Chapter II: Ashes to Ashes

The Dragonborn wondered, and had been wondering for quite some time, what his enemy's intent was. Even calling it an enemy seemed premature. It was a mere matter that required investigation. There wasn't any judgment or any taking sides involved yet. That vampire had attacked him in the cavern, but that was largely unhelpful. If someone had sneaked up on him and attempted to stab him with a dagger, Azrael himself would have surely tried to kill the assailant with any means necessary. There's no telling how he would have behaved if I had tried a peaceful approach. The aggressive reaction wasn't as telling as many of the mages had made it out to be. Vampires were naturally hostile and distrustful of common people and they saw them as an enemy. Still, there was no confirmation regarding the one he had fought. Too many holes that needed filling. Nothing would be confirmed by his search without first understanding the whole picture.

There were two people left that could reliably deem his theories right or wrong. One was a bit too far away and the other was dead; and even if he still lived, he would have been too far away, as well. One was Falion, in Morthal. The other was Movarth, also in Morthal, but killed in the recent past. By the Dragonborn's hand, incidentally.

The task regarding Movarth had been a strange one. Apparently a vampire hunter, he had been transformed into a vampire by an unassuming priest. He had continued on and created his own coven. He had settled in the swampy regions of Skyrim and plagued Morthal for many years, but was rumored to have been dispatched. When the vampire activity in the city had intensified, Azrael had offered to look into the matter and shortly after found himself stuck in a complex plot to subjugate the entirety of Morthal. Movarth and his minions paid dearly for their ambition as the Dragonborn led the angry townspeople down into the tunnels to lynch the bloodsuckers. The hunter had become the hunted, and Azrael had shown no mercy whatsoever for him or for his servants. He slew Movarth himself, crippling him with an arrow as two men made him back off with pitchforks and daggers. A flame burst was all it took to end him, dissolving the undead flesh into a pile of smoldering embers.

A lot of answers died with him. Answers that might have turned out to be useful. The simple fact that he had been killed four weeks before that vampire business began didn't look as much a coincidence by that point. He died, and simultaneously more vampires appeared. This is more reason to think it was organized. Someone is using the smaller pieces of the chessboard to stir up trouble, spread fear. It wasn't a stretch after what happened. It really seemed there was someone pulling the strings from far back, somewhere far from the surface threat they were allowed to see. Something was being planned. I wonder what, the Dragonborn thought. It seemed obvious to him that someone had set a plot in motion, but he still had nothing to make a conjecture out of.

The issue they were facing was a complex one. It had layers, which meant anyone would be involved, no matter what their occupation or life choices were. From the citizen which would act as a catalyst for the most pitiful of rumors, to the line soldier that would have to stay on guard for long nights with the impending threat of vampires attacking. From the merchant that would see his profits change, for better or for worse, and would try to exploit the circumstances, to the couriers that would do double the job with double the risk in their endless rides from city to city. Lastly, from the grumpy, sanctimonious elders that would use the events to somehow remark that 'traditions good, changes bad', down to the bohemian thinker that would ask himself and the world if vampirism is truly a bad thing.

Azrael was tired of those things. All of them. Usually, when people started to think all was lost. Those ignorant, unwitting minds who didn't open their mouth because they had something to say but because they had to say something were the main focus of his scorn. Sometimes, he wished more people had his own mindset. But the truth is that some do have my mindset, and just like me they remain in the shadows where all that pitiful talk can't reach them. He always came back to that conclusion. The wisest always fled the common folk. For many reasons, but they did. They lived in isolation and loneliness, just like he did. The Greybeards were like that, just to name a few. And, although it wouldn't come to the mind of any mortal, the Dragons too did that. They lived separated from one another. They spoke only in True Need. Wisdom seemed to be a curse in that world. A curse he accepted willingly and with gratification. When Enthir had made that casual remark about him being above common men, that had come to mind. However, the Bosmer's observation seemed so obvious to him that his attempt at justifying that opinion had sounded superfluous and meaningless.

Vampirism truly was a complicated matter. Only for experts. It wasn't a banal thing that anyone could discuss and gossip about. Even some of the mainstream theories surrounding them were partially or completely wrong. The few things the mages knew about them were still way more of what the populace knew and claimed to be the truth. Some believed vampires to be reanimated corpses. Why not, they overheard that they're undead and therefore are a reanimated corpse, Azrael thought with a slight contempt flowing in and out of his conscious thinking. They were not reanimated however. They were diseased, preternatural beings, but they hadn't been brought back to life after dying. Instead, they had been drained of it almost to the point of death, but not quite. They were on the rim. Vampirism doomed the cursed one to both eternal life and eternal death. From here, the percentage of people which knew the objective actuality diminished even more. Some believed that they became individuals with superior understanding, while others that they returned to an animal state. The truth, as it often does, lay in the middle. In fact, the state of the vampire depended on its specific characteristics. They were sentient beings, a lot more similar to their mortal counterparts than most would like to admit. They could choose to submit to their feral nature or try to resist it. The calling of their savage side was stronger than any mortal's, but it could be overcome up to a certain point. A vampire that isn't starving can behave exactly like a member of its race, and is difficult to spot because of that.

From that information, it was easy for an expert to infer something more. Nothing of it was remotely comforting. Azrael thought of the mortal soul of those fiends, trapped in a dead shell for way longer than it was intended to last. Drained, shattered, destroyed by remorse and tormented by the long forgotten memories of mortality. Some lived in this condition for centuries, at times millennia. The Dragonborn didn't try to speculate on which effect this could have on their mind and their psychological status. Nothing comforting, again, but that seemed obvious. It required some pragmatism, otherwise he would have never finished asking questions and procrastinating. The direct and merciless approach to the world was what allowed him to triumph on otherworldly threats like the Eye and the World Eater. There are things that need to be dealt with before being understood. And yet, they called him a cynic.

These thoughts and many others flowed through his mind as he rode in the white expanses of the Pale. It had only been eight days since his fight with the vampire, but the sunny days had melted the snow quite rapidly. Shadowmere managed to canter in the slush without much effort. Upon reaching Red Road Pass, the Dragonborn had guided her away from the road and straight South. They had bordered the mountainside for a while, but Azrael knew exactly where they were headed. He had been there once, to argue over a claim one Vigilant had made on the Star of Azura. The Dragonborn had managed to slip away unseen as soon as he had understood that there wouldn't have been any reasoning with those fanatics. He wasn't exactly pleased of their disappearance, but it was in some way convenient for him. Nevertheless, that experience had allowed him to see the Hall in all its splendor. The singed, collapsed ruin covered by snow he saw before him now was nothing like it, although they were the same thing.

Aside from the sound of Shadowmere's hooves on the melted snow, there was a queer and gloomy silence. It served as a warning far more ominous than any words could be. Azrael didn't take his eyes off the building and kept all his other senses on constant alert. The air carried the scent of cinders and humid wood. That smell wasn't brought to him by the wind either, because the air was completely still. The smell was lingering around the place, held up in the valley where the building stood. There were other odors, the one of frozen flesh among those. Aside from the smell and his sight, the other senses didn't uncover anything overly important. He didn't feel anything particular. He focused for a moment on the ethereal energy flowing in the space around him, but there weren't any alterations in its drift.

The Hall wasn't completely burnt. Urag had said the attack had happened around two weeks before, when the snowstorms were still raging. Even during a sunny day the temperature were so low that no fire spread very far. The scattered burnt areas were distant from one another, and only two had extended enough to cause structural failures. The others had merely left carbonized wood and blackened planks. The only thing that had been incinerated completely was the seam roof, but that didn't come as a surprise. Other than that, everything showed the vampire's inexperience with flames. They hadn't started a proper fire and the few blazes they had created must had quickly died off in the chilly air or the even colder wind. As a result, much of the structure was still standing, though far from intact.

The Dragonborn jumped off Shadowmere's back immediately before the short slope that led up to the entrance. He shook the cloak, clearing it of the snow. It had snowed a little on the way, mainly from a dark grey, ominous cloudbank. It had quickly dispersed as it reached the open area where the winds blew the strongest, but not before hailing ice on them. Some people in Dawnstar had told him to await till the sky cleared, but he was in a hurry and he didn't fear the snow. It wasn't summer, when the storms rage and lighting bolts hammer the ground. The air wasn't warm enough for those kinds of thunderstorm to take place. He had quickly dismissed the small crowd gathered around him and had set off.

Hadn't it been for the vampire's bounty, he wouldn't have gone through Dawnstar altogether. The fewer people knew of his current location the fewer could track his movements. Skipping the town was tempting, but he might have needed the money. He had counted the ones in Enthir's pouch and they were no more than two hundred. Not enough for emergencies. The vampire's prize had fetched him three times that amount. He had needed to haggle for the kill's worth, with the Jarl lamenting that at the end of Winter the amount of coin they had was meager. The Dragonborn understood his problem, but he didn't care. Six hundred was a reasonable amount, although that same vampire was worth almost double that price. During the warm season he could have perhaps got two times and a half or three times as much. Nevertheless, the sum that he now carried in Shadowmere's saddlebags was sufficient, and he could have increased the amount without too many issues. Money wasn't a real problem for him. With the high spikes of income coming from the Brotherhood contracts he could already afford a wealthy living, and with the constant income of the Thieves Guild he could define himself rich. However, he didn't show off his wealth. It was wiser not to for one, because there wouldn't have been any explanation as to where all that gold came from. The real reason was even simpler, however. He merely didn't want to. It would draw even more interest his way, something that he didn't crave and cautiously avoided.

While he retraced the events of the past days, he mechanically checked everything he needed to have. The weapons were at the ready, the potions were in their place and all his other tools also. The potion Colette had given him was safely tucked away in the leather pouch on his belt, but he didn't foresee any immediate use for it. The two scrolls were safe, tied to the belt as well; behind him. He looked around, focusing specifically on the path that went up the slope.

The hill was run across by a small stream of water which ran silently down the rise and dispersed in the layer of snow. The remaining sleet was quickly melting under the first strong rays of the Sun. By nightfall a large portion of it would be softened, then congeal again during the night and so on until it melted completely. Azrael walked silently up the slope, careful not to make any kind of noise. He was looking at a strange irregularity in the snow, which became clearer at the end of the rise, where the snow was compact. Short and even thinner shapes, impressed lightly in the snow. Tracks… An animal? No, these are the marks of shoes. The shape… Flat, small pump shoes. Who comes here wearing something like this? He inspected the next few, and everything confirmed his suspicion. Looking closer, he tried to make out something more. The simple fact that they were still there meant something. These weren't left more than five, six hours ago. Someone came here inspecting the building, under the cover of night. Only then, putting all the pieces together, he swept his gaze around and noticed something important. There were no prints that went away from the building. Whatever entered is still in there.

He focused his magicka into his hands, altering its essence. He had learned Phinis' spell in the night's rest halfway between Dawnstar and Winterhold. Knowing the counterpart that detected life force, that one wasn't hard. It just required the caster to focus on the things that don't possess any life force. The mystical energy transformed and altered, pulsing from his hands and scanning the nearby area in search for the element that had been imprinted in the flow by the Dragonborn. The pulses came back quickly, resonating powerfully. Azrael turned in the direction of the source of the echo and managed to visualize it for a moment, drawing a vague outline. It was strangely small, but without doubt undead.

The Dragonborn crept forward, inspecting the ground in front of him before stepping on it. The boots leaned softly on the stone without the slightest sound. Slowly but surely he skulked up at the outer wall and then flattened against the wall, bordering it with careful steps. The wood was stiffened by the cold and the planks were slightly bent. Anything hitting them might have caused them to produce a creaking sound that would give his exact position away. The absence of wind and the strong smell of humid and corpses made him a bit less concerned about the vampire smelling the scent of his blood, but he wasn't so sure the sense that perceived blood overlapped with normal smell. Nevertheless, he was ready for a fight.

He drew the dagger and peaked out inside the Hall. Under the shadow of the hood, his eyebrows furrowed.

'Babette?'

A pair of red, glowing eyes turned in his direction. A girlish giggle rang quietly. 'Hello, Brother!'

The Dragonborn slowly slid the dagger back into its sheath, by his side. The blade hissed sinisterly as it grazed the metal reinforcement of the leathery case. He rose straight and gazed for a moment at the girl, wordlessly. Moving a few, slow steps he entered in the main room of the Hall, illumined only by the rays which got through the planks of the roof and the two openings in the wall, where the fire had managed to destroy something. The light was sufficient, but rather dim. The weak glow of the vampire's eyes was evident, but Azrael found himself not disturbed by it. He had imagined the encounter with the transforming vampire might have left some bad memories in him, but no. She was still Babette and she was a good vampire. If, by good, we mean a murderous agent of a shadowy organization who kills for a living.

The girl smiled. Azrael felt a strange tenderness go through his conscious thinking. Babette wasn't much higher than his waist, a pretty girl that had been bitten just at the right time to show some small hints of the beautiful woman she might have had one day become. That possibility, however, was most likely forever taken from her. Vampirism had taken over, and it wasn't going to regress easily. The pretty round face with full cheeks was slightly bony, the heart shaped lips curved in a repellent twist, the small nose compressed and somewhat gaunt and the big, striking eyes sparkled of a malignant red light. The silky brown hair were combed skillfully, clearly by someone other than herself. The body was thin, the chest with the barely noticeable curve of the breasts. Her small hands were rendered worrisome by the long, talon-like nails. She wore one of her usual dresses, this time a red and white one. Maybe she didn't fancy being seen with Brotherhood colors on herself.

She kept smiling, walking softly and whimsically towards the Dragonborn. Clearly, she shared his feeling about the encounter, although she was a lot more inclined to show them. 'And what might you be doing here, Azrael?'

He bent his head slightly to the right. 'You first.'

'Oh, you and your wariness,' she complained playfully. Azrael took the brief moment in between phrases to take a look at her shoes. Small and flat pump shoes. Just as he had thought. 'Well, I came back from a contract…' she said. 'You remember the one you gave me? To one in Solitude? I came home four days ago and Agarur told me the Hall of the Vigilant had been burned down by vampires. I took and interest and came here to see for myself. I've been here for a few hours. If it's the why I came here that you want to hear, it's just curiosity. Now you.'

'I'm here investigating.' Azrael moved his gaze away from the girl, casting a quick glance at the first things in the room that had caught his attention. 'I've come across a vampire on my way to Dawnstar. One that transformed into an abominable blend of a human and a bat. The rest isn't relevant. What matters is that I'm here searching for more insight on the matter.'

'Transformed, you say?'

Azrael looked straight in her red eyes. 'You know something, do you not?'

The girl shrugged, initially with a neutral expression on her face. 'Not much, but there's only one kind of vampire that can do something like that, although I wouldn't believe any of them to have appeared.' She spoke and then turned towards him. Azrael felt her gaze in his eyes, although she couldn't see them directly. Something she said must had alerted her, or maybe a connection she had made in her head. He didn't know what went through her thoughts, but she was very serious all of a sudden. 'On you loyalty as a friend and your dignity as Listener,' she said, 'are you telling the truth and do you know what exactly are you talking about? Or what you might have meddled with?'

'Yes to the first. No to the second,' he answered imperturbably. Babette rarely called upon his status of Listener, but when she did she was serious. His game had always been to indifferently refuse the gravity, something that didn't annoy the girl only because she knew him very well. 'Now, tell me what other otherworldly, realm-destroying truth I have stumbled upon this time,' he concluded, on a sarcastic note.

'What you've come across can be nothing other than a pureblooded Volkihar vampire.'

'That doesn't help.'

'I know, I know,' she said, slowly getting back her playful self. The smile started to reappear gradually on her lips, showing her small fangs. Azrael wasn't paying much attention to her actions, thought. He was much more concerned with the information she was unexpectedly able to provide. 'The Volkihar,' she said, 'are an ancient vampire clan that resides somewhere in Skyrim. Not even us vampires know exactly where. They became infamous for their ability to hunt in the glaciers in the North of the province. Their breath is said to freeze someone solid, but I don't really buy that. Anyhow, those were only a branch. All the vampires in Skyrim are in some way connected to them, but most of the covens and bloodlines are tainted or so watered down that they have lost almost all the gifts unique to their blood patron. I actually believed pureblooded Volkihar to be extinct, but since they're the only lineage that can shapeshift into something like what you described me. Where did that vampire end up anyway?'

'Dead.'

Babette's eyes opened wide and sparked. 'What?'

'You heard me,' he coolly replied, unconcerned by the Dark Sister's surprise. 'We fought in a cavern. He couldn't defeat me in his normal form, but my chances were slimmed significantly once he transformed. I still managed to kill him. Not before he bit me, however. My blood weakened him and I managed to end him.' He slowly turned his gaze to the girl as he spoke the last words. Babette had a playful but skeptic expression on her face. Azrael knew that she didn't believe that his hybrid life lymph was venomous to vampires. Still, she trusted him enough to have never attempted to bite him. 'I don't care if you don't trust me on that,' he added, dismissively. 'Those are the facts. What you believe is your problem alone.'

'I guess it shouldn't surprise me,' said the girl, pausing queerly afterwards. Azrael knew those strange hesitations. Babette often sighed when she talked, but since she hadn't breathed in the first place there was no air coming our of her lungs. That resulted in those odd breaks. 'After you've dealt with Dragons, one vampire shouldn't be much of a challenge. But I don't know how strong Dragons are, while instead I know or can imagine how strong a highbred vampire can be. I suppose I have to compliment you on that.'

'So kind of you.'

Azrael brought his gaze back to the ruined interiors. The main room of the Hall was a long area that housed a shrine lying on an altar at its end. The stone floor used to be covered by a long, red and golden-embroidered carpet. A few benches were always positioned on the sides of the room, and the Vigilants coming back from tiring tasks rested there, praying and discussing away with their colleagues. The Hall was always kept lit with the use of candles and torches. Despite the bad memories Azrael had of the place, he remembered it to be a very comfortable place. Keeper Carcette, former and probably last leader of the Vigilants in Skyrim, had welcomed him inside that same room, allowing him to sit on the benches before barraging him with questions. The warm air and smell of burnt offering and incense was pleasing. Berries were hung to the wall in large wreathes. The image from the past was so intense that it almost replaced reality for a few moments.

The scent of smoke brought him back. The ruined, ravaged room he now stood in was in no way similar to the one he had seen. The carpet had been burned, leaving an uneven layer of ash on the whole floor. The benches were broken, trampled and laid scattered everywhere. Some in pieces, some blacked by fire and some singed and carbonized. Intricate tangles of broken planks formed in the spots were the ceiling had collapsed. The altar, on the opposite side of the room, was smashed into pieces. The wooden table was intact, but instead of the offerings there was the corpse of a Vigilant lying on it. Maybe a coincidence, or perhaps an vile parody of the donations. The floor was seared in more than one place and there were some signs of magical impacts as well. There were cracks and fissures left by ice spells and small darkened breaks caused by lightning projectiles.

'Are we searching for something in particular?' Babette asked.

'Everything left is relevant,' Azrael said, looking around the area.

The corpse of a Vigilant lay on the ground near the Dragonborn. His head was bent in an odd way, the legs twisted. The mace he had used in the attempt to repel the monsters was several feet away. The tunic was splattered with blood in several places, but the portion that protected the covered the abdomen was stiff because of the amount of congealed gore. His eyes were wide open, pale and vague, and his jaw hung open; his face was a mask of dismay and terror. The Dragonborn walked in his direction, slowly tilting his head from left to right to catch details he might miss by just looking straight. Whatever killed him must have hurt a lot.

He kneeled beside the lifeless corpse. The skin color was unnaturally light, even for someone that has been exposed to the cold for days. It was slightly yellowish, sallow. I've seen this before… the Dragonborn said to himself. He lifted the soft collar of the tunic and brought back the hood, revealing the neck of the Vigilant. Four deep wounds marked the pallid skin, with scratches and abrasions everywhere around. Azrael did as he had done with the corpse on the road and pressed his armored fingers on the sides of the injury, and like the previous time no blood flowed from the cuts. Bitten, the Dovahkiin deduced, seeing nothing that could disprove it. He fought, then the vampire stabbed him in the belly and he staggered backwards. The fiend took the opportunity and finished him by drinking every drop of his blood. That seemed the most likely the way the Vigilant had wound up against the floor, twisted and in pain like he was.

'Babette,' he said, still inspecting for corpse for things he might have missed, 'tell me what a vampire feels as it feeds.'

'It's not simple to describe,' she said, moving by his side. Azrael noticed that even while kneeling he was still taller than the girl. 'If you've fed recently it's normal. Imagine tasting food after a day without anything to eat. If a few days have passed, it's different. I think at least once you've been without water for a long time, and it works as if you've been without for… say, two days. These vampires were fighting, though. When we are engaged in violent actions, our feral impulses start to take over and we can bit viciously. This one,' she said, pointing to the Vigilant's wound but clearly alluding at the vampire that had caused those, 'was very angry. He, or she, almost ripped the throat out of the meal.'

The Dragonborn nodded slowly, rising. 'I can see that.'

So far, he had spot the corpses of eight Vigilants. Some vampires too had died, but the sunlight coming through had burnt their corpses to cinders. The bits and pieces of their bodies, mostly pulverized or blackened, lay dispersed in the room. Some of the parts were still vaguely identifiable, like the compressed shape made of burnt, bent bones lying in the middle of the Hall, which was clearly a sternum. Around it lied a coating of grey ashes. No vampire corpses left to examine, thought the Dragonborn. A pity. They might have been interesting. For all he knew, those could have just been regular vampires with no link whatsoever to the one he had seen. Even without any corpses, there was something else that had caught his attention.

He proceeded toward the mystery figure. It vaguely, very vaguely, resembled a dog. 'Do you know what these are?' he asked Babette, hesitating to crouch near the nightmarish beasts. The stench of death it carried was unbearable. The big, worn out eyes were unnatural and the black and tattered skin was equally horrific. Sharp teeth were revealed by the half-closed jaws. On the whole, the creature was skeletal, ugly and gruesome. Surely an undead.

'They're Death Hounds,' the girl said, almost nonchalantly. There was even a sparkle of interest in her tone. 'They serve as dogs and servants to ancient vampires. I didn't know any of them had survived.'

'Survived?'

'Yes. They're undead, so they're immortal too. I don't know what they are, exactly, but maybe, just maybe, they're animals that have contracted Sanguinare Vampiris. I don't know how that might have happened, but they resemble their vampire masters in many ways. The Volkihar were said to use those, and it ties in with their frost-related abilities. Perhaps the frosty breath that they used to freeze their victims were Death Hounds. I don't know.'

Azrael grimaced. 'Hideous. Since we're on the matter, do you think these vampires here are related to the Volkihar?'

'How would I know?' she replied, shrugging and walking towards the middle of the Hall. 'When they're dead there's no way of knowing it. I mean, when they're dead it's maybe possible, but these ones have been burnt by sunlight. I can't understand anything from ashes.'

The Dragonborn walked away from the Death Hound, breathing deeply to forget its sordid reek. He edged through the fallen planks, the corpses and the burnt remains of the roof. The ashes of the carpet had covered his boots and his cloak. He lifted his feet and shook them slowly, then grabbed the rim of the cloak and waggled it, raising a cloud of thin dust. The smell of flesh and death was stronger than ever. The valley where the Hall was built was a safe place, but the winds rarely blew through it. A desirable trait when it was still intact, but now that smell wouldn't have gone away for a long time still. Not that anyone would return there after what happened. According to a traveler in Dawnstar, the Skyrim Vigil was considered disbanded by its own members. Many of them had been killed and they were without a headquarter. The few of them that had remained had gathered at Stendarr's Beacon in search for guidance.

Azrael suspected, and had reasons to, that the attack on the Hall hadn't been premeditated. It was one of the most counterintuitive things he could think of, but there was no specific reason they would want the Vigil gone. If it had been planned, it was only because of the positioning of the Hall. The valley was isolated, hidden from immediate view and very far from any road. The loudest screams wouldn't have been heard, so it was the perfect place to strike to make fear spread. And even considering this, I think it's not the case, he thought, going back through his reasoning. The vampires seemed to have been loosened, not pointed at clear targets. With what Babette had told him, the vampire he had killed could have been an important figure in their underworld. If that was the case, why had he attacked a lonely traveler? They're just stirring up trouble. They were ordered to leave a trail of destruction in their wake. It all seemed logical and in line with his discoveries, but seeing the issue from the perspective Babette had given him, there was another option. Loosened, fine, unless…

He slowed down his steps. Unless this was retribution. The idea slowly took shape as all the facts he remembered seemed to rearrange to support his new hypothesis. The vampires' confirmed appearances were scattered across the whole land of Skyrim, but the stranger ones had all happened around a specific area. It was a broad zone, far too large to make anything out of it, but it was a possible starting point. The area had three corners, those being Whiterun, Dawnstar and Morthal. The northerly parts of Whiterun Hold had registered some of the most intense vampire activity in all of Skyrim; Morthal had had problems with Movarth and lastly Dawnstar had been dealing with its own issues. Aside from the one Azrael had killed and the Hall destroyed, there had been other unconfirmed reports. It's as if they are scouring the land. And the Vigil meddled in their matters.

'Azrael!' Babette's voice brought him back to reality. She was standing near a dark area, hidden in deep shadows. There was an expression on her face that might have been described as joyful. She was very pleased with herself, at the very least. 'Forget I said anything about the corpses being burned. There's one intact right here! There's no sunlight brightening up this corner.' The Dragonborn caught a glimpse of something that might have been boots. The black, studded boots vampires usually wore. 'Come!' she insisted.

Azrael strayed far from the corner until he had a good view. Once he noticed everything was safe, he approached. He saw Babette gave him a fake scolding glance, mocking his suspicion. He allowed her to do that. She knew that his disbelief had saved him time and time again. If something bad happened, she could count on his mistrust to save them from bad surprises. But when seemingly unnecessary, she liked to tease him. As he walked up to the corner he saw more of the vampire, which was surprisingly well preserved. There wasn't an inch of him burnt by sunlight. A tear in the armor suggested a Vigilant had crashed his mace into the vampire's left shoulder. It was hard to determine if the blow had miraculously tossed him backwards into that corner or if he had slouched inside it to shield himself from sunlight.

The armor was probably the most immediate link between this new vampire and the previous one. It looked the same, with the crimson cape and the dark steel plate providing extra protection to the chest. The same pauldrons, the same ornate belt. The area that had gotten shattered by the mace blow was the near the armpit. The strike had probably compromised its tension, snapping the layer of metal in two. After all, that armor might have been as old as the wearers. With what he knew, Azrael could make a guess which ranged from a few decades to several thousand years.

He knelt beside the corpse and Babette moved a little bit to the right, leaving him some space. She put her elbow on his armored knee. Azrael noticed her following his gaze. He was looking at the face of the vampire. A pale visage, but it was remarkably good looking. Long, flowing dark hair were dispersed on the ground. The narrow eyebrows and high cheekbones completed the glamorous appearance. Both in his mortal life and in his immortal one he must had been quite a charmer. Beside the unusual slimness of the body, the paleness of the complexion and the thinness of the facial skin there wasn't much that distinguished him from a normal mortal.

'Observations?' he asked.

'He's a cute lad. I've never seen a vampire who looks this good after the infections.'

'Because maybe he wasn't infected at all,' Azrael murmured. Upon noticing her curious gaze, he continued. 'The other vampire I found had this same trait. Is this a coincidence or does this mean he's a pureblood too?'

'I would guess,' said the girl. 'He's not telling us, though.'

The Dragonborn remained silent for a moment. He shifted Babette's elbow from his knee. He rose slowly, reaching for the back of his belt. He looked at the little vampire, who in turn was gazing slightly puzzled at him. 'Actually, he is,' he said, coolly.

He touched the scroll Urag had given him. Nothing about its functionality had been specified beside that it worked best on humanoids. Dead or undead, it didn't matter. Necromancy didn't pose the same obstacles as something of the likes of Illusion magic, which was exponentially more difficult to use depending on the target. Undead were difficult to control, machines and Daedra even more so. Necromancy wasn't like that. Since it worked on a deceased body, it didn't interfere with its pre-existing functions. It imbued the lifeless tissue with new energy, independently from the one that previously kept the entity alive. Azrael hadn't used that kind of magic very much in his life, but he was familiar with Conjuration in a broader sense. He knew many hexes to manipulate Daedric entities as well as some that ensnared the soul, allowing him to fill his soul gems. That curse had been particularly useful when crafting and enchanting his armor.

He clutched the roll of paper. Scrolls were tricky to use. The caster didn't need to alter the magicka in any way, since the strength and form required by the spell was already imbued and written within the paper. The energy needed to be transferred to the user and channeled effectively through the caster in order to obtain the best result. Inexperienced individuals might let the stored magicka slip away from their grip, severely lessening the final effect. The spell might come around as too weak or, in the worst cases, misfire completely. The Dragonborn had some experience with scrolls, but more importantly he was skilled enough at magic to create barriers that didn't allow the flow of magicka to seep away from his spells. That was one of the most difficult part. Magic was strong by its own. The part that needed the most attention was the optimization of the quantity of power used for each spells. Novices tended to concentrate too much on the incantation and failed to notice the enormous amount of ethereal force constantly slipping away from their grasp.

Azrael focused, conducting the flow carefully from his fingers into his palms. He slowly and carefully disjointed his fingers from the paper, but the magicka remained stable. That was good. He turned towards the body, using his right hand as a pivot and rotating his left above it. The movements shaped the flow, leading the energy back to the exact form written in the scroll. He felt the change. When the adjustment was slowed down almost to the point of stopping, he brought his left hand down and slightly raised the other one. The power chained to his flesh was so much that his hands started trembling in the attempt to contain it. The muscles tired way quicker, worn out by both a physical and immaterial source.

He released. The force surged out of his hands in the form of a cold blue spark. The body of the vampire glowed of an unnatural white light for a moment, and then it started moving. The dim bright shone faintly inside the crushed shoulder of the vampire, flowing in his body as if it was blood. New life was forced into the limbs, which started trembling frantically. The nerves stretched, emerging on the emaciated, necrotizing skin. The body didn't rise using its arms, but instead it floated distressingly into the air, its back bent in an unnatural way. The feet touched the ground and the whole figure recoiled from the hit. The eyes snapped wide open, burning of a hellish blue light.

'Who gave you that?' Babette asked, pointing at the scroll.

Azrael grabbed the piece of paper and tossed it to the side. He called for a minimal amount of magicka and shaped it to be weak flames. He incinerated the worn and useless roll midair and turned at the girl. 'A friend from the College. They gave it to me for other purposes, but this might be just as useful.'

The girl giggled. 'Such a display of lateral thinking. But are you sure we can get something out of this poor sod? He's died twice, I'm not sure if he remembers anything.'

'Let's find out.' The Dragonborn turned towards the reanimated vampire and looked it straight in the eyes. He started summoning some more magicka, modeling it to resemble a simple mind distortion. Just in case the undead needed any convincing. 'Who are you?' he asked, raising his voice a little to make sure the damaged ears caught his words.

Guttural sounds without any meaning came out of the decaying throat of the undead. His eyes blinked twice, his body reeled slightly. 'Silder,' he said at last. The whisper came out hushed, as if nearly impossible to utter. A faint light came from the depths of his throat. Azrael refrained from asking anything more since the walking corpse looked to be attempting to say something more. Another quiet whisper came. '… The Enchanter.'

'Which coven do you belong to?' Babette asked. Azrael let her talk without any questions. The memory of a reanimated being is usually scattered and imprecise. It works best if functioning through free connections rather than logical reasoning.

For a few seconds the corpse only moaned indistinctly. Then it almost seemed to gain a spark of lucidity. 'Volkihar…' Azrael released the magicka held in his hands, causing the undead to sway but also removing the fatigued frown from its face. The mental delusion was a relatively simple one. Not by quantity, but by quality. It was a distortion that changed the momentary perception of reality of any being, undead included. Another moan of agony signed the interval after which it spoke again. 'Across… The sea…'

Azrael saw Babette steal a glance at him, but he shook his head negatively. He too had no notion of what sea was being mentioned. The girl turned again at the cadaver. 'How long have you existed?'

Azrael made a note of that formulation. The idea of life or age might have meant nothing to the vampire and could have only led to confusion. The concept of existence was much broader and maybe more comprehensible, even in the state he was in. Babette was using the common feelings she and that corpse had as vampires, allowing her to ask questions more precisely and with a higher chance of receiving an answer. A meaningful one, anyway.

The cadaver was struggling to speak, although Azrael's charm helped. 'Centuries…' it said, shaking its head violently. '…Seven.'

'Why the Hall? What were you doing here?'

A death rattle prevented the corpse from speaking immediately. 'Vengeance…' it muttered. 'The Vigil… Killers… The Lord's daughter…' The corpse swayed sideways, blinking in an uncontrolled way. The necromantic force was probably taking over his entire essence, even his memories. It usually happened in a matter of minutes. The undead tilted his head and gave a whimper.

'Where is your hideout?

No answer came. The corpse swayed, moving the arms limply around. The eyes were completely hollow, without any reason left in them.

Babette shook her head. 'He doesn't know anything more.'

Azrael stepped forward towards the undead, grabbing its chin with its metallic fingers. He mustered new magicka, molding it in flames that wouldn't expand far but would be hotter and more intense. As he unconfined them, his hand heated up quickly. Small but deadly blazes flowed from it. The fire consumed the flesh of the corpse turning it into smoldering ashes. The vampire groaned helplessly, something that resembled a scream. After the fire had completely consumed its face and a part of its throat, the limbs trembled and then fell down, motionless. The white glow disappeared, the magic dissipated and everything that had been brought to new life returned dead.

Grabbing his consumed cranium, the Dragonborn tossed the body aside. Straight in the sunlight. 'Rest in agony,' he whispered, after the thud of the corpse had resounded faintly throughout the Hall.

Babette leaned against a wooden support that was miraculously still standing. She looked pensive. She partially shared Azrael's attitude of getting involved in every mystery she came across, although in a more passionate manner than him. What they had discovered clearly concerned her. 'That didn't give us as much as I wished,' she said. 'I hope it was worth it.'

'I have two leads now, if anything,' Azrael replied, turning towards her. 'The den across the sea and the daughter of someone important.'

'That doesn't tell us much.'

'It's better than nothing. Any thoughts of what that,' he said giving a nod at the burnt corpse, 'told us?'

'Well, he is indeed a part of the Volkihar,' she said, doing one of her weird would-be-sighs pauses, 'a half-breed, I'd say. That much we know, at least. Seven centuries old isn't an impressive amount of time for someone like him, though.'

'How do you know if he's part of the Volkihar?'

'There are words a vampire only can understand,' the girl said. 'Much more so when he's in a non conscious state like a forced reanimation. When I asked him about his coven we meant more than his bloodline, but his heritage and the people he lived with, if any.' She folded her arms, drumming her feet against the scorched floor. 'He's seven centuries old, so I don't think he has been given the full gift. However, for him to be a half-breed there needs to be a real group of pureblooded Volkihar that still lives somewhere. Presumably across the sea, like he mentioned.'

'Any idea where that might be?'

'None, although I could guess he meant the Sea of Ghosts. Maybe, just maybe, the Nordic Coast. I'm more inclined towards the Sea of Ghosts, though. If the stories about them hunting in the eastern glaciers are true, it would make sense. Supposedly, they never come out of their chilly hideouts if not to feed. But I'm not so sure. Those vampires lived secluded and there's no mention of any of them being able to transform. They could be a smaller group, a side lineage. The most known, but not the most powerful. The Volkihar are ancients, and now I'm sure they still live. They could be hiding anywhere, and might have been hiding for a long time. Actually, their blood is very strong; so strong I'm inclined to believe their original blood patron is still alive.'

'How long has he been around?'

'Centuries certainly, possibly millennia. Perhaps eons.' Babette shrugged, expressing her uncertainty. 'There's no way of telling, I'm afraid. Not with what we have. By the way, what are you going to do with these leads of yours?'

Azrael breathed out, thinking. There were a few options, but he selected and told her the safer and most likely. 'I'm bringing what information I have to Fort Dawnguard, to the vampire hunters. Perhaps they can help me. If not with information, with a little bit of manpower to gather the missing pieces of the puzzle. I'm not going to consign them anything substantial I've learned,' he added after a moment. 'I don't trust them. Their founder is a former fanatic who has an obsession with bloodsuckers, and that's not the kind of people I rely on.'

The glance Babette stole at him was somewhat cross. Azrael knew at once that something in his words or in his tone had irritated her. He had an assumption, one that was very likely. She was, sometimes, a normal person. Predictable and impractical. 'When are you going to start trusting others?' she asked, proving his supposition true.

'When they'll give me a reason to, which, admittedly, might mean never' he answered coolly.

'You'll need to, sooner or later.'

'I've already trusted Astrid enough, and you remember where that has led us.' He turned towards her, with a prepared counterattack. 'Besides, look who's talking.'

The little vampire nodded drolly and excessively. 'I know. Fine, a point to you,' she admitted. 'But I don't think you can handle this alone. You'll need backup. You're not the one taking decisions this time around; the responsibility falls into someone else's hands, and it would be sensible of you to tell that person everything you know so that he can make an informed decision. That's what others have always done with you. It might be your time to play another role.'

'I'll not tell him anything,' he repeated. 'Even if he knew everything I've learned, he'll not make an informed decision. He's a radical. He'll try to exterminate the threat as quickly as possible.'

Babette paced around, measuring the space between two burned planks with short steps. Discussions of that caliber weren't normal, but it wasn't their first time. She was calm too, and determined. Azrael always felt like she had started to idealize too much and that her distance from common people had led her to consider accurate some ideas that were, in truth, idyllic. He, in turn, had the feeling that she believed him to be too mistrustful. They respected their positions, since neither of them was a normal person by any stretch, but they also didn't put down the argument and acknowledged their different opinions as valid simply because they were too different. They were both thinking people, and they liked a challenge. Whether physical or intellectual, it mattered little.

'So,' she said, 'you're planning to let them tell you what they know and not the other way around.'

'Bullseye.'

'Why?'

'Because they'd make a reckless move, trying to delete the enemy when nothing of it is yet known or understood. They'd likely fail, among other things.'

'And you're absolutely certain of your success? You might make a rash move as well.'

'I won't,' he said, lapidary. 'With their knowledge, I'll see this through.'

'Azrael, I can't believe you sometimes,' she said, with a grin that wasn't forced at all, but could have been. 'You're the most powerful man walking about in Skyrim right now, I know, but your arrogance will be your undoing. Of all the good things you could do in cooperation with those hunters, you choose to manipulate them? Really?'

'I don't remember you caring very much about ethics.'

'I don't, as a matter of fact. I'm a Dark Sister, remember? I've been one for over three centuries. As much as I understand compassion and sympathy, I'm not really one who practices them. On the other hand, I know that a stable trust is the ideal condition of any organization. Likewise, I know basic values. They apply even inside the Sanctuary. You and the vampire hunters are partners in this, as two Dark Siblings might be. They don't hide information from one another.'

Azrael shook his head imperceptivity. 'It's not like Dark Siblings. They won't trust me, either. They are former members of the Vigil, they'd gladly kill me the moment they know I've been meddling with the Daedra. They won't for the sole reason that it would cause an uproar. We're enemies, we'll momentarily be united, but that is it. It may be true that my enemy's enemy is my friend, but it's also true that the ally of today is the enemy of tomorrow. Especially for me.'

'Why not blackmail them instead?' she asked. 'Information and complete trust in exchange for a good word from you. You would bound them to you.'

'If they understand my game they'll know better not to agree.' The Dragonborn was growing somewhat tired of that talk, as much as he enjoyed a confrontation. Time was at the essence, and he felt as if he was wasting it. He turned his whole body towards her, looking at her along the full length of his hidden nose. 'Enough,' he said, glacially. 'I'm not discarding any of the options you've given me, but I have to see it with my own eyes. Until that moment, I'll consider the worst case scenario.'

'The voice of pragmatism speaking…' giggled the girl. 'Good, I'll let you do it your way. I've been able to soften you in the past, but this time you seemed resolute. The only thing I give you is my best wishes for your journey. And… Azrael?'

'Yes?'

She looked strangely fearful now. Shy, almost, which was strange for someone like her. 'Well, the Volkihar are my family,' she said. 'Not directly speaking, obviously, but I come from them. It's a bit like what your Ancestors are for you, even though you don't follow your tradition. It's merely personal.'

'That's enough for the premise. Get to the point.'

Azrael thought that if there had been any saliva in her mouth, Babette would have swallowed. 'If you can solve this without eradicating the Volkihar, I'd be very thankful.'

A/N: For those who haven't read The Assassin, the Dark Brotherhood has been recruiting new members since Azrael became their leader. There's Agarur, who was mentioned in this chapter. There's also Laegiine, who we'll encounter further on into the story as well as Wildach — mentioned briefly in Godsplitter's fifteenth chapter "Hunter" — who will also make an appearance.

Focusing on Babette for a moment, I'd point out that she's one of my favorite characters. There's more depth to her here than in the game, and she is an important figure to Azrael because of the insight she's able to provide and the unique understanding she has of him.

From here on, the story will reconnect with the general game storyline and loosely follow it.

'Till the next.