The Vigilants of Stendarr I

Nothing new or interesting ever happens in Morthal. Every day was exactly the same as it was the day before; the sun would rise in the morning, and the moons at night and that was how it was and will be till the end of the world. Of course, words like 'new or 'interesting' were subjective and relative words.

Hod secured his gambeson to his body with one final tug of his leather belt before draping a green cloak, the colours of Hjaalmarch Hold, over his body. He then tied a knife and cudgel to his belt, slid on his helmet, and picked up his spear, sighing as he did in preparation for another boring day in Morthal.

Unlike the other Holds of Skyrim, Morthal and Hjaalmarch in general, didn't have a bandit problem. Firstly, there was nothing worth stealing, seeing that the Hold exported in pitch, crabs, and fish. Nothing of value unlike the fine trees, horses, or precious ores and stones of the other Holds. Secondly, there was no one worth stealing from. Those with any money or sense would've left for the other Holds a long time ago. Hod… has a wife.

Hod began his rounds at the Merchant's Quarter. He cursed as his boot sank into the muddy street. What was that idiot's name again, he wondered? Orrin? Onin? What was the Jarl paying you for if you couldn't even gravel the earth properly?

Hod scrapped his boot on a wooden post and then walked from stall to stall, waving by and chatting with boring, familiar faces about boring, familiar things. Did you hear about the body they found in the marshlands? they would ask. Yes, Hod would answer. Was the body dismembered, dissolved or half-eaten? they would continue and Hod would say a Yes or Maybe and then continue his day.

For any other Hold, finding dismembered, dissolved, or half-eaten corpses would've been new or interesting, something to alert the criers and summon the guards. But for Hjaalmarch, it was just a Tirdas of cleaning and a Middas of burying. Thinking more on it, the most interesting corpse he found was a man with his flesh that became transparent like jelly. That kept things interesting for a few days but after that, it was another flake of snow in a blizzard.

After the Merchant's Quarter, Hod made for the Noble's District. Inbreeds and madmen, the lot of them. The nobles lived in castles of manors, their homes looming a good storey or two above the structures of the commonfolk with none of the sense in them. Hod quickened his pace, the stink of pine tar – a luxury good from the forests of Falkreath always did make his head dizzy.

By the light of dusk, everyone began clearing the streets and prepared for the comforts of home. Not Hod though, he had the night watch again. The town's lamplighters, really just teenage boys looking for more coin, began swarming the town, armed with flints and canisters of fish oil. By the time Hod had arrived at Morihaus Gate, and tossed a coin for Knut, the local beggar, night and the ever so ominous fog had arrived.

Hod spoke with Ollfred, his gate-partner, of many things. They spoke of their wives, of how Ollfred's fights with Ulfga has become legendary in the neighbourhood and that Lilet was expecting. Hod hoped for another son and the Nine be kind, a sturdier son. They argued on the rules of Hnefatafl, coming to the conclusion that Erik was a cheating bastard and that his winning move was in fact, void and illegal, and which of the captain's daughters were prettier. They would talk until the dawn came and they would return to their wives but what they spoke of was well threaded ground for nothing new nor interesting ever happened in Morthal.

Then they came.

At first, Hod thought it were wisps, the spirits of the angry dead seeking to entrance the living to their demise. The fiery lights drifted about as if seeking something. Hod bent his fingers into the sign of Tsun, to ward off the evil spirit but through the mists, the lights casted three humanoid shadows. He looked over at Ollfred, who was already raising his spear in anticipation of a battle.

'Halt!' Hod barked. 'Who goes there?'

Two of the shadows froze in their tracks but one of them kept moving forward. Stepping out the darkness and into the light, the shadow, from an amorphous blob of the mists, grew distinct. Hod saw that the shadow was wearing a tattered cloak of dull brown wool, nothing like the fancy dyed ones the nobles wear. Beneath the cloak was a set of priestly clothes; a short grey robe under an equally grey tabard, held together with a red sash tied around the waist. The shadow's face was hidden beneath a hooded cowl but the gleam of the shadow's brooch was unmistakable. It was an iron in the shape of a drinking horn, the sigil of Stendarr, the God of Justice and Mercy.

This shadow, this apparition, this stranger would've passed for a mud-stained mendicant priest were it not for a few things. Firstly, they wore armour. It wasn't just the gleam of metal braces or shin guards that gave them away, it was from the breastplate proudly protecting their heart. Secondly, they were too well armed. It was not unreasonable, especially not in dark days such as these for wandering holy men to carry heavy walking sticks to fend off wolves or the odd scoundrel on the road but this 'priest' had a mace hanging off their rucksack. Finally, the shadow had the unmistakable bearing of a soldier, walking too confidently and at the same time, cautiously.

'Hail, noble guardsmen,' the stranger said with a woman's voice. 'There's be nae need for that,' she continued, pushing aside the point of Ollfred's spear. Hod recognised her accent. This stranger was a Paleman. 'If you be afraid of us being some manner of spirit or Daedra, know that your fears are unfounded for we are neither. We are Vigilants of Stendarr.' Hod caught a shadowed smile from under the hood. 'Please gentlemen, lower your spear so that we may speak proper.'

Hod grunted and lowed his spear. Ollfred after a moment of hesitation, followed suit, adding, 'Vigilants of Stendarr?'

'Daedra hunters,' Hod said, narrowing his eyes. 'Sellsword Daedra hunters. They think themselves holy warriors but what kind of holy warriors demands coin for doing the Divine's work?' He hawked and spat, a real good one to the side.

The Vigilant chuckled. 'I'd like to think the practical kind. It is after all, fair that any service, na matter how great or small be compensated at the end of the job, nae? And you, guardsman. You who lives in this town, who defends your Jarl, friends, and family. You could be working for free but that wouldn't be fair, wouldn't it? You deserve to be paid for your service.'

'Aye,' Hod allowed. 'You have the right of it.'

'Then we Vigilants; holy warriors, sellswords, what have you, are here for work.'

'That be your right.' Hod shifted his spear, blocking the gate. 'But you can't enter at this hour. None may pass after nightfall, that's the order.'

'If need be,' Ollfred added. 'You can make camp over there. We'll open the gates when the rooster sings.'

'Oh, I see,' the Vigilant said. 'That is a shame because we'd rather sleep within these walls tonight. Be merciful, good guardsmen. We are weary travellers who have walked a mighty distance to Morthal and another night outside would just be cruel.'

'We can't,' Ollfred said. 'Orders are orders. Do you know what they'd do to us if we'd let you through? We'll lose our jobs and they'd march us to the stocks.'

'No entry,' Hod said, stern. 'Unless you're a noble with proof of your status.'

'Damn,' the Vigilant snapped her fingers. 'I've left my proof in my other pants. Is there another way you'd let us through?' she continued.

'She could have a safe-conduct,' Ollfred suggested.

'A safe-conduct? I dinnae have one of those but…' the Vigilant trailed off as she dug into her satchel and pulled something out. 'Will this do?'

In her hand was a roll of parchment and it bore a broken seal wax of a triskelion, the sigil of the Jarldom of Hjaalmarch. With a curt grunt, Hod swiped the scroll off the Vigilant's hand and began reading it.

'This is… this is…' Hod's eyes widened. 'Ollfred, open the gates!'

'Why, what's wrong?' Ollfred said.

'This isn't a safe-conduct – It's an invitation from the Jarl herself! I know not what business the Jarl has with Daedra hunters but the Jarl demands you see her right away.'

'Hold, noble guardsman. Let us not be hasty. Allow us to sleep the night – the Jarl wouldn't be awake at this hour, would she?'

Hod hesitated and then nodded. The stranger's words made sense.

'Wise and honourable, pray Stendarr go far.' The Vigilant waved for her companions to proceed. 'One more thing. Guardsmen? As we are but humble travellers with weary feet and hungry bellies, might you recommend a place where we'll be able to enjoy a hot meal, an honest, stiff drink, and crackling fire without costing us too much coin, if you understand my meaning.'

'The Crabber's Den by the Crabber's Pier,' Ollfred said absently. 'You'll never find a cheaper place to stay.'

'The Crabber's Den? Really?' Ollfred said in an incredulous tone. 'That place is more of an outhouse than it is an inn, and I've taken shits in outhouses with more class than the Crabber's Den.'

'It will do,' the Vigilant said with a dramatic bow. 'Thank you again, noble guardsmen. Stendarr's blessing upon you and may you have a most fortuitous night.'

As the stranger and her companions entered, the gate, Hod felt a chill creeping up the back of his neck. Ollfred closed the gate with a thud and continued their conversation before these strangers, these Vigilants had arrived but Hod wasn't listening.

Leaning on his spear, Hod was wondering if he really saw what he saw. When the Vigilant bowed, he thought he had caught a glimpse of the stranger's face and it was pale, as pale as the snow of winter with eyes as blue as ice.

Was it the Pale Lady, he wondered? The ghost of an anguished mother, forever seeking her lost daughter.

He hawked and spat. The Pale Lady? In Morthal? That was at least something new and interesting.

Morthal, the only major settlement and thus the capital of Hjaalmarch, lies where the River Hjaal meets the Drajkmyr Marsh in its southern banks. Named after Morihaus, the Winged Bull, Morthal in its golden years was one of the great trading centres of Skyrim. As land travel through Hjaalmarch is dangerous and arduous, Morthal provides a beacon and a roaring hearth for the weary travellers, in particular to caravaners who braved the Labyrinthian. However, when the shipping lanes of the Sea of Ghosts were properly established, and when the Labyrinthian was overrun by monsters, Morthal, within a generation fell into dilapidation.

Morthal today is a city with a grim reputation. When the air is still in Hjaalmarch, thick fogs gather, giving Morthal a ghostly visage. When the winds of the Sea of Ghosts blow, rain or hail almost always follow, as are thunderstorms so fierce that fires by lightning strikes a common occurrence. More than water and ice, the tempests from the Sea of Ghosts also brings forth higher concentration of Magicka to the region.

Through this combination of remoteness, harsh weather, and high concentration of Magicka has made Morthal and Hjaalmarch a hotbed of supernatural and occult activity. More than causing the unusually high prevalence of monsters, vampires, and Daedra, these strange conditions have also attuned the people of the hold to be especially sensitive to the flow of Magicka. The most well-known instance of this can be found in the ruling Clan Ravencrone of the line of Ilma the Seer.

~ from Report: Morthal 4E 152 by Vigilant Ulfhildr collected in Codex Vigilas