[A/N] ...I realized that I'm not going to have any time to write this weekend (curse you, set construction... and essays for AP classes), so here's another early chapter. They're coming a little easier now that I'm writing quest-based things, but not by much. :)
[DISCLAIMER] I do not own The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim or anything related to it; that's Bethesda's deal, not mine (sadly). However, Ronan Sorleigh, Kajsa Red-Blade, and Finverior are my original characters, and they belong to me.
CHAPTER XIII – Lost and Found
Dimhollow Crypt was neither colder nor warmer than the world outside, but at the very least, the effects of the wind were significantly lessened; despite the fact that he was chilled to the bone from the heavy, wet snow falling on him throughout his journey north, Ronan was grateful that the storm's gales were not making that worse. Much more than once, he'd found himself thanking his good sense for telling him to buy a fur cloak before he left for Skyrim. I don't know how Nords can live here, let alone people of other races.
The storm hadn't helped him much as far as finding the cave was concerned; the Breton was nearly positive that he'd been lost far before it started snowing. But after trekking all over the northern side of the mountains with his map out (and attempting to shield it from the ravages of the weather), he'd hit upon a steep path that'd led him here. Unlike the other caves he'd come across, there'd been a lit lantern outside – perhaps indicating that someone was still inside? he'd thought with a shiver. After checking his map once again, it had been confirmed: this was indeed Dimhollow Crypt.
The ground by the entrance of the cave was still covered in a light layer of snow, and his frozen feet protested as he continued up the slight incline, barely making a sound. Ronan examined the snow for footprints and was not long in finding a second, larger set. Tolan? Or a vampire?
"Those Vigilants never know when to give up," came a raspy voice from not far off. "I thought we taught them enough of a lesson at their hall."
His breath stopping in his throat, the Breton pressed himself against the cave wall and prayed that he was out of sight of whatever was up ahead.
"To come in here alone... a fool like all the rest of them," another, lower voice agreed.
Ronan's eyes flitted towards the footprints – Tolan's footprints – again. He got here before I did... but he did not wait. He swallowed.
"He fought well, though," the first vampire continued, almost conversationally. "Jeron and Bresoth were no match for him."
"The better for us," the second countered. "Their arrogance had become insufferable."
"All this talk is making me thirsty. Perhaps another Vigilant will wander in soon," the first mused with a sinister chuckle.
"I wish Lokil would hurry it up," the second vampire said scathingly. "I have half a mind to return to the castle and tell Harkon what a fool he's entrusted this mission to."
"And I have half a mind to tell Lokil of your disloyalty," the other threatened.
"You wouldn't dare," the second hissed. "Now shut up and keep on watch."
Heart pounding, Ronan closed his eyes and tried to think. Now he knew for a fact that the vampires were still here, looking for something – and Tolan was dead. He was alone and virtually stranded, and as much as he wanted to, he couldn't go back to Fort Dawnguard and just lie to Isran about Dimhollow – even though I'd probably be capable of that, he thought sourly.
But his one clear option was apparent. All that remained was to execute it.
Crouching down, the Breton crept up to the mouth of the tunnel and peered beyond. The main cavern was wide and low-ceilinged, with natural rock formations rising from the ground and acting as pillars of a sort. Craggy outcroppings covered in snow contrasted with the trickling stream running through the cave's lowest points. He thought he could see another entrance beyond, but he couldn't be sure through the small waterfall of mountain water that obscured his view.
On the other side of the cavern, a shadow moved, and Ronan realized with a start that it was a death hound: black, hulking, and prowling around the tunnel there. With the two vampires, that makes three... and however many others are within. But where are the other two?
As if to answer his previous question, a figure moved out from behind one of the pillars, followed closely by another: both wearing dark leather armor that contrasted with their pallid faces and gleaming eyes.
Trying to keep his breathing steady, the Breton carefully slid out the crossbow from the holster on his back and loaded a bolt as quietly as he could, dreading a tell-tale click or a shifting of snow that might indicate his position. Bringing it up to his shoulder, he scanned the scene ahead of him for a moment before deciding on his target. He pulled the trigger and –
Thunk.
Two things happened within a second of the bolt being released. The death hound collapsed with a growling whine, and the two vampires whirled around, ice crackling in their open palms. Relieved that he didn't miss and terrified that he'd been discovered, Ronan grabbed another bolt, reloaded the crossbow as fast as he could, aimed again, and fired.
The second bolt grazed the neck of one, and the wounded vampire snarled. Hastily reloading, the Breton fired again; this time, much to his relief, he didn't miss, and the vampire dropped to the snow with a bolt in his chest.
But there's still one more...
Almost before he could react, the last vampire was halfway up the path and sprinting straight towards him, teeth bared and eyes blazing. Panic welling up in him, Ronan lashed out with the crossbow, and it caught the vampire on the side of the head. As his attacker reeled from the blow, the Breton unsheathed one of his daggers and stabbed blindly.
The vampire tumbled off the ledge and landed with a thud on the uneven rocks below, where it lay still. Breathing heavily, Ronan knelt with shaking knees and wiped his dagger off on the snow, staining it with dark blood. It's a good thing my reflexes are still up to par.
No need to thank me. Nocturnal sounded rather smug.
He blinked out of surprise; he hadn't expected to hear from her. What do You mean?
Without my aid, you would not have been able to see those vampires, let alone be silent and quick enough to kill them. You seem to forget that I am in the habit of looking out for those I favor.
It seems like You're giving me reasons not to oppose You. He stood up, sheathing his dagger and sliding the crossbow back into its sheath, and continued down the path while being careful of ice. I don't need Your gifts.
Perhaps. But without them, it would be the vampires walking and not you.
Should I grow used to Your interference, then? he asked dryly.
Ronan could almost hear the Daedric Prince shrugging. If you deem it necessary. Mortals should not get in the habit of "growing used" to the finite things around them.
But are You not infinite? He'd reached the outcropping, noticing that the death hound's corpse lay beside those of three other vampires and a larger, bloodier one; the Breton averted his eyes when he saw that the tattered purple robes of Vigilant Tolan clothed the mauled body.
My favor rarely lasts that long.
Then I'll appreciate it while it lasts, he countered, looking towards the tunnel opening and seeing that it was covered by a rusting gate.
Nocturnal laughed. A wise decision.
Ignoring her, Ronan trudged off to try and find some way to get the gate open.
"This has been a more trying week than usual," Finverior sighed dramatically, falling back into an empty seat by the roaring fire. "If at all possible, Your Highness, I'd like a substantial raise, some strong alcohol, and a good roll in the hay."
Occupying the other chair with a fur mantle around her shoulders and Torgnyr cradled in her lap, Kajsa raised an eyebrow. "You seem to have no trouble finding the latter two, and your pay can be re-negotiated at another time. How about your report?"
"Let me at least warm up first. My extremities are freezing." The Bosmer made a show of putting his hands up to the hearth and then rubbing them together. "Tonight's storm is even stormier than usual, and this drafty old palace isn't helping matters any."
The Dragonborn unwound her mantle with one hand, being careful not to disturb her son, and held it out. "You can borrow this for the moment."
"Much obliged, Your Highness." Finverior leaned over to grab the mantle, smiling slightly when he saw the sleeping Torgnyr. "In case I haven't said this before, he's not a bad-looking kid."
Kajsa returned the gesture, albeit a bit wearily. "He resembles his father more than he does me, and I'm grateful for that."
"Well, he might look just like the High King when he gets older, but for now, that huge nose does not look attractive on a baby." The Bosmer lightly tapped the little prince's nose before he retreated back to his seat and swathed himself in the fur mantle. "Not that I'm saying there's anything wrong with big noses; your husband looks particularly nice with one," he added with a grin. "And you know what they say about the... endowments of men with big noses –"
"– and I am certain that they have nothing to do with your report," the other retorted coolly. "Not unless you somehow seduced Ulfric along the way."
Finverior chuckled. "I wish. A strong, brooding man like him might be just what I need to turn my night around."
Kajsa smiled frostily. "The report, Finn."
"I was getting to it!" he protested, laughing even harder. "You know I'm only messing with you, Your Highness."
"It's hard to tell at times," the Dragonborn said dryly. "Now, about Valenwood –"
"Valenwood? Same old, same old: crawling with walking trees and Thalmor and only one of those has a right to be there." Finverior sighed, almost angrily. "But the truly interesting part came on the way home."
"Would this have something to do with the reason you're late?" Kajsa asked a trifle tartly.
"Yeah, it does. The Night Mother decided to drop in on my mind on the voyage up to the Iliac Bay." He scowled. "It came at a very inopportune time. Is that dusty old hag always in the habit of catching her Listeners with their pants down?"
Seeing as I was still celibate during that time in my life, I wouldn't know. She settled for shrugging noncommittally. "I had to leave you some surprises. Who had the contract?"
"Your best friend in the High Rock Guild, Jolaine Marat. Only you never mentioned how attractive she was," the Bosmer added, grinning. "For shame."
The Dragonborn frowned. "Marat carried out the Black Sacrament? On who?"
"Hold your horses, Your Highness; I'm getting there." Finverior leaned back in his seat, stretching out his legs. "So I make a little side trip to Daggerfall to go see her, and she meets me in the back room of some pretentious tavern with some Thalmor goons. Something tells me," he added ominously, "that they were handling her more than she was handling them."
"They didn't recognize you, did they?" Kajsa asked suddenly, alarmed.
"Nah," the Bosmer dismissed, waving his hand flippantly. "I had my cowl and face mask on; my own grandmother wouldn't have known who I was. And it's not like they would have recognized me without it. Their bounty poster artists never get my cheekbones right, let alone my nose."
He's been lucky, then... far more than I. The scars on her cheek tingled at his words, but the Dragonborn ignored them. "Who did she – or the Thalmor – want dead?"
"One of the Senior Operatives in the Guild. Name's Ronan Sorleigh." He squinted at the shocked expression on Kajsa's face. "I take you know him after all."
"He's a recent acquaintance," the Dragonborn said tightly, regaining control of herself. "And what do you mean by 'after all'?"
"He told me that he knew you. Yeah, I met him a night or so ago," Finverior hurried on before she could get a word in. "I and the Thalmor assassin that Marat sent with me caught up to him in Riften. I took care of the Thalmor and sent Sorleigh on his merry way." He sighed wistfully. "Pity. He was kinda cute, in an adorably flustered, irritated way."
Kajsa studiously ignored him, pursing her lips in thought. "Did Marat offer any reason for why Ronan had to die?"
"Not a terribly compelling reason, anyway. She murmured something about 'taking care of liabilities' or something like that. The Thalmor agent with her was a bit more explicit; she said quite bluntly that Sorleigh had murdered a Dominion operative while on a top-secret mission to Skyrim."
"This Thalmor agent with Marat..." the Dragonborn said slowly, a dreadful thought growing in her head, "what did she look like?"
"Tall, imperious, expression like she was perpetually smelling something bad underneath her nose. Pale blonde hair, voice just short of shrill. Thoroughly unpleasant, but the Thalmor aren't known for being comedians." The Bosmer stopped. "Do you know her? It's sounding like you do."
"Yes, unfortunately." Kajsa's face looked grim; without realizing it, her arms had tightened around Torgnyr ever so slightly. "You just described former First Emissary Elenwen."
Despite repeatedly telling himself that he should be focused on other matters – like survival – Ronan could not help but think to himself in a rather uncharacteristically dry manner that Dimhollow Crypt certainly lived up to its name. It was definitely dim, with its winding tunnels that were shrouded in shadow and chambers that were nearly impossible to see in. No matter how quietly he tried to move, his footfalls seemed to echo in the still, highlighting the hollow barrenness of the ancient passages.
As for the title of 'crypt'... between the revived skeletons, the terrifying walking corpses with unearthly blue eyes, the death hounds, the giant spiders, and one or two vampires, there was no doubt in the Breton's mind why this place had earned that name: there was nothing alive and good there.
Even though his strategy of striking from afar with his crossbow was working well, he considered himself very lucky that he'd made it this far while relatively unscathed. His sleeve was ripped and his arm bleeding from the bite of a death hound that had gotten a little too close, and he was feeling slightly ill to his stomach from the effects of the Cure Poison potion purging the spider venom from his system.
Carefully closing the small wooden door behind him and sliding down to the cold stone floor in near exhaustion, Ronan wondered how much farther he had to go. I don't want to fail... but I'm not sure if I can go much farther...
From beyond the small chamber he'd entered into, a labored, but defiant voice came from below. "I'll never tell you anything, vampire. My oath to Stendarr is stronger than any suffering you can inflict upon me –" His voice cut off abruptly.
Getting to his feet as silently as he could and tightening his hold on his crossbow, the Breton crept out of the chamber, sparing only a glance towards the disturbing statues flanking the door, and towards the railing outside. He dared not look over, for fear he might be seen. They might have already heard me... I don't know how good a vampire's senses are...
"Are you sure that was wise, Lokil?" a raspy voice (the voice of a vampire, Ronan identified with a chill) questioned with a hint of impudence. "He still might have told us something. We haven't gotten anywhere with –"
"He knew nothing," an arrogant-sounding voice (Lokil, most likely, the Breton thought) interrupted. "He served his purpose by leading us to this place. Now it is up to us to bring Harkon the prize."
Harkon. Ronan remembered the name from the conversation he'd overheard earlier. Is he another vampire? And are these all under his command?
"And we will not return without it," Lokil continued in a tone that brooked no argument. "Vingalmo and Orthjolf – perhaps even our Lord's latest overly important lackey – will make way for me after this."
"Yes, of course, Lokil." The other vampire sounded singularly unimpressed. "Do not forget who brought you the news of the Vigilants' discovery."
Lokil laughed haughtily, sending shivers down Ronan's spine. "I never forget who my friends are. Or my enemies."
As soon as the Breton heard the sound of receding footsteps, he carefully peeked over the top of the railing and immediately froze in place. By the Eight... what is that?
Ronan's eyes went to the very center of the massive cavern, where a circular stone platform ringed with thin, strangely arched walls rose above the still, dark waters of an underground lake. The two indistinct figures of the vampires were crossing a single, slender bridge that led from the network of stairs he was at the top of over to it. From this distance, the Breton couldn't see if there was anything in the center of the platform – but whatever the vampires are looking for must be nearby...
Spurred on, Ronan crept down the stairs as quietly and as quickly as he could: no easy task considering that they were steep, crumbling, and shrouded in shadow. Once or twice, he felt himself begin to lose his footing, but he hastily readjusted his position so as not to fall.
The Breton finally found himself on the dais that connected to the bridge; it was made of stone, like all of the other structures, but nature seemed more intent on reclaiming it than any other. He inched forward, glimpsing the bloodied body of another Vigilant lying limp to his left and shuddering involuntarily. These creatures show no mercy.
He still could not see whatever was in the center of the circular platform, but he could glimpse the vampires, who seemed to be arguing nearer the outskirts of it. Checking to make sure that his crossbow was loaded, Ronan brought it up to his shoulder and aimed for what seemed to be the closer of the two.
His heart tightened in fear as the bolt whistled through the air, and then loosened again when he heard the tell-tall thunk of the tip driving into flesh. One of the vampires fell, and the other's eyes, glowing orange in the dim light, snapped towards the shore.
Mouth dry, Ronan fumbled for another bolt and loaded the crossbow again, praying that it would hit. He looked up to aim and saw that the remaining vampire was nearly all the way over the bridge.
The vampire laughed. "I knew I smelled blood!" He lunged for the Breton, hands curled into claws around floating orbs of ice.
Ronan rolled out of the way, the Frostbite spell freezing the ground where he'd once been. He drew one of his daggers and launched himself at the vampire's back, driving the blade between his shoulders. The vampire stiffened and dropped to the stone, and the Breton fell with him, the air rushing out of his lungs.
After a few moments of sucking in deep breaths, Ronan picked himself up, yanking his dagger out and wiping it off on a section of the dead vampire's robes before sheathing it. Close combat is not for me.
You seem to manage, Nocturnal commented wryly.
The Breton sighed; it unsettled him that he'd resigned himself to Her presence. Only because You help me.
How can you determine that? Her question was suspiciously coy.
Because I know, he snapped, holstering his crossbow and starting across the bridge. I can feel it when You're influencing me.
She laughed softly. Not always, my dear. Not always.
Swallowing, Ronan focused on the mysterious platform that he found himself on. Now that he was standing within it, he now realized why he couldn't see through; there was another disjointed set of arches within the outer wall. They encircled the center, along with a series of deep grooves in the floor that ringed and radiated from a single, low pillar at their heart.
Stepping up to the pillar, the Breton curiously ran his hand over its domed top. Before he could react, a spike shot up from it, lancing cleanly through his left palm.
"Son of a bitch –" he choked out, wincing as he carefully slid his hand off the spike. Blood covered his hand, dripping down over the pillar and running down the sides.
Suddenly, Ronan stumbled back from the pillar, watching in amazement and fear as rippling flames of the deepest purple sprang up from one of the grooved rings surrounding him and rushed out one of the radiating lines. A tall brazier standing there caught alight with the strange flame.
For a moment, he was afraid that he was trapped in here – caught in a trap triggered with my own blood. Tentatively taking a step forward, the Breton examined his wounded hand and then touched a single finger to the flame. Much to his surprise, the fire felt cold.
Encouraged by this, he backed up a bit and then took a running leap through the flames. Ronan felt a chill like no other pass over his body, but after he was safe on the outside, he looked over what skin he had exposed: no damage aside from what was already there.
Reaching for a healing potion from his pack, he dribbled some of the phial's content over his palm and then examined the scene before him as he tucked it away and waited for his flesh to knit itself together again. For the first time, he noticed other braziers that had been placed in the grooves, but only the one he saw before was lit, flames dancing in it.
The Breton flexed his hand experimentally; aside from slight twinges in the center of his palm, it seemed to be all right, but he resolved to get it checked by a healer as soon as he could, perhaps at the Temple of Kynareth he'd seen in Whiterun. But first... to see what this is all about.
The longer he looked, an idea formed in his head. Seeing that there was another brazier beside him, this one unlit, he pressed his palms against its underside and then drew them away just as quickly for fear of more hidden spikes. Despite the momentary pressure, the brazier moved.
So they're meant to be arranged to catch the flame, he mused. Let's see if I can do that...
Pushing against the brazier, Ronan managed to direct it along the groove and towards the first ring of fire that had sprung up. As he predicted, both the brazier and another groove nearby caught flame.
Moving around the circle, the Breton painstakingly moved each brazier into place, watching the eerie purple fire issue from the stones and grow even higher. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally shoved the final brazier into its place in the center, ignoring his complaining muscles.
Suddenly, the flame rushed along the grooves towards the centermost ring, leaping around the spiked pillar as the stones beneath it split. Ronan took a step back and nearly fell as the platform sunk behind him into steps. A pool of purple fire formed around the pillar and vibrant tendrils of energy snaked up towards the cavern's ceiling as the pillar rose, exposing what was beneath it: a monolith of black stone emerging from the fires themselves.
The purple flame vanished abruptly, leaving the cavern as dim and shadowy as it had been before. As the Breton made a cautious move forward, one of the monolith's sides slid away with a scraping of stone, revealing what lay underneath.
Ronan's jaw dropped. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting the vampires to be looking for... but it wasn't this.
Inside the monolith was a woman.
[A/N] Next week: we meet you-know-who (*cough cough* Serana *cough*) and we catch up with a certain angry Vigilant. In the meantime, please don't hesitate to review! It would be nice to have some encouraging words to power me through the days ahead... and I'm this close to one hundred reviews! ;)