Burnt Flesh

It had to be said again; Gunmar had trained his hounds well.

Bran's nose had led them out of Morthal, down a trail that must have been days old by the time they had started on it, and brought them to the infamous cove. Most swamps were dark, foreboding, restrictive and choking in their own way but Hjaalmarch's swamps were worse. The air was thick with fog and gas. Trees, both alive and dead, stood high over their heads, heavy branches and drooping leaves blocking out any moonlight that had already managed to penetrate the overcast sky. And all of it felt as if it were closing in; as if one could turn at any time to find the walls of rocks and trees closer and tighter than they had been before, ready to swallow you before you were ever the wiser.

Isran knew they would see better in sunlight. That they'd be at an advantage during the day but he pressed forward anyway. With their scout dead, the survivors would prepare themselves for an attack on their lair or worse, they'd pack up, flee and Isran would lose his chance at their heads. He knew they had reached the end of the trail by the way Bran halted, going dead still and silent. This was a hunt and he had played his role. He knew to retreat and let the others play theirs. The entrance was in the open and unguarded; an unassuming place. Isran was prepared to move but Sorine's voice stopped him. "Check for wards, Serana."

She did. After a minute, one Isran spent wondering if he should just go ahead without them, her closed eyes opened. "Clear."

Isran heaved himself over the boulder they had taken cover behind and dropped, boots landing in soggy mud. Each step forward rang in his head, like a blacksmith striking metal. He loosened his hammer, let its heavy head land in the mud and trail beside him. He could smell the rot of death as he drew closer but more so than that, he could smell the burning house; the wood, the bodies. He could still smell them, long after the fires had been put out.

Diplomacy had its place and that place was in Morthal, not here. Isran wanted to kill.

The rest at his back, Isran crossed into the cave, the little light they had sharply snuffed out. He could still smell the swamp gas but there was an undeniable tinge of metal to the scent now and even in the dark, he could see dark swipes painted on the stone wall, some in groups of five.

"They've got alarms set. One directly ahead," Serana warned them, sword held loosely at her side, "I could disable-"

Isran was close enough to make out the glyph by sight now and once he did, he tread right over it. A small buzzing filled the air, lasting a few seconds before fading; enough to have alerted them. But he wanted them to know he was here. He wanted them to see him coming.

Their response came quickly but they were ready. When the first blooded vampire darted at them from a shadowed corner, a bolt took him right in the windpipe, feral hiss falling to a choked gurgle. Isran shoved the monster aside, heard Serana plunge her sword into him and then brought up his own weapon to meet the second and third of their assailants.

The vampires rushed him together, faster than he could move but not faster than he could think. A shell of sunlight burst from his skin and enveloped his frame. Colliding with it caused both to stumble in their charge and recoil from him. With an underhand swipe, Isran brought his hammer flying up into the vampire's chin; metal ringing with the sound of cracked bones and shattered teeth. Her limp body crumpled into a heap. He ducked under the sword swipe of the third and slammed his hammer into the side of his knee, ripping a gargled cry from his throat.

Isran shoved him away as others joined in. Just as quickly, they were cut down. Isran had his boot on the throat of the last when Bran's barking caught his attention. His eyes were drawn towards one of the doors and when he saw what had earned Bran's ire, he pressed his foot down until he felt bones snap. The last of the vampires, the one with a ruined knee and inability to stand, was crawling towards the door.

Isran started towards him, pushing Sorine's crossbow down as he passed her. Isran stepped on the space behind his ruined knee, earning himself a cry. "Search the cave. Find anything we can use," he said to the others. He pressed down again, the vampire's thrashing growing more violent. "I'll see what this one has to tell us."

A beat passed before Serana quickly exited the room. Sorine paused to affix him with a look, one Isran couldn't see but could feel in the back of his head. But soon, she took Bran and left him as well. She made sure to shut the door behind her. "Torture? Is this how far you people have fallen?" The vampire spat dark blood across the ground. "Fuck you," he snarled, "Killers hiding behind the guise of protectors. Thugs no better than the rest of us! You and that bastard Dragonborn of yours!"

Isran's mouth twisted at that. The vampire tried to rise again but Isran dropped down, planting each knee against the back of each shoulder, pinning his arms flat. The vampire swore profusely. "Waste your time and your words if you want. I won't say a thing."

Isran's chest expanded with a breath and slowly let it out. With the air went the anger, until all that remained was hard and cold. "I believe you." His voice was rougher and deeper than it had ever been. He reached behind him and pulled his knife from his back. Pressing his thumb to the steel, he focused his magic until he could feel heat radiating off the red-hot blade. Whether it was the magic he felt or the heat, the vampire's eyes widened and his body became very still. That careful mask of anger and indignation began to crumble. Isran breathed in and out again.

"But you will sing."

Isran launched forward with the blade and in one blow, severed three of the vampire's fingers. Whatever retort he had devolved into screaming. The stink of burning, rotting flesh seared his senses. He kept the vampire pinned, waiting until the thrashing and bucking beneath him fell to pathetic writhing. He held the hot blade close to the tip of the vampire's ear and calmly asked, "Who is Alva?"

The vampire heaved. "I don't-" Isran's arm twitched and the top half of his ear dropped to the ground in a sizzling heap.

He waited until the screaming stopped before bringing the blade's point to the top of his nostril, so close that one twitch would lop off the entire organ. "Who is Alva?"

For all his bravado, the vampire's tongue loosened rather quickly, speaking profusely as if doing so would save his life. He indeed knew much about Alva and how she came to join the coven but not as much about Idessia and nothing about Miraak; no matter how much closer to bone Isran pushed the burning knife, staining his pants with blood.

Sorine, Bran and the girl were elsewhere. Isran didn't know and didn't care, he only knew that he was alone with the harrowing screams that echoed as much in his head as it did the walls. It was done now. The sobbing, mutilated wreck had nothing left to offer him and deep down, he knew that. Isran had the knife at his throat, ready to end it all but then, the smell of burning flesh stung his nose again. Before Isran realized what he was doing, the dagger dropped from his throat and plunged into his stomach. The only reaction the vampire could muster was an agonized whimper, his throat raw from screaming.

Isran tore the knife out, leaving a ragged hole that let rivers of blood flow across the dirt ground. He wiped the blade clean on the vampire's ragged shirt as an afterthought. He didn't know how long he had been there but it took effort to push himself back to his feet, staring down at the slow-growing pool of red beneath him. Without ears, a nose, eyes, the flesh on his cheeks, the tendons of his feet and most of his fingers, all the pathetic creature beneath him could do was writhe around in the dirt and sob; begging for the end to finally come and take him.

Isran left him to it without a look back. He collected his hammer at the door and left the room, closing the door behind him; as if the vampire would ever stand again. "Sorine!" His voice thundered through the cavern.

Her reply came quickly. "Over here!"

He followed her voice deeper into the cave, coming to the end of the tunnel and into a wide open space. From the long wooden tables lined with platters and bordered by chairs, it looked to be some sort of dining area. Moving further in, his suspicions were confirmed in the worst of ways. Blood and gristle splattered every plate and bones, both whole and broken, were scattered across the table. His foot reached the edge of a pit and he stumbled back.

Dead bodies. Dozens of them. Some were missing limbs but all of them were so drained, they no longer smelled like corpses. With one look, he knew even their kin would have trouble identifying them.

Isran was tired, down to someplace even deeper than his bones. Someplace so close to his core that after the initial wave of surprise, he felt nothing. Not disgust, not grief, not even rage. Still, his voice was a little gentler when he called for Sorine again. She came to him instead of responding. Bran preceded her, coming from one of the back tunnels, loping towards him with his tongue flopping between his spread lips. Isran approached and met him halfway, causing Bran to come to a stop before his legs. If he hadn't already seen the bodies, Isran would rather him not see them at all. Sorine came through the same tunnel, Serana at her side.

Sorine's eyes flicked behind him, to the bodies. She grimaced. "Was gonna ask if you wanted to burn it," she said, "It would take a long time though."

Isran had no intention of staying any longer than necessary. Nor did he need that smell assaulting his nose again. "The ground is dry enough," he told her, "And the pit is deep. We can set the fire and leave it."

She had something in her arms, held against her chest, wrapped in thin cloth. It only pulled his interest when it moved. The bundle let out a short sound, almost like a whine. A sound that had Bran running back to her and standing up on his hind legs to try and push his nose in between her arms, his tail wagging back and forth. Isran's gaze moved from her arms and back to her eyes. He waited. The Breton woman sighed and let her arms loosen just slightly. Bran's tail moved faster.

Within them, Sorine held another dog. A young one, just a pup. It was wrapped in a ball around itself and burrowed as far as it could into her embrace.

"They were going to make him a death hound," Serana from further away. "I recognized the tools."

Of course, she did. Isran had to fight to keep his lip from curling. His eyes turned back to Sorine, whose gaze was focused on the pup. As was Bran, gentle whines floating from his throat.

Isran thought of Sceolang and sighed quietly. "If the cave is cleared, we can leave," he said to her. He picked up one of the opened bottles on the table and smelled it. The pup whined again. "If it's going to be doing that all night, it's staying with you."

Judging its heft, Isran walked back to the pit and began to pour the liquor over the bodies. Serana was soon also at the table, doing the same, while Sorine kept the hounds back.

With the fire at their backs, they walk out together, tracing their steps back to the entrance. On their way, Isran could see the room he had left the vampire in, earless, eyeless and with a ragged gut wound that would take over an hour to finally kill him. He knew the thing would still be alive and as they passed, all could hear him; moaning, sobbing, begging to be put out of his misery. He could feel their looks burning into the back of his head.

Wisely, they kept their thoughts to themselves.

Heroes of the night, that was the reason Idgrod hosted them in her dwellings. She had provided them beds, meals and even baths to clean remnants of the swamp and the vampires off of themselves.

One of the serving women had brought the pails of steaming water to his room and emptied them into the tub. Still, Isran heated them further, near to scalding. He sat there for a while after cleaning the grime. A single candle flickered on the dresser, leaving Isran mostly in shadow.

'Take Morthal for the coven and she would be free." That was the deal Morvarth, Alva's creator and master, offered her. She'd be free to live her life how she wanted and with whom she wanted. A monstrous request. It was even more monstrous to accept it. To think any of that was worth avenging…

"The things we do for love," Isran breathed the words into the air. Then, he growled at himself for feeling any sort of pity. Not for Alva, who had gotten a kinder fate than she deserved but for Idessia. Losing your heart was one thing he knew well.

Felwinter nearly learned it just as well. The wounds of the Volkihar were old but scars could still be seen on the city and its people. When the boy, Felwinter's son, led him to his other father, the first place his eyes had gone to was his neck. Even from a distance, the scars could be made out. Two small but deep holes, right over the jugular vein. He did not know what Felwinter did to save him but if he had waited only seconds longer to do it, it would have already been too late.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes, feeling his age again. He didn't want to think of this anymore. He wanted to leave this day behind him. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to dream of snowflakes drifting across his skin…

A knock at the door; gentle but thundering in the silence. He shoved the burst of anger back down and responded as evenly as he could. "What is it?"

A young woman's voice he did not know answered back. "Apologies, Ser Isran. Jarl Idgrod requests a short word." He didn't know which irritated him more; the summons or the deliberate use of the title. Still, he rose from the tub.

He found her sitting before an open hearth, flames crackling quietly. Jarl Idgrod had shed some of her furs from earlier and was reading a book by the light, a cup of wine at her side. She was quiet for a little while longer after he greeted her. Then, she said, "Take a seat, Ser Isran."

Seconds passed before he moved, taking the smaller chair beside her large one. A second mug was pushed towards him. "Did you know Lady Delilah and I have been exchanging letters for years now?"

Isran's fingers dug into his pant's leg. He made sure to unclench his teeth before replying, "How…" He swallowed down another burst of anger, "Would I have known that?"

"Yes, dear. That was the joke." He could hear the grin on her face. "She told me of your knighthood but not about your connection to her son." She closed the book. "That I figured out on my own." She looked at him with piercing eyes; eyes that seemed to have lost their mirth and seemed tired, sad even. "He looks like you."

His teeth were beginning to ache, with how much he was clenching his jaw. He turned away, back towards the fire. "We told you all we learned. About Alva, Idessia, the coven and their plans." His voice was gravel. "What more do you want from me?"

"You plan to return to the Rift?"

"Yes."

"And how will Felwinter be appraised of your findings?"

"Serana is writing a letter."

"But not you?"

He reached out towards the fire. "No," he said, instead of what he wanted to say. "Not me."

Idgrod hummed. She closed her eyes. After a few minutes of silence, to the point where Isran wondered if she had fallen asleep, she spoke up again. "The Moot will occur soon. We prepare to make our way to Solitude. You might not think this to be the Dawnguard's concern…"

"It is not."

"But Felwinter will be there. A little late, most likely but he will be there. Just a suggestion but perhaps you can join us on our journey. See him, talk to him. I think it will do you both some good."

Isran rankled at that. "Your hospitality has been appreciated, Jarl-"

"Yes, yes, none of my business. Like I said, it's just a suggestion. Discuss it with your people if you like. The news would reach him faster this way. But it remains your choice." Idgrod rose from her seat. She'd be taller if it not for the curve of her back. "Consider it, Isran."

She hobbled away. Isran watched as she did, eyes boring into her receding form. Then, he finished the wine before returning to his quarters.