Summary: Vera's world ended not with a bang, but with a whimper - a protracted, painful dying of everything and everyone she knew. As it turns out, the apocalypse is contagious - either that, or Vera has spectacularly bad luck. And just when things are finally settling down - as much as they can in a place like Markarth - a Nord and a Dunmer roll into town with the mother of all bad deals.
Always read the fine print.
This story starts about a year before the events of the game and will continue through the timeline and the DLCs. Loosely follows canon.
"I've been told you know your way around the Reach, but I'd wager you're not from here, are you?" The giant bearded Nord tapped the side of his massive nose. "I can smell these things, you know. They say the Reach's got a way of sinking its roots into you and not letting go. What's your story, Breton? High Rock? "
Vera shifted on the bar stool and took a sip of ale, delaying the expected response. "Not much of a story."
The lie didn't taste all that bitter anymore. It wasn't much of a story — in no small part because the last six months were starting to blur, and what came before had bleached of all color, an old photograph in sepia from a place long gone. A past that no longer felt like hers. Some things from the early days stood out, crisp, arresting moments. Waking up on a bloody altar, stark naked and in horrible agony. Wandering, terrified, through the remains of carnage — bodies strewn on the ground, torn to shreds, not a living soul in sight. Then, later, hiding from rough looking types who roved the hills and crags (she couldn't tell at first whether they were hunters or brigands — or whether there was a difference). Hiding from wild animals who were busy evading the rough types, or, when they got lucky, busy eating them right back. Still. Keeping to the wilderness had felt like a safer choice, originally.
She had come upon the herbalist's hut after about a month of skulking around and sleeping in caves, on the verge of protein poisoning from her diet of rabbit and lean fowl. She was used to trapping rats and pigeons — and other urban fauna — so the rabbits hadn't been that much different. It was early summer when she arrived and the pickings were slim, nothing ripe yet, and the few early cases of the runs had discouraged her from experimenting with the wild edibles.
The man who lived in the ramshackle house — an old Altmer, as the tall gold-skinned bastards were called here (she'd learned to stay the fuck away from the black-robed ones quickly enough) — was half-senile with age and cloudy with a drinking habit, but he was kindly, in a rheumy, distracted, can't-remember-what-I-did-with-the-nightshade kind of way. He'd let her stay, initially as a cook, then as a helper. And then as a friend. He'd had a daughter he said — she died young, at 67. He didn't offer the details — it had been one hundred and two years ago.
Vera didn't press him about it.
It was an odd friendship — two people who had little in common except for their respective loneliness. One night, after a bottle of Alto wine shared over grilled mushrooms and roasted squash, she spilled herself to him, all the horrors, all the impossibilities of her displacement. Not the how of it, nor the why — there wasn't much she could offer by way of sense in that department — but the what that had come before. He didn't seem all that surprised. Grumbled something about the mysteries of Aetherius, but didn't offer anything like an explanation. After that, he took it upon himself to teach her some basics — the history, the geography, the politics. And some of his trade. Though his mind was slipping, and they both knew it. Lovinar didn't seem upset about it, exactly. They both knew why she was there, why he'd let her stick around. He didn't want to die alone. And he wanted to pass something on, before he went.
Once she got the hang of the flora, foraging came easily — she'd had to do this once the last of the infrastructure had collapsed, and these mountains were, oddly enough, safer than the crammed urban exoskeleton overrun with gangs and madmen she had called home. Lovinar taught her a bit of his craft, too — enough to get by, to assist him with his messes. She didn't have the patience for the finicky work of brewing, but she was good at finding stuff — learning the plants, recognizing where they'd grow. A sort of intuitive sense of which plant would work best, and which were still too young to be potent. She didn't love the work, but she didn't mind it, either. The biodiversity had dazzled her initially. Her old world had lost most of its lifeforms — the plants she knew, she knew from books. There weren't computers widely available by then anymore, something about the collapse of rare earth mining. Once, apparently you could just snap a picture with your phone, and it'd identify the plant for you. Vera remembered phones only vaguely. Her mother had still known the world's lushness first hand, but Vera was born into extinction.
Lovinar had tried to coax her magic to manifest — you're a sodding Breton, girl, it shouldn't be so hard — but she couldn't perform even the most basic of spells. Not even to light a fire. It made no sense to her. Lovinar kept describing what the connection to her magic should feel like — but she felt nothing. Until, one night, again after a bottle of wine she'd traded for some basic health potions with a local encampment of Redguard hunters, he brought out a purple gem and an old, ugly amulet, worn to a glossy sheen on the reverse side where the carved bone had rubbed against skin and cloth after years of use. "The enchantment is getting thin," he'd told her, putting the violet gem in her hand. It glowed and pulsed, warm against her palm. It was tiny, about the size of a wild apple, but something about it kept Vera wanting to pry it apart, to bite into it and taste what that pulsing swirl would feel like on her tongue. Lovinar noticed her gaze, and chuckled to himself, coughing on the exhale. The cold had settled into his lungs by that point, and it wasn't letting go, no matter how many tonics he brewed.
He had an altar — a small thing, made of a troll's skull, three eye sockets staring back at Vera with their amethyst inlays, an old wooden board holding the chartreuse filigree of the focal circle. The thing inside the gem in her palm wanted to burrow itself under her skin like a worm, like something that would make itself at home and lay its larvae. Part of her wanted to reach for it, to make room, to welcome it into herself. An almost motherly feeling.
"Yes," Lovinar said then. "You can feel it, can you not?"
Vera had swallowed around the tightness in her throat. Yes. Yes, she could. And what to do with it, too, even before Lovinar offered his explanation. The faint trace of the amulet's previous occupant had left a kind of structure behind it. It was almost empty — like a half-forgotten village, half-abandoned, where no one but the old people lingered. In her past life, Vera sought out places like that once she escaped the city. They offered a kind of muted, overlooked safety.
"You will take the soul into yourself, but do not, under any circumstances, let it settle. Do you understand, girl? You feel where the grooves of the enchantment are in the amulet, yes?"
Vera had nodded. That, and what it was for, too. She felt it a bit with plants as well, vague and faltering and barely there at all — Lovinar claimed that she should be able to know a plant's use even if she had never seen it before, to intuit it if she could just reach into it. Something about how plants too connected to everything else. "It'll come in time," he reassured. Vera was doubtful on that account — he was mistaking his inhuman lifespan of accumulated expertise for intuition.
But with the amulet, that elusive insight was there. A rush of images. A warm cloak on a chilly night. The crackle of a hearth fire when the wind outside howled. A cup of steaming spiced wine. The cloak was worn thin, and the fire had dwindled, and the wine had cooled.
"It's a frost enchantment," she said, muzzy with the realization of her own sudden certainty.
Lovinar had smiled his crinkly smile, pleased that he could finally give her something to take with her, into a future from which he would fade.
The frost amulet had saved her life that winter, on her way to Markarth to find an Altmer called Calcelmo. She had a letter for him from Lovinar, a request for tutelage. Calling in a final favor. Who could refuse a dying colleague's wishes?
He passed on the first day of Sun's Dawn, a peaceful fading. She held his hand until he went cold, and buried him out back, the ground hard from the frost, unyielding, as if it didn't want him yet. The icy wind smeared the tears on her cheeks.
Then, Markarth. Her first terrified night in the great stone city carved into the mountainside, with its constant rumble of water and subterranean dwemer machinery mimicking the sound of traffic — back in her early childhood, when there still was any traffic to speak of. Silver and blood and something nasty brewing under the surface. The first day, there'd been a Forsworn attack, and the guards had harassed her, an unfamiliar Breton in a city of conspiracy and plots. They confiscated everything, too, including Lovinar's letter and the little coin she had — as evidence, they'd claimed. One of them, a bald Nord with a hard glint in his pale eyes, had insinuated that she could get it all back — for the right price. She told him to kindly fuck off, and both men had laughed, confident with their own impunity and a little drunk on unchecked power. But they let her go, with nothing but the clothes on her back, but her dignity intact, at least. She learned from the jeweler in the market that Calcelmo was gone on some expedition, and wasn't expected back for another two months.
At first, she'd hid in the warrens like a feral rat, hungry — she'd been hungry all the time — but it had been oddly reassuring. In the last few years of her past life, hunger had been a constant, familiar companion.
It took her a few days to realize there were no real jobs to speak of — the smith might have liked a new apprentice, but Vera didn't know a lick about smithing. The inn was overstaffed, if anything. Lovinar had taught her to read — but her writing was still slow, the unfamiliar alphabet confusing in its repetitiveness, in the subtle nuances of its calligraphy, which she kept getting wrong. So scribe work was out.
In the end, Bothela took her in — what was one more stray Breton lugging around unchecked baggage full of heartbreak and secrets? It was better than the alternative — which boiled down to two things, really: cracking rocks or servicing the men who cracked rocks.
Vera liked the old woman's approach to the craft — her crass practicality, her sardonic wit, her cynicism. Muiri had the potion work well-in-hand, but they needed a forager — and Vera had offered, eagerly, before they'd turn her out. She brought a sack of glowing mushrooms she'd gathered in one of the abandoned mines — to show her willingness to crawl around underground and put herself in harm's way if needed. Bothela had given her a once-over. Vera knew what the old witch would see — a scrawny woman, not quite young enough to pass for a newly minted bright-eyed and bushy-tailed adventurer. A vagabond, then. A derelict, who slept in the warrens. Vera had brought her hand to her messy mop of poorly cropped black hair, self-conscious and hoping it didn't look as bad as it felt. The worn clothes on her back, and the chipped dagger at her belt probably didn't offer much reassurance either.
"I'm low on juniper, nirnroot, and bilsterwort," Bothela had said and tossed her a satchel. "You'll share the room with Muiri. Be back by sundown."
That had been a month ago. She'd settled in. Still waiting for Calcemo to return — the feeling of the soul gem in her palm wasn't letting go of her so easily.
"Still with me, lass?"
Vera eyed the Nord again. He was watching her expectantly over his ale and his plate of poached potatoes and venison roast. Middle aged, heavily tattooed — with an accent as thick as the haft of the double-handed axe strapped to his back. She took another sip to give herself something to do. "Why do you ask?" He didn't seem like a bad sort, but it was hard to tell.
He leaned in, ale and tobacco on his breath. "I need a local guide, as I said, but I like to get to know the people I'm hiring. The old woman in the apothecary said you wouldn't mind some extra septims, but I prefer for them to be well-spent. As my associate likes to remind me, septims don't grow on trees."
Vara took another sip of ale. Yeah, right. He could pay any of the local mercs — hell, Vorstag would probably take the job. Even now, there he was, sitting on his ass on the other side of the inn, pretending not to watch the newcomer. Been at it for weeks now, grousing about how no one was hiring. No. Something about this Nord was decidedly fishy.
"Who's your associate?" Vera asked instead.
The Nord motioned with his head, and Vera followed his gaze. She hadn't noticed the man in the shadowed corner. Surprising, that, because he wasn't exactly blending in with the surroundings. His armor looked alien — like something made of an insect's carapace. Even in the heat of the tavern, he wore a type of helmet, a red cowl obscuring his features — the entire arrangement giving him the air of an oversized mantis. He must have noticed her gaze, because he inclined his head and tipped his glass — not ale, Vera noted. Kleppr's overpriced brandy, she guessed.
"There are plenty of idle hands in Markarth." Why would these two want to hire her? Something was out of place here, some undercurrent agenda she was missing. She didn't like it. "Why me?"
"I need someone who's good at finding things. Someone who knows their way around the caves and crags of this gods-forsaken dunghole." The Nord chuckled. "I'm a valley man myself, see. And I'm looking for something I... misplaced. Your current employer told me you got a knack for that sort of work." He huffed good-naturedly and started fishing in his satchel until he procured a pipe. He lit up, letting the pungent smoke drift off towards the rafters. "Won't lie — I'm not looking to spend much. You lot got spoiled here with all the silver gushing from out of the city's bowels. We've been on the road for some time. My pockets ain't that deep at the moment, lass."
Bullshit. He wasn't eating frugal. And his buddy in the corner sure wasn't drinking frugal either. "What are you looking for, then?"
He grinned into his beard, the tattoos twisting with the expression. Vera noted that his left incisor was chipped. "I'll tell you if you take the job."
She shouldn't have considered it. But the prospect of having enough cash to bribe the guards into returning her recommendation letter was too damn tempting. Calcelmo didn't exactly have a reputation for taking in strays. "If you're looking to hire a fighter, I won't do you much good."
"Not looking for a fighter. Got the best sellsword this side of Tamriel, as that lout in the corner likes to remind me." He rolled his shoulders. "And I'm no sodding milk drinker myself, if you're worried."
"I'm sure you're both lethal."
"Aye, that we are. I told you, I'm looking for someone with a good sense of the terrain." He leaned in again. "One hundred septims up front, and one hundred after we find what I'm looking for."
"Make it one hundred and fifty up front and two hundred on the other end, and we have a deal." Maybe she could just price him out. Then again, three hundred and fifty septims should be enough for "expediting the process" on getting her requisitioned "evidence" back from the city guards, so if he actually shelled out the cash... The guards wouldn't return her gold, of course, but that didn't matter as much. She just needed the letter by the time Calcelmo returned.
The Nord rumbled a guttural laugh. In the corner, his partner cocked his head to the side, watching them from behind his helmet.
"Hear that, Teldryn? She's almost as expensive as you."
Vera put down her mug of unfinished ale and fished for a coin to place on the counter. "Let's be clear here. You're buying my expertise. You're not buying anything else."
The Nord looked on in confusion, his reddish eyebrows drawing together. Then it dawned on him, and he guffawed. "If I were looking for that kind of guide, lass, I'd be huffing and puffing my way up to the Temple of Dibella. No offense — it's not like you're not fetching and all — but it ain't like that. And I'll vouch for him too." He motioned with his chin. "We won't touch a hair on your head."
"Fine." It was out before she could bite it back.
He grinned again, extending his hand, large and calloused with weapon work. "I'm Undnar. What's your name, then?"
"Vera," she said. They shook on it.
Undnar straightened, raking his long mane back from his face. Both the mane and the face looked like they could use a wash. His armor, too, was covered in a thick layer of road grime. He didn't smell too great, either.
"It's getting late. Let's meet tomorrow morning, and I'll explain the situation. I'll have your money, then."
Vera nodded. She already regretted agreeing. With any luck, Undnar would change his mind and find someone else.
"Sero, Oblivion take you, don't just lurk there like some sodding chaurus, come greet our new partner."
Undnar was loud, the sort of man who took up room like he was owed it. Vera ignored the curious stares of the other patrons. Her eyes went to Vorstag, who was getting up, unsteady on his feet from another day of drinking. Alarm prickled her spine — Vorstag could get a tad unpredictable when he felt slighted, which was most of the time when he was drunk — which was most of the time.
He stared at her with an unpleasant leer.
Vorstag wasn't the worst of them, but he wasn't great. He'd ignored Vera at first — courtesy of Muiri, who turned heads wherever she went. It suited Vera fine, and she stuck to the apprentice alchemist like a particularly clingy invisible sidekick whenever she had to go anywhere in the city. She liked the girl. And Muiri seemed grateful for the company, but something was eating her on the inside, something dark and unpleasant that she couldn't bring out into the light of day. She'd gotten... peculiar in the past few weeks. Secretive. Muttering something about the Night Mother, whatever that was. It got harder and harder to drag her out of the Hag's Cure. Maybe when all this was said and done, Vera would have enough coin left over for one of the long-term rooms in the inn.
Vorstag, in the meantime, was striding forth — or, rather wobbling forth unsteadily, trying to look like he was striding. Vera had lost some of her starved cat look since she arrived, her figure filling out and her skin shedding some of its malnourished roughness. Bosmer men seemed to like her for some reason — something about her features or figure either struck them as just the right kind of exotic, or as just the right kind of familiar, she couldn't tell which. There was something about social class there too — whom you approached, and whom you left well enough alone. The Nords usually didn't give her so much as a second look, but there was always the exception that confirmed the rule. Point was, right around the time Muiri got herself firmly ensconced in the apothecary with only her herbs and her muttering for company, Vorstag, damn him, had suddenly discovered Vera's existence.
Eventually, she'd need protection. You couldn't live in Markarth long-term without paying off someone to look out for you. She hadn't committed yet, even though Bothela had been dropping hints. There was a man, she'd said, someone who could yank on some threads behind the scenes. Could make some problems go away. Problems like Vorstag, or overly dutiful city guards.
She had considered taking a lover — not so much for the pleasure of it, as for the added insurance. Bored men were dangerous, and there were quite a few bored men in Markarth — those who didn't want to slave in the mines, or those who didn't have the connections to land a better job.
"Hey! Hey, Nord! I'm talking to you!" Vorstag stumbled forward, one hand braced on the back of a chair for added stability, the other going to the hilt of his sword. This wasn't going well. Vera's eyes darted to the exit. The bar was in the way. Why'd she sit on that side? "Did I hear correctly? You're looking for a guide?" He was slurring his words. Definitely not going well. "Well, look no further. Best swordsman in the Reach, right here."
Undnar looked him over. "And if I ever find myself looking for a swordsman, I'll make sure I come right to you, friend." A warning had crept into his voice, something hard beneath the earlier conviviality. "Right now, I have other needs."
Vorstag's leer intensified. "Oh, I bet you do. Hate to be the bearer of bad news, then, but I think she overcharged you. Isn't that right, doll?"
They were drawing eyes in earnest now, the other patrons shuffling in their seats for a better look at the prospective entertainment. Vera bit her tongue, and inched closer to the exit. She didn't need this. She survived because she didn't draw attention to herself. Vorstag was a pain, but she could handle him — unless his wounded pride called for retribution in some dark alley. These two were just passing through — they would reap none of the consequences.
The chitin-wearing fellow stood up from his chair and made his way over towards them, his movements deceptively lazy. That sense of dread pulled at Vera's stomach again, but it was too late by then. It was over in seconds. Vorstag didn't react — Vera didn't think he so much as heard. Chitin Suit's hand landed on the Nord's shoulder, a friendly gesture to diffuse the tension. The oaf started turning around — and then he collapsed onto the floor in a nerveless heap, like a tree falling. And had she been standing anywhere else, it would have been easy to miss the thumb that dug into the pressure point on the side of Vorstag's neck.
The "associate" turned to the barkeep. "Looks like your patron had a few too many drinks, surjo." The voice was a surprise. He was too short for a Nord — so Vera had expected the crisp lilt of Imperial diction. Not this sardonic raspy drawl, like smoke and chocolate. The accent, too, wasn't something she'd heard before.
Whoever this guy was, he was a trained killer. No wonder Undnar wasn't looking for a merc.
"Apologies." He didn't sound apologetic in the slightest. Instead, he stepped over Vorstag and stalked closer. And then he pulled off his helmet.
Vera choked back an instinctive scream. Fuck, it's a demon! Bluish grey skin, crimson eyes with oversized pupils that swallowed most of the sclera in a gaunt face that looked like something out of a Biblical kind that promised you fire and brimstone and bat-winged bastards with pitchforks. She blinked, trying to dislodge the apparition.
The apparition refused to be dislodged.
She'd read about Oblivion. Was this one of its denizens? No wonder he had kept his helmet on. She blinked again. The initial shock settled some. No. The fellow was an elf of some kind — the bony facial structure, the iris size, all of that fit with the typology she had begun to assimilate. But fucking hell, that coloring was rough.
His lips quirked in amusement. "Much as I'd like to flatter myself into believing that you've been struck speechless by my good looks, by your expression, I'm guessing you've never seen a Dunmer. Is that so?"
Get your shit together, you idiot. A Dunmer. She'd read about those too. Vera forced her shoulders into a shrug. "Are you from Morrowind, then?" Spectacularly inane questions aside, there was still the mess of Vorstag — no one was in a hurry to drag him to his room, either. With any luck, he wouldn't remember any of it — but since when had she been lucky?
"I was born in the city of Blacklight." Another smirk. "You should visit there, if you ever get the chance. It's spectacular."
She was still gaping, and he was enjoying it, the bastard. He extended a chitin-clad hand — the same hand that had put Vorstag out of commission. "Teldryn Sero, blade for hire. Best swordsman Undnar's money could buy." His eyes darted to his Nord employer. "I'm glad I'll finally be traveling with someone who seems... competent."
Vera's jaw tightened. She could tell a dig when she heard one. She hadn't exactly stood up for herself back there. Nope. In fact, she was about to turn tail, and get the hell away from the entire mess. Apparently, that hadn't left Chitin Suit with the best first impression. Still, she shook the offered hand and repressed the urge to wipe off her palm on her trousers. The texture of the armor was... unpleasant. "Until money changes hands, it's just a verbal agreement," she offered cautiously. Always leave yourself an exit.
"Quite right. Luckily, I'm not the one holding the purse strings." Another sharp smirk. "If you know what I mean..."
What you mean, you demonic-looking ponce, is that you don't think I'm worth the coin, Vera thought. And maybe the coin wasn't worth the trouble, either. There was still something off about this entire proposal.
"Oh, quit hassling the girl, Teldryn. Or have you forgotten that the guide was your idea?"
"It was, at that." He propped himself on the bar stool Vera had vacated earlier. "I hope you're as good at finding things as your employer claimed." He lifted the unfinished mug of ale Vera had abandoned and brought it to his lips. "Aside from trouble, that is."
Vera narrowed her eyes. There was something beneath the lazy sarcasm — something like a warning. Nope. Whatever this was, it wasn't worth the coin. She'd find some other way to get her letter back. But she'd be damned if she let the demonic ponce have the last word. She turned to face him. Chitin Suit was watching her over the rim of his glass with those strange crimson eyes.
"You're in Markarth, sera. Here, trouble finds you, if you're not careful."
He cackled. Actually, legitimately, cackled. "Are you?" He motioned with his requisitioned ale. "Careful, that is?"
Fuck him. Vera shrugged, swallowing back the sudden urge to kick the bar stool from under his ass. "I'm still alive, aren't I?"
"Funny thing with that." He took another sip. "You are… Until you aren't."
"Enough, Teldryn. Stop trying to scare the girl away, or you'll be looking for someone to take us to that gods-damned cave yourself."
Cave? Which cave? She did know those — well enough to know that there were some that you didn't go near if you planned on ever coming out.
"Ah, don't mind him. He's a bellyacher. Vera, was it? We'll meet you tomorrow, then. How about breakfast, hmm? My treat."
She should have asked for more money. Instead, she nodded. She hadn't committed to anything yet. Minimally, she wanted to talk it over with Bothela — see how much of a fee the guards would charge for her letter, and see if Bothela's contacts might offer a better deal. If she was outpriced from the start, there was no point in rocking the boat. Something about these two gave her bad vibes.
"It's a mining town. Breakfast is served early."
The Nord laughed — a big, full-throated bellow. "Then we better not stay up late, eh? Night, lass."
The Dunmer simply gestured with his ale.
"Goodnight," Vera offered, and made for the door. Vorstag, still on the floor, was stirring awake. That was the Silver-Blood Inn for you. You could get knifed on the floor, and no one would so much as pause in their drinking. One way or another, she didn't want to be there when he finally came to.
###
She hurried to the apothecary, trying to stick to the better lit parts of the city. The clank of the heavy door at her back brought relief, as it always did. She didn't mind the constant fear so much — it too had been a habitual companion for longer than she could remember. It was more the added layer, the unease of the prospective arrangement — and the promise of the goddamn coins. She could stay with Bothela for a time, but it was pretty obvious that the eponymous owner of the Hag's Cure wasn't exactly looking for a second apprentice. There was an agenda there too, and Vera wasn't sure she wanted to step into it. And while there was no guarantee that Calcelmo would take her on, even with the letter, the memory of the purple gem kept yanking at her with a craving she couldn't quite identify.
The shop was dark and quiet. Vera walked down the stone hallway, trailing her fingertips along the wall. Where did everyone go?
The door to the room she shared with Muiri was closed, but a small light filtered from the crack where feet had worn a groove in the stone over the years of use. Markarth was old. She rapped her fingers against the metal, waiting for a response. Nothing.
She pushed the door open.
Muiri was sprawled on the bed, her shoulders shaking with sobs. Vera's feet carried her forward. The Breton lifted her head from the pillow, her face red and puffy and streaked with tears.
"Muiri, what is it?" It looked like the last few weeks of weirdness were finally going to come to a head, after all. Well. It had been a weird sort of night.
"I…" The other woman wiped her face with the back of her hand, and sat up. Her gaze was empty safe for the horror, black and deep-rooted. "I'm… I'm pregnant. The bastard left me with child."
Next up: A series of bad decisions