Somewhere North of Here

by Insert Valid Author Name

Alduin has fled. The Stormcloak and the Imperial Armies are at a standstill, an uneasy truce being negotiated at the demand of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater. The Guilds of Skyrim are in turmoil, most limping on after betrayals and near defeat. And all the while, a new threat rises in the North, one that fights from Dusk till Dawn, one that even the Dragonborn will be forced to brave.

2. Tidings of War, Shadows in the Light

Somewhere North of here…

Chapter 1 – Tidings of War, Shadows in the light

Whiterun, Two years since the appearance of Alduin

…ooOoo…

My Dearest Harbinger,

It has been almost a year since you left the joy and warmth of the Halls of Jorvaskr, and yet I feel that eternity is not apt enough a word to express how long the passage of time has felt. News of your departure to follow the teachings of the Greybeards has caused both turmoil and calm in the people of Whiterun, even as our attempts to quell the whispers fail spectacularly, as per your request in your last letter.

The Companions have fared well under Aela's temporal leadership. Between her and the other members of the Circle, we continue to operate as we have, taking odd jobs and making sure coin never stops flowing in the Hall. Of course, both Farkas and Vilkas argue that it's not the gold, but rather the mead that should be kept in highest priority rather than the funds to procure it. It still makes me laugh and smile, no matter how many times the former will boast loudly of their belief.

And yet, not all is well. Njada has become rather restless of late, venturing out more and more often, spending more time out clearing bandit camps and raiding old mines with the Whiterun Guards rather than here at the Mead Hall. Aela suspects that she is training herself in killing people, rather than creatures, in the hope that one day she will be able to join the Stormcloak cause, abandoning us in the process. That belief is only cemented by the fact that what little time she spends in Jorvaskr, she can be found at the Shrine of Talos, listening to the loud ramblings that Heimskr calls preaching.

Your home here in is still in good condition, you need not worry. I… have spent more time there instead of Jorvaskr, perusing the tomes you have collected and just… well, lollygagging for lack of a better word. I confess that I do feel slight guilt in the fact that I find more comfort here than in Jorvaskr – I cannot wait until you take me to your Manor in Hjaalmarch. The amount of work you claim to have put into the home makes me anticipate with much fervor the day we go home together.

There are… other things I must speak about in this letter, things that I fear are just open signs of the war that looms on the horizon. Ever since the temporal defeat of Alduin at your hands on the Throat of the World, the dragon attacks have lessened dramatically, as you already know. That, however, is not the greatest concern that Whiterun has at its forefront. Recently, vampire attacks have occurred almost every night in most of the towns that occupy the holds. It is not only Whiterun hold either; news has reached us of attacks occurring in the rest of Skyrim as well. Hjaalmarch, the Pale, and Falkreath Hold have suffered the worst; Morthal is naught but a ghost town now, the people of the hold evacuating to Haafingar Hold and Whiterun. Ironically, it seems that Dawnstar has held its own; your silent protectors have done their job well of keeping the city safe. Lydia sends reports that vampires have attempted to skirmish Windstad Manor as well, but between her and the Brotherhood assassins nothing drastic or too dangerous has occurred.

Not all hope is lost, however. An order has surfaced recently, an order of Vampire Hunters that are based out in the Rift. They call themselves the Dawnguard, and their leader, Isran, was sighted in Riften asking Jarl Laila Law-Giver in person for assistance in restoring Fort Dawnguard. His senior members have spread the word as well, recruiting heavily in all the holds and bringing the fight to the vampires. His efforts seemed to have yielded little result, but morale is slowly turning in our favor as the piles of ashes of dead Vampires grow ever-larger. One of his troops, an orc by the name of Durak was here in Whiterun not a few days ago, asking for you. Apparently your prowess as a warrior has reached their ears and made you a desirable possible new recruit. The Vigilants of Stendarr have come calling as well – their Keeper, Vigilant Carcette sent you a missive that I'll enclose in this letter.

There is something else as well. Alduin was sighted again. There was no mistaking the Black Dragon, nor the summoning of Fire and Stone from the heavens. Ironically, however, he was alone, unaccompanied by his minions when Stormcloak and Imperial troops caught sight of him in the Rift. It was one of the few times that troops on opposing sides worked together to bring the terrible foe down, even if they failed at that task. Your shout, the Dragonrend (was that what you called it? I cannot remember) was sorely needed at that moment. The troops were annihilated, I'm saddened to say, but a missive from the Karthspire arrived yesterday – Delphine has taken in the survivors and begun to train them in the art of Dragon Hunting. I shall seal the written testimony of one of the soldiers in this letter as well.

Dremmus… you are known by many titles in Skyrim. You are Thane. You are Harbinger. You are Listener. You are Guildmaster. You are Nightingale. You were Archmage (until you gave the title to Tolfdir). You are Dragonborn, the Dovahkiin. And yet, the one title that matters to me at this precise moment is the one I gave you personally after you saved my life, took me under your wing, and showed me what love was after years of being alone.

The title of Father.

For the first time in many months, I confess to you that I am afraid. This past month, I have been plagued by nightmares, dreams of you falling through the stars, of rivulets of blood flowing from your dead body as ravens peck at your corpse and those surrounding you in the remains of a great battle. I see the Blades, standing behind you as is their ancient duty of Dragonguard, only for their swords to be coated in blood as they stab you relentlessly, ruthlessly in clear betrayal. I see a goddess, a Daedra, her face of beauty marred by tears of sadness as she holds a bundle close to her bosom.

The last vision, the one that wakes me every night, is the worst, I think. I… I see you, wearing a crown of jagged bones, standing alone against a horde of monsters, of creatures, of men and mer. And then I see the same thing, except you are no longer alone. A woman joins your side, her face uncannily similar to yours. A dragon stands behind you, his flesh rotting and his scales falling off and dripping with an unfamiliar fluid. And from the skies, a blade of light falls in front of you – you grasp it, roar, and charge at the masses, the Dragon and Woman running right beside you. And as you charge, I see more people join in – I see myself, I see a woman with green eyes like emeralds, I see the same goddess from earlier fall from the heavens and join you on Mundus.

And then I wake up. I have communed with Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone, who has relocated here, to Whiterun instead of Solitude. She has given me much advice regarding these visions. She says that the visions are only things that may happen, merely giving clues as to what could come in the future. She also claims that it is because of my spiritual relation to you, and the events of your past, that have allowed me these glimpses into the plans of Time itself. I find myself more concerned, however, that she speaks of your past as if she knows, or has known you intimately. Father, her visions are frightening in their precision.

I know not how to end this letter, so I'll do so with this. Father, please, come back soon. You are sorely needed here – I need you, but more importantly, Skyrim needs you. I hope that the answers you sought a year ago when you made your pilgrimage have been found, because I finally cannot hold my pleas back, and for that, I am sorry. Please, father, come back home. The people call for Dremmus Rahjoore – they call for their Dragonborn hero, they call for a stop to the Vampire menace, but for once, I care not about their requests. All I care about is for the return of my father, the return of the man who saved my life from a giant's club, who visited me every day for three months when I was recovering, who not only taught me how to fight so that I could live, but also gave me the most important lesson of my life – you taught me how to live. Please, father, come home.

With all my love, and all my heart,

Ria

P.S.: I've taken the liberty of keeping a tally of all the gold that you owe me. Jenassa's monthly fare for taking your mail up and down the mountain has become rather costly, even if she's one of the most capable people I've met. I swear, everything I make in the jobs for the Companions is all spent on her. At least it's only once a month. Still, it is worth the price to see your words written down and answering my own.

…ooOoo…

How many times have I read this letter? How is it possible that for all its darkness, I can still find that the words inside still bring a smile to face as I imagine Ria's face when I show up out of nowhere?

The still-smiling Dragonborn glanced at the gates in front of him, the stonework unchanged in the year he'd been gone. True, by the time he left for High Hrothgar, he hadn't been spending that much time in Whiterun as compared to Windstad Manor, but it was still gladdening to see that one of his favorite cities in all of Skyrim still stood strong against the dragons, even without him.

"A coin for your thoughts, Dragonborn?"

Dremmus' ruminations were broken by a single guard keeping watch at the gate, standing in the shadows next to the wooden doors themselves and causing Dremmus to raise a single eyebrow. "I'm surprised people still recognize me," he said.

"You shouldn't be, my Lord," came the answer, "Even though it has been too long since you departed, the people will still remember and call for you. Welcome back, sir."

"Thank you," said Dremmus. "Key to the gate hasn't changed, right?"

"No sir, go right on in."

Dremmus did so, walking up to the doors and pushing them open with a mighty creak. Immediately, the sounds of the most traffic-heavy city in all of Skyrim were thrust upon him. Right in front of him was Adrianne Avenicci, hammering away at her forge on some project or other, perhaps filling in a project for the Imperial Army. Directly across from Warmaiden's, the Drunken Huntsman was filled with activity, a group of hunters hoisting their empty packs and full quivers on their backs. Dremmus closed his eyes and let the sounds wash over him – the shouting of Heimskr, the laughing of children, the yelling of merchants selling their wares, the smells of Arcadia's Cauldron, the singing of the bard Mikael…

Yup, he was home.

Dremmus opened his eyes and grinned, walking up the street. All too soon, he was standing in the living room of Breezehome, the small house he'd been gifted after becoming Thane of Whiterun, more than a year and a half ago. The small fire in the pit was smoldering, the coals giving off a small amount of heat that felt like a blazing inferno after being used to the intense cold of the Throat of the World, and by consequence High Hrothgar. On the right was the massive bookcase that he himself had practically redone from the ground up, as whereas before it only had three shelves that were around four feet long from side to side, but now covered half of the wall and was filled to the brim with books and scrolls that he'd collected ever since he'd been given the place. The wall on the left was left slightly clear, since the stairs to the second floor and master bedroom were located there, but right next to the front door there was a small table in the corner with two chairs. Under the stairs, already in the kitchen area, was a small pile of firewood, and to the right of the stairs was a long table that was mostly clear of stuff, though Dremmus imagined that it would be filled with food soon enough.

Setting his pack down next to the door and setting his sword in the rack nailed right into the wall, Dremmus moved into his home. His first order of business was to grab one of the pieces of firewood from under the stairs and put it in the almost-lit fire. Crouching next to the pit, he cupped his hands over his mouth.

"Yol," he whispered into his hands, and immediately the fire sprang to life. Grabbing more firewood, he fed the fire, letting it grow at its own pace. When the smoke started to become a problem, he moved over to the front door, throwing it wide-open and leaving it that way. He then grabbed his pack and moved upstairs, taking his sword with him – there was no way he was going to leave the Ebony Blade next to an open door where anybody could just reach in and grab it. Once upstairs, he glanced into the room right next to the stairs, noting the pieces of armor and clothing that littered the floor with a fond smile; it seemed that Ria had never culled her bad habit of leaving stuff on the floor.

Then, he reached the master bedroom – his room. Closing the door and throwing his pack on the bed, he quickly joined it, his back hitting the straw mattress with a small bounce. Stretching, he grinned at the feeling – after an entire year of sleeping on the stone beds in High Hrothgar, the thin straw supported by wood felt like a cloud.

"Til los nid staad med hofkiin," he said. There's no place like home.

He got up again, taking the rolled up clothes inside his pack and setting them aside for now – they'd need to be washed and ironed later anyways, so there wasn't any point in storing them yet. In the meantime, he shrugged out of the Greybeard robe his teachers had bestowed to him, his basic leather armor soon following, leaving him bare-chested and showing his multiple scars to the world, including the patch of blackened veins leading to his heart. Removing his gauntlets, he bent down to remove his boots as well when the bedroom door burst open and he barely straightened in time to catch a blur in his arms.

A happy yell left Ria's mouth as Dremmus hugged her, picking her up and spinning her as he laughed with his adopted daughter. "You're back!" she cried. "Divines blessings, you're back! You're here!"

Dremmus grinned as he set her back on her feet, his eyes shining as he let her step out of his hug. "Well I certainly couldn't disappoint you after you asked so nicely in your last letter," he said. "Let me take a look at you… you're back to wearing your old armor?"

Ria blushed embarrassedly. "It's only for training," she argued. "I like the armor you made for me, but even Eorlund Gray-Mane has trouble repairing it when it gets damaged, so I only wear it when I'm taking up jobs!"

Dremmus grinned. "Well it helps that I'm the only person in all of Skyrim that can use dragon scales in forging," he said. "Still, I'm surprised that you can even damage the armor. Just what have you been fighting, Giants and Draugr Overlords?"

"That was one time!"

"No dragons?"

"No!" Ria pouted at her father. "You never let me."

"And with good reason," he said. "Even I have a little trouble with them, and I harvest their bodies for materials." He smiled at her. In truth, he wasn't worried for her, not overly, since he knew that she could take of herself – he trained her after all. Even so, there would always be a part of his heart and mind that would stress out whenever she fought. It only took one mistake to claim a life.

Ria, however, was smarter than most, he knew. The young imperial had been considered a warrior even before he met her when she was sixteen almost two years ago. After he'd joined the Companions and he began to train her, her skills and expertise in the blade had only grown by leaps and bounds. Even now he could see that she'd taken to his lessons well, since the one-sided dragon bone blade he'd also made for her was slung across her back, the handle sticking over her shoulder.

Ria returned his smile. "I know, father," she said. "I've been taking good care of the armor. It's served me well on bandit raids and hunting trips; not that I let myself get hit by anything. You've taught me well."

"And you've learnt even better," said Dremmus. "I'll look at your armor, look it over and see if it needs any repairs. And your sword?"

Ria grinned, reaching over her shoulder and drawing her sword from its sheath on her back. The blade was a pale brown, almost white in color with a rectangular crossguard made of solid ebony and a handle made of the same material, only wrapped in leather. It was slightly shorter than the common greatsword, the blade measuring at around twenty-five inches with a ten-inch handle, crossguard included. The difference that marked this blade from most, however, was in the blade itself – slightly curved with a single edge, it was remarkably reminiscent of the ancient Akaviri weaponry, with a handle long enough to balance out the weight when holding it with one hand while still having space left over for a second hand.

"As if you just gave it to me directly from the forge," said Ria as she held it in her hand, the low light reflecting off of the runic enchantment on the blade. "Firefang has served me well," she added.

"I'm glad," said Dremmus with a fond smile. Firefang had been one of his best creations, entirely the first of its kind, and perhaps the only one. He didn't make much weaponry out of dragon remains that often – the bones were too thick to manipulate and too liable to snap when thinned out, better serving as armor instead along with dragon scales, as his good friend Lydia Dragonskin could attest to. Firefang had been both a nightmare and a pleasure to create – he'd used the thinner bones found in the wing membranes of dragons to create its blade, and with a core of pure ebony metal (digging out the centerfold for that entitled most of the nightmare part) it was guaranteed that it would take a mighty blow for the blade to crack or even chip.

Not that it was designed for that purpose to begin with. Firefang was a Katana-style blade – made for quick, fast cuts that dug deep into flesh while keeping opponents away with its longer bite, pun intended.

Ria gave him a happy smile, but after a moment it vanished and Ria became serious. "Father," she said, "we need to talk."

Dremmus grimaced, motioning at the table and chairs in the bedroom. "The letters from Delphine and the Vigilants," he said as he sat down.

Ria nodded as she sheathed her sword before joining him. "I'm worried about the Vigilants," she said. "These vampire attacks… they're not equipped to deal with this kind of threat. With the amount of vampires that have been sighted recently, they can easily overwhelm the three- or two-man cells the Vigilants travel in."

"No offense to them, but the Vigilants are fools," refuted Dremmus. "I've spoken to some of their members; they're formed by some of the most close-minded people I've ever met. They hate college of Winterhold, just because of the Conjuration School and the lessons that are taught there on the basis of making deals with the Daedra, and yet, they love enchanting their armor and weaponry on the basis of keeping themselves safe while causing as much pain as they can to Daedra and Antronachs on the hope that they'll never come back to this world." He shook his head. "I once had to kill a Vigilant when I healed him because he didn't like how I healed him."

"You didn't use the Restoration School, right?"

"Nah, you know I can't use that to save my life," refuted the Dragonborn. "Still, the Vigilants have something that the people need – they can easily relate to the common worker or soldier since they were once a part of them before their current profession. They may not be equipped for this new threat, but they are necessary." Dremmus frowned, looking at the letter from Keeper Carcette, the leader of the Vigilants established here in Skyrim that Ria had enclosed in her own last letter. The yellowed paper was poking from a corner in his pack, its innocent exterior doing nothing to belly the danger contained within. "This crypt the Vigilants found, Dimhollow… the way that Carcette talks about it its like the tomb is nothing like we've ever dealt with before. Did you read the letter?"

Ria shook her head, so Dremmus continued talking, "She added a sketch of the tomb they found. It's located under a Nordic tomb, deep within the mountain, and the whole place reeks of magic, blood magic. According to her, the architecture is much different as well, and she's right – judging from the drawing, it's like comparing the flowing curves of a knife with the jagged edges of a saw. This tomb they found… it's older or from the same time of the Dragon Regime, there's no doubt about it, but even so they didn't dare explore too deep. They sealed the tomb, warded it as much as they could and set a watch day and night. And yet… she asked me directly for help to clear the place out."

"And will you?"

"I wasn't at first, but then she said that one of the diggers found a single word etched in one of the walls. That's when she pulled everyone out and sealed the place tighter than Nocturnal's coin purse. Whoever's buried there… they're related to a Clan that's more legend than the dragons, except look how they turned out."

Ria gave him a worried look. "Father… what was the word?"

Dremmus took a deep breath, taking a few moments before he spoke.

"Volkihar."

…ooOoo…

In the end, it was nearly two days before Dremmus felt ready enough to depart from the safety of Whiterun to go down chasing Draugr back to their tombs. There were meetings to be held, armor pieces to check, weapons to be sharpened before he could even think of stepping out of Whiterun. On top of that, he needed to check in with the various guilds he was a part of, get progress reports on projects and manage money and fire and hire people…

The novelties of being Skyrim's number one most wanted individual in the business. What business, you ask? All of them.

Okay, so maybe that was an exaggeration. Still, just the Thieves Guild alone had their hands stuck in pretty much anything that made income here in Skyrim, including the so-called Civil War. Even with their recent… trimmings, so to speak, both the Guild and the Dark Brotherhood had contacts everywhere, which meant sources of income everywhere as well. All of that had to be managed, had to be tallied down and accounted for, deals had to be made and jobs taken or refused depending on the risk/payout balance.

Thank the Divines for the Nightingales and Nazir. The day-to-day activities of their respective Guilds wouldn't be managed if he wasn't around to hold their hands. Those two groups were the most time-intensive in all of Skyrim, the Guild more so than the Brotherhood. Not even the College of Winterhold or the Companions of Jorvaskr required as much administration as those two, since the former was more of a research group and the latter a step away from a mercenary group. Tolfdir and Aela were more than capable of handling those.

And yet, while that was going on he also had to make sure he was well-equipped for his oncoming journey. And that didn't just mean himself.

"So, we'll head north," said Dremmus, "take the road that leads to the Weynon Stones and follow the road all the way north. Once we reach the Hall, you two will keep going on to Dawnstar, where a handful of Hands – pun intended – will be waiting to escort you to Windstad Manor. Once you're there, you know what to do."

Ria and Jenassa nodded, the former frowning as she did so. "I wish we didn't have to separate," she said. "I have a feeling…"

"About what?"

"I'm not sure," she said, "but I do know that it is the type of thing that Jarl Idgrod told me to keep an eye on. All I know is that this journey, whatever the destination, will mean many things for us. I only wish we didn't have to go through the mountains to get to the Manor…"

"Well, with Morthal overrun, we're better off taking the long way through Dawnstar. Even I wouldn't go through the Hjaalmarch marshes with the amount of vampires that are probably lurking around. Besides, the Hall of the Vigilants is on the way. The bigger the group, the better. Safety in numbers and all."

Ria nodded, and turning with Jenassa, proceeded to mount her horse, a grey mare of the same brood as Jenassa's own steed, the Dunmer doing the same. Turning west, Dremmus put his fingers into his mouth and let out a mighty whistle. A few seconds later, the sound of multiple horses galloping made itself known, only without the creatures themselves. Instead, a pool of shadows formed on the ground in front of Dremmus, and out of it leaped a dark reddish-brown, almost pitch-black steed with eyes that burned of hell-fire. The noble, terrifying creature reared, the earth trembling at its approach as Shadowmere turned to its master, inclining its head in servitude as it did so.

"Hello, old friend," said Dremmus, "Shall we ride?"

Minutes later, the group of three was riding at a full gallop towards the north, the air getting colder and colder as the followed the main road into the mountains. They soon made their way past Whitewatch Tower, the guards stationed there waving as they passed by. The leagues practically flew by, and by the time it was getting dark the group had reached the fork in the road just past the tomb of Korvanjund that split east towards Windhelm or west and then north towards Dawnstar.

"We can press on," said Dremmus, checking his map, "or we can turn east and spend the night at the Nightgate Inn. It's in the opposite direction of where we need to go, and we'd have to backtrack tomorrow morning, but it's the safest option I think. There's just no way that we'll reach the Hall of the Vigilant before nightfall."

Ria bit her lip nervously before nodding once. "It'll take us about an hour to reach the Inn," said Ria, "and the horses are tired. We need rest – let's head to the inn."

Dremmus nodded, rolling up his map and putting it back in his pack. "To the inn it is then. Yah!" he cried, and Shadowmere took off again, Ria and Jenassa hot on his heels on their own mounts as they headed down the road that led to Windhelm. It took longer than it should have to reach the Inn, but already their horses were tired from running the whole day and night had fallen quickly. Of course, Shadowmere could've kept going for weeks on end without food or drink or rest, but his companions' horses could not.

And yet, it was worth arriving at the inn. The innkeeper, Hadring, gave them news that put the group on their toes.

"Something's happened at the Hall of the Vigilants," he said, "there was a group of travelers that claim they've seen smoke up in the mountain. They thought it was coming from Fort Dunstad, but it seems that the Fort is fine. The only option…"

"Is the Hall," nodded Dremmus, grimacing at the possibilities. "Gods, and it's too late to go out there. With all the vampire attacks that have been going on…"

"Indeed," agreed the innkeeper. "I've been lucky that this inn is frequented by Stormcloaks. They're always keeping an eye out here, makes the place safe."

Dremmus nodded, knowing without having to turn his head of the group of soldiers huddled in the corner, keeping an eye on the Inn's door while enjoying their food and drink. "Yeah," he said, "Lucky." Dremmus then pulled out four gold coins. "Here's the gold for the rooms and the food," he said.

"Much obliged," said the innkeeper.

"Have the food sent to the rooms," he said. "Have a good night."

Dremmus then went to the room that Jenassa and Ria were sharing. He was in another room, the neighboring room to be exact, but the room his daughter and the mercenary were sharing was the only one in the inn with more than one bed, hence why it was more expensive.

"So what did he say?" asked Ria from her position on one of the beds. In the corner, sharpening her sword, was Jenassa, her eyes on the whetstone but her attention on what Dremmus would say.

The last Rahjoore sighed. "Nothing good," he said, proceeding to tell them about the Hall. "I know the guy, Hadring. If he thinks that something happened, something probably did."

"So then what do we do?"

Dremmus looked to the ceiling, closing his eyes. A few seconds later, he spoke. "Change of plans," he said. "We'll leave earlier tomorrow and head out for the Hall, together. I think that abandoning the Manor can wait until this situation is cleared up."

When he looked back, Ria was grinning and Jenassa had stopped sharpening her sword. Their agreement to the change of plans was not needed to be vocalized.

The next day, they fulfilled those plans. After waking in the wee hours of the morning, they left Nightgate inn without waking the owner or any of the other tenants, few as they were. Shadowmere and the two mares were right where they left them, so after quickly saddling them the group was off. Heading west, they moved at a quick gallop, passing the Waynon Stones and following the road north towards Fort Dunstad. It wasn't until they reached the fort in question that they finally saw some action, the bandits occupying the fort making the first move and attacking.

"I still can't get over how obviously stupid these people are," said Ria after they'd slain each bandit. "What goes through their heads when they see us? 'Oh look, those travelers have armor made of Dragon Scales and weapons made of dragon bones! I think we can take 'em boys!'"

Dremmus couldn't help but laugh. "Oh, stop complaining," he said, hooking the Ebony Blade, still in its sheath, back over his shoulder – he hadn't even needed to draw the blade, cracking skulls with just the sheathed sword. "You're just grumpy because we got up early today."

Ria grumbled, but didn't say anything to deny it. Next to her, Jenassa shared the Harbinger's amusement as she re-mounted her horse and moved on to scout while Father and Daughter looted the corpses.

"My lord!" she called upon her return a few minutes later, "Come quickly, you must see this!"

Taking in her serious expression, Dremmus abandoned the coin purse a marauder had tied to his belt (he'd collected the chief's gold already anyways) and quickly mounted Shadowmere, Ria doing the same.

"Yah!" Dremmus urged Shadowmere, and the immortal horse took off after Jenassa. The Rahjoores followed their hired mercenary up a path behind the Fort that led up the mountain. Less than a minute later, they came upon the sight of the Hall of the Vigilants.

Or rather, what was left of it.

"Akatosh preserve us," said Dremmus, dismounting Shadowmere and unslinging the Mephala's Ebony Blade from over his shoulder, holding it sheathed in his left hand as he moved towards the ruins of the Hall. Bodies littered the area, all bloodied but their equipment varying. Some, Dremmus noticed, had the tell-tale armor of bandits, but most of the bodies were in the typical garbs of the Vigilants – robes over steel-plated armor.

"Blades out," he said, "Move around, look for tracks. We won't find any survivors here. I'll… I'll be inside."

Hearing his companions follow his instructions, he moved towards the blackened door that led into the remains of the Hall. Opening, he looked around with an impassive eye at the destruction; part of the roof had caved in due to fire damage, and the various benches that had littered the area had been thrown around and broken in pieces, covering the evidence of more bodies of both Vigilants and bandits. Here, however, Dremmus found more damning pieces of evidence – ash piles, but with a more dusty aspect that that produced by fire. Apparently, for every Vigilant that went down, two vampires suffered the same fate. Dremmus glanced at the bandits, now knowing that they were in fact Thralls of the vampires, forced to do their bidding either willingly or unwillingly.

Dremmus moved into the room, his right hand ready to draw his sword at any second. He searched the bodies in the room, looking for anything that related to the letter Keeper Carcette had sent him. He also searched for the woman in question, but both of his searches were fruitless-

A rustle. Dremmus whirled, his sheathed sword flashing, and with a loud crack the vampire was battered away, its head snapping to the side from the force of the blow. Dremmus raised his left arm, still holding the sheathed sword, and slapped the upper part of the gauntlet that protected his arm. Two small wings emerged from the sides of the gauntlet, and after pulling on a hidden mechanism, he let go of the same. There was a sharp twang, and the female vampire fell, a small crossbow bolt lodged in her chest. The dagger it held in its hand fell to earth, the blackened edges revealing its poisoned nature. Dremmus scoffed, only to frown inquisitively as he spied the vampire's strange armor.

The creature's leather armor and trousers were colored an ashen grey, embroidered with dark threads that formed a pattern reminiscent of the folded wings of a bat. Its lines were flowing in a rather organic fashion, draping as a sort of mantle around the upper torso and down below the hips in a short skirt. Black, form-fitting pants and calf-high boots completed the vampires attire. None of that rubbed Dremmus the wrong way, though the sinister effect that the armor was supposed to emit was somewhat over-glorified and exaggerated. What really made Dremmus' head shake in disbelief was the top of a pair of generously-sized, deathly pale breasts, perfectly exposed for all to see, or lodge a crossbow arrow into, as he'd just done.

Now that's just wrong, he thought, looking at the armor in amusement. Folding the small crossbow back into the hidden compartment in his left gauntlet, he crouched next to the cool carcass, curious about the strange armor. It was not leather, as he first thought, but rather a flexible, quite resilient material that was not made of the hide of any animal the Dragonborn knew of. Clearly, it was made to take unimpeded advantage of its' wearer's agility rather than bear the full brunt of an attack.

Eyes narrowing, Dremmus stood up once more and cast his gaze around, confirming his suspicions – there were more sets of armor lying around in here, all filled with vampire dust remains. This made him worry; if the vampire's armor had been unique, he would have probably taken it off and used the materials in something else, robbing the dead of its modesty be damned, but the presence of more of these carcasses with the same type of armor meant one thing – uniforms. And uniforms meant cohesion, teamwork, servitude. It meant a group, and a large one, if the unprecedented attack on the Hall was any indication.

"Father!" Dremmus looked up at the sound of Ria calling him, "You might want to come see this!"

"Be right there!" he called back. Glancing one last time at the corpse, he reached down, gripped the head, and twisted.

There was no such thing as overkill, after all.

What Ria had found had turned out to be a set of tracks leading west, up towards the mountain next to that which the Vigilants had built their Hall on. Relatively fresh, so to speak, they were able to follow them all the way up the mountain, Dremmus thanking Nocturnal for having no snow from the previous night cover the tracks and erase any chances of discovering the perpetrators.

Having tied Ria's and Jenassa's horses to Shadowmere's saddle, Dremmus had whispered to the immortal horse to lead them to safety, and the black steed had gone with the horses, leaving their owners on foot, as was necessary. Once that was done, they'd departed up the shadow of the mountain.

It took almost half a day to finally find the entrance to the crypt they were unknowingly looking for.

"Dimhollow Crypt," said Jenassa. "I expected more," she added upon sighting the crack in the stone mountain that signified the entrance to the cave.

"What did you expect, a doormat?" said Dremmus. "Come on, day's a-wasting, and I for one don't want to fight vampires at night. Get your lanterns ready and charge your swords, we're going to need them."

The two women nodded, grabbing soul gems from their small packs and running them across the blades of their weapons. As they did so, pieces of the gems would flake off and disintegrate, charging the runes on the swords that powered the enchantments, until the gems had disintegrated completely and the runes shined brightly with power.

Dremmus for his part, grabbed the lantern hanging from his belt, opened it, and held it in front of his face after checking it had enough whale oil inside. "Yol," he whispered, and the small flame that emerged from his mouth was enough to light the small wicker. Glancing at his companions, who were preparing their own lanterns, he held out his so that they could light theirs. Soon after that, they were ready, loaded with potions from Arcadia's Cauldron and their way lit by the small lanterns.

Prayers said, blades ready, lighting guiding their way, they made their way into the darkness of Dimhollow Crypt, not knowing or even suspecting how their paths would change from that point on.

…ooOoo…