Cura shook some sand out of her boot. Were these the 'sands' that Khajiit often spoke of?
How interesting that Molag Bal would favour this grainy dirt over the mercilessly cold fields of snow.
The air itself was cold enough to merit the namesake of the realm. The warm and bright looks of the dark dimension were deceptive. A flight of stairs near the priory going up the cliffside seemed a promising location to see the realm from higher up, and so Cura marched upwards. The steps were old and rugged, and coated in sand.
Cura was glad that she wore a hood at all times - it made bearing the sands that much easier.
Upon reaching the summit, she saw what appeared to be a wounded Imperial Knight leaning against a pillar solemnly. His hair was dark brown and his armour a dull, rusted steel with a red cape that hung around his right arm and down his back.
"Hail, traveler of this wasteland." he said with a hoarse voice upon meeting her.
Cura was addled by his appearance. The man looked a zombie, practically. The life had left his eyes a long time ago, and yet he persisted. "Wow... how long have you been here?"
"For about four or five hundred years. I died in Vanua and Molag Bal stole a part of my soul. I've been tied to this place ever since." the knight sighed wearily. "Molag Bal robs the person of the peace of their death. And the suffering then lasts forever."
"Vanua?" Cura wished Lucien were with her to elaborate further. Perhaps if he would contact her again she would ask him.
"My body's resting place. An ancient Ayleid Ruin. I was once Sir Amiel, proud Knight of Akatosh, and..."
Cura gasped aloud when the name clicked. "The Knights of the Nine!"
Sir Amiel, Sir Torolf, Sir Caius, Sir Casimir, Sir Juncan, Sir Henrik, Sir Gregory, and Sir Ralvas. And Sir Berich Vlindrel later on.
They each represented a Divine.
She recalled learning of Sir Casimir's great sin from Brother Adalvald years ago.
When the Knight Sir Casimir returned from the War of the Red Diamond, he grew increasingly insolent and arrogant in his ways. In 3E 139, he was staying at the Chapel of Stendarr in Chorrol, per their charity. One day, he lost his temper with a beggar and killed him with a blade through the heart in the very Chapel of the God of Mercy. Stendarr cursed him for this evil act, stripping the gauntlets from him. Stendarr also placed an additional curse on Sir Casimir, causing him to suffer lethargy. Sir Casimir left Chorrol, but he never recovered either from the curse or from his remorse, and died soon afterward. To this day, it is said that Sir Casimir's own bloodline is still under the affects of that curse.
Cura didn't know much about the other Knights, save for their names. But to see one in Coldharbour of all places was heartbreaking.
"I'm not surprised that you've heard of us. Sir Berich made us well-known with his power and influence... for all the good it did in the end." Sir Amiel looked at the realm around them.
"I'd ask you for your autograph, Sir." Cura held out a quill and paper to him.
Sir Amiel stared blankly at it. His face betrayed his feelings of surprise. He responded softly. "No; I'm unworthy to give you that."
The Knights were refounded in the era of the Oblivion Crisis. Led by the Hero of Kvatch, there was Sir Brellin, Sir Avita, Sir Areldur, Sir Carodus, Sir Geimund, Sir Gukimir, Sir Lathon and Sir Thedret.
Cura rejoiced in the knowledge that her memory still worked somewhat. Though, she'd forgotten the name of the settlement she'd been to in the Deadlands already.
Can't have it all.
She gently touched Sir Amiel's arm. "Last I'd learned, you'd spoken to the Hero of Kvatch and given him the Crusader's relics in Cyrodiil, and he fought and defeated Umaril. How did Molag Bal claim you?"
"Once I'd guided the Hero, my role was fulfilled - and then I was pulled here. I was marked by the Red Stone when I beheld it in life." Sir Amiel admitted shamefully.
"The Red Diamond?" Cura wondered if there was a correlation.
"It was a great and bloody battle, caused by the avarice of Queen Potema Septim of Skyrim. We wanted no part in it, but we were pulled into the conflict." Sir Amiel explained. "A mysterious Bard sold to us a relic of the First Era - the Red Stone of the Alessian Order. We each touched the stone, and it burned our hands." he removed his right gauntlet, re Ealing a dark seal emblazoned into his palm, depicting the face of Molag Bal. "We were granted great power, but it was not enough to overcome without casualties. Our order was dissolved soon after, but we were all changed from touching that stone. Half of us who lived went mad; desperate; wrathful. And now, here we rest, outside of the protection of the Divines."
His voice cracked lightly as he wept to himself. His eternity was stolen from him in such an unexpected and unjust way.
Cura took his hand into hers and gently touched his palm. She looked down at it with empathy. "I understand how you feel. But I have an idea. You can come with me. Fight by my side, and we'll escape Coldharbour once I've gotten back my Dragon Soul."
He stared at her for a few moments. Was she serious? She couldn't be. And yet, her eyes spoke true.
"So... that aspect of Akatosh... and you... are you... Dragonborn?" Sir Amiel asked frankly.
"I am."
"You're like the Emperor, then. Are you of his lineage?" Sir Amiel asked. "Or... are you perhaps the Shezzarine of this age?"
Cura took a step back. "I don't think I have anything to do with Shezzar. That's insane."
Sir Amiel looked off into the skies and pointed at what looked like a large flame circling the skies. "I suppose so. Well, no offense, my lady, but I can't just take you at your word. I'm sorry."
Cura looked at the large tower they stood under. "Do you know what this tower is?"
"It's supposed to keep up the barrier around the Imperial City. But it hasn't done that for a long time now." Sir Amiel stated. "There should be three more towers in the city, but those were destroyed too. The floating island to the southeast is now the last anchor of the barrier."
"What are you doing here?" Cura asked him, gesturing to their location. It was an odd place to hang out, though a safe one.
"I'm enjoying the wind. It reminds me of the old days, when I was still young. I had a goal in those days. But now, I have nothing. My road is blocked and I can't see the light anymore." Sir Amiel lamented.
"All the more reason that you should follow me; fight by my side! Our chances will be that much better if we band together!" Cura insisted.
Mirabelle and Savos had been watching from a distance, shaking their heads at her futile attempt at recruitment.
Sir Amiel shook his head. "I'm sorry, my lady. There is nothing to be done." He lowered his face and leaned against the column, ending the conversation there.
Cura wanted to say more, but she held her tongue. The man has been here for so long; no wonder he was bereft of hope.
"I suppose she had to try." Mirabelle muttered to Savos.
Cura, optimist she tried to be, saw fit to try and offer hope to the condemned, but the world around them had none to spare.
She walked around the stone columns and nearly walked into a very macabre centerpiece, as it were.
Cura looked to what appeared to be a well of sorts containing corpses made of sand, standing upright from the waist upwards screaming expressions of anguish on their distorted human faces. Upon the chest of one she saw what looked like a thin, sharp, black object.
When she picked it up and examined it, Savos recognized the object. "The power radiating from that... it must be a nail of Saint Dulsa. Fascinating that you'd find that here."
Cura hadn't heard of the figure before. "Saint Dulsa?"
"I'd done my share of historical research, but to the extent of the veracity of the tales, I don't know." Savos admitted. "St. Dulsa was an Image, and the supposed paramour of the Prophet Marukh. She was crucified for a perceived act of infidelity, I've read. She was carrying Marukh's child at the time."
He pointed to the nail clasped tightly in Cura's hand.
"That was one of the eleven nails that bound her."
A great sadness pushed against Cura. "How awful... nobody deserves such a terrible fate. And her unborn child..." She placed her hand on her forehead and slowly shook her head. "...Stendarr... sigh..."
There was clearly no mercy to be found there.
Though, if the victim was crucified for infidelity, why was she considered a Saint? A tad strange, that seemed. She would think Marukh would have had her name erased or slandered instead.
Perhaps there was more to that story.
Cura took a few steps over some of the broken cliff stones when she was shocked by the familiar sight of a Shrine to Kynareth! Her jaw hung open and she rushed over to it, only to be greeted by the sad sight of a skeleton seated in the fetal position next to a backpack close by. Perhaps he was once a follower of the Divine, and clung to her image in his final moments.
The Dragonborn sadly touched the Shrine. "Kynareth..."
She could feel no presence. None whatsoever. All she'd felt was a deep-rooted fear crushing her chest from the inside out and she released the shrine. She stumbled over backwards and landed on the hard stone ground.
Mirabelle and Savos guided her ahead, telling her to forget the Shrine and to press onwards.
As they wandered back down into the harsh wastes, Cura had come across a mysterious figure walking along the ruins; a wrinkled, violet-skinned undead wearing a red set of robes and turban wrapped around his head. His robes were similar in nature to Inquisitor Pepe's, so Cura surmised that he must have been a Priest of the Alessian Order. To say he was in bad shape was an understatement. The figure had no awareness of his surroundings, save for where the ground which he walked. No words, no discernable thoughts, and no hopes could be found within this hollow shell of a man.
Stendarr told Cura that she would be counted among the Saints of the Nine, herself. She silently prayed that there would never come a "Curian Order" where people who worshipped Stendarr would deem the other Divines unworthy of service and kill any who disagreed.
She shuddered at the thought. If that would ever come to be, she would roll in her grave.
How did Saint Alessia feel about the Order named after her?
If she were here due to the Dragon Breaks, as proposed, perhaps Cura could ask her.
But Coldharbour? Why would Saint Alessia be in this dung heap? Surely it would have to be a mistake.
"Mirabelle, you're sure the Amulet of Kings is here?" Cura paused and immediately began to second-guess her judgment.
"Yes. I was shown as much by Julianos." Mirabelle confirmed. "I would not doubt my god's judgment - especially after having met him. Unfortunately, our communication with the Divines is slim here; you'll have to forgive us if we disappear from time to time."
Savos Aren pointed at the mindless Alessian Priest who seemed to only pace the floor, back and forth, and up and down. "Indeed. They thought they knew better than the gods, and now look at them. Pitiful. Worthless. Hopelessly wandering this hellish wasteland for all eternity. They never had any integrity. They just liked to slaughter their opposition."
Cura nodded. "I kind of feel sorry for him." She looked at his pitiful state. The man didn't even realize she stood at the center of his path. He merely treated her as a roadblock and walked into her, pushing her aside to resume his straight walk. "Is there nothing I can do?"
"No. They are all Soul Shriven. They've been here for far too long. They've gone hollow. They walk, they lie down, they fight, but they no longer behold their own identity. Mercy would be wasted on them." Savos explained.
Cura walked past the sad individual and saw a gate guarded by two Vampire Minotaurs, who simply stared at her, but took no action against her. She passed through with no issue. Shortly thereafter she came upon a small path that connected the entry to the district itself, where there were what looked like headstones poking up out of the ground around broken pillars and a statue of the hooded figure with a skeletal face with its hands together in prayer.
A woman in a dull brown hooded cloak and dress walked around, examining the tombstones, weeping. When Cura saw her, she was hesitant to approach, unsure if whether or not the woman had a horrifying face under the hood. Perhaps a vampire?
But the woman's weeping drew Cura to her regardless. "Are you all right, ma'am?"
It was a stupid question. Of course she wasn't all right. This is Coldharbour; not the Docks of Solitude.
The woman turned around to face her, and she seemed human enough. Her eyes were both blindfolded and she wore an Amulet of Mara around her neck. Her hair was ashen gray and tied in a braided ponytail running down her right shoulder. If she didn't want to talk about her past, Cura would understand and not pry. Wiping some tears away from her eyes, the woman responded. "M-my name is Martha. I... I... don't know. I don't think so."
"What are you doing?" Cura wondered.
"I'm looking for my family's graves, but I can't find them." Martha confessed. Given that her eyes were covered, Cura assumed she was blind, which explained a lot. Though, perhaps being unable to see the horrific surroundings was a merciful blessing on its own in this dimension.
"I could help you find them, if they're among them." Cura gestured towards the tombstones littered about like flat, stone flowers.
"Would you really? The names on them are Johan, Simon, and Tlass. Please tell me if you find them." the downtrodden woman pleaded.
"Do you really have time for this?" Mirabelle grew annoyed by Cura's spontaneous volunteering.
"Time doesn't matter here, so I suppose so." Cura stated as she began to look amidst the stones. After carefully looking over them all, stone by stone, she saw no mention of any of the people Martha spoke of, and she shook her head sadly. "I'm sorry, Martha. They aren't here."
The woman sat down and exhaled. It was clear that this wasn't her first time stumbling around this area. "Of course. I probably went around in a circle again, confound it. Just leave me alone, please."
Cura felt bad for the lady, but she did as requested and continued on her way. As she caught sight of a city, she saw a pair of doors embedded in stone walls with a small arched ceiling overhanging between them. The one was a shop titled "Highwayman's Wares" and the other had no name. She continued walking and came upon the sight of a few more Alessian Order priests and Scamps, Ogrim and Daedroths that patrolled the Soul Shriven city.
People without purpose, without minds, surrounded by Daedra which tormented and played games with them for amusement. Cura attempted to intervene, but was swatted away by one of the Ogrim - a large, fat, violet-coloured demon. She rolled as she hit the ground and it resumed spinning one of the Soul Shriven on his head against the ground.
Savos Aren and Mirabelle pulled her to the side as an Alessian Priest lumbered past her, drooling with his mouth wide open.
The group witnessed a few more like him lingering around what appeared to be a small settlement of ruined houses near the large rampart with a great portcullis. To their east was a very large Fort. Cura surmised that it must be Fort Verin, which Inquisitor Pepe had told her about. It was watched over by the Dremora Vernaccus.
For now, Cura would find an area to relax for a while. This place was really getting to her, and she felt profoundly depressed. No matter the sugar-coated phrase, she could not seem to cheer herself up.
She'd best learn about this horrible place so she could adequately prepare for what other horrors surely awaited her.
"So... what exactly is a Soul Shriven?" Cura asked.
"What you're going to become, eventually." spoke a knight clad in dark blue armour leaning against the portcullis. His lower face was exposed under his ornate helm. "They are the vestiges of individuals who have their souls stolen by a Daedra. It's clear that you belong to Molag Bal like the rest of us... and the other... 'Vigilants' who I'd seen in your uniform."
"So there are others here!" Cura's heart lit up as her mind flashed back to Tyrannus and Fenrik. They'd only been here for a little over two years. Perhaps she could help them somehow.
"Yes: they were fool enough to pass the gate north and took their chances with the Wyrm." the knight scoffed. "If you're smart, you'll stay here in the Waterfront District. It's miserable, but a far sight kinder than the rest of this place."
Cura shook her head. "No, no I don't think I'm going to stay here. I have important matters in the world of the living."
"Are you hard of hearing, or just plain stupid? The world of the living matters not anymore. You'd do best to wipe the notion of returning there from your mind. You belong here now. Clearly, you must have done something." she could hear the knight sneer underneath his helm. Combined with everything else she'd seen, this only made her want to leave stronger.
"Well, I hear you just fine and I have my wits about me." Cura snarked. "If you want to leave this place, I'll come back for you before I leave it."
The knight paused for a second and then burst out into laughter. "You're definitely a newcomer here. Full of life and hope. So naive. I am Sir Juncan. Perhaps you've heard the name?"
"I met your captain just before, actually." Cura recounted her brief exchange with Sir Amiel.
"He isn't my captain any longer. He hasn't been for... centuries, I suppose." Sir Juncan found the humour in it. "I'm surprised he hasn't ended up like that sad sack over there by now." He pointed towards the township behind her, to a specific spot.
Behind her thirty feet was a small shack where a knight in rusted white armour with a torn cape wearing an old great helm lay against the wall beside a skeleton that was bound in chains, attached to him like a leash. "Oh... Vena... it's... it's a lovely day today, isn't it?" he muttered.
"Who is he?" Cura wondered about the forlorn figure. Seeing the state of him, chained to a corpse, surrounded by Soul Shriven that wandered aimlessly to and fro, and Daedra that patrolled the area, acting as city guards, allowed the gravity of the situation to sink in for Cura.
This was a land utterly devoid of hope.
"Melus Petilius. Avoid him. What kind of person spends all their time talking to a corpse?" Sir Juncan warned. "But even for madmen like him there is something like inner peace. He is not quite at peace, though, but you should still not disturb him."
Another name she'd heard about. A name with a very disturbing tale attached to it.
Melus Petilius was once a noble paladin who'd lost his wife to illness when he was on a crusade. He'd dedicated the rest of his days to a quiet pacifistic existence, but one day grew unhinged and attempted to slay a traveler with a cursed mace. Or, according to some sources, had slain the traveler with it and then ended his own life.
It was a tale Keeper Carcette had picked up when she was younger nd visited Cyrodiil. She'd told it to Cura as a cautionary tale.
Cura's entire body shivered. She didn't need to imagine it. She was certain that Molag Bal did the same to him as he'd done to her.
She left Sir Juncan and walked to Melus, who seemed barely lucid. If he wasn't Soul Shriven yet, he certainly would be soon.
Cura knelt down beside the paladin and removed his helmet to see his face underneath.
He was Imperial, tanned, and had a head of hair white as snow. His brown eyes were sunken and veined. Great sorrow dropped from them and his eyelids were swollen. The man hadn't had a moment of real peace in over two centuries.
Perhaps, even before he entered Coldharbour.
Cura was awash with compassion for the crestfallen knight. She offered him a comforting embrace as he began to wail with gut-wrenching despair.
Chained to an inescapable past.
As Cura hugged the man, she tried to soothe his suffering to the best of her ability.
She couldn't promise him that everything was going to be all right. That much was certain. But if this was rock bottom, the only direction to go was upwards.
After a few minutes passed, Melus finally began to talk. "I... I'm sorry... I... Vena... she... I was at... at her grave. That mace... Brindle Home... the warrior who... who tricked me... anger. So much anger. The Divines... they've forsaken me!"
Cura shook her head. "They haven't forsaken you; you can come with me! We can fight our way out of here together!"
She'd noticed the long spear leaning on the wall beside him.
He took in what she was saying as the words registered one by one. His face was blank, but his eyes showed a functional mind lingering behind them.
"No... I... I've done an awful thing. I... I deserve this. I committed a heinous murder. This is what I deserve." Melus stated.
Cura shook her head. "No. You were manipulated into doing it. I wasn't there, but something similar happened to me." If he deserved to be here for that, then that would mean that she herself deserved it, too.
A terrifying thought, that anyone who was forced to do evil would be deserving of this with no hope of redemption.
Though, she couldn't account for Markarth, though. Molag Bal may have pushed her into slaughtering Thonar Silver-Blood and the City Guard, but she still took the action. She calculated the storm, the smashes, the brutal striking of bones.
Fear.
Maybe it wasn't Tyrannus' murder that allowed Molag Bal to mark her, but her incident at Markarth.
No.
It was not the Storm of Markarth that damned her. It was Grisvar's death. When Cura proved herself to Madanach by killing Grisvar.
She snuck up from behind him and cut his throat.
At the time she'd made the excuse that a lowly thief would not be missed, but now she realized that it was really no excuse at all. Just a way to suppress her aching conscience.
She'd judged Sinding for being a violent beast; irredeemable. But what was she?
Was she not a murderous beast, or at the least, one with the potential to cause greater harm than a murderous beast?
How many lives, how many nameless faces, how many opponents, had fallen under the crack of her mace?
She'd lost count.
Cura sunk down on the wall adjacent to him as she began to weigh it all out.
Damn that place.
Savos Aren appeared before her again. "Taking a break, are we? I think it'd be a better idea to do that inside the house."
He tapped on the hard wooden door, and Cura agreed. She got up and headed inside, to find a house abandoned and covered in dust and sand with a table and some chairs, and mercifully, some alcoholic beverages.
Strange round insectlike creatures slithered along the dirt floor.
She grabbed a bottle of what looked like a Sujamma and popped off the cork.
On the table next to the bottle, Cura found a dusty book laying flat on its side, titled 'The Illusion of Death'. It read:
"This is a fragmented account of Prophet Marukh's encounter with the spirit of Alessia.
… then, because he had toyed with the ape-maiden Dulsa, did Marukh spend his Century of Penance upon the Stonemeadows, and his sight was seared, and his tongue was swollen, and his pelt was mottled, and his left thumb pointed ever at the stars of the Tower. And ever did the shade of Al-Esh speak to him, serrated words that rasped his concept-organ and brought him to wisdom through affliction.
And he recorded her words in his simian gore with glyphs on the Beseeching Scarp, and the fire in his blood did etch the lithic face with the Seventy-Seven Inflexible Doctrines.
And though the labour depleted, yea, even consumed his very substance, he stinted not, for he knew that death is an illusion. For did not Al-Esh persist, speaking knives, though dead?
And had not Pelin-Al been witness to her death, although dead himself at the death of Umar-Il?
Then did Marukh know a Right Reaching, that one devoted to Proper-Life and Ehlnofic Annulment shall persist beyond the illusion of death.
For indeed, the drive to expunge corruption can conquer even the Arkay's Cycle."
Cura tossed the book across the room. Gods, what a stupid ape! she thought to herself as she took another drink in her solitude.
She cast the empty vessel aside and sank into her chair as a pit of depression threatened to swallow her whole like a serpent coiled around its prey.
Cura came to a sad realization that perhaps the Deadlands or Coldharbour were what she deserved.
Here she sat, in a dilapidated house in the dark realm of Coldharbour, drinking Sujamma to drown out her sorrows, and pondering her next move.
If somebody would have asked her a year ago what she'd imagined herself doing after Alduin's defeat, she would have said she'd most likely have been relaxing at the Hall of the Vigilant, drinking Mead to drown out her sorrows and pondering her next move.
A funny thing, fate is.
She'd wanted to help the people in Skyrim, and now she found herself wanting to help the sufferers in Coldharbour.
Either task seemed impossible at this time. Most of the people seemed content to remain in their suffering, or were too far gone in Coldharbour, and Skyrim was on the eye of a second full-blown Oblivion Crisis.
Cura massaged her temples as the alcohol settled in a while. Maybe she ought to just give up, as well.
She was beyond the reach of the Gods, clearly. Kynareth had no answer to give because her presence was absent.
This was neither Nirn, nor Sovngarde. This was like the Soul Cairn.
Why did she come here? Why did she go to the Deadlands? Why was she so reckless?
"STENDAAAAARRRRR!" Cura wailed to her god in desperation, dropping to her knees, palms hitting the dirt-covered ground as she wept.
She could not feel his light. She could not find his presence.
There was no justice here, nor was there mercy.
Emotion clouded her judgment. With a roar Cura flipped the dusty table over on its side and launched the wooden chair across the room. It broke when it made contact with the wall.
Cura curled up into a ball on the floor and wept to herself. After a couple of minutes passed, one of the strange, insectlike creatures investigated her, using its antennae to feel her face.
This caused Cura to roll over quickly and sit upright and the large arthropod scurried off hastily.
Cura touched her face, trying to make sure it hadn't done anything to her. Thankfully, it was merely a touch.
Standing up from the dirt, Cura dusted off her already beyond-filthy robes. Old bloodstains crusted the fabric in dark brown splotches and specks.
She knew that if Inigo were here he would comment that she looked like a white Saber cat with the spots. Probably smelled like one, too.
This brought a smile to her face.
"Inigo, I really miss you. I both wish you were here and find relief in the fact you are not." She mumbled to herself. In a moment of clarity she felt a sense of deep gratitude to the gods that her friends were in Skyrim and not here.
Though, Lucien would probably have a lot of interesting insights towards the historical things within here.
Savos Aren and Mirabelle Ervine manifested before her again, and neither seemed impressed by her current situation. The Arch-Mage shook his head. "You've resorted to drunkenness so soon? That's a pity. I'd thought more of you."
"I'm not drunk. I only drank one bottle. One." Cura spoke in protest.
Mirabelle had her input to add in. "Given the circumstances I can't say I blame you. This place is horrible. Truly devastating."
Cura had no argument nor rebuttal to make. She felt like she was drowning in a sea of hopelessness, and figured a little bit of drink couldn't hurt. What was it going to do, give her dead body liver poisoning?
Cura kicked up some of the dust. She finally relented. "You were right before. Rather than mope about my situation, I need to be better prepared to deal with it going forward. I will reunite with my Dragon Soul. I will defeat Molag Bal. Now, I need some more magickal training." she requested of the Master Wizard and the Arch-Mage. The two looked at one another, and then at Cura and nodded.
She knew she would have to face Vernaccus eventually, and probably a Dragon to the North, so it was imperative that she could hold her own.