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vosh-rakh · 10 months ago

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3e634 chapter 2

--chapter 1--

Master Kassur sat cross-legged at the peak of a hill in the Reach, hunched over a well-worn copy of The Four Suitors of Benitah, smiling. The wind whipped up the frayed corners of the pages, but he paid it no mind, enthralled as he was by the words. His husband sat a ways behind him on an elaborate conjured chair, fiddling with the runes carefully inscribed on a pair of spectacles. They sat in silence, kept busy by their respective businesses.

The spectacles suddenly appeared held within the grasp of a well-manicured hand over Kassur’s shoulder. Without turning his gaze from the book, Kassur asked, “Have you finally finished with them?”

“I believe so,” Master Aryon answered. “Give them a whirl.”

Kassur shifted his book to one hand and took the glasses with the spare. With a quick movement of his wrist he flicked open the arms and laid them over his ears, his eyes now covered with lenses of carefully polished glass. At first the world was awash with mauve smoke, but it quickly dissipated to reveal perfectly normal vision. “Is there nothing you can do about that startup period?” he asked, turning to face his husband. Aryon was not overlaid with magical smoke, which was a good first sign.

“I’ve tried,” Aryon said with a sigh. “Something about this particular enchantment, it would seem.” He laughed and adjusted the crooked glasses on Kassur’s nose. “There could be some sort of metaphysical implications, if I could be bothered to interrogate them. But I’m no philosopher or Psijic.”

“How shall we test them, then?” Kassur wrinkled his nose, and the glasses fell askew again.

“Well,” Aryon began, indicating one of his famous monologues was to follow, “All I’ve just done is fine-tune it for the drier climate this far west. During our audience with the master of the Greybeards, I discreetly tested it on him. He glowed very brightly.”

“And does it verify me?” Kassur asked. He removed the glasses and handed them to Aryon.

Aryon carefully took the spectacles and placed them straight on his nose with both hands. He squinted for a moment as his vision adjusted, and then nodded. “You glow as brilliantly as Magnus himself.”

“I appreciate the compliment, my dear,” said Kassur with a crooked smile, “but do the glasses work?”

Aryon rolled his eyes behind the glasses and gave him a light shove on the shoulder. “Yes, you dolt. Don’t sweet-talk yourself too much, or Azura will get jealous.” Neither of them cared much for Azura, but it was a common phrase that even venerable Master Aryon had picked up. Aryon handed back the spectacles, and Kassur returned them to his face.

Aryon scratched his chin for a moment. “I suppose the next test would be on the latest Septim, but I doubt we could obtain an audience with him, even with the Hortator’s diplomatic assistance.”

“Are we even sure the Septims after Martin are still Dragonborn?” Kassur asked, scanning the horizon, as if Skyrim were somehow filled with dragon souls lurking around every corner, hiding in every nook and cranny of the cliffs and hills.

“The official Imperial line is that they are,” Aryon said. “Seeing as our device here is the first to accurately detect them, even our best spies couldn’t be sure.” He pondered for a moment. “The Dragonfires apparently remain lit, so we have to assume.”

“Mhm,” Kassur said.

“Are you reading again instead of listening to me?” Aryon snatched the book from Kassur’s hands. Kassur tried to snatch it back, but Aryon retreated. Kassur couldn’t be bothered to stand so gave up. “You’ve read this a thousand times. Why bother reading it again? You could recite it word-for-word from memory.”

“I like reading more than reciting,” Kassur pouted.

Aryon flipped through a few pages. “What drivel. How can you stand this stuff?”

“It reminds me of where I’ve come from.”

“Why this, then?” Aryon waved the book about, not caring if Kassur kept his page. “Why not some, I don’t know, Ashlander tales or hymns?”

“You know why. I couldn’t go back to them if I wanted to, so why bother even thinking about it?”

“Hm. Fair enough, I suppose.” Aryon tucked the book back in Kassur’s bag.

Kassur planted his chin in his hands and his elbows on his knees, looking westward where the road meets the limited horizon of this rough place. Something vaguely purple seemed to rise over the edge and walk slowly down the trail. Kassur paid it no mind at first, but it grew closer and closer, and brighter and brighter, until it separated, as if by mitosis, into two distinct shapes of lavender light.

He blinked once, then twice. He removed the glasses, and saw the two traveling figures in true light. One shining-armored with a black cloak, the other in yellow robes behind. Kassur put the glasses back on and waited for the purple glare to recede. It finally resolved into just the overlay of the two travelers.

“Arrie.”

“Yes?”

“I think you still have some fine-tuning to do. They’re too sensitive.”

“I’ve done about all the fine-tuning I can,” Aryon said, coming back behind Kassur. “Let me see.”

Kassur handed Aryon the spectacles. He put them on, squinted until they calibrated, and looked to see what Kassur was making a fuss about. His eyes widened. “By Mephala’s…”

That was all Kassur needed. He jumped to his feet and started clambering, nearly rolling, down the side of the hill. He faintly heard Aryon shout “Kass!” behind him, but blood was roaring in his ears, drowning out even his awkward tumbling down the earth.

- - - - -

“N’chow,” whispered Dagoth Valer as she watched the wizard tumblr down the hill towards the road. She stopped in her tracks, considering her options. She almost reached for a weapon, but reasoned such a clumsy wizard couldn’t be much of a threat. Just play it -

Before she could finish her thought, the sleeper walked right into her back. Valer had forgotten to will her body to stop when she did. This kind of control was taxing - she wondered how the other ash vampires had managed it, and across so many sleepers, for so long.

Valer reined the sleeper back in and had her step back. Fortunately, the wizard didn’t seem to notice the collision. Unfortunately, he was soon accompanied by another wizard, this one gracefully levitating down from the hill behind the first.

The first wizard - blessedly a Dunmer - dusted off his robes and extended a hand. “Good afternoon!”

Valer did not take his hand, and in fact considered for a moment cutting it off. “Sera,” she began icily, “I trust you might understand how a traveling woman might feel, when suddenly accosted by two strange mer on the road.”

The first wizard’s face fell, and he lowered his hand. The second came up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Apologies for my partner’s overeager behavior,” the second said. “We’re simply very excited to meet such an esteemed personage out here.”

N’chow. How could they know? She didn’t think she was that conspicuous. Without thinking, she tightened the hood around her face. She could feel her confidence waning, and so followed her grip on the sleeper. “I’m just a traveler.”

“Modest, I see,” said the first wizard, apparently recovered from his embarrassment. “And you, f’lah,” he said, addressing the sleeper, “are you also just…why are your eyes closed?”

“She’s deafblind,” lied Valer. “I’m delivering her to a friend of hers in Windhelm.”

“A deafblind dra-...” muttered the first wizard before interrupting himself. Under his breath, he wondered, “Could she even…hm…”

Valer began to quietly panic, her domination of the sleeper fading still further. What did these strangers know? Slowly, so as to not alarm the wizards, she began to reach for her nearest concealed sheath.

“Well, traveler,” the first wizard said, smiling as he took a dangerous step closer to Valer, “I think you’ll find that your modesty is misplaced, and that we shall soon become fast friends.”

Enough of this. In a heartbeat she withdrew her hidden blade of heartblight and stabbed the first wizard with it, leaving it embedded in his chest. Before either wizard could react, she also slipped her sacred hammer from its holster and swung at the second wizard. She felt her hold on the sleeper finally fail completely, but she paid it no mind; there was a much more present danger.

With a quick ward, the second wizard deflected her hammer strike. But the dagger had struck true, and the first wizard wobbled backwards before collapsing.

The second wizard watched as his partner fell to the ground, and then turned his baleful gaze to Valer.

N’chow.

A moment after those eyes hit Valer, so did something else. Something cold. Something sharp. Something wide.

She glanced down at her chest. There she saw a massive shard of ice lodged in her breast plate. From the additional pain in her back, she knew it pierced her completely.

N’chow n’chow n’chow -

Instinct. Careful not to drop the sacred hammer, with her spare hand she conjured flame, both to melt the magical ice and cauterize her massive wound.

And she fled. The sleeper was lost. Her master would be displeased. But his displeasure she could weather. Death, not so much.

- - - - -

Malekaiah opened her eyes, and found she was already on her feet. First she saw a man fall, dagger in his chest. Then she saw the man beside him launch a great icicle into a woman’s chest, a woman Malekaiah vaguely recognized, but couldn’t remember why.

A terrible shriek filled the air, issuing from the woman’s throat, who then ran away into the hills.

The mage who attacked the woman did not pursue her. Instead he fell to his knees by the fallen man and held him close.

Instinct. Even without knowing any context, Malekaiah leapt into action, sliding down next to the wounded mer. The mage holding him held up a hand crackling with electricity, but Malekaiah held up her open hands. “I’m a healer,” she said.

“You’re not deafblind?” the mage asked, the lightning dissipating.

“No?” Malekaiah said as she looked over the wound. “Why would I be?”

“Nevermind,” the mage said, his spell completely fizzling. “We didn’t bring any potions, and I don’t know much Restoration.”

“Good thing I do, then,” Malekaiah said with a reassuring smile. Her hands glowed faintly pink as she probed around the wound with her Healer’s Sight.

The mage tried to mirror the expression, but failed. “Can you save him?”

She probed deeper, then nodded. “We can. Do as I say and he’ll survive.” The mage nodded, so Malekaiah continued. “He’s lucky. It seems the blade missed everything important. We need to keep it that way.”

She rubbed her hands together to warm them and get the magicka flowing. “Do you have steady hands?” she asked.

“Steady enough,” said the mage. “I’m an enchanter, after all.”

Malekaiah wasn’t sure how that was relevant, but nodded anyway. “Good. You’re going to - as straight as possible - pull out the blade while I try to stop the bleeding and close the wound.” She prepared by hovering her hands near the injury, already faintly glowing golden. “Be very careful. If you pull it out crooked you’ll risk damaging adjacent organs.”

“Okay,” the mage said, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Before we start,” she said, eyes lifting to catch the mage’s, “Introductions are in order. What’s your name?”

“What does it matter?” snapped the mage. “Can’t this wait?”

Patiently, Malekaiah answered: “Healing works best with a personal connection. No time for chit-chat, so a name will have to do.”

“...I’m Aryon. His name is Kassur.”

“And I’m Malekaiah,” she said, smiling. “Extract the blade whenever you’re ready.”

Aryon wiped sweat-plastered black hair from his brow and slowly wrapped his fingers around the dagger’s handle, careful not to tilt it from its original angle of attack. But he hesitated. Blood slowly pooled around the wound, sticking Kassur’s robes to his skin.

“It’s okay,” Malekaiah said. “You can do this. But do it. Straight and swift, like peeling a plaster.”

After another breathless second, Aryon pulled the dagger free.

Immediately Malekaiah went about flowing magicka and Dibella’s grace into the wound, bidding it close behind the dagger’s tip, and staunching the stream of blood that erupted from the removal. Once she was satisfied, she probed the area again with her Healer’s Sight.

“Good work, Aryon!” she exclaimed. “No organ damage. He’ll live, but he needs rest.

She noticed Aryon examining the bloodied blade in his hand. It looked exotic, sure, but she couldn’t tell if it was any special otherwise.

Suddenly, Kassur’s eyes fluttered open, and he grabbed Aryon by the arm. Aryon’s attention jolted from the dagger to his partner’s face.

“Arrie, Arrie,” Kassur slurred. “Did you see…that hammer…”

“Yes, dear,” Aryon whispered, just barely loud enough for Malekaiah to still hear. “Sunder. The last Dagoth yet lives, and she’s in Skyrim.”

“And,” Kassur coughed, “she’s Dragonborn.” With this final phrase, he lost consciousness again.

- - - - -

As night neared, they set up camp on the nearby hilltop. Malekaiah gathered scraps of wood for the fire, only for Aryon to light a magical flame upon the pile that could sustain itself all night without fuel.

Huffing and puffing from carrying the wood, Malekaiah asked, “Why’d you let me do all this, when you could’ve just cast the spell at any time?”

Aryon shrugged. “I thought you knew who I was.”

Malekaiah asked, “Is your name supposed to ring a bell?”

“I’m a Telvanni magelord, Master of Tel Vos, as well as a frequent confidant of the Hortator.”

Aside from vaguely knowing what a “hortator” was, Malekaiah didn’t understand any of those qualifications. “I’m from Cyrodiil,” she said. “I don’t know much about Morrowind politics.”

“Well,” Aryon said, crossing his arms indignantly, “my husband and I are what you youths might call ‘a pretty big deal.’”

Malekaiah glanced at Kassur, who was lying asleep near the fire. She had helped Aryon change him out of his torn and bloody silk robes into a spare set of clean ones. Both sets were so intricate and obviously delicately crafted - “Finest Daedra spider silk,” Aryon had said - that Malekaiah was certain she’d never laid eyes on a piece of clothing so expensive.

She took a look at Kassur’s face. Whereas Aryon had the signs of age clear upon him, looking rather middle-aged, Kassur looked as young as Malekaiah. She knew the aging of elves was slow and different, but the apparent age difference between these two made their apparent married status strike Malekaiah as odd.

She remembered a question she wanted to ask, and worked up the courage to pose it. “What was that about, what he said when he woke up?”

Aryon sighed. “I shouldn’t tell you. It’s technically a state secret.”

“I don’t know anyone from the Ebonheart Pact,” Malekaiah said. “Who would I tell?”

“That’s not a very good reason,” Aryon said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “but I will tell you anyway. Long ago, Morrowind was plagued by a corrupt House called Dagoth. The Hortator destroyed them two hundred years ago. But somehow, one escaped. She was your captor. Valer.”

Malekaiah remembered the razor-sharp yellow teeth lining the witch’s mouth, and the glowing crimson eye tattooed on her forehead, and shivered. “And the hammer? Kassur said it was special.”

“It’s really not important. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

Aryon shook his head. “I’ll leave it at this: it’s a historical artifact of great significance. It was once in the possession of the Hortator. A few years ago, it was stolen, but we didn’t know by whom.” He tilted his head. “Although I suppose now we do.”

Aryon was right: Malekaiah didn’t really understand. But she nodded her head like she did. “And he said something else,” she said. “Something about dragons, I think. So did Valer, when she captured me. What does that -”

Kassur began coughing again. Malekaiah reached over to keep an eye on him. She was alarmed to notice blood around his mouth, so she rolled him over on his side so he wouldn’t choke. She placed her hand on his forehead - still feverish. To check his pulse, she placed two fingers on his neck. Slow. But more concerning was the lump there. It didn’t seem to be a swollen lymph node, but something else.

“Aryon,” she called. He came over, the Dagoth’s strange dagger still in his hand. “I know you’re not a physician or healer, but feel this.” She pointed at the growth on Kassur’s neck.

Aryon placed a few delicate fingers on his husband’s neck. “This feels like…” His eyes widened. “Oh no.”

“Do you recognize this?” Malekaiah asked, turning towards him.

He looked at the dagger in his hand again. “Could it be this…?”

“Was it poisoned?” Malekaiah asked.

Aryon shook his head. “I studied under Divayth Fyr, in his Corprusarium,” Aryon said, looking away. “This feels like that. Like Corprus.”

Corprus. The word terrified Malekaiah. An intense fear of the disease had been instilled in her by her Restoration tutors, an ailment as devastating as the Knahaten Flu, or the Thrassian Plague - but completely incurable.

“I’m so sorry,” Malekaiah said, placing a consoling hand on Aryon’s shoulder. But to her surprise, he seemed much less crestfallen than she expected. “You know what that means, right?”

“Of course,” Aryon said. “Fatal unless cured quickly.”

“Aryon,” Malekaiah said, her voice stern. “There is no cure for Corprus.”

Aryon laughed, but it was an empty, dry laugh. “Allow me to let you in on another secret, Malekaiah. Another state secret, one carefully guarded by the Temple in Morrowind.” Conspiratorially, he leaned in close. “There is a cure. Our Hortator was cured of Corprus, over two hundred years ago. After Divayth’s…unfortunate demise, I worked with his daughter Uupse Fyr on further developing the cure.” He looked back at the dagger in his hand. “There’s little need for a cure, since Dagoth Ur’s defeat by the Hortator, but I believe I can recall the formula we concocted.”

Malekaiah’s jaw dropped. “So it’s actually possible?”

“Yes,” Aryon said. “But the specific ingredients we used were mostly local to Vvardenfell, and are therefore out of our reach. But I believe there may be suitable substitutes to be found here in Skyrim.”

Aryon stood, dusting off his robes, and stepped away for a moment. With a click of his finger, a worktable appeared, faintly luminous and violet. He reached into his bag nearby and pulled out a couple parcels.

Malekaiah stood also, and marveled at the conjured worktable. It was kitted out with what seemed like delicate alchemical apparatuses, retorts and calcinators and alembics, and little tubes and pipes to feed them, and flames to heat them. She didn’t understand their purposes, but could imagine that a better alchemist than her could work wonders with them.

“On our way to Skyrim,” said Aryon, “we stopped in Solstheim.” He opened one of the parcels, a small jar. “We discovered strange beasts, reminiscent of ash creatures created by Dagoth Ur’s blight long ago. Upon their death they released a similar substance to the ash salts found in Vvardenfell.” Malekaiah peeked inside the jar; it seemed to contain a fine gray powder looking very much like ash, but somehow more crystalline. Aryon continued: “Uupse’s original recipe called for ash salts. This should serve as a substitute.”

“Okay,” Malekaiah said. “What else do we need?”

“A shoot of Nirnroot, and two hearts.”

Hearts? Malekaiah shivered. Hopefully he was being metaphorical. She decided to focus on the less scary part of that answer. “What’s Nirnroot?”

“It is a glowing, singing plant that grows by the water all across Tamriel. I don’t have any samples here, but it shouldn’t be difficult to find some. There’s a river on the other side of this hill, beyond a small copse of trees. You should be able to find some there. Go on ahead while I procure the Daedra heart.”

Malekaiah nodded. She checked on Kassur one last time before she began to slowly climb down the hill. It was still dark, but the cloud cover was bright, illuminated by the full moons behind, and her Orc eyes acclimated quickly. The copse Aryon mentioned was small but dense enough to obstruct the river she could hear on the other side. She had to move carefully through the trees, as their shadows kept the light of the heavens from reaching her. Finally, she reached the small river, and looked around.

Malekaiah could guess “glowing,” but what had Aryon meant by “singing?” She looked up and down the stream, trying to see any light along its course. She didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Frustrated, she picked a direction and started following the banks westwards.

The white noise of the flowing river was making her ears ring, and it seemed to get worse the longer she was by it. She was just about to give up when she remembered what Aryon said. She backed up, retreating eastwards. The ringing seemed to get quieter. Eyes peeled, she kept heading west.

Finally, she saw a strange light peeking from behind a boulder. She wrapped around it and saw the plant, a spiky-leaved thing, luminous green, and chiming a sharp note.

Using her hands (she didn’t want to get her dagger dirty), she gradually dug up the roots and pulled the entire plant from the earth. Once its roots were free, its noise died down to a whisper.

Something caught her attention in her peripheral vision. A small thing, alighting on the slow-moving surface of the river. It didn’t sink, but left a small impression on the water. Then she noticed another, and another. Then she felt something cold fall on her nose, and she looked up.

It was snowing. She had heard of snow before, but never seen it herself. She held out her empty hand and caught a falling flake, and quickly tried to inspect it before it melted from her body’s warmth. It was a beautiful, geometric crystal. It reminded her of the tattoos priests of Zenithar often wore, denoting their faith to the mathematical god of industry. Perhaps, Malekaiah wondered, during creation, Zenithar collaborated with Kynareth, the goddess of the rains, to create such beautiful frozen artifacts.

The falling snowflakes began to increase in volume, until so many landed on Malekaiah’s head it sent a shiver down her spine. She pulled her hood over her bare scalp, and began to head back east to the copse at the base of Aryon’s hill.

When she finished climbing the hill - a bit more difficult now, as the precipitation was making it icy and slick - Malekaiah greeted Aryon. Kassur didn’t seem to have moved from his position when she left, which she tentatively took as a good sign.

“Do we have all the ingredients now?” she asked, holding up the Nirnroot plant.

Aryon, now hooded himself, glanced over from his work at his enchanted table. He seemed to be boiling down a dark red, almost black, organ she couldn’t identify. A Daedra heart? she wondered. “Ah, thank you,” Aryon said. “Although I didn’t require the entire plant. Just a sprig would do.” Malekaiah frowned. “But it never hurts to have extra,” Aryon added upon seeing her expression.

Malekaiah brought forth the Nirnroot. With magical shears Aryon cut a leaf from the plant and had her set the rest aside for now. Then he cut the leaf into small strips and added them to the boiling heart’s juices.

“But do we have all the ingredients now?” Malekaiah repeated.

“Oh, not yet,” Aryon said. “We still require a Briarheart. Specifically, one taken from a living subject’s chest.”

“Okay,” Malekaiah said. Her conscience couldn’t help but butt in. “So, does that require murder?”

“That depends,” Aryon said, “on if you consider the destruction of a necromantic beast murder. Frankly, Briarheart warriors are not human anymore. They make pacts with hagravens and the Daedra Lord Hircine to become what they are.”

Malekaiah considered it. If it’s necromancy, it can’t be murder, right? She nodded. “Okay. So how are we going to get one?”

“It will take some time to find and obtain one,” Aryon began. “And one of us must stay with Kassur. Seeing as I am not a healer, that must fall to you. I will go, by stealth, to tear the heart from a sleeping warrior. I believe the Forsworn have a camp not far from here. If I’m not back in three hours -” Aryon started to say, but he looked at Kassur and reconsidered. “No. I’ll be back in about three hours.”

“Okay,” Malekaiah said. She took a seat next to Kassur and waved Aryon off as he swiftly departed.

- - - - -

With great effort, the Emperor sloughed off his regal fur-lined coat before his attendant had a chance to offer his assistance. Unburdened, he spun around to see Merculus frowning.

“You know, Your Highness, that I’m here to assist you,” Merculus, an old white-haired geezer of a Cyrod, said.

“Oh, brighten up, will you?” the Emperor said with a bright grin. “It’s a beautiful day in…er…”

“Helgen, Sire.”

“Of course,” said the Emperor with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I was only feigning ignorance.”

It was, of course, not a beautiful day. The young Emperor was known for embellishment. The sky in southern Skyrim was a dreary gray, and the ground here in the fort sucked at your boots like it wanted you to stand there forever. His two Blades in his entourage, both Nords, had told him this was fairly usual.

“You’re lucky if you see the sun once a year in this shithole of a province,” the tall, shaggy blonde Fjulgur had said.

Thargun, the shorter, ruddy-complexioned one, sighed. “Your tongue, Fjully.”

“Sorry,” said Fjulgur, covering his mouth. But the Emperor could tell he was smiling underneath his hands.

Now, Merculus asked, “Is there anything you’ll allow me to do for you, Your Highness?”

The Emperor rubbed his throat. “You know, Merculus, I could go for a drink before bed. What do the locals have here?”

“I believe Helgen is known for its juniper berry mead, Your Highness. I could procure for you a bottle.”

“No, just a glass will do. Or a mug. Do they drink it hot up here? Surely they do.”

“Yes, Your Highness. I will return as swiftly as possible.” With this, Merculus, in his usual way, glided out the door, which closed behind him with a soft click.

The Emperor turned to inspect the room. For a “shithole province,” they certainly knew how to furnish a chamber for royalty. The bed had four tall posts, supporting a frame from which hung a black curtain, sporting on all sides the Imperial insignia, a diamond with a dragon at its center, in red. In the corner by the window sat a similarly red-upholstered armchair, the cushions of which looked like they could swallow even a Nord or an Orc in their depths. The crimson curtains on the far-side window, which stood a few stories high over the fort’s courtyard, were pulled open for the Emperor to look out upon his subjects. The two nightstands on either side of the bed were of dark spruce, as were the massive dresser and desk across from the bed’s foot.

The Emperor hesitated; he felt his neck warming up. He glanced down at the Amulet of Kings, and felt a voice ring out in his head: BEWARE.

He glanced around, letting his peripheral vision do the heavy-lifting for him. But he saw nothing.

“Come out, assassin,” the Emperor commanded, just quietly enough that no one outside could hear.

“How did you know?” whispered a voice that seemed to come from every corner of the room at once.

The Emperor flashed his teeth, part smile, part threat-display. “Magic has an odor. Especially Illusion magic.”

There was a long pause. Then: “You just made that up. It was a lucky guess.”

“It was a lucky guess,” the Emperor admitted, keeping his volume even. “But I had you going, didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t,” said the voice, who suddenly revealed herself, the figure in the plush corner chair appearing piece-by-piece of vanishing invisibility. “Uriel Septim.” She tilted her head. “Are you the seventh, or the eighth?”

“The ninth, Hla-eix,” he said. The Hortator of the Ebonheart Pact’s daughter was unmistakable: a Dunmer by almost all features, save for side-slitted lizard eyes and patches of pale, ephemeral scales on her skin.

“Ah,” she hissed, wrapping her thin fingers around the delicate point of her chin. “You humans take so many lifetimes to accomplish so little.”

Uriel ignored her and asked, “How did you get in here? The window?” Even as he asked, he doubted it; the dust on the windowsill looked completely undisturbed.

“Who’s to say I haven’t been here the whole time?”

Uriel smiled. Fair enough. He decided not to think about the worrying implications for his security. “We’re not meant to meet until tomorrow. What are you doing here now?”

“I wanted to appraise you,” Hla-eix said simply.

“Like a piece of jewelry? A ring to wrap around your finger?”

She smiled, her lips barely parting to reveal razor-sharp teeth. “You have a sharp tongue. Expected for a Cyrod, an Emperor no less.” She planted her hands on the arms of the chair and pushed herself out of the deep seat, landing on her toes. “But is it as sharp as the blade at your throat?”

Reflexively Uriel swallowed deeply, but hoped it was mostly imperceptible; he never let down his smile. “And here I thought this was just a friendly visit. Are you sure you’re not an assassin?”

“I’m not one anymore,” she said, stepping even closer. “The Shadowscales and the Morag Tong both answer to me. But they’re not the ones you should worry about.”

“And who, praytell, should I worry about?” He resisted the urge to step back.

“There are snakes in the lion’s den.” She was now so close Uriel could feel her breath on his cheek. “And venom is indiscriminate.”

“And how, praytell, would you know such a thing?”

“Simple. Assassins make good spies.” She shot a glance at the door behind him. “And Blades make weak ones.”

“I don’t understand your motive, Hla-eix. Our peoples’ are on the precipice of war. Why should you concern yourself with the strength of my Empire?”

“That’s not for you to know.” She leaned in close to his ear, and he couldn’t help but flinch this time. “Keep your wits about you…Emperor.”

There was a loud crack, and she was gone. The air left behind seemed to pull at the folds of Uriel’s robes for a moment before it settled again.

The door behind him burst open. He turned to see Fjulgur and Thargun pushing through the threshold, katanas in hand. “Sire!” Thargun shouted. “Are you alright? What was that noise?”

“Stubbed my toe on the bed, dammit,” lied Uriel. “Everything’s alright. Calm down.”

Thargun tilted his head, but said, “As you wish, Sire.” The Nords scanned the room through the eye slits of their helmets before sheathing their swords and leaving, the door closing softly behind them. Uriel sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed his forehead. Nine-damned dark elves, he thought. Oblivion take them and their schemes.

#tes #tesblr #oc: malekaiah #oc: kassur #oc: dagoth valer #oc: uriel ix #master aryon #skyrim #orc #orsimer #dunmer #imperial #cyrod #cyrodiil #nord #my writing #oc: hla-eix

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