Skyrim: Hidden to Ash
-Prologue-
13th of Frostfall, Second Bell.
Blue Palace, Solitude.
Knowing where to fight accounts for much, but nothing beats having a lot of friends, with a lot of blades.
Lightning flashed and rattled the frosted windows of the Pelagius Wing, in a quiet and untraveled section of the Blue Palace. A storm lashed the coast opposite of the Arch, bellowing from the Sea of Ghosts, yet for the most part the city of Solitude slept in peace. Throughout the last few months of Skyrim's days, many things gave the people reasonable disquiet; the Civil War, the Volkihar clan . . . the Dragons. Some did nothing, some did all they could do, and some gave a little more. Here, in the Pelagius Wing, a gathering took place among some of the most powerful.
Erandur, a Priest of Mara, sat at the left of the table, blue elvish features lit by the warm and dim glow of the few lanterns set about the room. He called the meeting, having many friends in Winterhold and knowing all that should be known this night. To the right sat Nazir, the Redguard assassin of the Dark Brotherhood. Rumor had it that his robes were stained crimson by the blood of his victims but, of course, the man could simply be fond of the color. At the head of the table was a woman named Sybille Stentor. An enigma, that one, who maintained her 'youthful secret' for many years. Here, in the dark, her faintly glowing sunburst eyes might betray her true heritage as a vampire. They gathered once every week now to discuss how Skyrim might benefit from their talents, yet tonight was a meeting set earlier due to the circumstances.
Lady Stentor was, in fact, the original benefactor of this group. She had lead similar groups throughout her life, under the fortunate patronage of Jarl Torygg and his predecessor. She called them 'the Fates', people of talent and wit that would turn the tide in any seemingly destined encounter.
One more joined them, an Imperial, leaning against a support beam as dispatched webbing drifted in the air around. With hood and gauntlets of the Dark Brotherhood, and white robes of a Volkihar vampire, this man watched as those at the table moved through their pleasantries and opening business.
This man was Caldan Zaneda; Ysmir, Dragon of the North; Dragonborn.
"Gentlemen," Stentor spoke with practiced elegance and calm. "I appreciate the haste of which this meeting was called. Fifteen hours have passed since the occupation of the College of Winterhold by one Saryn Umbraren, founder and leader of the Eventide sect. He and his allies have taken the College professors and students hostage. They hold everything past the bridge as we speak."
"What reason does a sect dedicated to Azura have to hold the College?" Nazir asked. Leaning back in his chair, the idea of a new hostile force in the north was not something he relished. "If not to actually learn anything, what's their purpose?"
Stentor folded her hands then, brow furrowed in worry. "The brigands make two demands: The release of their imprisoned comrades from the Chill, and the abdication of the new High Priestess Petreia."
Caldan spoke now. Everyone there, even Stentor, would listen. "If I may say so, their religious freedoms, within reason, are protected in their Hold. They would not act this way unless Petreia directly threatened them, and she has not made any decree. On what pretext may we intervene?"
Erandur, in an uncharacteristic burst of anger, hit his fist on the table for emphasis and turn to speak. "We need no pretext! Eventide is a pack of rogues, hiding behind a priest's frock. These are fanatical worshipers of the Daedra, and even though they preach the word of Azura, they stretch it to accommodate her wrath. We even believe them to be responsible for the attempt on Jarl Skald's life this First Seed past!"
"And we will not free their comrades?" inquired the Dragonborn.
"Certainly not! Do you know how many guardsmen gave their lives – All because of this tolerance of the Daedra. Too much freedom. Too many gods. Let those cultist cur-dogs run loose, and they will bite you. Sweet Mara! While our Holds cower..."
"Strike that outburst from the record," demanded Stentor.
Barely audible from behind in the shadows of the wing, a muted 'Yes m'lady' spoke. More voices then, muffled, more sinister, rose between flashes of lightning and peals of thunder. Silhouettes sharpened against the lit backdrop of blue glass. "Are these cults not the Vigilants concern? Why must we be involved?"
Stentor remained silent as more questioned. Caldan looked around; three, maybe five others were in the room, wanting to remain unseen. Brotherhood initiates? Stentor's clan members? Nazir and Erandur at least seemed ill at ease by their presence.
"Our agents have found that Eventide's coin comes from the College itself. Indeed, Winterhold may have been lost to the ice, were it not for the Archmage's leadership. Yet he wields much of his power from the shadows. Even after his hands-off approach to College affairs, his grip on the Hold is unrelenting. We have watched him long enough," they said threateningly. "Now it is time to act."
Nazir commented, raising a hand to silence those in the shadows. "Furthermore, we must discover why the High Priestess sent the Vigilants of Stendarr to deal with this incident without the Jarl's approval. Erandur, if you'll explain."
"Caldan, you must go to Winterhold immediately. We've readied a ship outside of the city to take you there as swiftly as possible. I've sent a member of the Thieves Guild ahead to scout the situation; she will fill you in when you arrive."
"She...?"
"Sapphire. I'm sure you two are already acquainted."
Caldan was used to dealing with the Guild, certainly. Erandur's association with them, on the other hand, well . . . That was new. This man was however one already full of secrets, nightmares, and ghosts. What ghosts will wait for me in Winterhold, he wondered.
The stars glittered. The sky was dead, not one snowflake on the wind on this usually blizzard-choked cliffside town. It was just cold and quiet. Sapphire hated it here. Winterhold, half-burnt and half-frozen, a hold in perpetual winter indeed! Or a place that is held by winter, y'know, hold . . . whatever. Best leave the more eloquent reasons to hate this place to the bards. She hated it so much that the five-hundred septim charge almost didn't seem worth it, but a bag of septims is a bag of septims! She wasn't one to complain about that sort of thing. Well. She could complain it wasn't a heavier bag.
She was careful not to be heard or seen at least, as her profession warranted. And who knew how many baubles and shiny gems lay waiting in that college on that pillar of rock? . . . Creepy, now that she thought about it, seeing nothing but this massive fortification on that lonely tower of stone. Like something out of a faerie tale. So distracted she was with this fascination that she half-drew her knife in frustration that she had missed the first couple of snow-crushed steps from someone behind.
She eased the fire in her eyes when she saw the familiar white-clad warrior approach from around the ruined husk of an ice-eaten cabin. He crouched behind, looking off the edge of the world towards the College.
"Caldan!" she stated in surprise. "So they sent you . . . Nice to see you. How was the trip?"
"How many are there?" he asked swiftly.
Sapphire was visibly miffed by his haste. She gave him something of a scowl as she moved up for a better look. "By my count, a dozen men. I've yet to see Saryn though, and there may be more inside the main hall."
"Hostages?"
"Including the teachers, students, and visitors from the Synod, twenty-four. Thankfully, the Archmage himself was away at the time."
"Aren was not taken captive?"
"No. Business in Windhelm."
"And how fare the Vigilants?" Caldan inquired, moving up and unsheathing his axe. It glinted in the moonlight with his eyes. Sapphire for a moment was given the impression that it was thirsty. She didn't like it, just as little as she liked that stupid fake-gold elvish metal.
She sighed and shrugged. "We will have to wait and see. With the hostages inside, direct action is dangerous. I think you should negotiate with Saryn while we collect information to aid – What's this?!" she hissed, as the distinct clamor of steel against steel rang across the ravine. Glass broke and fires erupted, a line of torches charging the bridge.
"It seems they've started their siege," the Dragonborn growled. "The Vigilants have made their move."
"But that . . . that would be in direct defiance to Petreia's orders, spit in the Jarl's eye!"
"Perhaps their hand was forced?" he asked lightly. A minor curiosity, and neither fact would weigh in as the fighting broke. He stood up and began his trek towards the College, softly breaking the flawless snow cover at his feet.
"Wait," Sapphire demanded. "Where are you going?"
"The Vigilants have given us the perfect distraction. I'm going in."
Sapphire frowned, drawing her blade as a firebolt streaked across the night sky. "No, we have to wait!"
Indirectly, all he said was "I can't" before the air as he began the long climb down the cliffs.
The troubles of the siege above echoed in the icy caverns, as there was one route that the Vigilants were unaware of, and one that the Dragonborn might use to hasten his entrance; the Midden. Ancient rooms and halls consumed by ice and rock bled from the caverns which were traversed, stones and floors that may have predated the first era of Tamriel. Aside the deeper reaches of the Midden, the underground passages were unpopulated, and a swift ascent carried Caldan to the trapdoor near the central courtyard of the College. Condensation and snow speckled his beard and hair, the cold relentless, but no such concern showed on his expressions as he scanned the area.
The banners of the college, a pentagram behind a lidded eye, fluttered in the night air. The Hall of Attainment burned, windows shattered and the orange of flames illuminating the courtyard below. The central statue of the first Archmage was undamaged, but the land around was littered with spell pockmarks and makeshift barricades. It appeared that there was a break in the fighting. Half a dozen men sat around, tending to wounds and honing blades. The bodies of a few Vigilants were tossed to the wall, one Argonian playing around with one of their amulets in his fingers.
If fighting could be avoided, it was. One quick breath and a potion later, and Caldan was as transparent as air, if only for a few seconds. Those seconds were enough to reach the door to the Hall of Countenance, and as silent as the night he entered the central tower of the campus. If he was lucky, the sudden rush of cold air would not reveal his presence.
He winced as he felt the true image of himself snap back into view, the potion expelled. One glance and his stark form would be seen. The torchlight was dim, the entrance hall closed off by a thick gate to the main chamber. He inched closer to the ajar doorway to the stairwell on his left, looking up and ensuring swift cover if it was needed. The hostages may be down here, kept in the Arcaneum, or on the uppermost level . . . They would undoubtedly be under guard.
Caldan's attention clicked immediately to voices echoing from the main hall. A group of them, perhaps.
The first clear voice, a sharp and higher-toned entity. A highborn accent. "...Well? Have you found it?" it asked.
"It's no use. There's nothing like that here – Anywhere."
"Keep looking, damn you!"
"I'm telling you, Saryn! The Vigilants are nearly upon us! We cannot hold back their combined offensives again. They hold the bridge, and our only escape is the Midden, if they've not found it already!" – There. Caldan's sharp eyes narrowed, knowing his chief quarry was here. Right here! And with the luck he's been having, maybe under light guard. Take off the head, the rest might follow. Best bet to force Eventide into surrendering, if the Vigilants would take them alive.
"Stop your whimpering! You'd come this far only to leave empty-handed? Perhaps it's down there awaiting our escape. You two, get down there, take a few more with you. Now, Search!" he demanded.
Footsteps then, hurried, approached. Caldan swiftly ducked behind the door to the stairwell and under the stone spiral as the brass gates to the hall swung open, a pair of cultists storming out to the courtyard. Well, he thought, there goes my own escape for now.
Inside the main hall, the two that were left continued their debate. One paced with flustered footfalls to the rear of it, a real oddity to behold. He was Dunmer, ashen-skinned with sand-white hair, sickly in appearance but carried within himself a wellspring of power. He wore nothing on his upper body, his back bare to show a black tattoo of the Twilight Star. His black-robed attire from the waist-down was unremarkable, save for intimidating shoulder-to-finger Dwemer gauntlets. They were sleek, contrary to most equipment of that race, and ended in dangerously sharp blades at his fingertips. "Curse the Archmage!" Saryn spat. "Where's he hidden it?"
"You sure the Archmage really has it? Does the damn thing even exist?" questioned his associate. He was large, a Nord, lightly armored but with a heavy Dwemer blade at his side. His bearded face scowled with worry.
Saryn stopped in his tracks immediately. He snapped about, and sprinted up to the Nord's face, a full head shorter but intimidating this man like a dragon. "You doubt me, Hadar?" he hissed. "You doubt my power?!"
Hadar's knees seemed to shake in Saryn's presence. He took a frightened step back. "F-forgive me! I did not intend . . . But, Saryn, any longer and there will be no escape for us!"
Saryn glared just a moment longer before turning about. "Fine, then! Bring the boy and come with me!"
Hadar bowed in compliance, hesitant at first but then sprinting as if his life depended on it, crashing out the gated hall doors and up the stairs to the Arcaneum. Caldan, still safely under the stairwell, whispered a single word and the life-forces of all those inside would be revealed to him. "Laas!" . . . and how fortunate, then, to see that only Saryn remained in the hall.
Saryn sighed, as words are false or full of art, he lamented. The main chamber of the college, almost perfectly circular and centered by a ghostly blue brazier, was now littered with crates and furniture to turn the lecture hall into Eventide's last stand if it was demanded of them. Saryn was thankful this was not the case, but retreat must be swift. He paced over to the iron sword he favored, atop one of these crates, and –
"Don't move, Saryn! I've a crossbow aimed at your heart," a new voice demanded. Saryn hadn't even heard this interloper's approach, his clawed hand just above the grip of his blade. "Now, turn around slowly."
The Eventide leader raised his hands as the muted footsteps of this man approached, and he turned to face him. He scrutinized his features; Imperial, but long-weathered to Skyrim it seemed. "...You're no Vigilant, are you?"
Caldan reached behind, his right arm outstretched with crossbow in hand to land a lethal shot should this cultist prove too dangerous. He pulled out a length of rope, and tossed it at Saryn's feet. "Bind your legs, now."
"Ah. A Fate . . . A royal guard-dog."
How did he know of us? Another minor curiosity. "Did you not hear me?" Caldan threatened with his tone. "Bind yourself, now!"
Caldan placed his freed hand on the crossbow to steady his shot. Saryn lowered his brow in thought. The two eyed each other down, an unseen whirlwind of anticipation between their future actions.
"This is an unfortunate turn of events," Saryn whispered. With calm and fluid gestures, he flew towards his iron sword. So swift were his movements that Caldan nearly could not catch it with a blink! The Dunmer charged down the hall towards his prey.
"HOLD IT!"
Caldan steadied his aim, and as Saryn was upon him, arm now raised with blackened blade to cleave him in two, he fired.
The reverb of the crossbow's twang cut through the air, and a solid steel bolt was thrust no more than a few feet straight into Saryn's chest. The cultist was thrown back, gaunt body and sword clattering against the stone floor, and then silence. Caldan took his breath, snapping his view behind before redrawing the bow. No sound of hurried footsteps, no sounds of shouting. The encounter seemed to go unnoticed outside or upstairs. Nocturnal must have been in a good mood tonight.
Caldan approached the body, cautious, ready to send another bolt through Saryn's skull. He crouched, and upon closer examination, Saryn appeared dead. He saw how deep the bolt had lodged itself in the man's unprotected chest, perhaps shattering a rib before fully piercing the heart. He brought his fingers up to the man's throat; no pulse, no breath, nothing.
And then the main hall's doors swung open. Hadar stormed into the room swiftly, in a hurry, not noticing at first the scene before him. Caldan looked his way with the body beneath him. "Saryn!" he shouted, with a young Dunmer boy under one arm. His free hand fumbled around the grip of his sword as Caldan rose with crossbow in hand.
A sharp, blunt pain crashed into the back of Caldan's skull, and without any control he fell straight to the floor. "I … I'm the one you want," were the words from a weak voice, suddenly above him. Caldan turned his head about, lifting an arm up to support himself, speckles of light before his eyes as he saw Saryn, standing now and looming over the Fate with sword in hand and bolt in chest. His breaths were labored as he glanced up to his associate. "Hadar, go quickly . . . Go to An-Domhan."
Hadar nodded solemnly, turning about with that young boy in his arms and heading out of the college.
"You . . . Stop!" Caldan shouted, head aching but cognizant enough to hear the high whistle of iron swinging through the air. He rolled out of the way as Saryn's blade cut into the stonework where his head had been just a moment ago. Crossbow out of his fingers, Caldan spun to his feet, with Saryn in pursuit. He jumped back as the cultist, swift as the wind, lunged forward and nearly cut deep into Caldan's torso. There was a pause in the attack, and the white-robed swordsman took enough steps back to draw out his golden-cream moonstone blade and assume a defensive posture. He glared now at this exceptional fighter before him, standing half-dead when the half that isn't shouldn't be there at all.
"You were certainly dead! What's going on?" Caldan demanded. Saryn stood still as stone, and offered him no answer. "You're no vampire . . . Leave the back-from-the-grave nonsense to the faerie-tales!"
Saryn twitched, and his sword dropped from his cold golden fingers. It rang out in the hollow hall, as he now reached for the wood-and-steel bolt lodged in his chest. Warm blood was blooming from the wound down his abdomen. Pain spread through his chest like a cancer with every struggling breath. He looked calm, but . . . he didn't manage real calm so much as pushing back the bare edge of panic. He envied those people who could simply push pain aside like it didn't matter in the least, like it were just some minor little annoyance. Trying to ignore this kind of pain was a miserable failure. Calm? Ha. He'd just been shot! His throat was raw with screams pushed below the surface; they still clawed madly for release.
His breathing quickened. The bolt moved in protest. There was the sound of tearing flesh, and blood erupted like a fountain as the bolt was wrenched from Saryn's chest and tossed away on the floor.
He gasped for air as he pressed a palm to the open wound, barring the desperate screams from erupting like the hole in his chest. He slumped forward and knelt on the ground. "You've … given me … quite … a scratch," he hissed, blooded red eyes staring at Caldan now. "Show … a little more respect … for faerie-tales, my dear Fate." He took one more breath after his threat, then his left palm began to glow a black-violet. A summons!
Before Caldan, from the depths of Oblivion in a surge of magicka, a tyrannical figure formed, roaring greedily with hunger and rage. A Daedroth, a monstrous bipedal beast, claws wicked and sharp and hooked jaw massive enough to eat a child whole, appeared on the stone floor. Before it was fully formed into this realm, the bone and muscle still conjuring onto its from, it took a swing at Caldan's chest. He raised his blade to parry the attack but it was outstretched too far, and a long talon smacked itself into the Dragonborn's side. He was flung from his solid footing and into a mount of crates, weak wood splintering under his weight, a surge of pain and shouts erupting from him.
Every thought of staying calm shattered.
"My … apologies," Saryn gestured. "I've no time … to toy with you."
Getting to his feet, the Daedroth lumbering in place between he and Saryn, Caldan summoned his reserves of strength and sent a glowing armor of magic around himself. Saryn, still clutching his wound, turned about and ran to the far side of the hall. The Daedroth roared and swung for another attack, threatening to eviscerate the Dragonborn, but he was prepared this time. Nimbly jumping to the side, Caldan swiped the blade of his axe and cut deep into the arm of the beast, blasting its long toothed face with a firebolt. Smoke and shock from the flames sent the creature stumbling back as Caldan maneuvered to try and run past.
Such a gesture was proven futile; Saryn, at full speed, ran and crashed through one of the tall windows of the chamber. Gusts of freezing air that had been pounding the walls now blasted unimpeded into the central hall. Caldan was stunned, thinking the cultist suicidal, or just mad, or … Well, still thinking him someone who could die.
The Daedroth lunged now on all fours towards the Dragonborn, maw gaping to rip the man in half, teeth gleaming to embed themselves in his flesh. Jumping in the air and twisting into the maneuver, Caldan swung his axe down in a powerful show of force into the Daedroth's thick skull. Halted and slammed into the ground, the beast growled in death throes as Caldan twisted and yanked the blade from the wound. In a muted flash of light, the monster vanished, sent back to the realm of Oblivion from which it had been summoned.
Bright light now accompanied the winds, dawn beaming from the east. Winded, but overall unharmed, the Dragonborn marched to the ledge of the audience hall. There was nothing down below save a few hundred feet of more nothing followed by the crashing ice and waves of the sea. Anyone normal would not have survived such a fall.
If there was anything normal about this night, anyways.
Soon, there would be the charge of the Vigilants, who would find most of the hostages unharmed. Not a single trace of Eventide was left behind; their retreat through the Midden left barely a track for them to follow. The Vigilants then would not stay for long, handling the affairs of the College to the Winterhold guard. Their hunt, and Caldan's questions, had just begun.