Teldryn Sero sat out on the lip of the village well, swaying as he licked the last few drops of flin from the bottle. He hadn't had a client in nearly a season, saying his purse was feather light would be an understatement. With what he owed Mogrul he might as well call it netch light. He grumbled, clumsily setting the earthenware bottle down near his feet. Maybe he ought've taken Dianthe up on her offer to go gallivanting about the island together, her unfriendly Dremora be damned. The sellsword frowned, straightening his mouth cover. There was a shout, Captain Veleth searching for Aphia, for any healer. Teldryn leaned forward, peering through scuffed lenses to see what was causing the commotion. His breath caught in his throat.
The Dremora trudged through the ash. His armor lay scorched and torn, full of holes and warped steel. That wasn't what grabbed his attention, nor why the old Dunmer priestess was being called for. Aphia covered her mouth, scarlet eyes drawn wide at the sight of what lay in the daedra's arms.
Her armor was worn in the same way as the Dremora's, covered in soot and burn marks with patches torn away. Cracked and blackened skin covered her middle and climbed up along her cheek, segments of her blonde hair burnt off. That was inconsequential, forgettable compared to the rest of her. Blood coated the Dremora, but it wasn't his. From the knee down Dianthe's right leg was gone, only scorched seeping ribbons of flesh remaining.
Milore gasped to his right, dropping her pestle. In a flash she gathered up her healing potions and chased after Aphia and the Dremora, the group disappearing into the Netch. Teldryn got to his feet, catching himself against a nearby urn when the world tilted. A trail of gore snaked through the ash to the cornerclub's entrance. Steeling himself through his drunken stupor, he pushed open the Netch's doors and followed the trail of red slicking the stones. He leaned against a table in the taproom when the screams started.
Aphia and Milore were shouting, pleading for someone to stop. Teldryn ran forward, nearly getting hit by Veleth who'd been thrown from Dianthe's room. The sellsword peered in as the captain got to his feet and felt his hands go numb. Tachkal had the Breton lying on the bed, a knee on her stomach as he held her thigh in place. Brandishing his greatsword he pressed the flat of the blade against her open wound. Hissing pops of searing flesh filled the room, deafened by Dianthe's shrieking. She thrashed, tearing at the knee pinning her until the tips of her fingers bled. The odor of burning flesh made Teldryn gag, getting thrown aside by Veleth who threw himself bodily against the Dremora.
Dianthe remained sobbing and shaking, unresponsive as Aphia tried to call out to her and Milore began offering potions. Salves and restoration magic were quickly applied when it became apparent Dianthe couldn't swallow. Tachkal and Veleth crashed into furniture across the room, snapping a table in half and shattering a bookshelf against bonemold armor. Dianthe quaked a moment longer, her charred fingers clutching at the blood soaked pelts beneath her, before falling slack and unconscious.
"Veleth!" Aphia barked, two palm fulls of healing magic pressing over Dianthe's knee, "the Dremora was cauterizing the wound, leave him," she demanded. Both mer and daedra faced each other, circling with their arms spread wide and bodies tense. In his wounded state Tachkal was breathing heavy, blood dripping from his lip from where the captain had broken a bottle of sujamma against the daedra's face. For her part Milore ignored the commotion, applying poultices to the burns.
Teldryn regained control of his legs, cautiously moving to place his hand on the captain's shoulder. The Dunmer remained taught, coiled and ready to rip into the Dremora at the drop of a pin. The strained moment eventually passed, Veleth relenting and backing away with a grunt. Teldryn hesitated at the foot of the bed before following the Redoran Captain out of the room. Dianthe was quickly being stripped of her ruined armor, exposing yet more brutalized flesh beneath. His stomach turned, the sellsword clenching his hands into fists.
"Weren't you supposed to protect her?" he hissed, turning to the Dremora, "isn't that all she wants you for, to keep her alive long enough to find peace before she turns herself over to you?" Teldryn shouted, gesturing at the crippled woman. There would be no recovering her lost limb; her life was forever changed because the only thing she trusted to keep her safe was a mortal hating beast. Tachkal didn't look away from Teldryn's helm, yet nor did he take advantage of his mistress's inability to restrain him. He could rip apart this elf for speaking to him so disrespectfully but he didn't.
The sellsword shook his head, spitting Dunmeris curses as he left. Tachkal remained far from the working healers but his eyes never left Dianthe. Milore and Aphia worked for as long as they could and did as much as they knew but eventually even they left, craving to escape from under the Dremora's presence. He let them go, slamming the door after Milore. He removed his own tattered armor, using the rag and water the womer had cleaned Dianthe with to wipe away the soot and dried blood sticking to his dark flesh. Then he settled cross-legged on the bed beside Dianthe, glaring down at the still unconscious girl.
The healers had removed her clothing and changed the bedding once her wounds had been dealt with. The ichor soaked pelts lay in a copper scented pile on the floor, Dianthe now lying nude wrapped in a snow bear pelt. Unceremoniously he yanked the fur back to examine her, his unreadable sable eyes trailing over the wounded pale flesh. Where the burns had been only red tender skin now lay, likely to scar and perhaps restrain her mobility around her abdomen but otherwise it was inconsequential. Patches of the newly rebuilt pink skin travelled up her left arm, ending in a smear across her jaw and cheek. He roughly ran his fingers through her damaged hair, grimacing as the scorched ends crumpled at his touch. She'd need a haircut.
Reluctantly he turned his attention to the bandaged blunted end of her knee, every muscle in his shoulders going taught as he ground his jaw. He'd been too slow, too weak to stop the reanimated general. The enchanted warhammer had landed over her while she'd tried to struggle away. He couldn't remember much after she started screaming. Tachkal had seen red; falling into a berserker's rage he'd ripped apart everything left in the fort. When he'd come to Dianthe's leg was shattered, crushed and splintered yet hanging on by a few strands of flesh. When he'd picked her up the weight of her damaged limb had torn itself from her knee. He knew these kinds of wounds, knew she didn't have long. That she was alive now was a testament to the two elves and their magic and alchemy.
Throwing the fur back over her, he sighed, running a shaking hand through his hair. He'd almost lost her. Tachkal stiffened. No, she was supposed to die. That was their deal, she ends up dead and he gets to rip apart her soul for eternity. He wasn't supposed to worry about her safety or feel concerned for her. The Dremora should find her pain pleasurable, her suffering sweet nectar in this foul mortal realm.
Instead he delved into her ragged clothes and salvaged the soot stained enchanted ring. Sparing it a suspicious glance he shoved it onto one of Dianthe's undamaged fingers. Smothering the lantern on the bedside table, Tachkal lay facing the Breton. Hesitantly he lightly rest his arm over her fur covered middle, ignoring the ache in his chest.