A Phoenix Burned, A Dragon Born
Instead of Naggaroth, the Witch King's escape was redirected to a more convoluted world of elves, men and beasts.
Warnings: Rated M for Malekith
Another Ice Wraith exploded into a shower of Magicka and Ice as the Fire Atronach let loose another volley of firebolts. Today was off to a good start, the mage admitted to herself as she knelt down in the snow to gather the essence of the elementals. While the wages of her occupation at the College covered most of her expenses, however, having savings would help her immensely if she ever decided to leave the cold province of Skyrim.
It was funny how she had grown accustomed to this land and almost forgotten why she had even come here, away from the Summerset Isles and her family.
Letting out a sigh, the mage motioned with two fingers to her summons to scout the following area and make sure nothing could ambush her. While Faralda wasn't far from the city, but the North side of Skyrim was a dangerous place be she a mage or not. In this weather even a slightest mistake could doom her and while she had some proficiency with healing magics, the elements could prove too deadly. That's why with herself she had brought a small cart with her heavy fur field-tent, enchanted to resist the elements. Though paling to the splendour of tents of her homeland, to her it suited her needs well enough.
The cart was pulled by a frost atronach taking a form of a horse, The college could afford only a few thralls and this one was continuously kept under her command by her own magicka pool, which was rather considerable one for the Altmer woman. Yet she couldn't be wasteful with her time spent here in these frigid wastes. Withdrawing from her satchel a notebook, the woman tallied her Ice wraith teeth she had collected in her satchel. At least ten were grabbed and by her estimation it would take until the nightfall when she would catch two more. Sighing, the sorceress continued her trek through the snow, thanking once more for enchanted clothing, her connection with the atronaches not waning, only amusement of cruel children as the two floating creatures eradicated a pack of starving tundra wolves seeking their next meal. The dutiful mount pulling the carriage remained silent and feeling no gust of wind and the clear skies ahead lifted Faralda's spirits somewhat as this far north a heavy snowstorm would send her straight to bed, underneath warm blankets and fire spells to keep her warm. Maybe after her lectures, she could finally respond to her fellow Mer in Solitude, Taarie and Endarie about their latest letters, Auriel knew she had put off that particular task long enough.
Most older apprentices had left for their final practices all across Tamriel and only a smattering of students had applied, though she couldn't blame them. An interesting topic among the staff was that one of the scions of House Telvanni from what remained of the Great House had recently enrolled, expressing her interest to learn a different sorts of magic, but Faralda had an inkling that she and herself shared some similarities. A shame that she would fall under Toldfir's tuteltage first.
Shaking her head clear of ruminations about her occupation, the woman continued across the snow, receiving complaints from the atronaches that there was nothing in their sights. Daedra were always tricky, but atronaches were the easier kind, belonging to no particular Plane of Oblivion or Prince and thus very easily sated by their primordial needs, which was for the ones she had summoned- to feel fire or set things on fire, those were interchangeable.
In the distance lurked ancient Nord ruins, a barrow of sorts that she had no wish to encounter. While Faralda was no stranger to violence, she had long outgrown her wanderlust and thus was content on merely teaching the younger generation.
In the distance a bright orange-crimson light flared and that dashed all her current plans as that glow was of Oblivion and while the Crisis had long passed, Daedra still could be summoned, and that glow promised nothing good. If it was dangerous, she needed to be prepared. Cold winds rose and pulling her Sabrethooth Tiger's fur cloak closer, the wizard ventured forth, shock spells ready to end the intruder or at best flee back to the confines of the College and mount a response.
"Damn it!" she cursed and hurried in the direction of the source of the light. Yet as she approached, the elven mage realized that the phenomenon was ending, the orange and red bleeding into the blue and slowly vanishing. She couldn't let this go to waste! Perhaps she was experiencing something else entirely an occurrence not documented in written history! These and many other thoughts drove her faster than her legs could carry, stomping through the thick snow and her breath hitching by the speed she tried to achieve. Behind her trailed the atronaches, keeping up with the pace of their mistress, curiosity abound that buzzed through their bond.
Huffing and heaving as her throat burned from exertion, Faralda swore to herself that after this she would need more exercises, but still the woman had come over the small hill, that separated her from the unexplained event that was transpiring before her.
Faralda felt chill permeate the bones as she gazed at who had walked through the portal that was rapidly closing behind him, almost shimmering out of existence rather than the documented and conventional purple gates.
A tall figure marching through the snow as if carrying a boulder on it's back. At first Faralda thought the tall, almost daedric figure some sort of Dremora or Xivkyn due to the nature of his armour, for the warrior was definitely a male. Clad from head to toe in spiky black armour with accents of gold inlaid with it, he dragged a large sword in the snow, leaving behind a trail of blood and melting snow where his plate sabatons thread.
The figure's footsteps- slow and lost.
As she cast a muffling spell and crept closer to observe this giant of a warrior, her amber eyes widened as the warrior was wounded. His plate was rent in multiple places, revealing red and bruised flesh underneath, his leftmost gauntlet was missing and upon closer inspection bleeding as well as it held something Faralda couldn't see all that well. His crimson cape was in tatters and the greathelm was missing one of its antlers, broken in other places, revealing strands of black hair, dirty with blood. Each step he took made her wonder whether or not it was his last.
Grunting in pain the warrior collapsed and stabbed the sword into the snow, as if to keep himself standing, yet his knees buckled underneath his towering form. Laboured breaths came from his lips, yet she couldn't clearly see him. It was as if this being was resting before continuing his trail.
To her it was madness as nothing lied in that direction, but ice and death! While she was not a friendly person or fit to be a priestess of the Divines, she couldn't let the swordsman die. Muttering quietly, she gathered her magicka in one hand, allowing the energy to take the colour of sea green. It was a calming spell, one to sedate the warrior and perhaps allow him to be transported to the College and rest. Through her bond, the sorceress ordered for the daedra to desist and for the first time she felt the creatures…worried. Noting the uncomfortable revelation, Faralda swallowed the spit that had gathered in her throat and pushed onward.
Coming up on the hill, the second she emerged above its peak, the being startled her. His eyes bore straight into her soul and despite the horrid wounds and gushing blood on his face, the glowing green eyes that seemed to pierce her very being.
Then the warrior closed his eyes and collapsed in the snow as a bag of flour.
"Shit" the Altmer woman cursed loudly and ran towards the wounded man, the calming spell forgotten in her hands. While not an expert like Collette or a savant like Toldfir, she knew healing hands and she hoped that it would be enough. Hoping to stop the bleeding of the strange man, the Destruction Lector pushed with her might the golden glow into the man's wounds which seemed to eat away at the wounds, yet the bleeding wasn't stemming.
"Gods damn it!" she cried out as her hands were doused in blood and her trousers and lower half of the robes were dyed crimson. Still, she continued to pour her magic into the warrior, praying to all Altmer gods, from Auriel to Xarxes to aid her plight, but these efforts were for naught as the wounds weren't closing.
Cursing once more loudly, she beckoned the frost atronach to come closer and despite the beasts hesitation, it listened and pulled the cart next to her. In her mind calculations were running wild. The travel speed of the atronach, the capabilities of her magic to keep this man alive until she reached the College. Her distress was rising and with all her strength she hauled the unconscious man to the cart, ordering the flame atronaches to help her.
Unwillingly the two flame spirits approached her and slowly grabbed the warrior by the undamaged armour, slowly pulling him inside the cart, with the elf following suit, casting her magic and unrolling a warm wool blanket she kept during emergencies. She hoped that they wouldn't be too late and if they were, then at the very least the body would be treated with respect. Sparing a glance at the body she was relieved that still the man breathed, and the blood had stemmed. In the distance she saw his sword, still impaled in the ground and was amazed by the design of the blade. It looked vicious, but elegant and there was no reason to let such a weapon remain there.
Approaching the blade, she attempted to grasp its hilt, but recoiled as if the blade was sapping her magicka.
Now the blade had become more malevolent, but that was even more a reason, not to let it lay around here. Steeling her resolve, Faralda quickly drew the blade and fought the pain, before putting it down beside the warrior in the cart, breathing with relief that the malevolent aura subsided. It was another mystery as she had never seen such armour and weapon designs, however that mystery was best saved for much later, she thought.
Commanding the horse to hurry back to Winterhold, Faralda looked at the man she had rescued and wondered aloud.
"Who are you?"
The man's mouth moved in a whisper too low to be heard in the wind as they dashed through the snow and that made her even more worried, for the phrase uttered was utterly alien and too flowing on her ears, even one who had spoken High Elven for most of her life.
For a face ravaged by horrible burns and wounds sustained, she with her keen eyes could recognize natural the nobility in this being, whoever he might have been. In the distance she could see the half-ruined Winterhold, relief in the elven woman's heart rose.
Sparing a look at him again, Faralda tried to placate herself, as one hand still continued to pump in the magicka , yet already she could feel exhaustion overwhelm her as her lids fluttered shut. Yet she couldn't give up, not just yet.
It was a power of High Elves, as the children of Aedra, to manifest Magnus' mercy and thus refill their innate reserves of magicka for a moment, however, the untrained always risked by overexerting and even more experienced mages suffered the risk of "burning out" so to speak in layman's terms.
She cursed loudly in Elven as the sled connected with the icy stones of the road and gripped the wooden edges of the cart, worriedly looking at the atronach who pulled the vehicle. Through the bond she could feel the wish of the Daedra to return its plane of Oblivion, not that she blamed the creature, who like it's counterparts had tried to leave as fast as possible. Only difference between the fire attuned elementals and the horse that was rushing towards the city was that it was needed currently and thus she was hellbent on making sure that the contract held until she was once more within the Halls of the College.
Faralda's vision darkened again and after blinking she saw the shocked faces of the guards whom she rushed past in her mad dash to the College. Some cursed loudly enough, and the citizens present ran out of the way, but there was nothing they could do to stop her if they weren't willing to challenge the College of Winterhold
Then she blinked again, and she was nearing the gate bearing the iconic sigil of the mage's institution.
A flash of white and the next thing she saw was the scowling Master, one Mirabelle Ervine, who had crossed arms over her chest and with her brown eyes promised trouble to the High Elf. Lucky for her, Faralda felt so heavy as if someone had cast a spell of burden at least at an adept level.
"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" the Breton woman spoke brusquely and despite the precarious situation the Destruction mage could only mutter
"Later" she weakly raised a hand with all her effort "What of the man I found in the wastes?"
"He lives and you're lucky the College enchantments managed to warn me as the atronach steed became unbound. However, the man you brought is almost dead or will be in short order. Even Collete and Toldfir were unable to heal his wounds. Which is disconcerting when taking into the account that your own reserves were depleted, and you almost suffered from a critical magicka deficiency."
The golden eyed elf would have bolted up from her bed if she had had any strength remaining, her lungs could breathe easily and her head didn't hurt, instead plagued with exhaustion, she looked to her colleague with wide eyes and undisguised terror at the thought.
"Do not worry, you're safe and we'll discuss this tomorrow. Rest for now Faralda, you know that you have classes tomorrow."
She could only nod numbly, but as she laid there the sorceress could only worry about the man who lied somewhere in the college, barely clinging to his life. Resting her head back on the pillow in the Healer's quarters, Faralda closed her eyes and offered a prayed to Auriel to help the being overcome the tribulations that had caused this state.
Across mountains, past rivers wide and forests deep a cart stopped in the courtyard of the fort of Helgen. Imperials garrisoned there had varying thoughts of what was about to happen, but most knew better than to speak their minds about such matters that would transpire. The General's word was the emperor's and if they disobeyed, they would be the same rebels they fought in service of the Empire. It was a human empire and thus as it's inheritors it befell to the sons and daughters of Skyrim, High Rock and Cyrodiil to persevere in the aftermath of the destructive conflict that Elves had unleashed upon them.
Hadvar had grown up in the nearby village of Riverwood and as a young boy left for the Great War to fight for the Empire. Standing in front of the carts of the captured criminals, he was about to commit their names to history, for better or worse. Who knew what sorts of men were among the captured, but it was their bad luck that had brought them to this moment, with no hope of escape. Hopefully, the less guilty would escape their journey to Sovngarde on this day.
As the cart stopped, the soldier dismounted his horse and with light feet marched towards the Captain in charge of this fort, underneath his arm tucked a list of tallied rebels that had been captured at Darkwater Crossing. By a stroke of luck an imperial ambush had captured Ulfric Stormcloak and through the cover of night relinked with the new reinforcements who had caught another party of rebels desperate to save their leader. Others were mixed into this, but he hoped that this situation would be easily remedied. He could hear a fellow Nord calling this injustice, but the rebel along them cut his pleading and begging short with a jape. It was unbefitting of them.
"When your name is called, step towards the block." The Captain, an Imperial woman snarled and Hadvar saw the first of today's victims' names written on the piece of parchment charting their fate.
"One at a time!" she reminded and the Nord couldn't help, but sneer at her condescension. If there were more imperials like her, then this rebellion wouldn't be as easy for the Empire.
"Ulfric Stormcloak" he read out loud "Jarl of Windhelm" and the man who had slain High King Torygg stepped forth. To Hadvar, he was smaller than the tales had told, while he was broad and a hardened warrior in him, he saw nothing that could've been the Bear of Markarth, save perhaps the gag- a reminder that he indeed wielded the way of the Voice.
There was dignity in how he approached his doom, despite his actions and treason against Talos' Empire.
"Ralof of Riverwood" the name was familiar and he recognized the boy he had grown up with in Riverwood. It would be painful to tell Gerdur of his fate. He stifled himself in asking anything more of the rebel, who offered him the same- blue eyes staring coldly past him, full of betrayal. His quick steps past him. Perhaps it was for the best, the Legionary thought and turned to the next prisoner.
"Lohir of Rorikstead-" the man interrupted him, almost shouting in his rags
"Wait, you can't do this! I'm not a rebel!" these words garnered no sympathy, but there might have been a choice lefr for him. Then with matchless desperation the horse-thief sprinted past him and the captain- sealing his fate.
Not a moment passed before the command of "Archers!" and a following volley that saw the luckless lackwit crumble onto the stones pawing the way- riddled with arrows as blood pooled around him. Legionaries were on their way, and he prayed to the Divines that the man was dead before they got to him.
"Anyone else feels like running?"
Thankfully the remaining prisoners remained silent, but the soldier's eyes caught the unflinching gaze of a tall man, undoubtedly a kinsman coming home, whose stormy eyes seemed to belong to a breed of men destined for greatness, or so did the odd thought strike him.
"You there" he called out to the Nord "Step forward."
Now that he saw him closer, the man definitely had a presence about him, if Hadvar was forced to describe it at a sword point, the Nord would say that this man seemed like the calm before the storm- calm, otherworldly . He was man few years past the end of boyhood and a jagged scar marred his left eye. His crimson mane was twisted in a rough tail and the rags, in which the prisoner was clothed, did nothing to hide that either this man was skilled labourer or an expertly trained fighter.
"You picked a bad time to come home, kinsman, what's your name?"
"Lorkh" the man spoke and looking at the list, beneath Lohkir's name there was nobody named Lorkh or anything similar. He looked to the other legionaries with their lists, and each shook their heads, indicating that this person wasn't included in any of their lists. Perhaps it was one of the more recent captures, whose name hadn't made it to the lists either. Turning to the Captain, the woman's irritation was palpable.
"Captain, what should we do? He's not on the list."
"Forget the list, he goes to the block" She barked her orders and in the prisoner's eyes he saw something of an amusement to flash, as if the warrior didn't believe that he would be killed here and now.
"By your orders, Captain. Follow the Captain, prisoner. I'm sorry" he offered an honest apology as this man, who was possibly innocent would have his head taken because of a callous officer. It was disgraceful and after this was over, he'd send a former complaint to Solitude together with his fellow soldiers to see the woman removed from her post.
Still the prisoner, no Lohr, he committed the name to his memory, walked fearlessly towards the rest of the doomed, head held hight, his hair waving in the wind.
General Tulius, a respected warrior and leader had apparently shaken off the Thalmor, always insistent to meddle in the affairs to the Empire. Was the White-Gold Concordant not enough for the pointy eared menace?
The General stood before the other man and the tension was unmistakeable, however instead of hatred there was only disappointment in the old Imperial's face. "Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like The Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne." He had heard campsite rumours that during the Great War, Ulfric Stormcloak had been a promising commander in battling the Elves.
With his mouth bound, the captive leader of rebellion could only huff though the gag. To some it may have seemed unfair to taunt a man incapable of speech, but the fact that Torygg's mangled corpse was seen by many had put this particular rumour in the realm of facts. Despite the jeers at the bound man, Tulius awaited the silence, before continuing his speech to the captive "You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace."
The confidence in this statement was unmistakable, but from his point of view the war was almost over. Without the talented leader of the Stormcloak rebellion, the movement would lose it's fire and sooner or later the former rebellious Nords would kneel- willingly or with blades at their throats. It was funny how quiet such an event this was, Hadvar was sure that this would be written in a book or remembered in a song how the Bear of Markarth was defeated. Suddenly in the distance a roar could be heard. It was unlike anything the soldier had ever heard and he had heard trolls crying out their savage battle cries, the fury of giants. This roar was that of a distant battlecry and wondered if he had even heard it correctly as the sound disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared.
"What was that?" He asked loudly, before realizing his mistake, but it was too late and with every bit of military discipline drilled within it took for the young warrior to keep his hands to his sides after realizing that he was right next to General Tulius.
"It's nothing. Carry on." Thankfully, the Leader of the Imperial Army in Skyrim dismissed his reaction and instead opted to proceed with the execution of Ulfric Stormcloak, however, there was a question why wasn't he the first to the executioner's block?
Beside him, the Captain already barked the next orders, as he stood beside her he was reconsidering his service after the rebellion would end. "Yes, General Tullius. Give them their last rites." As a true Nord, he liked strong women, but he couldn't see her strength past her attitude, and he hoped that the Imperial's time in the province would not pass easily.
As before any execution, a priest of Arkay needed to cite the rites to ensure no necromancer would desecrate their corpses without significant trouble, at least it was as he was told during the first days of his training "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved-" The priestess begun with offering a traditional prayer to the god of Death, only to be interrupted by an impatient corpse in waiting.
"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with."
To her credit, the priestess' reply was cordial and emotionless as the redhead knew that it must've felt humiliating"As you wish."
The impatient Nord was brave even when they laid him upon the chopping block "Come on, I haven't got all morning. My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?" he taunted the Headsman, who shrugged and raised the greataxe over his head, before sending the fool to Sovngarde. The crowd had mixed reactions, the legionaries stood silently, while the bound Stormcloaks cried out at the injustice of an execution without trial, however, the townspeople cheered them on. It was disheartening to see such hate against fellow Nords, even if they fought for a different cause.
"Next, the Nord in the rags!" Hadvar shook his head, the man had a name!
After a moment he could hear the same bestial roar once more, but it was "There it is again. Did you hear that?"
However, the woman ignored the clear and loudly heard roar and repeated her orders very forcefully "I said, next prisoner!"
Even Tulius raised an eyebrow, but did nothing.
Sighing, the legionary turned to Lorkh "To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy."
The Prisoner, no Lohr, calmly walked towards the executioner's block that hadn't even been wiped clean off the blood that almost reminded him of the condemned man's hair, which previously he had likened to a flame. Unlike the brash soldier who almost rushed to his death, the Nord in rags looked like a jarl or a nobleman walking towards his doom. Laying his head down onto the block, his storm grey eyes did not look at the sky. Instead Hadvar noted that it was as if Lohr knew what would happen.
The headsman raised his axe.
A black shape plummeted from the sky.
General Tulius managed to utter "What in Oblivion is that?!"
The headsman stumbled, his axe wobbling in his hands as the creature, no- a Dragon, landed upon the Fort's tower and cursed the sky.
The headsman tripped on a loose rock and fell, his axe with him. As the sky burned, the crimson blood of Lohr spilt together with that of the Stormcloak on the ground, with an empty thud his head rolled towards the Legionary. Hadvar considered himself a hardened warrior, but the mad look in those dead, grey eyes would haunt him for a long while.
However, first he had to survive this!
Out of the corner of his eye, the Nord saw his rebellious countrymen escaping. Let them run, he thought with terror as he saw the houses of citizens go up in flames as stars rained from the sky and chaos that surrounded him.
In Winterhold Phinis Gestor set down his quill and pulled a white sheet over the burned corpse. While Faralda's findings had been monumental, it was sad that the creature had perished before they could've saved it. No matter the potions or spells used, the wounds didn't heal and more curiously enough the searing heat emenating from the body forbade him from delving deeper in its mysteries. Perhaps Savos Aren would have the advice he direly needed.
"The subject in question is most definitely some manner of oddity undocumented on Tamriel. Perhaps a precursor to the Altmer if the height and increased muscle mass is of any indication. Unfortunately the body was covered 2/3 in heavy burns and scarring, yet curiously enough there were signs of healing. To put this in perspective it took Colette, an expert restoration mage, her entire magicka pool and FOUR LARGE magicka potions to merely stem the bleeding. Another curious feature is that the armour was so hot that it took Toldfir numerous castings to increase his own fire resistance to merely touch it.
Even curiouser it is that the bedding and surrounding area was undamaged by the heat. Eventually the armour was pried off of the body with much expense and it is believed that this person passed away soon afterwards with a loud exhale and closing of it's green eyes. The figure was masculine, but as I'm unsure of it's origins, a neutral pronoun will be used as such.
The suit of armour bears no traces of Manish, Merish or even daedric origin, but judging by its' appearance the being came from a warlike culture with high emphasis on ceremonial, indicating that this person was of a high rank, perhaps even a ruler. Too hot to touch without Toldfir's presence or numerous expert category potions. Perhaps frost salts can cool it enough for study…
Along the armour the figure was carrying a greatsword, presumably wielded with one hand, indicating the deceased's strength. A foolish apprentice tried to touch the sword and was driven mad, muttering that it was hungry. Until further notice it is to be secured in a vault with only the Archmages permission.
There was some apprehension about touching the shield, but a miraculous discovery was made when an apprentice used a weak firebolt on it- it was reflected! It's as if there's a copy of Peyrite's shield. Also locked away until further study. This is too important to be left unattended.
Armour currently is stored in one of the many vaults of the Midden. Better we solve this before that Thalmor snake catches a wind of this.
P.s. A large horn of unknown origin was clutched in the figure's hand, but it was deposited along with other findings in the vaults."
Deep within the College of Winterhold, in a locked room in the farthest reaches of the hospital wing, which held the deceased person who had escaped Oblvion was barren. Couple of stools surrounded the large medical table as balls of light floated above the white shroud. Secluded from the rest of the world, the large shadow cast on the body painted a solemn image, with one burned arm peeking out of the covers. However, an inexplicable presence filled the room.
The once still hand miraculously twitched. Like the fire that had once continuously burned the warrior receded, as if doused by a water that climbed up further across his body.
Emerald eyes opened to the funeral shroud and after a deep breath the screaming began. If anyone had been there to witness this, they would have described it as a soul rending scream full of agony, like one expressed by an unlucky victim of a sadistic executioner. Muscle mended itself and skin, pale like milk grew where there was none.
Suddenly the screaming stopped.
Behind the doors footsteps could be heard and the completely whole hand grasped the shroud and pulled it off, letting it fall onto the cold floor. Sitting upright, the Elf, for who else possessed such pointy ears, immediately gazed at his haled hands. He poked and pinched himself, before looking downwards and laughing like a madman who had found the Shivering Isles. He caressed his face and laughed even harder, before pulling a hair loose and bringing it before his eyes.
It was a single black hair.
"Impossible" he muttered and groggily rose from the table, almost falling, before the warrior straightened himself. Looking at the white linen with no small distaste, the resurrected man still put it around his shoulders, trying to have whatever modesty he could afford right now. The world felt different…
There were no winds of Magic floating in the sky, no vile whispers inside his mind, instead and more miraculously he felt a concentration of High Magic he hadn't felt even in Ulthuan, which seemed to come from the sky where the sun used to be. The realization almost incapacitated the man, as he held his grip onto the edged of the wooden table. He had…fled…at his moment of triumph. He remembered the flames of Asuryan searing his flesh once more as magic was weaved around him to destroy the sorcerer. So Malekith had cast himself into the Warp to fight another day. Only it had been a battle for survival. His memory was full of holes, but he remembered N'kari's anguished cries as he brought down the Destroyer upon its horns. Then the escape, nothingness. Last thing he remembered was a gentle voice calling out to him as he stumbled into the light. Daemons could wait, he decided. First, he needed a way to return home, to Naggarond and then he would repay the Eaglefather for his hubris.
Behind him the door opened and instinctively the sorcerer, uncaring about the protests of his tired and newly healed body, launched himself at the intruder and found himself towering over a person that somewhat resembled an elf, but instead of the fair skin of his kindred, her skin had a noticeable tinge of the colour of the sun, while her slanted orange eyes confirmed once more that this wasn't his realm.
Pinning her by the wooden door Malekith noted that she was dressed in robes that could have belonged to a mage, albeit less elaborate and more modest than his own sorceresses used to wear. He expected the woman to be afraid, but the words
"Thank Auriel, you're alive!"
Were not what he was expecting of her.
The Witch King nodded and attempted his most charming smile to deescalate the situation that had arisen. However, he felt burning wood behind him and threats of violent demise, looking at the strange woman of this world, Malekith met her eyes and together, the two jumped away before it caught fire.
Immediately three bizarre creatures entered the room, their hands glowing with unfamiliar spells. A surprisingly tall lizard that reminded him of a Skink, a weak looking old Ork and a Cat beastman of all races. Thankfully, the woman he had assaulted was feeling magnanimous and steadily helped him up, speaking in flawless Drukh-Eltharin to placate her associates.
"As you see I'm fine, so put the damn spells away!"
He understood her…
Wait, that couldn't be right!
A.N: Hi guys! I know it's been a while, but my bachelor's thesis came first and after that with me being the pervert that I am came this. Pairings: Malekith x Serana, Malekith x Azura x Meridia x Nocturnal and obligatory Malekith x Morathi. Hopefully I get to finish the College and Azura's questlines here. Have a nice day
-Spook