Author's Note: Do I really have to include a disclaimer about me not owning Oblivion for every chapter? I mean, like, I think you all get the point already. The amount of reviews I got made me glee madly. I mean, six in one day? You guys rock. :D And for all my silent readers, I wanted to take a moment to say I love you too, because there are more than 6 or 7 unique hits on each chapter. You don't have to comment – just knowing I have people actually tuned into my work makes me happier than you can believe.
Arty – First off, DO IT. More Vicente from you plz. Okay, to the review of the review... I updated this less than an hour before you reviewed. I had a lot of fun doing Vicente's scenes, and most of Avielle's scenes I had prewritten in class. So it won't usually be this fast. Baww. Onoz at legible, and thanks for pointing that out – fast chapter means errors galore, blargh.
Fan – Well, my ongoing joke with M'aiq and the 'game' is that he is taken to be completely insane – and he is, because it's not a game. (He expects everything to go along as 'programmed', but it doesn't) As for the fourth wall, DualKatanas mentioned that too, and I'm not entirely familiar with the term... I'm going to assume it means referencing 'the game' to the point of going outside the story?
DualKatanas – Mm, guards don't wear heavy armor, do they? Chainmail is pretty easy to pierce, or so I thought. As for the 30-men-whole-force thing... that is a very good observation. Thank you, and I'll have to change that, because you're completely right. As for what's going on with Lucien, you'll see. And I'm trying to throw people :P I cannot stand when people can completely predict the what-will-happen-next, it makes me feel like I'm failing utterly at foreshadowing or whatnot.
Rose – He wasn't in the house, he was outside, and Vicente wasn't using his sight – but yes, M'aiq is a ninja. And thanks! :D
Reva – Thank you! I still feel like Vicente isn't Vicente enough, though. :(
Dreamer – Glad you liked it! I thought that Patience as it was was a bit too close to Intelligence, which Avielle is fairly decent at – I wanted to capture it as something that would entirely piss her off, heh. As for Vicente – I'm doing my best to make this story something that you don't expect. Because if you know what's going to happen, it's not as fun.
Anonymous – Eep, my first anon review! Fiftieth review, too, because I reviewed once and that doesn't count. And Vicente knows that, it's just that he doesn't really have a choice at the time. Thank you, he's my favorite Oblivion character tied with Hassildor, and I really want to do him justice.
Carlotta – It's all right, we're all busy. :D And I'm glad you liked M'aiq! I thought I might have been being too silly, like with the necromancer scene, but I want to have this otherwise serious fic have touches of blatant humor. :P
NoSoundComes – I never really formed much of an opinion about Henantier, because he doesn't really do much in game. And thank you! :D I always feared that the humor and seriousness didn't blend well, and it really makes me happy that you don't think so.
Wow. Lot of reviews, lot of answers. So I'll make this one good. Sorry for the wait getting it up, I really worked on this. I did a -lot- of research on Vicente's first part, making Anvil's surroundings as canonic as possible.
Avielle had been to the Arena once. She hadn't enjoyed the experience. It was just a bunch of bloodthirsty idiots cheering and screaming as they watched bloodthirsty mega-idiots hack each other to pieces in the sands below. She'd had a terrible seat on the balcony, she was sitting next to an extremely loud Nord with enough alcohol on his breath to intoxicate anyone within fifty miles of him, and she'd lost fifty septims.
However, she'd never been to the part of the Arena in which she stood now.
Bloodstains and gashes marred the wooden floor beneath her, while a grotesque parody of a chandelier hung from an arched stone ceiling, crusted in flakes of dried brown blood. She was at the base of a tunnel... the tunnel in which Arena combatants came from when they fought.
Shit.
She was not surprised – just understandably demotivated – when a quick pivot revealed that there was no door behind her, but a scraped and bloody boulder, firmly wedged in between her and whatever escape that might have graced this place. But after all, why would the nightmare let her second-guess, let her backtrack and flee? That wouldn't be showing resolve, now, would it?
A cold breeze stung her eyes, making them water. Ironically enough, it smelled of smoke and ash. She peered forward, past the dark gloom and lowered gates and into the Arena. It was definitely a mockery of the real Arena she had seen – the pillars were collapsed, the grate over the pit had rusted through, and piles of burning rubble sent pillars of congealing black struggling up towards hellish, boiling crimson skies. Lightning flashed and thunder roared, although she could not see where it hit.
Avielle was not really feeling much resolve. It was rather hard to, in her case. Every child knew that in the Arena, gladiators fought one another, save the Grand Champion; Agronak Gro-Malog was too widely renowned for anyone to even try their mettle against him, so he satisfied the masses once a week butchering Cyrodiil's wildlife. Kynareth would not honor the Orc in death, she had noted once after listening to one fan with a gravity-defying haircut ramble on about the Gray Prince's awesomeness or something. Immature Bosmers aside, the fact remained that fighting in the Arena involved some skill and experience if you didn't want to die before the gates opened.
So how in fetching Oblivion was Avielle, unarmed, Silenced, and bloody naked supposed to fight?
Well, there was a large Ayleid repository with the barely-legible red words 'Prepare Yourself' a couple steps in front of her, which probably was worth checking out...
She slid the lid off with a harsh grating noise that jarred her ears. Reaching in blindly, she nearly cut her hand on something sharp, and swore loudly. Damn it, it was so dark... she blinked a few times to adjust her eyes to the gloom, because there was no way she'd be able to drag the heavy casket closer to the light. Once her eyes would function, she could make out a variety of objects inside.
Firstly, she noted an array of weapons. There was a bow, a dagger, and a warhammer. Avielle had absolutely no idea how to shoot, and no desire how to learn to. Simply picking up the warhammer would have probably dislocated both of her arms, so she had to settle for the dagger. It was identical to her one in the real world; small and silver, it fit into her palm rather neatly. But she'd never really relied on it, knew only rudimentary tactics for using it, and besides, it looked rather sad and pathetic now, in the face of the Dreamworld's violent tests.
There were also two sets of armor; iron and leather. While Avielle would have felt happier marching towards possible death wearing a thick shield, a few minutes and a lot of swearing made it painfully clear to her that she did not know how to put the damn stuff on. She settled for the leather. It didn't look very durable, but it was flexible, and belatedly she realized that the set did count as clothes. For which she was extremely grateful.
Feeling half apprehensive and half awkward, the Breton walked through the tunnel and into the icy gale, trying to ignore the bloody ruts in the floor. It almost looked as it somebody had been dragged...
Don't think about it. It's only a dream. Only a dream...
But certainly the most realistic dream she'd ever experienced. She mounted the steps slowly, feeling some intangible tension make itself palpable and press down on her shoulders.
The wrought-iron bars were not completely unlike those of the University she'd left so many months ago, although they were chipped and rusted. They yawned towards her like a grinning mouth full of broken, rotted teeth, and it was not without a shiver than she passed through them, feeling unutterably like prey. The leather on her skin felt more like modesty than protection, and would the little sliver of silver defend her against an Altmer's darkest nightmares?
It was the smell, yes, the smell was the worst of it. Fire and char hung in the cold air, and something worse than that, something she knew, something that had permeated her bad dreams dating all the way back to her childhood.
Burnt flesh.
Avielle shut her eyes, trying to push away the panic that was clouding her mind. I've fought like hell three times before this. Each time I felt like I was going to die, and I ended up pulling through. So get your act together, because if you don't make it out of this damned place alive, then Mother put herself through hell for nothing.
Her blue eyes reappeared from behind the lids. Barely a second later, they really saw what was behind the other gate, and her breath caught in her chest.
Oh, hell. She wasn't facing a Pit Puppy or whatever they called the Arena rookies. Forget Courage. Forget Perception. Forget... hell, forget Patience, it hadn't tried to kill her as outright as this! This sort of challenge was the sort of thing that only the Gray Prince took on... and not everyone would bet in the legend's favor, despite his apparent invulnerability.
The gates behind Avielle clamped shut with a nasty, taunting screech, while the ones opposite her creaked open more slowly, mockingly releasing the tools of her demise.
Clouds of breath condensed outside the bearded muzzles, furious plumes of steam sent out into the frigid air. Hooves stamped and scraped at the bloody ground, and bloodlust shone in two sets of beady animal eyes. A bellow escaped one mouth, revealing broken tombstone teeth; the thick tongue glistened like a fat snake within, wet with saliva. Light glinted off of two battle axes, both raised, gleaming green glass like another nightmare she knew all too well. But that figment of a bad dream and its viridian sword had been swift and courteous, genteel rather than savage, and most of all, he'd been fighting on her side.
The minotaurs charged.
0o0o0
No living man or mer can hope to outstrip a horse on foot. Even beastfolk cannot hope to compete with a true beast in a test of all-out speed. Mages have worked for centuries developing enchantments that would allow Tamriel's races to match the gifts of Kynareth's kingdoms, but they can never create more than a pale shadow of them. Therefore, if a group of guards is chasing a man on horses, the man would surely be overtaken no matter how much of a head start they had.
However, if they were able to match that speed, they would be able to utilize a number of advantages. A horse is simply an animal – there were exceptions to this, of course, but none of them are subject to the current situation. An equine can easily be spooked or tricked, and it has no mind of its rider's urgency. It does not care if it is saving the Empire or delivering a message; it will not try to press itself for things it does not comprehend. It cannot change direction as quickly or errantly as a person, it cannot fit through thin areas a man could slip through, and if it happens to pull a shoe or fracture a leg, it cannot go on.
It was for reasons like this that Vicente Valtieri was quite content with his state.
It was hard enough for the guards to push their steeds after him to begin with. They may as well have been asking rabbits to chase a fox; the horses knew the scent of a predator, and their agitated neighs and the 'Steady, boy' calls of the legion had still been ringing in his ears as he hurried through the rocky coastal plains to the southwest. He chose west because he had to get to Cheydinhal as quickly as possible, and south because they wouldn't be expecting it. Almost all fugitives from Anvil took to the north, because the wooded area offered more cover than open ground. From his experience, Cyrodiilic guards – forget Morrowind, that had not been a fun experience – did not know how to take on vampires at all, and by extension, how they would behave.
The white stone ruins of an old fort – Fort Strand, he believed, but he wasn't sure – stretched out before him. He couldn't stop yet, though, so early in the night, and having put so little distance between the horses and himself. He could still hear the clatter of hooves in the distance and swore softly under his breath. They hadn't fallen for his little ruse after all; or worse, perhaps they'd actually seen him. He spared a backwards glance, but couldn't see anything but the white hills rising up behind them. The day had been unusually warm, and for that, Vicente was impossibly lucky. The top layer of snow had melted and refrozen into glistening, hard-packed ice, which left no incriminating footprints.
Well, if they'd picked up on his reverse psychology, then he may as well revert to the original advantage. He called up a spell to fortify speed, grimacing at the positive energy that resounded through his body. It felt wrong and unnatural to him, like something slithering over his skin, but he needed to make up for his lapse of strength. Oh, for the full extent of his abilities... he'd gladly take the hunger than came along with it. It had not been an opportune time to feed, certainly. He turned straight north, heading for the Gold Road.
After all, what kind of fugitive would take the road?
He wasn't planning on following it, no, but the forests and steep terrain of the Colovian highlands would throw them off almost irrevocably. Also, if they didn't see him turn, the guards would keep heading towards the West Weald for quite some time until they realized their mistake.
But by Sithis, he hated the detour with every fiber of his body. He needed to get back home as soon as possible, and even if this was a necessary waste of time, it was still a waste of time. A traitor had struck again, of that he was certain, but the new evidence was staggering. Lucien, himself, and Ocheeva had been quite aware of the presence of an assassin among assassins for quite some time, but unless somebody had managed to do a very good Lucien mimicry or intercepted some of his orders, then Lachance himself may well be the traitor. After all, it was possible for somebody else to have found out the orders and tipped off the guards, and it wouldn't be out of the traitor's marked behavior, but the fact that such a contract had been assigned to Vicente in the first place kept his hackles up.
His travelling cloak whipped in the slipstream of his speed, his loosely-held ponytail trailing aloft as well as he leapt over a rocky formation jutting from the ground. A wolf's eyes stared balefully at him from the scrub as he approached, but didn't make a move to attack him. It was a very desperate predator indeed that would try to hunt a vampire. At a distance, Vicente did not look terribly different from a human, but sight is not the only tool that animals rely on.
Yes, in some ways, animals were much more perceptive than men or mer. But having such instincts and strengths to fall back on when human strategy or diplomacy failed was one of the reasons why the vampire had managed to live so long.
Dilapidated marble arches surrounded a crumbling statue of a winged mer. A few will-o-the-wisps floated around its chipped head like a living halo. Had he not been faced with a pursuing party and imminent danger for his Family, he would have certainly leaned back and enjoyed the Ayleid crafting, lit up by the mischevious light-creatures. As it was, he kept moving. It could be a very bad situation if he holed himself up where guards might search – he was not nearly at full strength, and once day broke, he would not be able to escape whatever place he sought refuge in. It was best to get away as far as he could, to make the radius of havens he could escape to the largest.
One of the wisps was trailing after him, probably attempting to lure another hapless adventurer to his demise. He waved a dismissive hand at it, calling up a minor frost spell. It wasn't enough to damage it, but will-o-the-wisps hated the cold. The ghostly entity got the message and whirled away, chittering angrily.
Again, Vicente was strangely fond of the mischevious creatures. They were mysterious and strange, transcending tangibility and reality itself. And they were so akin to the ways of his Family, even if they served nothing but themselves; they were underhanded, cunning, and they were breathtakingly beautiful even in their deathcraft. Whenever one would take after him, and he had the time to play, he'd often humor it, allowing it to try and mislead him until it started trying to steal his vitality. But this was most definitely not the time.
He only paused when the dead aloe and lilies gave way to a stone stretch clear of snow. No clatter of pursuit reached his ears, even at the very edge of his hearing. It looked like he'd thrown them off after all... A quick scan for life told him that the Gold Road was deserted in his vicinity, and he quickly crossed the path, not keen on being out in the open.
He continued north – going west would follow the road, going northwest would lead him to Kvatch, where wanted posters might have already sprung, and southwest would take him further from Cheydinhal. The last thing the Sanctuary needed now was for a battalion of guards to be led to their door – but what if, he realised, with a feeling of dread, Lucien had betrayed them as well?
Now that he'd shaken the soldiers from his trail, he had the space of mind to consider other things, none of them happy.
Even if the Speaker still maintained his innocence, there was no denying that the Brotherhood had been infiltrated. The killings and disappearings up until now had been suspicious, certainly, but they all could be explained as isolated coincidences. Vicente did not believe in coincidence, but now the prood was undeniable. Somewhere in the Dark Brotherhood, there was a leak.
And even if Lucien wasn't the actual traitor, his connection to the current affair could be just as bad. Even worse, perhaps, for all its connotations.
With a pang of dread, he realised that Lachance could have pegged him, Vicente Valtieri, as the traitor. Why else would he have been assigned a rigged contract and been handed over to the Watch? He'd served his Family selflessly – beyond selflessly – for over two centuries. Did that mean nothing?
But the Brotherhood had eyes everywhere, and the truth was, he'd twice saved the life of a girl who'd sworn vengeance against his Family. Twice saved, and never once told a soul of his involvement.
And no matter how weak Avielle Fradaun was, it had the potential to look very bad for him...
0o0o0
Avielle would have liked to say that she remained brave and stoic as the pair of minotaurs came at her, but that would have been a blatant lie. A thin shell of leather seemed awfully little in the means of protecting her skin from those gleaming axes and viciously curved horns.
And it was.
The only bits of melee combat Avielle knew were scraps she'd watched from tavern brawls and ruffians she'd encountered in the wildernesses of Cyrodiil. One such party was heavily drunk, and the other had been fighting with melee as she'd peppered them with magic, so her practical knowledge beyond what Rohssan had taught her was fairly close to nil.
The first cloven-hoofed monster was barely five feet away from her now, its cleaver swinging back to prepare for the first strike. She tried to roll to her side, imitating a move she'd seen a bandit do once – she only succeeded in falling over, but at the same time, she missed the axe by a few inches. It slammed into the thick, churned mud so close to her head that her ears nearly popped. The monster grunted as it tried to heave its weapon from the ground, sending thick clods of dirt flying into the struggling Breton's hair and face. Avielle thrashed, trying to get to her feet. It was distracted, she only had to get away from it and where was her dagger...
It glinted feebly in the mud – she must have dropped it. She leaned forward, reaching out to grab what seemed like her only lifeline, and screamed.
Icy shock was soon followed by two lines of blazing agony.
The other minotaur had not been so distracted, and had aimed to sever its unaware prey's spine as it struggled uselessly in the filthy ground. Had Avielle not lunged for her weapon at that very second, her life would doubtlessly have ended with that blow. As things stood, the axe scored deep wounds into the back of her calves, severing muscles and tendons and causing a level of pain that the Breton had never even comprehended,
She felt her feet go limp as both Achilles' tendons snapped, felt the wet warmth soaking the torn leather and dribbling down her limbs. It didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was the scream of agony that both tore from her lips and remained trapped in her throat, unable to articulate the sheer pain that only worsened when the minotaur picked her up like a doll. She hung almost bonelessly, her frenetic attempts to struggle in complete futility. Its stench overwhelmed her; blood and sweat mingled with its hot, stinking breath. The thing shook her once, almost experimentally – Avielle felt a rib snap, and shrieked again. This upset the other minotaur, which had left its axe and proceeded to twist its head, allowing its horns to tear at the girl's midsection. The leather ripped like parchment, and blood quickly followed, spilling from ragged wounds. Avielle wailed again, punching the dagger she still somehow clung to into the minotaur's arm; with a bellow, her captor tossed her in the air and let her crash to the rubble.
She hit the ground bleeding and broken, mud in her mouth and nose, and blood rising in her throat. The armor was torn enough to the point of nearly falling off, and her insides honestly felt like following suit. There were deep gashes in her abdomen and chest along with the immbolizing wounds in her legs. She choked, coughing up dirt and blood. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe...
Avielle heard the squelching of heavy hooves approaching in the mud, and she closed her eyes and waited to die.
This was it. The gamble had failed. She'd made it this far, she'd learned so much... but the end had come. Courage, perception, and patience... but what had resolve meant, in the face of impossible odds? Avielle felt nothing except a sudden, intense tiredness, and a willingness for the pain to be over; her desperation to live buckled under the unimaginable strain. She struggled, trying to get to her feet, but her bloodied legs gave way; what was it that they so often idolized, to die on your feet? She couldn't even have that saving grace. To die on your knees in somebody's dream, alone, all of the strings of life left untied...
Her mother's vengeance would never come to fruition, and they'd both died in vain...
Something inside Avielle snapped.
Perhaps it was her inhibitions. Maybe it was her whole mind. One observing her wouldn't have noticed a difference; outside, she was still a beaten-down and heavily injured Breton in scraps of leather, hair tangled and matted with blood. But on the inside, an epiphany had struck her with the force of a magical supernova.
It was herself that was limiting her, her own fear and doubt that was holding her back from her magicka. Not just in the Dreamworld, but in reality as well. There was a reason that her mother had managed what she could not, why she could bend the most powerful magic to her will. There was a reason why she had been willing to risk her life, a reason why she'd given it up in order to push forward her dreams.
Some things were worth dying for.
Some things were worth dying for, and this wasn't one of them!
Her fear gave way, her doubts snapped, and with them, the Dreamworld's Silencing curse was swept away. The complete well of her arcane power opened itself up to her and rushed her like a wild animal. The force of the raw, unleashed magicka hit her with enough force to sweep her very self away into the ether. But she endured the torrent with a manic joy, laughing as the agony cascaded through her very soul, charging every nerve ending and electrifying her veins. Avielle embraced the pain, bringing it under her wing rather than trying to fight it off. She'd never felt so alive before; if anything, she felt that if any more energy were to flow into her, she wouldn't survive it. Her injuries suddenly no longer mattered. It was almost as if this sudden overflow of power was keeping her animated. Still crouched on the ground, her right hand jerked upwards, involuntarily, as if itching to release the uncontrollable power that blossomed there.
When she opened her eyes, they glowed.
"Not today, you bastards," she spat, and a tempest of ice, lightning, and flame left her fingers.
It wasn't alone. At the same time, impossible healing energies infused her body, causing mortal wounds to knit back together and lost blood to replenish. A sudden influx of vitality infused her limbs, the burst of strength and speed making her want to run and leap as fast as she could simply to see if she could jump over the clouds and fly. It was giddying, maddening, with life whirling throughout your body as death screamed from your fingertips.
Then it was gone, leaving her drained, eyes dull, fatigued nearly to the point of collapse, and...
And alive.
The minotaurs didn't stand a chance. The sheer force of the magical assault lifted the gargantuan beasts off their feet, throwing them back into the walls of theArena; where their frozen forms shattered and were burned mercilessly by flame and voltage. Had she spared an advised look at what was left of them, she would have probably passed out, but as it was, she couldn't tell them apart from the rest of the burning rubble on the battlefield. It was as if the minotaurs had simply vanished.
Did I... do that?
Not daring to get to her feet, she wiggled her fingers experimentally. She couldn't feel it, that insane surge of magicka that had saved her life. She was no longer silenced, but that maddened flow of arcane power had dimmed back down to a level that was close to what she normally felt. But even so, there was a tangible change. Something had happened, that much was pretty damn obvious. Never before had she managed to bring forth such an arcane storm.
She stretched one leg, tentative. It felt a little cramped, but otherwise showed no signs of having been nearly destroyed minutes ago. Had she really healed it so completely? Curiously, she cast a light spell as she slowly stood. It came easily, the Dreamworld's hold on her magicka broken, but the little magelight that bobbed at her fingertips was not particularly impressive. Certainly, it was uncomparable to the maelstrom she'd unleashed; it was just an ordinary creation, as mundane as magic could ever be.
Avielle jumped as something grated behind her, whirling around in a panic – she half-expected to see the minotaurs return. Instead, however, she saw two sets of twisting marble stairs rising from the muddy battlefield, pristine among the filth, rising up to something she'd previously missed. A green light blazed in the red sky like a strange, inverted sun, glowing powerfully amongst the storm.
Somehow, as she gazed at it, the Breton knew that this was the last trial.
Perhaps it was the bloodred skies as she ascended one twining staircase, giving the scene the feel of a sunset. Perhaps it was the way that the mind fragment shone so high above the test, at the peak of a pinnacle. Perhaps it was the lesson she'd learned, the magicka she'd never known she'd had, or the simple fact that resolve was the willpower employed to attain one's goals – and she'd attained it.
Perhaps it was because that if she had to go through one more damned test, Avielle was going to punch Henantier so hard, his great-grandmother in Summerset Isle was going to feel the pain.
Regardless of how, Avielle knew that this was it. Courage, perception, patience, and resolve. She'd displayed all of them to retrieve them, finding those same things buried deep within herself – well, patience could go off and die painfully in a corner somewhere, but she had to admit, for all the hell the Dreamworld had caused her, looking back at herself before the trials, she had to admit, she'd been extremely ignorant.
All she felt now was a deep fatigue, and a longing to see a world that she knew to be real.
Take me home, she thought, and reached for Henantier's Resolve, allowing the viridian light to engulf her in its tempest of raw emotion.
And it did.
0o0o0
It was half past five in the morning when Vicente finally stopped.
He was quite sure he'd lost the guards some time ago – a very fortituous occurrence, since the ice had given way to snow – but it was better to err on the side of caution. He'd decided to skirt around Kvatch by a wide margin, in the odd case that word had spread and they were running patrols on the lookout. Unlikely, but possible – in Morrowind, the guards had done everything at their disposal to eradicate vampires. The sentiment was not quite so vehement in Cyrodiil, but Vicente would hardly be able to warn his Family if he were dead... that was to say, really dead.
He'd have preferred to continue running in the thick woodland between Skingrad and Chorrol, but dawn was tarnishing the night sky with tinges of gray, and the Colovian Highlands was an uninviting, barren region with scarce shelter. If he passed up his current chance, he might not find another before daylight turned him to dust.
Vicente gazed upon the ruins of Fort Hastrel. Some two hundred and fifty years ago, not long after he'd arrived from Morrowind, the Council had decided it had no more need for its network of outposts within the main province. It was curious, the vampire reflected, and a little melancholy, to consider how time had brought such proud ramparts of white stone down to their knees, while he remained almost untouched.
And for the moment, time seemed to be standing still with him. No birds sang, no winds blew, and no motion stirred the snow; still were the shrouded shrubs and brush whise branches doggedly broke the surface of the white sea. Twilight cast one of those rare moments where everything appeared to hold its breath.
Breaking the illusion, he crossed over to the fort's entrance, kicking over his footprints as he went.
The breeze finally stirred as he dragged open the heavy wooden doors, pulling away from him and coaxing the somewhat warmer air from the fort to go along with it.
All breezes carry scents, and the assassin was extremely – perhaps uniquely – acquainted with this one.
Vampires.
Which could either be very good or very bad. If he tried to spend the day in the fort, they'd undoubtedly notice him. He knew vampiric senses and powers to the utmost. They might welcome him as one of their kind, or they could be more territorial and turn him away – and if it came to a fight, he could quite well be outmatched. Admittedly, Vicente did not have very much experience with vampire clans outside of Morrowind. The Quarra had grudgingly accepted him, and clans Berne and Aundae wanted him dead. Things were less black-and-white in this province, which was why Vicente had spared himself the trouble in the first place and existed as a loner in his years before the Brotherhood.
It was ridiculous, really, a vampire harboring reservations about encountering his own kind. Perhaps stress was catching up with him.
His own clan had hardly been deferent; when he'd left the Quarra, the fondest farewell aimed at him had been 'good riddance'. Granted, he'd been the 'accident', the unwanted mistake, and having three hundred years behind him now most definitely meant something. At the very least, it might earn him some respect among his kin...
But, he noted wryly, was there any point debating such things when his only other option was to burn down to cinders?
He stepped into the darkness, and the doors slammed shut behind him with a resounding clang.
0o0o0
Avielle's eyes fluttered open to sunlight.
For a moment, all she could do was gaze up in wonder at the warm golden light streaming through the windows – windows that no longer glared with a horrid crimson cast. She was laying on a second bed, one that hadn't been in Henantier's bedroom... or had it? The tables were intact, the alchemy displays empty and pristine... everything was whole.
And if the sunlight was here, then it meant that...
"I'm... back? In the real world?" she asked aloud to nobody, bolting upright.
Something in the corners of her peripheral vision moved. "Oh, she's finally waking up."
Hearing that raspy, reptilian voice reminded her of somebody she dearly wanted to beat up, but at the same time, it made her want to kiss the ground, because she was finally out of hell. She twisted around, noting with relief that her clothes were once again present – and with even more relief as she saw Henantier clothed as well, a simple blue robe maintaining his modesty. Kud-Ei was next to him, looking extremely relieved, and not the slightest bit guilty.
Avielle rolled out of the bed, stumbling a little as she got to her feet. Her legs were full of pins and needles, as if she had been sleeping for an age. Perhaps she had been. She stretched, rolling her shoulders and wiggling her fingers. She didn't feel like she had just woken from a dream, but then again, it had been a very screwed-up dream.
"Thank the Nines," she muttered fervently. "I never thought I'd be this happy to see sunlight again."
"I know what you mean," the Altmer replied, stepping forward. "I would have never made it out of that place if not for you. I have to thank you for putting up with so much, but..." Henantier rubbed his cheek ruefully. "Was it really necessary to punch me that frequently?"
"It damn was," the Breton nodded, still jovial. At the thought of her friend being manhandled, Kud-Ei gave Avielle an accusing glare. The girl rolled her eyes in response. "Don't get all self-righteous with me, Argonian. You sent me into that hell without my permission and against my will. I nearly died in the Dreamworld more times than I have in the rest of my life combined. You're lucky that I'm letting it drop."
"I suppose you're right," the Argonian said, somewhat balefully. "And you did do us a great service. We'll have to compensate you for your efforts, but I don't have much, I'm afraid."
"I have some powerful scrolls I've been working on," Henantier added. "You're more than welcome to a few of them."
Pieces of parchment with one-use spells seemed a pitiful reward for her trials, but then again, she'd gained something else that nobody would have ever been able to grant her. She could still feel it, that deeper, wilder well of magicka within. It was willful, proud, and unwilling to be tamed, but the sheer, effortless power that had engulfed her in the Dreamworld suddenly seemed like the key to everything she'd been looking for.
"Thank you," she answered, following him to a cupboard and perusing his selection. Even after saving his life, Henantier probably didn't want her to take all of his scrolls. The Breton turned a few over, reading the arcane glyphs inscribed. He had a few interesting fire spells, but Avielle wanted to stick to the schools that she knew relatively little about. After a bit of pondering, she took a soultrap enchantment, two scrolls of invisibility, water breathing, and even though she was proficient in Restoration, one of his Fortify Acrobatics scrolls that was too powerful to resist.
"No smacking this time?" the Altmer joked after Avielle had closed the cupboard.
"No need," she grinned back. "I've got a staff of paralysis in the real world. Much better for knocking people over."
Henantier sighed. "Kud-Ei certainly picked an interesting helper... and speaking of. I heard you wanted to talk to me about my practice? I'm not sure how much help I can be to you, but it's true I've done a fair amount of previously uncharted magical research."
"Actually..." Avielle frowned thoughtfully. "I think I already found what I was looking for."
And one last thing. If there's something you want to see, tell me in your reviews. I do have a skeletal plotline I'm going to stick to, but I can and already have deviated from things that I was going to do because you suggested an interest in it, a lot of people liked it, or too many of you predicted something was going to happen, and I changed around events. Some examples of this improv were Ray's 'lol, like, duuude' attitude, the guards at Anvil, M'aiq's reappearance, and Avielle's sassiness as a defining trait rather than just an anger thing.
Mind you, I probably won't tell you whether I'm going to do it or not. Just to keep you on your toes. But plot twists, characters, scenes, confrontations, side quests... things that you want to see, tell me. Because you just might see them.