”Wh-where am I?”

Enathrae’s thoughts were slow to form even without the difficulty of passing to his lips. On the cold stone floor he awoke, his clothes moist and his skin irritated and discolored. Despite how he tried, the contorted position of Enathrae’s ragged body failed to assist him. Struggling the dunmer pulled his weight against the chains, tugging his arms beneath his chest. He pushed his hands firmly against the ground, rising to the level of a dog.

A sharp gasp of air clenched his heart as it skipped a beat with surprise. While the cell was dark, void of any magical or mundane source of light, the spaces between the bars of his iron door were plenty enough to safely illuminate his predicament. His demeanor turned cold. His eyes narrowed as he tried to dilate his pupils at will. A chromatic sheen danced across the stone floor with the rhythm of the dancing torch resting in its sconce upon the wall opposite his cell door.

Enathrae had to alter his position once again, carefully running his open palm across the lubricated floor. In the most simplistic terms, it was oily but not so dark as to be pitch. Rubbing his thumb and forefinger together he noted the ease at which the friction has dissipated. With a few gentle taps, the mer tested the substance and examined it for taste. Whale oil! They had doused him in a combustible liquid.

Slowly, Enathrae stood up contemplating his next move. His belongings had been taken. His flesh covered by a set of ragged tunic and trousers. Both of course coated with dry whale oil. Any fire based destruction spell would certainly be out of the question. Lightning, of course not. It lacked the required procession and in essence may very well ignite the oil as well with a stray spark or ember. Ice was certainly a viable option. But in what manner, in what direction? Where his chains unique? Not only had he been bound to the wall at the wrists but between those two wrists was an iron bar separating his hands and preventing them from benefitting the other.

Perhaps they deserved his service - this group was rather clever. Enathrae slowly moved to the small pile of hay that was to be his bed. This too was lightly soaked in whale oil. The sheen was apparent across the ground. While the top was dry he knew by the feel of the resistance when he sat that the bottom was quite engrossed with that flammable substance. Enathrae crossed his legs, rested his hands in his lap and closed his eyes. Perhaps his mind’s eye could make sense of it all.

“Put those on. Then we’ll talk.”

These words were not foreign to him. While the voice he heard was little known to him, Enathrae understood the implication that was only amplified by the chitter chatter of metal bouncing across his floor. It stopped when it bounced against the back wall, spiraling to a slow halt amongst the oil doused floor.

His eyes were drawn to it. His thoughts were jumbled because of it. What options did he have? Ignore the ring or perhaps remove it from his cell? Sit in waiting until the day came where his only freedom came in the form of a rotting corpse resting on a pyre along with countless others? Or put on the ring. Live to eat another meal, spend another septim, or perhaps a time to escape?

So there it was, put on the ring. It was merely sitting on his floor near the joint where the floor met the back wall, until he scooped it up in one hand. He was not able to maneuver his limbs close enough to slide the ring on his finger. Enathrae grimaced from the taste as he took it in his mouth, positioned it with his tongue and slide the ring down over the finger on his left hand. Reluctant as he was, it happened to be his only option.

"I know where I sit. Heavy black depths."

The air was an ichor. Thick with devilry and dust that hung in the air like heaps of meat in all too little broth. The ring had, as it fell through the air, tumbled. Drifted. Carved through the muck and moisture. When it landed, it did so against the soft sand near the front most third of the cell. The stone bricks were kept. Maintained. Cleaned. Stained still in old black blood at the edges and between the cracks. Old blood, from ages past. The bed in the cell's corner was a stone thing with sand piled up on it. Spilling out. Softened. The sand-covered floor was equally soft, and fine. Powdery. Most of the dust in the low air was from this sand, which drifted as the wind came through the iron-bar window behind the cell's sleeper.

Rings of iron bound up the corpse in the center of the room. Around the wrists forced behind its back. Around the ankles on which it sat upright. Thick linen sheets covered the squirming husk as it heaved, shifted, and cracked against the stoney hush. It was obscured by the linens from head to ankles. The oblivion runes Bedt, Hekem, Koht were burnt onto the head of the linens. Between the runes, which were arranged in a triangle, was a black soul gem that held the entire magical contraption together with the chains that held it against the subjet's face. The runes burnt a low amber, and the soulgem pulsed a dull magicka blue on occassion.

Everyone on this level of the prison could smell the raw excess magicka peeling out of the cell, despite the warding over the linens that peeled away at the corpse's reserves. It probed. It felt. It extended itself outwards. It didn't come in wafts. Instead thick tendrils that hazed at the edges, that could be physically tracked along their length by the smell.

As soon as the ring struck the sand in front of the heaving, covered figure, the smell retracted. Like a flinch. It squirmed. It returned so quickly that it flickered like the whip that was being visualized to force it homeward. When the magicka settled behind the linens, a singled clawed hand came up from beneath the layers of thick fabric. It was still bound, and its partner hid just behind the fabrics' excess.

The back of the figure seemed to writhe and worn about. Two loud snaps occurred, and the bent elbows returned to their positions on the knees of the squatting figure. His posture, corrected now, enabled his hands to burn their own gold light. In front of him. As the golden glow of restoration magic danced from his hands, his arms audibly snapped. A snap and a crunch as his shoulders corrected themselves. With his arms in front of him now, he felt comfortable reaching out and grasping the ring.

He traced its shape. The runes. He did not wear it. Instead he felt at the elements of it. The decorative. The magic it carried. Its foreign essence. That wasn't Deadric, was it? No it wasn't. The Daedric alphabet was written with a stylus. This script wasn't meant for creatures with hands. No more than a specific number of strikes in each.

He paused to pick sand out from his own nails.

"Is it... ehn—chaant—ed? Currrs—ed?"

The whole of the corpse was dried. Desicated by the soft sand. Its skin peeled away, at the edges. One could track the peeling by the blackness. That skin that was blackened by slow rot peeled first. Unending discomfort. The question was punctuated by a heave as the lungs of the old body and the larynx all struggled with the air that contested with the condition of the being. He'd have projected his voice, one might think, were he not so constrained.

Today was the twenty-fifth. The twenty-fifth day that Veta has been constrained to her cell, inhaling with each breath the dankness that oozed from the walls and the musk of dried blood and piss. She was allowed free movement within her quarters, whatever ‘free’ could mean; the guards had clearly not pegged her for a particularly dangerous mage. The same could not be said for others surrounding her. She had heard hushed orders from guards concerning sand and oil, procedures that befall the more magically-oriented criminals of Tamriel.

She wasn’t overly keen on mages. Magic was fine. Parlour tricks and spells that have utility, such as the ones her mother taught her, were one thing. The ability to burn entire villages with fireballs was another, and she knew well that those who seek such power often let it corrupt them. She has previously put down such dangerously curious individuals who could not handle such destructive responsibility.

Veta had spent these few weeks reflecting on her life over the past year or so. The decisions that had led her here, the regrets she had. But mostly she had nurtured remorse of her reality, the fact she was never going to get back the life she had, due to her failure and her naivete. Exercise was her only other activity in her dark cell, though she did not particularly enjoy getting her face close to the floor when she undertook push-ups, she felt vulnerable to catch a disease and promptly die an agonising death. Perhaps such a fate was the only way to escape these walls. She had seen nobody since she was thrown into the cell. No taunting from the guards, no indication of any trial or further justice. Just a stone-walled room and a bucket, with hints of the outside world teasing her through sunlight piercing a narrow slit at the top of the back wall.

Until now.

Veta jumped up from her bed as she heard stone scratching stone, the first foreign sound she had heard for some time. She heard authoritative footsteps echoing in the corridor, pausing frequently before continuing. The steps got closer and closer until they stopped right outside her cell. Staring in, with an expression of smug contempt, was a burly man with sharp eyes and a beard of hay. Even from the dim lighting, Veta could see a scarline hugging the left side of his face, a vulgar reminder of battles long since fought. His garments were certainly of noble origin. No, regal origin.

Vera’s eyes widened as she began to realise who this might be. She had never seen the man before, but there was an air of unspoken authority of the absolute kind surrounding this man, an indescribable feeling of dominance and well-deserved self-righteousness. This man, Veta suspected, was the King of Kings, the Emperor himself. Something in her heart told her so, but she knew not why or how. She just knew. By this point, he had ceased his staring, and had returned to somewhere else in the block. Moments after, the distinct sound of metal bouncing on stone echoed throughout the dungeon, and Vera’s eyes locked onto the ring that had made its way into her cell.

“Put those on. Then we’ll talk.”

The former-knight hesitated at first. Such a demand was much like asking to eat an unknown mushroom in a forest littered with the corpses of the curious. However, she reasoned that if the Emperor wanted her dead, she would be in a wagon to a mass grave, alongside many others who had stood in the way of Havfyg I the Dragonborn, or had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time during his wars of (re)conquest.

With nought else as an alternative, Veta reluctantly placed the ring on her littlest finger of her left hand. If the need came to amputate it, at least it would be her least useful finger on her non-sword hand. She patiently waited for the next command, or the next inkling of what exactly was happening, and why the Emperor felt the need to socialise with criminals in such a dire setting.

Havfyg rolled Enathraes ring into his cell last, so he could watch as the wretch of a Dunmer that was Enathrae struggle to place the ring on his finger with his mouth. He chuckled though the laughter didn't reach his eyes, "So weak. Far from when I last saw you. I don't suppose you'll be making any attempts on my life?"

Enathrae hadn't noticed. Entranced by his current predicament, the Dunmer had been oblivious to some of the more apparent characteristics of his surroundings. Mainly, that it was in fact the Emperor himself that had bestowed upon him such a piece of mundane jewelry. Enathrae had not even taken note of the rings common place appearance. Oddly, despite his fairly well honed talent for the arcane arts the mer had not even taken not on any potential enchantments that may have been placed upon the ring. He gawked down at his hands trapped in these strange manacles contemplating such things as the words rang true in his mind.

"Perhaps I have grown weak..." he thought.

However, he did not feel any sense of betrayal when shared a chuckle with his captor. Lifting his head, Enathrae turned his attention toward the iron bars of the door that caged him into his stone cell. Slowly he stood from the pile of hay that had been provided for his nocturnal slumber. While the confusion of his arrival had been expelled from his mental faculties, his concern was for his physical composure. Perhaps the floor was slick still from the oil or maybe he did not trust his balance given the new addition of his new bracelets but Enathrae knew that even the most unimpressive spark (such as that caused by iron scraping on stone) could potentially set his entire cell ablaze. His heritage would only do so well to protect him from the flames. It was true that he had exploited his innate resistance to his advantage while reigning chaos with a trail of flames but such a conflagration, even a much stronger Dunmer might have been lost for naught.

"You flatter me sire," Enathrae sneered, "An attempt on your life when you yet have so much to offer."

Enathrae found himself farther away from the iron bars than he was comfortable with. Try as he did, the chains that bound him would not budge leaving his body at an oddly contorted angle. Taking a few steps back, his amethyst eyes would bore an imaginary hole through the Emperor's skull. No, the time was not right. The Emperor had not taken his life just yet. While a reputation existed, it was not as renowned as some others such as the Dark Brotherhood or Morag Tong. But Havfyg had sought him out, abducted him even. There was a reason and it could be exploited to his benefit.

"There is something to be said about falling in line when the tables may be in your favor. Your supposition is correct. What would I gain by killing an Emperor when imprisoned within his very walls? Doing his bidding; however, that is quite a lucrative endeavor I'm sure you'll agree."

Havfyg laughed and waved his right hand in a simple gesture. The lock clicked, and the cell slowly swung open. "Lucrative. That's a interesting way of looking at things. We'll get along, just fine I think." He began to walk, adding, "Just, don't make an attempt on my life. That ring you're wearing. It's...nature, will not allow that. I'll explain after we find where they left your equipment."

They passed through dark, barely lit stone corridors where manacles lined some of the walls in notches. Some doors opened not to cells, but for blood stained rooms filled with various pulleys, contraptions, and blades. One had a bruised and battered man on a rack, arms tied and stretched outwards, mumbling and sobbing, "Please...let me go...I didn't do it..." Almost as if by que, a man in red robes paused to look at Havfyg and Enathrae before briefly bowing and going into the room. The door shut with a sepulcheral thump. As they proceeded further down the hall, they could hear the man screaming, "No! Noooooo!"

With a dismissive gesture, Havfyg said, "Don't worry about him. He was a part of The Peoples Blades. They believe that the "true" Emperor, whatever that means, is in hiding. Fools, the lot of them. I killed his entire line on my ascension. I made sure of it. But now they riot in the streets, and I've had to call down martial law, which is, of course, my fault, which riles them up to further acts of bloodshed."

They ascended a flight of stairs. At the top, a Imperial man wearing grey robes which had gilded imagery of dragons down the arms, began with "Greetings, my Emperor..." He paused, staring at Enathrae, his eyes bulging.

Havfyg said, "What is wrong Gratyus?"

"He...what is his name?"

"Enathrae"

"Enathrae. Right. Do you, perhaps, have someone waiting for you outside? Someone that was looking for you?"

The Dunmer paid little attention to the blatantly obvious torture of the unknown man. While he did not partake in torture as a means to gather anything for it would go against his personal code, he would not protect the weak man who was unable to protect himself from such pain. It was a strange thing, the code Enathrae lived by. It allowed for certain things to be committed for his sake; crimes, murders, or other like atrocities. But even as a criminal breaking the law was only permitted when it was done so to advance his own interests. Random acts of violence were looked down upon by himself and those he would consider allies. Most importantly, his code would allow for his obedience with the High Emperor as it would promote his own interests in doing so. Above all else, his desires mattered most and quite frankly that currently meant living and the potential to gain unspeakable power.

Enathrae was greatful that the Emperor had kept his garb safe while he was imprisoned. While the lack of weapons may have been odd for those that brought him forth, the Emperor may have been much the wiser. The arcane arts were good for many things. Offensive weapons being one of them. Defense on the other hand, was a different story. He found a wash basin in the same room as the chest containing his cloths and accoutrements. But his eyes were immediately drawn to the full bucket beside it. After disrobing without concern for those looking on, he swiftly upturned the bucket over his head rinsing what remnants of the oil off of his skin that he could. He did not bother to dry his skin but quickly found solace in the feeling of his clothes covering his lithe frame. Before he left, the Dunmet snatched a damp cloth from the basin to clense his visible skin to ensure he was not plagued by later folly.

"And so you will be called, Deathstopper!" Enathrae mused in thought, thoroughly wiping down his visible skin with a damp cloth.

Bold the Emperor was, ascending the staircase before the mer and turning his back. Bold or stupid. Perhaps the man was firm in his belief that he had total control simply by a reputation that preceded him. Or maybe the man was more greatly informed about Enathrae's personality than he had let on. Subsequently, he would also enter the room.

"A queer question," Enathrae thought before providing a calculated response. "I suppose I may have many seeking whatever bounty may have been placed upon my head throughout my years of travel. Specifics of which I could not possibly have." He stopped in the archway that had been built at the top of the staircase, running a hand through his hair still wet from the subpar cleansing. "But perhaps you know better than I?"

Gratyus stammered, "Th-that's fine! Yes!" Sweat was beading on his forehead. "That's fine! I'm sure it's nothing. It can't possibly be anything!" He startled to cackle, somewhat madly, "Yes! Nine blades for the nine! That could be anything!" Even if those blades were curved around Enathraes neck and dripped with blood. Enathrae could barely make out the creature that crouched in the darkness, its inhumanly long arms stretching from the shadows and holding each blade, fevered red eyes glaring at him. The fact no one else could see it made him want to scream.

Enathrae had been responsible for the death of many individuals. Fighters, thieves, -assassins-; many of which were encountered as a result of the completion of various tasks for people with deeper pockets than those he had killed. It was a game of power. A chase that never seemed to end. Those who sought that power were rarely able to obtain it by their own hands. So they enlisted people like Enathrae and exploited his own desires. His own desires for power, riches, reputation. All the while they entrusted him to keep his forked tongue behind his teeth, granting him greater power than they could ever imagine. All the while, it left the mer open to threats of his own as they would be aware of who he killed and had the position to convince the powers that be that they were not involved in the slightest. The only difference was that Enathrae would be able to defend himself or escape if need be, something those people who hired him often could not do for themselves.

"This bland piece of jewelry may prevent a threat on your life, Havfyg, which is all fine and dandy. I can mind my p's and q's, leave this place and carry out a life based on my own accord all the while ignoring this ugly thing. So perhaps we should get down to business? I'm sure you can afford whatever price I might require, just tell me who is the target?"

Havfyg guided Gratyus towards a bench, while the man stuttered, "You rat bastard...Havfyg you..." and started to gag. Repeatedly.

Havfyg turned back to Gratyus, holding a small parchment he took from Gratyus's trembling hands, "Read this. As you might expect, I do have a target for you. Well, for all of you really, though I think in this particular case your talents may prove particularly useful. Ignore the part about the Synnod, that's just how the College of Whispers communicates."

The document, written in a frantic black ink, was a letter. It read,

"Emperor Havfyg I

Events at the College of Whispers have gotten out of hand. As you are well aware, students have been disappearing. Some have come back dead. The latest death was the worst, both because one of our own guild officials is dead, but also for the magical oddity of their death.

It's hard to describe what was found at the incident. In fact, I'd advise that you send someone to look themselves. It seems the less you know, the less likely you are to turn up dead. I believe The Synnod are the culprits. Perhaps you can take them to the question. It would be faster than trying to find which one of their agents have been killing our students.

Sincerely,
Faria Arius, Grandmaster of the College of Whispers"

"You can begin your journey, into the city if you wish." Havfyg said. "I'd wait myself. What Gratyus said earlier would alarm me, if I were you."

Enathrae took the parchment. Dingy and stand with something other than black ink. It had wisps of arcane ichor wafting about its very make-up. Perhaps ingrained into the very fabric of the material, something deep within it on a level that went beyond mundane. It was a trait that would have gone unnoticed even by the most articulate colporteur would have missed. It was arcane in nature, perhaps even daedric as if to suggest that some awfully powerful magical being had corrupted the reality that made up the letters existence.

His head turned finding solace in the nearby window, open to allow the mood breaking sun light of the wonderfully bright day. The mer positioned the page into the light before reading it. Perhaps it was only his eyes playing tricks, thought it seemed that the very letters reverberated with some sort of arcane resonance that sent a shiver down his spine.

Enathrae placed his foot on a bench seat that was positioned around beneath the sill, resting his arms as he gazed out over the city. "A mad man no doubt..."

The Dunmer had let the parchment fall to the bench before turning around to face the Emperor, "A relative of Pelagius that mad, with the inbreeding that plagues the high-horsed life that is mortal man."

Approaching the man in grey robes, he observed him from head to toe focusing especially on the grey robes. It was not some magical enhanced true sight or some daedric gift. But commonsense obtained by those who spent their lives traveling across borders from one city to the next. "Perhaps you've taken it upon yourself to keep a priest of the Ancestral Moth at your beck and call? What mayhaps has he seen through the hallucinations of the remnants of an Elder Scroll?

Havfyg watched Enathrae as he approached Gratyus, saying, "His impressions are more...indistinct, than an Elder Scroll. I would know. I read one. But, I'm impressed you caught the connection. He was a Moth Priest, once, though was banished when caught trying to spend what little they had in their coffers on wine and women. Khajiit were his favorite." He smiled, but it quickly turned back to a frown. "What he sees are possible, dooms. They are less than visions of the future, but more than mere fancy. The nine blades part was likely not literal. I couldn't tell you how he gained his power."

Gratyus shot to his feet and scowled at Havyfg, "You lying bas-" and started gagging. He gagged until it seemed he would nearly vomit, his face turning red and arms trembling. Clutching his chest, he heaved, and heaved. Then he went silent, faintly wheezing, and slumped back down on the bench, holding his stomach.

Havfyg looked over his shoulder, then turned back to Enathrae, his face stoic, "Don't worry about him. He has an illness."

Gratyus gave a pained laugh.

As Gratyus wheezed upon his seat, Enathrae was little more than intrigued. He moved closer. Placing the toe of his boot on the corner of the seat to support his weight the Dunmer leaned in for a closer look. His took particular note of his oddly pale skin, the trails of sweat that ran down his face, the damp edges of his thinning hair. Then he gazed into his eyes. Holding up an open palm he produced a brilliant light. Blinding it was not, but warmth it provided - a sense of calm might have briefly graced Gratyus frail mind if the light had not disappeared so quickly when Enathrae clenched his fist. But what did he see? Blood shot eyes that burned with a craving well beyond that of normal men.

"I suppose you have your own healers to deal with this mess of a man..." Enathrae said turning around to face Havfyg. "Of course, with as much terror as you reign down in Elswyre I'm sure you have plenty of moon sugar to deal with his habitual use."

Havfyg said, "Yes and no. I burnt down their farms some years ago. The habit is contemptible, though I do have a stock. You never know."

He approached the Emperor, with what few steps he could take in the confined space of the narrow corridor that was most definitely an off shoot of the much grander rooms beyond. He clenched his fist. It was not so much as a reminder of the ring that prevented him from killing the Emperor, he would not be foolhardy enough that he could currently stand toe to toe with the Dragonborn. If there happened to be someway to silence his shout perhaps, but not unhindered as he was. No, in reality it was done as a reminder of what had been bestowed upon him beyond the Emperor's meaning of the ring. It was a reminder of what was at stake and what Enathrae could possibly obtain from zealous servitude.

It was readily apparent that the motives the Emperor held over Tamriel were pure. How will the world speak his name in years to come? Will he be known as the philosopher? The warrior? The tyrant...? What would he prefer? Enathrae knew that he would not prefer to be known as the Emperor who ruled over the ruins of a land that had existed before he was even a twinkle in his father's eye. Fate had spoken at his near death. He was not the Emperor when Akatosh chose him to surpass the decisions of mere mortal men upon the chopping block. He would not die at the hands of a would be usurper. He would not die at the hands of great vampires or faded memories. Nor would he be consumed by the eater of worlds.

"Why," Enathrae thought, "why have you gone so far out of your way Havfyg, to gather so few street urchins to investigate something so trivial as the College of Whispers?"

The Dunmer turned back towards the window and the bench where lay the parchment he had previously obtained from his liege. He took a few steps away from Havfyg to ensure that his consideration was not mistaken for a threatening advance. His eyes looked out over the city bathed in the light of the Aedra. It was apparent even from such great heights that the people were uneasy. But they were pleased with their lives under the fragile protection the Emperor had offered them for so many years.

"What is it you are not telling me?" Enathrae inquired, "what is the larger picture this puzzle pieces completes in your mind m'lord?"

Havfyg took a moment, somewhat taken aback. He hadn't expected too many questions and it was hard enough maintain a facade of perfect knowledge without being interrogated by a Dunmer assassin. "I've heard...reports. Of magic suddenly cropping up in places where it normally isn't taught. Nords suddenly able to cast balls of fire, having had no proclivity towards magic and in fact having been simple woodcutters before. Of the dead, rising and dancing about fires in the forests just outside of The Imperial City. Bodies found torn to shreds. I don't know why, yet, but I have theories. Perhaps it's the Dominion, doing...something, I don't know what, to create mages instantaneously. They are allied with the Psyjic Order. My other theory is black books are somehow getting in the hands of men and Mer all across Tamriel, but that would be madness. Hermaeus Mora is jealous of his knowledge."

He made a gesture towards the stairs leading back down to the cells, "Shall you meet your companions? Or, are you going to test your luck in the Imperial City?"

"The black books..." Enathrae said somewhat under his breath but audibly intrigued.

He had heard of the black books but had yet been lucky enough to come across a single one. By the time rumor had spread from Solsthiem that these mysterious black books had appeared Enathrae was already waist deep in the blood of those nords who had found it prudent to abuse his brethren in the Gray Quarter at Windhelm. He was not so interested at that point. But as rumor had it, the books disappeared as soon as they were unveiled. Did Hermaeus Mora rectify his mistake deeming mortal man not quite worthy to lay fingers upon his most sanctified texts? No... that did not sound like the deity he never had the pleasure to meet. No, the Daedra he recalled from other texts reflected the Prince of Knowledge in a very different light.

Enathrae dared not linger for too long. Perhaps Havfyg would prefer his subjects dim witted and slow to question, quick to obey orders and quite frankly expendable. Enathrae could play those things very well. He had survived playing the meek shadow dweller, preying on those who had let their guard down in his presence. It was much simpler given his access to weaponry on a whim, or a variety of spells that could cast an entire tavern into chaos or hide his very being. He had even been responsible for stoking the flames of war while Skyrim was thrown into civil unrest, burning supply caravans and igniting war machines that would lay sieges to cities. No, Enathrae would be obedient but he would not be anyone's fool.

"I suppose we shall meet the other wretches you so kindly displaced. At the very least, there will be fodder for the arrows aimed at my back." Enathrae chuckled, with a nonchalant gesture of annoyance.

As they moved down the stairs, Gratyus's eyes buldged. The long armed creature pulled itself out of the darkness, its blades digging into the earth. It had dark, black skin, and pointed ears. It followed after Enathrae.

Havfyg returned moments after bringing Enathrae from his cell and into relative freedom. He said, "Don't worry. I haven't forgotten any of you." He looked at Caro, frowning at his desiccated form. He looked at Caros ring finger, which lacked said ring, "You asked earlier if it was cursed. That depends on whether or not you consider working for your Emperor a curse." His eyes narrowed into a glare, "I will say, the effects if you disobey me aren't...pleasant. The alternative is being left in your cell until so long in the future that this prison is abandoned and forgotten, with you inside of it. I'd consider this, very carefully."

There was no doubt in the pile of linens as it shifted. It, despite being a little pile of enchanted rags, did nothing without confidence. So that when it reached its hands back and shattered its own foot bones it did so with a raspy laughter. Its foot freed itself, and a brief coursing restorative display found the bounds readied to take on weight once again. The sand-blasted husk stood, and the bottoms of its feet sloughed off against the grains beneath. A natural decay not rescued with ease by a magic.

Its right hand held the ring. Its left hand was beginning to pull apart the souls binding the enchanted linens. Those more finely aware saw the raw magicka peel away like the skin of a coconut in an imgakin's hands.

A gnarled, disgusting set of hands stuck through the bars. The left gestured and focused, the right held the ring flat on its palm. There was clearly a display of power being made here. The Synod's preparations to bind the creature were still weak in comparison to the raw magical knowledge held by the twisted thing. He had studied beneath them, though, so perhaps that was unsurprising.

"My Lord, I am an Imperial by blood, and Imperial of spirit. Your blood is similarly draconian, as is your spirit. That is to say ancient, My Lord."

Havfyg harrumphed, though didn't appear to catch the jab at his draconian policies, and the much subtler jab that he was a dragon; inhuman.

The husk grinned as he peeled away the last soul in the enchantment. He began now to unwrite the Daedric script over his face with slow, measured gestures.

"And as Imperial by blood, and Imperial by spirit. As we established I am. It is my duty to be sworn to my Emperor."

He strode back from the bars, then pulled the veil over his head down. The shroud burnt up against the ground in a golden display as the unwritten rune began to burst and crackle. The sneering face of the Lich returned its attention to the bars.

"So I simply ask why it is that I must wear this ring." He constructed a lie, testing the waters. "Knowing that the Penitus Oculatus crafted it for you, I'm curious as to its purpose. Do you seek to enslave me? Enthrall me? When I am blooded already to my people of Chorrol?"

Havfyg sighed. He looked at the ring in Caros palm, then at Caro. Why must my subjects make things so difficult? he thought, just before he shouted, "Tid, Klo, Uul!" And, so fast Caro almost didn't catch it, "Wuld Nah Kest!"

The cell door slammed open, falling off its rusty hinges from the force of an Havfyg slamming into it. Moments before metal shrieked and the door itself slammed with a metallic clang to the floor, Caro found his arm being bent rather uncomfortably behind his own head, his fingers spread, and the ring seemingly ending up on his finger.

Havfyg appeared back at where he started, acting as if nothing happened. He said, "I don't seek, Caro." He had to establish dominance. If he didn't, Caro, out of all these criminals, would seek his destruction. Possibly break the binding of his own ring, he had no doubt, though it would take more than simple magic to do so. "You will do as I ask." His mouth quirked to a half-smile, "Though I wouldn't think of it as enslavement. Think of it as, yes, a duty to your Emperor. A duty that will see you free." He paused, then added, "Don't try removing the ring. I don't know what it would do to someone with your...soul, situation."

"You bind a willing man, with power enough to remove the device with which you bind him given time." Caro's body had remained as twisted and contorted as it was when the Emperor's hands had been removed. "Servitude is a willing act. You've rejected my willing servitude for forced servitude. How Nord of you, My Emperor." The undead's hands pulsed for a moment, and his whole body lost its weight. He hovered in place for a moment, then floated his way towards the cell of the door.

"See to it, Emperor, that you keep a close watch on me. My respect for you is greater than that of the mortals that surround us, if only because your facade is so impeccably held, but it has its limits. Whatever did our mutual lord show you in my book?" His arms now went limp, and the creature floated dully. It was clearly a Lich of some kind. This much was clear now to his newfound cohorts.

"When I do remove it from myself, and the rest of us, I will deliver to you a method for preventing escape from the rings. I feel that deep-white soul-itch. I cannot imagine this will be as complex as you imagine it to be. Seek allies in your magicks, the time next."

Havfyg chuckled, "I look forward to your attempts." His eyes only needed to move slightly to see the adjacent cell, which housed Uthane the Argonian. He frowned, "I thought I told them to kill you. No matter, I suppose."

He turned around to check on Veteria. He felt ill at ease doing this sort of thing to a, by some accounts, noble warrior such as herself. The reasons for why she had poisoned her lord were said by his Penitus Ocultus agents to have been a matter of protecting the citizens of his land. But, like many inconvenient nuisances he had, had to deal with, she ran before being taken to question. And ran. It wasn't his course to argue with his nobles on matters of justice. As long as they obeyed. Avoiding justice was always, unlawful.

Arguably, so was this, but he was the Emperor and believed to be Talos reborn, so who would argue with a Divine?

He opened Veterias cell second, "I advise standing back when I open the other cells. I don't think Caro is a fool." He paused to narrow his eyes at Uthane, " But..." he pulled his hand back from the cell, frowning. "Well, you never know when those cursed by Hircine could turn, and believe me, you wouldn't want to get scratched by this beast. In fact, I think he is too volatile to use even for this task."

Vetaria felt a relief as the cell door opened. Her instinct was to run out and enjoy her freedom, as a innocent girl would in meadows of flowers. The reality of her situation quashed such ridiculous thoughts. She cautiously stepped out and joined the side of her Emperor.

'Caro?', she thought. The name was familiar, but her malnourished mind struggled to remember its significance. Hunger, thirst and exhaustion each battled to be considered the most inside her head, resulting a haze of chaos as she attempted to ponder her circumstance and just what in Oblivion was going on. Then the ball dropped. The Caro family had long been the Counts of Leyawiin, but had fallen on hardships in the past few decades, with many sons being killed in the Great War against the Dominion. Why then, was one being held in the dungeons of the Emperor, surely it was not the current Count? And as far as she was aware, he had no surviving sons and his daughters no longer bared the Caro name.

The second comment made by Havfyg was more abstract. Hircine maintained the dominion over creatures affected by the night and the lunar bodies reigning over Nirn. Had there been a were-wolf next to her in the adjacent cell this entire time? Veta shuddered at the thought, and her stomach sank at the prospect of meeting one momentarily. She had never seen such a creature before, and she felt vulnerable without her sword and armour and moreso with her wits currently tempered by the effects of her imprisonment.

As cliche` as it may have been, Enathrae was not impressed. Standing against the wall of the archway just beyond the corridor of the steps, he watched the Emperor move about interacting with the various miscreants that had been pulled in from various locations across the empire. His lack of enthusiasm was noted in his appearance. The Dunmer was balanced on one leg, the other bent against the wall in something similar to the shape of an upside down four. His arms crossed over his chest, shoulder pressed against the dusty stone holding his weight securely in place. His face looked exhausted as if he had been listening to ramblings of old Heimskr for far too long. But it was the raised eyebrow that had given away every thought he was not trying very hard to hard.

"If we are done measuring our -swords-, perhaps we can get things properly underway." The violet eyed spell sword took a deep breath releasing it in an unapologetic sigh of disbelief. "This is our lot in life. We do the biddings of others or we do not and in the end we lives with the consequences of those actions. Quite frankly, I would just prefer to have this divine forsaken piece of ugliness off of my fingers." Enathrae held out his hand to examine the lackluster gold ring, "I've never been one for such overly coveted things."

Looking over his shoulder, Enathrae gazed back up the stairs. He did not make a move to ascend them nor did he have any inclination to further examine his companions. He knew what he was getting into. He knew the difficulties he would surely encounter traveling with such a nightmare host. Presumably he and the woman would have little trouble walking the streets and the trails. Even this -Hircine- emblazoned beast of a man should be fine assuming he can keep his hairballs in check. But this lich, a powerful entity indeed and one that Enathrae would not lightly interact with may be problematic. What fool would come to believe that a lich could travel the urban settings without attracting the unwanted attention of, well, everyone with eyes to see and ears to hear the screams drawn out by such a frightening individual.

"Perhaps the time is right for us to work towards our earned rewards rather than blabbering with introductions that may not even be necessary."

The lich in question took count of his potential companions, then. He was ignorant of the nature of Werewolves and their ilk so he took not the signs in Hafvyg's speech regarding the thing to be anything more than supertition. What truely interested him was the Knight in his presence and the Dunmer with those ancient eyes that were themselves a sort of ivory in the Dark Elf bloodlines. While maintaining a safe distance from any one individual, Reyman found a place to sit. Rather centrally.

Havfyg gave one last glance back to the Argonians cell, then said, "Right." He walked back towards the one stairway leading out, adding, "This way, if you would."

The group passed by the torturers cell yet again, but things had changed. There was a trail of blood leading from the cell, straight up the stairs, to the armory room where Gratyus resided. If one were to look into the cell, they would see the lower half of the red robed torturers abdomen. The man who had begged for his life earlier, was nowhere to be seen.

Havfyg growled, "Gods be damned, what even is this?" He looked back towards the rest of the party, "Eyes open. Anything that could break free and do..." he gestured towards the vivisected corpse, "That, isn't likely to give mercy." They followed the trail of blood up another stairwell.

The room was in shambles. Banners were ripped with long, ragged tears, and what looked like claw marks were cut across the western wall. The southern window was flung open, and the trail of blood followed with it. Several chests were flung open. A fine steel longsword and one robe emblazoned with a white tree. A chest off to the side started to shake, with vague mumbling heard inside.

Havfyg swore an oath and ran over. He made a gesture with his hand, which produced a Ethereal handaxe, which he smashed into the chests lock. He flung it open, revealing Gratyus curled and sobbing inside. He asked, quickly, "What is going on Gratyus?"

Gratyus, in between sobs, managed to let out, "Werewolf."

Havfyg breathed in deeply. He turned back to the party, though he mostly assumed at this point that Enathrae was the defacto leader and so looked at him mostly, "Well. It looks like the danger has passed. I'll inform the guards to watch out werewolves, I suppose." He gave out a pained sigh. He glanced at Caro, "Could you...you know what, no, you're fine. What kind of fool would bother a Lich?"

Gratyus's eyes glanced to Caro and Veta. Behind Caro, he saw a mob of humans, mer, and beast, holding torches. Their features were blank and featureless. When he looked at Veta, she seemed to glow in a bright golden light, but thin black strands, like those of a puppets strings, tugged at her shoulders, arms, and legs. He began to sob again.

Havfyg added, "Ignore him, he hasn't had skooma in a few days." He walked over to the sword on the floor, which with its white tree pommel and branchlike engravings on the crossguard, Veta would recognize as her own. He picked it up, brushing dirt off the blade, "I suggest you all start locating your gear in this mess." He handed the sword to Veta, handle first, "If you reach the Talos district, there's a statue of myself there. The sword isn't normally removable, but if you press two fingers against the statues eyes, it releases its grip on the sword. The sword is silver. I hope you can see how this may come in handy." He moved along, to look out the window towards the city. To release these thieves, scum, and a knight on the Imperial City on The Day of Rebirth...things were about to get interesting.

As she stood next to Havfyg, Veta got herself together and began to reflect on the words she had heard, and to observe her comrades-in-chains. Veta had noticed the thinly-veiled threats of this ‘Caro’ towards the Emperor. His voice was raspy and gravelled, like that of an old man tired of war and tiring of life. As she peered over to inspect this mysterious, eloquent man, Veta instinctively reached for her non-existent sword with her right hand upon gazing upon him. The ‘man’ was that no longer, his hovering husk of a body was shrivelled and dried, barely held together from decomposition. ‘Caro’ was a Lich, or some other form of undead, that much was clear to Veta. She had heard stories of powerful undead whose wails of death echoed in caves where no sane adventurer dare enter, and who consume the souls of those unfortunate enough to cross paths with such revenants. And yet, the being who floated above the stone floor not meters away from here seemed harmless enough, civilised, even. Still, she would make sure to be cautious around it, she felt a coldness in the air surrounding the Lich.

The voice that came from beyond the corridor took Veta by surprise. It belonged to a tall and dark Dunmer, his eyes of amethyst shining even in the dim light of the dungeon. His disposition was one of uninterest, dismissal and a pretentious kind of boredom, and his impatience was abundantly clear in his words. There were certainly some characters in this rag-tag squad, and Veta couldn’t help but feel out of place within it. What had the Emperor planned for them?

Almost as if on cue, Havfyg gestured for the group to leave the cells, and whatever were-creature was imprisoned there, behind. The group of course followed, with the Dunmer eagerly storming ahead, and the Lich rising from the seated position it had taken whilst waiting.
As they scaled, trails of blood became increasingly prevalent, and the Emperor warned the group to maintain alertness as they reached a room after witnessing a butchered carcass of a man. What used to be furniture was splintered and broken, with claw marks and debris now the decorum. Whatever had caused this had clearly escaped through the open window, with a warm summer breeze a welcome sensation on Veta’s skin. The group readied for combat as a chest rumbled and shook. Havfyg broke it open after producing a magical weapon effortlessly, revealing a pathetic-looking man shuddering and weeping. The Emperor’s quick interrogation resulted in a brief yet decisive answer. A werewolf did this. What were the chances of two being in and around the Imperial Dungeon? Did this one arrive to terrorise with the intent of freeing the other? Were werewolves capable of such coordination? Veta was by no means an expert, perhaps they needed to find someone who was.

Veta felt the servant’s eyes inspecting her. She turned her head to meet his gaze, and saw the fear in his face and his quivering knees, but not one born of his near-miss with the werewolf. No, this was a different kind, and one stemming from herself and ‘Caro’. He began to cry incessantly after staring at Veta, and she felt confused. What had he seen in her? She had not seen someone cry in her presence since she had broken a boy’s arm in a fight during her youth, and certainly not like this.

Havfyg dismissed his servant’s emotional state as a symptom of skooma withdrawal, but Veta did not believe it. She had seen such effects before, when she had raided skooma dens hidden deep in the Great Forest, but hysterical sobbing had never been one of them. She decided not to question her Emperor as he handed her the sword that the treasured so much. She thought she would never again feel its perfectly-balanced weight in her hand, and felt a great rejoice as she grasped its handle. She heeded Havfyg’s suggestion of using the silver sword to combat the werewolf should any of them come across it.

Veta tried to locate her things amongst the rubble. She found her scabbard and belt, as well as the several pieces of her armour and brigandine, which she had left in her hotel room before she attempted the assassination of her target that had landed her in the Imperial Dungeons. How curious that they were here when they had no reason to be. Lastly, she had tracked down her helmet, but she paused as she noticed a robe lying next to it. It was creased and somewhat mangled from being thrown across the room, but its sigil was clear enough for Veta to interpret, she had seen it everyday for most of her life. It was the White Tree of Chorrol, exactly like the one on her sword’s pommel, but it did not belong to her. After equipping all of her gear, she waited by the edge of the room, her eyes fixed on the Chorrolian robes, waiting to see who, if anyone, would claim it. It could not be a coincidence that it was there, and she was fearful that one of the nobles form Chorrol could be nearby. As far as she knew, she was still wanted for questioning and was still blamed for the death of the Count.

To her surprise, Caro claimed the robes. She frowned and glared at the Lich as he put them over his frail body and his lifeless eyes met her stare. She must have answers, though she did not look forward to the prospect of communicating with this abomination. However the time was not now, she needed to have a private word with this ‘Caro’, but not so private as to be at his mercy if he turned nasty. But she made it a mission to find out exactly who he is, or was.

Veta felt much more comfortable once again in her second skin of steel and leather. Though she was still as confused as she was in her cell. The Emperor had not given much away of his plans, and even now he brooded in silence, overlooking a city that seemed to be celebrating something or another despite the troubles plaguing the province and continent. As the others began to leave for the city, Veta approached Havfyg somewhat nervously, although she attempted to hide her apprehension.

“Your Grace, forgive me. But what in Oblivion are we doing? Why have you released us, and to what end?”

The Emperor was not inclined to answer quickly. Instead, he waited a few moments longer observing the city before turning to face her with a response. "To the end of serving your Emperor. I trust you are used to following orders of your liege. This is no different.". Havfyg's words possessed undertones of a threatening nature, ice laced each syllable and authority backed them up. "But consider this your briefing", he said as he produced a letter from his robes and handed it to Veta, "Take some time to read it to familiarise yourself with your current utility to me".

Veta took the letter hesitantly. She did not care for such secrecy and intrigue, direct orders and clear goals and objectives were much preferred. She could not see how she qualified as a decent candidate for whatever Havfyg had planned, but at least it's better than the alternative of life spent in that prison cell.

Caro trundled along the air, moving with the group as they moved on through the Imperial facility. He was distinctly aware of the presence of eyes on him, but he had made a point thus far to ignore it. No need to go about causing troubles with what was presumably his newfound team of delinquents. Each of the three seemed fitting to take command, though each was clearly of a distinct caste. The social hierarchies here were odd, to say the least.

Take, for example, the Dunmer. He would be a useful tool and a clever mage himself surely. They had locked him away in much the same way they had locked Caro, accounting for their distinct tool-sets and weaknesses. He stood out, though. For two reasons. Anyone who was anyone knew thoroughly that Dunmer came in two variants: the men and the women. Beyond those variants they were all the same, red eyes and ash skin. These were their distinct traits. The amethyst eyes, however, made this one special. Someone of Barenziah's bloodline was here, and that would prove valuable if ever one were to hypothetically align themselves with the Peoples' Blades. They need an Emperor to rally folk behind whether they support the current one or not. If he fancies himself a mage then he can put on magic tricks and perhaps even learn that dragon language everyone seems to love so thoroughly.

And this handsome young woman that wouldn't stop staring. She was an oddity too. Where the Barenziah-Bred dunmer and the lich fell into distinct categories that made sense for any task of perhaps an illicit nature, the knight did not. And in truth he couldn't help but feel off-put by the recognition that she seemed to carry, that Caro himself did not. Was she the sister of one of the bandits whose soul he shredded to pieces? Perhaps.

The lich took little time to be weary of his environment or the lycanthrope that had just raised hell carving through the room.

He donned his robe, his boots, his wrappings. His helmet. He raised his staff and he redistributed his magicka patterns to gently activate his enchantments. He turned his attention towards Havfyg, half surprised to instead find Veta paying him the greatest measure of mind once again.

She was worthy of an interrogation

It was at this point even in the midst of her burgeoning conversation with the Emperor that the lich approached, bowed, and greeted them both in a courtly manner.

"My Liege, My Lady. If I might humbly inquire as to who you might be, Ma'am, and what of my nature is so intriguing I'd like to do so. I take kindly to being stared at, but I question your intentions. Pardon the interruption, My Liege."

"My name is Heir Presumptive to the Chorrol County, Reyman Caro. My namesake is our beloved God of War, Reyman." As he spoke this he directed his body and head towards Veta. He managed to casually hold himself about his staff, as though he were weightless and tied only to the object.

"I do hate that this business of being wrongly imprisoned and forced to do the bidding of a man I'd willingly serve to the ends of our Empire has distracted us so from what should be a rather pleasant meeting of fine folk of well-plotted bloods. It is your Day, after-all, My Liege. Talos."

The air that peeled away from the Lich was rotten, and dry. Caked sand and blackened ichor. Though portions of his face were wrapped in linens his teeth were still clearly visible, as his lips were missing altogether. The result was something like a man baring his teeth as though they were fangs, though his were rather normal and fang-less. His gums were grey and old, however. This creature was clearly of a physical disposition that demanded careful tending. Even as he had bowed he had braced his back with his other arm. Even as he spoke vague pulses of magicka would ripple off of the thing as it undid its own rot and maintained its corporeal form. To call it heinous would perhaps disrespect it, but it was surely an oddity and a great discomfort. Where so many had died Caro had decided, of his own accord, that he should live.

Was it worth it?

The Lich had taken it upon himself to encroach on Veta and Hafvyg. Veta could barely contain her disdain and disgust at it’s proximity, both in terms of innate fear of the undead and the stench of rotting flesh and death. To her surprise, the Lich greeted them in a formal and courtly way, akin to the rituals she had witnessed countless times while inside Castle Chorrol. She could not help but be intruiged, and her eyes betrayed a disbelief that such an entity could possess such grace and decorum. The image was highly peculiar, much as a zombie performing ballet.

The Lich went on to address the two, "My Liege, My Lady. If I might humbly inquire as to who you might be, Ma'am, and what of my nature is so intriguing I'd like to do so. I take kindly to being stared at, but I question your intentions. Pardon the interruption, My Liege. My name is Heir Presumptive to the Chorrol County, Reyman Caro. My namesake is our beloved God of War, Reyman."

Veta internally gasped, and externally frowned. It could not be true! After the death of her Count, his wife had assumed the role of ruling County Chorrol. She was unsure of the line of succession after that, but for it to be a Lich who was probably centuries old was a ridiculous notion. The wounds of the loss of her beloved liege had still not healed, and she felt insulted that this undead creature claimed to legitimately take his place. If it was a lie, then why did he torment her with such words? Had his nefarious magic invaded her thoughts? If it was the truth, then could this Reyman Caro have had something to do with the death of the Count in order to get closer to the title himself?

Veta struggled to contain her fury, and managed to restrain enough so that she only stepped closer to the Lich so she was almost in his face, their eyes level due to her stature and his levitation. She had a clear scowl and rage in her expression as she growled ”I am Veteria Venenum, knight-protector of the former Count of Chorrol. And you disgust me with your nature and your claims, Lich.”.

After uttering these seething words, the woman-knight stormed out of the room before her fury got the better of her. Better not to start a fight with a Lich at any given time, but it would be worse to do so in the presence of a particularly dangerous Emperor that obviously held Caro in high regard. She left the dungeons as the sounds of street parties grew louder, crossing the bridge to enter the Imperial City’s Market District. Her rage overshadowed any sense of appreciation of her freedom.

The streets were packed full of crowds of people celebrating the regency and divine nature of their Emperor. ‘Talos Reborn’, they chanted, with banners, floats and decorations all themed around the God of Man, the great conqueror who brought an entire continent to its knees, and his apparent reincarnation that was close to achieving the same goal. Veta was not in the mood to partake, nor would she have normally. She simply sat down on the nearest bench with her head in her hands, sighing.

After taking a moment to recollect herself, she remembered about the letter Havfyg had given to her. She took it out and began to read it, her eyes widening with curiosity with each word. She could not help but feel out of her depth, but what choice did she have? The ring on her finger seemed to pulse as she considered leaving Cyrodiil on the fastest ship, and she felt her stomach sink as she realised that such an option would be difficult at best and fatal at worst. Indentured again to a very different type of liege, Veta sat and pondered her next move.

Enathrae could not hide his immense pleasure, a wide mouthed grin split from ear to ear. A spectacular performance at the expense of the lady-knight and the floating, nose-offending corpse. At first it was only a chuckle that had escaped his lips but as the lady-knight stormed off passed his position near the stairs his body curled into boisterous laughter. The lich, arrogant enough to believe people would see beyond the wretched, wrinkled body of kindling and the lady-knight so hot under the collar as to stupidly initiate a negative conversation with a lich. A lich? What the hell was Havfyg up to? A lich, a were-croc, and a lady-knight walk into a tavern… that is it. There was no punchline. That was the joke. The dunmer was smart enough to keep his dark skinned ass in the alley to await the potential fall out of this leaking powdered keg. He was not about to be the fire to ignite this potential conflagration in these surroundings.

“I suppose it’s about time we should be hitting that dusty trail,” the Dunmer swooned as he turned towards the ascending staircase with his hands in his pockets.

“Foolish enough to piss off a lich…ha, a woman after my own heart.” Enathrae laughed jumping up the stairs two at a time.



With an attitude that made a mockery of determination, Enathrae meandered through the castle uninhibited. A few golden septims would not be missed, nor an apple or, “Aw...let me guess, someone stole your sweetroll?” the Dunmer mocked to himself. He ran his tongue over his sticky lips, destroying any trace of evidence before moving on. Tossing the apple in the air, he contemplated his upcoming journey.

Such a ragtag group of particularly pugnacious rapscallions on a journey to a place enshrouded in secrecy. The fools actively seek out the daedra, summoning their council as if it were merely a passing fancy. But why? Such a cryptic message from the college delivered by the King, a King that failed to provide any real answers. Some King eh? Perhaps it should be -king-...a wise man once contemplated that a man who must say he is the King is no true King. One might extrapolate that into including that a true King would have knowledge of his Kingdom and advisers in place that could appropriately deal with such matters. Perhaps this king is not so secure in his position.

”What is it that has you so frightened that you cannot send your own loyalist?”

Before him stood such grandiose wooden doors, it was disgusting. So much larger than any man, or mer. Perhaps a giant would be better suited to room such an obvious and ostentatious overcompensation. The massive doors at least four men high and three men wide standing abreast was bound by iron. The exposed wood in between the iron straps intricately carved in depictions of fowl beasts and brave warriors. Despite the rudimentary pictograph’s overall appearance they were skillfully crafted with a level of respect for the trade rarely seen in this day and age.

Enathrae stood for but a moment in admiration, not so much of the size but the artistic skill of the elementary artwork. With a wave of his hand, a servant was kind enough to force the door free of the proticulos. The city quickly opened before him, flooding the room with a torrent of scents that offended the nose and a cacophony of noises that were nothing less than ear shattering. It was a time of celebration. It was a time that Enathrae had hated, with the noted exception that it provided an adequate distraction for death. He took a bite of his burrowed apple, one hand in a pocket and made his way into the city.



It was disgusting. Never had his nose been assaulted so savagely. Simmering meat of an unknown nature in one direction, warm piss poor ale wafting over from another, and what had been the worst were the influence of that piss poor ale that had been discarded in every back alley and side street that he had the displeasure of walking by. It was a celebration alright. However, very few people enjoyed the jubilation with any couth.

Such dirty things men were. So numerous that in most provinces of Tamriel they overtook the more civilized mer and brought them down to their level through fear of ostracization. It was more readily apparent in a place like Windhelm’s Grey Quarter. It was a perfect place to make an example of as they all soon learned. But despite Enathrae’s attempts, it was a lesson they soon forgot. But what are a few dead nords between mer?

Enathrae found himself in the Talos District, which happened to be noticeably dangerous. There happened to be a very obvious separation. Those who followed king Havfyg and those who did not. As the sun moved lower into a sky that would soon be evening, tensions were rising. The altercations had not be physical as of yet, but he could sense something could easily go awry. Such things would make it difficult for him to move swiftly through the streets.

Should he avoid such catastrophe? No, it would be against his nature to willing meander through a battle field and not take advantage. Killing of the innocent, even of the not so innocent was legitimate if it was done to advance himself or promote order. But it would be the order of king Havfyg and that was an order that was slowly beginning to grow sour in the pit of his stomach. Speaks the words to allow for the personal freedom to ensure self preservation, then determine the appropriate course of action. Could he kill Havfyg? There was not enough information available to him to tell. Too much power was at stake to make assumptions.

The mer went to consume a bit more of his apple only to lay eyes upon that god awful mundane golden ring gifted to him by this mighty king. A mighty king who apparently could not afford anything of actual visual attraction. Could it read thoughts? It was provided that the ring would eliminate any potential threat to the king directly. But would it prevent any actions that were openly against the king? Questions perhaps for another time, another day - when there were not so many questions to consider in how to have this curse removed.

“What’s this?” Enathrae croaked under his breath, cocking his head in confusion.

Who was this brazen woman so roughly manhandling the common nobility? What was she searching for. Such a fine grip upon the man’s arm. Of course, his mistake was allowing one to subdue him in the first place. But knowledge if the half of the battle most forget while they are wildly swinging their weapons this way and that. Quickly Enathrae found himself an inconspicuous locale from which to view the woman, following her movements to better understand what may be transpiring here.

A collaboration with @Parzivol @A Man is No One

In Freja's dreams, they came. A haunted mass of primeval animal force, shadowed, clawed and taloned, the discordant flapping of their wings visible only by the light of the half moon above. Their savoring jaws came ever closer and when they slammed into her, pinning into the floor, they bit into her face and ripped out her eyes, she found she was watching herself through a telescope. Startled, she jumped back, looking around to see a city below the massive tower she stood on top of. She turned around, to see Hircine, his horned head that of a deer and his body that of some sort of man, stood before her holding a red, beating, heart that began to fade to a sickly black colour.

"Do you know what this is?" he asks in a rasping, furious voice.
Freja tried to speak, but her mouth only managed a bestial growl.

"Yes, as good a answer as any!" He looked about. "A city. Far from where The Hunt can find you." He raised his mighty horn, and blew.

The feelings of terror and rabbit in the ferns horror that the horn brought upon Freja caused her to freeze. This was to the good, for she found herself standing on top of thin floating ice shelf in a misty lake surrounded by pine rees. There stood on the opposite side of the shelf, what looked like a pale, sickly Breton woman curled into a ball. The Breton uncurled, and grinned, revealing a pair of gleaming fangs. She lunged.

And the lunge was cut short, as the ax head unfurled from Freja's tight fists. It burrowed deep into the shoulder of the Breton before both the chop and the beast were brought to a halt. There was that whisper in the back of her mind, however. It was not a beast. This thing was no beast. She were the beast, just as she were on those streets that night in Markarth. The cold emptiness was calming. That calm had to be fought and resented for the proper result.

She slammed her right hand down on the ax helve, just before the head. It cleaved through the sanguine monstrosity's right shoulder. Muscle divided, sinew snapped.

First the crack of the collar bone joined the sounds of the ice.

Next the ribs were decimated in a chorus as the vampire remained silent. As its left shoulder and arm fell away and black dead blood seeped away from the creature's body, it righted itself. Before it could respond properly, Freja slapped it away with the flat of her ax. The sound of a jaw breaking cracked out into the air.

Then, the ax was thrown. It was the heavier, multi-purpose thing that Freja loved so deeply. It burrowed into the left femur of the creature, pinning it and sloughing off a sheet of cold flesh and its own layer of black blood.

Then Freja's great black paw hammered down onto the head of the vampire. Its spine collapsed as its skull cracked along its weak points. There was a short whimper before the Black-Bear Of The Markarth Watch began to feast on her prey. She caked herself in the black blood as she meticulously chewed away the flesh and bone, stripping the flesh from the body in a practiced inverse ordering.

Mist began to curl in towards the ice floe. As Freja was subsumed in this, she found herself again with Hircine, but near some toppled stone obelisks atop a hill. The Moon seemed to glow with a green light above them.

Hircine boomed, "The Hunt comes, Freja. Be you prey, or that you prey, it comes! Are you prepared, this time? It comes!" She heard the distant howling of what she would know to be Werewolves. As they came roaring up the hill in a tidal wave of ragged fur, the vision began to quicken with the sound of beating drums.

Images pulsed by in snapshots of time. Wolves ripping the throats of lambs. Men advancing towards a frozen lake from with the symbol of a shield emblazoned by the sun on their tabards. A Khajiit wearing a red bandana over the ruined hollow of where his eye used to be. Then finally, these images were pulled away as her eyes rolled back, rolled so far back into her own skull that she saw her own face through a purple crystaline haze, eyes rolled back to white. Her own mouth moved, "Find the ringed bearers. Find them!"

She awoke, gasping, sweating. Her heart pumped like the fading sounds of drums from her memory of a dream.

The hounds began to bark as she awoke with a start. The dead tree that she had dug up and toppled to create a little hollow for her to sleep under, just to the West of the Isle itself, had served her and the dogs well for the past two weeks. She scrambled out, dragging her ax with her. She stepped out into the light of the dawn with the ax held above her head. The dogs had quieted, and were now content licking at her ankles and feet.

Nothing but the woods.

But there was still that distant sound.

Her own.

Heart.

[b]Thrum-pum. Thrum-pum. Thrum-pum.[b/]

The Huntsman was demanding ring bearers. Freja would find her prey.

She grunted, and thudded towards the root that the dogs were hitched to. Broli's leash was attached to Freja's belt, as were Breja's and Bjorn's. The three of them each had about twenty free yards of movement before Freja's weight and stability would hold them back. The two youngest dogs of that trio began playing off to the side, jostling the metal clips on the belt. Briarheart and Bramblefoot had their leashes removed and used to tie Breja, Bjorn, and Broli a bit closer. The two eldest hounds obeyed, and never really wandered off far enough for them to need to be tied.

She stuck her bare foot into her small den, and dragged her bandolier out. She slid it on, and ensured that the straps for her throwing hatches were firmly affixed. As she passed by the small pile of corpses of wild animals she collected three femurs, a heart, and three skulls. She pulled them together and tied them to her bandolier, before hefting the boar she had slain the previous night over her shoulder. It had a single breach on its hide, directly at the nape of the neck. An excellent hatchet throw.

Freja and her hounds began the trek across Talos Bridge, into the City. She didn't expect to actually enter the city until the mid afternoon given the distance, but she began her walk nonetheless. Her eyes remained sharp and focused, and she scanned the individuals she passed with a certain severe uncertainty. Their fingers were her focus. Her obsession. She needed to find the rings.

The closer Freya got to the city, the more people began to crowd Talos Bridge. Wagons filled with cloth of every color, gold gilded chariots whos armed Redguard guards looked at Freya with some suspicion as she passed, and surrounding all of this, the masses of shoulder to shoulder citizens, horses, and cows. Some children carried tiny copper buckets engraved with the symbol of Talos. One of them, a young Khajiit girl, approached Freya.

Hircine's Hide-Bearer eyed the fabrics primarily. She was hoping to find something thick. Perhaps a colorful linen? Her mind was of two pieces. The linen would have to wait while she scanned the fingers of the crowd and dubbed the many rings visible to be mundane. Hircine would not demand simple common fingers.

The dream was of a sanguine variety. She began to watch the smiles and eyes of passerby, in stead of the hands alone.

When the small cat-thing approached she let her attention be taken entirely, however. And she stopped humming, as well. She hadn't even realized she had been humming in the first place as she swum through the crowd with her dogs.

"This one..." her mother, who was hovering just over the young girls shoulder, clipped her ear. The child hissed, her hair standing on end, then continued, "I wish for coin, for the blessings of Talos. You have, yes?" She looked over her own shoulder to see if she had gotten the words right, and her mother nodded solemnly.

Freja had been loping along the bridge like a measured animal up until the Khajiit approached. She stopped, and dropped to one knee. She dropped the boar from her shoulder, and gestured to it for a moment. She began to speak, all the while she slid the boar towards the feet of the young khajiit. "No no. Do not change who you are. You are of your people, just as I am of mine. Say, 'This one,' say, 'Khajiit,' and I will say 'I,' and speak of 'My Reach'. I will dance in the light of the triplet moons alongside you however, regardless of whose people you belong to."

The child's mother scowled for a moment as her eyes looked at the dead boar presented to her as a gift, but realizing Freya was trying to be playful, twitched her mouth back to an indifferent regard.

Her daughter looked at the boar, but apparently had a developed sense of humor because she giggled, "There are only two moons silly! Nahni thinks Nord needs to look towards the sky, if they wish to dance!" She mocked a small spinning dance, looking towards the sky all the while, spinning and spinning until she fell, grinning through the haze of delirious laughter, "See! This one sees the stars!"

Carefully, the Reachwoman would stand and pat the head of the beastfolk child. Her attention would turn to the child's mother, who she towered over with grace and ferocity. With ease.

"Take her home, split the boar, share it with your clan. Stay off the streets. I do not know what your folk call him, but the Huntsman God is sending his followers out in great numbers this night I suspect. Keep your daughter safe. She is all that matters, don't you think?" Freja's accent was sloppy and archaic, but carried her words with a firmness. She was easily understood despite her glotal stops and trailing, lazy r's.

The girls mother said, in a heavy accent, "Nord must be kidding if they think I'-" but then she sniffed, and realized Freya smelled like dog. This wouldn't normally be too unusual, Freya in fact had several politely sitting behind her, but she smelled like a dog in the way a dog smells like a dog. She also wore furs, spoke in a heavy nordish accent, and had casually thrown a boar onto the ground like she was a housecat presenting a mouse. If Shotura knew anything about The Hungry Cat, he always gave you a chance to avoid his hounds, if only so the hunt would be proper. In fact, a lot of men on Talos Bridge had smelled like dog today, now that she came to think of it. She quickly grabbed her daughter by the arm with one arm, carrying her resisting child to a nearby cart that was parked on the side of the bridge, it's wheel broken from the axle. She came back for the boar, looking Freya dead in the eyes and saying,"Shotura smelled more that smelled like you, earlier. This one will pray for you."

Our beastly half-breed placed her right hand over her heart, and continued onwards. The interaction was more than pleasant.

At the end of the bridge stood a mighty barbican comprised of two crenelated towers. In between these towers was a mighty red banner with the a black and angular sigil of a horned helmet. Below this, a huge gate, currently open. Guards stood on either side, sometimes stopping to question some of the merchant caravans or traveling troupes about the contents of their wagons.

As Freya passed through the gate, several guards narrowed their eyes through slitted helmets as she passed. Through gritted teeth she vaguely heard "damned savages" and "smells like dog".

Neither of these comments were particularly off-putting to the Reachwoman. Savage was, as far as she understood the term, a compliment as to one's hunting abilities. The dog comment was easily proven true by the presence of the five dogs. She hummed louder and continued to lope on, watching wearily.

The Talos district was packed. In the center of the surrounding, massive stone manors adorned in small banners of dragons, swords, and sweet rolls, was a statue of a dragon and a man holding a silver sword. The silver of the sword seemed to be real, for a robed man, holding a massive tome of a book in one arm, slid his palm against the blade and presented his bloody hand to a enthralled audience.

His voice, the deep thrum of righteous indignation, shouted in a norse accent, "Talos was forgotten! Waylaid! The Altmeri cursed his name, spat upon his light, drove the memory of his heroism from the minds of men. They formed magic sigils to keep his name from being spoken in Skyrim and we were cursed with praise of the Aldmeri Dominion. It was a dark era and when dragons returned to harry our farms and burn our villages, all hope was lost. But then, Talos was reborn!"

She slowed, picking a place on the edge of the crowd to watch the man from. When the mention of the rebirth of Talos raised cheers, she cheered as well. The unification of the Forsworn tribes, bringing the Reach to its rightful citizens. He truly was of a grand disposition, this Emperor.

There was a uproarious cheer as the man rubbed his bloody hand against his face, and continued the speech with a roar in his voice, "In blood and fire Emperor Havfyg slew fourty six dragons! He slew The False Emperor in single combat, and when Titus Mede used dark sorceries in a desperate bid to defeat him, he banished his false magicks with the Thu'um, the speech of dragons he had learned from the terrible Paarthanax! Then he waged war, war on the Aldmeri, who had forgotten his name and so he vowed that in times hence theirs would be forgotten in kind!"

The crowd cheered and the orator grinned rather madly.

To Freyas eye, she glimpsed in the crowds passing by this display of religious fervor, nobles and merchants of the well off sort, mostly beast and men, passing by wearing several kinds of rings. Silver rings with amethyst insets, golden rings with draconic sigils, rings representing family sigils, rings representing nothing other than wealth. They passed almost as quickly as Freya could spot them.

She took particular interest in a Nord man, whom she lunged at in the crowd and grabbed by the wrist. He was wilting, aged. She bent his hand upward, into the air, and locked his shoulder. She'd break it if she needed to, but until he fought against her she'd simply take account of the man's rings. She looked upwards, and the she looked inwards.

What am I looking for, O Lord mine. Breathe into my heavy eyes another vision. When that is done I shall strip this man of flesh and blood and construct for you an idle to feed the hunt.

The old codger struggled and rasped out, "Guards! Guards! Someone help me!" As he said this, some members of the crowds passing by would note his struggling, but otherwise wouldn't pay much attention to it. Two guards sitting at a table in the distance squinted to see what the ruckus was, but seeing what seemed to be a woman manhandling a old man, assumed he had likely deserved it, and went back to playing cards.

"Oh! Husband!" She twisted her grip around and shifted her weight. The result was that the codger was rather limply pulled into her arms and held as though it were he who were in fact the bride. In a mere moment Freja's previously penitent glare had become a joyous, clever smile. She had missed her husband, truly she had. "Come come! Let's celebrate the evening... It'll be a wonderful night just the two of us won't it?" She said this and began to carry the man towards one of the less populated alley-ways nearby. All the while she began to canter and sway and hum little bardic tunes.

The illusion was set.

"Interesting... " Enathrae thought to himself.

Perhaps that guards had paid little attention but quite intriguing this situation had become. The guards Havfyg had employed could not be so willfully ignorant. Perhaps it had been the distance set between the two couples? Anyone who was paying attention or at least who was supposed to be paying should have easily been able to stop such a crippling manuever. The whisk away that subsequenty occured, not as clever as the woman might have thought. She may have been better off conducting her business than breaking away on her own to avoid the guard which apparently would not have been a problem.

"What might you be up to?" His mind continued to contemplate potential outcomes of this virtual powder keg.

The barbarian of a woman turned into an alley. Enathrae with hood drawn up of his newly acquired cloak (compliments of Emperor Havfyg) slowly inched to the edge of the building in which had flanked. His head peered around the corner and he watch the couple meander through the less congested area of the Talos District. He did not hide; however, he would not make it so apparently obvious that he was interested or watching. No. Almost as soon as he had swiveled his head around the corner, his body seemed to follow. He stuck to the wall and maintained his distance. He only crossed the alleyway when civilians had made it unnecessarily difficult to pass through them. The hunt was half the battle in his line of work even if the kill had typically happened with a knife in the back.

When the alley began to curve and line of sight with the busy streets shattered and they were left alone, she grabbed the old man by the head and hurled his skull downward, to the ground. The wet thud did little to dismay her. His groans worked at her bloodlust, and in this weak season she found certain encouragements to turn here and make short work of as many weak prey animals as possible. She did not.

She pulled her ax and burried it to the helve in his head.

Now, content that this man was hers she prayed over it. Her hands clasped over her heart and she spoke briefly of the hunt as it had been:

"This man were of foolish varieties. He died without honor, and none came to his aid. I preyed not on good hunting this evening but on clever hunting. Wouldst do us no good O Huntsman were I made captive now."

She sat still for a moment.
She slid the ax from the head wound.
She began to divide the man into the preferable and the unwanted meats and bits. Her goal was the skull and the femurs, and the heart. She freed these first and set them aside before pulling a long nerve from the body with surprising precision.

With these tools she created a small bone idol. She pulped the heart into the skull, all of which was still a deep flowing bloody, and then bound the femurs to the mouth. She focused that whisper in her soul, and branded it with old Forsworn magicka. She needed to see her goal. With the magicka branded she ate the man's liver raw and then waited. Her vision pulsed as the hex on the totem swelled, then reached its fingers outwards.

Clairvoyance. The goal-seeking spell.

Caked with blood, she waited and watched. Patience was fitting for a hunter. While she waited for the totem to sense out her goal, one of the Ringbearers as spoken of in her vision, she finished butchering the codger's body with a cold dispassion. The meat would prove useful for the stay in the city. The trade had been made, she felt. Those Khajiit were not prey. They deserved nothing but a calmness this night. And the warning would prove useful. She would have to keep her nose out for more. This hunt could, perhaps not, be undertaken without allies.

A brief fantasy struck her while she sat. How kindly would it be for a Ringbearer to walk down this very alley. She had questions first, of course, but the primost thought was of her treading forward and throwing a hatchet into the belly of her quarry. Though that was not Hircine's wish, she craved a good hunt. Nothing good fun since the children east of Chorrol. They screamed, at least. Her mind towards the vision once again. She had slaughtered a lamb now. It was time to wait for the frozen lake men and their glorious tabards to come. Then the Khajiit.

Cross legged. Absorbed in thought. Bloody at the hands and mouth, and down her neck and clothing. Quite the mess, truly.

From behind a stake of crates, outside the rear entrance to a local business Enathrae sat in wait. But he was not still. His mouth moved in less than whispers, conveying archaic words of power that reverberated through the aether. HIs fingers meandered in various arcane gestures held down before his stomach. His actions were not typical offensive magic. Absolutely not. He was calling on a century old illusionary art that would slowly alter the easily noticable clairvoyance spell that he had felt from his spot of hiding as he researched this new and interesting target.

Quiet casting was simple enough. He was a spellsword that most often partook in assassinations and priority murders that required the utmost secrecy. But this was something entirely different. He could sense her motivations, the things she wished to see come forth from her offering to the God of the Hunt. Another readily apparent observation. The manner in which she desicrated the elderly man's corpse. The utter disregard for the fact that she may have very well taken him from some more important meeting? For what? There was nothing in the Dunmer's code from slaughtering a weaker opponent or killing the innocent. However, even he had lines.

His hands ceased in motion. His fingers held an strange and seemingly uncomfortable contorted manner. Had he tapped into the woman's attempted divination? That was his intention. He wanted to see what she was provided from her offering. But more to the point of his own Dunmer magics - he wanted to alter that clairvoyant vision to his own advantage. At the very least, this tank of a woman would be great fodder but she had greater potential to be the great enforcer he required to adequately carry out the investigation that might very well leave him set for life. If he could, he would alter it in their favor but then again if he could not at least Enathrae might have a clue as to what this strange oddity might be searching for.

The totem thrummed, making a sound not unlike hide drums beating in the hollow of a cave. Each "thump" sent shivers up Frejas spine and a certain kind of primal anticipation.

Enathrae carefully monitored the totem. Such was the primal drum of Hircine's attempted direction. But the influence of the daedric princes worked quite differently than most would have imagined. It was not as if the daedra wrote a letter and simple spelled things out one step at a time. No, things were must more cryptic. Look for this most obscure symbol painted above a blue door and slay the man with one arm shorter than the other. Such things were more like comedic games to them. For the daedra spent their days plotting and scheming against one another for amusement. Or against mortals, exploiting their wanderlust and vulnerability to potential reward that they'd do pretty much anything. But their influence held little strength on the material plane.

It was true that the daedric princes could influence the mortal world through their champions or the weak minded pushed to do a task and complete it in their favor. However, their plans were inacted more through the process of inception into one's dreams. Mehrune Dagon had to severe the boundaries between oblivion an the mortal realm to hold any immediate influence. Even Sanguine had to bring his recent victims to imbibe a terrible brew, using a confusing black out to get a more notable mortal to do his bidding.

As such, followers had their own way of tapping into that restrained influential power restrained by the boundaries of the mortal plane and oblivion. Magicka. Some exploited it greatly. Others fail to acknowledge its existence. Everyone can access it, some better than others. But if it could be accessed by an individual, apprentice or master than it can be altered and interfered with by another. This is how wards works against the destruction magic or others. It is not necessarily a forceful spell to be reckoned with but instead exploiting the latent power of an oncoming spell and turning it against itself. However, with a spell of clairvoyance it is merely an opportunity to play poorly with the daedric princes as they play poorly with the people who call upon them.

The skull, twisting, began to leak more blood than even the heart could naturally pump. In great creaking motions, it pointed Northeast. Its gritted teeth jerked open, and a thin ball of blue light rolled out of, then floated, from the dead mans mouth. It moved down the alleyway, twisting around a corner, the thin trail of light behind it slowly receding as it got farther away from Freya.

Her head jerked, back down the alley and around a corner. Her brow furrowed hard, and she felt her heart turn to that of a rabbit. Had she missed something? A scent? A sound? Some squirming figure in the shadows of unknowable import? Had her ax so nearly missed its mark with this old carcass?

Before Freya could turn away from the idol, another azule orb coalesced from the skull's mouth. This time the orb spiraled upward from its gaping maw before shooting off to the west. Perhaps this time too fast to travel. Then another appeared. This one bounced from the skulls mouth, clasped onto the wall of a building and rolled up over the lip of the roof before shooting off out of sight. Then the blood soaked ashen maw snapped shut. The crimson skull, flesh and sinew still moist from a life quicky stolen seemed to turn upward into a queer smile before falling silent. Each of the blue orbs left a faint cerulean trace towards the general directions in which they took. But they were fading quickly.

Freja watched the orbs scatter off. The first one would be her primary target, with the the westward and roof-hopper being the secondary pursuit. She slid her ax into its rest position on her bandolier, before wiping her mouth and hands. The blood only smeared more violently, with an additional layer of dirt getting in the way of what would otherwise be a clean bloody coating. Her thoughts were of the hunt, though her sense of smell and the taste of the air was sand-blasted by red iron blood. She pulled her elk headdress up from her belt, and draped it over her head. Focused eyes and a bloody maw hung open from the grim idol that had become the woman.

She tracked the first blue orb down the alleyway, humming.

"Oh there..." once was a hero named Ragnar the Red...

When she was younger her mother had presented her many such bardic melodies. This one was not her favorite, but it was one that she knew was common beyond the valleys of Skyrim. It was known, and that's what she sought. She wanted her prey to know, to recognize something familiar and potentially friendly. It was a facade. An illusion. A presentation to create a sort of false, bloody uncertainty. Was it a hunt or a smiling pursuit.

The little tune continued and grew into a low haunting melody. There was an ax there, in that melody. A blade. She was prowling, and that much was obvious as she neared the corner that the blue orb had turned behind. She braced herself against the corner, and made her body broad and wide. An obstacle, as she turned the corner.

Far, far ahead of Freja, she saw a pair of legs, toes upwards, being pulled into a open doorway. Almost as soon as the feet disappeared from view, a Khajiit wearing a red bandana over one eye and a scimitar at his waist appeared and closed the door. The wind that blew from above pushed the cloth into the hollow, making it seem as if he had a deep cavity beneath. He crossed his arms, first looking right, then left. Seeing Freja, his hand went to his scimitars hilt and he hissed, "This one thinks Nord is lost. This one thinks Nord should keep moving."

Freja treaded onward, rolling her shoulders back twice as she passed the threshold of the corner. This cat was common to her. In the dull alley light she was not surprised that the blood and viscera had not yet yielded much of a reaction. Her concern, however, was tracking the little orb of magicka commanded by her wishing aid from the Huntsman. This Khajiit was important somehow. For one reason or another things were meant to happen this way, and she would grow to understand why. It was her duty. She stopped and eyed the cat-folk. Her stance was still broad and athletic. She was a beast of prey and still seemed altogether massive, even as stretched and ready as she was.

Enathrae, following behind, began to hear what sounded like scrabbling footsteps above him, followed by roof tile nearly clipping his nose and shattering at his feet. Looking upwards, he saw nothing, but he could see more tiles falling in the direction Freja had went.

Knee-jerk, sudden, and violent, the huntress turned her head. Dim eyes catching the light of the evening. The Khajiit did not see a woman there in the alleyway that night. He saw an aspect of the Hungry Cat. Antlers stretching high on the broad, muscular form of a young woman. This bad omen in the shadows.

If the descent had been delayed for a second or two, Enathrae would have been visiting the aether in his dreams, partying with Sanguinis or fleeing from Molag Bal. Or maybe he would be lucidly trailing in the wake of his ancestors as he so often did. Dreaming of taking up a position beside a great queen whose face he never sees. She was standing beside another man who also appeared quite regal in stature. Sometimes they were standing upon a great stone precipice, a balcony over a city courtyard waving to the crowd who cheered for their appearance. Othertimes, Enathrae witnessed them meeting in secret, caressing each other with subtlty, nervous they might be caught. Once, he had even bore witness beside the Queen as she watched a man being murdered by a rioting crowd, fleeing in self exile frightened by the civil unrest. It was all so strange to him for as he dreamt, Enathrae knew his place but was unable to interfer in or influence the things that had occurred. It was as if it was not even a dream at all.

The black shadow in the alley, a daughter of Hircine truly, stopped vibrating. The air that had rung calmly with the old bardic verse stopped. The silence was a scream.

The Dunmer's body snapped back. He had been skulking behind Freja when the clay roof tile had dropped passed his nose. The tile smashed upon the cobblestone beneath his feet. As quickly as that clay had begun to splinter, the Dunmer with the lithe form and elfish grace founds the means to force his back against the wall of the building. His head jerked towards Freja's direction as more tiles trailing in the wake of the first. He had not seen the murder from his position, however; a sense of vengeance had begun to well in the pit of his stomach. Someone had been so bold as to exploit the shadows to assault him, or so he felt. Such things were not worthy of respect. Such things had to be dealt with, for not to dominate someone not worthy of his respect would go against the very lifestyle he had devoted himself to since he had left Morrowind.

His eyes darted to and fro. Enathrae was assessing his location, the possibilities. All the while clay tiles continued to smash on the cobblestone, at this point moving further away as the mer wasted precious seconds to understand his surroundings. Quickly he turned from the wall, darting down the alley following in the wake of the scattered pieces of clay. He gracefully ascended an old cart, filled with nothing in particular and vaulted to the top of stack of crates and barrels on the opposite side of the alley. He caught a glimpse of the assailants. With a great spring, his agility carried him to the top of the building opposite. He rolled to a stop, rising into readied crouch to assess his situation.

Ahead, was a werewolf. It stopped in a skidding movement that sent several more tiles flying below, which Freja saw clatter roughly thirty meters behind her. It's fur was black and in places slick with a dark, red, pigment that pooled itself on the tips of its razor sharp claws, one of which was bent back rather unnaturally. Around its neck was a large manacle attached to a chain. It began to growl, its teeth sliding as it grinded it's teeth. It lifted its head and howled in what sounded like pained agony. It lowered its head, its one open yellow eye focusing on Enathrae, and barrelled forward in several, furious, lunges.

Her torso and head remained twisted, towards the collapsing tiles and the scuffing and bounding sounds of adventure, but almost more importantly they sought that howl's source. It was too soon to harry the prey. They needed control now more than ever. The hunt was coming. Its time was nigh. It would not be this night that their Hunt would begin.

She built tension in her thighs and legs as her right hand remained outstretched. The red-stained ax-head glistening in the ever-dull alley. Her left hand moved above her heart, and the Khajiit had only a moment to see the black silhouette of Hircine's daughter cross over its chest with its left hand. Her movement was a singular fluid jerk thereafter. She was careful to ensure the small hatchet she had grasped had the right spin on it as she released every bit of tension she had stored. As her sudden jerk halted, the hatchet flew from her left hand and whistled momentarily before disappearing in the dark.

The cat's knee, the right one, had only the energy to buckle and fail as the tendons and muscles were cleaved and the hatchet embedded itself.

Hircine's huntress was impassioned.

Brother or blood?

She pulled the Savior's Hide out from under her belt, and answered her own question. Brother first. She bit down on the article, and tossed her ax to the ground. The muddied overalls slipped by their loops from her broad, strong shoulders, as she slipped from them in a practiced motion. Even as the thick fur began to form she shed her remaining garb. By the time the elk head-dress, the final article removed, was gone, the bear had become reality. It barked out a concerned threat towards the Khajiit before it became entirely distracted. It needed blood, but the pack had called.

Powerful legs sent her into the air as massive paws slapped and dug into the otherwise insurmountable alley wall. A second leap, off of the wall, put her nearer to its peak. She could smell the werewolf, now. She figured she had about a minute to calm it down before she lost her wits and returned to kill the Khajiit that was so dreadfully familiar.

Enathrae's view of the werebear pulling itself out of the alley was hindered only by the nearing werewolf.

----

Ra'Za'hirr Daiani, Khajiit and one of members of the inner circle of The Peoples Blades, watched through pain teared eyes as the Nord who had just hobbled his left leg morphed into a horrific, bearlike monstrosity. He barely managed to control his bowels and stay awake long enough to watch her leap upwards. Vision blurry, he heard the doorway open and was pulled inside.

Ra'Za'hirr was dragged inside by Gans Norene, a Breton in a simple tunic with several belted knives. The room was furnished with a table, some chairs, and surrounding all of this, wall to wall crates. Gans growled, "Oblivion be damned, what happened to you?"

Ra'Za'Hirr rasped through his pain, "Oblivion happened ali ahziss! A Werebear!" His eyes widened as he said this, just realizing the situation he was in. He turned his head, noting the man they had dragged inside. Wearing fine silk robes worthy of royalty, the Imperial had a bag over his head. "Kill him."

Gans set Ra'Za'Hirr against a wall, then began to shove shelves, chairs, and tables in front of the doorway, "At this tIme, Ra'za? In this moment? While we're in danger? With." and he gestured towards the towards the doorway, as if that was explanation in and of itself.

Ra'Za'Hirr hissed, "This one will do it!" he crawled from the wall, his anger pulling him on. Reaching the Imperial nobleman, who was barely conscious, he gripped the mans throat. He began to gag, but as Ra'Za'Hirr dug his claws in, blood began to pool around his fingers. There was a brief struggle, which was quickly ended when Ra'Za'Hirr ripped his claws outwards, spraying blood and pieces of the mans throat as he twitched and gurgled his final moments.

-----

The smell of the Werewolf to Freja was...off. It smelled like a Werewolf, praise be to Hircine, but, there was also a smell of what her werewolf senses and experiences in the Reach would identify as necromantic. This smell didn't come from its flesh, but with each heaving breathe, the smell of wrongness seemed to sweeten the air.

The Werewolf did not stop its onward momentum as it nearly came upon Enathrae.

The clay tiles were loose. Poorly balanced upon the roof's internal structure. His feet were precariously positioned near the edge. His hands were empty, protected only by his fingerless guns. But they were outstretched for balance. He had haphazardly and perhaps carelessly leapt to the cities highest tier in order to get a leg-up on his opponents. However, he was not in the proper position for it. Unstable, unprepared, and perhaps.... no, wait a second... that's how a typical man would have found themselves when placed in a situation they were not adequately prepared for.

Enathrae with an arm held out to his side, hand outstretched and palm up stood prepared to defend himself, perhaps in a situation that was more challenging than the common rabble rousing he was use to in these cities of men. As the strange lycanthopic beast teetered forth, the Dark Elf grinned. To believe such a cumbersome beast, with paws so unuseful on these strange tiles could move swiftly would be strange. Walking on its toes instead of the pads of its feet, appendages with sturdy bones unable to properly grip the curved structure of the clay tiles. The beast was top heavy, forcing it to lean towards the peak of the roof to maintain a forward progression. It was a perfect advantage for the nimble dunmer.

The subtle golden hue that warmly blanketed his open hand was the only cue to be given, a visible sign that may have been all but lost on the enraged lycanthrope carefully stalking him. Enathrae pushed off the clay tile, dislodging a number of those beneath his feet in a similar manner to that which had alerted him in the first place. Simultaneously, he swung his arm upward pulling a large portion of the clay tiles up from the roof. Tiles coming from the rows beneath the progressing werewolf and those in front of him, but the positioning was a bit strange. The Dunmer had not targeted the tiles immediately beneath the beast with his telekinetic spell, instead he targeted those tiles that were closest to the edge of the roof. Dislodging, pulling them up with his magical essence and launching them towards the beast would have caused the appropriate distraction over enough time for the chain reaction to begin. As the tiles battered the beast one after another, those beneath its feet and those in front of it would begin to slide down towards and over the edge with great speed under the weight of those above them on the roof pulling at the already unstable beast. It pulled the beast with haste towards the edge where its most likely option lost within a staggering shock would have been to topple over the edge.

Meanwhile, Enathrae found himself precariously perched higher up on the roof. His hand digging into the clay tiles on the peak of the roof, he soft soled leather boots doing well to allow him to grip the strange dimensions of the remaining tiles well. His casting hand trembling, the tingling of magicka energies reverberating through his flesh he watched the lycanthropes reaction trying to gauge his next move. His focus altered. Enathrae's concentration came to a boil in his mind, the energies swirling around his hand. This time than emanated in an aura with a bluish hue, coalescing in finished preparation in the palm of his hand.

Tiles battered at the advancing Werewolf. The impacts did nothing to stagger it, until the tiles beneath it began to rapidly shift towards the edge of the roof. It faceplanted, breaking a corner of a tooth before being dragged towards the drop below. It frantically dug its claws into the roof, taking the tiles that weren't being telekinetically pulled with it and creating jagged grooves.Then one one of the tiles corners jammed into its eye, blood rupturing from the wound. It roared, its claws reaching towards the the shard of tile left in its face for just a moment. This was all it took for it to careen off the rooftop.

Enathrae heard several crashing sounds and a loud thump as it fell on hard stone cobbles. From Frejas point of view, she could see that the Werewolf had knocked down several clotheslines and it was in a tangle of pants, shirts, and various other articles of clothing below. It struggled to rise, dazed from the impact, but less harmed than a mere mortal would be.

The werebear had at this point advanced nearer, watching the odd smelling werebeast be battered. As it fell, so too did Freja drop to the ground some twenty feet down the alley from it. In a violent burst of energy she lunged forward, and looked into its eyes for a moment.

Bloodshot, frantic, and pure, pure blue were its eyes. It hesitated, for just a moment, then growled.

The smell was rank and strong here. She decided to be brutal in that last moment before she lost control, and so she began to dig thick claws into the meaty flesh of the werewolf. The werebear, yes the werebear now lost to its rage, opened her mouth with some substantial force that seemed to call forth the bite that was to come. She called the werewolf's right arm its prey, and so she swatted down with two great paws and stripped back the werewolf's flesh, exposing bone, in a singular decisive bite.

Healing magic could fix it were it alive. But that smell of death reminded her far too much of the briarhearts for her to imagine anything other than the slaying. The slaying. She was hunting now. The hunter now. The hunter now.

From his perch upon what remained of the clay tile roof, Enathrae watched the ensuing violence. Whether or not such aggression was necessary was irrelevant. In a word, it was primal. Unlike man or orc, when Dunmer slay it is done with precision exerting as much force as necessary for the kill. Most would much rather sneak in and cut a throat, or slip a poison blade behind a cloak than charge forth with a mighty chip from a great axe or some other oversized weapon. However, this beast of Hircine was enjoying itself in the meaningless abuse of a corpse that could have been more easily destroyed by decapitation. Enathrae found his safety, but he had not achieved his goal.

The Dunmer calmed his nerve, rising to the soft soles of his leather boots that allowed him to grip to remaining tiles without struggling to maintain his balance. The soles of his feet wrapped around each curve in the remaining tile as he slowly crept towards the edge, each step more treacherous then the last. He peered over the edge to watch the werebear go to work, but it was not enough for the Dunmer - he had a plan. Enathrae's fingers curled, starting with his pinky and continuing until he had made a fist. Normal of course, it was not. A faint glow was concealed within his enclosed hand, a glow that was beginning to break through in wisps of an orange aura.

"Ex aethere præcepisti in manu mea hæc rune ut incenderent omnis prætereuntis," Enathrae spoke from above before thrusting his arm forward with an open palm angled at the fallen necromantic lycanthrope as his target.

The spell was moderately difficult for a novice, but for the well seasoned spell caster that Enathrare had grown to become it was an oddity. Tendrils of orangish-red aether sped off from his palm, wrapping around his fingers as they jettisoned forward. The threads maintained a loose shape until they slid beneath the werebear and her prey. Then the magical spell came to fruition and had been solidified. The rune was complete, etched onto the undead flesh of the werewolf beneath the werebear. A fire rune to attract the werebears attention.

"Foolish beast..." Enathrae scoffed, "Hircine's bidding be damned."

The Dunmer turned away from the edge of the roof with a smile towards the vicious beast. He looked towards the east, where the morning sun had once arisen towards the Arboretum. That was his preliminary destination. But in the end the ragtag group of rapscallions would have to end up on the steps of the College of Whispers just beyond the trees.

As the Dunmer disappeared into the far distance, the Werewolfs body began to spasm as arcs of purple electricity shot through its nervous system. These shocks sent shivers up Frejas spine. The final shock sent it and Freja bouncing slightly on the cobbles. The flesh in Frejas mouth began to slough off, until the creature was naught but skeleton in a pile of its own viscera and fur. On its rib cage, one could see multiple, purple lines of a crystaline substance that seemed to form veins in the bone and traced what seemed to in the remaining vestige of a Nord mind Freja had left, nordic runes. What made most of this not matter, was the flesh that had fell off the werewolf still had a magical, explosive rune on it. Freja made a movement to crush the undead werewolves head with her jaws. The rune detonated.

In the deep recesses of The College of Whispers, Cinnar Ashwing worked diligently. He was surrounded by glass tubes, each filled with a different coloured liquid that moved along as the heat from crucibles was reduced or increased. These colours would eventually drip into a large beaker, the chemicals mixing and combining until a completely new mixture was formed.

Cinnar poured this beaker into yet another, less filled beaker. It bubbled, hissed, frothing nearly to the top. He almost covered the beaker with an airtight seal spell, but the liquid began to recede. He sipped it. His skin hardened. He shook his hand, "Barkskin?"

This was a distraction. In another basement workshop, was a forge, where the local blacksmith, Thorulf Jafelson, worked diligently on brass rings. He had to work on those rings but...he thought of his son, Uthane, trapped in the confines of the Imperial Prison, left to rot. He needed clarity. He needed a distraction. He had to think before he acted.

Hours later, he retrieved the rings. Stepping to the side of his workshop he opened the thick, black chest Havfyg had delivered earlier. He shuddered. Thirty five black soul gems. Four rings. An enchanted engraving tool, which, as he reached to touch it, felt ice cold. It got no warmer as he held it. He took one of the rings, setting it on the desk. Then a black soul gem. Then another. There was a piece of paper in the middle of the gems, which he unfurled. It told him what he had to do, the ritual he had to commit himself to.

First, each ring must be engraved with the engraving tool. The symbols were SEAL, KEEP, KILL, ORDER, MIND, INTENT in draconic. As he etched, a pale green light poured from the etchings. As each etching completed, the symbols disappeared as the metal seemed to repair itself. Cinnar rubbed his finger along the edge of the brass ring. It was completely smooth.

The next part was more straightforward, but horrifying in its implications. Havfyg had sent him thirty five. These were likely the souls of political dissidents, though he wasn't sure that would account for the amount. About six black gems he rested next to the rings and one by one, their souls were used to charge the rings.

---

Cinnar arrived at the door of the quarters of a Breton mage, Sachine Wickfield. He knocked three times. A man opened, a huge, muscular, scarred Orc, decidedly not a member of the College of Whispers. He had a blanket wrapped around his waist. Cinnar tensed, then seeing that Sachine, was laying in the bed, covering herself, he regained some confidence. "I'm here to speak with Sachine, sorry to interrup-" the Orc put a finger to Cinnars lips.

The Orc said, "No talk. Get back to lovemaking." He took the letter out of Sachine's unprotesting hands, "Important?" Cinnar nodded. Then The Orc closed the door.

Murdragh Dragon-Slayer brought the letter to Sachine. Sachine complained, purring, "Was that Cinnar?"

Murdragh snorted, "Small knife ears? Quaking in boots? Weak?"

Sachine rolled her eyes, "I wouldn't say that." She gently plucked the letter from Murdraghs hands. It appeared blank as she opened it, but with a wave of her hand, words began to form, "Of course, he's terrible at magical cipher."

"What does it say?"

"Oh, well, I can't really say...let's just say, Havfygs making a play." She waved her hand again, small lights formed, and the words disappeared, "But, can you deliver the letter for me tomorrow? I'm going to be rather busy. Faria Arius is apparently paranoid the Synod are infiltrating the College. She's right, of course, but these recent murders...well, it's definitely against their modus operandi." She pushed the letter inside the drawer of her dresser.

Murdragh nodded, "I do not care about the details of your college." He considered this might sound harsh, so he added, "My sweetest lilyflower. I will deliver the letter. Shall we continue with..." he gestured towards where his genitalia would be.

Sachine laughed, gesturing down the length of her body, a impish smile crossing her face, "By all means."

---

Cinnar was surprised that Sachine had snuck in a outsider to the College of Whispers. One could be accused of being a Synod plant, sent to The Imperial Court and likely summarily executed when they couldn't prove that you weren't acting against the state. You'd be given some honors for your sacrifice, but you'd still be dead. Cinnar played along, even knowing that as a Altmer he had next to no rights if he didn't continue working for the Imperial Empire. But, he did some good. At least he hoped he did.

He entered the Botonarium, a glass roofed structure of The College of Whispers. It was filled with fauna from all over Tamriel, with vivid hues of blue, purple, and green being primarily present. In the center of all this, was a single, massive, Hist Tree. Glass tubes jabbed into the bark along where one would normally draw sap and these tubes snaked into holes in the floor, leading likely to a dispensery unit in the lower basement. The purpose of this was to mass produce Hist Sap, according to Zalay Salkatanat.

Zalay had been an Ashlander before he was found by Imperial scouts looking for magical ability. He'd been taken from his home, but otherwise treated well, and actually seemed to be flourishing under the College of Whispers influence. His family had been allowed to move to the Imperial City, though the special treatment had ended there. His research had focused primarily on the physiological and mental effects of Hist, given to Argonians and not. He'd also been attempting to modify the tree itself, a issue that, much like the Caro debacle of decades past, had smoothed over when progress had been shown in creating telepath's.

The experiment went like this. Two people, one Argonian, one not, were placed in two separate rooms and given the same Hist Sap. The Argonian was in the safe room. The other was placed in a small room that slowly had gas leaking in. The other was often your typical thief, thug, or other lesser offs. The Argonian would attempt to help, through their thoughts alone, the poor unfortunate soul in the other room, with solving the puzzle.

The first thirty five attempts had been failures. Strictly speaking, the non-Argonian typically ended up convulsing on the floor and dying far before the toxins actually affected them. A few cases heard a thought, but not from the Argonian itself but the Hist Tree. When asked what commands it had given, the Argonian who had acted as a translator had screamed, holding his head.

The Hist Tree, over the years, had gone mad. There was no help for it. Cinnar had spoken against treating a sentient creature in such a way, even if it were a tree, but his voice had remained unheard and there was evidence Zalay's research would soon come to bear the fruits of his labor. He located Zalay, who wore bright white robes in contrast to his dark coloring. Zalay spoke without turning, holding a tome, "Ah, Cinnar. Here to chastise me again about my ethics?"

Cinnar said, "No, no. I actually have need of your sap."

Zalay rose his brows, "For what purpose?"

"You remember that favor you owe me?" Cinnar hoped this would appeal to Zalays sense of honor.

Zalay stiffened, then turned around. After a few moments, he said, "So no questions asked?"

"No questions."

Zalay sighed, retrieving a thick silver key from his robes. "I expect this returned when you are done."

Cinnar grinned, "No problems."

---

In his workshop, he found all of the rings still waiting. A vial of Hist sap in his hands, he cast a spell on the liquid that would hopefully elongate its effects. Then, he rubbed the liquid along the interior of each and every ring. The first part of his plan was finished. Now all he had to do was wait.

The tile rooftops of the Talos District entertained Enathrae for only a short while. The soft soles of his specially crafted leather boots easily bending over the curvature of the clay tiles, allowing him to remain steadfast in his pace. The urban setting soon surrendered to the arboreal furnishings of the arboretum that grew to the west of the city proper. Trees taller than most of the buildings in the city grew in a close-knit collective perhaps no more than a few square miles. While the surface was groomed with paths and well taken care of topiaries, the trees grew together as if stretching out for the haunting touch of like beings. It made the perfect path. The Dunmer leaped from one branch to the next, his trail marked only by the fluttering leaves and the scattering birds. Soon, he would stop.

High noon had crested over the few spires for the College of Whispers, their shadows only nigh existent with the sun so very high above. The pale bricks made in an age that had long since been forgotten had shone brightly, unhindered until the shadows slowly consumed them. The windows that were once open to the world around them were now shut, locked. The scents of alchemical concoctions and newly casted spells had become an afterthought ingrained into the now tattered tapestries. Despite the illuminating sun, the College seemed dark. The campus grounds once teeming with life were not speckled with but a few dim shadows wandering from one task to the next.

Enathrae descended from the branches. Soft were the steps of his feet as he hit the cobblestone walkway that encircled the academy. His steps were silent as he crept toward what appeared to be the main entranceway. A grim, ebony door ripe with age that had seen more greatness pass through its archway than the Hall of Valor. Yet, there was something strange about that door. As the gleam of the sun passed through the trees, painting the building in a vibrant glow the door remained enshrouded in shadow. An ominous cloud lingered over the portcullis, reverberating with magical energies across the strings of the aether like the strings of the lute heard in the distance.

“What business… do you… have here,” inquired a soft voice?"

The voice was but the remnants of a whisper. A gentle annoyance carried on the breeze. Or the faded memory of words passed echoing through the trees of the arboretum. Yet while the words seemingly came from a distance, Enathrae felt a contradictory notion. Was the voice real? Did it exist amongst the environment, emanating from some terrestrial being?

“What BUSINESS… do YOU… have here?”

No. It was a distant voice, but Enathrae knew it was closer than its creator had hoped he would. The voice was whispering from the depths of his mind, a place well beyond his typical excursions and a place that was quite easily accessible by the nominal power of this place, the College of Whispers. The Dunmer extended his arms, stretching his fingers as if attempting to feel his way through the power of the aether that carried the Magicka being used against him.

Enathrae’s fingers began to curl as if tickling the ivories on a piano. His hands twitched as if resisting the pull of some unforeseeable grasp, pulling him towards the door. Closer and closer the Dunmer stumbled as he tried to resist the force. But this unseen extraterrestrial force was powerful, more powerful than Enathrae had the pleasure of ever encountering before. His soft-soled leather shoes were not designed to provide the traction required to resist his unseen captor.

The gravel stirred beneath his feet, disturbed by his struggle. But the dust did not come from his steps. Sand and dirt stirred in the recesses between the stones that made up the cobblestone walk. It danced and swirled into tiny cyclones that were pulled toward the Dunmer, yet further away gathering before the doorway enshrouded in shadow. The sand coalesced into the shape of a single humanoid being its arm outstretched as if to grasp the mer.

But Enathrae was cognisant. His struggle was just as much mental as it was physical. However, he was trained. He was trained in the art of acting and reacting to arcane interference with his plans. He did not fall slack to make the magician work harder. He did not fight back to tighten its encumbrance. Enathrae moved swiftly, jerking his arms in a circular motion to exploit the lag Magicka experienced when combating the physical.

As the Dark Elf pulled free from the magician’s grasp, Enathrae deflected the now formed arm. A robed arm at that, clad in dirty grey cloth that was now thrown out wide. But the creature’s body did not budge. With a wide defensive opening, Enathrae thrust his offensive arm forward, his palm turned up. The strong and sturdy heel of his palm snapped outward like a flash of lightning.

“A test…”

Enathrae’s hand trembled as it met the resistance of what felt like a stone wall. The tremor that followed the sting of pain sent a shiver down his spine. His mind was drawn blank with what followed. With the force of Volendrung smashing into his chest, the Dunmer was thrown backward. His arms and legs thrown forward by the force of his abdomen hurling back, away from the enshrouded door. The air pulled from his lungs was replaced with the burning sensation of suffocation until his ass hit the cobblestone. His head rolled backward alongside his arms as he tried to protect his vital points from the impact. Rolling backwards the Dunmer tumbled down the few stairs that lead up to the platform where the College sat.

“You have NO BUSINESS here…”

Veta was in a state of disbelief as she strolled, dodged and bumped her way through the crowds and crowds of people that clustered the many streets of the Imperial City. Children, elders, soldiers, merchants and everything in between had come out either for the festivities revolving around their Emperor, or in protest against him. It was a powder keg, to be sure, Veta could feel the tension in the air, breathing in the resentment and breathing our her anxiety of being in the middle of it. Her armour and wits would only do so much if a skirmish was to break out and she was caught in the middle of it.

"Flowers for sale here!"
"Get some sweet Nordic Mead to keep you going!"
"Pyrotechnics! Celebrate your Emperor with the finest displays!"
"Toys! Toys for your children! The best prices here!"

All of the merchants of Tamriel were apparently here to peddle their cheap tack while they could, while spirits were bubbling and coinpurses were generously loose. Their individual cries and self-promotions eventually became urbane white noise as Veta continued to push her way through the endless mobs of citizens. No doubt, there would be some shady things occuring this day. Veta just didn't think she'd have a hand in some when she woke up this morning. Eventually, the hordes began to thin out, and the hustle and bustle of the festival decreased in volume as she left the worst of it behind. She sighed in an unexpected feeling of relief; she wasn't a city girl, and she had barely had any time to adjust to life in the metropolis surrounding the White-Gold tower.
With that thought, her heart panged at the thoughts of home. How she missed it so. The great beams of trees replacing the dishonesty and stench of the people here. The fresh air and the green grass, where there were placcid and friendly sheep instead of rabid rats and other vermin scuttling about.

She snapped out of it. She had a job to do to ever have a chance of returning to the verdant hills of the Great Forest and the rustic stone of Chorrol.

Veta had finally escaped the Market District through the gullet of an epic gate and found herself in the shadow of the White Gold Tower, it's once-pristine marble elegance still sundered and tainted by the Sacking at the hands of the Thalmor some 30 years ago. The stains of the Great War would not be easily washed, and many are reminded of how weak the Empire had become. Perhaps that has helped Emperor Havfyg justify the means he had undertaken to restore it to its former glory, if not to himself, then to the many millions of citizens living under the Imperial Banner.
Despite it's experiences of war, the magesty and authority of the White-Gold tower still emanated from the white stone as Veta walked around it. If nothing else, the Camorans built a monument that has lasted well beyond their demise, and still serves as a beacon of civilisation at the heart of Tamriel. Veta still felt a sense of awe in her being but an ant scrambling around the base of a tree. She passed numerous Legionaries who maintained an air of alertness and alarm, as if they were on their utmost guard in reaction to the detrimental potentialities that the Festival threatened. Each eyed Veta up, giving an occular assessment of her intentions, and each had reasoned her to be a non-threat fairly quickly. She wondered if they had come across any of her new colleagues, and if they had come to similar, or drastically different conclusions. A thought occured to her - How in Oblivion would the Lich cross the city unseen? Surely even Havfyg couldn't ensure that the men of the Watch wouldn't freak out if they saw an undead abomination roaming the streets?

She reached another gate that cordoned off the city into its famous Districts. This time, it was the one guarding the Arboretum. She stepped through, after undergoing yet another approval by a guard. She gasped as she appreciated the nature of its contents in a resurgent adoration of greenery and flora, born out of her experiences in the confines of her cell, and the urban jungle of the city prior to that. Great trees blotted out the sky in places, replacing it with airborne seas shaded green. Butterflies, birds and other fauna populated the rainbows of flowers that littered the ground, each pedantically cultivated into an organised chaos of botanical spectacle. Not another soul was in sight, save for the gardeners and a couple of guards posted at the edges of the Arboretum. Veta did not rush this leg of her journey towards the College. She never wanted to leave the comfort that the pocket of solace had gifted her this moment. But alas, she had commitments elsewhere, lying across the sprawling bridge hidden just behind the opposite gate to the one she had entered through.

She could see the towers of the College of Whispers as soon as the gate towards it opened for her, it's clandestine nature permeating from its architecture. Veta felt dirty even walking towards it. She certainly did not belong here, and loathed as the cruelty of the Gods that had led her into this situation. She prepared herself mentally as she approached, as she often does before going into battle, if she has time to. She was not immediately expecting a fight, but she didn't trust mages too well, and those harboured within the College were the most untrustworthy of civilised mages.

One more gate was between her and where she was needed to be, and it opened for her just as easily as the rest, but with an indescribable sense of forboding. There was an air of darkness here that creeped into Vera's bones, a corruption forking its way into her nerves. It sent a shiver down her spine, one that she struggled to shake off. As she approached the imposing structure, she paused, startled to see people once more, the tranquility of the Arboretum seducing her into a state where she was getting used to a world without other sentient beings. What a peaceful life that would be.

As she stared, she began to understand what she was gazing at. Two fresh-faced mages, their details hidden by hoods, stood at the top of some steps that led up to the doors of the College. An aura of superiority was woven into their stance, and general attitude. Whether justified, or one that was self-invoked, remained to be seen.
Below them, and recovering from what looked to be a tumble down the stairs, was an figure with a merethic build, slender and lean. It had a familiarity about it, and it took a moment for Veta to realise who it was.

It the mysterious, purple-eyed Dunmer that had been her cellmate for these past few weeks.

He was not the friendliest companion she had ever met, but she had at least heard his laughter boom from him as she stormed out of the Imperial Prison following her seething hiss at Caro, so he was capable of emotion at the minimum. It didn't matter if it was at her expense of the Lich's, the Dark Elf was an ally, willing or unwilling, and she figured she ought to get on his good side while she could. What was her alternative? A Lich or a Werecreature? She'd take her chances with someone that could at least participate in society.

She walked towards the Dunmer from behind, electing to announce her arrival in order to prevent alarming him. "Hail, Dunmer. Have you had a disagreement with the stairs?". She outstretched a hand to help the Dark Elf up, aware that he may be too proud to accept it, but she offered it all the same.