A/N: Hello all, here is chapter twenty. Just to speed things up a bit (this arc is already more than half the damn story), we're opening up with my personal favorite antagonist in the base game. Along with a new one making her debut. Because we needed more epic badassery.
Whispers of the Night
Summary: One year after Serana died and she left Astrid, Alana has left for Solstheim to be alone and never harm another innocent. Enemies new and old are rising, and it is never easy for one to free themselves from the shackles of their demons…
*Book 2: Oblivion Walker Part 12*
From the top of the tower sunk into a raging sea of green sludge and writhing tentacles, he was unable to smell the oily stench that for so long plagued his nostrils. His mask did little to filter out smells, the Nord man wrinkling his nose in disgust at the sight of tentacles slapping against the black walls as he dangled his legs over the edge of his tower. He thought of the time he once walked the surface of the world, bringing with him fear and respect even amongst other priests of the Dragon Cult. Those days were eons ago, before the Nords of Skyrim overthrew their dragon overlords.
The pale blue shape of a serpentine dragon landed beside him, his twisted and deformed jaw permanently mutilated from a deadly blow he was lucky to recover from. "Miraak, thuri. We await your commands."
Miraak sighed and stood up from his perch, stalking over to the center of the tower and touching the Black Book that sat on a pedestal decorated by black stone tentacles. "My time as Hermaeus Mora's puppet is over. I have already begun to spread my influence amongst Solstheim's people. Prepare Relonikiv and Kruziikrel. The time for my return is approaching, and I doubt my master will want to give me up so easily."
"As you command." The serpentine dragon flew up with a single flap of his mighty wings, roaring out as he began to Speak with the other two dragons Miraak had placed under his command. They were all bound to serve him, mostly due to his mastery of the Voice. He was the First Dragonborn, the first mortal to share the blood of Akatosh, and he relished in the true power a Dragonborn could wield.
"Soon…very soon." Miraak stroked his warped mask, a thin smile stretched across his old and tired face. He had been trapped in this realm for too long and yearned to feel the wind on his face, to be the master of his own fate once more. 'Solstheim will be mine as it was meant to be. Once I control its people, they will build me a new temple, and I can finally return home.'
As always, Hermaeus Mora was generous in sharing the forbidden knowledge of his Black Books, giving him the Words of Power necessary to control the minds of mortals and dragons alike. In return, however, Miraak had been forced to betray the Dragon Cult and serve the daedric prince for all of eternity. The fury of his former masters was unrivaled; after seeing the remains of their brothers hung up like trophies they burned his temple to the ground in rage, many more falling to the First Dragonborn. However it was not the dragons that had forced Miraak to retreat into Apocrypha. No, it was the so called Guardian, Vahlok the Jailor.
His lip curled in disgust at the reminder of his defeat. Vahlok and he battled for days, Shouting terrible energies at each other and casting devastating spells so powerful that Solstheim was ripped away from Skyrim, floating towards the province of Morrowind. Vahlok had disarmed him and was preparing the killing blow when Hermaeus Mora intervened, swiping Miraak away from Tamriel and into the daedric prince's realm of Oblivion. However, he would get the last blow. Vahlok may have been preserved by the people of Solstheim like any other dragon priest, but his power had waned significantly whereas Miraak's only grew. If the Guardian were to rise from his crypt, he would find himself outmatched by the First Dragonborn's newly acquired daedric abilities that placed him above the feats of mere mortals.
Miraak glanced up at the greenish yellow haze that made up the sky in this realm, seeing tentacles writhe around a giant eye like some sort of twisted sun, feeling along the handle of his deformed sword. 'I can sense you awakening, Vahlok. It matters not; my power is beyond you now. So why? Why have you bothered waking up after all these centuries?'
'Something has called out to you, as the tides of fate decreed. You're not seeking to challenge me, but rather you have awakened in response to Alduin himself returning. But why would you wait for two years before stirring?'
Miraak suppressed a shiver in his green robes as a familiar dark presence suddenly formed behind him. "My lord." He would entertain the daedric prince for now; he may have wanted to be free of him, but he knew he had to play his game until it was the right time.
Hermaeus Mora didn't respond right away, waiting for the dragon priest to finish turning around before addressing him. "Miraak, my loyal servant. What is it that you seek?"
"What happened to Alduin? Why is that cursed fool stirring now?" Miraak tried to keep the venom out of his tone. His fight with Vahlok was over a millennia ago; there was no point in him lamenting over his defeat anymore. It was foolish to cling onto that bitterness.
"The Firstborn and her exist together now. Two corpses in one grave." Was that squishing of his eyes together his attempt at a smile? Miraak prevented his disgust from showing as he spoke to the lord who had given him all of his new power.
"What do you mean her? Who?" he asked.
"The last of the dragon blood. Alduin's bane." Hermaeus Mora's central eye blinked and his tentacles splayed out behind him like a revolting flower. "One who will cross your path in time. Fate driven."
Miraak scoffed. The Last Dragonborn, the one destined to slay Alduin, posing a threat to him? Almost laughable. He had learned to bend the will of the earth itself, making it submit to him and him alone. Slaying Alduin was a mighty feat that none of Sovngarde's best heroes could duplicate, but Miraak could have slain Alduin himself if he wanted. Instead, he chose a different path that granted him more power than he could have ever dreamed.
"Whoever she is, she matters little to me. I will take Solstheim from those fools; I already planted your influence in their minds," the First Dragonborn lied. "All we need is time for the seeds to bear great fruit."
Mora didn't reply to him; the daedric prince of fate and destiny merely tapped Miraak's shoulder with one slimy tentacle before fading away. There was no way for him to know that Miraak was preparing for the day when he could finally be free of the cursed daedra's influence.
'I will not die a slave to you.' The dragon priest closed his eyes and began to focus his magic, using his mastery of his daedric gifts to see into the dreams of others. "Solstheim, answer me. Here in my shrine, that you have forgotten. Here do you toil, that you might remember. By night you reclaim, far from yourselves. I grow ever near to you. Your eyes once were blinded, now through me do you see. Your hands once were idle; now through them do I speak."
His chant over, Miraak let the magic ripple from his body like a deadly wave, engulfing everything and everyone in its terrible wake. The seeds had been planted. "And when the world shall listen, when the world shall see, and when the world remembers…"
"That world shall cease to be."
Alana sat on one of the bar stools in the Windpeak Inn, trying to prepare herself for when she confessed to Ulfric in a few days. In a way, she was terrified of the prospect of kneeling before the High King and telling him what Akatosh had chosen her for. To not just be the last of those who would bear His blood, but His true champion. The one He chose to be the next to do what only one other mortal had accomplished and ascend into the divinity of Aetherius.
"What can I get for you, miss?" Astrid's enthralled tavern girl asked, hazily walking over to her with a stumble. "Anything at all?"
"Breton whiskey if you've got it," the blonde answered softly. She watched the tavern girl's sluggish movements and bit back an amused snort. 'By Talos, how many times has she been fed on? She's more lethargic than any of the thralls Harkon kept around Castle Volkihar. It's either that or Astrid did it properly. She's got better control of her power than I gave her credit for.'
The enthralled Nord nodded and slowly walked behind the bar to pull out a bottle of Alana's favoured drink, pouring its contents into a small glass. The blonde woman took it and raised it briefly before downing it in one gulp. "Cheers."
The glass hit the counter and Alana had to fight the urge to ask for a second shot. The time she spent drowning her sorrows in the Retching Netch Cornerclub had taken a toll on her, making her an addict to the burn alcohol gave as it poured down her throat. 'No. One is enough. I'm not going to be bested by a damn memory again.' With an incredible amount of self control she stood up from the bar stool and tossed a few septims onto the counter, going into the room her and Astrid rented out to get a few things for the journey back to Windhelm. A book or two to read on the journey would be appreciated, along with her broadsword and some bolts for her crossbow.
When she went to check the pouch she kept them in, she found that it was nearly empty. Only about ten bolts remained in the sleeve and she grimaced. "Damn…" 'Looks like a trip to the local blacksmith is needed. I hope he has plenty of steel and firewood.'
With Astrid going to the Sanctuary to say her last goodbyes to the Family, she'd have plenty of time to spend smithing. It would be hard for her mistress to say farewell to the Family that had saved her and gave her a purpose in life, but she was made of stronger stuff than most gave her credit for. She could do it.
Alana slid her sword into her holster and fished around in her pockets for some gold; she'd need plenty to pay for the materials she'd need for crafting. Her fingers brushed against the cool edge of septims and decided that would have to do. 'I'm not going to sneak around and nick whatever happens to be in someone's pockets. I'm better than that. He chose me for a reason.'
She left the Windpeak Inn and shivered in the frigid Dawnstar morning. The most northern port in Skyrim was always freezing cold, only the hardiest of people willingly living here. Her property in the Pale was closer to the border of Whiterun, making it a bit more tolerable than the city itself. Still, she found that the cold was banished from the heat of the local blacksmith's forge.
He was a middle aged Nord with shoulder length grey hair and he glanced over his shoulder as she approached him. "What can I get for you?"
"Do you know how to craft these? They're steel." She held out a few of the crossbow bolts to him, letting him take one to inspect it. Most blacksmiths had trouble getting the temperature of the forge just right; dastardly tricky to make and could easily get expensive if made incorrectly.
"Hmm. I've never seen anything like these," he remarked. "I doubt even my wife has and she's Redguard. I do have some steel ingots and firewood for sale. Say, seventy septims and they're yours. Even let you use the forge to make them yourself."
"Sounds fair to me." Alana handed over the necessary gold and set to work, setting some of the ingots down into the forge to begin the melting process. The forge was already hot enough to melt steel after a few moments, the blonde tugging on the pulley to pull them from the depths of molten metal.
Being very cautious to not waste any of the precious material she set the melted ingots aside and spit one of the logs of firewood, shaping it into the ends she'd need for her bolts. She'd never say it out loud, but taking up a forging hammer again just felt nice. The feel of its grip in hand and the smoke coming from the forge took her back to a time when things in her life were a hell of a lot simpler. No daedric princes to worry about, no dragons threatening all of Tamriel, and no Dragonborn prophecy. Just a simple young Nord learning the smithing trade after many long hours in one of Dibella's temples.
'Funny how much my life has changed since coming to the Fatherland. I thought I was going to be executed in Helgen, only to be saved by the one I was destined to slay. Talk about ironic.' Alana let out an amused scoff and wiped her forehead, feeling the sweat beginning to run down her body. Even with the bitter wind howling off the Sea of Ghosts, it was incredibly hot under the roof of the blacksmith's forge. Too hot for her to tolerate for long periods of time. 'Maybe I shouldn't have worn black clothing under here.'
The smith had retreated into his home with his wife to give her a bit of privacy while she worked and the blonde paused for a moment, letting out a ragged cough from the smoke. She blinked out beads of sweat from her eyes, ignoring the sting and pulling her vest over her head to tie it around her waist and act as a sash. With her arms and most of her torso now exposed to the elements to keep cool she went back to work, pounding away until she had enough steel to make her bolts.
Alana looked at her work and felt a twinge of pride. It had been quite awhile since she got a chance to simply work a forge without feeling the weight of the world crushing her shoulders. The bolts still hot, she dipped them into the vat of water next to the forge to cool them. Steam rose up and she rubbed her aching shoulders. Learning the trade was grueling work, but it had its own rewards like any other kind of labor. The satisfaction of knowing that the weapons she crafted would be what helped save not just Skyrim but all of Tamriel from the daedra and dragons.
Once the metal was cool enough to handle without being burned, she picked up her splintered pieces of firewood and carefully wove the melted steel around them, sharpening the tip of it to create her first batch of bolts. Alana held them up to see how they turned out, tapping the tip of them carefully. 'Not my best work, but it's more than suitable. Can still penetrate a dragon's scales with enough force.'
She was so caught up in her work that she didn't pick up the light footsteps behind her until a pair of cold hands stroked down the center of her back. "Enjoying yourself, darling?"
"Always, mistress." Alana shivered and turned around to greet her mistress. "How did…how did everything go?"
"It was hard," Astrid admitted. "The Dark Brotherhood is the only Family I knew for so long. I've placed Nazir in charge in my absence. Yes his sense of humor leaves a lot to be desired, but he can lead the Family much better than I can at the moment. You need me."
"Aww look at you getting all sentimental on me now. You'll make me blush."
"If I wanted to do that, I'd pin you against the wall and start kissing on various spots. I know what makes you hot and bothered."
"Behave. We're in public." Alana rolled her eyes and went back to making her crossbow bolts. "And I still need to make another few dozen of these. Didn't think I was this low."
"You're looking a little stiff. Not as fluid as you used to be." Astrid massaged her shoulders, rubbing a few knots out of them. "Aha. Did that do it for you?"
"More than you know." Alana stretched her arms above her head with a satisfied groan. "Why is it I can handle being stabbed twenty times but a mere stiff shoulder can make me want to just go back to bed?"
"Because I'm usually in your bed?" Astrid offered helpfully.
Alana couldn't help but laugh at the horrible attempt at humor. "You're as unfunny as Nazir."
"I'm almost offended by that claim. You really think I'm as bad as his puns? The man made jokes about how you killed that mine boss. Saying how the business was extremely cutthroat and the hours were murder."
The blonde groaned at the awful puns and shook her head, not wanting to remember just how bad the Redguard's sense of humor could be on the best of days. "No wonder he and Serana got on so swimmingly. The two of them could find a way to keep those going for hours." She thought of how her first impression of Nazir was he was a prat. But after getting to know him and ignore his sense of humor, he was one of the few members of the Brotherhood she trusted with her life. They had each other's backs when they needed it most.
For a supposed evil guild of assassins, they had a pretty decent track record of saving people from themselves, Alana included. It was almost laughable to think that she, the disgraced Dragonborn forced into exile, was saved by the Dark Brotherhood's own leader. If it weren't for Astrid, she wouldn't have made it this far.
"What did you say to her, back there?" Astrid asked softly, stroking Alana's hair. "I didn't recognize it."
"Spoke to her in the ancient tongue. I said goodbye to my princess." Alana paused from hammering away on some melted steel to wipe her forehead. "My dragon tongue is still a little rusty, but I know enough to say what I wanted to." She had picked up a little bit of the old tongue from Arngeir and of course Ulfric. As one who was once training to become a Greybeard before the Great War, Ulfric had a very deep understanding of the Thu'um. He may have not been a pacifist monk, but he did believe the Nords' inborn ability to learn the Thu'um wasn't something to be used lightly.
"You don't ever speak in the dragon language unless you're using a Shout. At least, I've never seen you do so before."
"You're right, I normally don't. This was one of those rare occasions. You're lucky I have such control over my Voice. If I didn't, I could have caused a hell of a scene."
"I heard how big of a mess it was when the late High King was assassinated." Astrid grimaced. "Torygg didn't stand a chance. He was torn into pieces by the sheer power of Ulfric's Thu'um. How powerful is his Voice?"
"He was once on his way to becoming one of the Greybeards. He's older now, of course, but one never really forgets what it means to learn a Thu'um. Could he match my own Voice? Probably not, but he can still give me a fair fight in it." Alana shrugged and finished her second and third batches of bolts. Three dozen ought to be enough for now; she could always make more in Windhelm if she absolutely needed to.
"Is that everything you want to take care of here?" Astrid asked.
"Yeah." The Dragonborn nodded and clipped the pouch onto her belt, adjusting the straps to compensate for it now being full. "I have to tell you, I'm nervous. I never thought I'd deserve a second chance. Not after what I did. I've lied, cheated, and stole to further my own gain. Even killed for it. Hard to think I could possibly redeem myself as a person."
"Yeah, well, here you are. Even after everything, you still took sword in hand and kept fighting. You never truly gave up, did you?"
"I don't think I could even though part of me wanted to. Stubbornness issues. Seems to run in the family."
Astrid let out a bark of laughter and wrapped her arm around Alana's waist. "So many think of you as a much better person than you give yourself credit for. How many people's lives have you touched and saved over the past few years?"
"A lot," Alana admitted. "Might have harmed a fair few, but overall, I guess I didn't do too bad of a job as the Last Dragonborn. I mean, Skyrim's developing now at a steady rate and the dragons have mostly gone their separate ways without having Alduin to give them orders."
There were a few stragglers that would always threaten a town, but the soldiers guarding the cities had been trained to deal with such an event. They were the best of the best, handpicked from within the ranks of the Stormcloak military. Each had been specifically trained in the event a dragon did show up, to aim for its wings and eyes with a barrage of arrows to force it down. But there was more to it than just slaying the beast. The aftermath of a dragon attack was always stressful; fires needed to be dealt with, food stocks required replenishing and buildings would need to be rebuilt if they were badly damaged.
Yeah, she'd say she did a pretty damn good job considering how few and far dragon attacks were now. A few had been reported on Solstheim, but none of them had made moves to attack Raven Rock. Perhaps they could sense her dragon blood and didn't want to cross her.
Windhelm…didn't seem so far away now. For once things really were beginning to look up for her. And yet for a reason she couldn't quite put her finger on, something seemed off. Like part of her was…missing. Side effect of being blessed by Akatosh, perhaps?
Alana shook her head and didn't give it another thought.
The bridge boards that made up Riften creaked and groaned underneath the fine boots worn by Maven Black Briar. The woman snarled in disgust as a beggar tried to slip past her and swipe her coin purse, kicking the raggedly man in the back as she stalked towards her home. With the Thieves Guild having been gone for more than a year, it was a lot harder for a woman like her to keep gold flowing and keep people in line. She couldn't believe she actually missed them, the filthy bastards.
'If that little murderous bitch hadn't betrayed everyone, I could still make my profits and have any troublemakers taken care of.' Maven growled in anger. 'Though she did do me a service by getting rid of that uppity bitch Mjoll. Good heavens that woman was annoying.'
No one had heard so much as a whisper from the former Guildmaster after she had been framed for so many murders two years ago. She had simply vanished into thin air and it was heavily believed that she had died out in the wilderness. Good riddance to bad rubbish. The girl had been a constant thorn in her side.
Maven entered her manor, listening for any of her children. The house was completely quiet, save for the soft creaking of stairs. Someone was here, and she instantly reached for her steel dagger. "Who's there!? Get out of my house this instant!"
"Interesting little place you have, Maven," someone said from the shadows, descending the stairs. "I wonder how much you had to steal to pay for it, hmm?" Her voice was cold and brittle like ice, freezing the blood in Maven's veins. For some reason she didn't know, she was deathly afraid.
"I said to get out!" Maven managed to choke out.
Laughter. The bitch had the sheer audacity to laugh at her, stepping from the shadows to fully reveal herself. She was a young pale Nord with pale gold eyes and blonde hair that was nearly white, clad from her upper body down in the black and red armor of a blood knight.
She twirled a glass of fine alto wine in her hand and smiled. "Oh Maven, your threats do nothing but spark amusement. What can you possibly do to me? I killed your little guild myself, or have you forgotten?"
She let out a dramatic sigh, taking a sip from her glass. "I wish you could have heard the screams. Music to my ears. And they had such a delicious taste."
No…not her. It couldn't be her. Alana was dead, goddammit! Dead! No one had seen her in years! Yet this looked exactly like her, only quite a bit paler. Her skin was pasty white, like a creature that lived for too long in a dark and brooding cavern. "Who…what are you…?"
The blonde Nord's head tilted slowly to one side, that sick smile growing all the wider. "I? I am a monument to all her sins."
"You…you're not real. Alana is dead!" Maven backed up until, to her horror, she couldn't go any further. Her back pressed up firmly against the door and this thing was getting closer with each menacing step.
"Oh, but I am very much alive." 'Alana' spat out the last word with fury. "And hungry. So very hungry."
The matriarch of the Black Briar family didn't even have the time to scream before razor sharp fangs tore her throat out.
A/N: *whistles innocently as I reveal two of this arc's antagonists* Nothing to see here, nothing at all.
-Classiest#8332