Interlude: Delivering News

In a manor in the Imperial City, there was nary a flutter as a small, gold-embossed envelope appeared (seemingly from nowhere) on the kitchen counter.

A few seconds later, an Argonian dressed in traditional maid attire turned back to the counter to prepare the evening's vegetables...before pausing, frowning, and looking down at the letter. "Mrs Meteuse?" She called out into the hallway. "Mail here for you!"

"What's the courier doing this late?" A woman's voice called back. "Well, whatever it is, it can wait until after dinner."

"Of course, ma'am." The Argonian looked closer at the letter, then her eyed widened. "Actually, you might want to read this one now!"

The voice scoffed. "Preens-Her-Scales, I am halfway through my first wine on a Fredas evening. You know what mood I'm in. I'm sure it can wait!"

"Yes, only...it's from Alexander!"

There was a pause.

Then a shrieked "WHAT?" that could be heard by the dogs outside, followed by what sounded like someone falling out of their chair.

Mirabelle Ervine was having a really, really bad day.

"EVERYBODY OUT!" She shouted, storming through the central courtyard and struggling to be heard over the wind. "ALL TEACHERS, STUDENTS, EVERYONE! EVACUATE THE COLLEGE!"

She spotted a familiar mop of grey hair among the chaos and sighed in relief. "Tolfdir, thank the Divines. What's going on out here?"

"Mirabelle! Thank the Nine!" He jogged over to her. "These strange magical anomalies were attacking Winterhold!"

Oh no. "Are they still there? Did anyone die?" She pressed.

"All of them are destroyed now, with the help of some of the guards and a couple of outsiders. We're not sure yet about the casualties." He looked past her, to the door to the Hall of the Elements. "What happened in there? Where is Archmage Aren?"

Mirabelle's breath hitched. "Savos...Savos is dead." She managed. "And Alexander is..." wide eyes, ghostly form, legs tumbling upwards as he fell backwards- "gone. Ancano was doing something to the eye, it-" they were interrupted by a rumbling noise. They and everyone else in the courtyard stumbled as the ground shook beneath them.

"The Archmage is dead? I...oh dear." Tolfdir suddenly looked much older. "We should gather the masters. Prepare, move in together and-"

"No!" Mirabelle shouted, swiping her arm through the air. "We-Tolfdir, we can't fight what's in there. It's getting stronger by the minute, I was barely able to free myself from the last ward that tried to block me in. Ancano-I-" She shut her blabbering mouth, and tried to still her shaking hands. Come on, woman, focus. Watching Savos' sacrifice, watching Xander fall...it had taken a toll on her.

"We need to get out." She told him. "Get everyone out of the College. No stopping to try and save one precious experiment or another, we retreat into Winterhold proper. Further, if we have to. Try and come up with a plan."

The fact that there was a plan, and that the only way to complete it might be lying at the bottom of the Sea of Ghosts, laid heavy on her mind.

Tolfdir took in her expression, and nodded. "I'll check through Attainment, and send someone through Countenance. Though I doubt anyone was able to sleep through this...You'll need to lead everyone out here to Winterhold, explain things to Korir. Can you do that?"

Mirabelle grit her teeth. Damnit. I'm not built to lead...

But people were in danger. "I can." She nodded, before walking out into the centre of the courtyard, hoisting herself up onto the pedestal of Shalidor's statue. "ATTENTION! ALL APPRENTICES, TEACHERS! EVERYONE MAKE THEIR WAY ACROSS THE BRIDGE AND INTO WINTERHOLD!" The wind staggered her briefly, and she shivered. "AND FOR THE LOVE OF WHOEVER YOU WORSHIP, DON'T YOU DARE FALL OFF!"

"What are you hiding, priest?" Throngvor Silver-Blood demanded, staring down brother Verulus. "Why do you deny us access to our honoured dead?"

"There is nothing to hide." The man protested, firmly. "You are simply not allowed in. I am certain that this matter will be resolved soon."

"What matter?" Throngvor glared at him. "You lock the entire city out of the mausoleum and offer nothing but excuses! If I find out that you have mishandled the remains of my ancestors-"

"Careful, silver-monger." Verulus' gaze sharpened. "Do not presume to accuse Arkay's faithful of-" his gaze flickered past Throngvor's own, and his scowl deepened. "Oh, wonderful..."

Throngvor turned, and almost groaned out loud.

"Ah, just the Man I was hoping to find." Ondolemar, head Thalmor agent in Markarth, strutted up to them like he owned the place. This was probably because he thought he did own the place, and the way he stressed the word 'Man' only lent more credence to the thought.

"Ondolemar." Verulus nodded to the elf with about as little respect as one could offer. "Something I can do for you? I do not believe I have had the pleasure of interring any of your fellows yet."

Pleasure? Ohoho. Throngvor backed up until he was stood beside Verulus, as Ondolemar smoothly replied "No, rest assured my brethren will not desire to be interred in...this mausoleum." The disgust was as plain in his voice as his smirk was on his face. "In fact, that's why I'm here. I would like to ensure that this 'Hall of the Dead' is up to standards."

"Standards?" Verulus repeated, outrage plain on his face. "What on Mundus are you talking about?"

"Well, it's common knowledge that with the ridiculous assertions of a 'ninth Divine', you Men's respect for the true Eight has...suffered, somewhat." Ondolemar smiled in an incredibly punchable manner. "If you are a true servant of Arkay, you must surely want to do everything in your power to ensure your deity is properly revered."

Verulus genuinely looked like he was about to toss a right hook at the elf's face, and Throngvor decided now was the time to intervene. The irony that he was suddenly on the side of the man he'd been threatening minutes ago wasn't lost on him. Madness. Everything in this city is so damn complicated nowadays...

"Hey. Watch yourself." He interposed himself between the two, staring down (Yes! Still taller!) at the Thalmor agent. "I hardly think it's the place of the Aldmeri government's lapdog to be accusing Arkay's faithful."

Ondolemar's eyes narrowed. "Watch your words, Nord." He uttered.

"Oh, I'm watching them." Throngvor crossed his arms. "I know exactly what your business is. Going after those who worship Talos is one thing, but I'm well within my rights to call you a bastard to your face. Bastard."

"He is right." Verulus said, quietly, from behind.

Ondolemar looked enraged for a moment, but quickly schooled his expression back into a calm one. "You're quite right about one thing. Talos is my business." He spread his arms. "And that is the purpose of my presence here. Who knows how many of these natives are buried in an improper fashion? With rites and blessings of their false god? We will have to search the tomb for heretical artefacts, and decide what to do with those bodies which have been interred improperly-"

"You would defile the dead? For your twisted campaign?" Throngvor clenched his fists. "Our ancestors have already passed on. What harm could they possibly do you?"

Verulus stepped up beside Throngvor. "In either case, the point is moot. The Hall of the Dead is closed at present, and none are permitted to enter."

"Unfortunate." Ondolemar tutted. "But I am afraid I will have to insist."

"Insist all you like." Verulus stated, eyes hard. "The answer is no."

Throngvor tracked his eyes past Ondolemar, to where two other Thalmor soldiers were loitering suspiciously closely.

Are we doing this now? Alright then. I'm quite happy to do this now.

His arms uncrossed, and one fell to the blade at his hip.

Ondolemar's fingers twitched.

Then Throngvor saw another figure walking up, and made himself relax. "Brother." He called over Ondolemar's head. "Good to see you, what brings you to Understone Keep?"

"Throngvor, good to see you too." Thonar Silver-Blood walked up, nodding courteously to Verulus. "And the answer, as always, is business."

Ondolemar turned around to face Thonar, tilting his head. "Oh? Your business? Or somebody else's?"

"In this city, everyone's business is my business." Thonar replied, with his customary unfaltering calm. (Their father had always said that while Throngvor had a steel will, Thonar had a silver tongue.) "Speaking of which, Ondolemar. Would you mind if I took up a few minutes of your time? There are some updates with regards to our business I believe you should be illuminated on."

Throngvor tilted his head, frowning. What business do you have with the elves, brother?

More confusing was that it seemed to work. Ondolemar stood still for a few seconds, then glanced back at Verulus and said "Congratulations, priest, you may put this off for another day." He began walking towards Thonar, who also started walking, and then Ondolemar flicked a finger and the other Thalmor nearby started walking too, and then they were all walking together in a very impressive formation. Most importantly, they were walking away.

Hmph. Good save, Thonar. But we're going to have to talk about this later...

He turned back to Verulus (who had clearly never been in a fight in his life and was shaking a little), and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Hey." He said, quietly. "Whatever's wrong in there, you'd better sort it out soon. Divines know what the Elves will do if they find a way to call it sacrilegious."

"They will do nothing." Verulus swore. Though the Imperial looked unsettled, his voice was firm. "I may be new to Markarth, new to Skyrim, but I know my duty. If the Thalmor mean to disturb the dead in my care, then they are no servants of the Divines. Eight or Nine."

"Good man." Throngvor paused. "You know, if it's something I can help with, you need only ask. The Silver-Bloods can grant you gold, men, time,whatever you need. I only want my forefathers to have the respect they deserve; I have no quarrel with you."

It was amazing, how having a common enemy made it so much easier to find common ground. Verulus looked him in the eye a moment, then glanced around to check that they were alone. "You must keep this quiet." He warned. "The last thing we need is a panic."

"I worship Talos in a city where it's illegal." Throngvor replied, frankly. "I know how to keep my mouth shut."

"Alright." Verulus exhaled. "It's...well, at first I worried it was skeevers, but the marks just aren't right. Something- no. Someone. Is eating the bodies."

In a cabin on a ship moored in Solitude harbour, there was a flutter as a small, gold-embossed envelope appeared in midair.

A split second afterwards, it was pinned to the wall by a ghostly purple arrow.

The air in the corner of the room rippled, and a woman with long dark hair appeared, crouched up on a table with a similarly ghostly bow in her hands. She released the bow, letting it vanish, before casting upwards of a dozen complicated spells on the room around her. After they all revealed absolutely nothing in the room (besides a light trace of residual magic leading from the door to the letter's present location), she stood upright, dropped to the floor and walked over to the letter, scrutinising it carefully.

She read the front of the envelope, and hummed. "My my, Alexander. Either your handwriting's gotten a lot better, or..."

Outside, walking very quickly across the surface of the water, Quaranir was feeling a little shaky. "She almost shot me..." he muttered.

The sun had set, yet Mor Khazgor remained alert, alive, awake, and enthusiastic. The sound of steel on steel (or more often, Orichalcum on Orichalcum) echoed through the air, ringing out from men and women sparring in the courtyard and smiths hard at work in the forge. Orcs continued to hurry about, moving supplies, shouting orders. The great bonfire in the centre of the camp was lit, and the carcasses of two cows were being roasted there and handed out to the Orcs gathered around it, drinking and telling stories.

Oh, the camp would sleep eventually, but nights seemed to be getting shorter and shorter these days. This was in spite of specific instructions from the chief that they remember to get their rest, mind you; the people just couldn't help themselves.

Excitement was in the air. How could it not be, with a war brewing?

"Here you are." Sharamph put two small vials down on her table, sliding them over to Borgakh the Steel Heart. "Tell your father not to drink them so damn quickly this time. Fill the cap of the vial with it, pour it into his ale, and drink it before bed. That's more than enough to have him out fast."

"Aye. Thanks, I'll tell him." Borgakh scooped the potions with a sigh. "We're planning an invasion, and what am I doing? Delivering the chief his medicine."

"Oh, hush you." Sharamph swung her fist round and cuffed Borgakh about the skull, meriting a laugh. "Division of labour, girl. You're the only one around here I could trust to bring these up to him without messing up somehow. Most of these meatheads would probably try and take a pickaxe to them..."

"Hmph. If I'm so trustworthy, why's Dulurza the one to go on the prestigious mission..." Borgakh regretted saying it the moment it was out. Damnit. Apologies Malacath, now I'm whining to my elders about my insecurities like I'm some teenage girl again...

Sharamph rolled here eyes, but kindly didn't launch into a tirade at Borgakh's expense. Instead, she leaned in. "You want to know why your father really picked Dulurza?"

Wait, she knows? Borgakh leaned in too. "Aye. Why?"

"It's simple, really." Sharamph whispered. "She's prettier than you."

"...WHAT?" The moment it registered, Borgakh recoiled, glaring at Sharamph. "What in the name of-"

"Oh, calm yourself granddaughter." The wise-woman waved her arm, leaning back against the wall of her hut. "You've been wandering around the camp sulking for weeks now. Maybe it is what you think. Your sister was picked because she's been beating you in spars on the regular for the last half a year."

Borgakh grimaced, as Sharamph continued. "But you're his eldest daughter. There's a good chance he just didn't want to risk your life doing it."

Borgakh wrinkled her nose. "Don't like that explanation either. I'm no precious flower who can't face danger. And besides, if I found out father didn't care about Dulurza as much as me, I'd have some words for him."

"Then go have words!" Sharamph shrugged. "Moping around stuck in your thoughts isn't going to help you. If you want to know why he sent your sister into Solitude, go ask him. Worst he can do is tell you to go milk a mammoth, and then you know it's him who's too scared to tell you. I raised him better than that, I should hope."

"Hm. Aaight." Borgakh nodded. It was an incredibly simple solution, but...well. She was an Orc, for Malacath's sake. Short fight, woman. Focus. "Thanks for your advice. I'll ask him when I bring these in tomorrow morning."

"Why wait? Go now." Sharamph shooed her. "He could use a draught tonight, if he's not out already, and there's no point putting your questions off."

"He's asked not to be disturbed..." Borgakh trailed off, awkwardly.

"Well go in anyway!" Sharamph huffed. "And tell him I sent you. I don't care if he's the chief, he'll do what his mother says. I've got far too many embarrassing stories about him for him to argue."

Borgakh laughed, said her goodbyes, and walked up towards the chief's longhut.

The throngs had left the house a wide berth; previous events had proven that when Larak demanded privacy, he took that demand seriously. Not even his wives were allowed in. He's been doing it more and more lately, stress must be getting to him. Maybe one of the other orcs will pick up on it and challenge him...heh. That'd be fun to see.

She made sure there was no hesitation in her steps as she walked up to the door, bringing up her knuckles to rap on the wood.

She paused, however, when she heard voices from inside.

"...this I hear about a vampire, anyway?" Larak's voice, raised and angry, was just audible through the door. "Why weren't we told?"

The next voice was much calmer, Borgakh had to put her ear to the door to make out the words. "...of contingency. We have many fingers in many pies. We needed an additional option in case your efforts failed." That's not an Orc. Sounds more like a...what on Mundus...

"You don't trust the might of Mor Khazgor?" Larak's voice replied. "How many others are there waiting for their shot at the city?"

"I assure you that nobody else is in your way. Your agent in Solitude has taken care of that. She is awfully inquisitive, from what we've seen, stopped Stentor's plan right in it's tracks." The stranger's voice replied, offhandedly. "Convenient for us, actually. Leaves us with no loose ends."

"And what would have happened if she had failed, huh? If my tribe had become a loose end?"

"The same thing that would happen if you backed out now." The voice turned sharp. "You have our attention now, chieftain. You seem to believe you have the strength to take Skyrim's capital, and perhaps you are right, but I assure you. Your strength means nothing next to our power."

"Then why are we doing it for you?" Larak growled.

Borgakh realised that she had crouched down next to the keyhole, pressing her ear against it to try and hear more. She shifted in place, trying to get a better position.

"For the same reason anyone uses a catspaw." The stranger's voice continued. "We-"

Borgakh's leg slipped. She caught herself, but in doing so dropped most of her weight onto the door, causing it to rattle in its holdings. The voices inside cut off immediately.

Oh, son of a-

"Who is that?" Larak's voice echoed. "I demand you come out at once!"

Adrenaline spiking, it took Borgakh less than a second to straighten to her full height, recover her facial expression, and then pull open the door.

"Just me!" She replied, meeting his gaze for the absolute minimum amount of time required to avoid showing fear before immediately casting her gaze across the hall. It was...empty? But...there was someone taking just a moment ago. They couldn't have escaped already, surely?

"What in Oblivion do you think you're doing?" Larak snarled, storming up to her. "I specifically ordered not to be disturbed!"

She looked up at him, unflinching even as he loomed over her. Showing fear, she knew, would only make things worse. "Sharamph sent me up to deliver these." She held up the sleeping draughts. "If you have a problem, you can take it up with her."

"Oh, I just might." He snatched them from her hands, giving her another glare before walking back over to his chair. "I thought you knew better than to disobey my orders, daughter."

"Chief," she couldn't help but ask, "Was there someone here just now? I thought I heard-"

His head snapped back up to hers, and she shut her mouth.

"No." He stated. "You must have been mistaken. Do you want me to assume that you go around trespassing and hearing voices?"

"No, father." Borgakh hung her head.

"Then leave, now. Go to bed, Borgakh. You've got a busy day tomorrow."

"Aye, father." She nodded, fists clenched, and turned towards the door.

She was halfway through it when she remembered what she'd gone up to ask in the first place. But by that point, she figured it probably wasn't the best time.

Not to mention, she had something else to capture her attention. Illuminated in the light of the longhouse's fire, just before she closed the door, she could see an odd set of footprints heading out into the camp. Odd because they were far too small to be from her, Larak, or any Orc in the camp. And more importantly, odd because someone would have had to walk right past her to leave them, without her being able to see them.

Father...what have you gotten caught up in?

Mercer Frey had expected there to be trouble, returning to the Thieves Guild.

He had been absolutely furious, watching the rocks fall in front of him as Karliah escaped again from his blade, and neither the snowstorm raging around Winterhold nor the long ride back to Riften had diminished that rage. Instead, thoughts of all the nonsense he would have to put up with had circled through his head like moths drawn to the flame of his fury. Primary among those being:

This is getting out of hand. Now there are two of them!

Two people he had betrayed, now dead-set on ruining his day. He'd made a promise to himself back when he was green that he still held to; 'If you're going to double-cross someone, make sure that they and anyone who might be close to them are dead'. It had served him well for years, yet now for the second time he'd gone and messed it up. This was going to cost him so much gold, he could practically feel it slipping through his fingers. More assassination attempts, more sabotage, more 'bad luck' that he knew had to be a product of Karliah's direct interference.

And most worryingly, he would have to explain things, to both the guild and to Maven. That could be awkward; if he'd simply killed the cat he could have blamed the death on Karliah no problem. But now that L'laarzen was working against him, there was a good chance that his agents would encounter her again. He needed an excuse for her to have turned, and he knew whatever it was was going to be flimsy, given that this was the second time an ally had left with him on a mysterious mission and then decided to try and kill him.

But he'd come up with a story on the way back, made sure it was convincing enough. He only needed it to last a few days, anyway. Long enough for him to tie up all the loose ends he had in Riften, loot his own house for everything he'd left in there, and hi-tail it out of the city. Once he got the Eyes...well, they could think whatever they liked about him. He'd be out of Skyrim faster than you could say 'Nightingale'.

In short, he'd expected there to be trouble, but been willing to deal with it.

He hadn't been expecting...this.

"What do you mean L'laarzen has betrayed us?" Brynjolf demanded, loudly.

"I mean what I said. L'laarzen has betrayed us." Mercer replied, gravely.

"...No she didn't."

Mercer blinked. "What? Yes she did."

"No she didn't."

"Yes she did!"

"Not a chance!" Brynjolf looked shocked. "L'laarzen? She's too nice!"

Delvin Mallory, stood nearby, perked up. "Wait, what's he saying?"

"He's saying L'laarzen betrayed us!"

"What? No way! She's too nice!"

"That's what I said!"

Mercer looked between them, flabbergasted. "I assure you both that she did. I have the scars to prove it." And he did, conveniently. The animal had scratched up his arm when he had grabbed her about the throat, leaving markings that he had deliberately not healed. "I have no idea what Karliah offered to her, but I can only imagine it was gold. From the day I met that Khajiit I knew she was too ambitious for her own-"

"MERCER!" He turned around to see Sapphire striding towards him, fists clenched.

"You will not believe the rumours I'm hearing." She said, glaring. "I was hoping you could clear them up. Galathil told me something about L'laarzen turning against the guild? Nothing more than ridiculous speculation, I'm sure."

"No, it's true." Mercer replied, gritting his teeth.

"Yeah, I thought so." She crossed her arms. "What in Oblivion did you do? Is there any proof?"

"I'd say that her trying to kill me is pretty good proof, yes!" He shot back, angrily.

"I...Theres no way." Sapphire shook her head. "She's too nice!"

"Thats what we said!" Brynjolf and Delvin chorused.

"Besides, she can't leave the guild yet." Sapphire insisted. "Firstly, I still need to tell her my real name. Secondly-" She reached up to pull some of her hair back, exposing how uneven it was, "She never finished my haircut! It was bad enough having to wait until she got back from Winterhold! Look at this!"

That was when another voice piped up from the corner of the cistern. "Hold on, what's happened?" Rune shouted, just walking in from the secret entrance.

"L'laarzen attacked Mercer!" Brynjolf shouted back to him.

"She did?" Rune looked between them all. "Oh, okay. So are we scragging him now or what?"

"...What?" Mercer gaped at him.

"Well, L'laarzen attacked you." Rune tilted his head. "I assume that means you've done something bad, right? Guys, I'll distract him, if Brynjolf can get him in a headlock-"

"SHE is the one who turned against US!" Mercer felt his eyebrow twitching violently.

"She did?" Rune blinked. "But...She's too nice!"

"That's what we-"

"DON'T SAY IT!" Mercer snapped at the rest of them.

"But that's just...come on, Mercer, surely it's more complicated than that." Brynjolf pleaded. "That lass just isn't the type to-"

"Isn't she?" Mercer snapped at him. "How do you know?"

He turned around, looking each of them in the eye. "How long have you all actually known her, huh? How many times have you actually talked? She's been here for what, a few weeks? And look at you all, wrapped around her claws already! Did none of you ever ask yourselves where she came from? Why nobody has ever heard of her, where she learned to be as good a thief as any one of you useless louts? Did you all really think it was a hair parlour?"

Because Mercer had wondered. And digging into her had left him with more questions than answers. He spread his arms. "She played us! It's that simple. Played nice, worked her way into our good graces with honeyed words and an innocent smile, proved herself invaluable. And all the while, she was just waiting for a chance to turn on us and take everything." He narrowed his eyes, looking down. "It was an act. From the start, I knew something was up. Everything she said, everything she did, it was just a little too...perfect." Too nice, just like they'd all said. The hairdresser, kind to everyone, proud of her skill and more than willing to gossip, yet embarrassed about all the other little tricks she had no damn explanation for. A wonderful concept, nuanced, interesting. And false. The L'laarzen they knew hadn't been a person. She had been a character. A character he'd been able to make her break.

Hairdressers don't fight on even footing with Nightingales. And that look in her eyes when she finally put together what I did...

"Let this be a lesson to all of you." Mercer warned them. "The only thing you can trust in is gold. The next time you see her, I have no doubt she'll make excuses. She'll have explanations, and they might even make perfect sense. But if you don't put a dagger through her ribs first...then she'll do it to you."

Another sweeping glance, and this time none of them were willing to meet his eyes. Good. "I'm going up to Riftweald." He told them. "Get back to your business, and make sure there are lookouts in every entrance to this city. If either her or Karliah come back here, I want to know about it."

He turned, and started walking away.

Trouble, trouble, and trouble some more...

But it would all be worth it. Soon, it would-

"MERCER!" Maven Black-Briar stormed through the door to the Ragged Flagon. "I hear that you've attacked my hair stylist! What on Mundus do you think you're doing?"

Mercer Frey grit his teeth.

He didn't think he'd ever hated anyone as much as he hated that blasted cat.

In an unobtrusive room, in a manor in Skywatch on the Summerset isle, a man with dark hair and a thin beard sat working at his desk. He didn't look up, but he did wave his offhand in the air, saying "Thank you very much. Just leave it on the dresser there, I'll get to it in a moment. If I owe you a tip there's a coin purse by the door, take what you'd like."

The room, to almost any mortal observation of sound, sight, smell or touch, was empty.

Standing in that room, Quaranir was far too afraid to ask how in Oblivion the man knew he was there. He simply let the envelope drop from nerveless fingers where he had been instructed to, and walked very quickly out the door.

Once he was a good few kilometres away, far enough away to feel safe, he finally allowed himself to suck in a very deep breath and sigh.

He'd thought Alexander was the worst.

"What is wrong with this family..."

This fic's first interlude! Love those things. None of our main characters appear, but we get to see how the world is unfolding around them. Little glimpses of the other Meteuse family members, as well as the progression of events in Morthal, Solitude and Riften. TlDR; everyone is seriously in need of a relaxation holiday. Nobody in Skyrim is having a great time right now. Well, not nobody; Elenwen's probably torturing someone, so she's having lots of fun.

Next Time: Someone shoots a person they've just met, someone breaks and enters, and someone is very, very damn cold.