*SKINGRAD *
WEST WEALD
CYRODIIL

"We should be in the Imperial City by now."

"The people of Skingrad have put up a valiant defense, it must be said, your Majesty," Serana shrugged, waving a hand towards the blackened fields in front of the charred and broken stones that remained of the once-impressive wall of the city of Skingrad.

Tala sat back in her chair, an expression that could only be called a pout on her face.

"We should have marched immediately on the Imperial city after the battle," she hissed. "Not wasted three weeks taking Kvatch and Chorrol."

"If we were going to have the troops necessary to storm the capital, we needed to end both of those sieges," Anorak Septim countered. "That, and we couldn't leave such threats in our rear."

"The fact remains that we've taken two cities in the past three weeks," Burgurk growled. The Orsimer king folded his arms across his chest and glowered at the Altmer High Seeker. "And in all that time, you knife-ears couldn't take one measly town?"

"We had not anticipated facing vampiric soldiers while storming one of the strongest Imperial cities in Cyrodiil," Aldnaro retorted, his pointed nose angling upward in the expression of a superior being not deigning to lower himself to an inferior's level.

"Vampires?" Serana asked, bolting upright, "Are you sure?"

The High Seeker of the Aldmeri Dominion her a look that told her all she needed to know, and she held up a hand in silent apology.

"Let us not forget, my friends, that this city also has its own Fighters' and Mages' Guild," Icando offered now, by way of conciliation. "I think we can count ourselves extraordinarily well-served that the High Seeker and the Aldmeri have keep these forces bottled up here, rather than leaving them free to wreak havoc upon our communications and supply lines."

Aldnaro bowed his head only slightly at the Dunmer, which for the Altmer was a gesture of great magnanimity. With almost every figure surrounding the massive table sporting the magical masks, he felt almost out of place at a masquerade ball, except that Serana, Tala, and Lady Valerica were also bare-faced.

"It matters not," shrugged King Telstar of Jehanna, his voice oddly… amplified beneath the mask of Rahgot. "The Dominion have spent the last three weeks smashing great sections of the walls into useless rubble, and now with our combined forces, an army of vampires could only hope to slow us down."

He's come a long way from the gangly, awkward youth seated on a throne too big for him, giggled Potema from the safety and seclusion of Tala's mind. There's a wild bloodlust behind those eyes now, and an ambition to match it.

The possession runes we etched onto his mask might have something to do with it.

Hmm… perhaps.

"Order a parley outside the main city gate," Tala said aloud. "If you can recognize the tactical situation, Lord Telstar, the defenders of the city must also have some grasp of it as well, if not a better appreciation of their particular predicament."

Lord Borkul the Beast bowed his head, the twin tusks on the mask of Konahrik gleaming in the twilight.

"It will be done, my queen."

A few hours later, Tala sat perched on a small, travel-sized copy of her Obsidian Throne back on Markarth, watching the party of defenders dismount and stride towards her. The first thing Tala had noticed about the small party that had marched to meet them had been that that the soldiers in the escort wore the special armor and arms of House Hassildor, rather than those of the Imperial Legion.

The second had been that, beneath the ridge of their helmets, each of those soldiers' eyes had glowed a crimson scarlet that matched her Royal Consort's eyes exactly.

"My lord Hassildor," she said in greeting, as the Count of Skingrad bowed at the waist before her. Commendably, if the boy (for that was very much what he appeared to be) was intimidated by the sight of a queen seated on a black throne surrounded by mask-wearing lesser kings and rulers, he did not show it.

"Your Majesty," Count Trajan Hassildor replied, and his voice was calm and free from the nervousness that oozed from every molecule of his posture and aura.

"How yet resolves the ruler of the town?" Tala asked, and despite her resolve to be serious, a thin grin spread across her features.

I remember memorizing this speech in fifth grade... Thank you, Shakespeare.

"This is the last parley we will admit," she continued, and her voice was cold as ice and as thin as a razor. "Therefore, we implore you, lord to our best mercy give yourselves. Or, to men proud of destruction defy us to our worst. For, as I am Queen and High-Mother, a name that in my thoughts becomes me best, if I begin the assault once again, I will not leave the half-achieved Skingrad 'til in her ashes she lie buried."

Young Trajan Hassildor met her gaze unflinchingly, and his hands clenching at his sides were the only response he made to the threat.

Time to… up the ante, I believe is the expression from your world?

"And on that day," Potema/Tala hissed, her hands now gripping the arms of the chair, "The gates of mercy shall be all shut up. And on that day, my soldiers, rough and hard of heart, in liberty of bloody hand shall range with conscience wide as hell, mowing like grass your fresh-fair virgins and your flowering infants. What is it then to me, if all the Horrors of Oblivion, arrayed in flames like to the prince of fiends, do, with his smirched complexion, all fell feats linked to waste and desolation?
What isn't to me, when you yourselves are cause, if your citizens fall the hands of lycanthropes and beast-men? What rein can hold vampiric bloodlust in check when down the hill he holds his fierce charge?

Therefore, count, we bid you take pity upon your city of Skingrad, and of your people, whiles yet my soldiers are in my command, whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace overblows the filthy and contagious clouds of heady murder, spoil and destruction.

If not, why, in a moment look to see the blind and bloody soldier with foul hand defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters; your fathers taken by the silver beards, and their most reverend heads dashed to the walls, your naked infants spitted upon pikes, whiles mad mothers with their howls confused, do break the clouds in their wails and cries for mercy.

What say you? Will you yield, and this avoid? Or, guilty in defense, be thus destroyed?"

The count's face had grown grey and then pale, and his hand moved to grip the hilt of the sword on his hip. Tala felt more than saw her bodyguards, clad head to toe in ebony-black Daedric armor, bristle just slightly. The count began to speak, swallowed hard, and then began again:

"Majesty," he stated, and Tala was now genuinely impressed at how calm his voice continued to be, "I have defended my city against those who would destroy and despoil us. I have, as my father and forefathers before me, upheld our oath to the Emperor and the Ruby Throne, to hold this city in his name."

Tala felt a scowl coming on, but then saw the brave, even handsome, features of the count fall, as if someone had stuck a pin into whatever reserve of bravery and fortitude had had been drawing upon.

"However," the shoulders of the brave Count of Hassildor slumped, and a bitter edge crept into the even, steady tones, "the Emperor, of whom we have entreated, has deigned to inform us that his powers are yet not ready to raise so great a siege."

Beneath the spike of joy and victory Potema was reveling in, Tala was keenly away of feeling a stab of pity for the brave young man before her as he slowly took a knee, abandoned by his sovereign whom he had served so well.

"Therefore, great queen," he said, and the sword on his hips was now in his hands, and if the voice trembled just slightly, the hands offering the blade towards her chair did not, "We yield our town and lives to your mercy. Enter our gates; dispose of us and ours…for we no longer are defensible."

*SOME TIME LATER*

The banquet hall of Castle Skingrad had been cleaned up very nicely, Tala saw with approval. The scorch marks on the walls made by the Dominion's siege works had been almost scrubbed clean, or at least covered with great tapestries brought back out of storage. If one took great care, one might detect the faint smells of the hospital this had been only a few short hours ago, but those smells were rapidly being banished in favor of the roast venison, mulled wine, and steamed vegetables that were now pouring out of the kitchens. The same kitchens had, until a few hours ago, been carving up rats and boiling shoe leather for soup, depleted by the horde of refugees the Vodahmin and the Dominion had driven before them, even before a three-week siege had rendered their larders bare.

Now, the besiegers sat side-by-side with those who had so bravely and so effectively defended this city against them, and Tala felt Potema's almost begrudging amusement of the slight confusion still on the former defenders' expressions. Rather than the burning, pillaging, and massacre they had been half-expecting, the Covenant and Dominion had moved in, not with plundering hordes, but with overloaded food wagons, and troops of healers and mages, rather than rampaging beast-men, filled the castle. The wounded that had lain here only a few hours ago were now being cared for in the field hospitals set up by the Covenant around the city, and the starving inhabitants were being fed, healed, and clothed from the Covenant army's own siege train. The Imperial banners had of course been replaced with the snarling wolf-head of the Covenant's standard, but other than that, the city was reeling in surprise with the magnanimity shown by the infamous and feared "Witch-Queen," now being referred to more and more by the same city as "High-Mother."

"It's true, sir," Tala heard Count Trajan confirm, bringing her mind back to the present scene, as he held a goblet of wine, "My great-great… something like twelve generations-ago-grandfather was Janus Hassildor, the first vampire Count of Skingrad. Almost fifty years before aiding in resisting the Oblivion Crisis, Count Janus and his wife Rona fell victim to vampires. Both survived but were infected with Porphyric Hemophilia and became vampires themselves. While the count came to accept his new life, the countess saw her vampiric existence as only a curse and refused to drink the blood needed to keep her healthy; she soon fell into a coma caused by despair and malnutrition. In his quest to find the cure to her condition, Janus had turned several of his closes servants, in order to more readily control them and aid him in caring for his comatose wife."

"How horrible," Icando offered sympathetically. "I can only imagine the suffering that poor woman must have endured."

The count nodded graciously before continuing, "He and his wife eventually discovered the cure for their vampirism, but by that time, Janus had turned several others, who were quite content to remain denizens of the night. And thus, the Hassildor Coven was established, sworn to protect, serve, and defend the House of Hassildor and the people of Skingrad."

He gestured to both of the Hassildor guards standing behind his chair, who obligingly opened their mouths to show their pointed fangs, even if their scarlet eyes had not betrayed them as children of Molag Bal immediately.

"That of course," shrugged the count, "has been a very closely-guarded secret of the House of Hassildor… until now, at least. The Covenant is much more… understanding of its citizens of that particular persuasion, we might say."

"We might say indeed," nodded Serana, showing a fanged smile of her own. "But if I may ask: how do you arrange to feed that many vampires, without raising alarms with the Mages Guild or the priesthood? As you say, vampirism has been next to outlawed in the Empire, and save for in the Covenant's territory, vampires are killed almost on sight across Tamriel."

"A county the size of Skingrad has more than its share of thieves, bandits, murderers, and rapists, Lady Serana," nodded the young count. "And the city guard has not employed a headsman in more than four centuries."

The group at the high table smiled and nodded in understanding and amusement, before Tala felt a hand alight on her shoulder, and a whisper spoken in her ear.

"High Mother," Nelkir Balgruufson said in a low voice. "Lord Nazir requests your presence in the ante-chamber. He says something of grave importance has arisen."

"I am sorry for disturbing your celebration, my queen," the leader of the Dark Brotherhood stated with an apologetic bow as the High Mother, followed by Serana and Icando entered the small room. The other two occupants Tala recognized as Miraak and…

"Babette!" she cried with unfeigned delight, striding forward to actually embrace the diminutive vampiress, "I'm so happy to see you returned safely to us!"

"As are we all," Nazir smiled beside her, and the child-only-in-appearance smiled warmly back.

"It wasn't easy, let me tell you," Babette stated as she resumed her place on a chair by the fire. Icando might have made a slight noise of disapproval at the flouting of royal protocol, but Tala only waved a dismissive hand to chop off any protests he might have voiced.

"When did you get back?" she inquired, "and what news was so important to bring you back from the Imperial City?"

"Just now," Babette answered, even as she tore off a piece of bread from the small plate someone had brought for her. "And the news is from Black Marsh: Llewellyn Dragonborn has been declared High King, not only of Skyrim but also of the Second Ebonheart Pact.

"Of course the idiot would do something as unoriginal as copy me in resurrecting an ancient alliance," Tala sighed. "so… Kelan-Tel decided to make the best of a bad job and switch sides again?"

"Apparently he's dead," Babette corrected her as she took a sip of the wine. "Kailev-Tel is apparently the name of one of his countless brood that they, oh wait, I'm sorry, that the Hist chose to replace him. He apparently had the great revelation that the People's future lay in joining forces with the oh-so-great-and-mighty Dragonborn."

Her tone was laced with almost as much sarcasm as it held hatred for the man who had almost single handedly slaughtered her "Family" in their Sanctuary. Miraak also bristled at the title, the First Dragonborn still feeling the emotional scars of his ignominious defeat.

"Anyways," Babette continued after taking a moment to collect herself, "The Pact's army was moving on Bravil, as of a week ago. The messenger who brought in the news also said in the same dispatch that General Rikke and Jarl Balgruuf moved down from the north to lay siege to Bruma."

"With the Imperial army still inside the city?" Serana asked.

"Emperor Tiberius Medeborn, in his infinite wisdom," Babette rolled her eyes dramatically, "has fallen back to the Imperial City. By all accounts, the little shit's stripped the garrisons of every city of every soldier he could get his grubby little hands on."

"He's bracing for a long siege," Icando mused. "Or perhaps moving to attack the Pact?"

"Killing Hereon would end the main threat to his rule," Miraak agreed, but the expression on the First Dragonborn's face showed that he didn't think Medeborn had a chance in a thousand hells of succeeding where even he had failed. "Lifting the siege at Bravil will also do wonders for his image as his people's 'protector'," he snorted.

"I don't think he's planning on launching any attack," Babette thought aloud. "Those new weapons of the Blades have everyone in the Imperial Court running frantic."

The First Dragonborn's brows furrowed.

"What new weapons?"

"Some kind of magic ones," the child vampire shrugged between mouthfuls. "Cooked up by his pet Arch-Mage at Winterhold. They say it spits fire, outranging a good Imperial-issue bow by at least a dozen yards. Calls them gana… got… goons, I think."

"Guns?"

The tone of the queen's voice was almost shrill, and her eyes seemed to expand into saucers.

"That's it, guns!" nodded Babette in exultation, "No idea what that means, though…"

"Do you know what they look like?"

The voice had been brought back down to a normal octave, but all Tala's counselors eyed her with concern as they detected the great strain with which she had done it.

Babette eyed Tala with a look of her own, but then traced a rough triangle with a line sticking out from it on her plate with wine.

"That's how one of the soldiers was describing it to his squad-mates anyway," she shrugged again. "I was just the homeless waif they had given a piece of bread to, sitting quietly in the corner."

Icando, Miraak, and Serana puzzled at the crude drawing.

"I don't recognize the design," Icando puzzled.

"I DO."

The queens' voice was thin, and chilled enough to freeze the very heart of the Red Mountain.

"Miraak," she barked, "Find Aldnaro and tell him to get his troops moving. Icando, do the same with the Vodahmin. We march for the Imperial City, and I don't mean at first light, or even in an hour's time. We march, and we march NOW."

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Defecation, meet the Oscillating Device of Air Circulation. Oscillating Device of Air Circulation, meet Defecation. You two should be friends, you're going to be seeing a lot more of each other in the days to come.

If you have never read/watched Shakespeare's Henry V, go and do it now; you won't regret it.

Thanks for all the great encouragement, everyone! Feedback is the life-blood of any author! As always, your comments/ thoughts/ suggestions/ constructive criticisms are welcome in the reviews below, or PM me directly, even if it's just a simple "Thanks, I liked it," or "Good Job," or "You're a god amongst mortals." ;)

ROCK ON, my friends!

-Tusken1602

Reviewer Responses:

Tech Warrior Ender – I think the role of ISIL in Tamriel is currently being played by Tiberius Medeborn. In his half-assed attempt to play everyone against everyone else, he's succeeded only in getting everyone pissed off at him. What will arise from the ashes of his little Empire, though… is anyone's guess.

JimmyHall24 – As an avid fan of firearms myself, in my head the Winterhold Dragon's Breath is a Tamriel-equivalent of a 1740 Long Land-Pattern "Brown Bess" flintlock musket. It's relatively simple to make (as in only a limited number of simple components), and with the aid of magic to cut down on misfires and limited accuracy, could be mass-produced even by the blacksmiths of the 4th Era. It's also something that even a casual student of history like Arch-Mage Sarah might be able to recall and replicate with the world of Elder Scrolls. That's my thought process, anyway.

Lord Wrath, JimmyHall24, NotRevan – oh, yeah, Tala's gonna have some words for Lewis and Sarah, next time she sees them. But they'll probably have some for her, too, something along the lines of "Miraak's ALIVE?!" or "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH ALL OF MY DRAGON MASKS!?"

badkidoh, hopelessromatnic34 – Oh, definitely, after the smoke clears, it's going to be a brand-new Tamriel: the Dominion has been gutted, and in dire need of rebuilding. The Vodahmin concepts of religious freedom and identity outside of one's nationality or people-group will have after-effects long into the future. And the Empire… well, there will essentially be a new power base for the Empire, outside of the long-established centrality of Imperial City. Not to mention guns give power to a decentralized populace that can now take on the career fighters with equality, if not superiority. The clearly-defined class structure of Tamriel is in grave danger.

Bloodwolf432 – Nope, escaped that fate, by a hair's breadth.

tylermech66 – Oh, don't' worry: I plan on having at least one "Winterfell" chapter of all of these characters interacting together before it all goes down. ;)

Zarroc789, Wiwerse, Spartanzerg75 – Thanks, my friends! Appreciate the support!

EE-RAH!