I apologise for the delay. I've been writing a play.
You know it's been a good month when you look at your Story Traffic page and one of the hits bars read 1.37k (1.22k of those were on this story). I've been on this site over 2 years now and that's my best month so far. Thanks to everyone. Let's make February as good as January.
Some people out there are lovers, not fighters, so perhaps it's time to tell you that I'm a poet, not a writer :P
Quote: 'The further North you go, the colder it gets, the wetter it gets, and the more Northerners there are...' - A lecturer on moving to accommodation in university
Another Quote: 'HUZZAH! That was genius...' - my geography teacher (what a legend :P)
Chapter 36
Idari Mortha opened her eyes slowly, blinking to get her hair out of her eyes, the cold stone floor pressed up against her left cheek. She sat up slowly, raising her right hand to her head to find her leather glove covered in deep crimson blood dripping from a wound to her face. She hadn't bled in a long while and this feeling was almost alien, one of pains and aches that came with losing.
But she was still alive, which meant that she couldn't have lost. No lich in their right mind would have left her alive.
As she moved her left arm a sharp pain shot down it, causing her to wince; she'd felt worse, but she hadn't been expecting this one. A quick inspection led her to suspect that she'd broken her left wrist when she'd fallen on it. She cursed her own stupidity; she should and could have won that battle easily.
Dragging herself to her feet she looked about the room, red eyes alert for any danger as they scanned precisely. Muttering a healing spell, she felt the pain in her wrist subside and the wound in her head close itself despite the fact that her brown hair was now matted across her face with the barely congealed blood covering it, though she merely pushed it away in irritation, streaking a thin layer of blood across her blue skin to make her look even more sinister than usual.
Her Akaviri katana was still in its sling across her back and her silver shortsword was a few feet away from where she had been lying, which was probably lucky as it could have easily impaled her if she'd fallen on it, though picking it up she noticed it was dented slightly on one side and she would have to get it fixed as soon as she could.
It was then that she remembered the other two.
Though her eyes searched through the darkness, it was a groan that alerted her to Jena's survival, and she found the Blade lying at the base of one of the three sets of stairs, the Great Welkynd Stone pressed tightly to her armoured chest, and her Blades armour dented in several places consistant with falling down the stairs.
"Where's Turner?" Idari demanded, crouching down at the Imperial's level while sweeping with her eyes for any visible wounds. "And what happned?"
Jena coughed violently, doubling over forwards from her sitting position before pushing the Great Welkynd Stone out of her lap onto the floor and fiddling with the bindings holding her shield to her right arm. It was so badly damaged now that it was of no use anyway. "Turner... defeated the lich," she tried to explain between coughs so violent that Idari was surprised that there wasn't any blood coming up with them. "But... the lich... hit him with... a spell I'd never... heard... and he... I don't know... he flew across the..." She trailed off, pointing in the general direction of where she was describing before fumbling about with her own pockets for a healing potion.
The Dark Elf looked in the direction that the Blade had pointed but saw nothing through the gloom. If Turner really had defeated the lich then she was rather impressed, but if he'd been hit by an Ayleid spell then there was definitely no guaranteeing that he was even still alive. And for a reason that Idari wasn't sure of, the thought of him being dead saddened her greatly.
She cast Night-Eye quickly and continued to scan the room for life until her eyes settled on a small black void in her vision which she ran to quickly. Turner lay face down in a pool of blood, shards of rubble embedded in his back and lacerations across his arms, tail and legs; his iron bow was twisted and mangled by its collision with the wall, and arrow shards covered him randomly. She almost ran to him, to check if he were alive, but instead she cast Detect Life to be sure.
A very faint purple glow radiated from him, though his breaths appeared erratic and uneven, which meant that he was at least living if only just. She approached now, not bothered by the blood for the first time in a while, probably because she was quite aware that she was still covered in her own, and that she knew he would die if she didn't do something.
Any potions that the Argonian had had with him would be smashed to smithereens by now, shards of glass probably sticking him through the leather of his armour in more places than Idari cared to think about. She checked for her own and unsurprisingly found herself in a similar situation, with only one bottle surviving, though with barely enough liquid in it to heal a papercut.
"Imperial!" she called back across the room, astounded by the concern in her voice that was usually reserved only for Reron and nobody else. "Do you have any healing potions?"
Footsteps approached behind her rapidly, at a speed slightly below that of a run, closely followed by the sound of a gasp. "By the Nine!" Jena exclaimed, a hand over her mouth in shock. "Is he still alive?"
Idari nodded, though in the darkness this action was probably fairly pointless. "Just. Do you have any healing potions?" she repeated, a tenderness there this time as though she were caring for a small child.
The Blade rummaged through her pockets. "I have two," she said, handing them to the Dunmeri assassin instinctively. "I don't think I fell as far as either of you. Is there anything I can help with?"
"Go back and pick up that Great Welkynd Stone," came the snappy reply, as a shuffling sound reached the Imperial's ears reminiscent of someone's pitiful attempt at shifting a body. "We came here for that accursed thing so we may as well bring it back. If he dies..." She tailed off. That was getting a bit too attached for her liking.
Jena obeyed wordlessly, the only sound her armoured feet tapping against the grey stone floor as she trudged back to reacquire the stone that she had left behind. As soon as she was a safe distance away the Dark Elf crouched beside the fallen assassin. "Don't die on me, Pondscum," she whispered so quietly that he probably wouldn't have been able to hear her even if he had been conscious. She needed to get him to a healer if he were to stand any chance of being unaffected by all his wounds, but she would do her best to make sure he made it out of here alive. She owed him that.
She muttered a stream of Ayleid words to fix the superficial wounds, or at least the ones she could see. Even if she healed the rubble and the glass in place, it would get him out of here and to somebody who could fix that without letting him bleed out all over the floor and thus die of exsanguination. Then she moved him using magic, the only thing she could think to do considering she was far too small to lift him herself.
The damage was bad; frost burns covered the skin she could see through the rips in his shrouded armour, and prominent scars from wounds she had barely healed criss-crossed his torso dangerously close to his heart, blood dried across much of him, frozen there in others.
"Where's the nearest healer?" she demanded of the Blade. Her patience was wearing thin and a tone of irritation was creeping into her voice as she spoke.
A brief pause was followed by a brief answer. "Kvatch. If she survived the raid."
Idari nodded. She should have known that herself, considering she was fairly sure she had had a conversation about the best healer in all of Cyrodiil just after she had closed the Oblivion gate in Cheydinhal aided by the Count's idiotic son and his one brave minion. Oleta was widely expressed as being the best healer in all of Cyrodiil, perhaps all of Tamriel, and she happened to be the closest. If the Dark Elf had believed in the gods, she would have said they smiled upon her right now. There was little else she could do herself unless Turner woke up.
"Let's go then," she said pointedly, crossing the room at a fast pace to where the Imperial woman stood nursing the Great Welkynd Stone to her chest once more. "I have to focus on keeping him alive-" She jerked a thumb over her shoulder to where she had suspended Turner's battered form using magic. "-So if we run into any trouble I want you to deal with it. Give me the stone." She extended her palm in expectation.
Jena was about to refuse her demand, suggest it was looked after by an operative of the Blades, a servant of the Empire, but something stopped her. Perhaps it was the deadly passion dancing in the Dunmer's red eyes as if an Oblivion gate had opened inside of her. The look that said 'Cross me and I don't care who you work for, I will kill you' didn't help either. "He's lucky..." she said, gaze moving to Turner as she handed over the precious artifact. "He should be dead now."
"He's stupid," Idari snapped. "What was he thinking taking on a lich? He can barely cope with a skeleton!"
"If he hadn't done that we would all be dead by now!" The Blade instantly regretted her words the second they left her lips, and she winced slightly at the sound of them, despite how true they were.
Strangely though, the Dark Elf didn't seem to mind as she marched away up the stone stairs. "That's why we owe it to him to find him a healer before we return to Cloud Ruler Temple," she stated simply as she surveyed the corpse of the King of Miscarcand, torn apart by daedric steel without a doubt. Sufficed to say, Idari was quite impressed with his handiwork, however unorthodox it was. "What happened to his blade?"
The Imperial ascended the stairs cautiously and searched her memories. "I seem to recall him throwing it at the lich, so I imagine it will be somewhere over there. Of course, it is hard to tell when an Argonian smashes into you and sends you tumbling down hard stone stairs while you try desperately to hold on to the only hope for your country."
Throwing it? Idari sighed with a small, weary smile. Truly that was something that only Turner could manage. Who else could kill a lich by throwing a sword at him, probably by accident? That Argonian was either the luckiest failure Tamriel would ever know, or he had some seriously obscure method in his madness, though Idari suspected it was the former.
Jena's rough estimate proved to be more precise than she had imagined it would be, as Turner's daedric sword was imbedded in the base of the wall a little way beyond the corpse. It had passed a good three inches into the wall before it had stuck, and probably could have gone further if it had been thrown on purpose, considering that daedric steel was one of the toughest subtances on Nirn for the simple reason that it didn't originate on Nirn. It could probably cleave a diamond in two easily enough, though nobody had ever been willing to try it, for risk of losing either the precious diamond or the rarer steel just to prove a point.
Moving towards the tunnel to leave, the Imperial stopped in her tracks. "That opening wasn't there before," she said, gesturing towards the hollow in the wall that was just too short from her to walk through without bending down slightly. "It could be a quicker way out."
"It could also be a trap."
"Give me your shortsword." Jena held her hand out expectantly. A strange look from Idari prompted her to explain: "You said that the undead around here won't be hurt by any less than silver..."
"Take his sword..." The Dark Elf was also carrying the Argonian's sword using magic, since it was far too precious to leave behind and yet far too heavy for her to carry personally.
The Blade plucked it from the air and instantly regretted it as she almost toppled forwards under its weight. Using two hands she just about managed to hold it aloft, but it granted her such a small scope of movement that it would have been more useful to trip her enemies up than to fight them with it. "It's no good." She shook her head, resting the point of the sword on the ground and leaning on it heavily. "You'd have to be an Orc to lift that!"
Idari frowned, re-levitating it before she replied. "Turner lifts it perfectly fine."
"Yes, but he over-balances himself every time he swings it..."
The frown deepened. "Turner would over-balance wielding an ebony dagger. It has nothing to do with the weapon, it's to do with the fact that he's never had any training with any kind of weapon." An awkward silence. "You can't use my blade, it's damaged. Here." A few words in a daedric tongue conjured a sword from Oblivion that appeared in a scabbard on the Imperial's left hip, barely short enough to prevent itself from touching the ground even when she drew herself to her full height.
Jena drew the blade with her right hand before swapping to her left and testing it experimentally. "Why is this one so much lighter?"
"The magic that holds it in this plain just happens to make it lighter. Just because I'm a Dunmer does not make me an expert on everything to do with daedra," Idari growled in reply, folding her arms as the Great Welkynd Stone joined the ranks of the things she was levitating behind her. That statement was probably a lie, and she had a fairly good idea that what she had said was the truth. She didn't know about all Dunmer, but she knew that in her family lack of knowledge on the daedra and their ways led to severe punishments that got more severe as her father lost more of his mind along with more of his children, one by one. "Do you always fight with your left hand?" Personally, Idari could use both, though she favoured her right. It wasn't really much of a question as she wasn't particularly interested in the answer; it was merely curiosity.
The Blade nodded slightly. "I always have. Personal preference. I have more control over it anyway." Without warning she ducked through the newly opened stone doorway and looked about, inadvertantly treading on a pressure pad that led to the grinding of stone on stone, causing her to leap backwards in fright, ready for battle as the smell of undead reached her nose through the opening.
"Does an ominous opening in the wall scream trap to you yet?" Idari asked, voice dripping with lashings of sarcasm. Despite expending her magicka to maintain the spells she had placed on the objects she couldn't carry, she was still quite capable of fighting should it come down to it, though she was fairly sure a Blade of Jena's experience, despite one minor mistake earlier, would have no difficulty in dispatching whatever was left. Nonetheless, her silver shortsword, dents aside, sat prominently in its scabbard at her hip in case of emergencies while her katana was strapped across her back as usual, within easy reach lest something should go horribly wrong.
The stone doorway revealed another tunnel, populated by at least three zombies and little else, perhaps because it was untouched by the looters or the goblins who had fallen long before they had made it this far. The Imperial swung the daedric sword heavily, not expecting it to pass through the rotted flesh of the first zombie as cleanly as it did and taking out a hefty chunk of the passage wall as a result. She seemed impressed though, because the second zombie to approach her lasted only a matter of seconds before it too met a similar fate, a smile spread across the face of its killer as she exacted her revenge for the injuries to her pride that had been caused by the last one.
The passage branched before the first section came to an abrupt ending in the form of a wall that didn't look as though it was going to be sliding anywhere, and so Jena took off down the second passage at an alarming pace, leaving Idari to follow on slowly, apparently amused by this sudden turn of events and stepping over the corpses of zombies felled by the overzealous Blade, three more now littering the stone floor with a distinct lack of elegance, sheets of decomposing flesh torn from their rickety old bones to carpet the ground gruesomely.
The Blade in question had her arms folded at the top of a small set of stairs, a look of triumph on her face and her sword sheathed on her left hip despite how irritating that would make it if she needed to draw it quickly again. "Door," she said simply, jerking her right thumb over her shoulder. "Unnamed but..." She was cut off by a weary cough that very nearly induced a choking fit in a seriously injured Argonian, which instantly captured the attention of both women present.
It was little more than that though. Save for the groan of pain that follow it as the Telvanni shifted his position in the air behind her to make it easier for him to breathe.
"This better be the right door," Idari snapped, stalking over to it and reciting the correct words to cause it to slide open with painstakingly little speed.
The results were pitiful; a stone wall on three sides beginning about two feet in front of them, and a single raised stone on the floor. Jena shrugged, treading on the stone with apathy. "Whatever happens, I doubt anything more could possibly go wrong..." she muttered to herself before the rest of her words were drowned out by a cacophany of noises as the stone wall immediately in front of them slid away to reveal further passageway, a familiar smear of now semi-dried blood splatted across the ground beneath their feet. "... And there's the exit. It wasn't a trap after all," a smile tugged at the corner of the Imperial's lips before she remembered exactly why the already impatient Dunmer was in even more of a hurry than usual and the smile faded away before it had a chance to form.
It felt good to be outside again after what felt like hours, maybe even days. Perhaps it had been days; there was no way of knowing just how long they had all been out cold unless they asked somebody what day it was compared to what day they had left. The sun was rising and light flooded the forested area around the ruin, as if trying to make their current situation seem better. Idari said nothing, racing to Shadowmere over the pile of goblin corpses that seemed to be sinisterly undisturbed after all this time, their fire even still in the process of going out.
She whispered something to her horse, something she knew that he would understand and act upon better than any human ever could. "Take Turner to Oleta." Nobody would stand in the horse's way unless they severely lacked braincells and/or sanity, and Shadowmere was more than capable of finding Oleta on his own. She levitated the unconscious Argonian across the beast's saddle, securing him there using magic. "Be quick, and be careful." Then the horse ran on alone, taking the injured to their physician faster than any professional stretcher bearer could ever dream of.
Jena was petting Viatrix gently, reassuring her that she had returned after however long it had taken, when Idari marched up and roughly took ahold of Snowdrop's reins, fixing the animal in a glare that could have sent a shiver running down the spine of a flame atronach. The Blade opened her mouth to object, but then closed it again knowledgeably as she watched the Dark Elf leap fluidly into the saddle before levitating Turner's sword and the Great Welkynd Stone so that they lay across her knees.
"Shouldn't you take that to Jauffre?" Needless to say, the Imperial had not thought her words through very well, but she knew that, were she in the Hero's shoes, her duty to her country would definitely come before her duty to her comrades.
The glare whipped around, honing in on the one who had spoken the foolish words that Idari had for a moment imagined her ears had invented. "Without him we would have been killed by a lich," she snapped with such venom that the horse beneath her almost started. She was so used to Shadowmere by now that this animal seemed pathetic in comparison. "If you want to go back to Cloud Ruler Temple then so be it. You hold allegiance to Jauffre and to your Emperor, not to me or to him. I believe Turner's courage should be rewarded with the gift of life." There was a pause in her words, more for dramatic effect than for anything else, as Idari already knew exactly what she wanted to say. "If you feel you owe him nothing, then by all means leave, however your assignment was to return with the Great Welkynd Stone, which I still hold in my possession." She tapped it gently. "But after that, it's entirely up to you."
Jena watched as the Dark Elf dug her heels sharply into Snowdrop's sides, causing her to dash forwards at an alarming rate that the assassin evidently still found excruciatingly slow. The Imperial pondered the Hero's words carefully before following on, urging her animal onwards gently. While her brain told her to return to Jauffre, something in her heart made her stop and stay.
Turner had saved her life after all.
xxx
"The news of the return of Mannimarco is truly worrying," Hannibal Traven spoke calmly, despite the fear written behind the back of his eyes. "Against my will Caranya and Irlav have taken precious artifacts out of the University for safe keeping. You will have to retrieve them. Mannimarco will not breach these walls."
Seanturco folded his arms and looked about. The Council Chambers of the Arcane University looked almost empty today, and though the Council was only made up of five members the table in the room was deceptively large, perhaps in case important guild members were called to the meetings to discuss something that was pressing, or perhaps just for the sake of aesthetics. "Yes," he said, his Summerset Isle accent making his voice sound incredibly posh today. "But must I really go with her?"
"You must. Master-Wizard Polus and I are convinced that you and Miss gra-Yazgash will make a good team, once you learn to play to each other's strengths rather than highlight each other's weaknesses. I understand that you and she did a rather good job of removing the threat in the Bruma Mages Guild."
"We were too late. They were already dead. J'skar killed the necromancer; we did nothing."
Traven smiled. "On the contrary," he pointed out. "J'skar claims that you two saved his life. I have, of course, sent him to a safe location for now, while he recovers from his trauma, though he speaks very highly of the Altmer and the Orc who saved him."
The High Elf tapped his foot on the floor in irritation. "But she and I have nothing in common! No common goal, no common interest. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if she knows her fair share of necromancy!"
The Arch-Mage merely laughed. "She doesn't. After Falcar's betrayal we have taken to checking new recruits and current members carefully before admitting them to his place. On the matter at hand, you must retrieve the Necromancer's Amulet and the Bloodworm Helm. With the disappearance of Hromir's Ice-Staff from my own quarters, I was not involved in the Council meeting in which they stated to where they were running, however if you speak to Raminus, I am sure he will be able to tell you this information, and if not then speak with Tar-Meena - as University Archivist she probably keeps good notes on every meeting she attends."
"I bear a message from Grandmaster Jauffre," Seanturco said suddenly, changing the subject as he unfolded his arms and fishing the note from his robe pocket.
The Breton took it and read it as the Altmer looked about. He had always hoped that one day he would sit with the Council, but his current rank in the Guild was far too low at the moment; he may have been promoted to Wizard for his part in liberating the Bruma Mages Guild, but one had to be at least Master-Wizard in rank to sit on the council, and asides the five members who ranked among the Council of Wizards, there were two further Master-Wizards already in contention for the role. To Seanturco's knowledge, the current Council was made up of Hannibal Traven, Arch-Mage; Raminus Polus, University Steward; Caranya, in charge of University teachings; Irlav Jarol, Head of Ayleid Research; and Tar-Meena, University Archivist. However, there was always High Chancellor Ocato, who had given up the rank of Arch-Mage to Hannibal Traven in order to fulfil what he considered to be a higher purpose in the Elder Council, and Bothiel, in charge of the Imperial Orrery, who had also recently been promoted to the rank of Master-Wizard for her services to the Guild. Rush was a Conjurer, or so Traven had informed her upon their return, though she hadn't seem too fussed by this fact at all.
The Arch-Mage finally folded the letter neatly in half and set it down on the stable, turning his eyes to meet the wandering blue of the Wizard before him. "Of course we will send aid to Bruma," he said with a small smile. "A legion of battlemages. You will lead them."
Confusion swept the Altmer's face. "I am not a battlemage," he pointed out, unable to keep surprise from permeating into his voice. "I would be of no use to these battlemages. I fail to see the logic behind your decision."
"My logic is fairly simple," Traven stated, his eyes amused. "Your partner is one of the battlemages within the legion I intend to send, and you yourself are capable enough in destruction magic to be of some use to the Blades. They also know of you already, which saves the need for introductions on my part, and before you site objections, I shall inform you that my decision is final and without compromise, as is my decision on the battlemage to whom you are partnered. Go now, speak with Master-Wizard Polus, and then fetch those relics back with the utmost haste. I have nothing further to say on the subject."
xxx
The guards of Kvatch, having staved off an attack from Oblivion itself, had thought they had seen everything that life had to throw at them. That was until a purple tinged demon stallion came tearing up to the gates of their city - which was in the slow process of being rebuilt - with a rider who looked as though he had merely been fastened there with invisible bonds. The horse snorted when he reached the gate, and reared onto his hind legs, thumping against the wood with so much force that a couple of the guards could have sworn the entire structure of the walls of the battered city shook and heard the unmistakeable sound of wood splintering cleanly.
They admitted the creature without a second hesitation, afraid of what damage it could cause if they didn't. Perhaps it was a foolish move to allow an animal into their city that had enough raw potential to flatten the entire thing in minutes, or perhaps it had some kind of purpose that it was unable to convey in words.
It tore past them without even waiting for the doors to be fully opened, its red eyes blazing with some kind of magical energy that it seemed to be drawing power on for something they hoped wasn't too serious. It stormed to the home of Oleta directly without tarrying and stood outside, whinnying so loudly that the glass in the windows shook, threatening to shatter. The healer came out, groggy from having been woken up so rudely, took one look at the rider and gasped in shock, clasping a hand to her mouth before running back into her basic shack and returning swiftly with a thick brown leather-bound book, a bundle of scrolls and an armful of potions.
Flicking through the pages, she stopped on one and turned to the page before, scanning it quickly before reciting some ancient Ayleid words that caused her patient to be lifted from the horse's saddle, the beast calming down only at this point, and suspended in front of her so that she could examine his wounds.
He was an Argonian, a young one too, dressed in torn and dusty black leather armour, a hood covering most of his face, his scales green beneath the blood, an empty scabbard on his hip, a mangled bow and empty quiver over his shoulders. Oleta summoned a guard to her swiftly and said something which caused him to run away quickly, returning with an elderly looking Bosmeri mage, who the healer appeared to ask to maintain her telekinesis spell while she ran back into her house, bringing out a small iron dagger and a mortal and pestle, which she set down on the ground with the rest of her equipment.
She stood with the dagger in her hand and cut away the bow and the quiver, slicing through the soft leather and frayed bowstring easily, disguarding them to one side as she scrutinised further, looking at the partially healed wounds on his back and torso with a discerning expression on her face. It annoyed her slightly that whoever had cared enough to heal him had not thought it proper to at least seek the healer out themself, or had at least not had the decency to heal him properly. How had he acquired these wounds? She couldn't tell, but the frost burns on his chest suggested that he was struck with some kind of magical spell at some point or other during the point in which he had become injured.
Painstakingly the Redguard began to remove the scraps of rubble from the Argonian's body, cutting the skin around the visible bits just enough that she could get them out without killing him before quickly knitting the flesh back together with magic. It didn't matter the skill of the healer, if rubble or glass was left in the wound it would never truly heal.
Unbeknowst to the priestess, a Dunmer and an Imperial approached the city with a strange urgency, gaining admittance to the city as soon as the guards realised that one was a Blade and the other was the Hero of Kvatch and, despite her attitude, had saved them no matter which way you tried to spin it.
The Blade looked about the city with a sense of wonder at the destruction that the daedra had caused, shivers running down her spine as she focused in on parts that had not yet been rebuilt, the useless piles of burnt timber that had once been the homes of so many people who were no longer residents of Nirn.
The Dark Elf, the Hero of Kvatch, walked to the healer swiftly, ignoring the city and its current state. She had seen it before, when the fires were stilling burning and the daedra were still attacking, when the streets were stained with innocent blood and littered with ravaged corpses of people who had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Oleta was absorbed in her work and didn't look up, however the assassin managed to easily capture the almost undivided attention of the Bosmeri mage without even trying to. She was not in the mood for talking.
"You're the Hero of Kvatch!" the mage stuttered out, her aging voice quivering with excitement. Despite being a Wood Elf, she was slightly taller than the Dunmer she spoke to, her body was noticeably curvy beneath her loose mage's robes; her face was lined about her eyes, which shone with wisdom and admiration but had a certain depth of loss and sadness to them, a shimmering gold to match her creamy yellow skin, her silver hair wrapped tightly into a bun, held in place with a scrap of string wound around it.
The reply was sarcastic, and accompanied by a fierce glare from a pair of glowing red eyes: "Your observation skills astound me."
Oleta looked up from her work momentarily; she was thin, terrifyingly thin, and about average height for a Redguard, giving her an awkward, lanky appearance. Her thin face was framed by greying hair that hung limply to her shoulders, creases in her skin from age and stress, and eyes that had lost their sparkle the day her home had fallen. She frowned. "Thank you for saving our city," she said softly, looking back to her patient to remove another shard of glass. "I don't know how Kvatch will ever truly repay you..."
The Hero's glare softened. "Save him and you won't need to," she whispered, sounding genuinely sad at this prospect. This didn't at all fit in with the stories that the pair had heard of this mysterious Dunmer; from what they knew, the Hero of Kvatch cared for no-one and nothing, yet here she was, helping an Argonian who was probably of little importance in the scheme of things.
"What happened to him? The healing process will be much quicker if I know what I'm dealing with," the Redguard pointed out, gesturing to the frost etching across his green scales as a rather large chunk of rubble fell into her hand.
The Dark Elf sighed. "He was hit by an Ayleid spell cast by a very powerful lich. That he is alive at all is a pure coincidence. How long..." she paused, considering the question she had been about to ask. "How long do you think it will be before he is better?"
Oleta thought for a moment, looking at him closely, her face creasing up slightly. "A few hours to heal him. A couple of days for him to regain consciousness. I couldn't tell you how long it would be until he was returned to full health, it depends upon his own resilience. He must be a strong one to have survived a blow like that... Most people are killed by even the most basic of lich magic, so to survive a spell with that much force behind it is truly a feat worth mentioning. He must mean a lot to you..."
"Don't you dare insinuate there is anything between me and him!" the Hero snapped viciously, her hand travelling to the hilt of her dented sword instinctively. "He is a comrade, nothing more! You're lucky I need you alive, or I would gut you where you stand." It was an empty threat, she wouldn't have killed anyone within such clear view of the guards unless she had a contract to do so, but that didn't stop it sounding incredibly menacing. "Any relationship between me and him would be repulsive and morally wrong. He has proven his usefulness; that is all you need know." She turned and stalked away. "I will return for him in a week's time. If he dies I will have your head. That is not an exaggeration."
And with that she snapped a derogatory nickname over to the Blade, who jumped at the sound and stepped away from the Chapel of Akatosh upon which she had been inspecting the damage done by the daedra and jogged to keep up, not appearing to comment on the use of the name. The purple stallion followed the Dunmer loyally, and she stroked his mane with a strange subdued affection, the horse snorting softly in reply like some unspoken language between them. They left, and if it weren't for the Argonian patient being worked on by Cyrodiil's best healer it would have easily been assumed that they had never arrived in the city at all.
Kvatch would remember their saviour for all time, despite her attitude towards their city and their lives. They didn't know her name - indeed they never would - but in their own ways, every single citizen in Kvatch appreciated what she had done for them. She was there in their dreams, in their nightmares when they relived the horrifying events that they had experienced; she was there in their thoughts when they looked over at the piles of carbonised timber and realised sincerely that the only reason they were looking at anything at all was her.
So many had died, but so many had survived. Kvatch alone was the undeniable proof of one resounding fact: there was still hope.
Author Note: I don't personally like this chapter very much. Nothing interesting happens. It's just a filler. You might encounter a few fillers in the near future, because I don't really want it to end... It's been good, has this story. I've reached the conclusion that Turner's astonishing luck is probably going to run out some day; this DOES NOT mean I will definitely be killing him, but I've considered it. He has at least one near-death experience (yes, I have only planned one more chapter out of the rest of them, and that is one event I KNOW is going to happen) still to come. I want him to be there for the Battle of Bruma (whether he survives or not is a different matter). Have you noticed that my characters are all gathering for the Battle of Bruma? Septimus Serocold (that random guard who keeps popping up), Farwil and Bremman, Seanturco and Rush, Idari and Turner, all the Blades, the Fighters Guild (including my Fighter OC, who I have yet to even think about creating). It should be an interesting chapter to write.
Now, to explain the thing about the play I mentioned at the top. Since I am the only 'writer' in my house, I was drafted to write the House Play. It took up a lot of time. It had a deadline. I had to put this to one side (yet again, I wrote this at 1am). Snow White and the Seven Stereotypes. It's a mock-up. It's deliberately tacky. It led to a 13 year old writing 'I love trees' on my arm in permanent marker, which is still there now. It led to me being involved in casting and auditions (I have got a part myself. This is all good). It led to me being VERY busy. And next half term I will be putting it on, so if I disappear off the face of the planet, I'm not dead, I'm producing MY play. I thought this achievement was worth mentioning. Other than that, a poem of mine is on FictionPress - I told you I was a poet. I'm NOT a writer. I've always written, but I'm always better at poetry. It's called Mourning. Look it up if you're interested - under the penname Arty Thrip - obviously.
Yet again, I took my lead from DualKatanas. It seems whenever he updates, I get around to sitting down and writing this thing properly. I think I wrote most of this since the last chapter of BaS... The results however, could use some work. Perhaps this plan wasn't very well thought through... :P
Please leave a review. You've come this far by reading the chapter. I didn't get very many reviews last chapter, and to be honest, it dented my confidence in writing this story. I WILL put this to one side if I don't get reviews. This is not an empty threat. I'm busy enough without taking time out to write this.