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Castle Volkihar, Sea of Ghosts
174 4E
A nameless, all consuming, insatiable hunger had been his companion since the time he had awoken. It overrode the gnawing fear of giant featherless wings carrying his battered and exhausted body from the walls of the Imperial City. The fear of the cramp, unlit dungeon that stank of countless previous occupants and the hair-raising screams of unknown victims just outside the grimy rusted iron door, scratches and crusted stains covering its surface.
It even overcame the only thing his mind had been focused on for so many months before. The war with the Thalmor and his beloved 8th legion was but an unseen island in the black roiling sea of his mind.
He pounded on the door in unashamed savagery, hisses and snarls more fit for a rabid animal pouring from his mouth as the smell of that which he sought past his door without reprieve. A pulsing, baleful wave of pain and need tore through his weak and thirsty body as it screamed for release from his new and hellish existence.
It was then on the brink of irredeemable madness as he curled in upon himself that the iron door swung open with a fierce resounding thud, causing another round of pain through his sensitive ears and a hulking silhouette with eyes the color hellfire stared down upon him.
Instantly he was upon his feet, pure fury and hunger boiling in his eyes and body. The dim candlelight gently emanating from the hall served to half blind him and he did his best to cover his eyes from the nuisance while simultaneously moving to ward off the creature seemingly threatening him.
The towering figure flung his arms forward, throwing a petite, feminine figure into the cell without so much as a word before slamming the door back in place. In the spilt second where the accursed light flooded his room, his eyes narrowed down upon the lithe thing.
Darkness once again overcame his new world and despite the utter lack of light, he could just make out the outline of the small woman as she tried to push her body up on weak and unsteady arms.
Even without his eyes however he could still feel every inch of her upon his senses. His nose was caressed by her delicately musky scent, screaming of wood elf, his mind not registering the fact he had no recollections of ever discerning the scent of bosmer.
The taste of her fear induced hormones ran across his tongue as surely as she looked into his direction, her lovely almond eyes dilating in fear at the unseen menace just a few feet from her.
His ears picked up her quickening, uneven breath as she readied to scream in terror and overcoming that was a rhythmic, pulsing rush that emanated from within. A nameless thing that called to him as surely as the moon called to the wolf.
All his senses focused upon its taste, its smell and its sound and with a wordless growl of pure uninhibited lust he threw his body at the suddenly screaming girl, the last noise she made before her throat was ripped from her neck.
The smell of mortal refuse clung heavily to the stale air of the thrall pens which, thanks to a vampire's superior senses, made it nearly unbearable for the majority of Volkihar's inhabitants to remain down there for any length of time.
It was one reason why Rargal both appreciated and loathed his duty as thrall master. The rest of the clan rarely paid attention to him and it was possibly the main reason he had lived as long as he had in service to the court of Lord Harkon.
For more seasons than he cared to remember, when the vanishing of the Ladies Valerica and Serana and the subsequent purges of Lord Harkon annihilated the ancients of their clan; the unseen Thrallmaster had continued his unending toil, seemingly both above and below the comings and goings of the great vampire bloodline of the north.
In fact would not be overly surprised if it was he that was the second behind Lord Harkon in the years he had walked upon Mundus.
Yet even with the knowledge that he surpassed even the prestigious elders within Lord Harkon's court had not proven to bring him any prestige or even curiosity from his kin. Not even fledglings, fresh from their pupation and lost in an unfamiliar world with him being almost always their first connection to that world, sought his council.
If he were one for introspection he imagined his lot within the clan would be much more unsatisfying.
A muffled noise that he imagined was a sob emanated from below him as he continued to bathe the mortal to be part of the Court's nightly feasts. Thankfully he had long since used the scroll made by the court's spellmasters to subdue a mortal body into a state of pacifism, as he did not have the knowledge of how to do so himself. Despite this however he had also long since realized it did nothing to dull their minds.
Still he was thankful that he only occasionally had to prepare mortals who had full control of their abilities. Preparing your meal when it was still very much alive and fighting was a task he did not particularly relish if only for the fact that it took him longer than he thought it reasonably should.
Still, he thanked small mercies that few mortals were a match in sheer physical prowess against the blessed of Molag Bal. Certainly none had ever past within his purview.
Another muffled groan had him considering giving the mortal to the court half bled before an impatient throat clearing caused his head to lift up from his task and into the burning eyes of Garan Marethi himself.
His eyes widened incrementally as the red-haired dark elf stood but a few feet from him, his hands folded neatly behind his back.
"Ah, Garan, an unexpected surprise, is there anything I can do for you?" Rargal spoke out after it was clear the dunmer wouldn't be the first.
The elf didn't so much as move a muscle beyond that which he used to speak with, a trait which had never failed to throw off the nordic vampire in their few and far in between dealings.
"Yes Rargal, a pleasure of course. I am sure you are maintaining the newest fledgling brought to you?" Rargal opened his mouth to respond before Garan continued on, "Lord Harkon wishes to be informed of his status."
Silence followed for half a second as the befuddled thrall master took in what was being said to him.
Quickly moving to stand up from the side of the wooden tub he spoke, "Of course Garan, I threw a bosmer in with him not long ago, I imagine he'll be finishing up with her soon enough."
Garan merely nodded in approval before he wrinkled his nose in distaste before looking down upon the paralyzed mortal,"It would appear another bath is in order Rargal." The dunmer's thin lips curled into a unamused smile before vanishing, leaving the Thrallmaster to his eternal duty.
Garan ascended the last flight of stairs that led across the unassuming walkway in between the south and west towers of Castle Volkihar. The tedium of the long and frequent trips between the primary tower used by the clan and the one claimed for Lord Harkon's personal use had long since ceased to register in the elder vampire's mind and had merely become part of the tasks of being the Lord of Vampire's personal steward and attendant.
Pushing open the door revealed the perpetual gray skies of the Sea of Ghosts and far of in the distance, beyond the frozen island and wide channel, the seaside cliffs of north western Skyrim where frigid waters lapped upon the sparsely vegetated shores. Some of the clan, Garan knew, did not care for the environment in which the clan had resided for ages. But the dark elf, born in the ash wastes of Morrowind, had never given attention to the trivialities one had no control over.
Perfectly composed, Marethi walked rigidly past the monstrous gargoyle guardians into the little traveled tower which his Master claimed personal dominion over. Descending the rooms and staircases bathed in darkness, the dunmer never stumbled or grew lost as his eyes, gifted with the benefits of the Nightkin, never strayed from the winding path down the tower.
Finally he reached the wide double doors of his destination and pushed them open to reveal the personal residence and study of Lord Harkon.
Mortals would be incapable of making out any great details of the room, with only a single hearth on the far side of the re-purposed throne room emanating any light, insufficient as it was. A single dais had been placed only a few feet from the hearth, which Garan knew Harkon frequented during his meditations.
A hinting hum from across the room informed of of his lord's presence and he began walking towards where the original throne room of Castle Volkihar had originally sat, if ancient schematics of the towering edifice were to be believed.
Garan could see only the shadowed silhouette of his sire and liege, with his heavy and encompassing cape masking any discernible features.
In front of the ancestor of all northern vampires, the entire wall was plastered with maps of varying size and content. Areas from all across Tamriel were represented, but most were of Skyrim and its holds. Various marks and scribbles littered the thick pieces of parchment, all faded from the passage of centuries.
As the dark elf stopped at the ancient nordic vampire's side, he saw his lord looking upon the maps, his face impassive while one of his clawed fingertips dug through the heavy oak table in front of him.
It was quiet for several minutes as Garan stood beside his master. He had learned over the centuries to interpret the state of mind his liege possessed at various times, and he knew at this moment he was best off holding his tongue until spoken to.
Finally the scratching stopped, and the still impassive face of Lord Harkon turned incrementally towards Garan, "What news of the fledgling?"
"His pupation goes smoothly, as far as the process could be considered as such," Garan spoke in crisp clear voice, aware his master would brook nothing less at current.
It was quiet for several moments before Harkon spoke again, "I wonder Garan...What do you think of these recent events? The balance of power in the mortal world has been shifting of late, and it has not been long that you have been removed from such affairs."
"Mortals are ephemeral, my lord," Garan responded, his face impassive but his mind trying to understand where Harkon was going with this. "They are fickle and unsure of themselves by nature."
Harkon merely hummed in response, his face still turned away from his servant. "What of the business with the young fledgling? What do you consider of my judgment in that regard?"
Garan's response was quick and sure, "It is my place to provide council if and when you seek it, my lord. I would not dare to be so presumptuous as to question my liege's judgments."
Lord Harkon stood still as Garan spoke before turning to look at the table. A torn cloth of wool dyed imperial red lay upon the oak, with droplets of a darker crimson staining its surface.
"If he survives the process, you will take him under your care, Garan. Treat him as you would your own progeny."
Garan, thoroughly confused now, nonetheless acquiesced. "I will do so, my Lord."
Harkon merely waved him off, now once more becoming absorbed in the trail of webs his long vanished wife had left for him, so long ago.
As Garan turned away the voice of Harkon's voice, dark and powerful, wafted through the still air, "Portents manifest and an end to this limbo nears an end, my love. We shall see who stands, at this, the last game of the ancients."
This is something of a prologue, or a sample, of an Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Dawnguard DLC fanfiction I'm writing. I have become distressed by the lack of fanfictions from a vampire perspective, and a surplus of Dawnguard perspectives. If people appreciate this, I will continue. For any interested in the rewrite of my Resistance: FoM/Mass Effect crossover, feel free to PM me, in all likelihood, it will be posted in the coming days.