author's notes:

Hi folks! I'll write another Skyrim fan story, even if no cock might ever crow after it. Well [shrug] lack of reviews speaks a language of its own. This one will be a lot more gruesome than my previous stories. I'm in the right mood for a major round of Thalmor-whumping. You remember that quest in Whiterun, "The missing", where Fralia Grey-Mane worries about her son Thorald? Said son is being held captive at Northwatch Keep. Buuut what if Northwatch Keep was already ransacked when the Dragonborn arrived there? Let's say by your friendly neighbourhood clan of highborn vampires? Castle Volkihar is just a stone's throw away. [evil chuckle] Aaah the possibilities for dramatics and heartbreak! Of course, this story will contain hefty spoilers. And I acknowledge that TES V: Skyrim is intellectual property of Bethesda Software. No Zeschi-profit is intended with this story. I'm just messing around with some of the NPCs and my Dragonborn (?) / Companion (?), who is a pretty argonian maiden by the name of Miss Scale. But she will have a late introduction.

Yeah, yeah… Let's get this over with. Please read and review, and enjoy – if possible.


The horror of Northwatch Keep

It was a misty, spooky, chilly no-good night on the Ghost Coast. Northwatch Keep stood near the beach at the tail-end of Skyrim's coastline. A few more miles to the west the border to High Rock was situated. And from Northwatch Keep to the border, it was just, muzzles, mudcrabs a-plenty, shipwrecks and the occasional fisherman's camp: a really lonely stretch of sandy nothing. A small island in the Sea of Ghosts was almost lost to living memory. But that lack in lore and history would cost the Thalmor garrison at Northwatch Keep dearly. On the island sat an ancient castle guarded by gargoyles. Well, gargoyles aren't exactly pretty and they only look like statues. Those gargoyles were guards, huge winged brutes, crowned with horns, nasty claws and a screeching, toothy maw. They only screeched and moved when agitated. Most of their time, they sat still and played "butt-ugly piece of art". But who on Nirn would own such a squad of guards? Not to mention the dark, stocky eyesore of a castle. And worst of all: this castle wasn't forsaken!

x x x

Fervenor Acurineth was not having a good time. He was on guard duty outside of the keep. Those prisoners who were still in high spirits had taken to calling him "Ferby". Admittedly there were few such cheeky natures left in the deep dungeons and jails of Northwatch Keep. Most humans and the odd argonian or khajit had their spirits beaten and brainwashed out of them. Or branded, or flayed… The Thalmor methods of "persuasion" and re-education were many. But tonight, the dreadful moniker wasn't Fervenor's biggest problem. "This weather gives me the creeps. The fog's as thick as gruel but definitely icy." Fervenor thought to himself. "And by Auri-el! What's that smell?" He walked a few steps along the walls away from the gate. "Hey Ancluas!" he called out into the shrouded air beyond his torchlight. "Is that you on corpse-removal-duty again? Ancluas? Come on, give me a reply."

But it's kind of hard to answer a call when you are being sucked dry. That's what was happening to poor guardsman Ancluas Sirmarion. He had been pacing to "his" end of the wooden palisade when suddenly, an Altmer civilian stepped out of the fog. It was a man wearing elegant, yet dull-coloured clothes. He had his head downcast, so Ancluas couldn't recognize his face.

"Hey you!" Ancluas called out. "Who are you? A wannabe Thalmor agent? This is no recruiting office. You have to go to our headquarters in Solitude for enlisting."

"Tut, tut, tut manners my dear boy!" replied the other high elf. "My name is Vingalmo. My full name doesn't matter anymore, because I outlived my family by several centuries. Why, my one-thousandth birthday should be next week! Yes I admit it: ridiculous age." This said, Vingalmo looked up and Ancluas stiffened. The face was handsome enough but that colour! Rotten butter was the best way to describe it. Yuck! And the eyes were of the piercing yellow kind. "VAMPIRE!" the inner voice of poor Ancluas Sirmarion screamed. But Ancluas couldn't voice that shout any longer. Vingalmo had already worked a soothing spell on him. Like lightning, he was upon the Thalmor guard and dug his fangs into Ancluas' neck. *slurp, slurp, slurp* Ancluas' eyesight went black and he knew no more.

Fervenor was really worried now. He had heard muffled talk through the fog, Ancluas and another Altmer voice. He got a bad feeling and started to jog. Seeing a very bloodless Ancluas, he slid to a halt. Ancluas' still form was sprawled on the ground, a stupid, sickly grin still etched on his face. Fervenor knelt down but there was nothing to be done anymore, no help to give. Then, he saw the Altmer vampire glaring down on him. Fervenor recoiled, jumped back and bumped into someone else. "Now what do we have here?" a male, human voice drawled. Fervenor turned round and gulped. He came face to face with a pale man in ornate, black and red leather armour. The man was very tall for a human, had reddish-brown hair, a neat beard and those horrible orange eyes! And he wore a smirk on his face where fangs were poking through. "Vampires?" breathed Fervenor. "Oh Auri-el, preserve us!"

"You may just as well stuff your sun-god where he truly belongs." the stranger answered. His voice was drawling, silky, falsely soothing – yet very, very sinister. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lord Harkon Volkihar of the blood of Atmora-of-old. Yes, I am a first-generation son of Coldharbour as well. Me and my court are going to pay you a nice, neighbourly visit. We are thirsty, you know? Aaah, there are so many of us: Vingalmo and Orthjolf, my right and left claw, a trio of Dunmer, Rothil Slave-Master, Fura Bloodmouth, denizens of lower vampires. Oh, I forgot the couple of death-hounds, Gormr and what was his name again? Cuo-something? It doesn't matter. Folks, lady vamps and gentle-mistwalkers: let's feast!"

And for dramatic purposes, Lord Harkon Volkihar shape-shifted. His human skin burst in a spray of blood, he grew considerably in height and bulk, skin turned grey, unfeathered wings sprouted out of his back, a very ornate loincloth mercifully hid his *shudder* undead cock from view, hands turned to claws and he reared his ugly head. It had become very beast-like, gargoyle-ish and he wore a crown on a mane of midnight black hair. That was the moment, when Fervenor Acurineth soiled himself. But that's neither shameful nor surprising when confronted with such a sight. Fervenor started to scream his head off but the screams soon turned to gurgles while he was literally torn to shreds, armour being completely useless.

Among all this ruckus, a small army of bloodsuckers mounted the palisade and rushed through the gate.

x x x

In the deep dungeons of Northwatch Keep, interrogator [or interrogatress? Nah, that sounds silly!] Quaruel En-Yalamel was still blissfully unaware of the bloody mayhem, which had broken loose on the upper floors. She pinched the back of her nose and made a theatralic brow-wiping gesture.

"Well, let's start again, shall we?" she asked mock-politely. "Who dragged you in to the Stormcloaks? What was your mission when you were caught?"

"Screw you!" Thorald Grey-Mane spat. He was shackled into wall-mounted iron bindings and the rest of the location left much to be desired as well. His tired, smoke-sore eyes wandered over a stretching bench, thumb-screws, dangling cages, tongs, nails, whips and scrouges, clubs and many other lovely items. Yep, he was definitely in a torture chamber. And that hag had been pestering him for days with her nosy questions. Thorald was just so fed up.

"Screws?" Mistress En-Yalamel made a show of scrunching up her nose and rubbing her pointy chin in thought. "Why, we might use them on your sorry flesh if you don't cooperate soon. Or should I say in your flesh?"

Whatever retort Thorald had in mind, it was never voiced. Frantic banging on the metal door interrupted the session of "truth or dare". "What's the criffing matter?!" the interrogator yelled. "I did make a notion not to be disturbed, didn't I?" A very panicked Thalmor soldier shoved the door open and barged into the room. "You need to arm yourself, mistress En-Yalamel." he panted out. "The keep is being overrun by vampires, a whole bunch of them. There's a vampire lord in their ranks wreaking havoc wherever he floats. We've got a lot of casualties and the vampires have some prisoners."

Quaruel En-Yalamel uttered a foul Altmer curse that sported the more or less clean private parts of several elven gods and goddesses. She rushed out of the torture chamber in pursuit of the young soldier. "And what about me?" Thorald Grey-Mane called after them. But he didn't get any reply. "Oh that's just peachy!" he groaned and futilely struggled against his bonds.

x x x

Quaruel and the younger Thalmor soldier were running up the corridors and stairs of Northwatch Keep. Quaruel had grabbed an elven mace from a weapon rack. Soon the signs of bloody melee became obvious. They could hear the screams and shouts of elves and the snarls and hisses of vampires. And the bloodstains. Oh gods the bloodstains! Soon, they stumbled over the first dead body. The elf was half sitting / half sprawled against a wall. His flashy, golden armour had several dents and scratches. But his neck *shudder*: it wasn't two neat little pinprick marks. The whole left side of the Altmer's neck was mauled in a horrific mess. The glassy, staring eyes and distorted face spoke volumes of the horrors he'd been through.

Quaruel En-Yalamel dragged the retching young-blood on. In the mass-hall, they looked on a real pandemonium. Tables were upturned, food and drinks were scattered everywhere, the floor was also littered with bodies, woefully few of them were vampire dust-heaps. Speaking of vampires, there were two of the monsters cornering an elder Thalmor, a grizzled veteran. "Mistress En-Yalamel, we've got to do something! He needs help." the young soldier cried.

"Not so loud, daft!" the interrogator scolded. "While I appreciate your idealistic streak…" Two sets of orange eyes turned on them and the once-Nords hissed viciously. "Well, scratch that." Quaruel sighed. "Looks like you get your wish. Now we have to fight." Three against two turned the tables towards the Thalmor but one of the vampires had the rank of master. "Aaah, this will get interesting." the vampire master hissed. He jumped on mistress En-Yalamel almost instantly. The other vampire engaged the younger Thalmor. It was one nasty hell of a fight. While the young vampire and the young Thalmor fought somewhat evenly, mistress En-Yalamel was in dire straits.

The vampire master countered her every mace-whack with his brutish war-hammer. And a one-handed mace against this huge battering instrument could only end one way. Quaruel En-Yalamel was soon exhausted and missed a blocking motion. The war-hammer struck her full force somewhere in the right ribcage. The Thalmor mage robes did nothing to protect her. She cried out in agony but soon, the sound changed to hacking and coughing. "Not good, so not good…" Quaruel thought dully while spitting blood. She just waited for the vampire master's final blow – which never came. The elder Thalmor veteran had sneaked up behind the bloodsucker and thrust his elven sword through the undead neck. A last ghastly hiss and the body turned to ash.

Meanwhile the younger soldier was doing better. His opponent was clearly a freshly spawned whelp. They traded blows, elven sword against steel blade. The ringing and scraping of metal in touch with other metal filled the air. Feints, thrusts, and even roundhouse blows were exchanged. The latter made no sense against a single opponent but oh well… The Thalmor found a gap in the vampire's defence and finally speared its heart. So this thing turned to ashes as well. The young lad turned around at the coughing and wheezing of Quaruel En-Yalamel. "Oh gods, lady. I'm so sorry to have started this fight. I…" the young soldier cried but was rudely interrupted. "I don't suppose you have some healing potions?" the old war dog asked. The youngster shook his head ruefully. "Me neither." the veteran sighed. "Poor interrogator! She's done for. Any last wishes or words?" "Take good care of recruit Boindil and get you for Oblivion's sake out of here alive." mistress En-Yalamel whispered. Then her body started twitching and a very nasty swill of blood spilled from her mouth. Life had just left her.

"Rest in peace mam." the old war dog said. "Well tag along recruit Boindil. We still need to creep and sneak out of here and then run for it. I'm too exhausted for any more fights. I'm sergeant Shotoras, by the way." The escape was long and difficult as the fort was still under attack. They had to duck for cover behind barrels more than once. But somehow the couple of Thalmor made it out into the courtyard and from there to the beach. They walked the long stretch to the Karthfjord and the Solitude port. After the horror at Northwatch Keep, occasional fights with rowdy horker seals seemed like a piece of cake. But at dawn, with the sun's first light, it became evident that something was wrong with sergeant Shotoras.

"Ugh! Ow!" he wailed. "Does it have to be so bright? And why do I suddenly feel like a wet towel? Oh no, I contracted sanguine vampiris!" "Well in that case let's make double haste back to the embassy." recruit Boindil said. And so they did. They climbed the mountains in the background and sometimes, Boindil had to bodily drag seargent Shotoras along. The coastal range near Solitude is very steep with rocks and the Battlesteed-Stone, caves, tilting towers aaand *grrr* wolves. These starving predators were an annoying hindrance. But at sunset, the odd and much-battered couple shook the iron bars at the embassy and yelled for entry and a bottle of cure-disease potion. They received both and spun their dreadful tale. "Northwatch Keep was overrun by vampires. I fear that we are the only survivors still in freedom." sergeant Shotoras said. He told of all their trials and tribulations. "And please do tell ambassador Elenwen that interrogator En-Yalamel perished in the fight. Ruindil will want to hear that, too. They've been kind of close I believe." recruit Boindil added.

x x x

Miss Scale's bright green feathers stood up from her head. She uttered an uneasy hiss. Miss Scale was an argonian female with quite the colours on her. Her scales' basic colour was a dark brown but she also had orange, red, yellow and green markings in her face. And let's not forget the purple war-paint on her snout. But right now, she was feeling scared and wished she wore less daring colours.

She had overheard a nasty argument back in Whiterun. Olfrid Battle-born and his son Idolaf dumped verbal abuse on Fralia Grey-Mane, an old jeweller and stall-owner on the marketplace. Miss Scale winced sympathetically. Olfrid and Idolaf weren't exactly polite, calling the old woman names such as "stupid cow" and mocking her desperate inquiries for the fate of her son, Thorald Greymane. When father and son Battle-born had left, Miss Scale started a conversation with Fralia. "Oh you poor woman! What'sss wrong with thessse two? Why did they ssscorn you and call you namesss? What wass it all about?" Miss Scale was invited to the Grey-Mane mansion. There, Fralia patiently explained the situation while her son Avulstein not-so-patiently brandished his huge two-handed war-axe and uttered violent threats. But Fralia spoke a word of command to calm him down. Apparently Thorald Grey-Mane had joined the Stormcloaks but one day, he and his comrades had gone missing, presumably captured. Poor Fralia was worried sick for her son. She had badgered nearly all the members of the Battle-born clan, that they feuded. But those Battle-born wouldn't spill a thing on the matter. They stayed clamped shut like oysters. And that's where Miss Scale's part began. She was to break in to the Battle-born estate and steal some proof of Thorald's whereabouts. Burglary was a tricky thing, even for a noble cause. But Miss Scale complied and came back with an Imperial document written by general Tullius himself. A few gemstones and silver ingots also went missing in the process. Strange… :-)

Well Miss Scale agreed to the rescue mission and declared, she'd bust Thorald out all by herself. That promise had been a bit too boastful. After about three days of cross-country hiking she stood in front of Northwatch Keep. And the fort gave her the creeps. The place was deserted. As Miss Scale looked around she saw ever-so-many signs of a bloody battle. And it hadn't ended in favour of the Thalmor that much was obvious. She found one dead Altmer after another. She crossed the threshold and wrinkled her snout. "Oooh what a ssstink!" she moaned. "Hello? Isss someone sstill alive and kicking?" But only silence met her ears. In the lowest levels the dungeon had been emptied. All prisoners were missing and no sign of a certain Thorald Grey-Mane. She had found traces of the attackers however. Three to four heaps of vampire dust lay on the floor, accompanied by weapons, armour and gear. So vampires had been responsible for the raid. In a dormitory, Miss Scale found an inkwell, quill and paper. She wrote a letter to Fralia Grey-Mane. She didn't have the courage to break the news to the old woman personally.

Dear Mrs. Grey-Mane,

I am terribly sorry but I couldn't find your poor son Thorald. I did end up at Northwatch Keep. But it looks like the whole fort was pillaged and raided by vampires well before my arrival. All the cells are empty and the torture chamber as well. You may have the solace that the Thalmor garrison was eradicated as well. To pursue this matter further, I'll have to join the Dawnguard. Maybe with their assistance, I'll find your son somewhere before it's too late. Again, I am very, very sorry.

Sad regards

Miss Scale, your friendly argonian adventurer

A few days later, that letter was brought by courier to Fralia's jeweller's booth. She read it, blanched and fainted. Avulstein had to carry her home. When Fralia woke up again she let loose an anguished scream and cried till her tears ran dry. Avulstein was quite downcast as well. But he was too much of a man to make a scene.


author's question: Shall I write a sequel to this story?