It was the most bizarre week she'd ever had in her life.
When she'd woken up, she'd been in a stony temple that reminded her faintly of the Dwemer ruin, and was being chastised by a priestess. After some rapid-fire apologies and some extensive help cleaning up around the temple - beyond just picking up what she'd allegedly tossed around the temple's interior - she was told Rorikstead was a place she'd mentioned in her drunken stupor.
Rather than walk, Neria hired a carriage and managed to convince the driver to bear her to Rorikstead, but wait for her there; once she was finished in Rorikstead, she'd be heading to Whiterun, and would go from there. One farmer was livid to see her again, and she assumed he'd been wronged by her somehow.
She was right. Apparently, she'd stolen a goat and given it to a giant. Given it. Not sold it, not sacrificed it. Given it. The farmer wanted it back.
The giant didn't want to give it back, and tried to crush Neria's skull with his hammer. She responded by dodging, blocking and weaving to avoid the giant's devastating strikes. She landed several critical strikes upon the giant, and after what felt like hours, the giant died.
That was when she saw the goat - or what was left of it. In the battle with the giant, apparently the giant's club had come crashing down on the goat. The goat's head was all she could bring back with her; the rest of it was just a gruesome puddle and messy pulp.
The farmer was infuriated, but begrudgingly told her about Whiterun and Ysolda once she'd paid him five times the goat's worth in gold. He refused to go any lower than that, and it irked her. Suffice to say, she'd be lucky to have money enough for lodging and carriages in the days to come... never mind the need for food and drink.
Ysolda went on and on about a ring. Neria, having no memory of the event, asked for details. She'd visited Witchmist Grove once before, back when she'd been exploring Eastmarch on an ingredient run for Nurelion; she knew exactly where she needed to go, then. She paid another carriage for a ride to Mixwater Mill, then traveled to Witchmist Grove to meet with her... 'betrothed'.
Which was a hagraven. Neria could not have been more repulsed, and saw no need to talk to the vicious creature. She had Dawnbreaker shoved through the hagraven's beak and the back of her head before her 'betrothed' could even so much as lift a taloned finger. All the way back to Mixwater Mill, she thought about how that was, without question, the easiest fight against a hagraven she'd ever had. Then she recalled it was the first fight against a hagraven she'd ever had, and dismissed the thought.
When she returned the ring, she was told about some ruined fort very close to the road near Windhelm. She didn't pay attention to the name after she'd heard it; she'd had the fort's location marked on her map by Mia once, so she knew where it was... that was enough for her.
Trekking through the ruin was chaos on its own. The fort as flooded with conjurers of widely varying experiences, from the bumbling novices to the graceful and deadly masters. Neria had one terrible fight on her hands.
By the end of it, though, her Bretoni blood had won the day for her, and her foes had all perished to the might of Dawnbreaker. Ascending some steps opened a mysterious portal that she tentatively crossed through.
The area beyond was peaceful, tranquil... nice. She followed the very linear path and found several others seated at a table, various bottles of liquor sitting upon it. Sam Guevenne was standing nearby, and was glad to see her again. Before she could give him a piece of her mind, though, for leaving her alone in Markarth, he dropped his act.
The entire fiasco had been an evening of revelry, as organized by the Daedric Prince Sanguine. For keeping him entertained and for 'being so good-natured about everything', he gave her a staff - Sanguine's Rose, an item of legend that she'd only heard of in the past. Once she had it, he dismissed her from the bizarre and peaceful realm.
When she woke, she was back in Candlehearth Hall. A quick inquiry had shown an entire week had progressed since she'd left with Sam. She knew Ulfric was likely furious that she'd skipped town, and resolved to hurry along to him and let him know what had transpired. Before she left, though, she cast a glance at a bottle of shein sitting on the shelf behind the barkeep.
No. She'd made a slew of mistakes because she drank too much. She'd take it easy for a while.
Elsera had made quite a bit of progress over the past week. She spent most of her time in the Augur's chamber, following his instructions and conjuring pure magicka many times. He never once declared she'd mastered it, though, and said that she needed to refine the speed at which she created it.
"Otherwise, you'll never get to use it in battle unless someone's distracting your foe - and if that's the case, you'll need to aim very carefully and hope nothing comes between your foe and your blast," he had said.
She knew it to be true. At present, it took her almost half a minute to create the bolt of pure magicka in the palm of her hand; she recalled how it had taken almost five seconds for the Augur, when he'd used her body as a catalyst to cast his demonstration spell.
One thing was nagging at her mind, though - an idle curiosity, at first, but over the past week, it refused to let go.
"Did the Arch-Mage ever learn this?" the Dunmer asked when she was told to take a quick break.
"No. She never asked about it, and I never once thought she needed it."
"But you think I do," she said flatly, a look of irritation flitting across her face.
"You don't think so?" he mused. "Why, then, have you persisted? In any event, no, I don't think you need it. I chose to help because you were striving to combine fire, frost and shock together; this is just 'one step further'."
Her eyes flicked to the white mark on the wall opposite her, where the Augur had fired his demonstration blast from her own palm. Not once had it faded away; she assumed it was there to stay for all eternity.
"Your persistence in trying to learn this, of course, has left me curious as to why. A foe you couldn't overcome with your own magic?" he continued.
"Some... beast. Like a dog. It was... it was apparently summoned by an Imperial mage who's trying to open a portal to let Clavicus Vile through," she said bitterly. "Three rows of razor-sharp fangs, massive body, a tail that looked like it was coming apart at the tip, huge paws with massive claws... I've never seen anything like it."
"Depending on where the next month takes you, you may see more of those," he said, a grave tone adorning his voice. "What you just described is a creature I've heard referred to, just once, as a 'spawn of Barbas'. Not genuinely, of course - otherwise, they'd all be imbued with a fragment of Vile's power, and no one could kill them - but created to resemble a canine nonetheless."
"Created?" she echoed. "By who?"
"There are some legends too hidden for their secrets to even be whispered in this day and age. Fortunately for you, I caught one such whisper of this particular legend... although it was all I heard. Thousands of years ago, a conjurer wished to summon Clavicus Vile into Tamriel, but lacked the knowledge or means. He made a desperate bargain with the Daedric Prince of Wishes - in exchange for the knowledge he desired, the conjurer would create a beast worthy of being called one of Clavicus Vile's minions."
"I don't want to know how he created it," Elsera groaned.
"Fortunate, as I don't know; the details were mercifully lost to time. Nonetheless, he created the first of these beasts and shared control of the creature with his Daedric lord. This was his downfall; to test his own control of the beast, Clavicus Vile ordered the creature to shred the man to ribbons using nothing but the fangs in its maw. Needless to say, Clavicus Vile gained, while the conjurer lost everything. The beast ripped the man apart, and waited for him to die from the agonizing wounds before eating his corpse. Vile was allegedly extremely pleased with the creature's vicious disposition and complete obedience, for he summoned it to his realm. This, luckily, was the last anyone has ever seen of the creature... well, until now."
"How does anyone know they're called 'spawn of Barbas', then?" she inquired, confused.
"One does not need to summon one such creature to learn that. The hero, Cyrus, was not the only mortal who ventured into Clavicus Vile's realm and lived to tell the tale. If Cyrus ever saw a spawn of Barbas, he did not share a word of its existence with anyone. Some, however, were not so cautious... but, as I said, this is but a whisper, in the grand scheme of things. Few enough ever enter his realm; even fewer have ever returned. Fewer still have ever even glimpsed a spawn of Barbas."
"And now many have seen one," she muttered. "I suppose we should be grateful Ulfric's scornful of magic, and that those of us present at Mount Anthor recognized it as a monster to be slaughtered."
"Whether or not the spawn of Barbas was created or has always existed in Vile's realm, I cannot say for certain. All I can say for certain is that it exists, as you are aware. Of the daedra I can think of, it is one of the most dangerous to face alone - such that I would go so far as to call it suicide to try. Their size allows them to ignore most conventional strikes from weaponry and most magic, but they can be felled by such in great number. They are not immune, nor resistant... just large. It is the equivalent of a wasp stinging a silt strider; a brief and annoying poke, but no more than that on its own."
"Is there no quicker way to fell them?" she groaned. "Vile took one of his former servants, Larian, from Tamriel; I can only imagine where she may have gone. If more of the beasts appear before we can find her again-"
"She has gone to Clavicus Vile's realm," he intoned solemnly. "The only way to find her is to follow her into his realm. He is, unfortunately, selective of who enters and who stays. One would need to become utterly devoted to him before he even considers permitting them into his realm."
"So she's-" she began, fury bubbling.
"Been dragged along by a devotee," he finished, catching her by surprise. "The framework for Vile's portal into Tamriel is in place. All he needs now, he already has. It's all just a matter of time before his portal opens. There are a lot of steps to be taken on his end."
"What are those columns of light?" she asked. "Are they-"
"They are points of origin for his portal. So long as even one remains, he needs not fear losing what he needs from Tamriel. If enough time passes, the columns will disappear - and be replaced by a portal that cannot be closed, save by killing Clavicus Vile himself."
"Which is impossible," she grumbled.
"Unfortunately. To extinguish the guiding lights, however, is possible... and requires the blood of a daedra."
Blood of a daedra. The words resonated with Elsera, and she stared into the blue pit.
"You mean their artifacts," she whispered.
"There are rituals and spells involved with disabling the columns, of course, but none of it will have any effect without the blood of a daedra. One must be certain, however, that the chosen item is one they can live without... otherwise, they will find their lives... complicated."
"So we just need to..." Her voice trailed, but her thoughts did not. They needed to find three Daedric artifacts as quickly as possible, discover the rituals to disable the columns of light, and they could shut down Clavicus Vile's attempt to enter Tamriel.
"Unfortunately, only a daedra knows the rituals and spells needed," he added. That was not what Elsera wanted to hear, and she glared into the pit.
"How does that help us, then?!" she snarled.
"I am telling you the chance exists. You remember my words, prior to the columns appearing? About the rivals? You have correctly guessed that Clavicus Vile is one of them. As for the other... he has a champion in Tamriel. An unwilling one, but a champion regardless."
She thought about his words, knew they were being left cryptic intentionally. Was it one of the other Daedric Princes, then? Had Clavicus Vile created tension with someone else?
"To find the champion, seek the one whose dialect is not native to Tamriel. Tell them all you've learned of preventing the portal's opening. They will know what to do."
She moved for the door rapidly. There was only one person she knew whose dialect was not native to Tamriel. Only one person who occasionally spoke in a language no one understood. Only one woman whose accent was unfamiliar, unmistakable and unique.
"It's safe to say you have mastered pure magicka," he continued, stopping her briefly. "You know how to conjure it. All you need now... is practice. That power will be necessary in the days ahead, I can promise you that."
"Any other warnings you wish to give?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder at the blue glow.
"There is one, yes." He did not continue right away, and she waited impatiently for him to do so. "Beware the fangs of jealousy, for they are at your throat."
She blinked at this warning. It sounded peculiar, but she knew better than to ask him to emphasize. She watched the blue glow begin to fade away.
"Ancestors protect you, Dunmer."
"Thank you, Augur, for... all your help." She turned to face the pit, and bowed to the glow.
"Do not be a stranger. Depending on which way events transpire, you may never see the College again... or you may see it from the highest vantage point possible." With those words, the glow faded away entirely, signifying he had departed for the time being. She took that as a sign to hurry back to Windhelm - and hope Mia, the woman of mysterious origin, was still there.
It was dangerous. She knew that. It hadn't stopped her from going anyway.
Mia still couldn't find her answer. She strongly suspected Adalla had abandoned her, which had left her drinking quite a bit... but had also given her time to harden her heart. Everyone who knew her recognized the shift in her personality, and either tried to talk to her - and were subsequently struck by her - or avoided her.
The only one whom Mia hadn't struck was Ulfric Stormcloak, and that was solely because striking the High King of Skyrim for any reason was a very serious offense. She was bitter, yes, but she wasn't an idiot. Instead of striking him, though, she'd verbally rebuked him, told him that what had changed her as none of his damned business, and that if he didn't want to be the fanciest ice sculpture in all Tamriel, he'd let the topic drop instantly.
So he had, though not without warnings against threatening him again.
Seeing whereas he was leaving her be, she found a lot more time to just... do nothing. She needed to vent her frustration somehow, and knew taking it out on the local populace was a bad idea.
So she left Windhelm behind. Bow and quiver at her back, war axe at her right hip and dagger at her left, a pack of supplies slung over her shoulder, Mia left Windhelm three days ago.
At present, she was thinking of leaving Skyrim altogether.
Such a trip would involve a lot of money - and she had that. The problem was that it was all in Riften... and so was Adalla, whom Mia wanted to avoid for now. She also didn't know where she'd go. Had she been thinking clearer, she'd have gone to Solstheim, perhaps visiting Frea, or staying in Raven Rock until her thoughts were sorted out. But she hadn't, and she didn't feel like backtracking to Windhelm now.
She chose instead to just wander aimlessly. She didn't care where she went, as long as she went somewhere. One foot in front of the other, and see where it takes her. If that just so happened to take her from Skyrim into Cyrodiil, or Morrowind, or High Rock or Hammerfell... so be it. Who would really care if she left the province anyway?
The first place her restless feet had taken her was a cave she couldn't remember if she'd visited before or not. She hadn't bothered checking her map to see where she was going, or where her aimless wandering had taken her. It was probably marked, and she just couldn't remember right this second.
This cave was where she was now. Its inhabitants were vampires, who had not been expecting what they considered to be prey to wander in during the day. Fortunately for them, they had guards in the form of thralls and an unnerving black hound with ruby eyes and a freezing aura surrounding it to raise the alarm when they became aware of her presence.
The thralls were easy enough to drop. An ebony arrow in the throat, and they all crumpled.
The hounds were another matter altogether. Most ignored the sharp projectiles and charged at her. All of their lunges missed because of her nimble reflexes - all but one. The hound's fangs sank into her thigh, but rather than cry out in pain, she roared in fury, drew her dagger, and plunged it into the back of the hound's neck, killing the bold bastard almost instantly. Once she'd kicked it away, she'd become aware of the fact that her leg wasn't bleeding - and strongly suspected the powerful chill radiating from the wound was the cause.
She couldn't move all that well when the vampires emerged from their coffins and swarmed her. They thought her an easy target, and so took their time trying to kill her. This, in turn, permitted Mia to fell every last one of them; by the time the final vampire realized his folly, an arrow found a new home in his eye socket, the arrowhead lodged into his brain.
In all, not her finest venture through a vampire lair, but it was successful nonetheless. It also had the desired effect of venting her frustration and relieving much of her stress.
And once the relief of that moment passed, she had a clearer mind to ponder what had happened two weeks ago, and why Adalla had been so furious.
Even thinking of the high elf tugged at Mia's heartstrings. She hadn't even been aware of the tears creeping to her eyes until her vision was blurry. The fact that the high elf had struck her still stung, but it didn't sting nearly as much as her own idiocy.
Now she knew why. For all her promises to Adalla that she'd be safe, she had willingly thrown herself in harm's way - in front of a creature that could very well have killed her. Not only that, she had thrown herself off a ledge and trusted her ebony war axe to hold her and the Dunmer up. In the end, it had, though she'd needed the Voice to guarantee the final saving strike.
She had almost killed herself to save Elsera. That was why Adalla was so furious. Mia had nearly thrown her own life away on Mount Anthor... and, she realized with wide eyes, had done roughly the exact same thing just now, in this cave full of vampires and their thralls and hounds. She had assaulted the lair with reckless abandon, and by all accounts, probably should have died.
Her leg. She tried to move it, but it didn't respond well. She couldn't feel her leg. Earlier, the chill had been centered at the bite... but now, she couldn't feel any part of her leg. She realized with horror that the chill was spreading through her body... and that unless she tended to it fast, she'd definitely die from that alone.
A fire. She needed a fire, fast. There wasn't much to use that would burn easily; the vampires hadn't seen much need for fire, obviously. There was no firewood, but there were books. She sought books whose pages were too faded to read, whose covers were cracked, ripped or otherwise destroyed... the books which time had ruined. She found a few, but most of the books were all burned already, and had no use in a fire as a result. Desperation seized her heart when she felt the chill starting to spread through her other leg and start to creep up her side. She was running out of time.
She eventually abandoned all sense of preserving the books, and instead gathered every last book that was not already burned, and tossed them into a haphazard pile. She needed a flame to light this fire with, but the torches she could see were all bolted to the walls. Desperate, she seized a random book, carried it to one of the torches, caught it aflame, then hurried back to the pile of books, tossed it back on the pile, and hoped to the Nine it caught.
It did, and she felt the warmth wash over her as the books caught alight over time... but the chill didn't recede from her body, only continued to spread. Panic began to settle into her, and she fumbled through her pack for her first aid supplies. Her fingers brushed against an additional bottle, and she tugged it out. The blue label on its front marked it as a potion to help ward off the cold.
She wasted no time in removing the stopper and drinking the bottle. All at once, she felt the chill cease to spread, but it still lingered. She looked at the bite wound on her thigh, and decided she needed a closer look. Her leggings were pulled down just far enough to reveal her bare thigh, and where the fangs had sunk into her.
That was when she spotted it: protruding from her numb leg, ever-so-slightly, was a small fang. She reached for it quickly, closed her fingers around it, and yanked it out. She felt nothing, so numb was her leg... and yet, as soon as she pulled the fang out, she felt the chill start to recede. She had saved herself from a frigid fate. She wondered whether the chill alone was all that kept her thigh from bleeding, and took care of her leg, finishing with a bandage.
Once she was warm again, she could feel the sharp pain of the bite, the throbbing of the wound; in the fire, she could see the blood starting to stain through the bandage.
She would endure. It reminded her that she was alive... and that, in turn, reminded her that she'd endangered her life needlessly, all just for a chance to relieve her stress.
She hadn't cried in years, not since her best friend in Akavir died. She had told herself, once, 'no more tears'. And yet, here she was now, crying again. She'd nearly died twice in two weeks because of her own recklessness... and the one person who cared most about her, constantly watched out for her safety, had probably given up on her.
It hurt Mia's heart to think about. Had Adalla given up on her? If she was Adalla, would she have given up on Mia?
She fell onto her back without much thought, wind rushing out of her from the sudden landing. Yes. Yes, she would. If her partner, closest friend and the one she loved had thrown herself into what should have been a fatal situation, despite pleas to stay safe... Mia would give up on them.
She closed her eyes and covered them with her forearm. The fire crackled and popped next to her, the only sound that reached her ears.
"Fuck," she choked out.
A.N. - This chapter continues to set the stage just a little more. Neria and Elsera are where they need to be - Windhelm and leaving the College, respectively. Mia, too, when one considers she'll be returning to Windhelm as well.
Neria's adventure with Sanguine was the most convenient thing I could think of to get her out of Windhelm for an extended period of time, and quite against her will. Love him or hate him, Neria's developed a sort of loyalty to Ulfric, and she wouldn't defy his word unless it was for extremely good reason - or if it was beyond her control. Which it was in this case. It all comes to its 'conclusion' next chapter.
Elsera learns a bit more about the situation, and gets a fun little history lesson from the Augur. I liked the thought of the 'spawn of Barbas' not being a creation of Vile's design, but rather a creature created by one of his servants. I like to envision Elsera and the Augur as being friends, to a point... maybe she's even developing a crush on him? (Nah.)
Mia's not in a good spot right now. The brush with death was... necessary, as you can see. Her muddled mind is not prone to logical decisions, thus her leaving Windhelm and diving into a vampire lair. Now, though, she's making plans to check up on someone real quick, to let them know she's finally realized her folly and hope that it's truly not too late.
-Spiritslayer
