He stood alone in the woods, snow crunching under his boots. The leaves rustled from the gentle breeze, creating the only sound in the serene atmosphere. He glanced overhead, watching as the glimmering stars began to fade away into the slowly coming dawn.
The Breton sighed through his nose, sliding down against the rock and taking a seat. The stone at his back hummed with a kind of power he couldn't comprehend, carved with glowing blue symbols that he couldn't read, and he sighed again.
"You know," he muttered. "If they're any agents or anything out there, feel free join me." He received no answer as anticipated, only silence.
The Breton slid even further down, laying on the snow like an armored starfish. It was probably a strange sight, and extremely stupid, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
He pulled his hands up to his face, wiggling his fingers. They were thin and pale, nails too long, and it was kind of disgusting. Narrowing his eyes, the Breton tried to summon a ball of fire, not too surprised when all he received for his troubles were a few half-hearted sparks.
He let his arms fall to his sides, squinting up at the sky. His mouth moved in an attempt to whistle, also failing horribly, and his features darkened into a scowl.
The Breton simply didn't understand the importance of this mission. So what if there were spies? It's not like they could eavesdrop on all of the Blades' top-secret conversations from the bottom of this mountain. Really, he could barely see the Temple as it were! And why him, if this was so important? Jauffre has seen him, right? He was weak.
Well, except for that Oblivion thing. That was kind of epic. But still.
What was he still doing here, though? Was it an obligation to Jauffre? The man had done an awful lot for him; taking the Breton under his wing, writing a pardon on his behalf for whatever, non-documented crimes he had committed. Jauffre was the reason he could wander around the Imperial City freely, and probably why he was still alive.
Still, that didn't feel like it. After all, this work was rough, and though he technically wasn't considered a Blade, he was nonetheless sent out for this mission. He was still being included in the defense against the Oblivion Crisis. He was still a part of all this, and this was downright terrifying. And it wasn't for the free food.
Maybe it was because he had nothing to loose. But he also didn't have anything to gain...
"Take with you my blessings and the hope of the empire."
Oh, that was it. Guilt. Guilt for the Amulet of Kings, and damn Uriel Septim and his dying wishes.
Of course.
He straightened up at the smallest noise, vision focusing a little ways ahead. The Breton stood quickly, hands on his blade. He stepped forward as quietly as possible, squinting into the darkness, and yelped as a shape came out.
The bunny looked up at him with gorgeous blue eyes that reminded him of Martin, scuttling away. He breathed in relief, shoulders sagging, and a frown adorned his lips. It quickly turned into a grimace as the arrow struck his shoulder, opening old scars and ripping through his Kvatch cuirass.
The Breton turned in shock, barely managing to dodge the next arrow. He pulled out his dagger, running towards the Mythic Dawn agent.
The agent aimed again, this time for his stomach, and he swiftly ducked behind the glowing stone. Wincing in pain, he gripped the arrow shaft, thanking the Nine it wasn't too deep. He pulled the offending object out of his skin, burying the whimper down his throat, before running at the enemy once more.
The agent had ditched the bow and instead clutched a sword in their hands, the weapon emitting Magicks in the way he knew summoned items did. It swung at him and he stumbled back, nearly tripping on the cluster of rocks behind. Regaining his balance, he dodged another blow, and leaped at the enemy.
They both crashed down on the ground, the summoned weapon disappearing as soon as it left its owners hands. He took the moment of surprise to lodge his knife in the other's stomach, not pulling it out until the enemy had gone still.
He got up, sheathing his weapon. A hand went out to prod at his shoulder, flinching at the sting. Keeping a watchful look out, he began the trek back to Cloud Ruler Temple.
It was a couple bandages, one healing potion and some uncalled for rudeness later that he found himself in Bruma. The town itself was simply amazing, with cozy homes and snow-topped roofs, complete with an extravagant chapel for a Divine he didn't recognize. It was beautiful in all the ways that the Imperial City wasn't, sloppy and small and cold yet perfect on its own.
He eyed Jearl's house, holding its key in his palm. He didn't know how he felt about killing someone and breaking into their home, but it wasn't a very good emotion. Wasn't the fact that she was an assassin supposed to serve as a consolation? And he had gotten permission from the Bruma guard captain...
Nope, still felt horrible.
Mentally scolding himself, he shoved the key through the entrance, wrestling with the rusty lock for a second before prying it open. The door slammed shut behind him involuntarily, causing him to flinch as he was left alone in the darkness.
No, not alone. What was that? "Hello?" He walked forward a few feet, looking around. "Anyone here?"
The response came immediately after, a shard of ice whizzing by his head. He nearly screamed, insanely grateful that his attacker was a terrible shot, looking fruitlessly for the enemy. The offender came barreling out of the shadows, wielding a wicked-looking longsword and taking a swing at him.
The Breton actually did scream this time, toppling over onto the floor. He crawled backwards, rolling under the kitchen table in the middle of the room. The furniture was thrown over, steel sword heading for his chest, and he just managed to scramble out of the way.
He pulled out his stained elven dagger, pushing it into the agent's ankle from his position. The gasp that followed was female, and he made another blow in the spot just above the knee.
The woman fell down, weapon rolling out of her hands. He kicked it further away, trying to make the stab to his attacker's neck as quick as possible. When it was done, he collapsed as far away as he could from the corpse, breathing heavily.
Second death today, by his hands. The thought was enough to make him sick, waves of anxiety building up in his chest and threatening to burst. Pushing the feeling away, he cautiously stood, making an effort not to look at the dead assassin.
The Breton began his search for some kind of chest, anything that looked valuable enough to hide the Mythic Dawn's deepest secrets. When nothing of the sort proved to be in the room, he unhappily moved to check the corpse, looking to see if she bore any clue.
He warily searched through all the pockets and folds of the woman's ragged clothes, finding nothing. He started to turn her over, carpet pulling up at the action, and his vision caught onto a square of wood that didn't match the rest of the floor. Dragging the body away, he folded back the corner of the carpet, fully revealing the trap door.
Pulling out the one other key he had found on Jearl's body, he inserted it into the lock, smiling victoriously in spite of himself when it clicked open. It was a fairly easy squeeze, boots touching the barrel right beneath the secret door.
He unceremoniously plopped down onto the precisely laid crates, standing shakily as he took in the dimly lit room. It was small, an extra bed tucked into the corner and a plush carpet covering stones. The only source of light came from a flickering torch, placed next to a large oak table littered with books and across an additional door.
The Breton walked over, concentrating all his might in his fingers, and a single flame sparked to life. He quickly moved it to the dying torch before it could go out, and new light was welcomed into the space.
He basked in the small victory for a moment, eventually turning his attention to the table. The books turned out to be additional copies of the Commentaries, all velvet with fancy script, and he made a face. The large scroll placed next to them was new, however, and he shoved it in his pack without a second thought.
After another quick search of the room, finding the door leading out to empty caves he really didn't feel like exploring, the Breton made his way back to the entrance. It was harder getting up then down, climbing onto the large crates and having to reopen the trap door. He finally made it out, leaving the now empty house behind.
"What have you found out about the spies?" The question was terse and anxious, and the Breton got the feeling that Jauffre hadn't been getting too much sleep again.
"Both of them are dead," he offered. Jauffre nodded, approving.
"Good work," he said. "I had a feeling I could count on you for this mission." He looked like he wanted to say more but the Breton knew he wouldn't, instead choosing to pull out the scroll from before.
"Uh, here," he said, giving it to the other. Jauffre gave him a confused expression, so he elaborated. "I found it in a kind of basement in one of the spy's homes. I, um, haven't read it yet."
Jauffre nodded again, sending a distracted farewell as he went his way. The Breton just kind of watched his retreating figure, shoulders slumped. He was thinking about heading to outside for some more training with Baurus when Martin waved him over, urgency written on his features.
The Breton walked to Martin's table, taking his seat across from the heir. Those blue eyes were sparkling with a weird mixture of excitement and horror, and he felt his curiosity grow. He leaned in closer almost subconsciously, the Breton copying the movement.
"I've deciphered part of the ritual needed to open a portal to Camoran's Paradise," he began, voice barely above a whisper. "The Xarxes mentioned four items needed for the ritual, but so far I have only deciphered one of them: the 'blood of a Daedra Lord'. In fact, daedric artifacts are known to be formed from the essence of a Daedric Lord, from where they derive their great power."
He held up a hand, trying to make sense of the wave of new information. "Okay," he started out, warily. "You need a what? Daedric artifact?"
"Yes," he confirmed. "And it would be preferred if you were the one to get it."
He tilted his head. "Uh, me?" Martin made a consenting noise.
"If you could. I mean," he paused. "Well, I trust you to be able to do it. It's okay if you refuse, as you aren't inclined to help-"
"I'll do it." He didn't know what spurred him on to say that, but he also wasn't about to take it back, especially when Martin smiled a grin so full of happiness at his answer.
"Now," he spoke. "I understand if you aren't too familiar with the subject. I do have a book that can help." He gestured to the object beside them, looking pristine and well-kept on the table.
The Breton felt his hope go spiraling into his stomach. "Maybe you could just tell me where to find an artifact?" Martin considered for a moment, finally sighing deeply.
"You have your map?" The Breton nodded, pulling out the torn piece of paper. He was actually mildly surprised he still had it, all in one piece.
Martin took it carefully from his fingers, rolling it open. He observed it for a moment, thinking, before taking a nearby quill and marking down something on the map. He handed it back reluctantly, and something in his expression told the Breton not to push.
"Thanks," he spoke, taking the paper. He stood, saying bye to Martin, and headed to the west wing for some rest before his newest mission.
The next time he woke up was deep into night, but as good of a time as any. He had something quick to eat before taking off on one of the stable horses, coat a deep chocolate that looked black in the dark.
He pulled back on the reins once they were at the bottom of the mountain, taking out the torch he had scrambled together from one of the trees nearby. He lit it with a snap of his fingers, bringing it to his map.
It was near one of the towns that he didn't know how to read or pronounce; that one that was next to Kvatch? Shrugging, he set his horse in the right direction, leading them by the light of his fire.
The journey took around a day, and it would have been much longer if Martin hadn't made some potions for his horse. Just one taste of the mystery substance and his steed seemed to become incredibly fast, racing past mountains and snow as they became trees and grassy fields.
By the time they had reached the shrine, the horizon was hazy with the beginnings of dawn. He was only awake because of multiple potions, his horse shaking as it stood. He dismounted quickly, deciding to hike for the remainder of the journey.
The statue was nestled by large pine trees and boulders, pedestal standing on hard-packed mud and clumps of weeds. It was much too huge for him to take in, chiseled features worn with age. The Breton instead focused on the small gathering of followers at the base of the statue, stumbling around and speaking loudly with words slurred.
He was approached by the one in robes, an elf with a lazy smile. His footsteps were imprecise and actions slow, breath smelling of brandy when he spoke.
"Have you come to revel in the glory that is the shrine of Sanguine?" He questioned, and the Breton mentally cheered upon finding out he was in the right place. Nodding quickly, he managed an answer.
"Of course," he replied. "What can you tell me about this place?"
The elf fixed him with a wavering look, thinking so hard that it looked like he was in pain. It faded into another carefree grin, eyes fogged with ecstasy. "It is a place of celebration for us," he explained. "We dance, we make love. Would you speak to Sanguine?"
"Uh, yeah," he got out, reeling from the unnecessary information. How did Martin even know where this place was, anyway? "I will speak to Sanguine."
He seemed content with the answer. "Approach then, and bring Sanguine a gift. Some Cyrodilic brandy is an appropriate gift for your host." The elf wandered off to the other followers, flashing a seemingly inviting look over his shoulder, and the Breton blanched in disgust. Only satisfied when there was enough distance between them, he reached in for the drink that Martin had given him before he had departed, questioning the former priest's knowledge once more.
The Breton slowly ambled up to the shrine, mindful of the daedric longsword strapped to his back and hoping the others were, too. There didn't seemed to be any issue as he placed the brandy at the statue's feet, kneeling down on the dirt with his head bowed.
He didn't know how long he waited for something to happen, potions taking their toll as time caught up. The presence wafted into his head in the most intimate kind of way he could have imagined, taking apart his mind and coiling around his heart. He gasped as it spoke with a voice deep and intoxicating, eyelids snapping closed all on their own.
"Another mortal come to beg Sanguine to add another bit of spice to an otherwise drab existence." He stayed rigid, intimidated by the pure power of the presence, letting it wander into his darkest thoughts and strongest emotions without struggle. "I would have you perform a service for Me."
He didn't think he could speak if he wanted to. It was like the first sip of Skooma, getting you hooked as soon as you let the drink touch your lips. You hated it when you could think again but the temptation was greater, drawing you in and having you give up the fight, just for a little bit more.
He needed that little bit more.
"The Castle Leyawiin is a dull, dreary place. The mistress is an especially somber soul, and tomorrow she will hold another excruciating dinner party." He agreed with every single word the presence told him, knowing it all. Of course, how dare she? Life should be about party, excitement- that was all there was.
He felt the presence spark something deep inside him, leaving his Magicks pumping harder in his blood with knowledge and newfound strength. "I want you to liven it up," Sanguine declared, and he knew he would never refuse. "Use this spell on the Countess and her guests. It should make the party much more interesting. You should probably try to be inconspicuous. Or they might kill you. Oh, and the party is by invitation only. You'll have to find a way in."
It left all so suddenly with a farewell he didn't hear, drawing away from his disgusting mortal body and leaving him shocked on the ground. He blinked vigorously, raising his palm, and he watched as a hearty flame was ignited in his hands. He held it longer than he had ever been able to, watching it grow and shrink on will, freezing over into wisps of frost and disappearing as a flash of lightning.
And all he could do was stare up at the statue of Sanguine, power buzzing in his ears.
The ride to Leyawiin was longer, using less of the mystery potion so he still had some for the long ride home. He had to stop by Bravil, the shabbiest little town he could have imagined, whole area smelling foul and Skooma dealers assaulting him at every turn. He was glad it was only for a night, grabbing a blessing from the bronze statue in town in hopes of carrying a little luck for what he was about to do.
He didn't know what to think of Leyawiin when he finally did arrive. It was nowhere near as small and sad as Bravil, but also carried its own drabness. The clouds were thick and grey, air carrying the scent of the sea, the buildings a mix of log cabins and tall towers. Every now and then he would find a sprout of lavender, adding a splash of color to the otherwise dark atmosphere.
He pushed his way through the big oak doors of Castle Leyawiin, checking with one of the guards for the time. Only a little late, the Breton hurried through the majestic halls, keeping his head down.
He went down to the right, seeing the throne empty. A particularly burly looking guard was watching him cautiously, eyes narrowing under his helmet as the Breton came over.
He didn't get a chance to speak before the guard was barraging him with questions. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"
"Uh," he started off brilliantly, suddenly too aware of his dirty cuirass and muddy boots, wishing that he had taken the time some point in his seemingly short life to glance in a mirror. "I'm here for the dinner party."
The guard seemed to be recognizing all of his poor features, too. "You don't look like one of the party guests," he remarked. "I don't remember you being on the list."
"What?" He faked the surprise, but the guard didn't seem impressed. Losing hope, he poured more effort into his words. "I'm a party guest. Why wouldn't I be?"
The other blinked, as if in a daze, and something just seemed to click. "Yes, of course," he agreed. "My apologies. Go right in."
He nodded, trying to keep up the illusion until he had passed. The Magicka seemed to falter a little as he dropped it, puzzled. It definitely was part of Sanguine's strange blessing, whatever the Daedra had done- but wow, he hadn't known that using Magicks like that was so amazing.
Feeling only a little guilty about the deception, he opened the door, closing it softly behind him. The room was basked in a soft golden glow, the same light extended to all the other guests. Delighted murmurs took up the space, creating a comforting background noise, only jarred by the sounds of forks clacking and chairs scraping the floor. It was the first time he had seen a group of truly happy people.
He made his way to the corner of the room, nobody paying him much mind. He took out the scroll he had found on the way to Leyawiin, left in his bag by a certain Daedric Lord, holding it in delicate fingers.
The Breton made sure that he still wasn't spotted, heading over to the side hall. Deciding to get this over with quickly, he hid behind the walls, opening the scroll. The blast of power forced itself from his hands, finding the Countess, and he had to close his eyes as everything erupted into green.
The sight that welcomed him back was the strangest one yet, the group of guests running around the room in nothing but their underclothes. He didn't quite know who to thank for that small miracle as opposed to being completely naked, and he also supposed it was better than instant death, but it wasn't the best thing that could've happened.
He swiftly slid under the bed as the guards came in, he himself missing his Kvatch armor and bag. Whatever blessing Sanguine had given him had passed, as if a way of saying he was on his own now. The Breton frowned, squeezing his skinny frame under the furniture, feeling emptier without his sword.
It seemed like a good idea, seeing as he wouldn't be able to charm his way out of this situation when the guards realized he wasn't on the list- and they would realize. The Countess was absolutely furious, pretty features marred by age and anger. He hid for what seemed like ages, blending in with the tiny crowd when they were told to clear out.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't keep the laugh from escaping his lips, especially as he rode off on his borrowed horse right under their noses. If this was Sanguine, lowering the snotty people to everyone else's level, he couldn't imagine the Daedra being too bad. Especially if they brightened up what was left of the slowly crumbling world.
The laughter turned quiet, eyes softening with sadness, and the start of a storm came rushing over his head.