Chapter 53
Mull, Lydia, Torgen, and Jenassa enter the town of Morthal with the last rays of a blood-red sun. They must make quite the sight for the townspeople, many of whom are staring at them with open suspicion or morbid curiosity. The high-stakes escape from Iizyoldrog left them with a variety of colorful bruises, clothes covered in grime, and slouched postures. Mull is the worst of the bunch by far, especially with his scorched beard. Torgen has been teasing him about it nonstop for the last twenty-four hours.
A mail-clad guardsman at the town's small and frankly pathetic wooden gatehouse gives them a single glance before promptly offering directions to the nearest tavern with bathing accommodations.
"Thanks kid," Torgen glumly replies.
Mull waves for the others to go ahead as he halts next to the guard, a young Nord man. "Have your people had any issues with dragons?" he asks in an undertone.
The guard shuffles nervously and clutches his roundshield, which Mull notices is painted with a swirling green, black, and white triskele symbol. It matches his forest-green tabard.
"Well… there have been reports of isolated settlements in the Skyborn Mountains being destroyed by dragons, but those are still unsubstantiated. Nobody in Morthal has seen a dragon with their own eyes."
Yet, Mull grimly thinks. He recalls the farmsteads on the Whiterun side of Eldersblood Pass that had been burned to the ground, which he assumes was Iizyoldrog's doing. "I can substantiate them for you now. We entered your Hold through Eldersblood Pass and saw some of those destroyed settlements for ourselves."
"Y-you did?"
"Aye. Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there you go." He lightly pats the edge of the man's shield in what he hopes is a friendly gesture. "Do us all a favor and keep an eye on the sky, will you? I'm looking forward to a good night's sleep and I don't want it to be interrupted by an unwanted guest, if you catch my drift." With that, he releases the shield and strolls through the gate after his companions. He hears the guardsman audibly gulp behind him.
Morthal is… quaint. It's a relatively small town nestled between a belt of hills to the south and the Myr River to the north, with a network of canals dividing it into neighborhoods and waterside districts. Almost every single house along the riverbank is complete with its own dock and a boat, most of which are small fishing vessels. Although it's late in the evening, there are still a few boats navigating the canals with hauls of fish or cargo holds full of trade goods. A blanket of hazy mist is resting just above the surface of the water, lending the area an eerie atmosphere.
The local architecture is simple and practical, with most buildings being constructed entirely of wood. Rather than traditional paving stones or packed dirt, the roads are made of sawn planks laid side-to-side like boardwalks to better defend pedestrians' boots from the soggy earth. A lonesome stone bridge is spanning the river from the town center to the northern bank, which is sparsely populated with only a handful of logging mills and plots of brown farmland to its name.
It isn't that Morthal is dirty or poor per se, but the atmosphere is bleak and there aren't many outward signs of wealth. There doesn't appear to be a municipal sanitation system for one thing, unlike Whiterun. Public commerce is limited and there aren't many merchant stalls along the town's main thoroughfare. The Mighty Mudcrabs pop their heads through the doorways of a few alehouses, but none of them have much business at the moment. For supposedly being the capital of one of Skyrim's nine Holds, this place really isn't much to look at.
It's also colder than Mull had been expecting for these lower elevations, which is probably due to the frigid wind that's been blowing in from the Sea of Ghosts ever since they crossed over Eldersblood Pass. The abundance of coniferous trees in this area is helping guard against the worst of the wind, but the cold is still no joke with the sun going down.
He cranes his neck as he examines rows of rustic storefronts along the side of the road. "Do you see an apothecary anywhere?" he asks Lydia. He wants to restock their supply of potions after expending a few during the encounter with Iizyoldrog.
She glares at him from the corner of her eye and abruptly looks away.
He sighs. She's still angry at him for his stunt against the dragon, not that he can blame her. His housecarl is being ridiculous, no doubt about that, but she's also made it abundantly clear in the past that she doesn't want to leave his side during dangerous situations and he knowingly ignored that desire. On the one hand, too bad so sad. On the other… she's proven herself to be as good and loyal of a subordinate as he could reasonably ask for. She's done right by him every step of the way. If only he could say the same.
When they're about halfway from the gatehouse to the river, they pass by a sprawling multistory longhouse on the left side of the boulevard that's easily the largest building they've seen in Morthal so far. There's some sort of altercation taking place in front of the longhouse between a squad of guardsman and a crowd of angry townsfolk. Mull raises an eyebrow when he sees both Imperial legionaries and what looks like a group of priests standing among the guardsmen, busily helping them hold back the crowd.
"That doesn't look good," Torgen comments.
"That looks like a whole lot of 'not our problem,'" retorts Mull. "I just want to get somewhere warm with a nice bed."
Jenassa nods. "I couldn't agree more. We should let these Nords sort out their own issues. Besides, getting involved would be inconducive to your goal of keeping a low profile."
"Exactly. I knew there was a reason I'm still keeping you around."
The Dunmer offers a faint grin.
"My Thane, shouldn't we consider trying to learn what this is about? I don't think it would be a bad thing to keep up to date with local events for the duration of our stay in Morthal." Lydia glances at the commotion. In the exact same moment, somebody throws a ripe tomato that splatters messily against a legionary's helmet. Jeering and catcalls ensure from dozens of men and women.
"I don't plan on staying here for long. We'll prepare for an expedition into the marsh, figure out the location of Ustengrav, and head there as soon as we're ready." No sense in giving the Penitus Oculatus enough time to figure out where I'm at. I want to keep them on their toes. Besides, I'm looking forward to going after that scaly bastard Iizyoldrog once we're finished here.
"And how precisely do you intend to find Ustengrav?"
He shrugs. "I'll hire a guide or purchase a map, something like that. I'm sure it can't be too difficult."
His housecarl gives him a skeptical look. "Are you sure, my Thane? Drajkmyr Marsh is vast and mostly uncharted. I don't want you to go into this with unrealistic expectations."
"I'm with the princess for once," Torgen adds. "My clan never ventured far into the marshlands while we were living in the Pale, but I can tell you that it's a wild place. I doubt we'll be able to accomplish much without a proper guide, boss."
"Your opinion is noted. I'll think about it, alright?"
Once they've left behind the turmoil in front of the longhouse, Torgen stretches his arms and turns in a slow circle as he takes in the foggy scenery. "Okay, Princess Bookworm. What fun facts do you have for us about this town?"
Lydia glares disparagingly at him, releases a blustery sigh, and starts talking. "Morthal owes its name to the legendary hero Morihaus Breath-of-Kyne, the Demigod of All Winds who aided Saint Alessia during her rebellion against the Ayleids in the early First Era and eventually took her hand in marriage. He was the son of Kyne and thus carried the blood of a god in his veins. According to legend, he was a bull-man with great horns and golden wings, which is why his and Saint Alessia's offspring were the first of the minotaurs. He was also a master of the Voice and one of the finest archers of his time. If you recall, Aela told us a story about Aless and Mor – the Nordic renditions of Alessia and Morihaus' Cyrodiilic names."
"Has this town been around since the First Era?" Mull critically examines some of the closer buildings and frowns. "Doesn't look that old to me."
"That's because it isn't. Morthal has only existed in its current form since the Oblivion Crisis two centuries ago, and I frankly don't know how it got its name originally. Prior to the Oblivion Crisis, the capital of the Hjallmarch was a full-fledged Imperial city called Snowhawk some distance to the west of here. It was a stronghold of the Empire due to its proximity to Solitude, but it was unfortunately destroyed by Mehrunes Dagon's daedric hordes during the Oblivion Crisis and mostly abandoned thereafter, with much of the surviving populace being relocated here to Morthal. Although it was only a small village at that time, Morthal was a more defensible settlement due to its location at the southern fringes of Drajkmyr Marsh. The town grew exponentially during the first century of the Fourth Era and was permanently adopted by the Jarls of the Hjallmarch as their new seat of power.
"The Nords of Morthal are different from the rest of our people. Dwelling within the marsh for so many years has caused their customs and behaviors to deviate from the norm. They've adopted strange traditions and practice strange magics. They're experts of all things alchemical and are known to produce capable if uneducated mages, but despite their valuable knowledge of the land and its resources, there are still many people who refuse to have dealings with them – and nor are they fond of outsiders from what I've heard. The goodwill of this town's inhabitants would be a difficult thing for anyone to earn, as we saw for ourselves in front of the longhouse a few minutes ago," she says wryly.
Her statement is corroborated by a group of townsfolk glowering distrustfully at them.
"The taxes levied by the Jarl of this Hold are exceedingly light and much of the northern marshland is hardly governed at all. However, despite the inhabitants enjoying such a high degree of autonomy – or perhaps for that reason – the Hjallmarch is one of the poorest and least developed Holds economically speaking. It's often regarded as a haven for wild folk and outlaws." She glances sidelong at Torgen. "Although I suppose that's true for every Hold, to some extent."
They follow the gate guardsman's directions all the way to the river, where they find a quiet establishment called the Moorside Inn near the quays. A sign in front of the inn's veranda depicts a half-moon sporting a rather stoic face that draws a chuckle from Mull. As far as tavern signs go, this one is a bit odd.
The inn itself is slightly smaller than Ivarstead's Vilemyr Inn and much simpler in construction. Unlike the Vilemyr Inn, the interior is almost completely empty. The only inhabitants are an elderly female innkeeper and… an Orc bard.
Mull scoffs. That's a new one.
The Orc is sitting on a bench while strumming mismatched notes on a lute and croaking the lyrics of some Nordic saga. It's quite possibly the worst singing Mull has ever heard, and as a man who's spent most of his adult life among bandits of various persuasions, that's saying a lot.
Mull and Lydia negotiate the rental of two rooms for the night with the innkeeper, which ends up costing them twenty septims. Mull forks over the cash and the innkeeper directs them to a pair of side-by-side bedrooms in the back.
They wash away the dust from the road, finish arguing about who gets which bed, and hit the streets in search of information about Ustengrav and how to get there. It doesn't look like they'll be able to learn anything in the empty Moorside Inn, especially with the Orc singing like a tortured dog.
But as it turns out, their luck elsewhere in Morthal isn't much better. The townspeople are too reserved, skittish, and suspicious for making small talk with strangers and the streets are practically deserted. The local businesses close their doors well before midnight, even the taverns.
The strangest part is that there's an unusually large number of guardsman, Imperial legionaries, and unfamiliar priests clad in beige-and-grey robes standing at every street corner and patrolling the alleyways with lanterns held aloft. When his curiosity gets the better of him, Mull finally wanders over the one of the patrols and asks them what in Oblivion's going on, but they scowl angrily and order him to get back inside or else. The young guardsman at the town gate earlier was nice enough – if a little jumpy – but these folks aren't messing around.
They return to the Moorside Inn a few hours later without much to show for their efforts. The innkeeper berates them for staying out so late and forcing her to unlock the door for them even though the sun hasn't been down for long. The Orc bard isn't anywhere to be seen, thank the gods. He must've gone to bed already.
The Mighty Mudcrabs gather around a circular table in the common room for a quick debriefing. Mull leans in and lowers his voice. "Something strange is happening in this town."
"That goes without saying," snipes Jenassa. "From the way they're acting, you'd think these Nords have suffered from some terrible attack or affliction, yet nothing outwardly appears to be wrong. It could be because of the return of the dragons, although I personally doubt it. They claim not to have seen any in this region."
Torgen thoughtfully scratches his chin. "The townsfolk weren't in a talkative mood tonight, and there's the presence of all those legionaries to consider too. Could it be the Civil War? I haven't heard anything about Stormcloak raids reaching this far west, but that doesn't mean they aren't happening."
"Did any of you recognize the robed men and women that were accompanying the patrols?" inquires Jenassa. "I've never seen their likeness before. They resembled your run-of-the-mill priests or mages, but I noticed each of them was armed with a mace."
Lydia props her elbows on the table and primly laces her fingers together. "Based on those characteristics alone, my first guess would be that they're Vigilants of Stendarr. However, I do think it's odd that we saw so many of them on the streets tonight. I counted at least two dozen. They don't gather together in such large numbers very often, so it makes me wonder what their intentions could be."
"That's a good question," murmurs Mull. "Maybe they're doing what they usually do – hunting down daedra."
"But surely the signs of an attack by rogue daedra would be more pronounced," the housecarl counters. "Lesser daedra are destructive beings that cause chaos wherever they appear, but the reticent attitudes of the townspeople make me think they're struggling with something more… subtle. And not in a good way."
"Insidious," offers Jenassa while cleaning her nails with her dagger.
"Yes. Something that isn't overt in nature but has still caused the inhabitants of Morthal to live in perpetual fear, where they must be protected by Imperial soldiers and possibly Vigilants of Stendarr at all times. The question is-"
The front door suddenly bangs open and a group of guardsmen wearing the forest-green of Morthal march loudly into the tavern, causing the four Mighty Mudcrabs to jump in their seats. They begin spreading out as soon as they enter the common room, surrounding the travelers at their table and blocking the exits. They're being led by a Nord man with braided blonde hair, muscular arms, and a heavy brow that makes him look remarkably stupid.
The leader stops a few steps away from the table and glares daggers at them. "My mistress Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone of the Hjallmarch has requested your presence in Highmoon Hall!" he barks.
Mull rubs his forehead and discreetly shares a dark look with Torgen. "…Something tells me our questions are about to be answered."
-x-
Mull peers from side to side as his eyesight adjusts to the dimness of his new environment. The interior of Highmoon Hall – the large longhouse with the crowd out front from earlier – is much homier than he'd been expecting. It reminds him less of a proper Jarl's palace and more of a tribal mead hall. The longhouse is two stories tall and high-ceilinged, not quite a match for Dragonsreach but still impressive enough while retaining its rustic charm. Woven rugs are scattered all across the floor and dim fires are sputtering in stone hearths along the walls, casting shifting shadows across the room.
Children and young women are peeking out from doorways and over the railing of a small balcony above their heads while a handful of warriors are loitering around the middle of the hall, maintaining a respectful distance from the Jarl and her entourage at the far end. They stand at attention when Gorm escorts Mull and the others into the building.
In addition to the green-clad warriors of the Hjallmarch, there are also a few Imperial soldiers standing at attention including an officer with expensive steel laminar armor. Their presence isn't unexpected since the Hjallmarch is a loyalist Imperial Hold, but it still makes Mull watchful for any signs of Penitus Oculatus agents hiding among their ranks.
Finally, a group of priests wearing simple beige-and-grey robes are mingling among the warriors and legionaries, each armed with a mace as Jenassa observed earlier. They might be Vigilants of Stendarr if Lydia's assumption was right, but he isn't familiar with them so he couldn't say for certain.
However, the longhouse's most noticeable feature is undoubtedly the wall behind the Jarl's throne, which is covered from floor to ceiling with taxidermized… mudcrabs? What in Oblivion? Lydia said these people were a strange lot, but Shor's bones.
He wonders if this could be a portent of bad things to come. They're the Mighty Mudcrabs, after all.
Gorm's warriors usher them towards the end of the hall, where they're made to stand before the Jarl's throne. Her seat is positioned atop a raised dais that allows her to look down on them even while she's seated.
Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone is the definition of a wizened old woman. Her craggy face is covered with wrinkles and her shoulder-length hair is colored midnight-black with hints of grey around the edges. She's wearing a rich brown tunic, a navy blue skirt with intricate embroidery, and a cloak trimmed with orange fur – the perfect image of an elderly noblewoman.
She looks like a kindly grandmother at a glance, but… her eyes. There's something in those deep green eyes that Mull really doesn't like.
Her retinue is arrayed on either side of her throne, with the most prominent figures being an equally old man with long brown hair and a sword at his side, and a young pale-skinned woman who's the spitting image of the Jarl – a daughter most likely, if Mull had to guess. The rest are an eclectic mixture of children, mail-clad warriors, Imperial soldiers, and hooded priests.
Jarl Ravencrone stands from her throne upon quaking legs and leans heavily on a gnarled wooden staff with her back hunched low. The old brown-haired man moves to assist her, but she waves him away without looking in his direction. "So the gods have brought you here to Morthal, to stand before me now just as they promised. I have foreseen your arrival in my dreams. Welcome to my hall, children. Let us see what purposes your presence will serve." The old woman's voice is raspy like sandpaper. She speaks in the vaguely patronizing manner of somebody who knows that she knows more than everyone else, completely at odds with her kindly appearance.
"…You're the one who summoned us," Mull replies after parsing through her words. "You tell me."
"All shall be revealed to you in good time. I've heard it said that patience is a virtue. Now, what are your names?"
He invents a lie on the spot. "I'm called Erard." He gestures to Lydia, Torgen, and Jenassa. "These are Freydis, Brenyar, and… Irileth. We're mercenaries who just arrived in the region." Lydia smiles and Torgen stifles a chuckle at his choice of a pseudonym for Jenassa. He shoots the two a dirty look. Go along with it, you idiots. I don't know many Dunmer women.
Idgrod smiles knowingly. "Erard, hmm? A most interesting name, but not the one that ought to be ascribed to you. No, I believe your rightful name is in fact quite different. Should I perhaps call you Mull the Thane of Whiterun instead? Or if not, then… how about Ruair Gudarsson?"
Mull immediately stiffens and his features darken. His posture shifts as he grasps the hilt of his sword without any discretion whatsoever, causing the Jarl's retainers and housecarls to mirror his actions. Lydia grabs his elbow to prevent him from drawing his weapon while Torgen and Jenassa cast wary gazes to the warriors escorting them on either side.
"How in Oblivion do you know that name?" Mull bites out.
The housecarl called Gorm steps closer and readies a clenched fist to strike him, but Idgrod forestalls his retribution with a raised hand. "I know many things, Ruair Gudarsson. Tamriel is full of wisdom and magic if one is willing to look for it. There are few who walk through life with their eyes open."
"Give me a real answer."
She idly taps her staff against the floor. "I understand your consternation, young man. That which is unknown can cause unease, even fear. It is to be expected. However, in this instance you are wrong to be afraid, for I harbor no ill-intent. The Divines reveal things to me at times. I see much, Ruair Gudarsson, and I fear that dark days are approaching when all of Skyrim's strength will be needed if our people are to weather the storm. For that reason, I would rather address you in truth rather than through the lens of a fiction you've invented."
"…Have it your way," he grinds out. He would've preferred if this old bat didn't blab his real name to the entire hall – a name that the Penitus Oculatus was able to connect to him – but he bites his tongue before he says anything else that could get him executed for disrespecting a Jarl.
"Excellent. Then we shall move on to the matter at hand." Idgrod Ravencrone turns somber. "Did you see the burned home on the western outskirts of my town?"
Mull shares a round of perplexed glances with his followers. "No, we didn't. Did something happen?"
"Very much so. A grave event has transpired in Morthal – an act of arson and murder. The burning of this home was no coincidence nor accident. The flames did their ruthless work all too well, for a little girl was killed in that conflagration along with her mother, leaving their father and husband a widower far before his allotted time."
"You… have my sympathy," Mull answers with poorly-hidden confusion. Why is this any of my business?
Idgrod examines him for a long, uneasy moment. "…The culprit was a vampire," she grimly announces. "And this appalling loss was not the only tragedy to befall our town in recent days. Starting in the autumn of last year, the number of vampires lurking within the marshlands has greatly increased for reasons we can only guess. They've become bold enough to prey openly upon my people and have done so with little regard for secrecy. The housefire was likely an accident during an abduction gone wrong – however, other incidents have been much bloodier. Families torn apart in their own beds in the middle of the night. Children orphaned. Mothers and wives widowed. Fathers left with no one to care for. Foragers and woodsmen vanishing in the marshlands along with other innocents, never to be found or given proper burial."
"First draugr and dragons, and now vampires," mutters Jenassa. "This is turning out to be quite an eventful trip."
Mull shuffles uneasily. That answers a lot of our questions, but not in a good way.
"You've come to my Hold in search of something," the Jarl continues. "Something old. Something valuable. Its worth lies not in gold or magic, but rather in… symbolism. Its nature is liminal. It is a key to a locked door blocking the path that lies before you. Tell me child, where do you intend to seek out this treasure?"
"In an ancient Nord ruin called Ustengrav."
"Ahhh." The Jarl's smile returns. "Yes, I have heard of this Ustengrav, although most of my people have not. It's an exceedingly old fane – a sacred place of the ancient world. You will require a guide if you wish to travel there, as the marsh is deceitful in nature and prone to fooling those who are unfamiliar with its stagnant waters."
Hope rises in his chest. "Then can you recommend somebody to us?"
She hums sadly. "At this time, it would be quite impossible for me to do so. The accursed vampires are lurking within the swamp while patiently awaiting a chance to take advantage of our weakness, and I cannot risk sending away my housecarls without good reason. Many of my people have expressed a strong desire to seek retribution against the vampires by venturing into the marsh themselves, but I've forbidden them from taking such dire action. Some of them hate me for it. Unlike them, I understand that we need every warrior to secure our borders against this threat and to prevent it from escalating further. So long as these undead abominations continue to threaten Morthal, there is little I can hope to do for you."
…And his fledgling hope is mercilessly crushed. "What about your Imperial friends here? Surely they could take care of things," he impatiently demands. He points at the Imperial officer with steel armor, an olive-skinned Cyrod who scowls back at him.
Jarl Ravencrone's face goes completely blank, devoid of emotion. "The Legion is doing what they can, but they have other concerns to attend to as well. I will not denigrate their efforts on behalf of Morthal. However, they aren't able to exterminate this infestation either."
"Then-"
"Which is why I've turned to the Vigil of Stendarr for aid." She gestures for a trio of robed individuals on the edge of the firelight. "I'm sure you've seen them supporting our efforts to keep the peace throughout my town. They're doing what they can to prevent the vampires from infiltrating our ranks and have also organized incursions into the swamp to root out the infestation at its core, but they've failed each time and have already lost several Vigilants."
Two of the robed people wince at the Jarl's description of their efforts while the third maintains a stoic but uncomfortable mask.
"The Vigil is planning to execute another raid into the marsh very soon. They hope to slay the leader of the vampires, and although I can't afford to send away large numbers of my men, I do intend to dispatch a few of my more motivated warriors to assist them in this endeavor."
She gives Mull a searching look. Her deep green eyes rove across his face and armor, making him shiver.
"I wish for you to go with them as well. If you intend to reach Ustengrav, these vampires must first be put to the sword. They're standing directly between you and your goal."
"You want me… to go with them?" he incredulously asks. "Why in Kyne's name would I do that? I don't know anything about fighting vampires, so I'd be unwanted baggage for whichever poor bastard you decide to foist me on."
She gives him a coy look. "You know perfectly well the reason why, don't you, Ruair Gudarsson?"
He pauses, considers the hidden meaning behind that statement, and irritably pinches his nose. Godsdammit. She knows everything else, so of course she'd know I'm Dragonborn too. Typical.
"I believe the gods have brought you to us for a reason, and who are we to deny their wishes? So, Thane of Whiterun… what say you?"
Oh, I know exactly what to say. He takes a deep breath, steels himself, and prepares to give his answer.
-x-
"Remind me again how we got ourselves into this mess? I distinctly remember telling the Jarl 'no thank you, find someone else.'"
It's high noon, for what little that means within the murky depths of Drajkmyr Marsh. Mull, the Mighty Mudcrabs, and a joint platoon of Hjallmarch warriors and Vigilants of Stendarr are hiding behind a cluster of mossy rocks while cautiously observing the sunken mouth of a cave riddled with stalactites. Wisps of fog are drifting around them and strands of moss are hanging from low branches overhead, ticking their ears and scalps.
"If we can't accomplish this task, Jarl Idgrod will refuse to help us search for Ustengrav," Lydia reiterates. "And she did make a compelling argument. As long as these vampires are a threat, the marsh will be too dangerous for us to navigate."
Now that she's been given something constructive to do, Lydia has gone into full-blown professional mode and doesn't seem to be holding a grudge against her Thane anymore for his actions during the encounter with Iizyoldrog. At least, not outwardly.
"I still think we should leave this job for the professionals," insists Mull. "We don't have any business going up against a clan of godsdamn vampires."
"She made it very clear that she wouldn't give us the location of Ustengrav unless we assist her people with this matter. We could spend weeks searching through Drajkmyr Marsh and never come close to finding our goal."
"I know, I know. I heard you the fourth time you said it."
"Then why are you still bringing it up?" she irascibly demands.
"Because this entire situation could go balls-up in a heartbeat and there's something in my gut telling me that we should vacate the area before it happens."
According to Idgrod Ravencrone, there are complex networks of half-drowned caves and water-sluiced tunnels spiderwebbing all throughout this section of the marsh. The vampires have converted the subterranean grottos into a veritable warren of livestock pens, thralls' quarters, and sleeping chambers that simultaneously enable them to attack nearby Morthal and defend against retaliation. This group of vampires – called the Ghoruun Coven, apparently – is headed by an ancient progenitor named Movarth Piquine who's known far and wide as a cunning master vampire. He's a fearsome opponent indeed.
There's also the fact that none of the Mighty Mudcrabs are wielding weapons that can inflict critical damage against the undead. Silver swords aren't the kind of thing you can find lying around… usually. Why in Shor's name didn't I think to steal a few weapons from those Silver Hand bastards in Dustman's Cairn? Talk about an oversight. It's really biting me in the ass right now.
So naturally Mull is skeptical about his chances of survival in this confrontation, Dragonborn or not. He doesn't know much about vampires and that makes him nervous, as it should any rational person.
Lydia and Torgen fought a vampire in Steelhead Pass and Jenassa's also encountered them once or twice, so they at least have some idea of what this'll be like.
Unlike them, Mull has never seen a vampire in the flesh and had hoped to continue that streak for as long as possible, but alas, it isn't to be. Not for the first time in recent days, he really wishes Aela were with him. Having a Hircine-blessed werewolf on your side makes everything easier.
He glances sidelong at a pair of men crouching behind the rocks next to him, a Redguard and a Breton. These two are members of the Vigil, but they seem a bit different from the others.
The Redguard, who introduced himself as Isran, is a burly middle-aged man with heavily-tanned chestnut skin, a black beard of impressive size, and a shaved head. His most striking features are his bright grey eyes, so bright that they're almost white. A spiked warhammer with a silver head is slung across his back. He's the leader of this expedition.
The Breton is a somewhat younger man named Celann who sports lank brown hair and a trimmed beard with thick mutton chops. A silver one-handed axe is hanging from his belt, ready for use.
Both men are wearing heavy clothing of wool and boiled leather along with steel laminar brigandines to protect their vitals. Most Vigilants of Stendarr aren't skilled warriors from what Mull's seen and heard, but these men are carrying themselves like they've seen a fight or two. They're also armed with much better weapons than the flanged steel maces most of the other Vigilants are toting around.
"…You seem more dependable than the rest of your Vigilant friends, if you don't mind me saying so."
The Redguard looks up from fiddling with one of his gauntlets at Mull's non sequitur. "That's because we're members of the Dawnguard, boy," he replies in a masculine baritone.
"The Dawnguard? Never heard of 'em."
Isran sighs. "That doesn't surprise me. We tend to keep a low profile, though not always by choice. The upper ranks of the Vigil have a habit of taking most of our credit," he grumbles. "We're an organization of vampire hunters with deep roots here in Skyrim. We were first founded about a thousand years ago if you believe the histories."
Torgen whistles from nearby, impressed by the man's claim.
"Shortly after the Oblivion Crisis and the chaos that followed, we were voluntarily incorporated into the Vigil of Stendarr as their new death squad of specialized vampire killers. The Dawnguard was mostly made up of native Nords at that time, but our ranks now include dedicated people from all across northern Tamriel because of the Vigil's influence – Bretons, Orcs, Redguards like myself, and everything in between."
"'Specialized vampire killers' sounds like an impressive job description."
"It's why the leader of our chapter of the Vigil, Keeper Carcette, ordered us to come to Morthal – because we actually know what we're about, unlike the rest of these slop-brained sods. Ptew." Isran spits into a muddy puddle and Celann does the same. "The old Dawnguard of the Second and Third Eras weren't much better than brigands with a cause to rally behind, but the Vigil whipped 'em into shape quickly enough. That was back when the Vigil was a holy order of crusaders who pledged themselves to hunting down rogue daedra, slaying dangerous necromancers, and everything in between. Now though, they're the ones who need whipping into shape."
"Vampires are a big problem in the Hjallmarch these days," Celann reveals. "But they're even worse out west of the Karth River, if you'd believe it. People are starting to think something must've forced this coven out of their old territory and into the safety of Drajkmyr Marsh. That's just a theory though – baseless speculation. And until the Vigil gets serious about dealing with these accursed fiends, that's all it'll ever be."
"Most Vigilants are warrior-monks who focus on defense, healing, and treating natural or unnatural afflictions like poison and disease," continues Isran. "They're only trained to use simple maces, basic wards, and mending spells from the Restoration school as well as magic armor from the Alteration school, like oakflesh. They can protect farmers from zombies that escaped from their master or clean up a conjurer's experiments gone wrong, but beyond that? They don't know what in Oblivion they're doing."
"And you do?" Mull pointedly asks.
"We do," the Redguard cooly answers. "I think we'll have a chance to prove it to you before too long."
Mull nods and goes back to minding his own business. Before long, he overhears a warrior from Morthal reassuring one of his comrades a few yards away.
"It's true the Dawnguard are a hard-bitten lot, but that's because they're expert vampire slayers with no equal in the entire province! If anyone can put these damn bloodsuckers on their back foot, I think it's them."
"Jarl Ravencrone trusts them, but that isn't necessarily a good thing," the second warrior mutters darkly. "She's strange enough in her own right and she's been neglecting local matters for her visions and supposed revelations from the gods. Why would she leave this infestation for others to deal with? We men of the Hjallmarch are strong enough to put a few measly vampires six feet under! I'm not so sure I trust her pretty words anymore."
The first man catches Mull's eye and nudges his disgruntled compatriot. "Shh! Save your bellyaching for another time!"
Mull shrugs and returns his attention to the cavern exit. So some of Ravencrone's people don't like her. Not my problem.
After another few minutes of tense silence, he starts busying himself with doublechecking his equipment and making sure Lydia, Torgen, and Jenassa are good to go. The Dunmer mercenary's body is painted all over with the same white runes she used at Dustman's Cairn, which she claims will protect her from the undead.
He's in the process of debating whether he should string his bow when a warning shout rings across the marsh. "Look!"
At the same time, a shrill whistling reaches their ears from somewhere to the northeast. Everyone turns to look as a flickering blue ball of light shoots like a star above the distant treetops. It hangs amidst the heavens for several seconds before gradually slowing down and executing a lazy arc as it returns to Nirn. The spell's harsh glow casts shifting shadows over the marshland.
Isran rises to his feet and waves everybody forward. "That's the signal for us to begin. Everyone into the cave! It's time for us to earn our keep."
-x-
The first section of the cavern angles steeply downwards into a deep veil of darkness that their torches and magelights are barely strong enough to overcome. Miniature creeks and waterfalls tumble across the natural stone alongside them, burbling loudly and occasionally spraying them with foamy droplets. The sheer amount of water seeping down from the marshland above has eroded deep twisting channels and carved strange stalagmite formations, leaving numerous nooks and crannies where their torchlight doesn't quite reach. Mull tenses with primal fear each time they walk past a pitch-black alcove, mentally preparing for something to jump out at him.
After a nerve-wracking descent that lasts a few minutes, they emerge into a much wider and taller space where the gushing water tumbles over a sharp ledge and vanishes into a murky void beneath their feet. The chamber is cylindrical with mossy stone walls and a single faint beam of natural light emanating from a gap in the ceiling. There are ledges around the perimeter of the cenote that act like a spiral staircase, offering a relatively easy way for the delvers to reach the bottom.
One particularly brave or stupid Hjallmarch warrior leans over the slippery ledge and holds out his torch. The flickering light reveals that the bottom of the cenote is flooded with brackish water.
However, the chamber's most noticeable feature would be the spiders. Frostbite spider webs are strung across the ceiling and walls along with large white eggs and, of course, the oversized brown-and-copper arachnids themselves. Countless glittering black eyes swivel towards the group of two-legged intruders as they enter the chamber.
"It smells like death," murmurs Lydia. "And not from the spiders."
Mull warily scans their dim surroundings. "Aye. Keep your guards up."
There are a lot of spiders here, but there are also a lot of warriors and Vigilants as well, so they're able to dispatch the arachnids of unusual size in short order. Mull roasts one of the smaller ones alive with his flame spell, deriving great pleasure from its tortured screams. Lydia looks nauseated by the gruesome sight and rotten stench while Torgen watches with sadistic glee. Jenassa couldn't care less, instead staying productive by sniping half-grown Frostbite spiders clinging to the walls.
"Looks like they were keeping a few guard nixes around," notes the Dunmer.
Celann sneers. "Vampires are a cowardly bunch. They'll always have someone else to do their dirty work for them, even these revolting creatures."
Once the hostile inhabitants have been cleared out, the group descends to the bottom of the cenote and assembles on the edge of the stagnant pond. They spend about five minutes searching for a way to continue deeper into the cave system, long enough for Mull to start thinking it must've been irreversibly flooded, but eventually they find a muddy hole in the ground near the shoreline. It's scarcely large enough for a grown man to squeeze through.
"This is the way forward," Isran confidently states. "You, you, you, and you, prepare yourselves." He points out several lower-ranked Vigilants "We're going in."
Mull crouches down and peers into the hole. It's nearly pitch-black, but he can faintly see smaller tunnels branching off to either side like an underground warren – and even straight up or down in some cases. "This doesn't look like the sort of place where people would live," he quietly comments. "Skeevers, maybe."
Celann snorts. "Vampires aren't people, so don't expect them to play by our rules or follow our expectations. That kind of attitude will land you in an early grave."
"…Point taken."
The Vigilants and Hjallmarch warriors start staking out torches along the banks of the cenote lake on Isran's orders. "Hold this position and guard our exit. Don't let anything go into that hole after us. We'll be back."
With that, the two members of the Dawnguard and the other Vigilants crawl into the hole like burrowing rodents. The four beige-robed monks take the plunge with bleak expressions like men condemned to death, but Isran and Celann are perfectly at ease with the situation. The Redguard leaves behind his bulky warhammer in favor of a silver knife that he clenches between his teeth as he shimmies headfirst into the darkness.
"You couldn't pay me enough to do that," Jenassa frankly states.
Several of the Hjallmarch warriors nod emphatically. "Not even Dibella herself could convince me to venture so far away from Kyne's sky," one of them intones. "May she have mercy on those poor fools."
Minutes pass in nervous silence. They occasionally hear strange noises echoing from the muddy hole, but they're too remote to identify. They might be voices.
Or distant screams.
The group is subdued and quiet as they finish up their defensive preparations. One of the few exceptions is a robed Vigilant – a middle-aged Nibenese man who's seemingly holding a whispered conversation with himself, much to the consternation of everyone in close earshot. An empty circle soon grows around him.
Unlike the rest of the Vigilants, the Nibenese man is wearing an innocuous brown monk's robe tied at the waist with a length of rope. He appears to be entirely unarmed, although Mull catches a glimpse of chainmail glinting beneath his raggedy robe.
Torgen quickly gets bored with nothing to do and idly wanders over to the strange man. "What're you muttering about there, priest? Are the spooky vampires getting to you?" He grins wolfishly. "Starting to get cold feet?"
The man turns to him with an easy smile. "Of course not, my friend! Don't you worry about us, we've been through worse than this little afternoon stroll. Arkay's been looking after us for years, so I do believe we'll come out of this just fine. We once killed thirty vampires with our bare hands, you know. Ask Arkay, he'll tell you." He squints at Torgen. "He says he's not too sure about you, though."
Torgen shares a dumbfounded glance with Lydia, who merely shrugs. "…Alright then."
Nobody else talks to the priest after that.
"What was that about?" Mull asks nobody in particular.
One of the Vigilants standing nearby, a young Nord man, releases a long-suffering sigh. "That's just Florentius. Do yourself a favor and ignore him like the rest of us. Somehow he became convinced that he's the mortal incarnation of Arkay and nobody can convince him otherwise."
"Arkay, as in the Imperial Divine? That Arkay?"
"Yes, Arkay the Divine of mortality, life, and death. The very same."
"Huh. You Vigilants sure are an interesting bunch."
"There aren't many people who're willing to hunt down daedra and undead abominations for a living, and the ones that are… they tend to have a few screws loose, if you know what I mean. Florentius there is no exception. The fact that we still keep him around is a testament to his mastery of offensive Restoration spells. In fact, he's the one who teaches the Dawnguard their most powerful magic, including Isran and Celann."
"Are you an exception?"
The man grimaces. "I like to think so, but… you never know. I'm here because I want to help make Nirn a better place, Stendarr willing. Does that mean I'm an idealist or a fool?"
Mull shrugs. "Ain't my place to say."
"Mm. Maybe not."
They fall silent and drift apart after that. By the time anything interesting happens, nearly twenty minutes have passed since Isran, Celann, and the other Vigilants embarked on their belowground adventure.
The cenote lake begins moving strangely, with unusual currents writing back and forth like sea serpents. Shifting shadows lurk just beneath the surface, possibly indicating the presence of a school of cave fish… or something else.
One of the Hjallmarch warriors kneels down and wafts his fingers through the water. He squints, lowers his head, and peers closer. "What is that?"
A pale hand shoots out of the water like lightning, grasps the collar of his hauberk, and yanks him beneath the surface with a panicked scream. He vanishes like he was never there, with the only sign of his abrupt passage being a lazy circle rippling outwards.
Everyone stares with dawning terror at the empty space where the man had been crouching.
"…Divines have mercy," someone whimpers.
On cue, a group of figures emerge from the water, dripping with black slime and moist sludge like lake-dwelling monsters out of a child's bedtime story. Some of them are holding rusted weapons while others are generating luminescent spells in their palms. Most of the latter are sporting ghostly blood-red eyes, revealing their true nature as vampires.
More ghostly figures rise from the depths and shuffle closer to the shore, nearly fifty in number. Their decaying grey-green flesh and bloated bodies mark them as dead thralls – zombies raised to unlife through the power of necromancy, a specialty of many vampires due to their own unholy nature.
"F-Form up! Everybody in a line! Fighters in front, mages behind!" One of the more senior Vigilants starts bellowing a string of commands while gesturing frantically as he directs everyone into a rough shieldwall. After overcoming his shock, Mull ushers the Mighty Mudcrabs closer to the center of the formation where their chances of survival will be best.
One of the vampires, a beautiful raven-haired woman with porcelain skin, emerges from the murky lake and leisurely approaches their ranks without a care in the world. Her pearlescent teeth gleam in the darkness as she smiles.
"Hroggar, my beloved. What in the world are you doing here?" Her voice is lilting and seductive.
"Alva? I-Is that really you? But they said that you were…" One of Ravencrone's green-clad warriors tentatively takes a step forward while his arms go slack at his sides, dropping his axe and shield into the muck. Some of his compatriots reach out to stop him, but they're a hair too slow. He seems enamored by the sight of the vampire's gorgeous face and curvy figure, which is accentuated by a tight tunic dripping with stagnant water. It might've once been yellow, but now it's covered in a layer of silty grime. The stupefied man doesn't notice her filthy condition.
Her red eyes smolder eerily. "You wouldn't hurt me, would you? You said that you loved me. Was that a lie?" He doesn't react in the slightest as the vampire darts forward with inhuman speed and swipes at his throat. "Prove it to me now!"
Her elongated nails tear out his esophagus with a gush of bright red blood and he collapses with a sickening gurgle, powerless to prevent the vampire from leaping on top of him. She falls upon his fallen form like a hungry animal and gulps down his lifeblood with sadistic delight. Several men back away from the terrifying display.
"That bitch ensorcelled him!" cries a warrior. "Kill her! Kill them all!"
The undead horde releases a terrible roar like Mehrunes Dagon's hordes of the damned as they rush against the shieldwall on the lakeshore. Bones are broken and flesh is mangled as they throw themselves against the bulwark of the living without any hint of concern for themselves. Most of the thralls are freshly dead and the Hjallmarch warriors cry out with rage or fear as they recognize reanimated friends and family members.
A second vampire jumps at a pair of Hjallmarch men with a feral screech, but one of the Vigilants intercepts the undead creature with his mace and crushes its skull like a watermelon. Bits of bone and brains go flying from the carnage.
A pair of smarter vampires use the distraction offered by the thralls to encircle the monk called Florentius. They assault him with a storm of whirling scarlet magic, but he looks entirely unconcerned as he retaliates with an upraised hand that glows an intense celestial gold. A luminescent orb of light envelops him and completely negates the vampires' spells in midair.
Before the two undead can react, the orb rapidly grows larger and consumes them both, setting them on fire and causing them to flail on the ground in agony. Florentius casually strolls over to them and uses a different spell to shoot a golden projectile from his palm, blowing gaping holes through both of their foreheads without mercy.
A lower-ranking Vigilant is dragged away from the shieldwall and brutally slaughtered by vampires, with his ribcage being torn open and his innards messily consumed. Once the undead are finished with their meal, they callously resurrect him to fight against his allies.
"The vampires are our responsibility!" another Vigilant exclaims to Mull over the rising tumult. "You help deal with the thralls! Keep them off us!"
"Aye, we can do that!" Fighting zombies sounds vastly preferable to facing off against one of those red-eyed abominations. He shares a round of nods with his followers before advancing into the fray with Lydia's shield at the forefront.
Their formation slices through the crowd of thralls like a knife through butter. Most of them are clumsy and frankly pathetic opponents that rely on numbers more than skill. Mull briefly hypothesizes that the vampiric seduction must be addling their senses somehow – it's the only explanation he can devise for how brutally easy it is to reduce the thralls to piles of dismembered limbs and torsos. Torgen wreaks havoc with his axe while Jenassa darts from opponent to opponent with her sword and off-hand dagger, mercilessly slicing them apart in a flurry of steel. Mull takes on a leader's role by directing the Mighty Mudcrabs and backing up Lydia whenever she's close to being overwhelmed, but he still gets plenty of opportunities to rack up kills of his own.
He's in the process of finishing off a spear-wielding Orc zombie when a flash of rapid movement catches his attention in the corner of his eye. He turns to face the new threat just in time to get bowled over by an onrushing figure – a woman, the raven-haired beauty who killed that ill-fated Hjallmarch warrior.
"My Thane!" Lydia and the other are carried away by the tide of battle, blocked from coming to his aid by the horde of thralls.
The female vampire is so quick and powerful that Mull barely has enough time to raise his sword before she crashes into him and knocks him to the ground. She scrabbles at him with reckless abandon and he struggles with equal vehemency to keep her away from his vitals. Her bountiful chest and the lower half of her pretty face are coated in her previous victim's wet blood.
Unexpectedly, she pauses in the middle of their desperate scuffle and takes a shuddering breath like an addict getting another whiff of skooma.
"Uhhhn, you smell so good." She licks her bloodstained lips and presses herself against his sword, not caring in the slightest when the sharp blade slices into her chest and the tip of her chin. Her cheeks are heavily flushed and her eyes are wild. "I can't resist! Your blood is driving me crazy! I can already taste it! I need it!"
He raises a hand with a flame spell prepared to immolate her head, but she catches his wrist in a grip that's far too strong for a woman of her stature and redirects the gout of fire to pass harmlessly over her. She twists his hand around to expose his wrist and opens her mouth in preparation to bite down. Her oversized fangs are dripping with gore.
Her blood-red eyes flicker to him and she smiles like a sabrecat cornering its helpless prey.
Unfortunately for her, she picked the wrong man to devour.
"FUS RO!"
Mull's Shout sends the crazed vampiress flying back nearly thirty paces, where she goes tumbling through the entrail-soaked mud on the edge of the subterranean lake. He scrambles to his feet while shaking out his sore hand.
Lydia screams at him. "Are you okay?! Did she bite you?!"
"I'm fine!"
He looks back at the vampire – Alva, he thinks she was called – and watches as the delusional mage Florentius raises a hand towards her. The vampire staggers back to her feet, somehow already recovering from Mull's powerful Thu'um, but Florentius doesn't seem remotely phased by her unnatural resilience as a glowing halo of golden light appears around his palm.
A split second later, a scintillating projectile erupts from his hand and slams into the vampire's torso. It burns through her and continues into the water beyond, leaving in its wake a huge blackened hole. She croaks pitifully, topples backwards, and dissolves into a person-shaped pile of lilac ash.
With that taken care of, Mull refocuses on the horde of dead thralls alongside his followers.
Three of the necromantic abominations advance on him with their weapons poised to strike, but he uses a flame spell to light them ablaze and waits patiently for them to slow down while their flesh and muscles are consumed by the hungry fire. Only then does he step into melee range and execute them.
A zombie with a heavy two-handed sword tries to bisect him from head to groin, but he sidesteps the cumbersome swing and retaliates with a quick slash that removes both of its hands at the wrists. The disarmed undead then lunges headfirst, aiming to bite him in the throat, but he delivers a devastating uppercut that slices through its decomposed torso from right hip to left shoulder with sickening ease. The zombie tumbles to the ground in two diagonal halves with its fetid innards spilling everywhere.
He decapitates yet another enthralled zombie that was once a Nord woman, frantically looks around for more targets, and slowly relaxes when he sees the last of the undead being cut to shreds by his allies.
He catches Florentius' eyes and nods to the pile of vampire dust that was once Alva. "You killed her. Good work," he huffs. "She seemed like a tough one, and batshit crazy too." I'm not sure what she meant about my blood smelling good and I don't think I want to know either. Hopefully she was a raving lunatic and it was a one-time deal. If not… I don't much like the idea of becoming a vampire delicacy.
Florentius rests his hands inside the baggy sleeves of his robes and offers a cheery smile. "It's what we do best, my friend. The undead are powerless before the sanctifying hand of Arkay." He cocks his head with a smug expression. "But we're not the only person here with the hand of a Divine resting upon us, are we? Those who wield the power of the Voice are a rare breed indeed. We weren't informed that a Tongue would be among us today."
"Well now you know," Mull shortly replies. "So keep it to yourself, alright?"
The priest's smile widens. "If that is what you wish."
Some of the other Vigilants and Hjallmarch warriors are stealing awed looks at Mull, so the cat is probably out of the bag now, which he can't say he's happy about. Still, blowing his cover is much preferable to getting bitten and running the risk of contracting vampirism.
"I-is it over?" somebody wonders aloud.
Silence falls over the shadowy cenote as the survivors take stock of the situation. The shoreline of the underground lake is strewn with mutilated corpses and lilac ash. All of the attacking vampires and their minions have been slain, along with about one-quarter of the Vigilants and warriors. Luckily, the Mighty Mudcrabs have avoided serious injuries.
"Confirm your kills and take potions if you need them," Mull orders his people. "This isn't over yet, so don't let your guards down."
The surviving Vigilants and warriors begin the grim and arduous process of gathering their dead.
-x-
After about ten minutes of reorganization and recuperation, Isran and Celann finally crawl out of the muddy hole. Only one of the original four Vigilants who accompanied them into the cramped tunnel is still with them.
The two Dawnguard warriors are covered in muck but otherwise none the worse for wear, while the Vigilant is babbling incoherently while shaking from head to toe. His thousand yard stare is one of the worst Mull has ever seen.
"What in the blazes happened down there?" asks Jenassa.
Isran levels his stoic silver-grey gaze at her. "We did our job."
"Well, we tried to," Celann throws in. "It looks like Movarth Piquine managed to slip through our net. We didn't see hide nor hair of the ugly bastard anywhere. We were told that this cenote should be the only entrance and exit for the master vampires' hideout, but those bloodsucking maggots must've tunneled out somewhere else." He glances around and notices the carnage. "I take it you had some excitement out here as well?"
"You could say that," Mull drily replies. He points to the dead bodies and mounds of vampire dust strewn along the edge of the pond. "There's your confirmation that this tunnel wasn't the only one. Either the vampires and their thralls were lying in wait for us underwater, or there's another tunnel somewhere beneath the surface that they swam out from. Hell, maybe it was both. We managed to wipe them out, but they took a few of your men along with 'em to Oblivion."
Isran shrugs indifferently, causing flakes of purple vampire dust to fall from his beard and dirty clothing like loose dandruff. "There will always be a price to pay for cleansing the world of these Daedra-worshiping filth. This is simply the way of things."
"…Easy to say when you aren't the one paying the price, huh?" Mull mutters. He glances down at the bewitched Hjallmarch warrior who was killed by the insane female vampire, and then at the single surviving Vigilant who emerged from the tunnel with Isran and Celann. Some of his fellow priests are wrapping him in a blanket and working to treat his wounds, but he continues to stare blankly ahead at nothing for the entire time. Finally, Mull catches sight of the young Vigilant from before – the one who told him about Florentius – lying dead in a puddle of blood and filthy water near the perimeter of the torchlight. It doesn't look like anyone noticed or cared about his untimely demise.
A bitter scowl creeps onto his lips. Were those lofty ideals of yours worth dying for, kid? What's the point of living out your entire life just to lose it for nothing in this disgusting cave?
He suddenly feels so tired of it all. Isran seems like the sort of man who'll happily toss other people to their deaths if it means he can accomplish his goals – in this case, killing more vampires. He led them into this cave in the first place and now he doesn't seem bothered in the slightest by the resulting casualties.
Mull doesn't want anything more to do with this mess. In fact, he can't wait to get back to Morthal – and that's something he never thought he'd have a reason to say. People with Isran's coldblooded attitude are dangerous to stay around for too long.
I'm glad we didn't crawl into that hole with him, he shudders. Something tells me even I wouldn't have come back out in one piece. I don't think the power of the Voice would do me much good if I were wiggling around in a muddy tunnel like a worm.
-x-
Their march back to Morthal is gloomy and subdued.
The town isn't far as the eagle flies, but tramping through the treacherous swamp makes it difficult to cover ground in a timely manner. Jarl Ravencrone's warriors inform Mull that this is the extreme southern edge of the marsh and isn't nearly as dangerous as the pathless interior, but he personally finds that hard to believe. This meandering terrain is more than difficult enough.
After a while, he finds himself shoving through a cluster of vines next to Isran and decides to ask something he's been wondering since the end of the battle.
"What'll happen now that the leader of the vampires escaped?"
The Redguard gives him a sidelong look while wading through a puddle of green muck. "More of the same," he tonelessly answers. "Keeper Carcette, the leader of our chapter in Skyrim, is the type of women who does whatever she can to please everyone. She's a talented Restoration mage and a capable leader with a knack for diplomacy – none can deny that – but she lacks steel. She doesn't have the resolve to accept that sacrifices will be necessary if we're to finish off Movarth Piquine once and for all. Instead, she'll continue deploying more Vigilants for glorified guard duty in Morthal to curry favor with Jarl Ravencrone, where they'll accomplish precisely nothing when they could be hunting down vampires in the marshlands… or elsewhere."
"Not us though. Carcette might not be perfect, but she's keenly aware that she can put us Dawnguard to better use," interjects Celann while tearing himself free from a thorny bush. "We're the Vigil's specialized vampire killers, but sometimes we can be too good at our jobs," he smirks.
Mull nods. "Makes sense, although it's a shame you let Movarth get away. I'm hoping the Jarl with still hold up her end of our bargain and tell me how to find Ustengrav," he grumbles. "So based on all that, I'm guessing you two have fought against other vampires before?"
Isran grunts affirmatively. "We've participated in expeditions against the Pinemoon Coven in Haafingar, the Cronvangr Coven in the Eastmarch, the Redwater Coven in the Rift, and of course the infamous Volkihar clan – the most powerful tribe of vampires in all of Skyrim and the worst of the bunch by far. Their sickly fingers are stretched across the entire province, poking and prodding at the other clans to do their bidding while they remain secluded in their hidden sanctuaries. They consider most other vampires to be thin-blooded halfbreeds and lesser beings that exist only to serve them. Cruel bastards, the lot of 'em."
"Volkihar?" The name sound vaguely familiar, but Mull isn't sure about its significance.
"They're a bit different from other groups of vampires in Skyrim and infinitely more dangerous. The Volkihar clan carries an uncommon strain of vampirism called Sanguinare Vampiris, which is analogous to the more common Porphyric Hemophilia with a few key differences. The easiest way to tell them apart is usually the eyes." Isran taps his temple. "Most vampires have red eyes, like the ones we killed today. That's a symptom of Porphyric Hemophilia. On the other hand, Sanguinare Vampiris will produce yellow eyes in the host. If you take away anything from what I've said to you today, let it be this. Always beware of a vampire with yellow eyes."
"…Good to know." Yellow eyes are bad. Got it. That's easy enough.
"The Volkihar are paranoid and cruel," the Redguard continues. "And they're also extremely reclusive, which can make it difficult to separate fact from fiction. Celann and I have encountered their ilk more than once, and each time they displayed new powers and abilities that took us by surprise. To this day we still have no idea what they're capable of."
"Some say their breath can freeze a man's blood in his veins while he's still living," adds Celann. "Others claim that they dwell beneath the ice of haunted lakes in remote mountains, never venturing into the world of men except to scheme and to feed. Yet others will tell you that they can reach through solid ice to ensnare unsuspecting victims and drag them beneath the surface of their lakes, leaving nothing behind but scuffled snow."
"Sounds more like a fairy tale than the actual truth, if you ask me." Mull isn't sure if he's trying to convince them or himself.
"You would be surprised," Isran grimly replies.
With that happy thought now floating around in his head, the rooftops of Morthal on the other side of the Myr River finally come into view between the branches of gnarled grey trees. He silently curses the two Dawnguard men. At this rate, I'll be on the lookout for yellow eyes staring at me from the mist every waking minute until we leave this accursed swamp.
He glances over at Lydia, who overheard the entire conversation and is now as white as a bedsheet.
At least I won't be the only one.
-x-
Mini Lore Corner:
The Vigil of Stendarr is an order of warrior-monks that originated in Cyrodiil during the early Fourth Era and quickly spread to other Imperial provinces – including Skyrim – which now host their own autonomous chapters overseen by a Keeper. The Vigil's founding members swore solemn oaths to hunt down rogue daedra in the aftermath of the Oblivion Crisis and have since expanded their efforts to include the suppression of vampires, werewolves, and necromancers.
They were once a respected organization of paladins and holy warriors dedicated to the noble precepts of Stendarr, but over the last two centuries they've gradually lost their passion for battle and now focus primarily on the healing arts. Many years have elapsed since the Oblivion Crisis, which means most of the daedra their order was originally created to hunt down have already been banished back to Oblivion. With the recent decline of the Empire – and especially in the aftermath of the Great War – the Vigil doesn't receive as much funding as it once did and the efficacy of its personnel has similarly diminished. For these reasons and more, the Vigil of Stendarr is now a shadow of its former self and its members are obliged to work in partnership with newer organizations like the Silver Hand, a federation of werewolf hunters in Skyrim. The Silver Hand are far from professional and many of its members are little better than bandits, but they still have their uses.
The Vigilants of Stendarr don't have a particularly good reputation among practitioners of magic due to their zealotry and their unfortunate habit of attacking first and asking questions later. They also have a tense relation with many of Skyrim's Nords, who view the Vigil unfavorably due to their close religious and political connections with Cyrodiil. Keeper Carcette – the leader of the Vigil's chapter in Skyrim – is doing everything in her power to expand the organization's influence and curry favor with important individuals, but her efforts are being stymied by the Vigil's chronic decline and the limited resources at her disposal. She heavily depends on the efforts of the Dawnguard, a close-knit group of vampire hunters that joined the early Vigil shortly after the Oblivion Crisis – especially with vampire activity becoming more widespread throughout Skyrim in the months following the Call of the Greybeards…
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AN: This chapter kicked my ass for whatever reason, so hopefully it turned out alright.
I think it makes more sense for Isran to be able to say "I'm a member of a thousand-year-old organization of chad vampire hunters that operates under the Vigil of Stendarr's authority" than the in-game "I revived an extinct organization of vampire hunters from a thousand years ago with two other random dudes because I just hate vampires that much, and we renovated an entire big-ass castle in the middle of nowhere by ourselves… somehow?" I want the Dawnguard to feel more grounded in the history and current events of Skyrim than they did in canon TESV. I also thought a lot of the quest writing and worldbuilding in general for the Dawnguard DLC was really bad, but that's just my opinion so feel free to disagree. Mull will eventually do the Dawnguard questline along with your favorite vampire waifu for all you Serana simps out there, but it won't be for a while. Isran will become the leader of the Dawnguard off-screen by the time we meet him again.