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Lirael had never felt at home in the Summerset Isle, always the outsider, forever wishing she didn't have to watch the blatant racism committed against the other races. She was born beneath alabaster spires and raised among golden skinned elites, but none of it ever felt like hers. Where others wore pride and arrogance like a mantle, she wore quiet worry and annoyance. While her people preached superiority, she found beauty in the flawed and strength in the humble.

She was Altmer by blood, but not by heart. Even as a child, she could feel the way people tensed around her when she questioned things. She asked too many questions, and not the right kind. Her father said she would outgrow it, as if kindness was a phase that an elf needed to leave behind.

Her mother, before she vanished, had simply smiled and whispered, Never stop. Years later, Lirael still hadn’t stopped. Now, far from home, she wore sky blue robes with golden trims and smelled faintly of alchemical reagents. Her magic was quiet, precise, made not to impress but to heal, to shield, to protect. She helped where she could.

She listened when others didn’t. And though many assumed her cold because of her race, her eyes betrayed her: warm, thoughtful and never judgemental. There was power in her, deep and old, but she never reached for it. She feared what it might become if wielded selfishly.

And lately, it had begun to stir. Drawn by dreams of towers and ancient halls, Lirael had begun to feel the pull of something forgotten, Aetherspire Castle, a place that existed only in half-heard rumors and her own fractured visions. She didn't know why she felt drawn to it, only that the pull grew stronger by the day. She was not alone anymore.

Somehow, she had found others who didn’t ask her to be anything more, or less, than what she was: Maevra, a grieving breton necromancer, Selanwe, a devout daedric ice mage, and Rix, a wild half elf fighter. Strange souls. Wandering ones. But hers now, in some quiet, unspoken way.

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The rain in Falkreath was gentle but constant, soaking through the clothes of anyone currently wandering in it and drumming softly on headstones. Lirael walked with her hands behind her back, reading names off of gravestones she didn’t know with quiet respect. She wasn’t here for any grand purpose, just to feel what grief the town felt. She found Maevra in the corner of the graveyard, a breton soaked through and whispering to the soil like it might answer her.

Her fingers were raw, clawing at the dirt. A broken soul in a town built on mourning. "You're not alone, you know," the Altmer said, stepping up beside her, her tone gentle, not pitying, just present. She hoped not to seem to intruding but couldn't leave this troubled woman to stew in her sorrow alone.

Maevra flinched at the presence of a living being. “What do you want?” “Nothing,” Lirael replied, kneeling in the mud beside her. “But you look like you’ve lost something you can’t get back. I’ve been there too.”

Silence. Then, “My mother.” The High Elf nodded. “I’m sorry. If you need someone to stand still with you for a while, I’m here.”

They sat in silence until the rain stopped. And when Maevra finally stood, wiping her face and summoning a flicker of necromantic energy to her fingers, she half-expected Lirael to flinch. But she didn’t.

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Lirael met the daedra on a mountaintop, where the stars seemed to spill from the sky. The Altmer had climbed for hours, following strange dreams and even stranger omens. She found Selanwe standing barefoot in the snow, blue magic wreathing her like a stormcloud held together by will alone. “You’re not from the College,” the blue woman said without turning.

Her voice had the edge of a woman too used to being judged. “No. But I do admire your control. Azuras blessed ice magic, right?” That made Selanwe pause. Most would have fled or called her a heretic.

“You know of her?” “I listen to those who do. That’s usually enough.” Selanwe turned, eyes glowing with the kind of power that frightened lesser mages. “You’re not like other Altmer.”

“That’s what they keep telling me.” They stood there a moment, the wind tugging at their robes. Finally, the daedra asked, “Why are you here?” “Because I dreamt of stars that fell into the wrong hands,” the Altmer answered.

“And I think yours are the right ones.”

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Lirael was being robbed. Sort of. Rix had leapt from the shadows near Riverwood, twin daggers out, demanding coin with a grin too amused for the seriousness of the act. She clearly expected fear or arrogance.

But the Altmer just blinked and tilted her head. “You know,” she said calmly, “you’d get more gold pretending to be a bard.” Rix blinked. “...What?”

“You’re too charming to be threatening.” The half elf lowered one blade. “I could gut you.” “You could. But you won’t.”

There was a pause. Then laughter, quick and bright and real. Rix sheathed her blades. “You’re either fearless or stupid.”

“I prefer hopeful,” Lirael replied with a small smile. “Well, you’re strange. But I like strange.” “Then travel with me,” the High Elf said. “I could use someone to make me laugh when I try to do the impossible.”

Rix raised an eyebrow. “Like what?” “Like making peace in Skyrim.” “Yeah, alright. You’re definitely the strangest person I’ve ever met.”

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Across the Mist

The lake was unnaturally still. No ripples. No wind. Just a vast expanse of black water that swallowed any light that hit it.

Lirael stood on the worn oak dock, watching the fog as though waiting for it to part. The others lingered behind her, uneasy, their weapons close at hand. Then, as if summoned by her thoughts, the boat arrived. Long and carved from blackened wood traced with silver veins, it glided silently from the mist, a ghostly lantern swinging at its bow.

No oars. No visible pilot. Just a gentle pull, as if the water itself obeyed its will. “Please tell me that’s not our ride,” Rix muttered, eyeing it like it might bite.

“It is,” the Altmer replied, stepping toward it with the quiet certainty that had begun to unsettle even her companions. “I’ve seen it before. In dreams.” Maevra raised an eyebrow. “Comforting.”

They boarded without further protest, and the moment they settled, the boat began to move, silent, smooth, and swift. The lake stretched impossibly long beneath them, though none could say for how long. Time seemed to bend in the fog. Occasionally, strange shapes drifted just below the surface, vast, slow and unknowable.

Then, all at once, the fog parted, and there it was, Aetherspire Castle. It rose from the center of the lake like something born of nightmare. Towering spires twisted up to the sky, glowing runes danced across its surface like living ink. A wide dock reached out toward them, already lit by sapphire lanterns and lined with armored skeletal guards.

But the guards didn’t draw weapons. They bowed.