The Palace of the Kings was silent. A somber air filled the great hall, those at the throne not much for talking. Ulfric was still trying to wrap his mind around the news that had just been delivered to him.

Galmar, too, was quiet. Ulfric knew exactly why.

He and Runael hadn't always seen eye-to-eye, but Galmar had considered her a friend nonetheless... so the news of her death had hit the gruff Nord rather hard, just as it had with Ulfric.

The High King wasn't sure if he dared believe it, himself. He knew that in the end, Runael could be killed just as easily as anybody else... but she'd always struck him as far more resilient than that, much smarter than most elves. She was the Arch-Mage of the College, for Talos' sake! Surely there was some magic she had used to circumvent the inevitability of death, or reverse it should it come to her unexpectedly? What if the one who died had been just something created to resemble her, and the real Runael was back at the College?

He heaved a sigh, leaned back in the throne, and covered his face with his hand. He was just trying to deny what he'd been told. He hoped, against all hope, that his only real elven friend was somehow still alive... but he knew better. This was not news anyone would deliver in jest... especially not Runael's friends.

His eyes, which had been unfocused and staring at nothing in particular for the longest time, went first to the high elf named Adalla. The elf seemed to be quite out of it, and he couldn't blame her; Runael had once told him - with some rather colorful words, as they'd been arguing - that Adalla was her best friend, and had been for many years. The memory brought a brief flicker of a smile to his lips, but faded once he realized he'd never have another argument with Runael.

His gaze shifted to the woman of mysterious origin, Mia. She was looking agitated - as if she could have done more to prevent Runael's death. He knew better than to tell her she probably did all she could have done; anyone being told such typically became even more agitated, and usually ended up on the verge of hysterics. He opted to leave her to her thoughts for now.

The Dunmer... his gaze lingered upon her for but a moment before he looked away again. Most Dunmer were as filth in his eyes, and at first, Elsera had been no different... that is, until she'd proven to have a similar nature to Runael's, albeit far more confrontational. The late Arch-Mage's apprentice looked to be grieving, but mingled with the despair of the loss was pure hatred and fury. He surmised vengeance was at the forefront of her mind; he knew the same bubbled at the back of his own, for now.

The Breton knight, Neria. It had been she who had managed to fish Runael out of the pool, or so he'd been informed. Her expression was the most curious to him. She bore no signs of grief, sadness or anger... but rather, confusion. It seemed as if something else - something possibly more important than the death of Runael - had latched onto her mind and refused to let go. He wanted to know, but he let it be for the time being.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. He needed to break the silence. Inquiring about what they'd found in Labyrinthian seemed the best means of doing so, but he also did not want to come across as dismissive of Runael's death. The loss hit him remarkably hard, but he wasn't going to grieve forever... not when her killer was still out there, planning Talos-knows-what.

"Tell me more about this... pool." His voice was low, but authoritative.

"Raw magicka." It was the Dunmer who spoke, and her sharp gaze locked with his eyes the moment he opened them. "I'd never seen anything like it before, but there was... there was nothing else I could think of. Just raw and wild magicka."

"Wild?" he asked, quirking a brow at the use of the term. "You make it sound as if it can be tamed."

"It wasn't in use by anyone," she continued, "but it existed nonetheless. That's what I mean. Who knows how long it's been there, and what it was used for in the past. Everything I've ever read about Labyrinthian has never mentioned such a thing existing in the past, but there were signs that it was, at the least, observed by your ancestors."

"And this... bandit leader was there, observing it... but why? What importance could it possibly have to her?" He crossed his arms, a frown at his lips.

"I don't know." It was Neria who responded, and her voice cracked as she spoke. His brow raised while she cleared her throat; he hadn't been expecting her to be the one to respond. "But I do know... who she is. It doesn't explain why or how, though..."

All eyes were on her now. This was the first he'd heard of her recognizing the bandits' leader, but it was apparent from the expectant gazes of the other three that this startling revelation had come about for them in Labyrinthian itself.

"And... who-" he began.

"Larian," Neria murmured softly. "Larian Ravell. She... she disappeared fifteen years ago, in High Rock. We all assumed her to be dead, that... that some creature had eaten her body... it explained why we never found a body. But... she's alive... alive, and a bandit of Skyrim..." Her voice suggested she didn't quite dare believe it, although she'd been witness to the truth.

Ravell. The last name caught Ulfric's attention, and he stared at Neria closely.

"Larian was... pardon, is my older sister." With that and a heavy sigh, Neria Ravell looked down at her feet. "Ashamed of it though I am to admit, given the circumstances..." Everyone else looked astonished to learn the truth, but Ulfric was not. He'd sent a soldier to the White Phial with the intent of obtaining contact information for Elsath, whom he wished to notify about Neria's rather defiant behavior; he'd uncovered the last name of the Breton knight in the process.

"...This ain't gettin' us nowhere," Mia finally said, shaking her head lightly. "Runael's dead, aye, but we ain't. This... Larian ain't. We gotta put a stop t'her afore somethin' goes wrong." Ulfric agreed with her, but...

"We have no leads as to where she's gone, nor what she's planning. We have the Dwemer ruin that they were interested in, and then the attack on the College, which obviously was meant to get into Labyrinthian in the first place." He furrowed his brow and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I stationed some soldiers near the Dwemer ruin, shortly after you reported its existence," he added, looking at Neria. "They've sent no reports of anyone coming or going since they've arrived. The attack on the College has already resolved, and its purpose is very clear."

"...I think..." Elsera began to speak slowly. "I think I ought to head back to the College... check up on it, make sure nothing's wrong... there's also something the Arch... I mean Runael mentioned before we... before she died. She told me that... that she'd tell me more about it when... when we finished up in Labyrinthian. I don't know how important it is to all of this, but..." Ulfric nodded to this. If there was a chance of anything surfacing from even the most obscure place, then he'd welcome it.

"There's still the ruin, too," Neria said after a moment's silence. "The Dwemer ruin, I mean. If we can find whatever the bandits were looking for in there, then maybe we can figure out a link between it, the bandits, and... well, if there's any connection to Labyrinthian, we'll find it there."

"We'll go with ya," Mia said softly. "Adalla and me, that is. If ya never been in a Dwemer ruin, yer gonna get hurt by them traps and other machines. Just ask Adalla."

The high elf's cheeks darkened, but she gave a silent nod of confirmation.

"I, in the meantime, will circulate news of this... 'bandit queen', Larian," Ulfric said with an air of finality. "I'll put the whole of Skyrim on high alert, such that even a glimpse of her will have her cornered within mere seconds. She'll not escape a second time."


Mount Anthor was hardly the most comfortable place in Skyrim. In fact, if Larian had to be honest, it was probably the least comfortable place in all existence.

And yet, it was here, in this abandoned dragon's lair, that Derrick insisted on not just meeting with her from now on, but also seemed to be living in. Larian couldn't fathom why he'd choose such a desolate place as a home, but knew better than to judge; she'd lived in caves several times in her life.

"How went your foray?" she asked once she saw him sitting at a small and simple table he'd likely constructed.

"Well. I ran into a little opposition, but it was nothing I couldn't escape." He didn't look up at her. "How did your trip to Labyrinthian go?"

She threw the torc at him, and felt a sense of satisfaction as the chunk of metal struck the side of his head. He cried out in pain and clutched his head; she noticed that blood was starting to run down the side of his head.

"What was that for?!" he roared angrily.

"You. Attacked. The College. Of Winterhold," she hissed furiously. "I thought you were going to just infiltrate it and steal that damnable thing! Do you know what happened to me in there?! Because you attacked the College, I had a group of explorers - led by the Arch-Mage herself - confront me in Labyrinthian! If you'd just played it subtle, they'd never have known until I was long gone from the ruin, but no! Mister 'fuck everyone and everything' had to get violent!"

"That gate wouldn't open for me!" he snapped.

"I don't care! Get even more creative, then, and don't degenerate into a mindset of 'hurr durr, I barbarian who don't give fuck about nothing'!"

He scowled at her, then pulled his hand away from the side of his head. Blood glistened on his entire hand, and judging from the way it continued to stream down the side of his face, it was far from over for him.

"So... what, you killed all of them? Then who cares about-"

"I killed the Arch-Mage," she interrupted, "and fled while the other three fished her body out of a pool of raw magicka. I don't think there are any trails left for them to pick up; I, at least, covered my tracks well. It wouldn't surprise me, though, if Skyrim suddenly knows who I am." She scowled. "My younger sister, Neria, was among the group who confronted me."

He scoffed and pressed his hand to the side of his head once more.

"Once this is over, I'm getting the hell out of Skyrim. Maybe I'll visit Cyrodiil, or go back to High Rock." She shrugged it off. "I don't know. Anywhere but here, really."

"One thing at a time," he muttered. "You said you found a pool of raw magicka? How do you know?"

"That's what some Dunmer in their group said, and I had no idea what it was otherwise. You tell me, Derrick: does it sound similar to whatever you found in the Dwemer ruin?" To her surprise, he gave a nod - albeit a very faint one, given the state of his head.

"Yes. So we've found both of the magical emanations. Once I can get this to stop bleeding like a bitch, I'll contact Clavicus Vile and let him know we've succeeded in our task, and I'll let you know what our new instructions are to be." He glowered at her. "Help me out here?"

She honestly didn't want to. She honestly hoped that he bled to death in his attempt to stop the bleeding; that way, she'd be done with him forever. And yet... she'd gone too far with this whole Clavicus Vile thing to let it go. She didn't know if she'd still need Derrick or not for the future tasks, but decided she wasn't going to leave anything to chance. It was better to use and abuse the piece of shit that called itself an Imperial rather than let it die and find someone or something else to replace it. Even as she approached him to help, however, she made a mental vow that his life would end the second he was no longer a necessity to her, and that she'd either take his head off with her greatsword or shove it through his chest, twist with all her might, then forcibly rip it out of his side. Either way, a painful and gruesome death awaited him at the end of all of this.

"So... your younger sister." He picked up a roll of bandages and a bottle filled with a strange, clear liquid and extended it to her. "Get a cloth, soak it with the liquid, then dab it at the spot where you so graciously hit me."

"Shut up," she snarled, snatching the roll and bottle from him. She followed his instructions, though, and allowed herself a moment to press the soaked cloth against the side of his head harder than was necessary when he hissed in pain at its touch.

"Be gentle, bitch," he growled, "or I'll snap your neck."

"You'll find my sword through your chest beforehand," she countered; nonetheless, she did ease up on the side of his head, reminding herself that if anything happened to him, she was back to searching for competent help. She withdrew the cloth, shifted it in her hand, then dabbed a clean section of the soaked cloth against his head; he didn't hiss this time.

"How long has it been since you saw your sister?" he asked as she worked.

"Fifteen years - not that it's any of your business, mind you, but there it is." She continued to dab at his head with the cloth, waiting for the bleeding to lessen and eventually stop. "I'd never seen her as a fighter in the past, but there she was... heavy armor, a glimmering sword and a sturdy shield, more than willing to stand at the front of their little group." She tossed the mostly bloodstained cloth aside and grabbed a new and clean one, and resumed the process. "She was always really quiet, afraid of confrontation. I was usually the one standing up for her if she was picked on - and she often was. If she was alone, she usually cried and cried."

"So how do you know it was her?" he asked, doubt tinging his voice.

"Because she recognized me, as well. We're both much older, yes, but we grew up together; no amount of time is going to make us forget one another." She continued to work in silence until the cloth sported only faint bloodstains now, suggesting the bleeding had died down drastically.

"Grab that roll and bandage my head," he muttered. She was of a mind to shove it into his hands and tell him to do it himself, but she decided that learning how to do this would be a valuable skill, especially if she found herself in such a situation at any point in the future. At first, she struggled to get it right, but with his guidance, she managed to fasten a bandage around his head.

"Should've just let you bleed out," she grumbled, shoving the cork back into the top of the bottle.

"Very funny. We both know I'm too valuable and irreplaceable to you." He reached up and gingerly touched the side of his head with his unbloodied hand.

"And so modest besides," she sighed. She stood up, scooped up a handful of snow, and wiped her hands as clean as she could get them. "Get to contacting Vile already. The sooner we can continue all this, the better off we'll be."


A.N. - Shit's gettin' real now. Larian's plotting Derrick's death, and everyone's planning to get down to the bottom of this - no matter what it takes.

Throwing the torc at Derrick's head. I enjoyed that a lot more than I probably should have. We all know he's a scumbag, right? Right? ...No? 'Misunderstood Imperial who's not the brightest bulb in the pack'? Okay... sure, let's go with that. We'll call the shorthand 'scumbag', though, just for funsies.

-Spiritslayer