This story will be finished, no matter how long it takes.


A Ruined Home


Isran brought his mount to a slow walk once Morthal came into view. A small, rustic place, quiet in both a peaceful and unsettling kind of way. Beneath him, his horse snorted in exhaustion. Isran felt much the same. His mind was prone to racing, spiraling, especially in the dead of night, when there was nothing left in the day to distract him. On a silent horse ride, there was little to do but think. He hoped Morthal would serve as an adequate distraction.

The town was, as a whole, unimpressive. Nondescript, it was a good place to hide if someone wanted to stay hidden. More than once, Isran found himself wondering what would have happened if Alva's plans worked. Nothing good, of course, but what that was specifically, he couldn't be sure. Morthal was a good place for her to hide. Shame the person who found her was very good at finding those who didn't want to be.

An excited yelp from behind broke Isran from his thoughts. It was followed by quick shushing, as if the distraction could be taken back. He was silent for most of the ride but he wasn't alone. To his disagreement, Sorine had joined him. To even greater disagreement, so did Bran. Gunmar, the soft-heart that he was, had been stirred by the dog's moping around the castle after the death of his brother; constantly seeking comfort, constantly getting underfoot. Gunmar asked Isran and when Isran declined, Gunmar asked Sorine.

Despite that, Bran had proven himself useful. Even asleep, he'd guard the camp and he was good for tracking prey; Gunmar had trained both beasts well. Isran heard Sorine spur her horse, riding up to his side. Bran sat in a pouch attached to her saddle, tongue hanging out, beaming up at him without a care in the world.

"We should discuss our approach," she said to him, though her eyes remained on the approaching gate. "We can't just walk into town and kick in the door."

Isran grunted, but only because that was exactly what he had planned to do.

"We should speak to the Jarl," she went on, "Get her involved."

Isran turned his eyes upwards. The sun was just beginning to set. Late but they still had time for an audience. He did not anticipate much in terms of resistance from those in charge. Morthal was second only to Whiterun for infamous vampire attacks. They'd likely take any help offered. As for the other threats, that was Felwinter's responsibility to tell, not his.

They pass beneath Morthal's gates and dismount. Sorine busied herself with getting Bran down while Isran paid the stablemaster for food and shelter. Taking in the town, Isran's first impression had been accurate. A small town, slow and quiet. The small pond at the center, around which he could see a few townspeople set up with fishing poles, connected to a river that filtered further out into a swamp shrouded by gray mists and dead trees.

Isran takes notice of a longhouse, draped in Morthal's regalia."Sorine." He jerked his chin towards it once she looked in his direction.

She hummed. "Good place to start as any." She said it sarcastically. Again, Isran only grunted. He started walking, knowing without looking that Sorine and Bran would be on his heels. He took the time and the relative silence to observe further the town and its people. None of the buildings drew his attention in any way special. Neither did the people, calm yet somewhat lively; contrasting the dreariness of their atmosphere. Polite, as well; nods were given and hats were tipped by nearly every person they passed. Hiding here would have been feasible but only for a short while. Many would be changed, too many to not be noticed eventually.

They reached the base of the stairs of the longhouse. Isran continued up without pause, saying only, "The dog remains here." He hears Sorine give Bran a quick but firm command to remain where he was.

It was a modest structure, inside and out, with stone walls and wooden walkways; nothing like Mistveil Keep or Dragonsreach. Morthal's banners, frayed and old, hung from the walls and a large fire burned at its heart, as strong as if the day just started. At the very end of the longhouse, atop an equally modest but well-crafted throne, sat an old, dark-haired beanstalk of a Nord. Clearly not one for opulence as befitting her station, she wore simple but well-made robes, brown fur lining her shoulders to protect her from the chill. Two men stood beside her, a step down from her throne so as to not loom while she sat. One man, a Nord, that could very well be her housecarl and another Nord in heavy Legion armor.

"Isran," Sorine's whispering kept him from approaching. Then, Isran took note of the two guards coming towards them from the side. Only one spoke, ordering that they leave their weapons at the front and submit to inspection. Isran had kept his hammer on his horse. He pulled the sheath holding his hunting knife off his belt and placed it in the open palm of the closest guard. Sorine did the same with her own dagger, as well as the two she kept in her boots, as well as her crossbow and bolts.

By the time the guardsmen found them satisfactory, the Jarl's eyes had already locked onto them. Onto him mainly, even with Sorine at his front. Most times, one could blame his skin color, his height, his unfortunate and shared face but this felt different. Her gaze was more focused, more piercing, much more so than the idle curiosity of a stranger warranted.

The men by her side were more interested in just staring them down, the housecarl keeping a hand on the head of his axe. Sorine stopped, as did Isran. Sorine nodded her head in a slight bow and growling under his breath, Isran did as well. The Jarl's lips curled upwards slightly, as if she heard him and found him amusing.

"Jarl Ingrod, thank you for seeing us on such short notice," Sorine greeted, "We are of the Dawnguard. My name is Sorine."

"Sorine," Jarl Ingrod repeated, her voice croaking but strong. She looked over to Isran. "And this one?"

Sorine looked back at him briefly. "This is Isran, our leader."

"Ah, Isran, of course." Ingrod looked at him for a while longer. Then, she leaned in, resting her elbow on her knee and smiled widely. "Did you know you've been missing for thirty-two years?"

Isran's hands squeezed into fists. He could feel his skin heat up, his ears burning, his temper rising, even as he tried to drag it back down. He knew he was failing, the way the Legionnaire turned towards him more fully and the housecarl's hand slipped from the axe's head to its haft.

Isran drew in a breath, filled his chest and then released it slowly. No point in getting angry. They didn't have time. It would also be pointless to lie or feign ignorance. So all he asked was, "Did he tell you?"

She cocked her head. "Felwinter? That you're the father he never met?" Now the housecarl's and the soldier's eyes both went wide. "No. But you share a face. Not eyes but a face." She hummed. "You even scowl the same."

"You know him and you know us," he said, stepping closer. Sorine knew how to flatter, growing up in both High Rock and Cyrodiil but Isran knew this was not a woman to mince words. Neither was he. "Then, you understand what we have to ask of you is important."

"I had a…let's call it a feeling." She gestured. "Go on."

Isran stepped forward again, just enough to make the men at her side bristle. "Our fort was attacked several weeks ago. Led by a vampire. And the vampire who infiltrated your town might have been involved."

The hall went silent again. At the mention of Alva, Ingrod's face lost all amusement. "Hard for a dead woman to be involved in such a recent attack." She raised her hand, calling for silence before Isran could even open his mouth. "You're not telling me everything, that much I can tell. But if Thane Felwinter believes you are worth trusting then you must be worth trusting."

Isran's jaw clenched. Biting back his words, he simply nodded.

"You seek to search her old residence. Wait until dark," the Jarl commanded, "I don't need a scene." Despite her words, she started to smile again. "But if you're going to make one anyway, at least make it entertaining."


"That went as well as it could have gone, I suppose," Sorine said once the door behind them was closed. They took the short steps downwards, Bran's head twisting. "Didn't know Felwinter was a Thane here like he was in Whiterun and Solitude. Seems like he's helping us even when he doesn't mean to." Sorine chuckled but quickly covered it with a cough. "We have some time. We can use it to talk to the locals."

Isran's eyes were elsewhere. Bran had been facing away when he heard them and most notably, had still been on his feet. His attention seemed aimed towards the empty space right beside the longhouse. "Go on," Isran finally told her. "The dog has noticed something. I will find out what. Bran!" The dog twisted around at the sound of its name. "To me." He began walking off, instructing Sorine to find him when it was time.

As he neared, he realized the ruin beside the Jarl's longhouse was the remains of a home. Isran recognized it instantly. Even more so did he know the markings of fire on rotting wood.

"She tried to turn her."

Isran's eyes closed. He forced himself to breathe deeply, even as his mind assaulted him with waves of images; of how Kali's and Kiara's blood coated his hands. The blood stained his hands the same way when he had the murderer by the head and had reduced it to a messy stain on the ground.

He heard the dog whine. Isran opened his eyes and glared at him. While he had been lost in thought, Bran had pushed past him, following a scent trail. He was now standing in the shadow of an alley, between the Jarl's longhouse and the ruin. Satisfied he had earned Isran's attention, Bran darted deeper into the alley, disappearing behind a broken wall. Isran begrudgingly followed, mud squelching and branches of damp wood cracking beneath his feet in equal measures. Bran stood at the other end of the path, moving once he saw Isran approaching again.

"You have been at this all day. What do you smell? Isran trudged forward faster, regretting not demanding Sorine take the dog with her. He growled under his breath when a tree branch scratched his face. "I do not have time for-"

He stopped. Bran had gone down a second path, right behind the home now. This one was smoother, cleaner, a narrow lane free of broken stones or fallen debris; as if the miasma of decay that wafted off the home stopped right there.

At the end of the path stood a tablet, carved from stone. Bran was sniffing it and the ground beside it, tail wagging. Was this what he had been looking for? Isran drew closer. The writing he could barely make out from afar came more into view. When he stopped before the stone, he dropped to one knee. Then, he dropped to the other.

"We will be together soon." Isran's hand clenched around the cold stone of the grave marker. He swallowed a lump in his throat. There was little he needed to know to know enough. Felwinter had told them Hroggar hadn't been seen in over a year. He assumed Hroggar departed from Skyrim. An assumption Isran couldn't fault.

Hroggar had departed Skyrim. Just not in the way Felwinter had thought.

Taking the time to look around further, Isran could find nothing of any true import to their mission. He pushed his way back to his feet, suddenly feeling the weight of his age in his knees. He turned and began to walk away, Bran silently on his heels.

The sun had been low when Sorine went into the tavern and was gone entirely by the time she stepped outside again. She took a moment to breathe in air that wasn't filled with the smell of smoked meats and sweaty bodies before opening the journal in her hand to review the notes she had taken.

"What did you find?" Isran's voice rumbled from her right. She turned to find him sitting on a bench beside the tavern's entrance, arms crossed, back against the wall, completely obscured by shadow except for two large boots stretched out into the moonlight. She could hear panting coming from beside him.

"Alva's accomplice, Laelette, it seems, might not have been willing. She's the one who set the fire and tried to turn the girl. She had a husband-"

"Where is he?"

Bran walked over and rubbed against her legs. Sorine's hand instinctively went down to a spot behind his ears. "Gone. Went southwards with the Jarl's blessing."

"You are certain he left?"

"His neighbors are. Left Skyrim, just like Hroggar."

Isran only grunted at that. Then, he pushed off the bench and stood. "Let us go."

He led them to Alva's home, an inconspicuous, single-floor house that seemed to make an extra effort to not stand out to its neighbors. Sorine tried the knob and found it locked. She grunted. "Should've gotten them to open it for us. Maybe we can find one of the guards-"

Isran had already taken several steps back. As soon as she stepped out of the way to call one of them down, he charged forward. His boot struck the door, sending wooden splinters flying into the air and littering the ground around their feet. The now-open door hung loose, the top half broken from the hinge.

"Subtle."

Isran crossed the threshold, into the dark and raised his hand, conjuring a candlelight. No one had lived in this home for years and it looked like it. Whether or not Alva had it built or if the previous family had just been made to disappear, Isran couldn't be sure. Either way, it was too late to matter. Cobwebs filled every corner, old wood sat in the hearth and the table near the door was littered with bottles of wine and rotting food.

The sound of Bran's sniffing pulled their attention but this time, between each bout, he growled deeply. He had caught a new scent, just like he did at the memorial and this time, he did not like it; much more so than the last.

Could Idessia…

"Isran." Sorine had a light in her own palm. She gestured with the other hand to the other side of the house, drawing his attention toward a staircase leading down into pitch blackness.

Isran ripped his knife from its sheath. He looked back at Sorine, who had already removed her crossbow from her back and begun to load it. Bran was at her side, completely silent, completely still, as he knew they were on a hunt. Isran turned back and when he heard the quiet click of the trigger locking into place, he crossed the distance quickly, stopping at the top of the stairs. Slowly, he began to descend them, one by one. Each and every one creaked, like thunder in the silence. It was unavoidable, given his size, but should anyone be waiting to ambush, they'd expect only one opponent. Sorine remained where she was to ensure they paid for their misjudgement.

He reached the bottom, coming face to face with a door, just barely closed. Gently, he put his palm against it. The smell of mold and wet earth struck him harshly but none more so than the undertones of spilled blood. Felwinter had murdered Alva in here, while she slept, but not before waking her first so she could see what he was about to do.

Her coffin lay at the center. From the door, he could see the blood staining the sides, dried and crusted. What he couldn't see was any sign that it had been tampered with recently or that anyone else was in the room. Still, he leaned back and knocked three times against the staircase walls, beckoning Sorine to join him. His eyes roved over every corner in the meanwhile, searching for shifts in the air or distortions of space.

It was Bran who made it down first, squeezing past Isran's legs to bound into the room, his nose running over every inch of stony ground beneath their feet. By the time Sorine made it to Isran's position, Bran was walking back. Isran felt his heart slow though the grip on his knife remained.

Sorine's eyes went to the coffin and the blood. She grimaced. "I remember Felwinter saying he killed her here." She walked past him and it, eyes peering into the empty, dark-stained interior, nose wrinkling even further. She stopped before the plain stone wall, regarding it with increasing scrutiny.

Without a word, she placed her palms against the gray wall and pushed. From the door, Isran could hear the click of a lock releasing. Sorine stepped back as the stone panel opened, revealing rows and rows of vials, filled with a variety of substances.

She turned to find Isran staring at her and shrugged. "Lucky guess." She turned back, picked a vial at random and lifted it closer. "Most of these are rotted beyond use."

"Can you still tell what they are?"

"I should be able to." She pulled a small journal from one of the pouches lining her belt. "I'll see what I can do. We can get this list back to Florentius and Serana, find out what Alva might have meant these for."

Isran turned his eyes to the stairs and started up without a word. From the basement, he could hear Bran's approach, meaning to follow, as well as Sorine telling him to remain put.

The broken front door allowed fresh air in for what must have been months. The smell of dampness and decay had even begun to fade. Isran replaced his knife. He found two candles, unlit, placed in holders above the fireplace. He took the wicks between his fingers, sparking flame atop them. He found a row of books, as well. The dust covering them was visible even in such low light; they hadn't been touched in years.

He picked and opened one, flipping through the pages and batting away at the cloud it threw into the air. Nothing about the books were conspicuous; no writing, no drawings, nothing resembling a cypher. Nothing of interest until Isran felt something small and light land on top of his foot. He looked down to find a folded piece of paper. He bent to his knee, picked up the sheet and left the book behind. He turned and tossed it on the table behind him before picking up another book. He went through each one, shaking multiple folded sheets out onto the table until he reached the final set; a stack tightly bound in thread.

Updates, orders, inquiries. each one was addressed to Alva though no one else was mentioned. She had been smart enough to not name them. Given the brevity of the letters, how a conversation seemed to span multiple sheets, the other must not have been far from Morthal.

He moved on to the last of the letters, tied in black thread and kept in better shape than the others. Isran pulled the knot and let the thread fall to the ground. He unfolded the first one and unlike the others, these were signed differently.

Idessia's words were tender in their content, in a way Isran could feel. That he could remember feeling; remember being spoken to in such a way. He growled in his chest, his fingers digging into the meat of his leg. So they were lovers. How could she have fallen so-

A cold chill ran down his back and neck. Less than a heartbeat later, Isran felt something sharp and freezing press almost painfully into the back of his armor. There was no sound on approach, no breathing on his neck but the air around him had suddenly filled with a sense of despair and decay.

"Put your hands up," a voice rasped harshly. Isran obeyed. There was nothing else he could do at this moment but stall.

"I know that sigil," the vampire asked harshly, "What is your business here, Dawnguard?"

Isran stayed silent, even as he could feel his anger rising to the surface like steam. The cold metal pressing into his neck did nothing to cool him off.

The cold became a white-hot stab of pain, forcing Isran to bite back a sharp growl. He could feel warmth trickling down into his shirt. "I will not ask again, mortal." The vampire seethed.

"Working." Isran's response came out as a deep growl. "What is your business here?"

The dagger pricked him again. "You're in no position to be asking questions. Now, who else is here?"

He didn't know about Sorine. Isran should've guessed that by the way he was speaking, not loudly but openly, as if he was certain there would be no witnesses when he slit Isran's throat. He needed to stall, to give Sorine time to reach them. He might not have noticed her but by this point, she had definitely heard him. It was only a matter of time.

"Do I look like a man with friends?"

The knife pulled back and was replaced with a hand, long, clammy fingers wrapping around the back of his neck. He was shoved forward with extraordinary strength. He turned his head to just barely avoid breaking his already-ruined nose.

But before the vampire could issue even more threats, deep growling filled the room. The hand on his neck dropped to his shoulder and Isran was wrenched to his feet and twisted around. The arm snaked around his neck again and tightened, holding him in place. Sorine stood at the top of the stairs, only a few paces away. Bran was at her side, spittle dripping from bared canines, hackles raised and legs trembling with anticipation. Sorine's face was a cold, implacable mask, a crossbow held at eye level.

"You wouldn't dare," the vampire hissed.

"Are you sure?" Sorine kept her eyes on him, entirely unblinking.

Isran could hear him swallow. "You'd kill your friend." He was growing desperate.

"And I'd kill you right after. Trust me, he'd die happy."

The arm around his neck readjusted. Isran could almost feel his eyes darting between Sorine and the open door, gauging the distance, how he could make his escape.

Then, Bran snapped, startling the vampire and causing his grip to falter just slightly. Slightly was all Isran needed.

He thrust his elbow hard into the vampire's stomach. Right after, he brought his other hand up to the arm around his neck, palm full of fire. The heaving groan that would have spilled from the vampire's mouth became an agonized scream. As soon as the arm slackened further, Isran forced his way out of the hold and dropped.

Even in his pain, the vampire knew what was coming next and ducked as well. A crossbow bolt lodged in the wall behind his head half a heartbeat later. Isran had put some distance between them but the vampire was on his feet again before Isran could draw his weapon. Only he went towards Sorine, who was still reloading, fangs bared and glinting.

A bolt of lightning flashed across the room, catching him in the chest and sending him careening off course. He slammed against the hearth, hard enough to shake pieces of stone from the wall. Bran was on him before he could recover again, tearing at his face and throat, screams muffled by fur and drowned out by the sounds of bestial savagery.

Isran used the time to cross the room. He ordered Bran back sharply, a command the dog promptly obeyed, revealing the ragged, unrecognizable remains of a face. The vampire was still flailing in panic and before he could retract his arms again, Isran took one of them, drew his knife in the other and jammed it beneath the armpit.

Isran remained there until the wild movements slowed. He ripped out his knife, releasing a messy gout of dark blood. The body in his hand was growing sluggish, heavier. With a weak groan, the vampire collapsed into himself and Isran shoved the body away. He did not wait for the spellcaster to make themselves known. Knife lifted between them and fire in the other hand, he turned in the direction of the bolt.

There in the doorway, Serana sighed quietly, letting her outstretched arm fall. Isran did the same, though his anger did not. In fact, it only rose.

"What…are you doing here?"

The venom in his voice was palpable but all it did was make her glare at him. "You're welcome. Again." She stepped into Alva's home.

"You're supposed to be on your way to your castle."

"It hasn't been 'my castle' since before you were born."

She was being argumentative and Isran's blood was still running too hot. He hadn't even realized he had taken a step towards her until Sorine's hand pushed up to his chest. "Did something happen, Serana?" Much more gently than he would have.

She stopped before the body, her feet some distance away from the growing pool of blood. "I was on my way to the castle. I wanted to cut through Morthal's swamps, collect some ingredients but a guard recognized…" She lifted her black cloak, showing the Dawnguard sigil etched into the fabric. "This. She told me you were here. I noticed the vampire afterwards."

Isran realized that this was who the dog must have smelled earlier. Bran stood at Sorine's legs, staring at Serana with unsure wariness. It was Sorine who broke the lengthening silence to say, "Well, thank you for showing up when you did."

Serana only blinked. Then, she nodded quickly. "Of course."

Isran turned back and squatted before the body. "Someone sent him here," he rumbled, mostly to himself, "There are still eyes on Morthal."

He heard Sorine walk past him to the table, letters still scattered across it. "A survivor of Morthal's coven, most likely." She got to one letter that made her eyebrows raise. "And…Idessia. Alva was her…" Eyes ran over the paper, once, twice, a third time, as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing. When she spoke again, it was quiet and in disbelief. "They were lovers."

A cold silence passed between the three of them. Isran kept his eyes down on the body, whose blood was starting to congeal. His eyes were only drawn away when he heard the sound of something crashing to the floor. He turned to see Sorine, red-faced, her eyes blazing with fury and shimmering with grief. The contents of the table decorated the floor.

"All of this." Her voice rasped as she spoke. "Everything we've suffered, everything we are going to suffer. All for…" Her mouth clamped shut. She shook her head and turned around, leaning over and placing her hands on the table. Bran padded around Isran's legs, giving Serana a wide berth, and made it over to her, leaning against her leg until one hand came down to his head.

Isran turned back to see that Serana had drawn closer. Not to him but to the body, where her eyes seemed set. She had her gloved hands together, one gently tugging on the tip of the other. "If the Morthal coven is involved, this is our chance to root the last of them out," Isran said. He walked back over to the table, a few papers still scattered across it. He picked one letter at random, saw that it was between Idessia and Alva and then proceeded to crumple and clean his blade with it. "We need to find their lair."

"Felwinter mentioned the swamp but he wasn't specific." Sorine had straightened up, her face a cold mask again. "Maybe we can talk to the Jarl."

"We don't need the Jarl," Serana said quietly. She pinched the tip of her glove again and this time, she started to pull off, revealing pale, slender fingers. She looked over to them. "We can just ask him."

"Ask-" Isran's question was cut off by blue ghostlight, wafting around her exposed fingers. She kneeled, reached out and put her hand right over the face of the vampire. His lip curled and his hand twitched in the direction of his knife. He had to remind himself who she was and again, what he owed.

As if she was explaining, she said, "Felwinter taught me this." Isran just barely caught the growl that rumbled in his chest. How thoroughly unsurprising. "You can raise them partially, with their mind and memories intact."

"What makes you think he'll talk?" Sorine had come up to Isran's side, arms crossed and looking down on Serana with morbid curiosity.

"You maintain some control though they can resist…" Her voice quickly grew strained. The bones of her jaw could be seen with the way the muscles flexed with effort.

The corpse at the center of the floor twitched violently, causing both Sorine and Isran to step back. The vampire's mouth flew open with a sharp groan. Isran swore under his breath, his hand around his knife again. Bran started, barking and snarling ferociously behind them.

"Why did you attack?" Serana's eyes were tight with effort.

The corpse rasped again. Sorine had to put herself bodily between the encroaching dog and Serana. The only one there not viscerally disturbed by what she was seeing.

"W…Watch. Set…to…watch."

"By who?"

"Never…never told."

"We need to know where they came from," Sorine said, "If they're connected to the vampires that were here before."

Serana's head twitched in an approximation of a nod. She was losing her grip. "How do you know Alva?"

The vampire's eyes were starting to flutter. The ghost flames around Serana's fingers were flickering. When the vampire failed to answer, she asked again, "How do you know Alva?"

"C…coven."

"Where?" Serana was trembling now, fangs bared. Another rasp but no answer. Serana's eyes tightened even further. "Where?!" She practically shouted the command.

"Swamp…north…" A long wheezing rasp. Then, the corpse growled, "Release me, girl…"

Serana did right after. Isran could tell it was unwilling. Her arm fell, magic wafting from where her hand sat in her lap. It was Sorine who broke the silence, moving to her side to offer Serana a hand. She nodded in gratitude.

"The lair in the swamps," she said, exhaustion palpable. "Likely the same one. Likely the same people. Northwards."

"That's it, then?" Isran's hand slipped from his knife. "We need nothing else?"

Serana blinked. "That should be all."

Isran's now-empty hand sparked with power. A ghostly blue sword burst forth and in one smooth motion, he brought the blade down on the dead vampire's neck, severing the head. Blood sprayed out, spreading droplets across the floor.

The Bound Sword shimmered and faded. Isran reached down, grabbed hold of the vampire's tattered shirt and ripped off a piece. "Bran, to me." Isran held the tattered rag down for the dog to press his nose against.

He caught the trail almost immediately. After retrieving their things, Sorine's ammunition and Isran's hammer from his steed, Bran led them northwards out of town; Serana insisting that she continue with them instead of doing what she had been told. At the edge of Morthal, Isran turned, his eyes going back towards the Jarl's longhouse and the ruin of an abandoned home beside it

He only shook his head again before turning back and following the others out into the swamps.