"Voada, you spilled laundry water in the soup pot again!" Anton shouted across the kitchen, "Do I need to cut off your fingers to teach you a lesson?"

Before the girl could respond, her older brother stood between them. "You touch her," Rondach growled, "and I swear it'll be your fingers that go missing, you stupid Breton!"

Anton couldn't believe this. "What was that?" he questioned. He was the chef of Understone Keep, Rondach was only a boy.

"Now, now, brother," Voada stepped back in and turned back to Anton, "Rondach was just being his usual gloomy self, he didn't mean it, did you Rondach? You're just being silly again."

Rondach said nothing, just stood there, grumbling. It was clear Rondach wouldn't apologize for harboring an incompetent cow. "Whatever," Anton seethed, "Just get back to work. Now."

And so, they all went back to work. It was going to be lunchtime soon enough and Understone keep must be fed. He tossed the Potage le Magnifique before getting back to work. While Anton knew every chef found a way of corrupting the soup to their own cooking style, he was certain laundry water wasn't one of them. The only reason he asked for water on the soup was because the Potage wouldn't reduce.

The Potage le Magnifique was a soup whose recipe was found in the popular cookbook Uncommon Taste. It was written by a mysterious person called The Gourmet, whose gender and even species was unknown to the world. Despite any clue to his identity, the book reached acclaim in chefs across the Empire. The Potage one of the more popular recipes among chefs, and rumor had it that communities would band together to make it when they could.

Of course, the mystery of who The Gourmet was wasn't one to Anton. He knew the Gourmet as Balagog, an Orc that ran away from his stronghold to see the world. And they were good friends, him having taken up board with Anton's family years ago in High Rock. Both picked up a passion for cooking, but Balagog's ambition led him to more success, even if it meant stealing some recipes. The Potage, for one, was adaption from Anton's mother's stew. But still, they barred no ill will, and Anton even had a signed copy of Uncommon Taste, though it meant missing of late.

Friendship between a Breton and an Orc was uncommon. Orcs were often seen as barbarians, but the fact their sole city of Orsinium was constantly sacked by its neighbors as a political power play was likely part of why they couldn't rise above the state of nomads and tribes. Anton, for one, believe the Orcs should be uplifted by their state and brought into civilization like the Bretons. If the Bretons could rise from the bastards of Elves to the greatest province of Tamriel, surely the Orcs could reach similar heights.

However, Anton didn't not have such hopes for the Reachmen, even the ones in his kitchen. They were beyond his hopes for saving. If a people could become part of civilized society, but calmly and decisively runs around in their undergarments, pillaging and killing whoever they wish, they were beyond civilization's help. It didn't help that they looked like Bretons.

But no matter, cooking is for everyone. Why? Because everyone needs to eat. So, he would continue his trade, no matter what bad decisions someone on at table made.

Though he didn't expect someone to be in his kitchen. "Pardon?" said a very deep voice. Might've been coastal Hammerfell.

Anton turned to meet a Redguard traveler, given his skin and clothes. "Yes, yes, for the hundredth time, I am a Breton," Anton barked, having heard these inquiries before and had gotten quite sick of them, "I was born in High Rock. And then I came here. I am not a Reachman!"

"Ah yes, High Rock," the Redguard remarked, "Home of exquisite Breton cuisine." Well, of course it was exquisite; it was more civilized than Redguards'.

At this point, the Redguard had quickly gotten on Anton's nerves. It was two hours to lunch time and he needed to make the Potage from scratch, and this guy was dead weight. "Who are you?" Anton asked, "What do you want?"

The Redguard sighed. "The Gourmet," he stated in a more serious voice, "Who is he? Where is he?"

Anton was shocked by this request. How this man learned the chef's relation to The Gourmet was irrelevant; he would not betray him. He was in Skyrim and especially important business, though what it was he didn't write. This Redguard clearly knew what that was, but Anton wouldn't neither was what nor answer where.

"Them, the Gourmet?" he questioned, "Never! I don't know what led you here, but nothing will betray my trust. I'll take the secret of the Gourmet's identity to my grave."

The Redguard smirked and put a hand on the wall behind Anton, bring close of them together. "For the Dark Brotherhood, that can be easily arranged," he stated with all the certainty of a man saying the color of the sky.

In nine words, all sense of loyalty fell from Anton's mind. "The Dark Brotherhood? Now, now wait a minute," he stuttered, "Let's not get hasty. I mean, surely my friend wouldn't want me to endanger my own life. Right? Look, his name is Balagog gro-Nolob. He's an Orc! The Gourmet's an Orc! He's staying at the Nightgate Inn. That's all I know! Now, now you'll let me go. Right?"

The Redguard maintained his smile. "Of course, Anton," he stated, "Thank you."

Anton was only relieved he wouldn't be killed today. "Okay. All right," he continued stuttering, "Wonderful. You're welcome! I'll just be on my way, then."

Anton snuck passed the Redguard in search of his mug. I mean, it had his name on it and everything. He felt he couldn't leave it around without making sure people knew not to drink from it. He didn't trust anyone in this kitchen, especially since it was expensive Surilie Brothers' wine in there.

As he drank from his mug, the implications of what he did set in. He betrayed Balagog's identity. That would be bad enough, had it not been to a Dark Brotherhood assassin. Well, he had no proof the Redguard was a Brotherhood assassin, only that he carried their threat. But still, if such people were after The Gourmet, Anton should've kept his mouth shut. Now, they would find him and do whatever evil things they planned to do with him.

Anton prayed to Stendarr that he would be forgiven for his actions. His betrayal would surely send him to some realm of Oblivion for which he would be torture for eternity. He prayed there would be mercy.

But there was none. In his heart, he felt a sudden but great pain. One that was beyond what he could even comprehend. He had had such chest pains when he was fat as a Horker or when the kitchen got too hot, but this was far worse. He barely had time before he fell to the ground.

So, this was how he died. Struck down by Zenithar for betraying his friend. How uncivilized.

Skathi and Serana had set up camp for what felt like the day. The Soul Cairn had no sun nor moon in the sky, a fact that proved it was beyond the Divines' influence. They slept as soundly as they could, considering the storm's rage and the unsettling reality they found themselves in.

Setting out at what they assumed was night, they began seeing occupants they hadn't noticed before. They were akin to ghosts, forms of transparent lights, but there was no calm to the lights like they did with real ghosts. Skathi had no professional qualifications to talk about ghosts, but that doesn't mean she'd never seen them. Crypts tend to have unruly occupants, whether they had a body or not.

These spirits had solemn faces as though they were trying guard themselves from the pain. That can mean they're being controlled by a malevolent force, but they made no actions toward the vampires. These Ideal Master were perhaps responsible for this, but only in part if this was the fate of mortal souls used in soul stones.

Eventually, Skathi and Serana reached a ruin, tall and dark. The wide entrance was barred with a field of energy and behind it was an older looking woman with glowing red eyes. If this wasn't Valerica, Skathi was going to wonder how good of a hideout this really was.

Serana spotted this woman and ran to the barrier's start. "Mother? Mother!" she called.

"Maker" Valerica if there could be anyone else, breathed, "it can't be. Serana?"

"Is it really you?" the vampire daughter asked and began tripping over herself, "I can't believe it! How do we get inside? We have to talk."

"Serana? What are you doing here?" Valerica asked as a concerned mother would, "Where's your father?"

"He doesn't know we're here. I don't have time to explain." Serana began looking around for some sign as to how to lower the energy.

"I must have failed. Harkon's found a way to decipher the prophecy, hasn't he?" the vampire mother looked solemnly defeated at the assumption.

"No, you've got it all wrong," Serana tried to correct her, "We're here to complete the prophecy our way, not his."

"Wait a moment," Valerica said in panic at the sight of Skathi, "you've brought a stranger here? Have you lost your mind?"

Serana looked distressed. "No, you don't-"

Her mother interrupted, speaking straight at Skathi. "You. Come forward. I would speak with you."

Skathi nervously stepped forward. This vampire mother reminded the outsider of her own. She was a shrewd businesswoman and often didn't see any reason to mother her younger daughter until she made a mistake. That sense of the same close distance radiated from Valerica the way the dead radiate disgust.

"So, how has it come to pass that a vampire of mixed blood is in the company of my daughter?" Valerica remarked.

Skathi crossed her arms to the vampire mother. "I've been keeping her safe."

That brought a sarcastic smirk to her undead face. "Safe? You call bringing her here safe? Has she explained nothing to you? Serana has sacrificed everything to prevent Harkon from completing the prophecy. I would have expected her to explain that to you."

Perhaps Skathi misremembered it, but she thought Valerica put her in that tomb. "That's why I'm here for the Elder Scroll," she explained.

"You think I'd have the audacity to place my own daughter in that tomb for the protection of her Elder Scroll alone?" the vampire mother snarked, "The scrolls are merely a means to an end. The key to the Tyranny of the Sun is Serana herself."

This was new to Skathi. "What do you mean?"

"When I fled Castle Volkihar, I fled with two Elder Scrolls," Valerica explained, "The Scroll I presume you found with Serana speaks of Auriel and his arcane weapon, Auriel's Bow. The second scroll declares that 'The Blood of Coldharbour's Daughter will blind the eye of the Dragon.'"

Skathi wouldn't call herself smart, but she wouldn't call herself dumb either. "So, Serana's one of these Daughters of Coldharbour?" she presumed.

Both vampires tensed at such a casual use of the term. "You clearly don't know what a Daughter of Coldharbour is," she remarked, "Like me, Serana was a human once. We were devout followers of Lord Molag Bal. Tradition dictates the females be offered to Molag Bal on his summoning day. Few survive the ordeal. Those that do emerge as a pure-blooded vampire. Those who emerge are Daughters of Coldharbour."

No, Skathi didn't know what that meant, but that doesn't mean she was blind to the implications. "Serana underwent this ritual willingly?" She asked.

"It was expected of her," Valerica explained, "just as it was expected of me. Being selected as an offering to Molag Bal is an honor. She wouldn't have dared turn her back on that."

That didn't answer her question, but Skathi felt she knew what a "No" sounds like, even if you don't say it. "The Tyranny of the Sun requires Serana's blood?"

Valerica nodded. "Now you're beginning to see why I wanted to protect Serana, and why I've kept the other Elder Scroll as far from her as possible."

"Are you saying Harkon means to kill her?"

Valerica grimly sighed. "If Harkon obtained Auriel's Bow and Serana's blood was used to taint the weapon, the Tyranny of the Sun would be complete. In his eyes, she'd be dying for the good of all vampires."

"I would never allow that to happen," Skathi proclaimed firmly. However short and however little she knew Serana, it was enough to keep her from her fate.

The vampire mother rolled her eyes in exasperation. "And how exactly do you plan on completing the prophecy without the death of my daughter?"

"I'll kill Harkon." She'd killed Alduin; this bastard is just a morning shit.

Valerica almost laughed. "If you believe that, then you're a bigger fool than I originally suspected," she remarked, "Don't you think I weighed that option before I enacted my plans?"

"And Serana's opinion in this?" Skathi asked. She knew this would be done regardless of her daughter's wishes.

The elder vampire frowned. "You care nothing for Serana or our plight," she barked, "You see the Tyranny of the Sun as your chance at deification, and like Harkon you won't hesitate to destroy anything that stands in your path."

"Serana believes me, why won't you?"

Valerica looked upon her daughter in shock. "Serana? This stranger may call herself vampire, but she knoes nothing of our struggle, Why should I entrust you to her?"

Serana, who had been patient as she could be during this conversation, and perhaps for around five centuries at least, lost all sense of calm. "This 'stranger' has done more for me in the brief time I've known her than you've done in centuries!"

"How dare you!" her mother hissed, "I gave up everything I cared about to protect you from that fanatic you call a father!"

"Yes, he's a fanatic," she admitted, "he's changed. But he's still my father. Why can't you understand how that makes me feel?"

To be honest, Skathi didn't, not really. But everything Serana did with her was her choice, not Skathi's.

"Oh, Serana," Valerica cooed like she was talking to a little girl, "If you'd only open your eyes. The moment your father discovers your role in the prophecy, that he needs your blood, you'd be in terrible danger."

"So, to protect me you decided to shut me away from everything I cared about?" Serana snapped, "You never asked me if hiding me in that tomb was the best course of action, you just expected me to follow you blindly. Both of you were obsessed with your own paths. Your motivations might have been different, but in the end, I'm still just a pawn to you, too."

The uncontained rage gave way to sorrow. "I want us to be a family again," she continued, "But I don't know if we can ever have that. Maybe we don't deserve that kind of happiness. Maybe it isn't for us. But we have to stop him. Before he goes too far. And to do that, we need the Elder Scroll."

This shook Valerica from her miserly protection. "I'm sorry, Serana. I didn't know," she sputtered, shocked at what she'd down, "I didn't see. I've allowed my hatred of your father to estrange us for too long. Forgive me. If you want the Elder Scroll, it's yours."

To Skathi, it wasn't her place to say much, or anything. She didn't think Valerica was worthy of her daughter. Perhaps that was her own bitterness, perhaps it was the misplaced unresolved between Skathi and her own mother. All she knew was that Serana deserved a better family than this. Strangely, Skathi felt the need to be that family. Perhaps being lonely has its effects on loners the minute they start letting people in.

Winterhold Capital was as desolate as Ravani remembered. The place was as she remembered, decrepit and abandoned. She couldn't tell if the Legion left this desolation or if it was always like this. After most of the city fell into the Sea of Ghosts, the place was a ruin. Not that it kept people from living in it, just that it wasn't an ideal place.

However, there weren't many people or places left. Ravani noticed how most buildings were empty, if not completely destroyed. The few places that were around were around were people's homes and basic businesses. The Frozen Hearth, the local inn, was one of them. Since the college was an awkward place for a non-mage, Ravani decided to see if she could find Enthir where surely everyone in Winterhold could stand under one roof.

The inside of the inn was sparse. Few if anyone was inside, likely because it was still morning, and few drank liquor during the day. Not to say this wasn't the population of the Winterhold, just that it was unlikely. However, there was a Bosmer with wild brown hair and mage's robes that stood out in a crowd. He seemed like he should be Enthir, but Ravani could only ask, not read him like a book.

As the Dunmer approached, she asked him, "Are you Enthir?"

"Yes, yes," the Bosmer gruffly replied, "What is it?"

His voice remined Ravani of Mercer. A slight tremble went through her. The fact she was effected by what happened less than a day ago wasn't a surprise, but it didn't leave Ravani with pride.

"I've been sent by Karliah," she stated.

Enthir raised an eyebrow. "Karliah?" he spoke softer, "Then she's finally found it. Do you have Gallus's Journal?"

So, others knew of the Nightingale's plan. This was likely a conspiracy of sorts, but one Ravani could get behind if she could get even.

"Yes, but there's a problem," Ravani explained, taking the journal out to hand it over.

"A problem? Let me see it," Enthir questioned before looking at the journal and his incredulity faded into a smirk, "This is just like Gallus. A dear friend, but always too clever for his own good. He's written all of the text in the Falmer language."

Bloody Falmer. The ancient Elven forebearers of Skyrim. Given the fact their descendants don't even speak their language anymore, and aren't even a civilized people anymore, it was likely no one spoke it anymore. The fact a dead man could write in it proved how archaic the bloody language was. That wasn't to say he could read it though.

"Can you translate it?" Ravani asked. An academic had better chances than a street rat war veteran thief, that was for certain.

Enthir shook his head. "No. However, I know someone who might. The court wizard of Markarth, Calcelmo, may have the materials you need to get this journal translated. A word of warning. Calcelmo is a fierce guardian of his research. Getting the information won't be easy."

Of course the one person who could translate it was on the other end of the province and a bloody territorial skunk. With the knowledge he couldn't just share it, Ravani knew she would likely need to steal his research notes. You hear "Must convince you're worthy", she hears "Probably gonna need to steal it." I mean, she's a thief; what else did you expect her to do?

But before she left, Ravani felt the need to ask. "What can you tell me about Gallus?"

Enthir's face was coated in a mournful nostalgia, the kind Ravani knew from old people. "He was a dear friend of mine and a surprisingly astute pupil of academia," he recounted, "I was devastated when he was killed. I suppose that risk always coexisted with his line of work, I just never thought his luck would run out."

Hard to believe that a man of thought could ever be a thief. Couldn't they think of a way to make money other than taking it? Or he could use his intellect to a far easier job than something as physically demanding as the common folk. In case you haven't notice, Ravani had little patience for the occupations of those with loads of money and no physical effort.

"He was an academic," she remarked, "yet he chose a different path. Why?"

"Well, for the thrill of course," Enthir remarked with a smirk, "He was quite clear that he felt more in his element climbing through a window rather than hunched over a dusty tome."

Ravani couldn't argue that. Even when she was a Legionnaire, she missed the excitement of the thief's path. The Stormcloaks left little time to indulge in such things, even if they provided other opportunities for excitement. As long as she was utilizing her skillset, Ravani was happy, and the Legion just asked her to stand around like a statue until she was call upon to serve. That was reason enough to leave.

"How did you meet him?" Ravani inquired. She figured they were schoolboy friends at the college.

"Ah yes, quite an amusing anecdote actually," he remembered, "I caught him trying to break into my laboratory. I was about to show him the error of his ways when he made a curiously astute comment about my research notes. I was astounded and in turn it led to a conversation. Who'd have imagined it would lead to such a strong friendship."

Gallus sounded like an undeterred fellow to Ravani. No matter what he did, he would do it without regard for the difficulties. No matter what, life was an adventure, and everything was a part of that. How he ever became the guild master was surely down to his ability to keep the books straight, given they don't call it the Ratway because of the astute minds that come from there. He seemed a better man than his killer, that was for sure.

Before Ravani left, she wanted the opinion of a smart person. "You've seen Karliah's eyes, right?" she asked, to which he nodded, "How do you reckon they're violet?"

Enthir shrugged. "No fucking clue," he admitted, "The fact you and other Dunmer have black eyes is remarkable in itself, so I don't know what it could be. Maybe Azura's curse is dying out with increased worship to the old gods of Morrowind, but that's questionable as well. In times of strife, worship actually goes down. I don't know what it is, only that it is."

That was less helpful that Ravani hoped. She was certain the answer would be confusing, not that it would be a literal shrug. It wouldn't bother Ravani if it weren't something glaringly obvious. Was it the work of the gods or a sign their power was waning? She already knew they didn't care about the people's strife; it would be pretty hilarious if it turned out they're lacking care led to everyone else not caring about them.

Fultheim didn't come to Nightgate Inn for the company. The inn was entirely empty, though it probably shouldn't have been. It was on the west road going into Eastmarch and Winterhold, which should've been enough to make this little place got on its feet. Logically, it should be bustling with adventurers, merchants, and hunters. But instead, it was as dead as the grave.

No, Fultheim came here for the drink. He had fought long and hard for his Empire and it was all for naught. As a Blade, the White-Gold Concordant demanded his death. Well, he refused to simply die, but he didn't enjoy living either. He was a lot different from the boy that left Cloud Ruler Temple with the drive to slay Thalmor scum. He had true regrets for what he did and didn't do. So, here he was, with unwanted memories.

It was good of the Hadring, the innkeeper, to let him hang around there. Fultheim didn't have that much money, and he often spent it at the Nightgate, but he was never thrown out. Maybe he was simply happy to have some sort of business, even if it was minuscule. Not that the mead was all that strong; it was just enough so that he could think about the liquor more than the memories.

Right about the time Fultheim lost count of his drink, he heard the door open. "Ah, hello there, traveler," Hadring was quick to greet, "Come to the Nightgate for food or lodging?"

Fultheim looked to the door and saw a Redguard traveler. His garb was that of one, with a turban and baggy pants, and as a Redguard, he had distinct racial features that you couldn't mistake. It was funny, since of the few travelers going to and from the other holds, Redguards weren't amongst them. Well, at least ones that were clearly from Hammerfell, as his clothes would imply.

"Just food and board," the Redguard stated. He had a coastal Hammerfell accent, specifically from Sentinel. He was a way away from home, that was obvious.

"Ah, good," Hadring remarked, coming out from behind the bar to greet the traveler, "We have Alto wine from the vineyards, cabbage apple stew on the fire, and fresh bread every day." A lie: the bread only came once every three days. When you stay around the Inn as long as Fultheim does, you notice things.

"Good, I'm peckish for some stew," the traveler remarked, "Do you get a lot of business?"

"Nah, not so much," Hadring admitted, "The odd traveler on the road. But mostly just old Fultheim, come to drink away a lifetime of bad memories, I'd wager. Course there's the Orc. Long-term tenant, that one. For what he pays, I could afford to shut this place down."

The Orc. The Orc was The Gourmet. Fultheim had seen his at the Banquet of Skingrad on the eve of the Great War. The Blade had been asked to attend to pledge loyalty during this war. He had heard the recently acclaimed Gourmet was cooking, which came as a surprise when he looked in and saw an Orc barking orders like Instructor Koffkil. Another swig of mead.

"Tell me about the Orc," the travel asked.

"Him? Oh," Hadring clearly didn't remember his named well, "Ah, name's Balablob or Malaclob, one of them funny Orc names."

Balagog gro'Nolob. Another swig.

"Talks good, though," the innkeeper continued, "Not a savage at all. Said he's a writer. Don't know what kind of job that is, but it must earn him some pretty coin. He's paid up for the next few months. He mostly just hangs about. Goes down to the lake, sometimes samples the wine stores in the cellar. Man can do whatever he pleases, far as I care."

Balagog said he was working on salmon recipes. He was clearly working on recipes for the next edition of Uncommon Taste. His sampling of the Alto wine was because he'd never tasted its sort before. He was wondering if it would be good for cooking. Another swig.

"Anything you need, just holler," Hadring stated.

With that, the innkeeper went back behind the bar and went down into the cellar. There, Balagog would likely ask what goes on, Hadring would say it's a traveler, Balagog makes some remarked about Redguard cuisine, and there's that. Fultheim was trained to play out numerous situations in his mind for it happened. They were trained to be paranoid. That was enough to cause him to take another swig.

Setting his empty bottle down, Fultheim noticed the traveler was stood over him. Said traveler had clearly seen his room and been completely fine with it if he didn't say anything. Someone might see him as a socialite, someone who just had to talk with everyone. Well, it was likely night, so it wasn't likely he wanted to talk to everyone before dinner and rest after a day's journey. More likely, he was fishing for information. He seemed like a shifty person.

"What do you want?" Fultheim asked.

"Do you come here a lot?" the traveler asked.

It was an out of the way of any settlement, just for travelers, so Fultheim decided to play drunk. "You see any other inns around here?" he asked, "Where else would I go to drink?"

"What do you know about the Orc?" the traveler further inquired.

So, that was his game. The traveler wanted something to do with Balagog. It was hard to say what he knew and didn't know about, as well as who the traveler was associated with, and what he would do with the Orc. Fultheim wouldn't just give away everything, so he would once again play drunk. He hoped that would be enough to make sure the traveler would think he was in the wrong place.

"Well he don't like company," the drunkard remarked, "I can tell you that much. Just wants to be left alone. But no, that's not really it. It's like," he paused, wondering how to phrase this, "he wants to talk. Likes people and all. But he stays separate because he's supposed to. Kind of sad, really."

The traveler seemed interested in what he said, but Fultheim didn't quite trust that. If he was going to be pushed for it, he was going to draw his sword. He may be drunk and out of practice, but he remembered the way of the Blades. He didn't like his chances, but he was going to take them if given the opportunity.

Fortunately, he didn't need to take them. As Hadring came out of the cellar, the traveler remarked, "There's skeever in my room" like someone who'd been waiting to say it.

"Shit," the innkeeper cursed. He set aside the bread and wine and took his mace from the bar. He went into the room as Fultheim took a long swig from one of the full bottles at his table.

When Fultheim looked again, the traveler was head down the cellar. Well play, assassin.