Malg the Magnificent
Part 4: Bitter Medicine
Malg was coughing and hacking as he was half pulled up onto the rocky shore of Skyrim's northern coast. Growing up in the Dragontail Mountains, there had not been much opportunity for the orc to learn to swim, so when he was thrown into the Sea of Ghosts by a particularly unhappy crew, just making it to shore was terribly difficult. In fact, as he sputtered and gasped on the desolate shore, he was reasonably sure he never would have made it had it not been for his friend. They had been forced off the ship together when a few members of the crew, looking for a quiet place to drink and gamble, had found her hiding onboard. Malg had hoped to find mercy with Captain Thalrig, but the captain, as good-humored as any man Malg had ever met, became hard and cold at the mention of a vampire. Without a second thought, he had the entire group who had infiltrated the castle tossed overboard for fear of his crew being infected with the disease. Malg went quietly, knowing there was little he could say to change the captain's mind, but Wilkes cursed everything from the hull of the ship to the crow's nest and his former comrades-in-arms who were so willing to leave him to the captain's judgment without objection. He had a few specifically nasty words for Harik, who watched silently as the three of them were hurled over the side.
Malg sucked it a breath of cold air. He was very tired after struggling against the waves in robes that felt three times as heavy now that they were soaked with seawater, but he hauled himself to his feet. Wiggles-Her-Finger had already set about making a fire by piling up some large pieces of driftwood and sitting them ablaze. Malg walked toward the light, wanting nothing but warm relief from the wind's biting cold. He could hear Wilkes, still on a tirade and yelling a string of foul profanities out to an uncaring sea.
"Are you alright, Malg?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked when he pulled off his wet robes and hung them over a large branch near the flames.
He nodded, "Just cold. I'll be fine soon as the fire dries my robes."
"I'm sorry it happened like this," she apologized.
"It was always a risk," he said. "But I was not going to leave you there."
She smiled, "I'm going to go catch us some fish."
"You aren't cold?" Malg asked.
"I don't really feel the cold anymore," she said. "I do not know what that means for me ultimately, but another swim will be easy enough."
As Wiggles-Her-Fingers left for the water, Wilkes came stopping over to the fire. He glared at her as he passed but said nothing. He then turned his anger upon Malg, raising a finger and pointing across the flames at the mostly naked orc. "This is your doing, orc! What on earth were you thinkin'?! Nothin'! Your brain wasn't tickin', and now you got us thrown into the bloody sea!" Wilkes struggled with his sudden leather coat, grunting in frustration as he tried to free himself from its clutches. A few more colorful curses and it was off and hung on the large branch next to Malg's robes. "I know she was your friend, Malg," Wilkes began.
"And she still is," Malg interrupted.
Wilkes sighed. "What's the plan then?" he asked. "Are you going to hang around with the vampire until she decides you look tasty?"
"She won't try to feed on me," Malg said.
Wilkes scornful snort was somewhere between a laugh and sneer. "Not now maybe," he said. "It's disease, orc, not a lifestyle choice, and the infected do things they might not do otherwise. At some point, the bloodlust is going to cloud her senses, and she's going to go feral. Personally, I don't want to be around when it happens."
"What is your plan?" Malg asked.
"Not sure exactly," Wilkes admitted. "I suppose I'll find another mercenary band or maybe some bandits if I get desperate. There's a lot of call for a man with my skill set, but I'll tell you one thing. I won't be workin' for that ruddy Harik again after that display of loyalty. He just sits back and lets Captain Thalrig toss me over with you two just because I was with you when she turned? Bloody outrage!"
"I'm sorry it happened like that," Malg apologized.
"You're still a bloody fool, Malg," Wilkes said. "But at least you're loyal. That's more than can be said about my former company. Just be careful, alright? I'd hate to see that allegiance repaid in blood."
Wiggles-Her-Fingers returned to the fire with her catch. She flopped the three large salmon down on a nearby stone and began running her claws backward over the fish from tail to head. Scales began to fly off into the air. Wilkes watched every movement out of the corner of his eye as scales began to pile up on the rock, but he did not say a word. Soon all three fish were scaled, and Wiggles-Her-Fingers set them to roast over the fire. Her complexion had changed incredibly since the previous day. The shine was gone from her scales, and the bright, brilliant green had faded to a pallid, anemic hue. She looked sick, on the brink of death even, but she acted in perfect health, if not more subdued than normal.
Malg knew nearly nothing of vampires except what Wiggles-Her-Fingers had told him. The creatures were unheard of in the stronghold where he grew up, but now he found himself attacked by one of these dark, mysterious beings and the friend of another. Wiggles-Her-Fingers had herself called the thing a monster. Malg wondered how she felt now as she sat back away from the warmth of the fire.
"The fish look really good," Malg said.
Wiggles-Her-Fingers nodded, but she did not look away from the flames. That was the biggest change. Her eyes, which used to be nearly the same beautiful green as her scales once were, now burned with an otherworldly fire of their own.
Malg turned back to the fire, a mix of fear and pain cowing him, forcing him to look away from her. Was Wilkes right? Was she still his friend? "Nice and fat," he murmured.
Wilkes stood up abruptly. "I gotta take a piss," he muttered. Then he turned and walked off toward a craggy snowdrift.
Once the scout was out of earshot, Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked, "He does not wish to be around me anymore, does he?"
Malg shook his head.
"And what about you?" she asked.
Malg looked at her. She was still looking at the fire. "I do not know much about what happened to you," he said. "Maybe you will try to drink my blood. I do not know, but until you do, you are my friend and you are sick. That means I will try to help you find a cure."
Wiggles-Her-Fingers smiled. It was the first time Malg had seen her smile since she turned, and it was terrifying. Four enlarged fangs dominated the already toothy grin, and Malg had to shake off the shiver that ran up his spine as he beheld the monstrous weapons that were nearly as big around as his tusks and almost three times as long.
"I do not taste very good, though," he added quickly.
Wiggles-Her-Fingers' brow shot up. "How would you know?" she asked.
"I just do," he said, looking away. "All orcs taste bad."
Malg was taking the fish off the fire when he heard footsteps approaching in the snow. Wilkes had taken a bit longer than expected, but Malg had not cared. The tension between the scout and Wiggles-Her-Fingers was uncomfortable, to say the least, and he expected Wilkes to keep some distance until the man went his own way.
"Malg," Wiggles-Her-Fingers hissed.
"The fish is done enough," he said. "I'm hungry."
"Turn around," she ordered.
The warning in her voice was clear, and Malg spun around, nearly dropping the salmon. Wilkes was indeed walking toward them, but he was not alone. Grasping the wiry Breton from behind was a tall man of dark complexion. The stranger was keeping as much of his body as possible hidden behind Wilkes, but Malg could see the man's red turban and the beautifully curved scimitar sitting on his hip. The Redguard was strong, half carrying Wilkes by an arm firmly wrapped around the man's throat, and his eyes shifted like a predator between Malg and Wiggles-Her-Fingers.
"Isn't this cozy," the Redguard said.
"Let him go!" Malg snarled.
"That will not be happening quite yet, orc," the man replied. "Not until I determine whether you two are indeed the mages who sent my dear little Babette to the Void."
"Who?" Malg asked.
"Just a little girl out for a moonlit stroll," he said. "With a bit of a penchant for blood."
"The vampire," Wiggles-Her-Fingers hissed.
"Yes," the Redguard nodded. "And I see she has left her mark upon you in the process, Argonian. That must have been quite something. I have seen her hunt."
"I'm sorry," Wilkes gasped.
"You know who we are, now," Malg growled. "Either let him go or tell who you are and what it is you want."
He smiled a cruel wicked smile. "I suppose it would be rude not to introduce myself. I'm Nazir," he said. "Redguard, as I'm sure you've noticed, born of the sands of the mighty Alik'r. As for why I'm here, do you really believe you can kill a member of the Dark Brotherhood without any repercussion? We have a reputation to uphold, and I am damned sure not going to let the College of Winterhold or anyone else think they have one up on us. After I leave your corpses for the wolves, I have a legionnaire to take care of as well."
"Sounds like the Dark Brotherhood has been on a bumpy road as of late," Wilkes sputtered.
The Redguard tightened his hold around Wilkes' throat, and he winced noticeably. "It will be business as usual soon enough," Nazir whispered. Wilkes eyes suddenly widened, and Malg saw the tip of a dagger protrude out from the Breton's belly. Blood spurted from the wound, turning the pure, white snow a deep shade of crimson.
Nazir shoved Wilkes toward his companions. The scout tried to keep his feet, desperately pressing his hands against his gut, but it was of little use. He stumbled, weak from the loss of blood, but still trying to escape before his knees finally buckled, and he fell headlong into the snow.
Malg roared, his blood boiling even as Wilkes' stained the snow. He charged nearly naked away from the flames toward the smirking Redguard as Wiggles-Her-Fingers rushed to help their fallen companion. The orc's heart thundered in his chest as it pumped loads of adrenaline-laced blood to his straining muscles. Special proteins hardened the outer layers of skin cells even as the lower epidermal layers thickened with the influx of water. Fat cells drained themselves of stored energy, muscles swelled, and the chemicals released to his brain numbed any sense of pain or fear. Everything within Malg's body instantly began to function to push his body beyond the normal capacity of orcish physiology. It was something Nazir had expected and in fact, was banking on in order to lure the orc into a physical confrontation rather than a magical one.
The assassin's blade slid silently from its sheath. Death was in his eyes. He had fought orcs before, and he knew very well what happened during the rage. Cool rationality lost to brutal passion, and no matter how marvelous their adaptations were, thick orcish skin was no match for forged steel.
Malg leveled the fullness of his rage into Nazir, but at the last moment, the assassin slipped away slashing upward with his scimitar. The weapon cut a deep gash in Malg's chest as he grabbed hold of the Redguard's cloak. A primal scream escaped from the orc's maw as pulled back on the cloak. Nazir's eyes bulged as his brain was instantly denied blood flow and he found himself no longer able to breathe. However, the assassin stayed calm, reached with his dagger up over his shoulder and cut the cloak from around his throat. He fell to the ground, then took a quick gasp of air as he turned back toward the raging orc.
Malg lashed out at the assassin with his fists, but Nazir was far too agile. He quickly dodged the blows, grinning gleefully, which only further fueled the orc's fury. Eventually, Nazir sidestepped an overextended strike and drew his blade across Malg's thigh, slicing into the muscle. Malg barely felt the pain as blood ran down his leg. Nothing mattered except destroying his enemy. The wound in his chest was already beginning to clot, and soon the cut in his leg would as well. He spun on the assassin and roared into the freezing wind. Nazir met his maddened gazed with cool contempt and waved him on.
"Come, orc," Nazir called. "I will send you to the Void."
Malg howled and charged again, but as he did, he heard Wiggles-Her-Fingers' voice through the rage. "Malg!" she yelled. "You are a mage! What are you doing?! You're a mage!"
In that instant, his mind cleared enough to understand the danger he was in. The assassin was waiting for him, but the look on the man's face was not one of fear. He was a predator, hunting his prey, and Malg was running directly into the kill zone of this professional murderer. Nazir's scimitar was pulled back, poised to strike like the tail of a scorpion, he was looking to finish this confrontation for good. Malg, however, did not stop his charge. With a flick of his wrist, he released magic streaming throughout his entire body, and as Nazir thrust out with his scimitar, it hit cold, hard ebony.
The assassin's face blanched for a second before the entire weigh of the orc collided with him. Nazir landed hard on his back, dazed and unable to breathe, the air forced from his lungs by the terrible impact. Before he can regain his senses entirely, Malg in on top of him. Grabbing for another dagger, the assassin thrust it at the side of the orc's head in one last attempt to kill him, but Malg caught the assassin's wrist and squeezed. He felt the man's bones cracking, like small tree branches being crushed by a blacksmith's tongs.
Nazir grimaced and dropped the blade. He looked up at Malg and said, "Finish it, orc."
The words struck him like cold water. He did not want to kill anyone, but this man was an assassin. He had hunted them like for revenge or perhaps for fun. Nazir had nearly succeeded in killing him.
"Do it," Nazir repeated his plea. "Send me to the Void. If not, I will come back. I will kill you and your lizard friend just like that Breton!"
Wilkes! In his rage, he had nearly forgotten what had set it off. He had killed Wilkes! There was no cause for that, and there was no way Malg was going to let him go free while Wilkes lay cold and dead. Malg reached over and grabbed a nearby stone.
"Can't be bothered to do it with your own hands, orc?" Nazir asked. "Don't want to."
Nazir never finished the sentence as an ax split his face in two. Blood and other fluids sprayed out, covering Malg's chest and face. Surprised and disgusted by the bodily juices which had gotten in his mouth, Malg swore loudly, which was very much out of character for him, and began spitting. He grabbed two handfuls of snow and stuffed them into his mouth, trying desperately to wipe off his tongue. He shuttered, either from the cold or from disgust, and they looked over to where Nazir's corpse lay. Standing over the body was Wilkes, who was looking much better than he had only moments earlier.
"I thought you were dead," Malg said.
"Me too," Wilkes replied. "Come on, you need to get by the fire."
As Malg cleaned himself off with melted snow, Wilkes told him that the last thing he remembered before he collapsed, other than a crazed orc howling, was Wiggles-Her-Fingers grabbing hold of him and a warm, golden light. "She saved my life," Wilkes said looking over at Wiggles-Her-Fingers who was standing a small way away from the flames. He hung his head. "I wanted to leave her on the island, but she was still willing to save me. I'm not sure what else to say but that I'm willing to help."
"Help what?" Malg asked.
"Well, I assumed you two were looking for a way to fix this little situation," Wilkes said pointing to Wiggles-Her-Fingers. "I figured the least I could do is help out after you put me back together. Is that alright with you?"
Wiggles-Her-Fingers nodded, "We could certainly use you."
"Good then," Wilkes said. "Let me clean up my mess, and we can get on with our evening." Wilkes stood up. He picked out a nice, long stick and walked over to Nazir's body. He picked up the legs and dragged it over to the edge of the water. He was doing something with it for a while. Then he used the long stick to push it out as far as he could, and the body quickly sank below the waves.
"Alright, you said something about a cure?" Wilkes asked as he returned to the fire.
"No," Wiggles-Her-Fingers corrected him. "I know of a mage who claims to have a cure."
"What mage?" Malg asked. "Who is he?"
Wiggles-Her-Fingers shook her head. "I do not know him personally," she said. "I overheard some of the professors at the college talking about vampirism, mostly about how great it would be to live long enough to gain a true mastery of magic. I'm not sure how serious they were, but they mentioned a mage named Falion who used to teach there. They said he knew all about the curse, how to safely contract it and how to banish it."
"He is not still at the college, though," Malg commented.
"No," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said. "He moved to Morthal. We would have to look for him there."
Malg's eyebrow rose. "Where is Morthal?" he asked.
"I do not know," Wiggles-Her-Fingers admitted.
"West," Wilkes cut in. "Well, a bit south and west, o'er in the marshes. It's a terribly dreary place, wet, cold, not the kind of place you go setting up a homestead, but the Nords went and did it anyway."
"Where to the west?" Malg asked.
"Some ways past Dawnstar," Wilkes replied. "South of Solitude."
"It seems we have our guide," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said.
Wilkes nodded. "Let's just hope this Falion fella is still there and not chased out of town or something," Wilkes said. "You know how Nords are, not too happy about spells bein' cast too close to them."
"The ones at the college never seemed to mind," Malg said, questioning Wilkes' broad characterization.
"Those are mages, orc, like us, of course they don't mind," Wilkes countered. "I'm talkin' about the rest of 'em. Most Nords are afraid of magic. They don't really get it, and they get all in a tizzy about it."
"We were fine in Dawnstar as well," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said.
"Maybe you were lucky," Wilkes said. "It's just better if you don't go flaunting it around. They won't go off attackin' you for walkin' around in robes, but you will certainly hear it if you look like you're about to cast somethin', believe me."
"I suppose it is better to be safe," Wiggles-Her-Fingers replied.
"Speakin' of that," Wilkes said. "You might want to wear that hood low over your face as well. I doubt the locals will be too keen on havin' a vampire traipsing around their town."
Wiggles-Her-Fingers looked almost embarrassed as she pulled her hood lower over her face. A pang of pity struck Malg hard as he watched his friend hide herself. She had not asked for this to happen to her, and she did not deserve to feel as though she had to hide herself from others. Malg was not sure yet exactly how dangerous his friend had become. Perhaps others would even desire to hunt other sentient beings to drain their blood, but he held out hope that Wiggles-Her-Fingers would not succumb to that urge with the innocent. He found himself staring at the fangs protruding from under the pale scales of her lips. How strong was that urge, though, and how much was she fighting it already?
The next morning, the trio set out across the snowy tundra toward Morthal. It was a difficult trek through deep snow and howling winds, but it was not Malg's first time in harsh weather. He just kept his ears open, his hood low, and kept pressing forward. Eventually, the group came upon the east-west road south of Dawnstar and put their backs toward the rising sun. It was still slow going, but not nearly as slow as it would have been trudging through knee-deep snow drifts out on the tundra. Eventually, the road turned sharply to the south, through the hills and around the frigid marshes between Morthal and the Sea of Ghosts. Malg was thankful for this. The cold was uncomfortable enough, and the idea of getting soaked again was not something he relished.
The group had just passed some old dwarven ruins when Malg heard someone shouting, "Hey! Stop! I know it's you!" Wiggles-Her-Fingers stopped and turned, and as Malg turned back to face whoever was silly enough to search them out in such terrible weather, he saw that Wilkes had already drawn his ax.
"Who is that?" Malg whispered to the scout.
Wilkes only gave him a confused look and a shrug. "How would I know?" he asked. "It's an Argonian, though. How about you ask an Argonian?"
"I do not know this one," Wiggles-Her-Fingers answered before Malg could ask.
"You!" the Argonian yelled again as he approached them and walked directly up to Wilkes. "You owe me money!"
Malg and Wiggles-Her-Fingers glared at Wilkes, but his confusion had only grown. He looked the strange Argonian up and down and then turned back to his companions. "Never seen him before in my life," he said.
"What?!" the Argonian hissed.
"It seems he disagrees," Wiggles-Her-Fingers commented.
Malg looked the Argonian over. His skin and scales were dark, charcoal grey. Malg had not met many Argonians, but those he had met were all various shades of green. This was not all that strange, however, as lots of orcs did not share the green skin color usually attributed to their race. What was strange to Malg were the dazzling color patterns on the Argonian's face. Perhaps the bright orange and purple markings were designed to warn others that he was venomous, or perhaps he was just a fancy Argonian, partial to bright colors and face paint. Malg could not tell, but when he tried to have a closer look, the Argonian jumped back, regarding him rather suspiciously.
"What do you want?" he asked Malg.
"Your name might help," Malg replied.
"I am called Deep-In-His-Cups," the Argonian answered.
"Why?" Malg asked. None of the Argonian names were particularly difficult to figure out, but Malg did not want to risk offending one that already seemed to be a bit off.
"I drink a lot," the Argonian said.
"I think we might've found our problem," Wilkes said.
"My problem is that you promised me a lot of money if I snagged this hat from the head of a bandit troop," Deep-In-His-Cups said as he threw an ugly, patchwork hat down at Wilkes' feet. "Now," he said. "You owe me 10,000 gold pieces."
"You've been sucking on the end of far too many bottles if you think I've been hauling 10,000 gold pieces around with me, lizard," Wilkes sneered.
Wiggles-Her-Fingers hissed.
"Sorry," Wilkes apologized. "Seriously, though," he said turning back to Deep-In-His-Cups. "What kind of pockets do you think I have sewn into this jacket?"
"You could have an enchantment on it," Deep-In-His-Cups replied.
"Really?" Wilkes sputtered. "Do you have any idea how much that much gold would weigh? My invisible mammoth would throw out his back trying to haul all that coin! What's wrong with you?!"
Deep-In-His-Cups looked back at Wilkes in bewilderment and then looked around for a few moments. Malg wondered if the confused Argonian might actually be looking for Wilkes' invisible mammoth. Then he seemed to snap back to and remember what he was doing. "Look," Deep-In-His-Cups continued. "I don't care where you stashed it. Just tell me where the gold is, and I'll deal with collecting it."
Wiggles-Her-Fingers groaned, and Wilkes stared back at Deep-In-His-Cups in utter disbelief. Malg was instantly suspicious. He had been taken in before by sneaky characters too many times, and he was determined not to have the wool pulled over his eyes again.
"I'm not sure I believe you?" Malg grumbled.
Deep-In-His-Cups returned Malg's suspicious glare with one of his own. "I'm looking to collect my due," he said. "This one and his friend promised me gold in exchange for sneaking into a bandit camp and stealing that hat. I want what I am owed!"
"What friend?" Wilkes asked.
"He is your friend," Deep-In-His-Cups reminded him. "The Breton in the black robes."
Wilkes groaned as a look of realization appeared on his face. "You mean Sam?" he asked.
"I do not know," Deep-In-His-Cups hissed. "All of your stupid names sound the same to me." The Argonian thought for a moment. "He seemed slippery, though. Not quite right."
"Well, we were drunk," Wilkes said. "What did you expect?"
Deep-In-His-Cups sneered, "I expect you to keep your word."
"I remember getting sloshed with Sam, but that's it," Wilkes said. "I don't remember promising you anything. Besides, I don't have that kind of coin. I couldn't pay you a tenth of that, even if I wanted to."
Deep-In-His-Cup's lips curled as a terrible hiss escaped through his pointed teeth. The snubbed Argonian lashed out with razor-sharp claws as Wilkes fell back, unprepared for the sudden show of aggression. He landed in the snow and fumbled for his ax, but as he jerked the weapon from his belt, a flash of green light made him wince. He glanced up at his attacker just in time to see the expression of fury frozen on the Argonian's face. After slashing at the Breton, Deep-In-His-Cups had pulled a mace from his belt with every intention of collecting in blood what he was unable to collect in gold, but now the heavy piece of steel was suspended motionless in the air above the man's head. Malg stood close by, a hand outstretched and a smug smile on his face.
"Not quick enough, Drinks-Too-Much," the orc muttered. Malg was silently congratulating himself on his little quip when he noticed the paralyzed Argonian start to tilt. At first, it was slow, but it quickly sped up as the weight of the mace brought the petrified lizardman down, face first into Wilkes. A long, creative string of oaths erupted from the Breton's mouth as he tried to fend off his rigid attacker. Kicking and squirming, he finally managed to free himself and scrambled to his feet. He drew his ax and was about to kill the helpless drunk, when Malg yelled, "Stop!"
"What?!" Wilkes growled. "The ruddy lizard tried to kill me!"
Wiggles-Her-Fingers wanted to protest again, but it was hardly the time.
"What if you made that deal?" Malg asked.
"Huh?" Wilkes seemed confused.
"Do you remember what you did that night?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked.
"No," Wilkes admitted, lowering his weapon.
"Then you might have struck that deal," Wiggles-Her-Fingers continued. "Should he die because he came to collect on it?"
"But I…" Wilkes attempted to argue, but Malg finished his sentence.
"You were drunk," Malg said. "You have no idea what you might have said or done."
"Exactly!" Wilkes exclaimed.
"Does not mean you aren't responsible for it," the orc continued.
"Oh," Wilkes said. He looked down at Deep-In-His-Cups and then put his ax back in the steel frog hanging from his belt. "I guess it would be wrong to kill him if he's telling the truth."
"Yes, it would," Wiggles-Her-Fingers agreed.
"Fine," Wilkes huffed. "Let's go."
Deep-In-His-Cups lay awkwardly in the snow, his mace pointing straight up in the air. Malg would have considered it comical had the Argonian not been trying to murder all of them. He flicked a second paralysis spell at the drunk reptile and turned to catch up with his companions who were already a growing number of meters ahead of him down the trail.
The party walked into Morthal early that evening. They saw a number of people standing outside what Malg assumed to be the Jarl's longhouse talking loudly and carrying torches, but they ignored them and entered the Moorside Inn to find a room for the night. The style of the inn was standard for those in Skyrim with a large central fire pit running up the common room, a cellar for mead and wine, and a couple of rooms for rent. Wiggles-Her-Fingers moved off into the shadows away from the fire, and Malg took care of renting a room from the older but still rather attractive Redguard innkeeper. She pointed them toward their room, and the three dropped off their gear before finding a table and ordering food.
"What will you have?" Jonna asked.
"Whatever is fresh off the fire," Malg answered. Both Wilkes and Wiggles-Her-Fingers agreed.
"Anything else?" she asked.
"A mead would be great," Wilkes replied.
Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked for red wine, but when she looked at Malg, the orc quickly shook his head, not wanting an accidental repeat of his experience in the Windpeak Inn. They were mostly quiet as they waited for Jonna to return. Wiggles-Her-Fingers seemed off in her own world, watching the door to the inn as if she was expecting someone she knew. Wilkes hopped over to the table next to them and laid down on the bench. There were no other patrons in the place, and other than Jonna and an orc plucking at a lute and humming off key, they seemed to be alone.
"So, what's the next move?" Wilkes asked.
"In the morning, we find Falion," Wiggles-Her-Fingers answered.
Wilkes grunted in understanding, then he turned toward her. "How are you feeling by the way?" he asked. "I imagine your situation comes with certain difficulties."
Malg thought Wilkes had phrased his concern about as delicately as possible and found his opinion of the Breton improving. Wiggles-Her-Fingers did not respond for a little while. She just kept staring at the door. Malg cleared his throat, and the guttural, phlegmy auditory assault jogged their companion from her thoughts.
"I can feel the hunger," she whispered. "It is nothing I cannot control, but it is strange. When I ate the fish, my hunger was satisfied, but this hunger was not. It is very unnerving."
"We will take care of this," Malg said. "It is only temporary."
Wilkes was not so certain, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Malg wanted to say something else to comfort his friend, but he could think of nothing except hackneyed platitudes. He was grateful when Jonna returned with the food a few moments later so he could escape the awkward silence. It was a good meal. Jonna was a cut above the standard tavernkeeper, and Malg enjoyed the generous portion of roasted meat and fresh bread on his plate. It seemed odd that a place with such good food was so empty. He happily bit off mouthfuls of flesh and soaked up the juices with the bread. Afterward, drowsy from an overly full stomach, he gave his sincerest compliments to Jonna and retired with the others to their room.
Wilkes and Wiggles-Her-Fingers were sitting at the small table in their room talking about something. It was probably important, so Malg tried to focus on the discussion, but a small voice in his head kept reminding him of how cozy the bed was and how soft the furs looked. He was on the bed and laying down before he realized it, and the moment his head hit the pillow, it was all over.
A rough jab in the ribs woke Malg the next morning along with the comment, "You snore like mating horkers." Malg shot up out of bed to see Wilkes standing over him. The scout continued, "You know, there was a point at which I was seriously concerned about whether you would make it through the night, but after a few hours of your log sawing, I considered puttin' an end to the enterprise myself."
"Where's Wiggles-Her-Fingers?" Malg asked.
"Not sure," Wilkes replied. "She left before the sun went up. I didn't consider it prudent to ask any questions."
"I suppose we should get to finding the mage," Malg said as he grabbed his boots. He threw his robes up over his head and then found his staff, which had fallen back behind the headboard.
As they left the room, Jonna was standing just outside, leaning up against the pillar. "I heard what you were talking about last night," she said.
Malg raised a suspicious eyebrow. "What do you mean?" he asked. His mind was racing. What did this woman know? Why was she eavesdropping? What had he talked about last night?
"You are looking for Falion," she said.
"Maybe," Malg replied.
"You are," Jonna stated flatly. "Don't try playing games with me, orc."
She looked even prettier in the morning, her strong, dark arms crossed over her chest. Malg shook his head and tried to push the thought away. This was not the time. "And if we are?" he asked.
"Then we might have a problem," she said. "You see Falion is not very popular around here. He is into some shady things, and I'm wondering why three odd-looking strangers are here looking for him."
"Why do you care?" Wilkes asked. "You say you don't like him."
"I have an obvious interest in the wellbeing of this town," she replied.
Wilkes shrugged, "And maybe we don't care to share our business with the local gossip keeper."
Malg glanced quickly around the inn. It was completely empty, except for the orc bard, who was snoring loudly enough it would easily cover their conversation had anyone been listening in. He suddenly became a little self-conscious in front of the Redguard innkeeper, wondering exactly how loudly he had been snoring.
"Wilkes," Malg said. "Could the truth be any worse than a lie and gossip? The last thing we need is people making up stories about us."
"Depends on her," the scout said.
"What do you want with him?" Jonna asked again, this time with a sharper edge in her tone.
"Our friend has a little problem," Malg whispered. "We were told Falion had a way to deal with it. That's all. We do not want any trouble, and we do not plan on staying longer than it takes to solve the issue."
Jonna's gaze softened. "I see," she said. "The Argonian was infected?"
Neither Malg nor Wilkes responded.
"I think he does have what you are looking for," Jonna replied. "Forgive my rudeness. He gets more hatred than he deserves from the people around here, and I get worried when people come looking for him."
"Fair enough," Wilkes said.
"If you head straight out of the inn and take a left at the smithy, his house is near the end of the pier," she said. "You can find him there most of the time." The innkeeper looked around them into the room. "Where is your friend, anyway?"
Malg shrugged and Jonna's gaze hardened again. Without a word, she hurried outside. Malg and Wilkes followed her out onto the porch to see the innkeeper scanning the area around the Moorside.
"Looking for me?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers' voice came from behind them. Somehow, he had missed his friend, who was standing directly behind him.
Jonna stuttered a bit, but only managed a nod.
"You have no reason to be concerned," Wiggles-Her-Fingers replied. "I have no desire for that. I left late last night to sate the hunger. The blood of the deer worked well enough, and I do not plan to remain in this state long enough to do that again."
"Very well," Jonna said, regaining her composure. "I told your companions where to find Falion."
"I heard," Wiggles-Her-Fingers nodded. "Thank you."
"Ok," Wilkes said. "I guess we should be on our way then." He stepped down off the porch.
Malg followed the scout. Neither Wiggles-Her-Fingers nor Jonna took their eyes off each other as the Argonian moved around her and down the other set of stares. She did not turn her back to the innkeeper until she stepped off the wooden planks and out onto the road.
Malg did not understand at all what had just happened, but he decided it was best not to ask questions, as Wiggles-Her-Fingers still seemed put off by their host. The group followed the road to the Jarl's residence and then took a left onto the pier, as they had been instructed and walked down to the large house at the end of it. It seemed normal enough, no real hint of magical presence, but that did not mean much. Many mages were skilled at concealing their power, and if Falion was indeed hated by some of the town's inhabitants, it made sense that he would try to do so.
Malg knocked on the door and waited. Nothing. He knocked again, and the door instantly cracked enough to reveal the edge of a hood and a single, dark eye.
"We are looking for Falion," Malg said.
"Who are you?" the man asked.
"I am Malg," he said. "Of the College of Winterhold, and these are my companions: Wiggles-Her-Fingers and Wilkes."
"Also of the College, I assume," he asked.
"She is," Wilkes replied. "Not me."
"And where are you from, Breton?" the man asked.
"Evermore originally," Wilkes replied. "But that was some time ago."
The eye in the door grunted, seemingly unconvinced and then turned back toward the mages. "If you stand before me to accuse me of sacrificing children or eating the hearts of the dead, you may save your breath!" the man growled. "I have done no such thing, nor do I intend to! I simply wish to live my life in peace!"
"Why would anyone accuse you of that?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked.
The door was flung open. An imposing Redguard mage stood in the doorway, dressed in blue robes. Malg quickly had an accusatory finger thrust toward his face. "The people of Morthal and those at the College of Winterhold for that matter would much rather weave their own horrid tales about my life than simply ask me for the truth," the mage said. "If they choose to remain in their ignorance and fear me, that is their choice, but that does not change who I am."
"I am not here for the college," Wiggles-Her-Fingers replied. "I am here on personal business."
"It doesn't matter!" he snapped. "The College of Winterhold is prejudiced against anything they cannot fully grasp. They like to play the victim as if everyone in Skyrim hated them, but they are hypocrites. They act like they are so open, accepting necromancy while rejecting what is truly exploratory research!"
"Then you can help me?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked.
"And open myself up to the meddling of the college and further interference?" he asked. "Never! I will have nothing to do with the college anymore, nor anyone who is connected with them! Leave me be!"
The man was about to slam the door in their face when Wilkes begged him to stop. "Sir, please," Wilkes entreated him. "I have nothing to do with the college. She saved my life, even while afflicted with this disease. I have dealt with my share of liars and backstabbers, and I assure that this Argonian is not like that. She is faithful and kind, even to those who do not deserve it. For goodness sake, she never even tried to drink our blood! I say that says a lot for a vampire."
Squinting suspiciously, the mage looked from Wilkes over to Wiggles-Her-Fingers and then back to Wilkes. "You are likely very good at persuading most people, Breton, but your honeyed words do not convince me," the mage sneered. "I will have nothing to do with the college! Now, away with…"
The mage never finished his demand, as Wiggles-Her-Fingers flung a ball of otherworldly illumination directly into the mage's face. Instantly, his entire demeanor changed, and he stood unmoving in the doorway for several moments as both Malg and Wilkes looked at him, unsure of what would happen next.
"What did you do to him?" Malg asked.
Wiggles-Her-Fingers shrugged, "I am not exactly sure, but it seemed like the right spell at the time. I think he should be more agreeable now. What is your name?" she asked the stunned mage.
"Falion," he responded. "It is a pleasure to meet you, come in." Falion moved back out of the doorway and motioned the three of them inside.
The inside of the home was one large room with a hearth, a small bed, and several animal hides and heads decorating the walls. What caught Malg's eye however was the enchanter's table in the corner next to a bookshelf full of potions, soul gems, and skulls. He felt uncomfortable. The plethora of odd items made him think of conjuration, the only part of studying at the College of Winterhold he detested. He could feel his skin crawling at the thought of creepy animations summoned forth from the dark places of existence.
"I know a good deal about illusions," Wilkes said. "But there was something odd about that spell. It did not seem quite normal. Are you sure it wasn't something vampiry?"
Wiggles-Her-Fingers shrugged again, then turned back to Falion, who was looking at her expectantly with an odd smile on his face. "I've heard you're an expert in vampirism," she said. "Is this true?"
Falion nodded happily, "I know much about the subject, beyond the reach of most humans. For instance, I know enough to see a vampire where others would see an Argonian."
Wiggles-Her-Fingers lowered her head.
"How long has it been since you turned?" he asked.
"A few days," she replied.
"I see," he said. "And you heard about me at the College?"
She nodded slowly.
"That makes sense," Falion said. "Am I correct in assuming that you do not want to remain a vampire?"
"I do not," Wiggles-Her-Fingers answered him.
"Very well," he said. "I can help you."
At his words, Malg saw the first look of relief on Wiggles-Her-Fingers since he woke up that morning after she had been bitten, believing the potion had rid her body of the disease. "Thank you!" she gasped in delight. "I am ready. What do we need to do?"
"I am afraid it may not be as easy as you imagine," Falion said. "The cure will require a filled black soul gem."
Wiggles-Her-Fingers' jaw dropped. "I, I cannot do that," she stammered.
Malg had a passing knowledge of soul gems from the few classes he had attended at the college, but he had never heard of black soul gems. "What is it?" he asked. "What is the problem? What is a black soul gem?"
Wiggles-Her-Fingers had gone pale, and Wilkes' face was granite. "A black soul gem traps the soul of a sentient creature," Wilkes said.
"You mean?" Malg asked.
Falion nodded, "You will have to kill someone and bring me their soul."