Meilmia sat back in her chair, thinking about all that had transpired in the past years. It was exactly thirteen years ago, a few hours of maybe, that she was transformed into a creature of the night. A vampire. She did not look any older, any more wrinkled, or any scarier. In fact, she looked just as, if not more beautiful then ever before. Well, at least that is what her mate had told her.

The sheer blackness of the ruins was enough to blind any adventurer, but the vampires' amazing eyesight cut right through it. Tall, Altmer vampires patrolled the halls of the ancient fort that they had taken from the legion after much bloodshed. The bodies were either used for feeding or were summoned back to life and used for necromancy.

Meilmia's room was the room of the full dragon colonel that had sat here so long ago. She used his maps and intelligence to send her vampires on successful raids, each one either against other vampire clans or against the Legion outposts on the Summerset Isle. Yes, her vampires.

She leaned farther back into her comfortably padded chair recalling all that had transpired.

She had killed the ranger, she remembered that. She had awaked later that night, hungry. She did not like the feeling and thought of it at first, but after an hour she had sunk her fangs into the corpse's neck. Immediately afterward, she vomited. The blood had thickened, and turned disgusting.

The Altmer sprinted out of the cabin, looking for both fresh blood, and the clan that had damned her. The first night, she found neither. She returned to the cabin to sleep. A sleep that was filled with terrific nightmares. About killing her friends, them begging her to stop, trying to get away.

She awoke at sunset, and set off for more food. She remembered passing by a small farm not seven miles back before the meadow. That were she had to go. Needed to go.

She sprinted the entire way, to her surprise, not tiring in the least. She remembered kicking in the door with ease. The family, which was sitting at the table, preparing to eat their supper, sent the man of the house to investigate. She quickly disappeared into a small closet and watched the clueless man look at the door, then outside. He had no clue! The Altmer wandered about outside for a bit, checking around to see if any young teenagers were pulling his leg.

Upon coming back in the small farmhouse, Meilmia burst from her hiding spot. The man instantly brought his guard up, but that could not help him. She grabbed his face and squeezed. It was unbelievable how strong she was! She could feel his eyes bulging, bones cracking, flesh tearing. Flesh! It was the only warm thing she had felt in so long, and she was so cold… She instantly sunk her teeth into the man's neck. She needed the warmth to get rid of the cold. She was very cold.

The night afterward, she returned to the farmhouse. It was pure carnage. The night before, the Altmer vampiress had crushed a man's face with just one hand, beaten down a stable hand with her ferociously sharp nails. They seemed to be strong as iron, she thought. Now she would return for the mother and the young daughter. They were not going anywhere. Meilmia had killed the horses, and had stuck a knife in the mother's leg, making a huge gash.

She remembered her heartlessness; she splattered the chubby High Elf all over the wall, and toyed with the daughter before finally slowly killing her, feeding off her alive.

Weeks later, Meilmia would find the vampire clan that had infected her, but she would not seek revenge. Her view on the undead had completely changed. She willingly joined, and shortly after, due to her beauty, became the Patriarch's mate.

He treated her like a play thingy, toying with her emotions, cheating on her, and beating her. To him, she was just a sex kitten. He teased her more than once about his ability to command other vampires. He told her about how her friends pleaded for her to help them while they had their throats eaten.

She killed him. Simple as that. Murdered him in cold blood. No regrets. She immediately showed aggression toward any other creature of darkness that tried to take the seat of power. Moreover, none tried to.

Therefore, here she was, at a territorial war with the other Altmer vampires of the Summerset Isle. Moreover, so far, she was winning the battle. At the mere mention of her name, opposing clans would quiet down and change the subject. Just what Meilmia wanted.

The shamans bickered among each other on who would give the war chief the bad news. Due to his fierce reputation, none of the witch doctors wanted to tell the goblin that his Altmer sex slave had died giving birth.

However, the offspring would be something that would definitely cheer the brutal goblin up. A small baby with green, scaly skin, dozens of small horns on his head, and fierce red eyes; something any goblin could be more then proud of. The war chief would be honored.

Still, none wanted to tell him that his favorite piece of plunder was killed during birth. Eventually, the large goblin simply walked into the room, and was outraged to hear that his plaything was dead. He had his mace unsheathed and was ready to strike the first shaman closest to him, when one of the goblins held up a small, green creature.

The war chief held his stance, but stared at the babe with unbelieving eyes. He may not have been very smart, but he knew that this creature would be destined for greatness. He knew the babe would get the savageness and physique of his father, and would inherit the knowledge, power, and magic from his mother, a tribunal chief in a small village.

The small Elf/Goblin was sure to be a legend. His name would go down in legend.

2E 559

Early summer, the snow finishing its melting, the lakes thawing, the birds coming back, and mud everywhere; the perfect day in spring. In the Niben valley, the wind had a chill on it as it came from the mountains just miles to the east. The birds sang their beautiful songs, frogs chirped around different swamps. A perfect, silent day. Silent except for the metal boots marching down a muddy, unused trail.

"So, Mac, what are we out here for again?" Haenkus, a young Imperial, who, in all truth, was not old enough to buy a drink. He lied his way into the Legion, saying he was eighteen. The recruiter did not believe him, seeing as how he showed no signs of shaving, still looked like a little boy, and had arms scrawnier then his fifteen-year-old daughter. However, quotas would not meet themselves, now would they? Seeing as how the young, golden haired Imperial had almost no upper body strength, he used a lightweight, forty-five pound bow. He had proven himself more then once with it, hitting a bottle of ale seventy yards away. (Of course, it was empty. It would have been a Legion crime not to empty its contents first.)

Sergeant "Mac" Bolvo just continued his steady march through the brush, occasionally ducking under a branch. His stern, aged face gave no expression; his cold, blue eyes cut through the shrubs and small trees that stood in his way.

"Mac?" Haenkus asked in his Imperial City accented voice.

"Try calling him by his rank, private." Hamlet the Hard Axe suggested, slowly drawing out the young Imperial's rank. Haenkus gave Hamlet a quick, dirty look, but quickly got back to looking at the trail, as the huge, in shape Nord turned to regard Haenkus. He had heard stories on what the Specialist had done to some privates. They did not bode well for him.

"Sergeant?" Haenkus tried again, more calm and respectful.

"We're out here because our butter bars wants us to be." Mac replied in his low, stern voice, his expression unchanging.

"Well, okay then, why does our 2nd lieutenant want us to be out here, serge?" Haenkus prodded.

"Because his full dragon colonel wants us to be." the aged Nord started to let himself smile as the young Imperial began to ask another question. "With the Knahaten flu on the loose, and the Akiviri bastards trying to take Morrowind, the Legion is keeping a better eye on the Deadric Worshippers. It's Vaermina's summoning day, and we are going to make sure that they are all perfectly sane." Bolvo slowly explained as he took point, leading the group over rocks and rotting logs, weaving in between trees. His squad was deployed from Cheydinhal, and had left at 0430. Current time was mid day, and even though there were flies and mosquitoes bothering them, the group stayed happy with idle conversation.

"Damn Argonians. I will guarantee you that they're the cause of that damned flu." Pivold accused in his high voice. Redguards usually had deep voices, but Pivold did not sound like he had even hit puberty yet, causing him much grief.

Gequod, a Bosmer mage, chimed in "Yeah, I mean, those sons of bitches lizards have never been sick a day of their filthy lives. Not a one. And they are all shocked when everyone points there fingers." Gequod had a habit of running his hands through his slicked back hair, always having to look good for the fairer sex. Funny thing, since he was a mage, everyone thought.

"Gequod, am I detecting a hint of racism?" Hamlet smiled as he maneuvered around a large thistle that he was sure would find some opening in his gold, Dwarven armor to scratch him.

"Can you blame him? He has one hell of a point." Bunix, a gray haired, yet inexplicably young Dunmer backed the older, middle aged Bosmer up. Bunix had grown up on the Waterfront with Haenkus as a friend. He knew the young Imperial's secret of being too young to join, but he kept his mouth shut.

"I knew a sick Argonian." Haenkus stated in a mellow tone.

"Who?" Bunix asked, wanting to see if he knew who the Imperial was talking about.

"That one that lives opposite the Temple."

"Gray-Throat? Are you serious?"

"How do you think he earned his name?"

"That was because he burnt his neck when he younger, and it turned a gray color." The Dunmer protested, trying to calm his voice.

"Whatever." Haenkus simply shrugged.

"How do you only burn your neck, and not your head?" Pivold inquired.

"Who knows? He's a crazy old man, always hunting vampires. Thinks there's a nest in the city." the Dark Elf explained as the squad went up and down steep hills.

"Maybe it was from that spontaneous combusting throat disease that Argonians catch all the time. Poor, sick bastards." Gequod mumbled as he slapped a mosquito on his neck.

"Any of you guys think that the Argonians are trying to pull what the Sloads did a couple hundred years back?" Pivold thought for a moment.

"I don't know, what do you think they were? I've never seen a Sload. Do they even exist?" Haenkus asked.

"They exist, they live out in the east. On the island the Nedes came from, or some shit or another." Hamlet quickly added.

About ten, long minutes later, the squad came to a small ridge overlooking a lake. On it was a few benches and a statue of a large woman.

"All right boys, I will be the only one talking. Hooup?" Mac announced to his troops. "Hooup!" they all replied in chorus. Truth was, he didn't like Deadric Worshippers. They gave him the creeps. They were just against his morals, he reasoned. "And don't worry, it's not going to take more then ten seconds." he assured his team.

He approached the shrine, noting that all of the gatherers were huddled together in a large circle, everyone chanting the same, slow chant. He went up to a large Dunmer and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned to regard him, apparently frustrated by being thrown off of the chant.

"I'm sorry, but I need five seconds of your time." Mac quickly explained. She just folded her arms, looking all the more agitated. "We are here just to make sure that the followers of Vaermina are following the rules. No summoning, okay?" the blonde Nord tried to make it as quick and painless as possible.

To his shock, though, the Dunmer gave him an understanding look "Yeah, sure." and continued her chant. Good enough, Mac decided. This place gave him the creeps.

He turned around and returned to his group, which now had an orc in it. Vay Gro-Malice, a small brute that wore mithril and used a wicked sliver mace. He was the group's lead scout, whose nickname was "No Man's Land" because of the fact that Orsinium was no longer a province. Vay was completely bald, and had a huge brow. A huge brow. Mac gave No Man's Land the signal to get back to walking in front of the group.

"He-Hey! There's the chatterbox! So what, did you guys say any more then nine words?" Haenkus smiled as he leaned on his bow.

"Shut it and move it." Bolvo simply replied, a bit embarrassed.

The group barely got over the hill when they all froze. They heard an icy, death curdling scream immediately behind them. The entire group immediately unsheathed their weapons and spun around, ready for anything.

"No Man's Land! You move your ass up there!" Bolvo screamed at the Orismer, who came sprinting over a hill. Vay Gro-Malice made a mad dash for a nearby rock, and took cover behind it. The rest of the group got down to their prone positions (which is just basically standing on one knee, and holding your weapon at the ready).

"What the hell is going on out there, Vay?" Hamlet hissed, upset over the lack of communication. The Nord nervously held his glass battle axe so hard, his knuckles were turning white.

But the orc didn't say anything. Vay Gro-Malice was frozen, it seemed, but then he went sprinting full speed back toward the shrine. "No! I can help you!" he screamed, his voice echoing through the empty forest. No birds sang their song, and the wind had died down completely. This meant something bad, the entire squad knew.

"Vay! Get your green ass back here and give me a sitrep! Vay!" Bolvo stood up, barking at the orc.

But they heard nothing more. The group shifted under the pressure. Then, came their sign. Something came flying back over the hill, really fast. It struck a tree, ringing with a distinct sound. Pivold rushed over to retrieve it. He brought Vay Gro-Malice's bloody, dented mace back to Bolvo.

"F***!" Mac uttered under his breath. Everyone's heart instantly sank. "Pull back." Bolvo whispered to himself, considering the option, but quickly changed his mind. "Haenkus, Bunix, and Gequod, you move your asses to the top of that hill and cover our advance. You see anything that shouldn't be there, you fill it with holes. Do it for No Man's. When we engage, Bunix and Gequod move your asses down to help. Haenkus, stay at your position and fill those sons of a bitches full of holes." the seasoned Nord ordered, pointing to a hill overlooking the shrine, lined with foliage.

The three Legionnaires scrambled up the hill, intimidated by what they thought they would find. Halfway up, both of the elves started chanting spells, and Haenkus notched an arrow on his bow. The three took cover behind a large, rotting log, and peered over.

They were horrified at what they saw. They saw Vaermina's pet; Plagam. He had been feeding well and had grown to about twenty feet. The Legionnaires could pick things being moved about seemingly inside the creature's tentacles. They began falling out, and the three grunts knew what they were. Corpses.

Gequod stopped his chant, and his entire body began tingling with the sensation of thousands of volts flowing through his body. A great, white light flashed from his hand, and a large, single bolt of lightening surged toward Plagam. The Deadra was hit squarely in the chest, but did not even flinch. Instead, he just simply and calmly stared at the Bosmer.

Haenkus let loose his arrow, and Bunix his frost spell. The freezing spell hit Plagam first, then Haenkus's arrow struck home. The tentacles did not stop their constant flowing, and Haenkus's arrow immediately halted upon coming in contact with the black tendrils.

Mac was the first one who came into sight over the hill. He had his claymore made by the Aylieds in his hands, screaming as he charged the Plagam.

Next came Hamlet, who looked ferocious in his Dwarven armor. But, upon looking into Plagam's white eyes, he instantly froze as Pivold charged right past the tall Nord.

Plagam took off on a slow, menacing walk toward the Nord. Another lightening bolt hit Plagam squarely in the shoulder, but the giant, morphing beast did not seem to notice. A frost spell came close to hitting him, but Bunix was too far in awe to target accordingly. The Dunmer instead drew his silver longsword and charged down the hill, hoping to distract the Plagam. An arrow skimmed across Plagam's chest, and another lightening bolt hit the monster in the thigh. But none of the futile attacks hindered the beast.

Pivold, Bolvo, and Bunix were now little more then ten feet away from the beast. A great tentacle, made of smaller ones with fangs, slowly grew out of the creature's right shoulder. A series of smaller tentacles shot from multiple parts of Plagam's body; the neck, the knee, the back, everywhere. Each one found their individual target, easily swatting the attackers away.

Bunix landed back near the pure marble statue of Vaermina. Bolvo went tumbling down a small valley to his right, occasionally hitting a tree on his way down. Pivold went flying right past Hamlet, barely clipping the towering Nord in the shoulder. It didn't phase the Specialist, who just stood staring intently at the creature's white, mysterious eyes.

F*****' a, Nord! Move your ass! Get out of there!" Gequod screamed for his friend's attention, but to no avail. The short brown haired Bosmer whipped back toward Haenkus, whose face was frozen with terror. Gequod slapped the young Imperial to bring him back, and it worked. "Stay with me! I'm going to get Ham, you keep a steady beet on that f*****'s eyes. Don't give him one free breath!" Gequod breathed as he pulled the Imperial down to his height.

"Those aren't eyes, though." the Imperial teen said in a distant voice. Gequod didn't reply, as he was sprinting down the hill (and somehow not tripping over his feet) and began chanting a levitation spell.

Bunix was back on his feet and already back on the creature's heels. Multiple frost spells hit the creature's back, but the Mer instantly fell over and began heaving. The corpses, they were still there. The corpse of his Orismer friend, seemingly reaching out for the helpless Dunmer's hand. And the smell. The stench of however many rotting corpses hadn't left. It was overpowering; even a necromancer wouldn't be able to breath the foul air.

The small Bosmer's levitation spell was now in full effect. He was directly in front of the creature's face, somehow chanting spells and screaming at the same time. "C'mon, you m************ c***! Me! Me! Eat my c***! You f*****!" Gequod did his best to divert the creature from his friend. And he did. The giant tentacle on Plagam's right shoulder was now about ten feet tall, and shot toward the Wood Elf at terrifying speeds.

It hit the Bosmer; the pure shock and power behind it split Gequod in two. His entrails covered his long time Nordic friend, who still stared at the creature's eyes. Even his friend being mutilated wouldn't rip his gaze away. The creature held its glare steady, also.

"Gequod!" Haenkus screamed louder then he had ever screamed before. The one person he had looked up to, had taken advice from, and had strived to be like was gone. Just like that. He notched an arrow in pure fury and took fire. It didn't come anywhere near the Plagam. His second shot did though. He wouldn't let this son of a c*** sucking bitch breathe.

Bolvo was back on the path, and was terrified by what he had seen. Blood and entrails all over the road, and Hamlet still seemingly frozen in time. He took chase after the creature, catching up with Bunix, whose expression was rather pale. "Don't take a breath!" the Dunmer warned the Nord as he covered his nose and mouth.

Pivold gingerly limped back toward the battle scene. He had hit his left leg on a tree branch when he was flying through the air, and had to cut his thigh guard off, as there was a large dent in it that made it next to impossible to walk. Nearing the crest of the hill, a bit of Bosmer went flying over head. The Redguard stopped and offered a prayer for Gequod to Father Akatosh, and continued on his slow but steady way.

It was the fifth silver arrow to hit the creature in the head, and it was still moving! It wouldn't stop! Haenkus grew enraged as he kept pace with Plagam on the crest of the hill, hitting the creature either in the neck or the head. But it didn't care!

Bolvo had to take a breath. He didn't know how well in shape Bunix was, but this old Nord had to breath to stay alive! He took in a large gasp of air, and almost died. The stench was unbearable! He instantly keeled over and began throwing up anything in his stomach. Bunix made the mistake of looking back at his partner when he didn't see his shadow along beside him. He saw his sergeant puking, and the Private First Class instantly got back down on his hands and knees, with the dry heaves, as he had already emptied the contents of his stomach earlier.

Plagam was now towering over Hamlet, who stood helplessly frozen, gazing up at the creature as he stood deathly still in its shadow. Plagam's mouth seemed to grow twice in size, its tongue flapping about wildly, slime falling from its mouth. Its teeth seemed to multiply rapidly and grew twice as large.

Plagam lurched over Hamlet, its tongue whipping the Nord off of his feet and into the monster's many toothed mouth. The break away from the creature's eyes gave him back control, but it was too late. He screamed as the creature began grinding and tearing him up as he was chewed on by the giant fangs.

Haenkus just stared at the creature with wide eyes. He had lost two of his mentors to the same f****** beast. The young Imperial began to realize that they wouldn't be able to stop it.

Pivold hadn't gotten over the hill, but already knew that he wouldn't be there in time. But he had to continue on like Hamlet's life depended on it.

Bunix had a bad feeling about where the screaming was coming from, but he couldn't stop his stomach from looking for something to go back up his throat. He couldn't quit gagging on nothing, it seemed.

Bolvo's eyes nearly bulged out of his head. He had just lost two men on what was supposed to be a routine, easy mission. He had let down two men that placed their lives in his hands. He had just earned the right to tell the families of the Legionnaires that had just been slaughtered. He would have to tell them that he did not perform his job as competently as another commander would have, and he would have to tell them that the dearly departeds' untimely death was his err.

Plagam got down onto a knee and dozens of tentacles began wagging about in no apparent direction, every one of them seemed to be pulsing and throbbing; thickening and growing more strong. Three of the larger kind of tendrils like the kind that had killed Gequod began encasing the giant creature's chest, making the Plagam look even more formidable. Then, it stood up straight and screamed. It screamed loud and long. Everyone was thrown to their feet, covering their bleeding ears. The ground seemed to shake under the terrific amount of power that surged from the Plagam. Tentacles whipped about in a frenzy, swatting trees in half and some ripping boulders out of the ground and heaving them about. Its muscular arms at it sides, trembling with the amount of power that surged through them. They were as thick as the thickest trees any of the remaining Legionnaires had seen, if not thicker. It looked at the overcast sky and howled, much like a coyote howls at a moon.

It immediately whipped around and stomped on the heaving Dark Elf curled up into a ball on the ground. It crushed a Nord writhing on the ground in pain covering his gushing ears with a mighty hammer fist, transferring some of its body mass to enlarge its hand.

It jumped into the air, spinning 180 degrees, landing perfectly, and leaped at the bug eyed Redguard who stood on the crest of the hill. The impact of the landing tossed the gimped man backwards, but the Plagam caught him in one giant claw, and leaped off into the air.

Haenkus was truly dumfounded. He was amazed as the creature seemingly flew through the air. In just one leap, it had covered about a mile, thousands of feet in the air at terrible speeds. It had just laid waste to an entire Legionnaire squad in less then two minutes.

The young, emotionally disturbed man turned and sat against a tree, his eyes nearly bugged all the way out of his head, not really caring if the black beast came back and did the most terrible of things to him.

He sat there all day. He thought of how the creature had killed his second family; his brothers in arms. The fearless, wise leader, Bolvo. The eager, bear known as Hamlet. His mentor and friend, Gequod. The friendly No Man's Land. His drinking partner, Pivold. And most of all, his best friend whom he was closer to then his own mother, Bunix.

The sun crept behind the mountains, as if trying to hide from the gore and tragedy. The thick humidity in the air made it next to impossible to breath, and the smell of the rotting corpses of his friends didn't help. The mosquitoes violently and unrelentlesly attacked the young Imperial, but he did nothing to prevent them from making him itch.

He had unsheathed his standard issue steel dagger, and had been looking at it for the past hour and a half. He admired it. He finally told himself it was the only way he could ever see his second family again, and his true friend, Bunix. With a shaking hand he stared at the dagger for what seemed a day, then, slowly and nervously, put the dagger to his own neck, and Haenkus began to press.

She truly looked stunning. A beautiful Altmer, wearing a skirt that revealed plenty of cleavage, sat on the head chair, legs folded, arms crossed, and scowl plastered on her face. Her blondish/reddish hair tied up in a knot. Her red pupils glared at the other vampires that sat at the large round table. The large meeting room was unlit, just like every other room, but had its own little glow to it when all of the vampires of any importance assembled to discuss the happenings of the Vampires of Summerset Isle, as it sort of did now.

Meilmia leaned back in her chair, the only chair in the room that actually had a back. "Status report on the Armed Vampiric Forces." she announced in her intriguing, yet sexy voice. Strong, handsome vampires began standing up clockwise, each giving their own clan's status on how their raids were going and how many new recruits they lost and vampiric heroes had died in combat.

In all truth and reality, Meilmia hated these meetings. No wonder that all the other vampires drove their tribes into the ground, she thought. Meetings like this may be an assembly of demigods, but that was only the opinion of ordinary vampires. To her, it was an assembly of moronic, blabbering imbeciles, who, if had the power to fly, would more then likely fly into a rock. She seemed to be the only one who had a sensible head on her shoulders. And these filthy pigs thought they could be her mate, ha!

Then came the Vampiric Armed Forces's center of gossip, Commander Gayle. He was a Redguard, who was here as a seaman of the Legion Navy. Though, while on leave, he was bitten and infected with the disease that would entirely change his life. Rumor was that Commander Gayle had taken out two squads of Legionnaires, and the intended target; a priestess from a rival tribe.

Gayle stood up with a sense of accomplishment and pride. His chest puffed out, his shoulders broad and squared, and a smile on his naturally wrinkled face. His graying hair was pulled back in corn rows, and he was wearing a tunic too small for him, just to compliment his muscular physique. Meilmia planned on ripping his balls off, in a sense.

Gayle slowly stood up and at attention, smirk tugging on the corners of his mouth, and he looked Meilmia straight in the eyes; something all other commanders did not do out of pure respect. "Milady, I am proud to announce that I have successfully performed my task given, as well as eliminating two squads of Legion Dragon Troops, along with capturing the head of Maling-Za." Gayle was openly smiling now, speaking with a sense of cockiness and self pride in his gravely voice. He pulled out his chair to sit, but before he made contact, Meilmia ordered "Don't sit down, Commander."

"Y-yes-yes, mam." Gayle stuttered, taken aback by the unusual request, and snapped to attention.

"You speak with a cocky attitude. Is there some reason as to why you have such pride when you were told to perform a simple task?" Meilmia asked in an accusative tone as she rested her chin on her folded hands.

"Permission to speak freely, mam?" the Redguard requested. Meilmia replied with half a nod, and the Redguard began "With all due respect, mam, the two squads of Dragon Troopers that we defeated was no easy feat. And we fought them off with only eleven casualties."

Meilmia sat upright in her chair, processing what the Redguard just said. "Did I instruct you to eliminate any Legionnaire Dragon Troops while on your mission?"

"Uh, no mam." the vampire's cold, unbeating heart sunk.

"So, you just tossed away eleven vampire lives? Look around this room, and take eleven of us away. There sure as hell wouldn't be a lot left, now would there?" Meilmia scolded, all of the other vampires' respect for Gayle plummeted. "How many troops did you lose taking the actual target you were assigned?" the persistent Altmer prodded.

"Seven." Gayle swallowed, beginning a nervous sweat.

"Seven? Seven!" Meilmia shot out of her chair, slamming her hands on the meeting table. "Seven vampires. You all say that seven is not that much. You just think that it's that easy to take a piece of land? You ask the veterans that helped capture this very hall we speak in right now. We would not have come through the front door, if we lost seven soldiers trying to eliminate one simple target! And you all give this Redguard praise as he loses seven too many vampires, and worst of all, he f***** up! And you give him praise for losing eleven soldiers that would make our army eleven valuable soldiers stronger! You praise him for f****** up? The idea has been set on this table of 'demigods' for the invasion of Valenwood, and eliminating all of the vampiric resistance their. Imagine, the wealth and riches that we would receive, controlling all of the known world's vampires, and a large territory to go along with it! We will not be able to land our men and women on the fortified shores of Valenwood when we lose seven men on a mission to kill some mage, and eleven die due to avoidable causes!" the Altmer woman had glared at him the entire time, and the rest of the vampiric leaders followed her gaze.

Gayle swallowed again and began wondering about his future in the Vampiric Leaders of Summerset Isle.

The Story Of Oblivion