“Back to trying to kill each other, huh?” Erin grumbles with a sigh, lightning hurtling out of one hand while the other snaps out a firebolt from a different angle. She’d set up a fire rune under his feet, but the bloodsucker is just a few hairs too far away. Not enough time to advance and set up the damn thing before he reacted.

The vampire reacts instantly, intercepting the lighting with his blade, the weapon exploding with a bang as he curses and dives to the side, barely avoiding the firebolt. Lydia and Jean snap into action, Lydia charging in a straight line while Jean runs for the door while he throws another firebolt. The vampire snarls and conjures a spike of ice, longer and thinner than normal and blocks Lydia’s blade with it while the spell in his other hand erupts in a stream of crimson, seeping around Jean’s shield. The redhead grits his teeth, choking back a cry as he feels the spell rip away something from his body. Staggering, he turns fully towards the vampire.

“FUS!”

The wave of force throws the undead against the wall and ends the spell. Before he can regain his footing, Lydia cuts his head off, the flames of her enchanted weapon immediately eating away at the body.

Erin hurriedly scoots over, letting out a “Fo” more as a whisper than the Shout it is. The guy had talked about subordinates, which meant he had some level of importance, so she’d rather have a chance to root through his belongings instead of a pile of ash. The headless body freezes, the first flakes of ash falling to the ground as specks of snow while the rest of the body, still intact, hits the ground.

“Right, let’s see if we’re lucky and he carried some sort of journal that’ll tell us what the vampires were doing here.” Erin had high hopes, the man had sounded like a scholar, so he probably liked to keep notes.

While the pockets of the man’s robe are somewhat stiff and unbending due to the frost, Erin manages to rummage through them nonetheless. In his pouch there is a pile of filled soul gems and alchemical ingredients. In the bag however, she does find a journal. Leafing through it, she finds the notes detailing workings of some sort of sealing mechanism showcasing braziers and the activation method involving spike, as well as commentary about ‘traitors’ and ‘reclaiming what was stolen through treachery’.

Erin sighs, passing the journal over to Jean. “Want to bet one of us will have to get their hand pierced by the end of this?” It would certainly be how things went if it was like in the game.

Jean winces at the idea. “I am not looking forward to that.”

“Agreed. Boulder-Scroll-Sword to decide when we get there?” Erin proposes with a crooked grin.

Lydia nods along and the trio open the door and step into a chamber itself opening into a far larger cavern. Much, much larger. Slowly walking to the edge of the chamber where they can see the staircase, they freeze as they hear a bloody cough and a sound of a boot meeting body.

“D-do your worst, abomination. My faith is… stronger… than whatever sick… plays you could subject me to.” Comes a weak, raspy voice.

“Hmh. Obviously, you don’t know what is in here, or you would sing differently. Go, meet your god, Vigilant.” There is a crunch of the bone and a silence, for a moment.

“After this… you will remember who brought the information?” Comes a quiet, female voice.

She is answered with a chuckle. “Aye. I remember who is my enemy and who is my friend. And after this… Lord Harkon will be most pleased with us.”

Sheathing her sword, Lydia takes out the crossbow and motions silently to the stairs. Jean cracks a grim smile and holds the fire runes in both of his hands. ‘One chance’ he mouths to Erin.

She grins right back.

---

Lokil feels good about his prospects. Sure, the Vigilants turned out to be more of a problem than initially believed and they lost their gargoyles breaking the Hall down. And the tomb itself had some unwelcome surprises. Still, Lokil could always put it at the feet of incompetents he was saddled with. Lord Harkon would understand. Results were what mattered at his court after all. Shaking his head, he kicks the corpse of the Vigilant to the side. Now, he just needs to wait for Torbald to come with the instruction for the seal and…

There is a flash of light upstairs, and poor Delia falls dead, a burning crossbow bolt sticking out of her throat. Shame, but traitors tend to meet fitting ends. Instead he looks up, a pair of mages, Altmer and Breton, as well as Nord woman with a crossbow. Such a motley crew, and definitely not Vigilants, going by their very individualized apparel. Drawing his sword, Lokil bares his fangs, a grin on his face. Novice hunters then, ones who got lucky.

He sprints, faster than the winter wind, his feet barely touching the stone. Which is still enough. He has enough time to curse as the runes go off, his eyes widening as the explosion masks… something, one of the non Nords do and the wave of force hits him.

---

Stepping to look down the stairs, Jean hums as he watches the ashes the vampire turned into fall to the ground. His gaze goes to the corpse of the Vigilant.

“So… I think we have found a volunteer?” He speaks unsure. Weird magic locking mechanisms were not his thing, so who knows if a corpse would do.

“Worth a try. At least there’s probably no traps it’ll trigger that haven’t already been sprung by these guys poking at the mechanisms.” Erin muses before shaking her head, “I’m just wondering when ‘Sam’ will decide to pop up to say hello.” And now was a good moment for it, hence her speaking of the devil.

Which is, obviously, why nothing happens. No sudden voices speaking from behind her, no light shows, no cheers of the crowd. Even Lydia seems to be confused.

“...Oh, well, it was worth a shot. Let’s go poke the overcomplicated ancient Nord mechanical bullfuckery.” Erin grumbles with a sigh.

The group walks down the stairs. As their feet touch the ground at the bottom, they suddenly find themselves at the beginning of the well kept stone path in the middle of the garden, the maze illuminated by the ephemeral pink lights floating above.

Lydia sighs, shoulders slumping. “Daedric bullshit.”

Jean merely pats her on the arm and the group silently moves down the cobblestone towards the sound of a party. After a few false turns, they eventually arrive at the grove shrouded in light mist concealing the faces of the party goers. Except for one. A redhead Breton in black robes. The man who started this mess, in a way. Seeing them, his face lights up and he walks towards them.

“And the guests of honour finally arrive! Honestly, I was worried for a moment that putting you against a crypt of vampires might be a touch too far, but you made it!”

Jean just sights before reaching to his bag and bringing the rose out. “I am afraid the marriage fell through, so… here.” He finishes awkwardly. “I am not sure about the exact procedure on wedding gifts from daedric princes, buuuuut… ”

Snorting, Sam shakes his head, his body transforming mid motion. His body flashes through a myriad of forms, male and female, Men, Mer, Khajiit, Argonian and more still before it settles on a tall, black skinned man with red facial paint on and four horns protruding from his skull. Even his robe changes, a flash of black plate glowing ominous red before it turns to a comfortable set of clothes one might find at a high profile party.

“Nah, keep it. Whichever of you want it anyway.” As he speaks, the Rose in Jean’s hands grows, the stem growing and thickening while the flower blooms, until Jean holds a staff sized version of a flower, appropriately sized thorns included. “The poor thing didn’t see much use as of late, so some fresh air would do it good.”

Erin considers it for a moment. On one hand, high level daedra prancing about, on the other hand, high level daedra she can point at people she doesn’t like, “Good thing Skyrim has an ample supply of bandits and Thalmor to use it on.” And a good thing she was already planning to become a vampire, because the Vigilants sure were going to hate her guts.

“Hmmm, the boys and girls might be a touch bored with limited selection, so they will have to get creative.” Sam nods along. “I think you will love their creativity. But! It is not just a very nice summoning staff, although it absolutely looks nice. Definitely sweeter design than Wabbajack, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Do you honestly expect us to say ‘no’ here?” Lydia answers in a dry tone.

Sam just snorts. “Smart, very smart. Anyway, besides summoning my subject ready to party, you have noticed the thorns by now. It is a rose, after all. Just dip some water on them and it will turn into alcohol. Or a hallucinogenic. Whichever is funnier.”

And just like that Erin was already making plans for that Thalmor party. It was a pity cameras weren’t a thing in Tamriel, it would’ve been wonderful to be able to immortalise the end result.

Shuffling awkwardly, Jean picks up. “Sooo. Mind laying it out why you have decided to put the end point… well, here? I assume you know what is going on.”

Sanguine’s grin only grows, almost literally splitting his face in half. “Indeed I do. Me and everyone else. We noticed your arrival, you know.” He adds lightly. “So, in the interest of getting to the good stuff faster, I decided a party was in order!”

Lydia just stares before walking up to a table and grabbing one of the cups lying around. Without even checking the contents, she downs it in a single go, the presumed daedra sitting across whistling appreciatively.

“Now my friends, not that I wouldn’t love to have another party in the Myriad Realms with you, but I fear what others might do with me if I hog you to myself for too long. Any other questions before I sent you back to the crypt?”

“Just one.” Jean pipes in. It is something of a spur of the moment, and perhaps he is still just a little shaken by his marriage. “Have you considered you would attract more followers if you lot made hagravens less… something that makes a half decomposed draugr look appealing?”

Sanguine erupts into laughter while Lydia chokes on her third mug. “Buahahahaha! Good one, good one! ...It is weird how you are the first to ask. That does sound like a fun little project. Maybe I will even tell others about it. Now, see ya, you’ve got an ancient vampire lord to antagonize.”

With a wave of his hand, the trio return back to the cavern, right back to the same spot they had entered the Prince of Revelry’s realm.

“When we get back to Whiterun, I’m buying you a drink.” Is Erin’s solemn vow before she turns back to the stone path leading to the sarcophagus’ hidey hole, “C’mon, let’s go see how we’re going to piss on that vampire lord’s mead.”

Hefting the Vigilant’s corpse, Lydia falls behind the two Dragonborn as they move toward the altar at the centre of the cavern. There is a skeleton propped against the pillar at the pedestal in the centre surrounded by the empty braziers. Setting the body down, Lydia carefully puts its hand on the top of the pillar and pushes.

Immediately, a spike pierces the hand, drawing blood. Lydia jumps back giving the contraption a suspicious look. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, the spike retracts and with a rumble, the base of the platform erupts in the purple flames which give no heat, with a thin line of fire lazily connecting the base of the podium to the outer ring of the structure. Glancing back at the glaziers, she hums.

“The journal had the correct combination, right?”

Receiving a nod, the group checks the journal again before getting up to work, the flames spreading in thin lines from one brazier to the next until the flame eventually loops back to the podium. The flames flash before converging on the podium and the entire structure rumbles and slowly sinks forming a shallow amphitheatre with a coffin at the centre. The lid slides into the ground revealing a young looking woman, pale and black-haired clad in the armour of similar make to that of the vampires they have encountered on their way. And, on her back…

“Nine damnit, is that an Elder Scroll?” Lydia curses.

The vampire takes a step out and stumbles, almost falling to her knees before regaining the balance and shaking her head.

“Ughhhh… '' Opening her eyes, she blinks as she sees the three. “Who… are you?”

“The unlikely heroes Akatosh decided to throw at these troubled times. I go by Erin, that’s Jean and the Nord’s Lydia.” Erin replies with a quiet snort, “Welcome to the Fourth Era, year 201, hope you enjoyed the nap.”

The woman blinks. “Fo-fourth era? How long is that… ” Shaking her head, she continues. “Right, my name is Serana. I… suppose I need to thank you for getting me out, at least. Is there any chance...”

“Before you say anything like ‘show me the way out’” Lydia notes dryly “please consider that I do not feel comfortable with just letting a vampire go on her merry way with an Elder Scroll strapped to her back.”

Snorting, Serana crosses her arms. “Fair enough, I suppose. Still, that leaves the question of who sent you. The place is out of the way, so I doubt you just ‘happened’ to venture in.”

“We were on an errand for a daedric prince. And their identity might surprise you.” Jean adds with a smile.

“Not Molag Bal then. Makes sense, if that was the case, you would have probably been sent by my father. Still, it would fit Mephala or Nocturnal, maybe Boethiah.”

“Sanguine.” Lydia answers. Serana gives her an incredulous look, to which, she cracks a smile and continues. “Let’s just say it was a really wild party.”

“Four days and nights. We started in Whiterun and woke up halfway across Skyrim.” Erin throws in.

“You must have really made his day, considering he left you with his Rose.” Serana muses as she eyes the suddenly much smaller flower pin on Erin’s lapel. The party blinks and Jean looks to the arch where he put the staff sized thing against before they started on the brazier puzzle.

“Fucking daedric bullshit, how does it work?” Lydia finally speaks.

Shrugging, Serana coughs politely to get the attention back on her. “Anyway, while I understand your apprehension, I would love nothing more than to never see this cave again. How about we compromise in that case? You surely have some sort of home, so I could stay with you until I figure out what happened since I was last outside, maybe keep an ear to the ground regarding my father?”

“That still leaves the question of when was the last time you saw outside.” Jean notes.

“Right, that. Hmmm… Say, who is the current High King?”

“Debatable.” Lydia supplies.

“War of succession, lovely. Good to know the world didn’t cease to be exciting while I was gone. So, is it another spat between Whiterun and Solitude?”

Blinking, Lydia shakes her head. “No. Whiterun is neutral. We’ve got Ulfric, Jarl of Windhelm on one side and the widow of the previous High King, Elisif of Solitude on the other. Ulfric got half the holds, Elisif the other, plus the Empire.”

“... Empire?”

“From Cyrodiil.” Lydia answers confused.

“Cyrodiil is a seat of an empire?”

Bringing a hand to her face with a smack, Lydia sighs. “You have been gone for a long, long time. Cyrodiil was the heart of an Empire in one way or another since some way into the First Era, almost three thousands years ago, give or take.”

“Definitely need to start figuring things out. Let’s go, the cave changed considerably from what I remember, so we will need to look around.”

“You know, you are oddly okay with just letting her hang around.” Jean mutters to Lydia.

“I had three cups of strange Oblivion booze from a party Sanguine himself attended. I suspect I am really, really drunk right now. Besides, she has been… nice, so far.”

“Agreed.” Erin pipes up with a smile. It is nice to have a vampire who doesn’t regard every mortal as an uppity blood bag on legs. “Anyho! I like Serana’s idea of getting out of this Divines-forsaken crypt yesterday.” She was really, really glad her dust allergy didn’t carry over to the new body. Otherwise she’d have a hell of a time.

Idly, she spins up Clairvoyance again, letting the magic wash across the crypt and ignoring the very pointed glow from the Elder Scroll. Yes, yes, she knows it is hideously valuable and capital-I Important, thank you magic.

“We could always just backtrack you know.” Lydia supplies.

“Nonsense.” Jean replies. “Who knows what’s deeper inside? I doubt we can just pawn off an Elder Scroll and I would like to show something off besides the daedric artefact and an ancient vampire lady for this.”

Shaking her head, Lydia follows the two, Serana walking side by side with her. “I see adventurers remain the same.” She whispers to the other woman, receiving a chuckle in response.

Crossing the small bridge, the group sees another pair of stairs leading to a door made in the style intimately familiar to anyone who had delved into Nordic tombs even once.

“This whole place is just one giant mess of architecture styles.” Jean mutters.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if someone decided to build a tomb around my little sleeping chamber over the years if only to save on the cost of carving a whole new tomb into the mountain.” Serana supplies. “Also, watch out, I see a pair of gargoyles on the parapet ahead of us. I don’t know if they have enough energy to move after millennia of stasis, but I figure it would be better if you are prepared.” She adds pointing at the pair of snarling statues crouching on the outcrop ahead of them.

“Is that your clan’s specialty?” Lydia wonders. “Well, Erin, Jean, do the thing, I would rather not snap my sword in half trying to see if the stone is soft enough.”

“The thing?” Serana asks, confused.

“I think it’s better to do a presentation.” Jean notes idly before taking breath. “Liiv.”

The force washes over the gargoyle, which cracks and falls to pieces, the rock turning into dust in a short order. The only thing left behind are a couple of gems lying in the pile. The other gargoyle remains completely still.

“Either they are broken or there is minimum safe distance.” Lydia notes. “Dwemer automata love to pop out at really close ranges. Sometimes behind you. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone else came with a similar mechanism.”

Serana nods. “Aye, my parents, when designing them, decided they really liked people’s panicked reaction when a statue suddenly burst to life in front of them.” There is a nostalgic look on her face before she shakes her head. “Anyway, is that Thu’um? I see the Tongues are still warping reality.”

“Mhm.” Erin hums in agreement before almost idly tossing a “Liiv'' of her own at the other gargoyle, “We got that one from this Nahagliiv chap. We kiiinda wound up camping on top of his burial mound not knowing what it was.” And man, does that illustrate how surreal their life is nowadays.

“Lovely. The outside must be really colourful if the Tongues can just interrogate dead dragons.”

“Not really, after a defeat in their invasion of Morrowind, they reformed into monastic order. They are kind of secluded at the Throat of the World, and not really big nowadays.”

Serana nods silently as the group picks up the gems from the dust and moves on. Up the stairs and past the doors, into a room with a lever, a locked gate and draugr coffins. Jean and Erin shake their heads and place the fire runes at the feet of the coffins while Lydia pulls the lever. The gate opens at the same time as a pair of explosions ring out and the burning corpses of draugr bounce off of the ceiling.

Stifling a laugh, Serana shakes her head and snags a spell tome from the table below the lever, stashing it in her bag as the group enters the well lit corridor which opens up to a giant auditorium. Thankfully, most of the seats are empty, although they can see and hear cluttering steps of skeletons and dark silhouettes of the draugr. On the opposite side of the arena, illuminated by the fire sits a draugr in a scale armour of unknown make, seemingly unmoving. And in the corner of the room on the right, a Wall.

“Bingo.” Jean whispers. Serana shoots him a questioning look. “There is a bit more to our skill with Voice, but let’s just say that’s an opportunity to get something out of these overgrown tombstones.”

“Aye.” Erin says with a nod, before eyeing the sitting draugr with suspicion, “Now, let’s lay some more runes before we poke that wall. I don’t want a repeat of Bleak Falls.”

The duo, joined by Serana, start laying runes around their end of the amphitheatre, the flashes of light drawing the attention of the undead. On the throne opposite of them, the draugr stirs, its body slowly moving as the burning blue returns to its eyes. Its eyes fall upon the group and it laughs, a rough, rumbling sound, as it stands up drawing a battle-axe from the side of its throne.

“Vokri, soslun?” It asks as its servants converge on the group’s position. “Hi arhk hin aar fen dir het.”

Rolling her eyes, Serana calls fire into her hands, the flames licking her hands without burning her, before the vampire sends the fireball flying at the draugr.

“FUS!” It shouts, dispersing the flames and sending portions back, which are blocked by the ward.

The other undead advance, triggering the runes and are sent flying, burning. The skeletons are scattered with a single strike of bolt and spike to not waste the more useful minefield.

“Ha! WULD!” The group barely has time to react as the draugr suddenly is in their midst, axe already on the downward swing to take Serana’s head.

Lydia reacts immediately, pushing the vampire aside and putting her shield up, groaning as the strike drives her to her knees, bending the shield.

“FUS!” Jean’s shout sends the draugr reeling to the side, the undead completely thrown out of balance. It misses a step and tumbles down the steps, right into the set of runes which explode and send him flying into the fire pit at the center of the amphitheatre.

“Glad to see the draugr lost nothing of their charming confidence.” Serana notes as she offers Lydia a hand.

“You can understand them?”

“Indeed. Dovahzul was considered part of necessary etiquette back in my days. I could… teach you, if you want? Not sure why you would want thought, draugr are terrible conversationalists.”

“Dragons, on the other hand, might be more appreciative.” Jean replies.

“Plus, hey, it is always nice to be able to shit talk right back at someone in their own tongue.” Erin pipes up sardonically.

“Fair. Let’s get out of here first.”

Walking up to the Wall, Jean and Erin once more can hear the chant as the words blend together until only one stands out. It’s right there, at the edge of their consciousness, yet it escapes them every time they try to examine it.

“So if you can translate, whose grave did we just walk through?” Lydia asks curiously. Serana hums as she approaches the wall.

“Here lies the body of Svolo, who possessed strength to kill a Dragon but not the stamina to kill many. A dragon slayer then. Interesting.” As she speaks the words, the little nugget at the back of Jean and Erin’s mind… nudges. Not a full understanding, not near enough, but the concept is grasped enough to start.

Blinking, Jean and Erin snap out of whatever trance the Walls seem intent on putting them in and the group moves towards a large door at the back of the chamber, above the throne upon which presumed Svolo rested. Beyond the door, there is a small chamber with an iron gate separating it from the tunnel and a pull chain which raises it. The group walks for a moment in the darkness, the howling wind passing through the tomb being their only companion before there is a light at the end. Stepping outside with care, just in case the exit turns out to be well above the ground, the group tries to blink away the change of light. Serana hisses as the sun shines over their heads and pulls her hood over her head, a shadow falling over her face as the enchantment woven into fabric springs into effect.

“That’s… better. Anyone know where we are?”

Taking her spyglass, Lydia takes the surrounding in. “Hmmm… I can see the smoke from the Hall to the east… I suppose if we go straight north, we will hit the road… From there, we can go to Morthal and grab a carriage back to Whiterun.”

“Wasn’t there some spooky shit happening around Morthal?” Erin asks with a light frown. She’d like a bit of a break before getting caught up in another wild ride, thank you. It has been hectic since they handed in the Dragonstone.

“Aye. I hope the rumours of vampires have been just the ones that came to Serana’s crypt being less than subtle. We could go to Dawnstar… but the rumours from there don’t look promising either.” Jean shoots her a prodding look, which she takes for what it is and continues. “A plague of nightmares. The entire city, plagued by them for months. I don’t know about you, but that sounds like Vaermina. And even if he was… pleasant, after Sanguine I would like a break from Daedric Princes.”

“I must agree. Even if the cause is still there, some vampires being overly ambitious is easier to deal with than Lord of Nightmares. I doubt you are properly equipped to deal with that.” Serana muses.

“You are strangely fine with breaking other vampires’ plot on your knee.” Lydia comments as the group makes their way down the hill to the small, snow covered clearing.

“As you may have noticed, my kind is not exactly united. Molag Bal likes to experiment with vampirism, so it’s a bit hard to consider a vampire from Morrowind to be kin to one from Summerset, for example. There are common trends, yes, just as elves and humans tend to walk on two legs and use two hands.”

“Besides, it isn’t like kinship is any guarantee of cooperation or like-mindedness.” Erin comments.

Lydia hums, but stays silent as the four of them trudge through the forest, eyes watchful as the arctic wind carries the howl of wolves and the snow crunches under their feet. Then, Lydia stops suddenly, eyes fixated on the treeline.

“Something the matter?” Serana asks.

Lydia doesn’t answer at first, watching carefully, until a glitter in the trees catches her attention and she swears. “Ice wraiths. I don’t feel like treating their bites, so let’s just… move around.”

“Agreed. It is that or mixing up fire magic and Thu’um into a big enough conflagration to scare them off.” Erin mutters, before shrugging, “Or kill them outright. I’m not picky.”

Jean and Serana shake their heads. “I would rather not light the forest on fire, if that’s fine with you.” The vampiress notes.

“I do have a three word frost shout, it’d be fiiine.” Erin drawls out before snickering and shaking her head, letting the matter go.

Jean rolls his eyes. “Let’s go, you pyromaniac. They don’t even have any loot to enjoy after we burn out a patch of forest to kill them. They don’t, right?” He adds, asking Lydia. The woman just snorts.

“Their teeth have alchemical properties, but if you are going to burn them, they won’t be salvageable. Maybe a septim frozen in a segment of their body, but there are easier ways to earn a septim than mugging every wraith in Skyrim.”

“Come on now, Lydia, where’s your sense of adventure~?” Erin jokes. “Just call it a challenge run.”

Carefully walking around the wraiths, the group eventually reaches the snow covered road and moves west as the sun slowly lowers itself. As the sky darkens, the group can see the light of the settlement ahead of the road, faint but well visible in the evening. Moving a bit faster for the promise of a bed and not having to camp in the snow, they reach the outskirts as the sun finally vanishes.

It’s a small settlement, with a row of small huts, an inn and a large manor house.

Erin sighs, already resigned, “So, who wants to bet we’ll get dragged into the whole vampire mess before morning rolls around and we can grab a carriage out of here?” They’re the resident heroes, and that means that like a narrative gravity well, every single plot and scheme and issue within several miles radius is going to drift off towards them. If not slam into them like a runaway truck.

“If it does happen, I am blaming you.” Lydia comments idly. “Although you are being overly dramatic. This is just a small mining village. I know Morthal has… a reputation as a hidden-in-the-swamp middle of nowhere, but it’s not that bad.”

“Let’s just grab a couple of rooms and go to sleep.” Jean mutters as he waves the guard with a pale blue cloak and a spiral on the shield. The man watches the group with suspicion but lets them pass, settling his spear back against the tree and leaning back, watching the darkness.

Erin would be sleeping with her Familiar present, she resolves. Just in case. Plus, it was nice having something to cuddle in bed. Serana and Lydia play a game of Boulder-Scroll-Sword to determine their sharing rights, and after three rounds, Lydia grumpily goes with Erin, while Serana plops herself on the chair in Jean’s room, content to spend the night reading the book she took from the crypt.

---

Jean and Erin wake up to the sound of thunder going off indoors. Falling out of his bed with a curse, Jean instinctively grabs his sword and crouches, bleary eyed, seeing Serana block the door, lightning dancing on her fingertips as she drives a dagger up a man’s jaw. Another man is thrown across the floor as Lydia hits him with the shield, sword drawn. She crosses the main hall into the inn keeper’s room and throws her blade at the vampire pinning the owner to the bed. Grabbing his shield, Jean springs to Serana who pins a vampire to the corner of the hall, her opponent straining under the rigor of keeping up the ward. The man Lydia threw across the floor starts standing up, shambling and moaning, so Jean crosses the distance and decapitates him, the body turning to ashes under him.

Then, Erin’s Familiar crosses the room and dives at the vampire holding up the ward spell, the bloodsucker’s eyes widening as daedra’s jaws close around his neck with a snap. Serana immediately cuts her own spell. The group is still tense, especially as they can hear the sounds of struggle outside.

Lydia walks out of the owner’s room with her blade back, grim and stone faced as the quiet sobbing comes from the room. “I will stay here and guard the owner. You clean the rest.”

“Aye.” Erin says around the stamina potion she’s chugging to kickstart her system. She may not have it as bad as her old body, but a morning person she still wasn’t. “Yeesh, what a mess. Hate being right like this.”

Outside, the miners’ huts burn as the few guards huddle together around the fire in a circle, shields high and spears pointed at the pair of vampires. The corpses around them say all that needs to be said about how well they fared previously.

With a roll of her shoulders, Serana casts a spell around the shield wall, a thin line of runes, less a circle and more a flowing inscription forming a perimeter of dull orange.

“If you value your lives” she warns the guards “don’t step outside.” Then, she closes her hand around the sword blooming into existence in an explosion of purple light, the ephemeral blade surrounded by purple mist. She brings it up and it clashes against the axe strike of the blur in the darkness. Erin decides to stack the deck just a bit, hooking Serana up with a quickly casted Stoneflesh as she passes by.

Jean swallows as the other vampire flows towards them, their blade clashing in the darkness and he grunts as the vampire pushes him back. Gritting his teeth, he sucks in the cold, night air.

“FUS!” He hisses out, the shout staggering his opponent back and giving him the chance to thrust his blade. The vampire dodges, barely, before blurring again, vanishing from before Jean like a mist and running for the circle of the guards. He jumps over the line of the runes, only for it to flare and explode into flames, the bloodsucker falling back to the ground with a scream.

To the side, Serana clashes against the other vampire in a flurry of motion, both of them barely visible, more heard as they clash. Still, from what he can see, Jean notices that Serana’s form is more stilted, whether by lack of exercise or lack of opportunity to translate whatever theoretical skill she has into practice. Then, he turns towards the shambling corpses of the miners and sighs as he sheathes his sword and calls the fire into his hand.

The thralls are easy to dispatch, thankfully enough, while Erin keeps an eye on the other vampire to make sure it won’t make an attack of opportunity. The miners sigh as they burn, the spell animating them falling apart against the flames, giving thanks with their last breaths. Gritting his teeth, Jean continues to burn them, until only ashes remain.

Around the camp, Serana and the vampire blur into visibility, the ancient female trying to push her opponent into her runic minefield while her opponent leverages his better experience in direct combat to prevent that. Then, Serana dismisses her sword and catches the blade barehanded, the steel digging into the Stoneflesh without breaking the skin. Serana grins and quickly grabs the vampire’s wrist and punches him in the gut, the force of the strike bowling him over. She calls her blade again, thrusting it into the neck and ripping half of it as she wrestles it free. The bloodsucker falls to her feet, slowly falling to ashes as she watches over him before she dismisses the spell around the guards who quickly dissolve into barely controlled prayers.

Taking a deep breath, dreading the answer, Jean approaches them. “Are there any miners that...”

“Aye.” One of the men chokes out, relief clear in his voice. “Some of them managed to barricade themselves inside the mine while those monsters were busy with us.” He laughs, bitterly and hysterically. “The best we could do for them. We… we will get them.” With that, the guards walk towards the mine, casting fearful looks into the darkness. After a moment’s thought, Erin follows them, justifying her presence with a smattering of mage lights to drive back the dark. And a Familiar to sniff out the tunnels besides.

Jean nods as he and Serana walk back towards the inn. “Those were not my father’s men. Different breed.” Serana mutters. “And their gift was… diluted, greatly.”

“So we’ve got another clan wreaking havoc in Hjaalmarch. Lovely.” Jean mutters.

“Mhm, I will stay outside just in case, you go check on the owner.” Serana adds.

Back in the inn, Lydia stands over the door to the owner’s rooms. “I take it the situation is resolved?” Getting a nod, she sighs. “He lost his wife, you know. The poor, brave woman shielded their son with her body when the vampire struck. He was going to be next. What about the miners?”

“Solid portion dead, the rest managed to lock themselves in the mine. Some of the guards died to buy them that time.” Shaking his head, Jean sits by the table. “What a mess. Think the local Jarl will do something about it?”

There is a bitter laugh from the room, the inn owner coming into the main hall with his son in arms. “Ravencrone doing something? Don’t joke, outsider. A house burns with a woman and child in it in the middle of the night and the husband moves in with another woman before their ashes are even cold and she does nothing, and that’s right under her nose. No. I am packing my bags and taking my boy back to Solitude. If Bryling wants his mine to turn profit so badly, he can talk Elisif into making the withered crone do something” Sighing, he shakes his head as the surviving miners and guards slowly fill into the inn. “Still, we owe you our lives. If you want, you can go and say to Idgrod that her people don’t trust her leadership.”

Jean waves him off. “Don’t mention it, we are just glad we could help.” Then, he blinks as he recalls that the owner was attacked by the vampire and they don’t know how long they struggled against each other. He excuses himself for a moment to dig through his bag, before taking a box he got from Ormund. Coming back to the hall he opens it and presents to the inn-owner. “Here, Cure Disease. Wouldn’t want to turn after surviving.” He smiles weakly, which is returned by the other man, who quickly drinks the potion, then looks towards his son. With a sigh, Jean nods and shares the second potion.

There are murmurs of agreement, dark and bitter words exchanged even by the hold guards. The people are too spooked to rest, so everyone stays huddled in the main hall, some of them falling asleep where they sit when the adrenaline finally runs its course.

The rest of the night goes in the haze of people taking shifts sleeping, even as most of them have trouble actually falling asleep. By the time the sun rises, everyone is already packed and ready to go. The small column leaves Stonehill behind, walking in the shadow of the mountains, somewhat assured by the size of the group and the clear, cloudless sky. Serana bears the sun with a stoic face, seemingly unperturbed by the light, electing to not even raise her hood.

The march is surprisingly fast, although that may be the miners’ desire to leave Hjaalmarch behind them as fast as possible. On the crossroad where the fork leads down towards Morthal, the hold guards elect to stay with the miners, ‘to ensure their safety’ one of them says, but Jean has no doubts none of them will come back. Coming down the road, Morthal slowly comes into the view. Compared to Whiterun, it’s a sad view.

There is a hastily assembled palisade with a gate cutting the city from the main road as well as a pair of lookouts on the cliffs. In the distance, the party can see a section under construction on the opposite end of town. In addition, Morthal is small and huddled together, All buildings, including Jarl’s palace are wooden, with straw roofs and the city is split in two by the river lazily flowing through. There seem to be some boats on the water. The people shoot the party suspicious, scared looks, before looking away and hurrying along. There is a crowd under the Jarl’s palace and even as they approach, the group can hear the barely restrained anger as the crowd argues with the man standing at the top of the stairs.

By the time the party reaches the building, the crowd begins to disperse, the man at the door sighing before he notices them.

“Hail, outsiders. I wish I could greet you properly, but Morthal is experiencing trouble right now.”

“Aye, we have noticed, Aslfur.” Lydia notes dryly. “And I am afraid we are going to make your day worse. May we come in?”

“Lydia!” The man exclaims, surprised. “You are back to adventuring? No.” He shakes his head. “If you think it’s for the best that we talk in private… Come.”

He opens the door, allowing the party in. The inside resembles an inn, writ large. In the far end of the hall, a woman sits on the throne, deep in thought. She looks up as they approach.

“A colourful assembly bears the black news.” She speaks before shaking her head. “I am sorry for the grim greetings. The times are hard, and the gift of prophecy doesn't exactly lend to brightening the path.”

“Indgrid.” The man sighs. “Anyway, they say they have more bad news, so I took them off the street. No reason to make people more jumpy than they already are.”

“So which is it this time? Vampires, dragons or bandits? Maybe necromancers?” The jarl asks.

“Vampires.” Jean answers. “They have attacked the Stonehills. We have managed to defeat them, but the miners and the overseer have decided to cut their losses.” After giving it a thought, he continues. “Also, I wouldn’t count on seeing the guards you have assigned to the place again.”

The woman slumps in her seat, a hand massaging her temple. “Dark, dark news indeed. First the mess with Hroggar, then dragon burns our farmland making the food situation uncertain and now the news of vampire attacks butchering isolated settlements and villages.” Shaking her head, she sighs. “Morthal is barely a hold anymore, people are terrified of everything and there are whispers of turning against the Empire, as if Ulfric gave a damn about us beyond taking another hold from Elisif.”

Lydia hums as she thinks. “Do you think we could help you with at least the investigation into that mess with Hroggar? A nice, local crime being solved may lift the spirits at least a bit, and as outsiders, we could be said to be impartial.”

The Jarl thinks for a moment before chuckling. “Very well. If you could do something about a dragon, that would be nice too, but small steps. First, the morale of the people. Go and investigate the house, and if anyone bothers you, just tell them you work with my permission.”

Bowing and backing away, Jean mutters. “Five septims say the vampires are connected.”

“Sucker’s bet, my thane.”

---

Spoiler: Some more dovahzul present in the chapter

Vokri, soslun? - Awake, vampire? (lit. Returned, blood-sucker?

Hi arhk hin aar fen dir het. - You and your slaves will die here.

 

Interlude 3: Well, well, well, if it isn’t the consequences of our own actions

The cold winds of Skyrim bite deep into the skin and seep any warmth a man has. Nords always move when outdoors, for to stand in place is to allow the cold air to devour their strength. Their howl will lull him to a sleep, from which he will never wake. And yet, this is how the Tongue meditates. Motionless, letting the cold surround him and seep into his body. Su’um, the inner Breath has to become the only source of energy a Tongue needs. For this reason, the training emphasizes breathing exercises.

Ulfric is a restless man, that he will admit without a shame. Thus, his meditation is different from that of Greybeards’. He stands atop the tallest tower of the Palace of Kings, a lone pillar of stone carved into the mountain overseeing all of Windhelm, axe in hand, body going through well practiced motions, breath even and deep, each step deliberate. And while his body goes through the motion, warm as if he was lying under the summer sun in the South, his mind wanders.

Before he departed High Hrothgar, Ulfric managed to grasp two Words. Fus and Zun. Force and Weapon. They served him well during the Great War, until the damn Altmer captured him. In their dungeons, Ulfric first learned that even Voice could not do everything. Between him and the captured and tortured Imperial Tongues, the elves proved that well enough. They broke him enough he shied away from the ancient art, both limiting his use of it and staying away from High Hrothgar. Master Arngeir’s words were harsh, but spoken in anger. Ulfric couldn’t recall the last time a Greybeard spoke in anger. He must have accidentally touched a delicate subject to the Speaker if Arngeir broke the protocol as hard.

And now that the dragons returned, and Ulfric needs to regain his confidence in the Voice. He needs to learn more Words. Even if the Dragonborn has appeared. A dragon slayer of legend. The one Master Arngeir no doubt alluded. Dragonborn was only one, could not be everywhere, while dragons were swift on their wings. Thus, Ulfric needs to be prepared.

“Dah.” He mutters under his breath as he pirouettes around the tower. Push. Push forward, push the obstacles aside. Advance and don’t look back. Force, directed and unleashed.

Ulfric is good at pushing forward. Some would say too good, that he lets his goals blind him. Once upon a time, maybe. But Markarth… Markarth taught him some patience. Enough to never again pick traitors for allies. The Jarls of Markarth gave their words and sold him just as easily. Because it was convenient for them, because he had done his job and was no longer needed. He punished the Reachmen for their treachery in the Great War, and was rewarded like a criminal. It taught him who was his friend and who was the enemy. The core of the Stormcloaks was formed of the men and women who went with him into Markarth and who were released from the Cidhna Mine when his amnesty was issued.

They will pay. Those who stand against me because of their oaths will be treated well, but Markarth will pay.

There are sounds of the hurried footsteps on the stairs and Ulfric pauses mid-motion as a Stormcloak soldier comes running. The lad is breathing heavily, likely having run for quite some time.

“Take a deep breath, boy. Calm down so you can tell me the urgent news.” He advises him, patting him on the shoulder.

The man nods and swallows heavily. “D… Dragon, my lord! It was spotted flying from the east towards the city. The beast burned Hlaalu’s Farm, but the Dark Elves managed to drive it away for now. The lookouts report it’s merely circling around.”

Ulfric nods, grimly. The tensions between Argonians and Dark Elves were lesser now that Winterhold agreed to take all the Dunmer that preferred their community, but Hlaalu stayed behind, willing to keep working to keep Windhelm fed.

“Go fetch Wuunferth. I assume Gaalmar already knows?” The man nods and Ulfric continues. “Very well, we will begin mobilising immediately. Before going to fetch my court wizard, pass the order for the citizens to hide in their houses, preferably in the basements.” Windhelm was carved out of stone, so at least there was no need to worry about dragon fire burning it down. His people would be as safe as they could be when attacked by a dragon.

Following the soldier, Ulfric’s mind spins as he mulls over the news from Whiterun. Even the Dragonborn didn’t use Thu’um to bring down the dragons attacking Baalgruf’s city. That bode well for Ulfric. Steel and valor were the way of the Nords since time immemorial, since even before the Thu’um and magic.

---

Sina swallows gingerly as she glances at the man sleeping under the stasis on the table. Clad in furs, with the flesh in his chest carved out, still beating heart placed in a bowl and replaced with the Briar Heart, a bud of the Dragon’s Tongue mutated by the energies of Oblivion. So far, the operation has been a success, the Forsworn who volunteered is still alive and will likely wake far stronger than before. Now only the elaborate spell work utilising the energies of Oblivion remained to bond the Briar Heart with the flesh.

To be honest, it is Sina’s first operation without her mistress’ supervision. So far, so good, but the hardest part was ahead of her.

“Don’t worry, darling, I am sure you will manage. You have completed all your other trials splendidly so far.”

Sina twirls around, magicka blooming in her hand at the voice. Who dared to inter-…

She steps back, the spell dying in her hand as she feels her heart go up to her throat. The tall man in the leather armour (made of human flesh, part of her mind supplies) has the red skin and horns, roguish grin and burning eyes. And yet, he is handsome and his voice soothing. Sina falls to her knees, bowing before her guest.

“Lord Sanguine.” She whispers fervently. “How can I serve you?”

The Daedric Prince chuckles, the sound sending shivers down Sina’s spine. “You are well into the trials your mistress set for you before you are to become a hagraven, are you not?” Seeing her nod, he chuckles as he plucks the Briar Heart out of the man’s chest, inspecting it with a bored look. “Tell me, darling, do you hesitate to throw away your beauty for the power your teacher promises you?”

Fighting down the blush at the Prince’s compliment, Sina carefully looks up. “I… In the service of the Princes, I am willing to sacrifice that and more, Lord…” She stops as Sanguine raises his hand, giving her a frown which causes her to pale.

“Not what I asked, Sina dear. I want to know if you sometimes regret knowing what you will become?”

She takes a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. Is that it? Did she do something to offend Prince of Debauchery? No other way but forward now. “Yes, Lord Sanguine.” She whispers, trying to sound as guilty as possible.

The Prince chuckles and shakes his head. “That’s fine, that’s fine. Tell me, Sina dear, would you like to help me in… an experiment of sorts?”

Fear wars with excitement in Sina’s mind. Fear, because what sort of ‘experiment’ would the Prince of Debauchery have in mind? And excitement for being able to please him. “It-it would be my pleasure, Lord Sanguine!”

The Prince smiles at her, and Sina finds herself flushing, feeling peculiar wetness on her thighs. She doesn’t even register when the Prince crushes the Briar Heart, causing the human one to explode, killing the man on the table. Instead, her heart skips a beat as the Prince’s bloodied hand touches her lips.

“A good friend of mine gave me an intriguing idea, you see. He pointed at the fact the hagravens don’t give the most… appealing impression. So, spurred by his words, I thought to myself: ‘Sanguine, surely as the Lord of Pleasure you can do better?’ And you know what, Sina, darling?” Sina nods to his words, captivated by his burning eyes. “I can. Be proud, darling. You will be the first of the new stock of Hagravens… Mhm, perhaps a new name will be in order. Not much of a hag after we are done.”

He smiles, and bows down, his hands caressing her as he plants a kiss on her lips, and Sina feels her worries flee away as her mind falls into the haze of sensations she never thought possible.

 

Chapter 8: FBI OPEN UP!

As the group approaches the burned house, a piece of paper falls from the sky. Floats, really, moved by some sort of spell, as it glides into their view before landing in Jean’s hands. Unfolding the paper, he reads the message.

“Your displays of Thu’um so far have been quite interesting. Since it seems you will be staying in the area for a bit, why don’t you pay a visit to Skyborn Altar? The Dovah there will be a bit more challenging than Faraanfrinofaal and that way, you may still have the equal repertoire.” Blinking, he stares at the letter. In the corner, it is signed with a very stylish ‘F’. Or it may be a ‘P’. “Huh.”

“I think that’s the most polite and low-key flex I’ve ever seen.” Erin mutters with a shake of her head, “Divines, what sort of Thu’um bullfuckery are they running up there?”

“Thu’um is weird.” Serana muses. “Anyway, since jarl talked about troubles with a dragon, there is a chance that’s the one in question. Let’s solve this murder mystery first.”

Walking into the burned house the group spots the ghost of a child almost immediately.

“...Well, I suppose that’ll make things simpler.” Erin mutters quietly. It kinda helps when you can just ask the dead what the hell happened.

The child turns towards them, blinking as she hums quietly in the corner.

“Hello little one.” Lydia speaks as she crouches in front of her. “Who are you?”

“I’m Helgi!” The ghost chirps before she puts a hand to her mouth. “Oh, but father says I shouldn’t talk to strangers, sorry.”

“I am not a stranger. I am Lydia, and me and my friends were asked to find out what happened.”

“Hmmm… I suppose if Jarl told you… The smoke woke me up, so I hid. I was scared and cold, but now it’s okay!”

“Anything else?”

“...” The child looks to the side before murmuring. “I… can’t tell. Unless you beat me in hide and seek!”

“Really?” Lydia asks dryly.

“Yes! I can’t speak much, unless it’s after dark. But after dark, I am not here, so you will have to find me.”

“Alright.” Lydia nods, and the ghost disappears.

“So.” Serana notes. “We went from fighting draugr and vampires to playing with ghost children. Not the direction I thought we would take.”

“Welcome to adventuring.” Lydia answers her. “Anyway, we’ve got some time to burn before it gets dark, so might as well see if the townsfolk have anything to say.”

The townsfolk, as it turns out, don’t have much to say, if they even deign to talk to them. Most of them scurry away when they notice the group approach, or give vague, non-committal answers. Or just comment on how Hroggar immediately moved in with a new woman. Eventually, they decide to question the man directly, crossing the town towards the mill on the other bank of the river.

The man hesitantly stops his work and walks to the side of the mill with them.

“I just try to focus on the work and not on… what happened.” He says with a shrug. “Alva has been good, soothes the pain when it’s too much.”

“Any idea who might have burned your old house, at least?” Lydia asks.

“No. As I said, I try not to think about what happened. Easier that way.”

Serana narrows her eyes and crosses the distance, her eyes flashing as she looks Hroggar in the eyes. “Enough platitudes. What do you know?”

The man stares empty eyed, before speaking in an empty voice. “Alva has me work like nothing happened, but whenever I am not at work, she wants me to stay at her home, to make sure no one walks into the basement. She doesn’t tell me why, even if she spends the day there.”

Serana harrumphs and steps back, snapping her fingers. Hroggar blinks again, clarity coming back to his eyes. “Come on, Lydia, we won’t get anything more from him.”

The taller woman just shakes her head. “Sorry for your time, we will be going.” Once they are on the bridge connecting the mill to the rest of Morthal, far from prying eyes, she leans against the side of the bridge and sighs. “A vampire?”

“Almost definitely. Hypnosis is one of the more common abilities, and this one is at least subtler than most. He would keep repeating the same thing, just with different words, might even get irritable if we kept pressing.”

“Still, not exactly something we can present to the Jarl as solid proof. We will need to do some breaking and entering.” Lydia summarises.

“Leave it to me.” Serana hums. “I can be less noticeable than the rest of you, and make sure no one finds it strange for me to ask about Alva’s house.”

Jean nods. “We will wait for you here, then.”

The group watches Serana leave before they make themselves comfortable on the bridge, watching idly the citizens scurrying around. In the midday sun, the town looks normal. Quiet and peaceful, if a bit reclusive. After a bit over an hour, they spot Serana walking towards them.

“I must say” the vampiress comments idly “taking over entire town, even as removed from the rest of civilisation as Morthal is is an elaborate way of committing suicide.”

“You have found our evidence then?” Jean asks, to which Serana procures a journal and a letter.

“Indeed. The journal has some incriminating stuff, mostly the location of the main lair, but the letter is the real goldmine. It contains the orders from Alva’s sire.”

“And she is…?” Lydia prods.

“Dead. She would’ve been executed by the Jarl or killed by her sire anyway, so she might at least die peacefully in her sleep.”

“Well then. Let’s just take this to the Jarl.” Jean shakes his head.

---

“When I said you may investigate” Jarl Idgrod comments idly “I had expected it to take at least a full day before you came back, not a couple of hours.”

“We have our ways.” Jean shrugs. “Anyway, we have orders from a vampire lord on the paper, as well as the location of their lair.”

The Jarl accepts the letter and skims its contents, her face growing more serious with each line. “I see.” Looking up, she continues. “You have already proved yourself quick and decisive in our trouble, as well as proved your mettle against the vampires. May I hire you to help us deal with the problem permanently?”

The group looks at each other, before Jean nods. “You may consider it done.”

“Mhm. I will keep this quiet until you return. It wouldn’t do to cause panic, and a mob would only get slaughtered.”

Nodding along the group leaves, making a stop at the inn to leave their travelling bags in the rented rooms before they follow the instructions from the journal into the swamps alongside a narrow, sneaking path meandering around treacherous waters. The air is full of the cries of insects, and at some point, they spot a colony of giant spiders in the distance. By the time they arrive at the entrance to the lair, the sun is setting down, casting long shadows.

Down the entrance, there are wooden stairs constructed into the web covered walls, with the sounds of a couple of giant spiders moving at the bottom. Serana leans down the rail and casts a fireball down the tunnel, the spell’s explosion drowning out the sounds of the dying arachnids.

“Thank you for alerting the coven.” Lydia states dryly. “I was worried this might not be a fair fight.”

Serana shoots her a toothy smile. “This way, they have to come to us, and we get the advantage of the high ground. Now, start laying the runes.” She finishes, addressing Jean and Erin.

She didn’t need to say that twice.

---

The coven swarms into the pit within minutes, heavily armed thralls moving ahead of their undead masters, who glare at the group with burning red eyes as they shout orders. One of them, a woman with an elven sword in one hand, narrows her eyes as she looks on thin, red lines of Serana’s runes covering the walls, partially hidden from sight by the spiderwebs. She points it to the other vampires, who sigh and settle for walking behind their thralls up the stairs.

Then, the foremost thrall, a large orc, steps into one of Erin’s runes, the spell flashing bright before going off, seemingly without effect, instead triggering the next rune, which repeats the process with another one, and so on until all of Jean and Erin’s runes are gone and Serana’s spell glows in a bright, hot red before the vampiress snaps her fingers.

The group is forced to their knees as the explosion rocks the cave, the heated rock falling down the shaft, burying the vampire coven and burning each body the boulders touch. A cloud of dust and ashes kicks up high in the night sky as the cave entrance completely vanishes.

Coughing, Jean manages to let a Fus loose, the wave of force dispersing the cloud somewhat and letting the party see the results. The entrance is collapsed completely, blocked as it is by the red hot rocks releasing steam into the cold air. There is, of course, no sight of any of the vampires or their thralls.

“Well then… I suppose that’s one way to deal with the coven. Would be nice to have definitive proof.” Lydia comments.

“We can probably use the Wither shout to dust a way in.” Erin supplies.

“I am game.” Jean pipes in.

The two Dragonborn take a breath and Speak at the collapse, the combined wave easily turning the cracked stone into dust. There is also a scream behind the barricade and the flames illuminate enough of the other side the group can see another vampire dissolving rapidly under the effects of the Shout.

“Hm. Since he survived our trap, I am going to say this was our Master Vampire.” Serana notes. “Lesser ones would have no chance of surviving the conflagration we set up.”

“Still, we need to at least check. I would feel really stupid if someone survived just because we assumed.” Lydia warns them.

The others shrug and humour her, carefully walking down the pit, Erin’s frost breath putting down the fires. Deeper down, there is a cavern system, its walls covered in soot. The group walks through the tunnels with care, which appears to be unneeded, the flames of the explosion seemingly having burned away all bodies inside. There is a sleeping area, completely burned, as well as the main hall, with the stone throne and table surviving on account of its make, although the molten metal covering it says the cutlery fared little worse. There is also an additional chamber deeper in, which when investigated, reveals a room in a better state than the rest, with a chest in the corner being practically untouched. With an application of Transmutation and Serana’s vampiric strength, the party deals with the lock to which the key was almost definitely on the body of a vampire lord.

Inside, there are mostly books and clothes, but on a closer inspection, Lydia spots a hidden compartment inside which there is a journal. Leafing through it, she shakes her head. Frowning she shakes her head.

“Well then… we’ve got a big name here. Movarth Pique.” Getting questioning looks, she continues. “He was a legendary vampire hunter before suddenly dropping off the face of Tamriel… in the Second Era. People always assumed he just finally met his match, but this...” Shaking her head, she laughs. “We’ve managed to bypass a rather difficult battle, I would say.”

Erin chuckles, “And that right there is why I prefer being a cheating mage rather than an honourable warrior. It saves so much trouble and lost limbs.”

“That’s the secret, Erin.” Lydia shots back. “All the good adventurers invent their honourable combat after coming back from adventures.”

Shaking their heads, the group makes their way towards the entrance of the cave, where they are met by the ghost of the little girl. She stomps her foot and puffs her cheeks as she spots them.

“You promised to play with me!” She accuses them, before sighing and giving them a smile. “Still… thank you. I will go now, mommy is waiting for me.” With that, she vanishes into the night air.

“That went pretty well for a ghost lingering past death.” Serana comments. “Mother once told me a story about a ghost of a child who, when tricked in a similar way, possessed a suit of ebony armour and attacked the man who promised to play as a payback before vanishing.”

“Must be the lack of ebony armours in the area.” Jean comments dryly.

Snorting, the group makes their way through the swamp back to Morthal, abusing mage light to illuminate the path. There is a commotion in the town square as Hroggar lies on the ground sobbing, some of the guards staring blankly into the distance as the townsfolk look unsure at them, Jarl Indgrod present as she speaks to the crowd. Then, she notices them and orders people to make way.

“We have heard an explosion in the marsh, before some of my guards, as well as Hroggar, suddenly broke down. Falion thinks something was controlling them, and whatever you did, broke that control.”

“Aye.” Jean nods. “We have confronted a vampire coven, led by an ancient lord. The method we used to deal with them destroyed the cavern they were using for their lair, but we managed to salvage the lord’s journal.”

The Jarl nods as the crowd erupts into hushed whispers. “Then, at least we are safe from that.” Addressing everyone, she raises her voice. “Let’s rest for tonight, for once unburdened with the fear of the night. Tomorrow, we can reward the brave adventurers who risked their lives to save Morthal!” The townsfolk roar approvingly, laughing and gossiping as they slowly disperse.

“Good job, my thane.” Lydia says. “You have managed to tell the truth while leaving the juicy details up to imagination. We will make a bard out of you yet.”

“Speaking of thanes, want to bet we’re getting the title tossed at us for the second time in a week?” Erin says with a chuckle, shaking her head at the fucking jet-powered rollercoaster of an adventure they’ve been having ever since they handed in the Dragonstone.

“I want to say no, because we really aren’t well known here, but the place is also smaller than the Whiterun.” Jean comments. “I suppose we will see in the morning.”

As they walk into the inn, Serana mouths to herself ‘Thanes?’.

---

“Morthal is not a rich hold, as you have no doubt noticed.” Jarl Indgrod announces to the party as they attend the morning audience. “Therefore, I can only offer you the title of thane, all four of you, as well as the plot of land in the delta of Karth and Hjaal rivers, at the coast of Sea of Ghosts. As well as services of Valdimar, a retired Imperial Battlemage.” She gestures towards bald, aging Nord with a moustache clad in the suit of dwarven armour who nods at them respectfully. “However, seeing as the plot is empty, Alva’s old house, now that her vampirism and machinations have been uncovered, is also yours to call your own.”

“You… do realize we may not be around much, right?” Lydia asks once she manages to get her bearings together. Indgrod merely cracks a smile.

“Perhaps, but I will not have it said that I rewarded people who saved my hold inappropriately. In many holds the title is largely honorary anyway, so no one expects you to devote yourselves to this place.”

If they were rewarding them like that now, Erin had to wonder what the reaction would be once they shanked the dragon up in Skyborn Altar. Either way, she was positively giddy now. A retired battlemage! He’d be able to teach her so many spells and dirty tricks!

“Right...” Lydia muttered, clearly unused to being on this side of the thane-housecarl relationship. “We… Well, we were planning to check that dragon that apparently has been giving you trouble, as well as visit a place called Skyborn Altar? ”

“Mhm. Skyborn Altar is where the reports say the dragon has retreated. I do not know why you wanted to go there, but it’s a lucky coincidence. The easiest way to get there is to travel through Labyrinthian, which in itself is somewhat tricky on account of frost trolls.”

“Thank you for the warning, Jarl Indgrod.” Lydia finishes, bowing awkwardly as the group walks away, Valdimar following them.

Once they are outside, he finally speaks. “So, dragon hunting, eh? I was expecting my old days to be quiet, but I suppose getting to fight a dragon before age does me in will be a decent wrap up.”

“It quickly loses the lustre.” Lydia comments as they walk through the town. “So, Imperial battlemage?”

The man nods. “Aye, I am from Morthal, but spend the best years in the legion. Back in the day, town was a little more receptive to magic, and I’d shown some talent, so I got sponsorship for the College from a court wizard. Then, the war with Dominion came and I decided to enlist.” Once they pass the gates, he turns more serious. “More importantly, I must congratulate you, miss.” He addresses Serana. “I’ve met a few vampires in my time that weren’t monsters, and of them all, you are managing to hide the best.”

Serana quirks her eyebrow. “If you are so good at spotting vampires, why didn’t you notice there was something wrong with people? Or that one of the citizens got turned into one?”

He snorts. “Morthal is a small town, aye, but it’s still a town. I cannot possibly know all the people in it and Alva worked a job that let her nor arouse suspicion with her schedule.” Shrugging, he continues. “As for hypnosis? Aye, that I spotted, but couldn’t bring it to attention without knowing who cast it. If we started blindly hunting, the culprit would just lay low. Without evidence of her culpability, one cannot be sure if the true culprit wasn’t simply making Alva into a scapegoat. I don’t know how you found out, but normally, vampire hunting in the cities is a tricky business.”

“So to summarize.” Jean speaks up. “You know Serana is a vampire and decided to talk because… ”

“Well, it would be an awkward journey if you had to tiptoe around me. And believe me, I have heard my share of dumb excuses. That way, we are in the clear and don’t need to hide anything.”

“Makes sense. So, Labyrinthian. Anything you can tell us about the place?” Jean asks.

“It’s an old temple complex of the dragon cult, so no wonder a dragon made itself at home at the mountaintop overseeing it. College sends the expeditions into it from time to time, but aside from clearing out the trolls from shitting around the surface, they come back empty handed. Apparently, there is some sort of enchantment laid on the underground complex that completely sucks magicka dry out of people. Probably done so only the Tongues could access deeper levels.”

Erin visibly winces at the mere idea of an enchantment like that laid on an architectural scale. It’d be a fucking nightmare to try and wade through, even if all her enchanted gear and natural Altmer affinities managed to outpace the drain. She made a firm mental note to work on her Thu’um. She’d better turn it into a mainline tool than a holdout before she found herself between a rock and a hard place like that.

“Good thing we are not delving underground then.” Jean comments.

“Not like you could, even if you wanted. The current Archmage locked the door and forgave any more excursions. Something must have seriously spooked him down there if he decided wrangling restless mages is preferable.” Valdemar notes.

The group continues down the road south as the snow begins to fall. Fortunately, it is not an intense fall and there is no wind, so they can continue their journey unimpeded. Then, by the late afternoon, the air fills with the sound of the flapping wings, and a roar from within the woods. The group exchanges nervous looks before they abandon the road and push through the snow covered forest towards the noise.

“SLEN TIID VO!”

The forest shakes under the force of the Thu’um, and they can hear the ground explode ahead of them. For a moment, a shadow passes over them even as another roar answers, weaker, as if the dragon barely had any strength. Crossing the last metres by sprint, the group comes across the burial mound, completely unearthed as the skeleton of a dragon moves around, pacing as the muscles and scales burn themselves into existence around it.

“Well then.” Jean muses. “Let’s see what happens if you stop a resurrection mid way through.”

Erin can’t agree more, and subsequently goes for what seems like the most suited Shout to muck up a resurrection, “LIIV!”

The dragon tries to jump around at the sound of the Shout, however without complete muscles and wings, it can only trash around, the Withering Breath hitting it in the middle of its massive body. The energies of the two Shouts twist around the dragon’s body, the entire sections disappearing into specks of dust only to reform in a flash as the beast freezes in space, even as the parts of the body not affected continue to reform. And yet, the dragon doesn’t move an inch.

“I don’t know what you did, lass, aside from that it’s Thu’um.” Valdimar notes grimly as he observes. “But this won’t last forever, and if something doesn’t tip the scales decisively in one direction or the other… well, let’s just hope the result will only blow up this section of the forest.”

“What’s the worst estimate?” Lydia asks curiously.

“No expert on Thu’um, but if it's analogous to what would happen with spells of similar magnitude… well, Morthal might find itself on an island if it's lucky.”

“Somehow” Jean notes dryly “I don’t associate Morthal with having any luck. LIIV!”

The second Withering hits the dragon in the head, obliterating the skull completely. It also seems to tip the balance, as the swirling energies explode in a wave of harmless, relative to what else might have happened, force which pushes everyone into the snow and flattens the trees around. The skeleton falls back into the mound as the soul ends sucked into Jean, who just stares at the sky the entire time.

“Paaz vo...” Comes a whining mutter of the dragon, somehow. Jean decides not to question how it can say anything without mouth, or lungs. He assumes Thu’um bullshit.

“You forgot to mention you are a legendary dragonborn, my thane.” Valdimar notes from where he lies buried in the snow.

“He and Erin, somehow.” Lydia adds. “And honestly, would you believe it without seeing?”

“Fair enough. Anyway, it’s getting dark. What do you say we make use of the bones to make the camp a bit more spacy?”

The rest of the group nods along and gets up, getting to work shuffling the surviving bones around and setting up cloth over them. Soon enough, they have a spacious tent over the majority of the mound, with fire roaring happily in the middle and the soup bubbling happily in a pot. Which is when a letter flies on the wind inside and lands on Jean’s lap, who spent the time waiting for the dinner parsing through the dragon’s soul in search of useful stuff. Erin getting full Frost Breath from her kill told him that the Shout acquisition was easier than in the game. Unfortunately, it seems that whomever the dragon was, it was pretty shit at Thu’um, relying mostly on speed and being granted Alduin’s trust due to genuine loyalty instead of being defeated in a debate. Thus, with a sigh, he rips the knowledge of Fire Breath, feeling the soul of the dragon leave him. Sighing, he unfolds it, noting the calligraphy to be a little bit messier, as if the sender was shaking the entire time they were writing, and reads aloud.

“Marvellous, my friends, marvellous! There is not a single record of what happens when Alduin’s Resurrection Call is interrupted, so for that, you have my thanks. It was a riveting spectacle to listen to, even if poor Faraanvokiir’s luck seems to have stayed about the same. Still, just for the pleasure of allowing me to observe such a unique spectacle, I rate your quick thinking an excellent Nine, Ten if you intentionally picked a Shout of diametrically opposed nature.”

“I did!” instantly pipes up Erin, mouth set into a wide grin. She has always been weak to honest praise.

“I do wonder who is sending us these letters. Their calligraphy is good enough I would assume a noble of some kind, but the only people who could possibly send such a message are the Greybeards.” And while it’s possible Paarthurnax dictates them, that still leaves the question of a scribe.

“Perhaps once you get around to responding to their call you will discover the answer.” Lydia comments as she sips her soup.

“Harhar.” Jean fake laughs before turning to Serana. “Anyway, I was wondering if you could teach us dovahzul. Shouting is all nice and good, but I would prefer any dragons we meet to stick to arrogant posturing instead of condescending patronizing.”

“Sure.” The vampiress agrees. “We will stick it somewhere between you getting your behind kicked by Lydia I suppose. Might make a good practice for slinging insults at the dragons mid fight. Anyway, the first rule of dovahzul is that there is no tense. Dragons don’t really do time, so mortals have to divine that out of context… ”

---

The group arrives at Labyrinthian as the sun rises to its highest point in the sky, illuminating the temple complex in its entirety, from large temples and entire stone housing blocks to grand arches and battlements, all of them in pristine condition, as if the place was simply abandoned the previous day instead of being an open air ruin standing for millennia.

“Behold, the Bromjuunar, the centre of Dragon Cult.” Valdimar announces. “Nords have tried to tear its walls down for millennia, yet they still stand, as strong as mighty as in the days men rose against the dragons.”

“You are enjoying this far more than I thought.” Jean notes.

“I like history, actual history, not the folk tales and songs most Nords prefer. So even when I was learning how to melt a man’s face off with my brain and keep guts from dissolving under the lighting bolts, I kept a few of the drier stuff on hand.”

“Anyway, there are apparently a lot of trolls, so if you can bring your inner pyromaniac to the fore, I will appreciate it.” Lydia announces from the back.

The travel through Labyrinthian is, despite what its name may imply, a relatively straightforward affair, something Jean feels was an intentional design. The group simply keeps walking upstairs, scaring off any trolls that emerge from the alleys and under the staircases with fire spells, the stench of burning troll prompting the group to move faster just to escape it. With Serana’s help, they are even able to decipher signs in dovahzul which helpfully point them towards the path towards Skyborn Altar.

Climbing the great staircase carved into the side of the mountain, there is a roar from above, a thundering beat of the wings and a shadow which passes over them as the dragon sails over them and circles around Labyrinthian.

“Dovahkiin! Zu’u saraan fah un tinvaak!” It roars, its voice resounding through the mountains. “Drem yol lok! YOL TOOR SHUL!” Valdimar and Serana react immediately, surrounding the party with a shimmering ward as the flames swallow the mountainside, rising the heat within the bubble but otherwise the group remains unharmed.

“We should get to the top!” Lydia shouts. “We are sitting ducks here!”

“FO KRAH DIIN!” Erin lets loose, hoping to counter the onslaught of fire to let them do just that.

The frost shoots beyond the barrier, hissing as it melts against the flames but pushing the onslaught back.

“FUS!” Jean adds his bit, helping the torrent of cold push against the flames. The dragon passes over them and disappears beyond the mountainside as it no doubt circles around. The group takes the chance to run up the rest of the stairs.

“Pruzah! Onik wah krif ol gein!” The words echo through the mountains as Serana snorts. “Great, we have a dragon excited to see clever tricks.”

“Less talking, more killing.” Lydia shouts as she dives being one of the archways, loading the crossbow.

The dragon dives from the clouds. “FO KRAH DIIN!” It shouts as it spreads its wings, arresting its momentum over the Word Wall.

Jean takes a deep breath, feeling the air in his lungs heat. “YOL TOOR SHUL!” He stands under Valdimar’s ward, exhaling a torrent of fire to meet the frost, a cloud mist falling around the spot where he stands. He hears a faint twang of the crossbow loosening a bolt while Serana maintains her own ward with one hand while the other directs a stream of lighting at the dragon.

Erin, for her part, returns the favour from before, yelling out a “FUS!” to aid the stream of fire plus a couple of firebolts while she’s at it. The flames surge upwards, licking at the dragon’s snout before, with a flap of its wings, it changes position, the spells impacting the scales on its belly. The dragon simply roars on the wind as it turns around and dives for the altar around which the group scattered, fangs bared and claws of its hind legs stretched out to gouge them.

“IIZ SLEN NUS!”

Valdimar and Jean opt to dive to the sides in light of the dragon’s desire to follow its shout with physical strike, the Shout instead turning the ground where they stood a moment ago into a patch of pure ice, at least a couple feet deep. The dragon flaps its wings and lifts up, abandoning its passage.

“YOL TOOR SHul!” Jean Shouts before coughing and stumbling, the torrent of fire instead ending a fireball which impacts the dragon in the back and causes it to cry.

“Dovahkiin, drem! Him Thu’um los goraan!” The dragon comments as it turns around. It hangs in the air, observing the altar with its eyes as it waits for Jean to catch his breath and stand back.

Erin’s teeth click shut from where she was about to throw out a nasty Wither Breath with a side of lightning to cover for Jean. Instead, she tosses the dragon a grateful nod, even as she keeps her guard up all the same.

Noticing her look, the dragon laughs. “Haalvut pruzah ko tinvaak.” Serana just shakes her head as she retreats behind a column, magicka swirling in her hands.

The moment Jean is back on his legs, the dragon dives to the ground, Serana looses the spell a moment before its body touches the ground, the swirling lines of runes searing into the ground and almost immediately exploding underneath it. It cries in surprise, but instead of flailing wildly, it spins in place, somewhat awkwardly, its tail toppling the column the vampiress is hiding behind while forcing others to duck and back off or risk being sent away by its body.

“LAAS YAH LUN!”

The party stumbles as they can feel the energy leave them, their bodies suddenly tired and brought down by their belongings. The Dragonborn grunt as they manage to stay on their legs.

The dragon stands on its hind legs, ignoring the bleeding, gaping wound on its chest, and speaks. “Zu’u Grahofanmindok. Daar tinvaak dovah nunon.”

“I understand like, maybe two or three words of what you just said, besides introduction.” Jean grunts. “So fuck you, Erin, let’s give him brand new shouttery!”And if Wither didn’t work, they were probably going to have a big problem on their hands. Inhaling, he notes that it’s easier this time than after trying to chain it. “LIIV!”

Erin’s brain kicks into high gear, blowing right through her (understandable) hesitation to get experimental with Thu’um combinations in the middle of combat. “KRAH!”

Grahofanmindok rears back in surprise as the shouts collide and twist together and hit him, the withering passage of time and biting, deadly cold fusing together, seeping into its scales, cracking the tissue and drying the blood. The dragon roars in pain as its entire torso is slowly eaten through, bloody pieces falling to the ground in dry chunks which fall apart on impact. Then, it’s torso collapses on itself, decapitating the beast by the virtue of its head connecting to nothing.

For a moment, the body stills, before its soul swirls and is absorbed by Jean. With a groan, the non-Dragonborn party members manage to get back on their legs.

“Fucking Thu’um bullshit.” Valdimar groans. “I really didn’t want to experience what it feels like after seeing the Imperial Tongues in action.”

“Well, at least Morthal will be getting a hefty influx of cash. That’s a lot of dragonbone and scales to loot.” Erin notes idly even as she finds herself a nice wall to lean against as her adrenaline crashes.

“Mhm… something tells me the value will soon plummet, so might as well get rich ahead of time.” Serana mutters as she leans against the pillar. Groaning, she slowly slides to the ground. “It has been a long time since I felt actually tired. What do you say we just… camp here and wait until our bodies don’t feel like shit anymore?”

“I can get behind that idea.” Lydia answers, followed by the rest of the group.

After recovering somewhat, the party gets around to setting up a tent around the Wall while Lydia and Valdimar go down the slope to collect the firewood. The rest of the day, as well as evening, is spent with Serana tiredly drilling Erin and Jean in intricacies of Dovahzul, using the Wall as a prop. To her surprise, her students wrap their heads around the timeless structure rather easily, and pick the words faster than anticipated. ‘More like they are remembering long forgotten stuff they already knew than learning something completely new.’ in her words.

In the morning, they receive another letter flying on the wind.

“The first time he died, Grahofanmindok was slain by treachery in his sleep. He taught many dovah the way of Tinvaak and was respected if not for his power, then for his cleverness. It warms my heart to know this time, he not only could die the way he would prefer, but also defeated by the quick thinking and clever mix of Thu’um. Your lessons in dovahzul do not go unnoticed, so I hope once we meet, we will be able to converse in it without resorting to Tamrielic. For now, rest and prepare while I look for a suitable challenge for you.”

---

They left Jarl Indgrod quite literally speechless when they informed her she would be getting two sources of dragon bone and one of dragon scales, meat and blood to sell as Morthal saw fit before resupplying and setting off on a journey back south. Following the rumours, they made their way through Cold Rock Pass, a natural cave road in the mountains separating Whiterun hold from the north, cleaning it of the group of frost trolls that took residence inside. Burning the bodies inside, as it turned out, was something of a mistake as the rest of the walk through the caverns was spent accompanied by the strong odour of burning troll, which clung to them even after a long pitstop to try and wash it off.

Coming down the slope, they have only a moment of notice before a ghostly arrow lodges itself into a tree.

“I am sorry!” Comes a wail from downhill. “I don’t want this!”

Sighing, Lydia brings her shield up and looks down, ducking behind it as another arrow bounces off. “We’ve got a group of ghosts. There is some sort of tomb there, might be the source.”

Valdimar frowns as he tosses the lightning bolt at the ghost, the spell dispersing the being. “Sounds like necromancy to me. The stereotypically asshole one. We will be doing everyone a favour removing them.”

The group leaves the well tread path and carefully walks down the rocky hill, slinging lightning and fire at the ghosts, who express their thanks as the energies binding them are released under onslaught.

“Takes a special kind of sadistic bastard to keep souls bound like that.” Erin mutters, mouth set in a disgusted grimace. The necromancy that she used- that most people used, really, was nothing more than bundles of magicka or low-end animalistic daedra puppeteering a corpse. Completely different than dragging a poor soul kicking and screaming from beyond the grave to do your dirty work.

“Aye lass, Necromancy is controversial no matter where in Tamriel you go, but this...” Valdimar shakes his head as they approach the entrance. “This is either an amoral experiment or someone is enjoying this.” His tone of voice leaves no doubt about his opinion regarding the issue.

Inside, they disperse more ghosts under the magical onslaught. Behind the entrance, in the main chamber on the opposite side is another Word Wall, with a large chest just sitting in front of it, over the vine covered floor. The entire chamber is mossy and covered in plant life, in fact. Seeing the chest, Lydia stares, clearly unimpressed.

“This has a trap written all over it. There is absolutely no way there isn’t some trick to this.” Rolling her eyes, she approaches carefully, looking at the floor. “In fact, I will bet it’s empty… Ah, a trapdoor, how original.” Coming closer, the group can see a metal gate in the floor, alongside a long pit it is covering.

“Droll. Anyway, since we are before a word wall, does either of you want to practice before we finish our clean up?”

Jean hums as he steps around the trapdoor, the chanting coming from the wall suddenly making itself known. “Hmmm… Noble Nords remember these words of the... hoar father: Pray not for peace, for such is the wish of the weak and cowardly.” He shakes as the ‘peace’ etches itself into his mind, Erin having the same reaction. The elf smiles as the possibilities with some of her other vocabulary make themselves apparent.

“Mhm. Takes me back. I don’t think I have heard anyone swear by Hoarfather in a long time, not since you woke me up.”

The group carefully backs away from the trap and goes into the side corridor, the spells making quick work of the further ghosts who seem to throw themselves at the party with reckless abandon. Eventually, they arrive at the chamber filled with cages, with a round one lacking the top and filled with water at the centre, being the obvious end point of the pit. The necromancer himself, a Nord with both sides of his head shaved, dagger in his left hand as the shambling corpses of the dead adventurers crowd at the entrance.

“Very smart!” He cries. “You are the first to not fall to my trap! What do you say, I let you go and we pretend it never happened? Eh? I will just… continue my experiment, yes, and you go home?”

Jean rolls his eyes at the blatant ass covering. There are a lot of zombies, however, and he can see the corridor on the opposite end of the room. Even a quick clean-up will let the moron flee. Until Serana catches him, but still. And hey, the new word, plus the ones they already learned gave him an idea for something more… original. No doubt, Erin had ideas as well.

Turning towards the elf, he speaks. “Do you want to deal with this moron, or should I?”

Erin chortles, but nods and steps forward all the same, “It’ll make a good field-test.” she comments offhandedly before taking a deep breath, the cold air in her lungs becoming something more as power pools and she Shouts, “DREM KRAH LIIV!”

The wave of force flows over the chamber, washing over the undead who promptly fall to the ground as if they were puppets with their strings cut, which is true enough. Then, it hits the necromancer, who is thrown against the wall, dead before he even hits the rock. And yet, he simply looks like he is asleep instead of instant dusting the Wither normally caused.

“Huh. I guess that’s the end of our problems with undead.” Lydia comments.

“And it doesn’t wreck any potential loot.” Erin cheered, her little magpie heart singing at the prospect.

Meanwhile, Valdimar rummages through the table in the corner, spotting a journal. Leafing through, he grimaces. “Aye, I was right. He was doing it literally just to get his jollies off. Ahhh… this is some fairy tale exaggeration bullshit.”

“Let’s just burn the bodies and put the ashes into urns. It is a tomb, so might as well use it for those poor bastards.” Jean mutters, and the group nods along, gathering the bodies of adventurers in a single place before burning them. The necromancer, on the other hand, gets thrown outside the tomb, into the wilds, none of the Nords present having much concern for his afterlife. Then, they are off to continue their journey.

That evening, another letter floats down as they settle for the night off the road to Rorikstead.

“I had not anticipated you progressing so quickly, Dragonborn. Truly, your growth exceeds the most generous estimations. And your Thu’um… Ah, it has been so long since I have heard a new application of the Voice. I truly cannot wait until we can engage in a proper Tinvaak, I need to discuss peculiarities of your invention. Pruzah wundunne, and may our Father Akatosh ensure our meeting is sooner rather than later!”

---

After a couple more days on the road, the party finally arrives at the gates of Whiterun, where Serana walks in stunned silence, taking in the sights.

“Something the matter, Serana?” Jean asks worried.

“It’s just… A lot has changed. Before I was sealed, the Nords were more racist. Definitely wouldn’t allow so many Khajiit so close to their cities.”

“Before you say anything more.” Lydia interrupts her. “Most Nords are, in fact, still racist. My uncle simply managed to beat into his subjects that racism is not profitable.”

Serana blinks, before chuckling. “Fair enough. The world is already crazy as it is.”

The group makes their way to Dragonsreach to retrieve the keys to their new home, with Lydia staying behind to catch up with her family while the rest of the group returns to the Plains District.

The Breezehouse, or more accurately, the Breeze Manor, is located close to the gates, overseeing the main road of the city. The house is well furbished, and the party is greeted by a maid hired by Baalgruf to take care of the property until they finally decided to show up. The woman, young, with green eyes and platinum blonde hair cut short, isn’t much broken over the time it took them to arrive, easily admitting she practically lives in the house, which is much more comfortable than her quarters at Dragonsreach.

“Eh, fair enough.” Jean waves it off. “Not like we will be spending much time around. And it seems to be big enough that even with our party almost doubling in size, there are enough empty rooms for more people.” Additionally, wasn’t there an orphan or two wandering the streets? Might as well see if Erin is up for charity.

After claiming a room and changing out of his armour, he goes off to search for his fellow Dragonborn, eventually finding the elf in a room on the next floor, tucked into the corner as far away from the stairs as possible. Knocking on the door, he waits for response.

There’s an audible grumble before the door opens a crack, just enough for the elf woman to literally poke out her head. There’s a faint tinge of less-than-rational irritation in her face at being interrupted in settling down, but she’s deliberately shoving it aside, “Ey, something come up?”

“Not much, at least nothing I have heard about. I just thought to myself, since we are unlikely to be around most of the time, what do you think of letting the maid live-in full time and let her house those orphans that we know roam the streets?”

Erin blinks, head tilting in a bird-like motion as she mulls it over for all of a second. She rolls her shoulders, “Sure, so long as nobody messes with my room beyond cleaning I’m perfectly happy housing other people.” She’d just have to hope that the kids weren’t the screechy sort. Her poor, poor ears were sensitive. Oh, well, if it came to it, she’d just see about learning Muffle.

Nodding, Jean steps back. “Great, I will notify the maid… which, now that I think about it, I forgot to get the name of. Anyway, see ya later.”

“Later.” Erin replies with a nod and a small pleased sound at the back of her throat, retreating back into her room to indulge in having a proper private space of her own. It was a small miracle that she hadn’t gone twitchy from how long she’d gone without. Probably having pleasant company who knew the value of comfortable silence.

Coming down, Jean spots the maid in the kitchen, the woman looking up from the work as he approaches. “My thane, is there anything you need from me?”

“I have talked with Erin first, but we have decided that if you want, you can move in. Just use the same room as you have been so far.”

The woman is stunned for a moment before smiling and bowing. “Thank you, it is very generous of you.”

“Also, we’ve thought, if it’s not too much trouble, we know there are some orphans roaming the streets. Neither of us are Nords, so we know how cold the nights, or even days, can get...”

“You wish to give shelter to them?” She asks, clearly stunned. “I mean, the temples tend to admit them for the night, but their rules forbid the priesthood from taking them to the living quarters, and the main halls are rarely warmer than outside, so it will be much appreciated.”

Quirking an eyebrow, Jean asks. “The rules… forbid priests?”

She shakes her head. “People are gossips, my thane, and there have been… examples of less virtuous men and women following the Oblivion Crisis.”

Grimacing, he raises his hand. “I get the picture, they are covering their bases until reputation recovers. If you feel you need the help with the workload, just give us notice and we will go over the options and hire some extra help. Also, no need to call us by title. At least in private.” He turns around to leave, before stopping himself, feeling like slapping himself. “Also, I almost forgot again. What’s your name again?” He asks with a weak smile.

“Nette, my forgetful thane.” She replies with a small smile and returns to work while Jean goes back to his room to relax. Once there, he breathes a sigh of relief. That was way more direct interaction than he prefers. For weeks. He figures the only reason he isn’t more snippy is because combat works wonders for stress relief.

That evening, Lydia returns stone faced, and with a long bundle under her arm. “We need to talk, in private.” Is all she says before going to claim a room.

---

Spoiler: More dragon language to translate :v

Paaz vo - Unfair

Zu’u saraan fah un tinvaak - I (was) waiting for our debate/battle.

Drem yol lok - Greetings

Onik wah krif ol gein - Wise to fight as one.

Dovahkiin, drem! Him Thu’um los goraan - Patience, Dragonborn. Your Voice is young.

Haalvut pruzah ko tinvaak - It feels good to debate.

Zu’u Grahofanmindok. Daar tinvaak dovah nunon - I am Grahofanmindok. This battle/debate is for dragons only.

 

Chapter 9: Calling Oblivion to take its garbage back

They meet in the basement, while Nette goes to offer the orphans a place to stay at. The main room underground has a table in the centre, which is where Lydia puts her package. The rest waits patiently until she finishes unwrapping it, displaying a two handed nodachi, its black blade gleaming in the light of the lamp.

“This is” Lydia states grimly, “the Ebony Blade.”

“Lass, I could hear the capitals.” Valdimar sighs. “Are you telling me that this is the daedric artefact of the Prince of Secrets?”

“Unfortunately.” The woman confirms. Anticipating the questions, she continues. “It has been sealed in a secret room under the Dragonsreach, my grandfather apparently hoped that they could simply prevent it from exerting influence on people.”

“Clearly didn’t work.” Serana mutters. “So what happened?”

“My cousin, Nelkir, somehow stumbled upon the door. Mephala can’t reclaim the blade, the safeties were at least that good, but she was content waiting until someone found the door and opened it. She has been whispering secrets into his ear to convince him.”

“Somehow, I doubt having a literal child as her champion would satisfy her.” Jean notes.

Shaking her head, Serana answers. “It doesn’t matter. Ten years is nothing for a Prince. Besides, Ebony Blade feeds on betrayal. The child would grab the blade and would end dead before the day was over.”

“Aye, it never stayed too long with any single wielder from what I remember. ” Valdimar notes eying the blade with suspicion.

“So, what do we do about it?” Erin asks, cutting straight to the heart of the matter. The damn thing is apparently now on their laps and they have to decide how to deal with it. In all honesty, her gut instinct is to wrap it in as many protections as possible, then throw it to the bottom of the ocean. It’d eventually emerge again, but it’d be a good long while until that happens..

“The Vigilants had a ritual to banish daedric artefact's back to Oblivion, it even forced the damn things to stay there for a long while, but they are apparently gone?” Valdimar suggests.

“Their headquarters are gone, yes.” Jean confirms.

“What about Beacon?” Seeing the confused looks, he elaborates. “It’s an old fort south east of Riften. Where, precisely, it is, I have no idea, Vigilants have one of those more secret safe retreats in every province.”

“So our options are to ask our former Vigilant friend and hope the Vigilants can throw the damn thing back at the owner or… dunno, chuck it at the bottom of Ilinata and hope no Argonians decide to take a dip?” Jean muses.

“No matter the decision, Mephala won’t just stand by and let her artefact be removed from play for the next century. We will have a lot of surprises on our way.” Serana notes.

“I thought you wanted to stay home and lay low?” Lydia asks.

Sighing, the vampire answers. “That plan, unfortunately, was thrown out of the window the moment Indgrod made me a thane. Better for me to remain on the move to keep father’s men from making too big of a mess searching for me.”

Shaking his head, Jean chuckles ruefully. “And here I hoped to unwind for a bit.”

“We all did, but keeping this thing is just asking for a knife in the back.” Lydia replies. “Well, the gates are probably closed for the night, so we will need to wait till the morning to move again.”

“Nothing like the prospect of getting stabbed to get the dreams going.” Jean comments dryly. “Not that we have much choice. Right, Lydia, you are keeping that thing for now, just lock the door to your room and maybe neither Nette nor the kids will stab you.”

“Your concern for my well being is touching.”

The next morning, after a rather nervous night where the group slept lightly, they pack supplies and depart Whiterun, to Nette’s quiet amusement. The Ebony Blade, once more wrapped in cloth and protective charms provided by Farengar, rests on Lydia’s back, bringing to Jean and Erin’s minds the memory of Serana walking with the Elder Scroll pretty much exactly the same way. At least that problematic artefact had the grace to shrink enough to fit in the bag.

Fortunately, the journey is uneventful, boring even, and eventually, the party finds themselves once again in Ormund’s rooms. The man shoots Serana a look, but doesn’t comment.

“What’s it this time, Lydia? Somehow, I doubt this is a social visit, you lot are way too paranoid for that.” He eventually asks.

“We need directions to Stendarr’s Beacon. It’s important.”

Quirking an eyebrow, he crosses his arms. “I would hope so, after the Hall has been destroyed I should not be sharing the knowledge of its location with anyone. So, tell me, what do you need from Vigilants that you don’t seem to trust anyone else with?”

“Ebony Blade.”

The man blinks, before hanging his head down. “Fuck. That’d do it. Alright, give me a map, I will mark the location. You will have to travel on foot, you don’t want the damn thing near people for extended periods of time. Optimally, only one of you should be doing this, but those are dangerous times.”

Looking at the map, Jean hums. “We could go through the mountains. With Helgen destroyed, there is bound to be less people on that route. After that, keeping to the main road should be enough.”

“Mhm. Also, next time you come see me, it better be with a crate of mead, not daedric bullshit.”

---

In the end, the party decides to take the route through the Jerall Mountains. There is a passage into the Rift east from Helgen, and with the town destroyed in the dragon attack, it is bound to be mostly empty. From there, they conclude, they can hug the roads going in the shadow of the mountain range in question without worry, as most settlements are to the north and east, with the centre of the southern Rift taken by the lake Honrich. The only real settlement on the way is the orc stronghold of Largashbur, and after their expulsion from the High Rock the Orsimer tended to be suspicious of non-orcs approaching their settlements. Oh, they respected the laws of whichever province they reside in and paid their taxes, but didn’t really allow anyone they didn’t trust in. Normally, the distrust would be something of a pain in the ass for the group, but in this case everyone agrees it saves on trouble.

Their journey through Whiterun is relatively uneventful, the guards and adventurers having managed to at least clear the roads between settlements to permit safe travel. Even so, despite the protections put by Farengar, Lydia keeps her guard whenever they approach other people. Once the group is well clear out of Riverwood, Jean slides next to her.

“Something wrong? You seem… jumpy.”

The woman sighs. “I am… well. Technically. But Mephala, even with enchantments preventing her from acting through the blade, whispers to me. Constantly, incessantly. Whenever we pass someone, she whispers to me their ugly secrets, and I am sure she deliberately picks her words to make it sound as bad as possible.”

Patting her on the shoulder, Jean gives her a smile. “She wants you to use the sword. Really wants it. Which means if we succeed, it’s going to… well, it won’t foil her, since daedric artefacts seem to have the ugly habit of eventually coming back to Tamriel, but it’s going to inconvenience her for the next century or so.”

The woman doesn’t answer, merely gives a strained smile as they continue their journey. That evening, Lydia insists on sharing her watch with another person, just in case. Serana simply rolls her eyes and stays awake until it’s Valdimar’s turn to take watch.

A few days later, the walls of Helgen come into sight, the tower of the keep lays crumbled on the ground, some of the masonry having fallen far, far from the walls. Valdimar frowns as he sees the number of smoke trails rising above the city.

“Something is not right. The city was burned to the ground by the dragon, from what the stories say. Even so, the fires should have gone out long ago. The seasonal rains would see to that.”

“Maybe some of the inhabitants returned?” Serana muses. The man frowns.

“Maybe. It’s going to be dangerous for them, and they would be in danger of starvation, but it is possible.”

The group approaches the half-open gates without any sign of being spotted. Giving each other an unsure look, they eventually decide to open the gate fully, with Lydia and Jean standing guard to make sure the current inhabitants are not hostile.

“They are bandits.” Lydia mutters as she and Jean take position inside the city. “She told me.” Jean nods, bringing the shield up as fire bolt’s flames dance in his other hand.

Behind them, the gate groans and creaks as Serana pushes it open. The sound echoes through the silent city. For a moment, there is nothing, before the shouting reaches their ears. Lydia’s eyes widen before she brings her shield up, Jean following suit. The arrows hit the edges of their shields before the two adjust their position.

“Heh. The troublemakers hid themselves in the ruined keep and upper floors, eh?” Valdimar muses as he walks without care, the glimmer of protective spells surrounding his form. “Well kiddos, let me and the vampire lady show you how easy magic makes cleaning fortified positions like that.” Walking besides him, Serana rolls her eyes, casually sidestepping arrows aimed at her.

They cast in tandem, Serana's lightning dancing across the walls of the keep, flashing brighter as it burns the hidden archers. Meanwhile, Valdimar thrusts with pure kinetic force, collapsing the half-burnt buildings before the snap of his fingers ignites the ruins again. Together, they walk, the spells from whatever magically gifted bandits there are in the band occupying Helgen lightning up their wards with a bright white light before they retaliate, their own spells overwhelming the protective spells and annihilating the mages they hit. Lydia Jean and Erin walk right behind, careful but reduced to an audience as men and women pour out of the destroyed buildings.

“Well, that’s anticlimactic.” Jean mutters as the duo reaches the city centre, the plaza covered in boulders embedded deep into the ground and glinting with traces of metal. Most of the bandits disperse, running from the city or hiding in the buildings.

“Remember, we are embellishing a lot of stuff.” Lydia mutters back. “Having an experienced mage in an adventuring group makes a lot of things easier.”

“Impressive indeed.” Comes a cheerful voice from their midst. Valdimar and Serana turn around, spells in their hands ready, before they blink. Looking to the source of voice, the group notices a shabby dog sitting between them, giving them a look.

“The dog… talked.” Lydia states blankly.

“Come on, there are giant, flying lizards messing stuff all over the place and you are surprised by a talking dog? ” It asks.

“Fair point.” Lydia acquiesces.

“Is there anything you need, Lord Barbas?” Serana asks tensely, watching the dog with suspicion. The dog snorts.

“Oh ruin my fun, will ya? Anyway… I need a favour, and you lot seem to be competent enough to help.”

“Don’t take me wrong, Lord Barbas, but you and your master have a… reputation.”

“Oh, it won’t end like that.” The dog argues. “You see, Vile might have… kicked me out, so to speak, got tired of me proposing alternate ways to go about his deals. So now, he gets to do it the way he wants.”

“I am sensing a ‘but’ coming.” Lydia comments dryly.

“Indeed, there is a ‘but’. Maybe even an actual butt! You see, without me, his other half, he is weaker. Can’t really work unless someone comes to his shrine.”

Valdimar snorts as he thinks about it. “Right. And the bad thing about that is…?”

“Well, normally, you have some chance to actually get what you actually want. Without me? I will admit that Vile can be an asshole about the wishes, and he is like that full time now.”

“Still...”

“How long, do you think, until he sows chaos by making people believe the price of the wish is doing his work for him? I know there is a rather desperate group seeking a cure for their condition at the shrine in Skyrim right now. What if he decides to tell them, for pure kicks and giggles, that the cure involves soul trapping healthy people?”

Valdimar grimaces. “Alright, alright, you have a point. Still, we are on the clock, so we might not have the time to do your little errand right now.”

“Mephala’s sword, right?” Taking in their surprise, Barbas barks happily. “I can smell her all over your package. Say, let’s cut a deal. I may not be Clavicus himself, but I am still one half of Prince of Wishes. You go and seek Clavicus’ out to learn what needs to be done for him to take me back, and in return, I will wait till dragging you there. Don’t worry, the shrine is on your way so it won’t even be a long detour.”

“We were kinda hoping to finish an errand we got before the first of you butted in.” Jean comments. “Is there any chance it can wait until we do that?”

Barbas thinks for a moment, scratching himself behind the ear. “Hmmm… High Hrothgar… I would rather not go inside, and don’t fancy waiting in the snow outside… ”

“You could always wait with the rest of us at the foot of the mountain.” Lydia proposes. “Nine know you seem to insist on us doing this for you, and I doubt we will manage to lose you.”

“Smart girl. But yes, I can wait for that pilgrimage of yours to conclude. I have waited long enough, a couple weeks won’t make much difference.”

“I would protest more strongly.” Valdimar shakes his head. “But I would rather not have a Prince with a grudge.”

The consensus reached, the group leaves Helgen behind with Barbas in tow, the half of a Daedric Prince perfectly happy to play the part of a normal dog. Jean suspects at least part of it is the daedra fucking with them, but he does sound like he genuinely enjoys it. The dog proves his value when he warns them of a hagraven camp on the cliff overseeing the road, allowing them to sneak past that particular part of the road by moving through the forest on the opposite side. From there, the journey is uneventful, even if Lydia seems to be distracted half the time, while having trouble with sleep the other half. Eventually, however, the group reaches the cave inside of which, as Barbas tells them, is the shrine of Clavicus Vile. Entering it, Serana sighs.

“I can smell blood. I think I can already tell who that mysterious group is and what they want from Vile.” Rolling her shoulders, she takes down her hood and glances back at the group. “Just… let me talk to them first, alright? Let’s see if they can be reasoned with.”

“You just said they already butchered someone.” Lydia comments dryly, drawing her sword. “I will let you try, however.”

Letting Serana take point, the group descends into the cave, cleaning it out of the giant spiders hanging around the underground stream. The rest of the cave system is filled with bodies of bandits, some of whom are still alive in their cages, looking at the group with empty eyes.

Eventually, they reach a makeshift sleeping quarters, beds put against the walls of the snow covered cave. There is a pair of vampires hunched over the table who look up surprised when the group enters. Before they can react, Serana stands behind them, hands clasped on the backs of their necks.

“Now.” She speaks calmly. “Before either of us does something they will regret, let’s speak, okay?” The two vampires nod fearfully, trying to look back. “Good. I presume you and your coven are looking for Vile’s help with cure?”

One of the vampires, a Reachman judging by the very skimpy armour, answers. “Y-yes. Uthred thought if we ask another Prince, well, they might be inclined. A-and Vile… well, he is known to make wishes come true, so we thought… ”

“The part where he likes to twist those wishes somehow got forgotten?” Serana asks, and the pair can only stare blankly, earning them a sigh. “Look, me and my friends are on the errand for Vile… in a way. Just take us to the statue and after we finish our job, he may be more inclined to listen to you.”

The man nods fearfully and actually sighs when Serana lets him go. He and his companion glance at the rest of the group until Serana coughs politely, making the two jump. Scurrying past them, the pair of vampires lead them deeper into the caves, where other members of the coven look in suspicion but allow the group to pass, some of them even following them from a distance, clearly curious, although some of them seem to focus on Lydia without even attempting to hide it. The woman simply tightens her hold on her sword but says nothing.

Eventually however, they reach the shrine of Clavicus Vile, which consist mainly of the giant statue dedicated to the Prince, depicted as charming youth with handsome features and muscular chest, generously bared by the slip of the robe. The statue’s left hand is raised, holding a horned masque while the right hand rests in the air, as if a vital part of the statue below it has been removed. Under its feet, a large, redheaded Nord prays in silence.

He turns around as the group enters, standing up. “Leovic, why are those outsiders… here?” His voice is deep and rumbling, and the last word is almost hissed. Leovic, the Reachman, curls on himself, looking to the side.

Stepping to the front, Serana looks the man in the eyes. “I am Serana, a vampire of Volkihar. Me and my… companions, are on the pilgrimage and were requested by the servant of Lord Vile to stand before His visage.”

The man’s eyes widen in surprise, before he snorts. “Lies. Volkihars were slaughtered back in the Second Era when they tried to take over Skyrim. You may share our curse, girl, but don’t add prestige to it by claiming the name of the extinct family.”

“I don’t take kindly to being called a liar. If you require proof of my lineage, however...” Serana answers lightly before her body erupts in a shower of gore, splattering the ground around her as her form twists and grows, a pair of wings breaking the skin and slowly unfurling, skin greying and claws growing. “Tell me...” Says the vampiress now easily towering over everyone in the cave. “Do you know of any other breed whose form is like mine?”

The other vampire falls to his knees, visibly shaking. “Forgive my insolence, Progenitor. I-if I may inquire about your purpose here…?”

“As I said, we were… contracted by the servant of the Vile. Meanwhile, I have heard of your reason, and I must ask. Really?”

The man, for his part, has the decency to look ashamed. “We considered other options, milady, but Clavicus Vile is the one most likely to provide us with what we seek. Hircine would simply make us into a different breed of monster, if he cared at all, Malakath really wouldn’t care...”

Rolling her eyes, Serana returns to more human form, the clothes shrinking with her. “You simply didn’t want responsibility. Vile would be done and gone if you paid the price, others would require a commitment from you.”

“We never asked for this, milady, we turned to Daedra worship because there is no cure among the followers of Divines.”

“And yet, for someone who ‘never asked for this’, you seem to have made yourself quite the decent living. You even keep your thralls alive to keep the blood flowing longer, instead of ripping them apart.”

“They are bandits, from Helgen. There was something big happening there, so we thought we would take those who are outside the law instead of preying on innocents.”

Rolling her eyes, Serana strolls towards the stature, gesturing for Barbas and the others to come with her. “Truly difficult choice. Anyway, Clavicus made a bargain that limits his influence and we are here to change that. Until then, I would refrain from making bargains.”

“Oh come ooooon...” comes a whining voice. “I had a pretty good deal leading those morons by the nose. Really! A cure for Molag’s little pet project, can you imagine?”

“Yes, Lord Vile.” Serana mutters in a dry tone. “Really amusing.”

“Indeed! I had hoped you would fight each other. That way, if they died, they would stop being vampires. There! Wish granted. But, I suppose, seeing them cover before Molag’s squeeze was amusing enough to get me in the granting mood. So, mortals! What can ol’ Clavicus Vile do for ya?”

Poor bastards really had no idea what they were getting into. Jean thinks to himself with morbid amusement as the faces of surrounding vampires somehow manage to pale even more, although none of them are brave enough to make a sound. Even Uthred remains still as a statue where he is kneeling.

Stepping forward, he looks at the statue directly in the face before pointing at Barbas. “We were hoping you would take your dog ba-... ”

“Forget it. Request denied. No deal.” Comes immediate response. “I am glad to be rid of that insufferable mongrel… Even if it means being stuck in this ass end of nowhere… in this pitiful, hidden shrine.” For a moment, the Daedric Prince is silent, before hesitantly speaking again. “Weeeeellllll~... I suppose there may, possibly, perhaps, just be a way for the damn thing to earn its place at my side again. No promises though~.”

“What’s your demand then, Vile? Seriously, how can those morons trust that sort of name?” Jean mutters to himself the last part. Which, of course, is picked up by the Prince, who just snorts.

“I know, right? Anyway, there is an axe. Really powerful axe that I used for a deal in the past. If you bring it to me, I will have a lot of fun with it indeed. Bring it back here, and I will take the mutt in. No strings attached, no messy surprises, no fine print. If I recall correctly, the guy who I gave it to hides at Rimerock Burrow. Barbas can lead you there, he should do his portion of heavy lifting as well.” With that, the statue falls silent.

“We fucked up.” Uthred says eventually, earning himself a bitter laugh from Serana.

“You weren’t the first to look for a cure. Many, many people tried and failed. Anyway, we will be going… but, I will give you one piece of advice, just in case you are well meaning victims.” Serana waits until the man looks her in the face before continuing. “You don’t need to feed on people. Any warm blooded being will suffice.”

“But the thirst...”

“Molag Bal, as you might have noticed, is not exactly the most pleasant lord to serve.”

The man hangs his head in silence, clearly deep in thought. Instead, Leovic speaks up. “T-there is an exit behind the statue. It leads right outside the entrance, just beyond the corner.”

Serana nods. “Thank you. We cannot promise that we will be back soon, but I would still wait until we are back before making any more attempts. Who knows, he might be more amenable to present you with a solution once he is able to leave this place.”

The secret passage is, indeed, where the vampire pointed, and leads the party to the well hidden cliff outside. Once they are out of the cave, Serana sighs and hunches over.

“You fine there, lass?” Valdimar asks from his spot. Serana nods as she breathes deeply.

“Yes… Just… It has been a long time since I took that form. It’s unpleasant, and brings unpleasant memories back, especially coupled with Clavicus deciding to rip old trauma open.”

Erin winces, remembering what is involved in making a woman a Daughter of Coldharbour. She very pointedly remains silent, because Divines know she’s absolute dogshit at the whole comfort thing. Better to just shut her trap and avoid making things worse.

Jean sighs and looks at the cloudy sky. Really, there was no way to really approach the subject without coming as an asshat, was there? Best to just… quietly let Serana gather herself. Even the dog that is the supposedly better half of the Prince of Assholery is looking uncomfortable.

With the awkwardness hanging around them like a cloud of angry bees, the party carefully descends from the well hidden cliff and resumes their travel down the mountain. That night, everyone just shuffles off to sleep without much prompt.

---

Jean manages to wake up for his watch without much trouble. He has already noticed it became easy the past few weeks, probably from experience. Sighing, he crawls out of his bag, rolling his head and shoulders to get rid of the stiffness of the muscles. From the corner of his eye, he notices Lydia and Serana whispering to each other as they share a watch. He doesn’t know what, but probably daedric trauma. Try as she might, Lydia slowly became more and more twitchy and pale, and he was too awkward to bring to attention, spending the majority of her sleep time twisting in her bag instead.

Shaking his head, he grabs his sword and approaches the pair who stop their talk as soon as they notice him. “Go to sleep you two.” Serana quirks her eyebrow at him, to which he simply snorts. “Yes, you too. I doubt all this prancing around in the sun is pleasant to you so get some rest.”

He watches the two slide into their bags before sighing and putting more wood into the fire and wrapping the cloak tighter around himself. Skyrim continued to be unbearably cold. There is a sound of the snow shuffling and he looks up, spotting Barbas walking towards the camp. He doesn’t bother asking where the Daedra went. Instead, he waits until the dog lies before the fire before striking the conversation.

“So, tell me about that axe Clavicus wants back.”

“Don’t you already know?” The dog mutters, and he gives it an unimpressed look. It yawns before speaking. “Right. Well, it’s one of Clavicus’ little jokes. A mage by the name of Sebastian Lort had a daughter who worshipped Hircine. The Lord of the Hunt, as he often wants to do, gifted her with lycanthropy, which Sebastian didn’t agree with. So he came to us and asked for a way to cure her. Clavicus gave him an axe.”

“I thought you were supposed to be his conscience? Besides, for a contract it doesn’t seem he had to pay anything.”

Barbas looks at him with… some kind of look. “The price was his reaction. The axe absolutely has the power to cure a person of lycanthropy. In fact it should still have that one-use charge on it. All Sebastian had to do is to press the flat of the blade against the body of his daughter, right over the heart, and voila! Hircine’s gift would be cleared from her.”

“... So he thought Clavicus’ response was to tell him to kill his daughter because it looked like a weapon?”

Barbas chuckles. “Indeed. Clavicus, as you might have noticed, prefers when the deal backfires on mortals that contact him. However, usually I manage to convince him that doing those little tests of character and watching mortals fail to grasp the lesson is more hilarious than just screwing them over immediately.”

“This doesn't inspire my confidence in helping you.” Jean sighs.

“Says the man who is deliberately planning to piss off Daedric Prince of Secrets.” With that, Barbas lies down, seemingly immediately falling asleep. Jean sighs and shakes his head as he huddles under his cloak and retreats into the ‘safety’ of his mind to shake a dragon soul for its knowledge.

Grahofanmindok’s soul awaits him in the centre of his being, curiously enough not as a dragon but a priest hidden behind a mask. The dragon looks up at him as he appears.

“Finally, I thought you would forget you absorbed me, Dovahkiin.”

Jean just shrugs as he takes a sit on the chair that materializes out of nowhere. Probably weird mental plane stuff.

“A lot is happening, so it did slip my mind. Besides, unlike that unlucky bastard, you have a lot to check.”

The dragon laughs, the sound distorted by the mask. “I suppose. The method of gaining power that you and your fellow Dragonborn use, it is not the most effective, but it’s definitely quicker. Tell me then, what do you wish to learn? How to destroy your enemy by calling upon them the wrath of elements? Or perhaps you prefer to take life by your own hand and wish to make it easier by robbing them of their will to fight, strength to lift their arms against you? Or, perhaps, you will take something seemingly innocuous, designed to ease travel or hunt and combine it into something new with that brain the two of you are gifted with?”

Scratching his chin, Jean thinks about the question for a moment. “I don’t think we really need more direct ways to kill. A bit of creativity with what we already have and mixing words should suffice.”

“Good. Master what you have instead of spreading yourself thin. By making each word truly yours, you will find a great flexibility.”

“I thought about taking that shout of yours that brought my friends down, but I don’t think it will suit me. Especially since the enemies on whom I would prefer to use it probably won’t be much inconvenienced by it.”

The dragon chuckles. “Indeed. It is a rather poor counter to other dovah, especially ones as powerful as Al-du-in’s closest lieutenants and my eldest brother himself.”

“On the other hand, I would prefer to make sure my allies survive a battle. So perhaps something that would allow them to stand against the danger better?”

“Hmmm. An interesting proposal. Dovah are not, by nature, beings that wish to share the glory. A debate tends to be a personal affair. However, there are words that serve your purpose, yes. We, dovah, tended to use them to make our servants within Dragon Cult better in battle. I, unfortunately, never got to see the effects in a proper war, but know the words you seek.”

Jean leans curiously forward. “Oh? I will trust you then. Go ahead.”

Grahofanmindok inclines his head and speaks. “Then listen, Dovahkiin. The first is Mid, the loyalty, bond between allies, the trust and affection between those who plunge into danger together. The second is Vur, valour. Perseverance shackled towards accomplishment of one’s goal. The great drive to push ahead regardless of danger. And finally, Shaan, to inspire. To become the presence whose very… presence, makes warriors fight all the harder, with greater courage, to push beyond the boundaries they set for themselves. Put them together, Mid-Vur-Shaan, become the beacon around which your allies bloom into legends, giants striding the battlefield without fear.”

Jean nods with the explanation, but he cannot help but draw the other first word he had learned, to turn it around and insert into the words Grahofanmindok taught him. “A Shout that inspires people… Yeah, I can see that. But… I think I already know how to… invert it, for lack of a better word.”

“Liiv is it not? It’s amusing to think about it. I have known Nahagliiv in life, and would never take him to be one to come up with such an interestingly versatile word. I suppose he changed in death more than I did. Still, I look forward to how you utilize this Thu’um I offered you, Dovahkiin, and how you will use Nahagliiv’s Thu’um to change it into something purely yours.”

---

Eventually however, the group leaves behind the Jerall mountains, as much as they can with the outline of the range always on the horizon to the south. The Rift is as drastically different from the snowy roads and swamps of Hjaalmarch as they are from the vast, hilly plains of Whiterun. It’s a heavily forested place, with sun filtering through red and golden leaves and casting the roads in a myriad of shades of light while the rays glitter in the waters of Lake Honrich. And this part of the Rift is sparsely populated as well, making it so there is barely any traffic on the road even after days of journey.

When they make camp on the bank of Treva river directly opposite of an old, crumbling fort, Jean walks into the woods to gather the kindling for the fire when a fallen branch snaps under someone’s foot. He has enough time to see hooded, masked black and red armour before the unknown person tackles him to the ground, the redhead hissing as he barely manages to avoid a hit to the head. There is a flash of dark metal and he instinctively lashes out, grabbing the assailant’s wrists before the blade can plunge into him. For a moment, he strains himself to keep the assassin from simply pushing the blade in with his weight, before an idea comes.

Headbutting the assassin to give himself space, he takes breath and whispers in his face. “Liiv Vur.” The Thu’um hits without fail, at this distance impossible to dodge. The assassin jerks back as if struck by the hammer and Jean takes advantage of the chance to push him off of himself. Jumping to his feet he draws his sword, only to hesitate at the sight of his would-be killer curled into a ball on the ground, whimpering into the ground. Sighing, he hits the man with the pommel of the sword, cutting the cries short. Then, he grabs the assassin by the ankles and drags him back to the camp.

Lydia sees him and his quarry first, and after a moment to stare, she finally snorts. “I see I am not the only one getting distracted. This looks more like Serana’s dinner than wood, Jean.”

“Har har. Give me the rope. Dark Brotherhood assassins aren’t exactly known for taking casual strolls through the woods, so this fuck is here on purpose.”

She does and soon, the assassin is bound to a tree while fire is roaring. The group manages to finish their dinner and the sun hides behind the horizon by the time the assassin wakes up with a groan before tensing, the ropes straining as he tries to wiggle out of them.

“Welcome back to the land of living, although I suppose given just how much you fucked up your hit, you would prefer not to wake.” Valdimar notes. “Mind telling us why you stroll through the woods trying to put daggers in innocent adventurers.”

“I got five septims riding on it being because of Jean’s little drunk speech in Markath!” Erin pipes up all too cheerfully. What’s less cheerful is the snarling daedra hound by her side who was picking up on the murderous undercurrent beneath its mistress’ forced cheer. She didn’t take kindly to suicidal dipshits thinking shanking her friends would be a good lark.

“That seems… petty.” Serana muses, to which Valdimar just snorts.

“Brotherhood had been one of the most fearsome organisations in Tamriel, some of the deadliest, most effective assassins in existence. Had been. The last century or so was not their time, they got hunted down and butchered in all of their hiding holes. At this point, they must be so weak they would even consider some drunken moron shouting that he is a member for an insult worthy of cleansing in blood. Isn’t that right, stabby boy?” The last part is addressed to the assassin, each word dripping with mockery.

The Brotherhood assassin remains silent, but from the way he tries to look away, it’s clear the words have a rather large degree of truth to them. Sighing, Jean speaks up.

“Anyway, we need to figure what to do with him. We are not leaving him alive, no, but how is the question. I… find it hard to just execute him like that. Leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”

“I mean, if Serana’s up for it, we can just make him spill out info until nobody has any qualms about turning him into a smear.” Erin supplies with a careless shrug. “Let’s face it, if the guy would take a job like this, Divines know what sort of horrid shit he’s done before.”

“If he got got by Jean, and because of such a rookie mistake like a branch snapping under his foot, he is obviously not high in the hierarchy, and thus couldn’t get a good job.” Lydia comments dryly.

“The vote of confidence in my ability to fend off an assassin is appreciated.” Jean notes with equal dryness. “Still, it’s up to you, Serana?”

The vampiress hums as she thinks about it. “I doubt we will get much out of him, buuuut, I suppose knowing their hideout and numbers would be useful. And I will be able to fully suppress that damnable thirst afterwards.”

With that, she stands gracefully and walks over to the assassin, forcing him to look her in the eyes before his own eyes become glazed over. The man speaks in an even, dull tone of the last sanctuary of the Brotherhood, hidden in the caverns not far from Falkreath, hidden behind the doors enchanted to open only to those with the password, and the password itself. He describes the remaining members, a small group, the last survivors of the proud, fearsome organisation. He speaks of their leader, Astrid, and her werewolf husband. Then, about an elder mage and a Dunmer woman. A Redguard male and a former Shadowscale. And a vampire forever frozen in the body of a child, using it to her advantage to evade capture.

Then, he describes his track record, which is not much, as Lydia has guessed. Sent to solve a case of ‘marital disagreement’, or to make a daughter of a powerful noble reconsider her dating prospects, a couple of assassinations of people inconvenient for Maven Black Briar. Nothing truly outstanding, just nice, well paying but discreet affairs. Nothing so grandiose as to bring the Brotherhood into people’s nightmares. Still, the information provided is enough of a treasure trove. Serana takes the assassin with herself into the woods, and some time later, comes alone, not a spot of blood on her skin or clothes.

---

The next day, by the afternoon, the fortress of Largashbur comes into sight, off the road, surrounded by the palisade wall. And currently attacked by the pair of giants. The party stares at the sights, especially as the orcs, unusually enough for them, seem to hide behind their walls, shooting the giants to little effect, only a sheen of magic covering the wooden wall telling as to how the giants haven't broken through just yet.

“Do… do we want to get involved?” Jean asks warily as he watches a boulder the size of a horse gets sent into the sky with a swing of a club, with no sign of it coming back down.

“Not when we’re lugging around the backstabbing stick, we don’t.” Erin counters firmly. They’d been keeping clear of people for a good reason.

“Right, that. Well then… they don’t seem to be in actual danger, I suppose?” As he speaks, one of the giants topples over, appearing dead to the roar of fury from its companion.

---

Two days after passing Largashbur, the party arrives at the vast farm estate of the wealthy Snow-Shod clan of Riften, which currently seems to be busy burning to the ground.

“Huh, so… is that aggressive business competition or…?” Jean asks a guard stationed by the road. The man looks at him in silence for a moment before answering.

“A dragon. Flew down the mountain two days ago and took some livestock. Lord Vulwulf sent for mercenaries from Riften in case the beast came back, after the news that Stormcloaks managed to bring a beast attacking Windhelm down emboldened folks.”

“I guess that plan didn’t work out that well.” Serana muses as she watches the thick clouds of smoke rising from all over the estate.

“No, it did not. The dragon decided to see the armed warriors as a reason to escalate. It came from the old overlook in the Jerall Mountains.” He motions almost directly to the south, where there is no well made road.

“Fuck, We are going that way.” Jean curses as realisation settles in. The guard hums before speaking.

“Anyway, that will be thirty septims.”

The party double takes, before Valdimar speaks. “Whatever for?”

“Information and the tax for trespassing on the Snow-Shod lands.” He replies confidently, only to shrink under the party’s collective unimpressed stares. Eventually, Lydia speaks up.

“Or, and hear me out on this. We go our way and you get to keep your teeth where they should be. Or I just find Vulwulf Snow-Shod and tell him how Rift’s guards run off the only adventuring party with an actual track record of bringing the dragons down.”

Erin, for her part, all too happily turns to face the fire, breathing in nice and deep before Shouting, “FO KRAH DIIN!”

The wave of cold spreads over the fields like a thin, misty blanket, snuffing the fires out and covering the surviving plant life in a sparkling sheet of hoarfrost. The guard is left gaping, the party eventually just walking past him.

“Show off.” Jean mutters. “Though I suppose if we need something in Riften, we may have someone inclined to smooth things over.”

Valdimar just snorts. “Without getting that Snow-Shod guy’s promise of reward first? Forget it. Riften is The corrupt city. He will pretend he doesn’t know you unless you do him another favour.”

“Speaking from experience?” Serana asks.

“What happens in Riften should stay in Riften.” Is all the man says to everyone’s quiet or not so quiet amusement.

The walk through the forest ends surprisingly uneventfully, despite hearing the howl of the wolves a couple of times, as well as managing to chance upon a sleeping bear. The hardest part of getting to the part of the mountain range in question is the previously mentioned lack of roads and an abundance of cliffs and slopes slowly elevating the area. Eventually however, they arrive at the foot of another stone staircase with the recognisable stone arcs usually signifying the Dragon Cult’s temples adorning the approach. There is also, quite notably, an actual, well trodden path leading from the bottom of the stairs through the forest.

“He wanted thirty septims for the wrong information.” Jean states blandly. “I have half a mind to find that guard again and actually punch his teeth out.”

Valdimar chortles from the side. “Told you so, lad! In Riften, everyone will try to scam you just because they can.”

“Lovely place.” Erin grouses with a rueful shake of her head.

“Welcome to Riften, the single most corrupt city in Skyrim, although it edges out over Markarth only because it’s not racist in regards to whom it is willing to screw out of money.”

“Ironic, considering whom they sided with.” Jean comments.

Further conversation is shelved as the group slowly makes their way up the stairs, with Valdimar opening the line in case they needed a quick ward from dragon’s attack, a precaution which proves necessary when the man passes another stone arc and barely notices a flash of brilliant azure light before the soul gem put at the pedestal fires a ball of condensed ice at him. The man raises a ward without trouble before backing down behind the arc.

“I hate spellcasting traps.” Lydia mutters after he finishes describing the contraption. “At least this one seems to be easy to dislodge.”

“Got experience with them, lass?”

“Dwemer ruins are full of either them or their weird mechanisms. Some tombs built for notable mages tend to have them too. First time I have heard of one built in the open. Even with narrowing its targeting range to a cone, there are way too many animals that could trigger it to make it viable. At least this design is easy to disarm, we just need to drop the gem out of its stand.”

“I would question how it didn’t get disarmed by the wind, or storm, but I am going to assume magic.” Jean sighs. “Right, Valdimar, you ward, I will shout it off.”

“Let’s just hope it won’t alert the dragon so we can get a surprise attack off.” Lydia muses.

Jean shoots her a dirty look. “If it does, I am blaming you.”

Valdimar simply shakes his head and casts the rippling, translucent ward in front of him and waits until Jean falls right behind him before moving forward again. The trap flashes and spits a cloud of frost which washes over the ward, coating the mountainside with ice. Jean steps to Valdimar’s side, and with a quick ‘FUS’ sends a wave of force which throws the gem, and the pillar it rests on, hurtling down. For a moment, things are silent before a roar comes from higher up. The party dashes up the stairs, haphazardly covering themselves with wards just in case the dragon chooses to fly by and attack them. On their way, a shadow of the beast passes over them.

“FUS!” It roars, with a voice which resembles the avalanche, the air shaking as the party’s ears ring from the sheer volume. “RO DAH!”

They barely manage to dash off the stairs when the Shout crashes into the side of the mountain, disintegrating the stairs and digging deep into the rock, sending boulders flying in all directions. Cursing, the party keeps running as the stones fall around them.

“Nowhere to run, mortals!” Comes the mocking voice. Jean and Erin somewhat manage to grasp the meaning. “With each of you worms coming, my domain becomes deadlier and deadlier to you!”

Chortling as he dives behind a particularly large boulder, Jean shouts back. “Fuck you and thanks for cover, lizard with a brain of hare!”

“You dare?! I will make your death long and painful, mortal, that I swear on my name!”

“Would be more intimidating if I knew it, snake with wings!”

“It’s Venahnikriin, mortal! Remember it well! It will be the last thing you hear before you reach Sovngarde!”

Guffawing, Jean hugs the boulder. “How… how am I… how am I supposed to find Swooping Cowardly Hunter intimidating?”

Serana clicks her tongue. “Current Hunter, not Swooping, but I suppose it’s a close enough translation.” She admits with mirth in her voice.

Any further banter is drowned out in the deafening roar of flames as the dragon covers the overlook with wide spread flames, although the boulders its Unrelenting Force rained down on it do make for an excellent cover.

“DREM KRAH LIIV!” Comes the Shout from Erin, having bid her time while Jean ran his mouth to line up the perfect shot.

Focused as he is on Jean, Venahnikriin doesn’t notice Erin peering out from the side, having only a moment to realise his mistake before the Shout hits him. It roars in surprise as his wings miss a beat and he stumbles in the air, before falling to the ground with an (admittedly thunderous) whimper, further crying out as the boulders dig into his body. Still, unlike undead or a crazed necromancer, Venahnikriin is a dragon, and although fallen from the sky, he is stunned instead of comatose or dead. Which is still not an ideal situation when surrounded by people proficient in dragon slaying. Shaking its head, the dragon tries to groggily stand up and shake the stupor.

“LIIV VUR!” He adds his barely put together shout. The dragon is hit by it and slumps down, barely even fighting the effect of two shouts anymore.

A small part of Erin notes a small tinge of pity towards the poor dragon, then she remembers its boasts and intention of turning people into soul gem traps and it snuffs out. Well, with the dragon knocked for a loop like this, she may as well field-test a Shout combination she’d been toying with, “DIIN FUS!”

The Shout hits the barely awake dragon with a crack of force, washing over its body and causing its scales to break and crack apart, bursting from its rupturing body. Venahnikriin cries in pain, but even as his body breaks apart, he can barely muster enough force to move and even the roar is weak and quiet, more a whimper than anything else. And yet, even bleeding from innumerable cuts, its body pierced by the rocks, he still lives, barely clinging to life.

“I… cannot… not… this… soon...” Whatever else he might say is cut short when Lydia approaches his head and puts her sword through an eye, piercing the brain, finally finishing off the dragon. She lets go of the blade and steps back as the dragon’s soul swirls and is absorbed by Erin.

“So, a big scaly coward, eh?” Valdimar grunts as he stands up and looks around the overlook. “And here I would think a dragon hated by Nocturnal with how shit his luck was would be the weirdest.”

“People can be real weirdos, so why not dragons?” Jean shrugs and looks around the overlook. There are cages under the Wall, with burnt corpses sitting in them, as well as an altar with another burnt beyond recognition body slumping over it. “And it seems like the place was used by some asshole before the dragon added his own brand to the mix.”

Cracking his neck, the redhead approaches the Wall, ignoring the ghostly chanting. “Here lies the body of Bard Romerius who tried to run from some Goblins but slipped.” Shaking his head to clear his vision as another word burns itself in, he sighs. “I have questions. I have heard bards used to be hot shit in ancient Nordic culture, but this reads like shitpost.”

Snorting, Serana rereads the writing. “Considering the lack of any grave, we can safely assume whomever commissioned the wall found the fate of poor Romerius absolutely hilarious and needed the following generations to know.”

“What I do wonder if who or what sees about cramming random words in walls like these with Thu’um bullshit so dragonborns can pick up words of power.” Erin muses.

“Something to ask the Greybeards about, I suppose.” Jean shakes his head. “Right let’s burn the bodies properly, even the asshole’s and bury them so we can make a camp for the night. Then we can be off to Beacon.”

Lydia nods. “What about reporting the dead dragon?”

“Somehow, I am not inclined to make Riften richer, but I suppose we can swing by Snow-Shod’s with a scale or two as a proof on our way back to earn ourselves that favour.”

With that, the group sets around the cleaning of the overlook, with Jean and Lydia putting the bodies together before the dragonborn burns them with Fire Breath, the ashes scattering to the wind.

“When I was a little girl.” Lydia mutters. “I have had dreams of felling giant monsters and sleeping under their furs. I would have never guessed they would come true… after a fashion. Not much fur on a dragon.” She sighs, leaning against the Wall before grimacing. “Gods, I can’t wait until we throw that sword into Oblivion.”

Jean blinks as he gives her a closer look. She is pale, he notes, almost as paler as Serana, and there are bags under her eyes. “Is anything… well, maybe not alright, given things, but are you fine?”

The woman is silent for a moment before Serana coughs quietly and she sighs. “I… don’t know. Can we talk, Jean, Erin? In private?” She adds, motioning towards the hole in the mountain left by the dragon’s breath.

Something in the back of Erin’s brain made a noise of distress, instantly connecting the dots between the whole Prince of Secrets thing and their own circumstances. Oh boi.

Even so, she nods and follows along. The three of them walk towards the crater in the mountain, Lydia stopping just over the edge before turning around.

“I have already told you, but I think it bears repeating. Ever since I took the Ebony Blade from my uncle's vault, Mephala has been whispering to me, especially once we have decided to dispose of the sword.” Grimacing, she continues. “And the worst part? Mephala doesn’t lie. Never. Use the words that paint the situation to her favour? Yes. Those past weeks have been hell, with her whispering every dirty secret and ugly truth she could to make me reconsider disposing the blade. Even offered to adjust its dimensions.” She laughs mirthlessly. “But when she noticed it didn’t work, she brought out the big secrets. I think. She told me the two of you are not… ” Frowning, she pauses, looking for the correct words. “That you are not from Nirn, that as far as you are concerned, this all is a lucid dream where everyone and everything is just a… ballad, playing out for your amusement.”

Erin sighs, dragging a hand through her face and muttering some less than polite words in catalonian about Mephala before levelling a look at Lydia, “There were stories about this place back home, aye, but it is a bit hard not to treat it as real when Akatosh himself snags your freshly deceased rear, gives you the choice of a few boons to help the heroing along and chucks you into Skyrim.”

Sighing, Jean looks to the sky before turning his gaze to Lydia. “Erin has a point. Sure, it has felt a bit like a bored daedra dragging a poor fuck into a realm of Oblivion styled after a book he happened to read frequently and see what the mortal does, but… Well, it doesn’t make Nirn any less real just because someone who recognises stuff from their favourite book got thrown at it… I don’t know if that makes it any better.” He finishes lamely.

Lydia stares at the two of them, before breaking into a fit of giggles. “Pffft… You two… You two are… the worst people… at consoling someone I have… ever heard of… Bahahaha!”

“I am glad our social dysfunctionality is amusing to you.” Jean deadpans.

“We got about as good a bedside manner as a constipated dragon, this is known.” Erin throws in with her best deadpan, eyes shining with amusement and relief at having managed to thoroughly gut the tension in the air.

“Pfft… I… I am sorry, m-my thanes… pffft… I get what you are trying to say.” She takes a breath, before stifling another round of laughter. Pausing for a series of deep breathes, she finally recovers her cool. “Still… Thank you. I let Mephala get to me, despite knowing what she is about.”

“I would probably be more surprised if you hadn’t so much as considered using that sword on your back even once.” Jean admits. “I am sure Mephala did everything in her power to sell you on the idea, starting with any of its ‘cool powers’ before trying to break you with the horrible truth.”

Lydia looks him in the eyes, her own twinkling with amusement. “The only horrible thing about this truth is how bad you are at explaining it. Still. Really, no daedric meddling back where you come from?” She asks incredulously.

“Surprisingly enough.” Jean admits. “Even if sometimes one wonders if they aren’t just subtler about it.”

Shaking her head, Lydia walks back towards the camp. “Let’s just go to sleep. I will be so glad when we finally throw Mephala her sword back.”

---

The tower of Stendarr’s Beacon is a small watch tower located atop the mountain south of Dayspring Canyon and it’s a small, unassuming stone building, with only a pair of banners hanging from the sides of the door to identify it as belonging to the Vigilants. With Serana, Erin and Barbas remaining at the foot of the mountain, Lydia, Jean and Valdimar are the ones to approach. The Vigilant at the top of the watchtower observes their approach with crossbow in hand before ringing a small bell, which causes the door to open and a group of Vigilants to walk out, hands resting on handles to weapons.

“Hold, outsiders! This is a secret ground of Stendarr, how did you learn of its existence?!” Shouts the one at the top of the tower.

Jean resists the urge to roll his eyes. The paranoia is, after all, somewhat justified. “One of your ex members, a man named Ormund told us about this place when we brought a dangerous Daedric artifact to him for disposal!”

The Vigilant whispers amongst themselves hurriedly, before a female voice rings out. “Jean, is that you? I thought you and your Altmer friend were doing errands for Jarl! Stand down, brothers and sisters, I know this man!”

Jean blinks before he recognises the voice. “Elle! Are Bete and Harold with you?”

The Vigilants relax, though they give Lydia looks, clearly believing in the Daedric Artifact story, but give the group some space and invite them inside the tower. While small, there is a ladder underground, which turns out to be a large, natural cave system, explaining how so many of them fit in the small building.

Elle shakes her head. “Bete was here, before going to Morrowind. She lost an arm in a fight against some sort of living statue commanded by a vampire.” Then, she grimaces. “Harald wasn’t as lucky, the bloodsucker tore him apart.”

Jean winces as he pats the woman. “My condolences.” Speaking louder as they walk through the cave, he continues. “Anyway, Lydia found out one of the previous Jarls of Whiterun and their court wizard found the Ebony Blade and locked it under Dragonsreach, and slapped a lot of suppressing magic around the room. Worked pretty well, until a child found the door and Mephala started whispering to the poor brat. Lydia managed to convince the Jarl to move the sword before something bad happened.”

One of the Vigilants winces as his imagination lets him substitute ‘something’ for a more concrete scenario. “Mephala… Aye, still, an impressive feat. We have kept an ear to the ground regarding Daedric Artefacts just so we can banish them right back to Oblivion when they reappear, but couldn’t find even a trace of Ebony Blade. Some of us were getting worried. I suppose headquarters in other provinces will find it reassuring we could finally free Tamriel from the Treacherous Sword for a century or two.” Arriving at the altar underneath a statue of Stendarr, the Vigilant motions for Lydia. “Please, put the Blade on the altar and unwrap it. Then, we will start the rite to call upon God of Mercy to throw it into Oblivion.”

Lydia nods and does as she is told, exposing the gleaming metal of the Blade to the light of the torches. Some of the Vigilants back down from mere sight of the weapon, while others give Lydia suspicious glances before Elle and the man who leads the group cough.

“It’s a beautiful sword, I can admit so much. No wonder men and mer killed each other over it, fuelling Prince of Secret’s hold over their souls. Now, my siblings in Stendarr’s guiding light, let us proceed.”

The Vigilants surround the altar and begin their prayers, the cave slowly brightening as the statue begins to glow with an otherworldly, soft light, which itself causes Ebony Blade to hiss and its image to twist and ripple. Then, the cave fills with the furious whispers in a myriad of languages, causing everyone’s eyes to widen as some of the words are recognised and some strike deep. The Vigilants’ prayers speed up, even as some of them stumble under the furious whispers.

Then, a pair of them at the back cry and reach for their weapons, eyes crazed. Lydia and Jean swear and dive at them, tackling them to the ground, barely managing to keep them from drawing their weapons. Another, to the far left lets loose a spike of ice with a maddened laugh, goring the leading Vigilant. The unfortunate man chokes on his blood and stumbles, but keeps on praying, even as Valdimar slams the wave of telekinetic force into the madman. Jean and Lydia manage to knock the struggling Vigilants out, standing up as the ritual reaches its peak, the light emanating from the statue basking the cave and blinding everyone.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it ends, with a thunderous crack as the space occupied by Ebony Blade twists and turns before imploding. With a groan, the Vigilant leading the ritual collapses to the ground into the puddle of his own blood, the others rushing towards him.

“Heh… Tell your court wizard he did a solid job… Mephala was desperate… She must have had a lot of plots in mind for Skyrim that involved the Blade.” Grimacing as his breath gets shallower, he continues weakly. “Don’t… hold the action of your brothers and sisters against them… they stood against the most insidious of daedra backed into a corner… ” Then, he breathes out and his eyes close.

Elle shakes her head in silence and approaches the group. “We have always known our vigil is dangerous, but we stood against Daedric Prince today, and thanks to you, we not only succeeded but our losses were small.”

Jean shakes his head. “Don’t mention it. We couldn’t just… let it happen.”

Snorting, Elle continues. “You would be surprised. Come with me, I know you didn’t expect any reward for this, but I doubt anyone would disagree with me on giving you something.” Leading the trio to the small library, she looks through the shelves, before picking a tome. “Here. Stendarr’s Aura. It will shield you from the undead and weaken the daedra touched by its rays. The undead tend to explode.” She adds with a weak smile.

Lydia sighs and facepalms as Jean cheers up. “You have no idea just how much on-brand for me and Erin this thing will be.” He carefully chooses not to think if the spell would backfire if cast by a vampire.

Elle just shakes her head. “I would love to give you more, but most of our enchanted weapons were at the Hall, and spells that aren’t Aura cannot be shared with anyone outside the order. Even Aura is pushing it. Anyway, I am sure there is a good reason Erin didn’t come with you, so give her my well wishes.”

“Will do.”

 

The trio walk down the mountain just as another letter flies down towards the group on the wind. This time, it lands in Erin’s hands.

“Excellent application of what you have learned so far to come up with intriguing new applications. I must apologise for the lateness of the letter, however, the shouts you have come up with are an excellent way to make an old listener like me take their nap. Definitely an amusing side effect, as I do not remember the last time a dovah won the tinvaak by lulling their opponent to sleep. I do wonder where you will go next, as from Riften, there are few directions in Skyrim you can go that don’t pass by the Throat of the World… ”

“You know, I suspect our penpal might be a Greybeard.” Jean notes dryly.

“The only way the hint in the last line could be any less subtle is if it was delivered by the battering ram.” Lydia comments idly. “So, I suppose we are finally swinging by?”

“About time we did, aye.” Erin says with a nod. She somehow doubts the daedric nonsense or the assorted hero business is going to let up of its own on their account, so they may as well take their chances when they can.

“It has been only, what, a couple of weeks since we got summons?” Jean mutters. Fucking daedric bullshit. Shooting a quick look at Barbas he shakes his head. At least this particular daedra is willing to wait.

The group dallies around for a bit longer, cleaning after their temporary camp before moving in the direction of the road leading to Riften. After so long travelling on foot, it was decided they would hire a carriage to Ivarstead. After swinging by the Mistveil Keep to check if Vulwulf Snow-Shod would be feeling indebted. At least the weather is good so far, a rarity for late Hearthfire, although Lydia proposes that they were simply lucky enough to miss most of the rain spelunking in the caves and tombs or climbing mountains.

Forcing the faster pace, the group manages to arrive at the southern gate of Riften by the evening, the guards looking up from their post as they spot them. The one on the left steps forward, hand resting confidently on the pommel of his sword.

“Hold right there. First time visitors need to pay.”

Jean gives him his most unimpressed look, but pretends to play along. “Pay for what exactly?”

“Visitors’ tax. Fifty sep-...” The guard pauses as he spots Erin. “Two hundred septims. Per person.”

Honestly, it was starting to get weird how we didn’t really have much problems with racism so far. Jean thinks to himself as he sighs. Instead, he shakes his head, locking gaze with the guard. “And I think you are full of bullshit. In fact, I am sure it will be amusing hearing you tell Vulwulf Snow-Shod how you tried to shake the men he hired to deal with the pest that burned his fields. Why, I imagine a man of such a standing might find it curious as to why...”

“Alright, alright, I got it, just keep it quiet.” The guard hurriedly responds. “Just let me open the gate and we don’t know each other.”

Jean nods with a smile. “We’ve never met.”

The other guard just snorts from his post. “Not sure I buy Vulwulf hiring a knife ear, but not my problem, he spends the majority of his time at The Bee and Barb. Right beside the northern part of Plankside.” Jean nods somewhat grateful, although he can’t shake the feeling the other guard has his own stake in being helpful.

The streets of Riften are still busy, even at the late hour, although the various shopkeepers and artisans are already packing their goods. The guards are even more active than those in Whiterun, and more numerous, lazily patrolling the streets in groups. As they slowly pass through Plankside, Lydia suddenly lashes out, catching a man by the wrist. Jean notes he almost managed to sneak his hand into Serana’s bag. One of the guards notices them and approaches, shaking his head.

“Seriously, Vigrod? You just got out of the cell.” Grabbing the man, he motions for his patrolling colleagues before giving Lydia a court nod. “Thank you, we will take this poor idiot from here.”

“No problem. Unlike Vigrod’s ability to stay on the straight and narrow, it seems?” She prods with a smile.

The guard shakes his head. “You wouldn’t believe it. Thieves just don’t have any luck in this city. Strange, ‘cause when I was a boy you couldn’t walk twenty feet without being pickpocketed thrice. The Guild must be cursed at this point.”

With that, the group is free to move towards The Bee and Barb, a large inn sitting comfortably just on the other side of the canals separating Plankside from the rest of the Riften. The inn itself is surprisingly empty, with only a pair of Argonians and few stragglers remaining on the main floor. One of the Argonians looks towards them as they enter, crossing the floor with speed and grace borne of experience.

“Welcome to the Bee and Barb, milords, miladies. What is it that we can interest you in?”

“A couple of rooms for the night, if any are still free.” Jean speaks, giving the Argonian a smile. “Also, we are looking for Vulwulf Snow-Shod and were directed here?”

The Argonian’s head turns briefly to the corner where a balding, bearded man in clearly well made clothes and luxurious pelt cloak sits, surrounded by the empty bottles. “I would advise waiting until he can remember any conversations he has.”

“You will have an easier time convincing the sun to change colour.” Valdimar mutters as he notices Vulwulf looking in their direction.

“Valdimar!” The old man roars. “I thought you went back to sulk in your swamp, you old fuck!”

Rolling his eyes, Valdimar sighs. “Not so young yourself, Vulwulf.” Turning towards the rest of the group, he sighs. “Go on, grab us the rooms, I will talk with Vulwulf about that favour.”

“Suit yourself, milord.” The Argonian sighs. Looking at the rest of the party, he thinks for a moment. “Two rooms it is. Miladies will have it a bit cramped, but at least it beats sleeping with a dog, hm?”

The group nods as they follow the proprietor upstairs, the drunken laughter of Vulwulf Snow-Shod slowly getting quieter.
___________________________________________________________________________

“Good news is, Vulwulf will remember he owes us for saving his fields.” Valdimar states as the group packs themselves onto the cart in the Riften’s stables. “Even managed to sell him on Erin being a legitimate part of the group.”

“That bad?” Lydia asks.

“Vulw is one of those Nords who never forgave the Empire for White Gold Concordat. Used to be proud to be an Imperial citizen, now hates it with burning passion. More than even then elves, which is quite the rarity. I had to listen to Stormcloak propaganda for a couple of hours, and I am pretty sure if he ever learns of your opinions about Ulfric, he is going to be a pain.”

“Your sacrifice shall not be forgotten.” Jean replies. “Especially since we are not exactly planning on coming back.”

Erin shakes her head, “Knowing our luck, we’ll get dragged back here at some point. Let’s just hope it is a good long while before that happens.”

“I hope you didn’t curse us, my thane. If I never have to throw another pickpocket over my shoulder again, it will still be too soon.” Lydia comments as she reclines in her seat.

“I am still pretty sure we’ve lost a bit more coin than intended.” Serana notes.

Jean suspects it’s because she saw every successful attempt and was just too amused to do anything. Or maybe she just wasn't a morning person. Probably that.
___________________________________________________________________________

The peaceful ride from Riften ends when the cart approaches the patch of road near Largashbur. The driver curses and halts.

“End of the road, I am afraid. There is an entire group of giants laying siege to the orc stronghold.” The man says.

“... A siege?” Lydia asks, incredulous.

The group looks over the driver, down the road. There is, indeed, a group of five giants camping on the road, with a large fire roaring just off it. The humanoids laugh as they take turns tossing boulders at the palisade wall of Largashbur which only holds because of magic.

“Well, I suppose that when you can play at being a living siege engine with nothing but a few handy rocks, it becomes a whole lot simpler to set up.” Erin muses.

“I am more interested in knowing what the hell did the orcs do to those giants.” Lydia shakes her head. “Like, this is ridiculously persistent for them.”

“I am more interested in knowing why the orcs didn’t come out of their stronghold to fight. I am no expert on daedra, but hiding like that behind wall of magic doesn't seem to be something their god approves.” Valdimar adds.

Hopping off the cart, Jean sighs and addresses the driver. “Right, wait here, will you? We will try to clear the road.” Hopefully without experiencing the joys of the Skyrim Space Program.

“Your money, but don’t haunt me if I don’t mourn you lot.”

Approaching the camp, Jean gives the giants a look. “Lydia, do you think we will be able to talk them out of… whatever they are doing?”

The woman doesn’t answer immediately, instead listening to the jeers and shouts of the giants, before shaking her head and grimacing. “I don’t think so. They are making their position quite clear. Also, their personal decorations identify them as Bone-Crushers… a giant’s warrior-raider type of clan. ”

“Are… are Bone-Crushers the name of the clan or the type of the clan?” Jean asks, the name ringing… well, stereotypically evil.

“The latter. Bone-Crushers is the direct translation of their preferred lifestyle.”

“Joy.” Jean summarises dryly. “So, any particular plan or is it me and Erin blasting with the Voice while Valdimar and Serana use magic?”

Lydia gives him a wry grin. “Guess, Jean. Thu’’um is simply too handy to just risk flying lessons from the giant's club.”

“You are enjoying your current position as designated pack mule too much.”

“Hey, I get to travel around, see incredible stuff, meet interesting people and don’t even need to work particularly hard during any of it. Do you really blame me?”

Shaking his head, Jean walks up to Erin. “So how are we splitting the big boys? Two for each of us and then Val and Serana finish the last one?”

“Sounds good.” She replies with an idle nod, “What flavour of cheese for today? Instant death Thu’um or explosive runes?”

“Thu’um bullshit. I don’t think they are going to be inclined to come to us politely when they can just toss a big rock.” Jean answers as he watches a boulder bounce off of the palisade. “The orcs must have a really talented mage in that stronghold to keep this up for this long.”

Though given he didn’t learn Frost Breath yet, it meant improvisation when it came to his own Thu’um. Sure, he could probably use Wither with parts of Battle Fury again, but wasn’t the point of it all to cobble together new, amusing ways to bend reality over?

Splitting up into three groups (or more precisely, Lydia staying at the back while Jean and Erin flank the giants, with Valdimar and Serana approaching by the road), the party closes in on the giants.

Jean darts into the tree line, musing over his, admittedly limited, arsenal of Words he actually Knew how to use in Shouts. Having the similar instant death shout to Erin’s would be handy, but he lacked the word that could string Peace and Wither together like that, which meant improvisation.

Hmmm… End with Wither… Start with Force or Fire? Or maybe Inferno? Actually, yeah, Inferno should be better for this, implies a bigger area…

Drawing a deep breath, he steps out of the woods, unnoticed so far mostly on the account of the giants being really focused on the stronghold.

No time like now, I suppose. “FUS TOOR LIIV!” He speaks, and the air ignites, the torrent of flames swallowing a pair of giants before they have so much as a chance to react, the sudden spike in temperature instantly drying his throat and skin. The giants try to turn towards him, but even a small movement makes the flames intensify as they greedily devour flesh, burning bright and fast before dying down, leaving nothing but ashes behind.

Huh. I suppose I have found my version… for now. Not something to use near flammable stuff.

Erin, for her part, decides to put to work two of her new Words of Power, one from the scaly chicken and another from the last wall, topped off with the classic, “RII RU FUS!” Literal translation would be Essence-Run-Force, what it actually meant here was Lifeforce-Flees-Forcefully. The invisible force washes over the pair of giants, who simply stop. The boulder one of them was lifting drops as the giant’s muscles stop working and he topples over from his unbalanced position, while the other simply keeps standing there, eyes unseeing. Meanwhile, Erin is hit with an infusion of full stamina of a pair of very active giants. Suffice to say, it is an experience. At least her amulet sort of helped, modulating the intake somewhat.

The last giant roars as he lifts a boulder before it explodes into shrapnel as combined lightning hits it. The raider cries as the shards of stone dig deep into his skin, before his head is consumed in a fireball.

With that, without spending even three minutes, the ‘siege’ is lifted. Jean grimaces as hearches for a canteen, drinking the cool water greedily to soothe his incredibly dry throat. “Right… Let’s see what that was about. If the orcs decide they are feeling hospitable.”

Approaching the walls, a female orc on the watchtower greets them. For a certain definition of greeting. “Halt, outsiders! You have no business here! The Orsimer need no help.”

“Obviously, lass.” Valdimar agrees dryly. “Which is why Orsimer, some of the greatest warriors I have had the pleasure to meet are content to hide behind their dinky palisade, held together by spit and prayer. And the incredible skills of your mage.”

The woman, alongside a number of other orcs on the wall grit their teeth, glaring at the old battlemage, but their silence is telling.

“Open the gate for them!” Comes another voice.

“But Atub, Yamarz ordered...”

“Yamarz ‘orders’ ended in giants almost crushing our walls. Open the damn gate, fools.”

The orcs grumble, but step down from the walls and after a while, the wooden gate opens, permitting the party into the stronghold, which seems to have seen better days. Some of the buildings collapsed under the boulders giants have been throwing, with many orcs laid about, wounded or sick.

“This is not natural.” Valdimar comments as the party takes the fort in.

“No, it is not.” Answers an orc woman in the dark blue robes. “I am Atub, the appointed priestess of Malacath of this stronghold.” Giving a shallow bow, she continues. “You have my thanks, but I would like you to help us.”

Jean thinks for a moment before sighing. “We are not going to say no immediately, but we are kinda on the schedule. Could you explain what you need from us? And why, if that’s not too big of a problem?”

The woman sighs before leading the party deeper into the stronghold. “Our tribe is cursed. I do not know why, but our warriors are struck with weakness, and our people suffer from sickness. So far, we have managed to hold off the giants that sensed the weakness, but I am afraid it won’t last. I need to seek an audience with Malacath to learn what needs to be done in order to reverse our fate.”

“Calling a Prince forward… A ritual is doable, but a direct line to one would require specific ingredients…” Serana muses. Atub nods along.

“Indeed. For Malacath, it is troll fat and daedra heart. Fortunately, we still have some of the fat saved from the hunts against overly courageous trolls. Daedra heart on the other hand… ” Her face becomes grim.

“Not exactly a common ingredient to be found.” Valdimar agrees.

Jean gives Erin’s brooch a look before sighing. “We may actually have a way to get it pretty easily.”

“For a given value of ‘easy’.” Erin grumbles back even as the brooch seems to flicker from existence for a moment to reappear in her hand as the full staff, apparently reading her intent. Fucking daedra bullshit.

The Rose almost hums audibly with power, eager to be used. A simple gesture with the staff causes a humanoid daedra to step out of the blooming portal. It resembles an altmer, although visibly, literally pink skinned, with flowing, long hair the colour of the white wine. Smells like wine too.

“Finally!” It cheers, sounding just a bit slushed. “We’ve been considering starting a pool as to when you will call one of us. So, what’s the occasion?” It asks, looking around at the laid down orcs. “Oooh, are we fucking sickness out of orcs? Should have called Steiah, she would enjoy the orc orgy more.”

“Well, the initial plan was to ask one of you lot to fetch a daedra heart for a ritual to dial up the Prince they worship, but your way sounds like a lot less of a headache.” Erin comments with a shrug, completely blase. These people were daedra worshippers, they ought to be used to the nonsense. Plus, their object of worship would almost surely ask them to do some errand or other to fix the mess and they were on a timetable here.

The elf turned to her companions and the orc priestess, “Any objections?” She was expecting objections, but it was worth a shot.

Serana and Jean shake their heads. “My family were, are, daedra worshippers, I get it.” “If it spares us yet another detour.”

Valdimar grimaces, but shrugs. “Orcs were never exactly hidden about their worship, and not even Vigilants mess with them for it. Not openly, anyway.”

Lydia sighs but shrugs. “I don’t think it’s going to be that easy, and if it turns out to be, I am buying some more of your weird booze.” She adds, addressing the daedra, who cackles.

“Once you taste the alcohol from the Thousand Realms, nothing else will satisfy you.”

Atub and some of the still standing orcs give the daedra a suspicious look, though eventually, the wise woman sighs. “I am not sure Malacath will be pleased with this solution, but if it’s for the good of the tribe… ”

“‘Good’ of the community… Ha! I can tell you will be a fun on…-” The daedra approaches the shaman only to step back, eyes wide. “Tch.”

Jean raises his eyebrow. “Tch?”

“Fucking for health is fun, but this is a little above my paygrade, mortal. I try to lift it and the Prince of the Ostracised will crush my head and slurp my soul.”

Realising the message, Atub sighs. “So, our god is displeased with the tribe.” The orcs who are within earshot begin whispering to each other, exchanging short, sharp words. “Then I need to implore Him for the way we could be forgiven. Is there anything we can do for you to provide us with the heart needed for the ritual?”

The daedra hums, before a roguish grin splits its face. “Sure, I will fetch one, but me and Steiah will stay and get our victory orgy from you lot when the curse lifts. And when I mean orgy, I mean it. None of that orcish nonsense about who is allowed to fuck who. Deal?”

Atub thinks about it for a moment, clearly trying to weigh tradition against necessity, especially when a god as strict as Malacath is concerned. Finally, she sighs. “I am not promising anything, but even if our chieftain forbids it, you will have some of us to enjoy. Is that an acceptable compromise?”

Daedra snorts, shooting a look at Barbas and winking before looking back at the shaman. “I suppose.” Turning towards Erin, it bows. “I will be going now. Wait for about… let’s say twenty minutes and give Rose a pair of twirls.”

“Mhm.” The elf hums in agreement, nodding.
___________________________________________________________________________

“... You pathetic, embarrassing, weak excuse of an orc! Your ineptitude caused giants to overrun my shrine! Giants! And now you dare to ask me why your tribe suffers?”

The party, plus a pair of Sanguine’s daedra watch from their game of cards as Daedric Prince, immaterial as he is, gives the orc chieftain a dressing down. They are fairly sure he is as loud as he is to make sure the entire stronghold knows whom to blame for their troubles.

“... so, if you want me to lift this curse upon the tribe, you will go back to my shrine and clean it from every last giant there, understood?!”

The orc chieftain murmurs something, his gaze locked to the ground, which seems to be enough for Malacath, whose presence vanishes. The chieftain grimaces as he awkwardly stumbles back to his feet and approaches the party with an angry scowl.

“This is why I didn’t want outsiders involved. Now thanks to you, I am stuck fighting giants. So, since it’s your fault, you are going to help me. And then, we can put everything that happened behind us.”

Jean gives him an unimpressed stare, although Serana beats him to the punch when it comes to answering. “You are in trouble because of doing this sort of stuff, and your solution is to double down?”

Steiah and the other daedra, Haegala, snort as they continue playing.

Yamarz crosses his arms and bares his teeth. “It’s because it got this bad I need to double down. Those five giants you took care of were a small portion, no doubt, of a larger group, rather than a major force. So I need you to clear the way for me to deal with their chief.”

“Or” Barbas barks unamused, something which worries Jean given the dog seems to be particularly averse to seriousness “you use that brain of yours for the first time in no doubt decades and show Malacath you are worth the trouble.”

“What’s with the talking mongrel?” Yamarz scoffs.

Jean fights the urge to slap his face, instead sighing and standing up, before bowing in an exaggerated fashion before Barbas. “This is Barbas, the right hand, or perhaps even the full half, of Clavicus Vile, Prince of Bargains. He might be less than amused at you trying to wiggle out of fulfilling your end.”

The chieftain pales noticeably, stepping back, although he quickly schools his features. “Very well, Knew we couldn’t trust outsiders. I will go and do as Malacath commanded me.” With that, he turns on his heel and vanishes in his house.

Atub sighs as she shakes her head. “What a mess… Still, thank you. Even if he fails, we will know what to do. Although I am not sure how to make sure he actually arrives at his destination.” She mutters darkly, to which the pair of daedra laugh.

“Don’t worry, we will… ah, watch him, to make sure our deal is safe.”

Atub sighs, but gives them a tired smile before addressing the party. “Thank you for your trouble, small as it was. Hopefully, the next time you are in the area, we will be able to give you proper orc hospitality.”

The group returns to the carriage driver, who had the decency to stay outside the gates and wait for them.

“Anything interesting?” He asks.

“Just orc things.” Lydia replies, to which he nods.

Which is, of course, when another letter from their mysterious friend sails from the sky, faster than what they are used to, plummeting down only to gently unfurl in Jean’s hands.

Shaking his head, he starts reading. “I am lucky to have long since learned how to deal with overwhelming joy, else I would need a scribe to dictate this letter, and the familiarity I display here would leave them quite awkward. Still, it pleases me to hear your Thu’um being applied in such creative ways, weaving the words previously rarely put together. That both of you used Fus, the word so integral to a dovah’s very essence gives me even greater hopes for our meeting, and to hear it so close… The temptation to meet halfway through… It has truly been long since I felt such a strong temptation, fahdon. Fortunately, my hermitage allows me to restrain this passionate reaction, but now, I find myself recounting how fast one can travel unaided… ” There is a smear on the paper, the ink making the rest of the sentence unreadable. “Still, I shall continue awaiting our meeting.”

Coughing, he sighs. “Somehow, the tone gave me an impression of an innocent girl writing to her first crush. Which, considering its Greybeards we are talking about, was not the image I wanted.”

Lydia grimaces as she reaches for her flask. “Thank you for that particular image, my thane. I will have to ask Erin to contact Realms of Revelry for something strong enough to erase my memory of it.”

The elf in question can’t help but chortle, the mental image of a wizened old sage blushing like a schoolgirl appealing to her godawful sense of humour.

 

The howling winds near the top of the Throat of the World swallow Jean’s curse as he and Erin walk through the snow huddling under their cloaks. The walk has been… surprisingly uneventful, even if it was god awful long, the sun being still visible only because they stand at the tallest mountain in Skyrim. Even bullying the frost troll with Fire Breath wasn’t worth it, since the smoke from the damn thing almost choked them with how vile it was, the whipping winds had at least helped disperse it fast enough.

Then, with one more step, the winds calm down, somewhat, even the snow which has been continuously falling ever since they left Ivarstead becoming nothing more than a gentle shower. Raising their heads, the duo witnesses the stone walls of High Hrothgar.

“Dovahkiin. You have arrived.” Blinking, the two look down, to the top of the initial staircase, where a woman stands, clad in a puffy dress combined with the Greybeards’ robes, her hands held together as the wind billows her long, white hair framing the equally pale skin and exposing her pointy ears. “We have been expecting you… a month or two ago.” She finishes with a small smile.

Erin chuckles sheepishly, scratching the back of her head, “Yeah, sorry about that. Oblivion apparently decided it was high time to send us a conga line of daedric nonsense.”

Jean nods along, not quite trusting his suddenly dry throat. The woman just keeps smiling, and with a bow half turns and gestures towards the stairs leading to the monastery’s doors. “The whims of Princes are hard to predict, but I think we can leave the concern for daedra outside the walls. For now, let us greet you properly, Onik-Gein… the master of our order wishes to meet you, after Hearing you speak.”

Climbing up the stairs, Jean finally finds his voice. “Forgive me if it seems rude, but we were not expecting… well, an elf, for one. And with a name like ‘Greybeards’...”

She hums as she opens the doors. “You would not be the first, Dovahkiin. Many Nords who make pilgrimage or seek to join our ranks express their surprise. To be honest, the name was coined back when the only Tongues left after Jurgen’s tinvaak, battle against them were men. The Nords, always quick to name momentous occasions, called them Greybeards and it stuck, even when women became masters.” Turning her head slightly so he can see the fire of the lamps twinkle in her pale eyes, she inclines her head. “As for my apparent race… The Way of Kyne has always been one of acceptance. While very few indeed, there were mer who wished to learn, and so they were treated as any other initiate.”

Crossing the main hall, the woman leads the two into a side corridor. “Right now, the others enjoy their dinner, so it is a good occasion for you to meet the others before I take you to Paarthurnax’ abode. I am sure climbing seven thousand steps builds an appetite.”

Jean and Erin nod as they walk behind the woman through the empty corridors until they arrive at the large room in which a fire blazes in the middle, surrounded by the circular table at which the silent Greybeards and a number of chatting initiates enjoy a meal. Some of them notice their arrival and begin whispering amongst themselves, which in turns causes the Masters to turn around. One of them stands up, his face lighting up in delight.

“Dovahkiin! And Mas-” “Ehem.” Blushing, the man corrects himself. “Mistress Malautavoy.”

The woman hums happily and returns a bow. “Master Arngeir… I have taken the pleasure of greeting Dovahkiin first, if that is fine with you.”

The man just nods nervously and leads her, Jean and Erin towards empty seats, pulling the chair for Malautavoy who accepts with a smile. Some of the acolytes snicker at the sight but return to their meals without any other commentary.

“Damn it, he does behave like a maiden in front of her crush.” Jean mutters quietly as he watches Arngeir return to his seat under his fellow Masters’ amused gazes.

“Master Arngeir does have a soft spot in his otherwise severe heart. Normally, I meditate in separation from the rest of Masters to spare the poor boy’s dignity but then, come the times like this.” Malautavoy notes fondly as she reaches for the meat. “Now, is there anything you would like to hear before we complete the formalities?”

“Mhm. We are quite eager to talk about Thu’um, given how much of a heart attack our slapdash experiments must have given to anyone with proper knowledge listening to them.” He starts, watching as Malautavoy’s smile twitches a bit. “Though I suppose the main thing would be the letters we have been receiving ever since… Morthal, I think? With how fast and flawlessly they have been reaching us, as well as some clues, we have guessed they have been Greybeards’ doing?”

Malautavoy blushes lightly, although with her paleness it is still very noticeable. “Ah, so you did guess. It is an old Thu’um, dating back to when Voice was used in a more relaxed manner. A message sent in such a way will reach the intended recipient without fail, and faster than even a messenger bird. Considering the delays, it was decided we should keep the… what’s the saying… Haal nau dreh?” She mutters, brow furrowing in concentration.

“Keep a finger on the pulse of events?” Jean suggests, to which Malautavoy brightens and clasps her hands.

“Thank you, yes. Forgive me, after studying Thu’um for so long, even the most disciplined tend to forget other languages.” Taking a sip of some manner of steaming beverage, she sighs content and continues. “You also appear to be rather well versed in dovahzul in general. That’s good. Perhaps the monastery would not be of much benefit to you after all.”

“We just lucked out on finding someone able and willing to teach us on the road.” Erin replies with a shake of her head, “If it weren’t for the whole dragon soul business I doubt we’d be anywhere near as far along picking up the language. Besides, the more perspectives and people to trade notes with, the better.”

Malautavoy quirks her eyebrow. “Then you are lucky indeed. I doubt many beyond this mountain know even half the necessary knowledge of dovahzul to teach it. Even to a dovah. Still, Listening to your efforts has been an interesting exercise. For relatively inexperienced Zul-Ovan, speakers, your efforts have been admirable indeed. Mostly violent, and thus not something most Greybeards would consider proper, but impressively well thought out indeed.”

“The events have somewhat arranged against us considering the scholarly applications.” Jean notes dryly. “Though I would lie if I said I am not looking forward to being done with it.”

Erin, meanwhile, had a thoughtful frown on her face as Malautavoy’s words sparked off an idea, “Hrm, maybe if I combine Essence and Peace…? No good third word handy, Cold would likely make it too damaging, never mind Freeze.” She mutters, trying to piece together something not unlike a beefed up Calm spell. Although with Freeze maybe it could turn into Paralysis.

“Essence, Peace, Freeze, hmmm...” Malautavoy considers the words. “Rii, the essence, yet impermanent. The soul that equals living force. Drem is a good basis for any number of Words that seek to pacify the target. Diin…” Shaking her head, she breathes heavily out and in, clearly enjoying coming up with something. “No. It does not fit, thematically. It is a very… physical word. However” she adds, tapping her lip “Dein, to keep or perhaps safeguard… Yes, it could work. The order will be important however. If you arrange the words incorrectly, instead of something to calm tensions and pacify hostilities will… kren, break the mind of the one subjected to it. The Thu’um would rewrite their mind to that which avoids aggression entirely, and then keep it from being fixed. Such an existence would be… krosis, unfortunate.” She finishes, her smile widening before she blinks and shakes her head.

“Ah, krosis, Dovahkiin, I have gotten lost in my musings. As to the Shout you are trying to create, I believe it should go Dein-Rii-Drem.” Nodding, she takes another sip. “Yes, that should work as intended.”

“Hrm. I don’t have Dein yet, unfortunately.” Erin comments. Which is a pity because it sounds like an amazingly versatile word of power.

Malautavoy’s eyes twinkle as she smiles at Erin. “You are here to learn, are you not? I am sure you will leave with the knowledge of the word firmly grasped.”

The elf smiles back, nodding, “Aye. Haah, man, it’ll be good to be able to relax and focus on learning for a while. We barely got back from Sanguine’s shenanigans by the time we had to see about banishing the Ebony Blade.” Seeing world and righting wrongs was all well and dandy, but damn if she didn’t feel more than a bit worn after so much so fast.

“So that’s the reason behind the lateness. I must confess, it has been quite some time since I myself got caught in Prince of Debauchery’s spontaneous parties. One always has to track down a trail of most amusing events, no matter who and what they are. As for the Ebony Blade… who knows, being returned to Mephala might finally break the spell that was cast on it, even if Prince of Secrets liked the addition.”

“By the way” Jean speaks “we have been wondering about why, when we approach the Walls with something written in dovahzul on them, we will pick up a random word. And hear a lot of chanting. Sometimes, it makes sense, but we stumbled upon a Wall commemorating a bard fucking up and still got a word from it.”

Malautavoy giggles, hiding her mouth behind her palm. “Ah, that. The reason for that is the same as for why those Walls of Commemoration… Vahrukt Quethsegol, are still in pristine condition after all those millenia. You see, Dovahkiin, they have not been simply dwiirok, carved, into stone that was likened to a dovah spreading its wings. They have been Shouted into existence. Thu’um was used to shape the stone and put the letters in it, and it has a side effect of some words… resonating with dovah who chance upon them. The chanting is simply the echoing voices of the mortals who made the Walls resonating through the ages.”

“I can only imagine how many Walls there might be with messages boiling down to ‘I was here’.” Jean muses as he finishes his meal.

“Less than you would think, given some were destroyed purposefully, but there might still be places, hard to reach for anyone who cannot fly, that still have less than glorious messages.”

“Fair enough.”

Soon enough, the meal comes to an end and the acolytes scurry to clean after the meal while Greybeards retire at a more dignified pace to their rooms. Malautavoy guides Jean and Erin outside, the inner courtyard of High Hrothgar completely silent, with the snow illuminated by the light of the twin moons.

“Lok vah koor.” The wind barrier blocking the path to the summit vanishes, quietly.

“Now that I think about it.” Jean comments. “From what I remember, aren’t the Greybeards silent because their Voice became too powerful to control?”

“Kun aak miiraad.” Malautavoy’s Thu’um illuminates the path up the mountain, a gentle, golden glow from the ground itself. Only then does she answer. “A problem of a limited lifespan of the jul, humans. Fahliil, elves, however, live longer. As such, should one reach that peak of mastery available to joor, they can then begin the hard work of shackling their powerful Voice with discipline until they are capable of conversing with others without problems.”

Jean nods, and the rest of the journey goes in comfortable silence as the elf guides the duo up the natural path up the side of the mountain, stopping for a moment when an ice wraith blocks their path, the crystalline creature hissing as they approach. Turning towards Erin, Malautavoy winks.

“Let’s test our new Thu’um, shall we? Kyne’s Peace is ill suited towards calming elemental emanations. Dein rii drem.” The wraith twists in place as the Thu’um washes over it before flying into the crack between rocks and vanishing. The elf nods to herself, clearly satisfied with the result. “Geh. A good Shout.”

“Mhm.” Erin humms, visibly happy at seeing the results of their little design session, “Oh, that reminds me, I’ve been tinkering on that cold snap shout I improvised a little while back, I think I found just the right word to complete it. Freeze, Force, Tear. Should give a bad time to anything and anyone armoured.”

Malautavoy giggles. “Indeed. A good choice of words too, in correct order to maximise its effectiveness. Perhaps not something to test without taking precautions, unless one wishes to find a shard of qah, armor in one’s eye.”

“Sounds like there is a story behind that particular choice of words.” Jean notes dryly.

Their guide hums as she walks. “Indeed. There was an acolyte a couple centuries ago. He wished to impress the Masters with his skill with the Thu’um to be inducted into the order properly. His command of the Thu’um was, indeed, impressive. Unfortunately, his wisdom regarding the way he presented it was less so. Poor boy didn’t notice the boulder that fell on him after his shout did, in fact, cause it to ‘vanish’.”

Erin winces, “Oof. Yeah, probably best to raise up a beefy Ward before using the shout. Or just ducking behind cover before it hits.”

“Indeed. Anyway, here we are. The very peak of Monahven, the Throat of the World.” Malautavoy announces as they reach a large, open space with a Word Wall tucked into the corner. She moves to the centre before turning around in a graceful pirouette. “Well, more literal translation is still a good name for it. Mother of the Wind has a nice ring to it, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Considering all the wind on the way up here? Yeah.” Jean nods, to which they guide giggles. “Anyway… is Paarthurnax off to stretch his wings?” He adds, noticing a distinct lack of the big, old occupant of the peak who should have been waiting for them.

Malautavoy chuckles. “In a manner of speaking.” Curtsying, she continues. “Dii rii, daal us daar se dovah.” The words are deep and resound through the air, the unseen quake, loud and clear and yet quiet. Malautavoy’s form ripples, before she is surrounded by golden light which forms a cocoon. Then, it expands, growing and changing shape. Arms become wings, head enlarging and elongating, sprouting horns just as spikes form along the spine. All of it in a blink of an eye. Then, with a booming, mirthful voice, Paarthurnax continues. “Honestly, I have been hoping you would guess my little deception sooner.”

Jean just stares, still trying to process the change between ‘cute, older woman’ and a ‘gentlemanly dragon sage’, trying to recall any clues the dragon might have given them.

“I think you broke him.” Erin says, unable to keep the smile from her voice. Or her face, really. She couldn’t say she’d seen this coming, but she sure as hell didn’t mind the new development.

The dragon chortles, clearly revelling in the confusion. “Ah, it reminds me of the first time Arngeir saw me assume the mortal form. Poor boy never truly recovered from that.”

Shaking his head, Jean sighs. “Talk about unrequited love…” He mutters under his nose “I have the feeling me asking this will be disappointing after all these letters you wrote to us, but mind giving me a clue as to what your clues were?”

Paarthurnax nods, before lying on the ground and encircling the duo. “Geh. Since I have greeted you, I never once spoke about myself directly. Neither as Paarthurnax, nor as Malautavoy. I chose my words to create a sense of ambiguity, nid?”

“Fair enough. So… would you like us to make proper introductions now or… ” The redhead diverts the topic.

The dragon appears to think for a moment, before nodding. “Pruzah. Let us observe formalities now that the joke has been played.” Moving up towards the side of the peak, Paarthurnax looks at the Dragonborns. “Which of you wants to go first?”

Jean steps forward, looking up at the dragon's head. Taking a deep breath, he speaks. “Yol Toor Shul!” The flames swallow Paarthurnax’ figure, basking the dragon’s body in brilliant display.

“Nahlot.” The Master of the Voice whispers, and the Thu’um dies down, showing him unharmed. “Mmm… Pruzah. You have a good grasp on it, even as you must practice each word for each of them to grow more and more in power. As well as flexibility. Yol Faad Shul.” Paarthurnax’ Thu’um is less a torrent of raging flames and more a gentle caress of the midsummer sun, banishing the cold and seeping a lethargic, pleasant warmth into his body. Then, he turns to Erin.

The elf simply nods, drawing in a deep breath before letting out the shout whose component parts have led her to so many new combinations, “Fo Krah Diin!”

Paarthurnax’ body becomes covered in ice, giving him a likeness of a statue. A very detailed, very large ice sculpture. Then, he shakes the ice off. “The cold of qoth, grave and winter has served you well so far. You are already well acquainted with the cold of death and the ice breaking imperfections it sneaks into. Fo Krah Ven.” This time, his Thu’um is like the bone-chilling arctic wind, seeping deep into the body, robbing it of the spark of life and lulling it to sleep which nothing will break.

Then, the sensations end and Paarthurnax nods satisfied. “Now that that has been observed, take the word I have used as a gift. You have already proven to be creative with even a single one, so just as Nahagliiv, I will look forward to what you create.”

Jean shudders as the ancient dragon’s understanding slithers its way into his mind, before shaking his head. “Actually, if you don’t mind me asking… How? The human, errr, elf body I mean?”

Paarthurnax hums, pride clear in the sound and he looks at the two of them. “There was a Shout the ancient Nords created to fight dovah, to bring them down from the skies and make them… vulnerable. Dragonrend, they called it. I can speak the words, but not Speak them. To use Thu’um is to Understand. And the nature of Dragonrend is such that it is composed of two Words that are the very antithesis of Dovah's nature. Zah and Frul. Finite and Temporary.” Jean and Erin blink as the words just… slot themselves without so much as an issue. “Before I discuss it further, are you aware of the nature of dragon names?”

“They are composed of words in dovahzul.” Jean nods. And while he knows the truth already, he figures it's best to make it sound like a hypothesis. “Are you saying the words in dragons’ names are Shouts too?”

Paarthurnax nods, before elaborating. “In a way. Shouts are a very… simplified way to use Thu’um. Voice itself is power, changing the world around. The Shouts as you know them are merely shortcuts. That is why more experienced Greybeards do not talk. Their mastery of language means every word carries power. And so, a dovah’s name summarises their very essence, what makes a particular dovah, them. You can speak the name and nothing will happen, or you can Speak it, and they will hear the call for tinvaak, debate, or battle. And it is in our nature to answer this call, no matter how long it takes to arrive at the destination.”

The Dragonborns nod along, the details on how the dragon call work filed for later use. Recognising the pause as Paarthurnax fishing for them to pick up on the clue, Jean provides the next question. “So… Paarthurnax. Ambition-Overlord-Cruelty?”

Satisfied, the dragon hums. “Indeed. Even before my change of heart, as the second only to Alduin, I considered myself something of a drog, a master, of Thu’um. There was no word I did not know and not a tinvaak I could not emerge out of without having completely crushed my opponent. Dragonrend… it was the first Thu’um I could not use, couldn’t comprehend. I taught joor all they knew about Thu’um, and they rewarded me with the greatest ofan, gift, I could have wanted.”

“A challenge?”

“Geh. When I said our names summarise our existence, I meant it. For a dovah, to not act on the meaning of their name is unimaginable trial. For one such as me, choosing to be like Greybeards, a secluded monk is the worst torture imaginable. Centuries upon millennia spent denying my very nature. It would have been worse still, had I not had this delightful enigma I was provided with. I have spent uncountable years trying to study Dragonrend, and it gifted me with even more Thu’um.” Adjusting himself, Paarthurnax continues. “Rii Meyz Joor.”

With that, the dragon’s body shudders and shrinks back into the form of a snowy-skinned elf woman. “This is the thu’um I call Mortal Guise. I have developed it in order to be able to walk among the joor, mortals, without much care, to learn of their lives, to understand the concepts of Dragonrend.” Smiling and flipping her hair to get it out of her face, she continues. “There are degrees to it, not unlike any other Thu’um, and the three Word version is simply the fastest one, immediately returning me to my most recent guise.”

While taking it as an excuse to examine Paarthurnax, Jean is still curious. “So what prompted you to go with… I want to say, really pasty Altmer?”

Giggling, Paarthurnax shakes her head. “Falmer actually, although I believe had any survived, they would prefer to be called by the name jul, humans, referred to them, Snow Elves. It is one of my earliest guises, before Snow Elves were twisted and degraded into what Falmer are nowadays. I return to it whenever I have no need for a different look to commiserate them.”

Erin hums, brow furrowing in thought, “Say, if a dragon can take the form of a mortal with the right Thu’um, wouldn’t it be possible for a dragonborn to do the reverse?” She sure as hell liked the prospect of being able to fly under her own power.

Paarthurnax hums as she leans against the rock. “It would. There exists a Shout, Dragon Aspect, meant to draw out Dovahkiin’s draconic essence even more towards the surface. It is not a proper transformation, but it is a necessary step. I have cheated by exploiting dovah’s nature, but you...” Shaking her head, she continues. “As joor, you would first need to get acclimated to feeling like dovah, and for that, Dragon Aspect is necessary. Unfortunately, the words for the Thu’um have been… Forbidden. It was a favourite of the First Dragonborn, Miraak, and when he betrayed the Dragon Cult, Alduin used his Voice to bar all dovah weaker than him from teaching the Words. A Wall of Remembrance or two containing the words might exist on Solstheim, an island to the north-east that Miraak ruled, but otherwise, it is lost until Alduin is finally defeated.”

“Tch. Oh, well, to the backburner that idea goes.” Erin says with a disappointed sigh. Maybe she could go poke the elves in that diaspora near the College to see if they could teach her Levitate. It wouldn’t be the same, but eh.

“It would be nice, yes.” Jean agrees, remembering how smug Odahviing sounded about giving Dragonborn a taste of flight. “So you’ve been spending your time alternating between meditation here and going down and mingling?”

Paarthurnax nods. “Geh. I did not travel often, after all, I had reasons to remain up here, but I have been to Whiterun many times, especially when Numinex was imprisoned there.”

“I can only imagine the hatred for stairs travelling seven thousand steps would give to an immortal.” Jean comments.

Paarturnax looks at him, eyes twinkling. “Who said anything about walking down?” Seeing the questioning looks, she flips her robe, a pair of feathery wings sprouting from behind her back. “Greybeard patented gliding wings. An invention of early Tongues, who wished to connect to their teacher as much as possible. Acolytes, as well as me, use them to quickly travel down the mountain if we need something from the town or a village. It is also a good practice for Thu’um, to command the wind to make the glide as long as possible.” Giving them a mischievous smile, Paarturnax continues. “And while acolytes do have to suffer the steps, I just turn back into a dragon, invisible.”

Jean stares at the wings, stepping forward without realising it. “Amazing. I need a pair.”

Smiling, Paarthurnax shakes her head. “Drem. First, finish your trials, then we will see about outfitting you two with gliders. Not that the trials themselves are hard, especially after you have shown so much promise.”

“It sounds like you are humouring the others on this.” Jean notes.

“Perhaps. Part of it is to maintain a sense of propriety. Every single acolyte in the monastery has completed their trials, so even if you are Dovahkiin, it might fester some resentment if you were just given access to what others had to work for. The other part is because I am not cruel enough to deny Arngeir, Wulfgar, Borri and Einarth their fun.”

“Fair enooooo… ugh.” Jean says, before blushing as he yawns.

Paarthurnax smiles, holding back her amusement. “Perhaps it is for the best that we retire for the night. You have a long journey up the mountain behind you after all.” Moving towards the surface of the mountain, she puts her hand against the stone. “Strunmah, bex hin sil.” With a ripple, the stone parts, presenting the trio with a small room carved in a small cave. Or perhaps the room was literally carved out of the mountain itself. Seeing the questioning looks, Paarthurnax points at the room. “If there is a feature I love the most about joor’s form, it is that sleep is far more comfortable in it. It will be a bit crowded, but I guess you would rather not walk down the mountain, even with Thu’um lighting your path?”

“I think we will survive a bit of sharing.” Jean notes dryly as they enter the room, the mountain wall closing behind them.

---

The next morning, the three of them walk down the mountain to the inner courtyard where the Greybeards await them. Jean rubs his eyes as he stifles a yawn. For all the talk of rest, trying to sleep in Paarthurnax’ improvised house has been trying. Less because of the cramped space and more because the dragon insisted they all sleep on the bed, which had been mysteriously just about big enough for all three of them. And the woman was grabby in her sleep. Didn’t help that Erin, meanwhile, just loved tossing and turning in her sleep. At least Nine were kind enough and Paarthurnax understood the concept of sleeping clothes.

“Mistress, Dragonborn.” Arngeir greets them while Paarthurnax moves towards the stairs leading to the monastery before sitting down to observe.. “Are you ready for us to test your Voice?”

Shrugging, Jean nods. “No time like now, I suppose.”

“Then, we will begin. Paarturnax already informed us that you had quite a lot of practice. As such, we will skip the usual question of demonstration and instead, focus on seeing for ourselves how well you grasp new words. Masters Borri and Wulfgar will share with you the second word of Unrelenting Force and then, we will see how well you use it.”

The two of them nod and approach the Greybeards. The Masters give them a bow, before speaking. “Ro.” The word washes over them as the meaning, at least as Greybeards understand it, worms its way into their minds.

Erin’s eyes all but glow as she instantly goes to work on the incredibly versatile word, mixing and matching it with her vocabulary until she finds a combination that speaks to her. And since they had asked them to demonstrate… “Drem Ro Ven.” Immediately, the wind, noticeable but not too bothersome so high up, calms down, basking the courtyard in sudden silence as the background sun vanishes. Jean looks up to the sky to check, and the clouds are still there. Still.

There is a gentle clapping sound, and turning up, they can see Paarthurnax smiling, her cheeks red. “Very well. I would have taught you Clear Skies at some point, but I see your mind might work fast enough for it to be unnecessary.”

Then, Arngeir looks at Jean, who considers for a moment. Most of his words weren’t as good for this sort of stuff, but the constant Skyrim cold does give him an idea. He just hopes he is not going to be the invisible stone guy in this trial. “Shul Ro Faad.” He blinks as Arngeir and Wulfgar avert their gaze, though he does feel warm. Actually warm, instead of ‘not cold’ Skyrim accustomed him to.

Paarthurnax laughs softly. “I suppose it is fair for non-Nords to yearn for the warmth. Still, to bring the sun to you, or rather, to become the sun for yourself and the others. An interesting application, if not a subtle one.”

“Indeed.” Arngeir grunts. “It is rather frightening to think about the speed with which not only do you pick the new words but also string them together. Ro, Balance is always the middle word, fitting indeed. It is meant to regulate the effects of the other words, to bring them to a middle ground or focus their power better. Now, for the next lesson” he motions to master Einart who is standing before an iron gate close to the mountain’s edge “let’s see about a word with far less violent application. The first word of Whirlwind Sprint, Wuld.”

Leading them towards a pillar a fair distance from the gate, he motions for Borri, who stands right next to it. With a quiet ‘bex’, Einart causes the gate to open, at which point Borri whispers the word, his step taking him beyond the gate as it closes. Turning towards them, Arngeir and Wulfgar speak the word to Jean and Erin, the effects washing over them. Jean barely can suppress the snicker as his mind already comes with the way to weave the Whirlwind into something more combat oriented than just a flash step. Less violent applications his ass.

“The gate has been enchanted with the same mechanism some of the tombs and other places in need of security have which causes it to be open for a far shorter period of time than it would take to traverse the distance. Now, go one after another, and best without modifying the shout. Without a glider, going past the edge is… ill advised.” Arngeir warns, grimacing a little.

“Overzealous acolyte, I take it?” Jean asks.

The Greybeard shakes his head sadly. “Indeed. There is always one. Now, for the test?”

Waiting for master Borri to clear the end point, Einart opens the gate for each of them, both swiftly running beyond it and stopping by the pillar on the other side. Nodding Arngeir sighs. “The conclusion has been, perhaps, obvious, just as Paarthurnax has said. Still, you have passed the trials of the Greybeards. The last thing we would ask of you to retrieve the horn of Jurgen Windcaller, the founder of our order. It is stored in Ustengrav, a tomb which doubles for the proving grounds of our order.”

“It feels like we have been yanked from one end of Skyrim to another those last few weeks. Is it… urgent?” Jean asks a bit sour, still disappointed the mess with Mephala cancelled their rest time.

“It is understandable in times as chaotic as these. As such, we do not expect you to fulfil our request immediately, only that you do.”

“Besides” comes Paarthurnax’ amused voice “given the trend, we fully expect you to become side-tracked, again.”

Jean grimaces at the thought. “Fucking daedra bullshit and their expectations you will just drop everything and do the thing.” Sighing, he bows before the Greybeards. “Still, do you think you could give us some lessons in gliding? And maybe that thing you do to share your understanding of the Voice, it would really help me and Erin if we could swap notes, so to speak.”

“A reasonable request.” Paarthurnax muses. “Normally, there is only a singular Dragonborn at any given time. To have two of you does present an interesting conundrum. I will teach you how to Ofan-Mindok, to share the knowledge.” Then, she hides her mouth behind the sleeve of her robe. “Besides, that way, we can spend more time together before you must leave.”

“Master, must you?” Arngeir asks, visibly pained, to which Paarthurnax actually giggles. “As to your other request, each glider is personalised, to best work with one’s body type. And while usually armour is ill advised while using them, I suppose the strength of Dragonborn’s Thu’um should be sufficient to overcome that particular problem”

Shaking their heads in amusement, the rest of the Greybeards depart towards the monastery, while Arngeir takes Jean and Erin’s measurements before leaving the two with Paarthurnax. The dragon woman gestures at the stairs and walls around her.

“Take a seat, and our lesson can begin.” Waiting for them to do so, she continues. “As you might’ve noticed, dovahzul lacks words, perhaps even concepts, that are commonly found in mortal languages. For example, ‘sharing’.” She chuckles. “I am afraid we, dovah, are selfish by nature. Then, there is the nature of the Thu’um to consider. It is about understanding the concept, and while with time, you can make even a borrowed meaning your own, many dovah are too proud to be locked into another’s for any period of time.”

Humming, Jean looks towards the snow-capped peak of the Throat of the World while leaning back. “Which means it is… unlike a debate? A one sided debate?”

“Intimate.” Jean sputters as Paarthurnax laughs. “For a dovah, at least. You joor are amusing in that aspect. For you, sharing knowledge is a natural, perhaps obvious thing. For a dovah, who always contest against each other, to bare one’s soul, even a glimpse, to another, is to show vulnerability. It isn’t even that hard, actually. Dwiirok ofan mindok. ‘To engrave knowledge’. You already know how Thu’um’s effects can differ drastically, with even a single addition, or even a little bit of intent. Ultimately, that is how sharing the understanding of the Words works. You Speak, meaning to present your understanding as a gift instead of an argument.”

“That’s it?” Jean asks incredulously, turning to look Paarthurnax in the face.

The woman nods, still smiling. “For you, what I just described sounds trivial, does it not? That’s why I said it would come far easier to you two than it would to another dovah. Give it a try.” She encourages them. “Speak the words I gifted to you to each other. Reflect on what they mean to you, what you want to communicate and then let the Thu’um flow.”

Turning towards Erin, Jean thinks about that. Faad. Warmth. Definitely a sign of life. In Skyrim more than elsewhere, but even in other regions, it would probably connote a more temperate thing than the murderous heat of the desert, or the burning heart of a volcano. So life and heat, entwined. Safety, perhaps. A promise of a filling meal and the comfortable bed. Positivity.

“Faad.”

Erin sucks in a breath as understanding hits her, brain already clicking the word together with another two to create something very useful indeed for gliding. She pushes the thoughts aside, instead dwelling on Ven, the wind. The breath of the world, cycling through all its lands and seas, carrying with it traces of all the places it visited, from humidity to temperature to dust and ash. How it filled sails and lungs just as easily as it could turn into a squall that snapped masts and tore ancient trees from the soil. How it could carry words to great distances just as easily as drown them out in their crib. It was motion and medium and transport. A wild thing, a force of nature, seemingly fickle and whimsical only to in truth follow patterns of to grand a scale for most to truly grasp. But it could be guided, tamed, put to use.

“Ven.”

Jean’s eyes widen as the realisation hits, already, his mind giddily taking the new toy and putting it with other words, especially something that could make gliding a very exciting prospect. And yet, he almost wants to laugh at just how easily his mind loops right back to try and pair it with Liiv, and how natural they feel together.

“Truly, Father’s most flexible and intriguing creation.” Paarthurnax mutters to herself, red faced and quick breathed. “To Listen from across Skyrim is one thing, but I had never imagined it would be so interesting to be there in person when your minds work, Dovahkiin.”

Erin, being the gremlin that she is, grins before tilting her face skyward, breathing out the new Shout she’d devised, “Faad Ven Ru.”

The warm wind springs into life, lifting Paarthurnax and Erin’s loose robes, the dragon instinctively pressing down her dress with her hand to prevent it from flipping up, though the wind still manages to show off her long, pale legs. While Erin’s limbs also end exposed, the cut of her robes prevents a similar danger from occurring to her. On his end, Jean feels his throat get really dry as his face heats up.

“R-ru ven drem.” He finally chokes out, the Thu’um calming the wind down. Before he closes his eyes.

For a moment, there is silence, before Paarthurnax breaks into laughter. “Pffff…. Hahaha! This! Pruzah! This is what I paar! Zu’u laan! Hahahaha!” Wiping a tear out of her eye, she takes a deep breath. “I have not had this much fun in a long, long time.”

“It… It would be a shame to leave you behind when we go back to doing Princes’ random errands.” Jean admits. “Would… you like to come with us?”

Paarthurnax blinks, looking at him as if she saw him for the first time. “Do you know why I have ultimately stayed on top of the Throat of the World, Dovahkiin?” She asks, quietly. Without waiting for an answer, she continues. “I was there when ancient Tongues overcame Alduin. They did not defeat him, but instead used kel, an Elder Scroll, to send him forward in time. I awaited my elder brother, staying at the top of the world, waiting for the day he would eventually return. Because he would. Only a Dovahkiin, Dragonborn, could defeat him permanently, and Miraak chose a different path.”

“So now that Alduin has popped out the other end…” Erin trails off, smiling. She could already tell it’d be a wild ride having Paarthurnax in their party.

Paarthurnax nods, still transfixed, seeing something only she could see. “Geh. My watch has ended. I had wondered, if with the help of Greybeards, I could defeat Alduin.”

“At least you gave him one hell of a welcoming party, I’d bet.” Erin says with a small sigh.

“Zu’u drey.” Paarthurnax smiles sadly. “And yet… It was not my vennesetiid, destiny. I am Cruel and Ambitious Overlord, but my fate was not to stand victorious to usurp the power of my better. Still, to realise my duty is now over… Geh, perhaps it is finally time to stretch my viing again and wander in the lands below.” Blinking, she smiles as she looks up to the sky. “Mhm. I think I will take you on your offer. High Hrothgar doesn’t truly need me to run its affairs, I have seen to that, even if they venerate the ground I walk on.” Smiling mischievously, she continues. “Some more than others.”

“If that’s the case.” Jean begins, before pausing. This was kind of an awkward question, after all. Still… Swallowing, he continues. “You said that you change your forms most of the time when you eventually go down the mountain. Would… would you mind keeping this one?”

Paarthurnax blinks again, looking at the redhead in the eyes, before she giggles and bows slightly. “I suppose it will spare you some confusion. Ah, I can already imagine the heads of the Nords steaming as their minds work overtime trying to place my reyliik, race.”

“I half expect them to just default to calling you a knife-ear and call it a day.” Jean notes dryly. “Racism doesn’t seem to foster creativity.”

“A shame.” Paarthurnax sighs. “I have enjoyed the times when bards could bring kings low with a witty enough insult. I loved trading barbs with some of them. One of them even figured I was a dragon and requested a tinvaak, an insult competition against my dragon form.”

Erin cannot help but let out a startled chortle, shaking her head, “Oh, Divines, what a magnificent madman.”

“He was.” Paarthurnax agrees. “Eventually, he died. Poor Svaknir, his tongue didn’t protect him from Olaf, even if he was stubborn enough to keep writing and distributing his satire as fast as Olaf burned it.”

---

With the promise of sending their gliders over once they are done, Jean and Erin leave High Hrothgar with Paarthurnax, once again answering to the name of Malautavoy, seen off by rather sour faced Arngeir. The walk still takes most of the day, although this time the beasts that made their home stay well away from the party.

“The minds of the beasts are mysterious things. They can, somehow, sense a dragon without much trouble, even if many of them take it as a challenge.” Paarthurnax muses as she watches white furred sabertooth observe them from within the scarce wood line.

“I guess it’s a free meal for a dragon. Doesn’t even have to go through the trouble of hunting.” Jean answers. “By the way, does the name you are using in this form mean anything?”

Paarthurnax nods. “Malautavoy is a Falmer word for knowledge. Well, it’s a verb, I didn’t have occasion to truly study it.”

Jean hums as they walk. From what he remembers, the librarian at the College of Winterhold is actually fluent. Getting Paarthurnax proper lessons would probably be a decent gift.

Eventually, however, they get to the base of the mountain, where the rest of the party sits by the campfire, immersed in a game of cards. From what they can see, Barbas seems to be the one winning it, despite obvious difficulties he should have with holding anything.

Hearing the footsteps, Lydia looks up. “Welcome back. You are back sooner than we expected.” Eyeing Paarthurnax, she frowns. “Did you kidnap a Greybeard to speed things up?”

Ignoring Paarthurnax’ giggle, Jean answers dryly. “In a way. Turns out we are a wee bit beyond the expected applicant level so they just gave us an errand and sent us on the way. Malautavoy here decided to tag along, stretch her legs a bit.”

“Can anyone in this godsforsaken place do their own shit.” Lydia mutters darkly as she shakes her head before giving Jean a look. “Greybeard. Just stretching their legs. I feel like there is something else to this, but sure, I won’t ruin your fun.”

“Anything happened while we were gone?”

Valdimar grunts, even as he eyes Barbas, suspicious. “Rumours came down the way about more vampire attacks to the north, mostly around Dawnstar and Morthal. Lot of folks just wake up missing a night or two, if at all. Those who don’t are found dry. After that, a group of vampire hunters playing the Dawnguard passed Ivarstead on their way north. Fuck it, fold.” He finishes with a sigh as he lays down his cards, leaving only Serana to hold her ground against Daedric Prince.

Paarthurnax hums as she inclines her head. “Playing?”

“The Dawnguard were disbanded all the way back in the Second Era. The original group were mercenaries hired to… ah, protect the son of Jarl of Riften in his little house arrest after lad became a vampire. They did that, and a bit of active vampire hunting on the side until eventually, they decided to make their job easier by just dealing with Jarl’s vampiric problem permanently. At which point, the Jarl, understandably upset, disbanded them by force and turned the fort they were based from into the most pretentious mausoleum in history.”

“Perhaps this new Dawnguard took their name as a symbol. People love their folk stories and tales of heroes emerging in the time of need.” Paarthurnax muses.

“Probably.” Jean shrugs. He honestly doesn’t remember why Isran took the name instead of coming with something of his own. “Anyway, are you done getting played by daedra? I would like to spend the night in a bed.” He addresses Serana.

The vampiress ignores him, instead choosing to lay down her hand. “Dragonfire.”

“Planemeld.” Barbas answers, causing the woman to shake her head. “A good game, but you should know better than to play Daedric Visions against a Prince.”

“Which is why I bowed out after the first couple of rounds.” Lydia whispers to Jean and Erin. “Now, if I remember our morning wager correctly, the losers pack the camp.”

Muttering, Valdimar and Serana get to work packing the rolls and dousing the fire before the group walks back to Ivarstead, where the folks give Paarthurnax curious, reverent looks as they move out of the way for her to pass.

As the group settles for the dinner at the table in the Vilemyr Inn, Lydia unfurls a map in the corner of the table. “So, Rimerock Burrow. Where is that, precisely?” Barbas just barks at her, though her eyes do widen as if she heard him. Then, checking the map, she grimaces. “Great. Of course it’s out of the way. Even more out of the way than Thalmor Embassy.”

Reflecting her grimace, Jean takes a look at the map. “Great. I think we can swing by Morthal, Greybeard’s little task is in the area. We can then swing by Solitude before delving into the wilds.”

“And get caught in whatever other nonsense is stomping around up there.” Erin grumbles. She vaguely remembers something about the Prince of Nightmares Fucking About up north. Fucking daedric nonsense.

“Come now, Erin.” Lydia answers. “It’s the capital of Skyrim and the main base of the Legion. If there is any place that can take care of itself, it’s there.”

Which is, naturally, the point at which the doors to the inn swing wide open and a heavily breathing courier steps inside. “Are… Are the Dragonborn here?” The man pants heavily as he looks around. Jean playfully shoots Lydia a withering look before waving the man over. “Right… Right. An urgent message, milord. From Solitude.”

Accepting the letter with a nod, Jean gives the man a handful of septims. “Grab yourself something to eat and drink, you look like shit.” The man mutters thanks before moving towards the bar while Jean sighs and opens the message. “Let’s see what is happening up north… The words of your deeds against the Vampire Lord in Morthal reached the Blue Palace… interrupted necromantic ritual… the men we send dead… need help… come as fast as possible… wary of putting the details to the paper. Signed, Falk Firebeard. So, necromantic bullshit. And from the tone of the letter, I don’t think it’s something we can put off.”

“Lovely.” Erin grumbles with a shake of her head. “Guess we’ll just shoot straight to Solitude and handle the Greybeard thing on the way back down.”

“Seems like it. Right, let's finish eating and catch a carriage to Solitude in the morning.”

---

Dragon dictionary:

Haal nau dreh - Hand on action

Kun aak miiraad - Light guide path

Dii rii, daal us daar se dovah - My essence, return to that of dragon

Strunmah, bex hin sil - Mountain, open your heart (surface or depth).

 

Fortunately for the party, while Ivarstead itself doesn’t have its own carriage station, they manage to catch one going from Riften to Whiterun, and with a sizable overpayment, both the driver and the passengers agree to the crowded ride. From Whiterun, the ride is somewhat more manageable until Rorikstead, where the carriage suddenly stops.

“Something wrong?” Jean asks, somewhat worried if Nahagliiv is being raised.

“Thalmor.” The driver almost spits the word.

Looking over, Jean notices the distinct, hooded robes of the Justicar, as well as a large squad of golden-armoured elves. One of them notices the carriage, and with a shout, sends a pair of soldiers towards them.

“Travelers, come down and surrender to the inspection!” The one on the right commands.

Paarthurnax quirks her eyebrow at the man, but does come down. “Is it truly necessary? We are not interfering with your business, and I doubt you are here for us.”

The man examines her, noting her ears before grimacing at the colour of her skin and hair. “What you think doesn’t matter, mongrel.”

Biting his tongue, Jean looks over the rest of the Thalmor squad. Two mages, set pretty wide apart, and twenty soldiers. Someone really kicked the hornets’ nest here.

“Let’s just let them look around, not like we have anything to hide, and their insults aren’t even creative.” Valdimar murmurs.

“Can’t do.” Serana answers as they dismount. “I have a very… sensitive package, and Erin has the Rose.”

Sighing, Valdimar rolls his shoulders. “Let’s wait till we can get as many as possible. I would rather not play with Thalmor mages inside the village.”

Seeing them comply, the soldier on the left nods. “Good. With the rest of the villagers, to the mound. Leave personal belongings here. Anything found will be subject to scrutiny.” He motions at Nahagliiv’s still intact burial site.

“Well, that takes care of the collateral.” Jean mutters, catching Lydia’s eye. He scratches his throat, subtly sliding a finger across his neck. The woman’s eyes widen, but she nods without further motion. He can’t use fire, that much he knows. Still, there is something nice to replace it.

“Ready?” He whispers.

“No lollygagging!” Barks the man, pushing Lydia. The woman twists instead, grabbing the elf by the wrist, dagger flashing in her other hand as she slams it into the elf’s throat. The other Altmer doesn’t have the chance to raise an alarm before Serana snaps his neck.

“Erin, you take the left one! LIIV RO VEN!” His breath twists and howls as the wind rushes towards the Thalmor soldiers, Wither eating through the hastily erected ward without issue as it flays the skin, meat and bone while leaving the armour and clothes. The mage barely has the time to cry out as his defensive spell is consumed and his own body starts falling apart. Then, Jean coughs, his lungs screaming for air, the Shout stopping as suddenly as it started.

“DIIN FUS VAAZ!” Comes Erin’s own Shout, the elf woman holding up her strongest Ward as wide as she can.

Following her example, Valdimar and Serana rise their own Wards between themselves and the Thalmor squad, whose cries and shouts are drowned by the explosion of screeching metal, the shrapnel bouncing off the triple Ward while turning the Altmer into a mess of gore and minced meat. Grimacing at the sight, Paarthurnax sighs.

“A clever solution, if a messy one. Now, let’s assure villagers they are free to return homes while I get a quick chat with Nahagliiv.” Jean and Erin note that there is a distinctly pleased tone to her voice anyway.

The group treks to the dragon mound, where the villagers grumble good naturedly, seemingly unperturbed at the prospect of having to dispose of the corpses of twenty Thalmor agents. Meanwhile, Paarthurnax sits on top of the mound, hands pressed against the stone as she mutters in dovahzul.

“Paarthurnax… they are incredible, are they not?”

“Indeed. I must confess, it feels… strange, to hear you so peaceful. I could scarcely believe it when I first heard the tale.”

“Ha! I can only await the moment Alduin comes for me and then hope Dragonborn defeat me… A prospect I find more and more likely.”

Paarthurnax stays silent for a moment, before bowing, touching the stone with her forehead. “I might have a solution that doesn’t involve destroying local landmarks… ” She whispers playfully.

“Oh? I am all ears, Second Child.”

“The words of the Shout joor came up with, they elude me, but I still wrought out something interesting out of trying. Alduin cannot bind what isn’t where he expects it.”

“There is a price, I expect.”

“A small one, and one you would have paid anyway, Nahagliiv. Now, listen as I whisper it to you… Of Essence and Change. Of Mortals. About becoming akin to Dragonborn. A Dovah in spirit, if not in flesh.”

Jean and Erin observe in silence as… some sort of energy passes between Paarthurnax and Nahagliiv as they speak.

“Rii Meyz Joor, jul kendov, sot se om, sahqo se miin.” Nahagliiv whispers, the dragon’s voice carrying over the mound as the wisps of his energy slowly pass through stone and earth, converging atop his grave. From a cocoon of energy, it slowly takes shape as wind picks up, billowing the party’s clothes towards the centre. Uneasily, Jean notices that the Mortal Guise takes the construction of the body very literally. Bones are formed first, then tendons and muscles, and arteries. Skin, pale and pink, A mane of white hair grows from the skull. The female figure is naked for just a fraction of a second before the Shout clothes her, wool and linen, and then black and red dyed leather and fur, and finally, a grey, gleaming metal forming plates of armour instead of scales of dragon.

Nahagliiv takes a deep breath, clearly taking pleasure in the sensation, before opening her ruby-red eyes. “Bormahu, I missed this.” She purrs, before her stomach grumbles like a starved beast and she blushes. “I am… It’s like bahlok, but different. What is this?” She asks Paarthurnax.

“This, Nahagliiv, is what joor call hunger. You will find that those new bodies of ours come with different needs than those of dovah, ones that need to be sated or else they turn weak and frail.”

Nahagliiv blinks before clapping her hands together. “Ha! Very well. Is there something to eat then? I am starving.”

“We do.” Lydia answers, shaken out of her stupor even as she shoots Paarthurnax suspicious look. “And I have the feeling we will need to buy extra large portions.”

“You might also think about taking a different name.” Jean finally comments. “At least when interacting with others. I don’t think dovahzul names are popular.”

“Try, pretentious and only done by crazy, rich people in isolated places.” Valdimar grunts. “Which doesn’t work for our new friend, I’m afraid.”

Nahagliiv thinks for a moment, before shrugging. “Hildr it is. That reminds me, do you have any weapons to spare? As much fun as figuring the physical limits of this body would be, I am kinda interested in how joor fight.”

“Only elven make, I am afraid.” Jean notes. “Let’s go, we were on a bit of a timetable before Thalmor forced this detour.”

“Oh?”

“We are going to be diving into the sea of undead soon~ish.”

---

“So how exactly does a Shout that makes a mortal body work in a set of clothes into the equation?” Serana asks as the cart rolls over the plains.

Paarthurnax shrugs. “While I have learned much about Thu’um over my life, possibly more than anyone else, even I sometimes have no answers. I assume it is because the intent of the Shout is to create a body to interact with mortals, and its creator has not seen one without clothes, so the Thu’um might have simply been created with… an assumption. Or it might be because the power behind the Voice directly translates dovah’s scales into clothing.”

“So Thu’um being Thu’um.” She sighs. “Honestly, we'd probably be in Solitude much faster if the two of you flew us there.”

Nahagliiv chortles from her seat, swallowing a bite of the meat before speaking. “Can’t do, for me. I am still technically dead in that form.”

Paarthurnax just smiles. “The journey is as important as the destination. Besides, if these two” she points at Jean and Erin “didn’t have to go the long way, you might have still been locked in your sealing place. And who knows what sort of person would instead grab your Kel then.”

Serana keeps her face carefully blank as she answers. “I have no idea what you are talking about, but I concede the point.”

Paarthurnax, and Nahagliiv for that matter, both snort. “Please, soslun, do you really think Children of Akatosh cannot sense Kel’s presence?”

“Indeed.” Nahagliiv adds. “That thing is not subtle, as much as it lets you hide it easier from mortal eyes.”

“I have no idea what Kel means” Valdimar says cheerfully “but from the tone I will just assume a dangerous artefact Serana would rather not have her father get his hands on and move on. Ignorance can be a blessing.”

“In a way.” Jean agrees. “I am actually surprised we haven’t heard more about his efforts to get it other than just the news of vampire attacks. He seemed to have almost figured out how to get Serana back when we got there.”

“Plus, she was made thane of Morthal alongside us. No way news of that didn’t reach him.” Erin pipes up.

“Which is why I am worried.” Serana continues. “Father is not… used, to being denied. And while he can be subtle, from what I remember, I believe he would have already sent me a message that states his intent clearly by now.”

“You can save your noble talk for later.” Calls out the driver. “The road is closed. Bandit camp ahead.”

Sighing, Jean looks up, blinking at the sight. The camp is pretty well defended, he must admit. It’s built on top of the cliff, and while he cannot see it, he distinctly remembers a palisade closing off the camp. There is also a watch tower connected by the bridge on the other side of the road built on top of the rocks. The bandits, Jean notes, are already pointing their bows at them.

“Let me guess, road tax?” He sighs. The worst part is, from what the poor bastards can see, they legitimately think they have a chance.

“Dovahkiin.” Nahagliiv whispers, barely holding back her excitement even as her eyes shine with glee, her hands clenching and unclenching the handle of her great axe. “Let me… talk to them, while you make sure our carriage and the driver are untouched, okay?”

Erin can’t help but chuckle a bit even as magicka surges to both her hands, a double layered Ward springing to life around the carriage, “Have fun.” The rest of the party, those capable of magic ready their wards as well, prepared to take shifts. The bandits release their arrows, which bounce off the ward harmlessly

Nahagliiv, meanwhile, grins, jumping off the cart. “Wuld Ro Ru.” She whispers, her next step carrying her on top of the watchtower in a blink of an eye. The pair of men on top cry in surprise, especially as the dragon woman’s momentum sends one of them flying to the ground, where he lands with a crack. Nahagliiv, meanwhile, takes an easy, one handed swing of her weapon, the strike tearing the other bandit in half.

“Su Grah Dun!” She shouts with glee, dancing around the arrow fire as she crosses the bridge, her two handed weapon flashing before the group on the other side can even react, cutting off limbs and leaving deep gashes in flesh and armour. “Geh! Come, Nords! The Sovngarde awaits us, so let’s give in to the thrill of battle!”

Then, she jumps down to the main camp, and the group loses sight of her, only screams and flashes of spell work signifying her advance. The driver turns towards the party, a bit pale. “Say, friends, where did you find an honest to Nine berserker from childhood fairy tales?”

“We just happened to stumble on her place when adventuring and slowly managed to reignite her passion.” Lydia deadpans. Jean is quite impressed with the answer, not a single word is actually false.

“I have carted around my fair share of adventurers.” The man mutters. “So I know how it actually works. My point is, your friend is the adventurer all adventurers always pretty up their stories to make themselves look like.”

Ten minutes later, Nahagliiv walks out of the camp, soaked in blood, with a bag of valuables slung over shoulder, a different great axe on her back and a pearly white, large stone in her hand. They can also hear her humming a happy tune.

“Had fun?” Paarthurnax asks with a gentle smile.

“I did! And you wouldn’t believe what I found!” She cheerfully exclaims, which makes for a rather intimidating sight with the blood on her face and armour. Holding up the stone, which Jean and Erin recognise, much to their despair, she continues. “This is Meridia’s Beacon. She wants us to clear out her temple.” She explains as she gets back on the cart.

Lydia snorts. “Of course. We've heard about her problem already. Can it wait until we know what Solitude wants?”

Nahagliiv blinks as she listens to the voice only she can apparently hear as the cart starts moving again. “Meridia says that she knows what is happening in Solitude and that we might want her aid with it.”

Serana gives the dragon a deadpan look. “Does she realise you are travelling with someone she has a grudge against?”

“She does. She also says that she can prioritize and keeping you around for now will maximise the amount of undead Dawnbreaker will be able to deal with… What’s Dawnbreaker?” Nahagliiv asks.

“Meridia’s favourite toy.” Barbas pipes in. “A sword that makes the undead explode into fire. She made it so that anyone killed by it cannot be raised again, and even against living, it's fire enchantment is quite potent.”

Nahagliiv’s eyes shine as she takes in the information. “I want it.” Then, she frowns. “Thought I hope it's a big blade.”

“That’s what she said.” Lydia mutters before speaking up. “Is there any problem with normal longswords?”

“Not really, I suppose.” Nahagliiv whines. “But they are just so… light. I am constantly worried they will just slip from my hand.”

“Given what I’ve seen and heard so far about daedric artefacts, I have no doubt the damn thing will resize itself as needed.” Erin supplies. Exhibit A, the Sanguine Rose playing at being a brooch. Exhibit B, the offers to resize the Ebony Blade to Lydia’s preferences. Honestly, all the powerful artefacts rattling about seemed all too happy to adjust themselves for their bearer’s benefit. Look at Serana’s scroll.

Nahagliiv just hums happily at the thought.

“That’s it.” Valdimar shudders. “Stop the cart, friend. The river is right there, go wash the blood up so I don’t have war flashbacks.” He commands the dragon.

She just shoots him a confused look, but shrugs and goes to do so.

---

Entering the Blue Palace, the party is quickly ushered into a room where Falk Firebeard, a redheaded Nord with well trimmed beard and short cut hair greets them. The man is pale, and seems to actually relax as he takes the size of the party, even if he gives Barbas a confused look.

“Finally, you are here!” He exclaims.

“Your letter found us when we came down from High Hrothgar, so we had to cross half the Skyrim.” Jean notes.

“That’s… well, no matter. We need your help with a group of necromancers.”

Lydia blinks, looking at the man as if he grew a second head. “A group of necromancers is all it takes to terrify Solitude?”

The man grimaces as he rubs his eyes. “I realise how that sounds, and normally, you would be right. But after Helgen, Legion has been gutted of mages and Winterhold, while stand-offish on the matter of Civil War, is in the middle of Stormcloak territory.”

“Why don’t you start from the beginning, my good man.” Paarthurnax speaks calmly with a bow.

Falk seems to balk as he recognises the Greybeards’ robes, though he doesn’t say anything about her elven features. “Right. Right.” Pacing around, he begins. “Some time ago, an influential resident of Dragonbridge came to the Blue Palace to speak about his worries about the strange lights and noises coming from Wolfskull Cave. Now, the man is a paranoid mess at the best of times, so we just dispatched some adventurers to check it out, assuage his fears.”

“They didn’t come back, I take it?” Jean guesses.

“No, they did not. Solitude’s guards fared no better. We eventually send a group of Legionnaires with a hired mage. They didn’t solve the issue, and most of them died, but at least we know what is happening. The cabal that resides there is trying to resurrect Potema.”

There is a silence before Lydia and Valdimar pale. “Talos protect us.” The man whispers.

“Needless to say, Legion put the cave to the siege, hoping to at least keep interrupting the ritual until a solution has been found. Which is why, when hearing about Morthal, I have decided to contact you. The Wolf Queen cannot be allowed to come back.”

“Obviously.” Jean deadpans. “We will go as soon as possible. We will just resupply and hit the road.”

The man looks relieved, and sits down as if great pressure has been lifted from his shoulders. “Thank you. While I would rather you hurry up, I understand the needs. Especially since no carriages go there now. Partly because of the Legion blockade, partially because something spooks the horses well before they reach the place. I will give you a letter of recommendation that lets you pass the Imperial cordon.”

“Much appreciated.” Jean agrees.

Not soon after, the party departs Solitude, seen off by the eyes of guards and Legionnaires manning the walls. According to the map, and Meridia’s incessant chatter, the Prince of Dawn’s temple is, fortunately enough, quite literally on the way to the Wolfskull Cave. As the group moves through the tundra, Nahagliiv amuses herself by chatting with the Prince about the details concerning the necromancer squatting in the temple.

“The guy reminds me of Durnehviir, honestly.” She comments eventually. “Very deep into making undead do all the work even if he could probably be really good in a personal fight if he applied himself. Wonder if Durnehviir is sick and tired of Soul Cairn by now.”

“S… soul Cairn?” Lydia asks.

Serana nods. “A realm in Oblivion. Mother was interested by it. The beings that rule it tend to make pacts with necromancers, souls in exchange for deeper secrets of the art.”

“And Durnehviir really liked necromancy.” Nahagliiv picks up. “Not just the raising of the undead hordes part, but curses and rituals too. Big baby didn’t like getting ouchies.” She reminisces with a smile as she bites into an apple.

Lydia shoots her a withering look. “Must you eat at all times?”

“Hey, I had a millennia of fasting, and all these tastes are new to me, so I want to try as much as possible to find out my favourites.”

“Let her be, lass.” Valdimar sighs. “At least with how much she moves around, she won’t get fat.”

Barbas barks amused, but picks up the topic. “I wonder if Meridia is willing to humour you lot because there is a chance to get back at Soul Cairn. I imagine the thought of giving Ideal Masters a scare is enough to get her to mellow out.”

“They are actually called ‘Ideal Masters’?” Serana asks, surprised. “That’s… arrogant.”

“That it is. And with Potema, chances are she’s got a private portal there hidden somewhere around. So a nice, little crusade from Coloured Rooms might be in the cards.”

“And we’ll be coming up against Durnehviir in there too, because that’s just how our luck is.” Erin grumbles without any real heat to it. Mostly because she’s really looking forward to squeezing all sorts of fun necromancy and curse tricks from the dragon.

“Fun! Hey, Party, do you think I will be able to turn back in Soul Cairn on account of being technically dead?”

Paarthurnax thinks about it for a moment, before shaking her head. “I would recommend against trying, dear. Who knows how your soul’s unfettered status would interact with it.”

Nahagliiv just shrugs as the party slowly makes their way up into the mountains until the back of the giant statue peaks over the treeline.

Jean stops, looking at it with a deadpan stare. “And the Vigilants really managed to miss this for two hundred years?”

Walking up the stairs, Erin and Jean notice the Word Wall and split off with Paarthurnax in tow, while Nahagliiv continues up the stairs to store the beacon at the feet of the statue. Coming to stop under the dragon head adorning the stone, Jean reads the inscription.

“This stone commemorates the fair Princess Yrsa who bewitched all of Tamriel with her grace and beauty.” He shakes his head as the word burns itself into his mind. “... Dun. Sounds like another Ro situation, to be honest, unless one tries to make a Shout that looks pretty.”

Paarthurnax giggles at the comment but nods. “There are quite a few words like that, which do not have their own effect, merely mould the effects of other words.”

Erin’s eyes light up, a Shout clicking into place in her mind immediately. Making sure she has plenty of room to run around in, she lets it loose, “Wuld Dun Ru.”

She vanishes from Jean’s sight, the sound of her footsteps barely audible before he feels a tap on his shoulder. He knows what happened, but the redhead still jumps and turns around, only to see nothing.

“Point taken.” He sighs.

“Hey guys!” Nahagliiv shouts as she comes down, accompanied by the sound of the iron gates opening with a loud screech from below. “Ooh, Erin, nice variant of Great Speed. Very flexible compared to the majority of them.”

“The Wall decided to grace Dovahkiin with dun, grace.” Paarthurnax explains, causing Nahagliiv to nod in understanding.

The elf woman finally comes to a stop with a wide grin, the wind she stirred up even having the courtesy of simply making her robes billow dramatically rather than toss her hair or hood into her face. “Thanks! I am going to have so much fun with this one.”

Barbas snorts. “Obviously. Now, you kids go and take a stroll through Meridia’s place. I am afraid my and Serana’s presence would cause… tensions.”

The group nods and descends into the temple. The inside is dark and dreary, the floor being almost hidden under a layer of thick, dark mist only disturbed by their steps, revealing darkened, withered corpses of Vigilants, and further in, people who must have been worshippers.

“Now that really brings Durnehviir to mind.” Nahagliiv comments. “The mist was one of his favourite tricks, hid the Soul Cairn’s wraiths really well.”

As if to prove her right, the half-material, black silhouettes with glowing red lights in place of the eyes, wielding old weaponry rise from the mist, wispy darkness still clinging to their weapons. With rasping breaths, they turn towards the party.

“I have actually been meaning to try something as well.” Jean steps forwards. “And I suppose no better place to use it first then the Temple of Prince of Dawn. Drem Shul Liiv.”

He is surrounded by the radiant glow, bright like the sun in its zenith, the light dispelling darkness and burning the wraiths away, who vanish with the screech.

“Flatterer.” Nahagliiv whispers into his ear, causing a shudder to run down his spine.

Swallowing, he speaks up. “T-thanks. Anyway… this kinda completely invalidates Stendarr’s Aura, huh.”

Paarthurnax snorts. “A lot of spells have been invented to mimic the effects of Thu’um… and vice versa. Dovah like to establish dominance over joor by taking their things and making a better version. Still, do not discard the spells, there are places in the world which cause Thu’um to not work. Most particularly, dwemer were fond of making sure their architecture would suppress su’um, the Breath that is the source of Thu’um.”

“And now that you said it, it’s certain we will have to visit one of those places.” Jean answers. Probably any of the dwemer ruins containing Elder Scrolls, which seems like the security feature the previous asshole elves would be fond of.

With Jean acting as the convenient source of light, and easy disposal of the wraiths, the walk around the temple ultimately amounts to locating the pillars containing additional beacons for Meridia’s light to infuse with Daedric Prince's power. At one point, the further way is blocked by the section of the corridor which was collapsed, an obstacle cleared with the quick use of Whither, which only causes Nahagliiv to shudder and hum in bliss.

Eventually, they descend to the final chamber, where they spot a necromancer surrounded by the wraiths pouring magicka over a sword with a gem glowing like a miniature sun in its guard.

The wraiths his as the party approaches, causing the man to turn around. He narrows his eyes as he grips and raises his staff. “I see the Shining Bitch finally found someone competent enough to make it this far. Still...”

“I am going to stop you right here.” Nahagliiv notes without a hint of concern as she holds her hand up, her axe still on her back. “We have come this far without breaking a sweat. Do you really think there is anything you could come up with that will so much as slow us down?”

“... Let’s assume you are right and I am not powerful enough to deal with you.” The man answers.

“You really aren’t.”

The necromancer grits his teeth, but pushes on. “Do you really think that after all the people I have killed, both to take this place and to hold it, that anyone sane would just… let me go? No, even that madman Varen knows messing with the Princes has only one outcome if you don’t come out on top.”

Without another word, his magicka surges through the staff, and a howling sphere of blizzard shoots for the group. Nahagliiv stands unconcerned.

“Fus Ag Wuld.” Her Thu’um comes not as a stream of fire or even a fireball, but a burning maelstrom, consuming the entire room in raging flames, snuffing out the spell as the cries of the wraiths are drowned out. The necromancer's cries as well, dark mist rising from his rapidly incinerated body, only for it to burn as well.

“FINALLY.” Comes a triumphant voice. “THE DEFILER IS NO MORE, AND I COULD NOT ASK FOR A MORE FITTING END FOR HIM.” Jean grimaces at the sheer volume Meridia uses, but he guesses he can forgive her after over a decade of having to see her shrine reduce to… this. “TAKE MY DAWNBREAKER, AND USE ITS CLEANSING LIGHT TO PURGE THE WORLD OF CORRUPTION. BEGINNING WITH THE WOLF QUEEN.”

“You do realise I am not going to be worshipping you, right?” Nahagliiv asks as she draws the golden blade from the stone, the weapon shifting in her hand, both the hilt and the blade growing until she holds a greatsword. In this form, the party can see the similarities of the metal to that of Valdimar’s dwemer armour.

“IT MATTERS NOT. JUST BY CARRYING DAWNBREAKER, YOU WILL BRING MY LIGHT TO THE WORLD.”

With that, Meridia falls silent as the light the party has guided so far fills the temple, burning away the mist.

“Let’s go, before Meridia summons her Purified to start fixing the temple.” Paarthurnax suggests. “I would rather not stay in the company of her… most fervent worshippers.”

Jean decides he doesn’t really want to know, simply deciding that, at the end of the day, Meridia is a Daedric Prince with all the inhuman morality that implies.

The group climbs the mountain path above the temple until they hit a proper, paved road. In the distance, they notice the banner of the legion fluttering in the wind, a red dragon on the golden field. As they approach, the wooden barricade blocking the road as well as a small ballista come into the view as well, with a squad of men in chainmail and leather. One of them, a man in a steel plate, comes forward.

“Halt! This area is restricted on the orders of General Tulius and Jarl Elisif. Unless you have proof of being sent from Solitude, I am afraid you will have to divert your travel.”

Jean reaches into the bag and hands over the letter from Falk, the legionnaire taking it and opening in a swift move. “Thank the Eight.” He mutters. “Come through. Before you start, report to the Captain Sanga.”

“That bad, eh lieutenant?” Valdimar inquires as they pass. The man shakes his head.

“Me and my men are lucky to be on the cordon duty, but everything we have heard in the camp points to real clusterfuck in that cave.”

Valdimar nods in understanding as the group moves down the road, spotting more and more tents. Not a full force of the legion, obviously, but enough soldiers to be noticeable. Some of them shoot the party weary looks, and more than a few are drawn to the Dawnbreaker on Nahagliiv’s back. Most simply stare, but Jean notes that a few amongst them seem to realise what exactly they are looking at. The captain’s tent is, in the legion’s tradition, open wide, with the large table taking most of it. Captain Sanga, an Imperial woman with short, auburn hair and a scar on her left cheek. She is discussing something with a group of mages and looks up when the group approaches.

Jean hands her the letter from the steward first before speaking. “We are the folks Falk Firebeard wanted to deal with the necromancers.” The mages visibly relax, one of them even giving a relieved sighs, which causes Jean to wince. “That bad?”

Sanga snorts. “I lost twenty legionnaires before we figured just how hard we need to push and how often for them to interrupt their ritual. Add in the adventurers who were sent before us and unfortunate victims before there was response, as well as some draugr and they have a solid force. Can’t even collapse the damn place and wait for them to run out of air because it’s like every single fucking cave in this godsforsaken place has enough cracks to let the air in.” Sighing, she runs her hand through her face. “It would’ve been easier if we had any battlemages left, but Helgen gutted the unit assigned to our Legion and what’s left is spread thin over the Reach trying to counter the Forsworn.”

Valdimar shakes his head. “None of the auxiliaries trained in Restoration branched into anti undead focus?”

Sanga looks at him as if she is trying to place his face before shaking her head. “They have their hands busy just patching the men. At least they are no longer busy with refugees from Helgen, but some of them needed weeks of rest after that.”

“Enough of this depressing talk.” Lydia says, resting her hand on the pommel of her sword. “What does the inside of the cave look like? I assume there is something inside that makes the attack difficult.”

“There is an honest to Eight fort inside. Sure, the walls are somewhat crumbled, but that still gives the undead a solid position. There is also a stream flowing through it, not deep enough to be a problem on its own, but the draugr are fond of frost spells and there are a lot of runic traps on the other bank. Makes it easy to trap any assault in place. Other than that, the main difficulty is that the draugr are tough bastards. And, if you manage to stop the necromancers from their ritual, there is suddenly a lot of daedra around.”

Serana grimaces as the captain slowly lays everything down. “Damn, they really are prepared for siege. I have heard of vampire covens that put less thought into their hideouts.”

“This one can be put down to being one of the sites Potema used for her rituals.” Valdimar grunts. “Even bears its name after her. They probably picked it because it’s connected to her.”

“Yeah, that would do it.” Serana nods.

“Mhm. If you don’t mind, captain, we will be going and if it goes without a hitch, you will be on your way back to Solitude by the evening.”

“I can pray for that, at least.” The woman grimaces.

Exiting the tent, the group is quickly directed towards the entrance to the cave which is put behind a barricade as well. Inside, in the first cavern a couple of scouts wait, looking down the well lit tunnel.

“Go back outside, boys, we are taking it from here.” Valdimar grunts and the men sigh relieved as they move the opposite way. The old mage just shakes his head.

Nahagliiv takes the front, taking the Dawnbreaker from her back, the jewel casting enough light to illuminate the path. “A couple of Shouts should wipe the defences clean, after that just need to get to the necromancers. Ugh, fighting undead.” She finishes with a grimace.

“Ey, at least they’re highly flammable, doubly so with that sword.” Erin comments idly, brain already to work on just what Shout she’d be using to make a mockery of the defences.

“I will see.” The dragon whines. “They just aren’t much fun. Most of them don’t even have blood to spill!”

“Ironic for a woman whose name gave birth to a Shout that kills people by drying them up.” Jean comments dryly. “I have yet to see a single drop of blood whenever we use it.”

Nahagliiv looks straight up, her face hidden from his view in the narrow tunnel. “I-it doesn’t have to be perfectly rational.” Jean just shakes his head as he suppresses a chuckle.

Finally, the tunnel ends and opens up to a large cavern. Not as large as the one Serana was sealed in, but the fort does, indeed, fit there, even if they can see some of the towers almost literally scrape by the ceiling. From somewhere atop it, the party can see a pale blue light illuminate the cave, wisps of magicka converging on the spot.

“Well, time to field test another Shout.” Erin mutters, the pieces clicking together in her mind into quite the nasty combination. Nahagliiv is going to love this one. It feels like she holds a maelstrom in her lungs as she bellows out, “FUS WULD LIIV!”

The air ripples and shudders as the gale winds converge creating a howling vortex that devours everything in its path. The stone touched by it crumbles to dust on the slightest brush, the runes fizzling out and dying without even a spark or flash of light. And then, it hits the fort and just keeps going as if there was nothing in the way, creating a deep, empty gorge in the brick and stone. The azure glow blinks away as the ritual is firmly interrupted.

“HA!” Comes a mocking voice from… somewhere. “I WILL BE BACK! UNBOUND AND UNSTOPPABLE!”

“Mhhhhhmmmm…! Aaaaaah~” Nahagliiv almost collapses, her eyes fluttering as she leans heavily on Dawnbreaker and pants heavily.

Jean watches her very red-faced. “Can… can you fight, because there are a few things left.” He points out to the lone figure at the top of one side of the gorge, a purple light blooming in its hands.

Erin can’t help but let out a low, quiet whistle at the effect her Shout had. She hadn’t honestly expected for Nahagliiv to get it that bad. The elf woman finds herself deeply thankful for the hood of her robes, Naha’s voice as she moaned and panted did Things for her and a pale complexion like hers made for nuclear blushes.

Serana hides her face under her own hood while Lydia and Valdimar chortle, the former more pink faced then the latter. Paarthurnax, vividly blushing herself, merely smiles. “I might have forgotten that there is this type of hunger and sensation too.” She muses airily.

Then, the summoning the necromancer performs finishes and from a portal comes out a giant humanoid mass of shadow clad in bone white armour, pauldrons even looking like the bones of some sort of creature. It holds a bone white mace in one hand, the other being free.

Nahagliiv, still shaking, stands straighter. “Oooh, a Keeper. Definitely Soul Cairn stuff. Right… right.” She shudders again before grabbing Dawnbreaker tighter. “Krif drem, drem.”

Shooting the dragon woman a worried look, Jean decides to… help her out with the case of jelly legs. Sure, it’s not fear that has her shaking, but it should still work, with some modification. “Vur Drem Shaan.” He speaks, focusing on Nahagliiv, who immediately stands more steady, her breath calmed down as she takes the air in.

“Kogaan.” She sighs before grinning and hefting Dawnbreaker up. “Let’s see what all the excitement is about.”

Without any further Thu’um, she tenses before shooting forward, crossing the distance between her and the Keeper in an instant, the Dawnbreaker digging into the bone armour and flashing with light as the flames of Meridia try to eat through the material. Keeper reacts by punching her in the face, Nahagliiv’s head snapping back before she headbutts it with a laugh, causing it to stumble back. She wrings the blade out of the armour and intercepts the mace with a shallow swing before kicking the Keeper into the wall and running it through. The Dawnbreaker’s jewel shines triumphantly as the Keeper explodes in the cloud of burning mist and flames, burning away the shades summoned by the necromancer in the meantime.

“Huh. Looks interesting.” Looking up at the very pale, clearly scared mage, she grins. “Any more tricks or do I lose nothing for finishing this?” The man cries and sends an ice spike down at her, which she bats away with the sword. “I will take that as a no.”

Then, she throws Dawnbreaker, the sword punching through stone and impaling the man who falls back.

A couple minutes later, she is back with the group. “That was kinda anti-climatic, not going to lie.”

“I have learned that Thu’um tends to warp the definition of a challenge until it barely resembles anything people expect.” Lydia tries to cheer her up. “And if that shouting voice was anything to go by, this is not over.”

“Probably.” Jean agrees, not willing to just drop that yes, they are going to have to fight the ancient queen herself soon enough. “But for now, let’s just prime the Legion to expect a surprise while we go grab that axe for Clavicus. Which” he addresses Barbas “I am surprised you are this patient about.”

The dog barks amused. “Nah, this will teach him the danger of kicking his impulse control and patience out. The fact we're this close and still going to take delays is just icing on the cake.”

Getting out of the cave, the group is greeted by the cheers of the legionnaires, as well as captain Sanga’s… well, not smiling, but not scowling either face. “It’s over, I assume.”

“For the cave, at least.” Jean tells her, before stepping closer to speak quieter. “The ritual was broken, but I am afraid they've managed to summon her ghost without binding it. We won’t know until she starts stirring trouble, and the only place she could set anything up is Solitude.”

“I will inform the General.”

“Great. We have an errand to run up north from here but we will turn around immediately just in case trouble starts fast.”

“I will relay that.” She nods grimly before forcing herself to calm down. “And pray you are back fast.”

“I don’t think anyone upstairs listens these days.” Jean jokes, managing a weak smile.

With that, the group moves away from the camp and west, letting Barbas take point as he guides them.

---

For the rest of the day, Paarthurnax and Nahagliiv walk slightly behind the rest of the group, the Greybear whispering to her flushed sister in dovahzul, reverting to Tamrielic only when the words of the dragon language fail to carry her meaning, Nahagliiv nodding and asking quiet questions which only cause the older dragon to laugh and speak more.

Most of the group, perhaps wisely, elects to ignore them, focusing on the road ahead, while Jean and Erin quietly suspect that it might be very much connected to Nahagliiv’s… situation back at the Wolfskull.

As the sun slowly sets, they start looking for the camp for the night. There is a set of stairs leading to a wooden door in the face of the cave which is deemed suspicious enough for Valdimar and Serana to put down a tree in front of it. As they slowly set up the camp, they can hear a roar in the distance. Nahagliiv immediately perks up, only to stop as Paarthurnax puts a hand on her shoulder.

“So far” she says quietly while looking at Jean and Erin “you have had help, one way or another. I would like to see how far your Thu’um came when it comes to facing another dovah alone. As far as two on one can be considered such.” She adds.

“Dovahkiin! In the name of my lord, I Lahdubah challenge your Thu’um against mine! Come and engage in tinvaak!”

The rest of the group shoots Jean and Erin looks. Jean sighs, before nodding. “We can try… Can you tell us anything about that one?” He points at the dragon circling over the patch of forest their camp is in.

Nahagliiv speaks up. “Lahdubah is… kah, proud, to share a Word of his name with Alduin.” Then, she snorts. “And he hates using magic, or fighting it, and his Thu’um tends to counter it.”

Blinking, Jean looks at the dark shape. “Does he… does he realise Thu’um is magic, in a way?”

“Lahdubah is not what you would call smart.” Paarthurnax shakes her head.

Giving Erin a tired look, Jean shakes his head. “Let’s just… get this over with. If we are lucky, it will be over in a shout or two.” Walking out of the woods, the dragon immediately notices them and slowly turns to hover over them, clearly expecting more talk.

“In that case, let me start things off with this,” Erin idly replies before turning to face the dragon, lungs filling with death for the second time today, “DREM DUN LIIV!”

Without expecting the battle to start so suddenly, Lahdubah has no chance to evade the Shout, the force of Wither bringing him down from the skies with earth-shaking force as his scales lose their shine, the fangs and claws dull and crumble and the eyes lose focus.

“What… did you… foul magic...” The dragon can barely summon the energy to speak even as its body degrades further and further in front of their very eyes.

“Now this is just a pitiful sight.” Jean sighs, shaking his head.

“Remind me, what were our respective tallies at?” Erin asks idly, head tilted.

“I have honestly lost track since it has been a while since we had to fight a dragon. We could toss a coin if you like?” He suggests.

“Just kill me… and end this humiliation...” Gasps Lahdubah.

“Fair enough. Sorry, man, but you chose a really bad time to poke us.” Erin would admit to getting a whole lot meaner as a way to vent stress from how they were constantly being bounced all across Skyrim to put out one fire after another. “Fus Dun Vaaz.”

The second Shout rips the body apart, not in the shower of gore and bone shards flying around, but instead simply breaking apart as arteries tear and bones shatter, the corpse just collapsing on itself, even its death being quiet, subdued matter.

Erin clicks her tongue, grumbling quietly, “Leaves a bit of a bad taste in my mouth, but maybe if the world gave us a fucking break I’d be inclined to play nice.”

“I would honestly not hesitate to kill for a warm bed and a week of peace and quiet at this point.” Jean agrees as he observes the dragon’s soul get slurped by Erin’s own.

Leaving the corpse behind, the two of them return to the camp to find a second, smaller camp hidden behind the bushes to the side. Paarthurnax just smiles while the rest of the party gives Erin some distance.

“Excellent work, Erin. Nahagliiv had to be moved, since she… I suppose it would be the best if she explained some things herself. There are things I am ill suited to explain since I lack the experience with them.”

“If you say so.” Jean speaks, worried. Nahagliiv did have some very strong reactions to her Word being used throughout the day, after all. Paarthurnax just hums merrily as they walk over to the other camp.

The first thing they note is Nahagliiv’s armour scattered all over the place, likely lying where it fell after being forcefully tossed to the side. Nahagliiv herself sits under the tree wrapped in the blanket, wriggling around, face completely red as she gasps for air with heavy breaths. Noticing the two of them, she stops moving and instead, smiles. Widely.

Uh oh.

“The first Shout dovah creates” she begins conversationally, “usually uses a word of their own Name. Not all of us. Some Words are… hard to put into Thu’um. But when they are… ghhh… spoken, a dovah notices. And in our true forms… ah, it picks curiosity, or gives the sense of accomplishment when it is used.” She shuts her eyes, before slamming her head into the tree, which groans under the impact. Then she looks at them and continues. “And in this mortal body… It seems it has a more pronounced effect. Slen-paar… the desires of a mortal body run wild when the essence of dovah is stirred when their name is used in Thu’um.”

Jean, unfortunately for his poor heart, and fortunately for another part of him, catches the meaning. “You mean to say that just using your name in a Shout makes you horny?”

Nahagliiv freezes as she considers the comment before relaxing. “Yes. Yes I do. I tried eating this thing away, and it didn’t work. I tried to drown it in blood, and it’s still there.” Then, she throws her blanket away, and pounces, tackling the two of them to the ground, panting. “And now, Dovahkiin, I am going to sate my hunger. I believe the joor call it, ‘taking responsibility.” If possible, her grin only widens.

‘Well, that’s a way to relieve our stress.’ Erin’s mind duly notes before her brainpower is drawn away to far more productive pursuits.