The forest around Cheydinhal was of the kind that Carolara loved most and yet she just couldn't bring herself to be happy about being in it. The trees were tall and thick and old, the vegetation lush both above and on the ground. Ferns grew everywhere one looked and it smelled wonderful but the Breton wore a frown, stopping every so often in the midst of digging a hole to look around. Every little noise triggered another careful scan of the surrounding woods for movement.
Getting there had been quite a pain in itself. The only way on and off the island in Lake Rumare that the Imperial City sat upon was a stone bridge that went straight west, when she needed to go east. Swimming was not an option with the steel-jawed Slaughterfish that roamed the deeper waters so she had no choice but to go all the way around. The option of a water-walking scroll or potion didn't even occur to her until she was on the road. Carriage services had been completely shut down and the Imperial soldiers on the outskirts were advising people to avoid any travel. There was no question as to why, particularly when Carolara spotted at least three Oblivion gates on her way out east. The roads belonged to the Daedra.
It took her quite some time between the interruptions and having to use her hands to dig but she finally managed a small depression in the ground, near the base of a tree identifiable by her arrow sticking out of its bark. In this she stashed her pack, her folded-up leathers, both coin purses, and her bow with its quiver. Carolara stood, making a conscious effort to not wipe the dirt on her linen dress, and began to gather up wide fronds to conceal her cache with while her nervous mind re-examined the findings of hours before...
"Carolara! Come quickly!"
The Breton ran through Green Emperor Way at the best speed she could manage without tripping over a gravestone when she heard Tar-Meena's urgent call. She found the Argonian standing in front of one of the larger mausoleums, muttering in fascination, hands hard at work with her parchment and coal. Once she stood beside the sorceress it became clear.
Emblazoned on the stone in red was a rising sun: the same one Carolara had seen on the copies of the Commentaries, the symbol of the Mythic Dawn. Below this was a strange shape, but as she stared she realized it was shaped like the province of Cyrodiil. And there, in the northeast part, was a star. The location of their Shrine. She peered over to check on Tar-Meena's work and found that the capable mage had already made a nearly perfect copy, and just in time too, for when she looked back the crimson map was gone, leaving no evidence it had even been there.
"Do you have a map?" Tar-Meena inquired, and in response she was handed the Breton's worn and rather dirty one. She didn't seem to be bothered by it, just holding it up against her piece of parchment and looking between the two.
"Right in the middle of the Heartlands," commented the Blade. "Not too far from Cheydinhal. I've been through there... lots of Dunmer."
The sorceress squinted at the map. "It looks like it's close to Lake Arrius," Then her eyes lit up. "There's a cavern system underneath there. That's probably where the Shrine is."
Carolara had found the entrance to the caverns about an hour before, and while she hadn't gone inside, she scouted the surrounding area and found definitive signs that people had been coming and going. Tracks, trampled fronds, the cultists weren't very wood-wise, and the signs ranged from weathered to very recent. She wanted to be able to flee into the darkness if something went wrong so she settled down next to her hidden stash and had a dinner of fruit while the sun went down.
Soon nightfall came, and the Breton was out of excuses to stall. She had nothing to calm herself down with; no sedative herbs, no ale, and she had to force her hands to stop shaking by sitting still and breathing deep for a few minutes. Her only defense was the steel skinning knife hanging from the belt of her dress, but for now she would just play the curious initiate, wait for them to get comfortable with her presence, and snatch the Amulet. There would be no need to fight if she played this right. Recalling the sight of the hellish Gates that she'd spotted on her way motivated her, but more motivating still was the thought of getting to deliver Martin his birthright.
She started to conjure up a small light but found that wholly unnecessary once she entered the cave. There was already a brazier burning in here and a single red-robed figure stood next to a wooden door. He lifted his head to regard her and she froze, tense. It took a great summoning of willpower for Carolara to move again, clearing her throat and wincing at how terribly loud it seemed in the silence. As she approached the man said nothing, just stared from beneath his crimson hood, expectant.
Carolara nodded in greeting. "Dawn is breaking and I come to serve Lord Dagon."
The tall doorman's large frame shifted and moved, as he stood off the cave wall he had been leaning on and held the door open for her wordlessly.
Another deep breath and the Breton went inside, finding herself at the end of a long, well-lit corridor. It was empty; she could hear the sound of someone speaking and voices answering it, but the words were indecipherable and it seemed far away. From the side corridor emerged a Dunmer in a cult robe, his hood back and face visible as he smiled at her.
"Welcome, sister. The hour is late, but the Master still has need for willing hands." In his arms was another robe just like his and a pair of leather sandals. He held them out to her. "He's giving a sermon as we speak; we mustn't tarry."
She tilted her head, accepting the robes, "The Master is here? As in... Mankar Camoran, the Master?"
"Of course," he answered with a quizzical look, and after a time, "What are you waiting for?"
Carolara looked round and then back at him, puzzled. "Don't you have a place for me to change?"
"Among family one need not have shame," the Dunmer seemed amused with her concerns. "And we are all family here. I'll be taking your possessions too. You won't be needing them. As a member of the Order of the Mythic Dawn, everything you need will be provided for you from the Master's bounty."
Internally, Carolara was far less than pleased, but as she handed over her dagger she said, "That sounds wonderful. I've never really belonged much of anywhere," and smiled. She turned away to disrobe; if she couldn't get any privacy for it she might as well pretend she wasn't being watched. Feeling very much like she would want a wash later, the Breton pulled the accursed robes over herself, slipped the sandals on, and followed the Dark Elf through the caves.
"The Master himself was cast out of society because they were too simple to understand his brilliance. We find many of those who are enlightened enough to find their way to us are similarly 'misfit'." The Dunmer was leading them closer and closer to the echoing voices. "We have been preparing for the coming of Lord Dagon for many years. You come to us at a fateful time. The Master has promised us that the Time of Preparation is almost over and the Time of Cleansing is almost here."
"Ah, how exciting," she said as cover as she contemplated the gravity of what he had just said. Did they intend to summon the Daedric Prince himself into Tamriel? Her stomach turned at the thought. Nothing would be able to stop them then.
They came to a door and the Dunmer gestured to her to be quiet. She nodded in acknowledgement and they went inside. This part of the cavern had a much higher ceiling to it, and blood-red banners that bore golden rising suns decorated the walls. An imposing statue of the four-armed Mehrunes Dagon stood in the center, depicted in the midst of swinging a massive weapon. It was tall enough to nearly touch the ceiling. The Elf led her down a few stone steps and into the middle of the chamber where the rest of the cultists were gathered. And standing before them on a raised stone altar was an Altmer in azure robes, hands in the air as he spoke with enthusiasm. The Master, Mankar Camoran.
"The Dragon Throne is empty, and we hold the Amulet of Kings!" he shouted. "Praise be to your Brothers and Sisters! Great shall be their reward in Paradise!"
"Praise be!" answered the assembled.
It was hard for Carolara to get a good look at him; he stood behind a podium and since she was a Breton she was around a head shorter than the majority of the other cultists. She stood on her toes but it did little good. She could see another Altmer up there, in the standard red robes, this one a woman with a staff on her back.
Mankar continued, "Hear now the words of Lord Dagon. 'When I walk the earth again, the Faithful among you shall receive your reward: to be set above all other Mortals forever. As for the rest: the weak shall be winnowed; the timid shall be cast down; the mighty shall tremble at my feet and pray for pardon.'"
"So sayeth Lord Dagon, praise be," the cultists chanted, Carolara joining them for the last bit. Meanwhile she was looking here, there, up and down for any sign of the Amulet. So far nothing.
At first she thought a brazier had flared up or something caught fire, but when the Altmer laid his hand on something on his podium a fiery portal opened up behind him. "The time of Cleansing draws nigh. I go now to Paradise. I shall return with Lord Dagon at the coming of the Dawn!" And as he turned, she saw something glint in the light of the portal. Her eyes went wide and her hands tensed. It was the Amulet of Kings, dangling around the cult leader's neck. Before she could even react he touched the portal and was gone.
Carolara's heart dropped. She'd come all this way and bluffed her way into the heart of the cult, only to see the Amulet for a second before it was torn from her reach. Then she felt the Dunmer's hands on her shoulders and knew instinctively that things were about to get worse.
"We have a new Sister who wishes to bind herself to the service of Lord Dagon," he said in a raised tone, and immediately she felt many sets of eyes on her. The Blade tried to remember herself and not shrink away, putting her hood back on her shoulders and giving everyone a friendly smile, but she allowed her nervousness to work for her and just make her appear new and excited.
The woman on the altar spoke at last. "Advance, initiate."
One foot in front of the other. Stay calm. Breathe. The Breton approached and ascended the steps to stand in front of the whole assembly of cultists. From up here it was easier to see how many there really were; she estimated about fifty. Also now she could see what Camoran had used to make his portal; a tome, huge and worn and horrible-looking, lay open on the podium. The Mysterium Xarxes. Just as the references about it had said, filled with Daedric letters and strange symbols, complete nonsense to an untrained eye.
The Elf picked up a simple, but vicious-looking dagger with a black hilt, approached Carolara, and placed it in her hand. "You have come to dedicate yourself to Lord Dagon's service," she said, "And we welcome you, Sister."
"Thank you, Sister," was the nervous response, unsure of what else to say. The Altmer laid her hands on the Breton's shoulders and turned her to face the statue of Mehrunes Dagon, and only now could the Blade see the terrified Argonian bound to the stone slab in front of it. His eyes were half-lidded and he didn't struggle, just laid there looking disoriented, probably drugged. She felt as if she would be sick.
"This pact must be sealed with red-drink, the blood of Lord Dagon's enemies; the priests of the False Gods." The Elf gently urged Carolara toward him. "Offer Lord Dagon the sacrificial red-drink as pledge of your own life's blood, which shall be his in the end."
Her hands began to shake again and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She contemplated the strange dagger, feeling every set of eyes in that room watching her and waiting for something she knew she wouldn't be able to do. She glanced at the helpless priest, then over her shoulder at the Xarxes. Could it be that the portal was inside the book?
"Lord Dagon thirsts for red-drink. Sate him." Clearly the Altmer was getting impatient. Carolara didn't have any more time to weigh her options. The Amulet had been taken out of reach and that book was the only thing she knew might get her to it. The Argonian seemed very heavily dosed; if she freed him it was doubtful that he could run with her, let alone fast enough, and she couldn't afford to be slowed down. Preemptively, she muttered an apology to him, trying to take some small comfort in the fact that the drug would at least ensure a painless death.
Hanging on to the dagger as her only weapon, Carolara turned about without warning and darted for the podium, snatching up the Mysterium Xarxes and darting back the way she had come in. They were chasing after her, she could hear their angered shouts but she daren't look back. She cursed the robes under her breath; the ones she'd been given were a touch too big for her and dragged the ground, forcing her to devote one hand to holding them up as she ran.
The small door helped to curb the number of cultists pursuing her, but she felt dread when she saw that she had to run down the long straight corridor she'd come in through. The Breton had no room to dodge the fireball that one of them threw her way, disintegrating the back of her robe and searing her flesh between the shoulder blades. She screamed in pain, but was too delirious from shock to hear herself. All she could do was focus on her legs, tell them to keep running. Blood trickled down her back and every movement of her arms caused the wound even more agony but there was no stopping, not yet.
The entrance was near. Carolara was closing in on it, throwing open the last door and shutting it swiftly behind her, when she realized she'd forgotten about the doorman. He startled when he saw her, but before he could ask her anything or react she kicked over the brazier next to him, spilling burning embers onto his robes, which caught alight immediately. He was too busy putting himself out to give chase as she ran out into the night, his fellows still hot on her heels.
Gasping for air and still clinging to the dagger and the Xarxes, she took a second to orient herself and adjusted her direction to run southeast, toward Cheydinhal. She could hear the cultists behind her stumbling and breaking branches but the sound started to fade after a couple of minutes. The burn on her back was still bleeding pretty badly so her head swam from the loss, and that was why she didn't see the drop.
It wasn't much further of a drop than a one-story building, but it was the way she fell that was so damning. Shaking and disoriented but desperate she pulled the fronds off several ferns and covered herself with them, wishing very much that she had her cloak, and laid perfectly still. Once the initial shock of the fall wore off the pain began to swell in her left leg, and the Breton began to suspect it was broken. Tears filled her eyes but she daren't make a sound.
Whether it was hours or minutes before the cult gave up looking, she didn't know, but once she was sure they had gone an attempt to stand confirmed her suspicions of broken bones. A sturdy fallen stick made a decent crutch for now. Carolara could see the lights of Cheydinhal nearby but she dared not take the highly dangerous Daedric artifact there; the danger to innocents was too great. No, healing and rest would have to wait until Cloud Ruler Temple... that is if she could get there in her condition. With the help of the stick she could hobble along, but there had to be a better way. Her gaze drifted to the stables just outside the city, and she got an idea.
Plucking an apple from a tree on the way, the Breton limped over and found the stable-hand fast asleep, propped up against the outside of the stable wall. Careful not to wake her, she slipped open the gate latch and held out the apple for the horses to see.
A black stallion that was still awake raised his head and trotted over, nickering. "Shhh," Carolara tried to keep him quiet, hobbling back just as the creature got close to the apple, urging it further. There was no saddle on the beast but that wasn't a big problem for her, it just meant it wouldn't be quite as comfortable of a ride, and comfort wasn't exactly priority right now. She was in enough agony that she couldn't see it getting much worse anyway, suppressing hisses and whimpers the whole way as she led the horse into the woods.
He let her climb haphazardly onto his back while he chewed his apple and from there she went back to her stash. Putting her leathers back on with her injuries just wasn't going to happen, even though her robes were heavily damaged and barely warded against the chilly night. At least the cold mountain air would feel good on her burn, she hoped. Not daring to get on the road, the Breton took her things, climbed back onto her stolen horse, and began the trek northwest through the thick forest with only the moonlight to guide her and her pain to keep her awake.