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Chapter Text

The Fallen Vigil

Chapter One: The Beating Path

“It is folly to deny that Daedra are more powerful than Aedra. Yet they know nothing of sacrifice like the Eight do. Still, Daedric worship persists and continues to be the most malevolent force on Nirn; for their zealots believe might itself is reason enough to worship. And they in turn would give anything to be worshiped. We serve others, not ourselves, and that is how Stendarr will prevail over the corruption.”

-Nasius the Candid, Vigilant of Stendarr and Hall Scribe

After our investigation of a supposed necromancer den near Dawnstar turned up empty, I accompanied Tolan back home to the Hall of the Vigilant.

“Granir? Do you think Keeper Carcette will be upset with us?”

I shrug at him “Perhaps, but I’m not going to scour all of Tamriel for one hearsay accusation. Keeper Carcette is a good sort. Remember how she had us lead those orphans to Riften after their parents perished in a cultist raid? Besides, we have more important things to worry about.”

He raised an eyebrow “Like dragons?”

I bellowed with laughter at that. Finally I collect myself enough to answer:

“Gods no! You heard the greybeards shout earlier? That’s their problem now. We just need to focus on undead, daedra, and all other manner of abominations. Simple! I’m more worried about the earful about shirking our duties from Nasius.”

That seemed to satisfy his questions. Good, he’s been cagey this entire wild horker chase.

We trudge uphill with bitter Skyrim winds keeping us awake through the exhaustion. Luckily we had the good sense to pack the nice hood with the fur tuft on the inside.

“It’s starting to get dark. Don’t you think we should make camp?” Tolan asks.

I consider his words before replying “We’re close. If we push on we’ll have our bellies full of mead by a warm fire. Let’s power through.”

Tolan gives me a hesitant nod. He is hunched over his pack trying to reach for a torch when a bolt of light strikes him in the back with a loud crack. Tolan yelps while I cackle mischievously, my hand extended and glowing.

“By the Nine! Warn me next time!” he shrilly shrieks.

The mage light sticks to Tolan's balding head before hovering above him.

I raise my hands in mock surrender. “Didn’t want you to waste a torch now. Plus we of all people should know to be ever vigilant.”

The humorless Vigilant ignores me for the next hour.

Our route goes from being cobbled to dirt as it progressively takes us off the main road. In the distance, a loud roar is heard to the east. I motion Tolan to stay low as we carefully approach.

As we’re passing underbrush we hear shouting close by “You remind me of my cousin’s cat. Killed that too!”.

A Khajiit caravan is being ambushed by a fallen tree. A cart is tipped over and beginning to burn. One Khajiit is lying face down in the mud. Another is bleeding clutching their stomach against a stone.

A large figure in Nordic carved armor with a steel horned helm is wielding a battleaxe, preparing to cleave a disoriented Khajiit bodyguard in half. Not having time to close the distance, I drop my mace in favor of using both hands to drive ice spikes into the bandit's spine. When in doubt, always cast ice spike. One goes wide and the other hits his hip.

“Watch out! He’s right behind you!” Tolan yells redundantly to the Khajiit.

“Let me worry about the bandit. You see if you can help the wounded.” I snap at him.

How can one bandit cause this much devastation? Surely if the ambush was sprung more would have popped out by now. There’s simply no time to wonder about that. I charge as fast as I can toward the bandit still focused on the ice spike inside him. I throw a familiar spell to my side as I sprint. A howl echoes through the night. The armored Khajiit recovers and attempts to counterattack with a slash from his sword. Unfortunately, he only manages to land a superficial blow at the bandit's leg. The bandit unleashes a guttural battle cry before smashing into the Khajiit’s shield causing a large split. Barely able to dislodge the shield from the axe, the bodyguard is wide-eyed and backing away. It’s clear he was shaken by the battle cry.

I throw my hand down and my bound sword appears ready to cut into the lowlife. My familiar arrives first leaping to the back-turned bandit jaws wide; only to be obliterated in one swing of the ax. Too late to stop my momentum, I try to reach past his defenses. My blows are connecting, but the armor is preventing anything vital from being struck.

“Tolan! I was wrong. I need your support!” I shout without breaking eye contact with the enemy ahead.

That’s when the enemy wraps the handle behind my head and locked me in place. Unable to stop the pain I know is approaching, I prime the healing spell in my empty hand. Steel collided against my bare forehead, followed by skin repairing itself only to be bludgeoned again. And again. An ouroboros of pure agony. I keep casting, feeling the last reserves of energy faltering as I’m unable to cast anymore. I’m turning into pulp against his helm, only standing because the bandit is holding me into place. When he suddenly stops. A steel sword is coming out of his chest.

I use the opportunity to cast healing on myself once, while using my other hand to drive the bound sword deep between his neck and shoulder. There’s a meaty twist as the sword wears off shortly after. The bandit buckles screaming one more time before releasing a pitiful whimper as he joins his victims in the mud. It matters not. I feel no pity.

I spit out blood on his corpse as I uncork a healing potion, unwilling to wait for my vitality to regenerate. My face was a ruin, my hood now a bloody rag. Thank the Eight for the Restoration School.

“Took your sweet time Tolan.” I looked up to see not Tolan, but the Khajiit I thought was running away.

The large cat replies “Khajiit does not know who this Tolan is, but a sweet time this was not. Khajiit owes you a great thanks.” I wince uncomfortably.

“It was no problem. Happy to help. I’m assuming your name’s not Khajiit. I’m Nelar Granir. When I’m not banishing monstrosities I’m apparently getting destroyed by illiterate bandits.”

The hulking feline smiles toothily “This one is right, I am Kharjo and I-”

Tolan crashes, a bloody heap between us. Jumping with a startle, I see a frost troll… in armor? What a damn fool I was. I thought the roar was from this rampaging nord. Idiot.

I shout at the beast “I don’t know how you figured out to wear armor and I don’t fucking care at the moment.”

I raise my hands summoning a flame atronach behind the troll beating its chest while losing a fireball of my own to the creature's groin. A horrible cry escapes the beast as metal melds to flesh, it keels in on itself nursing the wound before arching its back from the force of a firebolt to its back. This flanking with my atronach is providing precious time for those wounded Khajiit that Tolan helped to limp out of harm's way. I uncork a Potion of Restore Magicka as Kharjo drops his sword in favor of a bow losing iron arrows into the now charging beast.

Despite the unrelenting assault from all sides, the beast's wounds are already stitching, except the burns. It raises its brawny arms to bludgeon me. I have no choice but to brace myself. Casting a healing spell along with stone flesh. If I did not heal myself, I would no doubt be troll shit by the next morning. Still not optimistic about my chances, I stand like a statue beneath not a chisel but a warhammer. To my surprise, I now find myself tumbling out of the way. Kharjo shoved me sideways, once again dropping his weapon, except he now holds his armored fists up hissing at the troll.

The bloody mad cat just slugged the frost troll's jaw causing a loud crack sound and even more impressively, it was effective! The troll swings with one arm hitting the Khajiit back. Kharjo seemed to lean into the blow and somehow cushion some of the impact. As the other arm is about to hit, the Troll staggers in pain from yet another firebolt from my atronach. Kharjo doesn’t hesitate, putting all his strength into a straight palm strike to the beast's throat. I could swear I saw his claws protrude from the fingers of the gauntlet during the attack. The brutish thing gasps, unable to breathe. It hits itself on the throat trying vainly to take breath, but unknowingly stopping itself from its own regenerating abilities. It’s a slow death until my atronach and I release a firebolt in unison causing the beast to propel many feet in the air while careening off the mountainside. A fading horrible gurgle echoing in the wind. I pop my knee back into place and cast all the healing I can on Tolan.

Lucky bastard’s still kicking. Once he’s breathing less raggedly, I allow myself to collapse and laugh. “Can somebody please tell me how a bandit enlisted a damn armored troll into its company? I mean seriously!”

Kharjo collapses next to me panting as well “All I know is. I would pay much to have one of those help me guard the caravan. Assuming it knows what side it’s on, yes.” We share a laugh at that.

Kharjo graciously allows us to camp together. With the approval of Ahkari, the caravan leader of course; looking much better thanks to Tolan’s hard work. Although Tolan was sure to give me an earful about how he could’ve sworn he had a flea jump on him while healing the wounded. I am lucky that my unamused glare deterred him from sharing his theory with our allies. However, this gesture of good will is clearly not just gratitude, as while they have night vision, Skyrim also comes to life at night. There is nothing quite like that unspoken primordial knowledge about the safety in numbers to bring people of vastly different backgrounds together.

I do not usually loot the dead, but vultures like this are an exception. I dawn the Nordic armor set, but decide to keep my hood. The bandit also had a couple of smaller healing potions along with a couple hundred gold. I took enough for an emergency and gave the lion's share to the Khajiit. They likely need it more than I do. There’s also a hastily scribbled note:

“Will you just trust me? You swollen hagraven! I’m not being scammed. This Gunmar fella is willing to sell me an armored troll. More muscle and less of a cut than merc’s who we’d just have to kill for their share later anyway. Course he thinks I’m just a nice hunter looking for some help in these harsh wilds. He ain’t worth robbing so don’t ask. Don’t be a meddler. Go back to our spot, Gnarled Root cave. No shortcuts through the swamp and buy a damn horse. We can afford it. Don’t be a septum pincher either! Take a carriage to Morthal before you buy the horse. It’s easier on your feet. Once I hit a couple more caravans we can lie low until people forget our faces. Then we can stop drinking rancid mead and maybe work at Morthal’s lumber yard. Or just aimlessly patrol the hold like that buffoon Benor. Seems to be working for him. Member when you knocked that milk drinker on his ass when he tried to brawl you? You were glorious! Maybe ol’ Trollvahkiin here can help you next time! Bah, I’m terrible at names, that’s why you get to name the little one. I… *scribble* listen *scribble* You know I’m no good with words. Just please be careful. I’m going to hit this caravan I’ve been tracking and get this letter to the next courier I see. Then straight to our spot. I will see you again soon my love. I wonder what names you’ve come up with by now. Yours always, Sighmore the Kitten-Stomper.”

I don’t know how to process this note. I was wrong. Certainly literate. Kharjo and I take shifts while the less… formidable of us rest and recover. Tolan is up now, mostly healed, but favoring vegetable soup over the harder foods.

To my shame, I was once wary of all Khajiit. Like many that inhabit this place. They’re often banned from holds for fear of letting vagrants, thieves, or worse skooma peddlers into their community. However, Vigilants live quite similarly to these nomadic cats.

It’s one of Skyrim's greater injustices that they’re never given the chance to show that they can be more than others' fears and prejudice.

“Hey Kharjo, that necklace you’re fondling, it’s nice. Got some sentimental value to you?” Briefly taken aback by someone noticing, he grins sheepishly before puffing his chest in pride.

“Yes doubly so. See the moon amulet was given to me twice. Once as a cub by my mother. Then again by a friend returning it to me from bandits.” sighing wistfully he adds “I hope they are in warm sands. Away from all this”

I ask rhetorically to no one in particular: “They just never stop, do they?” I motion towards the direction of our previous skirmish.

“They really really don’t.” Kharjo nods his head in agreement.

He proceeds to tell me about this mighty Khajiit Dragonborn that he met. Apparently, they could shout dragons to the ground, shatter bandits into ice, and control time as they cut through enemies like chaff. Culling vampire lairs, draugr tombs, and dragon priest temples with ease.

Before getting ambushed by a bandit and his trusty armored troll, I’d call the story far-fetched. I suppose it was an enlightening experience in unlikely events. I’m struck by how thick the admiration is in the bodyguard's retelling of the story. I’m not sure if it’s because of all the Dragonborn has done for them, their powers, or that a Khajiit, who this land’s people treat like fleas, is destined to save us from the world-eating dragon.

Sounds like they’re no friend of vampires either. Good news for us and Isran down south. I can’t help but wonder if Keeper Carcette dismissed his warning too rashly. He didn’t help his case by coming in like a raving madman and calling us blinder than the Falmer. How did this rift between us grow so large? Carcette and Isran used to share meals and fight side by side. Now it’s hard to imagine the two sharing a room. So many of his men were infected with Sanguinaire Vampiris. We saved them from that fate asking nothing in return. If we weren’t so swift curing them the only other cure would be the mace. We had some of our patrols disappear in the Pale. Fenric mentioned something about searching for them because of a life debt. I hope he is careful. I fear what Skyrim would turn into without us.

Lost in thought we all sit close to the fire. Tolan has started speaking to me again. He thinks I should’ve listened to him earlier and camped. He was right. I shudder to think about that bandit feeding the Khajiit caravan to his troll. No, this was the better outcome despite the pain. He must know that.

As I’m taking the last watch before morning comes, I hear moaning from one of the bedrolls. I think it’s their caravan leader, Ahkari. I’m prepared to conveniently patrol the other side of the camp while avoiding seeing something I don’t want to; when I notice it is moans of pain. Grabbing my mind out of the gutter, I cast candlelight and opened the bedroll. Her breath is ragged as she clutches her stomach. Something writhes under her clothes. I pull up the robe to expose the stomach. Gutworm. One of the foul parasites peeks out of her fur. It must have been from the troll. I suppose Peryite to a lesser extent as well. The others have stirred and gathered close now. Dro'marash, another bodyguard, gasps at the sight.

Kharjo snaps into action rummaging through their packs, their stock. With panic in his voice, he cries out. “No, no this cannot be. Where is the cure potion?”

Dro’marash’s eyes swell as he looks at Kharjo. “A passing adventurer bought her whole stock and sold us necromancer robes and enchanted jewelry. It’s gone. She’s…” he doesn’t finish the sentence. Kharjo curses throwing a Circlet of Archery in the dirt.

Why are they so upset? Gutworm takes a while to kill even if untreated; they just need to visit an alchemist in Dawnstar. They act like this is a death sentence. What a fool I am. No hold would allow them in. Still don’t they know that Vigilants will help anyone in need? We have always helped the sick and rid them of disease. Have they met other Vigilants that have refused to help them out of prejudice? Perhaps they didn’t even seek it, assuming we’d rather watch them suffer.

Not wanting to draw out their premature grief, I put nearly all my energy into casting cure disease. Effectively deworming the Khajiit.

“Stendarr’s light purify you of your ills.” I chant slowly. After a deep inhale, Ahkari sighs in relief.

“You healed Khajiit? How much will this cost us?”

I sputter out a surprised laugh “Why would I charge you?” The entire caravan looks at me like I suddenly turned into a mammoth-sized mudcrab.

Eventually, they accepted my good intentions and thanked me profusely. Insisting I pick from their wares to take. Tired of refusing, I finally settled on a couple of items. A silver sapphire circlet and a silver ring. I sense the Circlet will let me use alteration spells with greater ease. The ring will let me resist the cold. Tolan grabs a prize for himself too, an... Amulet of Stendarr. As if we didn’t have enough of those. I swear next assignment I’m taking a goat instead. We depart the caravan wishing each other a safe journey. Kharjo pats my shoulder.

“Anytime you ask, Khajiit will guard your back.” I can’t help but smile and nod at my new friend as Tolan and I continue back home.

The Hall of the Vigilants is now just a mere hill away. To the east, I see an Orc in the distance standing over a rabbit riddled with a comical amount of bolts. The Orc is bloodied badly, a crossbow slung on his back. As if the sight wasn’t strange enough, below him there is a figure wearing hide armor and an iron helm. She’s jumping up the steep cliff. Not once, but repeatedly and it’s… working. I’m practically catching flies at the sight when Tolan stands in front of me.

“No more distractions. We stick to the path.” For once I agree with him.

“Let’s go, this is a silly place.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Two: The Wicked and the Restless

“Life is a trial we all must endure. If not to overcome these struggles, then to spite those who cause them.”

-Matuk the Axe-Herald

Finally, we crest the hill only to see ruin. The Hall of the Vigilant is dilapidated and the stables are burning. It takes all my strength not to succumb to my grief right then and there. To weep into the snow and allow it to engulf me. It’s still burning. There may be time to help survivors! Uncharacteristically brash, I run headlong to the entrance. The stables once filled with loyal steeds now only fills the air with the stench of their waste and charred carcasses. There’s a Vigilant collapsed in front of the door, all their blood staining the wooden steps and snow crimson. It’s Rikksla, she once exposed a coven trying to terrorize Rorikstead. By Stendarr, if someone as mighty as she has fallen then… No, I can't leave here. Not yet. I don’t know what evil has besieged us, but they will pay. We will rebuild. I hear… laughing. Laughing? Not only that clapping and someone sobbing. I can’t afford half measures. I cast iron flesh and summon a storm atronach. Tolan summons a fire atronach and fills me with courage. Uncorking a magicka potion, I summon two bound swords. We walk into utter depravity. Burnt Vigilants impaled on wooden spikes. Two more dead Vigilants lie on the ground skin tight around their skeletons, drained completely. Junis and Karamu; they had children. At a long table three master vampires and a fledgling drink goblets of my friend's blood. Nasius is being held over one of the goblets by the fledgling. My mentor stares at me with a profound sadness. The sage of our order filled only with kindness now stands beaten and degraded.

He rasps at me “They are too powerful, you must fle-!”

A death hound tears open his throat to fill a raised goblet. Long fingernails tapping impatiently waiting for it to fill. The lead vampire, unphased by my interruption, waits for it to fill, swirls the goblet, and breathes deeply its aroma as if it were of the finest vintage before taking a restrained sip. Then she sloshes it about slowly before swallowing it and letting out the most exaggerated contented sigh. As if she were savoring our trauma more than her need for blood. Her face is all angles and disdain. An unnatural beauty that distracts from glowing amber eyes. She is in gray vampire armor and an ashen cloak off her shoulders cascading down her back. A jade emerald circlet emanates power off of her brow. She has long golden hair styled into braids. She is less pale than her allies. I would not know what she is if not for my dead friends at her feet.

Nasius struggles to hold on to life for a precious few moments. His eyes wide trying to hold my gaze. He’s mouthing his warning, practically chanting for us to run, yet unable to force the sound to come out. With no consideration whatsoever the fledgling tosses my dear friend into a wooden beam and motions for the two deathhounds to eat. They do. As if this were not enough to forever stain this sanctuary of Stendarr’s, as if it were not enough to break the spirit and minds of the most devout, I see what these abominations were laughing at. Keeper Carcette faces away from us toward the vampires. Wearing only bite marks, dancing like a jester. I cannot comprehend it. I cannot move. They must be exerting some sort of control over us all. Tears well in my eyes. Tolan is praying between sobs. I can’t move. I can’t blink. “Carcette you have to resist. We must escape.” I cry out.

Only then does her ceaseless dancing stop. She does not turn around until the leader makes an arcane gesture. She approaches their table before turning directly at me with a gazeless stare. Her eyes gouged out. My tears will not stop as I wail. How can this much cruelty be possible? “Now Carcette, would you kindly top off their glasses?” their mistress coos.

She motions to the other vampires; Carcette trudges toward the first goblet, grabs a knife from the table, and slits her wrist. Fills it, walks to the next, and does the same with the opposite wrist. The leader makes a stifled cough. Carcette moves ever so slowly toward the sound. Goblet raised, she slits her own throat. The fledgling, too bloodthirsty, latches onto the wound as the goblet fills. The leader recoils in disgust. Not at their atrocities, but the lack of decorum. Impotent rage consumes my entire being.

“I say Venarus! You act like a savage in front of our dear guests! You give our kind a bad name. Even our hounds are more behaved!” the leader chides.

The fledgling wipes its lips of blood with undoubtedly Carcette’s robe. “Apologies, Master Rumaria. I feel deeply ashamed.”

This Rumaria performs a tsk tsk sound before saying “As you should! Now… well damn. It seems my power is wearing off. Will be some time before I can cast that again. Gilvud, Razyn you’ll have to dominate the slaves the old-fashioned way. Do try and take them alive; our lair does lack amenities.”

The two vampire masters sit up and as if on cue, chain lightning ricochets off one and then the other. A fireball smacks into one of the death hounds. The death hound crashes through the wall, exposing the building to the elements as fire spreads. If the burning didn’t kill it the impact did. With a yawn, Rumaria leans back and sips deeply of her blasphemous wine. We are not their playthings. We are not their slaves. We are not under their control. I say this mantra over and over. If not out of outrage then to focus on anything other than the despair. All of this races through my mind as my body propels toward the nearest enemy with renewed freedom. A flurry of bound blades ends the nearest death hound. Maw still covered in my family. Threat down, I immediately head towards the next. A lightning bolt passes inches from my face. Not my atronach, but Tolan joining the fray. It hits the one called Gilvud in his face eliciting a scowl. Razyn clearly anxious by our sudden momentum casts a spell on… Nasius. As he rises I change my directory from Gilvud to Razyn. Hatred scorching whatever mercy remains in my soul.

I feel seven inches of steel enter my side for this idiotic maneuver. Gilvud no doubt. I just don’t care anymore. I yell not in pain, but in frenzy, as I slice into Razyn’s stomach. With my other bound sword, I chop into her shoulder like an unhinged lumberjack. Her right arm is useless after dropping her mace. This piece of shit took Karamau’s mace. Nasius stuck with the same heartbroken expression pulls out his own mace and lurches toward me. With her only useful hand, red mist erupts draining my vitality to restore hers. I feel lightheaded. My body begs me to submit to lie down. Let it end. Her shoulder slowly stitches before getting hit by a lightning bolt from my atronach. Fire erupts through the whole building. Razyn turns to ash in moments. Along with Nasius. May he find Stendarr’s peace he was denied this life. My friend only knew how to extend advice and warmth wherever he went. He deserved so much more than this. Tolan’s fire atronach must have perished.

I see in my periphery the cursing fledgling patting out flames on his chest while wielding an orcish axe before turning to me. Gilvud drops his dagger and that all too familiar red mist shrouds me. This is how Junis and Karamau died. Muscles deteriorating, blood emptying, everything that made them, them, siphoned into these fucking leeches. I feel bolts in my back. Of course, this is how it ends I think at the impact. However, I do not freeze or burn. In fact, I feel Stendarr coursing through my being. He wants me to avenge them. He wants me to crush these parasites and spit in Molag Bal’s eye. No, it is not him. Tolan must have cast healing and courage on me. I still feel the presence of death upon me. It will have to do.

The storm atronach hits Gilvud with lightning in the thigh. Interrupting Gilvud’s spell. His leg spasms, buckling to one knee, I can tell he’s out of energy. Cursing, Gilvud grabs Karamau’s mace. The sheer audacity. They have not earned it! I bring both swords up to lop off the fiend's head. When I get knocked over by the fledgling, Venarus. I feel punctures, he used a spiked shield. Still landing on the hardwood floor, I feel a serrated axe pierce my Nordic armor gutting me. Everything freezes. No, not again. Anything else, not this! This isn’t magic. He poisoned me. I recover, but not before getting bashed to the ground once again. I am not long for this world. Gilvud skulked over to Tolan mace in toll. My last friend in this sodding world is going to die in front of me. Make it quick. Please. Do not let him suffer too.

I do not see Tolan die, in fact, I witness Gilvud shrieking as his body is flung into the wooden beam from earlier. Burning in holy light. The beam shatters and the roof collapses on Gilvud. The fire has consumed most of the hall by now. He must have used Sun Fire. Thank the gods he was able to learn that spell. I would do anything for that knowledge now. Tolan must have released another healing spell on me. Bless him. The storm atronach prepares to unleash chain lightning. We can overcome these monsters. They are immortal, not gods. Smiling with indignant glee I prepare to embrace eternity knowing if I fall from the lightning so will Venarus. I pin his foot with one hand and stab his armpit with the other. Before I exploit the lack of armor, my blades vanish. Brothers and sisters, I will see you all soon. I will weep in joy and embrace you all in whatever awaits us.

The lightning never comes. I blink stupidly as Rumaria towers over us shielding the spell with one hand extended as a ward. The other hand releases a wall of flames toward Tolan and my atronach. The atronach simply no longer exists. As if this was all a maddening nightmare. I’d awake hungover in my cot, laughing it all off. Tolan is burned horribly. Death is near him.

I shout at Tolan “Go to the fort. Find Isran!”

Tolan has already ran out of the Hall of the Vigilant. I do not know if he even heard me or remembered I was still alive. Her eyes narrow, and she looks back at her dead allies.

All mirth and theatrics gone from her voice: “Unworthy. Come Venarus, let's have these two hunt each other.”

My hand grips her ankle with all the pathetic pressure I can muster. She is not taking him too. My hand goes immediately numb. She has a frost cloak on.

Still, I hold. “Stendarr’s mercy be upon you bitch. For I have none!”

Venarus is remarkably fast and clears the worst of the upcoming blast zone. Giving the most defiant stare I can muster, I dual cast fireball through my hands point blank.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three: The Undeath March

“Power is all that exists. The strongest wills bend and loyalty becomes obsolete. Dominate everything and destroy what you cannot. Become the tyrant or the stain beneath the heel”

- Karsdmir Elder Priest of Molag Bal

If only it was a stronger spell. It was foolish to think it would be enough. Then and only then I might have turned to ash. You can't influence ash. Or bend it to someone’s unholy will. You can't even use necromancy on it. No, it would eventually dissipate into the wind; forgotten, but undisturbed. What are the point of gods that either ignore your prayers or are too weak to do anything about them?

My feigning of unconsciousness is foiled by a rasping involuntary cough. My eyes flutter, my skin should be marred in burns; it is not. Venarus scowls at me in disgust with the campfire amplifying the Imperial’s cruel visage. Unlike Rumaria, it is obvious what he is. Sickly pale, wispy white hair, even his face is animalistic, and bright amber eyes stare through me. How? How did I not succumb to injury? Or even scarring? As if seeing the confusion on my face, embers erupt from the fire as a yellow book is engulfed. They found our restoration bookshelf. Why? Why did they not leave me? Despite being close to the fire I shiver. I’m wearing a roughspun tunic and nothing else. My feet touch bare snow as I try to sit up. Pain wracks my chin as Rumaria knees my jaw and stomps down on my chest.

“Cattle, I did not say you can get up. Do not worry you’ll be home soon.” she says sweetly.

Venarus drawls out a petulant whine “Rumaria we have plenty of cattle at home. Why bring him with us? He will only slow us down.”

He seems more formidable than before. His green tunic gone, he now wears dark light armor that seems to drip with opulence, his new orcish axe by his hip. The bastard is right, I'm a liability even as a servant.

Rumaria’s eyes narrow while pinning me to the tundra. “Just because you’re a nightstalker now doesn’t mean you aren’t expendable. I knew Gilvud for a century. He served me well but got sloppy. Do not become sloppy Venarus. As for this-“ She applies more pressure on my chest cavity and elicits a pitiful groan from me for emphasis “it’s a trophy. Granted, Carcette would have made a better one, but it was worth it. Keepers do make for the finest vintage.”

I attempt to curse at her, but I think my ribs are broken. I start coughing blood as my chest cavity starts to collapse. She waits for me to cough blood before sighing and casting heal other on me.

The rest of the morning I spent lying low. Eyes to the ground quiet as a skeever. I listen to the vampires bicker amongst themselves. I overheard several words “Redwater”, “Riften” and “Solitude” none of it coherent. I consider escaping, but with my hands bound, no armor, and no weapons it would be suicide. Finally, they acknowledge my existence. Rumaria approaches without conscious thought I flinch. This results in a smirk and an expression that mimics sympathy.

She squats down and strokes my cheek. I briefly consider biting her hand, damning the consequences. “Now, I understand your concern. I must seem awfully cruel. I am. But there are other facets of myself. I can be downright agreeable in the right company. Let me be a kind master.” She lifts my chin forcing me to meet her gaze. Something isn’t right, this isn’t-

As she looks deep into my eyes I see that this tragic beauty has endured much hardship. She must be a daughter of coldharbour. There’s no other explanation. How else can someone lose their compassion and trust in everything? There’s so much sadness in her eyes. It’s all a front isn’t it? Cruelty is just a tool to deter us from hunting them. Classic fear tactics, it reminds me of my time in the Legion. Horrible, but efficient. What’s done is done, but maybe I can help her be better? Our order is sworn to hunt their kind down. She defended herself and went too far. That’s it. There must be good in her.

My lips mouth “I understand”. I see past her smirk to a contagious smile. She clutches my hands and despite being undead I feel her warmth.

She whispers back “I know you really do. Thank you.”

She unbinds me and even returns my equipment. Her kindness and sincerity nearly moves me to tears. I can fix her. We march for what feels like mere minutes, but the climate suggests we are near Ivarstead. I must have lost myself in our conversation. We exchanged our past, and talked about our hopes, and our values. Even Venarus seems swayed by my words. We can find a cure. I can convince them to seek Falion. They don’t need to keep living like this. Fearing that one day they’ll find their coffin won’t open and they’ll feel torches burning them to vampire dust.

We hear noises from the main road and quickly lower into the underbrush. My new friends look toward the torch fire with an uncontrollable hunger. A trio of vigilants stand over scattered bones.

I whisper to Rumaria “There’s no more need for bloodshed. You can both have me instead. You can feed on me.”

She looks at me perplexed and the full weight of what I’m offering softens her. She nods and motions for us to stalk away and leave them alone. Fate has another plan as I bumble, stepping on a twig.

An alerted voice utters “Someone there?”

I hear along with the sound of unsheathing weapons. Exposed, I quickly put myself between the vampires and vigilants.

“Wait. Please, you don't understand. They aren’t the monsters you think they are. Just let us go.” Utter confusion warps into contempt on their faces.

“You defend these vile creatures? You are beyond hope.” he spits at me. He raises a silver sword and I parry with a bound blade.

“Please stop. Stop this madness. We can cure them. We can cure them all!” I desperately shout.

As if on cue he slashes down with all his might as I parry again. “This is the cure you damn fool!” he grits between his teeth.

Rumaria and Venarus each face a vigilant. I beg them not to kill the vigilants. One charges Venarus intent on caving his head in with a mace. Venarus is too swift and to my surprise disarms him. There are people beneath their dead flesh. Rumaria with ease elbows the other vigilant in the nose knocking them prone. They writhe trying to staunch the blood. Disarmed and overwhelmed the vigilant summons a fire atronach and runs. With ease, they dispatch the atronach and subdue the wounded vigilant.

“Don’t you see they could have killed him but they- but they-” I sputter disoriented.

I feel nauseous and like I’ve lost time. My eyes flutter blurry. I see the vigilant in front of me. He’s slackjawed and his sword is lying in the snow. My sword. My sword is... inside his gut. No, that can’t be. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. He forces me to make eye contact dragging himself further through the sword.

He rasps “Why? Why brother?!”

Before coughing blood over my horrified expression. I don’t understand. He slumps forward his forehead buried in my shoulder. The bound sword fades and he slides down my chest into the snow. I don’t move. I could, but I don’t. We were just talking. I didn’t.

But you did and most important you did it well. This is because you are mighty and he was not. He was no match for you. This voice in my head it’s not my own. It can’t be.

Yet it is.

Minutes pass staring at nothing, I did not know these vigilants but I’ve seen their faces before. After today, I’m certain I will never stop seeing them. I hear the gnawing of flesh and the siphoning of neck behind me. She did something to me. They aren’t paying attention. I could try to kill them. No, I’m too weak. I could try to run. No, they would capture me. There’s only one thing I can do. I look at my victim. For them, I have to do it. I reach for the silver sword. I place it against my throat.

No! You still think you are in control here? We’re not done yet. If we were it was all for nothing! You’re being selfish. Cowardly even!

I ignore this traitor inside my mind, but my body will not listen. The arm will not draw back, the silver won’t touch my neck.

I hear laughter “Mistress, I told you he’d break!”

Rumaria smirks shaking her head “You are mistaken. I haven’t ordered him to break yet.” She gently touches my arm as I stand there trying to end this maddening existence. “Darling, oh darling, it’s not time yet. Do not worry. You’ll be the first to know when it is. Just like Keeper Carcette.” Then she breaks my arm at the elbow, I release a soundless scream. I fall, shoulder cushioning the impact on stone as my head follows. I hear a dull ringing. I am dragged as I fade in and out of consciousness.

Brief lapses of lucidity I hear them bicker. Their voices hush and I hear slaughter and whinnying. It lasted seconds. Eventually, I’m hauled and thrown in the back of the wagon. The wind is knocked out of me and I’m sure to have more bruises. I roll to face the back and see the bodies. They must have been farmer or merchants. They weren’t even armored!

Unsolicited I hear that vile voice again: The fools thought they could travel without muscle or armaments? They were not strong enough to deserve life in the first place. They make better wormfeeders than farmers.

I hit myself in the head repeatedly. Quiet! Quiet! That is not how I think. Not how I feel. They deserved so much better. Stendarr’s mercy, Venarus is right. I’m going mad.

We only deserve what we can take. You aren’t mad enough the voice says.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four: Came Out as an Insect

“Those who have known hardship do not fear darkness. Rather they fear the brief moments of peace and silence. That impending dread that sits heavy in the pit of their stomach.”

-Legate Tactus Rilanis of the Imperial Legion

Time has little meaning to me now. My stomach growls, refusing to let me sleep. I begin to pick myself off the ground of my cell. I pause seeing my reflection in a filthy puddle. My short brown hair and neatly trimmed beard are no more. It’s as if I’ve aged a decade. How long have I been here? My hair is now a disheveled gray mane, my beard long and unkempt. My tanned skin has turned to a ghastly pale color and is riddled with scars. My blue eyes are now gaunt and bloodshot. Any excess weight I had is gone, I only have enough muscle to mine for these sadists wearing the skin of men and mer.

It’s hideous. Look away, neither of us should have to see that wretch. I fumble around the dark accustomed to ignoring the voice.

The only light being the familiar dim purple fog exiting the vats of skooma. I reached into the wooden tray for whatever rations they gave me today. Two pieces of bread, I can hardly believe my luck; twice the usual rations and there isn’t any sign of mold on them? I bite into the stale bread enthusiastically. If I close my eyes, it’s like I’m back feasting at the Hall. My joy is quickly dashed as I feel an unexpected crunch. Nearly choking, I cough out the carapace of an insect. Snag-weevils, of course it couldn’t have just been bread.

As if we couldn’t use the protein. Our skin looks clung so tight to our ribs that we’ll get stretch marks.

“My skin. My Ribs. My stretch marks!”

Are we still keeping up with this pretense? We are one.

I would take any cellmate over this parasite in my head.

Venarus has risen considerably from the thuggish fledgling in the Hall of the Vigilant. Rumaria left shortly after escorting me to this cesspool now known as Redwater Den. Initially it was just a burned house with a collapsed basement, but after all this time in servitude, we have excavated this into a profitable den and lair for our masters.

Our excavation team focused on mining to the West. Whether we are expanding the den for more slave quarters or “guest rooms” is a mystery. We often hear the Nords screaming from the tunnels north. They like keeping Nord slaves separate from the other races to avoid excessive infighting. Even under the undead menace, we find ways to bicker amongst ourselves. Slaves sent there are rarely seen again. Those returned are often mangled and swiftly discarded to the kennel master. Whatever they found down there should never have been unearthed. I heard rumors that there was a tunnel collapse, supposedly casualties were heavy. I can’t figure out what Venarus’s true intentions are. For Divine's sake he went from decimating the center of all Vigilants in Skyrim to running a petty skooma operation? It just doesn’t make sense, even if it is a source of docile and dependent cattle.

I still try to pray to Stendarr, but same as that day my world was shattered, I know he does not listen.

But others might. Yet you waste our precious breath trying to curry favor with a feeble god with even feebler followers.

“That is not the point.” I grit to the voice.

There is never a point to praying. Focus on how to survive. Look for opportunities to escape. No god will save you. Your dependance on them disgusts me.

“Don’t you mean us? And what do you mean escape? Where have you seen an opportunity to escape? Hmm? Khajiit got your tongue? That’s what I thought you piece of- ”

“Breton!” a sluggish voice yells from outside my cell. I involuntary cower into the corner blocking my head and stomach from the incoming blows. Glaubros unlocks my cell and enters with a sneer, clearly annoyed by my lack of response. When he sees me on the ground a shrill laughter fills the air. This spindly wood elf covered in moon sugar was a slave a mere month or so ago. How quickly he’s forgotten after being turned. He is Venarus’s token pet and right hand. Supposed “proof” that if a slave works hard enough (or in his case, spies enough or snitches enough to his masters) then they too can earn the “gift” of immortality. Rumor has it that Glaubros was a wealthy merchant that got abducted on his way to Windhelm. Wood elves I always found were particularly hard to read; with those pitch black enigmatic eyes. The unholy amber glare illuminates the backbiter Glaubros always was underneath the surface. No longer amused, he drags me by my mangy hair and throws me out of my hole.

“Time to earn your keep, welp. Meet the other slaves at the north passage. Hurry, unless you want the lash.” he emphasizes by kicking me in the back. I nearly stumbled, but managed to catch myself, grabbing a pickaxe while looking at my feet as I headed north.

Hurry! He can break us like we are noth-

I crash into another slave. Muroza, towers like a tree over me. She’s a broad shouldered orc, abducted from a nearby stronghold. Despite these horrid conditions, she stands a pillar of might.

“Relax, can’t have you running out of breath before we even reach the mine.”

We can’t linger.

Seeing the wisdom in that, I mutter an apology attempting to leave the interaction. She holds me in place with a firm arm around my shoulder. “Slow down and walk with me.”

Avoiding conflict has been intertwined with my very being at this point. It’s an instinct as natural as breathing. We walk in silence for several moments.

“When I first saw you, I thought you were just another weakling. Despite what I’ve heard recently, I still see a weakling. Cringing at his own shadow.” she says dressing me down.

Always the brash and inexperienced that break first. When the full extent of our situation sinks in, then she’ll see her hubris. Well? Are you going to just take this?

She’s provoking me, I’m not going to play her game.

At least it’s on your own terms I suppose.

When I don’t take the bait she sighs. “I heard you were a Vigilant. Aren’t you sick of bowing to vampire scum? Don’t you want to fight back? Vigilant’s aren’t this pitiful. Listen, together we could change things, I need you to remember how-” she gets cut off by a raspy hiss from the scaffolding above us.

“Vigilant?”

“Yes, we’re going to the northern passage. We should all remember to be vigilant. As should nosey skeevers like you be walks-in-dung.”

“It is Stalks-In-Muck, but you already know that. Skeever? No, I am a great Argonian, and soon the masters will make me into something even greater!”

Contempt covers Muroza’s face like a warpaint.

“You’re insane. You’ve seen how they treat non-mer, have you ever seen an Argonian vampire? No? Not even a Khajiit vampire? There’s a reason! You’re a beast to them.”

Stalks-In-Muck shimmies down the wooden beams and lands in the torch light. The Argonian is rather muscular despite his small frame. Sleek albino scales adorn his body with random streaks of red paint. His green eyes are always searching and wanting. At first I feared bloodshed would be exchanged. Instead he smiles and observes me as if trying to peer deep into another fellow demented soul.

“Oh you will come to see it our way sister. Soon. This one here knows what I speak of. We all start off just like you. Soon you will see.”

He’s onto you two. Whatever she’s planing we can have no part of. Tread lightly.

No longer safe to speak freely, we walk through the northern slave quarters. The cell doors are all swung open. Stalks-In-Muck is the first to recall the significance of this signal. These belongings aren’t of any use to the owners anymore. The lizard pushes past us, gleefully rummaging through a dead man’s quarters.

“Stop that! Robbing from the fallen, show some respect!” Muroza shouts. He rolls his eyes and carries on pilfering.

A wail cries out from the last cell. It’s a Nord holding his stomach in agony.

“Don’t tell them I’m here! Please, I’m begging you!” On closer inspection we see this isn’t a mere flesh wound. He’s barely holding in his innards. He rambles “I told them. It was wrong. I know it was wrong. Sacrilege. Ancestors forgive us. Don’t forsake us. Not now! Not here!”

Behind him outside of his cell is a trail of blood from the mines. They must have not even bothered checking if there were survivors. The sheer will it must have taken to make it this far. So our team is replacing theirs it would seem. Muroza’s attempt at field medicine, while competent, isn’t enough.

With frustration she looks at me “Heal him!”

I do not. Stalks-in-Muck has already long since run undoubtedly to report this new development to our masters.

You’ve made the right choice. There is no point.

Once he’s out of view Muroza shakes me.

“Why? You have the power!”

“What do you think happens when they come back to see him miraculously healed? That I’ve spent precious energy helping a slave that’s already failed them?”

“For Malcath’s sake we’ll just say he found a potion or something!” she growls.

He’s unworthy. Not fit to live. We need to keep our head down.

Against my better judgement and the voice's detached advice, I extend my hands and attempt to heal him.

Nelar! What are you doing? Stop it!

The wounds are deep and though his skin has stitched, he’s lost too much blood. He will succumb to his injuries. I shake my head at Muroza.

You need to listen to me eventually!

Panting, the Nord reaches for Muroza’s fingers. She tenses before softening and kneeling down to him. With his other hand he clutches an ancient nord war axe.

“Take me to Sovngarde. Please. Please.”

I unholster a shiv hidden beneath my ragged trouser leg. I toss it at the dirt in front of her.

“You made me heal him. You prolonged his suffering. Now do the merciful thing.”

And practical, I approve. We should’ve done this from the start.

She stares at me in suppressed horror. Steeling herself she exhales deeply grabbing the shiv. Delicately she cradles his neck so he’s not lying in the dirt.

“You die a warrior. They will sing of you in Sovngarde.”

She quickly plunges the shiv into his chest.

Finally, can we stop wasting time?

I break the heartwarming scene by rummaging his cell for cloth, lockpicks, and a hefty red potion. Probably could have saved him if he brought it with him. She looks at me in disgust. She’s finally realizing that I’m not a fellow warrior, but the type of creature that knows how to survive these depths. Agitated, I yanked my shiv back. I then pry the war axe out of the dead Nords hand and shove the flat of it back to her.

“Wake up and adapt. Or the only thing awaiting us, is our remains being shred by death hounds like your friend here will.”

Yes, show her our truth!

She stares back at me with righteous indignation, but she doesn’t return the axe either. Taking at least some of what I said to heart.

“Already looted? No fair, this one was swift!” Stalks-in-Muck shouts in a tantrum. Stomping the ground like a petulant child.

We make our way to the other slaves in our team. Together we are nine. Not including Glaubros who is there to supervise us. To make sure we do not flee.

There is nowhere to flee, yet...

Why turn your back to one horror only to face another? It makes a twisted sort of sense. To our surprise, there are no threats in sight. We begin excavating a collapsed entrance with broken scaffolding mixed with the rocks. Our work is grueling, but progress is being made.

One of the slaves wavers before buckling to the ground; propping themselves up with their pickaxe. It’s a scholarly Imperial. A wizard from Cyrodill. I bet he wishes he never left the boat or carriage that brought him here. I think his name is Rebenal or the like.

Do not hold onto names not worth remembering.

Glaubros releases an exaggerated yawn before kicking out the pickaxe causing the man to fall on his back. The wood elf pins his thin limbs with ease using his knees.

Nelar, do not even think about interfering.

As if the voice even had to tell me. I see Muroza moving to step in, but I hold out my arm urging her not to interfere.

It is for the best she learns now the reality we live in.

Not taking notice in the orc, Glaubros relishes each meaty thwack into the man's face.

“You work too slow. I’m going to die of old age watching you haul the debris.” He pauses an uncomfortably long time before snapping his head towards the rest of us in fury.

The vampire bellows “Die of old age! Get it?”

Because he’s a vampire!

Yes obviously that’s the joke, it’s not even clever!

Actually sounding a little dejected the voice murmurs: I thought it was funny.

Everyone lets out a mandatory chuckle to appease him except Muroza. Rebenal tries to laugh, but it comes out as a wheeze forcing him to sputter spit at Glaubros.

“Not you! You’re not supposed to laugh. Forget it. Let’s remind everyone what happens to slackers!” He pulls back one hand into a gnarled gesture covered in flames. Intent on burning him alive in front of us.

You have to give the wretched thing credit, he did try to appeal to this creature Glaubros’s fragile ego.

Muroza brushes past me with such determination that I nearly fall on my ass.

She brandishes her new war axe and firmly says “Enough.”

Glaubros is baffled by being challenged outright like this. He glares at her expecting to intimidate her like the rest of us. It does not happen. He breaks eye contact, suddenly noticing he has no reinforcements to keep us in line. He lost this battle of wills. If he pushes too far we could take him and Stalks-In-Muck before word gets out to Venarus. What he is forgetting is that the rest of us wouldn't dare. Morale is non-existent. The malnourishment has diminished our strength and will. However, still oblivious and with his prized ego now at stake, this petty thing tries to reestablish dominance another way.

In a patronizing tone he leers at Muroza. “Well aren’t you pretty for a green-skin. Did you get kicked out of your stronghold?”

She does not respond. He paces in front of her like an animal looking for an opening, but not drawing any magic or weapons.

“They didn’t want you? Maybe because you try to mate with dainty Imperial boys? Well I’d hate to break your heart, but if he can’t work, he can rot. Don’t worry I can keep you warm at night.” the wood elf mocks. He’s about to brush her cheek.

Rebenal interjects himself walking interposing the two ”There’s no need master. Look, I can work, I'm as spritely as ever.”

He begins mining, all healed. My hands are still glowing in radiant light.

You absolute fool. We are done now.

For a moment, I think Glaubros might rip out our throats on principle. Instead he walks away fuming. Muroza gives me a thoughtful look of gratitude before comforting Rebenal. This care does seem to be more than just platonic. I wonder how long they’ve known each other.

“Carry on, then.” mumbles Glaubros.

We got lucky. Never do that AGAIN.

This is my body. You do not control me. You are a unwelcomed passenger. A stowaway I can’t throw overboard.

Keep this up, and it will just be your corpse.

Eventually, we head back to our cells for the night. Glaubros stops in front of Muroza’s cell and stares at her in predatory silence. “I am going to make you pay for that. No one ever crosses me. Your time will come, stupid cow.”

We pick up where we left off. Rebenal shows up wearing the most concealing rags he can find. Glaubros stopped by his cell and burned his entire face. As if he wasn’t tormented enough, he was also branded on the back of his neck with the sigil of Molag Bal. God of schemes. King of Rape. The Daedric Prince of Domination and Enslavement. This isn’t just to disfigure. This brand had to be handmade. The only question is did Venarus adopt this sigil or was this Rumaria’s doing?

His once handsome face is now obscured by the burns. Everyone is revolted and shocked by this reveal, except me. He made me watch the torment and heal him enough to survive the burns.

The consequences of your precious mercy it would seem. Still the senseless sadism, it sickens me. That last sentence from the voice genuinely surprised me.

It’s one thing to torture as a fear tactic to controll others, it’s another to actually relish in it and use it to fulfill ones own sadistic and base impulses. This voice in my mind is so alien that I’m certain it is not a part of me.

Muroza is nearly frothing from the mouth. Attempting to lunge and decapitate Glaubros. He flinches, but there is no need. We held her back; he remembered to bring death hounds and the kennel master to keep us in line. We didn’t hold her back for her sake, but ours. She’s in a berzerker rage. We have to physically weigh down her limbs and shoulders until it finally subsides. Once the first strike is made it would be utter bedlam. Who knows how many bystanders would get mauled? He has a perverse smile as she glares at him.

“Careful, my fiery one.” He holds out a scorching flame in his palm before extinguishing it. Rebenal flinches at that, hiding behind Muroza all while trying to pull her away. “Wouldn’t want you to burn too bright, now would we?”

Chapter Text

*Trigger Warning: "The Fallen Vigil" contains themes and content that reader might find especially disturbing including, but not limited to referencing: suicide/suicidal ideations, self-harm, self-hatred depression, anxiety, implied/sexual assault, implied/torture, and hyperviolence.

The last thing I'd want to do is remind people of trauma, so I do ask you to read with caution. My intention is not to glorify or condone any of the above, but to acknowledge grim topics rather than ignore them.*

Chapter Five: The Weevil Mutiny

“Of course I use the dead. I have spent countless of the living in our war. What more is a few corpses?”

-Queen Potema Septim “The Wolf Queen”

The air has been thick with tension since the branding. I’ve made myself a target by healing that once handsome Imperial. Even now I will catch Rebenal giving me kind glances with his blues eyes peering out his bandaged face.

Like he’s trying to show his gratitude and absolve me of guilt. I feel no guilt, none of this was my fault.

Who’s fault was it then?

Fine, it was a mistake saving him.

Yes, it was.

Muroza has it in their head that there’s still a good person in me.

Abandon them while you still can. They will be your end. The same reptilian voice rings throughout my skull.

It’s too late, by healing him I have slighted our master. I’ve tied our fates together. It is sink or swim.

Fair enough, as long as we’re both clear this is not the time to get any notions of morality. Right and wrong. Good or evil. Survive or perish; that is the only dichotomy we need to concern ourselves with.

The voice has become too talkative these last couple years.

Besides the torture last night, there’s been something else gnawing at me; why they haven’t confiscated any weapons?

The first to break through the bowels of the northern depths was an old Khajiit. Ma’shal is his name. Was. As soon as he broke through a draugr caved in his skull with a warhammer. Then there was eight. Another lost soul on this expedition. Luckily others were quick to react. An arrow and a variety of spells made quick work of the undead. I’m surprised one of the slaves found a bow and would choose to use it in these narrow tunnels. I drag Ma’shal to the houndsman. Not before taking a ring off him. It’s foreign and when I don it, I feel I can cast from the restoration school with greater ease. Wonder if he had family? A wife or husband? Perhaps they already thought he was dead? The hounds consume his corpse. Numbed by my new reality I ignore the hounds gorging themselves, as Glaubros and the kennel master converse.

“What are you on about now, Glaubros?”

“No, I’m onto something this time. I’m telling you we’ll all be drowning in septims!”

The kennel master groans in annoyance. Unperturbed, Glaubros continues “You swing back some Redwater Skooma and then use Black-Briar Reserve as a chaser. We can call it “The Walking on Moon Experience” because of th-”

“Moon sugar, yes. Which moon? Actually I don’t care. Now ignoring the terrible name, how do you propose getting a Black-Briar Reserve supply to the den. Ask Maven nicely?”

“Why can’t we just kill the bitch?”

“That proves it. You really are a s’wit.”

“Hey wha-”

With emphasis, the houndsman interrupts “Slow. Witted. Nobody touches a Black-Briar. You’d be more likely to survive the chopping block.”

“Fine. Fine, ruin my dreams. Just like my father.”

Tactfully changing subjects the kennel master says “Do you really need me and the hounds? Are they that disobedient?”

“Not at all I’m in complete control after my demonstration. Ain’t that right, pretty princeling?”

Rebenal cowers behind Muroza’s holding on her arm. With thinly veiled rage, she glares at Glaubros. He mocks her, pursing his lips and winking at her. Despite this she does not take the bait.

“See? Let’s have another example, Skulks-In-Shit punch the Breton.” He points at my dumbfounded face.

Stalks-In-Muck appraises me. I’m certain he will obey. I need to protect myself.

“No.”

Complete silence fills the air. None of us can even fathom this disobedience and from him of all people.

Stalks-In-Muck stands tall as the fuming Glaubros approaches malevolence gleaming in his eyes.

“I have spoken to Master Venarus on your “expeditions”. You kill and maim slaves too wantonly. We might be on the bottom, but our labor is an asset. Master is growing impatient with your results and carelessness. What will you do when you run out of slaves?”

Rage quickly subsides to impotence as Glaubros loosens his grip around Stalks-In-Mucks throat.

“But. I. How? Why? I thought we’d just get more”

The houndsman looks at the argonian. “The Nords?”

Rubbing his throat, Stalks-In-Muck rasps “The Nords.”

Glaubros paces for an hour as we toil. I overhear him whispering to the houndsman.

“I just worry they’re too weak for what lies ahead. I will see if we can spare anymore. Venarus will understand.”

“Perhaps. If any of them even survive.”

I don’t like the sound of that.

Neither do I. Glaubros leaves us under the watchful eye of the kennel master. We unearth the entryway further and I motion others to wait. I hand my shiv to a young wood elf miner. He barely reached adulthood and he’s been enslaved by undead to kill undead. I look at the kennel master who sagely nods, approving of my preparations. Another brandishes their bow. Stalks-In-Muck wields a pickaxe in each of his hands. Muroza has her axe and it looks like Rebenal casted something on her. A candlelight spell hovers over Rebenal, although now his hands extend out grasping onto barely contained lightning bolts.

We can press forward. We must. My spell reserves have greatly diminished living as a slave. I can barely muster a Bound sword in one hand and healing hands in the other I step into this tomb.

Stale air fills our lungs. Empty coffins, dead shriveled draugr, and broken urns litter the place.

The archer of our group is the first to fall. Stepping on a pressure plate, poison darts riddle their back. She stops convulsing before I even try healing hands. Seven. Luckily the miner I gave my shiv to only got struck once, and I was able to keep him alive. I hear the archer’s body being devoured by the death hounds.

It’s just gratuitous at this point. Her body isn’t even cold.

This voice proceeds to vex me with its ever shifting values and perspective.

We proceed more cautiously further into the depths. Somehow the claustrophobic underground feels all too open at the same time. Too many alcoves and isolated rooms. We stick together and are wary of all directions.

My heart won’t stop beating rapidly. I’m breathing too fast. I clutch my chest in pain. A dunmer slave notices and motions for us to stop. I drink from my waterskin, but quickly run out. He smiles warmly and hands me his. I take a deep swig.

I love this kind of water!

Except it tastes like Sujamma! How in Nirn did he get his hands on this?

He smiles toothily at me and nudges me lightly in the ribs. I return the smile. It’s like we’re the only ones in on a private joke. He’s got braids and piercings. Something tells me he might’ve been a sailor before all this. The death hounds growl and I know it’s our cue to wrap up our respite. My new friend walks forward when a burial lid falls on top of him. I rush down to free him when a hulking armored boot steps on the lid.

Granir, it’s too late! Get away now!

His agonized scream is abruptly cut off as the Draugr Deathlord puts his full weight on the lid. A horrific crunch is heard and I feel his blood and brain matter splatter on me.

Six.

I can’t move. He was just there and now... The Draugr Deathlord faces us and is struck by a lightning bolt. It barely phases it as it lets out the most deafening sound. We were all in a row lined up for him. I feel my feet leave the ground as I sail down an alcove. The back of my head slams into a brazier.

No. No. Get back up! We can’t die here. Please... I'm not ready.

My eyes flutter open and I know with certainty I was unconscious. It’s difficult to tell how long. My ears won’t stop ringing. I think the voice might be trying to talk, but I can’t even focus on my own thoughts. I wipe a streak of blood from my eyes as my vision unblurs. I see death hound corpses scattered throughout the chamber. Casting fast healing on myself has helped, but the infernal ringing won’t end. I cast stoneskin and bound sword as I dare to check for survivors. These conditions I’ve been living in have made those two spells extremely costly. I’m completely drained, I will have to be smart in how I utilize my magicka. It takes several minutes to move forward. Stumbling often on dismembered Draugr that lead further in.

A sharp pain arcs my back. A hooded skeleton slashed me in the back with an ancient nordic sword.

What are you waiting for? Kill it! It’s coming right at you.

Everything feels numb. I’m not poisoned and this isn’t Illusion magic. It’s different, fighting feels different. The clacking of the skeletons approach echoes. My body won’t stop trembling. My veins feel like ice.

We’re so much stronger than this. I don’t understand. Why don’t you move? At least try to dodge. ANYTHING!

My eyes try to focus on the skeleton, but it’s like he’s coming out of focus. Until I only see his shape. His outline. This is all too familiar. Just like the last time we fought. I can never forget. This can’t be possible. I can swear it looks just like that vigilant I killed. That demanded answers for why I killed him. I can’t do this again. I just can’t

Nelar! What are you talking about? It’s just a skeleton. It doesn’t even have a face!

The bound sword fades and I fall backwards and crawl backwards until I hit a corner. I shake pitifully and clutch my knees to my chest. This is always how it was going to end. The moment they took me alive. I knew. The vigilant is finally getting justice after what I did to him. What I took from him. I deserve this. Do it already! The vigilant raises its silver sword to strike down the wretched creature. The way it should have happened before.

Out of nowhere Muroza’s axe cleaves through its jaw. The skeleton bones splintered all over the room. My waking nightmare is shattered. The sword on the ground is ancient nordic, not silver. It was defeated with ease. She stands in steel plate armor holding an iron shield. Must’ve found a hidden cache somewhere. Muroza crouches down and shakes me. I begin to hear her ringing finally fading.

“Snap out of it! We need a Vigilant. We think there’s another way to the surface. Follow me, if you can’t fight then heal!”

I sob inconsolable, but I’m able to shake in the affirmative. She looks down at me clearly wanting to help. She softens and goes eye level.

“Wake up and adapt.” she starts sprinting towards the others.

After composing myself I repeat those words. It becomes my mantra as I steel myself for what’s ahead.

Nelar! Can you hear me?

“Stendarr’s sake. You scared me shitless.” I gasp out loud.

Sorry. I thought you’d never hear me again.

And that would be a bad thing to be rid of you? Why? I think with no mirth.

Fuck you! You ungrateful worm. I try to keep us alive, but you’d rather freeze like an elk in front of Hircine!

I tune out the barrage of profanities directed at me and focus on my restored sense of hearing. I hear the sounds of battle in the next chamber. As I round the corner I see the decapitated head of the houndmaster roll and hit my foot. Staring through me unnerving is yet another Draugr Deathlord. It’s missing an arm. Its horned helm nearly touches the ceiling and it wields an ebony axe dripping with blood.

“Seneth, I cannot believe it! Stalks-In-Piss wasn’t bluffing. Venarus said if this excavation isn’t a success then he would...” Glaubros’s eyes widen in terror as he sees the Draugr Deathlord and Kennel Master Seneth’s head on the ground. We’re standing there frozen side by side facing a Draugr Deathlord.

“Fus.”

No.

“Ro.”

Damn you, I need you to move!

My body lurches through a wall?

“Dah!”

Rebenal pulled me into a hidden side entrance to my right. They must’ve opened it during my trance. Muroza wastes no time pulling the lever causing the entrance to reseal. Smiling watching Glaubros fly down the hall as the Draugr chases him.

“You really need to stop freezing like that, we almost lost you again.” Rebenal says while patting my shoulder. He’s in proper college robes now and even has a silver sapphire circlet over his wraps.

“Is this the way out?” I ask embarrassed.

Muroza grimaces “That remains to be seen.”

Rebenal scoffs “Hardly, darling I appreciate your optimism, but we are stuck in a maze.”

Muroza rolls her eyes.

“I suppose the opposite direction of the undead will suffice.” Rebenal surrenders.

We all allow a nervous laugh to escape at Rebenals display.

We’re approaching the end of this tunnel and I fear what awaits us behind this stone passageway.

I stop and the others turn to me. “Before we proceed, I just want to apologize. You chose the wrong ally to include in your escape. I’m not the vigilant you were hoping for. I’m not as I was. I will do my best to heal you both, but I can’t make any promises that I won’t be anything but a liability.”

Muroza looks like she’s about to scold me, but hesitates as Rebenal squeezes her hand.

“Listen, we’d be dead without you. You saved me from an early cremation. By the Eight, who knows how many times her axe saved our sorry hides? You’ve done plenty. Leave the rest to us.”

With that he gives me a hug. The tears cascade down my cheeks as I choke back full on sobs.

By Azura’s bountiful tits! Can we move this sentimental mewling along?

“These few months have been and hopefully will remain the most harrowing experience of my life. It speaks volumes that you’ve remained sane, friend.”

Derisive laughter echoes through my skull.

If only he knew the depths of your madness.

I say nothing to Rebenal nor the voice. I will feel nothing. I will be a mountain and endure.

We find an alcove in the tunnel and make camp. Who knows if these ancient nords even made another way to the surface? We could be delaying the inevitable in a maze. We try to get some rest before we’re utterly exhausted, but the truth is the adrenaline is simply too high for us to get any shut eye.

It’s impossible to tell how much time has passed; nonetheless we continue our escape. Eventually, we reach a cavernous hall with rows of nordic statues holding flames. Across a bridge is a slope illuminated with faint light.

That is daylight! Freedom is within our grasp!

The voice is right, it’s unmistakable. Muroza leads us across the bridge, but stops and grunts in pain. Her leg is caught in a bear trap. Damn Nords and their endless traps!

I catch too late a nearly imperceptible sound:

Fwosh

Rebenal pushes past me heedless to the situation we’re in.

All I manage to do is hiss at him “Stop, you fool!”

“Mury! Are you oka-”

Rebenal is cut off as he convulses above glowing blue light. His spine curves in as his head arches back. Steam radiates from his bandages as his knees buckle, falling face first into the stone. He does not move, his mortality inscrutable. For a second I think Muroza will rip her own leg off from the fervor in her lunging towards us. She wails in agony forced to do nothing.

No, this can’t be happening! We’re so damn close!

Keep it together!

Right. I raise my hand to Muroza to stitch her wound together. An unnatural cold envelops my wrist in an overpowering grip from Glaubros.

The bastard lives!

The familiar dread encompasses the pit of my stomach. We are truly doomed.

With a malicious smile he shatters my wrist before kneeing me in the stomach. Pain wracks my body as I moan on the ground.

“If I so much as see a finger of yours glow, I will castrate you and let the skooma addled filth above us rut you before flaying off your skin!” he seethes.

He strides toward Muroza making a show of using Rebenal as a stepping stone.

“Worms. All of you! I had a good thing going here, for once! You all couldn’t stand that I was chosen. That I had potential! Gods damned incompetent saboteurs. That fool Venarus will have my ashes on a platter for this disaster of an excavation. Well fine, if I’m to be killed for my “excessive abuse” of cattle, then let me live up to my reputation! I’ll tear you limb from limb, but not before I had my fun!”

Do something, you fetcher! He’s going to slaughter us all!

I won’t. Resisting is always worse than death. I lie on the floor curling into a ball.

“Nelar! Get up, we need you, right now!”

He continues to Muroza without even glancing back at me. She attempts to cleave him in twain, but with being in the bear trap, is unable to maneuver with the vampire's unnatural swiftness.

He easily dodges and grabs the axe by the shaft. The weapon glows and Muroza holds on as long as she can until her hands blister and she howls letting go of her weapon. He circles behind her and grabs her by the back of her hair. When she attempts to brush him off he stomps on her wounded leg and pins her to the ground. I see him whisper something in her ear.

Aren’t you supposed to be a righteous Vigilant? How can you just watch this vile atrocity? Do something. Anything!

All I can do is tremble on the frigid floor, closing my eyelids as I hear the tearing of clothes and the clinking of a buckle.

Then there’s an abrupt pause.

“How dare you? You insolent wretch!”

I open my eyes, hand extended to Muroza radiating healing waves of energy. The other hand, releasing fire onto the chain mechanism on the bear trap. When I see his malicious glare I can’t help but think of how he will fulfill his promise to me.

Before I consider killing myself, Muroza warps the claw of the trap, freeing herself. Glaubros, still focused on me, doesn't react in time for Muroza to wrap the sizzling chain around his neck, reeling him closer to her. She trips the back of his leg forcing him to the ground. In a blind rage she grasps his head and repeatedly slamming his head violently down to the stone floor. His limbs spasm like a dying frostbite spider even after the back of his head caves in.

Several minutes pass before Muroza stops beating his corpse. The berzerker rage gradually wears off to a lucid fury. She spits on his corpse before rushing to Rebenal. A visible weight leaves her shoulders when she rests her head against his chest. She waves me over.

I approach her, unable to look her in the eye.

My mouth moves before I can even think what to say “I’m so sorry he- that he tried-”

She flares with wrath before closing her eyes and inhaling “I appreciate what you did, but I don’t ever want to talk about that. So can you just heal him?”

I shake my head in the affirmative “I... yes of course.”

Eventually we’re able to stabilize the scorched imperial. Still unconscious, she slings him over her shoulder like a wet rag.