…
Federal regulations require me to inform the reader that this chapter…
…is looking pretty good.
Also, the disclaimer is at the top of Chapter 1, 2 if you count the Prologue.
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Chapter 11
The Betrayed: Part 1
Last of the Snow Elves
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15th Second Seed, 4E201
Ancestor Glade, Falkreath
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Blinking away the Gods-awful spots in his eyes and shaking his head, Drevas came to a decision, then and there: 'If getting Hermione home involves using these Scrolls, I'm making that mad bastard Signus do it. Fuck, that was weird.'
"Are you okay?" Oh, right. Serana, "You went white as the snow."
Giving the three Elder Scrolls staked in the soft earth a suspicious glance, he replied mildly, "Other than feeling like someone threw dirt in my eyes and walloped me with a hammer, yes, Serana, I'm fine," as he watched the vampire relax slightly, Drevas added cheerfully, "As a happy plus, it worked, thank the Gods."
That perked her right up, "Well, it better have, or I'd be having words with Dexion; so, did you find out where the Bow is?"
Drevas answered as he packed up the Scrolls, taking the Draw Knife for good measure as he thought, 'A ritual that renders decades of meditation and training null and void; not something to leave lying around, especially in Falkreath,' "We're going to the Reach; some cave called Darkfall, in the middle of friggin' nowhere. In fact," grunting, he hefted the Toolbox onto his back and smirked at Serana, "It's about half a day's march from where I found Sorine and her mudcrabs."
Rolling her eyes and chuckling, Serana muttered, "Of course," before adding in a louder voice, "Well, let's get a move on. No sense giving my father a chance to catch up to us!"
Boom!
Both Dragonborn and noble vampire whipped their heads up towards the entrance to the Glade, a Gargoyle's roar following the sound of one of Hermione's traps going off.
Blam!
Cha-BZZ! Cha-BZZ!
BZZK! Cha-BZZ!
"SCREECH!" Cha-BZZ!
"C'mere, fucker!" THOOM! Cha-BZZ!
After the second sound of Stormbringer discharging, Drevas was already halfway up the path to where he'd last seen his apprentice, Starfall in one hand and Ebonyflesh rippling over his skin as Scales let out an animal war-cry; Serana herself ignored the path, using her claws to scale the short cliff with ease, lips curled into a fanged snarl and eyes flashing, no doubt seeking to flank the bastards before they got to her beloved.
Rounding the final corner, heart pounding, Drevas arrived just in time to see the top half of one of Harkon's peons go flying over his head, burning like a torch. Turning his attention to the tunnel and readying a Thunderbolt, Drevas' grim face instantly gave way to pleased surprise.
Harkon's ambushers were in pieces, all eight vampires, three thralls and four Gargoyles scattered throughout entrance tunnel amidst small craters (Stormbringer), viscera (Scales licking his chops with a smug look on his beaky face), blast scarring from the runic traps, and the odd arrow from Farkas, the Companion currently removing his sword from a Gargoyle's chest. Hermione herself chirped, "Clear!" and rose from the boulder she'd taken cover behind, an ice spike sticking out of the opposite side.
Savoring the look of pleased shock on Serana's face for a moment, Drevas holstered his mace and, grinning, addressed the other two members of the party in a mock-hurt tone, "Really, you two? You couldn't save even one for us?"
"Run faster next time, old Elf," growled Farkas with a grin of his own, before giving his victim a kick, "Not that these silly fucks put up much of a fight-ow! What?!" the Werewolf glared at Serana, rubbing the back of his head where she'd cuffed him.
Shaking her head, Serana elucidated, "No wonder Hermione swears so much; you're a bad influence." Drevas bit his tongue. Hard; his jaw still had a twinge in it from where she'd punched him, and reminding the woman of her former religious devotions might make the situation worse.
"Pot, meet kettle," was Hermione's sweetly delivered riposte; her girlfriend's surprised gaze falling on her, the younger Dragonborn laughed, "Honestly, Ana, if anyone's a bad influence on poor, innocent me," a snicker came from both Farkas and Scales, while Serana herself almost looked hurt…
Until his little runty smart-ass of an apprentice jerked a thumb Drevas' way, "It's Mr. Reckless over here."
"Watch it, brat; you wouldn't be alive if it weren't for me." His retort, sadly, didn't have much effect on the crowd, seeing as they were all now sniggering at him; groaning, Drevas decided to get a move on before his self-esteem took another hit, "We've got a three-day march ahead of us, through the Reach," that sobered them up, "and that's if we move quickly and manage to avoid the Forsworn; when we get to Falkreath, Hermione, Serana, stock up on restoratives and ingredients. I don't think we need more arrows…" he looked questioningly at Farkas for confirmation.
Who shook his head, carved steel helm keeping his shaggy hair from flying all over the place, though he put in, "Gonna need a recharge on this soon, though, 'Mione; was never any good at that enchanting stuff," Farkas hefted the Dwemer greatsword for emphasis as the party made their way back to Magnus' light. 'And a night at the inn, hopefully,' Drevas thought, another annoying twinge running across his lower back.
Scoffing as the old Dunmer tried unsuccessfully to remember when he'd last been struck in that area, his apprentice drawled, "It doesn't need recharging, Farkas."
Reaching the mountainside entrance and taking a look about with Scales ('No reinforcements. Good.'), Drevas heard the Companion's confused response, "But… it's not cutting as good as before, and Vilkas said-"
Scoffing again, Hermione decided to elaborate, "Vilkas wouldn't know the first thing about my way of enchanting; Farkas, in the time you've known me, have I ever had to recharge Stormbringer?"
'Wait, what?'
Locking his foot next to a sturdy rock (the path was steep, his armor was heavy, and it was a long way down), Drevas looked back at the rest of the party; Serana was bringing up the rear and looked bemused for some reason, while Farkas was blinking in thought, glancing between his greatsword and Hermione, and his apprentice just looked smug.
Presently, she continued in a lecturing tone, "The reason it's not cutting as well as when I finished it isn't the enchantment's fault, it's yours. You know how I magicked the soul gem into the grip?" at Farkas' wary nod, she concluded with a 'there you go' gesture, "The enchantment's powered by a small amount of your personal magic. Just pump a little into your hand and- yeah! Like that!" the Dwemer blade's edges rippled with a white sheen, making the hulking Nord jerk in surprise.
'What in the hells,' Drevas managed to keep his face neutral as disbelief filled his thoughts; he knew Hermione was skilled, and that she was capable of applying anything she studied within hours of learning about it, but this… 'Four days' of Enchanting training and two months' experience and practice, and she revolutionizes the entire field of study.' He presumed, anyway; old and well-learned though he was, Enchanting wasn't Drevas' forte, though he was pretty damned sure most weapon enchantments didn't work that way.
On the other hand, "You're teaching Farkas magic, Hermione?" the older Dragonborn turned back to the path and Scales, who was halfway down the mountain already, "Dragons and vampires not enough of a threat to Skyrim's peace for you?"
Around the young man's growled 'Fuck off, Dunmer.', Hermione replied with a smile in her tone, "Only the Flare and Frostbite spells, Master Drevas; and don't be mean to Farkas! You're the one who insisted on fallbacks, and you can't honestly say you'd be expecting a fireball in the face from the big, burly Nord with a sword."
"More common than you'd think, 'Mione," put in Serana gently, "But I'm sure Drevas sees your point."
And he did, at that. Plus, it warmed the old Mer's heart that his apprentice was taking the initiative to train others in becoming unpredictable. It, being unpredictable in combat, was just one reason why he'd survived all these years of adventuring; if they didn't know what you could do, they wouldn't know what hit them until it was too late. From Farkas' report and Hermione's own stories, it was one of the deciding factors in surviving their weeks in Falkreath's forests… though he was still coming to terms with the news of the Dark Brotherhood's demise.
Not that wasn't proud of his buck-toothed apprentice, because he was; Drevas doubted he'd have done half as well, were the him of a hundred-odd years ago and half a continent away placed in the same situation as Hermione Granger.
'She just may survive what's to come, Gods willing,' he mused before mentally sorting through the myriad tasks he'd taken on since becoming Thane, making sure there was nothing on his planned route that required the veteran adventurer's attention.
Coming up dry, he allowed a small smile to cross his lips, 'If we make good time, we can camp near the cave, take a day or two to relax, make sure everyone's rested before looking for that bow.'
His plan, once related to the party as they traversed Falkreath's highlands, was met with quite a bit of enthusiasm and agreement, much to Drevas' private pleasure.
Though he continued to ignore the persistent twinge, figuring they'd wait till they made camp in the Reach to check it out; old though Drevas knew he was, it wasn't the first time a random twinge popped up like this.
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Morning, 19th Second Seed, 4E201
Druadach Redoubt, The Reach
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The first day after the Ancestor Glade, just after we left Falkreath, it rained, slowing our progress across Whiterun's plains enough that we had to camp under an iron-grey sky.
The second day, after passing through Rorikstead without incident, we spotted Fjoristead through a gap in the crags north of the town, the grey-walled outpost coming along nicely, if the distant sounds of hammers and saws was any indication.
A few hours later, however, saw us getting ambushed by a squad of Forsworn with more bravery than sense; honestly, I have no idea what made them think four well-armed and armored adventurers with a dark-blue clannfear meant 'easy pickings', though there seemed to be a dearth of common sense where these people were concerned, given their choices of weapons and armor (or lack thereof, in the women's case, though the idea of Serana wearing something like that… mmm).
To be fair, I shouldn't have been surprised on the common sense side of things, seeing as… well, Briarhearts. Seeing one of those things actually going toe-to-toe with Drevas, ignoring arrows, spells and missing limbs (I blew it's fucking arm off and it didn't even scream!) as my mentor tried his hardest to shatter the thing not only terrified me, but made me wonder both how and why the Forsworn did that to themselves.
Thank goodness I learned from my mistake in Blackreach, and asked Serana why rather than how. The answer: a better edge against better armed and armored opponents, which the Empire and Skyrim in general had in abundance.
I'd explain the how, but for two reasons: I didn't learn how the Forsworn did that till much later, and… well, if just asking why made someone like Serana shudder in revulsion…
Yeah, no thanks.
Anyway, once the Forsworn were resting in pieces, we camped off the road to the north of their redoubt (Broken Tower; imaginative, the Forsworn aren't), for the night, forded the river in the morning…
…and spent the rest of that third day fighting to our current location. For some strange reason, the Forsworn didn't want anyone coming this way and set up several ambushes along the road to ward off travelers (or capture them, but, according to Farkas, that was rare). Honestly, despite their fierce determination, the defending forces really should've turned tail and ran after my mentor roasted one of their squads with a fireball, or when my girlfriend snagged one of their beefier brutes and hurled him into a tree.
I, on the other hand, was used to my opponents not doing the sensible thing and running when Stormbringer blew them apart; you'd think they'd take a hint and bugger off once the explosions started but nooo, whatever they're guarding is too important to abandon. Idiots.
As an aside, once we actually got to the redoubt and Farkas killed their last Briarheart, I got my first good look at the shaman/abominations that were the spiritual leaders of these barbaric people: Hagravens.
Big, hooked noses, hunched backs, faces haggard and covered in warts, feathers sprouting from odd places, hands and feet reminding me of Hungers, these half-human horrors were the bane of bedtime stories and campfire tales from one end of Skyrim to the other, and for good reason! Magically powerful, ruthlessly sadistic and of a generally cruel disposition, virtually everyone, save the Forsworn, views them as incarnations of evil only slightly less despicable than the Daedra; given Tamriel's history, that's saying something!
This particular bitch was holed up in the back of the cave, but, seeing as we'd handily dealt with her guards, she shouldn't have been much of a challenge.
Then she raised the dead bodies of everyone we'd just fought, including that fucking Briarheart, and joined the fight as the small horde of undead fell at our backs.
Which my Ana thought was just adorable, right before she commandeered control of the Hagraven's re-animated guards and made them attack the bitch instead. Moral of the story: don't try to out-necromancer my Ana. She'll make you look bad as she kills you.
As for the redoubt itself, a quick check of the barrels and crates in the place showed it to be well-stocked with both food and potions ingredients, which we shamelessly appropriated; Master Drevas figured it must have been one of the major Forsworn caches, supplying the surrounding camps and redoubts.
Not that I cared much about what the Forsworn got up to; I'd already put them in the same category as bandits and Harkon's minions: lower than cow shite. Of much greater interest was what Serana did to make sure the jerks didn't move back in once we moved on.
"Now, pay attention, 'Mione," my Ana lectured gently. We'd just broken our fast after spending the night sleeping in the cave; sure, it was smelly, but at least it wasn't outside or Riften. Ana was standing near the far wall from the cavern's main entrance, painting a Rune on the wall as I attentively observed, helmetless and ignoring Kresh's sniffing about; the paint was a tincture made of snowberries, spriggan sap and a ground-up Hagraven claw (no guesses where that came from!) to increase the resonation of the desired spell effect. In this case, Ana explains, "This is the basic Rune for a Daedric binding. There are others, more complicated and specific, but this one produces the longest-lasting effect, and works with most Daedra."
Where were Drevas and Farkas during this? Well, we heard a dragon roaring during breakfast, down south, so my mentor ran an advanced Healing spell over his lower back (he'd been getting lower back pains and didn't bother telling any of us, the arse!) and headed down that way, dragging Farkas away with him; not that the big guy was complaining, seeing as his only other choices were hanging with us girls or staring at the nearby rapids Scales went fishing in, though the clannfear was currently camped outside the cave entrance, now that the men were off dragon hunting.
I was brought back to the present by my Ana stepping back and admiring her work: an Oht, the Daedric 'O', dominated the center, and was ringed by glowing purple lettering in the same script. Not the easiest language to learn, given that it was invented by the Dremora Kyn, but the alphabet in general isn't too hard to learn, and can be written in any language, when using magic anyway; the Rune on the wall used Aldmeris syntax, for instance, and had words like 'SUMMON', 'BIND', 'GUARD', 'AREA' and 'EVERLASTING' written into the borders. I felt giddy looking at this new (to me) piece of magic; Serana told me she was more comfortable binding Daedra to a location than practicing Necromancy, and, seeing the symmetrical beauty of the softly-glowing violet circle, I could see why!
Turning a smile on me, Serana explained how it worked, "Now, you already know how to Conjure a Scamp, so I won't go over the patterns involved, seeing as the only difference between a Scamp and a Dremora is the power required to bring that ideal into Mundus. Binding a Daedra is actually rather easy, if you've made a good rapport with your summons," she gave Kresh a look before continuing, "The only difference from a normal Conjuration, here, is that you prep the spell," a swirl of purple magic whirled about her hand, sizzling audibly as my Ana stressed, "but, instead of attaching the 'Thread' symbol to your magic, attach it to the circle instead."
Fixing her gaze on the Rune in question, the sizzling sound changed to a higher, whining keen, the circle glowing brighter with the audible change.
"You could use your own blood to make the binding stronger," my Ana added over her shoulder, my eyes wide as the Rune's magic made my hair stand on end, "but I wouldn't recommend that; there are quite a few very nasty things that can be done with blood, and not all of them involve Necromancy. It's safer, and easier in the long run, to use the ingredients I've shown you and the land's magic instead; I'll show you my mother's notes on the matter tonight, as we're supposed to be taking it easy."
Before I could ask what she meant about other uses for blood (though something Drevas said about blood once niggled at the back of my mind), the purple light in her hand pulsed, then dropped to the floor in front of the circle. Ana stepped back, closer to me, as both Rune and Conjuration spell flared, the deep purple light on the ground pulsing one more time…
Suddenly, a red-and-black armored humanoid stood there, and by armored I mean this being made Master Drevas' kit look like a few pieces of paper: molded to represent flames, Daedric runes running over the edges, the cuirass giving the impression of some hideous, unnamable beast, the heavy plate mail looked like it could take a hit from a Dwemer Centurion and keep going. Going by the scuffs, dents and signs of repairs, such past battles might just have happened, at that!
It took me a whole two seconds to realize that this ridiculously over-armored creature, a Dremora, was not only helmetless, but was glaring at me with dark red eyes, the Mark of Molag Bal painted on his snarling face.
As for weapons, the demon carried a wicked-looking sword that reminded me of pictures of Akaviri weapons, a quiver of arrows and Daedric bow, and a positively ancient canvas satchel, secured beneath a spiked pauldron; no doubt there were hidden blades and poisons hidden throughout this creature's armor.
Oh, and I was returning its glare with equal force, Kresh snarling with disgust between my ears; I didn't much like Daedra (barring Kresh and Scales, of course), and most of the books relating them didn't paint a very positive picture of the war-obsessed race that was Dremora, the Deathless Kyn of Oblivion.
Ignoring our staring match, Serana gave a satisfied huff and introduced us, "Hermione Granger, Griffoness of Whiterun, Most Favored of Hircine," the Dremora made an odd twitch, a dark grin blossoming on my face as my Ana continued, "Gefjun, Dragon of Far-Sight, my beloved," she cleared her throat and gestured at the Deathless One, "Allow me to introduce Valkynaz Kmoz'eus of the Deathbringer Kyn of Coldharbour, veteran of too many sorties and battles to name in a single day, though I'm fairly certain he was at Red Mountain in 1E700," great, now the Dremora was grinning, "and Chief Strategist of his Kyn."
"Though I no longer hold the last, after Kvach," Kmoz's voice was harsh as iron on stone and as cruel as I expected; breaking his glare, he addressed Serana, "Long millennia have passed since you last summoned me, Favored of Molag. Who is this nauthing?" the fucker gestured dismissively at me-
-only to jerk back with a cry of pain and hate, Kresh having snapped out like lightning and ripped a chunk off the Dremora's forearm, Mind your tongue, slave, or I shall tear thee asunder!
"Yeah, what Kresh said," growled I as my Ana kept the Dremora from retaliating with a stern warning. Call me a nauthing… don't know what that is, but it doesn't sound complimentary.
Though the uncouth beast apparently heard me, as it healed the bite with a red-gold spell, "Kresh!?" said Daedric Hound let out a growling bark, hackles raised and teeth bared; Kmoz'eus' brow furrowed as he stared at my shadow's swishing tail and pale white eyes, before fixing me with a calculating look, "Strange times, these… So, Serana, you summoned me, for the first time since the Second Era, to keep watch over this… rustic cave, have you?" really, I couldn't much blame the look of disgust the Dremora gave his surroundings. The Forsworn need a new decorator like a mace in the face, preferably both.
Nodding, my Ana clarified, "As well as the surrounding area; a group of badly-equipped raiders, the Forsworn, have infested Skyrim's Reach. Seeing as this is one of their redoubts, and given the trouble they gave us getting here…"
"Say no more," waved Kmoz'eus, before he glanced between us, grinning at my Ana, "Your 'beloved', you say? You know what she is, little Hunter?"
Oh, he was talking to me? "Yeah, I do," shrugged I, "Doesn't much matter to me, though; I care for her, she cares for me," my Ana slid an arm about my shoulders with an agreeing smile, which was greatly appreciated; a thought came to my mind, then, so I asked, "You've been around for millennia, yes?"
The Valkynaz gave an affirmative grunt, 'I knew spending all that time with Farkas would pay off!' so I followed up with, tentatively, "What, err, rumors do your Kyn have, concerning Drevas of Mournhold?"
Huh. So that's what a Dremora looks like when it's startled. Interesting, though his response was… odd, to say the least, "Why? Have you run afoul the Oblivion Walker?"
What the what?! 'Kresh?'
Tis your mentor's title amongst the Daedric hosts, mistress, came the Alpha's calm reply, I was under the impression you knew this, hence my silence on the matter.
'That's fine,' I assured him, wondering what Oblivion Walker even meant, though my Ana's tensing didn't bode well for what such a title could mean; to the Dremora, I said in my brightest, most innocent voice, "Oh, no. He's my mentor; commissioned my armor and everything!"
And that's how I got a Dremora to laugh, though its reply implied that this wasn't such a good thing, "HAHAHA! The Oblivion Walker, teaching a tiny Dragonborn that cares for one of Coldharbour's Daughters! And Hircine's Most Favored at that; ha! Sanguine and Sheogorath are no doubt having a laugh at the Walker's expense!" and he continued chuckling, while I appreciated the idea that I might never understand Daedric humor.
Around an unamused sniff that only one of noble birth could pull off, Serana's voice was a bit harsher, this time, "Yes, well, we're heading up north a bit to investigate Deep Folk Crossing. Please don't antagonize Drevas, Kmoz'eus; after all," she gave a fanged grin as the Dremora stopped laughing and started gaping at us both, "he'll have just finished killing a dragon with naught but a Werewolf for company, and won't much appreciate your… unique sense of humor."
I grinned at the Dremora's spluttered assurances to the contrary as I turned to Serana's and my room; well, cubicle would be a better description, actually, what with the walls being merely hide partitions for modesty's sake. There was another such ramshackle construction, for Drevas, on the other side of the cave; Farkas didn't really need to sleep, but kept his bedroll next to the redoubt's entrance. I was pleased by these arrangements, not only on account of the privacy afforded my girlfriend and I, but the touching thought that Farkas positioned himself in a way that said, 'If I can't sleep, I'll guard you lucky scamps'.
Such were the focus of my thoughts as I stripped out of my armor and changed into the outfit I'd worn back at Castle Dawnguard and collected the picnic basket, filled the previous night with our lunch… and a few, ahem, 'specially prepared delicacies', made by myself for this private excursion.
What? We were supposed to be resting, so why not enjoy ourselves while investigating the nearby Dwemer constructions? And it's not like I was leaving Stormbringer or my wand behind; that was just asking for it.
Buttoning up my blouse with a cheeky grin (I'd removed my bindings, leaving nothing between my breasts and the soft, warm silk), I turned at the sound of the curtain-acting-as-a-door rustling, revealing my Ana, braids taken out, her silky ebony hair pulled into a ponytail, smiling brightly, "All ready to go, 'Mione?"
"Just a second," chirped I, sitting on the camp bed to buckle my boots, asking wryly, "Are all Dremora… you know?"
"Jerks?" my Ana grinned; at my sheepish nod, she returned it and explained, "They hold no love for us Mortal Kyn, though I get sweet-roll points for, technically, being a Daedric creature myself, not that it counts for much," she ended with a laugh as I hopped to my feet, snatching up the basket.
"Well," mulled I, "maybe they're just jealous; seems to me," I went on, walking at my Ana's side as we headed for the cave's exit, "Mundus got all the good bits of the deal. Rolling fields, pretty mountains, gorgeous waterfalls, plenty of delicious food, lovely cities-"
"Okay, but Riften, though."
I rolled my eyes, skipping forward a couple steps into Magnus' light, "I never said it was perfect, my Ana… though," I smiled warmly at her as she followed me outside, Scales perking up next to the softly steaming fire-pit where he'd been munching on a trout, "with you living here, it nearly is."
"Aww, my 'Mione, you're so sweet!" Serana gushed, pink spiderwebs blooming across her grinning face, much to my own delight.
My grin was still in place as I bid Scales, "Keep an eye on things, mate! And don't let Drevas kill the Dremora!" the clannfear's chirrup of happy agreement followed us as we made our way west, the mist of the rapids marking our path.
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Noonday, 19th Second Seed, 4E201
Deep Folk Crossing, The Reach
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Some days, Serana wondered at her luck since Drevas woke her up.
On one hand, there was what happened immediately after: attacked by three dragons while crossing the north-western wastes of the Pale, dodging Thalmor patrols as they followed the coast north of Solitude (the Dragonborn's explanation at the time filled the ancient vampire with trepidation at how much the world was changed, as well as incredulous awe at how such a knowledgeable person could have so much hatred for the Altmer, even if it was just a faction) …
And then there was the meeting with her father, in Castle Volkihar's main hall; Serana thought she knew of hatred, fury, and bloodthirst. She was a Daughter of Coldharbour, after all…
"The next time we meet, Grand Champion of Molag Bal, the God-Ancestor will drink deep your unlife, whilst She of the Infinite Energies flays your damned soul, and I will smile."
… but she'd never before met Drevas of Mournhold, survivor of the failed Vvardenfell Expedition in 4E70, where three hundred explorers, researchers, mages and warriors went to that ash-choked island in search of relics or survivors of the Red Year.
The Dark Elf that brought Serana to her father, who all but spat in the mad bastard's face when offered the blood of a noble vampire, was one of the eight people who came back, the records of the failed endeavor either destroyed or sealed by the Morrowind Royal Council. Serana discovered this during the weeks that followed her return; although, until she went to Castle Dawnguard, where Drevas confirmed the story (with a sour face and much griping), she'd been under the impression that the Elf mentioned briefly in The Fourth Era Timeline was some other, long-dead Mer.
Not that she was complaining; Serana needed someone who not only knew what they were doing, but could survive fighting her father's minions, could help her save Tamriel from the madman's ambitions.
But if someone'd told her, when she was young, that not only would she break ties with Old Molag, but that, in the process of trying to stop her madman of a father's plan, she'd one day be having a delightful picnic lunch with a buck-toothed Dragonborn, who she'd also be dating and tutoring, Serana probably would've tortured the poor idiot to death and reanimated their corpse to act as her personal butler.
But here she was, relaxing on a blue-white checkered quilt in the shade of a prodigious pine tree, the pleasant sounds and smells of nature providing the couple occupying said quilt with a calming ambience that was nearly surpassed by the view; the mists of the Reach spread out before them, Dwemer constructions protecting the pair from prying eyes, the Throat of the World shining like a golden spire in the sun, shafts of light spearing through the overcast skies…
"Ana…" oh, and Hermione Granger, her beloved, Dragonborn, Hircine's Most Favored, sitting across her and giving the older woman a toothy grin that set Serana's soul aflame.
As surreal the picnic was, what with treats and wine that Hermione made with blood (not her own, though, except the amazing red wine), what was eating at Serana's mind wasn't the peaceful scene, but that she was sharing it with someone who genuinely cared about her.
But she'd woolgathered enough, and sighed contentedly, "'Mione… Gods, dear, it's been so long since I could actually taste food."
Serana's beloved just smiled wider, a light blush coloring her cheeks.
"It… damn my upbringing, but it feels like you're buttering me up for something," observed Serana even as she mentally slapped herself; Hermione wasn't the sort of person that did favors only to ask for them! 'Damn you to the Void, Harkon.'
Then her beloved blushed furiously, before glaring at her shadow, "Kresh! S-Shut up and go watch the bridge!" though her shadowy Daedric companion's inclination toward communicating telepathically brought no shortage of amusement (and a little worry, in spite of recent events) to the Daughter of Coldharbour, who covered up a laugh with her hand as Hermione turned beet red and grumbled, "Friggin' mutt, now I can't stop thinking about it."
"About what, love?" asked Serana teasingly.
Hermione bit her lip even as her blush intensified, and glanced through her bangs at the older woman, "N-never you mind, my Ana… it was perverted," she added at Ana's (Serana loved the pet name thing they had going) raised eyebrow; shaking her head, 'Mione went on, though slightly crestfallen, "But… no, my Ana. I… just wanted to have a nice time with you; with what's ahead of us…"
"Mmm," nodding, Serana moved closer to her beloved and cupped her face with a hand, "I'm sorry, love. This… honestly, this was wonderful!" there was the grin, that reminded Serana of the sunrise! "My… hesitations… have more to do with how I grew up, than how I feel in regards to you, my 'Mione."
"Well, bugger you upbringing," huffed Hermione before she darted in and pecked Serana on the lips, 'Gods, they're so soft…' grinning, the younger woman purred assuredly, "I'll just have to give you some new memories, so you know how much I care for you!" and finished with a nod, a motion that said 'That's that!' to Serana's eyes.
A plan Serana wholeheartedly agreed with, though she didn't voice her concurrence; those soft lips of her beloved looked so very lonely, so the older woman decided to give them due attention.
It wasn't long before, instead of Serana kneeling before a reclining Hermione, the object of the vampire's affections was straddling the older woman's waist as she laid on the quilt, kissing her dizzy; hands roaming over her darling's silk-clad waistline, her 'Mione's fingers tracing the swell of her breasts through her canvas blouse…
'Please, oh please, whatever Gods have given me this rapture,' prayed Serana while her love's tongue danced with hers, 'DON'T LET ANYONE INTERRUPT THIS TIME!'
She didn't pray often, but it seemed as though Serana's plea was heard; nipping and sucking briefly on her lower lip, Hermione gave her a loving look, nuzzling her nose before kissing the line of Serana's jaw. One hand slid up the valley of Serana's chest, while a thigh rubbed against her (currently, but that was subject to change, if the mounting heat of Serana's passion was any judge) skirt-clad groin; she had to nibble her lip as her 'Mione found her neck, at last, but nothing could stop the soft, appreciate mewl her throat made in response to her love's attentions.
"You like?" hot breath whispered over Serana's ear, the questing hands of her lover stilling.
She nodded with nary a thought, pressing herself closer and breathing against Hermione's neck, "Oh, yes my 'Mione. Yes!"
Around a soft giggle came the next question, dexterous fingers fiddling with the top button of Serana's blouse, "Ready to find out how much I don't know, my Ana?" a knee pressed into her wanting sex-
-releasing an inferno of desire all throughout the Daughter of Coldharbour's being. 'Dibella's discarded smallclothes, she really does know what she's doing!' thought Serana as she helped her 'Mione undress her.
. . . . .
Contentedly lying nude on their picnic quilt, tracing the lines of her love's muscled waist with a finger, an equally sated and nude Hermione happily nuzzling her chest, Serana didn't remember answering that huskily breathed question… vocally, anyway, though she was very sure to make her appreciation of her love's ministrations well and loudly known, much to the noble vampire's mild embarrassment; in spite of her upbringing and her Testing and her Ascension…
No one ever made her scream that wantonly, Daedra, vampire or otherwise, and the cause was so freeing and beautiful that Serana felt compelled to return the favor. With interest.
Hermione hadn't been rough with her, taking things slowly, finding all the points where Serana would keen the loudest, moan in just the right way; so, Serana did the same! They were both researchers, after all, and this was just one more field of study, though the benefits of this new discovery, making love to her 'Mione, far outstripped anything Serana found in any school of magic!
Though her beloved's inspired use of shock magic during their copulation… well, it gave Serana ideas for a future where they could do this in a less open setting; if anyone'd come across the bridge whilst that was happening, Hermione shining with sweat and keening appreciatively, Serana kissing her ankle and rubbing herself against her love's lower lips, a flick of shock arcing between them with every thrust, bringing them both closer and closer to the edge…
Embarrassment would've been the last thing on Serana's mind, if such an event as being discovered occurred. Anyone stupid enough to interrupt their lovemaking would've died swiftly and painfully.
Which reminded her, "Kresh being quiet, hmm?" Serana asked, stroking her 'Mione's smoothly muscled hip.
"Mm-hmm," nodded her love, before looking up at her, smiling radiantly, "He says there's a chest, Dwemer make, bunch of broken lockpicks about it, 'round fifteen yards that way," and pointed upriver, towards High Rock.
Glancing that way briefly (it was overgrown and rocky, but their boots were fit for the job), Serana looked back to Hermione just in time to get another kiss, muskier that usual with their recent joining.
Once their quotas for kisses were sated, Serana 'hmm-ed' and summed up, "A delightful picnic, followed by a wonderful meal," Hermione giggled and tickled Ana's side, making her guffaw briefly before she finished, "and possible treasures on top of that?! Hermione," the younger woman was straddling her waist again, having won the tickle skirmish, grinning impishly down at a smirking Serana, "how much of this was set up?"
Serana's beloved huffed, though her humor didn't fade, "Ana, beyond the picnic, and, yes, fine, the after-lunch 'meal', I had all of a night to plan this out… now," she slapped Serana's abs ("EEP!") and pounced to her feet, looking about for her clothes, "last one dressed has to chide Master Drevas for not taking care of himself!"
Freely laughing as she rushed to make herself decent once more, Serana praised her luck and the decision, made when she left Castle Volkihar with all her worldly belongings on her back, to be less like her parents and more compassionate, more like how she wanted to be.
Because, on one hand, Serana's life (or unlife) was less than ideal…
But, on the other hand, the dark-haired woman mused, watching her love open a Masterwork Dwemer lock with a grin and flick of her wand…
On the other hand, Serana owed Drevas a debt greater than any treasury, for introducing her to the sunny, stubborn, indomitable, intelligent, loving force of nature that was Hermione Granger.
Serana wouldn't have it any other way.
. . . . .
Afternoon, 19th Second Seed, 4E201
Druadach Redoubt, The Reach
. . . . .
Farkas was of two minds, in the case of the Dremora in the cave.
For one, it was a fucking Dremora; he didn't know what the vampire was thinking, leaving one of those demons to its own devices in the place they were camped. That it grinned and welcomed Thane Drevas and himself back from their hunt just…
Not for the first time, the young man considered going Wolf and tearing the bloodsucker apart; were it not for the fact that Hermione would slaughter him with ease, he might have tried it. That's how angry he was.
Then again…
The hulking Nord glanced at Thane Drevas, sour-faced and reading a book on the other side of the campfire, absently scratching a dozing Scales behind the fringe with his free hand.
Farkas didn't know someone could grind their teeth that loud, until Drevas did just that, on seeing what Serana thought of as a "security measure"; sure, the vampire said she was leaving some measures behind, to make sure the Forsworn wouldn't come a-calling, but Farkas had a feeling Drevas disagreed with her choice of guardian.
Which, given the events of the Underforge, was so fucking ironic, 'The bloody Elf summons a fucking Daedra, then gets his panties in a knot over a Dremora. What's up with that?'
Not that the young Werewolf cared too much about the situation; after all, he was a bit busy getting steadily drunk on mead whilst waiting on the boar meat stew cooking over the fire, so the personal feelings of his current boss didn't much bother Farkas.
Though the Elf's occasional glance at the redoubt's entrance and caustic grumble were an excellent source of entertainment, in Farkas' opinion, especially after helping the old Mer fell a dragon this morning. He wondered if the old Dunmer would get into another argument with Serana… once she got back from the 'picnic' Hermione insisted they go on.
Like Farkas believed the younger Dragonborn's intentions were pure and honest. He'd seen the way those two looked at each other: Serana's quick, loving glances were exchanged with Hermione's lip nibbles and roving eyes. If they'd not proposed to each other, at least, Farkas was willing to eat his sword. With turnip sauce.
Speaking of the lass, Farkas caught their scent, a breeze from the west bringing the copper/nightshade scent of Serana and…
Farkas wanted to grin wider at his guess being justified, but stifled it and addressed Drevas casually, "So… Thane Drevas…"
"Just Drevas, Farkas," grunted the Dunmer in question, not looking up from his book, "I don't much care for my titles, though they're useful for getting things moving around nobility."
"Right," the young Nord grunted back, thankful he'd no longer have to stand on ceremony with the powerful warrior, before asking, "So you've really got no problem with your apprentice courting a vampire?"
The heavily-armored Dark Elf shrugged, "There's been weirder matches; I could describe to you what the child of an Argonian and an Orc looks like. Saw that one while in Black Marsh, oh, little over a hundred years ago."
'The fuck?!' Farkas put down his mug, "Yeah, no, don't want to think about that before dinner."
Drevas looked at him over the top of his book, "And I didn't want to see it, but these things happen; anyway, if a union like that can be blessed by the Temple, it's not much of a stretch to believe that an ordinary person and a vampire can have a healthy relationship… Though I'm certain more than a few priests and priestesses would disagree…" the Mer raised a thin eyebrow, "Why this topic, if you don't mind my asking?"
The bulky Nord grinned, "Because you owe me five Septims, old Elf," he gestured west, then reclaimed his mug, "They're about five minutes away, and, from the smell of things, very much enjoyed their private time."
Drevas stared at him blankly for a solid minute before shrugging again, eyes drifting back to his book, "Still not as unsettling as the time I caught a Guar having its way with a Scamp."
Farkas spat out a mouthful of mead. Scales chittered with mirth as the Companion coughed out, "What-*cough-cough*… in all the fucking HELLS?!"
His conversation partner calmly turned a page, face impassive, "More or less what I said, at the time."
"When in the fuck was this?!" not that he much wanted to know the details, but shit, if Farkas wasn't curious!
"4E70, Vvardenfell," replied Drevas evenly, but then his brow furrowed, "Come to think of it, never did find out just why that was happening…"
"…You're fucking weird, Dunmer," observed Farkas with disgust, refilling his mug.
His employer sneered lightly at him, "So said the Nord, member of the only race in Tamriel, Bosmer aside, that actually enjoys eating mammoth cheese."
'Oh, he wants to go there, huh?' curling his upper lip, Farkas parried the barb with expertise born of observing countless arguments between his fellow Companions, "Don't get me wrong, I don't get what's so great about the stuff, but that's rich coming from you, Dark Elf."
Drevas leveled his full attention on Farkas, smirking slightly, "Oh? My people haven't introduced anything to the rest of Tamriel that wasn't universally-"
"Flin and Crassius Curio. Both things this continent could've gotten on without, you aged fuck."
"…Oh, fuck off and die, ice-brained s'wit," snarled Drevas, snapping his book closed and checking on the stew, "And for your information, Dance of the Three-Legged Guar is a gods-damned literary masterpiece, compared to, what is it you Nords have again? The Ballad of Red Eagle?"
A young voice cleared her throat, bringing arguing pair's attention to Drevas' returning apprentice and her beloved; Serana had their quilt slung over a shoulder, presumably carrying something, while Hermione's hands were on her hips as she fixed her mentor with an unimpressed glare, though Serana's face was carefully blank.
"Master," Hermione began in a low voice, "I know I didn't just hear you defend that lecherous purveyor of third-rate smut."
"THIRD-RATE?!" two voiced crowed in unison, much to Farkas' mirth. 'This is better than the time I put ground-up blisterwort in Aela's armor and blamed it on Skjor!'
Hermione whipped her head around to stare at Serana, "Excuse me?!"
"Ah-err-um…" the noble vampire cleared her throat, ignoring Drevas' awed gaze and Farkas' quiet chuckling, "He… well, I have read worse, love. Compared to what my father's minions write in their spare time, Mr. Curio is a far more engaging and accomplished writer."
'Funny. Didn't think Drevas and Hermione could make the same expression,' mused Farkas, before deciding enough was enough, "What'cha got in the blanket, Serana?"
Huffing, Hermione muttered, "We'll discuss your choices of literature later, Ana," before answering Farkas' question, "There was a Dwemer chest half-buried in the riverbed, just north of the crossing; oh, Master?" Drevas looked up from spooning stew into a few wooden bowls to raise an eyebrow at his smirking apprentice, "One: my unlocking spell is better than the one you showed me, and two: we found something of Dwemer make, and Serana doesn't know what it is."
Now Farkas' attention was piqued; he looked on interestedly as Serana carefully placed the quilt on the ground and picked up where Hermione left off, "Though there were a few other things in there and, after discussing things with Hermione, we feel it'd be best to share the spoils with you two," she unfurled the quilt…
Revealing a square, wooden box and four gold bars, each the size of the Companion's bicep; while Farkas gaped, Drevas chuckled, "Why, it's not even Satunalia, you two!"
Smirking and stooping to pick up a bar, Hermione replied, "Well, I have to pay you back somehow, for being such a good chef," and heaved one of the heavy ingots over next to the Toolbox, then crouching to pick up another, grinning at Farkas, "And Farkas, here, for putting up with all of our insanity, whether in Falkreath or elsewhere," and tossed the block of gold his way.
"Oof! Damn, that's heavy," grinned back Farkas, putting down his mug and examining the very expensive gift he was holding; bright and shiny, with a softness that only real gold held… 'The things I could buy with this…,' the young man's mind supplied images of Masterwork gear, mead and women before he graciously thanked Hermione, who was stowing her own bar in a knapsack, "Cheers, lass."
"Yeah, didn't expect you coming back with treasures; that road is fairly well-travelled," observed Drevas, stowing his bar in the Toolbox before passing out bowls of steaming stew, asking as an afterthought, "I'll assume the contents of that wooden box is the mystery item?"
Nodding and picking up said box, Serana piped up as Hermione leaned against her left side and tucked into her dinner, "Yes. There's a sigil on the cover that contains the Dwemer word for 'Blackreach', and whatever the thing inside is, it has a ridiculous amount of magical resonance."
"Hm," the Dark Elf's brow furrowed at that description, setting a bowl down in front of Scales before holding out a hand, "Pass it over, then."
Not much interested in the latest magical dingus those two mages picked up, Farkas concentrated on his excellently flavored food and mead for a minute; Drevas also felt food was more interesting than whatever was in the box, and tucked in with gusto.
As Magnus' light faded and their bellies were contentedly filled, Drevas finally picked up the small box and cast Candlelight; squinting at the cover as Farkas looked on, the Dragonborn's eyes suddenly widened in shock, whispering almost to himself, "No fucking way."
That got Farkas' full attention, as well as that of the two ladies sharing a book; in a hopeful tone, Hermione asked, "Do you know that sigil, Master?"
Drevas just blinked at the box cover and replied shakily, "Hermione, any reputable student of Dwemer history could tell you what this sigil is: it's the official seal of the Tonal Architects, the mage-engineers who led the Dwemer. Remember the Scroll chamber?" at his student's hesitant nod, Drevas wetted his lips and looked back to the box, "They're the ones who created that apparatus, and likely everything you saw in Blackreach," he opened the box…
A blueish-white glow washed over the old Mer's face, highlighting his utterly shocked expression; Farkas, on the other hand, began reaching for his sword. In the young Nord's experience, anything that glowy was either very dangerous or bad news, especially if it came from the Dwemer.
"Drevas?" called Serana worriedly when Drevas went totally still, gaping at the box's contents for a whole minute, "Are you-"
The Dragonborn suddenly looked disgusted, snapping the box closed and glaring at the two ladies, "A century and a half of exploration, plumbing ruins bursting with Falmer, Daedra and worse, nearly dying countless times in the process, and you two," he pointed at the girls, who were starting to look worried.
'Damn,' thought Farkas in shock, 'Didn't know he could snarl like that.'
Taking a shaky breath, the old warrior finished, voice rising in intensity as he spoke, "You two go on a picnic date at a well-known and documented Dwemer site and find the fucking Dwarven equivalent of THE AMULET OF KINGS!"
"What?!" was Hermione's understandably intelligent response, though Serana was a little more eloquent, "S-Surely you jest, Drevas…"
Farkas blinked as the Dunmer shook his head, opened the box again and took out a crescent-shaped piece of blue… something; to the Nord's eyes, it looked like stone, but unlike any sort of stone he'd ever seen. A leaf-like protrusion was built into the inside of the crescent, the entire object covered in tiny white lettering that, at this distance, Farkas couldn't decipher; not that he wanted to get closer, given what Drevas said it was like.
Elder Scrolls were one thing, and he'd kept his distance in that matter; the Dwemer version of the Amulet of Kings? Fuck. That.
Though the young Nord's (and his inner Wolf's, who was growling non-stop in distrust after that description) anxiety was mostly calmed at Drevas' next words, "In terms of magical resonance, yes, but not nearly as important or complex as the Amulet; I'm assuming, not my area of expertise, but anyway," he indicated the object, "This is refined aetherium, the rarest mineral in all of Nirn," here, he indicated the blue border on the Toolbox, "The blue in my Toolbox is the same material, except the difference between these two objects is like night and day; for one, my Toolbox was made by a Telvanni master-wizard who informed me he didn't actually know what he was doing, as even the most powerful member of his house, Divayth Fyr, is an ignorant child compared to an idiot amongst the Dwemer, to say nothing of the Tonal Architects. For another, attaining aetherium of this purity, let alone as much as this piece, shouldn't be possible; it took Neloth, the wizard in question, three years to gather enough of the stuff to make one Toolbox. He lost three apprentices doing it, too," he looked down at the piece in his hands as though it were a gift from the Nine, "This, everyone… this is priceless."
"Bullshit," growled Farkas, drawing a withering glare from the Dragonborn, though he bore it with bravery born of Nordic blood blended with mead and went on, "If you can sell a fucking person, you can sell that thing. C'mon, old Dunmer, you have to have some idea of what it's worth," he went to take a sip…
"If you could find a serious buyer, Farkas, assuming they don't just kill you for it, this one piece could not only buy everyone and everything in Riften," Farkas choked on his drink, "but you'd have enough left over to upgrade the sewers."
Silence dominated the campfire as Magnus set and everyone present looked with shock at the blue stone on Drevas' lap.
Hermione, of course, broke it, "But… I mean, other than the Toolbox, what can you do with it?"
Around a shrug, Drevas replied easily, "I'm no enchanter, but Neloth is, and this stuff is about the only thing that could really get the insane bastard riled up, and that's saying something, because, and I'm speaking from experience here, it takes a lot to get the Telvanni excited."
"With magical resonance like that…" breathed Serana, eyes flicking left and right in thought, "It has better harmonics than a filled grand soul gem; you could create a Masterwork Artifact with a sliver of that material. Any smith or enchanter would kill their own children for something like this…"
'Damn,' though Farkas, eyeing the stone warily, 'Maybe we should bury it, before it starts a war or something.'
But Drevas shook his head, pointing at several points on the crescent as he spoke, "Not that anyone here is going to go flapping their gums to whatever Johnny-jump-up about this, but it'd be a shame to shave bits off this, seeing as it's a Masterwork itself; see the runes, the grooves, how it has some incomplete design on the leaf? This fragment is part of a set, either two or four if my guess is correct; the Dwemer spent countless hours creating this… for what reason, though… wait…" he blinked, looking up into the distance suddenly, as though he remembered something.
Hermione must've came to the same conclusion as Farkas, as she leaned forward and asked excitedly, "What? You remembered something, right? What is it?!"
Blinking again, Drevas slapped himself on the forehead and groaned, "Of fucking course, Katria and her search for the Forge."
'Whatever that is,' thought Farkas, standing and saying to his Pack, "Whatever that thing does, can it wait? We've got more pressing things to do, after all," and made for the redoubt to collect his belongings.
"Hmm? Oh, right," returning the shard to its case, Drevas looked to the Hermione and Serana, who both looked a mite bit disappointed, "We'll continue this discussion later; empty your bladders and gather your things, then we catch a couple hours' sleep before plumbing that cave. Auriel's Bow isn't going to find itself, after all."
. . . . .
20th Second Seed, 4E201
Outside Darkfall Cave
. . . . .
'Boot knife?' Check; though it wasn't the one Master originally gave me. That was under a floorboard in Breezehome; Astrid's dagger was a good replacement, though.
'Weapons secure?' A quick testing of my belt and Stormbringer's harness assured me they weren't going anywhere; check.
'Kresh?'
Yes, mistress?
'Ready for this?'
Of course! Check.
Around me, the other members of the group were preforming their own last-minute checks and preparations; Farkas' head was bowed, eyes shut as he communed with his Inner Wolf, arms folded over his chest, leaning against a tree.
Drevas' hands cycled through a rainbow of colors and patterns, making sure all his spells still came easily, his ebony bow and Starfall in their usual places; a few feet away, Scales, his current color a light grey with black streaks, was sharpening his claws on a boulder, blue eyes focused.
Serana now sported a glass bow with matching arrows to go with her Ayelid armor, two curved ebony daggers and a silver broadsword on her belt; as I looked on, she uncorked a dark red potion and drank it down.
When she finished, my Ana's eyes were a deep crimson. 'Must have been a blood potion,' I realized, turning my thoughts to my own magic, 'Makes sense. It'd be hard to offer her a drink, being in full kit.'
My magic, a series of placid lakes located in my heart, stomach and navel, rose at my calling, swirling into a ready whirlwind, eager for direction; my wand vibrated in its case, thrumming with its own readiness. 'Very check.'
Additionally, I was no longer pleasantly tingly from my Ana and I's picnic date, but that was hardly surprising, seeing as I held myself back. I mean, I didn't want to, but there were two very good reasons for doing so: one, the idea of going into an unknown situation wobbly-legged just seemed stupid and reckless, and, while I'm occasionally the latter, evidence shows I'm definitely not the former.
The second reason was that, full of determination and youthful vigor though I may be, Serana is a vampire; if we both became lost in our passion, no doubt I'd not be able to walk afterward, let alone fight! Which meant Drevas would be forced to heal me, and there was no way, in all the Sixteen Hells and Aetherius, that I would ever ask my arse of a mentor to take away those kinds of aches.
That, and I'm certain he'd rib me mercilessly for it.
But enough about this; there was business ahead.
Presently, our preparations finished, we turned our attention to Drevas, the veteran dungeon-delver; clearing his throat, he fixed us all with a sober look beneath his dragon-bone helm, narrowed red eyes checking our persons for imperfections.
Scales moved smoothly to his side, and my mentor addressed us all, "Right. We're as prepared as we can get, which means we could probably take an army of daedra, if pressed; that's good, seeing as none of us knows what's in this hole," jerking a thumb over his shoulder, at the black crack in the crags of Haafingar nearly hidden by the shrubs growing near the entrance, Drevas continued the briefing, "other than our objective, Auriel's Bow. For all we know, this could be the redoubt of a Dremora company from the Oblivion Crisis, the vestiges of cultists dedicated to the King of Worms, or a draugr stronghold. Anything could be down there, and, given our collective luck," a humorless laugh left my companion's throats, a cynical smirk finding its way to my lips, "it'll probably be out to harm us. To wit, we're not taking any chances."
Turning to me, he gave me his instructions while I tried to smother the butterflies in my stomach, "Have Kresh sniff out alternate routes and blocked doorways; if there's an ambush, I want to know about it yesterday. We've been through a couple battles, and Farkas seems to have taught you well, so I won't instruct you on battlefield discipline save this: mind your shots, lass. That crossbow of yours is scary."
He finished with a smile which I nervously returned; while I instructed Kresh on his duties, Drevas spoke to Serana and Farkas, "Scales and Serana in front, as their night-eye is better than even yours, Farkas, at least outside your Werewolf form; then it'll be Farkas and Hermione, as she'll need to be close to the front so Kresh has the best range possible. I'll bring up the rear, watching our backs."
Nods of assent were had all around. A bit of a rustle as weapons were drawn, Stormbringer's color changing to the pale blue of its Frost setting, Farkas moving to my right side and Kresh moving next to Serana, who strode together toward the cave entrance.
Behind us, the soft tok of Drevas nocking an arrow, "Go."
. . . . .
Darkfall Cave
. . . . .
The cavern was dark and empty, save a lone frostbite spider who made the fatal mistake of thinking Scales a tasty snack.
Other than that… nothing. A perilously rotted wooden rope bridge ran over a hole in the floor, the sound of swiftly rushing water coming up to our ears; there was a table on the other side of the bridge, but…
"Drevas, I'm not going to try crossing this rickety death-trap," whispered Serana, giving said death-trap a kick, knocking a different board, halfway across, loose; it fell into the dark of the well. No sound indicated it'd struck the water.
"Wasn't going to ask you to," my mentor grumped, glowing red eyes searching a moment before coming to rest on my face, "Kresh find anything?"
As though to answer his prayers, Mistress! Kresh's shadow form careened around the corner, back the way we came, There is a secret path, at the end of the entrance hall.
Following my Daedric companion, I related his find to my friends while leading them to the indicated wall; once there, Drevas knocked on it with a mailed fist. There was an echo from the other side.
Then I had a thought, born of experience from plumbing various barrows, 'Hey Kresh, try seeing if there's a lever or switch on the other side.' No sense risking a cave-in, which might happen if Drevas decided to bash the wall down with Starfall.
Aloud, I told Drevas and the others what Kresh was doing, much to their approval; no one, myself definitely included, wanted to try finding out what lay at the bottom of the well. The Hound of Hircine slipped through a crack in the wall; Serana chuckled and observed, "That'll be handy, when we get around to finding the last piece of the Gauldur Amulet."
I allowed myself a feeling of giddiness, thinking of the future adventure to remake the ancient artifact; it was short-lived, however, as Kresh quickly found a pull-chain and, once we were back in formation, opened the way at my direction.
The faint stench of troll wafted our way from the black crack in the world. Casting Night Eye on myself (it didn't help much, it was so dark in there), I grit my teeth and followed Scales and Serana into the dark.
A minute of creeping through the musty cavern, Scales gave a chirp, followed by my Ana's report, "Found an abandoned campsite, with a note," coming closer to where she'd knelt next to a moldy bedroll, I watched her face curl into pitying disgust as she looked it over, Scales sniffing about the scattered detritus on the ground, "Whoever they were, they thought they could befriend the trolls living deeper in."
"One born every minute," was Farkas' extremely accurate observation of such behavior; taking a deep breath through his nose, he then nodded to the deep blackness beyond Serana, "Pretty sure there's more spiders down that way."
Blegh. Even though Geirmund's Hall was nearly a month ago, the thought of those skittering terrors still gave me the shivers; I could see why Farkas didn't like the things, though I wasn't nearly as afraid of them.
Guy could practically wrestle a troll without using his beast form, and he's scared of spiders. Go figure…
Sniffing herself, Serana concurred with the Companion's observation, then pointed down a side passage, "Smells a little better down this way, though I'm fairly certain that's where the trolls are."
Around the sound of Drevas using Aura Whisper, Kresh piped up, Mistress? There's old magic down the troll passage.
'Really? How old?'
Very old, mistress. It has been here since before Whiterun's foundations were laid.
"Master," I whispered, getting his attention, "Anything that way?"
He shook his head, saying mildly, "Looks like we have to choose between spiders and trolls." Farkas grumbled to himself, but I wasn't having it, now that Kresh gave us a clue!
"Trolls, Master," everyone (Scales included) looked at me in surprise, no doubt thinking of my well-known fear of the beasts, so I explained, "Kresh says there's magic down there that pre-dates Whiterun's founding."
Drevas blinked in surprise, then his brow furrowed and he muttered, "So either a Dwemer construction, or…" he shook his head, speaking slightly louder, "Trolls it is. Stay on guard."
Down, down, into the dark tunnel we went, the scent of troll and…
"Smells like fresh snow down here," observed Serana quietly, a few feet in front of us; the cavern looked like it opened into a larger, low-ceilinged chamber, a couple dozen yards ahead. Scales seemed to be more on edge than usual, too, the clannfear alpha jerking at the slightest noise.
Which was why we'd stopped, Drevas moving to the front and looking down at the daedra, asking gruffly, "What is it?" Scales barked in response, looking up at Drevas, then into the chamber ahead of us, then pawed the ground and let out a low whine, like he was worried.
All of which made Drevas rather… upset, "Some fetcher warded the area ahead," the old Dunmer all-but snarled, glaring into the dark, "Warded specifically against daedra. Scales and Kresh can't pass this line."
What?! Oh, that didn't bode well, and my Ana agreed, though her response was rather more constructive than mine would've been, "Give me a minute," she grinned at us, "I'll see if I can take them down," and she vanished into the deep gloom ahead.
Some minutes passed before Serana reappeared, right next to Drevas, probably trying to make him jump; he just looked at her with a raised eyebrow, which she huffed at, "You're no fun. It was a barrier, dated sometime around the Oblivion Crisis, but I ruined it. Oh, and the trolls are dead, but that's not all: there's a campfire, further in and to the left. Someone's down here, but…"
"But…?" Farkas prompted, gripping his bow tighter.
Serana shrugged helplessly while Drevas used Aura Whisper again, "They don't smell like the other races of Tamriel, let alone the denizens of Oblivion. I've never smelled someone like this before."
"Maybe… an Akaviri remnant, Master?" I supplied, though I was mostly grasping at straws by now.
He made a negative sound, but his voice was a little strained when he replied, "There's only one person… Well!" he relaxed fully, giving us a humored look, "Let's go introduce ourselves," and off he strode, Scales prancing at his side.
"Wait, Dre- gah! Reckless bastard. Let's go, you three!" Serana looked mad at my mentor's cavalier attitude, and, honestly, I felt the same! Who knew what else was down here?!
Farkas didn't seem worried, and followed along, though he kept glaring at the ceiling. It was rather low, 'No way I can use Reductor, either wanded or with Stormbringer, in this place.' I'd have to rely on the bow's other settings, Kresh, and my combat experience, should this meeting turn into a fight.
Though it didn't seem like that would be the case, as we rounded the last of the wide stone columns holding up the precariously low ceiling (Master Drevas' helm nearly touched it, and Farkas had to crouch slightly so his sword's pommel didn't scrape on the dark stone, much to his grumbling annoyance), and laid eyes on our destination.
A wide grotto presented itself, as wide across as Castle Dawnguard's atrium, though the furnishings were rather sparse: a campfire with a figure standing before it was closest to us, an altar with some ornate pitcher placed on the dais, the golden sunburst idol upon it replicated atop a low construction of white stone towards the opposite side of the small redoubt. Aside the bedroll, chamber pot and pool of water, fed by a natural spring on the right-hand side of the entrance, it was an almost disappointing end to what I'd thought would be a long and arduous journey.
'I'll be eating my words in some minutes, no doubt,' thought I cynically as the figure turned to face us, taking up a bladed staff leaning against a boulder and moving to greet Drevas as my mentor crossed the threshold.
The being was, indeed, unlike any Elf I'd ever laid eyes on: wearing black and white plate-mail, the white of which matched his (I was getting better at differentiating between sexes when it came to Mer; honestly, some of the men looked so feminine it was hard to tell at times!) snowy hair, the mystery Elf's skin was paler than any I'd seen in my travels.
An ebony knife was sheathed at his belt, but that paled in comparison to the staff-no, the naginata the being held with obvious familiarity; the wickedly sharp and double-edged silver blade was long as my forearm, a simple gold bracket attaching it to the handle, while the weapon's haft was half as tall as I was, black ebony etched with tiny blue runes crisscrossing over some bone-white material, ending in a black pommel so ornate that I couldn't make it out in the low light of the campfire.
Kresh, however, recognized the weapon, and reverently breathed its name into my mind, The White Fang. A collaboration of Azura and Father's, made with ebony from Red Mountain and solidified starlight, created for the purpose of keeping the hosts of the House of Troubles at bay, thought lost or destroyed for thousands of years. Take care, mistress: no weapon or armor forged by Mortal hands can withstand its might.
Okay, wow; that's one impressive weapon. Also, I want that weapon. I wanted that weapon yesterday. Drevas wielded Starfall, and as awesome Stormbringer was, I wanted a melee weapon that was just as amazing as that dreadful hammer.
Not that my feelings had any bearing, right this moment; the strange Elf stopped five paces from my mentor, tapped the White Fang's pommel against the rough stone of the floor, and greeted us neutrally, but patiently, in a voice that complimented his bearing, which was of one who held the experience and weariness of millennia upon his shoulders.
"I am Knight-Paladin Gelebor," he introduced himself, eyes the blended color of green and blue drifting over each of us in turn, "Welcome to the Chantry of Auri-El, greatest of my people's architectural achievements. As you stand on holy ground, speak, and be recognized in His light."
Gesturing for us to lower our weapons, Drevas holstered Starfall and spoke warmly, "Well met, sera; I am Drevas of Mournhold…" he paused, then shrugged, no doubt wondering if he should state all his titles, though his final decision surprised me, "Dragonborn through birthright, and Knight-Commander of the Order of the Skywatch, though there are only two members left after the rest died on Vvardenfell."
Gelebor nodded understandingly, "I had wondered what happened to that Order of knights, why they never sought my people out after covering our tracks. My sympathies, Mer of Morrowind."
Well, never mind this strange Elf's people, I was wondering just what this Order of the Skywatch even was! Nothing I'd read of history mentioned them… though, given my mentor's long life and knowledge of lesser-known bits of history, there was probably a good reason for that; hopefully it didn't have anything to do with the whole Oblivion Walker thing.
Into the resulting silence, Serana greeted the strange Elf, "Serana Volkihar, at your service; Daughter of Coldharbour and former priestess of the Highblood vampire cult to the Daedric Prince Molag Bal, now set against the madness they wish to visit upon all of Nirn."
Though his facial expression didn't change, the curt nod Gelebor gave in response was enough for me to realize he didn't much appreciate someone like my Ana trotting all over his holy ground, though any concerns he'd deny us entry were obliterated by his verbal response, "Though it pains me to allow one who worshiped the God of Rape entrance to Auri-El's shrine, I sense your intentions are pure and driven by a sense of rightness. Well met."
Farkas broke the moment by growling out, "Farkas, Companion of Ysgramor and Favored Hunter of the Daedric Prince Hircine. I'm here to make sure none of these crazy fucks gets themselves killed."
"Love you too, Farkas," quipped I, rolling my eyes while Serana pushed the big Nord's shoulder and Master Drevas shook his head in exasperation.
Even Gelebor chuckled, though his following words were cold as the Sea of Ghosts, "You'll have your work cut out for you then, Companion, if your party enters the Chantry," I blinked at the venom in the Elf's tone. That was rather unusual… maybe he didn't like Nords-wait…
Snow-white hair, pale skin… positively ancient armor and weapons… strange architecture…
Dibella's.
Firm.
Supple.
Arse!
"You're a Falmer!" blurted I in realization-
Making our host wince, "I'd prefer Snow Elf; the term Falmer holds rather negative meaning with most people… What you call Falmer, I call the Betrayed."
Fitting, all things considered… oh, right, manners Granger! "Forgive me, I was just… erm, yes. Right. Hermione Granger, sir, arcane researcher, Knight-Aspirant of the Skywatch," Drevas giving a slight nod, good, didn't fuck that up, "Dragonborn through the gift of blood, and Most Favored of Hircine, God of the Wild."
Kresh gave a bark from my shadow at my last word while I stood up straight and proud, 'Say something stupid to that, old fart!' I didn't care if he was a Snow Elf or Falmer or whatever, no one insults my friends.
Our Snow Elf host only blinked, staring at Kresh in obvious shock for a few seconds before he rallied, "Well… Clearly, all of you are doom-driven, to come this far and attain such titles; nevertheless, I am bound by solemn oath to Auri-El to ask all who come to this holy place the same request, in exchange for the prize you seek, Auriel's Bow."
Okay, how the fuck does he know?! Serana seemed to have the same thought as I, "You know why we're here… how?" Drevas' shoulders stiffening and Scales' lurking near my mentor's feet gave the question quite a bit more weight, with a subtle threat of violence, should Gelebor speak less-than-truthfully.
But there was no duplicity in the Snow Elf's weary response, "Tis the only reason anyone has come here, to the last sanctuary of the Snow Elves and the world's greatest shrine to Auri-El, since the Betrayal," oof, yeah, that must suck, no one coming your way except to look for some shiny bow, "Ever and anon, adventurers of all walks of life have come. I make my request, they agree… and, invariably, they die in the attempt."
The last statement, delivered not as a warning, but as a simple, unsurprising fact didn't do much to bolster my confidence. Although… I glanced at my companions: Farkas already looked bored, Serana looked slightly amused, Scales scratched behind his fringe with a foreleg, and Master Drevas didn't look worried in the slightest.
It was then I remembered: I'd faced such odds before, multiple times at that! Blackreach would've killed me if not for Drevas' preparations and teachings, I had no illusions there, but I came out of there alive and mostly intact. Few others, even veteran adventurers, could make such a boast. Shriekwind Bastion, Folgunthur, Geirmund's Hall, those bandit forts and redoubts, hells, I'd finished off the Dark fucking Brotherhood!
If I wasn't ready for this, I had little doubt Drevas wouldn't have let me come this far, or my Ana for that matter.
My mentor seemed of like mind on this, asking in a bored tone, "So, what does this 'request' of yours entail, Knight-Paladin?"
"I need you to kill Arch-Curate Vyrthur… my brother."
Okay… what?! One of the last remaining Snow Elves wanted us to kill another of this critically endangered race?! 'Kresh, does this make any sense to you?'
Little of this makes sense to me, mistress; the Mer should elaborate, before I decide to relieve him his weapon.
'Yeahhh, save it for the actual enemies, mate. I'll find another way to get that spear off him, somehow.'
"You… want us to kill your brother?" was Serana's disbelieving question, though it was clearly rhetorical, as she immediately followed up with, "Why? Your people are nearly wiped out as is."
"The situation is worse than you realize, Daughter of Coldharbour," Gelebor replied solemnly, though steadily, as though he'd long accepted his fate, "This place was our people's last redoubt, and I have asked after my people whenever someone comes seeking the Bow; no other settlement has been discovered, and one of those who came this way was an explorer well-versed in my people's history and architecture. We are destroyed, and my brother holds part of the blame.
"Long ago, I know not the exact date or Era by your counting, the Betrayed swept into the Chantry, slaughtering all in their path. My brother Vyrthur is Arch-Curate; to him is given the ability to raise the defenses of this place… but, when I and what few survivors remained reached him, to beg him to eradicate these vermin… he did nothing," Gelebor frowned, then finished, voice turning regretful toward the end, "I know not what has come over him, but he simply stands there, silent… as though waiting for something. To my shame, I fled, taking the fallen Knight-Commander's weapon and hoping, praying, that one day someone would come and oust the Betrayed and avenge my people. My best effort was not enough, and, though Auri-El has blessed me with long life, I am old. An assault against the Betrayed would only end in my pointless death."
Right, so we had cause; inaction in the face of such a threat was practically treason. Any government in the Empire would see it that way.
In any case, the question needed to be asked, so I gave it voice, "How many Falmer are we talking about? Hundreds?"
"Several thousand, at least," we all flinched, even Drevas; that was a lot of Falmer. Gelebor wasn't finished, much to our collective horror, "Though their numbers have been culled over the centuries, by adventurers and hapless explorers crossing the unforgiving peaks, they have dug in like ticks, capturing what trespassers they can and breeding uncontrollably; additionally, they have numerous Chaurus, large insects that they raise as cattle and security… and then there are the natural defenses of the Chantry, which I am oath-bound not to reveal to outsiders."
"Pardon my language, but fucking shit, tell me there's an armory somewhere in these caves," swore Drevas, summing up my own thoughts on the matter, though my mentor's concerns weren't along the lines of oh Gods there better be an anvil or workbench so we can make repairs, "I'm not sure I have enough arrows for all that."
Gelebor's face went thoughtful a moment before replying, "There may be, but odds are you'll have to scavenge what gear is serviceable from the Betrayed," oh, that's just great, "Though you seem to be laboring under the illusion that the Chantry of Auri-El merely encompasses these dank caves; the truth is somewhat more. Here," he turned to the stone construction at the far end of the grotto, beckoning us closer as he sheathed the White Fang on his back, "Let me show you."
As we crossed the grotto, I glanced over and inspected the altar, specifically the ornate jug sitting atop it; idly, I asked the Daedra attached to my shadow, 'Kresh, any idea what that jug over there is?'
Nay, mistress… though, a flicker shot across the dimly-lit ground, faster than I could track, as the shadowy Hound darted over to the altar and back, it has some enchantment on it, very subtle. Given that it is sitting on an ancient altar to Auri-El, mistress, I presume it to have some ritual purpose.
'A purification ritual, perhaps?'
Only the Elf would know, now, mistress; a terrible shame, his race's destruction.
Indeed, it was, but such ruminations were for another day. Maybe, once my Ana and I were safely ensconced in Winterhold's College, I could study what texts the library there held on the ancient race.
First, however, I had to survive the Falmer. Again.
Presently, we arrived before the squat, square construction; Gelebor, turning to face us, indicated it and elucidated, "This is the entrance to the Chantry proper, used primarily by the Chantry's Initiates when the time comes for their Pilgrimage. This Pilgrimage is more a test of the Initiate's mettle in the face of hardship, a gauntlet they must pass through before they take their place amongst the Shrine's Chosen; it is neither for the faint of heart or the faithless, as, even before the Betrayed arrived, the odds of someone completing the Pilgrim's Path with their body and sanity intact was one in twenty."
Without further ado, he raised a hand, silver and gold aether blending into a ball before dispersing in a twelve-pointed starburst; an answering burst of magic emitted from the idol atop the construction…
And it rose off the ground, walls seeming to form from the ground beneath, an arched doorway revealing the squat stonework was actually an ornate shrine! The walls within formed five sides, an arch worked into the stone of each, a basin, carved to look like an upraised dragon claw, holding pride of place in the center. It was all made of the purest of white marble, and gave off a lukewarm feeling of truly powerful magic at work; my Ana's whispered, "So this is Snow Elf magic… fascinating," understated my own feelings regarding the small building before us, which completed its transformation in complete silence.
This was but a sliver of what the Dwemer, damn them to the Void, threw away in their greed. This was what the Ancient Nords so callously annihilated, in their quest for a kingdom of their own. How different would Tamriel be, if harmony and friendship won out over dominance and ambition in those early days?
Not that such thoughts mattered, anymore. The last true Snow Elf was before us, old and worn by the millstone of time, the rest changed irrevocably by their accursed cousins.
Still… this was their greatest achievement, their last redoubt. A unique opportunity was before me: magic that no mage in the past four millennia was able to replicate. Hopefully the Falmer hadn't destroyed too much, and surely there was a writing or two sealed away in some vault or enchanted chest! Well-away, I'd find it, and puzzle out the secrets of this ancient people with my Ana's help.
'If I survive, anyway…' several thousand Falmer, their insectoid pets and Julianos knew what else stood between me and this new goal.
I was brought out of my thoughts as Gelebor continued his explanation of what was ahead while Drevas stepped forward to inspect the shrine's interior, "This is a Wayshrine of Auri-El. There are five others along the Pilgrim's Path. Take note of the basin in the center: when you arrive at one of the other Wayshrines, there will be a Spectral Prelate overseeing the shrine. On approaching, they will state the name of the shrine you've arrived at, then ask you to fulfil the mantras taught to all Initiates during their training; simply answer in the affirmative, as the Prelates have no will of their own, and the Wayshrine will open in the same way this example has, though the basin will be filled with water."
Oh! I piped up, "I'm guessing this is where that pitcher over there," point at the altar and said pitcher, "come into play."
Point for me! Gelebor nodded, looking mildly pleased, "Yes. Once the Wayshrine is open, take some water from the basin. The Initiate's Ewer has several enchantments which prevent any water but that of a Wayshrine basin entering it, as well," so we can't cheat our way through the holy ritual. Makes sense, "When you have taken water from all five Wayshrines, the Inner Sanctum will become available."
As he spoke, Serana sauntered over and collected the Ewer from its resting place, smiling slightly as she returned to us and asked a good question, "So, once we have all the water, what do we do with it?"
"Well, upon approaching the Inner Sanctum, Initiates would empty the Ewer into a final basin at the Sanctum's doors; this finishes the ritual, and grants the supplicant an audience with the Arch-Curate, the leader of the Chantry," a pause, "Once the Initiate has recovered, that is. I speak from personal experience when-"
"We. Get. It." Farkas finally growled, "We get we're in for a long fight. This isn't the first time any of us have done this shit." Gelebor actually glanced at me, looking slightly surprised, so Farkas finished, "Yeah. Even her," he grunted a laugh and said to Drevas, who was still looking at the basin in the Wayshrine, "Hells, between the lot of us, this is probably overkill."
"Don't get cocky, lad," was Drevas' sober response, looking up and fixing us with a hard stare, "Falmer breeding hives are no joke; speaking of which, do you know where it is?" at the Snow Elf's negative head shake, my mentor sighed, "Well, no time like the present. Send us on, Knight-Paladin."
Looking slightly uncomfortable at our dismissive attitude (I was busying myself with my crossbow… and sending a quiet prayer to Hircine and Talos, while Serana affixed the Ewer to her belt and drew her knives), Gelebor nonetheless prepared to do as Drevas said.
Hands glowing with a snowy light, he addressed us one last time, "This is the last time we'll be able to speak like this; if you have any further questions, ask them now."
"Yeah," I drawled casually, looking at the haft of the White Fang, "That weapon you're carrying, you realize it's a Daedric artifact, right?"
Our host actually looked offended, and it showed in his response, "This spear is one of the artifacts of my people, child," he sent a mild glare Drevas' way and continued, "Passed down from one Knight-Commander to the next for-"
"It was forged by Azura and Hircine in an age long forgotten," replied I, going off what Kresh was telling me even as I spoke, "for the use of their High Priests and Grand Hunters, respectively; not that either the ancient history of Hircine's faithful or your people has much bearing for the reason I'm bringing this up," I paused for effect, making sure I had Gelebor's full attention before I made my request.
"You have no further use for the White Fang, Knight-Paladin Gelebor of the Snow Elves. As we are doom-driven, ordained by Fate through the Elder Scrolls, and have purpose under the Oath of the Skywatch," I held out my hand, ignoring my friend's no-doubt shocked expressions, keeping my gaze fixed on Gelebor's frowning visage, "Relinquish this artifact of the Daedra to our cause, that we might succeed where you failed, and give the souls of your people the rest they deserve."
Truly, I didn't really know if that speech would actually work, but, seeing as my oath called me to a higher purpose, alongside the fact that Tamriel's legends carried a lot of weight, I was really hoping it would be enough to get this Elf to give me White Fang. It's not like he was even using it, anyway, and never mind I knew nearly nothing about the Skywatch… though that would explain my mentor's mark being replicated on my armor…
My doubts, however, were baseless, "You speak wisdom, Knight-Aspirant," spoke Gelebor quietly, if a bit sourly, drawing the dread weapon and holding it out for me to take; which I totally did, feeling the heady thrum of a divine enchantment run through my magic as I removed the silver javelin on my back and placed the White Fang in its scabbard, "I will pray for your survival, Champions."
And the way opened with a gong-like sound of magic: the arch opposite the Wayshrine's opening was suddenly a rippling window made of aether, revealing deep darkness, a flickering purple glow in the distance.
Gelebor left us to our devices as we grouped together in the Wayshrine, returning to his small encampment without another word. Glancing out after him briefly, my mentor then looked down at me with a quirked brow, saying quietly, "It's a nice weapon, Hermione, but you didn't have to go all high-born on the poor sod."
I frowned while Farkas sniggered under his breath, "Well, I'm right, Master Drevas! He's not using it, and we can put it to better use."
"How'd you know- wait," my Ana rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, looking down at me, bemused, "It was Kresh, wasn't it?"
Nodding firmly, I then fixed my mentor with a glare and a pointed finger, "Also, I don't care if I owe you my life, station and livelihood, Drevas; when this is over, or if we get a chance on the way, we need to have a long conversation about the utterly ridiculous titles you have that aren't written in books."
He shrugged uncaringly, the infuriating arse, "Fine by me, lass," then his gaze went hard again, glaring at the portal to the next step on our mission, "Speaking of our current duties, you're taking point with Scales, at least until we get a chance to figure out where the Nine that breeding hive is. Set that bow to that shock/fire setting and use Aura Whisper like it's going out of style; mind the holes in the walls and keep your eyes peeled for blue-speckled mounds. If you see one, kill it with fire.""
Blood-scented magic filled the Wayshrine, rippling over Serana's knives, my love's eyes narrowing in focus, "Hit anything that isn't us, then?"
"That's the idea, vampire," growled Farkas excitedly, no doubt raring for a fight, "You taking the rearguard again, old Mer?"
"Of course," my mentor sniffed, nocking an arrow and rolling his shoulders; I could feel the magic rippling over his being as he prepared himself for what was coming, "Someone's gotta watch your backs. At your discretion, lass."
Nods were had all around, and I turned to the portal, taking a deep breath to steal myself.
'Maybe there'll be a clue, on how I can go home to Harry…'
With that final thought and a pat on Scales' withers, I readied Stormbringer and leapt into the unknown.
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A/N:
Sorry for the wait, ended up reading Worm and got understandably distracted by raving plot-bunnies.
So that's the first of four chapters, relating the events of the Forgotten Vale, which, as you can all see, will be much different than in-game.
Next chapter will be a brief interlude, then Darkfall Passage. *spooky sounds are spooky*
Though I'll be focusing more on this story for a while, as I want to finish off the Vale as quickly as possible.
ONE MORE THING: reviewer responses… yeah, I don't have much time to PM each one, so I'll start addressing those here. Some of you have already been responded to, so I'll just clear up the others.
Me Myself and I: As this is an AU fanfic, don't expect all the spells used in-game to function the same way here. Conjure Familiar is one of those spells that just doesn't translate well, given the world I'm building here. As for your comments on undead, the only type of undead that could really give Hermione pause, even at this point in the story, are things like liches, revenants and masked Dragon Priests; I'm ignoring health bars, as that would be a silly thing to include in a fic like this one, but even a Death Overlord would only give her a brief amount of trouble, given that she has Stormbringer and a wand at her disposal. Besides, I'm not even halfway done with this story; plenty of time for Hermione to become more of a badass and face enemies that don't go down easy.
DschingisKhan: You'll have to content yourself to suspense for the interim. Whether in PM or here in the AN's, I'm not giving anything away, though I will say that Solstheim is mostly written despite us being a long way from there.
MilandaAnza: Already answered your questions, and gave you some insights into this story. Hope you enjoyed the last bit of true Hermione/Serana fluff for a couple chapters.
Thanks to everyone for reading, favoring, following and reviewing! I'll see you in a couple weeks!
~Baked
Next time: An Interlude: Beneath the Ashlands.
