*Prologue*

Gods his mare needed a rest. Sir Markus Jurfield had been scouring the roads and woods of this hilly country for two days now, in search of his liege's daughter. A broad, calm man of thirty, Markus had fought hard to be where he is now, a devoted knight in the service of a noble. A great accomplishment for a Breton indeed, especially one unfamiliar with the magical arts. He'd travelled south across the peninsula all the way to the beaches of the Iliac Bay, but still he'd had no luck. Fuck's sake, she had to go missing in winter? In this country, this time of year, well…he had little hope of finding her before the wolves. But he'd look and keep on looking, as was his duty to his lord, until he found her or the hunt was suspended.

She'd gone out with four of his Lord's men, and four even better horses. None of them came back. That night, Lord Harold had commanded a double watch on the grounds of his castle, and sent out a large search party to scrutinize the area. Two-score men rode out whilst dozens more set in along the walls of his keep for a vigil that lasted all night. Lord Robert, the younger of Harold's two sons, had insisted on joining in the search, but his father was equally insistent upon keeping him home and safe.

"Wise move, that," one of Markus's companions had remarked the eve they left the stables. Glorin of Wayrest (or simply Ironbrow among the other guards) was a hardened man nearing 60. He was certainly past his prime, but none of the other guards ever called him Ironbrow in his vicinity, save a select few whom he knew well enough to call friend.

"How d'ya figure?" Dalor asked, a stout and simple youth of fifteen or so by the looks of him. He'd been a farm boy before he was taken in by the grace of his lordship, and he couldn't recall his own birthday. He was a good fit for work in the stables, but Lord Harold had need of all able-bodies under his watch for this task. None of the other groups were exactly eager to accommodate the stripling, nor was Markus for that matter, but he could hardly refuse a command. He understood it was better to send a callow youth with a more seasoned, patient man. They paired pups with older dogs all the time to teach them proper behavior, and Markus saw this much the same way.

"Whatever's delayed his daughter's return could also pose a danger to either of Lord Harold's sons," Markus explained patiently. Glorin was less obliging.

"Aye, why risk your heirs when stableboys will do?" he spat in a temper. Glorin rode in front, Dalor in middle, and Markus brought up the rear. He saw the boy's head droop after the slight. More than once Glorin had snapped at the lad for his incessant queries or for not keeping his horse on the road. 'For all the time he spends with horses, why shouldn't he be able to ride one?' he'd said.

Despite his ill temper, Markus respected Glorin more than he did the other guards. He'd lived long and acted dutifully in service to his lord, longer than most of the other guards had been alive. Even their Captain of the Guard heeded his advice, and he was often just as stubborn as Glorin!

Lord Harold's eldest was less concerned, however. Lord Bryce had always been complacent (even if his father refused to see it), but his apathy in regards to his sister's peril truly startled Markus. He feigned concern well enough around his father, but Markus overheard him jest to one of his lickspittles, "I don't know who will eat better tonight, the wolves or me!" Why Lord Harold so strongly favored that prick of a firstborn, he'd never understand.

Where Bryce was pompous, cruel, and timorous, Robert was amicable, and bold to the point of recklessness. Robert was younger true, and as such stood little chance of inheriting his father's lands and keep, but in Markus's eyes, he was far better suited for the task. All the more shameful, as Robert was regarded vastly better than his brother among his father's other retainers as well. Markus had seen him mingle well enough with their occasional highborn guests, but he never belonged among them. No, Robert was far more comfortable in the training yard, with cold, hard steel in his hands. He was one of them, not just their lord but a friend as well. The same could not be said for Lord Bryce.

Robert had endeared himself to them, as he had with several noble daughters as well. But he'd also won the affections of less favorable women in taverns and inns, Markus had seen. He seemed to rejoice in his lack of responsibility, and as fixated as his father typically was with Lord Bryce, he could usually get away with it. As they continued to clop along the road westward, Markus was dreading the thought of one day serving that arrogant fool, but that was a problem for another time. Perhaps Robert would someday be a Lord of his own, but it would never be of Dresan Keep.

Or rather, Blackmane Keep as it was known these days. Their names were interchangeable among outsiders who knew their history, but within their walls and in the presence of the Lord Blackmane, it was Blackmane Keep. Lord Harold Blackmane was another inheritor among many of theses lands, claimed generations ago by an ancient ancestor. However, it had been Lord Anderyll Blackmane who expended vast sums of his wealth in restoring the towers and walls, making it a formidable keep worthy of their prestige.

And despite his reservations in regards to Lord Bryce, Markus was proud to serve House Blackmane. Their house was prominent, even among prominent noble houses. Their pedigree could be traced back to the first kings who emerged out of the Direnni Hegemony. Whether or not it had been hundreds as the legends say, history may have forgotten. But of the houses that persisted to this era, none were as wealthy, as resilient, or as steadfast in friendship as House Blackmane.

Markus' own bloodline was unknown, his house a minor one, and so he took interest and pride in the Blackmane legacy. 'Find a new hill, become a king,' as the saying went, and his liege's forebears had found one of the better spots in High Rock. Though they were not kings, the nobles of House Blackmane had ruled from their seat at Dresan Keep for centuries. Even more extraordinary, they were one of the few noble houses that maintained their status through wealth and might of arms alone, not by flaunting their magical prowess. While the Blackmanes shared the same blood as their kin in High Rock, not a one of them in all the history of their lineage was ever recorded casting even the simplest spell. Why bother, when you have the best spell-swords, healers and apothecaries money can buy?

He'd visited their library so often, reciting their history had become second nature to him. The founder of their house was Manthor the Blackmane, who was first and foremost a brutal warlord. Many favored to call him 'Bloodmane', for it was said that in one battle-having lost his shield and broken his axe, mind you-he bit out the throats of his enemies until he found a weapon that suited him. By then his beard was soaked with blood. His ambition was great among the squabbling band of lesser kings, many of whom were conquered and assimilated into his tribe. While he had claimed many magical relics in battle and equipped his army as as best he could, lacking any real skill with magic proved his downfall, as the kingdoms who taught and revered magic were ever his staunchest adversaries. Though these kingdoms were unable to be conquered, they were also reluctant to counterattack for fear of waking something more terrible.

Markus admired such ferocity. When those who can manipulate forces and energies beyond one's wildest vision are still afraid of you..that is power. Eventually Manthor would realize the folly of his conquests, and retreat back to whence he'd come. No one had claimed dominion of the forests of Daenia, for it was the fiercest of environments to tame, much as Manthor himself was the fiercest of lords. However, it wasn't until some time during the second era that the Blackmanes took Dresan Keep for their abode.

"It's b-bloody freezin' out here," Dalor stuttered, interrupting Markus's thought. "Won't we make camp soon?"

"We'll make camp when old Ironbrow decides he's tired of riding," Markus replied jokingly. Truthfully Markus had the command of this party, but Glorin had more experience tracking and greater familiarity with these roads than himself. He thought it wise to defer to his judgement in this case.

"For once the boy may be right," Glorin said. "Sun's gettin' low; we don't have much time to gather kindling. Best we start while there's some daylight left. I'd say we've all suffered enough chill for one day."

They found a spot along the road between two great pine trees and a mass of boulders. Suitable cover from the biting winter winds. While Glorin and Dalor prepared the fire, Markus hobbled their garrons nearby for warmth. It'd be another long day of riding tomorrow, and a sturdy workhorse was better suited for this sort of work. Despite the great distances travelled and that remained to be travelled, they had done so well. Whatever else could be said of Dalor, he took great care of these animals.

They were perhaps two days ride from home now, that is, if the horses could continue at pace. Lord Harold had sent them to search the border of the entire region beyond his lands. They had travelled southeast toward the Illiac Bay, followed the coast southwest for miles, and were now on the journey northeast, back home. Markus didn't feel it likely they'd find any sign of her between here and there, but hoped someone from the other parties arrived with better news.

"You think there's any chance she's still out here?" Glorin asked him. The question struck Markus, as the old guard scarcely showed any emotions beyond scorn and frustration, or compliance with a command.

"Scarce little, if that," Markus replied dourly. Glorin Grunted his agreement. The thought of poor little Arlette suffering out in the cold was perhaps more cruel than a quick death. Markus was her favored personal guard; he was more kind than the others, she'd said, and he'd talk with her more than treat her like an object to be protected. She'd greet him with a little flower, and he'd present her with a sweet he'd nabbed from the kitchens. Oh, how she'd beam at him and thank him. He had no children of his own as yet, and came to think of her as a surrogate daughter.

"But we'll keep lookin', won't we?" Dalor protested.

"Aye, no one said anythin' about stopping," Glorin spouted before Markus could answer.

"We'll finish our route, then report back to Lord Harold. If it is his desire for us to continue the search, so be it. We are servants first and foremost Dalor, you must remember. Paid servants yes, but still we serve."

"He's not paid," Glorin said with a chuckle, pointing at Dalor. Markus laughed at his oversight as well, and even Dalor cracked a smile in spite of the barb. It was good to find a bit of humor in all this.

Dalor sat nearest the fire, rotating a fresh rabbit they'd managed to catch before settling in. They'd brought a bit of food with them from the castle for their trip, but fresh meat would always prevail over stale bread and overripe apples.

"I'm gonna have a piss before supper," Glorin said. "Keep my haunch warm, but don't burn it!" he commanded of Dalor, who nodded meekly as Glorin retreated off into the darkness.

"Don't mind him, lad," Markus encouraged him. "He's just forgotten what it's like to be young. Spend enough time with him, he'll come around."

"His fits don't bother me none," Dalor responded, almost happily it seemed to Markus. "I got worse than tongue lashings before I came to serve Lord Blackmane."

The horses suddenly began to whicker frantically and stamp their hooves, fighting their bonds. The disturbance rankled the hairs on the back of Markus's neck.

"What's that about?" Dalor asked nervously.

"Quiet," Markus whispered, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Glorin?" he inquired of the darkness, no hint of fear in his tone. The woods answered back with a loud crack of breaking branches that set the horses raving. For the briefest instant he thought he glimpsed a pair of glowing orbs in the darkness, two small, hungry flames that vanished into blackness as his eyes met them. But he dismissed it as a trick of the light.

"What was that?" Dalor inquired, his tone plainly more frightful.

"What did you see?" Markus asked. Perhaps he'd seen those eyes too.

"No, what was that noise?" Dalor clarified. Markus had no answers for him.

"Hush," he demanded. All the sounds of the world around came to him and he listened, to the rustling of cold wind through the naked branches of the trees and soft whisper against the needles of the evergreens. To the fire that crackled as the logs split and kindling burnt. To the horses panting frantically and fighting violently to be free of their straps. Still over all this cacophony, he heard nothing out of the ordinary. That was what frightened him.

"Stay by the fire," he whispered to Dalor whilst drawing his steel as quietly as he could. It shimmered orange-yellow from the light of the fire, a well-honed blade to be wielded with well-honed skill.

"Where are you goin'?" Dalor asked in a panic.

Markus ignored the question and continued, "Stay low with your back to the fire, and keep your blade at hand. Count to 300, if you know how and if you are afforded the chance. Count slowly; one...two...three...If I'm not back by the time you're finished, mount a horse and ride on. If I don't return to you, don't be afraid. Finish your route and do your duty to Lord Blackmane." Dalor understood then.

"Gods go with you," he said shakily, though Markus detected courage in his words.

"And remain with you," he replied evenly. He heard Dalor's dagger slip from its sheath behind him as he left, but he didn't look back. Glorin had not returned, and it wasn't like him to make jokes. Markus was certain it wasn't him lurking beyond the firelight to frighten them for a laugh.

He listened, treading quietly through the trees, careful not to make a misstep and let whatever was stalking them be alerted to his whereabouts. It had begun to snow hard now, accumulating in a soft carpet on the ground and muffling his steps. Lowly and slowly, Markus crept a hundred yards out away from their camp, making a circle all the way around. He saw no sign of Glorin, nor of their stalker, and whether it was the biting cold or his own thoughts on the matter that made him shiver, he didn't care to know. All he desired was to be back by the warmth of the fire, and to make sure Dalor hadn't balked, or worse.

And then he heard it. The panicked squeal of a frightened horse prickled the hairs on his neck as it called out from the campfire. He rushed through the frigid undergrowth, following the light and sound alike. In his hastiness he had not taken care of where to step, and both the snow and darkness hid many things a man ought to keep an eye out for. A snag of overgrown roots hidden by snow ensnared his foot and tripped him. As he hit the ground he dashed his head on a protruding log and collapsing limply into the snow.

He woke with a splitting headache and a face numbed by cold. He couldn't say how long he'd been out, but even though it was still dark the snow had accumulated in places deep enough to practically bury him, and it was still falling hard. He'd almost certainly lose an ear for his carelessness, at the very least. He burst clumsily from his soft, frigid cocoon, and his vision blurred and blackened for a moment, though he managed to sturdy himself against a tree. As he reached up to feel his brow, fresh blood caked his leather gloves. It ran in a slow trickle all the way down his cheek and into his ear, and there was a small frozen puddle of deep red in the snow where his head had lain.

It was in attempting to scrape the frozen blood from his ear that he realized how quiet it was once more. Was he too late? Had something come for Dalor? Had he the sense to flee before it was too late? Surely he hadn't waited on him. Surely...Markus was almost reluctant to return to the fire now, for fear of what he might find. Nevertheless he uncovered his sword and made his way shakily back to the fire, still glowing in the distance albeit a bit less brightly. Markus was nothing if not a man driven by duty. Fear was an impairment of feeble-hearted men, not of a Captain of House Blackmane.

As Markus drew closer to the camp, he noticed the horses were either being astonishingly quiet, or Dalor had fled with them. He couldn't see properly from this distance; his vision came in spurts of clarity and haziness. But as he moved closer still, he realized the truth to be far more horrific. The horses lay on the ground in a growing pool of blood. Each of them were still attached by their bridles where Markus had hobbled them, their mouths agape and their tongues cascading down the sides of their jowls. All of them had suffered gruesome mutilations around their necks, each of their wounds still dripped fresh blood, and their eyes stared lifelessly into the night.

'Dalor' he thought, clutching the wound on his head. 'Where is Dalor?' He plucked a log from the fire and scurried around in search of any clue.

"Sir?" a little voice inquired behind him. Markus swung around and raised his sword so rapidly he almost lost balance again. The girl who stood before him was barefoot, her faded red tunic and breeches were muddy and her fur riding cloak was in tatters. He wasn't certain if she were real or if it was a vision, a manifestation of head trauma.

"Arlette?" he asked incredulously. He rubbed his eyes with one hand and blinked several times, just to make sure it wasn't some apparition. She looked haggard and thin, her hair a wild mess of knots and frays, and she was covered with dirt and scratches. She stood across from him, clutching her chest and shivering violently, though she didn't approach the fire.

"Come, child," he urged her. "Come and warm yourself by the fire. You're alright; you're safe now."

She didn't seem to hear him, "You're my father's man, aren't you? Please sir, take me to him," she begged. "Please take me home."

Her father's man? That was a queer choice of words for someone who should know him better.

"Arlette, it's me. It's-" Markus broke off suddenly, instinctively. None of this made sense. In this weather, with no food and likely little water for two days, and with predators lurking all around, how had she survived? Why was she here, now? He reasoned the chances of his party being the one to find her were slim to none, given how out of the way their route had been. Glorin and Dalor had all but vanished, only to have the exact person they'd all been searching for to appear at the least likely, least opportune moment. There was a prickling in the air and he felt drowsy suddenly, almost nauseous.

"I do not mean to doubt you little one," Markus began cautiously, his sword lowered but still in hand, "but I must ask you a question before I take you home."

"Ask," she replied, a bit too calmly.

"Do you know who I am?" She was plainly not pleased with the question, if the impatient look on her face was any indicator.

"What will my lord father think when he hears you bothered with such trifles before returning me safely to him?" she retorted aggressively. Arlette never spoke with such venom, nor did she imply threats to even the lowest of her household. Markus raised his sword towards her.

"Tell me my name," he demanded. Her gaze shifted briefly and then met his eyes.

"No."

Markus heard the footsteps too late, and was struck on the back by a stunning blow-so hard that he lost the grip of his sword and torch and he fell to his knees. He had little time to recover before he was seized about the throat by two deathly cold vices. The more he fought the more they tightened, until his vision began to darken and the fingers loosed their grasp. When Markus looked into the face of his captor, to his unmitigated horror, the eyes that looked back were white clouds, though he was certain Glorin could see him. A rivulet of frozen crimson flowed from a mass of congealed blood resting in a wound on his throat, a wound that was distinctly the shape of a mouth.

"You need not suffer, sir," another voice spoke. This one was of a woman, smooth as silk and soothing as a mother to her babe. "Nobility has brought you far in life, but it will deliver you no further. Relent, and I vow your death will be painless." Where Arlette had been now stood a pale woman, a small and slender she-elf, and naked as the day she was born. The hair of her sex was black as that which flowed long and straight from her head down past her shoulders. Her figure was pleasing as well: wide hips and a narrow waist, supple tits and toned legs, long for her height. The only thing that distracted from all her beauty were the fiery-orange orbs that peered through him, radiating menace and malice.

"You're a vampire?" Markus asked as she stepped closer and closer, ignoring his question. A bite from a vampire was a bad way to go, but if he was bitten, he hoped he would die as Glorin did, for becoming one dismayed him more than he could say. He didn't fear dying; what alarmed him the most at the moment was how overcome with lust he was for her, this monster that had killed his friend and slain little Arlette, for vampires of this sort only took on the forms of those whom they've killed, Markus knew. Even still, he desired fiercely to break free from Glorin's clench and take her beside the fire as he liked.

"I would let you," she said, whispering sensually into his ear and planting her lips gently on his neck, "if you would only vow to serve me in another way. Let me taste you, as I have your companion, and your wish will be your reward." Markus was ashamed that he even considered her offer, but alas his convictions proved hardier than that. To taste him would almost certainly mean his death, as it had for Glorin, and he was not keen to be tried by some demonic harlot.

"If you mean to kill me, bloody well get on with it," he spat viciously, remembering himself. "I won't serve you, blood-whore."

She only smirked, "You will all serve me before I'm done."

Markus heard someone take up his sword, though Glorin's grip had tightened once more and he couldn't move his head to look.

"I pity this, you know. You would have made a most darling pet," the woman said as the ominous figure moved closer, Markus's sword in hand. "Where other men have proven dull pursuits, you at least were somewhat interesting to tempt. I will bestow upon you the gift of a quick death, though I doubt it will be painless."

As she withdrew her lips from his neck, her sultry breath chilled him to the bone. The fire guttered and died as she passed, leaving a pile of smoke and glowing embers in her wake. In the dying light Markus at last glimpsed his killer, and his heart sank and broke inside him at the sight Dalor's pale, lifeless face. He had suffered a harsher maiming than Glorin: his face was half burnt away, chewed and rotted by some foul magic or gnashing teeth, or a combination of both, so heinously marred that Markus could see bits of his skull. What remained of the other half had withered, seemingly aged a thousand years as his life was snatched away.

"Gods have mercy on your souls," Markus uttered finally before closing his eyes. It was not long after Dalor removed the sword from Markus's chest that the once loyal guard arose to take it back.

In a way he was still loyal, only now to a different sort of power.

*A/N*

Hello readers. I'm excited to announce a new story. A few weeks ago I was invited to collaborate with a fellow site member, 1, who had the idea of basically seeing what it'd be like to have Robert Baratheon from Game of Thrones exist in the world of the Elder Scrolls. This story will explore just that, though from a younger age and through different life experiences. It is absolutely NOT a part of my other ongoing series of fanfictions, or in any way related to them, but a separate telling of the dragonborn and the events of Skyrim on its own. I hope you enjoyed the prologue, and I hope you'll follow the story to come!