A/N: Hello and welcome to chapter twenty-three. This arc has been the longest so far, spanning fuck knows how many chapters at this point. This arc itself is longer than the entirety of Shadows of the Heart. Fucking hell.

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 15*

Mephala glared down at the armor-clad bleached blonde wailing in agony at her feet and she hissed in annoyance. "Get up! And stop sniveling like a lost little girl!" She didn't expect for her own chess piece to fail so spectacularly at a task that should have been easy. 'Your own pawn is stronger than I anticipated. But how long will it be before she turns your own power against you?'

Alana Alter's sobs died down and she used her remaining arm to shakily push herself up. Black ooze dribbled down from the stump that remained and she lowered her head in shame. "I-I'm sorry I failed you, mistress...please forgive me..."

The daedric prince snarled at the pitiful whining and slapped her hard across the cheek. Alana Alter's head jerked to the side, a bright red welt forming on her cheek, but she took her humiliation silently. Another hand came up and struck her on the other side of her face and the demonized version of the Last Dragonborn didn't even attempt to flinch away. Fuming, the Webspinner grabbed the bleached blonde by the jagged spikes of her daedric armor, her lip curled in anger. "Your incompetence not only failed to kill the High King, but now you have put Akatosh's pet on guard! May I remind you that I specifically ordered for you to not engage her!? Such arrogance, not unlike the dragons whose blood you share. Stupid bitch."

Alana Alter blinked and that stupid pout was replaced by a vicious snarl. "She got lucky!"

Mephala growled and dropped her, letting her fall in a heap. "Luck doesn't excuse your failure. You're of no use to me maimed. Sit still." Like the obedient little dog she was, Alana Alter obeyed her order and bit back a scream as Mephala regrew her arm. Tendons and bone that had been severed slowly grew out until Alana Alter was no longer crippled. Mephala hissed in annoyance of having to do so in the first place, even if it required very little of her power.

The golden-eyed blonde looked at her regrown limb and she wriggled her fingers, falling to her knees. "It's...beautiful. Thank you mistr-"

Mephala cut her off by planting her foot in the square of her back. Alana Alter fell onto her face, taken by surprise, and the Webspinner sneered as she towered over her. The bleached blonde made no effort to squirm away and looked over her shoulder. "Mistress...?"

The daedric prince fashioned an ethereal whip and with one flick of her wrist, Alana Alter's bare back was exposed. Pale and unmarked flesh, barely containing the lean muscles hidden underneath. "As made evident by your pathetic failure, you seem to have an issue understanding my orders. I shall rectify that with punishment suitable for your failures." The whip came up and Alana Alter bit back a pained whimper as she was struck.

"Thank me for your pain. Obey!" Mephala hissed.

"T-thank you..." The bleached blonde whispered.

The whip struck again. The spray of black blood came and the daedric prince wiped a splash of it off of her cheek. "Thank me. Obey!"

"Thank you..." Alana Alter answered obediently again, this time louder.

The third strike dug into powerful muscle and she let out a scream, jerking forward involuntarily.

"And once more. Thank me for your pain," Mephala ordered. Was it just her imagination, or was the little masochistic bitch enjoying the punishment bestowed on her? Mephala almost laughed; for as much as Alana Alter would rant and rave about how her original self was nothing more than a weak copy too afraid to give in, they were so damn similar. Both of them relished pain, whether it was inflicted on them or not.

"Thank you~." Black blood snaked down pale flesh and the demonized Last Dragonborn seemed disappointed when the whipping stopped. "M-more..."

The Webspinner looked down at the quivering mess of a woman underneath her before staring up at the thick webs that made up the Spiral Skein in search of an answer. She found none and half a dozen of her own pets came lurking out of the shadows. Her spider daedra may have lacked the brute strength of Dagon's dremora lords, but they more than made up for their lack of raw power with cunning. Even so, they quailed under her burning gaze and the daedric prince snapped her fingers. The one closest to her began to quiver, shrieking in pain and Mephala watched in satisfaction as it twisted into a ball and was effectively torn apart. Blood and guts spilled out and she let out an annoyed sigh as the remaining spider daedra wisely fled before they suffered the same fate.

Become a daedric prince, Lorkhan said. You'll keep your power, he insisted.

No one told her that her pawn in the war against Akatosh would be an amorous blonde who desperately needed to get shagged.

Yanking up Alter by her hair, she glowered at her pawn. "Does she know?"

"She does," Alana Alter answered softly. "She knows what I am. She just refuses to admit it." Alter and Alana were the same. The only difference between the two was the power they chose to embrace. Alana chose her side clearly, siding with the aedra whereas Alter looked to the planes of Oblivion for her power. 'Even if she has the power of an aedra, she has no idea how to use it. Akatosh has been keeping secrets from her. How long will it be before her distrust of Him grows and she turns her sword onto Him next?'

It would be a beautiful betrayal.

'And then, I'll get my wish. The Spiral Skein and Nirn will be as one.'

A pitiful groan grabbed her attention and Mephala smirked cruelly, letting Alter free and sauntering over to the black-haired woman suspended by the webs of the Spiral Skein. Forever trapped, a prisoner for eternity. The woman's head hung low and a pair of dull golden eyes stared blankly ahead. Mephala gripped her by the chin, nails biting into bruised and bloodied flesh. "How does it feel? Knowing that your sacrifice meant nothing? Does it hurt?"

"P-please..." the woman begged. "N-no more...just kill me..."

"You know I can't do that. I won't let Molag Bal take what is rightfully mine." Mephala released her jaw and looked over her shoulder at Alana Alter. "Alter, be a dear and take care of our guest, will you?"

Alana Alter shivered with excitement and her right hand transformed into the claw of a gargoyle. "Ooooh yes, mistress~." She was all too eager to obey her master's wishes if it meant being forgiven for her errors. She stood in front of the captive woman and tilted her head to the side with a maniacal grin, her claws mere inches away from the prisoner's terrified gaze. "Please try not to scream too loudly. My ears are sensitive~."

The captive woman wailed in agony as the demon descended on her. Razor sharp claws raked down her back, blood welling up from the cuts and she sobbed. It was a pathetic sound, one that a weakling would make, and Alter groaned in satisfaction. "Ooh, quite a lovely sound you make. I wonder how you'll scream when I pluck your eyes out~."

Mephala watched with a pleased smirk. She could easily kill what was left of her if she wanted to and deprive Molag Bal one of his treasured Daughters of Coldharbour. But she was of more use alive. 'She won't be able to resist if it's made known her soul is intact.' What better way to deliver one final cruel blow than to leave someone she loved a babbling mess? Alana's body was far too resilient, not to mention Mephala couldn't risk killing her again in the event that Akatosh rewound time a second time. But her mind was not as strong. Seeing someone she cared so deeply about reduced to a fractured shell of themselves would do the trick.

'Make your plans. It matters little. Your chosen one will betray you in the end and pave the way for me to take control.'

Alana paced back and forth anxiously in her Windhelm manor, trying to ignore the headache and instead focus on the bigger problem at hand. She thought she was finally done with the little games of the daedra, but it seemed now that even Akatosh was keeping secrets from her. 'He split my soul. Why? Was it a mistake of his supposed cleansing, or did he know what would happen?' Thinking about it made her hangover worse.

'Ugh.' A bath had done nothing to make it go away and Ulfric was due to come any minute. She had at least taken care of her wound; it had taken five minutes to find a healing potion at the apothecary. It still stung something fierce, though, and the blonde woman nearly fell as her knee gave out. She stumbled, catching herself on her kitchen table and groaning. 'Okay, I'm more impaired than I thought.' The only thing that would fix this killer headache was sleeping for the next ten years.

Alana turned around at the sound of knocking, followed by a gruff voice. "Alana. It's me."

"Come on in," she invited, silently cursing herself for not tidying up more prior to the High King's arrival. The door to her manor swung open and in stepped Ulfric Stormcloak. He had forgone his robes in favor of a set of steel plate armor. A blue cloak embroidered with the bear of Eastmarch was worn around his shoulders and he shook snow out of his hair. For a brief moment a gust of cold wind whistled through her home, snuffing out the candles in the chandelier hanging above. The door shut behind the High King and he pulled off his cloak. The armored look suited him, like he was preparing to siege a castle. Even during the battle for Solitude, she had never once seen Ulfric wear armor.

"Sorry it's still a mess," Alana apologized. "You want anything to drink?" She reached up to the cupboard and her legs buckled again. 'Oh bloody hell.'

Ulfric watched her wobble and narrowed his eyes into thin slits. "You're drunk again, aren't you?"

"No, I'm hungover." Alana grumbled and folded her arms. "And this headache isn't going away unless I'm magically unconscious until the next era. A simple yes or no will do." 'This is where he scolds me, isn't it? I swear, he really is just like Father sometimes. Except with Astrid's bite.'

Ulfric rolled his eyes and sighed, taking a seat by the fireplace. "Mead will be fine." He pulled off his steel plate gauntlets and warmed his hands over the fire while Alana brought two bottles of mead over to him. "Thank you. You know, you are better than this. I shouldn't have to tell you that, but I do. I know how you are." He stared knowingly over his drink.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Alana tried to joke, only for her laugh to die under Ulfric's hard stare. "Sheesh. You have no sense of humor today." She let out a frustrated sigh and slumped down in her seat with a groan, taking a pull from her bottle. She could hear Astrid's smug laughter already. "I know you're right. But at the same time, it was me. The only thing separating the woman in front of you from the one who attacked you is I haven't completely lost my mind." Her alternate self was vicious, even more so than her. There were no morals or honor to get in the way.

"And a fair bit more." Ulfric took a sip of his drink. "She isn't you. The Alana I know is a stubborn mule who doesn't know how to ask for help." He ignored the blonde's indignant squawk and chuckled. "But a good woman regardless of her many faults. When she's not spending nearly five hundred septims at a tavern, that is."

The black-clad blonde folded her arms with a huff. "Did you have to bring that up?" 'Did I seriously spend that much? I could have sworn it was only a few drinks.' "Besides, it's not like I can't handle myself while hammered."

The High King stared at her.

"What?" She narrowed her eyes into slits. "I can. I've fought a dragon priest while drunk. I think I can handle some emo vampire with an oversized farming tool."

"That's the alcohol talking."

"It is not."

"Definitely is." Ulfric rolled his eyes. "You're trying to put up an air of confidence, but you forget that I'm not some idiotic mercenary who'll buy any lie. I can see you shaking, and I know damn well it isn't because you're addicted to poison." He was referring to the shakes one gets after skooma withdrawal and the blonde grimaced. 'Of course he'd notice it. We've fought in a war together. Bonds of battle are stronger than those of blood.'

Ulfric wrapped a muscular arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. "Fear has its uses, like any other emotion. It can make one push past their limits. Fear of losing our way of life to the Aldmeri Dominion pushed me to start a civil war. Fear for failing the men who I held in my arms during their final moments. But I will never allow it to control me. You're not afraid of losing loved ones; you're afraid of giving in to what it means to be Dragonborn. Of letting your darker nature come out."

She was and it showed; the blonde rarely used her Thu'um in battle nowadays. The fire within her was strong, strong enough to impress an old dragon like Paarthurnax. Strong enough to burn everything in its wake. Her wintery breath was no better, freezing men solid before shattering them into pieces with one swing of her mighty blade. The word she had learned in Bloodskal Barrow, Mul, hadn't even seen its use yet. "I guess I should use my Voice more," Alana finally said. "I just don't want to end up the way I was. Overly reliant on it and letting my other skills slip."

The Blades never truly understood what it meant for Alana to be the Last Dragonborn. They saw her as a tool, a weapon to be pointed in the way of any dragon and destroy them. Even Esbern didn't understand what her nature was, despite being the loremaster for the Blades. As the Greybeards warned her so many years ago, the Blades meddled in affairs they had no understanding of. They tried to turn her away from the path set out before her by Akatosh and Alana could remember just how enraged both Delphine and Esbern were when she refused to murder Paarthurnax. They saw her as a traitor to humanity and ironically, it was Nocturnal's curse of misfortune that saved her. Sky Haven Temple was nothing more than a crumbling ruin, burying the last of the Blades in its depths. Now, the once protectors of the Septim Dynasty were nothing more than a memory. A relic of an age long past.

"I will lend you my help if you require training to get your Voice back to what it once was," Ulfric offered. "I might not be getting any younger, but the Voice still resonates strongly within me."

"You did mention you were once training to become a Greybeard before the Great War." Alana could recall the conversation she once had with him, back when he was still just the Jarl of Windhelm. She had been younger then, inexperienced, and so angry at the Empire for not only taking the life of her father, but for condemning her to death for merely being in the wrong place at the wrong time. After escaping Helgen with Ralof, she of course made her way to Windhelm filled with rage and came across Ulfric explaining why he decided to fight back against the Empire. A young woman, barely twenty years of age, heard the reasons for his cause and decided she too would take a sword in hand for her home. Over time, she found out more about his past, how he was able to use the Thu'um to liberate Markarth from the Forsworn and used it to strike down High King Torygg.

"You've seen me use it, too." Ulfric chuckled. "It was quite a sight to see the defenses of Solitude fall to our thunder. Quite literally, in some cases."

"That barricade wasn't going to fall on its own. I did what I had to." Alana took a sip of mead. "I'm sad I'm leaving so soon. It's been great being able to talk to you after all these years."

"Already?" The High King's eyebrows disappeared into his golden mane. "You've only just arrived."

"I have something I need to do," Alana said quietly. "I caused it. It's only right that it ends by my hand."

"You mean destroying your other self."

"Yeah. Akatosh may not have known what would happen when he 'cleansed' me. But it still did, and she's chosen her master. I'm not doing it for Akatosh, though. I refuse to trade one puppet master for another. I'm doing it for myself."

The High King's hands settled on his shoulders and sighed wistfully. "You've grown so much. Three years ago, you were an angry and frightened woman, afraid of the power you possessed. When did you become a younger version of myself?"

"I had a great man to look up to. Bit of a bastard at times, but then again, I like those kinds of people." The blonde woman dodged the affectionate cuff with a laugh. "You're getting slow, old man."

"One final spar. Just us. No tricks, no Voice. Steel against steel alone."

"Oh, it is on."

Outside the Palace of the Kings, Alana and Ulfric both stood in a circle cleared out of snow. Stormcloak soldiers and normal citizens of Windhelm alike had turned up to see the High King and Last Dragonborn have a duel. Many were placing bets on the sidelines and Ulfric shrugged off his cloak, taking his steel war axe in his right hand. "First to yield, draw blood, or ring out?"

"Yield," Alana shouted over the mass of voices cheering. She had changed into her regular hunting attire, though without her satchel and crossbow. Her broadsword was resting over her shoulder and she grinned. "Quite the audience we've attracted. Let's put on a good show for them." The cold wind whipped her hair back and forth, yet she didn't feel the least bit cold. Her blood was beginning to pump, thumping loudly in her ears and she shuddered, enjoying the rush of adrenaline.

Ulfric made the first move, springing off his back foot and slamming his war axe into her broadsword. He followed up with a spinning strike and the blonde danced out of the way, keeping First Tsurugi in front of her. Ulfric came after her again and she grimaced as she spun her sword to block a fourth and then fifth blow.

The blonde jumped back to put some distance between them and pushed her hair out of the way. 'I never remembered Ulfric being this aggressive. But that's fine. I can come up with a strategy.'

The High King's eyes narrowed in concentration and his axe met the aetherium-treated steel of her broadsword again. "You always were a brick wall when it came to defending." He grunted with each swing and ducked under a heavy counter swipe, rolling back. "Your offense is different."

"Oh really?" Alana's heavier swing missed the High King's armor and she yanked her sword out of the ground in time to hold it in a vertical block. "How so?"

"Most broadsword users rush in with nothing on their minds but ending a fight immediately. You're more precise. I daresay if I were a common brigade, I'd have been cut in two by now." Ulfric's eyes widened at the sight of her approaching fist, and he leaned his head back, letting it miss. "Or suffering a broken jaw. Doesn't matter. I'm going to kick your arse."

"No, no, no. I'm going to kick your arse." Alana grinned back and clicked the button on her sword's handle. Vendetta sprung into her left hand and she spun, both swords a whirl of silvery steel. Ulfric was forced to backpedal, grunting in his heavy armor as he jumped back out of range of her attacks.

Her twin swords spun with their master, each attack only barely parried. Ulfric twisted and hooked his war axe on the claymore's wider handle, yanking it out of her grasp. It spun in the air and Alana lashed out with a roundhouse kick to the stomach. Her foot throbbed from where it hit steel plate, but it had done enough to force the High King back. She caught Apocalypse and reunited it with Vendetta, forming back into her broadsword.

"You fight like a real bitch, you know that?" Ulfric said, grimacing as he got back to his feet.

"Fighting mean is what I do best." Alana grinned and twirled her sword over her head. "You haven't seen how dirty I can be."

Someone whistled suggestively and both of them rolled their eyes. "Bloody immature, the lot of them."

"You're looking a little tired, old man." The blonde smirked and leaned against her broadsword. "You done already?"

Ulfric snorted and charged her with a roar that would have sent bears scurrying away. His axe came up and slammed into her sword, Alana dropping to one knee to keep herself balanced. The High King still hit like an enraged troll and the black-clad blonde pushed her broadsword up and tore his axe out of his hand. It went scattering away into the side and Ulfric dropped into a roll, reaching out for his fallen weapon.

The pommel of Alana's sword hit him in the jaw and he fell hard, dropping onto his backside and rubbing the spot that had been hit. He looked up at the wide triangular blade of her broadsword and he snorted. "Yield." He was in no condition to keep fighting on, even if Nord pride demanded he continue until he was sent to Sovngarde. Alana had eased up on the hit, pulling back enough as to not accidentally cause a scene that would scar Windhelm and effectively all of Skyrim. Enough force behind to daze him, but not enough to leave a long-term injury. The last thing Skyrim needed was its High King unable to Shout correctly.

Ulfric grunted and got to his feet, a few soldiers complaining about losing good money on bets, and the older Nord grimaced. "That'll leave a bruise."

"Sorry about that." Alana let her sword lower and she slid it into her holster. "Tried to be as non-lethal as possible."

"You? Non-lethal?" Ulfric barked out a laugh and so did a few onlookers, though the crowd was beginning to disperse already. "Who are you and what have you done with Alana?"

"Hey!"

"Still a brat though."

Alana huffed indignantly and folded her arms. Her cheeks were puffed out and she stared at him, eyes flat. "You are such a pain."

But, he was her sarcastic bastard.

Tel Mithryn hadn't changed much in the past few hundred years, Dissordia decided. The home of Morrowind's most powerful mage and his staff stood true against the eruption of Red Mountain, and outside the main tower, a dunmer man of possibly fifty years old was trying to cast some sort of conjuration spell to no avail. An older dunmer woman dressed in fine blue clothes stood next to him, angrily demanding what the bloody hell he was doing. Dissordia stifled a laugh; that was definitely a familiar sight.

To his credit, the mage didn't back down and glared back at the older woman. "I'm out here because I need the ashy soil to summon an ash guardian. Don't worry about Master Neloth; he already knows what I'm doing and has asked to be not interrupted at all."

"Fine. But if you cause a mess, you clean it up," the woman relented. "Otherwise, Master Neloth will hear of it."

"Yes, Varona," the apprentice drawled. Once she was away and in another room of Tel Mithryn, he turned back to trying to summon an ash guardian and Dissordia used the distraction to slip past him. 'Neloth must have found a way to animate the ash. Impressive.'

"Dammit!" the apprentice roared behind her in frustration. "Why won't this damn summoning work!?"

Slinking up the steps carved into one of the fungal tower's enormous roots, the Nerevarine slipped inside the main tower of Tel Mithryn and stood on the levitation rune that had been cast on the floor. The magic did the rest and she floated up to a small wooden bridge on the tower's upper floor and came face to face with the master wizard of House Telvanni.

"Hello again, Neloth," she greeted politely. "It has been such a long time since I last saw your arrogant little smirk."

Neloth snorted and walked over to a table with a set of glowing stones sat on them. "Dissordia. I knew that the pests of Akavir wouldn't be anywhere near enough to kill you. It was quite annoying hearing everyone convinced that you are dead."

"It'll take more than vampiric snakemen to put me down for good."

"Pity I couldn't get in touch with you while you were there. I would have dearly loved a live test subject for a new experiment I'm working on." Neloth sighed dramatically. "Oh well. I suppose I'll have to find another one. Preferably one that is still alive."

Dissordia's eyebrows rose skeptically, disappearing into her mane of red hair. "Does this experiment of yours involve something to do with reanimating the ash?"

"How do...oh, bloody hell. Stupid apprentice of mine." Neloth growled. "As long as he doesn't kill any of my staff or himself in the process, I can't be bothered. I'll just take an extra skin sample from him sometime in the future." There was the brutally simple way Neloth looked at things. To him, magic of all kinds was a tool to be studied and practiced, not hindered by silly politics. "But yes," he said, "it is. Allow me to explain."

He motioned her over and Dissordia stood next to him as he studied the glowing stone. "When Red Mountain erupted, it flung ash everywhere onto the island, including these rocks. Heart stones, they're called. In the right circumstances, it can reanimate the ash if one's mastery of conjuration is strong enough. I've successfully created several ash guardians in the process, but there is a small problem. If one is summoned without the usage of a heart stone, it will attack anything in sight, as my former apprentice was unfortunate to find out. Luckily, I was able to destroy it before it became too much of a problem. That sparked a theory that these heart stones contain some sort of power. After the ash guardian experiments, I moved on to see what could happen if one replaced their own heart with a heart stone. My necropsies of spriggans led me to believe it could be possible."

Dissordia choked. "You replaced your own heart?"

"What?" Neloth frowned. "Certainly not! The risks of this experimental surgery were very high, and my apprentice volunteered herself for it. It was quite annoying when she died. Such a brilliant girl, but no sense of self-preservation."

Ah, there it was. "Why does that not surprise me?" Dissordia rolled her eyes. "What did you do with the body? Throw it into the sea?"

"I buried her on the grounds," Neloth snapped. "Do you really think of me to be some sort of savage who leaves someone to rot for all eternity?"

The Nerevarine stared, eyes flat.

"...good point," Neloth grudgingly admitted. "I half-considered using her body in an experiment of its own. Alas, I didn't want my tower to be overrun by the stench."

Dissordia sighed heavily and reached into her knapsack, pulling out the Black Book Saoron had found. "I need to know what you can tell me about this."

Neloth ran a hand over the cover and narrowed his eyes. "Where did you find this?"

"I didn't. A friend of mine did. A huntsman out of Raven Rock. He said it was from Bloodskal Barrow. Wanted to know exactly what he was dealing with before opening it."

"Hermaeus Mora. But what would old Mora want with some wandering blade? Unless...he was with someone else. Someone who Mora would have an interest in." Neloth hummed and carried the Black Book across his tower to his enchanting room. "I wonder if he's related to the fascinating madness that's suddenly engulfed Solstheim..."

"What madness?"

"Oh, some reavers and a few of my staff have been running over to the Sun Stone just to the north of here. Ranting and raving about someone who speaks to them and now they're his hands. I'd love to take a look, but these blasted heart stones have been giving me problems." Neloth waved his hand dismissively. "But now that you're here and with this, I can investigate the other stones on the island. I wonder if Raven Rock is having the same issue."

"Doesn't your research here take priority?"

"I need to make sure it's not a phenomenon unique to Tel Mithryn," Neloth said. "If the same thing is occurring at another stone, then I can gain information and begin to deploy the necessary countermeasures. A barrier will be cast over the grounds. Leave the Book with me; I'll get to bottom of this madness, or I'm not the Mage Lord of House Telvanni."

The Nerevarine smiled fondly. Working with him again after all these centuries was a welcome prospect after spending so much time exploring Akavir. "I look forward to your findings. I'll investigate the Sun Stone and see if there is anything I can gain from it."

"Excellent. See to it then. We have work to do."

Dissordia couldn't agree more. Something big was coming, and already an unseen force had made their first moves. First with a daedra attack just outside of Raven Rock and now some form of mind control. 'Azura, why would you let your sister do this? She's broken the rules and actively trying to start a war against a mortal. And for what? She couldn't think of a reason why even the soul of someone as uniquely gifted as the Last Dragonborn would be so heavily pursued by a member of the Tribunal. 'From what Saoron said, she was a Nord. And she did something that sent shockwaves through the planes of Oblivion. Mephala is never this actively hungry for a soul; she has plenty of worshippers including the Morag Tong.'

What the hell was Mephala after? The soul of a Dragonborn was valuable, yes, but there was something else the Webspinner was seeking.

'What happened to you? And what could possibly make you do this?'

The answer eluded her.

A/N: And that's it for this. We'll be back in Solstheim next and the beginnings of the Dragonborn main story will start. Fuck, this is getting longer and longer of a story than I thought.