His grief began to turn to anger. This crime was committed in the name of Molag Bal? The daedric lord of domination had granted Dar'Akia his favor in the past; the daedric prince even donned him his personal champion.
He crumpled the note in his hand, tightly squeezing with closed eyes. He opened them and turned to the door, thinking. He needed equipment; his armor, his sword, long retired and gathering dust lay beneath the home, hiding from the cruel acts they once performed.
He exited his study, leaving the gruesome scene behind him. Entering the stone floored kitchen, he pulled a bear skin rug to the side, revealing a hatch. His hands wrapped around the handle, and he pulled up sharply, dislodging the long-shut door from its resting place. He descended into the cellar, briskly climbing into the darkness below his home. At the bottom of the ladder, he felt about in the darkness. Dar'Akia found and lit a candle. It was familiar to him; its short, blackened wic and hardened wax drippings brought back memories of when he put away his old gear. He thought himself finished of adventuring, finally ready to settle down and return to his old trade of botany and alchemy. He may never be a professor again, like so long ago, but he could put his expertise to use as a healer, at least, if not a teacher in some college.
He felt sickened as he laid eyes upon the locked wardrobe. The plain, wooden supports had little character; scratches here and there in the oak fixtures, rusty fixtures. It wasn't an expensive piece, but he preferred it that way. There was nothing fancy about the memories held within.
The clicking of the lock and key sounded, his hands prying open the wooden doors to reveal a suit of black metal. The candlelight refracted off the overlapping sheets of ebony. A hood made of a tan dragonhide overlaid with chainmail still rested around the neck of the chest piece, the folds unmoved for years.
He sighed, taking each piece from the closet and equipping it over his winter clothes. Slipping a foot into the pointed, metal boots, he remembered how uncomfortable they were. It felt right, for him to be uncomfortable in this armor. It reminded him just how painful it was to need the plate, the chainmail, the sword. With each clawed gauntlet, the pain came back, but he numbed himself. Outstretched fingers within the glistening gloves made them creak. The interaction of overlapping metal squeeked, making him flatten his ears. He squeezed his fingers together in a fist. He had to bear the pain. For his wife. For Rayya.
Out of the wardrobe he pulled a dusty sword, made of Nordic steel, a slight blue tint to the light that bounced off the blade. Ornate vines, a battle fought through painstaking craftsmanship and etchings ran across the sword. The leather below the cross guard was in good shape; he must have unwrapped the grip before storing it away. The blade was heavier than Dar'Akia remembered. He clumsily pulled and lifted it with a single arm, the tip dragging across the wooden bottom of the wardrobe. It was meant to be wielded with two hands, but had he grown weaker over the years?
The khajiit suppressed the thought as he attached the sheath to his belt. He didn't have room to doubt himself. He turned, expressionless, to walk away, but his conscious stopped him. There used to be a mace in this wardrobe. A spiked killer, hidden away from the world with all of the memories and crimes committed. Rusted over with dried blood, it haunted the cellar with silent screams only heard by the khajiit's ears. A mace given to Dar'Akia by Molag Bal himself.
He turned back to the cabinet, waving open the doors and shining the candle inward, searching for a first-missed gleaming. The mace was no longer there. In its place, only an emptiness reverberating with cruelty. The Daedra must have finally grew tired of the khajiit, his old age and passive attitude not useful for Molag Bal's purposes. A knot grew in his throat, but he quelled it.
He approached the ladder, blowing out the candle. The khajiit hoisted himself up; each step on the ladder reminded him how heavy ebony was. The black metal had never failed him, however. He examined his home, slowly walking through the main hall. A large table surrounded by chairs, each one unique. Unlit candles sat upon their silver and brass bases, lining the table. The head of a large stag was mounted above the hearth, lifeless as the dark room it inhabited. Dar'Akia admired this for a moment, then sighed heavily, finishing his walk outward. He opened the doors wide and gazed inward to his home, laying eyes on its defiled comfort for the last time. Tightening his cloak against the cold air, he closed his eyes. A warmth built inside him, funneling to the back of his throat and flowing behind his eyes. His sinuses cleared as he inhaled. He let three words calmly ride on his exhale:
"Yol toor shul."
A roar of white and orange illuminated the thick darkness of the night. Wood and stone alike were engulfed in a cleansing fire. The doorway collapsed upon itself in a cloud of embers, popping and sizzling as the flames spread. Dar'Akia looked to the scorched ground beneath him, turning away from the fire.
Rayya would have preferred a cremation.