"Rislav the Righteous
by Sinjin
Heroic tales of Rislav Larich, ancient King of Skingrad
Like all true heroes, Rislav Larich had inauspicious beginnings. We are told by chroniclers that the springtide night in the 448th year of the first era on which he was born was unseasonably cold, and that his mother Queen Lynada died very shortly after setting eyes upon her son. If he were much beloved of his father, King Mhorus of Skingrad, who already had plenty of heirs, three sons and four daughters before him, the chroniclers make no mention of it.
His existence was so very undistinguished that we hear virtually nothing of him for the first twenty years of his life. His schooling, we can suppose, was similar to that of any "spare prince" in the Colovian West, with Ayleid tutors to teach him the ways of hunting and battle. Etiquette, religious instruction, and even basic statecraft were seldom a part of the training of a prince of the Highlands, as it was in the more civilized valley of Nibenay.
There is a brief reference to him, together with his family, as part of the rolls of honor during the coronation of the Emperor Gorieus on the 23rd of Sun's Dawn 1E 461. The ceremony, of course, held during the time of the Alessian Doctrines of Marukh, and so was without entertainment, but the thirteen-year-old Rislav was still witness to some of the greatest figures of legend. The Beast of Anequina, Darloc Brae, represented his kingdom, giving honor to the Empire. The Chieftain of Skyrim Kjoric the White and his son Hoag were in attendance. And despite the Empire's intolerance of all elves, chimer Indoril Nerevar and dwemer Dumac Dwarfking were evidently there as well, diplomatically representing Resdayn, all in relative peace.
Also mentioned on the rolls was a young mer in service to the Imperial court of High Rock, who was to have a great history with Rislav. Ryain Direnni.
Whether the two young men of about the same age met and conversed is entirely the stuff of historian's fancy. Ryain is spoken of in praising words as a powerful land-owner, eventually buying the island of Balfiera in the Iliac Bay and gradually conquering all of High Rock and large parts of Hammerfell and Skyrim, but Rislav is not heard of again in history's books for another seventeen years. We can only offer supposition based on the facts that follow.
Children of kings are, of course, married to the children of other kings to bind alliances. The kingdoms of Skingrad and Kvatch skirmished over common territory throughout the fifth century, until they reached a peace in the year 472. The details of this accord are not recorded, but since we know that Prince Rislav was in the court of Kvatch six years later, as husband to Belene, the daughter of King Justinius, it is fair to make an educated guess that they were married then to make peace.
This brings us to the year 478, when a great plague swept through all of Cyrodiil and seemed particularly concentrated in the independent Colovian West. Among the victims were King Mhorus and the rest of the entire royal family in Skingrad. Rislav's only surviving elder brother, Dorald, survived, being in the Imperial City as a priest of Marukh. He returned to his homeland to assume the throne.
Of Dorald, we have some history. The King's second son, he was slightly simple-minded and evidently very pious. All the chroniclers spoke of his sweetness and decency, how he saw a vision in his early years that brought him - with his father's blessing - from Skingrad to the Imperial City and the priesthood. The priesthood of Marukh, of course, saw no difference between spiritual and political matters. It was the religion of the Alessian Empire, and it taught that to resist the Emperor was to resist the Gods. Given that, it is scarcely a surprise what Dorald did when he became King of the independent kingdom of Skingrad.
His first edict, on his very first day, was to cede the kingdom to the Empire.
The reaction throughout the Colovian Estates was shock and outrage, nowhere more so than in the court of Kvatch. Rislav Larich, we are told, rode forth to his brother's kingdom, together with his wife and two dozen of his father-in-law's cavalry. It was surely not an impressive army, no matter how the chroniclers embellish it, but they had little trouble defeating all the guards Dorald sent to stop them. In truth, there was no actual battling, for the soldiers of Skingrad resented their new king's decision to give up their autonomy.
The brothers faced one another in the castle courtyard where they had grown up.
In typical Colovian fashion, there was no trial, no accusations of treason, no jury, no judge. Only an executioner.
"Thou art no brother of mine," Rislav Larich said, and struck Dorald's head from his shoulders in one blow. He was crowned King of Skingrad still holding the same bloody axe in his arms.
If King Rislav had no battle experience beforehand, that was shortly to change. Word spread quickly to the Imperial City that Skingrad, once offered, was now being taken back. Gorieus was an accomplished warrior even before taking the throne, and the seventeen years he had as Emperor were scarcely peaceful. Only eight months before Dorald's assassination and Rislav's ascendancy, Gorieus and the Alessian army had faced another of his coronation guests, Kjoric the White, on the fields of the frozen north. The High Chieftain of Skyrim lost his life in the Battle of Sungard. While the pact of chieftains was selecting a new leader, Cyrodiil was busily grabbing back the land of southern Skyrim that it had lost.
In short, Emperor Gorieus knew how to deal with rebellious vassals.
The Alessian army poured westward "like a flood of death," to borrow the chronicler's phrase, in numbers far exceeding what would be required to conquer Skingrad. Gorieus could not have thought actual battle was likely. Rislav, as we said, had little to no experience at warfare, and only a few days' practice at kingcraft. His kingdom and all of the Colovian West had just been ravaged by plague. The Alessians anticipated that a mere show of arms, and a surrender.
Rislav instead prepared for battle. He quickly inspected his troops and drew up plans.
The chroniclers who had heretofore ignored the life of Rislav now devote verse after verse describing the king's aspect with fetishistic delight. While it may lack literary merit and taste, we are at least given some details at last. Not surprisingly, the king wore the finest armor of his era, as the Colovian Estates then had the finest leathersmiths - the only type of armor available - in all of Tamriel. The king's klibanion mail, boiled and waxed for hardness, and studded with inch-long spikes, was a rich chestnut red, and he wore it over his black tunic but under his black cloak. The statue of Rislav the Righteous which now stands in Skingrad is a romanticized version of king, but not inaccurate except in the armor represented. No bard of the Colovian West would have gone to the market so lightly protected. But it does, as we will see, include the most important accouterments of Rislav: his trained hawk and his fast horse.
The winter rains had washed through the roads to the south, sending much of the West Weald spilling into Valenwood. The Emperor took the northern route, and King Rislav with a small patrol of guards met him at a low pass on what is now the Gold Road. The Emperor's army, it is said, was so large that the Beast of Anequina could hear its march from hundreds of miles away, and despite himself, the chroniclers say, he quaked in fear.
Rislav, it was said, did not quake. With perfect politeness, he told the Emperor that his party was too large to be accommodated in the tiny kingdom of Skingrad.
"Next time," Rislav said. "Write before you come."
The Emperor was, like most Alessian Emperors, not a man of great humor, and he thought Rislav touched by Sheogorath. He ordered his personal guards to arrest the poor madman, but at that moment, the King of Skingrad raised his arm and sent his hawk flying into the sky. It was a signal his army had been waiting for. The Alessian were all within the pass and the range of their arrows.
King Rislav and his guard began riding westward as fast as if they had been "kissed by wild Kynareth," as the chroniclers said. He did not dare to look behind him, but his plan went faultlessly. The far eastern end of the pass was sealed by rolling boulders, giving the Alessian no direction to go but westward. The Skingrad archers rained arrows down upon the Imperial army from far above on the plateaus, remaining safe from reprisal. The furious Emperor Gorieus chased Rislav from the Weald to the Highlands, leaving Skingrad far behind, all the while his army growing steadily smaller and smaller.
In the ancient Highland forest, the Imperial army met the army of Rislav's father-in-law, the King of Kvatch. The Alessian army likely still outnumbered their opponents, but they were exhausted and their morale had been obliterated by the chase amid a sea of arrows. After an hour's battle, they retreated north into what is now the Imperial Reserve, and from there, further north and east, to slip back to nurse their wounds and pride in Nibenay.
It was the beginning of the end of the Alessian hegemony. The Kings of the Colovian West joined with Kvatch and Skingrad to resist Imperial incursions. The Clan Direnni under Ryain was inspired to outlaw the religion of the Alessian Reform throughout his lands in High Rock, and began pushing into Imperial territories. The new High Chief of Skyrim, Hoag, now called Hoag Merkiller, though sharing the Emperor's official xenophobia, also joined the resistance. His heir, King Ysmir Wulfharth of Atmora, helped continue the struggle upon Hoag's death in battle, and also insured his place in history.
The heroic King of Skingrad, who faced the Emperor's army virtually alone, and triggered its end, justly deserves his sobriquet of Rislav the Righteous."
The Imperial City of Coldharbour retained its usual dull and dreary ambiance, despite the brightness imparted by Jyggalag's influence. Carcette wandered the sand-blanketed stone pathways, and amidst the shadowed alleys, where crumbling stones and contorted iron testified to centuries of neglect, she inadvertently became entangled in the fierce skirmish erupting between the Minotaur Vampires and the Alessian Priests.
The Minotaur Vampires, their eyes aflame with hunger, emerged from the darkness. Their horns curved like scythes, and their fangs dripped with black ichor. Their flesh pale as the grave and their hair gnarled and matted. They moved with unnatural grace, their hooves pounding against the cobblestones as they charged both the Breton and the evil clergymen.
Carcette was no ordinary warrior. Adorned in the Armour of the Bastion, a boon from Jyggalag, it bestowed upon her abilities surpassing her innate capacities, albeit at the expense of her vitality. Her warhammer, named Pendulum, whistled as it cleaved the air, its serrated crown designed to slice through both corporeal forms and the bonds of the spirit.
As the first vampire lunged, Carcette spun, her cudgel sweeping through the creature's chest. It crumbled into dust, its essence returning to the void.
From the opposite direction, the Alessian Priests advanced. Clad in crimson robes, they chanted ancient hymns, invoking their Red Stone's wrath. Their hands glowed with unholy fire, and their eyes bore the zeal of fanatics. They believed Carcette was an abomination - a threat to their faith.
Carcette dodged each spell, which collided with the stone walls, sending sparks across the cobbled ground. The priests' incantations faltered as they faced the Former Keeper's resolve. At the time she had no gods to pray to, only the echoes of lost memories and the weight of her duty.
"They always said that you haven't encountered a genuine Zealot until you've confronted a Vigilant," Carcette whispered under her breath with a self-satisfied smirk.
The Minotaur Vampires closed in, their numbers waning with each strike. Carcette's breaths came in ragged bursts as she danced between fangs and flames. She whispered a forgotten prayer to the Void, seeking strength. Her warhammer sang, severing limbs and silencing priests.
The city street was littered with their bodies and ashes, and Carcette kept her eyes forward. She measured out the days on Jyggalag's predictions. She would stay sentinel in the west, and soon, very soon, she would expect a visit. A very familiar visit. She just needed to be patient, as difficult as it was.
The Prison Tower was dark, dreary, and filled with dust and a looming sense of hopelessness. The air was thick with malevolence, and the flickering torches barely illuminated the oppressive darkness within. The ceiling extended high, higher, and higher still, its bricks invisible to the naked eye. Blocklike arches lined the main hallway and high walls sandwiched the groups into a small corridor.
Unfortunately, Savos and Mirabelle were left outside, due to the malevolent forces within the Tower, leaving Cura two party members short for the excursion. But she would make do.
The Prison Tower stood as a vault of dreadful memories for Mary; it was here that the days leading to her execution unfolded, long ago. Her death, later covered up by the Alessians, became the silent decay that eroded them from within, slowly but surely. She agreed to follow Cura, but knew it was not going to be an easy journey.
As far as Sir Amiel was concerned, it was a place he'd heard terrible rumours of: a prison laden with countless deadly traps and hateful guards. Nobody in the immediate area of Coldharbour desired to be dragged there.
The group fended off a horde of Alessian Knights and Flame-hurdling priests as they made their way through the hopeless expanse below which led them to a large cell block area.
"The Prison Keeper - Warden Uighool..." Sabrina began. "A cruel son of a mother, that one is. I hope somebody else came in an' took him out long ago so we won't have to see him."
Sir Amiel looked to the Pailune Healer with a touch of concern. "What did he do to you, Sabrina?"
"Had me flogged and hung in a cage over a nothing pit for three weeks before they sent me to a cell to rot." Sabrina admitted. "They have a sense of humour, you see. Why try someone in the courts when you could just do whatever you want to anybody at any time? Dirty bastards!"
Cura was disgusted by what she was hearing. No wonder the Alessians were a good fit in Coldharbour.
Sir Amiel shook his head with disgust. "Awful. I truly say to you that I am glad our society has evolved into what it became over millennia."
Varla looked down to his mother. "This is the tower where the Alessians ordered you kept?" a hollow anger welled up in him as he assessed their surroundings. He had detested the Emperor and the Alessian Order for some time before he retired from their cause. This made him detest them further.
Mary nodded, though she walked forward with her eyes closed, as she would rather not see the place again. Cura noted her reaction and recognized the harsh stonework herself from her shared vision.
Sabrina turned to Cura. "And now you see why I didn't give two shakes of a Rat's tail about lettin' the plague roam free down there. Those soulless cowards would stick anyone down here - back then and even now. Just so you know they locked me up in one of the cells down the upper hall, there." she pointed down a dimly lit corridor with dismal sconces on the wall and raised her finger above the ceiling to hint at the next floor. "I'll never forget where it was - I charted this place down to memory. I picked the lock and escaped, though. Bastards." she spat on the floor.
"Why did you get locked up?" Cura asked the plague doctor out of curiosity. Sabrina was a sketchy individual, for certain, but she did not strike Cura as a downright criminal. How could she have done something to merit torture?
"Because I can't shut my mouth sometimes." Sabrina confessed. "Crazy, I know. But anyway, it is what it is. I was in the Imperial city ten years ago, and I told a weird knight in silver and blue armour that his helmet looked like a toothpick. Well, turns out it was Emperor Gorieus."
"You would do that, wouldn't you." Sir Amiel remarked dryly as they walked the desolate halls.
"It is not wise to insult the Emperor - Khajiit is surprised this one only was imprisoned." came a raspy voice from around the corner. The group turned around and saw, sitting around a pile of rubble, a Khajiit in a roughspun tunic sitting on a small carpet. His fur was taupe-coloured with tigerlike stripes on his cheeks. There were bottles of skooma on the upturned stones piled up behind him.
Adjacent to him was a small, circular room with a ladder leading upwards.
"Oh! Hello." Cura greeted him. It was nice to see yet another lucid figure who appeared non-hostile.
"Ja'zahn will bargain with you. For cheap!" the Khajiit directed her gaze to the satchel laying on the rocks beside him.
Cura looked around for a second, and her allies elected to wait patiently, though Sir Amiel remained close and vigilant. "Sure. What do you have?"
He laid out some of his wares on the carpet. Even if he was dwelling in the realm of the damned, he still had enough spirit to maintain his profession. In a way, Cura found it admirable. On the carpet, there were different kinds of alcoholic beverages, moldy bread, rotten vegetables, a few rusted swords and shields, and a small assortment of jewelry. One in particular caught her attention: a white ring with a catlike figure emblazoned on it. "Ooh, this one looks interesting. What is it?"
"Ah, this one has taken an interest in the White Cat Ring." Ja'zahn exposited. "A very useful enchantment exists on this ring: it can protect one from getting hurt too badly in a fall."
Sabrina scoffed maliciously, noting Cura's clumsiness around steep areas. "Sure would help her, I think."
Varla spun around and glared sternly at the Redguard. "Shut up. We will never speak of that again." Mary took him by the arm and gave him a gentle, but firm tug to try and restrain him in case of violence.
"I don't even know what "that" is." Sabrina raised her brow. "This woman has two left feet."
Cura scoffed and rolled her eyes as she attempted to ignore the bickering in the back. Another piece of jewelry looked similar, but the cat was scarlet-coloured. "And this one?"
"The Red Cat Ring. It will make your fists into thunderous hammers - striking your enemies with mightier blows!" Ja'zahn punched his open palm as he said it.
Cura was intrigued. "How much is it?"
"It can be yours for the low, low price of 603 gold." Ja'zahn said proudly.
"603 gold?!" Cura was taken aback by the steepness. "I can't afford that. Sorry."
"Then too bad for this one." Ja'zahn crossed his arms. "This price is final. Take it or hit the dusty road."
"Why would you even need gold in Coldharbour?" Cura marveled at the absurdity. This was a domain of the damned, not the bustling streets of Whiterun!
"Ja'zahn has always traded his wares in the Imperial city, the Waterfront District, and he used to go to many more places before the Gray Army of boring losers came in." the merchant proudly explained. "There is an economy to be found even in this place."
Sir Amiel tapped her on the shoulder. "He speaks true; I have seen him enter the Blacksmith's Shop before. And Tele Village when it was inhabited twenty years ago."
"Well - good luck to you, then. You seem to know what you're doing - you'll find a better client." Cura wished the Khajiit well.
"No - good luck to this one. She will need it. Heh, heh, heh..." Ja'zahn snickered to himself before lowering his head to the floor as the group passed him by. He stole one look at Mary as she walked past him. "And this one is free? This is nice to see. Even Ja'zahn thinks the Alessians were monsters."
Varla lifted Korn off the floor and allowed the wolf to ride his back as he climbed up after Mary and the others.
They found themselves in a confusing mess of a twisted corridor with several different directions to choose from. Left, right, back, who could say? Cura took a chance and headed to the right. Immediately, her foot sprung a tripwire, but Sir Amiel yanked her backwards before the spiked iron door could hit her in the face.
"Thank you." Cura grit her teeth as she observed the close proximity of the steel to her nose. Her vision had been growing blurry as exhaustion was settling in. Even as a spirit, it appeared her influence was limited.
Bones were heaped in the room's center, and sand dunes rose along the walls. The space felt less like a prison tower and more like a tomb, a sentiment that could extend to Coldharbour itself.
Suddenly, Cura was assaulted by grotesque skeletal creatures resembling Chaurus, echoing the memories of Fort Verin. With a cry and an instinctive swing, her Dawnbreaker sword gleamed through the air and lodged in the creature's maw. Its detonation illuminated additional horrors lurking within the bone heaps, now consumed by brilliant azure flames.
Mary casted a powerful Light spell which illuminated the area and reduced the fiendish skeletons to dust. Korn, who stood beside her, had eyes glowing golden as she performed this miracle.
The group ascended the steep stairs and left the bone pit. There was a table nearby with a lump of flesh and a book, as well as a lantern and some faded bloodstains.
Cura took the book and cringed at the title. "The Art of the Ayleids." Oh; if it was what she was thinking of, she would launch this evil book. She really would. She dared open it and read the contents therein:
"The Art of the Ayleids
by Jhunal
(This book discusses the subject of the Ayleid flesh art. Here is an excerpt from a part of it, "The Captivity of the Nedes.")
... Therefore, the Ayleids feared their slaves would revolt. They began attacking their Nedic slaves; they burned down their homes, cut down the men, assaulted the women and children, nailed their prisoners to the wall by the ears, left them hanging overnight, and finally strangled them in the morning. To describe such brutal behavior as "bestial" is a terrible insult to the actual beasts, as a beast could never imitate such skillful and artistic acts of cruelty. Even the trolls merely tear their victims apart; nailing them to the wall by the ears would be unthinkable to the trolls, even were they capable of such an act.
The Ayleids often acted especially deviant when tormenting the children. They used to cut out unborn children from their mothers' wombs, and in the worst cases, they would even throw the infants into the air and catch them on their swords, all before their mothers' eyes. Perhaps performing such acts in front of the mothers was precisely what gave so much pleasure..."
The vision of the demonic relief witnessed in Pelinal's recollection lingered in her thoughts, a stark image evoked by the text she read. The Bard had termed it "guts beneath the bloody rain," a phrase that puzzled her. It was difficult to comprehend the allure of such a macabre spectacle.
"Evil, despicable bastards." Cura spat as she spun around furiously and hurled the book over the edge. Sir Amiel watched as it fell into the bone pit. She looked at Mary and Varla. "Your Era was a rough one. I promise you, the Fourth Era is much better, comparatively. You'll see. I hope my friends deal with the Daedra issue there before we arrive... and I hope it's the same as I left it..."
"It doesn't sound much better to me, if that's the case." Varla shrugged his shoulders.
"We don't have Flesh Art." Cura assured him with a sneer. The closest thing she'd ever seen to it was the horror inside of Hjerim during the days she spent hunting the Butcher with Lydia, Inigo and Mjoll. Compared to all that she's experienced since that point, that was barely an afterthought at this point. "Not like that winged filth that Umaril did with the guts and the hands and the chains and- "
Mary regarded Cura with suspicion as she recounted the details. How could Cura have such knowledge? Instinctively, Mary's hand rose to her concealed eye. "The Body Art of Abagarlas, indeed..." she murmured. The Ayleids' reputation for cruelty and sadism was well-known.
"Erm... well, let's move on. We're going to the Imperial city. We'll talk when we're safer." Cura beckoned her allies to follow her as she advanced.
Atop the tower, the ceiling finally emerged; from its lofty heights, numerous cages dangled. Skeletons, left to decay, were suspended within, looming over a square precipice cordoned off for the wardens' protection, with Gargoyles perched on the corners of the fences. Along the walls there were more cell blocks, and an Alessian Knight roamed the area clad in ebony armour. No sooner did he notice the group than Varla barreled towards him and sundered him in half. His upper half plummeted down the pit - the drop so steep that the sound of him hitting the ground went unheard.
The group made their way down two floors, and Sabrina guided them to the cell she had escaped from. Next to it was a cell with a hole in the wall, which brought her joy. "Great - these fools haven't noticed it! Unbelievable!" she exclaimed, laughing and skipping over to it mockingly. "You can picture my delight at discovering this in the cell next door when I needed a hiding spot from the guards!"
"It is quite convenient, I must say." Sir Amiel mused. He stopped in his tracks as he began to hear the sound of humming coming from the floor below them. He held up a hand to silence any sound as he listened. "Hold it... that hum... that is quite familiar! It can't be..."
Cura raised her brow. "What is it, Sir Amiel?"
The rusted Knight turned to Sabrina. "The source is below us. We must locate it."
The plague doctor shrugged her shoulders. "Sure thing - the hole in the wall is an easy way to get there, actually. Follow me!"
She led them into the cell and through the immediate crevice to the left, over the pile of collapsed stones.
Navigating through, they came across a pair of Soul-Shriven wielding battleaxes. The foes were quickly overcome, and the party followed Sabrina down to the next level, moving along the twisting passageways.
"If only it could have been so convenient in my time." Mary mused as she ducked under a jagged stone. "The guards were so very cruel. They would flog prisoners as they dragged them to their cages. And there, they would either burn them, or watch them day-by-day as they starved and slowly went mad from fear. At certain times they would drop the cage so suddenly as prisoners slept, so as to frighten them awake." She shuddered. "Just awful."
"Did they treat you that way?" Varla asked, squeezing through a narrow gap between two stone walls. The displeasure on his face was evident, reflecting the mounting hatred for the Empire he had once served.
"No - I was blessed in that regard." Mary admitted. "I was merely wrangled and thrown into a small cell in one of the mid-level floors."
Sabrina sidled against the stone wall to the left so as to avoid a tight space as they passed through collapsed stone. "You're pretty powerful, Mary - I've seen what you can do. How in Oblivion did the Alessians capture you?"
"My power comes from Lady Mara." Mary explained. "Alone, I am nothing. Korn, my protector, was separated from me at the time when the Alessians came for me. They raided my shack and took me from my baby, and laid several slanderous accusations against me because of a boy who I'd cured of the plague. He convinced people that I was the Avatar of Mara, and people grew sensational. I... I accepted their donations. Other followers of the Divines and myself had spearheaded a project to build what we called 'The Tower of Fate'. Oue intention was to reach the gods, and to commune with them. To have a place high enough to see them, to prove their existence in Aetherius, so that maybe, just maybe people would return to them and leave their Daedra worship behind. The Alessians were not happy with it. And that was the end of it."
"Are you the Avatar of Mara?" inquired Sir Amiel, offering his assistance as she navigated across the angled stones.
"No, certainly not. I believe I would be aware if that were the case," Mary said, dismissing the idea with a laugh. "The Divines do not assume mortal forms, with the exception of Shezarr. He is an exception because he lost his original form. He roams as a spirit, it is said, after his heart was ripped from his chest and his blood spilled on the Diamond."
Halting abruptly, Cura laid her hand upon the doorframe, her thoughts wandering to the Dragon Soul that had devoured Martin Septim. It dwelt within the Amulet of Kings, the very Dragon Soul that was now hers.
The Dragon Soul which burned hot with light to rival the sun - Auri-El's power. Akatosh had to have blessed it, at the very least.
"What do you know about the Chim-El-Adabal?" Cura asked an open question as they traversed the empty hall. The information about it was spinning her mind. "Growing up, I learned that it was created by Akatosh as a gift to St. Alessia, along with a covenant to keep Oblivion at bay as long as a Dragonborn Emperor sat upon the throne."
"Legends and songs from the Second Era provide various theories regarding the origin of the Red Diamond. One legend suggests that the Chim-el Adabal crystalized from a drop of blood that fell from the Heart of Lorkhan during his defeat by Akatosh and Trinimac. This blood drop fell into an Ayleid Well, where its magicka transformed it into a potent red crystal. The Ayleids then crafted this crystal into the magnificent gem known as the Red Diamond." Sir Amiel recounted a tale that echoed Mary's earlier suggestion. As he stroked his chin, attempting to remember further details, he reflected on his duty as the Knight of Akatosh. He had made it his mission to learn all he could about the renowned Amulet, which had sparked the war that ultimately led to the downfall of his order.
He continued, "After the breakup of the Alessian Empire, the Amulet of Kings was lost amid chaotic civil wars and looting. Legend has it that King Hrol tracked down the spirit of Saint Alessia, who wore the Amulet of Kings around her neck. Their union resulted in the rise of Sancre Tor, a hill where the infant Reman Cyrodiil was found, wearing the amulet on his brow. The Amulet of Kings regained prominence during the Reman dynasty, lending legitimacy to their rule."
The idea of it being an Ayleid creation disturbed Cura. No - it was a gift of Akatosh! Not the blood of Shezarr. Though, the more she ruminated upon it, the more it began to sound like just the sort of thing the Alessians would say to justify the diamond being in human hands. Who wrote "The Trials of Saint Alessia," anyway?
Cura's eyes darted back and forth as she began to consider what the Alessians themselves had thought of Shezarr and Akatosh - the two being linked in some facet, and Akatosh endorsing Shezarr. But Auri-El tore out his heart! And Auri-El was Akatosh! They were the same being, but his Elven nature was expunged by the Alessians.
"Aka, what have they done to you?" Cura whispered to herself as a profound sadness gripped her heart. They tore the god of time in half, essentially - destroyed a part of himself. What remained? Akatosh became a Man and a Dragon, shedding what remained of his Elvish heritage.
This Akatosh, Dragon, shed blood on the Amulet of Kings and blessed Alessia with the Dragonblood. His covenant was true, for certain, as the assassination of Emperor Uriel Septim led to the Oblivion Crisis. Martin DID break the Amulet - that was why she was here to get it - Alessia bore her Amulet from another time, caused by the Dragon Breaks. Cura was to gain it from her, as Reman had.
"The Mythic Era will not be over. Not until the Tainted Blood of Ada still remains in the world... like yours... and mine."
The voice of Umaril the Unfeathered resounded in her mind. What was the Blood of Ada, anyways? Blood shed by the spirits, like Shezarr in this case? But how could it be tainted?
And if the Et'Ada could shed blood, then her having "Dragonblood" could be perhaps more literal than she thought. After all, was it not this odd blood in her that granted her mortal body connection to her Dragon Soul?
A cold sweat beaded on her forehead.
She too was prone to bouts of madness and aggression. Was she like Pelinal and Umaril in this regard?
Akatosh was once an amalgam of man, mer, and Dragon.
Cura was an amalgam of man, mer, and Dragon. Was that why the Dragon Soul chose her? Why she was led to wield Auriel's Bow, which was mounted upon her back, even now? Why the Falmer knelt before her?
Pelinal's words echoed in her mind: "I am the saviour of mankind - the wrath of Shor made manifest! The madness of Aka, and cleanser of elvenkind!"
Wrath of Shor - Madness of Aka.
It was tantamount to saying: Wrath of Shezarr - Madness of Akatosh.
Or, Wrath of Lorkhan - Madness of Auri-El.
Inquisitor Pepe had said that Akatosh and Shezarr were one - inextricably linked. His words were: "Akatosh is the One. Shezarr is Akatosh." and, "Akatosh is time is Proper-Life is Taint-Death."
What did this mean? The thoughts were causing her to grow dizzy. She had to take a moment to lean against the wall before continuing on her walk.
Proper-Life, Taint-Death.
Could it refer to the transition from death, due to the world's corruption, leading to eternal life outside of Mundus? Once, all Wandering Ehlnofey lived eternally. The creation of Mundus was said to have expunged this immortality.
Also, if Akatosh were driven to such violence against the Elves, that could have been Shezarr, the Spirit of Man, influencing his anger against his own people. He was not yet separated from Auri-El - the Alessians managed that by cursing the Red Diamond with the Red Stone of Molag Bal and their unified dance on the rebuilt Tower of Fate.
Cura's eyes widened.
The world existed, and Lorkhan was gone at that point, but Pelinal - Pelinal was the Shezzarine! He bore both the aspect of Shezarr and of Akatosh, or at least, was sent by him to defeat the elven kings.
The Shezzarine was a mediator between Akatosh and himself. He carried both aspects within himself. Right?
The more Cura learned, the more ignorant she became.
Beneath the floor lay a square pit filled with spikes, cages dangling above. Cura found it superfluous, especially after the precipitous drop earlier. What would come next? A square pool teeming with Slaughterfish, with cages hung above it?
Sir Amiel, attuned to the sound of humming, directed the group to a cell adjacent to theirs, encircling the square pit. Circling it, they reached the designated cell, where they observed a knight. His round helmet sat atop a suit of plated, rusted gray armor. He hummed a cheerful melody, indulging in a bottle of brandy.
When he saw Cura approach first, he seemed of sound mind. "Hmm. Hmm. Hmm?" He scanned the figure before her. "Oh! Pardon me, milady. I was singing a jolly old tune: Bless Me, oh Fallen One. I am waiting for my friends, you see. Hmm. Hmm."
"I've never heard of that song before." Cura mused.
"It is a song of good old Cyrodiil! An ode to Shezzar, they say!" the captive Knight exclaimed happily. "Bless me, oh fallen one, forgive me my sin. Come throught that quiet light, within. Hope has forsaken me, I linger here in shame. Grant me my wish, set me free!"
Sir Amiel came up from behind Cura and approached the cell bars and continued the song. "Hold me, oh sacred one, lest night never ends! Grace me that blessed light, I pray to your perfect star. Save me, oh quiet one, my life let it fade away. Promise my soul will find peace."
The caged Knight nearly leapt upon seeing him. "Sir Amiel! I do not believe it!"
"Sir Henrik!" Sir Amiel shook his hand through the bars. "It has been too long since last we've met."
"Indeed it has!" Sir Henrik chuckled as he elevated joyfully. "What have you been doing these many cycles?"
"Wandering aimlessly, my friend. 'Tis nothing but a wasteland encompassing us." Sir Amiel admitted regretfully. He turned to Cura, though, and graciously introduced her to another of his former cohorts. "Dragonborn, this is Sir Henrik, Knight of Julianos."
"Wow! The Sir Henrik! It's an honour!" Cura shook his hand, as well. The jovial Knight was graceful and chivalrous.
"The pleasure is all mine, my lady." Sir Henrik took her hand and kissed the top of it. "A Dragonborn? Now that is interesting. Are you a descendant of Emperor Uriel Septim III, perhaps?"
"No. I'm unrelated to the Septim Dynasty." Cura shook her head. "I... was chosen by Akatosh to avert a disaster in my time, is all."
"It is never as simple as that, hmm." Sir Henrik stated. "If it were, you would have disappeared once the deed was complete. I can see great things in you, Dragonborn. Julianos' wisdom shows me your light. 'Tis all well and good that you are unrelated to his majesty long past - after all, Saint Alessia and Emperor Reman were both Dragonborns, as well. My god tells me that your purpose is one of paramount importance on Nirn. I wish you good fortune in the age to come!"
"You're close to Julianos, then!" Cura was surprised by the comment.
"Though we went our separate ways when the Order fell, we all served the Nine in our hearts. All but one..." Sir Henrik stated. "Sir Berich, that blasted fool. Hmm. Hmm. Hmm. He slew Sir Caius at the foot of the Priory steps. A blasphemy unheard of..."
Cura rerouted the conversation. "I plan to liberate as many people as I can from Coldharbour, and I intend to slay Molag Bal. Would you join me in this endeavour?"
"Hmm?" Sir Henrik scanned her and her party. "Hmmmmm. Perhaps, perhaps not. Not at this time, but maybe later. I wish to rest. There are many battles ahead and I have fought many to arrive here."
"Have you seen Sir Caius, Sir Henrik?" Sir Amiel inquired. "He was said to be below the Prison tower, according to Sir Casimir, but he wandered."
"Hmm? Oh, he lied to you. Ha, ha!" Sir Henrik laughed. "Sir Caius dons Sir Casimir's armour now."
Sir Amiel was confused. "I beg your pardon? Why would he do that?"
"Because when a Knight defeats another in a duel and shames him, it is only right to strip him of his armour." Sir Henrik admitted. "It was a brief encounter, but quick enough that I fled before I could lose mine, as well."
"But that makes no sense!" Sir Amiel snapped at his old ally. Why would one knight strike his brother in arms for his armour?
"Take a look at yourself, Sir Amiel. Your armour is rusted, as well. I am sure you covet a better armour, yourself, do you not? Hmm." Sir Henrik proposed.
"Sir Caius is not a covetous man." Sir Amiel denied.
"Coldharbour changes men. Where danger sprawls every corner, rusted armour is brittle as throwing a dagger upon the mountain stones." Sir Henrik explained morosely. "'Tis why I prefer to keep to myself. Though I do miss the Order. Perhaps later, I will change, as well, and I will be ready to assist. But for the moment, I wish to be left to my Brandy. 'Twas great to see you again, Sir Amiel - and it is wonderful that you have found a purpose. I wish you well, until we meet again."
Sir Amiel was unhappy to see his old friend in such a state, but he could not force him to join them. "Farewell for now, my friend. I do hope our paths will cross again."
"Mm-hmm." Sir Henrik responded happily as he raised his bottle.
After ascending more and more stairs arcing around the squarelike perimeter, they came upon the piece de resistance: a narrow bridge with a trap sprung of saw cleavers swinging back and forth, with a steep drop on either side. Cura slowly clapped her hands. "I would expect nothing less at this point."
Sir Amiel raised his hand. "I volunteer, my lady. There is no reason for the Dragonborn to wound herself here."
Cura shook her head. She cherished Sir Amiel - if there was even a small chance that he could be killed by this trap, she would find another way. "No - I won't put you through that." she examined the swinging blades and realized that they only went so high. "I suppose I could crawl along on my stomach and be okay..."
"Madness, my lady!" Sir Amiel protested the notion. "You are the Dragonborn, and I am expendable. I must - "
Cura spun around and pushed him back lightly. "No! You're not expendable! Don't talk like that!" The others around her were surprised by her sudden, and very strong, reaction. But she was entirely serious about it.
No sooner did she say it than Korn made a fast dash for the bridge. "Korn?!"
With agile grace, the white wolf dodged the deadly blades and sprang towards a pull chain affixed to the wall. Clenching it firmly in her jaws, she yanked it downward. As a result, the menacing blades retracted into their resting positions, securing the path ahead.
"ARF! ARF!" Korn called out, urging her companions to follow her to safety on the other side.
"That is one smart pup," Sabrina observed with astonishment, and Mary let out a laugh. She was well aware that Korn was not just any wolf. Indeed, if Korn were ordinary, Pelinal would never have chosen her to aid her.
Varla was equally astonished. "I could never train my Hounds to behave in such a manner..." Despite his efforts, his Hounds invariably became bloodthirsty and obstinate, mirroring his own nature.
After some wandering through the labyrinthine tower, they fought more Alessian Knights, a Daedroth, and eventually a demonic skeleton who wielded two katana blades, which leapt through a cell door, slamming it on Cura as she walked past.
Varla dispatched the fiend by parrying its strike with his dagger and impaling its face with his sword. "Cunning bastards! I didn't realize there were any more after the Graymarch closed in, but I guess I was wrong."
"Skeleton Demons." Sir Amiel corroborated. "Sneaky, swift, and brutal."
Cura rubbed her nose. "Ow... that's for sure."
As they navigated through a narrow, twisting corridor, they emerged onto a broader bridge, once again encircled by pendulous blades, with cages suspended over the chasm flanking the bridge's edges.
"I'm starting to believe Molag Bal has a fetish for generic traps," Cura confessed, unimpressed. It brought back memories of Dustman's Cairn, among other ruins. She signaled for the others to follow and guided them safely through the traps. It was all too familiar to her; she just pondered the absence of a poisonous dart trap, spinning propeller blades, or even a classic hidden blowtorch.
At the end of the long bridge, there was a corridor leading to a wide opening advancing towards a large set of doors. Sabrina pointed at the doors. "There! That's the exit."
"There's a trap there somewhere - I'm sure of it." Cura remarked as she passed the braziers lining the small vestibule.
The unlikely band of allies stood at the tower's final chamber leading to the exit, their resolve unwavering. Cura gripped Dawnbreaker tightly, its holy light pulsing in anticipation. Beside her, Sabrina, the Pailune healer, whispered prayers to the Divines as she knew that beyond that door some monstrosity awaited them.
Sabrina, the agile rogue, adjusted her daggers, eyes scanning for additional traps. Korn, the Wolf, growled low, her fur bristling with anticipation. Sir Amiel, the Knight, raised his sword, the blade catching the torchlight. And Varla, the Man-Hunter, fingered the hilt of his parrying knife as his eyes peered around the area.
Their focus shifted to the room's center, where a Soul-Shriven stood on a long, khaki-green carpet, flanked by a row of columns leading to the door. Upon spotting Cura, he extended his hand towards her, seemingly in warning, only to be suddenly obliterated by a large figure that descended from an overhead ledge.
Author's Note: "Vigilant Ost - VS Prison Keeper" for this fight
He was a detestable undead giant, with decaying flesh draped over his desiccated muscles, and his arms shackled in cage-like vambraces. His helmet, akin to a Pickelhaube, sported not one spike but a spiked mohawk instead. A brown loincloth, tied around his waist, served as his sole garment. The monstrosity towering over them was a ghastly perversion of life. Clutched in his enormous hand was a broad rapier-like lance, skewering a body at its midpoint.
"The Keeper!" Sabrina cried out with terror as the fiend swung the body loose of his blade and it crashed against the wall nearby. She quickly ran behind a large pillar.
"Don't call this thing "Keeper." There's only one "Keeper" I know and she certainly would not want to be compared to that." Cura chided her comrade as she drew her weapon. "Prepare yourselves," Cura commanded, her voice unwavering. "This abomination will not escape justice."
"This is Warden Uighool." Mary informed the group. "His cruelty was unmatched and his love for torment infamous." Though she was fortunate to have evaded his sights back in her day due to her submissiveness to her captors, the sounds of his victims' torment rung through the halls, day and night
The Prison Keeper's mostly-hidden eyes glowed with malevolence as he charged, the ground trembling beneath his weight. Cura met him head-on, Dawnbreaker blazing with righteous fire. Their clash echoed through the tower, sparks flying as blade met blade. His weight caused Cura to be flung backwards, but Sir Amiel picked up the slack, dashing ahead and pushing back with his claymore.
Sabrina quickly moved to Mary's side at the rear, confident that she would empathize with her reluctance to confront the dark warden. "Do you mind if I keep you company here?" she asked.
Mary responded with a reassuring shake of her head. "Fear not; my light shall drive him away," she declared, and with a swift motion, she unleashed a burst of Sunfire, searing the creature's hide.
The Prison Keeper stumbled backwards as soot fell from his waist. He roared with fury and stampeded towards them, only to be knocked back by Varla's swift tackle. "Stay away from her!" the dark knight grunted as he knocked the beast backwards.
Seizing the opportunity, Korn lunged at the giant's legs, teeth sinking into decayed flesh. Warden Uighool slapped the wolf away and swung his sword at the Man-Hunter. Varla parried blow after blow, his armor denting but holding. He danced around the edges, striking with deadly precision.
The Prison Keeper roared, swinging his lance in wide arcs. Cura dodged, retaliating with swift strikes. Her blade cut through the undead flesh, searing it with holy fire. But the giant was relentless, pushing her back.
"Sabrina!" Cura shouted. "His helmet! Aim for the eye slit"
"Er, right!" Sabrina nodded, her dagger finding its mark. She aimed with great precision and hurled the poisoned knife through the air like a dart, and the Prison Keeper staggered, momentarily disoriented as it made its mark in his cheek. Cura seized the opportunity, plunging Dawnbreaker into his chest. The giant let out a final, anguished cry before collapsing in a burst of blue fire.
The room fell silent, the torches flickering as if in approval. Cura wiped putrid blood from her blade, breathing heavily. Mary tended to the allies' wounds, and Cura retrieved a red gem from the giant's remains - a gem that pulsed with dark energy. She could feel the warmth of it in her palm increasing before it burst and its energy was absorbed into her body.
The world grew dark and Cura could feel the presence of Molag Bal again - briefly. His face flashed before her eyes and then vanished. And then a faint whisper took his place, and the vision that greeted her in the dark corridor of the Void, before entering Coldharbour: the amalgam of skeletons concealed in a black shroud of smoke peered directly into her. Its dark, raspy, distorted and broken voice reached her. "You are close... so very close to us all... the Chapel of Orkey lies... in the North... curse you... bless you... wandering one..." With those stark, haunting words, the vision faded.
She was stunned for that brief moment but quickly regained her senses. "We've done it," Cura said, her gaze placed upon her allies.
A key had fallen from the Prison Keeper's belt, and the group surmised that it led to the exit door, obvious as it was.
And so, the unlikely band of heroes pressed forward, deeper into the Prison Tower of Coldharbour, ready to face whatever horrors awaited them. But Cura looked directly to Mary, and handed the gentle Priestess the key. "Here, Mary; you should be the one to do this." she offered kindly.
The ashen-haired Breton ogled the key in her gentle hands and her heart fluttered. She looked to the large, oppressive doors. "This Prison Tower was where I, and many who shared our faiths, died. Persecuted under Alessian rule. We never saw the light of day again." she turned around to see her son, and to see Korn. Both nodded to her, and she boldly clasped the key. She pushed it into the lock and gave it a firm twist, and the lock gave way.
The doors opened, and the light of the gray sun shone bright, filling their space and opening to the wide expanse of the Imperial city.
Gentle dust blew around them due to the wind tunnel created by the opened doors - evidently they'd been closed for many years. Outside, Mirabelle and Savos waited for their arrival, and appeared greatly relieved to see them.
"I'm... free." Mary gazed at her hands, then lifted her eyes to the heavens. In that fleeting moment, she was transported back in time: she saw the undulating green hills, the amber waves of wheat, a soft shower of feathers, and Korn bounding across the meadows with young Varla in tow. The Tower, sought by her kin, stood majestic and resplendent, touched by the Divine. Lines of people, hopeful for healing, stretched before it. All this lay beyond the walls of the prison tower. And there, a solitary bench with a lute that played unattended, while Korn, with a joyful pant, awaited her return.
The kind woman turned towards Cura, gratitude shining in her eyes. "Thank you, Cura. Thank you so much," she said, her smile broadening as the final traces of her sadness which bound her were erased. She spun on her heel and embraced the Vigilant with a show of gratitude.
It was a nice feeling for Cura - she'd sundered her last link to Coldharbour. She reciprocated the embrace, and hoped that she could do so for more people. She then admired their surroundings: the broken city was not entirely what she was expecting, but not out-of-place here. She wondered if it bore any real resemblance to the true Imperial City, where Lucien came from.
Mirabelle cleared her throat. "I trust the Prison Tower was not too difficult for you to traverse. Good, that's good." After all, it was a place with quite the reputation.
Savos Aren agreed. "We've waited for you for quite some time - I take it that it wasn't all that easy regardless."
"It had its share of traps and foul tidings." Cura responded simply. "But it wasn't anything I haven't seen before."
"You did traverse the Labyrinthian, so I, frankly, am not surprised." Savos responded humorously.
Varla spun around to face his new liege, his expression one of sheer astonishment. "The Labyrinthian? In earnest? You ventured into the very heart of Archmagus Shalidor's famed Great Maze?"
Cura nodded. "I did."
Varla was very surprised to hear this. His gaze fixed on the Spellbreaker around her arm, an echo to the battle of Shalidor against the Rourken Clan in tales long told. Did she really even need him, then?
"I need to rest a bit, Cura. Sorry." Sabrina requested of the Dragonborn. "There's some abandoned houses just a little up the road. Emperor Gorieus' Charnel is a little west of here, and I'd rather rest where he can't see me." She pointed to what appeared to be a very tall brick building off in the distance, its spires stretching to the gloomy skies, visible over the immediate buildings.
Cura agreed. "I think resting for a while would be a good idea. We've all been through a lot. Sandstorms, a Vampire Lord..."
"The Thrassian Plaaaaague... dark memoriiieees... Volaaar..." Sabrina began to count on her hand. "Varlaaa, Vernaccus... the Deadlaaaands... Dyiiiing... Pelinaaal... maybe you need more rest than I do, actually, Cura."
Mirabelle agreed, seconding the notion. "Indeed; you have gone through quite a lot. It would be a wise idea to rest for a time. You do, after all, have eternity at your fingertips."
Savos Aren opened the door to a nearby house. "This house is abandoned. Surely there will be a bed to rest in. I agree with Mirabelle and your new friend. You've been pushing yourself quite hard. Even for you."
Mary also agreed. "Yes; you give so much of yourself to others, Cura. Let us take care of you for a time." Next to her, Korn barked at Cura, as though agreeing with the others.
"The longer I rest, the longer Molag Bal remains," Cura protested.
"You won't defeat him with your face planted on the ground." Varla pointed out. "Don't be foolish; Coldharbour is perilous - wandering through it half-asleep is a certain path to death."
Cura relented. "I suppose you're right. I was quite disoriented back in the Prison Tower. Some rest would be a good idea." She had no clear rebuttal, given that she had nearly sprung a couple of easily-avoidable traps on herself. Perhaps resting was the best course of action.
The group retreated into the desolate house, where they were greeted with the sight of a couple of dead corpses laying against the western wall, covered in dust. Cura walked up the stairs and found a bed to lie in. Her allies made themselves comfortable, eager to rest their legs for a while as well after their ordeals.
Cura rested her head briefly, feeling an object press against her left arm as she leaned on the wall. It was a book. Curiosity piqued, she pondered the terrors that might lurk within its pages as she examined the title: "The Withering of Delodiil." Opening it carefully, she was met with a burst of dust assaulting her face, eliciting a loud sneeze before she peered at the text.
"The Whithering of Delodiil
by Unknown
There was, in those days, a city in the Heartland, Delodiil by name. And it was a city of pleasant promenades, of learned scholars, of meticulous artisans, and of lissome dancers. And also did Delodiil have warriors fierce and proud, who protected the promenades, and the scholars, and the artisans, and the dancers. And though the warriors were few, they were bold.
Now the people of Delodiil worshiped many gods, for they were devout and held all the Divines in reverence. But above all others they did venerate the Lady of Light, building for Merid-Nunda a chapel of colored rays and beams, which was for glory like a piece of Aetherius brought down to the mortal world. And the people of Delodiil were proud thereon.
But across the valley was another city, Abagarlas, which was to the darkness as Delodiil was to the light. Now Abagarlas had as many citizens as Delodiil, but few were dancers, artisans, and scholars, because most were warriors fierce and proud. These warriors were lent to other states and cities for the making of war in return for wealth. And thus did Abagarlas, in its own way, prosper.
Now the King of Abagarlas saw the chapel of lights that was the pride of Delodiil, and he said, "Is not Abagarlas as great a city as Delodiil? We shall have a great chapel of our own." And he decreed that much of the wealth of Abagarlas be spent in the building of a shrine to his own patron Divine, who was the Lord Mola Gbal. And the people of Abagarlas reared up a vast shrine to Mola Gbal, but they were but rude soldiers rather than artisans, and the shrine was misshapen, ill-colored, and burdensome to look upon. But it was, nonetheless, larger than Delodiil's chapel of lights, and thus the King of Abagarlas boasted that his city was greater therefore than Delodiil. But the people of Delodiil evinced no dismay, and went about their business as before.
And this unconcern of the Delodiils ate a hole into the heart of the King of Abagarlas, and he was vexed unto madness. He sent soldiers to profane the small shrine to Merid-Nunda in Abagarlas, and then went to his vast shrine to Mola Gbal, where he swore a mighty oath. And slaying a family of visiting Delodiils on the altar, the King vowed that he would gather his army, march across the valley, and capture all the Delodiils, sacrificing them to Mola Gbal within the chapel of lights.
And the King of Abagarlas mustered all his soldiers, and on a night in which the skies were lit by a furious racing aurora, he marched them across the valley to Delodiil. But when the King and his army arrived they found the land empty, for the city of Delodiil was gone, unto every brick!
And the King thought he heard laughter in the lights in the skies, mirth that turned to shrieks of fear that came, not from above, but from back across the valley. In haste the King marched his soldiers back to his city, but when they arrived at Abagarlas, they found it utterly destroyed as if by scorching light. And of the families of the soldiers and the King, nothing could be found but their shadows burnt into the walls of the city.
Thus Abagarlas. But of the fate of Delodiil, nothing more was known."
Daedra committing malevolent acts upon mortals is hardly a novel concept. This book might be the one to take to the Hall of the Vigilant upon her return. However, a particular detail in the text captured her attention: the citizens of Delodiil were pious, venerating all the Divines, including Meridia.
She perused the passage once more.
The inhabitants of Delodiil, the Ayleids, revered the Divines as well as Meridia. She was not only counted among them but also regarded as closely associated with them.
In that case, she would assuredly take the book to the Vigil. There have been instances where some Daedra were considered permissible. However, given its Ayleid origin, it might not cast her position in the best light, as far as she was aware.
The Ayleids of Abagarlas - those sick, twisted freaks, were decimated by Meridia's Aurorans because of what they'd done to the people of Delodiil.
It was all so much to take in.
Cura pondered the extent to which the Alessian Doctrines had influenced her upbringing and the veracity of her knowledge. The truth seemed elusive and shrouded in uncertainty. Despite the weight of these vexing thoughts preventing her from finding sleep, she resolved to rest and recover. Comforted by the presence of her allies, she was assured of a peaceful respite, secure from the threat of enemy assault.
She delved into her satchel and pulled out her old journal from her days in Winterhold. In need of an outlet before she could truly rest, she rolled onto her stomach, positioned the book on the pillow, and took a moment to write in its pages once again:
"The wind howled through the ancient stones of High Hrothgar, and I stood there, my heart heavy with the weight of destiny. The Greybeards had just taught me the final Word of Unrelenting Force and granted my initiation, and the echoes of their voices still reverberated in my mind.
Why me? Why had Akatosh chosen me to be the Dragonborn? Was it mere chance, or was there a deeper purpose?
Shezarr, the Missing God, whispered in the shadows of my thoughts. The god of man, the one who had sacrificed himself for creation. If the Alessians are to be believed, his blood perhaps flows in my veins, within the veins of a half-elven heritage that set me apart from both humans and elves. But what did it mean?
The legends spoke of Shezarr's connection to Lorkhan, the trickster deity who had shaped Nirn and then lost his heart in the creation of Mundus. Was I a vessel for their unfinished business? A pawn in their cosmic game?
And then there was Meridia. The Daedric Prince of Light, radiant and benevolent. She had taken an interest in me, her soft voice echoing in forgotten temples. "Dragonborn," she felt, "your soul is a prism, refracting the sun's rays."
What did Meridia want from me? Was I always a tool for her vengeance against the undead, or did she see something more from the day I touched her Beacon? Perhaps she sensed the duality within me - the mortal and the divine, perhaps the Shezarrine and the Dragonborn.
Or perhaps there was something else. Something that drew the Prince of Light to me. It was no mere happenstance that her Beacon would have been in Nchuand-Zel that fateful day when I traversed it with Lydia. Since arriving in Coldharbour I have been continually mistaken for a half-Ayleid. Is this perhaps due to their relation to Altmer, or perhaps something else? Did Meridia see an Ayleid spark within me?
Is Elenwen, my mother, a descendant of the surviving Ayleids? A terrifying thought, but a plausible one just the same. Was she of their legacy? Was she one of the last echoes of a fallen race? And, by extension, I, as well?
As I gazed at the Throat of the World back in those days, the snow swirling around me, deeply entrenched in the meditation of the Way of the Voice, I wondered if my purpose was to bridge the gap between gods and mortals. To wield the Thu'um not just as a weapon, but as a conduit for something greater.
The ancient prophecy foretold the return of Alduin, the World-Eater. Was it my destiny to halt his advance, or did the scrolls conceal a more profound truth? The answers evaded me, fleeting like wisps of smoke. Yet, one certainty anchored my resolve: I will carve out my own path. Whether under the guidance of Akatosh, Shezarr, Stendarr, or Meridia, my destiny is mine to shape.
For I am Vigilant Cura - the Dragonborn - and my soul burns with questions that could shake the very foundations of Nirn."