Hopefully my plot hasn't expanded too much, and forgive long descriptions. She won't be out for a while, so I had to explain all the surroundings now. I know everything is pretty heavy and broad at the moment, but the action is coming. There's a War to be had, after all. And not just on a battlefield.
This might be on an even greater hiatus as I attempt to write a story for Django Unchained. We'll see.
Damp
You referred to the way of the sword as hope,
Despite the blade in your back.
Two days pass and there is still no sign of the sun,
But you wait calmly playing checkers with your gut instinct.
The city was in Eastmarch. They had passed Kynesgrove after descending out of the mountains. She had hoped the frail-looking Draugr would be rushed away in the raging waters of a wide river, but they stood strong, the thin muscles flexing and straining as easily as her own. Kynesgrove had been nothing more than the ashen remains of the settlement, but she had seen Sahloknir's grave as they trudged further east.
That dragon had been her first real kill, the first time she'd taken one down with the knowledge of why, truly why; not just because some Whiterun guards were scared. There was something different about running into battle with understanding, with a reason that seemed to glorify the act.
Absorbing Alduin's soul would be her greatest and most sung conquest.
"Ah, that's enough self-pity, Zaam." She hears the green dragon land a little ways off, almost toppling a treasure-filled wagon over. The Draugr had dug out many of the ruins, recollecting offerings left for the already-gone Dragon Priests. The Dragon Cult, she surmised, was returning.
She faces the Blood Dragon, expects him to be staring at her with just as much arrogance and distaste as Alduin always has. But his eyes are looking forward, gazing at the horizon with a reverence she certainly doesn't share. "You're here," he mutters, jealous, and then he is gone, flying back towards the burned village.
She glares down the kingdom before her, bites into her gag as the iron portcullis is drawn. High stone walls like Riften, but the rock is black and shiny, like metal. Huge, dark constructs claw into a sky grey with ash and the silhouettes of dragons. Curved slabs etched with verses in the Dov language, carved with pictures of fallen men and mer. Red flags fly, tan tapestries hang, with the carefully painted markings she has come to know from watching Paarthurnax's claws in the snow. She's tempted to read them, but she knows what they say, and doesn't need any more anger. She'll just grow rash and stupid.
This city is rising, built on the backs of mortal slaves no doubt. The dragons stay suspended in the air, or oddly perched on the tall towers, carry nothing though their strength is certainly scores more than the men and women and Draugr forced to drag carts up the hobbled streets. Lazy beasts.
There are actual buildings inside, mead halls and temples and inns. She wonders why these even exist as she watches hordes of humans, elves, Orcs, even those of the beast races, scatter into the buildings as she approaches. She hears their desperate whispers, watches as they murmur amongst themselves. The Dragonborn! and Our hero returns! and Look, we're abandoned.
Then she sees a man, rather handsome with dragging robes, step confidently through the crowd. His smooth skin and dark hair are adorned with gold jewelry; his coattails are followed by a score of lesser mages and scribes. He sneers when he sees her marching up the path, flanked by Alduin's hunting party, chest firmly thrust out. How dare some rich puppet stare at her so? The man tilts his staff toward her gut with an air of superiority, but he holds steady, eyes tinted with fear despite his calm demeanor. She wonders if its fear of her or his dragon overlords.
The servants and guards around him look expectantly at their master. The Dragonborn is still as her eyes burn into the man's, daring him with a smirk on her lips. Come at me, puppet, she challenges silently. Come fire your petty spells and send your sniveling protectors after me. When a Draugr behind her gives her a hard push, one she wishes to reward with a violent kick, she stumbles forward. The man merely smiles then, the fear vanishing as she is humiliated before him, her rope bonds exposed slicing into her wrists. With a rustle of his expensive robes, something falls into his hands. He raises the item carefully, with purpose, and she glares in disbelief as he whisks into an ornate temple.
A Dragon Priest mask. So the Cult is recruiting. Good, she thinks as they continue deeper into the kingdom's bowels. Gods know they're going to need the help.
The city is in huge sections, much like Whiterun, though she knows this kingdom covers most of northern Eastmarch. The first section is a sort of shopping center and religious place, if one worships dragons. The second is darker, and less built, full of slums and still coated in mud. Orphanages and slave quarters dot the cobble road they follow. The third is again prosperous, the houses lined with metal fences and guard posts, a few unidentifiable buildings entered only by powerful looking people.
In the heart of the kingdom is an imposing, sturdy Keep complete with watchtowers and spiked outer walls that seem to run for miles. These give way to an open courtyard lined with statues of animals and, further along the path, dragons. But beyond the clearing she sees stone stairs rise and level out to a palace that curves hundreds of feet into the sky. This is certainly the tallest point in the whole city, almost as high as a small mountain. She can tell why when a dragon lands at the mouth of the stairs and waits for the wooden door to creak slowly open so that he may step inside.
A Keep monstrous enough for those monsters! How long was she lost in Sovngarde?
"Drem Yol Lok, Dovahkiin. Komeyt ek!" The voice roars from above her. She feels a Draugr untie the clothe bound around her head, but she does nothing though it should make her ecstatic. She is looking pointedly at the figure atop the stairs, clad in gold scales and maroon robes. Another Dragon Priest, but this one she recognizes, his arched golden staff, the skeletal hands that creep from his sleeves.
"Krosis," she greets as the gag is pulled from her teeth. She is careful to clip the taunting on her tongue. She will control herself until all the rage, humiliation and, dare she admit it, fear from her defeat and capture and parade through the kingdom, until all of her overwhelming emotions die down and leave her level-headed like she needs to be.
"Zu'u Junsehet," he answers coolly, sweeping his fire staff in a large arch. When she nods, albeit confusedly, he tilts his head almost apologetically. "You do not know much of our language. I am King of this place, the new Bromjunaar."
"Ah, you rebuild your old capital. But not in Labyrinthian I see?" Her voice is hoarse from so many days of bitter silence, and though she despise the man she speaks with, she cannot help but relish the chance to converse. And, if she maintains her composure, perhaps she can gain some information of this cursed place.
He ignores her.
She is pushed to ascend the stairs, a Draugr recollecting the rope lead on her wrists when she trudges forward. She rolls her eyes but carries on obediently as Krosis turns from her, waving his hand as he beckons them up the stairs. She turns to scan the environment and sees several followers fall back, pushing carts through the courtyard, some walking back towards the outer walls.
They walk into the castle, a rather dark but ornate place with statues and tapestries and normal wooden furniture. The Great Hall is here at the forefront, the corners running up to curve into a huge arched ceiling. The back wall is littered with large doorways and pathways though, and she thinks the whole building looks like an eerie mix of Nordic and Dwemer ruins. She sees the right side of the Great Hall looks like Alduin's Wall, and a few of the hallways resemble those in High Hrothgar.
"Come forward," Krosis calls from before her and the rope lead is dropped. "Leave," he says, his voice deep behind the stone mask. The remaining servants obey. She walks to his side, keeping a slow pace just to spite him. She rubs her hands together in their rope bonds to try and cure the itch she has to bury a dagger in his sunken flesh.
He continues in silence and she can't help but run her eyes along everything. There are no doors here, just open thresholds and hanging tapestries. It would take a strong FUS to open any doors made for a dragon, and she laughs at how unnecessary and uncharacteristic such a feature would be. When she sees the grey mask turn her way, she chooses to survey the floor instead.
"Where are you taking me?"
"Do you forget your formalities?"
She snorts at his tone. "I didn't realize manners existed in a situation such as this."
"They do ever more so. You are but captured prey now, Dragonborn," she hears the warning in his voice. "A fallen hero."
In that instant, his voice reminds her so of Alduin. Sahlo. Joor. Saviik. Its too much and she breaks the calm. "I have not fallen!" she yells defiantly, making a dramatic sweep with her bound wrists. As if reminded, she raises them to her dry lips and attempts to tear at them with her teeth. A rabid animal.
Krosis turns, and it catches her off-guard. He grabs her forearms and his hand is ice cold, dead. She doesn't know how to react, so she just stays still, tense, when he lets go. He places the Fire Staff between her wrists, the maw of the dragon wrapped around the thick ropes. She watches as they melt away with a quiet hiss.
"Thanks," she mumbles, rubbing her aching, bleeding wrists.
He takes the lead again. "Do not thank me; I am no ally. It is Alduin who does not wish your death. Yet."
"Oh, I would love to thank him. The burden, the nightmares, the pain, and now the humiliation of being defeated, they're all great."
"Silence," his voice is laced with venom. She has forgotten herself and she bites down embarrassment, not at his response, but at her own quick loss of control. She feels like a scolded child and knows pressing buttons will only push him, and her chance of escape, of redemption, away. "Hio kos banaar naal hin viik. It is only natural, expected. Alduin will never fail. The world will fall long before he does."
Alduin may be the physical manifestation of the apocalypse, but does no one remember she has her own prophecy, her own destiny?
She trails behind him until they reach a heavy tapestry.
Krosis raises a rotten hand, and the magic that flows hits the fabric with such force that it flaps high into the air. "Go," the Dragon Priest commands, and so she steps inside, only a little uncomfortable to have him behind her.
It is a bath house.
She wants to turn and run, but Krosis is guarding the door, the hallway behind empty and the room before her containing no exits. How are they suddenly always one step ahead? She was doing so good, learning Shouts, taking down dragons, saving people. She was completely prepared when she faced Alduin on the Throat of the World, was even more so when she went to battle in Sovngarde. And then, without warning, she was defeated and captured and it was all over. Everything and everyone went to waste.
"Why are we here?" She questions slowly, quietly, but does not really want an answer.
"You are to bathe." His reply is swift, final. The red cloth has fallen behind him again, his misty robes only brush against the stone floors. Curse that damned mask, she just wants to see his face, wants to see his eyes and ask him how he can do this.
The steam wafts from the wide, shallow pools and she smells rose water. "Why? That's ridiculous!"
He remains unchanged, his form dark, mysterious. "Everyone must present to Alduin in their best form. Including you, Dovahkiin."
She scans the room, sees another small pool but no other outfits, no other curtains to hide away in. "Well, my 'best form' is covered in armor, outfitted with sharp blades, and running into war."
A pause in their exchange, so short it is nearly imperceptible, but she catches it and clings to it. "Perhaps you will return to that life, one day," Krosis replies. "If Alduin can trust you."
"I am most certainly not fighting for the enemy." In her earlier days, the days of before, she might have sung challenge in that reply. But now, now she can only reply with dispassionate honesty. At least until she has rested and recollected herself, determined her new life and the way to escape it.
"Bathe then, or you will have no enemy to face strung up before the entire kingdom."
She obeys and approaches the smaller pool. The water is so warm, so perfumed, and she wants to just sink inside, just melt away. She is caked in mud and sweat and blood. What wounds remain are no doubt in grave danger of infection. She feels dirty and broken, and the bath will renew her spirits. But when she tries to shrug off her thin leather coverings, she can't do it. Where is all her confidence, all of her bitter disregard? If she opens her mouth now, if she tries to hide behind her clothes and hands, she will just seem weak. If she doesn't, she might not ever break out of this frozen pose. She just can't do it, can't show this Dragon Priest her naked body.
"You may not watch me."
"Do not be so arrogant. Your body does not interest me," he scoffs.
She nods, only slightly comforted. My body has 'interested' plenty of people before. Forgive me for not wanting to put on some demented show. She doesn't say it, just removes her armor and dips below the water's surface quickly.
Krosis continues when she rises, as though she needs the emphasis.
"Hin sil los pah hio kos," and she doesn't expect it to hurt so much. She remembers when she was so much more than that, so much more than cursed blood, more than a hero. She remembers when she was a daughter, a student, an artist, a woman, a lover, a human being. Her cuts and bruises sting sharply. There is no point in retaliating yet.
The dirt and blood run away, darken the water. She sees it flow from a grid in the side of the stone whenever she dives under, raising the water line. Ingenuity, in truth a convenience, she would not expect from men and animals so obsessed with power and control.
Still, she's made it so filthy that the water only clears slightly, so she steps from the small pool, shivers in the cool air as the water drips and gathers on the stone below. She forces her arms to her side as she walks to the larger pool. Let him watch.
She tiptoes in again, feels Krosis's eyes on her but ignores it. He is only watching to be sure she poses no danger, but he should know she will not strike unprepared. But when she was…
She sighs this time, a deep ache rising from her very bones as the hot water envelopes her. She sinks down, closes her eyes and just imagines drifting away, drowning gently. She has fought for survival for far too long to give it up now, but sometimes the thought is a comforting reprieve.
She stays under for a few minutes, lets herself float though there is no a current. Krosis is silent, does not demand she hurry. Maybe Alduin is not yet here. She stands, the chill air pebbling her skin where it is exposed above the knee-deep water. She quickly scrubs her hair, removing spider webs and dirt, dips under one last time, then steps out.
The Dragon Priest is still guarding the door, and she shivers, rubs her arms. "A robe?" She can feel his gaze.
"The servants come," he replies and then is silent once more. His solemn silhouette is eerie, the way he pets gently the dragon maw of his staff is unnerving. She faces him though, weight on one leg, arms crossed beneath her breasts. She wishes she could see his eyes, challenge him more directly in this uncomfortable showdown. She wishes he will look away first, disgusted, so she can cover up without feeling weak.
But neither happens so she walks to the doorway, breaks… whatever that was. He makes no move nor noise to stop her, so she pushes up the fabric to peer out for these servants. When she sees none, she steps back, but collides against something hard. The curtain closes.
"Continue," Krosis commands. She tilts her head to look at him. She is tall for a woman, even for a Nord, but he floats above her. The mask is cast in shadows, the gold of his chest piece glints in the weak light. She sees the grey, dead muscles of his neck and shoulder flex beneath his wispy robes.
She does not continue, stays suspended in the doorway, pressed against him. He gives no push, his arms stay at his sides. She feels a shudder run up her spine, feels goose-bumps on her drying skin. This is not right, but she cannot understand why.
"Dovahkiin, listen well. Remember all I ever tell you, or Alduin will swallow you whole. I, and he, shall never repeat orders," and he doesn't. She clenches her teeth, glares, but walks out. She is certain to stride confidently down the tunnel, puts a subtle sway in her step that no doubt dances the light of hung torches across her skin. She is not some little girl, will not play these games. She hurries and is glad he is content to only follow quietly.
"O-oh!" She hears a girl's voice, high and young and scared. She turns at the pitter patter of soft feet, watches as a chestnut-haired Bosmer, no older than fourteen, rushes down the hallway. When the girl passes Krosis gliding leisurely in the shadows, she turns a deep red and averts her eyes from the naked woman. The Dragonborn feels rage swell in her, they are taking children!, and quickly covers herself to spare the shy girl.
"I, I brought your robe, Dragonborn," she stares with wide doe eyes, but they do not say Have you come to save me? only Please let me go. " I'm sorry, so sorry I was slow; I didn't m-mean to-" but the woman cuts her off with a reassuring smile.
"It's fine, I just wanted a little fresh air," she replies, taking the robe from the elf's outstretched hands. She sees how they shake, how her eyes dart. Then she sees scars peek from the dull sleeves of the child's robes, and she fights not to question her, not to grasp her hands and ask what has happened. This attention would only further frighten the girl. Friendship, even just kindness, from the Dragonborn would no doubt paint a large target on her back. "Thank you," she says gently, her smile wide, trying to comfort the Bosmer. She's a rather pretty girl, thin and short and soft-skinned. The child gives a small smile. "What's your name?"
"Be quick next time, slave," Krosis hisses from behind them, the threat unspoken but clear. His voice echoes in the hall and the girl panics, is moved to tears.
"Go on," the woman says apologetically, guiding the servant by her shoulder. The elf pulls sharply from her touch, as if struck by fire, and runs down the hall.
When the girl is out of sight, she rounds on Krosis. "You sick monsters! You enslave children, have little girls do you bidding?" She screams, spits in his face. "What, you don't have the strength in your nasty corpse to carry a robe?" She punches him hard in the chest and he actually falls back, so she continues the assault, pushes and claws and beats against him as fast as she can. She lashes out to hit him again, to rip off that filthy frowning mask, but he catches her wrist and crushes it. She howls.
"Do not raise your voice to a king," he growls from behind the mask. "We take offerings to serve. And do not, ever, question my strength, mortal." He throws her then, before she can argue, and she slams hard against the stone wall, grows dizzy when her head bangs against it. A torch is shook from its metal cup and tumbles away, the fire dying as it rolls.
She's dazed. She moans and touches the back of her skull. No blood. Somehow that angers her ever more and she crouches as he approaches, gathers herself for a fight. But she hears the clang of a staff beating against the ground.
Krosis bends, his robes rustling, and he grasps her chin and cheeks between fleshless fingers and the bones bruise her as he squeezes. He flicks his wrist, throws her head to the side, just to hint that he can and will snap her neck. She raises her gaze to glare into the slants of his mask.
"Let. Go." Her voice is full of cold command.
He leans in, cold metal brushing her cheek. She wants to kick him.
"Where is Alduin?" She hates herself for resulting to this, but he's the only ithing/i she can think of above Krosis. This Priest may not be interested, maybe have balls so dead and shriveled he couldn't possibly find her attractive, but that does not mean he can pin her up against some wall just to show he's boss.
"Behind the mask." He whispers darkly in her ear before she can question him. His other hand gently pulls her robe, exposing her collarbone and the swell of her breasts. Unnecessary; the disdain and confusion and discomfort is already there. "Alduin sees everything he wishes. Sharing my sight, obeying, is a small price to be king, to be immortal."
She doesn't believe him, shouldn't believe him, but the mask seems much more haunting and she can feel he tells the truth. She feels that scrutinizing gaze of Alduin, feels the dark resentment, the childish pride. She hears the mirthful laugh of a gambler who never had to gamble to win; that's not the laugh of a man like Krosis, a man who took all the risks, put it all on the betting table, and still left with only empty delusions.
"So you sell your soul and think that makes you stronger? Pathetic. Truly, be proud-" but he cuts off her insults before she can really do herself damage, clamps a bony hand over her mouth. She bites it, hard, feels the chewy, rotten flesh tear but it affects Krosis none.
He tilts his head curiously and a shiver creeps up her spine. She shudders and it leaves. The air grows stale and normal once more. Krosis straightens, steps back quickly, and she knows Alduin no longer watches.
"Come, we must hurry." The Priest's voice is still cold and complacent, but she hears the tint of urgency as he picks up his staff and whisks away.
"I have no interest," she begins, spitting out that acrid taste of corpse on the ground.
He doesn't reply, just continues on his path. I will not repeat myself. She tightens her robe and stomps after him. Look, she thinks bitterly, I'm already learning.
"Could you slow down a little?" She calls, not wanting to run up to him like a puppy.
He pauses long enough for her to cross the hall, then begins moving again. She doesn't bother saying thanks this time. He doesn't deserve it.
Still, for all her stubbornness and headstrong pride, she knows to be careful, tedious. She may be prone to emotions and action, but over the years as Dragonborn, she has learned some self-control. She is now a planner. She will never again run off unprepared, not like when she stumbled out of Cyrodiil just to fuck herself over. She knows better than to turn and sprint down the hallway, will just get caught or lost. She knows better than to argue or question about the servants this soon. She will not so much as mention a child until she is certain it will be safe and protected. Though she wants to yell and fight and run, she will follow obediently, plotting where they cannot reach her.
But, if they wish to play games of words and wit, she will join them. A few lashings for riling up Alduin doesn't seem so bad, as long as she doesn't get herself killed. What good is she to Paarthurnax then?
It is a long way to Alduin. She stays quiet mostly, but bites at her nails. She spits them out of the side of her mouth, and a few might accidentally just happen to land on her guardian's robes. He doesn't even bother to brush them off. She sighs. He bristles at the noise and she smiles softly to see his subtle irritation. But then he continues on and her attempts at humor die away as contemplation overtakes her.
Ah, Krosis, how fit that he is the ruling Priest of the newly resurrected Bromjunaar. She knows Volsung and Vokun still live, yet she is placed under Pity, not Shadow or Horror. Perhaps this is some play, meant to remind her of that so-mentioned mercy Alduin has bestowed her. She seethes silently as the Dragon Priest leads her towards the inner sanctum. They will soon regret this pity.