Teldryn found Dianthe and the Dremora at the shoreline just north of the Earth Stone. The Dremora leaned against a charred tree, his arms crossed as he watched the dingy horizon. Dianthe was crouched over a pod of dead netches, harvesting the leather and jelly. She leaned back, coated up to the elbows in the lavender gel, and shook the stray hair from her eyes. Happening to spy the approaching sellsword she grinned, waving a slimy hand and dagger.
"You're doing well I hope?" she asked when he came to peer at her work. She'd made quick work of the calf and betty with three pots of jelly already filled but was still digging around in the split open belly of the bull.
"I am, seems you're having fun," he observed. She giggled, accidentally snorting as she stripped leather from the bull's tentacles.
"Neloth's agreed to keep an eye out for anything that may help me, so that's good," she said. Teldryn felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He glanced at the nearby daedra, finding the ink black eyes trained on him. Absentmindedly he fingered the hilt of his blade, trying to ignore the chill darting down his spine.
"I imagine you'll be staying in Solstheim for a time then," he kept his eyes locked with the Dremora's, unbeknownst to Dianthe who was wholeheartedly digging into the netch's carcass. There was a quiet yawn before she answered, "mm, we'll be around for a while yet. Can't go too far away if Neloth finds something interesting. We may head north for a bit, heard there's some barrows brimming with wealth."
"Not a bad plan, but I'd be careful. Rieklings, reavers, pirates, and now I've heard word of Thalmor skulking about up there. Nasty little pests, that lot," Teldryn warned. If Dianthe were alone he'd volunteer in a heartbeat to go with her, the thought of getting out of Raven Rock for a while had him giddy. The gold, gems, and charmed weapons and armor hidden amongst draugr ripe for his atronach's flame were tempting. However a seven-foot deterrent was sulking against a tree, gnashing fanged teeth at the Dunmer.
Dianthe washed her hands and arms at the shoreline before collecting the jelly containers and leather into her pack. "Want to come with? Hanging around the Netch has been making your sword arm flabby, best to put some strength back in it," she teased, strapping on her crossbow and tiptoeing over the corpses. The front of her brown light Dawnguard armor was stained with indigo smears. Tachkal grimaced, sable eyes narrowing dangerously at the elf.
"Maybe next time," Teldryn tactfully refused, not missing Dianthe's disappointed frown. She got over it, muttering about how she thought he'd say that before walking back to town with him. Waving goodbye to the sellsword, Dianthe brewed a few potions at Milore's alchemy table. Selling off ingredients and gifting the alchemist with netch jelly, Dianthe was left awkwardly shuffling in place.
"You wouldn't happen to have any unrefined?" she asked, licking her dry lips. The Dunmer glanced around, checking that they weren't being overheard save for the ever-present Dremora, before giving a small nod. Milore invited Dianthe and the daedra into her home, gesturing for them to sit at a bench by the hearth.
"How much do you need?" Milore asked, pulling down the blue scarf from her face. Dianthe held up her thumb and forefinger, knowing she couldn't afford any more. The alchemist disappeared into the lower levels of her house to locate the moon sugar.
Dianthe had discovered Milore's skooma abuse by accident one evening, knocking into the woman and seeing an infamous purple vial fall from her satchel. Since then she'd made use of her new contact, thanking the gods that she wouldn't have to keep venturing between the Khajiit caravans in Skyrim and Solstheim to feed her addiction. Dianthe made a point not to indulge in the more potent skooma, she still held onto the faint hope that someday she'd overcome Vaermina and get off the stuff.
Milore returned and slid Dianthe two pouches of sugar crystals, waiting patiently as the Breton dug into her pack and forked over gold and gems. Whatever it took.
"Thank you," Dianthe inclined her head, getting to her feet. Milore smiled wanly, patting her back, "don't be a stranger, and you're always a pleasure, Dianthe."
With their funds gone and purse light, the mistress and her immortal decided it might be worth it to delve into the settlement's abandoned mine. It took some going with Dianthe preferring stealth and archery while Tachkal preferring cleaving with his greatsword and sounded like a bag of kettles when he walked. Still, the handfuls of old blood stained and dusty coin and occasional jewels made it worth it. The spiders fell from Dianthe's crossbow bolts, the draugr were charred to a crisp under Tachkal's burning blade, but the swinging guillotine filled hallway proved a bit more of an issue.
The light-footed Breton had long since learned how to move like a shadow. She dodged, rolled, sprinted, and ducked under each of the walls of swinging blades, pausing each time to catch her breath and wait for her companion. Tachkal to his credit was wearing nearly a hundred pounds of heavy armor and weaponry and was moving a body nearly twice the size and more than double Dianthe's weight. That he was able to duck through each row of blades with only a shower of sparks erupting against his armor was commendable. When they were midway through the hall, a pendulum caught his cheek.
Dianthe's stomach dropped when she saw the scarlet wound. Her breathing sped into quiet gasps, heart hammering as her hands began to shake. Tachkal roughly wiped at the gash, glancing at his gauntlet and the few dark drops that stained it. Unflustered, in fact already forgetting about the inconsequential mark, he waited for Dianthe to move into the next zone. Except the girl was digging in her pack, brow tight. She produced a small squat jar of dark crème paste. Unstopping the cap, the dipped a finger in the sweet smelling mixture and moved towards the daedra. Scowling, he moved away, knocking her hand back when it came too close to his face.
"Tachkal, it's just healing salve," she moved closer and once again the Dremora stepped back, closer to the bladed pendulums. His jaw clenched, nose wrinkled, "I don't need your filth, slut."
Dianthe's hands continued to tremble, tears beginning to collect in her eyes. She bit her lip, face contorted between the need to cry and urge to scream out all her frustrations. She hadn't slept in days, her body itched for moon sugar, she was hundreds of feet beneath the earth surrounded by swinging guillotines, and her only protection was bleeding. Swallowing down the vile emotions thickening her throat, she commanded her daedra, "Tachkal, get over here."
The binding compelled his legs forwards yet the Dremora's teeth creaked at how hard he clenched them. Satisfied when he was close enough, Dianthe gestured for him to lean down and the daedra obliged out of sheer knowledge it would end his suffering sooner. She applied the thick paste over the gash on his cheek, gently tapping the mixture to help spread it along. His skin was warm beneath her fingers, warmer than any man or mer's could be. He made a face at her coddling, twisting his mouth and sighing loudly. When she finished applying the salve she quickly wrapped an arm around his neck, burying her face against his dusky skin. Tachkal stiffened, hands jerking into predatory claws in surprise. As fast as the unwanted touch had come Dianthe moved back, sliding the jar of paste back into her pack and wiping the moisture from her eyes.
"Let's hurry up and get out of here, I need to use soon," she muttered, diving through the next set of blades. Adjusting the greatsword at his back, Tachkal shrugged off the woman's odd behavior and charged forward.
Ducking past the final row of deadly pendulums, Dianthe sent a silent thanks to the gods when they entered a large chamber. The far wall was only accessible across a wide pool of water that dominated the chamber, one of those word walls barely visible on the other side. What captured her interest wasn't the aqua green water or mysterious wall, but the large chest centered on a stone platform on the close side of the pool. Filled with relief, she unwound her tired hunched shoulders and strode forward, easily popping the lock and tilting back the lid. A stirring in the water surprised her, making her drop the lid as something bulged beneath the pool's surface.
In a burst of electrical energy a Dragon Priest rose from the bottom of the pool. Dianthe's breath caught in her throat, her hands fumbling as she ripped the crossbow from her back. At her side Tachkal drew his burning blade, dropping into a wide sturdy stance and grinning at the new challenge.
Spider legs of lightning tore across the chamber, charring stone and hissing steam against water. Tachkal charged, plunging headlong into the pool and bellowing his fury at the undead Priest. Dianthe dipped her steel bolts in poisons on her belt, snapping them into her crossbow and needling the hovering creature as it drifted over the water's surface.
Tachkal had corralled the undead toward the side of the pool where he was only hip deep, capable of slamming his greatsword against the corpse's armored chest. The Priest was busy with the Dremora but wasn't so occupied he couldn't snap a summoning into existence. Dianthe whipped to face the newcomer, and felt her skin crawl at what slithered forth.
Rotten green and brown rags covered the hunched back of the daedra, dripping tentacles and withered clawed arms sprouted from its chest. Dominating its belly was a gaping toothy maw that undulated as the creature moved over the water with disconcerting silence. It coiled an orb of trembling magic in its thin palms and that's when Dianthe snapped out of her shock, diving behind the chest. The creature's spell slammed against the chest, rocking the heavy container in place. Quickly popping up Dianthe unloaded a quick flurry of bolts, breathing fast between clenched teeth as it steadily moved closer.
The strange beast continued to bear down on Dianthe, forcing her to retreat as wave after wave of the strange spell barreled after her. She was quick enough to roll and leap away from most but when they struck her she felt the breath sucked from her chest. She dropped to a knee, gasping and forcing her suddenly heavy limbs to move again. The Dragon Priest slid away from Tachkal, retreated to the center of the pool, albeit a few inches closer to the water than he'd been before. Snarling, the Dremora charged the summon and brought his greatsword down with a wet slice, splitting the daedra from the crown of its scalp until the greatsword struck with a flurry of sparks against the stone beneath. The tentacle-covered creature gurgled, fizzling back to its home in Oblivion. Steel bolts clattered to the ground in its absence. Tachkal spat in its ashes, sneering, "no match at all."
"Thanks," Dianthe croaked, finally getting to her feet. Tachkal grunted, his armor covered in root systems of lightning scorches. Dianthe's eyes widened when the Priest raised his staff, she opened her mouth to shout but the Dremora had already begun to turn to face the undead.
The bolt of lightning that struck Tachkal's side was as thick as his wrist, the force of it knocking him to the ground and sending his blade spinning away. Dianthe screamed, unloading bolt after bolt into the Priest as she howled curses. Tachkal's vision blurred from where he lay, one hand over his side felt something soft and wet, and returned covered in cerise liquid. He looked down in a daze. A chunk of his cuirass had been torn away by the spell, his right flank and stomach exposed. The charred and bubbling flesh beneath oozed with fury, his body as much scorched by lightning as flayed by magic. Finally, he would die in Mundus and return to his home, be free of this nightmare of servitude. A clatter drew his attention, the crossbow slamming to the ground near his side. Tachkal's eyes widened at the sight beyond.
Silver streams stained Dianthe's cheeks, her eyes wide and bloodshot as she sprinted forward. She howled nonsensically, Mehrunes' Razor in hand as she approached the chest. In one nimble leap she launched herself from the chest, raising the Bane of the Righteous overhead in a two handed grip. The Dragon Priest rattled his own ancient tongue, raising his staff at the girl. She slammed into him, her living flesh outweighing his papery form and together they plunged beneath the water, only a maverick streak of lightning boiling the water in their wake.