Miraak

The thick wooden door exploded into a shower of shards. A slender figure hurtled through it, its impact responsible for reducing the thing to pieces. The flying woman fell and landed, kicking up a cloud of dust and dirt. When her body finally came to a sliding stop, she remained prone, unmoving, her head at a strange angle, with blood dripping down the side of her slightly opened mouth.

Back inside the manor, Felwinter ducked just barely in time to avoid the dagger speeding towards his head. He only avoided the worst of the blow, the blade's edge drawing a red line along his cheek. Felwinter jabbed a fist into the stomach of the assassin. The wind was knocked audibly from her lungs, accompanied by a pained groan.

She recovers even quicker than he did, switching to a reversed grip on her left-held weapon and bringing it up again towards his neck. Felwinter brought his armor-covered arms up to stop it but the blade's strike never came. A feint; she let herself drop, twisting her body on the way down with expert speed and slicing the edge through the tiny, less protected gap in his armor over his knee.

The sharp, sudden pain and loss of strength forced Felwinter to drop off that leg but adrenaline spurred him on. When the assassin righted herself and brought the dagger down again, using her new elevation to aim for his face, Felwinter blocked it with his gauntlet again. This time, as soon as the blade made contact, Felwinter angled his arm to let it slide off and so that his own could snake up. He locked his arm around her significantly thinner one and with a burst off of his still good leg, threw his full weight forward, plate armor and all. The Dunmer woman fell with him, her weapons sent clattering away. She put her hands up to stop him from bearing down. Felwinter's dagger found her heart anyway.

He had made the switch when Zazikel had been knocked from his hand. It was for the better; longswords were bad options in close quarters. He was also the biggest and slowest person here, the armor only slowing him down even more. But it offered some measure of protection his opponents couldn't manage.

He heard the footsteps but that didn't give him time to respond. The last of the Severins, the male assassin he had thrown into a wall and had hoped would be out of commission for a little while longer, tackles him with surprising strength. His leg still too weak to anchor himself, the assassin sends the both of them tumbling over the ledge overlooking the stairs and falling down. They hit the stairs themselves and keep rolling before finally coming to a stop within the manor's candlelit lower level.

Felwinter regains his bearing quickly. The assassin, driven either by pain or rage or grief, was even quicker. He kicks up off his back before Felwinter can fully steady himself on his hurt leg. He throws a knife. Felwinter dodges it. Predicting where Felwinter was going to dodge, he threw a second in the shadow of the first. Felwinter can only bring up his hand and a weak warding spell to knock it off its path, sending the blade spinning into the darkness.

Felwinter's marked arm began to glow. The assassin charges him, giving him no time to prepare whatever magic he had that threw him against a wall and killed his comrade. Felwinter's entire body shines with light and with a sudden sweep of his arm, every single candle in the area blinks dark, as if blown out by many mouths, all at once.

Now, with no candles and the sun dropping too low for its rays to reach them, the manor was pitch black and the Dragonborn's glowing was gone. The assassin kept his ears open and his eyes blown wide, flitting back and forth through the darkness to find anywhere the pattern broke. He chooses to risk it, bringing his hand up and calling on his own limited magic. The area takes on a hazy glow. His eyes keep searching, this time for the brightness of life and the living. In a moment of weakness, they flick upwards, where he knew his comrades lay. They find none.

When he does find it, it is nearly too late. He releases the spell, rips out a second dagger and blocks the longsword coming down on him from the darkness. The human was no longer wearing his armor, having somehow switched out into black leather gear that looked vaguely familiar. He was no longer as protected or heavy but now he was faster and still just as strong. Felwinter pushes as hard as he can manage, bearing down on the Dunmer with all his strength.

Then the blade vanishes, as does the bone-crushing pressure. Before the Dunmer can react to the sudden loss, the pressure reappears in his torso, short and sudden and different and...wrong.

Then the pain starts. It didn't stay long. Everything began to go quiet. Felwinter ripped the dagger free of where he had lodged it, a trail of sticky blood and gore following it, dribbling to the ground. The assassin crumbled to his knees, almost silently, and fell, weapons clattering along the stone.

Felwinter pauses to catch his breath, bringing up the dagger. Astrid would appreciate the use he was getting out of it. As much as an eviscerated woman could appreciate anything. The dagger disappears in a flash and Zazikel takes its place. He points it down and drags the point along his opponent's throat, ending his suffering as well as the fight once and for all.

Felwinter finally relaxes and in doing so, everything comes back to him at once. He staggers over to a chair he can just barely make out in the dark, bumping into a pillar and cursing when it almost tips him over. He leaves Zazikel against the wood and drops into the seat, willing the fireplace to come alive. With the noise, both the Redoran Guard and his housecarls would be here any minute, the latter disobeying orders to stay out of the fight. Then again, the fight was over so it wouldn't be insubordination. But they didn't know that and if Felwinter was less tired, he'd find that touching.

For now, he had to himself a tiny bit of quiet, so he used it to work on his injuries. He forgoes the usual drink. He needed to be coherent for his talk (or interrogation) with the First Councilor. He'd close up what he could for now, numb what he could for now and deal with it in its entirety tonight, most likely while drunk.

Felwinter put his fingers to his cheek and let the magic flow into his cut. He hated fighting rogue types. They were always so quick to find gaps and weaknesses in his armor, no matter what kind he wore. Aela rarely went all out in sparring but he's seen her take down men in as much heavy gear as him with little more than a couple of good swipes. He knew he'd do well to invest in some kind of chainmail or padded shirt to wear beneath his armor. Just another thing to add to the list for when he returned home; improve his armor, study the enchantment on Carius' hammer and keep Skyrim from politically fracturing apart. The province at this point could simply be talked into another war. Just from the thought of it, Felwinter nearly reneged and took that drink anyway. Instead, his hands drop and open the Guild's leather armor, giving him access to his bare torso and the wounds lining it.

There was a commotion above. Felwinter could hear the sounds of armored boots running into the house. He only sat back and waited for them to make their way down to him. It was Gregor and Jordis who found him first, sheathing their blades when they took in the sight of the last dead assassin. "Are you hurt, my thane?" Gregor asked, his eyes never leaving the body.

"I'll live."

Arano and Veleth soon made their way down with more guardsmen in tow. Veleth barks his orders; search every room, find any survivors. Arano stops at the body of the male assassin, his eyes dangerous, narrow slits. "This was the one," he mutters, mostly to himself. He reaches down and takes something off of the man's body, pocketing it. Veleth returns and he rises, declaring the area clear and secure, the operation a success. Arano immediately orders the bodies to be taken out of town and burnt and for the manor to be cleaned up.

Only then does he look at Felwinter, taking in his wounds and the blood on his clothing. "If you'll follow me…"

He turns and starts back up the stairs without another word. Felwinter stands and closes his clothing again, telling his housecarls to give Veleth whatever help he may need, he will meet them at the inn tonight. He follows the Second Councilor, stepping into the glare of the setting sun and watching as they take the covered body of the assassin away.

He continues to follow Arano, disregarding the stares from the townsfolk the fight must have elicited. Passing the smithy, Felwinter nods to Glover in greeting. The Breton does not nod back. His eyes are wide, his nostrils flared and his breathing is deep, his gaze jumps between Felwtiner's face and his clothing, over and over again.

He's led to a modestly sized home, not one Felwinter would expect of a ruler if there weren't a heavily armed guard standing in front of it. Arano knocks hard against the door two times and then only once gently. A few seconds of silence pass before the door is pulled open, revealing even more guards. They step away to let the two pass, revealing a broad-shouldered and finely clothed Dunmer staring down into the fire of his hearth. He doesn't turn until the door has been closed again. He says nothing when he does, looking from Arano to Felwinter and then back.

Just as silently, Arano stepped forward, slipping the token from his robes and presenting it. Morvayn takes it and turns back to the fireplace, turning it over in his hands, his eyes low but blazing with firelight and a bit of something else.

"It is done?" First Councilor Morvayn keeps his back to then.

"It's done."

Morvayn's lips purse tightly. He draws in a deep breath and releases the air from his lungs slowly. His features relax and his shoulders deflate but only slightly. The lids of his eyes lower as he continues to stare at the token.

He turns again and Arano steps forward. Morvayn reaches out and takes him into a hard embrace. Felwinter struggles not to feel as if he was intruding. Morvayn keeps Arano close for a few seconds longer before releasing him again, keeping a hand on his shoulder and his waist. "Guards reported a crash. Was anyone hurt?" His eyes flit over to Felwinter. Felwinter, with the line on his cheek scabbing over, the spots of blood on his clothing and clearly favoring one leg over the other, simply shook his head.

Arano steps back and aside, letting the two see each other fully. Morvayn, face unchanging, holds his arm out. Felwinter grasps his forearm. Wordlessly, the First Councilor directs them further in, to chairs near the fireplace. "I'll handle it from here," he says to Arano, a hand at the center of his back, "Prepare the manor."

The Second Councilor bows, as formality would expect. Then as friendship would expect, he nods his goodbyes quickly before stepping out through the door held open. Morvayn steps over to a table, uncorks a bottle and fills two clay cups with amber liquid, handing one over to the Dragonborn before bidding him to join in sitting. "You've saved my guards. You saved my people and now you have saved me and my family. The stories aren't as exaggerated as I once believed."

"I wish they were. I'm tired."

The Dunmer offered a small, sympathetic smile, his eyes looking down to Felwinter's leg for just a second. "Arano has already conveyed my thanks in words. I doubt you need to hear them again. Instead, I offer a reward." He pauses to take a drink, not wincing in the slightest at the way it must have burned. "Severin Manor. It's yours."

Felwinter blinked. "A house? That easily?"

"I'd say my life and the lives of the people I love are worth a house. Would you not agree?"

"The people I love, sure. My own?" He shrugs. "A half-eaten sweetroll. Maybe."

Morvayn chuckles at that but sobers up quickly. "Answers. You came here for them and now you're trapped. You'll be glad to know the ships will be ready within a few days. Hopefully, whatever info I can provide will help so you can go home when they are ready."

"Hopefully."

"Then ask freely."

Felwinter leans back in the woven chair, stretching his injured leg just slightly, heels tapping against the stone floor and the drink coming up to his mouth. Then he leans forwards, elbows on his knees and eyes unblinking. "A month ago now, I was confronted in southern Whiterun Hold by masked cultists. They asked me if I was the one who called myself the Dragonborn and demanded an answer. I lied, they attacked. They were Dunmer and correspondence on their bodies indicated Solstheim as their place of origin, sent by someone calling themselves 'the one true Dragonborn'. Felwinter pauses to take another drink, finishing it off.

"So my first question is this; who is Miraak?"

The name practically echoes, the way it hangs in the air. It is Dovahzul, uttering the word has power. Morvayn's eyes have turned to the fire again. "It is a name I've heard in history. That he was a Dragon Priest and a mage of near godlike power. Legend has it that his clash with one of his fellow priests was what created this island, splitting it from Skyrim. But I've only ever known it to be just that, a legend."

"And now?"

"Now I hear the name more frequently. This coincides right with when the Earth Stone and its counterparts began taking people."

Felwinter drew closer. "Counterparts? There are other stones?"

"The Wind Stone, the Beast, the Water, the Tree and I believe one called the Sun Stone. Six All-Maker Stones dot the island and all of them have people building...something around them. All of them chanting the same thing."

"What were they saying?"

"Reports clash. Veleth's men cannot get close enough to get clarification, not without being taken themselves. But the ones who did report have heard the name 'Miraak' almost every time."

Felwinter breathed deeply. He had been right. "I'll find out for you then."

"Arano tells me you've gotten close to the Stone a number of times." His crimson eyes left the fire. "You do not feel any different?"

"I feel the pull but it has no sway on me. My housecarls aren't so fortunate. I've had to forbid them from getting close. When did this all start?"

"Nearly three months ago now."

"And no one has done anything? Have you reached out to mainland Morrowind?"

"I sent three messengers." The first hints of frustration were crawling along his brow, aimed at Felwinter or maybe just the difficulty of his situation. "They hadn't been heard back from in weeks. Scouting parties would find them later, among other Dunmer and Skaal, at the Stones. They reacted the same way as the others when we tried to move them away; violently. They'll attack anyone who tries to take them away from their work and they will fight to kill, either their opponent or themselves. One of our guards fought the compulsion with everything he had in order to reach his sister. She rewarded his efforts by nearly braining him with a hammer. The safest thing for everyone was to leave them where they were."

Morvayn stands and walks over to his desk, sparsely covered with a few papers, an inkpot and a single lit candle, leaving Felwinter to contemplate his words. They've worked continuously for months so magic must have been sustaining them. None appeared gaunt or haggard. The ones who Veleth had even pointed out as his own captured men were every bit as sturdy and strapping as ever; no signs of atrophy. That lessened the worry Felwinter had held that they would simply collapse if he dispelled the magic keeping them going in place of food or drink. It was also more widespread than he originally believed. New worries.

"I know the location of one of the other Stones." Morvayn's voice pulled him from his own head. He stood up from his desk, walked back and handed a small piece of parchment to Felwinter. "The other structures being built don't seem to be as big as this one. The mage, Neloth, recognized it as the Temple of Miraak and it surrounds the Tree Stone. Speak to the Skaal. A number of their people are trapped there as well, they will have a vested interest in helping you."

Felwinter takes a few seconds to skim the note. Then he folds it. "I will take some time to prepare," he told the First Councilor, "Then I will make my way to the Temple. If this so-called Miraak is here, then maybe killing him will break this spell and free your people."

Morvayn hums. Then after a moment, he says, "Miraak was real, Felwinter. And the histories were never clear as to whether or not he died in that battle. Stories even say he lies in wait, anticipating the day of his return."

"Short of being a vampire, Miraak would have died of old age by now," Felwinter said, rising to his feet, still favoring the uninjured one, "More likely, this is some mage with delusions of grandeur, taking his name as well as his infamy."

"He still must be an exceptional mage to manage something like this."

"All the magic in the world won't save a heart that's been run through by a sword."

"Is it so simple?"

More than likely, it wasn't. More than likely, this all tied into something bigger. Maybe much bigger.

"No," The Dragonborn replied truthfully, "I'd be surprised if it was. But I can't think of a better way to find out. Waiting does nothing for no one." Felwinter put his hand to his knee, willing just a bit of magic into it so it would stop hurting him. "I'll start preparations and let you know when I'm ready to make for the temple. With luck, we'll both be wrong and this will be over quickly."

"But not too quickly…"

Felwinter's eyebrows raised, then so did the corner of his mouth. "No. Not too quickly."

Morvayn agreed to his plans and bid the other man farewell. He watched as Felwinter stepped through the door and back outside, taking notice of the torchlights. Then the door closed and he was alone again. He removed the pendant from a pocket within his clothing to look at it again. A simple thing of carved wood, very old, very special. His thumb ran over the stylings on its face and he recalled the last time he held it in his hands. The effects of a man he executed, to be given to the man's descendant, to the man's son.

Now another execution and this time, there would be no one for it to be given to. Morvayn tossed it into the fire.