"The Last King of the Ayleids
by Herminia Cinna
Chronicles the downfall of the Ayleid Empire in the First Era
The Ayleids, or Heartland High Elves, ruled Cyrodiil in the long ages of Myth before the beginning of recorded history. One of the earliest recorded dates, in fact, is the Fall of White Gold Tower in 1E 243, which is commonly assumed to mark the end of the Ayleids.
Although Ayleid rule over all of Cyrodiil was indeed broken in 1E 243, this was only one of the most obvious stages near the end of a long decline. The first two centuries of the First Era saw increasing strife between the great Ayleid lords of Cyrodiil. Alessia appears to have taken advantage of a period of civil war to launch her uprising. Imperial historians have traditionally attributed her victory to intervention from Skyrim, but it appears that she had at least as much help from rebel Ayleid lords during the siege of White Gold Tower.
The popular image of the Ayleids as brutal slavemasters is based in fact, of course, but it is less well-known that a number of Ayleid princes continued to rule parts of Cyrodiil after 263, as vassals of the new Empress of Cyrodiil. This suggests either that Ayleid rule was not universally detested, or that Alessia and her successors were more pragmatic than is traditionally believed, or perhaps some of both.
In any event, excavations at a number of Ayleid sites show continued occupation and even expansion during the so-called Late Ayleid Period (1E 243 - c. 498). At first, many Ayleid lords continued to rule as vassals of the new human regime. In some cases, Ayleid supporters of Alessia were even rewarded with new lands taken from slain enemies. It is not clear to what extent human slavery continued under the Cyrodilic Empire. Humans continued to dwell in the Ayleid-ruled areas of Cyrodiil, but there is nothing definitive to show under what terms.
This was an uneasy relationship from the beginning, and was not destined to last long. Resentment at the continued presence of Ayleid nobles within the Empire was a contributing factor to the rise of the so-called Alessian Order founded by Marukh. The first victims of the Alessians were the Ayleids of Cyrodiil. In the early 300s, the surviving Ayleid communities in human-ruled areas were obliterated one by one, the refugees temporarily swelling the power of the remaining Ayleid lordships.
Then in 361, the Alessians gained control of the Empire and enforced the Alessian Doctrines throughout its domain. The Ayleid lordships were abolished. Enforcement of this decree does not appear to have required much direct violence - it seems that by this point the balance of power was so overwhelmingly against them, and their fate so long foreshadowed, that most of the remaining Ayleids simply left Cyrodiil, eventually being absorbed into the Elven populations of Valenwood and High Rock. Indeed, the rise of the Direnni Hegemony may be linked to this exodus of Ayleids from Cyrodiil (a connection so far little studied by historians).
Still, a remnant Ayleid population seems to have survived the rule of the Alessians, because we hear of "the last king of the Ayleids" joining the battle of Glenumbria Moors where the Dirennis decisively defeated the Alessians in 482. How this king's people survived the preceding century is unknown. We do not even know who they were, although recent research points to Nenalata as the possible resting place of this "last king." Unfortunately, in the current state of the Empire, funds are no longer available for proper scientific investigation of such extensive ruins, so the answer to these questions will have to be left to future generations."
While war preparations were being made in Windhelm, the Daedric Army stormed Kynesgrove, razing the buildings to the ground and tearing the trees apart.
Fire consumed the farm patches and houses were sacked and looted for whatever the people left behind.
Valkyn Methats was upset that there were none to kill here, now that they were mobilized once more.
Mehrunes Dagon stayed behind, preferring to send his legion first to herald his coming.
"Windhelm." the unvenerable beast spoke to his subordinates. "The mortals fled to Windhelm, believing that the high walls can save them. But they will not."
Valkyn Methats bowed his head. "Your will be done, my lord. We shall tear down the walls and destroy all who refuse to bend the knee to your greatness."
Mehrunes Dagon sneered and lifted his waraxes over his shoulders as he began to march again. He was no longer here to grant mercy, but to execute his judgment upon Tamriel.
It made little difference to him whether they died bowing or standing at this point. This filthy world should have ended with Alduin, that much he knew. But naturally, the Aedra, in their tenderheartedness, would delay the coming end again by sending forth a Dragonborn.
No more.
Their end is nigh. He would deliver death to the mortal plane himself.
Six Dragons watched alongside Paarthurnax from the mountains above as the Daedra army moved their way north.
"Krosis. Our enemies seek to destroy the jorre... the mortals." one of the Dragons stated to the elder as he peaked his head over the mountainside for a better view.
"Bo ah jaaril. We will fight them, for our Grah-zeymahzin, the Dragonborn." Paarthurnax declared.
"Druv hiif jul?" a Blood Dragon asked. "Why should we do anything to protect these mortals? Are we not doing right by staying out of their affairs?"
Paarthurnax crawled along the mountainside. "It is what Bormah desires. Bormah laan joor tahriik. We are children of Bormah - and Mehrunes Dagon is his sworn hokoron. Hokoron lingrah tiid."
The Dragons seemed to agree. Mehrunes Dagon was the longtime enemy of Akatosh. And he was now in Keizaal.
The Daedric Prince believed it simple, but what he really came upon was a war he would never forget.
"Vokras dilon. Deyra ru stin. Dovah nahlok Dovahkiin." Paarthurnax proposed in their tongue. "We will need to gather more of our brothers. Nel, su, zeymah hiif!"
"Onik, folov, rolur." another Dragon admitted. "You are wise, old one, and correct. I am in agreement. We fight to avenge Vokras the Dovahkiin!"
The Dragons roared in unison and began to descend the mountain, one by one. They soared like kites over the rugged terrain.
Cura stepped on the arid sands and looked at the environment beyond the Waterfront District. It was quite depressing, though nothing quite out of place.
The orange glow of the skies cast shadows above of crucified figures on the upper cliffside, hung on display to warn any who would venture onwards.
To the right were tall stones, and a blood-filled river.
Ahead was a large cliff with another portcullis to the left of it, and perched atop the cliff, staring at her directly, was a draconic entity.
It was not quite a Dragon, as it had the head of a Daedroth and was coated in slimy green scales.
Menta-Na.
Mirabelle Ervine stared at the beast and studied its form. "Hmm. Not what I would have expected a Dragon to look like." When they'd returned to Skyrim she hadn't gotten the privilege of seeing one up close - even as the one attacked Winterhold during Ancano's skirmish, she was too wounded to walk out and observe the beast.
Cura shook her head. "That's no Dragon. It bears a passing vague resemblance to one, but it's not."
Sir Amiel conceded. "Perhaps not, but surely you've experienced its ilk before, right?" He looked at the Dragonborn, anticipating the battle.
Cura drew Auriel's Bow and nocked an arrow on it. "Follow my lead." She led with confidence. This beast wasn't a true Dragon, but she would treat it as one. Thankfully she'd had a resume worth of experience fighting them. This shouldn't be too difficult, she figured. After all - she defeated Alduin. What was this thing by comparison?
She recalled Mirmulnir at the Watchtower near Whiterun. Her first Dragon. She'd slain it without her Thu'um with the help of Skjor, Irileth and the Whiterun Guards.
This was just another fight.
She remembered her training with Aela and with the Dawnguard and loosed the arrow, confident in her Archery skill.
The arrow struck the pseudodragon in its face and it immediately began to hover off the mountain in retaliation. With beating wings it lifted off the precipice and roared as it took flight.
"Get your wards ready!" Savos Aren cast a Greater Ward and Mirabelle followed suit, protecting Sir Amiel from the burst of flame that swept over them.
Cura withstood it with Spellbreaker in hand, though the pressure arched some fire around the ward. It was nothing a Healing spell couldn't fix.
When Menta-Na looped around, Cura, Savos and Mirabelle cast Firebolts and an Ice Storm respectively it's way.
The magic connected and the beast lost its flight rail, and smacked into the cliff, bounding over it.
Cura quickly climbed the cliffs over to where the hung crosses were and gazed over the side to nearly be caught in a blast of blue fire.
Menta-Na screeched as it shot up over the cliffs, dodging spells and arrows. When it came around for another fire blast, seeing Cura now trapped on the stone ledge.
The Breton hastened herself and ran behind the metal cross in the middle and used it for shelter as the torrent of fire rivered itself around it, scorching the rock wall with soot, leaving the silhouette of the cross on the stone.
Had Cura been one centimetre to either side, she would have had part of her melted, surely. She took in a deep breath, and spun around the instrument of torture, and cracked the hellfire-spewing Daedra with Fingers of the Mountain.
When the mighty bolt struck, the pseudodragon flashed with a brilliant light that pulsed through the air. It dropped to the ground, ready to be slain.
Sir Amiel took quickly to it and began to hack and slash the beast.
Savos Aren clapped his hands at Cura's display of power. "The Fingers of the Mountain! A dreadful, yet mighty technique coveted by mages from all across the Empire! Excellent! Excellent!"
"Focus, Savos! Now isn't the time to cheer!" Mirabelle tried to pull him back to reality as she cast a Rift Bolt at the pseudodragon's head.
The beast railed back from the concussive force.
Sir Amiel couldn't believe what he was doing. He was able to cut it! He was actually able to cut it! After some persistent hacks, he tore a chunk of flesh from Menta-Na's shoulder and exposed the bone.
The beast swatted him back with great strength as it cried out.
Savos struck it with a bolt, and its fleshy underside was exposed.
Mirabelle cast a stonewall under its head, raising it up and Cura leapt down from the cliff above when she was sure that she could stick the landing.
Cura drove Dawnbreaker into Menta-Na's eye and stamped her right foot into the other to hold her position. "Now, Sir Amiel!"
The knight gripped his Greatsword in both hands and rushed forward, driving it down diagonally and tearing open the monstrosity's stomach.
All of the contents therein began to spill out: entrails, a key, and many skeletal remains, including those belonging to what seemed to be a Vigilant of Stendarr.
Menta-Na thrust its head around violently and spouted blue fire in torchlike bursts in attempt to claim Cura, but she was out of its reach.
The beast ceased then and there, collapsing onto its left side, dead.
Cura slipped off and yanked Dawnbreaker free. The first thing that caught her eye was the Amulet of Stendarr amidst the remains. Near it was a set of Vigil Robes that she did not recognize, and what looked like a hooked blade.
A Blade of Mercy. That, she'd heard of before.
So this must have been one of the Templar branch! She stared at the half-digested skull with disgust. Poor fellow, whoever he was.
She hoped sincerely that it wasn't Tyrannus, but it was doubtful, given the uniform. Upon closer inspection, the robes had a tagged name on the inner collar: Altano.
Whoever this was, Cura couldn't help but pity him.
Much to her surprise, Inquisitor Pepe came walking over to the gate with Sir Juncan by his side.
"And you also defeated the Worm. Seems I was mistaken about you." Sir Juncan admitted his surprise.
"I suppose I should thank you - now I can finally enjoy my walks again." Inquisitor Pepe expressed his delight under a smug tone as usual.
Cura gestured towards the old clergyman. "What are you doing here?"
"I told you; I'm out on a walk. An old man should be allowed this much." Inquisitor Pepe grunted with estranged entitlement as he hunched his back forward.
"Well... fine, I suppose. Anyway, do you know how to get to the Imperial City?" Cura asked.
"The main gate is to the North, but it's been sealed since the invasion of the Army of Order." Inquisitor Pepe explained with a quick gesture of the hand. "There is a way, though. Through the northeast of the island. There is a sewer leading to the prison tower of the city. You may want to try crawling through it. If you're lucky, it will lead you to the Imperial City. If you're lucky." His contempt was visible, even through his advice.
Savos Aren crossed his arms. "I suppose the barrier must prevent entry by flight, as well."
Mirabelle scratched her chin. "Or by stonebridging. Indeed. I would expect no less foresight from Molag Bal."
Cura tapped her right temple as she tried to keep a mental note of all that. "Noted. Thank you. Now, there's something else I must know: what can you tell me about the Army of Order?"
Last thing she knew about her mentor was that Carcette was in league with Jyggalag. None of this was an accident. Maybe she could commune with Jyggalag on Cura's behalf, and perhaps she could find allies amongst the gray and march on Molag Bal's lair together later on.
"An infinite army led by Jyggalag. It invaded a few decades ago and began conquering the entire continent. Almost the entire Empire was destroyed by Jyggalag. After the defeat in the Battle of Weye, only this island with the Imperial City remained." the elder exposited.
That explained a lot. And perhaps added to Molag Bal's pettiness as of late. He was losing. That was why he'd only attacked her once, back in Markarth.
Inquisitor Pepe laid a hand on the portcullis dramatically. "Countless souls have been sacrificed to maintain the barrier, but even the souls have limits. And Molag Bal's power is declining." He signaled to the west. "The barrier will not last much longer. Then, Graymarch will overrun this wasteland and crush us all."
"What was the Battle of Weye?" Ever the student of History, Cura was intrigued by the story. And hopeful to see the end of Coldharbour. Perhaps Jyggalag could be reasoned with - it was clear he didn't like Molag Bal very much, either.
"Jyggalag manifested there at the heigh of the battle. A brilliant silver cocoon appeared and evaporated everyone around it, regardless of whether they were friend or foe." Pepe recounted the tale, and the two Knights appeared surprised to hear it, themselves. The Inquisitor clenched both of his fists into his gnarled hands. "Its light was dazzling. It was so beautiful, as if we suddenly tapped into Aetherius. Even I shed tears at that sight."
It was a wonder how the old fellow could even see - he didn't appear to have eyes, as far as Cura could recognize.
"Anyway, most of our higher nobility perished in that fight. Only incompetents like Vernaccus and Duke Kh-Utta remained." Pepe sighed with exasperation as he contemplated the meaning of it all. "Ah, all this reminds me of the Last Days of the Alessian Empire. There was no winner. Only ruins remained."
With no face to express his sadness, it was difficult to gauge whether or not he was still tortured by the fact.
Cura nodded silently. She knew that, historically, it was for the better that the Alessian Empire came to an end. Heck, at the very least, she could owe her own existence to the fact.
Savos Aren gestured towards the gate. "All right, Cura. Since you obtained the key, you should do the honours of opening the gate."
Sir Amiel was watching her movements in disbelief. He looked at Sir Juncan, and at the dead Menta-Na behind them for the most part of their conversation. "I ocncur. She really must be Dragonborn."
The confidence and intelligence with which she felled the beast was unmistakable. She'd dealt with creatures like that before. He was certain of it.
A rejuvenating feeling rose up within him, springing forth like a flower. This feeling was different. Sir Amiel felt alive again.
When Cura approached the gate, he walked before her and lowered himself on one knee and bowed his head. With trembling hands he flatly held his sword up in reverent offering. "O, child of Akatosh; I, Sir Amiel, former leader of the Knights of the Nine, Knight of Akatosh pledge my sword to you, in truth and in purity. I give you my oath, and my undying loyalty. I shall be forever sworn to you, in this realm, and should you have it, beyond."
Inquisitor Pepe stared blankly at the two of them as Sir Juncan, Savos Aren, and Mirabelle Ervine watched from the sidelines.
Cura was confused at first, uncertain as to how to proceed.
Martin Septim manifested behind her and called her attention by touching her shoulder. "The man is no longer a proper Knight, so it falls to you, Dragonborn, to reject his service, or to Knight him once more."
"I understand. How does the ceremony work?" Cura responded to the former Emperor softly. She returned her attention to the humble warrior before her. She was unsure of how the process worked in Cyrodiil.
"You take his sword and tap his shoulders with them, Eight Strokes in total and one on his head, each Stroke representing a Divine, and make your declaration." Martin told her briefly.
Cura understood. She gently took the rusted sword in her hands. Her eyes began to blur as emotion welled up within her, herself. If she could bring him hope, she would.
Martin faded away once more, leaving her to her duty.
She raised the sword and turned it so the flat of the blade faced him. "In the names of..." she began, touching his right shoulder first. "Akatosh, Stendarr, Mara, Kynareth, Arkay, Julianos, Zenithar, Dibella..." she touched his forehead last. "...and Talos."
Her father would be proud of her.
"I, Cura Stormcloak, the Last Dragonborn and Stendarr's Vigilant, accept your oath, Sir Amiel of Akatosh, and name you my Knight." She lowered the sword and placed it back in his hands kindly. "A Blade of the Skyguard."
"A Blade?" Sir Juncan gasped audibly. He seemed to take offense. "You aren't referring to the Imperial Guard, are you?"
Cura smiled. "I am."
Sir Juncan growled. "And just who do you think you are? The Blades exist to guard the Emperor! What are you doing, calling him that?"
"I think she's delusional, really." Inquisitor Pepe groaned.
"She is not delusional." Sir Amiel pointed up to the skies further away, where a burning object soared the skies. "That is the Avatar of Akatosh, there! Shortly after it entered our realm, she arrived, searching for it. This is no mere coincidence. She is of the Dragonblood, as was Tiber Septim, Reman Cyrodiil and Saint Alessia."
Inquisitor Pepe spat a loud "Humph!" and walked back towards the priory. "Good luck going forward. I hope Varla's hounds eat you alive."
"Miserable old fool." Mirabelle remarked without flavour. "Let's move along, Cura. Sooner or later he will understand."
The Dragonborn watched him disappear into the distance before activating the portcullis.
Cura stepped out into the wide crossroads leading out into the craggy main wastes northward, and a pathway to a large fortress stood to the east. At the convergence's center was a statue of sorts depicting a man in a barrel helm with cross patterns over the cheekspaces, and plated armour covering his body. At his feet were vicious wolflike hounds on leashes.
At the bottom of the stone base there was a small statue of Dibella.
Sir Juncan leaned against the stone slab the statue of the mysterious knight was mounted on.
Cura was awestruck by the sight of the statue. "I guess they have some less-grotesque artwork here. That's a relief."
Pepe's hollow threat rang as a warning; when she noticed the hounds on the statue, she pulled back quickly, anticipating it to come alive and attack her.
"Why the sudden jump? It's only a statue." Savos nearly lost a chuckle there.
"The Inquisitor mention Varla's hounds. I'm guessing these are them?" she pointed at the austere sculpture. "I wouldn't be surprised if they could become animate! This is a Daedric realm, after all."
Sir Juncan scoffed with amusement. "Do you think I would lean against it if that were so? No. These statues can't come to life."
Cura breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay. Good. So... who was this 'Varla' that the Inquisitor mentioned? Is he where the Stones got their name?"
Sir Juncan pursed his lips. "Perhaps. Or perhaps he was named for the stones. It doesn't matter. He's a menace holed up in Fort Welkynd."
"Really? Fort Welkynd?" Savos Aren remarked with amusement, stroking his light beard. "I take it he sits upon the Council of Soul Gems too, then?"
Mirabelle rubbed her forehead as she cringed. "Ugh. Did you really..."
Sir Amiel nodded to his former subordinate. "Aye. He's a madman, from what I've heard."
Cura readjusted her hood, as it was slipping down over her forehead. The bindings of the cowl were loosening after her many battles. With a tight tug she bound it still. "What else can you tell me about him?"
If she was wandering through his territory she would have to know more about what she would potentially be dealing with.
"Varla the Human-Hunter. I heard rumours he's insane. A half-breed of a human and an elf." Sir Juncan exposited. "He hunted elves at first and then finally humans."
Cura felt her heart pump harder for a moment. "A... Half-Elf?" she raised a hand to her chest.
She was expecting to hear a whole host of things about Varla, but nothing could have prepared her to hear that.
"He was neither one or the other because of his blood. That's why he went mad. It's a pity, really." Sir Juncan said nonchalantly.
Mirabelle didn't seem to take kindly to the remark, but Cura was visibly upset by his words. She shook her head. "Mixed blood has nothing to do with it. He went mad because of the people around him! That was at the start of the Alessian Order, right?"
"More or less."
"That explains it." Cura sombered at the realization of the time period and circumstances surrounding his existence. "He was probably mocked and hated by both sides growing up, or possibly made to hide what he was for his own safety."
Cura had the privilege of being raised in an environment with Nords, Altmer, Redguards, Dunmer, and Bretons. Them being enemies never would have occurred to her. It was only once she'd wandered the land at large that she'd grown self-conscious of her race.
The stares she'd gotten from some of the Nords and Imperials, being counted a Breton with uncertain tones by them.
The disdain she'd felt from the Thalmor, even being spurned as a mongrel in their sight.
When Delphine reminded her that she was technically not even a true Breton, in spite of their genetic similarities, that finally made her feel alienated from the rest of the world.
What hell had Varla endured in his time? Likely much, much worse.
"With all due respect, my lady... I wouldn't be defending him if I were you. He never died - instead he pledged himself to Molag Bal and grew in power. He was even given his own territory here in Coldharbour." Sir Amiel tried to warn Cura.
Cura sighed sadly. "I'm sorry, but... I can't help but feel sympathy for him. I know what he did was wrong - evil - but... just the same..."
She understood it. Not knowing where to turn. Naturally, Molag Bal entered the picture and swayed Varla to his side, most likely.
Sir Juncan scoffed. He found her insistence both amusing and asinine. "Why does it bother you so much?"
Cura then pulled down her hood, revealing to them her pointed ears and Elven facial features. Sadness expressed itself in her gaze. "I'm a Half-Elf, too."
In that moment the two Knights stared at her with great surprise. Sir Juncan loosed his arms from his sulking position and flinched. "Oh. Well, er..."
Sir Amiel studied her appearance and Sir Juncan was taken aback.
"So you think I'm going to go mad, too?" Cura wondered hopelessly. Not that she hadn't already before several times.
That was besides the point; it was circumstance that drove her mad - not her blood.
The awkward silence that ensued was more uncomfortable than Coldharbour itself.
"I think I'll go for a walk. If you head that way, watch out for his dogs Those things don't understand the meaning of mercy." Sir Juncan excused himself as he flew down the road at Kynareth's pace.
"I could have sworn you were a Breton." Sir Amiel pondered.
Mirabelle Ervine stood beside Cura. "No - she may be a hybrid like we are, but she is a modern hybrid. Her parents and grandparents and great-grandparents are not Bretons." She saw Cura stiffen, and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "But we would claim her just the same."
Cura was both surprised, but happy to hear that. In the end, race was a cosmetic feature. "Thank you, Mirabelle . That means a lot to me."
Mirabelle nodded. "Really. It's all foolishness, my dear. What ultimately matters is what you make of yourself; not what a world of ignorant people brand you as."
Perhaps there were inherent physical differences and abilities, but the existence of Half-Elves and Bretons only solidified one thing: they were compatible. They were not the 'other' from each other.
If anything, the Argonians were the odd ones out, but even they deserved to be treated like people. Yet Windhelm would not allow for it.
Something Cura wished her father would change.
The more Cura thought about it, a realization hit her in the brutal wasteland filled with the echoes of this old hatred brought about through the hatred of the Ayleids and the scorn of mankind: What if this division was yet another vehicle the Daedric Princes used to sow chaos?
It really did seem like something Mehrunes Dagon, Boethiah, Mephala, Malacath, and Molag Bal would enjoy. The boundless cruelty of pitting two peoples against each other over the way that they looked opened the door for all kinds of evil.
There really could never be peace, could there?
Could there?
"I'm going to Fort Welkynd. I want to talk to Lord Varla." Cura declared.
Savos Aren spoke up. "Do you really think it's a good idea? I'm certain you did not miss the fact that he is counted among the insane."
"The barrier thing is in the northeast, right? It should be easier to traverse Varla's territory if I gain his permission, I would think." Cura stated. Perhaps she could learn more about the world of his time in the process.
"Sound logic, but ultimately flawed, I'm afraid." Savos shook his head regrettably. "He works for Molag Bal. What would keep him from trying to kill you himself?"
"Besides the fact that I'm already dead?" Cura replied ironically. Would she wind up back in the Deadlands, or through that odd wormhole again? How absurd.
"I would recommend a disguise, first and foremost. You look like those Vigilants that came through here. They have many enemies." Sir Amiel suggested. "Perhaps we could head north and find the salesman I've heard about in the sewers. It would be far safer to traverse Coldharbour in this way."
"The sewers... isn't the Thrassian Plague down there?" Cura asked.
"The Plague Doctor's shack is there near the river, by the docks and workhouse. Perhaps she can give you a mask and protective suit." Sir Amiel suggested.
Even if they were dead, they would still be afflicted, as evidenced by the foul-tongued Balor's condition back in the Highwayman's store. Cura stopped for a moment and thought it over. "If she can give me a mask, I suppose I won't need the salesman in the sewers. I want to talk to Lord Varla first, though." She continued pushing down the eastern road.
Eventually she came upon a wide area where there were fenced-off plots on the sides of the road and discarded stones around. At the center of the small plaza was a statue of what looked like a kindly healer woman in hooded robes with a Wolf accompanying her. Cura's attention was immediately drawn to the morose figure and she closed in for a better look.
The woman's face was filled with sorrow. It was quite contagious, by the sight of it. The wolf beside her arced its head, looking up to her protectively as she clasped her hands together in a prayerful pose.
Cura examined it. "Goodness. She looks so... sad." She tried to think about her history lessons with Adalvald and with Lucien, but this figure didn't match anyone in particular. However, the wolf reminded her of the Nordic Mara. The Ancient Nords heralded her as the She-Wolf in ages long past. Cura'd seen murals of it in various ruins - among them Labyrinthian.
When Cura looked at the plaque, it read: "Mary, Priestess of Mara - Healer of the Thrassian Plague; burned at the stake by the Alessian Order under charges of witchcraft."
The tenderhearted Vigilant paused in that instant after reading that. Why was a memorial to a Priestess of Mara here in Coldharbour? It just didn't make any sense. Molag Bal would never allow this!
"The cruelty of the Alessian Order truly knew no boundaries at the height of its power." Savos Aren remarked on the sight. "They were very much like the current Nords when it came to what they didn't understand."
"I understand the Vigil of Stendarr is very much the same way." Mirabelle added.
Cura's mind must have slipped, as only foolishness emerged from her mouth. She gently touched the sorrowful statue. Her voice cracked. "How could a Priestess be a Witch?" Especially a Priestess who served Mara. Mara! The Divine of Love and Compassion! Mara!
The thought blew her mind in the worst of ways. It was obscene! Abhorrent! Asinine! How lost were these people that they would accuse a servant of the Goddess of Love of consorting with Daedra?
Though, if her statue was here, it could be possible that she had a connection to Coldharbour. Or perhaps she was tricked into doing something awful, as Cura was. Either way, Cura felt nothing but sympathy for a fellow Priestess of the Divines.
Even if Cura was not truly a Priestess, she was a Vigilant - they understood well the lifestyle.
Inquisitor Pepe. Surely that creep knew something about this. Perhaps the only reason he'd tolerated Cura's presence was due to centuries of isolation and misery. What would he have tried to do to her had she been born in his era? Perhaps he would have burned her, too. And her friends. Because they followed the Nine. Yes - Nine. Not Eight. Cura would not deny Talos his place in their Pantheon in earnestness.
The One and Lorkhan had their own place - she was unsure of what to make of it at the moment as it was all unfamiliar to her, but Cura knew she would do Pepe the kindness he would have withheld in the past and not smite him for heresy - as Stendarr wanted her to be merciful, ironically.
Did he know more than he was letting on? He knew about Varla, clearly. He must know more about the denizens of this wasteland. Perhaps he knew the truth concerning Mary, too. After all, he was being punished for his sins in Coldharbour. Maybe he ordered her burning. Who knows?
He definitely was responsible for many deaths, of that she could be certain.
"Some people would justify killing with anything." Sir Amiel sighed sadly in response to her question. "Mary lives here in Coldharbour, now. I'm not sure where exactly, but her name has ridden the winds."
"Perhaps near the plagued area?" Mirabelle proposed. "She was a Plague-healer in life, after all."
"Possibly."
Cura kept that tidbit of information in mind. She would meet the maiden if she could. For now, she would continue down the dirt-covered path. The atmosphere was heavy with the thickness of doubt and decay, but the heroes would stand bright - making themselves beacons of light in this land of darkness, if such light could even shine here.
Perhaps Cura really was beginning to go mad, merely entertaining the idea.