Janus, Count Hassildor, stared down from the wall of Castle Skingrad. Smoke rose from the city. Everything that could burn had been burned. The walls were stone, but their supports were timber, and many of the smaller buildings had collapsed into rocks and rubble.
Bitter, impotent fury churned in his gut. Not all that he had done, all that he had become, could save his city from an invasion from Oblivion. Molag Bal roared in his dreams that Tamriel was his, not Dagon's, but he did not fully understand what it meant, and whom should he ask? Not the Mages Guild, whose survivors were scattered through the town hiding in attics and basements. Not the clergy of Julianos, from whom only the Castle chaplain definitely survived.
People were camped out in the courtyard below him. He had not fed in days and could parse out each beating heart; the face under his broad velvet hood was terrifyingly cadaverous. He could not go out to seek those worthy of losing their lives to his thirst, and the dungeons were empty of any but refugees. Thank the Divines Rona was gone now. She had not lived to see their city burn.
The Count was not an exceptionally imposing man, broad-shouldered but not outstandingly tall. In better times he dressed luxuriantly, emphasizing that his was the wealthiest County in all of Tamriel. Tonight he wore a green velvet cloak over a plain linen tunic and woolen leggings. He preserved the chain of his office, that any who saw him from below would know their Count was still watching over his people.
Normally he saw no one, and no one saw him; Hal-Liurz, who knew his secret, took care of everything that involved interfacing with other people. Now he had sent the Argonian to bed lest she collapse from exhaustion, and these were unusual times. He had failed Skingrad. The Castle well would water these comparatively few refugees for a long time yet, but their food supply would not last many days more. Soon they would begin to wither as he had begun to wither.
A noise from below attracted his attention. In the distance he could still see the accursed red eye of the gate to the Deadlands outside the city gate, distant from here, but visible. Now it was collapsing in on itself, the crimson membrane shriveling to nothing as the arch fell to pieces. Something tiny and multifarious was falling from the air -
People.
Someone has closed the gate.
He had learned not to be a man of strong passions. That was not the way for a vampire to survive. But now hope surged in his dead breast as he turned from the wall, raising his voice in command.
"Captain Artellian! Rally your men, we're retaking the town!"
Saraven landed hard on one knee in the dirt, sword held out to one side. Bodies rained down around him, landing with startled grunts and outcries. It was dark, the crimson sky overhead resolving into a cloudy night. Saraven scrambled to his feet and turned to look at the dremora camp, where things seemed to have settled into some kind of order in his absence. Daedra were staring in startlement and incomprehension at the spiny ruin where the gate had been, at a mass of armed mortals already struggling to their feet.
"Civilians, stay with the wounded," Saraven said. "Everyone else to the camp! Skingrad is yours!"
A roar of approbation rose from around him as the survivors of Skingrad saw their chance to enact further revenge on their tormentors. As the crowd surged forward he looked for Zudarra, trying to find the big Khajiit in the mass of people.
Zudarra was fully conscious this time when she clanked to the ground on her rear, nose singed from the explosion and tailbone aching from the fall but in good condition otherwise. She was on her feet in a tick, sword on her shoulder as she ran with the others for the dremora camp. She saw Saraven's face in the crowd, grinned and nodded to the Dunmer - We did it!
Saraven lifted his chin at her proudly – Yes we did – before turning his attention to the dremora ahead.
A quick volley of arrows rained on the unarmored survivors, sending a few to the dirt before they even reached their enemies, and in the next moment a great clamor filled the air as the tide of mortals met the impromptu rank of dremora. Weapons clashed and voices shouted in rage and in anguish when one among them fell. Zudarra's blade sought the mages, who stood back picking off targets occupied with their armored brethren. Most of them didn't even notice the blur that closed in from the side until her serrated blade was biting through their spine. She picked them off one by one before returning to the fray.
The air was thick with the tang of blood and intelligent thought gave way to bestial fervor. Every droplet spent, every daedric scream, and every pounding heart among the hundreds around her became Zudarra's entire universe. Slash, hack, whirl, and leap she tore through the enemy ranks until her limbs screamed under the strain of extreme exertion, and still she did not stop.
Saraven closed in with the front rank of warriors, and then he had to raise his sword to fend off an armored dremora with a mace and a shield. Hilt clashed with hilt, and then he ducked under the daedra's arm to stab at the padding there. This creature had not fought him before, was not as clever as the one he had met twice; the maneuver worked perfectly and he heard a scream of rage before the dremora fell dead. Then it was on to the next. And then the next. It was harder fighting in a crowd of people, having always to stop and check if the person at your elbow was friend or foe. It absorbed all of his concentration for an amount of time that he could not afterward measure. He was dimly aware of the enemy mages dying with sudden, swift fury, and knew it must be Zudarra. He took hits to his mail again and again, bruises skin-deep or to the bone, until his body below the neck throbbed in one entirety of pain.
He never noticed what was happening on the bridge, far away and above them. He did notice the disturbance from inside the city beyond the camp. A body of Imperials and Bretons were charging forward from the gates of Skingrad, men with the white crescent moon on a field sable sewn to the chests of their mail shirts. At their head was a man in a green velvet cloak, clothed but unarmored, without a weapon in his hands. Saraven caught only the briefest glimpse of him when he paused to shout in a stentorian baritone,
"Skingrad! The Empire!"
After that he became an invisible blur, as fast as Zudarra or even faster. Dremora literally exploded into flames in his wake, into ash, into dust.
It was over not long after that. The dremora did not break, did not flee. Quarter was not asked nor offered. They died to the last daedra.
And then there came a moment when Saraven stood in the midst of a ring of dead dremora, sword at the guard against a blow that never came. Holds-On still stood beside him. Garva had fallen, an axe through her skull from behind. The mage Khajiit faded into view not far off, panting, filthy, but alive. There were other faces that he recognized among both the living and the dead. Everything hurt. He could not remember a time when it had not. Now he fell to his knees to clean the blade, gasping for breath.
Zudarra wrenched her sword from the back of a daedric skull and whirled, looking for her next target and finding none. She stood in a field of broken bodies and black steel. She had been peripherally aware of the Skingrad forces when they arrived, now mixed in with the others from the Deadlands. All around her weary survivors scoured the piled corpses, putting down the stray daedra who still twitched on the ground or dragging the wounded from the battlefield.
As the red fog of rage cleared from her mind, Zudarra realized she wasn't heaving. She'd forgotten to breathe through all of it. Her torso shuddered as she sucked in a sudden breath, and next she noticed the pain. Several long gashes decorated her face, the fur of her head and neck matted with blood - only some of which was her own. Zudarra barely remembered when she had gained them.
The Count zipped to a halt in front of Zudarra, crimson eyes glowing from beneath the hem of his hood. She was aware of being viewed from the inside, at a great distance, by something vast; there was no attempt to gain control, but there was certainly an impression of a great eye watching from far off. She did not know how to resist the intrusion into her mind. His power was ancient, absolute. She steeled her face instead, staring at him impassively with a lifted chin.
"You must be Zudarra the Bloody," he said. "Word reached us from Kvatch before the gate opened."
"Yes," she said. "But it wasn't just me - Saraven!" She suddenly remembered. Her head jerked to the side, frantically searching the battlefield for that familiar, perpetually frowning face. Had the Dunmer finally sacrificed his life in his quest against evil? But no, she spotted him quickly enough, the only mithral-clad figure in sight. If she still had a pulse, Zudarra would think her heart skipped a beat. She pointed with her sword and turned back to the vampire. "Saraven Gol was with me." Her eyes dropped to the chain around his neck then, brows arching in sudden surprise. "You are the Count of Skingrad?"
The Count turned his eyes to survey the weary figure of the Dunmer, who was even now climbing slowly to his feet. He did not miss the gorget, raising one black eyebrow as he turned back to Zudarra.
"Yes. I am Janus, Count Hassildor. Ordinarily I would not leave the Castle to be seen, but these are desperate times, and many of my people guessed or supposed before they knew. Will you accept healing at my hands?" His tone was unchanged, imperious, but the sensation of distant scrutiny faded rapidly away. Behind him, the guardsmen were helping to carry the wounded toward the city and lay out Skingrad's new dead for burial.
"Of course, but these wounds are minor. Your power might be better used on others." Zudarra said. "We rescued prisoners from the Deadlands. Some are in very poor shape."
"It will be, though that statement does you credit. It is seldom that I hear such words from one of my own kind." He reached out a hand toward her, fingers splayed, and healing power spiraled up around her. Then he turned to speed away toward those who were carrying the wounded, cape flapping behind him.
Saraven looked around belatedly for Zudarra. Every time he had seen her take a hit flashed across his mind, and suddenly it occurred to him that it was completely possible she was dead. His heart jumped into his throat as he looked quickly around, and then he spotted the tall armored figure talking to the man in the velvet cloak. He took a deep breath, trying to clear the dizziness he suddenly felt.
What was that about? You know she's nearly indestructible. If grabbing a sigil stone with bare hands and being bitten by a spider daedra both didn't kill her, probably nothing will. He turned and limped over that way as the man in the cloak vanished in a blur of indistinguishable motion, leaving behind a diminishing helix of blue magicka.
Something felt swollen and wrong on the left side of his chest, making breathing harder. He vaguely remembered being hit there with a mace. The sliding feeling was probably broken ribs. He wondered why it didn't hurt more. He raised a hand to heal himself, but nothing happened. Out. Probably out before the battle started, I don't remember using lightning. Zudarra turned to watch as Saraven limped over, ears still and forward.
Zudarra was glad to see Saraven alive, to her astonishment. But she was weary and hungry. Blood saturated the ground, wrapping her in a fog of thirst, and Saraven's approaching heartbeat seemed to pound in her brain alongside a pulsing headache. A mad frenzy had kept her fighting, but whatever possessed her was gone and Zudarra felt ready to collapse.
"Still standing," he said breathlessly as he stopped next to the vampire, watching blue healing power appear seemingly at random in the distance. "This was well done, Zudarra. You should be proud."
She smiled cockily but it didn't quite reach her eyes.
"My reputation has grown faster in a week than it did in a year of arena battles. Anyway, you look like shit," she said, wiping her sword on the grass and sheathing it. "It's too bad you didn't hobble over just a moment before. That was Count Hassildor. Should've saved the heal for you." She raised a hand to Saraven and a little wisp of blue light struggled out. Zudarra couldn't remember it clearly, but she must have been healing as she fought. "Sorry, that's the best I can do."
Saraven shut his eyes as the spell hit. Things went snick-snick inside his chest as bones knit, and then the power ran out. The pain was certainly less, and he felt more alert. He inhaled deeply as he opened his eyes.
"Thank you," he said. Now that he could see her more clearly – many of the guardsmen were carrying torches – she looked as if she had lost weight just in the last day, fur sculpted over the bones of her face.
"You're not looking so great yourself," Saraven said quietly. "Let's go find Galmir. If he and I each take a turn we should be able to help, at least. I'm thirsty, too." His throat felt like sandpaper, dryness exacerbated by a lot of shouting to which he was poorly suited. He clapped her on the back, not very hard, and turned to start for the hill, stifling a groan. To be near all this blood must be a torment for her. He was risking Galmir's life by that suggestion, and probably his own as well, but better either of them than the wounded and grieving of Skingrad. Julianos, we saved your city. Get us through the night.
A cool hand landed on Saraven's shoulder, gripping gently to stop him.
"No, Saraven," Zudarra said wearily. "You never stop, do you? You're not fully healed. Go to the castle with the others, get water and healing. I'll collect Galmir and the horses and meet up with you." Rejecting an offer of Saraven's blood was one of the hardest things she had ever done, but Zudarra knew it was right. "I'm thirsty but I'll live. My kind can go without feeding for a long time, you of all people should know that." She grinned weakly. "Besides, maybe the Count would share his thrall with me. A vampire of his power ought to have a few."
Saraven stared at her for a moment, surprised and touched, white eyebrows climbing. Finally he nodded. He would not devalue this newfound selflessness by rejecting it.
"Also know it hurts more when you're younger," he said. "You're a better vampire than I have ever known, Zudarra the Bloody." Privately he thought that an elder vampire was roughly as likely to share a thrall as a house cat was to share a fish, but he had been wrong in several ways over the last week. Maybe he was wrong again. He turned to move toward the city, following the guards.
Completely flustered, Zudarra stared after him with head tilted and one ear flicked back, mouth dropping open stupidly and closing again. It was the closest thing to a compliment she'd ever heard from someone who wasn't her mother or a fan, someone she personally knew. Did that mean he didn't hate her?
A "better vampire" doesn't mean "good person." Stop pretending you care what he he thinks. She turned and stalked away, somehow more upset than she had been before. A flurry of strange emotions whirled around inside, emotions she was far too tired to analyze or acknowledge just then. She pushed them away to the vault to be dealt with "later."
It was a long walk to the castle. People spoke to Saraven once or twice, and he answered, but he afterward had no clear memory of what was said. It was all one blending ache. Probably they asked him about Zudarra, about the gate. As they drew near the great bridge to Castle Skingrad he found himself walking beside a survivor that he recognized, the old priest of Julianos.
"Where's your friend, the vampire?" the priest asked him.
"Zudarra," Saraven said. "Her name is Zudarra."
The old man nodded. He looked as tired as Saraven felt, dark splotches under his swollen eyes. "And you are Saraven Gol."
"Yes."
"I'm Brother Marius Casterian."
Saraven nodded as they started out onto the bridge. It was incredibly high above the ground, but it was also wide enough for five men to walk abreast; it did not feel precarious. The night dropped away on either side into darkness and distance, and the torchlit battlements of the castle loomed up ahead, the portcullis grinding its way open as they drew nearer. Saraven blinked to clear the grit from his eyes, trying to bring it into focus.
"You did well inside that gate, Brother Marius," he said. "I hope that it brought some of them comfort."
"I hope so as well," said Brother Marius. "Are you a devout man?"
"Less than I ought," Saraven said. "I've returned to the Nine since the gates opened. D'you think the blood of Akatosh will save us?"
Marius was silent for a moment. Then he shook his head. "Perhaps you and Zudarra will save us, Master Gol. Perhaps the Hero of Kvatch – I believe he is called Got-No-Home - will. It probably will not be Akatosh. The divines do not act in Nirn in such a way."
Saraven nodded. They proceeded with the other weary survivors through the great gate and into the warmth and noise of the courtyard. Tents were ranged around the edges, and crude privies had been built along one wall, probably just buckets that would have to be emptied over the battlements. Families were being reunited, mothers and fathers returned to their children, husbands who had given up their wives for lost, wives who had never expected to see their husbands. He looked at his feet as he moved forward. He did not want to see the faces of the ones whose loved ones were not coming back. There was already a chow line being set up, people hurrying to see to the needs of the newly arrived.
Presently he became aware that a voice was speaking his name. He stopped, looking around. A young Khajiit stood there. He had a rich red-brown coat, solid fading to stripes on tail, hands and muzzle. He wore a green velvet tunic and tailored trousers.
"Excuse me," he said, bowing. "The Count would like for you to come with J'zalla, please. He acts as junior majordomo while Hal-Liurz is resting."
"My friend Zudarra will be coming before long," he said.
"Yes, J'zalla has been told to see to her needs as well. Do not worry. She is as safe here as you are." He gestured along the wall. Saraven turned to walk with him. "Saraven Gol is injured?"
"Bruised," he said.
"J'zalla can heal a little." The Khajiit reached out to gently touch his wrist. His fingers glowed gently blue, and Saraven felt the pain smooth away. He straightened as he walked.
"Thank you."
"It is nothing for the one who has brought us back our sons and daughters," J'zalla said seriously. His eyes were large and green. He was young to be talking of sons and daughters. Perhaps he spent a lot of time around people much older than he was.
He led Saraven to a small side door that led to what he suspected were servants' quarters. There was an honest-to-gods indoor bathroom with an in-built pump, and though the water was cold, there was a tub behind a three-part hinged screen. When he got out of it the water was nearly black. His clothes and armor were gone and a set of linens and soft shoes had been left in their place, draped over a chair. Saraven stared at them suspiciously. His gorget and bracers were under them, which showed a delicate understanding that he had not expected. He put everything on and went to look out of the door. J'zalla was waiting in the hallway to lead him to a small room with a small bed, a table, and a big pitcher of water and a big pile of food.
"Door will be unlocked from outside, but you may bar it thus from in here," J'zalla said, demonstrating the lock. "If you need anything, ring this bell." It was made of iron, a heavy thing sitting on a small table by the door.
Saraven ate and drank as much as he could hold - slowly, his stomach felt shriveled and disused. Then he nudged off his shoes and climbed under the covers. He sank rapidly out of all knowledge and into warm darkness.
The horses were untouched. Galmir had pulled out a bedroll and was sleeping nearby, face scrunched and hands tucked up under his chin next to the remains of a fire. A muscle in his cheek was twitching, but he didn't wake as the Khajiit approached.
For several hours the Bosmer had debated what to do. Sometimes the fog in his mind seemed to clear and he wondered why he had followed two complete strangers off to gods only knew where, and thought maybe he should leave before they returned. But where was he to go, all alone in a strange land? He had no home to return to. Zudarra was the only living person he could trust, and Saraven seemed like a decent sort. So Galmir waited, anxiously watching the gate they had disappeared into for any signs of activity until he was too tired to stand anymore.
Zudarra stood over him now, the sweet aroma of daedric blood still clinging to her fur and fueling her hunger. Maybe she had told an untruth to Saraven. Maybe she would feed after all, just not on the Dunmer. Saraven truly was a hero. He rallied the survivors in the Deadlands. He lead them to victory when she would have left them to die. He needed his strength more than Zudarra. He... deserved it.
She dropped to her knees with a short clank, reaching out with one hand to touch the sleeping Bosmer's shoulder. She ought to calm him, lest he wake as she fed, and deepen their bond. She leaned forward, fangs brushing against his neck, and delved into his defenseless mind.
Mileth smiled sweetly, shining black eyes scrunching above her rosy cheeks. She had dimples on either side of her lips when she really smiled, and that's how Galmir knew it was true. She was kind and gentle and loving; everything Zudarra was not. She flipped her tangle of long blonde hair over her shoulder and turned to him, reaching out to embrace Galmir in her slender arms. A golden, shining emotion flowed freely from his heart to spill down every limb, filling him with a heavy warmth every time she was near.
"Someday soon we'll have saved up enough, Mileth. Then I won't have to fish and you won't have to work for Thaeril anymore. Think of it! Our own tavern. We'll have everything we ever dreamed of once the gold starts rolling in." His fingers laced with hers. They would finally have the space for children, the means to bring them up well. Their children would not be poor as they had been.
Fire, black smoke, a raging pyre that lit the sky as the highest boughs of Falinesti burned. The forest screamed in the voices of animal and mer alike. Galmir ran toward the city, fighting against the crowds that fled, lungs burning and heart pounding in his ears. His black eyes were transfixed on the blaze high above him. A creak and a thunderous snap rang in his ears. The graht-oak was falling, charred timber snapping and smashing the lower branches. The homes and business carved and grown into its twisting limbs collapsed and burned.
The ground rumbled violently, knocking Galmir off his feet. Falinesti was trying to uproot itself, trying to run. It could never outrun the fire that devoured its limbs. He couldn't stand. Every tremor knocked him to his knees as miles of root pulled themselves from the ground. So Galmir crawled, tears streaking his dirty face. He could see nothing through the tears but an orange blaze and black shapes. He had to find her.
Zudarra yanked away before her fangs pierced flesh. She didn't want to see anymore! Why had she looked? She ripped her bag from the saddle and fled, branches cracking as she smashed through the trees. Her nose told her there was water nearby, and soon she heard the gentle sloshing of a slow moving river, and then she was standing at the water's edge on a flat bank. Her paws sunk into the soft, pebbly dirt, squishing up between her bloodstained pads. Stars glittered on its glassy surface, black under the night sky.
Zudarra stripped herself of armor and padding, throwing it all unceremoniously down on the shore, and waded in nude. The water was cool even on a warm summer night such as this, but her undead body felt no discomfort from cold. She dunked her head under the water, angrily scrubbing at the blood in her fur. She didn't stop until every last clod of dried grime had been carried away on the gentle current, all the while wondering what was happening to her.
Zudarra watched the ripples that broke her reflection. Furious red eyes glared back at her. Am I going crazy? she wondered. What happened back in the Deadlands? I thought this was all behind me. I thought I was strong. She was too tired, too hungry to sort through it all, but it had to be done soon. She was losing herself, like water slipping through an open palm. At the center of it all was Saraven, looking through her like glass. His tired eyes bore into her soul, past the facade of power and strength. Everything he said of her was true.
She was afraid to die. She let herself become a monster to assuage that fear. No, that wasn't right. Zudarra had been a monster long before she became a vampire. The death of her real parents, the Breton in the alley, Vandalion; none of it aroused any real sorrow or guilt. Why couldn't she feel as others felt? Why didn't she care?
Zudarra dragged herself out of the water and sat down on the shore, waiting to dry before dressing in fresh underclothes and padding from her saddle bag. At least the scent of blood was gone and her mind was a bit clearer. All of her questions didn't seem to matter anymore. Nothing mattered but her continued survival. All of it would make sense someday, in a place far away from blood and death and fire.
When she finally returned, Galmir was sitting on his bed and staring at the remains of last night's fire. The horizon was gray; dawn would break soon. She had dressed in the parts of her armor she could strap on by herself and carried the rest. Galmir looked up as soon as he heard her, weary face breaking into a smile.
"I thought it was you I heard! I'm glad you're alive. But, Saraven..?"
"He's fine," Zudarra said crisply, not meeting the Bosmer's eyes. "He's at Castle Skingrad, and that's where we're going. Pick up the things and grab his horse."
She had to show Galmir how to saddle the horses and how to help her into her armor, but he followed orders eagerly and without complaint. Within the hour they were at the castle gate, still open for any survivors in the city who might find their way in now that the siege had ended. Zudarra had hoisted Galmir onto Shadow's back and walked by herself, the reigns of each horse in either hand. Ves seemed to be used to her now, and came without trouble. The courtyard was crawling with guards, most of the survivors asleep in their tents by now. She figured she would let Saraven get his sleep and find him in the morning.
"Excuse me," she said to a passing guard. "Where should we put our horses?"
He turned to answer, mouth open, and then stared at her with his jaw slack for a second. Then he quickly shook his head and saluted her, fist to his chest.
"Ma'am! I'll take care of them. The Castle has its own stables. J'zalla's probably on his way down, he's been watching for you from the wall." And indeed, a rusty brown Khajiit with stripes on his muzzle, tail and hands was moving toward them, steps calm and certain as he moved through the guards. They moved aside to let him pass, though most of them outweighed him by a couple of big flour sacks or more.
He bowed as the guard took the reins to lead the horses away.
"Good evening, Ma'am. This one is J'zalla, junior majordomo of Castle Skingrad. He has been asked to see to your needs while you stay with us. Are Zudarra or her friend yet injured?"
So they're giving me the hero's welcome. Zudarra wouldn't argue with that.
"No, neither of us are, although Galmir here needs to eat." He didn't, really. The Bosmer had most likely eaten already as per her orders and she had provisions to last a few days more. But Zudarra would never turn down a free meal for her thrall, especially anything likely to be of higher quality than she carried. Zudarra walked along with the Khajiit to the castle. "Do you know if a Dunmer named Saraven Gol is around?"
"Yes, Ma'am," J'zalla said, leading her into the side door. It opened onto a hallway lit by candles in sconces, rows of identical doors. One had a picture of a tub carved into a plaque hanging beside it. "He is in the room next to yours. J'zalla thinks that he is sleeping. The bath is just here, if either of you need to make use of it." His tone remained deferential, ears high, and he did not so much as twitch a whisker at the Bosmer.
"Thank you. I won't wake him. Galmir, go on and wash up," Zudarra said. It was almost an embarrassment to have the filthy Bosmer following her, but then, there were plenty of people in worse condition tonight.
"Yes, Ma'am," he agreed, departing for the bathroom. Zudarra was glad to have the sad little man out of her sight. She turned to open the door J'zalla had indicated as being hers.
A young man was looking up at her from a table across from the double bed by the time the door was all the way open, eyes held very wide by way of indicating he was definitely awake and alert and had definitely been awake and alert before he heard the door start to open. On the table beside him was a pitcher full of water, a clear decanter that looked like it held some kind of wine or fruit juice, and a pile of fruit. His hair was dark and his eyes were blue, and under his linen clothes muscle bulged and rolled.
There was a cot against the wall beside the bed, with a pillow and a clean blanket. Either J'zalla had magical powers of precognition, or he had sent a servant ahead when he spotted her and Galmir.
The young man stood up quickly and saluted, fist to his chest. "Ma'am!"
"J'zalla will be just down the hall if she should need anything," J'zalla said behind her. "This is Orphean. He knows which is the right door." The door shut behind her with a discreet click.
Zudarra glanced back at the retreating Khajiit with the hint of an amused smile. To find a man waiting in her quarters would have been quite indecent in any other circumstances, but the Count was one who intimately understood her needs. She sauntered toward him in a wide circle, hands on her hips, studying him from head to toe.
"You know why you are here?" she asked, incredulous. Of course he did. The entire castle staff must know of the Count's condition. Not even her fellow Khajiit batted an eye at her obscenely long fangs.
He nodded. "Yes, M'm. I'm not afraid if it hurts. I heard what you did, and I'm proud to serve my city if it helps you. Just tell me what to do." She could hear his pulse jump a little, but not enough to suggest real fear. He was nervous that he would disappoint her.
"So you haven't actually done this before?" she asked, tilting her head. It irked her a little that she was known as a vampire; but then, anyone who had seen her in battle tonight would know. Her career as a gladiator would surely be over if it were common knowledge.
Maybe it was time to let go of that dream. There was no returning to the life she had known at this rate, but perhaps her elevation to war hero was a fair trade.
Zudarra sat down on the bed, sinking into the softness, and patted the space beside her.
"Sit beside me," she said carefully. "I can make it so that it doesn't hurt, but it's a form of mind control. I- I'll do it however you prefer." It was the first time Zudarra ever offered a choice to her prey.
"No, I haven't," he said. He moved to sit beside her. "I'd do it for him, a lot of us would now, but he won't have it like that. I'd rather it doesn't hurt, if it's all the same. It'll be easier for me not to, you know, stiffen up." His shirt had a low, wide neck, completely exposing his throat. The big vein beat invitingly on the side facing her.
Zudarra had to hold herself back from falling on his neck the moment he sat. If he were a mindless thrall that's how she would behave; taking without warning, without asking. This was a person with free will. From the look of him, a skilled fighter who had probably fought daedra alongside the others.
"It won't hurt," she said, reaching out to cup back of his head in her palm, gently urging his head to the side to further expose his pulsing artery. She licked the back of her teeth in anticipation. Already she imagined she could taste it, hot and coppery on her tongue. Zudarra leaned forward, teeth brushing against skin as her mind entered his. She pushed past feeble walls, replacing nervous fear with peace and joy. His pleasure echoed in her mind as her fangs sank in. It was nothing compared to her own ecstasy when she lifted her fangs from the wounds and sucked, furred lips pressed against clean skin.
She took much more than she would have from Galmir. This Orphean was tall and strong and he would most likely never see Zudarra again after today. He could afford the loss. Her eyes rolled back as she drank, reveling in every drop, in the surge of strength and magicka that came bubbling up. It pained her to pull away, but she did, still holding the man's head in her palm.
Little droplets ran from the punctures and Zudarra healed him with magicka replenished by his own blood, then pushed him down onto the bed as she stood. It would be cruel to ask him to walk just now, and she didn't mind if he stayed.
"Mmn." Orphean's eyes fluttered as he lay on his side on the bed. "Shouldn't I... At least move to the..." He was unable to finish the thought, mind clouded with ecstasy and blood loss. At last he sighed and shut his eyes. He looked pale, but his breathing was strong and regular.
Galmir returned shortly after, dressed in clean linens rather than his stained rags. Zudarra was impressed to see that. Nothing had been overlooked. She ordered him to sleep on the bed beside Orphean - Galmir's need to serve Zudarra was already too deeply ingrained for him to voice any opinions about sleeping next to a strange man - and Zudarra took the cot for herself after armoring down.