Vincent continued to smile, listening to Roze explain her procedures for larceny. "You're certainly forthcoming." He murmured as she continued on. He had no doubt that she was telling him the truth about her name and methods. He was initially fierce to her, then more personable, and so she was now responding to him quite strongly. Perhaps this girl was actually somewhat simple? No, he couldn't judge her too harshly; she was only a young, terrified girl, after all.

Upon her mentioning his vampirism and her relief in discovering it, he laughed lightly, saying, "I imagine those were words you never thought you would say." His laughter subsiding, his looks turned dark as he said, "Though I would not relax so soon, my dear. Remember what I am, and who you are to me." A little fear to keep her talking. "That aside, please, continue to humor me. Why choose such an impoverished hamlet as this for your plundering? Surely are more reliable opportunities and greater rewards in larger cities? For what reason have you come to this place, at such a time to meet myself and gain my most unwanted attention?"

Rozalia's smile died down slightly; yeah, he was right, unfortunately. although it was pleasing to find that her fairly efficient pick-pocketing skills hadn't dwindled in any way; she was now in a locked room with a vampire; Gods only knew how old he was, and of course, for Vampires, age meant power.
"Why?" Rozalia was somewhat taken aback by his question. "For everyone else's reasons, of course. The Dragonborn is dead. What with the war, and now the dragons flying about unchecked... I thought I should do something to help. There's nothing back home for me anyways." She said with a somewhat uncomfortable shrug. She had been naught but a street urchin with dreams before the dragon menace. She had no interest in joining the army for the war - as she had mentioned, way too many rules for her - but once the news of dragons spilled into Cyrodiil - not soon followed by the actual dragons themselves - she felt an almost unnatural urge to go to Skyrim. She felt certain she could make a difference. After all, it was either that, or die with no fame or loved ones to mourn for her. And then have her soul devoured by Alduin anyways.
"...Is that why you're here too?" She asked hesitantly, wondering what a Vampire had to fear from Alduin. Vincent wasn't going to die any time soon; so there were no fears of his soul getting gobbled up in the afterlife.

Once more, Vincent listened quietly and respectfully as Roze spoke, giving her story his undivided attention. It wasn't a spectacular tale, but those were few and far between in this day and age. One had to learn to appreciate the stories of the common folk, as they were the lifeblood of the land. Still, the girl's answer to the call of heroism was commendable, though Vincent silently doubted her potential value in combating such a terrible threat. She turned the question around onto Vincent and his motives.

There was no harm in being honest. Vincent rose from his seat, saying with a hint of grandeur, "I suppose I'm here for the same reason, yes. Tamriel is my home as well as yours, as it happens." He stretched, a touch stiff from the seat, and mafe his way to the door. "Our paths part ways for now, my dear." He unlocked the door, still talking. "The trinket on the table is yours if you fancy it. Consider it payment for keeping an old man well entertained."

He strode put of the room and back into the main room of the inn, quickly passing the various others that has filtered in. Curiously enough, he sensed a few other undead presences in the room, but didn't care enough to investigate. The sun had just set, and he had only so much time to reach High Hrothgar, and so he had to set out at once.

Rozalia inclined her head in surprise as Vincent swiftly left the room, and her eyes listed towards the 'trinket'. It would be worth a lot; worth a bed and some food. And yet, she had no interest in keeping it. Standing up with a scowl, she looked at it for a moment, then picked it up, stuffing it into her pocket. She wouldn't steal it, but she certainly wouldn't let someone else get it either.
"'Well entertained?' I'm not a bard." She muttered under her breath as she left the room, heading straight for the counter - Vincent must be heading towards the mountain already. She supposed that made sense, what with him being a vampire and all. Deciding her next step quickly, she asked for some supplies at the counter, paying for them with her stolen gold, and then high-tailing it out of the inn. It was tempting to retreat back into the warmth of the inn after seeing the blizzard outside, but something within her felt determined to follow Vincent.
It didn't take long to catch up, what with her sprinting full-pelt, and he walking at a reasonable pace towards the mountain. Finally skidding to a stop by his side, she dangled the necklace in front of him with a breathless grin.
"I'd prefer to steal it from you sometime in the future." She said with a teasing grin. "And I'll head up to the Monastery with you - saves me battling through the crowds tomorrow morning."

The snow began to roll over the mountain tops of Skyrim as a wind blew in from the west. The thick, crystal, flakes whipped in a blanket of white as it settled down over Whiterun hold and all within it's natural borders. The beauty of the valley and meadows that surrounded Whiterun slowly became enveloped in a white coat of snow. Small pockets of color perked up from the cold layer as the mountain flowers adjusted to the fresh fall of winter and the evening sun set in behind the peaks. A lone khajiit draped in a thick leather trench-coat and his armor of leather & bone stepped across the drifted cobblestone pathway of Whiterun hold. His hood, a marvelous Lion head stuffed for a half-helm & hood, sat over the Khajiiti's head to warm it and shelter it from the snow that tightened under his feet and settled on the fur-made coat.He continued on hi path as the snow followed nature and stacked in a thick layer over the next several hours, each passing moment presented deeper drifts then the last, and before long the pockets of color dissipated into non-existence. A film of white as thick as a mammoth swallowed the land, leaving only the most obvious of places untouched, like ponds of warm water, cave faces, ancient ruins, and all the place the un-kind care to dwell. Fortunately this made the Khajiit's task slightly easier, the feline fellow sought a Ruin. He sought a ruin in which rumors of an artifact had spawned, rumors of an artifact capable of expanding upon a Summoner's and Conjurer's magics. Whether this was true was yet to be known, but the Khajiiti male was certain to discover it. He huffed and tensed his muscles as the cold of Skyrim settled in with the fresh night as it had done for so many years now. The Khajiit never stopped, save for the attention of a traveling merchant, or the unwanted attention of ravenous beasts. Fights were fights, but ruins were treacherous and this male knew to save himself for the right moment. As the two moons drew high into the air as the night came to a peak the Khajiit paused and looked to the sky where he marveled at Secunda and Masser, the glory of his people and the Deities of the Lunar Lattice. He stepped to the side of the path and knelt down while looking to the moons while whispering.

"By the Lunar Light I am born, by the Lunar Grace I am gifted, By the shroud of their shadows I am protected, and by the Brilliance of their presence I am blessed."

He stood to his feet once more and then continued on his path, with a light from the moons shining almost in coincidence as a compass. He passed by a stone marker and noticed in the distance a large Ruin entrance-way, it was the exact match to the rumored Ruin. The Khajiit male made his way with haste across the small expanse of snow-covered field to reach the Ancient doorway of the Ruin. The feline fellow took a moment to check the door for traps before attempting to open it, and while it was stubborn, it was shortly opened with a bit of force to reveal nothing more then a normal Ancient Nordic Burial Tomb. The Khajiiti drew his axe and continued on through the Tomb, with each step and each corridor he grew evermore wary of the tomb and it's lack of restless dead. He knew most of the tombs had Draugr, undead Ancient Nords awoken to serve a never-ending sleep for war, and yet he knew he had yet to see one in this tomb. He noticed many bodies in their places along the walls, but also a great lack for them in many places as well. He had his mind speculate a bit, for avid reasons of caution. He pondered of how maybe Necromancers looted the bodies, or perhaps they were grave-robbed, or maybe even just awoken and killed already to lay burnt, decaying, or disposed of elsewhere among the tomb. Though one thing remained clear, he made his way deeper into the Tomb for a few hours until he came to a puzzling door. A door requiring a key to unlock, and him with no lock-picking skills. Though his need for one was met by ill-fated coincidence as a body lay propped against the door, as if to be exhausted and holding the door from letting something out. The Khajiit examined the body to find a rusted key in the deceased Elf's hand, which he promptly used to open the door and find a massacre of the Undead and now Dead. It seemed that no longer then a few weeks back a group of adventurers heard the same rumors as this Khajiit, and now they had met their fate, but had incidentally saved the Khajiits. They had laid waste to the Draugr in one fell attempt at the end of the Tomb. The Khajiit stepped through the doorway and passed into a short, wide, corridor littered with elven and draugr corpses alike, but at the end sat an odd doorway ajar. It was one of the foretold "Claw" doors which required a precious key to open with the knowledge of the Ancient Nordic workings, with no need to muster a key or a certain skill this time the Khajiit passed through the door into a grand sight. The door led into one of the infamous underground Caverns of Skyrim. This was one of the massive Grotto of the Northern Cold, which held a small island in the middle with a massive, gaping, wound in the earth overhead to shine brilliant moon-light onto the grotto and let the thick snow palette down into the grotto. Around the Island sat sauna-like water that steamed with the falling snow and radiated warmth. The khajiit descended down a small set of stairs and passed by trees on a small trail to reach the island. Once he arrived he viewed it with a closer eye, to see a large hole in the ground surrounded by carved stones, an idol-like statue with a small platform, and large pillars and rock cairns across the Island as markers.

The khajiit looked up through the gap in the earth to see the Moons so shining in the sky again, before a terrible roar filled the air from outside the cavern. A shadow passed over the wound and a flying image passed over the sight of the moons for only a moment. The Khajiit turned his body and ran to the idol-like statue to examine the panel for an Artifact, a loose necklace sat on the platform, made from what seemed like bone, moonstone, and leather, but when the Khajiit went to grab it the necklace turned to dust and he pushed back from the island with great force and sent sliding on the ground. A massive figure now sat in the dug-out stone ring, with gripping claws, seething breaths, and heavy fangs the beast came into clarity.

A Dragon, a Dovah, sat before the Khajiit with brilliant Purple and Teal scales that wrapped over the beast like a grand armor. It's horns were very straight, unlike many other Dovah, and numbered in six with three on each side of it's skull all descending in length down the back of the Jaw-bone. It's wings were massive and they spread through the Grotto like marvelous paintings, the color shimmering under the moonlight from the sky. The mighty Dovah stretched it's body, revealing a long neck that wound itself a moment before fully lengthening out and it's tail whipped back and forth before the beast let out a mighty roar and a new set of Draugr emerged. They rose from a laying position in the waters that surrounded the now obvious Dragon Burial Site. It's minions groaned to an un-earhtly call and they slowly moved around to the statue and stood between the Dovah and a now "hidden" Khajiit. The Khajiit Male had though himself unseen and dug his way into the foliage of the Grotto and sat behind a few trees and thick brush in the hopes of avoiding the Dovah, but when the Dovah spoke the truth of his actions were revealed.

"Joor. Joor. Ni Joor." "Mortal. Mortal. No, Mortal."

The Khajiit tensed and turned with an anger as the Dovah seemed to "talk" to him. He relentlessly stepped from the brush and foliage to reveal himself.

"Joor, Hin Sahlo?" He spoke with his devilish tongue, before announcing his words again. "Forgive me Mortal, I forget you are not of Dovah-tongue. Why do you enter my home, my domain? Do you seek me, my minions, or the supposed treasures of these Ancient Ruins? Tell me Mortal, of who are you to a Dovah." The Dragon curled it's neck and then lowered it to just above it's minions head's and glared at the Khajiit as it removed it's hood to reveal it's face.

"This one is Rawlith-Dar, a Khajiit from the Tenmar forest of Elsweyr, now of a tribe in Skyrim. This one is nothing to a Dovah, not in meaning, nor comparison." He spoke lowering his head. His black, grey, and white features now visible, his long snout and pointed ears gathering a tiny bit of the snow still flowing in from the surface.

"Kaaz. Khajiit. I see now, you are of beast-folk. You Kazz have been persistent in pursuits since the ages, now again, what brings you to this place?" The Dovah asked with a growing tone of slight irritation.

"This one simply sought to learn of a rumor's truth. This one was stricken with need and curiosity at the tale of an artifact with innate connections to Conjuration Magic." He stated looking to the Dovah as he moved his body slightly and the beast's tail whipped back and forth slowly.

"Mortals are always so indulged by the treasures of other's, the things that make them wonder are what they hunt so diligently." The Dovah stated while taking a step forward as the minions parted to allow the beast room. "Tell me Kaaz, why do you seek an artifact of Conjuration? You do not adorn the apparel or the attitude of a magically skilled mortal."

The Khajiit churned inside as a sensation of fear, and anger, slowly rose inside him with the hesitation to speak. He answered though with knowing disdain for the need to answer. "This one is however a Conjurer. He is a skilled summoner of the spirits and seeks to further his knowing and power." He answered while watching the Dovah.

"The mortal is a Conjurer? Prove it Sahlo." "Prove it weakling."

The Dovah didn't move, yet his minions seemed to head a command to attack the Khajiit, they hefted their blades and weapons and rushed forward leaving the Khajiiti Male only a moment's notice to react. He gathered his magicka in his palms and lighted his hands out to the side as a gorgeous blue magic began to in-circle him and orbs spawned in his palms which reacted quickly with a burst of magicka. The orbs burst in his hands into dust and two figures formed out of the magical mist beside him. Two massive Skyrim Sabre Cats were formed out of the Blue Magic and they pounced forward engaging the minions. A blood-bath ensued as both side's minions felled the other, the Dovah escaping with one Draugr which knew to hang back a moment while the Dovah seemed to "chuckle" in it's demonic voice.

"Dovah, I mean nothing more to you, let this one go and he shall not return. He wishes only to return to his tribe, find a bed, and sleep." The Khajiit stated to the Dovah while taking a few deep breaths as he slowly began to try and gather his magical strength.

"You are strong, for a mortal compared to other mortals, but you are right. You are nothing to a Dovah, except a Zaam, a Slave." He let out a low growl and stepped forward over the small statue and lowered his head to only a few feet from the Khajiit. "You will serve me well in death." The dragon explained before lifting his head and stretching his wings.

The Khajiit turned and started to run from the Dovah, retracing his steps towards the stairs that would lead him back to the ruins while the Dovah unleashed a Shout that would tear though the Grotto aimed for the Khajiit.

"Dwiirok Ziil Horvutah!"
"Carve Soul Trapped"

The sound thundered through every inch of the cavern and escaped through the ruins and up through the ceiling to the surface. The grand magic of the Dovah's words pushed through the air and sent purple waves of energy through the room before colliding with Rawlith-Dar. The Khajiit took the shout and continued running with a sudden feeling of death overwhelming him, his body collapsed to the stairs and his senses began to faulter, his body quivered, his soul had just been attacked and his body felt like it was dying. The Dovah now flapped it's wings to set itself aloft and target the Khajiit once more with another shout. Rawlith-Dar was now weak from every aspect, his body, his mind, and even his soul was weak. The Dovah let out a might roar once more before screaming in the use of the Thu'um.

"Hokoron Ziil Gahrot!"
"Enemy Soul Steal!"

Rawlith-Dar let out a roar of his own as the male drew up his last bit of strength and powered his palms with magicka. He watched as the Thu'um flew at him before finally reaching him, but the Thu'um collided with the Khajiit's last bit of strength, a Ward, a ward that would only partially work. The thu'um still worked to a degree and began gathering Rawlith-Dar's weakened soul, but the ward infused with the last dying will of a Khajiit conjurer somehow fought the Thu'um. He had successfully negated the Dovah's attempt to steal his soul, but he was not unscathed. Rawlith-Dar now wielded a magical scar, a tree-like scar on his chest that imitated a leaf-less tree. The scar radiated a light pulse of magic, Dovah Magic, it was a seal if you wanted to call it, a Bounding Scar, a Seal, a Magical Ward, it came in many names, but all meant the same issue. Rawlith-Dar's Magic was now limited to extent he would not know. Both entities, Khajiit and Dovah alike, sat in awe-struck anger as Rawlith-Dar survived the Dovah's powerful Thu'um. He quickly scurried to his feet and escaped into the Ruins. He rushed to the entrance, knowing the Dovah might be waiting, but he found nothing more then snow and he fled, running for hours, until he reached Rorikstead. Then he began a couple day's journey to Ivarstead.

The Khajiit now rests in Ivarstead with his tribe, a wandering tribe who works where and how they can to keep a steady income while making there way across Skyrim. Rawlith-Dar himself was resting upstairs in the Tavern, before coming down to enjoy a drink, he noticed a wide menagerie of people in the Tavern on this night, and he had began to hear of people wanting to join this group, this proclaimed DovahFeyn. Rawlith-Dar himself was more them tempted to ascend the mountain and learn what he could. He had been stripped of the things he loved, in more then one way, by the Dovah.

Valerion found that there was numerous interests dotted about the room, namely an Orc that was trying to gain the attention of the cat, Valerion assumed that this cat could think that it was pulling off a very nice disguise but he could sense the power this seemingly unobvious creature had.
But the Orc was another story.
Very old... Too old was Valerions thoughts. This creature had to be over a hundred for it's soul to be giving off the aura that it was.
But as Valerion himself knew they were numerous ways one could keep living beyond the prescribed age the Nine gave to them.

The orcs interest into the cat wasn't as surprising as others may think however. In his travels Valerion knew of an Orc who adored puppies, admitidly he did crush at least half of them when he hugged them. T'wasnt a pretty sight Valerion recalls with a look of revulsion etched in his face...

Just at that moment a man who appeared to be a lord passed by Valerion and went outside the door into the howling blizzard that was now raging outside.

Now that one was a powerful and old one, much more than the Orc! It appeared there were many here who had the same need for life as Valerion did, although he betted theirs was a bit more savoury.

And shortly after that a young girl ruched out after him, this one has a young soul but a rather tough and scarred one, one that was older beyond her years.
Now Valerion was quite interested in what they had been up to, and where they were going. If they were heading for the mountain then Valerion felt it best to follow them. He wished to learn a bit about them but with no intention of them knowing he was there.

He downed his drink which burned smoothly on its way down, grabbed his helmet and placed it on his head, giving it a quick sharp twist to the left so it locked in place, and followed the girl out into the gods awful weather that was howling outside.

Vision was severely restricted outside, but the tracks left by the other 2 seemingly confirmed where they were heading too and so he followed making sure to use there voices as markers to how far they were ahead of him.
And he clasped his right hand around the hilt of his blade as an insurance policy...

Dura chuckled internally at the cat's conflict. Clearly it wasn't sure whether to stay or flee, wasn't quite sure if it's attempt to pass off what it had done worked or not. Dura gave no sign of whether it did or not show on her face, though she wasn't fooled. However the cat interested because the magic, and she liked things that caught her interest. When the cat got close, she offered and outstretched palm and lowered arm to it, so it could climb up her if it wanted to. After all, lots of warm furs on her armor, and warm, even in a room warmed by a fire, was nice when a blizzard like that was going on outside.

Vincent slowly but surely trudged up the mountain, steadily making headeay through the harsh blizzard. The bitter cold meant nothing to him; he barely even remembered what warmth felt like. The headwind, however, was a nuisance, as was the gradually accumulating snow. He silently cursed his own leisurely pace for not arriving a day earlier to avoid this annoyance.

Speaking of annoyances, Roze had apparently caught up to him, offering back the gold he had given her and saying something silly. While she had been a welcome distraction in the tavern, the girl was now wearing that welcome rather thin. Vincent's patience was a practically inexhaustible wellspring, but even her could only stand so much from precocious children.

His earlier genial nature gone in place of cold, steely purpose, he snatched the amulet back from her, saying, "It was not wise to follow me. I offer no solace if you freeze to death. Or if you become a warm meal."

He continued to trudge along in silence, but soon happened upon a corpse, half-buried by the snow. Some old man, likely a pilgrim of some kind. The body's presence did not bother him as much as its condition. There were no wounds, even post-mortem. It was a queer thing for wolves to avoid a hot, fresh carcass. He could not have been put here long, as he showed no signs of rot, and other pilgrims buried those that fell on the path when discovered. Something strange was at work here. Vincent felt out the area for any presences, living or otherwise. Finding one, he thought it best to warn Roze, his hand idly making its way to the hilt of his sword.

"We're being followed. I don't know by what, but I know it isn't alive."

Roze hadn't been particularly perturbed by the body - she'd seen plenty before - but at her second glance it was indeed curious that he had no marks. No infliction of any kind, really. Perhaps poison? And yet, there seemed to be no visible after-effects of that possibility either; no hemorrhaging, no bruising; no frothing at the mouth - trust me, she'd seen that, and it was nasty. His eyes were wide open, and yet, looked hollow - it didn't even have the usual glazed, misty look dead bodies often procured after death. It was as if this shell had never even witnessed life before.
However, she did react to Vincent's words, and her own hands flew to the ebony daggers, positioned either side of her hips. Unsure of what good she could do, she lingered uncertainly behind Vincent, peering in the same direction, yet only seeing a never-ending flurry of snow.
"Not alive? Is it another vampire?" She whispered, wondering what his own vampirical eyes were picking up that hers weren't; and then also wondering why he had bothered to tell her about this. Perhaps she wasn't as annoying as he let her believe? Allowing herself a minuscule smug smile, it quickly disappeared as she finally saw a figure walking towards them.
He didn't look friendly.

Based on the current position on the mountain path, Valerion had deduced that the little girl and that powerfully old soul had reached the 'leavings' of Valerions earlier meal.
He chuckled slightly half expecting the little girl to throw up, but he heard nothing, and that was slightly more troubling.
They knew he was there...

Now that was slightly more impressive, it only took them to this point to discover that they were being followed. But how? Life detect didn't work on him, the blizzard prevented any real sight...

Then it hit him. The man was a vampire, it was the only explanation, the age mixed with his power and the ability to discover him, it also made sense why he traveled up here at night. Could the girl be his thrall? What would a vampire want with the graybeards?
Too many questions, and the only way to get answers was to reveal himself. Keeping a tight grip on the hilt of his blade he continued walking towards them a small smile appearing on his face as he got his first view of the 2 people. The girl was cowering behind the Vampire, which answered the question that she wasn't a thrall.
Both of them had their hands around their hips, so they obviously thought him to be hostile, or they were unsure.
Either way Valerion got close enough for both vision and sound to be clear; approximately 5 long strides from them.
"Greetings fellow pilgrims." The ruse was important
Valerion proceeded to lean a bit closer "Is that a body behind you?!" if Valerions ruse failed it mattered little to him, he just liked to entertain himself.
Something he could do very well.

Maza froze as the Orc reached out and offered her armored palm. Her mind was finally catching up to her body's instincts, and it became clear that there was something wrong about the Orc. Mazathad had never been one to trust her instincts and the odd feeling she got from the Orc only served to feed her curiosity. The Khajiit leapt onto the Orc's outstretched arm, only barely making it on. She cursed her aging body as she tried to maintain balance. A small feeling of regret hit her, she was left without her cloak and within reach of an Orc; then again, those furs did seem pretty flammable...

As soon as she had regained her balance, Maza carefully made her way up the arm and towards the shoulder, the feeling of subconscious dread only served to bolster her interest. She made sure to look over the Orc as she moved. A sense of suspicion began creeping on her as she caught a good look at the Orc's face. Her irises glowed a bright blue for a brief second as she subtly cast a life detection spell, and her worries seemed to have had some merit. There was no feedback from the Orc, indicating that she was either undead or something much worse, likely a vampire. She stopped and reared up, caught off guard by the revelation. She was unsure about what to do, having never personally seen one, and accounts on vampires that she had read about were oddly mixed. Should she jump off, try to cast a spell and run, or continue with this act? Without making a sound, Maza kept an eye on the undead Orc's face and hoped for the best.

The strange, undead presence soon made itself knwown, and Vincent did his best to narrow down what it was based on what he could observe. Certainly not a vampire, the smell was completely wrong. The best he could settle for was some kind of lich or similar animated corpse. Whatever it was, it was trying to play coy with them, which Vincent did not appreciate. Especially when the thing still had its hand on the hilt of its sword.

Not removing his hand from his own sword, Vincent said dismissively, "No, my grandfather is simply taking a nap in the snow." He took a step off the path and urged the strange undead to continue down it with his free hand. "I'd advise you keep on your merry way, pilgrim." Vincent spat the last word at him, clearly full of mistrust.

It was blatantly obvious that the Vampire did little to trust him, and Valerion felt insulted by the reaction he received, but it also gave him a bit of insight about the man. He was obviously used to being in a posisition of power over others. But this time was different, he obviously knew that Valerion was powerful otherwise the vampire would have likley attacked
And so Valerion decided to present a demonstration of his power.
The smile now a full grin etched into his face.
"Well then allow me to get him up for you, otherwise he might die."
With that Valerion used his knowledge in necromancy and brought the lifeless shell back, well it wasn't alive it was just reanimated.
But he doubted he'd get much reaction from them so he went up ahead of them, the surprise of him waiting for them at the top would be a great deal better anyway.

Valerion began striding towards them and came within swinging distance to the Vampire. It was obvious that the vampire had complete hatred of Valerion so he felt that he should enclave things a little.
He said his in a low voice filled with malice. "Best hurry up before the sun comes up" he was just about to continue ahead but then finished with "Oh and your 'Grandfather' will accompany you for the rest of your days, unless tragedy befalls him again." With a slight chuckle he began to stride of into the blizzard ahead of him, his cloak cracking in the furious wind.

Rozalia's eyes followed Valerion until he disappeared amisdt the snow, and then her eyes darted to the softly groaning corpse stood behind them.
"Ick." She muttered, looking at the empty, gormless look on the old man's face. That was pretty cruel, bringing him back for no reason. Deciding to try and ignore the shuffling corpse, her gaze was drawn to Vincent's steely features, his own eyes still glaring after Valerion.
"Vincent?" She called his name softly. "What as he? That... he wasn't a Vampire." She asked uncomfortably. Even without having Vincent's sense, she could tell that Valerion was not alive, and yet not a Vampire. Was he some form of Draugr? But he appeared to be fairly intelligent - Draugr just yelled at you in some ancient language and tried to skewer you.

Vincent watched the undead retreat with a loathsome expression. What a petulant and childish being. He turned his attention to the risen corpse of the old man, this time with more pity in his expression. With a single, fluid stroke, Vincent drew his sword, lopping off the zombie's head. As the corpse decintigrated and the ashes were scattered away by the harsh winds, Vincent offered a wordless prayer for the old pilgrim, who was now returned to his blessed sleep.

He finally turned to answer Roze's incessant queries, if only to quiet her. "It was cerrtainly not a vampire. Something far more... unsavory. I won't speak on the subject any more. Come, we must press on. We need to reach High Hrothgar before daybreak. Great discomfort awaits us both if we tarry. Perhaps an increased pace will keep you from freezing to death, child." He then set out again, continuing stubbornly into the biting headwind.

Rawlith found himself sauntering through then slowly emptying tavern room where he perched himself atop a bar stool as the slight winds of the blizzard slipped through the small pockets in the building. He stared into the wood grain of the bar top until the bartender stepped to him with kind words and a question of request to which Rawlith responded somberly.He ordered a simple tankard of nothing special, just mead, and began to drink it with no intentions of inebriation or flat-out intoxication to the point of blacking out. He, like many nords, simply wanted a drink and a warm stomach. He turned to survey the tavern's open room, noticing among the trimmed crowd an Orc, and a Khajiit, but the tiny Alfiq caught his attention more then anything. He examined the Alfiq softly noting many things about her, including that it was a her in fact, as well as her aging, her magical talent, and her demeanor. Khajiit's weren't like other the other races when it came to the Khajiiti sub-species and discerning them from one another. Rawlith knew from a moment of looking that she wasn't a common house-cat, but rather one of his kind, this peaked his interest, but he figured it would be something as simple as her moving around with either a tribe or Caravan. Nevertheless his thoughts remained the same, he was heavily debating whether to stay with his tribe as they moved south to Cyrodil and then back to Elsweyr, or to leave them and ascend the great mountain to learn more about his condition.

Rawlith found his emotions conflicting at first, the fact of leaving his tribe for an unknown period of time waned on his feelings for them as a family and as a unit, but the anger, sorrow, and grip of feelings attached to his new-found scar caused him to boil under his fur. The memory of the past few days resonated in the foreground of his mind and then Scar on his chest shined vibrantly in a red veil of hatred in his mind. The Dragon... Nay, the self-proclaimed Dovah sat in in the shroud of Rawlith's thoughts and plagued his mental state, constantly torturing the dark corners of his mind and tugging at his confidence and sanity. Rawlith couldn't discern this as a personal problem, or an effect of the Dovah Ahraan. He wasn't sure what the Scar was, and whether or not it truly effected him yet, he had yet to find a situation that presented itself necessary to test his abilities. He grew more and more stressed as the minutes rolled on and his mind grew into a fit of rage while his eyes seemed to automatically survey the tavern and go into an idle normality. It was only when the bartender returned to offer a second tankard that Rawlith drew forth from his mind and stared at the bartender with now expressive rage. He took a minute to realize his feline expression and then halted it while shaking his head to decline the tankard.

"This one has somewhere to be..." He stated while paying for his mead and then grabbing his coat from next to the bar. He slipped his trench-coat on and then pressed to the door to begin his trek up the mountain.

It must have been a few hours now since Valerion had met those other 2, he had an inkling that they were going up the mountain to join the Dovah Feyn, but he was unsure, these are strange times and they could be doing anything.
Valerion pushed this from his mind as made his way past the 9th station, obviously he was getting closer the High Hrothgar now and day break was not far behind the corner.
But one thing Valerion was starting to notice was that air was becoming sparse, every breath felt hollow, as if he wasn't breathing in a lot of air and yet he was.
It was quite confusing, and something that warrants further investigation whilst he was up here.

Damnit! Valerions path was blocked by a very thick mist, the snow was still falling heavily and a strong wind accompanied it but trying to walk through that mist in this weather, on a mountain seems like suicide.
But unfortunatly Valerion had little choice in the matter.
It was only getting colder so he had to go through it.

He only went about 5 steps through this fog before he came out on the other side of it, and then he realised that he had actually gone through a cloud, the blizzard that had been raging had calmed down massively now, and the wind had been reduced to a small breeze, albeit a very cold one.
The sight was spectacular, Valerion could see for miles, and the sky was littered with thousands of stars, it was actually bright as far as nights go.
But this was soon interrupted as a soft cry echoed through the night.
That was queer thought Valerion, but it soon became a scream of anger and fury, and it wasn't human.

Valerion turned to the source of the noise and found what appeared to be a troll, but it was a lot bigger than the ones he had fought in the past, and it's cloak of fur was a Snow White rather than a marsh like green.

"Brilliant" Valerion said quietly.
The troll was now officially pissed and was coming at him full pelt.
Valerion only had enough time to draw his blade before he was hit in the right shoulder by what felt like a hammer blow. It lifted him off his feet and flung him at least a couple of yards over the hard ground, doing a few rolls before coming to a stop.
Valerion quickly regained his composure and got up from the ground, his arm was throbbing violently.
Damn that thing can hit you hard!
It came at Valerion once again, with the same attack. Valerion ducked underneath it and swung his blade into the side of the troll, sending a large amount of blood over the snowy ground in a long arc.
The troll screamed in pain but the wound quickly healed itself, leaving nothing but a scarred area of white skin that no longer had fur on it.
Valerion let out a mournful sigh "I forgot about that..."

He preceded by burying his blade in the ground and beginning the spell of Fates spear, Valerion felt his energy being drained as a long spear of dark fluctuating energy formed in his right palm. He quickly shot it at the now charging troll, it went straight through leaving a patch of boiling blood in the trolls stomach, it once again let out a screm of pain.
Valerions hopes were answered as the area did not heal, this should the regeneration for a while.

Valerion quickly took advantage of the situation by running towards the Troll after picking his blade up, and jumped half way there with a strike that shoukd quite easily decapiate the troll.

Or rather that's what should have happened....
The troll somehow regained enough sense to smash Valerion midair sending him flying into the mountain side, his blade leaving his hands burying itself deep in the snow a few yards away from the troll.
His previously injuried arm braking against the rock face, a scream left his lips as his helmet fell of his head.
Blood trickling down his forehead the bitter taste of metal in mouth, this should have been the end for most people but Valerion refused to be killed by an animal, least of all by a bloody troll!

Valerion stood and prepared his Goethia, he aimed to make this troll regret its feeble existence.
The troll began to run at the now injured Valerion, it felt that it's victory was assured as it smelt the warm blood and felt the pain in his scream.

But this was far from the reality. The troll that had hounded many a pilgrim and killed just as many had finally met its end, and it wasn't a pretty one.

YOUR SOUL SHALL BE MINE!

And it was. The troll writhed in agony as it was hit by the powerful spell, a purple ball of energy struck it making it collapse on the floor.
It survived but Valerion was going to finish it. He gave a powerful kick that found its mark in soft flesh of its belly, the troll was sent rolling towards the cliff face, the drop was long, the fall lethal.

"Die..." Was all Vlaerion said as he gave a small push with his boot and the Troll howled mournfully as it fell through the clouds towards its stony grave.

Valerion, his now broken arm was limp and hanging at his side, Valerion picked up his blade with his good arm and rested it on his shoulder, and began walking towards High Hrothgar, which was just half an hour away now...

As the magic cat limbed up her shoulder, Dura reached over with her other arm and stroked along her back, running her gloved hand softly through the feline's short fur. She had stories in the past of magic cats, though she never believed them. She looked at the cat, her amber-gold eyes meeting with the cat's. And then she spoke softly in a tone of light amusement. "So what brings you here? Surely you aren't just some inn cat. Are you here for the reason I am, to hunt these dragons that plague Skyrim now?" She wasnt really expecting an answer, so when she finished talking she picked up her mug again, drained the mead, and set it down. Her drink finished, she picked her mask back up and set it back upon her face, a rather good fit, though a rather shady look, to be certain. Ready to go, she bent back down, giving the feline an easy jump to the floor if she chose.

Rozalia scowled as she jogged after him; he wasn't joking about the quick pace. His long strides were worth three of her smaller ones, but she kept up all the same, and didn't complain in the least. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction. In fact, she kept thinking about that poor old man, and the curious expression on Vincent's face as he put the husk out of it's misery - it had been pity, she was sure of it. So, he wasn't totally devoid of nice emotions, as he no doubt wanted her to believe. But why bother with the coldness around her?
'Speaking of coldness...' Rozalia thought to herself as the wind picked up even more. It got worse the further along the mountain path they went. She was thankful for her Father's Nord blood swimming through her veins once more. She didn't think she could have handled the bitter bite of the snow drifts otherwise. It was nipping her flesh, certainly, and she was shivering lightly - but the walk was keeping her blood flowing, her limbs somewhat warm, and her teeth weren't chattering. Yet. She could make it.
"So, Vincent..." she began talking to him - they had been silent for the past half hour or so during their climb. "Can't you feel the cold at all? Can you feel warmth?" She asked him curiously. After all, it wasn't everyday you got to meet a vampire that wasn't trying to rip your throat out, and could string together intelligent sentences.

Roze attempted to make small talk as they steadily ascended the mountain. Vincent didn't blame her too much for it; mortals often needed to talk about nothing at all just to keep themselves occupied. Vincent, on the other hand, was quite used to silence and solitude. At one point he had imposed a vow of silence onto himself, partially to see how long he could keep it up, and partially to reprimand himself for becoming involved in a series of events that nearly ended with him accidentally getting married. He had kept his tongue for fifteen years until he was forced to speak, at that moment rejecting a woman at their wedding altar. The world was a strange and unforgiving place.

Even so, he didn't feel like revealing too much to this girl; he was only humoring her, after all. "Cold is nothing to me." He said, bluntly, "Heat is... discomforting." His laconic answer was merely followed by the whipping of the wind as he continued on.