Author's Note – I don't own Oblivion, and a huge thank-you to all of you who take the time to review. Sorry this took some time to get up, I was busy doing this awful crocheting project and writing my other oneshot, and you know how Christmas is... I've been consistently putting this off and subsequently feeling bad about it. Anyway, I doubt I'll be updating in all of January, save this - I'm sorry, but don't worry, I'm not dead. Just other stuff going on this month, I'm afraid.

Dreamer – Thank you! A staff would have been the obvious choice – not to mention too easy and not teaching her anything about the thing. Avielle was too buoyed about her discovery with magic and getting out of the Dreamworld to be as mad as she had a right to be. In any other case, Kud-Ei would have had her face rearranged.

Arty – Same thing about the staff. It's just too damn easy, takes all the difficulty out of the trial. I love wisps :o I set their aggression to zero, that makes them all leave you alone. And Vicente does have a slightly deeper reason for liking them, I'll touch upon that later. Vicente being deemed the traitor? Perhaps he wasn't. :P He's just trying to rationalize things. Description... eeep, thank you :D That really made my day. And you really should stop being so hard on yourself. You're extremely good. I don't know how to hammer that into your head, but...

DualKatanas – All right then, let's just say that the official guard uniform got changed to leather jackets and spandex. /shot Seriously, though, I just always figured it was pansy armor. Avielle – yeah, she might carry a dagger, but the worst she can do is poke you with it. She's not that kind of a fighter, hands down. I guess you're right about fortification magic, but it's not permanent, and you're right; not many people could bring up such spells. And when I was writing Avielle getting diced, I had to keep asking my mom (who is a nurse) about if severing something here would make this useless, and if tendons shatter or snap... by the end of it, she was giving me the weirdest look.

Nightmares – Yay, another reviewer! It makes me really happy that I have more readers than I originally thought, and I hope you enjoy it as I continue on.

Dandy – You seriously just made my morning. :D I was having a pretty bad one, but you really brightened up my day. Thank you so much!

Reva – Don't worry, Avielle's RAEGSMACKING days are far from over.

Carlotta – Thanks for explaining the fourth wall, but now, I'm not really sure how I broke it. :/ Ah well, that really does clear things up. And M'aiq is amazing. I said I wouldn't reply to your wishes, but... I have to say, you have not seen the last of M'aiq in this story. I promise. (He really needs to be on the character list, so does Janus Hassildor – they're so much more important than a lot of the people that show up.)

PossessedPen – You really flatter me :D. All right, that's it – I need to get this chapter done, no matter how writer's blocked I am. Thank you!

It wasn't long before Avielle found herself on the road again.

Talking with Henantier hadn't really provided much insight. He didn't know anything about hidden powerwells, and concluded he couldn't sense anything in her besides a normal Bretonic level of magicka when she tried to verify her claim. He also knew very little about Destruction – he couldn't even light a lamp with a fire spell – and Avielle had no need for his specialties, which lay in Illusion and Mysticism. In the end, she left Bravil none the wiser.

Almost none the wiser, anyways. Kud-Ei had informed her that if she really believed she'd discovered some hidden store of power within her, Carahil in Anvil would be the one to know about it. The head of the guild that specialized in Restoration was an expert in all things pertaining to the body. And that was the best lead she had, the Green Road it was.

After the all the stress of Dreamworld, the last thing Avielle wanted to do was go travelling again. She'd have been perfectly happy sleeping for the next week or so – sleeping naturally, that was – but then again, it was exactly as she always said. Lazing around never got anything done, and she was not going to drop her grudges that easily.

There were advantages to setting out so soon after her trials, however. Spending long durations of time holed up in study tended to dull one's skills and cause complacency. As it was, the challenges she'd seen so far on the road – an angry boar and a rat – had been incomparable to her more recent exploits. Both were now in a way that could only be described as 'well done'. And the feeling of being in control of her life was brilliant - every breeze, cloud, and sunbeam seemed so much sweeter, compared to the hellish scenery she'd just escaped.

Avielle started to whistle, ad-libbing a rather cheerful tune as she followed the cobblestone road. It was cool, but fairly warm for winter, and her thick coat was soft and toasty.

Going to Carahil seemed even more important than it had at the outset. She still couldn't figure out how to summon up that same magic from before, however; her spells were as normal as could be, no matter how much she could feel the power humming inside of her. The constant feeling of having something flutter just outside her reach was rapidly starting to frustrate her.

Not to say, of course, that frustrated was a new state of being for Avielle, but you had to pity the unfortunate thugs that made the enormous tactical mistake of jumping her.

Really, you did.

0o0o0

Vicente stepped into the darkness.

Rather, it would have been darkness for anyone other than him and the fort's occupants. He could see perfectly fine. Vampires have no need or affinity for torches; they're made to live at night, and are averse to fire anyhow. Besides, why would they be compelled to place any unwitting prey stumbling into their hideout at an advantage? Best to have them wandering around blind – the Quarra had taught him that, back in the days where he'd hunted by staying still rather than stalking.

Fort Hastrel was the archetype of a vampire nest; strands of cobwebs trailed from the stone-carved tunnels, and messy, aged bloodstains spotted the ground. Vicente sighed to himself and shook his head. Amateurs.

However, as he continued on, he became aware that something was distinctly wrong. At first it was mere intuition, a shivering discomfort chilling his spine, but he quickly realized that the feeling was warranted. The bloodstains on the ground were growing more frequent, and they were fresh. And, he noted, crouching to examine one, the blood was too thin and unappealing to him to be from any living man, mer, or beast.

And the silence. Unless every vampire in the clan was standing perfectly still, refusing to do so much as breathe, then something was definitely off. The Dark Gift lent its bearers great grace and stealth, but it gave powerfully enhanced senses as well; the fact that he couldn't hear anything else was unusual, and lent him some growing trepidation. He almost called up his Hunter's Sight to scout the area, but that would have done him little good, seeing that the dead did not possess any life energy to begin with.

He reconsidered this, however, when he came across his first corpse.

It was a vampire, its unseeing red eyes wide and staring. Vicente had no doubt it was permanantly dead; the Bosmer had suffered what looked like the shattering blows of a mace, and her throat had been slit deep enough to cut into the bone. Dead ichor pooled around her, seeping into the cracks and painting the stone a deep, brownish-red. The blood of the undead did not congeal as quickly as the living, it was true, but even so, it wasn't yet tacky. Which meant that the killing had occurred very recently, perhaps not even hours ago.

Not too far after this, he found another body, and he cursed silently under his breath. Within a second, he had activated his Sight and promptly scanned the halls, peering through the walls around him.

Out of all the shelters he could have picked for the day, he'd chosen the one filled with vampire hunters.

Because what else could the lifeless Dunmer have been? It was – or had been – living, Vicente was sure. His face was young and unlined, the canines in his parted maw small and unassuming, and the blood surrounding sent a sudden thrill of rapacity burning in his throat. The mace that had helped kill the Bosmer before was still in his hand, and the vampire could sense the fire enchantment still thriving within it. The choice of weapon was a giveaway in itself; flame was the universal vampiric weakness, since mages couldn't summon sunlight.

Vicente glanced backwards, half-considering turning back, but it was far too late to even dream of being outside and exposed now. He was an accomplished assassin, not an animal living in a cave, but even so, he was understandably on edge at the thought of being surrounded by those trained to exterminate his kind.

You're drawing conclusions too hastily, he reminded himself. From the look of that Dunmer, the clan here put up a good fight.

Any survivng vampires would probably be hostile after what they'd suffered, and any surviving hunters would attack him, hands-down. He would probably be facing a group of stragglers, tired and hurt from the fight they'd already had. Overconfidence killed, yes, but he was putting more apprehension towards the situation than it deserved. He pressed forward, stepping carefully over a thick pile of ash – somebody had been overzealous with their spells.

It wasn't long before the hall opened up into a grand, cavernous room. The smell of spilled blood, vampiric and mortal both, hit him like a fist to the stomach, even if it was his mind that reeled instead of his body. Before him was... utter carnage. Bodies, ash, scorch marks, and hunks of twisted metal and leather littered the ground like debris from a nightmare. About ten cadavers were all that remained of a small party of vampire hunters and an even larger group of their prey. Unless there were more waiting in the wings, neither had won the fight in the end

Something glimmered weakly at the corner of his eye; the trembling glow of a survivor, and a mortal one, at that. It seemed to be prone, flat on the ground, and its life force was frail and flickering. He let his vision lapse into natural sight, probing the scene with his acute eyes – indeed, there was a living creature on the bloodied stone, breathing labored, barely a few feet away from a deceased vampire that had been turned into a sickening parody of a pincushion.

At first, he assumed they were unconscious, but at the quiet pad of his footsteps, the person stirred and looked him straight in the eye.

The figure was a Khajiit; green eyes squinted balefully at him from the semidarkness. She was female, by her tapered muzzle and slender limbs. A gem-encrusted bow lay just out of reach of one outstretched paw. Her suit of elven armor was in very poor shape, almost beyond repair – it was deformed by dents in some places, and the whole left arm cover had been ripped off. The limb beneath was held stiffly at an odd angle, apparently broken. Dried blood encrusted her jet-black fur, and Vicente felt the familiar hunger stir within him, despite having sated it so recently. At least it was managable enough to repress casually. It was clear she wasn't a vampire, but their scent clung to her far deeper than simply being around them; it took him a moment to realize that she was infected but not yet turned, the disease festering inside of her.

Her eyes widened as she drew in his obviously vampiric features; emeralds met rubies with utmost suspicion, and then quickly morphed into outright hostility. Unsurprising...

Vicente crossed over to her, and she hissed, lips curling back to reveal gleaming teeth.

"Coming back to... finish me off... monster? Were my friends not enough... for you?"

"I beg your pardon?" The vampire stopped a few feet away from her, his eyes unfathomable. "I just arrived here. I'll admit, I wasn't expecting to see such a massacre."

A tight, humorless smile twisted the Khajiit's muzzle, her fierce expression half a grin and half a grimace. "Didn't expect... we... hunters... could take you... bloodsuckers down... did you?" she asked, defiant. Even though it was now quite clear Vicente was speaking to a vampire hunter, he couldn't help but feel a glimmer of admiration for the Khajiit. She was staring her apparent death in the face, and she mocked him without a trace of fear. Even down for the count, her demeanor and ebony complexion lent her the appearance of a panther. He crossed the last of the distance between her and knelt by her side.

"You misunderstand me. I'm afraid I'm not at all acquainted with the clan that hid here," he said smoothly. "I simply sought shelter from the sunlight, and this was the closest building."

"A... likely story. Why don't you just... get it... over with?"

"Get what over with?" Now he was almost teasing. He had to admit, he was enjoying himself a little. Predatory instinct mandated he derived some satisfaction from playing with the prey, even if he wasn't actually hunting her, and she was simply asking for it.

"Hnnrrggh..." The Khajiit groaned, twisting in pain. "Stop toying... with me... you animal!"

And with frightening speed, she lunged at him with claws unsheathed.

0o0o0

"Your wallet or your life," the Argonian rasped, brandishing a very dangerous-looking sword.

Avielle blinked. One second, she'd been following the road, practicing incantations under her breath. A bush had rustled, and suddenly there were three highwaymen surrounding her, none of them seeming overly friendly.

"Oh, great," she muttered.

"Pay up." The reptile extended a scaly hand, and Avielle gritted her teeth.

"Can't you fetchers earn a living some other way? Be peddlers, play an instrument, I don't care. Life is hard enough with everyone walking the straight and narrow, scum."

The Argonian tilted his head; clearly, he wasn't used to anyone talking back to him. The bandit to his left, an Altmer, stepped forward. "We do provide a service for the people, miss. One hundred Septims for your safe passage. Is that not fair?"

"Well..." The Breton pretended to think. "Since you're the reason this road is dangerous-" here, she made mocking quotation marks in the air with her fingers, "-to begin with, I'd say no, it isn't fair at all."

"Pretty talk won't get you through," growled the third, a collossal Orc. "Pay the boss a hundred sep'ms or we cut you up good."

"I don't have one hundred septims on me," Avielle said truthfully. The only things she carried were her meager assortment of weapons and a travelling bag containing a few coins, potions, and some food. "I keep all of my money in the Mages' Guild vaults. So get out of my way or become my target practice for the afternoon. I've got some spells I've been itching to test out."

If she'd been hoping that bringing up her affiliation would intimidate the rogues, she was sorely mistaken. All she earned was a condescending smile from the Altmer and full-out derisive laughter from the other two. After a quarter of a minute the Argonian held up a hand, still chuckling in dry, reptilian cadences.

"A mage, eh? Cute. But speaking of, that staff you're carrying looks as though it would certainly cover our little toll," one of the flanking highwaymen noted.

Avielle took a step back, suddenly very aware of the staff's comfortable weight on her back, nestled firmly in its straps. "Like hell I'm giving that away, fetchers."

The Argonian raised one scaly eyebrow; as if on cue, his cronies drew a bow and a mace respectively. "You don't really have a choice, girl," he hissed. "You can give it to us, or we'll pry it from your corpse's fingers. Take your pick, Breton, and hurry up. You've wasted enough of our time already."

Fighting. If there was anything Avielle hated... well, no, she hated a lot of things, but fighting was high up on her list. And even if the Altmer looked like a bit of a sop, the Argonian and Orc were screaming 'battle-hardened', and the latter's mace was generously crusted in gore from his past exploits. All she had was a paralysis staff, a silver knife, and magic that refused to cater to her whims...

"Well?"

She mustered up all the defiance she could. "I've had enough of people screwing with me. Get out of my sight."

"Wrong answer," the Altmer said silkily. His grin didn't falter, but there was now a tangibly feral undertone to it. It reminded her uncomfortably of the necro-whatevers she'd kept running into in months past.

"I think it's the right one," the Orc grunted, hefting his spiked mace. "It's been too long since I got to carve up some meat."

The Argonian highwayman didn't bother with lines at first; instead, he twirled his broadsword in a rather elegant fashion, finally settling into a combat stance that bespoke years of experience. "Fair enough," he hissed. "It's more loot this way anyways. Even though it's a pity to kill a fine specimen like yourself... try not to damage her staff, boys. It looks valuable."

"I'll try not to damage your pathetic asses," she shot back, more instinctive bravado than actual confidence. Seeing a large and hostile Orsimer in close quarters was an extremely unnerving sight to those unfamiliar with combat, and Avielle was no warrior. And the speed-stealing spell she always relied on was a bad choice in short range - if she were to use it now, she'd end up in the spell's radius, and would be just as debilitated as her foes. She could throw smaller fireballs, but that would take longer and that arrow just came really close to my head -

No, she definitely had to get them on the ground before she could do anything else. Time to rely on her little souvenir from the University. Avielle fumbled with her straps, desperation making her movements clumsy and futile. Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap...

And why are you afraid? whispered a little voice in the back of her mind.

It presented itself mockingly, almost lazily. There it was again - that renewed, deepened sense of something else, a half of her she'd only just discovered and was beginning to understand, perhaps even a sense of self-completion she was drifting toward. The warm, electrifying sensation of raw arcane power charged every nerve ending in her body. Once more, she was overcome with the impossibly intense feeling of being alive.

You, who could bring the world down to its knees, the rasp continued.

Bringing the world to its knees did not sound particularly appealing to the Breton, but kicking bandit ass was more than welcome. The magic swirled around her, inside her, sparking from her fingers and glowing through her eyes. To anyone else, Avielle would have looked possessed. As it was, she could have been. But she couldn't see it. The typically analytical and hot-headed mage had shifted entirely to the 'hot-headed' side, and her mind was entirely, almost obsessively focused on the task before her - erasing three fetchers from the face of Nirn. She lifted her hand, fixing her now solid-blue eyes on the paused ruffian trio.

The magicka came forth.

And it was nothing like she remembered.

The raw elemental power rushed from her palms with a flash of ominous crimson light; the air froze, sublimated, and convulsed where the unrefined spell passed through. The trio of ruffians had roughly enough time to become morbidly aware of their poor choice in victims, and then they were doomed. But the feeling of invigoration that had accompanied the last instance was absent, and the ravaging claws of her elemental slaughter did not stop with her targets.

Her skin was burning, cracking and charring with voltage, caught up in the deadly tempest of her own attack...

Avielle's screams joined the highwaymen's as she doubled over, feeling as if she'd been doused in acid. Make it stop! she begged internally, but the magicka had been awakened, and it would not be pacified now; it mercilessly razed her as it used her as a conduit to escape to the outside world. She would have crumpled to the stone, had the flow of power not been holding her semi-upright like a marionette.

Her sight faded into the confused blackness of unconsciousness, except she was still aware. There was a sound like thunder crashing, only it seemed to roll on and on for an eternity, mingled with the hissing of flame and steam. Seconds stretched out into encompassing eternity, distorted almost to the point of time not existing at all. There was only cacophony and pain.

By the time she fell to her knees, as bonelessly as a puppet with its strings cut, she could no longer feel - or otherwise sense - her legs hitting stone. The only thing she could comprehend was that the ravaging flow of magicka had shuddered to a stop, leaving her to flounder in the dark and wait for her senses to return with agonizing slowness. Smell was first to return, bringing with it the nightmarish odor of burning to coat her nostrils. Taste came with the coppery tang of blood - she must have bitten her tongue at some point, hard enough to make it bleed. Touch, everything ached, hearing, only the dry rustle of a cold gale, and then she opened her eyes.

Avielle struggled to her feet, breath coming in short gasps. She felt... truncated, it was the only word for it. The sheer influx of magic had vanished, whisking all of her energy away with it; now she trembled, fatigued beyond belief and barely able to keep herself upright. Her skin cracked and drifted to the stone as ash as she moved, and the foul smell of charred flesh made her dizzy.

Her sight was still hazy, blurred as if from concussion. She called up a frail healing spell, the best she could muster in her shell-shocked state. It was nothing impressive, but some of the burns eased up, her vision cleared, and her limbs were no longer shaking so badly.

Not that the slight well-being was going to last. The stretch of road, so previously well-kept, was black. Soot and frost lined the cracks between the cobblestones, and the snow on the path's sides was in a similiar condition - melted in some places, and deep-frozen into ice in others. Another magic seemed to linger in the air, something she couldn't place, but she was certain it was not elemental. And then, she realized with horror, what of her adversaries? Avielle was afraid to look, but her eyes seemed to have a mind of their own.

She took one look at what was left of the highwaymen and doubled over, retching dryly.

What have I done?

She'd seen this new power of hers as a boon, a means to achieve the vengeance she'd inherited from her family's death. Now, she felt herself shivering with a cavernous sense of fear. It was wild, dangerous, uncontrollable... and she'd murdered the bandits as brutally and cold-bloodedly as the affiliation she so abhored.

They attacked me first, her conscience put forth feebly, but she didn't feel it.

Avielle had to get away - there were no answers to be found here in this ruin, nothing but fear and confusion and shadows that gathered in the edges of her mind, whispering like scores of sinister shades.

You wanted us, didn't you?

Why are you afraid of what you can be?

You asked.

What in Oblivion? Avielle jerked back, as if recoiling would distance her from the hisses in her head. Was she going mad? She shook her head to clear it, but the voices only intensified, growing from a few scattered whispers to scores of them.

Aha! Ahahahahahahahahaha! one laughed.

No, don't do it! Please! another begged. Don't hurt him! I'll do anything, just...

You, who could bring the world down to its knees...

The clopping steps of a guard on horseback making his routine patrols drifted to her, snapping her out of her waking nightmare and banishing her ghosts to the darkest recesses of her mind.

Avielle ran.

0o0o0

Vicente caught her wrist gently but firmly a few inches from his face.

Vampires are difficult to surprise, and in her state, the Khajiit didn't stand a chance on loosing a successful attack. She struggled for a moment in his grip, then slumped backwards, panting – the sudden movements had aggravated her injuries and drained her already depleted energry. "Just... get... it over... with..." she rasped again, her pupils narrowed to slits with the pain.

"Will you calm down?" he murmured, a trace of amusement coloring his tone. "I'm really quite willing to be civil if you would be so kind as to act as such as well."

"I... should have... known... that... you bastards... play... with your food..." she gasped. "Stop... lying!"

By Sithis, she was a stubborn one. He sighed. "And yet you are hovering on the brink of becoming one of us bastards. How does that make you feel?"

She hissed, baring a mouthful of razor teeth. "Great... because then... I'll be able... to... kill you..."

"I doubt it." Vicente shook his head slightly, almost patronizing. "But if that's how you feel, I suppose I will have to remedy that."

Inwardly, he sighed. By Sithis, I am starting to become a charity case.

He extended a hand, laying his palm over her head. She snapped at it once, and his other hand came down on the Khajiit's neck, restraining her as one would hold down a tantrum-throwing child. Her thrashing grew into motionless disbelief as he shivered, braced himself, and called up the contemptuous fires of Restoration magicka, trying to ignore the indescribably unpleasant feeling it brought with it. Where his hand came into contact with her forehead, the palm glowed a soothing silver-blue, drawing out the porphryic hemophilia and purifying her ravaged body.

Vicente shuddered as the last of the hated energies dissipated from his body, leaning back. How he detested that particular arcane school... but he couldn't deny its usefulness where others were concerned. The dark-furred Khajiit stared up at him in bewildered wonder for a few moments, unable to find her voice.

"Why...?" she finally rasped.

"I'm really not in the mood for trouble," he explained tonelessly to the wide-eyed female, but a small smirk betrayed his amusement. "Couldn't have feisty young vampire chasing me around, could I?"

He crossed his arms. "Those wounds look somewhat uncomfortable. I'll make you a deal. If I go fetch a healing potion for you, will you refrain from attacking me once back on your feet? Do not get me wrong, I don't fear you in the slightest, but I'm not in the mood to pick fights."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Why are you doing this for me?" Her voice was still weak, but the removal of the disease had restored her stamina, and she no longer was struggling for breath.

"I was born in a deeply chivalrous century. Those mannerisms don't really leave you if they are hammered into your mind for long enough, and I have been led to believe that it's bad manners to find a grievously wounded young lady and simply walk away."

Of course, that sort of thing was a boon on contracts, but he preferred not to 'finish the job' if it wasn't his, well, job.

"Why can't you just heal me with magic?" The Khajiit was still suspicious. Quietly, Vicente approved, almost as if he were assessing an apprentice. It was wisely cautious of her and bespoke either perception or experience - after all, anyone could slip nightshade and spiddal in a vial and call it a restorative.

"You're very thorough, aren't you?" he remarked. "I could, yes. But being undead, the energies of life do not agree with me as well as they once did. You can find healing potions practically anywhere, and I am sure there should be a handful of them in storage here. And honestly, if I was trying to kill you, I would not have waited this long to do it."

She scrutinised him for a few more moments, then abruptly sighed. "Doesn't make a difference if you kill me or not at this point, I guess. Fine. You have a deal."

"Excellent." The vampire stood, eyes raking the room intently until he located a likely-looking wooden chest against the north wall. He crossed over to it, brushing the lock aside with a muttered word and a golden glow. Indeed, the recepticle did contain a fine assortment of potions - not necessarily impressive by his standards, but perfectly respectable. He took a healing vial, uncorking it to make sure it was not spoiled, and then returned to the Khajiit.

"Can I ask you your name?" he inquired casually. "I find myself rather unable to leave this building at present, and I'd rather I had something to call you by."

She took the potion from him, sniffing it carefully. It seemed as though she could find nothing off with it, and a few seconds later, she struggled upright, downing the liquid in a few gulps. The effect was instantaneous - wounds sealed shut and bare patches regrew fur at an amazing rate. A sigh of relief escaped her mouth as the pain slipped into the ether from whence it came. Within seconds, the Khajiit looked as if nothing had ever ailed her - at least, she would have, had her armor not been destroyed.

She stretched, waving her tail experimentally. "Hunh," she muttered, mostly to herself. "I guess you weren't lying, after all." She looked up at the Breton, green eyes wary but no longer expressly hostile. "Na'viri. What's yours? 'Random vampire that's either freakishly friendly or is playing some extended and sadistic joke on me' seems kind of long."

The vampire in question laughed at that. "Vicente," he answered, stepping away and settling down next to the stone wall. He sat at an almost perfectly ninety-degree angle - it looked very uncomfortable to Na'viri, but Vicente seemed to think the opposite. He brushed a bit of the dust off the area, trying to keep his cloak pristine. "Charmed to make your acquaintance."

The Khajiit squinted. "Well, you weren't lying when you said you were old-fashioned. Does anyone actually say 'charmed' these days?"

"Perhaps not." He sighed. "If so, I would consider it a folly of modern civilization to have tossed such formalities aside. But etiquette is neither here nor there. May I inquire as to what exactly you and your unfortunate companions were doing here?"

Na'viri hesitated for a moment, then sighed.

"I guess there's no reason not to tell. It's not like it matters anymore."

"Don't worry." The vampire rolled his shoulders, trying to settle into the most comfortable position. "I assure you, I have no connection to the clan that existed here, and I'm uninterested in haring off after anyone for revenge. I simply prefer to know."

"Wouldn't bother me if you did kill him," the Khajiit muttered. "'They're easy', he says, 'take some fire spells and you'll cut right through them', he says. I needed some money, and this bastard Altmer at the Kvatch Mages' Guild was paying well for vampire dust. I knew it sounded too good to be true..." She growled softly under her breath. "Never trust a mage. Um, no offense to you if you are one. Without that spell you cast on me, I'd be a mon- well, you know. Err, I..."

"None taken," Vicente said smoothly, letting her end her sudden floundering with grace. "I'm a practitioner, but magic is not exactly my profession. It simply constitutes a part of it."

"Oh, good." Na'viri was relieved. "I'm a freelancer, myself. Call myself an adventurer, but I'm not sure I have any claim to the title. Hnnh, just look at me."

"I don't know about that," the assassin noted genially. "If I am interpreting this correctly and you have never fought vampires before, then you actually managed quite well."

The Khajiit snorted. "I'm sure," she muttered, words bitingly sarcastic. "I rounded up a couple of old acquaintances. Mostly Fighters' Guild - they seem to be low on work lately. All dead now. We were massacred. It was pitch black, and none of my companions even knew what Night-Eye was... not a very good basis for vampire hunters, huh? Floundering around in the dark and getting attacked from all sides. I was the only one that could see; we were in this huge room and they were waiting at the walls... I think Selvel - he was one of us - ran for it, but I doubt he made it back outside. The rest of them were just flailing their weapons around blindly. Well, they could probably see shadows moving around, but we were basically fighting in the dark. And the worst thing was, I could shoot the bl- vampires off of them for fear of hitting them by accident. While I was hesitating, one of them jumped me from behind." She flexed her claws, which were still dark with blood. "I managed to kick him away and finish him off with my bow, but by then, there were only three of us - my allies - left. Then two. And..." Her eyes misted, and she drew a shuddering breath.

"It was just me and Hal-zet. I've known - I knew - him since the days we were urchins in Kvatch's streets. Of all the warriors I brought here, he was the only one I really could call a friend."

"So it was three of them and two of us. Hal-zet backhanded one with his axe and practically ripped it in two. And as I just stood there like an idiot, watching, something bit into my neck. I struggled and it started clawing me - by Talos, its nails were like daggers - and it went for my throat again when I was too hurt to fight back. And Hal... he saw me, and shouted something... and then he threw his axe. It wasn't a throwing axe. It had to weigh at least fifty pounds. But he did it all the same, and his aim was perfect. It embedded itself in the vamp's back, and it fell off me, gurgling blood."

"I got to my feet just in time to see the last vampire rise behind him and put a sword through his ribs."

With this, she gasped and began to cry in earnest. Vicente automatically placed a hand on her shoulder, gentlemanly instincts overriding the fact that she didn't belong to his Family. She didn't reject the gesture; instead, she struggled on with the retelling.

"H-H-Hal d-didn't die, n-not straight off. He w-was still m-m-moving, trying to p-pull back, and I... I tried to save him. I nocked an arrow and let f-fly, and the m-m-monster l-lifted him up H-Hal-zet like a sh-shield and it w-w-went straight through his n-neck! I k-killed my b-best friend!"

Vicente knew the feeling... different only in that he'd never be able to rationalize it to himself as an accident.

"No," soothed the vampire, but Na'viri continued to sob, shaking her head from side to side until she finally managed to quiet down.

"Look at me," she muttered, ears flat. "Bawling my eyes out to a vampire."

"I really shouldn't have asked about this," apologized Vicente. "It wasn't my right to pry."

"It's fine. I just... need some time for this to sink in. I c-can't believe he's really gone. Oh, Hal... I shot that bloodsucker like I was insane. Don't think I've ever nocked and loosed arrows that fast in my life... at the time, I didn't even realize it was me who was screaming. And you know what? I kept firing long after that bastard was dead. It was crazy, hell, I was crazy, but it felt like if I killed his murderer enough times, it might bring Hal back. Insane, I know, but-"

"Insane?" Vicente laughed bitterly. "Not at all, no, not at all. I've been there before." And the person I wanted to see dead was myself.

Na'viri sent him a questioning look, but he ignored it, not wanting to pursue the subject. Like hell he would, not with the nightmares starting to look so close to present reality.

Damn the sun. If not for it, nothing but conquerable distance would stand between him and the home he so desperately needed to reach. It wasn't that the Khajiit was bad company; professional analysis made it clear to him that she did not possess an assassin's mindset, but he had been surprised at her willingness to accept him so soon after what she had suffered. She seemed perceptive and devoted, both traits to admire - but she was not of his world, and he had things he needed to do.

The quickest way to pass the time would have been to sleep, as fatigue was catching up with him anyway. It had been a while since he'd had any true rest. But he was a fool if he was going to leave himself so vulnerable before a warrior whom he had no real reason to trust.

Almost as if she could see his thoughts, Na'viri suddenly squinted. "You know, you look terrible."

Vicente wasn't sure what she was commenting on. "Really? I always thought I was fairly dashing, taking into consideration that I have been dead for several centuries."

"No, that's not what I meant. You look... worn. Haggard. Like you haven't slept for a while. Do vampires sleep? Or... oh. Er, not to overlook everything you've done for me, but I'd really, really prefer not to be a blood donor. Um, sorry, I shouldn't have brought this up in the first place."

The vampire grinned, letting the tiniest acuity of his fangs show at the edge of his lower lip. "Actually, you had it right the first time. It's nothing more sinister than being behind on rest. May I add that your expectations where my manners are concerned are shockingly low?"

Khajiits aren't visible blushers, but Na'viri still managed to look abashed. "Sorry," she repeated. "I just heard... somewhere... that vampires look less normal when they haven't, ah, eaten in a long time, and, well, you..."

"Whoever told you that was unusually well educated," he remarked. "But when you are as old as I am, it doesn't make much of a difference, sadly. Even vampires cannot be young forever."

"Oh." She seemed more than willing to drop the subject. "Well, why don't you get some sleep? I can keep watch."

Being asked to go to sleep was too hard-wired as a trap in his mind to even consider. How to politely decline?

"Not for anything," he commented, deftly changing the subject, "but what are you still doing here? I do appreciate company, but I find myself at a loss as to why a young lady like yourself is lingering in a cavern brimming with cadavers."

He wouldn't have been surprised if the wording of his question offended her, but Na'viri seemed more troubled than anything else. "I guess I haven't thought of what to do next."

"In your situation, my first steps would be to leave Fort Hastrel. I suppose there are other ways you could go about it, though."

"Very funny." She gave him a baleful glance. "I don't know where to go from here. My best friend is dead, along with most of my associates. And I'm not sure I have a stomach for leading others to their deaths - I'm not much of a lone fighter, I always travel in groups. And this proves I can't fight worth a damn by myself, if I end up like this after using everyone with me as a shield. I don't think I can do this anymore, and the one person who could have helped me figure myself out was killed by my own shot."

Oh dear. Women working themselves up into a pensive, self-loathing frenzy. He detested what he did not know how to deal with - there were not many things the vampire feared, but this was one of them. Vicente hastily composed some choice words.

"You are really being much too hard on yourself. You were fighting unprepared against odds that wouldn't have necessarily turned out well for somebody much more skilled. Are you simply going to give up? Your friend had a choice, and he gave you your life in exchange for his own. I doubt I have a right to talk here, but as I see it, it's an insult to his memory to simply stop and mourn what happened here. There's always something to return to, always something to forge from the ashes. Everyone has a life they manage to live." He smiled as gently as he could. "Even I do."

Even though it appears to be coming apart at the seams.

Sometimes, Vicente wished he could believe his own advice.