The Age Of Miasma
Of The Three Companions
1.A - Broken Faith, Part 1
"Faith, what is faith?
The question has been asked by geniuses,
By witches and by idiots. It is this,
Faith is a finger inside you, squirming
Uncomfortable, yet you accept it
To get release."
"Oh, I weep at your coming, old friend. You came as a servant of a dying Empire, not the proud mer who waged war against the Deep Elves. You have been reduced to a tool by that whore who calls Herself a Prince. Deceived by a dog who believes that Cruel Auri-El and His Kin speaks to him through a peasant's jewelry.
Oh, how far have you fallen.
Join me, old friend, and let us cleanse this World of its blemish. Join me, where Destiny itself laid our path before us in the form of Akulakhan..."
Red. Red. Red. Blood. Blood. Lava. Cavernous Hall. Cavernous Hell. The Golden Mask. Staring. Staring into the pits of the Abyss: the eyes of the Sharmat. Smilling. Gesturing. Come. Come, old friend. Thousands of unseen hands holding you in place, terro seizing your heart as the Golden Angel nears you. Screams. Screams in the pits of Red Mountain. No one can hear you scream.
Red. Red. Red. Blood. Blood.
You realize that the blood is yours. Your dead. You have failed in your destiny.
A gasp of dread escaped from the mouth of a dunmer as he bolted upright, his body quaking and showered by sweat. The elf took heaving breaths and looked up at the star-sprangled sky. The Lunar Twins, Masser and Secunda, gayly danced beneath Aetherius and the stars were by their side, the angelic sparks encouragingly lighting up the Twin's playground. The dunmer was still for a few minutes. Thoughts ran unbidden on his mind like an untamed wolf, and seconds passed him by as he tried to vainly calm his panicking mind. The struggle was fierce as sins and memories from the past teased his mind to the cliffs of madness. But his will was resolute and he temporarily conquered his thoughts.
He stood up and his legs wobbled from both fatigued and awakened trauma. He nearly fell, but his hand instictively reached for anything to hold on to. It was the tree he uncomfortably slept under. A Nibenean Fyr, it was strong, sturdy and can endure brutal punishment, ideal for making a batch of targes and bucklers but that was irrelevant.
The dunmer closed his eyes. A shaky sigh escaped his lips.
After all these years... I am not given the peace of which I sought. Gods knelt in humbled submission before me, and yet my nightmare clings still like an insolent leech.. My heart yearns for a quite life, but They are cruel. Infinitely cruel. Forward then, forever I must go forward.
Creaks and cracks were audibly heard by animals near when the Dunmer stood to his full height. He was daunting in stature, broad-shouldered and long in arms, and it made him an oddity in dunmeri kind. He barely reached the eyebrows of an adult Altmer, but this peculiar trait pointed him out in a crowd time and time again. But what would catch the average person's eye was the Ebony armor he was decked in.
His void-hued breastplate spoke of golden vines, silver leaves and roses intertwining each other on the rims and at the front was a artfully done illustration of a waning Masser snaked by a coilling serpent. When night ruled the sky, one could see that it glows with pale corpse light. The white gold robes he wore underneath gave him the appearance of a royal warden.
A pauldron, shaped as a large eight pointed star, was sitted on his right shoulder and by its light that reflected off of it gave the dunmer an illusion of broken wings needed to be mended. A purple cape that equalled royalty was draped across his left shoulder and on its sides were fur-linings. The symbol of Azura, a Rose inside a Star, was knitted in the middle with the rare silk fabricated only in the Ascadian Isles.
And at his side was Trueflame, glorious in countenance and terrible in its wrath. It ate the light that touched it and converted it into a mandarin aura that shrouded the jagged blade. The Star-Blessed Sword was twice forged, by the godsmiths of the dwemer and an Orc of legendary smithing prowess, and thrice slain Gods of power beyond mortal comprehension. This was the holy blade wielded by the First Godkiller and now, the Second bore it with the same eloquence and pride his predeccesor did. This was the hope of the East and none save by a few can rival its sharp edge and the fire that it blooms can scorch the very skies of Nirn itself.
His name was known by a scarce few and even then they feared this individual. For he was Dram Berdanas, and inside him resided the soul of the Godkiller, Nerevar Moon-and-Star.
Where the road went, the dunmer walked and ignored the downpour that fell from the sky, so immersed within his own world. He was in Cyrodiil, that much he knew, but his memory failed when he racked his brain for the name of the forest he was currently stroding in. And the identity of an Imperial he killed. In self defense, of course.
He had a few thoughts about the deceased offender, and an assassin was among the main ones. The Morag Tong, with their new leader, was pacified. For now. The Sixth House was in ruins and thus in no power to send killers after him. The pomp politicians, after several failed attempts, gave up on sending hits on him. That left him to pinpoint a splinter faction that tore itself away and migrated into the Empire, the very same who Dram himself encountered in the City of Light.
The Brotherhood were on his heels once again, trying to fulfill the contract they have failed. He couldn't blame them, he supposed with a casual shrug. With an estimated pay of eight hundred thousand septims, even the cripple would stand up just to kill him. The Morag Tong at least had the sense to negotiate with the target and have some honor. Dram wasn't sure about the latter for the rest, though. Morrowind was a cesspool of sycophants and the like. Even the House of Redoran fell into the miasmic political plague. It would be destroyed from the inside if this destructive path is still walked.
His mind, now tired at the subject of assassins and politics, drifted towards his destination.
Cloudruler Temple was called 'heavenly hell' by Caius before he left Dram in charge of the Blades in Morrowind and went back home. The dreamlike quality that his eyes took and the sheer admiration that invaded his voice immediately told Dram that it was a place worth looking for. After all, it was a place where his Brothers and Sisters resided and he was sure to be welcomed. That, and when Caius approves of something, its quality does not disappoint.
He learned that particular lesson when he, oblivious at the time, brought a packet of moon sugar for Caius to inspect and explain to him its history of being avoided by merchants. They ended up 'taking experiments' to see if it was 'poisoned'.
A melancholic sigh. He experienced immense happiness when he was in Morrowind, and although it came at a price, he was content with the time he had there. He had made true friends there and it pained him to leave them without a proper farewell. But the task he currently took required the most less of evidence of his leaving. The rumor he made of him leaving for Akavir paid him well. Almost all of Vvardenfell spread the rumor and believed it. His heart slightly ached at the thought of deceiving those who regaled him as their Saviour. But even heroes need some time for themselves, a voice said to him.
Even they are human.
He gave sharp series of barking laughter at the last thought. As he guffawed in sardony, he brought his gauntleted hand to him. Beneath the ebony plating, the chainmail, he could still see the calloused hands that bore the Wraithguard. The hands that ovethrew the Sharmat and the mad Almalexia. The fist that denied Hircine in his face. The fingers that wore the Ring of Nerevar and proved that Azura's prophecy was true.
He shook his head. He was not human nor an elf; he was far more and far less at the same time.
He continued his journey in three days and in three nights in the forests of north Cyrodiil, encountering the once majestic homeplaces of the Ayleids before they were brought to ruin by the Whitestrake in his fury. The white snaking towers, which was now flooded with rust-coverings and overgrown vines of various flowers, must have been great indeed in their glorious times, for even in skeletal ruins they still gave off the appearance of kingly villas.
But what caught his attention was the spire of the White Gold, reigning like a princely observer in the City of Sundered Kings. No words can be put into paper how frighteningly beautiful it was. Clouds gathered and danced at the upper levels and the Magnus was battling with the Tower for the control of the Western Sky. Dram noted how lucky the Imperials are to have such a wonder in their midst. Such a sight, however, harbored dark realities. No doubt thousands of slaves were put to the stone and blade for the Ayleid's black sorceries before the Rebellion usurped them in ages past. Sending a final apprasing look at the White Gold, he turned and resumed his journey into the Temple until he saw the snow capped watch towers and the steeple of the Church of Talos.
Bruma.
He finally arrived at last.
When Dram entered, the city was asleep. None walked in the morn light save for the city watch. The thatched roofs and wooden boards of Bruma's houses gave the distinct feeling of entering a city of hunters. They were designed with Nordic influence and Dram briefly remembered Raven Rock. A financial disaster, that one. He also noted of how several houses were seemingly on top of each other. He wondered at that until he noticed that they rested on overlapping slopes and thus gave the illusion of that particular marvel.
To his right was where the lowclass lived. Garbage and other undesirables were littered on the ground and he fought the urge to curl his lip. A lonely inn of moderate size was brooding directly beside him, and it reeked of ale and foodstuffs. Wagons and cartloads rested on the side of its wall and judging by their numbers, Dram supposed that this was where caravaners usually rested.
Either the price for a bed was cheap and easily affordable or something noteworthy was in this Inn for merchants to flock up in this particular establishment. He hoped for the latter and wished that it was something to do with food. The travel he endured left his bag of dried meats empty and he ate naught but berries he could find.
He entered.
The first thing that hit him was the nostalgic memory of the shady taverns in Balmora. At the corners of the inn, half-melted candles and sconces barely lit up what Dram supposed to be the lobby and dining area. The second one his body sensed was the radiance of roasted pork and stale mead. The innkeeper, a Nord in simple clothing, and a few other patrons looked at his general appearance oddly. His armor distinguished him, it seemed. Not that Dram cared. On his mind was the images of food heading towards his mouth.
He looked for a decent spot. Fortunately, there was a bench that was infront of the innkeeper's desk but it was unstable in Dram's eyes and he knew that if he sat outright it would crumle beneath the weight of ebony. So with a few difficulties and gaping stares, he took off his breastplate and let the robes underneath flow free.
He sat down and he sighed in relief as his fatigued muscles finally relaxed in a comfortable manner. For emphasis, he stretched his arms and craned his neck. Predictably, the sound of bones popping reached everyone in the room. He beckoned for the innkeeper and ordered large quantities of edibles, ranging from Nordic mutton to Imperial giouvetsis. They were divine in his hungered mouth. He paid for the meal and rented a room.
"Why would a rich folk like you," suddenly said the Nord while eyeing Dram's armor and Trueflame with wonder, "sleep in dusty old establishment like mine's?"
It was minutes before the Dunmer replied. And when he did, a shadow passed on his face and overwhelming sadness gleamed in his eyes before it disappeared like a star exploding.
"Memories of days long gone by."
==((-00-))==
Dark. Forebodding. Forgotten.
The scent of blood was ripe and raw. Whispers of those who fell from swords and hate whispered warnings of things best left in the shadows. The brave foolishly dared to heed of it not and went further on, naively thinking that steel and faith can protect them in this lightless place. It can see the aura of the Eight on them and It closed Its eyes in sudden fear, but at the same time cursing Itself for It's cowardice. The Light must be faced in order to be extinguished. Sudden doubt invades the wretched air of It's ruin and It can sense that they began to hesitate once they saw what became of the last expedition. Some of the younger ones vomited when they bore witness to the sight of a such a horrendous massacre.
It gained confidence and laughed without a sound. Fools. They never should've entered It's lair. Only death in this tomb awaits those who enter. But It supposed that It can have a little fun before Eating. It hadn't the thrill of confrontation for ... days? Months? Years? Eons? Time held no meaning to place such as this. It and the ruins were just a leftover of another world. But It didn't care. In It's mind only the taste of sanguinary delight remained.
They were in a narrow hallway now. The shadows gathered where their torches failed to reach. It clenched It's right fist. Immediately, a tendril of colorless light sprang like a hungered beast and made a feast at one of the torchbearers. The others cried out in alarm. Some of them, the ones in robes, kneeled and begun to pray. Their acidic words of torturous praise for the Eight's divine excellency stung It's mind. It growled and the sound of pained anger and contempt reverbrated throughout the forgotten stones and staccato. Their prayers got in the way of It's fun, and it will not continue for long. The fools must be taught that the Darkness reigns supreme here, not Them! It bared its fangs and clenched both of It's hands. Their screams were muffled by the shadows that consumed them. It could fully feel it from the remaining warriors now. Horror from the inxeperienced and grim determination from the veterans. The latter made It smile. Fangs gleamed like a knife in the shadows in black joy. It had not tasted blood from the veins of the brave since . . . Since the Star Knight came.
It shook It's head as memories flooded in. That fateful day when the Skies itself were stained with blood on iron. Great lords crumbling before the Star Knight, beneath his holy madness and unbreakable steel. It did not know how It survived the wrathful day, when the Archwitch himself was denied existence. Power, a voice inside It whispered. Power that none would defy. It descended from the pillar of Creation and stalked the survivors like a fallen angel, eager to draw blood inside these forgotten halls and defy Gods.
It will Eat today, oh yes.
The typical job of a squire, no matter how many glamorous embellishments (or lies) one stuck to it, was a mandatory quasi-enslavement. The public mass, when asked, thought squires as knights-in-training, the paragons to be and the products of legends. That was arguably the only perk the squires had. The rest was of misery and backbreaking labor. For starters, a squire must accompany their knight wherever honor or duty compells them to, which was alot, as most knights were out seeking churls and outlaws.
That alone exhausted many squires out of training. For those who endured must face another challenge; carry the burdenous plate armor. The figure tending to the equipment his master left sighed. At least the glade he was in provided some shelter from the harsh light of the summer Sun. It has been hours since the detachment of holy warriors left for the Ayleid ruins, reportedly housing abominations.
Henril Carofen d'Allemagne scoffed.
Such fanciful nonsense the villagers thought of. The 'abominations' they spoke might've been a cabal of vampires in hiding. Nothing his master could not handle. Or a group of veteran knights for that matter. The Breton sighed again and laid rest his fatigued body by sitting on a dead log.
As hours passed by without anyone emerging from that ruin, Henril became uneasy. His mind, not hardened by the sights of war, was circulating ideas borne of sudden fear. The chips of the larks and the songs of falling leaves left a sinister imprint on his heart.
A movement to his right. He jumped and released a sigh when a curious deer poked its head at him. Maybe he was just getting paranoid. Yes, he decided. His brethren of the Faith are safe. The Darkness wouldn't dare touch the knights.
But what if they encountered a vampire magus? Would they have trouble? The Faith shall protect them from fell fires that would certainly consume the lesser man and leave him screaming.. As he lay on the ground, his eyeballs scorched, his flesh eaten by the intense touch of.. He tried to dispel such thoughts with the words of his mentor.
But ... the darkness here, it is so ... strong, so vile. Something he has not felt since.. He closed his eyes and began to pray. The cold hand of fear clamped around his throat and he could not speak a word, only mumble incoherrent words of phantom hope. Still, he plodded on, enduring this dark tunnel entrenched upon his mind. To bring him spiritual emancipation, he knelt and clasped his hands together, Magnuslight streaming through the thicket of leaves and besetting him in His blind divinity as he mouthed the holy incantations.
A whisper.
"From the jeweled goblet of my Mother Mara, I shall drink hope and be drunk on Her love. On the table of my Father Akatosh, I shall feast and know not the hunger of the mortal life, forever more. By the sword given to me by Talos, I shall face Darkness and invoke the Light of the Nine.."
A whisper.
"If I fall steadily into the chasm of Darkness, the Light shall heal my broken soul and restore the Brightness of my faith. The Darkness shall quiver and the Nine shall reign supreme. The Misguided Princes of the Void shall tear away from their whispers of temptation and-"
A whisper.
Henril stood from his procrastination, his blood gone cold and his eyes staring straight ahead. The hair on his neck being caressed by something that does not breathe.
"There is no Nine or Eight. There is no Afterlife. No pearly gates to welcome such a pathetic soul. No divine light to cover you from the Darkness. Your faith has left you an addict for a fantasy, a lie. It is best to face reality. It is best to face your doom. For Celethelel shall sing the last minutes of your miserable life and my beautiful verse shall be the ringing bell of your undeath," It whispered and dragged a serpentine tongue across the squire's cheek, staining his skin with the blood of his mentor.
It laughed as Henril Carofen d'Allemagne screamed.
==((-00-))==
The laugh of death that destroys you in its chilling beauty is not the poetry of a sword, the music of killing magic nor the Dibellian whisper of the bow but rather the memory of fear, the wretched thought that freezes you cold and forbids you to breathe. The fear of death, instead of death itself, was more terrifying, no matter how peculiar that may seem to be. Those who speak the dialect of Talos, the god of war, did not quake when death approaches them. Rather, they laugh with it and celebrate their passing into the hands of their patron. A wise man once said that death smiles at all of us. All we can do is smile back.
The heat from summer Magnus made the sands of Arena hot like the flames of the Deadlands. The thousands cheering, their senseless happiness taking over their vocal cords, shook the Arena like Hell's choir singing the glory of Dagon. The four pillars surrounding the Blood Pit were like black, wrathful fingers rising from the underworld to taint the heavens itself. Through the rusted and bloodied portcullis, the Grand Champion of the Blue Team examined his contender. Though ending the life of a young man did not bother him, the feeling of disappointment was still there. This lad could've made something out of his life, not get tangled up in the sanguinary web that is the Arena. Once trapped, one cannot get out.
The Grand Champion, dubbed 'The Apex Hoplomachus', checked his opponent's gear with an eye that spoke of wary pragmatism. The 'modern' uniform used by most youths and new gladiators for armor, and a bronze shortsword for a weapon. The steel barbute could lessen the impact from the Champion's dory and would completely deny the stroke of his spatha, unless aimed for the dead center. The iron towershield also posed a problem. Towershield.
Hmmm.
The lad's equipment spoke of suspicious coincidence to a murmillo's, a hoplomachus' sworn enemy. The Champion smiled underneath his bronze helm. His opponent took some advice. From who, he did not know. But he had the finger of suspicion pointed at the Gray Prince. His friend and longtime rival.
"Ladies, and gentlemen! Today, the Apex Hoplomachus has been defiantly challenged by the Lion of Chorrol..." T
he Grand Champion ignored the announcer's further droning once he heard his opponent's ring name. It made him shake his head. He went to the Room of Demigods in his mind and consulted the dead Gaiden on how to deal with this kind of opponent. Of course, he knows how to deal with a cursed murmillo but it wouldn't hurt to be more careful.
The First Arena Blademaster advised him to poke the lad's defenses and tire out the shieldarm, from a distance of course. And when the he's fatigued out of his wits, close in for the kill. The Champion's trusted dory should do the job well.
And then the portcullis descended. Both warriors did not charge head on, but rather took off in a brisk, controlled walk. The Lion had his shield in front of him, sword ready to strike. No sound from the crowds, their breath held in their throat in anticipation. No sound, just the crunching of sands and the heavy beathing of both fighters and watchers.
The first strike was from the Lion, a bull charge with the tower shield leading the way. It was a mistake, or at least the Champion thought so. Before he could jump to the side, the contender stopped mere inches and sent a stab upwards to his chin. The Champion leaned his neck back just in time and sent his bronze helm crashing with speed at the steel barbute.
Dazed and staggered the Lion was, the Champion sending a buckler-jab to his opponent's neck. Blood spurting from the mouth, eyes rolling in wild frenzy, and air sliced as the Lion counter-attacked, vainly. Still no sound from the watchers. The Champion was now several feet away from the bloodied Lion, enough distance to poke his defences with his spear.
The clashing wail of bronze and iron as Gaiden Shinji's advice finally took effect. The impact held the Lion in place, his face beneath the helm a mask of hatred and pain. This continued for several minutes until the Lion thought of a trap.
He purposedly endured the blows, noting the seconds that layed between each stroke. When the time was right, he raised his shield and sent it down with savage force, the steel edge meeting with wood. Trapped under the ground and the shaft that held the spearhead now broken, the Hoplomachus dropped his useless spear and drew his spatha.
Interesting move, that one.
Now the crowd roared and such was its intensity, the Wawnet Inn trembled and several wines fell from shelves much to the dismay of its proprietor. Beneath the pressure of sonic praise from thousands, the Lion roared with ferocity that could only be compared to his namesake and charged, mouth frothing with rage and blood, aroused at the crowd's approval.
It was then that the real duel started. The Champion showed his skill with the spatha by deflecting blows, feinting to the sides and then launching blinding attacks that the Lion had trouble blocking.
Each blow was speedy, each blow was savage in its strength. The Lion, meanwhile, was getting frustrated. He expected the Champion would put up a fight, but not like this.
Then, the Champion struck with both body and weapon, avoiding swipes and slashes from the Lion until he silenced his sight with a dirty move.
The Lion cursing in pain as his eyes burned from the sand the Champion kicked, his yell of bewilderment and agony as his weapon-arm was suddenly lopped. The crying howl of cloth and chainmail as his torso was repeatedly stabbed with reckless abandon. Arteries of his neck severed with one, poetic slash of the spatha. The Lion, armless, lung destroyed and voice removed, collapsing backwards. His eyes never leaving the bronze helm.
Pain took away all other senses. Everything was bathed in crimson congregation. Then darkness, as the Lion's soul was embraced by the all encopassing Void.
Athanasius Garaviniel, the Apex Hoplomachus, raised his bloodstained spatha to the air and did not challenge a roar, did not strike a taunting pose.. Just raised his spatha, silent. Silence. Silence. When we enter Oblivion, we will not hear the divine choir of angels nor the unholy screams of demons, rather we would all stand in line as we listen to mesmerizing voice of Sithis, singing the Chaos inside all of us without a sound.
==((-00-))==
Leris Firvano lit up a roll of hackle-lo as he leaned against the dusty wall of the Ayleid ruin. Except for the rusty and rejuvanating scent of the herb, no smell remained in this skeletal hunk. Not even the Decay of the Undeath. That meant only one thing; other forces were at work. He did not find evidence of black magick fermating its foul stench, instead only the residual energy of the Wild Elves and the rotten graffitis of the bandits he dispatched remained.
This was suspicious magick he have never Sensed the likes of.
He took a deep drag and purged the smoke out through his nose. His lungs and throat were burning, a sensation that reminded him of his homeland during the Blight. Another drag as he closed his eyes.
Purged the smoke. Inhale, purge, inhale purge. Inhale and purge until nothing remained. The elf could feel the tension leaving his body, washed away by the comfortable numbness. The residual smoke clouded and attacked his crimson sight. He looked around, his body like a mannequin. Then he closed his eyes. This hallways and corridors once sung the footsteps of a royally cruel race of mer. This hallways and corridors sang of lifetimes spent here, sang of lifetimes ended during the Rebellion. If you close your eyes and strain your ears, like what the dunmer is doing now, you could hear the ghostly echoes from the past.
Ghostly echoes.
Footsteps never reaching their destination. Conversations never finished. Messages never delivered. Tasks never completed. True emotions never told because of steel and hate. Ghostly echoes. Ghostly echoes pleading for one, more chance in life.
Would you feel fear? Or would you feel pity? Pity for these spirits still clinging to their past, unable to let go and pass through the doors of the beautiful sleep? Or fear for your instinctual reaction of the unnatural?
Leris Firvano felt none, sadly. He've a mission that bears of great importance to the House of Telvanni and mercy for the deceased shall not stand in the way. He took his back from the wall's embrace and flexed his muscles, elvish ears hearing bones pop and veins actively flowing. That was more like it. It helps to reminded that your body was fully under your control, ready to obey. This was one of the things that would never betray you in this world, Leris thought darkly.
He drew his dwarven war-axe from his leather belt and formed a ball of light in his left hand. The green sphere illuminated everything in a ten-feet radius, and it helped Leris' already keen eyesight.
But.
Each step he took, the aura of the supernatural grew thicker, until Leris found himself wandering in a fog that suddenly appeared. The fog was cold and choking, as if a thick silk blanket wrapped itself at the elf's mouth and nose. Sometimes, it took shapes that Leris ignored. He ignored a charging Ayleid warrior. Ignored a woman, mouth open in a soundless scream, her clothes in tatters. Ignored a long dead Imperial slave raising his wooden club over an unseen opponent.
Ignored the smilling woman in black looking at him with eyes spilling red praise.
He stopped and turned his head. The woman was still there, smilling a butcher's smile. Making sure he was seeing right, he rubbed his eyes and peered. She was still there. Hearing his breath quicken, Leris muttered the Word of the Tribunal and pointed at the woman. Nothing happened. She was still there, fog shrouding her like the star-sprangled blanket of the sleeping universe. Closing his eyes in concentration, he intoned the Word again, pointed at the direction of this enigma and opened his eye-
The woman mere inches from his face, smilling. Leris letting out a yelp. The ball of Illusion magick lightening the woman's appearance. Unbelievably thin and black, braided hair matted to her forehead. The eyes spoke of a fire, yet not the flames of life, but of envy and sorrow. In a Darkened eye, she was beautiful. Stunningly so. Those who believe in the Light of the Nine found her revolting. Outrageously so.
Leris found her neither. Just uncomfortable to look at.
"Return to the beautiful embrace, spirit," he whispered to the woman. "This plane is no longer your home. Go back and bother me not, death awaits your delayed soul."
A silence that passed, broken by the grandiloquent voice of the woman. It had the tone only a bard could possess and it seized Leris' heart in a tight grip.
"Neither living nor death, nor the in-between can separate me from this place. I have failed my dark mistress and in eternity's hold I must remain. Those who seek passage to Garlas Alanae must first endure the Guardians of the Song, and stand triumphant." And then the black-clothed woman disappeared along with the fog.
The retreat of the fog made Leris realize that the floor he was standing on was a mass graveyard. Literally. Bones, rusted weapons, dried blood. And they were beginning to stir, broken bones being knitted, arms twitching until an army of skeletons surrounded the dunmer, staring at him without eyes.
Leris stood there, numbly awed, until action spurned him over and the skeletons swarmed onto him like a pack of starved mountain lions. His screams dancing with the melody of bones being smashed, the beautiful whisper of Telvanni magick echoing in the stillness that is Margil Sumirel; a desolate ruin, home to the last surviving Ayleid.
Time. The concept of Time was lost on this place. It held no meaning. It held no importance. This was a place of the Old World, at a time where the Princes ruled and the Nine considered a pagan pantheon worshipped by the Northern tribals. The skeleton of Margil Sumirel, even at its decayed state, gave the aura of a house filled with evil energy.
Deep beneath the forgotten hallways and corridor was Henril. He hang from his hands on a mouldy pillar. Everything around him was darkness and the faint echo of drip drip drip somehere far beyond. His face is battered and bruised, his soul's innocence taken away in vile ways. The vampire Ayleid, a thing of blinding skin and outrageous thinness, stuck and crawled the pillar like a spider, scarlet eyes teasing and glaring the Breton's green. She wore none but tattered rags, a mockery of her former royalty, and in those ribs Henril could not find a beating organ.
She was heartless. She was empty. She was cruel.
The first torture the man endured was to satisfy the ancient vampire's lust; half of his blood was drank dry. Then came the beatings, savage beatings. Once, the ruined elf took a stone from a pile rubble and smashed it repeatedly on Henril's face.
Unconsiousness tried to rescue him, if only for a moment, but the Ayleid's hunger was not to be denied.
She or It kept Henril aware by either biting any part of his body or wailing. The latter was a sound that came from the nether itself. The metallic scream held an unnatural echo, and Henril could swear that several others joined it. Did that mean other Ayleids dwelt in this unholy place? Or was it just his ruined mind finally giving up the ghost?
Undoubtedly, the worse of it all was the realization that there would never be any rescue, any contact to the outside world. No Light. No warmth. Not even the whisper of the holy Nine. Just this coldness, this constant pain, this Void. Forever, if what the elf said about keeping him here for pleasure was true.
That thought made his defeat all the more crushing.
And then the screams interrupted his chain of thoughts, gripping his mind like a leash, and his ears flickered as it focused. Screams, the unmistakable sound of fire roaring its approval, the strange sound of something being smashed... Could it be? Could it be? Was it another group of knights sent by the Holy Cleric? In his eyes shined a bright flame, increasing intensity as Henril's mind registered one thing he've given up on;
Hope.