The Daedric Wager
A Skyrim Fanfiction
A loud CRUNCH ended the screaming, but the sound echoed a few seconds longer throughout tunnels of carved earth and rock. Crimson freckled the soil a deep maroon, none of it his own.
The first few had thought nothing of him. Why would they? By comparison, he was small and unassuming, and though it was only half-truth, all they'd seen of him as he entered was Nord. It didn't matter to them that he was young, he was the enemy to be killed, though in that way, they saw things much the same. He took on a few of them and won, having more experience for his age than most would, but only because of unfortunate circumstance.
When more came running, thinking him an easy enough target, he changed form, and that was when their hate became replaced with raw fear, so thick in the air that he could smell it mingling with the scent of blood from those slain.
"Black Wings!" they'd shrieked. Suddenly it dawns on them that the Nord before them is only half of the truth; the other half is a curse they can't escape from, though they've tried hard to be rid of it in the past.
Some were brave enough to charge at him, but they fell quickly. The rest fled, and he hunted, made them cower like newborn hares, and it made his blood hot and fast with exhilaration when they screamed in terror until he ripped them apart into silence.
A blade into his back from one that turned desperate and dumb after watching his tribe-brothers and sisters fall was a dull pain compared to the overriding desire to kill.
Kill them. Kill. Kill. Kill. All of them. Every one. Kill! Kill! Wipe them out! Every last one! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!
Soon the only sound is the roar of an ocean in his ears. The ocean is red, and he's covered in it. The only thing he sees is corpses at his feet and those still running that he leaps upon, hackling wildly. When there are no more to run away, he starts to hunt the corners, rip apart spaces where they might be hiding and scatters barrels and other objects, splitting the wood apart and leaving no box or sack unturned. The blood that covers him ends up streaked across many of the objects he overturns.
There are no more to kill, but his searching gave him something to destroy in the meantime, frenzy finding an outlet that he would not be reprimanded or punished for later. When he manages to drag his feet back to the entrance, the light of day is overwhelming to his single eye, and for a while he merely lingers in the doorway.
The taste of blood was still strong in his mouth - their blood. Spilling it was great, but tasting it is the foulest thing he could think of, and he spit it out in disgust. Glancing at himself, his black clothes were stained in it. He sighed, inconvenienced, but there was no getting around it. Just down the way was Karth River, where he could wash it from his clothes and skin.
The Kolskeggr miners had already been waiting weeks for someone to clear out the Forsworn invaders. He didn't think they'd be heartbroken to wait a few more hours to hear that the task was done, only because he needed to rid his appearance of their spilled blood.
Making his way down the hill off the side of the main road, he picked his way to the falls and shed his feathered cloak, dipping it first in the water and rinsing the blood from it, then hung it off the branches of a nearby tree to drip-dry, though he held out little hope that the sun would actually reach it or that it would dry beyond being damp.
He shed the rest of his clothing and stepped into the water and beneath the falls, letting it wash the rest away and shivering at the icy cold against his too-thin frame, the black feathers along his shoulders and back prickling against the chill.
He closed his eye and tried to ignore it, letting his mind drift under the roar of the falls, but it was too much like the roar of battle in his ears as he slaughtered them, and his mind kept conjuring the sight of them fleeing and screaming, of blood splattering the ground and walls, and he opened his eye to take in the blue-gray sky instead.
He moved from the water back to land, and suddenly he felt light-headed, collapsing to his knees as soon as he pulled himself from the river. The cold numbing him wasn't enough to explain his dizziness, and - oh... right... - suddenly he felt and remembered the heat of the wound in his back which was deep and still bleeding quite freely.
He focused on the wound and felt flames flicker to life, burning blood and flesh alike until it was sealed shut, cauterized by raw flame. The dizziness he would simply have to tolerate until it passed, standing unsteadily and retrieving his clothing and cloak to put back on, though they were still wet.
Climbing up the hill again was a chore and test of his patience, and he still had a ways to go. Halfway up the road from Kolskeggr towards Markarth, he whistled shrilly, and waited for a deep-maroon, almost-black horse to appear from behind a rise of rocks and gallop down to meet him, its eyes shining a bright red.
Heaving himself up into the saddle - a daunting task in and of itself, considering he was already greatly lacking in height compared to other men and mer, never mind comparing his size to a draft horse - he rode the rest of the way to Markarth, slouching over the arched neck of the daedric mare.
He reported that the mine was cleared of Forsworn to two men whose names he neglected to catch because he didn't care to remember them, received his thanks and money - though he would have done it even without those things, just for a chance at getting a little closer to wiping them off the face of Nirn - and continued on his way to the Hold's city.
Just as he was sliding out of Shadowmere's saddle, he sensed movement and a presence behind him. Almost as soon as a hand had clapped onto his shoulder and a voice said "Excuse me?", he whirled around and lunged, running their backs to a wall with his ebony blade already poised to kill if need be, or even if he simply decided to.
The man's breathing etched towards panic and held up his hands in surrender, eyes wide and watching the blade.
"What do you want?" the black-clad youth demanded, his unintimidating height a direct contradiction to the spine-shivering feral snarl in his tone.
"Easy! I'm only a courier! I-I was told to deliver a letter!" the man explained quickly. More quietly, and with a discreet glance around, he added, "Y-you are a member of the Dark Brotherhood, correct?"
The younger assassin scowled, single blue eye narrowed into a slit. "A letter from who?" His first - really, his only guess - was Nazir bothering him about something he had no care for or desire to do, unless it was another contract for a hit.
"General Tulius, of the Imperial Legion," the man told him, licking his lips nervously.
"And what in Oblivion would the Legion want?" The very mention of them, especially after what the Penitus Oculatus had done, made him visibly bristle, almost going so far as to snarl.
"I don't know what its about. I just deliver the messages, not read them." He rummaged for the letter and presented it, letting the short male take it and open it up to read.
He quickly scanned over the finely-written words, not a letter out of place, and scoffed. The nerve...!
Snapping an eye up at the courier, who had been steadily inching away, he truly did snarl at this point and feinted a lunge, snapping, "Get lost!" The courier wasted no time in doing so, disappearing around the corner of the road at a full sprint.
Fuming, Faulklin took the paper and crumpled it between his hands, intending on throwing it to the ground and lighting it on fire. He got to the point of almost throwing it, arm already in-swing, but stopped himself from going that far.
He wanted to just throw it away and be done with it. Burn it out of existence. Maybe even burn the ones who sent the damn thing in the first place out of existence. Some voice in the back of his mind told him that was a bad idea, and that he was being too hasty. Not surprisingly, it sounded like Nazir's.
After going still for many moments, he heaved a sigh that sounded more akin to a growl. He didn't want anything to do with the letter that was delivered to him, but he decided he would at least bring it to the senior Redguard assassin and let the rest of the Brotherhood deal with it as they wanted. He at least owed the man and Babette that much, considering the were the only truly loyal members of the twisted little group he once thought of as something like a family.
That, he supposed, meant he had no choice but to depart for Dawnstar.
The main hall was in an uproar, but it was the best kind of an uproar. Drink was flowing and meat roasted over flame, both filling the room with a mix of fragrances that accompanied loud laughter and talking. It was a good distraction. The noise and buzz of mead and the taste of tearing, juicy flesh between teeth was overwhelmingly festive, and that was what she needed.
Time had lapsed by, month after month, but the pain of remembrance - the death of Kodlak, fallen by the blades of the Silver Hand - was still too fresh and raw. She could not think of it, refused to let it fester in her mind, because if she did, she would fall into a deep spiral that would be hard even for sharpened claws to pull herself out of.
Her skin itched with restlessness and the fine human hairs on her skin prickled with it. She didn't need to look outside their home to know that the moon was full, and it tugged at her very being, the same as it tugged the waves of the sea into land, stirring a need to move. Unspoken was a similar tension of many of her shield-brothers and sisters, even those who didn't share in her hot blood and bestial instincts.
It was a contagious, joyful madness, and she was the first to tip off the edge, challenging it the same as she would challenge any foe that stood in her way or pursued her.
Smashing her tankard against the wood of the table, she half-leapt up onto the table, one boot planted atop it and the other on her chair, barking out "Brothers and sisters! Are there any who would think they can challenge and defeat me, Astasl Norsi Whiteman?! Raise your fists!"
Its a general challenge aimed at no one. If one answers her challenge, that is good. If twenty want to leap at her throat(she doesn't stop to remember there are not twenty members to their faction at the moment, it doesn't matter right now), even better. It is a good night filled with good energy to spar and romp.
Another Nord named Torvar is the first to answer her challenge, a drunken man who is often bitter of those positioned above him, but he is one of the best brawlers. The second is an Imperial woman by the name of Ria, newer to their group but determined to prove herself, but Astasl takes her on no less seriously than she does Torvar even if the victory is easier.
From Torvar, she gets a bruise to her arm from multiple blocked punches and a split lip where one hit connected, but she returns him a few better with many solid blows into his ribs that leave him breathless and one solid crack to his jaw that sent him sprawling into a short flight of steps. From Ria she receives one good hook just beneath her ribs, but she returns it and her own punch winds the other woman so much that she doubles over, and that is won.
By then, another Nord known as Farkas steps up, who has been there even longer than she has, both having been raised in Jorrvaskr since they were young. She and him have scrapped so many times that they've lost count, but they each gain as many victories against each other as they lose, holding a long-term rivalry since she was a child and he was some years older than that.
They don't even waste time on words, leaping straight into grappling and punching until they are thoroughly tangled, but its a fight they've done many times. Other nights, Farkas would win, but she is too bound up with energy and outlasts his stamina, besting him and wolfishly howling her victory around the hall. Somewhere in the corner, a large wolf that belongs to one of her Shield-brothers who is an Orc howls with her instinctively.
Its not long before there's loud and angry knocking on one of the doors that interrupts their festivities. Some of the older warriors - Vilkas and Skjor - look like they're about to get up and answer it, likely because they're the most tactful of the remaining members. She beats them to it, almost wrenching the doors off the hinges as she does so and barking at the guard standing outside, "What?!"
The young man - she doesn't recognize him, he's probably a new recruit to the ranks, put up to complaining about their noise by the senior guards - looks startled for a moment, then clears his throat and tries to look authoritative. She thinks its amusing, considering how awkward he comes across.
"I'm going to have to ask you to keep the noise down." He's trying to make his voice deeper than it is, as if that will make his command more considerable. "Its bothering all of the other neighbors in town."
"If they are sad they were not invited, then they can come join us if they want," she retorts instead, cockily. The young guard is obviously taken aback by her remark. "If not, then you can run home. We are only having fun."
He clears his throat again. "I will only give you one more warning-"
He doesn't get to finish as she lunges, snapping her teeth. He's so intimidated(she's taller and much more muscular, so it isn't surprising) and startled by the action that he leaps back, trips, and falls backwards down the stairs. She laughs, entirely unashamed.
"Make us," she challenges, grinning all-teeth as he tries to pick himself off the ground without showing how much he's blushing with embarrassment. Just to further taunt him, she howls like a wolf again. Loudly.
He straightens himself out, and instead of returning up the steps to challenge her, he instead turns tail and sprints towards Dragon's Reach to report her defiance to his superiors. She doesn't care, she will challenge them too if they dare tell her what to do in her own territory, when she is having so much fun and is buzzed with mead and so moon-drunk as she is.
She breathes in the night air, feeling the light of the moon reach her skin and make her quiver with its pull. She decides right then that she wants to run, as far and as fast as possible, not because she's scared of anything, and certainly not the Whiterun guards, but just because she can and she is too restless to stay still.
As if reading her mind, the Orc who is her Shield-brother and her friend appears beside her with his wolf companion, telling her "Wherever you're going, I'll go too."
She only nods and heads for the Underforge, which will take her straight out to the wilds. She needs to be free and to run and to hunt, even if she is only hunting the wind and the moonlight. Its in her blood, pulling at her soul and her very being.
As soon as they reach the exit of the crude tunnel, she transforms, letting the Beast form take her, fur springing along her body, claws distending from her fingers, her jaws elongating and baring razor sharp fangs and a tail extend out from her spine. She isn't even fully through her transformation when she leaps from the ledge and crashes into the grass, sprinting across the ground on all fours. There is a pair of heavy impacts behind her, her Orcish companion transforming to match her and the wolf accompanying them both.
The wind stings at her face and bushes pull at her fur, while every step with all four of her limbs pushes her on and she can feel the frost and dirt beneath them, and then jutting stone as they circle the back of Whiterun Hold and Dragon's Reach.
Into the night, they come upon two mages throwing spells at each other, who soon turn their attention to the two werewolves, but they are quick to fall beneath the claws and fangs of both beasts, dressed only in their thin robes that are easily torn asunder.
They come across a bandit camp some ways north with four bandits, easily taking them down as well, though not without first taking a few arrows. The wounds are not as bad as they could be, the corpses fresh and the feasting on fresh meat good. Only briefly they stop to drink at a stream just outside, before splashing across it and racing over the tundra.
Their hunger is already satiated, now they only want to run, so they don't keep their voices to themselves, and instead howl and yip. Animals and startled humans alike scatter out of their way, and by the time anything regroups to attack them, they are already gone, far across the wild grasses.
When they have almost crossed the entire tundra, arriving at Gjukar's Monument, is when their lycan blood tires and reverts them to their original forms, coated in sweat from the long run and naked under the moonlight.
Happily, Astasl howls her joy of the night and running and hunting to the moon. The wolf, Rogsha, howls with her. Wild wolves in the distance howl in return. Her Orc companion, Gashum, is silent.
Its as they are howling that someone approaches from the road, calling out, "Excuse me!" Her head snaps up to a man dressed in green. When he notices how undressed they are, he suddenly turns bashful, shielding his eyes and looking off to the side while also trying to kind-of look at them. He is more shy of them than they are of themselves, but werewolf transformations often end nude, and she's gone through transformations so many times since she was young that she's stopped noticing. "You are members of the Companions, yes?"
"He is a member," she confirms, pointing at Gashum. "I am the Harbinger."
She smiles unashamedly at how much more self-conscious the stranger becomes at her announcement of guild leadership, muttering something she can't quite catch but is recognizable as an exasperated complaint. He tries to hide it by announcing, "I am supposed to deliver an important letter to you, addressed from the Legion."
"What does the Legion want from me?" She tilts her head.
"You'll have to read and find out for yourself. I'm only to deliver it."
She nods, taking it from him and getting too much entertainment from his squeamishness. He's gone before she can get all the way through the letter, pursing her lips. The contents are interesting, but she is uneasily unsure what to think of it. This is something best discussed amongst her elders.
Its bad enough he can't even walk in and out the front doors or the back ones - no Khajiit allowed inside city walls, they say. Can't be trusted, they say! Hmph... - and that he has to climb over the walls every time he wants to return to the Cistern, but now he is also hungry, and he's pretty sure that feeding upon guild mates would be frowned upon, especially if they contracted what he has.
If only finding a meal elsewhere inside city walls was quite so easy, but of course as it turns out, there are many problems with trying to do this.
First, there were those pesky guards. Why couldn't he get the city with the lazy guards? But no. They were always on time, marching, patrolling - it was infuriating enough to make his tail twitch!
Second, there was no one inside city walls that was walking around where there were no guards. If he went to the Bee and Barb, probably someone would tell on him and have him thrown out or arrested, and that was only if they didn't notice his long sabre fangs and realize he was not just an ordinary Khajiit but a vampire as well.
Also, it was much harder to stalk prey when one's fur is white with pink scars that make him look striped. The scars hurt when he got them but at least - in his own opinion - they did not end up looking too bad once they had healed. If anything, they only make him look like more of a force to be reckoned with.
But back to the point, why could the Thieves not have their headquarters somewhere more welcoming to Khajiit and more covered in snow? At least then he could blend a little bit, sneak up more easily.
Ah, but he supposed most of his prey would probably be hiding inside where it is warm anyway. Then again, he didn't fancy the cold much either. His fur was not really as suited to this weather as he thought it should be when it came to thickness and keeping him warm, but there was nothing to be done for that anyway. At least his color would not give him away, but in The Rift, everything was so dark and rustic.
He watched a guard patrolling the back streets from the roof of a building above the Thieve's secret-but-not-really-so-secret entrance, hissing under his breath, "Come on, just a little farther... go away already." He wanted them to turn the corner so he could keep stalking about. Maybe he would see that priestess who came to pray at the Shrine of Talos at the back of the city.
Instead, he ended up skulking around, ducking through gates and tunnels to keep from being seen so he would not be thrown out or jailed. He almost steps out from behind a wall straight into a guard - what a hard thing to explain that would be! - but backpedals and waits to hear if she saw or heard him. She hasn't, so he peeks his head out.
She smells like she would have good, tasty blood, and he considers his options. A paralysis spell would keep her quiet, and he has space to drag her out of sight and partake in his desired meal. He almost goes through with it, but another guard across the way spots him and goes on alert, foiling his plans, and he ducks into hiding.
"What was that?" one barks.
"What was what?"
"I thought I saw something..."
Drat! His white fur betrayed him. Nothing else to be done for it now. While they are still cautiously approaching the opening - he can hear their hesitant steps - he cast a spell to make himself invisible and quickly crept away. The spell would not last long.
Ducking into the crypt, he pressed a button so that the stone slid back and revealed the entrance, which he made sure shut behind him before entering the Cistern.
"This one was so close, too..." he muttered unhappily. He was very hungry... maybe his guild mates would not mind if he took just a little blood from them? Surely? He could even get one of them while they were sleeping... they didn't even need to know. What was a little blood amongst faction members?
Walking into the main room, he spotted a figure poised over a desk and open book on the far wall, pricking his ears. Upon closer inspection as he walked, he could see that the form was feminine, with long, dark hair. It was probably Riaien, the guild master. She always smelled so nice... her blood was probably delicious.
He casually walked around the far side of the room until he was out of her sight, and snuck the rest of the way to be behind her. He could already smell her scent, tantalizing his senses. He tried not to lick his lips for fear of the noise, creeping closer towards her neck-
"Don't-" her voice warned, and the slight pressure of a blade against one thigh threatening his sensitive anatomy halted him, making every hair stand up. "-even think about it."
Admittedly, he chuckled and purred a little, impressed despite himself. Sharp senses, this one.
"How did you know?"
"Easy to see, with that fur," she told him. Again with his fur! "And your eyes shine more when you're hungry."
He hummed, daring to lean a little closer and breath in her ear. "Just a little taste? This one doesn't really bite, just nibbles a little..."
"Only if you want to get neutered tonight, Kitty." The edge of the blade in-hand emphasized her point, and he pouted as he stepped back.
"Fine, have it your way. Maybe another time, you will be convinced?" he proposed, hoping beyond hope.
"Not likely." She paused, not looking up from her book. "Did you climb over the walls again?"
"The guards do not like Khajiit," he supplied. "Bhuaji thinks they would like him even less than others."
"Probably right about that," Riaien retorted.
From across the way, a blond woman - older than Riaien - dressed in black approached. Maybe he hadn't struck out yet after all, smiling slyly and approaching. It probably wouldn't be as good of blood as the brunette's, but food was food at this point.
"Excuse me, but maybe... I could have just a little-"
She had a blade out just as fast, threatening his throat this time and barking even more harshly, "Not on your life, cat."
He held up his paws in surrender, letting her bypass him and muttering to himself, "These Thieves women have more claw and tooth about them than Khajiit do..." How ever was he supposed to get a decent meal around this place?
"Hey, Riaien," the blond greeted, smacking a letter down over the book. The wax seal was already broken. "Message for you. I figured you'd like to see it for yourself."
Blinking, Riaien picked it up and scanned the contents. Hoping to get just a quick snack at least, Bhuaji crept closer behind the blond, but she sensed him coming a mile away and whirled on him before he could, threatening him with obscenities and promises of injury in the meantime.
"Vex, think we can trust it?" Riaien finally voiced, breaking up their little spat.
"I dunno," Vex stated, placing a hand on her hip and watching Bhuaji out of the corner of one eye. "It might not hurt to hear them out, but even so... we should approach this cautiously."
Riaien hummed agreement.
A gasp interrupted the nightmares. No surprise, it was her own. She was just lucky she didn't set something on fire this time.
The candles were still lit, chasing away the shadows. Good.
Relax... breathe... she told herself. Nothing there... there's nothing there...
Even so, she cast a wary look about the space. Some hanging moss draped down from a wall, and the only sound was the faint howl of icy winds outside the stone bricks of castle walls. She ran either hand down the sides of her face, massaging the pits of tired eyes.
Why couldn't she just get one night of proper rest? One was all she asked!
"Ugh..."
She flung off the blankets and shifted to the edge of her bed, stretching out legs that had grown tense and stiff from bad dreams. The cool touch of the solid stone floors beneath her feet reminded her that this was reality - the nightmares were only figments of her imagination; they couldn't hurt her.
She cast Candlelight, a ball of light hovering over her so that she wouldn't have to leave its protection, keeping the shadows around her away. They could surround her at the far fringes, but not touch her. She was safe.
Here is safe.
Her shelves were lined in many things, from cast iron cooking pots to excavated skulls to books to ingredients for brewing potions. Her mind was already set on a glimmering bottle of Alto wine, some bread that was probably quite stale by now, and some very-aged cheese.
If nothing else, the wine would help calm her nerves.
She sat at the edge of her garden, thriving under the shine of several Magelight spells to act like sun.
A bare tree from somewhere in The Reach acted as a nursery to cultivate several large specimens of Glowing Mushrooms. There was a variety of other ground mushrooms as well - Namira's Rot and Blisterwort, hiding somewhere beneath other plants, she was sure there was also Bleeding Crowns and White Caps and Imp Stools and Fly Aminitas. There were mountain flowers in all varieties of pink, red, blue, and purple. A patch of fluffy Tundra Cotton. Beads of bright red hung from the branches of a Snowberry bush, and behind them, Spiky Grass poked upwards with fuzzy cattails perched at the top. The red veins of a Creep Cluster wove around a small boulder, and a solitary Juniper tree gave them shade. More beautifully, Dragon's Tongue and Death Bells decorated the edges, and behind them poked up a small ridge of a Chorus egg pod. Then there were the Fungal Pods, that looked like huge, creepy, bulbous eyes staring back at her. Somewhere in the mix she knew there was also Thistle and Giant Lichen and Nordic Barnacles and Jazbay and Canis Root.
She quite literally had one of every kind of plant in Tamriel, except for Nirn root.
She had enough nightmare problems and nyctophobia without keeping a moaning fern in her quarters.
She couldn't quite tell the hour from the high windows, but guessed it was at least somewhat close to morning. Wondering if anyone else was awake - company might do her some good - she left her quarters to enter the Hall of Elements one level below her room.
As soon as she entered, the sound of en explosion made her jump, almost spilling her food and drink.
"Aaaaand, one more..." The male voice was accompanied by the crackle of a spell between both hands, before a missile of fire went flying and exploded, quite loudly. "Boom!"
Peeking into the chamber, she saw a teenaged figure, hair nothing more than peach fuzz atop his head and his skin dark enough that it was a little difficult to see him. She recognized him as one of the newer students, though he'd been with the College for a couple of years by this point. Darinel was a good student, though sometimes a little loud, and he excelled at Alteration and Destruction magick.
"Alright, and another time!" he declared at no one, hand lighting up with a spell that she instantly recognized and lamented as Conjuration magick. An apparition in the form of a wolf appeared, making her hair stand on end. She told herself that it was nothing to worry about - it was only a lesser Familiar created by one of her students, nothing out of the ordinary or particularly dangerous - but her hand twitched with the need to blast it into Oblivion as if it never existed.
As it turned out, she didn't have to, because Darinel did the blasting instead until the Familiar disappeared. It was a crude way of training one's Conjuration skills, but it was a common method. He summoned it again, and the urge to destroy it returned until it was dispelled by Darinel's Destruction attacks. She decided to interrupt, before he could summon another.
"Practicing Conjuration?" She internally cursed the way her voice wavered a little bit. Was she really so weak that she couldn't hide her unease about such a minor thing?
He turned to look at her, surprised, and rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "Yeah... it takes a long time though. Gotta keep summoning stuff over and over to get he hang of it..."
"You haven't been up all night practicing, have you?" Not that it was unusual, especially for some of the younger students. She knew he had stayed up many nights practicing his spells before as well. It was difficult for her to say if he was talented for his age or just a much harder worker at it than his peers.
"Nah, not all night. Like... half of it, I guess?" She wondered how true that was. He liked to boast about his skill. He wasn't quite so eager to boast - or complain - about the work he put in to get there. She didn't know if it was because of modesty or bravado. Either way, he shrugged as if it was nothing.
She wasn't in a mood to dote and act motherly. Not that she doted over her students on a normal standard anyway.
A loud knock came from the main doors, echoing off the tall walls and interrupting their discussion. She knew it wasn't a student(students never knock there, they just let themselves in if the doors are unlocked, which they are), so she was baffled at who it could be at such an hour.
Answering it, she was greeted by a cold-pink face waiting out in the snow and realized that it was a courier.
"Hello. Got something I'm supposed to deliver. Is the Archmage, Iirilwe, in?"
"I am she," Iirilwe confirmed patiently.
"Ah! Perfect." He presented her with a letter. "This is for you."
"Thank you," she told him, excusing him with a nod before shutting the door.
She set her food and drink aside before breaking the wax seal and unfolding the letter to read it.
Ever the curious one, Darinel appeared close to her side, craning to see it.
"What does it say?"
Dear Guildmasters,
You are hereby given formal invitation to attend a meeting with the Imperial Legion in Dragon's Reach in Whiterun on Turdas, the 23rd of Hearthfire, generously facilitated by Jarl Balgraaf the Greater, to take place in the halls of his Hold.
Attending will be General Tullius and Legate Rikke of the Legion army, with a proposal for alliance against the rebellion led by the traitorous usurper, Ulfric Stormcloak, and his ilk. All of the four major guilds - yourselves included - are expected to attend, as citizens of the Empire. Terms and responsibilities of such alliance will be arranged and agreed upon to the benefit of all sides at the location of the meeting. An overseer from the Aldmeri Dominion will also be attending the meeting.
We look forward to your cooperation and attendance.
~General Tullius, Military Governor of the Province of Skyrim