Chapter 2: Echoes in the Night
Wayrest, was quiet. The docks, empty. In the streets, only few walked, heads down, moving quickly, no stopping to talk. The few vendors that were in their stores say quietly behind their counters, idly watching their wares. Outside, the sun shone in a sky only partially clouded, birds circling overhead, even they remained silent. It was the 5th of Last Seed. Wayrest had been like this since the First, when all of Stormhaven had heard the cry. And then silence. Nervous faces had turned to Castle Wayrest, hoping for a reason, for an explanation. However the great doors remained closed, as did the ornate gates. No, the reason for the silencing came not from their leaders, but from a lone sailor, drinking hs troubles away at a tavern further down High Rock, in Daggerfall. By the second day of the silence, whispered rumors about a man seen leaving the property before the dawn had started, and by the third he had been found, having sailed around in a small boat to Daggerfall.
"The princess...the royal daughter...is dead…" the three that had found him traveled back to Wayrest in news spreading like silent wizards fire. Soon not just Wayrest, or Stormhaven, but all of High Rock had heard the news. Every man. Every woman. And everything...else.
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The underground caverns, far removed from the silence of the city above, echoed with laughs, voices talking excitedly. The gathering here had filled the chamber with their presences, lighting a massive central fitre, the shadows flickering ominously. At the head of the room, atop a throne of human bones, sat a lone, powerful nightwalker. His face lay in shadow, much like his name. He controlled the many vampires in Wayrest. He was ancient and powerful, his true name had been forgotten to the ages, and now he was known only as... Montalion. His special power, was teleportation, and he gifted it, along with the immortal blood, to all his lesser followers. They were his eyes, his ears, his shadows in Wayrest. Nothing happened without him knowing. In return, he decided who was and wasn't available for them to feed on. On the tables around the room were several men and women, captured weeks ago during the Merchants Festival. He had been saving these cattle for this very day, and now they lay, throats and bodies torn apart by the shadows throughout the room.
He himself had abstained from drinking the mortal blood. He found the thought of even touching mortal flesh unpleasant. Instead, he used his vast wealth to have special Potions of Blood imported to him. His friend, Lord Harkon, gave him special pricing on them, as they were two of the most powerful vampires in Tamriel. Standing, he walked down to the head of the tables, raising is chalice filled with blood potion, he gave a short speech.
"The God-touched is dead! Her ancient blood will pose no threat to us!"
The assemblage gave a roar of a cheer, raising clawed fists or goblets of blood, before returning to celebrating. Montalion sat back on his throne, a wry smile twisting his face. Such simple minded fools. So easily roused.
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It was the 6th day of silence, when the great castle doors were finally thrown nearest quickly spread the word, and soon a crowd had gathered around the gates. They only had to wait a short time before their king appeared before them, looking regal and terrifying in gleaming Adamantium armor. At his side, a curved Alik'r sword, and a pack on his back with tent and bedroll, and a staff, a soul gem set atop it, its function unknown. The crowd of Bretons parted as the gates swung open, parting to make room for their king as he walked out, a servant leading his war horse, a black stallion named Nearvin, behind him. Once in the street, he climbed onto his horse, turning to face his subjects.
"For too long, we have tolerated the Orcs who live to the north. For the most part due to their lack of interaction with our people. But they have made a mistake in attacking my daughter. MY family. Now they will pay for the countless lives that they have affected with their own, one for each life our beautiful girl could have saved." all the people in Wayrest had gathered in the streets by now, and as the King made his way to the north gate, the people reached out, pleading with him non-verbally not to go, but knowing full well he had to.
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"Hyaa! Hyaa!"
Malik spurred Nearvin on, urging the horse to go just a bit further. The next of the many unnamed Orcish villages, though he used the term loosely, was almost a day's easy ride from where he was currently, having ridden for a day and a half already. Nearavin was a war horse, so he was good for long endurance rides, and unflinching courage in combat. Still, the ride had been hard, with very few water breaks, and even the stallion was starting to tire. Makil was determined to reach the….heathens before morning rose. They had shown no courage in attacking in the anonymity of fog, and he would give these ones no advantage other than a single warning shot, before going and killing all their warriors. Same as the rest. They would never dare attack anyone ever again once he was through.
Finally, he could see it, there on the horizon. Crudely made wooden walls, surrounding poorly made huts. Hopping down from Nearvin, he told the horse to stay put, letting him rest by some sweetgrass and a small river, leaving his pack behind, but taking his sword and staff, holding the staff in his hand, he began running toward the village, making no effort to be stealthy. Once he was within range, the sentries clearly having spotted him, he channeled power into the staff, a ball of flame building at the top, stopping for just a moment, he pointed the staff at the walls, and with a sweeping motion, shot 6 fireballs out to the walls, the magic bolts flying through the air with a roar, exploding into flames on impact, the walls catching rather quickly and starting to burn. He had purposely aimed two of the six to hit near the sentries, who had been thrown back from the blasts, and even from here he could hear the pained screams of a person on fire. The staff had been a very special thing, one of the many marvelous magical inventions created by Riane, a staff of Wizards Fire Fireballs. Incredibly powerful, but requiring soul gems for each charge. Until he replaced the soul gem at the top, he would get no more use from it. Stowing it on his back, he drew his sword, charging the burning gates, kicking the open easily, and not even hesitating when he met an orc in fur armor, parrying his clumsy thrust, catching the orcish blade with his crossguard, twisting the weapon out of his hand before then slashing the blade across the beasts neck, then kicking him back as he pitifully gurgled, his lifeblood spilling from his neck despite his hands best efforts.
With a keen eye, he saw that other than the two still writhing lookouts, there were only two other warriors in the village, one was already running toward him, a steel battleaxe out, while the other pulled out a bow, taking aim. Neither wore full armor, and none better than low grade iron. Holding his sword sideways in a guard, he saw the bowman release his arrow, and easily sidestepped it, as the orc brought his axe down right where he had just been, Mali reacted without hesitation, stepping behind the axe wielding orc, slashing behind him, cutting across the orc's back, before charging the bow orc, who was frantically trying to fumble with the quiver and pull out an arrow, but before he could, Malik sliced clean though the bow with a slash to the right, following with a kick to the orc's knee, then shifting his grip on his sword, brought the curved blade into a left slash directly into the side of the orc's neck, severing it almost completely, a rush of blood running out and soaking the ground and the blade, a bit of splatter even splashing onto his armor. He turned to face the first orc again, who had staggered back to his feet, holding his axe in only one hand. It appeared he had severed some tendons, as the other arm hung uselessly.
Still the orc didn't let up, charging malik with another overhead strike that Malik again easily dodged, before easily drawing his sword across its legs, then up across his chest, before, the orc falling to his hands and knees, plunging his sword through his back. Going over and wiping the blood from his blade on an orcish banner, he looked around, seeing only a few non-warrior women orc and children cowering in their huts. Around him, the walls continued to burn, and he le them as a reminder of what would happen to any orc who dared attack Bretons again. He knew it would be fine to leave it, unlike regular fire, Wizards fire could not spread to anything not directly touching it, nor could it spread across the ground. On a nearby table he saw several soul gems, noting they were filled by their swirling interiors. He took them, needing them more than this tribe would. As he walked out through the charred gates, he passed the burnt remains of the lookouts, the smell was terrible. He felt no remorse. These creatures had taken from him the one thing he could never get back. Whistling, after only a few moments Neravin cam galloping into view once again mounting his horse, he turned to the northeast, where a day and a half away stood one of the few named orcish strongholds in High Rock, a blight on the land they called Vreddod Dekh. as he rode towards it, he pulled the soul gem from the top of the staff, stowing it in his pack, and fit a new one atop it.
"I will avenge you, Riane. I will make them pay for what they did" and he rode off towards the stronghold, the night filled with the echoes of pain from the trail of burnt orc villages, attacked in the night, the people slaughtered by the warrior of shining death.
0-0-0 Chapter Two Prologue 0-0-0
"An….interesting twist, my shadow, using the beasts to do the job."
Montalion spoke to the Shadow before him, the one he had sent to kill the God-touched. The shadow bowed even further to his lord, before replying. "They had attacked us on the way there, and I realized that with them as thralls, we could completely negate any suspicion to us or Lord Harkon if all believed it to be their fault. I aim only to please, Lord Montalion"
Montalion leaned back, thinking things over in his mind. With the king now gone, likely to meet his death at the hands of Orcs, the Queen in mourning, and with no Heir, soon Wayrest would likely be in chaos. The exact chaos that his shadows could capitalize on, feeding on helpless civilians, and even enthralling them. Within months he could even gather enough thralls to wipe out the Mages and Rose Knights, Taking the Queen as his own and claiming rule over Stormhaven. Yes… this would be nice. Queen Reina would make a beautiful wife, and with his immortal blood, she could stay that way forever.
"You may go, my shadow. You have done….quite well…" as the nightwalker scurried off, he brought his hands together, in a thoughtful manner, as a low, evil laugh slowly built up filling the room like an Icy wind, growing loud enough that even above, it Echoed through the night, filling the dreams of the sleeping Bretons with thoughts of darkness and malign influence.