From the stern of the Foul Weather Friend, Wyn watched the sun peek up and out of the glassy ocean. This had always been her favorite part of the day, maybe it was because of her last name, Dawnrider, or maybe it was because she always liked new beginnings. The ocean was placid and the sky, crystal clear. It's going to be a beautiful day, at least weather wise, she told herself. She looked very different from when she was in Velyn Harbor. Her long auburn hair, now had a jagged streak of silver in the middle of it, about as thick as a finger, and her face had aged some, with wrinkles around her lustrous, green eyes.

She recalled the events of Velyn Harbor, and her emotions ran the gamut. On one hand, she was pleased. The stories of the dashing Lieutenant Dorner and his men repelling the invading orcs were already spreading throughout Tamriel, and rightly so. As soon as the orc army lost Colonel Yadba, they fell into disarray, prompting the lieutenant to lead his men straight into the teeth of the orc line. Seizing the moment, the harbor defenders were able to force the orcs into a hasty retreat. It was the stuff of legend.

But Wyn's happiness was also tempered by witnessing so much destruction, and she was tired of it. Her father always told her that there were only two types of creatures in the world, builders and breakers, and he was right. Experience showed her that creating something of value often required years of hard work, while destroying it usually took only a few hours. No wonder there seemed to be more breakers than builders out there. It just wasn't fair. But she knew one thing for certain…she was a builder, a mender, a healer. If she couldn't make the world even a little bit better, than what was the point of living at all?

In Velyn Harbor, Wyn was the first person to reach Ragna, or what was left of him, and he was a hideous sight. She had to bite her tongue to keep from heaving. Two-thirds of the flesh on his face, shoulders and arms was burned, and in a few spots, his flesh had melted right down to the bone. Everyone agreed that the man was dead, he had stopped breathing and had no pulse. But Wyn refused to accept such facts; she could be stubborn when she wanted to. For the next fifteen minutes, she stood over Ragna's corpse and performed the ultimate skill of the healer known as "Rite of Passage." Standing with her head bowed and hands clasped together, a multitude of threadlike streams of light emanated from her body. She looked like a firecracker on Heart's Day. There were only a few healers in Tamriel who even knew how to perform this most ancient of skills, and when done properly, it would channel the very will of the gods.

Maybe someone, somewhere, liked Ragna after all, for not long after Wyn finished the ritual, his heart started beating again. But like most good things in life, such a heal came with a price. Wyn would age almost ten years overnight. And the chances of her ever performing such a resurrection again, would be small at best.

For the next several days, Ragna would require twenty-four-hour a day care. Thankfully, once his vitals stabilized, Master agreed to accompany the group on their boat ride, so that she and Wyn could continue caring for him in shifts.

Wyn turned her attention back to the ocean, where a pod of dolphins, she counted four of them, were playing in the ship's wake. She smiled. There will be no requiem for Ragna. Not yet, anyway.

Dressed in an immaculate navy and gold captain's uniform, Kirkley approached Wyn. "Good morning. You're an early riser." He sniffed the salt air like a wolfhound.

Wyn nodded. "It's the best time to meditate."

Kirkley replied. "Ahh…I hope I'm not interrupting, then?"

"Oh no. I just finished."

Kirkley offered her a mug filled with pink, steaming liquid. "Very good. How about a cup of tea?"

Wyn grabbed the mug with both hands and took in the aroma. "Pink Profundity, one of my favorites. Thank you, kind Sir."

Kirkley motioned to a crewmember who was repairing a length of rope. "Sailor. Tell the boatswain to meet me on the quarterdeck, pronto."
The sailor saluted, and then departed.

Kirkley studied Wyn's face for a moment. "I'm worried, Wyn. It's been five days, and Ragna still hasn't regained consciousness."

Wyn took a long, deliberate sip of her tea before replying. "I wouldn't worry about that just yet. It's not unusual for someone with severe wounds to fall into a catatonic state. I believe it actually promotes the healing process. Plus, he's already shown signs of waking up. His eyes open for brief periods and there's been movement in his hands and toes."

Kirkley looked relieved. "I certainly hope you're right. Is there any way to tell if he's suffered any damage to his brain? I pray we haven't resurrected a monster."

Wyn pressed her mouth into a frown. "No way of telling. However, there's no doubt about one thing…he's going to look like a monster, let's just hope he doesn't act like one."

"Poor chap. There's nothing that can be done about his appearance?"

Wyn suddenly felt depressed. "No, I'm afraid not. I'm a healer, not a miracle worker."

Kirkley twirled one end of his mustache. "Well, I was thinking…I have the pelt and head of a great snow bear in my chambers, a trophy from one of my hunting trips. Maybe that could be fashioned into a mask of sorts. Do you think he would wear it?"

Wyn shrugged, "I don't know." She turned her attention back to the ocean, but the dolphins were no longer there.


The young orc was in his mid-twenties, and stood eight feet tall, which even by orc standards, was huge. Thick and powerful muscles covered his towering frame. His head and face were clean-shaven, giving him a chiseled, martial look. Typical for his race, his chin jut out like a spear, and his large nose was wide and flat with flared nostrils. He wore a simple deerskin tunic with sandals, but extravagant, gem-encrusted jewelry dangled from his neck, ears and nose. He leaned his huge hand against the grimy stonewall of the prison cell, and watched as the Dungeon Master of High Rock, nicknamed, "The Artful Carver," worked.

The Artful Carver was also an orc, but unlike the one who was watching him, he was old, thin and on the smallish side for an orc. But like all great artists, The Artful Carver was passionate when it came to his work, and his focus was razor sharp. He took a step back from his latest victim, so he could better reflect on his masterpiece. This particular victim happened to be a middle-aged, high elf female with short brown hair. She was bound face down to a wooden post, naked from the waist up, and limp as a rag. Apparently, she had passed-out due to the extreme pain and duress she was under. However, The Artful Carver checked her pulse to make sure she was still alive. "Gah! No die, ye skinny whore!" he growled. Across her back, he had used a woodworker's chisel to gouge out the outline of a bloody butterfly. In the middle of the insect, the words: "Witch SERANO: Enemy to the Orcish Horde," were burned into her flesh with a hot iron. The dungeon master turned to the young orc, looking for a sign of approval, but none came, so the old orc gathered up his courage, and said, "What say ye, Sire? Me…me think's to cut deeper, zug-zug?"

Growing impatient, the young orc bellowed, "Kagh! By yer puny head, yes! But be sure you revive the useless flower before you continue!" He grabbed the dungeon master by the throat, and easily lifted him high into the air. "What good is suffering, if not fully felt?" The young orc dropped the old one back to the ground.

The Artful Carver bowed as he gasped for air. "Aye, King Kurog! Dabu! Dabu…" The old orc grabbed a wooden bucket, and quickly doused Mage Serano with cold water several times, until she finally woke up.


From a tall keep perched in the mountains of High Rock, King Kurog starred out the window of his private chambers down into the dark valley that stretched out before him. Even though it was well past midnight, the moon provided enough illumination for him to catch a glimpse of several harpies sailing above the treetops below. The squeals and cackles of these half-woman, half-avian creatures echoed against the distant rock face. He enjoyed listening to the sounds of all the strange beasts that lived in his wilderness, but tonight his mind was troubled and distracted. His prize prisoner, the great mage, Gadsi Serano was not cooperating in the least. She had not divulged any information about the Dominion's new encryption method, and the dungeon master had already tortured her to within an inch of her life. Could the mage be using a potion to dull her senses? Nonsense, The Artful Carver always made sure to "sweat out" anything his victims may have ingested long before starting the torture process.

King Kurog decided it was time to speak with Elontra. He crossed to the other side of his chambers, reached into a jar filled with murky liquid, and pulled out a gargoyle tongue, ashen grey and rubbery. He played with the tongue for a moment, then tossed it into a burning brazier in the middle of the room. It wasn't long before the tongue turned the yellow flames of the fire into a deep purple. The King blew into the fire and whispered, "Elontra, dark-ishi rider!"

Nearly two hundred miles away in a bordello in the thieves' district of Hew's Bane, Elontra rolled over onto her back. Even though she was half-asleep it was easy to tell she looked very much like her sister Elonwyn, albeit a much leaner, and less voluptuous version of her twin. The only other major differences were that her hair was black, cut very short and odd looking tattoos covered both of her arms. Upon closer inspection, one could see that the black ink on her arms formed a spiral chain of fractal curves, planets and triangles, all linked together by hundreds of words inscribed in tiny letters of the Daedric alphabet.

Elontra lay in her massive-sized bed, completely in the nude and without any sheets or covers over her. All around her were other nude, intertwined bodies, in various states of sleep. Exactly how large her bed was, or how many bedmates she had was hard to tell. The only common denominator among them was that they were all young. There were males, females, Bretons, Nords, even elves of several varieties; it made no difference to her. She was an equal opportunity lover. Scented candles lined three sides of the bed, (after all, what good was sex, if you couldn't see what you were doing)? And a set of trapeze bars, belts and other strange contraptions hung down from the ceiling. The remnants of dried skooma burned in a bowl, filling the room with a faint, orange haze.

Elontra, dark-ishi rider!

Elontra lifted her head off her satin pillow and glanced over at her destruction staff which was propped up in one corner of her boudoir. The large crytal orb on the end of the staff glowed with a brilliant, purple light. "Bright moons! Really? At this hour?" she whined. She crawled over several of her bedfellows, grabbed the staff and stumbled into an adjacent room.

She looked into the crystal and could see a blurry image of King Kurog's face. She splashed rose water from a basin on her face and let it run down her naked body, all the way to her crimson toenails. Then she whispered into the crystal orb, "Hail, and Aka'Magosh to the one they call the Big Bear. By chance, this couldn't wait til day break?"

King Kurog grunted. "Time waits for none, even Kings."

"Zug-zug." Elontra replied. Then she gently twisted one of the gold rings that pierced her nipples. "Too bad you can only hear me, you might like what you see..." she flirted.

"Enough with the foolishness," King Kurog snapped. "I need you here, now. The mage is proving hard to break, harder than expected. I underestimated the strength of the flower bloods. It's time we resort to your mind-games."

Elontra smiled. "Ah, it will be my pleasure to do so, your Highness. But, first I must take care of some unfinished business here. You will be happy to learn…that as I promised, your old friend, the traitorous Haygar Little Feet has made his way here, to my humble abode.

For the first time, King Kurog smiled. "By my axe! Why have you not spoken of this sooner?"

"It was only yesterday that he arrived. And I wanted to make sure everything was in place before we spoke, O' wise one." She snickered. "Little Feet's grown a beard and taken to wearing a floppy hat since you've last seen him…a pathetic attempt to disguise himself!"

King Kurog couldn't help but laugh. "Kek! What a pathetic sight he must be."

Elontra continued, "I told you my powers of persuasion were strong, did I not? He arrived here looking like a long, lost puppy. Even now, he's downstairs in one of my guest rooms, enjoying the company of one of my girls. And have no fear, he will be under constant surveillance. By the way, my girls tell me that having small feet is not his only problem."

King Kurog laughed again. "Some claim his mother was a reptile!" Then his face turned deadly serious. "Bring me his head in a bucket of pickled slime. His body, do as you please with!"

"Ah, you are too kind. Delivering his head to you, will be my honor. But be patient, young King. For my news, gets even better. Soon we will be able to slay two enemies with one stone."

King Kurog was getting impatient. "Go on…"

"Last night Little Feet sent word to the Dominion by carrier bird, letting them know of his whereabouts. That message, I believe will be delivered to my own, dear sister, Wyn."

King Kurog's eyes grew large. "What!?"

"Yes, she has come out of hiding. She was stupid enough to perform the ancient Rite of Passage during the Velyn Harbor battle. Why, I could sense her vibrations all the way from here! And even better, she will not be back to her full strength for several weeks yet."

King Kurog pounded his fists together, waking his pet bear cubs that were sleeping in one corner of his room. "Bowels of the giant! This is good news, but don't delay. Little Feet knows much about my security here at old Orsinium and those secrets must die with him."

Elontra smirked. "And so it shall be, your Highness."