According to Karliah's coordinates, the Twilight Sepulcher is on the western border; not that far from Falkreath or Evergreen Grove or Roadside Ruins. Sticking with the route she knows best, Libby fast-travels to Falkreath and continues her route out towards the Sepulcher.
The path through the forest is split by lots of twisty, turny roads and steep rolling hills, it's a lot faster to cut through then taking the main roads. And a lot more discreet. Libby glances skyward. Through the smattering of clouds, three early night stars shine in the deepening blue, but it isn't completely dark yet. If she goes through the park, if she runs the whole way and manages not to get lost, she'd make it in time for sure. She knew it.
On either side of her loom tall and haughty trees and mountains. They seem to watch her as she veers past, taking the one-way dirt road that curves upward into the mountainside. Soon, the light of the moon and stars fall away. Her path narrows to a single, twisting lane of dirt and stone. Rows of trees and thick underbrush emerge on either side of her. The farther into the forest she runs, the denser the surrounding forest grows.
Overhead, the interlocking patchwork of hanging boughs work to transform her pathway into a darkening tunnel. Through the lacework of limbs, thick clouds inch by.
Libby runs on, listening to the soft beat of her boots as they pound the dirt.
Darkness creeps in around her, spreading its fingers through the trees, working to smear them into a single black blur.
As she approaches a fork in the road, she slows, but only long enough to decide that she should keep going straight. She'd somehow forgotten that the forest trails aren't lit, and still can't seem to bring herself to cast a cloak spell to light her trail, and she hopes that if a wanderer comes up, he or she will have a light on, that she will hear them, and that the wanderer will see her.
She keeps running, her breath the loudest sound in her ears. The only sound.
Libby frowns, at last admitting to herself that something had felt funny since she entered the forest. Only now, however, can she place his finger on what.
She slows her run to a jog, listening to the lonely, hollow clap of her boots.
Quiet.
Everything around her stands really still and really . . . quiet.
The breeze that greeted her outside the entrance has vanished somewhere between there and here, and he looks up now to find the tree limbs motionless, their leaves immobile.
Or are those leaves at all?
A black shadow moves in one of the trees, and Libby registers the silhouette of one huge black bird. It makes no sound, though it seems to watch her from its perch. One of the leaves at its side moves. Another bird. Soon, with a ruffle of feathers, she notices another and, on her other side, another.
One of them breaks the silence with a caw, the sound falling harsh on Libby's ears, rasping and raw.
Spooked, Libby picks up the pace again, glad that the Guild's missions kept herself in such great shape. True, she isn't the world's best runner, but she can keep going if she needs to, and right now, she needs to. Libby shakes off the convulsive shudder that rattles its way through her shoulders.
Maybe the stillness is just her imagination. After all, this is a forest. They're supposed to be placid. Serene. Maybe she just misses the sounds of people and the glare of light. Besides, everything dies in the fall anyway, right? All the little crickets have chirped their last sometime back in early September.
Still, she can't help feeling that there should be some sounds. Like a dog barking. Or a foraging squirrel. A rabbit or something.
Libby slows to a stop again, this time so she can catch her breath. She leans forward, clasping her knees, her own huffing all but reverberating in the silence. Her bow and weapons seeming to have tripled in its weight. She glances over her shoulder at the darkening stretch of road behind her, black like a ribbon of ink. She looks forward once more.
Something else feels wrong now, and it isn't just the stillness.
Since she has stopped running, the air around her has seemed to compress, to grow denser. She can't explain it, but it feels as though the night itself, unnatural in its calmness, has begun to move in on him, to close in tight.
Her hair, pulled back by a hairtie, suddenly swooshes to one side, the band snapping from her head. Libby's nerves prickle. Along her neck and arms, all hairs rise to stand on end.
The idea that you can feel like you are being watched had always sort of struck Libby as being the delusions of someone who has traveled too often into the Nordic crypts. Now, though, as she turns and looks around at all the black trees with their skeletal arms tangled in a silent fight for space, she can't help the sudden feeling that, somewhere among them, something watches her, waits for her to move again.
The birds are gone now. Which is weird, since she hadn't heard them take off.
She listens.
Nothing the silence grows, feeding on itself until it becomes a dull roar in her ears.
Libby continues on the road, though at a slower, quieter walk, and just when she starts to think that listening to the eerie nothing might be worse than actually hearing something, a hushing sound – a fast whoosh – breaks through from the line of trees at his right. Libby jumps, an ice pick of hear stabbing her through the middle so that, for a moment, she forgets how to breathe.
Whatever it was had been big. As in person big.
"Who's there?"
Skoooshh!
Libby whirls. This sound had come from the trees directly across the road. It comes again from behind. Libby hears the pop of a branch and the crush of dry leaves. She spins in a circle, and despite the cascade of sudden noise, the rustling and crackling, she can't sense so much as the slightest movement in any direction.
Libby feels her throat constrict and her chest tighten. Her heartbeat speeds to triple time. Libby turns and breaks once more into a run, taking the road as hard and as fast as her legs would carry her. Her palms, cold and sweaty, tighten into fists about the Nightingale bow.
Whatever it was in the woods, it follows him. Out of the corner of one eye, she thinks she sees the edge of a dark something. Then there's another at his left. Figures, tall and long, rush through the black gate of trees on either side of him, their movements too fast. Impossibly fast.
As she speeds up, so do the dappled forms.
They seem to multiply as, out of her periphery, she spots yet another. This one glides away from the others to rush along the group of trees directly beside her. It moves through the trees, through undergrowth, dashing over the dry ground – a rippling form. Libby risks a quick glance, head-on, but sees nothing, only blackness and tangled branches and stillness. But that was impossible!
"Go away!" Libby screams. She can't outrun them, or whatever or whoever they are. She can't gain even the slightest bit of distance, and already a stitch the size of a softball has begun to knot itself in her side. She blocks out the pain, pushing through. Run. Run. Run!
"Run!" she hears someone hiss. A woman.
It had come the line of trees beside her.
Libby tries to cry for help but can't find the breath, able to only choke out a low sob. She can't stop to scream, but she can't keep going like this, either. She can't breathe anymore. Her lungs sting from the cold while her sides ache with stiffening pain.
Dizziness wafts in around her temples, but she wouldn't stop now. Somehow, she knew that if she could just make it to the clearing, she would make it back. She'd be all right.
Reaching the gate, Libby clasps a hand to the texture of a root and, as she vaults over, feels the stabbing reward of a thick splinter as it enters her palm. Her feet hit the dust and stone pathway beyond. She teeters forward from the weight of her weapons and slams to her knees. She picks herself up again, stumbling, scrambling, running even as her body begs her to stop.
The branches of the skeletal remains of the trees rattle behind her. Whispers and hisses. Someone laughs, but the sound morphs into a high-pitched shriek. Libby hears a splintering shatter, like a crash of plates.
She dares not turn around.
To Libby's left and right dark silhouettes of the woods zoom by, looking like shocked faces in the low street light. She tears past them, and even as the clearing draws into view, she does not slow. She wills her body to keep moving in spite of her screaming muscles, the torturous ache in his lungs.
"Liiibbyy."
The sound of her name whisks by her, caught by the wind and then lost in the rush of leaves scattering around her feet. She hears it, though. Her name. Someone has whispered her name.
A shadow moves in front of her and instantly she skids to such a stop she flops back onto her spine. Libby lets out a yelp, and blocks her face, and peeks through her forearms. In front of her is a small white fox. Its blue eyes glimmer in the light of the moon that seems to have returned.
Libby looks around and finds herself in the clearing. All sounds return: the sound of a waterfall, the crackling of fire on the oil lamps. The moonlight dances on the water of the falls and reflects across the giant double ebony doors of the Sepulcher.
It is quite lonely and mysterious as it is not near any other locations and is one of few Nordic ruins in that Hold.
Libby wiped her running nose with her sleeve, not caring.
Without hesitation, she uses the rest of her strength to shove her way through the doors and into the sanctuary, slamming the door behind her with a reassuring bang.
Now inside, Libby slumps to the floor and sighs. She instantly pulls back her hood and takes a deep inhale. The deep sent of something spicy and moisture fills her nose along with the scent of burning wood. Opening a canteen, Libby gulps it down and fans herself until her body cools down. Her legs feel like jelly, and unable to support her as she struggles to her feet. Her feet keep slipping and her arms can't push her up.
Submitting her to aching muscles, Libby decides the best she can do is stretch out legs and arms which helps a little. She allows herself a two minute rest, her nerves settling as the blanket of safety drifts over her slowly.
Huffing in gasps of air, Libby folds her legs under her and wipes her forehead. Her heart begins to slow and her hest heaves less for air. Pulling out her braid, Libby runs her fingers through her hair, tossing it from side to side, then combing through it with her fingers. She decides to leave her hood down and pulls her hair back in a messy bun until the coolness of the cave calms her heated neck.
Finally able to push to her feet now, Libby pulls herself up and continues on down a small narrow way that quickly leads into a monstrously huge chamber that could be considered the grand atrium.
At odd intervals stand stone squares that hold fire pits giving the room a warm buttery glow. The space doesn't feel stuffy as someone would think with the fire and the smoke drifting in an enclosed space. The remains of large stone groins arch across the walkway that leads to a grand staircase carved into the rock up ahead that could lead into the inner sanctum.
Libby keeps her bow tightly in her grasp until she's sure her knuckles will remain permanently white. The air inside is musty, like an old closet. Cold slats of grey-white light streams down from the small crevices above the vaulted roofs. Dust particles filter in and out of the stark light like tiny lost beings. The staircase itself, leads up to the entrance to the sanctum, melted candles on ebony candelabrums trail up the sides.
As she saunters down the main walkway, Libby suddenly stops.
She looks to find she's not alone.
At the bottom of the stairs sands a man. Layers of glowing white drape and cling to the curvatures of his muscular and tall frame, and it's as though the fabric itself is made from moonlight. A gauzy hood of white covers his head, like the cerement of a grave. He was, beautiful. Luminescent, like a silver cut from a dying star. Trails of his gently curling cape, translucent like ice, tumbles past his feet. Behind the veil two small pinpricks of white stare fixated on him. Upon carefully stalking closer, Libby recognizes the uniform of the Nightingales.
As Libby approaches, despite the fear she was supposed to feel, all that crawls across her is an overwhelming sense of calm.
"I don't recognize you, but I sense that you're one of us. Who are you?" the specter asks.
"I'd ask the same question of you." Libby answers.
"The last of the Nightingales Sentinels, I'm afraid." He speaks. His voice is deep and throaty yet wholly masculine. "I've defended the Sepulcher alone for what seems like an eternity."
"The last? What happened to the rest?" Libby questions.
"We were betrayed by one of our own kind. In fact, I'm to blame for what's happened here."
Libby swallows, her mouth suddenly going dry. That single sentence set ablaze a kind of combination of shock, happiness and excitement. Libby forces herself to breathe to hold back the tears that lubricate her eyes.
"How are you to blame?" Libby ends up mumbling.
The man lifts his arm to hold out his hand. The motion is so sudden and unnatural, and Libby has to fight the urge to take a step back. "I was blinded. Blinded by dark treachery masquerading as friendship."
With every signal blaring in her head, Libby watches a gauze wisp slip away to reveal the man's hand. His exposed fingers are whiter than the draping fabric, his skin as flawless as marble.
"Perhaps if I had been more vigilant, Mercer Frey wouldn't have lured me to my fate and stolen the Skeleton Key."
Libby's heart swells in her chest, and her throat tightens to hold back a sob. She nearly loses grip on her bow and her knees quake beneath her. The tears break and the stream down her cheeks, smearing the world into a blur.
Libby's gazes goes from Gallus to his outstretched hand. A deep and cruel wanting knowing at her insides to touch it.
She swallows. "You're Gallus." She whimpers.
"I haven't heard that name in a long time." He instantly replies, his land lowering. His tone sounded that of nostalgia, and a smile playing on his lips. "How do you know of me?"
Libby's heart drops, and she's suddenly tugged between emotions. She wants to scream at him angrily at how he doesn't recognize his own daughter. She wants to cry at the fact that her father seems to have forgotten about her while she kept his memory locked away in her heart during the endless torturing years.
Still, Libby feels herself smiling as she begins to sob. Happiness overpowers all other urges and all she wants to do is collapse into his chest and cry and weep and sob until she's released all the pain and hurt from her fatherless year prior.
Libby slings her bow over her back as her hands shake. "I am your daughter."
Her voice comes out small and hollow-sounding, but still Gallus catches it. He cocks his head to the side in question and confusion. Libby's pulse roars in her ears and her arms begin to quake as Gallus takes a step towards her, the train of his cloak whispering against the floor. Libby wants to step closer, wrap her arms around him and hug him, bury into his shoulder, but she knows he could just pass right through her.
Cold wind sweeps over her as Gallus slowly raises his hand again and drifts it antagonizing slow towards Libby's face. She shivers, loose strands of her hair tickling her cheek in spiderweb wisps. Though it dies away, dissipating like a sigh, it leaves her frigid in its wake. Thin and sharp, the air stings her nose as she inhales.
Goose pimples crawl over her skin as she feels the palm of Gallus's hand press against her cheek. Libby suddenly feels self-conscious as her hair it in a messy bun, with her hood down when she feels like she should be in proper uniform presentation.
Libby stands rigid as she feels her hair gently fall about her shoulders and begins to weave itself into a braid. Still the tears stream down her cheeks, and she can feel them slide and seep flatly into Gallus's hand.
The moment felt real. He felt real.
Once her hair drops on her shoulder, Libby opens her eyes; her lip quivering. She suddenly afraid that he will slip through her grasp, or that at any moment she will wake from the dream and he would be gone.
"Libby." Gallus mumbles. Looking past the shadows of his hood, from his tone, Libby can tell he's probably crying to.
Libby lets out a strange sound. A combination of a laugh and a sob. She buries her face more into his hand as she sniffles. As she goes to feel for his hand, she watches it disappear like mist in her fingers.
She suddenly wants to scream. This is a new and worst form of torture for her. Here she is standing with her father, and still she's forbidden to touch him, feel him.
So close and yet so far.
"I'd never thought I'd see you again. My, look how you've grown." Gallus chuckles through his sob. "You're become such a beautiful young woman. I . . . I can't believe it."
"I've missed you so much."
"As have I, my child." Gallus sighs. He drops his hand and despite her need to ask to keep it there, Libby lets it slide as he wipes away a tear. "But I'm puzzled. How are you here, bearing the emblem of the Nightingales?"
Libby sniffles and wipes her eyes. "I have the key."
"The Key!" Gallus exclaims. "You have the Skeleton Key! I never thought I'd see it again." Libby laughs and wipes away the rest of her tears. "And Mercer Frey?"
"Dead." Libby answers, startling herself when her lips contort into a smile.
"Then . . . it's over. And my death wasn't in vain." Gallus almost sighs. "I owe you a great deal, Libitania. My sweet Nightingale."
Libby bashfully laughs. "I did this for you father, and for the Guild."
"And they shall forever be in your grace, Libby. Though, my only other regret is that you had to undertake this task alone." says Gallus.
"I didn't. Karliah helped me."
"Karliah . . . she's still alive!?" Gallus asks in surprise. "I feared she'd befallen the same fate, ending up victim of Mercer's betrayal."
"Here father. Take the key, and right all the wrongs." Libby offers her father the key.
"Nothing would bring more pride than to return the Key, but I'm afraid it's impossible." He declines. "From the moment I arrived here, I've felt myself . . . well . . . dying."
Libby quirks an eyebrow in question. "How can a spirit die, father?" while she didn't mean for it, a giggle passes her lips.
Gallus chuckles along with her. "I understand your suspicion. But you must understand the Sepulcher isn't merely a temple or a vault to house the Key. Within these walls is the Ebonmere . . . a conduit to Nocturnal's realm of Evergloom." He explains. "When Mercer stole the Key, that conduit was closed, severely limiting our ties to her."
"Then I assume I'll have to proceed alone." Libby finishes.
"I'm afraid so my dear child. I'm weakening and I can feel myself slipping away. The years without restoration of my power have taken their toll on me." Gallus says. "Whatever damaged has been caused can only be corrected by following the Pilgrim's Path to the Ebonmere and replacing the Key."
Libby nods and exhales heavily. She takes a few deep breathes and pulls her hood over her head, keeping her braid on the side of her head. She lets her fingers spider-crawl their way up to the braid and traces over it with her fingertips. She feels Gallus's hand smooth down her hair.
"If I may ask a few questions; what will I face in the Pilgrim's Path?" Libby asks.
"I wish I could help you, sweetheart. But I've been a prisoner in this very chamber for the last quarter century." Gallus apologizes. "The only possible help I've come across are the remains of some poor fellow who was trying to follow in your footsteps. Perhaps his journal can help?"
Libby nods and follows the direction of Gallus's gaze towards a small corner where there's a skeleton remains along with an enchanted battleaxe and the journal like her father had said.
After picking it up, she returns to her father. Wanting to try and spend time with him seems dire now. Afraid that once the Key is replaced, she will have left without giving her goodbyes.
"So, how does the Ebonmere affect us all?" Libby asks.
She hears him chuckles softly. "The Ebonmere is the conduit through which Nocturnal influences our world. Not through magic or blessings, but purely through luck." Gallus explains.
"But doesn't what we do involve skill, father?"
"Yes, absolutely. Your skill is your own . . . don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise. But Nocturnal, she influences our luck; nearly imperceptible assistance we get when we ply our trade."
"How's that changing the way things are?"
"Think about the Guild . . . the state it was in when you began. Think about all the little things you might have heard. A pick breaking when it shouldn't have, the clouds in the nighttime sky clearing at the wrong moment . . ."
"Her luck is what makes us better than the average bandits?"
"Yes."
"And with the Ebonmere closed, that luck's run dry?"
"Precisely. There are a few who still call Nocturnal "Lady Luck" and for good reason." says Gallus.
"Well you said you've been guarding this place, alone, what happened to the other Nightingale Sentinels?"
"With the Ebonmere closed, and their sudden severance from the realm of Evergloom, I fear they've undergone a drastic change." Gallus says. "They're shadows of their former selves. They no longer remember their true purpose or their original identities."
"Why aren't you like them, father?"
"My spirit didn't manifest itself in the Sepulcher immediately, so fortunately I wasn't present when the Ebonmere was sealed. However, ever since that day, I've felt my power waning . . . slowly draining away."
"Then I shall go alone. And hopefully my instincts will guide me."
"Good luck, Libby."
Libby passes her father and takes a deep breath as she mounts the stone steps and enters the inner ward of the Sepulcher.
She keeps going as the tunnels end in a sharp turn left and right. Libby doesn't have the slightest clue where she is within the temple complex. One way might lead out. The other might lead further in. She takes right and down a ramp towards an iron door. With no idea where to do, her instincts are the only thing she can trust.
Libby immediately crouches as she pushes open the door into another chamber.
This one looks to be a place of worship as down a set of stairs directly in front of the entrance lead down to a small alter, blocking the view of a door. Off to the left is a room filled with a desk and two bookshelves from what Libby can tell. Small torches are lit every twenty feet, hanging from their iron loops embedded in the walls. They release no smoke, bits of purple flickering from their centers.
Libby creeps to the top of the stairs and lay flat upon the floor. From her hiding spot, she can see an apparition slightly off to the left of the steps. Unlike her father, this apparition is completely made of blackness and purple wisps of shadow that fall off her like steam. She gets and strolls over to the left side of the stairs and sits back down.
Libby wonders if she could kill a spirit. She couldn't touch Gallus, but he could touch her. Risking it, Libby crawls down steadily like a cat, pulling her dagger from her belt.
She's right up behind the specter when she lunges the blade into the neck region. The specter grunts in pain, then gurgles on blood before collapsing in on herself and dissipates into a pile of goop on the floor.
Libby remembers the phrase she read from the journal her father recommended she take.
"Shadows of their former selves, sentinels of the dark. They wander ever more and deal swift death to defilers."
Libby pulls out her second dagger and slinks close to the walls, hopping over a pressure plate and up a set of stairs. Before she takes the first step, she pauses to see another Nightingale sentinel standing at the top. She's blocking Libby's path so Libby pulls out her bow and loads an arrow, shooting at the wall.
"Hmm?" the specter hums. "Does someone live among the dead?" her voice is deep and throaty, yet whole feminine.
Libby rolls forward and through the doors, shutting them as quietly as she can. Still she climbs into one of the cubbyholes of the dragur and waits for at least a minute. She tries to ignore the smell of dried flesh and the thought of brown recluse spiders twiddling their legs above her head.
After her minute is up, Libby rolls out of the hole and continues on deeper in the belly of the monster.
She leaves through another iron door and into a chamber of rich ebony lies before her. Ominous silhouettes of stone platforms and towering obelisks stretch their shadows along the floor. There are odd numerals of light platforms, yet Libby can't see the phantasmal flames, let alone the fire as it sets shadows loose to clamor over the sable walls and coal dance floor.
Libby stands and approaches the light. She keeps her daggers poised in hand as she approaches. She gazes deeply, squinting to try and see the light's source of power.
Suddenly there's a hissing sound that tickles Libby's ears. The hairs on my neck begin to rise. She looks to find her armor and uniform smoking, the material of the metal plating slowing being chewed away by phantom flames. Tendrils reach forward and then curl like fingers, as if they are pulling the rest behind them. A sickeningly sweet odor begins to invade Libby's nostrils.
In the few seconds it takes to see it eaten away and her skin is exposed, Libby begins to blister. Tiny, searing stabs. Wherever the aura of light touch her skin.
Immediately Libby screams in pain and scrambles back into the shadows. She claps her hand over her stinging skin. But instantly as she retreats into shadows, there's another sensation, of drawing out. Libby shakily removes her hand from her armor and through the black nothingness, she sees a milky substance leaching out of the wounds on her skin. As the whiteness diminishes, so does the pain. She can even see parts of her armor regenerating.
"Above all they stand, vigilance everlasting. Beholden to the murk yet contention of the glow."
Something she read in the journal. Of course.
Libby crouches down and keeps her eyes ahead. The place is dark. Her armor completely blends her in, she can't even see her hand in front of her face. Still with the lights scattered around, she can make out the outlines. Her toe catches on something hard and she falters, collapsing onto an ascending stretch of stone steps. Pushing herself up on trembling arms, she peered toward the top of the stairs.
She narrowly misses a tripwire and arrows shoot out from hidden holes and zip across the air, leaving a contrail of dust behind them. Libby steps over another and slips down to a corner of shadows. She creeps around and up a platform and quickly across the bridge and quickly down another set of stairs, keeping close to the walls as she bursts to the next chamber.
She enters the familiar structure of the crypts of the Nords and prepares herself to face dragur, but nothing happens. All she sees are skeletons in the cubbyholes and after turning a left corner comes to a hallway with a Nocturnal statue at the end. Two flame posts stand on either side of her, and Libby fidgets at the way the shadows obscure her face. She held a swath of fabric that clung to the lower half of her body and appeared to billow out behind her in a suspended arc. She remained swathed in shadow, a silhouette that belonged to the night.
Hidden behind the cauldrons of flame are pull chains that when she pulls them both, bathe the room in darkness.
"Offer what She desires most, but reject the material. For her greatest want is that which cannot be seen, felt or carried."
As Libby gathers a tray of jewels and gold, behind the statue, a rock wall opens up and slides into the floor.
Following through a carved tunnel with only one torch to light it, Libby emerges from the other side, as she's about to pass under a narrow tunnel, there's a click. Libby leaps back just as several axes swinging at odd intervals. Libby stands straight and sheathes her daggers. She backs up a few steps and readies her toes. After a moment of observation, Libby sprints and leaps through the axes, one narrowly catching the end of her cloak. Rolling up onto her feet, Libby notices the banner of the Nightingales to her left.
She's close.
Libby clutches the Key in her fist and takes a shaky breath. She opens the door and waits, but nothing happens. Taking a heavy enough rock, Libby throws it to the center of another tunnel-like passage, and a mechanical battering ram springs from the ceiling. It swings up, winding up inches from Libby's face before retracting and jarringly twitches back into the ceiling.
Through the tunnel she comes to an intersection that leads to another chamber and one with a door. Libby carefully takes cautious steps closer and peers into the chamber, where she finds another silhouette of purple and black shadows.
"Direct and yet indirect. The path to salvation a route of cunning with fortune betraying the foolish."
Libby debates for a moment before deciding to keep going through the iron door into the inner sanctum. Sprinting down the hallway, Libby barrels through the double doors at the end and down a set of steps. She turns a corner to find a doorway, but a room with a well of nothingness below.
Libby skids to an immediate halt, a yelp escaping her lips as her foot dangles over the edge.
"A dead end? How?" she mumbles.
She breathes heavily as she pushes herself to her feet. Immediately she feels the urge to call out to her father, though he is still probably guarding the gate. She is alone. Libby paces back and forth near the doorway into the well. Debating. Thinking.
Surely this is all for nothing. It's not too late to turn back and examine the other chamber. But just something about this path. It wouldn't be in the inner sanctum if it wasn't right.
Libby pulls out the logbook her father recommend she take.
"The journey is complete, the Empress' embrace awaits the fallen. Hesitate not if you wish to gift her your eternal devotion."
Slapping the book shut, Libby sighs. She peers through the doorway and looks up. There's a trap door above that she didn't remember. But should I have collapsed the fall surely would've ended her.
Libby sighs and inhales heavily.
She pushes off her feet, leaping and flipping forward before landing at the center of the well. The only other thing down there is the skeletal remains of a former traveler. Anders, the thief who is mentioned in Nystrom's journal. As she goes to examine a note poised at the side of the remains, the floor suddenly shakes.
Libby backs up against the wall, bracing herself. She feels a vibrating in her hand and looks to find the key glowing with purple wisps whispering off of it. Then the floor of the well descends to reveal a room. Goose bumps rise on her skin and her stomach lurches.
She hits the floor with a knee jarring shake and Libby fumbles, but she quickly regains her balance, hand still clenching the Skeleton Key. Libby stands up straight and dusts off her cloak. Looking around, a room is revealed with three closed doors and a lock at her feet. It sticks at the epicenter of a beautiful blue-green palate bordered in the emblem of the Nightingales.
Libby carefully inserts the key and turns. The blue badge-like emblem rises into a cauldron-like structure. The blue on the inside twists and whirls downward, collapsing in on itself, and talonlike stone guards emerge, like a hand clawing up from the ground.
The inside suddenly darkens to purple-black and the inside swirls like an in ground whirlpool. A figure cloaked in black slowly emerges along with a scattering of many birds. Libby fumbles back and rolls up onto one knee. A collective howl arose from the birds, the screech and caw. Libby panicked, bats them away blindly.
The figure opens her arms and a pair of Nightingales perch on each of her wrists.
Physical descriptions of Nocturnal are difficult to come by, as she is usually described as being hidden by darkness and shadow. Depictions of the Daedric Princess usually take the form of a nondescript human woman, draped in a hooded cloak that hides most of her features and body.
The stories tell true. She is dark beauty perfected.
Fine threads of black curled upward and chased one another downward, spreading their way across her arms, legs and torso, like veins infused with black poison. They connected and layered with one another, intertwining and weaving in and out to depict the curve of a delicate wrist, or to convey the motion of wind through the swells of gossamer veils.
Layers of glowing white draped and clung to the curvatures of her slight though tall frame, and it was as though the fabric itself was made from midnight. A gauzy hood of black covered her head, like a cerement of the grave.
Her features, gaunt and haunted, her cheekbones high and regal. Her skin holding the sheen of stardust.
"My, my. What do we have here?" her voice is deep and throaty, but still wholly feminine. "It's been a number of years since I've set foot on your world. Or perhaps it's been moments. One tends to lose track."
Her eyes hold Libby so completely transfixed. Fringed with dark lashes, a piercing icy luster, the pale color of concentrated sapphire, that could cut as much as convince, they trapped her, and she found herself no longer able to blink.
"So... once again the Key has been stolen and a "champion" returns it to the Sepulcher. Now that Ebonmere has been restored, you stand before me awaiting your accolades; a pat on your head... a kiss on your cheek." She scolds. "What you fail to realize is your actions were expected and represent nothing more than the fulfillment of your agreement."
Libby, seeming to have lost her voice in the presence of the Daedric Princess, simply nods and bows her head in respect.
"Don't mistake my tone for displeasure," Nocturnal continues. "After all, you've obediently performed your duties to the letter. But we both know this has little to do with honor and oaths and loyalty. It's about the reward; the prize."
Libby almost feels guilty, and wants to suddenly speak out against the princes assuring her that her means were true, the reward will only be a bonus. Killing Mercer and avenging her father is all she wanted.
But of course, she can't find the courage to dare speak against the Lady of Shadows.
"Fear not. You'll have your trinkets, your desire for power, your hunger for wealth."
Libby nods again and suddenly finds Karliah on the other side of the room, her hands raised in praise and worship.
"I bid you to drink deeply from the Ebonmere, mortal. For this is where the Agent of Nocturnal is born. The Oath has been struck, the die has been cast and your fate awaits you in the Evergloam."
"Praise be to you, Lady of the Shadows." Libby finally manages to speak. "I happily live to serve you until my dying breath. And may I be honored to walk among your world."
It may be her imagination, but Libby could swear she sees Nocturnal's lips twitch into a faint smile. "Farewell, Nightingale. See to it the Key stays this time, won't you?"
In one blinking movement, Nocturnal seeps back into the cauldron of blackness. The birds seem to come out of nowhere as they follow her, circling as into the darkness.
It happens too fast for Libby to form a farewell, too fast for to wave goodbye. A shrieking torrent of jet feathers engulfs the light. Nocturnal's form loosens into violet smoke, and like a demon sucked into hell, she vanishes into the floor.
Libby takes a few steps back as the cawing slowly fades off and silence reclaims the chamber. She looks to the other side of the cauldron and meets eyes with Karliah. Instantly Libby runs up and throws her arms around Karliah's neck. Karliah returns the hug with bits of laughter.
"I'm glad you were able to bring the Key back safely. Nocturnal seemed quite pleased with your efforts." Karliah smiles.
"Pleased? She sounded indifferent." Libby retorts.
"I wouldn't take that to heart. It's her way. Think of her as a scolding mother continually pushing you harder to be successful; outwardly sounding angry but silently content." Karliah pats Libby's shoulder. "I assure you, had she been displeased with you, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
Libby sighs and lets the smile crawl across her face, spreading with like the wigs of an eagle. She sighs heavily. "It's done, but what's this about becoming an Agent of Nocturnal?"
Karliah motions Libby to look to wards the floor. "The circles at the base of the Ebonmere imbue you with powers befitting a Nightingale Agent." Walking around, she shows Libby each of the circles bordering the cauldron. "The crescent moon represents the Agent of Shadow, the half moon for the Agent of Subterfuge and the full moon for the Agent of Strife."
"Okay, so, what goes with what?" Libby asks, drawing a laugh from Karliah.
"The Agent of Stealth is the master of remaining unseen. They are able to manipulate the darkness and use it to their advantage. On moonlit nights or in darkened rooms, this agent literally becomes invisible." She explains. "The Agent of Subterfuge utilizes shadow to cloud the judgement of those around him. By weaving the darkness to their will, this agent can manipulate others into fighting for the Nightingale for a limited time. And finally the agent of Strife, this agent can send forth a tendril of pure darkness into the heart of another, causing great injury to them. At the same time, this tether will bolster the agent's own life force, making him stronger."
"Wow. That's quite the gift." Libby says. "But can someone become all three?"
"This is Nocturnal's way of maintain balance." Karliah responds. "If you ever feel the need to change your abilities, you may return to the Sepulcher and step onto a different circle. Be warned that once you've chosen, you can't reselect for at least a day."
"So what now?" Libby asks.
"Now, your life as a Nightingale begins. Should the need arise, you'll be summoned to the Sepulcher in order to defend it." Karliah answers.
"And you?"
"The Guild has welcomed me back with open arms." She smiles. "I feel like a void in my life has finally been filled. I only hope that this isn't an ending to things, but actually the beginning."
"The beginning of what?"
"Why, perhaps the greatest crime spree Skyrim's ever known. There are pockets brimming with coin and coffers overflowing with riches ripe for the picking. We may be Nightingales, but in our hearts we're still thieves and we're damn good at what we do."
Libby and Karliah laugh together as Libby embraces Karliah once again in a hug. Though over Karliah's shoulder, Libby can see a small blue light emanating from beyond one of the doors. Libby's heart jars in her chest. She leans away from Karliah and turns her to face the mist, forming into an apparition.
"Karliah?" the apparition speaks.
Libby can't help but smile at the sight of Karliah's face registering shock. She can practically see the cold tingle run down Karliah's spine.
"Gallus! I feared I would never see you again. I was afraid you'd become like the others." She exclaims.
"If it were not for the actions of my daughter, your fears would have come true. She honors us all." Gallus replies. He turns his head to Karliah. "You have taken such good care of her."
"I only wanted you to be as proud of her as I am." Karliah responds.
"I am." He nods.
Libby feels her throat constrict as her father approaches her. She feels her eyes lubricate with tears, but blinks them away. Gallus extends his one hand to take Libby's, and the other to hold her cheek. Libby lets the tears stream from her eyes as she buries into his palm. She sniffles.
"Daddy," she mumbles.
"My sweet Libby, I have never been more proud of you. My heir to the Guild and champion of Nocturnal. Of course, such things are to be expected. After all, you are my daughter."
Libby laughs as she wipes her nose. Tears flooding from her eyes now. Karliah gently approaches.
"What will you do now, my love?"
"Nocturnal calls me to the Evergloam. My contract has been fulfilled."
Libby freezes and instantly goes to clutch her father's hand.
This time, it feels whole. Warmth touches her skin as she slowly moves her fingers in line with Gallus's.
The moment feels so real. He feels real.
Libby suddenly jolts forward, wrapping her arms around his torso and pulling him closer, afraid that he will slip through her fingers again, or that at any moment, he will evaporate into the Evergloam and be gone forever. Pressing her head into his chest, she feels the false beating of his heart. Gallus wraps his arms around her and hugs her tightly. Libby sobs as she feels him caress her head, petting it gently, and a cold kiss on her head.
"Don't go." Libby whimpers, her tone sounding pleading and childish.
"I must sweetheart. Understand this is not easy for me as well. For I have just found you again, and now I must leave. But I promise that I will always be watching you." Gallus promises.
"Will I ever see you again?" she whimpers.
Gallus holds her shoulders and has Libby face him. He takes her chin. "When your debt to Nocturnal has been paid, we'll embrace once again." He kisses Libby's forehead. He then turns to Karliah. "Continue to watch over her, Karliah. And soon, we shall embrace as well."
"Farewell, Gallus. Eyes open... walk with the shadows." Karliah pushes her words out forcefully, or maybe she's trying to hold back from saying something.
"Goodbye, Karliah."
Caressing Libby's cheek once more, Gallus approaches the cauldron, and Libby watches as his form slowly swirls into small wisps of blue and gracefully dancing their way to the cauldron. The apparition suddenly explodes into dark fragments and fades like smoke.
Libby approaches Karliah again and gently bumps her with her hip. Karliah looks to her and laughs with a breath.
"So, what happened? To Dad?"
"Gallus's Oath has been paid. His actions have satisfied the terms. Now his spirit becomes one with the Evergloam... the realm of perpetual twilight and the cradle of shadow."
"So, he's gone?"
"No, not gone... he's become one with the shadows. This is the greatest honor a Nightingale can possibly achieve. In death, he's become a part of that which we use to live."
Libby looks to Karliah in bewilderment. "They're a part of the darkness around us?"
"Absolutely. When we say "walk with the shadows," we are asking those Nightingales who have passed on to protect us. It's believed that they are literally what guides our uncanny luck... by placing their hands in ours. That's why the Ebonmere needed to be reopened. Without it, there's no way Nocturnal was able to allow them through."
Libby looks down in shock, suddenly realizing what those things were that chased her here in the first place. They followed her, guided her without Libby realizing it.
"You've seen them, Libby. You're beginning to understand." Karliah says.
"So what now?"
"Chose your path and your journey will be complete." Karliah says.
Libby debates for a minute before she stands on the platform of the Crescent Moon. She gasps as it feels as if her body's been passed through a screen of small electrical currents. Once it's over, she looks to Karliah.
"I hope to see you around the Guild." Libby smiles.
"As to you and Nightingale Hall." She returns her smile, sliding next to her. She takes Libby's hand and then kisses it mid curtsey. Libby smiles and curtsied in return.
Passing through the vapors of purple, Libby finds herself in the main chamber, though it's colder than when she first arrived.
She walks out the door to find twilight brimming the treeline. She feels a tingling in her chest the trickles all through her body. Her cheeks warm from tears and her spirit overall rejuvenated at having the Guild under proper control.
Libby practically skips through the forest towards the main trail, even humming, which is something she's never done before since the death of her father.
As she hops over a log and flips over several rocks, there's a sudden harsh breaking of twigs and branches. Libby whirls around expecting to find a giant or a stampede of cows. Instead, she finds a figure tumbling through the foliage.
She bears dark wrappings, but her hair contrasts highly.
Libby feels her heart sink.
"Diamond?!" she exclaims.
The figure instantly looks up, and charges for her. Libby keeps her hand on her dagger in case she's wrong, but as the figure approaches, it is Diamond.
Libby's mouth drops open in shock at the sight of Diamond before her. She wears a dark purple cape about her shoulder, covered in purple and black wrappings with dirt and, blood. Shock punches little frissons of panic through her. Diamond skin is pale and smudged with blood and what looks like ash. Her cloak is torn and battered, small splatter of blood ruining the cloak even more. And her hands. Her hands are covered in dirt and dried blood, and he clutches an ebony dagger as if it'll evaporate if she dares let go.
Diamond's frantic eyes look to Libby, and she extends out a bloody hand, hovering it over Libby's cheek as if afraid to touch her, to see if she's real.
Libby carefully places her hands on Diamond's shoulders, causing the younger girl to jolt and jerk. Still she settles into Libby's hands, her breathing still ragged. W
"Diamond . . ." Libby's voice shakes. "What happened to you?" she gently asks.
When Diamond opens her mouth to speak, she bursts into tears and collapses into Libby's arms.