Sorry this took so long, but here it is! Chapter 7
Enjoy!
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Chapter 7:
Moonless Skies
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15th Rain's Hand, 4E201
The Soul Cairn
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Serana never thought she'd miss the sun, but after four days in this awful place, she found herself wishing for it.
A little over a week ago, after getting caught in a snowstorm and fighting a dragon near Mount Kilkreath, they'd located the dock beneath her…former home; without her mother there the place just hadn't felt safe, and Drevas seemed a good sort. Hence her leaving and joining the Dawnguard. Or…squatting with them; she still wasn't sure how Isran saw her, beyond a potential threat.
Through the dock, the oubliettes (a feral bitch had been living there, now she was paste), and a spider-based security measure her father had set up to dissuade the adventurous, and they'd found the old Moondial Courtyard in the center of the castle; she'd felt sad, to see her mother's garden and the place she'd felt most at peace during her violent childhood reduced to such a state.
And then there was the Moondial itself, providing a path to her mother's secret laboratory. There were defenses, but nothing that could stop someone like Drevas, or herself for that matter.
So her mother had a lab dedicated to Greater Necromancy. Serana knew a fair deal about the subject, but her mother was a Grandmaster. Whatever she was up to, Serana had a feeling it was on the wrong side of sane and Drevas wholeheartedly agreed with her.
It had been. In the time she'd known him, Serana had rarely heard Drevas swear in words outside his native tongue, so to hear him go on a brown streak, of such vitriol and complexity that even Old Molag would have blushed, at their discovery that her mother had opened a portal to the Soul Cairn was…surprising, to say the least.
"…Loose-arsed fetching swine-herder of a cock-guzzling, rockjoint-ridden, pedestrian, vapid pea-brained cunt…"
Also informative. She didn't know half those things could be swear words…
Of course, now she had to deal with a (seemingly, as it was hard to tell with the old Elf) permanently pissed-off Dragonborn as they gallivanted about a 'land' (she used that word tentatively) no living sane person would dare go, searching for someone who may or may not still exist. After four days wandering this wretched place, her blood supply dwindling and Drevas' food stores running low, with no sign of Valerica to give her hope of success, the silence of her travelling partner was starting to wear on Serana.
Sitting in one of the menacing black buildings scattered about this depressing, grey wasteland, resting after another long 'day' (three cheers for pocket-watches!) of walking around aimlessly, Serana looked over at her companion: leaning against a pillar in his ebony armor, Toolbox gleaming on his back and Starfall on his hip, looking out into the grey and violet expanse about them and pointedly not looking at her.
At this point however, Serana had had enough, "You know," she began icily, "If I'd known you were going to mope this whole time, I'd have just gotten Lydia or Gunmar to-"
"Shut up." The hard finality in his tone felt like a slap to Serana.
Also, it pissed her off; orange eyes glowing and patience running out, she laid into him, "Now see here, Drevas: you didn't have to come! I know you don't like necromancy, at all, but this is more important than either of us, so would you please at least try being civil with me again?! Or at least tell me what's got you in such a funk?"
He didn't answer, at first. Serana huffed, looking out into the wastes herself. There was a pink-violet cloud in the distance; maybe they should try there next…
"It feels like the arm…" Drevas' voice was quiet enough that she would have missed it, were she not a vampire.
"What in the what now?"
"Being partially soul-trapped. It feels like the tattoo on an arm I found in Blackreach."
Huh. Okay, color her interested, "Same time as Hermione, yes?"
He nodded, bone white hair glinting in the light, "It was where she…arrived, I suppose. Anyway, I wanted you to take a look, but I guess there's no point now that I know what it was," Drevas ended in a bitter tone.
"Oh, no you don't, you pointy-haired guar-breeder," he snorted in amusement at her teasing tone; good, she was getting through to him! "I know for a fact you keep everything you find interesting in that freaking awesome box of yours, which means you've been carrying, I'm guessing, a severed arm with a necromantic enchantment around for the better part of three weeks."
"Your point?"
"Let me have a look?"
"Why?"
"Because we're friends, you big lump."
Now he looked at her; his face was paler than usual, eyes narrowed in…was it anger? Or, something else? Didn't he trust her?
"One condition," Serana nodded for him to go on, "What are your intentions with Hermione?"
'W-w-w-what?! Where in Oblivion did that come from?' "Intentions, Drevas? What, do you think I'm going to elope with your pretty, virginal apprentice?" She laughed as the look on his face morphed into incredulity, at least until his brows slammed together in anger. Serana held up her hands and quickly explained before he brained her, "Vampire, remember? I can smell those sorts of things on people; as for my intentions, I'm not looking for romance or partnership if that's what you're asking. Becoming what I am took a lot of that away…" she trailed off quietly, old horrors howling at the edge of her memories, as Drevas hummed and looked away again.
"Then I suggest you stop leading her on."
Serana looked at the Dragonborn, blinking in surprise, "But, I'm not! Honest!"
"Tch," scoffed Drevas, still not looking at her, going on before Serana could say anything in her defense, "Hermione's only memories of her former life are of someone she loves, Serana. Beyond that, it's all magical theory, spells, physical training, hells, woman," he looked back at her, "she had hand-to-hand combat training before Lydia ever met her, so much so that she was able to pick up weapon finesse well enough to get the drop on me in a matter of days."
"Granted," Serana felt the need to point out, "she is smaller and faster than you are, on top of all the crap having dragon's blood grants you; plus, the only training you have is live combat."
"Yes, I'll give her that, but we're getting off track; my point here is that she knows nothing of herself. She doesn't remember her parents, her friends, even the name of the country she comes from; for the love of the GODS, Serana, she doesn't even remember growing up, and you," he pointed at her, his narrowed eyes sending a chill through her being, "an immortal being of desire, lust, and power, are sharing a bed with her. How are you not leading her on?"
"Now that's not fair! I haven't shown any interest in her beyond getting to know her!" It was true, too; Serana liked Hermione, but she thought of her more like a little sister and colleague, what with her advanced magical knowledge. At Drevas' raised eyebrow, she growled pointedly, "It's hardly my fault that the poor girl is confused and afraid, Drevas."
He looked away quickly; Serana smirked, continuing, "Also, if you're that concerned about her safety and virtue, why didn't you take her to Solitude, or bring her to the College? Molag's hairy balls, Drevas, you could have taken her to Isran, you know he wouldn't have a problem with it!"
"It wouldn't have addressed the whole, you know, from another, unheard of, plane of existence issue."
"And you're the best choice to deal with such a thing?" She probably shouldn't have put that so condescendingly…
Seeing as he gave her a dirty look before replying in a tone that scraped her senses like rusty nails, "And what would you know of me, or Aetherius, or Oblivion, or the Daedra," then he sneered, "Daughter of Coldharbour, tch. You couldn't help a mudcrab find its own claws, let alone help that girl find a way home." And looked away again.
Oh, he did not just go there, "You want to bet, Ashlander?"
The air crackled. A lightning bolt fell nearby.
Then he chuckled, "Fine, you can look at the arm."
Serana blinked, before hissing at the Dunmer, "Oh, no! You just insulted me! I'm not letting that stand so eas-"
"You will let that stand, if you know what's good for you, vampire," his eyes locked with hers, seeming to be pits of blood, the grey of his skin dancing with menacing shadows, gritted teeth doors to Oblivion as he in a tone that underscored how much he was restraining himself, "Because, despite coming from a family that worshiped a corner of the House of Troubles, you've never watched the sun rise while the blood of your friends dried on your hands, and smiled."
'Boethiah,' thought Serana, suppressing a shudder, 'I'm stuck in the most inhospitable land in all the Planes with a Proven of Boethiah who solves most of his problems by killing them,' gulping, she asked, "So…you'd betray me if it would make your task easier?"
"No," Drevas began removing the Toolbox, his voice back to normal, "I'm saying I wouldn't lose a wink of sleep if I had to kill you, and I would not hesitate for a second before smashing your skull in like a common bandit, should you break my ward's heart."
The Daughter of Coldharbour let out a huge sigh, "I'll have a talk with her when we get back, make sure she understands my feelings toward her and vise-versa."
Her Dunmer companion nodded, "See that you do. Now, tell me what you make of this," and he opened the Toolbox.
Peeking inside, Serana was hardly surprised to find a severed forearm contained in a stasis field. The hand had part of a finger missing, and there was a tattoo just below the wrist: a skull, with a snake coming out of the mouth and wrapping about it.
Serana raised an eyebrow, "So…You're saying this ugly tattoo feels like a partial soul-trap?" Drevas grunted an affirmative; sighing, knowing that their relationship would probably be strained until they found the sun again, she reached out a gloved finger to examine the magics contained in this lame-looking tattoo.
She'd seen quite a few horrible things during her…unlife, and that's not even counting what she'd gone through at her parent's hands or Old Molag's attentions.
If it wasn't for the fact that Hermione had shown her how magic worked in her world, she probably wouldn't have understood what she was looking at, either.
As it was…
"Well…Erm…Well," hesitated Serana, slowly withdrawing her hand.
Drevas tapped a gauntleted finger against a greave impatiently, "Any guesses, then?"
Serana cleared her throat and fixed Drevas with a piercing stare, "I have no idea who applied this tattoo, but, given what I've felt in this thing, they were cut from the same cloth as Potema and Mannimarco," her voice shook as she spoke; the Dunmer's eyebrows shot up as she continued, "We should find my mother so we can get an experienced opinion, but from what I can tell, the caster of the spell used the energies of a murdered innocent to place some kind of signaling enchantment that's tied to the supplicant's own soul."
After a moment of silence, Drevas asked quietly, "Would you be able to activate the enchantment from here?"
"Possibly," the Daughter of Coldharbour replied uneasily, "Given our…current location…we might even be able to open a Gate to the nearest individual wearing one of these. There's more," she added at the Dragonborn's tilted head, pointing at the tattoo, "Each one of these has a sort of…logbook, I guess, that activates when in the presence of a similar enchantment; it was recently in contact with another bearer of this mark."
Drevas folded his arms again, "I doubt we'd be able to sustain a Gate for long, especially given the medium involved."
Serana blinked, closing the Toolbox before she remembered, "Oh, I almost forgot you're pretty good at Conjuration. Good job not becoming a corpse-humper," she added cheekily.
He nodded, finally smiling at her; looking back to the pink-violet cloud on the horizon, Drevas mused aloud, "That cloud is the only place we haven't checked, so…"
Serana stood, "I was just thinking the same thing. Hopefully it's not another giant, heavily armed and armored, undead guardian. Three of those was too many."
Slinging the Toolbox onto his back, Drevas agreed, "Don't remind me; although…I kind of wish we could have kept that bow," at Serana's dirty look, he elaborated, "What? It would have looked smashing on Jarl Balgruuf's wall."
Rolling her eyes in amusement, the Daughter of Coldharbour gathered her things before striding after the Last Dragonborn, both keeping watch for undead or worse as they walked to what, Serana hoped, was the end of their journey.
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'When we get back,' thought Drevas through the red haze of pain he was in, 'I'm taking a break. No Thane duties, no fighting dragons or bandits. I'm just going to kick back and relax for a couple weeks, work on some potions while I'm at it.'
The purple mist had been their destination, evidenced by Valerica's presence; while mother and daughter had their reunion (read: argued about family morality and duty, which was so ironic), Drevas picked his nose and admired the blasted wastes around them. Not somewhere he'd want to live, but he supposed a corpse-humper would find it pleasant.
Once the argument became less actual debate and more furious vampiric hissing, the Dunmer adventurer decided it was time to cut in before he had to break up a catfight…or would it be called something else, because, well, Khajiit.
Clearing his throat to get the ladies' attention, Drevas felt it was time to get a move on, "Valerica, was it? I'm partially soul-trapped, hungry, and really hacked-the-fuck-off. I miss my bed, my Alchemy lab, my apprentice, and I'm out of pipe-weed. Yes, I'm a vampire hunter, but I'm also the Dragonborn, and I have a headache. Now, unless you've got a really good reason not to give us the Scroll so we can go off your husband?" He trailed off, hoping she'd get the point.
She didn't, "Arrogance will get you nowhere, Dunmer. You don't know what Harkon-" Perhaps it was time to take this diplomatic discourse to the next stage.
"Woman." Valerica's jaw clicked shut as she looked rather affronted at being interrupted, not to mention shocked at Drevas' hard tone, "I've been to Coldharbour. It was a dump last time I was there, and I'll assume nothing's changed since. I know exactly what your s'wit bastard of a husband is capable of, and, as I kill dragons on a regular basis, I'm not terribly impressed by what I've seen thus far."
"Mother, I wouldn't even be here if not for Drevas," pleaded Serana, "We've already killed the Keepers you spoke about, so why are you hesitating?!"
The older Daughter of Coldharbour sighed in defeat before replying, "Because those Keepers were only the first line of defense the Ideal Masters put in place to keep me here; I'm actually wondering where the other is, as it was given to him to watch over the Keepers."
Serana glanced worriedly at Drevas, who was getting tired of all this necromantic bullshit, "So what is the final line of defense? A lich or something?"
"Durnehviir," hissed Valerica hatefully, "A powerful dragon in service to the Ideal Masters."
There was no wind in the Soul Cairn, so when the resulting silence fell, it hit the ground at terminal velocity.
The Thane of Whiterun blinked at the name before replying, "Curse-Never-Dying? Huh. That sounds…huh."
Serana scoffed, "Just a dragon, mother? Between the three of us, we should be able to handle it. We do have a Dragonborn on hand, after all."
And that was the argument all wrapped up in a neat bow. So it obviously followed that the bloody undead dragon would jump them right before they got to the Scroll.
In the end, though, it was just a dragon; for anyone else, it would have been a legendary feat to fell the beast.
For Drevas of Mournhold, it was Tirdas.
Still, this one was a tougher customer than the usual dragons; it breathed pestilent frost, used Marked for Death and Disarming Shouts, and had another Shout that summoned Wrathmen, Mistmen, and even summoned that Keeper with the giant mace at one point, all while flying about the battlefield and trying its level best to kill the three of them.
Unfortunately for the dragon, whose roar was the warhorn of Death itself, its opponents were two Daughters of Coldharbour and the Last Dragonborn, none of whom were in the mood to hold back.
Ribbons of blood whipped about the arena amidst torrents of dragonfire, sheets of blue lightning and flying spears of ice, summoned Hungers ripped into Wrathmen with shrieking wails, and the sound of Starfall shattering the Keeper's hammer shook the stones of Valerica's prison amidst Drevas' blood-crazed laughter.
Drevas couldn't remember the last time he'd had so much fun, and the God-Ancestor was definitely pleased with his performance!
Though that was the bloodlust talking, he realized as he came back to himself once the beast had vanished, mainly due to Drevas jumping on its back and caving its skull in; he didn't really care what Boethiah thought of him, as he just used the Daedra as a tool when he fought, and it wasn't like he'd come through this fight unscathed. The Dunmer's left forearm was badly broken, he'd lost his helm at some point, and his broken ribs were grinding against each other. So, all in all, it had been a good fight.
'Give me a couple more dragons like this,' he thought as he twisted his arm back into place with a grinding crunch before flooding his body with Restoration magic, 'None of the others had any guts, basically fought like fancy bears. This one though…Only Alduin was tougher than this fucker. I haven't had a fight like that since I left Hammerfell.'
Breathing heavily as he felt his ribs shift back into place and mend, Drevas wondered where that ringing sound was coming from…oh. He swiped a glowing finger over each ear, sound slowly coming back to him.
"…vas? Mr. Drevas, can you hear me?" Oh, Valerica; the Dunmer turned to look at her-
Serana was cut in half at the waist, frowning up at the sky, while Valerica dragged her lower half over to her, "Well. That dragon was certainly tougher than usual. Drevas, could I get some blood over here?"
'Oh. Right, immortal vampire,' thought Drevas as he removed a gauntlet and approached the two vampires, remarking airily, "Remind me to take you to a Forsworn fort on the way back, Serana."
She smiled at him as her mother made her body whole once more with a spell, "Oh, so I get a reward for surviving this?"
Valerica huffed as Drevas cut his wrist and held it over Serana's open mouth, "I don't know if I should be grateful or concerned, Serana, considering the company you keep. What is that mace even made of?"
"Ebony and some kind of meteoric iron that's heavier than what you get out of the ground; I had to put a band of metal enchanted with Feather around the haft just to lift the bloody thing when I found it. And the dragon's defeated, yes?" drawled Drevas, healing his arm again as Serana licked up a few stray drops, "I don't think the how matters, so long as the results are satisfactory."
"Yes, Durnehviir is defeated," admitted Valerica as they both helped Serana to her feet, "For now; his physical body will reconstitute after some time, as his unlife is tied to the power of the Ideal Masters."
"Fantastic," hissed Serana in annoyance, "In that case, let's grab the Scroll and get out of here." Drevas couldn't agree more; he was running out of arrows.
Collecting the final Scroll was as easy as picking it up from a fancy chest in Valerica's redoubt and putting it in the Toolbox with the others. Though, that reminded Drevas of his earlier conversation with Serana.
'We'll have to take the risk of facing Durnehviir again; I told Hermione I'd do whatever I can to help her, and this falls into that category,' resetting the Toolbox, he addressed Valerica, who was looking at the case with great interest, "Before we take our leave, I'd like your professional opinion on something," Drevas opened the case, revealing the severed arm with its necromantic tattoo.
Valerica's eyebrows rose over her glowing eyes, "What's this?"
Serana explained briefly, "Suffice to say, mother, we're not sure. It came from an unknown Plane with a young girl."
As an interested Valerica knelt to examine the arm, Drevas gave a few more details, "From what I've gathered, she, and by extension the person this arm was once attached to, came from another Mundus," the Master Necromancer looked up at him in shock, to which he nodded before adding, "Needless to say, if you ever leave this place, keep whatever you learn today close to your chest."
"Of course," Valerica shakily replied, before turning her attention back to the arm, "The last thing our world needs is another Dragon Break," she stoked a finger over the tattoo, tracing the snake as she mused out loud, "I sense the essence of the unquiet dead, and the will of another; capable of calling to the other…there are more of its kind, waiting for their master's direction. It's more like a leash and collar than anything I've witnessed…the magic in this, it's only an echo, with no life to fuel it, but I think I can…" she jerked back suddenly, eyes widening in fear and shock "Shor, who has done this?!"
Drevas' hand flew to his mace, "What is it?" If that thing had corrupted his Toolbox somehow…
Valerica's face contorted into hateful rage, "The girl you spoke of, does she bear such a mark?" At their negative response, she sighed in relief, "Good. This…thing, it resonates with the soul of another; in a way, it's like a minor anchor for the caster's entire life force. To do something like this…Aedra and Daedra, it is a crime, far worse than anything I can imagine."
"Are you saying that, so long as there's someone with one of these cheesy tats, the corpse-humper who placed it is immortal?!" growled Drevas; the implications alone…did the world Hermione come from have its own Mannimarco?
"No, it's worse," the Volkihar matron replied disgustedly while her daughter's eyes widened in shock, "The caster, in order to create even one of these leashes…they would have to fragment their own soul. Multiple times," Valerica turned a hateful gaze on both horrified adventurers, "To do such a thing…the ones who bear these brands had to murder an innocent, and the applicator tied a piece of themselves into each tattoo. It is deplorable, the ritual involved. Whoever did this was a true monster, completely lacking any form of compassion or decency. Even the King of Worms would never do something so heinous."
"And Hermione doesn't remember much of her history," mused Serana quietly while Drevas fumed in quiet anger, "Do…Drevas, do you think she might have been banished here, for standing against this monster or his servants?"
Before he could reply, Valerica managed to ease their concerns, "I should think it the latter, Serana; this Mark is dormant and has been for some time, but was recently in contact with another leashed dog," the vampire spat in disgust, "So, it is likely that the monster who created it was defeated in some form long ago, and this…Hermione, was it? She likely ran afoul of our departed subject here; how they came to be in Mundus, however, is anyone's guess."
'A Gate, maybe?' "I couldn't find any other residual magics on the arm," commented Drevas with a frown, "So it wasn't a Gate through the Oblivion Planes…" this was where he was stumped, because it just couldn't be.
"Some unknown plane in the Aubris, then?" suggested Serana hopefully. Drevas shook his head; he couldn't see any of the Gods suffering such a breach of their careful balance.
Valerica agreed with him, "No, that's not likely; such an event would have been noticed and contained, either by one of the Princes or Akatosh. What a curious mystery this is…"
Then Drevas remembered something else, a conversation in the Elder Scroll chamber, "She practically fell out of thin air…in Blackreach. Could…Could it be the Dwemer?" He looked incredulously at the two women; Serana looked…disturbed, likely due to her helping Hermione enchant Stormbringer.
Valerica, on the other hand, was giving him an inquisitive look, speaking slowly, "The Dwemer? Also no. They were obliterated by the Heart, punished for their hubris even as the Chimer were for their insolence, hence your grey skin and red eyes."
"Hermione knows the runes the Dwemer used, though," the elder vampire's eyes bulged in surprise, "Even if Hermione herself isn't Dwemer, the vehicle or method used might be, hence their appearance in Blackreach."
"Or," Valerica pointed out, "It could be that it was a transportation spell, such as Mark/Recall, that went awry; if the Mark or Recall point were interfered with, a magical barrier or glyph shield being in the way for example, the results would be unpredictable at best, catastrophic at worst. Given that she wasn't killed, however, the unstable spell may have simply placed her at a point in our world with great magical resonance, which Blackreach has in abundance."
Drevas nodded, thinking furiously on all he knew of Conjuration and Mysticism, while Serana put in, "But what of the Dwemer? Could she have been trained by one?"
"Assuming a member or two somehow went to her world?" Serana nodded at her mother's dryly asked question, "Given that they vanished nearly four millennia ago, it's possible that the Dwemer left behind a text or two that she learned from, or that certain members of her race are descended from them. Without proof of their continued existence, however, such theories are purely conjecture despite her knowledge of their runes."
"We'll have to ignore that issue for now, as we'll get nowhere without more evidence," Valerica nodded at Drevas' observation, but he wasn't done, "Though…Could the Dwemer have left behind an artifact that opens a gate to Blackreach, specifically?"
"I don't think they would," Serana replied, "If they had such a thing, why not use it?"
Drevas groaned; nothing for it, then, "In that case, our best chance is to replicate the enchantment on the arm as best we can, and attempt to open a Gate to Hermione's plane."
Valerica stared at him disbelievingly, "You…You cannot be serious! The actions we would have to take-"
"We wouldn't have to do much, mother," grinned Serana, "Hermione taught me how her world's magic functions; they don't teach pattern configurations, but their spells do have patterns. If we replicate the spell pattern inside a filled black soul gem-"
"We could create a false anchor, one that could be used as a Gate locus," Drevas finished with a smirk of his own, "I'd prefer a Sigil Stone, personally, but I'd rather not go to the Deadlands to fetch one."
Valerica's disbelief had turned to pleasant surprise as her daughter and the Dragonborn elaborated on their plan, "Hmm, I rescind my earlier statement, Serana; you clearly have good taste in associates," 'Oh great, the vampire lady likes me,' thought Drevas disgustedly, "I've noticed, though, you've avoided one possibility…"
Drevas knew where she was going, and cut her off, "No. We won't entertain that possibility. Because if that is the case," he growled, eyes hardening when Valerica tried to interrupt while Serana frowned at him, "if the Aedra had a hand in bringing her here, then that means everything that's happened to her since her arrival was destined, that she's a Champion, and I refuse to believe that the Divines would do that to so young a person."
A moment of silence fell as the two vampires digested his words; it was Valerica, however, who broke it, and shook Drevas to the core with but two words:
"Martin Septim."
The Last Dragonborn wished she hadn't reminded him of that event, the moment in history where everything started falling apart, all because of two Champions: one, a nigh-unkillable adventurer whose quality and strength were unquestionable, and a young, honest man with the blood and selflessness of Alessia herself, a true Emperor.
A red-haired Hero died in regret. An Emperor sacrificed himself. All because Akatosh willed it.
And look where it got them.
If Hermione was a Champion, called from some distant shore, and the Divines gave her to him…
Shaking his head to clear the depressing thoughts, Drevas finally replied, "It's moot, regardless. She can't go home until we find a way, and this," he pointed at the arm, "is the first step to figuring that out." Both Daughters of Coldharbour nodded in agreement.
"Let's get started, then."
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16th Rain's Hand, 4E201
Town of Falkreath
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Farkas would not panic. No, he bloody would not panic. He could fix this. He'd been in worse situations than this before; the scrap he'd gotten into two years ago with Vilkas, Aela, and those Forsworn Witches in East Reach came to mind. He could handle this, damn it!
Two days after getting back to Whiterun from Morthal, Hermione had come up to the mead hall with a new mission: go to Falkreath and do some of the Jarl's dirty work in exchange for some land. Seeing as there weren't any other jobs at the moment, he'd agreed; mostly, though, he wanted to deal with some bandit scum. The crackdown had been fun, but things had been quiet in Whiterun lately.
So off to Falkreath they went, just after lunch on the 9th, Scales the clannfear in tow.
Spending the night at the Sleeping Dragon in Riverwood was a good idea, as they were able to get a good idea of where they might be ambushed along the road, thanks to some hunters staying at the inn. Too bad there was only a single bed; not that Farkas cared, he didn't get much sleep as it was, being a Werewolf and all. So his bedroll went onto the floor and the hulking Nord followed shortly after.
Hermione had the cutest little snore, though. Too bad she wasn't a couple years older…or apprenticed to the scariest person he'd ever met.
Just before first light, as he was checking their gear, she'd woken with a start.
"Bad dream?" asked Farkas as he checked his greatsword for nicks, 'Might have to get a better blade soon. Steel's good, but Dwarven might be better.'
Hermione blinked a couple times before answering around a yawn, "Ah, no…just, a memory from before, I guess."
"Hmph," grunted Farkas, interested in his client's wellbeing.
Sighing, she told him with a smile in her voice as she pulled on her boots, "Apparently, I was friends with a redheaded boy who had more brawn than sense…Too bad I can't remember anything beyond his name, and the fact that we sparred regularly."
"Hrmm," the Werewolf grunted in understanding, before adding, "Must've been good, if you learned from him."
"Actually, he was shite until Harry corrected his forms. We all got used to falling down, after that," the Thane's apprentice stood and stretched her arms over her head, bones popping and giving Farkas a fine view of her midriff when her tunic rose, finishing with fond humor, "Stupid lanky git."
Farkas didn't ask if she meant this Ron person, or himself; he wasn't suicidal. He could handle the lass, but the clannfear would probably kill him.
Heading further south turned out to be harder than Farkas had first expected, mostly because it started raining just after they passed the Guardian Stones; and if Farkas knew anything about Falkreath, it's that when it rains there…
It bloody rains.
As in, the Divines pouring buckets from on high so the world could turn to mud.
So it was that they got to the town of Falkreath in the early morning, on the 11th of Rain's Hand, soaked through, grumpy, and mildly dinged up from when a bandit group decided attacking them was a good idea. Speaking of which, Farkas was actually kind of surprised they didn't turn and run after Hermione blew two of them to pieces with that magic stick of hers; but, then, smart people rarely turn to banditry.
Their fucking mage gave her a hard time, though, throwing spikes of ice and dancing about while Farkas had a 'discussion' with the bandit's boss; Scales ended up gutting the milk-drinker while Hermione herself yanked icicles out of her armor while swearing. Good thing it was a Masterwork, or Farkas' days would be numbered. He really didn't want to get Drevas on his bad side.
After drying off and hammering out some dings, the two fronted up to the Jarl just after ten bells in the morning, looking quite spiffy and ready for anything.
So of course the slimy fuck immediately sends them off to clear bandits out of a cramped, dusty mine. Bandits that, funnily enough, he'd fucking hired before.
Tosser.
His client agreed with his impression of Falkreath's Jarl, quite colorfully at that, and he couldn't blame her, especially after dealing with the two most competent Jarls in Skyrim. Jarl Siddgeir was a right little twat when they left and his mood hadn't changed when they got back from bowling the bandits.
As for the bandits? Eh, the draugr were more interesting. Smarter, too; you'd think that the whole cavern would've been up in arms after the door guards got loudly blown up by Hermione's crossbow, but no, they just waited in their posts and, generally, died quickly, and occasionally loudly.
Farkas' ears were still ringing when they got back, requiring a quick stop at the Temple, but that might have been the bear that snuck up on them. Or the spriggan. Or the troll (Hermione had some history with those, if her shriek of terror was any sign. His killing the thing with extreme prejudice seemed to set her mind at ease). The young Wolf also might have forgotten just how wild Falkreath could be, but living in Whiterun did that to a person.
And the Jarl's thanks? "Ah, here's a bit of gold, for your trouble," and gives them eight bloody Septims. To split. If it wouldn't have caused an incident between Whiterun and Falkreath, Farkas would've torn the ice-brain's arm off and beat him senseless with it.
So he let Hermione do the talking.
"Err," began Hermione carefully, no doubt trying to be nice while Farkas fumed behind her, "My Jarl, I was under the impression that a plot of land would be for sale, hence my Thane's eagerness."
"Oh, that?" had the greasy-palmed fuck-wit actually forgotten?! "Well, I could allow you to buy land in my Hold…if you become better acquainted with my people. I can't simply allow anyone the privilege of living here, what with the bandit issues and all. I might let in the wrong sort, if you follow me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have another appointment."
Which explained why she went and ordered six bottles of mead after arriving at the inn for the night, on the 14th. Being a (somewhat) responsible adult, Farkas took four of the bottles off Hermione before she hurt herself (or killed the Jarl. Not that he'd complain if the longhouse accidently burnt to the ground, but Kodlak might not understand). Good news: Hermione was the funniest drunk he'd ever seen.
The people of Falkreath seemed to think so, too. Especially after the two of them (plus Scales, who had somehow snuck into the inn and drank an entire case of Black-Briar mead before anyone noticed, and by then everyone was too drunk to care) wove a drunken tale of their clearing the barrow in Morthal, sword-swings and flying bolts and claw-strikes multiplying tenfold, the paltry three score dried-up corpses that they'd fought turning into an army fit to take Solitude with ease. The townsfolk ate it up, and they'd even made a couple extra Septims for their performance.
That they'd gotten a free room for the week out of the story was just icing on the sweetroll.
The next day had been uneventful, aside the fact that Hermione apparently didn't get hangovers. 'Must be a Dragonborn thing…' Farkas figured as he chopped some firewood for the nice (if somewhat creepy) Redguard lady what ran the Apothecary, doing so as a way to fight through his hangover. Hermione herself had taken Scales out of the town for a bit of a lark; he found out later, while they were getting their armor seen to by the town blacksmith, that there was a spriggan harassing travelers a ways up the road. One frost bolt and Scales' bulk and the sprite was firewood. She'd even found a chest full of drakes and a couple gemstones in the forest guardian's hideout, so she was on a high when she told the story to the smiling Companion.
He'd ruffled her hair fondly for that one, much to her frustration.
It was around midnight, while dozing on the inn's porch, that Farkas realized Hermione was starting to grow on him. Sure, she was his client, but it was getting obvious that the buck-toothed lass could take care of herself well enough, and, unlike the ladies in Whiterun that weren't named Aela or Lydia, Hermione wasn't annoying. A little reckless, sure, but Farkas figured most fighters were like that; Farkas knew he was at times, as was Skjor, even Thane Drevas was bloody reckless (granted, when you had a mace that weighed as much as a mammoth and could swing it around like it weighed nothing, you could be as reckless as you damn-well pleased).
But Hermione? Well, before this adventure, Kodlak had suggested, on hearing about what happened in Morthal, to get the lass' measure in case she showed an interest in joining the Companions, and from what Farkas had seen so far, he'd like her as a Shield-Sister.
At least she knew when to be flowery and when to cuss like a street rat, unlike Vilkas; plus, someone had to watch out for the girl. Thane Drevas, for all his skill, wasn't a person you could stay sane around, and that pet vampire of his wasn't helping Farkas' feeling that Hermione needed someone…saner than the Dark Elf in her life.
All he had to do was word it to Hermione in such a way that wouldn't make it seem like he was making a pass at her…
Sometimes, Farkas mused as he drifted off that night, he wished Vilkas was around; at least he knew how to be flowery at the right times.
Which brings the Wolf to now, definitely not panicking as he stormed out of the town to shift to Werewolf form and find Scales; only milk-drinkers panicked, and Farkas wasn't a milk-drinker. In fact, he couldn't recall ever drinking milk. No, the tallest, strongest (barring Kodlak) member of the Companions was most certainly not panicking.
He was pissed. The. Fuck. Off.
When Farkas went to gather Hermione so they could go check out a nearby barrow (good practice for vampires, in his opinion), he found her room empty. No Hermione, no armor, no crossbow, and her pack wasn't there either. Just a note, left on her pillow.
A black palm-print on it. With two words that made Farkas' blood run cold.
HAIL SITHIS
His first thought was, 'Oh, fuck me. Kodlak's gonna break my arms and give me to Thane Drevas as dragon bait.'
His second thought was, 'No. Fuck that right in the ear with a battleaxe! I'll just head out, change to wolf-form, and sniff her out; Scales should be able to help with that.'
And Farkas' final thought before he allowed the beast to take over? 'Please, please don't be dead lass. I don't want to get ripped apart by an angry Dark Elf.'
. . . . .
16th Rain's Hand, 4E201
Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary
. . . . .
As I woke from a very pleasant dream of a shirtless Harry sparring with me, I realized two things immediately.
One: I wasn't in my bed at the inn, and two: my hands and legs were bound to a chair.
Oh, and I had a burlap sack over my head, but that probably wouldn't last long; good thing I wasn't naked, or this situation would go from 'dire' to 'possibly fatal' on my threat grading system.
'Take stock: slightly cotton-mouthed, so I was drugged but I'm coming out of it now. Can't smell anything past this sack, but the air feels damp. A cave…shite, I hope this isn't bandits…' both my arms were on the armrests, fingers and wrists tied separately, so whoever kidnapped me knows what they're doing.
"Ooh! Ooh! Astrid! She's awake!" came an excited adult male's voice that was obviously tinged with madness, accompanied by a skipping sound. 'Or they just got lucky.'
"I can see that, Cicero. Calm down, and take that sack off her head," a woman, whose voice couldn't get oilier if she tried, "I'd like to speak with our…guest." I stand corrected!
The bag comes roughly off my head to reveal my surroundings: a stained-glass window with a hideous sarcophagus in front of it directly across me, stone walls with a moldy scent about them ('So I am underground…fabulous.'), and a bunch of useless junk scattered about the room, minus my gear in a pile by the door on my left.
There were also two very dangerous looking people in the room with me.
One was a man in a…jester's uniform. He was also grinning madly at me and caressing a sharp ebony dagger in a very disturbing way; 'Huh. He looks ridiculous. And insane. I better get out of here, and fast.'
The other…was a tall blonde Nord woman with an even deadlier looking dagger on her hip, all dressed in black and red skintight leather; at first glance, I thought I might be in a sick bordello of some sort, given their clothing choices and the size of the woman's baps.
Speaking of which, it was around then that I saw the Black Hand stitched on the woman's breast. 'Oh fuck. OH FUCK! Oh shite, bugger, and Namira's sagging arsecheeks, how the Nine did I get the attention of the Dark Fucking Brotherhood?!'
The woman, Astrid presumably, spoke first, "From the look on your face, you're probably wondering why you're here, Hermione of Whiterun. Well, allow me to explain, briefly, why you've been brought to our humble Sanctuary."
She dragged another chair in front of me; 'So…an interrogation? Okay, whatever, as long as I live!' Letting the silence drag on for a moment, the woman spoke:
"Listen, Hermione," purred the bitch, because how dare she say my name like that, "This is how this meeting is going to go down: you have information on a person. This person has been marked for death by the Black Sacrament. You are going to tell me everything I want to know about this person, and, if you cooperate and I'm satisfied with the information you've given, you'll be let go. How does that sound, honey?" Need I say all that was delivered in a tone one might use on a five-year-old?
Shifting my arms a little in my bonds and slowly gathering an inferno in my throat, I responded as politely as I could, "Sounds good, lady. Who do I know that needs to die?" 'As if I can't guess…'
The jester pouted while the woman smiled and replied in that same purr, "Drevas of Mournhold, Thane of Whiterun and the Dragonborn of legend. Actually, depending on how good you are," 'Oh Gods, she's not.' "I might even give you a cut of the reward."
'Play along. Farkas will no doubt be along shortly with Scales in tow, and then these twats'll be paste,' I hoped; putting on an innocent smile, I then replied chirpily, "Okay, yeah! What, um, do you want to know?"
Astrid smiled like the cat that got the cream as she oiled, "Why don't you tell me everything you know about the Dunmer, and then I'll ask questions."
"Sure!" 'Stupid bitch,' and I began expounding, at great length, everything I knew about Master Drevas, starting with his knowledge of the Dwemer and working my way toward the whole vampire mess. This Astrid seemed to be absorbing the information well, if her slowly vanishing smile and rising eyebrows anything to go by; I even described, in detail, how Drevas killed that frost troll that I was still having nightmares about. To my satisfaction, the bitch looked a bit green when I wound that part up.
After about twenty minutes of buying time, I was just explaining Master Drevas' recipe for Khajiiti spiced pork wraps (which were really delicious) when Astrid held up a hand to halt me, "Okay. Wow, you're just a little egghead in fancy armor, aren't you? I can't help but notice, however, that you still haven't told me where your master currently is…" and that Cicero guy started grinning again.
'Where the fuck is Farkas?!' "Oh! Sorry, I got carried away. Um, well, I don't know exactly where Master Drevas is," said I slowly, trying to buy myself a little more time, "but I know where to look!" Astrid the Bitch nodded for me to go on, a hungry gleam in her eye, "Go to Mount Kilkreath and take the road north to the coast. Skirt around the Thalmor-occupied fort, can't miss it with all the goldskins strutting about, and go to the giant castle built on an island in the Sea of Ghosts. Again, can't miss it; bloody thing is huge."
There was quiet for a moment, apparently as the assassins in front of me processed that information; then, the bloody jester clapped his hands and did a little jig. Unbelievable, "Oh! Oh! I know the castle she speaks of, Astrid! Annnnnd…methinks the little hellion is trying to get us killed, oh yes she issss!"
I blinked a few times as Astrid the Bitch asked the jester mildly, "What makes you think that, Cicero?"
This…Cicero, giggled like a child before replying, "Oh, just the fact that she's given us directions to a castle full of vampires! Icky, nasty, bloodsucking, Molag Bal worshiping vampires, at that! A clever jest," clap-clap, jig, "but you can't fool Cicero!"
"Hmm," the bitch turned back to me with a scary grin, "That's a shame. I suppose I'll have to cut off a few of those pretty fingers for lying to me."
'Gods above, really?!' "Lady, I'm tied to a chair in a Dark Brotherhood sanctuary, at the mercy of an unhinged loon and…well, you," she drew her dagger anyway, but I wasn't done, "I'm really not lying; my master is in that castle to off said Molag Bal worshiping vampires. Yes, I know, that's kind of unbelievable, but my master does crazy things like that all the time!"
"Oh, I believe you," the fucking bitch purred, coming closer with that dagger, "and I'll be checking out your story, right after I make you scream a bit."
Crash!
Both the assassins whirled to look at the window at the distant sound of shattering stone, while I thought, 'IT'S ABOUT FUCKING TIME, FARKAS!' Figuring I should give him an advantage as the Scales-induced screaming started, I let the inferno in my throat rise up to my lips, "YOL!"
Good thing dragonfire is so hot and these two were standing so close together, or that wouldn't have worked so well. I could do without the smell of burning flesh and that jester's voided bowels, though, but Reductor-blasted bandits honestly smelled worse.
A pair of feral roars left my ears ringing, but I was too busy throwing my weight backwards, breaking the chair and banging my head on the floor in the process, to pay attention to the sounds of Farkas and Scales tearing the Brotherhood a new breathing slit. Blinking the stars away, I rolled over to my gear and used the edge of my axe to quickly cut the ropes away as the crashing and bangs got louder. I'd just loaded Stormbringer and set it to Fire/Shock when the door behind me opened.
A panicked-looking Redguard in bloodied robes was there, "Astrid! We're-"
Cha-BZZKK!
"Oh, sorry, were you saying something?" asked I sarcastically to his twitching, smoking corpse as I reloaded and grabbed my wand case, "It's really too bad you went and died so suddenly, I'm sure it was an absolutely enlightening sentence." Kneeling and checking the case, I found, that my wand hadn't been on Astrid when I cooked her, thank the Gods.
Not that I had much time for celebration, as an old man (sans left arm) entered the room right at that moment and loosed a lightning bolt at me before I could react.
I'd been shocked before; Serana's excuse was getting me used to the sensation, so I wouldn't freeze up and get killed due to inaction. Of course, she was probably thinking of hedge-wizards and lighter spells and assuming I'd be wearing armor, not the fucking Thunderbolt that smashed into my unarmored right shoulder with all the subtlety of a charging bear.
Which hurt, a lot. Through tears and greying vision I saw the old fart screaming something at me, charging up a purple and red spell that looked like it might kill me.
Today wasn't really going so well for me; beyond all the Dark Brotherhood shite, my right shoulder was a cooked mess, my body was still twitching as the aftereffects of the lightning bolt made my nerves misfire, and I'd just soiled myself as a result. Oh, and I was about to die, which would be quite the blow to my plans for the future. Altogether, the events of this morning left me feeling quite furious.
So I used the worst spell I could think of, given how utterly livid I was, hissing, "Crucio," before the old fuck could get his own spell off.
I don't really remember what happened after that. Vaguely, I realized the fucker screamed (presumably, as I was sort of deafened) and writhed until my vision went totally grey. Probably because I was on the verge of death until a battered and bloody Farkas found me, slapped me into semi-consciousness so I could down a healing potion, and put me in a bed to recover.
It might have been an hour or so before I regained full consciousness, blinking away the lingering grey and shunting some healing magic into my shoulder. Scales appeared in front of my face a second later, licking me and chirping worriedly.
My laugh of relief turned into a cough as I pushed him away, "Back off, mate. I'm fine, and I know where that beak of yours has been." It was then I realized I was shirtless; remembering the fight, I couldn't blame Farkas for getting me out of my ruined tunic. Maybe there was another lying about. The spot where the Thunderbolt hit was a puffy mass of scarred flesh, but it didn't hurt when I touched it, 'Bastard. As if I need more scars.'
"Lass," came Farkas' deep, gruff voice from somewhere to my right; looking over to find him sitting on the floor with his back against a wall and partially hidden in shadow, I noticed his armor had a few new gashes in it, his ice-blue eyes fixed on me, "What the hells did you do to that old guy?"
'Huh?...OH. Oh shite,' realizing what I'd just done as the cobwebs in my mind fell apart, I gulped to calm myself and gave Farkas the straight truth, "It's called…the Torture Curse. I, ah, may have come across its history during my studies with Harry. I've never cast it myself, though…"
"Until today," the Werewolf grumbled, adding, "Well, just don't cast it on me. Old fart was begging for death when I got up there," 'Way to go, Granger,' I thought sarcastically, but Farkas wasn't finished, "Are you sure you want to keep doing this?"
I blinked in confusion, "Keep doing what?"
"This," he gestured around expansively, "Being an adventurer. Are you sure you want this life?"
Frowning, I asked for clarification in a flinty voice, "If you've got something to say to me, Farkas, say it."
He sighed, but did as I asked, "Hermione, you nearly died," I flinched, but he kept going, "You didn't, and that's what matters, but there it is. I ain't stupid, lass; I know what you're trying to get into, following Thane Drevas around. I'll tell you now, straight up, that the shit that Dark Elf gets into would get normal folk killed any day of the week."
"I know, Farkas; he fights dragons-"
The Wolf growled before cutting across me, "Damn it, lass, dragons ain't the half of it! Most people who do mercenary or adventuring work would hesitate before plumbing a Dwarven ruin, or run into a den of vampires, or take on a fort filled with bandits! Even with help, there'd be a plan of some sort and a half-dozen fighters at least; but Drevas? He doesn't need a plan, because he's been doing this shit for so fucking long that he can walk into that ruin, and that den, and that fort by himself while whistling a tune, and he'll come back victorious because he's that fucking good."
As he paused for breath, I ignored the wavering feeling in my heart and said in a slightly shaky voice, "Farkas, I know. That's why I'm out here; I need to find my way back home, and Master Drevas is my best bet. Believe me," my tone went earnest when he opened his mouth to rant again, "I'd much rather not go around k-killing people, even if they deserve it, but if it gets me the respect and support that I need to go h-home…" I trailed off, mostly because I was trying very hard not to break down again. Scales hopped onto the foot of the bed and nudged my knee with his beak, supposedly trying to be a comfort; I just wished Serana was here with me…
Because I was afraid. Yes, I knew I wouldn't waver from the path I'd set for myself, deep in Blackreach, but that didn't stop me from being afraid in the face of the task before me.
Farkas, though…He got to his feet with a pained grunt and hobbled over to the chair next to my bed before saying, "I get it…sort of. I'm not gonna ask about where you come from, because, knowing Drevas, it's probably some crazy shit that I don't want to get too involved in," he clapped a large, calloused hand on my bare shoulder as I let out a wet and hollow laugh, "But I see it in your eyes: you're not too afraid of getting hurt and you can take care of yourself well enough. Still, you need to be better at not getting hurt if you want to fight at that crazy Dark Elf's level, let alone get back home in one piece."
I nodded, wiping my eyes on my arm and getting ahold of myself; after a moment I chuckled and asked, "So what the hells happened to you? You look like you got mauled by a bear."
Farkas rolled his eyes and replied in a dry tone, "Werewolf, actually. And then there was a vampire that looked like a kid, oh, and a scaly fucker with his Ashskin whore! If it wasn't for Scales, I'd be dead." The clannfear in question barked in agreement.
"At least you didn't have the jester. Creep," getting to my feet, I checked a nearby dresser for a new tunic. Black. Of course; pulling it on and turning to my armor as Scales started sniffing behind the dresser, I asked Farkas, "How long have I been-"
"About two hours," he replied, hefting a couple knapsacks full to bursting with coinpurses and gear, "If we hurry, we might be able to make it back to Falkreath in time for breakfast."
By the time he'd finished, I was in my greaves and working on my cuirass, "We're torching this place first. Maybe even caving the ceiling in, if I can manage it."
Ten minutes later, I was standing back in the room I'd woken in, in full kit and looking down at the charred body of Astrid the Bitch…who was somehow still alive, if incapable of speaking. Her glare spoke volumes, though. Not that I cared; she'd kidnapped me, planned to torture me for a giggle. That made this personal.
Looking up at the sarcophagus, I began to speak, "Given the state you're in, I don't know if you can even hear me, bitch, but I'll say it anyway: you fucked up. What you should have done was slit Farkas' throat while he slept, and killed Scales…not that any of you had the balls or talent to actually do either of those things. On top of that, you fucked with me." I looked back down at Astrid, "Be glad it's me, and not my Master, that's dealing with you. Because if you think I'm terrible, well…" chuckling darkly, I knelt picked up the dagger lying just out of her reach, the one she was going to use on me; her eyes widened in fury as I concluded, "It doesn't really matter, does it? You're dead either way."
Shick!
Drawing my wand, I looked back at the sarcophagus. I'd read enough about Tamriel's history to know what this was, so I said, "So ends your Dark Family, Night Mother, never to rise again. No one will know what happened today, because I'll never tell them, and neither will Farkas. Though, even if I do, sometime in the far future," smirking, I leveled my wand at the Night Mother's coffin, "there can be no Black Hand without a Listener, and there can be no Listener without you."
Flicking my wand, the casket opened, revealing a woman's desiccated corpse bound with ropes; not hesitating, I incanted, "Incendio!" The corpse caught fire easily, parts of it visibly withering into dust just before I delivered the coup-de-grace, "Bombarda!"
The Night Mother's burning casket flew through the stained glass window and into the pool of water in the Sanctuary's main room with a deafening boom! Farkas and Scales, who'd been setting the deeper portions of the place to the torch, jumped and squawked at the noise.
"Fuck's sake, Hermione!" roared the Companion as Scales chittered in annoyance.
Blushing, I quickly apologized, "Sorry, guys!"
. . . . .
17th Rain's Hand, 4E201
The Soul Cairn
. . . . .
"Well…That was informative," chirped Serana as she and Drevas began strolling away from Valerica's redoubt.
Drevas didn't respond, at first; when he did, there was a groan in his tone, "Understatement of the Era, Serana. Fucking hells, this is going to be harder than I thought."
The vampire walking next to him raised an eyebrow, "You mean it wasn't a difficult situation to begin with?"
The Dark Elf threw his hands up in exasperation, surprising the Daughter of Coldharbour, "Yes! I figured it would be a matter of unsummoning her through a ritual invoking the Nine, or doing some shite for Meridia or Azura in exchange for a favor! This whole shite with a device that manipulates time itself?!" He made a disgusted noise and looked up at the sky before shrugging, "At least I'm not soul-trapped anymore."
Serana didn't really know what to say to that, so she went with encouragement, "I'm sure you'll figure something out; and, hey! At least you'll have some good news for your apprentice when we get back."
The old Dunmer sighed and nodded, before asking, "Serana, be straight with me: does Hermione hate me?"
"What?!" her eyes widened in surprise, wondering where this came from, "Of course not! She thinks you're kind of a jerk, and, well, you are; but I already explained to her that it's not your fault. You can't help that there's stupid people everywhere."
"Sorry, it's just…If I was her age, I'd probably hate me for throwing me at bandits and shite."
"Calm down, Drevas," soothed Serana, "She's got help."
He nodded, and they kept walking toward the horizon and the exit to the Soul Cairn.
They didn't make it very far, as a huge summoning sphere appeared on the road before them, disgorging a regenerated Durnehviir.
Both adventurers were quick to prepare for a possible round two: Drevas' right hand flew to Starfall, his left prepping an Ebonyflesh and readying his Fire Breath Shout with a snarl while Serana hissed, fingers twitching and becoming coated in crimson energy that smelled strongly of freshly spilt blood.
Instead of attacking, however, the undead dragon spoke in a placating tone, "Stay your weapons. I would speak with you, Qahnaarin."
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A/N:
*Baked glares at an empty aspirin bottle*
This chapter was a real bloody headache to write, seeing as it's mostly filler as I build up for the Forgotten Vale.
The pacing of this story, therefore, is no accident.
Yeah, Hermione took on the draugr, has Masterwork armor and a kickass crossbow. She's still human, if a human that barely remembers her life and is being effected by dragon-blood in her veins.
The whole Dark Brotherhood questline in Skyrim was…disappointing, to say the least. Die, Astrid, die!
Stupid headache. I'm off to work.
Stay tuned for more!
~Baked
Next time: Hermione becomes a local hero, and Drevas returns
