Author's Opening Notes: Skyrim is, of course, property of Bethesda. I'd also like to cite the Unofficial Eder Scrolls Page (UESP) and the Prima Guide as sources I tend to rely on. I don't know how often I'll update this piece, but I hope to do so with some degree or regularity. I do not have a beta for this piece at this time, so I apologize for any typos I miss. That said, let the adventure begin. ^_^

-B-

"The sun rises, forcing our foes into darkness.

And we stand down to rest.

Watch over us, so our service may continue,

That the dead may walk no more."

Morning Devotional (Arkay's Order of Resters)

Chapter One

The city of Markarth is not a cheerful place. In fact, it's a city brimming with tensions. Local families feud with one another and jockey for precedence. The local population and the Reach's 'Forsworn' glower at one another and pick off the other party's people as often as possible. The Thalmor entrench themselves in the Underkeep—the Jarl's 'residence,' though the residence is just a tiny part of the full, sprawling Underkeep.

I somehow doubt the Thalmor picked Markarth as an outpost solely for their avowed reason: to watch the (supposed-to-be) abandoned Temple of Talos for any 'lawbreakers.' They don't dare do anything to the building, no bars, no locks, no guards, nothing. All they do is watch to make sure it stays empty.

Of course, desecrating the place would cause an uprising, and Markarth is, due to these tensions, the place would go up like a dry pine hit with an uncontrolled fireball. Perhaps that is the reason for their outpost here: damage control. The last thing they need is for the Stormcloak Rebellion to pick up followers on this side of the province.

If you go to Markarth, you walk lightly and try not to annoy anyone (though I doubt that's possible). If you get into one fight, you'll probably have two or three more on your hands that, really, have nothing to do with you at all.

It's complex, hence why Markarth rarely sees visitors who don't have very specific (often lucrative) business. It's not worth the risk. (And coin can buy your way out of trouble faster than anything I've seen.)

The City of Stone lives up to its name. It's almost always cold here—cold and damp—partly because of its altitude, but mostly because of the cascading flows of water from further west. When the waters melt or freeze, it wreaks havoc with Markarth's climate.

But 'damp' is fairly a persistent condition.

The city itself is built into a canyon, with many silver veins beneath it. The main avenue—if I can call such a twisty walk an avenue—leads up to the Underkeep, which, itself, surrounds Dwemer ruins and houses more than just the Jarl's equivalent to a longhouse. The main avenue follows and crisscrosses the major flow of water in a way that would be aesthetically pleasing if it weren't for the aforementioned detractions.

Many people find the ruins of Markarth fascinating, perhaps because they're all shut up. I'm not a scholar of Dwemer lore, nor am I an archaeologist or a mercenary to be contracted for body-guarding scholars who want to go into the ruins. So don't ask me questions: what I've said is about as much as I know.

It's not a place I'd like to live. I like the green softness of Falkreath and the Order's headquarters there (though Headquarters is in a rockier spot overlooking Falkreath). Some people claim Skyrim is a cold, empty place, full of stones and with too little sunshine. Clearly those people stick to the main roads and the major cities. There are lush places and beautiful vistas if one walks long enough or knows where to look. Falkreath is not a glamorous place, a minor hold among the Nine Holds, so it gets bypassed by travelers; the Jarl is also far from impressive in his person and in his policies.

The Jarl of Falkreath is Jarl only by default.

I adjusted my furry wrap with my free hand, the other remained wrapped easily around my staff, a work of ebony with a silver veneer, imbued with spells to make the weapon potent against the undead.

Or those who would raise the departed from the long sleep.

Not that the staff itself is an identifying mark; my Order doesn't make itself obvious. How else could we make out investigations or get in close to a target without attracting a lot of notice? Not that I'm a Thalmor, or a necromancer, or a Daedra-worshipper, or anything like that.

I belong to the Order of Arkay, not as a priestess, but as one of Arkay's Resters—the corresponding organization to Stendarr's Vigilants. The Vigilants hunt down and destroy Daedra, harass Daedra-worshippers, and generally try to keep a second Oblivion Crisis from occurring.

They seem to have had luck with that last one.

The Resters, on the other hand, deal with the undead, necromancers, and miscellaneous other things. We have a hitch in our directives that the Vigilants don't: necromancy isn't technically forbidden in Skyrim. It should be; a more unholy, profane use of magicka I've never come across. (I don't believe much in the School of Illusion, either, but that's neither here nor there, and more often innocent than necromancy.)

So, on the matter of necromancers, we find them, we watch them, and if we think they're a threat…we act accordingly. Another reason for maintaining some degree of anonymity—some people might call it 'murder' if 'nothing bad has happened yet.' Of course, those people are generally the ones who scream loudest when something does happen and no one did anything to prevent it.

It's a thankless job, most of the time. Then again, one never joins one of the Divines' orders to be thanked or appreciated. Although, from what I understand, Dibella's paladins—her Order of the Lily—are always welcome and usually well-received. Being good-looking helps, I think, since I've never seen an ugly person among them. Nor a plain one, for that matter.

But back to my musty, dusty vocation—though perhaps I shouldn't call it that, since the Resters don't take the same vows that priests do. We don't observe the same fasting regimens, though we are bound not to get soaked to the gills (that is, to drink to excess). We are recommended to follow a loose regimen or prayers and devotions—a little thing when we wake up and again before when we go to sleep. For those of us with magical ability, the spells to trap souls (or otherwise disrupt the cycle of death and life) are strictly forbidden. Though, and the contradiction makes me frown, the use of soul gems is not. Apparently, though, the Order has people working on ways to 'empower' weapons without using soul gems.

Those with the Gift—that is to say 'magicka' and who can conjure weapons for themselves—don't have to enter this debate about ethicality and practicality. I certainly stay away from it.

As far as the injunction against life-and-death-interfering spells…there was a time in the Order's history where necromancy was studied 'to understand how to fight it.' Over time, there was a high enough corruption rate that the Order in Valenwood had to be purged entirely. The idea is admirable, but clearly—as often happens with those who hold the power of life and death over another (or those who can 'do things' with souls)—bad things happen.

We who claim to serve Arkay need to watch our step in this regard. So we do. Or try to.

I'm here in Markarth because a Brother of Arkay is having…difficulties. There's something…wrong…in the Halls of the Dead and the mercenary he sent innever came out again. So he wrote to his superiors—with all those awkward punctuations and weak words—who delegated to us, the Resters, to do something about it.

You can't have horrible things happening in the various Halls of the Dead. It's…sacrilege and even necromancers tend to leave them alone.

Not that Brother Verulus knows me as a Rester. Yet. Again, it helps when no one really knows who you are: that way, if the corruption runs deeper than expected, it doesn't know how deep it needs to dig its hole when it goes to ground.

Like that horrible bit last year: one of our people was passing through Morthal (another minor Hold) and heard about a case of arson. A few things sounded…odd…so he investigated. Turns out it led to a clutch of vampires with a particularly nasty, vicious one at the top of the dung heap.

I was in on that particular venture. As much as I'd like to dedicate myself to wiping out vampires…I feel too much for the thralls that will throw themselves at an attacker, heedless of their own safety, in order to protect their evil masters.

And it was all too clear the vampires cared nothing for their thralls, except to the way those thralls fulfilled their functions.

Jack, the Rester investigating, dragged out his investigation, gave hints of his having formed false impressions, and kept the incognito vampire interested enough in his investigation (but complacent enough not to scare her into alerting her cohorts) until we were on hand to pick up pursuit.

Jack suddenly confronted the vampire and let her run. The little twit ran right, straight to her fellows to tell them they'd been found. They wouldn't have been found (so quickly) if she'd had some sense. Fortunately, good looks and good sense don't always go together, and that was true in her case.

I'd rather stick with necromancers than vampires. But I won't hesitate to fight and kill either if need be.

Brother Verulus, a tired, haggard-looking brother in a robe of rough-woven potato brown, took a deep breath and let it out. The fellow with whom he'd argued had a jaw that hinted at a vociferous interlocutor—not to mention a stubborn one. The way he shoved past me, though, speaks of poor breeding and along argument that had not gone in his favor.

"I'm sorry," Brother Verulus began, trying not to sound short with me and failing, "but the Halls of the Dead are closed at this time."

"That's the rumor," I responded evenly.

"I can't talk about it," Brother Verulus returned flatly, "rest assured that the Jarl hears everyone's concerns. You'll be able to visit your dead again, soon."

"I'd hope so—the body needs to be taken to its proper resting place—in Riften. I'm here to look into a missing comrade. Rumor says he bought it here in the Halls." 'Bought it.' Not the nicest way to say 'died,' but definitely an effective one.

"Oh…" Brother Verulus' eyes roved from my dark, practical attire to the heavy staff in my hand, and the suggestion of a sword at my hip. A Rester doesn't go out into the world lightly armed. You never know what's out there and while a staff is good for mortal creatures and skeletons, it's not a wonderful thing to bring to bear on a draugr or ghosts, whether it's been silvered-over or not. "Oh, I see. That was…very regrettable…"

It's true that the mercenary was from Riften. Now, I might be out of place in thinking it—I'd certainly be out of place to say it out loud—but everyone knows that the 'mercenaries' in Riften aren't really mercenaries at all.

'Grave robbers' is a little more accurate. A thief rarely encounters resistance from the dead if he roams the Halls of the Dead.

Until now, obviously. And I do intend to have the body returned. No sense clogging up the Halls of the Dead here with the body of a potential grave robber. Yes, I intend to search the body and no, I don't intend to keep anything that might have…gotten lost in this mercenary's pockets.

I don't consider myself cynical; I consider myself practical.

"What can you tell me?" I asked, frowning at the heavy doors that now sealed things in as well as out.

Brother Verulus took me by the arm, motioning me to keep up. He said nothing until we reached the doors to the Halls, at which point he stopped and lowered his voice. "We discovered that some of the dead have been desecrated. Flesh has been chewed off, bones have been cracked and the marrow sucked out."

"And it isn't an infestation of some kind?" The idea of something eating the dead is, understandably, disgusting. That it should happen in the Halls of the Dead, where care is taken that vermin don't molest the bodies…I highly doubt I'm looking for skeevers.

"Of some kind," Brother Verulus agreed darkly, "but nothing natural, I'd stake my life on it."

It'd be a safe bet, I think, but I suppressed my instinct to jump to a conclusion. Jumped-to conclusions are as much an enemy as any unnatural thing. "And whatever it was, that was what killed my friend?"

"I don't know," Brother Verulus shifted uncomfortable, cast about. "I moved through the halls for days before I sealed it, finding nothing but the damages. I searched, combed over every inch of the Halls—whatever it was knew when I was there. It had to. I set traps for mice and skeever, found them sprung but without catching anything, placed runes only to find them undisturbed, what little magicka I possess I bent upon searching for any living creature that might be responsible—and turned up nothing."

"So now you fear the dead?" I frowned. What a pretty puzzle.

"I don't know what I fear—I've heard of flesh-eating dead things before, but only as fireside tales meant to scare little children or entertain the older ones." The brother bit his lower lip, his brows furrowing.

Because, of course, all children reach an age when gore and grisly details are very interesting. I was at that age when I realized that staying with the priesthood of Julianos—the only place, anymore, that a child can be formally educated in controlling his or her magicka—meant being a scholar, possibly even bound for the College in Winterhold.

Flesh-eating dead are rare—generally the mistakes of inexperienced necromancers, or necromancers who lost control of whatever they were doing, sometimes when a necromancer's newly raised dead died a particularly ugly death independent of the caster's whims. I've heard of them occurring in nature—though no one is sure why—but neither I nor anyone I know has ever actually seen one of those.

"Grisly bit of work," I remarked nonchalantly, careful not to reveal my deep interest in the matter. His report is revealing: we're dealing with something intelligent, which narrows the field of dead things it could be.

It also hints that the thing in question might not be dead. Maybe not a necromancer, though, if the bodies are only being chewed upon. That opens up all sorts of unpleasant venues.

"Indeed. If you could get to the bottom of this, the Priesthood of Arkay would gladly reward you." He needn't worry on that score. "Here, this is my key. Please, be very careful." He took the key off the cord that let it hang about his neck and handed it to me, chewing his lip as I took the key, inserted it into the door, and entered the Halls.

"Watch these for me, would you please?" I shrugged off my heavy wrap and my heavy gloves, producing a thinner pair of soft leather ones to protect my hands from any undead-dust (or slime, or 'squishings,' to quote my friend, Shayla).

Brother Verulus took the discarded garments, assured me he would look after them, then watched me enter.

The door thudded shut behind me and, in addition to locking it again—the key worked whether used from the inside or the outside—I sealed it with a spell of my own. Not 'of my own invention' but 'a spell I cast myself.'

This one is rather unique to the Resters and takes a few moments to set up. The first part is purely magical and locks the door itself, binding the portal closed, sealing the gaps around the door and hinges—it's very standard, any mage of decent skill could do it. Many could do it better than I. The second part, which begins the uniqueness, allows the door—for want of a better way to describe it—to detect whether the hands touching the door are living or dead. If dead, and on the side of the door where the spell was cast, the spell activates and works like a fireball rune, immolating the dead thing where it shuffles. If touched by the living, on either side of the spelled door, the door simply holds.

Magicka dealing with securing a place can be complicated to explain to a layman, but follows a certain kind of logic if one performs it often enough.

My fingers protested being jabbed into the gaps between door and frame, then itched with a burning sensation as I set the immolation aspect into place. I didn't take my gloves off, so scratching the irritation did me little good. No one's figured out how to 'fix' that little side effect. All magicka has…quirks…just as all casters leave a hallmark of themselves on those spells they cast.

Matteo swears my hallmark is 'the scent of daft,' but I would also swear his is 'the savor of mediocrity.'

It's all in good fun.

I finished the casting—or, rather, the process—by producing a piece of pale grey chalk and sketching on the floor the mages' shorthand for 'explosive rune' to let any unwary person know the door is warded. I suppose it doesn't do much good if the individual isn't aware of what the mark means. In that case, the symbol works as a bluff, likely to send the intruder back into the corridors to search for another exit.

That's the theory, anyway. I've never bottled up a living person like this. I'm not sure how much intelligence the dead retain—I've never found any proof that they recognize the shorthand for what it is. That knowledge (if they ever had it), like so much else is gone.

I waved a hand before my eyes, felt the eyeballs turn cold in their sockets as pink washed across my vision, like a ray of light bending across the curve in a shiny pitcher, leaving faint tinges of color tugging at the edges of my vision. I should see anything living before it gets within ten feet of me—five if there's a wall between us. I've always had trouble detecting lifelights through walls—my instructor, Brother Hale, said it was all in my head.

That may be, but as beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so are lifelights, and I have problems with walls and big noses.

The Halls of the Dead always smell of decay, but the smell is muted, mostly, by the spells laid upon this hallowed ground—that's why corpses in the Halls always look desiccated and dusty, instead of bloated, discolored, and a grievance to the eyes of the dead one's family when they come to visit. The preservation spells also make the housing of the dead more sanitary.

I jumped when a voice spoke, distinct but quiet, muffled by distance but echoing because of the stonework of the Halls. "Not many would walk blindly into a crypt. Most would smell of steel and blood…but very few would not reek of fear."

I swallowed, clenched my left hand, let my right curl tighter around my staff. The dead—with the exception of vampires and ghosts—don't hold conversations. Draugr might Shout, if they're old and could manage it in life, but that doesn't count.

So, a living agent, then, as I began to suspect.

I searched the catacombs meticulously, eyes open for signs of the mercenary who'd come before me.

I'd gone down several rows when the mysterious voice—coming from my left—sounded again. "I feel the hunger inside of you. Gnawing at you."

Huh. Is that so?

"You see the dead and your mouth grows wet."

Cannibal. Alone, though? Or does she have a cabal here, stalking me? Now that I know this has nothing to do with the undead I can pare down my concerns and add a few others.

"Your stomach…growls."

That's disgusting. The idea of eating the dead is detestable—short of monstrous extremes.

I continued, moving a bit faster now. She seems to have latched onto the idea that I'm like her—I don't know why, but who knows how madmen (or madwomen, as the case is here) think? I do know, however, that my best course of action is to play along, find out who she is, whether she's alone, whether there's a deeper root to this.

"It's all right," the voice soothed, "I will not shun you for what you are. Stay. Stay, and I will tell you everything you have forgotten."

"Forgotten?" I must seem engaged, curious, half-afraid of what I might find out.

"Understandably, too. No one else would understand."

I caught it, the faint flicker of lifelight off to my right. I picked my pace, realized she knew I was following. I sped up, so did she until we were running through the twisting catacombs, deeper, deeper, until we reached one of the older wings, to judge by the dust.

Here was the mercenary, his body stinking and nearly devoured, clothes torn away, trinkets cast aside, filleted and trimmed like the first calf of the butchering season—and savored about as much.