I didn't know the rift housecarl was called Iona until just now :L It made me giggle.
And no reviews on the last chapter? Harsh guys :p
Peryite, also known as the Taskmaster, is the Daedric Prince whose sphere is the ordering of the lowest orders of Oblivion. Some accounts also claim his sphere is pestilence. Peryite's statue depicts a four legged dragon, and is ostensibly concerned with ensuring all things are accounted for, neat, tidy and in their right order.
Iona headed through the ruins to what had once been her room, reaching under the bed and drawing out the box that had contained the black sacrament armour for so long. It opened easily, the magic that had kept it closed breaking with that of the blade of woe – that of the Night Mother. Inside was the scale armour, as she had left it the day she joined the Falkreath sanctuary. Shivering a little in the empty caverns, she put it on, also taking the Nightingale Blade from a scorched stand by one wall. The enchanted blade was undamaged, however, so she fixed it to her belt and headed out of the cave, towards Falkreath.
She paid the same driver to take her to Markarth, knowing it was unlikely that anyone who could recognise her would be walking the streets, but fell unconscious before they reached the city walls. When she awoke, she was lying in the Temple of Dibella, her side covered in dried potion. The green tinge to the solid film told her that a cure disease potion had been used at some point, meaning the wound must have become infected. Idly, she wondered how long she'd been asleep.
She sat up, watching as flakes of the greenish film fell to the floor. Her armour was laid out on the other side of the room, along with some plain clothes. She put these on and took the carefully folded armour under one arm. The small pouch she had been wearing at her hip was also there, so on her way out she spoke with one of the Priestess, and donated a hundred Septims.
It was only when she was outside that she realised she didn't have anywhere to go. She couldn't go back to the Companions, not with Vilkas there. Even thinking about him was enough to stir the assassin within, and now that she finally seemed to have a handle upon herself this was the last thing she wanted. This meant she couldn't return to Winterhold either, for Lydia would certainly hear of that and besides, she assumed they would have a new Arch Mage by now, and would know that their previous leader had been the Dragonborn – Mirabelle would have told them when her successor was elected.
That left Riften. She wondered if a new Guildmaster had been chosen for a moment, and then dismissed the fact. Karliah would know she was alive, for she was living in Nightingale Hall, and while she did not talk with Nocturnal often, she would have been contacted for something as huge as the death of a Nightingale.
The more Iona thought about it, the more she liked the idea of relocating to Riften as a permanent measure. There was anonymity in the guild, a sense of family, and no questions asked. She would head first, then, to the Twilight Sepulchre, from where she could move directly to Nightingale Hall and reclaim the armour that was her gift from the goddess.
Goddess. One more immortal being to appease, although how she was supposed to appease a deadra she was already sworn to through the entirety of her life and a large chunk of the afterlife she did not know. Shaking her head slightly, she turned towards the city gates. Her side twinged a little, but it was an old wound now, looking like one long healed.
It was an uneventful journey to the Sepulchre, and she met with nothing more sinister than a Sabrecat. The memories swirling in her mind made the fighting easy – the quick, sharp moves of an assassin mixed with the sold, practised moves of a warrior – and the beast died quickly. She did not linger in the Sepulchre, but headed straight through the portal to Nightingale Hall.
It was much changed since her last visit, the rotten furniture replaced with richer items no doubt paid for by Karliah's work in Riften and the other cities of the hold. Karliah was clearly out, for Iona met no one as she headed towards the armour stones. Stripping of the Dragon Scales and stowing them in one of the many packs around the hall, she prayed briefly before the centre stone and felt the familiar rush of the nightingale armour form around her body. She raised the hood and adjusted the position of the cowl slightly before turning from the stones and heading to the exit. Tiredness weighed down on her as she made her way down to the city.
As the city walls came into view, she started to relax a little, wishing she had something to show the guild for her months of absence. She stopped dead, however, when she heard something roar and saw a jet of flames from te other side of the city.
Dragon.
She was running before she even knew what she was doing, racing about the city. She stopped, clutching her still tender side and panting for breath, just out of sight of the city guards.
Not just a dragon. There were three, two tethered down with thick cords of dark leather, the third breaking free as she watched. Even as she stood there dithering, one of the guards was caught by the beasts tail and sent flying, crashing into the wall. For a brief moment, Iona slipped into a vision, although this time it was different to the others. This time she saw one of her own memories, watched again as the dragon killed Farkas. Before the vision had ended her hand was upon her blade, drawing it out as she ran forward. Others from the city had come to aid in trying to kill and restrain the dragon once more – she spotted Bryjolf, Saphir and Rune amongst others.
The dragon – an elder dragon, she was sure of it – was beginning to stretch its wings, preparing to lift itself into the air, preparing to escape… or to fight.
Either way, Iona thought, that wasn't something she was going to let it do. The shout built in her chest, and she unleashed it when she could no longer contain the power. "JOOR ZAH FRUL!" The dragon screeched, struck by mortality, snapping wildly at anyone within reach. People were fighting, but also looking to see who had shouted – "Where's the Dragonborn?" They were shouting, for no one else knew the Dragonrend shout. Only Brynjolf's eyes lingered on Iona longer than might be considered usual in the circumstances.
She roared as she charged, the memories of the Dunmer fighter taking over her once more, her arms moving with the fluidity of far more practise than she had ever done herself. The dragon began to concentrate upon her, recognising her Voice, roaring his displeasure. The other two dragons Shouted from where they had been pinned down, and Iona saw Mjoll run to one of them, leaping upon its back and running up its neck, plunging her sword into its eye.
Had Iona not been there, the thing would just have died, but before everyone's eyes the scales upon the dragon's back began to burn, slowly flying up into the air as she took the soul.
She didn't see the other pinned dragon die, but she felt the soul. This took only a matter of seconds, but already the elder dragon was beginning to break free of dragonrend's hold. "JOOR!" she Shouted once more, renewing the Shout and pinning the beast down. Looking up, Iona saw Mjoll upon the creature's back, and only just had time to shout a warning before it bucked and she lost her footing, sliding to the ground and rolling away, thankfully unhurt. Clambering on top of a restrained dragon was one thing, climbing on top of one pinned down by dragon rend was a little more difficult as there was more flexibility, more movement allowed. Essentially, the creature was pinned down by the realisation of its own mortality, and could move if it conquered that. Iona had never seen a beast that strong, however, not even Alduin himself. She ducked as the dragon bit at her, rolling under its head and turning, thrusting her sword up. The thing roared, but the blow wasn't a fatal one, piercing only the lower jaw. She yanked her sword free and scrambled away, eyes fixed on the dragon's eyes. It was dying, she was certain, weakened by blood loss and despairing in the realisation that it would not win.
"TIID KLO UL!" she Shouted, time slowing around her. She ran forward and raised her sword, plunging it down into the Dragon's eye before it could react. Its dying cry was distorted by the time difference, but still she felt a strange, keening sadness for the creature before her, its life so brutally snuffed out.
An orc – just a chef, no one threatening, no one who'd ever done anything wrong in his life, just in the wrong place at the wrong time – killed easily by a blade to the back. A young soldier, eager in his duties, ready to serve and loyal, killed as a distraction and framed as a traitor.
"Tick, tick, tick," Iona whispered to herself as time re-righted itself around her and the dragon's soul sped towards her. Tick, tick, tick.
"Dragonborn," someone whispered, awe in their voice. Then the cheering started. Iona blinked, almost surprised to find herself surrounded by so many people. Panic rose in her and she pushed them aside, forced her way roughly through their ranks and into Riften, the shadowcloak of Nocturnal forming around her once she was inside, hiding her from their sight. She ran through the city, to the secret entrance to the Cistern and to the bed she called her own, hidden from sight by a thin screen. She lowered her hood and pulled off the cowl, needing to breath, throwing them down the side of the bed.
"This not the only gig you hide your face for lass?" Brynjolf asked, walking into sight and leaning casually against the wall.
"I guess not," she said, shrugging.
"Any particular reason you've been away so long?" Iona flinched, hearing the accusation in his voice. How many attacks had there been, she wondered, while she was away playing assassin. How many people had died because she couldn't control her memories of a centuries dead listener?
"We've had those three for about two weeks now," Brynjolf went on. "Probably could have had them another three weeks if they hadn't all woken up together."
"The other holds?" she asked, not sure if she wanted to hear the answer. How had she not seen this?
"Most of the towns have escaped attack – Falkreath, Dawnstar, but also Solitude and Markarth. We've heard of some up in Winterhold and Windhelm though, and a couple in Whiterun. The whole of Skyrim thinks you're dead lass."
"Or they did at least," she said, managing a half-hearted smile. Brynjolf nodded and left her alone behind the screen. She sighed and lay back against the pillow, staring at the damp ceiling of the cistern.
"So, looks like you've finally got a grip on something at least." She started and sat up, finding herself face to face with a dragon. It was small enough to perch on the bed post, and its proportions were slightly different to those she had fought and killed. This one was longer and thinner in the body and head, with larger wings. "Peryite," the thing said, by way of an introduction, it's voice ridiculously deep for a creature so small. "Did you have to come down here? I hate being in such a… compact form.
"What do you want?" she asked, her voice harsh.
"Oh I'm just here to deliver a message."
"So get on with it then."
"I will, I will. I, the taskmaster, am appeased." His tail flicked down against the bed post, leaving a small gouge in the wood.
"Why?"
"Because this is your task, your path in life. You're beginning to see that, so you have my blessing."
"And have I done this the right way?" she asked. There was tension in her voice and the muscles of her face as she looked at the creature, who seemed to be pondering his answer.
"I would say you have done it the way that will most appease the divines, if that is what you mean. Boethiah will be furious - she is determined to have you with us, you know."
"What does any of this even mean? Is there any point to these tests at all?"
"Well of course there's a point." Peryite thwacked his tail against the bed again, noticeably agitated.
"So what is it?"
"To see where you belong." He spoke as though his meaning was obvious, but Iona was just as clueless as before. The dragon sighed and elaborated. "There are three paths before you," he said slowly. "The first, you die without the tasks fulfilled, and the whole things starts again; new life, new tasks. This is the one everyone is trying to avoid, you see."
"And the other two?"
"Well there's the dissonance. War and governance, or assassination and shadows? These are the options available to you, and your performance in the tasks determines where you end up."
"I don't…"
"It's truly not that complicated. Will you be an aspect of Boethiah, or something more? For now, Peryite is appeased, and the trials continue. There are those among the deadra who would like to see you go on to bigger things, and those that do not. Appease them as you see fit, appease the divines as well, and all will be decided in the final trial." Iona blinked, and the tiny dragon was gone, leaving her alone once again, with the slow drip of water the only sound. Her pack lay, slightly scorched, to one side of the bed, the dragonscales just visible through a hole in the cover flap. The duties of the Dragonborn was not letting her go. Now that she was herself again it ha dreared its ugly head and reminded her who she was, and what she could do, what she had to do.
She wondered how many people there were in Skyrim who knew her identity now. Before the Kingsmoot, there had been very few – the blades, her housecarls, Jarl Balgruuf and Irileth. Most of the thieves guild would work it out soon, and the College of Winterhold would certainly know. How many of the companions had been told by now? Was there even any point in wearing the mask anymore? Surely word would come out sooner or later, and she knew that when it happened she wanted it to happen on her own terms. Sighing, she changed once more, shedding the Nightingale armour and replacing it with the dragonscales, folding the spare set and sliding it beneath the pillow.
People did a double take as she emerged into the cistern, staring at the armour and whispering to each other. Dragonborn. She heard the word as she approached the exit, but didn't turn around. Riften was buzzing with the news that the Dragonborn lived, but still Iona garnered only a few glances. She was wearing different armour than when they had seen the Dragonborn, no matter how impressive it was. She headed to Honeyside and let herself it, striding past a gaping housecarl towards the trapdoor.
She emerged from Hjerim moments later, trailing a dumbfounded Calder and Iona. She had never travelled anywhere particular with either of them. She had simply never really got on with Calder all that well, and Iona had only become her housecarl a few short weeks before the Kingsmoot (and Lydia had made plenty of jokes about their names in that time as it was).
Ignoring them both, Iona strode through the city and out the gates. They were pinned down at the other side of the bridge; two dragons, dead for now, but not for long.
Guards tried to stop her from getting too near the creatures, but she ignored them, drawing her sword, she moved to the head of the first dragon. She ran a hand over its brow in order to wake it before ending its life quickly, efficiently and permanently. Even before the soul had begun to move, she had done the same to the second dragon and was halfway to the stable before she felt the power of the souls embrace her.
She was looking at the horse for sale when a whinny from the other side of the paddock caught her attention. A black horse was standing there, it's pale eyes upon her. She moved across and patted the creatures neck, a strange familiarity rising in her. She looked at the saddle and her heart stopped for a moment when she saw the black hand.
"Shadowmere?" she took a step back and examined the horse. She didn't look the same, her eyes were no longer red, and her body was perhaps a little smaller than it had been. The supernatural force that had kept her going for so long had dissipated with the destruction of the night mother, leaving behind the horse as she had once been. Iona removed the saddle and purchased a new one to replace it with before mounting the horse and turning her towards Winterhold.
She didn't know if either Iona or Calder had followed her from Windhelm, but she couldn't see or hear them behind her. She rode without a break to Winterhold, and saw the sleeping dragon as soon as she rounded the bend to what was left of the city.
It was not dead, but asleep, with a number of mages sitting around it, casting calming spells from time to time. Iona barely glanced at them as she dismounted, drew her sword and killed the dragon. She stepped back and listened to the gasps and exclamations as the scales began to burn. She turned to one of the wizards, and smiled a little when she recognised Tolfdir. "Well I can't say I'm too upset to see you," he said, smiling. The calming spells were still effecting him, Iona realised, grinning a little at the glazed look on his face.
"Shall we go up to the College?" she asked, turning away from what was nearly a skeleton, briefly closing her eyes as she absorbed the dragon soul. Tolfdir lead the way as Iona and the other wizards followed him through the town and into the college. As they approached the courtyard, the calming spell began to wear off, and those around her began to mutter amongst themselves. The Arch-mage had returned and had just proved beyond all doubt that she was the Dragonborn. This they would be gossiping about for some time yet.
Tolfdir lead her straight up to the Arch-mage's chamber, where Iona was surprised to find a small gathering of College members. As they entered, Mirabelle rose from her seat, shock written across her face. "Iona," she said at last, "You're alive?"
"Just about," she said, shrugging a little. "Sorry to disappoint."
"Oh quite the opposite," Tolfdir assured her, settling himself into an empty seat. "Choosing a new Arch-mage would have been a tricky business."
"That was why we had gathered here today," Faralda explained, leaning back and appraising Iona. "You look like you've been through hell." Iona raised a hand to her face, feeling the scars from the Silver Hand claws and her fight with Hircine. She had almost forgotten they were there.
"Something like that," she agreed. Her head ached a little and she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. Tick, tick, tick. She said inside her head. Tick, tick, tick. For a brief second she could see Sheogorath grinning at her from across the table, the metronome by his side ticking away. Tick, tick, tick. She opened her eyes and was in the college once more. The others were chatting amongst themselves, only Tolfdir and Mirabelle looking at her.
After a few minutes, Mirabelle ushered the others out, leaving just the three of them in the room. Of all the people at the college, Mirabelle and Tolfdir were the two she knew best. They had helped her to acclimatise to her position as Arch-Mage, had made it possible for her to continue her travel across Skyrim whilst also completing the duties expected of her.
"Start at the beginning," Mirabelle said simply. So Iona did. She told them everything that had happened since the day of the Kingsmoot, without leaving any of it out. She watched as their faces changed from surprise, to distress, to horror and finally to pity.
"Can I see the ring?" Mirabelle asked at last. Iona held out her hand, the ring glinting in the pale light shining through the windows. Mirabelle stood and moved to a bookcase, pulling down one of many volumes Iona had never even glanced at. She opened it and flicked through it for a moment before finding the page she was after. "This is a copy of drawing of the ring by the Nerevarine," she explained, "The original is downstairs, and it's said he drew it shortly after his defeat of Dagoth Ur."
"Before the alcohol took over," Iona nodded. "I remember."
"Alcohol?" Tolfdir asked, slightly bemused.
"He was a drunk," Iona said shortly. "He couldn't cope with the attention of a hero, and the demands made upon him. He turned to drink, then drugs and finally died alone and without friends a long way from home." There was a moment of silence before Mirabelle spoke again.
"So you don't have any idea what Peryite was referring to?"
"Nope," Iona said, shaking her head. "Just that it's better than becoming an aspect of Boethiah." She was about to say more when some noise from outside caught her attention. There was a commotion of some sort at the gate. She pushed herself from the wall against which she had been leaning and moved to see what it was about.
Of course, she thought to herself when she saw what was happening. She excused herself from Mirabelle and Tolfdir, moving into her bedroom (not that she actually slept in it much), rooting in the wardrobe until she found what she was after. She stripped her armour and replaced it with the Arch-mage's robes before heading down to the courtyard. She nodded to J'zargo as she passed, smiling a little at the gaping expression on his face, and moved to the gate.
"What seems to be the problem Faralda?" she asked, deliberately not looking at the woman standing on the other side of the gate.
"This woman claims to know you Arch-mage," Faralda explained.
"She does," Iona nodded. "I will talk with her outside the college." Faralda nodded and Iona passed through. She distinctly heard Faralda slam the gate shut behind her and smiled a little. They walked down to Winterhold in silence and when her companion tried to speak, Iona held up a hand, waiting until they had past the bones of the dragon to turn to her. She leant back against a snow covered rock and waited.