Chapter 2: Seeking Vengeance

In Riften, it rained.

Such weather came with the season. Riften was too far south to feel the biting snow that occupied most of Skyrim, but it was not so far north that it was not prone to the thundering storms that rolled over Cyrodiil's Jerall Mountains. And so, it rained.

The rain, it seemed, reflected Tristan Dorrien's own mood. It was as if the Divines knew what he had planned, and they saw it fitting to give him weather that would add to the atmosphere of said plan. It mattered not. The plan was in motion now, and backing out was out of the question.

Tristan waited and watched the activity of Mistveil Keep. In this weather, the streets were quiet. Fitting, as everyone retreated into their homes to escape the pelting rain, except for some of the Argonians that tended to wander the docks. Occasionally the odd passer-by would rush from door to door, holding a plate or a cloak above their head to stay dry. Tristan didn't care about that. He waited patiently, letting the rain wash over him, letting it drench him.

Mistveil Keep was the seat of power in this corner of Skyrim. Whoever sat in that keep had full right to control what happened in this province. And that person was the reason Tristan was here.

He pictured her – Maven Black-Briar – sitting on that throne, staring down on all those who would come to her, waiting smugly as she was treated like the royalty she wanted to be. Maven Black-Briar – the reason for his life's ruin – sitting in a seat of power. Everyone knew of her corruption, yet no one dared challenge her. Even when the Stormcloaks had retaken Skyrim, the Empire-supporting Maven had somehow won a seat of power when former Jarl Laila Law-Giver had mysteriously vanished. The thought of Maven's betrayal of not just his family, but of this city too, made Tristan's blood boil.

Tonight it ended.

Tristan shivered despite himself. He looked down at the clothes on his body and almost scowled. Just an hour ago a raggedy man had entered the Bee and the Barb. His clothes were worn and torn, and Tristan saw an opportunity. The man was happy to trade his travel-weary outfit for Tristan's fine garments, and he even insisted on buying Tristan a bottle of Black-Briar Mead as a thank you (an offer that was politely refused).

Tristan consoled himself. These clothes would make his performance easier. He looked back towards Mistveil Keep. It was quiet, as most of the guards were drinking and gambling in the barracks. When Maven was Jarl, no one dared step out of line. Guards became obsolete, but Maven still employed them. And she gave them a lot more leverage on how hostile they could be towards, well, anyone. Just another sign of corruption.

It was time.

Tristan scooped up a handful of mud and coated himself in it. His clothes, his skin, his hair; nowhere was left untouched. He put his right hand on his left arm and forced the fire to manifest itself. The flames hissed and fizzled in the rain, but they still burned. Tristan winced as the skin of his arm charred. He then scorched parts of his outfit, too. Fire was the extent of his destructive capability, but it would do. Tristan took a deep breath, and half-ran, half-stumbled towards Mistveil Keep.

"Help!" He cried as he scrambled up the steps leading to the main door. "You must help me!"

Tristan couldn't imagine what he looked like to the guards. A demon? Maybe. A helpless victim? Probably. A madman? Definitely.

He scrambled towards a guard and clasped his uniform.

"Please," Tristan said, his voice wavering. "Please help."

The guard pushed Tristan away. "What is the matter with you, man?" He said fiercely.

"You need to help me. They're coming," Tristan pleaded.

The guard looked to his companion, who shrugged.

"We've no time for your drunken games, Breton," the guard warned. "Leave now before I escort you down to the prisons."

Tristan's eyes widened. His mouth opened slightly. He shook his head. "No, no you don't get it. This is important. This cannot wait." His voice rose to a shout. "You don't understand! They're coming!" He raced towards the door, both guards intercepting him. He thrashed about, trying to break free. "They're coming! They will not stop until they have found me! They will burn everyone in this city if they have too! Please! You are all in danger!"

"Stop it!" The second guard shouted. "I don't want to kill you, but I will."

Tristan continued to shout and scream and the guards continued to wrestle. He wondered what he looked like now. A demon? Oh yes.

The doors opened to reveal a Bosmeri woman in blue robes.

"Jarl Maven wishes to know what's going on." She said flatly.

Tristan fell to his knees and looked to the ground. He crawled to the Bosmeri woman and looked up at her.

"Please," he said manically. "Please, I am here to warn y–"

One of the guards boots connected with Tristan's ribs and he collapsed to the side, gasping for breath.

"You've no right to talk to the wizard," the guard growled.

"Well?" The woman demanded.

"He's convinced something is coming, Wylandriah," the guard said, looking down on Tristan, who was still gasping for air. "Seems he's here to warn us. But look at him. He's nothing but a drunken fool."

"Skooma, probably," his companion chipped in.

The first guard nodded. "Aye, makes sense if it were Skooma. Maybe even one of Talen-Jei's unnatural concoctions."

"He calls himself a drink-maker," the second guard snorted. "If he were, then I'm a dragon."

The wizard rolled her eyes. "Well, what do you suggest we do with him then?"

"I suggest we dump him in the lake and let him drown," the first guard shrugged. "If he's a drunkard then he'll only be causing trouble. Best we end him before he does."

"And if he's not a drunkard?" The wizard said.

The guard shrugged again. "Whatever he's trying to warn us about, I'm sure we can handle it."

Tristan shook his head. "No," he rasped. "You cannot."

"Quiet, filth," the second guard barked.

The Bosmeri woman eyed Tristan quizzically. It took all of his willpower to not look away.
"Bring him in," she said at last.

Even though a helmet covered his face, Tristan almost felt both of the guards rolling their eyes.

"Up you get," the first guard said, clasping Tristan by the underarm and forcing him to his feet.

"You best be respectful around the Jarl," the second guard warned. "Maven don't take kindly to liars."

Tristan nodded furiously as he made his way into the Keep. Once he was in, he suppressed a grin. In his humblest opinion, that was a brilliant performance.

The show isn't over yet, he thought.

Tristan followed Wylandriah into the Keep, with the two guards flanking him on either side.

The inside of Mistveil Keep was, like the outside, made of stone. The stone blocks that made up the walls were over two metres thick, making a siege on the Keep impractical. The only way into the Keep was through the front doors, which had purposefully been narrowed and divided so that instead of a torrent of enemies, attackers would have to enter in two streams that were more manageable for the City Guard (a design of Maven's). Torches lit the keep, throwing the room in an orange glow. The amount of torches lining the walls, as well as the fire pit in the centre of the main hall, made it so no part of the room was in shadow (another of Maven's designs). If anyone in Riften was paranoid, that person was Jarl Maven Black-Briar. But then, if anyone in this city had enemies, that person was Maven as well.

Including me, Tristan thought.

At long last, Tristan caught sight of her. Maven Black-Briar, sitting all high-and-mighty on a throne wrongly earned. He attempted to hide a scowl.

As Maven laid eyes on Tristan he dropped his. However slim the chance that he would be recognised was, he didn't want to risk it.

He felt rather than saw Maven's look of disgust.

"Wylandriah," she said, revulsion thick in her voice. "What is this? It's filthy."

"He's a traveller, my Jarl," Wylandriah said, giving a polite bow. "He claims to be here to warn us of something."

Maven scoffed. "I'm sure that whatever it is, the City Guard can handle it."

"That's what I said," one of the guards behind Tristan said quietly. His companion was quick to give him a kick in the shins.

"Then what shall we do with him, my Jarl?" Wylandriah asked.

"Kill him," Maven said without hesitation. "I don't need this filth polluting my city."

Tristan's eyes widened as he saw his window of opportunity closing. Behind him, he heard the sound of steel on leather – a sword being drawn.

Tristan hated what he did next.

He squealed and dropped to his knees. He shuffled closer to Maven, speaking quickly and maniacally. He grovelled.

"No, no, please you don't understand. They're too strong and they're coming. They're coming. They seek to raze Riften by attacking the leader. That's you, my Jarl. Please, I came to warn you of this crisis. They're coming. They're coming…" Tristan broke down into a fit of sobbing as he finished his speech.

The footfalls of the guard behind him didn't ease up.

"My Jarl?" The guard asked, checking to see whether it was safe to deliver the killing blow.

"Hold, soldier," Maven said, raising a hand. She crouched down to where Tristan was.

Hesitantly, he looked up and met her gaze. Recognition took place in those eyes, but the Jarl was quick to shake it off.

"You have my attention, peasant," she said quietly. "Speak. Who's coming?"

Tristan shifted his feet to a more desirable position. His hands dropped to his sides and he straightened his back, taking a stronger stance. He let his helpless and scared façade fall away, revealing a man of cruelty and malice, who wanted nothing but vengeance on this woman, this demon from the depths of Oblivion.

Tristan looked Maven in the eye, and she saw that something had changed, and Tristan saw that it unsettled her.

"Me," he whispered.

His fingers plucked at the threads of reality and the air around his right hand shimmered. Tristan cried out as he swung the Bound Sword at Maven Black-Briar.

She leapt back hurriedly, all dignity and cold confidence evaporating. She landed on her ass on the stones, screeching like a banshee, "Guards! Guards!"

Tristan cursed at the screaming yet very much alive Maven on the stones and turned to meet the guards that were rushing into the main hall to assist their Jarl.

Swords were drawn and the guards formed a semi-circle around Tristan.

Now it should be said, Tristan wasn't the greatest sword-fighter, however he was an excellent strategist (in spite of the last ten seconds). When you know the basics of armed combat, and you have a repertoire of knowledge and magic at your command, a flock of guards didn't look as threatening as it did to most others.

Tristan quickly analysed the situation. About ten guards stood between him and the exit, and he knew if he turned his back ten steel swords would find their way into his flesh before he could deliver a killing blow to Maven.

Tristan took a deep breath.

"Well what are you waiting for?" Maven screeched. "Kill him!"

Only nine guards advanced, as a Bound Dagger had buried itself to the hilt in the neck of the tenth.

Lucky throw, Tristan thought as the dagger faded back into Oblivion, releasing the guards blood onto the floor.

Two guards spearheaded the oncoming force. Tristan ran at them and fell to the floor, sliding between the guards before they knew what was happening. He swapped his sword for two Bound Daggers that he used to slash the knees of the two guards at the back of the fray. The guards cries were mixed with the sounds of tearing ligaments as they both fell to the ground, cradling the legs that would no longer hold them up.

Tristan was on his feet again. Sweat trickled from his brow as he sheathed the daggers and summoned the Bound Sword once again, using up some of the last fragments of his magicka.

He reached behind him and took a silver plate from the table. He briefly tested the weight before tossing it like a discus at an oncoming guard.

The plate crashed into the guards helmet and rattled it. The guard cursed and feel over. He tore his helmet from his head and cried out in pain, putting his hands to his ears.

Two more guards advanced on ˇTristan. He blocked a blow from the first guard and dodged to the left of a blow from the second. He lashed out with his sword and opened a gash on the first guards arm and ducked under the neck-height swing of the second. Too late did the guard realise he'd missed his target, and his swing kept going, severing the head of his companion.

Tristan took advantage of the mans surprise and guilt, and thrust the Bound Sword into his stomach. He twisted the blade and brought it up before kicking the body off of the ethereal blade. The corpse fell in a dance of blood and intestines as his entrails spilled out across the stone floor.

Tristan eyed the remaining guards before he leapt onto the table behind him. He readied his strength and vaulted from the table.

He soared over the heads of three guards before he began his descent onto the fourth. He readied his sword and waited before his blade felt flesh.

Then suddenly Tristan was falling sideways. He didn't understand what was happening until he heard the sound of fractured stone and felt the cold of something inside his stomach.

A look of confusion painted itself on Tristan's face, and the Bound Sword shimmered and vanished. He looked down and saw the Icy Spear protruding from his gut. Blood mingled with frost as he bled onto the ice and cloth that he wore. His eyes went further and he noticed that he had been nailed into the wall like some kind of grotesque artwork. His feet dangled helplessly as the blood dripped from his body like crimson rain, forming a puddle of red failure on the floor some feet below.

His eyes returned to this Icy Spear, and he followed the frosty trail that still hung in the air. His eyes landed on Wylandriah, whose hands were still splayed from having shot the spike.

The Icy Spear crumbled into fine snow and Tristan dropped to the floor. He landed on his feet and jarred both of his ankles and knees. A fist-sized hole was visible in Tristan's stomach.

Amazingly enough, Tristan felt no pain, he just felt… cold…

He collapsed onto the stone floor when the blood started pouring from his wound.

Half-consciously he felt firm hands roll him onto his back, and the face of Jarl Maven Black-Briar loomed into his vision.

"I know you," she said, though her voice sounded far, far away. "I knew I knew you. To believe the spawn of that wench and her usurper husband had survived the killing. I'll need to have a chat with the Dark Brotherhood soon. I never realised they had a soft spot for children."

Her mocking laughter rang high-pitched in Tristan's mind. He felt his body shutting down. He felt his lifeblood gushing from the hole in his body.

Maven was talking again. Tristan tried to focus.

"Unfortunately for you, I don't. I don't reserve a soft spot for anyone. Man or woman, elder or child."

What else would you expect from a heart colder than the ice of this province?

"I will make sure you suffer a long time for what you've tried here."

I probably don't have that long to go.

"Not only did you kill five of my best guards…"

Six.

"…but you made an attempt on my life, as well. I should congratulate you, really."

Thanks.

"None of my enemies have come nearly as close as you have. That masquerade was something… new."

Just something I came up with.

"I'm almost sad that you don't have anything to say. I'm that tempted to let you die quickly. Here, now. But no… What message would I be sending if I just let my enemies die? No. You will suffer. You will suffer for a long, long time."

Tristan gurgled as the blood found his throat. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words never came out. He was consumed by darkness.


Tristan's eyes fluttered open.

His vision was hazy, and he felt like he'd been out last night and had drank way too much.

He vaguely recalled his last memories.

Riften.

Maven.

Battle.

Death…

He remembered dying…

His eyes focused on the roof above him. It was damp stone, with moss and algae growing like a cobweb along the cracks that plastered it. Out of the corner of his eyes he spied metal bars.

"If this is hell," Tristan croaked, "it looks an awful lot like prison."

Someone chuckled outside the bars.

Tristan turned his slowly so that he was looking at the guard who was leaning against the iron.

"You're not in hell, Breton," the guard said in a familiar Nordic voice. "You're in prison. Solitude prison."

Solitude?

"I've been dead for ten days?" Tristan asked.

"Twelve," the guard said flatly. "It took a few days to heal you up."

Tristan lifted his shirt and saw the pale, scarred tissue on his stomach. His whole gut would've had to be reconstructed completely. The amount of magic it must have taken to heal him…

"Why would Maven keep me alive?" Tristan asked.

The guard shrugged. "I told her not to bother, but she insisted. She's going to torture you Breton. For a long time, too. The next ten years of your life will be filled with pain, before she'll give you the sweet release that is death."

Tristan remained silent.

The guard was very close, and he was pretty sure he could move. His fingers began dancing…

"Don't bother with magic, Breton," the guard said with exasperation. "This cell is covered in runes. You cast a spell and you'll receive three blasts of electricity. Nothing lethal, just enough to drain your magic. And cause you a great amount of pain."

Tristan inwardly cursed.

The guard turned and walked away.

"Where are you going?" Tristan called.

"All I had to do was make sure you woke up," the guard said. "You have a week before Maven will be here for your little get-together." He walked to the door of the prison and hesitated. "If we're being honest, Breton, I'm proud of what you did. Jarl Black-Briar holds power, but she holds no favours with anyone in Riften. What you did was admirable, and I'm sad it didn't work."

"Then why don't you let me go?"

The guard laughed. "Because I don't want to be in your boat." And with that, he was gone.

Tristan lay there for some time before he made the decision to sit up. He'd reflected on what he'd done, and he was almost glad it hadn't worked. He could only imagine what his late parents would have to say.

What you were seeking wasn't vengeance… it was revenge…

He had disgraced his parents by trying to murder Maven, and he had shamed his parents by doing so willingly. And now he would pay the ultimate price: ten years of torture, and then, death.

He looked up to the roof and beyond, into the heavens where the Divines resided, and even beyond that, into Aetherius, and the paradise that he was sure his parents resided.

"I'm sorry…"

Tristan winced in pain as he lifted his body into a sitting position. He leaned against the stone wall, panting with effort, sweat already forming on his brow. He looked down at his beacon of a scar and cursed. As if the next ten years had to be any more difficult.

His eyes then wandered the walls. It wasn't long before he discovered the runes in his cell. He was almost surprised the Nords had gone to the lengths of magic, especially Stormcloaks. A single word or gesture would deactivate the runes. Unfortunately, Tristan wasn't well versed in the School of Destruction.

His gaze extended to the rest of the prison. His eyes drifted slowly around, taking in details.

It seemed everyone in Solitude had been on their best behaviour, as Tristan's cell was the only cell that was occupied. Then someone in the cell across from him shuffled slightly, and his eyes darted to them.

In the cell across from him sat a woman donned in roughspun clothes. He found her eyes, and noticed the sheer… emptiness…

Tristan had never met this woman (and he was sure they would never meet again outside of the prison), but he reached out to her and her feeling of nothingness. Some part of him wanted to help her, but that part of him was quickly subdued.

She noticed his looking and her eyes met his. They sat there, staring, for a time Tristan couldn't begin to measure.

Something in her gaze was cold and powerful, and Tristan felt himself buckling under her stare. He averted his eyes, seemingly taking a sudden interest in the stonework of the floor.

He looked at the floor and he thought.

He would live here.

He would feel pain here.

And he would die here.

His life was written for him, and it was a life unwanted, but deserved.

Little did he know that fate had other plans.