"But what of the Dragonborn, Master? Surely you would not be so blind to ignore his presence in Skyrim?"
Syrath shrugged off Vingalmo's outburst with the flick of the wrist, "He has not been a problem before and I do not see him becoming one in the future."
Syrath's voice was a deep hiss that his followers had learned to fear, and rightly so. He sat upon the throne of Volkihar Keep after having destroyed his predecessor, Lord Harkon, in a magnificent battle for power. As if that weren't enough, he wore an intricately designed mask at all times, and few of the vampires had ever seen the man's face. Syrath was the Vampire Lord now, and they didn't even know what he looked like.
To his right sat his mistress, Serana, the daughter of Lord Harkon and Lady Valerica. Syrath had taken her as his bride shortly after her father's death. To Serana's dismay, her mother remained trapped in the Soul Cairn despite her best efforts at convincing Syrath to find a way to free her. It was not that it was not within his power to do so, rather that he felt the task was beneath him.
She leaned over and whispered in Syrath's ear. Vingalmo and the rest of the feeding hall fell silent, save for the groans and sluggish shuffling from the 'cattle'. When she had finished, Syrath stood up from his throne and approached the edge of the balcony to address his cult.
"Do you so fear this Dragonborn?" his mask glistened in the golden light of the chandeliers, "Have you forgotten who we are?"
The dining hall remained deathly silent. Syrath, turned to his side and with his right arm outstretched, pointed at Serana.
"She tells me I should listen to you, Vingalmo. She pleads that I take your concerns into consideration." His gaze turned back to the vampires below him and his voice grew deeper with rage. "The daughter of the dead man who betrayed you all, is vouching for you."
Some muttering could be heard in the halls. While no one doubted Syrath's right to the throne, many still held Harkon in high esteem. Two such people were his former advisors, Vingalmo and Orthjolf. The large nord stood up to interject.
"Master, while it is true that you have brought us undeniable glory over the last few months, it would be foolish to think that we cannot be beaten." He spoke with typical Nord vigor. "We have recently lost touch with our men in the Reach, and many of our spies in Markarth have been executed."
Syrath retorted "For every failure we have had a dozen successes."
"My point, Master, is that there are failures. We are not invincible."
"Our failure has been dealt with, has it not?"
Syrath spoke truth. Orthjolf felt a lump in his throat as he thought back to the day Garen Marethi had been executed for his poor decisions regarding the excursion in the Reach. The dunmer's entrails had been strewn from wall to wall in the castle courtyard. Orthjolf could still hear his screams.
Vingalmo took advantage of the nord's hesitation, "Permit me to send a scouting party out to find out what we can about the Dragonborn, master. Then we can have him dealt with before he becomes a problem."
There was no denying that Vingalmo knew how to handle Syrath. But he lacked the same foresight that his Vampire Overlord had in abundance.
"Vingalmo, I already know all that I need to know about him." Beneath his mask lay a telling grin, "Sybille Stentor has informed me that he recently did a job for Jarl Elisif."
The dining halls fell to silence once more. Syrath paused and his followers took in the hesitation, a telltale sign that they had all been curious about the famed Dragonborn.
"I know that he has liberated the East Empire Company from the clutches of a powerful dragon in Wyrmstooth." He started slowly pacing from end to end of his balcony above his peons below. "I know that he has all but eradicated the cult of Potema, and even slain their figurehead witch in the catacombs of Solitude. I know that he is the Thane of Whiterun." His pacing drew to a sudden halt. "He has achieved much."
Orthjolf, dejected, slumped back into his seat and let out a deafening sigh. Vingalmo remained at his feet. Syrath continued.
"But… perhaps we can come to some sort of arrangement." He let his arm outstretch towards both Vingalmo and Orthjolf, and all the eyes in the dining hall fell on them. "A little… game, perhaps?"
Vingalmo and Orthjolf exchanged befuddled glances, they could only speculated at what sort of plot their overlord had come up with in the twisting nethers of his mind.
"Each of you can assemble a group of your most trusted servants to bring me the Dragonborn's head." He paused for dramatic effect, as he often did. "He who succeeds shall live, he who fails shall end up like our old friend Marethi – a decorative feature in the castle gardens."
The dining halls erupted with chaos. Some of the more jovial vampires cheered and laughed, downing their goblets of human blood, spilling the tainted red upon the floor's decorative tiles. Others argued amongst themselves in clear distaste of Syrath's proposition.
Orthjolf's fist slammed down on the dining table and rose to his feet, knocking his over neighbour's cup of blood in the process. "This is an outrage!"
Unmoved by the outburst, Syrath sat down upon his throne beside Serana and let the large Nord continue.
"We should be pooling our resources! This is madness!" the nord's face was red with anger. In stark contrast, Vingalmo seemed more calm and collected. Syrath's glowing red eyes raced between the two of them from behind the visage of his mysteriously decorative mask.
Vingalmo spoke with calm conviction "While it is true that Orthjolf and I have often not seen eye to eye, I have to agree that this is meaningless."
Syrath remained silent, observing the two of them as he once observed Harkon.
"By pooling our resources we will guarantee success, we can take our time and strike with precision. Doing it this way will only breathe hasty decision making."
Syrath raised his hand and the hall fell into silence once more. With a quiet hiss, he spoke.
"Meaningless? Madness? An outrage?" his hiss of a voice turned to a violent roar, "You are both remnants of an age long dead! I could kill you both myself before either of you could next blink!"
His voice full of hatred echoed in the dining hall. The faces on both of Harkon's old advisors were the image of pure horror. Both of them knew what their new master was capable of, but neither of them knew the full extent of his power. They had both know that Lord Harkon was an incredibly gifted mage and an equally gifted necromancer, but neither of them had witnessed the fight that took place between he and Syrath.
There had been stories going around that it was a magnificent show of magic. Some had said that Syrath had murdered Harkon with a flurry of blade strikes before he could even react. But those that had seen Syrath return to Castle Volkihar with the legendary weaponry of Auriel had believed the story to be far more grandiose. The truth was that it was only Serana that had witnessed the conflict, and she had never spoken of it. It was that fact that had prevented the other vampires from murdering Syrath in his sleep.
It was common knowledge that both Orthjolf and Vingalmo had voiced their displeasure at serving Syrath. He was deathly ruthless and lacked the civility that Lord Harkon had employed within the castle. Where Harkon had placed importance in respect, Syrath held no such regard for the lives of those around him.
Syrath stood up and folded his arms. He had observed the chaos in the dining halls for some time now. It seemed to be the old guard versus the new. One of the recruits had thrown a flask of blood at Orthjolf and the giant nord had retaliated by holding him down by his neck and blasting his face with a novice-level flame spell.
Syrath turned to address Serana.
"Make your way to my chambers and remove your garbs. I will be there shortly."
She always did as she asked because she loved him. Albeit unrequitedly.